The Burden of Ash and Blood - 9. Chapter 9

The sun had fallen hours ago. A sharp wind cut through the street, funnelled by dwellings on each side. Sam shivered in spite of the layers he wore—his tunic, the maille, and a thick woollen shirt pulled over to hide it. He stood in the shadow of an alleyway, unseen by the few roaming passersby. To his side, Graeme crouched. He wore his armour, obscured by a black cloak and hood, but the faint blue glow of the magickal steel seeped through the gaps of the material regardless.

Dim street lanterns, their panes clouded with soot, lit a tavern before them. It was nothing special, but judging by the sordid customers entering and leaving, it might hold clues as to where they could acquire some gryphon ash.

They’d left the horses stabled at the inn, and Graeme led him here on foot. But rather than travelling the streets, they kept to the unlit narrow passageways between buildings. Duncan had said the southern part of town was a likely place to search, and while Sam and Graeme hadn’t explored this part of town during the day, the knight possessed an instinctual knack for traversing the area.

“Be safe, Sam,” Graeme said quietly. “If trouble finds you, don’t pull that knife unless you absolutely must. It’s best to flee.”

He spoke of the knife strapped tightly to Sam’s belt, hidden by his woollen shirt. Protection was vital, but appearing relatively harmless was important as well. Walking into a tavern wearing his shortsword wouldn’t do. The knife belonged to Graeme—the same used to slice the throat of one bandit at the Lÿmian ruins. Sam winced, trying to purge those bitter images from his mind. Now was not the time to dwell on the past.

Taking in a lungful of chilly air, he strode into the streetlight toward the tavern door. The place was overcrowded. His nose wrinkled at the onslaught of odours—some pleasant, like roasting meat, but mostly overpowered by stale ale and unwashed bodies. Worming his way deeper into the place, he managed to reach the bar and catch the eye of the man stationed behind it.

“What’ll you have?” the barkeep asked.

“Um, actually, I was wondering if you knew where I could get some, uh”—he lowered his voice—“gryphon ash.”

The man glowered, and for a moment Sam was sure he was going to tell him to leave.

“Buy an ale. Then we’ll see if I feel like talking.”

Sam tucked his hand into his trouser pocket to fish out a coin. He didn’t dare carry much, and had left his coinpurse hidden in the comparative safety of their quarters. Upon placing the coin on the counter, the barkeep glared at him.

“It’ll cost more than that, son.”

Sam berated himself—he wasn’t paying for ale, he was paying for information. Jamming a hand back into his pocket, he spilt more coins onto the counter. The barkeep slapped a grubby hand over the modest pile, pulled them away, and tucked them into his apron pocket. A moment later, a full tankard appeared before Sam. The barkeep fixed him with a look, then flicked his eyes past Sam’s right shoulder. Inconspicuously following the gaze, Sam caught sight of four men gathered at a round table in the far corner of the room. While nobody here seemed outwardly friendly, those men in particular radiated danger.

Before Sam could thank him, the barkeep had moved on, tending to other patrons. The ale beckoned. Needing all the courage he could muster, he chugged the draught as though it were water. The brew was heartier, fuller on the tongue than the roadside swill he’d endured. But whether or not it would help him now was uncertain.

He turned to face the four men at the table and forced his feet forward. His slow yet steady approach caught the attention of one man seated with his back against the wall. He towered above the others, his thickset frame packed with muscle. A broken nose spoke of his past, though his meaty hands implied his adversaries had not walked away unscathed. The man regarded Sam not with hostility, but inquisitiveness, and the rest of his company followed his lead.

“What d’you want?” The man’s voice rumbled deep in his chest.

Sam twisted his fingers together. “I’ve been told you sell, um, gryphon ash?”

A vague smile crossed the man’s lips. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I, uh . . .” Sam shrugged pathetically. “I don’t really come down this way.”

The man nudged the companion to his right. “Why don’t you give our guest a seat.”

In short order, Sam found himself seated amongst the trio, while the fourth loomed behind like a monstrous shadow. They were scarcely older than him, yet Sam felt himself diminished—a child seated at the adults’ table.

“You’re shaking,” the big man stated, gesturing to Sam’s hands. “There’s nothing to fear, little mothling.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced a tiny glass phial, its stopper sealing in a white powder. “Not when there’s this.”

