Gutterblood 5 - Delays

The wagons moved slowly through the mud. They had only a half a normal day's travel to the border, but the way was now muddy and dangerous. Several times now they had had to stop and perform the back-breaking work of pulling a wagon out of an unsuspected ditch or hole.
The men were tired and wet, and still scared of what might be coming after them. At this point it was only the fear keeping them awake.
Pierce Farrell was less tired than the men because he had never gotten off his horse to help when they unstuck a wagon. And he was dryer because the quality of his clothes was much better than theirs. But he was annoyed. At this rate it would take them as long as ten more hours to reach the centerlands, and he knew that they could not keep going that long under these conditions.

*IN PROGRESS*

In Great Sadness (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

Why must there be
So much pain?
I know others have asked
In words that speak
So much more than mine,
But still I want to know.
I cannot love
Except with the most guarded phrases
And careful touches
Afraid to place too much
Upon those who are
As sensitive to love as I,
Bare nerves, frayed and worn
From caring so much
And feeling with more than
Simply five senses.
So I love the few
Who feel as much pain as I do
Because I know their limits:
They are equal to my own.
Too much love
And we all break and run
To far corners
Where we can retire, alone
To fill with unshed tears
The hollow that holds what is left of our hearts.
We cannot cry for ourselves-
That feeling of pity
Is long gone,
Leaving only resignation,
And the fear of love
And worse, the fear of not being loved
Again.

You speak to me of your fears
Of not finding love,
And of not being able to accept
What you have found.
I can feel you reaching
To me, wanting to be loved
But not being able
To risk exposing yourself.
I move,
And in a motion we join
Your head coming to rest wearily
On my breast.
I brush your soft hair
From your forehead
Feeling for all the world
Like a mother comforting
A frightened, lonely child.
Tears well in my eyes
For you, that you find yourself
In the pain I have
Been living with,
And would have spared you,
Had I only known how.
I hold you close, and speak softly
And we share a love that neither of us will name
For fear it will turn the same
As all the others.

That Traitor Memory (Prose)

The stillness of the night was broken only by the slow crackle of a cigarette as my lungs expanded, drawing in the smoke that soothed nerves and killed slowly. I looked briefly at my hand and quickly looked away as I saw how it shook, eddying currents of smoke around it where they drifted on the slight breeze. I put my hand on the arm of the chair once more, and again nothing stirred, while in my mind the thoughts went slowly churning. Mercifully the dreams of last night were indistinct and unrecognizable, else I might not even pretend to the pseudocalm that I evinced and instead scream my heart away as I had at waking. The pain was almost under control now. Only the video I had just seen kept my equilibrium at a nervous flutter, the traitor video and the no doubt blameless singer that reminded me so much of her. Even just that sight had kept me rooted, unable to change the channel, with slowly whitening fingertips on the remote, as she danced and sang about heartbreak. Danced like her, too, and mocked me where I sat until I walked to the pantry and upended the bottle of rum till the pain was more distant and I could leave to smoke in silence in the darkness. Every remembrance was met by a studied air of uncaring, ridiculous as it may have been under the circumstances, but allowing me to at least pretend to be sane, to create an illusion of peace without which I would surely die from the hole in my heart. And so I sat, while the alcohol slowly processed through my veins and my conscious mind drifted to the dim past, despite the hurt that awaited, and slowly I thought of her.
It was a Sunday, I think, and the pool water was chill on a spring day. I was a young man still, as I still am in body, but yet I had not seen all that I see today, and felt that which I feel now. She was with me, and energetically we played around the pool until the chill took her. She started to shiver with the cold, and quickly I lifted her easily over the short fence so she would be able to get to a hot shower. I remembered the smile she gave me, and my own crept to my face, out of place in the dark, and shrouded in the smoke that spiraled from my mouth.
On campus on a slow day I waited patiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor, carrying soup mix and a pan in my hands. I was eager to begin, for she waited above, and I remembered just the right way to make this dish exactly how she liked it. How she would be surprised that I had done it right, for my memory was not usually so apt. Some time later I gained my reward as her face was shocked into an open smile and her body a fierce hug. Almost I reached out, to return it, but was stopped by the moon looking down on me and the heat of the filter between my fingers.
It was early morning, and a rarity that I had woken before her. I studied her face as she lay on the bed beside me. She looked so relaxed, so innocent, as indeed she was. I breathed gently as my eyes followed the slight curve of her nose, the bow of her lips, the soft flutter of her eyelashes as she dreamed. I leaned forward slightly to kiss her, and inhaled smoke once more, as the acid tears leaked from my eyes and I sobbed softly into the night.

I Quit. (Prose)

They pat me on the back, with daggers in hand,
And I smile.
They have no power to hurt. Not anymore,
Now that I am free.
And so I chuckle at their attempts to harm,
And I laugh at their barbed remarks,
For they will have to stay,
And I am free.

Jack Daw Part Eight (Conclusion?)

Madame Brevity’s burned with a jaunty yellow flame, as if the flames were having a good time at their work.
The whores looked less amused.
They had been rousted out of their warm beds in the wee hours of the morning, told to get what they could carry, and hurried out of the building as the first flames started showing on the outside. Now the whole first floor was consumed, and the few people who had roused to help were incapable of stemming the blaze. Fortunately, there were no houses close enough to catch as well, but Madame Brevity’s was doomed.
At the beginning, the man who had rousted them up (an evil-looking one, to be sure) had dug like a madman, throwing pails of dirt to the girls, who had feebly shaken them out on the very edges of the flames. In fact, he had dug so vigorously that there had been a minor collapse near one of the foundations in the back, and he had ceased shortly thereafter.
He had also run inside, to get a few things out for the girls, and they had heard him banging around inside, only running out when the fire got so close to the door that he had to leave or burn. His fierce beard had been steaming when he came out, and the scar on his cheek was livid in the hot firelight. But he had been grinning, and he handed the stuffed doll he carried to a grateful whore with a nod.
And then he had stood and watched, for nearly a half an hour, while the house collapsed with shrill noises that sounded almost like screams…
*******
“That’s all I saw of him, Inspector Bentley. He had a big scar and a bushy black beard, just like I said. You couldn’t miss him. He was about your height, and he looked nice enough, before… before- ”
The whore couldn’t finish the sentence, and Bentley nodded distractedly and waved her out. She clutched a stuffed doll, half-soaked in blood, and it dripped a trail on his clean floor as she left. There it mingled with the mud and blood of 6 other whores and 4 concerned citizens that he had seen before her.
There was no doubt. All of the stories matched, and it had to have been the work of Jack Daw. Bentley smiled a grim little smile inside, but no trace of it showed on his face. Ludovico had taken him in once, but he would catch him, and there would be a reckoning. A reckoning, and then a hanging.
*******
Ludovico ran like he had never run before, but he could never run fast enough to escape his mind, and that was what hunted him now.

Flashes of it kept coming back to him.
Sneaking into Madame Brevity’s to set the fire, he had listened carefully and heard the very soft murmur of voices below. He had hidden bottles of oil in appropriate places, then set fire to the curtains that covered the back windows. There it would take a while to catch the rest of the house, if no one helped it along, but it would look impressive. He ran up to warn the whores and move them out, and on the way out managed to kick a few of the bottles over, towards the back wall.
Outside, he had made first to collapse the entry tunnel, knowing that what dirt he gave to the whores would be ineffectual. Once that was done he ran back inside to cover Sam’s Seaside’s internal exit, sliding a heavy couch over it, then nailing the couch to the door with a few well-placed swings. Then he had knocked over the rest of the oil and beat a hasty retreat as the whole place blazed up.
He knew that there was no way out for those below, and the thought gave him pleasure.

As he ran tree limbs beat at him, whipping him across the face and arms, but they had no more effect than would the punches of an underfed whore.
He ran, but the screams followed him.

When the roof started to collapse he knew it was over. There was no escape, and he knew the screams for what they were, coming from the trapped men below. But they were muffled, and he told the crowd that wood made strange snaps and noises when it burned. They soon enough cut off anyway.
After a few minutes more he decided that it would be good to leave before anyone started asking awkward questions, and he started to ease back through the crowd, but he was halted dead by a faint movement in the flames…

He no longer knew where he was, or cared. He couldn’t get the voices out of his head. The shadows around him grew longer and longer, and he stumbled, exhausted, into the deepening night…

The man with the cane stepped from the flames, and Ludovico’s eyes widened. He was untouched by the furnace around him, and his mask gleamed oddly in the light. He paused at the edge of the building, as timbers tumbled behind him and sparks blazed high into the air. His clothing was immaculate, as Ludovico had last seen him, and finally he stalked forward out of the fire… straight towards the part of the crowd where Ludovico stood.
Ludovico started to speak, to deny what was happening before him, he knew not what, but he was interrupted before he even started, as other figures stalked from the inferno. There was the one who had held his arms, there the one who had chuckled at his struggles. The man who had warned them all to the presence of Bentley’s guards held a nasty-looking hook with a bladed inner edge.
“Jack Daw,” they said, and nothing more.
“Jack Daw.”
Jack drew his blade, his short sword that had served him so well in so many fights before, but he could barely raise it against the terror that stalked towards him.
“Jack Daw.” The chant grated at his very being.
They surrounded him, mingling with the crowd, the too-silent crowd.
‘Magic,’ his mind gibbered at him, and then fled, shrieking.
Instinct took over.
He swung, wildly, at the figures around him. They were hazy and indistinct, but he swung nonetheless, and felt his blade bite into flesh.
Finally, there was shouting, and screams, but the chant continued.
“Jack Daw.”
He cut them down, and down, and down, but the chant continued.
“Jack Daw.”
He saw a doll, drenched in its former owner’s arterial blood, and he checked his swing at the last second.
Around him lay bodies, so many bodies. Whores, and civilians. But the criminals he had been trying to kill still stood, untouched... Indistinct. And the chant continued, though no living mouths formed the words.
“Jack Daw.”

He fled, into the dawn.

He fled, into the darkness.

