The Altar of Storms

The Altar of Storms

Aranthir VIII

It was perhaps an hour past sundown in the foothills town of Dalthem. The taproom of the Jovial Juggler Inn was filling up quickly. Merchants, pilgrims, and sellswords alike crowded its tables, swilling the inn's famous local brews and trading stories over the night's pork stew. At a corner table, with his back to the wall, sat a half-elf mercenary, two wheellock pistols thrust through his belt loops and a longsword resting against the table in its scabbard. He was slender but well-muscled, his strength apparent even under the cuirass and brigandine coat he wore. His short hair of dark brown was cut close to his head, allowing his pointed ears to stand out, and he surveyed the busy taproom with lively green eyes as he sipped dark red wine from a pewter mug.

The barmaid approached, a young, pretty girl in a red skirt and blue blouse cut low enough to exhibit her ample bosom. She smiled at him, brushing her blonde curls away from her freckled face, and held up a fresh mug of wine. The half-elf nodded and exchanged it for his empty cup and a few copper coins.

"Is there anything else I can get you, sir...?"

"It's not a sir," the half-elf replied, setting the fresh wine on the table before him, "and it's Aranthir. Of Ildranon."

"Aranthir," she echoed, her cheeks turning red. "I've heard of you. Men tell tales of you every night in the taverns across the realm."

"Good ones, I hope," Aranthir replied, taking the first sip of his wine. The girl blushed.

"Yes, sir. They tell me you're a master swordsman, and a sorcerer, too?"

"They flatter me, then. It is to be expected from tavern tales. I killed a lizard that crawled up next to me while I slept, and surely by now the tale has grown enough to make me a dragonslayer."

She sat down at his table, setting her drinks tray down between them. She shoved it aside and leaned forward. "Is it true you bedded a nymph?" she asked in a scandalized whisper. Aranthir could only laugh.

"There wasn't really a bed involved," he replied sheepishly, taking another sip of wine. The girl's mouth dropped open, her blue eyes wide.

"A nymph!" she gasped. "One of Nystra's daughters! You are truly blessed! What was that like?"

Aranthir shrugged. "I could show you, if you want."

The girl broke out into giggles, biting her thumb as she turned away. She considered the drinks tray a moment, then looked around the busy tavern.

"Two silvers," she said, and Aranthir sighed.

"You want me to pay? Would you let this opportunity slide just for some silver?"

"Would you?" she retorted. "I have drinks to deliver," she indicated the abandoned tray, "And the innkeep will not be pleased if I shirk my duties for some fun that he doesn't get a cut of. And I assure you, I'm worth it." To prove it, she yanked her bodice down to expose her breasts. She was buxom, with soft white skin and beautiful round breasts. Her nipples were pale and pink, inviting in the taproom's candlelight. Aranthir wanted to grab hold of them and start sucking right away. He sighed internally, for she had won.

"Very well, you'll have your money. A pleasure doing business with you."

"And also with you. I'm Pya, by the way." She held out her hand in greeting and Aranthir shook it gladly.

He drained the rest of his wine in one gulp, then rose from his seat and shouldered his things. Pya pulled her breasts back into her bodice and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. The other patrons remained oblivious, and she smiled to herself with flushed cheeks. Aranthir passed her the money and she eagerly pocketed it.

"Come on, now," she urged, taking him by the hand and pulling him toward the stairs. "There's a place upstairs where we can be alone."

Heading for the stairs, Aranthir passed a table where a group of mercenaries sat drinking. Their leader was a short, wiry man who wore a half dozen or more knives strapped to his chest. He stood on a chair, regaling his companions with a tale.

"So, they bundled him up and hauled him away. Just like that, Janguld the Fox is off to meet the hangman!"

Aranthir stopped as the mercenaries broke out in laughter. The girl pulled on his arm, her expression curious. Aranthir broke from her grip and turned to the table.

"You know Janguld the Fox?" he asked. The lead mercenary turned a curious eye on him, his face half buried in his mug of ale. His eyebrow arched and he mumbled something around his drink. When Aranthir did not reply, the man lowered his mug, brushed the foam from his lip and spoke again.

"Aye, and what's he to you?"

"He's an old friend of mine. If he's off to meet the hangman, I should like to see him off."

"Well, he won't be a friend of yours much longer. He's got himself into too much trouble this time."

"What's he done?" Aranthir demanded. Pya pulled on his sleeve again and he brushed her away.

