A New Dawn Coming

Chapter Seven

Rain. Again. Not a floating, translucent mist, or a howling horizontal lashing, but a slow, steady, relentless deluge that soaked into everything. The trees stood bowed on either side of the road, their leaves surrendering to the battering of the incessant drops. The road was a wide swath of thick, slippery mud. It caked, and eventually seeped through, the sturdiest boots, making footing treacherous. The drumming of the drops, as they battered the world, had become a permanent companion.

Faux Falaran pulled his cloak tighter around him, grimacing, as a trickle of water rushed through an opening somewhere along the back of his neck. He shrugged at the tickling along his spine, and stopped to stretch his aching back. His exhausted legs quivered during short respite from the days walking.

He’d been walking through the rain the past few days. It felt as though it’d been raining forever. Since his rapid departure from Estermont months ago at the very least. Another lifetime.

Sometimes his mind would wander during the lonely days on the road. He’d create grand thoughts that the constant rain was the weeping of Jahlenea, the Blessed One, as she cried for him and all he’d lost. Then he’d remember how everything had played out. How his arrogance and sense of invincibility forced him to flee; and he’d be convinced that it was tears of laughter from Kylaldir, the Fallen One.

Regardless of where the rain was coming from, it made him miserable. His coat and breeches were soaked through to the skin, and the dry clothes he’d packed into his backpack were sogged too. His feet were raw and blistered, inside boots slathered in mud; and like everything else he owned, were soaked through.

As he caught his breath and let his aching muscles have a break, he looked around, noticing for the first time just how late in the day it was. The quasi-twilight that had passed for daylight was fading. The unseen sun was beginning it’s decent, abandoning yet another day without making an appearance. It was getting colder too, and with everything as drenched as it was, it looked as though there’d be no fire again tonight. He shivered. With his body being as wet and cold as it was, that was going to be a problem.

A shallow depression, next to a magnificent oak tree on his left, provided at least a modicum of protection from the unyielding rain. He shambled towards it and dropped his backpack against its mighty trunk. He surveyed the area and began rummaging through the sodden pack, looking for his hatchet. There were enough scattered fir and pine trees around, that in a few minutes, he should be able to put a rough lean-to together. It wouldn’t be much, but it ought to keep the worst of the rain off him

“As if that’ll make a difference.” He grimaced, the sound of his own voice sounded odd under the oppressive weight of the heavy clouds and rain. “I’m likely going to die from pneumonia anyway. What’s it matter if I’m soaked through?”

“Because ye’ should never die miserable if ye’ can help it.”

Faux spun, lightning quick, the hatchet plopping in the mud as he drew a rapier from the sheath on his back. The grip was wet, but still felt comfortable and reassuring in his practiced hand. He tensed, ready to strike.

A few dozen paces away, stood a dwarf. He stared at the half-elf with his hands planted on stout hips, a curious expression on his face.

At least Faux imagined it was a face. Two mahogany brown eyes peered at him from underneath enormous, bushy eyebrows. A large bulbous nose rested on top of the largest beard Faux had ever seen. The massive profusion of hair sprouted from the base of the dwarf’s nose, spilling uncontrollably down his body before finally tapering off just below his belt. It was a rich black in colour, but had several streaks of silver running through it. In several places it was braided and plaited. He was bare headed, his sodden hair brushing the tips of his shoulders. He was wrapped in a massive white cloak that hung limp in the rain. A darkly burnished breastplate peeked out between the flaps of the cloak. He seemed to be effected by the merciless rain that had sapped the energy from the rest of the world, as a granite boulder.

“Who’re you!” Faux challenged, angry with himself that he’d let his own misery cloud his senses to the point where he didn’t hear the dwarf approach.

“Could be a friend if ye’d have me be.” The dwarf leaned back on his heels. “The road can be a dangerous place in these parts. But ye’d best put the pig sticker away, I mean ye no harm.”

“Just answer the question,” Faux brandished the sword even more. “Then I’ll decide if I’m going to put the blade away.”

The dwarf let out, what seemed to Faux to be an exasperated breath, blowing out massive tangles of hair from around his mouth.