Jack Daw Part Seven

It took four months for Ludovico to fully heal, and each day the inspector (whose name was Bentley) came by and talked to him for a while, about his life, and his plans, and each day he left with the same admonition:
“If you remember anything, anything at all, about the men who tried to hang you, you let me know, you see?”
But Ludovico held his silence. He told the inspector about his young life on the wagons, about the wolves who had attacked the Romany family, and killed most of them, and he told how his mother had swam with him in the frigid water of a river to a small island, with the wolves on the shore until dawn, when they had fled, whimpering. He told of the strange and probably crazy old man who had taught him how to fight, and more importantly, WHY to fight.
And he told an abbreviated version of his capture of Slate Jack Arell, the man who had stolen Clayton Danziger’s pearl-handled Parthian rapier, and his daughter’s virtue at the same time. He told how he had used Jack Daw’s reputation to smoke the man out, and then poisoned him into unconsciousness and brought him to Danziger for the reward.
But he didn’t mention the woman and her boy, and he didn’t say what his plans were once he had recovered.
His dreams were filled with faces, and vengeance.
He saw the other faces, the woman and her son, almost every day now. He would look out the window and they would be looking in, or he would see them in the mirror standing behind him, or just as a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.
At first he had nearly jumped out of his skin, but the faces faded quickly if he noticed them, and he became almost used to it by the time he had recuperated. He knew it was his guilty conscience, but he banished it from his mind. He would have time for regrets when he had dealt with his attackers.
When finally the day came where he could make a full stretch without pain, and he could talk without problem, though his voice was a little huskier than it had been before, the inspector visited for the last time.
“I know there are things you have told me, Tiger,” (the inspector had taken to calling him tiger, for the similarity to his last name, but he disliked it intensely) “and despite my wishes, I can’t hold you any longer in good conscience. So let me just say this.” The inspector braced his back slightly, and a grim expression came over his face. “If I catch you involved in an illegal act, I will have to hang you, and this time for good. Any affection I may have for you will not sway me in my duty.”
Ludovico realized that the inspector actually had a tear in his eye, and started to say something, but he was interrupted.
“No- that is all I will say. Good bye, sir.” And the inspector walked out.

Jack Daw Part Six

The inspector nearly fell forward over Jack’s shoulder as he finished his sentence, but caught himself and spluttered indignantly at the idea. “Preposterous! Here you stand before me, and no tricks will get you out of a trial, sir! Furthermore-, ” but he stopped and stared as ‘Jack’ slowly pulled the beard away from his chin. There was a kind of tacky substance holding it on, he saw, and its fierce bushiness had concealed the edges, where it might have been easier to spot as a fake.
Despite realizing that ‘Jack’ was a disguise, he jumped again when the man in the bed began to pull at his scar, which came off as well. It peeled up, leaving a red mark where the skin had been runneled up in a faux scar tissue ridge. When beard and scar were gone, and the former ‘Jack’ had rubbed the rawness out of his face, the inspector seemed to see a totally different person. Whereas the criminal Jack Daw was an obvious rogue, with an ill-omened look about him, as if he might suddenly knife you at any turn, the face now revealed showed only deep caring, hidden sadness, and obvious pain from his injuries.
“Good god, man… Ahhh, so who, I mean why would those posters be there…?” The inspector looked from the discarded beard and scar-glue to the face of the wounded stranger.
May I ask first how it is that I am still alive? I still remember… up to the hanging. And a knife coming out of me.
The stranger smiled his grim smile again, and for a second he looked more roguish… almost like Jack Daw.
“Ahh, yes, well, the men who had hung and stabbed you fled when we approached… We were out on one of the lord’s patrols, you see, and we heard the laughter from the road. But the blackguards heard us coming and took to their heels. One of them like to have stabbed you, though, and did a right job of it. Lucky for you we keep a healer along, and he was able to patch you up, else you’d have been dead for sure.”
The inspector looked discomfited for a second, then continued, somewhat slower and in a lower voice. “The fact is, sir, we’d probably not have done for your wounds, if a lad hadn’t recognized you and brought up there might be a reward.”
The stranger started to laugh and immediately stopped, his face white and pained. The inspector quickly grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back flat.
“Mustn’t exert yourself too much, you know, what with that wound in your chest, you see. And stay straight as much as possible, the more you bend the worse you’ll feel.”
The stranger looked around hopelessly for a way to write in that position until the inspector went and grabbed the guard’s shield and held it at an angle for him.
Thank you. So what now?
“First I’d like to ask what your name is. Your real name.” The inspector watched his face while he wrote, but he displayed no emotion.
Ludovico Taigur, of the Rom.
When the inspector glanced down at the parchment he almost dropped the guard’s shield. “Romany! But you’re not… But you’re disguised, aren’t you? So, maybe…” He looked closely at Ludovico’s face, “Yes, the bone structure, if you look closely… and your nose, now that I’m not looking at the scar and the beard.
“Well, being a Rom isn’t a crime, I suppose, though some might say otherwise.”
There is good and bad amongst my people, but I have committed no crimes here other than putting up some posters.
As he wrote, two faces swam in Ludovico’s vision, but he blinked them away.
“Well, if you’re telling it true, we don’t have anything to hold you on. We’ll check with his lordship, of course. But your disguise was pretty convincing, it was. Ahhh, and of course we’ll keep you here long enough to heal, you see. But after that you’ll be free to go.”
Thank you again. For now I think sleep will help me best.
“Ahh, yes, quite right.” The inspector gave a last nod to Ludovico, handed the shield back to the guard, and left, but Ludovico was asleep before the door had closed.

Jack Daw Part Five

Once again Jack was surprised to find himself returning to consciousness. But the burning ache in his chest and his inability to draw a full breath convinced him.
Reluctantly he opened his eyes. He lay in a clean-looking room on a white bed. Ugly-looking black candles burned on either side of him, exuding a pleasant sweet odor.
There was an armed guard at the single door leading out, and when he saw Jack open his eyes, he knocked on the door behind him. In a few seconds a man in an inspector’s uniform came in.
“Mr. Daw. How good of you to wake up.”
For a second Jack started, but this man’s voice was totally unlike the man with the cane’s, even if he had been disguising it. He shook off the memory and listened.
“I have been hoping to get my hands on you for some time, Mr. Jack Daw. You have been a very naughty boy, according to reports.” The inspector preened a bit at this and reflexively twisted the end of his long handlebar moustache. “But I warrant you’ll not be causing any more trouble in MY town, no sir.”
Jack thought he might want to stop this line of thought before it went too far. He started to speak, but gagged instead. He quickly discovered that if he breathed slowly it was no problem, but if he tried to talk he was in trouble.
“Ahh, yes.” The inspector looked slightly dismayed. “The healers told me you would have difficulty speaking for a while. It will make a confession difficult, no doubt.” He looked saddened at having to wait.
Jack made a flourishing motion with his right hand while holding his left underneath it. The inspector was quick to pick up on his meaning, and perked right up.
“Yes, you could write it down! Excellent idea, that! Let me just have this chap …” Here the inspector conferred with the guard and the guard left, coming back in a minute or so with some parchment, a quill, and a vial of ink.
Jack pulled the parchment towards him and uncorked the ink. He dipped the quill in the ink and gave it a quick tap on the edge of the bottle to clear the excess ink. With perfect calligraphy, he began to write as the inspector watched, fascinated.
On what charges do you wish to arrest Jack Daw?
He started to turn the paper for the inspector, but the inspector came around to his shoulder to read it.
“Ahhh, well, on charges of theft, extortion, and murder, of course. There are wanted posters for you all over town, you see.” The inspector seemed confused as Jack smiled grimly.
Who put up those posters?
The inspector looked at what he had written for a moment before replying. “Well, ahhh, the lord’s men put them up-“ here he checked himself, “But… well, they haven’t been around lately, you see.” The inspector frowned. This was not going according to plan. He leaned back against the wall in thought, then pushed forward again when Jack started writing once more.
Consider the fact that it was NOT the lord’s men that put up those posters. Consider the fact that the crimes of which they speak are fabricated.
Consider the fact that there IS NO Jack Daw.

Jack Daw Part Four

The rope burned, like a necklace of fire. His hands were tied behind him and to his belt, to prevent slipping them under his legs. The knots were both cunning and cruel, and he had been searched thoroughly to make sure he had no blades. The ones he had hidden on himself were piled on the ground in front of him as a taunt…

** The reward lay heavily in his pouch as he rode away from town. One moment of carelessness was all it took, to end two unknown lives. If he had only packed the ‘sugar’ up before he left, the woman and her son would have lived. One moment of carelessness.
Ironically, in thinking about carelessness he paid insufficient attention to his surroundings. He was watching the sky move behind the up thrust trees, and when he looked down they were all around him. Some he recognized from wanted posters, other were unknown, but all had the same feral look of the urban predator.
The fight was short and decisive, and his last sight before he bid farewell to consciousness was a cloaked and hooded figure with a mask… and a cane. **

If he swung a little, trying to ignore the pain in his neck, he could hit the tree behind him with his feet, but he could gain no purchase on the smooth bark. A man behind him and to the right laughed at his efforts.

** Jack was surprised when he regained consciousness, until he felt the rope around his neck. He was being supported by a tough on either side and one behind him, and the man with the cane stood in front of him.
“Ahhh, good day, Mr. Daw. We were waiting for you to rejoin us.
“I’m afraid you probably know what the penalty is for betraying a member of Sam’s Seaside.” The man smiled, a careful movement that had little to do with amusement. “It is, of course, death. And it will be administered by hanging, in this case, as a warning to any others who have similar plans. You will be left here to swing, and to rot, and cause fear.”
Jack tested his bonds, but there was no give in them. He looked at the men around him, and there was no give in them either. The man with the cane watched him carefully for a second, then continued, satisfied that he was not capable of escape.
“Well, then. I’m afraid it’s time for us to part ways, Jack.”
Out of sight to Jack, men pulled at the rope, and he was inexorably drawn into the air, his breath cut off… **

There was nothing he could do. His vision blurred, and two faces swam before his eyes. A woman and a child…
“Boss! The guard!” The voice seemed to come from far away, and it didn’t make any sense to Jack.
“Well, Mr. Daw will have to find his end without us.” This voice seemed more familiar, but it was too much effort to recall why. “But as a parting gift…”
Agony tore through his chest, banishing the fog of death that had begun covering his mind. His vision cleared abruptly, and he saw the man with the cane withdrawing a bloody dagger. He felt the bright blood pulsing seemingly straight out of his heart, and he barely heard the words the man said as he left.
“We shall not meet again, Jack Daw.”

