“Brash and brave and slightly stupid,” she said. “He does make for a perfect war god. You, my dearest Tiarnach, have been conscripted. Black Herran is back and going into battle.”
Tiarnach shuddered. He pulled a dagger from his boot, hangover forgotten. He roared and went for Maeven, blade plunging towards the back of her head.
Lorimer didn’t bother to turn around, but his right hand shot out to block the blow. The dagger went deep and grated against the bones. “You are badly out of practice,” he said, wrenching the dagger from Tiarnach’s grip. “This harlot owes me a service, and I will make sure she lives to pay it.” The vampire resumed steering their horse away from the deepest puddles and potholes, and left the dagger jutting from his flesh to make a point.
There was no chance of winning this fight. Tiarnach groaned and slumped back into the rear of the cart, trying not to throw up again. “What do you want from me?”
“What do we want?” the necromancer said. She chuckled. “You have the wrong idea. We are here to offer you something that you want. We offer you a glorious death in a battle against impossible odds. However, if you can pull yourself out of your ale cup long enough, then we offer you a chance to take down the Lucent Empire. They slaughtered the last of your people, did they not?”
She had his full attention now. All his physical pain was as nothing. He stared at her for a long moment. “Aye, before they called themselves an Empire. But I am not what I was. I am an old wastrel of a man. And you two are not enough to face the Lucents. As for Black Herran, she is a coward and a traitor.”
“Who said we would be alone?” Maeven replied. “The others will soon be joining us.”
“So,” Tiarnach said, “Black Herran’s surviving captains are gathering once more. Well, well. The leader of those so-called holy knights of the Lucent Empire, this Falcon Prince, is responsible for slaying my people.” He balled his hands into fists. “I’ll take a shit in his mouth and put his head on a stick for all to see!”
She shrugged. “If you can kill him, by all means. I can only promise you the opportunity to face him in battle.”
“Aye, good enough for me,” he said, eyeing the pitiful family of refugees struggling through muddy cart tracks behind them. “Wasn’t doing much with my life anyway. Might as well throw it away on your suicidal scheme. I’ll ram my sword right up that silver bastard’s baby-soft arse until it bursts out of his cowardly throat.”
He paused, pondering. “Eh, do either o’ you happen to have a sword on you? It’ll take a bit more work with that wee dagger.”
CHAPTER 5
The Crow Tavern was as disreputable an establishment as you could find, even in a port town frequented by pirates. It was nestled in the cellar of a warehouse on the ramshackle docks of Sickle Bay, serving pirates, fences, mercenaries and thieves of all kinds. It was not the place for polite company, which of course made it exactly where Maeven, Lorimer and Tiarnach needed to be: it was a sorry, sodden trio that squelched through the slush and mud on foot, heading towards the bright red door that beckoned them in with thoughts of a roaring fire, hot food and drink.
Out in the bay, the sun was sinking below choppy waves, the white caps burned red and gold before swiftly fading as darkness descended. The Twins crested the horizon, their pale moonlight casting a silver cloak across the sea. Lorimer removed the strip of cloth protecting his sensitive eyes and sighed in appreciation of nature’s beauty. Such a sight was entirely wasted on the other two.
“You didn’t have to eat the horse,” Tiarnach grumbled, using the doorstep to scrape mud from his caked boots. “One of us could have ridden the thing after the cart’s wheel broke.”
Lorimer shrugged. “It seemed only fair. Why should we walk while she rides?”
“Could have been me riding it,” Tiarnach grumbled.
“Will you two bickering bastards please shut up?” Maeven snapped. “It’s not like you get cold or tired, Lorimer. And judging from the state of him when we found him, Tiarnach doesn’t give a damn if he’s covered head to toe in mud.” She glared down at her own filth-crusted boots and cloak. “Burn you, Lorimer, I need to bargain with these people and you have me filthy as a beggar.”
Lorimer chuckled. “My apologies. I did not realise pirates were such clean and fragrant people.”
She scowled, shoved open the door and stomped down the steps to the cellar.
