Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

I walk through the splintered gates, haphazard on their hinges, and up a shallow rise, keeping to the side of the street to avoid the stream of sewage flowing down the middle. A child with half an arm missing sits against a wall and glares at me as I pass; an unfamiliar feeling twinges in my chest as I wonder how much older the boy will be allowed to grow in such a place. I push it aside, thinking instead about killing the man named Khirro.

A shout and the sound of splintering wood; I’m surprised there’s still anything left here to be broken. I amend my path toward the sounds because I know I’ll find people there, and with people come tests.

The street I turn onto narrows and the stench grows in the smaller space, but I pay it no heed. I’ve been to the Fields of the Dead and had to leave it behind, I’ve spent time in the Void-I couldn't care less about bad smells. Rats scurry past, chased by a cat that looks more like bigger vermin than a feline. As I approach the end of the lane and the square it ends at, my hand finds the hilt of my sword. What little trepidation I might have had disappears at the feel of its leather on the palm of my hand.

There are people in the square, men mostly, staggering and laughing. A group of three sing a bawdy song discordantly, yelling the most offensive words. There are a few women, too, dressed in soiled and torn dresses that may once have been beautiful. They call to the men, shouting to be heard above the drunken din, promising passion for a small sum as they cup their breasts with grubby hands and cracked fingernails. One woman is bent over the wooden railing outside a bustling public house, her skirt hiked up above her waist as a man thrusts into her from behind. She cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of a small knife while he rams his hips against her.

As I watch, he finishes and swats her bare ass, then steps away fastening his breeches. He’s barely three steps away before another man takes his place, gives the woman a coin and undoes his pants. Part of me is sickened, anguished by the memories stirred within my breast, but another part is sympathetic. I understand one must do what one must to survive.

I divert my attention away from the dispassionate coupling and head toward the public house where light spills through loosely shuttered windows, and conversation, shouts and music bubble through the doorway. I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders and against my cheeks. Better I fool some into thinking I’m a man for a while.

At the doorway, I’m uncertain if I look upon a party or a riot. Bodies press together, their sweaty heat keeping the chill night outside the room. A man stumbles past and vomits on the porch outside the door, some of his spew splashing unnoticed onto the bare calves of the man more concerned about getting his money’s worth from the disinterested whore.

In a corner of the room, a scared-looking musician strums a lute and sings words no one hears above the noise of the revelers. To my right is a long bar, its surface nicked and splintered by years of misuse. People dance on it, kicking over others’ drinks; one such incident sparks a fight, but the crowd swallows the combatants and I can’t see the outcome of the skirmish, so I move toward the bar, hoping to gather information.

It’s impossible to tell if the man dispensing drinks is the barkeep or just another inebriated partier. He’s at least as drunk as everyone else and spills more liquor on the stained wooden surface than he pours into the chipped cups. There’s no point asking questions of any of these people. If I interrogated and threatened until the sun rose, I wouldn’t receive coherent answers.

Resigned to wait until the morrow, I take a cup from the bar and carefully choose an edge from which to drink to avoid cutting my lip. The strong liquor burns my throat. It doesn’t refresh me but leaves a warmth in my stomach that’s not uncomfortable. Too much would certainly leave a pain in my head.

I push my way back through the throng toward the door. A man grumbles as I force my way past, another simply topples at my touch, his drink spilling down his companion’s front. The man looks like he’ll make trouble over it, but my stern expression changes his mind.

Halfway to the door, a hand catches my arm, spins me around. I grab the hilt of my dagger and free half an inch of steel, expecting to see the man with the wet shirt, but it’s not.

“I knows you,” this new man says, the lanterns’ light gleaming in the line of saliva running from the corner of his mouth. He might be attractive if not for that and the missing teeth. And the bulbous nose. And the patchy beard. “If I don’t knows ya, I sure wants to.”

His hand finds my breast at precisely the instant my blade finds his belly. I pull him close, burying the steel all the way to the hilt, enjoying the surprised look on his face.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper. “You never will.”

I pull the blade free and step away, holding it in front of me to counter any retribution from him or his companions. His hand falls away from my chest and goes to his belly. He stares at the blood on his fingers, then looks up at me before the writhing crowd absorbs him. I don’t wait to see if he survives or if his friends care what happened. I push my way through the drunken mob and stumble out the door into the cool night, leaving the smell of stale beer and vomit behind. The whore still leans against the railing cleaning her nails; her skirt is back in place, covering her ass. No men are standing around awaiting their turns. I go to her, lean against the railing beside her, facing the other direction to avoid showing my back to the door.

“If’n you wants a turn, you gotta pay,” she says without looking away from her fingers.

“I don’t want a turn.”

At the sound of my voice, she turns her head and appraises me.

“Half price for the ladies,” she says and smiles.

All of her front teeth are gone and I wonder if it happened in a brawl or if she removed them herself to offer special services for her clients. This close, I can tell she’s seen no more than sixteen years.

“Not interested. I’m here to find a man.”

Her smile disappears. “If’n you undercuts me, I’ll slice you.”

She bounces the knife she used to clean her nails in her hand, a lazy threat. Now it’s my turn to smile.

“Not just any man, a man named Khirro.”

She snorts a laugh through her nose. “Ain’t no heroes in Poltghasa, darlin’.”

“Not ‘hero’, ‘Khirro’, with a k.”

“Ain’t none of them here, neither.” She turns and leans with her back against the rail, her shoulder brushing mine. “If you ask nice, I might consider givin’ you more of a discount. Maybe even a freebie.” She shows her gap teeth again.

Memories of nights spent with my nose buried in perfumed hair come to me, bringing with them sadness and anger. The man called Khirro is responsible for taking it from me. Nothing matters but finding him.

“Thanks anyway,” I say and move toward the steps. “I’ll be in town. If you hear of a man called Khirro, find me.”

I feel her eyes on me as I stride down the steps and consider turning back to tell her that life doesn’t have to be this way, but I don’t. We all have to choose our own lives, for better or for worse.

“Come back and see me anytime. I’m right here every night.”

My boot has just touched the dirt at the bottom of the steps when I hear the clamor of people bursting out of the public house, the wooden door slamming against the wall.

“That’s the one, there,” a voice yells, words slurred by drink. “That’s the one what knifed Creeg.”

I turn slowly, without bothering to pull my steel yet. There are five of them leaning drunkenly on one another. One of them points at me, his face twisted into a scowl made humorous by the amount of ale he’s consumed. I can’t help but laugh at him, and my laughter serves to anger them further.