Uroboros chapter 2 part 6

6

The blonde man and his little party arrived at the port of Lock early in the morning. Mikey Sturns dropped anchor and went about scoring the Frak to the dock with his neat and infallible sailor’s knots. The sun was still low in the sky but the temperature was already beginning to rise. This was shaping up to be one of the most fruitful runs of his career, with his tobacco seed ready for trade and the gold from his passenger, his new ship was almost within reach. As the unpleasant as the blonde man was, he was quiet and kept to himself mostly. He also seemed to have that monstrous pet of his under control.

Mikey was going to see the port master about his fee. Ships were always in danger of looting, but it was mostly the merchant ships that had that king of trouble. Smaller grain and seed ships were never the targets of these carbuncles. The Frak and her freight were safe so he would head into the town for an early breakfast before continuing with business. The hot mean was well deserved and hopefully the blonde man would be gone before his return. All was well with Mikey Sturns.

He never heard the blonde man approach from behind. In one quick, fluid motion the blonde man grabbed Sturns by the throat and buried his bowie knife in the man’s lower back. Mikey dropped the scatter rifle he had been holding and staggered forward in shock. The tip of the blade poked out of his stomach and shirt just above his belly button. Blood began to seep from the wound and stain his brown cotton work shirt. Mikey clawed at his back weakly, trying to get at the handle of the knife. He could not reach. He breathing became jagged and a small line of blood fell from his mouth. The captain fell to the deck of his own ship. The blonde man stood over him. Mikey struggled to breath. His last conscious thought was that he wasn’t going to get that new ship after all. No, sir, no way no how.

The blonde man stood there for a moment, watching the captain die on his own ship. His expression was impassive. He then bent down, removed his knife and carefully cleaned it on the dead man’s shirt before returning it to its sheath. He took the dead man’s coin purse and went to gather his things.

Fenrir came to him. The wolf lowered its head and the blonde man petted it in short thoughtful strokes. The beast’s eyes closed as he did this.

“Can’t let them know we’re coming, right?”

The wolf opened its green eyes and looked at him as if in agreement.

“I’d like to meet cousin on our own terms.” The blonde man said.

“Now, take care of that would you?” He nodded towards the now dead Mikey Sturns.

The wolf padded over to the captain, teeth bared and had its breakfast. An hour later the man and his Fenrir were walking the warm, busy streets of Lock.

Martin had said that they had a few errands to run and that they would run them on the way to lord Dameer’s shop. Davis had no objections. He now had the broken sword wrapped in a clean sheet and tied to his back. Martin was wearing a rather garish, white, wide rimed hat that kept the sun off his plump face. He also had a clean red dress shirt and boots that had no business being so shiny walking down the dusty streets of Lock. He must polish those bad boys after every use, Davis thought. Or maybe he just enjoys cleaning boots. He remembered how clean his own boots had been when he had put them on.

The streets of Lock were busy, but not crowded. Chickens ran in the streets and shamelessly venders peddled their wares. They called to all passing by that they had the best this, and that nowhere in town could ye find a better that. And everything from spices to books were being sold. The smell of the river was mixed with the sweet smells of cooking bread and meats and spices. And underneath all those smells were the smells of the sweaty people and the faint smell of animal manure. All the noise and chatter was loud and constant.

Davis felt a little overwhelmed. After the quiet, sterile roads of the wastelands, this place was an affront to the senses. He followed Martin who made his way easily through the crowds with the walk and step of a city man.

Davis saw small dog playing with a group of kids. Woman hanging clean clothes from their wash lines. The people of the place had developed a natural immunity towards the heat it seemed. Going about their business undeterred.

All was well in the town of Lock.

They stopped in front of a large mercantile. It was a wooden building two stories high. Not clay like most of the houses and shops in this part of town, but a wood construction. The large shop had clean windows and large batwing doors in the entrance.  The large painted sign above the entrance read Lock & Key. Below in smaller text. Supplies & Sundries.

“Here we are dear sir.” Martin said and Davis followed him into the shop.

