by SL Figuhr
Jonas wasn’t expecting the move, so the butt-end caught him in the stomach. The third man stabbed him in his side. Eron gritted his teeth. While the sword was being withdrawn, Eron lashed out with a leg and dislocated the other’s knee. The man went down with a scream, sword clattering a hand’s breath away. Eron released the club, staggering to one side as Jonas plowed into him. They crashed down. Eron used the momentum to arm-chop Jonas’ throat. The man gagged and spat, trying to suck in air. Eron turned at a scraping noise to see Jim, recovered enough to snatch his dagger back up, lunging toward him. The immortal caught the attacker’s arm in a lock, bending it in such a way that the dagger was now pointing toward Jim’s throat.
Using the man’s arm as leverage, Eron spun him in a circle, scanning the tops of the crates but not seeing anyone. A quick jerk sent the dagger slicing deep across his assailant’s throat, nearly decapitating him. Blood sprayed in an arc, the dagger clattering to the dock as Jonas crawled toward his fallen club.
“Ah, no, we can’t have that now, can we? Not after what you just saw; you should have heeded my warning.” Eron unsheathed his sword, striding over to the escaping man. He tapped Jonas on the back with it.
Jonas whimpered, “Don’t. Don’t kill me. We-we only wanted a bit of fun.” He held a hand up, looking back at the man, the whites of his eyes showing in fear.
Jonas screamed in pain, rolling over onto his back, clutching his injured member. “You bastard, you broke my hand!” he howled. “You ain’t gonna get away with it!”
“Fuck you!” Jonas shouted, dragging himself toward his weapon. “As you wish,” Eron replied, sword flicking out.
Jonas collapsed forward as Eron heard a scrabbling sound. He whipped his head around, scanning the tops of the crates, seeing nothing. It could be rats. He needed to get out of there. The third attacker was still hitching himself across the space, trying to escape. Briefly, he and Eron clashed swords before he was gutted. Eron wiped his blade off on a clean patch of the dead man’s coat before jamming it back into his scabbard, wincing. It would take at least several hours for the damage to heal. He gazed at the bodies, wondering if they had anything useful on them. He was rewarded by two pouches full of coins and assorted jewels. That would help him get out of town. His new windfall contradicted the ratty clothing of the scum from whom he’d taken it. Eron secured the pouches to either side of his belt, beneath his cloak, using the inside of the cloak to clean the worst of the blood off his face before fastening it closed over stains and the wound in his side.
What’s the best way out of here? It didn’t take long to wend, limping, back to the main throng, making sure no one else was following him. He didn’t want to use his new windfall right away, but keep it in reserve. That meant the few coins he had come with wouldn’t stretch far —certainly not enough to buy a mount—but he didn’t care to walk out, which left hiring out onto one of the ships, or finding a merchant train or group of travelers needing guards. Either option had its perils, but since he was here at the docks, he would try by sea first. The ships carrying human cargo he rejected as there was a chance he would become one of the slaves. A depressingly small handful remained; most of them could be classified as sea hags, the sails much patched, and only barnacles, seaweed, tar and pitch held rotting wood together. He noticed a beautiful sleek vessel out in the harbor. The two sails left unfurled had not a patch on them and from the top mizzen mast, a pennant flew, marking the ship’s allegiance.
“Now there’s a ship.” He had not realized he’d spoken out loud until a rough voice at his elbow replied, “Aye. A beauty she be. The Golden Hind.”
Eron felt his heart sink but nodded politely. “I appreciate the honesty. I am a hard worker. I can only offer scant coin toward my passage, probably not enough for your ship.”
“Hrmmm,” was all the man said. “Try the Kasper or the Queen Rose. They’ll take your coin and work you like a dog, but I haven’t heard of them enslaving a man and selling him or any other type of monkey business. Can’t say the same for the rest.”
An annoyed snort was his only response as the mare stretched down to crop at a juicy patch of grass. Colin wrestled with the hard-mouthed mount, managing to get her going in a slow amble. He hoped Eron and his brother were having better luck than he. He had stopped at the first farmhouse outside the town, using the story he had made up to find Nicky’s country spot. The owners had been reluctant to say anything, so he was forced to continue on until he found some slaves who would talk. They gave vague directions to a lake townspeople used as a swimming hole. He turned onto a dusty track which wound off to his left, between fields in which slaves worked the harvest.
