Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (ebook audio reader .txt) 📖

feet in lake waaaaater

I am a son, not a daaaaaughter

For they don’t have any fun.”

 

“Wha…?” Rainold nearly tripped, trying to keep up with Key who had stopped right in front of the musician and dropped a coin into the hat.

“You do take requests?” Key asked, peering at the lake man as he twisted another knob.

Glancing up, the musician brushed the hair out of his eyes and blinked at Key. Then he glanced to Rainold who didn’t look like he wanted to linger in the alley. “Requests? Only if I know the song you’re talking about.”

Polan brushed past, eventually setting his heavy basket in the alley a few yards away as if he were tired. He hardly looked up, only rearranging the bread he had collected to keep them from falling out. Tiler had walked into the road also, peering at the meats on sale with one eye also on Key. It looked like Berd had remained in the city center but had passed on the message to the others.

Nodding, Key leaned his head to the side to think of a song only a Bekir fisherman would know. It was difficult. It had been so long since he had lived there, and like so many things outside his smithing work, the memory was fuzzy. But Key found one and said, “Can you sing The Dancing Shrike?”

The musician abruptly lifted his eyes. He fixed them on Key’s face. “Do I know you?”

Key shook his head, smiling. “I doubt it.”

“We’re looking for fish,” Rainold said, tired of waiting for their contact. “They don’t sell river fish here, do they?”

Glancing to Rainold, a shrewd look came into the musician’s eyes.

“You’ve come to the wrong town for fish.” He put away his instrument, tucking it into a green velvet bag that had a strap of woven threads and beads. He tied it closed. “If you head east to Barnid, you might find river fish. I’m more partial to lake trout myself. Do you like lake trout?”

He looked directly at Key.

Key bowed his head and smiled. “I haven’t had lake trout since I was a child, but yes, I love it.”

Grinning, the musician slapped an arm around Key, much to the surprise of all his Herra friends who watched them. “Well then, how about you come with me. I have a friend who imports from north some fine lake trout. It is a load better than the sea fish those blue-eyes bring in from Stiltson.”

“Uh,” Key glanced back at Rainold then at Tiler. “Can I invite some friends to come along? They’ve never tasted lake trout.”

Giving Rainold a tired look, the musician nodded. “If you must.”

Key nodded to Rainold, casting Polan a look to follow. Tiler would no matter what, so he didn’t bother.

They walked down several roads, winding their way towards the southern area where the fields and crops grew. They could see the railway to the north once they exited the town, leading eastward. The musician grinned while chatting with Key about the healthy benefits of lake trout, as Rainold walked behind them just a pace. Rainold’s secretly clenced his dagger in his pocket in case something went wrong. While they were talking, Key usually nodded, bringing up topics particular to Bekir Lake without mentioning the lake. He listened intently to the musician’s responses. With each topic, the musician grew livelier, his smile practically genuine, though Key could detect tenseness in the arm that held him like a pal. Key knew he was being steered towards those that could either help him or hurt him.

They passed Berd on the way. He was resting on a rock wall along the path where they traveling. Clearly Polan had told him to head them off and wait. They spotted Weston on another road parallel to theirs, obviously doing the same. Weston rose to head towards them, but Berd remained where he was, rubbing his feet.

Key had begun to limp also. His ankle throbbed again, though he slowed down only so he could give his friends the chance to catch up.

The musician glanced down when they slowed. “Are you all right?”

Wincing, Key shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ve been walking the entire week is all.”

“He has weak legs,” Rainold said in a way to remind the musician that he was still there. The conversation had been only between Key and the musician, and Rainold had resigned himself to silence.

Halting, the musician blinked at Key. “I’m sorry. Do you need a rest?”

With a thankful nod, Key limped towards the rock wall. He glanced once to see if Weston had caught up. He saw Berd rise. Tiler came trotting down the lane with three sticks in hand that had balls of fried meat on them. He handed one to Key without even looking at the musician.

“You hungry?”

Key shot Tiler a terse look though he nodded, reaching out for one.

The musician blinked and then turned to Key. “Your friend?”

Nodding again, Key smirked. “Yeah. This is Tiler. You met Rainold.”

Delivering a small nod, the musician’s expression stiffened. “I see. Uh, but aren’t we going to eat fish?”

Key had already taken a bite and was chewing. He blinked immediately, staring at what he had just done and blushed. He nodded, rising to his feet. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“We’re going to eat fish?” Tiler asked, glad he didn’t have to pretend that he wasn’t following anymore.

A look from the musician answered that he didn’t really want Tiler or Rainold to come. However his words were gracious. “Yes. Lake trout. Do you like lake trout?”

Tiler merely shrugged. “Not really. I’m more of a river fish kind of man. The Burber River near Herra has some excellent pike.”

It was as if he had stabbed the musician. The musician looked directly at Tiler. “You’re from Herra?”

Key kicked Tiler in the shin, clenching his teeth and shaking his head.

Grabbing his leg, Tiler hopped out of reach. “Yeah. And I am not a fan of games. If you think you can lead our friend out to some boonie land to rob him, or whatever, you have another thing coming.”

