CRY FEAR

by Mike Morris

  Three men were in the main room, dragging a large chest toward the window. The moment they saw the Black Dogs, they dropped the chest. The one on the left, a tall man with long hair tied back with a bandana, went for a knife on a table by the wall, but Robert crashed into him before he'd gone two steps. The one on the right was missing an eye and had the sense to stick his hands up in the air and surrender. The third man threw a jug at Jack and then bolted for the window.

  Jack hurdled the crate just as the man climbed out the window. "Stop!" he called but the man paid him no heed. He was climbing up to the roof before Jack could reach him. Jack leaned out the window, looked up and saw a pair of feet disappearing over the top of the wall onto the roof, a rope dangling beside them. He grabbed the rope and hauled himself out. A quick glance down reminded Jack that a three-story fall waited for him if he screwed things up. With a deep breath, he clambered up, walking up the wall, pulling himself up hand after hand. He tried not to think about what would happen if the man he was chasing decided to cut the rope. There'd be no saving Jack, not with a straight drop down to a cobbled street. He stared up at the grey sky as he climbed, expecting to see a head appear silhouetted against it — the only warning he'd get that he was going to die.

  But no head appeared and Jack pulled himself up for all he was worth, desperate to reach the top of the wall. It got closer and closer until Jack lunged. His fingers hooked around the tip of the wall and he vaulted onto the roof.

  The roof stretched the whole length of the street, with small dividing walls separating each building and a stairwell leading down to each one. Halfway along, someone had built a structure for more living space and there was tangled web of washing lines darting from one end to the other.

  The man already had a head start on Jack as he skipped over one building divider then ducked under a washing line. Jack was about give chase when he heard his name called out from below. He looked down and saw Robert's head sticking out the window.

  "Leave him," said Robert, "and get back down here."

  Jack took the stairs down to the third floor. The others were already in the corridor, ready to move on to the next door.

  "They thought we were the law," said Robert by way of an explanation. "The crate was full of stolen property from houses they'd robbed. Not what we're looking for."

  Jack peered through the broken door. The two men were trussed up with their hands tied behind them. The tall one glared back, still trying to act tough. He looked about Jack's age, another reminder of the path Jack could've taken.

  The Black Dogs cleared the rest of the rooms on that floor and went up to the stairs to use the roof to cross over to the next stairwell. The darkening sky increased the sense of urgency.

  "There's not enough time," muttered Guy.

  "Complaining won't make the day last longer," replied Robert.

  "I'm not complaining. Just stating facts," said Guy.

  "Of course you are." Robert scowled at him. "Now shut it."

  Guy tried looking at Jack for support but got nothing back. Guy was a good man to have at your back in a fight, but he'd chew your ear off moaning about everything if you gave him half a chance. Jack might be the youngest in the crew but even he knew better than to encourage the other man. In the end, Guy stepped back, taking his position at the rear, muttering to himself about how they were all going to get killed.

  This time they moved down the building, following the same procedure, knock, sweep through each room, clear it, move on to the next. They found nothing. Nothing except pissed off residents giving them a mouthful for invading their homes.

  They reached the street. Snow had started to fall once more and the day was all but done. Nial looked over, but could see they'd come down empty-handed before he had to ask. More Black Dogs filled the street, having rushed down from the monastery. Judging by their faces, they'd already been briefed on what they faced.

  "Not even a sign of one, boss," said Robert as they reached Nial.

  Nial shook his head. "Alan's not had any luck either." He looked up and down the street as he thought. "We stick with the plan. Finish checking the street, then we'll move on to the next. Take some more men. No one died because of too much help."

  "Got it," replied Robert. He signaled to the others to follow him, and grabbed another four Dogs on the way to the next building.

  "We're not going to find it," said Guy. "It's gonna be night in about five minutes and we're not going to find it."

  "You happy about that?" said Steve. "Because a fucking Nostros loose in Arbour is the last thing we need."

