Authors: Flank Hawk
It was easy to tell when I’d left Blue District. Well maintained shops and apartments gave way to weathered shacks and awkward leaning two-story buildings. The dark open windows reminded me of wide-eyed old men taking in a ghastly vision. Those with closed shutters, a crone holding her eyes pinched tight in fear.
Very few men and even fewer women hurried down the winding, narrow street. When I came to the crumbled well house, I turned right. I knew concealed eyes from windows above or through the cracks of opened doors watched. Lamp posts were few, and most of those stood battered and broken beyond lighting.
I began to wonder, even if I made it to the Serpent, would I make it back to Uncle Orville’s? For a moment I regretted not bringing the Blood-Sword, until I recalled its cruel bid to possess me. Death, even a slow one, was preferable to domination by that sword.
I remained alert while counting the narrow cross streets after turning at the well house. I had trouble telling an alley from a street and ended up turning right down what I guessed to be the twelfth street.
When the sun began setting below the roofs of the buildings, things began to stir. Lights flickered in some windows. Ragged and shifty-eyed men emerged from doorways and alleys intent on some unknown business. It was like someone had kicked a roach-infested stump.
I spotted the line of building fronts charred by a recent fire. I was to turn left at the second street past this last landmark Moth had described.
Without word or immediate reason, those people venturing into the streets as night approached sank back into the shadows. Barked orders and a measured tread of disciplined soldiers from behind encouraged me to get off the street as well. I hurried into the mouth of a broad alley and leaned against a dry-rotted post supporting a boarded up shop.
Two dozen soldiers wearing brown and orange breastplates over hardened leather armor marched past, three abreast. Their grim faces showed they meant business, as did their armament of maces and spears. They marched past the burned out buildings and turned left at the second street. I followed at a safe distance, relieved they took no interest in me. A military patrol in the Brown District might keep crime down, but their methods were sure to be harsh. The people suffering in the wooden stocks on the road into Sint Malo and the well maintained gallows I saw in the Blue District told me so.
When I reached the cross street, the company had spread out, surrounding a three-story building. Led by their captain, six of the soldiers entered the structure through the front door. I spotted a large sign hanging from a pole above the door. A nearby flickering lamp added to the scant sunlight, revealing a picture on the sign—a coiled serpent resting on a pile of yellow eggs. My heart sank.
I wasn’t the only one watching the raid on the Fertile Serpent. From windows and doorways, people observed as customers exited through the tavern’s front doors. Some walked, most ran. A burly man landed on the street, apparently thrown out. He raised a fist, cursing until three of the soldiers surrounded and pummeled him to the ground with their boots and maces.
Ten minutes later three serving wenches and two men wearing soiled white aprons staggered out ahead of the captain who pulled out a scroll and tacked it up by the door. Two soldiers tore up planks from the porch and nailed the door shut.
The captain turned and announced in an authoritative voice, “This establishment is closed until such time as the owner, Maitar Amanni, answers to a court summons. Any citizen or visitor to the city aware of the whereabouts of the owner, is expected to notify authorities.” He scanned the windows up and down the street. Pointing to the notice he’d tacked up, he said, “A reward of twenty-five gold pieces for actionable information.” He then directed eight of the spear-armed soldiers to remain until relieved. They took up position on the porch while the rest of their company formed up and marched past me and back the way they came. When I looked back, the street in front of the Fertile Serpent was empty of citizens, including the beaten protester.
I leaned against the front of the abandoned shop as stars began to flicker in the darkening sky. A torch-bearing man lit the few working lamps with a long wick. Dim lights from within curtained and shuttered windows added form to the street, a scene which reminded me of a forgotten ravine open to the night sky.
I gripped the pommel of my sword and took several deep breaths. Frustration mixed with a sense of failure ran through me, but I let it go a little with each exhale. Prince Reveron pressed an impossible mission upon me. I knew it the moment he tasked me to carry the Blood-Sword across the Western Ocean and trade it to a greater elf for some power to overcome the Necromancer King.
