Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales)

by T. W. Anderson

  *

  “... and that’s when I let him have a kiss from old Betsy here.” The man slurred heavily as he patted the sheathed blade that apparently held the name Betsy. Ian managed not to roll his eyes and let a fake smile spread across his face as he nodded in what he hoped was the appearance of rapt attention. There was always one drunkard every day who pushed the limits of his patience. Usually they didn’t make it in until later in the evening, but this one was getting an early start. He raised his own mug in a mock toast with the customer, pretending to take a swallow; it was empty and only for appearances, to keep the patrons spending.

  Business was good. Good enough that he had recovered the amount of coin he had initially spent setting everything up those three years past, and stashed some away to boot. He had a steady stream of regulars with whom he was on a first-name basis, and he paid his dues to both the Watch and the Birds to keep the place under watchful eye and protected on both sides of the law. Whoever said you had to pick a side obviously never understood how to negotiate. With enough coin in your hands, anything was possible without needing to choose one over the other.

  The drunkard slid a few coins across the table; more than enough to cover his tab. Ian ducked his head slightly as a way of saying thanks as the fellow staggered off towards the front door. He quickly cleaned the bar from where the man was sitting, then turned to douse the rag in the bucket behind the bar. He wrung it out and hung it in its place before turning back towards the main room to take stock of his establishment. And felt his blood run cold as an Adena stepped through the front door.

  From the Fire branch of the Aden’than, by the look of her ebony and blood-fringed robes. What possible reason could any of the Order have for coming here? In three years, this was the first, and his heart raced. Had he not covered his tracks well enough? Had they managed to track down the deserter, and were here to drag him off back to Sunarian shores? He steeled himself and put on his best smile as the hooded figure approached the bar.

  “What can I get for you this fine day?” he asked as steadily as he could manage.

  Slender hands came up and pushed back the hood to reveal a young woman. Pale white skin, jet black hair. Beautiful, in a cold and porcelain way. Her piercing green eyes bored into his own, and he felt his palms beginning to sweat. Several moments passed, and she finally spoke. “Spirathian spring wine, please.”

  Ian tried not to swallow visibly. He bobbed his head. “Coming right up!”

  His mind was racing as he stepped through the door behind the bar to make his way to the pantry and wine cellar. Einrath, the cook, cocked an eye at him as he passed the kitchen. “Everything all right, boss?”

  He muttered a reply and numbly made his way down the ladder from the pantry to the cellar below, the lantern nearly forgotten in his hands. Should he run? Was his cover blown? In three years there hadn’t been a hint of discovery, but an Adena showing up here, now, after last night’s talk with Pascal? It all seemed too coincidental. He pulled a bottle of spring wine from the shelf and climbed the ladder back up to the pantry, steeling his nerves as he did so. Best to know for sure, and then run if needed.

  The cork slid free of the bottle with a muffled pop. The scent of pleto berries wafted forth, and he poured a half glass of the dark liquid before serving it to the Adena with an inclination of his head. She never batted an eye, merely gazed deep into the glass for several moments before raising it to her lips and taking a small sip. Her eyes closed as she savored it. “This will do. Leave the bottle.” And then she turned towards the common room, her back to him and the bar.

  The next hour was living hell. He served a dozen other patrons food and drink while the Adena merely sat and drank, her features still and untroubled, never once looking at him. Eventually, she paid her tab in full, commented on the quality of the wine, left a healthy tip, pulled her hood up, and left. Ian promptly set the sign to “closed” despite the early hour, and waited impatiently until the rest of the patrons finished their food and drinks, practically shoving the last two men out the door. He made sure the locks were set on all the doors and windows, sent Einrath home for the evening, locked the back door after her, and retired to his quarters above the tavern.

  He poured himself a glass of brandy, and drank it down in a single gulp, his hands shaking the entire time. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and poured another drink, swallowed it down, and then a third. After five, his hands stopped shaking, and he felt his body begin to go numb. He poured himself a sixth and sat down on the bed, his mind still racing, but slightly calmer.

  If she was here for you, you wouldn’t still be here. Which means the only logical explanation is that she was just here to enjoy a bottle of spring wine while on other business. There were plenty of reasons a member of the Aden’than would be in the Potters Quarter: helping with a child birth, tempering molds for one of the master glazers, or overseeing her own production line. He swallowed the sixth glass and reached under the mattress of his bed to pull out the sheathed sword strapped to the frame of the bed.

  The leather was worn but still maintained; he oiled it regularly. The last remnant of the man he once was. A single memento that he could not let go of. He lovingly caressed the leather, and drew the sword halfway out of its scabbard. Rune-inscribed black steel glinted back at him. He silently mouthed the words carved into the blade, and caught a flicker of green flame within the depths of the engravings. He resisted the urge to fully draw the blade and say aloud the words that would burst her into full glory. He shuddered and shoved the blade into its scabbard, then placed it back under the bed, breathing heavily. He sank back into the mattress, and this time he did not pour. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank.

