The Black Road

by Mel Odom

  “No,” Darrick agreed. “Now, you’ve got the right of that.”

  The big man leaned forward, thumping his massive elbows on the table and resting his square shelf of a chin over his interlaced fingers. “I don’t like you.”

  Darrick gripped his cutlass beneath the tabletop and leaned back, letting the wall behind him brace his shoulders. The flickering candle flame on a nearby table drew hollows on the big man’s face.

  “Syrnon,” one of the other men said, pulling at his friend’s sleeve. “This man has officer’s braid on his collar.”

  Syrnon’s big blue eyes narrowed as he glanced at Darrick’s neckline. An oak leaf cluster was pinned to Darrick’s collar, two garnets denoting his rank. Putting it on had gotten to be such a habit he’d forgotten about it.

  “You an officer on one of the king’s ships?” Syrnon asked.

  “Aye,” Darrick taunted. “You going to let fear of the king’s reprisal for attacking a ship’s officer in his navy cow you?”

  “Syrnon,” the other man said. “We’d be better off taking our leave of this man.”

  Maybe the man would have left then. He wasn’t too drunk to forget about listening to reason, and Westmarch dungeons weren’t rumored to be hospitable.

  “Go,” Darrick said softly, giving in to the black mood that filled him, “and don’t forget to tuck your tail between your legs as you do.” In the past, Mat had always sensed when Darrick’s black moods had settled on him, and Mat had always found a way to cajole him out of the mood or get them into areas where that self-destructive bent wouldn’t completely manifest itself.

  But Mat wasn’t there tonight, and hadn’t been around for nine long days.

  Howling with rage, Syrnon stood and reached across the table, intending to grab Darrick’s shirt. Darrick leaned forward and head-butted the big mercenary in the face, breaking his nose. Blood gushed from Syrnon’s nostrils as he stumbled back.

  The other two mercenaries tried to stand.

  Darrick swung his cutlass, catching one of the men alongside the temple with the flat of the blade and knocking him out. Before the unconscious man had time to drop, Darrick swung on the other man. The mercenary fumbled for the sword sheathed at his waist. Before his opponent could get his weapon clear, Darrick kicked him in the chest, driving the mercenary from his feet and back onto a nearby table. The mercenary took the whole table down with him, and four angry warriors rose to their feet, cursing the man who had landed upon the table, and they cursed Darrick as well.

  Syrnon pulled his short sword and drew it back, causing nearby men to duck and dodge way. Curses and harsh oaths followed his movement.

  Vaulting to the table, Darrick leapt over Syrnon’s sword blow, flipped forward—feeling his senses spin for a moment from all he’d had to drink—and landed on his feet behind the big mercenary. Syrnon spun, his face a mask of crimson from his broken nose, and spat blood as he cursed Darrick. The big mercenary swung his short sword at Darrick’s head.

  Darrick parried the man’s attack with the cutlass. Steel rang against steel inside the tavern. Holding the man’s blade trapped, Darrick balled his left fist and slammed it into Syrnon’s head. Flesh split along the mercenary’s cheek. Darrick hit his opponent twice more and felt immense satisfaction with his efforts. Syrnon was bigger than him, as much bigger as his father had been in the back of the butcher’s shop. Only Darrick was no longer a frightened boy too small and too unskilled to defend himself. He hit Syrnon one more time, driving the big man backward.

  Syrnon’s face showed abuse. His right eye promising to swell shut, a split lip and a split ear joined the split over his cheekbone.

  Darrick’s hand throbbed from the impacts, but he barely took notice of it. The darkness within him was loose now, in a way he’d never seen it. The emotion rattled inside him, growing stronger. Syrnon flailed out unexpectedly, catching Darrick in the face with a hard-knuckled hand. Darrick’s head popped backward, and his senses reeled for a moment as the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and the sour stench of straw filled his nose.

  Nobody thinks you look like me, boy! The voice of Orvan Lang crescendoed through Darrick’s head. Why is it, do you think, that a boy don’t look like his father? Everybody’s tongue’s wagging. And me, I love your mother, damn me for a fool.