True to its name the large shop had rows of display racks and tables all filled with tools and knick knacks. Davis would not be surprised if a fair bit of this towns business ran through this shop. They went straight for the shop keeper, who was an older fellow with neat white hair and a deep tan. He wore a clean workman’s apron and faded blue jeans.

“Ian Merkel, gentlemen.” The man said. He shook their hands and smiled. He had yellow teeth but a sunny enough smile.  His eyes were shrewed and seemed to study them carefully. Davis was suddenly sure that Mr. Merkel had a revolver somewhere close at hand. “How may I be of service to ya, sirs?”

Martin reached into his pocket and produced a small leather purse.

“My name is Martin Chainsville. My master lord Dameer has but in an order for us.” He produced a small piece of paper and unfolded it. He read it for a moment, seeming to check this was indeed the document he needed, and then handed it over Mr. Ian.

            The shop keeper studied the note for a moment then neatly folded the paper and tucked it carefully in his pocket.

            “Very good then.” Ian said. He went to his counter and rang the bell that was there.

            “I have been instructed to supply you with anything you may need, free of charge of course. In addition to that Mr. Dameer had put in a special order for two particular items, which I have procured for ya, sir.”

            Davis shot a questioning look at Martin. The pudgy man simply smiled and nodded.

            “I do a fair bit of business with lord Dameer’s Pharmacy and Potion shop, so he will be covering the bill, of course, at a discount.” Mr. Ian said smiling. Like most shop owners, this Mr. Ian seemed to be happiest when conducting business and making money. A young boy with black hair and a round face appeared from the back room of the shop.

            “Fetch me the items for Mr. Dameer’s client, son. And be quick about it.” Mr. Ian said amiably. The boy stuttered out a “Yes Sir” and disappeared into the back again.

            Ian looked at Davis and smiled.

            “Well then, sir. Whatever supplies ya may need.” He held his hands up in a “go ahead” gesture. Martin sat on one of the stools by the counter and asked Mr. Ian for a cup of coffee if he had any. “Only the good stuff unfortunately.” They both laughed.

            Davis walked about the large shop and collected his items. He wasn’t too surprised by the generosity of lord Dameer. The friends of the Wizard were often all too eager to help. They were rewarded with gold or silver or large precious stones. All of which Davis was sure the Wizard could create out of thin air whenever he wanted. So, Davis shopped.

            He selected a large leather, satchel style purse. It sat comfortably at his back. Several nicely wrapped lengths of rope, an extra pair of jeans in his size, several cotton shirts, extra pairs of socks and a black flat brimmed, flat-top cowboy hat with a black silk band. He brushed his hair back with his hand and put the hat on.  As he selected each item he carefully placed it in his new pack.

            He selected a sowing kit and several large squares of fabric that could be easily worked. He found a flint and steel that looked durable and added them also. At the end of one of the rows he found displays of tobacco and fixings. He filled the largest leather tobacco pouch and took a smaller pouch and filled that with papers for rolling. He then picked out two small wooden boxes filled with sulfur matches.

            As he walked the store, he collected several more items including a good bowie knife and sharpening stone. The knife had a beautiful wooden hilt and brass cross guard and pommel. It had a good weight. As Davis finished he went back to the counter. Mr. Ian and Martin were conversing cheerily and drinking their coffee.

            “All set then, sir.” Davis said to the shop keeper. Mr. Ian seemed pleased to see the gunslingers full gunna. He nodded approvingly when he saw the blade Davis has selected. It now hung in its new handmade sheath from his gun belt.

            “Almost.” Mr. Ian said and rang the small bell on his desk again. The boy emerged from the back again, but this time he was carrying two wooden boxes. One thin and rectangular, another thicker and square.

            “The special items requested by lord Damir. Ya can’t leave without these.” Mr. Ian said in a tone of excitement. He set the boxes down carefully on the counter and opened the small one first.

            “Mr. Damir had requested the finest revolver I could find. I dare say I have found something quite special.” The shopkeeper said with a touch of pride in his voice.

            From the box he produced a large, six round, single action revolver. The steel had a smooth and polished black finish. The grips were of some black wood that Davis didn’t recognize.

