[MFaughn]: 311.Wartorn Land Ch 2

The matter of the boy had occupied Malin's mind, but only for a moment. His reverie was broken by the big man behind the long table who was now beating the boy mercilessly. His friends had moved toward Malin when he looked as if he might intervene. Malin's anger had been only checked by the reality that he could not react foolishly here. The boy was important, and he could not fail or draw undue attention to himself or the boy if they were to make it out of Cibol. That thought still tugged at Malin's mind as he waited, he had not fully realized he needed to free the boy until the beating started. Then the need blared through his mind and coursed through his veins. That need also stopped him from using his power to stop the big innkeeper. Malin knew the boy might be killed if he failed and so he must use caution. He could not allow himself to be caught in the moment, to be a slave to his anger.
There was one there who particularly seemed to enjoy the show, a carter with a mean disposition. Malin watched him, marked him in his mind as being dangerous to his goal. He worried over the carter for a moment until a serving girl began to plead for the innkeeper to stop. Then the girl was scrambling to escape the carter. She received a few quick blows and back away to the corner, marked by the fear on her face. As Malin stood, the innkeepers friends moved between him and the boy. Malin looked them over with an obvious contempt and they began to bristle, but made no sign of attacking him. He turned and as he headed for the door, he said, "This inn is a disappointment, there must be better thieves in this city somewhere."
The toughs only grunted then stood open mouthed as the inn's door opened with Malins approach and closed quietly behind him after his exit.

*****

There was no relief, the boy turned this way and that, but the pain would not lessen. Brema had been particularly brutal this time, locking the boy in his closet after the beating. The boy was not sure how long it had been since he was locked in, but was thankful that he did not have to work. How odd it seemed to him, Brema would beat him to such a degree, for being unable to do the work. And now, after the beating, he was locked away to recuperate from the damage, and not working at all. In time he would be let out and as was typical for Brema, he would be fed good food, cleaned up and then be put back to work. One thing the boy had noticed was that the beatings came more often, and the rest afterward did not last as long as they once did. He feared that Brema was approaching the end of his patience and the boy wondered how many more beatings until Brema finally went through with his threat to just kill him and be done.
The strange man in the inn had been the cause. He had caught the boys eye and he could not look away, felt the hatred flare in him for the Rae-Gaethan scum. But the man had not seemed to return that hatred, had actually seemed shocked. It was a puzzle the boy worked at constantly during his "rest". Brema had caught the boy staring openly at the man, had cuffed him out of his trance and the boy had done a foolish thing. Dropping the water was bad enough, but when he had kicked one of the buckets at Brema it had set him off like a mad dog. The actual beating was a blur to the boy, like so many other times, but he pain he felt now told the tale well enough. He did remember a few things. He remembered the carters laughter, and the girl pleading for Brema to stop. Mostly he remembered the stranger, and eyes filled with anger.

