They departed the large house and the few newcomers to the establishment provided Gorias a wide berth. As Gorias was about to ascend his horse tethered outside near the stables, his head snapped toward the alleyway behind the brothel.
This action caused Orsen to look away from his own colt. “What did you see?”
“Cart of the dead going by, wait a second here.” Gorias jogged gingerly toward a large cart of corpses pulled by a pair of horses. Orsen followed him, anyway. The alleyway route netted the gatherer of the dead three bodies that night, one of which was Turak whom Gorias slew earlier.
“Gorias, sir, why…?” Orsen stammered as the old legend shouted at the driver to halt and then proceeded to dig into the pile of dead bodies on the back.
“They’re mine now,” the chubby driver squalled at Gorias in the moonlight, his head wrap starting to unravel as he lost his temper. “If you want a bounty on them for being dead, it’s too late. I have them fair to rights!”
“Ya can have the corpses,” Gorias shot back, loud, clearly impressed at the pluck of the fat man with little ability toward the greatest warrior alive. “I just want to see something. There, look kid.” He pointed at the shoulder of Turak. “See that tattoo?”
“Vaguely in this light. What of it?”
“Do ya see what it is? A bag, a potion bottle and the rainbow?”
“Difficult to see in the darkness and that image…”
“…has faded,” Gorias affirmed. “That’s a tattoo oriented with some magical properties. When he had his head cut off, Turak kept slapping that spot up by his chest, that tattoo. Well, it’s a balm for healing, which is why a stubbornness to die set in and more blood shot out.”
Orsen nodded, rubbing his chin. “Very likely, sir. His wound was too grievous for a mystical tattoo to heal.”
Frown deepening, Gorias turned toward the stables. “What’ll they think of next? Maybe the edict to burn the wizards isn’t so harsh after all. That’s just unnatural. Your Queen should watch who she employs and lets do tats.”
Once they walked to the horses, Orsen glanced at the backpack that was close at Gorias’ spine. “Is it true your double swords are really made from an angel’s wings?”
With a swift move, Gorias reached in his cloak, disengaged the twin blades and held them up in the moonlight. “Aw, more tales, eh? What do they look like to you?”
Eying the gleaming blades in the light, Orsen said, “They are alight, yet do not reflect the moon. Their texture doesn’t look like steel.”
Gorias returned his swords to their housings. “Get drunk once and tell the truth and it follows ya forever. C’mon, let’s go.” After a single step, Gorias halted. “What else is it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just dragonfire on bad politicians, nothing else?”
Orsen hesitated and Gorias grabbed him by the shoulders. “Ya little prick, I’ll kill yer ass and send that good fortune tattoo back to Lady Garnet under glass. Don’t screw with me!”
“There is a matter of secession in the land.”
Gorias’ eyes narrowed. “The Queen’s heirs? They’re threatened?”
“One might say that. Her sons and daughters are dead.”
“I kinda wondered about that, but she had grandchildren.” Gorias grimaced. “Are they all dead, too?”
“Save for one, but she’s no longer in the realm. The Queen’s nephew stands to inherit the realm, but…”
Gorias cut in, “Garnet hates her younger sister’s guts. I know.” He took a few steps back toward his mount and then stopped once more. “Her sister, Mavik?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Back in the day, Mavik was a real piece of work and couldn’t have kids due to her lifestyle.”
Orsen wore a confused look.
Gorias smirked. “She couldn’t keep her knees together as a younger gal and the King ordered so many bastards aborted, Mavik couldn’t have a kid later when she wanted one. She musta got lucky, huh?”
“I hadn’t heard that. Dowager Mavik is a lady of high class.”
“Old age and no witnesses can do that to ya. It’ll make ya forget ya bedded the servants, the chef, the stable guys and their buddies. The sitting monarch gets pissy when royal blood ain’t on the menu opposite another royal.”
Orsen’s face darkened. “I’ll explain more as we go.”
*****
Sometimes, Nykia dreamt she woke up in her bed, back in the vacation home the Prytens burnt. That dream made her angry enough to wake up for real, usually not talking like a princess but the pirate fighter she’d become.
