Avarice Blacksteel

John'stown

Aran’s head hurt, his mouth was dry, he could feel the grains of sand in his eyes, but he had to press on. Wearily he heaved his weight on to his equally tired horse’s back to continue his search. The day was still, even if it was bleak and cold, a light dusting of snow flakes slowly drifted down from above.

Aran bone weary, was not paying attention, the clomp of his horses hooves striking a hard surface causing him to look suddenly down. Finding he was on a broken edge of a bitumen road that headed into the distance before him. Drunken telegraph poles teetering at impossible angles still lined it, the wires broken and trailing uselessly on the earth.

He followed the blacktop, its double white lines faded to an insipid gray. The countryside had changed subtly, the shifting orange sands giving way to flat, rock strewn clay. Scattered over this landscape, stunted leafless trees, and low clumps of equally dead grasses, interspersed with the occasional dilapidated fence line, consisting of rusted star droppers, and barbed wire.

There were older sections of fencing here too, built completely of rock, the stones all tightly fitting together with complete absence of mortar. A legacy to men of another time. Scattered ruins stood here as well, mostly just the chimneys remained, and the tight rectangle of the foundation stones. These had been simple stone cottages once, but they had been abandoned long years before any war.

In the distance Aran sighted what appeared to be a traditional country town. Something from memory. As he rode closer he could distinguish a neat cluster of stone structures that still lined the paved roadway. The signs of war and chaos were not apparent here.

Before the little town, set off to one side on a gently sloping incline was a stone church, complete with a little graveyard set to its side. An ornate wrought iron fence bordering it. The double arched doors made of wood stood closed and intact, as were the windows and the iron roof. A well traveled dirt trail led up to it. The original road sign sporting the town’s all but forgotten name had been replaced with a hand painted one on plywood. John’stown it advised, in bold black letters.

Further in he could sight a building that would have once been a hotel, its large windows boarded up on the ground floor, and another that would have housed a general store. The rest of the town consisted of the usual standard four room cottages with iron lean-tos on the back, and a front veranda. They too all crafted of the same blue stone.

Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys, and as Aran got closer a black and tan dog barked its warning. Many vehicles were still parked in the streets where they had at last ground to a halt many years ago, their tires flat and shredding from their long disused and rusted rims.

Wary, Aran advanced, determined he would not be surprised again, his horse’s hooves resounding loud on the pavement. The dog continued its strident warning, trailing behind him annoyingly, growling at intervals. Making his tired horse jittery on the slippery black top as it attempted to kick the harrying canine.

He could sense he was being observed, doors were pulled partially open the inhabitants assessing him from afar in the shadows of their dark homes. Aran did not know if appearing threatening would help or hinder his cause. For all he knew they had rifles trained on him, but he had to drink, today.

There was a long cement trough in front of the hotel, it was full, but frozen over. Aran dismounted and led his horse to it, the loud rending of the ice as he shattered it with his sword obscene in the silence. The animal took great gulps of the frigid water imprisoned below, he could see the water level dropping before his eyes. Aran did not hesitate this time, it was most unlikely this well kept town would have a poisoned water source in its midst. He drank from the body of water beside his animal until his belly could hold no more.

Thirst had dulled his senses. There was a low laugh nearby, Aran looked up with suddenness, reaching for his sword under his cloak. “Well, well, look what we have here? A heathen from the outside.” Before him stood a gruff, bearded man aged somewhere bordering on fifty, his hair thinning and gray, with a wood cutting axe clutched meaningfully in his hand. His clothing was neat, and for the most part hand sewn. He wore no hides nor fur as Aran did.

Doors opened, the hinges squeaked, the people of the town had come out on to their verandas to better observe their visitor. There were many. The men were armed, but he could see no guns, their women stood behind them dressed in long skirts in dowdy colors looking equally dour, there appeared to be no small children. They looked to be simple people, farmers perhaps, Aran saw no evidence of deformity anywhere.