Jack Daw Part Three

When he had covered the grave he jammed a piece of wood into the ground at the head, on which he had crudely scratched some words:


“They looked like drifters, or homeless,
and I didn’t know their names.
A woman and a boy.
They looked for some warmth
of a winter’s evening and found death instead.
I’m sorry, but I did it.
-Jack Daw”


Before he left, Jack made sure there was nothing to identify him at the scene. He poured the rest of the ‘sugar’ into a bucket of water, enough to dilute it past the danger level, and poured it on a rocky patch of ground behind the house. He wiped the tear tracks from his face with a lace handkerchief, being careful to avoid the scar and the edges of his beard. Finally he examined himself in a small metal mirror he produced from a sleeve pocket. Satisfied, he went to collect his horse.
Above, the trees stirred restlessly in the chill breeze, seeming to shake their skeletal fists at him. He ignored them and rode for town. He had a reward to collect.

Jack Daw Part Two

The grave was dug, and the man crawled out of the hole to the bodies. He took the taller one first, picking it up easily and placing near the edge. The smaller corpse seemed almost heavier, but he placed it on the opposite side. He knelt down at the foot of the grave and tears filled his eyes once more, blurring the grave to an earlier scene…

** “Nothing like hot sugared tea to take the chill out,” said the bearded man. In contrast to his bland garb before, he now wore a green flowery coat with a double row of buttons on the front, with lace dripping from neck and wrists. His vest was silk, and the buttons on it appeared to be solid gold. A fancy-looking short sword rode one hip, and a spiked buckler rested against the wall. His high leather boots were shined, and his tri-corner hat had a long feathery plume sticking from one side. A waxed moustache complemented his beard, and the scar rode up around his right eye in a wicked and jagged half circle.
The short man sitting opposite him at the lone table only grunted. He had a whippet’s lean look and a panther’s smile, when he chose to show it. Today was not one of those days. He wore loose red linen for the most part, with a sash of black velvet. A long knife depended from the sash, and he had a smaller version tucked into one boot. He had a number of pouches at his belt, and he restlessly fiddled with things inside them between drinks of tea. The clinks of small metal objects came from within.
“Can we get on with this? I have an appointment afterwards, and I don’t want to be late,” said the short man.
“Of course. More tea?” At another grunt, the bearded man poured the shorter man’s glass full once more, and then spooned sugar from the bowl on the table into it. Two scoops, and then he sat back and began to describe the job.
The smaller man listened attentively, and had the other describe in detail the buildings they would be encountering, with an eye for decorative stonework, ease of gripping, projection on which to catch a grapple and such. But as they talked, he found it harder and harder to concentrate, and had to ask more questions to figure out what their next move would be…was it the target building that had the stucco face? Was it the one next door, or did that one have the gargoyle statue on the roof?It was all … too …much.
The bearded man watched the other closely, and was ready to catch him when he fell. He eased him to the ground and quickly checked his pulse, then raised one eyelid and let it slide shut.
“You’ll be out for a little while, my rooftop crawling friend. Long enough, at least.” Grabbing the body under the arms, the bearded man dragged the body out into the cold. **

Eyes still red, but weeping finished, the man dragged the taller body into the grave. It thumped down with solid suddenness. He tried to arrange it as best he could, and then turned to the other body, and gently pulled it into the hole. He set it down next to the other, and pushed them close together. Then he slowly pulled himself from the hole for the last time. He said a few words, in a halting voice, but they seemed to go unheard amongst the pines and the cold, and he soon stopped.
The first shovel of dirt hit the smaller body, and the top of the sheet jerked down enough to expose a child’s face …

** By the time the bearded man returned to the house, now scruffy from travel and wearing a stained great cloak over his nicer clothes, it was far too late. The son was dead already, and the woman was in convulsions that would soon lead to madness, if not death. It took only one look at the sugar bowl, next to now knocked over mugs, to see the culprit … Or a look in a mirror. They had come in from the cold and taken a drink to get warm, figuring that no one would begrudge them that small favor. The woman was injuring herself as she thrashed, and her eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her tongue had swollen and her fingernails were ice blue.
He held the woman down and cut her throat to end her pain…there was nothing else he could do. **

Jack Daw Part One

The legend of Jack Daw started on a blustery grey morning in the transition from fall to winter, in a cottage on the edge of the woods. The trees still tried to hold the fading remnants of their colorful crowns to the sky, but their skeletal limbs brought to mind dripping bits of rotted flesh instead, and the crows made a gruesome spectacle as they flew amongst the standing corpses.
The only sound to be heard in the chilly air was the crunch and swish of a shovel. The ground was frozen hard on top, but the man working had broken through with a pick and was down to his chest now, no longer cold from the work. Runnels of grey dirt trailed from his red-rimmed eyes, and he shook occasionally with more than cold. Next to the hole lay two sheet-covered bodies, blood stains visible at the throat of the taller one. The shorter body was small and thin, surely no more than a child.
The shovels of dirt hit the ground next to the cottage with clockwork precision, and the man in the hole couldn’t help but remember…

**“I’m Jack Daw. I’m looking for a second-story man.”
The man speaking was dressed much like the other patrons of Sam’s Seaside Bar, which is to say ‘all in black’. He wore the same anonymous black domino, as well, and his hair, assuming he had any, was concealed by a bandana, a muffler, and a black floppy hat. The only thing that marked him was a large ferocious beard and the edge of a scar peeking from under the domino.
The one he spoke to was dressed similarly, but rough shaven and scar free, at least to outwards appearances. He carried a natty-looking cane of polished mahogany that almost certainly concealed a blade, and his domino had a certain mark at the edge, just to the side of the right ear.
“Might be I know someone. What’s the pay?” The man with the cane kept his voice low, despite the hidden nature of Sam’s Seaside, requiring two tunnels and a search to get in. The clients of Madame Brevity’s Brothel, through the thin floor above, sometimes had sharp ears, after all.
“The pay’s 3 large in advance, 2 after, with a 10 percent bonus of the take if the job’s quiet. It should add to maybe 800 all told if it goes well.” The bearded man raised a finger in warning. “But no amateurs, you hear? I understand you have at least one good topper around, and I need talent for this job.”
The cane twitched slightly at the total, but the man who held it stayed impassive. “I know a guy,” he said cautiously, “but he’ll ask for more than that, even with the bonus. He’ll want maybe 5 up front, 5 after, plus the bonus.”
The bearded man scowled under the domino. “13 large? I can get 20 scags and roust the house for that.” He scratched at his chin under the beard and spat at a tin on the floor, hitting the edge.
“You can’t get this quality for less, though. The guy I got is good, and worth it.”
The bearded man grunted a laugh. “How do you prove it before he drops a dagger into my foot while he’s up?”
“You hear about the Danziger job?” The man with the cane studied the other man’s face and seemed satisfied with what he saw. “I thought you might have. That’s the guy.”
“Him, eh?” The bearded man seemed to be trying not to appear impressed, but having a tough time of it. “Alright. 5 up front, 5 behind, and the bonus. I’ll drop the front at Brevity’s in an hour. The job’s two nights from now, but I want a go-over tomorrow to set the plan.”
The man with the cane nodded, pleased. “I’ll have him meet you at…?”
The bearded man thought for a minute. “The old Borgman place in the woods. It’ll be secluded enough that we can talk without interruption.”
With a flourish of the cane, the marked man got up and nodded, then left towards a side room. The man with the beard finished his drink and then went to begin the crawl back outside, unremarked by the other customers. **

Haiku - First Set (Poetry - Haiku)

Strange, I feel these days,
My disconnection grows:
I wish I could sleep.

Cherry blossoms fall,
Obscuring the frozen ground-
Would they be so kind?

Rain filters the sky
Through a graying lens of clouds
Spring waits patiently.

Neo’s dilemma
Is a laughable display:
Take both pills at once!

Death Beaver rages
Why is life so endless?
Killing takes all day.

Never is so long;
But perhaps, not long enough
To give up on you.
*(this was the original inspiration for 'Never Everending')

A dark penumbra
of loathing, waits patiently
New prey will come soon.

One, toe, tree, fo’, five:
The Dope Man talks in Jive,
All the good day long.

Ties choke off the screams
Of souls, tortured to their deaths:
In Office We Trust.

Martians, coming here;
Would cry aloud in their glee:
They’ve conquered themselves!

Smokers cough their last-
dying in the midst of life,
for nothing at all.

Dancing with my dreams,
I waltz to the tune inside;
And don’t miss a beat.

In the beginning
I was wrong: But not so much
As I am right now.

Whiskey calls to me
In songs I cannot silence;
in dreams I can’t end.

Anansi (Prose - Not quite Neil Gaiman Fanfic... Not Quite)

I will tell you the story of Anansi, who was both a normal spider and a normal man at the same time, and a god as well. These things used to be possible, a long time ago, before everything became complicated.
Anansi was known as a great trickster, and as a great storyteller, and after he stole all of the stories from Tiger and made them his he became very famous. This story takes place before all of that, when he was just another god, trying to find his place in the world.

Anansi had a desire for a certain type of grape, a large purple kind that grew only on very high vines, where they got the most sunlight. They were just bursting with juice and flavor, and they washed away the dust that blew all around better than anything else in the world. Naturally, they were jealously guarded by Hawk, who though he ate mostly small furry creatures, occasionally liked a little grape to cleanse his palate. But Hawk didn’t eat very many, and the rest grew sour on the vines and fell to the ground, where the other gods and animals would fight over them in the hopes that this time, it might be just blown from the vine early, and still sweet. And every once in a while there was a sweet one, and it would be fought over fiercely until one victor would retreat with the prize to their cave to eat.
Now, Anansi was not a great fighter (though he was a tricksy wrestler) and he never got any of the grapes, sour or sweet. So he decided that he needed to come up with another way.
First he tried jumping, which he was rather good at, and thought he could jump over everyone else and grab a grape on its way down. But when he succeeded at grabbing one he was attacked after he hit the ground, and the grape was taken away from him. Even worse, there were better jumpers, and Rabbit and Mara (who was a woman and a kangaroo) started jumping for grapes higher than he could reach.
Next he tried spinning a web across between the trees, over where Mara and Rabbit could reach. But Hawk saw the web and ripped it up so that he could reach the small furry animals on the ground more easily. (Rabbit ran away at this, but Mara was too big for Hawk to eat, so she kept jumping)
Anansi almost gave up at this, but the grapes looked so juicy against the sunlight that he felt that he just had to have one.
So Anansi looked up at the grapes silhouetted against the sky and he had an idea! Everyone knew that all creatures fled the hawk’s shadow…
So Anansi built a kite, the biggest kite ever seen, and he strung it off of his own spider line, and he flew it up above the field where the people, or gods, or creatures, waited for the grapes to fall.
And the shadow created by the kite was so big that all of the creatures fled, and Anansi scurried over to the field to wait for grapes to fall.
But Hawk saw the kite. And Hawk, not being the smartest of all the creatures in the world, thought his territory was being infringed on by another bird, and so he spread his mighty wings and chased after the kite to do battle.

