Savage

by James Alderdice

  Gathelaus had paid for that silk, though not for Melora’s obvious talents.

  The subtle, agreed upon signal she gave, would arouse no suspicion from her fellow soiled doves and pimps, but for Gathelaus it was deadly serious.

  It had been more than he could afford, but it seemed that paying a gold senine a day for a world-wise lookout, albeit one who did nothing but nod slightly in the right direction and show the number the foes, finally paid off.

  Keeping his pace and gait unchanged, Gathelaus drew his short sword, a Dorian spatha, carefully beneath his cloak with his right hand as the left gripped a punch dagger from his belt. He preferred the shorter blades here, urban ambushes grant little room for broad-swords.

  The silent warning from Melora meant the day had finally come, that it was time for the grizzled exile to get out of the city of thieves while he still could.

  No good waiting for more bounty hunters to show up and squabble over his head.

  A dark crossroad lay just ahead. Shadows concealed anything beyond three paces. Gathelaus kicked a crate, sending it skittering past the blind corners.

  Two dusky men in white kilts leapt out with curved kukri knives raised, screaming, “Ah! Yarkoosh!” in the dialect of Meroe, home of infamous man hunters.

  Too late to realize the ruse, the first on the left had the top of his head severed with a swing of Gathelaus’s stout blade. Crimson splattered against whitewashed stucco.

  Maddened at his comrade’s sudden earthly exit, the other zealot charged, swinging wildly.

  Catching the kukri on his spatha’s hilt, Gathelaus pushed inside the man’s swing, catching him in the belly with the punch dagger before ripping it out. He hadn’t been called the Usurper for nothing. His reputation was built on savagery and the reputation he was trying to lose was almost all he had anymore.

  Great pools of scarlet gushed to the cobblestones and caught the cold, waxing moon-light. He should be gone already, he told himself. It was no good waiting for a friendly ship, there was no way he could stay here any longer. He needed to get to the continent across the sea. He needed to get going, tonight if he could.

  Gathelaus wiped his blades on the dead men’s bizarre vestments and glanced about for any unfriendly witnesses before hurrying away. He was already late. One benefit of this seedy side of Mankares was the lack of cooperation with Baron Sethur’s security forces. No one wants attention drawn to them, so except for a few ‘rats’ no one said anything about what went on after dark. Still, best not to be seen lingering around the fresh meat.

  Inside the Speckled Hog a haze of smoke permeated the ceiling, men played greasy cards as a voluptuous pair of twins danced to the tunes of broken-fingered musicians for two pieces of silver. The fat barkeep spit and polished a large ale mug.

  Gathelaus asked, “Where is the man with a long, drooping mustache? Answers to the name of Sigurd.”

  “In the back,” answered the barkeep. “Rolling the bones.”

  Gathelaus strode to the rear where a half-dozen men played dice.

  A pile of winnings rose almost as high as Sigurd’s mug. “Gathy! You best sit this one out, pardner. I’m winning.”

  “Don’t call me that. We need to talk.”

  “Hang on.”

  “No. Now! I need passage on that ship, now.”

  “But I’m winning.”

  “Especially because you’re winning, since you’ll be drunk soon.”

  Sigurd brushed him off. “Not just yet.”

  A thick-set man with a face like a gladiator grumbled, “You lovebirds gonna keep tweeting back and forth or are we gonna game?”

  “Shut your mouth, you! You know who this is?” shot Sigurd, “Why he―”

  Gathelaus clamped a hand over Sigurd’s mouth.

  “Why don’tcha let your boyfriend talk? Lover’s quarrel, eh?”

  Gathelaus’s eyes flashed, but he remained silent.

  Sigurd finally took the hint and demurred, “I suppose I’ll just take my winnings and go, then.”

  “Not so fast,” said the gladiator, slamming his colossal hand on top of Sigurd’s. “We’ve a right to win back what we’ve lost ‘ere. You can’ jus’ take our money like that. T’ain’t fair.”

  “You lost, leave it at that.” Gathelaus grit his teeth in a wolfish snarl.

