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  “Where is he?” the guard asked scanning the room.

  “Hobart left last night,” I said.

  “The tavern keeper? No, I meant the scarred one. Someone reported they’d seen him lurking around here this morning.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  The guard took a step closer. Too close for my liking. “That boy freed more slaves last night,” the guard spat. “If you’re hiding him, there will be hell to pay.”

  I caught movement in my periphery, and looked up to see Kaleb hiding between the barrels. I quickly looked back at the legionnaire, but the man had seen the movement in my eye. He turned on his heels and started walking in Kaleb’s direction. I looked over at my dagger across the room. What a time to be without it. I thought about retrieving it, but instead pulled one of the poisoned pins from my sleeve, and stabbed it deep into the back of the guard’s neck. The man turned on me, drawing his sword as he did so. I backed away and put the large brewing kettle between myself and the man.

  The guard feigned left, and I went right; then he rushed me. I managed to duck below his sword as he struck, and I felt the air move above me. Close. I ducked back behind the kettle and saw the guard swaying. The poison was taking effect, but taking its damn time. I managed to keep the kettle between myself and the guard as we circled round it. The man stumbled but found his feet again as we continued our dance. A minute later the man collapsed in a heap, and I rested my hands on my knees. I was out of breath.

  I stood, still puffing, and looked to the barrels. Kaleb stood up, his eyes on the ground.

  “Come,” I said.

  Kaleb came out with his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, my prince,” Kaleb said.

  “I’m no prince.”

  “You should be. Those I have rescued agree.”

  “I doubt the opinion of a couple dozen slaves count for much.”

  Kaleb looked up at me, defiance in his eyes. “I have rescued more than a hundred over the past few days,” Kaleb said.

  My eyes were wide. “Really? What happened to them?”

  “They are on their way to the Great Oasis, as you commanded,” Kaleb said. I could not remember commanding anyone. “They will wait there for you to lead them.”

  I felt light-headed. Lead them? Lead them where? In what? I sat down on a bag of malt. “Erm… I don’t know what to say,” I said. “You know, I won’t be able to leave here for the better part of a year.”

  “I will send word with those I rescue next,” Kaleb said.

  “Kaleb, if I could ask… why?”

  Kaleb looked at me for what felt like at least a minute. “You helped me. You saved me when none else cared to, including me. I sense you have other work underway. Perhaps something personal to you. While you do, I will do what I can to help those who are like I was.”

  “You won’t go to the Great Oasis?”

  “I may. In time. But not while I see our people suffering here.”

  I was nodding my head with nothing to say when the door barged open. I jumped to my feet, but it was just Marcus. Marcus stopped in his tracks when he saw the legionnaire crumpled on the ground. He looked at me, then Kaleb. He quickly shut the door and barred it.

  “What have you done now?” Marcus asked. I explained the situation, and expected rebuke. “Fair enough,” Marcus said. I felt relieved. I explained what Kaleb had told me, and of the slaves now waiting for me in the Great Oasis. “Huh… Kaleb, what do these men expect will happen?” Marcus asked. “When their fearless prince shows up, that is.”

  Kaleb frowned at the question. “To fight, of course. To fight the empire, to take back our home. We are strong. We are tough. We are fit. We have nothing to lose, and much to gain.”

  I found myself smiling, and clapped Marcus on the back. “Kaleb, let me introduce you to Marcus DeVasco. Infamous leader of the rebellion. He has found his rebels wanting and has cast them aside. He will lead you in this. Once our other tasks are completed of course.”

  Marcus turned to me, his mouth agape.

  “If he fights for you, we will fight for him,” Kaleb said.

  Marcus looked at Kaleb again. “How old are you, son?”

  “Fifteen,” Kaleb said.

  “Fifteen…” Marcus said. He looked at the young man for a long moment, a question on his face. “Fifteen… and yet you have more balls than any man I’ve led.” He put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, squeezing them. “If you will fight, I will lead,” Marcus said. He hugged Kaleb to him. Kaleb looked at me over Marcus’s shoulder. He looked uncertain, but I nodded, and Kaleb relaxed.

  We hid the legionnaire’s body below bags of malt and set to brewing ale. I checked Kaleb’s face and eyes, but he was recovering fast. It felt good to look after someone again, and it reminded me of my life back home. Kaleb’s face was scarred, but nothing like I expected. When time allowed, Marcus trained Kaleb at the sword. Well, the stick, in this case. He was a fast learner, and Marcus a good teacher. When another knock on the door came, we hid Kaleb away. It was another legionnaire, come looking for his dead friend. We told him that he had come past but left again, and was heading to the abandoned temple next. The man nodded, had a brief look around, and then set off for the temple. No more came.

  Our brewing went much better than expected. We discovered Hobart’s brewing logs, and they helped a great deal as they essentially formed a recipe book. We brewed his pale ale recipe, and I was relatively confident that something approximating ale would result from our efforts. I was, however, dismayed to discover that the fermentation process took close to a month to complete. I was pretty sure that Hobart had failed to mention that part. We finished well into the evening and relaxed with some ale and a fantastic dinner courtesy of Neysa. She was a great cook. We opted not to open the tavern that day, and I wondered how often it actually would be open. I supposed that we needed to keep up appearances. I was tired, exhausted really, but it was one of the best days in recent memory.