            “Axe-Breaker they call it, or Black Ironwood.” Ian said handing the weapon to Davis who was admiring the grips. “The hardest wood in the world some say. Beautiful stuff. Although rather hard to work with.”

            Davis nodded. There were two small silver coins inlaid into the wood on either side of the grips. On these was the symbol for the word moirai. He studied these for a moment.

 Inside the box was a sack of ammunition. He grabbed six rounds and quickly loaded the chambers one at a time. Then he spun the weapon once around his index finger and dropped it into his holster in one liquid motion. It fit perfectly. It was weighted perfectly.

“A fine weapon.” Davis said to Mr. Ian, who was smiling like child at the little trick the gunslinger had just preformed.

“Yes! Fine Indeed!” Martin proclaimed. Davis added the sack of extra rounds to his gunna.

“And also this.” Mr. Ian said as he opened the rectangular box.

Inside was a long, black, curved sword in a black wooden sheath. This was not like his old, straight double edged sword. Davis picked it up, admiring its weight as he drew the blade. This was a single edge sword of folded black steel in the style of the green folken. The curve allowed the weapon to be more easily drawn. The wrapped handle was long and ended in a black steel cap. Inscribed on the blade was again the symbol for moirai. This weapon was beautiful. It was elegant and deadly.

Davis returned the blade to its sheath with a click. He held it in his left hand and would set the weapon to his gun belt when he had the time.

“Two beautiful weapons.” Davis said and this time gave a small bow to Mr. Ian, who seemed very pleased.

“Well, Lord Damir asked for the best.” Mr. Ian smiled and returned the small bow, a little embarrassed.

“Right, then it is time to go meet my lord.” Martin said, standing up and finishing his coffee.

“Thank you for all your help!” Martin said as the men all shook hands again and said their goodbyes. Davis and Martin walked through the batwings and onto the warm street.

Mr. Ian did not move. After a few minutes the shop boy with the round face came to him.

“Black hat. Black gun. Black sword.” The boy said. “That man looks like a reaper to me.”

Mr. Ian Merkel nodded. He knew exactly what the boy meant. That man Davis, maybe he wasn’t a reaper or a demon. But he was a killer, a swift taker of life.

“Moirai.” The shopkeeper said under his breath. He then washed his hands and went about his day.

Uroboros Chapter 2 part 5

5

            Once Davis was dressed he buckled his gun belt about his waist. He checked the extra revolvers to see if they were loaded. They both were. He holstered one and cocked the other. He heard light footsteps approaching the room. The door creaked open and a short, fat man entered. He was carrying a tray of food and had a nervous little smile on his face. Davis leveled the barrel of his weapon at the man.

            “No-No, no need for that now.” The newcomer said raising the food tray defensively, as if it could protect him.  He hurried over to the table and set the tray down. The barrel of the revolver followed him.

            “Your name, Sir.” Davis said dryly. It hurt to speak and his voice came out horse and broken. The pain running through his body had not yet subsided. 

            “Er-Martin, Martin Chainsville.”  The fat man said. He gave a curt little bow as he spoke. His belly jiggled slightly as he did this. This man seemed nervous, but not scared. Davis lowered his weapon.

            “A Chainsville from Lock.”  Davis said with a trace of amusement in his voice.

            “Tell me Martin. Why am I here?”

            “I am a friend and I will gladly tell ye my story. Insomuch as it pertains to you.  But first, sir, I must insist that you eat.”

            Davis sat at the table of the man Martin and ate. Chainsville’s home was small but rather pleasant. There were only two bedrooms and a kitchen area. It wasn’t as warm in the kitchen as it had been in the bedroom. There were a few houseplants in pots tastefully arranged and the home was clean.

            Davis ate greedily. Martin had brought him a steak that was a little over cooked, a small loaf of wheat bread, some sort of leafy greens Davis didn’t recognize, and a pitcher of lemon water. He devoured the greens first. His body had been starved of any green food for months and his stomach growled fiercely when he first saw them. He then quickly cut up and ate his steak. Chasing each piece of meat with a bite of bread. After he was finished he drank down the entire pitcher of lemon water in one go. The citrusy drink was cool and refreshing. Martin sat drinking water and watching Davis patiently.

