bolts, a curved mace, a leather pouch with vials of liquid scents. His polished sword was kept at his side at all times. He rested his gloved hand against its sheath.
Finally, trembling like a phantom through the haze of brutal heat, a village appeared. He squinted to make out the details of the place, and as he grew closer, he grunted in disappointment.
Ragged dirt paths were beaten into the earth by accident. Here and there, war-weary buildings of stone and thatch hunkered against a losing battle. The stench of despair leaked from the streets and oozed toward him like a perfume of horse manure and day-old fish. In the far distance, farmlands endured between thickets of withered trees, as though daring the miserable earth to deny them their right to exist.
Jastin drew up Blade to another halt. He shielded his eyes and stared past the village and its doomed farmlands to the sight beyond it. The Leland Mountains. Great spires of gray and marbled brown broke through the blanket of emaciated treetops and stretched from east to west, with a dramatic crescendo just beyond the village.
These were the mountains that had first called him years ago. These were the mountains to which he returned. He set his jaw, eyes searching them for dark secrets.
Blade whinnied.
“Very well,” Jastin said. He prodded his mount, and they loped into town. There, he slowed to read a wooden sign that was carved simply, Welcome to Durance. Below the carved letters, a painted footnote had been added: no dragons. Maybe there was extra money to be made here, after all.
He spied the livery, and threaded Blade through the deserted street. Where was everyone? Somewhere, a bored goat bleated. At the stables, he swung a thick leg from his mount’s back and hit the ground with both feet. Several minutes later, a young boy peeked around a door.
Jastin tossed him the reins. “Plenty of water for him.”
The stable boy nodded.
“Got a tavern?”
The boy pointed across the street to a square building with a wooden roof. The signpost beside the door hung upside down, lazily flapping with each gust of dusty wind. The Brown Barrel Inn. Jastin strode toward it.
There were more men at the bar than townsfolk in the village square. He slapped down a coin, and gave the barkeep a nod. “Ale.”
A tankard slid toward him. He eagerly drank, but nearly choked. The ale was warm and stale, and just a day or two from vinegar. He managed to swallow the mouthful, and raised his drink in a salute. “Best ale I’ve had in days,” he said. “Now, how about some good food for a weary traveler?”
The barkeep paused in drying a goblet. “Food we have. Good?” He glanced at the men near him and exchanged smiles.
“Well, it will fill your belly!” said one customer.
The room broke into laughter. The barkeep tossed his rag over his shoulder. “We lost our cook,” he said.
“Didn’t pay her enough?” Jastin asked.
The barkeep smacked the dried goblet onto the bar. “Pay her? You mean we were supposed to pay her?” He threw back his head and guffawed.
“Heard tell she died of her own food,” said a puny voice from across the room.
“You remember the time I found that pig’s ear in my stew, Temin?” A man seated at the bar smacked his drinking buddy on the arm, startling the other so that he nearly toppled his mug.
Temin clutched the mug protectively and glared. “Whole town remembers, Berl. You won’t let it rest.” He looked around his friend’s shoulder at Jastin. “Besides, it wasn’t a pig’s ear.”
Berl stuck a finger toward Jastin’s nose. “Was too. Seen enough pig ears to know.”
“Eaten enough, you mean,” said Temin into his mug. “Don’t see how one more in a bowl of stew should make a difference.” The man sucked at his drink.
Berl hunkered over his own tankard with a scowl. “Principal. A man ought to be able to order a simple bowl of stew in a public place and not have to worry about seeing a wrinkled old pig’s
Finally, trembling like a phantom through the haze of brutal heat, a village appeared. He squinted to make out the details of the place, and as he grew closer, he grunted in disappointment.
Ragged dirt paths were beaten into the earth by accident. Here and there, war-weary buildings of stone and thatch hunkered against a losing battle. The stench of despair leaked from the streets and oozed toward him like a perfume of horse manure and day-old fish. In the far distance, farmlands endured between thickets of withered trees, as though daring the miserable earth to deny them their right to exist.
Jastin drew up Blade to another halt. He shielded his eyes and stared past the village and its doomed farmlands to the sight beyond it. The Leland Mountains. Great spires of gray and marbled brown broke through the blanket of emaciated treetops and stretched from east to west, with a dramatic crescendo just beyond the village.
These were the mountains that had first called him years ago. These were the mountains to which he returned. He set his jaw, eyes searching them for dark secrets.
Blade whinnied.
“Very well,” Jastin said. He prodded his mount, and they loped into town. There, he slowed to read a wooden sign that was carved simply, Welcome to Durance. Below the carved letters, a painted footnote had been added: no dragons. Maybe there was extra money to be made here, after all.
He spied the livery, and threaded Blade through the deserted street. Where was everyone? Somewhere, a bored goat bleated. At the stables, he swung a thick leg from his mount’s back and hit the ground with both feet. Several minutes later, a young boy peeked around a door.
Jastin tossed him the reins. “Plenty of water for him.”
The stable boy nodded.
“Got a tavern?”
The boy pointed across the street to a square building with a wooden roof. The signpost beside the door hung upside down, lazily flapping with each gust of dusty wind. The Brown Barrel Inn. Jastin strode toward it.
There were more men at the bar than townsfolk in the village square. He slapped down a coin, and gave the barkeep a nod. “Ale.”
A tankard slid toward him. He eagerly drank, but nearly choked. The ale was warm and stale, and just a day or two from vinegar. He managed to swallow the mouthful, and raised his drink in a salute. “Best ale I’ve had in days,” he said. “Now, how about some good food for a weary traveler?”
The barkeep paused in drying a goblet. “Food we have. Good?” He glanced at the men near him and exchanged smiles.
“Well, it will fill your belly!” said one customer.
The room broke into laughter. The barkeep tossed his rag over his shoulder. “We lost our cook,” he said.
“Didn’t pay her enough?” Jastin asked.
The barkeep smacked the dried goblet onto the bar. “Pay her? You mean we were supposed to pay her?” He threw back his head and guffawed.
“Heard tell she died of her own food,” said a puny voice from across the room.
“You remember the time I found that pig’s ear in my stew, Temin?” A man seated at the bar smacked his drinking buddy on the arm, startling the other so that he nearly toppled his mug.
Temin clutched the mug protectively and glared. “Whole town remembers, Berl. You won’t let it rest.” He looked around his friend’s shoulder at Jastin. “Besides, it wasn’t a pig’s ear.”
Berl stuck a finger toward Jastin’s nose. “Was too. Seen enough pig ears to know.”
“Eaten enough, you mean,” said Temin into his mug. “Don’t see how one more in a bowl of stew should make a difference.” The man sucked at his drink.
Berl hunkered over his own tankard with a scowl. “Principal. A man ought to be able to order a simple bowl of stew in a public place and not have to worry about seeing a wrinkled old pig’s
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