Smoke, Ash and Dust

Chapter 1

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley!” yelled Sarid slamming his half drunken pint of rum on the table. “And we’re doomed unless someone finds the power of the Ancients. Damn the king!”

He poured the rest of the rum down his hoarse throat. Around him gathered a crowd of eager ears in the dusty tavern called The Drunken Boar. Ever since the fall of King Errid, no one had been able to find nor harness the power of the Ancients, which pushed back the forces of the evil pressing in from the North. Now, the land had been blackened by fire.

“Watch your tongue!” said the bartender, Hafiz, pointing at Sarid from behind the counter.

“I will speak as I’d like!” said Sarid. “There’s no more honor for the dead. Not in these lands.”

“I won’t have it,” demanded Hafiz. “Folks like you tear apart what little we have left.”

“Folks like me tell the truth, and the people deserve to hear it! We are left alone to fend for ourselves. You can’t trust nobody. Especially those in royalty!”

“All we have is trust, and hope—.”

“That’s what makes us weak,” interrupted Sarid. “No one here is safe. No one in this damn bar can be trusted. Anyone could be a servant of the enemy. Even you!”

Everyone looked at Hafiz, either with anxious anticipation or with a nervous glance. Like sun burnt skin his face blushed, but from embarrassment or anger no one could tell. There was one, however, who stood far in a corner unamused by the tension. Draped around him was a torn black cloak, tattered with dry mud, with a hood covering his head in shadow. No one stood or sat near him, but it seemed no one really knew he was there.

“You’ve said enough,” growled Hafiz.

“Afraid I might expose you, eh?” jested Sarid. “I might have figured you out! A bar is a perfect place to spy on everyone who travels through. And who knows who else could be a spy keeping you in the know.”

Sarid slowly pointed his fat, crusted finger against each person in the room. A vail began to rip between everyone in the bar. Shifting of feet scuffed the floor as people moved away to safety. At least, as safe as they could feel without leaving the gossip.

“That’s it! Get out!” demanded Hafiz.

“Why don’t you make me and prove to everyone that you are a spy!” said Sarid leaning back in his chair with his arms up.

Hafiz hesitated, staring at the drunken man into his reddened, dreary eyes. He gripped a bottle beside him for support. No one dared to challenge Sarid, nor did they try to support Hafiz. Fear numbed the courageous. No one wanted to be in the wrong.

“See? You got nothing in you,” said Sarid. “Nothing more than a coward hiding his secrets. Just like that filthy excuse of a king.”

Suddenly, the crowd split, and a shadow charged through: the cloaked man in the corner. He grabbed Sarid by his shirt and lifted the fat man out of his chair. Sarid’s eye’s widened in terror. Surrounding them grew whispers of the event, but no one dared to get involved.

The man dragged Sarid around the table and threw him to the ground. The wooden boards whined as they embraced Sarid’s weight. From behind the counter Hafiz watched in amazement, staring at this mysterious vigilante who seemed to have no concern for the crowd or its opinions.

“Get up!” yelled the man.

Sarid squealed and waved his hands in front of his face. Surrounding him were a host of worried eyes, filled with superstition, but soon each person stepped back farther away from the tension. A new fear, the man, had arrived.

“Ah!” screamed Sarid as his hair was being pulled up. He pushed himself from the floor to relieve the pain on his scalp.

“I said, ‘Get up!’”

Hunched over like a prisoner before a cruel king, Sarid shook as he tried to look into the man’s eyes. But soon his attention was given over to the crowd as he began to recognize everyone was watching him. A scowl grew on his face. His fist tightened. He swung a blow to the man’s face but it was easily dodged. His face, however, was not so lucky.

The wooden boards whined again as they were forced to endure the weight of Sarid crashing down on them. Blood dripped from his nose and oozed onto the floor. The man grabbed his wrists and dragged him to the door. Sarid whimpered. Like a school of fish avoiding a shark as it swims through, the crowd pushed back to allow the hooded aggressor travel wherever he desired. No one dared to even open the door. The man swung it open with one hand as he gripped Sarid’s wrist with the other.

The sky was black. No stars decorated the night, and the moon hid either on the other side of the earth or behind a thick cloud. It had been so long since the promise of light fought against the dark of night, and the day only brought a pale, grey light that tortured the joy out of every soul. There was no blue sky, no color that brought warmth and hope to the bones.

The man dropped Sarid’s face into the mud. Peaking around the edges of the windows were eager eyes desperate to witness the outcome of this drunkard. A sword’s edge scraped against its scabbard and wrested its tip on Sarid’s throat: the man stood over him holding his blade.

“Get up,” said the man more calmly, but not any less assertive.

Having lost his will to struggle against this threat, Sarid hobbled up with weakened knees.

“Please,” mumbled Sarid. “No matter what I said to offend. I was merely talking. Just trying to enjoy a drink after a long day. I got nothing personal against you. I don’t even know you. This isn’t right.”

The blade remained eager to cut Sarid’s neck while the man stood silent.

“Don’t say nothing,” he pleaded. “Please let me go.”

“Apologize,” said the man.

“Alright, alright! I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Sarid grumbled. “How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me?”

“Apologize to the bartender,” said the man with a low voice, “everyone in there you ruined with fear, and to the king.”

Sarid’s pleading face grew an ugly grin. He giggled, as if some madness drove him. Once he stopped, he stared at the man and said, “Damn the king.”

In a blink of an eye, the blade swung around and gouged Sarid from his left shoulder to his hip. He dropped dead, cursing the ground with his filthy blood. The man wiped his sword against his cloak and sheathed it.

“My father was not a coward,” he growled.

More faces pressed against the windows, but the man slipped into the shadows and Sarid’s body hid in the night until morning.