by Rob J. Hayes
The fat barman nodded. “Ya lookin' ta take a gander at the Fade?”
Henry watched Thorn lean forwards and fix the man with a glare from his eye. “Reckon we might been thinkin' 'bout it. Ain't many places in the wilds I ain't been but the Fade is one o' them. Figured I should cross it off the list.”
“Dangerous place, the Fade,” the barman continued. “Can't see more than a few feet. Easy ta get lost. I'm told those compass things don't work neither. Reckon the fog messes with 'em.”
Henry looked at Anders. “What's a compass.”
“Ahh, my lady. I used to have one myself but I, uh, misplaced it a long time ago. It's a little device, they fit in the palm of your hand and have a little blade inside that always points north. They're very useful in determining direction.”
“Only the little blade don't work in the Fade,” the barman said. “Just sorta spins around and around. Least far as I hear. Gettin' lost ain't the only problem neither, assumin' ya do know the way to Fogwatch there's always the chance ya might happen upon a wraith.”
Henry snorted. Now the name of the tavern made sense. The wilds was full of people trying to make bits out of monster stories. She once knew a man who claimed he knew where ta find Drurr, deep underneath the yellow mountains. The charlatan was offering to lead an expedition down to their lair for a hefty sum of compensation. Chances were he got folk down in the dark then slit their throats and claimed whatever they hadn’t already given to him.
Thorn grunted. He looked more than a little severe. “Wraiths? Dead don't walk in the wilds. Reckon ya want ta be tellin' us what little ya claim ta know.”
The barman smiled and rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together. Thorn gave Anders a nudge and nodded to pay the man. Anders reached into his little purse, pulled out a bronze bit and handed it to the barman. The fat man nodded.
“Perhaps ya noticed the name o' my tavern, the Silent Wraith, well it's not named so by chance. There's plenty of wraiths out in the Fade though not many of 'em can claim ta be silent. Most are wailin', sobbin' monstrosities that glow with an ethereal blue light...”
“A what?” Thorn asked.
“Ethereal blue light.”
“What the fuck does Eferal mean?”
The smile faded from the barman's face and was replaced by a frowning brow. “Well, it, um, it means, sorta...”
“It means not of this world,” Anders filled in after gulping down the last of his first mug and starting on the second. “Ghostly.”
Thorn let out a low growl. The barman cleared his throat and continued.
“Well there's always been wraiths in the Fade. They, um, sorta glow a bit, blue like an' they float around lookin' fer unwary folk ta suck the life from.”
“Aye?” Thorn asked.
“Aye. Never leave the Fade though. Some say they're trapped there, the ghosts of all those that died, lost in the fog. Others say that every time a wraith kills a victim,” the barman leaned forwards, “the victim becomes a wraith themselves. They don't tend ta attack groups o' folk like yaself but they have been known ta group together an' kill entire parties.”
Henry snorted. “No such thing as wraiths. Ya...”
“No such thing as demons neither, Henry,” Thorn said with a serious face. Wasn't much Henry could say about that given a demon had tried to eat her less than a year back.
“Of course there are precautions wary folk can take against wraith attacks while traversing the Fade,” the barman continued.
“An' I suppose ya got a wide variety of these precautions fer folk at a modest cost,” Henry shook her head. “Jus' another form of bein' robbed this, I reckon.”
Thorn ignored her. “What sort o' precautions?”
The barman smiled a generous smile. “I think fer folk like yaself a charm would probably work best. Wards against the appearance o' wraiths. The dead fear it ya see. Small necklace it is, blessed by the priests of the Five Kingdoms.”
“Aye. They know about the dead over there,” Thorn said, nodding.
“One silver bit per necklace, or twelve bronze bits.” the barman said.
“Anders, hand the man some bits.”
“Uh, boss, that's somewhat close to everything we have.”
“Aye, well I don't wanna get ate by the dead. It don't take long 'fore ya come back... That ain't happenin' ta me. Give him the money.”
Anders grumbled something under his breath but handed over the bits. The barman whisked the coins away and came back a couple of minutes later with a small round bit of wood no bigger than a coin with a crude symbol carved into one of its sides. A loop of string was attached so the charm could be hung around the neck. Thorn snatched the necklace and quickly placed it over his head.
