Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales) Page 8

  “You could have at least waited downstairs,” he replied as he pushed himself to the edge of the bed and stood. He wished for his blade, but it was in its usual place underneath the bed, out of view and hidden from Pascal’s eyes. A conversation he hoped to never have.

  Freya’s face never changed, a cold smile her only reply. The two Adeni at her back were as stoic as she, their eyes taking in everything. Pascal shrunk back against the headboard and pulled the sheets up around him, a nervous wreck. Adeni were beyond his day to day life, something only talked about in hushed tones over dinners and drinks, a weapon of war. Mysterious and dangerous, all at the same time, and they did not mingle with common folk. Ian tried to ignore Pascal’s wide eyes as they followed him across the room to his desk. He picked up the coin sack and tossed it across the room towards the Adena, a slight clinking from within sounding as her hand snatched the bag from the air. “I trust our business is concluded,” he said pointedly as she inspected the contents.

  The Adena did not answer, merely looked over the medallions within the sack, before handing them to her companions, who spoke in muttered tones while they gazed into the sack. Ian moved forward, his ire rising. “I said, I trust our busin—”

  “Your talents are still required,” Freya replied coldly, her green eyes as piercing as her tone as she turned to him. “There is little time and none of it must be wasted.” Her gaze flickered to Pascal. “Do you have access to Hisbral’s office?”

  Ian stepped between her and the bed. “He has nothing to do with this,” he said pointedly. His fingers itched for his sword, and his pulse was racing. He was helpless against their magics without the blade.

  She ignored him. “Speak up, Islander. I asked you a question.”

  Pascal’s face was one of a hen cornered by a pack of starving dogs in the back end of a dark alley. His panicked eyes darted between Ian and the Adena, his breathing visibly heavy. His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally murmured, “Yes.”

  Ian growled and moved towards the Adena, his fists clenched. The Water Adena flicked one of her fingers and he suddenly felt himself encased in an icy cold grip. He struggled to move, and could not. He opened his mouth to curse them, and felt his mouth suddenly full with the same invisible icy something. He could breathe, but no sound escaped his mouth. He pushed harder, and felt his eyes well up with tears of anger, frustration, and hate. Freya moved closer to the bed, past his frozen form, and he struggled harder still.

  “Your master has a necklace in her office,” the Adena spoke to Pascal, her voice as cold as the force that gripped Ian. “About this size.” Her hands measured something roughly six inches long by four inches wide, and perhaps two inches deep as well as it was tall. “There is a symbol on the face, like this.” Her fingers traced a glyph of fire in the air, heat waves surrounding the pattern, a crackling in the air of pure energy. Pascal’s eyes bulged, his hands as pale as Ian’s flesh with the force of which he gripped the sheets that he pulled tightly around his frame. “You will retrieve it and bring it to me here.”

  Ian screamed with all his might, but not a sound escaped his lips. He felt a blood vessel in his left eye pop from the effort, and then suddenly he was free from the icy grip. He fell to the floor with a gasp, and his chest burned as he dry-heaved momentarily before pushing himself up to his knees, then staggering to his feet. The two Adeni accompanying Freya filed out the door without a word, leaving only the cursed woman herself. Ian took a step towards her, his hands reaching for her throat, but she brushed past him, his fingers burning where they touched her robes. He staggered past her, unable to stop his momentum, and fell against the wall with a heavy thud, his shoulder screaming in agony. He remained there, tears streaming down his face, his eye and shoulder pulsing with pain that echoed with his heartbeats, and then they were alone in the room.

  He had no reckoning of how much time had passed. He found himself on the floor, his carefully constructed life in ruins around him, his previous distrust of the Aden’than now full-blown hatred, the tears long gone from his eyes, replaced by an hollow feeling in his chest, an emptiness that carried in the center of it a burning rage that threatened to consume him. He pictured her face, saw the Retarin in the distance of his mind’s eye, the Aden’than tower rising up above Finglis Mirror, and he cursed them all. The vision wavered, and Pascal’s face swam into view, his visage that of a scared youth, not the noble Islander whom Ian had come to love over these past years. He cleared his mind, pushed the rage down, and focused on his companion.

