Chapter 46: Chapter 43: Hail the Victorious Hero

The assistant driver leaned over and gave the side wall of the carriage a good, strong rap. Jack jerked awake and glared owl-eyed around the cabin. Three of the former captives, whose names he now knew were Illie, Nenum, and Josimie, were seated in the rear seat, across from where he lay crosswise in the front.

He yawned and struggled not to stretch. The trip had been rough, despite the so-called springs of the carriage, and he was feeling some beat up. Hard to believe it had been less than two weeks since he’d walked into the bandit camp in some sort of battle haze.

He carefully levered himself upright, and leaned out the window, knocking on the side wall in his turn.

The assistant driver leaned over again and let him know they were nearing Mokkelton, pointing over his shoulder. Jack recognized the words Mokkelton and soon. The rest, not so much. He was flying solo for this run, as Meynardo was riding in a separate wagon with the rest of his people, and Tiarraluna was riding with Millie and Juniper in their parents' wagon.

Millie was supposedly teaching her to drive, but who knew what they were really up to?

Jack nodded and slid his head back inside, where an uncomfortable silence awaited him. Two of the girls were not unfriendly. They recognized him as their savior, and had thanked him before the whole cavalcade had left the ferry station.

The third, however. Illie. She broke his heart, and he couldn’t help but wish the two farm girls had taken her in their wagon. She sat quietly, staring vacantly ahead, with a thousand yard stare. She didn’t speak, she didn’t move. Whatever they’d done to her.... He’d seen that look before, back in the desert. He stifled the curse before it could well to the surface. He wouldn’t show any anger where she might see.

Deep down in the pit of his stomach, he heard a soft whisper. Ah it hissed. Late again.

He’d killed them way too quick, the thought ran through his mind again. And way too clean.

The caravan caused quite the commotion when they brought up at the city gate. It took some time as the townsman on duty worked his way along the wagons, horses, and livestock, counting and tallying the fee.

It initially came to quite a bundle. Then Tiglund flashed his guild token and Tiarraluna flashed hers, and they explained where it had all come from. The gatekeeper shaved a considerable sum from it. He was under orders from the mayor as well, it seemed

Jonkins was out front of the guild hall to meet them, having been alerted by a runner sent from the gate upon their arrival. He put both hands to his head when he saw the size of the train, then waved the drivers around behind the hall. By the time they’d gotten them all sorted out, the stable was full, the yard was full, and there were animals tied the length of the rail out in the street.

Jack remained in place as a couple of town women appeared at the carriage’s door and helped the girls down. He gave them time to get clear and for Meynardo to show up before dragging himself and his crutch down and into the enclosed yard of the guild hall.

“Survived, huh?” Jonkins voice assailed him from the rear. Joke was on him. Jack’s detect life skill had already placed him, so poor Jonkins didn’t get the jump he was after. Instead, Jack turned and gave him his old infantryman’s deadpan. “Nope. Killed me dead.” The real joke was that he wasn’t lying.

Jonkins let out a huge guffaw, and nearly slapped Jack on the back before he could stop himself. Even now, the sentinel looked like the low rent side of the underworld. “C’mon in, lad, let the others get things sorted out here. Gauging by the volume, I’m pretty sure you won’t miss whatever they charge for the service.”

“Is there beer?” Jack asked quietly.

“Ale,” Jonkins raised an eyebrow.

“Good ale?” Jack came right back. “That doesn’t taste like it was brewed this morning by an unwashed gremlin using his loincloth to filter the hops?”

Jonkins snorted, a hand going to his mouth. But he nodded. “Very good ale,” he chuckled.

Jack nodded and shuffled into motion, “then I believe I’ll accompany you, guildmaster,” he said. “We have some things to discuss.”

Jonkins paused at that, standing stock still while the sentinel gained a couple of paces on him. When he followed at last, his face was less jolly.

“I apologize,” Jonkins tried to gain a march as he drew a mug for Jackson Grenell. “I should have allowed you to get a better look at your token before shooing you out. Uhm, he drinking, too?” he pointed to Meynardo, who’d resumed his place on Jack’s shoulder.

