The Bringer of War

Squinting his eye in the bright sunlight as it splashed off the waves, Seamus felt the salty spray on his cheeks. He was on the deck of a small cargo ship named Forever Lucky. While Stella had loudly protested being aboard any ship with such a fate tempting name, Lobo had insisted that it would sound fine in a song, and Seamus had decided to book passage aboard just to aggravate the little wizard.

Seamus was no sailor, but he had found that he adapted well to the rolling deck of the ship. Stella had not been so fortunate, and had spent her first night aboard draped over the railing, emptying the contents of her stomach. The wizard was doing better now, as he saw her making her way across the deck towards him. She was nearly knocked over by a pair of sailors as they rushed to make some adjustment that the captain insisted was urgent but looked minor to Seamus’s eyes. Squatting down on the deck, she groaned and held her head in her hands. She used the railing as a backrest and stared miserable up at the azure sky.

“Where’s your bird?” she said.

“In my cabin below,” said Seamus “Roikza’s the type of girl that prefers the evening time.”

“I’m the type that prefers solid land,” she said “how much longer till we are done with this foolishness?”

“We should be reaching Cesaro sometime tomorrow,” said Seamus “it is a charming city-”

“Tomorrow?” said Stella, fixing him with a groan. “I cannot sleep aboard this ship, Seamus! I cannot! I’m going mad, mad I tell you!”

She grabbed him by the tunic and shook him. He laughed and used his forearms to break the grip.

“Relax, love,” he said “it’ll all be over soon.”

“That line may work with the horse faced tavern wenches you plow,” said Stella “but it doesn’t help me at all.”

She levered herself to her feet and strode away from him, looking a bit pale. He cut off his angry retort, thinking he may be a bit testy if he had not slept in so long.

He thought to the bag literally bulging with coin in his quarters. The Port Gar council had been quite generous, paying him over five thousand gold for his efforts. He had left a good deal of it with several banks, and had given Murdoch five hundred and Stella two hundred. Lobo had received, as of yet, nothing from the dragon slayer, but neither had he asked for anything.

Seamus’s brow wrinkled as he wondered about the minstrel. Stella was clearly smitten with him, but Lobo rebuffed her advances, albeit politely. If the big man had not known better, he would have thought that the blonde haired slender fellow had amorous thoughts towards himself. Often the musician would find him aboard the ship and pump him for details of his life, ostensibly for the epic he was writing. Still, Seamus felt as if he leaned a bit too close, laughed a bit too quickly at the big man’s infrequent attempts at humor.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the minstrel arrived on deck. He was wearing flowing, blouse like garments as he always did. Seamus mused that he probably did so too hide his scrawny body from the women who seemed to swoon in his path. The thought had a smile on his face, which Lobo misinterpreted as an invitation to join him at the rail.

“How fare you this day, dragon slayer?” said Lobo, leaning up against the rail. Seamus turned to face the sea, mystified as always by the lack of land in sight.

“Just getting some fresh air, Lobo,” he said. “You know, enjoying the quiet?”

“Say no more,” said Lobo apologetically “I shall disturb you no further. I will merely sit here and enjoy the quiet with you.”

“Don’t go through the trouble,” mumbled Seamus.

“What?” said Lobo. “Oh, right, quiet time.”

They sat that way for several minutes, Seamus studiously ignoring the musician. In time, Lobo began to hum, very low, but for some reason it grated on the big man’s nerves.

“Could you stop that?” said Seamus.

“Stop what?” said Lobo with a grin. Seamus wanted to slap his smooth, hairless jaw.

“You were humming,” he said, forcing himself not to shout.

“Oh,” said Lobo “was I? I don’t think I was humming.”

“You were definitely humming,” said Seamus.

“I don’t think so,” said Lobo, turning his big blue eyes upon him. “Maybe you heard the deck of the ship, as it sometimes groans under the weight of the waves.”

“It was you,” said Seamus in irritation, standing up straight to face the smaller man. “You, and you alone, who was humming.”

“Well, if I was,” said Lobo, spreading his arms wide “I am sorry.”

“Okay then,” said Seamus “because you were humming.”

“If you insist,” said Lobo.

“Not because I insist,” said Seamus. “Because you were.”

