Part 1 - You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide

Thorn

The first time he woke everything was a blur of pain and sound and more pain. Every part of Betrim hurt except for the parts that were numb and that, he knew, was worse. Then there was the thumping. A constant and rhythmic thump thump thump that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It synchronised with the pounding in his head and became so loud he wanted to scream but the Black Thorn wasn’t the type of man for such vocal admittance of discomfort. Instead he chose the more manly option of passing out.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The second time he woke things were worse. His face felt raw and stiff. His chest felt tight and constrained. It hurt to breathe and he could only suck in short, gasping mouthfuls of air. The pounding was still there, still present, still everywhere and nowhere. Betrim thought he heard a voice, cold and methodical but he couldn’t seem to work up the effort to find it, instead he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The third time he woke something was different. Took him a moment to realise he could see again. Everything had been dark. The type of dark a man can’t see through. Darker than black. Now there was light coming from somewhere, not much, little more than a glow but he could see again non-the-less. Problem was there weren’t much worth seeing; just a bumpy stretch of rock that most likely passed for a ceiling… that and his nose; seemed a bloody big thing when he focused on it, rising up on the left side of his face like a giant, bent tower. Seemed odd that, but then he had to admit nothing about the situation seemed right.

The thump thump thump was still present but it no longer thump thump thumped in time to the pounding of his head. Betrim let out a weary groan and tried to sit up. Turns out he couldn’t move. He could feel his weakened muscles tense but they wouldn’t budge. He wriggled his fingers; all eight of them, the two missing on his left hand had long since stopped itching. Seemed he was lying on something hard and stone-like, rough to the touch and cold. He wriggled his toes; all nine of them, seemed he wasn’t wearing any boots. He tried to move his legs, nothing but resistance, something was holding him down.

Slowly Betrim tried to raise his head but that too seemed to be stuck. He could feel something pressing onto his forehead but the back of his head wasn’t on stone, it felt cushioned behind his skull.

“Hello,” Betrim tried to say but all that came out was a harsh, and painful, rasp that burned his throat and left him gasping for air. It didn’t take long for him to decide to drift back to oblivion.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim dreamed. He knew he was dreaming; the world had that strange, everything is alright feel to it despite the events taking place. He was fighting someone; an Arbiter. Seemed those damned witch hunters could even invade his dreams these days. Only he knew this Arbiter. A name manifested from somewhere. Kessick.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim watched from above as Arbiter Kessick punched the Black Thorn, broke his jaw by the looks of it. Then the witch hunter started speaking, problem was there was no noise. Betrim could see the man’s lips moving but nothing came out. Then the Black Thorn attacked, rushed the Arbiter. Betrim could see how useless it was. The Black Thorn was still half drunk and squinting from the pain in his head despite the darkness. His movements were slow, clumsy and over exaggerated. It was an easy thing for Kessick to take the dagger away, as easy as taking the shoes from a drunk.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick was speaking again, his thin lips flapping away in his handsome face. Betrim had never been one to comment on being pretty but this Arbiter was without a doubt. His jaw and chin were strong and clean shaven, his cheekbones were sharp and symmetrical. His eyes were two azure crystals, cold as ice and his hair was cropped short and smart and the colour of expensive oak.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim watched as Kessick stabbed the Black Thorn again and again and again. Seemed to Betrim it probably hurt. Certainly looked like the Black Thorn was in pain.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

When Kessick let go of the Black Thorn the sell-sword dropped and hit the floor heavy. Didn’t move, just stared up into the night sky and bled a lot, red so dark it almost looked black. Betrim watched on as the Black Thorn, one of the most famous and feared names in all the untamed wilds lay there dying on the streets of Sarth while a pretty Arbiter reached down and plucked out his eyeball.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim woke to a harsh screaming. Might have been his own and full of fear it sounded. The Black Thorn didn’t fear nothing though and Betrim wasn’t about to let on that was a lie. He calmed himself and looked around, at least as much as he could given his head was still strapped down tight.

Lots of black rock loomed above him. A ways off to his right, in the corner of his eyes, he could just about see a black wall with a single orange torch burning away. Hungry flames licked at the wall but found nothing to consume there. To his left all he could was his gigantic nose rising out of his face.

With a rising sense of something most men would name dread Betrim closed his left eye. No change. He opened it again and closed his right eye. The world went dark. He repeated the process once more to be certain then let out a long shuddering sigh. His left eye was gone. Arbiter Kessick had taken it, tore it from its socket and left Betrim half blind.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Seemed to Betrim all the bad things happened to his left side. Two fingers missing on his left hand. One big burn scar on the left side of his face, given to him by Arbiter number four. Now an empty eye socket to go with the burn. One thing Betrim Thorn could never claim to have been was pretty but now he reckoned he looked a right mess.

At least his jaw didn’t hurt so much. Seemed stiff and clicked a bit when he moved it but felt fixed for the most part. The question begged itself to be asked though. Who had fixed him up?

Betrim was no stranger to injuries, nor death, and he reckoned that four knife wounds to the chest ought to have resulted in his demise. He knew it had felt a lot like dying as he lay there bleeding on the streets of Sarth. But someone had taken him, kept him from fading off and patched him back up. Of course now they appeared to have him strapped to some slab of stone and had yet to give any sort of introduction.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Truth was Betrim had a sinking feeling he knew who had him tied up. He’d seen a man kept alive past when they should be dead before. Truth was Betrim was all but certain he was a prisoner of the Inquisition and that did not bode well for a man infamous for killing its Arbiters.

The thump thumping never stopped. It filled Betrim’s waking hours and even slipped inside his dreams. It provided a constant, beating pulse that drove his nightmares along at a steady pace, never stopping, never letting up until he awoke to find the same pulse driving his need to move, to get free.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Every time he woke he struggled, flexed every muscle, tensed against the bonds that held him down and tried to wriggle free. It never took long before he found himself tiring. Back in the old days, before Sarth, back in the wilds, Betrim would never have thought he could get so tired, so weary that he could no longer stay awake. Sleep rushed up to claim him no matter how hard he tried to fight but it never lasted long. Not with the dreams. Not with the constant thump thump thump.

He knew someone was looking after him while he slept. Truth was Betrim couldn’t tell how long he’d been here but he was still alive and pretty sure he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, at least not while conscious. Someone was cleaning him too; the lack of stink convinced him of that. Wasn’t the first time Betrim had been naked and unconscious in front of folk he didn’t know but it was the first time he’d been naked, unconscious and strapped to a stone block.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His world receded to the blurred and boring hours of being awake and the harrowing nightmares of Kessick stabbing him and tearing out his eye. Dreams of the Arbiter’s pretty face staring into his own.

Truth was Betrim wasn’t sure how long he had been wherever he was. Truth was Betrim was only sure of two things; he had to get free and he had to find and kill Kessick.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Suzku

“I’m here ta buy a contract,” said the man wishing to buy a contract.

“Of course. Would you like to select one yourself?” responded the elder.

“Jus’ gimme the best one ya got,” the man said grinning. He was not tall, nor short. He was handsome-looking in a way that Pern was sure the women liked. They had a name for them here in the wilds; blooded. The man looked to be blooded.

“The best we have is very expensive. We only sell contracts in multiples of ten,” the elder said. It was clear he did not much like the customer. The blooded were known to be rich, rich enough even to afford a contract, but the elder was questioning the customer’s resources.

The customer stared at the elder and grinned, a very nasty curling of the corner of his mouth, a predator’s grin. Pern was good, more than good, Pern was the best but something about the customer screamed danger. It was probably the swirling aura of orange that enveloped the man like a flame. Orange, Pern had long ago discovered, was the colour of violence.

“I got the money, ol’ man. Got ‘nuff ta buy every contract here if I wanted. Thing is I only want the one an’ I want it ta be the best ya got.”

The elder’s gaze flicked from the customer to the five guards standing behind him and then back to the customer. Then the elder turned to Pern and motioned him forward. Pern obeyed without question.

“This is Haarin Pern Suzku. He is the most accomplished Haarin not already out on contract. I…”

“You the best?” the customer asked Pern. Pern said nothing.

“He is,” the elder answered.

“Don’t reckon I asked you, ol’ man. So Haarin Pern Suzku, I wanna know from you. You the best?”

The customer shifted his footing. Pern had seen it before, despite the man’s fine clothing; his bright red silk shirt, the soft-soled brown shoes, the single wooden earing; he was a warrior.

It was all in the way people held themselves, Pern realised at an early age. The good folk had a resigned feel to them; they trudged along, sighed a lot, stood with their arms slack and hanging useless by their sides, their shoulders forward. Scholars and the learned folk such as the elders tended to have a gracious and peaceful air about them; they stood with their arms open and welcoming and were always willing to smile. The noble folk, the blooded, had a different quality to them altogether; they were careless with their movements, arrogant in the way they stood, overconfident in the way they spoke. Warriors held themselves apart from all the others; they had a readiness about them, as if they were always prepared to spring into action at a moment’s notice. They’re shoulders held back and their eyes were always searching for a target, just like a hunter. The customer was a warrior and a good one by the way he held himself.

“The Haarin are not contracted to have opinions,” the elder spoke again. “They are contracted to protect.”

“Aye,” said the customer, “an’ what if I order him ta have an opinion?”

“The Haarin are not slaves…”

“Near as no matter far as I see. Only difference is ya don’t give most slaves a sword.” The customer wasn’t even looking at the elder anymore; his eyes were fixed on Pern. “‘Sides, got enough o’ the unarmed kind. Need one that’ll watch my back, cut a man ta pieces if the need arises. You that man?”

The elder started to speak but Pern spoke over him. “I am the best that this clan has to offer at this time.”

The customer spat into the dusty earth. “Ya reckon ya can take me?”

The question made no sense to Pern but he kept his expression neutral. “If you purchase a contract with the clan the situation would never arise.”

The customer grinned and looked around at the other Haarin. Six others there were and all fully trained and contract free. There was Jade, fairer to the eyes and almost as skilful as Pern but not as strong. She might suit this customer better but no Haarin would ever sleep with a clan client and Pern guessed the customer knew that. Kole was bigger, stronger and near tireless but he had taken a knock on the head as a child and lacked intelligence though he was still a more than capable Haarin. Feyl would only suit a special type of client; she was strong and wiry but an uglier woman Pern had never seen. This customer would want any women in his service to be pretty, that much was obvious.

“Ten years, with option ta extend at the end of the contract,” the customer said with a grin.

“There is no such thing,” the elder replied his voice solemn. “You may purchase a ten year contract and at the end of the contract you may purchase a new contract.”

Pern stood, his back as straight as a spear, his brow wet with perspiration in the baking midday sun, and waited for the haggling over price to begin. New customers always tried to haggle over the price.

“So ten year contract with this one. How much?” the customer asked with a grin.

“Four hundred thousand gold bits in wilds currency,” the elder said with a cool gaze.

The customer grinned even wider. “Done.”

“Payment up front.”

“Aye. An’ what happens if he dies ‘fore the ten years is done?”

“Then the contract is complete.”

“An’ I gotta take out a new one…”

The elder nodded. “It is a steep price but it is the price we put on the life of a Haarin to protect the life of a client. What price would you put on your own life?”

“Aye. Watch my back, keep my secrets. Most expensive fuckin’ bodyguards in the game.” The customer’s grin disappeared for a moment. “You best be worth it, Haarin Pern Suzku.”

Pern did not reply. He did not need to reply. Anyone who could afford a Haarin knew the price was worth it. Rarely did a Haarin work for the blooded but then this customer boasted no affiliation with any of the nine houses. Besides that, if the clan elder agreed to the contract, it was not Pern’s place to argue or speculate. It was his place to serve the clan and that meant protecting the client no matter the cost.

With a wave from the customer one his guards walked away and returned a few minutes later with more men carrying four large iron-bound chests. Each of the chests weighed a lot judging from the expressions on the faces of the slaves who carried them. There was a loud, monetary jingle of metal coin on metal coin as each chest was set down.

“S’pose ya’ll be wantin’ ta count it?” the customer asked in his drawl.

The elder smiled. “We will do so later. If there is any discrepancy in payment you will be informed or refunded.”

The client turned to walk away then looked over his shoulder. He had a striking profile; sharp features with a permanently amused quality. “You must make a lot o’ bits,” he said. “I’d be interested ta know where ya kept so much money.”

The elder smiled in the same way he would at a foolish child. “The clan keeps its money in a safe place. There is no need to worry.”

“Aye? Funny thing. I never met a safe gold bit before,” the client laughed and started walking away. At a nod from the elder Pern shouldered his pack and followed his client for the next ten years.

Pern really didn’t own much. Such was the way of the Haarin. He had but one set of armour; boiled leather with a light chain-linked shirt over the top and a plain white tabard to keep the metal from becoming too hot in the sun, and a bronze half-helm wrapped in cloth. His sword, as with all Haarin, never strayed far from his side. His pack contained some small amount of food; salted beef for the most part, a large water skin, some medical supplies in case he was injured, and equipment to properly maintain his armour and weapon. A Haarin needed no personal effects and the client was required to provide anything else he may need.

One of the younglings, a boy by the name of Tek ran over and tried to match pace with Pern, his legs were not yet long enough but Pern did not slow.

“Are you going out on contract?” the boy demanded.

“Yes. I have been chosen to serve the clan,” Pern responded.

“You been chosen ta serve me more like,” the client said without turning.

“I serve the clan, the clan serves you, I protect you,” Pern corrected. The client snorted.

“I wish I could go,” Tek continued. “See the world outside the camp.”

“You are too young,” Pern said though the truth was much harsher. The child would never be chosen for a contract because he would never be Haarin. Tek was too scrawny and sickly to undergo the Haarin training; he would spend his life in service to the clan in other ways. There was no shortage of jobs for the weak and the infirm to carry out.

The client laughed. “World outside is a dangerous place. Hell of a lot o’ shit ta seduce a man.” He looked back to grin at Tek. “Or a boy. Bet ya never even heard of a pleasure house, eh? Much like a whore house but more expensive an’ they cater ta any an’ all tastes.”

The boy looked worried, he wasn’t sure if he should be talking to a client. Pern tapped him twice on the shoulder and nodded back towards the camp. “Go now, Tek. I will see you again in ten years.”

“Unless I’m on contract by then,” Tek said with a grin and ran off. Pern watched him go for a moment then turned back to the client. The man was no longer in front of him; he had dropped back silently and now walked besides Pern. The Haarin tried to hide his alarm that the man could move with so little noise.

“What ‘bout you, Haarin Pern Suzku? Not likely ta get seduced by the shiny sights an’ pretty ladies in my city?”

Pern kept his gaze level and face expressionless. “I am Haarin.”

Again the client laughed. “Aye. Well I seen loftier ‘an you fall. I been all over these wilds. I’ve killed blooded lords and bit-less thugs. I’ve robbed from the rich and poor alike. I fucked pirate queens an’ two-bit whores an’ even the most dangerous little bitch ya ever likely ta meet. I climbed ta the top of the Gods Eye an’ swam the length o’ the Jorl. Been everywhere an’ done it all, I have. Even spent some time crewing with the Black Thorn an’ let me tell you; a more murderous bastard ya never seen.”

Pern did not respond; he was not required to. His contract was to guard the client’s life; not to pamper his ego. Instead he looked around the camp for one last time. He looked upon the small wood and hide huts that had housed him, painted white against the heat of the wild, pitiless sun. He looked at the large cook fire in the centre of the camp where all his meals had been cooked; almost every meal he had ever eaten. He looked at the women returning from the nearby river carrying buckets of water to refill the camp’s stores. Pern had never known his mother, he had been chosen as Haarin from a very young age but it was possible she still lived here in the camp. He looked at the giant skeleton of a Carrock bird that hung outside the shaman’s tent, the shaman who had helped bring him into this world, the shaman who had named him and the shaman who had decided he would be Haarin. His life had not been long so far; as a trainee it had been hard but simple, as Haarin not under contract it had been tiresome. Pern found himself wondering what his life would be now he had a contract, now he had a client.

“Aye, ol’ Swift has done it all,” the client was still talking, more to himself than to Pern. “An now ol’ Swift has got more enemies than he cares ta count an’ every single one o’ the fuckers knows where ta find me. So you best be worth the fortune I jus’ fuckin’ spent on ya.”

Again Pern kept his gaze level and his face expressionless. “I am Haarin.”

Thorn

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He woke to a soft scuffing, or maybe a shuffling; it was hard to tell over the noise of the damned, ceaseless pounding. Thorn’s eye flicked open and scanned the right side of the room. An elderly man was standing over him and staring at Betrim’s chest while muttering to himself.

“Oh… you’re awake,” the old man sounded surprised. Betrim just stared at the man with his one eye. “Your stab wounds seem to be healing well. An impressive collection of scars, I must say. How many times have you been wounded?” He had a kind face and an even kinder voice.

Betrim felt a tugging in his head, a pressing need to answer the man’s question. “Too many,” he tried to say but all that came out was a scratchy growl.

“Ahh, sorry about that. Just one moment.” The old man disappeared from view and returned a short while later with a skin. He squirted some of the cold water into Betrim’s mouth. Thorn had never tasted anything so good. “A little bit at a time,” the old man said. “Otherwise you’ll choke. Have to get used to it.”

He wasn’t wrong. Betrim sucked down some more water and ended up coughing most of it up over his face. It felt like an age before he could speak again.

“Who… are you?” He growled at the old man. Problem was it was hard to sound menacing when you were strapped down, naked, on a table.

“My name is Oswell Fields.”

“Arbiter?”

The old man hesitated for a moment then nodded. “Yes. I am an Arbiter.”

“Let. Me. Go,” Betrim hissed.

Arbiter Oswell Fields sighed and shook his head. He was a short man, would have been dwarfed by Betrim had he been standing, with short silver hair and shining blue eyes. His face was long, with too much skin and all of it sagging like a thin man who was once fat. Small grey hairs seemed to sprout from everywhere on his face; his nose, his chin, his ears. Betrim noticed his teeth when he talked; two missing from the looks of it and mostly white with a touch of brown on some. Betrim had seen that kind of discolouring before; the old Arbiter smoked casher weed.

“I can’t let you go, I’m afraid. It’s just…”

“Why?” Betrim demanded, his one eye holding all the fury of a particularly angry thunderstorm.

“Because you’re the Black Thorn.” The old Arbiter sighed and sat down on something Betrim couldn’t see. He began to wring his hands together. “You’ve murdered… how many Arbiters?”

Again Betrim felt the tugging in his mind. “Six.”

The old Arbiter pulled a face, somewhere between a wince and having trapped wind, Betrim reckoned. “I don’t think there is another man alive who can claim that. You’re to be tried for heresy, I’m afraid to say. As soon as you’re well enough which, I think, will be very soon. I don’t mean to spoil the ending for you but I’m fairly certain you’ll be burned.”

Betrim felt the need to rub at the burn scar on his face. Problem was his hands were bound to the table. He tried to move all the same, his left hand shifted some, not by much, just a little.

“What ‘bout my pardon?” He asked the old Arbiter. “Thanquil promised me a pardon.”

“I’m not sure I know a Thanquil,” Arbiter Oswell Fields said looking confused.

“Uhh. Arbiter Thanquil Darkheart,” Betrim said. If he could get this man to find Thanquil he could get his friend to set him free. Assuming the Arbiter still counted Betrim as a friend. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms; the Black Thorn had left Thanquil bloody and spitting teeth.

“Oh… of course you wouldn’t know.” The old Arbiter took a pouch from around his neck and pulled from it a small ceramic pipe, he filled the bowl of the pipe with a dried brown weed from the same pouch and then stood to light the weed from the torch. “Arbiter Darkheart was tried for heresy and found guilty,” he said as he sat back down and puffed out a breath of smoke.

“What?” Betrim felt an impending need to hit something. Hard.

“For the attempted murder of an Inquisitor no less. Ambitious undertaking I’d say.”

“Attempted?”

“Yes,” the old Arbiter was nodding to his words. “He failed thanks to someone I believe you know. Arbiter Kessick, the man who brought you in, arrived just in time to save Inquisitor Heron. Captured both you and Arbiter Darkheart in one night. A hero really. Back in the wilds now, I believe, though I can’t be sure. These wandering Arbiters are so hard to keep track of.”

Now Betrim wanted to scream. It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so damned drunk, if he had been able to kill Kessick like they planned, Thanquil would have killed the traitorous Inquisitor and…

“Is he dead?” Betrim asked.

“Who?”

“Thanquil. Arbiter Darkheart.”

“Oh yes. Quite dead. Stripped of his title and burned at the stake for his crimes. An expected end for a Darkheart.”

“What about Jezzet?” Betrim asked, feeling a pressing need to know if any of his friends had survived.

“Uhhh…”

Of course this old Arbiter wouldn’t know who Jezzet was. Betrim tried to think of the Arbiter she had been sent to kill. “Kosh! What about Arbiter Kosh?”

The old man nodded, took another deep puff of smoke and blew it out in Betrim’s face. “Yes I do seem to remember Arbiter Kosh was attacked that same night. By a woman I believe. Caused quite a stir when he killed her on the streets. I’m told she was stark naked of all things.” The Arbiter barked out a chuckle and shook his head in wonder.

That was it then. They were gone. Betrim had lost two more friends and failed in their bargain. Truth was Betrim could now count the amount of friends he had left on one three-fingered hand and he was fairly certain he’d have fingers left to spare.

“Fuckin’ witch hunters,” Betrim spat with as much venom as he could muster.

The old man’s face went hard. “Yes, well I’m not sure that’s entirely fair. I’ll be recommending that you are ready to stand trial soon.”

Betrim tensed his left hand; there was some give in the bond, not much but it might be enough. “My eye…” he said before the old Arbiter could leave.

“Is gone,” the Arbiter replied in a terse tone, all friendliness gone. “Not that it will matter soon enough.”

“It itches.”

“Yes. It will do that,” the old Arbiter said with a sigh. “Missing bits of the body often do. I would have thought you, of all people, would know that.” Another sigh. “I’ll take a look.”

The old man emptied his pipe on the floor and placed it back in its pouch then stood and shuffled his way around the table to Betrim’s left side and bent himself over to peer into Betrim’s face. It was a disconcerting thing to have someone that close, staring at you that hard and only be able to see them out of the corner of your eye. Betrim tensed his left arm. He pulled, pushed, twisted, wriggled and struggled to get his hand free from its binding.

“There’s some inflammation around the socket. I could apply some ointment but… You’ll be dead in a few days. Can’t you put up with it until then?”

The old Arbiter seemed to notice Betrim’s arm moving for the first time and stepped away with alarm just as his hand scraped free from its bondage, leaving a fair portion of skin behind.

Betrim was slower than he’d have liked, slower than he remembered being. His hand caught hold of the Arbiter’s wrist just as the man tried to leap away. Betrim pulled and the Arbiter stumbled backwards and fell on top of his prisoner. With a furious growl the Black Thorn wrapped a once meaty arm around the Arbiter’s neck and tensed with all the strength he could muster though that unfortunately was not much.

Back before Kessick had stabbed him and ripped out his eye, before he had been strapped to a table for the Gods knew how long; Betrim had been strong, not as strong as some but strong enough all the same. Now he felt weak, his arms were tired and wasted, his bones felt as though they pushed against the skin and the old man he was trying to choke was putting up a fair sized fight.

The thing about Arbiters, Betrim knew, was that even if they weren’t the strongest or fastest or most skilful; they tended to cheat. The bastards had all sorts of magic. With their prayers to their God they could increase their strength and speed, they had all sorts of charms that could purge a hangover or stop a man from remembering his own name. They had runes that could set things on fire and others that could cause the world to grow cold and dark. Betrim had even seen an Arbiter make a wall of stone explode with little more than a word once. The trick to killing an Arbiter, if you couldn’t do it before they saw you coming, was to stop them from talking. With that thought in mind Betrim pressed down as hard as he could on the old man’s neck, crushing his throat and stopping him from praying.

By the time the Arbiter went limp Betrim was as tired as he’d ever been and covered in an uncomfortable, cold sweat that made him, for possibly the first time in his life, wish for a bath. He let the old man’s body slip to the floor with a crack as his skull hit the stone.

“Seven,” Betrim said with a grin and started fumbling with his three-fingered hand at the strap that held his five-fingered one. It seemed to take an age before the buckle was undone and his hand was free but he didn’t have time to stop and rest. Betrim undid the strap on his head and for the first time in he didn’t know how long, took a good long look at his own body.

He was wasted to be sure; all bones and skin and sagging bits of flesh where once there had been healthy and strong muscle. Four new scars stood out red and proud on his chest. Had Kessick really stabbed him so many times? Seemed some sort of miracle he had survived if that were the case. The Black Thorn was no stranger to a bit of stabbing, both giving and receiving. An old friend of his, Henry, had once stabbed him during sex just so she could watch him bleed. No one had ever stabbed him four times though. Seemed he had another reason to make Kessick pay.

With all the dexterity of a fish out of water Betrim worked at undoing the rest of the straps that held him down. Seemed to take a real long time before he was free. He swung his legs over the side of the stone slab and hopped down onto the floor where he collapsed in a heap next to the old Arbiter’s body. His legs took a good few minutes before they felt strong enough to try holding his weight again so Betrim pulled on the stone slab and pushed on the floor until he was standing then stretched. His bones clicked and his muscles ached and trembled but it felt good to be upright again. Seemed a man could never miss walking so much as when he can’t do it no more and Betrim was finding it felt more than a little good to pace a bit now.

The cell they had him kept in was little more than that. Maybe ten feet by another ten with two torches providing a soft orange glow, a stone slab of a table with a small wooden stool, another table with all manner of sharp blades and needles and a stone basin full of water. Betrim walked over to the basin, stuck his head into the cold liquid and drank deep, sucking down mouthful after mouthful until his stomach felt like it was bulging. Afterwards he found himself an unoccupied corner of the room and took a good, long piss. Stank the room up something fierce if truth be told but he felt all the better for letting it out.

He returned to the Arbiter and stripped the body. The clothes were too small but ill-fitting was better than naked, Betrim reckoned. There were spots of blood on the shirt. The Arbiter was bleeding from where his head had hit the stone floor.

“Fuckin’ witch hunters,” Betrim said and spat on the body. He might have given the corpse a good kicking but he was feeling far too weak for such an exertion.

He found the old man’s Arbiter coat hanging on a coat peg by the cell door and took it. Again the garment was too small but with Betrim’s wasted body it would serve for a while as long as no one looked too closely. He found a heavy set of dark-iron keys in one of the pockets and started trying them in the door. Didn’t take long for him to find the correct key and with a quick glance at the corridor outside Betrim slipped from the room and closed the door behind him.

The first thing he noticed was the thump thump thump’ing stopped. The moment the door to his cell was closed he could no longer hear the noise. It was as if the monotonous and repetitive noise had only existed inside his cell. It had been so long since Betrim had been without it he almost felt like he missed it; as if the noise had somehow become a reassuring constant in his life. That very thought made the Black Thorn as angry as he’d ever been and he turned, launched a thick glob of spittle at the door and stalked away down the corridor; not caring where it went or who he might run into.

Black stone walls lit by intermittent torches stretched out in front of Betrim about as far as he could see. Might be they ended in a set of stairs but he was finding it hard to tell from this distance. Having one less eye seemed to mean he couldn’t see so far, nor so good as he used to. Not to mention he had to fight the constant, overwhelming desire to poke at the now empty socket.

The walls were rough and sharp to the touch, Betrim liked himself a good lean but to do so here might well cause an injury. He limped along; heading to what he thought might be the stairs and scratched at an itch on his skull. That’s when he realised his hair was gone. The bastard Arbiters had shaved his head bald. Seemed a right insult to Betrim. Not only did they damned near kill him then fix him up only to keep him captive and strapped to a table until they could be arsed to burn him; they had to go and shave his head too. Now the Black Thorn had never been best pleased about having a head full of red hair, fact is that’s why he took to dying it black every few weeks, but he was far less pleased about having no hair.

It wasn’t that being bald was a bad thing for folk; truth was Betrim had known plenty of bald people and they seemed much the same as anyone else. Some were good people, some were right pricks but each were people all the same. Problem was Betrim quite liked having hair that could obscure his face some; came in useful when you were as ugly and scarred as him.

He reached the area that might have been stairs to find it was a door set back in a dark alcove. After a fair amount of fumbling with the keys the door swung open to reveal a winding stone stair case leading upwards. Up seemed as good a direction as any to Betrim, although he had no idea whether he was above or below ground.

By the time he reached the top of the stair case Betrim was panting from the exertion, leaning against the large, wooden door and wishing he had some hair to soak up the sweat that was running from his forehead like a river. Truth was Betrim would have paid good money for a bed and some time in it but truth was Betrim didn’t have a bit to his name and didn’t have the time to rest up. He had to get as far away from wherever he was before anyone came looking for him.

He tried eight different keys before he found the right one and pulled the door open to the brightest light he had ever seen. It was everywhere, so bright it blinded, so bright it hurt. The afternoon sun shone in through the doorway and directed its full wrath at Betrim’s one remaining eye. He found himself struggling to even squint, holding his hands over his eyes for shade. Then he remembered he only had the one eye these days and took his left hand away. No need to shade an eyeball that wasn’t there, that would only make him look a right fool.

The light began to dim to tolerable levels and Betrim peered out of the door like some sort of mouse peering out of its burrow; frightened of what it might find and what he found did indeed frighten him. In front of him was a courtyard, bright and dusty in the sun and populated by more buildings than Betrim could count; which put it somewhere above twenty. People walked to and fro; all of them looking busy and a good half of them wearing Arbiter coats.

“I fuckin’ knew it. They got me locked up right in the middle o’ the Inquisition,” The Black Thorn said to no one and expecting no answer.

He glanced to his right and saw the black tower of the Inquisition rising high into the sky as if it were trying to block out the sun. Jagged, black spikes jutted out from the tower at strange angles. It reminded him of the otherworldly shade he had seen in Hostown. That memory felt like a lifetime ago now. Thanquil had banished the demon with a single command but not before it had slaughtered an entire garrison of soldiers. Not before it had snacked on the Black Thorn’s old boss.

With some effort Betrim fixed the blank emotionless stare that he was known for onto his face and stepped out of his door into the dazzling sunlight.

The door was, in fact, little more than that. It looked as though someone had built an outhouse in the middle of the courtyard. Trying to look as official as possible Betrim turned, locked the door, deposited the keys in one pocket and pulled his stolen coat as tight as it would go. It would need to be a full hand length wider if it was going to fit him but he just had to hope it was enough to fool the rest of the folk in the courtyard long enough for him to make his escape.

Betrim turned left and walked as fast as his shaking legs would go. He could see the Imperial palace in the far distance rising even higher than the Inquisition tower. If he walked toward the palace he would come to the gate leading into the city soon enough. A more nerve-racking ordeal he had never experienced. It dawned on Betrim he was not wearing any shoes; the old Arbiter had tiny feet, far too small for the Black Thorn. While going barefoot would not have seemed the strangest sight in the untamed wilds, here in Sarth it would be a right oddity, more than enough to draw attention where attention was not needed.

He strode on past Arbiters in groups, buildings filled with Arbiters, and at one point a man who looked like he might have been an Inquisitor but Betrim just kept walking. If he’d believed in any of the Gods he might have started praying but the Black Thorn had long ago given up believing in anything but himself and money and he only believed in the latter because, with enough money, you could buy yourself out of any shady situation. Betrim looked around at all the righteous witch hunters that surrounded him and had to admit he doubted any sum of bits could buy his way out of this one.

As he approached the main gate of the Inquisition compound one of the guards in his immaculate white uniform nodded. “Arbiter.” the fat-lipped guard said with a slight lisp.

Betrim grunted in reply but refused to slow his pace. For a heart-stopping moment he thought the guard might block his exit but the man stepped aside and let him pass unmolested. Betrim found himself outside the Inquisition in the city of sun; Sarth.

He knew the street; he had been here before many times. To his left was the shop where he and Thanquil had argued about money; seemed a stupid thing to argue about now given how things turned out. To his right was the tavern where the Black Thorn had started a bar fight to stop them from being recognised. A little bit further down on the right was an alleyway that would lead to the street where Betrim had fought with Kessick. A strange, morbid thought occurred to him and Betrim wondered if he went back to that street whether he could find his eyeball; all dried up and shrivelled from the heat and the sun.

With a snort at his own stupidity Betrim spat into the street. A few folk turned to look at him with expressions of disgust then averted their gazes and hurried away. Took a moment for Betrim to realise it was because he was wearing an Arbiter’s coat. With a horrific grin Betrim sauntered off towards, well, truth was he had no idea where he was going just as far away from the Inquisition as possible.

A couple of hours later Betrim found himself well and truly lost and sitting on the edge of one of the hundreds of canals that ran throughout the city of Sarth. The sun bounced off of the clear water and sent shards of piercing translucent light shooting in all directions. Truth was it felt all sorts of good just to see sunlight again, even if it was only with the one eye.

Betrim dangled his bare feet in the water of the canal and wriggled all his nine toes. Tiny little fish came to investigate, darting forwards and nibbling then swimming away. Of course the Black Thorn knew all too well that water could hold more than just little fish. All sorts of dangers were known to hide beneath the surface and even here, where Betrim could see the bottom of the canal, you could never be too cautious. He was just about to pull his feet out of the water and move away so nothing could come up from the depths and eat him when he spotted a fair number of people watching him. The folk looked away whenever he met their gaze but they had been looking and no mistake. Chances were it was just they weren’t used to seeing an Arbiter with such an ugly face, or one dipping his feet in the blue waters of the canals. Either way it stopped Betrim from leaving, last thing the Black Thorn ever did was show fear to anyone.

There was a polite cough from behind and Betrim turned his head to see a tall, bookish man standing there, his gaze rooted on the stone floor in front of him. He looked to be middle-aged with hair that was both greying and thinning all at once. An unfortunate appearance if ever Betrim had seen one. “Are you in need of any assistance, Arbiter…”

Betrim narrowed his eye at the man. “Don’t reckon I know you.”

“I am clerk Golgen, Arbiter,” said the bookish-man with the thin hair. His teeth were crooked but he had a full set.

“Aye, an’ I look like I need help…”

“No… I… uh… I just mean…”

Betrim realised he was still speaking in his normal wilds’ drawl. Arbiters tended to speak all posh, just like Thanquil had.

“You jus…t mean it is a little strange ta… to see a Arbiter sat by a canal,” Betrim said, trying his best to mimic the Sarth accent and instead murdering it.

The clerk looked confused and a little worried. He glanced around, looking for support. Betrim felt it best to get rid of the man before he got suspicious.

“As it happens I do seem… appear ta… to be a little lost. Don’t tend ta come back here much. I’m a… wandering Arbiter.” Betrim remembered that was what Thanquil had called himself. “Do you know where…” He paused, realising if he asked the clerk a question it would give him away. “I’m lookin’ fer… for the docks.”

The clerk was now staring at Betrim with his mouth open. Betrim got to his feet and stepped close to the man. Despite his wasted muscles and the shakes he could feel starting in his legs, the Black Thorn towered over the clerk and he had no doubt his face made for a real imposing sight. After a couple of moments the clerk lowered his gaze and pointed along the canal.

“If you follow this canal it will lead you to the docks, Arbiter… Would you… um… like me to show…”

“That’ll be all, clerk… uh…”

“Golgen.”

“Clerk Golden. You can go now, eh.”

The clerk nodded once and then span, almost tripping over his feet as he scrambled to get away from Thorn. Betrim shook his head and decided he needed to ditch the Arbiter coat at the first opportunity. He also needed some new clothing, and some food, and way out of Sarth but more importantly than all of those the Black Thorn needed an axe.

The docks of Sarth were much the way Thorn remembered them when he had arrived; busy. More ships than he could count and for each ship there were more people than he could count. The noise was choking, the smell was debilitating and the sight was deafening but Betrim found he had one advantage amidst the chaos of the docks. He still hadn’t gotten rid of the coat. The crowd parted as folk looked his way then flowed around him, desperate not to come to the attention of an Arbiter. Betrim might have enjoyed it but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was about to stab him in the back with something long and pointy. Of course he knew full well the only reason he had that feeling was because that was how he had once killed an Arbiter; the fifth one.

He could feel his legs shaking, straining to hold up his weight, despite the loss, due to being locked up in a cell for… Weeks? Months? Betrim still had no idea how long they’d held him there but right now he knew he needed to sit down somewhere, or at least lean against something for a while. A nice long lean would do him the world of good, he reckoned.

Finding a good-looking spot, a small wooden shack where the dock masters could retreat to after inspecting incoming ships and taxing those who couldn’t afford to pay it, Betrim relaxed against the outside wall facing the water and settled in with a comfortable sigh. One of the dock masters, a small man with beady little eyes set in a piggy face stared at the Black Thorn for a moment with something that looked to be one part curiosity to three parts terror, before scampering away. Betrim paid him little mind, paid all of them little mind if truth be told, he was far more interested in leaning and scanning the ships arrayed at the docks.

Problem was, he reckoned, was that he was flat broke and ships rarely took on passengers that couldn’t pay their way. Problem was also that he wasn’t able to work his way across the ocean and back to the wilds as the Black Thorn had a long-term relationship with seasickness, they were in fact very well acquainted. As far as Betrim could see it that left him with two choices; he could either stowaway or try to exploit the Arbiter coat to its fullest.

Stowaways, Betrim was well aware, had a habit of being thrown overboard when discovered and the Black Thorn was known for a great many things but swimming was not one of them. Continuing his show at posing as an Arbiter seemed less likely to end in his death but, if the captain of the ship decided to check with the Inquisition, it could end up with his re-capture and Betrim was fairly sure he’d rather learn to swim.

There was, of course, a third option, something the Black Thorn was very well known for; crime. He could stay in Sarth a while, rob folk, cheat folk, kill folk if need be. There must be some people in Sarth who deserved a good stabbing and, more importantly, those that would pay to have others receive good stabbing. It was all a matter of finding a fixer, someone who knew about the jobs and would match them with someone like Betrim for a small price.

He was just thinking of leaving the docks when Betrim spotted something, a name he knew well; the Bloody Bride. Truth was the Black Thorn was one of only a few people left who knew why the ship was named such. Truth was if the captain of the Bloody Bride was still Arip Winters, then Betrim might just have found his way back to the wilds.

Jacob Lee

There was no music but Jacob hummed anyway. He hated silence; couldn’t abide it. When the world went silent how could you know if it still existed or not? If all noise stopped, for all Jacob knew, the world could have ended and only he and his cell would be left. A daunting and terrifying prospect.

The world wasn’t silent today though. Apart from his humming he could hear the people outside. There was only a small window, at the top of his cell and barred, but it opened out just a small way from the courtyard. Most people would be able to hear at least a dim buzz that was many voices talking from a distance but Jacob could hear almost every word.

It’s reassuring, he thought and his mind decided to agree. The world hasn’t ended. It’s not just me sat here, alone in my cell, for all time. They haven’t forgotten about me. Not yet.

Jacob looked at the door to his cell just as he heard a soft sigh and a knock. He continued humming for a few seconds; letting the man outside reach a level of frustration that made him knock again, more forcefully this time.

“Can I help you, Arbiter Fields?” Jacob asked in a pleasant tone. His voice had always been described as having a musical quality to it. Sarah had once pointed out it was the prettiest thing about him. In every other way he was just normal but his voice was pleasant.

“I… uh… you were humming, Jacob,” the muffled voice said from behind the heavy iron door.

“There’s no music, Arbiter. I just felt like humming,” Jacob replied.

“Right. I’m opening the door then.” There was a pause, Jacob didn’t say a word. “Is that OK?”

Jacob sat up on the stone bench he called a bed and stretched. “I can’t stop you.”

“I… hmm.” A few moments later Jacob heard a key turning in the first lock on his cell door, then the second lock, then the heavy metal bolt being pulled aside. Arbiter Fields waited, coughed and then pushed the door open.

Jacob sat on the bed and watched the small Arbiter step into the cell. His face was wrinkled and wore a cautious expression. He was wringing his hands together around the key to Jacob’s cell. There was some bruising around the Arbiter’s neck, faint but starting to discolour. Whatever had happened to him had happened recently. Jacob could just about make out finger marks in the bruising.

“Arbiter…” Jacob said after the old man had been standing in the doorway for a while.

“No music? You’re certain?” Arbiter Fields asked.

Jacob almost smiled but stopped himself; he’d never smile at Arbiter Fields. “No music.”

“It has been a long time, Jacob.”

Ten years since you put me in this cage and left me to rot. It if wasn’t for some of the others letting me out from time to time I might have gone crazy. Jacob laughed inside his head but his face remained as passive as the stone bench he sat on.

“You look well,” Arbiter Fields said. Despite the old man’s nervousness he kept eye contact with Jacob the entire time. Jacob decided to sway a little from side to side and he saw the Arbiter take a hesitant step backwards.

“What is it you want, Arbiter?” Jacob asked. “Not often that people come to visit me, least of all the one that put me in here, and when they do there is always a reason.”

Arbiter Fields coughed again, rubbed at his neck and winced at the pain. “Well… Inquisitor…”

“One of them escaped didn’t they?” Jacob knew he was right as soon as he asked. “One of your experiments. Your neck…” Jacob pointed at the bruising around Arbiter Fields neck and the old man stepped backwards again.

“How much do you know about recent events?” the Arbiter asked him. Jacob could hear the old man’s heart pounding in his chest.

“This and that.” Jacob stood on his bed and pushed onto his toes. From here he could just about see out of his window into the Inquisition courtyard. “I know Arbiter Karkland failed his three year report. Did they burn him for heresy or did they give him to you? That I haven’t heard. Clerk Veril is in love with clerk Yurn but the coward is too frightened to tell her. Probably a good thing; clerk Yurn is sleeping with an initiate. I haven’t managed to catch the name yet.

“Arbiter Vance is set to be promoted to Inquisitor very soon. That could just be a rumour but it seems a lot of people aren’t pleased about it. He is very young after all and only graduated a few years ago. It wouldn’t surprise me though, him being the son of the Grand Inquisitor and…”

“You know that Inquisitor Heron was killed then?”

“Of course,” Jacob said, still staring out of the window. “It was all anybody talked about for a long time. She was a heretic, or so I hear. Arbiter Darkheart tried her for heresy himself, without the approval of the Inquisitors. I heard they let him go. Is that true?” He turned to Arbiter Fields to find the man squinting at him.

“You heard all of that from here?” the Arbiter asked. Jacob didn’t answer; he didn’t feel the need to. “Hmm. What you may not know is that we recently captured the man known as the Black Thorn.”

“The thorn in the Inquisition’s side. What were you doing to him?”

“I was treating him, his injuries. He was to stand trial for the murder of six Arbiters. Only he escaped earlier today.” The Arbiter lied, Jacob knew that he lied but he wasn’t sure how much of it was a lie.

“Which one of them sent you to me?” Jacob asked.

“What?”

“You know what I mean, Arbiter. I’m only allowed out of my cage under the direct orders of an Inquisitor. So which one was it?”

Arbiter Fields grumbled a curse under his breath. Jacob pretended not to hear. “Inquisitor Jeyne.”

“Ahh. Yes. Inquisitor Jeyne always did have a soft spot for me. I believe he appreciated my directness. You’re aware, of course, I don’t bring them back alive, Arbiter Fields?”

“That’s why Jeyne ordered me to send you, Jacob. He wants the Black Thorn dead.”

“And what do you want?”

“I want you to not make me look bad while you’re outside. The Black Thorn escaped only a few hours ago. He is most likely still in the city. We believe he will try to secure passage back to the untamed wilds as a priority. That means the docks are your best chance of catching him.”

“Thank you, Arbiter. I am well aware of how to hunt.”

“You’re to come straight back here once you are done so…” Arbiter Fields started.

“So you can lock me back up again.”

Arbiter Fields swallowed down a reply. Jacob could hear the man’s heart beating rapidly, could see the perspiration leaking from his old skin, could smell the fear rising from him. “You’re the one that requested the locks on the door, Jacob.”

Locks on the inside to keep things out. Locks on the outside to keep things in.

Jacob heard a single note from somewhere. The start of an epic ballad or maybe just a tawdry little ditty. He rarely knew the song, never knew the words, but he had to dance all the same.

He looked from the Arbiter to the cell door to the small hook that held his Arbiter coat dyed black where most Arbiters’ coats were brown. Jacob hopped down from his bed, crossed to the hook that held his coat and reached towards it. His hand stopped just inches from the coat as another note drifted by.

“This job may have to wait until tomorrow, Arbiter,” Jacob said to the old man, his hand still hovering close to his coat.

“I don’t think it can, Jacob. Every moment is another the Black Thorn could…”

Jacob turned to look at Arbiter Fields and the old man went pale. A moment later and he was scrabbling out the door to the cell and fumbling to put the key in the locks.

Jacob took his black Arbiter coat and slipped his arms through the sleeves. The band was just starting to play now. Sounded like a lute and maybe some pipes as well. It was a sad song, full of regret and loss and sadness. It reminded him of Sarah. Jacob started to dance.

Thorn

“I need ta speak ta ya cap’n,” Betrim said in his harshest rasp.

“Yeah well I don’t reck…” the sailor stopped mid-sentence and froze. “Shit.”

“Any time, eh.”

“Right. Yes’sir.” The sailor left the crate he was attending to and ran up the gangplank. A moment later another man’s face poked over the railing of the ship, glanced once at Betrim and then disappeared. The Black Thorn waited, smiling to himself.

The Bloody Bride looked much the same as she always had. A big ship, three masts and plenty of white sail. Good strong planks of wood all kept clean with daily scrubbing. The figure head was a woman, dressed in her finest and bleeding from her eyes. She was the spitting image of the ship’s namesake. Sent a shiver through Betrim when he looked at it, always had.

The captain descended the plank holding the bridge of his nose between his right thumb and forefinger and muttering to himself. He shook his head once, spat into the water and stepped up in front of Betrim, pulling his collar straight.

“What is it I can do fer ya, Arbiter… Fuck me! Thorn, is that you?”

Betrim was well known for his flat, expressionless features but even he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face at Arip Winter’s surprise. For his part the old pirate recovered quickly and grinned right back. It was damn good to see Arip again, even if he was looking a little grey these days.

“Damn it, Thorn. I heard you was dead,” Arip grabbed Thorn in a meaty hug and slapped him three times on the back. Betrim was a little shocked he didn’t snap in two from the assault.

“Do I look dead?”

Arip winced. “A little bit, truth be told.”

Betrim couldn’t say he’d looked in a mirror recently. Truth was he’d always tended to avoid them whenever possible given that, even before the burn and the scars, he’d never been described as anything but ugly but it was more than possible that right now he looked much like a walking corpse.

“What happened ta ya eye? It recent?” Arip asked, pointing at the empty socket as if Betrim might think he meant the other one.

“Aye. Arbiter took it… shit I dunno. How long I been gone?” Betrim poked at the empty socket and saw his old friend shiver at the sight.

Arip snorted. “Fuck. Last I heard o’ ya was what you did at Hostown.”

Betrim spat. He didn’t like to be reminded of that place but he had to know what was being said about him in his absence, that and who was saying it. “How long back was that? An’ how much o’ it is gettin’ pinned on me?”

Arip gave him a sympathetic smile. “All o’ it. An’ must be nearin’ a year since I heard ‘bout it.”

Betrim almost groaned. That was the second town ransacking that was being blamed on him now. If he wasn’t careful he’d get a reputation for single-handedly burning entire cities to the ground. Not that such a thing would be a bad addition to his list of supposed abilities.

“What’re ya doing wearin’ that coat anyways? Don’t ya know the penalty for impersonatin’ an Arbiter round here?” Arip said.

“Oh aye, what they gonna do? Take an eye an’ keep me locked up in a cell fer three months then threaten ta burn me?” Betrim spat again. The sooner he was out of Sarth and back to the wilds the better. Folk like him didn’t belong in civilized society.

Arip sighed and stared at Betrim’s empty eye socket with a grimace. “Reckon somethin’ needs doin’ about that?”

“It’s fine,” Betrim said with a little annoyance. “Arbiter who patched me up said it were healin’ good.”

“S’not what I meant. It’s givin’ me nasty little tingles down me back every time I look at it.” Arip raised his voice and shouted up to the ship. “Rilly! Rilly, get ya scrawny arse down here.”

A few moments later a young girl vaulted over the railing of the ship, fell a good ten foot to the dock and landed on all fours with the sureness and undeserved confidence of youth. She stood and swaggered over to her father with a smirk on her dirty face. “What is it, Da’? Holy shit. That’s the ugliest fuckin’ witch hunter I ever seen.”

Betrim had a sudden urge to slap the girl but he restrained, giving Arip the staring of a lifetime instead. Arip just chuckled and flipped a single silver piece to his daughter. “Get yaself to the market an’ pick him up a eye patch. Make sure it’s black. Get us some meat an’ all, good stuff; bird or somethin’. Just no more fuckin’ dog, eh.”

Rilly looked at Betrim and a grin spread across her face. “Aye aye, Da’.” And with that she ran off before Betrim could swing for her, of course in his weakened state chances were the little bitch could have beaten him even if he’d caught her.

“She don’t even remember you,” Arip said after watching his daughter run off, a wistful smile on his lips.

“Aye, probably for the best. Must a’ been over ten years since we last met an’ what’s she now?”

“Sixteen.”

“That’d make her…” Betrim took the time to do the numbers in his head. “Three. Don’t reckon I remember much from three.”

“Come on,” Arip said. “Lets continue this little reunion aboard the Bride. I got some rum in me cabin, good stuff too.”

“Aye. Don’t really drink so much no more though, Arip,” Betrim put in.

“Eh? Since when?”

“Since the last time I got stinkin’ drunk it cost me a perfectly good eye.” He didn’t add it also cost him two perfectly good friends.

Arip wasn’t wrong about the rum; it was the good stuff. Betrim sipped at it all the same. He didn’t want to get pissed and truth was he hadn’t eaten since the Gods knew when and he was out of practice having been locked up and strapped down for a few months. Still, the Black Thorn wasn’t used to sipping at drinks. Back before he lost his eye he’d have necked the entire bottle given half a chance.

Betrim had known Arip since before he had become Captain Winters, they were cut from the same stock, but the beefy captain had made something of himself. He wasn’t the same dirty, long haired, murdering, thieving backstabber he used to be. Truth was Arip had cleaned up his act somewhat. He had commissioned a ship, hired a crew and made a semi-honest living. He had also taken to regular washing and hair cutting by the looks of things. Still had the same square jaw carved from stone, the same cleft nose, the same shit brown eyes but now he was clean shaven, with a short pony tail and clothing that screamed money. His cabin reflected the change too; everything had its place; the desk with its curios, writing implements and nautical charts; the cupboard to Betrim’s left, no doubt made from some fancy hardwood and containing all sorts of expensive wares; the rum being served in glasses of all things. Betrim was fairly sure it was the first time he’d ever drunk anything out of a glass. Truth was he felt more than a little out of place in this setting.

He nodded towards a bookshelf, two sturdy-looking doors could be closed to keep the books secure but for now they hung open, a wide variety of coloured spines on display none of which Betrim could read. “You learned words, Arip?”

His old friend smiled. “I know a few, enough ta get by. Those are more fer Rilly, made sure she knows how ta read. Don’t want her growin’ up like I did.”

Betrim grumbled and made an effort to put his glass of rum down on the desk. Arip refilled the glass and, despite not being sure he wanted it refilled, Betrim grunted his thanks all the same.

“Lets get down ta it, Thorn. What do ya need?”

Betrim grinned. “Some food, some new clothes, ones ‘at fit, not like that fancy shit you wearin’, somethin’ plain. An axe, hand axe’d be best. Some knives. An’ a trip ta Chade.”

Arip sat back in his chair behind his desk and steepled his fingers. No doubt he was weighing up the debt he owed Betrim against the requests. It was a long while filled with silence and hard stares before he answered.

“Can’t take ya ta Chade, Thorn, an’ ya don’t wanna go there anyways. As fer the rest, done an’ done. Next port o’ call fer the Bride is Solantis. Ya wanna come along then ya welcome, so long as ya pitch in.”

Last thing the Black Thorn could claim to be was a sailor so Betrim guessed pitch in was meaning help out with the odd bit of piracy. “What’s wrong with Chade?”

“Last time you were there, Thorn you murdered two members of the ruling council…”

“One,” Betrim corrected his old friend.

“What?”

“Actually I didn’t kill either o’ ‘em but my crew only killed the one o’ them. Jus’ got blame fer the other. Never did find out who did it.”

“Well then ya marched up ta Hostown and killed Gregor H’ost an’ all,” Betrim thought about correcting his old friend again. It was, after all, Thanquil who had killed H’ost. “An’ ta top it off ya slaughtered half the town despite there bein’ an army camped right outside.”

“Now that bit weren’t me. That were…” Betrim paused, hard to explain that it was done by some sort of demonic shades summoned by H’ost himself. “It weren’t me!”

“Don’t matter who it really were, Thorn. Rumour is you did it.”

Betrim almost spat but he didn’t reckon Arip would take too kindly to it given the gaudy rug he had covering the floor looked like it cost as much as one of those expensive whores; the fancy ones from the Five Kingdoms that called themselves mistresses. “Rumours is shit, Arip. You know that well as me. Seem ta remember there was one ‘bout you an’ a horse back in the day.”

“Aye. You should remember it, you bloody started it!” They both had a good long laugh at that but, after sobering, Arip’s face dropped back to being serious. “Rumour or no it was enough fer the good folk o’ Chade ta put a price on ya head, Thorn. A big fuckin’ price!”

“How big?” Betrim asked with a grin, he’d had a variety of bounties on him for as long as he could remember.

“Big enough that if it weren’t fer me owin’ ya fer savin’ Rilly back then I’d be tempted ta turn ya in my own self!” Arip paused and let out a sigh. “Fifty thousand bits.”

Betrim made a face that said he knew how much that was. Truth was he had no idea but it was certainly a lot. It also didn’t escape his notice that it was the same amount he was supposed to get paid for his part in killing H’ost.

“Solantis then,” Betrim said, his eye still fixed on Arip. “Can’t think of a reason I’d want ta go there but anywhere’s better than here right now, I guess.”

“An’ after this we’re done. No more debt,” Arip put in quick.

“Aye. You get me ta the wilds an’ we’ll call it even.”

“Good. Now how about you pick up that glass an’ fill me in on what really happened back in Chade an’ Hostown?”

Jacob Lee

It had been so long since Jacob had been out he had almost forgotten how wonderful a place the world truly was. The morning sun glinted over the tops of the white marble buildings giving the city of Sarth a beautiful soft glow that seemed to radiate from the city itself. The sounds of the early morning; shop owners setting up their wares and calling to each other in friendly tones, a couple of mange ridden dogs barking at each other over the remains of a half-eaten rat.

To his right a group of slaves walked by; going about their tasks under the ever watchful gaze of their loving overlord. To his left a small canal boat floated along; peaceful in the sparkling blue waters. Its load, a large net too big for the small boat, filled with the early morning catch of fish. Some of the fish struggled in the binds, attempting to break free; others went merrily to their fate.

There was a wonderful smell in the air. A strange mixture of freshly baked bread, some foreign spice; possibly cumin, and rotting garbage. Jacob spied the source of the latter leaning against a large white building; greenery for the most part, lettuce he believed, though he wasn’t going to go over and check. Despite his curiosity he didn’t have the time for such a luxury.

Two women were standing arguing over the ownership of a man who was nowhere to be seen. One of the women demanded she had two children with the fellow, while the other woman claimed that the two were in love and he was going to leave his old hag of a wife. Both women looked ready to come to blows but both stopped and stared at Jacob as he passed. They fell silent and looked more alarmed than comforted when he smiled at them.

Back when Jacob had been just another Arbiter he had been used to such fearful stares; in a way he had almost missed it. Now he rarely received any stares at all, except for the rats that sometimes found their way into his cell; they tended to glare at him through confused eyes as if it were strange for him to be there.

A small glob of white landed not two metres to Jacob’s right. He looked up to see a large bird; possibly a pigeon or a seagull, he had never bothered to learn the difference between the two, land on one of the street lanterns. Its head twitched about in a nervous fashion that made the Arbiter smile. Then the bird let loose a long, mournful coo before leaping into the air and disappearing over the top of a building marked the Tired Mule. There was a time when Jacob might have visited such a tavern, after all, he’d met Sarah in a tavern.

“Arbiter! The man chasing me is a heretic. A witch,” shouted a man barrelling towards Jacob at high speed. He wore fake-silk finery dashed in outrageous colours that may have been the current fashion but Jacob had been locked away for too long to be sure.

The man chasing was bald, bearded and burly like a blacksmith but without the tell-tale difference in arm muscle. He wore an apron spotted with blood. Most likely a butcher, Jacob concluded.

As the man in fake-silk passed, wearing a wild grin, Jacob’s right hand shot out. Two fingers punched into the man’s side and he stumbled a few steps before collapsing onto his knees, clutching at his side and coughing blood. A few moments later he rolled into the canal and stopped moving, he floated along slowly, face down, his red blood swirling and mixing with the blue water. Jacob never broke his stride. The butcher stopped for a moment, stared at the dead man and at Jacob then he muttered a thank you and ran off.

Not far to the docks now. The sooner we get the Black Thorn back the sooner we can put me back in my cell. Jacob thought to himself. It was comforting knowing his stone prison was waiting for him and always would be.

When he reached the docks Jacob couldn’t keep the smile from his face. It was even more wonderful than he remembered. Salt air assaulted his eyes and nose and he breathed in deep; experiencing the tang and flavour of it. The noise was a loud rumble of hundreds of voices all raised at once and combined with the creak and groan of ships at dock, of rope being stressed and water lapping at the hulls. A horse drawn cart rumbled past him, the poor beast was oblivious to everything but that directly in front of it; blinders they called them and people wore them all their lives without even realising. Not Jacob though, his blinders had been removed long ago, he saw everything, heard everything, smelled everything. What some people might call an assault to the senses was a joyous torrent of experience to him.

