Mirlín was standing at the bar with a glass of cider, gazing around for more prospects. The tavern was crowded but oddly quiet yet the reason for the sullen atmosphere was obvious: a band of Sun troops were in the bar, the only ones making noise and also the only ones who appeared to enjoy themselves. However, their amusements seemed to focus around having their fun at the expense of others. Namely the soldiers threatened every man around them with violence, even shoving a few attempting to start unfair fights which would end up with the entire troop stomping a single fellow, or, alternatively, they shouted obscenities and groped the bosoms and backsides of female patrons and barmaids. It felt as if the entire crowd consisting mostly of local farmers and townspeople wanted to get rid of the Sons but none dared take the initiative and be the spearhead behind whom the more timid could group.
The blonde woman had observed the tyranny of the soldiers with a mixture of amusement and irritation when she saw a broad-shouldered youth stand up, sway a little, and walk up to the Sons.
He tapped the shoulder of one of the seated soldiers, who were fully aware of the youth. “Hey... man... we don't want no trouble here."
The Son turned to look at the fellow, an evil grin on his face. “Well then get the fuck back to your fucking table, prick." His voice was friendly.
The youth blushed and his expression became angry. “All you lot do is pick fights and harass women! Why don't you get the fuck out of here and move on to the next town!"
Before the youth had properly finished his sentence, five Sons rushed him, one grabbing the fellow's feet, causing him to fall down. The others swarmed around him and after a series of stomps, lifted chairs and smashed them down at the already unmoving figure. Then they even tossed an entire table on the unconscious youth. The Sons broke in laughter and grabbed pints from the hands of surrounding townsfolk. They cheered their own performance, drained the pints, threw them at the other patrons around them, and left, still laughing. The youth remained under the table, a puddle of blood around his head, his face now an unrecognizable mess.
After the voices of the soldiers faded away, an older man with a large belly and ragged clothes waddled over to the youth, lifted the table off him, and scratched his head.
“Come on, Barden, let's take the boy out of here," the man muttered, stroking his bushy mustache.
Another man, already gray-haired with a long beard stood up with a groan. He walked with a limp and it looked like he couldn't fully straighten his back. “Goddamn Sons," he mumbled while helping his friend drag out the youth who looked anything but alive.
Gradually a quiet muttering started in the tavern and the evening seemed to return to normal albeit without the overt hostility the Sons of the Sun had caused earlier. The barmaid went to pick up the fallen chairs and then shuffled back to serve thirsty customers. Mirlín tore her gaze off the puddle on the floor and shivered. She had not expected that the terror and tyranny of the Sons was so deep-rooted that regular townsfolk did not dare to stand up for themselves or one another. Is there anyone out there ready to fight for these people? Or have all the citizens of Rodal submitted themselves to the bloody reign of the Sun? Then Mirlín remembered a story she had heard several years ago about a country that had existed somewhere near the borders of Rodal, a military state consisting only of soldiers and children becoming soldiers and even they had crumbled before the Sons of the Sun. What chance do ordinary people have if even a country founded on warfare didn't stand a chance?
Mirlín's musings came to an abrupt halt when she noticed a dark-clad girl enter the tavern with a goofy boy at her tail. The woman almost choked on her drink. Damn! I'm so gonna give Fyen a beating for this! Oh yeah, except I can't really tell her I saw her here and she better not see me either, Mirlín reasoned quickly and looked around for an escape.
"Excuse me but you happen to have a back entrance here?" she asked the barmaid who was now standing behind the counter, washing empty tankards. She nodded and pointed at a door behind her.
"You mind if I slip out that way?" Mirlín asked, already ducking a little so that Fyen and Desiderius would not notice her.
"It's a free country... or used to be anyway," the maid answered laconically.
Mirlín thanked her and headed to the door. She stepped to a back alley and walked quickly to where Reynaer was waiting for her.
"Is everything alright?" the man asked.
"Fyen and Desiderius just decided to sway into another tavern... so now they are here."
Reynaer slapped his forehead and groaned. "That girl is going to send me into an early grave."
"I think I'm giving up. She can get as drunk as she wants, wherever she wants, and kick as many mercenary asses as she wants," Mirlín sighed.
"I guess it doesn't make much difference what we want her to do," Reynaer grumbled. Then he scratched his head and glanced at Mirlín. "Kinda reminds me of myself when I was younger to tell you the truth."
The woman let out a dry laugh. "She's imitating you, you know. That's how girls at her age are."
"Oh, I see!” Reynaer exclaimed. “She's getting it all from my side! It's never the mother's fault!"
"Oh shut up and let's go mug more maggots," she grunted and grabbed him by the arm.
