EDITOR’S NOTE
Today’s work from author and editor Jason Waltz straddles a fine line between the tradition of Pulp fantasy and Heroic Historical fiction. The world that the characters inhabit is fictional, fantastical even–in a Sword & Sorcery sort of way. However, this particular tale includes no overt fantastical elements, instead relying on sword arms and muscled thews. In this way, it reflects some of Robert E. Howard’s work with Solomon Kane, in that Kane often encoutners the supernatural througout his exploits, but not always.
What stands out in this story, is the focus on heroic brotherhood, forged almost immediately through mutual respect and shared danger. The main charaters recognize in eachother an innate sense of duty and honor, and their bond is forged not through agreement or oath, but a shared goal. Echoing the themes present in Conan, the heroes are forced to contend with corrupt aspect of civilzation. Waltz’s tale for Coughran and Dray deftly weaves classic themes with a brisk, modern style that keeps the story moving toward its blood-soaked conclusion.
SLOBODA
COUGHRAN KEPT THE mug of ale at his lips though he stopped tilting its contents into his open mouth. He stared in astonishment at the slab of mountain walking through the tavern door. The mammoth man had to turn his body aslant to enter. He stood still after righting himself, scanning the room. There were few empty seats among the chairs and benches. His massive shoulders rose in a shrug and he headed to the closest.
As if his colossal mass were not noticeable enough, two other interesting things stood out about the foreigner. If he stood taller than fourteen hands, Coughran would buy the man’s dinner. At a full five hands taller, Coughran could rest an elbow atop that huge skull. Coughran himself found times he had had to duck to enter the establishments built by others, but in all his travels he had never seen a door not wide enough for a single body.
The man’s chest, what was visible of it, was broad as a bull’s, his shoulders thick as the northern white bear’s with no neck. Instead, his boulder-like head rested between tree trunk sized arms. His thighs, also, were huge, each the size of the waist of any of the large men gathered in the drinking hall—Coughran’s included. When the newcomer arrived at the lone space among the occupants of the bench, he said something, the rumble of his voice reaching Coughran’s corner seat without the words.
Scowls and shrugs answered him, so the behemoth sat.
Attempted to.
As the empty seat was not at the end of the bench, he had to lift his leg over to slide into it. His first attempt to raise a foot high enough to clear the bench resulted in his thick boot slamming into it. The simple kick shoved the bench into the table and almost lifted that into those along its other side. Laughter and snarls equally resulted, with barbed words thrown.
The man ignored both, bent slightly and tugged the bench back toward him, and tried again. This time he managed to clear the bench but not the man to his left. This kick sent the fellow to his knees under the table and into the next man down the bench. Both of these struggled up and ripped knives from their belts as they turned upon the walking mountain.
Coughran, several tables removed from the looming altercation, watched with interest.
Everyone around the angry duo pushed their chairs back or vacated the benches. A breath of silence descended.
The short man’s entire upper body rose and fell in an obvious sigh. With the shake of his head, he clearly growled, “I asked you to move in so I could use the end seat.”
“We don’t care what you asked,” snarled the closer of the two angry men. “We was here first.”
“Yeah, you obviously don’t belong here,” the other spat. “We’ll show you to the door!” He poked his knife forward.
The stranger raised a hand the size of the dinner trenchers on the table and batted the knifeman’s weapon out of the man’s grip. Then he spread his arms wide and took one step into the duo. Quicker than they could react, he wrapped his massive arms closed around them, pinning their arms to their bodies as he lifted them off the floor. Gasps filled the room even as the two sputtered curses and futilely struggled to free their arms. Without a word, the big man carried the two to the door, where he turned left than right, slamming each opponent’s head against the jambs as he twisted through the doorway. Both men slumped in his arms.
The remaining inhabitants of the tavern watched in wonder as he dumped the unconscious bodies into the street and returned inside. No one moved as all watched him sit at the end of the same bench and pull what remained of the previous occupant’s meals toward him. He raised an oversized hand to the bar wench and calmly said, “Ale, if you please,” then dug into the food.
