The Ninth Firkin
Eóvan turned to face Toark as the sun dipped lower in the sky; the heat of the day was beginning to wane. Relief washed over the old barman's face. It seemed that the Elves had not heard Eóvan's call, or had chosen not to answer it.
As they headed back down the cliff, Eóvan could not help but feel slightly annoyed. He was sure that the Elves would have come!
He was becoming skeptical of Toark’s stories.
Just a bunch of lousy firetales! He thought, stumbling slightly over the rough terrain.
Then he stopped himself.
Toark was a good man, of that he was certain! There may be a lot he did not know about the old bartender, but he had Eóvan’s best interest at heart.
Eóvan owed him his life!
If it had not been for Toark, he would never have escaped Twarum right under the soldiers’ noses. It was enough to make Eóvan trust the man unfailingly, no matter his doubts.
The trip down from the Great Cliffs took only half as much time as the climb, since they now knew the correct path to take. Nevertheless, it was well after sundown when they began their approach to the capital city.
Toark slowed the horses about a mile outside of town, under the cover of a patch of shrubs and small trees. He dismounted and tethered his horse Rurik to a sturdy branch and motioned for Eóvan to do the same.
“I enter the city alone from here,” Toark instructed, gathering a small pouch of provisions.
Eóvan offered several protests, but Toark silenced him with a sharp wave of the hand.
“It is too dangerous for you to enter the capital at this time! It would only take one person to recognize you, or even think they recognize you, for you to get locked up in a tower indefinitely! You know this, Eóvan…”
Toark gazed sternly at him, waiting patiently for a response.
Reluctantly, Eóvan nodded in agreement, moving to settle himself in the shadow of the bushes.
“I will return by midday tomorrow,” Toark explained. “Until then, keep yourself hidden. Do not approach the city at any cost!”
“And if you should not return?” Eóvan asked, somewhat bitter from Toark’s lack of faith in his to make rational decisions.
“Use common sense,” Toark said, raising an eyebrow at Eóvan’s defiant face. “Don’t do anything rash that we might regret later on.”
Eóvan nodded his approval and his face softened a bit.
“Remember,” Toark repeated as he walked away. “Don’t approach the city!”
Eóvan nestled himself against his travel pack, his eyes following Toark’s receding figure until he disappeared behind the large kingdom gates.
He had nothing to do but wait.
* * * * * * * * * *
Kyrah awoke to the harsh reality of freezing water sloshing across her face.
She’d been having such a wonderful dream; it was a shame to be forced to emerge from it.
“Git up, you lazy wench!” A bitter voice forced its way through her groggy consciousness. “Yer hours late fer breakfast, and the pigs be needin’ their sloppin’!”
Unwillingly, Kyrah opened her eyes to peer up at the hostile form above her. Farmer Grymme loomed over her curled up form, still covered in hay from the previous night.
The previous night! Oh, that had been wonderful. The strange man had been so kind to her, and she had never tasted beer before. She liked it a lot!
“Well, don’t just lay there, smiling like a daft tomcat!” the farmer screeched. “Git!”
He threw the water pail at her irritably, hitting her square in the head with the dull metal.
Kyrah winced, but said nothing.
"He must have snuck out before Grymme woke up,” she mused while tossing slop to the many pigs. “Otherwise, he’d probably be hanging from a tree.”
Kyrah did not mind at all that the mysterious gentleman had not bid her farewell. She was grateful for the simple compassion he had offered her the night before. Nobody had ever expressed any interest toward her, unless she counted Farmer Grymme’s fruitlessly drunken advances. She was his servant, which in this case caused her status to be even lower than a peasant’s. The stranger’s kindness had been a welcome gift of relief.
Grymme was a brainless ogre. He had taken her in as a child after her parents drowned in the river, but he never truly cared for her. There were many days where she’d had nothing to eat at all, and he refused outright to send her to school. Little did he know that she’d learned her letters anyway.
Her parents had been scholars; she refused to remain illiterate.
Kyrah knew that the farm was bottoming out under the king’s new taxes. She was sure to be turned out of Grymme’s house when it did. There was no knowing what she would do when that time arrived.
A large explosion in town forced Kyrah out of her day dreams. From her position among the chicken coop, she could see a large cloud of smoke rising quickly above the trees. Abandoning her chores, she raced in the direction of town.
