Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales)

by T. W. Anderson

  The alleyway was dark and stretched out in either direction. The building across the street was too high to climb and he didn’t have the time or the resources to get a rope up, and leaving one earlier on in the night was out of the questions; guards patrolled these streets every few minutes on a staggered rotation. He heard another bell start pealing from the direction of the city watch building, and the jingle of men in chain mail running in his direction from the left. He cursed. The closest alternate alleyway was in that direction. Towards the right the alley led into the main street along the warehouse across the alley from the Museum for nearly a hundred yards before breaking into a side street. Cursing again, he started running right.

  Shouts went up behind him as guards came around the corner of the building and the light of their flickering torches caught him. He sprinted as fast as he could, the packed dirt of the alleyway hard against his boots. He could see the edge of the warehouse and the safety of the side street up on his left in the dim light of the moon just as he reached the edge of the Museum building and a sudden glare of torchlight nearly blinded him as three Watchmen came from nowhere, charging directly into his path as they came around the corner. He barely had time to lower his shoulder for impact before he crashed straight into one of the men, he and the guard going down in a jingle of mail and twin gasps as the air was knocked out of them. The other two guards skidded to a stop and tossed their torches to the ground, drawing swords that gleamed in the flickering light as the torches sputtered in the dirt.

  Del felt a stabbing pain in his left side as he fell; the handle of one of his belt-knives had jammed into his ribs when he hit the dirt. He felt as though a wagon had run him over and he tried twice to push himself up, gasping for air. He heard swords leaving sheaths and gave a kick towards the head of the guard who was gasping for air next to him. His heel connected with the man’s chin just where the strap of his helm latched tight; there was a dull thud and the man’s eyes glazed over. Del rolled to his right and onto his feet, his breath catching against the pain in his side. The two guards with drawn swords were advancing now, their faces grim in the torchlight. Behind them, at least a dozen more were rushing down the alley. He gulped for air, and turned to run just as the closest man thrust with his sword.

  Del felt steel graze his right thigh as he spun away. There was no time to run, and daggers were no match for swords. He dropped to one knee as the other guard swung his sword in an arc and kicked out with his foot against the closer man’s knee. His foot blossomed fiery agony as his boot connected with chain mail but the guard’s leg crumpled and he gave a yelp of pain as he went down. The other guard grunted with the effort as his swing missed and he stepped back out of reach as Del tried to kick his leg as well. Rolling backwards now he slammed himself into the guard who was down on his knee, and they went down in a pile. Unencumbered by his light leathers, the other guard was left grunting and struggling to rise through his mass of now-tangled chain. Del wrenched the sword away from the man and leapt to his feet, his pain forgotten as adrenaline coursed through his veins like fire. He danced back as the standing guard sliced quickly and then flicked his sword back into a thrust. The rushing mass of men behind was closer now, maybe thirty feet away. Del was out of time. He took the sword in both hand and swung it as hard as he could at the man’s helm as the guard moved back from his thrust. There was a sound like a bell hitting a hammer and he dropped like a stone into a river.

  Leaving the sword in the dust next to the guards, Del ran.

  *

  Willem was waiting for him the following night, standing just outside of the entrance to The Widowed Peasant. Tall and thin, the silver threads of his clothing glistened softly in the light from the two lamps that hung just on either side of the door into the tavern, he seemed to rock slightly on the balls of his feet when Del came into sight on the street. There was also a coach, pulled by a team of four horses, black as the very night itself. The windows of the coach were black as well. Del suppressed a grimace. Delivering things in the street just outside of his favorite tavern was not something he was inclined to do. Discretion was key; no one wanted to get caught handing over the goods if someone else happened to be watching who could rat you out.

  “You have the coin?” Willem’s voice was tight, his eyes bright in the glow of the lamps.

  Del nodded as paused a few paces away from the man, looking the coach over as best he could in the dim light. “I have it. But tell your employer that I’m not going to hand it over to him in the street here. I know a place not far from here where we can do the trade. It’s safe, and away from prying eyes.”

  Willem frowned. “I supposed you are correct, Mr. Deleroth. Please, if you would wait just one moment.” He moved towards the coach and opened the door just a crack, said something to whoever was seated inside. Del could not make out the reply. Willem shut the door. “He says that if such a place is necessary, then by all means, please lead the way.”

  The ride was short, perhaps ten minutes. Del was uncomfortable on the seat next to Willem as the taller man guided the reins with those long fingers of his. Despite the well-oiled springs that gave barely a sound as they rode down the streets, the slight movement jarred his bruised body. He muttered a curse under his breath as wheels hit a particularly large pothole just before Willem stopped next to the building Del pointed out, the horses stamping impatiently, almost as if they wanted to be out of this part of the city. Del told Willem to stay put and went inside.