“I said I mean ye no harm boy, and I say what I mean. The name is Aboleth, Aboleth Stormsplinter. I carry the word of Jahlenea, and try to look after all her children. And no offence lad, but ye look like someone who could use a bit of lookin’ after.”

“A cleric then.” Faux relaxed, noticing for the first time the Blessed One’s clasped hands over a rising sun, embroidered on the dwarf’s cloak. “I was just about to make up a bit of a shelter to get out of the rain.” He indicated the slight depression next to the oak tree, tucking his blade away. “We won’t dry off much in this weather, but at least we can get a break from being pissed on. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Sleep under a tree?” Aboleth roared with laughter. “I think not boy, not in this foul weather. Not with an inn so close; with a warm bed and a mug of ale waitin’.” His body shook with amusement at the prospect of passing up on the comforts of an inn for a night outside.

“There’s a town?”

“Aye lad, another mile or so along what’s passin’ for a road here.” Aboleth pointed along the road in the direction that Faux had been travelling. “Tis more of a village than a town proper, but Arbordale has a fine inn with stout ale and good company. I take it ye’re not from these parts then?”

Faux shook his head. He’d mostly avoided towns since his flight from Estermont. A couple weeks after he’d left, he’d stopped in a small town called Brecken to rest and spend a night or two at the inn. It was the first real stop since he’d fled, his coin purse was drying up, and he had some decisions to make. Mid-morning on his second day there, a group of soldiers bearing Keswicks sigil barged in the common room and began harassing the handful of people taking their breakfast there. Before Faux could slip out the back, they spotted him. Once the initial shock of actually seeing him wore off, they drew their weapons, and set on him like a pack of rabid wolves scenting a rabbit.

It’d been bloody work, dodging and darting through the town, trying to escape. He couldn’t fight them all together, so he’d tried to flank them, hide, or draw them into one on one battles. By the end of the day, he’d killed the five of them, but not before he’d taken a long s***h along his upper thigh, as well as various nicks and cuts.

He’d relieved the corpses of their meager money pouches, purchased some remedies and poultices from the small apothecary, and had promptly been asked by the councillor to leave the town. He didn’t want that kind of trouble from the baron, and he’d not hide Faux or the fact that he’d been there. He couldn’t blame the poor man. Standing there, confronting the half-elf, terrified and shivering, praying the psychotic traveller wouldn’t split his skull. He’d left, but since then he’d been wary and cautious of towns and villages.

“Come lad,” Aboleth strode towards him. “Ye’ll not be needin’ to sleep under the trees tonight. Whatever’s got ye on edge won’t find ye tonight. I don’t claim to know her way, but I think Jahlenea herself may have sent me to find ye, to keep ye from dyin’ under that tree.”

Faux stopped. He stared at the dwarf as he trudged along the trail. A voice echoed inside his head; “This is Jahlenea telling you to find a new path. She sent you to me, to make sure you’d live to try again.”

The voice was so vivid, Faux glanced over his shoulder, sure he’d see Ahanna’s pale face smiling at him. It was a thin coincidence. But, he rationalized to himself, sometimes small things are all you have left. He leaned over, picked his pack off the soaking ground, and started striding through the drumming rain after the dwarf.

* * * * *

As Aboleth promised, they’d walked only another couple of miles before Faux could make out a large clearing with several squat buildings nestled together. Thick, sawn logs made up the walls, while patchy thatch sprouted from the roofs like wild unkempt hair. Dense wood smoke swirled, hanging thick in the damp air as if a heavy woolen blanket was draped over the small town. The rain had receded to a few scattered drops as they trudged between the houses. Clouds still loomed ominously overhead, threatening to resume their dreary task at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll have to be payin’ my respects a little later,” Aboleth said as they passed a crumbling church. Patches of flaking paint peeled from the thin planks of its walls. The Blessed One’s symbol stood out in stark contrast, but it too looked worn and faded.

“You come here often?” Faux asked.

“Nay. Pass through a few times each year as I make my rounds through the countryside. There isn’t much here besides good ale and good folk, but that makes it a haven in itself.”

Faux nodded as they approached what looked to be the largest building in the town. It had a foundation of rough, but fitted stone, rising a couple of feet from the ground. Thick oaken logs rested on one another, rising into the thatch. Water glistened along the well-oiled timber after the drenching of the days rains. Heavy shutters sat latched at regular intervals, a warm glow peeking from around the edges, hinting at signs of life from within.

