by Jon Monson
“Well, well, what do we have here?” the largest of the men said with a sneer. “Looks like somebody got lost.”
“I found him spying on you lot,” the man behind Barrick said. “He walked right past me, didn’t even know I was there.”
“What should we do with him?” one of the men asked.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” the largest man said. “Just slice his throat, for all I care. Just be quiet about it - I’ve got a headache that would bring down a bear.”
Barrick had taken the brief time during the thug’s discussion to study the room. It was lightly furnished, with the table and chairs dominating the room’s center while shelves and barrels likely filled with preserved food lined the walls. It was helpful to understand your surroundings when lurching.
As Barrick’s captor began to reach for his knife, Barrick disappeared, and reappeared in the blink of an eye behind the man. Before anyone could react, Barrick whipped out his baton from under his coat and sent it crashing into the back of his captor’s head. The man collapsed to the dirt floor like a sack of potatoes.
Barrick lurched forward toward the closest thug, who was cocking his behemoth of a gun. He reappeared with his elbow just a finger’s width from the man’s nose, and the two body parts collided. One of them produced a loud crack, and the thug doubled over with his hands over his face, blood gushing from between his fingers.
Lurching to his right, Barrick sent his foot crashing into the second man’s knee, causing it to bend unnaturally. As the man fell to the ground, his head received a stiff blow from Barrick’s baton.
The largest man – the one who had ordered Barrick’s death so casually - stared wide-eyed as he brought up his gun to fire at his attacker. Barrick lurched to his left, then to his right. Each time, the burly man became increasingly confused. Finally, Barrick lurched right behind the gunman. His baton caught the man on the side of his head in a spin move that would make him remember his previous headache fondly.
Barrick stopped for a moment to catch his breath and admire his handy-work. The entire fight had lasted no more than a few seconds - the thugs had barely enough time to react. He would have normally welcomed a longer fight that ended up with plenty of smoking gunpowder in the air, but he knew that these men were only pawns. Loud noises would alert the more valuable pieces who were surely upstairs.
Barrick quickly bound and gagged his would-be executioners. A small amount of pity crept into his chest at the thought of leaving them bound like this, but his sympathy did not outweigh his desire to avoid detection. Now wasn’t the time to grow soft.
After dragging them bound and gagged to the darkest corner of the room, he wiped his now filthy hands on the closest thing he could find to a clean rag. His eyes scanned the room, finding another set of stairs rising upwards. He had found the way into the main house.
The wood stairs protested under his weight as he climbed, but he wanted to avoid lurching if possible. At the top of the staircase, a simple door sat closed, seemingly waiting for his arrival. With a little effort, the door to the main house opened with a low groan.
Barrick winced at the noise and stopped to listen for footsteps. His heart pounded in his ears. After a moment, there was no sign that anyone was coming to investigate the commotion, and Barrick began to proceed cautiously into the room.
He poked his head out to see a quiet study. The room was as rich and lavish as the cellar was cramped and dirty. High ceilings graced by an intricate painting were supported by marble columns. Rich hardwood floors were accented by several dark wool rugs. To his right, a fire crackled in the fireplace, while another door - presumably to the rest of the house - was on his left.
Quietly, Barrick crept into the room. As he closed the cellar door, he realized that it blended in perfectly with the paneled wall. Whoever owned this home liked the ability to escape undetected.
He went straight ahead to a large desk with papers strewn across its top. Barrick began to carefully scan through the papers, careful not to touch anything. One letter, of which he could only read the bottom few lines, seemed to be written by a bored baroness discussing various pesky neighbors and social gossip. It could be code, or it could just be a bored Albonan pen-pal.
Barrick’s head shot up as footsteps sounded outside the door. His eyes began scanning the room for a hiding place, but the room offered few options. With the footsteps drawing closer, he settled on a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. He was barely able to close the door behind him before the study door opened, and the voices belonging to two men entered the room.
“That message needs to get there as quickly as possible,” a deep voice croaked. “Prepare the circle at once.”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” replied a much higher and more nervous voice. “I’m afraid our Shadow blade is currently out of the country – it will be some time before it returns.”
“You Genodrans are hopeless,” the deep voice sighed, the exasperation obvious. “Well, there’s a steamship in the harbor preparing to ship out. Get a messenger on board that before it leaves.”
“As you command, sir,” replied the second voice, the nervousness seeming to lessen slightly. “I will write the message myself. Before you even have time to take tea, the letter will be on its way to the Grand Marshall.”
“You have my thanks,” replied the first man. “Why does the Grandmaster insist on living in such a dreadful backwater?”
“I think it’s because of the –,“ the higher voice said, but was cut off by the deeper, booming voice.
“I know why,” he responded. “It wasn’t really a question. I’m merely frustrated with how long this message will take to reach the right ears.”
“My apologies, Master,” the second man said, as footsteps approached the desk that Barrick had been searching. “I’m writing the letter as we speak.”
“One more thing before I retire to my rooms,” the deep voice said. “Don’t entrust this to a simple messenger – you’ll need to take it yourself.”
