Blood of the Stallion

Chapter 1

Yodrick Alton

Water flew from me as I sprinted through the stormy weather, my feet destroying puddles in my hurried attempt at escape. Voices called after me, though their shouts fell upon deaf ears as the sound of heavy rain drowned them out. Around corners I swerved, and over walls I clambered, all the while the guards pursued me. I must have run for hours, the powerful wind blowing in from sea and swooping through my coat as my fist clutched the coin purse. Why had I been so sloppy? Why had I not scouted the area first? Luckily for me the guards could not hope to know Cranwell as well as I – or so I thought.

Rushing into a back alley I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I had finally lost them. But there he was in front of me – a large figure blocking the light of my exit. He stood at over six foot tall and was almost as wide. It was impressive that he had managed to catch up to me with how fat he was. Even in the dingy weather his crimson waistcoat was visible, hanging open atop his chainmail; that and the black hat marked him as a town guard. Neither items fit him particularly well, and the coat was especially small on his hulking body.

‘I’ve got ya now ya li’l rat!’ he spat at me.

I spun around, only to be met with the face of another guard stopping me from escaping the way I had come. The second was shorter, but slimmer and nimbler. He held a rapier, outstretched and ready for use if need be. I assessed my options and it appeared clear to me.

‘Sorry lads, not today!’ I chimed, charging straight for the fatter man.

His eyes widened as I rushed at him, his arms reaching out to grab me as I came closer, but he was far too slow as I ducked and slid past him. I leapt up and continued the dash, following the alley out into the street where the fog obscured my vision. Before I knew what was happening I was falling, icy water engulfing me.

I tried to gasp but choked on the cold liquid, thrashing about as I felt the hand of death clenching harder and harder around my breathless lungs. I felt something foreign and clung to it, realising it was a rope and I was being pulled to the surface, coughing and spluttering as the air hit me. I looked up with dread to the guards who had saved me.

‘Looks like it’s not your lucky day after all,’ the slimmer one cackled.

I allowed them to help me back to the pier and reluctantly handed over the purse as they bound my wrists. Oh how stupid I felt for charging right into the sea – not my proudest moment. Of course I tried another time to make my escape, though they expected it and the second pursuit was short-lived. They were less forgiving after that, and handled me roughly as they dragged me towards the cells.

‘So what group do ya belong to?’ the larger man interrogated me as the other stuck the point of his rapier into my back, forcing me to keep walking.

I stayed silent.

‘Not so cocky now are ya?’ the voice from behind sneered. ‘But go ahead, answer ‘is question. The crows? The blades? Or are ya just a lone scallywag goin’ around stealin’ off of the nice folk ‘round ‘ere?’

‘I’m no thief,’ I grunted.

‘Well could’ve fooled me,’ the fatter man chuckled. ‘I definitely peg ‘im as a crow.’

‘But what about the knife we found on ‘im? Nah, I’d say for certain he’s an apprentice for the blades.’

‘I’m no mercenary neither,’ I protested.

The sword in my back stopped pressing and the slimmer guard’s face appeared in front of mine. His breath smelled foul – of booze and vomit. He grinned at me deviously, showing his whole six teeth, all a sickly yellow.

‘Then tell us lad,’ he sneered, ‘What are ya?’

‘I’m a pirate.’

I chuckled to myself as I said it. The last time I told a guard that little fib his jaw dropped, but these two were smarter than they appeared. When they heard the nonsense they laughed, hollered even.

‘Well Mr. Pirate,’ the other guard said, ‘Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell us which crew you sail with. Who’s ya captain? Orig Slim Bones Harker? Brendan Raven Jones?’

‘Daxon,’ I stated.

At this their laughter stopped and they faltered. They knew I was lying, but still the idea I could be even acquainted with the vicious killer had them shaking in their boots.

‘So aye, you might want to unhand me in case my boss finds out about…’

Before I had finished, my back was against a wall and a hand was around my throat.

‘Now you listen here ya little cunt!’ my toothless attacker growled. ‘I won’t be hearing any crap about Daxon from you again unless ya want two empty holes where ya eyes used to be. Understand?’

I could not help but grin, and a fist came my way.