Coughran laughed. It was infectious and soon all the tavern roared with laughter. Coughran noted a few dark looks, but for the most part everyone seemed to applaud the man’s restraint. Of course, his immense size and obvious strength might have influenced their thoughts.
Coughran chuckled as he finally finished tossing back the remnants of his drink. As he waved to the same bar girl for another, he watched the man eat. It was a marvel how he accomplished that beneath the other of his interesting aspects.
A beard hung from his cheeks and chin in braids too numerous to count. Multiple amulets and charms of metal, stone, even bone, were twined within several of the braids, the centermost of which were the longest and reached the top of his chest. While the talismans weighted the beard mostly in place, Coughran could not conceive how one ate without putting either hair in mouth or food in hair. When the girl placed a mug before him, the stranger dug open a pouch at his belt and set a handful of simple coins next to it. She counted out a few and made to push the rest back. He shook his head, said something to her, and resumed eating.
She smiled, scooped up all the coin, and headed toward Coughran.
As she handed him his mug, she said, “He wants to know when you are done staring at him if you’ll introduce yourself.”
Coughran laughed and looked past the girl to meet the other man’s eyes. Then he nodded at him and stood, waving an open arm to his table in an invitation to join him.
The man finished chewing, gathered up his ale mug, and headed toward Coughran. Setting his drink on the table, the stranger looked Coughran up and down, lingering on his face. Then he stuck out a huge hand and said, “Call me Dray. I must ask you to allow me to sit on that side of the table. I am afraid I’ll be expecting company from outside shortly.”
Coughran put his forearm into the man’s grasp and clasped the other’s in the traditional greeting of warriors, though he shook his head. “Nay, friend Dray, I will not put my back to the door but I will watch yours if you join me here. I am Coughran, son of the south, and never have I seen a man like you before.”
Dray’s grip tightened and he replied, “Never have I trusted so fully another man so soon after meeting. By your look, you also are not of this city, and by your wholesome laugh and your clear eye I feel perhaps I can. Know, however, that I will not sit thus long.”
He dropped his grip and pulled free the chair across from Coughran’s. “Now, tell me why you stared.”
Coughran smiled and returned to his chair, angling it just a bit to better his view of the door beyond Dray. He ran an empty hand up and down before his lips and chin and said, “How do you eat with all that?”
Now Dray laughed. It sounded like a boulder rolling down a mountainside. “With my people, a beard is the story of a warrior’s life. Boys come of age when the hairs appear on their face. As men, we grow beards that will never be shorn. For every accomplishment as a warrior, a hunter, a fighter, we weave a braid. As life and successes continue, we eventually run out of hair to braid.” He pointed to his braids. “And so we add totems. At a glance, others can see how long one has been a man and how many worthy things he has done.”
Dray sat back and drained his drink. “How do we eat with these?” He shrugged and laughed again. “Never thought of it that way. Like you, I pick up food and put it in my mouth with my hand. I just eat.”
“So your old men then, are they tripping over their beards? Wearing them as cloaks?” Coughran asked with a smile.
A crease marred Dray’s forehead. “Beards do not grow longer forever. Regardless, rarely do we live long enough to concern ourselves with such. The longest braids I have witnessed when a youth belonged to an old warrior, some say our oldest ever. His center braids hung lower than his belt, but it was not their length that spoke most of his accomplishments. It was the number of totems he had woven in them. His braids barely moved so heavy with totems were they.” Again he pointed to his braids. “My own story is hardly begun. I have only earned a few totems. I come to this city seeking challenge.”
Coughran grunted in acknowledgement and relaxed in his chair. “I, too, am here for challenge. We should find it together. I—”
Sudden tumult at the door drew his attention. The head of one of the men Dray dropped outside poked through the opening, eyes searching the tavern. When they found Dray, they lit in savage joy. The head disappeared, a shout replacing it. Raised voices, many raised voices, answered from the street.
“Well friend Dray, I think our first challenge has come to us.”
Patrons were streaming from the tavern. The barkeep wrung his hands and stammered, “Pl-please, not inside.” Scuffles broke out as the two crowds met in the narrow entry, those trying to leave for the moment keeping the ruffians at bay.
Dray stood. “Let us meet them in the street, I do not wish to ruin this man’s business.”
