The Midnight Man (The Mancer Trilogy Book 2)

by Alan Scott

The Painted Man sat at a table in a dark corner of the busy inn and stared at an untouched pint of ale that had been placed in front of him. The edges of his mouth pulled tight every now and again, as the leaping flames in the pub’s hearth reminded him of the sight that greeted him upon his return home.

  Next to him sat a woman, a few years younger than him, playing nervously with her hair. Her eyes darted across his face, looking for clues to his next mood.

  “Bastards,” he growled in low menacing tones. Unsure how to react, the woman placed some of her hair in her mouth and began to suck on it.

  “I just wanted to go home,” the Painted Man stated. “Just wanted to go home.”

  “We can make a new home,” suggested the woman before she shrank under the withering stare of the Painted Man.

  Turning his head back so he was once again staring at the pint, the Painted Man said, “Sorry. I am sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, its not. I am dwelling too deep in my own pity to see the pain in you.”

  “It’s okay,” shrugged the woman.

  “No, it’s fucking not!” The Painted Man ran a hand through his hair. “The things they did to you…”

  “Are of no matter. You rescued me.”

  “I was late.”

  “But you did arrive.”

  “Yes. I did arrive to see my entire village on fire and all but one person dead. Where were the Chosen?” The Painted Man slammed his hand down. “Where were they, Mel?”

  A few people turned their head at the noise of the hand hitting wood, but they quickly grew bored and turned back.

  The woman known simply as Mel shrugged. “They failed to come.”

  “All the villages that sheltered within the shadow of the Star Mountains slaughtered and not a single Chosen came.” The Painted Man ran his hand slowly down the side of his still untasted pint. “Not a single one came. Bastards.” His softly spoken words and gentle movement were totally at odds with his hard eyes and barely repressed rage, which emanated from him like waves of heat.

  Mel placed a hand over her mouth and gave a small giggle.

  “You laugh?” The Painted Man glared at Mel.

  Mel shrugged and cocked her head to one side.

  The Painted Man's glare turned to a resigned sad look. Taking a shallow breath, he returned to studying his pint.

  From a table not far away, Solomon Pace watched the couple with a curious interest. He took a sip of his rather mediocre red wine and shook his head sadly at the taste.

  At that moment, the inn’s front door was thrown open and in walked ten men dressed in black with an upside down cross freshly branded on their foreheads. The atmosphere in the pub changed in an instant. The noise died away as the patrons of the establishment stared into their drinking vessels and tried to make themselves small.

  “The Midnight Man cometh!” the leader screamed.

  “The Midnight Man cometh!” repeated his followers.

  “Ah, the floor show,” whispered Solomon to himself as he took another sip of wine. The Painted Man raised his eyes and looked at the men in disgust, as he slowly ground his teeth.

  “I said,” the leader looked round the room, “The Midnight Man cometh!”

  A low murmur of “The Midnight Man cometh” came from the reluctant patrons.

  “The Midnight Man cometh?” said Solomon Pace with a quizzically, ironic smile.

  “That is better, sheep,” said the ruffian’s leader as he slowly looked around the room before continuing. “Many of you know me. For those who don’t, I am Andrew Leiwe, son of the blacksmith. I have seen the wolf descend from the west. Its colour is midnight black and it breathes fire.”

  Andrew moved through the room as he spoke, forcing people to look into his eyes and the weeping, raw branding on his forehead.

  “The hand on its leash is that of the Midnight Man.”

  “The Midnight Man cometh!” shouted his men.

  “The time has now come, and He has unleashed the wolf, and let it rape and pillage the land. Already, thousands have joined His cause. But His crowning achievement so far is the destruction of the barbarians of the Star Mountains. The men were culled like sheep, their women raped and beaten to death, and their children burned alive.”

  Solomon Pace flicked his eyes towards the Painted Man, who was only just holding back the seething anger that was obviously consuming him, before returning his attention to Leiwe and taking another sip of his below standard wine.

