He nodded towards Quarterstaff. “Perhaps we’ll catch a drink later, then.”
The other did not reply, his scowl the only answer he cared to give. Ian pushed his way through the trio of men to the double doors, and followed the one with the sword, a shorter fellow who had a slight limp in his left leg now that he paid enough attention to the man, curly blond locks framing youthful features that were nevertheless hard. Life on the streets was never easy, and one had to be tough if one were to survive in the gangs that ran the docks and lower quarters of Finglis Mirror.
It was not unlike many other warehouses he had visited over the years. Casks and barrels and crates and boxes stacked hither and yon, some covered in netting and canvas, others opened. There were ropes and pulleys to lift things to the second level, where he saw more of the same. The scent of brandy and tobacco were heavy on the air, along with the underlying stench of sweat and urine and lamp oil. There were at least two dozen men at work in the dim morning light, aided by smoking lanterns, loading and unloading the various crates, boxes, carts, and crates. Some of them watched him from the corners of their eyes as he walked behind Curly Hair, but most kept to their work. Fearful of the lash, then. He recognized those furtive glances.
They made their way to stairway on the back side of the warehouse, stone and bricks leading down at least a dozen steps under the building. Two lanterns hung on either side of the stairwell, illuminating a thick wooden door that was currently shut. Curly Hair knocked firmly on the door, and it opened before them.
The most successful in the underworld of smugglers and street gangs were often so because of their lack of opulence and adherence to a simple set of virtues that were no different than any other successful businessman: hard work and dedication. Albeit the more cutthroat variety where a little bloodletting and intimidation did most of the heavy lifting. And he had no doubt as he entered the room that the twin brothers casually seated at opposite ends of a sofa that stretched the length of a seating area in the middle of their lair were every bit as cutthroat as they came, wolves preying upon the sheep that roamed the streets above. Their dual smiles carried no warmth, and showed bright white teeth, perfect in form and spacing.
“An emissary from the Aden’than,” the closest of the pair remarked as Ian entered the room.
“And yet not an Adeni,” the other replied. The both motioned towards Curly Hair and the man bowed slightly, then left, closing the door behind him. Bright orbs lit the room around them, pulsing with an all-too-familiar energy. Only the most wealthy could afford mienatha, and that they boasted them so openly and for such a mundane task as lighting a room gave Ian pause. He would have to tread carefully here.
“A curiosity, then,” the first one spoke. He leaned forward slightly, motioning towards a matching sofa on the opposite side of the sitting area, a long wooden table in between. Ian bowed his head in thank and sat.
“What business brings you here, emissary?” the second twin asked. Ian noticed a small scar marrying the man’s right cheek, the only visible difference between the two. They appeared to be roughly the same age as himself, in their mid-forties, muscled and lithe, a result of the life they led. You did not make it to leader of a group of street thugs without taking care of oneself and keeping the rest of the pack at bay.
“The medallions.” He kept his reply short and simple. There was no reason to give more away than was necessary to these two.
A flicker from Scarface’s left eyebrow. The other twin merely shrugged. “We have many such items in our possession. You will need to be more specific.”
Ian sighed. Were they really going to make it difficult? “Considering you know who sent me, playing such games is really a waste of time for all of us.”
The twin without a scar eyed his brother, then turned his gaze back to Ian, steel and ice, blue as the sea. “A price is always paid when dealing with merchandise such as what you seek.”
“And it has already been paid by the one from whom you took the medallions.” He eased his position on the sofa across the table from the twins. To the untrained eye the pair might appear relaxed and complete at ease, but there was an undercurrent of something there, a cat with muscles tensed, ready to pounce if the moment called for it.
Scarface shrugged this time. “But not by you. Such items are priceless, as you well know.”
