Other elflings had an arsenal of hurtful things to say.
“He’s a shtate gobshite.”
“He’s a pox” or “eejit” or “maggot”.
Torn knew his father had given up, crawled to the bottom of a whiskey bottle and stayed there because he’d lost his mate. He wanted to shout at his da; that he was still there, that his father still had work to do. But he didn’t. He learned to make modest meals and put a besotted Mick Finngarick to bed.
If tears were shed, they fell with no one to see.
As word spread that a person should think twice before insulting Torn Finngarick or his father, opportunities to find release by pounding someone bloody became fewer and farther between.
He’d grown to just under six feet by the time his thirteenth birthday came around. By that time he’d taken to traveling to nearby towns and hanging around outside pubs in the hopes that somebody who hadn’t heard of him could be goaded into a fight. When he scored a taker, they were always put off by the grin that communicated pure pleasure. Sometimes it was accompanied by outright laughter.
That would have given a wise man pause. But a wise man wouldn’t be taunted into a street fight with a kid like Finngarick. So Torn was free to show exactly how much he relished the lesson he was about give on the stupidity of engaging in rough play with strangers.
On one such occasion he stole a car and drove to Derry, the seat of the Irish Elf kingdom. He knew there would be a sea of possible victims there, particularly on a Saturday night.
As it happened, a knight named Draglanore was in Derry having a pint with a friend while standing at the bar at the Crow’s Cock on Queen’s Quay. He overheard the patrons behind him talking.
“The boyo’s fuckin’ put down four hale and hearty men and still ready for more. Ne’er saw nothin’ like it.”
Sir Draglanore turned his body toward the elf who’d been speaking and said, “Pardon me for overhearing. Are you talking about an altercation in progress?”
The man looked Draglanore up and down, undoubtedly thinking the man’s speech was a bit highfalutin.
“That’s right,” he said, eyeing Draglanore with a modicum of suspicion. “Outside in front. Boyo too young for drink, but not too young to fight.”
Draglanore nodded. “Thank you.” As he turned back to his friend he acknowledged the quiet, but insistent voice. All knights are trained to pay attention to the inner prompting that pulls in one direction or another. Some said it was a function of the mystic. Some said it was a brain mechanism yet to be fully understood. Black Swan was far more concerned with practical application and function than definition. Turning back to his friend, he said, “You’ll have to forgive me, John. I need to check on something.”
John was agreeable. “Go ahead. I’ll keep the beer warm and the women cool.”
Draglanore laughed. “Indeed. Exactly what I fear when I wake each day.”
It wasn’t difficult to find the subject of bar talk. Finngarick and the small crowd he’d drawn had retired to an alley a few doors down from the pub so as not to draw the attention of law enforcement.
Draglanore arrived just as Finngarick delivered a knockout punch to a man who was in his late twenties and muscled to a point that suggested the use of enhancement drugs.
Finngarick was smiling like he was having the time of his life. Draglanore stepped in front of him and turned to the crowd.
“That’s all for tonight folks. The kid has had enough.”
The idea of being shut down by a prissy-talking stranger infuriated Torn. He pushed Draglanore’s shoulder from behind and was surprised when that had no visible effect on the man.
“Ain’t your fuckin’ business, eegit. You wantin’ some? I got enough for you and them, too.”
Draglanore turned slowly and deliberately. When Torn got a look at his face he could see that Draglanore wasn’t like the other men who showed up to fight him. He was self-possessed in a way that was foreign to Finngarick.
“What’s your name?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Gray Draglanore. And you are?”
Torn huffed and looked up and down the alley, but said, “Torrent Finngarick.”
Draglanore nodded. “A fine name.” Torn snorted, which made Draglanore cock his head to the side. “You from around here?”
Torn wasn’t sure why he hadn’t already turned and walked away. It crossed his mind, but there was something compelling about the man. So he decided to let things play out a bit and find out what his angle was. “No.”
“Just passing through?”
Torn’s eyes skittered away in the direction of the stolen car. “Maybe.”
“I see. What year are you in?”
“And why would that be your fuckin’ business?”
“I might have an offer for you. I might not. I won’t know unless you answer my questions.”
Again, Torn thought about walking away, but the event in progress had the potential to be the most unusual and interesting thing that had ever happened in his short life.
“I’m in seven.”
“Seven.” Draglanore nodded. “Do you by chance have an older brother?” Torn shook his head. Draglanore showed mild surprise, but quickly recovered his passive expression.
“Just me and my da. Why are ye askin’?”
Draglanore ignored the question. “Are you smart, Torrent Finngarick?”
Torn’s lips twitched in a way that told Draglanore what he wanted to know. The kid was angry, handy, smart, and on the way to being on the tall side for an elf. He was already six feet and probably looking at another two growth spurts. At least.
“Do you like what you’re doing now? Your friends? Where you live? Where you go to school?” Draglanore already knew the answers to those questions. Black Swan knights are good at reading people.
Torn barked out a laugh, spat on the ground and wiped a rolled up sleeve across his bloody mouth. “No’ even a little.”
