Chapter Five: Blades

Ryan stumbled through the darkened streets, trying to make sense of his direction as the world spun around him. Jim and him had gone out on the town, spending their meager shares on food, drink… Well, mostly drink. Even though Jim was just a boy, and Ryan was barely a man himself, there were no laws in Mirratroy that said they could not have a good time, and a good time meant drinking until you either killed someone, fucked someone, or married someone.

Ryan walked up to a wall, steadying himself with his hand. He whipped out his cock, and proceeded to piss, not concerned with any looky loos. When he had finished, he put himself away and staggered on, singing a shanty he could only half remember. Ryan was not sure what happened to Jim, but he was too intoxicated to give it much thought.The boy was probably asleep on a corner somewhere, he would be fine. Ryan stopped singing when he heard a noise behind him, like someone knocking over a waste bin. he turned around to see four men approaching him, or was it two? He was not sure right now, the booze making his head swirl. Ryan went to turn back around, but another man stood behind him, blocking his path.

“Well, what do we got here? A stray pup out after dark?” Said the man. Ryan looked up at him just in time for the other two men to come up to his front, wielding black daggers. Ryan looked warily at the knives, knowing that meant they were members of the Black Blades. One of the men, a squat, fat little man with greasy hair and brown teeth, gestured at him with his dagger.

“I says we cuts him, we can take anything we wants to off a corpse.” Said the man, cackling at the idea of spilling Ryan’s insides. Ryan tried to tuck and run but the big man behind him grabbed his arm and yanked him back, holding onto him with heavy hands. The greasy man came up to him, close enough that he could smell the man’s putrid breath, and put his dagger hard against Ryan’s neck. “Oy, you stupid or somethin? You know who we are? We’re fuckin Black Blades, you little shit.”

The greasy man looked over at the other man. “Well, don’t just stand there, search him for somethin shiny.” He said, gesturing his head toward Ryan. The other man, a skinny man with skin black as night and hair down to his navel, came up and started patting Ryan down, going through his pockets. He pulled a cheap knife out of Ryan’s pants, a dull thing that was only good for stabbing, chuckling as he tossed the blade down the street. His hands lingered a little too long on Ryan’s groin, considering other, less tasteful acts, and then ventured up, locating the purse that Ryan kept on a string around his neck and yanking it free. The Greasy man grabbed the purse from the skinny man’s hand and hastily opened it up, hooting like a fool as he rooted through the contents.

“Oh it looks like we gots ourselves one hell of a score tonight, lads. Look at all these sirens, must be ten brits worth in here.” Ryan struggled against the big man behind him.

“Hey, you don’t want to be stealing that, that’s not mine. That’s Crimson Terror money, you don’t know what you’re doing.” Ryan felt the big man’s grip relax a bit at the mention of the Terrors, and the skinny man looked anxiously at the greasy man. Although the Terrors were not as large, nor as respected, as the Black Blades, it was bad form to rob members of opposing gangs, and everyone knew about Bull Shark Jack and Reis the giant.

“Finn, you sure we ought to be doing this? I mean, if he is in the gang.” The Greasy man, who’s name was apparently Finn, gave the skinny man a look, and then looked back at Ryan.

“The Terrors, you say?” Finn said, pretending to think about it. He then punched Ryan hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to double over, with only the big man’s hands to keep him standing. Finn leaned in close to Ryan’s face, his dirty, oily hair, in addition to his rancid breath, making Ryan’s eyes water and his stomach heave.

“I. DON’T. GIVE. A FUCK. BOUT. THE TERRORS!” Finn hollered in his face. Ryan looked up at him, his stomach churning. “What? You got somethin to s-” Ryan’s stomach released its contents, spewing out of his mouth with explosive force, hitting Finn square in the face. Finn had already been in a violent mood but now he was furious.

“WHAT THE BLEEDIN FUCK!?” Screamed Finn, wiping the vomit out of his eyes. “I’M A FUCKIN BLADE YOU CUNT!” He punched Ryan in the stomach again, then threw him to the ground. The three men stomped on him, kicking him in the stomach, the face, anywhere they felt like it. Ryan could feel his bones cracking, and his mouth filled with the taste of blood.

