The Colour of Vengeance

by Rob J. Hayes

  With a growling grunt Betrim launched himself towards the overhanging balcony. Seemed it was further away then he'd reckoned and for a heart-stopping moment he was certain he'd fall short. A horrible vision of himself collapsed on the street below with four angry sailors standing over him flashed into Betrim's mind but vanished when he hit the stone railing of the balcony chest first. Before he could consider how close he'd come to missing the jump Betrim scrambled and pulled and pushed and flopped over the lip of the balcony. He heard a body hit the stone behind him and decided not to check whether the sailor had made the jump or not.

  Betrim pushed through a light curtain to find two women staring at him. Both were naked and in bed. One woman, with skin as dark as the night and nipples as large as grapes was straddling the other. Both looked terrified. Seemed to Betrim something was off about the scene but he wasn't about to stop and ask questions no matter how much he might like to.

  He thundered through the door at the far end of the room shoulder first to find a stair case leading up and down. He chose up and sprinted up the stairs as fast as his complaining legs could take him. The stairs ended on the top floor and a long corridor stretched out in front of him with doors on either side, all were closed, no doubt locked. At the far end of the corridor was a single window, shutters open to the cool air outside.

  Betrim ran-limped towards the window. Seemed his ankle had picked up a nagging pain, he wasn't sure when it had happened but it wasn't ideal. He reached the window just as one of the sailors appeared at the top of the staircase and shouted back down to the others. Without another thought Betrim launched himself out of the window.

  On his way down the thought occurred to Betrim that he should have looked out of the window before jumping. There were no more buildings close enough to land on, nothing close enough but the hard stone of the street three floors below in fact, well that and a few painful looking crates. Betrim decided to aim for the crates, not that he really had any sort of control where he fell.

  There was a noise something like a crunch or maybe a crash and pain, the type of pain that registers throughout the entire body all at once and feels a lot like landing on something hard having just fallen from a high height. Still, it seemed something broke his fall somewhat, because he had that nagging feeling he got when he wasn't dead yet, though everything had gone strangely dark and had a strange musky, feathery smell.

  Something sharp and painful started scrabbling at Betrim's face and his hand shot up and grabbed it. A moment later he opened his eye to find he had in fact hit the crates and had in fact managed to destroy every single one of them. A man stood close by spouting curses even Betrim had never heard before. The thing that had been clawing at his face turned out to be a chicken and a particularly scared one at that. It reminded Betrim of his parents ranch back in Sarth so many years ago, reminded him of the argument he'd had with them, reminded him of how that argument had led to their deaths.

  A shout from above and Betrim dodged out of the way just as a sailor came plummeting from the sky to land with a sickening crunch where the Black Thorn had just been lying. The man didn't move, just lay there, broken and gurgling out his last breaths. Betrim carefully placed the chicken on the ground and limped away.

  He was in a large street with plenty of stone buildings either side, some homes, some shops, one tavern. It wasn't busy but it wasn't empty; people moved about, some stopped to stare at the bloody mess of sailor, some just ignored the entire thing as if a bit of death was a normal everyday occurrence for them, chances were that wasn’t far from the truth. A number of mercs, those meant to police the city, stood by laughing and making jokes at the dead man's expense. He ignored them all. If he could just put some distance between himself and here he might...

  “Thorn!” Betrim recognised the voice as belonging to the sailor with the crooked eyebrow. He turned to find out he was correct. The man was jogging towards him, breathing hard and holding his side. Seems Betrim wasn't the only one not used to running. The cook was limping along just behind Crooked Eyebrow and as Betrim watched a third sailor was thrown out of a doorway by a big merc with more gums than teeth. The third sailor dusted himself off, looked around and then joined the chef and Crooked Eyebrow. “'Bout time ya stopped runnin'!”

  Betrim grinned, though he doubted it looked quite so menacing as normal as he was still gasping air into his lungs. “Reckon... reckon I got a bit more in me. How 'bout you?”

  Crooked Eyebrow snarled at Betrim. “Reckon ya a coward.”

