The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  With the wagons full of supplies, it forced almost everyone to walk. It was exhausting, but the decent weather and slow pace made it bearable. This was the sixth time Garran and the rest of the crew had had to pack up and move, but repetition did nothing to make it less arduous.

  Colin shifted the hatchet riding in a loop on his belt. “Cyril is really taking this threat of raiders to heart.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Garran replied. “He and the other old-timers barely escaped an attack once already.”

  “Do you think they’ll attack us?”

  “If Cyril is worried, we should all take it seriously.”

  “What will you do if they do attack?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ll dig a hole under a log and crawl in. I’m no warrior.”

  “Yeah. I’ll probably just freeze until some killer clonks me on the head or runs me through. Clyve and Dominic sure have been quiet since they got in trouble,” Colin said as they marched alongside the chow wagon in which Rose and the other cooks rode. “Maybe they learned their lesson.”

  Garran glanced over his shoulder and spotted the pair about fifty yards back. “Maybe they decided that hassling me isn’t worth the trouble. Maybe they’re just biding their time and waiting for me to let my guard down.”

  “Maybe they decided keeping you around as brewmaster is better than getting even.”

  “Maybe, but if maybes were babies we’d all be up to our necks in shit.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Garran shrugged. “I don’t know, but it sounded good.”

  “You are a deeply disturbed person.”

  “Maybe.”

  The convoy plodded on, reaching the end of their fresh road construction just before nightfall. Even without the threat of attack, they were due to shift their camp, as traveling to the work site began consuming more and more precious work hours. The nights lacked their usual boisterousness. Most men sat around the fire sipping Garran’s brew and spoke in somber tones, usually about the threat of attack. The tools at their sides brought them only a meager sense of security. They were tradesmen and criminals not trained soldiers.

  It took five days to reach the site of their new base camp. The tents went up immediately before the first night cast its black sheet over the world. Garran worked on setting up his still while the others unloaded the timbers they hauled in and reconstructed the hard buildings.

  As the men gathered to begin work the next morning, Cyril stood upon a log and addressed the crew. “Before we start our roadwork, I want to secure the camp. I want you men to drop trees in an overlaying pattern around the outer edge of the camp. This will prevent a mounted attack and greatly increase our ability to defend the site. We will do something similar at each stage of our road construction. You have thus far shown the integrity and trustworthiness to maintain your tools, and I thank you.”

  Men began felling trees around the camp to create obstacles for any invading forces. Garran and his team trimmed away the springy boughs, hewed off the inner-facing limbs, and sharpened the outer ones to points.

  “Holt!”

  Garran looked up and saw a soldier with his foreman Evert and two others he recognized only by their faces. Clutching his reaping blade, he strode over to the group.

  “Garran, red team lost their tree topper to a twisted ankle. I need you to top a tree so they can drop it through there,” Evert said and pointed between a pair of tall fir trees.

  Garran looked at the two men from the red team and searched the surrounding area for Clyve or Dominic. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re light, strong, and you have logging experience.” Evert saw Garran’s uneasiness. “I checked the straps, and they look good.”

  Garran examined the leather harness and climbing belt Evert handed him. He ran it through his hands but could not find anything wrong with it. He knew he was being paranoid, but after two failed attempts against him, he felt it was justified. Topping was not a task suited to those not in peak shape and unfamiliar with working in trees, so choosing him was not unreasonable.

  He followed Evert to the tree, and his stomach did a flip when he gazed up at the high branches. It was an old tree, and it towered over most of the ones around it like a proud father looking down at his many children. Garran strapped the crampons onto his boots after examining their integrity, buckled the harness, and clipped the climbing belt to it after Evert wrapped it around the wide tree trunk. He sank the left boot spike into the thick bark, shoved himself up, and secured the right one. He leaned back against the belt and pushed hard, but the belt and harness held.

  Deciding there was no foul plot afoot, Garran slipped the climbing belt higher up the trunk and began his ascent. He was not an experienced topper, and his progress was slow but steady. A skilled topper could race up a tree like a squirrel, but Garran’s duties usually kept him firmly on the ground. It took him nearly fifteen minutes of steady climbing to reach the canopy. His stomach lurched again when he made the mistake of looking down and saw the tiny human figures scurrying around more than a hundred-fifty feet below.

  Every time the wind blew even the slightest, the tree swayed far worse than it appeared from the ground. Garran felt as though he were a flea trying to be shaken off by a giant dog. Climbing just above the lowest branch, he set his boot spikes into the trunk, leaned back against the climbing belt, and hauled up the saw dangling from a lanyard a few feet below him.

  Garran set the saw against the rough bark and began working it back and forth. The trunk was barely two feet across at this height, but it was slow going. Every time the wind blew the tree into motion, he grabbed onto the branch hanging over his head and waited for the swaying to cease before resuming his cut. He was about three-quarters of the way through when a particularly strong gust blew the treetop several feet. Garran had only a second’s warning before the wood emitted an ominous crack and the top snapped off.

