The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1

by Craig Halloran

  She nodded. “Aye, Captain. Is there anyone in particular you want to take?”

  “You, Horace, Bearclaw, Vern, Iris, and two pack bearers. Just do the inventory and let me know if you think we need more.”

  Sticks’s brow rose.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “No, Captain, it’s a sound decision. I’ll take care of it.” She led her horse away.

  Taking command felt good. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure about his decision-making process, but he thought it might have something to do with the body he was in. His mind was still his own, but traces of memories of another consciousness seemed to be guiding him. Either that, or he was just doing what he did as a kid when they played Dungeons & Dragons. He just went where the adventure was. Perhaps that was the only way to find answers. If he was trapped in an imaginary world, he’d just have to play it out until it ended.

  Horace led the small group of Henchmen, following the coastline to the top of Hamm’s Inlet. They rode several miles before encountering the first city—out of dozens that ran along Hamm’s Inlet—called Seaport. Wooden and stone buildings were built along the seashore, which ran from the water’s edge into the gentle hills. Long docks stretched out to the sea, accompanied by fishermen’s wharfs. The ships ranged from small skiffs and fishing rigs to mighty brigantines and galleons, without the portals for cannons.

  They reminded Abraham of movies he’d seen about sailors or pirates from an early colonial period, or perhaps the Dark Ages. He didn’t know which, but he did have some understanding of it. With the salty wind in his face, his thirst grew, and his stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten much of anything recently, aside from dried strips of beef and some sort of hard fruit that tasted like chewy bark.

  “Iris,” he said to the husky woman, who had her hair in a bun and wore loose-fitting robes. “Take the reds and get our supplies. I think we’ll eat. I’m starving. Once you’ve finished, join us.” He sniffed in the smell of baking fish.

  Iris gave him a pleasant smile and said, “As you wish, Captain.” In a rugged voice, she said to the pair of Red Tunics, “Come on, boys, we have some dealing to do.”

  “Horace, find us a quiet spot to eat.”

  They stabled the horses in some barns just inside the edge of the fishing town. From the barns they followed stone walkways that led into the town. Many people were out along the dock, men wearing long-sleeved cotton shirts and the women just the same, but with skirts. Sailors were there too, walking arm in arm, with squarish caps on their heads and tassels on top. They swayed as they walked and sang while drinking from jugs of wine or rum hooked in their fingers.

  Horace pushed his way through the double door of a whitewashed stone building with red clay tile roofing. The tavern was poorly lit by candlelight and small windows on the front of the building. The smell of fish and smoke was like a slap in the face. Not many people were inside, but the ones who were there shrank behind their tables with wary eyes. Horace found a table big enough to seat them all. He pulled out a chair at the head of the table.

  Abraham took his seat at the head of the table. Sticks sat to his left and Horace to his right. Bearclaw and Vern followed suit. They sat like statues with tight expressions on their faces.

  Abraham didn’t care. He was starving. “Sit. Let’s eat. Let’s drink.”

  One of the other patrons with shifty eyes scurried through the tavern and out through the front door.

  18

  The Henchmen quietly dug their spoons into the bowls of fish stew they’d been served. All of them huddled over their bowls like children who were being punished. Abraham wasn’t certain what to make of it, but he was famished and ate. The fish stew, a gumbo-like mix, was loaded with savory hunks of seafood. He tasted lobster, crab, and scallops, along with some strong spices mixed in with broth and rice. It was good, far better than what he’d expected in a crappy run-down tavern where the floor creaked with every step. A spicy hunk of fish meat caught in his throat. He coughed and tapped his chest.

  “Are you all right, Captain?” Sticks asked.

  “Sometimes I forget to chew before I swallow.” He grabbed a metal goblet. “Just have to wash the bait down.” He drank. The strong spiced rum burned all the way down his throat. It did him little good, and he coughed more.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the men at the other table gave him a funny look. He lifted his head, and they looked away.

  Abraham would have killed for a glass of water. Asking for water instead of rum wasn’t the best idea either. That would only make him a bigger fish out of water. So rum it was. He nursed it. The last thing he wanted to do was get drunk or even tipsy. After the accident, he’d used a lot of pills and alcohol to numb his pain, inside and out. He took years to regain control. He didn’t want to lose that again, no matter what world he was in. He sipped more rum.

