The Journeyman did not respond, but stepped aside to allow the Paramour to precede him into the darkened recesses of the inn’s second floor. Behind them the bar hag, the Huul, and the old men watched stolidly as the two disappeared into the gloom.
3. SOFT FLESH AND HARD STEEL
Outside the wind howled seeming to raise and lower its pitch to match the moans of the red-haired woman. The Journeyman lay beneath her and marveled. It was all he could do not to lose himself and let the motion of her hips and her breasts completely envelope him. To do so might mean the prick of a poisoned needle or the thin blade of a stiletto slipped into his ear. The Journeyman found neither option terribly appealing, but damned if it might not be worth it. He half wished Silke was simply what she claimed to be, a paramour. It was unfortunate, he thought, that sex and politics were so bound up together. Was it so much to ask for an honest tryst?
The Journeyman shrugged inwardly and refocused his attentions on the curvaceous young woman astride him.
When they reached the apogee of their congress they clutched one another, Silke’s thighs shuddering as she clamped down on the him. Then, gasping, she fell forwards, her hair cascading over his face. To the Journeyman her cries sounded genuine, though he could not say for sure. She was, after all, a professional liar.
Afterwards, they lay side by side, Silke and the Journeyman, covered in a sheen of sweat and breathing heavily. The single oil lamp that guttered on the only table in the cramped little room cast a deceptively warm glow in the frosty air. Despite the cold, the two sprawled side by side, aglow with a postcoital heat that made the chill of the room almost tolerable.
As the afterglow faded the Journeyman allowed himself to feel ever so briefly a sense of contentment at having been with such a talented woman. Sadly, Silke was not here to satisfy his more carnal desires, though she had done just that. He was certain, now that lust no longer clouded his judgement, that she was here for another purpose. If the Journeyman was to survive that purpose, he must push aside the warmth of intimacy.
Silke rolled to her side and brought her face next to the Journeyman’s. He felt the softness of her breasts as she pressed them into his shoulder.
When she spoke her voice was husky, her eyes hooded. “This night has grown cold far more quickly than I had imagined it would. Tell me, do you always push aside joy and contentment? Do you punish yourself or are you simply the sort of man who must always be on his guard?”
“Haven’t a clue what you mean,” said the Journeyman.
“I am a Paramour,” said Silke. “I know what men think and feel and when they think and feel it. This is my business; teasing cocks to life and then riding them back to limpness. One does not become adept at this by simply offering the physical; one must know what moves the heart as well.”
“And I am a Journeyman,” he said matter-of-factly. “I shuffle missives and documents around the known world; nothing more, nothing less.”
“You play your cards very close,” smiled Silke, “so I shall not pry further. Besides, I need a piss and I don’t fancy doing it in front of you.”
The Journeyman gave her a half smile. “Pity,” he said.
Silke gave him a pinch then got to her feet and drew one of the furs that covered the bed about her shoulders. It was too short by half and fell only to the small of her back. She stopped just before the door, turned and smiled down at the Journeyman. He in turn looked up at her, his eyes coming to rest on the manicured thatch between her thighs. It was as fiery red as her hair. The Journeyman matched her smile.
“That is what I like to see,” said Silke with a wink and crept from the cramped little room on cat’s paws. The Journeyman watched her departing backside and shook his head. At times doing odd jobs for Thane had unexpected benefits.
After Silke had gone the Journeyman swung his legs out of bed, drew on his woollen breeches, and buckled their leather strapping. There was, more than likely, little time to spare. He slipped his tunic over his head and donned his belt with the long dagger fitted horizontally at the small of his back. He had just enough time to slip one hand into the pouch that hung from his belt and confirm that Silke had indeed lifted the correspondence contained therein. She must have done it sometime during their lovemaking or just after. He had not seen her do it and again found himself quite impressed with the young woman.
When the flimsy door to his rented room burst inward the Journeyman was not surprised in the least. Nor was he shocked to see that the man who bashed down the portal was the Huul that had been seated by the fire earlier that evening.
