He still wasn't entirely sure he had made the right choice.
The last of the sacks of grain unloaded, the other laborers now milled about, waiting for their pay. After six months of working alongside these men under the harsh sun of the Sword Coast, he was starting to resemble them. His skin was tanned, and his long dark hair and beard had been lightened by the sun. Only his gray eyes still gave away his foreign birth. Like the others, he wore the same homespun rough wool tunic and breeches with ankle-high work shoes, held in place with strips of knotted leather—hardly the gleaming polished armor and high cavalry boots he had once worn—but he was no different from the others now, flotsam washed up by the Tempest Sea to gather here in Port Talos, trade city and ass crack of the Hishtari Empire.
"Bors!" Garos called out, waving him over.
Garos, a good-looking young Hishtari man with long light-brown hair, possessed a nearly insufferably pleasant nature. A while ago, Garos had decided that he and Bors were great friends. Bors sighed and ambled over to join them. Garos was a pleasant enough fellow, if a bit needy. If life had yet to kick Garos squarely in the balls, then Bors wasn't going to.
Bors joined the line as the paymaster began handing out coins. While he waited, he gazed out over the colorful Hishtari city built on the crescent-shaped bay. An estuary called the Sun Horn split the city in two, with the northern side containing the temples and estates of the city's merchant elite, while the southern side held the docks, markets, and slums. A thirty-foot-high sand-colored limestone wall circled both halves of the city, with watchtowers placed all along its length at regular intervals. The wall would deter attackers coming from the desert, Bors knew, but would be of no tactical use against a determined seaborne enemy, which seemed to him to be the most prevalent threat. But then, Bors had never been much more than a simple horseman. Who was he to tell the Hishtari how to defend their city?
"You should come with us this night," Garos said, turning to look back at Bors.
Bors shook his head. "I don’t drink. I've told you this before, many times now."
"A drink or two won't kill you."
Bors snorted. "It might. Best if I get a good night's sleep. Better for my back."
"You're not that old, and your back is stronger than any of ours. Besides, a woman would be good for your back as well, could be a pleasant distraction."
Chuckling at the foolishness of youth, Bors gripped the back of Garos's neck and squeezed it, causing the young man to wince and pull away. "Women are many things, my young friend, but they're never just a distraction. But you go, be young and stupid."
Garos laughed, flicking his hair from his eyes. "Come with us." He paused, lowering his voice. "There’s silver to be made this night."
"No one is going to pay a dock rat silver. You'll end up broke and unhappy—if you're lucky."
"This is different. Ilgrad—"
"Ilgrad is a saddlebag filled with horse shit," Bors said, louder than he intended.
The man they discussed, Ilgrad, with his full bushy beard and oversized bulbous eyes, turned about from his place in line several men ahead of Garos and glared at Bors. "I've no quarrel with you. There's no need to insult me."
Bors felt his face heating from more than the sun. "Apologies … the boy's head is full of nonsense."
"Not this day," Ilgrad stated, glancing about. "There is silver to be made this night. You should come. I think you no stranger to rough tasks."
Bors shook his head. "Not for me."
"Suit yourself," mumbled Ilgrad, turning away again and shuffling forward in line.
The conversation died down, and when Bors stood before the paymaster, the man counted out ten copper coins, placing them in Bors's weathered palms. Bors pocketed them, thanking the man and moving away. Ten copper crowns for an entire day’s backbreaking labor, enough for lodgings and watery stew, with a coin or two left over for a bath, never enough to save.
Garos sidled up to him. "You're decided then?"
"I am. But you should stay away from Ilgrad and this work." Bors watched Ilgrad now, sauntering away with a proud swagger. He knew the type of man all too well, always looking for the easy way to do things, the path that avoided hard work. With the right discipline and leadership, such men could become good soldiers, but more often than not, they ended up whipped or jailed. A horde of shrieking children, some little more than toddlers, ran forward to greet Ilgrad, swarming about his legs. Ilgrad's wife stood farther back, waiting with a tired smile on her plump face. A pang of sadness coursed through him as he remembered other wives and children.
"Not even a single cup of wine?" Garos pleaded.