  “What is it, my love?” His voice was calm, despite the ball that was roiling away in his gut.

  “I cannot do what she asks!” Pascal’s voice was a shrill whimper, trembling with fear.

  Ian nodded. The penalty for a slave stealing from his master was death. What the Adena asked was impossible. But that was what the Aden’than did; ask the impossible, do the impossible, all because of magic, all in the name of war. He was done with them and their demands. He was finished with it all. He pushed himself up and moved to the bed.

  “Hisbral will kill me, Ian!” Pascal’s eyes were wide, his voice panicked.

  “I know,” he replied. He reached down under the bed and pulled the Jarkath blade from its hiding spot. He gazed upon the sheath, dark leather that housed the black blade within, and his resolution firmed. “You are a free man as of today, Pascal.”

  “What do you mean?” The Islander’s voice was puzzled, worry still thick in his tone.

  “We are none of us slaves.” He eased the sword slightly out of its sheath, several inches of black steel and green runes gazing back up at him. “We are none of us slaves,” he whispered. He rammed the the blade home.

  *

  The interior of the brothel was dim at this hour, the afternoon light on the other side of the building from the windows on this side that looked out over the balcony and the streets below. There were curtains set atop the windows, more for decorative purposes than practical; no one needed to see inside to know the purpose of this building. The sign out front clearly portrayed the activities that took place within, several individuals in various states of copulation swinging in the breeze that occasionally rocked the wooden panel hither and fro.

  Brothels had become a thing of the past for him, at least since he had met Pascal, here within these very walls. But before that, companionship for him had always been something that was purchased rather than earned. It was that way for most soldiers, away for years at a time; there was no chance to establish long-term relationships. Instead, you were usually nothing more than ships passing in the night, finding companionship and comfort for a night here, or a night there. A favorite might be found, but they were never yours for more than the time you had paid for.

  Which was why finding Pascal had completely changed his life. It was the Islander who had first inspired him to do something more with his life, to become something more than just a deserter living in hiding. From the first time he laid eyes on the man, his dark skin perfect, smooth, his eyes flashing with laughter, his smile more genuine than any other he had lain with in his years, he had been swept away. And he had known from that first moment that he wanted something more than just a passing night or few with the man, that he wanted something lasting, something that would grow between them over a lifetime. But to have that, he first had to make something of himself, and so he had invested his entire savings into buying the tavern, as well as establishing himself as a reputable man, his past as a Jarkath something buried, never to be dug up.

  And yet here he was, sword on hip, once again in the employ of the Aden'than. Although this time the ending would be different. He smiled grimly to himself as he wove his way through the various couches and chairs and mangled bodies until he reached the counter where they served liquor. A familiar face greeted him; he could not remember the girls name, but he had been here enough times in the past that her face was one he remembered, and apparently she remembered him as well.


  "It's been too long, Ian." Her smile was one that beckoned all, and he felt a moment's frustration at the fact that she remembered his name but he could not number hers. Then again, she wasn't his type, and he had only had eyes for Pascal during his frequent visits here in the past. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

  "Thank you, no. I'm here on business. I need to speak with Hisbral."

  She nodded. "Give me a moment."

  He turned and cast an eye over the people throughout the common room. Merchants, nobles, men, women, of all different colors and beliefs. If there was one business that guaranteed a steady income, it was a brothel. Pleasures of the flesh were one thing that humanity could not live without. He had contemplated starting his own, but at the end of the day had decided a tavern was more to his liking, because it required less upkeep in terms of public relations. Food and drink didn't require nearly as much finessing as people. A soft ahem from behind him caused him to turn back to the bar to find the girl returned.

