Tides of Faith: Travail of The Dark Mage Book Two (89 page)

With his foot, the man scraped away
the charcoal circle. He then moved another five paces farther back
and drew another circle. With a grin, he motioned for Potbelly to
take his position.

“As you wish,” Potbelly said. “This
time for half a silver each?”

“Done.”

Placing his foot within the circle
again, he raised his knife, focused on the target, and threw. This
time it hit dead center. He turned to the man with a satisfied
grin. “Beat that.”

Six men threw as well and though they
came close, none matched Potbelly’s proficiency. Collecting the
three silvers in winnings, he turned to head back to the
table.

“Another throw,” the man
said.

Potbelly saw trouble in the man’s
gaze; he shook his head. “Two’s enough for me.”

The man’s knife came up. “I
insist.”

“Now look,” Potbelly began, “I don’t
want trouble. We had a fair test of skill and you lost. It would be
best if you left it at that.” From the corner of his eye, he saw
Scar get to his feet and slowly move their way.

“We think we’ve been
cheated,” the man said. “Ain’t no way the gods are going to favor a
man two times running on the ‘
toss
.”

“Cheated?” Potbelly asked.
“How?”

The man failed to reply. Instead, he
said, “We want our money back.”

“Not going to happen. You lost. Had I
lost, I would have gladly handed over my coins. But I didn’t.” His
hand moved to rest upon the hilt of his sword as he faced off with
the man.

The five other men who had
tossed against Potbelly drew their knives. Patrons of the
Teeth
backed away as
conversations died throughout the common room. From back-corner
whispers drifted the sound of men placing bets; whether on the odds
of a fight breaking out or whether Potbelly would survive the
coming clash of arms wasn’t clear.

As the six men maneuvered to encircle
Potbelly, the hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard broke the
silence.

“Is your life worth three bits of
silver?” Scar asked as the tip of his sword pressed into the back
of the man’s neck who had accused Potbelly of cheating.

The knifers froze.

Potbelly drew his sword.

“I believe I asked you a question,”
Scar said, voice full of menace. “It won’t be repeated.”

In answer, the man’s knife fell to the
floor. As Scar’s gaze roved over the others, their knives too were
dropped to the floor.

“It was a fair
‘toss
, right?” Scar
asked; he punctuated the word ‘right’ by pressing his blade into
the man’s neck a little bit harder. A droplet of blood welled forth
and dripped down through sweat and dirt.

Licking his lips, the man replied,
“Yes.”

“All right then.”

He removed the sword from the man’s
neck and slid it back into its scabbard.

“Nicely done.”

Turning toward the voice, Scar’s face
lit up. “Tork!”

Five feet nothing, a patch over his
left eye and stooped with age, Tork was hardly an impressive sight.
In his right hand he leaned upon a cane.

“This him?” Potbelly asked.

“That he is,” Scar replied. He
gestured to their table. “Shall we?”

Tork nodded and shuffled over and
sat.

“Ale for our friend!” Scar hollered to
the barmaid. Another round was shortly delivered.

“Thank you,” Tork said as he took a
sip.

“Always thought it would be Jimbo
coming to lay claim to the map.”

“He felt it best if we took care of it
for him,” Scar lied. “He can’t get around like he used
to.”

“Who can?” Tork took another
sip.

Scar drained his ale, called for
another and nearly emptied that mug as well. “Do you have
it?”

“Not on me, no,” he explained. “One my
age cannot go around with such things on my person.” He eyed Scar,
then Potbelly. “I believe there was mention of some sort of
remuneration?”

Scar produced a small coin purse and
set it before the old man.

Tork hefted it, glanced at the gold
within, nodded and then placed it within his shirt. “Come with
me.”

He used his cane to get to his feet,
wobbled there a moment, then started for the door.

Downing the rest of his ale, Scar
followed with Potbelly right behind.

Outside, shadows had grown long; the
sun had begun to dip below the horizon.

“We understand that there is yet a
third piece of this map?” Potbelly asked.

“You are correct, young fellow,” Tork
said. “Matlin’s his name. Likes to be alone; never was one for the
company of others. Think he took to living by himself; but haven’t
heard from him for many a year.”

“Old Jim said he lived just up the
mountain from a village called Wayside?”

The old man shrugged. “Possibly. Last
I heard he was somewhere near there. But like I said, he isn’t one
that enjoys being disturbed.”

He shuffled along at an agonizingly
slow pace. From a side alley ahead, a man emerged and turned toward
them. It was clear they were his destination.

Tork spied him, came to a stop and
glanced over his shoulder. “You boys in trouble?”

Scar shook his head. “Not that we know
of.”

“Never been here before,” Potbelly
added. “Only been in town less than a day.”

Scar eyed the old man.
“Why?”

The question had barely left his lips
before he noticed the man coming their way. The set of his jaw, the
steel of his gaze and the fact that his left hand clutched a dagger
said this was the trouble to which the old man referred.

“Let me deal with him,” Tork
said.

“Gladly,” Potbelly replied.

“Who is he?”

Scar’s question remained unanswered as
the man drew near.

“Out of the way, Tork,” the man
demanded.

Raising his cane, Tork placed the end
against the man’s chest. “What business do you have here,
Verin?”

Verin pointed to Potbelly. “This man
sullied my Adele.” Grabbing the cane, he made to thrust it aside
but the length of wood flashed brightly and knocked his hand away.
A second flash forced him back a step.

“Lay not your hands upon me or
mine!”

“Beware, Old Man.”

“No,
you
beware. Your quarrel is with him,
not me. Keep that in mind lest you rue this night.”

