by Flank Hawk
The risen sun’s rays were only minutes old. I tried not to stare at Lilly as we drank and ate hardtack from Roos’ haversack. At first I thought the rock-hard square of bread might crack my teeth. Roos suggested dipping it in the tea.
As I chewed the tasteless bread, I snuck a glance at Lilly and wondered. I’d never seen a werebeast—at least not in its animal form. How would she look and act? Would I be safe around her? If she attacked me, could I kill her?
Roos didn’t seem concerned, but he carried a saint-blessed saber and all I had was Guzzy’s silver-bladed dirk. Did Roos know something I didn’t, and that was why he’d referred to Lilly as it instead of her?
The Crusader finished oiling his rifle, set it aside, and drew his saber. Lilly watched him warily as he inspected the blade.
“Last time I saw your saber,” I said, “it glittered like the noon sun reflecting off of it.”
“It wasn’t ye seeing it, but the demon using thine eyes.”
I wanted to ask Lilly how Roos’ saber looked to her, but thought it wasn’t a good idea. Instead I asked Roos, “When you came at me with your saber, your voice sounded like thunder. Was that the demon too?”
Roos nodded. “I was quoting scripture. Sixty-eighth Psalm.” He smiled. “I imagine it made thy sword’s demon uncomfortable.”
Road Toad told me about the Crusader holy book, what they called scripture. It surprised me that the religious writings were available to all worshippers, not just the priests.
“Again,” I said to Roos, “thank you for helping me.”
“I could see ye had not succumbed, and were yet battling the wickedness.” He slid his saber into its scabbard. “Ye are strong, Hawk. For what ye did, I think I could not.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, before finishing off the last corner of hardtack. Lilly handed me the cup.
“I do,” Roos assured me. “Ye may want to bring back food.” Lilly nodded in agreement.
I stood and stretched. “Food, I will. How far is it to the city?”
“Sint Malo is on the coast,” said Roos. “Follow this ditch to the main road, take it west. Leaving now, ye should make it by noon.”
I checked my gear. “I’ll leave my spear,” I said, figuring it would prove difficult to carry through crowds, and into shops and taverns in search of Belinda the Cursed. “Wish me luck.”
“I will offer ye a prayer,” said Roos.
Lilly rolled her eyes in annoyance as the Crusader placed his hand upon the wooden cross he wore beneath his linen shirt. He called upon his God’s son to walk with me on my journey, provide guidance and wisdom, and a safe return.
“If ye do not return two hours past noon tomorrow, friend Hawk, one of us will seek for ye.”
“I will,” said Lilly. “Better I should go with you now.”
“We already discussed it. The enemy seeks the Blood-Sword, not me.”
“It’s not safe to go into that city alone.” She interposed herself between me and the direction of Sint Malo, staring at me and the sun over my shoulder.
“It isn’t safe remaining outside the city either,” I replied.
“Thy friend Hawk has made his decisions, friend Lilly. Let him be on his way.”
The words ‘friend Lilly’ didn’t roll smoothly off Roos’ tongue, but they got her attention. “Good luck,” she said, giving me a hug despite my armor, slung crossbow, and other gear.
I hugged her back, embarrassed that I’d stiffened and delayed for a second. Roos kicked dirt onto the fire. “I’ll be back soon,” I promised her.
I wiped my brow and frowned. With no clouds in the sky, it was going to be a warm day. I undid a few of my padded armor’s buttons. I spent the first half of my trip to Sint Malo wondering what Lilly and Roos would talk about and decided they’d probably ignore each other.
A lot of traffic traveled the packed-gravel road—so much I constantly looked over my shoulder and listened for wagons and horses. Most traffic traveled west, and the closer I got to Sint Malo, the more refugees I saw clustered around shanties and makeshift tents. Mounted patrols wearing the city’s colors, orange and brown, kept the road clear of beggars and refugees away from the planted fields. Even worse, wooden stocks held the head and arms of offenders locked in place as they repeated with parched voices to each passerby, “Stay off the Lord of Sint Malo’s fields.” Servants wearing brown and orange tunics sat in the shade of the offenders, waving off flies and hoping they’d have an excuse to use their leather whips.
