Walter shouldered the bedroom door open, breath rasping in his throat, tongue dry as kilned wood. He peered into the darkness of a hallway, wincing at his aching arm and the persistent aching in his knees. He waited for his eye to adjust to the weak light. His missing hand was ragged strings of pain running up and down from shoulder to forearm, coming in torrents and jolting him from sleep. However he moved it, the strings seemed to jerk at one another like a web of knots.
Days became night and nights had become days in that room he’d come to know so well. The nights were plagued by worries, memories of demons, and endless regrets. How long had he been sleeping? He thought he did more sleeping in the last three months than he’d done his entire life.
Once again, he had to depend on other people to recover. He remembered dark faces peering over him between nightmares. Their faces were cut by shafts of light that crept through the walls of the room. They would flash from friend to demon in an instant, ravaging his notion of reality.
Was he in the land of the living, as the demons called it, or the Shadow Realm? He supposed the lack of twisted shapes, spikes, horns, and rivers of blood would deem it the land of the living. He snickered at that, a mad sound on his breath.
Exhaustion forced through the bandages around his rounded back and throbbing head. It crushed around his woolen shirt and curled over his shoulders. It threatened to press the soul out of him and bring him to his broken knees.
The air was hot and full of choking dust. It flitted through the skewed hallway, blasting the walls with sand. His skin stung, prickled with beads of sweat and whatever moisture remained in his tongue was slowly being wicked out. Even the air wanted to end him.
Whispering conversations and the clatter of cutlery rose up from somewhere below. In a tavern, he reckoned. Didn’t smell like elixir and he caught the sound of a pair of glasses clinking together. Must be suppertime. The dim light of candelabras cast the hall in a burning glow. He had a crudely whittled crutch in his arm and accidentally smashed into a wall as he stepped. His bladder felt like was going to explode if he didn’t find a piss pot soon.
His eye throbbed like it was being stabbed through for the first time. He touched his finger below his ruined eye, thick with crusted puss. He rubbed a bit of crust between his fingers, flaking and wet in the middle. There was still a lot of healing to do. He wanted to embrace the Phoenix and get it done. He didn’t have the strength yet. He thought tipping the scales with a touch of the Phoenix would kill him. He had to trust his instincts.
He finally managed to hobble to the end of the hall and found a piss pot in a cramped room littered with mops, rags, and brooms in a corner. The room smelled like few of its patrons had managed to get any piss inside the pot. Perhaps the piss was used to scour the floors in the evening. He tilted his head and eye back, wincing in pain. A long minute later, he heard the sound of his piss spilling into the pot.
“There… it… is,” he breathed. The pleasures in life always came from the details. He gave his cock a quick shake, fruits and all still intact. Even the demons of the Shadow Realm weren’t so cruel that they would take a man’s most precious appendage. “Fucking Shadow Realm. No, things weren’t as they seemed,” he said to a mop-head.
The prospect of sleeping more was awfully tempting, but curiosity about knowing his whereabouts won him over. He made his way past his room, walking near the rough-cut balusters overlooking the tavern below. A group of five men lumbered in, their faces and overalls black with dust, likely just coming in to sup after a hard day in the mine. The candelabras swayed with the wind they brought in with them. At least ten other patrons had entered while he pissed, stirring up a soft din of conversation. The hissing foam of a beer being poured brought saliva welling out from his inner cheeks.
He reached the stairs descending into the tavern floor, eying them with a heavy sigh. Stairs would become his new enemy it seemed. He took a lurching step, the crutch slipping from the second stair down, and barely caught a handrail with slick fingers before tumbling head over ass the whole way down. He abandoned the crutch to snatch the handrail, sliding down and thumping on each tread as it went.
“Shit!” he breathed, arm wrapping over the rail. His heart boomed in his chest, much harder than it should have. The hammering blood wracked his wounds with new pains. A scab or two had certainly split on his back. He felt the wet trickle of blood.
