Crooked Constellations

Crooked Constellations

A Tale from The Serpent Knight Saga

By Kevin Wright

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Always… A loaded word, and then some. All’s I kenned for certain was anyone daft enough to go tromping through bore a fair shot of drowning when Hel’s scales tipped crimson. But that’s what it’s like round the Inner Magnars. You head out of town and you’re dicing at hazard, and it’s eighty-twenty you ain’t coming back.

I was tailing a bastard named Enoch Noullesse. A mean bastard. With a gift for killing. They said he used his prodigious gift on the patriarch of a clan lording harsh over Blackhollow. The Terracelenze Clan. All big-wigs and high-hats and low-lifes. A fair cut of folk whispered behind cupped hands that might be this patriarch son of a bitch needed killing. Begged for it, in fact.

But that hardly set him apart. Not round here.

Thing set this patriarch prick apart wasn’t the noble blood no longer coursing through his empty veins. No. Was the gold filling his clan’s coffers. They were money-lenders out of Old Torrazia, branching out like the feelers of some creeping vine, worming their tendrils slithering into the established shit-heel Magnar hierarchy, roping round, cinching down, choking off.

Not the type of bastard you want to work for. Not the type you want to owe. And here I was, pulling double duty. Call it due diligence. Overachieving. Being a dumb-ass. Take your pick.

But their gold? As pure as their motives weren’t.

And I had to eat. To drink. Provide succor to all those poor, hungry whores.

About an hour past sundown, I killed my ale and left Claystream in the dust, trudging east out of town and down the Old Timber Road. Might’ve had dragons on my mind if not for the hounds on my heels. Three of them. They’d caught my scent in Dun Rising, glommed on at Blackhollow, tailed me downriver to Claystream. They’d lain low, played it cool, kept their distance. A trio of rarities who knew their business.

But as luck would have it, I knew mine.

And it wasn’t playing lead hound to a pack of second fiddles. At least I hoped.

I trudged past an old lumber mill rotting by a dusty streambed, through the Arrow Wood Glade, down into the bowels of the Valley.

I knew Enoch’d gone this way the same way I’d been able to tail him through the Magnars. Karl. My faithful companion. A short, troll-like half-wit with all the charm of a rabid badger. All the ferocity, too. He’d been keeping watch over the Old Timber Road. I’d handled the west side, which as luck would have it, was where the tavern sat. First place you see coming in, last going out. Unless you’re headed east.

And Enoch was.

A mile down the road, I saw why they’d stopped using the Old Timber Road. Was fair evident even to a dolt like me. No trees. Or no living trees, anyway. Naught but a caldera of charred pine trunks glistening in the moon-glow far as the eye could see, limbless black lances all aimed at the night sky’s eye.

“Would’ve given Vlad the Impaler a boner the size of, well, one of these…” I came to a stop before a wide skewer devoid of bark, long and straight and smooth as a halberd’s haft.

Swathed in moon-shadow, in the lee of the skewer, Karl rumbled, “Who…?”

“Lunatic who liked impaling folk. A little too much.”

“Odin’s eye, sounds like a bloody tool-bag.”

“No argument here.” I stared back up the trail. “Any sign of our friend?”

“Hrrm…” Karl shook his shaggy head. “Bastard gave me the slip.”

“Yeah…?” I turned, eyebrow raised.

“Yar.”

“Hmm…” Giving Karl the slip took some doing. “Tracks?”

“Lost ‘em down yonder by the dry river bend. In the rocks and hard-scale.” Karl pointed off east down the trail. “Figured on waiting for you to come stumbling afore heading on.”

“I wasn’t stumbling.”

Karl gave me the eye.

“Much…” I covered my ale-besotted breath. “Anyway, best be moving.” I offered a hand.

Karl gripped it, and we both groaned as I levered him level to his feet. Neither of us were spring chickens. Maybe late summer or early fall, if I was being honest. Which was a rarity.

“Thanks.” Karl dusted off, adjusted his crossbow, and we headed further down into the Valley.

The ground beneath our feet made a hard chinking sound, and the air burnt my nostrils and back of my throat. Wasn’t just the coat of wood char suffusing the air. It had a caustic burn. A sulfur stench. An acid reek you could feel tingling on your skin.

“Can’t see why folk don’t live here anymore,” I commented.

Karl glared back and over his shoulder. “Still only three?”

“Nice open space. Good view. No nosy neighbors.”

“Cause I’m counting a fist’s worth.”

