She leapt forward, whipped her blade across the second assailant’s throat, and left him to die by the first. The final attacker managed to strike once before she countered and sent both her blades right through his chest. He was dead long before she pulled them free and returned them to their scabbards. She notched her final arrow and leaned over to watch the last moments of Keri. She took a breath and fired.
Quig was swinging when the first crossbow bolt struck his chest. He roared and swung again sending another into the darkness. Another arrow pierced his leg and he stumbled. He swung regardless of balance, howled with pain, and then triumph, as he took his victim. None could near his mighty scythe until a Rider charged down on him and lanced his great heart with a long pike. He never screamed out for mercy. He just closed his eyes and never opened them again.
Erroh tried to make it to the big man, but a thousand hands grabbed him. They gripped his wrists and his blades were torn from his grip. They punched and kicked until he fell to the ground in a ruin. They moved in with killing intent and, in the wet cold ground and all alone, Erroh thought of Lea in her yellow dress, and then everything went dark.
She watched Erroh go down under the rushing horde and she fell to her knees and never wanted to rise again. She thought about praying to absent gods but she doubted there was any god nearby to enjoy such misery. She almost turned to despair but instead her hand reached out and took hold of her pack. It was time to move, a voice in her head reminded her. She knew which route to take, where the cover of trees were at their thickest. She heard the fresh sound of brutes below, attacking the climb and she left her perch and vanished into the safety of the forest.
Darkness.
Pain.
Awake.
He hung outstretched from the back of one of the large carts. His wrists in thick rope, his body bowed to kneel in the wet mud. They thought him no longer a threat. He blinked his eyes and tried to clear his vision but the sky was dark. How long had he slept? All around him was good cheer and Erroh threw up on himself. He could see many tents lined around the camp, some with small fires burning outside. Children in groups of all ages walked freely through the crowd, as it gathered around the massive unlit pyre in the centre of the camp. Their triumphant mood after the magnificent victory over thirty or so warriors was evident, as they laughed and joked in the ugly barbaric language. There was more to see but his eyes never left the great stacks of firewood. They had found Lea. They had probably taken her when the beasts had overrun the town and he had not been there to protect her. He struggled in his restraints.
Aireys was barely conscious from the loss of blood and the numerous blows to the head. It was a small mercy. Her long hair was matted and dyed red from her wounds and her eyes were glazed over. Her vanquishers carried her along and she never tried to thrash for all fight had left her.
Her fate was sealed unless he could do something. He struggled harder and felt a little bit of give in the rope around his right wrist. His muscles screamed in protest but he persevered, tugging fiercely until he slipped in the muddy ground and fell against the cart’s frame with a dull thud. Sharp pains shot up his arms into his back and nearly made him pass out. He had lost far too many friends today. He would not lose another. He climbed to his unsteady feet and began again.
They strapped each of her thin muscular arms to the wooden pyre, while a tall brute with a long beard and cruel features addressed the crowd. Erroh twisted his wrists and pulled his right hand as hard as he could. The crowd began to laugh at some joke made at Aireys’s expense and he hated them more. How dare they laugh at such a heroic warrior? They would know his wrath. With a violent jerk, he freed his right and immediately went to work on his left wrist. In his haste, he never noticed a soldier come up behind him and catch him squarely on the jaw with a fierce punch. He cried out and his attacker shouted nonsensically in his face before striking him a second time to deter any further thoughts of escape.
They lit the fire.
With the last of his will, Erroh suddenly grabbed the brute by the throat and squeezed. He screamed to Aireys so she might see his final gift. He dug his fingers deeply through skin into muscle and he pulled. He screamed her name again and wrenched the killer’s throat free. The man spluttered and fell to his knees. Streams of warm liquid sprayed wildly and Erroh screamed for Aireys a third time.
