Chapter 4
A deep-seated unease compounded by an urgency he didn’t understand drove Bastion from the village before first light. He’d slept poorly, feeling that he’d stumbled upon something important, and it bothered him, like a bruise under the skin, not yet visible.
He looked for the Yvri healer before he left, but she was nowhere to be found. He didn’t know what he would say to her, except that without her help, he wouldn’t have crucial information.
The further he got from the village, the more his sense of the situation clarified. Without the distraction of people–of the Yvri healer–his gut screamed there was something afoot and that he should hurry.
He followed an overgrown track, sprinting often.
Silently, he thanked Captain Hanniel for all the cross-country excursions with a full kit and full armor.
He’d cursed the captain of the guard at the time, but the discipline had built muscle and stamina that benefited him now as the road dipped and rose.
It took him over windblown bluffs, skirting sandy beaches tucked between stretches of rocky cliffs.
Beneath his shirt, the Acari pendant swung against his chest. It was an anomaly that demanded an explanation, spurring him on like a biting fly.
Just as the sun made a brief appearance, cutting through grey clouds that had hovered all day, Cypress Shoals came into view.
Bastion sighed. He’d barely stopped to eat or drink, and he was exhausted.
A line of liquid light vanished beyond the horizon as he picked up his feet and ran the rest of the way.
True dark descended as he entered the town.
Outside almost every building, the warm glow of oil lamps brightened the streets.
Bastion’s muscles screamed at him as he drew deeper, catching his breath.
Even in winter, plenty of people lingered after a day's work, laughing and talking. Their frivolity was such a stark contrast to the anguish and destruction he’d witnessed in Windwick.
Outside the town square, Bastion stopped abruptly. Three Yvri loitered in an archway. For a moment, he thought one of the women was the healer. Then she turned, and Bastion deflated, disappointed.
Duty had driven him onward, despite the lifelong ache in his chest urging him to turn around.
Bastion had been attracted to plenty of beautiful women, but something deeper, something inexplicable, drew him to the healer like the waves to the shore.
The fact that he hadn’t been able to find her after their exchange the night before almost bothered him more than the secrets of the dead pirate.
A scowl darkened the Yvri male’s face, and Bastion realized he was staring. Immediately, he turned on his heel and engaged a passing man with his arm slung around a woman.
“Can you tell me where to find the garrison?”
They slowed, looking him up and down, their jovial expressions turning dubious. In a town this small, everyone knew everyone, and he was clearly a stranger.
“What business do ye have with the garrison?” the man demanded. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms darkened by soot.
Bastion frowned. His entire body burned from his cross-country journey, and hunger battered in his stomach like a bird trapped in a bag.
He shifted so that his cloak fell open to reveal his sword and turned the pommel towards the nearest lamp, making sure the three-petaled bud caught the light.
The woman’s eyes widened while the man raised an eyebrow.
“That way,” the man said, pointing. “At tha smithy, take a right.”
Bastion let his jaw relax and said, “Thank you,” his tone more gentlemanly.
He wove through the thinning crowd, passing an empty fountain as his steps took him to a more utilitarian part of town.
When he reached the smithy, it was dark and quiet but still smelled sharply of coal and hot metal.
It mingled with the damp air, and the lamplight softened as a sea fog settled over the town, giving the streets a hazy, dream-like quality.
Bastion took a right, disquiet nipping at his heels. He passed several darkened shops, including a carpenter, a farrier, and a ropemaker, before the reinforced garrison gate materialized before him.
He strode up to the small door off to the side and banged on it with the flat of his fist. The fog dampened the sound, and when no answer came, Bastion banged again, harder.
The grille opened, and a curmudgeonly eye crowned by a wild eyebrow glared out at him.
“Bastion of the Royal Guard,” he said to the eye, “here to report an attack on the village of Windwick.”
The eye widened, and the grille slammed shut. The scrape of metal on metal followed, and the door swung inward to reveal an aging soldier with a curtain of limp white hair hanging around his shoulders.
“Shut yer fool mouth and get in here!” He ushered Bastion into the narrow gatehouse. In such a tight space, the smell of lamp oil assaulted him. Beside the door, a rumpled blanket and ceramic jug sat on a narrow bench.
“Ye said Windwick?” the man asked. “When?”
“The night before last, by pirates.”
“Goddess’s tits!”
“Where is your commanding officer?” Bastion asked. “Lord Kyrith needs to be informed of the attack.”