Knocking aside a bit of splintered planking the Huul stepped into the narrow room, short sword in hand. The blade was thick and heavy with only a small pommel to provide counter balance. It was an awkward and unwieldy weapon more suited to bashing away at an opponent in an open field than in a confined space. This was fortunate for the Journeyman; not so for the Huul.
The Journeyman took full advantage of his foe’s poor choice of weapon, as well as the lack of room in which to manoeuvre it. Predictably, the Huul came at him head on, his sword preceding him in a lunging thrust. The Journeyman batted the blade easily to one side and closed with the bearded man before he had the opportunity to refocus his attack. In the same instant the Journeyman had his long knife out of its sheath and plunging towards the Huul’s throat.
Unaccustomed to close quarters combat as the barbarian may have been, he was still an experienced fighter. The man shot up his left forearm just in time to save his neck. The Journeyman’s vicious blow was arrested by the upturned limb, the saw-toothed edge of the dagger gouging a furrow in the man’s forearm. The barbarian made no sound as blood spilled from the wound.
Switching his focus, the Journeyman rammed the knuckles of his free hand into the Huul’s throat. The man staggered backwards, gasping. As he crashed into the opposite wall the Huul’s eyes went wide and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.
The Journeyman cleared the narrow bed with a single stride and went in low with his dagger. The Huul, despite being winded, saw the blade as it flashed in the lamplight and swung his short sword around to intercept. The Journeyman again batted the sword away and closed with his attacker. The Huul saved his vitals from a killing blow but at the expense of his left hand. The razor edge of the Journeyman’s blade slid through sinew and scraped against bone as it bisected the man’s hand between his first and second fingers.
Any normal man, with his hand laid open thusly, would have lost his fighting spirit, but not a Huul. Veins showed along the barbarian’s forehead and his jaw muscles rippled as he gritted his teeth against the pain. Then, he lunged. With the Journeyman’s blade lodged in his flesh the Huul saw an opportunity and went on the offensive.
Dropping his shoulder the Huul barrelled the Journeyman over. The two smashed into the narrow bed, splintering its ancient wooden frame. The Journeyman, crushed under the surprising weight of the barbarian, was acutely aware of the man’s stench as it mingled with the coppery tang of spilled blood. Feeling suddenly nauseated by the smell of unwashed human and poorly treated hides, the Journeyman found himself grappling with his own gorge as well as his assailant.
The Huul raised his uninjured right arm and attempted to bring his sword to bear. The Journeyman caught the man’s wrist, shifted his weight, and twisted. Again the man gritted his teeth. With the Huul’s weapon pointed safely towards the wall the Journeyman began to shove and wriggled his way out from under the barbarian.
Once on his feet, the Huul’s wrist still locked in his grasp, the Journeyman wrenched with all the strength he could muster. At the same time he slammed his heel down onto the Huul’s right shoulder. There was a horrible wet crunch as the barbarian’s arm was torn from its socket. The Huul howled like a wounded animal. The Journeyman, giving no quarter lest the man rebound and again go on the offensive, twisted the arm a second time. There was a grinding of bone and cartilage and the Huul bellowed new agony.
Despite the horrible
wounds the barbarian had sustained, he nonetheless attempted another assault on the Journeyman. This time his teeth lead the charge. In one fluid movement the Journeyman swept the short sword from where it had fallen and swung it downward in a deadly arc. The weapon wedged itself deep in the Huul’s forehead sending up a splash of crimson. The Huul dropped like a sack of grain, hitting the floor with a crash that shook the whole of the tiny room.
The Journeyman cursed, then sprang over the fallen Huul and threw open the shutters of the room’s only window. Through the narrow aperture he espied the form of a rider galloping headlong into the steadily falling snow. The sound of the horse’s hooves was muted, but the figure on the animal’s back was unmistakably Silke. Upon seeing this the Journeyman breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to his fallen opponent. The man twitched several times, but remained comfortingly dead.