“How many fingers you got?” I kept walking, didn’t turn.

“Leap-froggin’ after, one by one.” Karl caught back up. “Taking it slow.”

“Sounds like them.” Except there were two more now.

“Three was a problem,” Karl growled.

“And we’re known for solving problems.”

“A fist’s worth, though?”

“Gonna take some more precise calculations.”

“Ca-Calcul…?”

“Not your strong suit, eh? Arithmetic. Public speaking. Bathing.” I glared over my shoulder. “What are you good at?”

“Fuck…” Karl stopped short.

“Well, I don’t buy that.”

“Shit.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Shut yer gob—” Karl shoved me behind a tree as something zipped whistling past.

“What the—?” Another something zipped past. An arrow or crossbow bolt. Coming from further down the Valley. Karl was right. Fuck and shit. “How many ahead?”

“Hrrmm…” Karl hunkered low. “Grimnir’s spear. Not sure. Least two. Guessing more.”

I unshouldered my own crossbow, bent my back, gripped the string, pulled back til I heard the click. “Bolt.”

Karl slapped one in my waiting palm. We knelt hunkered within the center of a copse of five dead trees, jutting up like the fingers of a skeletal hand fixed to grab us, crush us, drag us to hell. I tried not to dwell on it. I had the western approach, Karl the east. Against seven now, at least. And surrounded.

“Got a plan?” Karl grunted.

“Use your underwear as a flag to surrender?”

“Under-what?”

“Jesus Christ.” I rolled my eyes.

“Yer shite God ain’t no help here.” Karl squinted up. “Maybe decorating these trees with his bony carcass…”

“That’s not very nice.” I aimed my crossbow as a shadow poked its head out from behind a tree some forty yards off. But the shot wasn’t there. “Damn…”

“Weren’t meant to be.”

“Yeah, well…” I gave him that one. “How you doing back there?”

“They’re circling us like a noose,” Karl grumbled. “You?”

Two shadows broke from cover, sprinted, dove behind a stand of trees to my right. Two shadows further back slunk up to my left. Could feel others closing it. Asphyxiation, a word that came to mind. “Same here. Jesus. How many bolts you got?”

“Not enough.”

“Yeah. Figured.” I cleared my throat, called out, “Parlay!”

“Fuck your parlay, Krait!” Someone roared from the west.

And that was me. Krait. Sir Luther Slythe Krait, the one and only. And not for long, the way tides were turning.

“Would take some doing, but I’m willing to give it a shot!” I spat back.

“What’d you do with him?”

“Huh?” I took a quick peek. “What’d we do with who?”

“Don’t be fucking with me.” The voice barked in a hard Danish accent. “Enoch. The mark. The fucker what done killed Lord Terracelenze. Where is he?”

“Don’t know,” I called back. “We lost his trail. Thought you had him.”

“Well, we don’t. I think you should lay down your arms, and mayhap we can come to some sort of accord.” As the Dane spoke, four shadows leap-frogged through the trees, closing in tight. Another pair moved in behind.

“We’re up to nine,” I hissed at Karl.

“Rrrr… How many?”

“Almost two fists worth.”

“Odin’s eye.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Eh?” The Dane called again, buying time and space while our own lock on those precious commodities faded fast. “What do you say? An accord?”

“Yours still moving in?” I whispered over my shoulder.

“Yar.” Karl shifted position at my back. “Gonna have both our flanks. Take a shot if you got it.”

“Yeah, no shit…” A shadow darted, and I squeezed the trigger, crossbow staves straightening, string ripping forth, bolt leaping. It shanked off a tree and into darkness. “Damn—” I reloaded as footsteps pounded forward, then tossed my crossbow aside, drawing my longsword, Yolanda, screaming free. “They’re here.”

“Hold!” the Dane roared as a pair of shadows burst from cover.

Karl turned, took a casual glance, shot. He struck dead center and the bastard took another ten steps before he knew he was dead. Then Karl was up, his thane-axe in hand.

The lone bastard charged, swinging a flanged mace two-handed for my mug. I slide-stepped back and dropped a quick hammer-chop, nothing fancy, blade shanking off the mace haft and riding to wrist.

“Damn you!” The mace went flying, and the bastard-shadow scuttled away, clutching a stump. “He took my hand, Cutter!”

“Fucking hell, Bill, then bloody well listen when I give an order,” Cutter the Dane spat back. “Told you to hold, didn’t I? Krait! Krait, we’ve ten men surrounding you and your friend. Most of us have crossbows. All have ill intent. It’s just a matter of time. You surrender now, drop your weapons, and you’ll live. You have my word.”

