by Philip Blood
The corporal continued down the line and then walked back along behind the sorry lineup until he got to G’Taklar again. The corporal spotted the old dagger stuck in the back of G’Taklar’s pantaloons and yanked it out by the hilt. After inspecting the blade he walked around in front, slapping the flat of the blade against his palm. “What is this ye’re carry’in?”
“What do I tell him?” G’Taklar quickly asked Jatar.
“I think it is safe to assume he already knows what it is, so just tell him the truth, he’s going to burn you no matter what you say,” Jatar informed G’Taklar sadly, knowing what was coming.
G’Taklar’s pause, while he consulted with Jatar, was too long and the corporal hit him in the stomach with the butt of the dagger. “I said, ‘what is this?’” he repeated, even louder, his nose nearly touching G’Taklar’s.
“A dagger,” G’Taklar finally answered.
“Sir,” Jatar instructed him to add.
“... Sir,” he added late.
“No it isn’t,” the corporal said immediately.
“Yes it... uhhh,” G’Taklar had started to reply when the corporal hit him in the stomach.
“Were you go’in te argue with me?” the corporal said in a quiet and deadly tone.
“No, sir,” G’Taklar immediately replied without prompting from Jatar.
“Good, now as I was saying, this isn’t a dagger, it’s a butter knife. You see a dagger would cut someone’s throat if you did this,” and he lightly pulled the blade across G’Taklar’s throat, barely breaking the skin. A few drops of blood welled up from the scratch across his neck. “You do see the difference without me demonstrat’in further, don’t you?” He asked as he began to pull his dagger from his belt sheath.
“I see what you mean, yes, definitely, I do, sir,” G’Taklar answered quickly, trying to avoid another blow to his stomach.
“That’s good, I hate having to clean me blade three times a day, and I’ve already done it twice t’day already. Now soldiers are allowed to carry weapons, but ye’re not a soldier, ye’re a recruit, so I won’t be giv’in this back just yet. Besides, unless I sharpen it up, it isn’t a weapon, it’s a butter knife,” and he tucked the dagger into the back of his belt. Then he continued back down the line of men.
“This guy’s a real gem in the rough, I’d like to see someone reach down his throat and turn him inside out,” G’Taklar told Jatar.
“Typical infantry corporal, I think they come out of a misshapen mold from the Dark Plane,” Jatar answered dryly.
The corporal moved in front of the line of men while the sergeant looked on. “Raise yer sword hand then repeat after me, or you’ll regret it for the rest of yer three heartbeats o’ life. I, whatever yer name is... swear to obey the officers of the Tchulian military... unto death if they so command. I swear to complete my voluntary enlistment of six years in the glorious traditions of the honorable Tchulian army. I swear to accept all orders and punishments given out by any of my superior officers, without question or argument... on pain of torture and death. With free choice and aforethought, I accept the terms of this enlistment. Now put yer arms down, ye’re caus’in a stink.” He said when the line of men had muttered at least some of what he had told them to repeat.
“All right recruits, let’s go see yer new home, but don’t look so glum, you’re in the army now, so they’ll take care of you. Regular slop and water fer meals, new uniforms, at least new to you, and four coppers a month, tax-free!” he promised.
This little sally didn’t bring any cheer to the new recruits marching down the dusty street to the training barracks outside town.
“Didn’t I say something about avoiding going here at all costs?” G’Taklar noted as they headed in the direction of the walled-in complex.
“Yes, I do seem to recall you mentioning a desire to avoid this portion of the Headwater city tour,” Jatar replied lightly, trying to keep up G’Taklar’s drooping spirits.
“How do we get out of this?” the reluctant recruit asked him back.
“I’m not so sure this is a bad thing right now; people don’t tend to look under their noses if they are searching for something. They’re going to be looking for an escaped noble, but I doubt they’ll look in their ranks of recruits to find a noble. Besides, the good news is you’re getting paid and fed. Once the search has cooled down we can think about deserting this fine organization. Since an oath under duress is not a real oath, I don’t think you should be worried about breaking this one.”
