by Alex Aguilar
“Yes,” John replied confidently. “I do believe you owe this man 5 coppers…”
* * *
Better to be stupid than selfish, the thief repeated in his mind, and it sounded more and more ridiculous every time. Better to be stupid… than selfish?! What does that even mean, you stupid farmboy? You stubborn, reckless, loud-mouthed, meat-headed farmboy!
Hudson Blackwood didn’t know whether he was angrier with John or with himself. He remembered that feeling in his gut, that hateful feeling, when he threatened to kill John the night at the Huxley’s farm. He was feeling it again, except this time it left him with a sour taste in the back of his throat, as if he was cowardly stabbing a friend in the back.
“What d’you think you’re doing?” Syrena suddenly hissed, keeping a hand over the lid of her satchel. The tavern was quieter now, and the witch had to slide over to the other side of the table with Hudson so that she could whisper to him discreetly. Hudson looked quite distracted. Not only were his eyes conflicted, as was usual of him, but there was also a glimmer there that he fought hard to suppress, as if John’s words had stung him more than he cared to show.
“What do you mean, darling?” he asked, sipping casually from his ale.
“I mean why in all hells are you not helping him?!”
Hudson was slightly staggered. As nervous as Syrena was about being exposed, he wasn’t expecting her to side with the farmer. “Because he’s being a moron!” he argued back in a whisper.
“That’s never stopped you before…”
“If he wants to get himself killed, he may do that on his own.”
“Cut the shit,” Syrena snatched Hudson’s ale away with a shivering hand and began gulping it down herself. If the witch had been ‘nervous’ before, there were no words to describe how she was feeling at that very moment. She was like a panicked bard before their very first performance, like a desperate child about to confess a mischievous deed, like a tense inexperienced soldier riding into battle for the first time.
“Cut what shit?” Hudson raised a brow.
“You care about him,” Syrena remarked. She seemed quite convinced of it, too. But Hudson chuckled under his breath as if it had been a joke.
“I think you’ve had enough, darling. You’re talking nonsense.”
“You do,” she insisted. “You care. And you hate yourself for caring.”
Hudson glanced from afar, as if debating with his own conscience. By then, Clive was on his feet facing John, towering a good three inches over him. “Lad thinks he’s got quite a pair, does he?” the rogue mercenary snickered. At the sight, Hudson realized he was in fact trembling; or at least his fingers were, as if they were instinctively beckoning him to reach for his blade. He had to curl his hand into a fist to keep it steady.
“Just look at him!” the thief whispered. “He’s a reckless bastard trying to prove himself a hero. Men like that don’t live very long and I’m certainly not letting him drag me down w-”
“Please,” she scoffed, speaking quite rapidly as if a fight was to break out at any moment. “You went from wanting to kill ‘im to sharing a bottle of liqueur with ‘im.”
“I don’t see your point. What’s that got to do with anything? I’m still gonna kill him,” Hudson snatched his ale back from her grasp and took a sip, before he shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Someday.”
“No you won’t,” the witch replied with an eye roll. “In fact, you like him.”
Hudson shot her a scowl, as if insulted by the comment. “Piss off…”
“I’ll piss off when you admit it.”
“Why would I lik-”
“Same reason you liked me in the first place,” she interrupted him. “You found someone who can match you in a fight and it intrigues you.”
“Match me?!” he exclaimed, so defensively that it was almost laughable; his brows arched as if he was appalled by the comment. “That little twat is absolutely no match for me!”
“I thought he got you captured,” said Syrena.
“W-Well,” he stammered. “I-I mean… technically, yes. But that doesn-”
“So he did match you…”
“It is much more complicated than that.”
“Will you just cut the shit already?!”
Suddenly, the commotion became worse. John Huxley was far too stubborn to yield, and so Clive turned to his goons and ordered them to ‘hold the bastard down’.
John resisted, but there was only so much he could do against four men. They pinned him down over a table, pressing his face against the wood. The bard stopped playing all of a sudden and every pair of eyes was now on them.
