Chapter Four: Part Three

Sorry about the delay. Busy holiday. Continued from Chapter Four: Part Two

 “You wear the trappings of a Holy Assassin,” Digger said. The white man’s cold eyes drew away from Silk and fell on Digger. “Do you go about the Ferryman’s work?”

“I am not a member of his congregation,” the white man said.

“Then what’s your business killing off people in the area, eh?” Digger asked. The white man stared at Digger for a few seconds before replying.

“In the light you are bold,” the man said. Digger sniffed, frowning at the implicit accusation of lacking boldness at darker moments. He made no argument. The white man turned his eyes back to Silk and said, “You do not know me.”

Silk took his cigar out of his mouth. He breathed a wave of smoke out of his nostrils. “I don’t,” he said through the middle of the smoke. “Should I?”

“No,” the white man said. “The outlaws I have confronted recognized me, mistaking me for some rumor they heard I presume. You do not recognize me. You expected me to be who Novoselic, Bartley, Aaltonen, and Burgan mistook me to be.”

“You expected to find someone specific out here?” Digger said to Silk, frowning and annoyed. Silk looked Digger in the face. Digger took it as an affront that Silk had refrained from divulging the information earlier. The sentiment made sense, Digger having been sheriff of Súthende at the time.

“Yes,” Silk said. “I thought I knew who’d been killing your outlaws.”

“Friend of yours, was he?” Digger said, unable to keep the shortness from his voice.

“Well, an occasional business partner, at best,” Silk said.

“Who was he?” Digger said. “Is he still nearby?”

“His name is Younes,” Silk said. “I have no idea where he is.”

“You thought the messages in the murderers’ mouths came from him, eh?” Digger asked.

Silk looked back at the white man on the boulder, wondering. His unnatural, corpse-white skin looked like Younes’s, as did the raven-black of the hair just visible under the hood and the darkness around his eyes and mouth making him look utterly spent. The face, the build, the eyes, his very bearing: everything else about this man was different. Poised, practices, elegant, where Younes would be messy, angry, and forceful.

“What’s your name?” Silk asked him.

“Twig Lithnmark, a soldier in the Zombie Corps,” Twig said.

“You’re very trusting,” Silk said.

“I am in a position of power,” Twig said. “You are Silk Golinvaux. You are wanted dead by the Holy Assassins of the Ferryman.”

“Hmm,” Silk raised his eyebrow. “That’s news.” Although…Silk began to think of what he knew of the Holy Assassins and their recent movements. A handful of them had recently headed north to hunt Younes. To lend him a hand against them provided Silk with a primary motivation for coming north.

“I do not know the name Younes, except as the name of my boot camp,” Twig said.

“You’re hardly missing anything,” Silk said. He slid his sword into its sheath. “Rather the reverse of a charming fellow.” Resting his hands on the horn of his horse’s saddle, Silk considered this Twig. He wore the leather and voluminous black cloak of a Holy Assassin—staring down from the deep hood as if born in it. If he said the Holy Assassins wanted Silk dead then—though this was a logical leap—Twig must have encountered Holy Assassins and put them in a position to give up their clothes. Silk could think of no reason a Holy Assassin would relinquish their hard-earned trappings—and those leathers came at a bloody price—except if the Assassin no longer had breath and heartbeat enough to wear the clothes.

And Holy Assassins never fought a fight unless they meant to fight one. If baited, they would run. They never made mistakes choosing their targets. A fight with them is a fight to the death—usually the death of anyone but them. Clearly not in the case of Twig.

“Did you encounter Holy Assassins?” Silk asked. Twig nodded. Silk, frowning, thinking, flicked his cigar to knock the ash from the end. He put it back in his mouth. The Holy Assassins that had hunted Younes might lie not far away killed by Twig. They would know the difference between Younes and Twig.

Younes had been bringing Silk a weapon: the only weapon that could destroy Engelkind. “Trust me, it ain’t what you think,” Younes had said of it. “It can’t do anything directly. Shall need to be understood and then wielded.” Silk had thought perhaps Younes knew of a book or scroll that would describe the story of Ferryman marking Engelkind in greater detail, perhaps. From such a story Engelkind’s weakness could be divined and applied. Looking into the eyes of Twig Lithnmark, Silk began wondering whether Younes was as nuts as he seemed, and what could be done with a man, even such a strange one as stood on the boulder before them.

“Who are you writing to, then?” Digger asked, holding up one of the messages from the throats of one of the murderers. Twig looked back at Digger.

“It is an old rite. You should know it,” he said.

“Enlighten me.”

“I am sending messages to Ferryman. The ghosts of the felled men carry the words in their mouths to the next world. It is an old story.”

Digger’s eyebrows lowered. He seemed confused and somewhat dumbfounded. His hand went involuntarily to rub above his eyes as if he had heard something so utterly illogical he had no idea what to do with it. “That means the body’s own last words, not any words that happen to be there,” he said in the tone of one arguing a scriptural detail. Which it was.

“The story says the words in his mouth are carried to Ferryman,” Twig said flatly. That was also true. It was the literal translation in the story: “the words” without specifying any particular words. Silk knew the story.

“You can’t do that,” Digger said, his voice rising.

“I have done it,” Twig replied. Silk began to chuckle.

Digger shook his head. “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered.

Twig looked down with his face blank. Digger’s face tightened with frustration. He tried to master himself. Silk watched his struggle, his chuckles quiet. “Is something funny?” Digger asked, sniffing and glancing at Silk. Though the situation tickled Silk to no end, he chose not to reply. He looked back up at Twig.

“The boy is right, though. You actually can’t do it,” Silk said. Twig met Silk’s eyes without any curiosity. “Ferryman no longer replies to supplications, you see. Not in this world.”

“It is so,” Digger said, his eyes lowered to the snow at the base of the boulder where Twig stood. “None of the gods can. Not actively. They never show themselves these days. How do you not know this?”

“I have been away for a while,” Twig said. “There are many things in the world that are new. I am removed from my time.”

“What do you mean?” Silk asked.

“The War ought to be in full swing,” Twig said, then hopped off the edge of the boulder. He landed with a whumph in the thick snow on the ground. Digger raised his bow a little higher. “I am told that it has ended.”

“Yes. Many years ago,” Silk said. “You missed the end of it, then?”

“Yes,” Twig said, approaching Silk and Digger. The horses nickered and frisked as he came closer.

“The gods lost,” Silk said. “They were exiled. They went back to their city past the end of the world, forsaking their keeps to razing and ransack,” he smiled, hiding his thoughts while he considered how much to tell about the new god, Kunig, and the control that Engelkind had over one of the greatest cities of the gods. Silk decided to leave that for later. Too much too fast would do no one any good. “The gods are never seen in the world anymore.”

Happy New Year. The narrative shall resume in New Year.

Chapter Four: Part Two

Continued from Chapter Four: Part One

“You know, price the size they’ve put on you, you’re not to be attracting just any mercenary,” Digger said. They rode their horses through the hills, along the highway where the murderers had turned up dead.

“That’s reasonable,” Silk said, puffing on a cigar.

“There are only two or three scalp hunters willing to pursue a warrant so expensive,” Digger took a thoughtful tone, waving three fingers to emphasize his point. “Low-Ball and his lads might,” Digger said. Low-Ball was one of Silk’s people, from the far southern peninsula, who’d turned his skills learned pirating into a mainland trade. Though Silk knew that Low-Ball had turned governor and spent most of his time attempting to unite the southern islands into a republic, and make “honest” trade—honest understood in a diplomatic sense. In any event, Silk had little fear of Low-Ball. “Then there’s Bogeyman,” Digger went on, mentioning one of the scary stories that had graduated from merely haunting the nightmares of children to tainting the stories that hard men told each other around campfires. For years no one believed that Bogeyman existed, and the few raving men who talked of him received the “mad” label. Digger believed Bogeyman existed—as did Silk.

