The Lantern-Lit City

by Vista McDowall

  Cara didn't know how much time had passed when Sandu said, "We'd better burn him, else the prowlers will come."

  "They won't want him. No predator likes spoiled meat." Gods, did I really just say that about Merick? Cara slowly climbed to her feet, then put her hands under the old man's arms. When Sandu made to help her, she glared at him, and he stepped aside. With great heaves, Cara pulled Merick from the road and dragged him to a nearby tree whose roots were festooned with flowers. It seemed odd, laying the rough mercenary in a bower of beauty, but at the same time fitting. He'd never had time for loveliness in life, but perhaps he could enjoy them in death.

  Red and black stained Merick's armor and skin. Cara poured water on him, cleaning him as best she could. After she arranged his arms over his chest, she slid his sword and sheath from his belt and wiped them on the grass. She would use them from now on, to remember him by. Then she went back to the horses, retrieved a blanket, and laid it over him. The whole time she worked, Sandu stood awkwardly to the side, sometimes opening his mouth to speak before shutting it again.

  Once Merick was covered, Cara whispered a short prayer over him. Then, she stood and returned to the road.

  "Let's go," she said.

  "We can stay for awhile longer," Sandu said. "We can bury him if you want."

  "He wouldn't want us to linger over him. And I never want to see this place again," Cara said, mounting Merick's black charger. She kicked the horse to a trot, wishing nothing more than to get away from that sorrowful place.

  Goodbye, Merick.

  Long after Cara and Sandu abandoned Merick's corpse, when the sun had fallen from the sky and nightcats prowled the woods, a purplish light filled the forest, shaking the trees and filling the air with the odor of decaying flesh. A void opened, blurring the lines between natural darkness and deep, deathly murkiness. Black tentacles curled forth and wrapped around the old mercenary's body.

  Chapter Five

  Jagger

  VECK EVERYONE. Veck life. Veck it all. At least liquor provided some sort of solace, however short-lived.

  "Another drink?" the fat barkeep asked. Tall and stout, he had these great muttonchops that really, truly should be shaved off. Maybe take the rest of the balding hair with it. Maybe his whole head. Could be a bit of fun.

  Jagger nodded. He watched disinterestedly as the barkeep refilled his mug with a dark ale, then downed half of it once it was back in his hand. Raven had always chastised him for his drinking, telling him the solution never lay at the bottom of a glass. Might as well try. Maybe I'll be the lucky bastard who finds it there.

  But he didn't find an answer at the bottom of the mug. Just dribbles of spit mixed with that little bit of drink that somehow always lingered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his filthy hand. Once, those hands were clean – or at least, cleaner – but that was before it all. Before the fire. Raven would make him wash his hands, clean the grime and blood from under his nails, rinse his greasy hair with cold water. Without her to care for him, Jagger didn't put any thought into his appearance or hygiene. He knew that he smelled like a dead dog left to rot in a muddy ditch.

  Beneath his loose, simple rustic's garb, Jagger's body reflected a hard life. Scars crisscrossed his back, white and ragged on his pink skin, signs of whippings from his youth. Thievery at the tender age of thirteen had given both his pinkies to the justiciar's knife.

  Yet Jagger would have sacrificed the rest of his fingers to have Raven back.

  At just past midday, he was the only one in the tavern. Taken to ale like it were his own brother, the barkeep had joked. Jagger only glowered at him from under the fringes of his lank blonde hair.

  The door burst open, sending a gust of wind into the peaceful bar. Not quite autumn yet, but here in the high mountains the cold days were already taking over the hot ones. Jagger barely glanced at the group of soldiers that stumbled inside wrapped in heavy red cloaks. Dolts. Probably from the lowlands, didn't know how to handle a bit of cold.

  If Jagger were younger, with stronger arms and that recklessness his middling years had robbed him of, he would fight them all then and there just for the fun of it. Only four: a tough fight but not an impossible one. Especially if they were drunk. They'd be cocky, thinking that their numbers and youth would help them against a nearing-forty man, but he was fast, and vicious. For good reason had he lived past all his enemies.

  As they sat down, Jagger noticed the crest emblazoned on the soldiers' chests. His jaw tightened, hands clenching. These were Realm's Protectors.

