Overkill

by Steven Shrewsbury

  Once through the door of the boarding house, a portly lady approached her. “Young miss?” She asked, hands wiping on her apron. Both of them faced to the right, where Gorias La Gaul sat at a long table, eating, alone.

  “I’m here for your lodger.”

  The old woman winked. “I hope you fair better than the man who came for him last night.” Her eyes then pointed to the ceiling, toward the hanged man.

  Swinging her long locks back, Alena offered, “I’d suppose Lord La Gaul enjoys the company of women in the night more than men.”

  A huge flagon at his lips, Gorias cleared his throat and waved her over. “Yer startin’ to see the picture, little girl.”

  Alena walked to the table, noted his helmet in one seat and took the chair next to it. “I haven’t been very little in years, Lord La Gaul.”

  “Yer small to me, sister, and call me Gorias.”

  “Call me Alena. I’m not one of Abbess Niva’s vestal virgins.”

  Gorias picked up a round raisin cake and seemed to ponder that. “Ah, my words are what they are. I’m too old to be very sensitive anymore.” Again, he cleared his throat. “Ya look better in the casual buckskin pants and leather vest. It suits a fighter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ya look like yer ready to kick someone’s ass.”

  Hands resting on the pommels of her short sword and dagger, Alena replied, “It’s early yet. I stopped to see where we’d be off to today.”

  “We?” he replied, chewing the cake. “Garnet wasn’t kidding about you tagging along? Peachy.”

  “There are matters Orsen will direct you on, but I know things about this city and land. You’d be better for having me near in this search.”

  Eyes glancing over Alena for a second, he drank again. “Yer probably right there, so better to have ya at my back then.”

  “Of course.”

  He paused before saying, “You know where Nykia is, don’t you?”

  Hands folded on the table, she replied, “Pirates go to ground often. There are many ports where they take on supplies via tiny craft. They won’t land as to arouse attention so they send in small boats. It’s no secret where a few are, and the army regularly patrols them. However, when they go to ground, it’s easy to predict which ones they use.”

  “How so and why doesn’t the military nail ‘em? Hey, who’s in charge of the army these days?”

  “General Thynnes is supreme commander.”

  “I’ll be hanged, huh. That ol’ cuss? Go on.”

  “I figure the pirates go by phases of the moon and how natural light can be best used. It only makes sense as seafaring folk use the sky well. Plus, they’re a superstitious lot to the core.”

  “True. And yer convinced Nykia runs with a certain group that can be found?”

  “We can try.”

  “It’s a start.”

  Alena leaned back, intertwined her fingers behind her head. “Night visit from an admirer?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Assassin?”

  “Assfaced idiot.”

  She laughed, her smile expanding like her head would flip open. “He doesn’t look bloody.”

  “Because I strangled him with a coat hanger.”

  “The same one he is hanging by?”

  “Naw, I tried that and he fell a couple times. I had to use a baler wire from the stable out back. I wanted him up there for all to see. Keeps ‘em away then.”

  “You slay me, Lord…um, Gorias.” Her tough deportment gone, her face lit up and a toothy grin painted wide on her face, Alena suddenly tried to suppress her mirth.

  “Naw, not you little girl. This happens at times, but it kinda pisses me off that they came for me so fast. I guess my presence in the city isn’t a secret.” He washed the last of the cake down. “So, why the hell are ya here again?”

  Hands to her knees, she said, “I’ll direct you to the pirate hideout, as the phase will be tomorrow tonight.”

  “Good. Orsen wanted to show me some scene of this dragonfire today and maybe see that Yannick guy later. Maybe he can gimme a clue on the mystery of the fire and Nykia.”

  She nodded. “Good. I’ll get some supplies together.”

  “I hate to be an echo, little girl, but how can you be sure Nykia will be among the pirates?”

  “She might not be, but we will compel them to tell us.”

  Gorias wiped his mouth on the napkin and then started to comb through his beard with his fingers. “This will be a great night.”

  *****

  Just before noontime, Gorias and Orsen crossed the city. They delved into the outer boroughs, not drawing much notice. They hitched their mounts outside a tavern on a plain street choked with buildings hardly a yard apart.

