018 – Rats

***

“Let the rat race begin,” the owner of the pub cried out.

The gamblers cheered. Four champions emerged from the back of the crowd. A pair of burly men carried four wire cages, each containing a live rat. The owner held them up in turns to introduce them to the crowd.

“Red. Blue. Black. White. Who will be the winner? Fate will decide. Place your bets.”

All four rats had brownish, grayish fur and pink tails. They were perfectly rat colored. Stripes of paint down their backs distinguished them. The animals skittered nervously in their cages while the gamblers carefully judged their potential quality as racers.

“Always bet on blue.”

“My money’s on black.”

“Red’s got spirit. He’s a born winner.”

“White’s a crafty one. You can see it in his eyes.”

People handed coins to the pub owner, and he recorded the bets using chalk on a flat piece of slate. Names and numbers went up on the board. The more analytical gamblers waited to see odds and which rat was favored to win.

I jostled my way through the crowd to the railing around the pit. The owner dumped the four rats into a small room at the end of the spiraling wall. I wondered if these were domestic rats, specially bred for racing, or just vermin he caught in his kitchen. They squeaked and crawled over each other as they sniffed their surrounding.

The race track spiraled inward to a circular room with a piece of cheese in the middle. That was the goal and the prize. They had only one path forward. The race track had a wire mesh on top to prevent the rats from jumping the walls and taking a short cut. Given time, a rat could chew through something like that, but not during a short race.

The bustling and betting died down. Everyone watched the race track intently. A layer of thick smoke formed on the ceiling as the men puffed away on their pipes. When the owner rang the bell, a tiny gate fell, giving the four rats access to the track. They sniffed around and cautiously stepped through. Clearly these rats were not thoroughbred racers. They barely moved forward. It would take them hours to find the cheese. The gamblers gripped the rails in suspense.

The owner rang the bell a second time, and another tiny gate fell, this one connected to a wooden box. A large centipede, about the size of grown man’s arm, slithered out of the box onto the race track. Now the rats began to run. The cheese was irrelevant; escaping the terrifying centipede motivated them. They zipped ahead at full speed. The crowd burst into hoots and cheers.

I didn’t know if the people here considered this centipede to be a wild animal, domestic animal, or monster; but the rats certainly thought it was a monster. It moved through the narrow track like a train through a subway tunnel. It snapped its mouth pincers. The many-legged creature moved faster than the rats, and it quickly caught up to the rearmost racer. Its pincers snapped shut on the rat with the blue stripe.

“Blue is down! It’s a three way race between black, white, and red. Betting is closed. All bets are final.”

Pausing to rip apart the unfortunate rat, the centipede gave the other three a moment to run ahead. They ran through the curving track, twisting around and around to the center. Black stopped to sniff the air, and to check if the horrific monster still pursued it.

“Run, you damn rat! Don’t stop.”

“He’s a goner for sure.”

“Ha ha. Ataboy black. Take one for the team.”

The centipede did not stop to consume its prey. It hunted to defend its territory from intruders, and more remained. After chopping blue apart, it continued forward through the spiral, trailing a thousand bloody footprints along the track.

Black jumped straight up into the mesh of wires when it saw the centipede come around the bend. Stopping had been unwise. It lost its head start. The centipede chased it one lap around the track before catching the rat by the neck and thrashing until its tiny head popped off.

“Black is no more. It’s a tied race between red and white. Flip of a coin. Roll of a die. Spin of the wheel. Anything could happen and it usually does.”

The white striped rat sprinted ahead without pause. The race track curved tighter and tighter inward. Soon it reached the center.

“We have a winner! White. White has crossed the finish line. But the game’s not finished yet, folks. Red still has a shot. Red can pull out a tie. Will he reach the sanctuary in time?”

Red was the slowest rat. It chugged along to the end as the death dealing centipede wound around the track behind. It was a nail biter. The gamblers who bet on red cheered the animal on. Those who bet on white booed, because they didn’t want to split their winnings. The rest of the men, already out of the running, watched impassively and sipped their liquor.

It looked as if red were going to make it. Only a few meters remained. Soon red would be in the central room where white sniffed the prize lump of cheese. The white-striped rat dug its teeth into the stuff and, in doing so, triggered a deadly trap. The door to the central room snapped shut just as red was about to enter. Running into a dead end, it had no place to escape the monster at its tail. The centipede fell on red and ripped the screeching rat to pieces. White had treacherously betrayed its kin, but saved itself.

