A Tale of Rogue Adventures (LitShark & Curious_Muse)

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine lifted her sword and lunged but was a fraction too slow. Her little brother parried, then drove her back with a hail of blows. Her hands and arms were shaking with the effort to withstand his attack. With a sudden low thrust, Robert whacked the flat of his blunted blade to her belly, and she let out a wild curse but dropped her practise sword in acknowledgment that she had been defeated.

Sir Gerard clapped his hands. “Enough for today, you two. You need rest.”

“I think I cracked a rib,” Igraine commented without complaint. “Aren’t you ashamed to wound your own sister?”

Robert laughed. “Not in the slightest.”

“I’ll get you next time.” She wiped the dirt of the practise yard out of her eyes. “That’s a promise.”

“If there is a next time, sister. I bet Cedric de Navarre isn’t fond of women who look as good in chainmail as he does.” Sir Gerard, a loyal knight who had been in service of her family for two generations, chuckled as he gathered their weapons. Igraine shook out her hair and frowned.

“Why would I care what he thinks?”

Igraine noticed that Sir Gerard and Robert exchanged an uncomfortable look and that neither of them seemed eager to reply to her question. She laughed nervously. It was unusual for Robert not to take up an opportunity to tease his older sister.

“What is it? Spit it out!”

“There was a letter yesterday. From Ravenstone Castle.” Robert threw her a sidelong glance. “A proposal of marriage, or so I hear.”

Igraine stared at him, every trace of a smile wiped from her face. “Nobody told me.” Her blood turned to ice. She started running, only faintly aware that her brother tried to keep up with her.

***

When she stormed into the Great Hall, her father Lord Edwyne and her mother, Lady Maysaunt, were in conversation with her older brother Alaric. All three turned around to her when she entered.

“You have heard.”

“I have.” Robert entered the hall behind her, panting, but he remained silent. “Is it true?”

Her father nodded.

Igraine shook her head, barely able to contain her shock and her anger. “You cannot mean that.” Her gaze went to her mother who refused to meet her eyes. “You cannot possibly want that.”

Alaric snorted. “You should count yourself lucky for such a proposal. He’s young, he’s healthy, and he has the means to provide for you and your future children.” Igraine shuddered at the thought, but her brother didn’t seem to notice. “He will secure our position, and curry favour with the King. A union like that will finally bring peace and order to our lands!”

Igraine scoffed. “And apparently you are willing to sacrifice me for all of these lofty goals.”

“Sacrifice?” Her brother’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “An honour, rather.”

“That man has no honour.”

“He has proven his worth in battle a hundred times over.”

“He’s a monster!”

Alaric laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Are you lending credence to the gossip of ignorant village folk and superstitious peasants?” He walked up to her, towering over her by more than a head. But Igraine was not easily intimidated. “It is them who have borne the brunt of his viciousness,” she hissed. “They’d know.”

“Maybe he can teach you some manners, too, sister.”

“Or maybe you should wed him if you think so highly of his abilities, dear brother.”

“Enough!”

This time, it was their father whose thunderous voice silenced them both, and at once. “Stop quibbling like fishwives! There will be no more discussion about this. It is done. The wedding will take place by Saint Lawrence’s Day.”

“But that is next month!”

“Plenty of time to prepare your trousseau.”

“I’d rather die!”

There was a long, tense silence. Robert shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and Alaric exchanged a look with their mother who had not said anything yet. There was a cold light in her father’s eyes, heralding the gathering arctic storm.

“That will be for your future husband to decide. I am sure he knows how to discipline a disobedient wife.”

Igraine had no reply to that, but she felt the treacherous sting of angry tears and blinked them away. “I need to give my free consent,” she whispered, her fist closed tightly around the hilt of her sword. Robert cleared his throat, but Igraine did not heed his warning. “That’s what laws and customs prescribe, father. Even you cannot command me to wed anyone against my will.”

And the storm broke. “I will have your consent, you spoilt brat. I will have it, and if I have to hold you down myself to make sure de Navarre consummates this union!” For a moment, Igraine thought he was going to beat her. That he did not touch her at all almost felt worse. “Now get out of my sight.”

Igraine saw that Robert wanted to follow her, but she shook her head, and without another word, left the hall.

***

Cedric de Navarre. Of all the eligible men, why did it have to be him? The thought of him sent jolts of terror through her.

Igraine leaned back against the wooden rim of the tub, watching the curls of steam rise from the surface of the water. It was good to be alone, finally. If she had to listen to one more person telling her that she was lucky that such a finely made, rich man desired her for a bride she would have probably killed them.

Why was it so impossible for most people to understand that she had no desire to marry, and certainly not a man whose reputation resembled that of the devil himself? Why did she have to marry at all? She let herself slide down so that only her nose and eyes were above water. Her dark hair floated around her like the tangled stems of waterlilies. Why had she been born a girl? It was not the first time that she lamented her fate, of being nothing more than a chess piece men played with to gain advantage. That her brothers were allowed to bed whom they pleased, whereas she was expected to remain chaste until her wedding day. That she would be no more than a prized broodmare once she was wed to Lord Cedric. That she would be his property.

