Then the scarred man said, “No one can....”
Nenouf shrunk down behind the bar, his arms hugging his sides tightly, barely daring to breathe. He was still trying to work out just what happened and how it had when he heard a faint sound from the darkened room next to the bar, there where no one should have been.
“Au contraire, Monsieur,” said a voice from a darkened corner of the tavern.
“Say what you will, and I am forced to agree that your skill with a blade is astonishing, but you quite obviously can be hurt. The woman of whom you speak, you say she left you for fear of causing you injury.
“But, it is evident that in doing so, she has wounded you more gravely than any sword could.”
The scarred man stood up when he heard that voice. He stood there, looking vacantly down at the floor, then swayed upon his feet before reaching out to steady himself upon a wooden beam running from the floor to the ceiling.
“She left me...after all that I did for her....”
The man who had come out of the shadows nodded, his face quite serious.
“Nevertheless, you have acquitted yourself admirably over these...” he nudged Rubio’s inert body with the tip of his leather boot, “...these vermin.
“And for that, my employer would like to speak with you. I do believe he would like to procure your services.”
Steel grey eyes lifted up from staring at the floor as the man fumbled an instant then, at last, managed to sheathe his sword in its scabbard.
“My services?”
“Yes, of course. You, dear sir, have talents that will interest him greatly. In the capacity of a dispatcher of problems, naturally.”
The big man looked at the other, but it was more as if he looked through him, seeing other vistas and other faces. The sorts of faces that slipped ever away from him and into the distance as he stood still. Alone.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Modest Klees, and my employer is none other than Cuixart Bleu, sometimes referred to by the locals with the unsavory epithet, L’Anguille.
He is the kind of man who is always in need of those who specialize and, most importantly, excel in the fine art of wielding arms. I am such a one, as are you.”
The grey eyed man made no sign, nor did he move, apparently waiting for something.
“He needs killers, sir. And what a killer you are....”
Modest Klees gestured toward the door and the two of them went out. But not before the big man stopped, turning around to throw a small handful of silver to the floor, mumbling, “For the mess....”
Nenouf waited a long moment, but not so long as to let the innkeeper find the courage to come back inside now that the noise of fighting was over.
He followed after the two men leaving the bar, but none too close either, nor did his miss his chance at scooping up a few bits of silver on his way.
The two men were already across the street when Nenouf dared to poke his head outside the establishment’s door, a thick fog having descended the way it often did in the mountain town.
And thanks to that fog, Nenouf would almost manage to convince himself later that what he had seen following after them was only a trick of fog and shadow, a contrivance of his overexcited mind.
He had been about to follow after them when through the fog he saw what he first took to be a very large dog, only it paused to look back at him and when it did, he saw not a canine’s face but an enormous lizard’s muzzle grinning back at him with a smile that fairly bristled in shining fangs. The beast turned away from him then slipped quickly into the mist, and Nenouf would have sworn he saw it go upon six legs, five of them dark brown or green like the rest of its body, while one seemed less robust and, stranger still, colored pink.
As if it was newer than the others.
In the weeks to come, at night when the sounds of the mountain town died down in the evening, and Nenouf lay in his own bed, his thoughts would turn back to that extraordinary night. And it was not with much thought given to the scarred man they had had the misfortune of crossing that evening. Nor was it spent in thinking of the way he had moved, of the awkward, clumsy manner of a terribly drunken man while he dealt out death on all sides as easily as he breathed.
No, what Nenouf thought of when he could not help himself, was the dog that was really some kind of enormous, smiling lizard thing, and he thought of that pink foot and the pale claws that hit the ground as it padded away from him on six legs. A pink leg newer than all the rest.
Nenouf would shudder when he thought of it and remind himself that it was only a trick of fog and shadow. A simple contrivance of an overexcited mind.
And try as he might, he could find no finger of speech that could describe how awful that pink leg had made him feel.
The two men went down narrow alleyways, turning left then right, then back again, as if the man who had named himself as Modest Klees was trying to further confuse the drunken man lurching along beside him.
Eventually, they came to a building that appeared darker than all the rest of the quarter, and he led the way up the stairs rising from street level.
The scarred man came close to falling several times, and navigating the stairs was the worst of all, but he managed them in the end and joined the man who waited for him at a pair of great doors.
Modest Klees pulled a chain dangling beside the doors. There was no obvious sound, but almost immediately someone slid aside a small panel set in one of the doors.
Apparently, he was well known. There was the sound of locks being undone then the doors creaked open upon their massive hinges.
Two men stood just within. They were hooded, with only slits for their eyes, and both were well armed with daggers sheathed in belts crisscrossing their chests, large curving sabers at the ready in their hands. Crossbows leaned against the wall, their cranking arms in place, ready to be wound back at a moment’s notice.
Neither of the two said anything, nor did Modest Klees bother addressing them. Instead, he led the drunken man at his side through the entryway then up yet another flight of stairs.
