by Michael-Scott Earle
The tavern was once called The Banished Mermaid, but the lettering of the script had faded into the worn wood of the sign. The whimsical carving of a frolicking mermaid no longer hung from its perch. The Dogs’ Den was now scrawled in dark reddish brown paint. Maybe it was blood.
The sun had begun its death a few minutes ago, and the only sources of light were the noxious smelling whale fat torches haphazardly lining the streets. The flame in front of the tavern was not lit yet, but the slave trader across the street had set the fires in his braziers so that the public could clearly see his wares.
I had last visited this bar when it was still known by its former name. I spent the afternoon with my father and a few of his town friends. They were an eclectic group of merchants, farmers, and traders. They would sit around a stout table drinking foaming mugs of beer, exchanging stories about the sea, trade, women, and what manner of soil treatment led to the largest vegetable harvest.
I almost didn’t want to open the battered door to this bar because I knew the inside would be in worse condition than the exterior. But my mission would not be delayed. I’d traveled for twenty-four years to be back at this place, and this was the beginning of the end for me and the tyrant who ruled this world.
Inside was much worse than I could have imagined. The walls were caked with dirt and ash. Every wooden surface was soiled with vomit or beer. The floors were thick with sticky booze and stale, slippery grease.
The room stank of vomit, spoiled beer, violence, piss, blood, and the three whale fat lamps that the management believed were enough to light the place sufficiently. In the alcove of the entrance a table meant for stowing weapons sat empty. There were no blades on the beaten wood and the first group of men I saw wore their swords with bravado.
The Dogs.
I supposed the name was fitting for the tavern. These were the soldiers of Raltenor the Conqueror. They had helped him conquer dozens of countries until his fist closed around my own land of Sailtemp. Once he took my land, the rest of the world followed and the plunge into absolute darkness was complete.
“Wench! Another beer!” one of the armored men called. His beer cup was full and it sloshed out of the container when he swung his arm in the air. His cronies cackled in amusement. The barmaid tentatively approached the men, her steel collar revealed her status as a slave. From the bruises, cuts, and gashes on her exposed skin, I guessed that she was no better treated than the building.
Perhaps this land would change after Raltenor was dead. Perhaps someone else would just take his throne and be an even more vicious ruler. It didn’t matter to me what happened after the Conqueror died. I only cared that he did, and did so by my hand.
It was my life’s work.
Forty men and a few female slaves occupied the small area of the bar. The noise they made was loud, drunk, and full of malicious intent, but I guessed the majority of the risk was carried by the poor women wearing steel collars. Even as I watched, one of the girls struggled to escape the clutches of a large bearded thug that grasped her breast. Another man grabbed her other breast and then they threw her onto the table in the corner. Four of the drunken men began to take off their pants while the first two held her down.
I glanced away from the scene and slid through the throngs of drinkers like a shadow. Most of the customers were Dogs, but I guessed a few to be mercenaries or hired bruisers. The majority wore swords, a few carried axes, and all of the patrons looked ready to prey upon anyone that seemed weak. After a few twists through the crowd, I came to the far edge of the bar and leaned against the sticky counter there.
“What’ll ya have?” the greasy barkeep asked. A thin film of oil covered his bald head and only one of his eyes worked. The other was a murky ball of cancer and it gazed off into the distance when he glared at me.
“Do you carry Oar Ale?” I leaned over the counter and tapped upon the wood twice. It was the signal to indicate to him that I wanted to collect on the deal that my contacts had arranged.
“Eh. I’ve got some out back. Meet me there in a few minutes.” He turned down the length of the wood bar and then busied himself with another order. I moved through the throng again and tried not to glance upon the four men having their way with the slave girl in the corner.
The back haunches of The Dogs’ Den sat on the docks of the Sailtemp Bay. Once the harbor had been the scene of bustling activity and served as the heartbeat of Sailtemp’s flourishing trade center. Now the bay was a mishmash of rotting wood gangways and floating garbage. The harbor could have housed fifty ships, but only three hulking barges squatted in the dark, dirty water.
They were slave vessels.
I heard the door to the back of the tavern open and the uneven eyed man exited. He took a few steps toward me and then glanced around nervously.
“Do you have the coin?” he whispered.
“Do you have the boat?” I answered.
“Coin first.” He raised his palm and his fingers twitched like a dying insect. I debated killing him and searching for the vessel my contacts had promised. However, a deal had been made, and I wanted to bring as much honor to this horrible world as I could before I left it for the afterlife.
My fingers reached into my padded vest and found the small bag of coins intended for him. I pulled it out and placed it in his hand. He yanked his arm away from me as soon as he felt the leather purse, and then opened the strings to count the coins.
“Been a long time since I’ve seen gold,” he remarked as he studied a coin. He sunk his teeth into the flat of the piece and then nodded in satisfaction.
“It’s over here.” He gestured around the corner and I followed him into a darker part of the harbor alley.
“This wasn’t easy to come by. You have powerful connections.” He pulled back a burlap tarp, exposing a small row boat. It was sleek and painted black. Every vessel that entered or left this harbor city had to be cleared by the Conqueror’s guards, and rowboats were outlawed unless they belonged to a slave ship.