“My name is Aran.” He offered, removing his hand from the sword pommel and placing them in clear view of the man before him, that he might see he had merely come for the water and nothing else. It felt most odd for Aran to feel like the hunted and not the hunter. “I only stopped here to get a drink, and to water my horse, and then I’ll be gone.”

The older man was examining him closely, he appeared to be the town patriarch, his three sons standing behind him, the resemblance was unmistakable. “What brings you to these parts?” The sturdy man questioned.

Aran his head fuzzy with a headache suddenly remembering the original purpose of his mission. “I was looking for someone. I was wondering if you had seen her? A tall woman about twenty or so with red hair, she was probably riding a plow horse as well. An archer.”

The man laughed, Aran was unsure why, so did most of the other men in the town. The women remained silent. “Nope, can’t say I've seen anyone like that.” The man answered, not looking at Aran directly, instead his eyes trained on the gold rings that adorned his hands, and the further abundance of gold about his throat. “But I’m sure that before you travel on, you might wish to come in and rest a while?”

He gestured to one of the larger homes across the roadway. Aran’s green eyes followed the man’s pointing finger to the opened doorway, alighting on the older woman and her young daughter framed in it. “My woman’s got some stew on the stove, you are welcome to eat with us.” Aran looked back at the man in his neat white shirt and well made brown coat. The warrior had not been ready for the invitation of hospitality, he had expected to be driven off.
“I would.” Was all he could think to reply.

The authoritative man led the way toward his home, Aran flanked by his young sons. All who had been silently observing drifted away to resume their lives. His horse lingered by the trough grateful of a rest. The warrior stepped up on the wooden floored veranda, the floorboards moved and creaked under his weight, and was motioned through the deep walled doorway. “My name is John, head of this town, and yes it is named after me. Welcome to my home.” The man announced proudly.

Emerging into the room Aran felt very closed in, it had been long since he had set foot in a substantial building. “You may leave your weapons here, there will be no violence in my home, or my town.”

Aran hesitated, not desiring to be divested of his sword, or poignard, watching John’s young sons placing their assorted implements where he had indicated. The warrior had no wish to offend his host so he followed suit, the men all showing great interest in his broadsword even though it was for the most part sheathed in a scuffed brown leather scabbard.

“The bathroom is that way.” John gestured to a door located off the side of the parlor. “I am sure you will wish to wash before dinner. Matthew, will you get this man a shirt? I do not accept barbaric indecency here.”

Aran stood in the blue painted bathroom, with only a tiny frosted glass window set high up for illumination. The old plumbing still remained, but there was no running water. Little resin knickknacks sat perched on the shelves. With its smells of soap and powder Aran realized just how unclean he had become.

The young man ever mindful of his appearance did not consider himself to have poor hygiene unlike some of the warriors in his band, the filthy Pig came to mind. It had been a very long time since he had had the luxury of a wash, and it sobered Aran to see the savage and dirty visage that stared back at him from mirror.

There was a light knock at the door. Matthew had returned bearing a large porcelain bowl of warm water, a comb, razor, washcloth and a towel, along with a crisp white shirt. The acne ravaged young man duly departed without saying a word, and Aran was left alone to complete his ablutions.

The hot water felt good on his skin, the exiled warrior took his time emerging from the bathroom hair combed, face shaven, and no longer shirtless. The white cotton garment hugged his frame all too tightly, especially across the shoulders and at his biceps, the buttons barely meeting in its front.

“That's better.” John announced ushering Aran through the parlor and on into the darkly painted dining room. A useless electric, crystal chandelier of bygone days hung suspended above the table, candles and lamps had been lit in its stead. The walls were lined with photos bordered in gilt frames, the smiling faces stared back at him, portraits of the family he guessed.

John motioned Aran to sit, and the patriarch took his place at the head of the table. Aran sat at the opposite end, being examined by all. John’s three sons were all assembled, behind them a warm fire cracked invitingly in the open fireplace. Life seemed very comfortable here.

