Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two (88 page)

“So,” James said, “are you
in?”

Jiron glanced from James, to Miko,
then back before nodding.

James breathed a sigh of relief and
grinned. Slapping his friend on the back, he said, “Great. Now,
let’s go build us a temple.”

Story to continue in

Book Three of

Travail of the Dark
Mage

(as yet
untitled)

Bones and Daggers

-Each player begins with 10 Daggers
and 5 Bones.

-Object of the Game: Capture all the
enemy’s Bones.

-Playing field is typically a square
board 12 x 12 though in some areas this varies.

-At beginning, each player can place
his pieces on any spot and in any configuration in the three rows
closest to them.

-Object of the game is to take all the
opposing player's Bones.

-Daggers can capture either the
opponent’s Daggers and Bones. Bones can capture nothing.

-when captured, the Bone is placed
beneath their captor and the Dagger becomes a Long Dagger, able to
move 2 spaces.

-each subsequent capture adds another
move.

-the default limit is three moves to a
Long Dagger. If players wish the number to be different, they must
agree upon it before play begins. When no limit is imposed, players
can get Long Daggers with staggering movement
capabilities.

-there are no restrictions upon
movement.

-Bones always move one.

If an opponent’s Long Dagger is
captured, the top piece is placed beneath the capturing Long Dagger
allowing it another additional move, and all of the previously
"captured" Bones beneath it are returned to play. They can be
placed anywhere along the player's back row.

So if a player captures a Long Dagger
having 2 captured pieces beneath it, the top piece would be placed
beneath the capturing Long Dagger, and the two captured Bones would
return to play on the capturing player’s back row.

Sayings:

-
'Bleeding in the Gutter'
Player is
down to his last bone and defeat is imminent.

Preview of the first book in the new
series entitled

The Improbable Adventures
of

Scar and Potbelly

This book has yet to be
titled

-1-

Smoke hung heavy in the
common room of
The Gnashing
Teeth
. A seedier dive on the waterfront,
the
Teeth
held the
reputation of being the hairy, unwashed armpit of Castin, a large
port on the Sorba Sea. Those who pass through her doors were the
worst of the worst and as likely as not, blood would flow as easily
as the ale.

Already this evening, two men had
tested fate and lost; one had been thrown out with a knife wound in
his side that most considered fatal. He had deserved it or so the
bystanders would say if any dared ask; none would. The other had
his head cracked open by a bottle. He currently laid comatose
beneath a table where three others finished the game he was caught
cheating at. And all this before the sun had even reached the
horizon.

A man stalked the streets of Castin
with purpose; a dagger deftly tucked in the sleeve of his jacket. A
simple twist and forward jerk of his arm would find its hilt in his
hand, ready for whatever mayhem may be required.

Those in the street who happened to
meet his gaze quickly lowered theirs and backed out of his way. The
hardness in his eyes and the purposeful stride warned all but the
foolish it would be best to leave this man alone.

He hunted. There was blood needing to
be shed and come hell or high water it would flow before the last
rays of the setting sun faded from the world. A wrong must be
righted, a slight must be avenged; a life must end.

“Are you sure he said to meet him
here?”

Having disembarked the
galley upon which they had booked passage, Scar and Potbelly walked
along the pier until coming to the dockside road. A hundred feet to
the left and down a short alley found them before
The Gnashing Teeth
. Three
people languished around the door; whether they were alive or dead
was impossible to tell.

“Yes,” Scar replied. “We sail in the
morning and either we meet him here, now, or our journey will be
for naught.”

Moving to the door, Potbelly took the
lead and pulled the handle. As the door swung open, a hand reached
out from one of the nearer comatose bodies to grip his ankle. The
suddenness of it made him jump but the hand failed to relinquish
its grip. It nearly caused him to lose his balance.

“What the…,” he cried,
startled.

“Coins, good sir,” a raspy voice
begged. “Could ya’ spare a coin fer an old beggar?”

Potbelly yanked back his leg but the
hand refused to yield.

One of Scar’s two long swords leapt
from its sheath, its blade came to rest upon the beggar’s exposed
wrist.

“Let go,” he said, “or lose your
hand.”

The hand quickly released its grip and
vanished back into the soiled rags the beggar wore.

“Coins…”

“Out of our way,” Scar
said. Sheathing his blade, he strode with Potbelly into
The Gnashing Teeth
.

A few faces turned their way upon
entering, but for the most part, they were ignored.

Smoke filled the common
room. The way it melded with the rank smell of unwashed bodies and
a hundred other unpleasantnesses gave the
Teeth
a fetid atmosphere. Off to one
side near the wall, sat a table with but one occupant; passed out
and still clutching his mug of ale.

Scar motioned toward it and they
headed over. When they arrived, Scar nudged the table’s occupant
with his boot, tipping him to the side and on to the floor. He took
the man’s seat and waved for the serving woman.

Cold eyes that held not the least bit
of humanity stared out from beneath curly locks matted to her
sweaty forehead when she arrived.

“What do you want,” she
grumbled.

“Well…” began Scar.

“Ale?” she asked, interrupting
him.

Scar got that look saying he was a bit
annoyed and trouble would not be far off.

“Two, please,” Potbelly replied
quickly.

She grunted and returned to the
bar.

“This could be the worst dive we’ve
ever been in.”