“I can only guess where you will use this thing,” he remarked while he tapped the side of the boat with his foot.
“Oh. You can guess?”
“Eh. You’re gonna break into the fortress. Rumor is that there is a passageway deep in the Crag that a small row boat like this could--“
My dagger tore into his throat and his words turned into a guttural sound of panic. The bag of coins fell out of his grasp and he tried to reach up to his gushing esophagus to stop the blood. Too much poured through, his one good eye widened in horror.
My blade struck again and carved a canyon through his skull. The barkeep was already dead, but now he would stop twitching. It was unfortunate that he had to die, but he had been correct about my mission tonight, and news of assassination attempts were prized by Raltenor’s Dogs. The ten gold pieces were enough to feed a family for five years, but I didn’t want to risk my objective on the hope that the man would not be greedy.
The tarp that hid the boat now hid the body, and I snatched up the bag of coins from the ground. I had little need for the money and would have preferred to donate it to someone, but my time was short and I might still use the gold in some unforeseen manner.
I had learned to prepare for the unexpected.
The boat was heavy, but I dragged it the forty feet required, and then slid it into the dark waters of the harbor. I checked over my shoulder to see if anyone had noticed the noise, but the closest ship was docked half a mile away, and the last purple rays of twilight combined with the shadow of the tavern had kept me concealed. I tied the small craft to the edge of the rotten gangway and then returned to the back of The Dogs’ Den. Half a dozen fragrant piles of trash squatted between the pier and the door of the taver
n. In one of them I had hidden two infiltration packs. I pulled them from the refuse and then returned to my boat. I set them carefully into the vessel and then looked up to the north side of the city.
To the Crag Castle.
The last bits of sunlight still illuminated the magnificent towers like sparkling glass. They stood high upon the sharp mountain top like a diamond on a block of dark stone. The spiraling towers were unchanged, except that they now flew the black and gold colors of Raltenor the Conquer, instead of the stylized rose banners that had once represented Sailtemp.
I reached towards my chest and dug my fingers past the light armored pads of my vest. Deep in a pocket over my heart rested a small patch of embroidered cloth. The movement was second nature to me now and I pulled out the piece of worn cloth to gaze upon its beauty once more.
For perhaps the last time.
The dingy, gray patch was the size of my palm, its corners were rough with age. In the center of the fabric was a single red rose, embroidered with care and love by the girl that had once meant everything to me.
She still meant everything to me.
“You will die tonight.” I looked up to the castle and my eyes focused on the black banners depicting a golden fist clasping a skull. I glanced again at the embroidered rose and carefully put it back in my chest pocket.
The sunlight had almost faded. There would be no moon tonight, the tide would be low, and the ocean currents would be the calmest of the year. There was no better time to exact my revenge than tonight, and I had done a lifetime of work to prepare for the next few hours.
I lowered myself into the boat, untied the line, grabbed the oars, and rowed towards the back side of the Crag.
Nothing would stop me from avenging my love.
“Rose Boy!” Her voice rang out like perfectly tuned bells, invigorating me like a cool drink of water. “Where are you?”
“In the garden!” I yelled up to the balcony above me. She stood upon the curved edge of the marble railing and waved down to the ground where I tended her rose bushes. I waved in return and was rewarded by the most beautiful smile in the world. The breeze from the ocean caught her flowered summer dress and it blew sideways along with her curly, blonde hair.
“May I come down and visit you?” she shouted while she attempted to wrangle her long hair with her left hand.
“You are the Princess; you can do whatever you please.”
“You are silly. I want to know if you are busy. I don’t want to interrupt your work or your father will be angry.”
“I am never too busy for you, Princess.” She smiled again and my heart warmed the rest of my body.
“Good! I made something for you!” she teased.
“What did you make for me?”
“I’ll show you! You will love it. I worked very hard on it!” She fluttered her delicate white hand and then dashed away from the railing. What did she want to give me? Something she had made?
“I should have a gift to give her as well,” I muttered to myself. I looked around and thought about what I could give to the beautiful princess. There was nothing I owned of value besides the clothes I wore, my gardening tools, and the responsibility of tending the rose bushes beneath her room.
My father was the Grand Gardener of the Sailtemp Dynasty. We had many such bushes scattered through the Crag Castle, but these were my responsibility, and I prided myself in my work. These flowers were the ones she saw first every morning, the ones that scented the air she breathed. Their perfection was a tribute to her, proof of my love and dedication. The time I spent here, obsessively tending them, was time spent nearer to her. Their leaves were lush, each one a deep, healthy green, quickly removed at the first sign of blight or brown. The blooms were equally flawless, maturing from tight, smooth buds of pink, gold, violet, cream, and crimson to glorious blossoms of incomparable beauty. Their petal pink softness was matched only by the smooth skin of my love, in the blush of her cheeks when she smiled at me.
