Brave Men Die: Part 3

by Dan Adams

  ‘First time drinking with the captain, pup?’ the bartender asked Gerard as he started washing the bourbon down with his ale.

  The bartender was a man in his late forties, with kind eyes and aged hands that served drinks all night long. The Crossed Swords was one of the most popular taverns amongst the serving men and was one of the few that regularly broke the curfew to continue serving the regulars. The captain obviously looked the other way for the bartender on this, and Gerard suspected he now knew why. He had an easy smile, with an apron tied around his waist that was reasonably clean, and a filthy towel over his shoulder.

  ‘How can you tell?’ he asked with a smile.

  The bartender winked and returned to cleaning the mugs down the other end of the bar.

  ‘Brandon is a good man. Runs a fine establishment and lets me drink for free when I want to delay heading home to the lady. I tend to find myself here more and more often these days.’

  Gerard was surprised by the open admission. He never thought the captain would find solace at the bottom of a glass. He just wasn’t the type.

  ‘Why does he let you drink for free?’ Gerard looked at his drink. ‘And me? I don’t think he’s the type to be bribing the captain of the watch,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘No,’ the captain replied with a chuckle. ‘Brandon’s my brother — though keep that to yourself. He lets family drink for free.’ He took out the packet of smokes he kept on him at all times and lit one up, before offering one to Gerard.

  He hesitated, then declined. The captain put the packet on the bar and took a long, deep drag, the end burning bright orange as he inhaled. ‘It’s my only vice,’ he said, indicating the smokes. ‘Have been doing it longer than you’ve been alive. The drink … that just helps me unwind so the lady doesn’t see how bad this war has unsettled me.’

  Gerard turned to study the bartender and could see the resemblance, if only barely, when the captain was looking forward, the mug in one hand, his smoke in the other.

  ‘No need to justify it Tobias, it doesn’t bother me.’ Gerard took another gulp of ale and rested it between his hands. He let the silence draw out and both men sat there and drank.

  ‘Seems that my wife and daughter think I work you too hard, Gerard.’

  ‘How would they get that notion, captain?’

  ‘Probably ‘cause I told them lad.’

  The tone in his voice was light-hearted, but there was truth in the statement.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Gerard offered his mug up and the captain, still looking forward, cheered the mugs together with a clink.

  ‘Anyway, the ladies have said I should invite you round to dinner one night, seeing that I work you so late.’

  ‘A drink every now and again is fine captain. There is always food at the barracks.’

  ‘I think Mia might be disappointed with that but the offer is there. The wife will have a go at me if she doesn’t think you’re eating. You’re like one of our own Gerard, she’ll be upset if she doesn’t think I’m looking out for you.’

  ‘Sure Tobias, I’ll come round one time, get the ladies off your back. Next round is on me captain,’ Gerard smiled and went for his wallet.

  ‘No lad, family drinks for free.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Castor moved amongst the Nails huddled around small fires casting dark shadows that leapt amongst the trees. Meat slowly roasted over the flames, vegetables cooked in the coals: they were the best prizes they had raided from the enemy yet. The smells wafted to his nostrils and he took a deep breath. His mouth watered at the delectable aromas, his teeth ran over his bottom lip. Castor hadn’t realised just how hungry he was. He found himself an empty spot on the log of a fallen tree next to one of the older veterans of the unit. Ron was tall, broad, grey flecked through his brown hair.

  Castor looked at him to check that he was welcome to the seat. Their eyes locked and the older man smiled.

  ‘Sit down boy, rest those weary legs. You did well today, how many did you get?’

  Ron was old school and Castor knew it. For him, war was killing and you earned your medals by killing the most and doing what the others were too scared to do. He didn’t take pleasure in it but he did it all the same.

  ‘I lost count weeks ago Ron. I weary of the tally. I just do as I’m ordered and kill who I’m told to kill.’

  ‘You do the ordering remember?’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  ‘You have a passion for it boy, I’ve seen you in the heat of battle. Not for the killing but you’re efficient, your sword is an extension of your hand. Some of us train for years to have your skill.’

  Castor took it as a compliment but it sat uneasy inside of him. He kept killing, but it didn’t make any of the pain go away and it didn’t bring Argol back. It didn’t bring any of the fallen back. He threw himself at them every time, tried to be the first one into the battle, tried to find that release he needed.

  ‘Thanks Ron,’ he replied patting the man on the shoulder. He accepted the plate he was handed and looked at the meat and vegetables on it. They looked so good, delicious, but he had lost his appetite. He took a bite, ripped the flesh from the bone. It was soft and he chewed it slowly. The potato was crunchy on the outside and a little blackened but the inside was still slightly raw. He missed tavern food, where everything was cooked to perfection and tasted so good. But even this was better than what they had been living off lately. What he was putting into his mouth now was satisfactory at best and the company was not what he would call appealing. Not to get him wrong, Ron was a lovely fellow, just not his type.

