Second Shadow - 3. The Dockside Butcher

The sickening smell of rotten fish guts assaulted Feinn’s nostrils and he covered his nose with his sleeve. A couple of anglers had chosen the loading docks as their gutting spot and neglected to clean up the mess. Feinn was just grateful that the ice-cold morning had fled in the wake of the afternoon sun. Some limited pleasures could smooth over other unpleasant circumstances. Feinn was not sure anything could smooth over the smell of rotten fish guts though.



The wooden planks creaked under Feinn’s feet as he turned around to see two liquored up sailors walking past and sing a false tune of life aboard an ill-fated ship. Feinn cussed at them as they turned the corner and wished he could be so lucky. Drinking on the job was a serious detriment to his profession. One wrong move could be your last in a world of traps and deceit.



“Are we quite done playing dockworkers?” asked Feinn impatiently, his hands still aching from loading nearly two tons of goods onto the merchant’s Frigate.



“I believe we are,” replied Kurt who found himself equally fed up from his honest half a day’s work, “At least we got thee silvers out of it.”



“Was all that really necessary?” asked Feinn impatiently as he rubbed at the bruises on his arm where the heavy crates had chafed his skin bloody.



“We had to look the part,” replied Kurt, “We are in the wolf’s den now.”



“Speaking of which, we should get to the One Eyed Pirate and start gathering information about our target,” urged Feinn.



“Well, come along then,” replied Kurt, “No use talking about things we need to do. Snap to it.”



Feinn considered slapping Kurt in the back of his head for a moment but he had no wish to have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of his life. Kurt could be a relentless adversary when rubbed up the wrong way and a slap would certainly rub him up the wrong way. Besides, thought Feinn, he is merely trying to lighten the mood, and the less they thought of the very real danger they were currently in, the better the chances they would escape.



The Warehousing district behind the docks sported a wide assortment of ruffians. Bandit, robbers, burglars, muggers, pirates, urchin, smugglers and murderers, for those who cared to look there was every sort of scoundrel lurking around. Feinn stepped in a puddle of fresh mud and he could feel water seeping through his cracked leather boots. Of all the isolated puddles in the entire open road, Feinn imagined he had found the deepest one. He extracted his leg from the mess and examined his trousers. He smiled as he realised the mud had not projected up past the top of his boot. He looked up and walking another step a massive wash of ice-cold soap water thrashed across the side of his face and soaked his clothes.



Feinn dropped his head in disgust. With his long hair drooping past his face he said, “Mulnia has definitely got it in for me today.”



Kurt looked back at the sad sight and laughed before he said, “The goddess of luck chose to smile at those watching you Feinn.”



“Yes, laugh it up Kurt, what goes around comes around,” said Feinn simply as he began his first attempt to dry himself off, hiding his own slight appreciation for the humour of the situation.



The two turned the next corner to see an old, broken down, two story hovel with a worn out name board swaying from its last remaining hinge. The shattered windows, left in disrepair, did not so much illustrate the lacking work ethic of the old inn’s proprietor, but rather the extremely volatile nature of its patrons. Feinn guessed that those windows would end up broken at the conclusion of every night’s business anyway, and he was sure the innkeeper had simply given up trying to fix everything constantly.



Feinn pushed aside the door. The wood felt filthy and the hinges screeched as the door gave way. Feinn stepped inside and a crackling under the souls of his shoes echoed in his ears as he stepped through a sticky mess on the floor. He looked down and noticed it to be a dark near brownish colour.



“Seems the party got rough here last night,” said Kurt.



“Rough is one way to put it,” replied Feinn, “If all this blood on the floor came from a single victim he would not have made it home.”



“And Indeed he did not,” said the Innkeeper as he walked into the commons, “Poor sod picked a fight with a Black Wolf and got his spleen shown to him for his troubles. How can I help you gents?”



Fein found the nonchalant manner in which the bartender had described the scene slightly disturbing, but then he is a resident of Anthir. The man had long since had to give up his sense of horror where death was involved. Feinn scanned the room and noted three men dressed in black leather armour eyeing them in wait of their reply.



“Offering us a drink after our long journey would be fantastic my good man,” replied Kurt and he pushed past Feinn to go stand at the bar.



