Within

by Aaron Bunce

  Balin’s wagon rumbled by a brothel. The women, barely covered by clothing, strutted before the building like female peacocks, dancing and shimmying to attract men’s attention. He chuckled as he watched several of the city guard emerge from the building, women still hanging around their necks.

  He watched the women in their desperate dance of pleasure and considered making a stop to spend some of Gladeus’ gold, but with every passing hour, the trail of the missing sailor grew colder, and he could not afford to let the man slip away.

  Balin gave the reins a sharp twitch and the horse loped forward a little faster. The sun slipped into the horizon, casting a blinding reflection off of the water. Balin tucked his face a little deeper into his cowl, shielding his eyes.

  At the edge of the city, he pulled his cart onto the giant stone seawall separating Laniel’s port from the relentless assault of the ocean tide. The moon’s faint appearance in the dusk already forced the tide higher up the colossal wall.

  Fishermen and vendors bustled about, trying earnestly to sell the remainder of their day’s catch before closing up for the night. The smell of fish and the brine were tenfold stronger here than farther up the city, and Balin already felt it burning his throat. Balin found space for his cart at the end of the merchant stalls and settled in for the wait.

  Finally, after several cold hours of listening to frantic sea birds fighting over rotting fish, Balin spotted the guards making their way down to the docks to rotate their posts. He held his breath for a moment, fearful that his bating and mockery of the Earl had gone too far, but as the soldiers marched by, he realized that Lord Arigosa was good to his word. In short order, the warren of causeways and docked vessels were abandoned.

  “Good Boy,” Balin whispered as he grabbed the reigns and made his way toward the furthest pier. Rotten fish and brine became a passing trouble as he drew closer to the ship. The smell of rot and viscera wafted over him as he hopped off the cart. It was overpowering, like that of a butcher’s gut bin let sit on a hot day.

  Balin pulled his cloak pulled over his mouth and rolled the heavy barrels up the ramp one by one and onto the ship’s deck. He could have hired the men who loaded his cart to accompany him and do the hard work of transferring them down into the ship's hold, but then he would have the added complication of dealing with them afterwards.

  Even in the dark, Balin could make out the smear of blood and feces on the floorboards and railings as he hefted the barrels down the stairs. He took care not to breathe deeply as the smell had already disturbed his stomach.

  Balin lit a single lantern, and by its meager light confirmed the grizzly truth of Lord Arigosa’s words. More than twenty men, all able seamen, were massacred, chopped into pieces, and stuffed into the barrels used to transport coin and other treasures.

  Flies raged in a fever pitch all around him, buzzing in an orgy of gluttony and reproduction. Balin worked quickly, breaking open the barrels with a hatchet and kicking them over to let the thick, tar-like pitch flow out over the floor.

  Balin wiped the mess covering his hands onto his robes and trudged up the stairs. In a rare moment, he pulled back his cowl and let the salty air wash over his face. Balin had seen plenty of death before, but the climb up the ship’s stairs felt like an ascent from hell itself.

  He pushed the horrible images of the hold bellow out of his thoughts and turned. He tossed the lantern back down the stairs with a casual flip of his wrist. It tumbled end over end, the oil sloshing and flaring brightly in the darkness until finally striking the floor and bursting open.

  The pitch fizzled and flickered for a moment, and then with an animal-like roar the blaze sank its teeth into the wounded ship. A short while later, Balin sat perched on a rooftop high above the wharf, watching the fire consume the ship.

  The city guard trickled out from their hiding places and watched the ship burn, but by then there was nothing they could do but hold the crowds of onlookers back at a safe distance.

  With a thunderous groan, the ship listed. The chattering of the crowd intensified, their murmuring and gasps christened the air like a host of buzzing insects. They sounded both excited and terrified at the same time.