  Looking at Vern, he asked, “How’s your stew?”

  “Er… fine, Captain.” The aloof warrior pushed the wavy locks of blond hair out of his eyes. He drank from his goblet and resumed eating.

  Those were the first words Abraham had spoken to the man. He wanted to see what sort of reaction he’d get. He hoped to trigger a memory, but the answer garnered him nothing. He sipped more rum. The liquid tasted sweeter after several sips.

  Sitting straight up, Sticks said, “Iris should be along soon. If you like, I can check for her.”

  “I’m sure she’ll find us.”

  Back in the corner opposite their table, two surly men were puffing on pipes. They would look at him and snigger. He could smell the bittersweet aroma of the burning leaves. It made him think of his father, who smoked cigars until the day he died.

  “Did anyone bring any tobacco?”

  Horace’s eyebrows clenched.

  “I guess not.” He took another drink of rum. He finished his bowl of stew and ordered another one from the serving wench. She was attractive, wearing a loose blouse bound tight around her waist and very revealing. He gave her a big smile when she bent over to serve him a new bowl.

  Sticks showed a Mona Lisa frown.

  Abraham drank more rum and dug into his stew. Every spoonful tasted better and better. Halfway into the bowl, he stopped eating as every head at his table turned toward the front entrance. Loud and bawdy, a gang of greasy pirates entered the tavern, filling the tables and crowding the bar.

  Abraham chuckled.

  Pirates. Hah. I used to be a Pirate. No doubt this is a figment of my imagination. And if it’s not real, then I might as well get drunk. He swallowed more rum.

  Even though Abraham had pledged to himself not to indulge in the rum, its intoxicating effect blinded his reason. He sat in his chair, staring at the pirates. They were all Jack Sparrow types, a variety of shapes and sizes, but without the mascara. He burst out in loud laugher.

  That drew the attention of every pirate in the room.

  The tavern fell quiet, except for Abraham, who couldn’t stop laughing.

  Several feet away, sitting at the corner of the bar, a pirate slung a mug at him.

  Without even thinking, Abraham plucked the speeding goblet out of the air.

  Holy Big Trouble in Little China. I have lightning-quick reflexes.

  “Did you see that?” he said to the Henchmen. He spun the mug on the tip of his finger. “Did you see that?”

  “Aye, that was fast, Captain,” Horace said.

  A grizzly-sized pirate entered the tavern. The pirate stood tall and broad shouldered. He had a head full of red hair and a beard just the same. His overcoat was as red as blood with tarnished brass buttons running from top to bottom. His sword belt was black leather, and he carried a heavy cutlass on his hips. The pirates, one and all, stood at attention and saluted him.

  One of them shouted, “Boyjas! Flamebeard! Boyjas!”

  The excited cheers drowned out every sound in the room. Flamebeard lifted an oversized hand, and the pirates quieted. A parrot, which had escaped Abraham’s notice, wa
s perched on Flamebeard’s shoulder. It let out a loud squawk.

  Abraham erupted in uncontrollable laughter, and with his fist, he pounded the table. His wide-eyed Henchmen stiffened.

  The pirates snaked out their blades and closed in.

  19

  In a gravelly voice that carried through the tavern, Flamebeard looked at Abraham and asked, “Do we amuse you, stranger?”

  Abraham took a breath and regained his composure. He studied the pirate, who had a countenance as fierce as any. He was a big man too, bigger than any other in the room. His red beard and hair came together around his face like a lion’s mane. Abraham wagged a finger at the parrot, which, upon closer inspection, didn’t have the feathers of a bird but leathery skin that resembled feathers. It made for a hideous bird, with solid yellow eyes and a thick black tongue that licked its beak.

  Abraham cleared his throat. “Sorry, Flamebeard. But your ridiculous appearance and ghastly bird took me by surprise.”

  “Is that so?” Flamebeard’s bushy eyebrows came together until they kissed. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction. You are?”

  “The Captain,” Abraham said.

