by Mark August
By nightfall, Kincaid struggled to unclench his tight fingers. His back hunched over, and his shoulders burned across his shoulder blades. Pulling his shirt off was agony. After a simple meal, exhaustion claimed his consciousness.
Some nights, Kincaid opened the shop's ledgers. He’d hang his head in his hands as the numbers didn’t add up. The money coming into the shop would keep the apprentices and journeymen fed and sheltered through the winter months, but the money flow wouldn’t create savings for the master.
The commission work made the difference. When a noble commissioned a work of art, the initial payment and the final payout could make more money than the entire shop floor's work for the year. None of them controlled these commissions.
Without another project, they wouldn’t have money when the protection racket came back again.
“Kincaid, if you sink much lower, we'll fish you out of the canals.” Warm hands rested on his shoulders, accompanied by the sweet smells of rare wood sawdust.
“I can’t make the numbers work, Liane. Master Barnet won’t make payments with what we have. I don’t want him to get rid of the apprentices, but the work isn’t here.”
“It’s not the numbers.”
Kincaid put the quill down and stopped the ink bottle. He blotted the papers and organized them on the desk. Liane waited.
“No, it’s the thugs.”
“The training isn’t going well.”
Not a question; a statement. Liane must be talking to someone. Kincaid turned his chair toward his sister and faced her for the first time. “I don’t hear you offering solutions right now. How much money do you have?”
“This isn’t about me, Kincaid.”
“Why is it about me?” The young man rolled his eyes and sighed. He didn’t need another lecture from his sister.
“Because people know you are slipping out of the shop early in the morning and coming back late. You’re bruised and tired. That makes you grumpy. Even more than normal.”
“People notice?”
“How could they miss it? A carpenter using a cane and a sword in the middle of the city against the town guard. People watch all the time.”
“I should have known.”
The pair sat in silence as the lone candle flickered against the gloom. A few years ago, they huddled together against the cold, longing for a roof over their heads.
“How much are you spending?”
“Doesn’t matter. The bills are catching up with Master Barnet, and the commissions may not be there unless we figure this out.”
“We won't figure this out tonight, Kincaid. When’s the last time we went out to dinner?”
“I’m struggling with money, and you want to spend it on dinner?”
“Yep. Sholeh is waiting for us. You need to do something other than getting beat up and working with wood shavings. Let’s go.”
Kincaid was too tired to argue. He pulled his body out of the chair and blew out the candle. Liane was right; he wouldn’t find solutions tonight.
Dinner was the distraction he needed. Drink eased away the agony in his tired muscles. Before they finished their meal, he could laugh and smile again. Sholeh and Liane knew him too well, and they gave him the strength to face the next challenge.
Somewhere in the course of their evening together, Kincaid resolved he wouldn’t continue his training. The warmth of friendship cemented his decision. He couldn’t fund his practice, and the shop needed his experience and leadership. Instead of sulking through the books, he’d speak to Master Barnet about soliciting work from the wealthy merchants in town. A few smaller projects would make a difference, and he could use the experience for his own shop.
He kissed his sister on the forehead and bid Sholeh goodnight. His steps were light as his calculating mind worked through strings of potential solutions. He regretted leaving the women behind at the inn, but he knew they would be along shortly.
Turning the corner to Carpentry Street, Kincaid strolled to the waiting shop. The night air cooled his skin, and the glowing lights along the street provided ample light. As Kincaid reached into his pocket for his key to the shop door, he caught motion near the stairs to Master Barnet’s quarters.
Before his mind registered the threat, his heart pounded. He was certain several figures crept up the staircase.
Kincaid broke into a sprint until he reached the shop door. His mind split between a headlong rush to his room for his weapon or bound up the stairs to make sure Master Barnet was ok. His body pumped with energy and couldn’t line up the shaft of the key with the keyhole.
He slammed his shoulder into the door frame and bounced off the structure. For a moment, he considered shattering the glass. Fear turned to rage, and he kicked the door. The frame splintered, and the door crashed open with enough force to crack the glass.
Kincaid never expected the door to give way with his slight frame, but he didn’t stop to consider the consequences. He raced up the stairs at the back of the shop to his room.
Apprentices sat up and tried to clear the foggy sleep from their minds. Kincaid raced down the length of their beds and stormed into his room. He groped with his right hand under his bed for his blade and belt. The leather-wrapped grip found his palm.
He fumbled with the buckle as he walked. Damn belt was too hard to fasten while running. Kincaid strode through the apprentice sleeping area while tightening his belt. Whispers followed in his wake, and Kincaid ignored them. He loosened the blade in its sheath.
Kincaid sprinted around the corner of the shop and took the stairs to the master’s quarters two at a time. Stealth wasn’t on his mind; he had to get to the master’s quarters.
Caution forced him to slow down at the top landing. Storming in against an unknown number of thugs in an unfamiliar room was poor tactics. He didn’t need Tiberia to lecture him on his attack. Surprise was his only ally.
The crash of broken wood came through the crack in the door. No time left to wait. Metal scraped against metal as the blade leaped into his fist. Even with his training, bare steel felt uncomfortable in his hand.
