Marisella stood at the entrance, her eyes wide in hurt disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“Marisella, I have to leave. Captain Oleos stole something from me, and I have to get it back.”
She shook her head. “You can’t go. Your wounds…”
“I’ll be fine. I swear I’ll return your horse, but I need to go.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. A faint breeze blew her long, streaked hair and thin, off-white gown. “They’ll kill you, Ahren.”
“They already think I’m dead. I just need to get to Zararisas.”
She stood silent.
“Please understand,” Ahren urged. “I will return and repay you in full for everything you’ve done.”
She smiled. “I believe your intentions. But can’t you wait just a few more days?”
“No.”
Marisella sighed. “Wait here.” She turned and hurried back to the cottage.
Popping the reins, Ahren rode outside. Fighting the urge to make his escape while she wasn’t watching, he waited, looking toward the eastward road leading into rocky foothills with jagged mountains in the distance.
Holding her gown up from the dew-soaked grass, Marisella marched back, clutching the bottle of milky medicine. “Here,” she said, offering it to him. “It will help with your pain.” She held aloft his bronze pendant. “You were wearing this when I found you.”
“Thank you.” He tucked the bottle in his lap and pulled the necklace over his head. “You will see me again.”
A devious shadow flickered in her dark eyes. “I have no question of it.”
Ahren bowed in farewell, then drove his heels into the mare’s sides and raced toward Zararisas.
#
White cliffs rose in the distance, casting fiery red in the sunrise. Ahren’s billowy shirt fluttered as he rode. Waves crashed into the rocks below in slow rhythm with the speed of clomping hooves. His horse panted as it ran, trying to go faster than Ahren would allow. Mercińan horses were known to be the fastest in Delakurn, yet pushing her too hard would wear the mare out, if not kill her, before reaching the city.
Shortly after noon, Ahren stopped at a stream feeding into the ocean and allowed the horse to rest and graze. Taking the time under an umbrella-shaped tree, he peeled off his bloodied bandage. Brown clumps crusted his sweaty skin. As he'd thought, several of the tight stitches had torn free. Puss and blood oozed from the inflamed cut. He cleaned it as best he could from the stream water before redressing it. Taking a long swig of the creamy medicine, he let sleep overtake him.
#
Loud caws of crows woke him with a start. The black birds hopped back and forth along the branches above in alarm. The late afternoon sun dipped along the horizon. Turning his head, Ahren spied a lone, gray wolf standing on a rock forty feet from him. Cocking its head, it watched him.
Keeping his eyes on the animal, Ahren picked up the bottle then untied his horse. The mare snorted, as if more upset by him disturbing her than by the nearby predator. Carefully, he mounted into the saddle with a pained grunt then continued toward the city.
The wolf followed him for several minutes then stopped on a hilltop and watched him speed away.
Cool, salty air blew in from the ocean as the tide rolled in, bringing white-capped breakers crashing against the jutting rocks. Ahren’s stomach rumbled. Hunger and blood loss had taken their toll, weakening him to near dizziness. But he forced himself onward.
Small fishing villages flew past as he rode along the coastal road. The horizon dimmed as the sun set behind him. Distant light dotted the hills ahead as he neared Zararisas. Straining his eyes, he scanned the coves and inlets of the jagged coastline as he passed, searching for the Silberne Dame or Captain Oleos’ vessel but to no avail. Only foolish pirates would dare sail directly into a port. Oft times, they would anchor nearby and send rowboats to fence wares and re-provision.
The pale moon rose over the sea, casting its long reflection across the water as Ahren reached the city. White stucco buildings encrusted the steep mountain slope like barnacles, overlooking a narrow bay. The black-armored city guards searched him as he entered the gates but found nothing worthy to tax or keep for themselves. Exhausted, Ahren rode slowly down the steep, winding roads toward the docks. Colorful awnings and shutters brightened up the stark, haphazard city. Turbaned merchants and whores dressed in sheer, flowing sashes solicited him from windows and street corners as he passed. The spicy fumes of roasted goat and fish tortured his empty stomach.