Back in his cell, when he chose to look out of his window into the Inquisition courtyard Jacob had seen many people, but even at the busiest time no more than a hundred. Here at the docks of Sarth there must have been thousands. It shouldn’t have surprised him; Sarth wasn’t just the capital of the kingdom of Sarth, it was also the kingdom’s main port; nestled as it was in the bay of storms with the Gods’ Rest peninsula to the north and the Black Rock cliffs to the south.

People didn’t stare at him, they stared away from him; looking elsewhere as they walked around him, none wanting to attract the attention of an Arbiter. Some glanced sidelong at his coat, no doubt wondering why it was black instead of the usual brown. Arbiters were a common sight in Sarth but none of the people around Jacob would have seen a black Arbiter coat before, after all his was the only one.

Jacob set to scanning the crowds for the Black Thorn. He had been told what the man looked like; tall, standing just over six feet; wasted muscle where once there was brawn; a shaven head; the left side of his face badly scarred, burned and missing the eye; only three fingers on his left hand. Jacob had memorised the description and determined he would be easy to recognise, not many folk survived that sort of list of injuries.

After hours of standing in one of the most central areas of the docks leading up to the piers themselves Jacob had seen more faces than he could count. Some he’d seen multiple times; sailors and captains and merchants and slaves all coming and going, some he’d seen only once; just people passing through. Some had weather-beaten faces, some had the pearly soft skin of the pampered. Some had striking features; large, bulbous noses, crooked, brown teeth, the odd lazy eye, some looked as plain as Jacob did himself. None of the people he saw were the Black Thorn.

Jacob decided to give up on his current course. It appeared his likelihood of just happening upon the Black Thorn was low. Questioning the captains of the ships might be a more fruitful course given that Thorn would likely be trying to escape back to the wilds. Starting at the north end of the docks and moving south, questioning every captain along the way seemed the most logical course, though with hundreds of ships it could take some time. Thankfully patience was one of Jacob’s few virtues.

Eight captains down the line and none had either seen the man Jacob described or heard of the Black Thorn. The ninth ship down was a large, sleek trading vessel sitting low in the water with the name the Bloody Bride, it was just starting to pull away from the pier as Jacob spotted it. He watched for a few moments then began to turn away. Just as he did a face appeared at the starboard railing, a face that looked at once familiar and foreign, a face with an eye patch and a horrific burn scar. The owner of the face spotted Jacob and for a few moments they stared at each other. The ship was already too far out for Jacob to reach and he’d never manage to commandeer another boat in time, at least not one that could catch the Bloody Bride.

Turning away from the departing ship, Jacob grabbed a passer-by. “Where is that boat headed?” he asked the man, pointing a long finger at the ship to indicate which one he meant.

“How should I know?” the man shot back, voice full of something that sounded a bit like fear with more than a little offence.

Jacob slapped the man across the face with his right hand, not hard enough to break his jaw but hard enough to hurt, hard enough to bruise and swell. “The next one takes your jaw off,” he told the man, now sobbing and clutching at his face. “Where is that ship headed?”

“The wilds,” came a voice from behind Jacob. He let go of the sobbing, bruise-faced man and turned to confront the speaker. A small, bald man wearing glasses. Not many people could afford glasses; he was someone important.

Jacob grabbed the small bald man by the left shoulder and squeezed. With a scream of pain he dropped to his knees in front of the Arbiter. “Who are you?” Jacob asked.

“Archibald… Gellar,” the small bald man answered, choking back his pain.

“Hmm, I don’t know you.” Jacob squeezed the shoulder some more.

“I’m… a dock master… here,” the man managed to say between squeals of agony.

“Oh. Where in the wilds is that ship headed?” Jacob picked the dock master up and turned him around then pointed towards the Bloody Bride.

“Solantis. The captain said Solantis.” The dock master was blubbering in fear and pain.

“I see,” Jacob said. It would appear he would not be headed back to his cell as soon as he should. “Are there any other ships going to Solantis?”

“I don’t know,” the dock master said. Jacob squeezed some more. “I… please… stop. I… I can check.”

“Oh,” Jacob said with a smile and let go of the man’s shoulder. “How kind. Please, lead the way.”

Thorn

Two months was a long time and two months at sea for a man who was well-known to be a piss poor sailor was an even longer time. Still, at least Betrim found himself a use for the prolonged exposure to nautical life. He made sure to eat lots, and kept it down wherever he could. He swung his new axe around a bit, did any heavy lifting that the ship required and even participated in a spot of honest piracy, anything that would help build up some of the muscle he’d lost while lying motionless and wounded in that cell back in Sarth.

Most nights he ate with Arip and Rilly; they spent their time apart from the crew and that suited Betrim just fine. The less people that knew who he was the better, there was never any shortage of folk willing to try to make a name for themselves by killing the Black Thorn. He slept with the crew down in the hold and when he slept he dreamed. Always the same dream, always Kessick stabbing him and taking his eye and always he woke with a start, dripping sweat and with his heart beating in his ears sounding so much like the thumping back in his cell.

His hair had started to grow back, though without any eccan nuts to grind into a stinking black paste, the flame red hair he was not known for was starting to show through. A patchy brown stubble had started to grow on the left side of his face, around the burn, and was openly mocked by the thick ginger mat of hair on the right side. He shaved as often as he could be arsed but these days that didn’t translate to very often. His left eye socket still itched but the patch that Arip had bought him stopped him from poking at the wound. Betrim reckoned he cut a right fierce figure these days, the very image of a dread pirate. Not that he was about to look for a mirror to find out.

The clothes Arip had provided him were not to Betrim’s taste but at least they fit. Plain white trousers that ended just below the knee, a tough leather a belt to hold them up and to hang his axe, and a plain white shirt made of some lightweight and itchy material. Truth was it was the same as most of the crew wore, no use wearing any good clothing on ship. It was the salt, he reckoned, it got everywhere; clothing, hair, eyes, nose. If it wasn’t the salt of the sea it was the salt beef that they ate. Truth was Betrim almost enjoyed the rain storm they encountered six weeks in. Sheets of warm, saltless water pelting everything, everyone. Betrim was no use to the crew at that time but he found it fairly pleasurable to stand on deck and let nature wash him clean.

He found he felt the seasickness less when the sea got rougher. Arip seemed to find that a touch odd and Rilly just mocked him with words he didn’t understand. Truth was he might have given her a beating but it seemed she meant the mocking in a good nature. Besides, despite his reputation, the Black Thorn did not go around hitting women, especially not the little ones and especially not if they looked like they might fight back and Rilly definitely looked that.

They’d been skimming the coastline for a few days when Solantis sailed into view. Not the largest city by any stretch but then, as far as Betrim was concerned, it wasn’t even a real city. Solantis was more like a camp for every lowlife, mercenary and sell-sword the wilds had. It was run by the merc companies that infested it, governed by them and policed by them but it wasn’t a free city. Solantis was owned and taxed by the Brekovichs; one of the nine blooded families of the wilds and quite possibly now the most powerful since the unfortunate fall of the H’osts. Solantis was famous for two things above all others; for boasting the highest crime rate in all of the wilds, an unfortunate side effect of being policed by criminals, and for its fighting pits.

Betrim never held to the idea of fighting in the pits but then that was because Betrim never held to the idea of fighting fair. If someone needed killing, and people often did, then Betrim had long ago decided a knife in the back was the best way to get the job done, less chance of them fighting back that way.

Solantis was just about the last place that Betrim wanted to be but Solantis was where he was headed. Didn’t mean he needed to stay there long. He’d rustle up some bits, get some new clothes and some supplies and hopefully find a lead on where that bastard Kessick might be. Failing that he’d find a way back to Korral. The southern wilds suited him far better than the north, the temperature was so much cooler up here; at times it even got chilly and the Black Thorn had never liked the cold.

“Da’ ses ya frightened o’ water,” said Rilly. The little girl liked to try and sneak up on the Black Thorn from behind. Seemed she hadn’t figured out he had eyes in the back of his head. Probably had more back there than he did in front these days.

Betrim twisted his neck round to look at her and then realised he’d looked over his left shoulder. One of these days he might get used to the missing eye. He looked over his right shoulder instead. “Black Thorn ain’t scared of nothin’. Jus’ don’t like water… or at least don’t like what’s in it… or under it.”

Rilly spat over the side of the railing. “Ain’t no sea fauna ya gotta be scared of long as ya got a deck ‘neath ya. You wanna be more scared of the meteorology of the oceans. Them’s the things like ta kill ya. That or the violent populace of the pirate isles.”

Betrim glared at the girl, he would have thought glaring would be harder with only one eye, turns out it was much easier than before. Rilly seemed to enjoy using words that Betrim didn’t understand, the fact that she spoke them in a thick wilds drawl just served to make them sound even stranger.

“You outta be scared o’ pissin’ off folk known ta be violent when angry,” Betrim said with a grin.

Rilly snorted. “Da’ ses no need ta be scared o’ ya. Ses ya wouldn’t hurt me. Ses ya saved my life.”

Betrim turned back to look at Solantis. “Well ya Da’ shouldn’t be talkin’ ‘bout such. Least of all ta some shit-mouthed, flat-chested sea witch like yaself.”

“Fuck you, Thorn. Better a sea witch than a narcissistic, chauvinist whore-son.”

Betrim grinned. They’d been insulting each other for the past two months and he was fairly certain he’d never won because she seemed to be talking in some foreign language, but he reckoned he had her this time. “My mother were a rancher, yours were a whore.”

“No she weren’t,” Rilly complained.

“Aye,” Betrim said, still grinning. “She were.”

“Da’ said she were a pirate.”

“Ya da’ lied.”

Rilly stared at him for a few moments then snorted. “Ya a lyin’ shit, Black Thorn.” With that she turned and fled leaving Betrim to watch the city of mercs grow larger by the minute. Even from here could see the squat buildings surrounding the docks, most little more than wooden box for the good folk to live in.

Betrim was already packed and ready to go by the time they started floating into dock. Truth was he didn’t have anything to pack, all he owned were the clothes on his back and the axe at his side, about as far from a fortune as a man could get. He planned to get off the ship as soon as he could, no need to mill around getting in Arip’s way when he started unloading his goods, that and Betrim found he had a pressing need to be on dry land again. He just didn’t have the legs, or the stomach, for the sea.

He probably should have seen it coming, should have suspected something was amiss by the way the crew were looking at him funny, by the way they’d been avoiding him for a couple of days. Betrim had put their behaviour down to the distancing of a man about to leave the ship but it seems there was more to it.

The low afternoon sun spread its lazy light over the murky green waters of the Bay of Solantis and Betrim was busy staring at those waters, wondering what might be lurking underneath, when they confronted him. Not the smartest of ambushes though, they started off with words instead of sharp objects.

“Black Thorn,” said the one with the bulbous nose and crooked eyebrow. He was as tall as Thorn and well-muscled as lifetime sailors often were. Might be his name was Jonas but Betrim couldn’t remember and didn’t much care to. “Be a kindness if ya put down that axe an’ came quiet. No one need get hurt here.”

The pier was still a ways off and Betrim didn’t fancy it was a good time to learn to swim. He turned to confront his assailants. There were six of them in all; some young, some older, all unprepared to take on the Black Thorn. They were armed though; two had dull cutlasses spotted with rust and last sharpened somewhere around never, two had axes, one had a dagger and one wielded a meat cleaver. Took Betrim a moment to recognise the man wielding the cleaver as the cook. Would be a shame to kill that one, he knew his way round the galley pretty well, smoked fish had never tasted so good to Betrim’s recollection.

“Don’t reckon ya wanna do this, lads,” Betrim said in voice that sounded like he meant it and had the skill to back up his threat. He glared at each of them with his one eye. He was yet to take his own axe in hand yet though, the threat seemed more potent with him being empty handed.

“For the money ya worth, reckon we do,” replied Crooked Eyebrow.

The silence that followed seemed to hold for a good long while. None of the six lads wanted to be the first to make a move; chances were if they knew who Betrim was then they’d heard what he’d done, what he were capable of. Not a one of them volunteered to be the first to die. Betrim wondered whether he could get out of this one without a fight.

“Reckon you’ve heard of me,” Betrim said. “Reckon ya might’ve picked the wrong man. Can’t claim no reward if ya dead an’ the Black Thorn ain’t known fer lettin’ men that attacked him ta live. Last chance, I reckon, lads. Walk away from this one.”

There was some nervous foot shifting and some scared gaze flickering. Some of the lads gave some of the others meaningful looks but none packed it in and went back to work. Seemed fifty thousand was a big pile of bits.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?” Arip Winters’ voice thundered over the ship with the air of command that only a captain can give. Rilly vaulted from the forecastle onto the deck and eyeballed each of the men in turn. Each of them looked away from her shit-brown eyes until she came to the chef. Quick as a snake the cook’s hand shot out, grabbed Rilly by her brown ponytail and dragged her close, his cleaver going to her neck.

“Ain’t meanin’ no disrespec’, Cap’n,” said Crooked Eyebrow, “but fuck off. This ‘ere’s the Black Thorn an’ it jus’ so happens he’s worth more than this ship. Hell, even at the half we’ll get fer turnin’ him over ‘ere we can buy our own, bigger an’ faster than the Bride ‘ere. All ya need ta do is stay out o’ this an’ Rilly goes free.”

“This is akin ta mutiny, Jonas. I’ll hang you myself,” Arip threatened.

“You do that, Cap’n, an’ Rilly gets bled like a pig.”

To make his point the chef pressed his cleaver into the girl’s neck. Blood started to trickle down the solid chunk of sharp metal and drip to the deck. Most girls Betrim had known would have started to cry at such but Rilly was made of sterner stuff.

“Get that damned cleaver out o’ my face you putrid lump o’ pallid flesh,” she screamed. A look of utter confusion crossed the cook’s pasty white face but he didn’t move. The cleaver stayed at the girl’s neck.

Arip gave Betrim a look and the Black Thorn gave his old friend a look right back accompanied by the slightest shake of his head, he might have winked too but the problem was he only had the one eye these days and he didn’t want to take it off the situation even for a moment. Truth was the last thing Betrim needed was to be blamed for Rilly’s death. It clearly pained Arip to back away from the situation but he did so and left Betrim to handle it on his own.

Now all Betrim needed to do, despite his still being in less than perfect condition, was to kill all six sailors without hurting Rilly. Somewhere deep down Betrim knew that the Black Thorn of a year ago would have accepted those odds. He would have charged in, axe swinging, cutting a swathe through his enemies. But something had changed in the last year and it wasn’t just his weakened state. Betrim no longer had any backup, no longer had a crew to help him out. The strong, commanding presence of the Boss, the inexhaustible strength of Bones, the silent and deadly bloodlust of Henry, and the unfailing competence of Swift. All were gone, now it was just him and he wasn’t pleased at the odds.

Betrim heard a shout from behind and below him; someone on the pier. He turned and ran, leaping over the railing. Some corner of his mind recognised that he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, that one of the sailors had started forwards before him. With a heavy thud Betrim hit the wood of the pier on all fours, his right hand unhooking his axe from his belt with practised accuracy. The fast sailor hit the pier a moment later and stumbled on his landing. The Black Thorn’s first chop took all five of the man’s toes off his left foot. His second chop; a meaty back-swing, cut a deep rend through the sailor’s screaming face. Betrim didn’t wait around to check if the man was dead; he shouldered past and sprinted up the pier towards the city of Solantis, the shouts of the five remaining sailors chasing him all the way.

Just like every damned dock Betrim had ever seen, the dock of Solantis was a crowded mess of people, crates, livestock and lightly simmering violence. He shouted to the folk in front of him, a wordless cry he hoped would translate to something roughly like get the fuck out of the way. People turned to stare at him in confusion. Some folk got the hint and started pushing to make room, others just stood still with open mouths. Betrim launched himself into the crowd with all his weight. Folk stumbled and fell, recovered and pushed back, some even shouted back but most just tried to move. Then Betrim was free of the press and the city of Solantis stretched out in front of him and he realised he had no idea of where he was going. Truth was Solantis was one of the few places in the wilds Betrim had never been to, never seemed like he’d had a reason before.

Shouts from behind warned Betrim he was still being chased. He craned his neck around and caught sight of the sailors pushing their way through the crowd, one man was stuck behind a number of docile looking beasts coloured white with black splotches, or maybe they were black with white splotches. Either way they were large and didn’t look to be in any hurry to move.

Betrim began to back away. There were a few mercs watching him with amused disinterest. “Those men are chasin’ me,” he said to the mercs.

The biggest of them sniffed and looked into the crowd. “Aye, reckon they are.”

Realising he wasn’t about to get any help from the local law enforcement without the bits to pay for it Betrim turned and started running. He’d lost valuable time and the sailors would be all the closer for it.

Buildings loomed up in front of Betrim on either side of the street. They were squat things, low and ugly and built of crude, brown stone. He doubted any of them contained more than a couple of rooms and certainly none of the luxuries. What they did have was steps on the outside of the buildings leading up to the flat rooftops. Some of the buildings had wet clothing staked up and drying in the afternoon sun, some had people sitting on chairs, watching the world move by on the streets below them, some had barrels, open to the sky and no doubt full of water, and some were bare. Betrim didn’t much care why the buildings were built that way, he mounted the first steps he came to two at a time and hit the roof still sprinting. With a giant leap he crossed the gap to the next building and stumbled, his momentum taking him arse-over-head. A moment later he lurched back to his feet and glanced behind him. One of the sailors was just coming up the steps onto the first rooftop. Again Betrim turned and fled, jumping from one rooftop to the next with two men chasing him up top and two more on street level, shouting as they kept pace.

Skidding to a stop Betrim changed direction and headed off to his left. It let the rooftop followers gain a valuable second but those on the street lost sight of him and would be forced to cut through alleyways to keep up. The alleys of Solantis were well known to be dangerous places. Always folk willing to stab others for little more than a couple of bronze bits or whatever they might find on the body.

The smaller buildings were coming to an end now, replaced by larger, better built dwellings of good grey stone and multiple floors. Betrim snaked to his right and leapt a slim alleyway, he heard the shouts of a man below him, trying to keep up, but ignored it. He was aiming for one of the larger buildings with a balcony, if he could time his jump right he would be able to clamber inside.

Betrim had always had a problem with chases, though usually he was on the other end of the situation, he wasn’t built for it. Truth was the Black Thorn wasn’t much built for running at all; he was built for fighting and for killing. He could feel his lungs burning as he sucked in air, feel his legs aching from all the exercise. He was moments away from giving up the chase and taking on the four sailors when he ran out of time to think about it. The balcony was right there in front of him and his momentum wasn’t about to let him change his mind.

With a growling grunt Betrim launched himself towards the overhanging balcony. Seemed it was further away then he’d reckoned and for a heart-stopping moment he was certain he’d fall short. A horrible vision of himself collapsed on the street below with four angry sailors standing over him flashed into Betrim’s mind but vanished when he hit the stone railing of the balcony chest first. Before he could consider how close he’d come to missing the jump Betrim scrambled and pulled and pushed and flopped over the lip of the balcony. He heard a body hit the stone behind him and decided not to check whether the sailor had made the jump or not.

Betrim pushed through a light curtain to find two women staring at him. Both were naked and in bed. One woman, with skin as dark as the night and nipples as large as grapes was straddling the other. Both looked terrified. Seemed to Betrim something was off about the scene but he wasn’t about to stop and ask questions no matter how much he might like to.

He thundered through the door at the far end of the room shoulder first to find a stair case leading up and down. He chose up and sprinted up the stairs as fast as his complaining legs could take him. The stairs ended on the top floor and a long corridor stretched out in front of him with doors on either side, all were closed, no doubt locked. At the far end of the corridor was a single window, shutters open to the cool air outside.

Betrim ran-limped towards the window. Seemed his ankle had picked up a nagging pain, he wasn’t sure when it had happened but it wasn’t ideal. He reached the window just as one of the sailors appeared at the top of the staircase and shouted back down to the others. Without another thought Betrim launched himself out of the window.

On his way down the thought occurred to Betrim that he should have looked out of the window before jumping. There were no more buildings close enough to land on, nothing close enough but the hard stone of the street three floors below in fact, well that and a few painful looking crates. Betrim decided to aim for the crates, not that he really had any sort of control where he fell.

There was a noise something like a crunch or maybe a crash and pain, the type of pain that registers throughout the entire body all at once and feels a lot like landing on something hard having just fallen from a high height. Still, it seemed something broke his fall somewhat, because he had that nagging feeling he got when he wasn’t dead yet, though everything had gone strangely dark and had a strange musky, feathery smell.

Something sharp and painful started scrabbling at Betrim’s face and his hand shot up and grabbed it. A moment later he opened his eye to find he had in fact hit the crates and had in fact managed to destroy every single one of them. A man stood close by spouting curses even Betrim had never heard before. The thing that had been clawing at his face turned out to be a chicken and a particularly scared one at that. It reminded Betrim of his parents ranch back in Sarth so many years ago, reminded him of the argument he’d had with them, reminded him of how that argument had led to their deaths.

A shout from above and Betrim dodged out of the way just as a sailor came plummeting from the sky to land with a sickening crunch where the Black Thorn had just been lying. The man didn’t move, just lay there, broken and gurgling out his last breaths. Betrim carefully placed the chicken on the ground and limped away.

He was in a large street with plenty of stone buildings either side, some homes, some shops, one tavern. It wasn’t busy but it wasn’t empty; people moved about, some stopped to stare at the bloody mess of sailor, some just ignored the entire thing as if a bit of death was a normal everyday occurrence for them, chances were that wasn’t far from the truth. A number of mercs, those meant to police the city, stood by laughing and making jokes at the dead man’s expense. He ignored them all. If he could just put some distance between himself and here he might…

“Thorn!” Betrim recognised the voice as belonging to the sailor with the crooked eyebrow. He turned to find out he was correct. The man was jogging towards him, breathing hard and holding his side. Seems Betrim wasn’t the only one not used to running. The cook was limping along just behind Crooked Eyebrow and as Betrim watched a third sailor was thrown out of a doorway by a big merc with more gums than teeth. The third sailor dusted himself off, looked around and then joined the chef and Crooked Eyebrow. “‘Bout time ya stopped runnin’!”

Betrim grinned, though he doubted it looked quite so menacing as normal as he was still gasping air into his lungs. “Reckon… reckon I got a bit more in me. How ‘bout you?”

Crooked Eyebrow snarled at Betrim. “Reckon ya a coward.”

The grin disappeared. Betrim Thorn was many things but one thing that was not on that list was coward and he knew the moment he let one prick get away with calling him such then soon everybody would be at it and, when that happened, it wouldn’t take long for those same folk to start trying to kill him. It was the nature of the game in the wilds, those with no name were always trying to make one off those with the big names and truth was they didn’t come much bigger than the Black Thorn.

Didn’t seem like there was much else left to say. Betrim set his face into an expressionless mask, readied his axe in his right hand and plucked his dagger from his belt with his left. Then he advanced on the three sailors.

All three men started to fan out, trying to surround him but the Black Thorn wasn’t some green as grass boy, new to the ways of a fight. He charged Crooked Eyebrow with a wordless yell of fury. The sailor seemed caught somewhere between surprise and terror but he managed to dodge Betrim’s first swing and blocked the axe with his cutlass on the second. Betrim was just about to stab his dagger into the man’s face when the cook swung at him with his heavy meat cleaver. Betrim launched himself to his right to get away from the chunk of metal and nearly stumbled into the dagger wielding sailor who seemed more than happy to get in a good stabbing.

He was a young sailor, the one with the dagger, Betrim couldn’t tell how young but he reckoned he was just past reaching manhood. He had a real eager look on his face, the sort of look boys get when they want to make their first kill. Before they realise that killing doesn’t make you a man, doesn’t give you a name, doesn’t do anything but make the other person dead. Betrim dropped his axe, grabbed hold of the sailor’s attacking arm with his right hand and stuck his left hand, complete with knife, into the sailor’s neck three times. He scooped up his axe before the body even hit the floor. His two remaining enemies started to look a lot less sure of themselves.

The cook mumbled something to Crooked Eyebrow, might have been another language, Betrim couldn’t tell. Crooked Eyebrow looked at Betrim real hard for a few moments then glanced at the cook. “Twenty-five thousand bits!” The cook nodded and then both men started towards Betrim.

This time both sailors attacked at once. Betrim swatted the cutlass away with his axe and jumped back away from the cleaver, giving ground before his two attackers. He was aware of a crowd gathering around him; watching him like he was fighting in one of the Solantis pits. Mercs lined the streets laughing and betting on the outcome, none of them feeling the need to interfere. Solantis wasn’t exactly known for order being kept on the streets and this right here was proof.

They came at him again and this time he blocked the cleaver, edged out of the way of the cutlass and slashed his knife at Crooked Eyebrow. The sailor jumped back and Betrim charged between the two of them. Forcing them to turn, to keep him in sight. The two sailors came back together, uncertain of Betrim’s tactics. Weren’t much of a tactic if truth be told, he was just trying to keep them guessing.

The cook was the problem. He was pretty good with that cleaver of his and Betrim was sure if the cook went down then Crooked Eyebrow would run. Not that the Black Thorn would give him chance to run.

Betrim could feel something wet on his chest, didn’t feel much like sweat, felt warm and sticky. He glanced down to find a shallow cut bleeding red blood into his white shirt. An inch lower and it would have taken off his nipple, not that he could see any reason for a man to keep his nipples. Women’s nipples, now they were alright, attached to the breast as they were made them real nice to look at and even better to play with. Betrim had never seen the benefit of playing with his own nipples. Truth was he pretty much forgot they were there most of the time.

A strange thought intruded in the Black Thorn’s head so he gave it voice. “You kill Rilly?”

The cook shook his head but it was Crooked Eyebrow that answered. “Ain’t got no quarrel with her nor the Cap’n. Jus’ afer you, Thorn.”

That was good, at least he didn’t have to avenge his friend’s daughter. The cook’s eyes went wide and he let out a strangled cry, his entire body tensed and convulsed and his cleaver dropped to the floor. Blood poured out from his mouth and it took Betrim a moment to realise the man had two dagger tips sticking out through his chest, blood spreading out all over his stained apron. The Black Thorn didn’t waste a moment, he launched his hand-axe at Crooked Eyebrow. The axe took the sailor just below his neck, embedded itself in his chest with a solid, meaty thwack and knocked the man to the ground. Dead before he hit the floor, Betrim reckoned.

The dagger points disappeared from the cook’s chest and he stopped convulsing. A moment later his body collapsed to the ground like a sack of boneless meat. A small woman stood behind the corpse, staring at the blood on her twin daggers with a cruel grin on her face.

The woman was short and slim but with an obvious wiry strength to her. Her hair was longer than Betrim had ever seen it, just starting to touch her shoulders, but still the same dust colour it had always been. Her eyes were cool pools of blue in her face and the scar on her lip that pulled her mouth into a permanent sneer stood out as proud as ever. She no longer wore leathers, Betrim noticed, instead she was wearing a baggy white linen shirt and a plain pair of brown trousers meant for a man. A sturdy pair of boots reached almost up to her knees.

After a long moment the woman stopped admiring the blood on her daggers and looked at Betrim. She cocked an eyebrow when she saw him staring at her. For a worrying moment Betrim thought she might be able to tell he was remembering what she looked like naked, pretty damn good if his memory was right.

“What’s the matter, Thorn? No hug?” the little woman said with a dirty grin that made the Black Thorn smile despite himself.

“You put away those daggers, Henry an’ I’ll bloody kiss you if ya like.”

“Jus’ as long as it ain’t on the mouth.”

Henry wiped off her daggers and re-sheathed them in her belt. Betrim walked over and embraced her little frame in his big arms. She gave a little squeak of alarm but didn’t stab him. Truth was hugging weren’t the sort of thing the Black Thorn did but then it just sort of felt right at that point.

When he let her go she gave him a look. “Fuck me I was jokin’ bout the hug, Thorn.” Then she grinned at him. “Though if ya wanna…”

“Henry,” came a voice from off to Betrim’s right. Sounded gruff and with a commanding tone. He turned to see one of the mercs standing there with a very nonchalant pose. “Thought I told ya, no more murderin’ folk.”

Henry sent a wink at Betrim and stepped towards the merc. It was almost comical to see the big man take a hurried step backwards when confronted by such a small woman. “Weren’t no murder, Kain. Was a straight up killin’. Those dumb bastards was attackin’ a good friend o’ mine. Was jus’ helpin’ him out.”

The merc, Kain looked from Henry to Betrim. “What’s your business in Solantis, sailor.”

Betrim spat. “Gettin’ out o’ these fuckin’ sailor clothes fer a start. Past that reckon my business is none o’ yours.”

Henry turned away from the merc and grinned at Betrim. For some reason he couldn’t stop remembering what she looked like naked, then he decided it was because it had been too damned long since he’d last been with a woman, any woman. Betrim reckoned he’d need to find himself a whorehouse sometime soon… and some money to pay for it.

“Come on, Thorn. I’ll take ya ta my place,” Henry said, walking away, no longer paying the merc any attention.

“You got a place?” Betrim couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Aye. I got a place.”

Henry

Felt right good to see Thorn again; even if he did look more than a little worse for wear. Henry never had many friends in her life and those she did she tended to scare away. Thorn was different though; even from the start they’d got along, even after she’d stabbed him.

It was the one thing they’d never managed to get past. Thorn seemed to take the stabbing personally; seemed to think if they ever had sex again she’d stab him again. Wasn’t like that for Henry though. Even back then the Black Thorn had been a big name; one of the biggest. Henry’s name had been on the rise; rumours of a woman murdering folk in Chade, of course some of those rumours also said she was a weird and Henry didn’t much like that.

The Black Thorn had been sat alone in a tavern; one of Henry’s regular hunting grounds, with a dark look on his burnt up, scarred face that was scaring away some of the nastiest men Henry had ever met. But she weren’t scared. Henry weren’t scared of no one; not even that bitch of a Blademaster who left her dangling over the Jorl.

So Henry bought the Black Thorn a couple of beers then took him up to her room. She wanted to see what a name that big could do and, as she remembered it, she weren’t left wanting. Trouble was she got a bit carried away; wanted to know whether the Black Thorn bled like everyone else, so in the middle of it she stabbed him in the side. Wasn’t a deep cut, nor a vital one, weren’t even bad enough to stop the Black Thorn finishing; just enough to make him bleed, to leave a scar to remember her. Turned out he bled just like every other man Henry had ever stabbed. Trouble was ever since then he had a habit of looking at her like she was thinking of stabbing him again. She’d been there, seen that; no need for a repeat. Though she wouldn’t mind another fuck; weren’t often she came across a man with a third leg.

Henry realised she was staring at him from the corner of her eye. Still just as tall as ever but looked like he’d lost some weight. His hair used to be longer than hers and dyed black but now it was short and red. Henry liked it red, the colour of blood. The left side of his face was still burned with twisted, melted flesh but now he had a black eye patch strapped on covering his left socket.

“Is it gone?” she asked him.

Thorn turned his head to look at her, he had to turn it an awful long way considering she was on his left side. “The eye? Aye, it’s gone.”

“What happened?” she asked, more than a little fascinated by what lay beneath the patch.

“Arbiter took it.”

Henry made a noise at the back of her throat, she liked those witch hunters about as much as Thorn did; which put it somewhere between hate and really hate. “That one from before? What happened to him?”

“Thanquil? He’s dead. But it weren’t him. Were a different one,” Thorn said, didn’t seem like he was overly fond of the topic.

“What about that whore of his? She dead too?”

Thorn didn’t look happy but it was hard to tell with his face. “Jezzet… Aye. She’s dead too.”

Henry spat and a grin hit her face. Seemed today was a good day. “Good fuckin’ riddance.”

Thorn didn’t reply; just kept walking in silence with that unhappy face of his. After a while he spoke again. “Ya know ya way around Solantis. How long ya been here?”

“Half a year or so, I reckon. After Hostown… After what happened ta the Boss I ran back ta Chade. Thought I could find myself a new crew or… I dunno. Thought everyone was dead back there. Turns out they weren’t.” Henry paused, felt her jaw tense, felt the anger rise up so high and hot she wanted to scream. She wanted to stab someone. The pain in her right leg flared up again; was a constant thing these days, a constant ache that sometimes got worse to the point where it forced her to limp.

“Why Solantis?” Thorn asked. He was staring at her with his one eye and that expressionless face of his.

Henry swallowed down the rage before answering. “Seemed as good a place as any. Plenty o’ work here if it’s needed. Plenty o’ people. Not much in the way of laws.” It was also the place she’d been born but she didn’t like to admit to that. No one liked to admit to that.

She stopped outside the tavern, the Dog’s Laugh. Had a picture on the sign of some laughing dogs baying at the moon over the plains. Not the cheeriest of names but then in Solantis there weren’t much in the way of cheer. It was a shitty building if truth be told; part wood and part brown stone. Two stories and a cellar for the booze, kitchen and a common room on the ground floor, four bedrooms above. Used to be those rooms were rented out but not anymore.

A drunk lay on the ground outside the door; his head resting against the wall of the tavern. He was cradling an empty bottle like it was a new-born babe. Henry thought about aiming a kick at the man’s head but decided he wouldn’t even wake up. She could smell the alcohol on him from here, stale and rancid.

“Welcome to my place,” Henry said, grinning.

“What? You own a tavern?” the surprise in his voice sent a hot flush of pride through Henry’s chest.

“Aye,” Henry said still grinning. Thorn was staring at her with an open mouth, she could tell, but she weren’t about to stop him. Instead she looked at her little tavern and felt content to let her rage drain away.

“Well ya gonna tell me how ya came by it?” Thorn asked.

Henry took a deep breath; just to extend the moment, just to mess with him. “Aye, I guess so. Seems it’ll sound better over a beer, I reckon.”

“Beeeeeeeeeer…” the drunk slurred from the floor; stirring to life at the sound of alcohol.

Thorn laughed, though Henry thought it sounded more like a dagger scraping against stone. “Ya know, I thought he were dead.”

The drunk opened his eyes and squinted up at them. He looked to be handsome underneath all the dirt from sleeping on the street. “You there,” he slurred, pointing a hand somewhere in the vicinity of Thorn. “Good sir, I will do anything for a drink and I do mean anything. I will gladly blow your trumpet.”

Henry had to stop herself from laughing but Thorn just looked confused. “What the fuck did he jus’ say.”

“Blow your trumpet,” the drunk said again. “Play your pipe. Suck on your sausage… er…” The drunk faltered to a stop.

Thorn was starting to look more angry than confused now. “You some sort o’ weird?”

The drunk looked up with the most innocent of smiles on his face. “What? Me? No. Of course not… Unless you are. If that’s the case then sure. Why not.”

“What?” Henry looked at Thorn; he had that look on his face, the look like he wanted to punch something. Henry knew that look all too well, it was one of her favourites. Still, there was something about the drunk… something about his face.

“Thorn. I reckon he’s blooded,” Henry said, still grinning from ear to ear, still suppressing her laughter.

Thorn peered at the drunk, his face slipping back into its expressionless mask. He always was easy to distract. “Reckon ya might be right.”

“Never had a blooded ‘fore,” Henry mused. “You only suck cock or you know ya way ‘round a cunt too?”

The drunk swung his lazy gaze to Henry and his face lit up into a handsome smile. “For you, my lady, I would do anything… Well, for you and for a drink. I will take you to the heights of pleasure. I will make the earth move. I will make you see the Gods.”

“Uh huh.” Henry quite liked the way he talked, all fanciful and well spoken. She wasn’t about to admit that to anyone though. “Inside, both of ya.”

The tavern wasn’t busy but then it rarely got busy before dark. It wasn’t the sort of place reputable people visited, not that there were many reputable people in Solantis, it was more the sort of place where thieves and criminals and sell-swords hung out. A dangerous combination and no mistake but all were kept in line out of fear. Henry had a reputation; had a name and it was almost as big and as dark as the Black Thorn’s these days.

“Josef,” she called to the man tending the place. “This here is Thorn. He’s a good friend o’ mine. Get him anythin’ he wants. I’ll be in the back room.” She grabbed hold of the drunk by the shirt and pulled him along just before he started asking Josef for a drink. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Thorn laugh and sit himself down, as far away from the door as possible and with his back to a wall.

Henry opened the door to the back room, pushed the blooded drunk through and then closed it behind her. She pushed the drunk to his knees, leaned back against the door and pulled her belt free, letting her trousers fall so she was naked from the waist down except for her boots, they took so long to take off there wasn’t a chance she was bothering. “Go on then, get to it.”

The drunk swayed a little on his knees and then focused his eyes on her crotch. “About that drink.”

“Ya can get as shit-faced hammered as ya like after.”

“Right you are,” the drunk said with a grin and went at it with a passion. Didn’t take long for Henry to be soaking wet and she found herself making a noise something like a purring cat as the blooded drunk kissed and licked and sucked at her cunt. She grabbed hold of the door frame to steady herself and cocked her right leg to give him better access. He responded by waggling his tongue around inside of her to a chorus of squelches.

It was Thorn’s fault. Strange to think of the ugly bastard while she had some blooded man’s tongue inside of her but there it was. Seeing him again had made her think of the first time they’d met and that had made her horny. It had been too long since she had a regular man to fuck; not since the Boss if truth be told. Although three months laid up on a bed unable to move might have had something to do with that.

A shiver of pleasure ran through her and Henry let out a loud ragged moan. Something wet trickled down her left thigh. It had been far too long since someone else had last given her pleasure.

“You know,” the drunk said pulling his face away. Henry could see his mouth and chin were wet, he wiped at them with a sleeve. “This would be so much easier with a drink in my hand.”

Henry realised she was panting, she had to reply between her breaths. “Fuck sake, ya almost there. Get on with it.” She grabbed the back of the blooded drunk’s head and shoved his face into her crotch. He took the hint.

“I’d almost forgotten how loud ya are,” Thorn said from the table as Henry approached. She could still feel her heart beating too fast but it was over now. The look on Thorn’s face might have been a slight smile but with him it was hard to tell.

“Can’t help it. I like ta express myself,” she replied giving him a wolfish grin, showing him as many teeth as possible.

A few moments later the drunk sat down next to her with a mug of beer in each hand and a content look on his handsome face. He needed cleaning up and then he’d be a right pretty sight to look at.

Henry noticed Thorn narrowing his eye at the drunk. “I’ve decided ta keep him,” she told them both.

“That good is he?” Thorn asked, still eyeballing the drunk. Henry just grunted in reply. “He have a name?”

“Um…” It hadn’t even occurred to Henry to ask.

“I do, my good sir. I have the pleasure of being called Anders. And it is most certainly my… uh… pleasure to meet you, Mr Black Thorn.”

Henry saw Thorn’s right hand go to his axe. Her own found the hilt of one of her daggers. She didn’t want to kill this Anders, not in her own tavern, though the place might look better in red.

“Might be ya wanna explain how ya know my name,” Thorn said with a level voice.

“Huh,” Anders grunted with a mouthful of beer and then swallowed when he saw weapons drawn. “It was easy to deduce. My good lady here called you Thorn.” Henry quite liked being called a lady; made her feel important or such, but she wasn’t about to show it. Not when she might have to kill the blooded bastard. “Taking into account your… um… face. You must be the Black Thorn; notorious murderer and thief.” Anders finished by grinning and then swallowing down another mouthful of beer as if it might be his last.

Thorn didn’t look convinced but he put his axe away all the same. Henry followed his example. “No sudden moves, eh,” Thorn said to Anders. Anders just smiled the smile of the drunken fool right back.

“How’d ya come by this place then, Henry?” the Black Thorn said leaning his chair back against the wall. His one eye peering at her.

Henry sniffed. “After…” she felt the anger rising again and decided some stories went better if you started in the middle. “After I got ta Solantis I started hangin’ out here. Seemed a good place as any an’ nobody paid too much attention if one or two o’ the locals went missin’. Only way ta earn a bit o’ money sometimes.

“The owner was a older lady, wrinkled an’ past her prime. Called herself Aliss an’ the old bitch seemed ta take somethin’ of a shine ta me. Said she saw herself only a fair bit younger. Let me live here she did an’ said I could work here too long as I stopped murderin’ fer money.

“‘Bout a month back she jus’ said the place was mine now. Told Josef too an’ then, she jus’ up an’ left. Ain’t come back so… place is mine.”

“Never took you as the type ta run a tavern, Henry,” Thorn said. He was scratching around his eye-patch with his maimed hand. “Didn’t reckon you’d have the know how.”

“Fuck me, Thorn. I don’t got the first idea how ta run the place. I jus’ let Josef get on with it an’ prance around like I got some sort o’ clue.” They both had a laugh at that. Anders glanced up at the sound of merriment, waved his mug around a bit then laid his head back down on the table.

“So you got some sort of plan, Thorn?” she asked him.

“Gettin’ a bit tipsy ain’t a plan?”

“Far as I’m concerned you can get shit-faced as Anders here.”

Thorn smiled, at least Henry thought it was a smile, seemed a bit sad if truth be told. “Don’t really drink so much no more, Henry. But if ya got a few spare bits wouldn’t mind a loan, get myself cleaned up an’ dressed proper ‘fore findin’ me a job.”

“Aye,” Henry grinned her wolfish grin again. “One condition. Ya take Anders an’ get him smartened up some.”

Thorn let out a loud groan but agreed all the same.

Thorn

Truth was Anders smartened up well. He looked almost like a proper member of a blooded family once the filth and sweat and stale booze had washed off and once he was dressed in more fitting clothing. He wore his dark hair in a long ponytail, had shaved off his stubble to show his strong jaw and high cheekbones and had chosen a simple set of riding leathers with an old, worn, green overcoat. He’d also insisted on being bought an old rapier which he kept sheathed by his right hip. Betrim had asked what happened to his last sword but Anders insisted he had no idea; he had woken up one day and it was gone. Most likely he had woken up in a ditch and it had been stolen.

For his own part Betrim had washed, shaved his head back to bald; hair seemed a right nuisance now he didn’t have much of it, and had bought himself a light padded-leather jerkin and a heavy brown duster to wear. Good thing about a big coat was plenty of places to hide knives. The Black Thorn had long ago decided as he never knew when someone might need a good stabbing, it was best to always make sure he carried enough sharp implements to stab everyone around him. He’d seen a right fancy eye-patch in the market too; a black circle of leather with a red gem set in the centre as if to look like a gleaming, demonic eye. Of course Betrim knew first hand that demons had yellow eyes as bright as a flame but most folk wouldn’t know that. After a heated argument during which Anders had used a fair few number of complicated words like; garish and lurid, Betrim had backed down but not without giving the blooded drunk a real good stare with his eye.

Fact was, walking next to Anders as he was gave Betrim something he’d never had before; a certain amount of respectability. The Black Thorn may have crewed with Swift for over a year but there had been no mistaking the bastard blood in that one. Anders hid it well; looked almost like he belonged to a family, well, as long as folk looked past the acrid smell of alcohol on his breath and the occasional drunken stumble.

“Reckon havin’ you around might open up some nice new doors,” Betrim said with a sidelong glance at Anders.

“I presume you’re referring to my lineage, Mr Thorn?” Anders said with only the barest hint of a slur, impressive given the amount of booze he’d put away already this morning.

“Your… um… linage… right. Yeah.”

“Are you offering me a job?” Anders asked.

“A job?”

“On your crew.”

“What crew?”

“I accept.” Anders smiled at Betrim. “Boss.”

“Wait,” Betrim wasn’t sure what had just happened but he knew he didn’t want to lead any crew. Folk who followed the Black Thorn tended to end up on the dead side of life. “This ain’t a crew. I ain’t got no crew. Jus’… need some work is all an’ havin’ you around might open up some doors. You havin’ some blood in ya an’ all.”

“Right. Whatever you say. Just know I’m ready for work, boss.”

“Stop it. An’ don’t call me boss,” Betrim complained. Anders had a way of complicating the issue with all of his words.

“Sorry. I’m ready for work, BT.”

“B…T? Eh?”

“It’s an acronym… of your name. Your initials.”

“How do you know my initials?”

Anders looked confused for a moment. “Black Thorn… B.T.”

“Oh. Right.” Betrim wasn’t used to dealing with learned folk. Gave him a distinct feeling in his gut that Anders wasn’t likely to last long.

Betrim pushed his way through the door of the Dog’s Laugh and took a moment for his eye to adjust to the gloom within. Anders slipped past the motionless Black Thorn and danced over to the bar. Henry was sat at the centre table in the common room with her feet well and truly up, picking at a plate full of bacon and soft bread. She looked up at Betrim with a strange look on her face. Thorn couldn’t rightly say what the look was, nor what it meant but it was far from happy.

“Year ago I’d killed fer a breakfast like this,” the little murderess said, staring at Betrim. Thing about Henry was her gaze was like a laughing dog’s bite, once she had hold she didn’t like to let go and it seemed she was in the mood for a good stare. “Now I have it every day an’ it don’t sit well no more. Find myself longin’ fer the dried meat an’ stale bread an’ whatever else we could find out on the plains.”

Betrim sat down opposite Henry and took a good long look at the bacon. He thought about trying to take some but Henry looked like she might be in a stabbing mood and the Black Thorn wasn’t about to risk getting stabbed over a slice of bacon. “Don’t reckon the settled life suits ya, Henry.”

“Josef, my good man,” Anders said in a cheerful and slurred tone. “Would you mind fetching me a few drinks? I find myself terribly parched.”

Henry tore her gaze from Betrim and instead inflicted it on the blooded drunk. “Reckon you’ve earned some more of my booze, do ya?”

Anders span around, his mouth open and just about to spew some eloquent nonsense but he faltered at the sight of Henry’s cold eyes. She looked him up and down.

“Reckon he scrubs up pretty enough,” she turned her gaze back to Betrim. “Ya coat ain’t black.”

“Thought I’d try somethin’ new,” Betrim said.

“Ya hair…”

Betrim sniffed. “Way I see it folk are lookin’ fer the Black Thorn. Same folk are lookin’ fer a man all in black with black hair an’ two eyes. Might be it’s worth not throwin’ my name around fer a while.”

Henry nodded at that. Anders sauntered over and sunk into one of the chairs around the table; a sad, dejected look on his face. Henry glanced at him once then snorted and spat onto the floor. Betrim just about heard Josef sigh from behind the bar, no doubt Henry gave him the job of cleaning the floor.

“Reckon I can find us a job,” Henry said after a while.

“Us? Ya thinkin’ of joinin’ me on this job are ya?” Betrim asked.

Henry’s mouth twisted into the same old wicked grin that Betrim was used to seeing. The scar on her top lip pulling it into a sneer. “Reckon three is a better number than two fer a crew.”

Betrim shook his head. “This ain’t a crew an’ I ain’t no boss.”

Anders perked up a bit at that. “Right you are, B.T. But you said you needed some money, correct?”

“Well… yeah… but…”

“Then three it is,” Henry said, still grinning. “Reckon we could all use the bits.”

Some men might have sighed but the Black Thorn wasn’t the type so he let out a low growl instead. “Where do we meet the fixer?”

Her smile faded. “There’s a little problem with that. Fixer’s name is Carlston Barrow. Operates out of a gamblin’ joint on the east side of the pits. Surrounds himself with heavies…”

“I’m sensing a catch,” Anders slurred up at them from the table.

“Ya can’t mention my name… at all,” Henry said. “He ain’t too fond of me much on account of me murderin’ his nephew a few weeks back.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“Not met many that didn’t. Come across him beatin’ on a girl fer lookin’ at him funny. Hard not ta look at him funny fer the size of the boil on his nose.” She paused and a slow smile spread across her face. “He bled… a lot.”

“Ya sure this Carlston is good fer it?” Betrim didn’t much like the idea of working for a man with a grudge but needs must.

“Aye. He specialises in the sort o’ work we lookin’ fer. The sort o’ work me an’ you are good at. An’ he don’t filch nor bitch o’er methods. Got a strange sort o’ honour. Unusual fer a fixer.”

“Right then. I’ll take Anders,” Betrim stood up from the table. “Ya know where the pits are?”

Anders looked up, then looked at the bar and then back to Betrim. “Um… I do… but do you think it might be best if we… um… had a drink first?”

“Jus’ past the pits,” Henry said ignoring Anders. “Big buildin’. Ya can’t miss it. It’s the one with all the people outside, most of ‘em armed an’ dangerous-lookin’. They’ll search ya ‘fore they let ya in, take ya weapons off ya.”

Betrim snorted. “If they can find ‘em all.”

Anders was already up and sauntering towards the bar. “Josef, be a dear and fill this up with something strong and cheap. Preferably something with a burning sensation on the way down but not so much on the way back up.” He handed the barman an old battered hip-flask.

“Where the hell did ya get that?” Betrim asked as Josef took the flask and started filling it from a bottle filled with some golden liquid.

Anders turned with a startled look on his face. “You know I’m not entirely sure. I just sort of… found it this morning… while we were shopping. Would you believe somebody left it entirely unattended in their pocket?”

Henry laughed. Betrim just shook his head and started for the door. After a few moments Anders caught up with him, already swigging from the flask.

Henry wasn’t wrong about Carlston’s building being unmissable. It boasted a good five floors whereas most of those surrounding it had to put up with a paltry two or three. Built out of solid grey stone with large windows and no less than two balconies facing out onto the street. On one of the balconies stood an ageing man, a little overweight by the looks of his jerkin, with a thick mat of dark hair, flecked with grey. He held a pipe in one hand and stared out over the street as if he were looking down on something he owned. He wore a black waistcoat faded with use but no less smart for it. Beside the ageing man stood a tall, slim man with his hair tied into a warrior’s tail and almost as many scars on his face as the Black Thorn.

“You a bettin’ man, Anders?” Betrim asked in a low voice.

Anders was busy looking around the street, his eyes flicking from one armed heavy to the next. Betrim had seen folk do such before, he did it himself on many occasions. It was the look of a man who expected imminent violence and expected himself to be at the centre of that violence. “If I was I’d bet that this is a bad idea, B.T.”

“Thought I told ya ta stop callin’ me that.”

Anders lowered his voice. “Would you rather I call you Black Thorn? In this company?”

Betrim reckoned the drunkard wasn’t wrong about that. He counted twelve armed heavies outside the building, no doubt there would be more inside, and all wore a strip of cloth either around their arms or legs or head, with a symbol that looked to be one of the giant cats of the plains but with greatly enlarged canines.

“Ya recognise these mercs?” he asked his blooded companion.

“I do,” Anders was keeping his voice down. “Long Tooth company. Widely known for being diametrically opposed to pacifism.”

“Dia… what?”

“It means completely.”

“Right… an’ pasfisem?”

“Means they don’t like violence.”

Betrim had to think about that, working through what Anders had said. “So they tend towards the hurtin’ of folk then?”

“Exactly. I’ll have your vocabulary spruced up in no time,” Anders said with a worried smile.

“Would you jus’ stop usin’ big fuckin’ words.”

“Sorry, boss.”

Betrim was about to tell Anders to stop calling him boss when the ageing man on the balcony spotted them and seemed to take an unhealthy interest followed by a worrying amount of pointing. “Selvin, have those two men brought up ‘ere immediately.”

The man who seemed to be Selvin, a tall man with more muscle than the average bear looked a little confused. “These two?” he said in a brutish voice, also pointing at Betrim and Anders.

“Yes,” said the man from the balcony in a tone lacking patience. “Right away. Now!”

Selvin grunted and started towards them. Betrim’s eyes in the back of his head told him there were also more than a few armed folk behind him.

“Think ya might a’ been right,” Betrim said to Anders. “‘Bout this bein’ a bad idea.”

Anders unscrewed the top of his hip-flask and took a nervous swig. “Kind of you to agree, boss. A little late though.”

The inside of the building was as crowded as the outside. Folk of all types, rich and poor, male and female, blooded and common all crowded together placing bets with the clerks or playing cards and dice against each other or against the house. Folk bought drinks and other folk served those drinks and all of it was overseen by the Long Tooth company mercs. Betrim stopped counting once he hit ten and decided the number of armed guards stood at well over two which put him and Anders at a severe numbers disadvantage should violence ensue.

They were led up a twisting staircase that snaked back on itself again and again until they reached the fourth floor. From there they were ushered down a short corridor, with closed doors either side of them, and through the door waiting ajar at the end. Inside was a room lavishly decorated in finery. A large hearth with a crackling fire to drive off the seeping cold. A bookshelf full of papers that no doubt said something about something. Betrim had never bothered to take the time to read; struck him anything of importance could be said to his face. A giant rug coated the floor and looked to belong to the skin of some great, furry animal with black stripes on yellow. At the far end of the rug stood a large wooden desk and behind that desk sat the ageing man from the balcony. The tall, thin man with the warrior’s tail was standing not far to the left of the desk. Two chairs were set out in front of the desk and the ageing man gestured to them with one hand.

Betrim and Anders exchanged a wary glance then sat. It did not go unnoticed to Betrim that there were four armed men standing just behind him.

“You look like a man in need of something to do,” the ageing man addressed Anders.

For a moment the drunkard’s mouth dropped but he regained his posture. “Ah… this is embarrassing. You want to be talking to him,” he pointed at Betrim. “He’s the boss.”

“I’m not a boss,” Betrim complained.

“Right. But you are in charge, B.T.”

Betrim had to think about that. “I guess so. Yeah.”

“See,” Anders said with a nervous smile. “I just work for him. Or with him. He’s in charge.”

“I see.” The ageing man did not look impressed.

“Reckon you must be Calston?” Betrim guessed.

“Reckon I must,” Carlston took a few quick drags on his pipe and then puffed out the smoke across the desk and into Betrim face.

Truth was the Black Thorn hated smoke. It made clothes stink, made eyes water and sting, got in the nose and made a man sneeze and tasted foul in the mouth. He’d never been able to figure out why folk took to it as they did but some men, those like Carlston who believed they were more important than they were, felt it necessary not only to smoke but also to inflict it upon others. Still, the Black Thorn weren’t the type to show discomfort; even if the other folk in the room didn’t know he was the Black Thorn.

“Some say ya a fixer,” Betrim rasped out into the cloud of smoke. “I happen ta be lookin’ fer work. Not many of us, just a few but we got experience. Can do… all manner o’ things.”

Carlston just watched for a while. He had a look about him that said he was capable of murder and worse. It was a look Betrim was well used to. Anders, on the other hand, did not look quite so used to it. He was sipping at his hip-flask at a rate that would empty it somewhere short of soon.

“You look familiar,” Carlston said after a long time.

“I get that a lot. Reckon it’s the nose,” Betrim responded quickly.

“You know,” Anders began. “I once knew a man…”

Carlston interrupted. “In fact you bear a remarkable resemblance to a dead man I hear stepped off a boat just yesterday.”

“That so?” Betrim sniffed, almost spat but decided to practice some restraint. “Far as I know dead men don’t walk around much… well, ‘cept in the Five Kingdoms.”

“Fifty thousand gold bits,” Carlston said. He didn’t blink, just stared the Black Thorn dead in the eye.

“Sounds a lot of money,” Betrim said, staring right back.

“Pfft,” the noise came from Anders but both he and Carlston ignored the drunkard.

“Fifty thousand bits all the way in Chade. Do you know what Chade is to me?” Carlston asked.

“Very far away?” Betrim asked.

“Aye, it is that. Also a right shit-hole.”

Betrim almost laughed. “Solantis is a paradise is it?

“Careful, Thorn. Solantis is my home.”

“I’ve been to Chade,” Anders announced despite not being asked. “Was there not more than a year ago, in fact. A very pretty lady threw me out of a window can you believe?”

“Yes,” said Carlston with a severe look at the drunkard. “Reckon I’m close to following her example.”

“Fact that you ain’t killed me, packed my head in salt an’ shipped it off ta Chade tells me ya got a job fer me,” Betrim interrupted. “Somethin’ ya pet mercs can’t do. Also tells me it’s worth a few bits, enough ta make not killin’ me worthwhile. So hows ‘bout we start with how much it pays?”

Carlston smiled, cruel and wide and shook his head. “Pays nothing. You do this job for me and you get to keep on living.”

Betrim grunted. “Ain’t much of an incentive ta do the job though is it. Reckon after I leave here I might jus’ disappear. Reckon ya never see me again.”

Carlston smiled and waved a hand in Anders direction. “We’ll be keeping your man. Sort of collateral as it were.”

The Black Thorn rasped out a laugh. “Keep him. Only met him yesterday an’ don’t much like him anyways.”

Anders looked up at that, his face caught somewhere between fear and hurt. “What do you mean you don’t like me?”

Carlston sat back in his chair and stared at the Black Thorn with a curled lip. Men who thought they were important never liked to deal with folk below them. Betrim leaned forward, staring right back. “Hows ‘bout we start again but with you tellin’ me how much this job pays?”

Anders

“You accepted this job?” Henry asked her voice hard and flat.

“Already got paid fifty gold bits. ‘Nother hundred an’ fifty on completion,” Thorn responded. Both of them were staring at the Coliseum and neither of them looked happy or confident.

“That’s a fair amount,” Henry opined with a whistle.

“Weren’t sure,” Thorn said. “Dunno how much we used ta get paid fer jobs back in the crew. The Boss dealt with all o’ that. Knew my cut was rarely more than a few bits.”

“The Boss was screwin’ us all.”

“Thought that were jus’ you.” Thorn grinned at Henry and gave her a little shove, Henry grinned back. Anders stood behind them, watching. He sensed there was some history between the two but he hadn’t quite figured out what it was. They seemed to trust each other, at least as much as anybody trusted anybody else in the wilds, but Anders thought he detected a hint of tension. He unscrewed the top of his hip-flask and took a long swig. Liquid fire poured down his throat and into his stomach. He leaned back against the wall with a happy sigh and continued watching the two in front of him as they debated.

