Trading Knives: Prequel Short Story #1 to The Bow of Hart Saga

by P. H. Solomon

  The first ruffian squatted beside him. "You mother was a slut like all Rokan women!"

  That was what they called Lucinda in the street that night. The voice - he knew this man. One of Lucinda's murderers. Corgren tried to snap an insult but it escaped his lips as senseless garble.

  "You'll pay with all your winnings and triple from the next one, Rokan. Tell us where the money is!"

  Corgren stirred. His eyes blinked. No. He had to fight them. Do something to the rats! Spots floated in his vision, his limbs failed to respond to the urgency.

  A shout of words - in a foreign tongue - shattered the silence over the river.

  His attackers groaned, then screamed. "It burns! Help!" They tore at their clothes.

  Corgren blinked. There were no flames.

  All of the attackers leaped the rails. They floundered in the water and screamed louder. Someone else moved, cutting ropes between the boats. Paugren! At last! His brother tossed a lantern onto the other deck. He slashed them free of their mooring and poled them away from the bank so they caught the current. The other boat drifted in growing flames, the thug’s screams lost in the rising roar.

  Corgren attempted standing but slipped to the deck.

  Paugren's face hovered over him. "We're safe. Let me look at you." A lamp gleamed nearby them.

  Corgren winced at the brightness and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Those are bad cuts. Did you hit your head?"

  He shivered but nodded.

  Paugren drew the blanket over Corgren. "Just rest. I'll steer us down-river."

  4

  Afterward, Corgren wanted for coherence as darkness or light clouded his vision each time he opened his eyes. Sometimes Paugren's face, brow furrowed below his shock of dark hair, hovered over his waking confusion. Once he only recognized his brother from their familial hooked-nose.

  Twice, he heard conversation outside the boat cabin, but only once he understood a few words.

  Paugren's voice hissed, "He'll come around, I tell you. He'll take the marks."

  "He'd better after all I've done. He'll recover now. You should have called for me sooner." Boots clapped on the deck as the other left while he spoke.

  Corgren's consciousness slipped away. He grimaced. That voice sounded familiar. Whose was it? He relaxed, his breathing shallow. It was, it was - .

  He fell into tattered dreams of knives and cloaked figures. People laughed in a street. Lucinda screamed. Her faced danced to stillness, pale in shadow. So beautiful, her oval face with high cheeks, soft skin and - . Her supple lips didn't spread into her sunny smile. Her eyes, dark and lively, remained closed.

  Lucinda? Lucinda!

  Blood splashed her face. Her eyes snapped open. Her face contorted with the terror of death.

  Corgren sat up, gasping. Sweat covered his torso and he threw off his blanket. He rubbed his hand over his shaved pate. It was sweaty and there was stubble grown out. He winced at a painful knot on his scalp. "Paugren." His voiced croaked with thirst. He swung his feet off the bunk. "Paugren."

  Bare feet slapped on the deck and Paugren burst through the cabin door. "Hey, you're awake."

  "Water." He stood weak knees. "What happened?"

  Paugren steadied him. "The thieves in the night. You hit your head." Paugren guided him to a chair and set a cup of water on the table for him.

  "Yes." His head wobbled and he shot his brother a smile. "We sent them on their way."

  "Barely." Paugren's grin spread weakly.

  "How long have I been down?"

  "You've been in and out for a week. Been talking nonsense - and about her too - but you took a good turn yesterday."

  "Where are we?" It was dusk outside but was it night or dawn? "What's the time?" Corgren drank the entire cup and poured more.

  "It's near dawn. We're tied up well below Astor."

  He frowned. "So far? Why not at the wharf?"

  His brother started work on a meal. "With you hurt, I just kept us moving. I didn't want to lay-up at the wharf in case there might be trouble from that crowd."

  Corgren nodded. "Yes, they said their leader was looking to take a cut from ring-fighters."

  "Is that so?" Paugren paused over the porridge. "I wondered what they were after other than the money."

  Corgren clenched his fists and relaxed them. "We'll have to be more careful - or pay their tax." He reached for bowls and spoons from his chair.

  "We'll make plenty anyway. I've even delivered that last shipment so we're doing very well now." Paugren paused at his stirring and patted Corgren's shoulder. "We'll be fine."