Warmth, light, and raucous chatter rolled over them as they opened the second red door leading to the inside of the Crow Tavern. Lorimer blinked, eyes adjusting to the dingy light. Men and women of all colours and creeds clustered around benches lit by smoky rushlights, their laughter and bawdy ballads filling the room. The rough wooden walls were adorned with wanted posters from towns and cities all across Essoran. Some were even from across the sea, written in strange flowing script. Every poster displayed a sketched depiction of sea-bitten bastardry and vile banditry with a list of their dark deeds noted below.
A stained Lucent Empire banner hung from the far wall. Three drunken sailors were using it as target practice for their throwing knives, betting on who could hit the centre of the sunburst emblem. People spat on it in passing – they bore no love for the fanatics here. In hushed, worried tones, some among them discussed the tales of armies said to be mustering in the Lucent heartlands. A holy war was coming, one said.
Tiarnach grinned and made straight for the ale barrels, and the greasy barkeep busy filling a jug with foamy nectar.
Lorimer grabbed his arm. “Keep your wits about you. We have no use for a drunken fool.”
Tiarnach pulled his arm away – or he tried to. Lorimer was far stronger than any mere human. After a moment of tense deadlock they broke apart, Tiarnach cursing as he made his way to the bar. “Ale. Big black fella there is paying.”
Lorimer tossed a coin to the barkeep for an ale and a cup of cheap wine for himself and sat on a rickety stool in the corner. A dark-skinned sailor with blue tattoos and gold studs in his nose and cheeks approached, thinking that perhaps here was a far-flung countryman of his. The vampire glowered until the man found somewhere safer to be. Lorimer’s ancestors had fled across the sea because of their sort and he claimed no such thing as kin elsewhere.
Maeven scanned the crowded room until she found the sailor she sought, a loudmouthed bald man with bronze skin, gold hoops through his ears, and a long flowing moustache. He was sat at a table crowded with assorted scum, tossing bone dice from a cup.
“Your name is Craggan?” she said.
The man’s gaze slid away from his dice to travel up and down her body, not even glancing at her face. “That would be me, wench.” He shoved one of his companions down the bench to clear a space next to him, and when she sat, he rested a hand on her knee. His hand began creeping up.
“Come drink with old Craggan, darlin’. Then we can–” He finally looked up high enough to notice the tattoos writhing across her scarred face. His jaw dropped. A strangled choke broke off his leching. He snatched the hand back, staring at his grey and floppy fingers, pulsing black veins spreading down towards the wrist. He lurched to his feet and backed away. His companions exchanged worried glances, stood and drew daggers from their belts.
“Next time you take liberties you lose the hand,” Maeven said. “If I feel merciful. I am here on business and I will not bandy pointless words with you.”
He swallowed and nodded. The flush of life slowly crept back up to Craggan’s fingertips.
Maeven’s brow furrowed. “You will take me to meet with Verena Awildan. We are old friends, she and I.”
Silence rippled outwards from her table as every head in the tavern turned to watch.
Leaning against the bar with a jack of ale in his hand and a foam moustache, Tiarnach laughed, harsh and mocking in the sudden silence. “Best listen to the bitch, little lads, or she’ll have your balls for earrings.”
His laughter got their backs up. Craggan flexed his fingers and drew a notched hatchet from his belt, gla
ring at Tiarnach before turning to Maeven. “Friends? Enemies more like. Who are you to come here and make demands of me? Maybe I’ll just finish what somebody else started and split your skull right proper.” Two of his men moved up beside him, one old and fat and the other young and cocky, both wielding keen-edged falchions.
Maeven glanced at her own allies, neither of whom showed any interest in helping – Tiarnach observed with malicious interest and Lorimer just looked bored.
She attempted a friendly smile. “I would prefer that you just agree to take us to Verena.”
He snorted at that.
“Very well,” she continued. “How many of your men do I need to kill to force your hand? A precise number would be most helpful.”
He laughed. “This one doesn’t have both her oars in the water.”
Maeven held out a hand towards the older man on Craggan’s right. His lifeforce was weak, heart struggling from years of over-indulgence. Her hand squeezed into a fist. The man stiffened and then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He convulsed and foamed at the mouth.
