Path of the Wind

3
The young man flinches as another drunkard bumps him from behind, slamming his ribs painfully into the counter. Finally he gets his ale and carefully makes his way to a quiet corner. He finds an empty seat, thankful not to have spilt either his own drink or anybody else’s. That would have been an inauspicious start to the evening. His eyes roam over the patrons of the inn as he sips his ale. Soldiers, sailors, adventures, traders and ne’er-do-wells share company around the rough hewn benches. The drink is flowing freely and so are the tales. The longer the night gets the taller the tales will become. He absently smiles as snatches of conversation reaches his ears, the same old stories with new heroes every night.

His smile fades and his ears prick as he hears the word “Gerenti” from behind him. Slowly he eases back on his chair taking care not to turn his head and to keep on sipping from the pewter mug. The noise makes it hard to follow the two men’s conversation, but luckily they don’t seem to be concerned about being heard. “…like ghosts…speak no word…always watching…know them, from way…captain cancelled shore…” The second man’s voice is deeper, rougher and older. “Why…say that?”
“…carried themselves…picked them…jetty…Miko, outside Donte…”
“Gerenti…”
“No…same as always. Who can tell with those savages?” The man’s last words falls like hailstones during a temporary lull in the noise. Some of the patrons turn to look for the speaker. Gerdon takes care to also turn and is rewarded with a glimpse of the two speakers. The one is a young man, dressed like a sailor on one of the river barges. The other man holds Gerdon’s full attention for the brief moment that he observes them. He is older, as his voice indicated, dressed well but conservatively, a look at odds with his appearance. He has lank, dark hair that falls over the collar of his jacket and his face is covered in an equally dark beard. The beard is scraggly, surrounding a thin, cruel mouth. His eyes are, however, what commands Gerdon’s attention. They are icy blue and devoid of any expression. Gerdon carefully turn his back towards the strange pair and takes another sip of his ale. He suppresses the urge to jump up and rush out of the inn; it will only draw attention to him. As he slowly finishes his drink a shiver of both excitement and trepidation runs down his spine, now he knows where he has to go.

Catalina opens the door and stares. There are two men in front of her, the one she doesn’t know and the second she can barely recognise. He is a familiar visitor, a man of great humour and strength. It’s been nearly a year since his last visit but now he is only a shell of the man she remembers. He looks gaunt and his eyes are dark pits in his pale face. “Mister Wellenger?”
“Catalina, you are, as always, a sight that lifts my heart.” For a moment his face looks more familiar as it expresses his pleasure as seeing her again. Then it returns to its new form, drawn and pale. “Is Jasco home?” His face is again returned to familiarity by relief as she nods her head.
“Come in, he is in his study.” She takes their coats and hats with mixed feelings. She wishes no more bad news on her employer, but maybe they will distract him from his worries about his adopted son. “You know the way.” She gestures up the stairs as she moves toward the kitchen to enlist help to move their luggage.

The old man starts at knock on the door, Catalina never knocks unless he has guests. “Enter.” There is an unfamiliar quiver in his voice. He looks in amazement as two men enter his old friend almost unrecognizable and his companion a complete stranger. “Terenze?” The big man laughs, “I guess I look a bit worse for ware. Jasco, it’s good to see you. It has been to long.” The two men embrace each other affectionately. “Jasco, allow me to introduce my friend, Martin Tessenber, Martin, Jasco Berten an old and good friend.” The two men shake hands while they size each other up.

“Terenze, pour us a drink. You both look in desperate need of it.” The old man sinks back into his chair and gestures his guest to take a seat across from him. He watches closely as the younger man moves his chair so that he has a clear view of the door. Something is definitely wrong. He turns to watch Terenze as he pours the drink; there is a barely perceptible trembling in his hands. He serves the drink, sits down and turns in such a way that he can see the window from the corner of his eye. Very, very wrong.

For a while the three men sip their drinks in quiet, the host allowing his guests a moment of reprieve. Terenze will speak when he is ready. The two younger men nearly jump to their feet as a log in the fire burns through with a crack. They both smile apologetically as they settle back down. Finally Terenze leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He stares intently at the old man, draws a deep breath, hesitates, let it out again with a shake of his head. When he finally speaks his deep voice is barely above a whisper and the old man has to lean forward to catch his words. The meaning claws through his memory and the glass slips from his fingers to shatters on the floor next to his feet.

“The Pakrash have raided over the mountains.”