Stopping outside a blacksmith’s shop, he hitched his tired horse. A pack of filthy children ran past as if not seeing him. His bedraggled appearance made it obvious he had nothing to steal. He scooped a mouthful of water from the trough and walked into the shop.
A thick-armed Mercińan youth, cleaning ashes from a cold forge, looked up. “May I help you, sir?”
Ahren nodded. “I am looking for Raul.”
“I am Raul,” a man said, stepping around a corner. A thick moustache traced his thin lips, hanging nearly to his chin. Tiny scars pitted his leathery face. “What can I do for you?”
Ahren glanced at the youth and then back to his master. “My name is Ahren.” He removed the pendant from under his shirt. “My ship, the Silberne Dame, was attacked by pirates.”
Raul’s dark eyes narrowed. He spat and nodded to the apprentice cleaning the forge. “Go home. We’ll finish in the morning.”
#
“Captain Oleos,” Raul said, running his fingers down his moustache. Shadows from the flickering lamplight in his apartment behind the shop emphasized his scarred face. “You were lucky to have survived.”
Ahren snorted as he finished his third cup of water. “Barely. He cut me pretty well before I went overboard.”
The thuggish Mercińan shrugged.
“The part that troubles me is that they knew about the eldosia. They seemed very familiar with the Tyenee.” Ahren stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth.
Raul sucked his teeth. “A vial of eldosia is worth more than six ships. Obviously, someone else knew which ship Rey Hercado was transporting it on. Very few people could afford the contacts to learn such information, and only one could have the means of selling such a treasure.”
“Who?”
“Zanjro. He’s a major fence and smuggler in Zararisas. He’s always respected the Tyenee and never caused a stir, which is why he’s still alive. But a prize as rich as this could have changed his mind.”
“Where can I find him?” Ahren growled.
“You?” Raul asked with an amused chuckle. “You barely walked in here.”
Ahren’s gaze hardened. “My job is to deliver the vial. Where can I find him?”
“I always keep an eye on what he’s doing. Two days ago, my men told me he had left the city, headed to Sol Portuario.”
“Sol Portuario would be a good place to meet Oleos,” Ahren said. “It’s on the other side of the island. No one would pay notice to his stolen ship.” He poured the last of the water pitcher into his cup. “I’ll leave in the morning.”
“You’re half dead,” the thief master said flatly. “I have men I can send.”
“Send them as well if you wish. But I owe Zanjro and Oleos, and I wish to pay them back.”
Raul shook his head. “You’re too weak and too angry to do it. If Zanjro is trying to work against the Tyenee, he will die. However, Oleos’ sin was working under Zanjro’s orders. Normally, I’d cut his throat and hang him from a church steeple as a message for anyone else willing to make that mistake. But his reputation and contacts in Mercińa and Rhomanny might be enough to redeem him.”
“You want to recruit him?” Ahren asked, unable to hide his disgust at the thought.
Raul nodded. “Smugglers I have. But some jobs require a bit more force. There’s no need to create such a person if one already exists.”
Ahren swallowed. “Understood. I’ll leave for Sol Portuario in the morning.”
“Ahren,” Rau
l said idly, twisting his moustache. “The Tyenee frowns on failure. Losing the eldosia once is forgivable. But if I trust you to finish the task and you don’t…”
“If I fail the job,” Ahren rose from his seat, “I’ll already be dead.”
#
Rich violet and yellow blossoms speckled the thick vines draped from trees covering the white-rock landscape. Ahren paid them no mind as he raced north through the valley road. Farmers in sweaty, tan turbans and wide-brimmed hats worked the narrow fields stepped into the mountainsides. Ahren swigged the near empty bottle Marisella had given him, numbing the constant pain from his feverish wound.
He rode all day, stopping regularly at brooks and villages, watering and resting his mount. Early the second morning, a strange feeling tingled down the nape of his neck. Looking up, he noticed a familiar gray wolf watching him from a low cliff face as he rode past. A deep cut notched its left ear near the tip. The animal raced along the ridgeline until it ended, then it sat and watched him continue on.