  "Of course I'm not happy. I'd not be happy unless we had every single Black Dog in Abios with us." Guy hawked a load of phlegm and spat it on the floor. "We might have a chance then."

  Steve shook his head. "Can't believe you're scared. Even the kid's faced off with a Nostros without shitting himself."

  Jack's hand went to his neck. He didn't want to tell either of them the truth — that he was bloody petrified when he fought the Nostros on the beach and it was only the sun coming up — and Lin's quick thinking — that saved him. It'd not been much different when they'd raided Grosnar, except things had gone to shit pretty damn quick right from the start and he'd been too busy trying to stay alive to get scared.

  "I'm not shitting myself," growled Guy, sticking his neck out. "I'm just not stupid."

  "All right, you two. Enough," said Robert. "We're supposed to be bloody professionals, so let's act like it. We've got one building left to clear. Do your jobs."

  The lads had the sense to shut up and they entered the last building on their side of the street.

  "What's that smell?" said Jack the moment they walked through the front door. It was faint, but too distinctive to be missed. Sweet, yet sickly.

  Robert's nose twitched. "Nothing good."

  "Something rotting," said Steve. "Maybe some garbage dumped in the hallway?"

  "Nah," said Robert. "It's worse than that."

  "It's death," said Guy and spat on the floor. "Rotting corpses."

  No one argued with him. They all looked up the stairwell. Whatever it was waited above.

  "We move up and find the cause of the stink," said Robert, gripping his hammer. "Ignore the rest of the building until then."

  They set off up the stairs, taking their time. They placed their weight carefully on every step, paused at every turn. Jack's heart was beating so loudly he thought the whole building would hear it, but none of the others said a word. He licked his lips, desperate for some water, grateful that Robert led the way and not him.

  The smell grew stronger with each step up they took. Jack covered his mouth and nostrils with his hand in an effort not to gag. He had no idea how anyone could live in the building with that stench. Why hadn't anyone reported it? He knew it was Brixteth and no one liked the law, but even so. The smell was overwhelming.

  They stopped on the second floor. Flies buzzed around, despite the cold outside. "We check this floor," said Robert. They didn't need to knock on doors, though. All they had to do was follow their noses. They turned left and moved down the corridor. The smell grew stronger, becoming an almost physical presence. Robert stopped outside the last room on the right, nodded at the others to check they were ready. He got three nods back. This was it. Jack tightened his grip on his pistol. He prayed to God for protection, drew His holy circle over his chest. And for the second time that day, Robert smashed a door in with his hammer. They went in fast and furious as a swarm of blowflies rushed past, eager to escape. The smell hit them hard, unrestrained by doors and walls. Jack gagged and then his eyes bulged as he saw what waited for them in the room.

  It was a slaughterhouse. At least a couple of dozen bodies, if not more, dumped and left to rot. They covered every inch of floor space and littered the bed. The walls were sprayed with blood. Discarded organs and severed limbs lay on top of the dead. And there was no hiding the ripped-open throats on each and every one.

  Jack's stomach lu
rched and he couldn't hold it back any longer — he vomited over his feet.

  "Get a window open, Jack," ordered Robert, his own face white with shock and horror.

  Jack staggered across to the other side of the room, squeezing his feet between bodies. He couldn't help but look at the sea of frightened faces; men and women, young and old, their throats ripped open, their hearts pulled free. What a place to be brought to; what a place to die. He couldn't help but think of little Shelly and how lucky she was that this nightmare wasn't the last thing she saw before she died.

  Heavy curtains covered the windows and Jack had to force them apart before he could unlock the window and pull the bottom half up to let in some fresh air. He took in great lungfuls himself, trying to get something clean inside him.

  He saw Nial looking up at him and signaled for him to come up. Best he see for himself the horrors they'd found. And, as Jack turned back to look at the dead, he couldn't help but think worse was to come.

  8

  Lin

  They came for Lin in the middle of the night. Two men, armed with knives.

