The Sword of Shannara - Terry Brooks [6]
Flick walked over wearily, lowered the traveling pack to the floor with a slight clatter, and perched himself on one of the high counter stools. His father’s large frame straightened itself as he shoved back the empty plate and looked quizzically at the other, his wide forehead wrinkling.
“I met a traveler on the road coming into the valley,” Flick explained hesitantly. “He wants a room and dinner. Asked us to join him.”
“Well, he came to the right place for a room,” the elder Ohmsford declared. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t join him for a bite to eat — I could easily do with another helping.”
He raised his massive frame from the stool and signaled the cooks for three dinners. Flick looked about for Shea, but he was nowhere in sight. His father lumbered over to the cooks to give some special instructions on preparing the meal for the small party, and Flick turned to the basin next to the sink to wash off the dirt and grime from the road. When his father came over to him, Flick asked where his brother had gone.
“Shea has gone out on an errand for me and should return on the moment,” his father replied. “By the way, what’s the name of this man you brought back with you?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Flick shrugged.
His father frowned and mumbled something about closemouthed strangers, rounding off his muffled comment with a vow to have no more mysterious types at his inn. Then motioning to his son, he led the way through the kitchen doors, his wide shoulders brushing the wall beyond as he swung to his left toward the lounging area. Flick followed quickly, his broad face wrinkled in doubt.
The stranger was still sitting quietly, his back to the men gathered at the serving bar. When he heard the rear doors swing open, he shifted about slightly to catch a glimpse of the two who entered. The stranger studied the close resemblance between father and son. Both were of medium height and heavy build, with the same broad, placid faces and grizzled brown hair. They hesitated in the doorway and Flick pointed toward the dark figure. He could see the surprise in Curzad Ohmsford’s eyes as the innkeeper regarded him for a minute before approaching. The stranger stood up courteously, towering over the other two as they came up to him.
“Welcome to my inn, stranger,” the elder Ohmsford greeted him, trying vainly to peer beneath the cloak hood that shadowed the other’s dark face. “My name, as my boy has probably told you, is Curzad Ohmsford.”
The stranger shook the extended hand with a grip that caused the stocky man to grimace and then nodded to Flick.
“Your son was kind enough to show me to this pleasant inn.” He smiled with what Flick could have sworn was a mocking grin. “I hope you will join me for dinner and a glass of beer.”
“Certainly,” answered the innkeeper, lumbering past the other to a vacant chair where he seated himself heavily. Flick also pulled up a chair and sat down, his eyes still on the stranger, who was in the process of complimenting his father on having such a fine inn. The elder Ohmsford beamed with pleasure and nodded in satisfaction to Flick as he signaled one of the men at the serving bar for three glasses. The tall man still did not pull back the hood of the cloak shading his face. Flick wanted to peer beneath the shadows, but was afraid the stranger would notice, and one such attempt had already earned him sore wrists and a healthy respect for the big man’s strength and temper. It was safer to remain in doubt.
He sat in silence as the conversation between his father and the stranger lengthened from polite comments on the mildness of the weather to a more intimate discussion of the people and happenings of the Vale. Flick noticed that his father, who never needed much encouragement anyway, was carrying the entire conversation with only casual questions interjected by the other man. It probably did not matter, but the Ohmsfords knew nothing about the stranger. He had not even told them his name. Now he was quite subtly drawing out information