The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 6

  “But that was about how wrong Menthar was to violate Mila.”

  “Yes, yes, that too, but fire and forest don’t mix,” Sir Nickleby said. “We want to keep ourselves safe, don’t we? Then we should keep the forest safe. Any stray flame or spark, and then whoosh, it’s all up in flames! The woods, our homes, our farmland, our town; everything is susceptible to fire. We have to be ever watchful and stay prepared for anything, for anything is possible.”

  He wasn’t being paranoid, just careful. Sir Nickleby knew the difference between the two. Meanwhile, some of the other men in the patrol had apparently gotten bored with his lecture and were starting to wander off, probably anxious to continue on with this patrol as they still had a lot of ground to cover before dawn. Sir Nickleby was trying his best to hurry it along a little, but he had to be absolutely sure things were right. Suddenly, they heard a howl in the night, soft and low—almost a growl—close to the ground.

  Sir Nickleby lifted his head. “Berevus!” he called.

  “He’s gone, sir,” Erroco said, coming up to the knight. “I saw him go out there with a couple of the men. It’s just us torchbearers, Smidge, and you.”

  Sir Nickleby turned and asked Erroco, “Berevus and the other men went out there without a torchbearer?”

  “Apparently they didn’t think they needed one,” Erroco said.

  “Erroco, you come with me. Smidge, you protect the other two torchbearers.” Suspicious of Berevus’ actions so soon after the mysterious bird call—there were no night birds in Arria—Sir Nickleby set off with Erroco in pursuit of Berevus.

  The trees would overshadow any man who came near them, even the bent ones with their branches and twigs twisted and tangled. Branches splintered off trunks, rising twisted as they grew, competing with their neighbors for sunlight and rain. Never did a tree truly grow straight upward, but instead it went off in some other direction to steal from its neighbors.

  This was especially true in the Mila Forest around Coe Baba, where most of the trees were of the falling-leaf kind, deciduous, and not of the evergreen kind that grew up tall like in the mountains. Deciduous tree branches spread out to cover the sky available to them, and when thick with leaves, their canopy clouded over everything, even during the day. A person walking on the ground couldn’t see well enough to find their way through the forest, and at night, not even the stars or the moon were visible. And Berevus went out there without any light. What was the matter with him?

  Sir Nickleby and Erroco followed a trail of trampled brush as they searched for Berevus, calling out his name and the names of the other two men. They reached a clearing and stopped in shock of the sight of Berevus standing over the other two men, both of them slaughtered in cold blood. Berevus looked up at them, his eyes wide and staring. He was covered in blood, his sword unsheathed. Before Sir Nickleby could react, Erroco charged Berevus, screaming at the top of his lungs with his torch waving about in the air as his other hand reached down for his sword.

  “Erroco, no!” Sir Nickleby cried, rushing forward after him.

  Berevus slashed his sword across Erroco’s throat. He fell, the torch dropping from his near lifeless hand. Berevus confronted Sir Nickleby as the grass and underbrush around them began to burn. Their swords clanged against one another, and if they ever struck skin or light armor, it was often a grazing blow easily fended off.

  Not as strong or as agile as he once was, Sir Nickleby had a rough time of it fighting a much younger man, and he couldn’t help thinking about Erroco, who lay dying, his life blood gushing out with each pump of his heart. Fortunately, Berevus didn’t have as much experience or practice at sword-fighting as Sir Nickleby did, nor was he a quick thinker.

  “Berevus, why—why did you kill them?” Sir Nickleby cried out as he lunged forward, blocking the thrust of Berevus’ sword.

  “Because of the wolf,” Berevus said, pointing his sword behind Sir Nickleby without even thinking about the vulnerable spot it put him in. Sir Nickleby slashed at Berevus instead of turning around, and found the perfect mark, penetrating deep into his midsection. Berevus fell to his knees, clutching the gushing wound to his belly. “Are you the tiger?” he asked Sir Nickleby, finally toppling over into the dirt.

  Sir Nickleby turned around and saw the wolf, its leg caught in a varmint trap.