At least fifteen faces momentarily peered up at him, then returned to their friends and drink. In Breden, at least half of them would’ve rushed to help a man in need. Here, a glance was apparently all the help he garnered. He carefully maneuvered his way down, groaned and picked up his crutch. He cast his burning anger around the room, not a single eye meeting his to unleash it upon.
If Walter had still been hopelessly confident about the future, he might have thought this place nice. The tavern floor smelled even fouler than the piss room. How had he ended up here? Nyset? No, impossible. This had to be Juzo’s doing.
There were some tables at standing height and a few chairs haphazardly strewn about the well-worn floor. Everything was stained with spilled drink and sweat. It was half-way to being a latrine. It just needed a place to empty one’s bowels. It was difficult to discern the difference between patrons and staff. Some locals stretched out on sunken couches, slurping up what he now saw as dubious looking ale. The land of the living was starting to look more and more like the Shadow Realm.
Walter found his way into a corner and dropped into a rickety chair, surprised the wood didn’t crack under him. To his right were three well-armed men huddled over a map, one twirling a gleaming dagger, likely planning who they were going to murder next.
In that moment, it felt good to be here. It was as if he had never seen people before, enjoying the comings and goings of the bar. The simple joy of seeing people living, doing regular things brought a tremendous warmth to his chest. He gazed about in wonder, wiping the tears starting to form in his eyes. The moldy wood on his chair, splintering floorboards, tables with mugs and fly covered food had become pleasantly charming. He watched the tension slip from a man’s face as he took a sip of his first beer. The room started slowly filling with chatter and spikes of laughter. Even the air seemed to smell sweeter, slightly better than old piss.
Where was everyone? Where were his friends? He stared around at the pub, quickly filling up with thirsty patrons. He looked down to find his fingers had unraveled a length of string from his shirt, coiled tight around two fingers.
“Can I get ya something? You alright?” a woman’s voice said with mild concern.
“Huh?” Walter flinched, finding a barmaid grinning down at him, one front tooth missing. He flicked the thread from his fingers and snapped it free from his shirt.
“Something to drink?” Her beady eyes looked him up and down like she was appraising horseflesh.
“Uh… maybe later,” he muttered. The oppressive stink of urine was making it hard to think about food or drink.
“A fuck then?” Her caterpillar eyebrows rose up to her hair and she bent over so Walter could get a look down her shirt. He couldn’t stop himself from looking and finding it a grievous mistake. There was a mane of hair worming its way between her breasts. “Just five marks a fuck.”
Walter just shook his head, unable to pull his eyes away from such an unimaginable horror.
“Your loss.” She turned on her heels, taking mugs from the empty table to his left.
Walter crossed his arms. Letting the memories of the Tower’s fall play across his mind. He remembered it all so well. So many armsman and wizards had fallen to Death Spawn blades. Had their sacrifices been for nothing? Asebor had won and got what he wanted. He supposed this was how it felt to be on the losing side of a war. He didn’t like losing very much. He would need to build an army to fight back. The armsman were gone. There was still some of the Falcon in Midgaard, he hoped.
Walter peered through a narrow window. The pinking sun was greased in streaks of
black clouds. A sign glittered from another tavern in the last of the day’s light. A merciful gust spilled through the window, bringing with it the scent of clean air. He stared at the glimmering sign and watched the shadows lengthen as the sun faded into the Abyssal Sea. He wondered if he’d ever find his way back there again.
One of three well-armed men to his right, a burly fellow with maces on either hip, unrolled a scroll and slid it across the table. He had a bushy beard tangled with strands of gray.
“A pitiful contract. What other options do we have? Boys boys, what do I pay you for?”
“Sorry Scab. Work’s gone dry since the Tower was overrun with the dark… things.”
“Death Spawn,” said Scab, bones in his jaw standing out from under taut skin. His sunken eyes were closed, as if he were about to drift off to sleep. “What is a hired sword to do in such precarious times?” he said with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Scab had a pair of flamboyant gloves, inlaid with fine silver, maybe ostentatious ten years ago, now worn through with holes in the most curious of spots. He had a fine sword on his hip, if not for the rust speckling the handle from years of neglect. Scab’s stubble was about a week’s old and his hair was long and greasy, probing the air at all angles.
