Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  ~

  Pik carefully scattered the rat turds on the nightstand and floor directly below. A snore from the bed he knelt next to made him freeze. Even though it was dark, and he was small for a twelve year-old, he worried about being seen. Pik had no illusions about what would happen if he got caught stealing from the tavern’s patrons.

  Munch, the owner, would kick him out, leaving him again with no place to live. The Duke’s man, from whom he was about to steal, would likely have Pik’s right hand cut off as well.

  The thought was almost enough to make him stop his nightly skulking.

  Almost.

  When he was sure the courier, or spy or whatever this particular Duke’s man happened to be was not waking, Pik went back to work.

  He lifted the leather coin pouch off the nightstand, making sure not to allow any coins to clink. With deft fingers, Pik loosened the drawstrings and removed a half-dozen coins at random. Laying the pouch on the ground at the foot of the nightstand, he spread all but one coin, the largest denomination, away from the opening as though they had rolled out.

  Pulling a pair of long-nosed nippers from his pocket, he used them to make false chew marks on the pouch and drawstrings. Coming from a traveling tinker, who had dropped them under a table while drunkenly repairing chainmail, the nippers had been the most useful thing Pik had ever found.

  Putting the tool away, he left a couple more rat droppings on the purse for good measure. Creeping back to the door, he placed the last coin into a wide crack in the floor. He was not taking chances with getting caught in possession of a stolen coin.

  Although he would have to wait until after the Duke’s man left to retrieve it, mentally he had already added the coin to his hidden cache, fueling his thoughts of the day he would run away from this place.

  The most difficult part of the theft was coming back down the wooden stairs.

  Pik had found if he kept his weight on the edges rather than the center, and if he skipped the bottom step and the second from the top, he could make it nearly silently. As soon as he reached the bottom, he hurried to the large central fireplace.

  Here, he was safe. No one would question what he was doing. It was part of his chores to tend this fire and keep it banked all night. He put another log on and re-arranged it when it fell into the wrong position, then he headed back out to the stables, where he slept.

  Guarding the horses at night was supposed to be his most important responsibility, but it seemed everything else he had to do, other than shoveling the shite, required him to be where he couldn’t actually keep an eye on the animals. He had no idea what his punishment would be if something happened to the horses, but considering the reprimanding he received anytime he was slow with another chore it would be bad.

  The thought frustrated him, as it did every night, when he curled up in the straw pallet he’d made for himself. Listening to the gentle breathing of the horses, he closed his eyes and imagined the day he might be the one who jumped on some nobleman’s steed and rode for the sunrise, leaving shouting pursuers waving angry fists above his dust trail.

  What would old Munch think that day?

  A smile curled up on Pik’s lips as he thought of the ugly, obese innkeeper being berated by the Duke’s men in the same way Munch often shouted at Pik. In the background, at the tavern door, Pik’s imagination placed Poppy Smithswife watching as Pik rode away, her hand covering her mouth’s ‘O’ of surprise and shock. Tears formed in her beautiful green eyes. How could sweet little Pik have done such a thing?

  As always, the thought of her disappointment killed his fantasy.

  #

  The squawking choke of the Tavern’s molty rooster awoke Pik with a start. The sky through the cracks in the barn told him he was already late.

  With a curse he didn’t understand but had heard from an unseemly guest one time, Pik jumped up, brushed straw from his hair and clothes, and ran for the kitchen. If he didn’t have the cooking fires hot by the time Tragermund hauled her gouty old body into the kitchen, he wouldn’t get fed today.

  Tripping through the back door to the kitchen, Pik tried to control his breathing. If anyone complained he was the one who made noise in the morning, he’d get cuffed upside the head by one of Munch’s fleshy fists again.

  He stuffed kindling and tinder into the cooking stove and grabbed a long, thin switch to light from the main fireplace. Light was beginning to fill the tavern as the sky brightened, and Pik knew he wouldn’t be able to get the fire hot in time.

  With a deep breath, he steeled himself to try a plan he had hatched the last time he’d gotten in trouble for this.

  He lay on his stomach and looked into the stone vents under the oven. The small air tunnels, built around the stove for heating and air circulation, were just the right size to hide something small. It was too dark to see back into the vents, but Pik snaked his thin arm in until his fingers brushed the smooth clay-fired pot he had hidden in early spring. Gingerly, he fished the container out, being careful not to shake it.

  Holding it at arm’s length, Pik lifted the tiny lid and peeked inside. The firefly cocoon was still intact, and still looked healthy.

  Every kid was fascinated by them. Every kid knew not to mess with them. Not every kid had to face the wrath of Munch if the fire wasn’t hot.

  Holding his breath and keeping his face turned the entire time, Pik gently shook the little brown cocoon out into the cook stove’s kindling. When it softly landed on the dried moss and nothing happened, he sighed with relief.

  Snatching up the switch again, Pik hurried to the main fireplace and lit the end of it on the banked embers. Cupping his hand to keep the flame, he brought it back to the cook stove and set the tinder alight.