With an angry burst of breath, she pulled herself up again. Lifted one of her slender, toned legs. A few scrapes from earlier, but her chest still hurt. Then she examined a nasty bruise on her left arm, gingerly touched the skin and winced. The skin wasn’t broken, but it would keep her from training for a couple of days. Why had God given her this body, and this mind, when all everyone around her seemed to want was to tether both to their will?

Devil’s cock.

She had no money of her own. No property. If her father decided to turn her out into the street, she would be no better than the beggars by the castle walls. And before he did that, he was likely to drag her to the altar himself, forcing her to exchange vows with de Navarre. Igraine closed her eyes. Devil’s cock. There had to be a way to escape this wedding. What if she took holy orders? That would show them. Igraine chuckled at the thought, only too aware how little her temper and her character were suitable for a nunnery. But even a convent would require funds. Lots of funds, that she just didn’t have.

She had to come up with a plan. With money. It pained her to think about betraying her family like this, but Igraine would do anything, anything at all, to escape that demon of a man.

 

[LitShark]

The rhythmic clattering of the marble at the base of Sanguine LeChance’s scabbard told him that the dirt road continued in front of him without impediment. It was a reassuring sound, familiar and inviting. No matter how far he traveled, he always knew the road before him was straight and clear.

“Look what we have here,” a voice brought him to a halt, San was not alone, “a blind beggar.”

The sound of their armor betrayed them as town guards or soldiers—oathbound in either case. While their tone was confrontational, they were bound by certain restrictions and promises, unlike road agents or bandits.

"The last thing we need," the second one spoke up, revealing himself, “but that sword he’s carrying looks much too nice for a beggar.”

“Maybe we ought to relieve him of it.”

“Yeah. Good point. Hey, pal!” the first guard was snapping his fingers, “you’ve got to surrender that weapon. We don’t like armed strangers wandering into our city.”

He said “city” and not “town” or “village” which meant that San was getting close. He stood fast at attention, his heels clicking with military precision despite his lack of a rank. He bowed deeply until his long, white hair touched the ground.

“My name is Sanguine LeChance, I am a… let’s see, some say ‘sell-sword,’ others say ‘mercenary.’ Which is the custom in these parts?”

“We say mercenary.”

“Arthur! Don’t tell him that!”

“Just so! I am a mercenary—and as you have so deftly inferred, I am quite blind. In addition to being the primary tool of my trade, my sidearm also acts as a cane, measuring the ground in front of me so that I’m not bumping and bashing into things. I’m sure you can understand—especially being so valiantly equipped as you both are.”

“No, we still don’t like strangers—”

“But I am no longer a stranger. I’m Sanguine, remember? And you’re Arthur. I haven’t caught your companion’s name yet, but we feel like old friends already. Please, gentlemen. Be reasonable.”

“I’m not asking again!” Not-Arthur then did the dumbest thing he’d done in his life, he reached down to his scabbard and began to unsheathe his sword.

Following the sound, San used his sheathed sword as a post to spring forward and kick the pommel forward. The sword snapped shut in its scabbard, wringing a blood curdling scream from the guard. The web of his index finger to his thumb had apparently been caught in the closing latch of the castle-forged sword.

“I’m terribly sorry, Not-Arthur. I can’t allow you to draw your weapon on me. Any violence will be met in kind and I’d hate to hurt my new friends,” sightless eyes turned to Arthur, purely a motion for emphasis, “either of them.”

“My hand!” Not-Arthur was shrieking.

“Yes, your draw is sloppy. You need to move with intention, not paw at the hilt like you’re squeezing your first breast. I can show you a few draws when your hand gets better.”

Not-Arthur groaned, San could smell the familiar iron tang of blood. He instinctively reached for his sword again. This time San caught him by the wrist, overpowering him easily with one arm.

“Be glad you still have a hand to heal.”

“I think, we’ll just go in peace,” Arthur made a great rattling of his mail and plates, gathering his friend and pulling him away, “you’re most welcome, Sanguine. No need to disarm.”

“I knew I could count on you, Arthur,” San smiled and bowed again.

The guards and the blind man continued in opposite directions. Not-Arthur continuing to curse and swear. Sanguine began whistling as his marble continued rattling ahead of him, heading toward the city. He’d heard rumors of a high value bounty staying in the local inn. There were also rumors of a royal wedding.

Merging of political houses always yielded a high concentration of contract killing jobs. He hoped that Not-Arthur was not a representation of the average citizen. He chose to be optimistic about his prospects, as that choice was his own.

*-*-*

“I suppose that must have felt good,” Sir Gerard remarked, peeking his head into Igrane’s bedchamber. It might have been taboo if she wasn’t such a dogged student of swordcraft, “but I pray you don’t assume you’ve accomplished anything. Your father is a powerful man, he will see his will done.”

Gerard let himself in, his heavy plate mail clattering as he entered. His coat of armor kept him in remarkable shape for a man of his years, but while the armor was still efficient, the joints within were losing their elasticity. He moved slowly, but with purpose.