  What occurred next came so fast that Garran was barely able to register what was happening. The wind stopped blowing at the same moment the treetop broke off. The trunk whipped back and threw him against his harness. Garran registered a sharp metallic ping of breaking metal and felt himself falling backward farther than the harness should have allowed him to go.

  Garran twisted and grabbed for the branch he was standing on, but it was thin this far out and dipped ominously. It too cracked, and Garran knew he was going to fall. He looked down and spotted a dense copse of trees not far below. A surge of fear-induced adrenalin fueled Garran’s muscles, and he kicked off as hard as he could just as the limb surrendered to his weight and broke.

  The young woodsman plummeted through fifty feet of open air before striking the upper branches of the trees below. The limbs and boughs slapped at him like the hands of a hundred angry women as he dropped through them. Garran clutched at anything racing past his falling body in hopes of arresting his fall, but gravity had too firm a grip on him, and his weight ripped them from his hands as soon as he grabbed them. He had a moment of hope when he felt as though he might be slowing his plunge just before he ran out of branches and found himself in freefall once again. Garran heard more than felt the dull thud of his body striking the ground. His vision vanished in a bright flash of light before everything went black an instant later.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dragoslav shuffled into one of Faircoast’s better taverns, guided his road-weary body to one of the vacant barstools, and ordered a drink. Faircoast was a southern port and one of Anatolia’s few coastal trading hubs. He grumbled into his beer, getting more vociferous with every refill.

  “What’s got you so upset, friend?” the bartender asked as he refilled Dragoslav’s cup for the fourth time.

  “I lost my goddam shipment on my way to Merrow.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a real problem with raiders on the road these days.”

  Dragoslav snorted into his cup. “Bandits my hairy, white arse.”

  The bartender raised an eyebro
w. “You don’t think they were bandits?”

  “Oh, they were bandits all right, but they ain’t just your regular run-of-the-mill criminals. The goddam Guild set them on me. I’ve been doing well these last few years, too well apparently. Goddam thieving, murdering bastards took my entire load.” Dragoslav leaned forward. “But they didn’t get all my coin. Not by a long shot.”

  “I suppose there’s some good fortune in the end then,” the barkeeper replied.

  “I’d give my entire ‘good fortune’ to see those Guild bastards hang from the gibbet.”

  The man sitting next to Dragoslav looked over, his brows knitted into a frown. “You had best be careful. Such drunken condemnations can get you into trouble.”

  Dragoslav turned and tilted away as he appraised the speaker. “Is that right? You look like one of those thieving Guild popinjays with your fancy shoes and nice coat. I bet you want to take the rest of my wealth right now, don’t you? Go on, come try it.”

  “Take it easy, friend,” the bartender soothed.

  Dragoslav scowled. “You’re my bartender, not my friend, and this pretty scallywag is a thieving, conniving traitor to the crown.” He kicked the leg of the man’s barstool hard enough to spill his drink. “What’s the matter, fancy boy; you only attack honest businessmen when you have a band of cutthroats behind you?”

  The man leapt to his feet, but he knew in an instant that the person he faced was no stranger to violence and turned away. “I think I’m done drinking for the night.”

  Dragoslav clapped a hand on his shoulder, turned him around, and cocked a fist. “Too bad, because I’m just getting started.”

  Dragoslav’s fist collided with the man’s face, sending him reeling several paces before falling to the floor. The former agent snarled and lunged after him, his hands outstretched to throttle the man’s life from his body. Dragoslav ignored the hands trying to pull him away and continued to choke him while hurling a slew of expletives.

  Three constables burst into the tavern and managed to break Dragoslav free with liberal use of their truncheons. It took two of the constables and several patrons to hold the enraged man still enough for the third official to clap on a pair of manacles. They lifted him up and managed to force Dragoslav to walk by threatening him with further drubbings if he did not comply. Dragoslav continued shouting and cursing all the way to the constabulary and did not stop until he fell asleep in his cell.

  ***

  The rattling of keys and the creaking of the opening door roused him from his drunken slumber hours later.

  “Get up, Zeigers. It’s time to go,” the guard informed him brusquely.

  Dragoslav rolled off his cot and followed the guard out of the holding cells and into the heart of the constabulary building. The noise in the room was not much different from that of almost any tavern. There was some wailing from distraught families, cursing from the arrested, and people reporting slights against them.

  Dragoslav’s jailer sat him on a bench set against the wall. “Wait here.”

  “For what?”

  “For whoever paid your fine and release fee. It was substantial, so I imagine they are going to want something back.”

  “That’s the way is usually works,” Dragoslav replied with a snort.

  He watched the constable walk away and approach a well-dressed gentleman of middle years. The officer pointed to Dragoslav, and the man strode toward him.

  “I am informed that your name is Daren Zeigers.”

  Dragoslav nodded. “It is. Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Ralph Bernstrom, but my friends call me Bertie. I am the one who paid your fine to get you out of jail.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I believe we might have similar goals and an equal dislike of the status quo.”

  Dragoslav grinned and narrowed his eyes. “What status quo is that?”