  Still making his way round the pub, Leiwe continued his tirade. “You sheep have only one choice, if you wish to survive. You must join with the wolf. You must debase yourself in front of the Midnight Man and beg for His acceptance. “

  Andrew Leiwe stopped before the Painted Man. “You! Yes, you, sheep! You have the look of a warrior and your woman has the look of a woman who enjoys being ridden by many men. What do you say? Will you debase yourself before the Midnight Man?”

  “Go away, you arsehole,” the Painted Man managed to say in a strained voice.

  “What did you call me, you bastard?” shouted a shocked Andrew Leiwe.

  “Why is it every time I go into a pub, some dickhead wants to start something, eh? All I wanted was to make sure the lass had somewhere dry to sleep and have a hot meal. Is that too much to fucking ask, eh?”

  Mel’s eyes enlarged as she giggled, whilst pulling and playing with her hair.

  In an attempt to recapture the moment, Andrew drew a long dagger and shouted, “Die!”

  The Painted Man slammed the edge of the table into Andrew's midriff, causing him to double over. In one smooth movement, the Painted Man stood up, leaned forward, grabbed Andrew by the hair, and powered the man’s face into the table, where it met the overturned pint glass. Blood and splinters of glass sprayed everywhere.

  “I just… want… to be… fucking… left… alone!” shouted the Painted Man, punctuating each outburst with a slam of Andrew's head on the table. Letting go of the bloody mess, the Painted Man reached down and collected his axes. “Right, you wankers, let’s see who's the fucking sheep and who's the bloody wolf.”

  ***

  People scrambled to get away from the maniac with the axes, who was making his way purposefully towards the nine remaining men. Solomon Pace stood up, placed his back against the wall, and leant casually on his cane. He looked across to the Painted Man’s female companion. She had picked up Andrew’s long dagger and was holding it close to her chest whilst the battle unfolded.

  The Painted Man, with a huge roar of, “Bastards!” had engaged the closest of his enemies.

  One of the thugs had made a wide circling movement behind the Painted Man and was preparing to attack with his sword. Mel ran forward and plunged her dagger deep into the man’s back. Instead of trying to pull the knife out, she ducked down, placed both hands on the handle, and started to twist and turn the knife, causing a wound to open up and blood to flow out.

  The man screamed and flailed his arms in an attempt to knock his opponent down; however, all his attacks went over Mel’s head. In desperation, he tried to fling himself backwards, but that just pushed the knife in deeper.

  Turning his attention to the main fight, Solomon watched as the Painted Man hacked his way through another three men. Once again, men managed to get behind him. As they raised their weapons, Solomon sighed and clicked his fingers twice, and two kneecaps exploded.

  Hearing the screams from behind him, the Painted Man dropped low and spun round with one axe outstretched. The axehead easily sliced through both men’s stomachs, causing their screams to increase in volume. Completing his manoeuvre, he once again faced his foes to the front. “Right, you bastards! Die!”

  Solomon leaned forward, picked up his almost-empty wine glass, and took a sip. With a wrinkle of his nose, he once again turned to look at Mel. She was sitting astride the man she had struck, who was lying face down on the cold tavern floor, struggling feebly. She was sliding her knife in and out of the hole she
had made in his back. “Everyone likes a nice wet hole,” giggled Mel. “Pump it hard. Stop struggling and take it like a man. I know you love it.” With the final word, she plunged the knife deep into the gaping wound and twisted. Tears started to fall as she said through a snarl, “You fucking love it!”

  The man screamed one last time before going limp and still. Mel wiped the tears away with the back of her right hand, leaving wet red stripes on her cheeks. She stood and spat on the corpse at her feet. “That showed the bitch!”

  Pace looked at the blood-covered woman and tutted quietly with a small disapproving shake of his head. “Messy.”