Igrane was one who had been born and only lived under the gentle sway of peace, she knew nothing of war—yet still had more fight in her than a dozen of the lazy town guards, more eager for a pint than a fight, yet so often encountering both.

“You need to be sure of what you’re doing. Not flailing wildly… like a child.”

Sir Gerard made no reaction to her nakedness, gently picking up her robe by his fingertips and holding it out for her.

“If it’s truly your intention to move against your father, you’ve given up your greatest advantage—which was the element of surprise. Your only hope is to counter with immediacy, surprise him by moving suddenly and without regard for the consequences. A blitzkrieg.”

It was almost too easy.

“I can get you out of the palace tonight, but you won’t get far without gold of your own. That’s where Rodrigo the Rat comes in.”

Once Igrane was in her robe, he handed her the poster. A crude drawing of a man with a scar, the word “Reward,” and a choice. “Dead or Alive.”

 

[Curious_Muse]

Robert saw Sir Gerard slip out of his sister’s chambers and frowned. There was something unsettling about that old knight, and he certainly didn’t like him sniffing around Igraine when she was alone. He stuck his head into the door.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He was relieved to see that she seemed to have found her spirits again.

“What did he want?” His sister sat on the edge of her bed. When he entered, he saw that she hastily pushed a piece of parchment under a pillow.

“Nothing. He just…nothing.”

Robert ached for his elder sister. “Father was unkind to you. You know that he doesn’t mean it.”

Igraine shrugged. “Maybe not. He’ll have no choice either way. The betrothal contract was signed.”

“I am sorry. I should have told you.”

“Yeah.” She tried to sound angry, but it sounded unconvincing. “But I understand that you didn’t. You can make it up to me, though.”

“Anything.”

“I need to borrow some of your clothes.” Robert looked at her, biting his lips. After a long pause, he nodded. He wondered if this had anything to do with Sir Gerald but decided not to pry. Not yet.

“I’ll miss you so much, sister.” His voice was a mere whisper.

She didn’t dare to look at him, afraid that if she did, the tears would come, and would change her mind. It’s a choice between sacrificing this family, or myself, she thought. I am being selfish, but I won’t just give up everything I wanted to please ambitious men.

“When?”

She swallowed hard, biting down the tears and the sadness and the doubts.

“Tonight.”

***

Despite the summer night, the rooms were a little chilly, and Lady Maysaunt had to pull the covers all the way up to her chin. Outside an owl hooted, and there was the faint metallic clink of the nightwatchman doing his rounds of the castle.

Lord Edwyn downed the remainder of his wine and put down the cup a little harder than he intended.

“She needs to understand what’s at stake.”

“And I am sure she does. But you were too harsh.”

“I know. I should have apologised to her. I’ll talk to her first thing in the morning.”

Maysaunt watched her husband pull his tunic over his head and smiled. After all these years she never tired of looking at him, and despite all these years, he was still lean and handsome, a man she loved and desired.

“De Navarre will have these lands, either by marriage or by force. His bannermen have been raiding at the borders again, driving off cattle and sheep. A peasant boy was killed.” Maysaunt said nothing. She knew how much it pained her husband to force his only daughter into this marriage, just as she knew that there was little he could do to prevent it. “I lack the forces and the backing at court to drive them back, and he knows it. This betrothal is as much an offer of peace as it is unfortunate for Igraine. But she needs to find a way to accept it, or he’ll burn all of Clyndon to the ground.”

Maysaunt smiled. “Remember how little I cared for you when we just met? How scared I was?” He turned around to her and laughed. “How could I forget? I still bear the scars of your anger.” Maysaunt giggled. It was true. The copper pitcher she had thrown at him had left a small round scar just beneath his right shoulder blade.

“I’m afraid she might do worse to him. Maybe it was folly to let her train with her brothers.”

“Not folly. Good, common sense.”

He joined her in the bed, pulled her into his embrace. “Imagine what you would have done to me had you been able to wield a blade. I shudder to think of it.” She kissed him softly on the lips. “Give her time. You were patient with me then, and I grew to love you.” Another kiss. “To desire you.” Her hand slid under the covers and his breath hitched. “Your patience paid off then, didn’t it?” He groaned. “It will pay off now, too. I am sure of it.” She wasn’t able to say any more before he pulled her into a passionate, hungry kiss.

 

[LitShark]

It was nighttime by the time that Sanguine reached the tavern. He tapped all four corners of the doorway with the end of his scabbard before rolling the marble inside. The wooden floor was old, the grains standing up noticeably high, each plank like a fingerprint. The place had character. Then the scabbard landed against the front edge of the bar, San reached out to be sure that he wasn’t approaching some poor fool’s back while he was sitting at the bar—a lesson hard-earned. Fortunately, San’s hand reached the front edge of the bar unimpeded.

“Can someone help me, please? I have gold,” it was the kind of thing that always seemed to bare mentioning, since people so often associated blindness and poverty.

“I’ve been watching you from the door, blind man. What do you need?”

“Ah,” San turned a smiling face in the direction the voice had come from, “my name is Sanguine LeChance. Who do I have the privilege of addressing?”