“He’s been tied up with business, they say,” Silk said.

“Aye, so I hear,” Digger agreed. “He’s still a danger. He isn’t already rich and he always needs money.”

“That is true,” Silk said, scratching his cheek. Bogeyman always had some expensive venture on his platter, or so folk believed.

“And my father,” Digger said with thought in his voice. “He’d be up for the chase.”

“Yes,” Silk drew out the word, smiling. “That would be a worthy chase.”

“Aye.”

“Do you think he’d take it up?” Silk asked. Digger shook his head.

“He’s distracted with his own affairs,” Digger said.

“Pity.”

“If you actually wish to be caught it is,” Digger said as they rode past some huckleberry bushes frosted with old snow.

“You have very little faith in me,” Silk said, smiling.

“I hardly know you,” Digger said. Silk chuckled.

“You forgot someone,” Silk said.

“Did I, eh?”

“Tetch Slander and his boys,” Silk said.

“There is them—gods preserve you if they like the scent,” Digger said.

“Why? I think it’d be rather a lark evading old Slander and the Scarpy,” Silk snuffed, taking his cigar out of his mouth. “I fought beside them often enough. Fighting against them presents all new puzzles.”

“You are an odd one,” Digger shook his head, raising an eyebrow. He clearly could not believe that Silk was serious. Silk chuckled again. “Do as you like. I’d really like to clarify this Engelkind point.”

“I have declared war on the man.”

 “Right, you’ve declared war on Engelkind’s institution,” Digger was saying as they rode. Silk interrupted here.

“Just the man, not his institution,” he said, snuffling. He puffed on his cigar and looked around at the pine trees growing up the sides of the steep valley. It was the only highway out of town, Digger had said. Silk was not sure it smelled believable, but it didn’t matter much. The dead murderers had been found on this road.

“Declared war on Engelking the man—greater tang of blarney to that, but I’ll leave it aside till I know better of your character,” Digger continued.

“Most gracious,” Silk said.

“What I’m hearing as the moral to the grand story is Silk wants to see Engelkind killed, eh?”

Silk nodded. He heard something in the woods roundabout. Or, rather, heard an empty where scurrying critters ought to be audible. The silence had surrounded them for some minutes now. It had washed the valley suddenly half a mile back.

“Engelkind is a dictator and a scourge on future generations—does the young lordship’s conscience like the ‘tang’ of that?” Silk said, concentrating on listening to the woods rather than to Digger.

“Nay, I find it hard to understand. Legend tells us that Engelkind is a marked man, and that Ferryman’s own instrument is the only end he’ll meet.”

“And you have trouble believing I’m Ferryman’s instrument?”

“Aye. The story says Engelkind can only be killed by a thing unknown to this world.”

Digger was quite true, of course. Silk knew the story. He found it fascinating and he’d seen enough things try and fail to kill Engelkind the warlord to believe the legend. Ferryman occasionally marked men as his own quarry. The fact was well known. Those men only died according to Ferryman’s own design. No one had ever succeeded in directing or predicting the designs of Ferryman, the god of death and the end of things. What with Ferryman disappeared from the world, and Engelkind simply proceeding to age—he must be eighty or ninety already—it presented Silk a pretty puzzle.

He thought he had perhaps cracked it. The silence around him seemed familiar. As a clue, silence was wretched. It hardly told Silk anything. He paid attention to it, though.

“Well, we shall see,” Silk said.

“It’s too quiet,” Digger said.

They let the silence lower. It breathed through the trees—a scream with no breath, no throat, no voice. The icy sky pressed down on the snow covered ground. Before them, the road lay clear like a bated snare.

A noise like a hiccuping sob interrupted the silence. Stumbling from the trees, a man fell onto the road. His coat had ripped—he held a bloody hand to a too-limp shoulder, trying to steady the dislocation. With red shot eyes leaking frustrated tears, he stared at Silk. A grin cracked his face.

“He saw you,” the man said—Krist Novoselic gone far past the edge. Novoselic ran at Digger and Silk. Stumbled, though his legs appeared uninjured he had trouble walking. His breath came in grunts and snuffs. Digger’s hand fell on the handle of his bow, but he left his arrow un-nocked. Novoselic posed no threat; he loped past Silk and Digger, smelling of blood and sweat—muttering, “ha, he saw you, ha,” as he went. They let him go.

Digger looked sideways at Silk, raising an eyebrow. No words seemed required. The mad murderer spoke frighteningly for itself. Digger loosened his big knife in its sheath. Silk drew his curved two-handed sword, so that he looked prepared, although he thought he knew what had beaten Novoselic. With the mumbling, hiccuping breaths of Novoselic falling behind them, Silk and Digger rode their horses forward at a walk.

The road rounded a bend. Thick bushes blocked the view forward till they had made they turn. Twenty yards further on, a boulder stood in the middle of the road—the road parted around it. The boulder stood ten feet tall. On it, with no apparent weapon, stood a slim man, clutching a voluminous cloak like enough to a Holy Assassin’s around his shoulders. He had the hood up, though his face--youthfully shaped but shadowed around the cold eyes and sharp lips--stared out from the dark hood. His skin had the white cast of a corpse frozen in the snow on the ground. Silk recognized the pallor and nothing else about the person. That seemed strange. Silk expected to see someone else. His surprise, damnably, showed on his face for a second. The man standing on the boulder didn’t react. He stared passively at Silk. Silk gained control over his surprise after only a second. The man probably saw it.

A brief hiatus will be taken for Christmas. Continued on December 27...

Chapter Four: Part One

Continued from Chapter Three: Part Five

Twig contemplated the last words of the last Holy Assassin he had killed: Silk the Beast. It was the name of the next target of the Holy Assassins. Twig trusted the killer’s dying words. For some reason, the Holy Assassin had felt the need to tell Twig to kill Silk. “Carry on since we no longer can,” the Assassin had said. Sometimes, people called the Assassins the Ferryman’s Messengers.

Night surrounded Twig. He sat on a stone sticking out of the side of a hall. It commanded a clear view of the road north out of town and the woods around it. With only one break, he had been sitting on the stone for three days watching the valley for motion. Animals that moved among the woods caught his eye--wind moving the trees around--occasional resettling of snow as it melted or froze. From the stone he could see a mile to both the north and south. In the time, though Novoselic the murderer had been quiet in his movements, Twig had watched him move here and there in the valley. Novoselic checked his several snares for rabbits and ferrits and birds. He caught nothing for the first two days—his hunger must have been ravening. On the third day, Twig watched the subtle bending of bracken and the rushing of little creatures that indicated Novoselic’s passage along one of the gametrails on the far side of the valley. Novoselic must have found some creature in his snare because after a short time Twig saw the glare of a small fire, lit behind a pile of stones and whitening the already white snow only a tiny bit. Cooking his meal Novoselic would remain still for a time. That suited Twig.

Rising, Twig jumped off the stone jutting from the hill. He landed in loose snow—snow from the nights on the stone fell off his shoulders. Where he landed the hillside fell steeply to the road. In the powdery snow, Twig slid down the hill, keeping his feet and pushing off the trees that got in his way. Soon he reached the flatter bottom of the valley. He scurried across the road. When he reached the far side of the valley he began running up the rising ground. It soon became too steep to run straight up the hillside. He began grabbing onto trees, swinging to the higher side of them, and leaping further up to the next tree. Soon, he gained the snow-covered pile of rocks providing Novoselic cover for his cooking fire. Twig felt the flickering heat from the fire and the gurgling heat from the murderer. The smell of a quaill being skinned tinged the mostly still air.

