9 Tales From Elsewhere 12

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  "Thank you," he said with a shaky smile. His voice still shook with repressed giggles. "Your offer...thanks you. Truly." Evan sighed, one last giggle shaking through him. "I should head back upstairs. It's going to be a long day." He waved goodnight as he strode back in, ready to face whatever arguments waited him. Frederick followed shortly after, a pang of sympathy for the boy in his belly. They must've been away all night; the sky was just starting to lighten as he shut the door.

  "Ah! Crotchety little shit!" Frederick sucked his thumb where the chicken had given it a fierce peck. Apparently, it was fine with sitting in old, dirty hay, rather than the fresh handfuls he'd brought to replace it. Bah, he'd try again later. Maybe after a pot of tea, and another few chapters of his book. He sighed, remembering that wasn't much of an option -- his wonderfully helpful houseguests had the day to themselves, for whatever that was worth. He'd dressed it up as thanks for all their hard work, though he could see in their eyes they knew it for what it was. They'd all headed out frightfully early for as little sleep as they must've had, and only after Frederick had forced some food and a pot of the strongest tea he could make down their throats. They'd looked a bit livelier after that, and maybe just a bit hopeful. Of course, this meant that the day's chores would revert back to Frederick. He eyed fresh weeds sprouting in his garden with a weary sigh. He'd have to show them how to properly remove the blasted things when they got back.

  "Pardon, good sir. Are you...Fredrick?"

  "Frederick," he corrected automatically, and looked up from kneeling at a particularly stubborn weed. A boy who looked young enough to still have his milk teeth sat on a cream-and-brown horse. He awkwardly leapt down from the saddle, and clicked his heels sharply as he presented his sigil -- an iron circle with a spread-winged dove carrying a scroll.

  "By royal decree, His Majesty Lucas, the First of His line, may He reign for as long-" The messenger's mouth snapped shut when Frederick motioned for him to cut the rambling recitation short. "Ah, I-I've been in-instructed to..." Flustered by the old man's scowl, he snapped to attention again. "All citizens are hereby requested to temporarily relocate within Verdenhelm's walls. If you have animals, they will be sent for; if you are unable to travel, wagons will come for you within one day of hearing this req-"

  "What?" Frederick snapped, waving away the rest of speech. "What? Why?"

  The boy gulped nervously. He sucked in another breath, and rubbed his sigil, as if for strength. "Last night High Royal Carden of the Nation of Hogenhein was discovered to be involved with treachery most foul. He and several conspirators were found to have broken into the royal dungeons, and slain several captives being held for questioning regarding the attack in the market three weeks prior. Others escaped; those caught will be summarily executed this day at-"

  Frederick cut him off with a slash of his hand, and he gaped like a fish. "I'm not bloody going!" he roared. "Tell your master that. I moved out here to be away from all of you. The last thing I want is to be smashed in with everyone else in those damned walls!"

  The messenger paled, and shook in his boots; he gripped his sigil like it was a talisman against evil, just short of thrusting it at him and yelling "Back!" Frederick sucked a breath through his teeth, and counted silently. When he opened his eyes again, the messenger's face had at least regained a healthy color to his face.

  "It was not meant to imply you would have to stay with the chickens," the boy joked nervously. "Arrangements have been made. You'll stay in some of the most comfortable-" Again, he was cut off by an angry motion from Frederick.

  "Damn your eyes, I'll go," he muttered. "I don't need bloody help!" he exploded when the messenger tried to guide him to the horse, like you might and elderly or infirm relative. "If I die on the way, it'll be one less old codger to worry about! Now scat!"

  Frederick was tempted to wave his arms and roar as the distraught messenger launched himself hastily away from his home. Instead, he harrumphed loudly to himself, and went inside to grab his purse, and what few keepsakes he couldn't bear to leave behind. He left extra food out for the animals, including the few bits of leftover beef he'd saved from his last lunch at a tavern. He didn't know if Tobias would like the heavily flavored meat, but it was worth it if it'd keep the beastie from eating everything else. Hopefully this would keep him sated until he returned. No matter what some squeaking messenger said, he'd be damned if he left for more than a couple days. Scratching the gluttonous dragonling between its horns, he left for Verdenhelm immediately.