  “Quaint neighborhood,” Gorias observed. “The stonework looks much older here than the inner portions of Qesot.”

  Orsen patted his horse, a fine mare with a non-descript saddle. “So?”

  “It’d make more sense for the outer rings of buildings to be newer. It’s ass-backwards.”

  “As if the castle is running away from the suburbs?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The areas about the castle have been rebuilt a few times in the last decades. Various regimes get jaded and redo the city.”

  “Why?”

  “When not at war monarchs must do something.”

  Gorias stretched and peered down the street at a few folks loitering near a rustic café. “Huh.”

  “Upstairs,” the youth told Gorias as he walked to the door of the bar and stopped.

  Gorias still eyed the neighborhood, full of hostels, stables and grim dwellings spewing rings of smoke. “Nice place for a high bred castellan to visit, much less die in.”

  Orsen shrugged. “All men have their desires, Gorias. No man is perfect, no matter how great the breeding, hence, the delicacy of this matter.”

  “Yeah.” Gorias snorted as he stepped onto the porch of the saloon. “We wouldn’t want the masses to think their Lords are just like them, now would we?”

  “Quite,” Orsen agreed and opened the door to the bar, yet offered to let Gorias go in first.

  The warrior didn’t hesitate, stepping into the smoky tavern and checking both ways as he did so. Sparsely populated, Gorias sensed no danger from the few older men and various shabby workers swilling down ale so early in the day. Gorias glanced down at Orsen. “Lead on, kid. So far, I’m underwhelmed.”

  Orsen gave the barkeep a knowing look and headed up a flight of stairs to the left of the bar. Gorias noted the chubby bartender in red woolen clothes. He mixed drinks like a butcher cutting up steaks. The bartender’s bloodshot eyes seemed to know Orsen; probably from the incident they were going to see. Beholding La Gaul, his eyes widened and he pretended a sudden interest in drying mugs.

  Gorias also saw that a group in the far corner didn’t go back to their drinking. All four members of the ragtag party continued to stare at him. They stood out in his mind because they were all different in age, dress, and size, each gaping at him in a probing manner with eyes too stupid to hide their interest.

  Ascending the stairs, Gorias held the handrail and lamented, “I liked it better when folks thought I was dead.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Every swinging dick in the land wants to be a part of the legend of Gorias La Gaul, mainly the part where he dies. They hear a tale on the wind that I’m in town and then see a man like me, it’s all over.”

  “You know, Gorias, it’s not all about you.”

  “Funny, I thought it was. Ya know how many bands of unlikely dimwit heroes I’ve sent into the Great Hereafter?”

  Oil lamps lit the hallway that greeted them. The ratty brown rug that ran the length of the hall muffled the sound of Gorias’ boots. On either side of the hall, several doors led to various rooms over the tavern. Crossways wooden beams boarded up the doorway on the far right. Over the entrance, a series of paper banners, the intersection point bearing
the seal of Her Majesty, warned people away. Under these bonds, there was no door. Orsen drew a slender, elegant misericorde from his frieze tunic and cut the waxen seal. He then motioned to Gorias and pointed at the boards.

  “Glad I can be of service. I ain’t doing jack-crap until I see some money.”

  Orsen’s expression never changed as he fished into the inner lining of his jacket. He produced a half dozen gold pieces and handed them to Gorias.

  “That’s a good start,” Gorias declared, put the gold coins in a pouch on his belt, and then slid that pocket around behind his back. He drew out the twin swords, squinted at the boards and put his left sword away. Gorias then inserted the other weapon behind the board obstruction. With a violent pull, the two planks popped from their moorings, but weren’t sliced or broken. It was a matter of leverage, obviously, and Gorias understood his abilities.

  Taking one of the hall lamps in with him, Orsen stepped through the door.

  Gorias eyed the inner doorframe. “I wonder why this looks burned around here?”

  Once through the doorway, Orsen waved at the scene. “What do you think, sir?”