  The Black Wolf, or more precisely the Hyena Wolf, was larger than an ordinary wolf. Its coarse fur was as black as obsidian except for the gray fur on its underbelly.

  Growling at the knight, the Wolf strained at the trap. Dripping saliva, the creature’s fangs curled out of its gaping mouth, extending all the way down to the bottom of its jawline. Underneath its fur, sinew and muscle rippled, stretching the thick hide as the animal scratched and clawed at the ground to free itself. Sir Nickleby knew it longed for nothing more than to break free and lunge at him. Its beady red eyes shone from beneath a thick downward-sloping forehead, and its small pointed ears were pinned back in pure rage.

  Sir Nickleby hauled Erroco over his shoulder and carried him out of the flames, not knowing if he was carrying a live man or nothing more than his lifeless body. The Wolf howled horribly as it died, but mixed in with its cry of pain was a hyena-like laugh. Icy chills scurried up Sir Nickleby’s spine as he looked back to see a shadow—darker than the smoke, darker than the night—rise out of the Wolf’s mouth as it finally dropped into the encroaching flames and burned.

  “Oh, gods,” Sir Nickleby whispered in fear, for he knew the escaping shadow had to be a shade of Doomba, a foreboding presence of the evil being. “By the blood in me, by the spirit of my heart…” Sir Nickleby coughed as he hunched over Erroco, trying to get the words out in the midst of the acrid smoke. As the shade turned toward him, he found the words to save his own life. “By the sweat off of my brow, by the breath that stirred me…” He inhaled—it was coming straight for him, either to kill him or to possess and make him one of Doomba’s Servants—and said, “And by the clay that molded me, I, Sir Nickleby, cast you, shadow, into the nether region from which you came, by the power of Tau who created me!” He cried the last out loud just before the shade reached him.

  The shade howled and screeched as it was sucked toward the flames, which greedily swelled up to swallow it as the shade, darker than night, collapsed in the flames. Despite the smoke and the scent of death permeating the air, Sir Nickleby breathed a sigh of relief. He hoped he’d never have to do a thing like that again.

  Smidge found Sir Nickleby soon after and told him the other torchbearers had gone back to warn the townspeople of the spreading forest fire. Smidge and Sir Nickleby dragged out the dying Erroco and helped to contain the forest fire alongside a group of volunteer firefighters, townspeople armed with buckets of water. Iibala ran up to hug her father, relieved to find him alive, but Sir Nickleby didn’t feel so inclined to revel in that. Smidge questioned him as to what had happened in the forest.

  “There was a wolf,” Sir Nickleby said. “It attacked Berevus and the other two men. Erroco and I tried to help them, but Erroco dropped his torch by accident, and everything started to burn. Erroco and I were the only ones…” He choked up, staring down at the dead man. “Erroco, I’m so sorry,” he said.

  Sir Nickleby knew the shade had used the Hyena Wolf to come after him. It was his fault his men had perished in his stead. But what of the wolf’s pack? Regardless of Doomba’s manipulation, they were social creatures; Hyena Wolves didn’t travel alone. There was bound to be a pack of them close by. But why was it trapped? And who had set the trap for this one? Because it certainly wasn’t Berevus, which begged the answer to another question. Why did Berevus kill his compatriots? Had he been possessed by a shade as well? No, Sir Nickleby thought. No shadow escaped his body upon death. Perhaps his sanity had finally left him and he’d merely gone mad. Or had Berevus killed the men because he didn’t want anyone to know he was a Follower of Doomba? Perhaps he’d asked both men, “Are you the Tiger?” And had killed them when both said, “no.”


  Sir Nickleby wasn’t the Tiger of legend. He was just a simple knight, not even one of the eminent Knights of Arria. Could the real Tiger be somewhere here in Coe Baba, he wondered, waiting for the right opportunity to make his identity known?

  Bringing death to save others was the knight’s work. The first Knights of Arria were the most famous knights in all of Salarria. They possessed the magical powers and legendary Swords of Arria. Nickleby could never hope to be one of them, much less the Tiger, but he could still do his duty to the town.