“A wise man ya are, sir. That'll keep the wraiths at bay an' no mistake. Best go deal with the other customers now,” the barman said, grinning from ear to ear, and waddled away.
Henry shook her head. “That there is a right fuckin' waste o' bits.”
Thorn snorted. “I'll remind ya of that when there's a damned wraith chewin' on ya leg.”
Anders finished off his mug and pushed himself to his feet. “Well I suppose I should rustle us up some more coin seeing as the boss has just spent almost all of ours. If anyone happens to catch me I do hope at least one of you will come rushing to my rescue. I would remind you I am not exactly armed.”
Thorn waved Anders away and he and Henry went back to their mugs and played at glaring at each other. It was never an easy thing winning a glaring match with the Black Thorn, most folk found it hard to stare into Henry's eyes but not him, he could stare with the best of them. Problem was now he only had the one eye it somehow made that stare damned unnerving. Henry glanced away before long and decided to focus her attention on her beer. She could feel Thorn grinning at her.
Somewhere into their second beer Anders reappeared with a much larger purse and a drunken glow. Henry immediately grabbed his tunic, pulled him closer and kissed him. Truth was she was bored and when she was bored she liked to either fuck or stab things.
“Can we expect someone ta be wantin' those bits back?” Thorn asked.
Anders detached himself from Henry and smiled. “I wouldn't say so. I won all these fair in a game of chance and skill. It involves flicking a single bronze bit into a mug from increasingly longer distances and drinking every time you get it in. I believe my opponents may have underestimated my capacity.”
That explained why he tasted and smelled of the piss-flavoured beer they served in the tavern. A flicker of movement caught Henry's eye. After so long playing the game in the wilds she had learned to notice when people where paying her particular attention and notice when that attention was about to turn to action. Henry caught Thorn's eye with nod and he understood right away. Hands went to weapons, hers and his. Anders seemed oblivious of the violence that was about to ensue.
The man stopped just outside of striking distance and held up his hands. “Mind if I sit? I'm unarmed, left my weapons back with my crew.” He pointed to another table; five other lads sat watching the encounter.
“Dunno what business ya reckon ya got but it don't involve us,” Thorn said, his right hand appearing above the table with the dirk unsheathed.
The man smiled. He was tall and handsome with a strong jaw, long dark hair and soft blue eyes. He had an easy grace about him but Henry knew better than most how jovial folk could be right cunts.
“Reckon I'll sit anyway. Slowly. No sudden moves. Don't want ta get stabbed or nothin'.” He sat down on the same stool the barman had occupied and laid his hands on the table as a show of good faith. “Good. Now I reckon we can talk business...”
“Do you have a name, good fellow?” Anders slurred at the man, the slur was new and he'd taken to swaying a little in his seat as he waved a mug of beer at the newcomer. Just how much of the drunken fool was an act Henry couldn’t tell.
“Aye. I do. Name's Ben. Six-Cities Ben.”
Henry didn
't know the name but then there were plenty of names in the wilds she didn't know. Thorn was another matter entirely; his teeth clenched, his eye went cold and his hand holding the dirk twitched.
“Easy there big man,” Six-Cities Ben said with a smile. “I get injured an' my friend over there with the crossbow lets loose. Now he ain't the best of shots, that's the fucking truth an' no mistake, but the chances that one of ya is getting stuck is fairly high. That being said I reckon ya want to hear what it is I've got to say. Yes?”
Thorn said nothing. Henry tightened her grip on her knife. Anders drained his beer. “I for one would be delighted to hear anything and everything you have to say, my good man. However I am also a firm believer that all talk goes down a lot more smoothly with a beer in hand and I do believe I've just finished mine.”
Six-Cities Ben laughed and nodded his head. “That sounds fair enough.” He waved to the barman and handed over four bronze bits and sat in silence while he waited for the mugs to arrive. It was a tense time made slightly less so by Anders humming to himself.
“'Bout time ya spoke ya piece, Ben,” Thorn said once the beers had arrived. The barman hurried away as fast as his fat feet would allow. Henry reckoned the Silent Wraith had seen more than its fair share of violence judging by the scars on the walls.