“Unbelievable. White triggered the secret safety latch. White is the sole winner. He’s only the third rat racer to survive in rat race history. Double payouts for white! What a show.”

The crowd applauded. They had enjoyed watching the carnage, but they also enjoyed seeing the clever rat escape its deadly enemy. The gamblers dispersed from the pit containing the spiral track and went back to playing dice. I wondered why people would so delight in animals killing each other. It seemed everyone in this era had become bloodthirsty, not just witches and pirates. Either natural selection had favored more violent humans over the past twenty millennia, or their societies shaped them to be more cruel and ruthless.

***

After the main attraction, I waited for Malisent to return. Gambling didn’t appeal to me, and neither did watching small vertebrates get mutilated. I sat by myself drinking a beer and eating from a wheel of cheese. I wondered what would become of the white-striped rat. Would they let it go free, or would they make it repeat the performance tomorrow night?

A large group of men poured through the front door of the public house. They made a loud disturbance, bumping into other patrons, shoving people out of tables, and being a nuisance. Glancing over, I noticed that these fellows all grew outrageous sideburns. The pirates had landed.

“There he is!”

The pirates from the Fleuron pointed at me and drew out their hand axes. I had my trusty stick to defend myself with and nothing more. Malisent was gone. It was me versus a dozen men. The other patrons recognized the warning signs of a fight and funneled for the exit. A few of the more dedicated gamblers whispered among themselves, trying to figure out the odds of how quickly the crew of axemen would chop me to pieces and how many I might take down before that happened. They passed silver coins back and forth in the shadows.

Captain Slezeanor the Peerless Rake entered through the front door and removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish.

“Ah. Master Strythe. What a surprise to meet you here. I would have thought, after your flight across the gulf, you would continue to run on solid ground. But you have saved me so much trouble by waiting here in Blandwick.”

“Slezeanor! Who let you inside the city? This was supposed to be a no-pirate zone.” I backed away cautiously with my stick up.

“Pirate? Me? What are you saying? I’m no pirate. You have made a serious misjudgment. You see, I am a pirate-hunter. My job is to track down the sea wolves that ravage the coasts and prey upon honest traders.”

“Uh… But you still kill people and take their loot, right?”

“Yes, but I do so within the bounds of the law. That makes me a hero, not a villain. I collect rewards for recovered ships and bounties for severed heads. The men onboard the Double Daggers you witnessed me slay were a band of evil sea robbers who had murdered the ship’s original sailors. I’ve ended their days of terror and brought them to justice.”

“Ha ha. Oops. I guess this was all a big misunderstanding then.”

“I recovered the Double Daggers legally. You, however, stole an un-stolen stolen ship, which makes you a pirate. As such, I shall capture you for the bounty and hand you over to the local baron to be executed. That may recoup a portion of the reward money you cost me.” Slezeanor flipped his cape over one shoulder and sat down at one of the tables. He shook a pair of dice in his hand.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’m sure you can sort things out with the baron. I don’t even want that reward money. You can have it.”

“Men! Capture this thief. We’ll haul him to the gallows.”

The pirate-hunters blocked the doors. I had no choice to fight them. Armed only with a wooden stick, I had to fend off over a dozen axe-wielding killers. A pair of men rushed forward, eager to get in the first hits.

It turned out that Strythe’s skill with a blade did not entirely disappear from our shared brain. Just as I naturally remembered his language when others spoke to me, and could reproduce the words myself with no effort, I suddenly knew how to fight when others attacked. His many years of relentless training had made fighting as instinctive as breathing. This is not to say he was a great swordsman, or even especially talented, but he far surpassed me and outclassed the crewmen. These pirate-hunters killed professionally, but had no formal training. They chopped people as they would chop firewood. There attacks were clumsy, slow, and predictable.

I knocked aside the leading pair’s axes as they came at me. Splinters flew off my wooden stick. They would shave my stick down to a toothpick if I tried to block every attack directly. I’d have to parry with more finesse.

I smacked one man in the shin and then, when pulling my stick back, hooked it under the head of his axe to yank it from his grip. The axe flew across the room and lodged in one of the rafter beams. The second man came in for a mighty overhead chop. I blocked his arms before he could get any momentum and then slid the butt end of my stick down on the crown of his skull. He crumpled to the floor in a heap. Two down.