The innkeeper smiled and Feinn thought him in stark contrast to his surroundings. He was a well-kept man if not a little soft. Feinn would have pictured a far more rugged looking man to run an inn located in one of the most dangerous parts of town.



Kurt placed one elbow on the bar counter and instantly regretted the action. Pulling back and dabbing at the wet spot now growing on his sleeve with a grimace, he said, “I wonder, would you be someone we would be able to purchase some information from?”



Feinn smiled to himself as he saw the look of disgust on Kurt’s face and joined him at the bar.



The dark haired bartender cracked a smile and with a lowered tone he said, “Look friend, around here, information is a dangerous commodity, asking for it can get you maimed and distributing it can get you tortured to death. So how’s about you take your drinks, sit on one of the less damaged tables and keep to yourselves?”



The Innkeeper’s pale grey eyes told a story of fear. He was not his own man. There were powerful puppeteers operating him from behind the scenes and Feinn had no desire to draw their attention unless he had no other choice. Picking up one of the two freshly poured ales and placing four silver coins on the table he turned to Kurt and said, “I think we should do what the man says.”



Kurt hesitated. He did not like the idea of backing off but since Feinn was tugging at his shirt, he guessed he did not have much choice. Kurt picked up his drink, nodded at the innkeeper and followed Feinn to the table.



Feinn wiped back his wet hair and sipped casually from his ale. With a frown he said, “I cannot believe this ale is even worse than the piss they serve at the Poor Scoundrel.”



Kurt just placed his tankard on the table and said, “What was that about?”



“That is about keeping ourselves unnoticed,” replied Feinn, “Those mongrels sitting over there will not take it lightly if we start fire off questions about their guild. I actually hope to survive this capper.”



Kurt considered a comeback but he found himself cut short by the unearthly screeching of the door as it ushered in another customer. He looked back to see who had entered the room and eased out a slight smile. He looked back to Feinn and it was clear his partner had recognised the new patron as well.



Feinn glanced across the room to what the three men in black were doing and noticed they were also keeping an eye on the new comer. The man wore a set of armour signifying a mercenary, in other words various pieces of plate and leather that did not quite match. He calmly removed his skullcap to hold it under his right arm. The dark haired man of middle years ignored Kurt and Feinn as he approached the bar. Placing his helm on the counter he greeted the innkeeper and placed two silvers in front of him. The barkeep quickly swiped up the coins and placed a tankard of ale in their place. The man took a long pull from his drink and plonked himself down on a barstool.



After some time had passed the three men in black stood up from their table and quietly moved up the stairs to the second floor. The man at the bar turned to watch them leave. Once they were gone, he stood up and walked towards Fein and Kurt’s table.



“Evening gents,” said the man with a smile and stuck out his hand in a greeting.



Kurt accepted the hand and replied, “Good to see a fellow guild member around here.”



Their shaking of hands included a complex sequence of slaps and clicks, which Feinn had only recently begun to master. It was the subtle acknowledgement that both of them were members of the Stalkers.



“Pull up a chair and join our table Graeme,” said Kurt as he settled back down in his seat.



“You two look a right mess don’t you?” said Graeme as he manoeuvred himself around the table.



“Been a long day,” said Feinn, “What are you doing on this side of Carwin Street?”



Lower his tone, Graeme replied, “Those three who just left have been smuggling bad Demon Grass into Beggars Ally, screwing with our boys’ heads. I am here on behalf of the Silver Falcon to take care of the problem. What are you two doing here?”



“We are looking for the Dockside Butcher,” replied Kurt, also lowering his voice to keep unwanted ears out of their conversation.



“And what do you plan on doing once you have found him?” asked Graeme.



“We have been asked to recover an item on behalf of a benefactor,” said Kurt, remaining vague was important even when dealing with other stalkers. The members of the guild of thieves were only loyal to one another when it served the guild or both thieves could benefit from co-operation on a capper.



“I am afraid I could not really say where to find the Butcher but I’m sure one of those boys up stairs might know,” replied Graeme, “I tell you what, you two help me get rid of those three bandits and you can keep one alive for questioning.”



Kurt looked over at Feinn who gave him a slight nod. They needed the information but it was grinding against his core to be this reckless. Killing Black Wolves could draw an awful lot of attention.



“Fine,” said Kurt finally, “But it needs to be quick and clean. I do not have any wish to find myself swarmed by wolves and getting killed.”



