Chapter 8

Day Zero – Evening

The Stars of the Stag shone brightly upon the City of Teblen and the great General Airich had been dead for two moon cycles. His regiments had been dissolved, and their remnants and successors scattered throughout the Kingdom of Albion. A dozen days ago, Asher and Zaber had arrived in the capital of the Margraviate of Tunow-Aine. Their friends had kept to the woods and fields, outside the city, and Zaber’s ward had been left behind in their new home.

The pair of former mercenaries had walked through Red Cat Alley and stood in front of a well-lit house, many stories high. The ground-floor is all stone with half-timber on top of it. Its decorations were the most tasteful of the entire street, which did not say much. Of all the buildings in Westwatch, none could compete with The Red Carpet brothel.

“I promise you,” said Asher and adjusted his new leather gloves. “This is our, your, kind of job. It’s just what you need; I know you.” He donned a new sword and dagger in the style of the local patricians. Straight, very pointy, but still sturdy. His payout from years of soldiering was invested in better garments as well. Like the bright blue and slim leathered gambeson he wore. A perfect fit. His dark hair was tied back and his goatee freshly barbered. He looked as neat as they get, if it weren’t for the double scar running along his cheek.

“I don’t need the coin,” said Zaber and scratched the scar along his jaw. He looked the exact same way as when they had come. The same as on campaign. He never looked much different, if Asher had to be honest. He did not shave and the short sleeved gambeson, with the high collar, had seen better days. “And neither do you. You can just ask me.”

“We are our own men now, Zaber. You and I, we gonna make it.” Asher smiled in gloom and pressed his knuckles against his friend’s chest. “Today, everyone will learn our names.”

“In a whorehouse?” The greasy and unkempt man smiled back. He had avoided looking at any of the professionals that occupied the street. And still did so.

“In. A. Whorehouse,” repeated Asher and inspected the building in anticipation. “Let’s go, we’re already late because of the shitbrat.”

“He’ll learn,” said Zaber and rolled up the sleeves of the rugged shirt under his gambeson. “After you.”

The moment Asher touched the knob of the massive wooden door, ornamented with colored glass, a drunkard came out; he nearly toppled over and the stench of sweat and alcohol erupted into their faces. Its main source was not the man. They stepped aside before stepping in.

Men of all paths sat all around the parlor-room, playing dice and cards and drinking schnapps and beer and wine. Women of all ages and sizes served and kept them company. They wore clothes that stood out more for what they lacked than for what they had. A small stage, opposite to the long bar counter, had two of the wenches play a vielle and a shawm. The well-known song they played, of Lady Luck and her Favors, was performed wonderfully. But it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the ubiquitous sound of sex in this joyous place.

Nobody noticed of the pair except for one waitress with half her goods hanging out. Zaber intuitively looked up, as if she had a second face above her head, while Asher put on his most charming smile.

“Darlin’, know what ya lookin’ for, or do ya need to sit down and get some liquid inspiration first?” She carried a tray with empty glasses and mugs on it. Some still had a sip or more in it.

“Blessed be you, dear miss.” Asher winked at the woman and looked around the parlor that was more like a small, run-down ballroom. “We have an appointment with the Madam. Could you be a darling and point us at her?”

When the waitress opened her mouth, Zaber picked a half-empty mug from her and chugged it down. A surprised laughter interfered with her initial reply. “Are ya sure ya friend doesn’t want a fresh one? If he’s only into flats, he ain’t going to like the Madam.”

Asher copied her laughter and swatted his hand over Zaber. It was painful how uncomfortable his friend looked. “I assure you, he is doing ‘aight. Are you?” He looked at his friend.

“’aight,” said Zaber with a curt nod.

“You’s a funny bunch,” giggled the waitress and walked a couple of steps to the counter. She put down the tray and pointed at the broad stairway, at the end of the bar. It led up to a balustrade with plenty rooms. “Up and to the right. The one with the daisy.”

Both veterans nodded gratefully and headed up. The smoother one strolled up without a care, but his tense companion let his gaze wander for the first time. From an elevated position, counting the lowlifes, windows and doors to backrooms and behind the stage and counter.

“No hired muscle,” reported Zaber more to himself than to his friend. “Couple patricians, two armed men.” One was hard to spot, with a wench sitting on his lap, obscuring the crude blade he had hung at the backrest. Another man’s longsword, sheathed in leather, leaned against a wall next to him. There was a cupboard next to the entrance. Most drinking halls have their guests leave steel behind. But there was nobody to enforce such a thing.

