When tension had built to her liking, she spoke again. "Varron jumped the lava stream, and while the dragon was focused on Herman, he buried his blade deep in her belly. He ran down the length of the dragon, his sword above his head, until the collarbone stopped the blade."
Lorin dropped his expression grim. Catherine didn't notice—her focus was on Arthur, who scarfed down each word, enthralled with the story.
"It was destiny. Had he been any slower, the blood and guts that spilled out would've burned him to death, they were so hot. A normal sword would've dripped into a puddle after it failed to pierce the dragonhide, but Varron thought ahead and used his rune-hilted sword. Brickmere fell. I'll never forget the dragon's wail. That scream still wakes me some nights. Once we all calmed down we took the eggs back, after we searched the cave of course. Varron was kind enough to let Herman keep the head for his part as a distraction. Varron took most of the hoard the dragon kept further in the cave—his father demanded it for a tax. Although, he gave us enough to live comfortability and open this up," she said, motioning around the room. "We retired after that one; we both were getting old, and losing so many took a toll on us both."
"Wow," Arthur said, "I never knew you and Herman were such adventurers."
Lorin remained silent.
"Well you never asked me about it, Arthur."
"Do you have any other stories?"
"None after that one, but before that there was the naga in a buried temple. That temple was filled with so many traps we needed to use a pole to trigger them before we could take a single step."
"Any more stories with Varron?" Lorin asked, his voice sharp.
Catherine looked at him with a flutter of disdain. "Yes, he was with us during that one as well. On another occasion he was taken by a harpy and we found him in the nest nekkid as a newborn." She turned from Lorin to Arthur. "One that isn't as well known is the time he fell for a dopple, but I don't tell that one in mixed company."
Lorin stood, and the room spun with his sudden movement. "Varron is nothing but a monster in human skin." Lorin was so focused on Catherine he didn't hear the sound of multiple chairs sliding back.
Catherine didn’t finch and said, "Lorin, you have had too much to drink. Please, sit down—"
Lorin slapped his mug off the table. "Varron Demore killed my family in front of me—don't try to make him sound like a hero!"
"Sit down and apologize," a new voice said.
Lorin looked from Catherine to one of the Thornguard that had been sitting close. The guard who had spoken had his visor down and a steel-banded cudgel in hand.
"You heard me tell my tale," Lorin said, pointing his finger back and forth between Catherine and the guard. "I didn't finish yet, but it ends with that dickless coward killing my children."
"Enough!" the guard said and started toward Lorin. Before the guard took a step closer, Arthur stood from his chair to block him.
"Sir, don't hurt him please," Arthur said, his words coming as fast as his breath allowed. "He is my friend and has been through an awful time. You don't need—" The guard hit Arthur hard across the face, and he dropped to the floor like a bag of wheat.
"Stay down, simpleton," the guard said to Arthur's still form. "The brain-dead should stay in their crypts."
Lorin grabbed the slab of tree that had been his table for the past few hours and tried to flip it into the guard. The table was heavy and once gravity took control, the slab knocked the guard to the ground and pinned him. Lorin's next thought was to kneel beside Arthur to check on him, but that sentiment was cut short.
Catherine slammed her elbow into his gut, and Lorin doubled over from the pain, fighting to keep from vomiting. Catherine locked her arm around his neck, which rubbed his bandage against the wound and soaked the fabric red. Lorin saw her fist and felt four flashes of pain before darkness took him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lorin awoke coughing and snorting for breath. He had been traveling uncomfortably for a while now. His lips were dry and cracked, and the taste of blood still filled his mouth. His neck, kinked and sore, begged to be stretched. In fact, his whole body was a chorus of pain. By his best guess, this was the third day since leaving Blackpool, but he couldn't be sure. What little he knew came from the two round holes that let in light, sound, and air. The crate he was folded into was large enough to fit him, but only just. He couldn't raise his chin from touching his chest, so looking out of the holes above him was impossible.
The box was beginning to stain with the smell of feces left out in the sun. Over the course of his journey, his limbs lost feeling constantly, so he needed to shift the little he could to keep blood flowing. Each time the blood would reach whatever body part was numb at the moment, it would gain feeling through a painful tingle. All he could do was grit his teeth and stifle a yell. During the first day he learned that if he made a sound, a club would appear through one of the holes in the box and beat him to silence. Lorin thought of it as a magic trick. It wasn't fun, but he could make the club appear on command.
For the first time in a while, Lorin focused on positive things. His meal with Arthur had been filling, so even after the few days without food he was hungry, but not near death's door. From overhearing the guards that pulled his crate, he knew that in another three or four days he would be let out of the box for a trial with the Baron and Varron himself. Catherine apparently had suggested the personal trial with Varron to the Thornguard. The fact the guards obeyed her without question, and that she incapacitated him so easily, made Lorin realise he had greatly underestimated his barkeep.