Anansi, seeing this, raced right up into the tops of the trees and started eating grapes.
And oh, they were such grapes. Grapes like no one but Hawk had ever had, sweet and succulent and juicy and above all – plentiful!
Anansi gorged himself on grapes until he was fit to burst, and then tucked more in his pockets for later, hoping that they would not be unduly harmed by his climb down.

But Anansi, for just a few seconds, forgot all about Hawk. Hawk, who had ripped the kite to shreds. Hawk, who had figured out that it wasn’t a real bird after a few minutes. Hawk, who was very angry.
And you only get one chance to see the hawk before it strikes…

Later on, of course, Anansi became very famous, and was fed all the grapes he wanted by people (or animals, or gods) who wanted to be on his good side. And once, he stole all of Hawk’s tailfeathers, to get back at Hawk for having killed him when he was young and hungry.
But that is a tail for another time.

It was a time long ago, when things were much less complicated, and it wasn’t unusual at all to be a man, and a spider, and a god – even all at once.

With You? (Poetry - Rhyming)

I’ve lived a long time all alone with my thoughts,
And expected that life would bring more of the same;
No one I found could draw ME out of hiding,
This truth was my bulwark, my safety… my shame.
This shell was the source of my pain.

Oh, sometimes I’d surface - I’m not made of stone,
I’d offer my essence to those who were there;
And they would take notice, and be very thoughtful,
It wasn’t as if my good friends didn’t care-
To say less of them wouldn’t be fair.

But there’s always been something that lacked in those moments,
An indefinite feeling I couldn’t tie down;
A nebulous thought or a zen-like emotion –
A noise you could see, or a light made of sound:
A ghost, binding me to the ground

No matter how violent my fight with this phantom,
It wouldn’t retreat, yet it wouldn’t attack -
It sat in the background and laughed at my efforts;
How could I win if it would not fight back?
Well it’s tough, is the obvious fact.

I’d almost resigned to a life without contact,
A miserable loneliness growing inside,
I stood in the doorway and looked at my future,
But a chance-met companion convinced me to bide -
And step back, with one glorious stride.

I told her a joke – with a twist, (which I liked)
That I was a god, one of knowledge and sight.
And I had no fears in disclosing this secret,
For no one would listen – Cassandra’s sad plight.
None would believe she was right.

A joke it was, only – But she laughed in wonder,
And something inside me responded with glee
Not to the joke, or the laugh, or the moment
But something about her was calling to me:
A sound I’d been waiting to see.

She was dating, (a friend) and lived far far away,
But I made sure to see her if she was nearby:
Not to meddle, or woo her, or cause any friction,
But to learn what had caused it, this noise in my eye,
So perhaps I could watch for its cry.

Through the years I watched closely, and saw in brief glimpses
How this wonderful girl danced with life unashamed
Her mind always seeking, her spirit unconquered
And I sought for the one who’d make me feel the same
Who could light for me love’s simple flame.

But the years passed uncaring, and the girl went through changes
A Lady now, carefree and wild, and uncaught
And all of my logic, and science, and feeling,
Have failed to define it, this nebulous thought;
This thing that Cassandra had brought.

Through the years as I’ve watched her, the feeling has strengthened;
It’s a part of my life now - the Lady is too,
And for all my lone searching, I have yet to find it –
Perhaps there is something more I should do?
Perhaps I should seek it… With you?

The Coming of the Light (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

I have reasons to fear the coming of the light.

They are waiting now, in the darkness
And I sense them shuffling unheard feet.
I fear that any change will break this stalemate;
will precipitate action again on a large scale.
And so I fear the coming of the light.

On a hilltop I stand, and bodies line the paths that lead to its summit,
Wracked by pain and death; and their blood mingles on my blades,
But there are more to come. Now, for this short time they wait,
And I breathe in the darkness as if I could pull enough inside to disappear.
And I fear the coming of the light.

It could be a mercy to see them, to know who and what it is that screams as my blades pull the life from their bodies.
But I am one man, and I have but two arms with which to slay.
The darkness is my ally, it confuses their attacks,
It causes them to wound each other as I snake in and out and twirl between deaths.
And so I fear the coming of the light.

The battle has forced me away from friendship, from love,
It drives me to reach the summit above, to the goal, to the prize,
Though I know not what it is, or what may await me in the darkness.
Its urgency pushes me onward, and I ignore all else,
Except my fear, of the coming of the light.

My fighting is free and unrestrained; I have abandoned myself to the slaughter,
For I have no friends whom I might wound, and each precise thrust spills foe’s blood.
My only questions are moot by now, for even the asking could spell death.
Who is it that I fight, in my unending battle? Who is it that screams when I thrust; whose breathe rattles out into the night?
I fear the coming of the light.

Lonely I stand, in the midst of many. My touch only wounds, my comfort lies in blood.
And for now, they stand away, and wait.
But battle will be rejoined soon, I hear the growing impatience in their ragged breaths.
And my own mirror them.
But still I fear the coming of the light.

The reason for this battle escapes me; I fight because that is what I have always done.
And I wonder if those arrayed against me know this secret drive,
Or if indeed there is reason at all.
Do we all fight so that the fighting will continue?
Do we all fear the coming of the light?

I have heard, in the darkness, those who have given up.
They throw away their weapons, and walk towards the summit unarmed.
I have heard them cut down, by others or myself, but it seemed as if;
Perhaps the darkness was less while they lived.
Did they, too, fear the coming of the light?

And what if, however insane it might seem, they were not alone,
And many threw down their arms and walked together?
Surely it would only mean their deaths… Surely;
Because this is a battle, this life.
And we must fear the coming of the light.

But as I wait for the fight to resume, with my weapons in hand,
I cannot help but remember, how the darkness seemed a little less,
And think that maybe… If there were enough who worked together,
Could the darkness be driven back?
Does it, too, fear the coming of the light?

Those around me move closer, and I throw down my weapons.
I know not why, nor how, nor what will happen to me.
And I fear the consequences of my actions, but at least I have chosen them,
And no longer, not today nor evermore,
Will I fear the coming of the light.

They stop for a moment, those hungry souls,
And I see what they see, what causes them to hesitate.
I cannot help it; it is all around me… The darkness has lessened.
And as I walk towards the summit, no longer afraid, I know.
This is the coming of the light.

Never Everending (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

You have such vitality,
Such ruthless cheer, such joyous pain.
Your clothing, like minarets on battlements,
A defense that invites me in.
Your smile, so open in its guardedness,
Tells less than it asks, and I wonder:
Is love an imposition, or a duty?
Never is such a long time,
To wait…
And when it happens, I’ll know,
That the wait will never end.
(that word again…)
And I see you – and;
…I see you.
And never isn’t too long.
Your defenses toy with me,
But minarets, though pretty, are yet stone.
I take no joy in your pain,
(I sometimes cheer at your ruthlessness)
And you have such vitality;
But darling; never is such a long time,
To wait…

Dum Vivimus Vivamus (Poetry - Rhyming)

Must we be haunted by choices?
Must we lose all that is good?
Must we forever remember,
Two roads diverged in a wood?

Why does the past so beset us?
Why does this farce still go on?
Why do we still feel the pain,
When the people and problems are gone?

Are we all cursed at our birthing?
Are we commanded to pay?
Are we then doomed to reliving,
One second? One hour? One day?

Never this fate will I suffer!
Never live life all afraid,
Never the taxes of ‘might have’
But rather the dues I have paid

And sometimes my course will show profit
And sometimes (more likely) ‘twill not
And sometimes I’ll do well to hang on
To the few meager memories I’ve got

But I will live life in the moment
And give it all I have to give
And keep in my mind always foremost
That while I’m alive, let me Live!

Ballad of the Warrior-Poets (Poetry - Rhyming)

I am a Warrior-Poet
Of a breed that’s almost gone
So settle back and listen close
As I sing to you my song

I believe in keeping promises
I believe in living free
I believe in things like honor
And the powers I can’t see

I believe that love is powerful
And if true will always win
I believe that magic rules the world
And religion is a sin

I believe that there is purpose
To all I’ve said and done
I believe that common courtesy
Is due to everyone

Sometimes I walk a lonely road
Believing what I do
But I’m a Warrior-Poet
And my spirit keeps me true

And now and then as I go on
I find a kindred light
And together our souls blaze afire
To wash away the night

We are the Warrior-Poets
Of a breed that’s almost gone
So settle back and listen close
As we sing to you our song

Sometimes we walk a lonely road
Believing what we do
But we’re the Warrior-Poets
And our spirits keep us true.

A Better Man than I (Poetry - Rhyming)

I’ll be never once a craven
I’ll be never twice a fool
I will keep my temper and my word
And always keep my cool

I may yet live a hundred years
Or more before I die
But every day I’ll strive to be
A better man than I

I pledge that I will think before
I let my anger grow
And always purr before I roar
And always let them know

I’ll keep my furies bound
And my muses running free
I’ll keep on trying to become
A better man than me

I’ll ignore an insult given
And give back a smile instead
I will drown my foes in mercy
And with kindness strike them dead

For I have made mistakes before
Of aim and judgment too
And I may make a thousand more
Before my life is through

But I will take the straighter path
I’ll walk it till I die
And every day I’ll try to be
A better man than I.

How Many Like Me? (Poetry - Non-rhyming)

How many like me have come before, and why I ask I do not know
I am myself, and strong at that, but still these questions dog my thoughts.
How many like me I ask myself, that walked this land and left their tracks,
and might I find if I did look their footprints staring back at me.

