Chapter 34: Forced Perspective

Dakin Oovert raised the dented, shiny goblet for another drink, his eyes fascinated with the twinkling light reflecting off its curved surface. The liquid inside, though, sloshed and splashed, the goblet shaking. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He opened them, but the goblet continued to move. Not closer to his lips and not farther, just stopped, halfway from the table to his lips, but shaking back and forth. With a tight swallow, he stared forlornly at his trembling hand. It was not the first time he had lost control of his hands in the past two days. He didn’t feel it would be the last.

He took a deep breath as he returned the goblet to the table, the gritty smell of burning wood, spilled mead and unwashed bodies lying heavy on the air of the tavern. The stench was so familiar by now, he paid it no mind. Instead, his hand left the goblet and he raised it to his eye level, pulling his fingers into a tight fist.

He was losing control of his hands and arms. He was losing control of his feet and legs. All of his appendages periodically trembled now and there were times when he wasn’t able to find the strength to rise – or to move at all. He stared down at the scored wooden table, its surface a darkened patina from smoke and dirt and age. He tapped his fist upon it lightly and, ignoring the wet splash of spilt ale, willed his trembling hand to stop. Eventually, the quaking eased, and he blew out the breath he didn’t even know he had held.

He closed his eyes tightly as he wondered if there would come a time when the shuddering would not stop.

He immediately re-opened them. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing that damned knife, spinning end over end in the air, only to inevitably embed itself in his upper chest with a sickening thump. The knife had become his personal chaos. He couldn’t escape it. His nightmares were filled with it, both during the day and for those few moments he’d been able to sleep at night.

He turned his tired, burning eyes back to the table. The plate in front of him was filled with some kind of stew, but he’d barely touched it. He couldn’t taste it. He couldn’t taste anything.

He reached for his goblet again, his hand back under control. He couldn’t taste the mead, either, but at least if he drank enough of it, it’d let him forget for a time. He kept hoping if he drank enough of the potent brew, it would lead him to a sleep beyond the nightmares, but so far he’d been disappointed. Even passed out drunk, he could not escape that spinning blade.

The absolute worst part was he couldn’t figure out why he’d followed Hawksley in the first place. He was no hero. Oh, he didn’t mind being taken for a hero as long as it was from a safe distance and didn’t involve anything strenuous.

It was yet another in the myriad reasons he’d offered to be the princess’ personal guard. The Knights, the trainees – chaos, the entire town – would step in front of the princess to be sure she came to no harm. The safest place for him was in her company.

But she’d laughed at him. Hawksley had laughed at him. Even Sir Givens had laughed at him. Oh, they’d couched it in platitudes, but they’d still laughed as they assigned the Tulat boy – a commoner! – and his father to protect her. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d been judged and found seriously wanting.

At the time, it had galled him. At the time, it had angered him. He’d swallowed it as he’d plotted, but he had been humiliated. Back then, he couldn’t understand what the two blacksmiths had that he did not. He couldn’t understand how Hawksley could appoint them and overlook someone with noble blood right in front of her.

Now, he knew. In the vaults of his own mind, where he could be truthful with himself, he’d known even then. The blacksmiths were superior to him in every way. They were fearless. They were determined.

And Yren Tulat was a far better warrior than him. He could admit that openly now, though he’d always known it in the truthful vault of his mind. In training, he’d never once gotten the better of Yren except when the boy had let him. He’d convinced himself otherwise for his pride’s sake, but he’d always known it wasn’t true.

Slightly – sometimes fully – drunk and sitting in his darkened corner, he’d heard stories of Yren’s prowess. He was certain some of the stories he’d heard from men at other tables was wildly exaggerated, but he knew there had to be some truth to them. It was unlikely the boy had single-handedly killed a hundred men as some of the townsfolk had boasted, but it was obvious the young man had killed more than a few.

Just as it was unlikely the Blue Demon – that was what the townsfolk were calling Yren now – had lit his armor on fire and deflected balls of arcane flames. He searched for the nugget of truth in the preposterous stories.

He didn’t doubt there were balls of flame being thrown, but Yren probably just dodged them. For all his tremendous size and bulging muscle, the man was preternaturally quick and agile. Perhaps he’d come too close to one and it had burned a bit on his armor – thus, the tale of him setting his armor on fire.

Yes, that was the more likely truth. It took nothing away from Yren, but he’d sparred with the young man, and he knew Yren to be strong, brave, fast and true – not the magical beast into which the locals were making him.

Or maybe he just needed to cut the man down to feel better about himself. If that was the truth of things, it wasn’t working. He almost wished Yren were this fantastic beast, only because he wouldn’t feel so low in comparison.

He reached again for his goblet, only to notice his hand trembling again.

“Over yonder,” Goodman Clerin said softly, nodding his head to the darkened corner where Dakin Oovert sat slumped in on himself. The tavern wasn’t overly large, but the keeper had a vested interest in keeping it partially hidden in shadows. Men tended to drink more when they couldn’t be seen clearly. The young man had sat himself in the darkest corner he could find. His face couldn’t be seen but the young man’s posture spoke of a man broken and alone.

“Thanks for sending for me,” Sir Givens replied, clasping the smaller, rounder man on the shoulder firmly. “How long has he been here?”

“Mornin’ after t’Battle,” Clerin replied, his face set into a frown. “Popped in as y’please afore I’d even opened. Chaos, I t’wasn’t even gonna open but he made me mind up. He looked like he needed a drink and I figgered t’would be others be needin’ food and drink.”

“How much has he drank?” Givens asked, pursing his lips.

“Drank?” Clerin said, shaking his head. “A lot. T’be truthful, I ain’t kept track. I been offerin’ food and drink wit’out chargin’ to them as comes for it.”

“Eatin’, though,” Clerin said, looking intently at Sir Givens. “Eatin’s a diff’ent horse. T’stew in front o’ him been dere since yesterday. I know ‘cause I replaced t’porridge he never touched from t’day before. No, he been drinkin’ and sleeping – at t’table and up in a room, when I’d can get him up there. Figger three days, just sit dere drinkin’. Not poundin’ ‘em, mind ya. Steady, though.”

“Thanks, Milden,” Tergin replied, his hand squeezing the brewmaster’s shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Sir Givens walked slowly to the table in the far corner. The tavern was hot, a small fire in the hearth putting out an inordinate amount of heat as it hissed and crackled. Lanterns supplemented the flickering light of the small fire, keeping the tavern barely lit with plenty of shadows dancing around the room. The smell of fresh bread drifted on the motionless air, undercut at times with the smell of charring meat, or the woody smell of smoke. The oak tables lent a flavor of sawdust to the smells in the room. They were clean and dry but, much like the rest of Hasp, they’d seen better days.

As he approached his target, his eyes moved over every part of the young man slumped at the table. When he was within a few strides, his nose rankled at a foul odor which cut away the pleasant tavern smells. He could smell the dank, coppery putrescence of dried blood. He looked closer and could see Oovert was in the same clothes as he’d worn in the battle, minus the armor. His trousers were blood-stained, and the front of his doublet was a mass of hardened blood. At least he’d taken off his chain mail.

“Mind if I sit here?” Tergin asked the young man.

Dakin looked up at the man and Sir Givens couldn’t help the look of shock that crossed his face. Dakin looked nothing like the pretty noble that had shown up at his door years earlier. His dark, brown hair was matted and tangled, his cheeks were hollow and his face extremely pale. His eyes were a deep red that ran beyond even being simply bloodshot and there was a haunted hollowness in them that caused Tergin to swallow hard.