There were many doors left and right the hallways, up on the balustrade. Signs with different flowers, for the illiterate, guided customers to their desires. Another stairway at the end. The one they were looking for was unmistakable, as it was the only one with a double leaf door. Someone else was already waiting in front of it, hugging a quarterstaff engraved with foreign letters. Thick black hair and the brightest dark a pair of eyes could be. Wide pantaloons gave him plenty room to move and a simple green tunic was held together with a red cloth belt. A patterned piece of cloth peeked out of it, which Zaber and Asher recognized. It was a turban.

“Greetings, stranger,” Asher examined the man head to toe. “Here for a quick coin?”

“So are you?” The man checked on the pair’s weaponry – and their scars. He himself had small markings in his face. Not the kind earned in combat.

“Did you knock?” Zaber stepped up, but he was held back before his knuckles reached the wood. His eyes wandered upwards the stranger’s arm until he stared him into the face.

“What? Don’t like to be touched by a dirty murker? The Madam’s busy. She’ll let us in when she’s ready… is what she said.”

Asher leaned back and watched his friend stare down the Yesilian. There was no reason to doubt his words, so waiting was in line.

“Don’t like to be touched. Full stop,” said Zaber after a while and pulled his hand back. “We all?”

Another voice joined in on the conversation. “One more,” said a man in a well tailored gambeson. Jack chains were fastened to his arms and shoulders and a good pair of boots made the floor creak. He was on the older side, with a well groomed beard and black hair that was overtaken by gray. A scar ran through his nose and an uptwirling mustache grew under it. He wore a good arming sword and rondel dagger at the side.

Out of nowhere, the door opened. “Ruwer?” A strawberry-blonde woman in fair clothing, barely scratching thirty, stepped outside. She caught both Zaber and the Yesilian off guard, who were still eyeing each other. None of them were startled, but their heads still snapped to the side. “By the Stars, more came.” In a place like this, the madam had all the traits of a formidable price. No visible markings and fabrics that reflected on a high status. Higher than the woman that led a young patrician upstairs. And deep green eyes that were intrigued by the four men. “Please, come in and take a seat. Waiting any longer will only depress me further.”

Her movements were not inviting, but her words were clear. She paced back in and let herself fall into a cushioned armchair, poofing up her fancy dress as she landed. One by one, her misshapen entourage entered the room. The older man she called Ruwer found himself a chest to sit on. He displayed much confidence, spreading his legs. Zaber and the foreigner positioned themselves out of the way on the sides since both preferred to stand. With too much to see, the greasy and unkempt man avoided the Madam’s gaze. His companion, Asher, on the other hand, outdid the confidence of Ruwer. He strolled right through the room and seated himself on the pompous canopy bed. It matched the energy of the room; raunchy yet exquisite.

“You are that Asher fellow?” The Madam’s eyes followed him with a raised brow. “You promised to bring three men.”

“And I was told there might be a dozen to follow your call,” said Asher, with a smug grin. His hands felt out the materials around him, deprived of comfort. “My other acquaintances had to decline my request for personal reasons. Be assured, Madam, I brought all the men you’ll need.”

“Formal and sassy,” Marghe rolled her eyes and fixed her posture, pressing out her back to make the front shine. “I’ll let that slide, if you turn out to be more than all-talk.” She looked through the room and bestowed a pleasant smile upon everyone. “I am Marghe, the Madam of this here – my – establishment. And I want to thank you, deeply, for following my call.” She kicked herself up from the chair, fixed her draped hair, and tamed loose strands. “I will not dance around my troubles. Before my dear mother was stricken down by disease – be she among the Stars…” She folded her hands ever so faintly and looked at the ceiling. “… protection of this here – my – establishment, was put into the caring hands of the Red Mob. What appeared to be a wise choice at the time, has turned foolish. An escalating dispute between them and the Morell Brothers has reached a point where my patience with our former partners is depleted,” spoke Marghe and paced up and down the room. She was not talking to any of the four men directly and her words more so filled the entire chamber. A chamber with a particular smell. Something primal, drenched in perfumes. “I cannot afford to spend good coin on men who aren’t good and can’t keep their promises. But even less so do I want the Morell brutes to take over their responsibilities.”

“That was a lot of words,” said Ruwer and leaned forward on the chest. His gaze stung, and his voice was inquisitive. “What are the specifications?”

“I need a new provider of long-term security for me and my girls,” said Marghe. She walked up to Ruwer, making herself look tall and imposing in front of him. “And I would appreciate if you would do me the honors.” Her body language was demanding, yet her voice was pleading. “But I also need some capable hands to fend off the inevitable visit. I have expected more, and–”

“What’s the heathen doing here?” Ruwer pointed at the man with the quarterstaff. “I’m not working with curveblades.”

“Please,” implores Marghe. “This is Ceyhan and he is here for reasons. It is a complicated matter, but their close vicinity to my establishment brings its own vantages.” She moved in the middle of the room, between everyone. Asher and Zaber noticed the lack of malice in her eyes when she looked at the foreigner. “I have spoken to their leaders. If you work here, they make for a perfect cavalry.”

