Don Bassingthwaite - The Binding Stone

Twilight lay purple against the sky by the time the forest opened up and Singe looked down into the shallow valley that held-so a tavernkeeper had told them two days ago-the hamlet of Bull Hollow and the end of the long western road.

Given that the “road” was really more of a vague track, Singe didn’t hold out any great hope for the “hamlet” either.

Toller d’Deneith urged his horse up alongside Singe’s. The young man’s face twisted as he looked down. “That’s it?” he asked.

“I told you not to expect much.” Singe studied the valley. The buildings of Bull Hole were shrouded by trees, but at least a dozen thin plumes of rising smoke were clustered together. A short distance away from the plumes, a broad clearing opened up around what seemed to be stone ruins. Here and there, other clearings broke through the trees where small farms had been cut from the forest. He grunted. Maybe the place had potential after all.

“Let’s get down there,” he said. “If we need to knock on doors looking for a place to sleep, it’s best to do it while there’s still some light.”

“You don’t think they’ll have an inn?”

Singe’s mouth curled into a grin. “We have a saying in Aundair: cow-paths don’t lead to palaces. This is the very end of the loneliest cow-path in the Eldeen, Toller. Do you think Bull Hollow will have an inn?”

Toller sat up a straight, needled by the comment. “A little respect would be appropriate, Lieutenant Bayard!” His hand went, unconsciously, to the hem of the blue jacket that he wore in spite of the heat, pulling it taut so that the silver embroidered emblem of the Watchful Eye superimposed on an upright sword-symbol of the Blademarks mercenary guild of House Deneith-flashed in the fading light of the setting sun.

Singe brushed back a stray lock of blond hair, crossed his hands over the pommel of his saddle, and gave the young man a lazy stare. A similar jacket, though without Toller’s insignia of rank, was folded up in his saddlebags in favor of a much lighter vest. Toller was sweating in spite of the cool of evening. He wasn’t.

“Singe,” he said calmly. “Call me Singe. Lieutenant Singe if you have to.” He sat up straight. “Commander.”

Toller flushed and glanced away. “Sorry, Singe.”

Singe rolled his eyes. “Twelve moons! Stop apologizing!” he groaned. He twitched his horse’s reins and the animal started to move again. “If you can’t do at least that, your first command will be your last!”

“Right. Sorr-” Toller caught himself and closed his mouth. Singe nodded his approval and the young man allowed himself a half-smile. “Does this mean I can actually call you-?”

“No.”

Bull Hollow, when they reached it, turned out to be a cluster of well-kept, mostly wooden buildings arranged around a central common like gamblers around a cock pit. The majority of the buildings were houses, a few were simple shops of various kinds, and at least one had the stout stone walls of a smithy. That the small community managed to support more than one commercial establishment at all was something of a surprise, but Singe supposed that Bull Hollow actually served as the trading hub for a region that spread far beyond its little valley.

Toller reached over and prodded him. “Look at that.”

Singe looked. On the far side of the common was a large whitewashed building with a number of windows and what looked like a low-slung stable to one side. A goodly number of folk were gathered at the ground floor and, from what he could see through open windows, all of the visitors held mugs and tankards. He sat back. “Twelve moons,” he said.

“It’s an inn?” asked Toller.

“An inn or something enough like one that I’m willing to chance it.” He nodded to Toller. “Maybe I was wrong about this place.”

He turned his horse toward the large building, Toller wheeling his mount sharply in order to stay close. Their arrival was beginning to bring attention. More and more faces all around the hamlet’s common were turning in their direction. Eyes were wide and he caught more than one over-loud whisper of excitement and curiosity. A good number were directed toward Toller and the insignia of House Deneith.

Toller was staring back. “Maybe now would be a good time to begin recruiting,” he whispered. “We have their attention and they’re clearly interested.”

“We have plenty of time,” Singe murmured back. He barely moved his lips as he nodded to a young lass in a homespun dress of a cut that looked like it had come out of another century. “Let them come to us. We’ll have some dinner and give them a chance to get a few drinks inside themselves. When we’ve worked our way back toward civilization with a train of recruits for the Blademarks in tow, that’s the time to talk fast and try to sell the benefits of becoming a mercenary. For now, relax and use your eyes. Reachers make good scouts and wilderness fighters-try and spot the best ones before they start posing for us.”

“You’re the veteran,” said Toller. “Have you ever been out this far before?”

Singe pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the tavern. For a moment he was silent, then he said, “Almost. Once, years ago. During the war and much further north. My first recruiting trip-I was barely more than a recruit myself.”

“And?” asked Toller.

Singe glanced at him. “And nothing,” he said curtly. “It was during your uncle’s command of the Frostbrand. He led the trip himself.”

Toller’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes dropped down to the ground under his horse’s hooves.

Singe grimaced. Mention of Robrand d’Deneith was all it took to shut the mouth of half of House Deneith. None of them, not even Toller, liked to be reminded of how close he had been to the old man.

And Robrand, thought Singe, would be angrier than a hunting dragonhawk if he knew I was invoking his name just to change to a subject-though he might understand, given the consequences of that particular trip.

He forced himself to relax his grip on his horse’s reins. “Drink lightly with dinner,” he advised Toller, trying to ease the tension between them. “The real challenge will come after.”

The young man took a deep breath and nodded, sitting up straight once more. Singe caught a glimpse of grateful relief in his eyes. He smiled at him. “You’ll do fine, Toller. Have confidence and take charge.”

A tall man with a shock of white hair was hustling out from the inn before they had even walked their horses up to it. His eyes darted from the crest on Toller’s jacket to the swirling, ornate hilt of the rapier that hung at Singe’s side. The Aundairian turned his smile on him. “You have rooms?” he asked. “And dinner?”

“Yes, good master! Of course!” The man practically fell over as he bowed. “Welcome, welcome! My name is Sandar.” He spun around and bellowed. “Thul! Thul!”

A sleepy-looking boy poked his head out from the stables. Sandar gestured urgently for him to come forward. Singe swung his leg over his horse’s rump and dismounted before the innkeeper could injure himself in his eagerness to serve. “We’re not in any rush, Sandar,” he said warmly. “Take your time!”

Sandar looked relieved. “Tak, master! That’s kind of you. We don’t see many of the dragonmarked in these parts, and to have two …”

“Only one, Sandar. I just work for House Deneith.” Singe smiled and nodded to Toller.

Sandar’s eyebrows rose so high they almost merged with his hairline and he spun around to face Toller. “Your pardon, good master!” he gasped. “I had thought your servant to be your equal!”

Singe’s indulgent smile vanished into a glower while Toller’s face lit up. “No apologies needed, Sandar,” said the young man, “it’s happened before.” He stretched so that his dragonmark-the shimmering, swirling colors of the magical pattern that marked a true heir of one of the great houses-peeked out from under the cuff of his right sleeve. Sandar’s eyes opened even wider in awe.