Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  Evaline gasped, and very nearly pulled the trigger right then and there.

  #

  The fires were lit, like they'd known a body was showing up today. Evaline pulled the wagon deep into the commonage, and a crowd gathered every step of the way. Sharath ladies and men walked alongside the wagon, weeping and placing flowers around the tarpaulin-covered body. Near the sage's home, the bark and branches of the trees were warped into curving fractal patterns by their use of the arcane. The crowd began to sing a subdued melody.

  The sage did not have much to say while the body was taken to be cleaned. She nodded at Evaline and said “Thank you” in a tone that sounded genuine, but tired.

  Evaline waited patiently. She unsaddled her horse and brushed it down while it drank thirstily from a water trough. Then she took a seat on a bench beneath an elm and pulled the empty casings from her revolver. If she'd been at all concerned for her safety, she would've reloaded at some point. She wondered why she hadn't.

  With the gun loaded, she ended up falling asleep on the bench, and dreamed of a barley field aflame until the sage woke her with a gentle touch on the shoulder.

  “Thank you for waiting,” said the sage. “That was very polite of you.”

  Evaline waved her off. “Not a problem.”

  The sage smiled warmly. “I can't imagine respecting our rituals was a stipulation of your contract,” she said, “so I must reiterate my thanks.”

  “Respect shouldn't be that hard to come by.”

  “Agreed,” the Sharath remarked sadly. She took a seat next to Evaline, tucking her hair behind pointed ears. “Can you tell me what you were dreaming about just now?”

  Evaline snickered. “I've heard some of you were diviners.” She pulled a wrinkled cigarette from her duster pocket and tried to strike a match. Her hands were unsteady. “I don't know if I like people knowing what I'm thinking.”

  The sage pointed to the cigarette. “May I?” Receiving a confused nod, she pinched the tip of the cigarette between her fingers. The paper smoldered at her touch, and the smell of old tobacco filled the space between them.

  Evaline exhaled smoke through her nose. “Thanks.”

  The sage grinned. “I can't see what's in your mind, Evaline. Just the steam coming off a kettle, so to speak.”

  “Oh.”

  “Will you tell me your dream?”

  “I, ah…” Evaline took a long drag off her cigarette, spat out a flake of tobacco. “Just not very happy about how that young boy died.”

  “Yes.” The sage clasped her hands together. “He did not depart well. And without his nel'shar, he will wander.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Honor the memories of the dead. Cherished thoughts are a beacon for the wanderers, and if they know where they have been loved, they will know where they are going.” She peered up through the elm's branches. “That is what I believe, anyway.”

  “I would like to give the boy justice. That's how I'll honor him.”

  “That is not necessary. Or wise.”

  “But I know who his killer is.”

  “And if the boy was standing with us right now, he would be telling you the same thing I am telling you now: a life for a life is not justice, it is not balance—it is vengeance.”

  Evaline snorted. “Where I'm from, they're the same thing.”

  The sage didn't seem to care for that answer, but she scooted closer to Evaline. “The place where the dead boy wanders, we call it the lonesome dark. He will walk between the shadowed forms of things he once knew, always finding himself just shy of contentment.

  “Such is the road through vengeance, Evaline. The dead will not find satisfaction through more death. Nor will you. It's a kind of fulfillment that will elude you for all time.”

  “Yeah, well…” Evaline snuffed out the cigarette on the ground. “Never know until you try.” She stood and produced the letter from Mayor Meeker. “From the mayor of Longrove.”

  The sage didn't reach for it. “Is it anything of substance?”

  “No.”

  “Then I do not think reading it will be necessary.” She rose and took Evaline by the sleeve. “Before you go, I'd like to know how much you were paid to bring the boy's body to us.”

  Evaline didn't see any point in dodging the question. “Fifteen silver.”

  The sage reached into a pocket on her robe and retrieved a coin pouch. She tossed it to Evaline. “You're a mercenary, yes? In that case, I have a job for you.”