“Well, in that case, I may have an alternative to suggest. I work for an organization that recruits people like yourself. You would get the best education anywhere, see the world, meet people you can respect, and, if you’re interested in that sort of thing, make a lot of money. I can send someone to talk to you and your father if you’re interested.”
Torn narrowed his eyes. “Gangsters? Lookin’ for somebody who can fight.”
It was Finngarick’s turn to be surprised when Draglanore laughed out loud. “No.” The knight shook his head, clearly amused by the idea. “Not gangsters. Although we do know something about fighting.”
“You work for the king?”
“Not the mob. Not the king. It’s a secret. If you sign on, it’s a secret you’ll take to the grave, but it’s also a decision you’ll never regret.”
Torn was intrigued. “My da…”
“Yes?”
“He’s a dosser. Likes the whiskey.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Most of the time he’s locked and manky.” Torn looked down at his shoes suddenly feeling ashamed in front of the elegant well-spoken stranger.
“I see. And you’re concerned that he may not be at his best when our recruiter comes to call?” Torn looked up into Draglanore’s eyes with a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before and nodded. “Leave that to us. Give me your address and expect someone in the next two days. We don’t operate on the same time as the rest of the world. We get things done. You need to be prepared to leave if you like what you hear. Day after tomorrow.”
“Why me?”
Draglanore smiled. “I have a feeling about you.”
Torn glanced away, but hurried to ask, “Will I see you again?”
“Maybe someday,” Draglanore smiled. “In our organization paths tend to cross from time to time. I expect I’ll be hearing things about you within a few years.”
Sir Draglanore did indeed hear things about Torrent Finngarick within a few years. They just weren’t good things.
Si
mon Tvelgar stood at the Finngarick door with rain pouring off his umbrella as if he were a human fountain.
Torn answered the door, looked Tvelgar up and down and said, “You him?”
“I am he.”
Torn opened the door. Two hours later, Tvelgar had the required signatures from both Mick Finngarick and his son. Tvelgar wasn’t especially bothered by the fact that Mick Finngarick was too drunk to know what he was signing. He agreed with Draglanore. The boy belonged with Black Swan.
Torn stood at the door with a duffel over his shoulder, about to embark on the first real adventure of his life. He looked back over his shoulder at his father, slumped over the small kitchen table, sound asleep then stepped out into the rain without looking back again.
CHAPTER Three THE MARRAKESH EXPRESS
Torn and Sir Tvelgar were driven to a sheep pasture where a helicopter, the precursor of whisters, was waiting to fly them to the school outside Berlin. It didn’t take long for Torn to get his nickname. Less than twenty-four hours. He never said he liked it, but truth be told, he did.
Undoubtedly it was partly because Torn was a logical shortening of Torrent, but then there were also the clothes. His jeans had horizontal tears with white frayed edges and skin showing. Of course he’d been given new clothes, but he left them neatly hung or folded and untouched. Except for the shoes. He liked the high tops, but loved the black combat boots and took to wearing them slouchy and unlaced.
He liked the concert tees he’d gotten from people who’d been as far away as Dublin. And he liked his own worn pants. They might not be whole or fancy, but they were comfortable and felt like they fit in more ways than how they draped his body. Just like his new name.
Black Swan did not, at the time, enforce a dress code for students.
So they ignored it.
Until the other boys began ripping slashes in their jeans and wearing combat boots slouchy and unlaced. It seemed that even dominant personalities like Black Swan second sons admired the swagger and self-confidence of the poor kid from Northern Ireland.
The faculty had a meeting to discuss the wardrobe development and decided to let it go, believing that, in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t much of an issue.
Academically Torn was behind his peers, but with the help of after-dinner tutors, he caught up within a short time. He’d never had friends to speak of, but that changed when he stepped into a new world out of the shadow of Dunkilly small-mindedness, unkindness, and prejudice.
Almost immediately he felt drawn to another kid, Rafael Nightsong, who went by Raif. Raif didn’t talk about who or what he was before throwing in with Black Swan. Torn didn’t either.
Torn was good at sports, good at school, and the other boys quickly learned that he knew how to turn off the anger and turn on the elven charm when girls were around. His looks were striking in repose, but when he smiled every femme within sight stopped to stare. And there was never any shortage of girls when Finngarick was around.
He was liked by the other trainees. It could even be said that he was popular. Being admired by peers instead of shamed was a radically different experience, as was having all his needs met without stress or strain or even the need to give attention to such basics as food, heat, housing, clothing and so on. Food was both fine and plentiful, expertly planned and prepared by others. His apartment was palatial when compared to the abject humbleness of his former residence.
There was only one other elf at the Berlin installation, an upperclassman named Rammel Hawking, who happened to be not only Torn’s schoolmate, but also his prince. He didn’t know Hawking more than the occasional nod. People said Hawking was an outlandish prankster who, like Torn, was a femme magnet. He also appeared to be a regular sort.
In the quiet dark solitude just before sleep, Torn had pondered how strange it was that two Irish elves, a prince and a pauper like himself, might end up being equals in the eyes of Black Swan.
