Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  “Now, dear wife,” Qusin said, “have you misplaced your father’s dowry?” Reyh heard the voice over the throbbing of his head. It was a wonder he could focus on anything aside from the raging pain. But he had to listen. He had to find a way out.

  “Gone,” Illia replied stoutly. “All of it. You’ll never see it again.”

  There was a long silence, extended such that Reyh would have believed he’d gone deaf if not for the sounds of his own labored breathing.

  “It is of little matter,” Qusin said. “When you bear my son, I’ll have bloodright to take your father’s lands.”

  “I will never,” she said.

  “Your feistiness will produce a fine heir.”

  “Any son of yours will be a worthless coward,” she said. Reyh could hear how she’d tried to bite the words off, tried to swallow them. He glanced up. Where once Qusin had worn a simple smile, the kind a father might don when his son was being unruly, now a snarl creased the span of his bluff face.

  Illia caught the fist upon her cheek, and her head wrenched violently to the side. All strength left her at the blow and she went limp. Boneless, she fell beside Lord Green’s boots and laid there silent as death.

  Reyh was still confounded with pain but knew he had to do something or he’d be dead. Illia as well, if she wasn’t already. Perhaps Qusin wouldn’t intend to kill her, but his anger obviously had the better of him and mistakes happened.

  Spinning an idea together, Reyh offered himself a moment of regret for what was to come, then he snorted, drawing up a mouthful of saliva and snot, and spat full in Chauin’s face. The man recoiled as though cuffed upside the head. Without bothering to wipe the mess away, the blue-hair punched Reyh square in the nose. The room went white before drizzling back into its somber shade of orange. Swallowing blood, Reyh smiled at the southerner.

  “I’ve paid whores to hit me harder than that.”

  Chauin nodded then struck Reyh again, again, again. Reyh’s head swung from side to side beneath the blows. The world rang in his ears. Swaying in accordance with Chauin’s anger, Reyh could feel the hands of his captors loosening. Yes, he thought, I’m too beaten to be any good. One last well-placed fist spun Reyh around, woke lights in his eyes, and sent him crashing bodily into the table beside him. The supports broke, and Reyh and all the contents spilled to the floor in a clattering wash.

  Cheek pressed to a cold wooden slat, Reyh peeped through half-opened eyelids and saw the lamp on its side, the dishes in shards, and his flask all scattered before him. Darrin couldn’t have designed this any better. He groaned, shifted where he was sprawled, and loosened an arm from beneath him. Footsteps. Reyh cocked his head and watched Chauin approach. Ignoring any need for calculation, knowing time was not to be wasted, Reyh snatched up his flask and the lamp with its smashed glass encasing. Almost in the same motion, he slung the remaining lamp oil in an arch, splashing it against Chauin’s bared chest. Reyh then scrambled to his feet, palming his biter and cracking the lip to his flask. Tossing a mouthful of liquor past his teeth, Reyh spun, flicked the biter—prayed—and spat all at once. Akee met spark and an erratic flaming mess woke to life, spraying against Chauin. Instantly, the lamp oil caught, and the Caapi man was engulfed. A horrid, suffering wail rose from his throat as he began violently coiling in on himself, thinking to shake the fire free. His gyrations only helped it burn the greater.

  The room was in turmoil now. Lord Green watched Chauin’s dance with wide, disbelieving eyes as the room caught fire. Qusin was running for the bed, hand outstretched for something. And the men who’d held Reyh were coming for him with grappling hands.

  Wits slowly cobbling themselves together, Reyh dashed across the room, hoping to intercept Qusin and, at the same time, put distance between himself and his would-be handlers. He and the lord met across the room, and Qusin reached out to take Reyh by the neck. Reyh only just avoided the attempt, and Qusin staggered as he clutched empty air. Reyh then spied the sword laid out on the bed, a long thing buckled in an ornate, glittering scabbard. Almost by reflex, Reyh grabbed up the weapon and tickled the buckle, trying to free the blade. But the buckle held fast in Reyh’s clumsy fingers, and there was nothing else to do but swing the thing as it was.

