Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two

by Brian S. Pratt

  Already this evening, two men had tested fate and lost; one had been thrown out with a knife wound in his side that most considered fatal. He had deserved it or so the bystanders would say if any dared ask; none would. The other had his head cracked open by a bottle. He currently laid comatose beneath a table where three others finished the game he was caught cheating at. And all this before the sun had even reached the horizon.

  A man stalked the streets of Castin with purpose; a dagger deftly tucked in the sleeve of his jacket. A simple twist and forward jerk of his arm would find its hilt in his hand, ready for whatever mayhem may be required.

  Those in the street who happened to meet his gaze quickly lowered theirs and backed out of his way. The hardness in his eyes and the purposeful stride warned all but the foolish it would be best to leave this man alone.

  He hunted. There was blood needing to be shed and come hell or high water it would flow before the last rays of the setting sun faded from the world. A wrong must be righted, a slight must be avenged; a life must end.

  “Are you sure he said to meet him here?”

  Having disembarked the galley upon which they had booked passage, Scar and Potbelly walked along the pier until coming to the dockside road. A hundred feet to the left and down a short alley found them before The Gnashing Teeth. Three people languished around the door; whether they were alive or dead was impossible to tell.

  “Yes,” Scar replied. “We sail in the morning and either we meet him here, now, or our journey will be for naught.”

  Moving to the door, Potbelly took the lead and pulled the handle. As the door swung open, a hand reached out from one of the nearer comatose bodies to grip his ankle. The suddenness of it made him jump but the hand failed to relinquish its grip. It nearly caused him to lose his balance.

  “What the…,” he cried, startled.

  “Coins, good sir,” a raspy voice begged. “Could ya’ spare a coin fer an old beggar?”

  Potbelly yanked back his leg but the hand refused to yield.

  One of Scar’s two long swords leapt from its sheath, its blade came to rest upon the beggar’s exposed wrist.

  “Let go,” he said, “or lose your hand.”

  The hand quickly released its grip and vanished back into the soiled rags the beggar wore.

  “Coins…”

  “Out of our way,” Scar said. Sheathing his blade, he strode with Potbelly into The Gnashing Teeth.

  A few faces turned their way upon entering, but for the most part, they were ignored.

  Smoke filled the common room. The way it melded with the rank smell of unwashed bodies and a hundred other unpleasantnesses gave the Teeth a fetid atmosphere. Off to one side near the wall, sat a table with but one occupant; passed out and still clutching his mug of ale.

  Scar motioned toward it and they headed over. When they arrived, Scar nudged the table’s occupant with his boot, tipping him to the side and on to the floor. He took the man’s seat and waved for the serving woman.

  Cold eyes that held not the least bit of humanity stared out from beneath curly locks matted to her sweaty forehead when she arrived.

  “What do you want,” she grumbled.

  “Well…” began Scar.

  “Ale?” she asked, interrupting him.

  Scar got that look saying he was a bit annoyed and trouble would not be far off.

  “Two, please,” Potbelly replied quickly.

  She grunted and returned to the bar.

  “This could be the worst dive we’ve ever been in.”

  Turning to his best friend and comrade, Scar nodded. “It’s worse than Jake’s over in Tillman.”

  Potbelly laughed, then glanced to the floor where the table’s previous occupant still lay. “At least Jake removes those who can no longer drink.”

  Scar motioned toward a body pushed all the way against the wall not ten feet from where they sat. “Or breathe.”

  The waitress returned and plunked down two mugs, not caring that she spilled a goodly portion upon the table. Potbelly handed her a couple coppers. She took the coins, eyed each in turn, first Scar then Potbelly, as if they were about to rob the place. Then turned about without a word and headed for another table.

  “Wonder how many bodies she accounts for in a year?”

  Scar watched her leave, then turned back to Potbelly. “If it’s less than a dozen I’d be surprised.” He picked up his mug for a drink but paused upon spying bits of crusted-on material coating most of the rim. Using part of his sleeve, he wiped off a section before taking a drink.

