Book One of the Heretic Chronicles: The Awakening

Chapter Fifteen

The turned up collar on his long wool coat defended against the freezing winds.  He did not know how long he had been hiding in the shadows across from the Nameless Inn.  The temperature felt warmer when he left home.  A thin strip of smoke drifted up from the cob pipe that rested between narrow lips that when curled could melt the heart of any woman, except for the one he wanted.  More than two hours had passed since Hark Larden rode out into the night to warn Nogart Wilmont about the White Knights.

Hark was not as smart as he thought.  It was obvious to anyone with a brain where he was headed.  He would be sure to pass that bit of information along as well.  He had nothing against the Innkeeper's loser son, but he was helping his lifelong enemy.

The streets were quiet and empty.  Only a few lights remained on inside the nearby houses.  A solid light shone brightly from one of the inn's rooms.  It had to be Nalda Larden.  The others were asleep in their beds.  He thought about paying a visit to the innkeeper's daughters.  They were attractive in a manual labor sort of way.  Plus, all three of the girls were blessed with their mother's large breasts.  They might be fun for a bit.

He could picture Nalda Larden pacing the old creaky floorboards, praying that his only son would reach his friends in time.  He needed the boy to take over the inn.  The man had been a fierce warrior in his prime, and now he was nothing more than a lowly innkeeper.  The whole thing made him sick.  He wanted to scream, but more importantly, he wanted Nogart Wilmont to pay.  Never again would that simple farmer get the better of him.

They had been childhood friends, or at least he acted friendly towards that ignoramus.  Over the years a heated rivalry grew between them.  Somehow, Nogart always came out on top.  It did not seem to matter, whether it were bringing in the harvest or building a wagon.  But what really irked him the most, was that whenever the Wilmont Brat entered a room, the girls flocked to him, as if he were nothing.  He was considered the most beautiful man in Lorden Plains, and yet they all wanted Nogart.  He wanted to smash that bastard's face with a hammer until there was nothing left.

He thought of Nogart as the Wilmont Brat as soon as people started asking him, "Why can't you be more like Nogart Wilmont?"  Even his own father asked him that when something was not done to satisfaction.  He cursed Nogart.

He hated him more than anything.  He wanted to kill him.  The only thing keeping him from doing it was the fear of being caught and punished for it.  The penalty for murder was death, no exceptions.  He was not about to give his life for that bastard.  But, he often fantasized about how the man would die.  It would occur in the darkness of the woods, when they were alone.  When Nogart turned his back, he would draw his dagger and stab him repeatedly, but slowly, so he could enjoy the dying man's pain and suffering.  He would tell him over and over again how he would take Charlinda, and make her his, then he would discard her like garbage.

Nogart's death made him grin.  Nothing brought a smile to his face quicker.  He was pleased with himself.  A cold wind assaulted him, and he shivered to the core.  Nogart was going to pay and pay dearly.  He would have danced a jig on the spot, if he did not fear being discovered.  His entire plan could only succeed if no one knew he was involved.

A northern wind struck the back of his neck, sending chills throughout his body.  He pulled his coat tighter against his slim, muscular body.  The hour was getting late.  The sun would be up soon.  Jadar had better hurry.  He took a huge risk sneaking out to meet with the eyeless man.  If the sun were up before he returned home, there would be no way for him to slip back inside without anyone knowing.  His absence would bring lots of uncomfortable questions that he would be forced to answer.  Those answers could cost him his life.

His feet shifted awkwardly on the hard cobbles.  His riding boots were not meant for standing in the shadows across from the inn for over an hour in this freezing cold.  Jadar was late.  If the man did not show soon, he would have to leave, and if he left, he would never see any of the promised gold.  He did not give his information for free.  However, the coinage was not as important as Nogart's death.  He could always find another way to fund his future plans.

"He was not there, boy," said a scratchy voice from behind.

Damn bastard snuck up on me.  "You're late, Jadar."

The eyeless man slowly advanced towards him, holding a long wooden staff.  When he stood in the moonlight, his hollowed eye sockets could be seen.  The man looked as disgusting as he smelled.

"And, you're impatient."

"I'm risking my neck for you."

Jadar laughed, his teeth slamming together.  "Don't you lie to me, boy.  You only risk your reputation, not your life.  You're full of revenge, and you don't even know why."

"Do you have my gold, Jadar?"

Jadar released a foul stench of a breath.  He reached inside his ragged coat and tossed a small leather pouch at him.  "It's all there," he said.  "You just remember to keep your mouth shut, boy, or my friends will pay you and your family a visit.  You have sisters.  Young sisters.  My friends like young sisters."  He laughed.  "There is no safe place for you or them to hide.  My friends will find you."

"Look, I did my part.  I'm going to catch hell, because you were late."

"Hell?"  Jadar laughed.  "You have no idea what hell is, boy."  With the slightest of movements, the eyeless man slashed his companion across the face, leaving a gash across the right side of his pretty face.  An inch higher, and he would have lost an eye.

"Bloody bastard!"

The staff slid between his legs, driving him down into the cobbles.  Jadar pressed the end of the staff against his throat, ceasing the flow of air into his lungs.

"Listen to me, boy.  I don't care who you are.  Do not threaten me and do not talk back to me.  I'm going to let you live for only one reason, you may prove to be useful to me in the future.  Let that gash on your pretty little face be a reminder.  You'll never be safe, again."

"I'm sorry," he gasped.

Jadar removed the staff from his throat and disappeared into the night.

He stood up and leaned against the darkened building behind him as he tried to catch his breath.  His face stung where the staff cut him.  Warm blood stuck to his fingers as they slid across the wound.  He would remember that, and someday Jadar would remember it, too.  The eyeless man vanished.  He could not see which direction that bastard had gone, nor did he care.  He was glad to be rid of him.  The friends Jadar spoke of were the White Knights, and nobody wanted to attract their attention.

He looked up at the inn.  The light still burned brightly through the same window.  Nalda Larden had not gone to sleep, nor would he, at least not until Hark was safe.  In the light of day, once the White Knights hunted down Nogart Wilmont and dragged him back for his execution, they would discover the Larden's treachery and they too would die.  The inn would need a new owner, if the White Knights did not burn it to the ground.  With what he saved and with the dowry he could obtain from Charlinda's father, he could buy the inn and turn it into a gambling house.  People would come from all over to lose money in his establishment.  And once Charlinda were his wife, he could work her to death.  Everything was working out.

He would have continued to revel in his victory, but the sky began to grow lighter in the East.  He had to get home, before his father got up to get started on a full day of farming.  He hurried into the Inn's stables and retrieved his horse.

He left Lorden Plains quickly, praying that his father would still be asleep when he got home.