  His strength was of desperation, his aim given over to blind luck, but as the sword connected with the crown of Qusin’s head and put the man down, Reyh felt himself shine with triumph. Unfortunately, there were two other men still after his life.

  Reyh retreated with the brandished weapon and found himself cornered at the back of the room, the wide bed blocking his left. There was no emotion written on the men’s faces, but a resolute crease to their lips told of their intention.

  They took two advancing steps and paused, both sets of eyes taking on a curious shimmer. Their mouths parted just a bit, and two slow, lasting breaths escaped. Both men then fell to the floor, revealing Illia standing behind them. Reyh noticed the two daggers sticking out from between their shoulder blades and gave her a relieved nod of appreciation.

  Reyh licked at his split lips, then mumbled, “Lord Green?” He glanced back and found the man sprawled on the floor, the flames edging toward him.

  “Where do you think I took these?” She leaned down and tugged the two blades free of the dead men, then turned to the unmoving form of Qusin at the foot of the bed. “Now, for you,” she said, going down to one knee. Reyh watched her cut the man’s pants off before averting his eyes. And it wasn’t long before he gave her his farewell, grabbed up his things, and let her be at her morbid work while the room burned.

  The first thing he did upon exiting Green’s manor was head east, some small part of him refusing to believe Darrin had left him out cold. So he took Telhinsol’s stinking streets, awake in response to the burning manor, until he stood before a leaning two-story building attached to a stone warehouse that bordered the Unhil. One upper window, blotted with a heavy curtain, gave way to a muted light. Reyh darted inside and bounded up the steps, his boots heavy and hard.

  Bursting into the room, Reyh found his companion seated at a table, a lamp burning beside him and a flush of gold coins stacked on the tabletop. Darrin was a thin man with even thinner hair, but intelligent and quick with his fingers. He was the image of a man born to sit behind a table with pen in hand. He’d done just that, becoming one of Telhinsol’s most treasured architects. When Reyh had apprenticed with the man, Darrin had been ten years younger and ten pounds heavier. And in all that time he’d never seen him quite as gleeful as he looked now.

  Darrin glanced up from his counting and flashed a smile, which abruptly dropped at the sight of Reyh’s disfigured face. His friendly gray eyes pinched. “Shit.” He stood and scuttled to a water basin where he dipped a cloth before moving over to Reyh, passing the rag. “Put this to your ear. Is your nose broke?”

  “Darrin, what the hell?” Reyh gathered a mouthful of blood and spat out a gobbet. Though it burned, he held the lukewarm cloth to his ear.

  “I didn’t think it would go quite so badly. Is she all right?”

  “She?” Reyh was dumbfounded. “She’s a sight more intact than I am. What gives?”

  There was a ghost of a shrug to Darrin’s posture, but he corralled the gesture and said, “She asked for a man who could get things done.”

  “And you pointed her my way.” He pressed the wet cloth tighter.

  “She was holding that, Reyh.” Darrin pointed with two fingers at a heavy sack on the floor. “You think I’d let that get away from us?” He gave over a relenting sigh. “Look, we both knew a day like this was coming soon or late. We got out handsomely. There’s enough there to purchase an estate in the country, hiring on a few men to do our chores, a few women to do those the men can’t…. We’ll retire and live like true lords.”

  Reyh found that the pain of his head abated a bit at Darrin’s sweet words. It would be good and fine to put his thievery behind him, especially after this night’s events. He glanced at the sack, wondering jus
t how well Illia had paid.

  “A princess’s dowry,” Darrin said in answer to Reyh’s thoughts. “A king’s bribe as well. I would never have risked you for less.”

  “I almost died.” He’d intended to sound bitter but it came across as astounded.

  Darrin nodded, his wisps of hair fluttering about his mostly bald pate. “And now you can live.”

  Reyh pulled the cloth from his ear, not without a good measure of pain as the fabric stuck to the wound, and stared at the blood-stained rag. An ear wasn’t too great a thing to part with for a life of ease, he decided. Besides, many had lost much more than he and had gained much less for their troubles. In that, he counted himself a very fortunate man.