  “I’m still not sure we aren’t on some wild goose chase,” Potbelly stated.

  “Look,” Scar replied, “for the hundredth time, Old Jim said that this was on the up and up.”

  “Old Jim is crazy,” Potbelly argued. “Not exactly there if you know what I mean. There’s a reason he’s the town kook.”

  Scar pulled out an old, ragged piece of cloth and held it up so as not to be noticed by the others in the bar. “He was right about where to find this.”

  Potbelly rolled his eyes. “Under a rock in the old cemetery? I bet you a gold the old kook drew the thing himself, put it there, and is now laughing at our gullibility.”

  Slipping it back in his shirt, Scar just shook his head. “When Tork arrives, we’ll know the truth about it.”

  “If there even is a Tork.”

  “I tell you I met him this morning,” Scar said. “He’ll be here.”

  Potbelly wasn’t fully convinced.

  “Yesterday when we arrived, we sent a message to the local baker saying ‘Three loaves for Tork,’ and that they were to be delivered to the Golden Sunrise. Just like Old Jim said to. And when you were off with that barmaid, Tork showed up and set up this meeting.”

  “It all sounds hinky to me.”

  One day, Old Jim sold Scar part of a map to a buried treasure and told him there were two other sections, each held by compatriots of his. One was Tork here in Castin and the other lived as a hermit in a hut just a two-day sail away and short ride up the mountain. Comrades of long ago before hair turned white and shoulders drooped with age.

  Shouting broke out at a table two removed from theirs; three men leapt to their feet as the table was thrust aside and metal flashed. An enraged man of middling years sliced with his knife at a younger, dark haired man.

  Dancing back, the younger man sought in vain to avoid the attack; a line of red opened up along his abdomen.

  “That could be bad,” commented Scar.

  Potbelly sipped his ale and watched with some interest as the younger man drew his short sword and lunged forward. The older man easily dodged aside and swiped backhanded with his knife slicing a three inch long furrow just above the young man’s elbow.

  “A silver on the knifer.”

  Potbelly shook his head. “That’s a fool’s bet. He’ll kill that younger man.” Having fought in the Pits for several years now, he could easily tell that the older man outclassed his opponent by a goodly margin.

  As the two combatants closed again, the third man at the table reached out, grabbed each by the hair on the back of the head, knocked their heads together and said, “Enough!”

  The older man turned on him flushed with anger. His knife held at the ready.

  “A silver says he strikes.”

  “Done,” Potbelly replied then waited to see how it would unfold.

  “Put it down before you get killed,” the third man said. Clearly the senior of the three, he bore an air of command and surety.

  Whispered betting from throughout the common room could be heard in the brief silence that followed.

  When the short sword dipped down, both curses and laughter joined the exchange of coins as losers paid winners. Scar tossed Potbelly a silver.

  “Thought for sure he was going to do it.”

  Taking the coin, Potbelly eyed it, “And glad I am you did.”

  Scar flashed him a sour look before laughing. “Next time.”
<
br />   The three men righted their table and the knifer bound the wound on his arm with a dirty rag. When they sat back down and it looked as if no further altercations was in the offing, the common room resumed its customary buzz in wait for the next time. For sure as metal parted flesh, in The Gnashing Teeth, trouble was a sure bet.

  Another ale followed the first as they waited for Tork to arrive. A group of men threw daggers at a charcoal “X” drawn on the wall some fifteen feet away. The object was to have your dagger strike as close to where the two lines crossed as possible.

  Daggers flew, one man laughed while the others cursed and paid him his winners.

  Potbelly eyed the game with interest. “How long do we have?”

  A glance out the window showed the sun nearing the horizon. “Not long,” Scar replied. “Tork said he’d be here around sundown.”

  Pulling out his knife, Potbelly got up and said, “Be right back.”

