Dead Man's Hand_The Knights of the Golden Dragon_Book 2

by Troy Reaves

  “Damn, Harse! Wake me next time, will you!” Twitcher sat up, rubbing his eyes, ready to hurl more curses at the big man. “Every time you handle the fire, we end up smelling like ash for a couple days! Bring me the damned bucket and cup so I can get this taste out of my mouth, you damn fool!” Harse did as instructed, moving around the cave to each of the other members of the Gang in turn, before coming finally to Boremac. He tipped the bucket to his own mouth after handing the cup to Boremac. He was not exactly excited to be sharing the water after seeing this.

  Harse, for his part, looked beaten. He had walked around the cave, bringing water to his partners, with his shoulders hunched and his eyes cast down. Boremac thought the shambling gait of the chastised was a familiar one to the man. The mumbled apology to Boremac, barely whispered when Harse passed him the cup, made Boremac want to pat him on the back in some small effort to bring him some comfort. Harse turned away after he had taken his draught from the bucket and wandered out of the cave, still carrying it.

  Spike hollered after Harse as he made his way outside. “Bring some more wood on your way back, Harse!” He gave Twitcher a hard look, continuing in a lower tone. “You know Harse is a bit soft in the head, man. He forgets things. Leave him be or there will have to be a reckoning.”

  Twitcher, still obviously angry about the start of the morning, shot back a hard look of his own as he replied. “You threatening me, Spike? I think you would come out the worse in that fight!”

  “I said Harse was slow, Twitcher, but I did not say I was his keeper.” Spike smiled as he continued with a wicked turn of the lips that only enhanced the deep tone of his voice. “I would just put the idea to him of takin’ up for himself and clobbering you. Think about that on our trip to Travelflor. Harse does his best with what he was given, as we all do. Give him time and you just might see that.”

  Frost added to Spike’s sentiment with his own. “True words, Twitcher. You would do well to remember that Harse does almost all the worst work he is given without complaint, just glad to be useful. The stink of ash washes from your throat and clothing easily enough. The harsh words against the man do not. Harse is a gentle soul and you need to remember that. You should go out the cave and go see what you can do to make amends.”

  Despite his derisive snort as he rose, Twitcher got up from his makeshift bedding and dressed quickly. Boremac found the whole interaction very interesting, noting Twitcher’s nod of acquiescence to both Spike and Frost before he stalked out of the cave, still somewhat flushed with his anger. The Gang was definitely an odd family but no less a family for that. Boremac thought that maybe that fact was part of what made them strong. It certainly could not have hurt.

  When Harse and Twitcher returned, Twitcher took the big man to the fire pit with their armloads of wood and slowly set the kindling in place. He spoke softly to Harse, who knitted his brow in rapt attention. Twitcher handed him the stick to use as an igniter, Harse carefully lit it and moved to put it in the top of the stack of kindling. Twitcher only issued a low growl of frustration as he grabbed Harse’s forearm and aimed the burning stick toward the bottom of the kindling pile. Harse smiled, exposing just how many teeth had vacated the man’s mouth over the years and how many more had similar plans, as the flames caught the stack. The two men built up a respectable fire in short order. Spike and Frost smiled knowingly at one another while the other two men were distracted with the fire. It appeared the crisis had passed.

  Once the men had warmed at the fire and the worst part of the morning chill was out of the air, the group wandered down to the nearby river to clean up. Each man carried his own blankets except for Boremac. Harse had insisted he take care of their guest’s bedding, and had even offered to clean Boremac’s clothing, but Boremac had respectfully declined concerning his clothes. He appreciated the spare set of worn boots that the Gang had given him but he was not about to make Harse do his laundry.

  The river running through the wood was as cold as ice and served to drive any vestiges of sleep well out of them all. Frost took the chance to explain that the waters originated at a deep natural well north of the cave and fed over a rough rock face, creating a natural waterfall before feeding the small river that ran through the forest. There was a rather large lake, rumored by the local farmers to have been created when the star stones fell, which broke the river into small streams farther down the waterway’s course. Frost explained that none of these streams were deep enough for boats but the lake boasted some respectable fishing. The farmers who settled on the banks of the streams had long ago stocked the lake with a variety of fish, more to get away from their farms on occasion than any need for the fish, Frost stated. It had worked out good for the Gang when things got really tough, as long as the group agreed to not bring their wineskins on these fishing trips. They tended to run off all the fish when they did. The old ranger that oversaw this forest sometimes joined them at the lake and, despite always being drunk, at least he was a quiet one. He was a terror for the fish too, and the Gang always went home with as much as they wanted when he joined them.

  “What should I call him if I meet him?” Boremac asked to the group at large. He thought it might be a good idea to know the name of the protector when he left to go wherever he ended up going. He was not exactly dressed, or armed, to be mistaken for a hunter.

  “Not much for names in these woods, Dead Man.” Frost stated dryly with just a bit of emphasis on Boremac’s own title. “We call him Fisher but he has chosen to remain as anonymous as we have. I am certain he has his own reasons though I could not guess what they might be. He respects our desire to keep our secrets and we respect his woods so we have never had issue with him.”