“Thank, thank you. There is another door here, at the back, if—”
Coughran interrupted. “No, they will trash your tavern searching for us. Let us not let men say we hid or fled.”
Together, Dray and Coughran joined the queue struggling to exit. Coughran watched Dray pull a large axe from his belt. It looked like a toy in the man’s giant hand, though Coughran was certain it would have required both of his hands to use effectively. For the first time he noticed Dray’s left forearm was wrapped in some sort of metallic vambrace that protected it from elbow to the back of that hand.
He pulled his sword free but held it low and close. They probably would not have room to maneuver once they stepped through the doorway.
The sun had mostly set by now, and only torchlight lit the streets. Most of the light came from their right, and as Coughran finally neared the threshold and peered over the heads of those fleeing he saw at least a dozen torches held high in the hands of an angry mob. He also saw several glints of naked steel.
“Steel it is then,” he said. “On our right.”
Dray said, “I am not quick on my feet, though they are almost immovable once I set them. I will try to keep the wall at my back.”
Coughran nodded. “I am a quick fighter and much prefer the open street to move about in. Heh. A thought. Your friends seek only you. They do not know we stand together. Let me walk before you and I shall try to slip among them before they realize you are now two.”
“I like this plan, friend Coughran. If I do not add another totem to my braid this night, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
Coughran moved closer to the last of those leaving the tavern. He hunched forward a bit, tucking his sword arm close and hoping to keep the bare blade in his shadow. Rough hands pulled the patrons in front of him through the door, then reached for Coughran.
“Get out of our way!”
“Keep moving!”
“Where is he, let us in!”
He allowed them to tug him forward even as two men jostled past on either side of him. One shoved him from behind even as those pulling him from the front now released their grips. He found himself in the midst of the yelling throng. A yell behind him suddenly broke off into a choking gurgle. For a heartbeat, silence struck.
Then the barkeep slammed the tavern door and all heard him bar it.
“He’s killed Turant!” a voice yelled. “Kill him!”
The rest of the angry, drunken mob surged forward, ignoring Coughran.
He spun, keeping his sword low and slicing it across all the legs he could reach. Five bodies spilled to the earth, blood spurting from thighs and hamstrings and calves. Surprised screams sounded and chaos ensued.
The unexpected attack from within their own group shattered the assault. Men did not know who struck at them and began swinging their swords all about, fending away friends they suspected as foes. Coughran danced among them, choosing not so much to kill as to injure and maim and entice them into fighting one another. He worked to strike those with torches, either knocking them spinning from their hands or forcing them to drop the flaring brands in order to defend themselves. As the darkness thickened and more and more of the throng writhed in the dirt, he made his way back toward the wall of the tavern.
He did not have to seek long to find Dray. Even in the gloom and shadows, Coughran could see the pile of bodies to the left of the short man’s dense shape. As he watched, he saw Dray raise his left arm above his head to catch the descending sword of a yelling man upon his vambrace. Dray’s arm did not bend and barely shook from the force of the overhead blow. Coughran marveled at the man’s strength. Then Dray buried his axe in the man’s face and drove his body atop the pile. His eyes flicked to Coughran’s, who jerked his head to the dark street behind them. Dray nodded and began circling the dead.
Coughran stepped behind him and together they inched backward away from the fray.
The jangle of horse riders echoed down the dark street.
Coughran risked a glance over his shoulder and saw more torchlight flickering around a distant corner. “The guard?”
Dray said, “Let’s take this alley here.” He turned behind the tavern and continued into the darkness. Coughran took a last look at the street filled with the dead and dying and the cries of pain from men who could no longer walk and of rage from those who discovered they had killed their own. Then he followed his new friend.
***
“I WILL NOT be difficult to find,” Dray said. “There is none other here like me.”
Coughran laughed. “I dare say not! Let us away, then. We can retrieve my horse and head to the caravansaries to hire on as guards. Do you have a beast that can carry you?”
It was still fairly early in the morning. While the rising sun had not yet crested the horizon, its pale light was beginning to cover the city’s byways and hovels. The men had made their way through the maze of alleys and dark streets until they finally found another open tavern far from the first. They had inquired about rooms and taken fresh mugs of ale up the stairs with them, asking the owner to wake them with the first light.