Landing from his last leap on a craggy stone, Twig climbed the pile. Gloves tucked into a strap on his pants, he pried his cold fingers into the snow-filled cracks in the stones, the rough edges threatening to cut his skin. He kept his movements light, protecting his hands. Soon he reached the top of the stones and crouched just past the apex, looking from under his hood down at the rough man and his little cooking fire. Novoselic had a waxpaper poster in his hands. He examined it close to the cooking fire—the quaill half-skinned in the snow beside him. The poster had the face of a far southern man, with thick black hair and a trimmed goattee. In the etching his eyes looked intense and he smiled wildly. The poster said, “Wanted: Silk Golinvaux, enemy of the state. Known psudonyms: The Beast, Garrote, Black Ghost…” The list continued. It never listed his crimes--though it offered a huge reward. Far larger than Novoselic’s. Novoselic no doubt wished to turn in Silk and hoped to gain his own pardon.

There was the face of the man a dying Assassin asked Twig to kill. A strange suggestion. And Silk an enemy of the state. With the new turn his life had taken, Twig almost thought he’d do it.

Novoselic rubbed the back of his neck, as if he felt a chill. He glanced behind him as he did. Twig’s silhouette caught the corner of his eye. For a moment, Novoselic paused, looking sideways toward Twig. He then dropped the poster of Silk. Wheeling on the balls of his feet, staying in a crouch, Novoselic spun to face Twig. With the wheeling momentum, he drew and launched a knife at Twig. The knife flew well—Twig watched it spin toward him. It flipped through the frigid air. Novoselic began moving away from the fire the moment he released the knife’s handle.

The knife came within Twig’s reach. He moved aside. While he did, he raised a white hand. His fingers touched the cold, unpolished blade. Brushing the coarse metal, he slowed its flipping momentum. His hand found the handle; his fingers wrapped around the old bandages winding round it. Looking back at Novoselic, Twig stood. Novoselic had already started running.

Words seemed unnecessary during the last few weeks in the hills. Twig killed three murderers and gave them his message to carry. Each of them, with frighted recognition widening their mad eyes, attacked him like he had walked from their nightmares. They feared someone else who looked nearly like Twig. None of the desperate murderers had been willing to tell him anything. When he caught up to them, they fought tooth and nail—big rough men that they were—and went into a mad rage. He tried to preserve them long enough to inquire. The first died of stress—he had been starving and freezing for weeks. The second ran off a cliff. The third began to babble; he had already lost his mind and fought till Twig subdued him. Each were more fragile than men usually are. They were cold, mad men, and Twig got no wisdom from them. Their ghosts, he hoped, carried his messages. Ghosts have more stability of character, or so the stories say.

Novoselic ran from his little fire, his half-skinned quail, ran from whoever it was he mistook Twig to be. Twig began to hunt, Novoselic’s old knife loose in his hand.

Continued on December 23...

Chapter Three: Part Five

Continued from Chapter Three: Part Four

“I think I’m sticking with these lads,” Wexerly said.

Jarvela managed to keep his face neutral. “Oh?” he said. “What about world significance and all that rotted gibbering we’ve been fed for all these months.” He spoke of the things that the Runagates had been spreading among their coverts and whispered communities, things that Wexerly corroborated.

Wexerly often agreed with the inner party of Runagates, who communicated secretly to Jarvela.

Jarvela looked peeved with Wexerly. Wexerly, though, smiled. He knew that Jarvela, world-weary as he was, had hoped Wexerly would be along for the strange adventures Jarvela feared lay before him. The prospect of moving on without Wexerly frightened Jarvela. Wexerly could tell that, though Jarvela would never admit to it. Jarvela didn’t actually know what to do next. He knew what he was supposed to do next, but he didn’t understand it. He thought that Wexerly would understand it.

Wexerly might. He smiled. “Buck up, old man,” he said. “You’ve got to live your own life.”

“If you must,” Jarvela said, looking away from Wexerly.

“You’ll be all right, Jarvela,” Wexerly said. He smiled still. He genuinely liked Jarvela and wished him all the best. It seemed inevitable that Jarvela would do great things. Wexerly felt it in his bones. Turning to Ned and Stodge, Wexerly grinned. “Come on lads.” He ran out of Hole in the Wall. The gang followed him.

Halfway down the cold street, Stodge asked Wexerly where they were going.

“South,” Wexerly said. “South to make waves.”

Sorry for the brevity. Thus ends the chapter. Chapter Four commences on December 21...

Chapter Three: Part Four

Continued from December 15, Chapter Three: Part Three

They waited for a moment. Ned looked out of the alley, down the way that Silk and Digger had run. Determining that they had gone far enough away, leaving the street quiet, he looked back and winked at Wexerly. The three boys hustled across the street into the alley that Silk and Digger had emerged from before. They pattered down the alley, took a left at a fork, and ran on through the shady, breezy passage. Noise grew ahead of them. Past the end of the alley people loitered and shouted.

“Look alive, the mob’s caught up,” Ned said.

“Should we wait or go around or such like, eh?” Stodge asked, slowing down as they got closer.

“We can squirm through,” Ned said before Wexerly could. Wexerly had opened his mouth to say something like it, though. He smiled to hear Ned taking the initiative. “Come on, boys.”

Ned darted out of the alley. They went into the crowd. Mostly, the angry people in the mob ignored the boys. Their attention stayed on Silk and Digger. Silk and Digger had been cornered against a store front, with angry mob on every side, brandishing crossbows and staves. It really bespoke to the brilliance of Engelkind’s governance that a group of people who hours earlier had been happy to host Silk as the visiting war legend and Digger as their sheriff would turn so completely against them both so quickly. Engelkind had released a decree that Silk had passed out of favor. Without questioning the validity or the wisdom, the population itself reacted to quell this danger, without even calling out the guard. Things like this showed how on-edge people were these days.

Digger and Silk had gained their horses. They sat above the milling, shouting mob. Pinned in, they had nowhere to go. That would never do. Wexerly and his gang pushed through the crowd to the far side of the street. A three storey scaffold with bricks and mortar stacked on it stood in front of a building on this side of the street.

“I want to give Digger and Silk a bit of a hand,” Wexerly said to Ned.

“Eh?” Ned said, intent on getting through the mob intact.

“Keep going—I’ll meet you on the way,” Wexerly said.

“We’re with you, Wexerly,” Ned said. Stodge nodded. They were crowded together by the press of people. It was becoming breaking point. Someone threw a brick at Silk. It missed, but Silk’s hand still went to one of the swords on his saddle. Reluctance slowed him—bless his little heart.

“All right,” Wexerly said. “Shove through.” He took the lead and pushed through the hot crowd toward the scaffold. He reached the base of the solid scaffold. There, Wexerly found an iron bar for levering rocks. Sticking it through the base supports, Wexerly plied pressure and broke one of the legs.

“The scaffold is going,” he shouted to the crowd. Not many heard him. Those that did looked around, shouted, and shoved the others out of their way. The scaffold came down onto the cobbled street, the wood of it exploding to splinters, the mortar dust and bricks heaving into the air and out on every side. It gave a great break of a noise, and a screaming call from the mob accompanied it. A shocked pause waved the crowd. The rubble from the scaffold stretched all the way across the street. The collapse distracted the crowd enough to give Silk and Digger space to escape.

“Victory,” Wexerly muttered, smiling. He turned to his gang, who looked on, trying not to look as awestruck as they were. “Let’s get going.”