  Once again the Gang had shown Boremac there was more to them than met the eye in their strange treaty with the ranger of the wood. He set himself back to gently restoring his leathers and underclothes, anticipating the ‘talk’ Frost had promised even more.

  When the group made it back to the cave and set their blankets and clothing to dry after the fire had been rekindled, Frost gave carefully worded instructions to the rest. They knew many ways into Travelflor, both through the forest and along the roads that bordered it, and Spike insisted on arguing for a direct approach with so much of the morning travel time already lost due to Harse’s folly, but Frost had other plans.

  “Someone will be looking for Dead Man so soon after his disappearance, that much is certain, and there is no profit in bringing the fact that we have him with us to light. Pass by the usual poachers with the usual nods and pleasant words. Stay away from the roads as much as you can until you get near the city and stay out of the Thieves’ quarter altogether. I would hate to have to come into the city for you, Spike. If anyone follows you in the wood, coming or going, put them down and leave the bodies for the wolves. Leave their belongings in case others come looking for them. We need to at least try to make it look like the animals got to them.” Frost paused and looked at Harse, making sure he had his attention. “Only use your throwing axes if necessary, Harse, but use them if you must. The safety of the Gang depends on it. All of you need to rely on stealth first and clean kills second, preferably with neck wounds. The animals will mess up the bodies enough to do the rest. Do not hesitate if it comes to drawing weapons. I suspect you will encounter professional mercenaries if you are luckless enough to see anyone. Alchendia’s Path is probably not going to send anyone, at least I hope not.” The Gang turned as one to stare briefly at Boremac, making him wish he had more shadows to fade into in the cave.

  Spike turned away first to take in Twitcher and Harse, finally meeting Frost’s hard eyes with his own determined gaze before speaking. “Got ya, Frost, though I cannot say I much care for it. If not for Harse’s need of his hand, I be thinkin’ this is more trouble than we need. We will go through the gate nearest the Temple of Light, get in and out best we can. Should be able to make it back before sun fall. Get dressed, you two. The sun will have to dry us the rest of the way and we’
ve no more time.”

  Frost only nodded in acknowledgement, turning the leadership of the group back over to Spike without a word. Boremac’s respect deepened as the three members of the Gang departed. He had no doubt Frost was right about his concerns. Boremac knew Rinoba too well to think he would risk him returning to reveal the prince’s treachery during the Choosing. He just could not understand why the Gang was risking so much on his account, despite Spike’s assurances that it was all for Harse. Frost cleared that up for him right away once the others had left.

  “You are one of us, Dead Man. The Gang would die without question for any of our number, and probably will one day, but not today.” Frost’s conviction reassured Boremac. He had to wonder if anyone ever bothered arguing with the man.

  “Who are you, Frost? You are not a thief, that much is obvious, so how did you come to be part of this motley crew anyway?” Boremac’s direct question did not seem to surprise the elder of the Gang. His reply, however, did.

  “I will tell you, Dead Man, but first you will tell me how a member of Alchendia’s Path managed to piss on the prince of the guild. Do not bother to deny it. The indicators are obvious. I think I have worked most of it out on my own but let me see how much truth I have managed to distill since you joined us. Nice daggers, by the way. The craftsmanship is unmistakable.” Frost grinned for the first time Boremac had briefly known him but the thief found it less than comforting, thinking there was more to the man’s nick than the gray and white that dominated the hair of his head and full beard. He wondered, not for the first time, if the man’s cold blue eyes could freeze a man to death.

  “Well Commander, if I may presume so much, that is a very interesting story.” Boremac did not wait for a confirmation of his assumption and began his story from the near start, at least where Rinoba was concerned. He talked about the young miscreant leader that had nearly taken the blades Frost had made mention of, leaving out only the embarrassing arrival of his female gang member. Boremac spoke freely of his training in Alchendia’s Path and how Rinoba had shadowed him constantly during that time. He spoke briefly of their interaction during the card game that the prince had come away from with a black eye after a misguided attempt to undo Boremac. He spent a great deal of time on Rinoba’s decision to take him out with him during the Choosing, specifically detailing the crumbling castle in order to make an impression of the dangers within, and how Boremac had found it necessary to rescue the prince on numerous instances. Even as he spoke of it now, Boremac saw the follies of those decisions that should have been obvious at the time, but he kept these observations to himself. Throughout the recounting of all these things, Boremac kept his eyes on the flames where he sat warming his hands, rising only briefly to don his leathers and secure his blades. Frost simply listened intently, occasionally poking at the fire and adding wood to the pit, until Boremac was finished.

  “So it appears you have been a thorn in the prince’s side for quite some time, and perhaps the only real threat to his ascendance once his father steps down. Alchendia’s Path chooses its leader on merit, not on blood, as I am sure you were told. This is why the Choosing is so important to them. Those that are chosen leaders in their various areas are first in line when the King steps down. Of course, you know a great deal more about the politics of the guild than I do, but you may not have realized how much of a threat you posed to Rinoba. Obviously he was not so unaware.” Again Frost favored Boremac with his chilling grin. “Still, for whatever reason the prince values you alive, and although I have heard rumors of him, I do not know him well enough to judge what his plans are for you. He seems content to have you out of the way for now.” Frost rose and grabbed a nearby log to place on the fire, rousing the flames to be sure the pit would warm them for a while without tending. Boremac assumed the gesture was meant to make sure Boremac was no longer distracted by the fire.

