Savage (20 page)

“If you start heading north now, you can be to Draisha by nightfall tomorrow. If you keep heading north towards Amradin, there is a good chance you will never see me again. If you stay here, I am going to gut you like a fish, Harry. It is your choice.”

“Sorry, boys,” said Harry. “That is an offer I cannot refuse. It’s your own damn fault, Charles.”

“Go, you sniveling little rat. Once Kurtis and I are done removing this half-blood’s head, I am going to catch you and make you wish you were never born.”

“Good luck with that,” said Harry as he turned and started jogging back towards the road.

Charles raised his sword to a high guard position and advanced. Kurtis moved with him, going to Bazur’s side trying to flank him. Charles advanced with a series of aggressive attacks meant to keep Bazur on the defensive and unable to block any attacks from Kurtis.

Bazur blocked the repeated sword strikes. When Kurtis came too close, Bazur ducked under one of Charles’s attacks and bent to a knee. He whipped his scythe around and the blade caught Kurtis just below the knee, opening up a nasty wound.

“Gods damn you, you filthy orc tit sucker,” screamed Charles as he kept coming forward.

Moving away from the injured Kurtis, Bazur could now focus his attentions on the loud mouth mercenary. Instead of simply blocking the sword strikes, he started returning them with quick strikes of his own. But Bazur didn’t attempt to strike the loudmouth’s chest or belly, instead he made quick little attacks at his extremities. A high block turned into a quick slash to the forearms. A low block turned into a slash against the thighs. The quick little cuts were not fatal but they stung and opened Charles up. Trickles of blood flowed from multiple cuts, each individual cut was small and relatively harmless, but as the number of cuts increased, so did the damage each wound inflicted. Despite his vitality being slowly drained from his body, Charles continued both his physical and verbal attacks. “You think a few cuts are going to slow me? I am going to cut your head off and make sweet love to your skull.”

If Charles had been half as creative with his sword attacks as he was with his insults, he might’ve stood a chance. As the cumulative cuts took more and more effect, Charles’s attacks became slower, to the point where Bazur was able to slap Charles’s blade to the side, step in, and deliver a fine precision cut, this time to the man’s throat.

“Glurk,” was the last sound out of Charles’ mouth as the dying highwayman tried to deliver one last insult, but the blood filling his airways denied him of that.

Five down, one on the run, and one on the ground
, thought Bazur as he turned and walked back towards Kurtis. The man was groaning and holding his wounded leg. Dry blood covered his face from where Bazur had smashed him with his elbow. Bazur had little sympathy for the man, but it was obvious whatever fight the man had in him was gone. He sat there watching Bazur with a blank stare, waiting for his own death to come. That he didn’t cry or beg for mercy probably saved his life. Bazur, seeing that this man was no warrior embracing his death, decided to grant him his life. Perhaps he would make better choices in the future. It wasn’t likely, but stranger things had happened. “When you wake, head south. Avoid Southend and anyone associated with General Vargas.” Bazur swung his scythe around and slammed the butt end of it into Kurtis’s face. The highwayman fell to the ground unconscious. If he didn’t bleed to death, Kurtis wouldn’t have time to warn anyone in Southend of Bazur’s coming. Bazur headed back to the road. He still had business to attend to in Southend.

…

Southend was a rowdy and rambunctious little town.  The town’s two Inns did a thriving business catering to all the merchants and travelers along with the mercenaries who made Southend their base of operation. At the edge of town was a blacksmith shop. The smithy was pounding away on a horseshoe as Bazur walked into town. Stopping, Bazur watched the man work for a few minutes. The burly man was strong, his bulging chest and arms covered only by an apron attested to his physical prowess. The layer of sweat on the man’s body attested to the heat of the forge and difficulty of the work. The smithy was a hard worker, Bazur could see.

“What can I help you with?” asked the smithy as he took a break from hammering to examine the shoe.

“Looking for a meal and a drink, and a bed for the night. What’s your recommendation?”