  The men grew quiet as Potbelly arrived. He held up three coppers, one man nodded and motioned for him to take his place. Potbelly place his foot within the charcoal circle drawn on the floor and readied his knife.

  He paused, drew back his knife, and threw. Tumbling end over end but once, it embedded itself just a hair’s width above the junction of the two lines.

  Four others threw but none came close. Potbelly took their coins and made to rejoin Scar, but the men insisted they have another throw. Potbelly agreed. When he moved to place his foot in the charcoal circle, one of the men held up his hand and shook his head.

  With his foot, the man scraped away the charcoal circle. He then moved another five paces farther back and drew another circle. With a grin, he motioned for Potbelly to take his position.

  “As you wish,” Potbelly said. “This time for half a silver each?”

  “Done.”

  Placing his foot within the circle again, he raised his knife, focused on the target, and threw. This time it hit dead center. He turned to the man with a satisfied grin. “Beat that.”

  Six men threw as well and though they came close, none matched Potbelly’s proficiency. Collecting the three silvers in winnings, he turned to head back to the table.

  “Another throw,” the man said.

  Potbelly saw trouble in the man’s gaze; he shook his head. “Two’s enough for me.”

  The man’s knife came up. “I insist.”

  “Now look,” Potbelly began, “I don’t want trouble. We had a fair test of skill and you lost. It would be best if you left it at that.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Scar get to his feet and slowly move their way.

  “We think we’ve been cheated,” the man said. “Ain’t no way the gods are going to favor a man two times running on the ‘toss.”

  “Cheated?” Potbelly asked. “How?”

  The man failed to reply. Instead, he said, “We want our money back.”

  “Not going to happen. You lost. Had I lost, I would have gladly handed over my coins. But I didn’t.” His hand moved to rest upon the hilt of his sword as he faced off with the man.

  The five other men who had tossed against Potbelly drew their knives. Patrons of the Teeth backed away as conversations died throughout the common room. From back-corner whispers drifted the sound of men placing bets; whether on the odds of a fight breaking out or whether Potbelly would survive the coming clash of arms wasn’t clear.

  As the six men maneuvered to encircle Potbelly, the hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard broke the silence.

  “Is your life worth three bits of silver?” Scar asked as the tip of his sword pressed into the back of the man’s neck who had accused Potbelly of cheating.

  The knifers froze.

  Potbelly drew his sword.

  “I believe I asked you a question,” Scar said, voice full of menace. “It won’t be repeated.”

  In answer, the man’s knife fell to the floor. As Scar’s gaze roved over the others, their knives too were dropped to the floor.

  “It was a fair ‘toss, right?” Scar asked; he punctuated the word ‘right’ by pressing his blade into the man’s neck a little bit harder. A droplet of blood welled forth and dripped down through sweat and dirt.

  Licking his lips, the man replied, “Yes.”

  “All right then.”

  He removed the sword from the man’s neck and slid it back into its scabbard.

  “Nicely done.”

  Turning toward the voice, Scar’s face lit up. “Tork!”

  Five feet nothing, a patch over his left eye and stooped with age, Tork was hardly an impressive sight. In his right hand he leaned upon a cane.

  “This him?” Potbelly asked.

  “That he is,” Scar replied. He gestured to their table. “Shall we?”

  Tork nodded and shuffled over and sat.

  “Ale for our friend!” Scar hollered to the barmaid. Another round was shortly delivered.

  “Thank you,” Tork said as he took a sip.

  “Always thought it would be Jimbo coming to lay claim to the map.”

  “He felt it best if we took care of it for him,” Scar lied. “He can’t get around like he used to.”

  “Who can?” Tork took another sip.

  Scar drained his ale, called for another and nearly emptied that mug as well. “Do you have it?”

  “Not on me, no,” he explained. “One my age cannot go around with such things on my person.” He eyed Scar, then Potbelly. “I believe there was mention of some sort of remuneration?”