“I am,” the mouse announced, scampering down Jack’s good arm and setting a tiny wooden mug on the bar.

Jack stood quietly, not touching his ale while Jonkins clumsily filled the mug and placed it on the bar. Nor while Jonkins drew one for himself.

With the guildmaster once more before him, then, he finally took up his mug, staring directly into the old battler’s eyes while he lifted it to his lips. He took a deep swallow and set the mug down on the bar before speaking.

“That’s one of the things you should have done,” he said. “Along with making sure I knew how to read the damned thing. Or how to release souls. Or, maybe, cast Self Healing. Just in case I might run into the odd... oh, I dunno... bandit?”

Jonkins winced at the first accusation, the wince deepening with each subsequent point.

“This the drink you owed me for cracking the quarterstaff?” Jack inquired levelly after another swallow.

Jonkins squared his shoulders and lowered his head. He didn’t at this point, say anything. What was there to say? That he’d fouled up his most basic of duties. Almost, he thought to point out that he’d sent the boy out with an experienced mage, who should have been capable of teaching him all of those things, but then he remembered the state she’d been in when he’d found her in this very room a couple of days later.

“You sent out a student, expecting her to teach a student,” Jack pointed out as though he could hear his thoughts. “That’s a bad plan.

"This something I need to worry about going forward?” he asked, voice flat. “Because, if it is, I think we might be gonna have some trouble.”

He finished his ale and pushed the mug across the bar.

Jonkins refilled it and looked up at him, face equally hard. “I’ll take that from you this time,” he said. “Because I was wrong, and I can see you’re in a lot of pain.” He paused while Jack took a few more pulls on his drink. “But in future,” he glared, “you need to respect your elders a bit more.”

They watched each other, neither budging, while the commotion outside echoed at the edges of their awareness. “And I’ll do my best not to send you off unprepared again,” Jonkins finally grudged. He held out his hand, then switched to his left when he realized Jack’s right was unavailable.

“Now, lemme see your guild and bounty tokens,” he ordered when they’d released their grips. “And the life stones.”

Tiarraluna found them there some time later, frowning at the loose way Jack was holding himself against the bar, and the droop-lidded expression on his face. “Why are you standing up, you lunkhead?” she demanded. “There are forty chairs in this room.”

Jack looked blearily about and nodded, taking half a step before nearly going down, holding himself up by clutching at the bar with his good left hand.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

With a scowl that could almost be heard, she stomped over and got herself up under his arm to half drag him to a chair, bringing another for him to put his leg up onto.

“And you,” she glared at the guildmaster. “Drunken? At this time of day?”

Jonkins started a denial, but it turned into a belch, so he just shrugged.

It took less time to sort the plunder at this end due to the sorting it had gone through at the front end. All that remained by late evening was the disposition of the mice and the two farm girls, the other three having been taken in by townfolk.

Millie and Juniper were relatively easy. They would stay here and help Jonkins keep the place clean against the return of the missing adventurers. Perhaps later, when things were quieter, they’d settle somewhere nearby on some abandoned farmstead outside the town.

Jonkins was thinking about it when Tiglund stuck his oar in the water, vouching for them in no uncertain terms, while casting sideways glances at the older girl, who blushed at the attention. Juniper, of course, started in teasing with blazing speed, nearly getting a swat from her sister for her trouble.

The mice were another matter. True to Cable’s predictions, they sprung the rear demon trap coming in, but ignored it, simply walking between the upthrust bars. Its designer hadn’t expected such small demons.

Jonkins goggled at the lot of them. Even moreso when Luciandro stepped from the crowd, presented his token, and asked for admittance to the Mokkelton guild for himself and his people in unaccented tandrian.

Much to the surprise of all concerned, the reader not only accepted the token, but updated it. Without a mirror attuned to them, unfortunately, there would be no way to apply any of the benefits of the new rank. Silently, both Jonkins and Luciandro turned to regard Jack, who suddenly felt a chill run up his back.