“He underpaid us. All o’ us,” Henry spat into the street. “Remember all those stash houses he had? One in each town only he never told any o’ us where they were. They weren’t jus’ fer folk ta drop off messages fer him. He took the majority o’ what we got paid an’ hid it. Had a small fortune in each place we ever visited, I reckon.”

“An’ now he’s dead no-one knows where all these bits are stashed, not even you.”

“Aye,” Henry agreed. “Not even me.”

“Shit.”

“Still not sure ya should have taken this job.”

“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” Thorn said. “Was lucky ta get out of there with some pay an’ Anders’ head still attached.”

“It was threatened there for a while,” Anders said with a smile as Henry turned to look at him. “Though I was very stoic and faced my fate with grim determination.”

“Aye,” Thorn said without looking. “You was a real picture of manliness.”

“You look positively fetching today, my lady,” Anders said to Henry when she kept staring at him. “The very image of a Goddess.”

She smiled at him then, or maybe sneered at him, he couldn’t be sure but for a moment she almost looked like a proper lady. Then she turned and continued watching the Coliseum. It was the hat that made her look proper, Anders decided; a wide-brimmed, dark-blue cavalier hat with a large grey feather decorated with streaks of black. The hat had the effect of drawing attention but obscuring the face in shadow underneath.

“Hear that, Thorn? I look like a Goddess,” Henry said. It sounded like she was still smiling but from behind Anders couldn’t be certain. He decided it wouldn’t be inappropriate to stare at her arse.

Thorn didn’t respond right away, looked like he was thinking of something, scratching at his chin with his three-fingered hand.

“Why aren’t you dead?” he asked. “Ya said this Carlston wants you in the grave on account o’ stabbin’ his nephew. Well I jus’ so happen ta know first-hand he has a small army. Seems ta me he could have you killed any time he wants.”

“My tavern ain’t in Long Tooth territory. The whole area belongs ta the Broken Blade mercs an’ they ain’t ‘bout ta give me up seein’ as how their captain, Kain, is desperate ta put his cock in me. If any o’ the Long Tooths is seen in Broken Blade territory it would likely lead ta a fight an’ that’d lead ta a turf war. Ain’t no one wants that. Means so long as I ain’t recognised anywhere ‘round here, I’m good as untouchable. ‘Cept fer the odd man he sends ta kill me but I ain’t exactly some helpless little lady.”

Thorn grunted. “Explains the hat, I guess. We in Long Tooth territory now then?

Henry’s hat shook. “Pits an’ everythin’ ‘round it is owned by the Brekovichs. Blooded family that own the province. Fer the most part they’re happy ta let the mercs run this shit-hole, long as they get paid the taxes, but the pits bring in money, big money. Have ta be a fool ta walk away from that many bits, I reckon.”

“Some of the wisest men are often considered fools,” Anders said from the floor, not that he could remember sitting down, and he was sure his words sort of tumbled together in a slurred mess. “Can we go back to the tavern now?”

Both Henry and Thorn turned, looked at him for a moment then went back to considering the Coliseum. Anders sighed.

“So what’s the plan?” Henry asked.

“Five days’ time there’s ta be a match between two big names in the pit fightin’ crowd. Only one of ‘em; a black-skinned southerner goes by the name of Oren, is pretty much a sure thing. Carlston said he likes sure things, makes people bet a lot. Likes ‘em even better when they lose, makes people lose a lot. So in four nights’ time we sneak in an’ drug this Oren with this powder Carlston gave me. He reckons it’ll slow the bastard down, give the other fella an advantage.”

Anders looked around the open, market-filled courtyard that surrounded the pits, squinting to make his eyes focus. Long Tooth mercs, Bloody Hands mercs, Rising Sun mercs, Broken Blade mercs, Snake-Eye mercs, and many more. Anders stopped counting how many mercenary companies had a presence around the pits; it was neutral ground, anyone could come here and everyone did. It was a veritable simmering pot of potential violence and that summed up the wilds almost perfectly in Anders’ professional opinion.

“That’s the job. What’s the plan?” Henry said her voice sharp and low.

“Uhh…” Thorn didn’t look comfortable, he scratched at his cheek, fidgeted from foot to foot, sniffed, spat and backed up to lean against the wall next to Anders. “How many guards ya reckon they got?”

“Too many fer us ta jus’ start a ruckus. Too many ta do it quiet,” Henry replied, not joining the others by the wall. Anders decided to go back to staring at her arse. It was a good arse, firm and perky and as small as the rest of her. Couldn’t see it very well through her trousers but it was always possible he might get a better look at it later. After a few drinks would be best.

“What ‘bout jus’ sneakin’ in with the rest of the folk then hidin’ till it’s all closed down fer the night?”

“Pointless, B.T.” Anders said from the floor, happy to join the planning side of the job if only for a moment. “The… um… contestants or fighters are cordoned off; kept away from the general public in a separate part of the pits. Very near the slave pens, I believe.”

Thorn nodded with a grim look on his face. “An’ where there is slaves there is guards. Good thing we got four days ta come up with a plan, I reckon.”

Anders stopped listening to the planning and went back to considering his own situation. He’d never been part of a crew before; he wouldn’t be part of one now except that Henry had agreed to keep him pretty lubricated as long as he kept her… pretty lubricated. That and he felt the need to make amends. Wasn’t fair what he’d done and to get away scot-free while another man took the blame. Anders had been brought up better than that, not much better but a little bit better. If he couldn’t own up to the crime and take the blame himself, and he was most certainly not about to do that, then he would just find another way to make amends. Besides, Henry and Thorn didn’t seem like bad sorts; they both had a predilection towards violence but then most people in the wilds did. They also both had something else going for them; they were still alive despite all that had happened to them and, if even half the stories about the Black Thorn were true, a lot had happened to them. Anders reckoned he could use friends that had a habit of surviving these days, might be some of it could rub off on him.

“What ‘bout sewers?” Thorn said.

“You always suggest sewers,” Henry replied with a shake of her head.

“Sewers is good. Stink ta hell so no folk is watchin’ ‘em. “

“Ya noticed the streets o’ Solantis at all, Thorn?”

“Uhh…”

Henry barked out a laugh. “Solantis ain’t got no sewers.”

“Shit.”

They continued arguing about the best way to get into the pits. Anders went back to not listening. Instead he unscrewed the top of his hip-flask and took another swig. Empty… Empty! A horrifying thought occurred to him; if they didn’t think of a way to get in soon they might be here all day. If they were here all day without anything to drink he might begin to sober up and that was not something any of them wanted, least of all him.

Anders coughed, trying to catch the other two’s attention. Neither of them paid him any mind so he tried again, coughing with more volume this time. Again there was no response from either Thorn or Henry.

“Hey!” Anders found his voice was almost at shouting level. Both Henry and Thorn turned to look at him with angry looks. Anders sighed. “Can we go back to the tavern… I’m dry.”

Thorn snorted. “We ain’t going nowhere ‘til we figure out how ta sneak in an’ do the job.”

Anders sighed again and steeled himself for what he was about to say. If it got him back to the tavern with a drink in his hand it was worth it. “I can get us in.”

Suzku

Chade was unlike any place Pern Suzku had ever been to. Every time he ventured out into the city he found himself almost lost among the throng of people; from slaves to merchants to thieves to rich lords to the good folk of Chade. It didn’t help that his client didn’t seem to mind. As part of his Haarin training Pern had been taught to ignore all distractions and focus on protecting the client. His eyes would observe and calculate the danger but never more than that; they would never linger. Chade had a habit of testing that particular training to its very limit.

Three slaves walked by; their backs bare and bloody, their naked feet dragging in the dusty street, their hands and feet manacled and chained and a fierce taskmaster driving them forwards with generous lashings from a whip. A merchant rushed forward and tried to sell a tarnished metal kettle to Swift. Pern’s hand never left his sword when out on the streets of Chade but now it was half-way out of its scabbard before the man had even begun to speak. The merchant, a short fellow with hair growing out of his ears took one look at the Haarin, or rather at the Haarin’s blade and backed away.

A group of pickpockets watched from the shadows of an alleyway. It was dangerous work thieving in Chade; the guards would sell anyone to the slavers guild if they were caught, but many turned to a life of crime all the same. They observed Swift but never for long; moving their darting eyes to easier marks. A wise course of action. Pern had not been with the client long but he knew Swift well enough by now to know the man wouldn’t be stolen from and would happily hand any man, woman or child over to the slavers for a few gold bits.

God had decided to test not only Pern’s skills but also his patience and his commitment by giving him Swift as a client. The man was a self-confessed thief and murderer and worse and felt no remorse for any of it. He was also as dangerous a person as Pern had ever met. As deadly with a sword as he was with a knife and even more deadly with a bow.

On the road to Chade they had been set upon by a group of outlaws looking for easy coin; a foolish mistake but numbers had emboldened the bandits. They had been twenty-two when they had attacked and Swift had killed five of them himself. Pern had only killed three while staying by his client’s side. After the short battle was done Swift also took part in the looting of bodies. They found one of the bandits still alive; a young woman, not pretty and covered in mud and dust and blood, and with her left arm almost severed. Swift had decided to teach her a lesson and had raped her face down in the midst of her fallen comrades before letting his surviving guards have their turns. After all was done Swift had claimed he intended to do worse but Pern had taken pity on the poor, wretched girl and had killed her before any more pain and humiliation could be visited upon her. He had expected Swift to become angry at his intervention but instead the man had laughed.

“Most o’ these fools don’t even know who I am,” Swift said with a backwards glance towards Pern. His client was smiling, he was always smiling. “Oh they know the name. Reckon I’ve more than made my mark over the past couple o’ months but don’t reckon there’s a one o’ them that knows what I look like.”

Pern kept silent. He was Haarin. It was not his place to offer advice or even opinion on such matters. He was there to protect and nothing else.

“Reckon I like it this way,” Swift continued. “Lets me move about all discrete. Being in the light is fun an’ all but I’m more used to hidin’ in the shadows. Like our friend over there. The one skulkin’ ‘bout in that alley. Reckon we ought say hello.”

Swift turned and angled for the alley he had indicated. Pern followed as best he could; distressed by how the people in the street seemed to surge around him to keep him from his charge. His eyes flicked from one face to another, searching for danger. If he was to find a possible attacker the truth would not be revealed in their carrying of a blade but in their eyes. The eyes always betrayed a person’s actions. Pern had long ago realised that if you could learn to read a person’s eyes you would always have the advantage.

Then the press of people was gone and Pern stood in the alley just behind Swift who was smiling at the man cloaked in darkness. His face was obscured but Pern sensed both danger and tension in equal measures. A dark blue aura, the colour of control, floated around the figure like wisps of fog.

“Long time no see, Kessick,” Swift said and then spat into the dust of the alleyway. “What’s with all the hidin’ in the dark? Reckon ya could jus’ come ta me, ‘stead o’ makin’ me look fer ya out here.”

“Send your guard away, Swift,” said the man in the darkness.

“Nah, I don’t think so. See this here is Haarin Pern Suzku. He’s a Haarin. Ain’t nothin’ gonna be said here that he’ll repeat. Now I spent a lot o’ money buyin’ his contract so he could watch my back. Don’t reckon I’ll be sendin’ him away jus’ when my back needs watchin’ most. That’d make me some sort o’ fool, I reckon.”

Pern did not miss the hint in Swift’s voice. He moved to the side, placing his back to the wall of the alley so he could see both ways. His hand hovered above his sword hilt and he watched. He couldn’t see the man’s face, sunk into shadow as it was, but he could feel eyes upon him.

“It’s good to know how you’re spending my money,” Kessick said, his voice level with a dangerous tone.

“Your money?” Swift laughed. “Seems I remember you givin’ it ta me. Reckon that makes it my money.”

“I gave it to you for a purpose. A service.”

“Aye, an’ ain’t I fulfillin’ your request?”

“Not swiftly enough.”

Swift laughed again. “I see what ya did there.” Then the smile dropped from his face and was replaced by a look Pern had not seen before. It was dark and dangerous and made him look every bit the murderer he claimed to be. “Ya ain’t been long in the wilds, Kessick, I can tell that. So I’m gonna explain somethin’ to ya. Some things take time an’ this is one o’ them things. Ain’t exactly an easy order but you’ll get ya people, don’t you worry ‘bout that. Now hows ‘bout you piss off an’ only contact me again when ya got a real good reason.”

The figure in the dark stood still for a time then turned around and began to walk away. “Don’t make me regret choosing you, Swift. I’m not sure you could survive my disappointment.”

Swift waited until Kessick was well and truly gone and then turned, heading back out into the street. He grinned at Pern. “Reckon I could use a drink. Hows ‘bout you?”

Pern shook his head. “I am Haarin.”

“Right, right. Never liked that cunt, Kessick. Needs must though.”

“Who is he?” Pern asked.

“Oh aye. Takin’ an interest are we?”

“He threatened your life. The more I know the easier it will be to protect you,” Pern replied, it was logic pure and simple.

Swift watched Pern out of the corner of his left eye. “Aye. Seems our Kessick used ta be an Arbiter. Now I don’t reckon many are jus’ released by the Inquisition so seems ta me the bastard is on the run from ‘em. Might be worth turnin’ him in sometime but not right now, not while he’s still payin’ me.”

“You work for him?” Pern asked.

“Nah. More like partners. He gives me money, a lot o’ money, an’ I find the people he wants. ‘Fore ya ask I don’t know why he wants ‘em an’ I don’t much care long as I get paid. But here’s the thing. The money he’s payin’ me… It’s already fuckin’ mine.” Again the grin disappeared from Swift’s face, replaced by something a lot darker.

“See ya might ask yaself; how does an ex-Arbiter come up with so many bits? He stole ‘em.” Swift let out a bitter laugh. “After that business in Hostown last year the H’osts were done. Any of the full-blooded members that weren’t killed in the slaughter were hunted down an’ dispatched. Ain’t like the blooded folk ta leave a man when he’s down. They sensed the end of the H’osts an’ they went fer the throat. Wouldn’t surprise me if that fuck, D’roan has a head or two mounted on his wall.

“So with all the full blooded H’osts dead seems ta me any inheritance should go ta Gregor H’ost’s bastard son, right? Well that’d be me. Problem is, all his fortune seems ta be missin’. Mercs didn’t take it; had a few o’ them tortured jus’ ta make sure. Townsfolk didn’t take it; not a one o’ them would go near the fort after them demon things came from there. So where’d it all go? Mountains o’ gold bits. Millions. Gone.”

“So then this fuck Kessick shows up an’ tells me he used ta work with my da’. Tells me he’s willin’ ta pay more an’ more ‘an generously if I provide him with what he needs. Seems he has the bits ta spare too so I had a little dig into his past. Found out he was a Arbiter ‘til a short span back. Now where could he have come up with so much money?” Swift sniffed and spat into the street Takes a real set o’ stones fer a thief ta steal from a man an’ then pay that man with his own money, I reckon.”

Pern thought he was beginning to understand. “So you bought my contract to protect you because you don’t intend to fulfil Kessick’s order.”

Swift grinned. “Oh I’ll keep doin’ what he wants fer now. ‘Til I figure out where he’s stashed the bits. After that I reckon I’m gonna see jus’ how easy it is ta kill a Arbiter.”

They stopped outside a large stone building on the east side of the Gold quarter of Chade. It was a building Pern had come to know very well in the past few weeks. Swift was required to attend every few days and his Haarin was his constant shadow.

“Time ta go deal with the fools that reckon they run this place,” Swift said with a grimace. “One day I reckon I might jus’ kill ‘em all an’ take control of this city myself.” With that Swift strode into the chambers of the ruling council of Chade.

Anders

Nervousness didn’t enter into it but then Anders had to admit that was only because he was too drunk to feel the sensation of his nerves slowly fraying. He was a connoisseur when it came to being drunk and he had more than enough experience in all twelve stages of alcohol intoxication.

Right now he put himself in stage eight; too drunk to feel anything much past a warm sense of self-gratification. He’d had to manage his drinking earlier in the night in order to make sure he hit stage eight. Stage seven brought feelings of paranoia and extreme isolation and stage nine could easily turn a man into an over-emotional narcissist; neither of which would help with the current plan that he fervently wished he had never suggested in the first place.

“You know how ta use that thing?” Henry asked.

Anders smiled. “I think you of all people, my dear, should already…”

“The sword,” she interrupted, not even the ghost of a smile on her lips, just the usual sneer. She was still wearing her riding boots, still wearing her men’s trousers, still wearing her wide brimmed cavalier hat, but now she wore a light leather jerkin over her torso. Her hair she had tied into a short ponytail and her bright blue eyes burned with a fierce intensity. All in all Anders had to admit that she made a striking and not unattractive figure.

“Oh. Well I took a few lessons in my youth. I think you just sort of take hold of this end,” he put his hand on the hilt, “and wave it at the other man’s face until he begins to bleed.”

The look Henry gave him was stony and full of disbelief. It would appear his humour had passed over her head somewhat. Anders decided to try to diffuse the situation. “I have had some experience in sword-play. I’ve even been known to kill a man on occasion though I do try to avoid it wherever possible. There was this one time…”

“An’ ya reckon gettin’ drunk first was a good idea?”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t want to fight a man while sober,” Anders grinned again and again Henry looked at him with a stony sneer.

“What happens if it’s a woman?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“Ya keep sayin’ fight a man. What happens if it’s a woman ya gotta put down?” There was a challenge in the way the little murderess raised her chin when she spoke to him.

“Oh… well I suppose I could fight a woman if need be.” He’d killed a woman before, he was fairly sure he could do it again. Anders had only killed the one girl so far though and it was a messy affair. She hadn’t been any more than a child really; just entering woman-hood. Wasn’t even her fault, Anders had been trying to kill the man on top of her. “Doubt it really makes much of difference in the end. Man or woman we’re all red on the inside aren’t we.”

That made Henry smile, though Anders couldn’t quite figure out why. She gave him a hungry look then nodded for them to catch up with the Black Thorn who, it had to be said, looked as though he had found a particularly uncomfortable leaning spot.

“Ya sure this’ll work?” Thorn said shifting his weight from foot to foot, then rolling his shoulders, then stretching his neck from side to side before finally settling on scratching the burned side of his face with his maimed hand.

“No,” Anders slurred, though in truth he was certain it would.

Thorn didn’t look encouraged. “Right. I guess most folk in this city don’t know one blooded from another. Let’s jus’ hope thems that work fer ‘em ain’t no different.”

Anders had grown up around people speaking the wilds’ drawl; he’d lived around it for somewhere close to all of his life and, if need be, he could speak it himself, not that he ever would by choice. Sometimes, however, it grated on him and the constant use of double negatives made his teeth hurt. Still, he knew from past experience that trying to explain the concept to most people tended to yield about the same results as betting on a lame dog in a race, so instead he just kept quiet and conspired to give Thorn’s back the eye-rolling of a lifetime.

“I’m sure it will be fine, B.T. All I do is walk up to the guards with you as my bodyguard and the lovely Henry as my…” Anders paused, unsure of how Henry would respond to being called a consort. “I tell them I’m Anders Brekovich. They’ll believe me and, not wanting to upset their employer, they will let us in.”

Thorn nodded and glanced back at Anders. “Well ya do look the part. Ain’t never a blooded didn’t dress fancy.”

Anders levelled some more eye-rolling at Thorn. Henry caught him and punched him on the arm hard enough to leave a spreading numbness. “That will bruise,” he slurred at her with a face he hoped looked like a begging puppy.

“Ahh. Damage ya milky skin will it?” she mocked him.

“It might.”

She punched him again in the same place for good measure. Anders sighed and decided to spend his time gazing longingly at a nearby tavern. The Blind Beggar seemed a common name but then it was a common drinking hole. Not that commonness had ever put Anders off when a drink was involved. Now he thought about it he could feel himself sobering up as the minutes drew on and the last thing any of them needed was for him to drop back into stage seven.

“Perhaps we should…um… wait another thirty minutes or so. There is a fantastically vulgar looking tavern just over the street. Probably just right for our little crew.”

Thorn spat. “This ain’t a crew. No more waitin’ an’ no more drinkin’. Now, boss, get out there an’ dazzle us all with ya disguise.”

Anders let out an audible groan and straightened the jacket of his new suit, a wonderfully comfortable fabric both lightweight and fashionable. He’d managed to find it for fairly cheap and, although it was just a touch too large for him, it certainly made him look the part. It was a shame about the colour; brown had never really suited him but sometimes needs must. Anders held his head as high as it went and affected a down-the-nose look at anybody who happened to be in front of him. Then he strode out towards the entrance to the fighting pits.

“This ain’t never gonna work,” he heard Thorn say from behind though this time the Black Thorn’s drawl happened to be correct.

“You there,” Anders demanded the attention of the first guard he came across. “My father sent me.”

The guard glanced at one of his fellows and then back. “Your father?”

Anders gave the man a look that left him in doubt he was already bored of talking to him. “Niles Brekovich.”

The guard’s eyes went wide and his back straightened in an instant. “Yes sir. I wasn’t aware Lord Brekovich was attending the fight, sir.”

Anders sighed. “Do you see him here?”

The guard looked around as if to check then shook his head.

“That’s because he’s not here. I am.”

“Right. Yes sir,” the guard responded.

“I’m here to speak to…” Anders turned to Thorn and gave his hand a vague wave towards something in some direction. “What is that man’s name? The one who is fighting tomorrow. Big fellow. Some sort of champion, I hear.”

Thorn looked caught between surprise and anger and fear but recovered well. “Oren Thunderfist.”

Anders started to turn back to the guard and stopped. “Really? What a fantastically descriptive name.”

Thorn nodded once. “Yes, boss.”

“I’m here to see this Thunderfist fellow about the fight. It’s on my father’s orders.” Anders drew in a deep breath and sighed it out in a most dramatic fashion.

“May I ask what it’s about, sir?” asked the guard.

“No.”

“Right. Of course, sir. Will you be needing an escort? The pits can be like a maze.”

Anders fixed the man with a loathing glare. “Do I look like I need a guide?”

“Uhh…”

“Oh just stand aside.” He started to walk past the guard and stopped. “The correct title when addressing the first son of a Lord is also Lord.”

The guards nodded vigorously. “Yes sir. Uh… Lord.. um… Brekovich.”

Anders shook his head in such a way that left the guard under no illusions that his ignorance was beyond contempt and then continued his way into the fighting pits of Solantis.

Once inside and away from the eyes of guards Anders turned to the others with a grin about as wide as his face. “What do you think? I told you it would work.”

Thorn sniffed. “Aye. Never doubted you.”

“Yes you did,” Anders complained. “I heard you back there.”

“We need ta find us the right place. Guard weren’t wrong ‘bout this place bein’ built like a maze.”

“Can I at least get my flask back now?” Anders whined.

Thorn stared at him for a second then nodded. “Aye.” He took the flask from one of the many pockets in his coat, unscrewed the top, drained the remaining contents into his mouth then handed the battered metal flask to Anders.

“That was just rude,” Anders said in reply but took the flask anyway and upended it, looking for any stray drop of alcohol that might be left inside.

“Reckon it’s this way,” said Henry pointing into the gloom.

After a while Anders began to suspect Henry had just picked a random direction. They didn’t seem to come across anything resembling living quarters for a champion of the pits. They passed well stocked armouries full of weapons, most of which Anders couldn’t name. They passed cells both empty and occupied, some contained scrawny, ill-fed slaves and some contained burly mountains of muscle and hair and nasty disposition, some even contained wild animals so Anders spent a good minute getting a close up view of a lazy-looking lion. They passed training rooms where fighters, those without slave collars round their necks, could swing swords at each other or loose arrows at painted targets. Most of all, though, they passed cold, grimy, dark stone.

Anders realised the entire coliseum was built around the pits and the spectators area in three tiers of concentric circles around the grounds. He tried to picture how big the entire structure must be but failed. If he remembered correctly, and it was entirely possible he didn’t, there were something like ten pits in the centre of the coliseum, each one a good thirty feet and circular with stands to cheer and jeer. Then there was the main pit; a monster of a battlefield at least ten times the size of its smaller siblings and stained with more blood than the average dungeon with more being spilled each day. With the housing and cells and armouries and mess halls… Anders was forced to wonder how anyone could afford to build such a monstrosity but then the Brekovichs had always been one of the richer blooded families and they made enough money from the pits to make their investment worth while; people flocked from all over the known world to watch folk die here.

They passed more guards inside. These weren’t the usual mercs that one would find in the city of Solantis; they were men and women loyal to the Brekovichs but that didn’t mean they had ever seen one of their blooded employers. Anders kept up the charade by talking to his companions, talking to himself, talking to the guards, all the while making sure he looked bored and dismissing any attempts at inquiring as to his intentions. All the guards saw was a blooded man who looked as though he owned the place and they were trained not to question their betters.

“Why don’t we just stop and ask for directions?” Anders said after a while.

“‘Cos we’re almost there,” the Black Thorn replied in a terse tone.

Anders looked one way down the wide, curving corridor and then the other way. It all looked exactly the same to him. “How can you tell?”

“This place is built in three rings right. Makes sense that thems got their freedom would be on the outside, furthest from the pits. No cells in this ring, see. Rooms have been steadily getting’ bigger. This Thunderfist we’re lookin’ fer is some sort of foreign champion, visitin’ from somewhere down south. Reckon he’ll have one o’ the largest of these rooms.”

Anders couldn’t fault the logic; it made perfect sense. “What do you want to bet it’s the room with the two guards outside?”

Two burly-looking fellows dressed in some sort of hide armour bearing the Brekovich crest were standing either side of a large wooden door. Both men carried long swords at their hips and both turned to look at the approaching crew. Anders didn’t slow his pace; to do so would give the game away.

“Quick an’ quiet, Henry. I got the left one,” Thorn whispered in a hoarse voice from behind.

Anders stopped in front of the two guards and Henry and Thorn flanked him. Both guards glanced at the sell-sword and the slight murderess before focusing their attention on the drunken blooded man in front of them.

“My name is Anders Brekovich. I’m here to see that fellow you have in there.”

“I know…” one of the guards, a man with a pronounced lisp, started to say before Henry and Thorn moved as one. Stepping close stabbing the guards in a practised motion. Thorn’s dagger took the unwary guard under the chin, the blade driving straight up into the brain. Henry’s pierced the other man’s side, hitting Gods knew what vital spots. Both men died on their feet. Anders grabbed for the man Henry had killed to help her lower him to the ground but she shoved him away. The guard was maybe twice her size but she struggled through it on her own.

“You know I’m starting to think you two might have done this sort of thing before,” Anders said.

“Reckon I could say the same ‘bout you,” Henry replied, eyeing him with intense scrutiny. Anders grinned in reply. “Ya seem ta have a right good handle on pretending ta be from one o’ the families.”

Anders grinned sheepishly. “Well when you’ve got a bit of blood in you, you might as well make it work to your advantage.”

“Get those bodies hid,” Thorn said, giving all his attention to the wooden door. “Somewhere they won’t be found ‘til after tomorrow.”

Henry looked up and down the corridor. “Where?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Thorn whispered back. “Jus’ do it. I’m gonna sneak in an’ give this ta the target.” He patted the pouch of dust hanging on his belt.

“Reckon I should do it,” Henry opined. “Little bit quieter than you.”

“Aye but what if he wakes or somethin’? Name like Thunderfist I’m guessin’ he’s a big lad. Probably snap you in half.”

Henry snorted but bent down and grabbed the arm of one of the guards. “Anders, gimme a hand.”

“Right, of course.” Anders took one last look at Thorn, who was still paying the wooden door considerable attention, and then helped Henry drag the body away.

Thorn

Stealth was not one of Betrim’s strongest skills; truth was it never had been. The Black Thorn had always been more of a blunt instrument designed to be used with a distinct lack of subtlety. That didn’t mean he hadn’t done a fair bit of sneaking about in his time. There was a knack to opening a door quietly and it involved a great deal of patience, something Betrim had in spades.

He pushed the solid lump of wood open with pain-staking severity until he could fit his head through; if the Thunderfist was still awake at this hour all pretence at stealth would have to be forgotten and Betrim could go back to his tried and tested method of hitting things hard in the face. The room was dim with a single candle burning low; close to guttering out on a small wooden table. Betrim could see a single wardrobe, a chest and behind the chest a single bed. A great lump of darkness lay sprawling on the bed; fully clothed, dark-skinned and snoring as loud as a roaring fire.

With a suppressed sigh Betrim pushed the door open wider and slipped into the room. It was the smell that hit him first; irritating to the nose and sharp in a way that made his eye twitch. It was an herb known as mint and Betrim knew some folk chewed it as a way to clear their noses and help them breathe easier. How any man could stand the taste if it was as bad as the smell Betrim could not figure. Personal taste aside he had a job to do and standing around sniffing at the air was not going to get it done. Without taking his eye from the unconscious mass on the bed Betrim crept closer.

When it came to sleeping Betrim knew there were two types of people; there were those who could fall asleep in an instant and would wake at the slightest noise, and there were those who took an age to drop off but who could sleep through a thunderstorm.

The Black Thorn had once known a man by the name of Millet the fourth; no one ever knew if there had been three other Millets before him, truth was no one had ever thought to ask. Now Millet had most definitely fit into the second category of sleepers. He’d been a hunter, and a successful one at that, but the Black Thorn and his crew at the time had happened upon the bounty hunters at night and decided to take no risks. The resulting battle had been loud enough to wake the dead but not Millet. The unlucky bastard had slept through the entire bloody affair. He’d only woken later when all his other hunters were dead. The crew had had their fun with the poor fellow before they killed him. Almost made Betrim wince to remember what they had done to him.

Oren Thunderfist, it seemed, was not a member of the deep sleepers. Before Betrim had gotten within three feet of the pit fighter his eyes snapped open and he flew out of the bed and straight at the Black Thorn.

One meaty hand grabbed Betrim by the neck and squeezed tight, the other wrestled with Betrim’s right arm. Didn’t take long for Betrim to realise he couldn’t breathe with the Thunderfist’s hand wrapped around his neck. The bigger man pushed the Black Thorn backwards and slammed him against a hard stone wall. Betrim pulled and pushed and wriggled and twisted his right arm but the pit fighter’s strength was an indomitable force that held tight, locked him down. Betrim’s left hand scratched at the hand around his neck; his three fingers tried to dig into flesh but it was no good. The Thunderfist’s dark, almond-shaped eyes glared into Betrim’s own eye with unrestrained malice.

Just as the world began to dim Betrim reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of the Thunderfist’s right ear and he pulled with all the strength he had left. The big pit fighter growled, then squealed and let go of Betrim’s right hand to deal with his left. The Black Thorn didn’t waste a moment; he punched the man in the face twice with his right and then tore free of his grip, near doubling over as he gasped beautiful air back into his complaining lungs.

Betrim would have liked to take a minute to recover; unfortunately the Thunderfist was not so accommodating. Massive arms wrapped themselves around Betrim’s chest and he threw a quick elbow back into the man’s face. The pit fighter ignored the beating and Betrim found himself picked up, twisted about in the air and slammed back onto the cold stone floor face first. A hard fist punched him in his side, just below his kidneys and Betrim coughed out a wordless exclamation of pain before spinning onto his back, pulling up his feet and pushing the Thunderfist away.

The Thunderfist stumbled back a step and tripped over the bed. Betrim took the opportunity to scramble away on his arse and pull himself to his feet using the wardrobe to steady himself. By the time he reached his feet the Thunderfist had regained his and he charged the Black Thorn with a roar like a mad elephant.

Betrim was well aware this was not a fight he was likely to win. Both men were of about a height but the Thunderfist hadn’t recently been stabbed and strapped to a table for three months. Truth was the big pit fighter was stronger than the Black Thorn had ever been and the Black Thorn was still not fully recovered. Even so Betrim knew he couldn’t use his weapons; if he killed the pit fighter the job would be failed and there was no telling what Carlston might do in that situation. That being the case Betrim could only hope he matched the bigger man for ferocity.

The Thunderfist hit Betrim in the midsection and again Betrim found himself shoved back-first against a wall. Before the Thunderfist could get the upper hand again Betrim leapt at the big man, shoving his knee into his stomach again and again and again. The Thunderfist responded by grabbing Betrim around the legs, lifting and throwing the Black Thorn over his shoulders.

He hit the floor and the air rushed out of his lungs. Before he could react he felt a leg fall across his chest and two big hands grabbed hold of his left arm and started pulling. The Black Thorn twisted, pulled and wriggled, grunted, snorted and growled and the Thunderfist responded by growling back and kicking Betrim in the face with his free foot.

He wasn’t sure whether he felt or heard the crack first; he wasn’t even certain which finger it was. The pain washed over him like a flood of boiling water and the shout that erupted from his lungs was somewhere between a cry of pain and furious howl of rage. Betrim swung his right foot round as far as he could and was rewarded with a loud grunt as it somehow connected with the Thunderfist’s head. The pit fighter’s grip loosened for a moment and Betrim pulled his left arm free, sat up and punched the other man as hard as he could with his right hand in the groin. The Thunderfist’s mouth and eyes opened wide and he gasped in pain. Betrim was just about to reach for the pouch of dust on his belt when the pit fighter’s knee came out of nowhere and caught him in the face.

Betrim rolled away and struggled back to his feet, cradling his left hand close to his chest; seemed his little finger was broken. The Thunderfist rose from the ground and limped forwards. The Black Thorn knew just how much it hurt to be punched in the stones and right now, he knew, the Thunderfist was feeling it. Didn’t stop the big man from pressing the attack though. Betrim blocked the first punch with his right hand but the second caught him full in the face and forced him backwards, reeling from the force of the blow. Before he knew what was happening two more punches hit his back and Betrim’s legs gave out, dropping him to his knees. He saw the arms closing around his head just in time and launched himself back to his feet, the top of his head connecting with the Thunderfist’s chin with an unhealthy-sounding crack. Before the resulting pain could render him unconscious Betrim span and lashed out with his right fist, hitting the Thunderfist in the face, just below his left eye.

The big pit fighter stumbled back a few steps then shook his head to blow away the cobwebs and roared at Betrim. The Black Thorn, not to be outdone, screamed back at the big man, grabbed the pouch of dust from his belt and launched it at the other man’s face.

The Thunderfist snatched the pouch out of the air with practised accuracy. Unfortunately for him his thunderfists were not designed to be gentle and as he caught hold of the pouch the dust contained within puffed out of the top and into the pit fighter’s face.

The Thunderfist sneezed once and stepped backwards, wafting the dust away with his hands. Then he focused back on Betrim and roared again. Betrim was just getting ready to take a few more punches to the face when the Thunderfist’s roar turned into a cough, then a sneezing fit, then he began to shake. The whites of the man’s eyes started to look red and pink frothy foam started bubbling on his lips. The pit fighter collapsed to his knees and then fell onto his side, still shaking, his eyes wide and red with a steady trickle of blood leaking from his nose.

After a while the shaking stopped and Betrim had the unmistakeable feeling he was now sharing a room with a corpse. It wasn’t just the steady leaking of blood from the body’s nose, mouth and ears; it was also the stench of shit. Folk tended to shit themselves when they died and it appeared the Thunderfist was no exception. Betrim stood up from his battle-ready crouch and had a good look at the body without getting too close; truth was he didn’t want to breathe in any of the dust. Definitely a corpse; he’d been around enough of them to know what one looked like. With a weary and painful shake of the head Betrim made for the door.

Henry and Anders were returning for the body of the second guard when Betrim stepped out of the Thunderfist’s room. Anders was flapping his mouth as usual; seemed that one was a talker, Henry was smiling to his words; no trace of her usual sneer. The smile quickly turned to a frown when she saw Betrim.

“What happened ta you?”

Betrim had no doubt he looked a right state; covered in sweat, bleeding from half a dozen places, most of them located on or around his face, and if the bruises weren’t showing up yet they would soon. There was also the matter of the little finger on his left hand being broken and pointing off in an unnatural direction. He knew that would need re-setting and he knew it would hurt like all the hells.

“Reckon we might been set up,” Betrim said to the others as Henry poked her head into the Thunderfist’s room to have a look for herself.

“Shit, Thorn. Ya weren’t supposed ta kill the bastard. Impressive though.”

Anders had himself a good look too. “What did you do to him, boss?”

Betrim leaned his back against the wall and sank down to a sitting position. Truth was he was tired and beyond tired. Nothing like a good old fashioned fist fight to knacker a man out. “Weren’t me. Or well it was. It were the dust. Don’t reckon Carlston ever intended that fella ta live.”

“Why would he send us in here to drug the Thunderfist if he just wanted the man dead?” Anders asked. “Why lie about the job?”

“‘Cos we’re not meant ta make it out o’ here alive either,” Henry said after aiming a savage kick at the corpse of the remaining guard. “Reckon he knows ‘bout me?”

Betrim nodded. Carlston was passing up the bounty on the Black Thorn’s head to get to Henry. Not many folk would put revenge above that sum of bits but then some folk treated family as important and Henry had murdered his nephew. With some considerable effort Betrim pushed himself back to his feet and let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. He was just about to suggest hiding the other guard when the sound of voices drifted towards them from somewhere down the corridor.

Henry

Weren’t often that Henry could say a situation was her fault but this one was without a doubt. It had been her that murdered Carlston’s nephew and truth was she’d do it all over again no matter the damned consequences. Bastard had been beating on the young girl for little more than no reason and it had brought back memories. Memories best left dead and buried. Problem was with the memories came the anger boiling up from somewhere deep inside and she couldn’t control it; the need to commit some sort of violence became physical. Right now, she had to admit, she was pretty damned angry so she guessed it was lucky that, by the sound of it, violence seemed to be just around the corner.

“I think it might be wise to retreat, my lady,” Anders said in a shaky voice.

“Or we jus’ stay here an’ kill ‘em all,” Henry replied. Staring down the bending corridor waiting for the owners of the voices to appear. They were still echoing; meant they were still some distance away but getting closer.

“I’m not sure the boss is up for another fight. He looks tired.”

“I’m good,” Thorn rasped. “Reckon ya might be right ‘bout the retreat though. Some fights are worth avoidin’.”

Henry ground her teeth together, then spat, turned and sent a glare at Anders. “Stop calling him the Boss.” With that she limped past the other two, away from the approaching voices. Why the pain in her leg always chose moments like this to flare into life was beyond her.

They moved at somewhere between a walk and a run; following the curve away from the voices behind them, ignoring the open and the locked doors alike. They passed a group of three guards standing outside one of the occupied quarters. The men looked more confused than anything else and Henry doubted they could take the time to fight the bastards given they were being chased.

She crossed back into the second ring at the first opportunity, not even bothering to check behind her to see if the other two were following. It seemed to be slaves in this ring, cells with five or more people, men and a few women. The slaves either kept their eyes down, ignoring them or stared at Henry and the others with bitter resentment like it was somehow her fault that they wore iron collars. Never really made sense to Henry why some folk chose to be slaves. Seemed to her a person could put a collar on you and tell you that you’re property but they could only make you a slave if you let them. Someone ever tried that with her and she’d find a way to kill them at the first opportunity. Some folk just seemed to give up and allow themselves to be owned though. The whole thing didn’t sit right with Henry.

“Bugger this,” Thorn rasped out and slowed to a stop, doubling over as he struggled for breath. “I hate runnin’. Lets jus’ fight the bastards.”

Henry stalked up to the big, one-eyed, sell-sword. “You the one agreed ta run.”

“Aye,” Thorn agreed. “An’ now I’m the one changin’ my mind. Let’s fight. Can’t be that many of them.”

“Uhh,” Anders started then decided to shut his mouth. The fool was swaying on his feet. Didn’t seem too out of breath though, despite the jog.

“Spit it out,” Henry growled, staring up at the blooded drunk. Sometimes it annoyed her that pretty much everyone was taller than her, and more so than most at times like this with her leg aching and impending death right around the corner.

“Right. Yes. Of course. It’s just… the Brekovichs are rather rich. I think it may be safe to say there are a lot of guards. Probably more than we can fight.”

Henry looked to Thorn. The big man just shrugged back at her. Should have been up to him to make the decision; he was the one wanting to lead but seemed he couldn’t be arsed. Henry was on the verge of deciding for them when the decision was taken away. Five armed men came trotting towards them from the direction they had been fleeing.

Looking around Henry did not feel confident. Truth was the curving corridor was wide, a good twenty feet across and that meant they could be surrounded. Henry didn’t much like the idea of fighting enemies both in front and behind; seemed a good way to get stabbed in the back and those guards were carrying nice long spears that looked perfect for the job. There were still the other guards approaching from behind as well. Wouldn’t take much in the way of numbers to overrun the three of them. Thorn already had his axe in his five-fingered hand a small knife in his three-fingered one. His little finger looked broken but then Thorn had never been the type to complain about injuries. Anders let out a large sigh and struggled to pull his rapier free from its scabbard.

“Anders, gimme the keys,” Henry ordered the drunk.

“Huh?”

“The keys, the ones ya took off the dead guard.”

“Oh, right. Of course,” Anders stumbled out then started fishing in his pocket. He pulled the small collection of keys free and threw them in Henry’s general direction, though his aim was a good few feet off.

She snatched the keys from the air and approached the nearest occupied cell. Eight slaves, five men and three women and all scarred and looking like they knew their way around a fight, watched her with wary eyes. “Keep them off my back,” Henry said and pointed at the approaching guards just starting to fan out to try to surround them. Thorn understood and moved himself between the enemies and Henry, Anders followed a moment later, the point of his sword dipping and rising and swaying from side to side.

Twelve keys on the ring and Henry had no idea which was the right one; she hoped at least one of them fit the lock. By the time she tried the third one she could hear Thorn and Anders fighting with the guards. She heard at least one man die; heard the death rattle of his last breath. After enough killings the sound was well known to Henry; it was a pleasant, comforting sound. By the seventh key she could hear Anders spitting insults at his enemies, many of which seem to revolve around mocking their mothers. Thorn was quiet barring the odd rasping laugh. The eighth key slipped into the lock and Henry felt the mechanism turn and then she pulled open the cell door with a rusty scream. The slaves backed further into the dingy little cell, eyeing their would-be liberator with paranoid eyes.

“Well come on then,” Henry shouted at the slaves. “What the fuck are ya waitin’ fer? Get out here.”

The biggest of the slaves; a man near as tall as Thorn and thick with muscle with beady blue eyes and a large brown tattoo on the left side of his bare chest, walked forwards and reached out with his right hand, took hold of the door to his cell and pulled it back into a closed position. “Not our fight,” was all the big man said.

“Henry,” Thorn rasped out, the laugh in his voice gone, he sounded hard pushed and in need of a hand. Henry ignored him. She glanced into the next cell; the slaves there pressed themselves against the far wall to show their obedience to their owners. It was enough to make Henry want to spit, enough to make her want to stab them all.

“Then hows ‘bout ya make it your fight!” she screamed at them all. “Ya all happy ta sit an’ rot in ya cells till those that put collars on ya tell ya who ya supposed ta kill? Ain’t no one can make ya a slave but yaself but I reckon ya all know that. Reckon ya all happy ta be told what ta do all ya lives. Easier ta live an’ die by another’s will, eh? That it? Ya wanna be slaves?”

The big man with his hand on the cell door looked embarrassed. Probably shamed by a woman half his size questioning the point of his existence. He took his hand away from the cell door and scratched at his face. “Ain’t no one want ta be a slave.”

Henry spat on the floor and threw the cell keys at the big slave’s chest. “Then fuckin’ fight fer ya freedom!” she screamed at him before turning her back on all of them, drawing her twin daggers and launching herself at one of the remaining three guards.

She reversed the grip on her daggers and dodged to the side as a spear point thrust at her. The man tried to stab at her again but Henry was too quick, even with the constant pain in her leg forcing her to limp. She slipped up next to the guard and with one quick spin she slashed him three times, once on his left arm, once in his thigh and a final cut in his neck. The man dropped his spear and stumbled away clutching at the blood spurting out his neck wound. A few moments later he dropped to the floor and Henry left him to die. Only two guards left now and as Henry watched Thorn grabbed hold of a spear, snapped the shaft with his axe then planted his knife in the spear owner’s eye. Henry ran up behind the final guard attacking Anders and slit his throat from behind. Anders danced out the way of the blood with a yell and then stepped forward and embraced Henry. For a horrifying instant the drunk reminded her of Swift and she almost stabbed him.

“Thank you, my lady,” Henry slurred at her. “I am, of course, forever at your assistance. That one was giving me no end of trouble.”

Henry glanced at the bodies on the floor. By the looks of things Anders had dispatched two of the men himself. Henry decided there might be more to the blooded bastard than he was letting on but now was not the time to dig deeper. More guards were starting to arrive, a lot more guards. Far more than the three of them could handle.

The biggest slave; the one with the tattooed chest pushed the door to his cell open, handed the keys to the man behind him and picked up one of the discarded spears. The man behind him rushed off to open other cells and the rest of the slaves started filtering out; picking up spears from the dead guards, or pulling the swords from the scabbards at the corpses’ sides. Didn’t take long before the guards were the ones outnumbered and a short skirmish later found those same guards beating a hurried retreat with Henry, Thorn, Anders and a host of slave pit fighters chasing the bastards through the corridors with more slaves joining the rebellion all the time.

The slaves burst out of the fighting pits ahead of Henry and the other two. By the time they forced their way out of the doors there was already fighting in the square. The guards had regrouped and were joined by groups of mercs that happened to be loitering nearby. No doubt more mercs would arrive in a steady stream from now on but there were hundreds of slaves all fired up and determined to fight for their freedom. Henry found herself grinning; it was going to be a bloody night in Solantis.

She felt a big three-fingered hand wrap around her arm and pull her away from the chaos. Anders hovered close by looking more and more worried by the moment.

“I don’t think this is going to go down too well with the Brekovichs,” the blooded drunk said when they were far enough away from the entrance so not to be involved in the fighting.

“Aye,” Thorn agreed, he was staring into Henry’s face with his one eye. “You with us, Henry?”

Henry realised the half-crazed, blood-frenzied grin was still plastered to her face. With effort she managed to calm herself. “Aye. I’m good.” She looked around the square outside the Coliseum. Hundreds of folk were fighting and dying. This wasn’t just a fight anymore. It was a battle. A battle she had caused. Now she thought about it she didn’t feel quite so pleased; might be she felt a little bad about it.

Thorn gripped hold of her shoulder and nodded at her. “Ya did good, Henry. Saved us all, I reckon.”

Henry just nodded in reply. Truth was she didn’t feel up to talking right now. Wasn’t sure what she might end up saying.

“Um…” Anders started, a panicked look on his face. “I would like to suggest slipping away before we become entangled in the night’s festivities any further.”

“Eh?”

The blooded drunk sighed. “I think we should leave. Now.”

Thorn nodded. He still had a hand on Henry’s shoulder, felt comforting now she thought about it. “Right you are, Anders. Let’s get back ta Henry’s place quick. Figure out what the fuck we gonna do once we’re back there.”

“What we’re going to do?” Anders asked.

“Aye. That shit, Carlston jus’ tried ta have us killed. Folk who try ta kill the Black Thorn don’t tend ta live through failin’. Reckon we need ta pay him back.”

Thorn

Betrim didn’t reckon any of them could have predicted how far Henry’s freeing of the slaves would go. Two days later and there was still fighting everywhere. Truth was the number of slaves in Solantis outnumbered the mercs and those from the pits had broken free and were busy freeing all the other slaves they could find. Major sections of the city had become camps for free slaves, with more and more being freed all the time. The merc companies, unable to band together and work as a single force, were being outnumbered in all their encounters and were losing most of the battles. Solantis had gone from lawless shit-hole to lawless war-zone in the course of just two days and Henry had started it all, a fact she didn’t seem to be taking too well if Betrim was any sort of judge.

For two days none of them had left Henry’s tavern. For his part Betrim spent a lot of time either leaning or pacing or playing with his recently broken finger; funny how pain could almost be addictive at times. Anders had decided to take the downtime as a way to further his drinking habit and would only wake from his drunken stupor just long enough to get another drink. Henry, on the other hand, alternated between giving dark looks to anyone and everyone she encountered and spending generous amounts of time alone in her room upstairs.

Thankfully the fighting hadn’t reached them yet. There were few places that could afford to keep slaves in this part of Solantis so there was no one to free. That didn’t mean the area wouldn’t turn into a battleground at some point though. If Betrim had his way they would all be long gone by the time that happened. Henry didn’t seem enthusiastic about abandoning her tavern though.

There was also the matter of Carlston Barrow to deal with. The man had set them up and had tried to make certain they didn’t emerge from the fighting pits alive. He had failed and the Black Thorn was well known for not letting folk have a second chance. Unfortunately Carlston Barrow commanded a small army worth of mercs and by now was almost certainly holed up behind a wall of steel and flesh. It pained Betrim but he had to admit he might have to let this one go this time, for now at least. With any luck the slave uprising would deal with the petty fixer but if not Betrim would just have to schedule a return trip to Solantis sometime in the future once everything had settled down. Not a place he wanted to visit again after he got out but some things were unavoidable. He had a reputation to maintain after all.

Anders stirred from his drunken slumber, lifted his head off the table and squinted around the tavern in a way that left Betrim in no doubt the man was pickled. With what seemed a heroic amount of effort the drunk pushed himself to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process, and lurched towards the bar where Josef stood with a stony expression that the Black Thorn would have been proud of.

“Be a good fellow and… and… and fetch… me a drank… uh… drink…. Josef,” Anders slurred out as he collapsed against the bar and grinned up at the man. In reply Josef shook his head; his wiry arms crossed firmly against his chest. “What? Cut off? Bollocks.”

“Anders,” Betrim called from his spot leaning against the wall, as far from the front door as possible and with a handy view of every nook, cranny and corner in the room. “Go upstairs an’ fetch Henry. Reckon it’s ‘bout time we talked ‘bout gettin’ out of this shit-hole of a city.”

Anders turned around and squinted at the common room in general as if he wasn’t sure who had spoken. Made for a right strange action given that apart from Betrim, Henry, Anders and Josef not a single soul had entered the tavern since the slaves started fighting.

“Right you are, boss,” Anders said before turning and staring at the stairs as if they were the biggest challenge the man had ever faced. He put one foot on the first step, collapsed and crawled the rest of the way up. Betrim sent a look at Josef, Josef rolled his eyes in reply. Betrim reckoned he might miss that, given time, rolling his eyes. He could still roll the one for a certainty but he reckoned it would lack the impact.

Henry and Anders took their time returning. Betrim was just about on the verge of fetching them himself when Henry sauntered down the stairs. She was dressed for leaving with her thigh-high riding boots, simple trousers, tight leather jerkin and the same hat she had worn the other day. Seems she’d taken a liking to that hat. Betrim had never liked the ideas of hats; they tended to narrow the field of vision, made it harder to tell when someone was going to try for your life. Anders stumbled down the stairs just after Henry and deposited himself at the bar.

“Josef, get Anders a drink,” Henry ordered. Josef complied but the last thing he looked was happy about it.

Henry slumped down in a chair close by to Betrim and let out a sigh, she didn’t even bother looking at him.

“Right then…” Betrim started.

“Ya wanna leave,” Henry finished.

“Better that than get stabbed by a bunch o’ rowdy slaves.”

Henry sniffed. “Where ya gonna go?”

“Dunno. South most likely. Kessick, the fuck that did this,” he pointed at his eye-patch, “he’s somewhere in the wilds. Reckon I’m gonna look fer him, pay the bastard back. Reckon I owe that ta some folk. You stayin’?”

Henry nodded. “Ain’t never owned nowhere ‘fore. Reckon I might give it some sort of go. See if I can… I dunno.”

Betrim nodded. “Aye.” Wasn’t much left to say, he reckoned. Times like this, in Betrim’s experience, it was best just to get gone. No sense in prolonging goodbyes, especially not in this sort of crowd. He shouldered his pack, nodded once to Henry, once to Anders and third time to Josef and made for the door. He’d need to get out of Solantis as quick as possible and hope none of the escaped slaves mistook him for a merc, hope none of the mercs recognised him as being worth a bounty.

The door hadn’t even closed behind him when Betrim stepped back into the Dog’s Laugh backwards with the point of a sharp-looking long sword poking him in the chest. If any of those still in the tavern looked surprised Betrim didn’t see it. Truth was he was far too busy staring at the man holding the dangerous weapon on him. There were a bunch of them; twelve in all by Betrim’s count and to a man they were armed and did not look friendly. Betrim thought he recognised the one holding the sword to his chest but he couldn’t be certain.

“Might be I’m not leavin’ jus’ yet after all,” Betrim said as he backed into the tavern and the armed folk followed him in. “These lads make a fairly pressin’ argument as fer my stayin’.”

Betrim heard Henry spit. “Kain. Ain’t nice entering my place armed like this. ‘Specially not with them Long Tooths in tow.”

The familiar-looking one, the same one that happened to be pointing a sword at Betrim looked a little awkward. “Sorry ‘bout this, Henry.”

Henry snorted out a bitter laugh. “No you ain’t. If you were sorry ya wouldn’t be doin’ it.”

“You here fer the bounty?” Betrim asked.

“What bounty?”

Betrim shrugged and tried to look nonchalant.

“You here ta take me ta Carlston?” Henry asked.

“Carlston’s gone,” said one of the other men, one of the Long Tooth mercs.

“Dead?” Betrim asked.

“Fled. Snuck out sometime in the night. Jumped on the nearest ship headin’ anywhere, I reckon.”

That would make killing the bastard harder. First Betrim would have to find Carlston. First Betrim was going to have to get out of his current situation.

“Take their weapons, all of ‘em. Watch out fer Henry,” ordered Kain and the other mercs complied. Henry just stared at the two men who approached her and both looked as though they were trying to disarm a dragon.

“Fancy tellin’ me what’s goin’ on, Kain?” Henry asked after the two men had taken her daggers.

“Broken Blades is done, Commander Gurn took most of the lads ta fight the slaves an’ lost. Long Tooths is done too now Carlston is gone. Black Daggers, Sun’s Sons and the Ragged Flag too. All done, dead or fled. Solantis is next ta lost; be run by slaves ‘fore the month is out, I reckon. We’re leaving ‘fore that happens. Taking you three with us.”

“Where?”

“Crucible.”

There was a loud thud as Anders fell off the bar and hit the floor in a panic stricken heap. “You gentlemen know I’m just a hostage, of course. They kidnapped me, made me do it. I’ll just leave, be on my way. Thank you all so much for rescuing me.” The drunk stood; as steady as a rock and made his way towards the door. He got all of two steps before one of the mercs punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

“Tie their hands. Just those three, leave the barman,” Kain ordered and the other men obeyed.

Betrim and Henry stood side by side and shared a look. Wasn’t the first time either of them had been in situations like this and both knew their best chance of escape was to bide their time, wait for an opening, most likely it would come at night. Darkness provided plenty of chances to escape.

“You three set loose the slaves. Cost the Brekovichs a lot of bits, I reckon. We’re betting Lord Brekovich will be right grateful ta get his hands on ya.”

Anders groaned, Betrim snorted and Henry laughed and spoke over her shoulder. “Reckon the place is yours now, Josef. Good luck.”

Jacob Lee

Jacob had lost track of how long he’d spent in his new cell, though most of the sailors called it a cabin. The ocean posed a difficult situation for Jacob; he could not go up on deck, could not be close to any of the sailors at any time in case he heard the music. Being stranded at sea did not appeal. So he locked himself in his cabin and one of the boys delivered food every day; knocked once and left the tray outside. It was much like being in his cell back home except that instead of listening to other Arbiters and clerks talking about the world and their days, he listened to the creaking and groaning of the wood beneath him, above him, all around him. He listened to the water as it swayed and churned and slapped and sloshed. Sometimes he would hear the voices of the men tending to the great wooden beast but not often. It was always challenging being aboard a ship for prolonged periods of time but life was a series of challenges and Jacob had faced his hardest long, long ago.

Now he was looking at the city he could see he was about to be faced by an entirely new challenge. Almost, the Captain of Jorge’s Peace, the sleek ship from the Five Kingdoms that had carried him to Solantis, didn’t put into port. One look at the fires and the wreckage, even from afar, and anyone could tell Solantis was not a safe place to be right now. The Captain had wanted to sail back, head south and find his way to a city called Korral but Jacob was having none of it. At first the Captain had resisted but he had relented after his first broken bone and had agreed to put into port just long enough for Jacob to depart.

If need be Jacob could always commandeer another ship to take him elsewhere, though he believed he would find Thorn in Solantis. Judging by the man’s reputation the current state of the city had the Black Thorn written all over it.

As soon as he could Jacob hopped over the side of the ship and landed on the wooden pier. Already he heard shouts from the Captain to put the ship back out to sea. Jacob turned and gave a wave but neither the Captain nor any of the sailors were paying him any attention.

Three men dressed in an assortment of tattered armour approached him, each bore an ugly tattoo on their left cheek. Jacob’s own tattoos were much more intricate with fine inkmanship and none more so than the tattoos around his eyes.

“Who are you?” demanded one of the men.

“I am Jacob Lee, here on official business,” Jacob responded in the most pleasant tone he could muster. There was an acrid smell on the air he knew came from burning human flesh and he could hear the sounds of battle somewhere distant in the city.

“An Arbiter… here… already?” asked one of the men.

“Already?” Jacob asked, confused.

“It’s only been two days.”

Jacob looked from one man to the next to the next. “Two days since what?”

“The revolt.”

“Oh. Is that what this is?” Jacob looked up at the city stretching out before him. There were bodies on the docks, soaked in blood. The fires belching black smoke into the pale blue sky. The sound of metal clashing against metal far off in the distance. Jacob felt something in his blood stir a little. Somewhere, very distant, he thought he heard the first note of a song.

“I’m looking for a ship named the Bloody Bride. She would have made port here no more than two weeks ago. Is she still here?”

