Bound in Darkness

Chapter One

Maxum slammed the hand of the large, stinking man who had challenged him down on the table. The rowdy gathering of men cheered and jeered, some thumping Maxum hard on the back in congratulations for winning the arm wrestle. Someone slapped a mug of ale into his winning hand and the reveling men began to sing a victory song in his honor.

Maxum moved away from the boisterous group and found a reasonably quiet corner of the inn, preparing to slowly enjoy the ale in his hand. He wasn’t as drunk as the other men in the room, but he was going to catch up with them. They had been celebrating since sunset but Maxum had only joined them an hour ago—­two hours past juquil’s hour when he had finally clawed his way out of the ground. Once he had healed enough to walk he had come to the inn to join his men.

They were a motley crew; five in all including himself. Each with their own special talents and each necessary for him to obtain his next talisman.

He reached into the pocket of his pants and fondled the amulet they had retrieved just that afternoon—­along with enough treasure to keep the men satisfied for quite some time.

This talisman was said to have great power; it made the wearer invulnerable to attack. He had not tested that yet so he didn’t know if it was the truth. But a talisman like that would come in quite handy in a war with a god. For, as much as he was immortal, he was not invulnerable. He could be hurt and hurt badly. And there was that little bit about a god-­made weapon taking off his head and ending it all right then and there. If there was one thing he could count on, it was that a god would have a god-­made weapon in his hands.

He didn’t take the amulet out, he didn’t put it on. He would test it tomorrow, and he didn’t want to flash it in front of the other patrons in the bar. He didn’t want to invite a thief to take it from him. To try anyway. A thief was more likely to lose his hand than succeed.

Maxum took a swig of his drink and looked around the room. There were two women there. One was the barmaid and she was being kept quite occupied by the graspy hands of his men. There was Kyno, the big lumbering orc halfbreed with his shining bald head and large meaty hands that swung a spiked club like nobody’s business. There was Dru, a slightly shy, slim figured, fiery haired spirit mage who barely had twenty-­five full turnings under his belt. There was Kilon, a slightly rotund archer whose arrows always hit their mark. And last but not least there was Doisy, a cleric, far more handsome than a religious man should be and with about just as much charm as could be fit into one person. He did not grab for the barmaid, instead preferring to tempt her with smiles and charm and wait for her to come to him. Smiles that were gaining him the fastest refills when it came to the ale in his cup.

What Maxum found interesting, however, was that his men weren’t paying any attention to the other woman in the room at all. True, she was clearly a patron and should go about unaccosted, but for all she was wearing men’s leggings and a shirt and vest to hide her womanly curves, Maxum could see them all the same. She was a shapely thing, her close-­fitting breeches leaving little mystery to the slender shape of her thighs and the cozy roundness of her ass. The vest hid her breasts for the most part so he couldn’t get a good feel for their size, but he suspected they were enough to fill a man’s hands.

She was toying with a bowl of the hot stew the innkeeper was serving for dinner, nibbling at a piece of the questionable meat within it. She noticed Maxum’s regard of her and she returned it in kind, looking him up and down. He let her look and smiled at the interest he saw flickering in her eyes. And she had pretty eyes. A beautiful jade green to complement her silvery blond hair which she had plaited into two braids on either side of her head, covering her ears. He was disappointed by the style. He expected it was quite pretty when let loose. It would be straight, he surmised, like a silver-­gold waterfall, reaching somewhere around her breasts. Those mysteriously hidden breasts.

She sat back a little, picking up her mug and taking a thoughtful sip. Then she stood up, skirted the boisterous goings-­on in the center of the room, and came to stand before Maxum.

She was nearly a strap shorter than he was, slightly built—­almost like a boy if not for those hips and . . . damn it, he wanted to see those breasts! But she had the face of a fairy, all fine bones and delicate points, right down to her small upturned nose with its gentle tip. She looked too genteel to be caught out in this kind of crowd in those kinds of clothes. She should be in a dress—­with a corset that pushed up and showed off those breasts . . . wherever they were.

“A quiet corner,” he said with a nod to the other side of the table. “Come and sit.”

