Chapter 15: Chapter 11: Tarik

Chapter 11: Tarik

 

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A perfect strike: finally, his sword, in a desperate last swing, found the fiend’s exposed neck. Diele’s arm reverberated as his blade, to his dismay, collided with the undead knight’s mottled skin and was flung to the side, cast flying out of his hand. The side of the undead knight’s throat was unmarred; the skin there, where his sword had struck moments before with all the might Diele could muster, bore not even the slightest hint of injury. Cruel red light emanated from sunken sockets as the fiendish creature stared mercilessly at Diele, who staggered backwards, mouth agape in horror. Its own sword flashed in an upwards arc, the jagged black blade cleaving Diele from hip to shoulder. The adventurer collapsed onto the cold stone floor, blood pooling around his corpse.

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They arrived near noon on their fifth day of travel at the front gate, a wooden structure of two large, twenty-foot-high doors that swung inwards revealing the city beyond.

 

Logan sat on the raised bench behind the rohm, next to Huck who held the reigns and guided the wagon. Huck raised a hand to the man in the guardhouse adjoined to the front of the gate who waved back and rose from his seat inside, approaching them as they brought the wagon to a halt.

 

The man, striding towards them with powerful, assertive steps was dressed in tight fitting linen pants with leather pads sewn above the knees, shins, and thighs. He wore boots and a heavy looking jacket or coat that hung to the middle of his thighs and continued upwards to a thick collar that encircled most of his neck. Over the coat he wore a short-sleeved chainmail vest that covered his torso and shoulders, with a leather belt looped around his waist and a short sword attached in a scabbard at his side. An unadorned leather cap that mildly reminded Logan of the plastic caps that swimmers wear to compete rested on his head.

 

He was pudgy, but not fat, and carried a five-foot-long spear over his shoulder as he approached. He stopped several feet away, scanned the wagon with a cursory look, and called to them.

 

“What brings you to Tarik, travelers?”

 

“Trade, and to eat a meal I don’t have to cook and clean up after,” Huck replied charismatically, smiling at the guard who returned his gaze with a flat, unamused stare.

 

“How many are with your party?” the guard asked, looking them over.

 

His eyes lingered on the sword hilt peaking over Logan’s shoulder and the bow resting on the wagon’s canvas wall next to where Huck sat.

 

“Just us two and my boy, he’s asleep inside. I’ve been here many times before, from Woolam. Bretta at the Firestone Inn knows me well and can vouch for us,” Huck said.

 

The guard snorted and said “I hope you’re not planning on eating ol’ Bretta’s cooking, it’s a hassle when outsiders die while visiting.”

 

He started walking back to the guardhouse and waved them through, seemingly satisfied with his inspection.

 

“I’ll be sure to relay your kind words!” Huck replied, laughing as he spurred the rohm into motion.

 

Logan didn’t know what to make of the exchange. The guard had seemed wary of them, much more so than the ones at Woolam who had never so much as given Logan a second glance when coming and going from the village.

 

Huck picked up on his question before he asked it, and explained that Tarik, being the largest town in the southlands, also had the highest crime rate and more shady characters entering the town with bad intentions, therefore the guardsmen actually kept a record of who came and went, as well as the reasons for a group’s visit and their composition.

 

In response to his inquiry about this Bretta character, Huck informed him that she was a fantastic innkeeper and cook but would punish those she didn’t approve of with near-poisonous tasting meals. This gave her quite the mixed reputation, but her inn was still one of the most popular in town. They would get a room at the Firestone later in the evening, but first Logan wanted to see the marketplace.

 

Ryan, upon awaking from his nap, frantically scurried to the front bench to join Logan and his father, where he guffawed at the scene before him. The group had parked the wagon at a building located on a corner of the marketplace’s center crossroads, and as Huck tied the rohm to a post on the side of the road, Ryan leapt from the wagon onto the dirt and gazed, open-mouthed, at the street ahead.

 

The bazaar of Tarik was an area that encompassed several blocks, each with numerous vendors of various sizes lining both sides of the street between actual business establishments that capitalized on the town’s tourism and high population. Tents, stands, and carts marked small, independent vendors, and large wooden signs hung from the eves of the buildings lining the street, protruding outwards, clamoring for attention and customers.

 

The streets of the market plaza weren’t narrow, but not especially wide either; with the hustle and bustle of hundreds of patrons bumping shoulders with each other, the clamor of people haggling for prices, and the calls and shouts from vendors seeking patrons, the market felt dizzyingly cramped, especially in the main thoroughfare. The press of human bodies could have been claustrophobic; the odor of sweat mixing with the complex aroma of sizzling meat and exotic spices could have been overwhelming, but to Logan the scene felt alive.