“Believe me, I’m not,” G’Taklar responded.
“Good, then just sit tight and endure, they’ll be tough on you, but it’s nothing you can’t handle if you try. Besides, I’ll be here to coach you through the rough stuff,” Jatar promised.
“Oh boy, I’m happy now!” G’Taklar answered sarcastically. He tried to keep step as the corporal marched them through Headwater’s dusty main street.
Rachael was in the kitchen where Fats sat with his huge bulk plopped in a rickety chair that groaned under the immense weight of its occupant. She had helped two of the other waitresses and the cook, supporting and guiding the complaining Fats into the kitchen from where he had landed on the stairs in his recent fall.
Unfortunately, Rachael thought, Fats wasn’t seriously damaged.
A waitress was dabbing a wet cloth on the forehead of the innkeeper who kept his eyes closed as he moaned about his near brush with death from the four assailants. Suddenly he turned and fixed his beady glare on Rachael. “Don’t think that you’re off the hook, vixen, the sergeant and his men should be here any time now. Go up to your room and wait for them. I’ll send all four up at once, that way the others can watch and cheer each other on to greater efforts. And you better perform well for them and for me later, or I’ll beat you and then throw you out.”
Rachael fled the kitchen without a word. She knew that whatever happened she was not going through with this; she had been wrong earlier, death was preferable to some things. Besides, someone still cared about her; Guitar had come to her defense at the risk of his life.
Though he is still a snot nosed, wet behind the ears, country boy, she thought incorrectly, remembering his rejection, at least he treated a girl he didn’t even know with some respect and defended her when she was in danger. He wasn’t all bad, she concluded in thought.
She reached her room and quickly changed into her spare dress, tied up her other meager garments and belongings in the blanket off the bed and retrieved the single silver and six coppers from the hole in the bottom of a wooden bed leg. She had managed to save the round from her tips at the tables.
Without a backward glance of regret, Rachael left the little room that had been her home for the last two months and crept down the back stairs into the alley.
She was just about to head down the street when she saw the sergeant and his corporals coming up the street toward the inn.
They were marching four civilians in front of them; Rachael had seen them recruiting before, so she knew what she was seeing. She started to slink away when she noticed that one unhappy looking civilian was the boy she knew of as Guitar.
Rachael stayed where she was and watched them march by; she was hidden by the side of the building. A corporal went into the inn and after a moment, he returned to the waiting group. Rachael was close enough to hear their conversation.
“I told Fats we were go’in te be late fer dinner tonight, tak’in these new recruits te the barracks. He told me te hurry back; he has a treat fer us. Remember that new young waitress you’ve been ask’in him fer, the one called Rachael? He’s got her wait’in in her room fer us! Do you want te let these wimps go and test that beauty out right now, or come back later?”
“Hmmm, well, it’ll only take a quarter bell to drop these eager recruits at the barracks, besides a little wait will make the reward even sweeter! Move them out, double time!” the sergeant commanded.
Rachael shook her head in sadness for Guitar’s plight, she
had seen other young men grabbed and forced into the Tchulian army in the last two months.
Then she had an idea. “Once he's had a taste of boot camp perhaps he’ll want to leave Headwater, permanently. He and I could escape this rotten town together. I’ve got a little round for provisions and he might know where to go. We could help each other escape. The only trick will be getting in to see him and plant the idea.” The young girl continued down the street headed for a stable where she had decided to hide from Fats. As she walked she made her plans for getting into the barracks to talk to Guitar.
Much further west, in the town called Roper, Elizabeth and Hetark entered a rundown tavern through a side door while trying not to attract too much attention. Elizabeth had on a long gray cloak with its hood pulled up over her head to hide her features. Hetark’s worn leather armor helped him blend in with many of the other patrons. Quite a few were dressed in leather armor or wore a variety of concealed or blatantly visible weaponry.