“As you wish,” the man squeaked after a long pause. The anxiety and fear in those three words was palpable. Whatever news he needed to pass was obviously unpleasant, which was always dangerous for the messenger.
“Excellent. Now, I will take my tea in my quarters. Do not make me wait long.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. You will not be kept waiting.”
The sound of a pen scratching on paper sounded for another few seconds before footsteps were accompanied by the sound of a door closing. Barrick let go of his breath, and he realized he’d been holding it. Any noise at all while the two men had been in the study could have led to disaster.
There was a chance he could have escaped unnoticed by lurching, but that would have been risky. The alternative would have been much messier. Besides, he couldn’t afford to incapacitate them - after all, the sniveling man with the high voice was sending a message that would lead Barrick exactly where he wanted to go.
Chapter 17
Barrick sat atop a red-tile roof, scanning the crowd of laborers and travelers that thronged the docks around the harbor. Although exhausted, his mind and, more importantly, his eyes felt invigorated. It had been too long since he’d stalked such competent prey.
This was the third time he’d lost sight of the messenger since leaving the palatial district. The man, with his drab clothing and mousy brown hair, blended in easily into the smallest of crowds. Yet each time he’d disappeared, Barrick had been able to find him again.
The harbor was a veritable orchestra of sounds – the sounds of life. Foremen shouted commands as their crews emptied ships tied to the docks. Families greeted loved ones who were returning from overseas trips. An array of animals called out, ranging from goats to chickens.
More than a few minutes had passed since he’d seen the messenger, but Barrick felt confident he was in fact heading towards the large steamship whose smokestacks were already belching out a thick cloud of exhaust. It was never prudent to rely c
ompletely on information obtained while hiding in a stranger’s wardrobe. Smiling, Barrick readied himself to lurch back to the street.
The messenger burst out of the crowd, walking away from the docks. There was a smile on his face – a smile that said the man had pawned off a most unfortunate duty to some poor soul. Barrick frowned. Things may have just grown more complicated.
Well, now it's time to make a choice, old boy, Barrick thought. He could keep following the man in the event he was being duped, or he could trust his instincts and board the ship. Barrick chose the latter.
His feet hit the pavement of a small alleyway, and his stomach offered its usual protest. After a few flips, it settled back down. Wondering if other Lurchers experienced the same discomfort, Barrick strolled casually into the crowd of life.
It felt good be a part of the crowd for a moment. He breathed in the smell – it was far from pleasant, but it was bursting with life. These were real people, the kind that Aydiin always spoke about helping.
Barrick reminded himself that he was here for a purpose and he needed to avoid waxing philosophical. All that time with Aydiin had done strange things to his mind. Now wasn’t the time to grow sympathetic to the plight of the common man.
Muscling his way through the crowd, Barrick was sweating by the time he approached the ticket box - a wood stall with a glass window separating the clerks within from the unwashed masses. Barrick smiled at the young man inside.
“Say, my good man, when does the next ship leave?” Barrick asked in his best imitation of a Genodran merchant. He had spent enough time with them over the years in Maradon, so his best was fairly convincing.
“The next ship is the Maiden, an Albonan steamship leaving for Maradon in twenty minutes,” the young clerk said, with a raised eyebrow. Apparently, his Genodran merchant impersonation wasn’t as good as he had thought. Oh well, it was best not to change trains in the middle of the track.
“Ah, excellent,” Barrick said, trying to accentuate each syllable. “It just so happens that I must be in Salatia as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I just got orders from the dock master himself not five minutes ago - no more tickets are to be sold for the steam ship,” the clerk said before pulling out a schedule from a drawer. “Now, there's a fine Genodran cutter leaving tomorrow morning. I'd be happy to help you secure passage.”
“Yes, I see. However, you must understand that I’m in a terrible hurry, and I have already spoken with the dock master,” Barrick said, pulling a roll of bank notes from his pocket. “He gave me – er – special permission to board the Maiden.”
Barrick peeled off three notes worth twenty republics each and slipped them under the glass window. The clerk's eyes widened at the sight. The amount easily exceeded his annual salary.
“Oh, yes I see here the proper authorization. My most sincere apologies for delaying you. Here you go, sir,” the clerk slid a ticket under the glass with the practiced hand of a man who had handled such delicate transactions before. Barrick quickly stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket.
A wave of relief washed over Barrick as he walked away from the newly enriched clerk. Bribing a government official - even a minor functionary - was a serious offense in Genodra. A less greedy, or more idealistic, civil servant may have balked at taking a bribe and had him arrested. Barrick was confident in his ability to escape from even the most secure of prisons, but detainment at this time could seriously hinder his plans.
Feeling quite satisfied with himself, Barrick handed the ticket to the merchant guard watching over the passengers entering the ship and strolled up the gangplank. With a deep breath, he planted both feet firmly on the deck.
It was different boarding the ship the proper way. Last time he’d merely lurched below deck. He was fortunate that Aydiin had saved him – even his abilities may not have been enough to escape the murderous crew. He would need to play a few more hands of cards with that lot, losing just enough money to make them forget the entire episode.
Yet there were more important tasks at hand, and he knew there would be no nights spent in the warm embrace of an alcoholic slumber. He would need his wits about him. Already, a plan began to formulate in his mind to find the new messenger. Aydiin had really rubbed off on him after all.