Bors ran his fingers over his eyes, sighing. Then he heard excited yells from the street leading to the market. A carriage pulled by a team of six magnificent white stallions rode past with a young man in brightly colored red-and-blue livery sitting beside the driver. The man threw glittering copper bits into the air, screaming something Bors couldn't make out. A pennant was painted on the side of the carriage, but the throngs of yelling citizens that rushed forward blocked Bors's sight. Was that a rose? Ilgrad's children deserted him en masse, joining the crowd cheering and picking up the copper bits.
"What's that all about then?" Bors wondered.
"You didn't see?" Garos asked. "It was the Lyrian trade ambassador's carriage. I heard about the excitement earlier."
"What excitement?"
"Queen Marina of Lyr has given birth to a second child, a boy this time. Can you imagine the festivities that must be taking place in Lyr? I bet the working girls are giving it away. Not every day a new heir is born." He flashed a smile at Bors. "You're from Lyr, are you not?"
Bors stared at the back of the carriage as it climbed the street leading to the temple district, children chasing after it. A boy? His arms fell to his sides, a thickness in his throat as the carriage disappeared. Garos's smile faltered when he saw the expression on Bors's face.
"I'll take that drink after all," Bors said.
2
The hour was already late when Grottle arrived. The covered wagon rocked under his considerable weight as he jumped down, landing upon the cobblestoned street before the tavern. As the other two men, Corath and Hrandlin, climbed down from the wagon, Grottle glared about the dark street with his one good eye, noting the presence of those in the shadows—prostitutes and beggars. Perhaps mistaking his glance for interest, one of the whores stepped forward, smiling seductively at him as she pulled her dress up, exposing pale white thighs. "Piss off!" Grottle snarled, lunging at her. She scurried back, her eyes wide with fear.
She should be afraid, thinking that he, the famous Beast of Ba'al, would actually pay for the honor of his seed. Once, women had thrown themselves at him. Highborn bitches had moistened under his glance, begging him to ride them, and ride them he did. He had even ripped into more than a few pretty men as well—and afterward, they had actually thanked him for the ploughing. But … those days were gone. Now, Grottle served Kamanth Kul as a hired neck-breaker.
But what a life I lived.
The door to the tavern opened, spilling bright-orange light and raucous laughter into the street. Grottle flexed his meaty fingers, wincing as they popped. At night, when the desert cooled, his joints pained him, almost certainly a result of dislocating and breaking them so many times before in the fighting pits. He wanted to get this business done so he could return to his chambers in Kamanth Kul's estate and sit before a fire, perhaps drink a cup of prune juice to ease his bowels, and then go to sleep to dream of blood, sand, and cheering crowds. He sighed. It would be a long night.
The tavern was a one-story mud-brick shithole with a thatched roof, exactly the sort of dump where dock scum gathered to drink. Such men were not worth a wet fart, but they were cheap. He gripped a meaty ass cheek, pulling on it and blessing the air with the aroma of his feces, smiling at his own private joke.
Corath and Hrandlin approached, doing their best to look menacing but only partially succe
eding. Like most would-be toughs, they were only acting the part—all swagger and little gristle. Both men had already helped themselves to the weapons piled in the back of the wagon, taking the best of the lot—two heavy-bladed hackswords, which they now wore strapped to their waists. Grottle doubted either of them could do more than wave the swords about, but posers or not, they would do. Besides, the men they needed to kill this night were hardly warriors. Grottle placed a heavy hand on Hrandlin’s shoulder. "Stay with the wagon. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t do anything."
Hrandlin nodded.
"We’ll find that fish-faced fuck Ilgrad and his men, bring 'em back out right away. I don’t want to hang about here any longer than I have to. Even the Red Guards might get lucky and stroll by, maybe decide to start askin' questions." As he spoke, Grottle’s fingers trailed over the head of the finely crafted Ascari fighting axe resting in a loop on his belt. It had been ridiculously expensive but worth every silver crown. Crafted from castle-forged steel, its single-bladed head was sharp enough to take off a fly's balls. Its black ash handle, the length of his arm, had been reinforced with steel strips so that it could block even a sword's edge. In skilled hands, the fighting axe would sing in battle, drinking blood and caving in skulls. "Let’s get this done," he said and then shoved the flimsy tavern door wide.