“As quick and clean as we can make it,” replied Graeme.



*****



Feinn stood holding his bastard sword at the ready just outside the second door on the top floor of the inn. They had waited until the innkeeper left them alone in the commons before they moved on their plan. Kurt was picking the lock on the door as carefully as he could. They assumed the three inside would have heard the movement but it was up to Graeme to make sure that would not be an issue.



“I got it,” said Kurt as he replaced his thief’s tools in his pocket and drew out a dagger.



Feinn just nodded and stood waiting for the signal. His heart was beating in his throat as the anticipation of combat built up in his mind. He had been in a few altercations in his life, but he had never been in this sort of situation. If the plan failed or they miscalculated their move it could mean one or all of them end up dead.



Feinn took a deep breath to try to calm the butterflies in his stomach, but the attempt was unsuccessful. A headache began to grow just behind his eyes in response to his raised blood pressure and he felt weak for a moment. Fear had gripped him and he was now working hard to keep his lunch down. Feinn nearly missed the sound of a crashing window inside the room he was about to enter.



“That is our signal!” exclaimed Kurt, “Move!”



Kurt was already through the door by the time Feinn even realised what was going on. He rushed through into the room just in time to see Kurt swing at one of the black clad men and miss. Graeme was engaged in battle next to the broken window that he had used to surprise the enemy and Feinn saw a second man move onto Kurt’s flank. Kurt responded by snatching up a footstool and holding it in left hand as extra defence.



Feinn took a deep breath and summoned up all his courage. This was make or break, do or die, if he did not fight well, his friends would be overwhelmed and he would be to blame. Feinn took a double step forward, closed his eyes and swung his hefty blade at the first target. A loud swish whistled through the air as the Black Wolf ducked under the blow and milliseconds later, the sound of splintering wood rang in Feinn’s ears. He opened his eyes to see what had happened and found Kurt sitting wide eyed on the bed behind him, holding the shattered remains of his improvised shield in his hand.



An “Oops”, went through Feinn’s head but before he could voice an apology, he had to jump back quickly, narrowly avoiding a fatal sword blow. Both the men had now turned their attention to him and were advancing on him. He cut down on the man on the right but slammed his sword directly into the ground, completely missing his target again. Fear was gripping him by the throat and he struggled to breathe. These Black Wolves were too quick for him. Twice he had tried and twice he had failed to come close to grazing either of them.



The sickening sound of flesh and leather armour ripping from a finely sharpened blade slashing it filled Feinn’s ears, followed by a brief scream and then a gurgle as Graeme opened up his target’s throat. The sound only served to add to Feinn’s panic. Both his opponents struck out at him. A dagger scrapped over Feinn’s armour as he ducked under the man on his right’s blow and he looked up to see a short sword flashing into his path.



Not the face! Was all Feinn could think as he realised he was done for. He closed his eyes and braced for impact. He was not sure if he heard the yelp of pain or the blade swishing past his face first. He imagined the yelp would have been first as he was still alive. He stepped back and opened his eyes again to see Kurt drawing back a bloodied dagger and the thug baring the sword tumbling to the floor.



Strength in numbers suddenly gave Feinn new courage as he turned to look at the last remaining Black Wolf. The man’s eyes were wide with terror as he realised his serious disposition. He drew a second dagger and carefully eyed Kurt and Feinn, not taking into account Graeme who was now standing directly behind him with a black jack raised above his head.



The cracking thud of the black jack plummeting down on the man’s head ended the fight and the last remaining Black Wolf slumped to the floor. Feinn felt like the battle had shaken him to his core. He sheathed his large, hand and a half sword on his back and casually placed his trembling hands in his pockets to hide their state from the others. The smell of fresh blood was spiralling in his nasal cavities and causing him to feel faint.



“It will take a while for this one to wake up,” said Graeme as he checked the man who now lay twitching on the floor.



“Why does he twitch like that?” asked Feinn curiously.



“It happens when a man is knocked out from a massive blow to the head. His brain is trying to restart itself,” said Graeme as he looked up at Feinn, “Or at least that is what a priest of Rie once told me.”



“Tie him up, when he wakes we need to get what info we can about the butcher,” said Kurt, pulling up a chair and moving to loosen the rope Graeme had used to swing through the window.