The woman cried out again as Noffa pawed her, and fire roared in Ryle’s chest. He badly wished he had a sword at his hip. The thugs wouldn’t be so amused by the sound of whimpering when it gurgled up past their own bloodied lips.
He saw the line he’d take through their ranks. It would be so easy. They didn’t even have a man watching the room. A throat here, a hamstring there, and then a kidney. Half of them would be dead before they knew what was happening. Ryle’s fingers itched to draw a blade. His hand was on the hilt of his dagger before he knew it.
Her voice floated up from the back of his mind, tinged with that sardonic laughter that filled his stomach with an entirely different kind of heat.
You know you don’t have to kill your way out of every problem, right? He pictured her soft lips quirked between a smirk and a smile as she spoke. Her blue eyes shot through with sunlight, golden hair swirling around her beautifully imperfect face. For a brief moment the silver pendant hanging inside his shirt felt like a caress against his skin.
He smiled to himself, and sighed. Casyne was right, as always. It would be a hex of a lot simpler. But no, this wasn’t a battle, and outnumbered or not, he wouldn’t break his vow for this lot.
Ryle moved his hand away from his dagger and focused on his training. The part that involved not killing them all.
He stopped a few paces back from the guards and his boot came down on the waitress’s broom. The settler woman caught sight of him and her eyes pleaded for help as she struggled to escape.
Nerves tingled in his fingers, strung his stomach tight. Adrenaline built but Ryle knew this sensation, he had faced this moment before. He took a breath, hooked his right thumb into his sword belt, and let his left hang free. “Excuse me,” he said, tilting his voice hard.
The guards didn’t hear him over their jeers and shouts.
“Excuse me!” he repeated.
Noffa turned his head and peered toward Ryle as his men quieted. “What?” he snarled.
What would a champion say? The thought drilled him in the stomach. Lastrahn had to be watching. He’d stepped into a ten on one trial in front of him.
Better and better, and probably another reason to avoid a bunch of cold-blooded murders.
That left only a couple options, and against this group he figured words were useless, so he gave him his flattest look and tapped the finger of his sword hand against his belt.
The leader’s beady eyes dropped to his hand, and Ryle smiled inside. Yeah, take a look, asshole.
The man’s thick lips twisted into a sneer. “Swordsman, eh? Think that’s special? Olie’s got himself a tattoo. Don’t you Olie?”
A big slab-faced man to the leader’s left grunted and thrust up his right hand. Scratched across the back of it in blue ink was a rather rude hand gesture. He echoed this with the same gesture of his own. From the look on his face, he thought it was rather clever. The other guards chuckled.
“Swordsmen usually carry swords, dumbass,” the leader quipped.
So much for that.
One on ten was a hex of a situation. Even if he was armed it would be a close thing to come out of this in one piece. And no matter who went down first, a hex of a lot of blood would get spilled.
From the statuesque postures of the patrons in the room, they were thinking the same thing. They might escape the fight if they were quick, but the settlers were stuck. The woman’s eyes peered huge from her pale face. He’d started this, now he needed a plan. And it better be a good one if he wanted to keep her and the others from getting hurt.
Ryle’s eyes darted between the men. No opportunities presented themselves. No good angles of attack. He shifted his weight, trying not to show his nerves. The broom creaked under his foot.
He had an idea. Probably a terrible one, but he didn’t have another.
He slipped the toe of his boot under the broom and kicked it into the air where he caught it. One of the guard’s started at the sudden motion before catching himself.
Ryle looked the broom over. “This should work to sweep out a bunch of trash like you.”
The words had the expected effect. Guards turned from their victims, fists clenched.
“Anyone want to find out if I’m right? Or do you want to just leave now?”
Noffa’s face reddened. “Take care of this idiot,” he growled and pressed his boot harder against the man on the floor who gagged and floundered.
“I got ‘em, Noffa,” Olie said. He turned and tossed a chair aside to clear his path.
The customers around them scrambled out of the way. One less thing to worry about anyway.