“I am agreeing with you that I may have hummed,” said Lobo.

“You are irritating the piss out of me!” shouted Seamus, seizing the man by his biceps and lifting him from his feet. The minstrel felt light as a feather in his arms, as if he were scooping up a child or a woman.

“All right, Seamus,” said Lobo with a grin, as if the reaction was exactly what he had been hoping for “I was humming. I concede the point. Put me down please.”

Seamus complied, and set the minstrel none too gently on his feet.

“You’re strong,” said Lobo, squeezing his arms and wincing.

“Real men,” said Seamus “aren’t afraid to do some honest labor once in a while! You cannot get arms like these by strumming all day, you know.”

“I suppose not,” said Lobo, looking with admiration at Seamus’s muscular arms, which made the man wish for long sleeves. “Often have I seen you of late, practicing thrusts with your sword on the deck in the early hours of the morning.”

“I was never a great swordsman,” said Seamus with a shrug “and losing three fingers hasn’t helped any. I need to be able to defend myself.”

“And slay a dragon,” said Lobo “will the spear you have wrapped up in your cabin truly resist the ravages of the dragon’s blood?”

“The smith Daveed swore that it would,” said Seamus. “I hope the shield is as sturdy, or my career will be very short.”

“Aye,” said Lobo “hunting the same dragon twice. I wonder if you can finagle a double payment out of that...”

“I seek to finish what I started,” said Seamus “no more, and no less.”

Lobo stared into his hard eye and nodded.

“You are driven,” he said “more driven, more...passionate than other men, though you keep it bottled up inside. I will go, and trouble you no further good Seamus.”

As the man strode sinuously away, Seamus cocked an eyebrow. He was not certain, but he felt as if the minstrel had been testing him somehow, and had passed.

“Hooray,” said Seamus, burying his face in his hands “I suppose now he’ll be wanting to hang around and write a sequel!”

** *

Thurston spent three days in agony, expecting, and hoping for, death. His flame ravaged flesh bore no resemblance to his former manhood. His shaft had been burned down to a nub, with a blistered slit that caused him horrific pain when his body forced urine out of it. His testes had not been spared, having burned so badly the village physicker had no choice but to sever the tiny shreds of tissue holding them on his body.

The mayor now lay on his back, staring up at the face of the physicker. He was an older man, having once served in the Amber wars during his apprenticeship. The old fool was trying to cheer him up, going on about how Thurston could still live a full, long life without his privates.

“It is not as if you lost an arm, a leg, or even an eye,” said the physicker, putting a hand on Thurston’s arm. “Why, when you get to my age nothing works right down there anyway. You will learn to adapt to these changes my boy.”

“Stop your prattling,” said Thurston, his rasping voice filled with ice. “How many have you told, old man?”

“What now?” said the medicine man, cocking his head to the side.

“How many have you told that Thurston Taal is no longer a man,” he said. “Your wife? Your grandchildren? How many tongues now wag about the village? How many stifled chortles and pitying gazes must I endure?”

“I have told no one, just as you bade me,” said the physicker. “Being angry is normal, boy, you must-”

Thurston lunged out of bed, wrapping his hands around the old man’s spindly throat. The physicker gasped for air, his hands clawing at the mayor’s wrists. With cold blooded ruthlessness, Thurston ignored the red weals scraped along his skin as the old man’s eyes grew glassy.

“You know,” he said “I think you are right. Being a eunuch is not making killing you any more difficult.”

The physicker’s hands went limp, his voice choked off forever. Thurston dropped the man to the floor and set about getting dressed. His course of action was clear. The Allfather had spared his life that he may find the abomination that ruined him and send her to the fires of the Inferno.

He left the old man where he lay, not caring about the wrath of mortal authorities.

After all, what could they do to a man with nothing to lose?

Leaving the physicker’s hut, he stood in warm sunshine that seemed to mock his condition with its cheerfulness. Yes, the sun would continue to shine, birds would continue to sing in the branches, and folk would go about their lives as before, while he was forced to live as half a man.

A sudden flash of inspiration hit him. He remembered the old fool Davros calling Father Cornelius Bruce. Asked where his eye patch was...