  Frost wanted his full attention when he spoke again. “You and I seem to share some acquaintances. I recognize the blades you carry and I am certain you did not steal them. I am equally certain that you could not have won them in combat against their previous owner. He is an excellent hunter of men. You are correct that I was once a Commander of men. They were the best trained warriors the lands had known, perhaps even better than the Knights of the Golden Dragon themselves. Their talents were wasted, squandered by a power hungry governor who primarily used them for his personal guard… primarily. He turned my men into assassins and press gangs, building an army to increase his reach. He wanted to install himself as King over the lands, something no one had done for almost one hundred years. I could not allow this to happen. I killed him myself and walked into the constable’s office with my head high and the bloody body over my shoulder, declaring that the men who served under me knew nothing of my treason. The constable agreed that I would hang alone for my actions, my men would stand at the hanging to be certain no one would stop it. He knew the Governor would have destroyed the city, but he also realized that the deed could not go unpunished. I had to be sacrificed. He swore he would oversee the installation of the new governor and, if the person who replaced the dead man demonstrated a tendency toward corruption, he would have them removed personally. He was an honorable man, shamed by his inaction, and not willing to have the city-state suffer for it again. I am still not sure what happened at my execution though I have been able to put together most of the pieces over time, despite Spike’s silence. I found it odd that the hooded executioner had throwing axes at his hip as I was lead up the stairs to the gallows, but sometimes executioners were drawn from odd places when the lottery for the job was pulled, and the potential for reprisal from my men was feared, if not founded in reality. Their first loyalty was to the city-state, driven into them daily until they would put their own lives to the blade before going against it, or so I thought. No more was the sentence read and the trap-door loosed beneath my feet, that the ‘executioner’ cut the rope and leapt from the platform. It was plain that the knot had been sabotaged, preventing a clean break when I fell. Another hooded man beneath me tossed me over his shoulder and managed to sprint out the gap created by his accomplice, the larger man bulling his way through my own troops without one of them having time to draw their weapons, or so it appeared. I knew better. Luck, or collusion, favored us as the two men carried me out the gate of the city unimpeded. It appeared every militia in the city was at my hanging. I struggled against my rescuers but it was useless. I had my hands tied for the hanging and, though apologetic for his actions, the larger man struck me soundly, knocking me unconscious near the two waiting horses they used in our escape. The two unknown men brought me here though I had no way of knowing how long we had traveled. When I awoke finally in this cave, my head ached due to several generous thumps received while I had lain behind the larger man on the horse and I would awaken. The two men had discarded their hoods but said little, tending my bruises and doing their best to make me comfortable, despite remaining trussed up.” Frost laughed openly at the memory.

  Boremac shook his head side to side before speaking. “So the honorable constable recruited two misfit prisoners to rescue the honorable Commander willing to sacrifice himself.”

  “It would appear, yes, and with the aid of my own men and the entire militia, no doubt. I am amazed he did it at all, but even more bewildered that it worked. Neither Spike nor Harse will confirm any of it, not even speaking of it when pressed, but the events were what they were and the depth of conspiracy needed to pull it off is plain. They will not even tell me how far we are from my homeland, though the little I have grown to know of this area over time would allow me to find my way back. There is no reason to any more, if there ever was. This is my home now and over time I have grown attached to living again, despite my initial feelings of dishonor. This misfit bunch have become my friends, and even more than that, my family, much like the young men and women that served under me so long ago. It has taken time, as well as no small amount of patience, but these men have come
to have a sense of honor after a fashion. More importantly, they all have a sense of self-respect despite their individual challenges.”

  “Well, Frost, that is one story for the bards if there ever was one, my friend. Pity they will never sing it.” Boremac laughed before he spoke further. “Still your tale is lacking concerning one bit of information. How do you know these blades? I would think from the way you mentioned them you knew the man who owned them, and considering his legendary prowess, if you encountered him you found yourself at a great disadvantage. I was lucky beyond reason to have found the man in question’s favor, and he gave me the blades.”

  “Allow my brevity to mirror your own, Dead Man, concerning the mercenary in question. We did meet, and engaged one another honorably while he was seeking to fulfill his contract concerning me. He chose to pursue me on his own, even though other hunters of men were seeking me. We fought, each demonstrating the skills only born of long training and too many battles, until we were both too wounded to continue. We lay down our weapons and spoke at length, ultimately hatching a plan for him to maintain his untarnished record. Being a master hunter of men gives a man certain insights into the way bounties disguise themselves once they have become hunted. The mercenary made sure no one would ever recognize me and reported that, although he had slain me, my body had been lost in the battle when I had fallen into a crevice in the cave where he found me. He said he would not accept the reward for the bounty and assured me if he ever found me again, I would be put to the blade and he would find a deep chasm in a cave to throw me in.” Frost smiled. “He is a singular man. I honor him by staying away from the cities, and even the villages.”