“Let me go!” John yelped. “Fight me yourself, you worthless coward!”
Clive laughed, a few chunks of spit spraying John in the face. “You hear ‘im, lads?” he snorted, and then shook his head with a grin. “I don’t fight boys, goldie, I fight men.”
John became enraged and tried to fidget his way out of their grasp, but they only pressed his head down harder and drew a couple of knives against his neck. The farmer realized then that Hudson’s patience was in fact the smarter route. When dealing with men who had no honor, one simply couldn’t expect a fair fight.
“I don’t think this one answers to words, brother,” one man chuckled and tossed a sword at Clive. “You gotta teach him a different way.”
At the sight of the sword, John felt the energy fuel him all of a sudden. He pushed and shoved and broke from the men’s grip for a brief moment. But before he could cause any serious damage, Clive landed a blow to his jaw with a heavy fist. John could suddenly taste the blood on his lip.
“This one’s squeamish,” someone snickered.
One by one, the red mercenaries were landing punches and kicks. John fell to the ground defenselessly, shriveling into a ball and shielding his head with his arms, grunting with every blow he received, bruises starting to tarnish him all over his body.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, Syrena gave Hudson another shove.
“What’re you waiting for?!”
“The mate needs to learn his lesson, darling…”
The rogue mercenaries bruised him, not quite badly, but John would certainly be feeling the pain for days, if not weeks. He tried to fight back, but the attacks were coming from every direction, and he was getting slower after each one of them.
“All right, enough!” Clive shouted. “Pull the bastard up!”
John was lifted by the arms and pinned against the table again. This time, he could feel the pain around his left eye; he needed no mirror to know that it was swelling up. Clive toyed with his blade, tossing it from one hand to the other. Even in his drunken state, the man was undeniably quick.
“Let this serve as a lesson to the lot of you!” he shouted, red-faced and livid. “The Rogue Brotherhood owns this town now, you hear me?! You answer to us… And anyone who wants to challenge me will taste the wrath of me blade…”
The vile man looked down at John one last time, grinning and slobbering drunkenly all over himself. “Looks like you stepped into the wrong tavern tonight, boy…”
Then, with a huff, the man lifted his arm and swung down at John’s neck!
A sharp metallic sound echoed in the room…
John lifted his gaze but he could hardly see a thing through his swollen eye; all he could see were shadows. Another blade had blocked Clive’s attack, a thin sharp saber held by a hand wearing fingerless leather gloves.
“Pardon me, mate… but I can’t let you do that…”
The blades slid against each other, as Clive took a step away from the table.
“Who the bloody hells are you?!”
Hudson gave his neck a good crack, as if he was preparing for a fight. “I’m the man that will one day kill this dumb bastard… But I’m afraid that day is not today. Now back off, nice and slowly.”
In a panic, the red mercenaries let go of John, suddenly realizing whom they were standing in front of. Syrena
ran towards the farmer and loaned him a shoulder for balance.
“By the gods!” one of the mercenaries said drunkenly. “Clive, d’you know who that is?!”
“Is it really him?” asked another, also drunkenly, rubbing his eyes as if he was hallucinating.
“I’d recognize that face anywhere! It’s that wanted thief… Hudzer Brownworth!”
“It’s Hudson, you blitherin’ idiot! Hudson Brownworth!”
“I don’t care who he is!” Clive took an angry step forward, his blade ready to strike, but one of his men held him back by the shoulder.
“Careful, Clive… I’ve heard about this one. He’s not to be toyed with.”
“Aye!” said another. “I heard he took down the Sawyer gang single-handedly.”
“Bollocks! I thought the Sawyer gang was killed in a fire…”
“And who d’you think started that fire??”
“Well I heard he shagged one of Balthazar Locke’s aunts once.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The older one with the lazy eye.”