The noise of drunken conversations washed over him—as well as the stench of vomit, spilled ale, and filthy bodies. He stood in the doorway for several moments, letting his eye adjust.
As expected, the tavern was full, with every table and bench occupied. A gaggle of barmaids, young and old, fat and thin, bustled about, clutching mugs of ale or wooden bowls of stew. The conversation lulled at Grottle's arrival—a man his size always drew attention—but he stared sullenly at the customers until they all looked away. Grottle rarely visited taverns anymore. Some drunken idiot always wanted to challenge him and impress his friends. Years ago, a shit-drunk Conarckian sailor half his size had broken a wooden stool over the back of Grottle's head. Grottle had fallen forward, ripping his own eye out against a hook on a wall. Grottle had killed the man, squeezing his scrawny neck so hard his thumbs had ripped through the meat and cartilage, but you can't kill your eye back. So much changes with time, he mused sourly, scanning the smoky interior of the tavern.
A skinny young barmaid, her face marked by acne, her hands holding mugs of ale, paused in front of Grottle. "We’re busy, but if you can find a spot by the—"
Seeing Ilgrad's ugly face near the back of the tavern, Grottle brushed past her, knocking her mugs onto the rush-covered floor.
A dozen men surrounded Ilgrad, sitting at his table or at a nearby bench along the wall, laughing and drinking and pretending they weren’t worthless shit smears. One of the useless monkey scrotums was already passed out drunk, his forehead resting against the table, a pool of drool near his lips. At Grottle's approach, Ilgrad rose and stepped forward, a smile on his stupid bug-eyed face, his hand outstretched. Grottle ignored the hand, looking past the man. "This is it?"
Ilgrad's eyes reflected his embarrassment, but he merely lowered his hand and nodded. "You said a score, that's twelve."
Grottle spit on the floor. "Twelve fighters, you fuckin' fish-eyed pisspot. This lot would likely run from a fight. And this one here"—he indicated the dark-haired snoring man—"doesn't count."
Corath laughed, his hand resting upon the hilt of his hack-sword. Ilgrad looked about at the other men, meeting their sullen stares, his lower lip quivering.
Is the little bug-eyed baby going to cry?
In truth, Grottle thought this sorry lot exactly the sort of men he needed this night. All were large and strong-looking, dockworkers. They'd fight, Grottle knew—poorly perhaps, but what they lacked in skill they could make up for with enthusiasm. And if they die … well, who gives a shit? "Never mind." Grottle snorted, shaking his large bald head. "They'll do."
"Silver, yes?" Ilgrad asked, clearly relieved he wasn't going to look like a fool in front of his friends. "The deal was for ten pieces of silver a man."
"That was the deal, but later—after the work is done and after I have the item my master requires."
"What item?" Ilgrad asked. "Perhaps we can help you find it."
Grottle shook his head. "Lower your voice. I don’t want to discuss anything further here. Let's go. These eleven will do."
"Twelve," said one of the men. Young and good looking, with long light-brown hair, he sat next to the unconscious drunk. "My friend comes as well."
"He’s farting drunk, you idiot," Grottle said.
"He’ll be fine in a bit," the young man insisted. "Besides, he’s a fighter, an ex-soldier. You'll want him."
"Some fighter," Corath snickered.
Grottle was about to turn away, when the young man pulled the collar of the drunk's tunic back, exposing the fading tattoo near his heart of a black stallion pawing the air. Above the stallion, written in Lyrian, was the word 'Honor'; below it was 'Blood.' Even here in Hishtar, men knew the mark of the Argot Heavy Cavalry, Lyr's elite horsemen. "See," said the young man.
Well, how about that, Grottle mused, rubbing his chin. Even drunk, a former soldier, especially an elite one, might be useful. "Fine, bring him, but if he doesn't sober up, he gets nothing."
As he turned and stalked out of the tavern, it occurred to Grottle that the man had probably just paid someone to give him a famous tattoo. But it didn't really matter—soldier or not, there were still enough other men to murder sleeping sailors.