  After curfew, we loaded the legionnaire’s body into the small boat tied to the pier and pushed it out into the lake. We watched as it slowly floated away.

  “Do you want to stay here?” I asked Kaleb.

  He shook his head. “My presence would only complicate your own mission, my prince. I have found a small cave in the forest. It has a stream nearby, and plenty of fruit. I know my snares too, so I have no shortage of food.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “I am. I will continue my work. If I stayed here, it would make me less effective.”

  Marcus and I stood on the pier and watched as Kaleb slunk away. I turned to Marcus. “So… you have your rebellion.”

  Marcus sighed and slowly nodded, a smile playing on his face. “Yes. I guess I do. But, sorry to say, it is our rebellion, my friend.”

  I grimaced. It was too much. Though if I was to return to Ubrain with their king, wearing the Ubraian crown, and leading a hundred freed Ubraian slaves… it would mean a great deal. When it came down to it, my current quest really was with the ultimate goal of freeing my people. But it felt like I was getting ahead of myself, already freeing my people, albeit mostly indirectly. “And you are sure you want to do this thing?” I asked. “I know I kind of pushed you into it. But you want to fight for my people?”

  Marcus smiled. “I am sure. Your people are worth fighting for, like any other. In some cases more so. It’s only since meeting you that I have noticed, I mean really noticed, how much your people suffer under the empire. They held out longer than any other kingdom, and so they get the harshest treatment.” We looked out over the lake again, the small fishing boat a distant spot on the water. “I will fight for them. These slaves are looked down on by all, but I tell you… they have a fire that burns for change. I can kindle that fire.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As the Crow Flies

  Our first week as tavern owners flew past. We did a decent job of it, and I considered it a success, ap
art from the fact that we made no profit. Within three days of taking ownership, the tax collectors came for a visit. Fortunately, Hobart had completed the transfer of ownership from Morwynne. We’d heard much grumbling about taxes since arriving in Sagemont, but the tax collector’s visit made us party to the constant complaining. They were simply ridiculous. Fortunately, we weren’t in it for the money, but it still would have been nice to make some.

  The Bleeding Wolf was not a busy tavern. The destruction of the Shady Oak probably did not help. There was a steady flow of patrons, but the place never came close to being full. The storm that now blew in with Eriel’s own fury, black as a dog’s guts, certainly did not help. It lashed the town for most of the week, turning the streets into rivers. Few were thirsty enough to brave the heavy rain for an ale. I did not blame them, and truthfully, I enjoyed the peace it afforded me.

  Neysa and I came to spend a fair amount of time in each other’s company. She was a quiet girl, if abrupt. From what little she told us of her past, it was clear that she had her own ghosts. Her magical abilities had presented themselves when, at thirteen, she had burned down her village’s sacred tree with a young bully still in its branches. She had been forced to consume some tonic in a ceremony. A tonic which she claimed was a dampener on her magic. From the day she burned the tree, those in her village had referred to her as a witch, including her parents. She had run away from home at the age of fifteen and joined a company of traveling actors; in a stroke of irony, she’d played the part of a witch in a banned play about how the emperor had come to power. She’d fled as the rest of her company had been taken by the Dark Legion for heresy. From there, she’d made her way to Morwynne to join the Academy of Magic but had been turned away.

  Not an easy life, though, I was not a good judge of such things. As much as I enjoyed spending time with her, she made sure to call me “friend” often enough that it was clear we would not be more. My ego took a bit of a battering, but I did not mind too much. I had been a bachelor my entire life, and I was used to being alone. It did not mean that I could not take pleasure in her company. She was insightful and saw through more of my armor than I was comfortable with. Often, she noticed things about me that I had either failed to realize about myself or that I flatly ignored.

  “Tell me about your brother,” she once asked.

  “Well, he’s a far better man than I. He cares a great deal for others, and while he does not shy away from a fight, he always fights for the right reasons. When I was confronted by bullies as a younger man, which was often, my mouth tended to run faster than my legs could, and my brother Shakir was always there to protect me. Slow to anger and fast to forgive, he is the best of brothers. I miss him dearly. I endured much in Castralavi to find out where he is, but I am yet to do so. So many wasted years…”

  “You know,” Neysa said, “that description reminds me an awful lot of a mutual friend of ours.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you think that perhaps Marcus is there to fill that role?”

  “Marcus is his own man,” I snapped. She was right, though; he really did remind me a great deal of Shakir. But I would never treat Shakir as I did Marcus. I would never bind him unwillingly to a task. Make him a slave to my will.

  “Question. Why are you chasing this crown and ring instead of looking for your brother?”

  “Because I know where they are. If I knew his location, I would be on my way already. But the Ubraian crown is very important to my people. It has been a fundamental part of our history for hundreds of years. It has always been that he who wears it, rules. To take the throne, you had to take the crown. And our people think us dead. If we showed up out of nowhere, I doubt they would believe he was their king—not without the crown. Even if they did, would they rise up after having been beaten down for so long? Perhaps. But we will only get one chance to take back our lands. One chance to free my people. If we do it, we do it right. If we fail, it will just heap more misery on my people.”