  The grin disappeared. Betrim Thorn was many things but one thing that was not on that list was coward and he knew the moment he let one prick get away with calling him such then soon everybody would be at it and, when that happened, it wouldn't take long for those same folk to start trying to kill him. It was the nature of the game in the wilds, those with no name were always trying to make one off those with the big names and truth was they didn't come much bigger than the Black Thorn.

  Didn't seem like there was much else left to say. Betrim set his face into an expressionless mask, readied his axe in his right hand and plucked his dagger from his belt with his left. Then he advanced on the three sailors.

  All three men started to fan out, trying to surround him but the Black Thorn wasn't some green as grass boy, new to the ways of a fight. He charged Crooked Eyebrow with a wordless yell of fury. The sailor seemed caught somewhere between surprise and terror but he managed to dodge Betrim's first swing and blocked the axe with his cutlass on the second. Betrim was just about to stab his dagger into the man's face when the cook swung at him with his heavy meat cleaver. Betrim launched himself to his right to get away from the chunk of metal and nearly stumbled into the dagger wielding sailor who seemed more than happy to get in a good stabbing.

  He was a young sailor, the one with the dagger, Betrim couldn't tell how young but he reckoned he was just past reaching manhood. He had a real eager look on his face, the sort of look boys get when they want to make their first kill. Before they realise that killing doesn't make you a man, doesn't give you a name, doesn't do anything but make the other person dead. Betrim dropped his axe, grabbed hold of the sailor's attacking arm with his right hand and stuck his left hand, complete with knife, into the sailor's neck three times. He scooped up his axe before the body even hit the floor. His two remaining enemies started to look a lot less sure of themselves.

  The cook mumbled something to Crooked Eyebrow, might have been another language, Betrim couldn't tell. Crooked Eyebrow looked at Betrim real hard for a few moments then glanced at the cook. “Twenty-five thousand bits!” The cook nodded and then both men started towards Betrim.

  This time both sailors attacked at once. Betrim swatted the cutlass away with his axe and jumped back away from the cleaver, giving ground before his two attackers. He was aware of a crowd gathering around him; watching him like he was fighting in one of the Solantis pits. Mercs lined the streets laughing and betting on the outcome, none of them feeling the need to interfere. Solantis wasn't exactly known for order being kept on the streets and this right here was proof.

  They came at him again and this time he blocked the cleaver, edged out of the way of the cutlass and slashed his knife at Crooked Eyebrow. The sailor jumped back and Betrim charged between the two of them. Forcing them to turn, to keep him in sight. The two sailors came back together, uncertain of Betrim's tactics. Weren't much of a tactic if truth be told, he was just trying to keep them guessing.

  The cook was the problem. He was pretty good with that cleaver of his and Betrim was sure if the cook went down then Crooked Eyebrow would run. Not that the Black Thorn would give him chance to run.

  Betrim could feel something wet on his chest, didn't feel much like sweat, felt warm and sticky. He glanced down to find a shallow cut bleeding red blood into his white shirt. An inch lower and it would have taken off his nipple, not that he could see any reason for a man to keep his nipples. Women's nipples, now they were alright, attached to the brea
st as they were made them real nice to look at and even better to play with. Betrim had never seen the benefit of playing with his own nipples. Truth was he pretty much forgot they were there most of the time.

  A strange thought intruded in the Black Thorn's head so he gave it voice. “You kill Rilly?”

  The cook shook his head but it was Crooked Eyebrow that answered. “Ain't got no quarrel with her nor the Cap'n. Jus' afer you, Thorn.”

  That was good, at least he didn't have to avenge his friend's daughter. The cook's eyes went wide and he let out a strangled cry, his entire body tensed and convulsed and his cleaver dropped to the floor. Blood poured out from his mouth and it took Betrim a moment to realise the man had two dagger tips sticking out through his chest, blood spreading out all over his stained apron. The Black Thorn didn't waste a moment, he launched his hand-axe at Crooked Eyebrow. The axe took the sailor just below his neck, embedded itself in his chest with a solid, meaty thwack and knocked the man to the ground. Dead before he hit the floor, Betrim reckoned.