“My recommendation is to turn around, go back wherever you came from, and don’t return.” The smithy gave Bazur a cold appraising look. “You don’t look the type to take that sort of advice, so you have two options. Granny Bev’s Inn is small, crowded, and the food is terrible on a good day. The Empress Inn is large, has plenty of rooms, has excellent meals and all the entertainment a man could want. Granny Bev’s you’ll wake up tired and cranky cause of the piss poor beds and a stomach ache, but at least you’ll wake up. Stay in the Empress and show too much coin, or look at someone the wrong way and you might never see morning.”

Bazur smiled. The smithy’s comments were exactly what he wanted to hear. “The Empress it is. Thanks, friend.”

“It’s your funeral,” said the smithy with a dry cackle. “But you might want to pull the hood up on your cloak before you go in. Charles Peltier was a loud mouth and he made his brag before leaving town that he’d be coming back with the head of a certain half-orc from the badlands of Pera. Now, you might not be the half-orc in question, but Charles has a few drinking buddies in there that might take it personal that you are here and not Charles. And one more thing you should know about the Empress. Anything goes in the Empress, but it has one strict rule, any challenges are to be met and the winner can’t be harmed.”

“Sounds like a certain bar in Pera,” said Bazur. The combination of fighting and gambling was one Bazur knew well.

“Yes, but in the Empress, there are no fist fights. It is whatever weapons you bring, and it is not often where more than one man leaves the pits alive.” The smithy looked to the weapons on Bazur’s back. “It seems you’re at least prepared. Nonetheless, I would keep my identity hidden until you find what you are looking for. They’ll honor a challenge, only because the crowd loves a fight so much that if anyone interfered, they would be killed. But I would watch my back anyways. Many in there will stab you first chance they get. Charles wasn’t the only one hired to hunt down the blue-eyed half-blood orc.”

Pits fights to the death. It was distasteful. Bazur had grown up with the orcs, where fighting and killing were a normal part of life, but even among the orcs killing for sport was frowned upon. Bazur’s own moral code was a mixture of human and orc, and fighting in the pits was something he normally wouldn’t consider, but in this case it might serve a purpose. “You are exceedingly helpful.”

The smithy shrugged. “I got no use for that lot. Especially the general. Ever since he’s taken up residence here, the number of mercenaries staying here has doubled, so has the number of robberies on the road. The general might not be behind the robberies, but the men he keeps around for his raids… well, they like to keep busy.”

“Perhaps that might change soon.”

“Here’s to hoping,” said the smithy. “The general has a booth at the north corner of the bar, but he has a dozen men between him and the crowd at all times. However, if a certain half-blood wanted to challenge the general, all he would have to do is notify the bartender. The Empress takes its rules seriously, even the general must follow them. Of course, after he dismembered the first five or six men to challenge him, not many have found reason to do so, aside from the odd glory hound looking to make a name among the mercenaries.”

Bazur nodded. The smithy had laid it all out on the table for him. Now all that was left was the doing. “Thanks again. I think I shall go have that drink now. If you haven’t had your supper yet, I’ll buy.”

“I’d join you, but there will be many who won’t be pleased when you make your challenge. If they saw me with you, they’d be none too pleased with me.”

Bazur understood. The smithy had given him all the help he could. Bazur turned and headed towards the bar. Remembering the smithy’s warning, he pulled the hood of his cloak up and over his head before entering the Empress. The main floor of the Empress was a large rectangular design. The outer walls all had benches built into the walls, creating booths that seated six to eight people. Along with the creative use of wall space, the inn also had the normal assortment of tables sprawled around the building with a long mahogany topped bar that dominated the far wall. The most unique aspect of the Empress was the sunken floor in the middle of the room. Six feet deep and a good ten feet wide and double that in length. The blood stained floor of the pit hinted at its purpose.

