by David Benem
“I’ll watch,” said Alisa, her brown eyes teasing. “Take her. She is ready.”
Lannick rose to his knees and tore his shirt from his torso. Nara squirmed beneath him, inviting. He needed no further encouragement, and in an instant was inside her. Inside the sort of woman he’d only dreamed of these last nine, awful years. The sensation was warm and wondrous, and his entire body felt as though it were aflame.
Nara moaned beneath him—painfully at first—but in time her sounds seemed those of pleasure. Her breathing quickened and her eyelids drooped. She looked at Lannick with seeming longing, the sort of look Lannick had only rarely seen. A look of satisfaction, of wanting…
“Whaaat!”
It was a chilling shriek, a rattling scream that seemed to shake the bed and stir the hearth’s fire. Lannick pulled away from the girl and his lust vanished immediately.
Not him.
Even in his drunken state, Lannick knew that voice. He slunk away from the bed, into the shadows between it and a shuttered window.
Anyone but him.
The scarred, stunted man in the crimson surcoat charged toward Nara. He reared back, struck her with the back of a black-gloved fist, then seized her by the throat. “My daughter is nothing but a filthy whore!” he screamed.
Dead gods. Not him.
Lannick’s guts ran cold. He looked to the sword he’d discarded at the opposite end of the room and knew it was too far away. What was more, the man was armed and Lannick had consumed more than a little wine. There would be no chance for vengeance.
He had to run.
Now.
He grabbed what he could, threw open the window, and tumbled into the gardens below. He smashed painfully against prickly shrubs, but struggled and recovered. He tugged on his clothes and his boots and then ran. Ran as quickly as his clumsy feet would carry him. Over a fence and into the dark.
“I will find you!” came a cry after him. “And I will kill you!”
Mistakes are the bedrock of wisdom. If the proverb were true, Lannick reckoned he’d be the wisest man in all of Ironmoor, perhaps in all the vast kingdom of Rune. He chuckled at the thought, then retched as he pulled himself from the gutter.
He braced himself against a wall of flaking plaster, stumbling as the alley listed before him. His vision blurred, sharpened, then blurred again as he caught wind of his odor. There was the stink of vomit, along with other scents he was loath to identify. He brushed the more substantial chunks from his clothing, remembering his brown shirt had been blue the night before.
The wine still muddled his thoughts and his head pounded in the light of morning, but he knew trouble would be coming for him. The very worst kind, and soon.
Yet, he couldn’t help but revel in the wine-numbed memories of the prior evening. There was the wine, of course, fruity and bold and so much tastier than his usual swill. And then there’d been the flesh. Lannick’s smile widened as he remembered just who she was. None other than the daughter of the distinctively hideous General Thalius Fane, commander of all the High King’s armies and the very man Lannick hated more than any in all the world.
Not exactly the vengeance I’d imagined, but it will have to do for now.
He felt his wits returning with the daylight and knew he had no time to reminisce. He knew all too well the general was a monster of a man. He would beat from his daughter the details of their encounter, then track Lannick to one of the taverns where he was too often a customer. Someone was bound to betray him.
A few blocks away was Temple Street, known as much for its seedy taverns as for the ruined cathedrals shading its cobbles. Lannick knew the taverns quite well, particularly The Wanton Vicar. Considering it was still early morning, he decided to chance a return. Perhaps his good luck would continue, and his old friend could help him into a new set of clothes before he was hunted down and killed.
“Lannick, you miserable rascal!” said Brugan, polishing the bar with a rag. He laughed heartily. He always did. “Did you bed your lovers in the sewers?”
“No,” Lannick said with a smirk, “but it seems I slept there. Those ladies wanted me just for my body, such as it is.”
Brugan laughed again, a big, belly-shaking chuckle that seemed to move the entire tavern.
Lannick slumped into his usual stool and his smile withered. “You know who she was, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I know practically every citizen of Ironmoor, and many of their darkest secrets,” he said with a wink. “Which is why that girl was a particularly poor object of your… affections. But you’re alive, at least.”