  Jagger turned his back to them. These likely weren't the ones from Daggenhelm, weren't the bastards who killed Jagger's wife and destroyed his livelihood. They were just uppity commoners thinking they'd gain fame and fortune by patrolling backwater shitholes like this, all fresh-faced oafs with no real fighting experience. Not one o' them's seen a man bleed to death, his guts spilling out and the ground slippery with the stuff, much less been the ones to do it. The four young soldiers couldn't be the ones from Daggenhelm. That was miles away, miles that Jagger had purposefully put between himself and the massacre – all the way through Havish Pass, then halfway around Red Peak for good measure.

  Just let them be. No sense bringing attention to yourself. The four soldiers ordered a round, jabbering loudly at each other. Jagger tuned them out as best he could.

  "...c'mon, Blike, tell us. What happened at the fortress? We're aching to know."

  "Aw, it weren't no big hassle. And the commanders don't want us talking about Daggenhelm no-how."

  Jagger spluttered into his ale. He coughed and glanced around to see if the soldiers had noticed. They hadn't. Morons wouldn't notice a fly on their nose. They were huddled together, three of them all leaning toward the fourth, the one they called Blike. Blike shook his head, but had that smile which said "Two more drinks and I'll spill any secrets I know, damn the consequences."

  Patience, a word that had not come into his vocabulary until recently, made Jagger sit and wait. He agonized, wanting to hear what this freckled vecking soldier had to say. His instincts kicked in, past his drunken ideas of vengeance, and he ordered water while the group drank yet more liquor. He wanted a drink for courage, but some water would grant him sobriety along with a vecking headache.

  Nothing could have been more difficult than that wait. Jagger wanted nothing more than to spring up, run at them, stab them in their vecking hearts until no blood was left to bleed.

  Patience was a bitch.

  Finally, over a candle later and three drinks in, the one called Blike set his mug down, wiped his chin, and said, "Alright, I'll tell you. Y'know we've been looking for Fauste's Shiv for damn near ten years. Slippery little shits, they were always one step ahead. Seemed to know when we'd strike, and moved before we could. All over the highlands, they'd gone.

  "But we found 'em. One of their own sold 'em out, and we found 'em before they could run away. Over a hundred of us snuck up on 'em in the dead of night. We set fire to their keep and waited for 'em to be flushed out. It didn't take long. Those bastards tried to run, and we gutted every last one of 'em."

  Not every last one, Jagger thought savagely. You left one alive. Dug your own grave, really.

  The soldier took another drink. "Some of 'em jumped from the windows. Splat! They didn't stand a chance."

  Jagger's fingers curled around his cup, his anger rising. But with the anger came fear, and a memory he had tried so desperately to forget...

  ...The bells clanged, crashed, and rang furiously. What the hell was going on? It was the middle of the night, what the veck was happening?

  Shouts echoed up into Jagger's small room.

  "Fire!"

  "Fire in the keep!"

  Jagger leapt from his bed, still dressed in his clothes from the night before. His head pounded, a soreness building behind his eyes. The effects of his drinking had caught up to him, but he couldn't think about that now. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the washbasin, dumped it over his head, and g
asped at the cold water.

  Shouts were joined by screams of pain and confusion. "Enemies at the – arrrrrrrgh!"

  Jagger took hold of his knife belt and strapped it across his chest. In a sudden wave of fear, he realized what was missing.

  "Raven!" he shouted as he dashed out into the corridor. Where was she? She hadn't gone to bed with him, hadn't been there as he drunkenly kicked off his boots. "Raven!"

  The tower. Hadn't she told him she would be helping the Archmaster tonight? A new collection of stolen scrolls had come in, the elders needed help sorting them, Raven had offered her services...

  As he ran headlong down the corridor, Jagger thought only of saving her. Through open windows, he could see the tower rising above the rest of the keep, flames bursting from its shutters. His fellow Shivs scrambled past him, all desperate to escape. Smoke filled his lungs. He coughed, but kept running. Raven. My love, I'm coming.

