by David Benem
The green man sank to a crouch just before Drenj. Fencress reckoned his still-sheathed sword meant he had no intention of killing the Khaldisian, and if this were a robbery he would have been searching his purse rather than his expression. Regardless, the man had followed them for days, and good intentions rarely required stalking.
The man moved his hands over Drenj, as though warming them over a fire. His mouth shifted but Fencress could hear no words. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to assume some sort of trance.
Spellcraft?
Fencress wagered now was the time, guessing the man would have difficulty discerning the sound of footsteps from Drenj’s snore and the crackling campfire. She quickened her pace, making her way round the campsite so as to come at the cloaked man from behind. Lickety-split, nice and quick.
Her strides were smooth, and her feet found the quietest parts of the brush. She tugged at her cowl, pulling it low over her eyes, and figured the only parts of her that would catch the firelight would be her blades. The rest would be blackness.
She was close now, close enough for her to discern the rise of the man’s shoulders as he breathed, close enough to count the wrinkles in his clothing. She focused on the soft part of the head where the jawline met the neck. She would press her blade there, hard enough to cut flesh but not so vicious as to nick the jugular. She’d draw just enough blood to get the man’s attention.
Fencress came to the encampment’s edge, drew a deep breath, and charged forward. She made no more sound than a rush of wind. Yet, the man must have heard something as he whirled about, not to his right as Fencress had anticipated, but to his left. Better still. Fencress slammed into him with full force, pinning the man’s sword arm beneath him and driving his head to within inches of the fire’s glowing embers. She knelt upon the man with all her weight and pressed a blade to his throat, shaving clean a few dirty whiskers in the process. Fencress was by no means a big brute like Karnag, but she knew where bodies were weakest and what made them hurt. This fellow would not rise unless permitted.
Drenj gasped and scrambled about beside them, stumbling back several steps to get clear of the fray. “Fencress?” he said, his tongue thick with sleep. “What is this?”
Fencress gave the Khaldisian a wink before returning her attention to her prey. The man struggled dumbly beneath her, clearly caught off guard and shaken with shock. He kicked about, but then Fencress made use of her second sword. She pressed the point against the fellow’s jewels. A right-thinking man won’t move if doing so means ripping his jingles.
She clicked her tongue, scolding. “Hush, now,” she said.
The man looked wildly about, into Fencress’s eyes, upward at the fire, downward to the blades. He pulled his head back, trying to pull his throat free of the blade, and Fencress let him. The man suddenly cursed and howled.
Fencress sniffed. “Awful odor, isn’t it, friend? Nothing has quite the same stink as burning hair. Forgive me for not warning you earlier, but your head is quite close to the fire. Then again, you probably sensed that already?”
The man struggled, desperately trying to work his right arm free from beneath him. He growled and glowered like some feral beast and then began muttering strange-sounding words.
Fencress shook her head in admonition. She withdrew the blade from the man’s throat for the briefest of instants, and popped the pommel hard into that small dip between the base of the neck and top of the breastbone. The man gasped, as Fencress knew he would, and then struggled for breath. Fencress smiled, then found a new, untouched part of the man’s throat to press her blade upon. “You’ll be shaved clean at this rate. I’d suggest you lie still, and not move that tongue of yours with any ill intent.”
The man gritted his teeth and shook his head, saying nothing. He stared at Fencress hard, right in the eyes like he meant something by it. Fencress realized then the fellow would not give up his secrets easily and she grinned. Breaking brave men was always more entertaining than breaking the weak ones.
“Kill him!” shrieked Drenj, his long hands flailing as though shooing away a ghost. “He meant to kill me!”
“Not just yet,” said Fencress. “I’ll not put an end to the drama so quickly. I spent much of my later youth performing in a circus, and I’ll not dishonor my old troupe by abandoning all sense of theater. What sort of sorry performance would that be? I want applause for my work.”
Just then there was a commotion in the trees and Paddyn emerged from the darkness. “Rope?” he asked.