Derisive chuckles alerted him to the four or five others at the bar. Apparently they didn’t speak that way in this part of town.

“I’m Rat Stain, this is ale,” Rat Stain slammed a half-full mug of ale on the bar, “it costs three bits.”

Seemingly from thin air, San produced a single, neatly-trimmed gold coin between two fingers.

“This, and the same for the five other gentlemen,” San placed the coin on the bar and slid it over to the barkeep, “Rat Stain is such an interesting name, it’s good to meet you.”

Rat Stain seemed about to say something else but was quickly silenced by San’s whole palm smothering his face. It was incredible the force that his fingers were capable of expressing on the sides of R.S.’s face. His mouth was squished together and his head frozen in place.

“You are, Rat Stain,” San nodded his head, really learning the man’s face—putting a face to the name.

“You hear that, boys? The Cripple thinks we’re gentle,” someone further down the bar remarked, doubtless also named after some kind of rat to indicate his gang affiliation.

“He really must be blind, eh?”

That remark always dug at him. Why would he pretend? “…really must be…” he didn’t think he was going to like these rat people.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you gentlemen, I’m Sanguine. You can call me San,” one last shot at diplomacy never hurt.

“I’m Rat’s Tail and I told you to stop calling us gentle!”

“Well, no—you remarked that I thought you were gentle, which was a misconception, and then the other… guy, remarked that I really must be blind. Which kinda pissed me off—but I’ve decided to let it slide.”

San released Rat Stain’s face.

“Asshole!”

“Stain, let’s open a bottle of whiskey for my new friends here. Would you… rats know anything about the street gang, ‘the Rats?’ I’m looking to join a new crew. I’m a very accomplished gangster and all-around thug.”

They all laughed at this. Laughing was good, he supposed.

“You? A thug? That must be some kind of joke.”

“A blind man walks into a bar!”

Everyone roared with laughter. Even San himself let go of a chuckle. It did sound like the setup for a joke.

“Okay, okay… you guys want me to do something to prove my worth. Am I right?”

 

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine looked back up at the black walls of her father’s castle, feeling a treacherous pull in the pit of her stomach. She pulled her hooded cloak tighter around her shoulders and continued to put one foot in front of the other, in the direction of the tavern.

It was late, almost midnight, and only a few stragglers were still out in the streets. That way she would be able to avoid any curious eyes, or any of her father’s men out drinking. At least that’s what Sir Gerard had told her.

Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword. In her mind, she was rehearsing her moves. If she was to collect the ransom, her only option was to kill this ominous Rodrigo, for she was under no illusions that she would be able to snare him alive.

Igraine had never killed anyone before.

She looked up and saw the creaky, washed-out sign of a snarling fox above the tavern door that Sir Gerald had described to her. She took a few deep breaths before she pushed the door open and entered. The old knight had told her that he would be only a few steps behind her and that he would make sure that everything would go according to his plan.

Her face was half-hidden under the hood she had drawn low over her head, but she could sense the chill of several pairs of curious eyes when she stepped over the threshold of the tavern. The place was nicer than she had expected. The rather spacious taproom was dimly lit by tallow candles installed on long wooden tables. A fire crackled in the hearth, warming the air as well as whatever savoury concoction bubbled in an enormous black cauldron suspended over the flames. Slivers of blue moonlight danced through the windows on the front wall.

It was too late to change her mind now, and besides, what choice did she have? As Sir Gerard had correctly pointed out, this really was her only option if she wished to outsmart her father and her older brother. And she had no time to lose.

Suspicious-looking men were seated at some of the tables, and the low droning of their conversations came to a sudden end when she made her way toward the wooden plank that served as the bar. The man behind it gave her a gap-toothed grin.

“Does your mother know you’re out this late, boy?”

There were some chuckles all around, but, or so she hoped, the interest in her presence was already waning. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed a curious figure, a man who, despite his apparent youth, had long, white hair.

But Igraine concentrated on the task at hand. At least her costume seemed to do the trick. The soft leather chausses did little to conceal her slender legs and an attentive observer might have noticed how narrow her hips were under her dark green linen tunic. She looked up at the speaker and put a few coins down on the counter.

“I hope she doesn’t,” Igraine said with a wry smile. “This is for the ale and for you keeping my secret.”

 

[LitShark]

“Three, two, one!” the collection of rat-themed brigands were all shouting in unison.

On “one,” Sanguine pitched a single, flat copper coin off the back wall of the bar where it ricocheted upward to chime off the glasses hanging overhead, bouncing back down to land squarely in the center of a shot of whiskey. The drunken men cheered loudly as it splashed down and the man called Rat’s Tail downed the shot to another rousing cheer.

“How are you doing that?” Rat Stain asked between chuckles.

“It’s simple. I try not to miss, so then I don’t.”

More laughter.

Simple minds were easily impressed, but at least for now, San was accepted in among the Rats. It wasn’t something that he expected to ever aspire to, but here he was.

“You’re alright Sanguine,” Rat Tail clapped him on the back in a friendly way, but it was difficult not to have his highly trained reflexes respond to it like a swing.