“Aye,” Ned said. He turned down another alley. Wexerly and Stodge followed.

Quietly, Stodge fell a bit back and walked close to Wexerly. Stodge was a bit older and more aware than Ned. Stodge had already guessed Wexerly had more to him than an urchin ought to have. It never bothered Stodge knowing it. Rather the contrary, it gave Stodge something to think on. He often asked questions. Wexerly welcomed them.

“What was that for then, eh?” Stodge asked. “What do you care about them out of towners?”

Wexerly smiled. He wanted to give Stodge the true and complicated answer: Silk’s mission, Digger’s partly associated quest, shook the foundations of behind-the-scenes wars that always happened, between men like Engelkind who had too much power, and people like Wexerly and his friends who had been consorts to the gods since ancient times. Things moved that no one ever suspected. And today, Wexerly and his friends supported Digger and Silk—today, Wexerly’s goals and Silk’s complemented each other. Wexerly wanted to tell thoughtful Stodge that changes in the world approached like a tide. Stodge might even understand the news.

Instead, Wexerly patted Stodge on the shoulder and said, “It was the right thing, mate.”

“In the long run?” Stodge said with a questioning tone. Wexerly often said “in the long run.”

“Yes,” Wexerly nodded, smiling.

Stodge gave a quick jerk of his head, satisfied.

“Nearly there, then,” Ned said from ahead. “Streets are clear through here.”

They ducked out of an alley into a street clear of traffic. Wexerly heard the crowd moving to the west. Pausing for a moment, he judged the distance. Digger and Silk rode through an intersection several hundred yards along. The mob had fallen behind. They’d be getting out their own horses and organizing a chase soon. For now, Digger and Silk had enough head start to escape. Wexerly was satisfied.

Ned led the way into Hole in the Wall. The room inside had a litter of couches, pillows. It smelled of hookah and coffee and shelves of books lined the walls. It did almost no business, not in these little towns. That was all right, though, because it was a front for another organization. The other organization had no name yet, but it had funding at the top. Wexerly liked to think of it as the Runagates.

Two Runagates manned Hole in the Wall. The older of the two, Jarvela Gunnar, stood at the wooden counter, his long, blonde dreadlocks flowing over his tattooed hands as he bent over a page of music spread in front of him. He glanced up at Wexerly with his big, blue eyes, and he smiled.

“Hey ho, little cherub,” he said. “I’ve been hearing shouts from the street. Tag went to see what’s happening.”

“Digger’s skipping town,” Wexerly said. Jarvela chuckled. They’d been watching Digger, waiting to see what would happen for weeks.

“Is that so?” Jarvela said.

“He’s headed north with Silk Golinvaux.”

“Why such a ruckus?” Jarvela asked. He straightened up and folded the music in front of him.

“You recall that rumors have been circling about Silk planning something?” Wexerly asked. It had been a rumor for a long time. Silk never stayed still for long. When he’d been seen in the company of Van Vleidt, talk circulated that change was eminent. And when Van Vleidt turned up dead—the rumor was, assassinated, and the rumor among Wexerly’s friends, assassinated by Holy Assassins—it seemed inevitable that Silk would do something. What he would do could not be predicted by anyone. Wexerly still didn’t know what Silk had done—only how Engelkind had already retaliated.

“Of course,” Jarvela said.

“Whatever plan he had, he done it,” Wexerly said. “Engelkind declared him enemy of the state.”

“Things are happening, mate,” Jarvela said.

“Best be getting along north, then. I’ll get set—we’ll leave as soon as Tag gets back. Are you coming with us?”

That had been the original plan when Wexerly showed up in town. He and Jonne Jarvela and Tag Tegren arrived at the same time, just after Digger. They kept an eye on him, integrating with the workings of the town. When Digger moved along, Jarvela and Tag would mobilize . They would head north to spread the word to other Runagates: Digger was on the move . The Runagates believed, accurately or not, that Digger’s movements influenced the coming of a war. Wexerly only cared about the ride. And back when he had arrived in Süthende with Jarvela and Tag, the plan had been to watch Digger till Digger left and then Wexerly would go with Jarvela and Tag on the next leg of the adventure.

Now Wexerly had the option. Time had come to make a move. Jarvela looked with his sharp eyes close at Wexerly. “Well?” Jarvela said. Wexerly looked at Ned and Stodge. Ned squinted, unsure exactly what about the events around him affected him. Stodge knew, though. Stodge—tall, gangly Stodge—made every effort not to look Wexerly in the eye. Stodge feared that Wexerly and the gang had reached a parting.

Continued on December 19...

Chapter Three: Part Three

Continued from Chapter Three: Part Two

“Wait…” Digger said. He turned back to Silk. Silk had already turned back on his walk to his inn. He sang an old marching song as he went. It felt good to be getting on with his life. He’d been feeling far too decadent of late. Moving forward excited him.

“Come along, Wiggend Lordling,” Digger said, using an old title for the son of the Wiga. “I believe that your tenure as an employee of the state has ended.”

*

Wexerly, the bright-eyed leader of urchins, looked from under his too-big hat and too-big coat at Silk Golinvaux and the one they called Digger McGrath, the Wiggend Lordling, as they had their conversation. He watched from behind some dustbins with the young lads who followed him, smiling as the man, whose name was Collin, put up the poster proclaiming Silk enemy of the state. Collin, when he saw the poster, did a double-take on it. He looked with fear around at Silk, who grinned as he walked away with Digger McGrath. When he finished securing the poster Collin hurried to whisper in Digger’s ear, to tell him that Silk was an outlawed criminal—as if Digger had not seen the sign. Collin spoke urgently in Digger’s ear, making it clear by his posture and frenzied pointing at Silk’s back, that it was a big-ass deal. Digger paused to listen. In his profile, Wexerly saw subdued pain. Digger had already committed to go with Silk. He had also agreed to protect Súthende from danger. Collin perceived a threat: Silk the Beast stood not ten feet away, and the state had declared him an enemy.

Digger’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. This was not how he had wanted to tell the good people of Súthende his life outgrew them. It made Wexerly smile. Sometimes the will of the gods manifested itself, knocking lazy asses into action for them. Wexerly liked Silk because he had embraced that—somewhat atheistically, perhaps, but with joy nonetheless.

Digger finished explaining to Collin that he would no longer be sheriff. Collin, with horror on his face, shoved Digger. The shove hardly did anything—Digger swayed. After it, Collin ran away, shouting, “Police! Police!” which, according to the urban legend—never tested—would rouse Engelkind’s Secret Police.

“Old Collin’s gone and done it now,” Ned said.

“Garn,” Stodge said with a little awe. “He’s got bigger balls than you’d guess looking at him.”

Wexerly ducked behind the dustbins. Crouching, he pivoted to look at his gang. Due to recent mortalities, and some of them going off to better lives, and several being at home with their families, Wexerly’s staunch companions amounted to only two today: round Ned and tall Stodge. All covered in grime, they squatted with him among the garbage in the alley, his loyal followers—the most recent in a long line of gangs he had led. They looked up to him, the urchins, because he was a bit wittier, a bit scheminger, and a bit older—in fact, more than a hundred years older, but he looked like a boy. It was partly his gravitas that allowed him to lead; the searching lads saw in Wexerly a seriousness that they lacked. At the same time, he always smiled and joked, and they liked that. If ever asked, the boys never quite knew why they followed Wexerly. They would invariably give the reason, “He took our last leader in a fight.”

“We’ll have to keep our heads low,” Wexerly said with a smile. “Things are about to be exciting.”

“Why?” Ned asked. “What’s happening?”

“You know who Engelkind is?” Wexerly asked.