  The city was, as he'd feared, filled to excess. Families were camped outside the walls with their animals and lives stuffed into wagons and carts; they played distractedly with their children, trying to keep them from worrying too much. They might as well have done nothing. Young or no, children understood more than adults thought. Frederick saw the songs and games doing more to distract their parents; the older carried or shepherded the younger, who stared at the walls with wide, frightened eyes. The usual merchants and grifters were noticeably absent; census-takers and guards took their place, moving swiftly through the throngs of humanity to see who needed aid, who had family in the city, and whatever else crossed their minds.

  Frederick quietly moved through the crowd, and through the gates, ignoring the screaming in his head. He was there often enough the guards simply waved him through (much to the displeasure of the rabble). He pushed past the lost and confused, and marched towards the gallows. If anything the crowd grew even thicker, half the city there to watch the grisly spectacle, it seemed. He checked his annoyance as people shuffled and stepped on his feet, or elbowed him as they tried to angle for a better vantage. He drew the line when someone put a hand on his shoulder, and tried to boost themselves onto a beam; the squawk and splash as the boy fell bodily into the mud was most satisfying. Frederick finally shoved his way close enough to the front he could hear the magistrate reading the list of charges against someone. He realized it was the handsome diplomat he'd seen ride into the city just the other day. Well, not so handsome now: his face was a mask of bruises and swollen lips; his jaw was broken, giving him a permanent fool's mask, and he only stood by the small mercy of guards on either side of him, keeping him on his feet.

  "...Conspiracy to murder; conspiracy to spy on his majesty and the subjects under his rule; attempted murder of the highest order..."

  Frederick sighed. He'd never understand the bureaucrats and their love for lists and their own voices. As the bearded magistrate droned on, Frederick glanced across the faces assembled at the top of the steps: young men, barely any older than the messenger who'd visited him this morning. Not a trace of fear in the lot of them, he realized with a small bit of respect. Even as their fate loomed in front of them, they glared defiantly out at their enemies. One with a bandage over his left eye seemed determined to meet the gaze of everyone there. He held Frederick's for a few heartbeats, a hidden righteous fury behind his eyes daring him to hold his gaze. Frederick returned it, unflinching and cold as the stones under his feet. A sudden wind distracted the both of them, and their game was forgotten. The stench of rotting meat burning bones filled the gallows, and the crowd fell into an expectant silence.

  In front of the prisoners, a large stone pit had been set into the ground. It was an unassuming thing; in any other city, it could've been mistaken for a pond for birds -- if you ignored the strange crawling that worked its way up the back of your neck whenever you looked at it. Though everyone who lived there had gotten used to the thing, Frederick could see it unsettled even the oldest voyeur there. He had to admit, even on quiet, empty days, it seemed...too innocent. As though it were trying to appear harmless, amidst the hustle and bustle of the city. It was the man in a pub who stared just a little too long at you from across the room; the forest that fell silent when you weren't paying attention; the door in a house that no one ever opened, for some unspoken reason. As the magister's voice grew louder and louder, until he was roaring the judgements, cracks began to appear in the smooth pit. Smal
l at first, but quickly spreading and growing wider with each condemnation. A foul-smelling black ichor began to ooze from them, like an infected wound.

  "May whatever comes after take mercy on you," the magistrate finished solemnly. "For those who wait below will certainly not." He nodded curtly to the guards.

  The diplomat was held up, and his eyes forced open. One by one, his men were shoved forward until they had all stumbled into the pit. Frederick stifled a laugh; the damned thing was barely big enough to hold them all, and the guards had to shove them in like fish in a crate. The men made faces as they waded into the ankle-deep sludge, confused, and very, very afraid. They stood there awkwardly, watching and waiting for...something. One of the men opened his mouth with a smirk, though whatever wit he had died as something caressed his boots. He didn't have time to even be surprised before a whip rose up from the muck to encircle his neck. Wicked barbs bit into his flesh as it dragged him choking and struggling below.