Kincaid surged into motion. The blade stayed close to his body, tip low and forward.
“Look who it is. Must be back for more.”
Kincaid ignored the taunt and pressed his attack on the female thug in a similar position to guard the entrance. He was armed this time, and he anticipated her first moves.
His blade contacted flesh on the woman’s leg. He drove the sword home until the edge slammed into bone. Kincaid’s training didn’t prepare him for the impact with human bone, and the blade nearly tore from his grasp as the thug tried to spin on her good leg.
“You son of a…” She reached for her stained, ironwood club at her waist. Kincaid knew it wasn’t a mortal wound. Blood trickled down his blade. Although she favored her uninjured leg, the club was free and ready.
Kincaid launched his next attack, and club met blade. The thunk of contact tore a piece of ironwood from the length of the club.
Moments slowed as Kincaid weaved fast blows at the thug’s defense. He made her use her injured leg to throw her balance off. Kincaid guessed there were two more thugs in the room, and they wouldn’t let him fence with their partner for much longer. The weight of numbers would take him down.
The woman’s leg buckled under a sidestep move, and Kincaid’s blade tore through her bicep. She collapsed to the ground and dropped her club. Had he been a better swordsman, this scuffle would have been over.
“Fool, you will make—”
“Die.” His next blow was a slash toward her throat. Her hands were fast and caught his wrists. Kincaid dropped his blade to the ground and slammed upward with his knee with all his strength.
The impact was strong enough to snap her spine backward. Her body collapsed against the wall behind her, and her head bounced off the surface. She slumped to the floor in a growing pool of blood.
Kincaid grabbed his blade from the floor and turned toward the remaining thu
gs. He sensed the first attack aimed at his head and pulled his body out of the path of a club. Air swooshed by his ear as he dodged. The leader of the thugs was only a few paces behind.
Defensive jabs and low swipes kept his opponents away as he tried to maneuver to a location where only one could attack him at a time. Experienced warriors weren’t going to be fooled by the obvious move.
“You’ll follow her straight to the deepest plane of hell.”
“A blade doesn’t make you a warrior, carpenter.”
“Does killing one of you make me a warrior?”
The leader of the thugs didn’t spar with more words. Kincaid was tiring and still didn’t know where Master Barnet was.
The thugs overwhelmed him. Blows rained down, and Kincaid barely caught one on his blade. His body took the other impacts.
Through blurred vision, Kincaid saw the door open. Another figure slipped into the room. He couldn’t beat these two, and now another arrived. Defense against the unrelenting attacks took all of his attention.
The new arrival launched into an attack on the leader. Kincaid saw flowing red hair as she pounced.
“Liane, no.”
Switching from the defense to pure offense, Kincaid launched a volley of attacks. He didn’t see the club coming through his attacks until it hit the side of his head.
Kincaid’s head snapped sideways as his eyes exploded with stars. He couldn’t command his fingers to maintain their grip on his blade. A fist caught his stomach. Breath burst from his lungs, and his mouth oozed blood. He felt the carpet on his hands and knees as he bowled over in pain.
Liane screamed.
Through gasping breaths, Kincaid said, “Please, leave her alone.”
Kincaid felt his ribs crack under the impact of a heavy boot. The blow flipped him over. Kincaid turned his head to see his sister pinned under the leader of the thugs, and he was drawing back his fist to hit her again.
Burning anger shifted to the deepest cold. His soul filled with the ecstasy of power, and pain washed away from his body. He sensed the next kick coming before he felt it.
Something surged inside. His hands grabbed the leg in mid-swing and pulled. The thug was airborne from the pull and crashed next to Kincaid.
Energy surged as Kincaid pushed himself to his feet. Both hands balled into fists, and his sword was forgotten. The thug reached out and grabbed his club and grinned at the young carpenter. As the thug climbed back to his feet and towered over him for a finishing blow, Kincaid’s fist lashed out.
Contact exploded. Ribs snapped and crunched. Kincaid followed with another to the nose, and the blow landed like a pounding warhorse. Bone crushed into fragments, and the man’s face turned to pulp. Gore covered Kincaid’s fist, and he didn’t feel the pain of smashed fingers.
Kincaid turned toward the leader. He felt the heat of the woodstove and pulled it into his soul. The smells of burning flesh drifted to his nose, and he glanced at his hands. Fire engulfed them, and the blood and gore were gone.
“It is you.”
Kincaid pulled his vision up from his hands to the remaining thug. “What?”
“They suspected, but now they will know.”
The man leaped from Liane’s body and sprinted toward the door. Kincaid’s mind snapped. Stones pulled away from the floor in an explosion of mortar and dust. The thick chunks initially blocked the path to the door, but Kincaid’s mind turned each into a projectile. Blows hammered the helpless man as rage flooded Kincaid’s senses.
The floor creaked as the structure disintegrated from the stones torn from its depth. The floor collapsed, and bodies plummeted through the next floor. For Kincaid, time stopped. Rage filled his soul, and his heart sang with the symphony of power.
Something touched his mind. His awareness shifted from falling into the shop to a view of the city of Caesea. A voice whispered.
All this and more.