  The ocean wind roared in Balin’s ears, but not even that could cover up the angry hiss and scream of the fire as the ship shuddered and slipped into the inky black of the salty harbor. Within the span of a few heartbeats the fire was gone, smothered as the vessel and its murdered crew slid into the crushing cold of Laniel’s Bay, the Sunset Brine.

  “Finesta,” Balin said, using the Ishmandi slang he picked up on the streets and took a small bow.

  He felt a bit easier. The idea of the ship sitting dead and visible to all had become a festering thorn in his side. He stopped only to brush some dust from his robes before slipping down from the roof. He clung to the shadows as he headed off towards a promising reunion.

  In half a day’s work since arriving in Laniel Balin had already accomplished half his goal.

  Things are going much easier than I anticipated, he thought. Perhaps he would be back on the road to home sooner than he had expected.

  * * * *

  By dawn the following morning, Balin had called in a great many favors. In several instances, it involved reuniting with people he would have rather stayed estranged, but in the end he found success.

  A thief named Ramier organized the local pickpockets. Balin knew him as a child on the streets of Ban Turin. Ramier was as unsavory a character as you could find in the gutters of the provinces, and much like Balin, he harbored a reputation that well preceded him.

  Many were hassled about the darker tone of their skin, not to mention the flowing, singsong manner of their speech. After all, Ramier wasn’t the only Ishmandi living in Denoril. He was, however, the most dangerous.

  It had taken a great weight of Balin’s gold to pry loose the information from Ramier, but in the end, he proved Balin right, that anything someone needed badly enough had its price. He learned that sailor’s name was Surge Niscum, and Balin, thanking his luck, discovered that the man had been foolish enough to remain in Laniel.

  Through Ramier, Balin discovered that Surge was perhaps not as mad as the Earl believed. The sailor planned to use his information of the Council’s dealings to blackmail gold and safe passage from the Earl. Of all of Surge’s mistakes, this one would prove his end.

  * * * *

  Balin settled in to watch the building and couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

  “Oh, Lord Tomas. It was your men after all,” he whispered, enjoying the irony that it was the Earl’s men assigned to guard the sailor who perpetrated his escape.

  The warehouse they were using as a hideout was owned by an exotic oil merchant. The building was not far from the docks and well within view of Surge Niscum’s ill-fated ship. Surely if Surge had looked out his window even once the previous night, he would have seen the fire that consumed it.

  At first Balin thought another fire would complete this task, but then he considered the temper tantrum the young Earl might throw, and he decided that it was probably more fuss than the sailor was worth.

  Balin settled in and watched the building for the remainder of the daylight hours. Careful to stay hidden within the shadows, he took note of the sentries, their movements, and tendencies. They appeared disciplined if not a bit predictable.

  The sun wore down, and the air lost the remainder of its warmth. The wind whistling in from the Sunset Brine carried a harsh bite that cut through the fabric of his cloak. It stole the dexterity and sensitivity away from his fingers and toes, but it was not wholly intolerable. As the hours crept by Balin found that it helped him stay alert, despite his growing weariness.

  “I won’t crawl from bed for a fortnight once this cursed sailor is dealt with,” he thought, conjuring up images of a warm fire and thick blankets.

  As darkness settled over Laniel glowed to life, lit by open windows, torches, and large elaborately decorated lanterns lining the streets. Bali
n waited for the city bell to sound, signaling the turnover to the night guard. The moments ticked away until finally, the bell sounded in the distance.

  “And…right on cue,” Balin mumbled as the sentry appeared from the darkened alley. It was the same routine, every time. Balin found it comical how predictable they were.

  He watched the sentry for a time. He walked in an uncomplicated circuit around the perimeter of the building, occasionally stopping to urinate behind a crate in the alley, and then turned to walk the other way around.

  Balin could tell that the man was a natural fighter just by the way he walked. There was no wasted movement in his step. His left hand swayed as he walked, yet his right hand stayed fast to the side of his body, always within reach of the hidden blade on his hip.