 

He hadn’t travelled much during his life on Earth, and he certainly hadn’t visited any place like this; the liveliness of it all invigorated him. Logan stood by Ryan, half to wait for Huck, and half to hold back the boy who looked ready to burst forwards and enter the fray at any moment. He was like an eager dog desperately pleading to be let off the leash. Huck finally returned and scooped Ryan up, placing him easily on his shoulders.

 

They had specific stores in mind to visit, Huck having been to Tarik many times before and Gjorn giving recommendations for armorers and blacksmiths, but they were content to meander through the bustling streets first, experiencing the novelty of the two younger men’s first time in the town.

 

They stopped at stall after stall, Logan all too willing to spend his money liberally after realizing just how far his coin truly went in the backwaters of the Southlands. The prices of the items he purchased seemed too low, and he was curious how the loot drops were determined; he was getting less and less from the Rabid Rabbits, but what he’d collected so far seemed to be an endless sum in a place like Tarik. Maybe the southlands economy was skewed, and his money wouldn’t go so far elsewhere. If that was the case, he’d make the most of it while he could, he thought, determined to stock up on essentials as well as not limiting himself on what he bought in the market.

 

A stall selling gyro-style meat shaving sandwiches caught his attention, and he ordered for the three of them. The leg spinning on a spit above the firepit belonged to an Axel Hound, an oversized wolf-beast that lived in the forest north of Tarik.

 

The thing was huge, and he wondered if he’d have been able to slay it. Apparently, the proprietor of the stall had connections with a local hunter who occasionally appeared in town towing some animal carcass or another, selling its parts to the marketeers.

 

I'm not so special after all, Logan mused, and the insight gave him hope of both finding strong companions for the upcoming fight and selling his wares.

 

The meat, though somewhat chewy, completely lacked the gamey flavor he was expecting. Instead, it was rich and savory; the little fat there was gave profound, multi-layered flavor that unfurled on his tongue as he chewed. The bread, warm and soft, along with the cool, mild sauce, almost like tzatziki, complemented it perfectly, and Logan couldn’t help but to close his eyes and lift his face to the sun as he chewed slowly, smiling, and savoring the experience. Ryan had a similar reaction, and Huck ate in contented silence, watching the two and smiling at their expressions. Logan was kicking himself for not selling his items first before shopping and vowed to return to the shop and buy copious amounts of the sandwiches to store for later consumption.

 

Huck and Ryan parted ways with Logan: Huck wanted to demonstrate haggling for Ryan and teach him about the plethora of oddities the market presented, and Logan wanted to explore a bit on his own. Logan enjoyed the pair’s company, but after spending so much time with other people over the last few days of travel, his social battery was well and truly drained, and he could use some time roaming the market by his relative lonesome. Mikey’s ever-present aura and occasional jokes and comments made true isolation impossible, but the celestial being was getting exceptionally good at picking up on the nuances of Logan’s mood, and let him be, allowing Logan to merge unnoticed into the lively, impersonal marketplace.

 

After wandering the thoroughfare for a while, looking at various shops and people-watching as they bartered and haggled with shop-keeps and merchants, a wooden sign with an engraving of a generic-looking necklace, hanging out over the street, grabbed his attention, and he headed towards it.

 

The tent, four sturdy poles in the corners with a taller one in the center covered by a canvas tarp, was smaller than most, but elaborately decorated with hanging beads, carved ivory and wooden statuettes, and vibrant tapestries spread out between the poles to block the sun.

 

The vendor, a wizened old woman of incalculable age, sat on a stool at the back of the stall. Her long grey hair was bound in a bun that sat atop her head, but a few strands fell along the right side of her face, framing her cheek. Her skin was wrinkled beyond anything Logan had seen before, almost leading him to wonder if denizens of Tarik had extended lifespans.

 

This is a fantasy world after all.

 

The skin was a light caramel that contrasted starkly with the shock grey strand resting against it. Creases like valleys and dried riverways spiderwebbed across her face, expanding outwards from her mouth and eyes, which held a penetrating intelligence that belied her age. Her gaze was trained steadily on his face. She lifted a hand, beckoning to him. Hanging strings tied with beads and small bones tinkled as he passed between them, approaching the woman, and sitting at her gesture upon a stool set before her.

 

She said nothing, only staring at him with a level gaze and unreadable expression.

