Nature and Blight

by Matt Rogers

  Chapter 29: Cutthroat Poker

  The Siege (Blight’s Encampment)

  Cutter moved through the ranks secure in the knowledge beasts would fall aside and allow passage because command held privileges. No creature, no matter how large, would dare interfere with the chosen commander of Prince Blight, son of King Rot, ruler of a realm so large it had no understandable boundaries. The Troll he walked with was, unfortunately, a needed precaution.

  “Halt!” the Orc grunted.

  They were near their destination, to the rear of the encampment, far away from the eyes of those on the castle’s walls. It was necessary for two reasons.

  “Move aside. This is the new Commander” Toodrake hissed.

  The Orc, after his brain took time to recall the thought of one commander and replace it with another, did as he was told.

  They moved within the perimeter and were struck by the movement of activity. Everywhere they looked Orcs were in the process of moving terrain. It was the first reason Cutter chose the location; if the defenders guessed what they were attempting they would surely try and put an end to it. Removing their ability to see the process was, therefore, imperative. The second reason rang out as a series of orders were issued.

  “We’re ready” one said.

  A Troll nodded his head and spoke to an Orc. It grunted acknowledgment and raced away, toward the front lines. A minute later an enormous outburst of Ogre howls could be heard. It was an ear-shattering cacophony of beastly delight. It was also a ruse.

  “The charge is set.”

  Those with some semblance of thought placed hands or claws on heads to muffle the sound.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  The explosion was everything he’d heard and nothing he expected. There was a strange moment in time when the overriding hum of activity halted, everyone waited, and then a culmination of sight and sound which happened so abruptly their senses were assaulted. One moment nothing, no movement or sound. The next, something else entirely.

  Kaboom!

  Dust and smoke filled the air, Orcs grunted in approval as debris rained down from above. Cutter had been worried the defenders would hear their activity but was told it wasn’t so. With the din of Ogre howling the blast remained impossible to identify. Things were finally moving along as he intended. It was about time. It had taken longer than anticipated.

  He’d been born into poverty, his mother a maid, his father a tradesman. His life was a struggle from the start.

  “I have bad news.”

  He was born to kill.

  “Your wife did not make it.”

  She died giving him life. His father took it hard. He was an unforgiving man, believed in inherent evil and looked upon his son with suspicion.

  “Cutter!”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Somebody stole jewelry from the neighbors. Do you know anything about it?”

  The suspicion was warranted.

  “What if we get caught?”

  “We won’t.”

  “But what if someone comes home while we’re there?”

  “Then they die.”

  He led a group of youngsters, none more than twelve when they began plotting serious crimes. He was the leader because he saw the larger picture, the one he viewed with open jealousy, the belief those who had wealth took it from those who didn’t.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Who? The passed-out drunk?”

  “Yes. Take everything, his clothes included. If he resists slit his throat.”

  They began to get a reputation which led the authorities in their direction. The sheriff arrived one day as he was returning from town. He snuck near the cabin to hear his father’s response. It was, at best, unsurprising.

  “Could he be responsible?” the sheriff asked.

  “Cutter? Oh, yeah, he would definitely stab a person in the back to steal their shirt.”

  He left for a while, slept in run-down shacks and lived off stolen goods. He returned to find his father asleep. He left him sleeping forever. The money, what little there was, he took and began to plot ways of growing it richer. He found his calling when he saw another perform inadequately.

  “I call. What do you have?”

  “Four aces.”

  The man made a mistake, forgot the first rule of cheating; never let them see all your cards.

  “Hold on. I had an ace.”

  The third man at the table was the problem. He’d folded earlier holding an ace high. The cheater would’ve won with three aces, merely placing them down face-side up while holding the other cards to his chest. He didn’t. He got arrogant. Wanted to prove himself the best poker player in the land. It wound up becoming a dead man’s hand. Cutter watched and learned; never let them see what’s up your sleeve.

  “Hello, Maribel. Who is this young man?”

  He’d met her at the store. She was young, innocent and derelict of looks. She was also the daughter of a local rancher who made a living selling livestock. He was cordial to his guests, polite in conversation and absent his life’s savings as Cutter forced the man into his bedroom. He then learned the code to unlock the safe with the dagger he’d taped under his shirt.

  He was quickly regarded as the suspect and a search party sent out. They never found him because he was also on the back of the stallion he took from the dead rancher’s stall. He left to pursue his dreams of high-society living and found a willing town ready to accept a stranger’s tale of heir to a baron’s fortune.

  “Hello, Lord Destiny, welcome to the Pavilion.”

  He’d chosen the name for its ring of truth; he was destined to succeed after all.

  “Thank you, Bernard. Where’s the best action tonight?”

  He’d made a name for himself, literally made it up out of thin air when he put down roots in the swankiest hotel in town. He had a lot of money and nothing to do. He began frequenting saloons looking for the information he required. He found it at the Barstow.

  “These limits are very low. Where are the high-stakes games played?”

  The information was obtained because the man sitting across from him had won a generous amount of money from the bad poker-playing heir to a baron. The man felt he would get in kindly with his employer if he could persuade the socialite to frequent the place where money was without limit. Cutter, for his part, played the fool and lost on purpose. It wasn’t a large amount, at least not to one of his ill-begotten means, but it was sufficient enough to earn him the desired reputation of a wealthy inheritor who placed erroneous bets.

