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

by Troy Reaves

  19

  Peculiar Quartet

  The Gang was doing what they did best; nothing good. The group had been drawn together by fate over the years, or whatever passed for it where Alchendia was concerned. Anyone who knew the Gang for any amount of time came to assume that not only did the Goddess of Luck have a sense of humor but said humor was a somewhat mystifying one at that. Spike was reaching across a makeshift table of cobbled together crates, smacking Harse in the head while trying once more to explain why it is time to hit another merchant group, while Frost nodded sagely off to one side, sipping generously from a near empty wine skin that was weathered almost as much as he was, both he and the skin having seen better years. Twitcher, the most recent addition to the group, was lying down, well into his evening ration of drink and not the least bit interested in the conversation at between Harse and Spike.

  Spike, the leader of the group, had earned his nickname during an ill-fated raid on a small keep. The plan had been simple enough, as most of their plans had to be. “We slip in with the stable hands. We work a couple days. Ask a couple questions. Grab what we need and we set for winter.” It had been a good plan for capable rogues. The Gang were not capable anything. A week of real labor had broken them, and when they knew where the food and casks were stored, they decided to move forward with haste. What they had not taken the time to find out was that the Lord of the keep preferred traps to a regular garrison. Spike found out the hard way as the alarms sounded. The others were running across the drawbridge to escape with food and the horse blankets they were using as makeshift sacks. The rest of the Gang made it across just before Spike, who had insisted on carrying a full cask of aged liquor. The iron spikes meant to repel attackers worked just as well at punching through Spike’s boot as he retreated from the keep. The gang managed to get him to their hideout and he never let go of that cask, but from then on he was Spike.

  Harse was another story all together. He never asked for anything from their infrequent raids but the horses. He often bragged about how many he had sold when in fact he was the one being robbed every time he made a deal. He figured gold dividing was too much for him to factor so he made his own coin selling the steeds. Unscrupulous traders rubbed their hands together and grinned every time they saw him coming. Damn fool could not even say “horse” right, let alone haggle a decent price for one, hence his title.

  Twitcher, so named for his inability to hold a bow steady at full draw due to a badly healed ligament in his left arm, was presently flopped on one of the flea ridden bedrolls, staring. He was once the best marksman in his small village and the pride of the town. Now he spent time practicing through the pain, knowing he cannot hit his targets but reassured knowing he will always be the best archer in the Gang.

  Frost was the real brains of the group and, despite his age, the best fighter among The Gang. He was still able to duel wield two short swords and could put on quite a display of swordsmanship when needed. His favorite tactic was to approach a traveler, whirling his swords while the others got into position. On clear nights when his silver long hair shown ghostly and the glint of the blades reflected the light of the moon, it was most effective.

  Truth of the matter was The Gang had not had a respectable take in quite a while. The last one had come out of pure luck as the Gang was making one of their infrequent visits to a nearby village. Frost had been going easy on his liver while the others tossed back the last vestige of their ill-gotten gains, and had happened to overhear of a merchant looking for some protection on a short trip to Travelflor. It seemed his previous’protectors’ had taken his pay and wandered off on their merry way as the merchant slept. Frost knew opportunity when he smelled it, and this particular traveler stank of it, a mixture of cheap ale and heady desperation. Frost took little time to engage the merchant in conversation, offering the services of his band of mercenaries as protection. The gentle trader was suspicious at first, having been duped already, but after Frost assured him that no payment was required in coin until they reached the city, an accord was readily reached. Frost went so far as to guarantee that the merchant would reach Travelflor. He had made no such assurance about the man’s goods. The mark was easily overpowered a day into the journey and relieved of the bulk of his casks and coin. Harse was not pleased when they only took the two horses pulling the wagon, especially considering he had to trade one for two mules to a local farmer while the rest of the Gang guarded the merchant. Frost explained that a deal made is a deal kept and the mules would get the merchant to town at least, lessening their chance of being pursued. Harse could not argue Frost’s logic at the time, especially with the trouble he had stringing sentences together, and so settled for a bit of coin for the loss. Sometimes Frost had to wonder if there was a lot of orc blood in Harse’s family tree. Such things, though rare, were not unheard of, and it would have explained a lot.

  Frost decided it was time for him to intervene before Harse decided he was tired of getting hit. The man was not the brightest in the bunch but he was definitely the biggest, a fact Spike had a habit of forgetting on occasion. The results of this were never pretty, and Frost did not feel like bandaging Spike up tonight. “I think we should just go do some hunting tonight. Any respectable merchant still outside a city will be settled into camp and guarded by this time.” Frost stated, causing both Spike and Harse to turn their gaze to him. Even Twitcher perked up, knowing when Frost started making plans things got a whole lot more interesting. “We still have a good amount of that skunk scent from the skunk Twitcher took down last time we went hunting, so the wolves will stay well away from us.” Twitcher knew Frost was being entirely too kind when the older man gave him credit for bagging the skunk. The truth was the skunk had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when Twitcher was aiming at a rabbit for dinner. The skunk took a shot in the eye instead. Sometimes Twitcher got lucky beyond reason and this was one of those times. No one in the gang could bring themselves to eat the thing but it did fine for keeping wolves away.