At the first landing, there were more guards as well armed as those below, then they followed a short corridor to yet another set of large doors, their own guardians in place.
Modest Klees stopped in front of a pair of doors, these also guarded, then frowned as he looked at the man beside him.
As if what he saw changed his mind, he led the way once again down a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs to yet another door. This one was far more humble in appearance than the others, and without bothering to knock, Klees let himself and his companion in.
The room was dark. But in the low light, there was the unmistakable outline of a large bed and perched upon its edge, the silhouette of a woman.
Klees sighed and said, "With the state you are in, I’m afraid that you lack a certain...presentability."
The scarred man did not answer him. Whether it was because he was still that drunk, or simply because he did not care, it would have been difficult to say.
"Your morose mien depresses even me, sir," Klees went on, "So, I know of no better means to chase away stale memories of lost love but a warm and willing woman who knows what she’s about between the sheets."
Her raised his voice and said, "Moira, please see to it that my colleague is well treated. He has spent too much time inside the bottle these past days. Apparently, some cruel woman had put him there.
"Help him find his way back out again, won’t you dear?"
“Of course, Modest,” she said, “The gentleman won’t even remember her name by the time I’m through with him. I promise you.”
Klees left them quickly and the scarred man simply stood there, his head drooping low.
The woman patted the bed and said, “Do come sit down, sir. Standing there like that is doing you no good at all.”
The scarred man stirred then, as if he had gone to sleep standing up, or was lost in some deep reverie.
He c
ame to her, sat down beside her on the bed then asked, “Is it true, then? Do you possess such a talent?”
She smiled with her lips but frowned with her eyes before answering.
“After a certain fashion, yes. But, I don’t think it is exactly in the way you seem to mean. Rather, just that men forget their chagrin once they have tasted me and my wares.
“My talent, as you put it, is the same as any woman’s. We are both blessed and cursed, knowing how to fill a man’s thoughts with nothing but ourselves. Sometimes for but a brief moment, an hour or two. Sometimes, and far less often, for as long as a lifetime.”
The man looked at her and she saw grey eyes calmly watching her mouth as she spoke. Those eyes were framed in long lashes that looked softer than the downiest plume and were an amazing contrast with the hard lines of his face.
“A shame, then. I had hoped you would answer differently. For one who can make men forget might be able to make them remember as well.”
He dropped his gaze, then continued more softly, “I would like to remember...if I could.”
Moira nodded, then leaned in close to his ear and said, "Let me take this woman's place, even if it is for only a short moment, sir."
There was no response, but neither did he pull away from her as her lips settled upon his ear as gently as a butterfly.
Moira brought her tongue to bear and gently followed the corners of his visage, tracing the outline of his jaw. Then, feeling a line of hard skin, she pulled back to regard the scar that ran alongside the man's jaw only to slip down and hide itself inside his shirt's collar.
"You have seen battle, I take it," she whispered, then came back at him, her mouth nuzzling at his neck while her hand slipped along the inside of his thigh.
Whatever else the man was, he was not so drunk as to be insensitive to her touch. She felt his length growing firmer as she brought her hand to the buttons of his trousers.
He sighed, then said, "Battles...yes, I have. And while those never gave me cause for true fear, I have learned that violence is as nothing so dangerous as the soft spoken words of women in the darkness."
Moira smiled then undid the last of the trouser buttons, while slipping her hand within.
He was warm. He was solid with muscles that ran as firm as iron and he rose to her touch, stiff and proud.
She bowed down before his beautiful, melancholy visage and engulfed him.
Her tongue ran down his length, then she pulled her head back, craning her neck at an impossible angle to follow his member to its glistening head.
Once there, she held herself still, then flattened her tongue against the underside of his member, then waggled her tongue ever so slowly from side to side.
Most men would flinch, the sensation too much to bear there where so many were acutely sensitive to the point that pleasure tips over into pain.
Not this man, though. He might have had a great deal to drink, but Moira was quickly coming to the conclusion that he was not as inebriated as he let on. Rather than reflexively pulling back from her, she felt him go even more rigid while the rest of him did not so much as tremble.
A drunk could not possibly hold such an erection. And while the scent of alcohol was all about him and she did not care much for drunken men or the way their hands flew so easily in dumb violence, Moira found herself intrigued. Delighted, even.
And with a smile that threatened to spoil her efforts, she could not help but recognize that she was growing wet with anticipation.
I thought my own heat long since extinguished...but this man....
The man she held in her mouth was stoking the fire between her legs and she knew that even without the orders of Modest Klees, she would not hesitate to take this melancholy man into her bed.
She took him in then, deeply, with frank strokes and she brought her hand to fondle his sack. He was velvety and clean. The taste of him was that of a far younger man than he appeared to be.
At last, her ministrations were rewarded as he began to follow the rhythm of her mouth. His hips shifted. Slowly at first, then with more and more force.
Moira felt him thickening between her lips, the veins along his shaft stood out in high relief as his orgasm burgeoned.
