Minions! [ATTN Drak]

[Cereal Killer]

Meecham stepped down from his horse and winced. Even though he was raised to ride for long periods of time everyone has their limits. Apparently his haste would cost him. Four days in the saddle without rest was now added to his mental list of blocks to overcome. Tying his horse to the rail outside the inn he took in his surroundings. Two buildings down stood a man having a casual conversation with another. By the way he stood told it all. He was a soldier trying to hide the fact. The other man seemed to be nervous. So the soldier was gather information. No matter of his though, he was here for one reason only. It had been five years since the death of his father and Meecham finally felt himself ready to me the man with the cold blue eyes.

 

He looked at the aged parchment again and back at the ragged sign over the inn, The Dancing Man. Moving to the other side of the horse he had 'borrowed', he pulled off the saddle bags and slung them over his right shoulder, showing all that cared to look and notice him, that he had no sword and didn’t expect any trouble. Though he doubted anyone would notice him unless he specifically addressed them. Still, he checked the daggers in the sling under his ragged shirt and the small poisoned throwing pins held to the underside of his wrists. The poison on them was as much of his own making as the pins, mixing seemingly innocent herbs to create the most potent concoction he had ever found. It was so fast acting that the victim would hardly have the time to notice the pin and yell for help, though he himself held the only antidote.

 

Walking up the steps to the inn’s entrance, he moved through the double swinging doors into a well-lit, if shabby, common room. Scanning the room he found that, as usual, after the automatic reaction of looking at an opening door, he was completely ignored. Finding the object of his search, he strode over to a short fat man standing behind the bar at the other side of the room. As he moved towards the man he pulled out the letter and ring that had been given to him and sat them on the counter directly in front of the inn owner. Looking up he noticed Meecham and asked, 'How may I help you this fine day, sir? If you’re looking for a room we have plenty to spare and the ale’s not...'  He cut off in mid sentence when he spotted the letter and then the ring. His eyes grew wide and his skin grew pale as he began to sweat and stammer.

 

'Master, if there’s anything I can do for you don’t hesitate to ask!' he half croaked. Looking at the fat man, Meecham wondered how important the owner of the ring must be. Speaking for the first time, he looked directly into the keeper’s eyes, 'I need to find the owner of the ring and the writing.  He is a cold eyed man with hair to his shoulders. Do you know who I speak of?' The fat man merely nodded dumbly seeming to have lost all ability to talk. 'You will send him this message by bird and by runner, but until then I will require a room.' Again the man nodded stupidly. Then suddenly he realized the taller man was finished and sprang into action. Yelling for his wife to give Meecham a good room, he took the letters saying they would be gone before he reached his room. A woman that would have been pretty in her youth approached him with a warm smile and motioned for him to follow her up the stairs to the left of the bar. Following the woman to the second floor and to the end of the hall they stopped at a door that appeared the same as the others in the hall except for one difference.

The lock on it appeared to be stronger and as the key was turned he heard what must have been a massive bolt slide out of its hold. The room was nicer than he had expected from the quality of the inn. As he shooed away the woman he closed and locked the door. Releasing his composure, he limped over to the bed and pulled off his trousers to see his legs bright red and rubbed raw. As he finished disrobing he cursed the stupidity of riding for so long without rest. Lying down on the bed he began his nightly ritual of calming himself before sleep.

[Myth]

Riding into Baerlon, Drak scanned the town. Like a wolf looking for sheep and the wolfhounds that guard them. Unlike many men, overconfidence had been stripped from his ego like a thorn from one’s finger. It was painful, but necessary, and had been replaced by much more meaningful notions. Captain Bobby had done his job well.

 

Sitting casually on his sorrel mare, her hooves slopping through the muddy paths that passed for roads in this backwater civilization, his piercing blue eyes never stopped searching. A hunter who knew what it felt like to be hunted.

 

Word had reached him in Four Kings only days after the ring and letter had been shown, but he had taken his time coming to this out-of-the-way locale. And he had done it with a purpose. Three weeks was plenty of time to let this new applicant reveal the real kind of man he was. That was essential, because Drak was very selective of the men he took in his service. The requirements of the job meant they had to be just so. Letting the man wait was just the first test of many.

 

As he meandered through the nearly empty streets, the cold and damp keeping most folks indoors unless something demanded going out, he noticed the lack of any sign that trouble awaited. His men knew their business, and would have left one of their many signals if something were out of sorts. They were good at their job, his fellows. All the same, he kept a keen pair of cold, blue eyes watching for trouble. Overconfidence had foiled many a plan.

 

He pulled up in front of The Dancing Man and dismounted. With one last look around revealing no threats, he strode through the double swinging doors, the back of his left hand pushing the door open. In places such as this, it paid to be careful. The young vagabond paused just inside the doorway.

