Phoenix Rising by Jason K. Lewis Page A

conversation...” Martius raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering though, as we are exchanging pleasantries, aren’t you going to ask who I am?”
    Around the bar, people began to notice the altercation. Some stood and gawped, clearly enjoying the spectacle, but a large number made their way to the exits.
    Guttel must have a reputation around here. The man he sent off must have gone for reinforcements. Conlan’s sword hand inched towards his weapon. Remember the general’s orders, his conscience chided. Stay calm.
    Guttel snorted. “I know who you are, General Martius.”
    “Ah, that is a shame. I was rather hoping you did not, and that your men were following me because they mistook me for someone else.”
    Guttel’s bottom lip quivered. His eyes darted left and right and as if in answer, his men fanned out even further.  
    Conlan counted time with his heartbeat as it thrummed in his ears. Each beat a little faster than the last. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Orders or no orders, I may need to be quick.  
    Martius seemed content to wait for a reply. He clasped his hands behind his back as if to prove to Guttel that he was not threatened, or perhaps to prove that he was no threat himself.
    Conlan’s heart pounded an urgent rhythm as the silence grew.
    Guttel’s man sprinted back into the tavern, his footsteps reverberating on the wooden floor. His face was ruddy. His chest heaved with exertion.
    “Well?” Guttel called over his shoulder. He didn’t take his eyes off Martius for a moment.
    The man nodded. “He’s coming, Jhan!”
    Marek Tyll marched into the tavern. Two huge men, who each bore wooden clubs the size of a man’s arm, flanked him. At least a dozen more, all armed, followed behind. He was dressed in the same tattered clothing that he'd worn when he preached to the crowd near Bezel Square. It looked even more threadbare and worn than it had. The man’s beard had grown long and scraggly. He looked every bit the prophet of the gods that he claimed to be.
    “General!” Conlan grasped Martius’s shoulder. “That’s Marek Tyll!” As he spoke, he searched Tyll’s face. Did I fight alongside you at Sothlind? Were you a sword brother like poor, dead, Jon Gyren? Like Dylon? But the man remained a stranger, just as before.
    The inn erupted into chaos.  
    Those customers that remained, either recognising Tyll or spotting the weapons that his followers bore, scrambled towards the back door, climbing over tables and each other in their eagerness to escape.
    A lack of movement amongst the chaos drew Conlan’s attention to a pair of cloaked and hooded drinkers. They sat at a small table in the opposite corner of the room. Their eyes gleamed at him from under their deep cowls. The smaller of the two stood, as she did, her hood slipped and revealed her hair—blood red, the colour of death.
    Syke!  
    The sight of her shook Conlan like a blow. “Syke!” The shout ripped from his lungs and echoed across the tavern.
    She glanced towards him and their eyes locked for one sweet moment. He lost sight of her as a crush of patrons sought the exit. When they had passed, she was gone, like a phantom conjured from the depths of his subconscious to taunt him. Just as she had in his dreams since Sothlind.
    Jhan Guttel raised his chin and thrust his shoulders back. His eyes gleamed dangerously. “My men were following you, General, but only because goodman Marek Tyll here paid me, and –”
    “Where is my god?” Marek Tyll thundered at Martius as he approached. “You will tell me now, for I am his voice on Earth!”
    Conlan thought he spotted a glimmer of indecision in Martius’s eyes.
    “You saw them!” Tyll continued. “You saw them too… Why have you not spoken out? Tell me. Tell me now!” Then more quietly, plaintively almost. “Do you know where they are?”
    Jhan Guttel slowly backed away. He shrugged his shoulders as if absolving himself of any involvement. He smiled, but he could