  Chaos erupted then as the condemned men tried to leap from the pit. Hooks and chains and nets and other, strange, unknowable appendages exploded from beneath them, impaling, tangling, grasping. One by one, they were taken from the world to whatever lay in the dark place below. The man who'd met Frederick's eyes lasted the longest, leaping and dashing about. He was the last, and for a moment, the ichor stilled. He looked around, bleeding and breathless. At the quiet, something approaching hope reached his eyes -- and fled just as quickly.

  "Please," was all he said. A second later, he was gone, sucked into the pit. The ichor stilled again, leaving only the diplomat. A sword was placed in the man's hand, though he was surely in no shape to use it. They led him almost gently into the pit, letting him fall into the liquid. Slowly, he was drawn into it, same as all the others. He let it take him without a fight, having long since lost the will to resist.

  Frederick was the first to move, pushing his way back through the crowd as the magistrate began droning on about the fate that would befall their enemies, and so on. His belly rumbled angrily as he reached the edge of the crowd. For some odd reason, executions had always made him hungry. At least here, he could relax as someone made the food for him. He wandered down the streets, trying to keep his temper at bay as more and more people funneled into Verdenhelm. Finally, he gave up and shouldered into the nearest tavern, the Resplendent Squid. Inside it was surprisingly empty; only a few patrons sat at tables, or made their way upstairs. Frederick strode towards the bar where a bald man in an apron stood, washing glasses.

  "A room, and a meal, please," he asked, pulling a few coins from his purse, and setting them in front of him. The bartender stroked a bushy mustache that drooped on either side of his face before collecting the payment. He placed a small brass key in front of Frederick.

  "This'll only get you a night," he warned.

  "I know. I won't be staying long."

  The bartender raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't ask any questions. Frederick felt a rush of gratitude for his silence. An extra coin saw a boy run to take his meager possessions to his room for him. Frederick sat at the nearest table and rested his aching feet. It wasn't too long before a plate of mutton and potatoes was set in front of him. He dug into it eagerly, feeling his soreness fade away. He must've enjoyed it more than he'd thought, for the next thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. He snorted, righting himself on his chair.

  "I was wondering if they'd manage to drag you out of your hole." Tarlen smiled down at him. Frederick laughed, and smiled back as he pushed out another chair for his friend. He pretended not to notice the dark circles under the man's eyes, or the days' of beard sweeping across his cheeks in patchy bunches. He held up two fingers to the bartender, still standing and wiping down the counter.

  "It's good-"

  "They declared war today." Tarlen accepted the pair of drinks gratefully, taking a quaff of his with a sharp, nervous jerk of his head. Frederick tapped the side of his own thoughtfully. It was hardly a surprise. Executing a diplomat, spy or no, would enrage most nations to arms. To be announced so quickly, however...the kingdom had been assuming war long before Hogenhein sent their people.

  "You have family though. The...Briskarlen Steppes, yes? Surely they'll take you and yours for the time."

  Tarlen had already finished his drink, and held a finger up for another. "Ellie is being deployed within a fortnight. She's smart; said they'll be giving her rank by the time she's put out." His lips quivered, and he hid them behind another cup. "Agh...you should've seen her in her uniform."

  "Tarlen," Frederick said gently, but his friend only shook his head.

  "I didn't come here for bedtime lies," he said sharply. "You remember the game?"

  Frederick frowned deeply. "We're a bit old to do that any more."

  "We'll keep it simple then. Half the taverns in the city. As the champion, I'll take pity on you."

  "Champion, eh?" Frederick said, smiling broadly. "As I recall, we left you horking on some lass's shoes before midnight."

  "Turned out alright," Tarlen grinned. "Ended up marrying her."

