Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (18 page)

Chrindak and his two mates stood ready, flexing and jeering at the others.  They were all three massive and muscled. Only Warton came close to them in size, but he was a bit softer in the middle. Jumper was a head and shoulders shorter, and a third of the smallest opponent’s weight. The smaller man jumped up and down on his toes, kicking over the head of his friends. Conald wasn’t much better off than Jumper when it came to size, but he didn’t show any fear thanks to the whiskey and being raised in the Talon Isles to the west. His people were known for drinking, their temper, and throwing five-meter long trees as a form of entertainment and sport. No one else stood in the circle with three men of the Dark Horizon, their crew being too busy placing bets to bother.

The crew of the Lady Luck retreated to the stands, leaving only Conald, Warton, and Jumper in the ring, as a fight mediator came into the arena. This was a shrewd old man who squinted at anyone who spoke, as if considering and weighing anything that was said. He raised his voice and shouted over the crowd, who quieted as he did, and announced the rules. The fight would last until a crew begged for quarter, or no man was left standing. No jewel smashing, no eyeball gouging, or killing was all he said. The bent man warned them to listen when he called halt or fight, because he would knife anyone who didn’t. With a cackle, the wiry man danced towards the stone dais where he would preside over the fight.

A man started beating a goatskin drum. It was a steady and deep beat on a loose and haired drumhead. The crowd started stomping and clapping to the rhythm. The mediator called out, “Fight!” and the crew of the Lady Luck crouched, ready for action, as the crew of Dark Horizons stood upright and held up their hands. Their shipmates in the crowd began tossing knives and clubs to their friends, who caught them deftly and turned towards Conald, Warton, and Jumper.

“Oh gods be damned,” muttered Bezel, and then the crowd went wild.

The lights flashed as the demon finished testing the magical barrier, as he always did. The obsidian glass, created by volcanic rock, which made the walls of the basement, glistened from the activity. Rogen waited, his face as placid as a mountain.

“I need to know about Kez’et-dual.”

“What do you want to know about the pathetic creature called Kez’et-dual?”

“What is he planning?” Rogen took a military stance, hands behind him, legs wide, and fingered the silver dagger behind his back. “You are bound by the covenant of the circle, and accepting my gifts to give me the truth and your knowledge.”

“I am bound,” the demon growled, ripping another kid in two with his vestigial hands. “The underling Kez’et-dual has not been here for nearly a century; how would I know of his plans?”

“By information from others, and your spies. Now tell me the information, before I invoke the intrusion clause of our contract, and you can leave this place forever and stay in your home dimension, and suffer pain for the next decade! No longer toy with me, no longer dodge the information, or I shall bring suffering to you every day for ten of my years!”

“Yes… Master. He is a renegade, who fouled up and was trapped on your plane of existence by his own stupidity.”

“You test my patience; I know all this. This is your last chance.”

“He pretends servitude to the Troöds, also not of your world. They want him to find a powerful portal that is stable. Once it is found, they will breed pathetic fae-kin with demons and create an army of soldiers that are magical in nature, but do not have to follow the rules of your world. Kez’et-dual will take control of this army, betraying his masters.”

“And he can do that, because they did not summon and bind him from another world. He was already within this one, and they do not realize that.”

“Yes,” Titusian muttered, as he chewed on the first two sacrifices. “You are very smart. No, I think you knew some of this. You toy with me now.”

“I can take care of him on our next stop.” Rogen said, staring at the entrapped demon. “I will contact you again.”

“The sacrifice will be greater for more information. The young mage you harbor, Cite, is a tasty treat. It wouldn’t be the first time you have given me something you value.”

Rogen invoked the expulsion chant, his face unreadable.

The men smiled as the crowd gathered close to the edge of the arena. Cries of foul play arose from around Kytson as he leaned over the stone parapet and yelled at the men from Dark Horizon.

“Ya stinkin’ bastards,” the fat man shouted, “yer too cowardly to face my boys as men, so you need yer sticks and pig stickers to hide behind. I wouldn’t have ever fucked yer mothers if I knew you’d turn out to be such yellow belly cravens!”

The six men in the stone ring closed on each other, Warton barreling straight towards the opponents, and wading through rivulet cutting the field in half. His massive arms swung in wide circles, clumsy but powerful, and connected with one of Chrindak’s cohorts. The man’s head snapped to the side as he fell to the ground and his knife flew from his hand.

Treat, Tart, and Puffer screamed from the stands, throwing small rocks into the fray. The crowd edged away from them, staring and muttering. Vonka smiled at the lads and slapped Tart playfully on the rump.