  “That’s it. The Captain.” Flamebeard showed a sinister smile. “Certainly, you have a fuller name than that?”

  “No, that’s the name that I go by. I keep it simple for my friends and simpletons like you.” Abraham’s words flowed out with no thought behind them. To him, everything that was happening reminded him of a really well-done reenactment at a pirate restaurant, as a family might go to when vacationing at the beach. It was all make-believe. “Say, is that beard real, or is it a fake one like the mall Santas wear?”

  Flamebeard stroked his bushy facial hair with his sausagelike fingers. “Keep up the insults, and you’ll soon be the new anchor of my ship.”

  The pirates chuckled. One of them said, “Just kill him, Captain. He’s earned a quick death.”

  Tilting onto the back legs of his chair, Abraham said, “I’m getting the feeling that this tavern is not big enough for two Captains. I tell you what. Walk out now, and you and all of your men will live to see another day at sea.” He winked at Sticks, whose frozen look didn’t change. “Fair enough, Flamebeard?”

  “That’s enough!” Flamebeard ripped his cutlass out of his belt. “Clear the floor, men. I’m going to teach the land hound a lesson that he’ll never forget. On your feet, dust-eating coward. Let’s see what you have to say with a belly full of dorcha steel.”

  The pirates pushed all the tables and chairs out of the way. They formed a ring around their captain, who unbuttoned his long red coat. The lizard-skinned parrot flew up into the rafters and let out a vicious squawk.

  Every eye from Abraham’s company was fixed on him. He put all four chair legs back on the floor. His chest tightened, and his nostrils flared. Back in his baseball-playing days, he’d talked a lot of smack. He’d let his emotions run high to pump him up for a game. Now, that spark of testosterone was running a new course through him. He couldn’t turn it off. Without even thinking, he came out of his chair and crossed to the manmade arena.

  The Henchmen rose from their benches and followed him.

  Abraham was a well-built, long-armed athlete and one of the biggest men in the room, but the moment he stood across from Flamebeard, the wind went out of his sails.

  Flamebeard stood taller and was built like a smokestack. The pirate had stripped down to his waist. He must have been a few inches short of seven feet. He didn’t appear to be in the best shape, but plenty of muscle was packed underneath the thick skin of his chest and shoulders. He sliced his cutlass from side to side. The blade was curved, broad with a keen razor edge. He moved it like a part of his own arm.

  He spat black juice on the floor. “Are you going to pull that steel or pee your pants, land dweller?”

  Peeing his pants was the avenue Abraham was more likely to take. He had no idea what had compelled him to boldly stroll across the room to the center arena with iron in his limbs. He did it, though. That was certain. Something had possessed him. But standing before Flamebeard sobered him. His eyes slid over to his men. Horace, Bearclaw, and Vern stood nearby with their arms crossed over their chests and a wary look in their eyes. Sticks stood against the bar, leaning with one elbow resting on the edge.

  Oh Lord, what am I doing? This pirate is going to butcher me.

  “Quit stalling. Pull your steel, coward,” Flamebeard said.

  Abraham’s right hand crossed over his body and fastened on the hilt of his long sword, Black Bane. Slowly, he drew the weapon out of the sheath. The blade scraped quietly out of the scabbard. Its dark gray shone dully in the faint light of the tavern. He took a deep breath, hoping that would fill him with courage. It had no effect.

  I’m going to die.

  The corner of Flamebeard’s mouth turned up in a knowing smile. “It’s too late to surrender now.” He brought his sword down and lunged with the speed of a fastball.

  20

  Abraham swatted Flamebeard’s sword thrust aside with a swipe from his own blade.

  The sharp ring of metal on metal filled his ears.

  In a split second, his boots, which might as well have been fastened to the floor, were moving. That wasn’t all that moved. The rest of his body did too, particularly his sword arm. It moved with a mind of its own. His sword crashed against the pirate’s cutlass. It became a rigid metal snake on the attack.

  Flamebeard backed away from the intense strikes. Using the range of his long arms, he slashed hard from side to side. Metal smacked against metal, parry after parry. The sting of the strikes raced from Abraham’s hands up and through his shoulders. Somehow, he hung onto a sword that the larger man’s blows should have ripped from his fingers. Thrusting and striking, he pushed the pirate back toward the corner.