But, in the practiced ways of women who speak softly in the darkness, she pulled back from him. And it was not without a certain regret.
She looked up to see grey eyes staring back at her. His mouth was closed and there was no sign of the smile she had hoped to see.
With slow, but deliberate movements, Moira undid the laces of her bodice, allowing it open wide and let spill her breasts into the open. His gaze dropped to the treasure she offered him, the way she knew it would, then she leaned forward to cradle his length between them.
For the briefest of moments, she thought she had heard him sigh.
She rolled him between her breasts, her own hands at her nipples, squeezing and pulling while the warmth between her legs developed into raw, wet heat.
She had grown so heavy there. Thick. And with her own control of the situation falling away without a care, Moira raked her skirts down savagely while she rose up over the man.
His response was tacit agreement as he leaned back fully onto the mattress. Moira followed him, straddling him quickly, then lowered herself down to spear herself through and through.
He filled her.
She rode him.
Together they became a single, sweat lathered beast that twisted upon itself in frenzied lust, until they both stiffened to a trembling halt, all of their thoughts fused in carnal pleasure. That which made them thinking, conniving, human beings fled as their pleasure slipped over the pinnacle and their bodies flexed in spasms that took their breaths away.
When her vision cleared and the room reappeared around her, Moira looked at his scarred face, searching for some sign of success.
Instead of hope, she saw grim resignation as he asked, “Do you have something to drink? Something very strong?”
She untangled herself from him, her clothes slipping to the floor as she went to a cupboard in the corner.
“I have an eau-de-vie made locally. It’s a kind of hard apple cider that has been rendered down and concentrated.”
She hesitated as she walked back to him.
“But Modest said he wanted you sober.”
He lay there still upon her bed and she saw the scar that began at his jawline and the way it tracked down his body, as if he had once been split nearly in two, lengthwise.
“No,” he said, his voice low, “He ordered you to make me forget a woman. Failing that, I know of no other remedy than to drown her in drink.”
“But, I...” she began to respond.
“You failed,” he said, cutting her off, "Now bring it to me and pray that it is strong enough. Because nothing...ever...lasts long enough for me.”
For only a brief time she had enjoyed pretending that she could fill his grey eyes with herself.
But this was a man whose memory ran more deeply than she cared to imagine, despite what he had said about the things he had forgotten.
And those memories were clearly more bitter than the pungent brew she poured for him then.
Modest Klees came for him not much later and upon seeing the scarred man swaying dangerously from side to side as he got dressed, L’Anguille’s henchman frowned darkly at the woman charged with sobering him up.
He said nothing as he led the man down several corridors to arrive at a great, iron bound door. Two heavily armed men stood guard at each side of the door. Still not deigning to speak, Klees gestured impatiently, and then the doors were flung wide, and he and the scarred man found their way inside.
It was a sumptuous series of rooms, each more richly set than the last, and finally they made their way to a room that opened up even larger than the others, an enormous fire burning in a fireplace that appeared big enough to cook an entire ox.
The timbers within burned brightly and a man stood nearby, gazing into those fla
mes. He held a goblet in one hand, its color a rich yellow with jewels encircling its rim.
Modest Klees bowed slightly at the man’s back, and then cleared his throat before saying, “Monsieur. Allow me to present....”
His voice trailed off as he cocked an eyebrow in the scarred man’s direction. However, he was too drunk to notice the unspoken question upon Klee’s brow.
“...ahem. Allow me to present a new talent. This gentleman singlehandedly dispatched the thorn in our sides that went by the name of Butcher and his Boys.”
The man standing next to the fire kept his back to them, then spoke.
“He reeks of bad wine, Modest.”
The voice was low, calm. Confident.
He turned around on his heel while still cradling the goblet in his hands. He looked up from its liquid depths to stare at the scarred man standing beside Modest Klees.
"Nor does he look the part."
However his reproach had no effect on the drunken man. If anything, he slumped even further, looking as though he would fall down at any moment.
Then the scarred man stirred. He raised his head slightly, then lifted a hand to rake back the hair that had fallen over his face.
His eyes were veined in red with drink or lack of sleep. But his voice was clear as he said, "I can kill if that's your question, monsieur."
He reached with a well muscled arm to place his hand upon his sword's scabbard, then said, "However, I am not often moved to do so. You see, lately the effort it entails just does not seem worth the bother."
The man set his goblet upon a round table beside him, then advanced upon the drunken swordsman. Where his henchman possessed black, ragged hair, indifferently coiffed, the man wore his own speckled grey hair cropped terribly short.
"Yet, if Modest has brought you here, it is not without good reason. So, do explain how it is you possess such skill.
"Why bother to learn how to wield weapons if you cannot be troubled to use them? Why did you...can you tell me that?"
Red rimmed eyes stared back a long while at the other man, then the scarred man spoke.
The Marechal Chronicles: Volume IV, The Chase: A Dark Fantasy Tale Page 3