  Rubble blocked the fastest way to the tower. He'd have to go around. Throwing people aside, Jagger sprinted down the stone stairs, slipping once or twice, grabbing at the rails to keep himself from falling but never stopping his wild descent. In the courtyard, everything was wrong. Soldiers in armor ran through a blasted gate, their helmets hiding their faces. Their shining blades flashed as they rose and fell, hacking apart the frightened Shivs.

  Jagger didn't pause, didn't hesitate to throw a knife at a Protector who ran at him, barely registered the man's bloodied neck and gurgling, dying breaths. Raven. He ran to the lower entrance to the tower, and found his path blocked by more rubble. "Shit!" He scrabbled at the stones, his hands coming away broken and bleeding. "Raven!" he screamed, staring up at the tower.

  Glass rained down, and Jagger ducked back under a wooden overhang. Way up, he could see a silhouetted figure tossing objects down, books and scrolls that clattered to the ground. As he watched, a sudden boom cracked the cobblestones below his feet. It sent the figure above flying out into space, its body falling at a feather's pace before it gained speed and rushed to its inexorable death. The body lay mere feet from Jagger, mangled and broken and burning, its blood soaking through the parchment beneath it.

  Jagger pulled the body towars him, turned it over, brushed aside its long dark hair. Its face was shattered, ruined, but its eyes stared emptily up at him. Raven's eyes. He choked as he cuddled her disfigured body, not caring that ash and blood rubbed off on his clothing. "Oh gods, Raven, oh gods, veck, Raven, wake up, please–"

  Jagger's mourning was cut short by another explosion, this one sending chunks of stone and balls of flame at him. He lost consciousness then, and had woken with fresh burns that made him cry out in pain whenever he tried to move. The soldiers made their rounds, stabbing at anything that still moved. But Jagger crawled, slowly, and found a place to hide. There he had fallen asleep, and there he had come awake to a wild dog sniffing his leg and sunlight giving stark definition to the piles of dead bodies, the broken walls, the ash...

  ...The soldier finished his tale, taking a long drink as his friends gaped at him in admiration. They looked so smug, so pleased with themselves, though they weren't the ones who were there. Sins of the father, so it went. They'd all pay for it.

  Jagger's knuckles were white around his mug. His other hand, he realized, had been closed in a tight fist, and he slowly unfurled his fingers. Fingernail marks in little red crescents imprinted his skin.

  The group sat, drank, told stories, laughed; one would occasionally stand up to go piss. Jagger stopped listening to them. What they said now didn't matter. He didn't look at them. Looking might make him second-guess himself. They were fresh-faced men after all, and no amount of training could prepare them for what he would do to them.

  At last, one stood and pulled on his cloak. The others did the same, and all four of them stumbled drunkenly from the tavern, the wind whipping the door as soon as they opened it. They didn't bother to close it. Self-righteous bastards. Jagger tipped his head back to finish his mug of water. His head felt clear, if not perfectly painless. He wiggled his fingers and wondered why they didn't shake, then chuckled at himself. Never been much for trembling when the quarry is near.

  Jagger paid then shuffled out, pulling hard on the door to shut it. Courtesy goes a long way in these small towns. Squinting against the wind, he saw the group of four heading down the road. They wove across the dirt and into each other. Jagger followed them, just close enough to keep them in sight.

  Four against one. They'd think those great odds. How wrong they are.

  He didn't own much, but Jagger had his knives. Strapped across his back, his chest, to his legs, tucked up his sleeves...more than twenty, at least, sharpened over months of misery where his only companion was the sound of steel scraping steel. Oh yes, very sharp. Excellent for this job.

  But Jagger wanted the storyteller alive. I need to know how they discovered the Shivs' location. Which one was it? He couldn't quite tell with their backs to him. Some townsfolk braved the wind, hunched over on their way from shop to home. Still, too many witnesses.

  Jagger whistled tunelessly. One of the soldiers glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Smiling back, Jagger gave him a little wave. Friendly, unassuming. He was just one of the rustics to them. But the soldier that looked back wasn't the one he wanted. He couldn't attack until he was sure.

  "Oi!" Jagger shouted at them.

  "What do you want, you Skallish bastard?" one of them yelled back. The others stopped and turned to watch. The storyteller, Blike, staggered backwards a little as he spun, putting his hand on the speaker's shoulder.