◆◆◆
Aydiin held in a groan as he awoke in complete darkness. His back and legs were stiff, and he moved to stretch out only to find he was bound in some sort of box. The walls gave slightly, like a woven basket, but it held tight against his sore muscles.
He could feel the rough fibers of a burlap sack on his cheeks, and his wrists were beginning to chafe from the rope binding them together. As his senses began to sharpen, he could feel jostling and hear the rattling of a wagon going down a rough road. The dull roar of ocean waves crashing onto the nearby shore and the cries of gulls told him he couldn’t be too far from Palmas. Yet the stiffness in his joints suggested he’d been in this uncomfortable position for far too long.
Memories of the attack began to flood into his mind, and the reality of the situation hit him with the force of a freight train. Panic began to well up inside his chest, and Aydiin fought to control his emotions.
Maybe I can call out for help, he thought. But no, there was no sound of civilization. The only ones to hear the cries would be his captors, and he felt confident they would be less than willing to lend him aid.
He could hear birds singing among the rattle of the cart, and the heat coming in through the wicker told him the sun was already high in its path across the sky. Genodra’s coast was extensive, and he could in fact be far from Palmas. There was no way to know as long as he was inside this basket.
The cart jostled, and the rattle became distinctly different as his captors left the road and descended onto what seemed like a wooden pier. The cart stopped.
“Alright, boys,” a voice called out from atop the carriage. “Let’s get our cargo onto the boat. Be quick about it.”
“Sir, what if he’s awake?” A deeper voice responded, the words coming out slowly.
“That’s impossible,” the first voice replied. “We stuffed enough passionflower tea down his throat to make him sleep for a week. Still, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check on him.”
A smile spread across Aydiin’s lips. While passionflower tea wasn’t a Genodran favorite, he had been drinking it every night since he was a boy. What these thugs had assumed would be enough to keep him under was probably what he drank on a normal evening.
Aydiin felt a pair of hands grabbing his woven prison. The doubled over position his captors had put him in was uncomfortable, but it did give him the leverage he would need to jump out quickly. His wrists were tied, as were his feet. He felt extremely lucky that the ropes tying his hands and feet were not connected to each other.
Sunlight streamed into the basket as one of his captors pulled back the top, and Aydiin forced his legs to propel him skywards. The top of his head collided with a crack into the man’s face, and his captor fell back with a cry. Aydiin was sure he would feel the pain once the adrenaline wore off, but at this moment, he could barely feel a thing. The same could not be said of the man whose nose was likely broken.
He crouched again and jumped out of the basket, flipping upside down to ditch the burlap sack that had been placed over his head, before stumbling on the pier. The sudden light nearly blinded him, and he squinted to take stock of what he had gotten himself into.
In front of him, he saw a small yacht, just large enough to brave the open sea. Two other carts sat behind the one that had carried him, and the men on top of them were beginning to brandish knives and revolvers. The reality that he was still bound and unarmed set in as he counted half a dozen men.
He looked to the man whose face he had broken and saw that he had dropped his knife under the cart. Aydiin dove just as two men fired their revolvers. Splinters slammed into the back of his neck as the bullets ripped through the wood.
Grabbing the
knife, Aydiin quickly sawed through the rope around his ankles. The driver of his cart, who had now overcome the shock of Aydiin being awake and ready to fight, hopped down, revolver in hand. Aydiin popped up with the knife held in his bound hands and stabbed the driver before he could react. The man’s eyes went wide, and a gurgling sound emanated from this throat as Aydiin pushed him off the pier into the water below.
Footsteps sounded on the pier, and Aydiin whipped around just in time to see a wooden cudgel swinging at his face. With just enough time to raise his bound hands to protect his head, the cudgel smashed into him with all the force that the man wielding it could muster. Aydiin nearly flew, sprawling onto the wooden pier before skidding to a stop.
He scrambled to his feet, but the man kicked him hard in the ribs. Aydiin both felt and heard them crack, breaking in several places. Flipping onto his back, Aydiin scrambled away from his attacker.
Looking into the man’s eyes, he could see pure joy. It was the joy of a man who delighted in murder. He raised his cudgel high over his head to deliver a knockout blow.
A dull thud sounded, and the look of joy left the man’s face. Eyes bulging and countenance twisting in pain, his attacker collapsed to his knees, and then onto his stomach. The hilt of a knife was clearly visible in the man’s back, and his breathing quickly halted. Aydiin looked up to see a sweaty, out of breath old soldier beaming victoriously.
“Seb?” Aydiin gasped in pain.
He looked behind his savior, and could see the bodies of his other captors strewn around the pier. Each corpse was decorated with its own throwing knife, expertly placed for a quick kill. The old Margellan rushed over to the injured prince.
“You’re pretty resourceful for royalty,” Seb grunted, bending down to one knee to inspect Aydiin’s wounds. “I thought I would have to take care of the entire lot.”
Aydiin nearly screamed in pain as Seb’s fingers pressed on his shattered ribs. The old soldier scrunched his face and pursed his lips.
