©1994-2001 Ian A. Ralph & Kelly C. Naylor Chapter IV: Roark Roark rolled over and slowly became aware that an expected warmth was missing. His arm moved, searching the bed, and discovered that the blankets were cold, indicating that she hadn't returned last night. He slowly opened his eyes to the gray morning predawn and confirmed that she was not in bed with him. He sat up, the chill morning air raising goosebumps on his bare chest, and shook his head a little. He was alone in the small room. He wasn't surprised at either her disappearance or his lack of concern. He didn't have any claim on her, and she didn't have any on him. It was a relationship more of convenience and companionship rather than of love. He had been waking up alone more often of late, but what was more of a surprise was that he had been sleeping with her at all. Cilcia was a strange young woman. A princess of a small, unknown land, daughter of a vampire lord, and by his friend Timor's reckoning, possibly one of the most powerful mages of the world. That alone was enough to send shivers up Roark's back. He didn't like mages, Timor was the only real exception. Then, the fair-haired, half-elven Timor was an exception among mages. He didn't seek the political power that other mages vied for, but then Timor said that he didn't have enough talent to bother with, and was happy with the meager ability he had. And now, here he was, sleeping with one. Roark shook his head again, and sat up on the side of the bed, resting his head in his hands. It wasn't a relationship that either Cilcia or himself were seeking. It just sorta happened. His thoughts drifted back several months. Timor and he were in the darklands, exploring and searching for first age ruins, but except for the occasional standing stone, there had been no sign of any previous inhabitants. Then, having lost their supplies, they stumbled into a civilized area, farther east than anyone had recorded going before. It all appeared nice and friendly until they discovered that the lord of that area was a vampire. They got involved in a plot to assassinate the Vampire Lord, and gained the daughter of the lord as an ally in their efforts. Unfortunately, the plot was discovered, their efforts failed. However, the Lord Gregory, instead of killing them, banished them, along with his daughter, from his kingdom, and charged Timor and himself with the well-being of his daughter, in hopes that she would see the world and learn that not all decisions are easy or straightforward. In this way, the lord hoped that his daughter would come to accept the decisions that he had been forced to make. His friend Timor was obviously attracted to the petite, raven-haired daughter, who was already an accomplished master mage, endowed with a high talent for the mysteries of the arcane, and trained by her father. Roark had supposed that Cilcia would likewise return the interest, as he himself made no effort to hide his distaste for her talents and heritage. But it hadn't happened that way. On the return journey to Tasalon, they had finally discovered an untouched ruin from the first age. During the exploration, they came to depend on each others skills and abilities to survive the dangers buried within the ruin. A sense of mutual respect grew between Roark and Cilcia, as he discovered that she didn't rest on her heritage. She was determined to be a useful and productive member of the group, as well as being fearless in battle. She didn't hold back her talents, but used them to the best of their advantage, and didn't expect to receive any respect or honor for her talents as the mages of the Corinthian Empire demanded. As they neared the border, while Cilcia and Roark were waiting in a hollow while Timor scouted ahead, Cilcia surprised him with an unexpected kiss, and to his own surprise, found himself returning it. They became lovers, but they stayed friends and companions without actually falling in love. It was an odd relationship, and Cilcia was an exciting lover, but neither of them asked for any type of commitment from the other. Roark was somewhat surprised by Timor's reaction to Cilcia taking him to bed. He didn't seem to mind or be surprised that Cilcia had chosen Roark, and accepted their relationship. So Roark wasn't surprised to be spending less time with Cilcia once they arrived in Tasalon. It was a big city, and a way of life new to her, and she wanted to explore it all, and didn't want to hang around an old merc like himself when there was so much to experience. He didn't worry about her. She was well able to take care of herself, and both Timor and he tried to teach her what to expect and how to be careful in the city. Roark sighed and poured some water into the basin from the pitcher and got cleaned up. He didn't begrudge Cilcia exploring, but damn, he missed having her around. Part of him couldn't wait for another adventure to crop up that would force her back into his company full time, and another part was relieved that she was gone, and hoped that she wouldn't return. Another sigh escaped him as he got dressed, absently noticing that Cilcia had taken some of her clothes with her. His stomach reminded him of it's existence as he slipped on the familiar weight of his cloak to ward off the morning