“I have a mule,” Dray replied.
“Mule!”
“Aye, it is a large beast, strong and surefooted and has carried me here from afar. It is difficult to find beasts that can long carry me.”
“I’m starting to see a lot of difficulties around you,” Coughran laughed. Dray smiled.
Each of them had suffered minor cuts in the fight. Coughran had taken a sword stab to the inside of his left forearm, more of an irritant than painful, and a deeper slice through the meat of his ribcage, also on the left. A large black and blue bruise covered the right side of Dray’s head where he had taken a savage blow from a bludgeon. His ear was swollen and his eye on that side bloodshot.
They splashed water over their wounds and faces and settled in to the hot breakfast they paid the barkeep for. Fried eggs over mutton steaks with hot rolls and cold mugs of ale let them put their pains away. Over the meal, Coughran explained what they would find at the caravansaries and what work he hoped to find them. It was not long before they had recovered Coughran’s horse from the stable he had found when he entered the city. They led the beast down side streets as they searched for the stable where Dray had left his mule.
Coughran had not been in the city much longer than Dray and was no more familiar with all of its streets and sections than he. After some wandering, they entered a large square, one side of which teemed with people, all with their backs toward the two men. A man in gaudy robes on an elevated platform orated above them. A few members of the audience sat astride horses, and they and several of those standing on the ground would raise paddles above their heads at random times. Other men watching out over the crowd would point at those with raised paddles and yell. Next to the man in the colorful robes stood a naked man, his hands locked in manacles behind him.
Dray stopped dead in his tracks. “What is this?”
“What is what?” asked Coughran.
Dray raised an arm and pointed at the elevated men. “This.”
“A slave market,” Coughran answered. Even as he said it, the robed man banged a gavel on the podium beside him and guards came forward. They replaced the naked man with another man bereft of any clothing beyond the chains around his wrists. Dray’s eyes followed the guards taking the first man off the stage to the rear. He stiffened when he saw the long line of naked men and women, and even children, that snaked behind the stand.
“What is ‘slave’?” he demanded.
Coughran pointed at that line. “They are. People. You don’t have slaves where you are from?”
“People do not own people!” Dray spat. “What kind of depravity is this? How can a man be owned? How can a man allow himself to be owned?”
“Conquerors and the conquered, winners and losers of battle?” Coughran shrugged. “My people do not keep slaves but we know of many peoples that do. Maybe there are those born into it, like there are those born into royalty or priesthood.”
Dray shook his head violently. “This is not right. Men should not be sold like pieces of meat at a stall in the market.” He started toward the crowd.
Coughran blinked. Tugging his horse’s reigns, he hurried after the stomping man. “Whoa, what are you doing? You cannot stop this here, now.” He waved an arm around. “This cannot be changed by our interference today. Look at all the armed slavers around the slaves. See the city guards all along the edges of the square? Not to mention all the buyers with their personal guards. This is not a battle we could ever win, and neither should we start it!” he exclaimed.
Dray did not stop his march. When he reached the rear of the crowd he simply began pushing through it, his huge bulk forcing separation even between those who resisted until they saw his size. Coughran walked directly behind Dray, pulling his horse along, angry retorts following all three of them. Finally the tumult grew loud enough to disrupt the auctioneer.
The robed man frowned and peered down at the approaching trio. Slavers and city guards began moving closer. “What’s this then?” the man asked from on high. “If you wish to buy this slave get a paddle like all the rest.” He began to turn away.
“I do not wish to buy that slave!” Dray retorted.
The man sniffed and waved his hand like he was pushing the intruder away. He opened his mouth to begin the auction again, but Dray was not finished.
“I would not wish to buy another human. No man should own another man,” he shouted up to the stage. Then again, looking to those around him. “People should not own people! I spit upon anyone who says he owns another man!”
Jeers greeted his challenge.
“Go away little boy!”
“Shut your mouth, fool!”
“Sic the slavers on him, sell him!”
Then, “I own several other men, I dare you to spit on me!”