 

“Boy,” she said, after a long silence.

 

Her voice was soft, but strong: entrancing. She only spoke the one word, and yet it was as if Logan had been placed under a spell. The bustling street just a few feet behind him seemed to silence, and his attention focused upon her as if he’d suddenly been placed in a dark cave, and she was a fire alight before him.

 

“Come closer,” she said, and as he leaned forward, she reached a hand to his temple.

 

Instinctively he closed his eyes as a cool finger pressed gently on his skin.

 

“I see," she said, her face scrunched up, brows furrowing in pensive concentration, "It surges beneath the surface, a titan in the womb—soon,” she whispered, almost too softly to be heard as she withdrew her hand and pulled open a small drawer from the table beside her.

 

Logan opened his eyes as her touch withdrew.

 

She removed a cloth pouch and poured from it a single silver ring. Ensconced in the silver band was a tiny onyx sphere of a black so deep it seemed to arrest the eye and imprison all light.

 

She deftly grabbed Logan’s hand and slipped the ring onto his finger—It initially stuck to his skin, the digit too wide to admit the ring, but the band immediately expanded ever so slightly, becoming a perfect fit for his finger.

 

Logan looked, dumbfounded at the ring now securely fastened around his finger. Engravings that he hadn’t noticed before flashed black through the silver metal; intricate lines, symbols, and what he could only describe as runes somehow glowed with a throbbing black luminescence before receding once more, leaving only the plain silver and the impenetrable dark sphere.

 

A shock of numbing iciness emanated from the ring, only for an instant, then vanished so quickly that Logan doubted if he hadn’t just imagined the sensation. Not knowing what to say, he only looked, quizzically, at the woman who sat watching him with intent hawkish eyes.

 

“Complete your task, then leave the southlands. This place is not for you. I bid you well, Logan Dileva,” she said, a commanding power in her voice that hadn't been there when she'd spoken to him before.

 

As if a trance had been lifted, Logan rose from the stool, exited the booth, and stepped into the street, becoming one with the human tide.

 

His mind blank, Logan walked several paces before stepping out of the throng of bodies to the less crowded sidewalk. The vendor in front of him, a dark-skinned man with a thick, black beard, called out, but Logan was looking back the way he’d come. The sign with the necklace that had drawn him to the woman’s shop was gone, along with the tent itself. Logan looked down at his hand.

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The ring sat unassumingly on his right ring finger, glinting in the sunlight.

 

I must’ve walked further than I realized, he thought with a shake of his head.

 

“Mikey, did you sense anything strange from that woman? This definitely isn’t a normal ring and something just feels… off.”

 

He looked back down the street at where he was sure the tent should’ve been.

 

“Woman? What woman? I do like your ring though, where did you get it?” Mikey asked.

 

A sense of panic overcame him for a moment, like a cold hand suddenly squeezing his heart for a second then releasing it.

 

“The old woman in the tent that gave it to me, you don’t remember her?” Logan asked hesitantly.

 

“Oooh I see what you’re doing you old coot, you’re pranking me! Well, I’m glad seeing the big city and a shopping spree were finally able to get your mood up. And speaking of up… LOGAN LOOKOUT!”

 

Logan instinctively dodged to the side anticipating an attack from above and ran into a young woman holding a cup of a fruity smelling drink, which flew from her hand and spilled onto her shirt. He looked above him and at the spot on the road where he stood a moment before, hand over his shoulder on the pommel of his sword, tense, and ready to strike. He wished he had a dagger; the large two-handed sword wasn’t fit for combat in tight quarters.

 

There was nothing there, nothing around him but the guffawing crowd and the woman who’d moved away once she saw his sword and was shouting from a short distance away. Mikey burst out laughing, shrill peals of laughter stabbing at his head like icepicks.

 

“Sorry, sorry, your reaction was too good,” he said, trying to stifle himself.

 

“God damn it Mikey! Don’t ever do that again,” Logan said, straightening from his crouched stance and apologizing profusely to the gathered audience of onlookers.

 

Uncomfortable under their stares, he ducked his head and trudged forwards for several minutes, losing himself in the sea of people. Eventually he was far enough away from the scene that no one around him had witnessed the display, and he returned to a slow, ambling walk.

 

Did Mikey really have no memory of the woman? It sure seemed that way. But how? What could fool him, a celestial being? Had the event happened in his mind? Had he been placed under some sort of spell that only targeted him?

 

He resolved to discuss it at length later with Mikey. For now he’d let it go and focus on the day before them; they had a lot to do.