#
Dark clouds rolled in from the east as the sun began its descent. Marisella’s potion was spent, and Ahren’s tender gut burned with every hoof clomp. Dark blood seeped through his ruined bandages and into his black shirt. Exhaustion and dehydration had left him weak, struggling to focus.
The river road turned and opened up into a wide valley facing the sea. Wind-blown waves rolled through lush fields and orchards before him. In the middle, between oceans of blue and green, rose Sol Portuario’s white, stone walls. Ahren drew a breath and rode into the city.
Following the twisting gravel roads through the chaotic maze of buildings, he reached the docks and scanned the ship-cluttered harbor. Sailors and docksmen scurried down the long piers, carrying goods and noisy livestock. Chewing his lip in frustration, Ahren slowly followed the busy waterfront, searching for the pirates’ ship among the dozens anchored through the bay.
A crushing dread crept along spine, settling on his shoulders. They’re not here.
He doubled back on foot, scanning not just boats but people, praying to spot any familiar face in the swarm. Ahren’s eyes darted back and forth, and his pulse quickened with growing panic. A scream welled inside him. He hurried down the last of the long, rickety piers then stopped.
A pair of weathered sailors headed toward him, carrying a pair of narrow crates. The familiar burned symbol of an outstretched falcon marked the pinewood boxes. Ahren remembered them from his weeks searching cargo on the Silberne Dame. He ducked behind a stack of barrels as the seamen passed.
“Move faster,” a gruff quellen barked, his arms loaded under a brass-bound chest as he followed them. “This damned thing is heavy.”
Ahren turned away before the small pirate could recognize him. Through the corner of his eye, he watched the three sailors lug their cargo down the dock and toward the city.
Maintaining his distance, he followed them, staying as close to hiding places as he could. The pirates turned down a filthy street toward a cluster of storehouses huddled at the seafront edge. Ahren crouched behind an empty wagon and watched his quarries enter one of the buildings. He hurried around to the opposite warehouses, crept down the narrow alley between them, and listened.
“Set them over there,” the quellen ordered.
Ahren moved closer. The building’s double doors hung open. Looming stacks of crates and other cargo filled the dim building. Inside, the two sailors hefted their boxes onto a large pile near the back.
The quellen in red and brown stood with his back to the door. “Good. Let’s get the rest.”
Fighting the urge to run in while they were distracted, Ahren knelt against the building and watched the pirates close the large doors and saunter back to the docks. Once they were out of sight, he approached the warehouse. In their rush to finish, the pirates had left the black, iron lock used to seal the doors hanging open. A cool smile turned in the corner of Ahren’s lips as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
Taking a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, he surveyed the dark, sour-smelling storehouse. A stack of barrels stood to his left. The precarious mountain of cargo from the Silberne Dame rested near the back. Navigating between the narrow rows of goods, he found a rusted gaff hook with a five foot wooden pole hanging on the wall. He removed it and then hid behind the large casks.
Several minutes later, the double doors groaned open, spilling in light from the low, setting sun. Clutching the pole firmly, Ahren peered through the gaps between the barrels and watched the pirates carry in a huge chest. The grizzled quellen followed behind, his arms loaded with small boxes. Grunting, they walked past the stacked casts. Ahren thrust his pole hard up into the barrels just below the top and pushed.
“What the—” one of the men yelled. The heavy barrels toppled over in a crashing avalanche, drowning out their cries.
Before the casks had finished bouncing and rolling across the storehouse, Ahren came around the other side. One of the men lay bloodied on the floor. His companion staggered to the side, clutching his shoulder. His eyes widening as he saw Ahren, he opened his mouth to cry out, but Ahren swung his gaff pole hard, cracking across the pirate’s head and sending him to the floor. Glass shattered as the quellen dropped his boxes and fled. Springing forward, Ahren thrust the pole out and hooked the small pirate’s leg and jerked. The quellen fell face-first into the ground. He rolled to his back and drew a long dagger, but Ahren swung the pole, smashing it into the pirate’s hand. Bones cracked, and the blade flew harmlessly to the side. Ahren hooked the wounded quellen’s belt and dragged him back into the warehouse.
