Chapter 5: Welcomed

The gentle song of birds woke Tybalt from his sleep. He kept his eyes closed and trained his ears to the sounds of the forest. His soul bathed in the arias of nature. Wind rustled the trees. Peacefully, he opened his eyes, taking in the brightness of the late morning.

In this sliver of peace, he forgot about his wounds, his loss, and the wickedness of the world. From his perspective, there only existed the unmediated calmness of nature.

As with every aspect of life, the pleasures of the moment ended. His body reminded him of its limitations. He was a creature of flesh and blood, prone to injury and destined for death. Tybalt gritted his teeth as he shifted his body. He rummaged through the knapsack and grabbed the bottle of water and the hard-boiled egg. They would be sufficient for his breakfast.

Pulling himself from the ground, Tybalt looked for a sturdy branch to whittle into a cane. He found a good piece of wood not too far from where he slept. He took it, smoothed it down with his knife, nicking off green growths and hard burls. Happy with his work, he slid his knife into the side of the knapsack and emerged from the patch of woodland.

He oriented himself to the south and hobbled toward Carrion Hill. In his conversations with Aldous, he had learned a little more of the region. Officially, Carrion Hill had neutral status in the regional confrontations, but it had aligned itself with the interests of the New Federation of Borealia. While it accepted trade and visits from other townships and the local populace, other factions tended to avoid the hilled city. While occasional criminal activity happened within its borders, Carrion Hill had a stable government and militia force. Their hold on the region confined itself to checking on the local flax farms and collecting bundles of retted flax for processing within the city. Their system ensured a steady supply of work for the mid and late summer months. Wagons upon wagons of retted flax would enter the city for the dried plants to be scutched, brushed with hackle combs, and then spun. The industry made Carrion Hill the primary textile provider for the region.

Most of Borealia’s interest in aligning the city to their federation resided in the fact that it would cheapen the cost for freshly made clothing within their borders. As it stood, Carrion Hill maintained an uneasy alliance with the federation, allowing its products to move into the federation without taxation. In exchange for some of the federation’s protection and trade, the city mass-produced coarse linen military fatigues for their forces.

Tybalt saw the outskirts of the city. His hobbling had hurt him for the last two hours, but he could see his destination. The city’s hill rolled over the horizon, showing its bustling walls and towers. Yet, the sprawl of the city left much of it unprotected and unguarded. During the last raids from the Western Nomadic Tribes, the city brought its citizenry into its walls and waited for reinforcements from the federation. While a defensive strategy, the nomads plundered much of what they wanted and needed from the outskirts and retreated back into the Western Plains. Most of the time, the tribes avoided small-time raiding of the local farms and preferred larger-scale attacks against settlements, seeing the confrontation as a form of prestige and honor.

By this point in his journey, Tybalt had been bypassed by several animal-led wagons, motorcycles, and single-engine rickshaws. Nearing the sprawl of the shantytowns, more people populated the main road. From the dirt highway spread out various paths and well-trampled passages toward wooden shelters bolstered by scavenged materials. Several of the structures had incorporated the materials of old-world vehicles, such as their metal chassis and rubber tires.

Tybalt walked through his limp. The men and women who loitered outside their houses looked at him as he passed, trying to judge the level of threat this foreigner would pose to them.

“Where are you coming from?”

A little girl ran to his side. She and her brother were curious about the stranger.

Tybalt screwed his mouth shut. He had no desire to share his sorrows with children.

“Ah, he can’t speak,” the little girl said to her brother.

“I can speak,” said Tybalt.

“So where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere.”

“Everyone comes from somewhere.”

“True,” Tybalt said to himself. Where did he come from? Where did he call home? He and his brother Bassian moved so much throughout their short lives that they never really settled upon one place as home. They spent a few years of their adolescence in Rusthaven before moving north in search of better prospects, far away from their father. They wandered together, making sure never to desert the other brother. They were the purpose and meaning for the other’s life. Without Bassian, Tybalt felt lost. He no longer had the one constant in his life. It was him in a hostile world.

“So where’d you come from?”

“Rusthaven,” Tybalt said, reluctantly.

“What’s life like in the arid south?” the girl asked.