“Did he really? Well, shit…”
Realizing the men were inebriated past any sense, Hudson cleared his throat to get their attention back. “That was a mere rumor, gentlemen. I assure you,” he said, hoping that at least Syrena would believe him.
“No, no, I saw you!” one of the drunker mercenaries insisted. “They chased you out of the Morganna for it. There’s still a bounty out for your head, y’know?”
“Enough!” Clive shouted. “Listen ‘ere, you runt…”
“No, you listen, mate,” Hudson stepped forward valiantly, his voice rising as if he was addressing the entire tavern. “I think it’s about time you and your lot pack your things and leave, yes? Before things get ugly…”
“I will not be talked down to by a thief!”
“Ahh… because you’re so honest and well-mannered, eh?” Hudson scoffed. John unsheathed his own blade and stood next to his friend, ready to guard his back.
“Watch your tongue, lad,” Clive said with a glare that would have been menacing for any man; to Hudson, however, it was laughable.
The thief glanced around and saw that every eye in the room was on him. And so, with a smirk of pleasure, he used it to his advantage. He leapt onto a table so that he’d tower over everyone. “Attention, ladies and gents!”
The peasants were drawn in as the red mercenaries around the room stumbled to their feet. Hudson could see that most of the villagers looked helpless, like bullied children waiting for an adult to come and set things straight. He could also see that some of them were reaching for bottles, butter-knives, even chairs… anything that would aid them in a fight against the Brotherhood; they were simply waiting for somebody to start that fight.
“This here’s Grymsbi!” Hudson shouted with a smirk. “And the Rogue Brotherhood is not welcome here!” His smirk turned into a sudden glower. He gave his saber a good spin with his wrist, as if he was warming up. “Let’s show them the way out, shall we?”
Within seconds, a riot ensued in the tavern…
Hudson’s brief words had managed to rile up the villagers, giving them the courage they so desperately needed. They used whatever was at their disposal to fight back; glass bottles, pots and pans, their own shoes… The rogue mercenaries may have had sharper weapons, but the ale had slowed them down significantly.
“Come on, lads!” someone shouted. “Fight the bastards off!”
Hudson remained on the table, swinging down at red mercenaries who dared to crowd up on him. They swung at his feet but he simply hopped swiftly with a smirk, as if he were dancing, as if it was all a game to him. He managed to disarm one of the rogues and snatched up a second blade with his left hand.
John joined the fight, moving slower than usual due to the fresh bruises. Mercenaries were running in from every direction, one of them aiming to strike the farmer in the back. But before he could even swing, the runner was held back violently by the neck; he was pressed against a wooden wall and he could feel the excruciating burn in his jaw.
Syrena of Morganna stood there, glaring viciously into the mercenary’s eyes.
“W-What… are… you?!” the man struggled to speak.
The witch’s eyes were so bright, they almost hurt to look at. She looked as if she was in a trance, not speaking a single word, but letting her hands do all of the talking. There was a hissing sound as the man’s neck started to ooze smoke. He shrieked from the pain. When the witch let go of him, his neck was burned severely, branded with a red blistering handprint. The rogue mercenaries saw her and backed away from her, unwilling to take a single step nearer. Syrena was so fueled by her power she was almost enjoying herself. She had no need for a weapon; instead, she made a flaming fist with both her hands and began swinging at whoever got too close.
Amid the commotion, Clive was killing peasants one after the other. He was the only one of the Brotherhood crew that seemed able enough, or at least sober enough, for a proper fight. After glancing in every direction, he finally spotted John Huxley, the man that had started it all. He stepped towards him with ill intentions in his glare.
John heard the man’s raging growls before he even turned to look.
He’s behind you, the farmer warned himself.
Remember, now… Just like Old Man Beckwit taught you…
He waited until he heard the wooden floorboards squeaking behind him. And when they did, he closed his eyes and bent his knees to dodge Clive’s attack. The blade missed his hair by just an inch. He fell to a squat and then swung his leg across, kicking Clive’s ankles and causing the man to trip backwards.