The others paused for a half a second. We looked at each other. I was as surprised as they were, perhaps more so.

The pirate-hunters worked best as a crew, overwhelming their opponents with numbers. They rushed at me all together. To repel them, I knocked over tables, pushed gamblers in their way, retreated around the racing pit, and hurled half a cheese wheel at one of them—anything to break up their formation and cause confusion.

I hopped up and recovered the hand axe from the rafters. Using it in my left hand, I parried attacks with the steel head.

“How long can you play this game, Master Strythe? Are you that dedicated to concealing your true powers from me?” Slezeanor watched the fight from near the entrance with his hands folded over his chest and legs crossed. He kicked his foot impatiently.

Strythe had more experience with a wooden practice sword than he did using the real thing. He had trained in countless sparring matches with other novices. Unlike a blade, a blunt stick worked better against shins, skulls, shoulders, and bones rather than fleshy parts. He knew how to hit to make it hurt. My attacks weren’t deadly, but my goal was to survive not kill people.

I battered the crewmen. Stiff blows to the forearms and wrists disarmed many of them. Jabs to the skull or jaw knocked them senseless. Hits to the solar plexuses left them gasping for air. When attacked from so many angles, I had to mix in a number of punches, kicks, and elbows to ward off the advancing group; focusing on just one opponent would leave me open for an axe in the back.

“Come now. If you don’t get serious, I really will turn you in for the reward,” the Captain said.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life!” I shouted back to him.

My lungs were burning and sweat poured down my sides. The fight quickly exhausted me. A man lunged at me; I grabbed his wrist and flipped him over the rails into the racing pit. Not even Strythe’s training had prepared him for quite this many opponents. I jumped on top of the bar. Two men in the back threw hatchets at me, and I batted them aside.

The attackers had suffered a serious setback. A few of them lay unconscious on the floor. Most of them limped or nursed other wounds. They turned my sword into a ragged piece of lumber, but had not landed any serious hits on me. We were deadlocked.

I eyed the door, hoping for a chance to escape. Then, at a snap of the captain’s fingers, the reserve forces rushed in through the pub’s entrance. Another dozen men came in, fresh for the fight. The crewmen regrouped when Slezeanor stood up and strolled forward.

“What is this game you’re playing? You refuse to use your magical techniques. In fact, you refuse to use a real sword. Why are you toying with my men? Do you want to prove you can best them with just muscle and skill?”

“This is no game. You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m really just a beginner.” I panted heavily as I spoke.

“Master Strythe. I’m a hunter by trade. Most of the men I capture are wretched mutineers or unemployed soldiers turned to banditry. Common pirates provide an income, but do not make for exciting prey. Magical swordsmen interest me far more: pirate captains, assassins, would-be warlords, heretical cultists… Capturing those villains earns me honor and a glorious reputation as the sharpest blade in the southern seas. So I stay forever alert for any spoor that could lead me to such quarry.

“So you might understand why the appearance of two swordsmen on a desolate coast would intrigue me. I don’t know what it is you’re hiding, but I can tell that you have some dark secrets. You conceal the true extent of your power.

“A beginner? Impossible. Your fire is too steady and strong. And no beginner could bear to sail so close to the presence of a titan. Few veteran swordsman could withstand his awesome presence. My guess is that you are the true master, and Malisent is your loyal student. You’ve switched roles to deceive me! Witches and heretical cults? Pure misdirection. You’re up to something devious, and I want to know what.”

This man was too scheming for his own good. Totally paranoid. He imagined things to be more tangled and sinister than they really were. His guess was way off. I was a beginner. Malisent was my teacher, sort of. The problem was that we did have secrets about the Void Cult, so everything we told him sounded like lies to his ears.

The captains sword flashed from its scabbard. I backed away.

“Fine. You got me. I give up. Take me to the baron’s men.” I dropped my weapons on the ground. My poor old stick had no chance against Slezeanor’s magic blade. The baron might listen to reason. I could explain to him we stole a ship due to the captain misrepresenting himself as a pirate, and it was all a big, dumb mistake.

The crewmen formed two wings to the left and right. They pulled out a set of iron manacles attached to a long chain.

“The locals offer a bounty for captured pirates,” Slezeanor said. He whipped his glowing blade horizontally through the air. “But they also pay for just the heads.”

Surrender might not be an option. I reached down to the bar’s counter top and picked up a wooden box. I hurled the awkward projectile across the pub. Slezeanor the Peerless Rake casually knocked it aside.

