Different pubs catered to different clientele, based on affluence or interest, sometimes both. From seedy dives to specialty pubs that catered to a more discerning customer base; people looking for mind-warping freefolk ales, strong samoharo spirit liquors, and delicacies from the far away Kuni Empire.
And then there was the odd pub, like The Harris, that on top of those rare beverages and private booths, offered its patrons a foray into the ancient and tortuous art of open mic singing. It was lucky for Fionn and Harland that the woman currently on the mic had a delightful voice, one that could easily go professional.
“Did you know that it is a franchise now?” Harland mentioned casually while eating some fries from Fionn’s plate; the food was a mix of freefolk and human dishes. Fionn liked to taste the food from both his father’s and his mother’s species when he was in one of these places.
“The Harris?” Fionn replied before taking a bite of his burger and another from the dimwik roast, mixing the flavors. “Now that’s good news. I hope they open one near my home.”
“Trust me: No one will open anything like this near that cursed mountain. And how the hell can you mix dimwik and beef? And even more important, how can you fit all that food in your stomach?” Harland’s hands were up, backing away with a shudder, much to Fionn’s amusement. Dimwik was a small lizard endemic to the World Scar, which the freefolk roasted after bathing it in their trademark spicy sauce. The resulting flavor was similar to smoked salmon and chili and had a kickback that could mess with your brain temporarily if you were not used to it. And Fionn loved every second of it.
“I already told you, I need to keep my energy at decent levels for the Gift to work.” Fionn smiled, the food making his cheeks round before he swallowed.
“That’s a lame excuse.” Harland laughed.
“I’m telling you the truth. I’m not good at excuses,” Fionn countered. “Never been. Now can you explain to me those rumors you mentioned before?”
“There is not much to say, other than a few months ago the town near the Lemast cemetery at the Jagged Hills went POOF, along with the cemetery and all the people nearby.”
“Whadaya mean by poof?” Fionn asked, curious, his freefolk accent slipping with the drinks.
“Just like that. Vanished, gone, erased. There is nothing there, not even a single rock, bone or rag. Just dead soil.”
“Lemast is in the shadow of the Jagged Mountains. Not many people travel there, even less live near there on purpose. Only trappers and mercenaries go there to hunt beasts, and not many of them return. And the region is infamous for messing with radio communications. How do people know that the town and the cemetery are gone?”
“They found out weeks later when a government auditor never returned. Rumor has it that another party was sent there to document the situation and of the few who did come back had signs of mental trauma, claiming that the place is beyond haunted. They also mentioned a foul odor. Now that I think about it, not dissimilar from the one at Hunt’s house.” Harland stroked his beard. “The professor was looking up those rumors since, according to him, they were related to some of his findings.”
“Which were?”
“Something about ancient Akeleth technomagick. You know, the holy grail of arcano-researchers. Lots of money to make there if it works,” Harland said with a wave of his hand.
“You sound like you don’t believe in that, despite what you just witnessed this time.”
“I don’t deny that there are things yet unexplained, but on this particular point I don’t think that’s necessarily true.”
“You would be surprised at some of the things we saw during the Great War.” Fionn let out a sigh. The mention of Lemast brought forward sour memories that would need more than freefolk ale and dimwik to drown. Maybe the toxic mushroom pizza that made The Harris infamous would do the trick.
“The Great War was ages ago. You know that better than anyone,” Harland said, sipping his pint. A few seconds later, he gasped, as he realized what he just said. “Sorry about that man, I forgot.”
“It’s ok.” Fionn dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand and a smile. “Anyway, back to the case. The professor found something in Lemast. How did he go from looking into arcanotech to a vanishing cemetery? Which, by the way, is a concern in itself given what was sealed there.”
“Why am I not surprised that you know what was sealed there?” Harland looked exasperated.
“Considering that I’ve been trying to get drunk since you mentioned Lemast, knowing full well that I physically can’t, what do you think?” Fionn drank another pint in one go. It was annoying that he needed to drink gallons of the stuff to barely feel drunk, and he had to go to the bathroom every five minutes. Sometimes his Gift was a pain in the ass.
“What’s the plan then?” Harland was being uncharacteristically impatient. Fionn wondered why.
“Look, finding the woman is our best bet to find out what is going on,” Fionn explained, trying to quell Harland’s turmoil. “It’s not like we have more clues, beyond the crumpled papers and that ooze.”
“I wish you could pull off one of your freefolk tricks to track the ooze to its source,” Harland said dejectedly.
“I told you before. Magick doesn’t work like that; I can’t do magick and trust me, tracking the source of the ooze without knowing what we will face beforehand is a really bad course of action. Now, the woman is a better choice. It’s clear she knew something was going to happen.” Fionn relaxed against the back of the booth. His back hurt and it was then that he noticed all the tension he was trying to conceal from his friend, and even from himself.
“If that’s the case, she might be a target. Or complicit in all of this. The problem is, where we do look? We only have her description from Culph’s report and that her name is Gabriella. She told Culph she’d not leave the city but she is no longer staying at the hotel where she was registered. Doesn’t sound like something a helpful person would do.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “She said that she was an acquaintance of the professor through friends, but we don’t know that.”