I scratched my cheek, deciding the last minute decision to keep the stitches in was a good one. I walked straight, focused on projecting the image of a confident predator rather than prey. I added my best version of Road Toad’s intimidating glare whenever anyone except a soldier or mercenary crossed my path. To them I displayed an alert but emotionless face. Soldiers don’t like to pick fights with mercenaries unless they have orders, or a reason. Most mercenaries don’t prey upon each other, and if they do, only when they’re sure of emerging unscathed. I hoped my battle-worn armor and rough look said messing with me would be like swatting a hornet nest. It was more than a bluff. Road Toad taught me the mercenary ropes, and Sint Malo was sure to be filled with pickpockets and cutthroats. To me, they were the enemy. Every step I took toward the gray-walled city added to my determination.
The road widened until eight cavalrymen could ride abreast. Smaller roads branched off, leading to villages. I kept my eye on the distant city.
Sint Malo looked smaller than the King’s City. Sooty smoke rose from behind the thirty-foot outer wall. At a crossroads about three hundred yards from the main gate, a company of soldiers screened travelers. They turned away peasants, women and children. Ahead of me they allowed an artisan and his son to pass after examining their mule bearing a dozen colorfully woven rugs. I met the gaze of the brown-eyed captain. He let me pass without challenge, and instead barked orders for his men to intercept the rabble behind me. I didn’t turn around, ignoring the shouts and ruckus.
The harsh, militant tactics kept the grounds around the city’s wall clear. I kept walking, following the rug peddlers. The breeze off the ocean carried the stench from the sewage-filled moat that ran along the wall’s base. The city’s main drawbridge was down, and both the inner and outer portcullises were up.
Standing between the battlement’s crenels, crossbowmen watched the traffic. Four soldiers armed with shields and spears stood within the shade of the passage through the wall into the city, while four others were posted at a station beyond the lip of the lowered bridge. One, an officer, sat at a stout table near the moat. Behind him stood a hulking guard leaning on his halberd, one which showed obvious signs of use. The two less muscular guards stood ready, blocking the path to the bridge ten yards in front of the officer.
The two forward guards allowed the rug peddlers to pass before stepping together, blocking my path. “Wait,” one of them grumbled. Sweat ran down his brow, the same as me. His chain armor and the padding beneath had to be hotter than mine.
I watched the elder peddler hand over coins to the officer before crossing the bridge into the city. At the sound of their mule’s clomping over the bridge, the two guards stepped aside.
I strode up to the table and met the wicked smile of the dark-faced officer after he marked on a ledger with a pencil and dropped the peddler’s coins into a small box at his feet. He squinted up at me. “Seven silver to enter the city.”
I read the ornately scrolled sign tacked down on the table. It listed the entrance tariff for merchants to be two silvers. Mercenaries, five silvers. All others were seven silvers.
I pointed to the line that read ‘Mercenary.’ “I’ll pay the posted five.”
The guard behind the officer stood up straight. His full height brought him to well over a head taller than me. The officer snorted a laugh. “It takes more than a bit of peasant armor and scavenged weapons to call oneself a mercenary.”
One of the things I’d learned was to ne
ver back down. If I did, chances are they’d take my money and deny me entrance. “I am what I say.”
“What lord do you serve?” He smiled, showing a gap between his large teeth.
“None. I seek entrance to find salt, strengthen the anti-corrosion spell on my blade, and enjoy myself.”
He asked smugly, “Who have you served?”
I reached into a pocket and pulled out the arm sash bearing purple and gold. “I served Keesee until three panzers, backed by ogres and zombies, smashed my battalion.”
“And you fled,” he sneered.
“The losing side rarely pays up,” I shrugged. “Why risk going south to reenlist?”
He pointed with his pencil. “Where’d you get the cut?”
“A trio of goblins ambushed me.”
“Dangerous to travel alone,” the officer remarked.
I shook my head. “More dangerous to travel in threes, I’d say.”