There was a groan of straining boards, and looking up from the fresh corpse at his feet, the Journeyman beheld the grotesque form of the barkeep. She loomed large in the doorway blocking the light from the drinking hall below.
The Journeyman kicked at the dead Huul. “Care to explain?”
The barkeep opened her mouth to speak but was cut short. From behind the mass of woman there came the clatter of steel and the silhouettes of two men.
The moment the Journeyman’s ears registered the tell-tale rattle of weaponry he bent to the corpse of the Huul and tugged at his dagger. He managed to free the blade just as the first of the men burst into the room.
Already filled to overflowing, the tiny chamber simply would not allow any more bodies entry. This worked very much to the Journeyman’s advantage. Lowering his shoulder, he gave the whole mass of humanity bearing down on him a shove. He propelled the mob back out into the hall using the bulk of the barkeep as leverage.
Even with the weight of the fat woman atop him one of the newcomers managed to free himself from the mass of flesh and limbs. With a dagger of his own the man jabbed blindly into the semi-darkness of the little room. The Journeyman easily turned aside the clumsy thrust and went in for one of his own. There was a brief exchange of steel that yielded no result. All the while the fat woman blithered and shrieked.
The Journeyman knew that he mustn’t remain pinned in his room. Though no more than one man could attack him at a time he was unsure how many might try for his life. Any number of changes in circumstance might cost him dearly and his strength could not hold out indefinitely. Dying in this cramped room, in a town with a name as ugly as Ghul, did not interest the Journeyman and so he opted to change tack.
Another quick engagement with the man blocking the door revealed to the Journeyman that his foe was no great knife fighter. Confident that against such an untrained opponent he could risk breaking free, he exploited the opportunity and did just that.
As he shoved the barkeep was cast further down the hall and into the recesses of her inn. Ahead of the Journeyman, and down the narrow flight of stairs, cascaded his assailants. The two men landed in a heap at the foot of the stairs, and there was a scream as an entangled limb snapped. The Journeyman plummeted down the steps using his forward momentum to smash into the unbroken man who had managed to regain his feet. The man tumbled over backwards and slid several metres along the floor. The Journeyman, astride the remaining assailant, smashed the hilt of his dagger into that unfortunate’s jaw. There was a crunch of breaking bone and the man went limp. Off to one side he saw the bar hag scramble to safety.
Here on the main floor, the glow of the fire that still crackled in the oversized hearth illuminated the Journeyman’s attackers. He was not surprised to see that these were the same men that had manned the crumbling guard tower. The two were hardly crack troops and would only have been employed to mop up should the Huul have failed in his duties. He might have suspected as much. Silke had laid her trap well, but the Journeyman had been forewarned and therefore forearmed.
The man the Journeyman had sent sprawling propped himself up on one elbow. This was the elder of the two soldiers and the Journeyman could tell that the tumble down the stairs had rattled his old bones. There would be little fight left in him. The Journeyman stepped over the unconscious form of the younger soldier and planted a boot in the aged fellow’s chest. Forcing the old man back to the floor the Journeyman leaned over the soldier and stared unblinking into his cloudy eyes.
Holding the soldier’s gaze for several seconds the Journeyman said, “I am going to gather my kit. When I come back down those stairs I expect you and your man here to be gone. Carry him if you have to. If I see you again I will kill you.”
The old man said nothing and so the Journeyman pushed harder with his booted foot. That set the aged soldier to nodding and so the Journeyman released him. He backed his way to the stairs, turned, and climbed up to his room.
After he had fully equipped himself the Journeyman returned to the main floor. Down here there was no one in evidence, the bar hag having apparently fled with the soldiers. That suited him just fine. Still wary of ambush the Journeyman made his way outside.
For a moment he stood in the falling snow just outside the inn’s main door. The flakes fell silently, covering the ugliness of Ghul in a crystalline shroud. The night was peaceful; the violence of a few moments ago already lapsed into antiquity.