“These are my three sons, Matthew, Cain, and Daniel. Aran nodded in greeting not knowing how to reply, keeping his words at a minimum. He was most unused to such a formal setting, it had been years since he had dined at a table. John’s boys all looked much alike, Aran could see their father in them quite plainly. They all bore acne or the scars of it, their dark brown hair neatly trimmed and no jewelry of any kind.


A young woman entered the room, she was Aran guessed nineteen or so, her long ash blonde hair swept up and tied tightly in a bun. She was slight, pale skinned, and small bosomed, dressed in the dowdy long sleeved, high necked frocks that all the women here seemed to wear, revealing little of their charms. The girl was most demure, not meeting Aran’s eyes, nor those of her brother’s or father’s. Setting the wine glasses for the men and filling them with a white wine.

The older man noticing Aran appraising his daughter’s charms in unabashed fashion, glanced at him disapprovingly. Aran tore his gaze away with some difficulty, and refocused on his hands in his lap, realizing he had lost the ring he wore on his wedding finger. The bauble was of no matter to him, he had plenty more. John did not introduce the woman, Aran did not really find this at all odd. Women to him represented slaves, and he never introduced them either.

The dinner was brought in by the young girl and the older woman who Aran assumed had to be John’s wife. She also was not introduced. The stern woman’s cheeks were flushed, she had jowls and virtually no neck. She was well past child bearing age, very short of stature, brown hair streaked with gray, her huge breasts resting on her equally large, round belly.

The food smelled good, Aran was all but drooling. Hungry as he was he sensed he should wait, though he was not sure why. The two women assumed their places at the long wooden table and all sat heads bowed, hands in the position of prayer.

John most reverently recited the evening blessing in a commanding voice. “O Most Holy Trinity, have mercy on us! Lord, cleanse us from our sins! Master, pardon our transgressions! Holy One, visit and heal our infirmities for Thy name's sake............Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

The others who were seated all chimed in “Lord, have mercy!” Three times. Then John again continued.
“O Christ God, bless the food and drink of Thy servants, for Thou art holy, always, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen...”

Aran felt awkward, he was not remotely religious. No one in his family had been. He had seen enough of the darkness in this world to be convinced a god did not exist. The prayer over the family ate. Again Aran at a disadvantage, fumbling with the strangeness of the cutlery, not at all helped by his ravenous hunger. He repeatedly forgot his manners, his male hosts staring back at him with disapproval.

“So you are from the outside? We don't get too many from out there these days.” John ventured. Aran wolfing down the stew and great hunks of the warm buttered bread, unable to immediately answer. “What is it like out there these days?” John probed.

“Not much out there.” Aran answered more interested in the delicious food than the conversation, speaking with his mouth full.

“I have not ventured there for a long time myself, it's full of heathens and savages, no place for a self respecting man of God or his family.” John went on. “Those sinners will all perish as the good book describes. I am sure most of them have already. So tell me, traveling alone as you do it must be a great deal more difficult to commune with your Lord on a regular basis?”

Aran looked up through his unruly mane of golden hair parted down the centre, he had no idea of how to respond. John was looking at his guest directly, expecting an answer. Aran swallowed the clump of bread in his mouth, chasing it with the entire glass of wine.

“Err I’m actually not religious, my family wasn’t either.” His hosts paused at his admission, and an uneasy silence descended over the meal.

“Well, I see.” John finally ventured stiffly. “So tell me, what is your business then? What brings you through here, and to our little town?” Aran swallowed another mouthful of the delicious warm stew.

“I was looking for a friend of mine.” He lied, sensing they could already see what he really was, a mercenary, an outcast, and he felt most uncomfortable. “I had hoped she may have passed this way, but I guess not.”

“A lone armed woman you say? What, like an Amazon?” John raised his eyebrow incredulously, smirking at his three sons, they too seemed to find the subject humorous. “Is it really possible that a woman could bear arms with any hope of success?”