"He was in a brawl over at the Huntsman and killed two of the burgomaster's men. The guard dragged him off and he's to hang at dawn."

"So soon? What about seeing the magistrate?"

"Magistrate's the burgomaster's son. He passed the sentence from his dinner table. That's the way it goes here in Dalthem. Who are you, anyway?"

"A concerned friend. Which way to the jail?"

The man snorted. "Punch a guard, you'll find out soon enough."

"You want money?" asked Aranthir with an exasperated sigh. "I want to know where to find my friend."

"Why should I help you?" the man shot back. "I've crossed paths and swords with the Fox more than once and I'll be happy to watch him dance on the scaffold tomorrow."

"I told you why: money. You want it or not?"

"I don't know," the man mused, taking another sip. His eyes went to Pya, standing at Aranthir's side. "Who is she?"

"The Queen of Irollian," an exasperated Aranthir replied. "Who do you think? She's the barmaid."

"She's pretty," the mercenary murmured.

"She's not mine," Aranthir replied. "Though I did pay for some time with her. I'll surrender my time to you and your lot if you point me to Janguld. Otherwise, I've had enough with this and I'll find the jail myself."

"Aye," the leader agreed, "I can do that much. She's got a nice pair on her."

Pya protested, her arm on Aranthir's elbow. "Sir, I thought we were engaged?"

"I am sorry, dear girl, but I cannot leave a friend in peril. Perhaps some other time. Until then, these mercenaries look the paying type."

The poor girl looked crestfallen. Her blue eyes went to the lead mercenary, then to each of his leering men in turn. Somberly, she nodded.

"It is as they said in the stories, you are a good man, sir."

"Indeed. Keep my silver, I'll pay for this one, but his men must pay their own way."

"Two silvers for each of you," Pya declared with an extended finger, "And you stop when I say." The men all reached for their purses, and Pya allowed herself a small smile. Aranthir gave her a slim smile of apology, and she returned it.

The lead mercenary set down his mug and stepped forward. He took Pya by her arm and pinched her breast. "Aye, you'll do nicely. Come along, girl."

"A moment, my good man," Aranthir cut in, blocking the man's path toward the stairs. "You haven't told me where to go."

"Ah, very well. I would like to see that bastard Janguld hang, but you've won me over with the girl's pretty smile and fat tits. So I'll tell you, then get out of my way so I can get my cock wet."

Aranthir left them to it and swept out of the inn in a rush into the night, the revelry in the Jovial Juggler fading away into the night behind him. The streets of Dalthem were narrow and winding. The eaves loomed overhead, creeping in like an oppressive forest canopy as they blotted out the stars overhead. The town seethed with the kind of urban corruption Aranthir had grown inured to. Of course I would reencounter Janguld in a place like this, he mused.

The jail came into sight soon enough for the town was not large. It was a squat stone building tucked in between a forging house and a wainwright's workshop, with iron bars over the windows and a banded wooden door for an entrance. A single brass lantern hung overhead, illuminating a small pool of light around the door.

Aranthir approached the door and jiggled the handle. It was locked. Casting looks up and down the street, he ensured he was alone. Leaning down to the lock, he whispered a charm of opening. He had barely spoken half the words when he heard the metallic clicking of an opening lock and the door swung open. He crouched there a moment, staring in the eyes of a jailor who had opened the door.

"Who in the names of the gods are you?" the man demanded, his eyes red and cheeks ruddy.

"Aranthir of Ildranon," Aranthir said, rising from his crouch. He extended his hand in greeting. The jailor looked at it in contempt. Behind him, another man stepped up, a studded truncheon resting on his shoulder.

"Why the fuck would I want to make your acquaintance, half-blood?" the man growled. "This is a jail, either fuck off or I'll throw you in one of my cells!" he slammed the door shut, but Aranthir got his boot in the way. Grimacing in pain as his foot was smashed between the door and the jamb, he raised his hand in protest.

"Sir, I have come to see about one of your prisoners."

The man opened the door again. One hand rested on the door handle, while the other was balled into a fist and rested on his hip.

"You from the constable's office?" he demanded, his speech slurring.

"I have come to secure his release. His name is Janguld the Fox, perhaps you recognize the name? Thin man, on the short side, handsome and sly as a fox?"

The jailor spat, and his companion behind him sneered.

"Aye, I know him. But you can't have him out. He's bound for the hangman in the morning."