“Aye. Well I hope ya don't me saying but you look a little familiar,” said Six-Cities Ben, his voice was full of humour.
“I get that more than ya might think. It's the eye-patch, I reckon.”
“Hah. The eye-patch, yeah. See I said the exact same thing but my brother, big man over there with grey hair, goes by the name Heavy-Hand though our da' named him Joan, not really a man's name, I know, but our da' had an odd sense of humour. Anyways, my brother said it weren't the eye-patch that was familiar, quite the opposite in fact, it were everything else. Now wait, wait, before ya get all stabby remember the crossbow. Nobody need get hurt just yet, plenty more talking to get through.”
Judging by the look on Thorn's face he didn't much like the idea of more talking. Henry was about to say something herself but Anders got there first.
“You talk a lot, Ben. Can I call you Ben?”
Six-Cities Ben smiled. “If ya like. I do talk a lot, it's a curse. Comes from having a big family, I reckon. Lots of brothers an' not many of 'em big on talking so I took to it myself. See I used to have eight brothers, no sisters despite my ma' desperately wanting one, but uh, only six of us left these days.
“Ant was the first one to go. Fool tried to cross the Jorl on a bet, got his leg bit off by one of them water lizards. Took our revenge though, killed the bloody thing and ate it. Tasted... well it tasted like shit but we did it more for the act of vengeance really.”
“Meat is meat,” Thorn said.
Six-Cities Ben stopped smiling, he and Thorn glared at each other hard, Henry could feel what was coming, feel the tension in the air. She felt her blood start to warm
“As you say. The other two brothers well I reckon you might know 'em. Pretty famous here in the wilds. They went by the names of Little Harry and the Saint.”
Now Henry knew those names well enough. Both had been killed by the old crew back in Bittersprings. They were bounty hunters on the trail of the Black Thorn and that damned Arbiter. Henry was about to make a stab at Ben when Thorn laughed.
“Reckon ya might have mistaken me fer someone else, Six-Cities Ben.”
“That so? Because the way I hear it, it were the Black Thorn's crew that killed my brothers an' you bear more than a passing resemblance,” he glanced at Henry. “Know who you are too. Funny thing is word has it both of you are dead but here I find ya. Bad luck for you, I reckon.”
“Says the man sittin' not two feet from my knife,” Henry said, feeling her sneer turn into a grin.
Six-Cities Ben sneered back. “Crossbow.”
Thorn sniffed loudly. “Hows 'bout ya bring ya brother over here, Ben. Reckon I want ta talk ta the brains o' ya crew.”
Ben seemed to think about that for a moment before looking over to his crew and giving a nod. The man with the grey hair, a broad-shouldered, stone-faced man equal in height to Thorn, stood, said something to his companions, unhooked a heavy mace from his belt and approached. He stopped a few paces away, well out of Thorn's striking distance.
“Long time, Joan,” Thorn said.
“I hear you killed my brother, Thorn,” Joan said back, his voice matching Thorn's menace for menace.
“Ya hear wrong. I ain't gonna lie ta ya, I were part o' the crew but none of us here did fer either of your brothers. Saw 'em die but I was busy killin' the Big Mouth.”
Heavy-Hand Joan sniffed loudly. “Can't say that bastard didn't deserve it,” he said in a neutral tone.
“Not many deserved it more, I reckon. Fact is Little Harry was done in by the Boss.”
Heavy-Hand Joan spat onto the straw-covered floor. Henry realised the noise in the tavern had become strangely muted. Folk in the wilds knew a fight when they saw it coming.
“That's a name I've not heard in some time.”
Thorn nodded. “That'd be 'cos he's well an' truly dead. The Saint stuck an arrow in his back, bastard died a few weeks later.”
“From the rot?” Six-Cities Ben asked.
“Aye, well I reckon that helped,” Thorn continued. “Having his face bitten off didn't do him much good neither.”
“Got what was coming to him,” Joan said, his mace still ready in his hand.
Again Thorn nodded. “Well seein' as how the bastard spent two years robbin' me of half my share I'm gonna agree with ya on that one too.”
