The Burden of Ash and Blood - 11. Chapter 11

A distant holler coaxed Sam to stir awake. He couldn’t comprehend the words, but the voice was friendly—an enthusiastic greeting followed by laughter. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he scanned the room. While Graeme’s armour still lay on the floor, the man was gone, and the opposite side of the bed was cold. More chatter drifted on the wind, mingled with the stamping of hooves and the creak of waggons. A narrow stream of sunlight pierced the gap in the curtains. Judging by its angle, it was late morning. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept so soundly. Had the gryphon ash been wholly responsible? The effects of the substance were still perceptible, albeit less intense. He couldn’t deny he felt great.

Sam found the knight downstairs, sitting at a table, sipping from a mug. As usual, his hood was up to conceal his face. They were lucky that Mr Casselford and his staff appeared untroubled by Graeme’s reserved habits. Perhaps they whispered about his oddness behind closed doors, but they remained otherwise accepting hosts.

“Sorry for sleeping in,” Sam said as he joined Graeme at the table.

“There is no need for apology. You needed your rest. And there is nought to be done today but wait for nightfall to continue our investigation.”

A server approached, and Sam ordered a breakfast of eggs, bread, and tea. After she left, Graeme leant in close and spoke just above a whisper.

“Where is the substance?”

Sam felt his ears burn, but the expected fear of lying to Graeme had dampened. “I threw it in a midden heap after we left the tavern.” Even now, he could detect the bulge of the empty phial in his pocket. “Why?”

“Mere curiosity.”

“It was just a white powder. Nothing special about it.”

Graeme hummed in reply.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

• • •

Beneath the shroud of night, Sam found himself standing before the tavern door once more. Though Graeme lay hidden in the alleyway across the street, Sam could sense the knight’s eyes on his back. A pale echo of the gryphon ash still coursed through his veins, aiding him to advance without feeling overly anxious. He pushed through the door, finding the place to be just as busy as the previous night. Toward the right, he caught a glimpse of the big man and his companions sitting at the same table. The scheme he and Graeme had devised was to observe unseen, then follow in their shadow once they departed. Sam, however, had a secret amendment he intended to make.

He approached the men directly, catching the eye of the big man, who gave him an incredulous look.

“Back so soon, little mothling?”

Sam hated the name he’d been given, but hid it by nodding his head. “How much for five more phials?”

The men chuckled, a forbidding sound Sam ignored.

“Ten silver each,” the big man replied.

The high price broke Sam’s pretence of composure, and his eyes widened. “I only have twenty-five.”

“Then you can afford two.”

“What about three for my twenty-five silver?”

The big man narrowed his gaze. “Don’t be greedy. You already got one for free, didn’t you?”

With a huff, Sam dug into his pocket and counted out twenty silver. The big man reached for the pile, smoothly leaving behind two phials as part of the motion. Sam swept them up greedily and turned to leave.

“Be careful, mothling,” the man said. “Too much of a good thing can be deadly.”

Seizing up at the dire warning, Sam asked, “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Don’t take too much. It’ll kill you.”

Sam met the gaze of each man, receiving hard, sombre stares in return. A thread of fear wove into his mind—the first he’d experienced all day—and he backpedalled to vanish into the crowd. After managing to find an empty seat at the opposite end of the tavern, he ordered an ale. His hand kept unwittingly slipping into his pocket, juggling the two glass phials hidden there. A disconcerting urge to dump another shot of ash under his tongue caught him off-guard. He forced himself to remember it was only meant for restless nights, and the big man’s cautionary tone stood as an additional bulwark against Sam’s temptation.

Every few minutes, he leant over to spy across the tavern, keeping an eye on the four men. Wanting to keep a clear head, he only sipped at his drink. Time passed sluggishly, and he felt badly for Graeme, crouched in the cold night, waiting for something to happen. Lying to Graeme also gnawed at his conscience. The knight deserved better, but Sam questioned the consequences of being honest. How would he react? After more deliberation, Sam resolved to use the gryphon ash only as a last resort, and to ration it by taking half a dose. After all, once they left Blakenhall, he wouldn’t be able to replenish his supply. Potentially, last night’s dose had shattered the cycle of nightmares, making further use unnecessary. How he slept tonight would serve as a trial.

Glancing over, he caught sight of the four men rising from their seats. Not wanting to be seen, he eased himself lower and watched from the corner of his eye. Unexpectedly, they headed toward the rear of the tavern, through the door to the scullery. Sam held still a few heartbeats, then made his way toward the back exit. The busy barkeep didn’t notice Sam as he peeked his head through the doorway. Two women with their backs turned to him were washing cups and tankards. Another door at the far end led outside. That would explain why Graeme and Sam hadn’t seen them leave the night before.

