Blood and Oak- Wolves Will Eat

by Garrett Bettencourt

  “It’s already unpleasant.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You there!” said the first Janissary in Lingua Franca as they approached. Everything about him was shabby. His green kaftan and white sleeves were spattered with coffee stains, his beard uneven and patchy. “Buford?”

  “The very same,” replied the slow-spoken trader.

  “What are you doing out at this hour? And with a slave?” The second Janissary pointed to John. He picked under his thumbnail with the blade of a dagger, sucking at a gap in his teeth.

  “Kadeen, Sibari,” Buford replied, nodding first at the coffee-stained Janissary, then the one picking his thumb. “I have business to conduct with Master Kalkan.”

  The two soldiers didn’t move from Buford’s path. Sibari craned his head for a look under John’s cowl. He gave a leering smile. “If that business involves this handsome creature, Kalkan will be very pleased.”

  “Master Kalkan asked not to be disturbed,” said Kadeen more seriously. “Your business can wait for the morning.”

  “I beg to differ,” Buford replied, his eyes respectfully downcast. He held up the forged missive, sealed with Naim’s signet. “My slave has intercepted information from the Chronicler’s courier.”

  Sibari reached for the scroll, but Buford snatched it back.

  “However,” Buford continued, “if it is an inopportune time, I can entrust the information to someone less occupied.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” said Kadeen.

  ###

  The Janissary Kadeen led Buford and John into the parlor of a luxurious city estate. John brushed aside bolts of red gossamer cloth hanging from the beams, his chain dragging noisily behind him. He caught the smell of perfumes and incense. Quiet conversation mingled with occasional laughter. An Arab lute strummed a relaxing tune. When the last curtain fell away from John’s path, he took in a scene that set his blood on fire.

  A lanky man with a shaved head lounged on the pillows, his kaftan parted on his round belly A boy with long brown hair, perhaps only twelve, lay beside him. Another boy with dark skin and a wiry frame fed a grey-bearded Janissary with slices of fig. An older boy with light blonde hair—in his late teens—glided to and fro strumming the oud. They wore loincloths, earrings, and arm circlets. The grey-bearded soldier pinched the musician’s ass and received a playful slap in return. John had heard of the catamite dens, where slavemasters kept men and boys as whores. He counted himself lucky to have escaped such a fate.

  At the center of it all sat a man in the tunic and pantaloons of a Janissary, but with a mane of hair blonde as flax. He was in his forties, with high cheekbones and a broad jaw. John was stunned—a man of Christendom “turned Turk.” His arm playfully ensnared the lute player and pulled him onto the couch. The lad chuckled as though nothing could be so much fun, but John knew it was a pantomime. The Janissary laughed with nary a care in the world and threw his free arm around another boy—the youngest in the room.

  The youngest was about nine, with unruly hair and eyes black as soil. He had the expression common to new slaves. Fear, confusion, disbelief. This can’t be happening, he was thinking. Surely this is all a mistake. This can’t be how it ends. Help must be on the way! But it was happening. It happened all the time, all around the world, and folk went on about their business with nary a care. There were no fleets outfitting for a rescue mission. No great kings and queens weeping in the halls of power. No angels of mercy descending to whisk him away. The lad’s life was already over—he just didn’t know it yet. John trembled with rage.

  “Buford!” the blonde Janissary crowed in a German accent. “It’s been some time since you visited my house. I don’t usually conduct business during my hours of leisure.” He spread his arms wide across the shoulders of his enslaved companions, smiling with a row of bright white teeth.

  “Nor do I, Master Kalkan,” Buford replied. He looked at Kalkan across a tea table laden with meat cutlets, figs, and jugs of wine. “However, I have business of an urgent nature.”

  “Why, Buford…” Kalkan leered at John. “Have you brought me a present for my birthday? Who is this handsome junge?”

  “I bring an offer of trade.” Buford turned to John. “Slave, tell Mr. Kalkan what you told me.”

  John’s eye twitched. The qat leaves had his skin tingling with heat. The strange medicine burned away the pain in his muscles. It stoked the hatred he felt for every Barbary pig. It reignited his unspoken vow to make them pay. Every last one.

