Chapter Thirty-Nine

The sailor led Tarn through a long series of dark and gloomy streets and tight alleys that seemed to get darker and narrower as they went. Each drab and faded building looked much like the last, without distinguishing features to mark it different from the others. By the time they arrived outside a ramshackle hobble that stank of urine and decaying garbage, Tarn was thoroughly lost and disoriented. Barath growled softly from the shadows. The sailor turned his head at the noise and spat on the ground.

"Bearings be true, he's berthed in there," granted the man, pointing to the shack's door, a crooked affair that hung awkwardly by one working hinge. The sailor shifted from foot to foot and rubbed his palms together greedily, then held out a callused hand. "I'll take that silver and be on my way."

Too quick for the man to avoid, Tarn grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him closer until his fiercely whispered words blustered gustily with each staccato spoken warning, "If ye words be false, ye will be the first to perish."

Barath appeared at Tarn's side and tapped his foreleg five times. Tarn kicked open the door and threw the struggling sailor into the hobble's dark interior. The warped and cracked door hit the wall with a broken thud. A loud creak and crack of snapping wood, as the door sprung free of the single hinge that held it, preceded the sailor's entrance.

The sailor tried to scream, but only a croaking, "Nooo," came out his damaged throat. On the way through the doorway, his knee collided with the doorframe. He fell face-first on the refuse littered floor. Three daggers thudded into his body before he had raised a hand in defence.

Somebody in the pitch-black room said, "Light the lantern. Let us glimpse inside the outlander's purse ere we claim our employer's gold."

"His sword and boots is mine," claimed another.

Outside, in the shadow-strewn alley, Tarn whispered to Barath, "We need one of them alive. If they were hired for gold, an agent of Mahnaz will be close by. Mayhaps Pentath himself."

A moment later, a dim halo of light cast by a lantern illuminated the dagger-ridden body of the sailor, face down on the earth floor. Tarn drew his hip sword and took two steps backward, announcing loudly, "If ye be seeking gold in that purse, all ye will find is lotus dreams." Five heads turned to him. They saw a lone barbarian standing on the periphery of the lantern light, where it splashed out of the narrow doorway. "I have a bargain for ye worthless curs," Tarn proffered, as the men exited the ramshackle dwelling, spreading out on either side of the door around their leader.

Lifting the lantern higher to illuminate Tarn's shadowed face, their leader, Tull, asked, "Why should we barter wi' a corpse?"

Barath stepped out of the shadows, growling menacingly, canines agleam in the lantern's soft light. Almost as one, the five faces showed their surprise.

"Mitra! He commands a giant wolf! I didn't hire on for this," exclaimed the man on Tarn's far left.

"Hold ye damn tongue. 'Tis but a large dog and we be many against one," rallied the lantern-holder.

"This be my bargain," Tarn interrupted. "We need one of ye alive. The first to throw down his arms lives. The rest die," he warned, tossing his hip sword into his right hand while drawing Kalen's sword with his left. The exchange happened so quickly, none of them thought to attack.

"Ye promised an easy night's work, Tull. I want no part of this," announced the same man who complained earlier.

"Quit thy whining Bartal. We can take him," Tull encouraged, his free hand creeping toward the hilt at his waist.

Ere they made up their minds to attack, Tarn whispered a few words under his breath, then loosed an ear-piercing battle-cry and leaped at Tull and the man beside him. Being attacked was the last thing they expected from a lone man. Tull blocked Tarn's sword with his quickly drawn blade; the man beside him fell to the ground, dead by Kalen's sword. In a split second, the violent ring of clashing steel serenaded the night's solitude. Tull tossed the lantern at Tarn, who turned his shoulder inward, letting it fly harmlessly past him. Kerosene splashed free when the lantern hit the wall of the adjacent building, sending up a sheet of flame that backlit the melee.

Tarn's two swords began a dangerous dance, leaping and flowing through twin figure-eight patterns that erected a razor-sharp barricade. One of the assassins stepped forward, seeking to penetrate the man-slicing steel. He feinted low and struck high. Once, twice, and a third edge carved chunks of flesh free. He fell to the ground, motionless in widening pools of blood. Tull and another remained to face Tarn. Barath was gone, as was Bartal, the man who complained.

Tull darted in at Tarn's mid-section, while the other assassin chopped at his head. Tarn blocked the chop-swing with his long sword and swept Tull's thrust aside with the other. Ere Tull recovered, Tarn���s broadsword descended on his arm. Tull screamed shock and primeval fury. His severed hand, clenched around the pommel, thudded when it hit the hard-packed dirt alley.

Tarn caught an attack with his hip sword, held the fingers of steel locked high, and then drove Kalen's sword into his opponent's stomach. The man collapsed to his knees with his life flowing out of him, clutching his stomach to staunch the blood flow. Silvery death blurred through the night, separating Tull's head from his shoulders. The man whose stomach wound bled the ground red, tipped forward on his knees, landing face first.

Adrenaline coursed through Tarn, bringing clarity of sight, smell, and hearing into perfect focus. He jerked his head left and right, looking for another opponent. Battle fever ran thick and strong, courting the big youth with the allure of victory. It felt powerful, seductive in its raw state. A few deeps breaths calmed his racing pulse, bringing rational sense back to the forefront. At the sound of a deep growl, accompanied by a high-pitched keening, he smiled grimly and joined Barath around the corner.