She couldn’t see properly. She remembered rain and fighting but everything now was a blur. The only resounding thought she could grasp was that she was going to die. Her only regrets were not dying beside her friends and only telling Emir she loved him once. The straps around her wrists were all that kept her from collapsing. The wound along her side was deep and with every moment, she was slipping from this life. It was a fine life and she had lived it well. All of them had. The fires began to burn around her and she felt the presence of Quig and it reassured her.
He was waiting.
Suddenly she heard her name called out from near and she tried to open her eyes through the flame and the draw to sleep. She would not scream. Her name was called again and she looked away from the darkness back to the world of sorrow. She looked beyond the roaring animals that were enjoying her demise and saw Erroh.
He was still killing.
She held onto that thought. It kept her warm. She raised her head and closed her eyes as the flames took hold. She would show them how a brave Warrior of Keri stepped into the darkness. The pain intensified. Her clothes took light and there was no more air to breath. She was terrified but held her scream. Then she heard the familiar laugh of Quig and the clinking of glasses. She heard a whisper that it was her bet and she stepped into the darkness assisted by the arrow from some sympathetic killer that had seen more than enough. Nobody seemed to notice the arrow as her limp body fell forward and burned away silently into ash.
Too many Rats in the Nest
It was a shithole, and even that description was lending it quite a kindness. On one hand, it was a rather large tavern with good light and a decent location, but there was no escaping the fact that it was indeed a shithole. Wrek wasn’t entirely certain why he was seated in this particular shithole or indeed, why Sigi seemed so eager to have a drink with him here, but he had his suspicions. He didn’t care about grand plans; he only wanted the drink. Preferably not in a place like this though.
A drunk did have some standards.
“It could be the new Rat’s Nest,” said Sigi stirring the warm brown liquid in front of him. It may have been soup. He tasted a bit and grimaced and Wrek felt a headache coming on. After a moment, the headache continued talking.
“There’s a great opportunity here. If we play our cards right, we can own this city,” Sigi said excitedly and Wrek offered a weak smile. A lesser man may have lost heart after the attack on the tavern but Sigi had shrugged it off. He had simply made bigger plans. Wrek followed the sine, and the barrels of sine were carted off to the city of Samara where the duo of nomads swiftly began to make a little noise among the stalls of the market. Not to mention an absolute fortune. Who knew higher yield sine was in such demand anyway? As word spread of two scruffy merchants selling bottled ambrosia at criminally low prices, customers flocked to them and the market became Sigi’s to command.
And where did Wrek the drunken bouncer fit in with this divine distilling endeavour?
Well, he was the muscle when disgruntled tavern owners came calling about his aggressive strategy for undercutting their prices. They brought convincing arguments laced with a few shiny pieces, other times proposing illustrious partnerships but mostly they brought sharp sticks, but it never mattered. Like a hound, Sigi would point and Wrek would ravage. It wasn’t much in a way of a living but Wrek never complained. Soon it became known that neither were to be played with. However, it wasn’t just brutality that earned Wrek his place at Sigi’s side. It was Wrek’s uncanny ability to move with good graces among the Black Guard. As the gates closed to wanderers and those seeking refuge, the barrels of freshly brewed
sine were never halted on their midnight treks from the wastes. But as the funds rose and the barrels were drained exponentially, Sigi got fresh ideas and Wrek, well, Wrek wasn’t going to argue as long as he was needed.
“Do go on,” Wrek said feigning interest.
“I spoke with some interesting people in the market. A couple who can move freely through the gates and they have a fine place for us to use,” Sigi said quietly. His eyes darted around the room as he spoke as though he was committing the first act of treason against the Primary herself.
Wrek just massaged his knuckles. Yesterday’s dispute had split open a little bit of his skin. Maybe it had been from the day before.
“You want to move the distillery closer?” the behemoth asked.
“Aye. So the trips you make will only take a day each way now,” he said.
“Can they be trusted?” Wrek asked sipping his white ale. It was terrible. Just like this shithole of a bar. Just like this rotting city with its locked gates. Every day more and more unfortunates were turned away. Every day more and more shacks were erected down along the walls of the Spark. They could all smell war in the wind, and so flocked to the one light in the darkness. He pitied them but there was nothing he could do. The Primary had spoken and her word was law. He shrugged and thought about the freedom of salt mines. He missed the salt mines.