"That's a shame," Aranthir replied. "He's a good friend of mine. What's he done to deserve such a fate?"

The jailor spat again. "Fuck if I know. Constable says he hangs, so he hangs. Unless you want to have a double hanging, fuck off already!"

"Perhaps I could persuade you to release him to me," Aranthir offered. "I've a few golden crowns. Maybe we could make a deal?"

The jailor leaned forward and shook his fist in Aranthir's face. "I told you, half-blood. He's gonna hang. Are you fucking deaf? I thought you lot were supposed to be good at hearing things. Maybe you got your mum's ears?"

Aranthir allowed himself a half-smile. He punched the man in the face. His fist cracked against the man's face and Aranthir felt the nose break.              The jailor staggered back, blood running from his nose, and Aranthir advanced. He seized the man by his ears and slammed the jailor's face down into his knee. They met at their maximum extents, and the man went limp with a resounding crack. His companion with the truncheon blanched and grabbed for a bell rope that hung against the wall.

The man groped for it in fear, at last grasping the rope in his hand.

"Stop," Aranthir commanded sharply, and the man froze mid pull. Aranthir leveled a pistol at him, his face serious.

"This will make quite a bit of noise when it goes off," Aranthir conceded, "and wake up a lot of people. All of that will make my escape a fair bit harder. But none of that will matter to you, because you'll be dead. So, what do you say you make this easier on both of us, and step away from that bell?"

The man considered his prospects for a moment. But the experience of staring down the barrel of a loaded pistol sat unwell with him, and he slowly relinquished the rope.

"That's a good lad," Aranthir soothed. "Now, come with me." He stepped into the jail and pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the back of the man's neck. "Let's see my old friend together."

Aranthir ushered them through another locked door and into the jail's interior. A single hall ran through the jail in a loop, its sides lined with heavy wooden doors with barred windows. Aranthir shoved the unfortunate jailor down the hall before him, his pistol at the ready. From within a cell on the far end of the hall, he could hear a familiar voice, drunkenly blabbering away.

"Oh, to be a sailing man at sea. Chasing that far horizon is the chosen life for me... To weigh anchor and... go? Weigh anchor and go... to sea? No, that's not it..."

Aranthir approached slowly, a familiar smile spreading across his face. He stopped at the door and looked in. His old friend lay in the cell, his reddish hair falling about his shoulders like a lion's mane, and his signature mustache looking as thick and wild as ever. He was bare-chested, a torn and bloody shirt wrapped around his arm, but his chest showed several scars that had not been there when they last met.

Janguld lay on a rude cot, his back against the wall and an empty bottle of spirits at his feet. In his hand, he held another bottle that was nearly gone. His brow was furrowed in deep thought, his hair in drunken disarray. His face was bruised, and he had been cut above his right ear, but Aranthir could tell it was the drink that had done the most damage.

"Key," he demanded of the jailor with an outstretched hand. The man glared at him but slowly complied, and Aranthir turned the key in the lock. Janguld was slow to react, still mouthing the words of the half-forgotten song, and so Aranthir wrapped the muzzle of his pistol on the door's bars.

He looked up at Aranthir and the captive guard as the rusty door squealed its way open. His mouth hung open mid-sentence.

"I must be drunker than I thought. Is that really you?" he mumbled to himself. He wrenched himself to a sitting position, but lost his balance and slumped to the side. "Old pointy-ears, is that you?"

"It is," Aranthir replied. He shoved the guard to the side, where he staggered into the corner and tripped over the overflowing chamber pot.

"Eldrin's breath," the guard swore, his foot wedged in the pot. He crashed into the far wall and upended the pot all over the floor of the cell. "Ah, fuck me! Now my foot's all covered in piss."

Janguld threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "That's for all the drink you stole off me, you thieving bastard! Aranthir, my old friend!" he staggered off the bed and threw his arms around Aranthir. For his part, Aranthir blanched at the strong stench of alcohol.

"Goodness, Janguld. Put a candle in front of you and you'd turn into a dragon."

Janguld laughed ahead and sheepishly brushed his mouth clean. "Sorry about that... these fuckers told me I'd hang in the morning, so I thought I'd have a last night of fun. But then they stole half my booze and refused to bring in a whore."

"You won't hang tomorrow," Aranthir promised. "Though I can't speak to anything beyond that, given how you act."

"Ha! One more day is all I can ask for. What brings you here? Surely, you didn't come for me."