  “The three men at table number two are the ones you want.”

  He’d enlisted Bernard after visiting the Pavilion. It wasn’t hard. He lost a little heavier than before. It was necessary. He wished to be invited back and losing money was a sure way to do it. He followed the man home after the first night and made his bargain.

  “Help me and you’ll get rich.”

  Bernard, recognizing something different in the young man’s eyes, was a little hesitant at first.

  “And if I don’t?”

  But he came around rather quickly.

  “Then you’ll get dead.”

  The game was, as usual, poker. Fifty-two cards, four suites, thirteen cards in each. The numbers were always the key. Know what was in your hand and deduce the possibilities. Cutter decided to alter the odds.

  “I bid twenty.”

  The idea was actually quite simple. If one knew the possibilities according to the cards one held, what were the possible outcomes if one knew the cards in the other players’ hands?

  “I raise ten.”

  Bernard was hired help. He seated the guests, helped the waiters with their dishes and did one particular service which Cutter took notice of the very first night; he cleared finished drinks from the tables. He was always circling the room with tray in hand removing empty glassware. It was that act which allowed the other to follow.

  “I see your ten and raise ten more.”


  They tray was round, held by one hand so the other could fill it. And it was portable. Portable meant able to be lifted. Able to be lifted meant able to be turned. Able to be turned meant the one glass, the very special container altered with a metallic coating, could be placed in view of Cutter’s eyes as Bernard walked behind the men he was playing against.

  “I see your raise and raise twenty more.”

  The metallic coating made one side of the glass into a mirror.

  “Everyone’s in. Let’s see the cards.”

  He didn’t win every time. He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in the game long enough till the one hand, the one where everyone felt they held the winning cards, was dealt. It came, as usual, in the dead of night.

  “I bid fifty.”

  “I raise fifty.”

  “I see you fifty and raise another fifty.”

  “I see your raise and raise a hundred.”

  The con was perfect for there was no proof of cheating. Nobody noticed the special glass for two reasons. First, Bernard was a servant so he tended to blend into the surroundings. Second, whenever he was not behind the gentlemen facing Cutter he would turn the tray so the mirrored glass faced his torso. The only one able to see the reflection was the one carrying the tray.

  At first Bernard was a little reluctant. He went so far as to take only ten percent of the winnings. As the games went on, though, he saw things a little differently.

  “I want half.”

  “Half?”

  “Yes, without me you have no con.”

  Cutter agreed for two reasons. The first, he saw the end game; the point where people quit playing with a person even if they couldn’t catch him cheating. The second was more personal.

  “How much did we win?”

  “I won five-hundred, you won a shiny piece of steel.”

  Cutter decided he didn’t need a partner so cut his labor force with a knife and left town a lot wealthier than he entered. He would’ve gotten away if not for one small detail.

  “Oh, dear Lord, Bernard is dead!”

  Bernard had hired a maid to clean his house. He did it after realizing ten percent of illegal gambling profits was actually quite substantial.

  “Round up the posse.”

  So instead of having a head start to put distance between himself and the gamblers, gamblers who would question the coincidence of both he and Bernard disappearing at the same time, he found himself in a deadly race against a group of armed authorities intent on relieving him of his ill-gained booty. He got away but it cost him.

  “I need your boat!”

  The man looked him in the eye, looked at the bulging sacks tied to his saddle, looked past him to the distant but approaching riders, pulled out his sword and did some quick riverside gambling.

  “You can have it for what’s in those saddlebags.”

  As he floated to safety Cutter watched with seething fury and also some admiration as the man sheathed his sword, picked up the bags, threw them behind a pile of brush, unsheathed his sword, lifted it high, and delivered a strong blow with the handle to the top of his head.

  “Why that dirty, low-down…!”

  Cutter could see the future; the one where the posse came riding up to find an assaulted man who would later tell them he became that way when a hooligan on a horse hit him over the head and stole his boat.

  Cutter vowed to someday return and pay the man back for stealing his stolen goods but first he had to find a quiet little town where he could lie low and recoup some of his lost wages. He found such a place after traveling north, beaching the boat and then backtracking. He wound up in the city surrounding Castle Nirvana, started an illegal orphanage for wayward youth, taught them the highly successful occupation of pickpocketing, watched as the local authority dismantled his organization, visited the offending officer’s home, left with a jade locket, lost it in a poker game and decided to try something different for a change. The job had become available because King Rot had decided his son, Prince Blight, had performed the task admirably and was destined for greater things.

  “You will ride through the towns collecting taxes. Any who cannot pay are to be killed. Any who can pay only little are to be maimed. You are the collectors for Prince Blight. Do your job well and he will reward you handsomely. Do not and he will reward you with misery.”

  The Troll in front of him smelled horrendous and looked hideous.

  “Any questions?”

  “Just one.”

  The Troll, obviously not a fan of answering, glared at the young cutthroat.

  “What?” he hissed.

  “What do I call you?”

  The answer, obviously, was Toodrake; the Troll standing beside him watching as explosives were set off allowing tunneling to continue. The explosives were the hard part, their ingredients guarded by a race quite hard to fathom. He’d decided not to try. He’d decided on a different philosophy; if you couldn’t beat them, send in someone who could.