Heat, and a cacophony of noise, hit them like a slap in the face as Aboleth pulled open the sturdy front door. Faux’s mouth dropped in amazement at the gathering of people. It seemed as though the entire village was gathered around the cluster of tables dotting the room. The bar was only identifiable by the long row of flagons and bottles lining a section of the wall. A roaring fire spit and hissed from a stone hearth along one of the side walls. Dozens of different conversations gave the room a low buzz like a beehive. An older man sat on a rickety stool in one corner, strumming a lively tune on a gittern, while a younger woman tried to keep up with a small flute.

“Always this lively?” Faux asked the dwarf, almost shouting to be heard over the bedlam.

“Nay. I haven’t seen it like this before.” His enormous beard swayed as he shook his head, neck craning as he tried to see through the tangle of bodies. “Let’s see if we can find ye a spot by the fire, put some heat into yer blood.”

Faux followed the dwarf as they began pushing their way through the throng of people. Most seemed to be simple village folk, wearing sturdy but well-made clothes. Woollen shirts and straight-cut trousers for the men, plain cotton dresses for the women; some with a small, single apron tied around their waists. A few people looked as travel worn as himself, their clothes a mix of drying mud and dust, a weariness around their eyes that he could relate to.

In the center of the room, a half-dozen rough looking men sat around a table covered in a mess of empty and half empty ale mugs. Lounging like lazy lions, they were focused on whatever card game they were playing, oblivious to everyone around them until bawling out for more drink.

Nearing the back of the room, Faux could tell there’d be no table waiting for them. Undeterred, Aboleth fought his way to a table set near the fire and began talking to the men seated there. After what looked to be some intense bargaining, and a few coins from Aboleth’s hand, the men got up, shook hands with the dwarf, and muttered something about ‘always pleased to help the church’ before sauntering off towards the bar.

“Here ye be lad.” Aboleth said beaming, “The best seat in the house.”

Faux shrugged his tired shoulders, dropped his pack under the table, and slid into the newly vacated seat nearest the fire. Warmth was already flowing along his body.

“You paid those men to leave?” Faux asked. Thin wisps of steam rose from his sodden cloak as he hung it over the back of his chair.

“T’was nothin’. Not sure why the place is so crowded, but it was worth every silver piece to have a place to sit by the fire. Wouldn’t have wanted to go through all the trouble of bringin’ ye here, just so ye could die standin’ at the bar from the cold, now would I?” Aboleth chuckled at his own jest, his beard twitching.

“Well thanks,” Faux mumbled, grinning at the dwarf. His good spirits and boisterous laughter were infectious.

“Evening kind sirs, is there anything I can get for you?”

Faux looked up, his eyes widening at the barmaid smiling down at them. Her coal black hair hung in cascading waves, flowing effortlessly over her shoulders and down her back. Her blues eyes were bright, twinkling with an alluring mischievousness. A smattering of light freckles spattered her face, giving her a look of innocence that contrasted sharply with those eyes. Her slender body looked as though it had been poured into her serving dress, and the unlaced bodice hinted at the space between her smallish breasts. Unbidden, Lydia’s face floated across his vision. He shook his head and looked back up to see Aboleth staring at him.

“Lad?” Aboleth was staring at him. “What’ll ye have? Ye make up yer mind yet?”

Faux’s face turned a deep crimson. He hoped the natural flush from the fire’s heat masked his embarrassment.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” he mumbled, trying to make eye contact with out blushing even further.

“Sure thing hun,” she beamed, casting him a quick wink, before lithely darting back into the press of bodies towards the bar.

“So...” Aboleth drawled, “Been on the road a while then?”

“Long enough.” Faux regarded the dwarf suspiciously. He’d brought him here, and gotten him a spot by the fire, but he wasn’t about to drop his guard over a bit of kindness and a pretty set of eyes. “Been a while since I stopped anywhere or slowed down. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious is all.” The dwarf raised his hands in mock surrender, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I won’t press ye lad, but I’d at least like to know yer name. Tis always nice to know who I’m prayin’ for when I speak with the Blessed Mother.”

