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Quest of Fire: The Gathering Dark

By Brett Armstrong

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A heavy rain beat down on Jason, but there was nothing he could do about that. The sky was an unforgiving swirl of iron and argent hues, refusing to entertain the notion of respite. It had been so all day. Nearby, a flivver honked its horn at a horse and its rider. The latter having careened across the former’s path.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Jason made a dash across the incongruous lattice of street stones to the nearest building open to the public. Through the veil of rainfall, he could scarce glimpse the building’s name etched on a wooden sign that swung wild in the storm’s bluster. Without a moment’s delay, he pulled open the door and ducked into the Black River Inn.
Far from imposing, the squat, grey stone building was only three stories, dwarfed by many of the structures around it. A quick scan of its interior told Jason why. It looked like a page from a codex on the history of a long past era. Banners bearing the emblems of a variety of foreign regions that ceased to exist decades ago hung along the walls. The layout was more in line with an old wayfaring tavern than a modern hotel or inn of the great burghs such as this one. A fair number of people were present, garbed, as far as Jason could tell, in attire befitting the current period. Some seemed to be examining the quaint relics of the past as well.
Running his hands through his hair, a steady trickle dribbled down onto his soaked vest and slacks. He sucked in a breath, his sprint through the streets caught up with him. Jason was only a mile or so from what passed for home, but the way the rain hammered the roof above, like a smith at his forge, coming in here was the wisest choice.
As Jason crossed the threshold, a wave of anxiety crash upon him. He scanned the room for anyone who might recognize him. Drenched to his thin frame’s core and being seventeen, he was certainly not expected in a place like this. Not alone at least. Maybe in one of the new factories springing up, but not in a traveler’s inn at the edge of the city. The city limits were temptingly close, and he ached to get back on the other side of them as soon as possible. Jason wasn’t welcome in Brackenburgh.
His fears of drawing attention were unfounded. No one gave him a moment’s consideration. In fact, everyone’s eyes seemed directed towards the back of the room. A small group of patrons was gathered, oblivious of anything else going on in the large, open room.
Taking a few tentative steps in that direction, Jason tapped a waitress on the arm and asked, “May I have a drink?”
The pale young woman turned, her dark hair and deep green eyes startling him. Ruddy lips, which immediately drew his eye, set themselves into an easy smile. “Of course, right away, sir.”
Before he could enquire about the price or make his choice of beverage known, she hurried off, the maroon skirt she wore swishing as she walked. Sighing, Jason noted that in her wake she left a faintly aromatic scent. Cinnamon?
He cast a few more furtive glances around the room. No one was watching, but he didn’t want to seem too out of place. Rather than linger where he stood in the open, he wove through the long tables to one near the clustered patrons and against the right wall. Keeping his back to the wall, he dropped onto a bench.
Rubbing his face, he wondered what he would do when he got out of this bizarre place. After the rain stopped, he didn’t think he could bring himself to go home. Not yet.
A few minutes later, the servant girl returned with a glass full of milk. “Your drink, sir.”
From her tone, Jason guessed the girl was amused to be calling him “sir,” given she looked about his age. Probably doubled her pleasure to bring a kid’s drink to him. Jason smirked and mumbled, “Thanks.”
Across the room some boisterous laughter erupted from the patrons. The waitress seemed distressed by this. Her large eyes glistened with a sadness and the smile she had worn wilted, becoming an intense frown.
“What’s going on?” Jason asked, eyeing her expression with interest. He took a sip from the glass. The milk was nice and warm, precisely what he needed.
To Jason’s surprise, some of the waitress’s sorrow melted away, like a brief summer shower replaced by a shy sun. “The owner is telling stories again. He’s quite a weaver of tales,” she informed him.
“Oh? They do seem to be enjoying it,” Jason stated as he took another drink of milk and tried to not be obvious about looking at the girl. There was something about the way her eyes gleamed, the way her hair fell, the set of her full lips when she smiled.
“Since you’ve never heard any before, you should listen,” she said. “They are like no author today would tell!”