They walked further down the thoroughfare and noticed a small, dilapidated place standing some distance away from other buildings. The high walls surrounding the town cast a deep shadow over the tavern. Looks like the ideal dwelling place for all kinds of scum. Excellent.
"I'll wait behind the tavern, by the wall," the man said, constantly eyeing their surroundings.
"All right, be prepared."
Mirlín straightened her dress, lifted her breasts, and headed straight to the bar. It was not quite as crowded as the other taverns had been. She ordered a drink and looked around. There were a few promising punters in sight although none of them looked older than forty which seemed somewhat strange to Mirlín.
She made eye contact with one of the men and smiled. For a moment the man looked confused but then smiled back. Encouraged, she walked over to him and anticipated an easy pull just like the first. Another man stood up, the chair screeching against the floorboards, and left. The bartender behind the counter had seemed indifferent and barely reacted when she had ordered her drink. What a drowsy place.
Mirlín leaned towards the man who had responded to her smile and asked: "Can I join you?" The man nodded and pulled out a chair for her.
Mirlín sat down and gave him another alluring smile. "Slow night, huh?"
"Not anymore. Can I buy you a drink?" the man replied but kept glancing at the stairs behind Mirlín. Apparently he knew the game.
"Sure, let's see where this night takes us," the woman said. This is going well, could get used to my new, eh, profession, Mirlín thought to herself and imagined the man getting beat up with a limp tool.
"During my search I heard rumors that you had become a whore but I never really believed it... until now," a cold voice behind her said.
Mirlín felt her heart freeze and her intestines turned to liquid. She knew that voice, it broke a dam inside her mind and all the memories surged out, wringing her guts. Mirlín spun around in her chair and met the eyes she had worked so hard to forget. Then she glanced at the door but it was blocked by three men carrying swords. She stood up and backed off but the man she had taken as a simple punter grabbed her into a chokehold.
The world turned black, fast.
Reynaer had stood outside the tavern for almost an hour now. How long can it take? If she can’t pull, she probably would have come out by now, going to find a new place to scourge. What if something's wrong? He felt a cold sensation creep into his guts. To hell with it! I'll go in and see what was going on. It's getting late anyway, we already got plenty of cash and there's no telling what worlds of trouble Fyen's gotten herself into by now.
Throwing caution to the wind, he rounded the corner and stepped into the tavern. To his surprise, the small, dank room was completely deserted save for the barkeep who was sitting behind the counter, holding a tankard in his hand. All other thoughts drained out of Reynaer's head and only this moment remained. Sensing that something serious was going on, the man became completely calm and fully focused on the situation at hand.
He walked over to the counter almost casually. "Evening, where is everybody?"
Reluctantly the barkeep raised his eyes from his ale. "Everybody left. You want something?" His voice was indifferent and bored.
Reynaer looked around. "Yeah, information. There was a blonde woman here, did she leave as well?"
The shorter man sneered. "Well, she didn't exactly leave as much as she was carried."
Reynaer leaned on the counter. "Carried by who?"
The barkeep took a long, lazy swig from his tankard, licked his lips. "It was one of the soldiers I guess. Dunno if she was passed out or knocked out. I was in the kitchen at the time."
Reynaer felt a slight surge of adrenaline but remained outwardly calm. "That's strange. Do you know what exactly happened here?"
Finishing his ale, the barkeep took a deep breath. "To start at the beginning, this weird rich bloke came to me and said he wanted to rent the whole place just for himself and his men for the whole weekend. Nobody else was allowed to come even to the bar, not even the regulars. Well, I was to allow women in, of course," the man chuckled. "Anyway, he had some soldiers and a priest of some sort with him. They just hung around, the rich guy staying in his room the whole time until the whore came. That's when they took her and left. Rich folk, eh?" The man guffawed as he drew himself another pint. "Paid me well though."
Hm, this is worse than I thought. Then something occurred to Reynaer. "The priest? Was he a Sun priest?"
The shorter man swallowed a large gulp of ale and shook his head. "Definitely not. They weren't even locals. Looked more like north people actually." He scratched his head and continued: "Come to think of it, the whore looked like a northerner too."
“What did the rich guy look like?”
The man crunched his face in thought. “Well, quite normal. Average height, average weight… short, brownish hair, around his thirties or maybe younger. Very bog-ordinary, to tell you the truth. But he had arrogant manners.”
Reynaer placed a silver coin on the bar. "Say, you didn't happen to hear where they were planning to go?"
The barkeep hesitated. "Er, not really. I overheard someone mentioning caves once, don't know if they were talking about the ones north of town."
"And where exactly would those caves be?" Reynaer asked.
"Head north, they are pretty close to the road that goes to the Isgebind Mountains," the shorter man replied. “There are many caves in this country though, so don't count on her being there."
"Right. Thanks for the information, friend," Reynaer said and left.
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