Red Creek

Blessed is the man who saves his wealth, but may he be cursed if such frugality brings harm to others—the Book of Greed, The Sacral Compendium.

Darkness had blanketed the city for hours by the time Maro returned to Tepress. If he had to guess, it neared midnight. The streets were deserted, and while the sounds of a rancorous group needled the air from a nearby tavern, it only came from a handful of voices.

Probably soldiers.

Bastard was breathing hard, having galloped the last stretch of road, and the sharp tang of his lather hit Maro’s nostrils. He leaned forward and patted the steed’s neck.

“Damn fine horse. That’s a good boy.

Bastard’s ears twitched at the sound of Maro’s voice, and he blew out a breath. Maro glanced around him, getting his bearings in the night. Deciding to ensure Maribel’s safety, he hadn’t a clue where to go. Where would he begin? How would he track down Avardi? He had no contacts in the city, no friendly face to disturb in the dead of night. He’d likely take a musket in the gut if he did.

“Think, damn it,” he grumbled. The horse’s ears twitched. “Where would you go?” he asked. The steed shuffled in place, but he shifted and now, more or less, faced the bounty hunter’s guild. Maro glanced at the building, and either candles or lanterns burned within. Someone was up.

Have to be, if a hunter returned late at night.

“Damn good horse.” With affection, he patted his neck again. “You’re a damn fine friend.”

Maro nudged Bastard toward the business and dismounted when he drew next to the hitching post. With the stallion tied, he hurried up the steps, his boots echoing off the wood in a hurried clack, clack, clack.

Whomever he found within would be leery of giving him any information. There were tactics he could use, interrogation methods he picked up in the army, but he’d do so without all the pain and violence. When dealing with unknowns, or in this case, a complete stranger, it was always best to relate to the individual. Since Maro didn’t give a shit about the person inside, he’d use a different approach, finding a topic both could discuss and find common ground with. Once established, he could guide the conversation to what he really wanted to discuss.

There was a slight chance the direct route would work, so he planned to come right out and ask. If it didn’t, he’d utilize the roundabout method.

His hand gripped the cold brass knob, and to his surprise, found it unlocked. A short twist later, the door swung open, and the bells chimed overhead.

A few moments after he closed the hatch, a sleepy Horace entered with a pistol in his fist. At first, his bushy brows frowned in confusion, then a scowl crawled over his visage.

“If you’re here to rob the place, you’ll only end up dead for your trouble.”

Maro shook his head, held up his hands to show his unarmed state, and padded to the counter.

Damn the Autarch. If I rode all this way to be shot for my troubles, the Almighty’s got a twisted sense of humor.

“Not here to rob. I need information.”

“Try the town hall tomorrow. They open an hour before breakfast. The guild’s for members only.”

“How do I join?”

Horace eyed him with suspicion. “What makes ya think you can be a hunter?”

Are you fucking kidding me?

But the question was valid. Horace didn’t know him from the next poor sod who stumbled in here.

“I’ve got five years in the army with the basilisk dragoons. We’ve been fighting the uprising on the Eastern front of Redinar wild lands.”

Horace’s brows quirked up. “Ya survived that hell for five years? Ever been shot?”

Gods, if you only knew.

Maro nodded. “Three times, and one particularly unpleasant. Got broken bones, too.”

Horace nodded, setting the musket-pistol on the countertop. “You’ve got the constitution, but there’s more to bounty hunting than shooting people.”

Well, that’s a damn shame.

Maro bobbed his head side to side. “Not to be an ass like Peredur, but I ain’t got time for a run down. If I got to join for information, I will.”

Horace’s brows prickled upward, and his face flashed between indignation and admiration. He settled on somewhere in between. “There’s a fee for joining, two hundred and fifty crowns.”

Maro’s eyes widened. “I ain’t got that kind of money on me!”

Horace looked him over. “No doubt.”

Ouch.

Horace sighed. “Alright, we can take half of your bounties until the fee’s paid, then ya can be a full-fledged member with all the accompanying discounts.”

“Fine.”

“Got a weapon?”

Maro tapped the massive knife on his left hip.

Horace gave a single chuckle. “You’re gonna die, son.”

Maro shrugged. He might. If he did, at least he’d be dying doing one thing right. It didn’t give him any warm, fuzzy feeling most spoke about when doing something equitable. Perhaps it was a lie people circulated to feel special. He’d given the coin away to those in need, and he only felt the pains when he needed to make purchases later. He’d shared food with those who had less, and all he got for his trouble was a grumbling stomach, and much sooner than expected.

