Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One (17 page)

Chapter 11: Arenas & Alleyways

“Wanted men are rarely desirable company.”

Cansule the Grey

5854 – Thon – Talsā – Therin

Stadia Isle was a pirate’s haven run by Beldwyn the Black. The pirate had made this reef encircled island into a base of operations for privateers and less savory types in the Sea of Seron. The island laid a half week’s sail west of the Shady Wood – a haunted forest that protected the Aeifain from visitors from the north – and almost twice that distance to the south of the Slim Desert. The Sea of Seron had a dark past of its own, named for a wizard that legend says drew so much energy that he collapsed the coastline in his bid for power thousands of years ago.

The island itself, surrounded by coral reefs, was inaccessible without knowing the proper sailing tack and path. Dozens of ships were breached and sunk every decade by these hidden barriers. The white sands and swaying palms were warm most of the year, and hurricanes almost never found the retreat. The main town was a warren of two and three story wooden buildings with rope or slat bridges connecting the larger structures. Men often went days without ever feeling the burning sands between their toes. Sailors said that it was like never leaving a ship deck, feeling the sway of the ground under you was natural for them.

When the island was found by sailors it was rife with sugar cane, and lent itself to farming, as well as the production of some of the best rums available. A mystery that laid waiting was the dozen or so stone arenas around the island, from a small two-man ring that sat a hundred people to the massive coliseum that could house thousands. Beldwyn retired from a life of piracy here and began a bid to create the most profitable business of selling jobs, raids, and trade goods on the water. He also made quite a business of arena fighting.

Ten of crew of the Lady Luck and Rogen rowed ashore, bringing a few bales and crates to sell or pay off debts, and the standard payment and bribes for the local government and officials. Bezel, in his long coat of navy blue, handled these transactions before excusing himself to go visit one of the many local brothels. Jumper leapt at the opportunity, as did the sour, muttering Kytson who scratched at his eyepatch and the slack patch of skin around his empty left socket. Rogen broke away, claiming he had a few tasks to take care of before he could enjoy the local color and hospitality.

Each man was well versed in the etiquette of shore leave. They knew when they had to leave, and any trouble they caused was theirs alone to handle. They also knew to never mention the Captain was a woman.

Vonka, the pilot of Lady Luck, had dressed in his finest purple coat with gold braids for button loops, and led the way to an open-air pub. Conald, the ship’s carpenter, had worn a fine canary blouse and tried look everywhere at once as Warton the cook knowingly pointed out all the local sights and legends. Cutter excused himself from the others, looking to replenish his surgeon supplies. Tart, Puffer, and Treat - the ship powder monkeys and swabbies – trailed after the main group like a trio of excited puppies; yapping and chasing anything that interested them before rejoining the others.

When they arrived at the Argent’s Rest, they settled into a long table and waved a wench over for rum and a portion of the pig that slowly turned on the spit over the fire pit in the sand. The men began the task of becoming well intoxicated and losing money on dice games, while filling their bellies. Well after noon, but hours before sunset, barefoot women in silks rose at the beckon tattoo of drums and began to dance. Their feet shuffled to the rhythm as their arms swayed, and their hips bumped and thrust to the beat.

The tavern itself was a whitewashed two-story building overlooking the dazzling emerald green of the ocean, and built in the shape of a “U”, so the courtyard of sand, tables, and fire pit was sheltered from the outside world. The inside was a large bar and dozens of tables, private dining rooms off to one side, and gambling tables off to the other. Inside or out, girls would lean on the upstairs railing and crook a finger at their next private customer, or mingle in the throng of men below, as they chose.

The six men had settled in after eating, enjoying the warm sea breezes turning chill after the noon had past. The sun wouldn’t set for hours yet, but it would be a cool night. Vonka waved girls over, and in his outlandish accent offered salt water taffy and candied treats that he made on board, while Warton blustered to the three women on his lap about his amazing conquests. The women giggled at both, Vonka because they couldn’t understand him but loved his treats, Warton because half what he said didn’t make much sense or contradicted itself, like a child bragging about his exploits of fighting monsters in the woods. Conald sat apart, tinkering with some pieces of wood, making a small catapult on the table to fling grapes at his crewmates. Tart, Treat, and Puffer all pressed close to the two older men and the women around them, trying to impress the ladies with choruses of “Me too!”, “I was there for that!”, and “I have a scar from that, and want to get a tattoo!”.