Conald followed Warton’s wake and leapt out from behind his large friend. A flurry of punches connected with Chrindak’s stomach and ribs. The sailor looked down at the smaller man, and reaching out with a massive hand, covered Conald’s entire face with it. Tossing the carpenter to the side, Chrindak headed for Warton.

Bezel leaned in and whispered to Cutter, pointing at a few men in the crowd. Cutter nodded and headed towards them as Bezel crossed his arms and in a loud voice said, “I think the boys of the Dark Horizon heard about Captain Redblood and the Lady Luck, and decided to try and turn the odds in their favor. You can’t bet against someone favored by Parsay and ever hope to win. But if you want to try, I can offer you ten to one odds.”

The wiry sail master of the Lady Luck faced the third crewmember, who wielded a club in one hand and a shucking knife in the other, dodging wild swings. Jumper turned and twisted, a dozen punches connecting with his foe, all the while keeping a smile on his face, and then dropped to the ground kicked the feet out from under the other man. Grabbing the knife, which the man that Warton had knocked unconscious dropped, from the sand, Jumper stabbed it into his opponent’s hand, pinning it to the arena floor.

“Two down, and one blowhard braggart to go,” Bezel laughed, the crowd looking at him as he did. He leaned back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his dark blue coat. “This wasn’t even a fair fight. Now, let’s see if the crew of Lady Luck follows Captain Redblood’s example and leaves no prisoners or witnesses.”

“Kill the cheese eating, back stabbing, lying rats!” Kytson added, spittle flying and his face purple with anger.

Chrindak looked around as Warton and Jumper came towards him, and Conald brushed himself off as he stood. With a growl, he took a wide legged stance and prepared to do as much damage as possible before going down.

The ten crew members laughed and clapped each other on the back as they counted their winnings and headed back to the Lady Luck. The sun was low in the sky and the Captain wouldn’t wait for them the way she waited for the tide, and they hurried the last couple of blocks to the waiting rowboat. They waved at Rogen, who was waiting with his arms crossed and a scowl when he saw their disheveled appearances. They didn’t pay it any mind; they had a good story to tell tonight.

Chapter 12: Wanton Destruction

“The spirit is the hardest thing to break, but it’s worth it.”

Duke Malvornick

5854 – Thon – Talsā – Ginof

Cyril woke in a cold sweat to someone pounding on the door. He sat up in bed, his nightshirt clinging to him, his breath quick. The pounding at the door stopped and a voice called his name from the other side. He stood up slowly and went to open it. Gruedo stood outside the door, leaning on the doorframe with her thumbs tucked into her belt. She grinned as Cyril opened the door and leaned to look around the priest so she could see the bed.

“I would never have guessed you for a screamer.” Gruedo teased. Cyril grunted and turned away from the door, leaving it open for Gruedo to follow him into the room. Gruedo waved the sleepy but curious people in the hall back into their rooms and shut the door as she came into the room. Cyril went to the armchair, sat down and stared at the glowing embers of the fire. Gruedo sat in one of the other chairs and propped her feet on the table. She folded her arms across her chest.

“So what was so important that you woke half the inn an hour before sunrise?” asked Gruedo.

Cyril stared at the floor, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, and then looked at Gruedo. “Evil,” was his simple reply.

“Bedbugs? Evil bedbugs? Oh wait, I know. You mean that spiced soup they forced upon everyone last night, the one you had three bowls of to help wash down your four glasses of spiced wine. Yes indeed, spices are the root of all evil.”

Cyril sighed.

“I had a nightmare. It was muddled and I don’t remember most of it. It could have been memories. It had bugs, the walking dead, and demons. There was more though. I have dreams like that often enough since…” Cyril hesitated, his eyes flicking to Gruedo’s face then dropped again. “There was more. Evil. Something has happened. My God has woken me. I leave today.” Cyril stood and went to his chest of drawers to begin packing his things.

“Leave for where?” Gruedo asked with an impish grin. “The heart of evil that lies in the breast of the forest to our west?”

“Yes, but not immediately. I will go to Red City first and see if I can find any more information before I do.”

“When do we leave?” Gruedo asked.

Cyril turned around and looked at the lass. Seeing the serious look on her face, Cyril was surprised that the street thief would go with him.

