The road to Fontechiara was a track of grey mud and sharp stones winding through hills battered by a biting wind that brought the smell of rain and rotten leaves. Alistair rode with his chin buried in his steel gorget, feeling every jolt of the dun nag the innkeeper had foisted on him. The beast had the heavy stride of a weeding ox and an irritating inclination to bite the briars along the wayside. As they rounded a row of willows stripped bare by winter, Alistair halted his pace so violently that the beast's hooves dug deep furrows into the clay.
By the side of the road, protected by a palisade of splintered pine stakes, stood a livestock trading post. A peat fire gave off thick, acrid smoke that stung the eyes, and around it clustered about ten horses, their coats shaggy from the cold and their flanks caked in dried mud. But it wasn't the saggy-bellied mares or the skinny foals that caught the mercenary's eye.
In the furthest corner of the pen, with one ear drooping to the left and his lower lip hanging in an expression of boredom so monumental it seemed to question the very order of the universe, stood a grey horse. He had an old scar on his left hock and eyes half-closed with the disdain of an elderly lord being served wine mixed with water.
– By the goodness of Solarius... – Alistair's breath formed a white cloud in the freezing air. – Sarcasm.
It was him. The bloody animal he thought had been turned into rations for Viscount Lorenzo's hounds after the collapse of the Brigade's fortress was here, alive, chewing straw and exalting boredom.
Alistair jumped off the dun nag with the heavy creak of the metal plates that now protected his thighs and marched toward the pen. The owner of the post – a stocky man, broad-shouldered as a bull and wearing a filthy sheepskin coat that smelled of tallow and mutton fat – stood up from a comically small stool with an unfriendly look. He had large, calloused hands covered in scabs of dirt, and the small, shrewd eyes of someone who had already sold the same blind horse to three different merchants.
– That beast there – Alistair declared, pointing a gloved finger at the grey horse. – That animal is mine. It was illegally confiscated from me by traitors to the crown and I want it back, and I want it now.
The livestock dealer looked at Alistair, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and let out a dark spit that hissed in the embers of the fire.
– Aye, and I'm King Alaric, newly returned from my victories against the sheep-fuckers of the sands – the man mocked, his voice rough as a whetstone. – The horse was sold to me by men wearing the golden lion crest. I paid three silver coins and a sack of good quality oats for him. If you want him, you half-baked nobleman, show me four silver coins. If you haven't got them, sod off before I call the lads with the pitchforks and set the mastiffs on you.
Alistair felt the blood rush to his neck, the heat of fury defying the morning cold. His hand descended, by pure instinct, to the hilt of his new sword, and words stumbled over his tongue in a torrent of threats of gallows, beheadings, and royal justice – arguments that, on that forgotten road, carried the same weight as the songs of a drunk bard. If he drew his iron, blood would flow, the local militia would be alerted, and Hector's mission would be ruined before he even set foot in Fontechiara.
It was then that Lucius intervened. The boy dismounted without a sound, moving with a lightness that contrasted with Alistair's warlike apparatus. He didn't look at the dealer with anger; he looked at him with the coldness of a notary examining a land deed. He took two steps forward, placed himself between the two men, and reached out, lightly touching the rim of the shield Alistair wore on his back.
The Ferralian steel caught the pale morning light, and, for an instant, the muddy yard seemed to ignite with a glow of pure silver, so intense and crystalline that the horse dealer had to blink and look away, raising his hand to shield his eyes.
– Look closely at him, master – Lucius said, his voice clear, devoid of the haste or tremor of youth. He had a maturity that seemed moulded by iron itself. – What do your eyes see when you look upon my lord?
The tallow-smelling man swallowed hard, his gaze shifting from the patchwork of robust armour plates to the ornate pommel of the sword and, finally, to the almost divine glint of the Ferralian shield. This was not the gear of a highwayman or a common deserter; it was the apparatus of a man who killed by the design of kings.
– I see... I see a knight of high breeding – the man admitted, the arrogance draining from his chest like air from a punctured wineskin. – A noble of arms.