  Evaline looked at the pouch with marked hesitation. She'd never gotten an offer from a Sharath before. “What kind of job?”

  “Thirty silver coins,” the sage said. “To spare a murderer's life.”

  #

  “After everything,” Evaline said, opening the cylinder of her revolver. “After everything you did, the Sharath sage wanted me to spare your life. She put thirty silver in my hand just to let you go about your concerns.”

  Wilbur opened his eyes. “Why…? Well, aren't you? Aren't you gonna listen to them?”

  “Thought about it all the way back out here. Thought maybe it was best to just let this slide, you know? Why add to it?”

  “Add to what?”

  She pulled a round from the cylinder— “The lonesome dark.” —and tossed it away into the barley. “That boy doesn't need company like you.”

  “Then let me go!”

  “I was gonna,” she said through a laugh. “I was gonna drag you out here and stick this gun between your teeth just to put the fear in your eyes. The fear that 'rath boy surely must've felt when you were about to kill him. And then I was gonna let you go.”

  She leaned over, stared him down. “But now, come to find out, you sent Isa and those highwaymen to kill me. With the silver I was carrying, plus what you'd make from the 'rath ears and the bracelet, you were gonna do well for one night's work. I'll let you off with a warning for that boy, like I promised.”

  Evaline peered at the storm clouds through her revolver's one empty chamber, then gave the cylinder a good spin and slammed it home. “But this thing between you and me, we're gonna settle up right now.”

  And then she was upon him, driving a knee into his chest and sticking the barrel of the revolver deep enough into his throat that he gagged. “One shot against five, Wilbur! Those are the odds you gave me!” She pulled back the hammer with a feral grin. “Good luck!”

  Wilbur screamed. Evaline pulled the trigger.

  A hollow click came back at her, and she gasped. Nothing happened.

  Wilbur, seeing he had beaten the odds, started laughing. Even with the barrel of a gun at his throat, he celebrated.

  She pulled the trigger again—spraying blood and chunks of brain and skull across the field. Blood layering upon the blood of the slain Sharath. In the distance, Wilbur's family cried out.

  Evaline stumbled back, watching Wilbur's body convulse and spit crimson. It took him far too long to die. She went to stow her weapon but missed the holster the first time. Thunder rolled, and though she quietly pleaded for rain to wash away the scene, it didn't come.

  She walked a trail through the barley with some haste, leaving the Wilbur farm behind, and felt her way back home through pitch blackness. Someday, she would have to return the coins she was given for the job she had just failed.

  Someday—if she could only find her way back.

  Comeuppance

  Linda Robertson

  Linda Robertson is a rockin’ writer who used to be the lead guitarist in a hard rock/metal cover band. She has a degree in English, loves to paint, has worked as a graphic artist, and is also the mother of four boys. She claims resourcefulness was a survival skill while her boys were young, but that learned versatility now allows her to keep many irons in the fire, from her old loves of music and art to her new romance with costuming and sewing. A few years back Linda bought her childhood home in Ohio and lives there with her boys and the dog--a Rottweiler mix named after Bela Lugosi.

&
nbsp; Linda is the author of six novels in the Persephone Alcmedi series. She attends various writing conventions, speaks, blogs, and gives workshops about the craft of writing.www.authorlindarobertson.com

  ~

  Bron’s sweaty palms itched. His thighs flexed and his knees tingled, wanting to move. But he dare not. All his suffering, all his rage, every moment of his long, long wait faded away.

  The gold was approaching.

  His body demanded he charge ahead and be close to the treasure. But that was not the plan. He needed to remain hidden. He needed to watch and count. So, he studied the riding party while holding fast to the tree trunk—lest his desire conquer his mind and he find himself wandering into the enemy’s path, drunk from the proximity of the valuable ore.

  Accompanying the wagon were six sentinels on horseback, three in front, three behind. Another perched beside the driver, and two more dozed within the carriage. They all looked to be healthy and hearty men.

  Ten in all. Ten!