  Castor looked around. Most were eating in silence, those on the outskirts of the camp kept a silent vigil, searching for any signs of trouble. The unit was troubled and tired, so tired. Each strike saw a man wounded, another one of them dead. They slept in shifts, always on alert in the heart of the Empire. There was always a chance that they could be found, ambushed in the middle of the night when they were half asleep and groggy. Paranoia was setting in. Some of the Nails had made themselves comfortable and retired for the evening, a couple played cards. Castor remained on the log long after he had finished eating and Ron had gotten up and left. He knew that when he closed his eyes he would dream and the dreams would turn to nightmares and the nightmares would … hurt. What little sleep he managed to get before he woke himself up would not be worth it.

  Castor resigned himself to his fate and watched the fire, not really wanting to do anything else. The flames licked at the small dry branches that had been collected along the walk. Grey smoke wafted its way up into the air, twisted and weaved as it trailed up into the canopy. The red embers glowed as they clung to life, hoped to have one last chance of brightness before fading into dim nothingness.

  His green eyes absorbed the brilliance of the orange flames. They danced, moving randomly up and down, side to side, mesmerising. He lost himself in the flames and remembered back to better times.

  The fire crackled before him, the memory of the last night they were all together in Buckthorne faded back into the past, where happier thoughts belonged. The last few weeks were filled with nothing but sadness and dread, the bloodshed a constant reminder of the increasingly darker deeds he was doing in the name of his country.

  Castor had wanted to join the armed forces for as long as he could remember, to follow in his father’s footsteps even knowing that his death when Castor was six had left something missing. His solution to avoid the past repeating was not to have any kids until he got out of the business. Not that he was going to find any attractive and available girls out here in the middle of nowhere. Even if he did he had orders to kill anyone on sight.

  The war had seemed right in the beginning, fought for all the right reasons. They had been the ones invaded and attacked first. But Castor had an increasingly disturbed feeling growing in the pit of his stomach that what they were doing behind enemy lines was just as bad.

  The image of the four squires standing o
pposite him flashed across his mind, from the very first supply train, way back then. Blinking, the image was replaced with their bodies strewn about the ground, blood soaking into the dirt as the emotional void that Castor had started withdrawing into took to the surface of his thoughts. He had been submerging himself in it during battle, his mind blurring the enemy’s weapons and their intent, and his muscles moved instinctively to save his life by taking theirs. In war the butcher’s bill was high and he was just hoping that he wouldn’t have to pay the ultimate price. Not yet. He still had one person to kill before his number was called. He was sure of it.

  Even if he managed to survive the war, nothing would be the same. They couldn’t go back to the Crossed Swords, not now that Argol was dead — the camaraderie just wouldn’t be there. No one could replace his friend. Thoughts drifted onto the other drinkers at the table inside his head. Volans would survive, he was sure of it, but the other two, Pollux and Octans — they could already be dead and he wouldn’t even know it. That thought stopped him, the emotional void crumbling slightly as his little brother’s body lay propped up against the walls of Black Claw, his hands clutched at a wound in his side as the blood pumped furiously through his fingers. An unwanted tear fled down his cheek and he hurriedly wiped it away before any of the others could see. He reassured himself that Pollux could handle anything the Kyzantines threw at him.

  Two other Nails come close to the fire talking quietly between themselves, but shut up as soon as they saw him staring into the fire. Castor didn’t care if they were talking about him, but decided to leave and headed off into the darkness to be alone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The weather was beautiful in Dagenham, the sky was a vibrant blue and the balcony adjacent to the archbishop’s rooms was already basking in the morning’s sun. David Kurt opened the balcony door and stepped out to the rail, spreading his arms wide to stretch. A grin formed on his lips as he looked down upon the estate’s gardens. He was a man who enjoyed the simple pleasures in life.

  The Church of the One God had acquired much of the prime real estate in Dagenham over the course of the last three centuries and had constructed this magnificent mansion that covered an expanse that had the second best view in the town. It was only rivalled by that of the Emperor’s own palace that covered at least a quarter of the city.

  The gardens were something that he had personally encouraged to be restored to their former glory when he had been appointed archbishop ten years prior. It had taken that long to gain the trust of the Emperor as it long since waned between their order and the reigning family of Kyzantium. So while he had been politically scheming and raising awareness for the Kyzantine faith, he’d tended his garden and had seen it grow. He had summoned the best horticulturalists and landscapers on the continent and they had designed the delightful vision that he saw before him right now.

  The fountain below him bubbled, a soft murmuring of the water trickled over each layer down into the one below. David found it somewhat soothing to have the running water around him.

  He sat in the chair and looked out at the garden and he couldn’t have been happier. If only the entire day could be like this.

  A dependent moved silently from his chambers and onto the balcony, delivering his breakfast on a silver tray. The aromas of the meal wafted toward him, the toasted heavy bread and the sweet berry jam exactly what he wanted.

  The servant left without uttering a word and David lifted the toast to his lips, using his other hand to catch the dripping jam.

  Between mouthfuls he addressed the man standing silently in the doorframe.

  ‘Mr Roth, it is a pleasure to see you so early this morning. Thank you for coming.’

