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Chapter 17: Departure
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It is times like these that test your fortitude, and your strength. Weather this trial well, Son of Slaughter, Father of Kings, lest its flames lick the very feet of Cirkaius. ~ From “The Oracle at Dragonreach”
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Logan awoke to a gentle knocking at his door. A glance at the window told him it was night in Tarik, and he’d slept away the afternoon in his comfortable bed at the Firestone Inn.
He lifted himself up in bed. It was dark in the room, but light seeped in from under his door.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and warm orange light poured in from the hall. Ryan entered the room, his expression less jovial than Logan was accustomed to, a candle on a tray in his hands.
“There’s a meeting downstairs. Bretta found men, and Pa’s talking to them. He wants you to meet them.”
The flickering candlelight painted dancing shadows on Ryan’s face, giving his pubescent features a solemn cast as he stood in the doorway, just inside the threshold.
“Come here, Ryan,” Logan said, removing himself from the blankets and sitting on the side of the bed, leaving space for the boy.
Ryan moved over, lit a candle on the side table, and sat next to Logan, shoulders hunched and looking distantly at the floor.
With a sinking feeling, Logan realized that he didn’t know what to say. He’d never had anyone to talk to at Ryan’s age about the things he’d experienced, the things he’d been forced to witness and do.
They sat on the bed, neither speaking, for several long minutes. Logan glanced at Ryan, whose face bore the impression of a stone wall, slowly crumbling.
“You saved your pa, even though it was scary, you stepped up. You did better than I did, better than I could’ve done.”
Ryan’s fists clenched into balls, gripping and twisting the fabric of his pants.
“I wasn’t scared….”
Ryan’s face trembled, and he turned to Logan. Tears poured from his eyes, slipping down his cheeks and falling onto his hands below. His face scrunched into a pleading, anguished countenance of entreaty and regret.
“I wanted to kill him, to—” his voice broke, his words coming in stops and starts like frustrated traffic, “to make him pay. I didn’t want—”
Logan felt his expression cracking, unable to stoically listen to the boy who’d had such a similar trial by fire as his own.
“I didn’t want you to stop me. What would pa have said if I’d done it?”
Logan wrapped his arm around Ryan and pulled him to his chest, holding his shoulders in one arm and his head with the other. He listened to his friend’s muffled sobs as he stared at a spot on the bed, jaw clenching and unclenching, struggling to suppress memories that threatened to overwhelm him.
Screams from behind a white door, large squares and parallel lines carved into the surface of the wood. A door he could remember helping to pick out at the store. A thud, then another two. More screams, degenerating into wails, crying, pleas for mercy. A deeper voice cursing in implacable anger.
Red as he beat at the door, his small fists weak and insignificant. Carpet peeking out from under the door, the threshold transitioning from carpet to hardwood floors: from animalistic brutality to half-restrained civility.
A louder, heavier thud, then silence. His whimpering, and retreat from the door, hiding, wondering if this time he’d gone too far.
Logan took slow, deliberate breaths, holding the space between inhales and exhales for three seconds in an effort to calm himself.
“You did right by your dad, Ryan. He’d have loved you the same, and he loves you still. I’m glad you didn’t kill him, and I’m sure you are too. That kind of thing sticks with you. It’s different than with the monsters we hunt in the forest.”
Logan slowly released Ryan and moved back a bit for distance, looking down at the boy. Ryan, his loud, gasping sobs quieted, looked back up at him.
“You were a hero, like a sheriff from a westerner coming in to save the day. I know you don’t really get what that means, but it’s a good thing. You made your pa and me proud.”
Logan smiled at him, producing his Nostets cowboy hat from his inventory and placing it on Ryan’s head. It was loose, and drooped down in front, nearly covering his eyes.
Ryan peaked up at him from under the hat, a small, careful smile, slowly growing into a broad grin.
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Logan laughed aloud, standing to get a better look at the kid in the ridiculous get up. If he’d had a camera, he’d have taken a picture, but instead he settled for a fond memory.
Ryan rose too, walking to Logan and embracing him, his arms wrapping around his lower ribcage.
“Let’s go meet our new teammates.”
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“Ye mate, they’re big fuckin’ sacs! Oily, I tell ya’s, hang like fifty feet from its underside just swingin be’ind it as they fly, colorful them bastard’s sacs are, and they drip in the heat as the desert turns from mornin’ to mid-day, that’s how we track ‘em.”