Aran looked up engaging the older man with his vibrant gaze. Even in this domestic setting Aran looked fierce, and dangerous. The father and his sons all looked at one another, exchanging glances that Aran knew held hidden meaning.

“She is an exceptional archer.” He offered not wishing to elaborate. Noting that the two women sat eyes down, picking at their dinner, with water only in their glasses. It appeared they were here only to eat in silence, and serve the menfolk.

It felt like more of an inquisition than a dinner. Aran was glad when the dishes were cleared away and he was finally full.

“Well, considering we have a guest this evening I think we should adjourn to the parlor for a few more drinks and a cigarette.” John announced expansively. Aran was eager to be gone, it was dark now but that did not matter to him, he had decided that even if they were to offer he would not stay overnight. His stomach now full, he felt the need to be gone from this place, with its enclosing rooms, all the strange customs, and judgments on his person.

The men seated themselves in the large overstuffed chairs. Aran did the same feeling most awkward, he was most unused to furniture. He was relieved though to see his sword still standing in its scabbard just where he had left it; along with his sharp poignard, bow and quiver.

“A fine weapon.” John had not missed the young warrior’s glance at it.
“Yes,” Aran replied, stating the obvious.
“So can you really use that thing?” John inquired. “Or is it just for show?”

Aran’s ego rose to the fore sounding defensive. “Of course I can, I taught myself.” John poured some stronger alcohol into shot glasses and handed it first to his guest, and then to his sons. “I would indeed like to see you use it, sword fighting especially with such a blade, is I believe a lost art. Like the art of being truly devout, worthy of God.” Aran sensed the man held him in some kind of ill regard, obviously for his lack of religious beliefs. However he cared little what this man thought of his lack of faith.

“Married?” John questioned, noticing the lack of a wedding band on Aran’s otherwise ring burdened fingers.

“No.” Aran shot back.

“Hum.” John ruminated, his hand in his dense grey beard. “It's time my sons were, but there are so few chaste women of worth here for my boys. I want them to make good marriages.” Aran did not answer, the whiskey was good; no more than good. He wished he could down the entire bottle, eyeing the amber liquid longingly. However to his disappointment John put it back in the cabinet amongst all the other bottles of alcohol and crystal decanters.

John then brought forth some cigarettes, each man took one. It had been a long time since Aran had smoked real tobacco with a filter tip. John and his sons seemed to take this smoking ritual most seriously, each man savoring the tobacco.

Aran had to confess it was good, he too taking his time to enjoy this taste of a time long past. He sat and wondered what might have been the outcome, if when his clan had numbered thirty strong they had of raided this place instead of the ill fated foray against the fortress? It seemed a place of plenty, the pickings would have been easy.

John sighed, regretfully stubbing his spent cigarette in the ashtray on the low coffee table. His son’s in short fashion followed suit. “Well, boys I guess it's time for bed. Long day tomorrow, got those heifers up on the hills we need to be bringing in. No grazing left up there.” The three boys rose bidding Aran and their father goodnight.

The two men were left alone, the loud ticking of a grandfather clock echoed off the walls of darkened hallway. It appeared all in the house had retired to their beds. “So tell me...?” John leaned forward looking directly into Aran’s fierce gaze. “You are a mercenary aren't you, a man of few principals with the blood of many on your hands? I can see it plainly.” Aran did not look away, he had nothing to hide least of all from this man, but he did not answer.

John continued, sparing him the need. “You been out there long, alone...?” The older man seemed awkward fumbling for something he seemed not to be able to put words to. “It must be lonely out there on the outside, female company is in short supply even for a fine young man such as yourself.”

Aran smirked, maybe this God fearing man was not as different from him as he thought. John took his guest’s reaction as an affirmation, and continued. “Need a woman?” John finally blurted out, never taking his eyes from the golden splendor that adorned Aran’s person.