“Pick up your stick, Master Strythe. A swordsman should die with a weapon in his hand,” he said.

“I can’t pick it up. My weapon is crawling up your leg.”

The giant centipede escaped from the broken box and slithered for the nearest intruder. It wound itself around Slezeanor’s leg and snapped its pincers frighteningly close to his crotch. It was about to de-rake the captain.

Unable to use his super sharp sword without removing his own leg, Slezeanor had to grab hold of the little monster and pry it off. It wiggled and snapped and dug in its claws. Using a gross bug on a person was a tactic of last resort; I did so with a heavy heart.

The Rat Race’s centipede gave me a momentary distraction. I jumped off the bar and wove through the jumbled mess left over from my battle. The door was near. I just had to make it out of this awful place. Once outside, I could disappear into the shadows or scream for the police to save me.

Just as I reached the exit. The door flew inward, breaking off the hinges. The force sent me sprawling to the floor. In the open portal, stood a dark figure with green eyes.

“Slezeanor,” Malisent hissed. The witch had returned.

The Peerless Rake tossed aside the centipede with disgust.

“So. You’ve summoned your student to fight on your behalf. All this just to avoid dueling with me…”

Malisent radiated an incredible anger. All of her frustrations—not just with the pirate-hunter, but with the whole mission—had brought her to the breaking point. She wanted something to destroy. Without hairpins and clips, her hair returned to its wild state, swirling around her in a cloud. Her eyes glowed with a green light. Her inner fire raged hot as an inferno. She advanced across the pub.

The crewmen on the left flank charged towards her en masse. With a single glance, she stopped them in their tracks. A wave of panic passed over the men. They stiffened with fear, frozen in place like statues. The right flank then moved. Again, she turned her head and halted the attack with just a look. Every man who met her dread gaze went crazy with fear. Magical energy cascaded off her, and her fire burned hotter than I had ever witnessed before.

She stomped her foot and the ground, and in a second, the tension broke. The terrified men mindlessly fled from the witch. They ran out the door and threw themselves through the windows to get away. They would have busted down the walls if they had to. Dozens of forgotten hatchets littered the floor.

Malisent’s approach took the captain aback. He had thought her to be a generalist swordsman, one who used all methods equally and excelled at none. That was wrong. Malisent had a strong foundation in enhancements and augmentations simply because she was a powerful witch. But her true focus was projection. She could freeze men’s hearts with a glance. Her eyes glowed. The coils of her hair writhed around her like living things.

“Medusa!” the captain sputtered in shock.

The two swordsmen clashed for a second time. Slezeanor used an enhancement technique to speed up his attacks. His sword left graceful bands of light hanging in the air. This time, Malisent didn’t hold back. She fought aggressively and drove the captain across the room. Her burning eyes made his heart quaver with fear.

My eyes had difficulty tracking their rapid movements. The two sword-masters condensed an hour long battle into a few seconds. Both of them quickly burned through their reserves of mana. Slezeanor’s impossibly sharp blade cut everything in the pub to kindling. The only way I could tell what happened was by watching the streaks of light the glowing blade left as a record of the fight, like an ink quill across a parchment.

Malisent drew first blood. Her jagged sword scraped along the captain’s left forearm. A minor cut, almost a scratch. He recoiled in pain and grasped his arm.

“A cursed blade technique!”

His arm went stiff, paralyzed by toxic magic. Malisent’s technique mimicked Orma’s poison. It caused the muscles to go rigid and it disturbed the victim’s flow of mana. For a swordsman who relied on enhancements and projection, this type of poison was doubly deadly. It disrupted the captain’s techniques. He could not maintain his accelerated speed or project energy into his sword.

“Mage Killing Venom: Stone Imprisonment,” Malisent growled.

She struck the captain’s dimmed blade from his hand. Her baleful snake eyes froze him in place.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“Dame Malisent the Transfixing Eye of Gargléon.”

She shoved her blade point first into Slezeanor’s torso. He fell backward with a groan. The captain collapsed onto the bar with the jagged sword still sticking out of him.

Shouts and noise came from outside the Rat Race. The escaping pirate hunters had created a stir. Now the baron’s knights rushed to the seedy public house to put down whatever riot had broken out and arrest everyone involved.

Malisent picked up Slezeanor’s discarded sword and walked for the door.

“Let’s go, disciple. We have a long ride ahead of us.”