Lannick pressed his hands to his face. “I had no idea she was Fane’s daughter until it was too late. You should have warned me, Brugan.”
“I did. Not once but four times,” Brugan said, rapping his heavy knuckles against the bar. “But, as usual, you were drunk, and thinking with something other than your head. I’d have had an easier time convincing shit not to stink.” He eyed Lannick up and down. “Or you for that matter.”
“It seems I have a knack for bad choices. This may be the one mess I don’t survive.”
“With any luck that girl will have the good sense to be ashamed of her choices last night, and will keep the entire matter from her dear father.”
Lannick pressed closer to the bar, his voice sinking to a whisper. “But Fane found us. In his own bedchambers, even. I’m in real trouble, Brugan.”
“Dead gods! Did he get a good look at you?”
“Perhaps not my face.” Lannick grinned in spite of himself.
“Did he recognize you?”
“I doubt it—it’s been many years, and I haven’t exactly kept up my appearance.” He pointed to the scar that ran down his cheek, then patted the swell of a belly that’d known too much drink.
Brugan shook his head and chuckled. “You awful bastard. We’re on the verge of war! Word is the High King’s entire council has convened to discuss how the ‘skirmish’ with the Arranese has brought us to the brink of all-out war. They say those savages are massing to cross the Southwall Mountains and invade the kingdom of Rune itself! The council’s even asked for oath-bound soldiers from all eight thanes of Rune, in case things take a bad turn. And here General Fane arrives home to find you—you—despoiling his daughter!”
“I know. Perhaps someday I’ll laugh at this, but right now I’m scared, Brugan. Scared to death. Fane will not suffer this. Not from anyone, and least of all me. Even if he didn’t recognize me, he’ll have me hunted down and killed. I need a place to hide. I reckon if I hide out for a few days, he’ll have left for the war and this whole thing will be forgotten. Eventually, anyway.” He looked to Brugan sheepishly. “Can I count on you? Can I stay here for a couple of days?”
The plea was met with a hard look. “No, Lannick. Absolutely not. You and I are friends—old friends—but I can’t keep saving you from your mistakes. Fane’s no friend of mine, either, remember? I’m not about to cross him and his brutish Scarlet Swords. Besides, he’s sure to head this way. Don’t you reckon he’ll think to ask this barkeep a question or two? Like whether I know a certain patron who was here just last night?” He pounded the bar with his fist. “Damn it, Lannick! Fane and his Scarlet Swords will shake the timbers of every alehouse and whorehouse in Ironmoor until you’re found. Someone’s certain to betray you, if they haven’t already.”
“Fair enough,” said Lannick, knowing the barkeep was right. He wasn’t much for honor these days, but he couldn’t ask Brugan to place himself in harm’s way. Not again, and not for this. “Any chance I could trouble you for a hot bath, at least? Perhaps some clean clothes?”
Brugan laughed, the sound of it grating. “And how about a purse full of gold crowns? And perhaps a stout horse and all the wine you can carry? After all, it seems you think there should be no end to my charity!”
Lannick’s shoulders sagged. He hadn’t paid his bills at the place in weeks, maybe months, and even Brugan’s goodwill had its limits. “Work’
s been slow, Brugan. You know I’ll make it up to you.”
“Work?” The mirth left the barkeep’s face. “Is that what you call acting as a strongman for that bastard Silas? The man’s a crook. Shaking down debtors for coin at the point of your sword is hardly something I’d call work.”
“It’s a living, Brugan. Not something I’m proud of.”
Brugan leaned across the bar, drawing uncomfortably close to Lannick. “Nor should you be. It’s filthy work, Lannick. The sort suited for criminals and cutthroats. Not the likes of you.” He pulled back and again set about polishing the bar. “Lannick, I’ve helped you only because I know who you once were, not because of who you are now. The man before me now is a ghost of the one who earned my friendship. I wonder at times how you can stomach the sight of your own reflection, knowing how far you’ve allowed yourself to fall. If you and I had any less of a history, I’d tolerate you not at all.”
Lannick found himself unable to meet the barkeep’s gaze. “I don’t have a lot of options here, Brugan. A shirt, at least? Even your most ragged will do. Certainly you can do that for an old friend?”