How many like me have come before, and left their mark in history?
And can I measure up to them, or are there none like me, but me?
Why do I think the way I do, where have I gone to reach this place,
what does it take to become me; is it a process others took?

You and I are not alike, I know this? Or perhaps I think;
and if we are, should we two meet, or hide ourselves until we part?
If we should find ourselves the same, would we two be the ones we are,
how many like us would we see pass if we should take the time to look?

If I should find me walking by, and look upon and know myself,
would this enlighten or despair, or produce results I cannot guess?
Can I survive another me, an ‘I’ I’ve never seen or heard,
And could this me survive myself? Can I make choices based on that?

How many like me have come before, and reached this point and thought these thoughts?
How many have sat in quietude, with roiling thunder deep inside,
When lightning crashes do they see, in distant light and noise and heat?
Or is it only fantasy, inside my head like so much else?

How many like me have writ these words, have cried these tears and known not why,
have spent their lives just ‘looking in’ to lives they cannot understand?
How many like me have sent their hopes, winging toward some future I,
In desperation wishing that, some day a me will make it clear?

These words are only messages, sent towards a one I’ll never know,
Who waits and wonders wordlessly, of things unclear to even them.
And if it’s you I send it to, take heart for you are not alone,
An ‘I’ is here, for you to meet, though we may never touch or speak.

You aren’t the first, I’d say to you, if only you could hear my words,
Take comfort, though the road is hard, because our tracks will guide you on,
How many we’ve been I do not know, but in my time the tracks were deep,
And when we reach the end then I; and you, and us, and we- will meet.

No Rest for the Wicked (Poetry - Song Lyrics)

There’s no rest for the wicked
There’s no grave for the last to fall
I fight my battles willingly, but
I cannot win them all

I see the tyrants standing
I hear their evil spell
And I pick up my weapons
To send them straight to hell

There will be no grave for me,
No one will mourn my fall
But I will fight the good fights
And try to win them all

No rest for the wicked
And there will be no rest for me
I fight my battles willingly
Even the ones no one will see

In the future I will stand
Against the ones who rule
And I will fight until I drop
I am nobody’s tool.

And when I die my corpse will stay
Upon the field where I fall
Surrounded by my enemies
For I will kill them all

There’s no rest for the wicked
And this is my atonement
When I die I’ll go straight to hell
But I will follow the ones I’ve sent

No rest for the wicked
No grave for the last to fall
I fight my battles willingly, but
I will not win them all

Flashback part 5 (Pulp 12)

When I walked back into the Hotel Marrones, the Wide Man was gone. Just my luck. I could hear the sirens that told me some helpful joe had called the five-oh. It was obvious there was nothing to be done for the waitress, she wasn’t even bleeding anymore, and the pool around her had spread to cover maybe ten square feet of floor.
I bellied up to the bar and reached over for the well whiskey. There was an empty tumbler still on a nearby table; I grabbed it and sniffed. Rye. Close enough. I filled it with whiskey and threw it back in a smooth motion. It burned like a good round of free weights, but with less work and more satisfaction. I waited for the cops.
The sirens drew closer, but then receded. I paused in pouring myself another shot. What could draw more attention than a shootout in a bar?
I left the bar and headed towards the flashing lights in the distance.

When I reached the source of the lights and sirens I was in front of a large white structure that reeked of money about to be taken in. It had nattily attired parking attendants out front, currently being interviewed by dusty street cops, and the façade was all marble and brass.
Across the face it said ‘Concord Inn’ in big gothic letters. My heart gave a little flirt when I saw it, like someone heavy had stepped on my grave. I stopped and took a second to shake the jitters out. Coincidence? I didn’t buy the stuff.
The cops hassled me a little when I went over, but their hearts weren’t in it, and they waved me through when I showed ‘em my license. I was surprised, they usually weren’t so nice to private dicks, but they seemed spooked by something.
Just inside the lobby was a beat cop throwing up on a potted fern in the corner. This was officially a bad sign. Beat cops are not weak of stomach. For a second I thought he might be a new guy, but then I spotted the sergeants stripes. Very bad. I steeled myself and walked on by.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I know that I was unprepared for what I found. It looked like a meat grinder had exploded all over the inside of one of the elevators, halfway through grinding up a full-grown horse. Except that all the recognizable parts weren’t horse. There was gore on the floor, walls, and (I looked up to check) the roof of the car. There was one pale-looking detective standing outside the door, his shoulders shaking a little. The other cops in the hallway were studiously looking away from the scene. When I walked up to the pale detective I made sure my boot heels clicked on the marble floor. This was not a time to startle someone. He turned around with a relieved look which quickly hardened when he saw I wasn’t on the force.
“What are you doing here?” the words came out clipped and terse, like he was going for tough, but it more sounded like he was trying not to retch. Which was probably true.
“Peace, officer. I’m a private eye. I’m working on a case nearby and I came to see if I could help.” I offered my hand, but he ignored it and kept staring me in the eyes, so I dropped it.
“We don’t need any help, thanks, and what case?” He seemed to be relaxing a little, but was obviously working up to throwing me out.
Some instinct prodded me, and I lied. “Looking into a man named Magoffin’s gambling debts, nothing to do with this. I’ll be going now, if you’re all set.”
I could see the realization spark in his eyes that if I left he would have to go back to looking at the scene, and he reflexively reached out a hand, but I turned and walked off. As I got to the sergeant he was lurching into a bathroom and I quickly slipped behind the reception desk and into a housekeeping door.
It was no work at all to get up to the fifth floor, where Angela St. Ives once had lived. However, it was going to be more of a trick to get past the cops on guard outside her door. That sinking feeling was back. I didn’t know how, but I was going to eat one of the Concord Inn’s fluffy white bathrobes if the scene in that room did not exactly match one I had in my possession…

The Human (sci-fi 5)

Murphy studied the readouts on his sector of the air cruiser with the ease of long practice, but the tension in his mind refused to go away. Despite the fact that this was a normal trade run, despite the fact that this was his fifth trip through it in as many months, there was something about this run that he sincerely didn’t like. It felt… ominous, like it was just waiting to pull the rug out from under him.
Again, he checked the readouts, but everything was normal. The Legacy tech airship was running as smoothly as ever, all needed fuel materials were in full supply, minus the small amount they had used so far, and all scheduled maintenance had been performed and logged, such as there was. As with all Legacy artifacts, the ship was designed to run for centuries without needing repair or replacement, as long as it was not damaged by hostile action.
As if on cue, an alert began to blare nearby. With a jerk, Murphy yanked his rangy six-foot frame from the seat and spun. Across the instrument rotunda a shocked intern sat at a rarely-used station, where a white danger light flashed imperatively. Seeing the lack of comprehension on her face, Murphy ran to her side, but there was no time for him to act. As he reached her station, one of the little countdown timers in the center of her display flashed to zero, and a new message flashed up on the screen next to it. Translated from the ancients’ language, it read:
“Hostile Missile Impact”
Murphy had one fleeting second to wonder why it designated the missile as ‘hostile,’ (as opposed to what) before he was thrown violently to the deck. The ship jumped like a startled cat and a huge hollow booming rang through the hull. The crew on the bridge could also hear an ominous sound – air whistling through an open hole.
There were several bangs and thumps, and the ship lurched upwards. Murphy assumed something had just fallen off the ship. He hoped it wasn’t the wings. It didn’t feel like they were free falling, so it was likely not.
As far as he could tell, almost everybody was screaming something; orders, prayers, curses, or just noise. He looked forward, and Bosun Marcus happened to be looking at him while she yelled.
“Emergency Procedures, you curst slackers! Clear the decks for Emergency Procedures!”
He realized he was standing still and broke into motion, running to his station and frantically entering in commands on the interface. He saw others doing the same around him out of the corner of his eyes, but he paid no attention. They had been trained on ‘emergency procedures’ before being posted to the ship, but since Legacy Tech (if they got it working at all) almost never broke down, no one paid much attention. However, Bosun Marcus ran frequent and exhaustive drills, and everyone had a place and purpose under her eyes. Even panicked, people entered commands, worked machinery, or simply got the hell out of everyone else’s way.
Unfortunately, they were too close to the ground. Even as a high-pitched whine started up, and the descent started to slow rapidly, they hit.

The Merchant 2 (sci-fi 4)

“..And that is my story, Master Merchant Hamjiir.”
Yax’s recital had taken long enough that Najef had emerged from the control cabin and served drinks; Hot Khavi for Hamjiir, and a clear flask of the nutritive brew Warriors used as an herbal stimulant for Yax. Najef now squatted on another flat perch and had listened with his eyes wide to the harrowing tale of Yax’s scout squad. It was apparent to both adults present that he was brimming with questions, but his training as a merchant was well-imprinted, and Hamjiir and Yax both noted that he restrained himself without any too-obvious sign of impatience. Hamjiir felt pride at his trainee’s control, but he, too, had questions; as well as the authority to ask without impoliteness.
“A Legacy weapon? Is it likely to be dangerous to the crawler?”
Legacy tech was, by definition, ill-understood. Relics of the great races that had once resided on this world, such devices were notable for their innovation, power, and danger. The great races had seemingly only designed devices for their current needs, and rarely produced more than one of any single design. Therefore any creation of theirs was unique, and knowledge of similar devices was only a little help in figuring out the function and capabilities of a new discovery. In addition, many Legacy devices had built-in fail safes to prevent them from falling into the hands of the great races’ enemies. Sometimes the modern inhabitants of the world were classed as enemies by legacy traps, and sometimes they were not.
“Friend Merchant, I know not. We never found any sign of the weapon. But the reports our Council received said that it was inactive at this time. It is likely that it is not a danger.”
“Ah. Thank you, Scout Harpath. Your report was concise and informative. You are a credit to your Council. Would you care to join me in the control tower? I believe the Transport Guild’s Emergency Provisions will allow me to increase speed a touch to get you back to civilization.”