 

His eyes swept the well-lit, fairly crowded room, noting the subtle all-clear signal of the two nondescript fellows, though without pausing. Spying the short, fat man tending the bar, the tall Tairen walked over, spurs clinking softly. Leaning casually on the bar, he spoke softly to the innkeeper. “Where is he, Bartrum?”

 

Bartrum turned to the voice and gasped aloud. “Milord!” The exclamation seemed completely out of place considering Drak was appeared to be an out-of-work mercenary. It was his favorite guise when he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. His clothing was faded and somewhat threadbare, the chainmail he wore showing through in patches. His steel helm now sitting on the bar’s surface, as well as his boots, bracers, and gloves were all well made but scuffed and worn from use. The three-day growth of stubble on his face, and the slightly sweat-dampened hair that hung just past his collar certainly did nothing to earn the innkeeper’s respectful deference. But looks were often deceiving.

 

His pudgy hands rapidly dry washing themselves, Bartrum seemed on the verge of bowing until Drak gave him a disgusted look. The motion seemed to remind Bartrum to lower his voice as well, for he now spoke in just more than a whisper. “Er, your room is ready sir, and I’ll have a man out right away to take care of your horse,” a constant, sort of almost-bow caused the portly man’s jowls to wobble like a large vat of jelly. “The inn is yours, sir.”

 

Waving away the innkeeper’s words like they were mildly annoying flies, Drak reiterated, “Where is he, Bartrum? You know I dislike repeating myself.”

 

“Er, who, milord?” The answer pleasing Drak more than the innkeeper could have imagined. He’s not drawn attention to himself. That’s a VERY good sign, Drak thought to himself.

 

“Oh, yes!” Bartrum remembered, keeping his voice pitched low enough for no one else to overhear it. “The man who showed your ring and letter. He is upstairs, milord. He keeps to himself, he does. I’d hardly know him to look at him, even with him being here these three weeks and all.”

 

Nodding distractedly, but not before flashing Bartrum a warm smile, Drak said, “I’ll be using your private dining room, if that’s okay.”

 

“O-of course, milord.”

 

“Thank you. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you have your lovely wife make me one of her delicious meals? She’s the best cook in these parts, I imagine, and my stomach seems to think I’m already dead.” Grinning brightly at the fat man’s obvious pleasure, Drak continued. “Oh, and send for that fellow. Will you, please? I’ll be waiting for him.”

 

Not waiting for Bartrum’s hastily voiced assent, Drak walked casually to the private dining room in the back of the inn, sitting at the head of its lone table and propping his still-sheathed sword against a table leg. The two average-looking men followed at a discrete distance before taking seats just inside the doorway of the room, barely noticeable in the light of the room’s four candles.

 

Drak was sipping on heated wine when the applicant entered, but his meal hadn’t yet arrived. Motioning for the fellow to take a seat, he spoke casually. “So, what brings me for this visit? Please, tell me what makes you worthy of my attention.”

 

At the conclusion of his voice and before the newcomer spoke, the two other men in the room shifted in their chairs slightly to better observe the interaction.

 

It pays to be careful, Drak admitted to himself.

[Cereal Killer]

Sitting two levels above the ground on the small ledge outside the window of his room Meecham drew thoughtfully on his long briar pipe. He had always enjoyed watching people from afar. It gave him a chance to feel out the moods of a place, though he had done that the first week he had come to the Dancing Man. For the next two weeks he had mostly stayed to his room to make sure he didn’t miss the arrival of the cold eyed man. He drew again on his pipe and wondered if the man had simply been toying with him.

 

The sound of the small bells he had placed above his door drew him from his brooding, followed shortly by the knock at the door of the person who stepped on his wire three paces from his room. Rising from his precarious position he re-entered his room. Tamping out his pipe he replaced it in the inner pocket that also held his tabac along with several other choice items. Crossing the small interior of his room he opened the door to find a small boy that seemed slightly skittish.

 

“What do you want boy?” he asked. “W-well sir t-the m-man you have b-been waiting f-for has arrived. He w-waits for you in the p-private d-dining room.” The small boy turned and ran back down the hall he had come leaving Meecham standing in his doorway with his mouth open. He’s here, now? Springing into action he ran to the chest holding his clothes and pulled out his best. Though they were nothing to catch the eye they still were nice enough to be formal in. Pulling on his trousers as he ran out the door he began to compose himself, he moved down the hall in a half dream state still wondering that the cold eyed man had truly come.

 

As he entered the common room the reality of his situation struck him. This man was dangerous to him; with a single word he could sign his death warrant. Meecham looked towards the doors to the private dining room. Should I run? Leave after all I have done to get here? Making his decision, Meecham crossed to the doors and pulled them open.

 

His eyes locked on the man at the end of the table. He was wearing the same sun bleached travel clothes with armor showing through the worn tunic in several places. He looked exactly the same as their last meeting, somehow untouched by time. Meecham stood for a moment eyes locked with the man until finally he spoke, “So, what brings me for this visit? Please, tell me what makes you worthy of my attention.”