  *

  His mouth was dry, his fingers slightly numb. He opened his eyes slowly. It was dark, but he wasn’t sure of the time. An empty bottle rolled from his chest onto the floor with a heavy thunk as he sat up on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slightly. He began to yawn and suddenly realized that he was not alone in the room: there was a hooded figure seated in the chair at his desk, watching him. Instinct kicked in, and he fumblingly reached for the blade underneath the bed, only to find himself frozen in the grips of an unseen force.

  “It appears you haven’t completely lost your wits, Leran.” The voice was cool, and feminine. The Adena from earlier in the day. And she knew his real name. He groaned and strained his muscles, but to no avail; she was using magic and he was powerless against it without the sword in his hands. “And it also appears as though my patience has finally been rewarded. You were not an easy man to find.”

  The figure rose from the chair and made its way towards him, his sheathed sword in one of her hands. Her entire figure shimmered softly with in an incandescent light in the darkness. She smiled slightly as she watched him strain. “There is no use in trying to escape. We both know it is pointless. And I am not here to harm you, although I think you might believe differently, given your history as a deserter.” Her smile widened as she watched his face. “Oh yes, we both know what they do to deserters. In many ways, we are not so different than the Sunarians, no?”

  He gave up trying to break free and attempted to muster up some steel into his voice and gaze. “What do you want, Adena? If you are not here to harm me, why hold me in this fashion?”

  She chuckled as she slowly pulled his sword free of its sheath, softly speaking the words that caused the blade to flame to emerald life, a cold fire that in his hands allowed him to battle both Aden’than and Sunarian powers despite having none of his own. “A Jarkath Blade. Only a handful of these were ever given, Leran. Your talents are wasted here.” She spoke the words of slumber, and the blade returned to mere black steel. She sheathed it and placed it on the bed beside him. She turned to walk to the balcony, and suddenly he could move again. He reached for the blade and contemplated whether or not he could bury it between her shoulders before she had a chance to react.

  “I care not for yo
ur desertion,” she continued as she stood on the balcony looking out over the bay. The ocean breeze moved the drapes, but neither her robes nor her hair moved with them. “There are forces moving here in Lucimia that require someone with your unique talents, someone who can move unseen within the realm.” She turned to fix him with her eyes; they glowed with a green flame not unlike that of his sword.

  His grip tightened around the hilt of the sword. “What possible reason do I have for helping you? I left that life behind. My time as a Jarkath is over. I am just a tavern owner now.”

  She smiled thinly. “A tavern owner with a secret he wishes to keep, no? A lover he wishes to keep safe?” She did not bother to hide the threat in her voice.

  He grit his teeth and swallowed slowly, the scent of charred flesh and hot blood flaring his nostrils as undesired memories of battles long past surged fresh in his mind. A sense of dread spread through his body as he partially unsheathed the sword and stared at the swirling green patterns lying dormant within the engravings, flickering with deadly potential. War changed everything.

  “What must I do?”

  *

  The air was thick with the reek of the sewers, and Ian felt a bead of sweat trickling down his back between his shoulder blades. It had been a long time since he had made his way down to Falcon’s Alley, and there was nothing here that he missed the slightest bit. Fishmongers, dockworkers, cutthroats, and thieves. The wriggling underbelly of Finglis Mirror.

  It hadn’t always been this way. Not so long ago it had been known for the bakeries that once lined the street, fresh wares available every morning, and sending tendrils of hunger spiraling up from his stomach to his tongue when he had visited here as a youth alongside his uncle Riplah. That was, what... forty years past? Not so long ago. He snorted at the thought, and instantly regretted it as his nostrils flared with the stench.

  He pushed the smell down as he nudged his way past a small group of men high out of their minds on some concoction or other as they congregated around the mouth of the side street that had served as his entry point. It was safer to stick to the main thoroughfares, but the sword at his hip was a comfortable weight that lent him more than enough defense should someone find themselves tempted to pick him as a target. Not that he was defenseless without it, but there were swords, and then there were weapons forged of more than mere steel. He was more than secure enough in his own skin, and he ignored the indignant murmurings of the street trash as he pushed through their huddled group.

  The sun was not yet over the horizon, and the sky to the east was barely beginning to show color. It wasn’t the heat that caused him to sweat; it was still early enough that it was cool, even here in the heart of the city away from the sea breeze that caressed the docks at all hours. No, it was the Adena, and her threats. They hung like a thick blanket over his thoughts, and he shoved that blanket back with an irritated shrug of his mind as he tried to focus on the task at hand. There were huddled figures slouched against several of the buildings along the street, impossible to tell from this distance as to whether they were asleep or drugged senseless. He moved quickly towards the building that was his destination, just another figure in the wee hours of the morning.

  There was no answer to his tapping on the door, so he changed tactics and pounded instead. He heard a muffled grunt followed by cursing from the other side, and then the sound of footsteps, their halting gait that of someone recently roused from slumber. He eased back from the doorway slightly, casting a wary glance around him as he did. There was no one in the vicinity. A small hatch set in the doorway around the neck height opened and a bleary-eyed face stared outwards, thin and pale, and clearly out of sorts.

  “What it in the nine hells are you pounding on my door at this hour for?” The man’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and he hacked as he finished his sentence, spitting a thick something out the opening onto the ground and narrowly missing Ian’s boots.

