Fallen Victors

by Jonathan Lenahan

  Along with the normal riff-raff was a sprinkle of oddities: a Priest of the Cao Fen sat alone at one of the squares, his red robes screaming for blood in the forest of swarthy browns and blacks, the table in front of him filled with empty beer mugs. A few grey-heads wearing the fine silk robes of the Merchant’s Guild sat at the bar near the door, their heads clustered and their voices pitched low.

  “Our border contact just up and disappeared? Don’t give me that bullshit. Everybody is on edge as it is,” said one of the merchants, his voice rising before another shushed him.

  Slate’s eyes drifted toward a man stepping through the door. Weaponless, he wore the nondescript clothing of a common day laborer, his brown homespun shirt hanging over the edge of cotton pants. Overconfident or an idiot, thought Slate. You didn’t enter a bar like The Queen’s Ransom without either a sword on hand or a friend at your back, and even then you watched that friend out the corner of your eye.

  A small tankard in his hands, the day laborer sat alone against the wall nearest the street. He nodded to the waitress and handed her a few coins before leaning back, balancing the chair on two legs. Four of the man’s fingers glittered with rings, their gems shining brightly in the dimly lit bar. Impressive for a day laborer.

  Probably an idiot, Slate decided, and then turned back to the bar. The drink tasted like something fished from the tub of a man who hadn’t bathed in decades. He smacked his lips and took another gulp. Teacher quaffed the last of his beer, the sixth to Slate’s two. Man was a piece of work.

  All in all, the room had a peaceful quality, a feat worth mention considering the crowd’s composition. The food was passable, and the drink was, well, wet. He could find worse ways to spend the night.

  His stool creaked; it wouldn’t be surprising if Teacher’s broke beneath him at some point in the night. Slate’s free hand brushed a small bulge in his pocket. A pebble. He’d picked it up earlier in the day to keep his hands alive, one of many that he’d juggled as he walked.

  Mug settled on the bar, Slate tossed the pebble from hand to hand. It flew into the air and he caught it between his thumb and forefinger. A few of the bar’s patrons eyed him.

  Meh. He re-pocketed the rock. No use getting stabbed on such a pleasant night. “Bartender, another drink for my friend here.”

  The bartender, busy dirtying a mug with his cleaning rag, looked at Slate. “Sure your man can handle it? He looks more than a bit slow.”

  Slate bumped his sternum against the bar, finger running over his mug’s fissured surface. “Have something to say?”

  Dirt from the cleaning rag deposited in the mug, the bartender placed it beneath the bar’s counter and said, “Just what it sounds like. I don’t want no feeble-minded monster wrecking my bar after he’s had one too many.”

  “Sure somebody didn’t already do you that favor?” asked Slate, eyes on a bucket behind the counter, catching water that dripped from the ceiling.

  The bartender put his rat-bitten nose inches from Slate’s own. “You want your face to be plugging one of them holes back there?”

  They stared at each other, neither backing down until Slate slapped a penny on the bar. “Give me another.”

  Beer in hand, Slate turned back to the crowd. Across the room, the Cao Fen priest had fallen asleep, chin on his chest and beer mug dangling from his hand.

  Feeble-minded monster, eh? Slate looked at Teacher, guzzling his new beer. The bartender dropped a glare Slate’s way, and Slate smiled. He pulled the pebble from his pocket. Let’s see how many new holes they could make tonight.

  A sip of his beer, and then Slate pelted the pebble at the priest’s face. Without waiting to see the consequences, he flung the contents of his mug across Teacher’s back and onto the two men nearest Teacher. The man nearest Teacher rose with an oath, but then saw Teacher’s bulk and immediately sat.

  Unfortunately for him, the man two stools down was not so intimidated, proven when he stood and knocked the cowed man to the ground.

  Chaos ensued. Teacher’s fist collided with the face of a man at one of the card tables. Slate jumped up, hand to his sword, thought better of it, and dived behind the bar. The bartender, his forehead bell pepper red, swung a knobby wooden club at Slate’s face, but Slate kicked the man in his stomach. He vomited air and bent, hands on his gut. Still on the ground, Slate kicked again, and the thick heel of his boot connected with the bartender’s jaw. A tip of the man’s tongue flew into the air, landing behind Slate, and the bartender fell on his face, motionless.