  Now, all these months later, standing before these boys who wanted to be men in the town militia, Sir Nickleby said, “You boys might as well go and catch me my dinner! Because your inferior aims won’t protect our good King Sonnagh.”

  “May His Majesty long reign!” everybody shouted. Although no one born in Coe Baba knew much about the king—or about politics in general—to understand the full complexity of the country they lived in. For news of this kind, they relied upon travelers and daily interactions with local political and social leaders.

  The country of Arria, even as far out of the way as their small community, was filled with people of diverse backgrounds, abilities, and beliefs, and Sir Nickleby embraced them all. He loved king and country. Yet Coe Baba, as well as the rest of Arria and most of the continent, was restricted in a class structure not only of wealth but of nobility. Sir Nickleby was a part of that feudal system. He depended upon it for his mainstay, his security, yet he didn’t always like it.

  Baron Augwys was the king’s representative in Coe Baba and the highest authority figure in town. He collected taxes and presided over most charity events. However, the baron wasn’t the strongest, nor the wisest, and certainly not the most wealthy or most persuasive man in town. The strongest man had to be Sir Nickleby, who was still capable, after all his years of training, of giving any other man a good jouncing. Though he served Baron Augwys as a part of his feudal duties, he wasn’t completely dependent upon the man for welfare. He had his own enterprises. Sir Nickleby knew his place, yet he sometimes had to stretch the boundaries.

  The wisest man in town had to be Old Man, the oldest living resident of Coe Baba. With the wisdom of his age wrapped up in his spindly frame, he was almost a religious figure to the townspeople. Old Man was a katlin, a storyteller, for those children who liked to hear old legends, and though Sir Nickleby didn’t listen to stories anymore—well, except for that one time he didn’t wish to speak about—he did believe in the gods in his heart, and so he honored Old Man.

  The wealthiest man had to be the baron, but questionably, Lapo the merchant, could give him a run for his money. The baron had his estate and manor with servants and property, but most of that was inherited and expensive to maintain. The baron couldn’t disgrace himself by selling any of it. Meanwhile, Sir Nickleby knew the merchant earned much more than he revealed. What Lapo didn’t save was sold or loaned out to others, specifically the baron, in order to gain more influence in town. Knowing what kind of business he ran, Sir Nickleby had never accepted any money from Lapo, and he tried to distance himself from the baron as much as possible.

  The most persuasive man had to be the mayor. As the people’s representative, he maintained civil order in town amid the power struggles among prominent men and managed to get reelected year after year because they liked his candor, and because he was usually the only one running for the job. Nickleby thought it was a bit of a surprise nobody else wanted the position as the baron paid the mayor well.

  Unfortunately, the mayor had to cope with the pressures. Sir Nickleby wasn’t too bothered by the mayor’s drinking, just as long as he kept up the mayoral facade in public. He reckoned the man might be able to slide by with a few more years in his position, despite his failing health.

  The kindest man, according to those who had a drink in their hand, was Geda, the innkeeper of the Smiling Stallion Inn. Geda had one of the only two bars in town and was generous with his patrons. Only Nickleby knew he had a temper comparable to his own. Nevertheless, he’d adopted a child as his own when no one else would’ve taken the boy in. He and his wife had raised the boy alongside their own son, loving them equally.

  Sir Nickleby watched out for the boy as well. He knew Basha had something great in him. Always willing to go the extra mile, he was one of the most dedicated students Nickleby had had in years. He reminded Nickleby of the knights of Coe Kiki. Like them, Basha was born to fight. But he’d never get the chance to train in Coe Kiki. In this complex system that made up the society and culture of Arria, Basha had problems, many of the same problems Sir Nickleby had had himself growing up, and for this reason, he’d tried to make things easier for Basha without coddling the boy.

  Even though Basha’s chances of making it into the militia were slim, at least he tried to earn a better place for himself.

  “Now that’s better,” Sir Nickleby said, satisfied with their loyalty. “I don’t criticize without good reason,” he said as he faced the boys. “For four long years now, I’ve instructed you all, and deep down, I’m ashamed that you all are called men! So let’s just get this over with.” Sir Nickleby turned and marched toward the far side of the meadow and into his house.

