Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  The kid was obviously important enough for them to keep him locked up all by his lonesome, crowded by four armed slavers. Something smelled fishy about the whole thing, but as the boss had already pointed out—it was not my job to argue.

  #

  He kicked me. I was bleating like a goat, trying to catch my breath after sprinting down Gods know how many back alley streets and shady tunnels to get us away from the slavers—and the kid fucking kicks me. That’s it. Quarry or no quarry—this shit ends now. I yanked him off my shoulders and threw him up against the wall of this flaky baker’s we’re hiding behind, hard enough so I knew it’d knock the wind right out of him.

  “What the fuck is your deal, kid?” I tried not to snarl, I didn’t need to. I always let my ugly brown scars and yellow teeth do all the intimidating for me. The look he gave me in return was not one of fear, it was unadulterated contempt and annoyance.

  “Oh I don’t know.” The kid spat blood on my boots. Fuel for the simmering rage inside of me. “Let’s see—someone pulls me out of bed, drags me down into this, the city’s garbage dump, and then tries to fucking sell me. Then when I’m already chained up and about to be carted off, you show up and fucking kidnap me again. Why is that anyway? Are you one of those sick fucks who likes to play with little boys?”

  The way he’s looked up at me with those mirrored blue eyes, hands balled into dainty fists, not the slightest bit of fear or resignation on his face, just looking genuinely pissed off and ready to tear my throat out, I don’t know why but it made me laugh. Not a small laugh either, one of those bubbling, exploding manly laughs that makes you come off like you are losing your mind or about to start bleeding out your ears.

  “I’m going to kill you. For real.” His voice was like ice, all color drained from his face. The kid must’ve been quaking inside, at least that’s what I tell myself.

  “Good that you’re setting goals for yourself.” My laughter finally dimmed and I could breathe again. “Now stay the still while I catch my breath. Don’t make me smash your face and carry you the rest of the way. That’s not going to be pleasant for either of us.”

  “The rest of the way where? I’m not doing you any favors, fucking boy fucker.”

  “First off, stop swearing, it just sounds cute coming from you. Second, I’m not going to stick anything in you—except maybe my sword if you keep on whining. I’m just taking you from point A to point B and then you’re not my problem anymore.”

  “Whose problem am I then?”

  “Not mine, now quiet down, I’m trying to think.”

  “Yeah, I bet that’s a real challenge.” Quite a mouth on the guy. “Just let me go. They’re already looking for me, and they’re going to find me and when they do, they’ll cut your throat and toss your head off the Edge.”

  “You’re assuming there’ll be anything for them, or anyone, to find.” For a moment I thought I detected just a twinge of fear scrunching up his face, but then it was back to white-paled, wide-eyed fury. I almost felt sorry for him, doing his best to put up a front, trying to make himself appear all rebellious.

  “Fuck you.” There was a momentary pause. “I’m sure they’d reward you if you just brought me in. My mother is very important—”

  “Shut up kid, you’re asking too many stupid questions.”

  “Jerk.” The spiteful way he spat it at me made my teeth grind.

  I grabbed his neck. My hand was big enough that it could almost encircle it back-to-front. In lieu of an actual collar, it would have to do. I set him off marching down the street. I opted for the most direct route to Hag Hearth, most of the would-be bandits on that route would back off at the sight of me anyway. Once I got close enough to where the witches kept the streets clean, there would be no one stupid enough to lie in wait. The witches had a reputation for particularly cruel forms of justice. Often it involved your body parts rotting and falling off your still living, breathing body. One by one.

  Everyone knew to leave the witches alone. Unless you needed something cursed or your future predicted or one of their bargains, the kind that would ostensibly grant you whatever wish you wanted but everyone knew came at a horrible price. I shuddered to think what my boss might have bargained for if it involved human sacrifice. And here I was, an unwitting pawn delivering a boy not even old enough to shave to the curved blade of some face-drooping old hag.

  That sour taste in my mouth turned bitter.

