Chapter Six

Arcalane stayed in Drakemoor longer than planned to get his horse, Styer, re-shoed at the only stable in town: the Gallop N’ Hoof. The upkeep there was something to be desired, fences that kept in the horses and mules were rickety and the wood was suffering from long term damage from termites and water. The stringent scent of manure and unbathed animals was the first thing that hit him as he entered, hanging in the air like a cloud of smog.

The farrier was just as he expected, given the condition of the stables, an overweight man covered in mud and grime who was gnawing on a piece of meat. Chunks of his meal dangled from the tips of his raggedy beard. He gave Arcalane a grimy grin, his beady eyes drifted to Styer.

“That thing looks like it’s ready for the knacker’s yard,” the farrier chortled. “The fee is twenty. I’ll put ‘im down real gentle-like.”

“If you lay one hand on him, other than what is needed to fix his shoes, then you’ll become a permanent part of the filth that stains the floors here,” Arcalane forcefully warned.

“I meant no offense, m’lord,” the farrier said. What can I do for you and your...fine steed?”

Arcalane nodded to Styer. “My friend here needs to be re-shoed.”

“Yes, of course. The fee for that is fifty,” the farrier said, motioning for his stable hands to take the reins from Arcalane.

Arcalane didn’t give them up. “I’d feel more comfortable if I did the work. I’ll pay extra if it’s a problem.”

“Well, see, I can’t have just anyone mucking about in my stable,” the farrier explained, scratching the back of his dirty head, “got a reputation to maintain, you understand.”

Arcalane thought about the consequences of shoddy work on Styer, how it might be worth it to delay his re-shoeing.

“Look, I know my place looks like rubbish, but I wouldn’t be in business if my work wasn’t tops,” the farrier added.

Arcalane handed the reins over and dropped fifty coin on the table. “When will it be done?”

The farrier raked the cash across the table and started counting it. “Shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

“See that no harm comes to him,” Arcalane said, before leaving.

Most of Drakemoor’s citizens were in the streets, many of which were hung-over or drunk. Arcalane stayed near the stables and found a place to sit down, uninterested in going anywhere else. Being by himself was something he was comfortable with. He folded his arms and lowered his head, letting a brief yawn slip out. He didn’t expect that, he must have been more tired than he thought and would have fallen asleep if not for the inviting sign of “Ale” written on a nearby tavern: the Ugly Goat. It had been days since he had a proper drink, the thought of warm mead was too good a thing to pass up and he found himself heading toward the dingy tavern.

Inside were an assortment of travelers and rogues, a few were passed out on the grimy floor or slumped over in the corners but for the most part it was alive with activity. Several long tables filled the main dining area and other, smaller, rickety tables lined the unkempt walls. Aged, wooded, support beams kept the shoddy upper floor from falling in. A single fire-pit was placed in the center of the tavern, giving off little light, enough to reveal a tin of meat pottage hanging over the fire.

Arcalane ordered a tankard of mead and paid the tavern keeper, before taking a seat at a corner table. The drink satisfied his craving as it settled in his stomach. His body felt warm and content. It had been a while since he felt that way. His contentment was short-lived when he noticed a group of armed men, that were seated at a long table, staring at him. He recognized their red armor and scarlet garments the moment he saw them. They were bannermen of house LeRouge, sworn to Lord Regent Leuthere LeRouge.

Leuthere ruled Lothoran instead of a king. When King Amaleth Rhaenar, he left a young son as the only heir. However, the boy turned wayward and ever since Lothoran was divided. Some Lothorians were staunchly loyal to traditions and would only recognize someone of Amaleth’s blood as true king, while others supported the idea of a new bloodline. House LeRouge tried to maintain neutrality in the dispute, but Arcalane knew that the LeRouge’s wanted to install their bloodline to the throne.

“You there,” one of the men called out to Arcalane, his voice cut through the crowded tavern. “You’re an Archknight, aren’t you?”

Arcalane didn’t offer a response, instead he took a drink. The man who spoke had a weathered face with deep-set eyes. He was middle-aged of average height, completely bald and clean shaven with brown eyes.

