Chapter 9: Rewarded

Tybalt awoke with a kick to his ribs.

“Get up, sleepy head,” said a voice.

Tybalt rolled over on his back and blinked into the early morning sun. He had slept well and had been in the middle of a dream when he was rudely awoken.

“What do you want?” Tybalt said. Half of his consciousness remained in a world of dreams.

“To congratulate you.” Erik’s face loomed over him.

Snapping back into the real world, Tybalt lifted himself to a seated position. He touched his aching head. While the liquor had been an insignificant amount, his stomach had been completely empty. Admittingly, he had no clue what he drank. It could have been pure ethanol.

Sten and Arne took Tybalt by his armpits and lifted him to his feet.

Erik held Odvar’s jacket in his hands. He checked the jacket for holes or other visible damage. He only noticed a small patch of blood on the black leather, which he tried getting rid of with a touch of salvia. The red stain faded a little under his finger.

“Did you let him know that Corvus decided.”

“I did,” Tybalt said. Despite his feeling off unbridled freedom during the previous night, he felt himself in chains again. He had performed one favour, and, when one favour is performed, another is expected. He had proven something of himself to these men and forged another link to their covenant.

“Good,” Erik said. His face remained neutral, although his voice chimed with subdued glee. “Sten, you mind removing some of these patches?”

Erik threw the leather jacket. Sten, the cook, caught it and wandered to a half-log that he had used as a chopping block. He threw a rag over it and sat. He flipped open his pocket knife and began to work on the small rectangular patches on the front of the jacket.

“While you do not merit a jacket, you have earned our trust,” Erik said. Njall, who stood beside him, gave a single great nod.

Tybalt kept quiet. He wanted to give his thanks, but, in reality, he did not care about matters of trust and forging a relationship with these men. He his desires did not converge with theirs. They only shared the same goal of entering Carrion Hill.

“Very well, then,” Erik said. “Breakfast will be ready after Sten finishes with the jacket.”

From the chopping block, Sten shook his head in disbelief. He had clearly been given a disproportionate amount of the morning duties.

While Sten cooked grated potato cakes and eggs, Tybalt sat around the campfire with the other men. He listened to them as they spoke about their night raid. Slowly, Tybalt pieced together the events of the night. The men had been tasked to meet with one of the vying parties within the city’s election. It seems as though the election had been far less secured as their favoured party would like. As such, some money exchanged hands to allow Corvus to enter. The only loose end had been Odvar, who dissented from the group’s opinion, and, while valid, he had breached their code of conduct. He acted dishonourably on multiple times, and, his last descent had been his last allowance.

“Why did I need to kill him?” Tybalt asked.

The men hushed their chatter. They had almost forgotten his presence.

“Corvus cannot killed Corvus,” Arne said. The young man touched the edge of his sharp jaw. He had remembered something private.

“And you are not Corvus,” Njall added unnecessarily.

“Yet,” said Erik as he sat back to the circle. He brought bottles of beer for his other members. Sten, having finished cooking, received the last bottle.

“Skal!” The men clinked their glasses with Tybalt.

Together, they drank and ate.

“What’s the plan?” asked Njall with food in his mouth. He had already inhaled two potato cakes and waited for others to finish before the remaining could be divided amongst themselves.

Erik sipped from his bottle and looked into the clear skies. Only a few clouds marred the perfect light blue of the morning. “We meet with Jurand.”

“And then?” Njall washed down his mouthful with a slug of beer.

“Then he gives us access to the outer ring. We have to figure out our way into the inner ring on our own.”

Sten doled out the rest of the food as men planned their day.

“Oh, and, Tybalt,” Erik added as he collected the glass bottles. “Odvar’s possessions are yours.”

Tybalt glanced at the pile of clothing and boots at the end of the campsite. In the morning, the men had taken apart the campsite as they would be leaving together soon. Everything that had been Odvar’s had been neatly piled and separated from the rest of the crew.

“And…” Erik pointed to Odvar’s motorcycle. “You know how to ride one, right?”

Tybalt smiled. He knew.

* * *

Corvus drove down the large inner roads that divided the outskirts of Carrion Hill into quarters. Their motorcycles had disturbed the otherwise quiet morning of these parts. They parked their vehicles in a small clearing outside of a large building.

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From Tybalt’s short time in these parts, this building had seemed to him the most majestic. The structure was a two-storey adobe brick building with clay ornamentation on its exterior. The bricks had been laid in perfect rows, rising above the other buildings around it. Two large pre-cataclysm light posts stood outside of its main door, although, since it was morning, their flames had been extinguished.

The men walked pass the exterior guards without being stopped. Erik led the group, followed by Njall, Arne, and Sten. Tybalt walked behind them. He changed from his blood-stained linen pants into a pair of jeans. The pants had been expertly stitched together from other garments, but they felt more comfortable than the loose-fitting linen. He also swapped his buckskin shoots for Odvar’s steel-toed work boots, although the boots had been very well-worn. The steel of their toes had been exposed through the damaged fabric. While Odvar’s boots had been a size larger than comfortable, Tybalt wrapped his feet with thick footwraps that made the pair feel ideal.

While Tybalt kept his grey linen pants tucked into the small knapsack that he had stolen, he had removed the bandages of his arm and used the linen waistband from the pants as a fresh set of bandages. The grey fabric spiralled up his left arm and into the grey linen shirt that he continued to wear. Otherwise, the only change to his appearance had been the gun holster that wrapped around his left leg for an easy draw.

Still, any passerby could see that Tybalt stood apart from the other men. He was the only one of this posse without a black leather jacket. He had no patches to mark him as a member of Corvus. As they ascended the stairs of the adobe brick building, one of the guards pushed Tybalt aside.