“Not really,” Stodge said, scratching his greasy head under his hat.

“He’s the king,” Ned said.

“Close enough. You scared of him?”

“Of course—he’s the fucking king, isn’t he?”

“Sort of,” Wexerly said, smiling.

“And he made the Secret Police,” Ned said, he said it quickly. No one wanted to be caught talking about the Secret Police.

“You ever met anyone who’s in the Secret Police?” Wexerly asked. Ned and Stodge looked at Wexerly like he was stupid.

“It’s secret, isn’t it?” Ned said.

“That’s why,” Stodge said.

“Oh—right,” Wexerly said. He smiled. “Come on, lads—there’ll be a riot.”

Already, men from the town had begun rushing toward the shouts of “Police—police” raised by Collin. They called out to others to join the chase. Soon a crowd ran after Silk and Digger, brandishing cudgels and staves, some with crossbows. They shouted that the Secret Police would soon show themselves. It was the duty of men to give the Secret Police a hand until they could gather.

Wexerly led his lads through the alleys, avoiding the massing mob. The truth of it was—and Wexerly knew—no Secret Police existed. Some semi-intelligent citizens were frequently tapped by lieutenants of Engelkind. The lieutenants told men in secret that they had been recruited to the junior level of the Secret Police—if they performed well, they would be promoted to the inner circle. But no inner circle existed . As a result, those few instigators who thought that they would any day be included in the secrets of the Secret Police did everything they could to please the “real” inner circle agents, no doubt watching from every dark alley. They knew full well that if they misbehaved then they were likely to meet an accident; that part at least had a good deal of truth in it. The system worked well to police itself, and it reacted quickly to perceived threats like Silk, enemy of state. Wexerly found the whole equation funny—though he sometimes reflected that it was, in fact, tragic. The frightening part to Wexerly came in the form of the few men he’d seen who he could explain as nothing but actual Secret Policemen. No one had ever believed him about that, though.

He ran through an alley and paused at the end. The wind rushed past—the cobbles felt cold on his bare feet. Ned and Stodge asked what had happened. They heard a second later what Wexerly had: the crowd incited by Secret Police hopefuls rushed past, shouting and waving clubs. In an alley across from Wexerly he saw a bit of red and gold, and Wexerly ducked behind Stodge. Silk emerged from the far alley with Digger. They ran the opposite way of the crowd.

“What’s up?” Stodge asked Wexerly.

“Silk over there knows me,” Wexerly said.

“You don’t want him knowing you’re around?” Ned said, looking wise and serious. Wexerly nodded.

“We need to get to Hole in the Wall, though,” Wexerly said, mentioning the café and reading room where he and the gang occasionally went to get warm. Hole in the Wall was run by friends of Wexerly’s, some friends who would be interested to know what caused the ruckus.

“Aye,” Stodge said.

“We’ll get you there,” Ned nodded, pulling the brim of his cap down.

"Thanks, lads," Wexerly said.

Continued on December 17...

Chapter Three: Part Two

Continued from December 11, Chapter Three: Part One

Silk grinned. It felt like finding a letter from an old friend, perhaps not for him but for someone else he knew well. He had never met the person who wrote the message. Van Vleidt had. Van Vleidt told Silk things about the lost soldier, now hunting murderers in the hills.

“All three of the brigands had the same message,” Digger said. “At first I thought they were for me. I came across him, though, and now I think he means them for someone else.”

Silk raised an eyebrow and looked cheerfully at Digger. “You met him?” Silk said. “Do tell.”

“You know, your attitude about this is far too revelatory. It brings your sanity to question. Anyway, yes, I met him. I went hunting for him. On the third day out I picked up a faint trail—hard to follow, like a panther or some such. Best I had to go on, so I followed it. Tracking that trail put me on edge, and I don’t muss easily. I already felt like someone’s eyes followed me. The feeling got worse when I found the trail—gradual like, not quite enough that I wanted to turn back. The trail led me on through that day—an eerie day, unnaturally still. I never saw any animals. When I pitched camp I couldn’t ever quite settle. I made an extra big fire that night and tried not to sleep. I should have taken someone with me.”

The story lacked humor. Silk chuckled anyway, puffing on his cigar. “What then?”

“I thought I heard something. I have no memory of any actual sound, now that I think of it. It could have been nothing but a gust of wind. Whatever it was, I took up a torch and my crossbow and went out into the dark.”

Silk was enjoying the story. The nervous quiet—the paranoid watching. It was all good fluff. He gestured to Digger, encouraging the end. “Did you find anything?” Silk asked.

Digger thought for a moment before continuing the story. He had a blank expression on his face. “Not a sound disturbed that black night. A sliver moon cast deeper shadows than no moon would have. My torch wavered. I walked through the unnatural silence, feeling oddly lost. Eyes seemed to follow me—I felt them watching. On a rise, in a clearing, I paused to look back and see if I could judge the distance to my camp. I turned once and saw no firelight except my torch. My emotions rose slightly. Again I turned, judging I may have missed it. No noise except those I made interrupted the night. And yet, without any clue, there he stood, not a yard from me, in his white face his cold eyes stared into me.”

“Hmm,” Silk said, growling the syllable. “What did you do?” 

“Raised my crossbow,” Digger said. “And dropped my torch. It sunk in the snow and went out. I shot toward the person anyway—I’m a pretty good blind shot. When my eyes adjusted to the sickle moonlight, however, I could see nobody where he had been.”

“Well, you ought to be dead,” Silk said without sympathy. He smiled, though. It was the kind of thing that got you killed in enemy territory. Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be helped.

“I thought the same thing,” Digger said. “I could see my campfire when the torch had gone out and I hurried back to it. I thought for certain that he’d come get me in the night. I’d have made a sure reckoning of myself if he did.”

“No doubt.”

“Aye, no doubt there is. Anyhow, he never came to get me.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know who you are,” Silk puffed on his cigar and looked again at the board of outlaws. He tried to guess who would be next on a hit list made of the outlaws.

“Aye, that being so, I’m unlikely to be the person he wants to come get him,” Digger said. “He knows I’m sheriff here.”

“Does he?” Silk thought he knew the next name he’d hit if he were hunting the outlaws: Krist Novoselic. Murdered six. Large reward.

“Aye. He’s obviously been sneaking into town to read this board. A few townspeople saw a black-cloaked stranger who they couldn’t explain. He’s been here.”

“Hmm,” Silk growled again. He hovered his hand over Novoselic’s poster. “I think I know who he wants to come for him.”

“The vigilante?”

“Yes,” Silk took his cigar out of his mouth and rubbed his chin. He glanced at Digger. “So you are obliged to follow me around and learn from me?”

“Aye,” Digger said. “Call it a novitiate.”

“How long do you expect this arrangement to last?”

“Till I am capable of killing you,” Digger stated.

“Well, that’s rather final.”

“It’s the way of things,” Digger said. Silk would have liked a little more expression in the young man’s voice—perhaps some gravitas or drama. He spoke thoughtfully and introspectively. At this point he nearly sighed, but didn’t quite. Not very useful cues. The voices mumbled their agreement from around his ears.

Silk rubbed his beard, looking vaguely at the down-at-the-edges eyes and round face of Novoselic. Whoever had done the original etching made him look a little slow. Silk sometimes wished for the blissful ignorance of the stupid. The context of his actions constantly wore him down. He had condemned himself to a certain course of action. He had thrown his lot in with Van Vleidt, who no one quite understood, and would be stung with the association that came with the allegiance as soon as it became public. Van Vleidt and his theories, especially his later ones, had such an unsightly reputation that public declaration in their favor made you immediate enemies. Also, Silk had declared war on Engelkind, which went on a very small list of acts he had done with only limited calculation. He still waited to see how Engelkind would react; there were any number of ways and all of them would make Silk’s life suddenly exciting. No matter what would happen, Silk had put himself into a position where he could only forge ahead. Any other course had become deadly.
Silk stretched his hand. Old scars made his joints stuff. Too many more would end his finessing powers.

