One by one he lit the wall lanterns. A soft glow filled the room. McKnight’s apartment was a bit bigger and much nicer. The studio had a wooden framed queen bed, a small sofa, and a table and chairs that matched. A rug covered most of the wood planked floor, and a fireplace was in the corner. It had taken a lot of doing for Melegal to find his former mentor's hidey hole, but all of the pushy questions he asked had led him here. It wasn’t above a tavern like his former home, no, it was part of an array of decent apartments a few blocks from Castle Almen. Things were much safer in this district, and the City Watch was always nearby.
It was here that Melegal had already moved his own possessions and added a few as well: Lefty’s Tomes, thick, leather bound and heavy, sat on the edge of a coffee table’s corner. His short swords, the Sisters, were sheathed and hung on the bedpost nearby. Melegal had even filled the chest of draws with his own clothes. A high-backed leather chair faced the fireplace. An empty bottle and goblet sat on the end table at its side. Melegal walked over and stirred the ashes in the fireplace. A black stitch of heavy cloth was the only evidence of what had been consumed weeks ago. It was from another one of McKnight’s wide-brimmed hats.
Melegal set Tonio’s sword on the small dining table and pulled a bottle of wine from the cupboard. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes. The stress from his employer was wearing him thin. Wondering if this was how it all began with McKnight, he found himself staring at a cock-eyed picture on the wall. It wasn’t something one found among the merchants on the streets of the City of Bone. No, the artwork rivaled that of what he had seen inside a few castle walls. He first assumed the detective had stolen it, but the evidence suggested otherwise. A chest sat below the painting, filled with paint, brushes and other supplies. By the looks of it, it hadn’t been handled in years, or longer. Still, it appeared McKnight had another talent after all. The colorful painting of endless fields filled with white cottages basking in the sunlight being overtaken by a shadow, well, it suggested something. He took a drink.
His fingers played along the cotton fabric that encased Tonio’s sword. How long should he wait before he shared it with Royal Lord Almen? He had little desire to confront the man, seeing how he had become unpredictable. It didn’t help that the man was inherently dangerous. The Royal had snuck up on him like a giant shadow and crushed his neck like a kitten's. The feeling of helplessness still lurked inside him, becoming quite the motivator. Did McKnight have the same feelings, in Lord Almen’s "service"?
There was a mirror over a wash basin. He checked the new stitches in his face. Haze had done a fine job, and her skill with a needle was appreciated. With the salve he had applied, he should be able to take them out in a couple of days. He wasn’t sure how Lord Almen would react to his scarred face. It would only make prying eyes uncomfortable and raise questions. Still, he had a feeling withholding any information too long from the Royal would catch up to him. Lord Almen seemed to know everything. Melegal wasn’t comfortable with his uncertainty.
Decisions, decisions.
He started a fire, grabbed a blanket, covered himself, and eased back in the chair. For now it was time to drink, rest, and burn. He tossed another one of McKnight’s hats into the blaze.
“Burn memories, burn.”
Chapter 59
The city watchman left Brak with a few coins in his hand. There was a sorrowful look in the guard’s eyes, but he didn’t notice. He was lost and empty inside.
“You look like a man, so act like a man,” was the last thing the guard said before he departed.
Brak walked through the busy streets, bustling through people with a blank look in his eyes. The sounds, sights and smells were muted by his sadness. He had his heavy sword strapped to his hip and his mother’s hung over his drooping shoulder. The watchman had pulled the bolt from his shoulder and patched it up. It ached now, but not more so than his heart.
The past fourteen years of his life he had never been alone, but he was young and strong. The young of the world were resilient survivors who seemed to escape the most meager conditions or learn to live with them. Brak would have to be no different, but at least he had an advantage: he was as big as a man, just not quite as smart.