Brugan placed a hand on Lannick’s shoulder. “You were a better man, once. A hero, even. Has so much changed?” His expression grew wistful for a moment, but then hardened again. “I can’t watch you live like this any longer, Lannick. I can no longer stand here with a smile and a full tankard for you as you piss away what little honor you have left.” He fixed Lannick with a serious look. “I have a couple of spare shirts in the kitchen. Grab the burlap one. Not one of my good linens or aprons, mind you. And then get out.”
Lannick searched the kitchen, only finding the shirt after a close inspection of the piglet roasting in the fireplace. His mouth watered at the scent of it, but he couldn’t wrong his friend any further by stealing a morsel. Instead, he peeled off his shirt, taking care to avoid contact with its moist stains. He cursed his bad judgment, knowing he deserved no better than this.
As he reached to retrieve Brugan’s shirt his eyes rested momentarily on the small symbol tattooed upon the inside of his forearm. A watchtower under which was a word: “Variden.” It meant “Vigilant Ones” in the elder tongue. A sadness came upon him as it often did when he encountered remnants of his old life. Brugan was right—Lannick had fallen far. He sighed and tugged Brugan’s shirt overhead.
He turned toward the kitchen door and was about to declare his gratitude when he heard a crash. The hard crash of the tavern’s front door being thrown open. A din of shouting followed and boots thundered upon the tavern’s planked floor. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Lannick froze.
“Barkeep!” sounded a high-pitched voice, like a sword scraping free of a scabbard. Lannick knew the voice well. It was General Fane, and likely several members of his Scarlet Swords.
Lannick smacked at his head and tried to focus, frantically searching his surroundings. The cramped kitchen had no openings to the outside beyond a couple of narrow flues over the fireplaces. There was the swinging door into the common room and the bolted door to the cellar. The swinging door was sure to be thrown open in scant moments, at which point he’d be skewered just like piglet in the fireplace.
I’m forgetting something!
There came another crash from the common room and the crack of wood breaking. He picked out Fane’s voice. “There was a man last night, here at your tavern…”
The Wanton Vicar, Lannick thought. Brugan had told him the story behind the tavern’s name, once. Something about finding shackled skeletons and instruments of torture in the catacombs below the adjacent church. He cursed his wine-softened head, knowing there was something relevant, something important about the story he was forgetting.
A thud resounded from the bar, followed by a muted cry. Lannick winced, imagining Brugan’s face smashed against the bar top by one of Fane’s bloodthirsty henchmen. He thought of rushing in to save his friend from the beating, but quickly dismissed the notion. Both of them would end up dead if he tried, especially in such tight quarters and without a proper weapon. Instead Lannick uttered a quick prayer for his friend’s safety. As vicious as Fane was, he wasn’t likely to gut Brugan if he didn’t think the barkeep had been complicit in his daughter’s deflowering. At least Lannick hoped it was so.
Another crash sounded, forcing Lannick’s thoughts back to a means of escape. There was something about the place that Brugan had mentioned…
“I do not enjoy repeating myself,” said Fane in his screeching tone. “Don’t tempt me to bury you in your cellar!”
The cellar.
Brugan had once told him he’d found an entrance to the catacombs in his cellar. That’s why he kept it bolted shut, just in case anything or anyone ever tried wandering into the tavern from below. It was said the catacombs wound under the entire city of Ironmoor, a relic of an older time. It stood to reason there’d be another portal to the outside world, somewhere nearby.
With a silent apology to Brugan and a silent prayer the barkeep could hold out just a little longer, Lannick grabbed his old, vomit-stained shirt. He looped it about his hand and used it to grab an ember from the fireplace. The bolt to the cellar yielded with only minor protest and Lannick dashed down the stairwell and into whatever lurked below.
The cellar was a series of cramped chambers serving as storage for all manner of necessities for The Wanton Vicar. In the gloom Lannick discerned wheels of cheese, casks of ale, and seemingly endless bottles of wine. He managed to find a hand lamp amidst the stockpile, and judged there was some oil in it from the sloshing sound it made. He lit the wick with the burning ember from the fireplace and light spilled across the chamber.