  They both laughed, though to Frederick, the sound was forced, and sour -- the laugh of men who were trying to ignore tomorrow, and knew damn well what they were doing. The barkeeper passed by at their raised fingers, swiftly retrieving empty mugs, and deposited fresh ales in front of them. They drank deeply, and spoke of years past, of conquests and deeds long since forgotten by anyone else; of the weather, of aching backs, and knees; of the troupe Frederick had missed months ago, and how good it was to see him again. They talked about anything, and everything, to avoid thinking about what the future would hold for them, and the children who fought for them, the old and crotchety. They decided to find a new place to drink when more patrons began funneling into the tavern. Slightly unsteady on their feet, the two slightly tipsy men shuffled out into the street (trying to push each other over as they went).

  The sun had already begun its descent, and the sky was awash with brilliant purples and reds. Its beauty was lost on Frederick and Tarlen, who simply bickered as to which tavern to head to next. The Iron Crow was the next to receive the dubious honor of their presence. Slightly more upscale than their usual favorites, the doorman was thankfully too busy to turn his nose up at them, and send them on their way. The worst they received was a disapproving glare from across the room as they ordered cheap wine, insisting they be served in large tankards. Tarlen began snorting into the sour purple drink when Frederick began to drink with his pinky extended, and with obnoxiously proper posture.

  "Stop, stop, stop," Tarlen hissed between high-pitched giggles. "You're gonna get us thrown out!"

  Frederick let out a mocking titter, causing Tarlen to push his face into his arm. "Mmmmnoooo, I think noooot," Frederick drawled, his face drooping into a strange mix of a bored nobleman, and a cow chewing its cud. He didn't even bat an eye when a tiny trickle of wine seeped out of the corner of his mouth. "Mmmmm, I seem to have sprung a leak," he slurred, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  "Sirs."

  The two looked up to see an impossibly serious young man with a sharp widow's peak, and jaw that looked like it could crush boulders. He was looking down his nose at them (no small feat, as even seated Tarlen was easily half a head taller), and adjusted the sleeves of his fine shirt. Tarlen flushed, and quietly put his drink, and a hefty tip, on the counter. He tugged at Frederick's sleeve.

  "C'mon," he whispered, getting to his feet. "Think we should find a new seat to plant our asses."

  Frederick stomped to his feet, attracting the eyes of more than a few. Drawing himself up, he pushed his chest against the doorman, breathing heavily into his face. To his credit, the fumes of wine and ale didn't immediately knock the man to the floor. "Why?" he demanded. "I'm comfortable here. Are you gonna drag me out, boy?"

  "Frederick." Tarlen cleared his throat, and nodded to one side. Three large men, more muscled arms and torsos than anything else, had been slinking towards them ever since Frederick go
t to his feet. Tarlen grabbed his friend's arm a bit firmer, and ever-so-gently began pulling him away from the doorman. He nodded at the intimidating men, who glowered in response. Frederick, thankfully, kept his temper -- for three paces.

  Drunk and off-balance, his clumsy swing was easily caught, and his arms were pinned to his sides. He was dragged roaring and cursing to the door, and swiftly tossed onto his face in the street.

  "I'm going, I'm -- let go!" Tarlen squawked as he was half-led half-tossed out to stumble next to Frederick. "This seems oddly familiar," he huffed. "Oh, on your feet." He grunted, grabbing Frederick under an arm, and hauling him upright.

  "Fucking whor-"

  "We're done here," Tarlen snapped, heaving him away from the tavern as the guards began to turn back to them. Certainly no small feat -- Frederick all but pulled him from his feet like a charging bull. "Go, go, go, go!"

  "I'm, I'm, I'm...." Frederick fell blessedly silent as he was shoved down the street, and around the corner. "I'm..." He put an arm against a wall to steady himself, his face contorting as he focused. "What am I?"

  "Drunk. Already." Tarlen got under his arm again, and began to lead him away.

  "Where'ee gone?"

  "Back to my house."

  "Oh. My stuff!"

  "It'll still be there tomorrow. Now I remember...I remember this is why we stopped doing this."

  "Because yer a faintin' lily?"

  Tarlen's only response was to continue helping his drunken friend stumble down the road. He had to dissuade Frederick from calling out to a few of the whores standing outside their guild houses; he almost had to drag him away by the neck when a group of familiar faces called for them to join them on their drunken adventures. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of listening to Frederick slur on and on about whatever passed into view, they arrived.