Dashing through the crowded streets, Kyrah soon stopped in her tracks.
The entire military camp was ablaze!
Soldiers were staggering out of the flames, most of them gravely injured from the blast. She could hear the agonized screams of men still trapped inside the fire.
All around her, the townsfolk were hastening to keep the fire from spreading. They covered the thatched roofs with water to make it harder for them to burn, although several houses had already been consumed by sparks that had been blown by the wind. An army of women and children attempted to beat back the flames with rugs and a water train. Beside them, another brigade of men fought to rescue the hundreds of men who were trapped. A large mass of wounded soldiers already covered most of the main road.
Farmer Grymme rushed past her, wheezing from the sprint into town. He quickly took up arms with the water train, offering his own pail in support.
Kyrah did not offer to help him.
The young orphan felt no loyalty to the king or to his soldiers. She had been man-handled and groped by them one too many times. Nevertheless, this was her town. While she may not feel any attachment to its people, it did not seem right to just sit back and watch it burn.
She hurried to aid those on the rooftops, passing buckets up and down the ladders. Her work on the farm had strengthened her over the years, and she did not easily tire.
As the sun began to set and most of the flames had subsided, Kyrah collapsed against the side of a stone building, exhausted. A young boy offered her a mug of water, which she drank from gratefully.
Handing back the now empty mug, Kyrah noticed his admiring smile. She smiled weakly in return before the boy rushed off.
It was the most kindness she had ever received from the town of Cearnon.
It was several minutes before she could stand up and make for home. When she had finally recovered enough strength, however, she was greeted with yet another surprise.
The women of Cearnon were all twittering nervously, staring in her direction. Several formed the sign against evil with their fingers.
Her! It was her! The women accused, scooting away as she walked by.
She’s always been odd, that one.
Orphan.
Witch!
Kyrah eyed the women warily. What could she possibly be blamed for now?
Looking up the road, she spotted the person whom these women had been addressing.
A hooded man dressed entirely in black stood there, staring in her direction.
He wore the seal of the King across his chest.
Fear she hadn’t felt in years rippled through Kyrah’s body.
The man’s form grew larger as he stalked toward her.
He was the last thing she saw before passing out.
* * * * * * * * * *
Eóvan did not remember falling asleep, but he awoke to the warmth of morning sun on his brow. It was already shaping up to be a very hot day.
Dragging his pack to a shadier spot in the bushes, Eóvan gulped down the last drops in his water skin. He hoped Toark would be back soon – he was hungry!
To pass the time, he ate some wild berries and sharpened his arrows with a flat rock he’d noticed the day before.
The sun was soon well past its peak in the sky, and Toark had not yet returned.
Eóvan began to worry.
He had not had a single thing to eat or drink since early morning. His mouth felt dry and full of cotton.
Where was Toark?
Eóvan was loathe to break his agreement with Toark, but it soon occurred to him that he had no other choice. Nevertheless, he continued to stall, peering in the direction of Malchior every second or so in hopes of spotting the silhouette of the tall barman.
When the day threatened to surrender to the night, Eóvan resigned himself to entering the city. He re-tethered the horses for safety, shouldered his pack and took off on foot toward the capital.
He could only hope to remain unnoticed.
Slipping through the city gates, Eóvan kept to the side streets to avoid any encounters with soldiers.
Malchior was a big city! Roads and streets turned and crossed in so many places that Eóvan was soon lost! He had no idea which direction he had come from or where he should head. The streets all looked the same and tended to blend together. They were crowded with people, all seeming to repeatedly buy and sell the same items.
Eóvan soon realized, however, that the king’s fortress, the Castle of Vausthelm, lay at the precise center of the city, with shops and houses scattered in a large circle around it. This made it easier to protect and most difficult to escape from; soldiers roamed the streets on every side of the castle walls.
He hoped desperately that Toark was not there. He would have no idea how to rescue him.
After almost an hour, Eóvan finally seemed to understand the layout of the town and began a more thorough search for his traveling companion. He looked everywhere that he suspected the barman might have visited in order to purchase supplies and gather information. It was clear that he could not avoid the main streets forever if he was going to be complete in his search, which caused him to have several close encounters with groups of soldiers wandering the marketplaces.
Somehow, he managed to scour the city without being recognized.