When the blackness faded and I awoke, my head and arms were suspended. It took some time adjusting to the daylight to figure out I was in the stocks. I had been here plenty of times before, being the pickpocket that I was, and I knew I would be here again. It was not the worst thing; the stocks were positioned on the pier so I could gaze out into the harbour. Boats and ships of all types were coming and going, and the luxurious blue waves beyond them stretched off into the horizon.

Cranwell, the town of passers-by and dirty lowlifes. Even as I watched on, somebody was robbed for their purse. Towards the harbour two men bickered loudly. The argument was ended when one pushed the other into the water, spitting curses all the while.

A good place for traders since you encountered people from all across the world – a better place for thieves since those people often carried gold. You could come here empty handed and leave set for life, provided you had the skill. And if you did not fancy the criminal life or wanted to change yours entirely, you could jump on a boat and start anew.

The faces around here were mainly pale, but there were a few darker ones. Cranwell did not discriminate – yeah you would get a few thugs who went around abusing people for being black, but it was hardly an epidemic.

Not many people stayed here long due to the crime rates, it was not a place to settle down and have a family. For me it was home however – I knew the streets better than anyone and could navigate them like the back of my hand. Admittedly last night did not go entirely according to plan, but it presented me with a new handful of opportunities. It was incredible how much you heard from passers-by – how many little details they gave away so easily when you were no threat to them. I was already picking out my next targets, a middle-aged pair far too well dressed for the likes of this place.

‘…and you’ll escort me to my boat without any problems?’ the woman was saying to who I could only presume to be her lover. It was in hushed tone, but within my earshot.

‘Of course darling, nobody will dare come near you with me around, your jewels are safe.’

Perfect. Now all I needed was a date and time. But as I tried to listen in to their preparations an incoming ship’s horn blew from the water. I drowned it out as much as I could, but the moment was over – they continued walking and it seemed I had missed what sounded like a perfect score. I was listening out for another potential target when the slim guard from yesterday appeared before me.

‘Comfy there sunshine?’ he smirked.

‘Very much so,’ I parried, watching his expression drop.

Past him the ship docked, closer to us than the others. A fist smashed into my face and I felt my nose burst.

‘You keep bein’ cheeky like that and you’ll be in the stocks ‘til ya look older than your own balls.’

Pain swelled in my face, but my attention was drawn by the oncoming sailors who were now on the pier walking towards us. Dark leather coats adorned each of them, as well as a black bandana atop each man’s head.

‘Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya!’ the guard demanded, moving around the stocks to kick me in the stomach.

I grunted, tears forming in my eyes.

‘What’s going on here?’ the frontrunner of the men enquired as they closed the gap.

His face was scrawny, with sunken cheeks and a wisp of hair below his chin. He was the palest of the group, all of the others with a noticeable tan and one darker than the rest.

The guard had been going for a second kick when they interrupted him.

‘None of ya business!’ he spat, disregarding the men as he struck me again.

There were half a dozen of them, all with weapons at their hips but not for holding rapiers like the town guards carried; these were thicker, all different shapes and sizes – one of the men had a blade at each hip.

‘At least tell us what he’s here for,’ the duel wielder asked – he was the most built of the men, half a head taller than the rest with rippling muscles visible despite the thick coat.

‘Kid stole a purse in the town square, claimed to be a pirate too.’

‘Surely that’s not reason enough for this behaviour. Put him in the stocks sure, but is there any need to beat him?’

Finally, in aggravation the guard spun around to face them properly.

‘Now listen ‘ere,’ he growled; it almost covered the tremble in his voice – almost. ‘Move along or I’ll have the rest of Cranwell town guard here to put ya all in the stock as well.’

The frontrunner smirked. His hand moved to the hilt of his blade and gripped firmly. ‘So, the lad is a pirate ay?’ he chuckled, ignoring the idle threat.

‘Of course not!’ the guard tutted. ‘He says he’s a part of Daxon’s crew by the maker’s sake!’

I did not know these men before me, nor had I ever encountered them, but I could read faces well enough. At the sound of Daxon’s name their faces turned to stone, but there was no fear in their eyes. A man at the back of their group stepped forward, his eyes bright. Long hair dangled out of his bandana past his stern face – dyed green to look like seaweed.

