Chapter 8 Hardin #2
The gap stretched before him like a cruel joke, the dock’s edge retreating even as he flew toward it. Something in Sasja’s expression shifted: hope crumbling into horror as she realized what he already knew; he wasn’t going to make it.
He collided with the edge of the dock. As he folded, the air escaped his lungs in a soundless cry of protest. The edge of the dock had caught him across his diaphragm.
His fingers scrabbled desperately against the smooth wooden planks, seeking purchase in a vertical world.
Each attempt to find a grip sent splinters beneath his nails.
Just when he was certain that all was lost, Sasja’s hands found his arms. Her firm grip and arm strength belied her delicate appearance. She pulled, muscles trembling with effort, while below them the water erupted in a spray of primal violence.
A snap clapped behind Hardin, followed by a splash that echoed across the dock. Sea spray painted his skin with tiny droplets.
“Careful, Monsanto,” a voice drifted from the far side of the cargo as Hardin regained his footing. “The azgron are aggressive this close to the docks.”
“I’m fine. That one missed,” Monsanto responded, revealing a tremor.
“They have taken three lives already this year from those who come too close to the edge,” the guard continued.
“I saw something move. They were just here,” Monsanto protested.
“There’s nobody here,” the guard replied.
“I will have my compensation,” Monsanto huffed, the threat sounding emptier than before.
“From the sound of that azgron, whoever might’ve been here may be gone for good. Taken from the edge of the dock like those ill-fated,” the guard replied.
“Hardin,” Sasja whispered his name, her hand finding his with a warmth that seemed to chase away the chill of their brush with death. The gesture carried none of her earlier calculated seduction. This was something raw and real, born in their shared survival.
They fled across the wooden floorboards of the wharf, bobbing in and out of stacks of crates and groups of sailors and fishermen crowding the docks.
They didn’t slow until their feet found solid ground.
Hardin chanced a glance back to watch their pursuers continue a futile search among the piles of crates filled with everything from more common items like grains and clothing to more precious commodities like spices and metals.
The city of Stormwatch spread out before them.
The Keep rose above it all, its golden peaked towers piercing the sky like the spears of giants, its stone-gray walls a monument to the heroes both magical and mundane who trained there.
But despite the impressive castle and its protective surroundings, the absence of dragonriders here was an indicator of its reputation.
Storm Keep was second when it came to Paragons and Knights of Lamar.
The Vermillion Keep held on to the top of that roster in Lamar.
Hardin followed Sasja through row after row of multistory buildings offering a mixture of the established wealth in Stormwatch.
Some were brick, built with lavish touches.
Others were stone quarried from the Astral Mountains.
Most buildings were wood, however, harvested from the forests at the foot of the Astral Range on its west side, not too far from Stormwatch.
Sasja’s speed began to outpace Hardin’s and he found himself struggling to keep up.
“Hey, wait up!” he called to her, but the young woman acted as though she didn’t hear him.
They jogged past bodegas, taverns, and narrow doorways.
Hardin kept a bead on her as she cut through crowds that reflected the city’s living tapestry of cultures.
Each face Hardin passed held its own story.
Humans of all races and ethnicities. He passed between elves and half-elves, some with long hair covering their pointed ears, others displaying them proudly.
Hardin’s eyes widened when he spotted dwarves toiling in jewelers and smithies, their lives hardened by exile among humans.
He nearly tripped when he saw orcs mingling with pedestrians, clearly people seeking refuge from battles fought too long in the North.
Sasja ducked into a tavern where patrons sat on wooden barrels around tables. “Here, put this on,” she said, offering him the bag of stolen goods from Monsanto’s.
“I... I don’t know,” he said, noticing the suspicious glances that followed them as they sought open seats. ”It feels wrong. Shouldn’t we return it?” he said, trying to sound less unsure than he felt.
“And risk being caught!?” Sasja said.
“Hey,” a hulking orc said from behind the bar. “We don’t serve Doran pacifists. This is a Veteran-only tavern.”
“We’re just passing through,” Sasja said, attempting to diffuse the tension.
“You can stay, he needs to leave, now or I’ll call the Watch,” the orc bartender said.
“No need to raise the alarm,” she said flicking a coin to him as she added, “We’re leaving.”
She led Hardin through to the back door and out into a shadowed alley.
“I won’t give the clothes back to him face-to-face,” Hardin said, glancing to either side to see if anyone had pursued them. “I was thinking it would be best to wait until nightfall. I can leave them on the back steps. No harm, no foul.”
The wrinkle of Sasja’s nose spoke volumes. “If you don’t want to wear it, I’ll keep it. Do you know what kind of money I could get for this?” she gestured with the bag. “It’s well made. Monsanto’s is quality leathercraft and the best fine stitching this side of the Astral Range.”
City Guards in light armor rounded the corner heading toward them.
“Ash,” Hardin cursed.
Sasja forced herself onto him, pushing him up against the brick wall at his back. She put her hands in his hair, moving her face dangerously close to his and whispered, “Put your arms around me.”
Hardin hesitated, caught off guard by her sudden forward action.
“Quickly, so they don’t recognize us if Monsanto has already spread the word.”