  The house was empty. Del had stayed here on occasion, as had others of his profession. Technically it belonged to a man named Fillion, but no one had seen or heard from him in over fifteen years, so people used it as a safe house. Del lit two of the lanterns and made sure the shutters were closed, then poked his head out and let Willem know it was safe to come inside.

  Several minutes later the tall man entered, followed closely by another man of middle age. In the light of the lamps within the room, Willem’s clothing seemed to be of deep green, but it was his companion who caught Del’s attention.

  He was of middle age, of average height, clean shaven, his green eyes sharp as they took in the room. His clothing was tailored velvet and silks, a deep red hue, with dark blue stripes running up the sleeves. Lace spilled out of the neck and wrists, and his boots were of softest leather, dyed red. His upper lip quivered as he spoke. “Show me the coin, boy.” His voice was deep, but there was something in it that Del could not place. Desperation?

  “Do you have the rest of my money?” Practicality. Just to make sure he wasn’t about to be cheated. The man gestured to Willem with a curt motion of his hand. The thin man disappeared outside only to reappear moments later, heaving a chest matching the one Del had received and hidden several nights ago. Willem set the chest down in the middle of the room and opened the lid; the glint of coins within was plain to see. Nodding to himself, Del reached into his jacket, undid the ties to the pouch, and took the medallion out.

  Willem trembled with excitement, rubbing his hands together. Del handed the medallion to the man in red. A look of pleasure passed across the man’s face, and a gasp escaped his lips as he took it in his hands. He crooned softly as he held it in his left hand and gently ran the fingers of his right across the face of the beautiful woman engraved in the silver. He stood entranced for several minutes. Del began to feel uncomfortable. He coughed behind his hand to break the silence. As if in a trance, the man merely waved a hand in his direction and said, distinctly “Kill him, Willem.”

  Willem unfolded like a spring, his tall thin body flying towards Del with outstretched arms and teeth suddenly grown long and sharp in a mouth bared wide. Del cursed and fell backwards, flinging knives as fast as he could. He fell over the table behind him as Willem’s body crashed into the wall, three knives buried in his face and neck; a fourth had missed and thunked into the wall behind. Ignoring the chaos around him, the man in red caressed the medallion in his hands lovingly. Del raised himself into a crouch and pulled
another knife to throw just as the man’s voice rang out, “By Lashiva’s grace, I invoke the youth of eternity!”

  He tossed the medallion into the air. It spun, shimmering, end on end, hovering for what seemed to be an eternity high above the man before it fell to the ground at his feet. His eyes were rapt, his face a beaming smile, pure ecstasy was upon him. He trembled with anticipation.

  And howled as he saw the face upon the coin now resting at his feet. The howl turned to a shriek and Del watched in horrific awe as the man’s features began to melt like wax beneath a flame, his hair falling in clumps to the floor, his skin withering and melting all at once. The man’s shriek became a gurgle as his body slowly fell in upon itself, as if the very bones beneath his skin were turned to jelly. Del retched as the quivering mass collapsed to the floor and suddenly burst into green and purple flames, the smell of burning flesh filling the small house. There was a flash of blue light and all was silent.

  Del wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood slowly, a knife in each hand. The body of Willem was sprawled awkwardly in the corner of the room, blood seeping from his wounds. He no longer looked human; his fingernails were grown long as talons, and his facial features had reformed and looked almost dog-like, the teeth long and sharp. Del shuddered and turned his gaze to the center of the floor. All that was left was a pile of ash in front of the medallion. He eased closer. The face that looked back at him was that of the old woman.

  A fake? He highly doubted it after what just happened. He bent down to pick it up; it would do no good to leave such a thing lying about. A sudden gleam from within the pile of ashes caught his eye as he straightened, the medallion suddenly heavy in his hand. Carefully, he brushed aside the ashes with the tip of his boot.

  Three shimmering faces stared back.

  About the Author

  T.W. Anderson is the author of Echoes of the Past, Volume I in the Saga of Lucimia, and creative director of the Saga of Lucimia MMORPG. He is also the CEO of Stormhaven Studios, LLC, an independent game studio located in Austin, Texas.

  He lives in Mexico City. Prior to working in game development, he was a writer, photographer, videographer, and public speaker working alongside his wife, Cristina, via their travel brand, Marginal Boundaries.

  From 2008 until 2014 he worked as a freelance writer via Creative Writing Solutions, publishing over 10 million words of content for clients around the world in a variety of mediums and genres.

  Buy Volume I of the Saga of Lucimia, Echoes of the Past, at Amazon.com in either print or Kindle format.

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  For more information on the MMORPG, visit www.sagaoflucimia.com

  For more information on Stormhaven Studios, visit www.stormhavenstudios.com