In the dead of night she woke up, swaying in a hammock, covered in sweat, tears running down her face. Nykia swung her legs down and hopped from the swinging bed. Bare footed, Nykia walked up the wooded steps and stood on the deck of the larger schooner.
“Out of the way, Allard,” she told an aged man scanning the waters with a spyglass. Clad in filthy breeks and a vest, the coarse-skinned man performed a mock bow and stepped aside.
The sea air in her lungs, Nykia’s hand ran down between her breasts and stopped at her abdomen. Her fingers drummed as the wind off the sea struck her face, the flap of the sails keeping time with the rush of the sea.
A few men tending the rigging and watching out on the deck noted her, but paid her little mind. Allard took a hit off a small flask and moved on down the way.
Her fingernails clenched tighter on her belly and she mumbled, “You’re very close, Gorias.” Eyes closed, she licked her teeth. “Why are you here?”
“Ho, there, Nykia,” came a gruff voice from over her head. She never turned to see who spoke. “Early for even you to rise.”
“He’s near, Noguria. Gorias La Gaul, he really is I know.”
A tall woman with waist-length blonde hair and amazingly long legs slowly descended from the deck behind her. On each hip, leathery coils of whips slapped the bare portions of Noguria’s hips just above her high boots “I haven’t heard you speak of him for quite a while and you didn’t react when I told you he may be close by.” Noguria cracked her knuckles and then stretched, watching Nykia scanning the endless waves. “I figured him long dead by now, but we heard tell of him near the temple of Rhiannon in Albion the other day. Hell, didn’t we hear a story by those drunken sailors that La Gaul died in the great Dagon sacrifice at Nineveh a few years ago?”
Her face sour, Nykia shook her head once. “I didn’t believe that then, nor do I now.”
Noguria looked her up and down and then shared Nykia’s stare across the water. “You feel it in your bones, do you?”
Nykia folded her arms and hugged herself for a moment. Noguria slipped a slender arm about Nykia and pulled her tight. Nykia’s dark eyes closed and she said, “I feel it, under my skin.”
CHAPTER II
Channel Crossing
At the outer reaches of the hamlet of Rhiannontown, Orsen said, “It’s only thirty minutes’ ride to Portcity.”
In the saddle, Gorias glanced back at Rhiannontown and remarked at Orsen’s words, “Can’t fault the Albion’s for their originality in naming.”
Facing the dirt road, Orsen related, “Rhiannontown is known for the temple to Rhiannon, the great goddess of Albion and the stone circles outside it. Portcity is where one disembarks, hence the name. No need to draw fault with everything.”
Gorias muttered, “So much for casual conversation.” They rode for a few minutes before Gorias said, “Rhiannon isn’t a deity to break one’s balls, though. Her and her initiates, they keep to themselves, get some oil from the masses, pour it down the well for the goddess and pray for good things. No mess, no big rules or anything. Rhiannon kinda helps when she can.” Gorias voice had a lighter air, almost comical. “Kinda cute, no?”
In the moonlight, Gorias could see Orsen’s jaw tighten before he declared, “Rhiannon is a gutless choice for a goddess. There’s no sacrifice, personal or literal, just everything is all right.” Orsen spat on the ground as if he coul
d hit Rhiannon herself. “Gutless.”
Amused, Gorias related, “I didn’t say she was a god for real, kid. The priests of Rhiannon are a quiet bunch. For the regular fella in the street, yeah, simple goddess to call on either in swearing or hopes for good performance on the bed mat. Her priests are fanatics, like any other followers of a god, though.”
“She’s a false god, an idol.”
Gorias adjusted his thick belt and made sure his pouches stayed snapped down. “Never know, son. Rhiannon might be closer than ya think.”
They rode on in silence for several minutes, navigating the well-trod road made wider by wagons and many hooves. Once they’d passed along the outer ridges of the sleeping Portcity, signs of life showed. The closer they drew to the dock, the chill of the sea made Orsen tremble and Gorias take a deep breath.
“Over this away,” Gorias pointed at the series of docks stretching out from behind a tiny tree-line. “The sea air can’t block the scent of Kazmur’s stables and transports.”
His nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of what Gorias referred to, Orsen stated, “I have passage ready for us on the large barge there.”
Gorias glanced over at the huge ship a few hundred yards past the galleons moored by the stables. “Nice, but I want Traveler to have a good ride.”
They stopped in front of the stables and dismounted. A gagging cough echoed from within the domicile constructed with bricks on two sides and logs on the other. Gorias almost hammered on the wood plaque bearing the owner’s name, but the door swung outward. Lamps lit inside, they saw a few men sitting, bored, drunk or both. A squat man with a round head made of pimples and greasy hair filled the door.
“By Rhiannon, you came back,” the ugly man said and coughed violently. “You’re good on for the gold, I have to admit.”
“Kazmur, my word is usually good, unless someone kills me in the night and I can’t follow through,” Gorias told him with a smile and dismounted Traveler. “I won’t be going across in the night, but please take my horse with other revenue, savvy?”
Kazmur nodded and gestured at Orsen’s mount. “Same for yours?”
Orsen replied, “I’m not fond of a horse. Any one will do. I’ll find another in my homeland.”
Bloodshot eyes lit a bit as Kazmur grinned. “Suit yourself. Good luck with him, Gorias.”
“He’s a lucky little one, Kazmur. With any luck, he’ll keep me alive another day.”
The man stepped out of the stable and a wave of body odor hit Gorias and Orsen. Gorias didn’t react, but Orsen covered his mouth. Kazmur stroked Traveler’s mane. “Damned fine animal. I’ll see to him.”
Once they walked away from the stables, Orsen stopped, put his hands to his knees and wretched. The dry heaves stayed with him for a moment. Gorias waited patiently for him to recover or vomit.
“Through?”
“Yes, for now. I need to lay off the pipe and drink.”
“That’s all right. Ya got the rest of yer life to ruin yerself.”
“Why did you tell him you weren’t crossing tonight?”
“I don’t have to tell everyone my business, do I?”
Orsen wiped his eyes and stayed with Gorias as they walked onto a closed shop’s porch partially lit by lanterns. Nearby, a few locals warmed their hands over small bonfires and talked. “By the goddess, that was terrible.”
“One gets used to filth in this world same as beauty. More rotten than good, I fear, but hey, yer young yet. True enough, that fella needs to take a step closer to the paper when he wipes his ass.”
Just when Gorias was going to ask about passage and the barge looming before them, a commotion ensued amongst the people. Many of the robed men of the docks started shoving each other. Gorias stepped in front of Orsen, hands to his sword pommels, but he peered over the gaggle of little men.
“Another religious fanatic,” Gorias told Orsen as the smaller man moved around his frame.
The crowd parted enough for them to see a figure in an orange-tinted robe pull back his hood. The old fellow, near to naturally bald and wearing a close-cropped beard, sat on the ground, legs folded under him. He held up a large gourd and undid the top.
Many muttered as to what would happen next but when Orsen gaped at Gorias. “This won’t be as exciting as you think.”
The priest opened his mouth wide and splashed the contents of the gourd over his face. The substance ran thicker than water, but not quite the composition of honey. The priest wavered little as the amber-colored fluid filled his mouth. In a moment, he started to gag and then convulsed.
“You thought he’d set himself afire, huh?”
Orsen confessed, “Yes. I’ve heard stories of men sacrificing themselves that way.”
The priest flopped over, broke wind loudly and became still.
Gorias waved at the body. “That’s the high priest of Rhiannon. He just drowned himself in on a dock.”
“Why there?”
“So as not to befoul his land, I guess.”
Orsen thought a bit before saying, “Gutless to the last.”
“You’d have preferred a violent death and a self-consuming one?” Gorias chuckled and slapped the small man on the back. “Barbarian.”
“You knew that man? You said he was the high priest?”
Gorias turned toward the barge. “I know of many people. Is this our ride?” He frowned at the method of transport Orsen acquired for transversing the channel. “I guess I’ve sailed in worse. What is this, a damned frigate?”
“A barge, technically.”