No longer concerned with being seen, Sam uttered a curse and bolted through the front door. He waved his arms heedlessly toward the dark alleyway, and Graeme emerged from the gloom.

“They left through the back,” Sam said, then watched the narrow corridors flanking each side of the tavern, waiting to see if anyone appeared. No one did. “You take the left way, I’ll take the right. You’re looking for four guys, one of them really big.”

Before Graeme could stop him, Sam crossed the street and peered around the corner. The alley lay empty, almost beckoning him, and he slipped into the darkness. Graeme called for him to wait, but Sam didn’t want to lose their quarry. They couldn’t afford to waste another night. Winter was coming, and they needed to finish this task and get to Langscott before the snow fell in earnest.

Sam reached the back of the tavern, discovering a deserted courtyard, mostly a place to store refuse. The alleys continued farther. He took the nearest path, aware that rational fear should have taken control of his actions, but the gryphon ash had renewed its hold on him. Perhaps he was rid of his anxieties and nightmares alike, and the excitement of such a prospect only urged him onward.

Looming buildings—built without any grand design—tightened the laneway, causing the path ahead to jut left and right. This forced Sam to stop and peer around each corner, wasting precious time. The alleyway ahead opened to another lamplit street. He hugged the corner to observe furtively. At this late hour, the street was empty, but movement to the right caught his attention—shadows hunkering into another alley. As soon as they were out of sight, he bolted in that direction, skidding just short of the passageway. He glanced back toward the way he’d come, hoping to catch a glimpse of Graeme.

A dog barked—breaking the fragile silence of the sleeping town. Ten painful seconds passed without any sign of the knight. Sam carefully peeked around the corner into the alley, but there was no sign of the men. He couldn’t risk waiting any longer without the chance of losing the trail.

Silent and wary, he snuck into the darkened corridor. The structures here, constructed with more intent, allowed the path to hold a straighter course—not that Sam could see very far ahead in the murk. The way opened up to a cramped yard flanked by buildings. Sam’s presence alerted a dog chained to a post. It barked and snarled, lunging powerfully against its restraints. Sam edged away from the snapping jaws, hurrying across the yard to continue down the path.

In the distance, more lamplight indicated another street. He ran toward it, his breath puffing in the cold air. Hoping for another sighting, he edged out to scan the street, realising—too late—that his cover was blown. The four men stood just around the bend, staring at him with an intense, angry fervour.

His stomach dropped, and time itself faltered while their gaze held. Hoping to exploit the moment, Sam shrank back and made to dash back into the shadows, but the big man’s meaty hand caught him by the neck and dragged him into the alley. His three cronies followed behind. Despite the tight grip around Sam’s throat, he managed to yell out, but this only prompted a swift punch to the gut. The maille did little to soften the blow. Perplexed, the big man lifted Sam’s woollen shirt to reveal the hidden protection.

“My mothling’s full of surprises tonight,” he said in a menacing tone, dragging a finger across the chain links. “Who are you, and why’re you following us?”

Still recovering from the gut punch, Sam stuttered his reply. “I just wanted to buy more gryphon ash.”

“Got more coin, did ya?”

He moved to reach for Sam’s trouser pocket, but then noticed Graeme’s sheathed knife tied to his belt. While he pulled it free, Sam swung his head around, hoping to catch the knight’s distinct blue glow coming from the darkened alleyway. No such luck. The big man inspected the knife, then poked the tip into the maille.

“My little mothling. Drawn to danger, destined to burn.”

“Please,” Sam cried, struggling futilely against the man’s hold. “I don’t mean any harm. I’m no threat to you.”

“That’s stating the obvious, but wearing armour and this knife? No, there’s something you’re hiding.”

“I only wanted more ash, I swear!”

As he spoke those words, the big man held the blade to Sam’s throat. Any resistance Sam had built against his fear had vanished, leaving him trembling against the wall.

“We’re gonna go somewhere private to chat, but first”—he tapped the maille—“take this off.”

“Why?” Sam muttered.

Instead of answering, the big man tugged at the collar of Sam’s woollen shirt, loose enough to pull it over his head. He then motioned to Sam to doff the armour. Again, Sam peered through the gaps of the men, hoping for Graeme, but he saw nothing. With no way to escape, he complied with the order, bending forward for the maille to slide free. He bundled it into his arms, holding it protectively close. This was Graeme’s token of friendship. He didn’t want to lose it.

“You won’t need this where we’re going,” the big man said while swatting at the heap of heavy chain, causing it to fall to the ground.

Before Sam could try and reclaim it, the woollen shirt was placed over his head, its sleeves tied tightly over his eyes, acting as a blindfold. Unseen hands held him firmly, and the point of Graeme’s knife poked into his unarmoured back.

The big man leant in close to whisper menacingly into his ear. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll stick you good.”