“You can come along,” Silk said. “You might learn a thing or two.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“We’re going to find your vigilante.” Silk turned away from the board.

“Why?”

“I think he’s writing to me,” Silk held the note up—Come get me.

“Do you?” Digger said. Silk paused as he walked across the chessboard in the square. He turned to look at Digger. “How will you find him? I couldn’t.”

Smiling, Silk glanced at a man who’d walked into the square. He had a large rolled-up poster in his hand. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble,” he said. The man unrolled the poster and secured it to the board. It covered many of the smaller posters. Digger glanced around to see. The poster had Silk’s face, Silk’s name, and a massive reward on it. Enemy of the state, it proclaimed.

Continued on December 15...

Chapter Three: Part One

Continued from December 9, Chapter Two: Part Four

A couple days passed, and Silk and Digger spent them resting.

With a half-eaten apple in one hand, Silk stood in front of a board covered in relics from the War: wanted posters. The War went everywhere, changed everything. It’d been one of those confusing wars—no one knew for sure what side they fought for day to day. It got confusing after only a few years. The War had lasted for forty years. When Silk had been growing up, an urchin on the far southern docks, the War was already old. Just the War. It didn’t need a name. Probably the history books would call it something, but no history books had been written about it yet.

No one ever knew what side they fought for, no one except the choice few like Engelkind and the gods. Failing in that certainty, there was a certainty about what sides fought the War. On the one side stood the gods themselves: Ythig and his pantheon, ruling from castles and leading vast armies who believed the old stories and stood by how the way things had been for all recalling. The gods defended themselves against an insurrection: a coalition of atheistic men rallying to cry that mankind had outgrown the gods. Ironically, when that coalition of rebels lost their leader, the person who replaced him was a god. A new god—a god who never appeared in any old story. People took it as a sign that they would win.

And they had won. The coalition of men, led by the new god Kunig and his warlords—Engelkind being first among them—defeated the gods and threw them from their keeps. The gods lost the War.

Silk inhaled cigar smoke around a bite of apple. The War’s outcome was so monumentally impossible. The whole of Eardbána—the only known continent in the world—took on a greyish cast. No parades or celebration marked the end of the War. Quietly, the new regime established, and the population went along with it. The new god, Kunig, assumed rule in the south, and Engelkind and his armies moved into the greatest fortress in the middle belt of Eardbána. The most pivotal warchiefs who had supported the gods took up abode in the northland of Wildhagen. Kunig declared them exiled. Ythig and the old gods disappeared. Folk presumed them also exiled, but rarely inquired because they feared Engelkind’s secret police.

 The gods had lost the War. The concept could hardly be understood. Perhaps the impossibility of it affected men—perhaps the feeling that the gods no longer watched them made more of them turn bad—perhaps fewer people chose to police each other any longer. Silk thought it was because Wildhagen had become a no-man’s land. The only real authority there was the exiled King of Wildhagen, who stayed in hiding because his power was now illegal. Whatever the reason, boards for wanted posters had more posters than ever. Engelkind offered most of the rewards. Many stated that the reward would be paid forward regardless of the criminal arriving dead or alive.

Silk blew a smoke ring at the poster-covered board. A handful of the posters were slashed through. They had the highest rewards and names Silk recognized. Brillig Oxley—Strags Curran—Gerick Cham—all of them vicious murderers, highwaymen destined for the gallows. They had been war heroes, for what side didn’t matter. Now they were wrong-minded psychos. This was the effect of the War. These men could not recover.

Digger walked up next to Silk and looked at the board with him. They stood for a moment with some town folk walking past behind them. Silk blew out a lung of smoke.

“How did you become sheriff here?” he asked.

“I go where the wind takes me,” Digger said.

“That’s sort of ridiculous.”

Digger shrugged.

“How long are you going to stay here?” Silk asked.

“Well,” Digger said, drawing out the word. “That rather depends on you, as it happens.”

“Does it?”

“Aye. As per preparing to become the Wiga, I’m obliged to learn from anyone who can beat me in a fight.”

“Is that a fact?” Silk said, scratching his cheek and raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. A tradition passed down through the ages.”

“I hate tradition,” Silk said. It was true, though he respected magic. It sounded like one of those magical contracts, like the legend about how the gods had declared that Engelkind could not be killed. A legend, most said, though the now eighty year old warlord gave the tale some credence. The gods made magical promises like that sometimes and men lived with the consequences. Some things could not be negotiated. The gods had a tricky way of declaring things that would happen no matter what.

Digger shrugged again. “Tradition means little to me one way or the other.”

“You’ve never gotten around it, though,” Silk said. Digger shook his head. Silk looked close at Digger’s calm expression. Digger’s eyes had a touch of resignation in them, as if he had tried to outwit the tradition and had failed. The look on Digger’s face made Silk think the consequences had been grave. It must be strange to live a life with a destined place in the world. Silk took joy in little, but he did find a great deal of comfort knowing that he made his own tomorrows.

Digger smiled and looked at Silk sideways. Such a child. Silk puffed on his cigar. He turned back to the board of wanted posters.

“These posters that have been slashed—the outlaw was caught?” he asked.

“For these here, I caught them,” Digger gestured at a handful in the corner. “Some of those were caught by locals or by travelers or mercenaries,” he pointed with an open hand to several others. None of them that he had pointed to so far had very high reward. “These,” he pointed at the three with the highest rewards—Oxley, Strags, and Cham. “These men turned up dead on the highway into the north.”

Silk smiled. “No one has tried collecting a reward for them?” He thought he knew the answer but he asked it anyway.

“Some have tried ,” Digger said.

“You didn’t give them the money,” Silk said, more a statement than a question. He smiled around his cigar.

“They weren’t up for hunting these brigands,” Digger said. “Anyway, whoever it was that killed them is still roaming the hills.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Silk thought he knew a little more himself about this vigilante. Van Vleidt said that Silk would find the vigilante useful. He wanted to know what Digger knew anyway.

“He’s stuffing these in the mouths of the outlaws’ corpses,” Digger took a little piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Silk, “wrapped around a rock.”

Silk took the piece of paper. Come and get me, it read in simple, straight letters.

Continued December 13...

Chapter Two: Part Four

Continued from Chapter Two: Part Three, on December 7 http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-three.html

Silk hit the ground on one shoulder and slid a few feet, smearing blood from many small abrasions on the flagstones. As he stopped, he became again aware of the crowd. They roared their approval, whistling and chanting Digger’s name. Silk panted for a second—needed to catch his breath. Before it could be said that he was down, he rolled to his knees. His head hadn’t really cleared of the shaking from the uppercut. He’d get past it.

Kneeling and breathing, he looked around at the excited crowd. Ale aplenty and spiced wine circled the people. Chunks of meat—loaves of steaming bread and pretzels. A good time was being had by all. Silk laughed.

“Are you laughing?” Digger said. He bent over, leaning on his knees, trying to catch his own breath, but had his face to Silk.

“Yes. It’s just so ridiculous.” He thought watching a fist fight for entertainment so boorish. Study, maybe--to know your enemy if you would fight one of them, perhaps. Entertainment, though, not so much. The crowd made him laugh.

Digger looked unconvinced. He didn’t see it. People often didn’t see what Silk thought funny. Ah, well.

