David Gaider - The Calling

Julien’s face was crimson. “She was a sweet girl.”

“She robbed him blind! Took all his coin and ran out the window.”

The quiet warrior grinned then, nodding even through his embarrassment. “She was still a sweet girl.” He took a long swig, shuddered at the evil taste, and then attempted to pass it to Fiona.

The mage declined. “I’m not drinking that.”

“Oh, come on,” Duncan urged her.

She grudgingly relented. Taking the flask, she held her nose and took the slightest sip. Immediately she gasped and began convulsing and making retching noises. Flailing with the flask, she tried to pawn it off on Duncan, and he took it from her while laughing. The elf fought hard not to vomit, and the others joined in the merriment.

“Oh, very kind,” she finally gasped, her voice raspy. “Thank you for finding it so bloody funny that I’ve been poisoned!”

“Poor Fiona,” Nicolas chided her. “Such a delicate flower.”

“Go hump your horse.” She giggled and wiped her mouth several times, as if that could remove the memory of the taste. “Ach! It’s like liquid death.”

Duncan smirked at her. “That was quite the show you put on there.”

“No show required. Taste it yourself and you’ll find out.”

“Uh-huh,” he said disbelievingly. He let the subject drop and turned his attention to the flask, giving it a prudent sniff. That was a bad idea. He flinched, his nose twitching like it had been set on fire. “I’m not sure I want to, now.”

“You have to,” Maric chuckled. “We all did.”

Not everyone. Duncan glanced over at Genevieve, who stood off at the edge of the ruined outpost. She leaned against one of the walls, her back toward them. She had to hear them laughing and carry ing on. Part of him wanted to call her over, invite her to join them. But she would refuse, naturally.

“I’ve never been in any big battle,” he said, “but there was this one night where we were preparing to rob the Marquis … oh, I forget his name now. Wealthy bastard, though. Lots of guards, too, which made robbing his manse very risky.”

Utha made a disapproving face.

“What?” he protested. “We were poor! He was rich! It was only fair.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Fiona laughed.

“So we were going to head out, all of us nervous and sweating like a bunch of elven whores in a chantry—”

“What is with all the elven whores?” Fiona complained.

“—and I remembered that I forgot my rope. So I ran down the steps to get it and I slipped. Fell down an entire flight of stairs and landed on a cat.”

“You landed on a cat .” Maric stared at him incredulously.

“A big cat. He was a local one, lived on the streets and chased dogs. We used to call him Rabbit.”

Kell cocked an eyebrow. “Why Rabbit?”

“It had big ears; I don’t know. Anyway, it scratched me so badly I was furious. I chased that thing down four city blocks, throwing stones at it. Little bastard was fast. Then I fell into a well.”

“A well,” Nicolas repeated.

Duncan shrugged. “I was a lot less graceful back then.” He smiled ruefully at the memory. “The others didn’t know where I’d gone, and I sat in that well for three days until a guardsman heard me yelling and pulled me up. Threw me in the gaol for the night, but at least I got a meal out of it.” He chuckled, and it trailed off into a sigh. “Stupid cat.”

“Didn’t the others come looking for you?” Fiona asked.

He shook his head. “They died. Somebody tipped the Marquis off and all his guards were waiting for them. I was lucky I wasn’t there, or at least I thought I was. Because only I survived, all the other guilders thought I was the one who’d tipped him off.” There was a subdued silence at that, but Duncan merely grinned and raised the flask to the others. “To lost friends.”

“To lost friends,” they chimed in. He braced himself and took a swallow of the dwarven ale. It was like choking back the leather sole of an old and sweaty shoe that had been pounded into paste until it was slightly watery and grey. The others stared as he tilted the flask back, and after a series of audible glugs he finished it off.

The others clapped, impressed. Duncan handed the King back his flask, suddenly feeling very ill and shaky.

“Brave lad,” Maric said.

“Thanks,” Duncan grunted. After a moment he lurched to his feet and ran off to the corner of the ruin to vomit everything in his stomach onto the stones. Then he heaved a bit more, as the others grinned with amusement.

When the heaving was finally done, he looked back and gave them a saucy grin and a victorious thumbs-up. They applauded him vigorously, and he had to admit he was pretty damned pleased with himself.

He noticed, too, the appreciative look that Fiona shot King Maric. The man just shrugged it off with a shy smile.

Genevieve left her spot by the wall and walked back to her tent, sitting down on a large rock just outside. Duncan watched as she began taking out her weapons and laying them out around her for cleaning. It was a ritual he had watched her do often in the months that he’d known her.

The Commander paused and ran a hand through her white hair, yawning. She looked exhausted, he thought—not just physically but emotionally. She seemed aged, too, like her years were rapidly catching up with her. He supposed the thought of following after her brother when she had already written him off as dead must be difficult.

Duncan had never met Bregan, having joined the order months after the man had left for his Calling. He knew plenty about the man by reputation, however. His presence had lingered among the Grey Wardens long after his departure. His sister mentioned him often. The others had spoken of him, as well, and far more enthusiastically. Duncan always had the impression that most felt Genevieve didn’t mea sure up to her brother as Commander, though it was never spoken of openly.

“Duncan,” Genevieve remarked wearily, noticing him staring at her. She rested her head in her hand. “What are you doing?”

He wandered over to her, leaving the others behind. He could hear them talking again, Kell noisily stoking the campfire to keep it going. “I just thought these dwarven ruins might like some of their ale more than I did,” he said with a wink.

She chuckled, and then took stock of some of the weapons she had laid out. The sword was the most impressive of the bunch, an elaborate two-handed blade that sparkled even though they were well away from the fire. Its magical runes were almost invisible, but one could make them out in the darkness. It had been her brother’s, she’d told him once, handed over when he left into the Deep Roads.

Then she paused, and it seemed as if she remembered something awkward. “Ah. About what happened back at the tower …”

“It was just a girl!” he protested, the blush already creeping into his cheeks. He just knew she would bring this up eventually, and already had a defense all planned. “Surely that isn’t against the Grey Warden’s rules as well, is it?”

Genevieve arched a brow, her look one of clear disbelief. “So you followed the girl up there, did you? In order to lie with her?”

“It’s what … young men do, right? Or so I hear.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What? It could happen.”

She leaned back, folding her arms and fixing him with a level gaze. Duncan knew that look. It was the sort of look that could lead to things like getting one’s head smacked against walls. “So what were you actually doing up there, prior to your … run-in with the young woman?”

He sighed in exasperation. “Looking around for something to steal.”

Her eyes narrowed. “From the mages? Are you mad?”