  Parrying the mercenary’s desperate attack again, Darrick stepped forward once more. His sword skill was known throughout the Westmarch Navy by any who had faced him or stood at his side when he’d fought pirates or smugglers.

  For a time after he and Mat had arrived in Westmarch from Hillsfar, Darrick had trained with a fencing master, exchanging work and willingness for training. For six years, Darrick had repaired and sanded the fencing room floor and walls and chopped wood, and in turn began the training of others while pursuing a career in the Westmarch Navy.

  That training had kept Darrick balanced for a time, until Master Coro’s death in a duel with a duke over a woman’s honor. Darrick had tracked the two assassins down, as well as the duke, and killed them all. He’d also gotten the attention of the commodore of the Westmarch Navy, who had known about the duel and the assassination. Master Coro also trained several of the ship’s officers and practiced with captains. As a result, Darrick and Mat had been assigned berths on their first ship.

  After Master Coro was no longer around, the tightfisted control aboard the navy ship had granted Darrick a kind of peace, providing a structured environment. Mat had helped.

  Now, with this battle at hand, Darrick felt right. Losing Mat and then waiting for days to be given some kind of meaningful assignment had grated on his nerves. Lonesome Star, once a home and a haven, was now a reminder that Mat was gone. Guilt mortared every plank aboard the ship, and Darrick longed for action of any kind.

  Darrick played with the mercenary, and the darkness stirred inside his soul. Several times during the years that had passed since he’d escaped Hillsfar, he had thought about going back and seeing his father—especially when Mat had returned to visit his family. Darrick felt no pull toward his mother; she had allowed the beatings his father had given him to go on because she had her own life to live, and being married to one of the town’s successful butchers had accommodated her lifestyle.

  Darrick had chosen to keep the darkness inside him walled up and put away.

  There was no stopping it now, though. Darrick beat back the big mercenary’s defenses, chasing the man steadily backward. Syrnon called out for help, but even the other mercenaries appeared loath to step into the fray.

  A whistle shrilled in warning.

  Part of Darrick knew the whistle signaled the arrival of the king’s Peacekeepers. All of the Peacekeepers were tough men and women dedicated to keeping the king’s peace inside the city walls.

  The mercenaries and few sailors inside the tavern gave way at once. Anyone who didn’t recognize a Peacekeeper’s authority spent a night in the dungeon.

  Caught up in the black emotions that had taken hold of him, Darrick didn’t hesitate. He kept advancing, beating the big mercenary back till there was nowhere to run. With a final riposte, Darrick stripped the man of his weapon, knocking it away with a practiced twist of his wrist.

  The mercenary flattened against the wall, standing on his toes, with Darrick’s cutlass at his throat. “Please,” he whispered in a dry croak.

  Darrick held the man there. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. He heard the whistle blasts behind him, one of them closing in.

  “Put the sword away,” a woman’s calm voice ordered him. “Put it away now.”

  Darrick turned, bringing his cutlass around, intending to back the woman off. But when he attempted to parry the staff she held, she reversed the weapon and thumped it into his chest.

  A wild electrical surge rushed through Darrick, and he fell.

  Morning sunlight streamed through the bars of the small window above the bunk chained to a stone wall. Darrick blinked his eyes open and stared at the sunlight
. He hadn’t been taken to the dungeon proper. He was grateful for that, though much surprised.

  Feeling as though his head were going to explode, Darrick sat up. The bunk creaked beneath him and pulled at the two chains on the wall. He rested his feet on the floor and gazed out through the bars that made up the fourth wall of the small holding cell that was an eight-foot by eight-foot by eight-foot box. Sour straw filled the thin mattress that almost covered the bunk. The material covering the mattress showed stains where past guests had relieved themselves and thrown up on it.

  Darrick’s stomach whirled and revolted, threatening to empty. He lurched toward the slop bucket in the forward corner of the holding cell. Sickness coiled through him, venting itself in violent heaves, leaving him barely enough strength to hang on to the bars.

  A man’s barking laughter ignited in the shadows that filled the building.