  Harse prepared the’beast repellant’, as they called it, rubbing a piece of cloth on the scent sac they kept in a sealed jar. The thing did not exactly attract prey animals but the gang had gotten pretty good at surrounding ones they spotted and driving them toward one another. The results had been mixed at best. The best example of this was the scars Spike bore from being charged by a very displeased buck. Lucky for him it had been a young one, barely coming into its antlers, and Frost had been close enough to take it from behind, Spike just seemed to attract sharp, painful objects though no one openly made much comment about it. You could not help but laugh if you did and even if Spike was their leader in name alone, Frost and the rest gave him the respect of the title. They all owed him for one reason or another, mostly for bringing them all together. One thing they all knew was the Gang was much greater together than the pitiful sum of their parts.

  Twitcher had the sharpest eyes and took point as they left the cave they called home. Spike and Frost flanked him at a good distance just within sight of Twitcher’s hand signals while Harse followed well back, keeping the scent as far from the others as possible. The drizzle in the cool night amplified the skunk scent and Harse suffered through it with stoicism. The fact he could barely smell did not hurt. The group cleared the briars soon enough and made their way through the bare paths they had grown to know over time without need of light. Twitcher was just beginning to think they would go hungry for yet another day when lightening surged through the clouds overhead. He spotted what looked like a boar but something was wrong about it. The head appeared to be too far off the ground for one thing and, more importantly, it was not moving. The thunder should have at least startled the creature enough to move it away from the tree for a moment. ‘The creature must be hanging from the tree then,’ Twitcher thought to himself, ‘but that does not make any kind of sense. Too close to the road to be discarded by merchants. They would have to know it would draw all kinds of trouble if they were camping near here. T
he ranger would have it near his home further in the woods so no sense in that either.’ The bowman made a few quick hand gestures to Spike and Frost, not ready to make a move without their input.

  Frost got to Twitcher first, asking him what he had seen. Twitcher waited briefly for Spike before he replied. “Damnedest thing up there, against that tree but I do not know what to make of it. Looks like it might be a boar but if it is alive, it is the biggest one I have ever seen. It must be three feet at the shoulder judging by where its head is. Looks like it is found a batch of something it likes at the base of that tree because the thunder a moment ago did not even move it off. Damn strange. It may be dead but, if it is, it had to be hung from that tree by someone. Does not make any sense to be where it is though if that be the case. Too close to the road and too far from that lazy ranger’s place. Damn strange.”

  Spike spoke up as Twitcher finished his thought. “No sense in wasting a dead boar. I will go check it out but stay close just in case. Twitcher, no offense meant but I would feel better if you follow with your short sword in your hand. Frost, you go wide and come from the other side in case it is alive and tries to bolt. You got a better chance alone than either of us at taking it down if it charges you. We will manage if it comes this direction.” Frost nodded by way of agreement and silently started circling to the far side of their prize.

  The Gang approached silently as they had practiced so many times before until they could see the creature more clearly. Twitcher was the first to break the almost weighted silence when the three men were close enough to see what they had found. “It is a dead man. Damn.” Harse ran up and took two quick steps back, drawing a deep breath in spite of the skunk scent he carried. Harse had never seen a fresh corpse before, a secret he had kept to himself, and despite being unsure if it was the skunk scent or the sight of the body he suddenly found he wanted to puke. No more had the thought hit him than his gut complied, bending him over double facing away from the body.

  Spike turned on Harse, chastising him immediately. “What in the Abyss was that all about, Harse! You would think you never seen a dead man before. Show a little respect for the poor sod at least and see if you can find some self-respect as well while you are at it.”

  Frost turned the conversation back to the body, quickly taking note of the state of it. “He was one of us. He had enough throwing knives and daggers to take on a small army, or very near one. Strange, whoever left him here only took his boots. Coin purse and every sheath appear to be untouched. Nice blades all the way around. They should fetch us a good price with the right people. Grab him up, Harse. We will take him home and bury him tomorrow. Least we can do for one of our own.”

  Harse blanched at the thought of having to handle the corpse, but he knew he was the only one strong enough to carry the body. He paused only for a moment, not wanting to embarrass himself any further and figuring he did not have anything left to spew from his gut anyway. Harse engaged his curiosity as he leaned down to pick the man up, definitely never having seen a corpse as fresh as this one, with color still in the cheeks. No one in the Gang was sure what happened next. The dead man was on his feet with his two small knives in his hands before The Gang could spit. No one noticed Harse’s missing digit until the now very alive dead man pointed it out. “Sorry about that. Thought you were him come back to finish me. Reflexes is all. Better the little finger. I was aiming for your throat. You have some respectable reflexes yourself.” After his little speech, Boremac was promptly rendered unconscious for the second time this evening as Frost slammed the hilt of one of his swords into the side of his head.