  “My master was Nizam-I Djedid,” John said in Lingua Franca. His own voice sounded muted—as if his ears were plugged with wax. “I served in their stables.”

  “What?” Kalkan’s expression darkened. “A servant of the enemy in my house! What is the meaning of this?”

  “He was a servant of the enemy,” said Buford. “My master, Al-Musa, acquired him as a spy.”

  “That’s right!” John cried, feigning terror. “I was saddling a horse for one of the Djedid couriers tonight. I saw his bag filled with scrolls, and I managed to steal one. My true master, Al-Musa, arranged for my escape months ago. I waited until my absence would least be missed and fled to the River Falls.”

  Kalkan looked at the Tennessean skeptically.

  “Correspondence from the Chronicler.” Buford produced the forgery of Naim’s orders. “The fruits of my master’s careful plans. Like as not, it contains valuable intelligence. You have long been among Al-Musa’s preferred clientele. He brings this opportunity to you first.”

  Kalkan scoffed. “How generous. And if this missive is of no value?”

  “I will endure no invectives on my master’s character.” Buford turned as if to leave.

  “Buford, peace!” laughed Kalkan. “So solemn! How much?”

  “Twelve slaves,” Buford said, turning back to Kalkan. “Sailors all. Assuming the contents of the sealed missive are in fact valuable.”

  “A guarantee on my investment? It really is my birthday.” Kalkan took a sip of wine, his laughter ringing in the goblet. “You, boy. With those piercing eyes. Look at me.”

  John forced himself to meet Kalkan’s eyes. It took every ounce of effort to hide his hate. But like a game of brag, this moment called for a bluff.

  “If I buy this note, and I find you’ve wasted my time, I will have you flung onto the spikes outside the walls. I’ll watch the gulls dig out your eyes.” He smiled as if he’d promised a pile of presents. “Are we agreed?”

  “…Yes, master.”

  “It is so nice that we are all getting along.” Kalkan admired the face of the youngest boy, running a finger through a lick of his black hair. The boy hunched his shoulders, a distant look in his eyes. “Very well. Hand it over, and you can have six slaves, if I’m satisfied.”

  “Hmm.”Buford worked his jaw a moment, then handed over the missive. “We have an accord.”

  Kalkan snatched it, examined the seal, and tore it open. The other men and their attendant courtesans watched the lieutenant read. John looked for any possible tell on the whoremaster’s face. Kalkan’s eyes flashed wide for only a half-second. The Janissary looked up at Buford through his eyebrows.

  “The courier carried many like this?” asked Kalkan, his voice betraying a hint of alarm.

  “Dozens, I hear tell,” Buford said.

  Kalkan slipped the note into his pocket. “You’ve done well, Mountain Man. My thanks to your master. But…Six slaves is a high price, even for this find.”

  “I must insist.”

  “Give me that adonis of yours,” said Kalkan, nodding toward John, “and you can have a full dozen.”

  John’s rage blazed into an inferno. All the nights he’d sworn never to wear chains again. All the nights he’d prayed at the altar of wrath. The animal under his skin, dormant since he’d spared Naim, stirred to life. It scratched to escape.

  “Hmm.” Buford inspected his yellowed fingernails. “This slave is of great personal value to my master. He would be mighty put out.�
��

  “For the night then,” Kalkan suggested. “I’ll return him to you tomorrow in fine form—if a bit…” Kalkan gave an evil grin. “…sore.”

  The other two Janissaries chuckled.

  Buford shook his head. “I cannot—”

  “If it is your wish, Master,” John interrupted. “It is my honor to serve Master Kalkan tonight.”

  Kalkan’s eyes bubbled over with lust. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy instructing this one. Remind me to send Al-Musa a present on his birthday.”

  Buford’s good eye shifted to John.

  Kalkan rose and stepped around the tea table. He stood before John and extended a hand, the candlelight glinting on jeweled rings. “Come boy. Soon, duty will call. But first, I want to see the look on your face when you discover my uses for that body.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” John stepped forward and took Kalkan’s hand. With his other hand, he plunged Spade into the blonde Janissary’s stomach.

