Rise of the Dragon Page 4

  "Nay, bled for the first time last week."

  Laughter followed the last statement. He realized they were coming towards him. He quickly tested the door handle. It was locked. Panic threatened to numb his mind. The voices were coming closer, approaching the top of the stairs. He pushed himself hard against the wall next to the corner the owners of the voices were about to turn.

  "What is that smell?" The articulate voice said. He was a few steps away from the top of the stone staircase. "Did you relieve yourself?" He asked, mild disgust thickening his voice.

  "Nay, if I've have to shite I'd do so in ye'r helm, sire." The uneducated voice was insolent, especially when he used the lordship term as a sneer. Turpin hugged the wall and held his breath.

  "You’d best not if you value your life."

  "I've have had it with ye'r down talk Treg..." His sentence was trailed off as they turned the corner and saw the escapee standing against the wall.

  Turpin moved quickly, the advantage of surprise aiding him. He took hold of the uneducated man's plate armor in one hand, and the hilt of his sword in the other. He drew the sword from its sheath and pushed the guard into the other man, knocking the lord backwards down the stairs. The short blade of the gladius Turpin now held gleamed wickedly in the flickering light from the torches. The tip of the blade swiftly sliced into the neck of the ignorant guard.

  Blood sprayed across Turpin's face as he withdrew the gladius from its fleshy sheath. The grotesque gurgling made by the dying guard echoed off the walls as Turpin limped his way down to the other guard, who was slowly climbing to his feet, obviously still dizzy from his fall down the stairs.

  Turpin swung the blade in a wide arc with all his strength. His target had been the man’s neck, but the blade simply whistled through thin air. The guard had rolled away from certain death and was now crouched on the floor, like a mountain lion ready to pounce. He glared at Turpin with evil intent. Turpin stepped onto the stones of the corridor.

  The guard lunged at Turpin drawing his own gladius as he did. Turpin stepped to the side, barely escaping the attack. The guard swung his blade back, palm down, at Turpin, slicing into his arm. Again Turpin retreated and attempted to circle around the guard. Again the guard moved to cut him off.

  The swords clashed together, the sound ringing loud in the stone corridor. The guard blocked another strike and the two men came together, chest to chest. They each wrestled for control of the other's gladius. They pushed and pulled at each other until, finally, the guard pinned Turpin against the wall and forced him to drop his sword.

  "I shall make you wish you were dead," the guard snarled in Turpin’s face. Turpin spat in the guard's face. He back-handed Turpin in his swollen eye, sending him crashing to the floor. Turpin’s gladius slid across the floor. The guard put the tip of his blade to Turpin's throat.

  "Did you really think you could beat me, boy," the guard said from beneath his lion mane helm.

  Turpin lay on the cold floor. He was in agony. He looked up at the victor. The guard slowly backed up, still pointing the point of his sword at Turpin. "Stand up boy," he ordered, "someone wishes to speak with you." Turpin slowly started to get to his feet.

  While he was still bent over, Turpin charged at the guard, ducking below the blade of the gladius. He forcefully planted his shoulder into the hip of the guard, sending him tumbling backwards.

  The pommel of the guard's gladius came down hard on the back of Turpin's head and he felt a new trickle of blood. Turpin straightened, ignoring the warm blood coursing down his neck. The movement saved his life as the guard swung his sword desperately, missing Turpin by millimeters. Seeing his opportunity, Turpin slammed his body into the guard’s sword arm with all the strength he could muster.

  Blood gushed over the guard’s silver armor and onto Turpin's swollen face. He turned and saw the sword buried in the guard’s neck. Turpin realized he finally had a chance to escape. He moved as quickly as he could towards the drain tunnel he had used to enter the castle. Behind him the guard crumpled to the floor; his hands covering his throat in a desperate and futile attempt to staunch the flow of his lifeblood.

  Turpin winced as he slid his battered body into the claustrophobic tunnel. The sharp pain he felt in his ribs was heightened by every breath he took. He wriggled quickly along the drain. At that moment, the only positive that came into his mind was that the water would be washing the blood and puke off his clothes and face.