  He doned plain clothes. A heavy cotton tunic hung to his knees. It was tied off with a thick leather belt, but Balin could see the high gloss of his polished boots and the glint of scale mail beneath the facade.

  As predictable as they were, Balin knew he could not afford to underestimate any of these men. They could easily match him blow for blow with a blade, but then again, Balin’s plans usually didn’t include going blow for blow.

  The sound of hard-soled shoes on cobblestones echoed down the lane, and a moment later a pair of shadowy figures appeared. The women sang a popular local tavern song, a tune about a siren besting a drunken seaman.

  Right on time!

  One of the ladies stumbled a bit, the other woman barely catching her before she fell. She propped herself back up and continued drunkenly down the alley. They reached the warehouse just as the fighter was making his way around.

  Just as instructed!

  “Oh hello, kind sir, kind fella, my good looking chap,” the woman on the left said raucously as he approached.

  “Be on your way whores,” the fighter spat. Balin watched as the man slid his hand down to the grip of his sword. One of the women tripped, stumbled and then sprawled, arms flailing into the fighter. The man took his hand off his sword and caught her.

  “Watch it! Were you stricken dumb?” he cursed. The woman threw her arms around the man’s neck and tried to kiss him. They scuffled for a moment until the man finally pulled the inebriated woman free.

  “Am I not pretty enough for you? Here look at this. I won all of this gold playing cards tonight. Look at it, ain't we the lucky ones?” The woman produced a coin sack from between her breasts.

  “You won all that?”

  The woman laughed and threw her arms around his neck, this time he didn’t fight back. The other woman draped herself across the man’s back and pulled the threadbare hat from his head. The first woman kicked her feet up behind her, the weight pulling him into her. She kissed him and then shoved his face between her breasts.

  “You’d do that for free?” he asked after she whispered into his ear.

  The women giggled and nodded, before starting back up in another chorus of their song. The fighter glanced around and then grabbed both women and ducked into the darkness between buildings. A moment later Balin heard a muffled yell and then silence.

  The women appeared out of the shadows a moment later. They stopped to straighten their bustier and tidied up their clothing before continuing down the lane. One of the women shook the man’s coin purse before stuffing it out of sight.

  They made their way down the alley, their steps now even and unhindered. The closest woman looked up into the shadows, directly at Balin, and blew him a kiss. He considered the bag of gold he gave them in commission a quality investment.

  Balin slipped from the roof, sticking to the shadows as he made his way to the warehouse. He pushed through a side door, the crude lock barely slowing him down.

  There was just enough light for him to navigate between the massive racks in the first room. The heavily burdened shelves supported small clay pots, each one stoppered with wax-covered corks. The air hung heavily around him, perfumed with rich oils and exotic spices.

  He paused at a doorway, taking measure of the voices drifting easily throughout the large building. He listened for a time, taking note of how many men were present and the manner in which they spoke. They were not on their guard.

  Balin drifted down the main hall, eliciting no more noise than a shadow from a passing cloud. A guard appeared ahead of him, but the man’s back was turned. Balin’s dagger slid free of its scabbard. The agtite blade felt at home in his grasp, like a natural extension of his hand.

  The guard was a good deal taller than Balin, and probably a good deal stronger, but that would only matter in a fair fight. The man’s head tipped forward as he struggled to stay alert. The impact of his chin on his chest temporarily roused him.

  Balin jumped up, wrapping his hand around the man’s mouth and bent him back and down just as his dagger flashed down, biting hard into the base of his neck. Balin braced as the soldier went limp, holding him tight until he went still. He eased his body quietly to the ground and moved forward.

  Balin slid around the corner with his back to the wall. The flickering fire of torchlight illuminated a single door along the cavernous hallway. Oh, how he loved hunting at night.

  Three quick steps brought him to the doorway, and a quick glance inside provided him with all the reassurance he needed. Two men, obviously fighters judging from their poorly concealed armor, flanked the room. The closer of the two, a wiry man not much larger than Balin, stood with his back turned. He bounced lightly on his heels as he talked to his companion, a man in a heavily stained shirt and salty looking leather vest. The man, Balin knew, could be none other than Surge Niscum himself.

