Author: Crom99
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Many cities bore appellations, ‘the Mighty’ or ‘the Wicked,’ but Freeport, that great city of black towers and blood-red domes, ruled from the throne of the Twilight Citadel and center of her citizens’ world, had no need of such. The city’s wickedness and might were so well known that an appellation would have been gilt laid upon gold.
A vast profusion of merchants in silks and perfumes choked the city streets as they catered to hot-blooded, sloe-eyed noblewomen and sleek, sensuous courtesans who oft seemed more ennobled than their sisters of proper blood. Every vice could be had within Freeport’s lofty obsidian walls, from the dream-powders and passion-mists peddled by oily men from the south to the specialized brothels of the Street of Sin.
Heavily armed ‘Freeport’ triremes ruled the cerulean expanse of the sea with forecastle mounted ballistae, and into Freeport’s broad harbor dromonds brought the wealth of a dozen shattered nations. The riches of another score found its way to the markets by caravan. Emeralds and apes, ivory and peacocks, whatever people wanted could be found, no matter whence it came. The stench of slavers from Erudin was drowned in the wafted scent of oranges from Rivervale, of myrrh and cloves from Felwithe, of attar of roses from Neriak and subtle perfumes from Ak’Anon. Massive merchants from Oggok strode the flagstones of her broad streets, and Dark Elves from Nektulos. Fierce Hallasian tribesmen rubbed shoulders with Kerran Scholars, and Troll mercenaries with Iksar traders from Kunark. It was said that no day passed in Freeport without the meeting of creatures, each of whom believed the other’s land to be a fable.
The tall, heavy muscled Northman who strode those teeming streets with the grace of a hunting cat had no mind for the wonders of the city, however. Fingers curled lightly on the well-worn leather hilt of his massive bastard-sword, he passed marble palaces and fruit peddlers’ carts with equal unconcern, a black-maned lion unimpressed by piles of stone. Yet if his sapphire-blue eyes were alert, there was yet travel weariness on his sun-bronzed face, and his battle scarred armor was caked with blood and dust. It had been a hard ride from Qeynos and an even harder won battle, with little time to admire the carnage he had sewn within the halls of Amon Hen, if he was to avoid the headman’s axe.
He had come far since leaving the rugged northern crags of his native Hallasian Mountains, and not only in distance. Some few years he had spent as a lone mercenary, in Old Antonica and Qeynos and the shattered Kaladim city-states, yet the desire had come on him to better himself. He had seen many beggars who had been mercenaries in their youth, but never had he seen a rich mercenary. The gold that came from selling his sword-arm had seemed to drip away like water through a sieve. But all this had changed when he joined ‘the Reign of Shadows’. Now he wrought bloody red ruin upon his guilds’ enemies and swung his murderous blade in battle against them, taking his pay not only in gold but also in power and plunder. It was said that all things could be found and taken by those with strength and ambition in Freeport, and Crom had done just that.
Smiling to himself Crom continued on his way towards that which he sought, a tavern named the Hell’s Gate Inn. There Mya, a Teir’dal beauty and warrior born, would be waiting for him with a tankard of ale to quench his thirst and a ready smile to brighten his mood. Crom had been separated from her during the flight from Qeynos and had made plan’s to meet back at the Inn should that happen.
The sound of off-key music penetrated Crom’s thoughts, and he became aware of a strange procession approaching him down the thronging street. A wiry, dark-skinned Tier’dal sergeant of the Freeport Militia, in blackened armor and nasaled helmet, curved scimitar at his hip, was trailed by another soldier beating a drum and two others raggedly blowing flutes. Behind them came half a score more, bearing halberds and escorting, or guarding, a dozen men in motley garb who seemed to be trying to march to the drum. The sergeant caught Crom’s glance and quickly stepped in front of him.
“The gods be with you. Now I can see that you are a man seeking –“ The sergeant broke off with a grunt under Crom’s fiery blue glare.
“I’m not interested,’ Crom’s words erupted from his throat in growl as he attempted to side step the sergeant, but the wiry little dark-elf stepped into his path once more.
“But think you Northerner,” the sergeant continued with oily persuasiveness, “how it will be to return from campaign with as much booty as you can carry, a hero and conqueror in the women’s eyes. How they’ll fall over you. Why, man, from the look of you, you were born for it.”
“Why not try them?” Crom said, jerking his head toward a knot of Troll nomads in sheepskin coats and baggy trousers of coarse wool. They wore ill-fitting fur caps pulled tightly over greasy scalps, and eyed everyone about them suspiciously. “They look as if they might want to be heroes,” he laughed.
The sergeant spat sourly. “Not a half-weight of discipline in the lot of them. Odd to see them here. They generally dwell in ‘Big Bend’ and tend to stay clear of ‘Beggars’ Court’ as the other refugees take offence to their stench. But you, now. Think on it. Adventure, glory, loot, women. Why--”
Crom shook his head. “I’ve made other arrangements with the Reign of Shadows. And I’m off to find the Hell’s Gate Inn.”