Hard footfalls sounded on the planks overhead. Fane’s men were either leaving or tossing the place. Lannick scanned every dark corner of the cellar and at last spotted a low, bolted door. This bolt did not give easily, scraping and squealing as he pulled. Eventually, though, it gave way, and a rush of stale air from the catacombs beyond threatened to extinguish his lamp. Lannick could see nothing in the narrow corridor before him, but the thudding sounds from above permitted no other choice.
Just before plunging through the doorway, he turned back to the racks of wine. There were many bottles, so he reckoned Brugan could spare just one for an old friend. He grabbed it and departed.
Take care, Brugan, and may we both survive long enough for me to repay you.
The catacombs were said to be haunted, and the utter dark yielded little to the light of Lannick’s lantern. Strange winds whipped at him from every direction, and the air carried the sickly-sweet reek of decay. Occasionally a howl or scream from something, somewhere, pierced the wind’s moan. If the Scarlet Swords behind him weren’t enough, the thought of undead beasts stalking the darkness was sure to spur his pace.
Lannick was a tall man, which didn’t match well with such low ceilings. He winced as he scraped his head again and again upon the roughly hewn rock. What was more, the tight passages twisted and turned, and he slammed into the walls more than once. But he figured the haphazard design provided him some small advantage. He guessed there was some chance his lantern’s light would be concealed from the Scarlet Swords, and they’d have no clue as to his path. The henchmen were certain to find the tavern’s entrance to the catacombs, and he needed to reach his quarters before General Fane.
The passage straightened and ran on for a distance. Lannick dimmed his lantern, growing worried of being found.
Dread settled upon him in the dark. This was no ballroom fop or petty noble he’d wronged, but the kingdom’s most ambitious and dangerous man. Lannick had gotten crossways with him once before, and the price Fane had exacted had been nearly too much to bear. The fleeting joys of the previous evening disappeared entirely. It seemed that after all he’d been forced to suffer over these years, he’d die at the hands of his tormentor, General Fane.
I am a dead man.
After a time the cramped corridor began sloping upward. Lannick was certain the air was fr
eshening and there was a faint murmur of what sounded like voices, likely the Scarlet Swords behind him. He shuttered his lamp closed and tried to quiet his breathing to better focus on the sound.
There were voices. But these weren’t gruff exchanges of soldiers. Rather, it sounded like the hum of many conversations occurring at once. He tiptoed forward a few more paces, his head fixed at a tilt in hopes of hearing better. He guessed he was beneath some kind of meeting place, a market or square. What was more, there was the thinnest ribbon of light penetrating the gloom ahead. Lannick moved on, caring little for the resonating scrapes of his leather boots upon the limestone floor.
The rough-hewn ceiling gave way to blocks of carved stone, and between two blocks was a tiny hole. Lannick pressed his eye as close to the hole as his nose would allow, but he could make out nothing but the gleam of light. But light it was, and he was certain there were people milling about the space above.
“Help!” he hissed, hoping someone above would hear him. “Help me!”
He waited there a moment, awaiting some sort of reply. But there was no response, and seemingly very little chance he could be heard. He cursed and pulled away from the light, and looked again into the gloom of the passageway.
Just then an angry shout resounded from the darkness behind him. “Stop, you bastard!” came a gruff voice.
Damn my wine-muddled head! Lannick charged forward as quickly as the strangled passage would allow. He could no longer afford caution, so he opened wide the shutters of his lamp. He ran, and the path ahead continued its upward slope. There had to be an exit somewhere.
Another shout boomed from the darkness. Lannick swung his lamp around and saw a glint of steel not more than thirty feet behind him. He nearly stumbled as he turned about, trying to move faster than his legs would carry him. He ran with a frightened pace, a hare from the hound.
He did not see the rubble strewn across the floor where a wall had crumbled and he lost his footing. He spilled across the stone, barely managing to keep hold of his lamp. He twisted about but fell back again, his boots sliding on the rubble.