  Slate snaked a green, half-full bottle out from the wall behind him and leaned his forearms on the bar to watch the commotion. The room had devolved into a brawl. The Cao Fen priest wove in and out of the crowd, his red robe attracting fighters like a matador’s cape, the only piece of color in a black and white world.

  Slate took a swig and spat. Even the good stuff was still shitty.

  Two mercenaries, swords at their sides, had cornered the Priest, a fact that didn’t seem to concern the holy man as he downed them in rapid succession. A man in front of the dinner tables swung haymakers at anybody within arm’s reach until a chair to the back of his head dropped him like iron snatched barehanded from a blacksmith’s fire. The chair wielder turned and threw it into a mass of men and then ducked behind a flipped table just in time to catch a glass where his neck had been. Still behind the table, the former chair wielder received a backhanded swing from a big fellow who was being pummeled by the furious fists of a smaller man who looked like a trained boxer.

  Slate took another swig and stifled a tug of revulsion. He moved to an empty stool, but froze, his peripheral vision catching movement at the door. Sparkling gems. Cotton pants. The day laborer looked at Slate and then disappeared.

  Shaking out his hair, Slate spared a glance for Teacher, who looked to be having the time of his life, though the same couldn’t be said of his adversaries, their unconscious bodies absorbing haphazardly aimed kicks from still-standing brawlers.

  “Come on,” Slate grabbed Teacher’s shoulder, “I’ve found something more exciting for us to chase.” Teacher fed his opponent another fist, and then dropped him to the floor. Thumbing one of the knives strapped across his chest, bottle in his free hand, Slate eased through the crowd, nudging Teacher out the door, guarding his rear from those who gained bravery only when they saw a person’s back. The bottom frame of the door rose to trip him when he stepped over it, and Slate stumbled into the night. Blasted liquor.

  The day laborer stood to Slate’s left, two buildings down, the pale oval of his face highlighted by the shadows clothing his torso. He leaned against the side of a building with a pair of crossed legs on its sign, two scantily clad older women and a man with a sword at its door.

  Slate adjusted an extra dagger at his waist and strolled to the building’s side. He stopped a few feet short of the day laborer, whose hands were shoved in his pockets up to his wrists. They stared at one another as a hatchet-faced drunkard fell, retched down the building’s frame, and then continued walking.

  “Here, entertain yourself,” Slate produced a second bottle from his coat and placed Teacher’s hand around it, “and don’t wander too far.”

  “Sure he’s okay with that?” The day laborer looked at Teacher with a raised brow.

  “Sure I’m not just going to beat the shit out of your peasant frame and steal those pricey rings of yours?”

  The man took his hands from his pockets and then shoved them back in, but not before Slate saw the earlier glints. “My job asserts the utmost pressure on me. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  One of the prostitutes half-waved at Slate, and he gave her a cursory inspection before deciding to ignore the invitation. “Sloppy, but you wanted this meeting, which means you get to start. Oh yeah, and your name, for good luck.”

  “Fine, but first, let’s find a quieter place to talk. Less,” the day laborer gestured at the people around him, “in the open.”

  “Do I look lik
e one of those louts at the bar?” A burp bubbled up from Slate’s gut, loud in the clear night. He rubbed his stomach. “And you better not open your mouth again unless it’s to tell me your name.”

  The day laborer’s stare chilled to one reserved for exceptionally drunk bar-goers, seconds from being tossed out. “I am Blaken, and you may address me as such. I approached you because I intend to discuss a matter I think you will find most interesting, but the setting is not favorable. Now, if you would follow me, we may go someplace more discreet.”

  “Blaken, huh? Then here’s my offer, Blakesy. We’re going to stand right here and talk about whatever it is you want to talk about, or I’m going to walk back inside and get drunk enough to fuck a hole in a wall. How’s that sound?”

  Blaken’s lips twisted. “You’re quite the aggravating man, Mr. Slate.”