  He’d have to get past more men than he’d expected to even breathe on the well-guarded hope. His preparations were already in place.

  They would have to do.

  #

  Timor shifted in his seat, beginning to understand why the other sentinels had quarreled about who rode horses and who sat the wagon. After a morning rolling along this rough terrain, the wheels made every bump an assault. He’d be sitting here the rest of the day, and all of tomorrow as well.

  A saddle and an easy-gaited steed had to better than this wooden seat beside Old Hemly. He and the other riders had drawn twigs to determine who would sit up front. Having recently signed on as a sentinel, he was gullible enough to think he’d notched a little victory when he won.

  But he hadn’t met Old Hemly.

  The man reeked of pickled beans.

  The rising heat worsened the stench.

  By midday, Timor was certain of two things: one, he’d never eat pickled beans again. And two, being on a horse was definitely better than being behind a gassy one. Let alone six gassy ones. He used to regard horses as majestic animals, but that view was dissipating much faster than the pong of their farts.

  What other beliefs will I lose to this drudgery?

  His father had died of a sudden illness, and now he and his mother had to repay his debt to the monarchy. King Callos said he would consider the amount repaid when they had both served him for five years—now four years, eleven months and fifteen days.

  Timor hadn’t wanted to be a sentinel. He hadn’t even wanted to be a tailor as his father had been. He’d wanted to be a baker, but most bakers would find him too old to take on as an apprentice when his obligation to the crown ended. This misfortune would ruin his whole life.

  He stared into his hands, at the callouses and blisters two weeks of sword-handling had given him. These hands were meant for kneading dough, not bleeding men.

  Thinking of his sweet mother toiling in the fields, his eyes threatened to water. Feeling certain that, should this group be confronted, he would be the first to die didn’t allay those tears. Worse, his death would do more than grieve his mother. It would extend her servitude.

  He understood his father’s joy in sewing. Taking flat cloth and creating a garment was like magic. Combining ingredients to make breads and cakes seemed a similar kind of alchemy. As a sentinel, though, he created nothing. He was simply a warm body standing in opposition to anyone who might seek to rob King Callos.

  But no one had stopped the king from filching clothes from his father’s shop.

  Oh, His Highness had asked for the garments and attended fittings, but he claimed that since he had not actually “commissioned” them, he did not have to pay for them. No one forced the king to pay for what he called a “tribute.” Apparently tributes neither offset taxes nor garnered royal pardoning where debts were concerned.

  And now he sat guarding the gold of a man who wouldn’t pay his father.

  Just a few shavings of this would have kept his mother from toiling. A few more shavings and he’d have been a baker’s apprentice. Instead, at thirteen, he was forced from his home, his dog, and his tutoring, to wear a uniform and carry a sword.

  What do I know of weapons? Of stopping experienced thieves?

  Nothing.

  The two weeks of training he and the dozen others new to the service had been given was comprised of how to draw, hold, and sheathe a sword, and a few drills such as stabbing into peasant clothes stuffed with hay.

  The captain had said Timor’s half-heartedness earned him a place in the kitchen peeling potatoes. His heart soared…until the captain added that the kitchen was already full of boys suffering from the affliction of aimlessness. He assigned Timor a position ‘beyond his earning,’ and advised him to be grateful for the opportunity to bring himself ‘up to the loftiness of the assignment of a red uniform.’

  Timor was convinced the captain’s speech was as much a ruse as the twig-picking for seats had been.

  The only good thing Timor recognized in his new situation was the fact that he would earn the same wage every day whether he sat on a wagon, rode a horse, or stood at attention outside the door of a vault.

  Four years. Eleven months. Fifteen days.

  He scanned around and sighed as if his spirit could escape on the air.

  Old Hemly leaned closer and whispered, “You scared, boy?”

  “Of what?”

  “This path.”

  “Why would a bumpy path scare me?”

  “Hmpf. Do you know why it’s bumpy?”