Coughran whirled to find who spoke. A man with a long, narrow face and a sneer goaded a horse closer. He was flanked by three armed strongmen. All four glared at Coughran. “Yes, let your friend know it is I who dares him to spit upon me.”
Dray must have heard, for the next instant he stood in front of Coughran, between the reiver and the horse. The right hands of all three guards dropped to the hilts of their sheathed swords. The narrow faced man laughed in derision as he raised a sandaled foot toward Dray’s head. “You would make an excellent dismounting stool! I think I’ll buy you.”
Dray’s big hand closed into an even bigger fist. He swung a roundhouse hook into the side of the horse’s head. The animal instantly fell over like an overstuffed grain bag pushed from a wagon.
It happened so fast, the rider had not had time to pull his leg free before the animal slammed on its side, pinning him there. The snap of his femur made everyone wince. Then his scream of shocked pain split the air. That galvanized his men, and all three jumped on Dray, trying to wrestle him to the ground. The big man did not fall. In fact, he surged slowly toward the downed man, ignoring the tugs and pummels of the others. When he was near enough, Dray cleared his throat and brought forth a wad of saliva that he spat into the screaming man’s face.
The melee spread quickly then, slavers and private guards joining those trying to bear Dray to the dirt. Coughran lost sight of his friend behind and beneath the vast numbers of those adding to the pile.
He stretched out his hands and began pulling men off his friend and tossing them back. Those and others grappled with him, and soon his horse was pulled away. A heavy blow struck his neck and he was taken to the ground by a great mass of pounding fists and heavy bodies. Before they could kick him into unconsciousness or death, he heard a horn and shouts above the noise of the fight.
“Make way! Make way!” The horn blew again and the command was repeated. “Make way! Make way!”
The weight of bodies above Coughran began to lessen until suddenly he was pulled to his feet by gauntleted hands. He swiped blood and sweat from his eyes and blinked into the stern faces surrounding him. City guard. He looked for Dray and found him on the ground beneath a heavy net. It was the kind of net used for snaring ferocious, wild beasts, made of extra thick strands and weighted with dozens of heavy metal balls. Yet it was not enough to hold the huge man still, for even as the men holding the net tried to keep it taut and pin him down, he lifted one massive arm off the ground and tugged the net to his chest.
The tug sent those men stumbling and Dray did not hesitate to roll away from them and into the next set of men holding the net. His large bulk bowled into them and he was rising to his feet, one hand bunching the net in its grip to toss it away when one of the guardsmen snarled, “Enough of this, eh!” He swung the heavy truncheon he held with both hands and brought it down on the back of Dray’s head with a meaty thwack.
Coughran saw Dray blink once, then topple over.
***
“ARRRGH.”
“Finally awake?” Coughran muttered.
“Huh? Ohhh.”
“Quiet.”
Dray groaned.
“Where?”
“Jail,” Coughran answered. “Middle of the night.”
“Oh.”
Only a hint of moonshine brightened the barred square hole high in the wall above them. Coughran could barely make out Dray’s figure sprawled upon the cot across from him. A wall of bars separated them. Two other cells lay empty beyond Dray’s, though the four across from them all held prisoners. All of them were asleep.
Dray groaned again.
“Quiet,” Coughran commanded. He stood and stepped up onto his cot. Stretching as high as he could, his fingers just brushed the lip of the window sill. Feeling along it, he finally found the rock he had been told would be there. He pushed it over the outside edge.
Then he moved over to the bars and pressed his face against them.
“Be ready,” he said quietly in Dray’s direction, then sat back down on the cot.
“Wha?” Dray groaned.
Coughran did not answer him.
He waited for the aid promised him by one of the guardsmen.
After the City Guard had stopped the fighting with their capture, they had marched a man with a bandaged head and arm in a sling forward. “Is this the man?” their captain asked.
The injured man nodded and pointed at Dray. “He’s the stranger who attacked us and slew Addreti.” Then he pointed at Coughran. “And that foreigner helped him.”
The captain nodded and then ignored the man. He ordered his men to chain the prisoners’ hands and put them in the back of a nearby wagon. The slavers protested that it was their wagon, and the guard captain told them they could retrieve it that night. Then he made Coughran help them pick Dray up and struggle his slack body into the wagon bed. Then they had made him help again to get the huge man from the wagon and into the jail cell. It had not been easy. When they were finished, and Coughran shoved into his cell where he stood bent over panting, one of the guards had lingered after the others.