  With his vision restricted to his right eye, the left completely closed by the swelling, his excruciating journey through the near pitch black tunnel took much longer than he had been coming the other way. After what seemed an eternity, he reached the intersection and turned into it.

  An involuntary yelp of pain escaped his lips as his right side struck the corner of the tunnel wall. "How long did they beat me after I was out," Turpin wondered. He knew his ribs had not been broken when he took the boot to his chest, nor from any of the blows he remembered.

  Off in the distance, at the end of the drain tunnel, he saw the pale red light of the morning sun. What seemed a long time later, he reached the end of the tunnel. Here the water cascaded down into the newer sewage system of Bristork.

  Turpin paused a moment to see if anyone was out in the streets yet. He saw no-one. Painfully, he hauled himself out of the cold wet drain into the city streets. He limped across the castle road and into an alley, anxious to get out of sight. Only when he felt he was relatively safe did he begin to make his way north to his home. He held his ribs with his left hand as he slowly snaked through the streets.

  Turpin felt the eyes of people on him. He knew he made an interesting sight in the morn. Blood slowly ran down his right hand from the cut on his upper arm. The cut was deep but not bad enough to do permanent damage.

  He finally arrived home and staggered gratefully through the door. Exhaustion threatened to swamp his senses, but he knew his arm needed to be cleaned and bandaged. Turpin grimaced as he eased his shirt off.

  The bright purple bruise on his side was significantly larger than the pain had led him to expect. Almost the entire right side of his torso was covered by the purple bruise. There was also a smaller purple spot on his chest where the bottom of the guard’s boot had connected.

  Turpin eased himself over to the small water basin by his bed roll and began to gently bathe his injuries. He tore strips from an old tunic and packed the gash on his arm to stop the bleeding.

  After he had bandaged his arm with longer strips of fabric torn from the same tunic, he washed his hair. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding. Every move he made sent searing agony through his body, but he slowly finished cleaning himself and laid gratefully on his bed.

  At that moment, all he wanted was to sleep – and for the pulsating pain in his ribs and face to stop. Despite the pain, it wasn’t long before sleep claimed him and he drifted away into the darkness of a dreamless slumber.

  The sounds of the day's work in the streets died as the sun began its descent in the east. A brilliant display of reds and blues filled the sky. The small red sun had sunk further when Turpin finally awoke. The moonless sky darkened, as it did every evening.

  Turpin slowly rose from his bed, stiff and sore. The pain in his face had subsided enough to allow him to feel that his left cheek bone had been broken along with his nose. His ribs, however, hurt even worse than they had before he slept. The only injuries that felt any better were the two cuts he had sustained in his fight with the well-trained guard.

  "It's a wonder I got away from him," he thought as he examined his colorful torso. "If any of the gods are real, they blessed me last night."

  He looked through the small mound of clothes he kept haphazardly on a small table on the other side of the basin. Turpin selected a set, stained and worn from years of use. When he was dressed, Turpin sat down gingerly at his half desk and opened his chest of tools. It was nearly empty. The nose-less guard had taken all the tools and oils he had had with him. Which ha
ppened to be all he had save a small backup lock kit and twin daggers. Recalling the incident in which he had received the gash that now scarred his arm, he wished he had taken them with him.

  "They would have them too if I had taken them," he thought. "Pig face!" He exclaimed in a harsh whisper as he packed the last of his tools in the small satchel. Turpin slowly stood and tightly fastened a rough, studded, leather belt around his waist. The sheaths of his knives bounced off his thighs as he twisted in the sudden sharp pain in his side. He loosened the belt one notch.

  He lifted a dirt brown cloak from where it hung on a nail above the clothes, and slid it over his shoulders. It was the first cloak he got, buying it with the first pay he had received from Jaques. It was short for him now and tattered at the bottom. Yet it wrapped around him nicely and the hood was still deep enough to hide his face. He put the satchel in the hidden pocket at the back of the cloak. Once his boots were tied, and his hands sheathed in his gloves, Turpin finally felt almost ready to face the world outside. He tied his coin purse to his belt and stepped out into the street.