  With their mentor out of view, the young men looked around at each other, puzzled. “What is he doing?” someone asked.

  “I bet he has some new test for us,” one of them said.

  “I hope it’s something we can use our weapons against!” another one exclaimed.

  “What do you think is going on, Basha?” Oaka asked him.

  “I don’t know, but I’m ready for it,” Basha grimly said.

  “Of course. How many hours a day have you practiced?” Oaka asked condescendingly.

  “Two or three…” Basha hesitated when Oaka gave him a skeptical look. “Okay, it was six a day.”

  “That’s just too much!” Oaka exclaimed. “Why are you so serious about practicing?”

  “Practicing is what makes you perfect,” Basha said.

  “So Sir Nickleby says. Me, I’m already perfect,” Oaka said, smiling arrogantly at Basha.

  Basha shook his head in disdain. Oaka brazenly held he already had everything he needed within himself, without training, to make the militia. Basha, on the other hand, didn’t want to stop there. He wanted to become a knight and worked toward the perfection needed. He’d trained and fought as hard as he could to reach that higher standard.

  Sir Nickleby returned, carrying a box. The knight reached in, and all of the young men groaned when they saw what he pulled out. People in the crowd either laughed or spoke angrily with each other as they saw Sir Nickleby holding up a wooden practice sword.

  “I wanted to fight for real!” Oaka cried out, earning a jab in the ribs from Basha. “Ow,” he grumbled, giving Basha a dirty look.

  Basha glanced back at Oaka but said nothing. It was hard to take Oaka seriously when he was always playing the part of the fool. His brother didn’t realize how immature he could appear.

  “This a real tryout!” one of the townspeople yelled. “How can you let them fight with a practice sword?” the same person asked. “After all these years of training, don’t you trust them enough with real blades?”

  “I trust them enough to stab one another!” Sir Nickleby shouted back at the crowd before he turned back to the boys. “I know that some of you are so eager to show off your sword-fighting skills in these tryouts that your enthusiasm would’ve risked the lives of your fellow trainees!” he told them, looking around at all of the young men.

  Oaka glanced down and Hastin glared at Old Man.

  “I don’t want to see anybody getting hurt here, unless by accident.” Sir Nickleby’s gaze passed over Basha. “So I’ve decided to forego the real weapons approach and use a back-to-basics technique,” He placed the box on the ground and reached in to retrieve the second practice sword. “However, these practice swords are just as important as real swords. None of you should ever forget that you spent years learn
ing with these things before I ever gave you a real sword to hold. No matter how advanced you are in your skill set, no matter how well equipped, you all started the same and learned the same way with these swords. However, some of you have advanced further than others, and I want to even things up a little bit so that nobody would be hurt mortally.

  “Two of you will be chosen to join the town militia this year, and when the Border Guards pass through town next year, looking for new recruits, I’ll be sure to give these two boys a good recommendation, so that they can enlist with honors!” Sir Nickleby shouted, pulling out a tally board from the box as people clapped. At least my recommendation still matters to the Border Guards, he thought. “I want to give you all a fair chance at proving you’re the best of the best!” Sir Nickleby hoped Basha would be one of the winners.

  * * * *

  Pathetic rabble, the stranger thought as he approached the crowd. He knew the militia tryouts would be the perfect opportunity for him to strike a blow for Doomba, though he didn’t know quite how he’d take advantage of it yet. Almost everyone was so preoccupied by the sword controversy, he was able to work his way through the crowd practically unnoticed. He was about to teach them a lesson about awareness of one’s surroundings.

  It had been glorious, the feeling of elation he experienced when he was sworn in as a Follower of Doomba. He’d been irrevocably changed by that encounter, enough to know that his destiny lay not in the farm he’d managed for years, but elsewhere. He was ready now for his new life to begin.

  He’d strike at the heart of Coe Baba and bring fear to the people of Arria, proving he had what it took to be a dedicated Follower. He’d be famous for what he did here today, perhaps famous enough for Doomba himself to notice him. That would be a blessing indeed.