  The dagger points disappeared from the cook's chest and he stopped convulsing. A moment later his body collapsed to the ground like a sack of boneless meat. A small woman stood behind the corpse, staring at the blood on her twin daggers with a cruel grin on her face.

  The woman was short and slim but with an obvious wiry strength to her. Her hair was longer than Betrim had ever seen it, just starting to touch her shoulders, but still the same dust colour it had always been. Her eyes were cool pools of blue in her face and the scar on her lip that pulled her mouth into a permanent sneer stood out as proud as ever. She no longer wore leathers, Betrim noticed, instead she was wearing a baggy white linen shirt and a plain pair of brown trousers meant for a man. A sturdy pair of boots reached almost up to her knees.

  After a long moment the woman stopped admiring the blood on her daggers and looked at Betrim. She cocked an eyebrow when she saw him staring at her. For a worrying moment Betrim thought she might be able to tell he was remembering what she looked like naked, pretty damn good if his memory was right.

  “What's the matter, Thorn? No hug?” the little woman said with a dirty grin that made the Black Thorn smile despite himself.

  “You put away those daggers, Henry an' I'll bloody kiss you if ya like.”

  “Jus' as long as it ain't on the mouth.”

  Henry wiped off her daggers and re-sheathed them in her belt. Betrim walked over and embraced her little frame in his big arms. She gave a little squeak of alarm but didn't stab him. Truth was hugging weren't the sort of thing the Black Thorn did but then it just sort of felt right at that point.

  When he let her go she gave him a look. “Fuck me I was jokin' bout the hug, Thorn.” Then she grinned at him. “Though if ya wanna...”

  “Henry,” came a voice from off to Betrim's right. Sounded gruff and with a commanding tone. He turned to see one of the mercs standing there with a very nonchalant pose. “Thought I told ya, no more murderin' folk.”

  Henry sent a wink at Betrim and stepped towards the merc. It was almost comical to see the big man take a hurried step backwards when confronted by such a small woman. “Weren't no murder, Kain. Was a straight up killin'. Those dumb bastards was attackin' a good friend o' mine. Was jus' helpin' him out.”

  The merc, Kain looked from Henry to Betrim. “What's your business in Solantis, sailor.”

  Betrim spat. “Gettin' out o' these fuckin' sailor clothes fer a start. Past that reckon my business is none o' yours.”

  Henry turned away from the merc and grinned at Betrim. For some reason he couldn't stop remembering what she looked like naked, then he decided it was because it had been too damned long since he'd last been with a woman, any woman. Betrim reckoned he'd need to find himself a whorehouse sometime soon... and some money to pay for it.

  “Come on, Thorn. I'll take ya ta my place,” Henry said, walking away, no longer paying the merc any attention.

  “You got a place?” Betrim couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “Aye. I got a place.”

  Henry

  Felt right good to see Thorn again; even if he did look more than a little worse for wear. Henry never had many friends in her life and those she did she tended to scare away. Thorn was different though; even from the start they'd got along, even after she'd stabbed him.

  It was the one thing they'd never managed to get past. Thorn seemed to take the stabbing personally; seemed to think if they ever had sex again she'd stab him again. Wasn't like that for Henry though. Even back then the Black Thorn had been a big name; one of the biggest. Henry's name had been on the rise; rumours of a woman murdering folk in Chade, of course some of those rumours also said she was a weird and Henry didn't much like that.

  The Black Thorn had been sat alone in a tavern; one of Henry's regular hunting grounds, with a dark look on his burnt up, scarred face that was scaring away some of the nastiest men Henry had ever met. But she weren't scared. Henry weren't scared of no one; not even that bitch of a Blademaster who left her dangling over the Jorl.