  He tried to walk tall, his hood up, darkening his face, but his wounds made it difficult. He headed toward the Lotus, stepping with long strides in an attempt to imitate the rangers he had seen in the city.

  He remembered sitting by the roasting pit in the Lotus, drinking and laughing with Helmeck. He had often seen the visitors pause to scan the room as they entered. Many had their cloaks pulled tight around them to disguise any weapons they may or may not have been carrying. By the time he arrived at his destination the night was already late and the Lotus was about to close for the eve. He stood looking at the mostly filled tavern.

  Turpin sat at a table in a dark corner away from the bard. He was quietly watching the people when a familiar voice broke through his reverie.

  "Anyth'ng I could get ye?" The lilting voice asked. Turpin looked up into the fair complexion of the fire-haired maiden, her beauty never as stunning as he now perceived it to be.

  "An ale," he answered in a hoarse whisper. He tossed a coin to her and she turned to head back to the casks. "And a plate of food," he called louder, yet still whispering.

  The tavern girl returned with a mug of ale and a plate brimming with food. She forced a smile, bowed quickly, then turned to resume her duties, not even faintly recognizing Turpin, which was what he had been hoping for. He glanced to his right where the stairs to the inn were situated, the hand rail still broken half way up where a drunken brawler had fallen through. A door under the stairs opened. Light spilled through it, momentarily illuminating the dark room in which Turpin sat. Helmeck appeared, rolling a large cask before him.

  Turpin closed his eyes, his head beginning to pulse, and tenderly touched his cheek bone. His right arm was stiff, but the hand was more than eager to grasp the clay mug of ale. Turpin sighed and briefly hung his head, wishing he had ordered some Baidland liquor. There was nothing better for numbing pain than liquor from the Baidlands.

  Turpin sucked the ale down quickly, but took his time on the meal, remembering the last time he ate. He was not even a quarter of the way finished with the lamb when the fire-head returned to refill his mug. While he ate and drank, he slowly studied the patrons around him in the tavern, marking who was armed and who was not.

  After three refills of his mug, he had finished his lamb. When the buxom beauty came back to clear the table he grabbed her wrist.

  "I need to send a message," he said in the same hoarse whisper. "I need to inform the Shadow Claw that Turpin has survived." Her eyes brightened and Turpin felt a moment of joy from knowing he was wanted. But it quickly passed and sorrow filled him, for he knew what he needed to do.

  "Can you do that for me," he asked as he slid a coin between her breasts.

  "Aye." She blushed. "An' who shall I say has sent 'he message?"

  "Someone," he paused, searching for the right words. "Who has seen many things." He looked at his empty mug. "Someone with a fearful thirst. I shall wait here for a response." He released her wrist and let her gather his plate and mug, and watched as she disappeared around the far corner.

  Turpin scanned the crowd one last time; everyone seemed more interested in their own happenings than in him. He took the moment to leave his table and quickly get to the door under the stairs. He made no sound. He passed through the door and descended into the damp cellar.

  Racks carrying wooden casks lined the stone walls. There were some crates here and there, but no sign of what Turpin was searching for. He felt the walls, the casks and the crates, but there was no lever he could find. Suddenly he heard shouting from the tavern upstairs. He smiled grimly. No doubt Jaques had arrived at the table he no longer sat at. Turpin knew he had been smoking Oprianal heavily from the rasp in his voice.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened and Turpin ducked into the space between a rack of Dwarven liquor and the wall. He waited, watching. Jaques stormed down the stairs and stopped on the other side of the rack Turpin was hiding behind.

  Jaques pushed his finger into a small aperture in the low ceiling and waited while the wall in front of him shook. Placing his hand on the wall, he pushed it and it opened like a huge door. Jaques went into the darkness beyond the wall and disappeared from view. Turpin quickly circled around the casks and caught the door before it could latch. He peered into the black maw of a scantily lit tunnel and followed Jaques.

  The light from the cellar shone down the tunnel briefly as Turpin stepped into the shadows. He could see Jaques, standing next to a torch, turn round. Turpin quickened his pace in the dark to close the distance before Jaques went on. Four torches split the tunnel into dark sections. Turpin was halfway through the second dark patch, with Jaques a mere fifteen feet ahead.