  “Where do I know’s you from?” asked the gladiator, squinting. “E’ called you ‘Gathy’?” He let go of Sigurd’s hand long enough to point an accusing finger at Gathelaus.

  Gathelaus shrugged.

  But Sigurd couldn’t shut his mouth. “You wouldn’t know him. He’s only been in Mankares for a few days. Used to sail with Halfdan the Black, before he lost his good leg.”

  “You’s lie!” shot the gladiator, standing up.

  As the other gamers stood, it was obvious who they were friends with and it surely wasn’t Sigurd.

  “I’ve seen the posters hanging upon the runaway slave notice boards, you’re the bloody butcher that King Vikarskeid is offering three thousand gold denarii for! General Gathelaus, ‘The Usurper’!”

  “And if I am?”

  “Your damn head is gonna make me a rich man!” The gladiator wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Be awful hard to spend that coin in Hell!” growled Gathelaus.

  The gladiator grinned and looked to his companions, a half dozen bravos who all looked as rough as he did. “Ha, ha, ha! Smooth as sharkskin you are. We’re just a quaking in our boots―”

  Swift as thrown lightning, Gathelaus charged and sent the punch-dagger through the gladiator’s skull and jerked it back out.

  The gladiator went cross-eyed leering at the gaping wound and toppled over, a red fountain covering his chest for a bare moment before it was covering the floor.

  Gathelaus leapt, stabbing at the next man with his spatha, while Sigurd, in turn, struck the man beside him with a chair.

  Two of the gigantic bravos behind drew short swords, a third swung a studded cudgel. The fourth man, a lasher, cracked his whip, though he had precious little room to use it in the low ceiling of the Speckled Hog.

  Gathelaus had his spatha out and kept the pair of enemy blades back with sheer skill. What was left of Sigurd’s broken chair was swiftly shattered by the foe with the cudgel.

  Dropping to the ground, Sigurd rolled and knocked the man off his feet and quickly clamping him in a headlock.

  Just as suddenly, a whip coiled about Sigurd’s neck, leaving him in the same predicament. He squeezed all the harder to slay the man he was strangling as his own wind was stolen.

  Keeping his back to the wall, Gathelaus side-stepped to where he wanted his two foes.

  Always advancing, thinking they had the shorter man on the defensive, the two thugs missed that they were now between Gathelaus and the fireplace.

  Scooping up a full jug of the Speckled Hog’s potent wine, Gathelaus splashed it against the raised blades of the pair.

  Drenched in strong drink, they had but a moment to snarl before flames caressed their bodies like a jealous lover.

  Screaming and burning like lamp wicks, they ran, tripping over themselves in a panic.

  Alone, the lasher had just enough time to look up from the suffocating Sigurd, as Gathelaus impaled his heart.

  Sigurd sucked in deep breaths, still strangling the corpse beneath him.

  “He’s dead. Let’s go!” Gathelaus took Sigurd under the arm and raised him up.

  Sigurd coughed and snatched what was left of his winnings into a sack.

  The other patrons shouted at the two victors now that the shock of the fight was over.

  As the pair reached the door, a surly, armored captain blocked it. A dozen of the brass-coated city guards stood behind.

  “Back door?” whispered Gathelaus.

  Sigurd gestured, but already a half dozen guardsmen poured through the rear entry.

  “Baron Sethur doesn’t appreciate the peace being disturbed,” said the captain, stepping inside while his men formed a
phalanx of drawn crossbow bolts behind. “Especially by a pair of Northern mongrels like you two.”

  The guardsmen pointed an array of swords, poleaxes, and crossbows at them.

  Lowering their weaponry, Gathelaus silently cursed as Sigurd bemoaned the captain snatching and then helping himself to the gambling winnings inside the sack.

  “I don’t suppose a true accounting of my money will go into the log of this disturbance?”

  The captain chuckled. “What money? I saw no money, only evidence.”

  The other guardsmen laughed.

  “Evidence of what?” Sigurd asked.

  “Of being a pain in my arse! Put them in irons!”

  Now the fat barkeep spoke up. “Lord, captain,” he stammered. “The men they just killed, they was arguing, and they said that this man ‘ere is Gathelaus the Usurper. He’s got a rich price on his head, he does, coming from the King of Vjorn. He’ll be worth a pretty penny. Perhaps you could slide a couple coppers my way for telling you, huh?”