  “Freya sends her regards.”

  The man’s eyes bulged outwards at the mention of the Adena, though Ian wasn’t quite sure how that was possible, given how gaunt his appearance was in the first place. Another curse, and the shutter was closed. Ian sighed as he heard the sound of footsteps beating a hasty retreat. It was going to be one of those kind of mornings.

  His foot stung slightly as he kicked the door open, the feeble lock that held it closed tearing free of the frame in a shower of splinters. There was a candle sputtering away on a small table in the bedroom at the end of a short hall, and Ian could make out the dim form of the man fumbling for something at the foot of a bed. He strode forward quickly, ignoring the rest of the house, and entered the room just as the thin man managed to finally pull a short blade from its sheath.

  “Don’t come any closer,” the gaunt man warned, his voice high and panicked. “I know how to use this!” The sword wavered in his grip, the shadows from the candle flickering almost in time with the shaking of his blade.

  Ian did not pause, merely continued his forward momentum, knocking the blade out of the man’s hand with a slap of his left hand, while his right closed around the man’s throat and pushed him forcefully against the wall with a single stride. “I have no desire to kill you, but if you force my hand, I will.” He spoke evenly, without malice. His pulse was calm; this was nothing more than a collection, the wriggling flesh beneath his hands as slender as a twig, easily snapped. “I have been sent for the medallions.”

  The man gasped beneath his grip, and Ian relaxed his hand slightly. “I wasn’t trying to rob her, I swear,” the man whimpered. Tears were in his eyes now, and his voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “You don’t have them.” It was a statement, not a question.

  The gaunt man shook his head, twin rivers streaming down his cheeks. “The Stix brothers came for their payment two months ago, and took them with them along with my coin.” He went limp in Ian’s grasp, and he let the man fall to the floor, sobbing. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t let her kill me. Please!”

  Ian stepped back in disgust as the creature before him tried to fondle his boots. “Where can I find the brothers?”

  The man gasped for air between sobs that slowly lessened as he realized he wasn’t actually about to die. He wiped his nose and sat up slowly, keeping his back to the wall as he gazed fearfully up at Ian. “At their warehouse on the south end of the district,” he replied slowly. “Across the street from the Whale’s Bounty.”

  Ian knew the place. He turned from the room and left the man to wallow in his misery and relish his opportunity to continue breathing the foul air of this cursed district.

  Dawn had brushed the sky with her broad, orange strokes by the time he arrived at the tavern known as the Whale’s Bounty. The stench of sewage had lessened here, while that of fish had strengthened; he was closer to the docks. The morning cry of gulls could be faintly heard, and an image flashed in his head, one of sailors heaving ropes across bloodstained decks, dark flesh tattooed and carved in the markings of the dunes, scars and open wounds from the whip criss-crossing their backs, their guttural chanting rising up out of his distant memories: cuthan cathul, dra’kin patarn, muiatha de’tkor.

  He shook the memory from his head as his stomach churned, the last image fading more slowly than the rest, his own hand wielding the whip. He gripped the hilt of his blade until his knuckles cracked, and dug the nails of his other hand into his palm as he clenched his fist, pushing that image down, away, into the recesses. He was not that man any longer. He was no longer their puppet. And yet her eyes haunted him, the threat in her voice clear. A lover he wishes to keep safe, no?

  A growl escaped his lips and he turned his eyes upwards to the building across the street from the tavern, and to the four men who lingered purposefully around its double wooden doors, wide enough for a pair of wagons to ride through with room to spare on either side when they were swung open. They were alert, despite the early morning hour, and all four of them faced him as he strode across th
e cobblestone-and-packed-dirt street, hands to various weapons. Two swords, a quarterstaff, and crossbow, the latter with knife hilts poking up here and there. Men who were familiar with their weapons, and paid well enough for their services that they took their job as intimidators seriously. Scars and scowls met his approach.

  “The tavern’s that way,” the one with the quarterstaff spoke, jutting his chin in the direction of the Whale’s Bounty behind Ian.

  “I’m not thirsty,” he replied.

  Quarterstaff shrugged. “It’s still early. You’ll work up a thirst soon enough.”

  Ian nodded as he eyed the four of them. “I might at that. But for now I’m just looking for a bit of friendly conversation with the Stix brothers. Aden’than business.”

  Eyes narrowed across the group. Quarterstaff jerked his head in the direction of the warehouse building behind them, and one of the sword wielders moved towards the doors, sliding one of them open enough to duck inside. Ian pursed his lips and started to whistle, an old tune that came to him unbidden. Images swirled beneath the surface of his memories, and he puffed his cheeks full of air instead, cutting off the notes before they brought something unbidden up from the depths. He stretched instead. The trio in front of him eyed him warily, and he smiled mirthlessly in reply.

  Leathers creaked, the wind caressed their cheeks and stirred their hair, carrying the scent of sea salt and fish and old tales, and hands remained firmly on weapons while they waited. It was an old game, one he was familiar with, despite how many years it had been since he played it. He nodded his head slowly and prepared to tell an old sailor’s joke when the swordsman from earlier arrived somewhat breathlessly from between the double doors and motioned towards Ian.