With Arcalane still ignoring the man he approached and took an empty seat in front of him. “You are, aren’t you,” the man stated with delight. “You have to know what to look for, it’s in the eyes…an unnatural blue.”

Arcalane, again, didn’t react.

The man continued, “Not much for words, are you? Well, I don’t blame you, you were sitting here enjoying a nice drink before I so rudely interrupted. And where are my manners? Why I haven’t even introduced myself. Sir Coren Merser, oathbound to the Lord Regent.”

“Whatever you’re thinking of asking me, forget it,” Arcalane told him.

“Didn’t you have to drink holy water or some shite to become an Archknight?” Coren asked tauntingly. “Heard those that weren’t ‘chosen’ died instantly.”

Arcalane kept quiet, but deep down he was annoyed.

“I suppose it could be rumor, but then again, I ain’t never met an Archknight whose eyes were different from the last. They also say that those who survive are reborn into something else…not even really human anymore after that,” stated Coren, changing the tone of his voice to more serious.

More bothered than before, Arcalane took another drink.

Coren looked around the tavern with a disgusted expression, “Normally I wouldn’t venture this far south to a pisspot like Drakemoor. But we’ve a cache of gold for the capital…wealthy families here supporting the war effort and all that,” his tone shifted and be belted out a drunken laugh, “Lord Leuthere sends men bearing his sigil rather than risk outlaws taking what’s his. But men like me, of my caliber, should be fighting the bloodsucker scum.”

Arcalane tried making it obvious that he wasn’t interested in conversation and kept his silent demeanor.

Coren went on, swigging more ale. “Ah, but you are an Archknight, aren’t you? The sword of Lothoran…out here, keepin’ the men and women safe and all…what you call it? The never-ending hunt or whatnot?”

“And what would you do, Sir Coren, march to Valtheia? Into the heart of the Viempire horde and slay the Deathless King himself?” Arcalane asked irritated, no longer concealing his distaste for Coren’s company.

“They say his son, Prince Alastor bathes in the blood of his enemies,” stated Coren, with a smirk creasing his shaved face as if trying to get under Arcalane’s skin. “I’ve seen it…one of my own men drained dry and tossed aside like a husk. Damn that Alastor and his Death Knights…and his bitch of a sister too!”

Coren’s companions gave a raucous cheer, holding up their tankards.

“I’ve no interest in this,” Arcalane stated bluntly.

“No interest?” Coren laughed, slamming his empty tankard down. “You’ll think differently when they come for us all. The Vespertine bloodline won’t rest until Lothoran is nothing but a graveyard.”

“I can’t help you,” Arcalane told Coren abruptly, wanting to end the conversation before he got too deep into it.

“I haven’t asked for help, boy,” Coren slurred, alcohol prominent on his breath.

“All the same, leave me be,” Arcalane stated.

“You some kind of coward?” Coren sneered.

Arcalane shook his head, exhaling slowly. “I'm just trying to enjoy my drink in peace without hearing the whining of a grown man.”

Coren’s men shifted uneasily as the tension mounted.

“You and me, we’d serve the realm better on the front,” Coren said bitterly. “Not here swilling ale like a couple of drunken louts.”

“I said leave me be,” Arcalane repeated coldly.

“The boy’s nothing but a coward!” Coren jeered, inciting laughter from his men. “Run home to mommy, whelp!”

In a burst of anger, Arcalane slammed Coren’s face into the table. For a brief second stunned silence filled the room, before Coren’s companions stood up with their weapons drawn. The commotion did little to stir the other patrons of the tavern as they remained seated, carrying on with their meals.

“You little shit!” Coren cursed, holding his bloody nose.

Arcalane shot a dead stare at Coren’s companions, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to fight.

Coren stood up and spat blood on the floor. “Let him leave,” he told his men. “He doesn’t have half the character of his brothers.”

His words stayed with Arcalane as he left, making him think about what type of man he was, made him think about the man he wanted to be. Maybe he’s right about me, he thought. How could I possibly live up to my people’s legacy?