Aranthir shrugged. "I was in town for work and heard on the grapevine that someone had you locked up."

"And you thought to drop by and spring me? What a friend!"

"Come on, then. We can be out of town before anyone notices."

"What about this one here?" Janguld asked, indicating his erstwhile captor.

"No need to bring any more attention to us. Leave him alive, but he won't be able to follow us." Aranthir held up the cell key and waved it about.

"Seems fair, though he did take great delight in my upcoming hanging." Janguld turned to the guard, who sneered at them both with disgust. He had wrenched his foot free of the chamberpot, but his legs were both soaked.

"Oh, fuck you both," he snapped. Janguld shrugged.

"See how you like your own hospitality," Janguld chuckled. Then he hauled off and knocked the man to the floor with a mighty punch to the jaw. "Think on my stolen booze while you sleep it off," he said with another laugh. He and Aranthir stepped back into the hall and slammed the door shut behind them. The guard glared at them from within the cell, holding his reddening jaw.

"Now tell me," Aranthir began, "how did you get yourself into this mess?"

"Ah, that's a story. But first, there's another man we must spring." He pointed to the door opposite his and peered in. "The poor lad's asleep, but we'll wake him up."

"We should get moving, Janguld. The guard in the front room won't be asleep forever."

"No? You've changed. But I won't leave this poor lad behind. He's a sad tale and I can't bear to see him perish." He banged on the bars. "Elys, Elys, wake up! Deliverance has arrived!"

Someone within the cell stirred and Aranthir peered through the window. Inside was a young man, his hair disheveled and his clothes torn. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes sunken. He trembled as he cast off his thin covers and rose from the bed.

"D-deliverance?" he stammered. Janguld turned to Aranthir and sighed.

"The poor lad is sentenced to die by breaking, but the dread of it has got him half-dead already."

"Breaking? What's he done?"

"I was... indiscrete, sir," the lad managed, wrapping his arms about himself for warmth, though the room was not chilly.

"He fucked the magistrate's daughter," Janguld provided. "The man was most irate and sentenced him for rape."

"It wasn't, sir!" Elys protested. "She came after me! It was only her father who thought her unwilling..."

"No, lad," Aranthir sighed, lifting the key in his hand. "He knew it was no crime as well. He's just a wicked man drunk on power. Come on," he unlocked the door and pulled it open. "We're headed out of town. I don't know how far we can take you, but anywhere will be better than here."

"Thank you, sir, oh thank you! I will sacrifice to your generosity as soon as I am able!"

"Let's go, before we are discovered." Aranthir pulled the lad into the hall and gave him a push toward the door. Janguld went off in search of the things that had been taken from him. At the door to his former cell, the guard sneered out from behind the bars.

"You won't get far, half-blood. The burgomaster will find you and drag you back, and then you'll get to share the gallows."

"Perhaps it'd improve the odds of my escape if I eliminated the witnesses?" Aranthir mused. He tapped his pistol against the door's bars, and the guard blanched. He retreated into the cell and said nothing more. Aranthir smiled with small amusement.

"That's what I thought," he muttered, and went off after Janguld. He found him in the jail's armory, picking his confiscated weapons and clothes from where they lay on shelves.

"Bastards took my sword somewhere else," he grumbled. "It's been just a few hours!"

"We'll find you another one. You won't need it soon, will you?"

"Well, that's the thing. I was traveling in the company of four White Sisters, and we got into a brawl with the Forsaken. One of the Forsaken knew the burgomaster's men, or was drinking with them, and they jumped into the fight. I've got to find the Sisters before the guard does."

"Were you on a contract?" Aranthir asked, "Or just traveling?"

"A contract. Some baron in the lowlands had a book stolen. He wants it back."

"What kind of book?"

"A grimoire. Ancient spells, fel sorcery. Actually, it's good fortune that you found me here, because you know about that kind of thing."

Aranthir sighed. I should have known it would be a whole escapade with him. "I suppose I do. Tell me more about this book. And who stole it?"

"A sorcerer by the name of Sennidor. I've crossed paths with him before, in Faurkone, and he dd not take a liking to me. He's in the employ of the baron's nephew, or cousin, or something. I can't keep rich peoples' relations straight, everyone is a cousin if you go out a few generations."

"How much are you being paid to bring it back?"

"Ten pounds of silver," Janguld replied. Aranthir let out a low whistle.