  Scar produced a small coin purse and set it before the old man.

  Tork hefted it, glanced at the gold within, nodded and then placed it within his shirt. “Come with me.”

  He used his cane to get to his feet, wobbled there a moment, then started for the door.

  Downing the rest of his ale, Scar followed with Potbelly right behind.

  Outside, shadows had grown long; the sun had begun to dip below the horizon.

  “We understand that there is yet a third piece of this map?” Potbelly asked.

  “You are correct, young fellow,” Tork said. “Matlin’s his name. Likes to be alone; never was one for the company of others. Think he took to living by himself; but haven’t heard from him for many a year.”

  “Old Jim said he lived just up the mountain from a village called Wayside?”

  The old man shrugged. “Possibly. Last I heard he was somewhere near there. But like I said, he isn’t one that enjoys being disturbed.”

  He shuffled along at an agonizingly slow pace. From a side alley ahead, a man emerged and turned toward them. It was clear they were his destination.

  Tork spied him, came to a stop and glanced over his shoulder. “You boys in trouble?”

  Scar shook his head. “Not that we know of.”

  “Never been here before,” Potbelly added. “Only been in town less than a day.”

  Scar eyed the old man. “Why?”

  The question had barely left his lips before he noticed the man coming their way. The set of his jaw, the steel of his gaze and the fact that his left hand clutched a dagger said this was the trouble to which the old man referred.

  “Let me deal with him,” Tork said.

  “Gladly,” Potbelly replied.

  “Who is he?”

  Scar’s question remained unanswered as the man drew near.

  “Out of the way, Tork,” the man demanded.

  Raising his cane, Tork placed the end against the man’s chest. “What business do you have here, Verin?”

  Verin pointed to Potbelly. “This man sullied my Adele.” Grabbing the cane, he made to thrust it aside but the length of wood flashed brightly and knocked his hand away. A second flash forced him back a step.

  “Lay not your hands upon me or mine!”

  “Beware, Old Man.”

  “No, you beware. Your quarrel is with him, not me. Keep that in mind lest you rue this night.”

  Verin looked on the point of spitting the old man with his knife right then and there.
But something in Tork’s gaze made him take a step back and to the side.

  Tork turned back to Scar and Potbelly. “If you survive, come to my shack.”

  “Where can we find it?” Scar asked, never once taking his eyes off Verin.

  Pointing along the street ahead of them, he said, “Out past the edge of town. Look for the split oak.”

  He turned back to Verin, grunted and muttered under his breath about the dregs of society, the old man then continued up the street.

  Scar and Potbelly made to follow but Verin barred their way. His knife blade was pointed at Potbelly.

  “You have an accounting, dog.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea about what it is you seem dead set to get killed over,” Potbelly said. “I don’t know any Adele.”

  Verin’s face turned red. “This afternoon, at the Keg and Bottle….”

  “Oh.”

  Scar turned to his friend. “Oh?”

  Potbelly glanced to Verin. “The barmaid?”

  “My Betrothed!”

  “Took her for a tumble did you?” asked Scar.

  “I did not know she was your betrothed,” argued Potbelly. “She definitely never mentioned you, only the coin she required.”

  “You lie!” spat Verin. “Adele is as pure as the falling snow.”

  “Man, you don’t know her very well if you think that,” Potbelly countered. “She did things that would make…”

  Verin screeched an inarticulate sound and shot forward, knife thrusting for Potbelly’s midsection.

  Scar danced out of the way while Potbelly stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. When the man slashed sideways, Potbelly blocked the attack with his forearm then knocked him backward with a kick in the stomach.

  Verin stumbled, nearly hit the ground but recovered quickly. Upon righting himself, he found Potbelly with sword and dagger in hand.

  “Need any help?” offered Scar.

  “Hardly think so,” Potbelly replied. Then to Verin, “Sir, I apologize to you and your betrothed. I truly did not know she belonged to you.”