chill. "Yeah, yeah… we're getting' something,' he muttered to his stomach. His money pouch made a faint jingle as he headed down the stairs from his modest apartment above the leatherworks. His nose twitched as acrid fumes floated up the stairway. Some days it was better than others, and no doubt an incentive for Cilcia to find another bed. He was used to the smells, and didn't mind them too much, but her aristocratic nose wasn't used to such harsh odors. He locked the bottom door with a complicated key that a locksmith had sworn was unpickable by thieves. Roark was unconvinced at first, but the smith had one like it on his own door, and said that he never had been broken into. And so far, neither had he. Which was good. He didn't have the cash to replace his sword that was stored up in his apartment. As it was, he'd be lucky to get another job before his meager funds gave out. He paused in the street outside his door. Sounds of bellows and metal pounding on metal rang in the air from a couple of local blacksmiths, and the smell of hot metal mixed with the tangy odor of the leathersmiths, with a faint whiff of the dyers making it upwind. It smelled good, in a way. The good, honest hard work of pounding out metal, shaping it, the satisfaction of making a good product. The sounds and smells were comfortable, familiar. Reminded him of home, before the bad time came. Roark pushed the thoughts out of his head. Before breakfast was not a time for gloomy and sad thoughts. He wandered east towards the river, heading into the more mercantile section of the city. He tried to decided what he wanted to break his fast with, then realized that what was bothering him was not what to eat, but who he was going to eat with. He wasn't close to anyone in the city. Cilcia was gone, Timor had a place in the Merchant's quarter of the city, but wouldn't be up for several more hours likely, and his uncle no longer owned the blacksmith's next to the apartment. He and wife had moved out into the country a few years ago. Roark realized that he would be eating alone, except for whatever chance company he ran into. And as long as it wasn't a mage, he'd be happy. Cilcia after all was just another aristocratic mage, dropping him as soon as she found others of her own kind. Just as well that she left. Roark decided that he didn't want anything to do with mages ever again. All they do is bring him trouble. One killed his parents, another got him lost in the darklands, and yet a third was ripping his heart out. He shoulda known better that to get involved with Cilcia in the first place. Even if she was cute, warm, cuddly, and really, really good in bed. She wasn't his kind. He was just a normal, untalented, unspecial, underpaid, overworked mercenary. At least Timor was at least some sort of talent. Even that meager bit put his friend Timor in the upper class. He himself was at best just upper lower, or lower middle class. Roark stomped down the street, scowling darkly, ignoring everyone and everything he went past. All mages cared about was power. Political power and magical power. Ever since the previous Emperor discovered that he was a mage, and then made a proclamation that because those with talent were rare, they were to be nurtured and protected, and automatically became members of the upper class, even royalty. The entire Court of the Emperor of Corinthia became mages. Those who didn't have the talent found themselves on the street, or hung. Over the past forty years since the Palace purge, Mages have become appointed governors, judges, and other high offices. Thousands of applicants attend the mage festival in the spring, to be tested and see if they had enough of the power to be admitted to the Royal mage colleges. Roark snorted. At best only up to a dozen applicants a year had enough of the talent to be considered for membership in the royal college. The best a "normal" like himself could expect to achieve now as a civil servant was to be a clerk or an assistant. Anyone with the talent got preference for the important positions. Even the commander in chief of the royal army was a battlemage now, although in the army, a normal could still be an officer and achieve a decently high rank because there weren't enough mages to go around. Yet. The time would come though when the requirement to become an officer would be some degree of magery, regardless of the person's actual military skill. And what was left for guys like himself? Bodyguards or bounty hunters were just about the only respectable, good paying avenues left. This though caused Roark to feel his money pouch. Not much in there. Well, a stint as a bounty hunter would improve that. Not the safest job in the world, but he could take care of himself and had a modest reputation as a fighter. First, however, to tend to the matter of his growling stomach. No longer concerned about what companions he might end up with for breakfast, he turned into the first door that offered the smells of something worth eating. Later, after an uneventful meal of biscuits and cream, Roark found his way to the Swords Guild. It was the local clearing house for those that attempted to make a living via a sword or other type of weapon, usually in a legal manner as a mercenary, gladiator, bodyguard, or