“You still think you would go with me?” Cyril asked. “You are from the streets. You are paid for the things you do. I am going into a place where there may not be any treasure or payment. The chances of death are better than the chances of finding some great trove of jewels and gems. There will be no glory. There will be no one to tell the tale except you or me, if we even return. Then who will believe what we say when there are no witnesses? Do you still want to go? You have been paid. You can go. I don’t feel you owe me anything more.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I figure I can at least take you to Red City. It’s more corrupt than this place. You’ll get your uptight, upright ass stabbed before you make it to an inn. From there, we will see. I am young and adventure appeals to me. Think about it this way; witnesses or not, if I come out of that forest with a good story, maybe something to back it up even if it just the tooth of some beast, let alone if your little castle gets opened, or Kala the Black is killed and men get to go back into the woods, I come out paid. People will tell the tale I tell. They will build on it and I will shape my reputation. Who wouldn’t want to hire me then?” Gruedo leaned back in the chair and put her hands behind her head.

Cyril stared at her, trying to read this uncommon rogue. “I don’t want to rely on someone who will go at the first sign of trouble. I would rather go alone than rely on someone who disappears when things get rough.”

“Hey, don’t worry about me. I know my way around dark places and how to deal with the filth in this world, and I keep my word.” Gruedo said in a level tone. “If you don’t want me, say so; but don’t sit there judging me when you don’t know me.”

The priest looked at the young woman. He recognized something in her spirit; the drive to do something greater, and to find purpose in life. With a quick prayer to Jonath for guidance, he nodded.

“Fine, this is what we’ll do.” Cyril crossed the room and began to stoke the fire as he detailed the plan that he hoped would begin to change the events of the world.

5854 –Thon – Talsā – Mīdā

The jousting knights clashed together on the tournament field and the crowd surged to its feet. The armored knight from the Duchy of General broke his lance on the shield of his opponent, which would bring points. The other had shattered his lance in the faceplate of the knight, which balanced the competition. Lord Jaeken watched with mild interest, thinking of how his son, Cyrus, used to love the sport. Cyril never saw the purpose in jousting. He never understood the honor and glory in winning a contest that, according to him, didn’t help win a war.

Lord Jaeken looked over at the covered seats where the nobility sat. The minor Barons and their entourages huddled together as they pointed at the knight who had been hit in the helm. He was now being taken from his horse by his squires and the field chirurgeon ran forward to check him. After a few tense moments, the medic waved for a stretcher and men carried the injured knight from the arena. Jaeken could hear the laughter from the Barons in the stands above him, and the not so subtle comments of ‘He won’t be troubling us anymore, teach him to put his nose into things that don’t concern him,’ drifted down to him.

That was the last match of the afternoon. There was a special event for the finale. The government had banned gladiator sports in Humbrey hundreds of years ago, but today was the exception. Pages ran onto the grounds and removed the posts and fences used in the civilized combat to clear the ground for a one-time event, the return of gladiators. Dancing girls, wearing much less than was appropriate, took to the field to entertain the crowd while the changeover was completed.

The attitude of the crowd changed as the lightly armored men took the field of combat. People put away their tobacco and pipes, and instead lit strange herbs. Humbrey had not allowed such things in its borders a few years ago, but times were changing. Jaeken asked questions and listened. He heard many times that day how the southern kingdoms – like Trysteria, where Malvor was located - were less traditional, more modern and advanced. The combats in Malvor were nothing like the ones here. They allowed bloodshed; it was a trial of skill, not honor. The best won and no rules applied. Taxes in Malvor were lower since the proceeds of the gladiatorial fights paid for government expenses, instead of taxing the people to death.

Jaeken left soon after the games began. He could not sit through the sight of grown men hurting each other in such a barbaric manner, and related to how Cyril had felt about tourneys. He wandered the streets, pulling his cloak close. He spent time in the pubs that evening. The talk was there also. Malvornick was beginning to sound like some sort of folk hero that arrived just in time to save people from the tyrant.

The city guard did not seem to care what went on right under their noses either. He watched a woman selling her services to men in the street, not in a private house as law required. When the Lord asked the watch about it, they shrugged and said that there was nothing wrong with a man enjoying the pleasure of a woman, and what a hard working citizen did with his money was not their business. The sentries mentioned the Kingdom of Trysteria again, and how rewards or women, or sometimes a house slave, were given as a reward for service in the guard.

All roads led back to Malvornick and his propaganda. Jaeken wondered how he could not have seen this before. Cyril had come to him, alluding to such problems. His son had left because he felt the church and the country were no longer protecting the people. He had pointed to what had happened to his twin brother as proof. Jaeken hoped it wasn’t too late to heed his son’s warning. He swore he would rid his country of this problem.

