The journey back to the tavern was made in a silence that tasted of victory, but the awakening of the world around them was far noisier. When Alistair crossed the threshold of the inn, the air, thick with smoke and sweat, seemed to part before him. The Ferralian steel that now adorned him caught every pale sliver of light from the lamps, casting a cold, lunar glow that made the eyes of the regulars – men and women of short and doubtful lives – fix on him with a mixture of greed and fear. Alistair didn't grant them the honour of a glance; he walked with his chin high and his shoulders broad, bearing the posture of a lord who had just inherited a kingdom and was ready to hang anyone who doubted his title.
At the back of the hall, Hector's table was more crowded, now sharing bread and sour wine with two figures who didn't belong to these lands.
– I see you've brought the Cardos back – Hector roared, his raspy voice cutting through the din. – And I see that luck remains Alistair's mistress. Where did you rob that shine?
Hector gestured toward the two foreigners. The introductions were brief but heavy with meaning. To the right sat Rian, a man bronzed by the pitiless sun of the Solterran Empire, with eyes that seemed to read the price of every man and woman in the room. To the left, sitting with a block of ice, was Tito, a pale warrior from the lands of Isolara, with a forked beard that reached his chest and scars that told stories of bloody winters.
Tito did not smile. He fixed his steel-coloured eyes on Alistair, studying the lines of his face as if analysing an open wound. Then, he uttered a harsh, guttural sentence, with words that sounded like stones clashing together in the Isolaran tongue.
Rian, who knew well the brutal nature of his Isolaran companion and the language he spoke, leaned forward and translated with a creative smirk:
– Tito says your deeds have reached his ears, even in the far north. He says he hopes your fame as a great warrior isn't exaggerated, as he yearns to see you in action.
Alistair, bloated with pride and ignorant of the nuances of the northern tongue, nodded with a magnanimous bow.
– Tell the barbarian that my fame is like the sun – Alistair replied, placing his shield on the table with a crystalline ring. – It may blind the unwary, but it is always true. I am glad to know that even in the islands they speak of Alistair the Unbreakable. Bards have a habit of shortening my victories so as not to tire the audience, but my enemies have far longer and bloodier stories to tell.
In truth, Tito had just said that Alistair was the ugliest creature he'd ever had the misfortune to behold and that his face resembled the arse of a mangy ox. Lucius, beside him, lowered his head to hide a laugh, while Tito grunted again, likely wondering why the man with the arse-face was grinning at him.
Marcus, whose hands were the size of hams, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, exchanging a quick look with Roderick. The stern-featured knight merely pressed his lips together, a small wrinkle of suppressed amusement appearing at the corner of his eye. Both knew the harsh dialect of the Isolaran isles well enough to know Tito wasn't singing anyone's praises, but silence was a valuable currency at that table, and no one was willing to spend it to save Alistair's ego.
Hector, however, had no patience for bards' farces. He slammed his fist onto the table, making the mugs jump and murky wine splash the wood. The amusement died instantly, replaced by the gravity his voice carried.
– The Kingdom of Aurelia is a corpse that still twitches, and the crows are already fighting over the eyes – Hector said, his voice low and laden with dark fury. – While traitors like Lorenzo Verdegrande lick the boots of Solterran ambassadors, seeking gold and favours under the Sun banner, the loyal resistance to King Alaric II withers in holes like this. But loyalty doesn't fill stomachs, and patriotism doesn't win battles without men who know which end of a spear to hold.
The Brigade leader leaned over the table, the candlelight casting grotesque shadows on his scarred face.
– We need more than a pack of mad dogs. We need an army. And for that, we need Monte-Claro – Hector looked at each of them, his single eye fixed and devouring. – Count Valerius of Monte-Claro is the Lord of Ponteverde, a man of ancient pride, carved from the granite of his mountains. Valerius nursed a hatred for the Verdegrande family that goes back three generations of insults and stolen lands; he'd rather see his castle reduced to ash than bend the knee to Lorenzo or submit to Solterra's whims. If we get his support, we'll have the shield we need to face General Salgado and the Solterran army. If we fail, Ponteverde will just be the place where our bones are left to bleach in the rain.
No one dared speak, nor did they think to challenge their leader. They knew what had to be done, but hearing the mission they had to fulfil uttered in such a way sent a chill down everyone's spine – except for Tito, who was watching the innkeeper's wife's tits while she served mugs of dark ale to other customers, paying no mind to what Hector was saying.
– Count Valerius is not a man for sweet words or bards' promises – Hector continued, the scars on his face looking like furrows of dry earth under the candlelight. – He is made of stone and iron, like the mountains he rules. But his hatred for Lorenzo Verdegrande is a flame that never went out. If we give him the chance to shove steel into the Viscount's throat, he'll open his gates and his gold pouches. With Ponteverde's backing, the Brigade stops being a pack of starving dogs and becomes the vanguard of a kingdom. We'll have spears, we'll have horses, and above all, we'll have a cause for which even the dead would rise to fight. Aurelia's fate won't be decided here, in the middle of this mud and sour wine, it'll be decided by whether Valerius joins us for glory. If he refuses us, we march to the Underworld, but we'll march on our own bloody terms.
Alistair felt the weight of the new responsibility and let out a long, melancholy sigh. He had dreamed of a night's rest, with a mattress that didn't have bedbugs and wine that didn't burn his insides, but the gods, it seemed, had little interest in the rest of Alistair, whose time of peace had lasted less than a dying man's breath.
– Ponteverde... – Alistair murmured to his own reflection in the shield, as he stood up and felt his joints protest. – More roads, more castles, and more grumpy old bastards thirsty for revenge. Solarius forgive me, but I'm starting to think my old life of running from creditors was, deep down, just a bloody long holiday.