Hardin did as she asked, taking her into his arms and holding her tight.
She kissed down his neck, stirring a slew of emotions within him.
As the guards passed, they murmured to one another, chuckling and egging the young couple on.
They continued out into the next street without recognizing either of them.
Sasja abruptly pulled away from Hardin’s neck, grabbing his hand that had drifted down below the small of her back and pulled it away with force.
“What?” he said as she narrowed her blue eyes at him. “I was trying to sell it.”
“And it worked,” she said. For an instant he thought he saw a flash of a smile on her face, before she forced a flat expression. “You’re really not going to take the clothes I grabbed for you?”
“Why did you take them? I told you I couldn’t afford them,” he asked.
Sasja measured him with a lingering stare. “Why don’t you spend your money?” She tilted her head with deliberate grace, the ruby pendant at her throat drawing his attention. “You have plenty, as you say. Enough to buy a Paragon. So why not spend some on yourself?”
“This isn’t my money. I can’t spend it like that,” he said, his hand instinctively moving to cover the pouch.
“The investors who gave it to you are expecting you to spend it all on the hero’s service?”
He nodded.
“Just go to Storm Keep and get a Paragon there. They are half the cost. Then you can spend some of that coin on things you can enjoy, like these clothes.”
Hardin’s fingers found the clasp of his worn brown vest, the metal cool against his skin as he covered the telling stains on his once-white shirt. Each mark was a reminder of the path that had led him here. “For one, Storm Keep doesn’t have dragonriders,” he countered.
“They have Magi, which are just as clever at using magic, sometimes they are better at knowing how to use it against people.”
“I need to go to Astral City.”
“Why go all that way when there’s a host of Paragons and Knights here at Storm Keep, all of whom would work for a much better price?” her voice cracked slightly, betraying a hint of desperation. Hardin almost thought she sounded like she was trying to plead with him to change his plans.
“I’m aware, but they aren’t what I need. I need a specialist. Someone who’s faced threats from the North that aren’t the everyday, run-of-the-mill monster.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I need a dragonrider or someone who’s worked alongside a dragonrider and has a specific set of skills.”
“You’d save a lot of time, money, and heartache by going to Storm Keep right now.” Sasja’s tone softened, taking on the honeyed quality that first ensnared him on the ship. “It’s what a girl like me would want you to do. You want to impress someone like me, don’t you Hardin?”
The air between them thickened, the lust he felt while she distracted the City Guard returned, but Hardin’s response was steady. “I’m not going to settle for less.”
Something shifted in Sasja's eyes then: respect warring with frustration, calculation dancing with what might have been genuine concern. “You’re never going to convince a Paragon from the Vermillion Keep to help you, or a Knight for that matter. Not a single one of them will take you seriously with that little pouch of coins you have.” Despite her honest intentions with the warning, her words cut into him.
“I don’t care if you told me it was full of Yogo Sapphires, they would still turn you away.
Those kinds of people are signing contracts with High Nobles, Dukes, Duchesses, and the King. What are you to them?”
“That’s why I brought my lute,” Hardin said. He tried to summon back the flirtatious Northern girl from the ship, but that version of Sasja seemed to have evaporated.
“You’ve got the right smile to be a successful bard, I’ll give you that,” she said, her words carrying an almost maternal sadness now, “but I’d wager you can’t sing a tune.
You should go back home to Doran before you get chewed up and spit out.
Lamar isn’t a place for a Doranian pacifist. This is a kingdom that runs on wealth won in battles and has violent contests for control over the territory where Hyalites are won and lost, and not by negotiations and peace treaties. ”
The challenge in her words ignited something in him. “I can hold a tune. Listen,” he declared, swinging the lute around on its strap with practiced grace. His fingers found the strings as naturally as breathing, and when he strummed the first chord.
“In the Frost Fang Mountains where no warrior dares tread,
Through the biting wind that turns hope to dread.
I passed through storms and mountains old,
To seek a treasure of untold gold.”
A shadow fell across them, ending Hardin’s smooth voice with the summons of worn leather and sharpened steel.
An orc more threatening than the others in Stormwatch materialized from the intersection.
He was like a spirit of violence given flesh.
His copper cloak clung tightly around thick shoulders.
The massive sword across his back a clear warning.
His mossy weathered green skin, his grim face broader than any man’s, with tusks that gleamed like ivory daggers above his thick bottom lip.
Leather armor creaked across his shoulders, vambraces guarded forearms thick as tree branches.
Each heartbeat stretched as the orc moved with impossible speed.
One moment Hardin was singing, the next he was stumbling aside, his song cut short as Sasja was swept up in a single powerful arm.
Her scream shattered the afternoon like breaking glass, her kicks futile against her captor’s iron grip.
The street erupted in gasps and cries as others froze in shock.
“Sasja!” Hardin cried out, his fingers clawing at the orc’s copper cloak.
With strength that seemed to defy nature, the orc launched them both over the intersection.
Fifteen feet of space vanished beneath his leap as though it were nothing more than a crack in the road.
He landed on the far side as graceful as a cat.
In the space of a breath, the orc and Sasja vanished into the shadows of the opposing alley, leaving behind nothing but echoes and the lingering notes of their unfinished song.