  Kalkan was still smiling when the blade went in. John launched into a frenzy, his thrusts a blur as he diced Kalkan’s guts. The youngest boy screamed and ran away, the other crawled backward on the couch in horror. Kalkan flopped back on the couch, blood spreading through his linen robe. He stared at John wide-eyed, a groan gurgling in his throat.

  The other two Janissaries shook off their initial shock and leapt to action. The one with the round belly drew a sheathed scimitar. The one with the shaved head pulled a knife from his boot. The boys in the room retreated against the walls, watching in terror.

  “Ah, Hell,” growled Buford. He plucked a knife from a shank of lamb and turned to Shaved Head on the left.

  Round Belly lunged from the right, his curved sword thrusting at John. Crazed with bloodlust, John ripped a metal platter off the tea table and used it for a shield, fruit and marinated meat splattering the dying Kalkan. The scimitar scraped off the plate, deflected to the side. John smashed Round Belly full in the face with the platter. He thrust Spade with his other hand, but Round Belly caught his arm. John dropped the plate and tackled him down onto the couch, teeth bared as he tried to force the dagger under the half-naked man’s chin.

  Buford held off the other Janissary’s knife with his off hand. Shaved Head was of smaller stature and quickly lost against Buford’s brute strength. The bald man kneed Buford in the groin.

  “Goddamn varmint!” Buford struck back with a head butt. A gout of blood spilled between Shaved Head’s eyes. Buford stuck the carving knife into his throat, then sawed through the jugular. The mangled Janissary crashed backward through the potted palms, blood spurting on the fronds.

  John roared as he forced the dagger down. The round-bellied Janissary held it back with two beefy forearms. The point of Spade first brushed his Adam’s apple, then tickled it, then speared it like a fruit. Blood welled around John’s blade as he drove it in to the hilt. Round Belly expired with a sigh, beard stained red.

  A clatter of boots drew John and Buford’s attention to the rear of the parlor. Kadeen and Sibari stormed back into the room, staring at the scene with a mixture of shock and rage. They leveled their rifles. At six paces away, Buford and John would never reach them before they fired.

  Two gunshots rang out. Sparks and stinging smoke burst through the perfumed air. John flinched at the reports, but it wasn’t the Janissaries who fired. Kadeen and Sibari dropped their muskets and collapsed in a clattering of belt buckles. Each had a bullet hole in his back. Ethan Auldon stood behind them, a smoking pistol in each hand.

  “Ethan!” John cried. “Good timing.”

  “The Hell did the Negro come from?” Buford groused.

  “‘The Negro’ followed you,” said Ethan sourly. “As John and I planned. You’re welcome.”

  Two of the slave boys scurried for the door, but Buford’s booming voice stopped them cold. “You slaves, do not move, or I will split your skull!” The sudden change in Buford’s placid demeanor was chilling—like a friendly dog gone rabid. The slave boys froze. The youngest was huddled in a corner, head in his knees, crying.

  Ethan holstered his pistols and looked around. “My God, John. This is bad. What were you thinking?”

  John surveyed the carnage. Five dead Janissaries sprawled around the room. Food, blood, and wine splattered across couches, tables, and curtains. Kalkan’s corpse lay sidelong across the pillows, tongue poking between pristine teeth. Entrails oozed through the tattered flesh of his stomach—the invisible stuffing that comprised all men—splayed open before the scattered remains of a feast. John looked down at his hand, still holding the dagger, slick to the forearm with blood. A part of him felt sick enough to wretch. Another part felt dizzy with euphoria.

  “Kalkan was a filthy slave peddler.” John curled his lip. “And a letch. He deserved what he got. Fuck him. Fuck all of them.”

  For a moment, Ethan was nonplussed. Then he took in the sight of the frightened male slaves and their dead masters. He shrugged. “Aye, that sounds about right. Fuck them.”

  The floorboards groaned under Buford’s heavy steps. He stalked toward John, fixing him with a bloodshot stare. “You surely fucked them all. And you fucked Miss Kaitlin’s means of escape. Hmm.” Buford aimed the point of his dripping kitchen knife at John. “Mayhap, you are not her ideal means of escape. Delivering the news of your demise would be an unhappy task. A task at which I have long excelled.”