  "You can go back through," she said, motioning towards a doorway set to the side of the bar. He nodded his thanks and made his way to the hallway. Third door on the left; he remembered that much from his times visiting here before. Despite the fact that Hisbral knew nothing of his dalliances with Pascal outside of this establishment, he had spent enough coin here during his early visits that he had been invited into the back office more than once.

  He did not bother knocking. The office was well lit with the late afternoon sun, unlike the common room, with a wide window that looked out over the city beyond. They were on the second floor here, and he could see the docks in the distance, far down the hill from where they currently sat, the masts of several ships poking up into the sky like little wooden fingers waving to and fro. Hisbral sat behind a large desk made of red wood, richly carved across its face and down the length of its legs, figures of men and women and otherworldly creatures twined together in various carnal acts. She gave him a smile that was almost as wide as her girth, and waved him forward. "Ahh, Ian. It has been too long. How fares your tavern?"

  He nodded curtly. "Business is good. I am here on other matters, however."

  She frowned slightly as she took in the sword at his hip. "Armed like you are ready for battle." Her eyes narrowed as she glanced back up towards his face. "What brings you here?"

  "There is a silver necklace in your possession." He held out his hands a span apart. "Roughly this long, with a rune carved into the metal."

  Her eyes narrowed even further. "What business is that of yours?"

  "I need it."

  Hisbral threw back her head and laughed, a deep throaty laugh. "And I need a marriage proposal to the king. Come, don't play games with me, Ian. I have several new toys you might find to your liking."

  He did not smile in return. "I am serious, Hisbral."

  Her laughter cut short, and her voice turned serious. "And I think you know that I don't react kindly to threats in my own establishment."

  Ian sighed. He had hoped that this would go easier. "Have you ever heard of the Jarkath Blades?" His right hand fingered the hilt of his sword.

  She leaned forward and placed her forearms on the desk, her not-so-insignificant girth presenting a threat that lesser men may have found intimidating. "You must be mad if you think you can regal me with tales of mythical warriors." Her voice was ominous. "Either place an order, or I will call my guards."

  He ignored her, and continued speaking. "The Aden'than are dangerous enough in their own right, but even they have limits to how far they are willing to go. Which is why they created the Jarkath Blades, to do the things that they themselves cannot. Things which are whispered, but never spoken of."

  Hisbral's face grew red. "I warned you, Ian." She raised a small hammer and struck a bell that sat on the edge of her desk. It rung with a resounding tone, and somewhere in the distance Ian felt, rather than heard, footsteps approaching.

  He took a step forward, his hand halfway drawing the black steel from its sheath as he whispered the first phrases that would light the blade. He watched her eyes grow wide as they took in the green runes flickering to life along the visible portion of the blade. "Yours would not be the first blood I've spilled in the name of the Aden'than."

  There was a commotion at the doorway behind him, but he did not turn. Hisbral waved at her guards. "Nevermind, you may go." Her voice was not quite shrill, but the sight of his blade had done what he intended. "Wait outside."

  "Are you sure, mistress?" The one who spoke had a deep, gravelly voice.

  "Yes, yes, I am sure. Go!' She waved one of her hands again, her eyes intent on Ian's half-drawn sword.

  He waited until he heard the door close behind them. "A wise decision."

  She swallowed visibly, her impressive girth somehow shrunken down so that she appeared nothing more than a frail, frightened woman sitting in a chair behind the desk. "What do you want?"

  "You have in your possession a necklace," he began, but cut himself off as she quickly nodded her head.

  "Yes, of course." She pushed herself from her chair and turned to the wall behind her desk, to a bookshelf that set underneath the window looking out over the city. There were various books and trinkets set across the shelves, several small statues, flask, and the like. She opened a small box and drew out a silver necklace and turned back to him. "I want no trouble with the Aden'than." She laid the necklace on the desk in front of him and then stepped back, eying his half-drawn blade with fear.