With a glance at Key, the musician stepped back. “I’m not a robber. I just wanted to ask this man something that no one else can hear.”

“Not even us?” Rainold asked, lifting his chest to warn the stranger that they would protect Key.

Eying Tiler, the musician replied, “I don’t know you. But he is from the lake country. And no one just leaves the lake country unless they are escaping the blue-eyes.”

Polan walked up to them, huffing. “What are you standing here for? I saw some blue-eye soldiers over there chatting about the four of you just sitting here. They’re getting suspicious.”

He then continued to walk down the lane.

“He’s right.” Key stood up. “Rainold, Tiler, do you two mind holding me up?”

“Does your ankle hurt that bad?” Rainold asked.

“No,” Key said, “but if they see that I was hurt, they might not think we are insurgents meeting together, but friends helping each other out.”

“Gotcha.” Tiler quickly took one side of Key.

Rainold took the other.

The musician walked on, reaching out to carry Tiler’s bag for him. “Alright. Come follow me. I know a place where we can talk. And those other friends of yours that are following us can come too. Though, I don’t see how a Bekir Lake man would end up south with a professed Herra Hills man.”

They tramped a good ways into the countryside. The Sky Child soldiers watched the pair help Key walk, nodding with more comfort now that it was obvious one of them was hurt. Berd hefted up his sticks and passed by the soldiers, keeping his head low as he trudged slowly down the path where his friends had gone. The last place he looked, Key, Tiler, and Rainold had entered a barn attached to a grain silo with that musician. Weston was walking adjacent to him, taking his time also. Polan was the only one he could still see, and he was sitting with his breads on a fencepost, munching on a bun.

They passed him.

“Go on in,” Polan said, keeping his eyes on the bun.

Other people were entering the barn also, but they all looked like simple farmhands. Polan was the last to go inside, peering into the straw covered area where the musician had Key sit down to rest his aching legs.

“Here,” the musician said, taking up a stool and setting it before Key. “Put your feet on that.”

Key lifted his feet to take off his boots. Another farmhand grabbed a bucket and went to fill it with water.

“Now, before I ask the question I really want answered,” the musician said with a look to Key, “who sent you to us?”

The farmhand jogged back, setting the bucket before Key’s feet. “Sorry it will be cold, but it is better than nothing.”

Nodding, Key dropped his boots to the side and rolled up his pant legs. His leg irons dropped out, hanging on his ankles with only a smidgen of room to spare. Everyone around him drew in breaths. He stuck one foot, then the other into the bucket of cold water. Their eyes fixed on the burn scars covering the left leg and the chunk taken out of the other. Once he rested his feet in, Key lifted his eyes to the musician to answer him.

“Edman, the witch, sent us.”

 Several more gasps drew in.

Tiler glanced at Rainold. About then Weston walked in to where they were and set down his basket full of clothes. He took out the shirts and pants in it, nudging Rainold to take them.

“Put these on,” Weston said. “It will make us look more local.”

Berd set down the load of sticks right next to him. He sat his rear on the bench. “I’m done. I need water.”

Tiler rose up, making a face at his friend before going to get him some. Polan remained near the door, looking out for blue-eyes, just in case.

“Edman?” the musician repeated, watching Key nod in affirmation. “So, he’s been with your people this entire time?”

Key nodded again. “He’s been going back and forth. He says you might be willing to join us in a bigger endeavor than just small raids. We’re building an army.”

The musician laughed. He turned to a man who had been sitting in the shadows. That a man came out, peering down at the young raiders from the Herra Hills as if he thought they were delusional. The musician said for them both, “Building an army? Against the blue-eyes? Are you insane?”

Shaking his head, Key met the musician’s eyes. “Not at all.”

“Why in the world would you even think of making an army against the blue-eyes,” the man from the shadows asked him. He was a tall man, a few inches taller than Key even, with a thin face and thick brown hair but no beard. He was comparable in age to the musician, lankier than Key with somewhat muscular hands. His cheeks had a sunburned look, peeling off in small patches among his freckles. “They have ways of taking even the most devoted man and turning him against his own people. Their magic exceeds ours.”

“Not magic,” Key said.

His friends from the Hera Hills together rolled their eyes, preparing for the rest of it.

“Technology.”

The tall lake man stared at him. He took a step closer. “Do I know you?”

The musician also nodded, glancing up at his associate. “I thought the same thing when I saw him.”

Tiler rushed back, stuffing a tin of water into Berd’s hands. He then reached into the pile of sticks for a sword. Rainold rose.

“He is our friend,” Rainold said.

Berd also stood up, as did Weston.

With the foursome on their feet, the two men had been speaking for the Southwestern Corner’s insurgents stepped back a pace.

Tiler had drawn out his sword, lifting it. “If you have any mal-intentions toward him, I will take off your head.”

“Who are you?” the musician asked, barely glancing at Tiler’s sword. His eyes were now fully on Key.

Lifting his feet from the bucket,