such. Though if one knew the right ear to whisper in, one could be directed to the thieves guild. The building was located in the south-eastern section of the city, not too far from the docks or the main fair field. It, like many other buildings in Tasalon, was of wooden construction, two stories high, with large open windows that could be shuttered to the feirce sea-storms that raked up the coast about a half-dozen times a year. The shutters were secured against the outer walls around the windows, and it was clear that the once-bright red and yellow building was in need of a new paint job. A huge, 9 foot long two-handed bastard sword hung over the main entrance, consisting of two large doors. The doors were opened inward to allow the fresh, warming morning air to circulate in, dispelling most of the smell of sweaty and/or unwashed men and occasional women who frequented the guild hall in search of employment. The main hall was open, with six posts scattered through the room to give the second floor support. Benches lined the walls, already about half full of opportunity seeking combat veterans and gladiator wannabes, a few apparently still too young to shave, several with missing fingers and ears, and a couple missing a leg or arm. To the right as he entered were large bulletin boards posting various opportunities mounted on the wall, separated by two open windows looking out over an alleyway. At the far end of the room were two desks manned by bored clerks shuffling through piles of parchments and papers. A short hallway lead behind them to several interview rooms, and eventually a stairway to the second floor. Roark glanced over the people sitting on benches, waiting to be called for their interviews or hoping a opportunity would just walk in the door. Several glanced expectantly over to him until they realized he wasn't a prospective employer. He went over to the boards to see what was posted. Most seemed like it was the typical stuff. Common laborer jobs apparently filled most of the first eight foot board. He skimmed over them, not really wanting to spend the next several months digging ditches or building waterways. He did file them in the back of his mind though. While not ideal work, it would keep him from starving. The second board held a little more promise. Caravan guards wanted. Naw, thought Roark. He had enough travel, and the last thing he wanted to do was babysit a merchant that would no doubt be telling him how to do his job. He hated micromanagers. Gladiatorial prospects wanted. Not bloody likely, he thought. Waiting to stand in turn to have a chance of getting your head chopped off wasn't his idea of fun. Ah, a bodyguard position…for the Lord Mage Neilson…forget that. No mages. He didn't want anything to do with them anymore. Three more bodyguard positions were posted, all for different mages. Roark sighed, and moved past another window to the third board that offered military and law enforcement opportunities. He wasn't interested in signing up for an army or a sheriff's position, but maybe there would be a lucrative bounty-hunter target posted. Most of the wanted posters seemed to be small-timers, that didn't pay enough bounty to even justify the poster itself. Roark first became aware of the stranger when the crook of the cane slid around his neck. With a startled gurgle, Roark spun around, his hands futilely reaching for the sword that he left carefully put away back in his room, then froze as he recognized his assailant. "Kirris! Excuse me, Sergeant Kirris, Sir!" exclaimed Roark as he smiled at his assailant. Sargent Kirris was large man, broad of shoulder, with a wry grin on his weathered and lined face, framed by his medium length gray hair. Kirris removed his cane from Roark's neck and leaned on it while he shook his head. "Sergeant no longer, my lad. Retired now. Please, just call me Mallock." "Yessir." Mallock? thought Roark. Didn't know the old goat had a first name. "Uh, sure, Sarg…er, Mallock. It's good to see you again." Kirris smiled. "After the time I gave you when you were in my company? I'm sure. I am glad to see you are still around Roark. You were one of the smarter ones. You made it up to Captain, didn't you? I tried to keep an ear out for your activities. Like to know how my pups do in the world." Flattered, Roark couldn't think of anything to say. He had been sure that Sergeant Kirris had hated his guts and was no doubt happy when Roark left the company when he got promoted to sergeant himself back in his army days. "Uhm, yeah. Got up to Captain, Mallock. I retired last year from the company." "I though I had heard that." Mallock looked over the younger man. "Say, you got a minute or two for an old comrade in arms? I gotta proposition for ya." "Yeah, sure. Plenty of time," replied Roark. Roark followed his old sergeant to the back of the hall, aware of the envious eyes of the waiting applicants, and through the hallway. Mallock lead him up the stairs to a small office with a window that overlooked a back alleyway. The office was small, just room enough for the desk and three chairs. Papers were stacked neatly on the desk, and a map of the Corinthian empire covered the width of one wall. Mallock got into the chair behind the desk and sat down with a grateful sigh