“Are you done?” Digger asked. Silk felt his jaw to be sure it was neither cracked or sprained. He shook his head. He still had fight left in him.

“You have a second,” Silk said from his spot kneeling on the ground. “You could bet on me—make some money.”

Digger raised an eyebrow. He was not amused.

“Just a thought,” Silk said.

He rose slowly to his feet. When he had, he went at Digger again. This time, his mode of attack was simple and reactive. He watched where Digger’s hands were and guessed where they would be next. Consistently, Silk put his hands just a little bit wrong for the blocks and punches that Digger expected. It’s how he often fought in the last few minutes. It looked sloppy. It was sloppy. His head still spun from the uppercut. When he’d been pressed to a point when he ought to quit he filled his head with breathing sounds, felt only his heartbeat and heard only a cheering crowd, as if a choir of excited and drunk ghosts stood as spectators to his fight. He heard them, always. They cried out for the success of his every move. And nearer, as if over his shoulders, a half dozen voices whispered to him, telling him what to do and where the next fist would swing. The voices were only sometimes the same and only rarely familiar. He used to ignore them, except occasionally and only grudgingly. They often said things contrary to the action he wanted to take. It made him assume they were hallucinations. Though he still wondered what exactly they were, he had decided recently to try listening to them. A mentor had suggested it to him. His life had gone in interesting directions since then.

The voices whispered—jab—feint—blindside—block—kick. He embraced the suggestions. The choir of voices like ghosts—invisible but seeming above the real crowd of people around the fight—sang a violent drinking song. Silk’s attacks had gone just sideways enough that Digger couldn’t compensate. He missed a block. Silk’s attack landed haphazardly on Digger’s cheek. The Wiga’s son tried to jab back. Silk caught his fist. In three quick punches, Silk put Digger off-kilter.

Now, the voices whispered. Silk threw a back-kick into Digger’s head. He fell to the ground, down for the count.

The crowd stood quiet at first, not sure what to do now. It suited Silk, who dropped to a crouch next to Digger. Checking his heart rate and breathing, Silk determined whether Digger would be all right—just to be certain. He had often been the only person near his fights who cared to check and knew how to check of the felled fighter would survive, so he’d gotten used to doing it. A moment of appraisal later Silk had finished. Dazed but not badly, Digger would recover soon. That was good.

The voices like ghosts applauded the effort. They quieted down and dispersed to the normal hubbub he heard all day every day, without there ever actually being noise.

“Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers,”someone in the crowd of humans watching the fight said. Someone else whistled an incredulous whistle. Murmurs traveled to the back as the people who couldn’t quite see asked what happened. Even the bookies had stopped talking. The upset took them all for surprise.

Nearly full dark had arrived. Freezing snow fell on Silk’s and Digger’s bare torsos.

“Does he have apartments?” Silk asked.

“He’s staying at the Currycomb Inn,” someone said.

“My inn is nearer,” Silk said.“The Crossed Wands. Take him there.”

A small crowd obeyed, picking Digger up from the ground. Six men carried him toward the Crossed Wands Inn. Pulling his shirt and jacket on as he went, Silk followed them. He carried Digger’s things.

Not sure what else to do, the crowd dispersed, chatting about the fight. “Bit strange,” some called it.“Thought our sheriff had him at the end, didn’t you?” one said to his mate.“They say Silk uses some mischief or witchwork to win fights,” at least one person muttered, but he was quickly hushed. None wanted the Secret Police down on their heads. Engelkind’s Secret Police were allegedly everywhere, though no one knew if they had ever seen one—not for sure. The Secret Police wandered through recent urban legends, as pervasive as the Boogeyman. And as imaginary, some would say in hushed tones. Still, they explained to one another, best not to risk it. That idea always received warm agreement.

At the Crossed Wands, Silk saw to it that Digger had a room. Then he sent away for Digger’s things to be brought over from the Currycomb Inn.

“He ain’t got much there,” one man told Silk. “Travels light, does our sheriff.” Silk, weary and beginning to feel the fight, grimaced at the man. He had no patience. “Right you are, sir,” the man said. He and his companions skittered off to get Digger’s things.

Without saying another word to anyone, Silk thumped up the flight of stairs to the room he had rented for himself. He shut the door behind him and tugged off his shirt and jacket again. Exhausted, beginning to ache, he fell onto the four poster. Blissful sleep seemed eminent…. Then it felt too cold. He tried to ignore it. A draft from the chimney blew on his skin, though. It fluctuated—cold for a moment, colder for the next. The skin of his side shrank and went goosepimply at the wind’s bidding.

Without speaking, Silk rolled to the floor. He walked in his now bare feet across the well-scrubbed wood slats. Next to the fireplace he found a heap of wood and a pile of wood shavings for kindling. He could light a quick fire. So he did, using the matches on the mantel of the fireplace. Soon, the logs lying in the grate crackled and smoked.

Good and better. He stood—his back felt over-worked—and went back to bed. Falling onto the covers, he closed his eyes. He let himself sink into the downy comforter. The warmth of the fire caressed his aching sides.

But now that he had awaked again, he heard whispering. A voice spoke in the corner of the room. Though the volume and the proximity were near enough, he couldn’t make out the words it said. If he listened to it—he tried not to listen to it but found his attention drawn to it—he thought he could make out every third word or so. When he tried to remember the words he didn’t know what they were.

Though he knew what he’d see, Silk opened his eyes and looked at the corner where the voice nattered. Empty, as he knew it would be. The voice seemed aware of his presence. It turned its attention to Silk and made some salutation, then it went back to talking to itself.

More voices followed. Some in the room—others outside the room but still nearby—most of them moved. He never heard any of them with his actual ears. They more took the form of distinct imaginings that had some origin outside himself. He had no idea where. They went about their own business, if they had any business at all aside from chattering. They always, always talked. He had spent a lot of energy running from them and had never succeeded.

Their inane hubbub filled Silk’s subconscious. They had long since driven him past the edge. He heard a great deal from folk about how he came off as mad and gone astray. Theories aplenty accompanied what folk said, as many theories as towns Silk had visited. Some theories had to do with him selling his soul—others thought that he’d been to the edge of the world—many suspected he’d been tortured so that his mind had gone. The theories all had enough truth in them to be getting along. The voices did little to keep him sane. They never made any sense. Except in desperate moments—near the ends of fights, during raids, at critical moments in negotiations—at those moments the voices assumed perfect clarity.

A mentor of his had recently observed that something important might be happening there. He’d been a much wiser man than Silk. A man called Sagan Van Vleidt who had written books about asceticism and the workings of the mind. Van Vleidt had been a good friend to Silk for the last few years. He had warned Silk against attempting to quiet these voices. “They might be trying to tell you something important,” Van Vleidt had said. Then died—assassinated by Holy Assassins. Now Silk felt guilty. He had always argued with Van Vleidt, never allowing that Van Vleidt might know a thing or two.

Grimbling, Silk rolled onto his back. He tugged a cigar and a box of matches from a pocket in his jacket. When he'd lit the cigar he lay still, smoking slowly and listening to the voices.

End of chapter two. Continued on December 11...

Chapter Two: Part Three

Continued from December 5, http://lithnmark.blogspot.com/2011/12/chapter-two-part-two.html

“You all want to see a good fight?” he said. Conversation quieted. The crowd concentrated, gathered closer, left space in the middle. “You heard that Silk Golinvaux had come, the Beast himself, one of the stories from the Wars. You want to see him fight?” A cheer from the crowd. “You here to see him brawl?” Another cheer. “You rare to see a good scrap?” A raucous, rolling shout with applause. Digger walked around the circle, his arms raised, his smile saintly, encouraging the noise of the crowd. Silk smiled too. He couldn’t help himself. The crowd liked Digger.