A lover he wishes to keep safe, no? Her voice drifted through his head. Thrice-cursed Adeni, putting him in this position. He grit his teeth as he struggled to maintain his calm. Recover the medallions, at any cost necessary. Those had been her words. His memories stirred, and the ripples of calm in the back of his mind formed waves that brought forth images unbidden, the scent of hot sand, hot blood, hot breath. His vision swayed for a moment, and he focused on the scar running across the man’s cheek. “It would be easier for all of us if you simply gave me what she seeks.”
Twin smiles, mirthless. “A negotiation, then.” Scarface spoke again; a statement, not a question.
“No.” Ian stood, the wooden table between them. “There will be no negotiation. The medallions are not yours to hold. You will hand them over, now.”
The smiles remained. “It thinks it has teeth,” the smooth-faced one said to his twin.
“But it lacks a bite,” Scarface replied.
It was the first time he had fully drawn the blade in the five years since he had returned from across the oceans, but the words that flared the black steel to life flowed from his lips as fluidly as they had all those years ago, and dark green flames wreathed around the metal, sprung forth from the runes carved into the steel. There was a momentary widening of the eyes from both the twins as they realized this was not a normal foe they faced, but they were not men of fear or those with little skill. They were hardened men who had faced hard times on the streets of Finglis Mirror and beyond, spilt the blood of young and old, innocent and not, to get where they were today, and they moved as one.
A flash of light from the smooth-faced one’s left hand as he brought something out of his pocket, and Ian felt a jolt that ran its way from the tip of his green-flamed blade down to his boots, and a piercing tone like a bell had just been struck rung out through the room. The twin staggered backwards as his blast of energy was repulsed by Ian’s blade, and Scarface lunged towards Ian, a smoking dagger that pulsed with a red light of its own stabbing towards his chest. He kicked the table towards the man and tumbled back to the sofa behind him, rolling from its padded surface to the floor as Scarface stumbled over the table. His shoulder stung from where it hit the floor, but he ignored it and pushed himself to his feet as Scarface landed on the couch, the fingers of the man’s free hand clawing for Ian’s right leg. Ian kicked, feeling a burning sensation where the man’s nails dug into his flesh through his pants, but he was focused on the other twin, who had now recovered from the recoil of whatever mianatha he had attempted to use moments before, and whose hand now hurled a knife towards Ian.
The clawing hand at his leg caused him to fall forward rather than roll as he wished, but the effect was the same; the knife flew past overhead and he swung as best he could at the smooth-faced twin, the flames of his sword singing the man’s coat as Smoothface ducked back just in time. Ian felt the hand at his leg release, and he pushed himself back to his feet as the man in front of him recovered. Smoothface was still smiling as he brought his shimmering mienatha to bear once more, his lips mouthing some phrase to trigger his device. Ian smiled back as the device failed to do anything, and he chuckled deeply as a look of horror and shock spread across the man’s face. “You have never faced a Jarkath,” he said softly as he moved forward, and then his blade was buried in the man’s chest, the flames sending the scent of charred flesh and smoke into the air around them.
He pulled his sword from the man’s chest and let him fall as he turned to Scarface, the twin’s lips curled into a snarl as he howled in rage at the sight of his brother’s body falling to the floor, and he lunged wildly at Ian with his smo
king dagger, red lines of energy pulsing out to meet the green of his own blade. He struck the dagger with his sword, and the smoking red lines snuffed out in an instant as the magic of the Jarkath steel countered the other, and he twisted out of the way as Scarface stumbled past, falling to the floor next to his brother’s corpse, a raging howl filling the room. Ian stood stoic in the center of it all, barely noticing as the door to the room opened and several of the men from the warehouse rushed through, finally having heard the ruckus. Murmuring and gasps went up at the sight of him, his smoldering blade, and one of their leaders dead, with the other on his knees in front of him.
“How do you find my bite now?” he asked calmly. His gaze took in the half dozen or so men who had entered the room, various weapons on display. He stepped closer to Scarface, his blade held low, and their advance stopped. The man on the ground before him snarled, but did not attack, merely cradled his brother’s body in his arms, his mienatha dagger forgotten on the floor beside him, its magic no longer active. Silence took the room as Ian’s glance moved between the brothers on the floor before him, and the armed men who had fanned out from the entrance but were holding their distance.
