Free The Broken Key (02) - Hunter of the Horde by Brian S. Pratt Page B

stall for his horse.
    Behind the counter where he made the arrangements, he was surprised to see four of the coins bearing the King’s symbol nailed to the wall. “What are those?” he asked the proprietress.
    “You’ve never seen the coins of the King before?” she asked.
    He shook his head no.
    “They say there’s a cache of them somewhere that’s supposed to hold a king’s ransom,” she told him.
     
    “Do you mean the King’s Horde?” he asked in a manner that spoke of bewilderment and awe.
    She flashed him a grin and nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “If you’re interested in such things, you might try over at The Dunderdells an hour or so after dark. Durik at times shows up there. He’s the one who gave me these.”
    “He gave them to you?” asked Bart. “From my understanding, they are rare and worth a lot.”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. They are a conversation starter though.” Then she handed him his key.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” he said then returned out front to where his horse was tied. He walked him around to the stable in the back and found the stable boy who helped him get his horse settled in. Once his horse was taken care of, he took his pack and went up to his room where he waited for night to come. Lying on his bed, he thought about what approach to use in wheedling any information out of Durik that he could. He didn’t want to let on that he was more than someone with idle curiosity.
    By the time it had grown dark, he had somewhat of a plan worked out. He then went down to the inn’s common room and had dinner. It was roasted venison with a side of spicy tubers and bread. The clientele was the usual sort one would find at an inn. Bart spent the duration of his meal quietly contemplating the different people there. When he was done, he got up, left a couple coppers on the table for the serving girl and headed over to The Dunderdells.
    The tavern was down the street past one of the woodworking shops and the chandlers.
    Light came from the windows and raucous laughter spilled through the doorway every time someone passed through. Outside of The Dunderdells was an old chap sitting against the wall by the door. When he saw Bart approaching, he held his hand out, begging for a coin.
    Bart slowed his steps as he looked the old man over. From his time in Wardean, he could readily tell if the beggars were begging because they had to, or was someone out to cage a few extra coins. This old man was of the former. It looked like half of his right leg was missing and he had an overall miserable appearance. Bart dug into his pouch and flipped him a silver.
    When the man caught it, he was surprised at the type of coin he had received. The coin quickly disappeared into his ragged shirt. He nodded his head and mumbled,
    “Thanks.”
    “No problem old timer,” Bart said. He didn’t mind giving to those who genuinely needed it. But he would just as soon spit on those who did it just for the money as it took coins away from those whose survival depended on the coins they took in.
    He reached the door and pushed it open. The noise inside rolled over him like a wave.
    The place was packed and he was rather unhappy that the only spot available was on one of the stools at the bar. He didn’t like that for two reasons. First of all, nine times out of ten you’re sitting with your back to the room which makes you vulnerable. Secondly, and from the looks of where the open stool was sitting it’s true tonight as well, you’re usually crammed in between two others.
    Having little choice, he went over and took his seat between a couple on his right and a lone drunk on his left. Hardly the best situation.

“What can I get for you?”
     
    He looked up at the large man behind the counter. Not very tall but built muscularly and had a look that said he wasn’t about to tolerate any sort of misbehaving. “An ale would be nice,” Bart said.
    The man was quick to place a