Colin hailed the overseer, and asked, “Sir, I’m trying to find the local swimming hole, only the directions I’ve been given are not the best. Am I on the right road?”
The man scratched his head, admitting he wasn’t sure, directing him toward the farmhouse. A twenty-minute ride brought it into view. Carved lintel beams caught his eye. That would be nice to sketch. Colin introduced himself to the farmwife, asking permission to relax in the yard. He used his handkerchief to dust off a log before sitting and eating lunch while copying down the carvings as his hostess explained the significance of the carvings to him. She was one of the few women who didn’t appear worn before her time, or so beaten down by her lot in life she moved like a zombie. He spent a pleasant visit before starting back off, Patty plodding down the road a bit more enthusiastically, having been given water, food, and a bit of rest.
“Ach, a body can’t even start a revolution here. They’d probably end up being hauled off posthaste in chains to rot in a dungeon or provide entertainment for the king’s rabble.”
In retaliation, the spotted mare did a jump-hop in a halfhearted attempt to unseat him. Colin chuckled in spite of himself, and with a short wrestle, had his mount going in a decent canter down the side of the rutted road. He spotted a thin winding path and tried to remember if it was the one he was told to look for. He decided to ride down it, and managed to tug the hard-mouthed mount onto the trail. The mare promptly dropped back into her ambling gait.
The mare flicked one ear back, shaking her mane as Colin moved branches out of his way or ducked. “I bet you've got a mule or two as an ancestor. Last mount available, my ass. If you stop one more time, I’ll find a switch and beat the stubborn out of you,” he threatened halfheartedly.
In the midst of another tug-of-war match with Patty over a patch of grass, a slight breeze stirred up, carrying a heavy stench. Colin forgot about the horse for a moment as he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Strange, now I think about and smell it, I don’t recall seeing any graveyards or burying grounds in town, or passing any. There has to be one someplace, though.”
Colin hoped the breeze would blow again so he could try telling from which way the scent came. He sat for ten minutes by his reckoning, but the smell didn’t come.
She started up reluctantly, and with much prodding and cursing, broke into a stiff-legged jog. Colin estimated they had gone about half a mile when the mare whinnied, rearing.
“Steady, girl; whoa, there’s a good girl. Calm now, yeah, that’s good.” With much coaxing and petting, Colin got the mare to stand still though she trembled like a leaf.
It was true, as far as he could see on the ground and in the trees; no predator lurked which would have caused her reaction. There wasn’t even a deer or bunny or rustling leaves which could have startled her. Now he didn’t have to pay so much attention to his mount, Colin noticed the stench was much, much stronger. He must be close to a burying ground, one not properly taken care of. Colin tied the reins to a low branch.
She snorted, uneasily shifting before warily reaching down to snatch a mouthful. Colin started up the path toward the smell, resettling his sword across his hips in case he needed use of it. Twenty minutes of walking went by before the trees thinned out as he topped a low rise. The stench was so overpowering he covered his mouth and nose with a square of e
mbroidery-edged linen.
“By all that’s holy!” The curse escaped him as he looked down at the mess in the ground. Flocks of carrion birds rose in a mass, revealing the source. They circled, cawing and cackling at the disturbance; when Colin didn’t do anything else, they settled back down.
A broad, deep pit had been dug in a rough clearing with dirt ringing it. Most of the dead were barely covered, all the corpses in an advanced state of decay. Even though Colin had seen many bodies in all states during his lifetime, he still had to look away, fighting down the bile rising in his throat, before edging closer to the pit for a better look. Judging by the number of dead, the spot had been in use for a while.
“Where the hell are all these people from? Even with this place being a slave market, there shouldn’t be this many bodies. We haven’t even heard of any entertainment using humans which would produce this kind of death rate.”
Colin shook his head, deciding to file the piece of the mystery away. He looked once more at the mess, unable to tell without going into it how they had died. He glanced up at the sky, noting the sun beginning its downward climb. If he wanted to be back by dusk on the nag, he would have to leave now. Colin figured he would try to find the lake tomorrow, hopefully with a better mount. Still, he lingered for a moment or two more, searching the area, rewarded by finding deep wagon wheel grooves on the far side of the pit. They disappeared into the dark forest. Wishing he had more time to find out where they went, Colin noted the direction they came from before hiking back to the mare. He hoped the other two had had better luck than he.