  Corgren blinked and scowled. The edge of Paugren's dragon tattoo peaked from under his sleeve. He furrowed his brow. That voice. It had been the stranger that made the offer to him. There was more going on here than Paugren let on. He narrowed his eyes at his brother's back when Paugren turned back to the griddle. He cleared his throat. "Still, how long can our luck last. These Hartians always want money - at the wharves and now from winnings."

  Paugren spooned out their breakfast. "That's not just us, they have fees for all shipping."

  "But there's more to it than that." He blew on his porridge and his stomach rumbled. "They won't let us prosper long. How long can I remain lucky in the ring?" He was weak as a newborn now.

  "You'll be fine in a week or so." Paugren tasted his food, winced and cooled his burned tongue with a quick gulp of water.

  Corgren shook his head and sat back in his chair. "If I keep winning, they'll just demand I fight two, then three, then more. I'll need more than skill."

  "That won't happen. I won't set us up against such odds." Paugren grinned and looked Corgren in the eyes. "But were you thinking of something?"

  Corgren lifted his chin. "Where'd you get those tattoos."

  Paugren shifted his gaze to his bowl and tried the porridge again with greater care. "Somewhere upriver. Went drinking to setup a fight."

  Corgren tested his porridge and found it cooler. He ate his fill and pushed the empty bowl away as he sat back. "Those men that night on our boat, they jumped overboard like they were burning. Someone shouted strange words. Was that you?"

  His brother shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose I shouted to get them off you."

  "It was a foreign language and they went for the river fast, like something burned them."

  "I didn't hear anything like that. You hit your head." Paugren patted his head. "You were confused is all."

  "Yeah, I suppose. But who else did I hear on the boat once when I woke?"

  Paugren's eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. "Likely when I delivered those furs."

  "He was talking about me, not a shipment."

  "There was no one else aboard."

  "There was, who was it? You knew him."

  Paugren rose. "Look, I'll get the boat moving. You clear the table and rest today."

  Corgren clenched his fists and resisted pulling a knife. He couldn't - wouldn't - threaten his brother. "There was. I've talked to him before, after my last fight."

  Paugren paused in the doorway. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now let me get us going so we can arrange at least a shipment while you're recovering."

  Corgren relaxed in his bunk for a while after Paugren castoff from the riverbank and they drifted on the current. Thunder rolled across the river by mid-morning and Paugren returned for his rain slicker.

  "Paugren, thanks for everything you've done." Corgren leaned on one elbow. He wanted his brother to know they weren't enemies. They were all the two of them had.

  His brother answered Corgren's words with a short nod.

  "I'll put coffee on."

  Paugren nodded again and stepped toward the door. He sighed in the doorway and turned his head. "He can help us in ways we never imagined."

  Corgren sat on the side of the bunk. "How? What does he want?"

  "That's for him to tell."

  "Is he Hartian?"

  "No. But he wants to help us - help southern Rok wh
ere Hart is concerned."

  Corgren rubbed the stubble on his head, avoiding the tender knot. "Who is he? Is it that old dragon cult?"

  Paugren touched his right forearm. "His identity is for him to reveal. What he's up to is his own business. But he wants us to work with him."

  "He wants our service? Wouldn't that be as bad as serving Hartians?

  Paugren turned further, his eyes wide. "He's very powerful. Our service is small compared to what he can do."

  He crossed his arms. "And what happened the night we were attacked? Was that from him?"

  "He taught me that, the words of power."

  "Spells, you mean?"

  Paugren nodded. "You have a decision to make, brother. One that affects both of us - and, maybe, Rok." His brother left him with those words and tended the boat.

  Rain soon pattered on the deck. Corgren heated coffee and left it warm for his brother. If only he knew what to do. Paugren was more impetuous than he was. That stranger had given Paugren that spell. He’d also done something to heal Corgren's injuries - he was certain of that. What that man wanted and what he could do concerned Corgren though.

  5

  Within the week, he sparred with Paugren using wooden sticks. His weakness haunted him worse than dreams of Lucinda and he took many a bruise from the work. But over several weeks, he regained his fighting form and soon bested his brother with his usual ease. By that time they had traveled up-river with a small sail and poles and landed at Astor with a shipment of wool from Harport on the coast. Corgren paid the dock fee while Paugren left to arrange a bout in the ring.