She regarded him for just a moment longer, but not because she was debating the wisdom of sitting with him. She had pretty much made up her mind to do that before she’d even gotten out of her seat. Still he didn’t know exactly what was going on behind those jade eyes. It was one of the reasons he was glad she had come over.

“I didn’t take you for the quiet corner type,” she said as she slid into her seat and put her mug down on the table.

“I prefer quiet corners. My men have other ideas.”

“You’re celebrating?”

“Is it that obvious?” he said with a grin he knew was charming. His brothers had always said the gods had gifted him with charm, good looks, and a good singing voice—­all great ways to woo the ladies. And they were right. He’d caught more than his fair share with that smile.

She smiled back and relaxed in her chair. “A little bit. They’re throwing coin around like they could make it for themselves. They should be careful. It might attract the wrong element.”

Maxum chuckled richly. “We are the wrong element,” he said.

She laughed. It was a light, pretty sound but not a delicate little titter like the highborn ladies used. It was a laugh. A good, feminine laugh that made you smile to hear it. Maxum liked her more the more he discovered about her.

“What’s your name?”

“Airianne,” she said. “But you can call me Airi.”

“A light, breezy sort of name,” he noted.

She grimaced. “Oh, now you’re being unoriginal. I may have to rethink this whole situation.”

“Ah. Well, forgive me. I’ll try to be more unique from here on out.”

Maxum found that ironic actually. He was as unique as they came. It was simply a matter of not wanting everyone to know about what set him apart from everyone else on the Black Continent.

She made a show of thinking about it, but then she shrugged. “I’ll give you another chance if you tell me your name.”

“Wouldn’t that ruin the mystery of it all?”

“I rather doubt there would be much mystery if I have to call you ‘You there!’ the entire length of our short acquaintance.”

“Our acquaintance will be short?” he asked with an arched brow.

“Oh yes. If all it is based on is the mystery of your name then it will have to be short indeed. The moment I learn it, all would be over.”

“Hey, Maxum! Come roll at dice!” Doisy shouted at him from across the room.

Airi laughed. “There you see? No more mystery, nothing to compel me to stay.”

“I’m sure I have other mysteries about me,” he coaxed her with a lopsided grin.

“Do you? Do you think I would find them interesting?”

“I know you would. I promise I won’t tell you a thing about me. You can discover the answer to all your questions on your own, thereby entertaining yourself for quite a long while.”

“But I already know so much about you,” she said.

“Such as?”

“I know your name.” She winked at him. “And I know you do not like to be called Max.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your man is so drunk he would have called you by the most familiar name he uses to address you. Since he called you Maxum and not Max I can assume he has been trained very, very well not to do it . . . so well he remembers even when in his cups.”

“What else do you know?” he asked, leaning back and relaxing as he let his eyes roam over her again and again.

“Let’s see . . . you are a mercenary.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked, surprise tightening him up.

“You are well outfitted. You have spent a good amount of coin on your armor and that sword you carry. That blade was not made in any ordinary forge, I’ll bet my life on it.”

She was right. The sword was his brother’s. A god-­made weapon and a gift from Weysa. Dethan had gifted him with it when he had told them he was leaving to “seek out his own life.” He hadn’t told them his plans or his ultimate goal. But having a god-­made weapon would be crucial when fighting a god. It was a fair bet that no ordinary weapon could inflict injury otherwise.

“But being well outfitted does not a mercenary make,” he pointed out.

“Ah . . . but here your friends give you away. A mage, an orc, an archer, and a religious man make for a pretty well-­rounded group of skills. All quite marketable if someone is looking for a hired hand to help with this little or that problem.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “But you do not make all of your coin by being a sell­sword, and I think selling your sword is just a means to an end. You have different goals in mind.”

“Now you can’t possibly know that from sitting across the room,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Her insights were uncanny. A little too uncanny. He was beginning to suspect she was some kind of mage like Dru. A spirit mage could tell a lot about a person if the right powers were used.

“I know that from speaking with you. You are clearly an intelligent man. You don’t throw yourself into revelry with abandon like your men do, you keep yourself separate from their behavior. That tells me a great deal about what kind of man you are.”

“It is an off night. Tomorrow I will get just as drunk as they are.”

“I think not. No sense trying to mislead me,” she said with a smile. “Just because I can see you doesn’t mean you must try to hide.”