Chapter Six
“We won’t get a robber’s tax larger than that,” said Payter DeMalo as he stood beside the leader of the Northland Marauders, Jeth Regard. They were joined by two other leaders of the pack, and all four of the men were imposingly large and strong. Jeth was unique among the four because of his black skin. He also had no hair anywhere on his body, a disorder that earned him exile by superstitious members of The Order in New Carrington. Payter and the other two men, Hammer and Pit, were of the same race, with pale skin turned dark by years in the sun, and had long hair and bushy beards. Hammer’s golden hair and beard helped him stand out from the others. The four of them were meeting atop an outcropping of rocks that looked down upon Devon’s Road, just before the terrain turned more mountainous in the Robber’s Spine.
Jeth was holding a hefty pouch of pel that a stranger had offered them to let the caravan pass undisturbed. “How could the caravan be worth this? What do you suppose they’re carrying? Can’t just be exiles.”
The wind gusted, stinging their eyes as it swept across the plains, wavering the stalks of grass that stretched across the hilly scape. Jeth pulled his goggles off his bald head and put them on before tying the pouch of gold to his belt. “You know what I keep wondering?”
“What’s that?” asked Payter, squinting as the wind brought dust up and into his face.
Jeth looked over at the stranger standing down near the Northland Marauders’ camp. The man was tall and thin, with weathered gear that revealed his experience outside of the protection of the city walls. Payter had searched the man when he arrived, and found no weapon other than a single, thin blade that they confiscated.
“Why don’t we just kill him, and then rob the caravan like we’d planned? Way I see it, that’ll save a few lives and leave us richer than any other option. And then we can take whatever this fool’s hoping to save.”
The men looked back at the stranger below as he waited patiently for the leaders of the Northland Marauders to consider his request. Leather hide tents dotted the area, and horses were tied to posts driven in the dirt beside loose stacks of hay. The campfires had been extinguished at dawn, but some still smoldered, sending wisps of grey into the bright blue sky. They’d camped here in preparation for a quick ambush of the next unlucky group of merchants that traveled Devon’s Road. The stranger had come along just before sunrise, claiming to have slipped past the guards at New Carrington. He had information about the morning’s caravan, explaining that it would be more than just a group of merchants passing through. Prisoner wagons containing exiles would be coming along as well, which meant there would be more Swords than normal. He made a case for letting the group pass undisturbed, and offered the gold as recompense for the Marauders’ loss if they’d be willing to stay their blades.
“He says he’s the caravan’s envoy, but I think he’s a liar,” said Hammer Dahl, the golden-haired clan leader. “He’s got the look of a wanderer.” Hammer had once been known as Helgan, but he’d earned his nickname by the huge weapon he always carried around. He was leaning on the handle of his upturned war hammer as if it were merely a cane and not a fifty pound weapon.
“If you want him dealt with, then say the word,” said Payter. “He’s a bolt away from dead.” He tapped his index finger on the shaft of a bolt that was already nocked in his crossbow. The weapon was unlike the rudimentary wooden types that the archers of The Five Walls wielded. Payter had spent a hefty amount of gold on this weapon because it was built using an old word design. He cherished it and had never found another crossbow that was as light and reliable as this one.
“That’s more pel than we’ve seen in a while,” said Hammer. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind killing the fool and being done with it, but if he’s got access to that kind of gold then he might be worth keeping as a friend.”
Jeth pointed down at the stranger and said, “Bring him here. I want to talk to him.”
Payter went down to retrieve the stranger, and then brought the tall, thin man back up the rocky path to the scouting point above the valley. Jeth had Payter search the stranger for weapons a second time, and again he found none. After that, Jeth told the other three leaders of the pack to leave them for a minute.
Jeth examined the stranger as he waited for the others to leave. The man wore a mask to hide his mouth, and had eyes that were so black that they were unsettling to look at. His cloak was leather, with thin fur inside, and had several pocket on it, all of which had been emptied when he arrived and requested an audience with Jeth. His chest piece was intricate and Jeth guessed it was foreign because of the odd jewelry on it. There were rings dangling from it, each wrapped with small strips of leather to prevent them from jangling as he walked. His hair was mostly hidden by the cloak’s hood, but a few wisps of thin grey hung down over his face. The color of his hair was a surprise, as there was no other sign of age on his face. He had the weathered look of a traveler, with long crow’s feet dug into thick skin, but he didn’t strike Jeth as elderly.
“What should I call you, stranger?”
“Ebon.” His voice was low and harsh. He stood taller than Jeth, and when the strong wind blew he didn’t wince, as if his eyes were used to the abuse.
“Do you have a surname or a city name?”
“Some people call me Ebon the First.”
“The first what?” asked Jeth.
“Whatever they want.” He spoke with a languid pace, devoid of unease, as if meeting with the leader of a pack of bandits caused him no concern at all.
Jeth nodded, humored, and said, “I don’t think that’s the way it works, stranger.”
“I don’t care what people call me.”
