Book 2 Dead Man's Hand: The Knights of the Golden Dragon

by Troy Reaves

  The woman stood just outside his arm’s reach with her feet slightly apart and the left one step ahead of the right. Boremac could sense no tension in her but somehow he felt energy barely held in check emanating from her form. It was all he could do to hold his ground as she raised one of her hands, beckoning to him with a slight wave of her fingertips. It was a universal gesture and the rogue immediately understood the meaning. She wanted him to attack her, which was the very last thing Boremac had any intention of doing.

  “You are kidding. I have been called a fool for many reasons throughout my life but I still draw breath despite my folly because I am not insane. No, I have to refuse you and hope that you will kill me quickly out of respect.” Boremac drew himself up to his full height as he spoke and even thrust out his chest in a misplaced demonstration of bravado. She would probably just break his neck, but if that were her intention he was going to insist he go out tall, with some honor.

  Her reply was as immediate as it was startling. He never even saw the strike that hit his shoulder with such violence that his arm and chest felt the spread of pain, sucking away his breath and causing him to tilt slightly forward. He took an involuntary step toward her to keep his balance and felt a slight hand grab him at the shoulder where he had been struck. She applied just enough pressure to straighten his back and bring his chin up. Boremac was determined he would not be broken into pieces if the end result would be death anyway, and his face was a mixture of pain and righteous fury that surged through him as she handled him.

  His assailant appeared to read his expression easily as she cuffed him sharply on the cheek. Once more she beckoned him to assault her. Boremac did not hesitate before fulfilling her request this time. He brought his own fist out, shooting out from the shoulder without drawing back, attempting to strike the center of her chest hard enough to stun her. He never touched her as she swept to his side and pushed him, causing him to take two clumsy steps away from her. Boremac thought he heard just the slightest breath of a giggle as he felt rather than saw her kick his right leg out from under him. Boremac landed hard on his left shoulder even as his right foot pivoted up, hitting him in the butt. He tasted mud and cobblestones as he kissed the street.

  Even as Boremac pondered the mercy of her dropping him on his unhurt shoulder, he began to understand. She was toying with him. What he could not figure out was why, and she was not about to give him time to think it over. He shifted quickly just as her boots landed to either side of his head. Reflexes kicked in and Boremac thrust himself backward and up with all his strength, reawakening his wounded shoulder in the process. He tilted his head up, pulling his knees under him to straighten himself into a standing position that would bring him to face her rear. He was not surprised to see that the woman, now with her back to him, had bent her knees slightly, leaning over so she could slap a hand down between her boots where his head had just been. Now it was his turn to play.

  He brought his own boot up as quickly as possible, driving it into her buttock before she had the opportunity to straighten back up. There was an unmistakable giggle, as she brought her other arm to join the first on the ground and neatly pin-wheeled her legs over her head, regaining her feet with a grace Boremac would not have thought possible. She paused only briefly, waggling a chastising finger at him, before moving to close the distance once more between them. Her method of approach baffled Boremac. She tumbled feet over hands, seemingly unaware of the distance between them, until she tucked her knees in a final somersault. It was too late for him to prepare for her landing as both her knees slammed into his chest. Forced backward by her weight and momentum combined, Boremac reversed with effort, keeping his feet until his back hit the wall. When he recovered his balance, he noted his attacker watching him intently as she backed away from him.

  Now he had her. Boremac moved in to attack before she could get back into a defensive position. It may be the last thing he would ever do but he would land this strike at least. This time he feinted with his good arm and launched the true attack from his wounded shoulder, trying to hit her in the center of her chest once more as she centered herself. The force behind his fist would have caused him to stumble if she had not brought his arm upward. She dipped to the side, presenting a smaller target for him, grabbing his wrist and pulling it upward in a movement clearly intended to slow his forward motion even as she angled his arm across his body and away from hers. He had felt the pressure of his fist traveling ineffectually across her breasts and was hard pressed to say if the sharp intake of breath that followed the contact was his or hers. What happened next took Boremac more by surprise than the arrival of one of the most feared assassins in the lands.

  “Enough!” The quiet voice that came from the darkness above Boremac and the assassin was little more than a rough whisper, though it carried the weight of a shout. The figure stood at the ledge where Boremac had begun his fateful descent so recently. There was no mistaking that this was a female also, though her rough voice mimicked that of a growling dog, because where the first was tall and slight, the second was much shorter and noticeably more feminine to Boremac’s keen eyes. It was difficult for the rogue to keep from bobbing his head as this new arrival descended without error in the manner Boremac had originally intended. Her rough voice lowered as she dropped toward them, chastising her companion or partner. “Do you always have to tease them, Shamshir? It is not a complicated trial really. All that jumping and dancing around makes you look like you are having a seizure or something. Good throw by the way.”