The vessel stretched on, mostly with a flat bottom, but curled at the edges like a massive canoe. Huge sails loomed overhead, with smaller ones in the rear and a rudder on the side. “I guess it’s just made for traveling the channel, huh? The side rudder negotiates the current either way. That thing’d be death in the open sea.”
“Wonderful thing we aren’t going that way then.”
A whimpering squeal made them turn, seeing a man afar off the docks, his head and wrists bound across in a wooden set of stocks. Both of his eyes bruised, dried blood caked his cheeks and he hung from the stocks limp, his clothing in tatters.
Gorias asked a passing sailor, “What did he do?”
“Stowaway,” came the answer from the scratchy voice.
Orsen wondered, “Hasn’t he suffered enough? Look at the poor man.”
Gorias turned back to the ship. “Ain’t for me to say. Swift justice beats coddling ‘em too long.”
Orsen handed coins to the bosons. He turned from these men and said quietly, “I travel for Her Majesty, but a royal war ship might arouse, well, certain trouble in the ports of Albion.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Gorias pulled his cloak tighter about himself, nodding to a few men dressed in baggy clothes and head wraps typical of merchants across the channel. He eyed two of them close, seeing them a trifle tall for sellers of wares and men obviously concealing weapons in their loose-fitting clothes. No law restricted them carrying weaponry, so he wondered after the stealth of their follow passengers
“Relations are good with the King of Albion, but not substantial,” Orsen related as they looked the long ship over. “The sitting pretender on the throne is a better monarch to deal with than his pervert predecessor.”
Gorias followed him to the dock and nodded. “Yeah, the Keltos usurper did the world a favor by butchering King Silex and all of his family.”
At Silex’s name, Orsen stopped, flared his nostrils and spat. His eyes wide at Gorias, he retorted, “Silex or Satan, no difference from the lessons in school. They should pin a medal on that barbarian drunk for his actions.”
“I doubt he’d have one. But before ya ask, yes, Silex really was a freak. Not just bug-screwing crazy, but so beholden to the priests and wizards that they controlled his every desire, thus furthering their need for Mage materials.” Once they stood aboard the ship, Gorias went to the handrail and looked back at the city as if he could behold all of Albion. �
�It’ll take a few generations to replace all of the babies and children Silex used.”
Orsen stiffened and motioned Gorias to follow him. They stopped at a series of cabins near the aft portion of the barge. “Can we discuss something else?”
“Yeah, whatever. I’ve left countries with better thoughts. I’m tempted to travel on the ship with the horses, I dunno why. I’ll miss Traveler.” He glanced at some of the crew. “Good sailors here, not a wormy bunch, well fed. I feel ready to slumber in the womb of safety.”
“How much have you drunk today?”
“Not enough if I’m really crossing the channel on this fool’s errand. Still, I feel better with a good crew of men than a bunch of navy washouts or pirate wannabes. They look apt to save their own asses, thus, mine will be comfy, too.”
“You fought in the wars against Silex when Garnet was young?”
“Ya ask and yet, ya already know.”
“What was the nature of the slight which started the conflict? What happened to make a war be fought for the honor of the Queen?”
Gorias shrugged. “Tits. Silex said Princess Garnet had nice tits. He’d never even seen her, but had a servant steal some of her girly clothes. One thing led to another…”
“A war over that? That cannot be.”
“Kinda the start of it.”
Orsen stopped, stared at the slabs of stone on the deck that the sailors threw tarps over and tied down.
One of the sailors said, “Big rocks for crown prince Vincent, Mavik’s son.”
“He likes rocks?” quipped Gorias, and the two men he’d noted earlier laughed with him from behind them.
Lips pursed, Orsen replied, “He’s a sculptor.”
The shorter of the two men in baggy clothes nodded furiously. “I’ve seen his work. Not bad if you’re into nude fellas, uh, and I’m not.”
A quick turn from Gorias made the two men tense up, but they relaxed when all he said was, “Congratulations.”
The taller man did a brief bow. “I’m Coryll Masse, relation of the Lascaux Masse clan. This is Vallen.”
Gorias nodded at the shorter man. “Vallen…what?”
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