as Roark took the chair that could see the map better. Maps were rare enough, but one this large and detailed must have cost a small fortune. Roark thought he could even see the small trail that Timor and he took to the barrier mountains last year that lead into the Darklands. "Hah. Nice map, huh?" Roark nodded in response. Mallock pointed his cane at it. "Came from the house of Everwan, it did." Roark gave a low whistle. Everwan was an elderly elf who lived on the edge of the city, and had been spending the last fifty years making beautiful and accurate maps of the world from his memories of several hundred years of wandering across the land. "And I bet you'd like to know why I have it, and what I'm gonna offer you, too." Mallock hung his cane on the side of the desk, produced a pipe and tabacca, and leaned back in his chair and slowly filled his pipe and lit it while the suspense built up in Roark. Roark tried to think what it could mean. Sergeant Kirris always wanted his people to be able to figure out what was going one on their own based on as few clues as possible. One of the reasons why his company was always one of the top in demand for mercenary outfits. Roark examined the map, trying to see what was significant about it, other than it's source, and why such a map was needed in the first place. "Fergit, son. You won't be able to figure out this one from the map. I'll just have to tell ya." Mallock took a big puff on the pipe. "I'm putting together a special company of troops. Smaller than the usual size. Just need about forty good soldiers. And I need a good Captain. A smart one, a careful one. One like you. You interested?" Roark looked at his old ex-sergeant sitting under his bluish-gray cloud of smoke. "Sounds interesting. And what is this company going to be doing? And for who? And where?" Mallock smiled at him. "Could be just about anything, as I understand it, and just about anywhere. Can't say for who, though. They would prefer to work anonymously. I would be your contact. But they would be paying well. 2500 shields a year for the captain, plus the usual sacking percentage." "Wow. That is good. But travel, you say? I'm kinda hoping to stick in one area for a while," replied Roark. Mallock laughed. "Son, ya can't earn decent money around here. I saw you looking at the wanted posters. You'd be doing a heck of a lot more travelling chasing down one of those bad guys than with this company. This is safer and the pay is better. Whadda say?" "Wow. Awfully tempting. But we won't know who we're working for?" Roark scowled. "That means we could be working for a mage. I don't, won't work for a mage. Had enough of them." "Can't tell ya that, ma boy. You have to make up your own mind. You certainly won't be working with a mage, and if the money's good, what difference does that make then? Come on, you are just the man I need for this. You can even pick and choose the soldiers you want in your company." Roark sat back and thought. It's a great opportunity, but not really what I want to do. Pays well, but might be a mage's money. Well, better the money than the company of the mage. He sighed. It was awfully tempting, and the pay was good. Just as Roark had about decided, from the window came sounds of leathery flapping of small wings. A small black flikat landed on the window sill, and made a "chirrup" noise at Roark. Mallock almost fell backwards in his chair. "Damn familiars. Not even started yet and we're being spied upon." Mallock started reaching for his cane to take a swipe at the aerial feline. "No, no, it's okay, I think," said Roark. "Fiji, that you? Timor sent you?" "Chirrup," replied the flikat. Fiji stepped gently into the room onto Roark's lap, and deposited a small note of parchment onto Roark's outstretched hand. Mallock watched the animal suspiciously as Roark unfolded the parchment. As he surmised, it was from Timor. Roark, Have job. Meet me and client at Forest Inn outside of city on east road tonight. Timor. Roark looked at the flikat. "Tell Timor I'll meet him there, okay? Understand?" Fiji chirruped again, and took off from Roark's lap, eliciting a yelp from him as the flikat's claws dug through his pants. Fiji quickly disappeared through the window as Roark rubbed his sore thighs. "I hate it when he does that." Mallock's eyebrows were raised. "So what was that all about?" "Oh, a partner of mine apparently found us a job." "A mage?" asked Mallock. "I though you didn't want to work with mages." "He's not really one, or much of one. But he is a good friend," replied Roark. "I'm sorry, Mallock. You got a pretty good deal here, but I'm going to have to pass on it right now. I'm not interested in getting back into the army game." He stood up, and Mallock got to his feet as well. "That's a shame, son. We could really use you, but you gotta follow your path. I hope ours crosses again soon." "Me too, old man," replied Roark as he shook the other man's hand. "I'll come visit you and we can go for a drink when I get back." "Deal. See you later, son." Roark took another last look at the marvellous map, then exited the office to prepare to meet Timor and the client. As he left the guild, he noticed clouds gathering to the south, and hoped the storm would hold off until after he got to the inn.