“Ahh…The Reign of Shadows you say? Excellent guild. One of the most powerful and feared in the city. But the Hell’s Gate Inn?” The sergeant grimaced. “Tis a dive on the Street of Sorrows, near the harbor. They’ll cut your throat for your boots as like as not. Try the Sign of the Impatient Virgin, on the Street of Coins. The wine is cheap and the girls are clean.”
Crom shook his head irritably. “A friend awaits my arrival there and I’m late for our meeting.”
Ahh...I see. Well if you change your mind regarding employment, seek me out. Neir’ Alsham, sergeant in the regiment of General Pyreel Stern. I best depart, I’ve a quota to fill. Lucan D’Lere means to build the militia larger, and when an army’s big enough, it’s used. You mark my words, there will be loot to throw away.” He motioned to the other soldiers. “Let us be on our way.”
Crom stepped aside to let the procession pass, the recruits once more attempting unsuccessfully to march to the drum. As he turned from watching the soldiers go he found himself about to trample into another cortege, this a score in saffron robes, the men with shaven heads, the women with braids swinging below their buttocks, their leader beating a tambourine. Chanting softly, they walked as if they saw neither him nor anyone else. Caught off balance, Crom stumbled awkwardly aside, straight into the midst of the Troll nomads.
Muttered imprecations rose thick as the rank smell of their greasy skin, and black eyes glared at him as dark spin-covered, leathery hands were laid to the hilts of crudely fashioned swords. Crom grasped his own sword hilt, certain that he was in for a fight. The Trolls’ eyes swung from him to follow the saffron-robed procession continuing down the crowded street. Crom stared in amazement as the Troll’s ignored him and quickly lumbered after the yellow-robed marchers.
Shaking his head, Crom went on his way. No one had ever said that Freeport was not a city of strangeness, he thought.
Yet as he approached the harbor, it was in his mind that for all its oddities the city was not so very different from the others he had seen. Behind him were the palaces of the wealthy, the shops of merchants, and the bustle of prosperous citizens. Here dried mud stucco cracked from the brick of decaying buildings, were occupied for all their decay. The peddlers offered fruits too bruised or spoiled to be sold elsewhere, and the hawkers’ shiny wares were gilded brass, if indeed there was even any gilding. Beggars here were omnipresent, whining in their rags to the sailors swaggering by. The strumpets numbered almost as many as the beggars, in transparent silks that emphasized rather than concealed swelling breasts and rounded buttocks, wearing peridot masquerading as emeralds and carbuncle passing for ruby. Salt, tar, spices, and rotting offal gave off a thick miasma that permeated everything. The pleadings of beggars, the solicitations of harlots, and the cries of hawkers hung in the air like a solid sheet.
Above the cacophony Crom heard a girl’s voice cry out, “Please, please don’t hurt me and you can have everything I own.”
Curious, Crom looked toward the sound, but could see only a milling crowd of beggars in front of a rotting building, all seeming to press toward the same goal. Whatever, or whoever, that goal was, it was against the stone wall of the building. More of the doxies joined in, elbowing their way to the front. Suddenly, above the very forefront of the throng, a girl appeared, as if she had stepped up onto a bench.
“Please, just let me pass and I will give you what I have.” In her arms she carried an engraved and florentined casket, almost as large as she could manage. Its top had been torn nearly off its hinges by grasping beggars’ hands, revealing a tangled mass of jewelry within. Pieces of jewelry were snatched from the casket by eagerly reaching hands. Greedy cries were raised for more.
Crom shook his head. This girl was no denizen of the harbor, nor was she some poor refugee. Her robes of cream-colored silk were expensively embroidered with thread-of-gold, and cut neither to reveal nor emphasize her voluptuous curves, though they could not conceal them from Crom’s discerning eye. She wore no kohl or rouge, as the strumpets did, yet she was lovely. Waist-length raven hair framed an oval face with skin the color of dark ivory and melting brown eyes. Crom wondered what madness or misfortune had brought her here.
“Mine,” a voice shouted from the shoving mass of mendicants and doxies, and another voice cried, “I want mine!”
The girl’s face showed fear and consternation. “Please, I beg of you. Let me pass and you can have it all. Please.”
“More!”
“Now!”
Three men with forked queues of sailors, attracted by the shouting, began to push their way through the growling knot of people toward the girl. Beggars, their greed vanquishing their usual ingratiating manner, pushed back. Muttered curses were exchanged, then loud obscenities, and the mood of the crowd darkened and turned angry. A sailor’s horny fist sent a ragged, gap-toothed beggar sprawling. Screams went up from the strumpets, and wrathful cries from the beggars.