“You broke my hand,” the quellen hissed.
Ahren picked up the fallen dagger and pulled the warehouse doors closed. “Shut up.”
“You’re dead,” he spat. “Do you know who I am?”
Ahren’s eyes narrowed. “I remember.” He cut a length of rope from a coil beside the door. “Roll over.”
“You won’t get away,” the quellen nervously laughed, rolling onto his stomach.
Wincing in pain, Ahren tied the small pirate’s wrists behind his back. One of the other men was still alive. Ahren tied him as well and then gagged him with his own turban. “Now,” he growled, rolling the quellen back over. “Where is Oleos?”
The small pirate snorted. “You think you can hurt me compared to what the captain will do if I tell you?”
Ahren slid the blade under the quellen’s bulbous nose. “Do you really think that?” He pressed, drawing a bead of blood from the pirate’s septum.
“Alright,” he squealed, struggling to pull his head away. “He’s at El Perro Gordo.”
“And the eldosia? Does he still have it?”
The quellen’s eyes left the blade threatening to cut off his nose and froze, gazing on Ahren’s face. “You…you were on the ship. How?”
Ahren pressed the blade harder.
“Yes, yes, he has it,” the pirate yelped. “He’s selling it tonight.”
“Thanks.” Ahren brought down his dagger pommel hard into the quellen’s head, knocking him unconscious. He gagged the small pirate and put on his belt sheath. His pounding heart began to slow now that the scuffle had ended, and piercing pain welled in his gut. A warm wetness ran down his leg.
Reaching up his shirt, he felt fresh blood soaked through the bandages. Not now. He yanked the turban from the dead pirate’s body and bound it tight. Ahren pulled his shirt back over the makeshift bandages and wrapped the dead man’s sash around his waist to mask any stains. He removed the dead man’s purse and pulled on his sword baldric.
Ahren drew a deep breath, focused, then left the warehouse, locking the door behind him.
#
Drunken shouts and chatter poured from the three-story tavern nestled in the port district. A faded painting of a fat dog sleeping with a bone hung above the door. Keeping his head low, Ahren stepped inside.
The bitter reek of vomit, sour wine, and burnt food polluted the smoky air. Sailors
and dock workers swapped stories over dice and vied for attention from weary whores. Scanning faces, Ahren spied two of Oleos’ men at a table but knew there were far more he didn’t recognize. The green-turbaned captain sat beside them, his back to the wall.
He ordered a drink and lingered near the corner that gave him the best view. Ahren scratched his chin, trying to appear casual as he watched the room from the corner of his eye.
The captain rose from his seat as trio of local men with tasseled vests and white-trimmed shirts walked inside. One of them, a fat man with a slender moustache, fit Zanjro’s description perfectly. He gave the captain a nod, then he and his thugs headed up to the second floor and stopped at one of the many doors lining the balcony. Jorge—the hulking pirate from the ship—and another sailor rose from their seats and followed their captain up to where Zanjro and his men waited. It was a classic negotiation room. Both men would be searched for weapons by the other’s henchmen to ensure neither was armed when they made their deal. Alone and unarmed, it was the perfect time for Ahren to strike.
Once the two men were inside, Ahren stumbled from his chair and slowly staggered up the rickety steps to the second floor. Swaying back and forth, as if drunk, he walked down the balcony. The four guards standing outside the closed door paid him little attention. Ahren stopped at a room three doors from where they stood and pushed. Locked.
“That’s…not my room,” he mumbled. He faltered to the next one. As the other, someone had barred it on the inside. Crinkling his face into a confused expression, he tried it again. Ahren shook his head and staggered over to the door directly beside the meeting room’s. He felt the guards’ cautious eyes as he stepped next to them. Keeping his face low so Jorge wouldn’t recognize him, he pushed.
The door creaked open into a dark room. Without a word, Ahren teetered inside and closed the door behind him.
The cramped bedroom reeked of old urine.
“I can get a better price for those in Frobinsky,” said the captain’s voice behind the thin wall.
“Possibly. But that’s a long voyage for just a few silver more that you might not even make.”
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 4