Well past nightfall Eóvan’s stomach was snarling with hunger, so he ducked down a desolate side street to a tavern called ‘The Ninth Firkin’. The men in this bar were all quite drunk and grimy. Eóvan was sure he would be overlooked. His lack of facial hair passed him off as a burgeoning youth of no importance.
He ordered a double helping of shepherd’s pie and a large pint from the tap, both of which he inhaled without really tasting.
Satiated and rather sleepy, Eóvan leaned back to observe the bar and plan his next course of action. He was at a loss as to what to do. He could not continue his journey without Toark’s guidance, yet the old bartender seemed to have disappeared without a trace!
Glancing about, Eóvan focused his attention on a group of men who were all huddled around another man who sat gluttonously enjoying several beers at once. The man seemed to be telling a rather hilarious story. Eóvan scooted his chair closer to listen in.
“So ‘e says ta me friend,
'Git outta me way yer filthy peasant!' and made like ‘e wus gonna shove ‘im!” The men around the seated storyteller muttered their outrage at this sentiment.
“Wha’ did ‘e do?” a stout little man piped up.
“Well yuh see, me friend didn’ like tha’ too much. So ‘e says,
'Why doncha make me yer vermin o’ thuh king’s army!' an punched ‘im in thuh face. ‘e wus bleedin’ like no other I tell yuh!”
All around, the pub exploded in identical forms of drunken laughter. It seemed these men were not too fond of the king and his army as well.
“An tha’s not thuh wors’ of it, yuh see!” the story teller whispered, desperate to keep his audience. “Did yuh hear wha’ happin’d in thuh market place this mornin’?”
“What?” somebody supplied willingly.
“A big ol’ chap got ‘imself ‘rrested by thuh king ‘imself! They wus draggin’ im away on charges o’ treason agains’ the king and desertion o’ thuh army. I thought to meself, ‘Wha’s an ol’ man like tha’ doin’ in thuh army anyways? ‘e be too ol’ to do any real fightin’!” The group laughed.
“But I tell yer this,” the man lowered his voice for emphasis. “If ‘e can be ‘rrested fer somethin’ like tha’, I tell yer, none o’ us is safe; none o’ us!”
“Poor bloke!” the stout man agreed, shuffling away.
The rest of the audience wandered off in search of more beer as well. Eóvan took advantage of the lull in conversation to approach the voracious storyteller.
“What did he look like?” Eóvan asked quietly, careful not to draw back the attention of the other men.
“Beg pardin’?” the man asked, entranced by his newest pint of beer. He gazed at the boy in front of him suspiciously.
Eóvan repeated the question.
“I dunno, lad,” the man struggled to remember. “I guess ‘e was big an’ tall an’ old. Tha’s all I remember.”
Eóvan nodded his thanks and swept from the bar soundlessly. The storyteller had already returned to his beer.
Outside ‘The Ninth Firkin’, Eóvan took several calming breaths and glanced up at the stars shining faithfully over the capital city. The street lamps had already been lit, but the roads were far from deserted. It seemed that the people of Malchior didn’t ever sleep.
Ducking down the deserted path of the alleyway, Eóvan pondered what to do.
It had been Toark who had been dragged away, he was almost completely certain of that. Though what the barman had done to upset the king was impossible to guess. The old man had many secrets; Eóvan would never be able to guess them all.
Without really noticing where he was going, Eóvan found himself on the south side of the castle walls, peering up at the tall fortress that reached continuously into the sky.
Even if he could find a way into the castle undetected, he had no idea where Toark was being held or even if his old travel companion was still alive!
Desperately, Eóvan looked to the skies for an answer.
In his despair, the young boy did not notice the several men that snuck up behind him in the darkness. He did not detect the black sack being force over his head until his world had been wrapped in darkness.
He struggled and yelped as their strong fingers uprooted him, but found no escape.
After several minutes of intense wrestling, Eóvan lay still.
Except Bryynt. Hmmmm... Maybe he'll save the day. Very taut and tense, Kitten. As this goes on, you are becoming more and more adept at building suspense, and you are honing your storytelling skills. Very nicely done, and a double (triple?) cliffhanger! 
And cliffhangers are evil; perhaps my influence has rubbed off a little. I've done one or two cliffhangers in my time! 
For once... 
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