Crom knew he should go on. This was none of his affair, and he had yet to go to the Hell’s Gate Inn and meet Mya. This matter would resolve itself very well without him. Then why, he asked himself, was he not moving?
At that instant a pair of bony, sore-covered hands reached up and jerked the casket from the girl’s arms. She stared helplessly as a swirling fight broke out, the casket jerked from one set of hands to another, its contents spilling to the paving stones to be squabbled over by men and women with clawed fingers. Filth-caked beggars snarled with avaricious rage; silk-clad harlots, their faces twisted with hideous rapacity, raked each other with long, painted nails and rolled on the street, legs flashing nakedly.
Suddenly, one of the sailors, a scar across his broad nose disappearing beneath the patch that covered his right eye, leaped up onto the bench beside the girl. “This is what I want,” he roared. And sweeping her into his arms, he tossed her to his waiting comrades.
“Rallos take all fool women,” Crom muttered.
The roil of beggars and harlots, lost in their greed, ignored the massive Barbarian as he moved through them like a hunting beast. Scar-face and his companions, a lanky Dark-elf with a false eye, a sharp-nosed Erudite, whose dirty red-striped head cloth hid all but the tips of his queues were to busy with the girl to notice Crom’s approach. She yelped and wriggled futilely at their pawings. Her flailing hands made no impression on shoulders and chests hardened by the rigors of stormy, violent seas. The sailors’ cheap striped tunics were filthy with fish oils and tar, and an odor hung about them of sour, over spiced ship’s cooking.
Crom’s big hand seized the scruff of the dark-elf’s neck and half hurled him into the scuffle near the casket. The Erudite’s nose crunched and spurted blood beneath Crom’s fist, and a back-handed blow sent Scar-face to join his friends on the filthy stones of the street.
Crom’s cobalt-blue eyes flashed. “Find another woman,” he growled. “There are doxies enough about.”
The girl stared at him wide-eyed, as if she was not sure if he was a rescuer or not.
“I’ll carve your liver and lights,” Scar-face spat, “and feed what’s left to the fish.” He scrambled to his feet, a curved Karrana dagger in his fist.
The other two closed in beside him, likewise clutching curved daggers. The Erudite in the head-cloth was content to glare threateningly, but the attempt was ruined somewhat when he scrubbed with his free hand at the blood that ran from his broken nose down over his mouth. The Dark-elf, however, wanted to taunt his intended victim. He tossed his dagger from hand to hand, a menacing grin on his thin mouth.
“We’ll peel your hide, Barbarian,” he sneered, “and hang it in the rigging. You’ll scream a long time before we let you--”
Amongst the lessons Crom had learned in his life was that when it was time to fight, it was well to fight, not talk. Crom’s massive bastard-sword left its worn scabbard in a draw that continued into an upward swing. The Dark-elf’s remaining eye bulged, and he fumbled for the blade that was at that moment in mid-toss. Then the first finger-length of bastard-sword clove through his jaw, and up between his eyes. The dagger clattered to the paving stones, and its owner’s body fell atop it.
The other two were not men to waste time over a dead companion. Such did not long survive on the sea. Even as the lanky Dark-elf was falling, they rushed at the big Barbarian. The Erudite’s blade gashed along Crom’s forearm, but he slammed a kick into the dark man’s midsection that sent him sprawling. Scar-face dropped to a crouch, his dagger streaking up towards Crom’s ribs. Crom sucked in his stomach, and felt the dagger draw a thin, razor edged line across the midriff of his breastplate. Then Crom’s own blade was descending. Scar-face screamed as steel cut into the joining of his neck and shoulder and continued two hand-spans deeper. He dropped his dagger to paw weakly at the bastard-sword, though life was already draining from him. Crom kicked the body free—for it was a corpse before it struck the pavement—and spun to face the third sailor.
The Erudite had gotten to his feet yet again, but instead of attacking he stood staring at the bodies of his friends. Suddenly he turned and ran up the street. “Murder!” He howled as he ran, heedless of the bloody dagger he was waving. “Murder!” The harlots and mendicants who had so recently been lost in their fighting scattered like leaves before a high wind.
“Blast!” Crom’s voice thundered.
Hastily he wiped his blade on Scar-face’s tunic and sheathed it. There were few things worse than to be caught by the City Guard standing over a corpse. Most especially in Freeport, where the Guard had a habit of following arrest with torture until the prisoner confessed. Crom grabbed the girls arm and joined the exodus, dragging her behind him.
“You killed them,” she said incredulously. She ran as if unsure whether to drag her heels or not. “They’d have run away had you threatened them.”
“Mayhap I should have let them have you,” Crom growled. “They would have ridden you like a post horse if those beggars and harlots hadn’t gutted you like a fish first. Now be silent and run!”
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