One of Scab’s eyes opened and peered at his other man, thick as an ox. His other eye remained closed, seeming to be sealed up by yellow infection. “I hope you’ve found at least one contract worthy of my good eye, Wart?” A skittering fly leaped away before Scab could crush it under his palm.
Wart, a suiting name for a fellow whose face appeared to have been mashed into shape by a hammer and shaved by an axe. Wart shook his head and puffed out his cheeks.
“Truly, a surprise, Wart. A man of your vast talents should be capable of at least finding one contract, no?”
Walter found himself scratching his own face, in dire need of a good razor. He could use a bath too and was starting to wonder if the stink of piss was on him. Walter couldn’t help but stare at Scab, the quintessential image of alcohol infused neglect. His lips pulled up into a contemptuous smile.
Scab’s eye found Walter’s in the gloom and blinked a few times. “Do I know you?”
Shit. How long had he been staring? “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Walter. I’d offer to shake your hand, but well—” Walter beckoned towards the pinked bandages around his stump and shrugged.
Scab stared at Walter and his mouth opened then closed. He pointed up with an index finger then took a big gulp from a mug of ale, swallowed, grimaced, and licked his lips. Scab took another breath and another deep swallow of ale, swishing it down as if it were only water. Walter became aware of the hard eyes of Scab’s companions on him. Scab let out an echoing belch then nimbly snatched the dagger from the edge of the table, sheathed it. He seemed to be a functioning drunk at least.
“Why don’t you join us?” he rapped his knuckles on the side of the table towards the aisle, grinning with blackened teeth. “There’s no need to sit alone in a place of drink. Walter, is it?”
Walter nodded, casting his eye around the men. It couldn’t hurt to have some conversation; something to free his mind from the pain in his body would be welcome. They certainly weren’t the picture of law-abiding men, but he didn’t much care at the moment. He pulled up his chair, uncomfortably lower than the chairs they were in.
“Well, it looks like you’ve had a run in with the butcher.” That got a few chuckles from his friends. “Drink?”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Sure? You seem like you need it.” Scab’s eyebrows raised up as he slurped down another mighty gulp. He raised his hand, signaling the barmaid, and pointed down at his empty mug.
“I’m sure.” Walter forced out a smile, then winced as a cut on his lip cracked open.
“You sure are a serious fellow. This is my first, Wart, and my second, Hook.”
Wart grunted and gave a sharp nod.
Hook, seemingly named by his curved monstrosity of a nose said, “Aye.”
“Wonderful place, isn’t it?” Scab spread his arms as if directing patrons through an art museum. “I never forget a face and I’m here practically every day.”
It was a shithole. “I could get used to it.”
“They all start to look alike after a while.”
“What does?” Wart asked.
“Taverns, of course. After a few, or five drinks.” Scab hiccupped. “So what brings you into my den of drink?”
“I’m not sure.” Walter knitted his brows. “I don’t even know how I got here.”
“Ah! I completely understand.” Scab snapped his fingers. “Walter, my friend. You need a beer.”
Fuck it. “Alright.” Walter waved for the barmaid, realizing it was the same one who had propositioned him earlier. His first drink that was not blood, in the land of the living. A sickled grin spread across his face. He saw the river of blood in his mind, spilling over the submerged faces of his new friends. He heard the roaring of demons, like a distant echo.
Scab coughed, then let out a roaring fart. “That might have been a wet one.”
The scarlet river faded from his mind and Walter noticed an overfilled mug had been placed before him, slopping spilled beer around the base. He craned his neck down and took a sip. It was wonderfully cold and aromatic with hints of vanilla and cinnamon.
“You’re back then?” Scab said, eyes narrowing.
“Huh?”
“You seemed to have left the realm for a bit.” Scab reached around his back, likely scratching his ass. He peered at flakes of skin lodged under his fingernails and brushed them away, spilling like snow on the table.