 

Moving forward to take the proffered seat Meecham mulled the question over in his mind. Lowering himself into the seat he heard a slight creek of wood behind and looked back to see a man on either side of the door he had entered watching him intently. Returning his attention to the question he worded his answer carefully, “I cannot say if I am worthy to have your attention for I do not know anything about you. Though I can say that the works I have been hired for have been finished discreetly and well in the eyes of my employers.”

 

Meecham felt the answer slightly insufficient but still waited for a reaction.

 

 

[Myth]

Drak sat casually in his chair at the head of the table and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thoughtfully considering the man’s response. “You are a man of discretion. I can appreciate that.” The hint of a smile might have flashed across the mercenary’s lips. Or not. Either way, the feeling of tension in the room eased considerably.

 

Taking up his wine glass, the blue-eyed Tairen addressed his supplicant before taking a sip. “In addition to other things, I am a businessman. And sometimes I require certain… jobs to be done that require discretion. You will learn everything that is necessary in time, but for now I want to learn more about you. Tell me, and there is no need to name names, about some of these works you’ve handled. If you please,” he added politely with a slight nod of his head.

 

This time, there was no doubt about the small smile on the seeming-mercenary’s face, one of openness and civility. It was like a wolf smiling.

 

The man at the opposite end of the table began, haltingly at first but then picking up steam, telling of various accidents he called them, that he had heard about. He repeatedly mentioned that “It could have happened to anyone, milord,” at the recounting of a man shooting himself in the throat with a crossbow. Or of a man who somehow tripped in the forest and impaled himself on his own spear. Or of a woman who seemingly choked on a bone that had strangely found its way into vegetable soup.

 

“It could happen to anyone, of course,” Drak echoed, and the regular-looking fellow seemed to gain confidence in his position here in the room. Easing his collar with a finger, he no longer had sweat beading on his forehead, as his nervousness eased.

 

Drak didn’t ask for names, only locations and times of the accidents. It would be enough. After the average-looking man had listed several seemingly random, if decidedly fatal, accidents that could have happened to anyone, milord, Drak waved toward the two other men in the room who silently, but quickly, left.

 

With their sudden departure, the room became silent again, but for the ticking of the clock over the mantelpiece. Letting the silence draw out for a bit before speaking, Drak finally broke it with an explanation.

 

“My two men will be… checking your references, you might say. They will re-join us as soon as they complete their verification. But that may take several days or even weeks. Have you eaten? No? Well, we need to change that. And your throat sounds dry from all that talking. Here, have some wine while I see about getting you something to eat.”

 

Sliding the bottle of wine that he had been pouring for himself across the table, Drak stood and walked toward the door. “Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing just before he exited. “You may call me Drak.”

 

After he had requested an extra plate to be brought in, he returned to his seat. “What do you wish to be called? And do you have any questions for me? Mrs. Adlin is a tremendous cook, just so you know.”

 

Drak steepled his fingers and waited.

[Cereal Killer]

The two men sat silently observing each other from opposite ends of the table while the food was served to them. Meecham was served chicken and a strange dish he had never seen before but smelled wonderful. At the opposite end of the table his possible employer was receiving a much more grand meal that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim room. The other man inclined his head slightly and they both began their meals with what he felt was a well deserved hunger.

 

Small talk broke out near the end of the meal between the two. They talked of women, weapons and horses while each man watched the other intently as if the simple chatter held a large matter of importance. After an hour or so, Meecham stood to excuse himself, "My thanks for the wonderful meal and the talk afterwards milord, but now I must retire. I have never been one for late night ventures unless necessary." Making a slight bow, he left the dining room and headed for the stairs.

 

Pulling out his pipe, he began to fill it as the door to his room closed. Drawing long on the stem he sat back on his bed and let the smoke slowly fill the room. His mind raced as he undressed and prepared for sleep. As he lay on his back attempting his nightly calming rituals he could see cold blue eyes staring back into his own. Sleep finally came to him, full of chaotic dreams of death for causes he didn’t know or care.

 

The next morning Meecham woke to a steady knock at his door.  He kicked himself for not waking at the alarm bell directly above his head. Moving to the door, he opened it to see the same boy that had brought him the message the night before. He seemed to be bursting with energy now as well. "The man you dined with says he is leaving in a half hour!" And again the boy raced down the stairs.

 

Twenty minutes later he arrived in the stables next to the inn. Drak, if that was his true name, was standing next to his horse checking the bridle one last time before the journey. Meecham walked quickly over to his own mount to find it already saddled and waiting anxiously for open spaces again. As they both mounted he turned to the other man. "Where are we off to in such a hurry if I may ask?"

Turning his large mount around he said, "I think we will just follow my horse’s nose for a while."

 

Meecham followed quietly as they rode out of the city.