  He awakened in the cave The Gang called home, stripped down to his underclothes and trussed at his hands and feet. Boremac also noted he stank like hell. There was an overwhelming smell of some healing poultices he recognized, and some he definitely did not, which had been applied liberally to his aching skull. He was hoping none of them were flammable, since for some reason he had been laid on some old horse blankets very near a raging fire. He caught himself thinking briefly, with an inward laugh, that they may be preparing to roast him.

  The Gang had had a lot of practice in healing due to their own misadventures. And after a bit of time, and bitter soup fed to him by a large man missing a finger, Boremac started feeling like his old self, or at least his head did not feel on the verge of exploding. When Dead Man, the name that his captors seem to have given him, finally was able to sit up and speak, his fist words were, “strong drink now... throat... strong drink now... then water... maybe goat’s milk.”

  Spike brought him a wine skin while Harse ran off to parts unknown. Boremac quaffed the liquor in the wine skin. This action caused two immediate reactions. His eyes sprang open and a burning sensation coursed through his entire being. The drink was unlike anything he had ever experienced, which alone said a lot, for his knowledge of potent drink was vast, burning into his belly so harshly that he was afraid to damage himself if he had to relieve himself anytime soon. It was like something brewed very poorly from a still and then spit in by a demon, a very big, very angry, demon. Spike smiled watching him. “Good huh? Twitcher makes it when we can’t steal better. Some kinda family concoction. Won’t tell us what is in it and after two good slugs you really don’t much care. More?” Boremac shook off the offer in a manner that assured Spike he needed no more.

  This brought a round of hearty laughter from those present and a questioning look from Harse who had just returned, wooden bucket in hand. “What’d I miss? I miss everything. Damn it all.” Harse had brought the bucket to Boremac after grabbing up a metal cup to dip in it. Boremac looked pensively at the bucket and cup before dipping some water out and taking a tentative sip. He determined the water had a much less chance of killing him than the home brew despite the state of both cup and bucket, and proceeded to try and dampen the fire in his belly. Boremac was not much for speeches, and had had even less use for giving thanks in the course of his life, so it was with some trepidation he started to talk to the group that had saved his life.

  He gave a sweeping toast with the water cup to the group before speaking. “I am not much for fancy words so I won’t bother. You are all owed more than simple thanks and I only hope that I am able to repay your kindness in time. You can figure I have a debt to settle more immediately, though I will not bore you with the details. You, my big friend, need immediate aid if you are to not lose that little finger permanently. You have not lost it already, have you?” Boremac smiled although the shallow look on the man’s face made him think he may very well have lost the digit.

  Harse brightened immediately with a disarming smile that looked out of place on the man’s face, a childlike glee filling his eyes as he replied. “You are a strange one, Dead Man. First you rise from the dead then you say you can give me my finger back. Strange power for a thief.”

  “Sadly you will have to go to Travelflor and visit the Temple there to take care of the finger. There is a Death bringer there that owes me a favor. Ask after sister Dena and she will make sure you are tended properly. Just tell her…” Boremac paused, not ready to have word reach Travelflor that he was still alive, at least not yet. He had to have time to plan a proper return to the city. “…tell her Rinoba sent you and wishes to settle her debt to him with her aid in your healing.”

  The elder of the group looked at Boremac from across the room, his feet propped on a table formed of crates, with hooded eyes addressing Boremac with a tone of voice that gave no hint of emotion. “Who are you? One of our kind does not command favor with the Death bringers and I am familiar with the name you give for Harse to use so freely. You are not Rinoba.” The man’s words told Boremac two things: the man was used to command for one and, more importantly, he had a lot more sense than the others.

  Boremac decided to answer with the truth, or at least some of it. “I am all too familiar with the prince also, wise one, and it would only bring more trouble than you all can handle to know who I am. The nick Dead Man is prob
ably going to end up being more appropriate sooner than later, so let us just keep it at that for now.”

  Frost nodded his acquiescence and closed his eyes, obviously satisfied for now. “You should rest, Dead Man. We all should. It will be a long trip to Travelflor tomorrow. You will remain here with me when the others go. It would appear we have much to discuss.” Frost did not phrase it as a question and Boremac could tell it was not a request.

  20

  Controlled Chaos

  The next morning Boremac awoke to the smell of smoke and a dry mouth he attributed to the bitter drink of the past night. He still stank of the salves that had been applied to his head and made a mental note to bathe in the river as soon as he could. He was having trouble deciding if the drink or the stench weas making his head hurt more, but at least he could try and eliminate the smells. The rapid steady hammering of a blacksmith using his head for an anvil last night had settled into a more manageable throbbing. Boremac was glad because it appeared Harse had been the first one up and had made a very poor choice of materials to rekindle the embers in the center of the fire pit. Smoke billowed from the pit with a littering of floating embers, making the upper reaches of the cave look like a bizarre rendering of a night sky, or a volcanic eruption, if what Boremac had heard of them were true. Harse was carrying the bucket toward the fire even as Boremac started looking for it. It was not the best solution but the fire had grown too big to attempt to smother it. The chill morning air wasted no time invading the cave once the fire was snuffed, giving up its ghost in a plume of steam and angry hissing.