“Of course they can be trusted,” Sigi said confidently.
“Would it not be easier to just set up a distillery inside the city and avoid the nightmare of the gates altogether?” Wrek asked.
“If people knew the location of my distillery, I doubt I’d be alive for very long. No, that will come in time. When I can afford more swords,” Sigi said eying the décor with as much distaste as Wrek did.
“You underestimate the cover of protection I provide,” Wrek said sniffing, in truth, a little hurt that Sigi thought him unequal to the task.
“You underestimate your talents. You’re far more than a bruiser. People around here respect you my friend,” Sigi said and Wrek didn’t believe him for a moment.
“Aye, for my violence but it’s a small matter. Who are these reliable people?” Wrek asked warily.
“They have a farm not far from here. Secluded from the world,” Sigi whispered.
Behind them, a few men entered the bar loudly. They were already drunk and the sun had not yet set. They roared for the smoothest ale, as they had “a mighty thirst.” They wore their muddy work clothes and spoke loudly. The old innkeeper behind the bar nodded and began pouring. His hands were covered in spots and his grey hair was thinning. He was jaded and they were annoying and Wrek hated them.
“We spoke of buying a tavern in the city, so what about this place?” Sigi asked and Wrek noticed the excitement in his voice.
“It’s an absolute shithole and likely to waste a season’s coin on new interiors alone,” he whispered.
“It’s a roof over our heads when the rain comes.” argued Sigi.
“I don’t mind the rain,” Wrek said.
Sigi looked downbeat but his eyes were sharp. “Will you trust me?” he said quietly.
“Of course I trust you.”
“Excellent,” Sigi said brightening up immediately. Wrek suspected his opinion didn’t matter at all. He was no skilled distiller and he was no accomplished entrepreneur. Sigi was the rising star in the city. He was the man with ambitious plans and Wrek was hanging on for the ride.
“You bought this place already didn’t you?” Wrek said.
“Aye, we did.”
Wrek sighed and took notice of two pretty little things enter the shithole inn, a redhead and a blonde. They were in heated conversation of matters he imagined to be of the manly variety. This was hardly the place for them to find potential mates or indeed garner the right breed of suitor. They took a seat at the far end of the bar and waited to be served. One of the drunken workers stood up from his stool and walked unsteadily towards them before bowing pompously towards his chosen object of desire. She just smiled and waited for him to go away. Wrek’s knuckles turned a little white. The lout grabbed a chair without seeking any invitation and barked over at the bored bartender “Two fine glasses for these fine females.”
“How’s the ale?” asked Sigi, gaining Wrek’s attention.
“It’s mostly yellow water with some mud at the bottom,” Wrek hissed and eyed the little line of sediment in a nice mound at the bottom of his glass. It was ale but it was badly brewed. There was movement at the far table as, the other three louts, no doubt buoyed on by their comrade’s daring, descended upon the two females, surrounding them with slurred boasts, bitter odours, and boorish leering.
Sigi tapped Wrek’s glass. “That’s not going to sell at all. I could brew some myself but I’m no master at ale. It’s so much work and waste for such a little profit,” he said and scrunched up his face in worry.
“Maybe we just don’t serve it in glasses,” he muttered, under his breath.
After a moment, he thought this idea grand and Wrek sighed again.
“So we fix this shithole up, increase the flow of sine, and earn a fortune to retire on?” Wrek asked cracking his knuckles. He caught the female with the red hair swatting away an exploratory hand from her leg before it move further up her matching red dress. The hand returned with an attempted charming grin though it made no further move. Resting on the leg was fine wasn’t it? Point made. They’d only just met after all.
Sigi leaned forward and whispered. “There is something in the wind my friend, and someone with the right mind can have it all. This tavern is simply the next step,” he said in a strange tone.