The more Mica saw of the town, the less he liked the narrow, crooked, filthy streets. The buildings were pieced together of wattle and daub, mud bricks, rotting wood and thatch, and mismatched stones. They all leaned at haphazard, bizarre angles. Mica was bumped and shoved continuously. He kept checking his coin purse to make sure it had not gotten stolen. Riders and wheeled conveyances splashed mud on those on foot; to his disgust, his cloak became coated. An understanding of how the town was laid out unfolded the more he explored. A tall wooden pole denoted the center of town; from there, the streets wound out. Craftspeople who didn’t require a lot of water for their profession— weavers, coopers, and metal-smiths—huddled closest to the curve of the mountain and the path the three men had walked in on. Those needing water for their trade—the dyers and millers—had their homes and businesses along the river between the bridge and harbor mouth. The butcher shops huddled nearest to the forest. The traders and merchants whose wares depended on the ships lay before the docks. A sprinkling of other sundry homes and workplaces lay scattered throughout. Mica knew Nicky liked fine things, to make up for the fact he appeared an eternal boy. The first thing Mica did was search out the best-looking of the buildings, which belonged to the freeborn skilled laborers and craftsmen. As he walked, eavesdropping, he did not hear mention of Nicky by any of his aliases. Lots of craft and noble Masters complained about the ruler, King Maecenas, or made crude jokes about their ruler and his advisor, but nothing which would help his group find their quarry. As the afternoon waned, Mica had a mental list of over a dozen places that Nicky might provide with his custom, from a cobbler of fine leather shoes, a jeweler, and a tailor who only used brightly toned silks, velvets, and brocades, that fit what they were looking for. The immortal noted each purveyor's sign had a small, gold-leaf crown in the top right corner. He also kept his eyes out for other inns, but so far hadn’t found one with empty rooms.
He stopped at a stall for a loaf of bread stuffed with meat, and a flagon of wine. A small section remained to be searched, but what would be the point? What would the little boy do in whorehouses anyway? Watch? He’s only twelve!
Mica believed in being thorough; he wandered past the wooden houses of the whores anyway as he ate his bread. Women hung out of windows, calling out to him.
He ignored them, their enticements turning to heckling. “What’s the matter? You don’t like women?”
“Faggot, you’ll find no fudge packers here.”
He passed a group of men walking out of a building, laughing and talking. Most of them staggered off down the street in the opposite direction from him while two men paused outside, as grooms came up with horses. Mica kept his head down, but his eyes rolled up as he finished off his bread and wine.
He heard one say, “Damn inconvenient to hold rites now. What the hell’s the boy thinking? That damn fanatic priest is suspicious enough.” The words set his heart pounding even though the rest of the conversation was lost in the sound of the horses’ hooves as the men rode off.
It would’ve been smarter to keep watch on the other places, but there was something about the conversation!The men split up; he had to choose which to continue following. It was a long boring day trailing the man as he went about his daily business. Mica hoped his brother and Eron had had better luck.
The sun was slowly diffusing, making Mica aware he needed to leave soon to meet his friends. He lingered, hoping the man would come out of his house. Mica felt himself nodding off, when hoofbeats woke him in time to see a cloaked, hooded figure leave the house. Mica cursed softly as the sun sank; he had not anticipated this. The man didn’t seem to be in a hurry, though, and by half-trotting, half-fast walking, he was able to keep the man in sight. His luck held as the man turned down the street past the Bloody Knuckles. Mica saw a few animals at nearby hitching posts, ripe for borrowing. Mica slipped the reins of the nearest horse free. The horse balked at the unfamiliar rider. Mica gentled him, cantering after the man. Mica began to breathe a bit easier once clearing the town limits, slowing the horse to a walk. He was getting too close to his quarry, who had slowed to a trot. Mica didn’t want him to hear hoofbeats behind him and wonder who could be following him.