  She took a moment to size Boremac up a bit before speaking again. “Boremac, you appear to go to great lengths to give yourself no end of trouble, but you handle yourself well enough. I can’t say I agree with bringing you into the guild, but I won’t argue with the Master, either.” Boremac noticed that Shamshir had moved to one side of him with the arrival of this new individual, similarly clothed but with nothing to cover her face and head. Her hair was a riot of curls more suited to a doll than a killer. She let her large brown eyes travel over the fledgling bounty hunter in a manner that brought color and heat to Boremac’s face, no mean feat. He decided it was time to counter her inspection with one of his own, noting the full lips and small round ears that further made her appear almost childlike. That thought was corrected immediately once his eyes fell below her neck. “Eyes up here, rookie, or we bring you back blind. The Master did not say anything about you being able to see, only alive.” As his head snapped up, he met a gaze that he would have thought reserved for men just before the hangman’s hood drops.

  Boremac noticed out of the corner of his eye that Shamshir was shaking her head with slight quick motion. “What?” It was obvious the motion had not been unnoticed by her companion, as the new arrival turned her head slightly to look at her. Shamshir held up two fingers still not speaking a word. “No, Shamshir. The shot across your breasts touched both and each one counted separate. Small as they are, you would think you could keep them out of the melee.” The judge, what the new arrival appeared to be, laughed at her jest. Boremac, for his own part, contained his own mirth as best he could. Unfortunately, it was not enough and a snort of derision escaped him. Shamshir’s response was at once immediate and excruciating as her open hand slammed into the rogue’s shoulder. The force of the backhanded blow forced Boremac to drop a foot back in an effort to keep his balance, even as he felt his shoulder pop out of the socket.

  “Now that was mean!” The shorter assassin laughed openly this time. “Unfortunately for you, Boremac, Shamshir likes losing a contest almost as little as she enjoys being touched. The good news is that all your pain will go away in just a moment.” She punctuated her words with her own strike to his shoulder, using a balled fist to set it back in the socket even as his shoulder rebounded off the wall Boremac now leaned against. Excruciating waves of agony ignited every nerve in his body. The rogue could no longer hold back the welling of tears, letting only a drop fall from each eye, and the one who was in charge ha
d finally had enough. “Shamshir, keep this in mind for the future. Cruelty for the sake of cruelty has no place in our occupation. Of course, there are always exceptions.” The violence of the blow she delivered to Boremac’s groin was somewhat offset by the lack of time he remained conscious as it landed. Coupled with the waves of pain already flowing through his body, Boremac barely felt the blow land before he blacked out.

  1

  In the Beginning

  Travelflor had been Boremac’s home for as long as he could remember, or at least parts of the huge city. He had spent long days in the Merchant’s quarter and long nights in the Thieves quarter having little interest in the other sections of the city. The various shops and travelers in the Merchant’s quarter provided the young urchin boy with ample coin and foodstuffs donated unwillingly to his quick hands and quicker feet. Discarded clothing and shoes served him well enough, making him invisible to those around him, lost among all the unwanted ones of the city. His time in the Thieves’ quarter was spent scavenging temporary nesting places where he could take comfort from the near constant rains during the growing seasons and the overwhelming heat bleeding out of the cobblestones most of the rest of the year, with no breeze among the twisted alleys to cool them. He had the luck to secrete a small wooden chest in one of the barns long ago abandoned by, or more likely taken from, some stable-master or another years before he was born. Boremac had a home with the tavern ladies to some extent but this place was his own. It meant a lot to have hidden place that he could call his with so little that seemed permanent for him. The thing was falling down, but Boremac had been small enough to make his way into it safely and had grown familiar enough with its secrets to know the best ways into it, and out of it, quietly. He supposed one day his meager treasures would be lost, as year after year the barn grew less stable due the lack of care and the added threat of termites, but day to day worries kept him from being idle enough to think about too much besides his immediate needs.

  He had learned early the lack of profit in staying near the main house of the thieves’ guild that dominated the quarter. The surrounding blocks were patrolled as heavily as the government buildings at the center of Travelflor. Rogues and bandits much more attuned to the use and penetration of shadows than the guards they mirrored, had little use for urchins wasting their time while they protected the secrets of the guild house, known as Alchendia’s Path. He knew enough to stay away with one hard lesson. One time being caught by his leg and dragged a few blocks from the house would have been lesson enough, but the’guard’ had wanted to make an impression. Boremac had been tossed like a sack down an alley only to come to rest several feet away from his captor. As the young pickpocket had rested against the wall, the burly bandit in question spoke in a whisper bordering on a growl, “You will be old enough to pay your respects to the house soon enough, pup. Hope you are saving and don’t rush the house’s attention. Those that do rarely live to regret it long.” Boremac took the message to heart and stayed well away from the guild house, as well as the taverns near it, for some time after. He didn’t think about his future often, but when he did his thoughts were usually dominated by thoughts on how to extend it.