With a swift motion, John snatched a wooden shield from a dead mercenary’s hands and stood on his feet. Clive got up as well and lunged forward, attacking the farmer sloppily but strongly all the same. Their blades clashed repeatedly. With every step that Clive took, John took one backward, until his back was against the wall. They struggled, their weapons sliding against one another in a tight lock.
All around them, glass shattered and chairs broke in half. The Brotherhood was losing the upper hand, and the few mercenaries that remained were starting to flee.
“Clive!” they shouted. “Clive, let’s go!”
“We won’t win this!”
One of them was running for the doors when suddenly a spear jabbed him in the gut. It was the only thing that made Clive break his glare on John.
“Shields up!” someone shouted from the outside.
The village guards had arrived; they were lined up around the tavern, guarding every exit.
It was over. The red mercenaries were trapped.
“No,” Clive muttered, suddenly looking like a nervous child. “No… NO!!”
He swung, but his rage made him sloppy. After a few clashes, John disarmed and pinned Clive down on the floor, his knee pressed against the red leathers on the man’s back. As the armored soldiers started to charge in, Syrena’s eyes widened. She immediately put her hands down and killed the flames, but there was lingering smoke rising out of them like a sizzling steak. She glanced all around for Hudson, who was suddenly nowhere to be found. Instead, she dropped to her knees and used John as a shield to hide her smoking palms. The farmer had the tip of his blade pressed against Clive’s neck.
“Stay down!” he said.
Clive spit on the farmer’s boots. “You gonna kill me, goldie?” he snickered.
John’s glare was almost menacing. He wanted to sink the blade in, but something held him back. He wasn’t sure if it was honor or the fear of killing again, but he tried not to dwell on it.
“You’re done,” he said. “It’s over…”
The village guards began snatching up any remaining mercenaries and shoved them out of the tavern doors. Sivvy was nearly spotted glimpsing out of the satchel had it not been for Syrena, who ran and closed the lid just in time, strapping it back onto herself after she’d left it behind in her chair.
As the guards lifted
Clive up by the arms, he shot John a grimace.
“I’ll never forget your face, boy,” the man said, spitting on John’s boots.
The farmer said nothing in return, only turned the other way as if the man did not exist.
“Take ‘im away!” the knight commander growled.
“Never, y’hear me?!” Clive went on radically. “I’ll never forget your face!”
John’s chest was pounding. He’d faced death for what seemed like the hundredth time since the journey began. He was so edgy that he jolted when he felt the warm hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” Syrena said. “Relax. It’s only me… Where’s Hudson?”
John’s eyes scanned the room. Injured peasants were being tended to while others were rushing to steal from the pockets of fallen mercenaries before the bodies were dragged out. Seamus was starting to clear out the mess and guards were scurrying in and out of the tavern doors.
Hudson, however, was nowhere to be found…
* * *
Over a dozen men in horses, all of them dressed in red leathers, rode cautiously through the empty road that led to Skinner’s cabin. A light was guiding Captain Malekai Pahrvus towards it, a light coming from one of the windows. The white stallion, which he’d stolen during the raid back in the Woodlands, was tired and hungry, mud splattering over its legs with every step, each one slower than the last.
“Shh, easy now,” he caressed the stallion’s neck, his dark brown hands contrasting against the animal’s snow-white pelt. Suddenly the light inside the cabin died and Malekai raised a fist into the air, signaling the rest of his men to a halt.
The captain narrowed his only eye, but through the fog all he could see were shadows.
He gritted his teeth… Every time he struggled with his sight, it only reminded him of his hatred for the farmgirl he knew only as ‘Robyn’. Only once she’d said her name, but the man was never one to forget such things. Had it not been for her, he would still have both his eyes; such a misfortune it was that Nyx had taken the better of the two. He blamed her not only for his eye, but also for losing more than half of his men during the raid on Sir Percyval Garroway’s camp.