I shook my head. Evading ogres and mudhounds with Lilly’s help, slaying them and the giant with Roos’ assistance, and finally reaching Sint Malo and finding my way to the Fertile Serpent, had given me hope. I wouldn’t quit. Each day the war continued, the Necromancer King would grow stronger. Knowing I’d have to take risks, one option came to mind. Go back to Uncle Orville’s and find out what Moth knew of Belinda the Cursed. And since Lilly and Roos expected tomorrow afternoon, I’d leave Sint Malo and return. It was better than either of them trying to enter the city to find me.
The streets were still deserted, although through the wall behind me came muffled cheers and curses. The sounds of gambling. With eyes and ears alert, I turned and walked past the burned out buildings, this time on my right.
Two streets later I heard a scuffle. It wasn’t any of my business. Still, something tugged at me to investigate so I drew my sword and turned down the dark street, making sure nobody was watching me.
A grunt, and thuds against armor came from between two tall buildings. I pressed my body against the wooden storefront and looked around the corner, down into the narrow alley. I saw mostly shadows and, less than twenty feet away, the silhouettes of three men. One was on the ground holding his stomach. One with a sword had his back to me, and the other held a mace. The two armed men hovered over the downed man. A lump closer to me lay off to the right. I guessed it to be a dead man as the faint glimmer of starlight reflected off a sword jutting from his chest.
“Time for you, Sun-Fox,” said the man with the sword, “and your brotherhood is over.” His voice was deep and menacing.
“Long-Tooth,” spat the man, a Sun-Fox, kneeling in front of him, “you’ll soon be like your friend there.” He nodded toward the dead lump. “If you’re lucky.”
I stepped back from the alley to avoid being seen. Sun-Fox was Road Toad’s brotherhood. He and Prince Reveron had the symbol tattooed on the palms of their right hand. And the Long-Tooth Tiger, I’d seen their emblem on the dormant zombies. Shaws said they were the Sun-Foxes’ ancient enemy.
All this ran through my head as the kneeling Sun-Fox continued speaking. “You and your allies.”
“I think not,” replied the sword-wielding Long-Tooth.
It wasn’t hard to figure what the Long-Tooth would do next. The man was a Sun-Fox, thus an ally of Prince Reveron; I had to act. Short Two Blade’s killing of Worm-Gut came to mind. He’d acted fast, violent, and without warning.
I stepped to the street, picked up a stone, tossed it just over the building, and waited a second before charging into the narrow alley. The stone-toss-distraction, while a common ruse, worked. The mace-wielding thug turned away from the alley entrance when the stone rattled off the wall. The Long-Tooth with his back to me spun at my approach, but not fast enough. I seized his sword arm at the wrist as he came around and drove my sword into his stomach just below his breastplate.
A wide-eyed look of surprise met my grim stare. It was a vision sure to haunt me, but survival came first. I butted my forehead into his nose and yanked my sword free.
Still alive, the Long-Tooth clamped his gauntleted left hand on my throat. Recalling Road Toad’s instruction, I stabbed my sword’s tip up and into his armpit where the armor was weak.
The Long-Tooth’s struggle to free his sword arm became frantic, his grip weakening as I twisted my sword. I was taking too long to kill him. Any second I expected a mace to crush my skull. “Should’ve brought my helmet,” I cursed, even then realizing it would’ve done little to save me from a hard-swung mace.
When I shoved the Long-Tooth away from me, he started to yell so I hacked deep into his neck just below the ear, dropping him. Beyond the fallen Long-Tooth, two men rolled on the ground, throwing fists and forearms. I couldn’t tell which was the Sun-Fox and which was the mace-wielding thug.
I glanced back at the dead man near the wall with the sword sticking out of him. The brawling men had resorted to choke holds. As they slowly rolled over, grunting and straining to strangle the life out of each other, I saw a scabbard strapped to the belt of one man. Seeing the other had none on his belt or across his shoulder, I stabbed him through his leather armor and deep into his back.
The Sun-Fox pushed the dead thug aside and got to his feet, rubbing his throat. “Thanks, friend.”
I slowed my breathing while wiping my sword on the thug’s pant leg. The Sun-Fox retrieved his sword and quickly patted down the fallen men for valuables.
