The Colour of Vengeance

by Rob J. Hayes

  “Brilliant. I do love a good show,” the man's voice was rich and full of warmth though Pern couldn't place the accent.

  Pern drew his sword with his right hand even before Swift spoke.

  “You alright, Suzku?” the tone in Swift's voice was an unneeded warning that the danger was not yet over.

  Pern glanced down at his left hand. The throwing knife was embedded blade-end first into his palm and the tip of the blade stuck out the back of his hand. He ignored the pain and readied himself for a fight. “I am Haarin.”

  The new comer laughed again. “So I see but I reckon you might want to put a bandage on that. Why don't you scurry off so me an' Swift here can have a little private chat.”

  Pern made no indication of moving, Swift gave no indication of wanting his Haarin to move. This was exactly the situation Pern had been contracted for.

  “Don't reckon I know you,” Swift said. Pern had no doubt his client was already armed and ready to attack in a moment.

  The new comer didn't look in the least bit intimidated by the weapons pointed at him. “Then I should introduce myself. Captain Drake Morrass.”

  Pern could almost hear the grin slip from Swift's face. “That ain't possible. I got people on the docks watchin' fer ya ship.”

  Drake Morrass breezed past Pern; mindless of the sword pointed his way and slipped into the chair opposite Swift. “Aye. An unsavoury man by the name of Bryson did seem to be taking a particular interest in the Fortune when she sailed into port. Last I saw he was taking a swim in the bay; the fool decided to stuff his pockets full of stones and tie his hands together before jumping in.”

  Swift looked somewhat less than pleased. “An’ why would he go an’ do that?”

  “I can only assume he didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Drake Morrass said with a wide grin and held his hands out wide. “Surprise!”

  “Aye,” Swift said and sat back down in his chair, a throwing knife still in each hand. “Seems ta me ya got some stones on ya, Morrass. Walkin' in here all alone as ya are. Might be dangerous fer folk such as yaself.”

  “Hah!” Morrass barked. “Nonsense. We have no reason to want each other dead. Least far as I can see.”

  Swift looked past Captain Morrass and waved in the direction of the corpse currently occupied staining the floor a healthy red colour.

  “That? That was just me saying hello. You're still alive aren't you? No harm done,” Drake Morrass said with a wink towards Pern. For his part Pern did not entirely agree with the no harm done, the knife still embedded in his left palm felt more than a little harmful but his Haarin training had long ago taught him how to deal with and ignore pain.

  “What is it ya want, Morrass?” Swift asked with no hint of amusement.

  “Well there's a couple of things really. First it dawns on me I never did thank you personally for that job you did for me last year.”

  “Ya mean killin' H'ost.”

  Morrass' wide grin turned into a cruel smile and he rubbed at the fashionable stubble on his face. “Aye. Your father was an interesting one to be sure and a particularly annoying thorn in my side.”

  Pern could tell Swift was still wary but he was settling back down after the attempt on his life. His feet once again scuffed the polished wooden desk. “Got a few o' those my own self. Don't reckon we'll be callin' H'ost my da' no more though. Never did no fatherin' far as I remember it.”

  “And yet you keep such a… flattering depiction of his image,” Drake waved in the direction of H’ost’s portrait. “Also you've laid claim to the H'ost fortune as the sole surviving heir, bastard or no.

  “The way I hear it all the other H’osts that managed to survive the massacre at Hostown had a series of unfortunate accidents that tended to result in an immediate case of death. Funny how a good old fashioned massacre can benefit some folk.”

  For just a moment a haunted look passed across Swift's face. Pern had seen it before in the faces of older Haarins no longer able or willing to take on contracts. It was the look of a man who had seen things he never wished to remember. It was a look Pern never expected to see on the face of his client.

  “What happened at Hostown was the Black Thorn's doin',” Swift protested. “I footed the bounty on his head myself...”

  Morrass laughed. “Easy to post a bounty on a dead man.”

