Christopher Byford - Den of Smoke - Absolutely gripping fantasy page turner filled with magic and betrayal

The gruff man to his left exhaled a burst of acrid cigar smoke and checked his own hand of dice. He squinted with his one good eye, the other hidden away with a black patch and accompanying battle scar before making his call. There was no hesitation as he tossed his chip into the pile and smugly grinned.

‘That’ll be four fives there, gentlemen,’ Blakestone snorted.

The play was passed to the left whilst the owner of Cutter’s Inn blindly rummaged through a tray of food left by the last of the bar staff. He took the moment to grasp a meat-laden sandwich, taking a suffocatingly large bite from it before returning his attention to the game. Bulky in stature, still with his bar apron wrapped around his hips, Cutter himself slurred his call, peppering the table with debris.

‘Five fives are with us.’

Jackdaw instantly interrupted, watching the hesitation before the words were delivered, minute but still there. Masking them with his appetite did nothing. He took the smoke from his mouth and wagged it accusingly.

‘Ah, now there’s a liar if I ever saw one.’

Each lifted their cups and Cutter winced, tossing a now lost dice into the chip pile. Jackdaw chuckled, scooping them over and stacking the colours in order.

‘Third game in a row and you have a downward streak. Sure you want to continue this?’

‘It’s not exactly my money to lose is it? I’m giving it back to my employer if anything.’ The old man drained his glass in one deep swallow. ‘We change the game though. My luck changes with the cards, eh?’

Bad luck clung to a man like a sour smell, impossible to remove until it saw itself fit. Tonight, for Cutter, there seemed no sign of the stench relenting.

On the fifth hand, Cutter rearranged his diminishing chip pile and ordered another round from the woman who lingered against the bar. She flipped each page of the newspaper in a blasé way, slowly draining a bottle of Rye at her own pace. With words thick with liquor, she flicked her attention to him and instead of motion, paid an all-too-sour look.

Orders were barked once more, sharper this time, in Settler’s language. Though lost on most, Jackdaw knew enough to pick up a particularly thorny insult tagged onto the end. He smiled to himself whilst shuffling a well-used deck of cards. No matter how aged one gets, they are always obedient to family and as such the woman complied, producing deep echoing footsteps whilst marching down the cellar trapdoor.

She was not under Cutter’s employment, as all his staff had been sent home hours ago. She was trustworthy though, family, and knew anyone who Cutter welcomed into his establishment would not abuse such hospitality. Alvina returned and begrudgingly yanked the cork from a brown bottle. Each glass was filled to its brim, agonizingly slow, just to spite Cutter. Amused, Jack thanked her and she seated herself back on the stool, away from the game and with her own thoughts, lost once more in the newspaper.

‘That bastard girl. Born to piss me around, like her poor, poor father,’ Cutter grunted, watching the pack shuffle and dance between fingers. ‘Is she giving you trouble these days? I’ll be happy to have words if she doesn’t tow the line.’

‘Everybody gives me trouble. It’s just a question of how much. To answer your question though, no. Your niece is doing just fine. Just as capable as us men, truth be told.’

Cutter grinned broadly, showcasing each of his yellowed teeth.

‘Good,’ he crooned. ‘Good news all round. Now stop stalling and deal. I want a chance to claw something back from your pocket.’

Money changed hands over and over, until the front door was slowly rapped. The group stopped momentarily to glance to the owner, before busying themselves with another turn.

Cutter leant back on two of his chair legs, looking at the wooden frame and checking to ensuring it was bolted. Nobody was expected, especially at this hour.

‘We’re closed for the night!’ he bellowed in an accented drawl, taking another mouthful of liquor and exhaling its burn.

Again the door was struck.

‘We’re closed I said! Don’t you know the meaning of the word? Come back tomorrow if you so wish.’

From behind the wood came a thick, muffled slur from the culprit. ‘Aw c’mon … you’re leaving me out here in the cold? That’s harsh.’

‘Harsh ain’t nothing to do with it,’ Cutter shared with those around him. ‘I just lack the courtesy to serve someone who isn’t willing to part with their money. Well, eventually, when I stop getting crap cards.’

Finally the owner took to his feet in an effort to confront this commotion.

He heaved the door bolt back and peered through the slit to the outside. Before him, swaying in a drunken stupor, was the figure of a man clearly too intoxicated to know what was best for his wellbeing. If he had, he would have known that banging on the door to Cutter’s, especially after being turned away, could have consequences.

Cutter summed the man up, clad in a pitted hacking jacket and mismatched trousers. Another hopeful dandy on his nightly crawls around bars, Cutter assumed, drunk as the rest and just as foolhardy. He stared into the lolling white pits of the eyes before him, the young man of colour unable to concentrate on a single point before chasing liquor mirages.

‘Go home. You’re getting nothing, especially in your state,’ Cutter advised.

‘Hey, mishter.’ Cutter saw the figure sway through the eye slot, rocking back and forth. ‘C’mere …’

Cutter leant forward, as if expecting to be entrusted with some fabulous secret.

Without warning, all trace of drunkenness was scrubbed from the man’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, cruel and hard, and with thick-formed words simply said: ‘I disagree.’

The door exploded open and immediately Blakestone was on his feet. The intruder had barged the owner aside, launching him into a wall before reaching for the weapon at his hip. Already Blakestone was upon him to prevent this and the pair traded blows, Blakestone reaching for his own secured iron. The man blocked what punches he could, though spurned with such vigour that this advantage was overpowering. A sudden blow across Blakestone’s temple was enough to send him to his knees.

The intruder’s hand freely whipped to his holster, yanked the revolver free and snapped it to the level of his eyes. His advantage wasn’t as conclusive as he hoped. In return for this interruption, his focus was caught by the gaping gun barrel before him, its dark abyss harbouring the futility of his folly.

He breathed sharply, steady, waiting for a flinch of movement from Jackdaw, who himself waited for the gusto of action.

‘I’ve waited far too long for this,’ the intruder wheezed, spitting the blood from his mouth but never breaking his gaze. ‘Jackdaw. As I live and breathe. I’ve spent a while tracking you down and you’re sure as hell are going to give me my money.’

Jackdaw, his thumb still lingering on his revolver hammer, grinned in amusement. ‘Oh I am, am I?’

‘You have my very word.’

‘That sounds like a demand.’

‘It is.’

‘Look, I’ll be honest with you.’ Jackdaw watched the shadows move from behind the intruder, where the light was broken by a figure moving up behind. Never did his gaze shift. Never did he give the game away. ‘I’ve taken a lot of people’s money. Big, small, I don’t even count it. I suppose yours just went into the pile with everyone else’s. It would take a good while to find.’

There was a sudden, blunt click that sprang into the air.

Alvina pressed her weapon into the base of the intruder’s skull, firmly enough to ensure he got the point. ‘You’ve been all sorts of silly here, sugar,’ she purred. ‘Do the sensible thing and let it go.’