Huck harrumphed, taking a swig of ale and returning the large wooden mug, vertical wood slats joined by two encircling bands of metal, to the table.
“The sand doesn’t absorb the… oil?”
“It’s not oil mate, it’s dye. Dye from them flying fucks don’t absorb into the sand the same’s other liquids. The sand doesn’t want it!”
“And you’ve ridden these things?” Another voice that Logan didn’t recognize, calm, steady and suspicious.
“’Course I ‘ave, I’m a fuckin’ Rider cunt, of course I’ve ridden ‘em. It’s not exactly riding though, we’re not on top, we’re just hangin’ from their sac’s trying to cut ‘em off an’ get the dye.”
Logan looked questioningly at Ryan, who shrugged.
They approached the table, half chairs, and half high-backed booth, and sat. Ryan slid into the booth beside Huck, and Logan followed happily, he’d always preferred the booth over chairs at restaurants that had both.
The conversation stopped as Huck nodded at Logan, then tousled Ryan’s hair, who’d returned the hat when they’d left the bedroom to join the others.
Across the table sat two men that, before meeting Hephesto the Yal, Logan would’ve believed couldn’t look any more different from each other.
The one with the accent talking about the “sacs” had dark umber skin and sable, chocolate eyes. His hair was mid length and raggedly chopped, falling unevenly to his shoulders. It was a deep black and adorned with perfectly smooth sand-colored stones the size of small marbles. They hung in seemingly random fashion from his hair, some placed near the scalp, others at the tips of hair woven together, and still others in the middle, ensconced in its folds. They looked simple, but possessed an odd beauty.
His face was weathered and hard, belying his flamboyant, personable manner of speech, and a thick black beard and moustache covered the sides of his head and everything below his nose. He wore loose, flowing robes of off-white beige and light tan that bunched together in his lap where he sat. He gave Ryan a wink and a broad, toothy grin, and stuck out his hand to Logan, who shook it.
“Al-Tarn-ak, pleased to meet’cha. And yer’ Logan, right?”
“I am,” he said, nodding.
“Call me Tarn, or Tarn-ak. You missed the earlier conversation, but I’m from clan Al-Taena, of the Awali.”
An Awali tribesman, here in Tarik! This would be better than catnip for Hephesto if he knew.
“I see. You’re far from home, then. I’m Logan, of Long Beach.”
“Logan of the Long Beach. Are you from Jierda then?” the man sitting beside Tarn asked, perking up from his air of demure reservation.
Logan released Tarn’s hand and looked at the other man. Everything he wore was black or dark brown, making him seem a shadow in the chair, easily overlooked. The cloak that rose to his neck with its hood pulled back reminded him vaguely of the huntress, though hers had been a lighter brown. A dark leather strap cinched over his shoulder and across his body, and Logan spotted a bow and quiver resting against his chair. His features were somewhat angular, not overly so, but in concert with his stark black hair and lack of facial hair, he looked like a raven in a man’s body.
So he’s the scout. I doubt he’s a better shot than Huck or Ryan though.
Logan glanced at Huck, who gave a subtle shake of his head.
“No,” he said, the word lingering above the table between the group.
“I see. Rude of me to ask of your origins without introducing myself. I am Synec, son of Syna, Sellis of Sehiaha.”
Logan reached out, presenting his hand to Synec, who shook it. Logan was a bit confused by the man’s introduction. He’d have to ask Huck later, in private; he didn’t want to be rude.
Synec looked at their hands, clasped together in a handshake Logan had performed hundreds of times, and scrutinized them, turning them over under his gaze.
“Huck told us of this traditional greeting your people prefer. I’ve never encountered its use before.”
Logan removed his hand, taken aback by the comment. Thinking on it, he realized that he’d never shaken hands with anyone else in Tiris before these two, and they did seem to come from different areas. The crags, this Sehiaha, even the southlands probably all had their own customs and traditions that he wasn’t privy to. He felt like an idiot. This wasn’t Earth, let alone America.
“Ah… It’s called a handshake. It’s used when meeting for the first time, seeing a friend after time apart, or to signify the striking of a deal or pact. Thank you for your courtesy, Synec, son of Syna.”
The man smiled, not a broad, open grin like Tarn, or a warm, welcoming one like Huck, but a reserved, polite expression; it seemed genuine to Logan though, and he returned it.