  How am I doing this?

  Abraham wasn’t trying not to do it, but he knew he wasn’t doing it. His sword expertly moved in directions he never could have anticipated. His mind seemed to be trapped in a body not his own.

  Flamebeard slid away from the dangerous range of Black Bane. He grabbed a chair by the leg and used it for a shield. Black Bane whittled down the chair stroke by stroke, hacking it into flying pieces. Flamebeard hurled the seat of the chair at Abraham. At the same time, the pirate lunged. “Die, land rat!”

  Black Bane sang. Slice! Abraham cut Flamebeard’s sword hand off at the forearm. Blood spat out of the stump.

  Flamebeard let out a howl. “Impossible! No one douses the Flame!” The pirate took a knee and pulled a jewel-encrusted dagger from his belt. “No one!” He stabbed at Abraham.

  Black Bane flashed before Flamebeard’s eyes, and the pirate dropped the dagger. His head fell from his shoulders and rolled across the floor and into the bar with a thud. Flamebeard’s big body fell over backward, blood pumping out of his neck.

  A dead quiet fell over the raucous gang of pirates as they stared at their fallen leader.

  “No one’s ever defeated Flamebeard before. No one,” one pirate said. He had a red cloth cap tied on his head in skullcap fashion. He wore a sleeveless jerkin and carried a short sword in his hand. “Only witchery could have done this. Flamebeard was the greatest sword of the seas.”

  Sticks made a callous statement: “You aren’t at sea.”

  Abraham couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man gushing blood on the floor. Flamebeard’s body spasmed. Some fight was yet in him. Then his body went still. The blood no longer pumped out of his mutilated body. The leak turned into a drip. Abraham doubled over and vomited.

  The pirates’ hard eyes filled with fire. The one wearing the skullcap said, “There is more of us than them. Pirates don’t lose to the land dwellers. Avenge our captain, Flamebeard.” He lifted his sword high. “Kill them!”

  Two pirates brandishing sabers chased Sticks into the back corner of the room. They were ugly men, built like rugged fishermen and missing many teeth. The one with a hawk nose with a rin
g pierced in the left nostril licked his lips and said, “Give yourself up, girlie. We’ll all have at you one way or another. Make it easy on yourself by making it easy on us.”

  Sticks snaked two throwing knives out of her bandolier.

  “Oh, those are very shiny toothpicks,” said the other pirate, with a mane of hair past his ears. He shot her a grin. “Come and pick my teeth with them.”

  She flicked her pair of daggers upward. They stuck in a beam in the ceiling. The pirates’ eyes locked on the knives, and they started laughing. The one with the nose ring dropped his eyes. Sticks jammed the daggers into his chest and the other’s.

  “You clever witch!” he spat just before he died.

  Those pirates were dead, but the melee had begun. The clamor of battle reached a new crescendo inside the tavern. The pirates were hacking away at the rest of the Henchmen, who were brawling side by side for their lives.

  Horace rammed his dagger hilt-deep in a pirate’s belly.

  Bearclaw swung his battle-axe into a man’s chest. With a crunch of bone splintering a volcanic eruption of blood spewed from the pirate’s busted chest.

  Vern fought on his knees, with his long sword striking through pirates’ legs and abdomens.

  A pirate peeled away from the flock and flanked Horace, who was anchoring the right side of their defensive row. The bulky Horace—his arms locked up with another man’s—didn’t see the pirate coming. Sticks flicked a throwing knife from her hand. It hit the charging pirate right in the jugular. She searched out her Captain. He’d gotten separated from the group. A sea of men were coming at him from all directions. Fighting them all off would be impossible.

  “Horace!” she shouted. “Get to the Captain!”

  21

  In one moment, Abraham was puking his guts out, and in the next, he was fighting for his life. He hadn’t even processed everything that just happened. As in a dream, he’d slain Flamebeard. He saw it but didn’t feel it. It just didn’t seem real. Adrenaline kicked in next. Suddenly, he felt everything as if it were his own body. He had the vomit to show for it.