by Ben Stivers
Had that been his only legacy, he could have felt worthy of the respect the town and his men had shown, but—
His captain called him from his reverie. “Ptolomus.”
Ptolomus’ attention snapped back. They had ridden for hours and his mind had drifted from one thing to another. Maybe he had spent too much time in Ploor administrating and not enough time soldiering.
Two riders approached, and the trail of dust they left behind them reminded him of smoke from a wildfire.
The first contubernium spread out as Shanay and Adam rode up in a flurry. Shanay raised her hand in a flat-palmed salute and Adam did the same. Ptolomus returned their salute. He had two contubernium of his men with him. Thus, Shanay believed he might have already been on his way to see them.
“Ptolomus, good to see you,” she began. The look on his face said he had already determined her business carried urgency by the look on her own face. “We need you at the estate.”
His brows furrowed. “Is there a problem?”
“There is,” she replied. She related the story of the hellhound.
The men behind him whispered back and forth, discussing her tale as she told it. Adam sat patiently, patting Artex on the neck, but saying nothing.
When she had finished, Ptolomus replied, “I will accompany you to Ploor, and once there, I will return to the estate.”
Shanay heard within his tone regret. “What is it?”
“It is about Elizabeth,” he replied. His men fell silent and looked away.
The day had started off stifling in Ploor and moved on into sweltering before the sun reached halfway to its pinnacle. A pair of ships had already come into harbor on their monthly run. Another lay off the coast and Ptolomus assumed they awaited a particular berth. That did not strike him as unordinary. Regular ships had their ways, many stitched into the hearts of their captains by superstition.
The flag of the harbormaster flew the town crest, and below that a faded green flag that the Templars had issued to the harbormaster to lower should he need them to come to him without raising an alarm. Stowed in the shack amid the many papers, some that were becoming orderly under Ptolomus’ guard was also a crimson flag for emergencies. Only the harbormaster and the Templars knew what the flags were for and frankly, no one had ever asked.
He considered taking a stroll down to the harbor itself when suddenly the barmaid from the Lusty Wench grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, startling him from his reverie.
“The tavern,” she gasped. “They are going to hurt Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth did not try to create a notion that she could defend herself from all three of the men should they rush her. Each of them was larger, and stronger. She imagined their hard faces had been tempered on the anvil of battle. Still, Ptolomus would eventually come, supposing the barmaid found him. Whether or not he would arrive in time might be another matter.
The mercenary beside the stairs appeared content to remain where he stood and let his two comrades handle her. That suited her as well. She positioned herself at the end of the large bar where the throughway remained most narrow to start their skirmish.
The leader of the group leered, “Women.”
Ptolomus burst through the front door of the Lusty Wench just as the leader of the group laid his hands on Elizabeth. She pushed him away and the man drew back his fist just as Ptolomus closed the distance between them and snatched him by his shirt. His grip, however, faltered as from the side a second man plowed into Ptolomus with a diving tackle. Driven to the side, Ptolomus struggled for balance while his adversary pumped his legs, driving Ptolomus toward the open and burning fireplace.
At the last moment, Ptolomus twisted and the two struck the stone hearth, shattering the sides and rocking the frame of the building. Stones tumbled onto the floor between the two as both climbed groggily to their feet. Ptolomus’ sleeve had caught fire and several blazing logs rolled out onto the floor. He waited for the man to get to his feet. The third man wanted to come forward but looked torn with regard for protecting the staircase.
With her opponent’s attention turned to his right by the distraction of Ptolomus snatching at his collar, and the subsequent collision with the fireplace, Elizabeth led with a roundhouse left and struck her opponent solidly on the chin, snapping his head back, and clipping any connection he had to focus. He staggered, blood decorating the edge of his lips.
Elizabeth took the moment to seize a long torch from the wall and struck him in the ribs with as much force as she could muster. The end of the torch snapped off and rolled up against the bar, setting fire to a stool in the process.
The man grabbed the remaining half of the torch and yanked her forward, a clear and leveled swing that mashed her gut to her spine and sent her to her knees with a strong urge to vomit.
As Ptolomus’ challenger reached his feet, he lunged again. The technique had worked the first time, why not again? Ptolomus, however, was not caught by surprise. Stepping aside, he grabbed the man’s outstretched arm, corralled him close and struck him in the back of the neck with his elbow. The man lost his balance and fell forward on his face. At that moment, Elizabeth went to her knees and her foe aimed a right fist at her forehead.
Ptolomus flicked a wrist. A dagger snapped from his belt, crossed the distance and lodged in the bar directly in front of the man, breaking his concentration. He looked Ptolomus’ way with the flames that were building around them flickering in his eyes.
Meanwhile, Ptolomus had not lost track of his own duty. The man had regained his feet and swung a skull-splitting fist at Ptolomus’ ear. Ptolomus blocked the punch and missed with his counter. The two men circled each other, feeling a moment of reckoning gather. Smoke drifted between them, starting to fill up the space not taken by the advancing fire.
Elizabeth started back to her feet and the man who had attacked her turned away from looking at Ptolomus in time to block her follow-up punch. He grabbed her by the throat with both hands.