“One.”
She pointed to the young man on the left and encouraged necrosis to bloom inside his neck. His face grew angry red and puffy, then purple and green as he clawed at his swollen throat and gaping mouth. Blood vessels burst across his face and he too, toppled.
“Two.”
A man came from behind. One hand grabbed her backpack while the other readied to thrust a knife into her side. She didn’t even bother to look. He screamed as the flesh and muscle of his hands and arms crumbled to ash, bones clattering to the floor.
“Three.”
The entire tavern went for Maeven, knives out.
“Stop!” Craggan screamed. “For the love of the sea, get away from her.” They froze, confused. He stared at her like she was a venomous serpent coiled around his waist – he might have seen magic before, but nothing like this. He knew just enough to be very afraid.
He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “No more. I’ll do what you ask.”
“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” she said, patting his shoulder and making him flinch. “This makes everything easier.” She leaned in close by his ear. “Maybe I’ll take you to my bed later. Imagine the fun we can have.”
She escorted a shivering Craggan and two of his crew towards the door, pausing to speak to Tiarnach. “Call me bitch one more time, drunkard, and I will rot your cock off.”
He smirked as she marched out of the door.
Lorimer rose to his feet. “It is not wise for you to antagonise Maeven. She will make you pay for that interruption.”
“Aye,” he replied. “I expect so. But if you thought I would go into battle without taking the measure of my allies then you know sod-all about war. I’m no’ that drunk. Seems she’s still as nasty as ever.” He downed the dregs of his ale, picked up a falchion belonging to one of the dead men, and tested the short sword’s point with a finger. “Bit blunt. Guess I’ll just need to ram it harder up that Falcon Prince’s arse.”
Lorimer considered that for a moment, then turned to face the murmuring crowd of drinkers. “And a good evening to all of you fine ladies and gentlemen. Please do feel free to come after us with your weapons drawn.” He grinned, shark teeth glinting in the rush-light, and followed after his companions. He was sorely disappointed nobody took up his offer. Eating a horse had taken the edge off his ever-present hunger, but its coarse blood had lacked the rich and savoury complexity of a human meal, and, as Lord of Fade’s Reach, he was accustomed to finer fare.
Aboard Craggan’s caravel, The Sly Griffin, it did not take long for Maeven to cow his motley crew of freebooters and set them to work rigging the ship to set off. Their captain’s grey and fearful expression did most of the convincing, but Lorimer’s increasingly agitated flesh, rippling and forming claws and spines, would have done the job alone.
“What is wrong with you, big man?” Tiarnach asked.
Lorimer quietly seethed, glaring at Maeven. “You did not mention travel by sea.”
She frowned, puzzled. “I had hoped to find her ashore in Sickle Bay, but Verena is queen of the Awildan pirates so surely it cannot come as a total shock.”
“I will wait ashore,” he said.
Maeven shook her head. “You swore an oath to protect Tarnbrooke. You can’t do that sitting here being useless.”
He growled and paced the deck, causing the sailors to scurry out of his way on each pass. Two refused to come down from the rigging and one leapt overboard into the rowboat tied to the side, just to avoid going near him.
Tiarnach climbed to the quarterdeck and slouched against the rail, glowering at the sailors while Maeven had a quiet discussion with their captain. They heaved the anchor aboard, the sails caught wind, and soon the sleek caravel was cutting out to sea. The crescent beach and the flickering lights of the docks and buildings of Sickle Bay gradually faded into darkness, leaving them alone on the slate-dark sea with only the light of the Twins and the spread of stars to guide their way.
Lorimer stared out to sea, clawed fingers gouging furrows into the wooden rail as the deck pitched and heaved beneath him.
Maeven approached, brow furrowed. “What is wrong with you? I have never seen you this unsettled.”
“Surely the big bad blood drinker isn’t seasick?” Tiarnach said.
Lorimer leaned over the rail and spewed a torrent of red over the side, making Tiarnach laugh. “I will rip your spleen out, you ginger bastard,” he groaned.
Maeven quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Seasick? You?”