  The muffled sound of metal rubbing against leather went unheard, as was the subtle crunch of the dirt beneath Turpin’s quick, light steps. Twin daggers hissed from their sheaths and swung inwards, silently penetrating the soft, fleshy sides of Jaques' torso. Just as rapidly as they had entered, the six inch blades left Jaques and his short yell of pain echoed down the corridor.

  Jaques spun violently, his fists held so tight the skin was stretched bone white over his swollen knuckles. His hate-filled, bloodshot eyes locked onto Turpin’s as he lunged forward. The blades, slick with blood, came up, slashing, opening Jaques’ enraged face in an X. His rush had been so ferocious that Turpin was knocked backwards and he fell to the floor on his back, dropping the knife in his left hand as he did.

  Jaques towered over him, ready to deliver an Oprianal-fueled beating. Turpin quickly brought his right hand up, the only hand that still held a knife, and sliced it deeply into the side of Jaques' face. He held the knife there and then used both hands, one on the back of the blade, to cut right down into the bone. The knife came free, and was followed by a gush of warm blood as Jaques' eye fell from its socket and hung against his gory cheek, held there by the optic muscle and nerve. Jaques screamed horribly, then fell quiet, collapsing heavily onto Turpin.

  Turpin rolled the still body off and lay on the floor for a while, clutching his ribs in agony. Slowly he stood. He limped over to the knife he had dropped and then used Jaques’ dirty yellow shirt to wipe the blood off both blades. He slid the knives back into their sheaths and walked down to the end of the tunnel. He judged he was moving in a southerly direction.

  Turpin went on, creeping through the endless pitch black sewers. He knew that enough time had elapsed for Agste to begin stirring from his slumber. At long last he saw light reflecting on the walls from a distance. He worked his way slowly towards the center of the light, pausing a few times to hide from patrols. The tunnel he was in, under Bristork Highway, opened up to the central chamber under the market where he had been questioned two days before. He stood against the wall, clinging to the shadows, when a boisterous voice called his name.

  "Turpin!" The voice called again.

  He slowly leaned forward to look inside. The large pale man still sat
on his throne amid the river of feces. Along the walls he could see the entirety of the Shadow Claw. One of them saw Turpin and began to clap. One by one they all began to applaud.

  Turpin stood there, confused and frightened, unsure what to do as they cheered him on. The pale man stood, turned around and beckoned for him to come forward. And so Turpin did.

  "Congratulations," the leader said, his hood now drawn back to show his colorless face. The lines of great age were etched into his almost translucent skin. His head was hairless with no eyebrows and the skin was pulled tight over his skull, looking as if it could rip open at any moment and expose the truth of this man, if there was any truth to be seen.

  "You set me up!" Turpin declared, his hands resting easily on the pommels of his knives.

  "Yes, I did," the skeleton of a man said. "And you escaped the castle. If you had not been able to do that, then you would have had no place among us."

  Turpin thought about this. Although he felt uneasy about the explanation, he could not dispute the logic.

  "I hear you dirtied your hands escaping as well."

  "I killed three people," Turpin replied.

  "You attacked three people, yet only one died," the leader said. An evil smile creased his face as he sat back down.

  "The one guard might have lived, but I put a sword through the throat of the other, and I split open some cleric's head."

  "Indeed," Frost said. "However, we have other problems that must be remedied.” His face darkened. “You lost the Seeing Stone."

  "Yes, it fell into the drain."

  "We shall find it then, how far could a stone float in shite?"

  Turpin thought of the feared Shadow Claw, masters of the night, searching through gallons of waste to find a small, clear stone, and he guffawed to himself.

  "You are now a member of the Shadow Claw and we now permit you the first of many weapons you will master." The pale one motioned to another man who approached Turpin.

  He held a leather sling with two straps. On it hung a bent sheath with the hilt of a knife protruding from it. Turpin took the sling from the older man, whose face was worn like a mountain that had seen too many storms.