Wide-eyed and trembling fearfully, Bartal stood with his back and the palms of his hands pressed tight against the building's wall as if he sought to somehow pass through the cracked and weather-stained wood. Crouched at Bartal's feet, ready to pounce, Barath's eyes glowed amber death. Bartal shuffled a nervous step sideways. Barath bared long fangs and shuffled sideways, growling fiercely at the petrified assassin to remain motionless.

"Whoa brother, is that any way to treat our guest? Cease thy growling lest Bartal wet himself!"

Barath barked once, then sat down obediently, and beheld Tarn with a wolfish grin; all fangs and lolling tongue. He barked twice more, then yipped, and growled again, feigning conversation.

"I agree brother. If he doesn't talk ye can most assuredly feast upon his warm flesh," Tarn improvised.

Barath barked, and then jumped up so that his front paws rested on Bartal's shaking shoulders, and growled ferociously. A widening stain wet Bartal's pants. Urine rolled down his leg to form a pool around his feet and taint the air.

"Please, oh Mitra. I'll tell ye anything, just get this beast off me," Bartal pleaded, his voice a tremulous blend of quivering fear.

"Now is that good manners to call my brother a beast? He is more of a man than ye! Talk rogue, lest ye crave to become worm meat. Who hired ye?"

"A priest offered gold if we killed an outlander. That's all I know."

"Where is this priest, and from what temple does he hail?"

When Bartal hesitated, Barath growled. His fangs dripped saliva scant inches from the pallid face.

"If I tell ye they will kill me. The priests of Mahnaz have power more terrible than the wraiths of hell!"

"Aye. They might. But if ye don't speak quickly, ye die here, now. Worry about our intent."

"Mycenar," Bartal whispered, imagining a fanged-death at Barath's jaws. "He hails from Mycenar and travelled to Kordava on a black ship docked at the quay. He awaits word on the pier."

"Does this priest have a name?"

"He calls himself Kharstad," Bartal admitted, dispirited.

"What do ye know about a galley of mountain slaves?"

"Nothing," Bartal said. Barath's fangs moved forward. "I swear, I've heard naught of slaves," he uttered quickly, hot wolf's breath blowing in his face.

Barath growled again, but Bartal remained adamant in his denial. Tarn met Barath's eyes, and said, "What do ye say, brother, should we pay this priest a visit?"

"Yes," Barath barked once and jumped down off Bartal.

Tarn grabbed Bartal roughly and pushed him toward the docks, saying, "Show us this galley and ye live another day. Cross me with trickery, and I'll set my brother upon ye," then to Barath, he commanded, "If he runs ye may dine upon his craven bone marrow."

Barath barked and looked at Bartal hungrily. Visibly shaken, Bartal walked a full pace in front of Tarn, Barath close at his heels, softly growling; discouraging flight.

* * * * * * *

The buildings turned from shabby hovels into dilapidated rope-and-net shops. An ever-increasing number of warehouses, whose soot-stained windows insulated the darkness from the lanterns that burned within, flanked the avenue. Here and there tiny tendrils of chimney smoke rose into the star-dappled sky. Alley cats, who rummaged a tasty meal of fish heads, looked up to appraise the interlopers, but other than that, the streets and avenues were quiet, abandoned, its vendors having long ago gone home to their wives and children.

Bartal stopped behind a stack of barrels and pointed at a double masted black galley rocking gently against its slip. Beneath the main deck, a twin set of staggered oar-ports ran the length of the ship. A slave galley.

After Tarn learned the location of the priest's cabin, and how many guards were posted to the ship, he set Bartal free, warning him to leave the city hence. Bartal scurried away without a backward glance.

Tarn worked his way closer to the ship, carefully keeping to the shadows. When he came within fifteen paces of the black ship, hidden behind a cluster of empty barrels, he exclaimed softly, "The cur said three guards, where I detect but two. Do ye glimpse the third?" Barath nodded his head. "In the bow or stern?" Barath stared at Tarn shaking his huge black head from side to side. "He's in the middle?" Barath nodded.

Though Tarn strained his eyes to their limits, he saw nothing but darkness. One guard stood against the bow railing, and the other against the spoked steerage wheel on the quarterdeck. Amidship, somewhere between the two, was another guard. Barath nudged his leg.

When he turned to Barath, his oath-brother laid down and closed his eyes. "The guard is sleeping," Tarn said. "Ye can see the sleeping guard?"

Barath shook his furry head, noisily blowing air out his nose.

Grinning broadly, Tarn said, "Our lazy guard be sleeping midship." Barath nodded. "I'll take out the quarterdeck guard, while ye quest the sleeper."

"Yes," agreed Barath, barking once, softly, then tilted his head back and forth to indicate the third sentry.

"First come, first served, but quietly. There be more below. Stay here until ye glimpse me on the quarterdeck. He holds the widest field of vision. After I dispose of him, the night belongs to thee."

Barath responded with as close to an approximation of a smile as his wolf-form permitted, looking far more menacing, than cheerful.