“It’s San to my friends.”

“Friends my foot! To our new brother!”

Men were cheering, San raised his mug to join the toast. He could feel the arms of those around him rising up, so he raised his glass as well. All drank.

Just as he was beginning to relax, a woman entered the Inn. The floorboards betrayed her slender build and the fluidity of her gait bespoke a feminine grace. There were other hints, like the faint waft of soap—something entirely foreign to the other occupants of the Tavern.

Stain referred to her as “boy,” which led San to conclude that she was in disguise—a secret he intended to protect for as long as their intentions didn’t conflict. Nonetheless, this was no place for a young woman.

The sound her fingers made as she slid the coins onto the counter was soft and supple—not the rigid, crinkly hardness that came from hard work and hard living. The last thing he needed was some spoiled rich girl with a fetish for murderers to look after—but despite himself, he felt a protective instinct toward her.

“I’m glad to know you, brothers—but the road has been long and travel tedious without the aid of a mount. Does this tavern have rooms? I’m glad to pay.”

“Upstairs,” Stain tossed a single key over which San caught in the air, “just keep clear of the room at the end of the hall. That’s the boss’ room.”

“I would like to meet him… should I just say a quick, ‘hello’?”

“No.” Rat Tail’s voice was suddenly firm, “nobody sees the boss until he wants to see them.”

“Understood.” San smiled and bowed, making his way over toward the stairs.

He used the marble at the bottom of his scabbard to measure the height and depth of each step before chancing his next step. He ascended slowly, with purpose.

Fun times were over.

Death was waiting at the end of the hall. All that remained was to determine who he was waiting for.

 

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine took a sip of ale and screwed up her face in disgust. It was sour and weak, nothing like what she was used to at home. But she didn’t say a word, happy that she had apparently already been forgotten by the rest of the patrons.

She watched from the shadows as the white-haired stranger made his way up the stairs. He was blind but moved with an assurance and grace that most sharp-eyed men did not possess. The exchange between him and the unsavory-looking character behind the bar. Why did he care to see the leader of this band of rabble? It would make her task that much more difficult if he decided to stand in her way.

But Igraine, too, wondered who the boss was. It had to be Rodrigo. If he was alone in a room upstairs, with the rest of his gang of misfits and villains down in the taproom, it would be her only chance to get to him.

Even as the thought occurred to her, she knew how reckless it was. How idiotic. She took another sip of her ale and made an effort not to show her distaste. It would have been easy – and smarter – to bid them goodnight and walk back out the door. Surely there were other ways to find some coin, and maybe there was even a chance to talk her father out of marrying her off to de Navarre. Maybe, if she would tell him what she had witnessed the year prior, at the tourney in Castle Madrigane, he would relent, and be less eager to leave his only daughter to that man?

The thought of her intended put some steel back in her spine. Had she not just vowed in front of her family that she’d rather die than marry that bastard? Well, now was her chance to prove that these had not just been empty words.

Every now and then she threw furtive glances at the door. Where the hell was Sir Gerard? He was supposed to be here now. But every minute that passed was also a missed opportunity to get at the Rat upstairs and collect the ransom.

Her heart was beating in her chest like a wild thing. She checked for the little sharp dagger hidden in her sleeve. If nothing else, that should be enough. How hard could it be? Alaric had once described the act of killing as nothing more than a flick of the wrist, an act as familiar as taking a shit. That Rodrigo was a criminal, a killer himself, if that poster was to be believed. He deserved to die, and she, Igraine deserved to be free of Cedric de Navarre.

She took a few more coins from her purse and shoved them over the counter. “Could I get a room upstairs as well?” she asked. “I have a long way ahead of me and would be grateful for a bed and some rest.”

 

[LitShark]

When the shrouded youth requested a room upstairs, Rat Stain tilted his head, trying to peek past the youth’s hood. Stain still couldn’t see the whole face, but it was enough to confirm the already dense suspicion that this new arrival was in fact the one they were waiting for. A well-born young woman who had been set up by their benefactor to be their latest prize. They could ransom not only her life, but her innocence as well, given the tenuous state of her apparent nuptial agreements.

Stain gave a faint nod to Rat Tail, who moved in closer behind the youth. Around the bar, others let their hands find the hilts of their weapons.

“Yeah, sure…” Rat Stain seemed to be turning his back, “let me just grab the key.”

On the word “key,” everyone drew in unison. Rat Stain wrapped his arms around Igraine’s slender waist, pushing his fist against her naval so that the flat of his kukuri blade pressed against her sternum, the curved edge pressing against the edge of her firm breast.

“Don’t move bitch, or I’ll cut you to pieces, Lady Igraine.” Rat Tail’s ale stinking breath invaded her hood as Stain produced a blunt-headed mace from behind the bar.

“Your rich parents will pay dearly for your return,” Stain used the mace to push back her hood and expose her face, “a proper ransom. And more over to keep your chastity unbroken.”

While Rat Stain was sneering, Rat Tail was busy pawing at Igraine’s body under the thin guise of a search—though he mostly seemed to be searching her right breast. Thoroughly and repeatedly. Rat Tail nibbled on her earlobe.