  He scanned the path between the horses, expecting to see ruts. Instead he saw an endless series of patches where the soil had been turned. Each dug-up spot was soft and the wheels dipped in, then heaved up onto harder ground.

  “It’s bumpy because when they felled the trees to get through they barely paused to chop the roots out, let alone waste time trying to level it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Has no one told you of the beast of Brock Forest?”

  Timor shook his head. He’d heard old men spin yarns before.

  “No one mentioned the carnage the beast wrought on the men making this path wide enough for a wagon carrying the king’s gold?”

  Timor frowned. “No.”

  “Bodies ripped and burned and partially devoured. Each new party of axe men found the remains of the last and sent one man back with the news as the others began work. They started at the onset of summer. We’re the first wagon through. Took them all those weeks to make way for a wagon and cost the lives of over sixty men. Near the end, any axe men left refused the King’s call and he put axes into the hands of sentinels like you.”

  “Why bother with a new road? The King’s Road is smooth?”

  “Ah yes. It runs through six towns where we might find food and lodging, and that sounds smart, but it takes eight days to travel from the mine fort to the King’s castle. In that eight day trip, there are six towns where folks may decide to rob the wagon, and one night on the open road where brigands could lie in wait. A road through Brock Forest, on the other hand, means the trip would take merely two days. Only one night of risk. And in a forest known to be inhabited by a cruel beast, even the bravest thieves count the risk as too high.” He fixed Timor with a squinty-eyed look.

  “I’m too old to be scared by stories.” Even so, he checked the position of the sun. There was plenty of light left in the day.

  Old Hemly snorted. “I’m not trying to scare you, lad, I’m trying to warn you. Ask the others when we make camp. Ask that man at the lead, the one named Derk. He’s the King’s favorite nephew, don’t you know. A learned man with integrity and character. You have to believe what he says.”

  “I’ll ask.” Timor wanted to resituate in his seat, but he wasn’t going to give a hint that the smelly man’s tale might have gotten to him.

  “I bet you haven’t been told about the curse of the mine, either, have you?”

  “No.”

  “They
say the gold from the King’s new mine—the gold in the chests within this very wagon—is cursed and that all who come in contact with it will bear the curse.”

  “What curse? Boils? Hair loss? That all your livestock will fall ill?”

  Looking from the corner of his eye, Old Hemly asked, “Are you so brave, lad, are you so powerful that you can mock a curse?”

  “If it’s so scary, why are you driving a wagon in a forest filled with monsters? Why would you risk bearing the curse?”

  “A dozen drivers refused this assignment, preferring to be sent to the dungeon for a fortnight. Then they asked me. I said I’d do it…for triple the usual pay. And pay they did.” Reaching within his shirt, Old Hemly produced what looked like a poultice. “It may stink, but this amulet ensures no beast will bother me and no curse can touch me.” He tucked it away. “Sometimes knowledge is more dangerous than a weapon.”

  When they made camp as the sun was setting, Timor was sent to gather firewood. He was sure that, while gone, Old Hemly would tell the others the yarn and instruct them in what to do and say to work Timor into a real fright.

  He was determined that they would not succeed. He wouldn’t let them have such cruel fun. He wouldn’t let them create something to ridicule him about for the next four years, eleven months and fifteen days.

  Absorbed in such thoughts, he never saw the thin string along the leafy forest floor, but he felt it as his boot triggered the mechanism of the trap.

  #

  Summer was beginning to wane but the heat remained close, held in by the dense foliage. Even after years above ground, exiled by his peers, Bron had not developed an appreciation for all the green, let alone the heat. He would never feel safe in the expanse of a forest with the bright open sky above. Every day he longed to be within the walls of a cool, dark cave.

  However, living on the edge of the world of men, he had learned much about them.

  When they began felling trees, he knew there had to be a significant purpose—and it was not difficult to connect the gold in his cave as the one thing in the area worth the effort of creating a wagon path. He knew the time to act was coming. Using what he knew of men, he adjusted a certain area to appeal as a campsite.