Horace scratched his chin. “Alright, we’ll take your information for the processing and get ya a membership chit. Now, what do ya need?”

“Avardi, who is he, and where is he?”

Worry and caution and a touch of something else coated Horace’s features. “What ya want with the banker?”

“Hmm.”

Figures a well-dressed and overweight fellow worked at the bank. The damn gilded class has it all.

The common name of the rich was the gilded class, which sat at the top of the five-tiered structure of society. The merchants followed, more commonly known as the hawkers. The general population came next, touted as plebeian. The two lower rungs comprised the servant class, what the rich called the rabble, and the slaves, serfs. Slavery clung to life at the far extremes of civilization, well away from the major cities, where the gilded could pretend it didn’t exist, to protect their sensibilities, of course.

“He brought a girl to me earlier in the day,” Maro explained. “Wanted me to escort her to Red Creek.”

“Red Creek? The Curse take that man! I told Avardi that’s out beyond the wilderness and along the frontier.” Horace groaned. “He tried to get the guild involved, but he didn’t want to pay the hundred and fifty crowns.”

“Hundred and fifty?” Maro exclaimed. “The bastard only offered me twenty-five!”

Horace chuckled. “Smart man for not taking it.”

“I was tempted. Where is he?”

Suspicion entered Horace’s eyes again, and something warred within the man. “What are ya going to do to him?”

Maro shook his head. “Nothing. Just ask questions.”

“Why?”

“To find out what happened to the girl. If she’s here, I’ll take her.”

“Not as a member, ya won’t, not unless he pays the full price.”

“Fine, I can freelance.”

“And if she’s gone?”

“Find out how he sent her. Peredur spoke of a gang earlier. Didn’t think much of it. What’s that about?”

Horace nodded, thoughtful. “The Lanton gang. Vicious bastards, the whole lot. They always seem to know when possies are after them, or when bounty hunters start sniffin’ around.”

Maro grunted in response.

“The terms rape, pillage, and plunder do disservice to their antics. They burn crops of farmers who don’t pay, steal livestock, kidnap little girls for reasons the gods only know. Rumor is the ones they don’t keep, they sell to traders in the wilderness. Course, they’re really slavers. Some gals are released, scarred for life in more ways than one.”

“How many of these bastards?”

Horace cocked his head from side to side. “Hard to say. Anywhere from eight to fifteen. They keep the group small, more spoils for their members. I know they kill their own if they’re too weak, or they let hopeful recruits fight to the death to join.”

“No lawman in these parts?”

“What’s one man and a deputy going to do against a whole cabal? Besides, he ain’t even here right now. Rode out to Grand Gorge for a trial.”

“What’s Grand Gorge? A big divot in the ground?”

Horace chuckled. “No, it’s the biggest city for at least four hundred leagues.”

“The army doesn’t do anything about the Lantons?”

Horace shook his head. “The only thing they do is deplete our stores, but they pay … so far.”

“Hmm. For now. I take it the guild won’t do anything?”

Horace sighed. “I’d love to, so would Drallus, the guild master, but we can’t be doing pro bono work. Once we do, the folk around here will expect it for the next little problem that disturbs them. And the next, and the next.”

“Do a town collection.”

Horace nodded, then gave a shrug. “We tried. Raised a nice tidy sum of a thousand crowns. Problem was, none of the hunters wanted to take on the job.”

“Cowards?”

This got a single chuckle from the guild worker. “More like smart. They were outclassed and outgunned. Even with ten of them going after the bunch, some wouldn’t make it back, and as long as some members of the Lantons survived, they’d recruit and come for retribution.”

Maro couldn’t deny the valid points, but that was the problem with engaging the enemy. You had to wipe them all off the map, down to the last man. Like pulling weeds from a garden, you excised them from the root, otherwise you’d have to do it again in a few more months.

“The banker?” the ex-soldier prompted. Dwelling on the gang wouldn’t help him now, not with valuable time wasting away.

“Ya ain’t gonna kill him?”

Maro shook his head.

Horace sighed. “Alright. He lives above the bank with his wife. The whole damn second floor. Stairs are on the west side of the building.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ve got to make your bounty hunter chit, so I’ll need your full name.”

“Maro Prakk.”