The guards had also mentioned Lorin was under arrest for slander against the Baron's family, which was a serious offense that he could be executed for. But Lorin didn't care. In fact, he was excited. His death could be close if he was patient and even better, he would be at a trial were Varron would be. There, Lorin could spit in his face and maybe, just maybe, find a way to kill the man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The hood was pulled off. The wet sucking sound of drenched fabric separating from skin echoed deep in Lorin's ears. A mix of sweat and blood stung his eyes and poured down his face. The hood kept most of his blood pooled in its fabric, but a steady drip from it did mark his path as the guards led him along. Lorin blinked, trying to bring his vision into focus. He stood, but that took more effort than he had. The journey here had not been kind. A lack of food or water paired with sitting in his own filth had taken a heavy toll, and his excitement about the coming event had been dampened significantly.
Blurred vision and weak knees mattered little to his escorts. They noticed his descent and let him drop, still holding him under his arms, then kicked him for good measure. Puffing out his chest and making his belly spill over his belt, the guard to Lorin's left said, "Kneel, boy, and look respectful. If you apologize nice, you might just lose some face and not your head."
Lorin was curled up from the kick, and all his senses seemed to ring out. But he heard the guard. As he opened his mouth to speak, dried mucus and blood dropped into his throat. Lorin was seized in a coughing fit, and couldn’t reply.
The sound of leather against steel came from Lorin's left, and the hilt of a blade hit him square on his back just below the ribs. It grazed his spine, but dug into the softer muscles. Lorin arched to favor the point of impact and screamed out in a raspy breath. Another blow. This time the flat of the blade slapped the top of his shoulder. It sounded worse than it felt, but that could have been because the first hit had claimed most of his mind's attention. Then, the cold line of a steel edge rested at the nape of his neck.
"Show some manners, boy. The more you make an ass of yourself, the less likely your head will be attached come the morning bell. Keep your eyes down and look pitiful. Good storytellers shouldn't be killed, but that's up to you now. Understood? Good."
They stayed that way for a time. Lorin breathed heavy and focused on his pain while his guards held up his limp body. He had two guards, one holdi
ng the sword at his neck, the other standing at attention beside them. Pillows and chairs bordered the square room they were now in, with a staircase leading up in front of them. Behind them, the two large doors they came through stood resolute. This was the entranceway into the Baron's judgment seat.
The pain ringing through Lorin’s body faded to its final tolls when footsteps sounded from atop the stairs. Lorin blinked the blood and sweat from his eyes and lifted his head. He couldn't see their faces, because the sword behind his neck stopped him from looking too high up, but he saw a tall man with one arm draped over an older man carefully stepping down the stairs. The old man was dressed in a robe that had been patched and repaired so many times it looked like a quilt, and there was no trace of the original garment.
"Please, sir," the old man said. "You must help, we have only you who will listen." His voice shook in time with his hands.
"Once my father returns I will discuss it with him," said the other man. The voice was smooth, and so strong it filled the entrance.
A familiar voice.
"Advice I can give, but his choice is final."
Lorin jerked up to look at the man's face. The blade dug in, and Lorin's body cried in protest, but he forced his gaze up as a warm trickle of blood began its crawl down his neck. Lorin saw Varron, without the slightest mark on his face, helping to guide the old man down the stairs.
Resting his hand atop Varron's, the old man said, "I would have it be your choice."
Varron gave a warm smile to the old man and supported him to the bottom.
That smile brought bile to Lorin's throat. He tried to spit, but his body gave out in exhaustion, and he slumped once again.
"Guard, forgive me," Varron said. "I don't know your name, but if you would escort this grandfather home, I would be grateful."
Lorin's right arm fell, and the shift it caused made the larger guard drop Lorin's other arm. Lorin fell flat on the ground and rolled on his side, but couldn't do much else. The thin guard took the old man gently under his arm and led him out the door. Lorin saw the old man give him a quick glance, but the wrinkled face showed nothing more than disdain.
Once the large doors shut, Varron, from halfway up the stairs, said, "Bring the man up."
The large guard stood Lorin up with all the gentleness of a bull, then the large man's sword, and belly, pressed against Lorin's back while they walked up the stairs. Lorin willed his stare to ignite Varron's silks and burn the man alive. It didn't work, but Lorin felt better for his effort. Varron waited at the top and turned to continue once the guard brought Lorin within a few steps below him. Lorin tensed to break from being held, to rush the last steps and throw Varron back down them. But he could only rally enough strength to pull lightly against the fat guard’s grip. The effort almost brought him to his knees, so Lorin resigned himself to wait for another opportunity.
The stairs ended and opened into a large room, which was intimidating by design. The walls were plastered smooth and covered in shields, banners, and weapons. An empty balcony encircled the room and was supported by thick wooden beams, though Lorin didn't see a stairway to enter it from this room. In the center of the room, a table wider than an arm’s span stretched across the room's length. It was empty now, but looked as if it could seat fifty people with plenty of room left. Past that, on the wall opposite the stairs, two thrones stood on a raised platform. Skulls and stuffed heads mounted on the wall encircled the throne. Beautiful, though grim, the thrones had a level of detail that could only be a master craftsman’s work. Carved in the thrones dark wood were a wide array of skulls, wildlife from the area, mythic beasts, humans, and even more that Lorin didn't recognize made up the design etched around the seats. The throne was cushioned in shimmering, red, scaled leather. The leather glowed and pulsed, holding back fire within the cracks of scale. Though they sat empty, the thrones demanded attention and fear.
