by Ben Stivers
She went to a pail and dipped a somewhat clean rag into the bucket, dousing the rag and then wringing the water out. She crossed the room, a matter of half a dozen steps and placed the cloth on Adam’s head, squarely on the raised bruise. He moaned softly but stayed lying just as she had left him.
“Get some rest. We will talk in the morning.”
He nodded and she laid a light cover over him and set his bow and quiver of arrows in the corner. Swiftly, she checked her own weapons and crossed the hall. The door across the way stood slightly ajar. She entered stealthily. A drunk lay passed out on the bed. He smelled of alcohol and piss, but she paid little attention to that. Opening a shutter, she passed Arthur her signal which he acknowledged from the street. Satisfied that Adam would be safe for the time, she closed the door to both rooms and went to the head of the stairs, waiting for Arthur’s entrance.
Chapter 6
Arthur led Blade and Lethe from the alley to the front of the tavern, doing nothing out of the ordinary and with no particular compunction for stealth. Hush bedded the streets and under a quilt of silence, he heard the constant churn of deals, black murmurs of illegal operations, and a sharpening of wits.
Ploor’s sprawling, deep harbor had been named Soul’s Refuge by the governor’s proclamation the year before, an event to which Arthur and Shanay had been invited, but had politely declined. The governor had tried several times to engage Arthur in the city’s business to no avail.
As a local businessman, Wolf had attended in their stead, and other than a heaped serving of bureaucratic snobbishness, they had missed little.
Arthur took note of a number of battle-ready horses anchored to Wolf’s building. Most nights, there were few horses of any kind, since the clientele were mostly Ploorians or sailors fetched up from the harbor. He obliged to murmur a quick word to the Lord and then checked his weapons with a pass of thin magic.
He hesitated. The bouquet of his magic waxed familiar, but there was something—else. When time allowed, he would investigate.
Arthur patted Blade on his left shoulder, reached into a tight leather pouch, and extracted a set of steel dentures.
“Open,” he said, passed his hand over Blade’s mouth and placed the sharpened teeth there. “Keep an eye on the street.”
Having Blade was paramount to having a seasoned sentry. They had fought many battles during Arthur’s growth through the ranks of the Roman Legion. Arthur knew that Blade knew that Arthur depended upon him to be as much a soldier as any other.
A light tap on a shutter above and Arthur tensed, ready to move whatever direction he needed, but Shanay stood in the window of an upstairs room and signaled. She closed the shutter and disappeared back into the shadows.
Time to move. He stretched his neck on both sides and stepped onto the porch. A long jagged anger that he thought contained stirred his guts. His own son, Jacob, had been butchered by the Apostles at the beginning of the Apostolic Wars, crucified with Arthur’s young wife, Cleola. Arthur had not been able to protect either of them. He had been on the battlefield when Paul executed the two of them and sent Arthur’s daughter into a brothel.
When this business had been set aside, he and Shanay could not simply turn the boy loose in Ploor with a hope that he could find his way. If they did, he would be dead within a week.
Arthur strode through the gates as though violence was his best friend. Challenge gripped his expression. He met every eye that looked at him. Each man in the mercenary group held the brand he had seen the night before.
He had come for them and in their bravado, they had simplified his search. His senses noted Shanay’s presence up the stairs and around the corner.
Wolf sat in the opposite corner of the room with his back to the wall, knowing Arthur would come eventually. Wolf had donned tanned leather and had armed himself with belt knives. His paired swords sat in the corner.
Elizabeth acknowledged Arthur with a nod. She had grown into a woman since Arthur’s last trip to the Lusty Wench. She wore a gray jerkin and pants like a man, but her mahogany hair contrasted her green eyes and provided telltale that a man, she was not. She wiped the bar top with a semi-clean rag and pretended she did not know what was to come.
A single barmaid, a younger blonde woman, worked furiously filling mugs mostly for the crowd of rowdy men. As time allowed, she served her regulars. No newcomers had come since Arthur’s arrival. The situation appeared stable.