“I will think of something.” Fionn stood up, shuffling his feet. “Or something will appear. It usually does.”
“The ale?” Harland asked while downing another pint.
“The ale.” Fionn pointed to the restrooms, grabbing Black Fang as a matter of habit. “Back in a few. Try not to lose our money while I’m away.”
† † †
Harland got tired of waiting after a few minutes and started to go over the documents Fionn had taken from the professor’s house. The more he looked at them, the less sense it made. It left Harland with a sense of unease, like a hundred giant millipedes crawling over his back and arms. Just remembering the foul odor awoke some primal fear inside him.
Not even the spirits at the haunted hill where Fionn lived scared him. They were more of the playful, devious kind. But the odor betrayed a level of darkness that could spread evil across the planet. He envied Fionn’s annoying calm in the face of the whole situation.
Harland was not getting anywhere with the professor’s notes, so he decided to focus instead on the woman. It was odd that the police couldn’t get anything more than her birth name and general description. While in principle he agreed with Fionn that finding her might cast light on the case – whether she was involved with the Professor’s disappearance or trying to help – the truth was that finding her in a place like Carffadon would prove difficult and waste time they did not have. They would need a miracle to find her. Depressed, Harland downed more of his pint and looked around to see if Fionn was coming back any time soon. He looked at the stage and noticed that a new singer was taking her turn at the open mic. She was playing the guitar, chanting sweet lyrics about the meadows of the southern coasts and lost opportunities.
Harland was lost in her song for a moment, and then rubbed th
e drink from his eyes. What had Culph said in his report? ‘Long, wavy, light brown hair, tall, and fit with a crooked smile.’ That’s how Culph had described the girl. The girl on stage was sitting on a stool, but she had long legs that would have made her as tall as Fionn. And she had wavy brown hair tied in a ponytail. He blinked again, because the woman on stage almost fit the description for Gabriella. Miracles do happen, Harland thought, or I am way too drunk. But if it was the girl then he thought that Culph’s description didn’t do her justice. While she was not a traditional beauty by current standards, it was undeniable that she was quite pretty, with a charming smile and the voice of a siren. She wore jeans, boots, a gray t-shirt with the image of a cybernetic angel from a popular animation, and a blue and black leather jacket. Mesmerized, he walked toward the stage to talk with her once she finished her song, without noticing the kind of crowd she was starting to gather in front of her. He bumped into another person, breaking his reverie.
“Sorry, mate.”
“Watch it, dwarf!” the man yelled. He was a thin, bald man wearing jeans and a leather vest and he shoved Harland to the floor.
Usually, the word “dwarf” made Harland’s blood curl. It had got him in serious trouble before. But this time, as he was sobering up fast, he was trying to remain focused on the singer. He knew somehow she was Gabriella, and so he did his best to ignore the man and just stood up to meet the woman. It could have been as simple as that if not for the big hunting knife the man pulled out and waved in front of him. “Don’t even think about it, midget.”
Harland looked on in growing horror at how the man’s companions were slowly circling the stage, while the woman kept singing, apparently unaware of what was going on. Crap. Where is Fionn?
† † †
Fionn stepped outside the pub for fresh air to clear his mind. Lemast brought back painful memories. Not the actual place. He had been there only a couple of times. But what was buried there was another story and the sole memory of it was a beast, a shadow gnawing at his heart. He had promised himself to leave all that behind, that’s what Izia would have wanted. Then again, he also promised Harland to help him with this. Harland was his closest friend, the one that had helped him to rejoin the world all these past years. He owed him. And as Izia said once: a promise is a promise and it shouldn’t be broken.
I should stop promising things, Fionn thought.
Fionn had been looking at the Long Moon, shining far away from the Round Moon, one of the few days where that mysterious celestial body could be seen. He was musing about the oddity that was the Long Moon when he saw many of the patrons leaving the place in a hurry. Harland’s voice echoing out from the pub convinced him that it was time to get back inside.
† † †
Fionn had to push through the patrons that were leaving at a quick pace. It was like swimming upstream. When he finally managed to make his way into the pub, he saw a group of thugs surrounding the woman currently on the stage; she was so engrossed in her singing that it seemed as if she hadn’t noticed them. Meanwhile, Harland was on the floor, trying to get up while facing down a big hunting knife. He was trying to talk his way out of this hassle.
This scene is slightly familiar, Harland trying to weasel out of a sticky situation through talking. What in the Pits did he do this time to enrage them?
“Listen, good man, why don’t we calm down and share a few drinks,” Harland said calmly, trying to defuse the situation.
“Share this, midget,” The man poured a beer over Harland’s head. That got Fionn’s blood boiling to the point he could have been breathing fire. He clenched his fists till his knuckles became white.