Olie loomed over Ryle, who barely came to the big man’s chin. The thug’s crooked nose, thick brows, and scarred knuckles, said brawler in no uncertain terms.
The broomstick felt flimsy.
Smart move. Starting a fight under armed. His father’s rough voice echoed in his ears. Ryle’s stomach tightened another notch. Blast! Not now. He slammed a door shut deep in the back of his mind, and his father’s voice cut off.
Olie glowered down from beneath shaggy black hair. The thick, rank smell of the man’s unwashed body assaulted Ryle’s senses.
“Scram,” the guard said.
“Bail or broom,” Ryle said, and waved the broomstick back and forth.
The brute’s knuckles cracked as he squeezed his hands into anvil-sized fists. His eyes said he didn’t care who or what Ryle was. He was aiming to hit him so hard he’d wind up another stain on the floor.
And that brought them to that spot where words didn’t get the job done and someone started bleeding.
Olie was huge and strong, but Ryle had been here more times than he could count. Despite the anger boiling his guts, and the tension in his shoulders, he felt his center calling. The Professor had trained him well. He let out a breath and slipped into his kenten.
The room stilled. Ryle’s anger slid away like a tide retreating from a rocky shore. Olie grew sharper, clearer. That wasn’t really a visual improvement, but his every movement stood out. Each twitch of muscle, the tick at the corner of his mouth. Ryle let his eyes drift, feeling calm, relaxed, waiting for the trigger motion. He’d let Noffa’s muscleman start it, he’d give him that much, but if he wanted to avoid ruptured organs, he had to move fast.
“I’m still waiting for an answer.” Lastrahn said. He sounded closer than Ryle expected.
Olie looked up over his head. Ryle glanced back. Within his center, he figured could risk it.
Lastrahn leaned against the bar, drink in his hand.
Blast he was good, Ryle hadn’t heard him move.
“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” Lastrahn said to Olie, “I was talking to him.” He waved his drink in Ryle’s direction.
Olie shrugged and swung.
If Ryle wasn’t centered the big man might’ve caught him off guard, but he whipped his head away, and Olie’s big, tattooed fist rushed past.
The brawler swung again. Ryle dodged, putting a little space between them. Before he could loose a third blow, Ryle jabbed him hard in the armpit with the broomstick. Olie grunted and stumbled. Ryle laid a sharp blow across his shin, then the side of his neck.
Olie crashed sideways through a table and chairs. Two of his friends swore and abandoned the settlers to join the attack. Ryle pivoted to face them, ready, not rushing.
The broom’s weathered wood proved tough, but the balance was horrendous. While the thugs advanced, he stomped on the bundle of bristles and jerked the stick free. Much better.
“No, Sir. Finding you was my idea.” he said, returning to Lastrahn’s question. “I want to join you.”
The man on the left raised a cudgel, and his shoulder flexed to swing. Ryle cracked him across his knuckles, causing him to drop his weapon, then smacked him between the eyes. The man grabbed his face and twisted away, cursing.
His friend leapt forward and caught the broomstick under the breastbone. He didn’t take that well and fell, wheezing.
The remaining patrons who had scattered to the edges of the room fled.
“That’s a hell of a vague answer,” Lastrahn snapped. “With that mark you can get any job you want. So let’s skip the games. There’s a reason you’re here. Spit it out.”
Blood rushed in Ryle’s ears, turning the room into a storm of dim sounds around Lastrahn’s words. It was more important than a reason, it was a name. His name. The man who had taken everything, left Ryle bathed in blood, and turned his life into a hollow wreck.
Despite his center’s calm, a faint echo of mad laughter rang in his skull and soured his stomach.
“Kilgren,” he said.
Lastrahn hissed. “You have shit for luck. That madman’s been leaving orphans and widows since before my mother pushed me out into the cold.”
Ryle knew that better than most. Madman didn’t even scratch the surface, he could’ve added a lot more names: bastard, liar, traitor, murderer. He was sure Lastrahn would agree with them, the champion had fought Kilgren dozens of times.