            The food was having what seemed to Davis to be an almost magical effect on him. The aches and pains that had been running throughout his entire body were now slowly dissipating. He could feel his strength returning to him. He felt better than he had in a long time.

            “There now, my master told me you’d be hungry when you woke.” Martin said with a little chuckle. Davis had relaxed a bit too. Whoever this man was, he sensed that he meant him no harm. If he had wanted to kill him, he had had many chances to do so.

`           “I have helped you at the request of my master. And my master has helped you at the request of the Wizard.” Martin said. He pulled out his pipe and tobacco and prepared himself a smoke. Davis would have liked a smoke himself, but he said nothing.

            “How has your master been in contact with him?’ Davis asked. Martin considered this for a moment. He lit his pipe and took a deep drag.

            “That I do not know.” He said finally. “But I had been given detail instructions. My master told me to wait by the old wasteland road for a man to come. There would be gunfire and fighting and when all was said and done I was to take the last man living and protect him from the guards. Which I have done.” He raised his hands at Davis as if to say there you go.

            Davis shook his head. The Wizard had known something would go wrong and had sent this fat little man to save him. He leaned back in his chair, a little disgusted with himself. The Wizard knew something would go wrong alright. He hadn’t even bothered to tell Davis how dangerous the sword he had been sent after was.

            Martin noticed the frown on Davis’s face. Davis just nodded and gestured for him to continue.

            “Well I did as I had been told and I went to you as soon as the fighting was over. And I must tell you sir; ye did not look to be well at all. In fact, as soon as loaded you onto my little wagon, I was sure you would bleed out right there. I collected as many of your things as I could and then brought you here to my home.”

            Davis leaned forward. “With the injuries I had sustained, I should be dead.”

 Chainsville nodded as if expecting this. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small glass vial. In it was a small amount of glowing blue liquid. It seemed to be almost the same color as the Wizards eyes. But not quite.

“I had clear instructions on how to use this stuff too.” He shook the little vial. “When you were safely out of harm’s way I was to lay you flat and pour half of this potion into your mouth.  The reaction was rather strange at first. I thought I had killed you. Your breathing seemed to stop. Your heartbeat stopped. I was rather worried. but by the very next day when I was cleaning your cloths, I could see that your wounds were healing at an astounding rate.”

Davis brought his hand up to his shoulder and rubbed the place he had been stabbed by the broken sword. There was nothing there. No lines or scars.

“So I just let you be for a while and all the time I saw your wounds fading. Not healing mind you, but actually fading.” Martin tapped out the remains of his pipe into a small clay ashtray. He then stood and collected the dishes and tray from the table and took them to the counter.

“I had been told that if you did not wake up after a month I was to give you the other half of the potion and-“

“A month!?” Davis said as he stood up and faced Martin. Davis was at least two heads taller than his host. Martin’s nervous expression returned. “How long exactly have I been asleep?”

Martin cleared his throat and started rubbing his chubby little hands together. “Um- I’d say about three weeks.”

This made Davis’s head hurt. He had been sleeping for three weeks? Maybe more. This idea almost made him feel sick.

Sensing Davis’s unhappiness, Martin continued.

“For my services I was to be paid twelve gold pieces. Not a bad deal at all if I do say so.”

Davis let out a sigh and went to the window.  He looked out onto the bright sunlit streets of Lock.

“So this potion was also a gift from the Wizard.”  Davis asked.

“Why no dear sir.” Martin said with a little nervous laugh. Davis was a little surprised.

“The potion was made my master, Lord Dameer Skrog Khurram. “

Now this did surprise him. That was a name used by the green folken. Not exclusively, but it was a pretty safe bet.

“My master is a Goblin and an alchemist of some renown.” Martin said with a touch of pride. “And I think it is time for us to go and meet my master.”

Uroboros chapter 2 parts 3, 4

                                                                        3

           Many times he had seen them. Many. And although this was true, they still scared him. He still saw them. In many ways, in many places he saw them. In the city he saw them. Alone in the desert he saw them. Even now. Here. Alone in the darkness, he saw.