“Fair enough. Keep your mysteries, I’ve got plenty enough as it is.” Jeth raised his foot to perch it atop the tallest point on the hill as he looked far down along the stretch of Devon’s Road towards New Carrington. A gust of wind swept along the plains and then up the rock, striking Jeth’s loose clothing and causing his long cape to flap out behind him. When the wind calmed, he looked back at Ebon and asked, “I’m not the sort of man who can be bought.”
“That’s my purse on your belt,” said Ebon. “Perhaps you’ve had a change of heart?”
Jeth fondled the pouch, causing the pel to jangle within. “You’re going to have to tell me why this caravan’s so important to you.”
“I thought I could keep my mysteries.”
“Not that one,” said Jeth. “You want me to ignore the caravan, then you’ll have to tell me why.”
Ebon shook his head and said simply, “No.”
Jeth let out a sharp laugh. “You’re playing a dangerous game here, Ebon the First.” He said the man’s name with ridicule. “The way I see it, I should just kill you and then wait for the caravan like we planned. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that caravans don’t often send envoys off this far ahead. My guess is there’s a merchant on this caravan of yours that’s carrying something they don’t want anyone else to know about. Am I right? So, the way I see it, I can kill you and take your pel, and then kill the guards and take their prisoners to fill my ranks. Then I can find out what this secret is you’re willing to pay such a hefty fee to keep. Right now that seems like the best option here, unless you can up the ante a bit. What do you think, Ebon? Why shouldn’t I just kill you where you stand?”
“You can try to kill me if you want,” said Ebon. “You won’t be the first to try, and you won’t be the last.”
“You don’t think I could kill you? I could run you through right here if I wanted,” said Jeth. “I’m the one with the sword.” He unsheathed his blade and pointed it at Ebon, nearly touching the tip against the stranger’s chest.
Ebon stepped back calmly and his cape opened as he reached in and looped his right index finger through one of the rings on his chestpiece. “I don’t want to kill you.”
Jeth laughed and asked, “Are you mad? What are you going to kill me with? A bauble?”
&n
bsp; Ebon tugged on the ring, causing a thin throwing knife to side forth from his chest, slick with his own blood. Jeth lost his former composure as he staggered back, now gripping his sword with both hands, ready to defend himself. “You’re a half-dead?”
Ebon freed the blade from his flesh and said, “I’m far more dead than half.”
“I thought the Drakes wiped your kind out. I don’t…” Jeth stared in wide-eyed terror at the bloodied throwing knife in Ebon’s hand, fully aware of the curse even the slightest nick of the weapon imparted. “I don’t deal with devils.”
“You do now,” said Ebon. “And if you don’t do what you’re told, you’ll have worse devils than me to deal with.”
“Get out of here,” said Jeth.
Payter noticed the confrontation happening atop the hill and started to come up the rocky path. “What’s wrong?”
Ebon continued to stare at Jeth and then asked, “Will you let the caravan pass undisturbed?”
“Get out of here before we slice you apart, devil.”
“Is it safe?” asked Ebon again, loud and furious.
“It’s safe,” said Jeth as Payter drew near.
Ebon turned to face Payter and held forth his hand as if motioning for the man to stop, but then he tugged on a string that was connected to something within his sleeve and a cascade of grey powder fell to the rocks. The stranger lifted his mask and knelt, then he plunged his knife into his own throat, opening it wide and letting his viscous blood flow forth. The liquid collided with the powder and had an immediate, caustic reaction. The grey powder sparked, and then within a fraction of a second there was a thick black veil engulfing the hill, erasing everything except the choking cloud of smoke.
Payter lunged, and there was the sound of battle, but it was quickly ended.
Jeth swung his sword haphazardly, desperate to defend himself as the smoke invaded his lungs. His eyes were unaffected thanks to his goggles, but he couldn’t make out anything in the darkness other than faint shadows twisting here and there. He lost his footing and fell backward. His sword clattered against stone, and when he tried to raise it he couldn’t. The weapon was being held down beneath Ebon the First’s foot, and the devil loomed above.
Before Jeth could react, the stranger was upon him, his hand around the marauder’s throat. The devil’s black eyes shined even in the cloud as he knelt down and stared at his victim. Blood seeped from his neck, wetting the scarf that he’d pulled back in place. His voice was loud and demonic as he commanded, “Let them pass.”
Jeth couldn’t do anything but nod. The devil’s grip was icy and strong, nearly crushing Jeth’s windpipe with little effort.
The stranger released Jeth, and the smoke around them fluttered, revealing something zipping through it as the devil vanished. Jeth coughed, rolled, and tried to crawl out of the noxious vapor, pulling himself across the rocky hill until he was nearing the edge. The smoke was thinner here, and he could see Devon’s Road below. The air was unbreathable, and he was suffocating now. The precipitous drop was his only hope of survival, and he willingly fell. He rolled and collided with jagged rocks, twisting and injuring himself as the ground rushed at him. When he finally stopped, he was in agony, but he could breathe. He gasped, coughed, and then vomited.
The clop of hooves passed him, and he looked up to see Ebon the First riding off atop a stolen horse, headed out towards the crossroads. The stranger stopped and stared back, the wind whipping at his cloak, and Jeth looked away in fear. He never wanted to see those black eyes again.