Coughran had looked askance at him, and the man had stood close to the bars and whispered, “Tonight. We know what he spoke against, we won’t let him hang.”
Coughran laughed. “Right. Who are ‘we’?”
“We agree there should be no slaves,” the guard whispered back. “Your friend did a brave thing. We will free him tonight.”
“Just him?”
“Both of you.”
“Well not until he wakes up. I’m not carrying him again.”
The man looked irritated. But then he agreed. “There will be a rock up in that window. When he is ready, push it outside. We will come soon after.”
Coughran looked at the high window and shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
So now they waited.
Noises outside the window made him glance up. A dark shape suddenly appeared against the bars.
“Who there?” Coughran grunted at the darkness. He knew better than to whisper sibilant sounds.
“We. Move away from the wall.”
Coughran moved toward the hall between the cell rows. “Dray, move. Get up.”
“Arrrgh.” The man struggled to sit up.
“Move it!”
Dray slowly rolled over onto his side. He was still pushing himself into a sitting position when Coughran heard a click and the rumble of moving stone. His eyes widened as the block in the outer wall of his cell at the height of the top of his cot swung away. Another click sounded and the block at the same position in Dray’s cell opened. A head appeared in that hole and whispered, “Quickly now!”
Coughran said, “Dray, crawl off your cot through there, I’ll meet you out there.” He turned without waiting and slipped through the wall of his cell. Hands helped him stand upright and then began closing the hidden door. He did not wait on them, but stepped over to Dray’s hole. Only one of the man’s feet hung through the opening.
Coughran ducked to his knees and peered inside. There was no way they were getting Dray through that hole. Even if he were more aware and in better condition, Coughran doubted the man could figure his colossal frame through it. He shook his head in frustration.
“Now what?” he hissed.
A larger number of dark figures surrounded him than he had expected. Heads bent together and several voices argued. Beyond them rose the silhouette of a wagon. While they debated, Coughran bent to the hole again. Dray had returned to sitting on his cot. Beyond him Coughran could make out another stone block swung open at the cot of the cell across from them. That seemed odd. Then he realized that cell was empty and the stone was closing.
“Dray, I hope you’re awake. We’ve more problems than we thought.” He felt a presence at his back. “We have to come inside to get you.” Coughran stood and turned around. “We’re not leaving him here!” He did not doubt they fully intended to leave with all they came for, but he did not want them to know he suspected.
“We cannot—” one voice started, only to be interrupted by another. It was the voice of the same guard who had talked with Coughran earlier.
“Yes, yes, we can. We will not leave such a brave voice against slavery behind. I will lead us through.”
Grumbles answered his claim. To Coughran’s ears they sounded halfhearted. He did not know what lie ahead them this night, but something dangerous was soon to happen. The only man he knew he could trust was still locked inside this building. He needed the assistance of this suspect help at least until he freed Dray.
The guard said, “Here, here are the keys to the cells.” He shoved the ring into Coughran’s hands. “There are only two guards on duty inside. The rest are on patrols. I will go in, bring them out on the far side of the building. You move swiftly inside once we are around the corner and free your friend.”
Everyone moved at once. The guard slipped off his black robes to reveal his city uniform, then strode to the front of the building. The others moved back into the darkness, while Coughran slunk along the building following the guard. He waited at the corner, crouched with one eye watching, as the guard went within.
Voices neared, then three men came from inside, the guard he knew leading the other two. They were arguing yet they followed him around the far corner. Coughran ran through the door and into the jail.
He knew where he went, since he had helped bring Dray along this very same path the morning before, though he grabbed a torch from a sconce to light his way. He glanced to the keys and discovered they had tallies scratched upon them. “Small favors,” he muttered. Finding one without any scratches he tried it first in the main gate that secured the cell area. The oiled lock clicked open and the gate swung free. Quickly he moved to Dray’s cell and found his friend standing though weaving slightly on his feet. Squinting at his cell, Coughran discovered two slashes scratched above the lock. He fumbled through the keys until he found the match and worked that key into the lock. It too, opened easily.