Circling around the back of the physicker’s hut, he headed for the priest’s residence. He severed the thin leather curtain blocking the empty doorway and went inside. The domicile was neat and tidy, and a cursory search turned up nothing of note. He tossed the man’s clothes to the floor as he emptied the battered old dresser. Finding nothing but bare wood, he angrily shoved the drawer back so he might check the one below it. So violent was his motion that the drawer went in crookedly and cracked, still jutting about halfway open. Thurston tried in vain to shove it in all the way, then swore in frustration as he could not remove it either. Seizing it with both hands, he put one foot against the drawer below and yanked with all his might.

He ended up on his arse, the drawer flung over his head to crash against the wall. Cursing loudly, the gingerly rose to his feet, his burned loins causing him great agony. He glanced over at the damnable object which had caused his injury, splintered on the floor. Something glinted in the sunlight amid the shards, something that looked like coin...

Falling to his knees, his pain momentarily forgotten, he dug through the remains of the drawer and pulled up a spool of silver thread. He unwound a bit of it, amazed at how the priest could leave behind something worth so much money. Putting the strand in his mouth, he bit into the surface to test if it was truly silver and not some other metal.

He dropped the spool to the floor, which unwound as it spiraled through the air, when the length in his mouth lit up brightly. In a panic he tried to extract it, finding that it seemed to be fused to his tongue.

“Allfather, forgive me!” he wailed. “I did not seek to rob a priest! I did not!”

** *

Many miles away, in Fort Drakken, Roland sat at his great desk, stacks of parchments neatly arranged in six piles. He was sweating, his head thrown backwards to rest upon the back of his padded chair. A low groan escaped from his thin lips, and his body shuddered. He dabbed at the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief. A sudden scowl crossed his face and he reached his hand below the desk.

“You are not finished yet,” he said harshly.

“But I am, lord, I have received your-” came the muffled feminine voice below the desk.

“Quiet now,” he said, cutting her off in more ways than one. “I have a better use for your mouth than speaking...”

His eyes were half lidded once more, and he began to relax against the chair. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he sat up straight, causing a ruckus below the desk. He stared hard at the silver spool on his desk, now possessed of a dull reddish glow.

“What is wrong, my lord?” said the pretty young servant clambering out from under the desk.

“Nothing,” he said “leave me now, I have something important to do.”

“I live to serve,” she said, giving his exposed member a playful slap on the way out. He scowled up at her as she skipped out the door. Making himself modest, he sat back in his chair and unwound a bit of the spool.

“Let us see why you have delayed so in carrying out your task, Crown.” he said, putting the strand in his mouth.

** *

“Hello?” came the voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once to Thurston. “Crown, is that you, man?”

“Who’s there?” said Thurston, sprawling about on his hands and knees. “Where are you? Come out where I can see you!”

“You’re not Crown,” said the voice. “I know not who you are, fool, but the spool you have is property of the king!”

“I did not take it from the king,” said Thurston, finally convinced that he was not speaking one on one with the Allfather. “I took it from a priest.”

“The priest,” said the voice “serves the crown. What has become of him?”

“I know not,” said Thurston “he has fled Ravensford, along with the black knight and his faerie wench, or he has been slain and lies in the woods.”

“I see,” said Roland, grinning back in his office. “Perhaps you could assist me, friend. Opportunities like this do not come along very often, I assure you. Would you like to serve the king, my good man?”

“What kind of rewards can you offer me?” said Thurston.

“Coin, prestige, the backing of the royal army should you need it,” said Roland.

“What must I do?” said Thurston.

“Be the eyes and the ears of the king,” said Roland. “Find out what things are said and done when folk believe they are far beyond our sight.”

“Who are you?” said Thurston. “You’re not the king, surely.”

“I don’t think you need to know who I am just yet,” said Roland smugly. “We shall see how useful you are first.”

“Useful?” said Thurston, sneering. “Would you like to know that there is a rebel camp not far from here?”

“That is actually known to us,” said Roland “though we are not aware of the exact location-”

“I have been to it, seen it with my own eyes, touched its stone walls with my own hands,” said Thurston.

“This is the beginning,” said Roland “of a beautiful working relationship.”

Thurston grinned, his eyes cold and hard.