“Where’d you learn a word like ‘arid’?” Tybalt asked, trying to deflect the question.

“I know a lot of big words,” she said proudly. “My father is the neighborhood councilman. He teaches me everything he knows.”

“Then, can I ask you a question?” If Tybalt was going to be harassed by this little girl, he might as well make use of her knowledge. “How would I be able to enter Carrion Hill?”

“Enter it? What business do you have in there?”

Tybalt dwelt upon the question. He did not quite know himself. He needed to get himself into a safe place, a place out of reach of Mercury Transport, out of reach of the family he had just betrayed. Since surviving the attack, he locked his mind toward a major settlement for safety. For the entirety of his life, he and his brother were city-livers. It was the best place for mercenaries to get work, but given his poor state, he had neither money nor the level of health he needed to ply his trade.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Uh,” Tybalt hesitated, “that’s a secret.”

“Oh, I love secrets,” the little girl said. “I know a lot of secrets.”

“So, what’s the secret to entering Carrion Hill?”

“That’s not a secret, silly! You approach the gates with your citizenship pass.”

“I don’t have citizenship for Carrion Hill.”

“Oh, that’s a problem then,” the girl said. She scrunched her face in thought. She looked to the cute pudgy face of her little brother that dogged after her. “You can always enter if you are a merchant. Are you a merchant?”

“No,” Tybalt said. “Does it look like I have anything to trade?”

“I don’t know,” the girl said exasperated. She threw her hands above her head. “I’m only seven! People trade all sorts of things! You could be a trader of precious jewels and rare metals.”

“Do you think I look like the kind of guy to trade precious jewels?”

“I don’t know! They could be in your knapsack. You just look interesting. I wanted to hear stories from your journey. Do you have stories?”

“No,” Tybalt barked at her. He tired of her prodding.

“Everyone has a story, mister. You must have some sort of story.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Go away!” Tybalt shouted. He lifted his cane in the air as though he was going to strike the child, but caught himself. He placed the cane back on the ground. He leaned upon it and began to rub his eyes.

“You’re not very nice,” the girl said. “Come on, Charlie!” She took her brother’s little hand and walked elsewhere on the road.

Tybalt sighed and continued to walk down the main road. At this point, he felt his exhaustion catch up to him. He had passed a great variety of shanties and stalls. The main road had been flanked by makeshift stores and residences. Despite the wide berth of a few feet in order to allow the motorized vehicles to zoom into the city center, the buildings tried to get as close as they could to the road. The buildings were made from an assortment of materials: dried wood, salvaged metal, repurposed concrete, and adobe brick. Beyond the permanent structures, temporary ones littered the sides of the roads. Small campsites surrounded by tents or yurts struggled to fit between the road and the pre-existing structures.

Off to the side, in a small patch of unclaimed land, Tybalt noticed five motorcycles. The machines had circled around a campfire. One of the men stood with his back to the main road. Tybalt saw his back patch: CORVUS.

Tybalt hobbled to the group, remembering their lack of aid to him. If nothing else, he might try to avenge his wrongs on them. He would play nice and befriend them as best as he could. He would enter into the heart of their circle and then break these men apart. If they had helped him earlier, he could have reached this place sooner and without the pain in his legs.

“Hey,” Tybalt called out to one of the men around the fire. He had a metal skillet over the fire. “Do you mind if I sit by your fire?”

One of the men turned to meet Tybalt. His eyes were obscured by sunglasses, but the rest of his face was hidden behind his long brown hair and massive beard. This hair was pulled into a top knot. He cracked his neck to the right side and lumbered toward Tybalt, trying to intimidate the newcomer.

“Do you have your answer?”

Tybalt looked up into the man’s face and gave his best attempt at a friendly smile. “Not verbally.”

“No,” the man said immediately.

“Ah, shame. I was hoping to share some of the sausages and liquor I have here, but I will find another fire. Thank you for your consideration.”

Tybalt pivoted on his cane and took a limping step.

“Wait! Odvar, let him join.”

The hirsute man grunted and left Tybalt to make his way to the fire.

“Thank you, sir,” Tybalt said deferentially.