  Resting on his haunches, not certain if the sickness was completely purged, Darrick glared across the space between his cell and the one on the other side.

  A shaggy-haired man dressed in warrior’s leathers sat cross-legged on the bunk inside that cell. Brass armbands marked him for an out-of-town mercenary, as did the tribal tattoos on his face and arms.

  “So how are you feeling this morning?” the man asked.

  Darrick ignored him.

  The man stood up from the bunk and crossed to the bars of his own cell. Gripping the bars, he said, “What is it about you, sailor, that’s got everybody in here in such an uproar?”

  Lowering his head back to the foul-smelling bucket, Darrick let go again.

  “They brought you in here last night,” the shaggy-haired warrior continued, “and you was fighting them all. A madman, some thought. And one of the Peacekeepers gave you another taste of the shock staff she carried.”

  A shock staff, Darrick thought, realizing why his head hurt so much and his muscles all felt tight. He felt as if he’d been keelhauled and heaved up against the barnacle-covered hull. Several of the Peacekeepers carried mystically charged gems mounted in staffs that provided debilitating jolts to incapacitate prisoners.

  “One of the guards suggested they cave your head in and be done with it,” the warrior said. “But another guard said you was some kind of hero. That you’d seen the demon everybody in Westmarch is so afraid of these days.”

  Darrick clung to the bars and took shallow breaths.

  “Is that true?” the warrior asked. “Because all I saw last night was a drunk.”

  The ratchet of a heavy key turning in a latch filled the holding area, drawing curses from men and women held in other cells. A door creaked open.

  Darrick leaned back against the wall to one side of the bars so he could peer out into the narrow aisle.

  A jailer clad in a Peacekeeper’s uniform with sergeant’s stripes appeared first. Dressed in his long cloak, Captain Tollifer followed him.

  Despite the sickness raging in his belly, Darrick rose to his feet as years of training took over. He saluted, hoping his stomach wouldn’t choose that moment to purge again.

  “Captain,” Darrick croaked.

  The jailer, a square-built man with lamb-chop whiskers and a balding head, turned to Darrick. “Ah, here he is, captain. I knew we were close.”

  Captain Tollifer eyed Darrick with steel in his gaze. “Mr. Lang, this is disappointing.”

  “Aye, sir,” Darrick responded. “I feel badly about this, sir.”

  “As well you should,” Captain Tollifer said. “And you’ll feel even worse for the next few days. I should not ever have to get an officer from my ship from a situation such as this.”

  “No, sir,” Darrick agreed, though in truth he was surprised to learn that he really cared little at all.

  “I don’t know what’s put you in such dire straits as you find yourself now,” the captain went on, “though I know Mr. Hu-Ring’s death plays a large part in your present predicament.”

  “Begging the captain’s pardon,” Darrick said, “but Mat’s death has nothing to do with this.” He would not bear that.

  “Then perhaps, Mr. Lang,” the captain continued in frosty tones, “you can present some other excuse for the sorry condition I currently find you in.”

  Darrick stood on trembling knees facing the ship’s captain. “No, sir.”

  “Then let’s allow me to stumble through this gross aberration in what I’ve come to expect from you on my own,” Captain Tollifer said.

  “Aye, sir.” Unable to hold himself back anymore, Darrick turned and threw up into the bucket.

  “And know this, Mr. Lang,” the captain said. “I’ll not suffer such behavior on a regular basis.”

  “No, sir,” Darrick said, so weak now he couldn’t get up from his knees.

  “Very well, jailer,” the captain said. “I’ll have him out of there now.”

  Darrick threw up again.

  “Maybe in a few more minutes,” the jailer suggested. “I’ve got a pot of tea on up front if you’ll join me. Give the young man another few minutes to himself; maybe he’ll be more hospitable company.”

  Embarrassed but with anger eating away at his control, Darrick listened to the two men walking away. Mat would have at least joined him in the cell, laughing it up at his expense but not deserting him.

  Darrick threw up again and saw the skeleton take Mat from the harbor cliff one more time. Only this time as they fell, Darrick could see the demon standing over them, laughing as they headed for the dark river below.