He needed to answer this voice
Instead of islands and canals, Kincaid stood on a shoreline. No, he floated above the sand. Like he was flying. Purple, red, and blue fires engulfed the city. Blocks of the city shattered from an unseen impact. Guards died by the hundreds, and people fled the destruction. Some jumped into the water as buildings crumbled.
Two figures filled with the powers of magic.
This is your fate.
Kincaid’s body impacted the shop floor. His mind went dark.
Twenty-One
Kincaid - Prison
Breathe in. Breathe out. Alive.
Everything hurts.
Kincaid’s face pressed against a stone floor, and gravel lodged in his cheek. Still air choked Kincaid’s mouth, and a musty odor with an iron scent lingered in his nose.
His chest hurt with the next breath.
“Must be a pleasant feeling to be alive.”
The baritone voice was unfamiliar yet soothing. A foreign accent. Kincaid couldn’t focus his mind, but at least he wasn’t alone. Wherever he was.
Kincaid pried his eyelids open and appreciated the darkness. A single point of light flickered from a distance, but the illumination allowed his eyes to focus. The first item he noticed was the thick bars.
Alive for sure, but he was in prison. Kincaid pulled his arms underneath his body and pushed up. He collapsed as his shoulder ignited in pain.
The fight.
Kincaid tucked his arms in and rolled to his side. With his right arm, he had enough strength to push himself upright. He brushed the gravel off his face and felt the scruff of an unshaven beard. Must be a few days later.
Ribs burned and protested the effort to get to his feet, but his body couldn’t stand laying on the cold stone slabs. He rose on shaky legs and stretched his back. Floor-to-ceiling bars surrounded two sides of his enclosure, and the remainder of his cell was stone. His cage was in the back corner of a four-cell block.
“Yes, you are in prison, and you’ve been here for two days.”
The voice demanded Kincaid’s attention, and the speaker was an older man chained hand and foot to rings in the floor of his cell. He sat on a straw pallet, and Kincaid wondered why the lengths of chains didn’t allow the man movement farther than the expanse of his seat.
He was filthy. Clothes hung off his frame, and they once may have been fine quality. Grime covered the man’s face and hands, and the beard was a bush covering his chin.
The man’s eyes captured Kincaid and drew him in. The blue intensity did not show a person broken by imprisonment. Those eyes were calculating. A man with fight left in him.
Kincaid croaked. He wanted to respond, but the sandpaper in his mouth wouldn’t let his tongue move.
The prisoner nodded and waited. Kincaid examined his cell to find something to wet his lips. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since his dinner with Liane and Sholeh. Within reach of his barred enclosure were a wooden mug of water and a piece of bread.
He sipped the water to moisten his mouth as tears sprung unbidden to his eyes. Images of Master Barnet’s room and the last moments of the fight came to the front of his consciousness. He wasn’t ready to reflect on that. He couldn’t contemplate what he did yet.
The two other items in the area were a straw pallet and a chamber pot. Kincaid picked up the bread and fell back into the pallet. He rested his back against the stone wall and faced the other captive. Picking pieces of the stale bread and dipping them in his water helped get food into his belly.
“Who are you?” Kincaid asked.
“Fellow prisoner, like you. But obviously more dangerous because I’m sitting here in a thick set of irons. Cormac.”
Kincaid nodded. “Kincaid, carpenter. And now, apparently, prisoner.”
“The pair of guards brought you here bound and gagged. I don’t think they’re planning on an early release.”
“Where am I? I mean, where are we?”
“You’re the unlucky guest of the Atros family. Your current address is their personal prison.”
“I lived
in the Atros quarter of the city since I immigrated to Caesea. I worked on woodworking commissions for the family.”
“It appears you will keep your residence here for some time. At least until your death.”
Kincaid wasn’t ready for the humor. His imprisonment was a mistake. He couldn’t comprehend how a journeyman carpenter drew the attention of a noble family. If it was for woodworking, that would make sense. Prison did not.
Criminals stole money from shop owners, and they should be here. The noble families could do something about the extortion. Fighting against these thugs was a worthy cause, and he was defending his sister and his master. The Duke would understand the mistake.
“I just need to explain to the Duke.”
“Want me to summon him?” A grin played at the corners of the man’s filthy mouth. Chains rattled as he half-bowed from his seated position.
“That’s not what I—”
“Think about survival, Kincaid. This isn’t a city cell to sleep off too much wine. This is a ruling family’s prison beyond the city’s laws. No one will find you here unless they allow it.”
“But I thought even the ruling family of Atros had to obey the laws. I should have my say.”
“The first thing that will go is your sense of justice. It’s time to think about surviving.”
The situation was worse than he expected. The iron bars closed in on him, and cold seeped into his cell.
“What do you remember? Before you woke up in the cell?”
“Three thugs extorted money from my master. This was the second time, and my master couldn’t pay them off. I tried to stop them.”
“You went after three people? By yourself?” Cormac looked Kincaid up and down with a lifted eyebrow.
“After the first encounter, I bought and practiced with a blade. If the guards wouldn’t do their job, then I would defend ourselves.”
“How long had you been practicing?”
“Less than a month. Why?” Two raised eyebrows now.