If only he knew that behind the thin veil of this realm, the true hearts of men waded through a river of blood. What treachery lies behind Scab’s leering smile? “Sorry about that, haven’t been sleeping much lately. You said this was your tavern?”
“A man needs to have a bevy of diversified assets in my line of work. Income is… lumpy.” Scab said, pressing splayed fingers into the table, dotted with hundreds of mug rings and now skin.
“And what is it that you do?”
“Murder.” He said it as plainly as if he was saying he was going for a walk. He held up a scroll declaring a bounty of five-thousand marks and the sketch of scowling man’s face. “And you?”
He had read stories of bounty hunters and mercenaries, but never thought they actually existed. The world was full of surprises. Walter supposed a sketch of a cheerful fellow wouldn’t attract many killers. “Lately? I kill Death Spawn, mainly.” He thought it prudent to leave out the part about his own death and demons in the Shadow Realm. Walter rolled his shoulder, trying to work out a string of pain buzzing like a loosed bowstring.
Scab regarded him for a long moment, his eye ringed with shades of red. Perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he appeared. He likely had a good tolerance. He had a discerning air of calculation in his sleepy gaze. “You have a look I’ve heard described before.” He slurred a little bit. Scab’s eye drifted to Walter’s intact arm.
Walter’s eyes went there too, noticing Stormcaller was there. How had he missed that? He felt his eye muscles quivering under the heavy bandages, struggling for freedom. A pair of Dragons wound around the gleaming bracer, reflecting the amber glow of candles.
“Mm.” Scab nodded in recognition. “Very familiar. Don’t suppose you were at the battle of Dressna?”
“I was.” Walter took a slurp from his mug. “News travels fast.”
“A hired sword should always know of the greatest dangers about the realm. It seems we’ve managed to stumble upon one of them.”
Walter started to speak until Scab continued.
“Oh yes, I have heard many accounts of your valor, bravery.” Scab gestured. “And the songs sung about the man who wields fire. And here you are now, looking more like a broken cripple than an unstoppable hero. Suppose we all end up on the opposite end of the blade eventually, am I right?”
�
�Right you are,” Walter agreed, taking glances at his silent partners. Walter took another glug of beer, smiling at the wonderful notes of chocolate coming through.
“Drinking. I like that.” Scab took another sip, swished, then swallowed with a wince. “Everything tastes like shit here.”
“Interested in helping us fight the Death Spawn?” Walter asked, noting his pains throbbing with significantly less intensity. He downed the rest of his brew and signaled for another.
“Cutting to the bone of it, eh? Thought it was a little suspicious that you just happened to sit near us.” Scab grinned and tugged on a silvery stud through his ear.
Coincidence, of course, but he might as well use it to his advantage. “You looked like the kind of men we need, strong, good with a blade.” A little flattery never hurt. “Men well known through the realm for their fighting prowess.” Walter let his eye drift over each man. “You do all have experience, don’t you?”
“Experience!” blurted Wart. “Why, I was crushing knees before you were born, boy.”
“What my distinguished partner means to say… is that experience is what we have most.” Scab smiled pleasantly.
Walter raised an eyebrow. It certainly wasn’t cleanliness and etiquette.
Scab twisted the end of an unkempt mustache spreading out to his cheeks. “Enough experience to have far too many enemies. That I can assure you.”
That wasn’t entirely hard to believe. They didn’t seem the type you would have over for supper.
“What quantity of marks do you propose? Nothing comes without a price, of course. You’ll buy the drink? Since this is a business meeting?” Scab said it as if the customer paying was the usual way of things. It wasn’t. Walter had been to more than a few business meetings with his father when he negotiated the price of elixir beans with re-sellers.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any marks at the moment… but, sure, I’ll open a tab.” Walter scratched his head, looking up the dark stairs from where he had come. Where was Nyset? Where was this? How could he find out without seeming like a broken Fang Cress addict? “It appears I’ve been living here.”
The Shadow Realm (The Age of Dawn Book 4) Page 12
