Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 10: First Contact

"This is Ogdensand?"

Regis stood there dumbfounded as a seething mass of people milled past him through the narrow, packed streets. Horses and mules whickered and whined as they trudged past endless rows of high topped wooden houses, each window dimly lit with flickering candlelight. Here and there guardsmen shoved their way past crowds or stopped small groups to ask their whereabouts. And above it all was a noise that made the very heavens rumble. The noise of too many people in too little space, packed in like mice in a warren. It reminded him too much of Byzantia.

"Come along," Olaf said. "Best not to dawdle during the busy hours. Don't want some fool in a cart to flatten ya' now do we?"

Regis shook his head in disbelief as he followed after the old Aulderman. "This place used to be two shacks and a rat infested inn the last time I was here. Where the hells did all these people come from?"

"A lot has changed in your absence. Twenty five years is a long time for a place like Danic. After Copperhaven was burned to the ground the remaining survivors fled west. Most ended up settling here, turning two huts into two hundred in less than a decade." He eyed the place with a wary expression. "It's only gotten worse since."

Despite the Aulderman's age he was still surprisingly spry as he slipped through the crowd with the same practiced ease as old Culter used too. "Don't dally, and make sure you check your pockets. Little fingers have been known to find themselves in places they shouldn't be. "I took the liberty of taking it before they had the chance." He turned, holding up two leather purses.

Regis puffed his cheeks in disbelief as he chased after the man through winding cobbled streets and cramped alleys. A light snow started to drizzle after a while, painting the landscape in greasy streaks of reds and oranges from the reflectant candlelight. With Aurora's sun hidden behind the King's endless darkness, candlemakers had taken on the work for her.

By the time they'd reached their destination Regis was soaked down to his furs. The building they'd stopped for the night was an inn of sorts, a ramshackle two story stone house crammed into one corner of the city. A dingy signpost hung on a brittle chain nearly obliterated with rust, The King's Jewels written on a rotten piece of wood in streaky paint.

"There a reason we're stopping at this particular shithole tonight?" Regis asked, pointing at the sign. He stared over at Olaf, beads of melted snow dripping off the man's mustaches.

"The ale is decent. The stew is good. And the beds are cheap," Olaf said. Then, rather quickly, "Also our contact asked me to meet him here."

"Contact? You didn't tell me we were meeting someone. Hells, you haven't even told me what kind of farking prophecy I've set into bloody motion. I've been following you out of trust so far, my old friend, but I do have my limits."

Olaf sucked in a lungful of cold air and blew it out. "Fair point, my Jarl. Of the prophecy I do owe you an explanation, at the very least. The contact, however, I will explain later when they arrive. Speaking of them now would only endanger us both."

"Endanger?" Regis balked. But the Aulderman had already slipped into The Kings Jewels, leaving him alone to steam outside.

"Oh, I'm being taken for a bloody ride," he grumbled as he marched inside.

The smell of sour bodies and sour ale was the first thing to hit him as he took stock of the place. Then came the heavy aroma of boiled cabbage, biting at his nose like an over eager puppy. He took in a deep breath, eyeing where Olaf had gone amidst the ragged looking crowd. Most were sitting at tables or standing by the fireplace, drinking from weathered mugs or spooning stew from a bowl. A majority were keen enough to avoid his gaze, but a few had eyes on him. Tired eyes. Hard eyes.