“The walrus of my anger shall slurp up the fishy arrogance of any man who says different with his tusks of truth!” Warton blustered, shaking a fist in the air as the women giggled.

“Well. I don’t believe it,” came an answer from a well-built and tanned man, stripped to his waist, which was wrapped with bright red sash, a cutlass stuck through it. His oiled black hair was pulled back with a leather tie, made his forehead seem too big, and showed off his one massive eyebrow. His thick nose flared as he stood towering above the table, fists on his hips. Two hyena-like men sniggered and cackled behind him, leaning out from behind him and sneering at the crew of the Lady Luck. “I have sailed the seas for a dozen years and never seen a sea turtle big enough for four men to lie on, or a whale with a unicorn horn. I say you’re full of chum.”

“Well, I can be your chum,” Warton said, smiling at the newcomers, “I would be friend to any man if he isn’t calling me a liar.”

“What?” the big man said with confusion, his eyebrow puckering. “No, I am calling you a liar, and chum, as in blood and guts you throw in the water to make sharks go into a feeding frenzy.”

“I can see why you would think I could make sharks hungry, chum. I am impressive and sharks would envy my strength. But I am no liar!”

Warton stood, dumping the three women to the sand. The three powder monkeys, Tart, Treat, and Puffer stood also, pressing behind their cook. Conald cocked his catapult back and let a grape fly, the fruit hit the tanned man in the center of his bare chest.

“Now lads,” Vonka said, “Warton is just telling tales, no harm done, have a candy. Women love them, so you should enjoy them also.” The pilot held out a handful of the treats. The cackling lackeys reached for them as the big man swatted the hand, the candies scattering as he did.

“We ain’t no soft women to want your little chewy morsels in our mouth!” the man bellowed. The crowd around snickered, but silenced when he looked around. “You insult us, and we are going to teach you a lesson!”

“What’s going on here?” came a voice from the side. Everyone turned to see Bezel in his long navy blue coat approaching with his hands in his pockets, followed by Jumper and a grumbling Kytson, who spat a wad of brown tobacco juice into the sand. “I think we can settle this without any real problems. Let me buy you drink. Something with rum, and perhaps you enjoy something fruity? What’s your name, sailor?”

“Chrindak of the Dark Horizon,” the man said, cracking his knuckles, “you might be able to buy your way out of this fight, fat man.”

“Oh aye,” Conald threw back his whiskey in one shot, and then stood. “I think they should take a drink, before they take a beating.”

“I ain’t no fool,” Chrindak said, as Conald scoffed, “I don’t think I could beat all of you off, but I could take three of you in a fight. Pick your best!”

The crowd had quieted, watching the scene. A thin man in a white shirt and a white apron approached, wringing his hands.

“Good sirs,” the thin man said, “I am Joejoe, proprietor of the Argent’s Rest. Perhaps this is best settled in one of the many arenas?”

Bezel sighed, as the crew puffed out their chests and grinned.

Rogen sought his contact as he followed the buildings deeper into the island. Lean-tos and tarps covered an open area that served as a market place during the day and a refuge for the beggars and drunks at night. From the rope bridges above, the Rokairn understood why sailors were so comfortable here. The sea of canvas below rustled in the wind like waves, and the rope and wood catwalk swayed underfoot. He spotted the man, leaning against a pole hat held an overhead tarp, and approached him.

The dark skinned man was never a slave, but had taken many under his wing at Rogen’s request. Silver was the name the man went by, and he belonged to an ancient family line that controlled much of the trade in the central and eastern portions of continent of Teurone. Silver was dressed in leathers that were two shades darker than his skin, and wore a short bladed sword on each hip. A brace of throwing knives went across his chest, and dagger stuck out of each boot. Silver studs decorated any part of him that wasn’t covered with weapons, including his nose, ears, lip, and eyebrow.