Night began to fall, and the shops began to close. Faces became drawn up as he headed down the streets. His belly began to groan, and all of sudden it was easier to deal with death than hunger. The coins the watchman had left him with were a meager few. Slowly, the reality of being swindled by the watchman dawned on him. He remembered the purse that had dropped from his mah's dead hand, and much more money being in there.
“Aw,” he said in aggravation. He should have had all the money. He needed that money to find his father. Where was that place that they had last looked for the man? The Drunken Octopus. He decided to head back there.
As the streets began to clear out, he tried to find someone to ask which way to go. Everyone scurried by, avoiding his desperate stare. He found himself rambling down the Royal Roadway. Ahead, the massive gate was closed like a titan’s mouth. The City Watch stood along the wall, with fire pits glowing on their faces. The watchman who had "helped" him had warned him to avoid the guards at the wall. A couple men brandishing spears turned his way. He looked around, not realizing that he was the only one in the roadway. He sauntered from the street, but he could hear the heavy boots of the men as they approached.
“You there, come over!”
Brak didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice.
“Stop!”
The man’s commanding voice froze his legs. It was normal for him to follow the voice of authority. He turned and caught the stern faces of the watch. Their body language suggested an intent to murder, even more so than that of the thieves that had killed his mother, Vorla. He turned and ran.
“Stop! Stop, Rogue!”
Something clattered over the cobblestone road, sliding underneath his toes. A spear had fallen short of the mark. Brak darted down a narrow street and cut down an alley, his heavy feet splashing over the muck. He kept running, letting the shout of voices and the sound of hard footsteps spur him to greater speed. A group of men stood barring his way ahead, but they were different than the watch, ragged and brandishing steel blades. He froze, caught between the mob of filthy men and the rushing City Watch. He didn’t know what to do. He was trapped.
The throng of man-urchins rushed by him and blocked the path of the City Watch. The watch now stood still in their tracks, spears reared back. There were only two watchmen and over a dozen of the ragged-faced men. Brak stood, unmoving, chest heaving.
“Get out of our way rodents!” one of the City Watch shouted.
There was a mocking snicker among the crowd. Every ragged arm raised a dagger high in the air and screeched. Brak didn’t stick around to see what happened next. He ran on and turned down the next open alley.
Something dropped over his head, and he sank to the ground. A weighted net had a hold on him. He thrashed inside, arms and legs kicking with futility. He was certain that the City Watch had him, but instead, it was something worse. The man-urchins were dragging him, ragged and foul smelling men, barefoot or sandaled. He could feel the harsh cobble stones tearing his clothes and scrapping his skin as he was dragged through the puddles of filth.
He began to scream.
Clunk!
Something slammed into his head. He screamed again, only to see a metal club crush him between the eyes.
“He’s a heavy bastard,” one said.
Still, he fought for his voice and yelled again.
Whap!
Bright lights flashed inside his eyelids. He wasn’t out, but his energy was sapped. He lay still, clutching his hands to his chest.
“He’s quit now,” the one with the club said.
Indeed he had. Terrified, Brak let himself be taken deeper into the belly of Bone.
Chapter 60
Her long silky black hair was now a network of short braids on top of her head. The brownish color
was unnatural as well, but only she would recognize herself. The mirror revealed the deep disfigurements of her once-beautiful face: white lines like the veins on a leaf scattered beneath her eyes. She could still see the faces of the men that had pinned her down, held her at knife point and showed no mercy when they carved her face up and defiled her over and over again. They had laughed as they left, saying no man would have her after that, and for years they were right, but not for the reasons they supposed. She hated all men for what a few had done to her. The scars on the outside had faded over time, but her inner scars still burned. Rape and torture were common in the world of Bish, but the humiliation of a powerful Royal officer was not. Jarla was never the same after that, a dark shadow of her once-proud self.
