Steel And Flame (Book 1) Read Free Page B

increasing
frequency every day those old dusty boots failed to beat a path to their
doorway.
    A trio of travelers entered and called to Puarri for
food, breaking Marik from thoughts that occurred almost daily now.  He could
tell these men were fresh from the road by the questions they asked Puarri when
he brought them ale.  They planned to move on with the dawn and were interested
only in road conditions beyond Tattersfield.  The three were discussing the
caravan that had passed them earlier when several townsmen arrived.  Their
raucous laughter drowned the travelers’ speech.
    His interest persisted since they bore the look of
fighters.  Not only their gear suggested this, but their very manner seemed
hardened.  On the right, nearest the hearth, sat a man tall and thin.  A scar
ran from his left ear down his neck, disappearing under his tunic.  Locks of
dark hair veiled small eyes.  Marik thought the man should be scowling or
suspicious, yet he spoke the most with Puarri in a cheerfully boisterous
demeanor usually reserved for tale spinners practicing their craft at the
Summerdawn Festival.
    The man on the left was the one who bore the sullen
manner.  Though of similar height to the first man, his face was wider,
scar-free and his dark hair cut back to clear his vision.  His nose had
obviously been broken before.  Across the table, the first man turned from
Puarri to toss something at him while making an unheard comment.  While he
tucked the object into his belt pouch, the sullen man’s expression soured.
    When Puarri left them, the first turned his exuberance
on his sullen companion, receiving only short, curt utterances in reply.  Marik
wished he could hear what they said.
    The third man had yet to say anything as far as Marik
could tell.  Shorter than his friends by a head, he stretched wider than
either.  He should have looked fat except his hard arms and broad shoulders
bespoke solid muscle.  A brown mustache failed to distract from three long
parallel scars on his left cheek, running from eye to chin.  Seated comfortably
in the chair between his friends, he looked amused by their banter.
    The men were interesting enough, but their gear spoke
volumes.  Their cloaks gaped open to reveal well worn chainmail shirts, cared
for after being put to hard use.  They wore heavy leather boots and Marik saw
similar leather gloves tucked into their belts.
    Puarri refused to allow blades larger than a dagger in
his establishment, so Marik could not see what weapons they favored.  He might
see them by the door on his way out, though.  Since few locals carried weapons
in the town proper, they would likely be the only ones resting on Puarri’s
table.  No other strangers were at Puarri’s tonight.
    A serving boy brought the travelers their meal.  With
no chance of hearing further news, Marik decided to leave.  He waved to Puarri
as he walked by before pausing a moment near the door.  On the small table were
three weapons; two swords of unremarkable nature and a large axe.  Unlike the
axes carried by the woodsman around town, it was large, shiny, crescent 
shaped.  A sharp spike atop the shaft allowed the owner to thrust without being
limited to slashing attacks.
    Fascinating.  He had heard of weapons like this but
never seen one.
    Its broad silver surface recalled many a battle
history to Marik, most learned in Puarri’s from minstrels performing the
ancient lays in exchange for lodging.  The sensation of being watched made him
glance back at the travelers.  While the first two were still involved with
each other, the shorter man in the middle had paused in his eating to watch
him.  Marik locked gazes with the stranger.  A feeling of being caught at
mischief struck him, of being guilty without knowing why.  He averted eyes and
quickly left the tavern.
    Evening breezes blew across his face.  Marik realized
he had spent over a candlemark of time in Puarri’s without thinking about Pate
or his