The first man looked back at the other two. The one that spoke was missing his right hand and more than a few of his teeth. “That’s Cap’n Winters’ ship. He was lookin’ fer some folk ta replace a few o’ his men. Said he didn’t care who, slave or not s’long as they knew how ta sail.”

“Captain Winters; that’s the man,” Jacob toned in. “Is he still here?”

“Aye, the Bride is still here.”

“Would you mind taking me to him? Right away,” Jacob smiled.

The one handed man looked suspicious. “What does an Arbiter want with Cap’n Winters?”

Jacob stepped towards the man, gently pushing the blades pointed at him out of the way. “Take me to Captain Winters right away.”

The Bloody Bride was much as Jacob remembered it though last time he had only seen it sailing away from him and now he saw it floating at the pier with its gangplank down and a couple of lazy sailors playing dice as if the bloody revolt happening all over the city concerned them not at all. The first sailor to spot Jacob cursed and sprang to his feet; attempting to bolt up the gangplank. Jacob caught the man by the hand and twisted until he heard the pop of his shoulder coming out of its socket. He let the screaming man drop to the floor and focused on the other.

“Is Captain Winters aboard?” the terrified sailor nodded fervently in reply. “I would like you to take me to the Captain’s cabin immediately.” Again the terrified sailor nodded and led Jacob up the plank.

Jacob didn’t bother knocking. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed. The lock gave and the door burst open inwards, shards of wood coming loose and scattering across the carpeted floor. Both the man and the girl inside were on their feet in a moment and both were brandishing weapons.

“Shit,” said the man.

“Captain Winters?” Jacob asked.

“Uhhh… no,” Jacob didn’t need to be an Arbiter to know the man was lying.

“I would like to ask you about a recent passenger of yours. A man by the name of the Black Thorn.”

Captain Winters swallowed. Jacob could hear the man’s heart thumping. “Never heard of him.” Another lie.

Jacob walked a few more steps into the cabin. “That is disappointing to hear. He was on your ship when it left Sarth. I saw him myself and I have excellent vision.”

The Captain glanced towards the girl. “We did have a passenger. Didn’t know who he was. Not really my business ta ask.”

Even from here Jacob could tell the Captain was sweating into his brightly coloured clothing. He was a well-dressed man and finely groomed though clearly he was raised from poor bearing. He also still held a sword in his hand and the presence of weapons was not endearing to Jacob.

“Arbiters ain’t got no authority here,” the girl said, starting forwards. “Jus’ throw him off the boat an’ be done with the bastard.”

“Rilly…” Captain Winters leapt over his desk but it was too late. Jacob’s hand shot out and grabbed the girl by the throat. She tried to stab him with the knife in her hand but Jacob swatted the blade away with his other hand; he might have broken a bone in her wrist at the same time but he couldn’t be sure.

“Wait… please,” Captain Winters was frozen in place. His face was a look of pure terror.

“A little young for a lover,” Jacob said. “Though some do like them young. A daughter perhaps…” The girl’s eyes were bulging in her head and face was turning and odd blue colour. Jacob squeezed just a bit tighter. Her mouth was open and trying to gasp for air but his grip was far too tight for that. She clawed at his hand with her own and her feet scrabbled, tried to find purchase on the floor but Jacob held her too high.

“Rilly, was it?” Jacob said, staring at the girl as he strangled her. He could just see her eyes beginning to dim. “She doesn’t have long, Captain. Will she suffocate first or… her neck is so close to snapping.” The girl’s arms dropped to her side and her feet stopped kicking.

“STOP! PLEASE!” Captain Winters screamed, his sword clattering to the floor.

Jacob kept his grip for a second longer and then let go. The girl dropped to the wooden floor unconscious. It was faint but Jacob could just about hear her heart still beating. Captain Winters rushed forwards and checked himself to make sure his daughter was still alive. Jacob gave him a moment then pulled the Captain to his feet and with a light shove sent the man flying backwards into a book shelf.

Captain Winters dropped to the floor stunned but Jacob didn’t allow him the time to recover. Again he hauled the Captain to his feet and gave him a light slap to the face. The man spat a mouthful of blood onto his fine fur rug and his eyes focused on Jacob.

“Good. Now tell me about the Black Thorn, Captain. The truth this time please. I do not believe your daughter could survive your lying to me again.”

The Captain nodded. “He was here, on board. Passage from Sarth ta Solantis and then he left. Got chased off by a few o’ my crew who wanted his bounty.”

“Where is he now?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t. Last I heard he was stayin’ at a tavern called the Dog’s Laugh somewhere in the Broken Sword territory. Place is owned by some woman he knows. That’s it. All I know.”

Jacob nodded. “No, it isn’t. What aren’t you telling me, Captain?”

When Captain Winters stopped screaming Jacob knew the man was dead. His daughter, Rilly, never woke. With a definite sense of accomplishment Jacob left the Bloody Bride and leapt down onto the pier. There were no sailors this time, no slaves dressed in arms and armour. Jacob would need to find someone who knew where to find the tavern. His journey and his mission would soon be at an end and he could return to his cell. For now though there was something far more pressing.

As Captain Arip Winters last screams had died away Jacob heard it clear as day. The first notes of tawdry ballad about one Lord Falters and the fisherman’s wife. He knew the tune well; it had been one of Sarah’s favourites though he had never heard it played on the pipes before.

In front of him, lounging around the docks, were a number of armed slaves and an equal number of the unarmed kind. It was perfect. It had been so long, after all, since Jacob had had anyone to dance with.

Part 2 - Old Friends, New Enemies

Suzku

Pern Suzku was Haarin. He had received, benefited from and excelled at the most rigorous, gruelling and extensive training to be found anywhere in the wilds. His masters had been hard and demanding, even cruel at times but Pern had always believed it was necessary in order to train him to be ready for any and all circumstances. Nothing had prepared him for this. How could a woman, even a small woman such as this one, manage to fit herself inside such a small box?

A contortionist, the woman called herself, and although Pern did not know the exact meaning behind the word he was starting to understand. She stood at no more than five feet tall, when she was standing, and yet managed to fit herself into a small wooden crate a quarter of her size. Her feet were somehow up over her shoulders, her arms seemed bent back on themselves with her hands out of sight and hidden beneath the pool of human flesh in the crate. Her face peered up at them like one of the small rodent-dogs that lived in the desert and burrowed beneath the sand with only their eyes and nose showing, waiting to ambush passing insects.

“Um…” was all that Swift managed. Pern had been with his client for months now and never before had he known the man to be lost for words. “What d’ya think, Suzku?”

Pern glanced at Swift and shrugged. Truth was he was finding it hard to understand what he was seeing. Under such circumstances forming any sort of vocal response seemed impossible.

Swift sniffed, looked like he was about to spit then seemed to think better of it. “Can you… um… get yaself out o’ that?”

“Yes sir,” her voice was high yet quiet and soft.

“Well go on then.”

The scene of the woman removing herself from the box was even more disturbing than that of her entering it. First her feet wriggled free and then her arms began to move, twisting as if she had not a bone in her body. A hand appeared and then another and grabbed hold of the sides of the box and began to push upwards. More and more of her body came free of the wooden crate and after no more than a few seconds the woman uncoiled and stood in front of the two men, naked as her name day and without a single hair on her body. She quickly lowered her eyes to the floor and stood waiting for Swift’s next instruction.

She was not pretty, not compared to many of the women Pern had become used to seeing in Swift’s service, and Pern found her baldness off-putting, not to mention the fact that her body looked almost like that of a child’s. Swift, however, leered at her all the same.

“Do ya always do it naked?” he asked.

“Yes sir. It is not possible with clothing because of the friction.”

“Right,” Swift said, nodding. “Friction, aye.”

The woman smiled, she was missing one of her front teeth and her eyes were mismatched in colour. Pern found himself fascinated by the sheer oddity of the woman.

“Well I reckon ya hired,” Swift said. “What d’ya think, Suzku.”

Pern couldn’t think of anything to say so he just stared at the woman with her stick-thin limbs and tiny breasts. She met his eyes for an instant and then looked away, discomforted by his gaze. Her aura was almost translucent and so thin it hardly appeared at all.

“Aye,” Swift said once he realised Pern had no intention of replying. “Get yaself out an’ tell Yardly ya hired. He’ll find ya a place ta sleep an’ get ya sorted. Don’t let him try ta fuck ya, though.”

The woman looked alarmed for a moment then nodded and backed away towards the door; taking her small wooden crate with her. A few seconds later and she was gone, the door shutting behind her with a loud bang that echoed around Swift’s office.

“Reckon I want that one’s first blood all ta myself,” Swift said grinning at Pern. Pern stared back, an impassive look on his face. “Unless you want it, Suzku. Reckon she caught ya eye. Might do ya some sort o’ good ta stick ya dick in somethin’.”

“I am Haarin,” Pern stated.

“Aye,” Swift replied with a sigh. “That ya are.”

Pern nodded and went back to standing at his post located just in front of Swift’s desk between him and the door. Since beginning his contract almost three months ago Pern had witnessed seven attempts on his client’s life and had been instrumental in stopping at least two of those. Truth was his client had a powerful incentive to stop the attempts himself and Swift was more than capable of stopping all but the most determined and skilled of assassins. At times Pern felt almost superfluous but it was not his place to judge whether he was needed; the simple fact that his client had employed the services of a Haarin would no doubt be enough to deter many would-be attackers.

Swift rounded the great slab of polished wood that was his desk, slumped into his chair, leaned back and rested his feet on the shiny wooden surface. Slaves cleaned and polished the desk daily but none had managed to remove the scuff marks that arose from Swift’s feet buffing the surface.

Other than the ostentatious desk Swift’s office was an austere place. There was no hearth as it never truly got cold enough to need one in Chade, no bookshelves so there were no books so that Swift’s illiteracy would not be revealed. Two large wardrobes kept an assortment of clothing from the fanciest of finery to dirtied rags to boiled leather armour. A small weapon rack housed a variety of weapons most of which would never be used; Pern knew well enough by now that his client was always armed to the teeth even when he appeared empty handed. A grandiose painting of a very regal-looking man graced the eastern wall between the doorway and the desk. The painting was of the departed Lord Gregor H’ost. Swift claimed he hated the artwork but it served a purpose to remind folk that he was H’ost’s only living son, bastard though he was.

“Right, who’s next?” Swift said, eyeing the servant standing by the door with all the attention a wolf might give to an ant.

“Willian Flame-gorger,” the servant said, nervously glancing at Swift like an ant might glance at a wolf.

Swift laughed. “What sort o’ name is that?”

The servant swallowed with practised precision before replying. Pern watched the man, assessing his threat level for the sixtieth time in the past hour and concluding once again that the man was as far from a threat as a man could be. “He is a fire eater, my lord.”

“Aye? Could be worth a laugh or two, I reckon. Send the fool in.”

The servant bowed low; as most folk did to Swift when they wanted to avoid his attention, and set to opening the door and allowing the fire eater entry. The man was tall and thin with a dark complexion and dust coloured hair slicked back across his skull. He had a crooked nose, a few days’ worth of red stubble and a smile that seemed fixed upon his face and far too wide. Pern was already moving by the time the fire eater bowed.

“My lord,” the man whined in a high voice and as he stood a small throwing knife appeared in his hand. The fire eater’s wrist flicked with a casual ease and the knife flew towards Swift. Pern reacted in an instant; reaching out and grabbing hold of the knife mid-air with his left hand and then dropping out of the way as his client’s own blades whipped through the air and embedded themselves in the fire eater’s neck and face. The man went down in a gurgle of blood to the sound of laughter and the clapping of hands from behind.

A man of middling years in an impeccable red cotton tunic, a matching set of trousers and a long but light, brown overcoat stepped over the bleeding corpse; still clapping and laughing as if he had just heard the funniest jest of his life. He was handsome, of that Pern was certain, with strong, fine features, short cropped hair the colour of dark oak and a fashionable scattering of stubble. His bright green eyes seemed to shine from his face and his teeth were perfect and white except for a single gold canine that glittered in his mouth. Both of the man’s ears were pierced in the lobe; one with a single gemstone stud and the other with a gold ring. The newcomer was armed with a single visible long sword but Pern could feel the danger of the man as if it was a tangible thing, smothering the room in a dark, smoky cloud of menace. It was the same feeling he had gotten the first time he had seen his client. A purple aura surrounded this new man like a blaze; dangerous intent and control in equal measure.

“Brilliant. I do love a good show,” the man’s voice was rich and full of warmth though Pern couldn’t place the accent.

Pern drew his sword with his right hand even before Swift spoke.

“You alright, Suzku?” the tone in Swift’s voice was an unneeded warning that the danger was not yet over.

Pern glanced down at his left hand. The throwing knife was embedded blade-end first into his palm and the tip of the blade stuck out the back of his hand. He ignored the pain and readied himself for a fight. “I am Haarin.”

The new comer laughed again. “So I see but I reckon you might want to put a bandage on that. Why don’t you scurry off so me an’ Swift here can have a little private chat.”

Pern made no indication of moving, Swift gave no indication of wanting his Haarin to move. This was exactly the situation Pern had been contracted for.

“Don’t reckon I know you,” Swift said. Pern had no doubt his client was already armed and ready to attack in a moment.

The new comer didn’t look in the least bit intimidated by the weapons pointed at him. “Then I should introduce myself. Captain Drake Morrass.”

Pern could almost hear the grin slip from Swift’s face. “That ain’t possible. I got people on the docks watchin’ fer ya ship.”

Drake Morrass breezed past Pern; mindless of the sword pointed his way and slipped into the chair opposite Swift. “Aye. An unsavoury man by the name of Bryson did seem to be taking a particular interest in the Fortune when she sailed into port. Last I saw he was taking a swim in the bay; the fool decided to stuff his pockets full of stones and tie his hands together before jumping in.”

Swift looked somewhat less than pleased. “An’ why would he go an’ do that?”

“I can only assume he didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Drake Morrass said with a wide grin and held his hands out wide. “Surprise!”

“Aye,” Swift said and sat back down in his chair, a throwing knife still in each hand. “Seems ta me ya got some stones on ya, Morrass. Walkin’ in here all alone as ya are. Might be dangerous fer folk such as yaself.”

“Hah!” Morrass barked. “Nonsense. We have no reason to want each other dead. Least far as I can see.”

Swift looked past Captain Morrass and waved in the direction of the corpse currently occupied staining the floor a healthy red colour.

“That? That was just me saying hello. You’re still alive aren’t you? No harm done,” Drake Morrass said with a wink towards Pern. For his part Pern did not entirely agree with the no harm done, the knife still embedded in his left palm felt more than a little harmful but his Haarin training had long ago taught him how to deal with and ignore pain.

“What is it ya want, Morrass?” Swift asked with no hint of amusement.

“Well there’s a couple of things really. First it dawns on me I never did thank you personally for that job you did for me last year.”

“Ya mean killin’ H’ost.”

Morrass’ wide grin turned into a cruel smile and he rubbed at the fashionable stubble on his face. “Aye. Your father was an interesting one to be sure and a particularly annoying thorn in my side.”

Pern could tell Swift was still wary but he was settling back down after the attempt on his life. His feet once again scuffed the polished wooden desk. “Got a few o’ those my own self. Don’t reckon we’ll be callin’ H’ost my da’ no more though. Never did no fatherin’ far as I remember it.”

“And yet you keep such a… flattering depiction of his image,” Drake waved in the direction of H’ost’s portrait. “Also you’ve laid claim to the H’ost fortune as the sole surviving heir, bastard or no.

“The way I hear it all the other H’osts that managed to survive the massacre at Hostown had a series of unfortunate accidents that tended to result in an immediate case of death. Funny how a good old fashioned massacre can benefit some folk.”

For just a moment a haunted look passed across Swift’s face. Pern had seen it before in the faces of older Haarins no longer able or willing to take on contracts. It was the look of a man who had seen things he never wished to remember. It was a look Pern never expected to see on the face of his client.

“What happened at Hostown was the Black Thorn’s doin’,” Swift protested. “I footed the bounty on his head myself…”

Morrass laughed. “Easy to post a bounty on a dead man.”

“As fer the rest o’ the folk ‘tween me an’ H’ost’s fortune. Well I don’t reckon I did nothin’ you wouldn’t o’ done in my own place an’ I’m more than certain ya’ve done worse in your time.”

The smile dropped from Morrass’ face. “So you do have your father’s money? You see there’s something that’s been bothering me, Swift. I paid you a lot of money to kill your father. Somewhere in the exact region of one million gold bits if I remember and I assure you I do. Enough to buy your way onto the ruling council for sure but not enough to then start buying up all of our dear departed Lord Xho’s and Lord Colth’s properties. So you see I was forced to ask myself where in the hells could my little assassin have gotten so much money.”

“Inheritance,” Swift said, his face a still mask as he lied through his teeth. “Rich daddy left it all ta me by process of elimination.”

“I do hope so, Swift. Your father had an acquaintance, I wonder if you’ve heard of him, goes by the name Kessick; formerly Arbiter Kessick.”

Swift snorted. “I weren’t exactly friendly with my da’. He coulda known the fuckin’ emperor o’ Sarth fer all I know, or care. What’s ya issue with this Kessick then?”

“The usual really. He wants me dead and I feel much the same about him. You’ll let me know if you hear anything about him, of course.”

“Aye. Sure,” Swift said.

“Good. He’s a hard man to find.”

“What did he do fer H’ost?”

Captain Drake Morrass didn’t answer at first, he sat and watched Swift who in turn sat and watched back. Pern stood close by; motionless, forgotten but sword still drawn and ready in case of an attack.

“Your father wanted to unite the wilds, to place himself at the head as king just like D’oro did hundreds of years back. He wanted to re-unite the blooded families and he was willing to do it with blood, fire and fear. Kessick was helping him for reasons unclear.”

“How?” Swift asked.

Again Drake Morrass paused and artfully re-arranged the collar of his overcoat. “Don’t know exactly but I know he didn’t have the Inquisition’s blessing.”

“An’ you support someone else, do ya? Another one of the blooded?”

With a smile and a shake of his head Drake Morrass rolled from the chair onto his feet. “Nah. I don’t care which of the blooded lot takes the throne, if any of them ever do. I just don’t want Kessick in charge. Good?”

Swift nodded. “Aye. Good.”

“Seems you and I, Swift, together we got a controlling interest in this here free city. Reckon I might stick around for a bit and see how you’ve been handling the rest of the council.”

“Got ‘em eatin’ out o’ my hand.”

Captain Drake Morrass laughed his rich, warm laugh and with a wave at Swift, a wink at Pern and a dramatic billowing of his overcoat he turned and made a leisurely pace towards the door; making sure to step over the still bleeding corpse of the would-be assassin. After he was gone Swift spent a long time brooding in silence while Pern stood by and dripped yet more blood onto the wooden floor. He was starting to feel a little faint; the knife would need removing from his hand sooner rather than later.

“Tell me somethin’, Suzku,” Swift said. Pern forced himself to focus on his client. “Does that contract to protect my life extend ta preventative measures?”

It took only a moment for Pern to realise what Swift meant. “I am Haarin, not an assassin.”

“For four hundred-thousand gold bits ya should be whatever the fuck I want ya ta be. Get the fuck out o’ here an’ stop bleedin’ on my floor.” Pern bowed his head once in acknowledgement and walked on unsteady feet towards the floor. “An’ get rid of that fuckin’ body whiles ya at it!”

Thorn

“Dragonspawn,” one of the mercs; the fat one who went by the name of Lucky, said in a hushed voice as if the very word could bring a great, flying, fire-breathing lizard down upon their heads.

“It ain’t dragonspawn,” Betrim opined and shifted himself in his saddle yet again. Seems no matter how many times he sat upon a horse he always managed to crush his stones. The mercs had taken to mocking him about it daily and the Black Thorn didn’t take well to mocking. He might have done something about it but his hands were well and truly chained, not to mention he was more than a little outnumbered and lacking any sort of weapon.

“How do you know, Thorn? You gonna tell us ya met a dragon now are ya?”

“As it happens. Aye, I have,” Betrim lied with his usual impassive face. “An’ that ain’t dragonspawn. Jus’ a big fuckin’ lizard is all. Like them water lizards in the Jorl only these ones don’t swim.”

The lizard wasn’t doing much of anything at the moment, if truth be told. Seemed it wasn’t interested in the passing mercs and their prisoners but was more than happy to lie on a fair sized boulder in a nice looking patch of sunlight. Betrim had to admit it looked like a comfortable spot and he was a little jealous of the beast.

“Well whatever it is I don’t like it. Shoo! Go on, fuck off!” Lucky shouted at the lizard while waving his spear in the air.

The lizard raised its head and gave the fat merc a long, patient stare but showed no signs of impending movement. After a few seconds Lucky’s horse stepped away from the boulder and its lizard occupant and Betrim didn’t blame the animal. At just three times the size of a man from snout to tail this particular lizard made for a small member of its family who, up here in the northern, rocky areas of the wilds, were known to grow to twice that size and could easily make short work of a small party of travellers.

“Wonder what it tastes like. Wouldn’t mind some meat tonight.” This came from one of the ex-Long Tooth mercs, a man with a giant nose and a broad spotty forehead. “Something fresh. Get sick of dried salt-beef af’er a while.”

“Don’t reckon ya wanna try it,” Betrim said grinning at the man. “Them things is poisonous.”

“Those things are venomous,” Anders said his voice sounding strained. Since they had stopped to look at the giant lizard he had taken the opportunity to slouch over in his saddle and glare at everybody through heavily lidded eyes.

“Eh?” Betrim grunted.

“I was simply correcting you, boss,” Anders said. “They have a venomous bite, they are not poisonous.”

“Didn’t realise there was a difference.”

“Well there is,” Anders shook his head and shifted his body to stare in the other direction.

One day out of Solantis, Anders had become irritable. He had begun to shake a little, sweat profusely and sigh a lot. Three days out of Solantis and Anders had become intolerable. Now the man shook all the time, slept little, if at all and vomited back up most of what he ate, when he ate at all but the thing that was really making the Black Thorn want to hit Anders was his constant corrections. It seemed that almost every time Betrim spoke these days he was being corrected, both in language and, as Anders pointed out, sentence structure. Betrim wasn’t even certain what sentence structure meant but whatever it was he was about ready to beat Anders to a bloody mess over it. Even the mercs had had enough; each day they rolled dice to see who would have to ride with the blooded bastard. On the fifth day Kain had gagged Anders but today he was allowed full use of his mouth again and he seemed determined to make everyone regret the decision.

Henry was faring a lot better. She rode in silence every day despite never having sat a horse before, and glowered at any merc who came within ten feet of her. Most had learned to keep their distance after the first of the mercs to accidentally touch her had ended curled up in a ball on the floor with Henry kicking him despite him being armed and twice her size and her being chained.

Betrim decided to take the opportunity of the mercs being distracted by the giant lizard and steered his horse towards Anders. Truth was he didn’t really know how to steer a horse so he just leaned in the direction he wanted to go and waited for the beast to oblige.

“Anders, you alright?” Betrim asked in a whisper.

Anders shifted his weight again and turned to face Betrim. He was pale as a ghost and dripping sweat. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who really don’t wanna be sober.”

Anders opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I’ve been there,” Betrim confided. “Gets better. Just try not ta get ya face broken by these lads ‘fore…”

“I really don’t think I’m going to have time to get over my alcoholism, boss. You see, this time tomorrow we will be in Crucible and I have this strange feeling that Lord Brekovich is going to give us a little bit more than a mild telling off.” Anders face contorted into something resembling a smile. “But I suppose it will all be over soon. Something to look forward to.”

“Aye, well. Reckon I been in worse situations. Somethin’ll turn up,” Betrim said, determined to stay positive.

Anders stared at Betrim for a moment then groaned and buried his face in the hair around the horse’s neck. The creature turned its head and looked at Betrim through dull, emotionless eyes. Some men might have joined suit with Anders in this situation but Betrim Thorn was not one of those men. When the going got tough, the Black Thorn got tougher.

The thing about the wilds was it seemed to stretch on forever. Betrim had never tried to walk from one end to the other, and truth was this was about as far north as he’d ever been, but he was told it could take years without the aid of a horse. Up here the weather got cold and the rivers ran slow, none more so than the mighty Greywash; as wide as the Jorl and as deep as the God’s Eye mountain was tall but also as sluggish as a calm breeze. Betrim had even been told once that during the winters the surface of the Greywash could freeze. Frozen water was a peculiar mystery to the Black Thorn and one he’d rather never need learn the truth of.

Rocks and boulders dotted the barren landscape and slight hills often gave way to sheer cliffs in an instant or, even worse, something the more learned folk called scree; slopes of tiny, jagged stones that shifted and turned and ran underfoot. It was impossible to stop moving on scree, once the stones started cascading they’d carry you all the way down, often depositing a man at the bottom and then burying him for good measure. Thankfully the mercs that kept Betrim and his little crew prisoner seemed to have some knowledge of the surrounding terrain and led them through a twisted route, always sticking to the valleys and troughs, only braving the hills when there was no other choice.

By the next morning the World’s End mountains were looming up large and foreboding in front of the little band of sell-swords, mercs and criminals. Betrim wasn’t so foolish to believe the mountains really did mark the end of the world but neither did he have even the slightest clue as to what lay beyond them. Truth was he wasn’t even certain he wanted to know. The World’s End mountains marked the northern end of the untamed wilds and as far as the Black Thorn cared that meant the end of his world and, seeing as how Crucible was nestled just a stone’s throw from those mountains and there was a good chance he was going to be executed, today really could mark the end of his world. It was not a comforting thought to be in Betrim’s head as the city of kings appeared on the horizon for the first time in his life.

Crucible was said to be the oldest city in all the wilds. Rumour had it the family line that had ruled the Five Kingdoms for thousands of years had originally come from Crucible. Now the Black Thorn knew better than most that rumours tended toward being on the shit side of truth but one thing everyone agreed on was that Crucible had been the place D’oro had united the wilds; the site where he’d brought all the warlords of the wilds together under a banner of truce and then brutally murdered half of them while forcing the other half into loyalty through kidnapping family members, forced marriage, and employing the use of a strange poison that would kill the victim if they did not receive regular doses of antidote.

Betrim was not a scholar but from everything he had heard King D’oro was perhaps the one name in the history of the wilds with a reputation blacker than his own.

Considering Crucible was known as the city of kings it was not what Betrim expected. Truth was he found himself a little disappointed when it came to it. He had expected a grand city like Sarth with dazzling buildings and majestic towers. What he saw was cold, grey, stone walls staring back at him and guards that looked more like barbarians dressed in armour that was a strange combination of leather, metal and fur. Some of those guards atop the wall pointed dangerous-looking longbows down at the mercs and Betrim’s little crew. Four more, all on horses and with a mean-tempered pack of dogs in tow moved from the guardhouse to surround them.

The burliest of the four guards carried a battleaxe and had a face near as scarred as the Black Thorn’s. His helm had the skull of some large animal fixed atop it and he wore a long fur cloak over his armour. As the man’s horse trotted about he glared at each of the group in turn through wide eyes that Betrim reckoned had a touch of madness about them.

“Strange ta get visitors up so far north. ‘Specially those we don’t recognise,” the man’s voice grated on every nerve the Black Thorn had left.

Anders groaned from his slumped position and went back to sweating and looking pale as a ghost. The dogs barked and snarled and the horses whinnied and looked as nervous as a mindless beast could.

The merc, Kain edged his horse forwards a little; making sure to keep his hands as far from his weapons as was possible. The big guard with the battleaxe looked like the type who’d be more than happy to remove a head or two for somewhere short of no reason at all.

“Might be you’ve heard o’ the trouble in Solantis, friend?” Kain asked.

“Uh.”

“Right. Well these three are the ones that caused it all. They set loose the slaves. They’re behind the whole damned revolt. All the blood is on their hands,” Kain said.

Betrim wasn’t sure they should really take all of the blame but he didn’t reckon arguing would do much in the way of good. His current plan for freedom consisted of convincing Lord Brekovich they were falsely accused. Protesting his innocence at this stage, he was well aware, would be pointless so instead he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The big, battleaxe-wielding barbarian took another good look at Betrim then turned his gaze on Henry who glared back with the same glint of madness, then he looked at Anders.

“Sit up,” the barbarian ordered.

Anders let out a long sigh and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I suppose it’s too late to take a nasty fall from my horse and mysteriously break my neck?”

The big guard snorted and shook his head in disgust. “Coward.” Then he turned his horse around and made for the gate into the city. “Come.”

The closer Betrim came to the walls of Crucible the more it was impressed upon him just how big they were. He guessed them to be at least twenty times higher than a man was tall but it wasn’t until they passed under the first portcullis that he realised they were a good twenty paces thick of solid, grey, unyielding rock. Past the second portcullis and he realised there were two walls; an outer and an inner. After passing underneath the outer wall they found themselves on a wooden drawbridge maybe fifty feet long with cold-looking, blue-grey water underneath and, by the looks of things, running all the way around between the two walls. Betrim looked up and could see that the inner wall was even taller than the outer wall though but by how much he couldn’t guess. Then they were passing underneath yet another portcullis and into the gate through the inner wall. This wall was even thicker, maybe twice so, Betrim reckoned and, looking up, he spotted more murder holes than he could count. A lot more than he could count.

Inside the city limits there wasn’t a single building within fifty feet of the inner walls and when those buildings did start they were large, fortified stone monstrosities with arrow slits on most and even a few ballista on others all pointed towards the fifty feet of killing ground.

From everything he was seeing Betrim was certain that any army wishing to storm Crucible would take unacceptable losses. Not that the Black Thorn had ever been part of a city siege, on either the giving or the receiving end, he’d never had any cause to. He had, however, been witness to a few and even the cause of one.

Just a few years ago he’d been captured by the magistrate of the Ylanos province while at the same time he was being hunted by an old friend; a warlord going by the name of Three Slits Pim. The magistrate had holed himself, and Betrim, up in the city of Slimtown and Three Slits Pim had arrived not a day later demanding the Black Thorn be released to him for execution. The magistrate had refused and insisted the Black Thorn would be tried in accordance with the province laws due to his murder of a blooded man from the Fanklin family. Three Slits had wasted no time in storming Slimtown and within hours half the city was on fire and the other half was awash with the blood and shit that always accompanies folk fighting. Ironically, while the two sides were fighting over which would get to execute the Black Thorn, Betrim slipped the lock to his cell, disabled a couple of terrified guardsmen and managed to sneak out of the city dressed as a soldier from Three Slits’ own army. Last Betrim had heard, Pim had given up the title of warlord and had gone back to bandit and was busy robbing folk from their hard earned bits somewhere on the Jevari plains. The Black Thorn had of course been blamed for the whole Slimtown affair.

Past the killing ground and past the fortified guard buildings Crucible started to look much like any city. Squat homes made from wood for the poorer folk interspersed with larger buildings, some of wood and some of stone, that were likely taverns or workshops. A number of busy wells fed the city with water and merchants were confined to stores or the occasional small market. Betrim spotted no thieves, no beggars and no sell-swords. The only folk armed were the guards and of them there were plenty and all dressed in a similar fashion to the big, mad-eyed barbarian currently escorting them.

“Lord Brekovich ain’t too kind-lookin’ on criminal activity,” Lucky said with a smile from Betrim’s left. Seems the fool had guessed the Black Thorn’s thoughts.

Betrim fixed the fat merc with a one-eyed glare. “Then how d’ya explain Solantis? Most lawless, crime-filled city in the wilds. More so even than Korral.”

“A man can overlook almost anything as long as you throw enough money his way,” Anders said in a defeated tone. “Even a man like Niles Brekovich, it seems.”

“Quiet!” the mad-eyed barbarian ordered in a commanding voice.

Anders smirked at the man’s back and mock saluted. “Aye, Captain.”

As they continued on into the heart of the city the dwellings grew larger and of more elaborate design but still kept an austere feel about them when compared to many of the other blooded folk’s capital cities. To Betrim’s knowledge this should be the section of the city where the lords and ladies, the richer merchants, the city officials, the army commanders and the lesser blooded folk were living but, while the dwellings were still large, they weren’t extravagant. There were no high walls around each home, no fancy gardens full of pointless colours, no hordes of grounds keepers and, most strange of all, no slaves.

“Rumour has it Lord Brekovich isn’t like most of the blooded folk in the wilds,” Anders confided, moving his horse closer to Betrim’s and speaking in a quiet voice. “Values strength, not extravagance. A hard man who takes a hard line with his people. Fair but firm. Steal and he takes a hand, murder and he takes a life and that’s just the criminals. If his lords start spending bucket loads of bits on their property he takes it to mean they have too much money and raises taxes. If the poor folk start to starve he raises wages to help them pay for food.

“The city is well maintained and kept clean. All the soldiers you see are proven warriors and are drilled regularly. He keeps enough food to see the entire city through a siege of at least a year and enough weapons, armour and ammunition to make any attacking army pay through their teeth.”

“Uh huh,” Betrim grunted still staring at the spectacle of Crucible.

Lord Brekovich’s palace seemed to almost sneak up on Betrim. He was expecting a tall fort of a building again surrounded by high walls visible from half the city away. Instead it appeared to be a two story building no more than a hundred feet wide and maybe three times as long with a curved roof that reminded Betrim of the hull of a boat. A short flight of steps led up to the main door and on either side of the door sat a giant skull, each with tusks longer than Betrim was tall.

“What the fuck are they?” asked Lucky.

The mad-eyed barbarian turned to the fat guard with a grim expression. “Elephant skulls. Both were decked in full armour and bore many riders. Lord Brekovich slew them both in battle.”

“Never heard of a blooded lord fightin’ his own battles,” Betrim put in.

Again the barbarian glared at Betrim. “If a leader will not die for his men, how can he expect his men to die for him?”

Anders snorted. “Aye. He sounds a real hero. Can we get this over with? I believe I have an execution to attend and I don’t think it can happen without me.”

“Ya know,” Betrim said, nudging Anders in the side. “Reckon I liked ya more when you were drunk.”

“Everyone likes me more when I’m drunk. It’s part of the reason I so detest sobering up.”

The barbarian shook his head and dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a nearby soldier. “You speak for the others?” he asked Kain.

Kain glanced at the other mercs then nodded. “Aye. Reckon I do.”

“Then come. You three come,” he pointed at Betrim, Anders and Henry. “The rest stay.”

Betrim dismounted his horse and tried his very best not to collapse despite the aching in his legs. Anders swung down of his horse like he’d been born to the saddle and Henry almost fell trying to untangle herself from the beast but managed to land on her feet and then glared at everyone close by, daring them to mock her. No one did.

The barbarian started up the steps with Betrim, Anders and Henry just behind, their chained hands rattling with every step and Kain bringing up the rear. The barbarian nodded to the two soldiers standing guard and then pushed open the door. Betrim followed him inside.

Once all were inside the building the door closed and Betrim found they were standing in a sort of antechamber. The barbarian waited for a moment then spoke. “You have the keys to the chains?” he asked Kain.

“Aye.”

“Remove them.”

“Um… are you sure? These are criminals. Dangerous criminals.” Kain looked at Henry as he said the last, she stared back with cold, murderous eyes.

“Remove them,” the barbarian said again. “You will not speak to Lord Brekovich unless directed to. I advise not to make any threatening moves.” He waited for the last of the chains to fall off of Betrim’s wrists and then pushed open the doors to the main hall and entered.

Before following the barbarian in, Betrim made a quick assessment of his options. He had two choices; he could try to convince Lord Brekovich it was all a mistake, that they were innocent of the crime Kain was laying at their feet; or he could try to convince Lord Brekovich they were more use to him alive than dead, after all, blooded folk always needed people like the Black Thorn.

Anders

The light in the main hall was dim, lit only by candles and the roaring hearth but it was still too bright for Anders’ eyes. Everything was too bright, too noisy, too cluttered and too damned abrasive at the moment. His brain hadn’t stopped hurting in days, the shaking made him feel like an old man waiting on his death bed and he was certain he’d sweated out his entire bodyweight in hot salty rivers at least three times over in the past hour alone.

Anders hid behind the Black Thorn which, he had to admit, made him feel a fair bit better about the entire situation. Good thing the boss was tall and broad; gave a lot for Anders to obscure himself behind, though the strange look Henry kept shooting his way was a little nerve racking. Still, chances were they would all be dead in an hour or so.

Anders glanced around the big frame of the Black Thorn. The main hall was wide and spacious with doors leading off to rooms on the sides and a staircase on either side leading up to the next floor. The floors were wooden and strewn with dried reeds to soak up any spilled liquid and seemed as though they were well used to that effect. A whole pack of dogs roamed around the hall hunting or begging for scraps and the reason was quite evident. They had been brought to see the Lord of the Brekovich family during a feast.

Four long tables, each seating twenty or so men and women, were set out in front of them and each with a whole host of different food types. Anders counted at least ten different types of meat including honey-glazed roast boar, stuffed bison, ostrich cooked in the northern fashion so that its skin actually crackled when bitten, water-lizard baked in beer and served with chilli and pepper, and others he couldn’t even name. But it wasn’t the food that was making Anders’ mouth water. Every man and woman around every table had a mug filled with a dizzying array of alcohols. Some were drinking beer, some wine, some cider and some mead. Anders found himself leaning towards the tables despite his general feeling of wanting to hide from them all.

“Who have you brought before me, Torival?” Anders’ eyes snapped into focus and he stared towards the source of the voice. Sat at the head of the central table, surrounded by his sons and his daughters and his best warriors was Lord Niles Brekovich.

The blooded Lord was well into his fifth decade of life but looked no worse for it. He was tall and straight, broad as an ox and hard as steel. Only the grey hair and the lines on his face betrayed his age and even those he wore well. His once black hair, now streaked with grey, hung long and braided in the traditional warrior fashion and his moustache, also tending towards the grey scale of black, was thick, immaculately trimmed and drooping down either side of his lip to form a horseshoe shape of fur on his face. Dark green eyes smouldered underneath his heavy brow and his jaw looked as though it had been carved from stone. He absently tossed a bone over his armoured shoulder as he stared at the newcomers and two dogs set about arguing over ownership of the discarded scrap.

“This man is a mercenary from Solantis, my lord. He has brought you the three responsible for the slave revolt,” Torival said with a minute bow and then stepped aside with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Anders would have hated him for that but all his hate was currently reserved for those seated around the tables drinking but not truly appreciating the alcohol that was so close but so out of reach.

“I see,” Lord Brekovich’s voice was deep and rich and held a tone that commanded respect. He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and slowly lifted his stein to his lips. Anders took the opportunity to slink back behind the Black Thorn.

After what seemed like two eternal ages the blooded Lord spoke again. “How long do you intend to hide from me, Anders?”

The silence that fell upon the hall was as deafening as a thunderclap. Even the dogs stopped yapping as if sensing the danger in the air. Anders would have been happy to continue with his cowering but the Black Thorn stepped aside and fixed him with a queer look from his single eye. Anders shrugged back and took a reluctant step forwards towards the tables. Every set of eyes in the room were currently pointed at him and there weren’t many that looked happy. None as far as he could see in fact.

“Hello father,” Anders said with a heavy sigh.

The silence held. It was a big surprise for Anders; he expected one of his brothers to take the initiative and launch an axe his way but none of them did. Most of his siblings just sat there trying desperately to mimic their father’s stern but thoughtful expression. Most but not all. Francis Brekovich wore a smirk that was at least four times the size of his brain and the bull-headed fool wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“After twenty-eight years I thought you might be over this phase, Anders,” Lord Niles Brekovich had an unnerving habit of never appearing to blink. It had always worried Anders.

“What phase is that, father?”

“Causing me untold grief and doing your very best to undermine the position of my family.”

It did not go unnoticed to Anders that his father was excluding him from the position of family member. Niles Brekovich had, after all, disowned his eldest son just three short years ago.

“In my defence, father, this time it was completely accidental. You see…”

“Have you any idea how much this slave revolt has cost my family?” Niles Brekovich interrupted.

Anders’ mouth felt dry as a sand worm’s arse. He would have happily wrestled any man or woman, he was fairly sure he’d prefer the latter of those options, in the room for quick swig from a mug of beer. “Cost father? In terms of income loss or the cost of putting the revolt down? Because I think…”

“Putting the revolt down?” Lord Brekovich echoed Anders words. “The revolt is over. The slaves have won. Solantis, city of mercenaries is now Solantis, city of slaves. I’ll have to negotiate new terms with their leaders soon and I doubt they’ll allow the re-opening of the slave pits. I may actually have to take my army to war against one of my own cities!”

Anders opened his mouth to speak and realised he had no idea what to say. He turned and looked at the Black Thorn who turned and looked at Henry. Henry for her part looked shocked and almost as timid as a young girl about to show her tits to a man for the first time. It was no doubt the first time she had ever learned she was at least partly responsible for the deaths of half a city and the recent freedom of the other half, not to mention the subsequent restructuring of an entire provincial power base.

Some men might have at least cracked a smile at the obvious shock showing on his audience’s faces but not Lord Niles Brekovich. The man remained as cold as ice and as calculating as the most emotionless of scholars. He filled the deepening silence by raising his mug to signal for its refilling. Anders eyes fixed on that mug with intense longing and he felt new torrents of sweat spring forth from his brow. Then he saw the serving maid; she looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place the feeling. She was blooded, of that he was certain, and she held herself with some bearing despite the large purple bruise on her cheek and the scabbed-over cut on her lip.

Niles Brekovich followed his son’s gaze. “She is one of Lord D’roan’s daughters,” he said with an even voice. “I took her at Elder’s Gate, smashed her army. That fool D’roan’s penchant for arming his women will be his undoing. He’ll pay the ransom soon enough though I intend to send her back to him with child.”

Now Anders recognised her; Lady Emin D’roan. He’d first met her ten years ago at a ball held by the late Lord H’ost. She had been wearing one of the most provocative dresses Anders had ever seen; a green slip of silk that had covered her from neck to ankle but left nothing to the imagination. Every man at the ball had been drooling over her and Anders himself had tried every trick he knew to find his way underneath the dress. She had refused his every advance but in such a way that had left him wanting more.

Now the Lady Emin was dressed in the common garb of a serving maid and Anders found he still wanted to see what was underneath. She almost dropped the pitcher of beer at Lord Brekovich’s final words. She was no doubt terrified and rightly so. Once Anders might have helped the poor woman, for a price of course, but right now he had the distinct impression he couldn’t even help himself. After a dismissive wave from Lord Brekovich, the blooded captive backed away. No doubt she had already been taught the finer points of what awaited her should she disobey her captor.

“You can correct me if I am wrong, father, but,” Anders waved in the general direction of all of the tables, “I believe D’roan isn’t the only one to arm his women.”

“Hah!” The exclamation came from the woman sitting next to Francis Brekovich, a woman Anders also remembered all too well, Lisha Tenith.

Anders remembered Lisha when she was a young girl; she had earned the name Lisha Ball Breaker; which at the age of eight years old had seemed a wonderfully clever nick name for her. Then when they had started to age, Anders had started her new nick name of Lisha Flat Chest, which incidentally had led to even more ball breaking. When they started to hit adulthood, Anders had dispensed with the nick names and started calling her darling or my lady and love, not least of all because the previous nick name no longer suited her. At first she had seemed resistant to Anders’ wooing and pretty compliments but that hadn’t lasted long. She was looking good these days but Anders still remembered her stark naked with her legs wrapped around him, making a wonderful purring noise. He somehow doubted she’d ever make that noise at him again. He forced himself to stop grinning at her but couldn’t resist adding in a cheeky wink.

“D’roan’s women are sticks,” Lisha continued, ignoring Anders. “This one was famed for her prowess in battle. Now she is famed only for her prowess in cock sucking.”

There was a general roaring of laughter from the tables as if Lisha’s comment was the wittiest thing any of them had ever heard. The only one who wasn’t laughing was Lord Brekovich himself and that was only because the man didn’t know how.

“I seem to remember you were quite good at that very same activity, Lisha,” Anders said with a grin that only reached as far as the mug in her hand.

It took less than a second for Francis Brekovich to draw steel and another second later he was leaping over the table and charging towards Anders with a snarl of fury on his lips.

“Francis,” Niles Brekovich’s voice was quiet but the implication was more than clear. Francis slowed to a standstill just a few feet from Anders and stood fuming, his sword hand shaking with anger.

“Father, his lies insult my wife. I must be allowed my right of combat. I…”

“Sit down, Francis,” their father’s words brooked no argument and Francis Brekovich was well trained. He put away his sword and walked back to his chair. Anders decided to push the situation; it had always been one of his favourite pass times to insult his little brother.

“Lies, Francis? Surely after marrying her you noticed her, um, lack of innocence? Hell I thought everyone knew. Father certainly did.”

Francis Brekovich looked at Lisha who in turn glared a furious hole through Anders and she wasn’t the only one. Niles Brekovich hadn’t taken his eyes off his eldest son and, as far as Anders could tell, still hadn’t blinked.

The silence deepened and held for a long time. Niles Brekovich steepled his hands and looked on, his thoughts unknown behind his emotionless mask. After some time Francis could not contain his tongue any longer, Anders’ younger brother had never been able to control his temper. His face went red, his teeth ground together and he slammed the table with two meaty fists.

“Father, I demand my right to kill him!” he shouted.

“Kill me? Any rights you have would be to combat. I presume you’re still too afraid to fight me fairly, little brother? As are the rest of you?”

His challenge, though a completely baseless bluff, had the desired effect. In an instant the entire room burst into angry arguments, pointed threats and general shouting of insults. Niles Brekovich may be a man of deep thought and contemplation but his court had always been a simmering pot willing to boil over at the merest hint of an insult. The commotion wasn’t even directed at Anders; the fools were arguing among themselves over who should have the right to murder him.

It gave Anders just the opportunity he had been waiting for. On the table closest to him, balanced rather precariously on the closest edge was a half full wine cup containing the glorious red liquid that Anders knew would make everything better. He took a step forward, then another, then another. He was almost within reach now. He could almost taste it; feel it flowing down his throat, spreading warmth and confidence and contentment throughout his body. All he had to do was take one more step and he could have it.

The man whose cup it was turned to look at Anders; his argument temporarily forgotten. Anders didn’t recognise the warrior but then he’d never bothered looking too hard at the men in his father’s court, the women were always far more interesting.

“Um, I wonder if I could just…” Anders pointed at the cup and smiled. “I mean just a little…”

With casual malice the soldier gave the cup a nudge and it dropped to the ground. Anders dropped to his knees just a second too late and the cup hit the reed strewn floor and bounced, spilling its contents, wasting the sweet nectar. The soldier watched on with a sneer as Anders grabbed up the cup, wiped two fingers around the inside and then sucked on them, salvaging what few drops he could. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t anything. He was just considering picking up one of the wine soaked reeds and trying to suck the alcohol from it when two big hands took him underneath his left arm and hauled him back to his feet.

“What the fuck are ya doing?” the Black Thorn asked in a hoarse voice.

Anders looked around for another unattended cup. The only one he could see belonged to his father. “If I’m going to die I’d much rather do it with a belly full. Die like I lived. Has a poetic ring to it, don’t you think?” The Black Thorn didn’t look amused.

“Ya got a plan ta get out o’ this right?” Thorn asked.

“Um…”

“He’s ya da’ ain’t he? Can’t ya jus’ ask real nice or somethin’?”

“We um… don’t really get on too well,” Anders confided though he thought that much was fairly obvious.

“Fuck!” Thorn was still holding onto Anders’ arm, preventing him from trying for another cup. “Ya brother wants ta fight ya, trial by combat or somethin’. If you win that ya get ta go free, right?”

“If my father accepts the terms, yes.” Anders was finding it hard to think straight. His entire plan had stretched to causing a ruckus and stealing a drink with no thought of what to do afterwards.

“So can ya beat him? Ya brother.”

Anders snorted. “No.” He held up a shaking hand. “And I don’t really think I’m in any sort of fit state to participate in any sort of altercation.”

“Right. What about a champion? You blooded folk are always lettin’ others do the fightin’ so ya don’t get hurt. What if I fight fer ya?”

“Um.” It was possibly the last thing Anders had expected, the Black Thorn offering to fight on his behalf, offering to put his own life on the line. “I don’t think my father would accept that. He’s not like the other blooded. Believes a man should fight his own battles and such.”

“Right then.” When the Black Thorn let go of Anders’ arm he stumbled and almost dropped back to his knees, he hadn’t even been aware the boss was supporting him.

“Lord Brekovich,” Thorn began, pitching his voice to be heard over the general din of the hall. “Reckon we might have cost you some an’ I reckon that means we owe ya. Now folk like you can always use folk like me, like us. So hows about we sort out some kind o’ repayment? All ya gotta do is jus’ name it.”

As the Black Thorn spoke Niles Brekovich nodded to the old soldier who had escorted them in. Anders saw it coming but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Torival stepped up behind the Black Thorn and bashed him at the base of the skull with the pommel of his dagger. Thorn went down face first, unconscious before he hit the ground. Anders heard Henry let out a low growl from behind and he shot her a warning glare. His father was in a merciful mood otherwise Thorn would have gotten the pointy-end. Henry trying to murder a few folk could change all that.

With exaggerated slowness Lord Niles Brekovich rose from his chair. “Enough,” his voice was quiet but it was all that was needed. Over sixty men and women were occupying the main hall and every single one of them fell silent. Some sets of eyes turned to the ageing Lord and others turned to his manacled, shaking, sweating son. Anders wanted to shrink away but he forced himself to endure the hostile stares.

“Anders, you will be executed.”

It was a shock and then some. Anders had truly believed that his father would let him off. A slap on the wrist and a get out of my sight maybe. A few nights in a cell to be certain but an execution?

“Really father?” he could hear a pathetic note of panic creeping into his voice. “You would really execute your eldest son?”

“Francis is my eldest son. You may remember I disinherited you, Anders.”

As it happens Anders did remember it and he remembered it well. He’d been standing in this very hall. He’d been surrounded by much the same group of peers; a few notable faces were now missing but that was to be expected. Francis had been grinning like the king of fools and as well he might; with Anders disinherited his bull-headed little brother stood to inherit everything upon their father’s eventual death.

His mother had been there too, that day. Anders had never gotten on very well with her but she had always at least claimed to love him, when she was sober enough to remember his name that was. His other two brothers; Alfric and Noen had been absent; busy chasing down a group of bandits who had been preying on a local village. His sisters had been present; Jaquine had looked on him with their father’s same hostile eyes while Nat had cried for the loss of a brother.

It had been raining. The main hall always had a peculiar smell about it when it rained and Anders remembered it had made his stomach queasy. Now he thought about it, it might have been the alcohol that had made his stomach queasy; he’d had a skin-full that day, enough that he could smell it on himself, enough that it had taken most of his concentration just to stop himself from throwing up. He’d have put himself on stage eleven of twelve that day.

It was his father he remembered best though, even through the drunken haze. The man had been angry and beyond angry. It was the only time Anders had ever seen the man show any sort of emotion and every bit of it was directed at his eldest son in a torrent of rage.

Lord Niles Brekovich had listed Anders’ crimes, and it had been a long list indeed, punctuating each with the question do you deny it? as if denying any of them would have done a single ounce of good.

Anders had remained silent throughout the entire affair, devoid of his usual wit and good humour. Even he couldn’t justify some of his crimes, most of them as it happened.

His father had concluded the trial by announcing that his eldest son was thereby disinherited and disowned. That Anders no longer had any claim to the Brekovich name and if he was ever seen in Crucible again it would mean his death.

“Take them to the black cells, Torival,” Lord Brekovich said and then fixed Anders with his unblinking eyes. “You can spend a few days in the dark while I decide how you will die.”

Anders was just opening his mouth to protest when something hard hit him in the back of the head and the floor rushed up to meet him. He tried to put his hands in front of him to break his fall but nothing seemed to work. As everything started to fade to darkness he could just about make out the sound of his little brother’s braying laughter.

Suzku

Pern watched the poor man with a heavy heart. There was nothing that could be done for him; not now. He was tied to a large sand-filled barrel with his hands lashed to the top. His chin was resting on the lip of the barrel giving him a perfect view of those hands. They were, for the moment, whole.

Swift paced. His dark gaze flicking to the bound man from time to time and then to the door to the cell. Pern waited; practising the patience he had been taught for years, meditating in grim silence over the torture that he was about to witness. He knew he could leave; Swift did not require his presence but Pern knew that he would have to witness all his client’s dark deeds sooner or later.

In just a few short months Swift had already shown Pern the depths of depravity and debauchery. He had seen his client committing acts of murder and rape, thieving and slavery, manipulation and coercion. All that in just a few months. Ten years was a very long time.

It was all part of the Haarin code. Pern was honour bound to his client, to protect his life, to keep his secrets. It was not for him to judge or to opine. He was Haarin and, barring his own death, the only way his service towards Swift could end before his contract expired was if the client should endanger the Haarin’s clan.

“Where the fuck is that bastard?” Swift asked of no one and expecting no answer. “It ain’t fuckin’ wise ta keep people waitin’ ‘Specially not folk like me.”

Pern had to agree. He had witnessed first-hand Swift’s temper was growing shorter with each passing day. Drake Morrass’ arrival and continued presence in the city was doing nothing to lengthen that temper.

“Ya won’t get away wit’ this,” the man tied to the barrel spat out a tooth along with his words. He had been silent for so long Pern had thought the man unconscious. “He’ll come fer me.”

Swift snorted. “No. He won’t.”

“He’ll pay ya back in kind.”

“No. He won’t.”

The bound man let out a pain-filled groan and his head lolled to the side; resting on his shoulder. His breathing was loud and laboured, one eye was swollen closed with a giant bruise the colour of storm clouds and a line of dried blood ran from his nose to his mouth and down his chin.

“Ya see, Belper Froth, ya got two problems right now. First is ya captain don’t know I got ya. He’s in a meetin’ with the other two members o’ the council right now an’ that idiot he had followin’ me got his unfortunate throat slit jus’ an hour back.

“Ya second problem is that you’re a small fish in a big fuckin’ pond. Scheme o’ things is; you jus’ don’t matter enough ta nobody. He finds you dead; he replaces ya. Simple.

“All in all this puts you in the position of well an’ truly fucked. Where is this damned torturer? Tempted ta make a start on it myself. How hard can it be ta slap a man around a bit ‘till he talks?”

The bound man did not look inclined towards talking. He did, in fact, look resolute in disclosing none of his captain’s secrets. Pern grimly wondered how much pain it would take to dissolve that resolution.

There was a soft knock at the door and a moment later it opened. Standing on the other side of the threshold was a tall man with a wispy white horseshoe of hair around his head and a long hawkish nose. He wore black; all black including black gloves despite the heat of Chade. He carried a large black bag into the room and placed it on the floor in a delicate and fluid movement. His aura was a thin, tight line of dark blue. No emotion, only control.

“He is injured,” the new man said his voice soft and quiet.

Swift spat. “Only a little.”

The man in black did not look amused. “In the future I would prefer them to be untouched. It makes breaking them easier.”

Swift stood opposite the man and looked up at him. “Had ta get him here somehow didn’t I. He weren’t exactly what ya’d call a willin’ participant.”

“You’ll never break me,” said the man tied to the barrel.

Both Swift and the man in the black looked at the man tied to the barrel for a moment and then back at each other.

“My payment is one thousand gold bits irrespective of whether he has the information you require,” the man in black said in his quiet voice.

“No guarantee?” Swift asked.

“There can be no guarantees in my line of work. You provide the subject, I provide the service. I will get him to speak and I will be paid regardless of whether he knows what you hope he knows.”

“Seems steep fer no guarantee,” Swift said.

“If you wish to haggle I’m sure there are others who can do my job though there are none that can do it so well.”

Swift sniffed and nodded. “Fuck it. I’ll give ya two thousand jus’ get him ta sing.”

“My fee is one thousand, not two thousand. I do ask that you refrain from participating.”

“Aye, but I’m stayin’.”

“That is acceptable. I require only his name and the questions you want answered.”

“His name is Belper Froth. He’s…”

“And the questions?” the torturer interrupted.

Swift crossed his arms and didn’t answer right away. “I want ta know why Drake Morrass is here in Chade. I want ta know what he wants with Kessick and I want ta know where he’s staying. Bastard is like a ghost. Can’t keep a tail on him.”

“I’ll never tell you a fuckin’ thing,” Belper Froth shouted from his barrel. Again both Swift and the torturer looked at him and then back at each other.

“That is all?”

“Far as I can think fer now. Might be his answers beg a few more questions.”

“Then I shall get started.” The torturer picked up his bag and placed it on the table. He opened it and pulled out a white cloth which he also laid on the table then he pulled out a variety of blades, scissors, pliers, hammers and other instruments Pern couldn’t name and laid them on the white cloth. He pulled out a small metallic bowl and filled it with a vial of acrid liquid and then placed the vial back in the bag. Then he pulled out a variety of small leather pouches and placed them in a specific order only he could fathom. Last of all he pulled out a small strip of paper with some writing on it.

“That a rune?” Swift asked.

“A charm,” the torturer responded.

“Thought only Arbiters could make them things.”

“For all demands there are suppliers, Lord Swift.”

“Aye,” Swift said, a hungry look in his eyes.

“Bare his back,” the torturer ordered Pern.

Pern Suzku did not move even a muscle. He stared down at the tall man dressed in black and spoke in a low voice. “I am Haarin.”

The torturer looked at Swift. Swift shook his head. “He gets a bit moody ‘bout this sort o’ stuff. Useful fucker ta have around though.” Pern’s client walked over to Belper Froth and tore the shirt from his back.

The torturer selected a spot on the captive’s back and pressed the small strip of paper down onto the skin. Belper Froth struggled against his bonds but he was held tight. “What was that?”