  The Laughing Wind

  Noah Heinrich

  Noah Heinrich was born in Oak Park, IL, and had the extreme misfortune of being exposed to science fiction and fantasy at a young age. He has lived with a crippling writing habit ever since, and refuses treatment. He attended Kenyon College, and earned his Bachelors Degree with honors in English, with an emphasis in creative writing. After being spat out into the wide world, he has worked as an AmeriCorps volunteer, a teacher, a free-lance blogger, a children’s entertainer, and a part-time mad scientist. Noah currently lives in Ypsilanti, MI, where he draws inspiration from the far more interesting places he has lived.

  ~

  Judging by the ruddy color of the light on the wall, it is late in the evening. Deep in the desert, they’d be lighting the bonfire about now, perhaps roasting a freshly caught antelope until it was dripping grease. Just the thought of that makes me hungrier. All I had to eat today was what passes for porridge in here. Perhaps that sludge was fit for a common man, but I, Baldos ber Baldos, once dined with the King of the Jinn; my palate is more refined. I should have known that standards would be lax.

  They usually are, in prisons.

  “Guard! Guard!” I walk to the door, and give it a swift kick. It is sturdily built, no hope of knocking it down. The window is heavily barred, too. If I were to escape, it would have to be through deception. Not the first time that the great Baldos had done so, but first somebody had to answer me. “Do you not recognize the gasps of a dying man?” I ask and cough piteously. “Water! I need water!”

  No answer. Perhaps the guard is deaf, or plugged his ears with wax. Smart, much smarter than I ever gave the King’s Men credit for. After all these years, are they finally learning? Or is it that I am truly getting old? The thought washes over my mind like a sandstorm, and I take a seat on the slab they gave me for a bed.

  There is no mirror in my cell, but I know that my beard is long and grey, my eyes framed by laugh lines, and my limbs ache in the mornings. Even Baldos ber Baldos, who fought a thousand men without a wound, was not immune to the grasping claws of time. I am not a fool. I have known for a long time that even my luck would run dry. I just wish that my end was not so…inglorious.

  Was it only three days ago? I remember it so easily. It was a routine raid on an unguarded caravan. A few sweeps of my sword, a few boasts and threats, and I was riding away with a handful of silks and jewels. If my horse had not thrown her shoe at that precise moment, I’d be laughing now. Instead, I rot here in the dark. I, Baldos ber Baldos, captured by mere merchants! And now, waiting to be executed, like any common thief.

  I can imagine the crowd, watching intently as my head is sliced off like a chicken’s. “So much for the legendary bandit,” they’ll say. “Just a tired old man, after all.”

  My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a latch being opened. I get to my feet, ignoring the pain in my knees; no man will see me doubled over like an invalid. “About time you came. Next time, if you hear Baldos ber Baldos calling, you should—“

  The person at the door is not a guard, but a woman. A handsome one at that. Her black hair is shorn on one side, as is the fashion in this city. Dark eyes flash proudly, like a hawk’s. I can’t tell her station because of the travelling cloak she wears, but something about her seems familiar.

  “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

  She arches one thin eyebrow quizzically. Not easily offended, this one. “Is this how you greet all women?”

  “Only the ones who come to see me while I am in chains.” I look her over again. There is something about her that I have seen before, in the shapes of her eyes and the curve of her lips. “Don’t tell me that you’re another daughter. Was your mother a shepherdess in the Bone Hills?” The memory of those days brings a smile to my face.

  The stranger produces a woven basket from within the folds of her cloak, and sets it down beside her feet. “Not to my knowledge. I suppose anything is possible though.” The corners of her mouth turn up, but I would not call it a smile. “You really don’t remember me?”

  The pain in my knees grows with each second I stand. Pride be damned, I sit down on the cot. “Regretfully, I do not. I have met many beautiful women in my life. If you aren’t a lover or a relative, then I could sit here guessing until this prison turns to dust around us. But, as you may have heard, I do not have so long.”

  The woman seems disappointed. “It was a long time ago,” she says and sits on the floor, her skirts flowing out around her. The edge of the fabric seems very fine, and I can see hints of goldthread in the fading light.

  “No doubt.” Perhaps she’s some noblewoman I robbed and paid the guards off to gawk at me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have pressing business to attend to.”