For the time being, the mice would take up residence in one of the lower rooms, which could be warded against the particular dangers they faced beyond those normally faced by larger residents.

They held the auction five days later, out in the street before the guild hall. By day’s end, everything they were likely to sell was sold. As predicted, the salvaged arms and armor remained. No one could use them, so no one bid on them. Not even the merchants bothered, since who would they sell them to?

Which led to Jack’s and Jonkins’ current discussion. There was ale on the table, though neither was drinking to excess this time, and the remains of a meal. Off to one side of the tabletop, Meynardo, Jack’s perennial companion these days, and the reason this discussion could take place at all, was seated at his own setting, his tiny wooden mug before him.

“How many gifted you figure are here in Mokkelton, or in the surrounding area?” Jack wondered of the guildmaster. “If I have my math right, there should be three or four gifted kids between twelve and fifteen wandering around at least, in addition to the city guards and Tiglund.”

Jonkins thought about it for a bit and nodded. “Sounds about right,” he allowed. “What of it? We’ve already been through this.”

“What’s keeping them from presenting themselves, do you suppose?” Jack asked him seriously.

The guildmaster shrugged. "Could be none of ‘em knows they’re gifted. Could be they suspect, but can’t afford the fee for the test. Could be any of a number of things.”

“How much have I got banked in your vault?” Jack asked, although he already knew.

Jonkins narrowed his eyes. “You suggesting what I think you are?” he asked.

“Put out notices, flyers, broadsides, whatever you guys call them here. Call anybody in who even thinks they might have a gift. You see the least sign of a crystal, put ‘em in front of the mirror. I’ll set aside a chunk of my account and you take the fee out of that. And keep going ‘til the money runs out, however long that takes.”

Jonkins let out a loud guffaw. He couldn’t help himself. “Who’re you, now, the bloody king?” he laughed. “It ain’t your job, nor your obligation to feed adventurers to the guild.”

Jack shrugged. “Sentinel,” he reminded. “My job is whatever the hell I decide it is. And if I decide that what protects the most people is having more protectors, who’re you to stop me?

“Anyway,” he snorted. “What king? I haven’t seen a trace of this king or anybody who works for him since I got here. Seems to me, we’re on our own out here. Am I wrong?””

The laughter cut off short, and Jonkins’ face went serious. “I have to send half of the fee to the capitol,” he told Jack. “That’s the extent of his royal Heinie’s assistance. I need some of the rest of it to help run this place and keep things repaired. But I’ll eat a quarter of any fees you pay. You may be the sentinel, but I live here.”

“Great,” Jack stuck his good left hand out for the shake. “Now, where might I find a good armorsmith?”

Another chuckle, and Jonkins stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “Nearest one I know is a month’s hard ride west.”

Jack’s shoulders slumped. “I need to repair that armor I brought back,” he said. "What are my alternatives?”

Jonkins rocked his head back. “Why? What good is it to you? Most of it won’t fit, and you can only wear so much armor.”

Jack smiled. “Well,” he said. “Since I can’t sell it, I thought I’d give it all away.”

“So, you’re not only going to pay their fees, but you’re going to equip them? It’ll be years before the best of them can use any of it, even if you could figure out how to fix it.

“Good point,” Jack stroked his chin, thinking. “How about you hang on to it until we can find somebody who can fix it, and hand it out as needed to any I sponsor?”

“I c’n do that, I suppose,” Jonkins allowed. “Same with the weapons, I suppose?”

“Give first pick to Tig and Cable,” Jack told him, "but otherwise yes.”

“And how do we go about training these youngsters?”

“That’s a hard one,” Jack admitted. “If only we had a couple of gifted types who knew their way around the basics of weaponry and combat. Guys who might take a few hours a week to help the newcomers along....”

“You’re suggesting a school?” Jonkins had a go at his beard. “I mean, I can help any who have the knack with sword or spear, I suppose. I might even be able to use the dolls to show the proper forms of other weapons, since they’re already programmed to test for them.

“Antel can train them in spear and shield,” he added. “A bit of basic magic, and fieldcraft.