  “As fer the rest o' the folk 'tween me an' H'ost's fortune. Well I don't reckon I did nothin' you wouldn't o' done in my own place an’ I’m more than certain ya’ve done worse in your time.”

  The smile dropped from Morrass' face. “So you do have your father's money? You see there's something that's been bothering me, Swift. I paid you a lot of money to kill your father. Somewhere in the exact region of one million gold bits if I remember and I assure you I do. Enough to buy your way onto the ruling council for sure but not enough to then start buying up all of our dear departed Lord Xho's and Lord Colth's properties. So you see I was forced to ask myself where in the hells could my little assassin have gotten so much money.”

  “Inheritance,” Swift said, his face a still mask as he lied through his teeth. “Rich daddy left it all ta me by process of elimination.”

  “I do hope so, Swift. Your father had an acquaintance, I wonder if you've heard of him, goes by the name Kessick; formerly Arbiter Kessick.”

  Swift snorted. “I weren't exactly friendly with my da'. He coulda known the fuckin' emperor o' Sarth fer all I know, or care. What's ya issue with this Kessick then?”

  “The usual really. He wants me dead and I feel much the same about him. You'll let me know if you hear anything about him, of course.”

  “Aye. Sure,” Swift said.

  “Good. He's a hard man to find.”

  “What did he do fer H'ost?”

  Captain Drake Morrass didn't answer at first, he sat and watched Swift who in turn sat and watched back. Pern stood close by; motionless, forgotten but sword still drawn and ready in case of an attack.

  “Your father wanted to unite the wilds, to place himself at the head as king just like D'oro did hundreds of years back. He wanted to re-unite the blooded families and he was willing to do it with blood, fire and fear. Kessick was helping him for reasons unclear.”

  “How?” Swift asked.

  Again Drake Morrass paused and artfully re-arranged the collar of his over-coat. “Don't know exactly but I know he didn't have the Inquisition's blessing.”

  “An' you support someone else, do ya? Another one of the blooded?”

  With a smile and a shake of his head Drake Morrass rolled from the chair onto his feet. “Nah. I don't care which of the blooded lot takes the throne, if any of them ever do. I just don't want Kessick in charge. Good?”

  Swift nodded. “Aye. Good.”

  “Seems you and I, Swift, together we got a controlling interest in this here free city. Reckon I might stick around for a bit and see how you've been handling the rest of the council.”

  “Got 'em eatin' out o' my hand.”

  Captain Drake Morrass laughed his rich, warm laugh and with a wave at Swift, a wink at Pern and a dramatic billowing of his over-coat he turned and made a leisurely pace towards the door; making sure to step over the still bleeding corpse of the would-be assassin. After he was gone Swift spent a long time brooding in silence while Pern stood by and dripped yet more blood onto the wooden floor. He was starting to feel a little faint; the knife would need removing from his hand sooner rather than later.

  “Tell me somethin', Suzku,” Swift said. Pern forced himself to focus on his client. “Does that contract to protect my life extend ta preventative measures?”

  It took only a moment for Pern to realise what Swift meant. “I am Haarin, not an assassin.”

  “For four hundred-thousand gold bits ya should be whatever the fuck I want ya ta be. Get the fuck out o' here an' stop bleedin' on my floor.” Pern bowed his head once in acknowledgement and walked on unsteady feet towards the floor. “An' get rid of that fuckin' body whiles ya
at it!”

  Thorn

  “Dragonspawn,” one of the mercs; the fat one who went by the name of Lucky, said in a hushed voice as if the very word could bring a great, flying, fire-breathing lizard down upon their heads.

  “It ain't dragonspawn,” Betrim opined and shifted himself in his saddle yet again. Seems no matter how many times he sat upon a horse he always managed to crush his stones. The mercs had taken to mocking him about it daily and the Black Thorn didn't take well to mocking. He might have done something about it but his hands were well and truly chained, not to mention he was more than a little outnumbered and lacking any sort of weapon.

  “How do you know, Thorn? You gonna tell us ya met a dragon now are ya?”

