Brian Pratt - Trail of the Gods

James peeks from under the covers to gaze at his friend and watches as he reaches for his knife, pulls it out a few inches and then slides it back into the scabbard. He does this several times as he turns back to the window and looks for Aleya’s return. “If it’s bothering you so much,” he finally says, “why don’t you go back down the road and look for her?”

“Do you think I should?”

“Yes,” he assures him. Anything to get a little peace and quiet.

“Will you be alright?”

“I should be fine,” James replies. “We’re in Cardri after all.”

“True,” admits Jiron. He again looks out the window and then abruptly turns for the door. “I think I may just ride back down the road a ways.” He looks over to James but his eyes are already closed.

Opening the door quietly, he slips through to the hallway and closes it behind him. Practically running down the stairs, he makes it to the stable and quickly saddles his horse. Mounting, he bolts out into the inn’s courtyard and turns toward the road.

Once on the road, he kicks his horse into a gallop just as he hears, “Thank you, I’ll be fine from here.” Bringing his horse to a sudden stop, he looks back and sees Aleya dismounting from behind a man wearing the uniform of a Cardri soldier.

“Aleya!” he hollers as he turns his horse toward her.

She turns and sees him there, a smile breaking out upon her face. “Jiron!” she replies back. The soldier moves his horse away and continues down the road as Aleya moves toward Jiron.

In his excitement at seeing her, he vaults off his horse and lands next to her. Grabbing her in his arms, he gives her a big, warm kiss.

Smack!

Jiron’s head snaps back as her fist strikes the side of his face. Letting go of her, he stumbles back in shock as he gazes upon the grim expression she’s wearing. “What did you do that for?”

“You never, EVER, do that again without my permission!” she yells. With the enwrapped bow and quiver under one arm she stands there and glares.

“I was just so worried…” he begins and then trails off. “And when I saw you, I just…”

“Just what?” she asks her demeanor not softening in the slightest.

“Oh, never mind.” Grabbing the reins of his horse, he begins walking dejectedly back to the stables.

“Jiron,” he hears her say, her tone somewhat softer.

Not turning around, he replies, “What?”

“You have my permission,” she says in a soft, caring voice.

He stops in his tracks and glances back to her. She comes forward and takes him in her arms. Pressing her lips to his she begins to give him a kiss. This time, he’s the one who breaks it off. “What’s wrong?” she asks as she looks him in the eyes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you,” he begins. “But…”

“But what?” she prompts him.

“But my face hurts where you hit me,” he admits.

She just stares at him for a moment and then they both start laughing.

He gives her a hug and then says, “Let’s go up to the room, James is sleeping but I think he’ll want to know you’re back.” With his horse’s reins in one hand, and his other around her waist, they walk back to the inn.

He makes his way down the darkened street on his way to the inn. This far into the Empire, he needs to be extra careful, their agents are everywhere. He has just come from a meeting, that should its agenda be known, would surely mean his death. But he’s played this game far too long to let a little thing like death be an obstacle.

Many people know him by many different names, here he’s simply Kir, a traveling musician who makes his way by playing at various inns. This persona has blonde hair and slightly darker skin than he’d originally been born with, a result of just the right mixture of dyes and other solutions. The overall appearance is that of someone from the southern region of the Empire.

Lately, the other players in the game have begun to suspect him, as the last attempt on his life proves. How many more effective years he may have has yet to be seen, but through his long years as an agent, he’s learned the art of disguise and misdirection well.

With his instrument over his shoulder he continues down the street to his current engagement at the Wallowing Swine. A none too classy establishment, its environment fits in well with what he’s here to accomplish.

As he approaches the inn, several people standing outside the Wallowing Swine wave to him as he draws near. He’s a favorite around these parts, many wonder just what brings him back to this same inn time and again. They’re sure that a singer of his talents would be welcome in any of the finest inns in the city. When asked about it, he just replies that he likes it here.

A slave dressed in the regular slave garb, loin cloth and nothing else, stands at the door and opens it for him. “Thank you,” Kir tells him. The slave gives him a grin as he passes by. Kir is one of the few people who treat slaves decently, most don’t even acknowledge their existence, which has earned him their help in various ways.

The smoke filled common room is crowded, always is on nights he’s performing. He makes his way through the crowded room to the stage, many people call out to him or offer hellos. Returning their greetings, he finally reaches the stage and gets his chair situated just where he likes it.

Next to the chair is a stand where he rests his instrument when not in use. Once everything is set, he leaves the stage and goes over to the bar where one of the slaves has already set out a plate of food for him and a mug of wine. Nothing too much, he can’t afford to stuff himself before a performance. The quality of his music will suffer for it if he does.

This is his last night before he heads out, could be why it’s so packed. Word gets around when he’s here and no one wants to miss out hearing him.

“Sure wish you could stay longer,” Kalim, owner of the Wallowing Swine says to him.

“I know,” replies Kir. “But I have other engagements in which I’m committed, I’m sorry to say. I should be back in a couple months.”

“Good,” replies Kalim. “Always a full house when you are here.”

Kir just flashes him a grin before taking one last swallow of the wine. Moving away from the bar, he makes his way back to the stage amidst a smattering of applause. As he takes his seat and removes his instrument off the stand next to him, the room becomes quiet as every eye is fixed upon him.

He starts out with a lively tune, a favorite of the locals and soon has them slapping the tables to the beat, some even sing along.

As he continues through his repertoire of songs, the house slaves move among the patrons, filling glasses and seeing to their every need.

After his fourth song, a long love ballad that always gets the ladies in the room misty eyed, someone calls out for a new song. Others join in the cry and he says, “Very well. Here’s one I learned not too long ago from a traveler who had come a long ways.”

He begins the song, a catchy tune with a chorus that’s easy to learn. When he begins the second verse…

Crash!

…a slave drops a tray which had held a pitcher of ale and several mugs. As he continues the song, he looks toward the sound of the breaking pottery and sees the slave standing there, staring at him.

A strange look upon his face, the slave begins to come toward him.

One of the workers at the inn makes his way through the crowd toward the slave, all eyes now on the slave who’s approaching Kir. “Back to work!” yells the worker to the slave.

Kir can see from the expression on the worker’s face that the slave is going to be severely punished, not only for the breaking of the pottery, but for not heeding his words.