Varron leaned against the table just a few steps from the stairs, his hands smoothing out the table’s fabric runner. He looked distant, lost in thought.
Two paces from the table, the guard kicked Lorin’s knees out from under him forcing him to kneel.
"This man has been brought before you, M'lord," the fat guard said as if he were reading the words aloud, "for crimes against you and your good name."
"What crimes?" Varron said, still looking past his sight.
"Slander against you, and assault of the Baron's Thornguard."
Varron's head turned to look at Lorin. "Curious." Then he looked at the guard. "What was he saying?"
The guard bowed his head. "I was not there, but when the Thornguard handed him off to me…" The guard shifted from foot to foot. "They said he was a good storyteller, but started calling you a child murderer and a dishonest beast of a man."
Varron's eyebrows went up, and a bemused smile cracked across his face.
"When the Thornguard heard him tellin' his story in a tavern, they got up to arrest him. Him and his simpleton friend fought back, but they weren't a match for your father's guard, M'lord."
"I would hope not," Varron said.
Lorin's jaw clenched, sickened by Varron's grin.
Varron didn’t notice and continued, "I see only one man here."
"M'lord, I do not know what happened to the other. Most like he died from his injuries."
"Why would this man be brought before my father, then?"
"I did not think to ask, M'lord."
"The Baron has trained his guard to punish criminals, not send them to him. Where did they find him?"
"Blackpool. They were on their way back from an assignment in the Wilds and heard him in the local inn."
Varron tilted his head back for a brief laugh. "That explains it." Then he turned his attention to Lorin. "Don't look so furious. Catherine saved your life, and you arrived while my father is out on a hunt."
Lorin's scowl didn't fade. He just locked eyes with the soulless man in front of him.
The room grew quiet, Varron and Lorin clutched in each others stare. Varron looked confused, and pity flashed in his eyes as he scanned Lorin's body, the scars and wounds revealed by his tattered clothing. The only sound in the room came from Lorin's grinding teeth.
Lorin twitched. His face scrunched into a snarl as he yelled, "You killed them!" Lorin's shout echoed through the room. Then he stood, raised his hands to clasp Varron's head, and forced his thumbs through Varron's eyes.
Except, he couldn't. His mind called up the action, but his body only twitched and was held back by the lazy grip of the guard.
"He seems adamant, M'lord," The guard said. "If I may, I think he drank some strong whiskey and burned out some of his lights."
Varron searched Lorin with his eyes and after a moment said, "Ard, was it?"
The guard nodded, shaking his jowls, and smiled.
"Ard, could you take the man's shirt off? He has been through quite a bit by the looks of his scars. Just cut the rag off if you have to, I'll bring him another."
The guard did as he was commanded. Varron looked over Lorin's bare chest and circled him to see every gash. The blood from the cut on Lorin's neck had dripped down and dried, criss-crossing and outlining the scars on his back.
"I can see your hatred," Varron said. "You have lost a lot, and it looks like with a quite a fight." Varron knelt behind Lorin and ran his finger over one of the deeper scars. He gasped and said, "How did you survive so much?" It wasn't a question to anyone but himself.
Lorin decided to answer anyway by spitting. It came out mostly as air, and he didn't have much strength to force even that out.
"Anger must be your healer," Varron said. Then, he continued, "What is your name?"
"Answer him," Ard said. "I heard you speak before, I know you can."
Varron waited a moment before looking to the guard. "Ard, what is his name?"
"Lorin Rhodes, M'lord"
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sp; "Thank you," Varron said, then walked to the table and sat on its edge. "Lorin, I am trying to help you. I'm ashamed I gained the ire of a man with such strong willpower. By my guess you are one of the toughest men this side of the Abyss." Varron waited for a reply.
Lorin glared, but stayed silent.
"My father is the one to pass judgment. If he were to have been here instead of me, I fear you would’ve been skinned or disemboweled. Maybe even both—it depends on his mood, and he takes insults to his family poorly." Varron let his words hang in the air. "But I am not him. I prefer less severe handling of the ones I preside over, but you need to cooperate with me."
Lorin, still as stone, didn't show any indication of understanding. Varron looked sad, compassion filling his eyes.
"Well, if you won't help yourself, I don't know what to do." Varron walked away from the table and spoke out to the empty room, "You could be insane, but I don't believe you are. Your cuts and scars all seem precise, not from a wild attack. An insane man could do this type of damage to himself, but the cuts on your back couldn't have been done by your hand. So insanity is unlikely." Varron turned to face Lorin and walked toward him. "You hold to your notion that I am the one who murdered your family. Please, Lorin, tell me where you are from? Near Blackpool? You still won't speak to me? Can you not you see I'm trying to help? Ard, where is Lorin from?"
"Outside of Blackpool, M'lord, the Thornguard heard him talk about his homestead on the border of the Wilds. Far from any other farms, he said."
"I haven't been to Blackpool for quite some time. You met Cathrine if you were at her inn. The last time I was down that way was for her husband's funeral. She would beat me bloody if I passed near without a visit."