In the tense silence that followed, aside from the rustling of Igraine’s robes and the collected heavy breathing of a dozen or so low-rent thugs, the sound of San’s marble rolling across the floorboards upstairs kept everyone mindful that there was another in their midst. They hoped that he would take to bed soon.

*-*-*

Upstairs, Sanguine had reached the door that he assumed to be Rodrigo the Rat’s bedroom. He raised his sword aloft and snapped the marble from the scabbard. He rolled the small glass bead down the hall, toward the room he’d rented while he turned the knob on Rodrigo’s door and entered without a sound.

Unfortunately, Rodrigo was waiting.

A profound whoosh led Sanguine to slam the door shut again, just before the percussive thwack of an axe blade penetrating the wood. Rodrigo could be heard from within, howling with laughter.

“Looks like we caught some unexpected prey in our little rat trap. Come back, you brigand! Rodrigo’s got lots more axes for you!”

As if by way of demonstration, two more percussive thwacks landed on the door.

There seemed to be some kind of struggle unfolding downstairs, but with Rodrigo’s shouting and the axes continuing to split the worn wood of the door—San had problems of his own to deal with.

“Well… this is less than ideal,” Sanguine sighed, “time to sing these rat fucks to sleep.”

With a flourish, Sanguine drew his long, polished blade. The draw passed through the wood of the door like paper and the splinters and axes went showering inward at Rodrigo. The flat sides of Sanguine’s sword, “Siren” were lined with thin layers of wrought iron, causing the metal to ring and sustain a high, melodic tone. To most it was merely a sound—but through decades of intense training, the sound gave San a kind of sight beyond sight.

Though he couldn’t see, the sound of Siren’s song told him everything. He knew where each axe from the door was falling, he knew where Rodrigo was sitting and how many other axes he had standing by. San could sense everything around him, down to the pattern of the grain on the floor.

It was easy to dodge the next two axes that were thrown, they seemed to be moving through mud in air. The ringing continued from San’s sword, even as the sound bent and was distorted by the process of the sword sinking into Rodrigo’s chest.

“You deserve this,” San muttered softly, turning the blade within Rodrigo’s ribcage and stopping his heart like a switch.

The silence that followed was short lived.

“The blind man is a Bounty Hunter! Tie the bitch up and go help the boss!”

San tugged his blade free of its meat scabbard, flourishing it through the air to cast off the glut of blood against the wall in a single motion.

 

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine knew, even before the arm was wrapped around her waist, that she had made a horrible miscalculation. But that realization was of no use at all now.

Neither was struggling. Not with the deadly steel that was suddenly pressed to her chest.

“If you know who I am, you rat’s ass, then you know that Lord Edwyne is my father and that he will turn your guts into garters if you return me with even as much as a scratch.” Truth be told, Igraine didn’t feel the confidence she tried to convey, since she wasn’t sure if her father would want her back at all, not after what she had done. Or, if they didn’t kill her, Alaric might see to that task as soon as she set foot back in Clyndon Castle.

She almost gagged when another cloud of bad breath enveloped her face. When she felt the disgusting, wet flap of his tongue against her ear, she did gag, and tried to pull away from him without risking being cut by his blade.

And de Navarre? Even if she returned home a virgin, which at this point seemed an optimistic idea, he might consider her spoilt goods, just for walking into a place like this, dressed as a boy. If not that, spending the night in the company of an entire gang of dirty cutthroats would very likely do it. In any case, her reputation would be ruined.

But, most importantly, Igraine had no intention to return to the castle or to face her betrothed. Every now and then she craned her neck, trying to listen if she heard footsteps, expecting Sir Gerard to burst through the door any minute now. These bastards had no clue what was in store for them, and once her mentor was here, she would make sure to cut that guy’s tongue out herself.

The sound of a struggle that followed her thoughts came from an entirely different direction than she had expected. Upstairs. To her satisfaction, she saw that it took the asshole behind the bar as much by surprise as it had her.

Someone pulled her wrists behind her back, and she felt the tight bite of a rope before most of the bandits rushed upstairs.

That blind man was a bounty hunter, then? Igraine looked up, to where the hurried footsteps seemed to converge. How on earth was that possible?

 

[LitShark]

San didn’t need Siren’s song to know the rest of the gang was stomping their way up the wooden stairs. The door made a handy bottleneck to minimize the advantage of their numbers. When the first man slammed his shoulder into the door, San swung his long sword violently through the door, shattering the already damaged door to splinters.

San was able to dispatch at least three of them in the doorway until the pool of blood threatened to compromise his footing. He planted hard and drove a might thrust through the doorway before backpedaling at break-neck speed. He launched himself backward through the second-story window, shattering it outward and joining the hail of glass into the street.

Landing with a swift backward shoulder-roll, San landed on his toes. He paused for a moment. Quickly trying to consider his position.

He could make a clean break, right then and there. They’d never catch him in the dark. But the girl, he’d heard them taking her captive. He could almost feel the terror she must be feeling—at the mercy of a band of Brigands.