Heartbeats passed, and Scarface finally let his brother’s body lie upon the floor, standing up and moving across the room without a word, until he reached a bookshelf set on a back wall. He opened a small chest upon the shelf and rummaged through, finally pulling forth a small leather coin sack. He moved back towards the center of the room and threw it towards Ian; his hand stung with the force of the man’s throw. “Take them and leave,” the remaining twin said, his voice heavy with anger and loss.
Ian kept a wary eye on the men at the door, and carefully opened the sack to glance inside. Several faces carved in metal stared back up at him; the medallions that had been described to him. He secured the drawstrings and set them to his belt, then took a step back from the carnage before him, looking pointedly towards the door leading out and upwards. Scarface waved his hand and the men parted before him, though their weapons remained in tight-gripped fists. He kept his own blade drawn as he made his way towards the door, and only murmured the words to quiet the flames once he was safely to the stairs, and sheathed the black steel as he made his way to the main floor of the warehouse. Apart from the men who had rushed to the commotion below, nothing appeared to have changed from his arrival; there were still men moving to and fro within the warehouse, packing and unpacking goods.
He exited the building to sunrise in full glory, the eastern sky bright. He relished in the slight breeze that blew in from the harbor, and he nodded at Quarterstaff and the trio of men with him. “I think that drink you mentioned earlier sounds mighty fine about now.” He raised his finger to his forehead in farewell, and made his way across the street to the Whale’s Bounty.
*
His shoulder ached, and he struggled to keep the strain from his face as Pascal’s soft hands massaged the spreading bruise, his hands gentle but with constant pressure. The heavy scent of pine and natha oil rose into the air around them. “You must be more careful.” The Islander’s voice was as soft as his hands, paired with a worried undertone. Pascal had accepted Ian’s explanation of a mishandled wine cask from the cellar below, which caused another pain, this one more grave than the bruise on his shoulder. The lie hung heavy over his heart; he had thought the life of a Jarkath long behind him, his secrets safe and hidden. He grunted as Pascal’s fingers worked their magic, and he pictured the Adena’s face in his mind, an expression of shock looking back at him as he rammed his flaming sword into her gut. If only it were that simple.
He exhaled slowly as Pascal massaged his shoulders, wincing only slightly every time his hands moved over his bruise. Things would indeed be much simpler if he could rid himself of the Aden’than. It stung that all that he was, including his attunement to the Jarkath blade, was due to the Order. Without their magics, the sword would be nothing more than a hunk of metal in his hands, ordinary and lifeless. But he had paid his debt to them, in full and more, and they had no right to lay claim to his life beyond what had been left behind in the sands of Sunaria. No right! He grunted as Pascal’s hands dug into his tender flesh. “Relax, Ian. This will do you no good if you keep tensing up like that.”
He tried to push his distrust of the Aden’than into the recesses of his mind, deep under the surface where the rest of his memories lay, only teasing his consciousness with the occasional ripple. Until recently. Recently, things had been slipping upwards into his mind with far more frequency. It was all her fault. He forced himself to exhale again and pushed his mind elsewhere.
What were those medallions? They were some type of silvery metal that he had never seen before, and they were a set of four, all with different faces. One featured a beautiful woman smiling with promises that were better left to the dark of night, while on the opposite side was a deformed hag, her face curled with age and what appeared to be agony. Another showed a grinning youth, muscled and nude, while the back side of the medallion featured what appeared to be an excessively obese man set before a large feast. The third was a man sitting before a desk laden with coin and gems, while on the opposite side was a skeletal figure who looked near to starving. The fourth and final medallion showed the sun high in the sky, with the moon in opposition against a backdrop of stars.