  If the Inquisitor was startled he didn’t show it, and slowly but confidently took a handful of steps forward to lean forward against the balcony rail. He stood there motionless and silent as David finished his meal and dusted his hands to get rid of the crumbs.

  The archbishop stood, and moved over to stand beside the younger man. They stood side-by-side in silence, staring out across the garden.

  He had met Roth over two decades ago, when the Inquisitor was a youth, not yet a man. He was a street hoodlum, but one that was well connected in certain circles and had the balls to break into the Church to rob it. More so, he had the skill to elude capture and it had taken the Inquisitors over two weeks to track him down, and even then, it was only accidentally.

  What’s more, Roth was an instrument he could use.

  ‘I’m sure you are aware of the problem, Roth.’

  The Inquisitor didn’t flinch and David took it as a sign to continue. Roth, after all, was a man of few words. Peering into his eyes, he could sense no flicker of emotion. There was only a twitch along his jaw where the puckered remnants of an old wound sat uncomfortably.

  ‘DeVile is operating out of a tavern in the South Quarter called the Stony Feather. His men have been all over Dagenham gathering information for him, in some kind of investigation that he is coordinating for the Emperor.

  ‘He is looking into Derrick’s death.’

  Roth turned to face him then, not completely surprised, but at least interested as to where the conversation was going.

  ‘As you know, the Inquisitors were in charge of the original investigation and the men have been instructed to alter the witness statements. We need all the reports to state that it was a female mage that took part in the raid to justify the Church’s position and involvement in the war.

  ‘Perhaps if Pyxis hadn’t immediately declared war on the southern Kingdom, we could have hunted down the culprits and dealt with them discreetly. However, our hands have been forced and we need to clean up this mess.’

  Roth only nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘DeVile has been asking questions and has somehow discovered that the original witness statements have been altered during the reports collated by the Inquisitors. He feels that there is some sort of cover-up happening and that the Church is responsible for Derrick’s death.

  ‘We can’t let him speak with the Emperor and report that. Nor can we risk him uncovering the Church’s other secrets. Lord Chase DeVile needs to be silenced permanently.’

  Roth nodded in understanding and turned to leave.

  ‘Roth,’ the archbishop called, and the First Inquisitor turned back. ‘I need you to see to it personally. And I don’t mean just DeVile; his men, his family, the employees at the tavern. Everyone he could have possibly told, everyone he has been in contact with here in Dagenham needs to be silenced. This mess needs to be cleaned properly.’

  ‘Yes, archbishop. I’ll see to it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Avernus walked along the garden path in the courtyard of the Tyrean palace, bathed in the moonlight of the summer night. His mind wondered as he gazed into the depths of the small pond, water trickled over the rocks in the far corner, fish swimming underneath the rippling surface. His brown eyes stared at the moon’s reflection on the water, broken only by the ripples and bubbles.

  His thoughts travelled back to Tarkinholm, to the tunnels and the bloodshed. He absentmindedly cracked his knuckles, left hand followed by the right. It had gone according to plan, down to the last little detail. The entry, the breach into the tunnels, the assassination of the Prince and of course the collection of the artefact. Avernus subconsciously ran his fingers over the amulet in his pocket as the battle with the Keeper played out again in his mind.

  By the time anyone eventually heard the rumours about a male mage and realised something bigger was going on — maybe they suspected after they had been discovered in the mountains above Black Claw — Avernus hoped they would be in no position to stop them. He sighed and hoped he hadn’t made his move to soon.

  Avernus strolled to the palace entrance, the stationed guards in their ceremonial armour took one look at him before averting their eyes, their heads dropped to their chests in submission. Passing unchallenged, he moved through the large open hall w
here the servants and maids avoided a confrontation or even a conversation. Avernus grinned as some brushed against the walls as they desperately moved around him.

  Inside the King’s chambers voices cried concerns about the two warring nations on the borders of the Tyrean Kingdom. Avernus thought better than to interrupt, so he purposely let his body merge with the shadows in the hallway as he waited for the council to depart. After much protestation and squabbling the King finally dismissed them with the promise that he would consider their points of view. They walked out, one by one, muttering amongst themselves. Avernus made note of all their faces, matched their faces to their names. If they planned to cause too much trouble he would have to deal with them.

  He entered unannounced, the King looked up at the sight of the senior mage. Avernus liked to make an entrance. With his hood pulled down his face was cast in shadow. His dark robes encompassed his frame, which made his movements seem graceful and fluid. His spidery fingers clutched at one of the tapestries on the wall, pulling at one corner as he walked further into the room. His attention finally shifted to the King on his throne, his absent-minded actions startling the ruler.

  ‘Your majesty,’ Avernus nodded in greeting.

  ‘Avernus, my dear friend, how does this summer night find you?’

  ‘Troubled, my lord.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘The nobles feel they have too much influence over you and our course of action.’

  ‘Take no notice of it. They have their lofty ideas and are only concerned how this will affect their power. If they become a problem they shall be dealt with.’

  Avernus smiled, the corners of his mouth curled up for a fleeting moment before his face returned to its normal seriousness.

  ‘Sit Avernus, tell me about your time in Tarkinholm. Was everything achieved?’