“He’s with us,” Erik reprimanded. He made sure the guard knew that Tybalt would be privy to the same information as the rest of the group. While still a prospective member, he had earned at least one day of information for his dead.

Erik reached the room he wanted. He knocked lightly upon the well-carved wooden door. The door opened. Erik had to look down to see who had opened it.

“Hello!” said a little seven-year-old girl. “Are you here to see my father?”

Erik said he had an appointment, after which the girl allowed him to enter with the others.

The girl recognized Tybalt.

“You again!” she exclaimed.

Tybalt forced himself not to grin from the corners of his mouth. He followed the men into a spacious room that had the nicest furniture that Tybalt had ever seen. Even though he had seen his fair share of wealth, it rarely accompanied as sense of taste. Most of the time, the money he had seen had been funneled into weapons and armour. There had been no desire to make a space pretty. Beauty has no place in a world as violent as this one.

“Radmila, please leave us.” The voice came from an aged but sturdy man. Although his hair had been speckled with white and grey, the man’s body testified to a greater youth than his years betrayed.

The little girl performed a short curtsey with her summer dress and left the room.

“You need to tell me what’s happening,” the girl whispered to Tybalt before she left.

“Gentlemen, welcome.” Jurand said. “Please, sit.”

Erik took the seat across from the old man. Njall stood behind his boss, while the two younger members of the crew sat to the side. Tybalt remained standing behind Sten, as there had been no other chair for him to rest.

“As agreed,” the old man passed a bunch of metal rectangles to Erik.

Erik took the bundle and passed it behind his shoulder for Njall to inspect. The large man undid the thin bind and examined each hunk of aluminum. The tickets into the city had been rectangular portions cut of aluminum cans and stamped with an official seal. These were marked with the passes for merchants.

“Do you have enough ware to enter the city?”

“We need more,” Erik said. “We move with minimal ware, most of which is our gear that’s not for sale.”

“I see,” the old man said. He leaned back into his chair and interlaced his fingers. “So, you did not fulfill your obligation.”

“My obligation is to get Zoltan elected. Your obligation is to get us into the city. This includes enough ware to pass through the gates.”

“This was not the agreement,” the old man said. Tybalt noticed a tinge of anger rise in his voice.

Erik scoffed. “Do not correct me when you know the truth and feed me lies.”

“What happened to your lieutenant?” the old man asked.

Erik narrowed his eyes. He did not want to take the bait.

“He had spoken so well yesterday,” the old man continued. “He offered lofty promises, but great assurances.”

“He is no longer with us,” Erik said coldly.

“A shame, no doubt. Although, he had said that the voice of one represented the voice of many. His word was as good as the -- what was the word? -- koningar.”

“Konungur,” Erik corrected. “This might have been true when men were noble.”

“A dark implication,” the old man said. He leaned closer to the table. “Noble men keep their word. You had given me your word.”

“You had given me yours, you bag of dust!” Erik could not help raise his voice in vitriol.

“Careful, young man. You might not leave here with your life.”

Erik scoffed again. “Look around you! Do you think I am the one in trouble?”

Jurand’s lips curved into a slight smile. “You believe yourself to be a king among. You are not more than a chieftain of a small settlement. Know your place.”

“You think you are better than?” Erik stood from his chair. His anger had become harder to contain.

“Not so,” the old man said. “I simply understand the game of politics better than you road warriors. I know my place within the hierarchy. You do not.”

Erik took a step closer to the old man, his body preparing to leapt over the desk if need be. Njall put his heavy hand on Erik’s shoulder. Erik shrugged free from the grip.

“Then, old man, speak frankly. Will you give us ware to enter.”

“No.”

“Fine!” Erik slapped the table. “We have our tickets and we will enter Carrion Hill. Unlike you, we will fulfill your commitment. We will enter the city and help Zoltan get elected. When we fulfill this task, do not think that I will not ask more from you. You owe us for these complications.”

The old man leaned back into his chair once more, staring across his table. He had governed long enough to know when danger was present. This man merely spoke loudly. If these men survived the following days and, indeed, get Zoltan elected, only then would these men be dangerous. As for now, they were pawns in his game.

“Good morning,” the old man said in polite dismissal.

Erik lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. Sten and Arne shot from their chairs and followed their leader from the room. Tybalt took one last look at the beautiful room and exited.

Erik walked quickly through the halls of the building.

“Out of my way!” he yelled at one of the guards, before descending down the stairs. He threw the front doors open with surprising force. He walked to their motorcycles and pulled out a gun from his rucksack.

“Tell me not to kill him,” Erik said to Njall. The giant stood in his path back into the building.

“Calm, my friend. Take a moment. We can decide upon a new plan.” The giant flashed a friendly smile beneath his beard. “These tickets are good. We just need a little cargo to get through inspection. Think of it as a disguise.”

Erik’s lip quivered in restrained anger. His blood coursed beneath his veins with speed of his rage. All he wanted to do was yell, or, better yet, to kill someone.

“Tell me not to kill him,” Erik repeated out loud.

“Don’t kill him,” Njall said, taking the handgun from Erik’s hand. Erik allowed his new lieutenant to disarm him. “That’s better. Take a drive and meet us at the spring.”

Erik nodded his head repeatedly. The action had been wholly unconscious. His emotions had seized him and needed egress. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”

He mounted his motorcycle and did a small circle out of its parking place. Then, with two revs of his throttle, he accelerated down the road at ever-increasing speeds. The explosive sounds of his muffler faded into in the distance.

“Who’s hungry?” Njall said into air.