She and her father had practiced such a circumstance on so many occasions, she did not need to think, only to act. Her hands came up in a wedge between the man’s arms, her arms breaking his grasp and his eyes widening as he realized he had miscalculated. He clutched for her again, trying to regain momentum.
Elizabeth’s hand struck forward, her hand cupped and fingers straight, his Adam’s apple knotted in spasms as she speared it. Reaching for his throat, he stumbled away.
Seeing his comrade struggle, the man at the stairs rushed her.
Ptolomus considered drawing his sword, but no one had drawn a weapon except for the dagger he had thrown in distraction. Now, however, he considered it again.
His opponent snatched a small pouch from his side and threw it between them. The pouch struck the floor and its contents splashed out across the planks and onto Ptolomus’ boots. He had seen such a ploy, but in a larger version, used by Romans against barbarians. Fire licked the liquid and spread onto the floor and Ptolomus’ boots, forcing him to withdraw and tend to the matter. His opponent spun away and ran.
Elizabeth squared up on the ruffian and feinted, throwing a punch on her freshly approaching opponent. When he came forward, she threw a front kick that knocked him backward into his comrade. The two did not waiver in getting back to their feet, but her adversary struggled to breathe.
Like his cohort, he tossed a small pouch and flames spread between the two men and Elizabeth, pinning her into a corner. They turned and fled, giving Elizabeth a moment to realize the Lusty Wench had grown into an inferno.
Stomping out the flames on his boots, Ptolomus came back to the ready only to see the men flee. He and Elizabeth were each trapped by flames and separated by the same. Unafraid, he plunged through the fire at a run, swept her up from her feet, took two more accelerating strides and plunged, back first, into the outside wall.
The boards surrendered to his desperate forcefulness and the two of them ended up on their backs in a side alley. Every thought of breathing remained
distant to the Templar, but he managed his feet, wrapped his hands under Elizabeth’s arms and hauled her a safe distance away from the conflagration. Sitting down beside her in the dirt, he leaned back against a wagon’s wheel.
“Well, I had hoped our interest in one another would grow, but this is not exactly what I had in mind,” she said. A mysterious smile took Ptolomus’ cheeks. “My father is going to be furious.
Ptolomus had seen many battles and even more fires. His recovery came quickly as well as his humor. “It is but a building. He will get over it. However, as long as he has something else to milk his exasperation, I would like to propose another matter.”
Elizabeth looked at him. In her eyes, he saw amusement. “What would that be?”
He crooked a grin her way and replied, “How would you like to be a Templar?”
She considered his proposition while a crowd of Ploor townspeople formed a bucket chain and floundered to extinguish the remainder of the building. His first decanus arrived minutes later, bewildered at the development. They had not had such an incident in Ploor, and this, having come as a surprise, gave him reason for minor disorientation.
“Captain?”
“Three men. They have scars on their necks and one of them, at least, is injured. Find them and bring them to the barracks.”
The decanus double-timed away with his men. Ptolomus gazed at the flames until only smoke and charred embers remained. Turning his attention back to Elizabeth he realized had he not been a Templar, he would have come to her aid anyway and any time. “Elizabeth—”
“I accept,” she interjected, the decision firm and unyielding on her face. “When do I start?”
“Let us be clear. There will be no favoritism. I would not want our—profession—to split us from our—friendship.”
A pained smile crept to her lips. “My days as a barkeep are over, Ptolomus. My father knows that something disastrous approaches. I want to be able to defend him when it arrives.”
“Train hard. Work hard. I will school you myself. You already have good skills.”
“Sounds like favoritism, Ptolomus.”
He shook his head and grimly looked back at the building.
“No,” he replied, “Grooming.”
The story told, when they arrived in Ploor, Adam already knew the scene would be dire, but Ptolomus’ explanation did not quite prepare his mind’s eye for what he actually saw at the end of their ride.
The main streets were busier than when he last visited, but a rolling hush of the bustle flowed with them as they maneuvered through the thoroughfares. Uneasiness clung to Adam’s nerves, but not as much as when he came upon two of his friends from the stables. He waved. They looked down, avoiding eye contact.
Ploor had seen violence before, but what had occurred shook them. Perhaps the order Ptolomus had brought had sharpened the town’s senses for chaos. Yet, Ploor could not have appeared more peaceful, busy. The town glowed with more civilization than Adam imagined it ever could. Life went on. The sensation occupied him until they turned the corner and arrived at what remained of the Lusty Wench. Then another feeling wrenched him, much like seeing the hellhound had.
Ptolomus had warned them, but to see the building in shambles, the roof collapsed and the porch leaning as if it might fall at any moment shocked him. Some patches still smoked and ten Templars stood guard over the ruin of the burned tavern.
Shanay dismounted, as did Ptolomus. Adam followed suit.
“Watch this porch. It is unforgiving,” Ptolomus said.
Adam stepped over two smoldering boards and slowly shifted his weight before committing to the third. Once over, he stepped past the broken gates and into what had been the main barroom.