The two went deeper into the forest, along a rutted dirt track barely wide enough for a cart with branches poking out to snag an unwary rider. It was now full dark and the moon only gave a little light. Mica didn’t know if the man was still in front of him. He needed to stop the horse periodically and listen, hoping the man hadn’t turned off anywhere. Mica urged his mount to go as fast as he dared on the uneven surface. Just as he thought, How lucky my quarry hasn’t looked back! his horse let out a loud whinny. Mica hissed in annoyance, bringing his mount to a sharp halt. He heard the rapid beat of a galloping animal. Mica swore, urging his own mount into a gallop, but after the beast stumbled and almost threw him, Mica reined in. He barely heard the hoofbeats now. It was no use; he had lost his quarry. He cursed and turned his horse back, but a shout broke the stillness, following the crack of a whip. It echoed eerily, making him unsure of its direction. Mica waited to see if it would repeat, rewarded when it did. This crack seemed closer, off to his left, with less of an echo. He nudged his mount toward the noise but the horse balked, refusing to go off the path. Mica nudged the horse into a walk, scanning for a break in the darkness which might signal another path. He thought he saw a darker patch, but the horse snorted, throwing his head up, muscles bunching to run. Mica dismounted, gently talking to the beast, trying to lead it.
“Whoa, there. Whoa, boy. That’s a good horse. It’s all right, just a few steps. Come on, just off the path a little. There you go, that’s it. Good boy.’”
Still coaxing, Mica got the horse to enter the brush enough to hide them before the gelding balked. Mica gave up as the beast became edgy and panicky. He tied the reins to a low branch, letting the horse calm down and start grazing. He knew the gelding was a creature of habit, wanting his stall, food and water. If left untied, the horse would make his way back to what was familiar and comforting. Mica didn’t fancy being left stranded with a very long walk back to the town.
Mica pushed through the thick forest toward the source of the shouts and whip cracking. The noise seemed to come from the other side of a thick tangle of trees and thorny brush obscuring the track. Mica dropped to his belly and slithered forward. It was a good thing he had done so: suddenly the branches thinned. He was abl
e to see into a medium-sized clearing, illuminated by the rising moon. He wiggled back so his face wouldn’t gleam, surreptitiously pulling his hood nearly over his eyes. He fisted the bottom part close over his mouth, so only a small oval remained. His free hand scrabbled in the dirt, bringing some up to smear on the exposed skin. Satisfied with his preparations, Mica settled down to spy.
The flickering torchlight revealed pens on the far side of the circle, which held raggedly clad figures huddled for warmth and comfort. Big bulky men in fur and leather stood guarding the pens. A slight breeze kicked up, rustling the leaves, bringing a faint unpalatable, familiar stench with it. He frowned a little, putting the smell out of his mind as he continued to scan for Nicky. Two torches illuminated yet another path out of the clearing. The breeze grew stronger. So did the stench. The indistinct muttering of the men cut off. Mica twisted his head, trying to see why. A line of heavily cloaked, masked figures filed into the grove, encircling a cluster of stones. He couldn’t tell if the man he had been following was among them or not. The hood of one figure turned in Mica’s direction as if looking right at him. A chill raced up and down his spine. A young male voice rang out, bringing everyone’s attention his way. The participants intoned bastardized Latin phrases while holding fat, round black candles lit with a blue flame, similar to the one at which he and Colin had first met the little boy. But none of them were short enough to be a twelve year old, not even the leader. He wished the group would remove their masks, so he didn’t have to watch the entire blasphemous ceremony. One of the cloaked figures detached from the group, the men guarding, scrambling to obey orders, to drag a prisoner to be chained to the altar. Each of the chanting men defiled the man with rods of some kind before moving on to other captives, while the prisoners still in the pens wailed and screamed. Mica’s fingers dug into the ground, stomach cramping in rage. He was running battle scenes in his head, mapping out how to disable each of the chanting participants and the guards. One of the cloaked figures approached the altar, and the prisoner stretched out on it. The figure appeared to be inspecting the man, giving a nod of satisfaction as the chanting continued, and let fall its cloak. The screaming stopped for one horrified instant before commencing even louder, drowning out the sound of chanting from the group. Mica stuffed his fist in his mouth to prevent his own scream from bursting forth and clenched his eyes shut to blot out the sight of the figure, taking several deep breaths. He managed to pry his eyes open again.