This was a border town, where many bandits out of the surrounding area came to spend their ill-gained round metal. Other patrons made their living protecting merchants from these same bandits. Here, in these rough taverns, they mixed without rancor.
As Hetark looked around he recognized the subtle signs that were only obvious to another fighter, almost everyone in the room had some expertise in the martial skills. There was a weary look in their hard eyes, a fluid movement to their bodies and a way of keeping their hands near their weapons and their eyes scanning the room.
Elizabeth and Hetark took a table in a dark corner and started to watch the other patrons as unobtrusively as possible. Hetark leaned in close to Elizabeth's ear and spoke quietly. "The woman I was told about is right over there, she's here to meet us."
He gestured casually with his hand without actually pointing.
Elizabeth only nodded in reply, but her eyes and aura powers were active, watching all around her in this dangerous place.
Hetark stood up and said, "I'll ask her to join us."
He returned with the woman and Elizabeth took in her details. Her brown hair had specks of gray streaking here and there. From the hard lines around her eyes and the almost worried expression on her face Elizabeth felt that this woman was hard used by time and circumstances. The sorceress used her aura sight to watch the woman's patterns when she spoke.
The woman took hold of the back of a chair with both hands, but she didn't sit down. "I hear you're looking to hire some protection."
Hetark took his seat and answered, "Perhaps we are, your name was given to us, they said you were good."
"I'm good enough, if you can afford me," she replied, but her eyes were shifting around the room nervously as she spoke. "How much are you willing to pay?"
Elizabeth sat forward and the deep hood she wore concealed most of her face. At her movement, the woman stepped back a pace. Elizabeth spoke only loud enough for the woman to hear, "I'm concerned about being attacked by bandits, and with the cargo we're moving, it is very likely that we might be robbed. Are you up to a battle?"
The woman released the chair and held up both hands, palms facing Elizabeth. "Keep your round I don't need that kind of trouble. I thought you were just moving some standard goods."
Elizabeth sat back into her chair and said, "Then I'm glad we straightened this out before we both made a mistake."
The woman nodded and then slipped off into the crowd.
Hetark leaned over and spoke to Elizabeth. "I take it she wasn't what you are seeking?"
"Not even close; I'm looking for a strong, confident woman, not one already defeated by life. I need to find a warrior."
Hetark shook his head. "Well, I doubt you are going to find a woman like that easily. Fighting is mostly a man's profession."
Elizabeth nodded, but said, "Let's just watch for a while."
Hetark shrugged.
It was a half bell later when the front door opened boldly and a magnificently proportioned woman stepped into the room.
She had raven black hair tied back from a face with high cheeks; her features were set in a serious expression. Her left eye socket was covered by a black patch. Her one eye held a keen glare and was so light blue as to almost look like gray steel. A rough scar cut down through her eyebrow and cheek on the left side going behind the patch, like an artist’s signature on his greatest work.
She held her chin up and looked around the room as if she owned the place.
The woman was dressed in black leather armor that fairly bristled with knife hilts poking out of every conceivable and inconceivable place. Her black boots came up to her knees where they met the tight black leather pants. The black long sleeved leather jerkin above it was laced up the center with black leather thongs that slowly widened to about a hand’s span toward the top. Through the laced leather, you could see a wedge of tanned skin, the top of the wedge displayed the sides of her bosom. Black leather thongs cross laced their way up the side of the pants and sleeves of her armor, with soft black leather beneath.
An untamed jungle purclaw was Elizabeth’s first impression of the woman. Then Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she noticed something oddly familiar about the woman’s features that Hetark missed. It was hard to see beyond the eye patch, yet the sorceress recognized something in her features, and it surprised her greatly. Elizabeth's plans changed as she contemplated a new possibility and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.
The black-clad woman had a sensuous look and movement that caught everyone’s eye, but it was overlaid by a lethality that brought any ideas of casual approach to an instant halt.
The conversation faltered for a moment, but many patrons already knew her and they continued talking as soon as she stalked toward the bar.