The Warrior 2 (sci-fi 3)

Yax had been scouting with the other 2 members of his squad, chasing down rumors that a legacy weapon had been hidden in these ruins. Legacy tech was valuable enough that the War Council of the Zeequess had purchased the scouts passage on a flying vessel scheduled to pass nearby, but Yax wished they had had the additional funds available to bring along their Suits. The rugged and powerful mech-like exoskeletons would have easily saved the rest of his squad from the crocadon, the heavy weapons they mounted would have had no difficulty penetrating the beast even through the frill. But Yax was a Warrior, and knew that wishing was a futile occupation.
He contemplated his options as he set about retrieving his and the other scouts’ gear from where it had been strewn. Some of it was inside the crocadon, and retrieving it was a gory task. Afterwards he thoroughly scrubbed his skin off with sand. Though the digestive juices would have difficulty penetrating his tough epidermis, it was better to be prudent.
Forcing carpals into his legs for maximum length, he quickly strode around and gathered everything into a heap. It wasn’t much, but as a scout he was accustomed to working with little in the way of resources.
His battle spike he stored in its normal place, along with his pack. There were two other battle spikes, which he set aside. Scout Mecio’s burn tube and windhammer he laid on the ground next to Scout Darcis’s ping rifle and cleaveall. The burn tube was a low-power flame projector, the windhammer fired high-intensity bursts of air designed to knock an opponent down or even out. Neither seemed to have much utility in Yax’s current situation, though he noted the burn tube’s use as a signaling device.
The ping rifle had definite possibilities. It fired a very small projectile at very high speeds. It was accurate to a long distance and it would be perfect for hunting small game. He strapped it to his pack in place of his own lightning rifle. The lightning rifle did a great deal of damage, but it was slow and heavy, and unless there was another crocadon around, or similar large beast, it wasn’t going to be particularly useful. And since the crocadons were extremely territorial, Yax would be surprised if there was any creature larger than a cat within miles.
The cleaveall he looked at wistfully, but he knew he wouldn’t be bringing it along. The high-speed rotating teeth would cut through nearly anything (and might have seriously damaged the crocadon if Darcis hadn’t been the first to get killed) but it, like the lightning rifle, was just too heavy to make it worth carrying for any long distance.
Finally he picked up his own secondary weapon, a light but fast-firing automatic pistol called a Dowser, and stored it in its accustomed holster. It weighed little, and its lack of penetration was made up for by his familiarity with the device’s characteristics. The Zeequess military placed a great deal of emphasis on how an individual’s training made them a better Warrior, and it was understood by all Warriors that a weapon you knew well was a much better asset than a weapon you didn’t.
Shrugging the straps on his pack and readjusting his carpals for their best endurance configuration, he picked up the burn tube and started walking in the direction of the nearest trade route.
A day later he spotted a transport crawler and fired the burn tube to get its attention. Quickly he extended his legs and raced to its side, climbing the long ladder hanging from its side and reaching the top in time to face Hamjiir exiting the rope house. The dust that had coated him caused him no discomfort, his skin being proof against such irritants.
Yax Harpath, looking upon Hamjiir for the first time, saw an average sized Var, its pyramidal shape emphasized by the squat legs growing from each corner of its body. Two long arms, jointed so they could work in tandem either forward or back, were currently folded on the Var’s wide lap. The dress-like garment it wore had the stripes of a Master Merchant on the shoulders, and the seams where the stripes had been sewed on were long since worn smooth, indicating that he had held his rank for a long time. Yax’s eyes noted that a pair of hand guards – sort of like the basket hilts on fencing swords but with no blades – in the Var’s belt also had a worn look, as if they had been dented and then polished many times.

The Warrior (sci-fi 2)

For a long minute, Yax Harpath kept one careful eye out for movement on the edge (about 50 meters away) of the ruined wall he was up against, but there was nothing. In the meantime, the three stubby thumbs on his left hand deftly twitched free the depleted charge cell of the lightning rifle and replaced it with a fresh one from the dispenser under the heavy pack his two lower gripping tendrils held on his back. One of the upper tendrils held the barrel of the rifle steady, and the other gently touched the wall, feeling for vibrations. He had configured his legs for stability, with a thick core of carpals which left him short and not very fast, but he resisted the urge to lengthen his legs – land speed would not save him here.
In a flash the crocadon swept around the corner, and Yax diverted control of his body from his normal thought processes to his Warrior mind.
Everything slowed. Suddenly accelerated reflexes combined with preternatural clarity and quickness of thought made Warriors almost unbeatable in combat, all things being equal. Of course, the crocadon was nearly 7 tons of furious predator, and hardly counted as an ‘equal’ to anything below its weight class.
Yax dropped his steadying tendril from the rifle as his ‘listening’ tendril snapped him away from the wall. His body described a lazy cartwheel away from where he had been standing, and the crocadon’s spear-like tongue fired through the recently vacated space. The tongue snap was normally an action too quick to see, but the processing speed of Yax’s Warrior mind allowed him to note the sticky barbs that coated that tongue as it pulled back into the croc’s capacious mouth.
While inverted, he completed his recharging of the rifle by twisting the energy gate between the recently installed cell and the central turbine of the lightning rifle open, and hit the button that started the turbine cycling.
The crocadon, its multifaceted eyes keeping track of Yax’s spin through the air, turned its heavy neck towards him and ‘girkked.’ Yax began the muscular contraction necessary to withdraw the carpals from cohesion in his central structure, and when he hit the ground he deformed into an even squatter shape than he had been before. The croc’s tongue whistled just past the top of his now bulbous head, and a wash of fetid breath accompanied its journey. The croc, still charging, was now only about 20 meters away, and he depressed the firing stud of the lightning rifle.
The turbine, drawing energy from the new cell, rotated its filaments through the charging screens and spun a bolt of pure lightning forth at the croc. Yax avoided the scars that had previously been made around the frilly head of the crocadon – prior shots from he and the other scouts had found that the bone plate hidden in the frills was just too tough to shoot through – and on instinct aimed instead for the currently-retracting tongue.
With a ‘Grakk!’ of agony, the croc’s tongue finished withdrawing, leaving some three feet of the end lying smoking and quivering on the ground in front of it. Its fore claws tried to push back away from the sudden pain, but the hind claws, nearly 10 meters back, didn’t get the message as quickly and kept pushing forward. As a result the middle section of the reptilian crocadon spiked up almost 4 meters off the ground before the hind legs reversed as well and the beast started pulling back.
Yax used the time given him to leap forward, reforming his torso and extending his legs as he jumped to add distance. He dropped the now-expended lightning rifle and grabbed his battle spike from his gear even as his lower gripping tendrils cleared themselves for battle by dropping the heavy pack behind him.
Landing face down, just underneath the snout of the crocadon, he sprang up, latching all four of his back tendrils up and around the top of the beast’s muzzle.
Surprised, the croc reared up and back to get away from this annoying thing, and Yax swayed forward and plunged the spike into a suddenly revealed thin-looking spot in the armor on its upper chest.
The resulting spasm of agony from the beast snapped Yax free from his grip, and he instinctively disconnected all of his carpals from their sockets, pulling into a ball with only stubby proto legs and arms, his tendrils still waving in the hopes of catching onto something to slow his fall. But he was flung too far from the edge of the ruins, and he slammed down into the sand hard enough to partly bury himself.
Bruised but not seriously injured, he popped his head up, and for a long second watched the crocadon spasm into death, his battle spike lodged firmly in what was apparently a kill area. With no enemies in sight, the Warrior mind dropped control, and everything perceptibly speeded up. Grains of sand blew by in a sudden rush from where the croc now lay, and the lightning rifle let off a sudden spark and was quiet. For a second he fought the instinctive panic that resulted from dropping out of combat status, but he calmed himself down and began the painful task of drawing his bone structure back into place with bruised muscle. As he did he made a mental note to report that area of the crocadon to other scouts spending time in the desert.
Now if he could only figure out a way to get home.

The Merchant (sci-fi 1)

The sand, as it puffed up around the treads of the huge transport crawler, gave off the acrid scent of alkali. Hamjiir nodded to himself and made a mental note to make sure all of the water barrels were checked for bacteria that night. If an infection was caught early, it could be purified: a long and aggravating prospect, but better than being out in this desert without water. For sure anything they found here would be contaminated.
Hamjiir checked their forward progress by watching a tuft of wire grass as it passed the front tread and counting until it finally went by tread number eight on the left side. He did some quick calculations and frowned as he figured their speed at a few points above the Transport Guild’s regulation 35 miles per hour. He trundled his squat pyramidal body around on its axis, each of his four legs working in tandem, and headed for the control tower near the middle of the crawler. Having eyes that faced forwards and back, and a very adaptable motile structure, Hamjiir could have walked back the way he came with little problem, but most Var, as his kind was called, settled on a primary orientation when they were still young, and clung to it thereafter for convenience.
As he reached one arm forward to activate the door mechanism he felt a slight pull towards the front of the crawler and smiled. They had slowed. Sure enough, when the door opened Najef was looking guiltily at him from the drive controller.
“I am sorry, Master Merchant; I was not paying enough attention to our progress. I have corrected the error, but the burden is mine.” Najef gave the Var equivalent of a bow, squatting on all four legs and linking his long arms in front of his body, and then spreading his arms and raising up slowly, as if lifting a heavy object.
“No, no, Najef, you will carry no weight for me,” Hamjiir waved his arm under Najef’s, “I too wish to leave the desert, but we would make this trip not at all if it wasn’t for the notes to be made at the end.”
Najef’s unconscious haste in traveling was understandable – to get out of the desert was eminently to be desired – but if they arrived early, fines from the Transport Guild would wipe out Hamjiir’s profits.
“Thank you, Master Merchant. I will be more attentive,” Najef said with relief. This job was a good one for a young Var, and a bad review from Hamjiir could have spelled the end of it for him. He maneuvered himself back to the controls with a visible determination to make no more mistakes.
Hamjiir hid a grin as he slowly turned away. He remembered his years of rising through the ranks as a Merchant, doing odd jobs and errands for the masters, and occasionally, like Najef, driving over the more boring stretches of a travel route. He knew how easy it was to become impatient and lose track of speed when everything looked exactly the same, and no forward progress was obvious.
Hamjiir looked forward once more, at the unending sands, and sighed. Knowing the reasons for their slowness did not help to end it, after all.
A thin pillar of flame suddenly shot up off to the side of the crawler, and he focused his eyes on the spot from whence it came. Some creature of the desert? But no, there was a figure there waving some kind of device. It was short and lumpy, but it stretched upwards into a lankier form as he watched. A Zeequess, then. The warriors had the ability to change their shapes. It was a matter of muscular contractions moving small bones in their bodies rather than true shape-shifting, but it made them very recognizable.
Hamjiir frowned in thought. He was tempted to just pass by, but only for a brief second. Despite his long years as a Master Merchant, he had never taken to the idea that business overcame decency. The Zeequess loping towards the crawler was far from home, and he would leave no one in this bleak desert unless he absolutely had to. His profits would not be lessened by a brief stop, after all. Rising from his flat perch, he waved to the central control tower, and immediately felt the crawler slow. Quickly he trundled himself into the forward rope house, closing the door behind him. As the crawler stopped, the huge tail of dirt, sand, and alkali that was rucked up behind them would sweep forward and coat anything that was still exposed before it settled.
A few minutes after the crawler came to a complete stop he reemerged, to find the Warrior standing before him on the crawler’s deck. Hamjiir scrutinized the squat rubbery looking figure, rough skin its only covering aside from a complex battle harness and the aforementioned dust. Zeequess had no visible sex characteristics to conceal, and were hardy enough not to need clothing for either heat or cold. It had two arms ending in three powerful thumbs each, and two legs with three toes each as well. It also had four tough tendrils growing from its back in a rough square. The Warrior’s carpals – the bone fragments that could be moved inside the Zeequess’ body to provide support for various configurations of muscle - were obviously moving from the rapid climbing form it had used to ascend the ladder on the side of the carrier to a more comfortable standing posture. The heavy pack the Warrior carried with the bottom two tendrils, in addition to two small insignia on the harness, told Hamjiir he was a scout, but no other information could he glean from mere appearances. Carefully, he settled himself on his perch and awaited the Warrior’s tale.