“Is that gryphon ash?”

The big man grunted in assent. Sam couldn’t believe his luck to find a seller so easily. Now with the first part of the plan secured, he wanted to end this interaction immediately.

“How much?”

The big man smiled, but as before, there was no mirth behind his stern eyes. “For you, it’s free.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam stuttered.

Those meaty hands reached out and grasped Sam’s own, placing the phial into his palm, and then closed his fingers tight around it.

“Put the powder under your tongue, let it dissolve. Then all your fears will disappear with it.” He cupped Sam’s cheek—almost paternally—and Sam stiffened, resisting the urge to pull back. “You’ll be back for more, but bring your coin. The next one won’t be free.”

Sam examined the phial, unable to fathom how a trivial amount of powder could subjugate a person’s will.

“Now, off you get,” the big man said, shooing him away with a flutter of fingers.

With no need to be asked twice, Sam stumbled away from the table and stashed the phial into his pocket. All the while, the big man tracked his movement, bearing that same disquieting smile. Pushing through the door brought a blast of cold air. His head swam, and he tried to shake off the tavern’s peculiar hold over him. Perhaps the ale was stronger than he realised, though that didn’t wholly explain the tension coiled in his chest. He couldn’t deny the interaction had disturbed him.

The alleyway opposite the tavern was deserted. He scanned the street, but Graeme was nowhere in sight.

“Sam.”

The knight’s hushed voice drifted from the passage he’d assumed vacant. Squinting into the dark, he advanced warily. A faint blue light washed over the dingy walls, and for a moment, he could discern Graeme’s crouched form. The knight had edged farther into the gloom, away from wandering eyes. By this time, the streets were fairly quiet, and Sam managed to slip into the shadows unnoticed.

“Were you successful?” Graeme asked.

Sam sat down on his haunches beside him. “Yeah. Honestly, I can’t believe how easy it was.”

“Could you spot the seller in a crowd?”

The man’s stature and face—starkly unique—had seared itself in Sam’s mind. “Absolutely. The guy is huge and has a crooked nose.”

“Then we shall watch the tavern door for him to leave, then pursue discreetly.”

“There were three others with him.”

“I would expect he travels with protection. That changes nothing.”

Remaining in a crouched position proved to tire Sam’s legs, so he sat on the ground. Graeme’s vigilant presence washed over him, allowing the unease within Sam to ebb away. Untold time passed, and with nothing to engage the mind, Sam found himself nodding off despite the cold. His backside had gone numb, so he stood and hopped lightly while blowing clouds of hot breath into his cupped hands. As was his way, Graeme stood like a statue, unyielding against the crisp air.

“What are they doing in there?” Sam asked. “It’s been so long.”

Graeme hummed deeply in agreement.

“What if I pop my head in?” Sam continued. “See what's keeping them?”

“Very well, but be sure not to be spotted.”

Raring to move, Sam broke from their hiding spot and stepped back into the street. It was deserted. The clamour of the tavern had died down as well. Sam opened the door gingerly. The place was nearly vacant, and those who remained—mostly half-conscious or asleep at their tables—hadn’t noticed Sam’s presence. After a tentative step forward, he leant in just far enough to spot the table where the big man had been sitting. The four seats were empty, and another cursory scan of the tavern proved fruitless.

Cursing under his breath, Sam withdrew with the same furtiveness that had carried him inside. Graeme had drawn himself out of concealment, now standing at the threshold of the alleyway.

“They’re gone,” Sam said as he drew near. “I don’t understand how I missed them.”

“Pay it no mind. I, too, failed to see anyone resembling the person you described.”

Sam huffed in annoyance.

“This has not been a wasted night,” Graeme said. “We will attempt it again tomorrow. But for now”—he laid an arm across Sam’s shoulder, guiding him down the street—“the warmth of our bed calls.”

The weight of Graeme’s arm pressed the maille down, its rings digging into his tunic. Sam had forgotten he was wearing it. Another gust of wind provoked an involuntary shiver. He envisioned the fluffy bed with its thick coverlet. Even better, Graeme resting beside him, close enough to touch. Perhaps tonight, Sam would sleep soundly.