  Quickly shutting and latching the iron door, Pik hoped what he had heard about firefly cocoons was true. The small, moth-like creatures were a fire-elemental of some sort, living out their short lives in great numbers during forest fires, somehow leaving behind these cocoons in dark, dry areas where neither water nor sunlight could reach. The cocoon would hatch when exposed to the light and heat of a new fire, and when it did, it put off a lot of heat.

  At least that’s what Pik had been told.

  As he listened to the crackle of the kindling burning in the stove, he began to wonder. He thought something would have happened by now.

  Tragermund would be here soon, the oven would not be hot enough, and he would have to wait until dinner to eat tonight. He considered stealing one of the leftover rolls Tragermund used to make bread pudding and beer, but she counted them just so that he couldn’t.

  Pursing his lips, he sighed heavily through his nose as he opened the door to leave. He had other chores needing to be done before Munch woke up. If he didn’t have them done already, he wouldn’t get them done while being reprimanded, and then he’d get reprimanded again.

  WHOMP!

  Pik was knocked to the floor.

  Loud clanging followed the explosion as he turned to see the stove’s iron lids falling out of the air to the floor. A billowing plume of gray and white smoke rose above the stove as burning sparks of tinder danced and floated around the room like golden fairies.

  Pik’s heart sank as ash settled around the kitchen.

  Munch’s voice bellowed through the tavern walls like a dragon’s roar. “What in the name of the damned gods was that?” It wasn’t a question so much as an angry accusation.

  Still holding the door open, Pik heard a horse whinny from the barn and considered if this was to be the morning he would choose to ride into the sunrise.

  Then the firefly flew up from the stove.

  Flaming wings fluttered, trailing wisps of light and elemental magic as it gracefully rose into the air. Pik had never seen one before. The swirling flames in its wings ranged from blue to yellow, and then from orange to the deepest red. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  It lit on a wooden spoon above the stove and the spoon burst into flames.


  Pik panicked.

  The firefly took flight again, leaving the spoon burning against the stone chimney. If the creature landed anywhere else, the whole tavern could burn.

  Scooping up the clay pot, Pik chased the living spark as it flitted around the room, coming dangerously close to the rafters above. Pik leaped and tried to catch it in the pot, missing and searing his little finger instead.

  The firefly lazily swirled out of his reach, heading for the dining hall. As it dropped low to pass through the threshold, Pik jumped again, pot and lid in hand. With a loud clink, he trapped it inside the fireproof pot and landed off balance, crashing into the doorway and falling over.

  He landed on his back, holding the pot upright.

  “What have you got, boy?” Munch bellowed from mere feet away, startling Pik and nearly causing him to drop the pot. “Give it here.”

  Pik hesitated.

  “Now!”

  He stood and handed it to the big man. “Don’t open it,” Pik breathed, too scared to form proper words.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Munch’s hand flashed out and Pik found himself sitting against the wall holding his stinging cheek.

  Munch began to lift the lid when another voice came from the kitchen.

  “Mayhap you should listen to others from time to time, you big oaf!” Tragermund stood leaning on her cane and pointing a gnarled hand at Munch. “That boy just saved your tavern and possibly your life, but you still beat him silly without so much as taking the time to find out why. And you wonder why no one beds with you. Oaf!”

  She turned her back and surveyed the kitchen indignantly. “Could have been worse,” she muttered. “I’ve seen worse. This can be cleaned up in no time. Look.” She pointed at the cook stove, ignoring the burning spoon. “It didn’t even crack! How’s that for a blessing?”

  Munch eyed Pik. “What’s in the pot?”

  “A firefly.”

  The big man stood straight and held the pot out away from his face. “Where’d it come from?”

  “Where do you think it came from?” Tragermund called to him. “From all that bargain-priced tinder you bought last fall! I told you there was something wrong with it if that fool was selling it so cheap. He must have been harvesting moss from caves. The idiot!”

  The travelers who had stayed the night in the rooms above the tavern were making their way down to see what the commotion was. Pik made sure to not look at the man whose coin purse he had carefully arranged in the night.

  “Is it true?” A merchant, who came through every fortnight or so, called down the stairs.

  “Yes, sir.” Pik nodded nervously. “There’s a firefly in that jar.”

  “I’ll give you two gold for it!” the man told Munch.

  Munch grinned.

  Pik ran for the stables while Munch was distracted.

  #

  Pik was cleaning ashes from the kitchen corners when Poppy Smithswife came in.

  “I heard you saved the tavern this morning, Pik.” Her voice was dulcet, always sounding as though she were about to burst into laughter.

  Self-conscious of dirt all over him from crawling under everything, Pik sheepishly looked up to see her.

  A petite woman in her late teens, Poppy still carried the glow of youth and managed to look sweeter in her tavern serving clothes than most women looked in their best holiday dress. “It was the talk of the town. Everyone in the market is all atwitter about it.” Her green eyes sparkled as she spoke.

  Pik felt himself blush.

  He didn’t know what it was about Poppy. He always had this reaction when she was around. She was the only one who was truly nice to him, the only one he felt like he cared what she thought of him. And right now, she seemed to think he was some kind of hero.