“You know that is so clichéd, right?” Fionn walked among the group surrounding Harland and the woman, looking at all of the thugs in the eye. Fionn smiled, almost cheerfully, as a jolt of joy ran through his body. It had been quite some time since he’d had a proper fight. Then the tone of his voice dropped an octave. “Why don’t you pick on someone your size? Or better yet, why don’t you and your friends leave this place before I put that knife,” he pointed at the weapon held by the thin, bald man. “In his ass.” He pointed at a burly, bearded man. “And then I’ll put your fist,” Fionn grinned at the bearded brute, “into his mouth,” he jerked his thumb back at the bald man. Fionn then slapped the bald guy’s hand, making him drop a photograph to the floor. “And by the way, that’s not the way to grip a knife, amateur.”
A heavy silence fell over the place. The woman had stopped singing, but remained focused on her guitar, playing a few chords on it, bringing the tension up. The picture was streaked with bloody stains, but through them Fionn could see that it was a photo of the girl sitting on the stage playing the guitar. Only Culph had copies of that photo and with certainty, he didn’t give it away voluntarily. Regardless of what Culph might think about him, Fionn respected the man for his professionalism. Knowing these pieces of trash had injured him only added to the raging fire of anger he was trying to contain. But no more.
“You are here for her,” Fionn muttered. His shoulders dropped and knees bent while clenching his fists and offering the widest smile possible. He was going to enjoy this. And then the woman sped up the guitar chords, which resembled a song famous for being used in fighting spectacles.
“Oh boy,” Harland muttered while walking away and taking cover behind his table, picking up the papers. He was a thinker, a politician, not a fighter unless he was drunk enough. But there were pub fights and there were Pub Fights. He had seen Fionn in a few of those and right now his friend had that smile that Harland used to call the ‘smile that a wolf shows you while it is considering which dressing would make you taste better during tonight’s dinner.’
The bald man tried to slash Fionn in the face, but he just dodged it, placing his left foot back. Then he used the heel of his right hand to hit the handle of the knife, making it fly upwards. The bearded man threw a punch aimed at the right side of Fionn’s head, but Fionn countered by grabbing the man’s wrist with his left hand. Then he spun on his toes and used the inertia of the punch to move the bearded man and slam his fist into the bald man’s mouth. He proceeded to bring the bearded man down with a knee in the solar plexus, taking out all the air from his lungs. The bald man, bleeding from the mouth and slightly dazed, was an easy target for Fionn now, who grabbed him by the ears and brought down his head to be kneed. Just then the knife finally came down and cut deep into the bald man’s ass, leaving him knocked out and in pain.
“Anyone else?” Fionn asked with a smile, cracking his knuckles. The members of the gang that had surrounded Fionn and witnessed the quick fight took a step backward. They had the look of men wondering if the severe beating that could fall upon them was worth the hassle of whatever they came to do. Harland, on the other hand, was rolling his eyes.
“Stop showboating. The woman, Fionn, help her!”
“I got this,” she replied calmly. She closed her eyes while putting the guitar inside its case. The three men surrounding her tried to grab her, but by the time they reached the stool, she wasn’t there. With the grace of a panther stalking its prey, she withdrew two sheathed, short swords from the guitar case. She used them as batons to beat the three men in a flurry of hits. The first one was hit in the nose, breaking it. The second was caught on the ribs, from which a crunch was heard. And the third one would not leave any progeny after him. The hit was so hard that it made everybody wince in pain, Fionn included. The woman then opened her eyes and smiled, crooking her lips up, and only said, “Shall we dance?”
Then, she jumped from the stage and fell upon the rest of the gang, who stood with narrowed eyes and fists clinched around weapons and mouths open in shock at the beating their three companions had just taken.
Fionn could only admire the fluidity, the grace, and skill that the woman showed. Swift, practical movements, linked together in a rhythmic sequence, like a dance. There was a m
ix of southern Mizu-do kicks, pirouettes, parries and deflections, locks and precise punches at nerve points with the swords working as batons, all in a combination designed to help a faster yet slender fighter against men weighing the same as an ox. It wasn’t a style Fionn was entirely familiar with, but it matched the descriptions of the martial arts used by the Sisters of Mercy. He nodded to Harland. “It doesn’t seem that she needs much help.”
“And what? Are you going to stand there watching her have all the fun? We need her.”
Fionn sighed and then made his way to her by punching a few obstacles out of the way and dodging the woman’s attacks as well. After a few seconds, he ended up back to back with her, facing the whole gang, which by now was battered and bloodied. The gang decided that there was safety in numbers and started attacking at the same time. Fionn and the woman smiled, nodded at each other and fought back.
“Nice form of yours. Your Mizu-do is quite fluid. Although I barely recognize the rest.” Fionn connected a strong left uppercut on the jaw of a guy who could have used more training and less food.
“Thank you. You are not bad yourself. I haven’t seen that form of yours except in books of ancient styles.” She parried several punches coming from different sides at a speed that made her look as if she knew they were going to be there.
“I’m a fighting purist when it is possible.” Fionn hunched and used his sheathed sword to bring down one guy by hitting him in the back of the knees.
“Ah! But I’ve never seen somebody using the Mendicant Monk Staff form with a sheathed sword before.”
“I admit it is not a pure form, but it works when there is no need to hurt them more than needed. Do you know why they are after you?”
The Withered King Page 4