  John tightened his grip on Spade, meeting Buford’s murderous eyes. “Kaitlin is mine to protect. God have mercy on any man in my way. No matter his size.”

  “Easy, now.” Ethan put a hand on the dagger sheathed at his belt. “We need to leave now before more Janissaries come. We’ll come up with another plan. There’s no need to do anything rash.”

  “Goddamn mess,” Buford said, his eyes still locked on John. “Kalkan was the only contact I dared approach.”

  “What’s done is done.” John’s skin tingled with the effects of the qat. He readied himself to strike Buford’s joints. To take down a man of such strength, he would have to avoid getting caught in the Mountain Man’s grip. “I’m getting Kaitlin and the others out of this city one way or the other. You can either help or get out of my way.”

  “You…” The Mountain Man’s glare remained unaltered for a moment. Then he looked toward the boy with the Arab lute. “Who else is here?”

  “No one,” replied the young man. “You killed the only soldiers in the house.”

  “You sure?” Buford took a menacing step toward the boy. Drops from his bloody knife pattered on the floor.

  “Oliver’s telling the truth,” said the dark-skinned boy.

  “Master Kalkan wanted a private celebration for his birthday,” Oliver said.

  “And the other boys?” asked Ethan.

  “In the bagno, in their cells.”

  Buford looked at John. He said under his breath, “You best return to the River Falls. I will clean up here.” The Mountain man took a step toward the slave boys, all of whom were crowded in the corner between the blood-stained couches.

  “What?” John stepped in Buford’s path. “No! You will not harm them.”

  “I cannot abide witnesses to this transgression. Such would harm my trade, and my master’s.”

  “Bugger your trade. And bugger your master! We will not harm these boys.”

  “Please,” begged Oliver, having overheard the exchange. “We won’t breathe a word. We swear.”

  “We can take them with us,” Ethan suggested. “These Janissaries won’t be taking the missive to the others, but maybe these boys can help.”

  “A fool notion,” argued Buford. “The Janissaries will never believe a bunch of whores came by captured orders. They will see through the ruse.”

  “I say we take our chances. We need someone to deliver the forged letter.”

  “Maybe we don’t.” John licked his incisor. He snatched the forged note from Kalkan’s breast pocket. The message was splotched with blood, but still legible. “Kalkan won’t be
delivering the captured orders—because the Nizam-I Djedid murdered him before he could.”

  “Say again?” said Buford.

  Ethan gave a wry grin, picking up on John’s idea. “Unfortunately, the Djedid’s search of the catamite den failed to turn up the Chronicler’s stolen missive.”

  “Let the Janissaries find their dead fellows,” John continued, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “They’ll believe the Djedid tortured and killed Kalkan and his men. Turned the place upside down looking for something. And then the Janissaries will look somewhere only they would think to look, and they’ll find the hidden chronicle.”

  “Hmm.” Buford looked at Oliver. “You, boy. Where does your master keep a stash of coins? Speak up now, lest I skin you from—”

  “No more of that, Buford!” John snapped. He looked at the terrified faces of the courtesans. “Listen to me. You’re all free, right now, if you want to be. I’m taking a ship from the docks, and I’m leaving this city. Come with us. You have my word I’ll help you get to your homes. But first, I need your help, and I need it right now.”

  “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Oliver asked. “How do we know you won’t just kill us?”

  “Because John Sullivan was a slave—like you,” Ethan said. “And this isn’t the first master he’s killed, nor the first slave he’s freed. Lord knows he’s not a perfect man, but he is an honorable one.”

  The compliment stunned John, and he looked at Ethan, speechless.

  Oliver turned to his fellow slaves, looking to each of them in turn. His gaze landed on the youngest boy last, who looked up from his sobbing. Oliver said to John, “What do you need us to do?”

  “I need a hiding place for this.” John held up the forged chronicle. “Somewhere the Janissaries are sure to look.”

  Oliver thought for a moment. “There’s a false board behind a painting in Master Kalkan’s study. Inside there’s a lockbox. Other Janissaries have seen him stash coin there.”