Verin looked on the point of spitting
the old man with his knife right then and there. But something in
Tork’s gaze made him take a step back and to the side.

Tork turned back to Scar and Potbelly.
“If you survive, come to my shack.”

“Where can we find it?” Scar asked,
never once taking his eyes off Verin.

Pointing along the street ahead of
them, he said, “Out past the edge of town. Look for the split
oak.”

He turned back to Verin, grunted and
muttered under his breath about the dregs of society, the old man
then continued up the street.

Scar and Potbelly made to follow but
Verin barred their way. His knife blade was pointed at
Potbelly.

“You have an accounting,
dog.”

“I’m sure I have no idea about what it
is you seem dead set to get killed over,” Potbelly said. “I don’t
know any Adele.”

Verin’s face turned red.
“This afternoon, at the
Keg and
Bottle
….”

“Oh.”

Scar turned to his friend.
“Oh?”

Potbelly glanced to Verin. “The
barmaid?”

“My
Betrothed
!”

“Took her for a tumble did you?” asked
Scar.

“I did not know she was your
betrothed,” argued Potbelly. “She definitely never mentioned you,
only the coin she required.”

“You lie!” spat Verin. “Adele is as
pure as the falling snow.”

“Man, you don’t know her very well if
you think that,” Potbelly countered. “She did things that would
make…”

Verin screeched an inarticulate sound
and shot forward, knife thrusting for Potbelly’s
midsection.

Scar danced out of the way while
Potbelly stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. When the
man slashed sideways, Potbelly blocked the attack with his forearm
then knocked him backward with a kick in the stomach.

Verin stumbled, nearly hit the ground
but recovered quickly. Upon righting himself, he found Potbelly
with sword and dagger in hand.

“Need any help?” offered
Scar.

“Hardly think so,” Potbelly replied.
Then to Verin, “Sir, I apologize to you and your betrothed. I truly
did not know she belonged to you.”

Verin ignored his attempt at
reconciliation. He stepped forward with an overhand
hack.

Potbelly easily deflected the downward
thrust with his sword. Managed to turn Verin nearly ninety degrees
and for an added insult, kicked him in the seat of his pants
causing him to lose his balance and hit the ground.

“Now,” he began, “I do not wish to
kill you. You can’t win; why don’t you just accept my apology and
live another day?”

“Yes,” agreed Scar. “I’m
sure your Adele would much prefer you alive.” He glanced to
Potbelly then noticed the altercation had drawn the attention of
some of the townsfolk. One ran off toward
The Gnashing Teeth.

Verin got back to his feet.

“You cannot defile my betrothed and
live,” he cried. Rushing forward, he again tried to stab Potbelly.
This time, Potbelly met the attack with his dagger; caught the
blade between his blade and the crossguard, and twisted. Verin’s
knife fell to the ground.

The man stepped back with Potbelly’s
sword pressing into his abdomen. “I’ve had enough of this. Either
accept my apology…or die.”

“Watch out!” came Scar’s warning, but
too late.

A man ran from the crowd, dove, and
crashed into Potbelly. Both men tumbled to the ground.

The sound of Scar’s twin swords
leaving their scabbards came a split-second before the crash of
metal on metal. Another from the crowd had rushed Scar with a short
sword.

Scar knocked it aside once, twice and
then on the man’s third lightning quick attack, followed with a
thrust of his second sword taking him in the right shoulder. Not a
killing blow but one that left his sword arm useless and the man’s
short sword in the dirt.

Potbelly had regained his feet and the
two friends stood back to back in an ever growing ring of
opponents. Sword, maces, knives, more than a dozen men encircled
them.

“Killers!”

“Murderers!”

“Thieves
!”

Two women had come to the man’s aid
and were even now tearing his shirt and seeing to the
wound.

Verin had by this time reclaimed his
knife and was whipping the others up into a killing
frenzy.

“They soiled my Adele!” he shouted.
Cries of outrage followed.

“Her honor must be
avenged!”

“Kill them both!” a man
shouted.

Scar faced a man towering over a foot
taller than himself. The giant of a man bore a mace as long as his
long swords having a head the size of a pumpkin dotted with three
inch spikes. He swung it with an ease belying its obvious
weight.

“Come on,” Scar said, beckoning with a
sword taunting him. “You wish to be the first to die this
night?”

With a cry, the giant of a man leapt
forward. Using both hands, he swung a powerful strike at Scar’s
midsection.

Stepping back and to the side he
waited for the massive weapon to pass through where he had just
stood, then shot forward. One sword took the man’s arm just below
the wrist, severing flesh and nerves. Fingers grew slack and the
mace fell. As the man cried out, Scar’s second sword came in from
the side to rake across his chest; opening up shirt and flesh. The
tip scrapped across ribs and blood flowed free.

The crowd stood stunned as Scar
twisted and knocked the giant back on his butt with a roundhouse
kick to the chest. For a moment, silence reigned supreme. Then with
a roar, the armed men rushed forward en masse.

Verin was the first to reach Potbelly.
His attack lacked any finesse as had the previous ones. This time,
Potbelly didn’t pull any punches. He twisted, allowed Verin to
close and sunk his knife into the man’s chest. As he pulled the
knife free, Potbelly struck him in the side of the head with the
pommel of his sword. Even as another man wielding a sword closed
with the pit fighter, Verin fell to the ground dead.

Blades danced as Potbelly with his
sword and dagger stood back to back with Scar and his twin long
swords. Their dance of death claimed man after man and still they
kept coming. Then as Scar faced off against two men with swords, he
caught sight of movement atop a nearby building.