Fencress nodded. “Good and tight. This lad seems to be a witch of some sort, so keep his hands bound and his mouth gagged. I don’t want him talking unless he’s answering my questions.”
Paddyn knelt beside them and cut a strip of cloth from the man’s cloak. Fencress eased the blade from the man’s throat to allow the archer to gag him, then eased her weight off him to allow room for the rope. At that moment, the green man shifted quickly to his side, yanking his right arm from beneath him and moving to bring his hands together.
Fencress acted swiftly, cracking the man’s temple with the hilt of the sword in her right hand and then pinning the man’s arm with the flat of the blade in her left. The man went limp and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Well, then,” Fencress said, pulling herself to stand and sheathing her blades. “It appears we can work at our leisure. Our prisoner won’t be waking for a while.”
Drenj walked closer and kicked a clod of dirt at the man’s head. “He tried to kill me! What sort of monster tries to kill a man in his sleep!”
Fencress thought of the Lector and chuckled, but let the comment pass. She took time to inspect the man, noticing his sword was one of quality, and noticing the outlines of two other knives beneath his green jerkin. They were the sort of weapons that would be carried by one who knew how to use them. The man also seemed accustomed to roving far from home, as his boots were worn but well-tended and he had two satchels stuffed with durable provisions. He also had an odd band of black iron about his wrist, inscribed with strange symbols. A sorcerer’s trinket?
“Remove that,” Fencress said, gesturing at the bracelet. “And Paddyn? Tie him up tight and blindfold him as well. Odds are this fellow’s trouble.”
“I’d guess another two leagues,” said Drenj, standing in his stirrups and peering down the narrow trail. “Assuming your directions are correct, and assuming the Arranese haven’t found the place already.”
Fencress walked beside Drenj and his horse, squinting in the morning sunlight. She pulled her own horse by its reins, as they’d slung their prisoner over the mare’s back. “They won’t find it. They’ll hold to the wider roads. An army can’t move through a forest this dense, so I reckon Old Crook will be just fine. A rugged old goat like that doesn’t suffer in war. He profits.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Paddyn from behind her. “But I should tell you I smell smoke on the air, and I’d swear the breeze is carrying the sound of war drums.”
Fencress sniffed at the air and also detected the faintest odor of smoke. “Perhaps that smell is just Old Crook cooking that terrible squirrel stew he used to make.”
“You know this man well?” asked Drenj.
“You could say,” said Fencress. “Old Crook ran The Dead Messenger years ago, back when I was a much younger lass. He was the one who invented the whole notion of the Blood Box, a way to keep patrons and those of us who did their dark work from ever having to meet each other. Folk felt safer that way, and Old Crook charged a percentage for playing the middle man. After a time he’d made so much coin he grew tired of hoarding it, and left the inn to Handsome and retired in the south. He kept his whereabouts mostly secret, telling only those few of us who’d helped him earn the bulk of his riches. Over the years it’s been a good spot to hide when things have gotten hairy.”
“Does Karnag know of it?” asked Drenj, speaking the name like a curse.
“Aye,” said Fencress. “Karnag made Old Crook more coin
than any other, likely double. I’d have to say he was Old Crook’s favorite, as that old bastard admired that Karnag was never shamed by his work and never seemed to do it out of desperation. And by the dead gods he was good at it, the best killer in the whole of Rune. It was Karnag who first introduced me to Old Crook, more than a decade ago.”
“He’s stirring,” said Paddyn, gesturing to their prisoner.
Fencress smirked. “Best not talk of where we’re going, then. You boys will have to trust me.”
“Who comes?” called a rough voice from atop a wall of earth and timbers. “Best put your hands up, nice and easy, afore my lads loose their arrows.”
Fencress looked about the heavy forest surrounding them and saw three bowmen lurking amidst the trees. She figured there were at least twice that many elsewhere, judging from the many groans of bowstrings drawing.