He kept every one tucked down inside though because he was terrified the last name would slip out with the rest.
Father.
That one word could ruin everything and complete Kilgren’s destruction of his life. He’d hex well nearly succeeded already.
Not even Ryle’s center could hold back the barrage of memories. The crackling of flames punctuated by his mother’s ragged choking breaths. The hunched figure of his father spewing mad laughter. And the blood.
The scar on his left hand throbbed. The room grayed around the edges.
Noffa yelled something and pounding feet ensued.
Only his training saved Ryle from a caved in skull. He deflected Olie’s strike and it glanced off his shoulder instead. It was a solid blow, the kind that would hurt like hex tomorrow, but he’d taken harder shots from his father for dropping a glass of wine. He grunted and shook it off.
Olie tried to take advantage, but Ryle jammed the butt of the stick into his liver. He fell in a heap.
Three more guards closed in. The first roared and swung for Ryle’s head. He slapped the thug’s arm away, felt the stick give, but hit him across the eyes. The man reeled away screaming.
The second tried to gain an angle. Ryle stepped between tables, cutting him off, forcing the third guard to attack instead. The man tried a lunging strike and instead caught the butt of the stick in the temple. His head jerked sideways as he toppled over a chair.
The last thug circled the table and came on, stave drawn back. Ryle ignored his weapon, he barely saw him. The bloody memories his father had cut into his past wouldn’t go away. They clung to his mind with rough fingers and screamed failure in his face.
Ryle’s hands squeezed so tight they ached. With a snarl he whipped the broomstick down across the thug’s skull. Not the skull he wanted, but the only one before him. The only one he could find.
The wood exploded; the man’s head didn’t fare much better. He emitted a soft grunt and collapsed across the table. Mugs crashed to the floor. Ryle’s center collapsed with them. The Professor’s training, impervious to so many threats, was no match for such betrayal from within. Smells of sweat and blood and beer rushed into his head while he panted in hot breaths.
The room lay silent. None of the guards moved. Right then it didn’t feel like they mattered much.
“Go after the bastard,” Lastrahn said. “You have the training. You’d have a shot of paying him back, so long as you don’t mind dying in the process.”
He and Lastrahn both knew the truth behind that statement. It was the reason he had followed the champion here; the madness that had driven him to speak.
“I would, if I could find him,” Ryle said between heavy breaths. “But it’s not just Kilgren. Too many burn and pillage and take what they want from those weaker than themselves.” He spit the words towards Noffa’s bunch, but how often had he been the one doing the taking? Lastrahn’s cold eyes met his as he spoke. He needed him to understand. “I want to stop them all, Sir. However I have to.”
Lastrahn frowned. “Fighting for an ideal lasts only so long when the blood’s flying and the dirt’s in your teeth.”
“If you’re questioning my resolve, it’s not going anywhere, Sir. I’ve seen enough death to make that certain.”
“Oh, please.” Noffa’s voice was a rusty file raising burrs from the silence. “Enough of this babbling crap. Put this little shit down already.”
The remaining guards released the settlers and turned. Cudgels filled hands, and a couple knives appeared amongst them. Olie and the last man Ryle had struck were still down, but the others were back on their feet, glaring past pained expressions. Eight men to go, including Noffa.
The broomstick was a shattered stump. Ryle tossed it aside and looked about, searching for possible weapons. Chairs, tables, abandoned glasses, stubs of candles. Nothing ideal. Fear crawled out along his arms. The only thing within reach was the dagger on his belt, but he felt sick even thinking of that. He’d take a beating first.
The nearest thug took a heavy step forward. Ryle curled his empty hands into fists.
“None of you will do a damn thing,” Lastrahn growled. “And if any of you interrupt me again, none of those toothpicks you’re holding will save your asses.”
Noffa froze. His men froze. Even the settler in Noffa’s arms stopped squirming.
Facing eight men, Ryle shouldn’t have looked away, but it was impossible not to.