The torturer moved in front of Belper and looked into his eyes. “The Arbiters call it a sleepless charm. It will prevent you from losing consciousness though, depending on your cooperation, I may remove it to give you some respite. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you!” Belper Froth spat a glob of spittle at the torturer but the tall man seemed to see it coming and glide out of the way.

The torturer selected a short set of pliers from the table and approached Belper Froth again. “I’m going to start on your fingers. If you are cooperative I hope I will not have to go any further but if I do I will move onto your feet next. Do you understand?”

Belper Froth let forth a stream of curses all of which the torturer ignored.

Pern watched with horror as the torturer set the pliers to Belper’s right thumbnail and slowly began to pull. At first Belper gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut but before long he was screaming as flesh ripped and tore and the nail pulled free. The man whimpered and sobbed, his head resting against his shoulder. Blood welled up around the nail-less thumb and pooled in the void.

“Now you know what to expect,” the torturer said setting the pliers to the nail on Belper’s right index finger. “It will get worse from here. Why is Drake Morrass in Chade?”

Belper shook his head from side to side and sobbed. His sobs turned back to screams as his second nail was pulled from his finger.

Pern gritted his teeth and tried his best to block out the sound of screaming.

By the time the torturer had a neat pile of ten little nails Belper Froth still had not said a word apart from the curses he threw around the room at anyone and everyone; even Pern who had nothing and wanted nothing to do with the entire situation. The torturer did not seem at all surprised at his subject’s lack of cooperation. He returned to his selection of instruments and picked a small pouch of dust. He then sprinkled the dust on the open wounds where Belper’s finger nails used to be and returned the pouch to its rightful place. Then he waited.

Pern glanced at Swift. His client did not look happy; his jaw was set, his mouth made a hard, thin line and his eyes were lowered in a full glare.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” the torturer assured them.

“Good,” Swift forced out.

“You can wait outside if this sight disturbs you.”

Pern half expected his client to hold the torturer down and pull out a couple of his finger nails just to prove nothing disturbed him but instead Swift spat and kept up his silent glare.

“Wha…” Belper Froth said from the barrel, his eyes opening for the first time in a long time. “The pain…”

“It is gone?” the torturer asked.

Belper Froth nodded.

“Good. I find this next exercise is always more effective when the subject can see but not feel the damage.”

The torturer returned to his instruments and selected a small vice with a screw set on top. He then placed Belper Froth’s right thumb in the vice and began to tighten the screw.

At first there seemed to be little effect; the torturer turned the screw slowly, half turn by half turn and Belper looked on with a bemused expression. Before long fresh blood started to drip down from between the two metal plates of the vice. Still Belper Froth didn’t feel the pain. There was a loud pop and Belper’s eyes went wide.

“What was that?” the captive’s voice was high and panicky.

“The beginning,” said the torturer and put his shoulder into turning the screw.

What followed was a series of crunches, snaps, grates, scratches and fleshy squelches all of which made Pern want to throw up but he held fast. Belper Froth did not fare so well. First he tried to struggle, then he started whining a high-pitched wail. By the time the torturer loosened the screw and took away the vice Belper was a shaking, gibbering mess and his thumb was a flattened paste of flesh and blood and bone.

“I will need a fire,” the torturer said to Swift. “Something small. Hot coals will suffice.”

Swift nodded but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the flattened mess of thumb. “Aye.” He walked over to the cell door, opened it and called out for a servant to bring a bucket of hot coals.

Belper had screwed his eyes shut and was muttering to himself between sobbing. The torturer waited patiently, humming a tuneless little ditty to himself. He put his pliers in the small metal bowl of acrid liquid and noticed Pern staring at him.

“You don’t approve, Haarin?” the torturer asked in a neutral tone.

Pern took a moment to compose himself. Some days it was harder than others to remember his vows. “I am Haarin. It is not my place to approve or disapprove.”

“I see. The anaesthetic should wear off soon.”

The torturer was not wrong. By the time the servant arrived, and threw up at the sight of the crushed thumb, with the bucket of hot coals Belper Froth was screaming again. The noise was so loud it made Pern’s ears pop and if it weren’t for the deadly severity in his client’s eyes Pern would have put an end to the poor man right there and then.

“I’m payin’ fer answers not ta listen ta this fuck scream,” Swift shouted at the torturer.

The torturer nodded and raised his own voice to be heard over Belper Froth. “It’s all part of the process. If you would like you can wait outside. Some people…”

“Get on with it!” Swift raised his voice to be heard over the screaming.

“Of course,” the torturer said and promptly sprinkled some more dust on his victim’s wounds. It took a few minutes for Belper Froth’s screaming to stop and the torturer was wearing a thin sheen of nervous sweat and glancing at Swift.

“Belper Froth,” said the torturer. “That was only one thumb. Tell me what I want to know or I shall do this to each of your fingers and your toes. From there I will move on to new parts of your body and create a symphony of pain from your screams. I will keep you alive not for hours or days but for weeks and each moment will be filled with agony. Do you understand, Belper Froth?”

There was a weak nod from the man strapped to the barrel followed by a sob.

“Belper Froth, if you understand me, say so otherwise the pain will return.”

“Yes,” Belper Froth managed in a raw voice. His head hung limp and a thin strand of spittle hung from his bottom lip. “I do.”

“Good. I’m going to cauterize your wound now.” The torturer was not gentle. In one quick motion with a sharp scalpel he sliced away the crushed, mangled flesh of Belper’s thumb and then took another blade from the bucket of hot coals and pressed it to the open wound. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and Pern again fought the urge to gag. The torturer sprinkled more dust onto Belper’s hands.

“Now, Belper Froth. Why is Drake Morrass in Chade?”

Thorn

“Ya da’s a cunt,” Betrim said to Anders.

Anders nodded. “We have an interesting relationship.”

Betrim snorted. “He’s having ya executed. An’ us too.”

Again Anders nodded. “I probably deserve it.”

“Well I don’t!”

This time Henry snorted. “Reckon ya deserve it more than any other fucker here.”

Betrim decided he wished he hadn’t started the conversation in the first place. Problem was out here there was a whole lot of nothing and the silent walk to their deaths was starting to pluck at his very last nerve.

The bastard holding his rope gave it a tug and Betrim stumbled, his knee hitting the packed dirt, and pushed back to his feet. He could feel a limp coming on; it did nothing to brighten his mood.

“Says the crazy bitch who murdered half of Chade an’ then fuckin’ got herself pardoned.”

Henry laughed as she placed one foot in front of the other. She still had her hat, the guards had been too kind or too afraid to take it from her, and it obscured her face. “Weren’t half o’ Chade. Twenty folk at most, I reckon, an’ only a few o’ those were anyone important.”

“How did you get a pardon?” Anders asked.

Henry growled from beneath her hat.

Betrim stumbled again but he kept his feet beneath him this time. Seemed they were in a piss poor situation; tied up and dragged along behind horses to their own executions. Lord Brekovich had decided the best way to be rid of them was to let the wilds have them. They were headed to the Boneyard and, while Betrim had never heard of it, it did not sound like a pleasant place. He reckoned they needed a bit of spirit raising and telling stories was always a good way to do so.

“Go on, Henry. Tell the man,” he said with a grin.

“You jus’ wanna know yaself.”

“You know how I did fer all them Arbiters,” Betrim said and for the most part it was the truth.

Henry looked up at the Black Thorn and grinned. “Aye. Even that third one.”

Betrim winced. He didn’t really like being reminded of the third one and Henry knew it. “What’s it matter anyways, Henry? We’re all ‘bout ta die.”

The little murderess sighed. “It were Xho who let me go.”

“Lord Xho?” Betrim asked. “The same fuck we killed a year back?”

“Aye. Seems he weren’t too pleased with one o’ his fellow council members; a lass called Lellith Chambers was sitting the council at that time. Somethin’ ta do with her opposin’ him, I reckon. Rich folk always got some reason or other fer wantin’ people dead, jus’ don’t like bloodyin’ their own hands ta do it.”

“Appropriate point given our current situation, I reckon,” Betrim agreed. Both he and Henry looked over to Anders, the blooded fool just sweated back at them.

“Well Xho didn’t want this Lellith Chambers killin’, he wanted a message sent. A don’t fuck with me message. So he freed me on the promise I would murder her son. Little brat weren’t even off the tit.”

Betrim gave a sombre nod to that. He’d put down children before, never quite that young though. The youngest he’d done for was maybe six years old; the little shit had come at him with a knife, he hadn’t meant to kill her though. It was an unfortunate affair that one.

“They still bleed jus’ like everyone else. No matter how small they are…” Henry said her voice trailing off. Betrim didn’t think it were possible but she actually sounded a bit ashamed.

“Not that I mean to intrude upon you bearing your soul, my love,” Anders said. “But given our current situation I’d much prefer it if we could change the subject to something of a lighter nature. Not that murdering babes isn’t a fun topic.”

Henry tilted her head so that her eyes could be seen underneath her hat and gave Anders one of her best glares. Anders somehow managed to pale even further and took a hasty side step to put a little distance between them.

The rest of the march towards their deaths was a lot quieter. Anders seemed to think better of speaking again and Henry had done all the talking of her past she was like to do for a couple of lifetimes. Betrim thought about bringing up some of his own exploits but sometimes a situation called for silence and this was looking like one of those times.

The strange thing about being so far north in the wilds was that, though the sun was high and bright and shining down on them with not a cloud in sight, there was a chill in the air. He was warm and sweaty from his forced march but his skin felt clammy in the cold. The light breeze was a particular comfort as it blew across his face, occasionally whipping away a bead of sweat.

Anders stumbled, dropped to one knee and almost collapsed onto the grassy dirt. The fool was still suffering from a distinct lack of alcohol and three days of being dragged behind horses with only a couple of scraps of old leather to keep them going was taking its toll on all of them but him most of all. Betrim quickly moved next to Anders, bending down to put a shoulder underneath the other man’s arm and then stood back up, lifting Anders back to his feet.

“Thanks boss,” the blooded drunk mumbled.

“Jus’ keep it up, Anders,” Betrim said in a quiet voice. “We’ll find a way out o’ this soon enough.”

To that Anders just nodded. He stayed close to Betrim after that, occasionally leaning on the bigger man for support. There might have been a time when the Black Thorn would have pushed him away and kicked his legs out from under him but these days it seemed as though friends were a rare commodity and he wasn’t about to rid himself of any, even one as useless as Anders.

The animals so far north tended to be of a different kind than in the southern wilds. Apart from the giant land lizards there were huge herds of shaggy-coated beasts with long, curled horns that chewed on the short grass and let out the occasional bleating noise. Many of the herds were tended by shepherds; young lads for the most part who watched the criminals and their escort pass through pitiless eyes. There were other animals about to be sure, Betrim spotted a small group of northern elephants at one point; they were half again as tall as the southern kind and with much smaller ears. More than once he saw a shadow pass over head as one of the giant Carrok birds trailed them. The winged nightmares wouldn’t attack a group so large as this but a man or two on their own could make easy prey for the flying beasts.

The Boneyard snuck up on Betrim. One moment they were trudging along staring at a land bleached of colours that seemed to stretch on for just short of forever and the next they were descending down into a dry, dusty valley full of bones.

The Boneyard was, Betrim had to admit, an apt name. The valley was full of the things. Some old and half buried, others a lot fresher and just lying discarded on the ground, some even had the tell-tale red stain of blood left on them while most were bleached white by age and the weather. Some rose up out of the ground to end in curved, jagged spikes and others curled back on themselves and clashed with yet more bones to form strange sculptures in the dust.

Skulls of creatures lay everywhere, many Betrim could name but just as many he could not. He spied a pile of bleached skulls that looked as though they could have been human but as they moved closer he saw that they belonged to the giant monkey beasts that inhabited some of the southern forests. How so many of the skulls made it this far up north was a fair mystery but one he doubted he’d ever learn the truth of.

One of their escort, an ageing man with more wrinkles than hair, turned in his saddle to look at the captives. The man ignored Betrim and Henry and spoke to Anders. “Bringing back any memories yet, coward?”

Anders let out a weary sigh, glanced around and then up at the man who had spoken. “You know I do seem to recall bringing your wife here once, Semon. Such a dexterous thing was Selfy.”

Semon’s face darkened. “Selfy is my daughter.”

Anders grinned. “Ooops.”

Semon gave the rope attached to Anders’ wrists a violent tug and the blooded fool went down amidst the dust and the bones. Betrim hurried forward and hauled Anders back to his feet; a trickle of blood ran from his hairline down past his nose and dripped from his chin to be swallowed by the ground below.

“Is there anyone back in Crucible you didn’t piss off?” Betrim asked Anders quietly.

“Umm… No. I don’t believe so.”

They continued deeper into the Boneyard, trudging a winding path through the bones. Semon gave Anders’ rope the occasional tug but after his second time face down in the dust Anders got wise and learned to cope with it much to Semon’s annoyance. At some point the Carrok bird that had been trailing them for the past day disappeared and then a short time later two shadows appeared in the sky. Betrim looked up to see two of the birds circling, watching and waiting. It was a far from comforting sight.

They stopped amidst a small clearing of bones. A giant elephant skull stared at them from the left; the eye sockets two dark voids, and an even bigger skull mimicked it on their right though Betrim couldn’t guess what animal it came from. In the centre of the clearing there was no cover or shade from the sun and eight large wooden stakes were set into the ground.

The soldiers from Crucible dismounted and set about readying the area. Before long Henry and Betrim were pushed off towards the centre and fastened with their hands tied firmly behind them and around the stakes. It was not a comfortable position. After the soldier had finished tying Henry’s hands he stepped in front of her and gave her a firm backhand to the face. Her head snapped to the side and her hat floated to the ground. The look she turned on the soldier made him take a step backwards. She spat out a mouthful of blood.

Next the soldier approached Betrim. He had a good set of teeth on him did that soldier. Betrim was just imagining knocking them out when the first fist connected with his gut. The thing about being tied to a stake is it makes it hard to double over. Instead Betrim just hung there with no air in his lungs, gaping like a fish.

“That…” he managed after a few more seconds of gaping followed by a quick gasp. “That it? Try again. Harder.”

The soldier obliged. Two more fists thundered into his gut and Betrim spent some more time trying to remind his body how to breathe.

“Go on,” he said to the soldier. “Once more fer luck.”

This time the man punched Betrim square in the face. There was a crack and Betrim tasted wet blood, felt it running down his face. Not to mention the intense pain that always accompanied a broken nose.

“Alright,” he coughed and sputtered. “I’m startin’ ta see ya point.”

The soldier snorted out a laugh and walked away leaving Betrim bleeding and thankful that the rope around his wrists was tied tight. Otherwise he might have collapsed and that was not something the Black Thorn should ever be seen doing.

When Betrim looked up he saw that Anders was having an even worse time of it. The soldiers had obviously been instructed not to be gentle. He was down in the dust curled up in a ball and taking a kicking from two men almost twice his size.

Then the woman he had called Lisha swung down from her horse and approached with a small and particularly shiny knife in her hand. When she got close the other two soldiers stopped kicking and backed away a step.

“Anders,” the woman said staring down at the blooded drunk like he was something she’d just stepped in.

“Lish,” Anders managed through bloody lips. “It’s always a pleasure, of course. I would bow but I fear the ground is just a little bit too comfortable at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to join me down here.”

The woman waved the knife at him. “I was thinking of cutting off your stones as a trophy.”

Betrim saw Anders smile. Took some real guts to smile at that sort of threat, he reckoned. “I’m sure your husband would love that. Mine were always so much bigger than his own.”

The woman lashed out with her boot and kicked Anders in the face. He rolled onto his back and lay there groaning.

“My husband gave me strict orders. You have to want to live. Right up until the end. I’m not allowed to take anything from you that will make you give up.”

“Quite right,” Anders said. “It would be terribly rude…”

“Hold him still!” the woman ordered and three soldiers moved forwards and secured Anders on the ground. One of them took his right hand and held it out in front of him, splaying his fingers wide.

“Wait,” Anders shouted a note of panic clear in his voice. “WAIT! What are you doing? Lish? Wait!”

The woman ignored him. She rested the knife across Anders’ little finger, just above the first knuckle joint, and waited, made sure he could see, made sure he was watching.

“No…”

The knife went down and Anders screamed.

The woman picked up the severed finger and shoved it toward Anders’ face. The noise he made sounded something like a longing whine to Betrim. Then the woman threw the finger away.

“That’s one for Elise. Four more to go, Anders.”

Betrim grit his teeth, spat out some more blood and spoke before the situation got any worse. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The woman looked up at him. “Or what?”

“Dunno if ya noticed,” Betrim continued. “But I got some experience with losin’ fingers myself an’ ya might be surprised by how much they bleed. Ya chop many more o’ them an’ Anders there ain’t gonna be conscious ta see whatever end it is ya got planned fer us.”

The woman paused and looked at Semon. Semon just shrugged. “Fine. Just tie the bastard up with the others. I just wish I could be here to see it.”

Anders managed a weak smile as he was hauled to his feet. “Feel free… to take my place… if you’re so desperate.”

The woman punched him in the neck and Anders started coughing and gasping, struggling for air. It wasn’t long before he was tied to one of the stakes along with Betrim and Henry. A soldier went round behind them, checking the ropes to makes sure they were secure and then Lisha approached one last time. She pulled out a skin and took a mouthful of the liquid inside then spat it in Anders’ face.

“Francis wanted you to know this was here as you die. So close, but so far away.” She put the skin down on the ground not more than ten feet away then mounted her horse and they were away. In less than a minute Lisha and her soldiers were nothing more than a dust cloud in the distance leaving Betrim, Henry and Anders to die.

“Water?” Henry asked.

Betrim saw Anders lick at his lips. “Better. Wine.” The fool gave a weak struggle at his bonds then went back to hanging limp.

“Said it ‘fore, Anders but ya da’s a cunt!” Betrim said.

Anders laughed. “Not at all. He’s a bit soft underneath it all really.”

“Umm…”

A haunting laugh floated into the clearing. Betrim knew that laugh and he knew it well. It was cold, inhuman, mocking. It came from a laughing dog.

Henry

The sight of blood was one thing, and there was plenty of that lying around in the dust, the taste of blood was something completely different; wet and metallic and thick. Henry fought the urge to gag and spat again.

Another laugh floated into the clearing from somewhere, could have been the same dog, could have been a second, impossible to tell as things were. Certainly made the situation start to feel a bit more urgent, being torn apart by a pack of starving dogs was not how Henry wanted to go out.

“Anyone loose? Able ta get free?” Thorn asked with a grunt as he struggled against his bonds.

Henry wriggled her hands, twisted them, pulled against the ropes then shook her head. Anders gave it a quick try, screamed in pain and then dropped to his knees. Henry couldn’t say she’d ever lost a finger, or a toe, or any part of her body but it was fair to say it probably hurt… a lot.

“Times like this I miss Swift,” Thorn said from Henry’s left. It was possibly the last thing she wanted to hear. Made her blood boil, her leg ache and it made the rage inside of her want to stab something.

Henry leaned as far forwards as she could, her shoulders ached at the pain of pulling in their sockets. Then she placed her left foot against the wooden stake, then her right foot just above it. Gritting her teeth against the pain Henry took her left foot away and placed it above her right and then leaned backwards, hopped up a foot and leaned forwards again. Her shoulders screamed in agony and threatened to pop out of their sockets but they held fast and she started the process again.

“Fuck me,” she heard Thorn say through the haze of pain.

Henry glanced at the Black Thorn to find him staring at her with his mouth well and truly open but she couldn’t spare the concentration to care. Hot sweat ran freely down her face, mingling with the drying blood and dripping down to the ground.

She started the process again. Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. Looking down it seemed as though she was barely off the ground. Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards.

“How much further?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Just a few more feet, my love.” There was a note of hope in Anders’ voice. It sounded good after three days of nothing but whining and despair.

Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. Henry heard something crack and a moment later the pain became unbearable. Great, panting breathes rushed out of her mouth and she tasted tears along with the blood. Her left shoulder was a burning mess of agony that flooded her entire body with pain. It took every bit of determination she had not to collapse and fall back to the ground below.

“Come on, Henry. Jus’ a bit more!” Thorn said from somewhere below.

Henry just shook her head. The pain was too much. She was too tired. She screwed her eyes shut and considered passing out.

“Swift could do it.”

Funny thing about anger, it was one of the best anaesthetics there was. Henry felt her heat rise, her tears dry, her pain drown and her tiredness flee before the wave of rage that swept over her.

She opened her eyes and readied herself for another hop. She’d bloody well prove to them all she was better than that bastard Swift.

Left foot. Right foot. At the edge of the clearing a four-legged grey shape emerged from an eye socket of an elephant skull. The laughing dog was maybe two feet tall and sleek with hungry eyes and a wicked-looking grin. It laughed at them.

Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. This time there was no tension, there was no wooden stake. Henry pitched forwards into eight feet of air and the dusty ground rushed up to greet her. She twisted in mid-air and landed back first. Her left shoulder screamed again; pain mixed with pleasure as the landing popped the joint back into position. New tears sprang forth from her eyes but Henry didn’t have time to force them to stop. She pulled her knees up and wriggled her bound hands below her arse and her feet until they were in front of her.

Lurching back to her feet Henry stumbled towards her hat and picked it from the dust.

“Not the time for that, Henry!” Thorn growled, staring ahead at something that no doubt had a nasty set of sharp teeth and the will to use them.

Henry ignored the Blackthorn and pulled free the hidden dirk she kept secreted away in the hat. She reversed the grip and began to quickly work at the rope around her wrists. The laughing dog charged.

The beast ignored Henry and Thorn and raced towards Anders. Henry felt something in her chest go tight. The knife sliced through the last cord of rope and her hands came free. She started into a sprint, rushing to intercept the animal.

The laughing dog leapt at Anders and Henry leapt at the laughing dog. They collided in the air its teeth snapped shut just inches from her man’s face.

As Henry hit the ground she rolled onto her knees. Something sharp and painful bit down onto her left arm. Without thought she stabbed at it, brought her knife down at the base of the dog’s neck. A pain-filled yelp of surprise burst forth from its mouth and the beast teetered a step before collapsing and dragging Henry to the dust with it. She reached up with her right hand, prised the dog’s jaw open and pulled her bloody left arm free. Then she stabbed the dying beast in the chest and again and again and again.

Henry lost track of how many times she stabbed the laughing dog. She was vaguely aware of Thorn shouting at her but paid him no mind. She stabbed and she stabbed and she stabbed. The blood lust slowly draining away and she found herself kneeling in front of the beast, arms slick with blood; its and hers, and both sweat and tears mixing and pouring from her face.

“Henry! Fer fuck sake, ya crazy bitch. Wake up!” Thorn shouted at her.

She turned her head to look at her old friend. His one eye was staring with the intensity of two and his voice was hoarse with a tone of command she didn’t recognise coming from him.

“Ya back with us yet, Henry?” Thorn asked.

Henry nodded and pushed herself onto unsteady feet. “Aye. I reckon so.”

“Then get me the fuck out o’ these binds.”

Henry did as she was told. She stumbled over to Thorn and quickly sliced through the ropes on his wrists then tended to the ones holding Anders.

“I, uh, thank you, my lady,” Anders said as he edged towards the wine skin. “You are of course most kind and I, ah, just… think it might be best if I…”

“Leave it, Anders,” Thorn ordered. A pair of small blades had appeared in his hands, each no longer than a finger.

“But I…”

“What’s more important, the wine or ya life?” Thorn asked.

“Is that a trick question?”

Two more laughing dogs appeared at the edge of the clearing and by the sounds of it they weren’t alone. The damned creatures just seemed to form from the shadows.

With a loud and resigned sigh Anders pulled the wine skin from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. “I suppose it will keep… for a short time.”

“I’ll swap ya,” Henry said to Thorn as they readied themselves for the laughing dogs. The Blackthorn looked down at his dual knives and nodded. “Always was better fightin’ with two blades.”

Anders joined them. “Don’t I get one?”

“No,” Henry and Thorn said in unison.

“I’ll just talk them to death then, shall I?”

“Any hints on killin’ these things?” Thorn asked.

Henry snorted. “I find stabbin’ ‘em ‘till they stop movin’ seems ta work.”

“Right ya are.”

Three more laughing dogs appeared and they began to circle, surrounding Henry and the other two. One of the dogs let out a high-pitched laugh and the others replied with similar noises. Henry really hated being laughed at.

Anders snatched up a broken bone with his left hand; his right was cradled against his chest and bleeding slowly into his tunic. Henry knew they’d need to deal with that and soon but right now there were more pressing concerns. They all stood back-to-back in a triangle as the beasts circled, each waving their pathetic weapons about in as menacing a fashion as was possible. Henry could feel her leg aching, could feel her left shoulder aching, could feel her left arm dripping blood. Thorn stood next to her, half as tall as her again but in no better shape; his face below his nose was a red mask, his little finger on his left hand, while set, was still broken, and judging by his breathing the soldier had done a real number on his ribs.

One of the braver laughing dogs darted forward and snapped at them. Thorn aimed a savage kick at its face but it jumped back out of range, mocking the Black Thorn with a laugh. Another of the beasts lunged forward but backed away again as Anders shouted at it, waving his sharpened bone in its direction. They were starting to get braver, coming closer and closer.

Henry watched a sixth laughing dog emerge from the shadows and pad towards the one she had killed. It sniffed at the corpse for a couple of seconds and then tore off a mouthful of flesh and started wolfing it down.

“These fuckin’ things eat each other!” she shouted in disgust.

“Well of course,” Anders said. “They’re not attacking us out of malice, they’re just hungry.”

“Meat is meat,” Thorn said. “Gives me an idea.”

Another of the dogs made a move to snap at Thorn but instead of trying to kick at it he kicked a cloud of dust at the animal. Taking a face-full of dust the laughing dog, stopped, sneezed and shook its head wildly from side to side. Thorn didn’t give it chance to recover; he was on it in a second. He stabbed the creature twice in the chest then picked it up, avoiding its snapping mouth and threw it as hard as he could towards the other fallen animal. It landed with a meaty thud and didn’t move.

Two more of the dogs broke off their attack to see to the one the Black Thorn had just done for. After a quick sniff to determine it was dead they tore into it. It didn’t take long after that for the final two to join the rest of their friends.

The small crew backed away from the laughing dogs slowly. Henry bumped into something hard. She turned to find it was one of the wooden stakes they had been tied to. Sat atop of the stake was a Carrok bird near as big as she was. The giant bird watched them through huge dark eyes then let out a shrill squark and took to the air.

“Reckon I’d like ta get the fuck out o’ this hell-hole now,” Henry said to no one in particular and not expecting a reply.

“Ya know this place, Anders? Know the best way out?” Thorn asked.

“I do.”

“Then lead the way.”

Thorn

Anders led the way and he seemed to know where he was going. He led them away from the clearing, away from the way they had come, away from Crucible. They almost ran into a nest of land lizards but the beasts seemed to be sleeping so they went around the nest slowly, carefully and very quietly. Just one of the lizards could take down a dozen people and Betrim counted four of them dozing in the sun.

On the outskirts of the Boneyard they stopped. Anders collapsed against a bone that looked to be a giant rib and swallowed three mouthfuls of wine before relaxing with a satisfied sigh. Betrim wrestled the skin from the drunk’s hands and took a gulp of the sour liquid himself and then passed it to Henry. They had been all day without anything to drink and Betrim was more than a little parched. Truth was they needed to find a water source sometime soon or they’d all be dropping from dehydration.

Betrim handed the wine skin back to Anders and had a good look at his missing finger. The bitch hadn’t taken his full finger and it ended in a stub just after the second knuckle. Luckily for Anders the bleeding had slowed to a near stop. Betrim tore off a strip of green cloth from Anders tunic and bound the stub as tightly as he could

“Unless ya got a healer ya know some place nearby? Reckon we’re gonna need to fire it,” Betrim said in a grim tone.

Anders swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Cauterize it?”

“Caw… what? Fire it. Burn it. Ta seal the wound.”

“Won’t that hurt?” Anders asked. Betrim could see fear plain on his face and truth was he could sympathise.

“Like all the hells. At least it ain’t ya face,” Betrim said tapping the burned side.

He turned to look at Henry. She was standing, scanning the horizon, her face hidden underneath the brim of her hat. She wouldn’t complain but Betrim could tell by the way she was standing that she was hurting something fierce, maybe everywhere given what they’d just been through. Looked like she might have done herself a bit of damage freeing them from the Boneyard. Betrim pulled the wine skin from Anders’ hands again and approached Henry.

“Need ta do somethin’ ‘bout that bite, Henry,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“Either ya let me have a look or I knock ya on ya arse an’ look anyways,” Betrim said though truth was he really hoped she wouldn’t opt for the latter.

The little woman tilted her head and gave Betrim a dark stare but then pulled her left sleeve up past her elbow, wincing as she did. Betrim had a good look at the wound, didn’t look to be infected but then it weren’t easy to tell sometimes. He poured a healthy portion of wine over the bites and washed them as best he could. Anders groaned but said nothing at the use of wine. Afterwards Betrim tied a dirty bandage around Henry’s arm.

“Well it ain’t pretty an’ it ain’t exactly the best healin’ I ever done but it’ll have ta do ‘till we find some real supplies.”

Henry grunted and turned back to the horizon.

Betrim looked around for a good leaning spot, there was none, none of the bones around were anywhere near tall enough and the rest of the surrounding area was bleak; nothing but dust and finger-long grass. He let out a low growl, folded his arms and took up a position where he could see both Henry and Anders.

“So which one o’ ya wants ta go first?” he asked.

“Eh?”

“Pardon?”

“Reckon ya both got a story ta tell an’ I reckon it’s ‘bout time I heard ‘em.”

“Not sure what you mean, boss,” Anders said though his face made it fairly clear he was lying.

“I want ta know why ya da’ jus’ tried ta have us all killed an’ why that bitch was ready ta take so many digits from ya. An’ you,” he pointed at Henry. “I know you an’ Swift never got on too well but these days every time I mention his name ya look like ya wanna tear the sun down from the sky an’ give it a good kickin’.

“So which one o’ ya wants ta start?” he asked again.

Silence descended upon the group. Betrim stood glaring at his friends, waiting for one of them to begin. Anders decided his missing finger was the most interesting thing in the world and Henry pulled her hat down to completely obscure her face. Neither of them seemed like they were about to be forthcoming with any details.

“Anders?” Betrim asked.

The blooded drunk sighed. “He didn’t try to have us killed. Not really.”

“Uhh…” Betrim started. “Were you not there? Tied ta a stake. Hungry laughing dogs. Imminent death.”

“If my father had wanted me dead he’d have executed me in Crucible. He sent me to the Boneyard with you so we could escape and there aren’t many who know their way around this place better than me. Truth is it doesn’t matter what I’ve done, I’m still his first-born, his oldest son and my brother Francis is still an idiot. My father clearly believes that one day I’ll come crawling back, apologise and be the good little heir he always wanted.” Anders snorted. “He might be a little bit mistaken there.”

Betrim shrugged. Anders’ may have made some sense but he didn’t answer the Black Thorn’s question. “What did you do, Anders?”

“I wasn’t always this peaceful, calm man you see before you now,” Anders said with a sigh. “Back before I was exiled I committed crimes. People got hurt. People died. Some directly, some indirectly.”

Betrim waited for Anders to continue, the wait extended for some time. “Ya got some details ta go with that?”

“It’s not pertinent, boss.”

“Eh?”

The blooded man sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It was years ago. Water under the bridge… you know, as long as we don’t ever intend to go back to Crucible again, and I assure you I do not.”

“Matters ta us,” Henry said her voice quiet and dark. “Need ta know who we’re crewin’ with.”

“This ain’t a crew,” Betrim reminded them both. “But aye. She’s not wrong.”

Anders sighed. “Two years ago the blooded families were at peace. It had lasted four years. Might not sound like much but that’s close to being a record. My father and D’roan were close, allies before the peace and good friends during. D’roan’s only son, Nathan, was staying with us in Crucible. He was young and my father had it in his head that Nathan would marry my sister, Chero.

“Well truth was Nathan was a little fuck who got into my sister’s bed and then ignored her afterwards, just another blooded woman he could say he fucked. It was pretty much what I’d been doing for years but he did it to my sister!

“I organised a surprise for Nathan D’roan next time he went riding. Hired a gang of mercs to ride him down, beat him and show him what it feels like to be fucked.”

Anders fell silent. It was the first time Betrim had ever seen the man look truly ashamed. Almost Betrim told him to stop his telling but problem was he really wanted to know the end.

“Nathan didn’t go riding alone that day. He took Chero, Lisha’s sister Elise, and a soldier by the name of Galnart Bert. The mercs I hired weren’t the most intelligent of folk. They didn’t like the surprise. They killed all of them.

“Lord D’roan wasn’t exactly pleased at the death of his only son. He declared the peace over and within a month all the families were killing each other again. They haven’t stopped since.”

“An’ you reckon it’s ‘cos o’ you. You think ya caused a war?” Betrim said with a shake of his head.

“If it weren’t for me…”

“If it weren’t fer you those blooded fools would jus’ found another reason ta start slittin’ each other’s throats. They been warrin’ fer longer than any folk’s been alive. A lot longer. Don’t seem ta take much ta get ‘em at it. Ain’t your fault no more than the slaves in Solantis finally standin’ up fer themselves is Henry’s.”

“And the others? Chero, Elise…”

“So ya got a few people, who maybe didn’t deserve it, killed. Ya ain’t been playin’ the game o’ the wilds long or you’d know that’s jus’ somethin’ that happens. We all done fer people who probably don’t deserve it. Ya jus’ gotta… move on.”

Anders let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve played the game too long and too well, boss. It’s why I’m here.”

“Eh?”

“Ya said four,” Henry said suddenly. “That bitch who took ya finger said five.”

Anders paled. “Lisha’s sister was pregnant. I get the feeling she hasn’t forgiven me yet.”

“Henry…” Betrim started.

“Why do you want this Kessick dead so bad?” she said interrupting the Black Thorn.

Betrim paused. He didn’t feel like telling them that he dreamed of Kessick every night. Didn’t feel like telling them every time he closed his eye he relived the night when Kessick beat him, stabbed him and tore his other eye from its socket and every time he could still hear the thump thump thump as if he were back in that damned cell.

“It’s his fault Jezzet an’ Thanquil are dead. Ya may not o’ liked ‘em, Henry, but they were my friends. I was supposed ta kill Kessick back in Sarth. ‘Cos I failed my friends are dead. Reckon that deserves some vengeance an’ reckon I’m the only bastard left who’s like to deal it.”

“Then here’s the deal, Thorn.” Henry sauntered over to Betrim and stared up at him. “I’ll help ya find an’ kill this Arbiter o’ yours if you help me kill Swift.”

Betrim would be the first to admit he wasn’t the brightest of folk but he reckoned he was starting to piece things together. “Ya know where he is?”

Henry snorted. “Where else would the fuck be but Chade. He owns half the city, sits on the council playin’ the blooded lord.”

“Aye. An’ where did he get the bits ta buy all that?” Betrim asked.

Henry glared even harder. “Someone had ta get paid fer that last job. We killed H’ost.”

“Far as I remember it only you, me an’ the Boss knew who hired us an’ the Boss sure as hell weren’t tellin’ no one after getting’ his face bit off in Hostown an’ me… well I was locked up in an Inquisition dungeon.”

Henry went silent. Betrim decided to press the issue. He reckoned he knew the truth now but some things were better off said.

“How’d ya get the limp, Henry?” he asked her.

Took her a while but eventually she replied. “After Hostown I ran. Figured the rest o’ ya were dead. Didn’t see how no one could survive those demons,” Henry let out a loud sniff and stared at Betrim, truth was he’d never seen so much hatred in a person’s eyes. “Bastard caught up with me in Chade, ‘fore I made contact with Drake’s people. We fought. He won. Tortured the contacts name out o’ me…” Henry gritted her teeth.

Betrim took a deep breath and nodded. “He rape you?”

Henry pushed him hard in the chest with both hands making him stumble back a step. Then she punched him. Betrim saw the punch coming but took it all the same, he saw them all coming and took them. Truth was they hurt like hell, especially the ones in his gut right where the soldier from Crucible had done his own punching, but at least she didn’t hit him in the face. After ten or so Henry stopped, just stood there panting, shaking a little and treating the dusty ground to that vicious stare of hers. Betrim waited for her to speak.

“He left me fer dead,” she said eventually her voice more than a little choked. “Right leg laid open an’ bleedin’ an’ he jus’… left me there ta die. Fuckin’ lucky a southern couple came by, I guess. Woman was a healer; patched me up an’ sent me on my way.”

Betrim nodded. “It’s a deal then.”

“Eh?”

“Kessick fer Swift. Both of ‘em die.”

“Aye?”

“Aye.”

Henry sniffed and then spat, still staring at the ground. “Thanks then, I guess.”

Betrim didn’t think he’d ever heard Henry thank anyone. He stepped forwards and gave her a friendly shove before treating her to one of his least horrific smiles. “What ‘bout you, Anders?”

Anders grinned up at them both. “I may not know this fellow but if my lady wishes it I will kill him twice just to make sure.”

“Aye. Then seein’ as ya know this place so damned well hows ‘bout ya lead us in the direction of a town. Preferably one with a good tavern, eh.”

“I like the way you think, boss. I know just the place. Follow me,” Anders was already up and walking by the time he finished speaking, nothing like the promise of a drink to get a drunk on his feet. “I do have one question. When you said demons…”

Suzku

Swift’s people were in place. They would watch and wait and eventually follow. The merchandise was ready, under heavy guard in the next room. Swift himself paced, caught between anger and impatience. Gone were the smiles. Pern had noticed his client seemed to smile less and less these days, his mood swings were worse and he was prone to random acts of violence.

Haarin Pern Suzku was standing close to his client as always, ready to protect even to the cost of his own life. It seemed the number of people wanting Swift dead was growing daily. There had been two attempts on his life in the past week alone and while Swift was adamant they originated from Captain Drake Morrass there was no proof of his claims. Nor could Swift claim he hadn’t tried to have the Captain murdered right back. It seemed to Pern that the rule of the free city of Chade was based around one true principle; survival of the cruellest.

As his clients constant, protective shadow Pern sat in on all the council meetings and he had observed that Swift and Drake were the height of civility towards each other while in those meetings. Once outside, however, Swift would immediately lay down new plans for having Drake murdered and Pern had no doubt Drake was busy planning the same thing. Swift had only one true advantage; he had a Haarin guarding him.

The streets of Chade had turned into a shadow war. The number of murders had risen dramatically and the city guard had no explanation for it, or more accurately they were paid to have no explanation for it. Swift’s men killed Drake’s men and Drake’s men disappeared Swift’s men.

Just recently one of Swift’s most accomplished gang leaders had gone missing from his safe house despite the other six members of his gang being in the next room. Two days later the leader had turned up on the steps of the guildhall in the Craftman’s terrace missing his feet, his hands, his eyes, his ears and his tongue. The man was quickly put down but the damage had already been done; his gang conveniently went missing that very day and Swift later received reports that all six men had decided pirating was a more lucrative way of life.

The truth of the situation was Swift was losing his war with Drake Morrass. Despite his torture of Belper Froth, Swift had yet to find a permanent location for the pirate Captain and any attempts to have the man followed only ever seemed to end in yet another spy going missing. Swift himself admitted he had only one play left; both he and Kessick wanted Drake Morrass dead.

“Where is he?” Swift said referring to the ex-Arbiter. “Don’t reckon I like bein’ made ta wait.”

“Perhaps he was ambushed and died on his way,” said Leese. She was one of Swift’s favourite employees. A good leader and more than a little dangerous with a sword. She also had no problems opening her legs for her employer.

“Aye that’d be jus’ my fuckin’ luck,” Swift said, spitting on the ground and increasing the speed of his pacing. Leese decided to stay quiet after that.

“Things were different back on the crew. Never made any decisions other than whether I wanted blonde or brunette. Jus’ did as was told an’ got paid. Simpler fuckin’ times, I reckon. Could count on folk ta watch my back too. Weren’t no-one lookin’ ta kill ol’ Swift when the Black Thorn were such an easy target. Reckon I’m startin’ ta see why he was such a paranoid bastard.

“I ever tell ya ‘bout the time we had ta take a tour of the ruins o’ Blood Hollow?”

Leese shook her head enthusiastically. Pern just continued to scan the warehouse, looking for possible advantage spots an assassin could attack from. He stopped counting at twenty.

“Whole crew were there. Bein’ paid ta off some dumb fuck pissed off the wrong folk an’ reckoned he could hide from ‘em. Dark place Blood Hollow, used ta be some sort o’ city in the middle o’ the forest but long since abandoned. Trees taken over the place grow ta some real height, pretty much block out the sun. Could be the hottest day ya ever known but in Blood Hollow it’d be dark an’ gloomy with a real oppressive atmosphere, heavy, ya might say.

“Pretty much only thin’ left livin’ in Blood Hollow is the monkeys. Little bastards ‘bout the size o’ a cat, but there’s plenty of ‘em. Steal anythin’ left unguarded,” Swift grinned at that. “Taste a bit weird too. Shot one down with my own bow, cooked an’ ate it. Ya take what ya can get out in the wilds.

“Rumours is the ruins is haunted. Ghosts or somin’. The dead comin’ back ta prey on the livin’. Reckon ya got be more than a little fool ta believe in such but the Black Thorn did. Said he’d seen the dead walk, reckons it happens all the time back in the Five Kingdoms. Dumb bastard kept lookin’ round sayin’ he could see eyes starin’ at us from the trees, from the buildings.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Eyes in the dark.

“Weren’t nothin’ there sides the fool we were sent ta kill; half-mad an’ gibberin’ like a moon-born.

“Point is I ain’t never met a man so paranoid as the Black Thorn but I reckon I’m startin’ ta see why he was that way. So many folk lookin’ ta kill ya is enough ta make anyone a bit jumpy.”

It was then the door opened. Some men might have jumped given the topic of conversation but not Swift. He didn’t even bother to look that way, just glanced at Pern to make sure it was safe. Pern gave a minute nod in reply. The man at the door was one of Swift’s guards.

“Kessick is outside, boss.”

Swift waited, sucked loudly at his teeth and said nothing.

“Um…” the guard said. “Boss?”

“Alright. Send the fuck in,” Swift replied in a surly tone.

Kessick walked in alone but escorted by three of Swift’s men. He approached but Pern stepped between the ex-Arbiter and his client before he could get too close. Swift might not like showing such fear but his Haarin didn’t care, he was more concerned about his client’s life than appearances.

Kessick glanced at Pern through dark grey eyes then dismissed his presence and focused on Swift. His aura was just as purple and just as insidious as the last time Pern had seen the ex-Arbiter.

“Leese here reckoned ya might have been killed by Drake on ya way here,” Swift said without turning to face Kessick.

“If it were that easy to kill me, Captain Morrass would have done it long ago,” Kessick said in a flat voice.

“Which leads me ta a particular area o’ interest ta me,” Swift turned to look at Kessick. “Why does he want ya dead?”

“Do you have the people?” Kessick asked, ignoring Swift’s question.

Swift snorted. “Aye. I got ‘em.” He motioned to one of his men and the door to the back-room of the warehouse was opened. A few seconds later a long line of chained people were herded out into the main room of the warehouse. Some bore the signs of wounds, bruises and lacerations while others were unharmed but the tattoos on their faces and hands revealed them to be slaves. Sixteen people in all; men, women and even a couple of children. They were walked out and stopped in front of Kessick for him to inspect.

Some of the prisoners lowered their eyes deferentially but a couple stared at Kessick and Swift in open hostility. One of the men, a tall black-skinned man with only one ear tried to struggle free. He was smacked on the back of the head with a wooden stick by one of the guards and his struggling stopped. Another man, dressed in the ruins of a fine blue silken suit, offered Kessick money to let him go free. Kessick ignored the man.

“They will serve,” Kessick informed Swift after visually inspecting each prisoner. “It is not enough. I need more.”

“Aye. Well it weren’t easy findin’ these lot. More’ll take more time,” Swift said.

“Time is something we are very short on, Swift. Find me more.”

Kessick turned to go, motioning for the guards to walk the prisoners out.

“Why’s Drake want ya dead?” Swift asked again. Kessick stopped. “I mean he seems ta think you want him dead. Asked him why an’ didn’t have a straight answer fer me.”

“I do want him dead,” Kessick replied.

“Why?”

Kessick turned back and again approached Swift. Pern was still between the two, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Because powerful people often set themselves up in opposition.

“You are planning to betray me, Swift,” Kessick continued. “Soon. I would advise against it. You are not a powerful person. You are a pawn. Without my protection you would be dead within days. Or more likely Captain Morrass would strap you to the front of his ship as a new figurehead just to see how long you last.”

Pern could feel the anger and suppressed violence flowing off of Swift in waves. His aura was deep and red, boiling and seething around him. It made the atmosphere so thick Pern almost found it hard to breathe. Kessick continued regardless.

“Find me the people I need. I have provided you with ample charms to detect them. I will return in four weeks’ time and I expect to receive at least twice this many.”

Swift’s jaw was clenched and he was shaking but Kessick ignored the obvious hostility. With a shake of his head the ex-Arbiter turned and strode from the warehouse, after the prisoners. As soon as the door closed Swift laughed.

“Pretty fuckin’ convincin’, eh, Suzku?”

Pern turned to look as his client, the aura of anger had gone, he seemed almost back to the jovial man he had once been. “You… I could feel your anger.”

Swift grinned even wider. “Pretty. Fuckin’. Convincin’. Eh?” He nodded to Leese. “Tell the boys ta follow that bastard and make certain they get caught.”

Leese looked confused. “You want them ta get caught?”

“If ya fuckin’ heard me then why should I tell ya again?”

Leese backed away a step, nodding, and then turned and fled to carry out Swift’s orders. Swift gave a single hand signal into the dark rafters of the warehouse and then turned back to Pern.

He saw something move, a shadow, slightly darker than the darkness it inhabited. Then it was gone leaving Pern to wonder if it had merely been a trick of the eye.

Swift saw Pern staring into the darkness and gave his Haarin a wink. “Best thin’ ‘bout bein’ rich is gettin’ ta pay other folk ta do the real dirty work. Back in the crew it were me who’d be doin’ the assassin jobs. Rest o’ those bastards were only good fer hittin’ things in the face. Little less than subtle, I reckon.”

“An assassin?” Pern asked.

“Aye. Comes from the Five Kingdoms. Near as expensive as you were. Now if only I could find that fuck Morrass I could give him the same treatment.”

Some days it took all of Pern’s will and training to stop from asking further details of Swift’s business. Some days it took too much. “Those people. What does Kessick want them for?”

Swift spat and started walking into the back-room. Pern followed. “Fuck if I know, Suzku. My da’ were workin’ fer Kessick ‘fore me though an’ he were playin’ around with demons so if I had ta guess… I’d say somethin’ ta do with demons.”

Jacob Lee

Some people hated waiting, they found the very idea of sitting still and doing nothing to be detestable. Jacob was not one of those people. Even if he had been once, eight years of being confined in a small stone cell, with only brief forays into the outside world when someone truly dangerous needed hunting, had cured him of that impatience.

He sat on the steps leading up to Crucible’s main hall, leaning back and staring at the sparse clouds milling listlessly about in the sky. He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and then exhaled slowly. Jacob felt his mouth stretch into a smile.

The good people of Crucible were afraid of him; he could smell their fear. The small road outside the main hall seemed to be a busy highway within the city and a figure dressed in black, lounging on the steps no doubt made for a strange sight. They would stare at him as they passed until they recognised the coat, even in the wilds people could spot an Arbiter’s uniform, then they would quickly avert their gazes. Some people might have found their reactions insulting but not Jacob, he loved to watch them, to study them. He loved to imagine what made them tick.

A man and a woman walked past. He carried a sack of coal, she a bucket of water. Jacob judged by their minute reactions towards each other they were intimate. The woman smiled when she looked at the man, the man held his back straight and puffed out his chest despite the weight of the sack. They walked close and brushed against each other twice as they passed. The man smelled of another woman. They noticed Jacob watching and hurried their pace.

I used to walk that close to Sarah. Sometimes she would take hold of my hand and give it a gentle squeeze. I would look into her eyes and see… something.

Jacob remembered her, remembered the good times; sharing each other’s company, their mutual love of music, a gentle canal-boat ride along the clear and placid waters of Sarth. Then he remembered the bad times; the times they had argued about the Inquisition, the times they had argued about faith and about having children. The potential was, most of the time, passed from parents to their children and so any children they might have had would likely have been given to the Inquisition. Sarah did not want her children to become Arbiters, she didn’t really believe, she didn’t really have faith.

Jacob preferred to remember Sarah smiling but sometimes the only way he could see her face was slack and pale and covered in blood; his blood or hers, he couldn’t remember. It all mingled into a thick red pool no matter who it came from. He tried to remember why he had been bleeding but couldn’t, suddenly all he could think about was dancing with Sarah.

A note of music, a single pluck of a string, something low and deep, drifted into Jacob’s ears. He ignored it, gritted his teeth and screwed shut his eyes, closed off every one of his senses and forced himself to remain calm, forced his heartbeat to slow and his mind to go blank. He was here to see the Lord of this beautiful city. If he started dancing here it would be problematic at best.

When he opened his eyes there was a man, big and brutish with well-used armour and long, oily hair, staring at him from the bottom of the steps. The man was blooded, of that there was no doubt, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He smelled of sweat and steal and fire and horse. Jacob watched him for a moment then went back to contemplating the city, nestled up to the giant mountains behind it, wooden buildings despite the abundant stone, furs and skulls of animals he couldn’t even name. Rounded wooden roofs that seemed strange to his eyes, most buildings in Sarth were built with flat roofs. Dogs roamed the streets of Crucible and there were most certainly a lot of dogs. Perhaps it has something to do with all the bones. Someone once told me dogs like bones but I can’t recall who.

“He won’t see you,” said the man at the bottom of the steps.

Jacob smiled. “It is unwise to ignore an Arbiter. Perhaps you should tell him that.”

“How would I…”

“You are his son,” Jacob interrupted the man.

The man eyed Jacob with suspicion. “I don’t remember ever seeing you before. How did you know that?”

“You are blooded but that much is obvious. You smell of horse yet you are clearly no hunter, either you have been on patrol or you ride for fun. Your armour is that of a warrior but not a soldier. Since standing there two people have bowed their heads to you and the guards behind me are less relaxed; they stand more rigid. You are therefore someone of authority. You wear only one piece of jewellery, a plain band of silver around your left wrist with a name etched on the inside; it begins with an L. A, it’s a wedding band and as silver of that quality is rarer than gold in the wilds you are well off, no doubt one of the Brekovichs. I would put your age someone in your second decade, the Lord of this city is in his forth or fifth, you are therefore of an age to be his son but it is unlikely you are his eldest.”

The man at the bottom of the steps now looked as confused as he did worried. “He won’t see you.”

Jacob flowed to his feet and started down the steps, he heard the guards behind him stiffen and the Lord’s son in front of him tensed and took a step backwards. Jacob stopped just a couple of paces from him. “What is in it for you?” he asked the man.

“What?”

“Sometimes violence is necessary in order to extract the information that I need but you are about to volunteer it. Why?”

The man was sweating now, the lump in his neck quivered up and down and his eyes flicked to the guards behind Jacob and back again. The four armoured men behind started down the steps. The Lord’s son gave a quick shake of his head and the guards stopped.

“You’re after the Black Thorn?” the man asked.

Jacob didn’t answer; he just stared at the man in front of him.

“I don’t care about him but there’s a man he’s with. A blooded man, like me. My brother. I want him dead. I’ll tell you what I know and you kill Anders as well, not just the Black Thorn. Deal?”

Jacob took another step forward; his face mere inches from the other man’s. The stink of fear was so heavy it was almost intoxicating. Another note sounded in Jacob’s ears, this time high and energetic, full of the promise of wild activity.

“They were supposed to be executed,” said the blooded man in front of Jacob, his voice had risen and he was shaking a little, his eyes were wide and made darting motions, searching Jacob’s face for a hint of intent. Jacob gave the man nothing.

“They escaped. We don’t know how just… um… they did. I don’t know where they’ve gone but I can tell you where they were.”

It took every ounce of Jacob’s willpower to focus on the blooded man’s words and ignore the notes that threatened to explode into a ruckus music. He clenched his fists so hard he felt blood drip between his fingernails.

“It’s a place called the Boneyard. I… uh… I could take you there.”

Jacob took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Just tell me where.”

“South…. south-east. Three days walk. It’s a big ravine.”

Jacob walked past the man. He needed to get away from him, away from everyone. He needed calm. The fool rushed up beside him and continued talking.

“You will do it won’t you? Kill him. Kill my brother.”

It was such an easy thing to do to rid himself of the Lord’s son. Jacob simply reached out with his right hand and pushed against the man’s chest. He felt a rib snap just before the body flew away from him, rolling along the ground in the dust, screaming in pain. Jacob never even broke stride. Not until eight men and four women all wearing soldiers armour rushed up to meet him, surrounded him and ordered him to stop. He complied but only as he contemplated which of the fools would be his first partner. He was very close to letting the music in when the blooded man limped over, supported by another soldier and struggling to suck air into his lungs.

“Let… him… Let him go,” the man said in a laboured voice.

Perhaps not so much a fool.

Jacob waited for the soldiers in front of him to move aside and started forwards again. The notes of music began to fade. He looked up and saw a single white cloud in the sky, twisting and reshaping itself in the wind. It started to look a little like a flower.

Henry

Henry dug at some gunk under her fingernail with the knife as she listened to them argue. It wasn’t a real argument, if that happened it would likely come to blows and Anders would likely end up moaning on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

“All I’m saying, boss, is that Trevil is a wonderful little town and I feel we would best be served spending a few days here in the presence of that tavern.”

“Reckon all those stints o’ sobriety have turned ya weird, Anders. Fact is there might be folk chasin’ us, chasin’ you an’ far as I see best place ta hide from ‘em, or better yet, lose ‘em, is in the Fade.”

“No doubt,” Henry said with a grin. “Hard enough ta find ya own teeth in there.”

“Precisely my point, my lady. There is but the one town in the Fade, a dingy little shit-hole known as Fogwatch and that, I assure you, will be far harder to find than your teeth. We might therefore consider spending a little time, um, collecting supplies and seeing what Trevil has to offer in the way of lubrication.”

Thorn sniffed and turned to Henry. “Reckon I’m starting ta figure him out, ya know. All that he jus’ said was fancy speak fer I want ta spend the next couple o’ days gettin’ arse over face drunk..”

Henry nodded. “Reckon ya just ‘bout cut ta the heart o’ it there, Thorn. He does like ta dress things up with his fancy words.”

“Aye an’ I reckon you kinda like it.”

Henry just smirked, that was certainly something she’d never admit to whether it was true or not. “Fact is we can’t afford ta spend a couple o’ days gettin’ blind drunk, much as the idea might appeal given recent events. We don’t even have enough bits ta arm a’selves.”

For the past two weeks they had been getting by with three small blades between them. Henry had kept both throwing knives to use if things got close and Betrim had kept the little dirk and complained endlessly that it wasn’t an axe. Anders was forced to make do without any form of weapon other than his tongue which, Henry had to admit, seemed more than capable of inflicting a variety of scathing wounds though none of them tended to be fatal.

Charming was what folk tended to call Anders and Henry had to agree. In the last town they’d come across, a shitty little village, little more than an inn and a few farms, Anders had somehow managed to charm them into sleeping in the stable with a warm meal and a bucket of apple cider. Anders had ended up drinking most of the bucket but Henry and Thorn had snatched a couple of mugs.

Things had become easier since the Boneyard. They were all still recovering from their injuries, though Anders liked to point out he could no more recover than he could grow a new finger. He always lost that argument to Thorn. Both her companions knew what had happened to her now, both knew what Swift had done to her. A part of Henry wanted to kill them both, slit their throats in their sleep so that people wouldn’t ever know the truth, but she wouldn’t. They knew and they didn’t care, or more they did care and they were willing to help her get revenge against the half-blooded bastard. Still it shamed her to know that others knew the truth.

“An’ how are we gonna afford this two days o’ drinkin’? Strikes me we’re more than a little skint,” Thorn asked Anders.

“How are we going to afford stumbling about in the Fade? Entering without ample provisions is akin to madness, boss. Now who’s acting like a weird?”

“What did you jus’ call me?”

“I… you know I didn’t mean it like that, boss. Just… um… Henry, my dear. Help.”

Truth was the conversation was boring Henry. She stepped closer to Anders, wrapped a thin arm around his waist and nipped at his neck with her teeth.

“Ow… Voracious little thing aren’t you,” he said with a grin.

“You two can fuck off with that ‘till we sorted this thing out. An’ by sorted out I mean you agreein’ with me,” Thorn said in a voice that almost demanded respect. Truth was he should have just made it an order instead of putting it out to vote.

Henry grinned at him. “Can’t help it, boss. Guess I jus’ like a man missin’ a finger.”

“It got chopped off, you know,” Anders said in a pained voice.

Thorn let out a growl. “Aye well I got two fingers missin’ so I suppose ya must like me… um… twice as much as him.”

Truth was there was a time when Henry would have agreed with Thorn on that but something had changed. She just didn’t think of the Black Thorn that way anymore, not when she had Anders to occupy her.

“What about a compromise, boss?” Anders asked.

“A what?”

“A compromise. Both parties coming to a mutually beneficial agreement,” Anders clarified.

“Um… depends if that agreement involves you agreein’ with me.”

“It does.”

Henry yawned. Her personal thoughts on the matter were they needed to stop running and find a job. They were broke and there wasn’t anybody following them; Anders entire family now thought he was dead. They needed to earn some bits to pay their way to Chade so they could find Swift and murder the cunt. She imagined sticking a dagger up his arse and watching him shit blood. She smiled.

