Loyal and Free Chapter 8 REDONE

The cold rain came heavily to the frozen ground, the few plants that could survive in Rasoulian winters thankful for a chance to quench their terrible thirst. The many horses in their small stables fretted as thunder and lightning battled in the skies above, the two grooms rushing to quell their fears. Water buckets flew across the stalls, the animals were rearing. Stray dogs in the alleyways joined the rowdy chorus.

But there were a few that were grateful for the chaos outside. Carter and Cuthbert sat in the shadows of The Black Horse, their drinks hardly touched. They kept their faces covered, the dim candlelight casting menacing shadows across their handsome features. They seemed a strange pair to all who passed them, but on nights as dark as this and in a tavern famed for attracting trouble, they were hardly unusual. Five menacing men sat at the table with them, all having drained the expensive rum bought for them from the two tall shrouded strangers.

The first who had taken a liking to the black bag brimming with gold coins on the table was a stocky man named Olaf Clay and his brother Sven. They were built like trees, with broad shoulders and square faces. Their eyes were moss, their tanned skin the cracking bark of wood. Olaf had removed his dark brown leather hat to reveal a bald skull with a pale scar far his right ear and traveling down his neck. That same ear was misshapen at the top, part of it appearing to have been bitten off. His brother looked no less brutish with his thick, greasy, matted chestnut locks. His face was of a slightly handsomer nature, with a hooked nose compared to his brother's squat one, but he was no less fearsome. Sven, it was said, had killed three men in one breath, just for the fact that his ale was an inch from the brim.

Next had come Tym Flynt. Born and bred in the gutters of Springford, he was the perfect picture of villainy. He was a central figure in the black market. He was the keeper of a book with all the names of every criminal in the capital. Although he may not have been the best fighter himself, his connections were perfectly devious. He was only twenty-five but the most notorious of all the villains and knaves in Springford; all he needed was a chance to expand his vicious empire. His black hair was fine and combed and his face handsome.  A thin crop of hair formed above his thin lips, turned upwards at the corners and exaggerated by his cocky smile that showed two golden teeth in the place of his canines.

Then of all came Apep Karawen. There was tension around the table when first he appeared, for the endless stories heard about the exiled mercenary from Basmara were too terrible to be spoken aloud. He was said to have killed the baby of his mistress because it was born at night, skinned it and gave it to the mourning mother. He was vicious, he was brutal, he was just what Cuthbert and Carter needed. His skin was as black as ebony, just as his large eyes. The right side of his skull had been shaved and a black skull tattooed on the naked flesh. The left was home to unusually straight black hair, pulled back into a braid mixed with gold and scarlet threat. His thick chest was bare, his breeches studded black leather. Two sharpened, curved swords slept on his hips, waiting for their master to allow them to drink from crimson wine.

Finally came the old man that they had been expected. Harkin Radcliff was a man in his early sixties that had stayed loyal to King Daryl and paid the price dearly, for his complexion meant that he could not easily hide from King Burne’s torturers. His back was hunched and he walked with a gnarled cane, but he had once been an incredibly short man before the rack had been his bed. His skin was porcelain white, his bare arms littered with burns. His left eye had been sewn shut over the emptied socket, but the vision in his right of bright scarlet missed nothing. And his hatred for the man that sat the throne burned brighter than any flame.

"How much?" Sven asked through his rough lips, his eyes never leaving where he assumed Cuthbert's were beneath his dark hood.

"Castles, titles, gold beyond your dreams. All the wealth that fat pretender sits and gloats over every night shall be split between all who fight for the true king. And, dare I suggest," Carter purred in a voice laced with the finest wine, "you four fine rogues shall receive the heftiest portion of all."

"An entire boatful, perhaps?" Cuthbert added, his white teeth shining from the shadows.

"Make it a gold boat and you have yourself a bargain," Olaf’s gravelly voice announced to the group.

“Agreed.”

They each raised their cup their drank deep.

“Here,” Carter smiled. “A taste of the feast that is to come.”

Each of their new acquaintances took a small bag of gold coins from the young knight and made their way into the storm, taking with them thoughts of rebellion. Julius and Edmund joined their masters when they were finally alone. Edmund had finished three ales and Julius was forbidding any more to the younger boy. The troop sat quietly for a moment, soaking in the rowdy tavern around them.

“Do you think that they’ll keep their side of the bargain, Bert?”

“Who can say. But, we’ve done our job. It’s all in the hands of the gods now, lads.”

“I pray that they will be bountiful in rewarding you support, my lord.”

They drank deep.