  His ears burned, and he couldn’t think of anything to say. What would she think if she knew he had put the cocoon in the stove?

  Poppy bent over to look under the table at him. Her silver necklace, a pendant stamped with her deceased husband’s seal, swung low. She put a hand to it, pulling it back close to her breast. “I’m proud of you.” She winked at him before straightening up and heading to the main hall.

  Pik watched her go, his ears and face throbbing as the flush receded. As his own discomfort faded, he dreaded the coming evening for her. Poppy always handled patrons with aplomb, but Pik wished she didn’t have to.

  Travelers who couldn’t make it to the next town before dark would be coming in soon, followed by the local hands on their way home. These people weren’t a problem. They drank and ate and moved on. But later in the evening the Duke’s Patrols sometimes came in. And sometimes even more unsavory characters followed.

  It had been nearly a year since the blacksmith had been kicked by a horse and killed. Having moved here from a distant land with Smithy only a scant few months prior, Poppy had no local family or friends and been forced to sell everything and take employ. To the best of Pik’s knowledge, the sliver necklace she wore was the last valuable possession she had.

  Pik didn’t get away from the tavern often and, as it was set on the edge of town, he didn’t mix with the locals often, but he heard plenty as he did his chores and was ignored by the patrons. It hadn’t taken him long to learn Poppy had come to work at the tavern as an alternative to whoring or, in what he had come to believe was even worse in her opinion, becoming Mistress to Duke Wravery himself.

  It had been quite the black topic of conversation when Poppy had turned his offer down, and Pik had once heard mention that perhaps Duke Wravery had arranged for the horse to kick Smithy. After having seen Duke Wravery talking to Poppy in low angry whispers, in this very tavern, Pik felt there was considerable plausibility to that rumor.

  Now, no man would take her for his wife out of fear of retribution from the Duke, leaving Poppy to fend for herself.

  #

  Pik quietly placed another log in the tavern’s main fireplace. It was the kind of night he dreaded, and he’d learned not to do anything that might bring attention to himself.

  The Patrol had arrived in full force, accompanying some foreign dignitary in from the boarder. As soon as the dignitary retired for the evening, the Patrol and the dignitary’s personal escort had taken to drinking heavily. It was only a matter of time until a fight broke out.

  Poppy brought drinks and food with her usual smiles and soothing words. She deftly avoided slaps and gropes, but was wise enough to let the occasional one land. Coins flowed well with the alcohol and Pik had spotted a silver leaning against the wall.

  He dared not touch it while anyone else was still awake, but he marked the location in his mind so he could check for it in the dark when the fire was low.

  The tavern master seemed in rare spirits. Pik almost felt like Munch was putting on a show, trying to prove what a friendly fellow he was. Likely it was still the afterglow from receiving two gold pieces for the firefly.

  The gold should have been Pik’s, but considering the punishment he had avoided, Pik chose not to mention it to Munch.

  Heading to the stables to avoid more teasing and tormenting by the guards, as well as Munch’s eye, Pik slipped out through the kitchen, grabbing a roll from the basket he knew Tragermund hadn’t counted before she left.

  Outside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the night and bit into the soft black bread, savoring a piece that wasn’t two days old. A nervous nicker from the horses caught his attention. He shoved the roll into his pocket and ran for the stable. He’d had to chase foxes away from the chicken roost before, and had learned the horses were his best indicator that something was wrong.

  The clouds were thin and let the moonlight through well enough to see the henhouse. There was nothing. All was quiet as he walked the perimeter, searching for problems.

  A horse snorted and Pik stood straight. He’d guessed wrong about the fox. Someone was in the stable—where he was supposed to be watching the horses.

  He sprinted to the stable and peeked through a kn
othole in the wall.

  Someone was moving about, doing something to the horse tack along the wall. Pik strained to see who it was, but the gloom was too much inside the stable.

  Apparently the intruder thought so as well. The man struck a tiny tinder light, making a flame as small as any Pik had ever seen. In the light, Pik recognized the intruder as the visiting dignitary. He looked different out of his finery. The soft, plain clothes he wore put Pik in the opinion that this man often did things after hours while out of his fine clothes.

  Pik smiled, feeling an odd kinship with the man.

  The smile faded as the dignitary found the saddle he was looking for. His own, Pik guessed, based on the high quality. With a practiced move, the man opened a hidden pouch and pulled out a small kitchen-style knife. And then his light went out.

  Pik, blinded from looking at the light, could see no more. He stayed quiet and listened to the man leave before daring to move. He wasn’t sure why he felt such a need for caution. It should have been fine for the man to retrieve something from his own equipment. Few people left anything of value with their tack anyway. But something about the man set Pik on edge, so he remained very cautious as he rounded the stable and settled into his straw pallet.

  He needed get some rest before going back into the tavern and banking the fire for the night.

  #

  A small cry woke Pik. The clouds had left the night sky and moonlight streamed through the stable’s wall slats as he lay with his eyes open, listening. He heard it again.

  His heart jumped. Pik recognized the voice.

  It was Poppy.