  Gorias stared at the bed; the humanoid shape imprinted there by a burn and then back to the doorway. “It looks like a localized blaze, all right. Whatever burnt the guy in this bed consumed only him and the area nearby.” He knelt and touched the region by the foot of the bed. His index finger traced the depth of the singe on the wood and the mattress dilapidated by use. Eyes scanning the delineation on the bed, he looked up beyond the headboard. Two scorched areas singed the wall over the head of the bed. Gorias stood, stepped near to one side of the bed and touched the wall. He looked down and frowned.

  Orsen had been smiling a bit.

  “Ya happy I’m forced to accept the dragon anomaly? This is different than the spy on the barge, the pill-sized thing for sure.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’re correct, kid, in that it sure looks like dragonfire and a combustion from such. I just cannot fathom how it was done on a localized level like this, aside from those pills, but this is different than Vallen’s death.” Fingers again on the wall, he said, “See how there are these two tiny marks, and almost like from two jets of it that hit the wall. Maybe that was a mistake or the first volley that missed, like a spurt, the fire was shot, not crushed open in pill form.” Coughing, Gorias stared at the bed. “This fella in the bed when he died?”

  “Yes, Gorias.”

  He glanced back at the doorframe and the slight singe around the frame. “Barkeep say who was with him?” Hands on his hips, Gorias’ face turned severe. “Don’t even sing a song that the bartender didn’t see anything.”

  “Oh, he did. The man said the Castellan of Darian entered with a lady of the night and procured a room.”

  “Hmm. Color me shocked. What happened to this lady?”

  “No one knows, save for the goddess Ernytel.”

  “Yeah, and she ain’t talkin’ now, huh?” Gorias pondered for a moment with his hand on his beard. “Then again, isn’t the Darian sector of this city where the temple of Ernytel is?”

  Since the answer was obvious, Orsen kept quiet.

  Gorias put his hand on the wall by the two burn points. Spreading the hand, his thumb and ring finger met the impact points. He then made his hand travel away from the wall over the bed. With a grin, he then placed his hand in this way to Orsen’s chest. Gorias chuckled and stepped away from the bed, dropping his hand.

  “What do you find so humorous?” Orsen demanded.

  “Ya folks may have a real problem on your hands, one I cannot completely fathom myself. I can see a lot of things in my mind, kid. I don’t like a lot of ‘em.”

  “Care to share any with me?”

  Gorias shrugged. “Near as I can tell whatever burnt him alive was on top of him at some point. However the flame came out, it shot to the wall first, trailed down, and then enveloped the castellan.”

  “We surmised as much,” Orsen related, arms folded.

  “Then aren’t ya’all throwing good gold after bad? Wonder what kinda gal of the streets can do that to a man, huh? Burn him with dragonfire. Damn. Maybe this is my lucky day I hadn’t met up with her, aye?” He breathed again and said with a serious tone, “But she seemed to like the castellans.”

  Orsen rubbed his tattoo of good fortune and confessed, “We were hoping you could tell us. Is there such a thing as a dragon that masquerades as a woman?”

  Eyes on Orsen’s lucky tattoo, Gorias suggested, “My ex-wife? Huh. Perhaps we should go see Yannick.”

  Concern spread over the young man’s face. “Why is that?”

  “He’s a prognosticator, yes? Maybe he can tell me a good fortune or a little something about this gal, much less where little Nykia is. Then again, if he were that bright, why call on me?”

  As Gorias left the room, Orsen locked in place. Gorias looked back in at him and gave him a bitter look, wondering why he never followed.

  “You think that wouldn’t occur to me?” Orsen asked, somewhat indignant.

  The left side of Gorias’ mouth drew up some as he replied, “Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming with me, huh?” Gorias’ slight smile disappeared and his words turned dour. “Don’t jerk me around, kid. The truth may hurt, but not as much as my uneven temperament if I find out I’ve been screwed, all right?”

  “I wanted to see if you thought it was actually dragonfire. There has been great speculation and Yannick isn’t a suspect in this matter, but…” Orsen’s voice trailed off as Gorias motioned for him to head down the hall after him. He didn’t bother to replace the boards.