Until the girl beamed a smile that was solely for him, Jason had no intention of listening to an old innkeeper’s ramblings. Now he found it impossible to refuse her urging. “Sure,” he began, “I will, if you come along?”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, as if in suspicion. She put a hand on her hip and smirked. “I’ve heard them a few times, but after you’ve listened, perhaps we’ll have something to talk about.”
“Your terms seem agreeable,” Jason answered with pretentious pomp. Standing, he gave a slight bow and added, “Jason Landsby, in your service.”
The girl laughed aloud and offered a hand to shake. “Aria.”
Gripping her hand with care, he gave it a shake. “Well, if you grant me your leave, Aria, I have some stories to hear.”
She walked off to tend to another patron’s needs, but her eyes stayed on Jason and his on her. Aria nodded to the end of the room. Draining the last of his milk, Jason stalked over to the gathered listeners. He’d already forgotten his soaked clothes and darker reasons for being in town.
On the back wall hung the last of the aged banners: bright white with a golden lion on it. Or perhaps it was a lamb with a star behind it? Either way, after a few seconds of staring at it, Jason thought he remembered what it stood for. There were legends. Most called them fables.
Long ago, thousands of years past, there had been a king, the High King of all the countries of the world. No one remembered what the king looked like, and many couldn’t bring to reckoning a single word or decree from this king. In more recent times there had been an order of Knights who served that king and had long lived in these lands. By now even they had all but disappeared. As had chivalry and castles and all manner of relics from the darker ages past. It was an interesting antique tapestry to hang.
From the banner, Jason’s eyes drifted down to take in the central figure of the gathering. The innkeeper was a grizzled man. Salt and steel hair, short and bristly, capped a head dominated by a long unruly beard. Lively sage eyes, deeply set, roved from person to person as he spoke. He wore a thick, brown duster over pristine white shirt and brown slacks. With old age, he had not thickened in the middle, more the spindly type. Most memorable was the embroidered emblem on his sleek, alabaster shirt. The same emblem as the banner. He spoke with great animation, his hands having lives of their own.
“What is everyone laughing over?” Jason enquired of the stocky man standing nearest him. The man, with a tooth-bearing grin and cheeks reddened by mirth, answered, “This one claims to have seen the legendary High King in person! He’s a shriveled old sot, to be sure. But you can’t see a myth.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, what a loon.” The man’s words intrigued him though. Watching the innkeeper, he noted the old man didn’t have sloppy speech from too much drinking. His movements were too controlled for a fit of madness. More peculiar, he did appear diminished, as though collapsed from a greater volume by age and wear. While his eyes were as sharp as any soldier’s bayonet.
While Jason watched in this way, those eyes found him and stopped. The storyteller stared right at him, running him through, it felt. Jason swallowed, uncomfortable under the gaze.
“You there,” the old man said, pointing to Jason. “I have not seen you before. Where do you hail from?”
Everyone turned their attention from the storyteller to Jason, who managed to get off a quick reply. “Um, I’m from here, sir, Brackenburgh.”
The man nodded. “Explains why I would not have met you. We only get travelers here. Are you on a journey, lad?”
“You could say that,” Jason replied.
A smile, warm and quiet, spread over the old man’s thin lips. “Good. What’s your name then?”
“Jason Landsby,” he responded, glancing at each of the onlookers, examining what they made of this attention being paid to him.
“Jason, would you be interested in hearing the story of a journey I’m familiar with?”
Surveying those around him, Jason looked last at the man beside him, who shrugged. Swallowing with difficulty again, he fought the urge to squirm. “Sure. That’s what I came for.”
With a keen chuckle, the old man said, “Getting soaked in this horrid storm just to hear a tale from me? I shall begin straightaway then!”
He paused and with a more thoughtful tone added, “I must warn you, this tale is not mine. It began days long past in a land far from here, but it is one which I’m certain is true.” His gaze sweeping across the audience, once more the story-teller, the innkeeper, began demure, as if imparting a close-held secret. “This journey, like so many, began with a lad no older than Jason, seventeen to be precise, stepping foot on to a new road. His journey began late one night in his home village, where he had an encounter with the High King . . .”

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