  “As it happens. Aye, I have,” Betrim lied with his usual impassive face. “An' that ain't dragonspawn. Jus' a big fuckin' lizard is all. Like them water lizards in the Jorl only these ones don't swim.”

  The lizard wasn't doing much of anything at the moment, if truth be told. Seemed it wasn't interested in the passing mercs and their prisoners but was more than happy to lie on a fair sized boulder in a nice looking patch of sunlight. Betrim had to admit it looked like a comfortable spot and he was a little jealous of the beast.

  “Well whatever it is I don't like it. Shoo! Go on, fuck off!” Lucky shouted at the lizard while waving his spear in the air.

  The lizard raised its head and gave the fat merc a long, patient stare but showed no signs of impending movement. After a few seconds Lucky's horse stepped away from the boulder and its lizard occupant and Betrim didn't blame the animal. At just three times the size of a man from snout to tail this particular lizard made for a small member of its family who, up here in the northern, rocky areas of the wilds, were known to grow to twice that size and could easily make short work of a small party of travellers.

  “Wonder what it tastes like. Wouldn't mind some meat tonight.” This came from one of the ex-Long Tooth mercs, a man with a giant nose and a broad spotty forehead. “Something fresh. Get sick of dried salt-beef af’er a while.”

  “Don't reckon ya wanna try it,” Betrim said grinning at the man. “Them things is poisonous.”

  “Those things are venomous,” Anders said his voice sounding strained. Since they had stopped to look at the giant lizard he had taken the opportunity to slouch over in his saddle and glare at everybody through heavily lidded eyes.

  “Eh?” Betrim grunted.

  “I was simply correcting you, boss,” Anders said. “They have a venomous bite, they are not poisonous.”

  “Didn't realise there was a difference.”

  “Well there is,” Anders shook his head and shifted his body to stare in the other direction.

  One day out of Solantis, Anders had become irritable. He had begun to shake a little, sweat profusely and sigh a lot. Three days out of Solantis and Anders had become intolerable. Now the man shook all the time, slept little, if at all and vomited back up most of what he ate, when he ate at all but the thing that was really making the Black Thorn want to hit Anders was his constant corrections. It seemed that almost every time Betrim spoke these days he was being corrected, both in language and, as Anders pointed out, sentence structure. Betrim wasn't even certain what sentence structure meant but whatever it was he was about ready to beat Anders to a bloody mess over it. Even the mercs had had enough; each day they rolled dice to see who would have to ride with the blooded bastard. On the fifth day Kain had gagged Anders but today he was allowed full use of his mouth again and he seemed determined to make everyone regret the decision.

  Henry was faring a lot better. She rode in silence every day despite never having sat a horse before, and glowered at any merc who came within ten feet of her. Most had learned to keep their distance after the first of the mercs to accidentally touch her had ended curled up in a ball on the floor with Henry kicking him despite him being armed and twice her size and her being chained.

  Betrim decided to take the opportunity of the mercs being distracted by the giant lizard and steered his horse towards Anders. Truth was he didn't really know how to steer a horse so he just leaned in the direction he wanted to go and waited for the beast to oblige.

  “Anders, you alright?” Betrim asked in a whisper.

  Anders shifted his weight again and turned to face Betrim. He was pale as a ghost and dripping sweat. “How do I look?”

  “Like someone who really don't wanna be sober.”

  Anders opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “I've been there,” Betrim confided. “Gets better. Just try not ta get ya face broken by these lads 'fore...”

  “I really don't think I'm going to have time to get over my alcoholism, boss. You see, this time tomorrow we will be in Crucible and I have this strange feeling that Lord Brekovich is going to give us a little bit more than a mild telling off.” Anders face contorted into something resembling a smile. “But I suppose it will all be over soon. Something to look forward to.”

  “Aye, well. Reckon I been in worse situations. Somethin'll turn up,” Betrim said, determined to stay positive.