They’re killing me, I’m going to die. Finn raised his dagger in the air, ready to cut the little pup. He brought the knife down, but it did not hit anything, as Finn was now being held off the ground by a man nearly twice his height.

“C-cap’n R-r-reis.” Stammered the skinny man. The big man, now not seeming so tall, stood silent. Finn’s eyes bulged with fear as he dangled from the giant’s grip, body frozen in shock. Reis looked at Finn, and then down at the pair, his face hard and without quarter. He reached up, scratching his chin with his free hand, letting the dread sink into the three cutthroats before speaking. It must have been working, because an acrid smelling liquid was spilling out of Finn’s pants.

“So there I was, leavin the warmth and comforts of the Mermaid’s Kiss, sayin my goodbyes to all the beautiful ladies. I was walking off the drink, when I heard, the most peculiar sound in the wind.” Reis held Finn a little higher, so that the smelling ruffian could look him in the eye. “Do you know what it was I heard?” He asked, casually but a hidden edge lined his words. Finn’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing remotely resembling speech came out of him. “I heard some no good, worthless, shit brained sack of human filth say that they, didn’t give a fuck about the Terrors?” His voice was growing, the edge becoming less and less hidden as Reis dropped the mask and let his temper show. “And then I come here, to the source of those words, to see some blade bastards that be thinkin they can kill one of my boys, without. my. say. Now, that is troubling…”

Finn had finally recovered from shock and stabbed Reis in the arm, sticking the blade deep. Reis did not even flinch. Finn pulled the dagger free but, before he could raise it for another strike, Reis swung around and smashed the greasy little man into the unyielding bricks of the wall next to them, caving in his ribcage with unreal force. Finn slumped onto the cobblestones, shattered, broken, dead. Reis looked at the corpse in disgust and turned to the other two, who stood wide eyed and frozen.

“Get out of here, before I get upset.” Reis growled. The two turned and ran frantically down the street, tripping over themselves like gutless landlubbers. Reis watched the rats scurry away and then remembered the boy. He stooped down, picking Ryan up gently. He threw the lad over his shoulder and took him home, leaving finn to rot.

…

It was half passed the second hour when the doors to the Sozzled Parrot swung open, and Captain Reis came in, dropping Ryan onto one of the tables. Mary, a buxom woman with red hair and fair skin, dropped her mop and came running out from behind the bar.

“By the Nameless God! Ryan!” She exclaimed. She came up to Ryan’s side, tentatively touching his bloody, bruised skin, biting her lip as she tried to grasp the extent of the damage. She looked up at Reis. “What happened!? Who did this!? Oh God…” She cried. Reis put his hands comfortingly on her shoulders.

“There was a fight, but it’s over now. Don’t worry about what happened, just worry about taking care of the boy.” He said. Mary looked back at Ryan, whimpering in pain on the table, unable to move. “I can’t stay, I have things that need doing, but watch over him for me, will you do that?” Reis asked, turning her head back towards him. Mary nodded, holding back tears. Reis left out the door, and Mary turned her attention back to Ryan. She went to sink and pumped water into a bucket, and grabbed some rags out of the bin, rushing back to the boy’s side. Carefully, she pulled Ryan’s shirt off, and gasped as she found more cuts and bruises all along his chest and stomach; Black, green, and purple things, large, ugly, everywhere.

“What did they do to you? My boy. My sweet, sweet boy.” She said wistfully. Mary dipped a rag into the bucket and gently began running it over Ryan’s skin, cleaning away the blood, the dirt, all the other filth. As she washed him, she sang a song, almost under her breath.

“My boy, my tender, happy boy,

You are young, you are small,

You know not yet,

That this world has teeth,

You know not yet,

That this world has claws,

But some day,

When you are old, when you are grown,

You will be made a man,

And this world that does bite,

This world that does claw,

Will not hurt you,

For men do not bend, men do not break,

But rise unbroken against the world.”