  A quietness suddenly descended within the tavern as the Painted Man killed the last attacker. Panting heavily, he dropped both axes and placed his hands on his knees. “All I fucking wanted... was a... quiet and peaceful drink - somewhere the woman could get a... hot meal and a little comfort. Is that too much to ask, eh? Well, is it?” The Painted Man picked up his axes. “Why the bloody hell each time I enter a pub does some bastard want to kill me? This is getting beyond a bloody joke!”

  The Painted Man walked over to the bar and placed his axes down on the counter. “Cloth!” he demanded of the shaken barman.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the barman, who started to look under his counter.

  “A quiet drink and a hot meal,” sighed the Painted Man sadly as he looked over at Mel and the body at her feet. He followed her gaze and saw the two men he had gutted, their low tearful moans all of a sudden seeming very loud in the quiet atmosphere of the tavern. “Are you okay, Mel?”

  Mel's eyes remained fixed on the two men and she licked her lips. “Fine, and you?”

  “Bollocks,” stated the Painted Man. He strove forward, releasing his knife from its concealed sheathe, and proceeded to quickly and professionally kill both men.

  Mel glowered at him.

  “You are not a killer, Mel,” he said, softly. “You are not a killer.” He then held out his hand for her dagger.

  “NO!” she said, holding the dagger close to her chest.

  “Mel...”

  “NO! And you cannot make me! It’s for my own self-defence.”

  “Mel.” The Painted Man made a beckoning motion with the fingers of his outstretched hand.

  “My defence. My defence. My defence. My defence…”

  “Okay, Mel. Just… just… oh, just shut up and keep the bloody thing.” Making his way back to the bar, he noticed that the barman had placed a clean towel next to his axes. “Thanks,” he grunted as he began to clean his weapons.

  Solomon Pace placed his glass down. “Interesting. Very interesting,” he mumbled to himself before making his way to the front entrance. After opening the door, Solomon took one last look around the tavern and, for the briefest of moments, his eyes locked with that of the Painted Man. Both men gave a slight nod to each other before Pace exited the building.

  “Evil roams the night,” muttered the Painted Man, his eyes on the tavern door.

  “That it does, stranger,” replied the barman, “but you slew them all. Your drinks are on the house.”

  “That is kind of you, but…”

  “Mead. I’ll have some more mead,” interrupted Mel.

  “Eh, yes, mistress,” replied the barman as he went to pour the drink.

  “What’s up with him?” asked Mel.

  “You are covered in blood,” answered the Painted Man as he wiped the last of the blood from his weapons.

  “Oh, so I am,” giggled Mel. “Just like one gigantic moon time.”

  “Oh, for fuck sake, Mel!” declared the Painted Man.

  A communal look of shock appeared on the faces of those men and women nearby.

  “What? Well, it’s men who don’t seem to care, if they are raping you. I know. I told them all that I was having my monthly cycle. They took me anyway and wiped themselves clean on my torn clothes and naked flesh.”

  “Mel, I don’t know what to say,” said the Painted Man as he looked sadly at her.

  “I do,” said the barman. “One mead for the lady.”

  “Oh, thank you,” grinned Mel as she took the pint in both hands.

  “Moria and Grace!” the barman shouted.

  “Yes?” came the joint reply, as two youngish barmaids walked up to the bar.

  “Take this lady upstairs and draw her a nice hot bath, and see if we have a change of clothes for her.”

  “Yes, Basil,” chimed the women again in unison. “Please, mistress, follow us.”

  Mel pulled her knife close to her chest and tightly gripped her pint of mead as she warily looked at the two women.

  “It’s okay, Mel. Go with them. Become a clean girl, eh...” The Painted Man smiled. “I will be here, if you need me.”

  “Okay,” said an unsure Mel.

  “I promise you I will be here, plus, you have your knife.”

  “Oh, yes, I have my knife,” grinned Mel, before taking a deep drink from her pint. “Right, where is this hot water?”