The inside walls were blackened with soot. The stairs had collapsed in the fire, though what remained of the upstairs did not look as rickety as the downstairs. The sky shined through the creaking roof. An ironic thing, such clear blue framed by wreckage. The tables and chairs had fallen through the floor where they had incinerated. Others left cinders.
Shanay frowned deeply. “Wolf will hunt them down to the end of the earth. I wouldn’t want to be them.”
Ptolomus shrugged. “You can build another building. At least Elizabeth is safe. Her skills are remarkable.”
“Yes—her skills,” Shanay replied and with a smirk she added, “You might want to prepare an explanation for when he returns.”
Confidence held firm Ptolomus’ resolve. “She wished to join. She has that right.”
“Yes,” Shanay hedged, “but fathers have a way of avoiding logic when it comes to their daughters.”
Anthony and Wolf ensured the rest of the men were out of the labyrinth. When they were, they counted their blessings as much as their men did.
“Should we try to seal the entrance?” Anthony asked.
Wolf agreed, and the Templars arduously wrestled the stones back into place.
“They got out before. They will probably get out again, if not here, then somewhere else,” Anthony remarked when they had finished.
“We’ve stirred them around some,” Wolf remarked. He started toward the Dead Whore. “We had better be sure that tonight the citizens stay in wide groups. Not even pairs might be safe. If we kicked over a hornet’s nest, things could get ugly fast.”
Anthony nodded agreement and the two comrades walked in silence until they reached the doorway. “Scralz! We’re home!”
Anthony looked inside, but no one answered. Scralz might go somewhere, but she would not leave the tavern unlocked. He sprinted into the back room, anticipating the worst.
Chapter 18
In a shamble-strewn quarter of Overlord City, a scout named Retch picked his way through the rubble of the last war, carefully keeping an eye on the worn out human bodies that lay stinking against first one building, then another, then most. Even among the shadows of the city’s broken bones, the oppressive heat of the day raked the sweat onto his face. The perfume of sickness, urine, feces and lepers blended to make a cornucopia of profuse suffering. If he had the time, he would have reported to Raliax of the conditions he found. The mysterious Death Handlers had been collecting bodies by wagonloads and carrying them off to the Black Forest, but this area of the city held the dying if not the dead. Still, Sabinus had already entered the stables and would leave the city in short order. Retch would follow, not far behind, but he knew his trade well and trailing a mark too closely could abruptly end his day.
He would have to wait to report the downtrodden when he returned. At heart, Retch maintained a good streak. He followed orders. He asked few questions. He unerringly fulfilled his duties. Though Ham had chosen a different man at Raliax’s request, Retch understood that his time with Ham had been sparse. Why not choose someone you knew could get the job done rather than someone whose record, though shallow, had been impeccable?
He understood how the military worked. So did Ham. Thus, neither protested one way or the other, when Raliax disapproved Ham’s choice and selected Retch instead.
A simple and straightforward reconnaissance mission, Retch imagined he would be gone for a week, two at most, and then return. The trip had to offer a better use of his talents than minding impressed civilians in the reordering of stones on the wall. None of that suited his taste. As for the forced labor, he disagreed, but he was a soldier, not a politician.
He felt an oncoming display of Raliax’s reach, and that would multiply Nerva’s command. The time away would allow a good soldier to remain a good soldier—with a small exception.
Retch clasped a secret that Ham would maybe know, but Raliax would not. Ham, however, would not negatively react should Retch be caught, but Raliax most certainly would. Thus, Retch had come straightaway to conduct his business and be on with his assignment.
Walking forward with more rapid strides, he turned suddenly into a vacant door to a dilapidated building where half of the roof had collapsed. Inside, however, the room had ample space for the person inside to
conduct his business—a well-paying business for those who supported it.
“I have information,” Retch said to the party sitting back amongst the shadows.
“Grant me some of it,” the man requested.
“It concerns Hellsgate. I know the schedule for its annexation.”
With a nod, the two men struck a deal. Soon after, Retch departed the lower end of the city and entered the stable as Sabinus rode out on a fresh black stallion. The equine was good stock for running, not a soldier’s horse for certain, but Retch would need to swap horses if he had to ride far and fast to keep up with Sabinus and his destination.
He paid the stable master the asked price. In the end, Raliax would approve the expense. Information was always worth gold if it was fresh and the people buying found it valuable enough to increase their stake.
Blood, bits of flesh and brain matter were the first things Anthony registered when he burst into the room. A long drawn out cry punched out, “Scralz?”
She lay on the door to the cellar, face down. The bolt to the door was thrown. Next to her, its neck snapped, a Snipe had managed to get his head through—no, that could not be—he had tried to come through the door and she had slammed the door down on his neck.
Her right arm sported gaping wounds, though the muscle remained on the bone. Her legs rapidly turned from purplish-blue to black.
Even with all of that, the bruises, the open wounds and the blood loss, when Anthony rolled her over, she managed to whisper, “About damned time.”
Gray spittle oozed from the sides of her mouth with her words, but her eyes reported that inside of her coarse and armored personality, she fought for her life.