Lorimer’s flesh sagged, and he held onto the rail for dear life. “My every sense is heightened. Your own may as well be smothered in blankets.”
She grunted. “Makes sense. Well, you might not require sleep, but I do. Stand guard and wake me if anything interesting happens.” With that she retired below decks.
“There, there, big man,” Tiarnach said. “You still have me to look after you.”
Lorimer snarled and tried to reply, but threw up again instead.
With Lorimer incapacitated, it didn’t take long before one of the sailors dredged up the bravery to approach the more natural-seeming figure of Tiarnach.
A barefoot boy dressed in loose linens edged towards him and swallowed before speaking. “Er, excuse me, sir,” he said. “Who are you people?” He aimed a fearful glance at Lorimer. “What are you people?”
“Ach, don’t be afeart lad. Your fine captain is taking our sorceress to see Verena Awildan.” The crew froze in place, listening intently. “We’re all old friends, her and us.” Tiarnach didn’t see the need for subtlety, and as a rule he had always preferred the direct approach. All that dancing about the point just irritated him, and the slipperiest ones could drag that nonsense out for days.
The boy started sweating. “Our queen has no friends,” he whispered. “She is a monster. She’ll flay the skin off your backs for commandeering one of her ships. Best you steal the rowboat and take your chances elsewhere.”
Tiarnach wiggled a finger in his ear, then examined the crust of wax. “That so? Our sorceress says she’ll rot the cock off any man that steps out of line.” It was a half-truth, but he reckoned she probably would. She certainly could. “Not sure I’d be up for risking that. As for the big angry man down there, well now, he’d be more likely to rip your heart out and eat it.”
The boy swallowed. “And what about you?”
Tiarnach smiled sadly. “Me? I’m nobody now. Just a drunken old fool with a sword and a bad attitude.”
The boy and the rest of the crew looked at him sceptically, thinking he was trying to hide an even worse secret. Tiarnach looked up at the Twins, shards of silver cutting through black clouds. He had once been so much more…
“Leave me be, boy. If you know what’s healthy for you, be about your work.” He settled down on the deck and rested his head against a coil of rope. Closing his eyes, he thought back to old battles, heard again the c
lash of steel and screams of the dying enemy, thousands of voices crying out in agony and pleading for mercy. Not one mortal had ever received that from the Cahal’gilroy. Those victories didn’t fill him with the glee they once had. That fire inside him had burnt out, leaving only ashes. He was a hollow man, and with his tribe dead and gone, it all seemed so pointless.
He pulled from his filthy tunic a small clay jar of whisky – swiped from the Crow Tavern during the mayhem – and downed half in one long series of gulps. He barely felt the burn sliding down his gullet, but the hazy oblivion it offered was a welcome respite as he settled down to rest his eyes for a moment…
An outraged roar and screams woke Tiarnach just in time to see moonlight glint along the edge of a dagger plunging towards his eyeball. He rolled aside and kicked out. His boot caught the attacker in the ankle and something snapped. The boy howled and collapsed to the deck. Tiarnach staggered upright and scanned the ship, noting the broken segments of wooden rail, lack of Lorimer, and two sailors rolling in agony clutching shredded arms with white bone peeking through the mess. Of the rest of the crew, there was no sign.
Tiarnach drew his weapon and glanced overboard. Lorimer flailed in the sea, one arm desperately clutching the length of rail as he bobbed up and down while shouting for help. The big vampire floated like a boulder. He turned back to his attacker.
The boy held up an open hand. “Please, I’m only a–” The blade took his hand off at the wrist. He shrieked as blood spurted from the stump, then Tiarnach booted him in the face, breaking his jaw and shutting him up.
Tiarnach spat on his face as the boy bled out. “Old enough to kill, old enough to die.” He raced towards the two men Lorimer had shredded on his way overboard. They didn’t put up much of a fight as his sword rose and fell. He searched for the rest of the crew, and only then did he notice the rowboat on the far side was missing. He cursed at the sight of oars already churning away and a small sail rising up its mast.
“I’ll gut the lot o’ you,” he shouted, swinging his falchion in the air.
The Maleficent Seven Page 5