‘The boy isn’t lying,’ he told the guard. ‘So how about you release him to us and we’ll make sure he gets back to Daxon.’

‘This is nonsense!’ the guard protested stepping forward and into my view, but as he spoke the green haired man unsheathed his monstrous blade. I had not gotten a good view at the size of the weapon until now, and I was blown away. It was a square bladed machete – the hilt was simple and wooden with no hand guard, but the blade was longer and broader than its wielder’s arms. He pointed it at the guard, the weapon alone closing the gap between them and its un-tapered edge hovering inches from his face. To me it looked like an enormous butcher’s knife, easily able to hack a man’s head clean off provided the wielder was strong enough.

The guard retreated slightly, turning and walking away, calling, ‘I’ll be back! And next time the numbers will be more even!’

Bring it on.

‘Thanks for that,’ I grunted. ‘I would’ve taken on that slimy bastard myself, but him and his buddy…’

‘Shut up.’ It was the frontrunner who had cut me off, as his green hair friend spun his mighty blade. ‘Why did you tell the guard you worked for Daxon?’

‘Oh that, well I suppose it was just to scare him.’

‘So you think Daxon is frightening?’

‘Not particularly, but everyone else seems to think so. Even after a decade the folk here in Cranwell still shiver at the sound of his name.’

‘So if I told you Daxon was a close personal friend of mine, what would you say then?’

The way his eyes bore into me urged me to be afraid, but I remained calm and collected. He was just trying to scare me the way I liked to scare the guards.

‘I’d ask you to thank him for me – I’ve been using his name to shake up the guards for years and I’ve never expressed my gratitude.’

The scrawny man waved a hand and turned. His green haired friend approached grinning and hefted his mighty katana. I closed my eyes as I mentally kicked myself, but instead of sudden nothingness I felt something crack above me. I moved and the top of the stocks fell from my shoulders, split in two by the strike.

‘Hang on,’ I muttered, stretching out my back. ‘You’re not gonna kill me?’

‘Not yet,’ the dual wielder grinned. ‘We’re taking you to your good friend Daxon!’

A hand gripped me on either side and I was hauled off through the streets of Cranwell, how much of this was a joke? I had no doubt in my mind that these were pirates, villainous plunderers and brothers in arms. Wolves of the sea and everything else you wanted to call them. Piracy was technically illegal, though those in charge of the law often let it slip – after all there were no rules on the ocean. Around these parts the title of pirate warranted a certain degree of respect, after all Cranwell was a town of particularly nasty criminals, and pirates were the worst of the worst. Each crew stuck to its own code of arms, but those ranged from actual honour to merciless killing for pleasure.

There were several hidden streets in Cranwell which housed secret taverns and low profile organisations. I was certain they would take me to one of these, and was surprised when instead they hauled me through the doors of a renowned pirates’ tavern near the town square. While it was known to house the sea dwelling brigands primarily, it was not an illegal establishment. Guards would often drink there in fact as it offered one of the finest selections of ale brought through from all across the world.

Accordion music swept over me, typical pirate shanties; however, it was almost entirely drowned out by the roar of conversation. With doubts in my mind that one would ever encounter Daxon here of all places, I was shoved towards the bar where a one-eyed innkeeper glanced over us sceptically.

‘What’ll it be lads?’ he grunted in a low, gruff voice.

The scrawny pirate turned to me. ‘You old enough to drink boy?’

‘I’m fifteen,’ I replied.

‘Close enough!’ he hollered, turning back to the barkeep. ‘Give us seven pints of your finest ale.’

The server’s one eye bore into each of us before he laid an upturned hand firmly on the counter.

‘Coin first!’

Within a second my captor’s blade was out – a long jagged sword stained with what appeared to be fresh blood.

‘I think you’ll find it’s on the house!’ he retorted.

I expected the old barman to back down, but he instead slammed both hands angrily on the bar.

‘You know the drill!’ he yelled. ‘Pay or get the fuck out! Nobody drinks for free!’