  “Fair enough. I find it hard to believe no one knows where the former prince of Ubrain is, though.”

  “They would know where the prince is. But he isn’t a prince. Not anymore. He’s just a slave, and one slave is much the same as the next in their eyes. No one knew of my slavery. Or, none that cared to do anything about it.”

  “Well, at least you have Marcus on your side for now. You are good for each other.”

  He was good to me, but I mistreated him badly.

  The rain managed to wash the Dark Legion from Sagemont, for which the entire town was grateful. There were some talk that two of their number had followed the passageway in the Shady Oak’s cellar. I wondered if it would take them to Malakai. If it did, I wished them the best of luck with the old bastard. The rest of the Inquisition left not long after.

  After eight days of stormy weather, the rain and wind stopped abruptly. A quiet sat in the air as the drumming on the roof went from bucketing to nothing in an instant. The silence felt unnatural, as though time itself had stopped. Sagemont came to life again, quite suddenly, like a flower with the melting snow. Within minutes of the storm’s end, people were wading through the muddy streets, and children jumped in puddles.

  I slumped when a large group made their way to the tavern, thinking my peace was at an end, but to my surprise they walked right past us to the beach. I peered out through the window. A crowd was gathering around a large shape on the shoreline—what appeared to be an upturned boat washed ashore. I sat back down to finish my coffee, but Marcus and Neysa rushed to join them. I sighed again. Might as well see what the fuss was about. I was curious if it was part of the imperial ship I’d burned.

  But it was no boat that washed ashore; the ungodly smell alone said as much. It was a monster—there was no other way to describe it. It had the head of a crocodile, but larger, and crocodiles, at least in Ubrain, were plenty large. With Marcus lying down beside its head—which was not hypothetical, he did just that—its head was still longer than he was tall. Anything that could close its mouth around something the size of Marcus was a monster for sure. It had a fat body, a long tail, and flippers instead of paws. I was damn sure it was a reptile, but one made for water.

  “What is this thing?” I asked a man by the name of Darryl, who ran the general store next door.

  “Some call it a kronos, some a water dragon. I call it an ugly bastard.”

  “You have the right of it there,” I said. “How did it get here?”

  “If you walk around to the other side, you’ll notice it has a rather large hole in the head. My guess is that some pirates used it for target practice.”

  “Are these things not a threat to boats?”

  “They certainly are. Most ships can withstand attacks, but smaller craft get capsized frequently. At least half a dozen a year. They often follow larger ships too, staying in their wake, just waiting for an opportunity. Just last year, one of the navy ships got destroyed in a storm. Another ship was close enough to see the kronos wreak havoc and eat the crew, but too far away to do anything about it.”

  A man took its measure at twenty-five paces long. Such a vast amount of water was terrifying enough without monsters lurking beneath its surface.

  With the fine weather, we took the opportunity to make our way to the brewhouse and check on our fermenting barrels of ale. We left them to their own devices while the storm raged. That was when my week of happiness came to an end. The Gods, forever watchful, must have come to realize that I was enjoying my life for a change and decided to kick me in the balls.

  On our single day of training, Hobart had shown us what a fermenting ale looked like. A disgusting yellowy green foam coated the ale and smelt worse than Marcus’s farts. What waited for us was not that.

  “This doesn’t look disgusting at all,” I said. “This looks almost exactly as it did when we filled these barrels.”

  Marcus dipped his finger into the brown liquid, sucked on it, and scrunched up his face. “It’s ridiculo
usly sweet.”

  “Our yeast has failed us. Hobart’s brewing logs showed fermentation starting within a day or two,” I said. We next had a look at the barrels Hobart had filled on his last night in Sagemont, but these had the same problem, and a number of barrels tasted of vinegar. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. Was it something we did?”

  “I don’t think so. But what do I know?” Marcus said.

  We decided that it was a problem best discussed over a tankard of ale with lunch. Neysa joined us with a glass of wine. “How do we get more yeast?” Marcus asked.

  “Yeast grows on fruit,” Neysa said.

  “I very much doubt we can just throw a bunch of fruit into our ale and hope for the best,” I said.

  “It’s how wine is made,” Neysa said.

  “But… we’re not making wine.”

  “How about we ask some of the local brewers?” Marcus asked.

  “No, they are competitors, I do not trust them. Also, their ale is awful.”

  “I know someone who might be able to help,” Neysa said. Marcus and I leveled our eyes on her. “What? He’s a weird bastard, sure, but Malak—”

  “Don’t say his name,” Marcus interrupted. “That man is up to no good. And he knows… stuff.”

  “Exactly! He might be able to help you with this. Who else do you know?”

  After lunch, Marcus and I were discussing the merits of fermented fruit ale in the kitchen while Neysa swept the floor in the tavern. A commotion startled us. Loud banging and shouting came from the tavern, and we rushed from the kitchen, blades at the ready. We found Neysa running between the tables, wildly swinging her broom at a large bird.