“Do not believe I bring you by our hearth out of our goodness,” the leader of the motorcycle gang said to him. “You spoke an offer and I hold you to it.” The man, whose dark blonde hair was slicked back with an undercut, welcomed Tybalt to a seat around the fire.

Tybalt lowered himself onto one of the rugs that had been set around the fire. It had several geometrical patterns woven into its design.

“Thank you, sir,” Tybalt said again. He needed to milk their good graces as long as he could.

“And your name?” the leader asked.

Tybalt considered the question. He struggled between providing a false name and telling the truth. A false name would allow him to escape and weasel out of their company with greater ease. On the other hand, they drove by him and he wanted his own revenge upon them -- an appetizer to his bloodlust against Mercury Transport. Let them know his real name, so as they choke upon their own blood, they would know the man they disregarded upon the road.

“Tybalt,” he admitted freely.

“Son of?” the leader asked, his eyebrow raising at the name.

“Son of None.”

“You are fatherless?”

“No,” Tybalt responded quickly. “Some men seek the approval of their fathers, but it is my father who must seek my approval.”

“I see,” said the leader of the motorcycle gang. “Tybalt, son of None, you intrigue me.” He clapped his mighty hands together with a giant smack. “Now, you had promised us meat and drink!”

The men behind him exclaimed with wolfish joy.

“Ah, yes,” Tybalt said as he unclipped the straps of his knapsack. He pulled out the links of sausages and one of his water bottles. He gave the sausage links to the man with the skillet.

“Paltry,” Odvar spat. “Erik, you have allowed a stranger into our circle for such a pittance.”

“Silence!” the leader responded brusquely. “Know your place, churl.”

Odvar grunted and walked away from the rugs.

“Gentlemen, come, let us partake in this stranger’s hospitality.”

The other two bikers took spots beside their leader, while the cook threw the six links onto the skillet. The men pulled out slightly cracked ceramic mugs, awaiting the brew that Tybalt promised.

“Son of None,” Erik said, “your drink looks like water.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Tybalt responded.

“First, drink your own, so that we may be certain.” Erik gave Tybalt his own mug. He took the plastic bottle from the newcomer, poured some into his mug, and gave it to Tybalt.

Tybalt nodded his head politely to the other men and gulped down the drink.

“This satisfies,” Erik said. He took the mugs of the other men and poured them fair portions. “Odvar, will you join this circle of friendship?”

The hairy man grunted in the distance and went into one of the tents set behind the motorcycles.

Erik shook his head.

“No matter,” he said. “Skal!”

“Skal!” the other men responded. They clinked their mugs together, Tybalt quickly joining in, and they all finished their portion of liquor.

“Familiar stuff, this,” Erik said, licking his lips. “A fine product of the region.”

The other men nodded in agreement.

“How much longer, Sten?” the large man sitting to Erik’s left asked.

“Wait, your bottomless sack. These six alone would not feed the hole of your stomach.”

The large man laughed to himself. He stretched his arms above his head.

“So, newcomer, what is your trade?”

Tybalt flashed an uncontrollable grin.

“Death,” he responded with the pride of a mercenary.

“Good trade, newcomer,” the large man said. “I work the same wheel.”

“It is true,” Erik said, “I have seen Njall break the skull of a man with a single fist.”

The giant of a man shrugged his shoulders in dismissal. “He was a weak man. Thin bones.”

“Done.” Sten, the cook, shifted the cooked sausages in the skillet. The fourth man around the fire, Arne, a young man with a well-chiseled face, pulled out flat wooden plates. The cook doled out the sausages onto the plates.

“Njall, you may have Odvar’s share,” Erik said, pointing with his knife.

The giant of a man smiled, taking his own knife from its sheath. He stabbed the middle of the link of meat and tore a fire-hot bite. He chomped with relish.

“Again, a familiar taste,” Erik said. “Where did you acquire such meat?”

“Mere trade upon the road,” Tybalt lied.

“Ah, as it often is. They remind me of my mother-in-law’s cooking.” Erik sliced a piece of the sausage and pulled the segment from the tip of his knife. “You are welcome into our circle.”

The other four men nodded.

“But do not expect much from us in return,” Erik said.

At that moment, Odvar emerged from his tent with a knife in hand.