The tall guard cracked a smile and chuckled. I looked up at him, winked, and reached into my pouch behind my breastplate. “I’ll pay the posted five silver, and leave two copper to your tall friend.” I laid seven coins on the table. “It’s been a week since anyone’s laughed at one of my jokes.” I gambled that it’d be imprudent for the officer to deny a comrade money in favor of lining his liege’s pockets.
The officer accepted and waved me past.
Without looking back I crossed the bridge and held my breath to avoid inhaling the swirling stench of raw sewage, even though it was nothing compared to close combat with a zombie horde. I ignored the guards and walked into an open courtyard beyond the wall. Manure from goats, oxen, and horses littered the cobbled stone. From the courtyard, three wide streets lined by two-story limestone buildings led into the city. Wood shingle roofs grayed by decades of exposure to the sun matched the weather-worn exterior walls. Doors stood propped open while off duty soldiers loitered nearby or looked down from their barrack’s windows. I strode past, ignoring narrow side streets teeming with merchants, soldiers, oxen, carts and servants. Oily smoke filled the air from vendors selling smoked fish. While grumbles, chatter, and an occasional laugh reminded me of the King’s City, the smell of stale sweat and the rundown condition of the shops, apartments, even the pitted streets, stood in stark contrast. The smiles were false, and many eyes held despair, desperation, and fear.
I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I stayed on the center road into the heart of the city. I instinctively reached for my sword when I saw two ogres towering above the crowds, bullying their way through. I reminded myself that Sint Malo was an open city. I hoped the congestion would thin as I moved away from the city’s main gate. It did. But with fewer people, I became less anonymous.
I reached an inner wall, much cleaner than the outer one and well guarded. The sentries standing next to the lowered portcullis looked less than friendly. I stepped off the main road and onto the porch of a candle maker’s shop. Shade from the tattered canvas awning provided relief from the sun. I’d reached Sint Malo a little after noon, and had been in the city for almost an hour. I watched the guards around the portcullis while pondering who I might ask directions to the Fertile Serpent, the tavern Road Toad said Belinda the Cursed frequented.
Stares from the woman working inside the candle shop, and the prodding of her weary husband to run me off their porch, helped me decide. I crossed the street to get a cup of tea from a bored peddler. With the day’s warmth, I wasn’t surprised that he didn’t have any buyers.
I stopped next to his two-wheeled cart. The man, hardly more than a boy with unruly hair the color of damp straw, smiled, showing brown teeth. “Cup of tea today, fine sir?” he asked, lifting a ceramic cup and long-handled ladle.
“That depends,” I said. “What kind do you have and what are you asking?” I eyed a line of three small sacks with tops rolled down, showing a variety of fragrant leaves.
He nodded toward the guards and gate. “If you’re looking for employment as a watchman or personal guard, don’t bother.”
“And why is that?” I asked, feigning insult.
“I’m sure you know your business,” he said. “But hundreds just like you are doing the same. The fat merchants and aristocrats have more than they need. You’d do better to enlist in Lord Corradin’s army.” He spat on the dusty ground. “Poor pay but steady food and a cot.”
I walked to the side of the cart and leaned back in the shade against the crumbling brick wall. I crossed my arms and asked the tea seller, “What kind of tea?”
“Mountain Mint, Sea Spice, Lemon Cinnamon.” He unscrewed the cap to the thumb-sized steel teaball, ready to stuff a pinch of crushed leaves into the hole-filled container.
I stood away from the wall and directed him to lift the lid off his pot heated by a small oil-fed flame. The water appeared clean, but carried a faint sulfur smell.
“Water’s drawn from the Blue District’s well,” he assured me.
“I see you have only a third of a pot left. Do most of your business in the morning?”
He nodded, again holding the ladle and cup. “And winter is better than summer. Sometimes—not often, a servant of Master Garnwald comes for tea as late as four in the afternoon. He pays me once a month, on retainer he says, to be here.”
I stared at the passing traffic, trying to determine what to do. Laborers bearing sacks and crates on their shoulders made up the majority. I decided the tea seller might know enough to help me. “You’re pretty young,” I observed, “for one so important to retain you.”