Horace grabbed a piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the ink well. “What’s the spelling?”

He spelled it out and gave his information to start the membership process, but his chit wouldn’t be ready for a week. He could worry about it later, if he survived. He hadn’t fooled himself. He knew he might not make it back.

At least one decent thing…

For now, Maribel needed him, and time was of the essence.

Maro turned for the door.

“Nothing foolish, right? No funny business?”

Maro paused. “Depends on how you mean.”

“Nothing that’d come back on us?”

“Not unless you’re talking about the gang, and that’s only if I need to.” Maro glanced at him. “If you’re referring to the banker, nah, I won’t do anything in your name. Just a concerned citizen.”

Maro didn’t wait for a response. He hurried through the door, untethered his horse, and walked down the main thoroughfare. At night, it’d be quieter to walk, and he didn’t want suspicious folk peeking through their windows and wondering why a man rode like the Cursed were chasing him.

His heart sank when he remembered the Cursed.

Gods’s Wrath! I didn’t even think of them, too fixated on the gang. And monsters lurk in the wilderness, too.

But he couldn’t dwell on basilisks, hags, or any other dire creatures lurking in the deep. He had to stay focused on Maribel and the Lantons, if they were both going to be a problem. Once he spirited her away, and the bandits fell far behind—whether they crossed paths or not—then he could worry about monsters and the Cursed.

Damn, it’s colder than I remember.

Bastard’s breath plumed before him, and after a moment of pause, Maro could see his own. Not as pronounced as his steed’s, but he hadn’t been running, either.

If I weighed more than a bundle of sticks, old Bastard here would be too tuckered out.

The ex-soldier kept his eyes roaming over the buildings until he spotted the pale blue construction with a black and white sign that read “Bank.” He could’ve seen it without the sign, being the nicest building by far, unless you counted the Houses of the gods.

I guess in a town this small you don’t have competition or the need to name the damn place.

He tethered Bastard to the post at the bottom of the stairs and patted the stallion on the neck. “I’ll be a moment. You behave while I’m gone. No horsing around.”

Bastard blew a breath out of his nose and mouth, his lips quivering.

“Yeah, bad joke, but lucky for you, I don’t got many.” Maro glanced about, checking for people who might be walking in their direction or watching. “If you see anyone coming this way, heehaw like a jackass.”

If the horse could snort, he did so now, his ears twisting backward.

Maro went up the stairs as quietly as he could—no easy feat with boots on wood. No need to alert anyone to his presence yet.

Fast is smooth, and smooth is slow.

He reached the top, took off his hat, and put an ear to the door. The wood was cold against his flesh, and his head, now free from the confines of felt and leather, felt chilly and naked. Sounds came from within, gentle voices through the wooden hatch. He replaced the hat on his head, noting the soaked lining on the inside and the iciness, then knocked three times with the meaty portion of his fist.

“Who’s there?” Avardi called.

He sounds damn scared. He should be.

“The man you asked to escort the girl. Open up.”

“No, no, thank you. She’s gone.”

“Who took her?”

A pregnant pause. “Please, go away. Come see me in the morning.”

Maro blew out a deep breath and muttered to himself. “I ain’t got time for this shit.” He glanced down at the road, making sure he wasn’t overseen, leaned back, and kicked the door in. He stormed through almost at a run. From his time in the army, he learned that running in and screaming disoriented the victims. In this case, shouts would alert everyone, so speed would suffice.

The banker stood halfway between the door and the small, round kitchen table. Grabbing the overweight man by the face with one hand, squishing his cheeks, making his lips bunch up, he drove him backward until Avardi hit the table. He toppled over, his back slamming on the tabletop. Some white dishes clattered to the floor, the others were wedged between the wooden surface and the man’s bulk.

Avardi’s wife gasped, her hand going to her mouth. As everyone settled, she turned for a knife on the black stove. Maro drew his own blade at his hip, and when she faced him, she dropped her steel as her eyes fell on his massive hunting knife.

“Smart woman,” he said. Maro’s gaze swept the area to search for anyone else. He noted the piss-yellow walls, the frilly lace covering the windows, and the stained cabinets with more dishes. Unless someone sat on a privy pot in the only other room, they were alone. Still pointing the blade at her, he turned his attention to Avardi. “The girl!”

Avardi’s bunched lips moved a few times, then he struggled to speak. “She’s gone, I tell you. I sent her out this morning.”