He had turned them this way and that when he had arrived back at his quarters early in the morning, before Pascal had arrived. It was obvious that each showed a reverse image: a youth, young and healthy, against a man weighed down by obesity; a beautiful young woman against a hideous witch whose features had twisted with age and disease; a rich man and a poor man; the sun and the moon. But it was the fourth image that still puzzled him. The other three were easy to discern, but the last was obscure. He was no stranger to mienatha, and his attunment to the Jarkath blade allowed him to delve objects and detect their usage. They thrummed with energy when he touched them, but he had no idea how they were triggered, nor what their purpose was.
It brought him back around to the Adena. He grit his teeth and tried to avoid wincing or tensing while Pascal worked his magic. She would no doubt have spies set to watching his tavern, and would be around soon enough to see whether he had succeeded or not in retrieving the medallions. The sooner, the better. All he wanted was to be rid of her and back to his life. If that was even possible. But what if it weren’t? And what if that wasn’t the only possibility?
He rolled over suddenly, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder, and Pascal’s grunt of surprise as he almost tipped the Islander off the bed with his movement. “Would you go away with me?”
Pascal’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’m serious.” His voice was earnest and pitched low, his mind spinning. “I could sell the tavern, and we could start fresh somewhere new, somewhere where no one knows who we are. Where we can live together without all of this secrecy.”
The Islander laughed as he pushed himself into a more comfortable position straddling Ian. “And what’s so bad about where we are now?” he asked, his hands pressing into Ian’s chest as he balanced himself. “Hisbral treats me well enough, and I have more than enough free time to spend with you. What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“But don’t you want to be free?” He leaned forward, pushing himself up on his elbows, his eyes intent on Pascal’s. “Don’t you want to live a life of your own, out from underneath the thumb of Hisbral, or anyone else who would treat you as property?”
A cloud passed over Pascal’s face, and he sat back on the bed. “What’s gotten into you, my love?”
Ian pushed himself back against the headrest of his bed, his tender shoulder ignored for the moment. He couldn’t tell Pascal the truth. Not that his lover would believe any of it. He knew that Ian had been a soldier, had served time across the oceans on Sunarian soil. He knew the nightmares that sometimes woke him up in a cold sweat, shivering in the dark of night. He k
new, intimately, every scar that criss-crossed Ian’s flesh. But Pascal knew nothing of the things he had done across the sands, that flaming sword in his hands, a tool of flesh and magic mingled together, forged by the Aden’than with a dark purpose. There were things he had done that could not be forgiven, things that he would never reveal to another living soul, ever. Things that would crush Pascal’s innocence if he knew, and Ian would not let that happen, ever.
He rubbed a hand over his face, scratched at his beard. It was a stupid thought. There was no way to escape the Aden’than. They were everywhere, and they had magic. Even though the Jarkath blade could mask his presence, it would not be enough. Had already proven to be less than sufficient, with an Adena finally tracking him down after all the years he had managed to keep himself hidden within plain sight. “Forget about it,” he mumbled in return, and reached for a corked bottle of brandy that was on one of the tables by the bed. The liquid was fire and spice down his throat, and he suckled like a babe at his mother’s tit as he pushed thoughts of escape deep into the recesses of his mind. For now, it was enough to survive. He would find a way out the other side, for Pascal’s sake.
When he woke, it was to Pascal’s hands gently prodding him. He opened his eyes groggily, the effects of the brandy still muddling his movements somewhat. There was worry etched on his lover’s face, and his voice echoed the same. “There are Adeni here looking for you. I told them you were indispo—”
“You were successful, I take it?”
There was no mistaking that voice. Ian pushed the brandy haze to the back of his mind and sat up, his gaze taking in the Adena Freya, accompanied by two others, an Aden counterpart with Earth robes, and an Adena with the markings of blue Water on hers. As much as he had wanted to keep things from Pascal, it would be hard to explain this. Damn the woman!
Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales) Page 7