  “This way, my lady,” said Grace as she led Mel away, followed by Moria.

  “What happened to her?” asked the barman.

  “You really do not want to know,” replied the Painted Man.

  “Bad, though.”

  “You know the deepest fear you have for your daughter, sister, or mother regarding the depravities of man?”

  “Yup.”

  “That happened.”

  “Shite!” replied the barman. “I… I… I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I, half the time. All I can do is be there for her.”

  “Pint? It’s on the house.”

  “I only drink water now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well, a pint of water it is, then.” As the barman turned away, he shouted out, “Grahame, John, Berk, Phil, get these bodies out of the way! There are pints in it for you.”

  “Right you are.”

  “No problem.”

  “How many pints?”

  “I always get the shit jobs.”

  “Four, Berk; there are four pints,” replied the barman before adding, “Stop your snivelling, Phil.”

  “So what is your name, stranger?”

  The Painted Man turned his attention to a small group of men that had arrived at his side. “I have many names, including the Painted Man, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so just call me Gordon.”

  “Well, Gordon, I am Verk and I would like to make you a proposal.”

  “No.”

  “You have not heard it.”

  “I will not stay.”

  “She needs you to stay.”

  Gordon glowered at Verk. “You step over a line, sir.”

  “There is no line, sir. The Midnight Man’s armies may move at a snail’s pace, but scum like Leiwe are everywhere, and we have very little defence against them.”

  “Where are your fighting men?”

  A sad look appeared on Verk’s face. “This kingdom has been at war for a long, long time. When not at war, there are bandits, werewolves, the restless dead, poor harvest, and all matter of other things. Our young men, including my own three sons, have burned in pyres across this land. We lack fighting men.”

  “I am sorry for your loss. It is hard for a man to lose three sons,” replied Gordon. “How does your wife fair?”

  “She guards and mothers our only daughter.”

  “I see.”

  “But neither she nor we can guard our womenfolk from the Midnight Man’s marauders. That’s why we wish to hire you. We can pay you.”

  Gordon laughed. “Trust me, you do not want me here.”

  “Trust me, I know that, but what is the alternative? “

  Taking a deep drink from his pint of water, Gordon mused over Verk’s offer. Placing the glass down, he said, “It would be good for Mel to have some normality. It might help her. Tell you what - I will stay and protect you from marauders and bandits as best I can, but when th
e Midnight Man’s army is thirty miles away, I will leave. The cost will be free lodging, food, and drink, and two silvers a day paid weekly in advance. Do you agree to my terms?”

  “A moment,” said Verk as he turned to his companions.

  Gordon nodded, picked up his pint of water, and drained it. “Another, barkeep.”

  “One straight water coming up.”

  “Just put it in the same glass. It will save washing up.”

  “No problem.”

  Tapping his fingers on the bar, Gordon stared at the barrels of ale straight in front of him.

  “Why do you torture yourself?”

  “What?”

  “I said why do you torture yourself?” asked Basil the barman, as he placed the pint of water down in front of Gordon.

  “To stay strong.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Yes.”

  Basil looked at the heavily-tattooed man standing on the other side of his bar, who had slaughtered nine men in the space of mere minutes, and decided not to push any further.

  “Excuse me, Gordon,” said Verk.

  “Why? What have you done?” smiled Gordon.

  “Sorry?” asked a confused Verk.

  “Nothing,” dismissed Gordon. “A poor joke, at best.”

  “Oh. Anyway, we agree to your terms.”

  “Congratulations, Verk. This village has just hired me. By the way, what is the name of this place?”

  “We are the village of Hobkirk.”

  ***

  Mel lay in a bath covered by lukewarm pink-tinted water and downed the last of her pint of mead. Placing the glass on a stool that was next to the bath, she picked up the knife. She studied it closely before thrusting and stabbing it into the empty air. “The Midnight Man cometh,” she giggled.