  The captain snorted. “Be grateful we don’t close you down for aiding such a man.”

  “But sir,” pleaded the fat barkeep, “I didn’t know.”

  The captain smacked the barkeep across the mouth, sending him reeling. “I don’t converse with pigs. Now, let’s get these two in irons and be off.”

  The guardsmen moved forward, several with shackles in their hands, but a new guttural voice held them at bay. “Ah Yarkoosh! The Usurper is ours! Away dogs of Sethur!”

  “Sonavabitch! Your friends?” asked Sigurd.

  “Use it!” shouted Gathelaus, slashing his blade across the nearest guardsman as Sigurd struck the captain on the mouth and snatched back his sack of coins.

  The dusky bounty hunters from Meroe charged into the tavern, met by the scimitars and high-pitched screams of Sethur’s shocked guardsmen before they could reach Gathelaus and Sigurd.

  “Up the stairs!” directed Gathelaus, cutting down the foremost Merovian hunter.

  They bolted up the rickety stairs and past several beaded doorways and screaming women. At the end of the hall, a shuttered window greeted them. Throwing it open, Gathelaus gauged the distance to the next roof.

  Sigurd balked, saying, “I can’t make that jump, my hip.”

  “Don’t and you’re dead!”

  “I’ll try, but you help. Push me!”

  Sigurd got a running start and just as he leapt, Gathelaus pushed.

  12.

  Into the Dark

  The thin old man tumbled end over end and landed on his back on a thatched roof and crashed, disappearing through it.

  Gathelaus leapt after him, careful to land beside and not through the gaping hole. He felt the thatch buckle as he landed and the timbers beneath crack and drop him into the same smoke-filled room with Sigurd and a pack of black-skinned lotus eaters.

  Still dumbfounded at Sigurd’s appearance, the first of the turbaned lotus eaters held out a Pipe to the dazed man.

  Sigurd nodded a thank you and took the Pipe as Gathelaus dusted himself off. “We gotta go!”

  “Sethur’s men?” asked the Lotus eater.

  Gathelaus nodded, “And Merovian assassins.”

  The Lotus eater spoke quickly in a subdued desert tongue and directed everyone to a closet. Another eater nearest opened the door and lifted a rug, revealing a bolt hole beneath. Quick as thieves, the half-dozen eaters and two vagabonds dropped down inside.

  Flint struck steel and a torch brought light to the narrow passage. The Lotus eaters pressed to get through another passage and swung a wide stone doorway shut.

  The chief Lotus eater said, “We use this when needed. Many brothers have walked these underground paths and we will extend the service to you for a price.”

  “Why must we pay?” grumbled Sigurd.

  “Because you brought the Baron’s men down on us, you are not our people and you are not even fellow escaped slaves, whom we always help,” said the chief Lotus eater, his wide grin disappearing in the darkness for a moment before reappearing with his broad hand extended.

  “Give them your stash,” said Gathelaus.

  “Mine? What about yours?”

  “I have almost nothing.”

  “What do you have?” asked the Lotus eater. It was a demand, not a question.

  Gathelaus reached into his vest pockets and pulled out a pair of Golden Sethurians, and a few cheap Denarii. He held back but one thing in his satchel.

  “And what is that?” prodded the Lotus eater.

  Gathelaus gave a lop-sided grin, “A Pipe.” He produced the double-barreled black Pipe, the spiraling golden holes across its face giving a curious and sinister air.

  “Bah! Put it away!” snapped the Lotus eater, “I cannot play.”

  Sigurd’s eyes went wide and he scowled. “You made it sound like Queen Lyana wanted your scalp for your trespasses against her, not because of that damned thing!”

  “Take it easy.”

  “Is worth much?” asked the Lotus eater.

  “Its only trouble, I promise you.”

  Sigurd reluctantly handed over his bag of winnings.

  “This is good,” said the eater, handing Gathelaus a second torch. “Go your way down this path, none shall find you from above. You will exit near the eastern gate, close to the bazaar’s, take care that none see you exit and close the door well.”