Digger looked at Silk. It was a good build-up. Silk wondered where the Wiga was. “He is a big man,” Digger said. “Have any of you seen him fight?” Some cheers and applause. “He’s dropped men twice his size—leaving them dizzy on the ground.” More applause. “According to him, he’s planning to do that again. Do you believe that?” Chuckles from the crowd—applause and cheers, a few whistles. Digger allowed a few beats then started again. “The Beast has been bragging about his next big win already. Have you all heard about this?” More laughs and applause from the crowd. It had grown thicker. If Silk had wanted to get away he’d be hard pressed to do it through the press of bodies. No gap opened in the crowd to let the Wiga through. Silk wondered why Digger felt so convinced that the Wiga would fail to appear. The crowd seemed unconcerned by it. Noticing the confidence of the crowd, as if a good fight was still to commence, Silk’s mood began turning suspicious. Something uncalculated was about to occur.

“Silk Golinvaux has been spreading around town that he can beat your sheriff in single combat. Now how’s that for a game of soldiers, then, eh?”

There arose the loudest cheers of all from the crowd. From the cheers rose a chant. At first, Silk couldn’t make out what they chanted. Then it sounded like “Wiga.” But it clarified then into “Digger.”

Digger, the Wiga’s son, smiled up at Silk. Silk stood head and shoulders taller, both shoulders wider, older and heavier, greater experience, greater prestige. The crowd cheered for Digger. They had been from the start of the introduction.

Silk had been out-maneuvered. It happened so rarely that feeling it now almost amused him.

“My father is still tangled up in the tribal wars,” Digger said so only Silk could hear.

“Then the farce will end here,” Silk said. He’d allow Digger to leave. The game had been completed.

Digger stood his ground, though. He looked curious. “You said you’d beat the sheriff of Súthende. Here I am.”

Though he knew Digger meant it seriously, Silk had trouble accepting it. He had never once heard of Digger the Wiga’s son being any great warrior. Aside from misunderstanding about the Wiga’s son being sheriff in Súthende—and he didn’t know quite how he had done that—Silk had never heard anything about Digger the Wiga’s son.

The crowd continued to cheer. Silk hardly heard it. Digger seemed to ignore it.

“You’re not ready to face me, boy,” Silk growled. He meant it. The lad ought to pick fights in his weight class or he’d get hurt early.

“Perhaps not,” Digger said with utter calm. “You’d do better to try your luck with me. You’re not ready to face my father.”

That statement rubbed Silk backward. He frowned, turned away, and took off his cloak. As he stripped off his jacket and shirt the crowd screamed their approval: the fight was on.

In a few seconds, naked to the waist in the freezing evening—the snow just starting to fall—Silk, big and curled with muscle, faced lithe Digger in the sinking evening.

The clouds broke just at the horizon. A red stained sunbeam flooded the square. In the confusing light of it, Silk threw the first punch. It missed. Not because of any flaw in its delivery. He delivered it perfectly. Digger had got out of the way, though. In the same movement, Digger threw his knuckles into Silk’s ribs. No testing—no posturing. Just a solid first hit. Bam! Most impressive. Though a punch to the ribs hardly fazed Silk. The layers of muscle protected him from blow like quick jabs from arms like Digger’s. To counter, Silk brought his elbow down toward the back of Digger’s neck. The opportunity opened itself to him. Digger anticipated. He dropped below the blow. Falling to his chest on the cold stone, he caught himself, like a push-up movement. Popping back to his feet, Digger backpedaled several feet from Silk. He got out of reach. Keeping his body straight, he began bobbing back and forth. Digger was ready to move any direction Silk startled him to move.

Silk let Digger gain his bearings. He had quick. Quick could get a fighter a long way. Silk had relied on quick in his younger days. It corrected a multitude of errors. So far, Digger had displayed a few errors. He kept his attention full front—forgot to check his blind spots. Hard to take advantage of in single combat unless Silk could come at Digger from more than one angle. Silk ran at Digger and brought his next punch down from a high angle. Digger blocked. In the middle of the motion, Silk slung his leg up to knee Digger’s side. It only scored him a glancing blow. It overbalanced Digger just a touch. Pressing the wobble, Silk slung his other hand down at the side of Digger’s neck. But, in a practiced and smooth motion, Digger slid his hand up Silk’s striking arm. Digger ducked forward. Using the strength of Silk’s swinging arm and his weight against him—Silk only had one foot on the ground--Digger finessed Silk sideways off the ground. He tossed Silk aside.

Silk rolled a few feet. Using the rolling momentum he rose to his feet and braced himself, keeping his stance wide. He appraised Digger. The little redhead stood still now, waiting to see what would happen. His body moved like a conduit of martial training. Surgical, refined, flawless. Silk felt no personality in Digger’s fighting—no soul. All he could do was ply hours of drills. They had been good drills, apparently, and so far they were enough. Digger’s fighting had no life in it; he was an example of perfect theory. There was no fighting Digger. Fighting Digger was fighting martial arts itself. It would get Digger killed someday, unless he learned to put himself in the fight. Someday Digger had to fall off the edge and claw his way back again. He’d never be great till he did.

It made Silk laugh. Digger lacked experience. That was all. Made him a devil to fight, though. Silk had gotten so used to outwitting people in fights. It entertained him, fighting someone with apparently all the tricks to anticipate all the other tricks hammered into him leaving no room for his soul.

Digger threw a bracing foot back, thinking he anticipated what Silk would do next. Silk had turned off planning. He didn’t even know what he would do next. Pell-mell and roaring, he ran at Digger with his fists raised. Silk wailed on Digger without any organization. He paid no heed to Digger’s many precise little punches. He’d have to deal with them later. They were damaging even if they were small. The little stabs of pain could be ignored for now. Silk knocked past Digger’s many blocks with brute force. When Digger attempted to turn away Silk’s frenzied punches, Silk jumped forward, shoulder-first. Digger tried to throw Silk again. Silk grabbed Digger’s hand and pulled him over. They rolled apart and regained their feet. Then, abruptly and illogically, Silk went on the defensive. He lowered his stance and put his loose fists in front of his face. Pushing forward, Silk crowded Digger. Digger tried to back away. Silk kept inside a few feet of him. He lashed out a few times with his open hand. Nothing strong. Just baiting Digger. Digger tried not to take the bait. After a few seconds he couldn’t help it. He jabbed at Silk. Silk caught Digger’s wrist, squeezing. He tugged Digger closer and punched him in the ribs. Letting go of Digger’s wrist, Silk kept inside Digger’s circle. Digger slung his fist at Silk’s cheek. Silk punched Digger’s wrist up. He ducked at Digger. With an uppercut, Silk knocked Digger in the chin. Digger attempted to dodge. His weight was off. He only managed to stumble away. Silk scored a glancing hit. At the power he put behind it a glancing hit would bruise a bit.

Digger wobbled a few steps away. He looked destabilized. When he lowered his chin again blood reddened his lips. His eyes had taken a dazed cast. With extra energy this time, Silk again drove forward to press the advantage he’d gained. Leaning forward, he drew his fist back for a large left hook. And, almost delicately, Digger rebalanced his weight forward. He put his hand back. Then, with textbook perfection, he put every piece of himself into an uppercut. The uppercut landed under Silk’s chin just as Silk’s momentum reached critical and he had started catapulting his own fist forward. With every ounce of his own weight and every foot pound of his left hook redirected back at him, Silk rose off his feet. The electric tingling from the uppercut going up and down his body. He made a long, slow feeling arc off the ground. As he went, a smile grew on his face. Crazy fight.

Continued on December 9...