What Remains of Heroes Read Free Page B

clothes?”
    Brugan laughed, the sound of it grating. “And how about a purse full of gold crowns? And perhaps a stout horse and all the wine you can carry? After all, it seems you think there should be no end to my charity!”
    Lannick’s shoulders sagged. He hadn’t paid his bills at the place in weeks, maybe months, and even Brugan’s goodwill had its limits. “Work’s been slow, Brugan. You know I’ll make it up to you.”
    “Work?” The mirth left the barkeep’s face. “Is that what you call acting as a strongman for that bastard Silas? The man’s a crook. Shaking down debtors for coin at the point of your sword is hardly something I’d call work.”
    “It’s a living, Brugan. Not something I’m proud of.”
    Brugan leaned across the bar, drawing uncomfortably close to Lannick. “Nor should you be. It’s filthy work, Lannick. The sort suited for criminals and cutthroats. Not the likes of you.” He pulled back and again set about polishing the bar. “Lannick, I’ve helped you only because I know who you once were, not because of who you are now. The man before me now is a ghost of the one who earned my friendship. I wonder at times how you can stomach the sight of your own reflection, knowing how far you’ve allowed yourself to fall. If you and I had any less of a history, I’d tolerate you not at all.”
    Lannick found himself unable to meet the barkeep’s gaze. “I don’t have a lot of options here, Brugan. A shirt, at least? Even your most ragged will do. Certainly you can do that for an old friend?”
    Brugan placed a hand on Lannick’s shoulder. “You were a better man, once. A hero, even. Has so much changed?” His expression grew wistful for a moment, but then hardened again. “I can’t watch you live like this any longer, Lannick. I can no longer stand here with a smile and a full tankard for you as you piss away what little honor you have left.” He fixed Lannick with a serious look. “I have a couple of spare shirts in the kitchen. Grab the burlap one. Not one of my good linens or aprons, mind you. And then get out.”

    Lannick searched the kitchen, only finding the shirt after a close inspection of the piglet roasting in the fireplace. His mouth watered at the scent of it, but he couldn’t wrong his friend any further by stealing a morsel. Instead, he peeled off his shirt, taking care to avoid contact with its moist stains. He cursed his bad judgment, knowing he deserved no better than this.
    As he reached to retrieve Brugan’s shirt his eyes rested momentarily on the small symbol tattooed upon the inside of his forearm. A watchtower under which was a word: “ Variden. ” It meant “Vigilant Ones” in the elder tongue. A sadness came upon him as it often did when he encountered remnants of his old life. Brugan was right—Lannick had fallen far. He sighed and tugged Brugan’s shirt overhead.
    He turned toward the kitchen door and was about to declare his gratitude when he heard a crash. The hard crash of the tavern’s front door being thrown open. A din of shouting followed and boots thundered upon the tavern’s planked floor. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Lannick froze.
    “Barkeep!” sounded a high-pitched voice, like a sword scraping free of a scabbard. Lannick knew the voice well. It was General Fane, and likely several members of his Scarlet Swords.
    Lannick smacked at his head and tried to focus, frantically searching his surroundings. The cramped kitchen had no openings to the outside beyond a couple of narrow flues over the fireplaces. There was the swinging door into the common room and the bolted door to the cellar. The swinging door was sure to be thrown open in scant moments, at which point he’d be skewered just like piglet in the fireplace.
    I’m forgetting something!
    There came another crash from the common room and the crack of wood breaking. He picked out Fane’s voice. “There was a man last night, here at your tavern…”
    The Wanton Vicar