  So Henry bought the Black Thorn a couple of beers then took him up to her room. She wanted to see what a name that big could do and, as she remembered it, she weren't left wanting. Trouble was she got a bit carried away; wanted to know whether the Black Thorn bled like everyone else, so in the middle of it she stabbed him in the side. Wasn't a deep cut, nor a vital one, weren't even bad enough to stop the Black Thorn finishing; just enough to make him bleed, to leave a scar to remember her. Turned out he bled just like every other man Henry had ever stabbed. Trouble was ever since then he had a habit of looking at her like she was thinking of stabbing him again. She'd been there, seen that; no need for a repeat. Though she wouldn't mind another fuck; weren't often she came across a man with a third leg.

  Henry realised she was staring at him from the corner of her eye. Still just as tall as ever but looked like he'd lost some weight. His hair used to be longer than hers and dyed black but now it was short and red. Henry liked it red, the colour of blood. The left side of his face was still burned with twisted, melted flesh but now he had a black eye patch strapped on covering his left socket.

  “Is it gone?” she asked him.

  Thorn turned his head to look at her, he had to turn it an awful long way considering she was on his left side. “The eye? Aye, it's gone.”

  “What happened?” she asked, more than a little fascinated by what lay beneath the patch.

  “Arbiter took it.”

  Henry made a noise at the back of her throat, she liked those witch hunters about as much as Thorn did; which put it somewhere between hate and really hate. “That one from before? What happened to him?”

  “Thanquil? He's dead. But it weren't him. Were a different one,” Thorn said, didn’t seem like he was overly fond of the topic.

  “What about that whore of his? She dead too?”

  Thorn didn't look happy but it was hard to tell with his face. “Jezzet... Aye. She's dead too.”

  Henry spat and a grin hit her face. Seemed today was a good day. “Good fuckin' riddance.”

  Thorn didn't reply; just kept walking in silence with that unhappy face of his. After a while he spoke again. “Ya know ya way around Solantis. How long ya been here?”

  “Half a year or so, I reckon. After Hostown... After what happened ta the Boss I ran back ta Chade. Thought I could find myself a new crew or... I dunno. Thought everyone was dead back there. Turns out they weren't.” Henry paused, felt her jaw tense, felt the anger rise up so high and hot she wanted to scream. She wanted to stab someone. The pain in her right leg flared up again; was a constant thing these days, a constant ache that sometimes got worse to the point where it forced her to limp.

  “Why Solantis?” Thorn asked. He was staring at her with his one eye and that expressionless face of his.

  Henry swallowed down the rage before answering. “Seemed as good a place as any. Plenty o' work here if it's needed. Plenty o' people. Not much in
the way of laws.” It was also the place she'd been born but she didn't like to admit to that. No one liked to admit to that.

  She stopped outside the tavern, the Dog's Laugh. Had a picture on the sign of some laughing dogs baying at the moon over the plains. Not the cheeriest of names but then in Solantis there weren't much in the way of cheer. It was a shitty building if truth be told; part wood and part brown stone. Two stories and a cellar for the booze, kitchen and a common room on the ground floor, four bedrooms above. Used to be those rooms were rented out but not anymore.

  A drunk lay on the ground outside the door; his head resting against the wall of the tavern. He was cradling an empty bottle like it was a new-born babe. Henry thought about aiming a kick at the man's head but decided he wouldn't even wake up. She could smell the alcohol on him from here, stale and rancid.

  “Welcome to my place,” Henry said, grinning.

  “What? You own a tavern?” the surprise in his voice sent a hot flush of pride through Henry's chest.

  “Aye,” Henry said still grinning. Thorn was staring at her with an open mouth, she could tell, but she weren't about to stop him. Instead she looked at her little tavern and felt content to let her rage drain away.

  “Well ya gonna tell me how ya came by it?” Thorn asked.

  Henry took a deep breath; just to extend the moment, just to mess with him. “Aye, I guess so. Seems it'll sound better over a beer, I reckon.”

  “Beeeeeeeeeer...” the drunk slurred from the floor; stirring to life at the sound of alcohol.

  Thorn laughed, though Henry thought it sounded more like a dagger scraping against stone. “Ya know, I thought he were dead.”