Ed Greenwood: The Mercenaries

Men backed away hastily, spilling ale from their tankards, and a chant of "Blood! Blood!" arose. As men began making wagers on the outcome of this duel, the fat man saw a lammer peer around some of the watchers and then hasten to get the doorguards. Bladed weapons were banned in the Masques, what with all the anger and rivalries and ready drink-and by the looks of things, these two pirates were going to demonstrate why.

There was a sudden shout from the audience as one of the men made a lunge, there was a flurry of stabbing and flailing arms and twisting, and bright blood glistened on the face and arm of the sarcastic pirate.

Some of the watching drinkers hooted, and there was a chorus of shouted suggestions-but the well-dressed sailor was in no shape to hear them. He was sagging back against a table, a dark stain spreading down the front of his breeches.

The sarcastic man strode toward his foe, face set and dagger ready-but a bottle came spinning out of the shadows and struck his head sharply aside. He staggered and fell into someone's dinner-and the Masques erupted into battle.

All over the room men shouted and snatched at forks and tankards and stools, hurling and swinging and thrusting with all their might. The little man took hold of his tankard, just in case, and placed the fingertips of his other hand on the hilt of the slim needle-knife hidden up his own sleeve. Then he sat as still as his table, and watched!

His eyes were on the seven Sharkers as they thrust back their chairs and backed into a rough defensive ring, eyes wary. They were obviously expecting some of Redbeard's crew to come seeking them in this battle-and it seemed they might just find the trouble they were waiting for.

Two of the lammers waded into view through the fray, laying about vigorously in all directions with stout wooden clubs-until one of them went down with a hurled knife in his eye. The other fled, and a gong sounded.

By now the Masques was a chaos of splintering furniture, screams, breaking glass, oaths, and flailing fists. Bunkmates and men who were utter strangers were pounding each other for no reason at all but the drink and the pent-up anger of desperate men who spend their days in danger and discomfort and see a ready foe to lash out at.

The fat man found his feet, and the door. A man who wore a purple scarf on his head rose out of the fray with a cutlass in one hand.. and a loaded hand crossbow in the other.

He aimed it at the Konigheimer Sharker-and from the corner a hard-thrown stool struck aside the leaping quarrel an instant before it smashed into the face of the man who'd fired it.

As he went down, startled faces turned toward the little man in the dark nook. He beckoned to the seven Sharkers and said urgently, "The Daggers are on their way! Hurry!''

Blade glittering, the fat man waved at the Sharkers to follow. He flung the door wide, looking right and left for lurkers by the door-and put his knife into the throat of the one who was swinging a club in his direction.

As the man toppled with a gurgle, a "blind" beggar who'd been sitting mournfully across the doorway scrambled hastily to his feet, his begging bowl spilling out a tangle of coins that proved to be tied to his wrist on fine threads, tossed his cane away, and fled across the dark field as fast as his feet could carry him.

The fat man ignored him, rolling into the grass without pause and coming to his feet as Redbeard's man was still sagging down the wall, trailing his club behind him.

The pirates exchanged looks. Sharessa saw Kurthe's mouth tighten; their leader liked nothing about this invitation.

The fat man might well be one of Redbeard's men himself, here to lure them into a slaughter… but the burly, cold-eyed Daggers of Tharkar were infamous for their brutality even in Konigheim. If a pirate port was to have any law at all-and if it lacked such temperance, neither Ulgarth nor the Free Cities would long have tolerated its existence-its Watch must be meaner and deadlier than a tavernful of drunken pirates.

Even the Tavern of Masques. The Sharkers watched as their companion went to a spill of broken glass, dug under it with the toe of his boot, drew forth some sacking-and from it produced a baldric bristling with daggers.

Their eyes could not see that the blades were tipped with something expensive that made a man sleep for hours. Even a watchman.

Or a hostile Sharker, if it came to that. As the fat man buckled on the baldric Kurthe made a reluctant decision, and the seven pirates came cautiously out the door, brandishing stools as if the well-polished wooden legs were sword blades.

"Over here!" the fat man hissed, waving. They peered at him narrowly as he hastened toward them, and Kurthe growled with irritation.

"Who are you?" the beautiful she-pirate asked the fat man coldly as he came up to them.

"Someone who wants to hire all of you for a little pirating," he replied, "if I can get you out of here before the Daggers take us all!" He waved at the advancing soldiers, and the Sharkers fell silent. They could see the Daggers as well as he could.

"Just how," the dwarf asked, "Master 'Someone,' are you going to get us out of this little trap, eh?"

"Belmer's the name," the fat little man replied. "I can get you out only if you follow my orders. And the first I'll give is: put down the furniture, or we'll have the folk of the Masques after us as well as the Daggers:"

"Sound enough," the dwarf grunted, grounding a stool that was as big as he was. "Next?"

"Stay together in a group, and when-and only when-I say Arrows!' strike out at a Dagger. Seek to knock down, not to stay and slay."

The she-pirate looked up at the big Konigheimer beside her, collected his curt nod, and gestured to Belmer to lead the way. The fat man promptly broke into a trot, beckoning them to follow.

"It didn't take us long to find an overbearing captain again, did it?" Kurthe growled, as they hastened along one wall of the tavern and struck out across the field, ignoring the shouts of the Daggers drawing in around them.

"Be thankful and be still, Kurthe," the dwarf and the beautiful she-pirate said, more or less in unison. It sounded like something they'd said many times before.

"What's that ahead of us?" the youth asked uncertainly, as they hastened through the wet grass.

"A rain barrel," Belmer told him. "From the Masques. I put it there earlier."

"Why?" the boy asked.

The dwarf chuckled. "I think I know, Ingrar. Watch."

Two of the Daggers were almost upon them, swords drawn and shields up. "Halt!" one commanded, "in peril of eternal exile from Tharkar!"

"Good evening," Belmer said, moving suddenly to one side but not slowing his pace. His movement put the barrel between himself and the watchman. "I am Ambassador Droon, of Ulgarth, and I demand the protection of Tharkar's authorities for myself and my bodyguard. Do you speak for Tharkar?"

"I-" said one of the Daggers, momentarily nonplussed. That was long enough. Belmer came around the barrel with arms open and empty, but suddenly shoved at the man's gut. Staggering, the armored man stumbled backward against the barrel. Belmer grasped one leg and heaved, finding his job suddenly easier as the grinning dwarf charged in to take the other leg.

The Dagger went over the barrel with a crash-and another Sharker, waiting on the other side with one of his boots slipped onto his hand, brought it down with all his force on the man's helm. The visor crumpled inwards, and he gave the helm a swift turn to the side, to be sure. The watchman lay silent and still.

The other Dagger snatched at a horn that hung from his belt-but Belmer was already in the air, dagger foremost. The man tried to back hastily aside, lost hold of the horn, hacked wildly with his sword-and was spun around, to find a hard sit-down landing in the grass.