“And the Saint?” asked Six-Cities Ben.
“He was done in by a lad on our crew went by the name of Swift,” Thorn said. Henry let out a growl. Just the mention of his name was enough to make her angry.
“That's be the same Swift owns half of Chade?” Joan asked.
Thorn nodded. “I hear he's made good fer himself. Somethin' ta do with takin' all the money from our Hostown job.”
Six-Cities Ben whistled. “That were really you? I figured the rumours were shit. Folk say you murdered thousands o' people, half o' them soldiers. Killed the entire H'ost family while you was at it.”
Thorn spat onto the reeds. “Reckon that rumour might be a little bit shit. Some truth ta it, I guess.”
Heavy-Hand Joan let out a loud sigh, grabbed a nearby stool and sat down, laying his heavy mace across the table. “The Saint would never have gone after you if it weren't fer that dumb fuck Big Mouth Cal. Taught him better 'an that.”
Thorn just nodded, seemed he was relaxing a little, seemed him and Joan had some history. Henry kept a tight grip on her knives, just in case.
“Judging by Henry the Red’s face when ya mentioned Swift I'm guessing he ain't exactly liked by your new crew,” Joan said.
It had been a long time since anyone had called her Henry the Red. She liked it. A name she'd earned a long time ago.
“Aye,” Thorn said. “Ya could say that. Might be we're lookin' ta get some payback on account of not gettin' our fair share.”
“You heading into the Fade?”
Again Thorn nodded. “Possible we got some folk chasin' us. Blooded folk.”
Joan glanced at Anders. Anders grinned at Joan. “'Cos of him or 'cos of Solantis.”
“Little bit o' both, I reckon.”
Joan grunted. “Heard what happened there was the Black Thorn's fault. Little bit at odds with the rumour of you being dead. Either way figured we should come this way looking fer you. Someone needs ta pay the price fer the Saint after all.”
Henry sniffed. She didn't really like being reminded of her part in the slave uprising. The odd murder was one thing but what happened in Solantis was something else, something that made even her pale to think about its scale. Thousands dead because she’d set loose a few slaves and told them to fight. She shuddered and forced her attention back to the conversation.
“We could use a hand in Chade, Jo
an,” Thorn said. “My guess is Swift ain't gonna be easy ta get ta.”
A quick grin spread across Joan's face and then was gone again. “Aye. Seems we got a reason ta crew together again, Thorn. Lucky for you the rest of our boys don't know about ya bounty. Luckier for you me and Ben care more about seeing the Saint ain't lonely in the afterlife.”
Thorn nodded to that but his face was hard. “An' what 'bout after we done fer Swift?”
Joan chuckled. “Won't be no one ta collect from after we're done. Who do ya think placed the bounty on ya head, Thorn?”
Thorn
By the end of the first day in the Fade Betrim was nervous. Every sound echoed around him eerily so he couldn't tell where it had come from; he stared in every direction, his head darting one way and then the other like a bird but he could barely see more than a few feet. By the end of the second day he was quickly approaching something akin to a wreck. By the fourth day he was so tired he was seeing shapes in the mist; shadows gliding around just beyond the edge of his vision.
He didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. They set watches, three sets of eyes per watch and they all slept close, almost on top of each other. Betrim gave up trying to get any rest and stood every watch, axe in one hand while the other clutched to the charm he wore around his neck, he rubbed the small circle of wood so much he picked up splinters but it didn't stop him.
None of the others believed in the wraiths, they all thought if anything it would be bandits that attacked them; robbers who preyed on the unwary foolish enough to enter the Fade alone or unprepared. If that were the case they wouldn't find this group easy pickings; a more dangerous group of folk Betrim had rarely travelled with. None of the others believed in the wraiths but none of the others had been to the Five Kingdoms. Betrim had, he had seen the dead walk, seen what they did to the living, seen the living turn dead and rise again.
At the end of the fourth day Joan came to Betrim, gave him a real intense look. “How longs it been since we last crewed together, Thorn?”
Betrim stared at Joan with one tired eye; he could feel the lid drooping even now. “How longs it been since you stopped playin' the game an' started huntin' those that do?”