“With who?”

“The caravan.”

“What caravan?”

“The monthly caravan from Mills Depot. They supply the forts once a month along the frontier.”

“How big is it?”

“Twelve wagons.”

Maro grunted. That’d be a fat prize, too tempting for the outlaws to pass up, and Maribel would be another token taken on the raid. Maro’s guts twisted.

“They ever been robbed before?”

Avardi frowned, and he only answered when Maro tightened his grip on his face. “Yes, gods yes, it happens every once in a while, but they’re insured and well paid.”

“Is the girl insured?” he asked. Now that he thought about it, the question didn’t make sense, but he was too focused on tripping up the banker.

“What?”

He lowered his knife to the man’s face, the edge resting against his bulbous nose. “The girl. What would happen to her if they were robbed?”

“I don’t know,” Avardi squeaked from his bunched lips. He was sweating now, by the buckets from the looks of it, and his oily face became slick in Maro’s grasp.

Maro leaned in close. “She’d end up dead or kidnapped, you bloody fool!” Disgust roiled through him. He had to think, but when emotions ran screaming out the door, logic followed by taking the plunge out the second-floor window.

“Any soldiers in the caravan?”

“No, a few men with muskets. Usually that’s enough of a deterrent. We didn’t want to make a show of too much force; that implies you have something special to protect and invites robbery.”

He eased off the banker, holding the knife down by his side. “When did they leave?”

“About an hour after I spoke with you.”

Maro did the calculations in his head. He traveled about four hours away before turning back. Eight hours minimum. He might be able to find them in the morning, if he rode Bastard all night, but it’d be slow going with unsure footing. If the caravan set out at first light, it’d be midday before he caught them. He ran on little sleep, and Bastard was getting up there in years. They couldn’t go on forever.

“She’ll be fine,” Avardi assured. “They’ve got at least six muskets on the caravan.”

“And the Lanton gang’s got eight to fifteen members. Did you think about that?”

“They’re back?” Avardi asked, his voice quivering with fear. “I thought they were closer to Grand Gorge.”

Maro let out a deep breath through the nose. By the gods, he wanted to smack the man upside the head, beat him within an inch of his dying gasps for his stupidity, but he had to practice civility. Couldn’t be too decorous dangling from the end of a rope or holed up in a jail cell until he rotted.

It’d serve me right though, not for beating the banker, but for following orders that were wrong.

“The next time you’ve got to send someone away, you pay the full fee instead of pawning her off on the caravan, or some drifter like me for twenty-five crowns.”

“What are you talking about?” the wife asked, speaking for the first time. “Avardi, is this true?”

Maro eyed her, but she fixed on her husband. “Rest easy, Bathilda,” Avardi said. “The men were compensated for taking her.”

“How much?”

Avardi’s lips worked as he deliberated. Maro grabbed his face again, and the banker squeaked. “Sixty crowns, alright? Five for each man.”

Maro ground his teeth. “There’s twelve people on the caravan and six muskets? You’re even stupider than I thought.” He released the banker with a shove and turned for the door.

“What are you going to do?” Avardi called after him.

“Hopefully, escort a little girl home. Otherwise, I’ll have to save her.” When he got to the broken hatch, he turned back. “If I find out she’s dead, I’ll come back and gut you in front of your wife for being one cheap bastard. Pray she’s still safe.”

“You’re a horrible man!” the wife shouted.

“Hmm. Never claimed otherwise.”

One more assurance I can never be a decent fellow.

He hurried down the stairs, the night noticeably cooler than when he went in.

Or maybe it’s my imagination.

When he reached the bottom, Bastard gave him reproachful eyes, or Maro’s own guilty conscience burned bright.

“Don’t give me that look,” he said as he untied the mount. “He had it coming.”

The horse blew out a breath.

“He can replace the door. Wasn’t much of one, anyway.”

Maro climbed in the saddle, and the stallion whinnied.

“Well, I didn’t hurt his wife. That’s got to work in my favor.”

Bastard shook his head as Maro adjusted himself.

“And I didn’t slap him around. Not even a little.”

The steed bobbed his head, and Maro wheeled to face the road leading to Red Creek.

“The worst thing is that he might need a clean set of britches. I don’t have time for your nagging. We’ve got to ride hard. You ready?”

The horse swished his tail a few times.

“That’s a good boy.”

Maro dug his heels into Bastard’s flanks, and they took off down the road.