Torches lit the walls and cast a bright flicker around the room. Several pottery lamps sat on the bar at each end and one in the middle. Arthur noted the addition. Wolf’s tavern operated lucratively. Probably before the night ended, Arthur would owe Wolf a new set of furniture for the place. That remained to be seen.
As usual, smoke hazed the air, thick and acrid. Most men who traveled inhaled the smoke of lavender, oregano, mint, and sometimes opium. Opium came from a long side of the Empire and since the fall of Rome, he had seen little of the stuff. At least those who imbibed also consumed sufficient brew to drive away the demons that often accompanied their other nocturnal vices. He had seen much worse in Hellsgate.
Arthur strolled through the room as though he were Ploor’s proprietor. He had a mind that none of the mercenaries deserved to breathe another breath. Yet, here they sat. The ruffians quieted only slightly as he passed and took a seat at Wolf’s table.
Wolf’s hair was longer than the last time Arthur had seen him. He had shortened his beard to scruff along his chin, close cut as though he expected travel in the near future. Elizabeth may have had an impact on Wolf’s lack of scruffiness. Daughters could do that do a man.
Arthur pulled a chair around and sat with his back to the crowd. Wolf could watch his back—had for years. It was more important that people not hear what they said than to personally ensure his safety.
They shook hands.
“You look like a bona fide citizen, Wolf,” Arthur murmured.
“You know where you can shove that,” Wolf replied. “I figured you would be here soon. This assemblage arrived in Ploor early this morning. They asked around town about you, and by that, I mean they beat the living hell out of several confidants. Word, of course, reached me.”
“Anyone killed?”
“Not yet. They showed up here a few hours ago and have been drinking. Whatever they have been up to, they are damned well proud of it. Rumors are that they may have killed a family, a man, woman and boy. They have not spoken of it here, but that may not be their style.”
“The son is not dead. His parents are. They burned them alive.”
“Mmm,” Wolf answered. “And what of the lad?”
The barmaid passed by and set a mug of ale for each of them on the table. The head on the ale looked inviting, so Arthur took a drink before he answered, “He has a lump on his head, but other than that I think he will recover. What about them? Any idea what this is about or who they work for?”
Wolf reached a finger up and scratched the side of his head. “I saw the brand on their necks. No time to gather intelligence concerning it. They have not been so stupid as to ask me about you, but they made sure I knew who they were. Evidently, they know who I am and the ties between you and me. They probably figured roosting in my establishment would draw you out. As to who they work for, word has it that they came from the direction of Overlord City. Their horses have a smith mark on their hooves, according to a friend.”
“A reliable friend?”
“Of course,” Wolf replied.
“Well, that piece of information gives us somewhere to start, I suppose.”
“They mentioned being two men short, but I have not seen those missing, nor have my spies. They have extra horses. You might watch your back when you leave. The missing pair may lie in wait.”
“They will give us no problem,” Arthur replied. “They writhe in Hell right now, I suspect.”
Wolf smirked. “Nice to see your sword has not lost its sting.”
Arthur looked down into hi
s ale. Nothing squirmed in the bottom and he gave a thank you to no one in particular. “Was not I. The son killed two in the encounter. The rest burned his parents, incinerated them in their own house. I figure they think they killed Adam as well, but they failed. The knot on his head will take a few days to subside. A little harder or to the right and he would be carrion in the mountains.”
“Adam? You know his name?”
Arthur answered the questions with a withering look, but that look did not bother Wolf. He had seen it uncountable times.
“How is your business?” Arthur asked, changing topics. “Looks prosperous.”
“Trade is fairly normal. Ships come in, we get busy. Ships go out. Some men stay. Others go—usually not voluntarily, but that is part of Ploor’s charm. People know that when they come here.”
Arthur nodded. He had seen many men hauled out in a drunken stupor on their way to the next ship out. He never saw any of them twice, but it had never been his business and it was not his business now.
