Chapter 8: A Blade in the Dark

The tavern's warm glow spilled into the night, its wooden sign creaking softly as the breeze passed through Stonehill. Inside, the hum of conversation mingled with the occasional burst of laughter. Dikun pushed open the door, his new sword hanging heavily at his side. The sense of comfort from before had faded — now, there was only focus.

He scanned the room, noting familiar faces from earlier. The stout tavernkeeper remained behind the counter, polishing mugs without much interest in the crowd. In the far corner, Harlon sat alone, nursing a half-empty tankard. Others played dice or exchanged stories, the dangers of the world momentarily forgotten.

But Dikun's eyes locked on the men who had spoken of Jorvik. The wiry man and his bearded companion remained at their table, their words now buried beneath the chatter. If anyone had more information about the bandit leader, it would be them.

"Approach carefully. Confidence invites conversation."

Dikun crossed the room, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his boots. As he neared the table, the bearded man glanced up, his gaze narrowing. A moment of recognition flickered.

"Stranger," he grunted, setting his tankard down. "You're the one who killed those bandits on the road."

"I am," Dikun confirmed, his tone calm. "And I hear their leader isn't pleased."

The wiry man tensed, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting unseen ears. "Jorvik's not the forgiving type. You've made yourself a marked man."

Dikun remained unshaken. "I'd rather be marked than dead. But I prefer knowing who's after me. That's why I'm here."

The bearded man exchanged a glance with his companion. There was hesitation, but also curiosity. This wasn't the fearful bravado of a desperate man. Dikun spoke with purpose — the kind that made people listen.

"Coin might loosen tongues," the wiry man suggested, a greedy gleam in his eye.

Dikun pulled a silver from his pouch, letting it clink against the wooden table. "Then speak."

The wiry man snatched the coin, weighing it between his fingers before leaning forward.

"Word is, Jorvik's holed up in the old silver mines, two days north. Abandoned long ago. The tunnels run deep — a perfect den for the likes of him."

The bearded man nodded. "And he's not alone. What's left of his warband is still loyal. Maybe twenty men, give or take. But that's not all."

Dikun's eyes narrowed. "What else?"

"He's hiring." The wiry man's voice dropped lower. "Mercenaries. Deserters. Even outlaws. If he gathers enough, he won't just raid villages. He'll tear through the entire valley."

It was worse than Dikun expected. Jorvik wasn't licking his wounds — he was preparing for war. And once his forces were ready, Stonehill would be a prime target.

"Why hasn't the lord intervened?" Dikun asked.

The bearded man scoffed. "The lord's too busy bleeding the people dry with taxes. Jorvik's a problem for the villages, not the castle. No one's riding to our rescue."

"Then it's up to me."

Dikun nodded, absorbing the information. Every detail mattered. The silver mines would be difficult to assault — narrow passages, fortified with whatever Jorvik could scavenge. But knowing the terrain was an advantage in itself.

"I'll deal with him," Dikun said firmly.

The men blinked, as if uncertain they had heard correctly.

"Alone?" the wiry man scoffed. "You're mad. Or suicidal."

"Neither," Dikun replied. "But I'll need more than a sword. I'll need men."

The bearded man leaned back, studying Dikun for a long moment. Then, with a shake of his head, he laughed — not out of mockery, but disbelief.

"Stranger, you've got the look of a man who's seen more than his fair share. If you mean to face Jorvik, I won't stop you. But you won't find many willing to follow."

"That's for me to worry about."

With that, Dikun stood. The conversation had run its course. He had what he needed — and time was running short.

---

An Unexpected Offer

Before Dikun could reach the door, a voice called out from the corner.

"Stranger."

Harlon.

The former swordsman's eyes gleamed with curiosity as he gestured to the empty seat across from him. Dikun hesitated only briefly before accepting.

"You listen well," Harlon remarked. "I saw how you questioned them. Calm, direct. Not many have the spine to speak of Jorvik so openly."

"I'm not afraid of him," Dikun replied.

Harlon smirked. "Maybe you should be. Fear isn't always a weakness. Sometimes it keeps men alive."

"Fear also keeps men in chains."

The smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Fair point."

For a moment, neither spoke. The tavern's low hum filled the space between them. Then Harlon leaned forward, his voice dropping.

"I served under a lord once. Fought in more battles than I care to count. But the day came when I realized I wasn't fighting for honor — just coin in a nobleman's purse. So I walked away." He tapped his tankard absentmindedly. "Jorvik's the kind of man I fought against. But he's also the kind of man I'd rather see dead."

Dikun studied him. Harlon wasn't boasting. The weariness in his eyes spoke volumes. This was a man who had seen bloodshed, who knew the weight of a blade.

"I'm not asking you to follow me," Dikun said. "But if you do, I won't waste your trust. Jorvik will fall. One way or another."

Harlon's eyes held his gaze. Then, slowly, the former swordsman extended his hand.

"I'm no hero, stranger. But if you're set on this path, I'll walk it with you."

Dikun clasped his hand firmly. "Then we start at dawn."

The first piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

But the road ahead would only grow darker.