  Bertie took Dragoslav by the elbow, guided him from the building, and did not answer until they were away and walking down the street. “The one that deliberately prevents entrepreneurial men such as us from succeeding in business.”

  “You spent a lot of money to get me out, so I guess this is where you tell me what you want in return.”

  Bertie smiled. “Nothing of the sort. For now, we are two men talking business. I understand you suffered a substantial loss to The Guild’s hired thugs.”

  The corner of Dragoslav’s lip quirked up. “Not as substantial as you might think. They got the goods I was taking from here to Merrow before I was a third of the way there, so I just turned around and came home. I have a far more valuable load I could make a small fortune from if I could find a way to move it.”

  “I might be able to help you with that. What do you have to move and where?”

  “I came into possession of two thousand gallons of Southlean wine, but I need a ship to take it to Artemisia.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Purchased at a steep discount, so if you have a boat, we do have something to talk about.”

  “As a law-abiding citizen of Anatolia without a Guild charter, it is illegal for me to own a cargo ship, but I do know of a ship registered in Sorne that is often available to me when I need to make inconspicuous deliveries.”

  Dragoslav nodded. “How much is that going to cost me beyond what I already owe you for bailing me out?”

  “That is a complicated discussion and one more suited for a better environment. Agree to attend a gala at our huntsman’s club, and I will consider your fine paid in full. We can then discuss your future investment into our organization for which you will receive significant rewards, access to my ship being just one of many.”

  Bertie reached into his jacket and handed Dragoslav a folded piece of quality paper. “It is an invitation with directions. You do not want to lose it.”

  Dragoslav tucked the paper away and nodded. Bertie turned down the next street and left Dragoslav to continue on his way. The Guild agent returned to the room he had rented two days earlier. He paused just outside the door and drew the dagger that the constables had returned to him upon his release. He lunged into the room and nearly stabbed the man sitting in a chair before he had time to rise, but held his thrust.

  Dragoslav glared at the man he had beaten last night. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came to check on your success,” Ross answered. “Did he invite you to his club?”

  Dragoslav wafted the invitation and tossed it onto his bed. “You could have blown my cover by coming here.”

  “No one followed me.”

  “Are you an agent?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Then you don’t know shit.”

  Ross stood and tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “I am well versed in clandestine work.”

  “You’re also well versed in taking a beating.”

  “Indeed. Was it entirely necessary to hit me so hard?”

  “It had to look convincing.”

  Ross forced an uneasy laugh. “Any more convincing and I would be dead right now.”

  “If you ever check up on me again and pose a risk to my mission you will be. Now, you have five seconds to get out of my room before I gut you.”

  Ross’ face went ashen and his voice quavered. “What?”

  “One…”

  Ross made for the door, but Dragoslav barred his way and shook his head. “Two…”

  The guildsman glanced over his shoulder at the open window and leapt through when Dragoslav stalked toward him and said “three.”

  Dragoslav leaned out of the window, brandishing his blade and shouted, “If I ever see your face again, I’ll cut it off and use it to wipe my arse, you scheming, thieving bastard!”

  With his cover hopefully secure (he had spotted no less than two men watching his room), Dragoslav needed something to pass the time. He had a lot of money and a day and half to kill. Still gazing out of the window, he eyed the brothel down the street. With any luck, they might ha
ve an opium den as well.

  ***

  Dragoslav presented his invitation to one of the two men guarding the entrance to the huntsman’s club. The man compared Dragoslav’s invitation with a list of names and handed it back.

  “Welcome, Mr. Zeigers. Please retain your invitation on your person, and try not to stray onto the outside grounds.”

  The clubhouse was a modest manor on perhaps five acres of manicured lawns and gardens. At least a dozen men patrolled the inside of the walled grounds, three of who handled dogs, and not of the hunting variety. These large and powerful beasts looked as though they would like nothing better than to tear apart an uninvited guest. His suspicions were further confirmed when he entered the mansion. He had been inside hunting clubs before, and the trophies always outnumbered the people. The mounted antlers and stuffed animals here looked more like props on an actor’s stage, which he knew them to be.

  Bertie saw him almost the instant he entered the formal hall and made a beeline toward him. “Daren, so glad you took the time to come.”

  Dragoslav shook his hand and smiled. “I couldn’t rightly afford not to.”

  Bertie waved off the jest. “Let us put that behind us. I would have paid twice that to see a guildsman receive a proper thrashing. Speaking of which, have you had any further trouble from him or his associates? The Guild does not often let slights pass.”

  “The little weasel came to my room demanding restitution for his injuries, if you can believe the man’s gall. I nearly paid him with six inches of steel.”

  The Free Trader smiled, his agents having already informed him of the encounter. “As well you should have, but be careful. As I said, The Guild does not take kindly to their members being abused whether they deserve it or not.”

  “The Guild can kiss my hairy arse. The way I see it, they have robbed me of tens of thousands of dinarins over the years, and I’ll get it back one way or another.”

  Bertie wrapped his arm around Dragoslav’s shoulder and steered him toward the crowd. “I like the cut of your jib, Daren, and I bet there are a lot of folks here who will as well. Let me introduce you to some people.”