  Boremac did not spend long periods thinking about his birth parents, or for that matter his lot in life either. The pickpocket knew his mother had died during his birth and his father had eventually made his way to the gallows, hung for thievery no less, after trying his best to look after his newborn son. The one good that came of this for Boremac was that he was mothered by several different tavern ladies who were themselves products of the orphanages in Travelflor. They reasoned a child with so much stacked against him from the start did not need to be a slave to the masters of unwanted children in the city. Mama Bear, as she was called by the women she oversaw, had taken a special interest in his care and feeding as much as she could, but as soon as he was able to hear it the streets of Travelflor had called to him. She had grumbled at him often enough when he dragged himself in out of the weather, or more often when dodging trouble, that he was taking after his father more with each passing day.

  He found his fellow orphaned urchins that wondered longingly about their pasts were all “bastard children of royalty bent on regaining their true station”, or something along that line, and tired of their self-deceptions early on. He was a lone wolf for the most part simply because he found little use for those who might have moved about with him. Boremac had seen the young, and even older, organized pickpockets turn each other in if they thought it improved their chances to get away faster than the guards could ask them who their coconspirators were. He did not blame them. Boremac would have done the same and just counted himself lucky to have not been worth keeping on those rare occasions he was caught.

  This was the day for thieves, pickpockets and scoundrels of all ages because the most celebrated mercenary of the realm was coming home to visit. It was the perfect weather for being bad, overcast and gloomy lowering the heads of most people in their sullen moods, but the light fingered unrchins like himself were alert and aware.

  There was a rogue mercenary that sent waves of excitement through the urchin community of thieves, who found him a generous sort when he visited the city. The man was known to accidentally drop handfuls of coins in his wake as children got underfoot. Rumor had it he was an orphan of Travelflor himself and paid his dues to the thieves’ guild in a way only he understood. Some said he was in high standing with Alchendia’s Path. Other rumors held he was a representative from a powerful guild in a foreign land who came to bring news and gain counsel. The leader of Alchendia’s Path found use in the rumors and kept those as well as others alive, between the rogue mercenary’s infrequent visits. A handful of trusted people near the leader knew the man was his identical twin brother. Those two found it useful to stretch their backs after bearing the weight of leadership, and being the assumed king of the thieves in the lands became terribly boring over time. Both gnashed at one another over drink and good food about having to remain while the other got to roam around free of responsibility, neither preferring the throne over the road, but each knowing the sharing of responsibility served the guild best. The two brothers often expressed their regrets, longing for the times when they roamed together.

  Boremac had chosen one of these visits to try making a name with some of the better known gang members around his age. They had welcomed him into their group readily enough, which normally would have made him suspicious had he not been so distracted by a particularly attractive lass at the time. She was suffering at the present time at the hands of what Boremac felt was a poor suitor, and he felt his opportunity was as limited as it was fortuitous. When the mercenary rogue arrived and began his distribution of coin, he gave no thought toward the motives of his present companions as they walked together and discussed the silly children nipping at the mercenary’s heels. Boremac smiled listening to their words, thinking how the passage into manhood they were all in the grip of made them forget how recently these wise ones numbered among the nipping pups. The leader of the group poked Boremac in the chest, breaking his reverie and whispering through a fox’s grin. “Time for your initiation, Boremac. Hope you are as quick as you say. A simple pickpocketing will do, considering the target. Do you see our benefactor’s daggers?”

  Boremac indicated that he had with little more than a frown, as his stomach found a new home in his boots. He had been admiring the sheathed blades the mercenary carried at either side for some time while the group had matched his step. The thought of trying to take them from the man twisted Boremac’s gut with a combination of fear and excitement, not unlike the infrequent looks he received from the lass he desired. The difference was, no matter how kind the man might be, Boremac could see no good end in trying to separate his blades from him. The thief could, however, see many bad ends clearly as each took its turn flashing before his eyes.

  It did not take much observation to pick up on Boremac’s reservations, and the leader of the group cho
se now to speak the words that would seal Boremac’s fate. “Come then, Boremac, you must be up to the task, with what I have heard of you. Yes, we all have heard of you.” He paused a moment, looking around the group as each of the others nodded and grinned in their turn. “You have left an impression on a number of my own boys to be sure. Pole, come up here!” The gangly, tall young man that came forward was one Boremac recognized instantly. He had made his mark on that one, and the bruise the size of Boremac’s fist was still deeply colored at Pole’s left eye. The desperation of Boremac’s situation struck home instantly now. There were too many of them to take on, and the crowds were now too thick to flee. He knew now how the choice chicken in the henhouse felt when the fox came to call. “So you are going to bring me the daggers, or we are going to educate you in the finer arts of pugilism.” The leader illustrated his point by striking Boremac hard in the shoulder. “So I dare you, Boremac, to take the rogue mercenary’s daggers and join our gang. We can’t have our own members beating on one another, so that should take care of Pole’s hard feelings. Right, Pole?” The young man in question managed to push up one side of his mouth in a haphazard attempt at an acquiescing smile while nodding nearly imperceptibly. “Good, then it is settled. Don’t think about running off either, Boremac. We know where your little stable home is and it would be a shame for it to burn up on a dry night with someone in it.”