 So blue. So bright. Always seeing. Always watching. The eyes of the Wizard.

Davis was walking through the desert again. But this time was different. There was no road. No trail or path. Just the wastelands in all their vast and empty glory. He looked up; the sky was blue and empty. The sun shone bright, but there was no heat. Davis heard himself sing a verse of song from his childhood. His younger days, playing with his friends in his father’s fields. Running and chanting.

No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.

Although we are waiting, for all to be right.

All good dreams are coming, for those who dare wait.

Those who show their true virtue, and accept their true fate.

Like all his friends he had run and jumped while singing these verses and countless others. Many of which had been forgotten.

Now this song he had come to hate. Virtue above all? That was to be the meaning of the song. But it was a lie. A stupid kid’s idea from a stupid kid’s song. Virtue may not be gone from this world, but it has passed most people by all the same. To be a man in this world meant to forego virtue. It meant doing what had to be done. The child he once was wouldn't understand. Couldn't, really. He hadn't seen enough to know that simple truth. His father had known of course. He had known it all too well. But like all fathers, he wanted to protect his son. But the horrors of the world find each of us in time. And they find us in their own way.

Davis walked on, with no sounds except his boots trudging against the earth. There was no hurry, no sense of urgency, not this time. And why would there be? He was no longer on the hunt. No longer chasing his prey. The blonde man was dead. His companions were dead.

 So he walked on. With no place to go. Nothing to do. But he walked. Because walking felt right. Walking gave him strength. If only a little. This is hell, Davis thought for no particular reason. Or a form of hell at least. His own hell. A long dragged out damnation that went on for eternity. Wandering in the desert. 

He brought his hands up to his hips. He was not surprises to see that his sword and his revolver were gone. Lost somewhere in Lock. Davis regretted his loss. It had been a good sword. A good gun. But the regret faded quickly. No need for a sword or gun out here.

No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.

Davis remembered the blonde man. Of course how could he forget? The blonde man was dead now but how could he forget? His arm went to his shoulder, where the old stab wound was. He was dead. But maybe, so am I.

This thought disturbed Davis. He stopped. He looked around. Nothing but empty desert. No weeds or animal track. There was not even the sound of the wind.

He remembered the blonde man. On his knees defeated. Then he remembered himself. On his knees, defeated. He remembered the sword. The broken sword that would shine. Shine so bright. He remembered the blood and the pain. This almost brought a scream to his lips. The desert no longer felt vast and empty. If felt small and crowded. Somehow closing in all around him. Pressing in. Davis pitched forward and vomited into the dirt. Only what came out was not vomit. It was blood. Dark and red. It seemed to turn black as it seeped into the dry earth.

Davis tried to scream. But no sound came. He looked up. And there in the sky above him were the eyes. The deep blue eyes. So bright and vibrant and piercing. He realized that they were always there. They had always been there. Watching him. He remembered how the broken swords would shine in that same way. Bright and piercing. Then he heard the words. Spoken calmly and with terrible power. And in those words there had been only truth.

Davis. You will serve.

4

Davis opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness. He was lying on his back, on some sort of bedroll. The first thing he became aware of was the pain. He gritted his teeth and let out a long, low growl. His body felt like it was in shambles. Like the pain of a muscle that has been overworked. Only far more heightened. It was a deep, sore ache that seemed to run through his entire body. And in seemed to continue like a long, dull scream. His arms and legs felt very stiff.

Davis took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. His right hand was trembling. He saw light to his right. Two thin, vertical streaks of sunlight. It was a window with some sort of sheet being used as a curtain, with light poking out along the edges. He looked around and could see nothing else. The room was musty and very warm. Sweat stood out on Davis’s forehead and arms. Not dead. Not yet at least.

With a great effort he sat up. The pain from his midsection was so extreme that for a few seconds he could not breathe. He paused for a full minute, trying to collect himself. Then slowly, carefully, he got to his feet. staggering over to the window, Davis reached out to grab the curtain/blanket. He pulled it aside. Dusty yellow light filled the small room. Placed carefully in the center of the room was the bedroll. To the right of the window was a low wood table with a few items on it and to the left was a small wooden door. The kind with no doorknob, just a wooden slider that can be opened and closed from both sides.