“I’ll pay for a room at the inn, a nights worth of drinking for us all and in the morning we can buy supplies and head into the Fade,” Anders announced.

“How the fuck are ya gonna find the bits ta pay fer all that? Last I heard you were as broke as the rest o’ us,” Thorn said.

Anders produced a small purse from one of his pockets. She saw Thorn’s mouth drop a little and felt hers do the same. “Where did ya get that?” she asked.

“I, uh, found it.”

“Where?”

Anders looked down at the ground and sucked at his teeth. “On somebody’s belt.”

There was a moment of silence before Thorn burst into laughter. “It’s a small wonder ta me why a member o’ one of the richest families in the wilds would learn ta pick pockets.”

“When one has a habit of passing out and then waking up to find oneself in a gutter and, um, well and truly robbed, alternative funding is often required in order to keep up said habit.”

“Right ya are, Anders. Ya got enough in there fer a night o’ drinkin’ an’ supplies fer a trip into the Fade have ya?”

Anders laughed. “Not at all. But I wager after a night’s drinking I’ll have rustled up a few more bits. You would be amazed at the number of people who don’t adequately look after their belongings.”

Thorn nodded. “A comprise then.”

“Compromise,” Anders corrected.

“Aye. One o’ those. Gotta admit, I wouldn’t mind a drink or two an’ I guess we might find some locals willin’ ta part with some advice ‘bout navigatin’ the Fade.”

So with Anders leading the way they walked into one of the dirtiest little shit-holes of a tavern Henry had ever seen. The place named itself the Silent Wraith but truth was it was anything but silent. Well used straw covered the floor in layers and the stench of stale beer was overpowering. Henry sniffed and scowled at the smell but Anders took a deep breath and sighed in contentment. The walls were bare, the tables were scarred and the inhabitants were rowdy. A typical wilds tavern if ever Henry saw one.

Some of the patrons looked up at the newcomers but most gave them a sound ignoring. There were just two tables unoccupied and both were fairly central to the room, Thorn growled something about dangerous positions but Henry and Anders ignored him. The barman, a big-bellied man with two chins, no hair and red cheeks nodded to them as they sat in a way that said he’d be with them soon. Henry noticed a group of dangerous-looking folk sat in one of the corners, six men and all well-armed, they were sipping at mugs and smoking pipes of what smelled like casher weed.

Anders smiled at Henry. “I think we fit in well here, don’t you?”

Henry glared back at him from underneath her hat. “Reckon you fit in anywhere there’s a drink.”

“Quite right.”

The barman, and most likely owner, waddled over and treated them all to a friendly smile. “Ya all want beer? Tastes a bit like piss but it’ll get ya drunk. Got some mead too but it’s a bit more pricey. Made local it is, some folk nearby keep bees.”

Thorn growled.

“Ya don’t like bees, son?” the barman asked.

“Ever seen a man die from bein’ stung by the little monsters?” Thorn asked.

“No.”

“I have. Reckon the piss-flavoured beer’ll do jus’ fine. Three mugs.”

“Best make it four,” Anders said. “I have a terrible thirst.”

“There a time ya don’t have a thirst?” Henry asked.

Anders pretended to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

The barman walked away nodding and returned a minute later with four mugs of something dark and brown that tasted a lot, Henry assumed, like piss. Anders gulped it down gratefully after paying while Henry and Thorn took to nursing theirs. A lifetime of playing the game in the wilds had convinced them both of the virtues of not passing out in taverns. The barman sat down on the fourth stool at the table, the little wooden construct creaked at the weight.

“You folk are new here.”

Henry reached for a throwing a knife, she could already tell Thorn had done the same. Anders grinned at the man and nodded enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t have thought it was so obvious, though I suppose you know most of your regular patrons.”

The fat barman nodded. “Ya lookin’ ta take a gander at the Fade?”

Henry watched Thorn lean forwards and fix the man with a glare from his eye. “Reckon we might been thinkin’ ‘bout it. Ain’t many places in the wilds I ain’t been but the Fade is one o’ them. Figured I should cross it off the list.”

“Dangerous place, the Fade,” the barman continued. “Can’t see more than a few feet. Easy ta get lost. I’m told those compass things don’t work neither. Reckon the fog messes with ‘em.”

Henry looked at Anders. “What’s a compass.”

“Ahh, my lady. I used to have one myself but I, uh, misplaced it a long time ago. It’s a little device, they fit in the palm of your hand and have a little blade inside that always points north. They’re very useful in determining direction.”

“Only the little blade don’t work in the Fade,” the barman said. “Just sorta spins around and around. Least far as I hear. Gettin’ lost ain’t the only problem neither, assumin’ ya do know the way to Fogwatch there’s always the chance ya might happen upon a wraith.”

Henry snorted. Now the name of the tavern made sense. The wilds was full of people trying to make bits out of monster stories. She once knew a man who claimed he knew where ta find Drurr, deep underneath the yellow mountains. The charlatan was offering to lead an expedition down to their lair for a hefty sum of compensation. Chances were he got folk down in the dark then slit their throats and claimed whatever they hadn’t already given to him.

Thorn grunted. He looked more than a little severe. “Wraiths? Dead don’t walk in the wilds. Reckon ya want ta be tellin’ us what little ya claim ta know.”

The barman smiled and rubbed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together. Thorn gave Anders a nudge and nodded to pay the man. Anders reached into his little purse, pulled out a bronze bit and handed it to the barman. The fat man nodded.

“Perhaps ya noticed the name o’ my tavern, the Silent Wraith, well it’s not named so by chance. There’s plenty of wraiths out in the Fade though not many of ‘em can claim ta be silent. Most are wailin’, sobbin’ monstrosities that glow with an ethereal blue light…”

“A what?” Thorn asked.

“Ethereal blue light.”

“What the fuck does Eferal mean?”

The smile faded from the barman’s face and was replaced by a frowning brow. “Well, it, um, it means, sorta…”

“It means not of this world,” Anders filled in after gulping down the last of his first mug and starting on the second. “Ghostly.”

Thorn let out a low growl. The barman cleared his throat and continued.

“Well there’s always been wraiths in the Fade. They, um, sorta glow a bit, blue like an’ they float around lookin’ fer unwary folk ta suck the life from.”

“Aye?” Thorn asked.

“Aye. Never leave the Fade though. Some say they’re trapped there, the ghosts of all those that died, lost in the fog. Others say that every time a wraith kills a victim,” the barman leaned forwards, “the victim becomes a wraith themselves. They don’t tend ta attack groups o’ folk like yaself but they have been known ta group together an’ kill entire parties.”

Henry snorted. “No such thing as wraiths. Ya…”

“No such thing as demons neither, Henry,” Thorn said with a serious face. Wasn’t much Henry could say about that given a demon had tried to eat her less than a year back.

“Of course there are precautions wary folk can take against wraith attacks while traversing the Fade,” the barman continued.

“An’ I suppose ya got a wide variety of these precautions fer folk at a modest cost,” Henry shook her head. “Jus’ another form of bein’ robbed this, I reckon.”

Thorn ignored her. “What sort o’ precautions?”

The barman smiled a generous smile. “I think fer folk like yaself a charm would probably work best. Wards against the appearance o’ wraiths. The dead fear it ya see. Small necklace it is, blessed by the priests of the Five Kingdoms.”

“Aye. They know about the dead over there,” Thorn said, nodding.

“One silver bit per necklace, or twelve bronze bits.” the barman said.

“Anders, hand the man some bits.”

“Uh, boss, that’s somewhat close to everything we have.”

“Aye, well I don’t wanna get ate by the dead. It don’t take long ‘fore ya come back… That ain’t happenin’ ta me. Give him the money.”

Anders grumbled something under his breath but handed over the bits. The barman whisked the coins away and came back a couple of minutes later with a small round bit of wood no bigger than a coin with a crude symbol carved into one of its sides. A loop of string was attached so the charm could be hung around the neck. Thorn snatched the necklace and quickly placed it over his head.

“A wise man ya are, sir. That’ll keep the wraiths at bay an’ no mistake. Best go deal with the other customers now,” the barman said, grinning from ear to ear, and waddled away.

Henry shook her head. “That there is a right fuckin’ waste o’ bits.”

Thorn snorted. “I’ll remind ya of that when there’s a damned wraith chewin’ on ya leg.”

Anders finished off his mug and pushed himself to his feet. “Well I suppose I should rustle us up some more coin seeing as the boss has just spent almost all of ours. If anyone happens to catch me I do hope at least one of you will come rushing to my rescue. I would remind you I am not exactly armed.”

Thorn waved Anders away and he and Henry went back to their mugs and played at glaring at each other. It was never an easy thing winning a glaring match with the Black Thorn, most folk found it hard to stare into Henry’s eyes but not him, he could stare with the best of them. Problem was now he only had the one eye it somehow made that stare damned unnerving. Henry glanced away before long and decided to focus her attention on her beer. She could feel Thorn grinning at her.

Somewhere into their second beer Anders reappeared with a much larger purse and a drunken glow. Henry immediately grabbed his tunic, pulled him closer and kissed him. Truth was she was bored and when she was bored she liked to either fuck or stab things.

“Can we expect someone ta be wantin’ those bits back?” Thorn asked.

Anders detached himself from Henry and smiled. “I wouldn’t say so. I won all these fair in a game of chance and skill. It involves flicking a single bronze bit into a mug from increasingly longer distances and drinking every time you get it in. I believe my opponents may have underestimated my capacity.”

That explained why he tasted and smelled of the piss-flavoured beer they served in the tavern. A flicker of movement caught Henry’s eye. After so long playing the game in the wilds she had learned to notice when people where paying her particular attention and notice when that attention was about to turn to action. Henry caught Thorn’s eye with nod and he understood right away. Hands went to weapons, hers and his. Anders seemed oblivious of the violence that was about to ensue.

The man stopped just outside of striking distance and held up his hands. “Mind if I sit? I’m unarmed, left my weapons back with my crew.” He pointed to another table; five other lads sat watching the encounter.

“Dunno what business ya reckon ya got but it don’t involve us,” Thorn said, his right hand appearing above the table with the dirk unsheathed.

The man smiled. He was tall and handsome with a strong jaw, long dark hair and soft blue eyes. He had an easy grace about him but Henry knew better than most how jovial folk could be right cunts.

“Reckon I’ll sit anyway. Slowly. No sudden moves. Don’t want ta get stabbed or nothin’.” He sat down on the same stool the barman had occupied and laid his hands on the table as a show of good faith. “Good. Now I reckon we can talk business…”

“Do you have a name, good fellow?” Anders slurred at the man, the slur was new and he’d taken to swaying a little in his seat as he waved a mug of beer at the newcomer. Just how much of the drunken fool was an act Henry couldn’t tell.

“Aye. I do. Name’s Ben. Six-Cities Ben.”

Henry didn’t know the name but then there were plenty of names in the wilds she didn’t know. Thorn was another matter entirely; his teeth clenched, his eye went cold and his hand holding the dirk twitched.

“Easy there big man,” Six-Cities Ben said with a smile. “I get injured an’ my friend over there with the crossbow lets loose. Now he ain’t the best of shots, that’s the fucking truth an’ no mistake, but the chances that one of ya is getting stuck is fairly high. That being said I reckon ya want to hear what it is I’ve got to say. Yes?”

Thorn said nothing. Henry tightened her grip on her knife. Anders drained his beer. “I for one would be delighted to hear anything and everything you have to say, my good man. However I am also a firm believer that all talk goes down a lot more smoothly with a beer in hand and I do believe I’ve just finished mine.”

Six-Cities Ben laughed and nodded his head. “That sounds fair enough.” He waved to the barman and handed over four bronze bits and sat in silence while he waited for the mugs to arrive. It was a tense time made slightly less so by Anders humming to himself.

“‘Bout time ya spoke ya piece, Ben,” Thorn said once the beers had arrived. The barman hurried away as fast as his fat feet would allow. Henry reckoned the Silent Wraith had seen more than its fair share of violence judging by the scars on the walls.

“Aye. Well I hope ya don’t me saying but you look a little familiar,” said Six-Cities Ben, his voice was full of humour.

“I get that more than ya might think. It’s the eye-patch, I reckon.”

“Hah. The eye-patch, yeah. See I said the exact same thing but my brother, big man over there with grey hair, goes by the name Heavy-Hand though our da’ named him Joan, not really a man’s name, I know, but our da’ had an odd sense of humour. Anyways, my brother said it weren’t the eye-patch that was familiar, quite the opposite in fact, it were everything else. Now wait, wait, before ya get all stabby remember the crossbow. Nobody need get hurt just yet, plenty more talking to get through.”

Judging by the look on Thorn’s face he didn’t much like the idea of more talking. Henry was about to say something herself but Anders got there first.

“You talk a lot, Ben. Can I call you Ben?”

Six-Cities Ben smiled. “If ya like. I do talk a lot, it’s a curse. Comes from having a big family, I reckon. Lots of brothers an’ not many of ‘em big on talking so I took to it myself. See I used to have eight brothers, no sisters despite my ma’ desperately wanting one, but uh, only six of us left these days.

“Ant was the first one to go. Fool tried to cross the Jorl on a bet, got his leg bit off by one of them water lizards. Took our revenge though, killed the bloody thing and ate it. Tasted… well it tasted like shit but we did it more for the act of vengeance really.”

“Meat is meat,” Thorn said.

Six-Cities Ben stopped smiling, he and Thorn glared at each other hard, Henry could feel what was coming, feel the tension in the air. She felt her blood start to warm

“As you say. The other two brothers well I reckon you might know ‘em. Pretty famous here in the wilds. They went by the names of Little Harry and the Saint.”

Now Henry knew those names well enough. Both had been killed by the old crew back in Bittersprings. They were bounty hunters on the trail of the Black Thorn and that damned Arbiter. Henry was about to make a stab at Ben when Thorn laughed.

“Reckon ya might have mistaken me fer someone else, Six-Cities Ben.”

“That so? Because the way I hear it, it were the Black Thorn’s crew that killed my brothers an’ you bear more than a passing resemblance,” he glanced at Henry. “Know who you are too. Funny thing is word has it both of you are dead but here I find ya. Bad luck for you, I reckon.”

“Says the man sittin’ not two feet from my knife,” Henry said, feeling her sneer turn into a grin.

Six-Cities Ben sneered back. “Crossbow.”

Thorn sniffed loudly. “Hows ‘bout ya bring ya brother over here, Ben. Reckon I want ta talk ta the brains o’ ya crew.”

Ben seemed to think about that for a moment before looking over to his crew and giving a nod. The man with the grey hair, a broad-shouldered, stone-faced man equal in height to Thorn, stood, said something to his companions, unhooked a heavy mace from his belt and approached. He stopped a few paces away, well out of Thorn’s striking distance.

“Long time, Joan,” Thorn said.

“I hear you killed my brother, Thorn,” Joan said back, his voice matching Thorn’s menace for menace.

“Ya hear wrong. I ain’t gonna lie ta ya, I were part o’ the crew but none of us here did fer either of your brothers. Saw ‘em die but I was busy killin’ the Big Mouth.”

Heavy-Hand Joan sniffed loudly. “Can’t say that bastard didn’t deserve it,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Not many deserved it more, I reckon. Fact is Little Harry was done in by the Boss.”

Heavy-Hand Joan spat onto the straw-covered floor. Henry realised the noise in the tavern had become strangely muted. Folk in the wilds knew a fight when they saw it coming.

“That’s a name I’ve not heard in some time.”

Thorn nodded. “That’d be ‘cos he’s well an’ truly dead. The Saint stuck an arrow in his back, bastard died a few weeks later.”

“From the rot?” Six-Cities Ben asked.

“Aye, well I reckon that helped,” Thorn continued. “Having his face bitten off didn’t do him much good neither.”

“Got what was coming to him,” Joan said, his mace still ready in his hand.

Again Thorn nodded. “Well seein’ as how the bastard spent two years robbin’ me of half my share I’m gonna agree with ya on that one too.”

“And the Saint?” asked Six-Cities Ben.

“He was done in by a lad on our crew went by the name of Swift,” Thorn said. Henry let out a growl. Just the mention of his name was enough to make her angry.

“That’s be the same Swift owns half of Chade?” Joan asked.

Thorn nodded. “I hear he’s made good fer himself. Somethin’ ta do with takin’ all the money from our Hostown job.”

Six-Cities Ben whistled. “That were really you? I figured the rumours were shit. Folk say you murdered thousands o’ people, half o’ them soldiers. Killed the entire H’ost family while you was at it.”

Thorn spat onto the reeds. “Reckon that rumour might be a little bit shit. Some truth ta it, I guess.”

Heavy-Hand Joan let out a loud sigh, grabbed a nearby stool and sat down, laying his heavy mace across the table. “The Saint would never have gone after you if it weren’t fer that dumb fuck Big Mouth Cal. Taught him better ‘an that.”

Thorn just nodded, seemed he was relaxing a little, seemed him and Joan had some history. Henry kept a tight grip on her knives, just in case.

“Judging by Henry the Red’s face when ya mentioned Swift I’m guessing he ain’t exactly liked by your new crew,” Joan said.

It had been a long time since anyone had called her Henry the Red. She liked it. A name she’d earned a long time ago.

“Aye,” Thorn said. “Ya could say that. Might be we’re lookin’ ta get some payback on account of not gettin’ our fair share.”

“You heading into the Fade?”

Again Thorn nodded. “Possible we got some folk chasin’ us. Blooded folk.”

Joan glanced at Anders. Anders grinned at Joan. “‘Cos of him or ‘cos of Solantis.”

“Little bit o’ both, I reckon.”

Joan grunted. “Heard what happened there was the Black Thorn’s fault. Little bit at odds with the rumour of you being dead. Either way figured we should come this way looking fer you. Someone needs ta pay the price fer the Saint after all.”

Henry sniffed. She didn’t really like being reminded of her part in the slave uprising. The odd murder was one thing but what happened in Solantis was something else, something that made even her pale to think about its scale. Thousands dead because she’d set loose a few slaves and told them to fight. She shuddered and forced her attention back to the conversation.

“We could use a hand in Chade, Joan,” Thorn said. “My guess is Swift ain’t gonna be easy ta get ta.”

A quick grin spread across Joan’s face and then was gone again. “Aye. Seems we got a reason ta crew together again, Thorn. Lucky for you the rest of our boys don’t know about ya bounty. Luckier for you me and Ben care more about seeing the Saint ain’t lonely in the afterlife.”

Thorn nodded to that but his face was hard. “An’ what ‘bout after we done fer Swift?”

Joan chuckled. “Won’t be no one ta collect from after we’re done. Who do ya think placed the bounty on ya head, Thorn?”

Thorn

By the end of the first day in the Fade Betrim was nervous. Every sound echoed around him eerily so he couldn’t tell where it had come from; he stared in every direction, his head darting one way and then the other like a bird but he could barely see more than a few feet. By the end of the second day he was quickly approaching something akin to a wreck. By the fourth day he was so tired he was seeing shapes in the mist; shadows gliding around just beyond the edge of his vision.

He didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep. They set watches, three sets of eyes per watch and they all slept close, almost on top of each other. Betrim gave up trying to get any rest and stood every watch, axe in one hand while the other clutched to the charm he wore around his neck, he rubbed the small circle of wood so much he picked up splinters but it didn’t stop him.

None of the others believed in the wraiths, they all thought if anything it would be bandits that attacked them; robbers who preyed on the unwary foolish enough to enter the Fade alone or unprepared. If that were the case they wouldn’t find this group easy pickings; a more dangerous group of folk Betrim had rarely travelled with. None of the others believed in the wraiths but none of the others had been to the Five Kingdoms. Betrim had, he had seen the dead walk, seen what they did to the living, seen the living turn dead and rise again.

At the end of the fourth day Joan came to Betrim, gave him a real intense look. “How longs it been since we last crewed together, Thorn?”

Betrim stared at Joan with one tired eye; he could feel the lid drooping even now. “How longs it been since you stopped playin’ the game an’ started huntin’ those that do?”

“Good few years. Ten maybe.”

“‘Bout that then, I reckon, Joan,” Betrim answered.

“In all those ten years I ever hunted you?”

Betrim spat. “Don’t reckon so. If ya had I reckon I might’a been caught a whiles back.”

Joan nodded. “One of us would have ended up dead an’ no mistake. So why ain’t you trusting me? I gave my word none of me or mine would try for ya.”

“Eh?”

“I hear ya standing every watch. Makes my boys a little nervous that ya ain’t willing ta let ‘em watch ya back whiles ya sleep. Now I understand if ya wanna have one of yours on every watch but…”

“Ya got it wrong, Joan,” Thorn interrupted him. “Ain’t that. It’s the bloody wraiths. I can hear ‘em out there in the fog.”

Joan looked around. Not that there was anything to see. Fog was so thick five feet was something approaching a blessing and while walking if you lost track of the man in front of you there was a good chance you’d never find them again. There was nothing to see above them; just a blanket of shifting grey and below the ground was damp soil, sometimes mud but always brown. There was a marsh somewhere in the Fade, Betrim had been told, but at the moment they weren’t in it. Occasionally they’d come across a corpse tree, stark white against the grey and reaching towards the sky. No leaves ever grew on corpse trees, no fruit ever spouted. They grew from the bodies of the dead, or so it was said, and the tree was as barren as the corpse below it.

“Been in the Fade four times myself,” Joan was saying. “One of those times I was alone an’ trying ta chase a particularly slippery murderer by the name of Coball, one of the black skins from the far south and partial ta eating his victims. Filed his teeth ta points.” Joan paused as if remembering and then shook his head. “Been here four times an’ never once have I seen a wraith. Ain’t nothing here but fog an’ Fogwatch… an’ more fog.”

“Ya ever seen a dragon?” Betrim asked.

“No.”

“Me either. Got it on pretty good authority they do exist though.”

Joan sighed. “You need ta sleep, Thorn. Got at least two days before we make it ta Fogwatch, if we make it at all. Ben’s pretty damned good at getting us where we need ta go but… no guarantees in this place.”

Betrim knew Joan was right. Lack of sleep could do funny things to a man. Make him see things, hear things that weren’t there. Make him slow when he needed to be fast. Make him fall when he needed to stay on his feet.

Betrim nodded. “I’ll try.”

He did manage to sleep that night. Huddled close to Anders who was in turn huddled close to a wine skin. Henry watched over them both on that watch and Betrim had to admit there weren’t many folk left alive he trusted more than her, possibly even none.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim stood over the body wearing the coat of an Arbiter. He pulled his axe free and rolled the body over to get a good chop in on the neck; sever the head, the best way to be sure. It wasn’t Kessick.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A hand grabbed hold of Betrim’s shoulder. Pulled him to his feet and span him around. A fist exploded into Betrim’s jaw.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick spoke, saying something Betrim couldn’t hear. He watched the handsome face; the dark oak hair, the piercing Green eyes. The Black Thorn charged. Kessick caught his wrist, pulled the axe free and pushed Betrim to the floor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim drew a dagger into his right hand and his left whipped a throwing knife at Kessick. The knife stuck in the Arbiter’s leg but it made no difference. Kessick caught Betrim’s wrist in one hand and his throat in the other.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick plucked the dagger from the Black Thorn’s hand and stabbed him four times in the chest. Betrim toppled backwards and hit the ground heavy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick was standing over the Black Thorn. He was speaking again, one tooth glinting in the moonlight. Then he reached down and Betrim saw fingers closing around his left eye.

Thump. Thump. Scream.

Betrim sat bolt upright. He was drenched in sweat and shaking from head to toes. His right hand had managed to find his axe and his left went straight to his eye, to his eye-patch. It took him a moment to realise something was wrong. He wasn’t the only one awake. Everyone was up, everyone was silent, tense, and everyone looked scared.

“You alright, boss?” Anders asked in a whisper.

Betrim shook his head. He could still remember the dream, still remember the thumping, but the scream wasn’t there, it hadn’t happened in his dream, it wasn’t his voice. Then the sobbing started.

It was a terrifying thing to hear. Long, pain-filled wails echoing all around them. A single cry as if from a woman’s lips so sad it brought tears to Betrim’s eye. He quickly wiped the water on his hand and looked for the source. He couldn’t find it; the noise just seemed to drift out at them from the fog

Another wail started just as the first one died down; this one seemed to come from the other side of the small group. A cry of pure terror, fear and pleading and hopelessness all rolled into one.

“What the fuck is it?” asked one of Joan’s bounty hunters. Betrim seemed to remember he had named himself Davet Wolfsbane.

“Where’s it comin’ from?” Henry asked, her eyes wide and her jaw clenched.

The wail died down and everything went silent save the occasional scuffing of boots on the ground. Betrim stared off into the dark fog, into the swirling, shifting void. He was slick with sweat, could feel it beading and dripping down his face. Still there was nothing, no sound and no sight of whatever was out in the fog. Betrim almost believed it was over.

A high-pitched hissing noise drifted out of the fog and it took a moment for Betrim to realise it sounded like a woman saying pleeeeease. It was so quiet and so urgent that Betrim had the sudden urge to wander off into the fog to search for the voice, search for the woman who needed his help. Something bumped into his left arm and Betrim jumped, pointing his axe in the general direction. It was Joan, come to stand next to the Black Thorn. Betrim reckoned he’d never seen Heavy-Hand Joan look scared before, he certainly had now.

“What do we do, Thorn?” Joan asked.

“Eh?”

Another wailing sob started up and Thorn saw something. A faint blue light, a dark shadow drifting by in the fog. He felt his eye start to well up again and sniffed.

Heeeeeeeeeeelllllllllppp, the hissing voice drifted out of the fog. Betrim spun around towards the source of the voice. He caught a glimpse of a shape again and then it was gone.

“You know what ta do with the dead right?” Joan asked.

Thorn tried to swallow down the lump that had developed in his throat.

“We have ta run,” said one of the other bounty hunters, a lad called himself Sly. “We gotta get the fuck out o’ here!”

Six-Cities Ben cuffed Sly on the back of the head. “Shut up.”

Another wail, another drifting shape in the dark fog. Fog in the day was one thing, fog at night was an entirely different matter. The world seemed to simply end just a few feet in front of Betrim’s face. Another hiss, this one seeming to say coooooooold and then Betrim felt it, the fog turned icy, his breath misting in front of him.

“Ain’t never dealt with wraiths,” he said, his voice cracking a little. Betrim coughed and spoke again, his voice more level this time. “Best way ta deal with the dead is ta chop the heads off. That an’ fire.”

“Fire?” Six-Cities Ben asked.

Betrim nodded. “Aye.” He remembered that much. The two best ways to stop someone coming back from the dead. Wasn’t so sure about sending them back to the dead once they were up and walking again but it seemed what worked for one probably held true for the other.

“Get a fire lit an’ get some torches. Now,” Joan ordered his crew of hunters.

Henry pressed up against Betrim, he could feel her shaking but was glad of the closeness. Anders stepped up on Thorn’s other side. “Boss?” The drunk sounded scared and rightly so. Weren’t a man alive wouldn’t be scared in this situation, he reckoned. “Any chance I can borrow that charm around ya neck?”

Betrim couldn’t help himself, a strangled laugh burst from his lips though there was little humour in it. He plucked the charm from around his neck and handed it to Anders. “Be wantin’ that back once we’re done with these bastards.”

Thorn saw movement out of the corner of his eye and his head snapped around. A face drifted out of the darkness, grey and wrinkled and wretched. Its mouth was open and moaning, its teeth were broken or missing. Straw-like dead hair fell down around its skull framing the pallid flesh of its face. It didn’t seem to have a body but a faint blue light glowed in the fog behind it. It was almost within reaching distance. A hand, shrivelled and pale appeared below it and reached out towards the group.

Ben was the closest to the wraith. He tried to back away and tripped over his own feet, landing on the cold, damp ground and scrambling backwards. A shoulder appeared out of the fog and then an emaciated torso. Betrim couldn’t tell if the face was coming out of the fog or if it was the fog, twisting into grotesque shapes.

“Thorn,” Joan shouted and shoved a torch towards him. The bounty hunter had his back to the wraith, perhaps hadn’t seen it yet. Betrim dropped his axe, grabbed the torched and shoved Anders out the way.

Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaasssseeee. The wraith hissed at them.

Against every shred of better judgement he had the Black Thorn stepped towards the thing in the mist, waving the flaming stick in its direction. It let out a crying sob and floated back into the fog, disappearing entirely. Six-Cities Ben looked up at Thorn with wild eyes and mouthed something that could have been a thanks but no sound escaped his lips.

Someone was cursing, screaming. One of Joan’s bounty hunters. Thorn turned just in time to see Sly’s terrified face disappear off into the fog, dragged away by ghostly hands. Heavy-Hand Joan roared, picked up a torch in each of his heavy hands and charged after Sly, the light of the torches fading quickly as he moved away. No one followed him.

“There’s another one!” Henry screamed.

Betrim span and leapt towards the wraith, swinging the flaming torch at its face and screaming in wordless fury and terror. The dead thing shrank back from the fire, wailing and hissing as it went.

Henry stepped up beside Betrim, a torch in her right hand and a dagger in her left. “You hit it? Looked like you hit it.”

“I… uh… dunno. Think it passed right through,” he said in a wild voice.

Betrim and Henry stepped back towards the group together. They all had torches now, formed a circle around the little fire; a ring of flame to ward off the wailing dead.

“Joan!” Six-Cities Ben shouted into the fog, trying to be heard over the wailing and the sobbing and the hissing. “JOAN!”

Another face drifted towards them from the darkness and Davet and Anders swung fire at it, forced it back from where it had come.

“JOAN!”

Betrim spotted a soft yellow light to his left and a moment later a dark figure stumbled backwards towards the group. Joan had lost one of his torches and he was swinging the other one before him as if trying to swat flies. He tripped and landed on his arse, a hand reaching out of the darkness just behind. It took hold of his foot and started dragging the bounty hunter back into the formless grey nothing. The Black Thorn and Henry rushed forwards, waving torches at the hand and the face behind it. Anders moved up after them and started dragging Joan towards the fire.

“He’s cold,” Anders shouted. Betrim glanced back to see Joan was shivering, his skin pale as the frozen water folk called snow. His eyes were wide and unseeing and his teeth clattered against each other.

“Get him close to the fire,” Ben ordered Anders. “Get some blankets on him.”

Anders laboured alone; everyone else was busy at the borders of the small group, watching for more attacks. The wailing continued.

“Is he injured?” Betrim asked, not looking behind him.

“Um, don’t think so, boss. Just really fucking cold.”

“Get him warm then!” Betrim ordered. Anders threw every blanket he could find on the big man and then lay his own body next to him to share his own warmth.

Betrim wasn’t sure how long they stood there in a circle with their backs to the fire. All night maybe. At some point the darkness lessened and the fog became more grey than black. At some point the wailing and sobbing stopped. The wraiths had gone for now but Betrim would put all the bits he didn’t have on them being back the next night.

Eventually Joan heaved himself to his feet. He had three blankets draped over his shoulders, was shaking like an old man and had dark bags under his eyes.

“We need ta get moving,” he said in a sombre voice. “Make as much distance as we can while it’s light. Move quick as we can an’ get ta Fogwatch.”

“Best we keep a fire at night, I reckon. Double the watch,” Betrim said.

Ben snorted out a humourless laugh. “Don’t reckon any of us be sleeping again out here.”

“What about Sly?” asked another of Joan’s bounty hunters, a middle-aged fellow named Bert.

Joan just shook his head.

Anders

An old man with a long spear and rusty iron armour sat at the entrance to Fogwatch. He looked up from chewing at his thumbnail just long enough to chuckle at the harrowed looks on the newcomers’ faces.

Anders stared one way then the other, maybe it was the lack of sleep or the pounding in his head from sobering up but the fog seemed to lessen here, he could easily see thirty feet in each direction except back into the Fade, a blanket wall of shifting grey shrouded what lay beyond the town limits.

“No walls,” Henry whispered in a raw voice. Last night she had taken to screaming at the wraiths as they attacked, hurling insults and curses that would have made even the most hardened pirate blush. It hadn’t scared the dead things off but it had emboldened the crew a little at least.

“Hey old man,” Thorn said. “You on guard here?”

The old man with the rusty armour slowly looked up from his thumb, glanced first to his left, then to his right. “Huh. S’pose I am.”

“We been harried by wraiths all the way here. They’re followin’ us,” Thorn said.

The old man chuckled. “Aye. They like ta do that ta tourists.” He went back to chewing at his thumbnail, dismissing the group gathered in front of him.

Anders saw Thorn go red with anger. “They took one of our group.”

The old man tore off a strip of nail and winced before spitting it onto the damp earth. “Ah. Cure for that just over there,” he pointed towards what Anders assumed was the centre of town. “Weeping Widow we call it. Good a place ta get yaself drunk as any, I reckon an’ pretty much the only place in Fogwatch.”

Now Anders could see Thorn was getting frustrated. “Maybe ya ain’t hearin’ me, old man. They chased us here, followed us. They’ll be here tonight. Every fuckin’ night.”

Again the old man chuckled. “An’ what do ya want me ta do about it? Wave my spear at em?” He gave his spear a lazy shake. “Go on. Off with ya. Making my damned job more of a chore than it bloody needs ta be.”

Thorn growled but started off towards the town and all the others fell in line. Anders heard the old man curse under his breath and say something about tourists before he hurried after Thorn.

“Uh, boss. About the…” Anders started.

“Later, Anders. We gotta warn someone ‘bout the wraiths first. Gotta be someone in charge of this hell-hole.”

“Right you are. I suppose I’ll just…” he gave the skin he kept hung around his shoulders a quick shake. There was a slight sloshing noise from within but it was little more than a mouthful. Anders sighed. Sobering up was always the worst part about getting drunk.

Heavy-Hand Joan appeared next to Thorn, followed, as always, by Six-Cities Ben. He seemed to have fully recovered from his own brush with the wraiths though he didn’t talk about what he had seen out in the mist. “Ya got a plan, Thorn?” Joan asked.

“Aye. Reckon so. Warn the dumb fuck who runs this place that the wraiths are comin’ then get the hell out o’ here ‘fore they arrive. Port Mercy lies a ways ta the south. From there we catch a boat ta Chade. Not a short trip but not near so long as the walk it would take.”

“Never thought I’d see the day the Black Thorn suggested getting on a boat,” Joan laughed.

“Had occasion ta be on a few of late. Sarth an’ back. Ain’t so bad long as ya ignore the fact everythin’ in the blue wants ta eat ya an’ the weather is generally busy tryin’ to accommodate that desire.”

“Joan,” said Bert. The old fellow had dark bags under his bloodshot eyes, he hadn’t been faring too well with the lack of sleep though truth was none of them were currently fairing too well. “Me, Davet an’ Kip. We was wonderin’ how long we’re stayin’ here for.”

Heavy-Hand Joan sniffed and looked at Thorn before responding. “It’s late in the afternoon. Don’t reckon we’ll be leaving ta sit out there in the dark, had enough of that. Safer in doors for now. No mist, no wraiths. Tomorrow maybe.”

“We’re gonna go find this Weeping Widow. Have a drink ta Sly. We owe him that much.”

Joan nodded and put one of his heavy hands on Bert’s shoulder. “Aye. We’ll be along as soon as we’ve finished our business.”

Before they left Ben fished out a couple of silver coins from a purse and pressed them into Bert’s hand. “Drink to the fallen,” said Ben.

“We’ll be joining them soon,” Bert, Davet and Kip finished in unison.

“Boss…” Anders started.

“Not now, Anders,” Thorn said.

Anders sighed as he watched Bert and the others walk off in the direction the old man at the town limits had indicated. It struck him that Fogwatch was a bit of a desolate little town. There weren’t many folk around, out and about. Plenty of buildings, most wooden and rotting, many looked as though they were slowly being rebuilt with stone, but the people were scarce. Anders supposed they may be staying indoors, scared of the fog or of the wraiths or of the newcomers. He saw very few guards; strange enough for a town in the wilds to have no walls, even stranger for one to have no guards. Fogwatch, Anders decided, was one of the strangest places he had ever been and that included the floating city of Soromo.

“You got any idea where ya goin’, Black Thorn?” Six-Cities Ben asked.

Thorn stopped, he had been walking straight in one direction but now looked first to his left, then to his right. “Not a fuckin’ clue. Seen all of three folk since comin’ across this crap-hole an’ none o’ them looked like they had any sort of authority.” Anders watched as Thorn took a deep breath, the type of breath someone takes just before he shouts something as loud as he can. Then he stopped, let out the breath in a large sigh and started walking again. Anders and the others hurried to catch up and spotted the same thing Thorn had; a group of people, somewhere close to twenty of them. At the centre of the group was a giant of a man, Anders guessed him over seven feet with a fair few inches to spare. He wore dirty leathers and a hilt of something no doubt large and metallic and dangerous poked out over his left shoulder. Next to the giant stood a smaller woman, standing a touch taller than Anders. She wore her long red hair in a tight bun and had a suit of chain mail that looked to be well maintained and even better used.

As Thorn walked towards the group a trio of armed and armoured soldiers split off and approached. They did not look like they were in the mood to let the Black Thorn pass.

“Bones,” Thorn shouted as the soldiers stopped in front of him. The giant glanced up and then away. The smaller woman next to him took a much longer look; in fact she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to look away.

“Gonna have ta stop you there, friend,” said one of the soldiers, holding up a hand, his other resting on his sword hilt. Thorn stopped and gave the man a good glare.

“Big man over there is an old friend so hows about…” Thorn started.

“Right,” the soldier interrupted Thorn. “Tavern’s back over that way. Don’t wanna have ta escort you there.”

Anders noticed the woman next to the giant was still watching them; it seemed Thorn noticed it too. “Beth. Ya wanna tell these dumb bastards ta get out of my way or do I have ta show him what his guts look like?”

The woman just stared on through cold eyes but the giant glanced up again, squinted then bellowed out a laugh. “Ain’t you supposed ta be dead?”

“So folk keep tellin’ me,” Thorn replied, grinning at the big man.

The giant pushed through the crowd of soldiers and enveloped the Black Thorn in an awkward-looking embrace. When he let go Thorn had a smile on his face that Anders had rarely seen.

“You see this, Beth?” the giant shouted back towards the woman he’d been with. “Thorn’s alive!”

The woman said nothing, nor did her expression change from the cold stare of the unimpressed.

“Don’t reckon she’s right pleased ta see me, Bones,” Thorn said.

The giant nodded. “Fair ta say. Can ya blame her?”

“Not a drop.”

Again the giant laughed, loud and deep. “So who ya travellin’ with these day?”

“Reckon ya know this one,” Thorn gave Henry a nudge and she stumbled a step, then tilted her hat and grinned up at the giant. The smile that spread across the giant’s face was huge and genuine.

“As I live an’ breathe. If I try ta hug you, ya gonna get all stabby?” he asked.

“Always a danger,” Henry said back, still grinning.

“I’ll leave it out then, I reckon. Damned good ta see ya again all the same. I heard… well Swift said he saw you go down back in Hostown, said one of those… things got ya.”

Anders saw Henry go red, saw her jaw clench, her hands ball into fists. Thorn saw it too. He put a three-fingered hand on Henry’s shoulder and fixed her with a stare.

“Reckon we can talk ‘bout that later, Bones. This drunken fool next ta me is Anders.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Anders said staring up at the giant. “And may I say you are without a doubt the biggest man I have ever seen.”

The giant just laughed and Thorn continued the introduction. “This is Heavy-Hand Joan an’ Six-Cities Ben.”

The laughter stopped and the grin dropped. “Reckon I know those names. Never thought I’d see the Black Thorn travellin’ with hunters though.”

“Needs must, big man,” Six-Cities Ben said. “The Saint said he met you once, said you were a nice enough bastard but kept a strange trophy.”

The giant nodded. “Never thought I’d see you travellin’ with their types, Thorn,” he repeated.

“Never thought I’d travel with an Arbiter neither, Bones. But then I followed one all the way ta Sarth an’ got this fer my trouble,” Thorn pointed at his eye-patch.

“Is it…”

Thorn lifted up the patch to show the hollow socket beneath, Anders looked away. Truth was that was the first time he’d ever seen beneath the patch and it was fairly horrifying.

“Shit,” said the giant.

“Aye,” said Thorn. “I dunno what ya doin’ here, Bones but reckon we need ta run. We were chased all the way through the Fade by wraiths. Even took one o’ us. Always attacked at night. Reckon they’ll be here come nightfall.”

The giant took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “Sorry ta hear ya lost a man, Thorn, but ya safe here. Wraiths are an issue out in the Fade an’ no mistake but they don’t come into town. Ancient charms or some such set deep into the ground all round the limits. Keeps the damned things at bay. Don’t stop ‘em wailin’ though.”

“I assume they work a little better than this charm?” Anders asked, holding up the small wooden coin Thorn had given him the first night they had been attacked.

The giant squinted at the necklace and laughed. “Pater sold ya that, aye? Barman back in Trevil.” Anders nodded. “Aye. He sells those ta folk who don’t know better. ‘Bout as useful as a limp cock in a whorehouse.” The giant paled and turned quickly holding his hands up towards the woman in a placating fashion. “Not that I’d know. Not been near one since I met you, love. Least not since I married ya.”

The woman who Thorn had named Beth just stared on in silence with her arms crossed treating Thorn to the full force of her glare.

“Damned unnerving, that is,” said Six-Cities Ben. “You murder her mother or something, Thorn?”

“If only,” Thorn responded in his rough voice. “Reckon she might have forgiven me fer that.”

The giant nodded but the smile dropped from his face. “Some things we need ta talk ‘bout, Thorn. Be best if they were said over a drink.”

“Now that is the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Anders said, grinning.

The giant didn’t lead them, as Anders had expected, to the tavern but instead to the town guildhall. They were not only followed by the woman named Beth who spent all her time giving Thorn the most evil of eyes possible but also by half a dozen soldiers wearing a uniform of sorts, although the armour was clearly old and well in need of replacements. Truth was the whole situation had a worryingly formal air about it. Anders drained the last of his wine skin in nervous anticipation and prayed to the Gods that another drink would be placed in his hands soon.

Once inside the guildhall the giant dismissed the soldiers with a wave though the woman stayed close, her left hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her chain mail glinting in the lantern light. Anders was confused, Thorn looked more confused and Henry just stared about in open-mouthed curiosity. Only the two bounty hunting brothers didn’t appear vexed by the situation but that was perhaps because they were too wary.

The giant led them into an office and sat behind a large wooden desk.

“Bones…” Thorn began.

“Beth, find us all somethin’ ta drink. Stronger the better,” the giant interrupted. Beth moved slowly to a locked, wooden cabinet and produced a key from a pocket. Anders was vaguely aware of Thorn speaking but his entire attention was focused on the possible contents of the cabinet. He licked his lips in anticipation and waited. The bottle the woman produced was made of clay and had no labelling; she walked over to the giant’s desk and near slammed it down.

“Well the thing is,” the giant said, uncorking the bottle and taking a large swig. “I kinda own the place.” He started to pass the bottle right towards Anders but Thorn intercepted it.

“He gets it last or the rest o’ us ain’t likely ta see a sip,” Thorn said. “What the fuck do ya mean ‘ya own the place’?”

Thorn swigged down a mouthful and winced. Anders could already tell from the smell it was a type of rum and strong rum at that. Thorn passed the bottle to Henry.

“Well the thing is. Me an’ Swift, we thought the rest o’ ya were dead. So when we got back ta Chade an’ he collected the earnings from the H’ost job. We only split it the two ways. Hundred an’ fifty thousand bits is a lot of money.”

Anders snorted as he watched Henry pass the bottle to Six-Cities Ben leaning against the far wall nestled in the crook between the door frame and a bookshelf.

“Hmmm,” Thorn grunted.

“I took my share an’ me an’ Beth decided ta get out of the game. So I used the bits ta buy the Fade, Fogwatch an’ everythin’ in it.” The giant waved a big hand around him. “I own everythin’.”

“Bought it from who?” Thorn asked. The bottle had made its way to Heavy-Hand Joan who was on his second swig and looking an awful lot like considering a third.

“Lord Sanvel. The Fade is… was in the upper reaches of his territory, a sort of natural border between him and the Brekovichs. He didn’t want nowt ta do with it though so I, urgh, purchased it. Nice little place if ya don’t mind the isolation an’ the occasional bout of wailin’.”

Heavy-Hand Joan gave the bottle a shake, was about to take a fourth swig then stopped and walked forwards, handing the bottle to Anders who gratefully up ended the contents into his mouth and quickly chugged down a good three mouthfuls of dark, delicious rum. It was like liquid fire running down his throat and into his stomach and it was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. He glanced around looking for more but Beth had locked the cabinet.

“Reckon we should leave, Thorn. First light come morning. No sense in staying here,” Joan said in a harsh voice.

Thorn looked up at Joan from the single chair in front of the old, decaying desk and shook his head. “Look, Bones, I’m gonna tell it straight. We’re headed ta Chade ta kill Swift an’ every one of us in this room got more than enough of a reason ta do it. First off there’s a fair-sized bounty on my head courtesy of that half-blooded bastard. These boys want him on account of his killin’ the Saint. You want him cos, truth is, he screwed you out of a lot o’ money.”

“Eh?”

“How much did the H’ost job really pay, Henry?” Thorn asked, not taking his eyes off of the giant.

“One million gold bits.”

Six-Cities Ben whistled, Heavy-Hand Joan steadied himself on the corner of the desk, the giant looked confused as if trying to work out in his head how big a pile that would make, and Beth took a step back and leaned against the wall. Even Anders had to admit a million bits was a lot of money, not the most he’d ever seen, nor the most he’d ever lost but a lot all the same. He noticed Thorn looking at him expectantly.

Catching on quickly Anders took a step forward and put on his best grave look. “If the real payment for the job was one million bits and Swift gave you a measly one hundred and fifty thousand then he kept eight hundred and fifty thousand for himself. That’s roughly six times as much as you received. Put into more visual terms; you were able to buy a run-down, crap-hole of a town surrounded by bloodthirsty, walking… or floating wraiths in the middle of a permanent shroud of grey fog. Swift used his share to buy Chade, or at least a fair portion of it; the richest free city in the wilds.

“You sit in a decaying office of rotting wood drinking cheap rum from a clay bottle while he sits in luxury between four stone walls sipping only the most expensive wines served to him by hundreds of soft, nubile, virgin girls.

“You…”

“Enough, Anders,” Thorn said with a wry smile. “Reckon Bones gets the point.”

“So he robbed all three of us then.” the giant said in a quiet voice.

Anders saw Thorn glance at Henry and then back to the giant. “Aye. Good enough reason ta want some vengeance, I reckon.”

A long silence followed; so long Anders started to look for ways to occupy himself. He put the empty bottle on the decrepit desk and fought the urge to scratch at his missing finger as he looked around the room. When his eyes fell on Beth he noticed her scar for the first time; a faded white ridge of flesh running along her neck from one side of her jaw to the other. Anders had never seen a scar like that before but he wagered he knew where it came from. Only way to get a scar like that was to have your neck slit. Not many folk survived such, none so far as Anders had heard.

“Can’t do it, Thorn,” the giant said from behind his too-small desk. “I’ve got a town ta run, can’t just up an’ leave, go runnin’ off with my old crew. I got myself out of the game.”

Thorn said nothing.

“Ya might have noticed the repairs? Turns out the fog tends ta rot through wood so we’re turnin’ every building here ta stone. It happens ta be a long, laborious an’ costly affair.”

Thorn said nothing.

“The people here, good folk, they look ta me ta make decisions these days. I keep everyone civil, keep everyone working. I got responsibilities.”

“The Boss never trusted Swift,” Thorn said, he glanced at Henry briefly and then away. “Dangerous, he used ta call him. Only three of us knew who ordered the H’ost job; the Boss, me an’ Henry. Now with the Boss dead an’ me all the way in Sarth, how do ya think Swift found out the name of the client? Truth is Swift got the drop on Henry back in Chade. Found her, beat the information out of her an’ left her fer dead.”

Anders saw the giant’s mouth drop open and he looked to Henry who in turn did her very best effort to stare a whole through the floor. He could see her cheeks were a burning red colour.

“That ain’t somethin’ ya do ta the people ya crew with,” Thorn continued. “Come with us, Bones. Iron Beth too. We take revenge on that bastard Swift an’ maybe see if we can’t get our rightful pay fer the H’ost job thrown in.”

“I…” the giant started but stopped, closing his mouth to stop talking. He looked at Henry again then back to Thorn. The woman by his side finally tore her steel-edged gaze from the Black Thorn and moved closer to the giant, whispering something in his ear. The giant nodded.

“Irwin,” the giant shouted in his deep voice, a moment later the door to the office opened and a soldier stepped in. “Take these folk ta the Widow, drinks are on me fer them.” He turned his attention back to Thorn. “Got some things ta discuss with Beth. I’ll be along later.”

By the time the giant showed up at the Weeping Widow Anders was well and truly into stage eight of the drunken scale and was happily singing along to a rowdy ditty about the pirate and his prize with his arms hanging over the shoulders of Davet Wolfsbane and a local who smelled like cabbage. He quickly disentangled himself from the tune murdering duo and sauntered over to where Thorn, Henry, Joan and Ben were sat.

The giant pulled up a chair that looked to be roughly half the required size and sat. Anders stepped up behind Henry and knelt beside her. She leaned into him just a little.

“Had some time ta think it over…” the giant started, he was rubbing at a necklace underneath his tunic.

“An’ what did Beth decide?” Henry asked with her usual sneer.

The giant laughed. “Beth decided ta leave the decision up ta me fer once, miracle as that is. We’re goin’ with ya; me an’ her. But jus’ fer this one job. Ain’t joinin’ ya crew, Thorn.”

“It ain’t a crew,” Thorn protested.

“Well whatever the fuck it is we ain’t joinin’ it. Jus’ goin’ ta make sure that blooded bastard gets what he deserves.” The giant gave a nod towards Henry. “Got some shit ta take care of ‘fore we go, preparations an’ the like. Be a couple o’ days I reckon. That good?”

Thorn nodded. “Good.”

Suzku

Pern stood over the body, feeling a light breeze against his skin as the man opposite him made ready to charge. The moon was bright and the stars were out and the streets of Chade ran crimson with blood.

The old pirate charged Pern, screaming an obscenity as he rushed toward his death. With exaggerated calm Pern simply stepped to his side, away from the blade careening toward his skull. In one quick move his sword flew from its scabbard and slashed across the man. The pirate hit the floor heavy, his arm hit the floor a few feet further on, then the screaming started. Pern approached the fallen man and thrust his sword through his chest, into his heart. No sense in leaving an enemy alive.

Another pirate, this one a woman with fine blue tunic and a pair of hatchets came towards Pern. He reversed the grip on his sword, ducked and stepped into her attack. Their momentum and the edge on his blade did all the work. Her side opened up and she collapsed to the floor gurgling as her life drained from her body.

Pern wiped his blade on the woman’s blue tunic and slid it back into its scabbard. Every night was more of the same, every night there were more people willing to throw their lives away in a vain attempt to kill his client. None of them could match a Haarin for either skill or determination.

Another breeze blew across the street carrying with it the scent of the sea and masking the metallic smell of blood, for that Pern was grateful. He took a deep breath, looked up into the sky and sighed it out. He knew he should hurry to catch up with Swift and Leese, they might need him further on but for now he just needed a minute to reflect on the pointless loss of those dead at his feet. They weren’t evil people, just fools who didn’t know any better. Fools being paid money to throw themselves on his sword. A waste of life.

A scuff of leather on dirt warned Pern of another pirate. He whirled, hand on sword hilt, ducking into a combat ready crouch.

“You won’t need that. I’ve no intention of fighting you,” Kessick said from the shadows. “I just want to talk.”

Pern did not take his hand from his sword. “Talking to me will gain you nothing. I have no influence over Swift’s actions. I am Haarin,” Pern responded in a calm voice.

The sound of metal scraping against metal drifted into earshot. Pern knew it could be Swift, he should be there protecting his client. If Swift should die… Pern would have no choice.

“I don’t need you to influence him,” Kessick said, taking a step out of the shadows toward Pern who in turn took a step backwards. He was confident in his own abilities but he had heard Arbiters used magic and, though he’d never seen it, he wasn’t looking to test his own skills against one.

A scream punctuated the night from somewhere nearby. Chade had become a mess. The guards no longer patrolled the streets. The merchants only gathered now at the markets or the docks and the latter mostly because they were fleeing the city. The residents of Chade had been turned into meek shadows, hiding in their homes from the open war on the streets.

Even the Goldtown quarter was no longer safe from the violence. The richer citizens cowered behind their walls and their guards but that did nothing to stop the fighting on the streets, did nothing to stop the dying.

For two weeks the city of Chade had been like this. A fortnight ago Swift had started bringing in mercenaries. Three weeks ago his assassin had failed to kill Kessick.

“Your master betrayed me,” Kessick was saying.

“You knew he would,” Pern said, his eyes flicked about checking for more danger but the ex-Arbiter was alone and seemingly unarmed.

The assassin had failed and Kessick had sent the man’s head back to Swift in a box. A warning.

“True,” Kessick said, taking another step forward, stepping over one of the pirate corpses, “but I never expected him to succeed.”

Swift had laughed when he took the head out of the box, laughed and claimed it to be the best investment he’d ever made, claimed it had returned its cost tenfold. It was then Pern had learned the assassin had two jobs; he was to kill Kessick only after shadowing him and finding where the ex-Arbiter kept H’ost’s fortune. The assassin had succeeded in half of his contract.

“I need you to deliver a message to your master,” Kessick said.

“It is not my job to deliver messages. I am…”

“You will tell Swift that I do not care about the money. He can keep it, all of it. Tell him I need more people. More just like the last.”

Kessick took another step forward and stopped. Pern tensed, his right hand on his sword hilt, his left on the scabbard. The blade slid an inch out of its sheath.

“Tell him that, Haarin Pern Suzku. Tell him if he respects my request he may yet survive this,” Kessick opened his arms wide to indicate the city around them, “mess he has created.”

For the first time Pern sensed something other than danger and control in Kessick’s aura; he sensed desperation.

“He will not listen,” Pern said.

Kessick turned and walked away back into the shadows.

Part 3 – The Enemy of My Enemy

Jacob Lee

Jacob gripped the wraith’s neck in his right hand and squeezed. He imagined the thing would be surprised if it was aware but Jacob knew better. The creature clawed at his arm, attempting to free itself, tearing strips from his coat but its attacks could not penetrate Jacob’s armour, it could not penetrate his faith.

He tightened his grip and the wraith renewed its attack. Cold began to seep into Jacob’s skin, into his muscles, into his very bones. He could feel his tattoos tingling with the wonderful chill. His senses savoured every moment of the feeling. Then he crushed the wraith’s neck.

The creature vanished in a wisp of grey mist. It was never really there after all. Wraiths were nothing, made from violent emotion given form by the magic that had dug its way deep into the earth. The fog was nothing more than a soup where those emotions could coalesce and manifest and take form; seeking comfort by sucking the life from those more fortunate.

Jacob looked at his hand and watched the mist swirl around his fingers. Warmth started flooding back into his extremities and he found he missed the chill. Cold was such a sharp and vivid feeling. Too much cold could kill but a little bit helped clear the mind and provide clarity.

Another of the poor, soulless creatures floated out of the fog towards him. Jacob reached out to it eager to experience once more the cold of its touch.

Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaasssssssssssssssee

Jacob froze.

The wraith glided towards him and wrapped its arms around him, draped its body over his. Its cold, dead face hovered mere just inches from his own, its mouth open as it sucked the warmth from Jacob’s body but he didn’t move. He was lost in a memory.

Sarah lay on the floor whispering “Please,” at Jacob.

He had just come home from completing the experiment. Arbiter Fields and Arbiter Kessick had made their examinations and determined it had been a resounding success. Jacob had not only survived, he was unharmed and whole. Better than just whole, he was stronger, faster and more alert than ever before. His senses were so finely attuned, so focused that the world seemed an entirely new creation so much more beautiful than before. Colours were brighter and more nuanced. Sounds were deeper and richer. His sense of touch was so much more complete than it had ever been. He couldn’t wait to go home, to see Sarah, to hear her, to feel her, to experience her with all this new depth.

Sarah lay on the floor with bottomless love in her eyes, whispering “Please,” at Jacob.

Their house was located in the richer area of Sarth. Not many Arbiters were allowed to live in their own house outside the compound but Jacob had always been a special case. He was rich and beyond rich, brother to a king and one of the most powerful Arbiters the Inquisition had seen since the Grand Inquisitor himself.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Jacob’s heart sped at the sight of her and he felt every beat. She rushed to him and they embraced. She cried into his shoulder, so relieved that he wasn’t dead, and kissed every inch of his face.

Sarah lay on the floor with bottomless love in her eyes, covered in blood, whispering “Please,” at Jacob.

They made love right there against the door to their house and again in their bedroom. Afterwards Jacob watched her doze, etched every angle and turn of her face into his memory. He remembered every freckle and every loose strand of hair, even how her lips parted as she slept, the little sigh of the perfectly content.

After she woke Sarah took up her flute. She always loved to play and never more so than for Jacob. As she blew that first note he felt something tugging inside, something he couldn’t explain, and something he fought with every ounce of will power he could muster. Sarah continued oblivious and the tugging turned into a wrenching, an indomitable pull he couldn’t fight. Even after she realised something was wrong and stopped it was too late. The music was already in his head.

Sarah lay on the floor with bottomless love in her eyes, covered in blood, whispering “Please,” at Jacob. His hands, painted red, around her neck, squeezing slowly, watching the light fade from her eyes.

Something snapped inside of Jacob that night, something he could never fix, something he didn’t want to fix. As long as he was broken he would never have to face what he had done.

Cold didn’t begin to describe it. Numb didn’t exist for Jacob. He felt every bit of the cold. It was around him, in him, it was all he could feel. The wraith was still draped around his body, hissing and purring at him. Hungry eyes begging him to join it in its eternal torment.