Coughran pulled the cell door wide and pulled Dray out. He bent and put his mouth against the shorter man’s good ear, “I think we’ve been set up. I’m going to find my sword.”
He left the keys dangling from the lock and returned to the main room. He trusted Dray to stay close and swept his eyes across the room, seeking his weapon. Across the room he spied a large chest, its top propped open and leather belts and sheaths spilling over its sides. “There!” he pointed. Swiftly they crossed the room. Even as they reached the chest, Coughran heard voices outside.
Looking into the chest he discovered it was full of weapons and armor. The discarded property of prisoners. His saw his sword instantly, and beneath it Dray’s vambrace. Coughran wrapped his belt about his waist and settled his sword once again at his hip. He handed Dray the vambrace and then snatched up a knife he saw and a small handaxe. Dray gestured at a giant sword leaning against the wall behind the chest. It stood there almost as tall as Dray, its blade almost as wide as one of the man’s open hands.
Coughran tucked his new weapons into his belt and lifted the big sword. He had to bring his other hand forward quickly to support its weight before he dropped it. He grunted and handed the heavy weapon to the other man. Dray smiled as he hefted the sword one-handed. Coughran chuckled, then saw another passage that ran perpendicular to and away from the first, and said, “We go here.”
They stepped into that hall as the voices entered from the front.
“Well I’ll say it was a good night, eh boys?”
It was the Guard Captain’s voice. Coughran paused and listened.
Laughter answered the man, followed by the sound of heavy leather bags hitting a desktop. He had heard that sound a time or two before; coin bags. Heavy coin bags.
“This is a good thing, we got here, eh Cap?” another man said.
A series of ayes answered. There were at least five men out there.
“Aye indeed, boys. When that ol’ slaver propositioned me with this plan I knew it to be good for the lot of us. After a little ‘maintenance’ on those cells, why, so long as we keep ‘em occupied, we’ll keep having vanishing prisoners!”
“No one misses ‘em, that’s fer certain,” said one.
“Tonight was just a wee bit more fun though. We never told one of ‘em we were getting ‘em out before. That were a nice touch!” Chortles echoed alongside the sound of coins being spilled.
“Now that is a pretty sight! What—”
Running feet and a breathless voice silenced them. “We can’t find them!” It was the first guard, the guard who had talked to Coughran. The ‘we’ guard. The lying guard.
The captain said, “Them who, who are you talking about, Geoff?”
Geoff sounded panicked. “The big ones! The—”
Dray patted Coughran on his back and charged past him. Coughran shook his head with a smile and followed him.
He watched Dray swing that great sword like he twirled a stick. It took two heads and sliced the chest of a third man open to the bone before the rest of them reacted. One of the heads was the captain’s and when it bounced to a stop before the guard in the doorway—Geoff—he gulped and staggered backward. Then ran from the building. Dray was already fending off the swords of both remaining guards. He waved his open hand to Coughran who did not hesitate. Hurdling over the desk just slowly enough to grab up the unopened coin pouch, he ran after the fleeing guard.
Geoff had not run far. In fact, he stood in the square angrily waving his arms at a group of four men in black robes, pointing back toward the building. The men saw Coughran and started backing away, a few of them trying to pull their robes off. Geoff turned around to see what they reacted to and impaled himself on Coughran’s sword.
The guard gasped in shock. Then he snarled, “You’ll die a slave, dog! Even though I die, I die a free man. You’ll never be free again!”
Coughran punched him in the face and kept punching him until he fell off the sword. Then the reiver jumped among the other men whom he now recognized as some of the slavers from the market. It had all been a ruse. The guards worked with the slavers, selling them prisoners who were then stolen from the cells at night. Dray’s size had disrupted their normal flow of business.
Coughran fought with wild vengeance. He fought for himself, for his friend, and for the freedom of anyone from these despicable men. He was able to thrust his sword into the throat and the gut of two men still struggling to rid themselves of the robes that encumbered them. Once past them, though, the two others came at him with bared blades and raging snarls. They were good swordsmen, but their emotions clouded their judgement. They should have come at him separately, keeping him at bay and off balance with coordinated strikes.