Something was not right. He was wearing a light, button up cotton shirt. It was old and faded but it was clean. He brought his hand up to his shoulder. The shoulder the blonde man had pierced with is broken sword. Davis nearly flinched in anticipation of the pain when his fingers touched his shoulder. But there was nothing. No pain. Just that deep aching feeling that seemed to swell up from the inside. His hand went to his ribs and nose. They had both been broken. But they were not now. There was no blood on his new shirt either. Nor any sign of blood.

He felt weak, and both tired and hungry. As though he had spent days preforming some sort of physical labor with no food or rest. He wanted nothing more than to collapse back onto the bedroll and sleep for a few days. Maybe a week. Then he thought of his dream. What he now realized was a dream.

No heat in the desert, no rain in the night.

The endless desert. The long walk. No place, no purpose. He angrily pushed the thought of sleep away. Instead he began to make his way to the small table. Walking proved to be difficult, but not impossible. Each step shot dull aches and pains up his legs. He got to the table and held on to the edge to keep from falling over.

Davis felt ridiculous. Like a toddler taking his first clumsy, tentative steps. Had he not walked endless mile? Had he not crossed the great wastelands? What the fuck was happening to him? Had he been sleeping for months, or maybe even years? Was that why he had no wounds from his battle with the blonde man? Now this thought disturbed him.

On the table before him were his effects. His shirts and jeans had been washed and were neatly folded. His gun belt and sheath were wrapped neatly but both were empty. His hat and gunna were gone. Left in the shade by the old wasteland road. His boots sat under the table. Davis noticed that they had been shined. To the right of his effects were several weapons. None of them his. There were two revolvers and several assorted knives. They had belonged to the companions of the blonde man.

At the far edge of the table there was one more object. It was laid flat against the table with a thick quilt with a checker pattern covering it. Davis was now very aware of the sweat running down his face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He grabbed the quilt and tossed it aside.

There, underneath, was the broken sword. Davis recoiled, took a step back and almost tripped over his own stiff legs. He could almost feel the sting of the blade as it had entered his shoulder. He could see the tiny splinters of steel that flew through the air as this blade had shattered his own. And the immense speed and power it had given the blonde man, who had been bleeding and defeated. It had healed him. It had filled Elven Greene with its own horrible light and power. And it had done all this when he had touched it.

Davis came forward. He reached out to touch the blade of the broken sword. His hand was shaking. When he was very young Davis had touched the edge of the cooking stove. There was no thought or reason. It had just seemed like a good idea at the time. He had run crying and screaming to his mother, holding his right hand. His first three fingers had been burned. His mother had held him, let him cry then put his fingers in some cool water. After he had stopped crying his mother hugged him and smiled. She had said that it was a good thing that had happened. It usually takes a hard experience for a child to learn a hard lesson, she had said. And now you know the stove is hot and to stay away. Now you know that it can hurt you and you won’t make the same mistake again. Through pain we learn, Davis. It’s sad but true. She had smiled her warm smile down at him. She kissed him on the cheek and Davis ran off, already looking for another little adventure. But Davis did not forget. Oh no, he did not forget.

His forefinger was close to the blade, hovering just above it. This blade had burned him. It had almost killed him for the love of fuck. He had learned his lesson as a child. But maybe... It would do to him what it did to the blonde man. Would it give him speed and power? Or would it somehow recognize that Davis was not its master, jump from the table and cut his head off? There was something to this blade. A force that seemed to radiate from it. That grew stronger the closer you came to the blade. No light or glow, just that force.

Davis closed his eyes and reached out. The tip of his finger touched the blade. He expected a flash of light or some sort of pain. But, there was nothing. The broken sword just lay on the table. Its stillness seemed to mock him somehow. After a moment he removed his finger and picked up the sword. It was heavy. The broken blade was sharp and bright. And despite its clean look, the blade felt old. Very old. He sighed and put the blade back on the table.

So much pain and suffering for this fucking thing. He covered the sword with the quilt again and began the long, arduous tasks of dressing himself.