  “Much obliged.”

  The Lotus eater grunted and took his comrades down the opposite route.

  Sigurd barked, “Wait. Which way are you going? Can’t we come with you?”

  “No,” shouted the eater. “We are going to the oasis and cliffs above the city and wish to be as far away from you as possible. You cannot come with us.”

  Sigurd frowned at that but Gathelaus held his arm. “They mean it. I saw their weapons. We gotta let it go.”

  “Do not stray down any other paths,” the eater called, as he faded into darkness. “Much death lies that way.”

  Sigurd wheeled on Gathelaus. “You bastard! You could’a told me you had that damnable thing!”

  “Didn’t want you to worry and bitch about it.”

  “But that! No wonder there are Merovians after you!” Sigurd took a step and spun around. “No, not just you! Me now! I can’t show my face in Mankares or anywhere else so long as they are after that damned Pipe!”

  “I said, and bitch about it!”

  “It’s my skin on the line now too!”

  “And hasn’t mine been on the line for you plenty of times before now?”

  Sigurd reluctantly nodded. “I heard that Lyana tells everyone she wants that Pipe returned even more than she wants your head. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought, there’s no way Gathy is that stupid.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Sigurd shrugged. “Does it contain the sorcery we always heard tell it did?”

  Gathelaus shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. But when I fled I thought I could always use another bargaining chip. Nothing matters to Lyana more than this.”

  “Ha! Nothing more than your death that is! Ya, dumb bastard.” Sigurd laughed. “You’ve doomed us both ya son of a bitch! She will stop at nothing to get it back. She will hound us to the ends of the earth. Why? Why would you take it?”

  “I thought maybe I could sell it if I could find a sorcerer with deep enough pockets, but—”

  “Won’t be any sorcerers in Mankares, instead of holding back you should’a just told me when you got here.”

  “I thought maybe someone would be interested, but the bounty Vikarskeid put on my head made me rethink that around these parts.”

  “Where should we go then? Tolburn? Think old Halfdan might have an idea where you could sell it? And that is in the unlikely event that he doesn’t just want to hand us over to Lyana himself.”

  “Don’t know, isn’t Halfdan dead? Besides we can head north along the Queen’s Road, watch for―”

  “Shhh,” hushed Sigurd. “What is that?�
��

  Something scratched at the walls. Gathelaus first suspected rats but the clawing grew stronger. He drew his spatha as Sigurd looked for anything to use as a weapon beyond his own dagger.

  A metallic chink in the stone revealed someone had found the hidden door and was yanking it open.

  “Sethur’s men or the Merovians?”

  “Does it matter?”

  They rushed down the dark passage, the weak torch barely holding back the gloom. A multitude of other tunnels beckoned as they ran on, but the main path kept them on a straight course for some time. Roots dangled and water seeped along the walls but naught else was visible in the half light.

  “How much farther can the end be?” panted Sigurd.

  “We were near the docks, must be at least another mile to be near the city gates. I think they are through. I might see a light coming.”

  “I can’t keep up this pace.”

  “Come on, you old dog! There will be too many to fight in these stifling tunnels.”

  Sigurd looked at a very narrow side tunnel. “What if we hide in one of these? They’ll never know which way we went.”

  Gathelaus shook his head. “The Lotus-eater made it sound dangerous.”

  “Everything is a bad idea to those stoned folk,” grumbled Sigurd.

  “I hate to trust to fate.”

  “You trust in fate? You hypocrite. Look, there can’t be any creatures down here because the tunnels are already wide open for whatever to wander on through, let’s just watch for defiles and what not and we’ll be fine.”

  Gathelaus shook his head. “Let’s just keep pushing on and out.”

  A faint glimmer of light appeared far down the shaft coupled with the guttural shouting of the Merovians.

  Sigurd was panting hard. “They’re coming and I’ll never be able to outrun them.”

  “Fine, let’s take this one before they see our torch. We may even have to douse it.”

  They crept into the narrow shaft, watching their footing in the dank, curving passage. It had a serpentine twist and led perpetually downward. It ended in a bulbous open chamber.