Inwardly Finngarick recognized the opportunity the new situation represented. Luck had put him in the path of Sir Gray Draglanore, who had asked Black Swan to take a chance on a dirty, good-for-nothing alley fighter.
Torn wasn’t lazy. He made an effort to adjust to an environment that was alien to him, rich in comfort, challenge, mutual respect and people who gave a damn about him. He wanted to make a successful adjustment, to be like the other boys, most of whom came from situations where most or all of those things had been true their whole lives.
Outwardly he gave every indication of having done just that; overcome culture shock and adapted to drastically changed circumstances. But the underlying anger that had taken root in his mind and soul when his body was stuck in the little seaside village of Dunkilly had dug in for a deep and permanent residence. It was locked in and completely resistant to tempering, regardless of how things changed for the better.
He got in trouble on a regular basis, but that wasn’t unusual for second sons in training for knighthood. In fact, it was expected. The sort of person who puts his own life on the line for blissfully ignorant humanity, who will never be celebrated publicly for service, is often the same kind of person who has a tempestuous adolescence. Black Swan was so accustomed to acting out that Finngarick didn’t particularly distinguish himself as a bad boy. At that point.
His constant companion, Raif Nightsong, was assigned with him to a team of two veterans in Barcelona. As was the custom, they wouldn’t be offered knighthood until they had shown themselves to be street worthy. The Barcelona post was intended to establish a mutual purpose.
Did they want to accept the responsibility that went with knighthood?
If so, would Black Swan assess them ready to do so?
Those were the two questions at hand when Torn and Raif were called into the Sovereign’s office.
“There’s a team in Barcelona that needs two knights. I’m considering sending the two of you on probation. You interested in being partners? On a temporary basis of course.”
Nightsong and Finngarick, who were both twenty-one at the time, looked at each other. Finngarick read the ‘yes’ in Raif’s eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken out loud. Raif wasn’t a big talker, but that didn’t keep him from being expressive.
Torn looked from Raif to Sovereign Tvelgar. “Aye. We are.”
It took only three words to set the two young knights-to-be on their first adventure.
When they transferred onto the larger Black Swan jet in Edinburgh, en route to Barcelona, Torn gave Raif a look that said, “We have arrived.” He then proceeded to flirt with the flight attendant for most of the trip. Not that his attention wasn’t welcome. Finngarick seemed to ooze sex from his pores when he turned his charm in the direction of a target.
Of course he was a healthy male elf interested in the physical expression of all that it meant to be that, but there was also an element of satisfaction in having his choice of females, given the damage done by the profound social rejection of his developmental years.
Raif’s eyes were closed, but he was smiling.
“Do no’ be feignin’ sleep, boyo. I see you’re livin’ vicariously and perhaps learnin’ a trick or two about interactin’ with the fairer sex.”
Raif cocked an eye open. “You mean pie in the sky?”
“Her name is Amanda.”
“Is it now?”
“’Tis. She might like you better if you gave yourself half a chance. You have the whole exotic look thing goin’ on.”
Raif opened both eyes and cocked a brow. “Exotic look thing? So now you’re attracted to me as well? Or maybe it’s instead. You bi, Torn? I think I should know before I throw in with you as partner. It’s a big step.”
“Great Paddy. You can actually speak words with multiple syllables. Who knew?”
“Interesting. An evasion rather than an answer.”
“No.” Torn chuckled. “I’m no’ bi. No’ even the least little. But I’m no’ blind. You’re good-lookin’ enough for a human.”
“Thanks,”
Raif said drily.
“All you’d need to interest women is to be interested in them. Hey. For that matter, between the two of us, seems more likely that you’d be the one to like guys.” Amanda swished up and set drinks down for each of them, lips twitching surreptitiously at the bit of conversation she’d overheard. “Hey, Amanda. Do you no’ find my friend here attractive?”
Amanda looked Raif over, while he flushed at the unwanted scrutiny. “Yes. Handsome.”
Torn barked out a laugh. “See!” he almost shouted to Raif. “Aren’t you going to at least say thank you to the woman?”
Amanda hesitated for a second, but when she saw that Raif was busy glaring at Torn, she went about her business.
Once she was gone, Raif said, “That was embarrassing, you freckle-faced fucker.”
Torn gaped. “How is it embarrassin’ to be called handsome by a beautiful woman?”
“Because you put her on the spot. What was she going to say? ‘That guy? Fuck no. He’s hideous. Why would you embarrass her and me by asking that question?’”
Finngarick shook his head. “Dude.”
“Don’t call me dude.”
“Why no’?”
“For one thing it sounds ridiculous with your Irish accent.”
“Does it? Let’s call Amanda and ask her what she thinks about my accent.” When Torn looked toward the galley, Raif threw a rolled-up magazine at his head. Laughing, Finngarick said, “So you’re checkin’ the undecided box again.”
After a few minutes, Finngarick nudged Nightsong. “How’s your Spanish?”
“S’okay. Why?”
“Why do you think? Because that’s what they speak in Barcelona.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re not going to talk to vampire before we stake them.”
Finngarick (Order of the Black Swan, D.I.T. Book 2) Page 2