The Journeyman scanned the ground in front of him for footprints. There were two pairs leading up to the door and two pairs, along with deep drag marks, leading away. Satisfied that he was alone the Journeyman strode into the night. Around him the darkness was near complete and all that could be seen was the flickering of a few fires through the chinks in the walls of the surrounding hovels.
After taking a moment to get his bearings the Journeyman proceeded back the way he had come earlier that day. When he reached his destination he fished a handful of copper marks from his purse, then gave a light rap on the cracked and irregular door before him.
From inside the hut there was a single deep bark and then the door creaked open a few centimetres. Two large blue eyes peered up at the Journeyman from beneath a mass of dirty and matted blonde hair. The Journeyman held up his handful of coins and the door swung to.
4. MOVE AND COUNTER MOVE
The Journeyman strode north, his boots crunching through ice and snow. Overhead the clouds roiled, threatening to unleash a maelstrom. Experience told him that despite the fearsome look of the clouds there would be little to no precipitation, at least not until nightfall. The back range of the Drakkenhuuls was no doubt blanketed with snow, but here in the fells he need contend only with the biting wind.
The Journeyman was aware of the horse and its rider long before they made themselves known. Even so he did not break his stride until he had drawn parallel with the mounted figure.
“Move,” said the man from the top of his roan.
“Counter move,” said the Journeyman.
The man on the horse gave the beast a nudge with his heels
and the animal wandered slowly over to where the Journeyman stood. Lowering its nose to the ground and brushing aside a patch of snow the horse began to graze. The man remained in his saddle. “I’m pleased to see they didn’t put any holes in you, Journeyman.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” said the Journeyman raising his face to the one-eyed man.
Thane smiled at this and ran one hand through his greasy black mane, then down to the stubble coating his chin. He was a short man, rugged and trail-worn. His face was scarred and the leather and mail he wore was marked with countless dings and notches. The patch that covered his empty right eye socket was emblazoned with the caricature of an open and staring eye of exaggerated size. The sword at Thane’s hip was plain but clearly well used.
“Nice of you to come all this way,” said the Journeyman.
“Oh, think nothing of it. I had business in these parts anyway.” The old mercenary adjusted the neck of his mail shirt, pulling down on the gorget that encircled his throat.
Thane’s attire a
mused the Journeyman, for he understood it to be more theatrical than practical. While it was true that Thane was an accomplished man-at-arms, he had given up that line of work many years ago. These days he only went about in his old armor to impress the courtiers and advisors he was forced to keep company with. As a spymaster, Thane must rub elbows with all manner of toffs in the Hegemony’s bureaucratic web, and it helped if they thought he would run them through should they misstep.
“Well?” asked the Journeyman, and held out one gloved hand.
“Well indeed,” said Thane and dug about in the pouch at his belt. He came up with a worn calfskin purse and tossed it to the Journeyman.
“I appreciate your directness,” said Thane as the Journeyman snatched the purse out of the air. “It’s seldom that I get to hold converse with anyone who comes to the point so readily.”
“That is your choice,” said the Journeyman as he sifted through the contents of the purse. “You could always go back to being a mercenary. There’s no end of work for men of your ilk.”
“Oh, I’m still a mercenary,” smiled Thane. “It just so happens that the Hegemony pays far better than any of the lords of the Æsterlunds or the Vallén. But, should their river of coin dry up, I shall seek employment elsewhere. Perhaps I will become a Journeyman.”
“You wouldn’t last a day,” smiled the Journeyman. “You’d be bored out of your mind and would have to start a quarrel just so you could manipulate everyone around you into fighting each other
LINUS DE BEVILLE
while you watched.” Thane barked out a short burst of laughter. “Are you satisfied with your payment Journeyman? Real gold is hard to come by these days. I had to supplement with rather a lot of silver.”
“It will do,” said the Journeyman.
“Who was it?” asked Thane, “the one waiting for you?” “Not one of the ones you thought,” said the Journeyman. “It
Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim) Page 3