*****

Malin Yar was a name that had been known here, mostly in the dark alleys and hidden places of a earlier time, but there were some who remembered. Malin had never had many friends in Markett, but if his luck were good he would still be able to find Warrick in his old haunt, the Red Mule's Revenge. The "Mule" was well known for having the strongest spirits and more potent ales in all of Cibol, and Warrick would not be one to stay away from such luxuries for long. Malin moved through the streets quietly, staying as hidden as possible, and yet in keeping with his assumed persona of a Rae-Gaethan officer, did not completely avoid being seen. He could have remained unnoticed if he wished, but such power as it would require might attract attention from more dangerous quarters than the local footpads guild. Malin preferred not to use his power when alternate means were available, and so he moved toward the Mule openly.
The Red Mules Revenge came into view as Malin rounded a dark corner, and it seemed to him that it had remained unchanged. The Mule had always been a vibrant place with a large crowd and nightly entertainments, and Malin felt it strange that in the midst of this war ravaged land the Mule was still as full and bright and noisy as it had always been. From his dark place across the street, Malin waited patiently, watching and gauging, letting the feel of this place settle into him. He saw several finely dressed people coming and going, saw a brace of soldiers look in as they made their rounds and he saw one old familiar face.
It nearly startled Malin into jumping out of his hide away when he saw the well dressed noble's face. He knew that face from long ago, albeit the face he saw now was a bit older with the years showing in lines that had not been there when Malin had known it. The fact that he saw that face here, so far from where it would have been expected sent a chill up Malin's spine.
"Varlanna is far away, old friend", Malin whispered to himself, "so what are you doing HERE?"
Malin, let the idea run through his mind, worked it over, and could not manage to find an answer that suited him. "Well, only one way to find out......", he thought as he moved out across the street, headed for the wide doors of the Red Mules Revenge.
Malin entered the Mule with the air of one who knows no limits to his power, swaggering with an adeptness that his over confident youth had given him. He looked around, met the eyes of many who would not match his gaze, and a few who would. It mattered little, Malin saw no threat here, knew that any violence in this place would be quickly staunched and that footpads would not be allowed to linger. Karrel, the large former Ships Captain in the Cibol Royal Navy, ran a tight ship here on land as he had on the sea. Added to his impressive presence was his “crew”, who were all former sailors under Karrel and were all quite adept at keeping the peace. Malin kept an eye toward locating both Warrick and the old friend he had spotted a moment ago outside.
Finding neither of the men he sought, Malin instead located Karrel. It was not a difficult thing, as Karrel stood well over six feet with short white hair that nearly blinded in the brightly lit inn. Malin bided his time and caught Karrel when he was alone at the back of the room, unsure if the man would remember him, and unsure if he wanted him to.
“Captain Karrel, a good evening to you sir, I suppose you would not remem.....” Malin said softly, only to be interrupted by the former sailor.
“Well, it ‘as been a long time since I’ve seen that face,” Karrel said, not without some humor, but definitely without much welcome either. “Not so young and cocky as you were, eh, but still the same face.”
Malin did not answer, waiting for Karrel to finish looking him over, could see the disgust register on his face, “Might a known you to join the enemy. Doing pretty well for yourself in these troublesome days, eh?” Karrel spat.
“Looks can be deceiving, Captain. Tell me, how does one maintain such a prestigious business in the midst of the enemy? Maybe your conscience is making you overly judgmental?”
“Why you mouthy bastard, I’d ‘ave your ‘eart out for that, if not for who your friends are. Might be I’ll do it anyway.” Karrel looked ready to roast Malin on the large spit in the center of the room, but Malin remained nonplussed.
“Captain, there is no easy way to alleviate your fears on my account, so I believe I must resort to reason. And perhaps to your trust in an old mutual friend. Is the Axe about?” Malin used the old moniker to identify Warrick, a name by which he had not been known in these parts but to a very few. Captain Karrel stared crossly at Malin, considering whether to trust this Rae-Gaethan officer even so far as to admit he even knew what “the Axe” meant. “I expect he is in the back, meeting with another old friend of mine. If you know who this other is, it will certainly aid my cause here, but if you do not, the Axe’s word should be enough, even for you.”
Karrel’s eyes popped wide at that, but he recovered well and only answered, “You ‘ave a seat over there.” he pointed to an empty table in a not quite so crowded area, and continued, “I’ll ask around.”
Malin nodded and said, “You do that Captain. Then you’ll see who my real friends are.”
Malin waited, patiently. He knew that Karrel would not disturb whatever business was being transacted in the back of the inn, but that eventually he would be called to meet with his friends. He rather enjoyed the atmosphere in the Mule, the close proximity of so many people, engaged in a friendly social activity was something Malin had missed during his years of hiding. He watched as the patrons interacted, a swirling dance of conversation self promotion, a microcosm of humanity in all its glory played out for his sole entertainment. The richness of the moment brought a certain sadness to Malin’s eyes, a regret that filled his heart for his wasted youth, lost loves and abandoned friends. Malin knew what he had been, but it was so long ago, and he was not the same. The person he had been might have truly become what he only pretended to be now. A servant of the enemy, a traitor to humanity. Malin could only hope that the person he had become would be strong enough to be a help to that humanity, and right the wrongs of the world. Both the ones he had caused and the ones he had not. In his heart Malin knew he was doomed to make the attempt, whether he was fated to succeed or not, and any chance of success rested with the boy.