“He’s aware of the threat!” the man grumbled, hobbling forward to glare at Bastion. “Windwick ain’t the first we’ve heard of!”
“Then he’ll need to adjust his strategy!” Bastion exclaimed. “Windwick was burned to the ground!”
“What do ye know about strategy?” the old man asked. He stepped back and looked Bastion over, scowling. “You look barely old enough to be blooded!”
Bastion swallowed a cutting retort. Fatigue was catching up with him, thinning his patience. He didn’t need to explain where or how he’d learned, nor did he need to prove his skill. He simply swept his cloak aside, flashing the pommel of his sword in the smoky lamp light.
“Aye, so yer truly a Royal Guard. Seems strange that yer alone. Who‘re ye guarding?”
“I’m on leave,” Bastion said, bitterness leaching into his words. He hated that he had to resort to using the sword this way, a reminder that he was nothing without the weapon or title of knight. He asked again, “Where is your commanding officer?”
“Yer speaking to him!”
Bastion couldn’t contain a scoff. The guard considered him coldly, settling back onto his heels in a way that suggested, sword or not, he’d been humoring Bastion up to this point.
His seriousness sent a trickle of dread down Bastion’s spine, as cold as water under dry clothes. It spread across his body and settled in his stomach, setting his heart off like a startled bird. There was only one reason an old man would be the commanding officer.
“You look like ye seen a ghost, laddie,” the soldier said, his bushy eyebrows pinching together.
“The garrison is empty, isn’t it?” Bastion asked.
“Shhhhh!” The man used his hand to make a hard cutting motion between them. “I already told ye to shut yer fool mouth. The last thing we need is the townsfolk in a panic!”
“Where is everyone?”
“I already told ye, Windwick ain’t the only one to be attacked!”
Which meant Lord Kyrith had divided the garrison’s forces to deal with other raids.
“The town is vulnerable,” Bastion said, alarm rising. “You have to send a message–”
“I dinna have to do nothing!” The soldier cut him off. He moved into Bastion’s space, circling around to back him towards the door. “Ye city boys think you can come in here and boss us around, like some kinna knight escort. Lord Kyrith commands us, and we’re handling the situation!”
“But-”
“Ye’ve done yer duty and reported the attack! Now, unless ye have a platoon to add to our forces, go on and git!” He ripped the door open and shoved Bastion into the damp dark. “An’ keep yer damn mouth shut!”
He slammed the door in Bastion’s face.
__________
A drizzle followed Bastion back into town, further disparaging his mood.
He may have done his duty, but the urgency he’d felt since leaving the village hadn’t slackened, continuing to gnaw at his gut like a rat trapped under a hot pot. Reporting the attack on Windwick wasn’t enough. He had to meet with Lord Kyrith.
But his stomach growled, reminding him that he needed to see to his own needs first.
The thought of food sent him looking for an inn. Bastion knew there had to be one somewhere, but the empty streets and eerie glow of light through the mist made everything look the same.
He kept to the main streets, but the longer he wandered, the more hunger and fatigue manifested. Cold crept under his collar despite his hood being up, and a clammy feeling wormed its way through his clothes. Finally, a door opened, letting laughter and music escape.
Bastion stopped beneath a swinging sign with a white sea dragon painted on it that read The Serpent’s Rest: Inn and Tavern.
As he stepped inside, warmth enveloped him, and Bastion became aware of just how sweaty and damp he was. The mouthwatering smell of hot stew and baked bread, laced with the sweet scent of sugar, consumed his senses, and his stomach growled.
In the front half of the room, serving girls moved between tables packed with patrons while dancers filled the back, obscuring the musicians who kept up a lively rhythm. To his right, a long bar stretched all the way to a stairwell.
“What can I do fer ye?” a man behind the bar rumbled. He had the height and girth of a bear, a full beard, and a warm smile.
“Are you the innkeeper?” Bastion asked, stepping up to the counter.
“I am. Name’s Bartholomew, but call me Bart,” he said. He threw a rag over his shoulder and extended a hand in greeting.
“Bastion.” He pulled two gold coins from his purse and pressed them into Bart’s massive palm. “I need a hot meal and a fast horse.”
Bart tilted his head to look at the coins. “I can help with the meal,” he said. “But I can’t sell ye a horse in good conscience. Yer liable to break the poor beast's leg in this fog, or ride right over a cliff into the sea.”
Bastion wanted to unleash a scathing remark.