Groundborn

by Scott Moore

  The doors swung open, two women greeted Nov, as he crossed into the velvet carpeted room. They bowed to him as he passed, which made Nov feel uncomfortable. It seemed those ladies in the pretty dresses were there for flattery.

  “Nov, you son of a bitch.” Hamms stood from behind his desk. He came around and placed a hand on Nov’s shoulder, extending his other for a handshake.

  “Hamms,” Nov said, and took the man’s hand. Not in a brotherly embrace, all professional. Nov had sat waiting for twelve hours. This man was no friend of his and he knew it.

  Hamms drew his hand back and waved it toward a few servants in the corner. They both came running with food and drink. Nov waved them off. Pleasantries were a waste of time, he came here to save the city, even if it didn’t want saved.

  “What brings you here, Nov?” Hamms asked, sitting back into his chair.

  Nov glanced at the documents on the desk. They were a mess of broken sentences and symbols. Code words and hidden trails; it is what the city thrived on.

  “I need your help to see the council,” Nov answered.

  Hamms had taken a small cake from one tray. His lips smacked and crumbs fell onto his shirt. Punctuality wasn’t the only trait from his soldier days he had forgotten.

  “Nov, it is extraordinary that you think I would give a damn what you need.” Hamms reputation of bluntness preceded him.

  He continued smacking his lips and watching Nov but offered no more. Nov took a deep breath. He hadn’t come here to fight. He needed him, and that meant he would have to bite his tongue and suck up his pride.

  “It isn’t for me. Earl is hurt and dying, and the Groundborn are massing outside our walls.”

  Nov wanted to say more but Hamms held up a hand.

  “Whatever fancy illusions that make you believe I care a dick about Earl, you can lose them. The man railed my ass for ten years. Drills and long-winded speeches, winning this money wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to me, Nov. Getting out of that damn barracks was. The fact that I never had to listen to Earl’s bullshit again.”

  Hamms grabbed a small saucer and drained the liquid, from the smell, Nov guessed it wasn’t the tea he offered.

  “The city though, Hamms.” Nov still tried his best not to become overwhelmed by his anger.

  “To hell with this city, if the Groundborn want it, then they can have it.” Hamms slammed the cup down onto the table, breaking the handle.

  “You will die as well as the rest of the citizens,” Nov reminded Hamms.

  Hamms started to laugh. “You think I give a damn about that? Hell, death would be a blessing. No more paperwork, no more old friends coming to beg me for my money, no more hassle from those who want me to make them rich. Money doesn’t make me happy, Nov. Soldiering didn’t make me happy. Pussy doesn’t make me happy, believe me I have tried. Life is a bag of shit, and a fancy house and fancy clothes don’t change that.”

  Hamms grabbed another saucer and slammed it down.

  “Now, if you have nothing else, then you can kindly get the fuck out,” Hamms said, standing to his feet and pointing at the door.

  Hamms’ face had become flushed, his eyes glossed over, and his shoulders heaved. Nov swallowed his outburst for the third time.

  “There has to be something you care about here, Hamms,” Nov pleaded.

  Hamms just shook his head. “You will never understand what I care about, Nov. Not a damn one of you ever will.”

  Nov had lost. It hadn’t even been close. Hamms had known how this would end far before he called Nov back into his office. He had known, and he had tried to let Nov know by sitting him in the hall for twelve hours. Nov had realized the futility as he had sat there in that cushioned chair; his ass going numb. Yet, he had to try.

  Nov stood from his seat and turned to walk from the room. Hamms words stopped him for a moment.

  “If you can find happiness in this life, Nov, then I suggest you do it now. Do not hoist your sword and die upon its blade. I learned long ago that dying a hero is a child’s dream.”

  Nov turned the handle and left Hamms to his devices.

  Sometimes you hit a crossroads in your life, and it changes everything you have ever known or dreamed of knowing. Then sometimes the crossroads hits you.