– Exactly – Lucius lied with the precision of a crossbow bolt. – This is a lord travelling on a secret mission for the great halls of Aurelia. He will sit at the king's table and ride before the richest knights in the realm. Imagine what will happen when the barons and captains see my lord mounted on that beast and he says, before the entire court, that the hardiest and noblest horse in his stable came from your humble enclosure by the roadside? The publicity will be priceless. Lords from all over the region will send their squires here, with pouches full of gold and silver, looking for the man who supplies horses for the greatest warrior in all the seven kingdoms. You could be the most prosperous man in Fontechiara, or... – Lucius lowered his voice, making it as cold as metal – you could be the man who insulted a warrior bearing the steel of the gods over four silver coins. The choice is yours, master, but choose quickly, for the time of lords is short.
The livestock dealer looked at the glint of the Ferralian steel, then at the promise of future gold Lucius had planted in his greedy mind, and finally at the still figure of Alistair. Greed was a noose the boy knew how to tighten with mastery.
– Well... – the fat man wiped his dirty hands on the leather of his coat, forcing a smile that revealed black teeth. – A businessman must know how to honour the nobility that defends the realm. If your lord promises to speak the name of my stable in the halls of the kingdom... take the beast. Consider it a tribute from my house to your campaign.
Alistair, maintaining the lofty posture Lucius had arranged for him, merely tilted his head with imperial condescension. He took Sarcasm's reins and pulled the animal out of the pen.
Upon feeling the weight of Alistair's boots in the stirrups and the redoubled weight of the new armour on his back, Sarcasm turned his neck heavily, giving the mercenary a sideways glance, his eyelids drooping and his ears flat, in a perfect mimicry that seemed to say clearly: 'I'd rather have stayed in that filthy stable eating straw chewed by rats than carry you back into the middle of your disasters.'
– I missed you, my faithful friend – Alistair murmured, settling into the familiar saddle, feeling truly at home for the first time in days.
Lucius, meanwhile, took the reins of the dun nag Alistair had abandoned. The animal, freed from the mercenary's weight, revealed a sudden and clumsy energy, giving small, nervous leaps in the mud and shaking its head as if trying to rid itself of a swarm of wasps. It was small, short-legged, but endowed with a typically mountain stubbornness.
The boy controlled the reins firmly, letting out a short laugh as the beast gave another half-hop to the side.
– What are you going to do with that nag, lad? – Alistair asked, while Sarcasm trotted with the slowness of a funeral procession.
– He has too much energy for his size – Lucius replied, adjusting the cloak over his shoulders. – And he won't stand still for a second. I'll call him 'Flea'. He's small, he's ugly, but he bites when you least expect it.
And with the negotiations concluded, they resumed toward Fontechiara. Several hours passed before they began to smell the thick air of the village, laden with the scent of smoked fish, open drains, and the cold dampness rising from the nearby river. The first shadows of night were beginning to stretch their grey fingers through the narrow alleys when Alistair and Lucius halted their mounts in front of the inn. Sarcasm let out a long breath of old hay, while Flea gave a small, nervous hop in the mud, his ears pricked up.
It was then that the cold of the night seemed to concentrate into a single point. From the gloom of the alley beside the tavern, a figure emerged that looked to be carved from darkness itself, wearing a cloak of a heavy, black fabric that didn't catch the slightest light from the lamps, and a deep hood hid their features, leaving only a bleak void where a face should have been.
Sarcasm took a step back, hooves clattering on the stone, and Alistair's hand descended instantly to the hilt of his sword, the steel emitting a pale warning.
The figure drew no weapon. Instead, they extended an arm covered in a frayed sleeve, holding out a ferrous metal box, stained with soot and locked by a simple latch.
– The time is coming – hissed a voice that sounded like the scrape of dry leaves over a grave.
Before Alistair could utter a curse or demand a name, the figure melted back into the alley. Alistair pursued them, the iron of his armour creaking, but when he reached the corner, the alley was empty; only the wind howled between the walls of rotten wood.
– By Solarius' guts – Alistair cursed, holding the metal box which felt cold as ice in his calloused hands. – If this is another of Hector's pranks, I swear I'll bury my sword in his ribs.
Sitting on a wooden bench at the back of the stable, sheltered from prying eyes, Alistair forced the box's latch open. Inside lay two objects: a piece of thick parchment, its torn edges showing lines that looked like rivers and hills – a fragment of a map – and a letter sealed with black wax, bearing no crest.