“Tiglund, young as he is, is some punkins with a bow, and near as good on the trail as Antel. His father was a hunter, y’see. Oh, he’s not up to your standards, sure, but for a rank four, he ain’t bad. And compared to anybody just walked in off the street, he may as well be a master.”

“Great,” Jack smiled. “Let’s call that a plan, then. What d’you think about two hundred gold rondels to start?”

Jonkins jaw dropped. “That’s... that’s the whole of the special bounty you earned from taking down that Mauler Gang,” he said, shocked. “I thought you needed all the money you could lay hands on to get you to the capitol?”

“I’ve got plenty more," Jack waved a hand. "Besides,” his voice lowered," I can’t leave yet. There’s things going on here that look to need some attention. I can’t just dip out and leave them undone. Even knowing what’s waiting for me on Tarr and how important it is that I get there soonest.” he stared down at his mug for a long minute before taking a hefty swallow. “You understand casualty math don’t you Bor?” he asked in a somber tone.

* * *

Jack leaned back against the wall, one arm out to either side along the back of the ornate bench, careful of his right hand, still swathed in bandages. He was mixing it up between staring out across the busy square and up into the bright summer sky.

Now that he was in town and surrounded by people, he was picking up Tandrian pretty quick,and so he was listening to the general hubbub around him with a detached air.

He still hadn’t decided what to do about his rank up. He didn’t want to rush through the choices without knowing more about how things worked here. Bad enough he’d gone into this last mission woefully unprepared. That wasn’t happening again. Or so he told himself.

Tiarraluna hadn’t returned from her grandmother’s yet, although he wasn’t sure why that should matter. Or, in any case, he wasn’t ready to address why it might, quite yet.

They’d disbanded the party better than a week back, after splitting the treasure and experience, but the girl had somehow wrangled a promise out of him not to go anywhere until they’d spoken again.

He’d decided to himself that, now he was getting along better with the language, he could go on alone. He had decent gear now. A couple of reasonably good horses and tack. Even money enough to last awhile, despite his current expenses.

It wasn’t like she wanted anything to do with him, after all, was it? Far as she was concerned, he was either a monster, a murderer, or an idiot, depending on her mood, or what he’d done most recently.

Even Meynardo had gone back to his own people now that Jack’s constant need for a shoulder mounted interpreter had passed. He still wasn't getting everything, but he was getting enough, and more was coming through all the time..

Of course, it wasn’t like he could move on yet, was it? He was still receiving medical care, although now it came from Mohrdrand, and the old geezer was charging him for it. At least the old man was allowing him to live there for free while he did it.

Superficially, all but his fingers were fully healed. Magic had traditional surgical medicine beat by a substantial margin. But superficial wasn’t whole, as he’d recently learned.

So, given there were no quests on the board that obviously threatened death to the citizenry, in whole or in part, he was trying to take it easy and allow his body to finish mending before he took it out for another endurance rally.

He was, of course, currently moping around town trying to throttle his urge to be on the road regardless of all this high thinking. He glared at the crutch propped up against the bench beside him as though this whole mess were its fault, and tore another chunk out of the meat bun he’d picked up from a stall on his way to wherever the hell he thought he’d been going. Right. Take it easy. Nothing to it.

He was still chewing, head back, eyes aimed skyward, when he heard the whine. Looking down, he had to wonder whether he was seeing things now. It was a corgi. A genuine, honest to god, no foolin’ orange and white Welsh corgi. It was filthy and looked half starved. It was staring longingly at the last of the meat bun in his hand.

What the hell? He tossed the food with a short flip of his wrist, and the dog snatched it out of the air with an audible snap of its jaws. It then proceeded to jump up onto the bench beside him and sit, staring out into the street, tongue lolling.

Jack looked over frowning. “If this were a normal isekai,” he muttered, “you’d be my comedy relief spirit guide.”

The dog looked up and tilted its head. “Name’s Bob,” it said in a casual voice. “And let me tell you, Jackson Thomas Grenell, you are one hard man to locate.”