  Paugren soon returned with a broad grin. He waved the agreement at his brother when he stepped off the gangplank. "It's the best pay yet!"

  "How much?" Corgren crossed his arms. Their best had been ten thousand Hartian credits, mostly in paper notes and those had been hard to trade for coin. He doubted his brother's claim.

  Paugren leaned close. "Twenty-five." His triumphant grin broadened more.

  "What? Who?" He snatched the agreement away. It must be someone good - very good - for that amount.

  "Mad Morcus!" Paugren looked around but there was no one close.

  Corgren suppressed a groan. He wasn't ready. He swallowed. "An equal my first time back?" Egual? Mad Morcus might be better. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

  Paugren slapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Besides, it was the only one they offered."

  Corgren paced away. There was nothing for it. They'd lose money - and standing - if he backed out. "When?"

  "Tomorrow night."

  "Then I better sharpen my knife."

  Paugren shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. "There's one more thing. That 'ring-master' has men in town. They'll try to force us to pay their fees."

  Corgren narrowed his eyes. "We'll see about that. Let's make sure the boat is ready just in case."

  They spend the rest of the afternoon planning their escape the following night. But Corgren suppressed his doubts. If only he could win. He knew Mad Morcus by reputation though. It was rumored the man was faster than thought and fought in a crazed style.

  After a restless night, Corgren rose early and began his fight-day activities, though he mainly rested. Once evening arrived, he and Paugren walked to the old warehouse which housed the fighting ring. He stripped to the waist and checked his knife.

  Paugren massaged Corgren's shoulders. "Remember, he may be quick and unorthodox in his style but he's got tells. Watch for them." Paugren finished the massage and patted his bare shoulders. "Good fighting, brother." They grasped hands and Paugren departed for the stands.

  Corgren stood alone for a few moments, thankful that they kept opponents apart so the fight stayed in the ring for the paying patrons. His stomach flopped. It wasn't unusual that he experienced nerves. But this was different. He now faced his injury as well as an equal fighter.

  "You shouldn't fight tonight, really, never like this."

  Corgren jumped and whirled. The old man in the hat stood by the door. "How'd you get in here?" He squinted. He never heard the door at all.

  The old man spread his arm, hands up. "I came in with you."

  He touched his knife. "You weren't with me."

  "Easy, I mean no harm. Just giving free warning. With your head you shouldn't fight. And, no matter what, don't say yes to the other one."

  "Who are you? How do you know so much?" He stepped around the table in the room.

  The old man never moved. "In some countries I'm called Eloch."

  Corgren laughed. "If you're that old wife's-tale of a god then I'm King of Hart." There hadn't been a king in Hart for centuries.

  Eloch, or whoever he was, smiled but said nothing.

  The crowd-noise rose beyond the ring-door. Corgren turned and put his hand on the door. "Even if I believed, I must fight or face near ruin." He turned back to an empty room. He laughed but his stomach flopped. Must be his nerves. Really. But he'd never seen visions of people before a fight. He held out his hands. They were steady.

  He sighed and turned to the door against which washed the muffled chatter of the crowd. He opened it and stepped onto the sawdust. An excited chatter rose with a few cheers or shouts of acknowledgment.

  Corgren took a deep breath and the familiar scent of pine sap from the sawdust chased the flutters from his stomach. He turned to the stands beyond the rough, wooden walls where torch and pipe smoke mingled in a haze. Men laid their bets, others pointed at him, their eyes often unfocused from hard drinking.

  Paugren stood near Corgren's door, grinning his excitement. He promised he'd remain sober in case they needed a quick escape.

  Behind Paugren loomed another person; the man who offered him power for his service. The stranger's lower face showed beneath his hood. He watched for Corgren's decision. The question hung between them. Corgren swung his arms to keep loose. Best let that offer lie rather than distract him.

  Cheers rose from the crowd. Corgren's opponent had entered. Paugren gaped and shifted his eyes between him and the man on the other side of the ring. Corgren faced his opponent, froze and gaped as well.