The realization that I’d killed two men in cold blood hit me like a kick in the chest. It wasn’t like killing zombies or goblins, these were men like me.
“You okay?” he whispered, startling me.
“I’m okay,” I said flatly, still staring at the bodies.
He approached and warily placed a hand on my shoulder. “Sheathe your sword. Let’s go.”
I followed him down the street, through alleys and between buildings. All the while the Long-Tooth’s surprised face flashed in my mind. I tried to force it aside and pay attention to where the Sun-Fox led me. The vision was terrible as watching Guzzy hack down the animated corpse of our friend, Harvid.
“Wait,” I said, stopping between two buildings before vomiting up the half loaf of bread.
After I spit and wiped my lips with my sleeve, the Sun-Fox asked, “First kill?”
“No,” I said, regaining composure. “Where’re we going?”
“A friend’s place in Blue District.” He turned and signaled me to follow. “Let’s hope she’s not busy.”
While we slowed to a walk and kept to the main streets, I caught sight of the gallows. Torches illuminated four lonely bodies hanging lifeless.
“Fenwick,” came a sharp whisper from our right.
We stopped. The Sun-Fox tipped his head toward a door that swung open, indicating for me to follow him into the apartment.
A thin man in fancy clothes who reminded me of Lesser Enchanter Jonas right down to the rapier, ushered us inside. He checked up and down the street before closing the door and sliding a stout board into place, barring it. A wicked grin spread under his long, waxed mustache. “You heading for Marina’s?”
“I was,” said the Sun-Fox.
“Word on the street is Corradin’s unleashed the Long-Tooths.”
“Thanks for the tip, Marxel. Could’ve used it about twenty minutes ago. Mind if we sit down?”
“Be my guest,” said Marxel, gesturing wide with his right hand, displaying the contents of his small room. It consisted of a cot, a tattered padded chair, a chest with a lit oil lamp setting on top, and a small square table with three stools around it. In the center of the table sat a squat candle illuminating a plate of corn bread and a stick of sausage.
We each took a stool at the table. “Fenwick, you’re fortunate that I’d just let my cat out when you passed by,” said Marxel. “Who’s your friend?”
Fenwick shrugged. “Just met him. Mind if I have some cornbread?”
Marxel jumped to his feet, hand going for his rapier.
I was a split second behind him, but Fenwick stepped between us. “He killed two Long-Tooths that got the drop on me,” said Fenwick. “He’s okay.”
“I’m Flank Hawk,” I offered. “Formerly in the service of Lord Hingroar of the Doran Confederacy.”
Marxel eyed me with suspicion as I sat down. An awkward silence followed until Fenwick said with a smile, “I’m Fenwick, until this evening a freelance armed courier.” He gestured with his thumb. “And this is Marxel. He fancies himself a merchant. He’s really a harem master, among other things.”
Marxel cut a piece of cornbread and slapped it into Fenwick’s hand. Fenwick’s Sun-Fox tattoo showed when he took the bread. Marxel offered me a piece. I took it. He took a bite of sausage and spoke while chewing. “Like I said, it’s a good thing I caught you. They’re watching Marina’s place.”
Fenwick rubbed his chin. “Think they’ll do anything to her?” he asked with eyebrows raised.
“I doubt it. She don’t know much. Might slap her around until they discover the fact.” When Fenwick stood, Marxel raised his voice. “They won’t kill her. But they will if you go near her tonight.”
Fenwick sat back down, clearly agitated by the turn of events. “Flank Hawk, you say? Why’d you step in and help me?”
I decided to take a chance and swallowed hard before replying. “As I said, I was in the service of Lord Hingroar.” I looked at Fenwick’s right hand as I pulled out the arm band bearing the Kingdom of Keesee’s colors, purple and gold. “Now I serve Prince Reveron.”
The eyebrows of both men rose in interest. Fenwick asked, “But you’re not part of the brotherhood?”
I shook my head. “I learned about the Long-Tooths from an infiltration soldier. I overheard your situation and acted on Prince Reveron’s behalf.”