The Twiceborn: Chiaroscuro

Chapter 14: Part Two: They Shall Take Shape Beneath Moonlight

"No hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle."--Churchill

                  The morning dawned uncharacteristically cool and Duran opened up the Livery with a sense of optimism.  Everything appeared the same outside, right down to the thick smell of Fetch's grease-fried pork bread, a staple for anyone who'd gotten ripped to the tits the night before.

The shadows were gone.  They no longer wound their way like snakes through the trees or clotted in the corners of the buildings.  A heavy weight lifted from Duran's chest and a vast relief swept over him.  The kind of relief that only a man who'd gone from death to life within a day could understand.

It wasn't entirely over.  He'd have to spend a few days in church and would wind up tithing a good amount of coin, along with some material possessions, but that was jim-dandy compared to the alternative.  And he'd have to deal with Havnor.  He ducked his head and scowled as he glanced up the road.

A mud-brown 'stag plodded along, its ratty tail swishing sullenly back and forth at a quick rate.  Duran suddenly grinned at the sight.  He knew 'stags well enough to see a potential balls-to-the-wall explosion in the works.  The rider was as tall and thin as a broomstick and Duran's grin stretched wider.

"He's going to be off of there right quick like once that 'stag starts to boil."  Duran thought gleefully.  Part of him wanted to see that, see this gangly man fly through the air and land in a bone-bruising heap in the dust just so he could laugh loud and long.  He had a feeling it might be his only chuckle of the day.

As if on cue, the 'stag bowed his back and gave 3 quick, stiff-legged hops.  The rider, dust flying off his threadbare robes, cursed and yanked the reins up hard.

"You sorry, jack-off runt bastard-"

Duran started to chuckle.

"-son of a bitch, my boot is going straight up your worthless ass so far you're going to-"

Duran put his hands on his knees and began to laugh.

"-shit leather for days-"

The little 'stag tacked like a wayward ship towards the Livery and Duran quickly side-stepped the angry brown rump that came swinging about in his direction.

"Hey, watch your mount."

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The raw-boned man scowled down at the boy struggling to control his laughter.  His ass felt like it had been worn down with sanded parchment, the inside of his mouth was crusted with dust because the water had gone bad at the last spring he'd stopped at and now this little pissant was just waiting to see him get knocked on his ass.

"Hey, watch yourself." He grunted.  "Word's out that devil whore is around these parts...seen her?"

Duran grabbed the 'stag's bridle and played with the bit to hold the animal's attention.

"Why? And who are you, anyway?"

"Grif.  From Lochedge.  I have a message for her.  Got any more questions, boy?"

Grif held himself back to keep from flying off the 'stag and knocking the shit out of this nosy little bastard.  If he had a pint of ale for every time he'd been asked that question, he'd be drunk as a lord by now.

Duran shrugged and rubbed the little 'stag's nose.  

 "She's in the Livery.  Are you going to stay in town for a while? If so, you might think about stabling your 'stag.  A lot of people don't like having them hitched on the street."