  She turns her penetrating eyes on me, and flashes her half-smile. “Like escaping? Don’t bother. They’ve heard all about you, Baldos ber Baldos. They’re not taking any chances.”

  “Of course they aren’t,” I say, letting a bit of the old bravado in. “The last time I was captured—”

  “You fought off fifty guards, and then rode a lock of maiden’s hair to freedom,” she completes. “I’ve heard the stories they tell about you: Baldos stole the jinni king’s ring; Baldos filled the desert with pearls; Baldos tamed the phoenix and wears its feathers in his beard. I doubt that there’s a soul in the entire city who doesn’t know your name.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. “It was eighty guards, actually. And they had dogs. You know so much about me, but I don’t even know your name.”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. “I wonder, Baldos ber Baldos, where the legend ends, and the man begins. What are the facts?”

  Who does this woman think she is talking to? “Woman, my word is my bond. I have never told a lie in all my life.”

  “Then where are those phoenix feathers, hm? Where is the ring? Do you even know who you really are anymore?”

  My head is swimming. Something about this woman’s words makes it hard to think straight. “What are you doing to me?”

  She leans in close. Her hair is sand in the wind, her eyes are like the moon. “Where were you born? What is your mother’s name?” Her words strike me like arrows, one after the other.

  “I was born in the midst of a sandstorm during a new moon,” I say, as I have said so many times before, but the words feel tasteless and heavy. “I was raised by a falcon and a jackal…” Yet I remember a woman in a hut, tending to goats, and singing sad songs.

  The woman puts her hand on mine; her skin is smooth, not calloused like mine. “You’re trapped within yourself,” she says kindly. “I thought as much.”

  I press my palms against my eyelids and find they’re wet. Have I really been reduced to weeping like a babe? “Who are you?” I have felt this haze before, I know it. A raid, ten years ago, perhaps. The caravan had several priests in their number, and they befuddled us in the same way. A few sweeps of the sword put an end to it.

  “My name is Tanis,” she says, and undoes the clasp on her cloak. It falls, and I can see that she is wearing a dress of blue, set with gold thread at the edges: the uniform of a priestess of Ol-Oloum. “I’ve come with two gifts for you, Baldos.”

  The fog leaves my head as she speaks, and the old suspicion retur
ns. I’ve robbed more priests than I can easily count. They have no reason to love me. “Allow me to guess: your gifts are eternal damnation, and a sword to guide me to it.”

  She—Tanis, that is—smiles again. The expression does not fit her clothes, but there is no real mirth in it. “Although you may not believe it, the priesthood of Ol-Oloum admires you nearly as much as it wishes to see you dead. But I’m not here on their behalf. I am simply repaying an old debt.”

  Despite the pain in my head, my legs, and the rest of my body, I stand up again to look her in the eye. “Oh, good, that explains everything. By all means, keep speaking in riddles. They are my specialty after all. Have you heard the one about the potter and the raven?” I’m getting to her, I can tell. Tanis has had this moment planned out. She created a mystery, and is waiting to reveal it, just like any street performer. “Don’t try to trick a trickster,” I say. “You’re too honest for that.”

  “I suppose that’s a compliment,” she says, looking flustered. “Fine. I’ll do better than tell you who I am, though. I’ll show you.” She lays one hand on my forehead and closes her eyes. “I’ll show you everything.”

  #

  The Lamed Pass stretches lazily out beneath the ridge. It is the fastest route between the great city-state of Ol-Oloum, and the port of Ol-Araraish. To avoid it, one must circle around the mountains and ride for at least a day through the open desert. Its importance to the commerce and security of these two cities makes it the most heavily guarded stretch of road in the Green Spear, and avoided by most bandits.

  Most bandits are not led by Baldos ber Baldos, however.

  There are precious few pleasures greater than this: the sun overhead, the wind at your back, a strong horse beneath you, and a few dozen bloodthirsty ruffians under your command. I have spoken to many philosophers over the years—usually at the point of a sword—and none of them could convince me otherwise. The minutes before a raid are when I feel most alive. The tension in the air quivers like a bowstring, or like sex. Exquisite.