Aran had decided the people in this house, and town, while most odd to him would not pose much of a threat. They saw in him the inherent danger, and hoped to placate him and send him on his way in the morning, forgetting him and his kind. Outwardly they adhered to rigid Christian principals, utilizing those that benefited the men and subjugated the women. If they offered him hospitality he would not refuse it.

“For the right price I believe I can offer you a very comely woman. Might you be interested?” Aran smiled, so the devout man had something to sell, and could be bought after all. “How much would you be willing to pay for a nineteen year old virgin?”

Aran reached behind his neck unclasping a substantial offering of gold, it meant nothing to him, he could easily get more. “If she is what you say, this.” He held the gleaming mass out towards John clutched in his strong fist.

The man eyed it avariciously. Aran let the precious metal and rare gems fall to the table in a tangled heap. “If she’s good it’s yours.” The deal was struck, John leading the way through the darkened house.

Aran was led to a closed wooden door, the ancient brass hardware creaked as the door opened inward. The room was illuminated by a solitary candle burning in its holder on the nightstand. “My daughter.” John explained. “Please be gentle with her.” With that he departed, leaving Aran to do as he wished.

The warrior closed the door behind him pushing a chair up hard against the doorknob, ensuring he would not be surprised; sighting the frightened girl sitting upright in the brass framed double bed, clutching the white sheets to her. He gladly rid himself of the constricting shirt, it had been annoying him all evening and walked towards her.

The light was flattering but the girl did not need it, she truly was every bit as young and beautiful as he had spied in his limited capacity to do so at dinner. Now with her ash blonde hair down cascading over her shoulders, all the severity of her clothing gone, she sat in the bed afraid. Aran saw the slow beads of tears as they ran down her cheeks. The girl did not make a sound as he divested himself of the remainder of his clothes, but she did demurely look away. He surmised she probably was a virgin after all.

Pleased at what his gold had bought he did not hesitate to climb into the bed. The mattress was overly soft and the bed frame squeaked in protest under him. Aran did not need to make small talk, he did not need to know her name, he did not care if she cried. All he was concerned with was he got what he had paid for. Tomorrow he would leave this place and not think on her again. However tonight he buried himself in her pleasures...


Aran woke alone, after so long in the elements he felt stiflingly warm under the thick quilt. He threw it back, laying naked on the bed his toes touching the foot board. It was early morning, and time he left.

John looked decidedly pleased with last night’s bargain, greeting his guest in the most jovial manner at the more informal breakfast table, housed just off the kitchen. This time John seemed to have no issue overlooking the requirement for a shirt. It was just as well, Aran had no desire to don the restrictive garment again, instead draping his cloak about his powerful shoulders.

John’s sons were nowhere to be seen, presumably out riding the hills, and John’s daughter’s pale face was flushed as she served the two men bacon and eggs, the young woman eager to be gone. Aran could see her wish betrayed in her every awkward movement, he had indeed left an impression on her.

“Well,” said John looking at his daughter’s departing form. “Lets hope you left her with a little something.” The man winked. Aran barely looked up, already consuming great bites of the tasty breakfast laid out before him. “She will be worth a greater bride price with a real live baby in her belly.”

So that was it then Aran mused. Thinking back to yesterday, for the amount of married couples there were in this town he had seen no young children. That was the curse on this place, everyone here was childless, and John had hoped his outside blood might change it, the clever head man even charging him for the privilege. Aran had to admire the hard bargain, and he smirked at his host as he finished the last of the meal.

His horse was where he had left him, someone had even thought to bring the animal hay. Aran checked his saddle and mounted the gelding, again under many watchful eyes. John stood close by, handing him some food for the trail and a water canteen.

“One last request?” John all but whispered looking awkward. “I would like to hope as we have shown you honorable hospitality, you might overlook telling your barbarous friends we exist, it would be most appreciated.” Aran smiled and turned his horse about bending low that the man might hear him clearly.

“Whether you believe me or not I am a man alone, an outcast. I have no one to tell.” And with that he spurred his horse down the main street and into the uncertain emptiness that lay beyond.