I licked my lips. “What do you think?”

“Fucker’s name’s Cutter.” Karl gripped his thane-axe. “Heard of his work.”

“Yeah, me too. We surrender we’re dead,” I said. “If we’re lucky.”

“Been a bitch knowing ye, lad,” Karl rumbled.

“We’ll always have Calais.” I gripped Yolanda.

“Don’t hear the pitter-patter of weapons dropping,” Cutter barked as another pair closed in. They had us good and fucked now.

“We’re coming out,” I called back, tossing Bill’s mace, hand still attached. “You ready, Karl?”

“Yar…” At that, Karl charged, and I turned to follow. Only way to live was to break their circle and the only way to break their circle was to charge. A calculated risk we in the life and death business call a Hail Mary, cause you’d better be praying hard when it went down. The chances of success were slim to nil and slim was galloping off on his fastest steed.

Crossbows loosed, bolts whipped past, and Cutter roared. Something punched me in the side, but I fought on after Karl. A bolt skimmed off his shoulder and ripped past my cheek. Another knocked me sideways and to my knees.

“Kill ‘em both!” Cutter screamed from behind. “Watch it, Zeke!”

A thud and a scream ahead meant Karl’d reached Zeke, and Zeke wouldn’t be stressing over next year’s crops or taxes. Through blurred vision, a shadow charged. I swung with all I had, which wasn’t much. Could feel the crossbow bolt in me, lodged deep, ripping my innards with every move.

I swung again, hit someone, something, but tripped, stumbled, tumbling hard. Stars burst before my eyes, wafting off into night’s infinity, forming crooked constellations.

A shadow loomed above. “What a poor simple bastard, you are,” Cutter hissed.

I blinked. “My calling card.”

“Heh…” Cutter chuffed a laugh, shook his head, unsheathing a blade. He raised it up, two-handed, point aimed for my throat. “I’d say I was gonna enjoy this, but really, you ain’t nothing to me.”

“Yeah, well, I get that a lot,” I managed, squinting at the glint off his blade, studying it, seeing the stars reflected off in fine detail. I blinked. Huh…? The stars went black.

“Uh…?” I offered as Cutter craned his neck.

“You boys hear some — ulp!” And Cutter was gone. Instantly. Naught but a splash of warm wet across my face as a great gale whooshed past. Men screamed from on all quarters to the sound of flesh rending, of great wings flapping, ripping gales of acidic grit blasting past. I rolled, covered my eyes, pissed my pants.

“Ahhhh, no, please, plea—”

“Mercy! Mer—”

Something massive shattered a tree trunk, coal-black crystalline shards of petrified wood raining down, tinkling like faraway music on the desiccated earth long after the killing had stopped.

I rolled over, puked, wiped crud from my mouth. “Karl…?”

“Urg … yar?”

“You still alive?”

“Nar,” Karl grunted from somewhere.

“Bastards even messed that up…” I managed, but it hurt to talk, hurt to move, hurt to breathe.

“Where… Is… He…?” A voice thundered from the sky above, the earth below, and everywhere in between, vibrating the rocks, the trees, my teeth.

I cowered. Groveled. Prayed. Got the impression of a monstrosity too huge to fully realize in one take. I didn’t even try. It was as though one of the far mountains had been granted life, ripped loose, pulled close. Far too close. Eyes the color of molten steel glowed. A serpentine neck swathed in glistening scales the color of a storm at sea. There weren’t always dragons in the Valley…

“W-Where’s who?” I managed.

“The one you hunt.”

“E-Enoch?” Every fiber in my soul screamed for me to get up, piss my pants, run. Well, I was one for three, and that’d have to do for now. “W-We lost him.”

“Where?”

“T-The dry river,” I tried to swallow but couldn’t, could barely talk, managed to point, “the river, where it bends. Back yonder.”

The Dragon’s head slithered in close, quick for something that big, too quick, holding perfectly still just out of reach. “What do you know of this Enoch?”

“W-What do I know?” I clamped my eyes shut. “Nothing. H-He murdered some high-hat back in … in Blackhollow. Rrrg… Jesus.” I clutched my side. “He’s a murderer. A hired killer. A man who—”

“A man, you say?” The Dragon’s head reared back, eyes blazing, coils of neck gliding smooth as snake. “If you think this Enoch to be a mere man, then you know nothing.”