“Synec is quite enough, friend,” he said, withdrawing his hand and resting it on his lap under the table. “I understand that we’ll be hunting a Forest Llort.”
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Huck, Ryan, and Logan stood in awe before the three armor sets laid on the table before them, their faces painted with admiration at the superb craftsmanship of the work.
Lusal, the armorer, beside the table, gesturing them forwards like a parent releasing their child to run forth onto a playground. He was a foppish man, tall and dainty, but an exquisite armorer. They’d come to him at Gjorn’s recommendation, and Logan made a mental note to thank the man for his suggestion.
They didn’t need to ask which set belonged to whom; the stylistic choices for each set would’ve been discerning enough alone, but the size of outfit was a clear indicator.
Huck’s top piece was a jacket wrought from thick Brightspine boar hide and a generous helping of steam fish scales sewn into rows for maneuverability and protection. Attached to the top of the jacket and falling down its back to the floor was a dark cape set with shiny Sworp feathers sewn down its back. The feathers gave an odd camouflaging illusion when viewed from behind, the browns and greens bending and twisting the light, deceiving the eye: the effect somewhat reminded Logan of a ghillie suit, though a much more elaborate, fantastical version. The jacket and cloak weren't extremely heavy, but were sturdy and maneuverable, perfect for a ranged fighter while providing enough protection to enable close quarters combat as well. Huck donned the jacket, its long hem dropping below the knees. It fit him like a glove, and Logan felt as if the Huck he’d seen before had been an imposter, and this was what he was truly meant to look like.
For himself, Logan discovered a pair of pants stitched from a light leather, black rabid rabbit pelts, and steamfish scales sewn into flexible patches of armor that covered his thighs, knees, and shins. His jacket followed a similar motif, though a thicker leather was used more freely, and the rabbit pelt used primarily under the shoulders, elbows, and insides of his arms and around his waist. Steamfish scales were set in roughly rectangular swaths on his forearms and shoulders, providing him with strong protection at a low weight. His back and chest were protected by leather and scales, and he was pleased to find that the interior of the jacket was extremely soft, presumably due to the rabid rabbit pelt. He also had a hood, which was made from brown pelt and lined with black sworp feathers.
The clothes fit perfectly and moving his arms around in circles and lifting his knees, he found that he had great mobility. A cloak like Huck’s sat folded underneath his outfit on the table, and Lusal told him it was attachable to the bottom of the hood should he choose to wear it. He put it into his inventory for now.
Logan removed a throwing knife from a strap tucked under his coat and tried to stab through a patch of scales on his forearm. The scales, fit seamlessly together, easily deflected the knife’s point, the weapon slipping off without leaving so much as a scratch. Logan couldn’t help but beam. He felt as if all the work he and Ryan had put into hunting these past few weeks had finally paid off. Plus, he admitted, he’d always enjoyed the sensation of buying and wearing new clothes. Who didn’t?
Ryan’s outfit was almost a mix between Logan and Huck’s. He too had a cloak sewn with feathers that hung low and would easily conceal him in the forest, but the jacket underneath was in the style of Logan’s, lighter and more agile than Huck’s heavier leather and boar-hide armor.
Ryan looked nimble and deadly as he darted around the room, moving through knife strikes in his new clothing.
In addition to the clothing, Lusal provided them with several belts, knife straps, potion straps, and scabbards built to fit their new armor, but that could be used independently with any other gear they chose to wear in the future.
They thanked the armorer and left the shop, having already paid his commission upon placing the order.
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Sitting on the high bench of the wagon, behind the great, lumbering Rohm, Logan looked over his shoulder at the tall wooden gates of Tarik, slowly disappearing behind them.
He hadn’t gained as much information about the outside world as he would’ve liked; most people in the southlands were born and raised there, and the others didn’t seem like the tutoring type. He had learned a great deal though, and he hoped to learn more from Tarn and Synec once they met them in Woolam, a day after Logan’s trio was to arrive. They’d needed time to prepare for the journey and tie loose ends in Tarik, they’d said, and had agreed to follow a day later.
Equipped with new weapons, armor, provisions, and coin, they began their journey back to Woolam, and towards the battle which, with luck, would be their final steppingstone before making the expedition beyond the Suko Mountains.
“Road trip time!” Mikey shouted in his mind.
“If you ask, ‘are we there yet’ again on this trip, I swear to all that’s holy that I will find a way to remove and destroy you.”