  The other fighter had sprawled across a large wooden chair, his mail coat and black tunic spilling out from beneath his brown overcoat. He jammed his left hand into his trousers and proceeded to scratch himself.

  The ram’s head embossed on the man’s tunic shone clear in the lantern light. If Balin had not already known, this would have clearly identified the traitors as the Earl’s men.

  Traitors.

  Balin stepped around the corner and walked casually into the room. The rustle of his hooded cloak made more noise than the soles of his supple boots. Surge Niscum, the weather-beaten and salted ship worker saw him first. Balin took in every detail of the man in a single glance, from the bulge of a concealed knife under his shirt, the strong, corded muscles of his arms, to the salt solidified in chunks in his whiskery beard.

  The cold metallic ring of steel split the silence as the wiry soldier spun around. He had been watching the sailor’s face and was alerted to Balin’s presence by his eyes.

  “Hold right there, you. This is private property, and you have no business here,” he growled threateningly. The other soldier snorted dramatically and rolled off of his chair, his hand temporarily stuck in his trousers. He spun frantically in circles upon the floor, until finally he managed to his feet.

  Balin stood statuesque, his face well hidden within the concealing shadows of his cowl. His agtite dagger, its wire wrapped handle ever cool and reassuring, rested in his right hand, and a small throwing knife in his left.

  “Show your face, sneak. Show it now or I’ll chop off that cowardly hood you hide beneath, and your head with it,” the soldier hissed, wringing his hand anxiously on the grip of his sword.

  “You wear the black, the ram’s head of family DuChamp, which means you serve the Earl of Barden’s Reach. You have sworn loyalty to your Earl, yet you conceal your uniform beneath these…rags and hide like rats,” Balin said evenly after pulling down his cowl.

  “Look at this one, Nils, he’s got a fancy mouth for a scrawny street runt,” the second soldier said, appearing behind his smaller fellow. His sword remained in its scabbard, but the thumb of his right hand hooked the belt holding it up, well within quick reach of the weapon’s handle.

  “Fancy mouth? Hardly, I dare say it is my hands that are so prized. My business is with the sailor. If you walk away now, I think I can forget both of your faces,”
Balin offered casually. The two soldiers looked at each other, and as they did, Surge backpedaled a step.

  “You don’t scare us, what say we don’t walk away? What say we cut you open and scatter you like chum for the fishes of the Sunset Brine? Or maybe we should just leave you for the rats,” the smaller soldier said with a smug look.

  “Ah well, yes there is always that. You could…say, deposit my body right next to those of your mates I found outside, or like I said…walk away now with your throats intact.” Balin took a small step forward.

  “No, no…you won’t be able to scare these men, they’re hardened soldiers,” Surge said wide-eyed and frantic from behind the two guards. “They know about the ship. I told them everything. I will pay them double their weight in gold when I’m done with the Earl.”

  “You are a fool! You should have walked away, disappeared. You have no idea what you are meddling with.”

  “I will tell everyone, everyone! Do you hear me? They will know about the corruption now, know where their gold has been going. I will tell them what happened to the crew, to my mates. How long do you think it will take before all of Laniel is breaking down his door? Hmm? They will cut off his head!” Surge said loudly, and the two soldiers shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  Balin considered the sailor for a moment, his emaciated form, bulging eyes, and erratic mannerisms. He looked like a man in the grip of madness. “I am confident that none of that will happen,” Balin offered, shaking his head.

  Surge shook his head fervently but did not respond.

  “I fear your fate has already been sealed,” Balin added. His hand snapped out from beneath his black cloak. The larger of the two soldiers staggered back into Surge, clutching at the throwing knife lodged in his neck. He spluttered and gurgled as blood spattered from his mouth.