S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

‘That’ll have shaken the buggers,’ he said flatly. ‘Their numbers almost halved in one day and with no appreciable gain.’

‘And the fact that you called Molacos by his name, too,’ added Cavarinos.

‘Exactly. Is there any chance that they will actually stop, in the face of this setback?’

The Arvernian shook his head. ‘No. They’ll not stop. In fact, the problem with men like Molacos is that failure just fires their blood. Now he’ll be more determined than ever.’

‘Then I suppose we had best go back down to the inn and see if we can finish this?’

‘I think that’s the sensible decision,’ Cavarinos agreed grimly.

‘Catháin, you are in charge of the place. I’ll leave half the men with you to make sure the villa’s secure, while we go to deal with the rest of these Sons of Whores.’

* * * * *

Fronto nodded to Masgava.

‘That’s the one – the Chimaera’s End.’

The inn, with its gaudily painted sign of an overly-muscular Bellerophon riding a winged horse that looked a little too fat to fly, was still open for business, despite the fact that it was too late for all but the exhausted drunks and the night workers. That, of course, was why it had become one of Fronto’s occasional haunts – it was a quick stroll from his warehouse and catered for those carters and labourers at the various warehouses who wanted a nightcap or twelve when their work ended. How those who stayed there managed to sleep was beyond him, though these were not rowdy customers, but quiet ones.

He was grateful. To have to wake the innkeeper would be to risk alerting the Sons of Taranis to their approach, and the only other way would be to climb the outer wall to the room’s high window, which would be near impossible with any level of safety and stealth.

Fronto and his small force of men approached the open doorway, from which issued a warm glow and the muted murmur of conversation. As they reached the building, Masgava clapped his hand on Fronto’s shoulder and gently manoeuvred him into the middle of the group rather than the front.

Arcadios came up to join the big Numidian, Biorix and Cavarinos staying close to Fronto protectively. Aurelius they had left with the other group up at the villa, well aware of the prevalence of bats in the streets of Massilia at night and Aurelius’ inability to handle those flying rodents without shrieking.

They stepped into the bar and the murmur stopped immediately – ten armed men will have that effect on a quiet inn.

Each man brandished his weapon of choice, many of them old service gladii, others the fairly common Greek kopis sword. None of the inn’s occupants made to move against these armed arrivals, though. Most of them were wary and tired, a few too inebriated to stand, let alone fight. The innkeeper suddenly burst forth from the end of the bar, waving his hands and shouting ‘no, no, no, no, no…’

Masgava’s free hand snapped out and grabbed the chubby man by the chin, his large, powerful fingers and thumb sinking into the wobbly flesh of the man’s jowls as he forced his jaw shut. Fronto watched, impressed, as the innkeeper fell silent, intimidated beyond words by Masgava’s expression alone. It was only when he was lowered back to the floor that Fronto realised the big Numidian had actually lifted him off the floor by his chin. As the man alighted again and let out a nervous fart, Masgava put a shushing finger to his lips, tapped his temple with a finger and walked on towards the stairs. As Fronto passed the innkeeper, the man was shaking like a leaf. Not one pair of eyes in the room was looking directly at any of them.

It paid to have good men with you, Fronto smiled.

The party took the stairs one at a time, slowly and keeping to the side again to prevent creaks. The corridor above was dark – no oil lamps lit at this time of night. The ten of them moved stealthily down the corridor until they reached the door at the end. Again, Masgava motioned for silence and put his ear to the door. He shook his head, indicating silence within, and then crouched to the keyhole. Rising, he shrugged his uncertainty. He looked back at Fronto and indicated his shoulder questioningly. In reply, Fronto mimed opening the door by the handle.

Quietly the Numidian grasped the ring and turned. Next to him, Arcadios hefted his gladius and prepared. Stealth now abandoned in favour of surprise, Masgava threw the door back and he and Arcadios swept in like a river in flood, Biorix and Cavarinos behind him, Fronto and the rest following on.

The room was pitch black, the window shuttered tight, and Fronto panicked as he entered, suddenly well aware that the enemy were at a serious advantage in pitch black in a room they had occupied for days. His fears were realised as he heard first a strangled grunt from Masgava ahead in the dark, and a cry of pain from Arcadios. His own sword slashed out, blind, into the darkness at the side, where an enemy might lurk, but certainly no ally.

Nothing. His eyes were adjusting slightly, but not enough to pick out anything but the vaguest of shapes. His sword lanced, slashed and swiped in the darkness and he felt a triumphant surge as it connected with something, only to realise it was a bed post.

Someone threw open the shutters and the room burst into clarity in the low light from the street outside and from the moon, which had made a brief but most welcome appearance in a gap in the clouds.

The room was empty.

Well, not entirely empty. The thin cord that had been stretched across at neck height might well have crushed the windpipe of a running man, but Masgava had caught it first and, at his height, it had hit him below the collar bones. Arcadios was leaning on a bed, swearing and, as the room came into view, yelled ‘ tribuli !’

Fronto looked down. The floor was scattered sparsely with pointed iron caltrops, one of which Arcadios was busy removing from his foot, accompanied by some choice curses and the patter of blood droplets.

‘Some leaving gift,’ Biorix grunted, kicking one of the tribuli carefully aside. Apart from the painful traps, the room was empty. No Sons of Taranis. No kit bags, weapons, cloaks or masks.

Fronto sheathed his sword. ‘They must have come back here after the villa, so they can’t be far ahead of us.’

‘Unless they cleared out first and took everything with them to the villa?’ Arcadios mused.

Cavarinos shook his head. ‘They cannot have believed they would fail a second time. They have just left.’

‘No use asking the barman,’ Fronto sighed. ‘They wouldn’t have told him anything, even if he’d asked, which he wouldn’t. But we know they’re somewhere in the city and now there are only seven of them. Will they try again?’

Cavarinos pursed his lips. ‘If they are true to their mission, no. They couldn’t risk any more losses if they hope to free the king. You can never be truly sure, though, with a man like Molacos. Fanatics are bad enough normally, but when you thwart them like you have, it can push them over the edge of the madness cliff. If Molacos still has a grain of sense, he had his ship ready to sail before they came for you. I would place money on them already being at sea.’

Fronto straightened and crossed to the window, stepping around the caltrops. He stood for a moment, leaning on the window and looking out across the city, and came to a decision. Turning, determination filling his expression, he folded his arms.

‘It’s time to take the fight to them, then. I did this with Hierocles and his Greek thugs for months, trying to stay peaceful and on the right side of law. And at every opportunity the slimy bastard ruined me and hurt my people and my business. And in the end I had to show my teeth to stop him. Now these rebel killers are doing the same. They keep us penned in the villa, defensive and panicked, waiting for the next attack. It’s time to show our teeth again.’