The inn was busy. Busy enough that no one gave a stranger walking in wearing a hooded cloak more than a second glance, but Bazur knew this wouldn’t last long. The more time he spent in the Inn, the more danger he faced. He put his head down, and walked around the room. In one corner of the Inn, the corner booths had been blocked off from the others by a group of tables. Around the tables were a large number of men, mercenaries no doubt from the look of them. Bazur quickly surmised that was the general’s booth being blocked off. The smithy’s information to this point was accurate. Bazur turned away from the general’s table to avoid being prematurely identified and made his way to the bar. The long mahogany bar was well-polished and clean, a stark contrast from the impression the fighting pit in the middle of the room gave. Bazur slipped onto an empty stool and sat waiting for the bartender to make his way down to his end of the bar.

The bartender, a pudgy nosed fellow with a wild flowing halo of straw colored hair that admirably covered the sides of the man’s head but did nothing to cover the scalp on top, gave the bar counter in front of Bazur a quick wipe of his cloth. “What’ll you have?”

“I understand challenges can be made here?” asked Bazur.

“Sure,” said the bartender. “Name your man and if he is here, you meet him in the pit. Fight till first blood. Of course, some fights are known to go past first blood, but that is a risk you take stepping into the pit.”

“In that case, I would like to make a challenge and order a meal.” There was zero chance this fight would only go to first blood. Bazur might as well enjoy one last meal before the fight. He was now fully committed to the plan, as soon as he mentioned the general’s name, there would be no turning back.

“Sure, tell me your name. I’ll have your meal ready for the end of your challenge. I’ll take your coin for the meal now, just in case you’re not around to eat it.”

Bazur slid a silver coin across the bar. “I challenge General Vargas.”

The bartender paused and then took the coin. “In that case, I’ll have your meal brought out right away. It’s likely to be your last. The general doesn’t lose and he don’t fight till first blood. Take a seat in that empty booth off to the right. It’s the challenger’s booth. Only challengers may sit there. It is the only safe seat in the house. Sit there and eat your meal. When it is done, you meet the general in the pit. What do you want to drink? Challengers drink free.”

“A honey mead, if you have it.” Bazur liked the idea of having a honey mead. If it was the last drink he had, it was more than appropriate it was a drink from his homeland.

“Honey mead it is, and who shall say is challenging General Vargas?” asked the bartender.

Bazur took of his hood, revealing his identity. “Bazur Zargha.”

The bartender grinned. “Well, ain’t you sneaky. The boys will be disappointed to hear you’ve made your challenge. There is a pretty penny to be paid to the man who takes your head. Better take your seat in the challenger’s booth before someone recognizes you.”

Bazur nodded, stood, and walked over to the empty booth. A few men gave him second glances and looked like they wanted to make a move, but when he removed his weapons harness and sat down in the challenger’s booth, he was left alone. The normal din of the crowd quieted as more and more of the patrons noticed someone sitting in the challenger’s booth. A few men swore when they saw Bazur sitting there. The bartender walked out from behind his bar and made his way over to the corner of the room and the general’s booth. The bartender then disappeared into the back, only to return a minute later with a plate of food and a jug. “Roast tenderloin with a red wine reduction, mushrooms and villo peppers in cream.”

“A fitting last meal if that is to be the case. My compliments to the cook.”

The bartender snorted. “Just don’t die and the cook will be happier than a pig in the muck. He actually intends to bet on you.”

“Someone giving good odds?” asked Bazur.

“Ten to one for the general. You care to wager?”

Bazur threw his coin purse on the table. “Take a gold for yourself, and place the rest on me.”

The bartender took the coins and gave a big smile. “Perhaps today is a day for fools and half-bloods. I’ve a feeling you might not be as crazy as you look. I’ll even wager the gold on you. Luck to you friend,” said the bartender as he went off to place their wagers. Ten to one was long odds. It was obvious the gambles felt his skills were unmatched. The coin mattered not to Bazur. If he won, he would do very well. If he lost… well the coins wouldn’t really matter anymore would they.

A man walked up and stood at the table. “Do you mind if I join you? If you’d like to eat your meal in private, I’d understand.”

Bazur looked up at General Vargas. “Be my guest.” Bazur recognized him from the badlands, but this was the first time seeing the man up close enough to look him in the eyes. General Vargas had a strong chin, thin lips, a hooked nose and sunken eyes. His face gave the impression of power. It was not a kind face. It was the face of a killer.