Through the pain, Ryan could still hear the familiar words, and found comfort in them. As Mary continued to sing, he was reminded of another home, another mother, another song. His breathing relaxed, and he fell asleep to Mary’s lullaby, dreaming of castles and lands of sand.

…

Parsei, Lithia

Rakesh cleaned the glass that was in his hand for what must have been the fourth time now, his mind distracted by the man who was still sitting at the bar, passed out drunk. The tavern had been closed for over an hour now and Rakesh just wanted to lock up and finish cleaning. He set the glass down in the wash basin and walked over to the man. He snapped his fingers over the man, receiving not so much as a twitch in response. Rakesh gave the man’s shoulder a little shake, and nearly fell over in shock when the man’s hand whipped up and grabbed his wrist.

“Another… another bottle…” Said Dalton, not lifting his head off the table. Rakesh pulled his hand free, rubbing his wrist.

“The tavern’s closed, I need you to leave.” Said Rakesh, trying to sound like a bigger man than he was. Dalton just gestured with his hand.

“Another bottle… please…” Rakesh folded his arms.

“I think you’ve had enough, now I need you to leave or I’m going to have to get a constable. Please, I need to finish cleaning up.” Dalton submitted, lifting his muddled head off the counter and grabbing his crutch that was leaning next to him. He swiveled in the stool, nearly losing his balance in the spinning room. He set his foot down on the ground, then his crutch, and hobbled out the door without any further incentive or irritation. Rakesh, shook his head, and quickly went to the door to lock up after him, not wanting anymore late night drunks wandering in.

Dalton limped down the empty streets of Parsei, letting the cool night air wash over him as he made his way home. Parsei was the largest port in the nation of Lithia, and it was there the gods had decided to place Dalton after the Marie Ann had been lost at sea. It was a good, peaceful town, with pleasant enough people, and Dalton liked it enough. He was more concerned with just staying drunk, not paying much mind to anything else.

Drinking was the only way to forget, the only way for him to drown out the memories, the words that repeated themselves in his brain, over, and over, and over again. You failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you fai-. Dalton shook his head violently, shutting up the voice… for now. He turned down another street, more of the same sand brick buildings. There was a time when Dalton would have gotten lost in this indistinguishable maze of flat roofed, tan colored shops and houses, but now, after many years, he could navigate this town blindfolded… Or stupidly drunk, as he was now.

Dalton took another turn, coming in view of the coastline, and came upon some steep steps. He grabbed the side wall with his free hand and carefully lowered himself down to the first step, bringing his crutch along after. He then repeated the process for each individual step. After an agonizing ten minutes of this, he came to the base of the steps, turned left, and walked until he arrived at what would best be described as a hovel, located about hundred yards away from the docks. The place was rundown and squalid, and did not even have a door, simply a tattered blanket draped across the entryway. Dalton brushed this aside and entered the place he called home.

The interior was far worse than the outside, if that could be believed. The walls were cracked and breezy, the mortar chipping out and the bricks not having been laid right to begin with. There was a large hole in the roof in the far corner of the hut, and the only thing to keep out the elements was a slab of wood laid over the opening, and a bucket placed underneath that was already filled with stagnant water. Everything inside the structure was caked in at least 2 inches of dust and sand, however, the most notable aspect of the house, were the hundreds of liquor bottles that were strewn everywhere. Every available surface was heaped with them, with exception to the bed mat in the corner, and the path leading from the door, to said bed mat.

Dalton hobbled over to the mat and lowered himself as best as his inebriated condition would allow. He set his crutch on the floor beside the mat, and groaned as he laid himself down, his old, tired body protesting the movement. His mind felt heavy from drink, and he quickly began to doze. Dalton’s hand fell down, brushing the stump of his missing right leg… His eyes shot open, panicked, his mind filled with images of water, violent, crushing, water. He sat up on the mat and ran both hands over the stump, remembering through the blur, that he had lost his leg. His breathing relaxed again, and he laid back down, but the images still haunted him. He did his best to push them out and forget, remembering a simpler time, a simpler life, in a castle, standing beside a king, a mentor, a friend. Dalton kept this picture in his mind until the drink caught up to him, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.