Among the Dead and Dying, Page 3

  * * *

  Saffi heard the tavern door open and looked over to see if it was her friends. “Murien,” she said when she saw the Sword walk in.

  Murien Third-Sword was tall and statuesque, with raven hair and blue eyes. She had a thin, sharp nose and was often accused of looking angry when she didn’t mean to. Saffi didn’t mind her friend’s stern appearance, because it made her laughter all the more welcome. When Murien smiled, her beauty dazzled.

  “Hi Saffi,” said Murien as she walked over to the booth and sat wearily across from her friend.

  “What’re you drinking?” asked Tully, the stout owner of the tavern. He was fat but strong, and reminded Saffi of her father. “Saffi’s drinking the summer wine, it’s nice and sweet.”

  Saffi nodded as she tilted her glass. “It’s pretty good.”

  “Mead,” said Murien as she took off her gloves and set them on the table. She’d just gotten off patrol and was still wearing her armor. The Swords of New Carrington wore a basic chainmail coif and tunic over thin leather. On top of that, they were required to wear a breastplate that displayed their lineage. Murien was a Third-Sword, and honored her lineage with the tripled accents that decorated her armor.

  The Kingdom of Golden Rock, also known as the Five Walls, had done away with surnames for everyone except aristocrats as a way to foster pride in a variety of professions. Murien had achieved the rank of Third-Sword a few months earlier, after testing with the Guild of Swords. Her graduation from Apprentice-Sword to Third-Sword had been a momentous achievement, and one that Saffi hoped to duplicate.

  Saffi wasn’t training to be a Sword, she wasn’t as strong or brave as Murien. Instead, Saffi was hoping to achieve the rank of Second-Baker, which was no small feat either. Her father, Ward First-Baker, had taught her everything he knew, and they spent most of their days trying out new recipes to wow the Guild of Bakers when Saffi’s test day came. While it would be impossible for Saffi to ever earn the rank of Third-Baker, any children she had might be able to achieve that status.

  “I can’t stay for long,” said Murien.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Murien nodded and said, “Apparently.”

  The tavern door opened again, illuminating the dark room with the orange light of sundown. Abraham Second-Sword came in, an old friend who’d been assigned to Murien’s team. He was tall and athletic, classically handsome and appearing older than he really was. He waved at them and walked over to the booth. It looked like he wanted to sit beside Murien, but she didn’t move over to allow him space, so he looked over at Saffi and she obliged. He fell down into the booth with a long sigh and plopped his helmet down on the wooden surface of the table, causing Saffi’s drink to bounce and nearly topple over.

  “What a day,” said Abraham. “And it’s not over yet.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Saffi.

  “Murien hasn’t told you?” he asked.

  “I just got here,” said Murien as she leaned back to let Tully set down her mead.

  The tavern owner pointed at the newcomer to the table and asked, “What can I get you, Abe?”

  Abraham looked over at Murien’s mug and said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  After Tully walked off to get a second mug of mead, Saffi asked, “What happened?”

  “Did you hear the rumors about Everglen?” asked Murien.

  Saffi shook her head. “No, this is the first day I’ve been out of the bakery before sundown in the past couple of weeks. Dad’s got me working my butt off studying for the guild’s test.”

  “The Scholar sacked Everglen,” said Abraham.

  Saffi was equally shocked and terrified. “What do you mean?”

  “He sacked it,” said Abraham as he used his thumb to slice a line across his neck. “Scratch it off the maps, because it’s a graveyard now. He brought his zombie army out of the plains and somehow they made it past the walls. A few survivors showed up here, so we sent scouts out to see if the rumors were true. They just got back, and apparently the town’s a smoldering heap of bodies and ash.”

  “I thought the walled cities were safe,” said Saffi. “How’d they get in?”

  “Who knows?” asked Abraham.

  “The Sword Captains are meeting tonight to talk about increasing patrols and gate security. That’s where I’m headed after finishing this.” She tapped her thumb on the rim of her mug. “And they also announced that they’re purging the jails early. They’re going to have a session every week until the cells are emptied. We’ve got to get the stage set up for the court in the Central Market.”

  Saffi grimaced. The public courts and subsequent executions were her least favorite thing about life in the city. She’d only ever heard about the proceedings, because her father forbid her from going. She didn’t want to anyhow, the thought of public executions made her sick to her stomach.