Wrek nodded and stood. If this tavern failed, it was a small matter. He would support Sigi’s endeavours. If they ended up without a piece in their pockets, they could always find a decent shack at the edge of the city wall and grubby though they may be, he’d spoken with a few refugees and found them fine enough people. Moreover, if the tavern made money, well that was grand as well.
“You look after the alcohol and I’ll make sure the clientele are of the highest standard in here,” Wrek said removing a strap of leather from his pocket and wrapping it tightly around his hand.
“Have they paid for all their drinks yet?” he shouted to the barman. The man nodded that they had indeed.
“Ah good,” he roared and began the process of immediately improving the quality of patrons that were welcome in “The Rat’s Nest.”
The Slow March into Madness
The miles. Oh the miles. The terrible miles.
The chain around his waist clinked loudly as they walked and it was a constant reminder that he would be their pet until he died. The Hero of Keri was no more. They marched south and Erroh marched with them. Any joy at seeing the Riders return empty handed after their two day Hunt to ensnare runaways had now dissipated. Any relief at marching south towards the snowy mountains instead of north towards the great sky road was now a distant memory. He told himself that operating the great defence was the right decision but what if he’d been wrong? What if they could have fled when the fires were first lit? What if they could have lived? No, he already knew the answers and though they should have made him feel better, they didn’t.
He felt the pull of the chain as it rose into the air from its iron peg at the back of the cart. Maybe he should drop to the ground and allow the cart pull him along? He felt the edge rubbing his raw skin as the chain grew taut and he hurried his pace. Amazing how the presence of incessant pain turned a brave warrior into a subservient hound.
He had tried to walk with his head held high but as the miles were marched, he found it drop by degree. Now he stared at the ground for most of his day. The long convoy of killers travelled the same route the river took and they only ever marched south. When the water veered off on its own merry course, they trekked onwards while Riders searched for the next river going their way. When they camped, Erroh was able to rest his aching body and get a few hours’ sleep but it was never enough.
The days in which no fresh flowing rivers could be found were the worst. His heart would sink when the first of the torches along the carts were lit. There would be no sleeping on any of these nights. As fatigue set in, Erroh would spend hours trying to keep his feet from tripping up in the low light. A few Riders held out torches for the soldiers but few torchbearers came anywhere near him. They knew his threat still. They remembered the manic demon.
By the seventh day, black and purple marks had formed where the chain rubbed against his skin. By the second week, every tug from the chain after he took a misstep was enough to make him cry out.
Feeding time broke up the monotony. On the first day when he still had fight in him, they brought a plate with steaming meat. The brute was alone and offered the meat cautiously. He muttered gibberish and Erroh feigned stupidity. The fiend stepped closer and pointed at the food, it may have been boar. Erroh leapt like a frenzied beast and charged him to the ground. Unfortunately, his comrades came to his aid swiftly enough, though Erroh suspected he broke his nose. They beat him unconscious for his crime. When a second brute arrived the next day with another piece of steaming meat, he attacked again. On the third day a female appeared.
He saw through the ruse immediately. She was beautiful and similar in age. She had long flowing blonde locks and a kind smile that suggested both warmth and wantonness. They had chosen the finest alluring bitch of them all and Erroh found her arousing. Though she spoke that same brutish tongue, she whispered deliciously of the marvels of meats she had procured for him and only him, and when she sat down next to him, it was difficult to ignore the many fine shapes to her. He took the food she offered for a man’s will could only sustain so much. It was unsettling how much glee there was in her deceiving eyes as he gorged himself upon the greasy pieces. In truth, he’d never eaten a finer meal. She smiled wonderfully when he swallowed the last mouthful and touched his arm as if finishing a meal was to be congratulated. She pointed to herself and said a word he didn’t understand. She laughed and squeezed his shoulder. It was pleasant to be touched tenderly. He struck her fiercely in the face and she collapsed on the ground unconscious. He ignored the guilt as a little trickle of blood flowed from her nostril. She did not deliver any more meals to him after that.
Spark City Page 40