Faux hesitated. He hadn’t taken the time to get to know anyone since Brecken, preferring to be cautious and distrustful. If the dwarf was hunting him though, he probably would have killed him back on the road instead of waiting until they were in a crowded village inn.

“Faux. Faux Falaran.”

“Faux? That’s a curious one then.” His voluminous eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Yer mother must have had a sense of humour.”

“Kind of the opposite actually. She told me once, being a half-elf I would never be wholly accepted by either race. Elves would always see me as not truly belonging to them and focus on my human traits while humans would do the opposite. So, Faux it is.”

“And?”

“She was right of course.”

“Sounds like a woman after my own mother,” Aboleth said earnestly. “A wise woman if there ever was one.”

“I thought she was raving mad actually. But she knew.” He ducked his head, “It’s all I have left of her now, but it’s enough.”

“Here you go!” The serving girl interrupted the conversation, laying two large mugs of frothing, reddish tinted ale on the table. “That’ll be a silver penny each.”

“Thank you, lass,” Aboleth slid a silver coin across the table.

Faux opened his own coin purse and looked inside. The handful of copper bits that stared back at him almost hid the pair of silver pennies underneath, one lonely gold mark peered at him sullenly. He pulled one of the silver pennies, following Aboleth’s lead, and handed it over.

“My thanks as well.” He added.

“Sure thing. If you need anything else, just holler for Jenni over the crowd.” She gave Faux a coy giggle.

“Well thank you Jenni. It’s much appreciated.”

“My pleasure. I’ll be right back with your meal. Gustfer is taking it up now.” With another quick smile in Faux’s direction, she was gone in a flourish.

“Meal?” Faux looked at Aboleth.

“Aye lad. Some venison and potato I believe. Now that we have ye next to a fire, some grub in yer gut is the next step. Well, after the ale!” To punctuate that statement, he lifted his glass and tipped it in Faux’s direction. “To our mothers and wise women, may Jahlenea watch over them.” With that, he took a long pull from his mug before laying it back on the table, a ring of foam lining his flowing moustache.

Faux leaned back in his chair, thinking. Wise women. He hadn’t thought about his mother in years. The elves hadn’t treated her well after she’d birthed a half-breed. She’d done her best to prepare him for the world. The sight of her swaying from a rope, put there by her own hands, his final lesson. Cynical and bitter, he’d left the elvish lands with plans to never go back.

He forced thoughts of his mother from his mind, letting them drift to Lydia. Wise for sure. And left behind. His eyes found Jenni as she darted around the crowded inn, deftly delivering drinks and food to the mass of patrons. Her movements were graceful, almost a dance from table to table. He sighed. Lydia had had that same ability. To navigate a crowded room as if she were dancing at a nobleman’s ball. A butterfly flitting from flower to flower wasn’t half so graceful. That was in the past now, in Estermont, and he wasn’t likely to be going back there any time soon. Still though; a wise woman.

“Here you go!” Jenni’s chipper voice shook Faux out of his reverie, as she laid two large plates on the table. Each had a large chunk of fatty venison, surrounded by a wall of potatoes. A thick, spicy gravy was slathered over everything. His mouth watered at the intoxicating smell wafting from the plate. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hot, well cooked meal. “That’ll be a mark each.”

Faux’s fascination with the meal soured. He remembered that one, sad gold mark staring back at him when he’d paid for his drink. He flashed a smile for Jenni, pulling it from his pouch and holding it over her slender hand.

She reached to take it, brushing her fingers along his skin, eyes dancing, before pulling away. His cheeks coloured again as he pulled his hand back, while she collected Aboleth’s mark.

“Thank you, masters,” she flashed her white teeth at Faux. Drifting back into the throng, she threw a last, fleeting glance at the half elf.

“I’d be wary of that one lad,” Aboleth chuckled, eyeing Faux, before shoving gravy laden potatoes into his mouth.

“Thanks,” Faux mumbled, a haunch of venison already in his mouth.

For the first time since leaving Estermont, he was beginning to feel relaxed. The dwarf’s easy nature and companionship, along with the food and fire were, lulling him into a sense of peacefulness.