He took my question as an insult. With a sneer he asked, “You buying, mercenary?”
I adjusted the shoulder strap holding my crossbow. “How much for a cup of the Lemon Cinnamon?”
A quick smile returned to the seller’s face. “A wise choice, my finest brew. Ten iron.”
I held back from laughing at his request for half a copper. “Maybe,” I said, “if your water didn’t remind me of rotten eggs and you were serving me on a fine table with fancy white napkins.” I grinned. “No chipped cup, either.”
“I had to try,” he said. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
I reached into my pouch behind my breastplate and felt for the largest and thinnest of the coins. I held out a copper with King Tobias of Keesee minted on the front. “Fifteen irons in return.” When the tea seller nodded, I handed it to him.
I watched him count out the irons from a pine box, each stamped on both sides with a pentagram. “Never seen that mark on a coin before,” I said.
“Lord Corradin’s symbol.” He took several leaves and crushed them between his thumb and forefinger before stuffing them in the ball. “Where you from?”
“Most recently,” I said, organizing a story in my head, “the Doran Confederacy.”
The tea seller set the ball with its chain dangling over the side of the cup and ladled in some steaming water. He looked at my scarred cheek as he lifted the metal ball in and out of the water, counting under his breath. When he reached fifteen, he asked, “What kind of fighting you see?”
I took the cup and smelled the light-brown brew. The scent of cinnamon was far stronger than the lemon.
He pointed to a brown ceramic jar. “Sugar for two iron more?”
I shook my head and blew on the steaming tea. “Hot afternoon. I’ll let this cool.”
He replaced the lid to his water pot and dumped the damp leaves into a small pail. “Who’d you serve as a mercenary?”
“Lord Hingroar,” I lied, and while I waited for the tea to cool, I told him about the battle the night I met Road Toad. I told the story as if I were Road Toad, except that when we faced the panzers, we all retreated with Pops Weasel.
“I heard about them panzers,” the tea seller said. “More firepower than a hundred Crusaders they say.” After I nodded in agreement, he asked, “That where you got your scar?”
“Naw,” I said, and stuck with my story at the gate. “Three goblins tried to ambush me.”<
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“You killed them, right?” When I again nodded, this time with a grin, he spat. “Foul creatures. Thieves, every one of them.”
“I haven’t seen any in the city,” I said. “Only ogres.”
“They come out at night. Mean as a pack of rabid rats.” We watched the traffic as I sipped my tea. “Why’d you come to Sint Malo?”
“To meet someone,” I said. “At the Fertile Serpent. And to get some supplies.”
“Done with fighting?”
I shrugged. “Depends. Know the best way to get to the Serpent? And the best market for food supplies?” When he looked anxiously at me, I disappointed him. “I shared with you some firsthand news, and tactics of the Necromancer King’s forces. Not many have faced three panzers and survived. Conversation sure to lure customers tomorrow morning.” I drank a long sip of tea while he thought. “And,” I guessed, “I already paid you an iron more than what’s common.”
“Brown District,” he said. “Worse than goblins walk those streets at night.” He pointed to the left. “Follow this street as it circles around, then shoot off to the right just past the gallows. You’ll see a square tower five times taller than the Merchant District’s wall.” He nodded to where the guards moved aside as the portcullis lifted. “It’ll have three blue stripes on the side. Blue District. Plenty of good markets there. Best in the morning.” He stopped to watch a black carriage drawn by two white mares exiting the Merchant District.
“Then, simply work west, toward the sea. There’s a tangle of streets and alleys before reaching the Warehouse District. That’s Brown District—between the Blue and Warehouse. Right along where the warehouses start the Fertile Serpent is.” He shrugged. “Haven’t been there in some time. But there’s a sign with a snaky serpent coiled on a pile of yellow eggs.”
I handed him his cup after drinking the rest of its contents. “Thank you. Good tea.”
“You’re okay, for a mercenary,” he replied. “You can find just about everything around the Warehouse District. Ale, gambling, wenches, or a knife in your back.”