November Vignette

[Christoph]

Salvic winter. It descended like wolves, ripping and tearing, devouring the north. The nights grew cold, snow deep. East of Archen, drifts piled so high they choked the roads and drowned overturned carts in seas of white. The dead lay beside them, victims of the cold, or of bloody steel. A sullen silence fell over the land, broken by only the flutter and caw of distant crows.

Even the hardiest travelers sought shelter. Off the road to Archen, sheltered in a grove of pines, sat an inn. A warm orange glow spilled from its shuttered windows. Inside, Elijah lounged in a chair padded with wolf and bear skins. A steaming mug in hand, the outlaw leaned back and soaked in the warmth. Here, he was but another wandering, nameless sellsword taking his rest. Not Elijah Belov the sorcerer, not the Burning One or the red-eyed scourge hunted by both men of the king and the Sway; he was nobody, and he liked it. After many hard months, he could enjoy some well-earned peace.

The fireplace crackled a sweet lullaby.

As he drifted on the edge of sleep, a shadow cast itself across his face. His brow creased, lips curled downward in a scowl. The shadow persisted and, most rudely, cleared its throat. Elijah glared up with one half-lidded eye.

“I have nothing for you, old man.”

The ‘old’ man showed fine lines on his cheeks and forehead and a hint of gray in his hair, but more than was his… aura. His stooped posture, his clothes, his… smell, like old boots and pungent scented oils. His face was clean shaven, likely tended that morning, and he wore an immaculate doublet of black and silver brocade silk with tailored striped pants. He looked more at home in the capital city’s noble courts, not the rugged frontier. Elijah dredged up the right word from the vaults of his mind. A fop. The fop smiled, showing straight white teeth. Eli disliked him immediately.

“I disagree. I do believe you have exactly what I am looking for.” The man possessed a hawkish quality, with his beady eyes and sharp nose—an effect only heightened by the thick cloak of dark feathers draped over his shoulders.

“Looking for trouble, then? I’m fresh out of everything else.”

“Quite the clever turn of phrase, sirrah.”

“I agree.” Elijah raised his mug to his mouth to hide a smirk, and took a sip of the still-hot wine. It burned his tongue, but he barely felt it.

The stranger lowered his voice and leaned in. “Of course, I would need to be quite the fool to provoke a sorcerer.”

The outlaw stiffened. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“I recognized you the moment you opened your eyes, Master Belov. Is it true that you called down dragon fire and destroyed the garrison at Ostergrad?”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Eli’s other hand, hidden beneath his cloak, inched toward his sword. “Who are you?” He glanced around the tavern hall, wondering if the well-dressed man came alone… and counting the bystanders. If I have to fight my way out…

The stranger held up his hand, palm out in a gesture of peace, and said, “Worry not. I am someone who has not come to apprehend you, or as the gutter slang goes, to ‘rat you out.’”

“What do you want?” The sorcerer kept his voice down, his posture relaxed. Thus far, the other patrons paid but a few curious glances to their conversation.

“I come with a business proposition befitting of a… Let us say, a mercenary of your stature.”

“I’m retired.”

The fop rested both hands delicately upon his cane. “Is that so? When did this happen?”

“About two minutes ago.”

“You wound me sirrah, but I think you will reconsider.” With a flourish, the fop unfurled a parchment scrawled with script too fine to read, and a silver wax seal displaying an upside-down half sun. “You see, an important person seeks your audience.”

Elijah sat up straight, a little too fast. The fop lurched back… a little too fast. Their eyes met for an instant, and Eli knew the truth.

“I see I have your attention,” said the fop, quickly composing himself.

“There’s a symbol I haven’t seen in a while.”

“I suspected not.” He rolled the scroll and slid it neatly into his doublet. “Shall we take a walk?”

Elijah began to rise, but stopped. “I’ll hear you out, but your thugs stay here.”

The would-be recruiter raised his eyebrow, cane clicking on the wooden floor. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Big man at the bar,” he replied, nodding in that direction. “He came in a few minutes before you, plus his boots are too nice for this dive. And that woman in the corner by herself, the one hiding a crossbow under her cloak, who keeps glancing over here.”

The fop who wasn’t as old as he looked smiled too wide and too white. “How refreshing it is to deal with a professional.”

*

Out they ventured into the cold, the black and moonless sky yawning overhead. Trees swayed, creaking like an old man’s bones. The sorcerer and the fop trudged through knee-deep snow. Past the stables, and the general store with its vacant windows staring out like eyes. Past market stalls, long abandoned and buried in white.

At last, they reached an old barn. Tall and tilted, it was barely standing, like a drunk about to fall on his face.

Elijah stopped. “How many men have you got in there, waiting to ambush me?”

“Nothing so uncouth as that,” said the fop with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“A pity.”

The man turned around to face him. “Why is that, precisely?”

“Tell me,” said Elijah, his voice as deep and dark as the winter. “Do you remember the last words I said to you, that night in Ettermire?”

“I have no notion of what you--”

“Drop it, Sarko. It’s a good disguise, had me fooled for a solid minute, but it needed glasses and less makeup.”

The man disguised as an old fop, the outlaw named Sarko, let out a sigh. “Like I said, you’re a professional.” His voice lost the cultured elegance of a Salvic aristocrat, gaining the edge of an Alerian gangster. He stood straight, abandoning his stooped posture. “I’m not here to fight. You saw the seal, so you know it’s damn important.”

“What were…” Elijah advanced on his former associate, glints of orange in his eyes. Steam hissed up from beneath his feet. “...the last words I said that night?”

“Come on, Eli,” he said, stepping away as the confidence in his voice gave way to trembling. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Did you forget? What did I say?”

Sarko’s back hit the barn wall. “No! I remember… I remember.” His knees wobbled.

“Say it.”

“You said if you ever saw my face again, you would burn it off.”

“That’s right.” The sorcerer loomed over, smoke rising from the palms of his hands. “And a professional keeps his word.”

*

Some time later, long after the screams had fallen silent, Elijah stood beside a mound of ice. Deep within, frozen within a tomb of Salvic winter, lay a man who should have known better.

Elijah held up scroll Sarko had brought, inspecting its text and seal. Then, he crushed it in his fist. Blank-faced, he watched as the parchment burned, its blackened flakes drifting into the snow. If the Baron wanted a meeting, he could damn well come in person.