  She was asleep in one of the back rooms on the second floor of the inn, far enough away from the main room for the noise of lingering drinkers to not disturb her. Simon had a room on the floor below hers. At the time, she hadn't minded, glad for the distance and the privacy it gave her.

  She'd gone to bed early, well-fed and tired from the day's events. She wasn't a drinker and had a feeling the priest wanted to be left alone to enjoy the tavern's ales and possibly other entertainments.

  The room was small but comfortable — a single bed, plus a small table with a washing bowl and a candle. For an ex-slave of the Nostros, it was the height of luxury. The bed was soft and the blankets warm. The days of sleeping in bunks with a smattering of straw for a mattress seemed another lifetime ago.

  Some things never changed, though. When you slept in a room with fifty other people who could, at any moment, decide they wanted to rob, rape or murder you, a part of you was always aware, always expecting trouble.

  It was a creaking floorboard that woke her. It wasn't loud — far from it. Whoever stepped on it was trying to be careful, moving too slowly to be up to anything innocent. Only guilty people moved like that — someone visiting a lover, or a thief on the prowl.

  Lin slipped from the bed and pulled her shirt on over her head. There was another creak, quickly followed by another. Too close together for one person to have caused them. She slid her sword free from its sheath. It glistened in the moonlight, eager for violence. Lin adjusted her body, adopting an attack position, ready. Let them come for her now.

  There was silence. It lingered long enough for her to think — no, hope — that she'd been mistaken, that the noises weren't a warning of an imminent attack. Then there was a scraping at the lock of her bedroom door; a pick doing its work.

  She grinned. It was time to see how well she'd learned Master Snow's lessons.

  The lock clicked into place and the door handle turned.

  Lin waited. Waited for a crack of light to appear in the darkness as the door opened. Waited until she saw the shadow of a man's head as he made to slip into her room. And then she drove her foot into the door with all her might, smashing it back and squashing her assailant's head between the door and its frame. The man dropped with a gurgle and Lin yanked the door open. The other man stood frozen, eyes bulging with shock, a pathetic knife in his hand. Lin didn't bother with her sword. There was no need. She punched him in the throat with her left hand and dropped him choking to the floor. She followed through with her right, smashing the hilt of her sword across his jaw. The man slumped unconscious over his companion's body.

  Lin stepped back into her room, sheathed her sword and realized she wasn't even breathing hard. Her heartbeat was slow and steady, as if she'd just woken up instead of beating two men senseless. A part of her was disappointed they'd not put up more of a fight and given her a proper test of her ability.

  Lin dragged the men into her room and shut the door. She thought about getting Simon but dismissed it for the moment. She turned the men over and got a good look at them. Both had hard faces, heavily lined and dark skinned from working outdoors. Their hands were rough with calloused palms and their clothes stained with dirt and sweat. She didn't recognize either of them. Maybe they'd been drinking in the bar earlier, but Lin didn't remember seeing them. Of course, they didn't have the dents and bruises on their faces back then so there was no way she could be sure.

  The first man, taller and broader than his friend, had a leather belt around his waist, so Lin used that to tie his hands. The other had a bit of old rope holding up his trousers; he was easier to bind. A search of their pockets revealed nothing except a small purse with three silver coins. It would seem murder didn't pay that much. Both had hunting knives, but they were working tools, not specialized weapons designed to kill humans.

  Lin dressed; trousers, shirt, jerkin, boots. She knelt in front of the men and placed the knives beside her on one side and her sword on the other. Then she leaned forward and slapped the shorter man across the face. She'd broken his nose when she'd hit him with her sword hilt and it didn't take much contact to send shards of pain through his unconscious mind. He jolted awake in an instant as fresh blood ran down his face. She watched him as he looked around, confused as to where he was, frightened at finding himself tied up and horrified to see Lin and her weapons.

  "Who are you?" she asked, her voice flat.