5854 – Thon – Talsā – Therin

As their journey came closer to Red City, they passed more and more people leaving that area. Most people wouldn’t speak to them, and some made a sign to ward off the evil eye or spit upon the ground when they mentioned they were going to Red City. The handful of people that would speak to them told of horrors in the night. Inns closing their doors before dark, folk placing wreaths of garlic on their doors, screams in the night, and claw marks on doors were just a few of the tales they heard in the brief conversations they had as the hurried people refused to stop and talk even for a few minutes.

Cyril and Gruedo arrived in Red City by midweek, three days after leaving Edgewater. It had been raining and cold for most of their ride and the steam of their horses’ breath led the way. It was just before noon but the sun had yet to appear through the thick cloud cover. The trip had been dismal and both had sunk into their own thoughts during the trip. They approached the city from the north; its silhouette grew larger in the gray mist of the rain. They hunched lower and pulled their hoods down to keep the chill weather out, rain had already collected in their boots, soaked their breeches and both had chaffed in unpleasant places. The flow of people had slowed as they came closer to the city. Cyril had guessed that most of the people who were going to leave, had already. The remaining ones would be the diehards that stayed on until the bitter end, the kind that would go down with the ship, refuse to leave the place they were born and raised, or were part of the reason the others were leaving.

The city gates were just an arch with a low stone wall that extended outward from it and into the distance, presumably circling the city. The mud and muck pulled at their horse’s hooves with a wet sucking sound as they passed the two guards on duty that stood in the archway, trying to stay dry and warm. They huddled over a metal brazier had a low fire burning. Cyril slowed his horse to speak to the guards, and Gruedo shook her head and tugged the priest’s sleeve, and indicted they should move on. Though the guards paid little mind to anyone else, they watched the two’s back as they disappeared into the city proper.

Gruedo took charge and led the way with confidence.

“I know just the place to get what we need,” Gruedo said as she steered her horse around a merchant whose wagon was stuck in a muddy rut.

“I only hope that you and I agree upon what exactly that is,” Cyril grumbled.

The streets were a muddy mess, but as they got past the outer city within a half hour, they came upon another wall and the streets beyond it were cobblestone for the most part.

“The city had grown and expanded and had built a second outer wall, and that was what we passed earlier,” Gruedo explained. She gave her companion a mischievous grin, “We’re headed for the merchant district, I know a tavern there that should suit me.”

The streets were in ill repair; the slippery cobblestones were loose and potholes common. Cyril wished for the sucking mud of the outer part of the city rather than risking his horse slipping and breaking a leg or worse, him taking a spill and breaking something.

They came to the place that Gruedo had been leading them. It was a rundown tavern called the Bloody Bitch. Cyril looked at the sign then at Gruedo.

“It’s in honor of the slain werewolves,” Gruedo explained. “The village of Aborgas was filthy with them and they attacked Red City. But some guy named Pirtaku killed them all. I’ll tell you more inside.”

They passed the reins of their horses to the shivering boy who waited under the shelter of the porch. They took their saddlebags and other gear into the tavern with them, as the boy lead the animals around back to the stables. They entered a smoke filled room, with a dozen men sat smoking pipes. Everyone stopped and stared at the two newcomers when they entered. Small booths lined the walls and tables sat scattered about the floor. A balcony went all the way around the edge of the room and more booths lined it.

An elderly bard in broad brimmed hat sat in the corner across from the bar on a small raised stage. He played a lute and hummed quietly. Gruedo led Cyril to a table beside the stage. After they sat and a haggard serving maid in a thread bare corset brought them a pitcher of something that Gruedo had asked for and two mostly clean mugs. Gruedo leaned over and dropped a few coins into the minstrel’s hat.

“Tell us what has happened here, friend,” Gruedo said.

The bard nodded at the sound of the coins but didn’t acknowledge the request otherwise. In a few minutes, he changed the tune to a popular but somber song, and began reciting the history of Red City quietly so only Cyril and Gruedo could hear.

“The city is called Red City due to its bloody history. According to history and legend, it had once been overrun by werewolves in the year 5700 on the Day of Phaz. It had been cleansed with the help of an Aeifain named Pirtaku who was dedicated to the Walking God. He brought together a group of heroes in the name of good and hope.”

“This was during another visit from the Talisman. The comet would visit the skies above the world every seventy-five years or so, but normally it would merely appear for a few days to a week and then go along its celestial path. People would blame anything that went wrong on it, as superstitious people do. If their dog died, if their spouse cheated, if the cow wouldn’t milk, and anything else that they wanted to blame on something they couldn’t control. Tales of two headed goats being born, babies stolen from their cribs, trees attacking lumber mills, and other outlandish tales also crop up whenever the Talisman appears.