Without the guidance of their leader, who knew what they might do with her.

“Shit,” Sanguine sighed, standing up straight and brushing glass away from his cloak, “Rat boys! I’d just as soon not have to cut through each of you and make a mess. So why don’t you let the girl go with me and live a little longer.”

San could hear the blood from his previous kills dripping through the crude and uneven floorboards. It likely seemed like it was raining blood inside the tavern, perhaps the theatrics would be enough to spare him further fighting.

“Get fucked, Snowball!” Rat Stain shouted.

The bottle thrown from inside didn’t even require San to move to avoid being hit. He sighed, flourishing his sword to whip the blood in a wide arc in the street. He tapped the blade against his heel, Siren began singing again.

“Hey girl,” San shouted into the bar, “get as low as you can!”

*-*-*

“Urgghhhuh!” *CRACK* San twisted the sword sharply, separating Rat Stain’s spine and putting him out of his misery.

Blood was everywhere.

At least now it seemed that the last of the Rat Gang was dead.

“Are you still alright?” San called out, flourishing the blood from his blade once again, “come over here so I and cut your binds.”

San swiftly produced a dagger from somewhere in his sleeve, holding it out, handle first in the direction he expected the girl to be. He could feel the blood soaking his face, hair and clothes, so he wanted to be clear that he wasn’t going to harm her.

 

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine forced herself to take a deep breath. And then another. A scream forced itself up her chest and crowded her throat, so she bit her lips until they bled to keep it inside. Blood was dripping from the ceiling. It was pooling on the uneven floor. Drops of blood were rolling down the white-haired man’s face. They clung to his eyelashes like unshed tears.

He had killed them all.

She stared at the knife he held out to her, too stunned to speak, or even to move. His blind eyes seemed to stare right at her. Never in her life had she seen anyone fight the way he did. Her older brother was an excellent swordsman, undefeated in battle and tourneys, but this? It was hard to believe that this man wasn’t some sort of magician, some demon, or even the devil himself.

Slowly, as if she had to relearn how to use her limbs, she approached him, slipping on a puddle of blood, but managing to keep upright. When she was right in front of him, she turned around, presenting her bound wrists to his blade. Surely, if he had wanted to kill her, he would have long done so.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and scared. There were other questions she wanted to ask him, all urgent, impatient inquiries she knew had to wait. Where had he come from? Why was he here? Who had sent him? Had he, too, known she would be here? Did he know who she was?

Igraine also knew that it wouldn’t take long for her father’s watchmen to arrive in the tavern. The fight had caused a ruckus that would have alerted them even if they were deaf. How would he explain this carnage to the local lord, even if these men had been scum? There were laws against what he had done and breaking them meant severe punishment.

And she? The watchmen would drag her back to the castle, a fate she desperately wanted to avoid.

“We cannot stay here,” she said softly. And then: “Is there anyone still alive?”

 

[LitShark]

“Well, I’m alive and you’re alive. Seems like a favorable outcome,” Sanguine took Igraine’s hands in his own, gently feeling out her wrists and the feeble binding between them. She was petite—but not in the way that most common women were. Lithe, but not gaunt. From wherever she had come, this girl came from money. He tugged the blade toward himself, cutting her free, “there’s a bounty… this looks like a rat, doesn’t it?”

Though he perceived a lot, Sanguine didn’t quite realize how distressed Igraine truly was.

In ignorance of her mood, San produced Rodrigo’s severed finger, still wearing his signet ring that bore the his gang’s insignia, but it was small and mostly covered in blood which made it difficult to properly distinguished the embossed image. Sanguine sought Igraine’s opinion nonetheless.

“You’re right. We should get moving, do you live close by here?” it was an earnest question, her smooth hands bespoke some nobility. At minimum, she could gain him access to a warm meal and a proper bed to stay the night until he could get clear of the area.

Absent-mindedly, Sanguine wiped his face and slipped his hood back up over his blood-soaked, silver hair. After sheathing his blade in his sleeve again, he offered his hand to Igraine.

“Lead the way.”

 

[Curious_Muse]

Igraine wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He had diligently avoided answering her question. But from his words, she could deduct at least two things: he was a bounty hunter, and he did in fact not know who she was.

“Uhm…I do live here, yes.” She didn’t take the hand he offered as it was crusted with dried blood, and she just couldn’t bear to touch it. “But trust me if I tell you that neither you nor I want to show up there. And certainly not if you look…like this.” Unsure if he would be able to understand what she meant, Igraine added: “You’re completely covered in blood. All of you…your face…and your hair…” The note of panic that she had tried to suppress bubbled up in her throat. “There’s blood everywhere,” she whispered. “All over you.”

“But I might know a place we can turn to, someone I trust. You could at least clean up. A friend who lives not far from here.” Igraine knew Alyse, the woman who ran the bathing house. She had been a loyal and kind friend and surely wouldn’t turn them away if Igraine vouched for them both. “But we have to hurry.”