She surveyed the surroundings and then stepped forward, bowing low with a flourish. “At ease, gentlemen! I am none other than Fencress Fallcrow, assassin extraordinaire, thief of great renown, and noteworthy purveyor of wit and wisdom alike. Tell Old Crook I’m here to collect an old debt.”
There was silence for long moments. Paddyn and Drenj shifted nervously in their saddles, and Fencress maintained her bow so long that her back started aching. Paddyn shot a glance at Fencress, an anxious look upon his grubby face. Fencress winked, doing her best to appear unfailingly confident.
“We should leave this place,” whispered Drenj.
There came just then from the wall a guttural laugh which gave way to a hacking cough. “An old debt?” the voice croaked, and then there was the sound of its owner struggling to clear his throat. “To Fencress Fallcrow?” More laughter and coughing. “The Fencress I knew was always a funny lass, so maybe you’re talking straight. And the others?”
“Well if it isn’t Old Crook himself!” said Fencress, smiling widely. She gestured to her right. “May I present Paddyn of Barrendell, son of a simple farmer. He was a forthright young man who labored on his father’s hardscrabble farm. Little did he know his pa had a gambler’s soul, so the young fellow was forced to find work at The Dead Messenger to spare his dear pa from debtors’ prison. And to my left is Drenj, a Khaldisian who came to Rune seeking his fortune, but found love before he found honest work. Soon he’d fathered three whelps and only did the dark work to put food in their mouths. Before long he discovered that the path of dark deeds is a steep, downward one, and it’s never easy to turn back.”
“Touching stories, all. But will they help defend these walls if the Arranese stumble upon us?”
“I’ll vouch for them both.”
“And the sack of shit on your horse? It doesn’t look like you’ve brought me a nice set of tits in exchange for my hospitality. No offense against yours, of course.”
“Alas, no,” said Fencress. “We have a prisoner. This fellow followed us all the way from Raven’s Roost. I know not his name, but I’m hoping we can make use of your facilities to find out.”
“Anything for an old friend,” said Old Crook. “Speaking of friends, where’s your usual companion? I haven’t seen Karnag Mak Ragg in years.”
Fencress’s grin withered at the mention of the name. “That’s a sore matter. The sort of thing I’d prefer to speak of only among dear friends, Crook.”
“Very well. Lads, open the gate!”
Fencress took a long draw from her mug, draining the last of its contents. It was cider, and a strong cider at that. She’d had only one mug and already her head had the tingles.
“Good stuff, eh?” asked Old Crook, taking the mug and moving to refill it at the cask set near the wall. “I make it myself. Takes me back to my days as a simple old innkeeper.” He chuckled and returned the mug to Fencress, assuming a seat across from her at the circular table.
They sat alone in the comfortable room, a place of dark wood constructed upon the limbs of a massive oak. Narrow windows were carved into its circular wall and offered a full view of Crook’s Hole, as Old Crook called his place. It was a sprawling compound of interconnected structures situated among, between, and upon the forest’s thick trees, and all of it surrounded by a wall of wood and earth. Old Crook always kept a number of hard lads, and harder lasses, on retainer, so the place seemed sound as a fortress.
Old Crook took a sip from his mug—a bit too much—and it dribbled over his thick lips and jutting chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, revealing fingers even more crooked than Fencress remembered. Old Crook had told her once he’d been caught stealing bread as a boy, and that the shopkeeper had broken every one of his fingers to teach him a lesson. Fencress figured the story was a load of horseshit, as were most of her own, but reckoned it was a clever way of explaining the name “Crook” as something other than a moniker for a criminal. Anything to make us seem better than the heartless scoundrels we really are.
“So what of Karnag?” Old Crook asked. “How is he?”
Fencress sighed and stared into her mug. “That’s a difficult question. One I have trouble answering even to myself. He… He’s not the same. I worry for him.”
Old Crook looked at Fencress, his dark brow easing from its usual glower. “We are friends, you and I. Some of you I thought of as children I’d never been able to father myself. You and Karnag most of all. You needn’t fear words with me, lass.”