  Anders stared at Betrim for a moment then groaned and buried his face in the hair around the horse's neck. The creature turned its head and looked at Betrim through dull, emotionless eyes. Some men might have joined suit with Anders in this situation but Betrim Thorn was not one of those men. When the going got tough, the Black Thorn got tougher.

  The thing about the wilds was it seemed to stretch on forever. Betrim had never tried to walk from one end to the other, and truth was this was about as far north as he'd ever been, but he was told it could take years without the aid of a horse. Up here the weather got cold and the rivers ran slow, none more so than the mighty Greywash; as wide as the Jorl and as deep as the God's Eye mountain was tall but also as sluggish as a calm breeze. Betrim had even been told once that during the winters the surface of the Greywash could freeze. Frozen water was a peculiar mystery to the Black Thorn and one he'd rather never need learn the truth of.

  Rocks and boulders dotted the barren landscape and slight hills often gave way to sheer cliffs in an instant or, even worse, something the more learned folk called scree; slopes of tiny, jagged stones that shifted and turned and ran underfoot. It was impossible to stop moving on scree, once the stones started cascading they'd carry you all the way down, often depositing a man at the bottom and then burying him for good measure. Thankfully the mercs that kept Betrim and his little crew prisoner seemed to have some knowledge of the surrounding terrain and led them through a twisted route, always sticking to the valleys and troughs, only braving the hills when there was no other choice.

  By the next morning the World's End mountains were looming up large and foreboding in front of the little band of sell-swords, mercs and criminals. Betrim wasn't so foolish to believe the mountains really did mark the end of the world but neither did he have even the slightest clue as to what lay beyond them. Truth was he wasn't even certain he wanted to know. The World's End mountains marked the northern end of the untamed wilds and as far as the Black Thorn cared that meant the end of his world and, seeing as how Crucible was nestled just a stone's throw from those mountains and there was a good chance he was going to be executed, today really could mark the end of his world. It was not a comforting thought to be in Betrim's head as the city of kings appeared on the horizon for the first time in his life.

  Crucible was said to be the oldest city in all the wilds. Rumour had it the family line that had ruled the Five Kingdoms for thousands of years had originally come from Crucible. Now the Black Thorn knew better than most that rumours tended toward being on the shit side of truth but one thing everyone agreed on was that Crucible had been the place D'oro had united the wilds; the site where he'd brought all the warlords of the wilds together under a banner of truce and then brutally murdered half of them while forcing the other half into loyalty through kidnapping family members, forced marriage, and employing the use o
f a strange poison that would kill the victim if they did not receive regular doses of antidote.

  Betrim was not a scholar but from everything he had heard King D'oro was perhaps the one name in the history of the wilds with a reputation blacker than his own.

  Considering Crucible was known as the city of kings it was not what Betrim expected. Truth was he found himself a little disappointed when it came to it. He had expected a grand city like Sarth with dazzling buildings and majestic towers. What he saw was cold, grey, stone walls staring back at him and guards that looked more like barbarians dressed in armour that was a strange combination of leather, metal and fur. Some of those guards atop the wall pointed dangerous-looking longbows down at the mercs and Betrim's little crew. Four more, all on horses and with a mean-tempered pack of dogs in tow moved from the guardhouse to surround them.

  The burliest of the four guards carried a battleaxe and had a face near as scarred as the Black Thorn's. His helm had the skull of some large animal fixed atop it and he wore a long fur cloak over his armour. As the man's horse trotted about he glared at each of the group in turn through wide eyes that Betrim reckoned had a touch of madness about them.

  “Strange ta get visitors up so far north. 'Specially those we don't recognise,” the man's voice grated on every nerve the Black Thorn had left.

  Anders groaned from his slumped position and went back to sweating and looking pale as a ghost. The dogs barked and snarled and the horses whinnied and looked as nervous as a mindless beast could.

  The merc, Kain edged his horse forwards a little; making sure to keep his hands as far from his weapons as was possible. The big guard with the battleaxe looked like the type who'd be more than happy to remove a head or two for somewhere short of no reason at all.