 

[LitShark]

“Hurry? But why?” San matched her step, almost instinctively being led, “there was a bounty on those men. Dead or alive. We’re serving the will of the court. I want them to know…”

It dawned on Sanguine for the first time that this bounty might not have been genuine, that he might have been misled into this and once again, landing himself in a heap of trouble. Understanding, now that she had vividly described the issue of the blood, San lowered his scabbard onto the ground in front of him using it to avoid making matters worse by running headlong into a stranger—or worse yet, a soldier.

“You think I might have been deceived? Someone used a false notice to contract a murder?” Sanguine was no stranger to contract killings, but he’d grown overconfident by a string of successful bounty killings. It seemed his overconfidence was coming back to bite him now, “I’ll go wherever you lead. I’m trusting you.”

He didn’t have much choice as far as that went. Without a hand to lead him, San could only follow her voice.

“What should I call you, Miss?”

 

[Curious_Muse]

“Uhm…” Igraine was trying to decide if she could trust this odd stranger enough to answer his questions truthfully, or at least those she knew a good answer to. “I’m Igraine.” Keeping a keen eye on her surroundings, throwing an uneasy glance over her shoulder every now and then, she was still pondering his other question. Because if they had indeed been deceived, was Sir Gerard involved in this scheme in any way, or had he himself been lied to? It was impossible to know, but she had a very bad feeling about all of this.

“And to be honest, I’m not sure what happened there, but whatever the local lord’s opinion on the scum back there might be…” She winced at the thought of her father. “…he most probably wouldn’t condone the kind of…justice that you just dispensed. It’s better to steer clear and hope that nobody saw us.”

He still hadn’t told her who, or what, he was and she wasn’t going to press the issue now. In any case, for now she had no choice but to trust him, at least until Alyse would grant her cover. Her heart was beating wildly, and she hurried her steps.

It was lucky that it was a cloudy night, allowing them to move in almost complete darkness. Only here and there a lantern threw its flickery light onto the street.

“We’re almost there.” She could already see the dim light of the red lantern outside her friend’s establishment. Igraine breathed a sigh of relief.

She knocked at the door, and for the length of a few heartbeats, nothing happened. She was just about to knock again when the door was opened, and a woman appeared in the frame. “Igraine! At this hour? And why are you dressed like that? Did you come to get your brothers aga…?” But then Alyse’s eyes fell on the stranger, and she put one hand on her mouth in shock. “God’s teeth! What on earth…?”

“He’s…he helped me.” Igraine didn’t know what else to say. “He’s…a friend, I suppose.”

“You keep unsavory company, girl,” Alyse muttered, looking Igraine’s strange companion up and down, seemingly without finding anything she liked. Her line of work had made her suspicious of most men, and certainly of men who seemed to have a taste for violence. Though she was still relatively young, she had seen a lot, and learned to be on guard.

“I need you to help us…can we come in?” Igraine once again looked over her shoulder. “And…can you hide us for tonight?”

Her friend nodded without another question and stepped aside, allowing them to enter the bathhouse. Immediately the warm, steamy air suffused with fragrant herbs hit Igraine’s senses. There was faint music coming from the stone hall, some laughter, and sounds that were a testament to the various other pleasures on offer in Alyse’s establishment.

Alyse huddled behind Igraine as they walked through a small stone corridor towards these sounds, as if trying to shield her from the stranger. “I heard about your engagement,” she whispered. “Congratulations, he’s quite the catch!”

“Yes…well…about that…” Igraine sighed. How had the news travelled this fast? Who else had known about this cursed arrangement? “It’s complicated.”

Alyse snorted. “I bet it is. Though most women I know would give their right arm to be married to de Navarre. I have to admit that I wouldn’t deny him my bed if I ever got the chance.” She laughed. “But marriage…I suppose that’s a different matter altogether.” This time, her voice was more serious.

As they were approaching the large bathing room, Alyse stopped. “Wait. We have some…illustrious guests tonight. You can’t just walk in there, especially not that…man.” She pointed over her shoulder at San. “You need to rinse off, and so does he. You need clean clothes. I can provide you with both. I have stuff for your friend, too.” She sighed. “You’ve chosen a bad night to come here.” Igraine nodded, suddenly apprehensive. Someone was singing a rowdy tune in the big hall, there was splash and female giggles. It was crowded.

“A few of your father’s men are here tonight, sweetie,” Alyse said apologetically. “And so is your older brother. I suppose they’re celebrating your engagement.”

Into Igraine’s shocked silence came a loud moan of female pleasure, followed by a male grunt, echoing off the stone walls around them. There was more laughter, then more high-pitched moans.

“Come with me,” Alyse said. Igraine followed her friend, hoping that the stranger would keep up. She had almost forgotten he was there at all. Alyse led them into a smaller hall covered by a domes ceiling dotted with small glass openings. A few lanterns were flickering over the still surface of a stone pool. The sounds from the big hall were more muted here, but still audible. “I’ll make sure that nobody disturbs you here. The water is warm and clean.” She looked from Igraine to San. “I guess he won’t be able to take a peek at things he shouldn’t.”

Igraine balked at the thought but didn’t say anything. Instead she began to undo the belt around her tunic, but still turned her back at San, uncomfortable and quiet.