  "I'm lookin' fer a friend," Jagger said, moving forward casually. "Big bloke, brown hair, face like a cabbage."

  Another of them laughed. "As big as you? Haven't seen him, mate. Maybe you can help us?" His words were slurred, his eyes crossed.

  Jagger forced his smile wider. "Aye, I kin do that."

  "Any brothels around here? Kosca here has a craving." They all laughed at that. Worst joke I've ever heard.

  Rubbing his chin, Jagger pretended to think. He didn't know of any, and didn't care to know. "Down that side road, around th' third corner. Red lantern."

  Without any sign of gratitude, the party tripped over their own feet as they made their way. Jagger let them get ahead of him. No use in their suspecting him yet, not that they'd even notice. The further they got from the main path, the worse the road and fewer the bystanders. Perfect.

  Three blocks down, the group went into an alleyway, no doubt expecting to see a shining red light. A wooden fence and piles of manure met them instead. Bad for them, good for me.

  For a second they gaped, confused. Jagger reached into his belt, drawing out two small knives. With a practiced spin of his wrist, he sent one into the back of the soldier closest to him, the loudmouth. It sunk deep between the soldier's shoulder blades, the only sound his surprised exhalation. He pitched forward into the man in front of him, scrabbling at the other's jacket and dragging them both to the mud.

  It took a second for the attack to register in their minds. Typical. But they were trained, after all, and they spun to face Jagger, drawing their weapons. One fell, a knife sticking from his throat. Too slow, friend. The remaining two raised their swords and advanced. Their boots squelched in the mud, their legs trembling as their eyes rose up Jagger's nearly seven-foot height to his hard blue eyes.

  Two more knives came to Jagger's hands. He shifted his body, moving his weight to the balls of his feet. They had reach, but he was fast, and sober. Blike lunged at him, yelling a drunken war-cry. Jagger waited. He inverted his knife, handle ready to strike. At the last second, he dodged, cursing as his foot slipped. The soldier's blade caught his shirt and barely missed his side.

  "Veck you!" Jagger shouted, throwing his left arm backwards, hilt out. His hand vibrated as he felt the pommel connect with Blike's back. He heard the man curse behind him, but didn't look. The other one, a spare, crept forward with sword held high.

  With a flick of his hand, J
agger sent a knife at the soldier's neck. Steel rang as the soldier hit it away with his sword. Jagger threw himself forward, tackling him around the waist. They crashed into the wall, the man's head kicking forward. It hit the top of Jagger's scalp as stars sparked in his vision. With one hand, Jagger bashed at his enemy's head, nails scratching at his eye, muttering, "Vecking little shit." The other hand sought another knife and finally located a smooth handle. He drew it, snagging at the back of his breeches.

  Holding down the soldier's head, Jagger raised the knife and plunged it, over and over, into any fleshy part he saw: neck chest, eye, it didn't matter to him. Blood squirted up at him. The man gurgled, blood foaming at the corners of his mouth.

  "BASTARD!"

  Jagger heard Blike's shout and quickly rolled away from the soldier's corpse. He narrowly avoided Blike's sword, which sank into the dead man's neck. Jagger tensed, braced for another blow. It didn't come. He scrambled to his feet. Blike tried to regain his footing, having slipped and reeled after pulling his sword from the corpse.

  Drawing the long knife concealed in his boot, Jagger advanced, panting. His lank hair was dirty with mud and blood soaked into his clothing. His fingers felt stiff and cold, barely holding onto the knife's handle. Blike fared no better. The front of his fancy tabard was streaked with dirt, his handsome face grimed up. Ha.

  A smile crept onto Jagger's gaunt cheeks. He may be tired, and sore as hell, but this soldier was young and stupid. Blike wouldn't try to charge again, he'd be cautious now, and that would kill him. Swords were no use in close quarters.

  Darting forward, Jagger feinted to the left, then when the soldier swung at him, ducked right instead. His blade snicked out, catching the soldier's stomach. Not a deep cut, but the man still shrieked in pain. Using the mud, Jagger dropped down and spun, then thrust his knife in the back of Blike's knee. Blike screamed and fell. Jagger dragged him back by the hair, knife at his throat.