Gutterblood 4 - Torture

In a cold chamber in the darkness, a creature was being tortured. It thought of itself as a person, but the ones who had bound it there disagreed. They disagreed with it on many points. For one, they thought of themselves as virtuous, and the creature as evil. For two, they did not believe that what they were doing to it was torture, because they did not believe it felt pain as they did.
The creature did not think of itself as evil. Neither did it label its captors so. But it knew that they were misguided, and foolish, and arrogant, and cruel. And it felt pain, very keenly and in the same way as the ones who caused it.
‘Its’ name was Arrazia, and she was Templeton’s sister.

Arrazia’s captors had strict instructions not to do what they were doing. Abden Carter had told them explicitly that they were not to harm their prisoner in any way. He had said that she was very valuable, but had not told them why. And, like small-minded people everywhere, they had made up their own reasons.
Arrazia was beautiful. Some of the half-fae had a certain charm to them, with thin and regular features that most found attractive in a rough sense. But she was far beyond attractive. So the men who watched her had decided that Carter was looking for the same thing from her that they themselves would seek.
Truth be told, Abden Carter would never have even thought of the idea. And if someone had brought up even the possibility of his sleeping with her, he would have been ill at the thought. Oh, he had no problems with the idea of passion, or even forced passion, but she was not human. He would have been revolted. She was there to keep Templeton in line, and he thought of her as good for nothing else.
His guards, in their zeal to win favor, had decided that if they could teach ‘the creature’ to feel or at least mimic desire they would be rewarded. And so they pawed and groped and fondled, and gave her pain when she did not respond.
The plan was to give her better food when she finally learned to behave, but they had had no luck as of yet. They could not refuse her any food at all, as they were afraid she would sicken or die, but they fed her on refuse barely short of spoiling and bitter water that tasted of the tar used to seal poorly made casks. To give her pain they used a small iron rod, beaten to that shape from ore with only a hammer and much sweat, rather than forged. It left only a red mark that soon went away, so that there was no evidence of its use, but it reacted with the fae part of her blood to cause excruciating agony at the slightest touch. Perhaps because of the lack of outward sign of hurt, and because of their arrogant beliefs, the guards did not know how much pain they caused. Arrazia had never cried out nor spoken, nor made any noise at all since she had been brought to this prison. She did nothing at all but resist, and hurt, and think.
She thought about many things. She thought longingly of her home in the woods, where she once would play the harp and sing for the elohir, tiny spirits of the woods. She thought desperately of her brother Templeton, and wished with all her heart that he would find a way to come and rescue her from this place, to take her away back to the woods. And she thought with a black and abiding hatred of the man who had put her in this place in the beginning.
But of her current situation, she thought not at all.

Gutterblood 3 - Awakening

To his great surprise, Treyvas woke up. He was aching from cold and his clothes were soaked through, but he was alive, and all of his limbs seemed to be intact and still attached. Without opening his eyes, he took in the information his other senses told him; he was lying on a hard rock surface across which sluggish rills of water crept, and it smelled of leaf-mould and the distinctive dry scent that caves usually have. He could hear the heavy pounding of rain a short distance away, and occasionally the clicks, hoots, or peeps of common nocturnal creatures.
With no sound or smell of the half-fae, Treyvas felt secure enough to open his eyes. He was, as he had surmised, in a cave. The walls were not so far apart that he couldn’t touch them with outstretched arms, and they towered up above him further than he could see in the night. Beyond his feet was the entrance, and a waxing half moon gave him light through a clearing in the clouds towards the horizon. Behind him, past the line where the moon illuminated, he could not see. Afraid that Templeton might be in the darkness there, Treyvas sat still and listened with straining ears to catch any clues of the half-fae’s presence, but he heard nothing except the rain and the night’s normal sounds. Slowly he relaxed a little and sat up, searching around him to see if there was anything here that could be useful to him.
His investigations turned up nothing more than rotted vegetation and loose rocks, so Treyvas picked up one of the latter that felt good in his hand and got to his feet. He wasn’t sure why Templeton would have left him in this cave unless it was to store him for later consumption, and if that was the case he didn’t want to stick around to experience it.
Carefully he moved out to the mouth of the cave. Despite the downpour he could see the moon clearly, and it provided enough light that he could make his way easily. He would get wet again, and probably muddy, but it was better than becoming food. Still, he hesitated before leaving. Where would he go? Obviously he didn’t want to go back to the wagons and slavery, but he had no idea where there might be settlements nearby. He was familiar with the dangers of the borderlands, but that did not make them any less dangerous to a young boy on his own, with no weapons. And what about food, and water? He had no way to carry either, and though he knew some of the safe plants to eat, and how to tell if the water was bad in a stream, he must still be constantly scrounging in order to live. Treyvas was a brave boy, but he was not foolish. He knew he would have a rough time of it. As he thought he realized he had made up his mind. It was better to die free than live a slave. And he had debts to repay at the caravan.
From a tree limb far above, past where Treyvas’ vision could reach, a thin figure stood silently on a limb jutting from the bole of an ancient hardwood. It made no move as the boy stood in thought, nor as he walked away into the gloomy underbrush that even its excellent night eyesight couldn't penetrate. Only several minutes later did it spring lightly from the limb, landing some thirty feet below. Its legs bent, and its feet sank into the mud of the forest floor almost to the top of its calf-length leather boots, but it showed no pain at the landing, and merely pulled its feet free and slowly stalked after the boy, making no more sound than a panther on the hunt. Blood dripped in a slow stream from its eyes.