  8

  The inside of the buildings made the outside look like a castle. The smell of mold, dust, and stale air hit Miles’ nostrils and made his eyes water. Cobwebs hung from every open space, in some the spiders still hung, waiting for dinner. Miles walked in, letting the creaking doors swing shut behind him. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and he spotted a few areas where the boards had given way; in those areas Miles could see the dirt below.

  Miles had been to bars like this before. They were a dime a dozen outside the confines of the city walls. Filled with shit, shit people, shit bartenders, and shit beer. Miles heard the door creak again behind him as Sammy walked in. His eyes still filled with wonder. To be an idiot must be bliss, Miles thought to himself. He said nothing though and moved toward the barstools. It turned out to be a godsend when he found one that had not broken. The bartender looked in their direction, but hesitated to move from his perch.

  Miles shifted on the stool, trying to feel the coin in his pocket. The stool wobbled with him and he tried to mask the face of panic. How ironic would it be to die from a wobbling stool the night after he had rampaged the third largest city in the empire? The night after he fought beasts from the underworld. He almost chuckled, all that fear built up inside him just to die from a benign piece of wood.

  Miles regained his composure and looked straight up into the unshaven face of the bartender. His eyes weren’t friendly, and his breath smelled like death. The man slammed down a mug of yellow beer in front of Miles, not even bothering to ask what he wanted. Something white floated to the top as bubbles carried it to the surface. No use trying to play detective in a place like this.

  “Coin,” the man grunted. His voice sounded like the grating of a weathervane in the wind. Miles fished out a coin from his pocket and flipped it onto the counter.

  “Keep them coming,” he said.

  The man picked up the coin and looked it over. The poor never realized how hard it would be to fake a coin in the empire. It would take more money to fake than it would to just steal, and Miles had a sword, as did most men who were of improbable values.

  The man took a few deep breaths and Miles could smell the sickly-sweet sweat permeating the air. The man decided that the coin represented the real deal and shoved it in his pocket, moving back down to the end of the bar where his regulars congregated. Miles drew a deeper breath, glad that the pungent smell left with the man.

  His peace died quick, however. The men started to comment on Miles’ attire. Commenting on the secondhand boots and the dingy leather; saying they didn’t believe him to be a king’s man at all, but a filthy rebel. Miles bit his tongue, he could say whatever words he wanted, fight the men, kill them, and then move on from this shit hole, but he needed to rest. He needed somewhere to clear his mind for a little while. Those damn beasts had wrecked his nerves. No part of him wanted to spend another night in the dark with them.

  So instead of talking and humoring the men with a fight he looked toward them, and without saying a word touched the rusted piece of shit sword at his hip. Dull and ugly, but even the dumbest brute knew that with enough swings it would chop through a man. It didn’t hurt that Miles, while not ugly, had a hard look to him. He had the build to show he had been trained to fight. The men thought about their options only for a moment and decided to drink instead of fight. Miles let go of his sword pommel and grabbed the handle of his mug.

  The men started in on Sammy. Miles didn’t give a shit though. Let them berate him, he didn’t know him, and had no obligation to fight his battles. Instead of worrying about it, Sammy ignored them too, or was too damned stupid to notice they were mocking him. The men gained confidence at his refusal to acknowledge them and they con
tinued to grow louder.

  Miles tried to ignore them and took a few more swigs of his piss warm beer, before his eyes landed on a young beauty in the corner. Her golden locks fell down across her chest, where her dress left little to the imagination. Miles eyed her up and down thinking there was nothing like war to get the juices flowing. Nothing like dying ever made someone respect the touch of a woman so much.

  Miles hopped from his barstool. He had had enough of the war, enough of the beasts, and enough of near-death experiences; it was time for something else. Miles sat down next to the woman and gave her a smile. In the back of his mind he knew this could be the last time he ever talked to a woman.

  ***

  Miles moved from his stool. Sammy’s eyes followed him to a nearby table with a woman sitting alone. Sammy didn’t move. He listened to the others in the bar. Men spoke loudly about something and looked in his direction, but Sammy couldn’t understand what they were meaning.