Jacob’s arm twitched to life and he seized the creature’s face in his right hand and started pushing. It clawed, scraped and scratched, trying to inflict any injury it could but the wraith was a creature of heresy and Jacob’s armour of faith was too strong. He flexed his fingers and the wraith wailed just before its skull collapsed in Jacob’s hand. The wraith’s body faded into mist and it was gone.

When he looked up Jacob could see them all around him. He counted eighteen of the pitiful, wretched creatures. They encircled him, floating in the fog, hissing, wailing, and pleading. Then, as one, they simply faded away into the mist. Even the soulless dead knew when they were beaten.

Jacob shivered. He could still feel the cold but it was fleeting as warmth was flooding back into his limbs. He set his eyes on the faint silhouette on the horizon and started walking.

“Bloody strangers,” the old man said from his stool. “Always gotta arrive on my watch. Make my life a right chore they do.”

Jacob fixed the old man with a stare but he just snorted and threw another stick on the small fire he had by his feet. A black iron kettle was suspended above the fire and a trickle of steam leaked from its spout. Jacob watched as the old man slipped on a glove, took hold of the kettle and poured some of the brown liquid within into a pewter mug. He then proffered the mug to Jacob.

Taking the mug he gave the liquid inside a sniff. “A blend of tea. Bitter. A stimulant.”

The old man snorted out a laugh and shook his head. “Bloody tourists.”

Jacob took a sip and revelled in the burning sensation on his tongue. Heat was an even better sensation than cold with the way it snapped the mind into sharp focus. “How do you stand it here?” he asked the old man. “There is no colour.” Maybe it was the run in with the wraiths or maybe the shocking kindness of the old man but Jacob was feeling more lucid than he had in a long time.

“Aye. You ain’t wrong,” the old man said in a sad voice. “Pretty much all grey here. Makes hidin’ easier though.”

“Yes. I suppose it does.”

The old man looked Jacob up and down. His eyes narrowing as if truly seeing him for the first time. “Somethin’ tells me you ain’t here ta hide.”

Jacob shook his head. “I’m looking for someone. A man. He is tall, bald or close to it, a burn on his face and a patch over his left eye.”

“The Black Thorn?” the old man asked.

“Yes. You’ve seen him?”

The old man nodded slowly. “Came this way not more than a ten-day ago. Caused a fair stir whiles he was here but then at least he didn’t burn the place to the ground. Heard he has a habit of doing that.”

“Is he still here?” Jacob asked a note of excitement creeping into his voice.

“Him an’ his crew had a word with the gov’ner. Then they all packed up an’ left. Took the gov’ner, his wife an’ a score of soldiers with him.”

Jacob finished the mug of tea and handed back to the old man. It dawned on him he could hear no music, had not heard any since entering this fog. No colour, no music. The Fade truly was a dreary place. A place that would likely drive Jacob mad if had to stay there.

“Do you know where they were headed?” he asked.

The old man studied Jacob for a while, his eyes lingering on the coat. “Heard they were headin’ ta Chade by way of Port Mercy to the south.”

Jacob smiled and thanked the old man.

“You an Arbiter?”

Jacob shook his head. “I’m a Templar.”

Suzku

“What is it?” Pern asked as he turned the small green gem over in his hand and gave it closer scrutiny.

“Ya know, I’m not entirely certain my own self,” Swift responded. “Kessick gave me three o’ them a whiles back. They glow around people, some people anyways.”

Leese snorted. “Glowin’ stones gotta be a worth a bit or two. Sell it, I say.” Leese was becoming more and more useful to Swift; it was rare she was out of his sight these days.

“Good job I didn’t ask fer ya opinion then, ain’t it,” Swift rebuked her. “I got more than enough bits these days. Fancy these stones are useful in giving that fuck, Kessick what he needs.”

Pern had delivered Kessick’s message to Swift just as he had asked and at first Swift’s reaction had been predictable. He had cursed and promised to kill Kessick in the most painful way possible including fire, a bunch of scarab beetles and the ex-Arbiter’s stones. Later Swift had reconsidered. The war in Chade was beginning to swing in his favour due to the sheer number of mercenaries he was bringing in to deal with Drake’s pirates but Swift knew Kessick was not powerless and he had said himself only a fool fights a war on two fronts. It was possibly the most intelligent thing the Haarin had ever heard his client say.

Pern held the stone up in front of himself. It was a dull jade colour, no light from within and no imperfections that he could see. The stone remained cold despite the time in his hand, as if it refused to absorb his body’s heat.

“Pretty shit, huh,” Swift said with a yawn. “Kessick said somethin’ about it detecting potential. From what I can gather that’s got somethin’ ta do with magic. Ya got potential then ya can learn ta cast spells or some such bloody thing. Here, give it ta me.”

Pern handed the small gem stone to Swift and immediately noticed the difference. The stone glowed; a dim internal light shone forth highlighting the imperfections within the jewel.

“Fancy ain’t it,” Swift continued, moving the stone further from him and then back again to make it dim and glow in succession. “Seems the H’ost family had some of this potential in it from somewhere. My da’ passed it on down the line, gave it ta his children, gave it ta me. Reckon it’s what got the rest of ‘em killed, or took at least.”

“The other members of the H’ost family?” Pern asked. “The true blooded members? I thought you killed them all.”

Swift nodded. “Aye. Seems most folk reckon I did fer ‘em an’ I’m sure as all the hells not about ta deny it. Way I see it all the H’ost’s had this potential so Kessick took ‘em, used ‘em fer whatever the fuck it is he’s doin’.”

“But not you.”

“More useful ta him alive. By the time he found me I was already on the council an’ in a prime position ta be findin’ him more folk with potential. Gave me some money, quite a bit of money actually, an’ three of those stones and told me ta find more folk that make it glow.”

“It’s beautiful,” Leese said, staring at the glowing stone with wide eyes.

Swift laughed and flipped the stone to her. “Show a woman somethin’ pretty an’…” He paused when he saw the reaction. Leese caught the stone in her right hand and it was glowing with a fierce inner light, a warm green colour with hints of white light showing through the cracks from within the stone.

Everybody in the room fell silent, everybody except Leese. “It’s so beautiful. An’ warm, almost hot ta the touch.”

“Huh,” Swift grunted. “Grab her.”

The guards moved first, used to following orders without hesitation. Leese was slow to understand the implications of the glowing stone, only realising as one of the guards took her sword and another twisted her arms behind her back. The glowing gem dropped to the wooden floor and dimmed again.

“Put her with the others,” Swift ordered. “Looks like Kessick might get all the people he needs after all.”

“No!” Leese shrieked. “You can’t. Swift. Swift don’t do this. Please!”

The guards were dragging her from Swift’s office and he was doing a good job of ignoring her protests. She struggled and kicked and even attempted to bite her way free but Swift had picked his guards well, they were big and strong and well armoured.

“Please, Swift, don’t give me ta…”

The heavy wooden door slammed shut and Pern didn’t hear the last of Leese’s begging. For his own part Swift did not seem to care at all that he had just given away one of his most experienced captains. Pern decided he was glad the stone did not glow at his own touch.

Swift was calm as he crossed the room to where the stone had fallen, scooped it off the floor and regarded its faint glow yet again. He snorted, fished in his pocket for a small bronze cage, slipped the gem stone inside and then shut the door on the cage and tossed it to Pern.

“Keep hold o’ that. Never know when it might be useful. Might help ya save my life one day.”

Pern plucked the caged gem from the air and regarded it again. In his hands it was nothing but a dull jade gem stone. The cage had a small chain attached which he fastened to his belt. When he looked up again Swift was busy pouring himself a drink. Of late Pern’s client had started drinking wine; he preferred the deep red type with vintages he assured Pern were rare and costly though he also claimed he couldn’t tell the difference between the cheap or the expensive stuff. As always Swift offered Pern a glass but the Haarin refused, the only time it would pass his lips was when he tasted each bottle as it was opened to ensure it wasn’t poisoned. He didn’t enjoy the taste anyway, all wine tasted like poison.

Swift perched himself on the edge of his desk then took a large gulp of wine, winced at the taste and proceeded to rub his temples. Pern stood by watching every corner of the room, waiting in case any danger should present.

“How many is that now?” Swift asked his Haarin.

Pern picked up the ledger with a list of names on it. Swift never looked at the ledger himself, to do so might expose his illiteracy. Pern scanned the list and then, picking up a nearby quill, added Leese to the bottom. It was unfortunate, he had actually quite liked the woman, she was bold and confident with a fun sense of humour that, though often went over Pern’s head, occasionally made him laugh. He would miss her, of that he was sure, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was Haarin; it was not his place to argue with his client’s decisions.

“Fifteen in the current shipment,” he hated referring to people as merchandise but Swift hated referring to them as people.

“How many in total?” Swift asked.

“Eighty-eight.”

Swift nodded. “A small army, I reckon.”

Pern frowned then shook his head. “Eighty-eight people is not enough for an army.”

“Not so sure they’re still people once that fuck gets his hands on ‘em.”

Before Pern could ask what Swift meant there was a loud rapping on the door. With a nod from his client Pern approached and pulled the door open. One of Swift’s mercenaries stood on the other side holding a small wooden box no more than a foot in height and width. There was a white envelope attached to the top of the box and the mercenary holding it had his nose wrinkled in distaste.

Taking the box Pern immediately noticed the smell. He knew the odour well enough by now. Rotting flesh was quite distinctive. He carried it to Swift’s desk and his client glanced at it.

“Another head, I reckon. I should keep them; I’d have a fair sized collection by now. What does the letter say?”

Pern tore the envelope from the top of the box and opened it. Inside there was a note and a small iron key.

“Box is locked,” Swift said poking at it.

Pern picked the key from the envelope and held it; he would not allow his client to open the box just in case there was something dangerous inside. Then he read the note aloud:

To my darling Swift,

I can no longer go on

Your war with the wonderful, handsome, dashing Captain Drake Morrass has brought me to this

Please, please, please don’t cause him any more trouble

I would so hate for any ill harm to befall anyone else

“Uh…” Swift started. “Reckon we should open it up an’ see who’s inside.”

Pern took the key in hand and inserted it into the small lock then opened the lid of the box and looked inside. He saw a head, old and rotting and nothing else besides. Slowly he turned the box round to face Swift.

For a long time Swift stared into the box saying nothing. As if his silence wasn’t ominous enough Pern could see his client’s aura changing before his eyes. Red was the colour of anger and Swift’s aura turned a bright, fiery crimson.

With a wordless scream of fury Swift plucked his glass of wine from the table and hurled it at the far wall. The glass shattered, leaving the red liquid inside to drip down to the floor. Pern took a step backwards as his client’s rage continued. Swift picked up his chair and slammed it down upon his desk three times. The box bounced each time and finally tipped over the side and spilled the rotting head onto the floor.

Swift stood, panting from the exertion, the remnants of the chair dangling forgotten from his hands.

The door to his office burst open and three of Swift’s most trusted guards rushed inside, weapons drawn and ready for violence. Pern held up a hand to stop them but his client turned angry eyes on the trio.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” he screamed and the guards, knowing better than to disobey their master, immediately began back away. “Find me that bastard, Drake Morrass. Find him an’ bring him here alive!”

The guards nodded their obedience and fled from the room. It was a pointless order; they had been searching for the pirate captain for months to no avail. No sooner had someone seen him on the streets of Sarth he disappeared without a trace.

Pern looked down at the head now lying on the floor. It was a woman, of that he was sure, she had black hair with more than a few silver strands but most of that was patchy and matted with dried blood now. The eyes were gone and the streaks of blood running from the empty sockets suggested it had been done before the woman had been killed. A painful way to die, Pern thought.

Looking back at his client Pern noticed the change in Swift’s aura once again. The anger was still there but it was mixing with something else. Pern wouldn’t have thought it was possible but his client looked to be grieving.

“Who was she?” Pern asked, ignoring the hostile glare Swift sent his way.

“My ma’,” Swift said his voice thick as if he was choking back tears. “Tanda. Owned a whore house in Bittersprings. I’m gonna kill that bastard.

“Weren’t easy fer her, havin’ a little shit like me runnin’ ‘bout her heels while she was tryin’ ta earn her livin’ but she managed it.” Swift stared down at the head of his mother. “Taught me everythin’ I know. How ta speak, how ta act, how ta fight. Think I’m good with a knife? She was better. I saw her skewer a fly at a hundred paces with jus’ the one throw. Only woman worth a damn I ever met.”

Pern picked up the head by its hair and placed it back in the wooden box then closed the lid. Somehow he doubted his client would ever touch the thing.

“You got a ma’, Suzku?” Swift asked.

“I am Haarin.”

Swift sighed and shook his head. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Pern paused, unsure of how much to divulge. “We have mothers. All men have mothers. We do not know them. Those destined to be Haarin are separated from their parents before they can form… attachments or bonds. For Haarin there is service to the clan and service to the client. There is nothing else.”

“Right,” Swift said. “You care ‘bout the clan an’ the client an’ nothin’ else. So what happens if someone sent you my head in a box?”

“I would be required to take my own life,” Pern answered immediately.

“Eh?”

“That is the contract we enter into once the clan has taken payment. Our code is very strict on the matter. If a Haarin fails to protect his client in life he must take his own life and protect the client in death for eternity. It is rare that such action is required. It is much more likely that the Haarin will give his life protecting the client and then their soul is free to return to the clan and be born again into the next generation of Haarin.”

Swift sucked at his teeth and then spat. “You people got some fuckin’ weird ideas. Where I come from we know our ma’s an’ if some bastard kills ‘em… We fuckin’ kill that bastard right back. Revenge yeah.”

Pern looked at his client again. The mindless fury might be gone but the anger and hatred remained. Swift’s aura boiled a deep red. The colour of blood.

Thorn

“You trust ‘em?” Bones asked.

Betrim shrugged. He was leaning against the railing, staring out into the opening of Rainbow Bay and watching the port of Chade grow larger by the minute. Last time he’d been here he had sailed out to Sarth with Arbiter Thanquil Darkheart and Jezzet Vel’urn. Both the others were dead now, killed because of his failure, because he had been too damned drunk to finish off Kessick when he had the chance. Some mistakes needed amends.

“Dunno,” Betrim said to the giant. It was good to have Bones back; the big man had always been a friend. He was near as gentle as breeze when he wasn’t killing folk. “Known Heavy-Hand fer a long time, man’s got a code of honour or somethin’, don’t reckon betraying folk comes into it.”

“What ‘bout the little one?”

“His brother,” Betrim spat over the side of the ship. “Six-Cities’ has got a reputation an’ no mistake but he follows Heavy-Hand an’ is a good man ta have in a situation. Reckon we might have one or two o’ those ahead. What about Beth?”

Bones laughed and, despite himself, Betrim joined in. “Well it’s fair ta say she ain’t never gonna like ya, Thorn. Don’t reckon ya got anyone but yaself ta blame fer that.”

Betrim glanced at the giant next to him. “Seem ta remember you had as much ta do with it as me.”

“Aye but I can get away with it seein’ as how I married her,” Bones replied with a grin. “She’ll be good, stick with me ‘til the end. What ‘bout ya little blooded friend?”

“He’s an odd one but he’s loyal. Proven that…”

“He’s a Brekovich,” Bones interrupted.

“Can’t choose ya family an’ I was there; they certainly didn’t choose him. Tried ta have him killed an’ me an’ Henry along with him.”

Bones grunted. “Got a plan?”

“Find Swift. Stab him ‘til he’s dead.”

The giant laughed. “Aye. Reckon it’s a start. Might need some work though. Seem ta remember Swift bein’ a tricky little bastard. Last thing ya want is him gettin’ his hands on a bow… or a knife. Might be best ta do him in his sleep an’ ya know who was always best at that sort o’ work…”

“Swift,” Betrim finished for the giant with a snort and a shake of his head. “’Sides, reckon Henry wants ta do him while he’s awake. Watch him die. I’ve got a mind ta let her given…” Betrim trailed off.

“Tortured the name out o’ her an’ left her fer dead,” Bones said. “Nothin’ else?”

Betrim didn’t tell Bones the whole truth. Wasn’t his place to tell. He said nothing and stared out at the port. Seemed there were a lot less boats than he remembered. Fact was Betrim had spent a good deal of his life in and around Chade and the port had always been the busiest part of the city, bristling with masts, full to bursting with ships and noisy with people and business. He couldn’t quite see the port clearly at this distance, nor hear it but he was certain of one thing; something was amiss.

Now he gave it a closer look he could see something else as well, black smoke rising from the city in plumes, a dark smudge against the sapphire blue sky. Even as Betrim watched one of the ships in port went up, bright orange fire spreading quickly across the deck and eating its way up the mast. The sails went up in a blaze. It looked a pretty sight from their distance.

“Cap’n,” shouted the sailor up at the top of the mast, Betrim seemed to remember it was called the nest. “Som’in’s up. Dock side.”

The captain, a grizzled man with more grey hair on his chin than on his head limped up to the front of the ship and stood next to Betrim. He pulled a small cylindrical device from his belt and held it up to his right eye. Betrim glanced at Bones who shrugged back.

Betrim reckoned he should have a word. “Uh, Captain…”

“Quiet!” the captain snapped without lowering the device. “Ain’t got time to be dealing with you damnable land monkeys.”

“Well…”

“Damnit!” the captain raised his voice to a shout. “Pull in the sails! Get our speed down. Bastards are burning ships. Now! Or I’ll drown you all like the dogs you are.”

“Captain…” Betrim started again.

“Pull her to starboard. I want to be ready to run.”

The ship gave a sudden lurch to the right and Betrim almost lost his footing, would have if not for Bones putting a big hand on his shoulder to steady him. Chade began to move to the left as the ship turned.

“Ya mind tellin’ me what’s happenin’?” Betrim asked the captain. “Why the hell are they burnin’ ships in port?”

“You don’t know? Figured that was why you’re headed here after that business in Solantis.”

“Ya heard ‘bout that?” Betrim asked.

The captain sighed. “Lad, everyone has heard of Solantis. City of Mercs don’t have a single mercenary in it no more. Death sentence for any that set foot inside the walls. For months mercs like you have been flocking to Chade any way they can.”

“Why?”

“Because two of the folk that rule this place have started tearing strips off each other and are willing to hire anyone with a price to do it,” the captain said with a sigh

Betrim looked at Bones and again the big man shrugged. He glanced across the deck to see Henry and Anders had emerged from below deck and were making to join them at the front of the ship. Anders stopped to point at the docks and the ship burning there. Joan and Ben were already standing at the railing and watching.

“What’s happenin’?” Henry asked.

The captain let out a low growl. “Tell your people to get below deck. Last thing we need is a bunch of land-loving thugs getting in the way of my honest sailors.”

“Ship-ahoy,” shouted the sailor at the top of the mast.

“Where?” the captain shouted back.

“Aft.”

The captain started limping across the forecastle, dropping nimbly down to the quarterdeck and quickly pulling himself up the ladder to the poop deck. Betrim followed the man all the way despite the annoyed glances. At the stern of the ship he pulled the eye device from his belt again and stared through it.

Henry stepped up beside Betrim and gave him a nudge to let him know she was there. He shrugged back at her and waited for the captain to speak.

“I don’t see any colours,” the captain called out.

“She ain’t flyin’ none, Cap’n,” the sailor in the nest shouted back.

For a long time the captain stood motionless, staring through his device while alternating between sucking at his teeth and clicking his tongue. Eventually he seemed to make a decision, crossing to the wheel and taking control from the sailor stationed there.

“Pile on sail. Let’s get some speed up. See if she’s for us or for port,” the captain shouted to the crew and sailors began scurrying around the deck and the rigging. Betrim watched in wonder at the apparent organisation appearing from what had before seemed like lazy chaos.

“Anythin’ we can do?” Henry asked.

The captain glared at her for a moment then spoke to Betrim. “Keep out of the way… but be ready.”

“Ready fer what?” Betrim asked. The captain didn’t reply.

The ship started moving again, slowly building speed, slipping through the calm waters. For a long time the agonising wait was more than Betrim could bear. Knowing they were safe would be good, knowing they might be in for a fight would be bad but knowing anything was better than standing around waiting. The captain didn’t try to shoo them away again but neither did he seem like talking to them. The whole situation was making Betrim more than a little anxious truth be told and he was starting to get that worrying feeling he got when a situation was about to turn into a shit storm.

“She’s on us, Cap’in. Puttin’ on sail and gainin’ fast.”

“Damn,” the Captain heaved on the wheel and the ship gave another lurch to the right. Betrim was ready for this time and steadied himself. Henry wasn’t so prepared; she stumbled and almost ended up on her arse. The glare she sent the captain’s way, after she had recovered, might have scared him into an apology if he had been paying attention. Instead he was shouting to his crew, orders mixed with insults and none of which Betrim understood but the crew clearly did. What had been chaos, and then organisation turned into organised chaos as sailors doubled their speed. Some scurried up the rigging like spiders climbing a wall; others heaved on ropes or disappeared into hatches.

“All hands on deck,” the captain bellowed then sent a quick glance at Betrim. “Get your people together down on the quarter deck. We’re running but if they catch us it’ll be a fight an’ a hard one at that.”

“Pirates?” Betrim asked.

“Most likely. Though never heard of any attacking ships so close to Chade before. Bad for business. Get down to the deck and stay out of the crew’s way.”

Betrim nodded for Henry to follow the captain’s orders and she jumped down to the quarter deck. Betrim stayed behind near the wheel, near the captain.

“Reckon I’ll stay here fer now,” he said. “We get boarded reckon ya might need someone ta look after ya.”

“Ha!” The captain laughed. “This won’t be my first fight, lad.” He turned from Betrim and shouted at his crew again. “Get the weapons up on deck. A sword for every man and a bow for all those know how to use them.”

If Betrim had thought the waiting was bad before the chase was even worse. Both ships slipped through the water and the port of Chade passed by them on their left side, though the captain insisted it was the larboard side. The vessel behind them grew steadily larger and closer and the captain grew steadily more tense and worried, his shouting containing less in the way of orders and more in the way of insults. Joan’s hunters and Bones’ soldiers were roused and herded up onto deck where they stood around trading nervous jokes and fingering idle weapons. Truth was their little group of thirty men, while outnumbered two to one by sailors, would be the ones to make all the difference should the pirate ship catch them.

The minutes stretched on and on and still the pirate ship closed on them. Even the captain started to look nervous. “Can we lose ‘em?” Betrim asked eventually, fearing he already knew the answer.

“She’s bigger than us, might be lower in the water. We could hug the coast and hopefully go where she can’t but…” The captain sighed and gave Betrim a look that spoke volumes about how fucked they were.

“What ‘bout Chade? They wouldn’t dock ta get at us,” he asked with hope.

The captain turned an anxious gaze on Betrim. “They’re burning ships over that way, lad. Rather take my chance with pirates than with fire. Boat’s been with my family for more than a couple of generations. I ain’t about to lose her ‘cos some dumb fuck ruler o’ Chade thinks burning ships is good for business.

“Now I’m sorry if that makes things a bit tougher for you and yours but the thing about being a captain of a ship is whiles you’re on my ship, my word is law and if I say fight, we fight.”

Betrim grunted.

“Cap’n,” shouted the sailor in the nest. “It’s the Fortune.”

The captain cursed and left the wheel to a nearby sailor before striding to the stern and again staring through his eye device. Betrim joined him, at this distance he could just about make out figures on the ship chasing them though in truth they looked little more than dark moving shapes. The Fortune had a dark hull, almost black and tore through the water in great lurching leaps.

With another curse the captain tucked his eye device away and spent a few minutes pacing the deck muttering to himself. Betrim decided it was best to keep quiet though his nerves were screaming at him to do something.

“Take in the sails,” the captain bellowed, again moving to the wheel. “Drop anchor and get those weapons stowed.”

“What the hell are…” Betrim started.

“We’re giving up. Letting them catch us,” the captain said, squaring up to Betrim. “We can’t outrun the Fortune and we sure as hell can’t outfight her.”

“I reckon ya might be underestimatin’ my lot,” Betrim said with confidence.

“You want to fight? Go ahead and try it but my crew will be sat holding onto our arses making sure we’re not involved. Long as we give in, don’t make them work too hard might be they’ll just take the cargo and let us move on. We fight and they’ll show us the error of our ways.”

Betrim let out a growl but admitted the captain probably knew best. He joined the others down on the quarter deck.

“Weapons down. We’re not fightin’ this one,” he ordered.

“Uh, boss…” Anders started but Joan cut him off.

“I ain’t gonna go quietly to a watery grave, Thorn,” Joan said. “That ain’t any sort of death I want.”

Betrim shook his head. “Captain reckons if we jus’ hand over the ship’s cargo these pirates will let us be on our way. Also says if we fight we’re on our own. Don’t much like those odds, Joan. Thirty against… how many folk can ya fit on a ship that size?”

“Lots,” Six-Cities Ben said.

Joan grumbled but agreed and ordered his hunters not to draw weapons and Bones gave the same order to his own men. Henry was a much harder sell but eventually Betrim convinced her it was better to surrender and live to fight another day. They were so close to Chade and yet so far away.

When the pirates came they came in numbers. The pirate ship sailed up alongside them and skiffs were launched. Some of the bolder pirates swung across on ropes tied to the masts but they found no resistance when they arrived. The sailors crowded onto the poop deck and made no signs of moving while the captain joined Betrim and the others on the quarterdeck before hissing at Betrim to keep his people under control.

Pirates surrounded them, pointing sharp swords and making whooping noises. It almost felt like they were trying to goad the crew into a fight but Betrim kept quiet, kept calm. Some of the pirates disappeared below decks, no doubt checking the cargo and personal belongings for any valuables.

“What have we ‘ere?” asked a bald man with an intricate tattoo of a serpent curling around his neck and jaw. “Looks like a right tough bunch of folk.”

The captain waved Betrim to silence and took a step forward. “Passengers is all. Mercs on their way to Chade.”

“Mercs is it?” the bald man asked with a smile. He wore a tight leather jerkin over his torso but it was clearly meant for a smaller man and he had a long, curved scimitar buckled to his belt. As Betrim watched a thick, furry, segmented leg just longer than his own forearm reached up from behind the man and attached itself to his shoulder. Then another leg appeared, and another, and another, and another, then the head of the creature. Betrim had never seen its like before, it was a spider, like those he’d seen in the wilds but it was as big as a particularly fat cat. It had a compact pale-green body with two huge fangs and four jet black eyes, almost as large as a child’s fist, set above them and another four eyes set to the sides of its head. To say Betrim felt unnerved would have been an understatement; truth was he felt like throwing himself overboard to get away from the ugly beast.

One of the pirates appeared from below decks and approached, he stopped in front of the bald pirate with the giant spider. “Looks ta be mostly wine an’ spices in the hold, sir. Fair sized haul.”

“All yours. We put up no fight,” the captain said quickly with a slight bow of his head.

“And the mercs?” the bald pirate asked. “What side you joinin’?”

“Uh… side?” Betrim asked.

The bald pirate narrowed his eyes and looked like we was about to say more when a commotion on the other side of the deck interrupted him. Seemed some of the pirates were reporting to another man, another man Betrim recognised all too well.

People were talking but the Black Thorn couldn’t hear them. Words passed over him in a wave drowned out by the thump thump thump pounding throughout his head and the physical need to kill Kessick.

He stood tall and proud, a wide smile on his handsome face and an easy grace to his walk. One hand rested on his sword hilt and a dozen pirates stood between him and Betrim but the Black Thorn didn’t care.

With a wordless cry of rage Betrim’s axe sprung to his hand and he started forwards. Anders was in his way, shouting something Betrim couldn’t hear, the thumping drowned him out. The Black Thorn shoved the smaller man aside and started forward again. Pirates formed up between him and Kessick, weapons at the ready, the bald man with the giant spider at their head.

A big hand grabbed hold of Betrim’s arm and he tried to shake it free but Joan held tight, unwilling to let go of the Black Thorn, unwilling to let him take his revenge.

Thump thump thump

Again Betrim shouted at Kessick. “You bastard! I’ll kill you!”

Betrim punched Joan in the face with his left hand and pulled his right free. Before he could move forward a step two huge arms wrapped around him from behind and held him tight. Bones’ strength was legendary and for some men that might have been it but the Black Thorn was not some men. He threw his head back into Bones’ chin and the big man loosed his grip and stumbled.

Before Betrim could move Henry was at his side pushing him back, Six-Cities Ben was with her. Betrim tried to throw them off but Joan was back, holding his right arm tight.

“Get off me!” the Black Thorn screamed. “You bastard. You killed them. You took my fuckin’ eye!”

Thump thump thump

Kessick laughed.

The Black Thorn roared again, trying to shake free from those holding him but to no avail. Then Bones stepped into view and the next thing Betrim saw was a fist connecting with his face.

Being punched in the face was never a pleasant experience but when Bones was connected to the other end of the fist it was downright unpleasant. Truth was, Betrim knew, the only reason he remained conscious was because the giant pulled his blow. Instead of blacking out Betrim found himself sprawled on the deck with his crew and all the others around him, making sure he couldn’t get past them.

He pushed himself back to his feet and gave a real threatening look to his friends. “What the fuck are you doin’?” he shouted at them. “That’s Kessick. The bastard who took my eye. It’s his fault Jezzet an’ Thanquil are dead!”

“That’s not Kessick, boss,” Anders said, stepping in front of the Black Thorn. Truth was Betrim had never seen the blooded drunk look so serious even during his own execution.

“Of course it is. I remember him. Remember his face. Remember him tearin’ my fuckin’ eye out. That bastard is Kessick!”

Anders was shaking his head, his face a mask of concern. “That’s not Kessick, boss.” He pointed at Kessick. “That’s Drake Morrass.”

“Tell him ta put down his weapon,” Betrim recognised the voice belonging to the bald pirate with the spider. “In fact I reckon you should all disarm right now.”

Betrim was breathing heavy and his mind was a mess made painful by the damned thumping. He stared at the blooded man in front of him, unsure of what was happening. “You sure, Anders?”

Anders nodded. “Yes, boss. That’s Captain Drake Morrass.”

Betrim let his axe drop from his hand and breathed out an exasperated sigh. “Then how is it he looks just like Kessick?”

Henry

Henry had long since passed confusion and was now firmly in the realm of not understanding a damned thing, though she’d never show it. She had never met Drake Morrass nor Kessick but Anders seemed more than a little certain that the pretty man all the other pirates deferred to was the former. Thorn did not seem quite so certain but at least he had stopped trying to get himself killed. Pirates swarmed the decks and beside their little ship floated the Fortune, captain Morrass’ ship and, Henry had to admit, the biggest vessel she had ever seen.

Drake Morrass closed the distance between himself and Thorn and studied him. He looked more amused than concerned. The bald pirate, the one with the spider on his shoulder, shadowed his captain. Henry didn’t like the look of that spider, its eyes were unnerving. Truth was she wanted to stab it, to see what colour it bled.

“Anders,” Captain Morrass said. “Always a pleasure.”

Anders nodded and lowered his eyes to the deck. Henry watched him, watched Drake. The two knew each other and she was a little bit beyond interested to know how.

The bald pirate motioned to the captain of the captured vessel. “This one says they’re mercs, Captain. Don’t seem ta know which side they’re fightin’ for.”

Drake Morrass laughed. “They’re not mercenaries.”

Thorn bristled at the man’s voice; Henry could see him tense up. She took a step forward to stand beside him and Drake glanced at her. There weren’t many times in her life Henry had lost her nerve but under that man’s gaze she did. It took every bit of willpower she had not to step back but she managed to hold fast, couldn’t help but drop her eyes to the deck though. Only the Black Thorn seemed willing to meet the captain’s green stare.

“Leave the ship,” Drake instructed his pirates. “Take anything of value, kill half the crew, I don’t much care which half. Leave this rabble for now, under guard of course.

“Black Thorn, I believe you and I should have a sit down, best done on the Fortune. You too Anders.” With that Captain Drake Morrass turned and walked away towards his own ship. Thorn glanced once at Anders and then as one they both started following the pirate captain.

It was a little more than Henry could take. For years she had been the Boss’ second and if anyone was second in the Black Thorn’s crew it was her, not Anders. She started forwards and a burly pirate with fewer teeth than fingers stepped into her way and grinned at her. Henry sent such a glare his way that the grin quickly slipped from his face but he didn’t move.

Thorn stopped and looked back then raised his voice so Drake Morrass would hear. “Anywhere I go, Henry comes too.”

The captain glanced back at her. Henry felt her pulse quicken and her skin crawl. Something about that man made her want to run and hide but she didn’t know why. Then, with a single nod of his head, Drake Morrass turned away.

A plank of wood had been set up between the two ships, twenty feet stretching out over the dark blue waters below. Captain Morrass leapt onto the plank and crossed it with an easy grace. Thorn followed, more slowly and with a noticeable lack of confidence at the wood beneath his feet, he was greeted on the Fortune by swords with pirates attached to the hilts. Anders went next and looked more than comfortable crossing the expanse. Then came Henry’s turn. She stepped up onto the plank and started across, determined not to show any fear or trepidation but her mind couldn’t help but remember hanging over the river Jorl, one hand grasping onto the flimsy wooden bridge, the churning rapids below waiting to smash her into pulp and Jezzet Vel’urn standing above her, sword in one hand and Henry’s fate in the other.

Henry let out a ragged breath and continued walking, her face set in a grim mask of determination. Then it was over, her feet hit the deck of the Fortune and Anders was there waiting for her, reaching for her hand. She shoved him away and glared at the pirates as they grinned and laughed. The bald pirate with the spider stepped up behind her, his spider making a strange clicking noise by rubbing its fangs together.

“Captain Morrass is in his cabin,” the bald pirate said. “This way.”

Henry had never seen the inside of a captain’s cabin but it was safe to say she didn’t expect it to be lavish. Drake Morrass proved her wrong. The inside of his cabin was large, spacious and decorated with all manner of finery. A desk took centre stage with a number of scrolls and parchments rolled up upon it and some devices Henry didn’t recognise but assumed were for navigational purposes. A number of cabinets against the nearby wall hung with their doors closed and latched and a bookcase stood against the wall to her left. To her right lay a giant of a bed with a mound of silk sheets in the centre and beyond that a wardrobe took up an entire wall. The captain had seated himself behind his desk and he waved at the bald pirate to close the door behind his captives.

“Anders, pour us some drinks,” Morrass said with a warm smile.

Anders walked over to a cabinet, unlatched it and started looking through the bottles inside before picking one and carrying it over to the desk with five cups. It did not go unnoticed to Henry that her man seemed to know exactly which cabinet to look in. Anders poured wine into the cups and handed one to each person in the room. Henry didn’t dare so much as sip at hers, she didn’t trust this entire damned situation. Thorn, on the other hand, down his in one and continued glaring at the captain like he really wanted to strangle the man.

“Tell me, Black Thorn, why do you think I’m Kessick?” Drake said eventually.

“’Cos ya look like him.”

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“Aye? Well my memory says ya do. I remember Kessick, hard not ta remember the man that stabbed ya four times in the chest then plucked out ya eyeball. Jus’ so happened he had your face. Same eyes, same nose, same hair, same fuckin’ golden tooth…”

“How did you survive?” Drake asked.

“Eh?” Thorn grunted in reply.

“He stabbed ya four times. How did you survive?”

Thorn growled and for a moment Henry thought the big man might leap over the desk and throttle Morrass.

“Arbiters fixed me up. Brought me back from the brink jus’ ta burn me fer heresy. Real gracious of ‘em.”

“How easy was your escape?” Drake continued asking his questions.

Henry saw Thorn rub at the stump of a middle finger on his left hand. She’d known him long enough to know his tells; he was nervous.

“Had ta kill an Arbiter; my seventh.” Thorn paused. “Come ta think o’ it he was a bit old, frail.”

“No other guards?” the pirate captain asked.

Thorn sucked at his teeth and shook his head. “They let me escape.”

Drake nodded. “And somehow they made you think I’m Kessick.”

Thorn looked confused. Henry felt confused. Truth was she didn’t understand a damned thing they were talking about but she sure as all the hells wasn’t about to let on to that. She turned and looked behind her; the bald pirate winked back, his spider gone from his shoulder. Knowing that little beast could be anywhere made Henry’s skin itch.

“Why?” Thorn asked. “Don’t make any sort of sense.”

“Kessick wants me dead,” Drake Morrass said with a shrug. “He might be able to kill me himself but… well I doubt he’d survive my disgruntled crew.”

“Too fuckin’ right,” said the bald pirate.

“Besides,” Drake continued, “he’s not really the type to get his hands dirty. He prefers to manipulate others.”

The bald pirate behind Henry chuckled. She fought the urge to stab him with something.

“So you reckon,” Thorn continued, “Kessick kept me alive, somehow made me think you were him an’ then jus’ set me free hopin’ I’d come after ya?”

Morrass nodded. “Who better than the Black Thorn for such a task? It’s well known you don’t tend to let folk who wronged you last very long and should you fail, Kessick has lost nothing.”

Henry looked from Thorn to Morrass and back to Thorn. Eventually the Black Thorn nodded and, with a glance around the cabin, sought the nearest wall to lean against. She looked at Anders; he had his eyes down and was silent as the grave. It was beyond unusual for him to be quiet for so long, he and the pirate captain knew each other somehow, of that Henry was now certain.

“Why are you here, Black Thorn?” Morrass asked. Thorn didn’t look like answering, didn’t even look like he’d heard if truth be told.

“Ta kill that blooded bastard, Swift,” Henry filled in for Thorn putting in as much venom as she could into his name.

Henry heard a sleepy moan and turned her head to see the covers on Morrass bed shifting. A woman with midnight black hair and soft, white skin appeared from the silk sheets and gave a loud yawn, stretching out her arms. The covers fell away to reveal a pair of perky pink breasts. Henry clenched her jaw and glared.

The woman had fine features and no mistake, just the sort that men would find attractive. Anders certainly seemed to, he was staring and wearing that same smirk he wore when looking at Henry. She gave him a savage punch on the arm.

“Uh. I was just… um,” Anders started but gave up and poured himself another drink.

The woman disentangled herself from the sheets, rolled off the bed and walked, stark naked, over to Drake before giving him a lingering kiss.

“No clothes today?” Drake asked in a playful tone. How the woman could stand him looking at her, touching her, Henry did not know.

“I thought you liked me better without clothes,” the woman replied in a teasing voice.

“I do,” Drake said and waved at the rest of the room. “But we have guests.”

“I think they like me better without clothes,” she looked at Henry with a smile that seemed all too familiar. “Well most of them. Did someone mention my brother?”

“Rose?” Thorn asked from his spot on the wall.

The woman straightened up, squinted at Thorn then broke into a wide grin. “Black Thorn? Is that really you? I remember you having more eyes.”

Again Henry heard the bald pirate behind her chuckle, nobody else joined in.

“What are ya doin’ here, Rose?” Thorn asked. “An’ with him?”

The woman pouted. “Bittersprings was so very boring without you or my brother. Drake came and offered me an opportunity for advancement. It was an offer I couldn’t…” she squeaked, jumped to her side and kicked at something. “Zothus, get your little beast away from me!”

“She likes ya, is all,” the bald pirate replied.

“Yesterday I woke up with it under the covers, staring at me!” Rose shouted.

“Aye, she does that. Don’t ya, Rhi.” The spider scuttled out from under the desk at its name and proceeded to climb the bald pirate’s leg and reposition itself on his shoulder.

“If it comes near me again I’ll see how well the creepy thing can swim. Scared the living hells out of me!”

“Rose, what are ya doin’ here?” Thorn asked again. “Why are ya with Drake Morrass? An’ what fuckin’ opportunity?” He let out a frustrated growl. “I reckon someone better start tellin’ me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

The woman took a deep breath and sighed it out. Henry wished the bitch would put on some clothes. “The opportunity to kill my brother. Or at least benefit from it.”

“Eh?” Thorn grunted, pushing himself off the wall and walking up to the desk. “You want ta kill Swift?”

It suddenly made sense to Henry. Now she knew why the woman looked so familiar. Something deep within screamed at Henry to find something sharp and stab Swift’s sister but she held back.

“Of course,” Rose continued with a grin that looked far too much like Swift’s. “I’m his heir. When he dies I get everything. All his money, all H’ost’s money. I intend to do a lot more with it than start a pointless war in this shit-hole of a city.”

“So why haven’t ya killed him yet?” Henry asked, her lip curling up into its permanent sneer and her skin crawling as Drake’s eyes met her own.

“If it we’re that easy I would have, little one,” Rose said with a wink. “None of Drake’s men would get close and I… I doubt I could kill him on my own and I’m certain I wouldn’t survive the attempt.”

“But we can,” Thorn finished.

Rose smiled, no doubt most men would think it was a sweet smile but Henry could see beneath it to the rotten core. “But you can.” The woman looked at Henry and her smile disappeared. “You kill my brother and everyone gets what they want.”

Henry spat, mindless of her company or location. “I don’t trust her,” she said. “An’ jus’ cos ya stuck ya cock in her once don’t mean you should neither.”

“Seems ta me,” Thorn replied. “If they wanted us dead, throwing us at Swift then betrayin’ us would be a long way round ‘bout it.”

Rose gave Henry a simpering smile. “See, Thorn trusts me. Why can’t you?”

“Never said I trusted ya,” Thorn growled back. “But right now I reckon ya our best bet of gettin’ ta that bastard in one piece. Ya got a plan?”

Rose stuck her bottom lip out. “The only thing my brother has ever cared about, aside from himself of course, is his family and, seeing as how our mother has just had a very unfortunate accident involving an axe and her neck, I’m the only family he has left.” She smiled. “We’ll send him a letter explaining how I’ve been kidnapped by some big, strong brutes and I’m being held somewhere in the city. He’ll come to free me personally of course…”

“With his entire fuckin’ army,” Henry pointed out.

“Almost certainly, but he won’t attack while my life is at risk. He will first try to pay whatever we ask with the intent to kill you all afterwards.”

Henry saw Thorn scratch at the scar on his face, seemed he wasn’t sold on the plan either. “Won’t take long fer him ta realise things ain’t right. Moment he sees either me, Henry or Bones, I reckon.”

Rose sighed. “Well of course you will remain out of sight until he is within striking distance. By then it will be too late for him and his men only fight for him for money. With my brother dead they will go with the highest bidder.”

Drake grinned. “Which will be me.”

Henry gave Thorn her best I don’t like it glare but he just shrugged back. “It’s better than any plan I got.”

Drake stood. “We’ll put you ashore east of Chade about a day’s walk. I would suggest anyone who might be recognised should go cloaked and hooded. That includes you, Rose.”

Swift’s sister pouted. “Fine. I shall find some clothing.”

Anders

Chade was a glowing orange silhouette at night. Like a bonfire in the dark providing light and warmth and safety. Anders had to admit it no doubt provided light and warmth though in truth that might have something to do with the fires and he was fairly certain the last thing it currently offered was safety.

Inside he knew the city must be in chaos. A war on the streets, mercenaries fighting pirates, fire threatening to engulf everything and the good people, the common people who were just trying to eke out a living were the ones trying to save their city. He’d seen how those people banded together in cases of fires; lines of folk passing buckets full of water to the fire fronts in order to quell the blazes. Men with axes trying to hack away at anything wooden before it caught fire, better to deny the deadly blaze the fuel it needed to survive than fight it at full strength. Occasionally there might even be some foolish hero willing to break into a flaming house to rescue its inhabitants. More often than not that same hero would just join the dead.

Drake Morrass had been true to his word so far. He had dropped them all off at a small landing no more than a day from the free city. Thirty of them in total; Anders, Henry and Thorn; Heavy-Hand Joan, Six-Cities Ben and their three remaining hunters; Bones, Beth and their nineteen soldiers; and, of course, Rose. Anders had rarely seen a woman look so good naked but she was Drake’s woman and that put her strictly off-limits. Not to mention the idea of angering Henry to the point of murder scared all the hells out of him.

Thorn had led them to within sight of the walls of Chade and decided they would wait there until morning. He reasoned that folk arriving during the day would look a might less suspicious than turning up in the dead of night with four hooded folk and a small unit of well-trained, better-armed soldiers. Nobody argued with Thorn and that was the reason he was the boss. Even Heavy-Hand Joan, used to leading his own crew of bounty hunters, ceded to the Black Thorn’s authority.

Tomorrow they would enter the city, find a likely place to stage the ambush and Anders himself would deliver the ransom letter to Swift’s hands. It might have made him nervous if it had been the first time he’d been involved in both a kidnapping and the subsequent ransoming but it wasn’t and this time it wasn’t even real, though it was once again at the behest of Drake Morrass. Tomorrow they would ambush Swift, kill him and Henry would finally have her revenge on the bastard who had tortured and raped her. That alone was enough of a reason for Anders to justify murder.

He’d become quite fond of Henry; she scared the life out of him sometimes and he was well aware she was a cunt-hair’s width from crazy but she also had a fierce loyalty towards her crew mates that Anders found somewhat inspiring. Not to mention she was a passionate little thing with no scruples about voicing her pleasure. He might have joined this little crew out of guilt and a debt he could never repay but he had long ago started enjoying their company and, if it were his choice, he would happily stay with them. It was just a shame it wasn’t his choice.

The thing about someone holding a knife to one’s throat from behind, Anders reflected, was that, if the person holding the knife was a novice at such work, it was a fairly easy situation to escape from. One simply had to push backwards while grabbing for the hand holding the knife. Of course an experienced murderer knew to hold the knife at the throat and place the other hand on the back of the victim’s head thus ensuring any attempt at movement would result in blood and… well… death. This, if Anders had required any further proof, convinced him that Henry was most definitely an experienced murderer. The fact that she had snuck up on him in complete silence also convinced him this was a premeditated throat slitting and not some random act of violence on her part.

Anders let out an involuntary squeak of pain as the blade kissed his skin and a trickle of blood loosed itself, running down his neck and soaking into his collar. He knew Henry well enough to know how sharp she kept those daggers of hers and how precise she could be, any spilt blood was completely intentional. Anders waited for the end. It didn’t come.

“Uh… my lady…” Anders said, nursing an outside hope this was some sort of foreplay to sex rather than to death.

“Shut up,” she hissed close to his ear and the knife cut a little deeper into his neck. Anders couldn’t shake the feeling Henry was deadly serious about her actions and he wasn’t entirely sure he could live through another unauthorised vocal discharge.

She was alone, of that much he was certain. The others were down in the camp, some in tents but most just laid out under the stars. Anders had purposefully moved some distance from them in order to have some time to himself and now it seemed that time to himself might be his undoing. Of course, he had to admit, if Henry had wanted to kill him in the middle of the camp she could have done so without anyone lifting a finger to stop her. The boss might have been curious as to why she was painting the wilds red with Anders’ blood but he wouldn’t have stopped her. Thorn trusted Henry completely, in fact from what Anders had seen of them she was perhaps the only person he did truly trust.

For a long time Henry held him there with the knife against his throat and said nothing. Anders wondered if anyone else, perhaps those on watch, might see them but in the darkness they’d probably just assume they were locked in an embrace and keep their distance.

“You’re workin’ fer Morrass,” Henry said her voice an angry whisper.

Anders almost nodded but he realised that would likely put an early end to the interrogation and if he was about to die here he was determined to drag out his life for as long as possible, every painful little damned second.

“How did you figure it out, my lady?” he asked.

“Was fuckin’ obvious. Thorn would’ve seen it too if it weren’t for that whore wavin’ her cunt at him.”

Anders chuckled and fresh blood ran down his neck. He had a strange feeling his neck would feel as though it were on fire if it weren’t for the alcohol keeping the pain at bay.

“Why?” she whispered. Anders thought he detected something in her voice, sadness and perhaps hesitation. It was possible he might survive this yet, he just had to gauge how much of the truth it was safe to divulge to Henry; too much or too little and he would no doubt be dead before he could correct his mistake, before he could make amends.

“I don’t have a choice,” Anders said. “I never did, not with Drake Morrass. He made damned sure I never had a choice.” Most of that at least was the truth.

The dagger cut another small sliver out of his skin. “Start makin’ sense, Anders!”

“I owe him. More than I can ever repay. Drake has a flotilla, many ships but they don’t pirate. They’re gambling houses, never staying in the same place for long. Places where the rich can gather and meet and lose money.” Anders sighed. “I went there after I was exiled hoping the news hadn’t reached them yet, hoping I could still draw on my family’s credit. Drake let me in, let me place a stupid bet and only after I lost did he show me the letter he had received from my father.

Anders sighed. “I owe Drake Morrass two million gold bits,” he whispered to Henry. That much at least was the truth though he decided to leave out that he also owed his life to the pirate captain on no less than two separate occasions. “He has me over a barrel. He says jump, I say how high. He says suck, I say how hard. He says…”

“What’s his angle?” Henry interrupted.

Anders shrugged and felt fresh blood on his neck. “I don’t know. He’s not in the habit of informing me of his goals. He just tells me what to do and when. Sometimes at least. For the most part I do what I want.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because he ordered me to be here. Our meeting in Solantis wasn’t a coincidence. Drake ordered me to find the Black Thorn, to make myself useful, invaluable to him. He ordered me to protect Thorn.”

The knife disappeared from his throat and a moment later Henry’s full weight hit Anders in the back. He toppled forwards, hitting the dusty ground front first and just managing to turn his head in time to stop cracking his nose. He quickly gathered his arms to push himself up but Henry knelt on the small of his back, grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched his head backwards. Again the knife slid round beneath his throat.

“Why?” she hissed at him.

“I don’t know,” Anders wheezed. Rarely had he ever found himself in such a precarious position. “Maybe he knew Thorn would go after Swift.” Another half-truth but Anders sure as all the hells wasn’t about to admit that Drake had ordered him to subtly steer Thorn towards vengeance on both Swift and Kessick.

For a long time there was silence, Henry said nothing but nor did she remove the knife from Anders’ throat. Eventually the pressure on his back increased and Henry’s hot breath tickled his ear.

“I’m watchin’ you, Anders. One wrong move…” she let the threat hang.

“Are you going to tell Thorn?” Anders asked quickly.

That seemed to make her pause; her mouth still just inches from his ear. “Got any reason I shouldn’t?”

“I don’t want to be kicked off the crew,” Anders said and it was the truth. He really had come to like the other members, to think of them as comrades.

“Thing ‘bout bein’ a second. Sometimes ya gotta know when the boss don’t need any more distractions. I’ll keep my mouth shut ‘til Swift is dead but after that… I’ll let the Black Thorn decide what ta do ta ya. See how forgivin’ he is these days.”

The knife disappeared from his throat and Henry shoved Anders’ face into the ground, then the pressure on his back was gone. By the time he regained his feet and looked around she was nowhere to be seen.

The last time Anders had set foot in Chade it had ended with a beautiful woman in a deep-blue dress, a glass window and something very close to death. He hoped this time would be a little less eventful but deep down he doubted it.

Chade’s streets were emptier than he had ever seen them; they weren’t quite deserted but those that did move about did so quickly and quietly with downcast eyes and determined purpose. For such a large city, a city that thrived on trade and commerce, it seemed to be more of a ghost town. Furtive eyes peered out at Anders from the windows of nearby buildings but disappeared the moment he looked for them.

Then there were the bodies. Anders was walking down Traders Row in Goldtown, usually one of the busiest streets in all of Chade. On a normal day more gold bits would change hands on this street than the rest of the free city put together. Today only a few of the shops remained open and those that did were heavily guarded but no one dealt with the bodies on the streets. Some looked like mercenaries, some looked like pirates and some looked like the good people of Chade with no connection to either side of the fight but all were most certainly dead. Huge swarms of blood flies gathered on the corpses, bustling for space to lay eggs in the dead, rotting flesh. Here and there a stray cat or mangy dog would steal from an alleyway to tear of strips of flesh from the bodies of people. Thorn would say Meat is meat, Anders knew, but the sight made him uneasy all the same. The human scavengers were the worst though; picking through the dead for anything worth a damn. Some corpses had been stripped of everything, even their small clothes, and lay in the baking sun naked and mortifying.

To hear Rose tell it the only people not suffering from this street war were those of the slaver’s guild. They were, if anything, profiting from it. Gangs of slavers were apparently stealing out both day and night to snatch up folk wandering the streets on their own. Even with the war there was never a shortage of people in Chade and while the slavers guild might not be able to sell their merchandise in Chade at the moment they could easily throw them onto a ship and trade them in the other free cities or maybe even Sarth. No pirate would harass a slaving vessel, there was simply no point so the slavers were free to roam the seas as they saw fit.

Anders shuddered at the thought of being attacked by a group of slavers looking to take a healthy, well-educated man such as himself. His blooded heritage might save him from being taken but someone with his skill-set would earn a hefty price as a slave. He quickened his pace and silently cursed the boss for not allowing him to get blind drunk before undertaking his more than a little dangerous task.

Swift had set himself up in a large, ostentatious manor. Anders had long ago noticed that those who weren’t born to money tended to enjoy showing it off when they had any, though he had to admit many who were born to money were just as bad if not worse. His father, however, had always been a less is more minded fellow.

The walls outside Swift’s manor were high and guarded, the gate was solid and guarded and the grounds outside were guarded. It seemed Swift was taking no chances in being the target of an assault. If the bastard had any idea about waging a true street war, Anders reflected, this place would be little more than a diversion and his true residence would be elsewhere, somewhere close by but unassuming.

“My lord,” said one of the soldiers at the gate. Mercenaries tended to be well-trained to treat blooded folk with respect and, as most people couldn’t tell one blooded family from another, they therefor deferred to all those with blooded heritage.

“I’m here to see your master, Swift,” Anders said in his very best imperial tone.

“Where is your retinue, my lord?”

Anders let out a loud and pointed sigh. “Please go fetch your master or at the very least, someone smarter than yourself.”

The soldier stared at Anders for a moment, his mouth hanging open, his bottom lip pulled the left. “Aye,” he said and wandered off to fetch someone.

Anders was neither expecting, nor prepared for who the soldier fetched.

“Can I help you?” the man asked. He wore a light chain-linked shirt underneath a white tabard and a bronze half-helm wrapped in a similarly coloured cloth. A curved sword hung at his side and his hand hovered near the hilt. The man was tall, not handsome but nor was he ugly and his skin had a bronze tint to it. Anders very nearly turned and ran but he was fairly certain the Haarin now standing in front of him could catch him with ease.

The Haarin narrowed his eyes at Anders and spoke again. “Perhaps you should come with me.”

“I, uh, need to speak to Swift,” Anders managed to stammer out. The Haarin continued to stare at him with emotionless eyes.

“Have you searched him?” the Haarin asked the other guards. The answer was of course a resounding no. No mere mercenary would assume enough import to search a member of one of the blooded families. Haarin, however, were a completely different matter. This one proceeded to prod and pad down Anders and came up empty-handed save for a single sheet of white parchment, the expensive kind, taken from Drake Morrass’ own stores.

“Come,” the Haarin ordered once he was satisfied Anders was unarmed. Anders followed and made a silent prayer that he’d stay alive just long enough to warn Thorn they needed a new plan, one that didn’t involve going up against one of the known world’s best bodyguards.

“What’ve ya got there, Suzku?” the man perched on the desk asked. He was taller than Anders by a good few inches and more heavily muscled but his features were without a doubt those of a blooded bastard. He looked, Anders had to admit, much like H’ost’s son, the one he had murdered so long ago. “Interesting. Was he armed?” Swift asked.

The Haarin shook his head and held up the letter. “He carried only this.”

Swift glanced at the letter then back to Anders. “Get ta that soon enough. Who are ya?”

“My name is Anders.”

“What family?”

Anders shrugged. “My father was one of the Brekovichs, or so I was told. Never did bother finding out which one.”

“Aye. Bastard is it? Well my da’ almost executed me once,” Swift said.

Anders said nothing. The fact that his own father had tried to have him executed quite recently was still a little fresh in his mind. Besides, he had the feeling Swift was the type of man who didn’t like to have his stories outdone.

“So what d’ya want?” Swift asked.

“Here to deliver a letter. Then I’ll leave.”

“Will ya?” Swift asked with a cruel grin. Again Anders chose not to respond. “Read it, Suzku.”

Brother, when we was just twelve years of age we carved our names into the corpse tree behind the springs

“Um…” Swift grunted, a confused look on his face. “What’s this?”

“It’s proof,” Anders said. “That we have your sister. We told her to write something down that only you and she would know.”

Swift was silent for a long time, studying Anders. “What is it ya want?”

Anders smiled. “Money. Ten thousand gold bits for your sister’s life. I promise you she is unharmed… for now. But her continued good health depends on your prompt delivery of those gold bits. You’ll drop them off behind the guildhall in the craftsmen quarter and we’ll set your sister free.”

“An’ why shouldn’t I jus’ torture her location out o’ ya right now?” Swift asked.

“Because I don’t know it. The boss isn’t stupid, he sent me here knowing very little,” Anders replied and thanked the Gods that he was such a good liar.

“That so? Guess ya ain’t much use no more then,” Swift replied grinning.

“If I do not return to my meeting point within the hour your sister will die and the rest of my crew will vanish,” Anders lied. He couldn’t help but notice Swift’s Haarin was now standing behind him.

The grin disappeared from Swift’s face and he pushed himself off of his desk. “Well I suppose we best make sure we deliver you ta ya meetin’ place then. Hold him!”

Thorn

The door to the warehouse opened and a figure stumbled through, barely closing the door before he collapsed to the floor. Didn’t take long to figure out it was Anders and took even less time to figure out he was in a bad way. Betrim ran over with Ben just a step behind. Anders managed to push himself back onto one knee with his right hand but truth was he didn’t look like he’d be making it back to his feet without some help.

Blood covered Anders’ face with an unhealthy amount of cuts and bruises to compliment the red. His left arm hung limp and useless by his side, likely broken. As Thorn got closer he could tell Anders nose was broken and his right eye was swollen shut.