Men needed to be responsible for their own destiny. Imprudent actions should be rewarded with bitter consequences. Most who had been pressed into duty would claim themselves indentured when the truth of the matter was they had chained their lives together in a haphazard string of idiotic decisions that led to their predicament.
No one forced them to be fools. They insisted upon it. Perhaps that fed their inner justification or simply allowed them the opportunity to shift culpability for their situation onto someone or to fate.
“She waits,” Wolf answered to Arthur’s nod. Arthur glanced back over his shoulder. Shanay stood at the stop of the stairs, her long red hair tied back with a leather thong. To a stranger, she would look unarmed and an easy target except for her sword—a widespread mistake in opinion that enemies made confronting her. Anyone who actually knew the three of them would know to stay clear of their anger.
Shanay pointed two fingers to the ground and Arthur nodded.
“I will most likely owe you a new bar before this mess is over,” Arthur murmured to Wolf.
“I accept. Scralz will be jealous.”
Arthur smiled faintly, glancing over his shoulder at the men.
“I suppose. Ready?”
“As ever.”
Arthur made a production of standing. He stretched his neck and then his arms. Except for the eleven strangers, everyone grew silent. Arthur decided his opening. He needed to keep one of them alive if he were to gain information. As he turned toward the mercenaries, he felt more like himself than he had for some time.
Behind him, Wolf rose from his seat and dusted himself off as if he had been sitting there a long while. Shanay descended two steps.
The regulars of the Lusty Wench shoved back their chairs, turning some of them over and skittered out of the bar, bringing the mouthiness of the mercenaries to rest. They took to their feet, as Elizabeth and the barmaid both went behind the bar and ducked out of harm’s way.
Arthur pulled his gloves up tight on each hand, flexed his fingers, and stared directly at the loudest of the crew. He placed a hand on a chair and threw the rickety piece out of his way. The chair tumbled haphazardly across the floor, crunched into the bar and rambled onto its side. The mercenaries leered at him.
“Which of you leads?”
Cautiously, Acacio drew himself to his full height. “I.”
“My name is Bornshire. I understand that you clumsily search for me. What can I do for you that you would kill a defenseless family just to find me or did you do that for entertainment?”
“We heard they knew where you were, but admittedly I found questioning them to my liking.”
Acacio looked to be about the same age as when Arthur had first become a general for Rome. Full of bravado and vinegar he would make stupid mistakes in a brawl. While death never actually entertained Arthur, the banter of younger soldiers amused him at times, but this one, however, preferred killing without challenge.
“The infamous Arthur Bornshire.” He looked past Arthur to Wolf. “Is this your woman? She is ugly.”
Without turning his back, Wolf reached into the corner and retrieved his swords. He returned, “Since you are branded like livestock, I imagine that you are probably intimate with a few sheep I know.”
Acacio grinned, showing his yellow teeth, but he carried on with his obvious taunt to Arthur, “What grand rumors back rooms and bars concoct. We have heard much about you. Our employer told us fascinating tales of this tawdry troop. Yet, all I find is a broken down old man and a bar room bouncer? Where is your slut of a wife?”
Wolf took his place to Arthur’s left but remained silent. Shanay did not feel so compelled, but she rolled her eyes. She had dealt with men like this one most of her life.
From across the room, she ground out, “Come closer and I will dissect your black heart.”
A pair of Acacio’s men whirled to meet her with their hands on their pommels. They held their place while Acacio guffawed.
“Oh—such a tiny one. So, she is going to be a part of this rather than just the spoils?”
“Care to tell me who your employer might be? Maybe we can settle this between the two of us. You won’t have to get hurt.”
“He prefers anonymity.”
“Then perhaps why he sent you here, or did he just dispatch you to boast of how dangerous you think you are while you drink yourselves into oblivion?”
Acacio, however, remained single-minded in his challenge to Arthur, “You got your last woman killed, they say.”
Arthur had heard enough. He quickly strode straight between two tables and shoved them aside. Acacio drew his sword. His backward swing struck one of his own men in the leg, hampering the man.