“My friend,” Rogen said as he reached the man, holding his hand out in greeting. Silver grasped the Rokairn’s wrist in welcome, smiling broadly.

“So, now we are friends?” Silver asked, still smiling.

“Silver, I need as many friends as I can have right now, and I would be honored to call you that.”

“You’re an honorable man, Rogen, and I have long thought of you as more than just a business acquaintance. Even if you deal in the flesh trade, filthy as that is.”

“Always speaking your mind, I like that. I don’t get it enough.”

“You could have it more, just stay still and unguarded long enough for that bounty hunter to find you.”

“Is she still after me?” Rogen sighed. “I thought she had quit.”

“When there is money, they will never quit. And you did enslave her and her family, then sold them to different parts of the world. And you trained her, so she knows your ways. It’s personal though, so she has more motivation than just ten-thousand gold kords.”

“Shall we go find a table and a drink?” Rogen asked, gesturing towards a stairway to the ground.

“I think here is better,” Silver said as he shook his head. “The wind carried our words away up here, and less eyes and ears. No one looks up.”

“Very well then, what news do you have for me?”

“Your Troödian friends have killed every spy you had around them,” Silver said, leaning on the railing and scanning the walkways and rooftops for anyone who might be looking their way. “A few escaped, they mentioned a new ally, the name Kez’et-dual. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I have heard it before; it is not good news. Go on, what else?”

“In Everyway, Nomed is up to something. I don’t know if it is good or bad, but it is always interesting when he starts moving about and pulling strings. Kaht is also on the move, with her boyfriend, the dragon guy. His name is Grenedal Dragonblood, if you didn’t know already. They are trying to form up resistance against the undead and bugs that litter the land. There is a new player also, a friend of theirs, Hue Blueaxe.”

Rogen grunted and waited for Silver to go on, his hands behind in back in a military rest. Silver did go on; detailing information that was new or confirmed other news Rogen had received through notes left by his spy network. They spoke for almost an hour, Rogen asking questions to clarify what was said occasionally, but listening more than talking.

“Thank you, my friend,” Rogen said, grasping Silver’s wrist again. “Do you have my package?”

“Of course,” Silver passed the man a cloth wrapped bundle, not much larger than a book.

“And is my room ready also?”

“Yes, it wasn’t easy getting a basement on this sand trap, but I found one. It is secure. I’ll take you there for your next meeting. Just, be careful. I know the world is a dangerous place, but you’re juggling fire over a saltpeter mine.”

The men gathered to discuss their strategy for the arena. The air was warmer inland, not having the direct cooling breezes from the water. Instead it was blocked by trees, buildings, and rolling ridges of long cooled volcanic rock. The sand underfoot glittered with black volcanic glass mixed in with white and pink crushed shells. Wild birds called from tree tops, some of them mimicking human noises.

They had gathered a small crowd in one of the favorite arenas used by sailors to settle disputes. The floor had cracked as a small stream made its way through the center of the sandy floor, the stands, and the outer walls. Three dozen men crowded into a huddle, making bets, and buying drinks. Joejoe had sent a half dozen women with skins containing wine, brandy, and rum, as well as cigars and other herbs to smoke. Four men, sent to make sure everyone paid, each stood by a small cask of beer, ale, or other drink. This arena could easily seat ten times as many people,

Warton, Conald, and Jumper had been chosen to face off against three of the crew from the Dark Horizon. They stood on one side of the rivulet, surrounded by the others from Lady Luck. Tart, Puffer, and Treat were bouncing around their crewmates, jeering at the other pirate crew. Kytson was pushing the men to fight dirty and get this over quick so they would all have time for a whore before returning to the ship. Cutter reminded them of their duties and not to get hurt. A stitched sailor couldn’t climb the rigging. Bezel sauntered through the crowd of men placing bets, collecting bets of his own with odds that the others couldn’t ignore. Vonka just sat in the spectators’ area, apart from all the others, and popped candies into his mouth and occasionally shouting support for Lady Luck and her crew.