We fought together on the front line at Vindum.”
Martius’s shoulders dropped slightly. He leaned forward again, raised a hand and clapped the barman on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother... Now tell me, what do you know of those men?”
“That’s Jhan Guttel and his gang. They’re a bunch of lowlife scum, but they pays for their drink, so…” The barman shrugged.
Conlan turned towards the table. With a name like Jhan, the leader had to be at least part Farisian. Sure enough, a dark-skinned man with a black beard sat between four others. It wasn’t unusual for foreigners to frequent Adarna, especially Farisians. Guttel was about as nondescript as they came, his skin tone the only indication he might not be local.
“Would you do me a favour, brother?” Martius enquired of the barman.
“Name it, General.”
Martius leaned forward and whispered something to the man.
Conlan strained to listen but could not hear the exchange.
“… and keep the change.” Martius winked conspiratorially at the barman, then turned to face Conlan and the others.
“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Darcus reported to his master.
“What are you planning to do?” Conlan asked. Since leaving the Hole, or maybe since Sothlind, his life seemed to have spun out of control. He stroked the round brass pommel of his sword, drawing reassurance from the promise of protection it offered.
Martius grinned. “Grab your drinks and follow me.” His expression became stern for a moment. “No one is to draw steel unless they draw first. We do not want to cause a scene.” Holding a tankard in one hand and the half-empty flagon in the other, he set off towards the table.
Conlan followed. He didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, he stuck close to the general. This won’t end well . A small part of him, nonetheless, had to know what Jhan Guttel and his men were up to.
The men at the table, engrossed in conversation, did not notice as Martius and the others approached.
Martius reached the table and thumped his flagon of mead down in the centre.
The men at the table all looked up at Martius. Shock registered quickly as they realised who it was that had disturbed their talk.
Jhan Guttel shot to his feet, horror painted clear on his face. “But…” he spluttered.
Within seconds, all nine men were standing.
By all the gods, I hope he knows what he’s doing.
Martius held both hands up, palms outward, and stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need to stand for me. We are all friends here, really. I just want to talk.”
The men all turned to their leader. Guttel seemed to inspire loyalty, if nothing else. Some of them reached their hands under cloaks and tunics.
A wave of crimson fury spread up Guttel’s neck and covered his face. However, he remained silent.
“Now... Jhan Guttel, isn’t it?” Martius smiled pleasantly. “I just want to have a chat. Please, don’t do anything rash. Do you mind if I call you Jhan? You are Farisian, if I am not mistaken?”
Guttel moved slowly around the table until he faced Martius. He left a good distance – more than a full arm span – between them. Guttel’s men spread out either side of him, hemming Martius and the others into the corner of the room.
He fears our swords. Guttel’s men did not appear heavily armed and Conlan doubted that they would have much hope against trained, albeit mostly retired, legionaries.
As if reading Conlan’s thoughts, Guttel turned to one of his men and whispered a command. The man nodded and ran to the exit.
“What do you want?” Guttel asked in perfect Adarnan.
Martius shrugged. “I told you, Jhan, we just want to talk. I apologise for my error. You must be half Farisian, am I right? Born in the traders’ quarter, unless I am mistaken.”
Guttel scowled. “My father was a spice merchant. My mother is Adarnan. What is it to you?”
“Oh, nothing really. Just trying to make
Martius’s shoulders dropped slightly. He leaned forward again, raised a hand and clapped the barman on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother... Now tell me, what do you know of those men?”
“That’s Jhan Guttel and his gang. They’re a bunch of lowlife scum, but they pays for their drink, so…” The barman shrugged.
Conlan turned towards the table. With a name like Jhan, the leader had to be at least part Farisian. Sure enough, a dark-skinned man with a black beard sat between four others. It wasn’t unusual for foreigners to frequent Adarna, especially Farisians. Guttel was about as nondescript as they came, his skin tone the only indication he might not be local.
“Would you do me a favour, brother?” Martius enquired of the barman.
“Name it, General.”
Martius leaned forward and whispered something to the man.
Conlan strained to listen but could not hear the exchange.
“… and keep the change.” Martius winked conspiratorially at the barman, then turned to face Conlan and the others.
“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Darcus reported to his master.
“What are you planning to do?” Conlan asked. Since leaving the Hole, or maybe since Sothlind, his life seemed to have spun out of control. He stroked the round brass pommel of his sword, drawing reassurance from the promise of protection it offered.
Martius grinned. “Grab your drinks and follow me.” His expression became stern for a moment. “No one is to draw steel unless they draw first. We do not want to cause a scene.” Holding a tankard in one hand and the half-empty flagon in the other, he set off towards the table.
Conlan followed. He didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, he stuck close to the general. This won’t end well . A small part of him, nonetheless, had to know what Jhan Guttel and his men were up to.
The men at the table, engrossed in conversation, did not notice as Martius and the others approached.
Martius reached the table and thumped his flagon of mead down in the centre.
The men at the table all looked up at Martius. Shock registered quickly as they realised who it was that had disturbed their talk.
Jhan Guttel shot to his feet, horror painted clear on his face. “But…” he spluttered.
Within seconds, all nine men were standing.
By all the gods, I hope he knows what he’s doing.
Martius held both hands up, palms outward, and stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need to stand for me. We are all friends here, really. I just want to talk.”
The men all turned to their leader. Guttel seemed to inspire loyalty, if nothing else. Some of them reached their hands under cloaks and tunics.
A wave of crimson fury spread up Guttel’s neck and covered his face. However, he remained silent.
“Now... Jhan Guttel, isn’t it?” Martius smiled pleasantly. “I just want to have a chat. Please, don’t do anything rash. Do you mind if I call you Jhan? You are Farisian, if I am not mistaken?”
Guttel moved slowly around the table until he faced Martius. He left a good distance – more than a full arm span – between them. Guttel’s men spread out either side of him, hemming Martius and the others into the corner of the room.
He fears our swords. Guttel’s men did not appear heavily armed and Conlan doubted that they would have much hope against trained, albeit mostly retired, legionaries.
As if reading Conlan’s thoughts, Guttel turned to one of his men and whispered a command. The man nodded and ran to the exit.
“What do you want?” Guttel asked in perfect Adarnan.
Martius shrugged. “I told you, Jhan, we just want to talk. I apologise for my error. You must be half Farisian, am I right? Born in the traders’ quarter, unless I am mistaken.”
Guttel scowled. “My father was a spice merchant. My mother is Adarnan. What is it to you?”
“Oh, nothing really. Just trying to make
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