Gutterblood 2 - Affray

The column had been travelling for two months, and in the minds of Carter and Left-hand Pierce it was almost over. They were only a day from the edge of the borderlands, if they pushed a little, and once in the centerlands they would not have to worry about chase. In a week of easy travel they would be at the slave blocks. However, in the end it was the weather that stopped them. The gentle rain that had started falling in the morning had, by evening, become a drenching downpour that made it unsafe to drive any farther. So, barely on this side of the border, they were forced to halt and circle up for the night. As was the custom, some of the men immediately erected a canopy under which to put a fire. Others locked down the wagons, and more scouted the area for danger. Carter retired gratefully to his own wagon out of the rain, and Left-hand Pierce rode the perimeter, looking for anything he could dress down the men for. Templeton was ordered to stand near one of the wagons and keep an eye out for attack. By chance, it was the wagon in which Treyvas rode. Tendry Alis watched from where he was chained to his seat on the next wagon back.
For Treyvas, it was too much. The thing was only a few feet away, and he could do nothing to it. He had watched it wrap its hat in oiled leather earlier when it started to rain, but he could still smell the lingering odor of blood around it. Unintentionally, he growled under his breath, and to his shock the thing turned around and stepped closer. In one stride it was almost touching the wagon, and it was less than a foot from his nose. He could see where the blood was constantly washing away from around its eyes and slowly oozing out again. The raw wounds were always there, he remembered his father saying. The half-fae desire for blood was said to stem from those wounds. He suddenly recalled that his father had always referred to them by the polite term ‘half-fae’ instead of the racial slur gutterblood, and the irony twisted his face into a grimace. He was working up his mouth to spit, but Tendry Alis acted faster.
Through the bars at the back of the wagon sailed a large chunk of bloody meat. It landed between Treyvas and the huddled child next to him, and the sharp acrid taste of fear suddenly made itself known in the wagon. Slowly Treyvas looked from the meat back to Templeton, and he would swear that he saw a smile, just for a second.
Then all hell broke loose.
With a jerk Templeton grabbed the bars and set himself. Treyvas and every other child in the wagon simultaneously started screaming and tried to push themselves through the far wall. A guard saw what was happening, and saw the meat, and swore in a loud voice as he spurred his horse towards the wagon. Templeton’s arms moved, and two bars popped from their sockets and clattered to the ground. He grabbed the next pair of bars out and set himself again.
The other guards who were near noticed what was going on and moved closer, yelling for Pierce and Carter. The drover chained to the wagon Templeton was attacking tried to throw himself over the side and was brought up just short of the ground by his chains. The other wagoneers all started frantically whipping their horses to get their wagons away from the danger, including Tendry Alis.
Templeton ripped the second set of bars out. The opening was wide enough now for him to squeeze through, but instead he grabbed the next set out and set himself once more.
Several of the children in the wagon fainted, others went catatonic, and still others kept struggling against the bars on the far wall. Treyvas realized the futility of their flight response instinctively, and stepped from the mass, standing only three or four feet behind the chunk of meat. He was determined to meet his fate as bravely as had his father, though he could barely see for fear. Carter heard people yelling for him while he was changing, and quickly began pulling on his wet clothing again. Left-hand Pierce was just spurring his horse around the rapidly dispersing circle of wagons when his horse was clipped by an axletree and fell over to the side. Pierce lost his seat and the horse reared up again and took off, leaving him to struggle to his feet and run through the muddy ground.
Templeton ripped the third set of bars out and tossed them away. He easily hopped up into the wagon, and faced Treyvas over the piece of meat. The men around the wagon kept shouting at him, or for Carter and Pierce, but none dared to try and stop him. The cook was even banging a set of pots together as if Templeton was a bear, but the half-fae ignored them all.
A long second passed, and then Carter slammed out of the door to his wagon, and the sound broke the uncertain tableau. Templeton leaped forward in a flash and grabbed Treyvas before he could react. Treyvas, sure he was about to die, fainted dead away. A quick jerk of a clawed hand and Treyvas’ chains snapped with a clang. Almost as an afterthought the half-fae grabbed Tendry’s piece of meat before springing back out of the hole. Pierce, finally rounding the last wagon to see what was going on, slammed into Carter and the two hit the ground.
In one bound Templeton jumped over the circle of warriors and raced into the woods, carrying Treyvas and the piece of meat. The soldiers stared after him, then slowly turned to face Carter and Pierce, who were just getting to their feet.
“Sir, you should … ”
“What the hell was that?” blustered Carter, cutting off Pierce in mid-sentence. “It sounded like…” Then for the first time he saw the wagon. “Good god! What did that?”
Pierce held back his anger at being cut off. “Your gutterblood took a child and ran off, SIR. I was going to say you should order him back here while he could still hear you, but it’s too late now. He’s long gone.”
Guards quickly rounded up the wagons, including Tendry’s. He went meekly where he was told, but inwardly he seethed. Why couldn’t the boy have struggled more? He had been hoping that the gutterblood would eat him on the spot. Then no one would have paid attention to Tendry’s wagon until it was done. And maybe it would have gone on to eat others and give him a good chance to get away. Oh, well, he thought. At least I can say that all the other drovers tried to run too. But that trick wouldn’t work again. The fate of the boy he passed off as nothing.
Others in the column also thought nothing of the boy’s fate, assuming he was being eaten already, but a great deal of thought went into the current whereabouts of the gutterblood. Guards nervously fingered their weapons and looked through the downpour at the suddenly menacing woods. To calm them, Pierce broke out their store of crossbows and handed them out, wrapped in oiled leather which could easily be pulled off in seconds. It worked to a degree, but everyone was nervous nonetheless.
Carter asked around in vain for someone to go out looking for his pet investment. Finally he asked Pierce.
“Sir, going after the thing in its current state is a death sentence. It will come back on its own after it has fed, or it will not. Frankly, I don’t care. I never liked that thing. But we’re only a day from the border at most, and we need to leave. What if the thing hits a town nearby? Search parties could maybe track us in the morning, and then where would we be? We should move out immediately, and damn the rain.”
Carter thought it over, and seemed hesitant. “But, I have the thing’s sister. It won’t go far. We need to retrieve it.”
Very interesting, thought Pierce. He had wondered why Carter trusted the thing so much. Family ties amongst the half-fae were supposed to be very strong. “Well, in that case it will come back. But it can follow our trail better than we can follow its, and we would be safer to move anyway.”
Carter seemed to accept that, and they set several warriors to work patching the hole in the wagon that Templeton had torn. When it was solid enough to keep the remaining children from escaping, they got everything ready and cautiously drove off. As they rode, the guards kept one eye on the treacherous roads and one on the woods.

Gutterblood 1 - Introductions

The column of wagons wended their way through the darkness quietly. There was little conversation from the grim-faced handlers as they guided their teams, and the passengers huddled fearfully against each other, hardly daring to move lest the chains that bound them rattled and drew the wrath of their captors. Alongside rode men with swords facing out, and others with whips facing in. No one spoke or moved unnecessarily, and silence seemed to follow the column hungrily. The wagon wheels and axles had been greased heavily to avoid squeaking, and even the horses hooves had been muffled with burlap sacking. The ones who led the column knew what a reception they might receive if they were found.
Slavery was not technically illegal in the borderlands, but murder was, and the warriors of the column had killed many in taking these slaves. Their only chance for escape was speed and quiet. The master of the column rode just behind the point, a dark and sullen man with a heavy paunch from indulgence. He hated these trips, not because of any personal distaste for the suffering of others, but rather for the discomfort they invariably brought. However, he had learned long ago not to trust others with such tasks after he had led a similar slaving column for another man, and had seen how many opportunities there were for graft. Perhaps it was surprising in a man who was a slaver by trade, but Abden Carter absolutely detested cheaters.
Pierce Farrell rode in silence next to Carter. Known as ‘Left-hand Pierce’ to the men who worked for him, he was in charge of all of the fighting aspects of the column. He was severely competent at his work, enjoyed the feeling of power he got from seeing those around him humbled, and hated everyone he had ever met. He continued to work for Carter because the work allowed him to bring down those who might otherwise be powerful, but he planned on someday killing his nominal boss, and spent a great deal of time thinking about it. However, the sullen, brooding silence he rode in at this point was firmly focused on another target, one that ran easily along in the point position, with its head swinging from side to side to watch everything around it.
‘Templeton,’ as he was called, was a rare sight in the predominantly human borderlands. His sunken and blood-rimmed white eyes marked him as gutterblood, with a heritage descended from the lost fae of the centerlands. Gutterbloods, despite the intelligence of some of the varieties, had been treated as property and shock troops for hundreds of years, ever since the fae had disappeared. Very few were allowed to leave the military forces, and Carter, at least, considered it quite a coup to have gotten one through his contacts. Pierce, however, was not as pleased. Because of their very rarity, little was known about them in the common populace. And sure, the thing ate less, slept less, and fought harder than any four humans would have. It never yelled in anger like so many of the warriors, (a blustery sort, given to arrogance and loud boasts) because it never spoke, or seemed to get angry at all. And yes, the terror it inspired in the villagers and light mercenary forces they had encountered was worth far more than the mere money they had paid for it. But Pierce had had a chance to see it fight alone against a mercenary squad, and it had shocked him to the core. The thing was faster, stronger, and more ruthless than anything he had ever seen. He considered himself a master of the blade, but he had a shaking suspicion that he would not last long against it. And after the fight was over, and the mercenaries were dead, it crouched down and dipped its ragged reddish-brown hat into their blood. Figuring out what colored the unpleasant-smelling beret was bad enough, but the thing had looked at him while replacing the cap on its head, and it had seemed to be … evaluating him. Only the fact that it had never failed to follow an order immediately and efficiently kept him from asking Carter to destroy it. Besides, he knew Carter saw it as an investment, and Carter disliked not getting full price from any investment. At least so far it had followed orders, he thought, and shuddered.
Behind him watchful eyes saw the shudder, and instantly surmised what caused it. Tendry Alis had been taken as a slave several long years before, and was kept by Carter as a wagon drover after informing on an escape attempt by some of Carter’s other slaves. As far as Tendry was concerned, it was doomed to fail anyway, and besides; he hadn’t been invited. He was one with an eye for the main chance, and so he had stayed as close to Carter as possible. Being a slave for a slave trader was bad, but being sold to a hard labor camp like the Ten Months Mine was worse. It was named for the average life-span of a laborer, after all.
He hoped to get a chance on one of the raids to escape, but Carter kept his slaves in line very carefully. Tendry was chained to his seat while driving, and there was a guard around at all times. But Tendry waited, and hoped. This trip his hopes were riding on the gutterblood. He was hoping the half-fae would go berserk and create a diversion. To this end he had stolen a hunk of meat from one of the storage wagons. Half-fae were supposed to go crazy for raw meat, and he would throw it in front of Pierce at the best moment he could find.
The slaves taken so far by the column were varied. Some were chosen for their huskiness; to work in the fields or the labor camps, some for beauty; for the pleasure of those who bought them, some for servility- to work in houses. But two of the wagons contained only children. There were always those who were willing to make an investment in a slave for what they might become, rather than what they were. And the opportunity to mold them was a powerful lure. The knowledge that many of the young slaves were bought for perverse pleasure was an unspoken knowledge amongst the slavers, most of them simply didn’t care. Carter himself looked down on those he suspected of harboring such desires, and preferred to sell his young slaves to other types, but if there ware no other buyers he didn’t linger over the sale, nor did he fail to spend what he made off the deal.
In an environment where discipline was enforced with a whip, most of the children were quickly reduced to huddled quiet shapes that took no actions unless instructed. However, one of the recent captures harbored a silent hatred that kept him awake long after the others fell into fitful sleep. Treyvas Cerridwyn’s father had been a mercenary for 15 years, finally retiring to the borderlands after Treyvas’ mother had died of a fever. Donner Cerridwyn had kept in shape afterwards, and practiced his already proficient skills daily to keep busy. He was the local sheriff for their village, and was given a small stipend for the service.
When the slavers had come, both a 15-foot wall and an organized militia under Donner’s leadership met them. Normally the defenses of the town would have deterred even the heavily armed slavers as being too difficult, but in this case Carter had a trump card to play, and he played it with a vengeance. He had brought the column by the front of the village as if going by, and then a figure had streaked out from behind a wagon and cleared the wall in a single prodigious bound. While the villagers and militia were still staring in shocked amazement, Donner had leaped off the wall and engaged the fearsome gutterblood. Treyvas had seen the whole fight, and its gruesome end. Donner made a good show of it, blocking several attacks, and even wounding the thing’s arm once as it swung, but it was just too quick for him in the end. It had parried a hasty thrust with the short, oddly shaped ax it carried, and immediately flashed in and plunged a clawed hand into Donner’s chest. It dropped the ax and grabbed Donner’s sword arm, and then it had just stared at him from inches away as his mouth worked and the life faded from his eyes. Then, supporting his limp body only with the claws in his rib cage, it had pulled off its cap and soaked it in his blood. When the thing had gone to open the gate, no one dared to try and stop it. The militia had been slaughtered by the slaver’s warriors despite the fact that the gutterblood had thereafter stood in silence just outside the gate, slowly consuming Donner Cerridwyn’s still-wet heart. The people were made slaves or killed at Carter’s whim. For the death of his father, Treyvas planned to kill the thing.
Templeton rode at the head of the column, watching the sides of the road for ambush, and what he thought remained unknown.