She ran her fingers over the scars on her half-naked body, remembering all the battles she had fought ever since she was a young woman. A jagged gash was still prominent along her belly, from her first battle in the field. An orc had ripped open her chainmail with a battle axe, causing excruciating pain that was intoxicating at the same time. She hadn't noticed death’s shadow as the roaring beast raised up his axe to brain her. Instead, she had plunged her longsword hilt deep into its stomach and tasted her first blood.
A porcelain basin of water was underneath the mirror, and water flowed freely from a brass spigot. She liked that about the City of Three, the abundance of water that washed the filth from the streets. She must have bathed every day for a week, enjoying the common use of tubs. There had been a time when she had all but forgotten the finer things in life, had lived in the field of battle, caring only for spilt blood. Then she found herself lost and humiliated, serving in taverns, doing what she must for coin, food, and sanctuary. She was disgraced, a fallen Royal, discarded and forgotten.
She began rinsing the blood from her hands. She rubbed her hands together, letting the blood and water drip down the drain, and then took a towel and some soap and scrubbed until not a single red speck was left and the drain was clean. She wiped her hands off of on a white towel, inspected it, and hung it back to dry.
She turned around and faced a man in an exquisite leather tunic. He was sitting upright and bound in a chair with his head slumped over in his chest and his long blond hair dangling down to hide his entire head. His chest rose up and down in a wet and sickening wheeze. A puddle of blood had formed beneath the chair. She found little comfort in the man’s demise.
She sat on the edge of a bed and smoothed out the long sleeves on her white cotton shirt. It was soft, like animal fur, a new skin for her. If she was going to hide in the open from now on, she was going to have to change a few things. Running her long fingers along her dagger that lay silent on the bed, she looked over at the man dripping in the chair. He was a big man, arms and chest thick from years of swinging steel. She had come across him in the tavern in which she now stayed. The sight of him had washed every desire for a fresh start from her mind. He was Cider, a Royal Almen commander, one of those who rode out with her from the siege of Outpost Thirty-One, abandoning duty. The man had not only been one of those who defiled her, but he had betrayed the rest of his own kind as well.
Her words were like polished silver when she spoke.
“How do you feel, Cider?”
His head raised up few inches as he said, “Disappointed.”
The lone sound of his deep voice turned her blood hot.
“Why is that, Cider?”
“Because, I came to bed a beautiful whore and got stuck with an ugly slu—ULP!”
She began laughing as his face turned purple, but her knuckles were white on her blade. She wanted so badly to chop off his face. Cider had been a trusted friend back then, a fierce soldier of Castle Almen. For half a decade he had galloped along her side. She had been blind-sided by the cruel nature that most men hide. His was one of the worst of all.
Cider began coughing now, and more blood dripped to his chest.
“I wouldn’t laugh much more if I were you. Those holes I put in your stomach wouldn’t like that. Maybe saying something nice will heal the wound.” She got up and set a jar full of salve on the floor and slid it between his tied up feet. “If you were to apologize—FOR RAPING ME— I might even use some of this on your wounds.
Cider’s head rose up and searched for her face. The candles in the tavern bedroom were dim, but the fresh gashes in his face were clear, as was the bloody collar around his neck. It was a magic device that choked the man if he tried to scream or yell. It was another one of those luxuries that weren’t so hard to come by in the City of Three. Cider was older than she, by a decade, rugged and good-looking as well. She had looked up to him like an older brother, but that was all. Maybe her lack of interest had been what sparked aggression in him, and in many of the other men as well.
“I’ll not apologize to you, Witch. You got what most women want and what most women get. You’re the one that thought you were so much better than the rest, but we showed you, didn’t we?” A smile crossed his split lips that matched the sparkle in his blue eyes. She rammed a dagger up under his chin, skewering deep into his brain. His eyes filled with horror, fluttered and closed. She yanked the dagger out and noticed the blood on the sleeve of her shirt.
“Bone!”