  The clunk of a mug hitting the bar alerted him to the man behind the bar. The man smelled funny. His stature caused him to hover, not a muscular big, but more so a too much food and not enough movement kind of big.

  “Coin,” he said to Sammy.

  Sammy looked at the mug. The same amber liquid as all the others in the place filled it. To Sammy it smelled funny and didn’t look pleasant to consume.

  “Coin!” the man demanded a little louder this time.

  Sammy had seen Miles dig around in his pockets and fish out some metal object, before handing it off, but Sammy didn’t have any of those objects. Matter of fact, Sammy had nothing, even the clothes on his back weren’t his clothes.

  “I don’t have any,” Sammy replied.

  Before Sammy could say anything else, the barkeep sighed with frustration and grabbed the mug, mumbling something inaudible under his breath as he walked away.

  The men at the end of the bar burst into laughter and pointed their fingers in his direction. Sammy watched each take a sip of their mugs, as if to tease him, but Sammy couldn’t understand why anyone would want to drink that substance, let alone give something to do so.

  The men at the end of the bar all stood and moved down toward Sammy. One man sat right next to him and pulled two of the metal objects called coins from his pocket. He twirled them in his hands in front of his face.

  “Pretty aren’t they?” he said. “Don’t you wish you had some?” His buddies joined in on the laughter. Sammy wondered if he should laugh too. “Another mug,” the man ordered. The barkeep grabbed the glass he had offered to Sammy, and the man threw a coin onto the counter.

  “Looks good don’t it?” the man said and grabbed the mug in his oversized hand. He took a long draught and then licked his lips. Sammy doubted the pleasantness of the taste considering the smell. “Don’t you wish you had one?”

  Sammy didn’t want any of the smell bad. Instead of saying so though, Sammy just sat silently, as the man catered to his friends for another round of laughter.

  Sammy focused his attention on Miles, which seemed like a bad choice. Miles no longer just sat at the table and conversing with the woman. Now Miles’ hand rummaged around for something under the ladies’ shirt. Sammy wondered what the lady had hidden up there and why she would let Miles look for it. Sammy scrunched his face as Miles’ tongue pressed down the ladies’ throat. It seemed odd and uncomfortable. Sammy felt very strange watching the situation unfold, so he turned back toward the bar.

  The man still stared at him, as did his friends. Sammy said nothing to them trying to pass the time waiting on Miles to finish whatever he had come here for. He hoped Miles would find whatever he looked for in that woman’s shirt soon, so they could move on.

  “You some kind of idiot?” the man asked Sammy.

  Sammy didn’t want to reply. He didn’t want to converse with the man, or any of the man’s friends. So instead he sat quietly with his hands pressing into his thighs. “You fucking stupid?” the man asked; his friends laughed behind him. Sammy continued to say nothing, but he felt the pressure of all their eyes boring into him.

  He turned his chair. Not toward Miles, but this time toward the window. He couldn’t focus on the outside images though. The man’s breath poured over his neck. He knew the man leaned in closer, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to continue with this situation. It made him uncomfortable. Waiting left him nothing else for him to do though. So, he sat with his back turned, hoping Miles would finish soon.

  9

  The rain pounding down on his head during the shameful walk home didn’t help, but it wasn’t the soggy britches that made Nov’s mood sour. The damn council turning him down and Hamms doing the same out of spite had accomplished that. Nov couldn’t even recall why Hamms hated him. Had it been him second in line before Nov took his place? It didn’t much matter now; whatever pride Hamms had as a soldier had worn off.

  A rich slob remained. A man with no principles, no pride, and no joy left to his life. Nov could at least connect with that joyless existence. Nov wouldn’t be enjoying anything, not until the day when the Groundborn came knocking on the city gates.

  At least when the Groundborn came, he would have something to do with his time. Something useful, even if soon after he would join the corpses on the pathways.

  Nov would spend his time sharpening his sword. Maybe he would get the courage to go tell Earl goodbye.

  He refused to spend his time like the rest of these brainless twits. Bidding for titles that meant jack shit. Each man lying face down on the cobblestone would be equally dead. The Groundborn would see that each of them became a rotting corpse. It didn’t matter if someone died in a suit of armor or a fancy tunic; death was death.