Alistair broke the seal with his thumb and unrolled the paper. He brought it close to the oil lantern, narrowing his eyes. He stared at the document in a long silence, his brow furrowing into deep ridges. To his eyes, the letters on the page were nothing but meaningless squiggles; they danced and twisted before him like drunken ants in a bowl of soup. He turned to Lucius, who was watching the scene while cleaning Flea's hooves with a splinter of wood.
– You, lad – Alistair called, holding out the parchment. – Can you read these scrawls? I've seen bards read, and they usually know which letter comes after which.
Lucius looked at the paper, then at the mercenary, and let out a dry puff of laughter, seasoned with his usual pragmatism.
– I didn't even have shoes on my feet before I met you, Alistair. What do you think? I never had a master who knew how to sing of kings and dragons, and when I needed to sign a contract, I used an ink-stained thumb. Iron and hunger don't leave much time for books.
Alistair let out a heavy sigh, the weight of frustration settling on his shoulders. The message bore the scent of urgency; it came wrapped in the mystery surrounding the Brigade and the fate of Aurelia, yet Alistair and Lucius stood there, defeated by half a dozen lines of ink on a piece of sheepskin.
– We're blind in the middle of a fog – Alistair murmured, tapping his knuckles against the parchment. – If this contains General Salgado's movements or Lorenzo's gold, it's no bloody use to us if we can only use the paper to light the fire.
Lucius tucked the wood splinter into his doublet and looked toward the village's central square, where the silhouette of a stone tower rose against the stars, topped by the symbol of the radiant sun.
– Around these parts, the only clergy who know how to wield a pen are those of the Cult of the Eternal Sun – the boy suggested, his voice low. – The priests spend more time with their eyes on parchments than on the soil, and they've mastered writing since the days when kings still wore wolf pelts.
Alistair fixed his gaze on the temple tower, feeling his stomach turn at the prospect of dealing with holy men.
– A cleric... – the mercenary grumbled, adjusting his sword belt. – Dangerous men, Lucius. They weep for the poor while locking up silver in their altars. We'll have to find one with open ears and flexible morals. A well-told lie about a lost inheritance, or the jingle of one or two coins we've got left in this drought, ought to convince him to translate the text or teach us the basics of these damned letters – he said, tucking the letter into his doublet, feeling the rough paper against his skin as they walked toward the tavern.
The interior of the Fontechiara tavern was a den of suffocating heat and brute noise. The smell of peat smoke mingled with the breath of rancid mutton fat and the sweat of thirty men and women trying to forget the harshness of winter. Alistair barged through the bodies with the authoritative creak of his metal plates, his Ferralian shield catching the reddish glare of the hearths like a mirror of bloody ice.
True to his word, the mercenary tossed a bronze coin to the landlord and returned to the wooden bench carrying two heavy clay mugs, where a thick, yellowish foam overflowed the brims. He thumped one down in front of Lucius with a dull thud.
– Drink, lad – Alistair ordered, a broad grin cutting through his dust-caked face. – You've already had your baptism of iron at Hector's fortress and at Vigil, now you're due your baptism of malt.
The boy observed the dark, dense liquid with the suspicion of someone staring into a doubtful well. He lifted the mug with both hands, hesitated for a moment as the pungent, sour smell invaded his nostrils, and finally took a generous gulp, as if wanting to get the chore over with.
The effect was immediate and devastating. Lucius's face twisted into a grimace of pure horror, his eyes widening while his cheeks sucked in as though he'd chewed bitter-herb. The lad coughed, his chest shaking violently, and he very nearly spat the brown liquid straight onto the table, frantically wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his doublet.
Alistair let out a roaring laugh that echoed off the oak beams of the ceiling, slapping the boy's back with a heavy hand hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
– You should see your face! – the mercenary mocked, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. – I know, lad, I know. Your first gulp of dark ale always tastes like horse piss and despair, but don't give up. The second one clears the road mud from your throat, and the third... the third tastes like pure freedom. It's the nectar of free men, Lucius. Drink a bit more and you'll see your legs won't feel so heavy.
Lucius set the mug down with trembling fingers, staring fixedly at the bottom of the clay as if deciphering the eyes of a sea monster threatening to swallow him. Alistair, for his part, took a long swig of his own drink, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread through his stomach, at peace for the first time in weeks.