  “A Sword’s work is never done,” said Abraham. “Be happy you got taken as a baker’s apprentice.” He nudged Saffi with his elbow.

  Murien finished her drink and then said, “I’d better get going. Abe, can you pay for my drink? I’ll get you back tomorrow.”

  “Sure, no worries,” said Abraham. Murien thanked him and left, and then Abraham moved to the other side of the table from Saffi.

  “Murien seems more serious than normal, if that’s possible,” said Saffi.

  “She’s just worried,” said Abraham. “I know Everglen’s a long way away, but if The Scholar was able to get into there then he could get in here too.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Saffi. “I always heard that Everglen’s gates were open more often than not. They probably weren’t ready for an attack, not like you guys are.”

  Abraham lounged, stretching his legs across the space beneath the table and reaching up high above as he yawned. “If all the captains were like Murien than we’d have nothing to worry about, I can tell you that. She runs us ragged. Most of the groups just hit a few posts per day, but she’s got us running all over the city without a break.”

  “Even though she comes from a family of Swords, she’s got an orphan’s drive.”

  “An orphan’s drive, huh?” asked Abraham as if Saffi’s comment was a slight upon him and anyone else whose name came from their family. If Ward hadn’t adopted Saffi, then the best she could’ve achieved would’ve been First-Baker status.

  “You had it easy. Your lineage comes from blood, the guild’s easier on your type. For apprentices who aren’t related to their masters, the guild can be pretty harsh. They’re quick to renounce the titles of orphans.”

  “Maybe,” said Abraham, unconvinced as he reached for his mead.

  “I know something that could ease her tension a little,” said Saffi, purposefully impish.

  “I told you, that’s not going to happen,” said Abraham. “Especially not now that I’m her subordinate.”

  Saffi crinkled her nose and gave a dismissive wave, “Don’t be so negative. The heart wants what it wants. The rules don’t matter.”

  “Have you been spending time with the prophets or something?” asked Abraham. “Here in the real world people have to follow the rules, and Murien’s not the sort of person to go against her orders. If the two of us ever do end up courting, it’ll be long after I’m assigned to another captain.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Saffi. “You two would be good together. Oh, you’d make the cutest babies.”

  Abraham laughed and then took a drink before saying, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He changed the subject, “When’s your test with the guild?”

  “Two weeks,” said Saffi as she spun her wine glass and watched the red liquid wet the sides, coating it with an oily residue. “Dad’s got me studying day and night. I can’t count the number of times I’ve burned myself on that clay oven of his.” She examined her hands, and then showed Abraham her blisters.

  “Don’t stress yourself. If you fail, then you can take the test again in five ye
ars.” He was being coy, purposefully taunting her about how important it was that she passed. The Guilds only allowed applicants to test three times in their lives, and each test had to be spaced out by a minimum of five years. It was no easy task, and Saffi wasn’t sure she was up to the challenge.

  “Thanks,” said Saffi sardonically.

  “You can do it,” said Abraham. “Murien told me all about how you used to be when you were a kid – about how they called you Lucky Saffi because everything always seemed to go your way.”

  “That’s not what most of the kids called me,” she said, remembering her time at the orphanage before she’d been given an apprenticeship with Ward First-Baker. “Most of them called me Saffi the Witch.” She wiggled her fingers as if about to cast a spell.

  “Oh really, I never knew that. Why’d they call you a witch?”

  Saffi shrugged and said, “Because I was quiet, and I used to like to spend time outside with the animals. They said that’s what witches do.”

  Abraham grimaced and said, “That’s not true. They’re thinking of druids, not witches. Druids are the ones who go out in nature with animals. Witches boil the animals and pluck out their eyeballs for potions.”

  Saffi sneered and said, “Gross.”

  “Did you ever poke anything’s eyeballs out to make a potion?”

  “No,” said Saffi with a laugh.

  “Then those kids didn’t know what they were talking about. They should’ve called you Saffi the Druid, or Saffi the Ranger. I could see you as a Ranger, out roaming the forests and the plains – stopping in for drinks at one of the smuggler towns and then heading back off into the woods.”

  Saffi let out a loud laugh of disbelief. “Not likely. I figure I’ll be trapped in one of The Five Walls until I’m dust and bone.”

  “Four Walls,” said Abraham, reminding Saffi that one of the five walled cities of the Kingdom of Golden Rock had been destroyed.

  She was saddened by the thought, and meekly said, “Right, The Four Walls.”