  #

  Hag Hearth could easily claim a place among my nightmares, if I wasn’t too passed out every night to dream. Very few things still frighten me, but the odd way the skin tents, in their black and gray, have been arranged so symmetrically, and the way the inhabitants of that morbid place stare at you, like they can hear every heartbeat, cut through to your every insecurity and dark deed that lurk in your head—it gives me the shivers.

  The smell, too. When you cross the broken archway of old cow skulls and ivy vines into the hearth, it comes at you like an invisible wave, an acrid tang of boiling blood and burning herbs that prickle every hair in your nose.

  I tried my best to look confident as I strode on in, still with a steady grip on the kid’s neck. He had quieted down, likely too busy gaping at the Tyza peddling their wares to the crones to be mouthing off to me. Those demi-human mutts had no fear of the witches and they always stalked the hearth, trying to sell whatever curious artifact they had found, stolen or forged. They hung around the many campfires that lined the broken, overgrown street, a few of them giving me the evil eye. I assumed it was the rumor mill cranking out the story of me yanking the arms off their champion that made them all uneasy, but I wasn’t worried. No one would be stupid enough to start any trouble here.

  I knew which tent to set course for, the large black one at the back of the camp, with the totem pole of children's skulls outside.

  “You can’t miss it,” the boss had said. “It’ll make your skin crawl, for real.”

  And he was right. The cloth of the tent was sewn from old blankets, but there were certain patches that looked more like hardened leather which I was fairly certain did not come from any four-legged beast.

  Unlike most the witches squatting in Hag Hearth, the ones I had come to call upon were actual hags. Old decrepit women surviving only by the grace of whatever demon had granted them an ounce of its favor. Two of the creatures squatted outside by a drying rack, long yellowed nails raking across a pelt that looked suspiciously human. One of them turned to face us as we walked up, and my stomach instantly churned. A single eye of milky white stared at me, a greenish vein floating across it like a slithering worm, with an intensity that nearly stopped me dead in my tracks. Her gaze only hovered on me for an instant before it traveled on to inspect the boy, lips cracking to the point where I expected a cackle. Instead she just grinned, yellow and brown canines dripping reeking saliva. She wore a simple brown dress with a belt of braided hair, a wicked-looking dagger stuck into it, curved like a bestial tooth.

  “Sister Mariza.” She was not trying to hide the glee in her voice, it bubbled forth unhindered. “Tell the others to prepare the rite, our innocent lamb has arrived.”

  The other hag glanced at us briefly, her face a mess of scars like it had been partially melted, half her expression turned to soup. She fired off a short nod and disappeared into the tent. Shortly thereafter I watched a black pillar of smoke rise from the top.

  “Come here, little one.” The twisted old crone beckoned to the boy and for a moment I saw a spark of genuine fear in him. Enough that he took a step backward, bumping into me, face paling to the point where I thought he was going to hurl.

  “Enough, witch.” I gripped the boy firmer, feeling him squirm and glance up at me with a pleading look in his eyes. “I did not come here to leave empty handed.”

  She sneered and waved at me with her claws before digging out a green canvas bag from just inside the tent. A crease of concentration twisted her face while she sifted through its contents. Then she turned t
o me and held out her hand, a leathery charm decorated with bird feathers and withered ivy dangling from her fingers. With some apprehension I reached over to grab it, imagining that for a moment I felt a crawling cringe all the way from my fingertips to the top of my shoulder.

  Before my fingers could wrap around the hideous thing, the hag yanked it back with a pig-like snort.

  “Not yet.” She hissed. “Boy and rite first. Its power is needed, else the charm will not work.”

  “What does it do?” A part of me still wanted to know why the boss was going through so much trouble for a measly charm.

  The old hag twisted her face, forcing a chuckle, and wiped some spit from her lower lip before reaching out to rub it gently across the side of the boy’s face, watching him gurgle in disgust.

  “That is not for you to know, big man. Just tell your owner that the Bleeding Sisters always honors their bargains. Now—the boy!”