The woman stalked forward in a casual sway that looked more natural than contrived, a symphony of graceful muscle movement giving a hint to her capabilities.
A man who didn’t know her, and was too drunk to see past the femininity to the danger beneath, stepped up to her side and reached for the smooth curve of her tight leather pants with one hand. “Hey honey, how about a kiss?”
She turned to face him immediately with an inviting smile while bringing her hand up in a slow fluid motion, the fingers relaxed in an almost careless attitude. The hand reached his face and the back of her fingers caressed the side of his cheek, moving toward the side of his head. He started to lean forward toward her softly pouting lips when her hand completed its trip and reached his ear. She took hold with her nails and yanked, hard.
He yelled and leaned toward the painful yanking as he tried to keep his ear from being pulled off his head. His other arm came up for balance and the still smiling woman took hold of it and spun underneath while releasing his ear with her other hand. She was now behind him with his arm twisted up behind his back. She pushed hard upwards and he bent at the waist. She kept lifting the arm until he started to move forward to keep the bone from breaking. The graceful woman followed and accelerated his awkward run straight into a wooden beam that supported the ceiling.
When she released him he fell to the floor and moaned in pain.
“No thanks,” she finally replied to his original question. She turned her back and resumed her walk to the bar. The crowd recovered from their astonishment at the sudden maneuver by howling with laughter, and she acknowledged their approval with a sly grin. A few of her acquaintances greeted her when she reached the bar and conversation resumed as if nothing had happened. The drunken man sat on the floor rubbing his head and grinning stupidly.
Elizabeth leaned toward Hetark and spoke quietly into his ear.
“Find out that girl’s name and what she does. She is just what I’m looking for, definitely the one!”
“Her?” Hetark said incredulously.
Elizabeth just waited silently while staring into Hetark’s eyes by way of response, knowing he had heard her request.
The Knight Protector shook his head slightly but rose to do his Lady’s bid
ding. He went to the bar and ordered a drink. While waiting he turned to a bearded man next to him and spoke with a commoner’s accent, “Nice bit of work there, hey?”
“Choke up,” the bearded man barked, then stood and left the bar.
Nonplussed at the man’s response, Hetark moved down the bar to a skinny older man who was looking into the bottom of his mug and dreaming. Hetark tried it again, “Nice bit of work there, hey?” He said, and nodded toward the still sprawled out drunk sitting on the floor rubbing his head.
The skinny man next to him came out of his far away thoughts and looked up from his empty mug with a puzzled expression. He wasn’t sure it was to him that Hetark had been speaking.
“Her, over there, the one who just put down Sir Romance… nice bit of work, hey?” Hetark repeated for the third time, wondering if the old man’s brains were addled.
“Yeah, tough one, she is,” the man finally wheezed.
“Who is she anyway?” Hetark asked him, now that he had the man talking.
The skinny man gave Hetark a suspicious look as if realizing for the first time that Hetark was a stranger, but he replied, “Poison’s her name and her game. I’d stay away from that one if you know what’s good fer ya. She don’t put up with no man’s crap and she would cut them off as soon as look at them, if you knows what I mean.”
“Good advice, but I’m look’in te hire a shield fer my boss, does this Poison play both sides?”
“You’ll have te ask her, mind you, but I hear she mostly wants to keep her parts,” he replied, and held up his right arm, which ended in a stump. Then he added, “She ain’t cheap, but if yer boss is will’in te pay, she’s good,” then he turned back to his drink, his body language showing that the conversation was over.
Thanks fer the tip,” Hetark said as he stood up to go, and he tossed the bartender two coppers, calling out, “A drink for my friend,” before he went back to Elizabeth’s table.
“So what did you find out?” she asked when he got back.
“That old thief over there told me her name’s Poison, she probably isn’t a local bandit, though that would be hard to confirm. According to him, she makes her living legitimately as a bodyguard. She has a tough reputation, I was warned not to mess with her,” Hetark added as if amused by the concept of this woman being dangerous.