“Fuck,” said Six-Cities Ben before turning away and calling out to his brother. “Get the kit out, Joan. Reckon he’s gonna need patching up.”

Betrim bent down and helped Anders up by his right arm. With a closer look the blooded drunk seemed to be missing a tooth or two.

“Anders,” Thorn said. “How ya doin’?” Always best in these situation to keep the person conscious.

“I’ve been better, boss,” Anders slurred out, his voice whistled a little through the new gap in his teeth. “Wouldn’t say no to a drink though.”

“I ain’t nobody’s boss,” Betrim said. “Reckon we can sort ya out with that drink though.”

“Much appreciated, boss,” Anders said, looking as pathetic as Betrim had ever seen him. “I think we should probably leave before Swift gets here.”

That made Betrim pause. The entire point of this charade was to lure Swift in so that they could kill him. Might be the beating Anders had just taken had made him a little scared but it didn’t seem like reason enough to go running off and forget the whole idea. Besides, Betrim doubted Henry would leave now if they tried to drag her away. He looked around for the little murderess, seemed she should be close by given her relationship with Anders. He spotted her leaning against a crate close by with a dark look on her face. It figured, she wasn’t the type to show concern or sympathy, for her it was probably just one more reason to kill Swift.

“Don’t reckon we’re goin’ nowhere, Anders,” Betrim said as Joan set to looking at the blooded man’s wounds. “We’re here ta do a job an’ we’re gonna get it done.”

Anders took a swig from a wineskin and his vision seemed to focus a little. “You don’t understand, boss. Swift has a Haarin.”

“A what?” Joan asked as he snapped Anders’ left arm back into position.

Betrim waited until Anders’ screaming had stopped before answering. “Fancy bodyguard from some place east o’ here is all.”

“They’re not just fancy bodyguards…” Anders started to protest but Betrim cut him off before he could spook everyone.

“Anders, I’ve killed Arbiters an’ fought with Blademasters,” he said. “Reckon I can take out a Haarin.”

Anders sighed. “Haarin are taught to fight and taught to kill from the moment they’re old enough to stand and by all accounts they tend to do that fairly early as well. They protect their charge with their lives. They have no mercy, no feeling. Boss we should rethink our strategy here. A head-on conflict is a bad idea.”

Betrim spat. “It’s alright, Anders. Your part in this is done. You jus’…”

“It’s not me I’m worried for!” Anders eyes flicked sideways. Betrim followed his glance to Henry. The little murderess just snorted and walked away. Just about the worst thing Anders could’ve said, Betrim reckoned. If there was one person he knew could take care of themselves it was Henry and she didn’t like others implying that she couldn’t.

“Plan goes ahead,” Betrim said. “Joan, get him patched up best ya can, don’t let him get too drunk. Ben, mind puttin’ ya eyes out front. I want ta know soon as Swift gets here an’ how many folk he’s got with him. Everyone else best start gettin’ ready fer a fight.”

As all those gathered started preparing Betrim couldn’t help but look towards Rose. She stared back at him with dark eyes and he felt his pulse quicken, felt the urge to walk over and tear off her clothing. She pouted at him and that just served to make his frustration even worse. Maybe once they were done with all this she’d want a man like the Black Thorn around but then once they were done with all this she’d be rich and powerful and the only use rich and powerful folk had for the Black Thorn was killing other rich and powerful folk. Truth was Betrim wanted a little more out of the relationship. Actually he was fairly certain he wanted a lot more.

“Thorn,” Betrim had to stop himself from startling at the sound of Bones’ voice. He’d been too distracted to even notice the big man’s approach. “Reckon we’re jus’ ‘bout set but me, you an’ Henry might wanna get ourselves hid ‘fore Swift gets here. No sense in revealin’ ourselves ‘til he’s in the trap up ta his neck.”

“Aye,” Betrim said, pulling his hood up to conceal his face. If he stayed near the shadows there was no way Swift would recognise him.

“Don’t worry, ey. We’ll get the fucker, Haarin or no.”

Betrim grunted at his friend, still unable to tear his eye from the sight of Rose pouting at him.

It seemed to be almost an eternity before Six-Cities Ben reappeared through the door to the warehouse with a wild grin on his face. “Well he’s here,” Ben said. “Got about thirty people with him.”

“Only thirty?” Bones asked with a laugh. “Bastard is confident.”

“I may have let slip during my all-too-brief interrogation,” Anders slurred from the crate he had taken to sitting on. “That there were only six of us.” His left arm was wrapped in a makeshift splint and hung from his neck in an equally makeshift sling and his face was half covered in bandages but he seemed to have regained some of his good humour.

Henry pulled her hat down over her face and stepped behind Heavy-Hand Joan. Bones lumbered over to his men and hunkered down behind a wall of flesh and leather and steel with Beth. Betrim tilted his head so his hood cast a shadow over his features and Rose walked up to join him, in fact she walked in front of him then stepped backwards and proceeded to give his front-side a quick rub with her back-side. Despite the impending danger of the situation Betrim could feel himself stiffening.

Rose tilted her head and purred up at him. “I missed you, Black Thorn.”

“Aye?” Betrim said in reply. Truth was there was a bit too much happening all at once and his mind was struggling to keep up. One part of him demanded he grab Rose, take her into the back of the warehouse, strip her down and do something they’d both enjoy. Another, equally important, part of him protested that her brother was about to break through the door with thirty armed men at his side and they should probably all set about killing each other.

“Mhmmmm,” Rose mumbled and then, just as the door to the warehouse started to open she stepped forward and pointed her beautiful face towards the floor. Betrim found himself struggling to breathe and thoroughly unsure of what was happening.

The door opened and a man wearing a white tabard and white hat stepped in. He glanced around at the thirty men arrayed in front of him then turned and shook his head. Swift was next through the door, ignoring his bodyguard’s warning with a wild laugh. Ten of his thirty followed him in and the door shut behind them.

“Bar it,” Swift ordered his men then proceeded to sweep his gaze around the folk in front of him. His eyes stopped on Rose and the smile slid from his face. “You alright, sister?”

Rose looked at her brother and Betrim could just about make out a smile on her face. “Never better, brother. These fine gentlemen have been kind enough to keep me company.”

Swift nodded. “I don’t doubt. An’ how’s Drake?”

Rose took a step backwards and bumped into Betrim, her eyes flicked to his and he saw the uncertainty there. “What do you mean, brother?”

“I mean, sister. How is Drake Morrass? The pirate you’ve been fuckin’. I’m sure ya’d recognise him. Very pretty but a right smug cunt. Can’t decide whether I should send him your head or keep ya around ‘til I can give you his.” Swift laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. It was fairly fuckin’ obvious. Ma’s head turns up in a box from Drake an’ jus’ a few weeks later I get one of Drake’s minions turnin’ up at my door tellin’ me he’s holdin’ you fer ransom.”

Rose looked a little bit beyond flustered so Betrim pushed her behind him and took a step forward. Swift’s Haarin responded by positioning himself between his charge and.

“An’ who have we here?” Swift asked. “Too tall fer Morrass…”

Betrim pushed back his hood and took a great amount of pleasure at the evident surprise on Swift’s face.

“Well fuck me,” Swift said, grinning. “I did not expect that. Heard you were dead, Thorn.”

“Didn’t stop ya puttin’ a bounty on my head,” Betrim shot right back.

Swift laughed. “True enough. Seemed a good investment; got me some good will from the folk o’ Chade an’ I certainly didn’t expect anyone ta come collect.”

Betrim saw Henry step out from behind Heavy-Hand and take her hat off.

Again Swift laughed. “Seems ta be a day fer ghosts. Gotta admit it’s unusual fer the women I fuck ta come back from the grave fer seconds but fer you I s’pose I can make an exception.”

Henry said nothing but Betrim could see the glare she was sending towards Swift and he didn’t reckon there were many men alive wouldn’t be cowed by it.

“Any more of ya? Not a real reunion ‘less we have…” Bones stood up, towering over his men by a good foot even with his permanent stoop. “Bones. Thought we had a deal, big man?”

Bones stopped just behind Betrim, a reassuring presence at his back, just like old times. “We did. ‘Til I heard ‘bout how much gold you didn’t pay me.”

“Ya heard ‘bout that? Shame,” Swift grinned. “So who’s leadin’ this rabble?”

“That’d be me, Swift,” Betrim said. His right hand unhooking the axe from his belt and holding it ready.

“Aye.” Swift looked from Betrim, to Henry and then back to Betrim. “So how ‘bout we make a deal. I’ll give you the bounty your head’s worth an’ all the money ya shoulda made from the H’ost job. In return you hand over Henry an’ my whore of a sister an’ fuck off somewhere I never have ta see ya again.”

“Don’t reckon that’s like ta happen, Swift,” Betrim replied.

Swift took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Fuckin’ shame that.”

Only the Black Thorn’s long developed sense of impending danger saved him from losing his head. He felt something coming and dived for the floor just in time as the big sword cut through the air just about where his neck had been. He rolled to a stop and looked up at his assailant just as everyone in the warehouse burst into motion.

Anders hopped down from the crate only to find Iron Beth’s sword at his neck. Joan’s hunters drew steel but found themselves facing enemies on both sides; Swift’s mercenaries and Bones’ soldiers. Betrim slowly picked himself off the floor and gave Bones the staring of a lifetime. The giant couldn’t meet that gaze, turned his eyes to floor but kept his bloody great two-handed sword in front of him. Betrim was acutely aware that somewhere behind him stood Swift and his Haarin but he wasn’t about to turn his back on Bones for a second time.

“What the fuck are you doin’, Bones?” Betrim spat.

Swift laughed from behind Thorn. “Turns out even our big friendly giant here has a price though it was pretty fuckin’ big price. Still, he brought the most men ta the party so I suppose it has ta be paid.”

“Sorry, Thorn,” Bones said, still not meeting Betrim’s eyes. “Runnin’ a town ain’t cheap.”

Swift joined in again, always did love the sound of his own voice. “’Specially not when it’s located in the middle of a fog that rots wood an’ rusts metal an’ it’s surrounded by wraiths that have a habit of eatin’ folk. But one thing solves all those problems; money. Well… all except the wraiths, I s’pose.”

Betrim glanced back towards Swift. Both he and the Haarin hadn’t moved and Swift didn’t look to be in any hurry to draw a weapon. He looked back at Bones. Taking on the giant would be hard work, his strength was something approaching legendary and he knew Thorn well enough to know how the Black Thorn liked to fight. Betrim set a grin on his scarred face and was just about to leap at Bones when the screaming started.

Suzku

It took Pern a moment to realise the scream came from outside the warehouse. No-one inside had moved. The scream cut short and something heavy thudded into the wooden wall. Pern could hear muted sounds coming from outside but he couldn’t quite discern what they were. Another scream pierced the silence followed by another. Whatever was outside was dangerous and no mistake.

Pern glanced around those collected inside the warehouse, their conflicts with each other temporarily forgotten as they waited to see what was happening. His eyes were drawn to the woman Swift had named Henry. Her aura was a sight to behold the likes of which Pern had never witnessed before. It was red; a deep red the colour of darkest gore and it pulsed with a terrifying light. Waves of hatred and anger flowed off of her poisoning the air and subduing the auras close by, tainting them with her rage. It was almost as if Pern were witnessing an emotion taken human form and the very possibility both frightened and fascinated him.

The Black Thorn’s aura was in direct opposition to Henry’s. It was a light blue, strong and bright; the colour of control. Whatever the Black Thorn was feeling he had a tight lock on his emotional state. It was an aura any Haarin would be proud to own.

There were more men screaming now. Pern could count at least three. A hurried banging started on the warehouse door, someone shouting to let him in. Then it was cut short and something heavy was slammed against the wall of the building three times. One by one the screams stopped, cut off in gurgled cries of terror. Fear rose from the warehouse in a cloying mass and Pern fought for control.

“What the fuck is it?” he heard one of Swift’s men say.

All had backed away from the door now. Enemies suddenly forgotten with the threat of whatever was outside. Pern noticed the Black Thorn and the giant who had so recently tried to kill him were standing side by side, weapons drawn and ready to fight but not each other. The little woman who was hatred incarnate had stopped staring at Pern’s client and was watching the door with tense, feverishly bright eyes. Even the blooded one, the fool who had delivered the ransom message had a sword drawn; he was standing next to the other woman, the one with the scar on her throat, as if they were old comrades. Pern regretted his actions towards the blooded man; his client had ordered Pern to hold the man and the Haarin had complied. Swift beat the man bloody, broke his arm and nose and Pern had held him all the while, complicit in the mutilation. He had witnessed his client do a great many evil things but only then did Pern truly feel like he was a party to it. Somewhere inside it sickened him, he sickened himself.

“Could it be Drake?” Swift whispered.

Pern glanced at his client. That’s when he noticed the light coming from his belt. The gemstone, the one Kessick had given to Swift to detect magical potential was shining. Not just shining it was bursting with light so bright it hurt Pern’s eyes to look at. Whatever was outside had magical potential and even at this distance it was causing the gemstone to resonate with such power.

Pern placed a protective arm in front of his client and slowly started to walk backwards, forcing Swift to move with him. At first he protested but once he noticed the glowing gem attached to his Haarin’s belt Swift was compliant. They stepped backwards into the rear of the warehouse, into the shadows.

A polite knock sounded from the door to the warehouse followed by the muted but unmistakeable sound of a man clearing his throat. “Would someone mind letting me in.”

Pern couldn’t describe the feeling of terror. He couldn’t see the aura coming from whoever was on the other side of the door but he could feel it and it was like nothing he could describe. It was almost as if every emotion a person could feel had been combined into one giant mess and there was not a single glimmer of control in it anywhere. He might have turned and fled right then if not for the fact that he had his client to protect.

Swift was not so constrained. He turned and bolted to the rear of the warehouse and Pern fled quickly on his heels. At the back they found another door, this one with a heavy iron lock in place. Pern tried the handle but found it locked, before he could start breaking the wooden obstruction down Swift knelt by the door and produced a set of picks. Without hesitation he went to work and in only a few moments the lock clicked and the door opened.

Just before Pern and his client fled the warehouse he heard the crash of wood as the front door to the building burst inwards.

They fled through the streets of the craftsmen quarter at a steady pace, Pern ready to shield his client from any danger and Swift with a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other and all the while cursing that he hadn’t brought his bow. There were few workers out tonight; few workers out at all these days in Chade but a few apprentices ran to and fro carrying goods or supplies. Pern spared them all only quick glances before dismissing them as non-threatening. They stayed clear of any soldiers they saw, it was not possible to be certain whether they were working for Swift or Drake without questioning them and Pern was not about to risk his client’s life in that way. He decided it was safer if they fled back to Swift’s estate by themselves.

They came to a crossroads in the streets and slowed to a stop. The east road led to Goldtown and back to safety though a main road such as this presented a danger. The north road led to a market and beyond that to the north gate. The south road led further into the craftsmen quarter and the west road led back to the guildhall, back to the warehouse, back to whatever terror was now in that warehouse.

Swift was breathing heavily and laughing. All men seemed to deal with fear in different ways; some froze, some raged, some became quivering messes and some, like his client, laughed the fear away rather than admit it existed.

“Ya run like the hells are behind us, Suzku,” Swift said with a grin. “I’m half tempted ta go back an’ find out jus’ who the fuck that was killin’ my men.”

Pern looked at Swift and couldn’t tell if his client was joking. Surely even he would not be crazy enough to court the sort of danger that lay back that way but the way Swift was staring back along the road they had just run from Pern was not so certain.

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones thought o’ runnin’,” Swift said with a nod. “Reckon I might be in fer a fight here.”

Pern followed Swift’s gaze and found Henry staring at them from the other side of the road, her rage surrounding her in a red haze. She had a dagger in each hand and a look on her face that said she was both willing and able to use them. Pern let out a sigh and took up a fighting stance.

Swift placed a hand on his Haarin’s shoulder. “Reckon I’ll take this one, Suzku. Me an’ Henry there got some unfinished business an’ I’m real keen ta finish it.”

Jacob Lee

The door burst inwards with a single kick sending splinters and chunks of wood scattering across the floor. Jacob took a moment to savour the musty smell of the warehouse and was immediately struck by the more acrid smell of sweat and fear. There were more than a few people inside. He stepped over the threshold.

It took him only a second to count all his potential partners; thirty-six men and one woman. It was a good job the warehouse was spacious. All those inside were armed with a variety of weapons ranging from swords to spears to axes to hammers to daggers. Jacob never carried any weaponry. It was considered strange for an Arbiter not to carry a metal weapon complete with magical charms, how else would they would focus their blessings and dispatch heresy. But Jacob was not an Arbiter, he was a Templar. He had no need for a charmed weapon because he himself was charmed, he himself was blessed, he himself was a weapon.

Jacob allowed those arrayed before him a moment to notice his coat. They would probably be more likely to answer his question if they knew he was part of the Inquisition.

“I am looking for the man known as the Black Thorn,” Jacob said pitching his voice to carry throughout the warehouse.

Some of the men looked about as if trying to locate his quarry but Jacob had already scanned all the faces, and with far better vision than any of these sorry specimens, and had concluded Thorn was not among them.

The biggest man Jacob had ever seen stepped up in front of him and spat onto the dust covered floor. “Already sold my friend out once today. I’ll be fucked if I’m givin’ him up ta a damned Arbiter an’ all.”

The giant planted his left foot and swung a massive sword at Jacob with his right hand. Jacob stepped into the coming attack and, with a lightning fast punch to the giant’s hand forced him to drop the sword. With a roar the giant lunged at him and Jacob locked hands with the bigger man. It had been a long time since he’d had a true test of strength and he was eager to find out who was the stronger.

With his hands gripping the giant’s Jacob pushed and the giant pushed back. The big man’s strength went beyond human and Jacob could feel sweat running down his face as both men growled and snorted at each other. His blessings began to itch as they did when he drew too much power from them.

The giant’s strength may have been inhuman but so was Jacob’s. His strength was a divine gift. A failed experiment he might be but only half-failed. The blessings had been successfully transcribed onto his skin but the process had broken his mind. Jacob knew he was broken, knew he could no longer tell right from wrong and he knew the music he heard wasn’t real but it was a thing he couldn’t control. It was a thing he no longer wanted to control.

He heard the giant’s sharp intake of breath at the shock an instant before he felt the big man’s wrists snap. The giant roared in pain but only for a second. Jacob drew back his fist and punched him in the chest. He felt ribs snap under the force of his fist and with his heightened hearing Jacob heard the giant’s heart stop. The massive corpse swayed for a moment before crashing to the floor in puff of dust.

One song ends and another begins.

A woman screamed a hoarse guttural sound full of pain and anger. Then she charged him and she wasn’t alone. Partners from all over the warehouse started to converge on Jacob.

He let the music take him.

His first partner was a young man with a sandy coloured dusting of hair on his top lip and a rusty long sword. Jacob swayed to his partner’s rhythm and span into the man’s waiting embrace, his elbow connecting with the man’s face. As bone broke and splintered under the force Jacob plucked the sword from his partner’s limp hand and planted it in its owner’s sternum before looking for his next partner.

The second partner was an older man with a split lip. He thrust a spear at Jacob. The Templar caught the spear on the first beat of the drum, snapped off the end with the second beat and sent it flying back to its owner on the third beat.

He could see the woman with the scar on her throat so eager to reach him, so eager to join the dance but there was a wall of partners between him and her.

Jacob’s next two partners lasted only two beats a piece. The first died with a broken neck, the second with the first’s axe in his skull.

His next partner was more elegant; an older man, grey in hair and with two heavy hands. An iron mace flew towards Jacob’s head and in only a moment he had revelled in the beautiful symmetry of the flanges and spotted a tiny blot of dried blood inside one of them, no doubt left from the last time the weapon was used. Jacob ducked under the swing, took hold of the shaft and spun around, dragging the heavy handed partner with him, forcing him off balance. It took only a single punch to shatter the man’s arm. Jacob spun away from his partner, taking the mace with him and then span back. The mace connected with his partner’s face and blood, bone and brain erupted from the shattered mess. Someone close by screamed a woman’s name but Jacob could barely hear over the music. He looked for another partner.

The woman with the scarred neck came at Jacob snarling and he rejoiced. A female partner would maybe remind him of Sarah. He brushed away her sword with an empty palm and reached for the woman’s neck. A sword fell between them and Jacob recoiled, pulling back his hand just in time to stop it being severed. His blessings made him strong but they did not make him impervious to cold steel. The man attached to the sword was the spitting image of the heavy handed partner only younger. The sword darted at Jacob again and again and each time he ducked or twirled away. Then Jacob let a single thrust slide past him and placed his right hand on the man’s chest. He felt a rib snap under the force and the man flew away from him. His sword clattered to the floor with a metallic shriek.

So many partners and so much music. Jacob’s next four died too easily. One with a crushed larynx. Two with their own swords in their guts and the fourth with a snapped neck.

People were fleeing now, rushing to the warehouse doorway to escape him. The floor was becoming slick with red blood and some of those people tripped, a couple were likely trampled. Jacob dodged a spear thrust, stepped up to the man holding it and planted a knee in his stomach, as the man doubled over, retching blood onto the ground Jacob plucked the spear from his grasp and pinned him to the floor with it.

Then the woman was back, shouting at him. There was but a small distance between them and Jacob crossed it with a skip. He was too fast for her and the sword strike fell well wide. He gripped both of her hands and squeezed, pulling her close into his embrace. He felt a finger bone crack, a knuckle pop and he savoured the bulging of her eyes as she lost herself in the pain.

For just a moment there was a lull in the music and the sounds of the dying filled Jacob’s ears. The woman was screaming in pain, men lay on the floor nearby crying to the Gods. Somewhere close by a man said for Joan and grunted as though lifting something heavy.

Everything went white.

Henry

“How’s the leg, Henry?” Swift asked, grinning.

The leg ached, always ached these days but sometimes more than others. Most times she just grit her teeth and ignored the pain but sometimes it made her limp and unfortunately now was one of those times. Made her angry that Swift could see how his handiwork pained her, how it affected her but then anger was a constant companion these days. There were times when Henry wished she wasn’t angry, times she wished she could be happy but she knew it was just fantasy. As long as the bastard who’d raped her was still alive, as long as the cause of her shame was still breathing there could be nothing but anger.

“What makes ya think this time’ll be any different, Henry?” Swift asked. “Last time ya was top o’ ya game an’ I still beat ya. Fair fight too. Remember? I know I do. Ya won’t believe how much she struggled, Suzku. At first anyway. Reckon she took ta likin’ it soon enough.”

Henry let the bastard talk, circled him, waiting for him to make a mistake, to look away. His bodyguard watched the entire situation with a carefully passive look on his face. As long as he didn’t involve himself she stood a chance at least.

“See the thing ‘bout our Henry here,” Swift continued, not taking his eyes off of her “she’s a dangerous little thing, real scary but she ain’t too good at takin’ a hit. Never seen someone get punch drunk so quick. Couple o’ good strikes ta the face an’ she was swayin’ on her feet. So I pinned her arms together, bent her over an’ had a bit o’ fun. Now come on, Henry, admit it. Ya liked it.”

It was too much to take. Henry screamed and launched herself at him, daggers flashing. Swift blocked one of Henry’s strikes with his own dagger and the other with his short sword. Just as Henry was about to feint back and strike again Swift’s sword whipped at her and it was all she could do to stumble away.

Henry settled herself into a knife fighter’s crouch, ready to spring into action. Her left cheek felt wet and started stinging. A quick touch and her finger came away red; a shallow cut but a cut all the same. That bastard Swift was too quick for his own good.

“Ya see, Suzku. She’s got this way of wrigglin’ like she don’t want it. Feels so good. And the noises she makes.”

Henry attacked again, feinting right and then leaping left, one dagger looking to parry his sword, the other to find his gut. She knew if only she could get inside his guard Swift would be done for; she’d never met a fighter who could beat her up close.

Swift dodged backwards and Henry followed him. Without warning the blooded bastard stepped into her and before she could react he kicked her in the leg, the left leg; her bad one. Henry collapsed with a squeal and scrambled away from Swift, struggling to regain her feet. Her left leg screamed in pain and she realised she’d dropped one of her daggers. Swift plucked the weapon from the ground and considered it for a moment before tossing it away into the shadows.

“Ya really shouldn’t have come alone, Henry. Had yaself the Black Thorn at ya back but no, not Henry the Red. Always had ta do it alone didn’t ya. Hell I bet that dumb fuck, Thorn doesn’t even know who ya really are does he?”

Henry found one of her hidden throwing knives with her right hand and launched it at Swift. Fair to say he wasn’t expecting it, only just managed to get out of the way in time and by the time he had recovered Henry was on him. She brushed aside his sword and barrelled into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. For a moment she couldn’t tell which of them was which, who was on top and who was thrashing below. Then the world righted itself and she found herself straddling Swift, her dagger darted towards his throat but he was too quick, he caught her wrist with his left hand and punched her in the face with his right.

Henry found herself sprawled on the floor, a painful moan escaping her lips. She cracked open an eye and saw Swift regaining his feet. Bastard hadn’t even taken a scratch. He kicked her other dagger away, making sure it was out of reach.

“See the thing is, Henry. Unlike the other members of our ol’ crew I did some diggin’ inta ya past,” Swift looked back to his bodyguard and Henry tried to shake the bright lights from her vision. “See it turns out Henry the Red is actually Henrietta Vert. She’s a damned noble born brat an’ I don’t mean blooded, oh no. Henry here comes from the Five Kingdoms; she’s a fuckin’ royal bastard.”

She didn’t know how he knew but what she did know was he needed to die. Him and that bodyguard of his both. Some secrets were Henry’s alone and she’d protect them with blood if need be.

Swift looked past her, the grin gone from his face. “Seems like her backup’s arrived. Reckon you’ll keep fer later, wouldn’t mind tryin’ out ya royal cunt again ‘fore I kill ya.”

Henry managed to block Swift’s first punch but she didn’t even see the second, she felt it connect with her jaw though and then she felt nothing.

Anders

As if fleeing from the terror of the warehouse wasn’t enough, Anders was now breathing heavy from his brisk jog and was beginning to suspect at least one of his ribs might be cracked. He had Swift and the Haarin to thank for that and unfortunately it looked like he was about to have his chance at payback. Considering how the last encounter had ended it was not something he was looking forward to. At least he had the Black Thorn with him. The moment they had realised Henry was gone they looked around and found Swift gone also, it didn’t take a genius to realise the little murderess had gone after the man who had caused her so much pain.

It wasn’t until they heard Henry’s battle cry that they knew where she had gone and if it wasn’t for her shrill vocal outburst it was unlikely they’d ever have found her. Still, Anders wasn’t much used to running and neither was he in the best of conditions. It was, in fact, taking every ounce of intestinal fortitude he had not to pull up and heave his lunch onto the streets of Chade.

As they got closer Swift noticed them. Anders saw the blooded bastard punch Henry and she went down heavy, crashing to the ground in a heap and not moving. Despite his lack of breath, the burning in his chest and the more than certain feeling he was hopelessly outmatched Anders drew his sword and broke into a sprint, leaving Thorn behind.

Anders leapt at Swift and the bastard parried his strike and then sent back one of his own which Anders dodged away from.

“Suzku, deal with Thorn. Don’t kill him, jus’ hold him up ‘til I’ve finished with this fuck,” Swift said and then turned his full attention to Anders. It was about then Anders realised the most likely outcome of his current predicament was his own death. Still, it wasn’t the first time Anders Brekovich had faced certain death, he had in fact made something of a habit of surviving his own demise.

Swift thrust with his short sword. Anders parried with his longer blade and then flicked an attack at his opponent’s sword arm. Swift jumped backwards with a laugh. He had the speed and the strength advantage but Anders had the better reach and hopefully a touch more skill. He had, after all, been trained by Crucible’s finest master at arms. Of course half a lifetime pickled on the floor of any tavern that would have him may have rusted his training a little.

Anders flicked another attack at Swift’s right then danced left aiming a wild swing in his opponent’s general direction and letting forth with a dramatic yell. Swift parried the first attack, blocked the second and made to run Anders through. Only a rushed stumbling out of the way saved him.

The problem, Anders decided, with missing a finger, even the smallest of the lot, was it gave you a great deal less control over a sword. Not to mention it hurt like all the hells every time he gripped the hilt which, during a sword fight such as this, was the whole damned time.

He avoided another of Swift’s sword strikes and danced away on nimble, if a little drunken, feet. “Don’t you think you’ve injured me enough for one day?” Anders asked his half-blooded counterpart. “I daresay it’s only fair you let me poke you with the sharp end a little as way of repayment. I promise to be gentle.”

“What is it with you blooded fucks lovin’ ta talk?” Swift asked.

Anders laughed. “Pot… Kettle… Black.”

“What?”

“HAH!” Anders leapt at Swift with a serious of jabs, utilising the full extent of his longer sword. Swift parried each one with annoying ease. On the last thrust the half-blooded bastard stepped around Anders’ sword, grabbing hold of the hilt. Swift tried to punch Anders in the face but he saw it coming and turned his head just in time. The fist caught him on the ear and pain flared to life once again.

Anders stumbled backwards holding his bloody ear and cursing with all the venom he could muster. The bastard was clearly not above using cheap tricks. Poor form by any accounts. As he straightened up into a fighting stance he found Swift grinning at him. It took Anders a moment to realise why; he had a dagger sticking out of his chest. Might have been the adrenaline or maybe the booze but he hadn’t even felt the blade go in, seemed to hurt a lot now he knew it was there though.

Thorn

To say the Haarin was good would be something of an understatement. He was as big as the Black Thorn and probably a little stronger, fast as a cat and by the feel of things he had Thorn beat in terms of skill as well. In any normal situation Betrim would be looking to make a quick getaway at this point but Henry’s life was at stake. The little murderess was out cold lying on the street despite the two fights taking place around her and Betrim would be thrice damned if he’d leave her to the whims of Swift. He’d lost too many friends from walking away and too many friends to failing when he should have succeeded. The Black Thorn had killed seven Arbiters in his lifetime and he’d damned well kill this Haarin if he had to.

With renewed vigour Betrim attacked. Raining blow after blow at the man in front of him, each attack heavier than the last and each one turned away by the dagger the Haarin carried, a dagger Betrim recognised as one of Henry’s. The bastard in front of him wasn’t even bothering to use the sword sheathed at his side.

“Thought you Haarin were supposed ta have honour or somethin’,” Betrim said. He broke off his attack to catch his breath. The Haarin didn’t strike, just positioned himself between Thorn and Swift.

“I honour the code,” the Haarin said.

Thorn spat. “An’ what fuckin’ code is that? Ta protect a man who rapes, murders an’ steals. A man…”

“A man who kills friends and allies just as quickly as he kills his enemies,” the Haarin interrupted Thorn. “A man who starts a war he cannot win in a city that doesn’t want him. I make no excuses Black Thorn, my client is the worst specimen of a man I have ever met. But I have to ask, are you any better?”

Betrim laughed. “Aye. Reckon ya might have got me there. Might be I’m jus’ as bad, might be I’m worse. So hows ‘bout you stand aside an’ let us kill each other. Better fer everyone, better fer the whole damned wilds.”

The Haarin shook his head. “I cannot. He is my client.”

Betrim snorted. “Aye?”

“I am Haarin,” the man said, sounded a little like an apology truth be told but Betrim no longer cared. He was just about to launch a throwing knife at the Haarin when he saw Anders tumble to the ground, a small dagger sticking out of his chest.

The Black Thorn gritted his teeth and fixed the Haarin with his eye. “Get out of the way!”

“Do as he says, Suzku,” Swift said from behind his Haarin. “Go an’ watch Henry, make sure she don’t wake up an’ get involved. This one’s ‘tween me an’ Thorn.”

For a moment Betrim wasn’t sure the Haarin would do as he was told. The man looked torn between decisions. Eventually he lowered his eyes and walked away.

Swift stood with a short sword in his right hand and a throwing knife in his left and a grin plastered to his smug face. Betrim plucked one of his own throwing knives into his left hand and gripped his axe a little tighter.

“The whole time we was in the ol’ crew all I ever heard was Black Thorn this, Black Thorn that,” Swift said, pacing on the empty street. “Like ya was the only name worth a damn there. Like ya was the only name worth a damn in the whole wilds.

“Every time we did a job ya know what the word on the street was? Black Thorn killed this fuck, Black Thorn stole that. Boss wanted it that way, hell it’s why he fuckin’ took ya on in the first place, wanted someone ta take the blame fer all the shit. Figured when the bounty on ya head got high enough he’d turn ya in himself. Bet ya didn’t know that bit did ya? Henry did.”

Long ago Betrim had figured Swift out. The lad was smart and no mistake, quick as a viper and had a certain type of charm about him that drew in some. Thing about Swift though, was that he lied. Lied so much it was near impossible to tell truth from those lies. Back when they were crewing together his lies had seemed fun at times and even useful at others. Now though… now Betrim wanted to stop his lying for good by giving the bastard an unhealthy dose of axe to the face.

“So many times,” Swift said, “I had ta listen ta folk tell me how the Black Thorn couldn’t be killed. Survived everythin’ from burnin’ ta drownin’ ta stabbin’. Hell one bastard tried ta tell me ya survived a hangin’ in front of his eyes.”

Betrim grinned. “That one’s true as it happens.”

Swift spat. “Well the only reason you’re alive now is ‘cos it never suited me ta kill ya before. Coulda done it anytime we was crewin’ together but never felt the need. Now I reckon I want folk ta know once an’ fer all it were good ol’ Swift killed the Black Thorn.”

Betrim nodded. “Right ya are.” He whipped his left hand forwards, throwing the knife at Swift just as Swift threw his own knife at Thorn. Betrim’s aim had always been off, ever since he’d lost his second finger, the knife flew past Swift’s midsection, scoring the leather of his armour. Swift’s own knife was dead on target and would have put a whole in Thorn’s throat if his momentum hadn’t carried his left shoulder into the way. As it was Betrim found a small knife sticking out of the meat of his shoulder, hurt a bit but the Black Thorn had been through far worse. He pulled the knife out, threw it away and charged Swift with axe swinging.

The first two attacks Swift brushed away but the third damned near took his arm off at the shoulder, only the lad’s backward momentum saved him. He tried to counter with a sword stroke of his own but Thorn stepped inside his guard, put a bloody shoulder to his chest and pushed with all his strength. Swift flew away, hitting the ground heavy and rolling to a stop in the dust of the street. As he picked himself back up Betrim could see the bastard was grinning from ear to ear, a nasty scrape made his right cheek bloody.

“Ya know, I almost thought killin’ you would be as easy as them two. S’pose I shoulda known better,” Swift goaded.

Thorn went for another throwing knife but Swift was quicker; his hand whipped out and Betrim felt something sharp stick in his left leg. He pulled the knife out but Swift was already on him, the bastard’s sword came crashing down and Betrim barely got his axe in the way in time. He pushed the sword away, punched Swift in the chest and head-butted him once in the face. Truth was Betrim would happily have butted him a few more times but Swift was no fool, he got his sword up and forced Thorn to stumble away lest he be skewered.

Swift wasn’t looking nearly so confidant now he had fat drops of blood leaking from his nose. Truth was he was damned lucky his nose hadn’t broken. Thorn glanced sideways at the Haarin; he was still watching, standing over the motionless form of Henry. Betrim knew the moment the Haarin decided to get involved and it became two on one he was finished. His best bet was to do for Swift quickly, unfortunately that was easier said than done.

Swift’s sword flashed out in Betrim’s direction and he dodged to his left, the next attack he blocked with his axe and stepped in close again, sending a heavy three-fingered left fist into the smaller man’s kidney. Unfortunately for Betrim Swift once more had a knife in his left hand and it plunged once into the meat of the Black Thorn’s back, just below his right shoulder blade. Thorn pushed Swift away but felt hot blood running down his back, soaking into his tunic. The wound wasn’t deep enough to do any real damage but it was his third knife wound of the night and all three were still bleeding. Truth was Betrim was already starting to feel a little light headed.

He pushed off with his right leg and leapt at Swift, a wild swing of his axe. The bastard stepped to the side and kicked at Thorn’s leg as he landed. His leg gave way and Betrim fell to his knees. Before he could regain his feet Swift was there. He punched the Black Thorn in the face once and danced away, his sword trailing across Betrim’s right arm as he went. Again it wasn’t a deep cut but it was painful enough to force Thorn to drop his axe. Swift was there before Betrim could react.

The blooded bastard laughed as pointed his sword at Betrim’s head. “Told ya, Thorn. I’m jus’ better…” Swift gagged and spat blood over Betrim’s face. He swayed a little and looked down at the length of metal protruding from his chest, his own Haarin’s sword.

“Bollocks…” Swift said and tumbled over to his left, crashing down amongst the dust of the street.

Betrim looked up to find Henry staring at Swift’s body. She was pale and looked near as tired as he felt but a smile played on her scarred lips, a smile Betrim had never seen her wear before. For the first time in all the time he’d known her Henry actually looked peaceful. Thorn had to admit it was a strange sight considering she’d just killed a man.

Henry limped over and placed Betrim’s right arm over her shoulders then helped him to his feet. Truth was he needed it; there weren’t many times he could say he’d gladly have slept in the middle of the one of the busiest streets in all of Chade but this was one of them.

Betrim looked down at Swift’s corpse. Henry knew exactly where to place the sword, right through the bastard’s rotten heart. Thorn looked up to find the bodyguard watching them, watching Henry. She stared back with a strange look in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Henry said.

The Haarin nodded once and walked over to the corpse of his charge. He put one foot on Swift’s back and pulled his sword free before wiping the blade and re-sheathing it. Then he turned and walked away.

Anders

Forcing his eyes open was probably the hardest thing Anders had ever done and after recent events he was fairly certain that was saying a lot. He looked up at the rough wooden ceiling and tried to force his mind to figure out where he was. Unfortunately his mind rebelled on the grounds that it was feeling far too sober and Anders knew from long experience without a drink to coax it into submission there was simply no arguing with his brain.

He drifted for some time with the swaying of the room, his head a haze of half-formed memories that swamped him, none of them coming into focus. His father drifted into view, shouting at him, exiling him, never blinking. He saw the woman in blue pushing him out of the window and he saw her saying sorry as she turned and ran away. He saw Drake Morrass standing over his broken body with a wry smile on his lips, he saw Drake telling him he wasn’t allowed to die.

Seemed as though there was a weight on Anders’ chest, heavy and rough making it hard to breathe.

Anders watched the Black Thorn jump off the ship in Solantis and followed him as he was chased. He saw Henry’s face after they escaped the fighting pits, he saw her bloodlust fade as she realised just what she had started. He saw his father’s face again, still unblinking but this time sentencing him to death, sending him to the Boneyard. He watched the glee on Lish’s face as she chopped off his finger and showed it to him.

Anders heard a clicking, rasping sound. Sounded like a death rattle and sounded close. He thought perhaps it might be his own.

He witnessed the dead, a creature out of myth and legend and horror stories to scare children. He witnessed a wraith; its cold, grey face floating out of the mist begging to steal the warmth of his body. He witnessed a black rose naked and beautiful and as rotten as the man who held it. He witnessed terror, pure and powerful, rise from a room like a miasma of despair.

He witnessed his own death.

This time Anders’ eyes snapped open of their own accord. The same wooden ceiling greeted him, the same feeling that the whole room was swaying, the same weight on his chest, the same clicking rasping sound. Again his mind rebelled claiming it wasn’t nearly drunk enough to deal with the world. This time Anders silenced it with the promise of imminent booze. It took every ounce of strength Anders had to lift his head, to look down at his chest. Four night black eyes stared back at him set above two massive hairy fangs and surrounded by eight green-black legs. Anders let out a strangled whimper. The spider responded by moving a few inches up his chest. Now he could see the ugly beast without lifting his head and he could see his own terrified soul reflected in the beast’s eyes. It dawned on Anders that he may well be dead and this could in fact be one of the many hells people always spoke about. The spider’s fangs moved up and down against each other and again Anders heard the rasping sound.

A door opened somewhere nearby. “Still guarding our guest, Rhi?”

It took every bit of courage Anders had to speak and still his voice came out in a strangled cry. “Drake, help!”

Drake Morrass walked into view and sat down on something, his golden tooth glittered as he smiled. “Rhi here was very worried for you, Anders. Insisted on keeping vigil day and night. Dedicated, ya might say.”

“Help,” Anders squeaked.

“I don’t think she’s eaten since you arrived such is her dedication and obvious worry. Unwilling to leave you even for a moment,” Drake grinned down at Anders. “Reckon she’s probably a bit hungry by now.”

“Drake!”

The pirate captain laughed. “Go on. Shoo.”

The spider leapt from Anders chest, obeying Drake without hesitation. How anyone could train a spider confused Anders, why anyone would train a spider was completely beyond him.

Drake slowly helped Anders sit up. He was in the captain’s own cabin aboard the Fortune on a hastily constructed bench surrounded by a mound of pillows and blankets. His chest was bare and bandaged and hurt like he’d been recently stabbed. Rose was not in attendance.

“Wine?” Anders asked.

Drake laughed and wandered off to his personal drinks cabinet, coming back with something that looked considerably stronger than wine. He poured Anders a cup and helped him drink it. Tasted like whiskey and the expensive kind at that. That one bottle probably cost Drake somewhere in the region of twenty gold bits.

Anders’ mind congratulated him on the attaining of alcohol and got to work processing the situation.

“I’m alive,” he said as the information started to trickle down to his mouth.

“Just starting to realise that, are you?” Drake asked.

Anders sighed. “I really wish you’d stop saving my life.”

Drake took a swig from the bottle of whiskey. “And I really wish you’d stop getting yourself killed. You’ve far from outlived your usefulness to me.”

Anders grunted and nodded at the bottle. Drake poured some more into the cup and placed it in Anders’ hand. It took a hell of a lot of effort and almost more pain than made it worth it but Anders lifted the cup to his mouth and downed it in defiance before motioning for Drake to refill it.

“So what happened? You know… after I was stabbed,” he asked.

Drake smiled. “I’ve got some conflicting reports as to some of the specifics. Seems an Arbiter showed up at some point.”

“Kessick?”

“Hah. I wish. No, some other Arbiter. Built up quite a body count if what I hear is anywhere close to truth. A friend of yours named Ben took him down…”

“Six-Cities Ben?”

“That’s the one. Mace to the back of the head apparently,” Drake said. “Didn’t kill him though, tough bastard managed to survive it. From what I hear I doubt he’ll survive what Iron Beth has planned for him.”

“How long ago?” Anders asked.

“Two weeks, give or take. She set sail back to her foggy little paradise with the Arbiter in chains and swamped in drugs. I would not want to be in his shoes. Beth has an… interesting reputation.”

Anders was afraid to ask the real question on his mind so he buried his mouth in the cup of whiskey.

Drake sighed. “They’re alive. Both of them. Your little murderess Henry the Red stuck Swift in the back with his own Haarin’s sword. They’re also the reason you’re still among the living. They dragged you back to the docks and insisted I patch you up. Seems they know about your working for me. I think you might have some apologising to do when you go back.”

Anders eyes flicked up and he tried to hide the pleasure he felt. “I’m staying with them?” he asked.

“Of course,” Drake replied, his face carefully neutral. “I told you to look after Thorn and so far you’ve done a piss poor job of it. I expect you to do better from now on.”

“They’re still here?”

“Mhmm,” Drake grunted. “Can’t think why. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for someone.”

Anders could barely suppress the grin that threatened to take over his face. “Is Chade back to normal yet?”

Drake took another swig of whiskey and smiled. “Oh no. The merchants are back and trade has resumed as befits a free city but I decided to do away with normal and opted for change. Rose is now in charge.”

“Of the council?” Anders asked.

“There is no council. I got rid of it. The eunuch was quick to agree with me but Lady Fairweather opposed my decision. Shortly afterwards she suffered from a sudden and unexpected case of being stabbed to death. She did not recover. So I dissolved the council, gave Rose my not unsubstantial portfolio of property which she added to that of her own after claiming it from her dearly, and recently, deceased brother. She now owns roughly… all of Chade minus the slaving guild and is therefore in direct control of the free city.”

Anders laughed. “And you, of course, are in direct control of her.”

Drake shook his head. “Not at all. After recent events the mercantile would not be pleased with the pirate captain Drake Morrass having anything to do with the running of their free city. I have therefore washed my hands of the politics of Chade,” he mimicked washing his hands, “and set sail for clearer waters. Or at least I will be setting sail as soon as you get off my fucking ship.

“Chade’s new governor, Rose, is her own woman gifted with the art of diplomacy, especially diplomacy with those of the male persuasion. Now if this new governor decides to subtly steer the free city into directions that benefit Drake Morrass who am I to argue?”

Anders just stared at Drake. “Uh huh…”

“She also has no idea you work for me and I would very much like to keep it that way,” Drake added.

Anders winced and took another pull from his cup of whiskey. “I do still work for you then?”

“Three times I’ve saved your life now, Anders,” Drake reminded him. “That’s a hell of a debt.”

“I’m sure I’ve saved your life at least once,” Anders argued back.

“Just the once, as it happens. Which puts me two up on you.”

Anders sighed.

“Now then,” Drake continued, thrusting the whiskey bottle in Anders’ hands. “I’ve got a pressing need to get back to the Dragon Empire, the Empress tends to get a little… wrathful when I’m gone for too long and I’ve already been gone for far too long. So,” he paused and pointed towards the door, “get off my ship.”

“What?” Anders protested. “I’m not even sure if I can walk yet!”

“You best start crawling then.”

Anders was limping, dripping with sweat and breathing hard by the time he stumbled through the door to the Bastard’s End. It was a fancy tavern located in the heart of Goldtown. Truth was it was not the sort of place one would expect to find a man such as the Black Thorn nor his crew of criminals.

There weren’t many of them left; they arrived in Chade thirty strong and now only three remained, all seated round a table, supping at steins full of wondrous dark liquid. Anders put the alcohol from his mind and limped towards the group. Henry was the first to spot him and she watched him with that permanent sneer of hers though it didn’t seem to stretch past her scarred lips these days. Six-Cities Ben was in full flow, talking at the Black Thorn and waving his hands in the air. Seemed the bounty hunter had a few more lines on his face these days. Thorn sat silent, grinning at Ben’s words but adding nothing.

Anders stopped by the table, leaning heavily on the back of a chair and trying his very best not to collapse at the effort. Truth was he desperately needed to sit down but he couldn’t here, not until they asked him to. Ben fell silent and Thorn stared on with his emotionless mask, only Henry seemed pleased to see him. Either that or her smile was a prelude to her stabbing him.

Anders knew he should open with an apology. “Fitting name for a tavern, don’t you think?” Not exactly what he’d meant to say but it earned a horrific smile from the Black Thorn.

“Aye, well Rose owns the place. Figured she’d rename it in honour of our… service ta the city,” he laughed. “Never thought the likes of me would be welcome in a place like this but I suppose some good’s gotta come from knowin’ the governor.”

Six-Cities Ben laughed. “If that’s what you’re calling it I’d like to know the governor as well.”

Anders laughed along and looked down, trying to summon the courage to apologise. That’s when he noticed his clothing; he was still wearing the same tunic and trousers he had been wearing during the fight with Swift. A fine, dark-green suit it had once been but now it was torn and faded, recently cleaned so most of the blood had been washed away but an old suit none the less. Thorn on the other hand was wearing a new set of clothing, a fine black tunic and a new leather duster of far superior quality to his old one. Ben and Henry were similarly decked out in new attire. Henry’s new hat was even wider than before and the feather was longer and more elaborately coloured; a swirl of greens and purples with a dark black eye in the centre. Ben was wearing a set of boiled leather that any lordling would be proud to own. Anders in comparison to the other three looked to be a beggar come in off the streets and, seeing as he currently owned somewhere close to nothing, he supposed that was exactly what he was.

“Weren’t sure you were gonna make it,” Thorn said. “Morrass reckoned you’d pull through but… you were pretty far gone.”

“I’m sorry, boss,” Anders said quickly. He still couldn’t quite meet Thorn’s eye.

“Are ya? An’ are ya still workin’ fer Morrass?”

Anders nodded. “Yes.”

“An’ what exactly does that bastard want with us?” Thorn asked.

“I don’t know,” Anders said; it was only half a lie. “I just know he wants me at your side.”

Thorn scratched at the stubble on his cheek, he seemed to be letting it grow out a bit but no hair grew over the burn scar. “An’ what if I say no?”

It was a possibility Anders had spent no small amount of time considering. “Well… the Fortune has already set sail so I suppose I’d probably find the nearest bottle and see what’s at the bottom.”

“Dangerous place to get drunk on ya own is Chade,” Six-Cities Ben said with a wink. “Good way to earn yaself an iron collar.”

Anders swallowed nervously; that thought had also crossed his mind.

Thorn rasped out a laugh. “Sit down, Anders. Crew ain’t been the same without ya an’ we need someone fer Ben ta talk at. Gods know he startin’ ta try my patience.”

“I thought you loved my conversation, Thorn,” Six-Cities Ben said in an affronted tone.

“You called us a crew,” Anders said as he slipped into the chair with a grimace.

Thorn nodded. “S’pose I did. An’ now we’re all here I reckon it’s time we had a chat. First time in as long as I can remember me an’ you, Henry, we ain’t got a price on us. Gives us some sort of freedom, I reckon. Freedom ta start somethin’ new maybe. Freedom ta get out of the game.”

Henry said nothing. Ben grinned. Anders found himself more than a little shocked. The Black Thorn had always been one of the biggest names in the game. Even the blooded families heard the rumours of what he had done.

“What’s your plan, boss?” Anders asked.

“Well as it happens I’ve been talkin’ ta Six-Cities here an’ turns out folk like us can make a fair livin’ as hunters. Chances are there’d be a few less people lookin’ ta kill us too.”

The idea of the Black Thorn on the other side of the game hunting the players was a little more than Anders had expected. He was in fact fairly sure the only way he could have been more surprised was if Thorn had declared he was quitting the game to take up agriculture.

“Now I already know Six-Cities is in. Lookin’ ta hear from you two,” Thorn continued, looking at Anders.

“I’m with you, boss,” Anders said mustering as much conviction as he could manage. “To the gritty end! Not that I’m hoping they’ll be an end… or that it will be gritty. I’m just… you know… I’m in.”

“Uh huh,” Thorn grunted. “What ‘bout you, Henry. Not said much an’ I could do with a second.”

Henry looked around the table in silence. She no longer looked at Anders with the hostile stare and that was something he was glad of but neither did she look at him with that same hungry longing she used to.

“What ‘bout Kessick?” she asked.

Thorn sniffed loudly and nodded. “Can’t say I’ve forgotten ‘bout the fuck but truth is he’s gone. Even if I wanted ta go after him I got no idea where ta look, no idea what he even looks like. Right now this crew needs ta earn itself some bits an’ as the boss that’d be my responsibility. So… you in?”

Henry grinned.

Suzku

Pern sat and watched the small group as he had for the past two weeks. Part of his fascination was with the small woman, he was sure. The extent to which her aura had changed was a miracle. Some of the red still remained but it was heavily obscured by the blue of control. She was an emotional creature, of that much Pern was certain, but before she had been wild and out of control. Her killing of Swift seemed to have reined in those emotions.

“Two o’ the biggest names in the game become two o’ the most feared names huntin’ those that play it,” the little woman said. “Not a bad idea.”

“Two?” said the one with the moustache, the one they named Ben. “I’ll have you know the name Six-Cities is both feared and respected all over the wilds.”

“So how come I never heard of ya ‘fore?” Henry asked.

As their banter continued the tall one, the leader, the one they named the Black Thorn looked directly at Pern. Despite his new clothing and the hood to disguise his features Thorn always seemed to notice Pern. For a man with only one eye he had excellent vision.

The leader leaned over to the small woman and whispered something in her ear. Her eyes flicked up and she saw Pern. A moment later she stood from the table and walked towards him. He couldn’t help but notice she no longer limped. She didn’t sit but neither did she reach for any weapons, Pern took that as a good sign.

“Thorn wants me ta bring you over,” she said.

Pern nodded. “I see.”

“’Fore that happens I need ta know some…”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he assured the woman.

She sucked at her teeth and then nodded and smiled. “Come on then.”

Pern stood and followed the woman over to the other table. Thorn greeted him with a nod, the man named Six-Cities remained neutral but the blooded one, Anders, looked caught between fear and hostility. Pern couldn’t blame the man considering how complicit he had been in his torture.

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” Anders asked.

Pern nodded. “Yes.”

“Well don’t let us stop you,” Anders continued. “Hell I’ll even help if you like.”

The man they named Thorn looked a little confused. “What are ya talkin’ ’bout, Anders?”

“He’s Haarin and his master is dead,” Anders said. “Their rules…”

“Our code,” Pern corrected.

Anders snorted. “Their rules dictate that if the client should die before the contract is up then the Haarin must take their own life in order to protect the client in the underworld.”

“Afterlife,” Pern corrected again.

“Sorry what was that?” Anders asked. “I didn’t realise I was talking to you.”

“Leave it, Anders,” Thorn ordered.

“Easy for you to say,” Anders said then stopped and looked at Thorn. “Oh… right. Good point, boss. Sorry.”

“So,” Thorn continued. “Why aren’t you dead?”

It was a question Pern had been asking himself a lot of late and the truth was simple. “I didn’t want to die for a man like Swift.”

“That at least, I understand,” the little woman said grinning at Pern.

“An’ why’d you save us?” Thorn asked.

“Wait,” the blooded one interrupted. “He did what?”

“You fought for each other, protected each other,” Pern replied. “Swift fought for no one but himself, cared for no one but himself. I didn’t want to die for him and I didn’t want anyone else to die for him. Enough already have.”

Thorn nodded. “Makes a certain kind of sense, I s’pose. So now maybe ya’d like ta tell me why ya’ve been hangin’ round watchin’ us fer the past two weeks? Don’t sound like ya lookin’ ta take some revenge.”

Pern shook his head. “I need a place to be. I am no longer Haarin. I am disgraced. I am Honin. My people will hunt me. They will try to kill me to force me to take my place by Swift’s side in the afterlife, to protect him from the horrors of death.”

“Taking on a hunted man ain’t exactly the best way to start a career as a bounty hunter,” said Ben.

“But he ain’t too bad with a sword,” replied Henry.

Anders snorted. “Neither is he bad at holding a man prone while he takes a beating.”

“I am sorry for that,” Pern said earnestly.

Anders laughed. “Oh well I suppose we’re all good then.”

Pern nodded. “Good.”

Henry laughed and Ben joined in but Anders did not look happy.

“Way I see it,” Thorn said, “Ben’s got the right of it. Ain’t a good start takin’ on someone who’s hunted an’ I’d rather not have others like you comin’ after us. Reckon…”

“There is something else,” Pern said.

“Aye an’ what would that be?” Thorn asked.

“I know where to find Kessick.”

Epilogue

Jacob’s head was the very definition of pain. That was the problem with blessings that were always active; he felt everything but he felt it so much more than a normal person. His skull throbbed, his brain ached, his jaw screamed and his mouth felt as though it were on fire.

He opened his eyes and light rushed in, momentarily blinding him and sending him to even newer depths of pain. As the white began to clear he realised he was in a cell, not his cell back in the Inquisition but a cell nonetheless. The four stone walls, ceiling and cold floor brought him comfort. He belonged here amongst the forgotten. Here he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

Something nagged at him though, something he hadn’t done. His mission. Inquisitor Jeyne had been the one to authorise this mission and Jacob didn’t like to let the Inquisitor down. Not once had he ever failed and he wasn’t about to do so now… if only he could remember what his mission was.

Two eyes appeared at the small opening in the heavy wooden door; they peered in at him. Pretty eyes; they were blue with flecks of dark green around the edges and huge black pupils. They disappeared and a few seconds later the door opened. A woman stood on the other side; she was tall but not overly so, muscled without being too burly and about as handsome as a squashed mouse. She had very pretty eyes though. She had a scar as well; it stretched across her neck from one side to the other. It was a proud and ugly scar and had obviously cut deep. Jacob thought it a wonder that the woman had survived such a wound.

The woman had a long sword buckled at her left hip and a dagger at her right and wore a look that spoke of murder. The sight of her sparked some sort of memory but Jacob’s head hurt when he tried to think of it.

It seemed to Jacob he should probably introduce himself. He opened his mouth but all that flowed out was a series of noises none of which held any meaning and none of which sounded like any language he had ever heard. It was then he realised his hands were manacled to the wall. Iron manacles, heavy and tight. He could barely move. Jacob had spent a long time in his cell in the Inquisition but never before had he been in chains. He opened his mouth to ask where he was but again all that came out was noise.

The woman stopped a few paces from him and looked down at Jacob. Her dirt brown hair was tied in a tight ponytail and her pretty eyes were hard as glass.

She doesn’t look anything like Sarah. Jacob thought but quickly realised he didn’t know who Sarah was, couldn’t remember. His head pounded.

“You killed my husband,” the woman rasped at Jacob, her voice sounded like stone grating against iron. “I’m going to make you pay for it.”

Jacob tried to protest that he had no idea who the woman or her husband were but again the noises that escaped his mouth made no sense.

The woman looked down on Jacob with disgust plain on her face. “I know your tricks, Arbiter. I was warned how to stop you casting your spells.”

That was when Jacob realised why he couldn’t make his mouth work properly, why his mouth hurt so much. He couldn’t feel his tongue. This woman, whoever she was, had cut out his tongue.

“I’m going to take my time with you, Arbiter. I’m going to make you pay.” With that the woman turned and walked from the room closing the door behind her.

Jacob listened to her footsteps retreating and a hideous laugh broke free from his mouth. He pulled on his restraints and felt the stone wall begin to give as the power within his blessings blazed forth.