  “You can’t take him yet,” the healer protested. “I’ve got at least three more stitches needed to piece this wound over his eye together.”

  Darrick sat stoically on the small stool in the healer’s surgery and stared with his good eye at Maldrin standing in the narrow, shadow-lined doorway. Other men passed by outside, all of them wounded, ill, or diseased. Somewhere down the hallway, a woman screamed in labor, swearing that she was birthing a demon.

  The first mate didn’t look happy. He met Darrick’s gaze for just a moment, then looked away.

  Darrick thought maybe Maldrin was just angry, but he believed there was some embarrassment there as well. This wasn’t the first time of late that Maldrin had been forced to come searching for him.

  Darrick glanced at the healer’s surgery, seeing the shelves filled with bottles of potions and powders; jars of leaves, dried berries, and bark; and bags that contained rocks and stones with curative properties.

  The healer was located off Dock Street and was an older man whom many sailors and longshoremen used for injuries. The strong odors of all the salves and medicants the thin man used on the people he gave care to filled the air.

  Fixing another piece of thin catgut on the curved needle he held, the healer leaned in and pierced the flesh over Darrick’s right eye. Darrick never moved, never even flinched or closed his eye.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something for the pain?” the healer asked.

  “I’m sure.” Darrick stepped away from the pain, placing it in the same part of his mind that he’d built all those years ago to handle the hell his father had put him through. That special place in his mind could hold a whole lot more than the discomfort the healer handed out. Darrick looked up at Maldrin. “Does the captain know?”

  Maldrin sighed. “That ye got into another fight an’ tore up yet another tavern? Aye, he knows, skipper. Caron is over there now, seein’ about the damages an’ such ye’ll owe. Seein’ as how much damage ye been payin’ for lately, I don’t know how ye’ve had the wherewithal to drink.”

  “I didn’t start this fight,” Darrick said, but the protest was dulled by weeks of using it.

  “So says ye,” Maldrin agreed. “But the captain, he’s heard from near to a dozen other men that ye wouldn’t walk away when the chance presented itself.”

  Darrick’s voice hardened. “I don’t walk away, Maldrin. And I damn sure don’t run from trouble.”

  “Ye should.”

  “Have you ever know
n me to retreat from a fight?” Darrick knew he was trying to put everything he’d done that night into some kind of perspective for himself. His struggles to find something right about the violence that he constantly got himself into during shore leave had only escalated.

  “A fight,” Maldrin said, folding his big arms over his broad, thick chest. “No. I’ve never seen ye back down from action we took together. But ye got to learn when to cut yer losses. The things them men say in them places ye hang out, why, that ain’t nothin’ to be a-fightin’ over. Ye know as well as I that a sailin’ man picks his battles. But ye—by the blessed Light, skipper—ye’re just fightin’ to be fightin’.”

  Darrick closed his good eye. The other was swollen shut and filled with blood. The sailor he’d fought in Gargan’s Greased Eel had fought with an enchanted weapon and snapped into action quicker than Darrick had thought.

  “How many fights have ye had in the last two months, skipper?” Maldrin asked in a softer voice.

  Darrick hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “Seventeen,” Maldrin said. “Seventeen fights. All of ’em partly instigated by yer own self.”

  Darrick felt the newest suture pull as the healer tied it.

  “The Light must be favorin’ ye is all that I can tell,” Maldrin said, “for they ain’t nobody what’s been killed yet. An’ ye’re still alive to tell of it yer own self.”

  “I’ve been careful,” Darrick said, and regretted trying to make an excuse at once.

  “A man bein’ careful, skipper,” Maldrin said, “why, he’d never get in them fixes ye been into. Hell’s bells, most of the trouble ye’re in, a man what’s got a thought in his damned head would think maybe he should ought not be in them places.”

  Darrick silently agreed. But the portent of trouble in those places had been exactly what had drawn him there. He wasn’t thinking when he was fighting, and he wasn’t in danger of thinking on things too long or too often when he was drinking and waiting for someone to pick a fight with.

  The healer prepared another stitch.

  “What about the captain?” Darrick asked.