The pirate clenched his fist around the blade, his lips pulling back into a snarl.

‘I’ll pay their cost,’ a low voice sounded from behind us.

With a firm hand on either side still holding me in place, I was unable to turn towards the speaker. Everything seemed to go quiet – voices died down and even the music stopped. All that could be heard was the footsteps of the man coming closer.

‘Lower your weapon Wes, you impulsive imbecile.’

The voice was smooth, educated, full of authority.

Wes grinned and sheathed his blade. ‘What took you so long boss?’

Silently the man came to the bar and threw down a purse of coins. A long black beard covered most of his lower face. His eyes were a dark brown, his gaze severe and unwavering. Like the half dozen pirates standing with me, he wore a long black coat – however atop his head he wore not a bandana but a black captain’s hat. Golden rings covered most of his fingers, and a black pendant necklace hung below his throat.

‘Sorry about my men,’ he apologised to the barkeep, ignoring Wes. ‘They tend to get a bit over their heads when I’m not around to keep them in check. Make that eight pints, and keep the change as a token of my apologies.’

The one-eyed man seemed nervous as he picked up the purse and began to pour the pints. Could my captors have been telling the truth? Could this be…him?

‘Who’s the lad?’ he asked his men, not bothering to look my way.

‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ the green haired pirate replied, chuckling to himself. ‘Apparently he’s one of our crew – you been hiring recruits without us?’

For the second time the man ignored a question. Instead he simply grabbed the first pint the server laid on the counter and took a long, hefty swig. When he put the glass down, it was half empty – his eyes found mine.

I had heard tales of how the mighty Daxon could make an entire army retreat with a single stare – I never believed it until that moment. He had no facial scars, nor an eyepatch, he was not the tallest man in the room nor the broadest, though he was still without a doubt the most intimidating person I had ever seen.

‘What’s your name boy?’ he demanded.

If a guard (or anyone else for that matter) ever asked me, I would always provide a fake one. In fact, I doubted I had even said my real name for over five years. Yet for some reason I was compelled not to lie to this man.

‘Yodrick…Yodrick Alton.’

Mouthing the name, he averted his gaze, picking his glass back up and finished the pint in another long swig. ‘So, he was claiming to be friends with me ay?’ he asked his crew.

‘Aye sir,’ the duel wielder confirmed. ‘That’s what the guard told us at least.’

‘And what do you say in your defence boy?’ he directed towards me.

I paused, positive I would have to be careful about what I said to this man. I could lie, maybe add a bit of flattery, but he would see right through that. ‘Using your name shakes up the guards more often than not, some even let me go with a warning if they’re gullible enough to think I’m one of your crew.’

‘Seems as good a reason as any I suppose,’ the fierce man said, passing the rest of the pints around to his crew before laying mine in front of me. ‘But I hope you understand I can’t have lads like you going around and hurting my image. Drink.’

He seemed serious. I hesitated before picking up my drink and taking a swig. I was accustomed to ale, but it usually tasted like piss water. This stuff was strong, but the flavour was not half bad. I drank some more, already feeling the warmth spread through me.

‘So what are you going to do to me?’ I dared ask.

‘I could cut something off boss,’ Wes offered with a sly grin. ‘Teach him a lesson so he won’t be using your name again.’

‘Pipe down!’ he barked to his associate, dulling the devious sparkle in his eyes, ‘You’re beginning to get on my nerves, I swear if I had more sense I would’ve thrown you into the ocean years ago.’

I tried my best to stay out of the argument about what they should do to me, and instead focused on drinking my ale. My eyes glanced to the door, but even as ideas were tossed around a hand stayed firm on my sleeve.

The man in question had been silent so far, even back at the stocks. A bandana lay atop his head and his eyes were a sunken grey. From the way his gaze never shifted, I imagined he was blind. He was the oldest of the group without a doubt, though still at his hip was a sheath, seemingly longer than most. Eventually the group seemed to come to some kind of agreement, though I had missed the vast majority of their conversation.

‘Well, it’s settled lad!’ the green haired pirate told me with a grin, I gazed up at the group questioningly. ‘Welcome to the crew of The Iron Stallion!’

‘Huh?’