  He nodded and reached forward with his free hand and took the necklace from the desk, felt the vibrations in the silver that marked it as mienatha. And then he paused. This was the moment he had been waiting for. His identity as a Jarkath had been hidden for years, but now that he was out the open, it was time to take what was his. He left his hand on the hilt of his blade, left the runes flickering with half-lit flames. "Pascal will no longer work here."

  Despite her fear, Hisbral's eyes flickered from surprised to anger. "Look here," she sputtered. "That necklace is one thing. I'll not hold something from the Aden'than. But you can't expect me to just hand over my personal property to som—"

  Ian drew the blade a couple inches more from its sheath, and smiled grimly as she cut her sentence off and swallowed visibly. "He no longer works for you, is that understood?"

  He could see her mind working behind her beady little eyes, could see the indignation and anger trying to override the fear of magic that faced her. He took half a step forward, and watched as she shrunk back into her chair, her whispered reply full of defeat. "Fine."

  He rammed the blade home and exited the room, pushing past the two burly men who stood guard on either side of the doorway. He heaved a heavy sigh as he made his way to the common room and to the doorway beyond. At least that part of his strategy had gone according to plan. Now, for the rest....

  *

  It took three days to arrange a buyer, and all that he proposed to had plenty of questions as to why he would give up his pride and joy. He had lied through his teeth to each and every one of them, before Ethan who owned two other taverns in the Potter’s Quarter had agreed , and with only a shrug of his shoulders when Ian explained that he was done with the big city, that it was time to mosey off to the countryside and live out the rest of his life in peace and quiet.

  He didn’t tell Pascal. As much as he loved the man, the Islander was in no shape to carry any more weight on his shoulders, not with the terror of the Aden’than hanging over his head. Nor did he still truly believe that he was free of Hisbral, no matter that Ian had reassured him several times over.

  They could have made a run for it. He still had enough connections they could have found a boat to the Islands, or a vessel running upriver to Whitehall. But the Order would track them down eventually. The Aden’than did not leave loose ends.

  It was a hard sell to convince Pascal to spend the night with his cousin in the northwestern part of the Blackwater District. They had not spent a night apart since Freya
had barged into their rooms at his tavern. Ethan’s tavern now, don’t forget. But after a bottle of berry wine and an hour of cajoling, he had managed to calm his lover’s nerves enough to accompany him to Leiman’s house, where he had needed to spend another hour promising Pascal that he would be be fine and back by midnight. It had been hard to ignore the Islander’s tearful kisses.

  As it was, his palms were sweating on the hilt of his sword as he sat on the edge of his bed, blade between his legs, and eyed the remnants of his life as they surrounded him. The chest he had hewn from Forinmere oak, the painting of his long-dead mother, the bookshelf he had carefully sanded down until it was so smooth that it held a shimmering appearance with the laquer. His collection of poetry and romance novels. There were thirty seven books there, rough leather and wooden covers, their parchment pages thick but worn around the edges from years of thumbing through them, at least two books per month.

  When she finally came, it was with fire in her eyes that matched the fringes on her robes, and two same Adeni, Earth and Air, at her back, a sneer across her face as she entered the room and found him seated. The necklace sat upon the sheets next to him. Her eyes searched the room, set upon the necklace, and gleamed as she smiled. “So, you are not as useless as I thought.”

  He met her gaze. “We are finished, you and I.”

  Her smile faded. “The Aden’than decide when you are finished, Jarkath.” She motioned the Earth Aden forward. “The necklace.”

  Ian whispered the words that brought the blade to life. Green flames flickered along the sword. The Earth Aden paused, eyes flickering towards Freya. “We are finished,” he repeated.

  Freya’s eyes narrowed. “You would not dare to wield your blade against one of the Aden’than.”

  He felt the twist of Air from the brown-haired Adena behind Freya, saw the thread that reached out to bind him. He stood and flicked his blade up in one smooth motion, severing the thread and sending the Adena stumbling back against the wall as her weave snapped back into her face.