Corath, Ilgrad, and the others hustled after him, piling into the bed of the waiting wagon, two of them carrying the sleeping drunk.
3
Someone kicked Bors in the ribs, and he woke to find a huge bald one-eyed man screaming at him to get up and go murder someone—which, if he were being honest with himself, wasn't an entirely new experience. What was new was the pounding headache and a mouth that tasted as though he had been sucking on a rat's ass. He had never gotten stinking drunk before a battle before.
He sat up, wincing at the sudden sharp pain between his eyes. He raised a palm to forestall the large bald man, who even now drew back a booted foot to kick Bors again. "Wait … wait," he mumbled, trying to clear the alcoholic haze.
How much did I drink?
Everything.
Idiot, as if she'd care.
"Hurry, fool," the bald man yelled. "Get on board and help your friends!"
My friends?
It was dark out, night then, with a half moon shining down. He was back on the docks, the night breeze carrying with it the smell of the sea. A covered wagon sat behind the bald man, who—Bors now noted—carried a fine-looking Ascari fighting axe on his belt. The man was a mountain of quivering flesh and barely controlled rage with the face of a man accustomed to violence: the disjointed bulbous nose, the misshapen ears that looked like swollen vegetables—and the left eye, now little more than white scar tissue. Spit dribbled down the man’s chin, and his eyes practically glowed with outrage.
A man with this many scars would be very dangerous.
"You diseased get of a cross-eyed whore," the man screamed, once more kicking out at Bors and hitting him in the upper thigh, "get your lazy ass up and earn your silver, or I'll kill you myself. Argot Heavy Cavalry, my hairy, pimpled ass!"
"Wait … wait," Bors mumbled, staggering to his feet. "What's that about your ass?"
The man stared at him in confusion. "Are you sun touched?"
Bors reached out, steadying himself with a hand on the man's shoulder, noting the huge slabs of muscle beneath the fat. "I often wonder the exact same thing."
Wooden wharfs ran behind Bors, with fat, dark cargo hulks tied alongside the piers, the waves grinding their hulls against the barnacle-encrusted beams. Then, cutting through his alcoholic fog, he heard the clash of steel upon steel, the screams of wounded and dying men, a sound as familiar to him as the snore of a lover. A cold sweat broke over his skin as his fear burned away the remnants of strong dri
nk.
Not twenty paces away, a battle took place aboard one of the ships tied to the pier, a fat cargo hulk. Men flailed away at one another with clubs and knives or whatever they could lay hands on—in one case, a half-naked man was wildly swinging a wooden bucket at a bushy-bearded, bug-eyed man armed with a cudgel—Ilgrad! Then he recognized others from the docks. Ilgrad and the dockworkers were attacking a ship! Matron's ghost, I've stepped in a fresh pile of horseshit this time. When the Red Guards come, they'll hang Ilgrad and all these other idiots.
Including me.
He looked about, seeking the quickest path from this insanity. Two men he didn't recognize, armed with wide-bladed hack-swords, stood at the base of the gangplank leading to the cargo ship, watching the fighting—or, more likely, making sure the dockhands did the fighting. The ruckus had woken the crews aboard the nearby ships, and Bors saw lanterns flare into life and shadows move about on their decks, but none of the nearby crews seemed eager to help the besieged sailors. It was a hard thing, he knew, to rush toward battle. Only hard training and iron discipline countered that natural resistance.
Warehouses and construction yards bordered the docks, but less than two hundred paces to the east sat the dock slum, a collection of ramshackle huts and tents crammed together. Most dockworkers lived here, spending copper shivers for a canvas roof and a blanket. Now, the noise of the fighting had woken the residents, and torches burned as a crowd began to gather.
Time to go.
As fat as this one-eyed man was, there'd be no way he could run fast enough to stop Bors. He tensed, preparing to dart past the man, when he saw Garos on the ship, avoiding the fighting as he backed away, looking about himself in panic.
Damn it!
The young man dropped his club and bolted for the gangplank. The two men with the hack-swords blocked his path. Garos skidded to a halt but slipped on the wet plank and fell on his ass. One of the men stepped forward, lifting the huge axe-like cleaver above his head with both hands.
The Mask of Storms Page 2
