MoboReader> Fantasy > The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - A Werewolf in the Dark

   Chapter 2 No.2

The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - A Werewolf in the Dark By AaronDennis Characters: 4923

Updated: 2017-12-29 12:02


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A day passed by. Larson worked. Then, two days passed, and three. Larson worked, and spoke to Sarabelle, who was predictably consumed with wrath in a manner that only women expressed. She threw Larson out of her house, and then pelted him with shoes until he fled.

A week passed before Larson felt at ease. Being alone was lonely, he had not really made friends, as his brother was his cherished confidant, but working and talking to people at Barry's, or in the market, and asking everyone under the sun about Mathew Ross, gave him an insight into people's behavior. There was a way to talk to them, to engage them with resolve and determination, but without being pushy or arrogant that led to honest results. Unfortunately, all Larson learned was that maybe a man named Ross, or Russ, or Rouse had passed through. The description was scanty. It had been over five years after all.

In a flash of work and sleep, over a month had passed, and there was no word from Largo. Larson had saved up some silver pieces he kept at Pallisade's bank—he certainly wasn't going to keep money in a locked trunk in the warrens—but the lack of contact from his brother worried him beyond belief. At the end of the second month, he was practically panic stricken. It was during one night, a rainy night, when the furious drops of water ceaselessly pelted the thatched roof and exposed every leak at Barry's that Larson openly discussed his predicament with Barry himself, a squat, round, jovial man with a fringe of longish, auburn hair that half circled his wrinkly head.

"So, what do you think, " Larson asked. "Should I drop everything, and make my way to Port Shau, or send a letter and keep waiting?"

Barry wiped the counter with a damp cloth that only left wet streaks on the wood. "Write a letter. If you leave, you probably won't be able to come back for a while. You'll have to work there, at the docks or something, just to save up and come back, and for what? To get your old job back with Turd? That is, assuming something has happened."

Barry then laughed at his own remark. The construction manager's name was actually Jon Furd, but he was a turd, and so that became his name, at least behind his back.

"You're right, " Larson conceded. "I'd hate to think that Largo's dead, or that he left me…but I have to do something…maybe that letter–"

The door swung open with a racket. The clamor caused by the violent opening, which made the wo

oden door strike the bar's interior wall, drew everyone's attention. A large man stumbled in, made vague remarks about the rain, and calmly shut the door. He was wearing what looked like a shredded riding cloak with the cowl pulled up. The cloak's exterior was a dark, drab gray, but the interior looked to be a faded red, and beneath the cloak, the man wore studded, leather armor. The large axe hanging from his hip signified he was just the kind of man Larson wanted to be, a warrior for hire. Soldiers bore swords and long spears. Knights weren't so poorly garbed. Workers didn't wear studded leathers. All of that information swam through Larson's mind in an instant.

Everybody returned to their drink, food, or conversation like it was no big deal, but the man came to the bar. Larson never took his eyes off him, and when the man removed his cowl to order a beer, Larson saw he was old, at least sixty. He had thick, gray hair that ran loose down to his waist. A thick beard, dripping with rain water, grew out nearly two inches. His shoulders bulged beneath all of his clothing.

"What, are you gonna' ask me out or something, " the old man asked Larson with an air of impatience.

"You're not my type, " Larson mumbled and turned back to Barry who chuckled.

"Ain't seen you in a spell, Holden, " Barry said with a tinge of annoyance. "You got the four coppers you owe me from last month?"

"Ya, " Holden coughed between chugs of frothy beer. He pounded the pint in about three swallows, let quite a bit drain off his mustache and beard then pointed to fill the glass again. "It's right alongside the four I'm gonna' owe you this month."

"Dammit, Hold, " Barry howled. "You gotta' pay me."

"You'll get it when I get it. That's how it works, " Holden argued.

Larson arched a brow and said, "He just gave it to you, so pay him."

Incredulously, Holden turned his stare on Larson. The old man's mouth was a little open, and then he just laughed.

"Don't stick your nose where it don't belong, that's how it gets bitten off, kid, " Holden scolded. "'Sides, I meant he gets paid when I get paid."

"Mercenary?"

"Ya, something like that."

Barry had refilled Holden's glass, and the old man finished it as quickly and perhaps less thoroughly than the first one. He then motioned for another refill.

"This is my potion of strength, " Holden choked as he finished off the third glass. "You're a big boy. What's your name?"

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