  It couldn't be! But it was. One of Lucinda's killers! If his stomach were a kettle it would have boiled. His eyes narrowed. Mad Morcus was Murderer Morcus. He was certain of the fact. The faces of those rats were etched in Corgren's memory. They had laughed as they rode away from Lucinda's blood-drenched body while he had held her.

  Someone spoke and Corgren returned to the moment. His chest heaved to the point that he groaned with each breath. He gritted his teeth as the announcer shouted their names to the gathered throng.

  The bell thundered in Corgren's ears. He rushed straight for Mad Morcus and slashed at his throat. For a moment, the murderer's narrow face hesitated before he twisted away.

  Morcus countered with slash and a whirling punch.

  The knife drew but a thin scratch yet the punch landed squarely in Corgren's kidney. His direct attack almost cost him but he scrambled away as Morcus re-gathered his wits from Corgren's sudden attack.

  Morcus rushed him and Corgren surged back, unwilling to defend. They twisted and avoided each other's blades and then grabbed wrists as they grappled.

  He stared into Morcus's eyes. His hatred burned as he forced the murderer back.

  But Mad Morcus pulled Corgren's knife past him and released his hold. The murderer slammed his fist into his head. Morcus wheeled away from Corgren's weak counter-cut.

  Corgren fell back, dazed. He blinked. Morcus knew of his injury. His hatred faded to uncertainty as spots flooded his vision.

  Mad Morcus feinted, testing Corgren. He shuffled his feet too slowly and his opponent dove past his defense.

  He backpedaled as Morcus pressed his advance, slashing at Corgren's arms as he came. The blade bit his forearm. He tried to side-step but Morcus lowered his shoulder and bore him into the wall. His head slammed the wood.

  His ears rang and he fell, pulling Morcus atop hi
m. Somehow, Corgren gripped Morcus's knife wrist. His hands shook, holding the blade from his chest.

  Morcus slapped his head once, twice, thrice.

  Corgren had been so foolhardy, fighting on his emotion, forgetting his tactics. His eyes rolled. The crowd shouted but he heard nothing of their noise.

  Morcus put his weight into his attack. Corgren's arms quivered. The knife descended slowly for his heart. He rolled his head and gritted his teeth. He blinked sawdust from his eyes and spots still swam there.

  Paugren leaned over the wall, his eyes wide.

  Morcus's knife sank lower.

  Behind his brother, the stranger motioned with his hands, a questioning gesture.

  The point hovered over his chest.

  Corgren had but one choice. He nodded, staring at the stranger who motioned again. His vision cleared and sound returned. He pushed against Morcus, forcing the away blade by a slim increment.

  Morcus re-doubled his effort, ignoring everything else, certain of victory.

  Swiftly, Corgren worked his feet between them and thrust at Morcus with his feet. The murderer flipped away and slammed into the wall.

  The crowd screamed as Corgren scrambled to his feet ahead of Morcus. They met again as before, now covered in sawdust. He grabbed Morcus's knife wrist. Morcus snatched at Corgren who twisted his arm away from the murderer's grasp.

  Surprise registered on Mad Morcus's face. Corgren's knife slammed into the murderer's neck below the ear.

  Blood spurted as Corgren yanked and cut an artery. Morcus stumbled back and Corgren released his grip. Lucinda's murderer tumbled on his back and flopped like a fish in a net, dropping his knife.

  Before the other man even stopped twitching, Corgren snatched up his knife and held it over his head with his own. The crowd roared. He spotted other faces in the crowd, faces red or jaws clenched. Time to leave.

  He backed toward his door with a glance to cheering Paugren who slipped away from the ring-wall. The stranger in the cloak no longer stood behind his brother. No matter, he'd gotten his victory. The stranger knew where to find him.

  Corgren feigned his exultation in the crowd's adulation. He waved once and slipped through the door. He shoved the knives inside his belt and retrieved his shirt and a dark cloak Paugren had left for him. Without pausing to wash, Corgren sauntered out of the building and into the night. Paugren better move quickly - but not so fast that he aroused suspicion. There was enough of that. And those other men were certain to be Morcus's friends, maybe even some of them were Lucinda's other Hartian murderers.