After what seemed to be hours, Karrel passed by Malin and motioned for him to follow. They moved toward the back of the inn, and passed into a hallway which itself had several doors. Malin knew what lay behind those doors, had spent many nights here when he and Warrick had caroused regularly. Before Malin became involved in unsavory pursuits. Malin grew nervous as they moved down the hallway, remembered the disappointment in Warrick’s eyes when he abandoned honest living. There had been no anger, no hatred for what Malin was becoming, but the disappointment should have been enough. That should have gotten Malin’s attention and made him see his error, but it had not. Now, he must hope Warrick would remember Malin as he was before that time, and would see him for who he had become.
Karrel motioned for Malin to enter, through a door at the farthest end of the hall. Malin nodded and moved toward it, just as Karrel whispered, “Aye lad, now we will see.”
Beyond the door waited Warrick “the Axe”, looking strangely angry, an open hostility on his face. Malin wondered, “Perhaps this was a mistake.” But, it was far too late to back out now. The other man was turned away, had not looked in Malin’s direction, but though he tried to remain anonymous, Malin knew him. It was the man he had followed into the Mule, and Malin felt both relief and trepidation.
Warrick sneered, “Malin Yar, a riddle you are. To what purpose would the asp enter the lair of the mongoose? Long it has been, and think I it should be yet longer.” Malin grinned slightly, remembered well the colloquial speech Warrick often used in jest. And yet Warrick still wore anger like a mask, leaving Malin unsure. Warrick could be a trickster, Malin knew well from experience, and yet, this fellow seemed far more serious than the Warrick Malin had known so many years ago. Malin met his old friends gaze, still smiling in a friendly gesture, “Mongoose is it? Skunk would be more apt,” and Malin made a scowl on his face which in the past had never failed to make Warrick laugh.
Warrick smiled, memory passing before him, but still did not seem inclined to trust. “Perhaps, perhaps. It’s been a long time, Mal. You show up here after years away and looking like some Goblin Lordling. I’m sure you understand my hesitancy to welcome you.”
“Oh, Warrick, indeed I do see your difficulty. We were close once, but I turned away from our friendship. That was in the foolishness of my youth and was the cause of many troubles in my life. And yet, it was a mistake I was doomed to make and which in the end has led me back to this place. There is a long tale to tell and the telling would still not cast me in any sort of goodly light. Yet, it is the end which will justify the means, and the end is near.”
“The end? Times are distressin’ to be sure, but not quite so dire as that, I think.”
“Oh? You believe that the conqueror’s will allow you to live your life in peace? You believe that there is no danger which warrants your concern? No, I do not think you believe that, not when your actions put you at such risk.” Warrick gave Malin a questioning look, his puzzlement plain and a bit of alarm as well.
“You are up to something Warrick the Axe, and this would have been obvious even without the presence here, so far from home, of Varl Varlanna!” With that the other in the room spun around, having remained turned away with his face hidden. Shock was plain to see on both men’s faces and Malin laughed with an open merriment he had not felt in years.
Varl Varlanna had been Malin’s closest friend from their days of earliest childhood. It had been an unlikely friendship, Varl being a large boy, strong and charismatic where Malin had been small, agile and intelligent, and though both were nobly born, Malin’s station was far below that of his friends. As they grew in body and mind, their friendship grew as well, and as manhood embraced them they took to ship together, raiding the southern coasts and making names for themselves as both warriors and leaders. In all these things Varl led the way, but always listened to his friend’s advice. It was well known that Malin’s intuition had saved them many times, allowing them to escape ambush, and never leading them into a situation that was beyond their mettle.
When they had put to shore in Cibol, Varl had been sent as emissary and observer to King Gendes III, and they had enjoyed the sights and flavors of this land with a relish only the young are capable of. Varl’s time at court here had been cut short by a war which broke out soon after his arrival. They gathered together and set out for home, but Malin suffered injury when he fell from his mount, and did not reach the ship. It was only much later that he had ever seen Varl or his home again, after fleeing Markett and shortly before going into hiding.
“Mal, old friend, how’d you know I was here?” asked Varl, “We’d been keeping the secret very well, I thought.” He was smiling, somewhat sadly, but not unfriendly.
“I saw you of course,” answered Malin, “I was watching the Mule, as I was of a mind to speak with Warrick on a matter of great import.”
“Oh?” Malin’s friends said in near unison. Malin laughed, they were so much alike, these barbaric cousins.
Warrick continued, “What matter could be so dire that you’d even risk coming back to Markett, much less return to known haunts? You left some powerful enemies here, Mal.”
“Not by my own choice, I assure you. I am on a, um, quest, I suppose.” Malin answered, somewhat awkwardly.
Warrick and Varl guffawed, Varl doubling over in mirth, Warrick shaking visibly as he tried to rein in his laughter.
“A .... quest, .... you ... say?” Warrick managed to say around the thundering rolls of laughter. “Ah, Mal, I have missed your humor.”
“Gentlemen, please, I am quite serious. I have to ask for your help in this matter. It is of the greatest importance.” This statement only brought more laughter, which in turn left Malin even more red faced than he had been. Malin let the rolling thunder die away as his friends gathered their composure, which took quite some time.
“Are you finished? Hmm? I expected to be in some danger here, but not to be the source of such entertainment.” Varl chuckled still, was caught up in the moment and the memories of his old friend. The days of their youth were past, but the dry pomposity which had marked Malin in his younger days remained. Varl also recalled that Malin had an intuition that many had called sorcerous, and this fact brought an end to his chuckles.
“Mal, what is it? Tell us about it and what we can do.”
And so, Malin began his tale, enjoying the amazement which his friends displayed. He patiently explained where he had been, and what he had done, and why. He answered every question they asked, and there were many of them. He knew they did not quite believe his power, but would not use it as proof. He never once allowed himself to succumb to the temptation to wield the power here and insure their belief. He simply explained his reasons, and his motivations for being here, asking for their help. In the end they agreed to help, but not because they believed he had some strange power, but because even after all the years, they were, in fact, his friends.