  “I like to think of it as a rare talent.” Slate blew on his nails and rubbed them against his shirt. “Mostly natural.”

  “You’re lucky, Mr. Slate. If I had the choice, you’d be left for dead in the street. One less aggravation in the world. However, I’ve been instructed to give you a small test. Pass, and we’ll go to round two. Fail,” Blaken smirked, “and maybe I’ll have my wish.”

  Slate took another sip from the bottle, swished it around in his mouth, and spit at Blaken’s feet. “Doubt it.”

  Impossible to show any more displeasure on his face, Blaken opted for the high road, delivering in a deadpan voice: “The test, just so you know, is nothing more than a series of questions to which you’ll supply answers. There are no right or wrong responses, not in the logical sense of the word, but all the same they’ll determine whether or not you pass or fail. You may answer as you see fit, elaborating or simplifying to your level of comfort. After we’ve finished, I’ll inform you of the results and we’ll decide how to proceed. Is this satisfactory?”

  Slate rubbed the stubble on his chin with a calloused palm, a manufactured gesture. He’d made the decision already – had since the first mention of the test - but it wouldn’t do to reveal his hand too soon.

  “These questions. What do they have to do with?”

  “You’ll find out when I ask them.”

  “”Teach!” The big man walked back toward Slate. “You want to visit a lady tonight?”

  An eager nod.

  Slate wrenched Blaken’s hand from his pocket and bent his wrist so that it forced Blaken to the ground, squealing. “What say I let Teach rip these rings from your hand, fingers and all? I find myself running a bit low on coin at the moment.”

  “Oh my god, oh please god, please no, my fingers, I think you’re going to break them, my wrist.” Slate wondered how far he’d need to push before Blaken’s attitude became more acceptable.

  “Now, about these questions,” Slate bent Blaken’s wrist farther, and the man’s face dropped inches from the dirt, “what am I going to find out about them?”

  “Anything! Anything you want, just please, please let go.”

  Caved faster than I figured, Slate thought. Teacher returned one of the prostitute’s waves. She began walking over.

  “Good man.” Slate released Blaken’s wrist and the man stood, hastily wiping tears from brimming eyes.

  Slate gave him about ten seconds. “Now, if these questions are important at all, you might as well ask now. I’m losing interest pretty quickly.”

  “Question one,” a sniffle, “are you loyal to your country? If so, how loyal? I am not here for the king or anybody related, in case you’re wondering.”

  “You thinking of blabbing?” Slate took a step toward Blaken.

  “No!” Blaken looked as if he wanted to run away “Of course not. Just wanted to clear that up.”

  Slate disregarded the poorly hidden plea. “Loyalty? Pretty loaded term. Easy for the tongue to slip upon.”

  “Is that your answer?”

  The prostitute ran a finger down Teacher’s chest.

  “Flip a coin,” Slate said.

  Blaken stood a little taller. “Question two: Are you religious?”

  Slate snorted. “In a way, but not anything that you’d understand.”

  “Of course,” Blaken muttered, and then, louder, “Thirdly: some people live on the basis of their faith, others by morality, and so on. By what do you determine your actions?”

  “I’m the only person that guides my actions. Me and me alone.”

  “May I ask why that is?” Blaken seemed to be finding his earlier snootiness.

  “You can ask.” Slate popped his knuckles against his leg.

  “Do you care to elaborate?”

  “Do you care to have my fist shoved down your throat?”

  Blaken rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Last question, and then you may follow me, if you feel so inclined: why so honest?”

  “Lying takes effort that I’d rather save for other things.”

  “What?”

  “Teach!” The big man turned, one of his hands on the prostitute’s waist. “Get away from her. Probably has something. We’ll go somewhere higher end.” A frown, but Teacher stepped away.

  “And you, don’t worry about it. I’ll follow you, but first we need to grab my friend. Here ya’ go.” Slate threw Blaken a short piece of rope, formerly coiled behind his back and hung on a loop.

  “And what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Tie it around your neck.”

  Blaken looked at the rope, and then back to Slate. “Excuse me?”