  "Please let me go," he whined. "This is all a mistake."

  "Who are you?"

  "No one. I'm no one. I don't know who you are. We came to the wrong room. This is all a mistake."

  Lin smirked. "I was seven years old when I first stabbed a man. I didn't think twice about it. He was trying to rape me at the time, mind, but I enjoyed it — seeing him scream. I'm older now, but some things don't change." She picked up one of the knives and looked at the edge, pressed her finger against the point. A small prick of blood appeared. "Who are you?"

  "Please," begged the man. "Please, just let us go. You'll never see us again. I promise."

  Lin cut a strip of cloth off her bedsheet and stood up. She walked around to the rear of the man, taking her time, letting his imagination intensify the moment. She tied the cloth around his mouth and listened to his breathing betray the panic he was feeling. Good. It was the least he deserved.

  She returned to her place in front of him. "I'm going to ask you one more time. If you're going to talk to me, you can nod your head and I'll remove the gag. If you want to continue to play games ..." She picked up the knife again.

  He stared back, still pretending to be a tough man. Lin knew the type only too well. Maybe it worked in Abios, but Lin grew up a Sweat in the Middle Kingdoms. There, you had to back up any hard words with actions or you'd find your throat cut before breakfast. She still played by those rules.

  Without another word, Lin stabbed him in the thigh. Straight down the blade went, into the meat of his leg. She gave it a little twist for extra emphasis and then left it there. The man screamed for all he was worth. The gag muffled the sound just enough to stop her neighbors from hearing.

  Lin waited for him to stop, then wagged the other knife in his face. "What you need to realize is there are two of you. If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll kill you and start work on your friend. But if you talk, I promise I'll let you and your friend walk out of here. Do you understand?"

  The man nodded frantically.

  Lin stood again, walked to the rear of the man. He flinched as she reached for the gag and stayed tense until she undid it and returned to face him once more. "What's your name?"

  "Thomas of Brixteth."

  "Brixteth? In Arbour?" Lin remembered Jack talking about the place — he'd grown up there.

  The man nodded, desperate to be believed. "That's right."

  "A long way to come to kill me. Who sent you?"

  "I don't know his name, I promi
se you. Me and Harry," he tilted his head toward the other man, "were having a drink in Jerry's Bar in Brixteth when this man comes in. He's all posh. A lord, I think — good clothes, fancy cloak, a walking stick with a silver head engraved like a dragon. I said to Harry, I said: 'He's looking for trouble, coming here dressed like that.' And I was right. The man talks to Jerry behind the bar and then the next minute he's coming our bloody way."

  "What did this man of yours look like?"

  "He's tall, with dark hair down to his shoulders, all streaked with grey it is. But it's his eyes you remember. Cold as night, they are, and he gives you this feeling like he can see right through you into your soul. We'd talked about robbing him, but one look and he knew what we were thinking. He dared us to risk it. Just dared us, he did, but me and Harry aren't stupid."

  "I take it this man is the one who hired you to kill me?"

  Thomas hesitated as if he was too scared to put into words what he and his dumb friend had tried to do. Then he sighed. "He offered us a dozen silvers to do it. It was a good price, more than we'd earned in a good while. Told us to wait for you here in Taveson, that you'd be turning up with a Black Dog."

  Lin leaned forward and placed a hand on the knife still in his leg with enough pressure to get the man squirming with pain. "Did he say why he wanted me dead?"

  Thomas shook his head and sniffed. "Just that you weren't to reach Arbour alive."

  "No reason?"

  The man's head dropped. "We didn't ask."

  "Just took his money."

  Thomas looked up, tears in his eyes. "I've told you everything I know. I promise."

  Lin tilted his chin with the tip of the knife. "Are there others?"

  "Others?"

  "Did the man hire other people to kill me?"

  "I don't know. Not that Harry and I know. We were the only ones in Jerry's Bar that he talked to but..." He shrugged. "It's easy finding killers in Brixteth."