Delver Magic I: Sanctum's Breach by Jeff Inlo (ebook reader 8 inch .TXT) 📖

“What’s your business here?” Surliness and suspicion filled the guard’s voice. He stood in front of Ryson, menacingly blocking passage of the main road into Burbon. He was only slightly taller than the delver, but much thicker. The density of his biceps, forearms and wrists gave his arms a short and stubby appearance, a dimension that contrasted sharply with the long, narrow spear held tightly in his hand. His nose was large, puffy, and bent slightly to one side, the obvious result of one too many breaks. His eyes narrowed as he glared, but he could not hide the blood shot corners.

The guard’s position of challenge did more to provoke the delver than frighten him. Ryson wanted to know why he was being questioned. There had been no guards at this post during his first trip into Burbon back when he was just investigating damage done by the quake. He didn’t appreciate the guard’s tone or the disapproving stare. And he didn’t like having his passage blocked. No delver would. Impeding his freedom of passage was like removing his right to think. As to the guard’s hulking physique, such attributes meant little to a delver. Ryson could run circles around him, turn him into a plodding buffoon grasping at air if he so desired.

As Ryson was about to protest, probably vehemently, he noted other guards closing upon him. He immediately sensed their fear and mistrust. Two joined the first guard’s side and formed a semicircle around him. Three others took strategic positions farther back and along the side of the road. They all appeared weary as well as suspicious, and they all carried long sharp spears that they were prepared to use.

The jagged edges glistened of polished metal, but the points were smudged with a damp greasy substance. Ryson had heard of dreadful wars where men carried spears greased at the point with tar coated poisons. These guards were obviously also familiar with such tactics, for there was no other reason to grease a spear tip if not to hold poison fast to its razor sharp blade.

He didn’t believe the guards were skilled enough to hit him, but one might just get lucky. In truth, the odds against such a strike were astronomical. With a poison tipped spear, however, the slightest graze against his skin might be fatal.

He felt the pull of the Sword of Decree at his side. It reminded him not of the existence of a weapon so close to his hand but of its importance as stated by Mappel. It also reminded him of what was still left to accomplish. His mission was near complete. He needed only to return the sword to the elder elf, a deed he could complete with near mindless ease. Such a revelation narrowed his own options. It would be foolish to take even the smallest risk at this point, so he bit down on his anger and swallowed it like loose spit. He appeared to cooperate, giving a smile rather than a sneer. He rubbed his hands together then clasped them up by his chest, keeping them well away from the hilt of the sword.

“My name’s Ryson Acumen. I was here several days ago. I’m from Connel. I was sent to check on the damage done by the quake and to see if you needed any assistance from our town. Maybe you remember me?”

“I don’t.” The guard continued to glower. “That explains what you were doing here then. It doesn’t tell me what you want now.”

Ryson raised an eyebrow. “Now? Now, I’m back to see how things are going. I spoke to your Mayor Stevens last time, a tall thin man, brown hair, gray around the edges. I wanted to check with him again, make sure that he received everything he needed.”

Ryson had hoped if he described the mayor it might reduce the strain still apparent in the guard’s tight jaw. It did not. If anything, the guard’s scowl deepened.

“The mayor’s no longer in charge here. The captain of the guard is.” The guard spoke bluntly as if he didn’t care how his statement sounded. “If that’s the extent of your business, you may as well head back to Connel right now.”

The last was given in the clear tone of an order.

Ryson held up his hand asking for another moment. This turn of events immediately interested the delver. He wondered what might have transpired to cause such an event as the guard taking control of the town. Rather than turn away and make an immediate heading toward Connel, Ryson persisted with his hopes to gain entry into Burbon. “I am also here to take a rest from my travels. I’ve been as far as Pinesway these past few days.”

Eager curiosity filled the face of the guard to Ryson’s left. He could not keep himself from interrupting.

“You’ve been to Pinesway? What is the news there?”

The head guard spoke sternly and rebuked his subordinate. “Keep it quiet. That’s not our concern.”

“But I have a brother stationed there.”

“It’s all right,” Ryson stated quietly. He was carefully piecing together the most obvious of the clues. He turned them into an image of what he was facing and how he might turn the encounter to his advantage. The existence of guards at the town’s main road, as well as their poisoned tips spears, indicated they were at least slightly aware of the changes taking place around them. Little else would justify the unseating of the mayor and the need for stationed guards.

By their own faces, he was certain they must have experienced something of this madness first hand. Their bloodshot eyes and obvious weariness indicated little sleep over the past two or three days. Perhaps, mountain shags or goblins had ransacked part of their town, or perhaps they were hunting a vampire or a river rogue. It was difficult to distinguish which might have installed their apprehension to wayward travelers, but it was a safe bet it was connected to the magic.

Ryson decided to deal with their anxieties directly, although somewhat discreetly, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I understand your caution. Like I said, I’ve been traveling these past few days. I’ve seen many strange things. Things I can’t understand, or even wish to.”

“What is it you saw?” the head guard demanded sternly, more interested in the stranger’s sightings than in the state of Pinesway.

Ryson could not as of yet determine what exactly had the guards, the whole town, so unnerved. Thus, he did not wish to speak in detail. If the guards had a run in with shags, they might interpret the description of the undead as the ramblings of a lunatic. He played out his hand cautiously, acting as if speaking too much might bring a return of the insanity. “I really don’t like to talk about it. I even wonder about my own eyes, hoped that it was the fading sun playing tricks on me. But whatever it was, it left me wanting to return to the safety of a