  Nov rounded toward the barracks. Most men would have taken a carriage. It was quicker and would have kept him from the pouring rain, but Nov felt like he deserved to suffer. He had failed. Not once, but twice. Three times, if he counted being unable to protect Earl.

  He did at least wipe the drops from his brow. One thing to be somber, another to not watch where he went.

  Even in the rain, the city jostled. Merchants couldn’t go home just because of falling water from the sky; they needed the money to feed their family. Shops kept their doors closed, but signs offered shelter from the rain if customers had the coppers to pay.

  Then, there were people who couldn’t afford a hat, let alone a copper for shelter. Those people congregated together, as if the proximity would help them somehow.

  Nov pushed on. The entire city would vanish soon anyhow.

  “Need a ride?”

  Nov looked up and saw the woman in green from Hamm’s estate holding out a hand. Nov started to shake his head no, but the door flew open and the woman scooted to the side.

  “Get in,” she said.

  Nov looked around, still a way off from the barracks. The city walls seemed to get even farther away as he grew older. With a sigh of resignation, he put his soggy leather boot to the metal step and slid into the booth.

  Quiet filled the carriage as the horses started their trot again. The noise of the outside faded away behind the noise of the wheels on cobblestone. Nov looked forward without meeting eyes with the woman beside him.

  “You wouldn’t know it, not from the way he is now.”

  Nov glanced at the woman. Not homely or old. Not the way he imagined a door servant at all. A sense of elegance radiated off her. Her dresses creased in all the right spots and she could have passed for a noble.

  “Know what?” Nov asked.

  The woman bit her lip, thinking about something, something that made her nervous to let go.

  “Hamms is a nice guy, Nov,” she said, but her voice didn’t seem confident.

  “He sure seemed like an asshole to me,” Nov interjected.

  The woman shook her head. “It is not the way he has always been.”

  The outspoken man in the office was exactly who Nov thought he would be. Money makes a meek man brash, and Hamms always had that hatred i
nside him.

  “I know what happened today. I know what you must think of him, but there is more to him.”

  She looked at Nov with tears forming in her eyes. She still didn’t seem sure about what she said.

  “I brought you in here. I may as well tell you why. Hamms and I met far before his riches. Before you wandered into the barracks with that sword upon your back, before Earl misplaced his feeling for Hamms and upon finding them gave them to you instead. I don’t blame you, but Hamms did.”

  She looked away from Nov and toward her slippered feet.

  “About that time, I took with child. Hamms worried all the time. A simple soldier’s pay would not make a good life for a baby. A soldier’s life was no place to raise a child. Earl called early meetings, long nights, and hard training. Hamms resented him. He told Earl about the child in womb, but Earl only said that all men must protect the walls, and a baby was even more reason to do so. Maybe he was right, but Hamms hated him for it.”

  “Earl was just doing his job,” Nov said.

  The woman nodded. “Like I said, I do not hold it against either of you. Hamms, on the other hand,” the woman paused a moment. “Let me finish the story,” she said, and returned her gaze to the carriage floor. “Hamms won the gambling money before the baby was born. A month before to be exact. I had never known him to be so happy. The money would buy us titles and a home for the child. It meant that Hamms was free from the strain of being a soldier. We were happy again for the first time in a long while. It wasn’t to be, however.”

  She wiped tears from her eyes and took a few breaths. Nov tried to focus on the story and not her eyes. An uncomfortable moment for the both.

  “When the baby was born, it was dead. The baby girl we held in our arms had no light in her eyes. She did not smile at our loving faces. The money had not bought her a better life. Hamms spiraled out of control. Squandered money on drinks and servants. Thought surrounding himself with people lower than him would make him feel better, bigger than life. He was wrong. The man I knew died that night. The man I knew left me. When I told him this, he refused to hear it, instead, he pushed me away. I stayed, taking a job as the greeter to his estate. Hamms is a good man, Nov. He is just broken.”