  There are those rare moments in your life when you know painfully well that you are standing at a crossroads, that your next action will help define or reveal who you are. With surprising clarity, I knew this was it. Every part of me felt queasy at the thought of handing the boy over. I can snap a man’s neck or squeeze his juices out his ears with my bare hands and feel nothing but the anticipation of hard currency, but dragging children kicking and screaming to be sacrificed genuinely turns my stomach.

  She must have sensed my hesitation, because she leaned over to grab the boy’s arm, tugging violently. With a final pang of hesitation, I let my fingers uncurl, watching that monster drag him away by the arm, swearing and cursing and fighting every step into that tent. Delivery complete, I stood there, staring at the tent flap, frozen in place by the same stupid feelings that had made me hesitate in the first place.

  I forced myself to turn around. The job was almost over. All I had to do now was dump the charm on my boss’ desk, collect the stupendous reward and take a personal day—drinking every last memory of this ordeal out of my head.

  A blood-curdling scream ripped through the tent flap behind me, a sound filled with so much agony and disappointment that my breath stuck in my throat. A bubbling anger grew inside of me; anger at myself for being such a fucking coward.

  A stumbling noise and pained choking clocked in behind me. I turned halfway, staring at the melted crone, her scarred face rapidly draining, blood guzzling from a zigzag cut across her throat. She was trying to gasp even as she tripped over the drying rack and began spasming in the dirt. Somehow that shattered the spectral guilt that was holding me hostage, and I could step over the twitching body to push aside the tent flap.

  There was a moment where my eyes had to adjust before I could make sense of what was happening. In the middle of the tent a pit full of glowing red embers spread out, cooking some kind of herb that launched a thick plume of toxic black and yellow smoke upwards, billowing out the top.

  The other crone lay dead in the dirt. The boy was throning over her, naked and covered in blood, his hands still bound by rope yet clutching the curved dagger I had seen tucked into the hag’s belt. He was smashing her face with his naked heel, expression twisted and marred by tears and blood. The whole thing made me gasp and crack the tiniest smile. My initial shock mingled with admiration.

  Abruptly another hag came out of the darkness next to me, wielding another dagger, spitting curses as she flung herself towards the boy. My sword was out of its scabbard before I even realized I had drawn it. Pulling back my lips in a silent snarl, I rammed my shoulder into her as she tried to pass. As she was about to go down, I cut her open from shoulder to waist and watched her die with no small degree of pleasure.

  Scouring the shadows, I made sure no more surprises laid in wait for me before I approached the boy. He was twitchier than a rabid dog, but he let me cut his hands free, mouth gaping and panting, his eyes glossy with bewilderment.

  “Relax, can’t get what I came for now. Nice slice-work. Where did you get the dagger?” I tried my best to sound comforting, but the words just sounded nonchalant, earning me a glare from the boy that could have turned away a swarm of bees.

  “I got it from her.” He gave the corpse another kick for good measure. “I grabbed it right out of her hand. I learn quick, you know.”

  Chuckling, I grabbed one of the undisturbed pelts that hung by the tent flap—one that looked distinctly furry—and wrapped it about the kid’s shoulders. He was still quaking with battle rage.

  It struck me that I could get a pretty penny for a boy like that, some gangs love their violent conscripts. Maybe even the boss, I thought. He would be furious at the witches keeling over, but if I just explained it wasn’t my fault and brought him such a promising young recruit—

  And the little fucker shivs me. Mid-fucking thought. And good this time.

  I keeled over right at the entrance, pain exploding in my back. Going down I cursed at myself for being so infinitely stupid to have turned my back on a kid with a knife. Either it was the carelessness of old age or I had developed a soft spot for the kid. In any case, it was a moot point.

  Groaning, I watched the kid step over me and crouch down, looting everything he could carry before he left me to bleed and wiggle on the dirty floor of that disgusting tent. I saw him flash me a sadistic little grin as he popped off, pelt still wrapped around his teeny shoulders.

  Fuck, I was proud of him at that moment.

  And as soon as I could move my fucking legs again I was going to hunt him down and smash his face to pulp.

  Kid or no kid.