Fencress nodded and sipped her cider. “We took a job from Handsome, a big money job which would allow us to take things easy for a good long while. It was a dangerous one for certain but Karnag thought we were up to the task.” She grinned. “You know Karnag. The man hasn’t a shred of fear in him, and always has something to prove.”
“A murder?”
“Of course. But not just any old murder. We were hired to kill the Lector of the Sanctum. Anyone holding to religion would say the Lector’s one of the most powerful people in all of Rune, perhaps all the world.” Fencress paused, letting the weight of the words settle.
Old Crook’s face was unreadable. “You’re the ones who killed the Lector of the Sanctum.”
“The very same, and in the forest not too far from here. It was a lot of coin, more than we’d ever seen.”
Old Crook took a long drink and then looked curiously into his mug, as though surprised to find he’d emptied it. “Folk can make a great pile of coin by sticking to the little things, so long as they’re willing to work hard. I always warned you and the rest not to get mixed up in things bigger than yourselves.”
Fencress felt shame coloring her cheeks. “You did, Old Crook. I wish we’d listened.”
Old Crook moved to the cask and refilled his mug. He then stood by a window and stared out in silence for a time before speaking. “We all start life accepting whatever crap our parents choose to feed us. Me? My mum, like most mums, taught me the Old Faith, or at least whatever scraps of it she’d learned as a child. I soon found I wasn’t much for it, but then I don’t figure you can be for such things in a profession such as ours. But as a man gets older those things no longer seem so… outlandish. You see things. You feel things shift inside you, a change of heart, or maybe just a wanting to have a change of heart. You begin to get the feeling there’s more to this world than just men and their madness.” He sighed and returned to his chair.
Fencress hunched over her mug and took another long drink. “I can’t say I take such things lightly anymore, either. Not after what we’ve been through.”
“Karnag? He lives, yes?”
Fencress nodded. “He lives, but he’s changed, Crook. The murder itself was nothing of note, aside from being an utter mess with more people dead than we intended, just as such things sometimes are. But after that… After that Karnag was different. He spoke in a strange tongue, at first when he slept, and later when he killed a man. He possessed some kind of power. When we returned to Raven’s Roost to collect what was owed us, Karnag killed a man with a word. We headed south to Hargrave, a couple of days from here, and he did it again, only worse.”
She tapped her mug on the table. “I’ve seen sorcery, but this was something else. It was as though he could will the death of men, and he seemed to make a ritual of it. I fear he’s cursed. Cursed in the oldest, worst of ways.”
Old Crook looked toward the window and tapped his crooked fingers against his mug. “That’s a sad thing, Fencress. Folk like us shouldn’t meddle in those things. I believe one of my lads found the site of the murder. The body was black, Fencress. All black and powdery like something burned. Yet, there was no sign of a fire being set to the body. His clothes and the sheet about him were untouched, still white and pristine in the places not soaked with blood. It was as though all life had been sucked out of that body, leaving it no more than a hollowed-out husk. I saw it myself, and when I did I knew the man to be some high ranking member of the Sanctum. I had the remains thrown into a pyre with the rest of the dead, out of respect for my mum. I’ve no need of devilry on my doorstep.”
Fencress frowned. “I can make no sense of this, but I know I can’t leave Karnag like this.”
“You need to help the lad.”
“I can’t imagine where to begin. He’s my friend, but I deal in murder, Crook. Not madness.”
Old Crook’s brow arched thoughtfully. “You said your prisoner followed you from Raven’s Roost? And you’d just returned there to collect your coin?”
“Aye. We noticed him on our tail just after Karnag had one of his… episodes. I’m guessing the fellow also saw what Karnag did in Hargrave. After that he decided to head north, and we grabbed him.”
Old Crook’s face twisted into a grin. “Maybe he knows a thing or two?”
“He seems like a tough sort. I’ll need some time with him to get the answers I need.”
“Maybe not as much time as you think. My lads are softening him up right now in the stockade, for practice and such. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