Turning to his best friend and
comrade, Scar nodded. “It’s worse than Jake’s over in
Tillman.”

Potbelly laughed, then glanced to the
floor where the table’s previous occupant still lay. “At least Jake
removes those who can no longer drink.”

Scar motioned toward a body pushed all
the way against the wall not ten feet from where they sat. “Or
breathe.”

The waitress returned and plunked down
two mugs, not caring that she spilled a goodly portion upon the
table. Potbelly handed her a couple coppers. She took the coins,
eyed each in turn, first Scar then Potbelly, as if they were about
to rob the place. Then turned about without a word and headed for
another table.

“Wonder how many bodies she accounts
for in a year?”

Scar watched her leave, then turned
back to Potbelly. “If it’s less than a dozen I’d be surprised.” He
picked up his mug for a drink but paused upon spying bits of
crusted-on material coating most of the rim. Using part of his
sleeve, he wiped off a section before taking a drink.

“I’m still not sure we aren’t on some
wild goose chase,” Potbelly stated.

“Look,” Scar replied, “for the
hundredth time, Old Jim said that this was on the up and
up.”

“Old Jim is crazy,”
Potbelly argued. “Not exactly
there
if you know what I mean. There’s a reason he’s the
town kook.”

Scar pulled out an old, ragged piece
of cloth and held it up so as not to be noticed by the others in
the bar. “He was right about where to find this.”

Potbelly rolled his eyes. “Under a
rock in the old cemetery? I bet you a gold the old kook drew the
thing himself, put it there, and is now laughing at our
gullibility.”

Slipping it back in his shirt, Scar
just shook his head. “When Tork arrives, we’ll know the truth about
it.”

“If there even is a Tork.”

“I tell you I met him this morning,”
Scar said. “He’ll be here.”

Potbelly wasn’t fully
convinced.

“Yesterday when we arrived,
we sent a message to the local baker saying ‘Three loaves for
Tork,’ and that they were to be delivered to the
Golden Sunrise
. Just like
Old Jim said to. And when you were off with that barmaid, Tork
showed up and set up this meeting.”

“It all sounds hinky to
me.”

One day, Old Jim sold Scar part of a
map to a buried treasure and told him there were two other
sections, each held by compatriots of his. One was Tork here in
Castin and the other lived as a hermit in a hut just a two-day sail
away and short ride up the mountain. Comrades of long ago before
hair turned white and shoulders drooped with age.

Shouting broke out at a table two
removed from theirs; three men leapt to their feet as the table was
thrust aside and metal flashed. An enraged man of middling years
sliced with his knife at a younger, dark haired man.

Dancing back, the younger man sought
in vain to avoid the attack; a line of red opened up along his
abdomen.

“That could be bad,” commented
Scar.

Potbelly sipped his ale and watched
with some interest as the younger man drew his short sword and
lunged forward. The older man easily dodged aside and swiped
backhanded with his knife slicing a three inch long furrow just
above the young man’s elbow.

“A silver on the knifer.”

Potbelly shook his head. “That’s a
fool’s bet. He’ll kill that younger man.” Having fought in the Pits
for several years now, he could easily tell that the older man
outclassed his opponent by a goodly margin.

As the two combatants closed again,
the third man at the table reached out, grabbed each by the hair on
the back of the head, knocked their heads together and said,
“Enough!”

The older man turned on him flushed
with anger. His knife held at the ready.

“A silver says he strikes.”

“Done,” Potbelly replied then waited
to see how it would unfold.

“Put it down before you get killed,”
the third man said. Clearly the senior of the three, he bore an air
of command and surety.

Whispered betting from throughout the
common room could be heard in the brief silence that
followed.

When the short sword dipped down, both
curses and laughter joined the exchange of coins as losers paid
winners. Scar tossed Potbelly a silver.

“Thought for sure he was going to do
it.”

Taking the coin, Potbelly eyed it,
“And glad I am you did.”

Scar flashed him a sour look before
laughing. “Next time.”

The three men righted their
table and the knifer bound the wound on his arm with a dirty rag.
When they sat back down and it looked as if no further altercations
was in the offing, the common room resumed its customary buzz in
wait for the next time. For sure as metal parted flesh, in
The Gnashing Teeth
,
trouble was a sure bet.

Another ale followed the first as they
waited for Tork to arrive. A group of men threw daggers at a
charcoal “X” drawn on the wall some fifteen feet away. The object
was to have your dagger strike as close to where the two lines
crossed as possible.

Daggers flew, one man laughed while
the others cursed and paid him his winners.

Potbelly eyed the game with interest.
“How long do we have?”

A glance out the window showed the sun
nearing the horizon. “Not long,” Scar replied. “Tork said he’d be
here around sundown.”

Pulling out his knife, Potbelly got up
and said, “Be right back.”

The men grew quiet as Potbelly
arrived. He held up three coppers, one man nodded and motioned for
him to take his place. Potbelly place his foot within the charcoal
circle drawn on the floor and readied his knife.

He paused, drew back his knife, and
threw. Tumbling end over end but once, it embedded itself just a
hair’s width above the junction of the two lines.

Four others threw but none came close.
Potbelly took their coins and made to rejoin Scar, but the men
insisted they have another throw. Potbelly agreed. When he moved to
place his foot in the charcoal circle, one of the men held up his
hand and shook his head.