  Once downstairs in the tavern, Gorias checked the table in the corner as they walked through. The odd party no longer occupied the spot. Gorias stopped and then went to the bar. He motioned for the bartender. “Brandywine. It’s gettin’ cold.”

  With no emotion, the man in flannels behind the bar poured a large cup of the purple liquid for Gorias.

  After a sip, he watched Orsen stand stoically near the doorway. Gorias asked the barkeep, “You get a lot of varied parties in here?”

  “What say you?” the bartender responded with a sly voice. “This is a tavern. We get nothing but odd parties.”

  “I spotted that bunch earlier,” Gorias gestured at the vacant table. “The one with the big assed warrior in dented chain mail, the gal in the pointy brassiere with the rapier, the midget carrying a quiver and the old dude in the robe? That looked like some sorta joke. Who were they?”

  Shrugging, the bar tender replied, “I never ask names.”

  “Did they ask my name?”

  The bloodshot eyes flared at Gorias. “They seemed to know who you are, Lord La Gaul.”

  Hands on his hips, Orsen called out, “Well, now what is it?”

  Gorias stretched, drank the brandy and then said, “Just the usual, kid. This is why I stay away from big cities. I think it’s time to see Yannick.”

  Orsen almost stepped out of the tavern first, but Gorias grabbed him by the elbow, shook his head, and departed first.

  As soon as the door opened, the air whistled. This hissing tone came fast and blunted quickly as an arrow struck Gorias’ chest armor near to his heart. Gorias disengaged his twin swords, spotting the tiny man who fired the projectile. This individual, crouching behind the line of horses, notched and released another arrow. This shot flew toward his face, but Gorias tilted his head, deflecting the missile into the doorframe of the tavern.

  “Deliverance shall come,” Gorias muttered and stepped out onto the porch, setting his boots firm, swords up and ready.

  Showing no fear of the legend, the woman warrior in pointed armor jumped out of the shadows with an elegant balestra hop, prepared to slay Gorias. Stabbing with her rapier, hiding behind a small triangular shield on her left forearm, the determined woman showed great courage by attacking. At first, she stabbed at him and moved past, executing a flèche move to perfection, but the blade brought no harm to Goria
s.

  Exhaling, sounding bored, Gorias let the woman’s rapier glance off his stomach plates again. He swept the thin blade off once, using only his armlet armor, making her grit her teeth at his lack of respect for her. The girl hopped back, still poking her blade, trying to drawn him forward. Gorias recognized her motives, moves, and could smell her friends nearby. He saw the faces of those further down the streets, hiding in shop doors, gaping at figures out of his line of sight, ones over to his left and strangely, above his head.

  He turned a moment to tell Orsen to stay in the tavern, but the young man needed no such instruction.

  The woman backpedaled and hopped, a grin on her face as Gorias stepped forward. Over his head the wooden porch awning groaned and the scent of sweat and ale wafted on the wind.

  “Amateurs,” Gorias said loud enough for all to hear just before he stabbed both swords up into the roof of the awning. This action caused the barbarian warrior to swing down from the awning like a primate by his left arm, broadsword in the other, a pointed mace dangling from his waist belt. The huge man planted his boots on the porch, legs far apart and swung back with the weapon.

  Gorias left his two blades stuck in the ceiling and simply kicked the man in the crotch.

  Surprise and then pain traversed the barbaric fighter’s face, his broadsword strike wavering and falling before ever reaching Gorias. As the barbarian’s body started to seize up and he grabbed his fruits with his left hand, Gorias stepped forward. His own left hand gripped the wilted forearm that held the man’s broadsword. Gorias struck the bearded man square in the mouth. The force of this clean shot and the weakness of the thug’s legs caused the barbarian to fall backwards off the porch, shoulders flat on the street.

  A step back, Gorias pulled his dangling blades loose and reached out, tapping the poles of the awning playfully as the girl in the street stepped over her fallen friend. No hesitation in her moves, she leapt forward as Gorias walked down to the steps. Again, she jabbed at his stomach and chest, trying to find a seam in the armor. Something flew past Gorias’ face, a glowing orb and then what looked like ball of phlegm, but he didn’t take his eyes from the woman.