Arthur elected two daggers and he and Acacio traded blade-to-blade exchanges so quickly the rest of the room crawled in comparison.
Wolf fanned further left. Shanay quickly descended the last seven stairs as Acacio’s men charged toward her.
The rest happened all at once. Arthur dipped under Acacio’s sword arm and blocked his next swing with an elbow to his sword arm. Acacio attempted an awkward punch with his off-arm, but Arthur absorbed the blow to his shoulder, dropped to his knee, and dragged Acacio’s sword arm with him, driving his dagger into Acacio’s groin. The blade was half the length of Arthur’s forearm and introduced Acacio to an unfamiliar dose of poignant pain. His wail rose octaves higher than his voice found capable until that moment, screeching and satisfying.
Arthur drew back the weapon with a slight turn and severed every piece of flesh his blade licked. He lunged left, rolled, came back to a knee and stabbed Acacio’s second-in-command in the right knee. His thigh already bled from Acacio’s ill-minded drawing of his sword. The knee’s gristle scraped as the steel separated flesh, sinew and bone. Veer buckled to the floor, trying his best to draw his dagger. Arthur thrust his poniard through the nape of the man’s neck. Resistance ended, but the dagger stuck in the tough hardwood floor.
Arthur’s instinct molded his action and he allowed combat to cleanse away his incensed agitation.
The man that had stood to Acacio’s left, hopped over his howling leader with his own dagger as his leader tumbled to the floor, clutching his wounded crotch. Arthur sensed the newcomer’s presence, took his hand off the poniard that had lodged in his second opponent’s spine. He braced the incomer’s knife arm with his arms crossed and drove his shin into the man’s thigh.
The tactic paid dividends. The man’s stance faltered. He loosened his grip on his weapon. Arthur seized the man’s knife arm with one hand, captured the thumb with his other hand, and wrenched. Whether the attacker’s thumb, wrist or elbow broke made no difference. The opponent’s weapon fell into Arthur’s hand. He bashed the brute twice in the face, demolishing the merc’s cheekbone. As the man faded, Arthur buried the captured blade in his opponent’s temple. Killed with his own weapon. He could brag about that in hell.
A devastating boot heel to Acacio’s skull shaped the mercen
ary’s cranium into a distorted configuration. His bleating shriveled.
The next soldier entered a lunge, but Arthur kicked a chair into his path. Swinging wildly, the man struck Arthur on the thigh as he stumbled over the chair and fell to his knees at Arthur’s feet. Arthur gripped the man’s hair, yanked his head back, and smashed his opponent’s face with a dull smack. The man swung again, striking Arthur on the arms and shoulders, but his eyes had started to roll. Arthur gripped his adversary’s head and twisted. The mercenary’s date with Thanatos arrived.
A mercenary slid past Arthur’s vision, charging Wolf. He extended an arm and caught the brute by his collar, yanking himself around behind the man. Arthur’s weight hauled them both backward and they landed unceremoniously on the floor with Arthur’s arm around the man’s neck. The mercenary dropped his sword and struggled to keep Arthur’s naked chokehold from ripping off his head.
He twisted away Arthur’s hold and attempted to return the choke, but Arthur thrust backward, slamming the two of them into the heavy bar. The slabs of ancient wood remained steadfast. The merc’s grip loosened and Arthur’s elbow laid a wide gash on the man’s face. Two more fists to his forehead, he staggered. Ready to be done with it, Arthur skewered the man with his remaining dagger, watching surprise fade from the man’s eyes.
Wolf had sat the entire day, allowing the mercenaries to say what they would. He piled up their debt and prepared for the right moment. The arrival of an impending clash tasted austere, but he relished the tang.
At Arthur’s forward movement, Wolf met his first opponent with an easy parry, cut through the man’s guard with one blade and lopped the man’s sword arm off with the second. His shorter swords gave him dexterity and room to operate. His opponents had no such advantage. Astonishment floated around the man’s eyes, but emptied quickly when Wolf’s second slash severed the man’s head.