  Slate smiled. “Round your neck it goes, end in my hand. I die, you die. I live, you live.”

  “And what makes you think that I’ll say yes to such a ridiculous request?”

  “It’s not a request. Do it and I’ll come along with you; otherwise, you’ll never see me again.” Slate crowded Blaken, forcing him back a step. “Unless you want to make an issue of that.”

  Blaken tied the rope in a noose around his neck and handed its end to Slate. “I hope you know that I only do this because you don’t frighten me half as badly as my master.”

  “I’ll let you know when I give a damn about your master’s displeasure. Where are we going?”

  Blaken finally revealed a smile of his own, teeth carved from ivory. “You’ll see.”

  Alocar

  Life is simple, but people insist on making it complicated. It was unfortunate that such tidbits were lost on the young, or Alocar would have rewound time and hidden the knowledge for Bella to uncover within the cushion of his favorite chair, which she’d chucked in favor of an overstuffed monstrosity that – and he could practically hear her softly chiding voice – ‘Better befitted the décor of the room.”

  Thick, deep blue drapes, pulled back and tied with a golden rope, decorated the room’s twin single pane windows, the moon casting a wan yellow across Alocar’s face. A chandelier, its sixteen candles lit, hung over wooden coasters scattered across a glass table. He propped his feet on an ottoman with a broken leg, the sole vestige of his old sitting room, leftover like a ragged scar on an otherwise pristine landscape.

  A grimace. He rubbed the knots crippling his thighs, dreading the large purple bruises he knew lay beneath his pants. Rupert’s blunted sword had not been kind, and anticipation for his granddaughter’s visit, normally the highlight of his week, lessened with the discovery of each new welt. Maybe Zayden will bring her over tonight. Sons have to forgive their fathers at some point¸ don’t they?

  “Bella!” he yelled, “be a dear and bring me . . . ” The whiteness of her skin and trembling hands put halt to his words. “Bella?”

  “Sir, your – your niece . . . ”

  Aching legs forgotten, Alocar exploded from his chair and grabbed Bella’s shoulders. “What about her? Spit it out!”

  Bella’s knees buckled, and Alocar supported her as she fell onto his chest. “Your granddaughter has been taken,” she whispered.

  “What happened?” Alocar heard his voice crack.

  “I, I don’t know the name of the m
an, sir. He stopped by the house and said that if I told anybody before you returned, nobody would ever find her.”

  Alocar took his sword and scabbard off the wall hangar on the side of the room, the iron blade scarred but kept well-oiled. He buckled it about his waist and said, “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “He wore a mask, some kind of metal. I don’t know. Please, sir, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t know what else to do.” Bella’s face dissolved into tears and she placed it in her shaking hands.

  Alocar put his arm around her. “Hush, you did all that could be expected of you.” But he barely heard the words, his mind three steps ahead.

  “Bella,” he ordered. “Look at me.” He took Bella’s head in his hands, and tilted it so that his eyes reflected in hers. “Did the man say what he wanted?”

  She dabbed her eyes. “Yes, sir. He wants you to meet him at the old Giles residence as soon as you get the message. And he said come alone.”

  “Call Josephs,” he told Bella. “Tell him to pull the horses around, tell him to do it now.”

  Alocar walked behind the sitting room’s bar, poured a stout shot of whiskey, and swallowed it in a single gulp. Steadied his shaking hands. Was that fear, or was it excitement?

  The floors vibrated with his footfalls, and the door dug a hole in the house’s exterior when Alocar flung it open. Josephs stood by the carriage, bouncing on his toes. “Giles residence. When we get there, drop me off and leave. I’ll make my way back.”

  “But sir, I can – ”

  “Go.”

  The spotless black carriage rocked as Alocar clambered inside. Reins cracked and the carriage jolted forward.

  Why? Kidnapping the granddaughter of somebody like himself was as good as a signed death warrant. Alocar’s ordered mind narrowed down the possibilities one by one, the fantastical tossed aside and the logical kept. He briefly entertained the idea that he might be dealing with a madman, but dismissed it. More likely a criminal with ambitions of grandeur.