Shadows masked Lastrahn’s face again, but his eyes burned, twin sparks in the darkness.
How the hex did he do that?
“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not even armed!” Noffa shouted.
Sure, Lastrahn had left Exequor back at his table, but at that moment it didn’t matter. No sane man would go anywhere near Lastrahn. Bad idea rolled off of him in thick waves.
Nervous whispers passed among the guards. Noffa sputtered, trying to keep control of the situation. “There’s ten of us!” he finally said, maybe trying to convince himself.
“And one of me,” Lastrahn replied.
Noffa’s mouth snapped shut.
“Walk away now,” Lastrahn said to Ryle. “The fields are littered with the corpses of those who thought they could solve problems they didn’t understand.”
If only he could. If only his life were that simple. Nothing would’ve made him happier, but too much remained broken, bloody, and undone. For a moment he felt the sticky sensation of dried blood on his fingers. Smelled the copper tang of his past.
Ryle cleared his throat. “I’ve read Tavail’s histories. Elderow raised the House of Reckoning here at the edge of the world where the laws fade, where the Directorate’s grasp doesn’t reach. A House to fight for people when they can’t stand alone. That’s what I want.”
Lastrahn stared at him, maybe weighing, maybe judging, and the room hung about him, dark and vague and still. Like it waited for his next words.
Then Noffa dared to speak. “Listen—”
That was as far as he got.
“Get out.” Lastrahn didn’t raise his voice, but he sounded deadly all the same. “Leave those folks alone, and take your sorry asses outside. If I have to say it again, you’ll be carried out, and they’ll be looking for a hole to dump you in.”
Noffa didn’t want to let them go, but some primitive part of his brain must’ve recognized the danger of a predator about to make him dinner. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish as the color drained from his face.
The woman pushed Noffa aside and went to the man, probably her husband, on the floor. He made gasping sounds but was still alive.
The other settlers tentatively began collecting items from the tables and floor that the guards had discarded. Noffa’s brutes looked on. A variety of expressions ranging from anger to fear painted their faces as they stood, uncertain of what to do.
“I told you to get out,” Lastrahn said.
The guards closest the door left firs
t, quiet as mice. The others collected Olie and the man across the table, and dragged them out by their armpits. Olie moaned as they pushed through the doors.
Noffa stood his ground a moment longer. “None of you have shit anyway,” he said with a weak snort before he all but rushed out the door.
Ryle turned to find Lastrahn a pace behind him, Mel, the brunette waitress, at his side.
“Good riddance,” the young woman spat after them. She laid a hand on Lastrahn’s arm. He didn’t object.
The settlers, in rapid order, gathered their belongings and after a careful peek through the doors, rushed out into the night. Only the woman Noffa had assaulted acknowledged Ryle with a nod of thanks before helping her husband through the doors.
Ryle’s heart continued to pound, not yet realizing the danger had passed. He grabbed his belt to still his shaking hands. He should’ve handled them on his own, but he held no illusions over what would’ve happened if Lastrahn hadn’t stepped in. He swallowed his disappointment and hoped he’d shown something facing the men down. If not, he’d just lost the only way to repair his shattered past.
“Ten on one, you should’ve hit them first,” Lastrahn said. “You might’ve gotten them running before they kicked the shit out of you.”
Ryle couldn’t tell if he was joking, but overall, it didn’t sound good. Adrenaline seeped away and Ryle felt his future go with it, his past closing in.
Lastrahn tossed back the last of his drink. “Life’s not a test to determine if you’re man enough. Life’s survival. You survive and keep on surviving.”
“Yes, Sir.” The words sounded all too familiar, yet strange coming from him.
“Now, tell me how you found me,” he said.
“Professor Mero—”
“No, in here.”
“Your horse is outside at the rail, Sir. It’s the only warhorse in town.”
“I see.”
Mel smiled up at Lastrahn and held his arm closer. He raised an eyebrow at her, but otherwise didn’t react. She blushed and grinned back shyly.
Gearspire: Advent Page 2