  Gret

  Brenda Carre

  Brenda's stories have appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Fiction River Anthologies, SkyWarrior Books and Fantastic Fiction. Brenda was delighted to have this opportunity to explore the back story of Gret-the-Witch, who also plays a role in TRUTH SEER, her in-progress epic dark fantasy. Another story set in Brenda's world can be found at www.brendacarre.com

  ~

  My mam always told me there’s three ways to prosper best and all begin with L.

  Location’s one. No prospering’s ever done by thief or witch if the job begins in the wrong place or time. Lissome tongue was next. No matter how much wisdom a gal had to her, good learning didn’t go far if she couldn’t talk her way out of a bad deal. And last was Lightning touch. That meant the effortless sliding of nimble fingers in-and-out of pockets without being cotched.

  My mam knew these L’s right better than any I’ve met. She could charm the gold (and other things) right out of any feller’s britches. We’d a Red Lamp and Physic House just outside the palace gates of the Grand Corsair of Roon. Back then, us Red Lamp girls was good for much more than pleasure to bodies in need. We were spies, healers, and counselors. We had the ear of high folks on Roon. And witchery. Mam passed hers on to me. No brag, just fact. She could fix the dying so they lived. She could deal with those what needed killing. She called it her laying-on-of-hands.

  My da was one who lived and loved, so she said. Word was he’d been a Corsair, like so many were on Roon in my younger day, his gull-gray Xebec as swift and trim as any true seaman’s craft could be. I guess I got his beak of a nose and his uncompromising temper. Handsome mebbe. I can’t say. “Easy on the eye” got him nowhere in the end. My da was hanged after a fierce battle in a little town called Skyhaven, upon the rugged Isle of Inach. Hanged from their Raiders Gate along with the rest of his crew. The villagers torched his ship, the fools. No good sense of true thievery among the lot of ‘em. Rank, lubberly fisher folk. Heads so far up their arses they needed to shout to be heard.

  Don’t guess Mam grieved at his loss. Not for long. She was a cool witch. For her it was business first and womanhood second. Most like, I’d be just like her, save for my ‘nuncle Vongy.

  The day Mam died, that sodding bag of dead man’s piss knocked me over my tender young pate and threw me into the orlop of a pirate ship. I’d just turned thirteen.

  So there I was, cotched and away out there on
blue water.

  Now, that was a real bad location. No silver-tongued happiness was gonna save my cherry. A little maid no more, I’d begun on the road to the witch I am.

  Isk, the captain was no true Corsair. Pirates ain’t. Pirates’ll rut with a post if there ain’t no goats aboard, and the goats breathe easy if there’s girls. Old Isk was a barnacle-bottomed fiend with a snout like a dead salmon. His breath smelled like toenail slime. His frousty periwig was so greasy even lice wouldn’t live on it. His hands were never still.

  He didn’t bother to untie my hands. Keeping me bound got him randy. He’d a preference for young flesh, and he had it often. He made it clear to his crew I was his property, bought and paid for with his coin (leastways ‘til we got to the Mainland and he could get a better trade for me.)

  I took his using of me, and I festered with hate. Pretended I liked it. I used that lissome tongue my mam had taught me, trying not to vomit in the doing. Knew well enough to wait my time ‘til we made Trinceport.

  That first night we come ashore, just beyond the oil and tar smell of the Trinceport ship-yards, on our way to our louse-rid bed in the attic of some noisy ale-house, we passed a stinking midden. It lay beside the hulking fish-gutting house.

  To my delight, I spied some fungi growing near. A clutch of white hoods! I knew ‘em well. I managed to trip and fall flat on my face, my bound hands flailing and snaffled one into my rags without Isk seeing me.

  How I longed for a decent time to dry them proper (more pain in the dose) but given my hasty need, I took the ghostly cap and sprinkled the spores into Isk’s claret. He drank deep, got randy. I did what come un-natural.

  Later that night, when them white hoods took effect, when that bugger was unable to do more than whimper, I thumbed out his eyeballs and fed them to him. I didn’t bother with his tiny balls. Without his eyes, his sailing days were over.