Read The Sons of Hull for Free Online Page A

aggravated further by the lack of response. “We have ourselves a coward in our presence! Speak, boy, before I kick ev’rybody out! It’s as cold as the Northern Caves out there, an’ I’d hate to close up shop early!”
    At this, the noise began to regain its former level. When Bokran threatened to close shop, all knew the time to take the sodden man seriously was over. Individuals could be thrown out, but never the whole paying crowd. After a moment, the same youthful voice rang out again above the din.
    “Why, Bokran, I just wanted to see how red your face could get! I declare, I’ve never actually seen it go purple.” At last, a face emerged from the press.
    “Corfe.” Bokran spat. “I see yer back to yer old self. By the Plains, boy, get home to yer mother.”
    The young man of nineteen cycles smiled coldly as the tavern-keeper heaved his bulk down from the table.
    “Leave my mother out of this, please. She’d turn over in her grave if she knew half the things you said about her.”
    Bokran was too hardened to apologize for his lack of tact. “Then go find a shop to rip off. I’m sure there’s plenty aroun’ to occupy yer time.”
    Corfe’s smile disappeared. “I never took what wasn’t rightfully mine.”
    “Ha! Don’t preach that to me! I’ve a friend out fourteen athas because of ye.”
    “He lost in a game, Bok. And he didn’t pay up. Besides, he could spare the money.”
    The keeper’s eyes narrowed. “An’ I can spare ye in my ‘stablishment. Get out, Corfe. Find a hovel.”
    The youth was not intimidated. “I’ll find myself a table. And maybe one of your serving girls.”
    Ignoring the drunken man’s “bah!” Corfe turned on his heel and pushed his way through the crowd to a side table, where a drink was already awaiting him. With an oath, he dropped himself into the wobbly chair and glared at the wall. A blight on Bokran and all his worthless customers. Tomorrow, he was going to leave town and be done with the lot of them. He had more important tasks to do than drinking bad alcohol and insulting innkeepers. Tomorrow he would be on the road. Perhaps then the dust of the trail would blot out the strange coldness that had crept into his sleeping and waking hours. The man could not possibly find him here tonight, and before long, he planned to never be found again.
    As he deluded himself, the door of the tavern opened wide, rocketing cold air into the room. The startled oaths were silenced, however, when a figure wrapped in a heavy black mantle stepped inside. He strode purposefully toward Bokran, taking no notice of the path that cleared before him.
    Corfe watched in horror as the man reached the keeper and questioned him in a low voice. No, Bokran. For once, be quiet. In reply to the boy’s silent entreaty, the intimidated fellow pointed a finger toward his table. Without another word, the stranger turned.
    There was no escape and even if there were, Corfe’s fear served only to freeze his limbs and his tongue. As the man drew nearer, his thoughts congealed into one improbable prayer: Don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Don’t see me.
    Then he was there, his sunken eyes pinning his prey. “Corfe,” he said. His voice expressed no emotion. “Come with me.”
    Corfe shook his head but the man grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. Even in their drunken stupor, the patrons could not ignore the hysterical cries of the youth as the dark figure dragged him into the street. The door slammed, an awkward silence followed, and then came the sound of the impeccably inaccurate rhythm of Bokran’s boot, pounding the table.
    “A song! A song! For our dear departed son!”
    __________
    To struggle against his captor was a waste of energy, as Corfe well knew. He soon cut short his cries for help.
    The man would be his executor. Corfe was old enough to realize that no one crossed Zyreio’s servant and kept his life. What a fool he had been to fall in with this serpent in the first