 

The ring pulsed coldly on his finger.

 

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He raised his face to the sun, still high and bright, shining over Tarik. There was plenty of time left before he’d meet back up with Huck and Ryan to sell their bulk items, so he continued walking, content to explore, trade, and buy whatever else he could squeeze into his ever-shrinking inventory.

 

Logan was pouring over a stall that sold intricately carved knives when he was interrupted by a frantic voice calling his name.

 

“Logan! LOGAN! Look, look!” Mikey screeched.

 

Logan cringed and pressed a hand to his temple.

 

“Ow! Chill! Quiet down, Jesus Christ. What is it?”

 

“In the street! He just passed, turn around!”

 

Logan rose from his hunched posture and turned to look at the flow of traffic in the street.

 

“Who just passed? What’s so important that you had to scream like a banshee out of nowhere? If telepathy could cause hearing damage, I’d be going deaf by now you know.”

 

“Over there, next to that vegetable cart!”

 

On the side of the road, twenty yards away, Logan saw a man that did not fit into his mental image of the inhabitants of Tiris. Though he was yet to encounter any new humanoid races, Logan and Mikey had run in to gargantuan Llorts that towered tens of feet above them, oversized, vicious rabbits intent on tearing out their insides, majestic, magical deer, and more. Even their transportation, the hulking Rohm, was larger than any animal Logan had seen on Earth. The man by the vegetable cart, however, took him by surprise far more than any druid, demon, or dwarf could have.

 

“Oh… my god. That’s amazing.”

 

The man in question put down the pear-looking fruit he’d been inspecting and started walking away from them. Desperate not to lose him, Logan pushed through the dense throng of pedestrians, swimming through the crowd shouting apologies as he went.

 

“You’re losing him Logan! Hurry!”

 

Logan increased his pace, barreling forwards through the mass of human bodies. Finally, he broke through the sea of shoppers and found himself face to face with his prize.

 

The man had turned around, drawn by the commotion behind him, and now looked down at the panting, haggard man gasping for air before him. Logan, hands still on his knees, looked up. A man, around five nine, stared at him with a quizzical frown on his face.

 

“Your hat-“ Logan took deep, gasping breaths, breaking up his speech, “where did you get your hat?”

 

The bewildered man looked up at the brim of his hot pink cowboy hat, which was lined with a fluffy, featherlike material.

 

“My hat?”

 

He looked behind Logan at the multitude of disgruntled people staring and making rude gestures at them.

 

“You did all that to ask about my hat?” He smiled broadly as he grabbed the brim and gave it a slight tug. “Well, it is pretty snazzy I must say. It was a steal at five silvers.”

 

Logan’s eyes bulged at the price. He hadn’t paid more than a handful of bronze coins for anything so far, and a tacky hat was worth 5 silver?

 

He examined it more closely, seeing that it was made out of finely shaped leather dyed evenly and embossed with intricate patterns of curving linework. The fuzz along the brim encircled the hat and rose a half inch above and beneath rim, encasing the leather along the edge. It was so utterly unlike anything he’d seen so far on Tiris that he just stared dumbly at it, his mind racing.

 

Were there other transplants here from Earth? Had the style of cowboy hats somehow transcended his planet and cropped up independently here as well? Was there some form of inter-planet trade that neither he nor Mikey was aware of?

 

“It’s so cool! Just like the westerns! We can finally LARP as Clint Eastwood!”

 

“Sir, please, where did you get it? I have to know,” Logan said.

 

Returning his attention to Logan, the unnamed, well dressed, stylish fellow said, “Fine fine, settle down man, just up the road a ways, on the left two streets down. Hephesto’s Headgear, you can’t miss it.”

 

With one last appreciative gaze, Logan thanked him and turned hurriedly away back down the street the way he’d come. He moved forwards, his energy matching Mikey’s for what might’ve been the first time since meeting the celestial, and after some time finally stopped beneath a hanging wooden placard that read “Hephesto’s Handsome Headgear for Heroes, Heroines, Hellions, and Hoboes”

 

Really going hard with the alliteration on that one, he thought as he turned his attention to the shopfront.

 

The building was a narrow, rectangular shop with an intricately engraved door set between two tall display windows. Within each of the windows was a carved wooden mannequin sporting a hat on each hand and one atop the head. There were Irish tweed newsboy caps, top hats, sombreros, feathered fedoras, and styles unlike anything Logan had ever seen before, all in vibrant, striking colors. He pulled open the door, a small bell announcing his entry, and stepped inside.

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