I sorted through the flowers. At this time of year, most of them were a few weeks away from blooming, but one was ready, half opened, fresh and fragrant, yet still a few days from reaching its full glory. It was a pink variety that turned a darker red along the inside of its wondrously soft petals. Perhaps she would value this one above the others because I gave it to her.
“I found you!” She skipped to me with a coy smile. Her hands hid behind her back and she shook her head to toss the golden tendrils from her face. Her eyes were the color of the ocean, but I found them more beautiful than the sea below the castle.
“This is for you.” I handed her the pink rose. She wiggled her body and her smile grew even bigger.
“That is very nice of you, Rose Boy.” She kept her right hand behind her back but accepted the rose with her left. She raised it up to her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent of the pink petals, their silky tips brushed her cheeks, matched in color and texture.
“This is for you.” She extended her right arm and handed me a piece of cloth. It was brilliant white, and I wiped my dirty hands on my dirty pants before I allowed myself to touch it.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It is beautiful,” I said. There was a rose embroidered on the cloth, and I couldn’t even comprehend the intricacy of the small knots of thread she had used to craft the design. The cloth felt thick, and I guessed that this square of fabric was probably worth much more than all of my gardening tools.
“Thank you! It took me a month to stitch.” Her cheeks blushed red and I felt my own face flush.
“I am not worthy of such a gift, Princess.” My father’s stern warning came to my mind. The Princess was of age and would be wed to a noble, perhaps even a king or prince, within the next few months.
Not a common boy.
He said I should feel blessed enough to have a position within the castle walls, and not risk it becoming too familiar with the Princess.
“Of course you are worthy of such a gift.” She closed her blue eyes and smelled the flower again. “You love me and I love you. We are supposed to give each other nice presents!” Her eyes sparkled, sunlight glinting off smooth seas, and I quickly forgot my father’s words of caution.
The Crag jutted from the top corner of the bay like a hand pointing to the gods. The northeast side of the peak touched the land, but a traveler could only reach the fortress by taking a two-mile stretch of paved road up steep switchbacks. Each turn of this path was protected by a thick wall and an even thicker steel gate guarded by twenty of the Conqueror’s Dogs.
When I was much younger and first began my mission, I had considered finding a way up the steep road and into the main gate of the castle. Eventually I realized that such an endeavor would be too risky. The Conqueror was hated by nearly all of his subjects, and the Dogs were fanatic in their searches of each person and supply cart that entered through the gate.
So I had to get more creative.
The south side of the Crag faced the bay, and the west side faced the open ocean. There were no roads on these sides, only impossibly steep cliff faces relentlessly pounded by the spray of harsh ocean waters. There were countless tales of Sailtemp’s most skilled climbers attempting to traverse the steep west and south sides of the Crag. They all ended in tragedy.
But I knew a secret.
The Crag had a passage up through its heart. It was a three-foot wide shaft that served as the main sewage dump into the ocean. I knew of the place because I had lived in the castle until I was fifteen. I spent my scant leisure time exploring its vast halls and speaking to the other servants who worked to support the Dynasty, learning all the castle’s secrets and mysteries.
I had used the shaft to escape from the fortress when Raltenor the Conquer had sacked the Crag Castle.
I pulled on the oars again while I navigated the dark waves. The lip of the ocean smashed into the foot of the Crag with a devastating thunder. My palms began to sweat against the wood of the grips, and I forced a
deep breath out of my mouth. The fear was natural and expected. This would have been a nearly impossible feat with similar conditions during the day, and I made the attempt at night. I had every reason to be nervous, but I knew my purpose, and the Monks of Alacor had bestowed upon me countless years of physical training. This was just another challenge to overcome.
I steadied one oar against the angry current and reached into the larger of my two packs. Inside was a hooded lantern with an optical focus. It was a tool of burglars, assassins, and spies. Instead of using whale fat as fuel, it relied on very expensive kerosene that burned bright and pure, with little smoke or weight. The lamp had a switch inside to create a spark, and I pushed on it a few times to ignite the silk wick.
The device worked as I expected, and I opened the lens of the hood to form a ray of focused light. Then I adjusted the dark flaps of the shades and pointed the beam at the foot of the Crag. My small boat rocked against the waves, and I felt despair fill my stomach as I passed the light rapidly over the sheer face of the Crag. My quest would end before it began if I didn’t find the passage. I would have to go back to planning or risk scaling the wet cliffs. The former option was disappointing and I doubted I would be able to think of another method into the castle.
The latter option would be the final, foolish act of a desperate man.
Then I saw the cave. I had floated too far south, and I closed the lamp shade before taking to the oars again. The water pushed against the base of the Crag and then attempted to drive me away from destruction. I continued to pull on the thick, black wood until I finally reached the mouth of the passage.
It was as I remembered. A narrow shaft dug into the foot of the mountain just as a rat hole would burrow into the wooden wall of a home. The cramped passage looked unsafe for even the most skilled of swimmers to navigate.
But I had trained for dozens of years and I had no doubts about my mastery of the water and the vessel I controlled.
I yanked on the handles of the oars with all my strength and drove the small boat into the tight walls of the cave.
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