“I don’t think I thanked you,” Faux began, settling back into his chair, the mug of ale cradled on the table top.

“For what?” Aboleth was sucking stray bits of gravy off his sausage like fingers.

“If it weren’t for you I’d still be huddled under that tree. Probably eating some scrounged up berries, or bark, or whatever, while I waited for the cold and rain to kill me.”

“No thanks required lad. I told ye, I do the Blessed One’s work. Her ways are not always clear, but when I laid eyes on yer sorry state on the road tonight, well, the meanin’ was easier to understand than other times.”

“Still though, thank you.”

Aboleth nodded in acquiescence, taking another long pull from his beer and draining the remaining liquid. A thick foam was all that was left, running down the sides of the glass, a slow motion waterfall.

“Finish yer meal lad. I’ll go talk to the innkeep and see about a room for the night.” With that Aboleth was off his chair and stomping towards the bar, jostling and apologizing, battering his way through the thick crowd of people. His movements resembled an out of control boulder, smashing through a dense forest as it raced downhill, a direct contrast to Jenni’s graceful, flowing movements.

Faux leaned back, letting the ale and food settle. The change in fortunes had happened so suddenly, he was having a hard time getting his head around it. A few hours ago, he was convinced that he was going to die from exposure on the road. Now he had a full stomach, was almost dry, and feeling comfortably warm. It also seemed, if only for the short term, that he’d picked up a companion. One, seemingly intent on reviving him. It didn’t matter that it might be based more on religious obligation than true companionship. The dwarf had certainly saved his life.

Lounging in his chair, his mind turned to his next pressing problem; an empty coin purse. Scanning the crowd, he began looking for the right combination of distraction and wealth.

He’d arrived in Estermont destitute and broke. Driven by desperation, he soon discovered his long fingers had an affinity for lifting coin purses. That talent had started him on his ascent as a successful thief, eventually leading to the assassinations.

Funny, he thought, now that I’ve hit rock bottom, it’s back to the basics.

Aside from the local village folk, there were a number of people with back packs over shoulders, or casually tossed to the floor, indicating they’d travelled some kind of distance to get there.

Close to the bar, was the table crowded by the six gruff looking men playing cards. They had a different cast to them than everyone else in the inn. Although their clothes were rough spun, and just as plain as most of the patrons, their statures and nonchalance hinted that they were somehow more than simple farmers enjoying a night out. The wide berth the other customers gave them, and the full scabbards strewn over their chair backs, also helped distinguish them. He’d noticed them on the way in, but focused on them now.

Coins were scattered across the table top as they tossed their cards around. It looked to be mostly silver pennies, but Faux could see the occasional glint of gold as well. One or two cards were dealt out at a time as players either added more coins to the mess on the table, or tossed their cards down in disgust. Eventually, one would emerge the victor. Grinning, the victor would sweep up the mess of silver and gold, while the rest laughed, swore, drank, or yelled for more ale. The perfect targets Faux surmised; distracted, drunk, and coins to spare.

Aboleth was standing at the bar, talking to who he guessed was the innkeep, and another, very large man. The innkeep was shaking his head while the giant man was nodding his.

His mind made up, he stood, laid his backpack on the chair that his cloak was splayed over, and starting walking towards the bar. Nearing the card players, his quick eyes darted over their chairs and the coats that were slung over the backs of them. A large bulging purse hung from the belt of one of the men. It swayed just below the chair, as if it were being tickled by a gentle spring breeze. He paused, stepping aside to let another serving girl go by, a tray of drinks deftly balanced on one hand, before committing to the theft.

Leaning forward as he was passed by the chair, he twitched his wrist, releasing the small dagger he kept tucked underneath. The dagger snipped the leather thong holding the coin pouch, dropping it into his outstretched hand.

The instant his hand touched the purse, a loud chorus of curses and jeers went up at the table. A card player from the other side of the table, slammed his cards down in disgust and shoved on the table, driving it into the players on the side that Faux was on. Everyone was knocked back. His victim’s chair clunked into Faux’s hand the same time the man’s head cracked into his shoulder, knocking the half-elf off balance.

He stared up at Faux in drunken surprise. Then he noticed his coin purse. Resting in the half elf’s hand.