*****

The broth was cold and the bread was hard, but the boy gulped it down with a hunger that surprised him. He could move with less trouble now, but a cough would rack him with sharp pains across his ribs. The food meant he would be put back to work soon, and the dread of trying to complete his tasks in his current condition overwhelmed him.
“I wish he would kill me and get it over with,” the boy said softly to the air and four walls around him. “If I had the chance, I’d kill him.” But the boy knew he’d have no chance at that, Brema would never let himself get into a position to allow the boy or anyone else to attack him. So, the boy wallowed in his misery, finished his bread and waited for the misery of his servitude to continue.
After a few hours, Brema came and hauled him out of his room. Brema led him to the buckets and said simply, “Water”. The boy had no choice but to comply with the innkeeper’s orders and so grimacing through his pain he gathered the buckets and headed to the well. The lift bucket was leaky, and it sprayed water on the boy and then the shivering started. The more he shivered, the more his ribs hurt, and so the more his ribs hurt the more he shivered. He could not stop and could not make the pain go away. It was unbearable, but the boy kept filling buckets, getting more soaked and colder with every turn of the handle, until his body would take no more.
The well was near to the back of the inn, and was shared by many people who lived close by. It was an elderly man who found the boy, lying on the wet ground, shivering from the cold, unconscious and not responding to the old mans efforts to wake him. Fearing for the boys life, the old man went to the inn’s back door, told the cook what he had seen and went back to help the boy.
Brema came striding to the well, with a fire in his eyes, his anger plain. He took one look at the boy, kicked him, and then when there was no response, bent down to look into the boys eyes. What he saw did not ease his disgust, so he stood, kicked the boy again, harder, and strode away, saying, “Le’ the li’l bestard die, ee’s a waste a food en’ space enyway.”
The old man waited, wondering if Brema would relent and come back for his property. He wanted to help the boy, but feared Brema and his cronies. It would mean nothing to Brema to kill one old man, he might even go to the Goblins. The thought set the old man to shivering too. Finally he could wait no more and brought his hand cart to the well and with the help of his wife, loaded the boy up.
The old couple had a small shack, and there was not much warmth to be had, but they put the boy in their cot, covered him and put hot bricks around him, changing them steadily until the boy stopped shaking. It was long difficult work and the old couple were past the point of exhaustion when they were done, so they napped in the hard chairs while they waited through long hours for the boy to wake.