Men had done nothing but ruin her life, and now her clothes. Slat on a transfiguration! She was what she was. I am the Brigand Queen! And if the men still wanted to capture her, so be it. Still a wanted woman with everything to hide, Jarla rinsed out her shirt, gathered her belongings, and rode from the City of Three. She was just as lost when she left as when she got there, but maybe she could find more Royal bastards to kill in the City of Bone.
Chapter 61
He emerged from the mist. The unexpected visual sensation blinded him. His nostrils filled with a hundred scents, each of its own fragrance. The air was hot and wet as his hungry lungs sucked it in like a swimmer coming up from deep water. Venir held his hand over the eyelets of his helmet to block the light and let the bright spots in his vision subside as he relished the sudden heat of the suns on his back. He took his time turning around. Behind him, the mist was a few dozen feet from kissing his face. He kept turning, closing his eyes, and when he opened them he looked out over the landscape again. He cocked his head.
“Bish?”
There was nothing familiar before him. Not one rock, tree, hillside or river. He had traveled along the mist before, and was very familiar with the Outland terrain. Now, the mist had led him somewhere else, somewhere more vibrant and alive. The bitter landscape of the Outlands was gone and replaced by rolling green hillsides and groves of trees a mile high. He squinted as he peered into the bright blue sky. Two familiar suns, burning globes of orange and red, hung in the distance.
The world of Bish is shaped like a thick coin. The mist hovers on the edges of the coin, and anyone who steps off the edge falls down until they reach the other side of the coin. Now, Venir was on the underside of Bish. He just didn’t know it.
His stomach growled as the scent of cooked flesh wafted into his nose. Another roar came, the same as before, louder than the thunder of a storm. Venir’s hunger was erased by fear as he squatted down. He was so enthralled by the picturesque landscape that he had forgotten about the monster that led him there.
A black bulk was hunched on all fours, lapping up water from a tranquil river that looked miles wide. Its scales shimmered like broken black coal, and its tail thrashed back and forth, fanning a pattern in the grassy embankment. Venir had faced similar long-necked lizards before, but this one was much bigger, and it had wings. How big is that thing? It was hard to tell.
For some reason, he looked down at his hand. It rested in a patch of green clovers, each as big as his thumb. He flinched as a flock of white birds soared over his head, bearing down on the lizard. The birds were big, each the size of a forest eagle. He watched them land on the back of the lizard. Now they looked no bigger than white flies on a pile of shiny slat. That thing’s huge.
; Venir had heard songs about giants, and now he had seen one. He had heard songs about dragons, too. This must be one. His stomach was rumbling again, and fatigue wrapped around him like a cool blanket. His grip on the hilt of Brool began to slacken as he yawned. The last thing he saw was the citrine eyes of the dragon as its long neck stretched his way. He caught a glimpse of a stone bridge expanding over the river behind the creature. He felt the dragon’s steps shaking the ground as it came his way, but he couldn’t shake the sleep that consumed him.
Chapter 62
Fogle Boon was almost asleep when he felt a tug and noticed a shroud coming his way from the mist. He smoothed out his disheveled robes, gathered his feet and stood back up. He felt the taut rope in his hand. The figure became more hulking by the step. Venir? He couldn’t say for sure in the light. The mist and fog began to break away from the bushy face of Mood. He could have kissed the dwarf. It had been a long day.
“What were you doing in there, drawing a map?” he said.
Mood shook his head, staring up into the sky, a blank look on his face.
“Well, did you see anything? I mean you had to have seen something; you’ve been gone all day,” Fogle added.
Mood said nothing. Instead, he just ran his thick fingers through his beard and drank from his canteen, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“What have you done, Mage?” Mood said his gruff voice.
He shrugged and said, “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve done nothing but sit here since you left.”
“Pah!” Mood spat and began staring into the sky. He pointed his arm in the air and retorted, “When I left, the suns were rising, and now the moons are full? Explain it!”
Fogle looked up at the yellow and orange lights in the sky. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about them. He said, “All right Mood, so the moons are out. What did you expect? You’ve been gone all day.”
The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 26