Instead, they raged at him, and while their blows where powerful, their energy was short. Slavers were more used to chained opponents they controlled with whips and clubs. A free man fighting back with a swinging sword was not a foe they could long face. Coughran recognized signs of their fatigue and simply waited them out. A few more aggressive strikes and they were panting, staggering, too tired to bring their swords back into proper guard positions. When he heard Dray say from behind him, “Well come on then,” he stepped forward and with two swift slashes to the left and right he left red smiles across the throats of both men.
They stumbled stupidly then dropped their swords and reached for their necks as they fell after them.
Coughran turned to find Dray ponderously walking toward him. He carried the huge sword over one shoulder. In his other hand he held a heavy leather bag. He smiled. “I don’t know how far I can go without my mule, but I will go so long as I can put one foot before the other.”
Coughran pointed into the dark. “We’ll take their wagon. They meant for us to ride in it anyway.” He led Dray to the dark shape, finding two horses hitched and ready. They staggered around to the back and saw a body stretched prone upon the bed. White eyes stared wildly back at them, and moans sounded frantically. Coughran reached in and tugged the gag free.
“Don’t don’t don’t hurt me!” the man sputtered. “Don’t don’t sell me, I don’t wanna be a slave!”
Dray slapped him. Coughran said, “We’re no slavers. Sit up here, I’ll cut you free.” He pulled the man out of the bed and turned him around. He used his knife to slice the bonds on his hands and those around his knees. “Where are the others?” he asked.
“They they took the other three in another another wagon,” he stuttered. “We were just sleeping and then all of a sudden I was being pulled through the wall of my cell…”
“The guards and the slavers had a deal. The guards were selling prisoners to the slavers, who would steal them out of the cells at night. Go on now, tell all your friends, tell the streets, tell everyone the crooked deal they had here. Get!”
Dray swatted the man’s backside with the flat of his great sword. The man whimpered and ran off into the night.
“I’m going to crawl up in there and lay down now,” Dray said and did just that. He snuggled his sword next to him.
Coughran said, “Where’s your mule? There’s a stable right here, probably has my horse in with the guard’s. After I get him, I’ll get your mule and we’ll leave this forsaken city.”
Dray mumbled, “Mule’s by a gate and a blacksmith.”
“Ha, big help that, every gate has at least one stable and one blacksmith near it. At least we already walked the other side of the city. Only two gates left to check. We’re heading out one of them, so if your mule’s there we’ll get it. If it not, oh well. I’m leaving here a free man.”
“Sloboda. Every man a free man,” Dray muttered. “That should not be difficult.”
“There’s that word from you again,” Coughran retorted. “I’m starting to think that’s your real name.”
Dray answered him with a snore.
Coughran found his horse as he thought. He even found a good sized mule in the same stable and took it along for good measure. Tying both animals to the rear of the wagon, he struck off for the closest gate. It was still a good hour or two before the sun would start brightening the world, but he wanted to be gone long before then.
He found Dray’s mule at the second stable he stopped at, just inside the west gate. He grumbled about how easy it would have been to find if the big man would have just looked at the sign swinging above it: West Stables.
It was a large animal and it did not take to him. Coughran had some trouble adding it to the rear of the wagon beside the other mule. The thing even tried to take a bite out of his shoulder when it thought Coughran relaxed after tying it off. He glared at it, then jerked a thumb at the slumbering Dray. “You and him are fit for each other. Difficult my ass!”
Coughran laughed and laughed as he guided the wagon out of the ugly city and away from the rising sun.
Jason M. Waltz tells heroic tales, mostly within the speculative and grand adventure genres. Jason, AKA THERogueBlade and/or The Main Rogue, was once a high octane adventure publisher sharing heroic literature at Rogue Blades Entertainment, and founder/publisher at Rogue Blades Foundation, a literary publisher exploring heroics. Jason hosts ’24 in 42,’ an author interview videcast on YouTube, and his Substack ‘Word Dancing with The Rogue,’ wherein he occasionally waxes on. And on.
Cliffhanger! Magazine 
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