Free Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 by Forbidden Magic (v1.1)

swiftly off
into the darkness. Calandryll shrugged and continued on past the shuttered
warehouses.
                 It
seemed he walked for hours before he saw light ahead and quickened his pace,
breaking into a ragged run that brought him unsteadily into a plaza where
lanterns defied the night and tavern signs boasted all a thirsty mariner might
desire. He tinned in a circle, staggering, regaining his balance with flailing
arms, as he surveyed the inns. He chose the closest and smoothed his tunic, ran
careless hands through his hair, before pushing through the door.
                 Cold
and damp were instantly replaced by heat and the heady reek of liquor.
Calandryll blinked, an owl caught in the flare of the hunter's torch, and
peered, no less owlishly, about. Rough wooden tables were scattered across a
floor spread with sawdust, that stained with spillage. Men sat there, tankards
and cups before them, answering his examination with varying degrees of
interest, a few women among them, their interest more obvious, more predatory.
The ceiling was low, hung with lanterns that he stooped to avoid, their light
augmented by the lowering flames of the logs burning in a wide stone hearth.
The remnants of a calf roasted on a spit, listlessly turned by a child in
threadbare shirt and tom breeks, his feet bare and dirty. To the right was a
long table, behind it a fat, bald man in a greasy apron, behind him tapped
barrels and shelved flagons, tankards and mugs hung like trophies from wooden
pegs.
                 “Master?"
Watery eyes took in Calandryll's finery. "What's your pleasure?"
                 "Wine.
Strong wine."
                 "I
have a vintage from the Alda Valley that'll please your palate." The
innkeeper produced a dusty bottle, a goblet of cheap glass that he polished
briefly on a soiled cloth. "Try that, young master."
                 Calandryll
sipped. The wine was, indeed, strong. He emptied the goblet and nodded, taking
the bottle. There were tables enough empty that he found a place close to the
fire, near a low doorway that led into the bowels of the tavern.
                 "Would
you eat, master?"
                 He
shook his head, waving a dismissal, and the fat man returned to his desultory
polishing of the bar. Calandryll filled his goblet and stared around.
                 The
other drinkers were mostly seamen, he thought, from the cut of their clothes
and the heavy rings that decorated their ears. Many wore swords, all daggers;
several were clearly drunk. There were a few mercenaries, no doubt in the
employ of local merchants, dressed in protective leather, long blades strapped
to their sides or ung across their backs. The women had the look of doxies,
their gowns cut to reveal breasts bound high, cheap jewelry glittering about
their throats and on their fingers. They studied Calandryll with professional
eyes. He smiled at nothing and drank, refilled the goblet and drank again. He
could not help comparing the women with Nadama, so he drank some more to chive
away that hurtful memory.
                 In
a while the flagon was empty and he called for another. slumping in his chair
with outflung feet as the fat man brought the bottle.
                 "It's
to your liking, master?"
                 "It's
to my liking. It's a most excellent wine. My compliments on your cellar."
                 His
voice was thick and he chuckled at the sound, at his joke. The innkeeper beamed
obsequiously and left him. Calandryll sank lower in his chair, grinning,
oblivious of the wine that stained his shirtfront, grateful for the dulling of
the pain.
                 He
emptied half the second flagon and forgot that he was drunk. A torpor that was
almost pleasant weighted his limbs, the goblet heavy in his hand as he raised
it, the fire warm at his side. He stared around with bleary eyes and a
slack-mouthed