“There is no collaborating with animals,” Ruwer stood up and smoothed out his garments. “Your house has a good reputation, all over Teblen. I came here because your mother, Orla, was an honorable whore and I am in need for a more suitable occupation at my old age.” His boots weighed heavy, again, as he walked out. “But this; I can’t tolerate. I will not report this to my higher-ups in the guild. Send for me when you got your damned mind in order, Marghe.”

The man had barked his last word and Marghe tried to hold him back. Her steps were quick, and when her hands landed on his shoulders, he turned around. Ruwer reached for her hand, but held something different instead. Asher had moved when Marghe moved, and outpaced her.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” said Asher. His steps were quite the opposite of heavy and so he intercepted Ruwer’s in kind. The smooth veteran and the old guildsword held each other’s hands.

“Oh, and why is that so?” Ruwer moved Marghe to the side with his other arm and presented his weapons to the room. A posture that exuded experience.

“’cause I will kill you, if you do,” said Zaber. He walked right behind his friend, sidelining the Madam as well.

A long silence ran through the room. The exact reason why this establishment needed security was occurring and Marghe had enough of it. She threw her arms up bumping into all three knuckleheads. Her gaze hit Ceyhan, who looked just as out of depth. Again, she let herself fall into the cozy big chair and her dress poofed up. “Fine. Kill each other. Right now. End my misery”, she said. “What does a girl have to do, to do her whoring in peace?!”

“Have it your way.” Ruwer spoke slow and threateningly, still staring at Asher and Zaber. “Do your damned business in peace; I’m out. I’ll leave you with these nobodies and the savage.” He turned, ungrabbed, and walked away without hurry. He shook his head in disbelief, out of the room.

“Fine. Perfect. Excellent,” lamented Marghe. She didn’t try to stop Ruwer this time, but her eyes and groans yearned for him to stay.

Where Zaber lingered on Ruwer, until the door closed, Asher had turned around. With raised, bopping hands, to calm the Madam down, he sauntered through the room. “No need to lose it. The three of us are all you need to fend off your visitors. Go on and tell us the time and place–”

“Today. Any moment.” Marghe looked frustrated. “You have no damned idea. Ruwer is among the most profitable and well-known of the Sellsword Guild. Years on campaign and the most sought after judicial champion in Teblen.” Marghe leaned forward and placed her elbows on her spread knees, shaking her head into her hands. “His name alone could have solved this. Why is your kind so fucking dumb?”

“What kind?” Ceyhan asked suspiciously. He used his quarterstaff as a walking cane and moved closer to the rest of the group.

“Not you,” said Marghe and looked up. “We are golden. Hanifa and I already made a deal and you did not strut around like a pheasant. Flashing your steely feathers. It’s men like these dumbarses–”

“Quit it already,” interrupted Asher. “You asked for fighters and we are what you got. Tell us how many and how good they are.”

“I swear, if I am interrupted one more time, I will do unspeakable things. This is my house.” Marghe stood up and readjusted her hair once more. “Ceyhan, can’t you assassinate the Morell Brothers? Don’t you have anyone among your ranks that could?”

An awkward silence swept through the room. Ceyhan’s eyes shifted left and right and he hesitated to answer. “Are you serious? No, we can’t. How do you even come up with that?”

The Madam sighed. “I don’t know. I thought–” She grasped for words.

Zaber watched Ceyhan closely when he was confronted with the question. His brows narrowed and he scratched the scar at his jaw. “We asked about their manpower and capacity.” He used the gap in her speech. “Find yourself a porch dog later and let this man and his folk be your insurance. I’ll handle the rest,” he said and cracked his neck.

“Oh, the great killer has spoken,” said Marghe and rolled her eyes. “They are called The Red Mob and number in the thirties or fifties, I don’t know. Most of them are thieves and muggers and charlatans.” She walked up to Zaber, but avoided his stare. Instead, she inspected his attire with great care. “My mother was close to their old leader, only a few of them are good in a brawl, I’d say. The Morells, though, are barbarous. Salm and his two closest are good, one strong and one sly. He said he wants to re-negotiate terms with the new Madam, me, today.”

“I assume she doesn’t want blood on her floor. Let’s head out and kill them there,” said Asher and checked if his new blade was sliding in and out of its sheath with ease. It did.

“NO! Not at all.” Marghe’s voice pitched up. “Please, do not kill them. This is a parley, many of them are good customers. Can’t we just come off as strong and maybe knock some sense into them? Stand behind me and look mean…” She looked at Asher, who was smiling and shaking his head. Then at Ceyhan, who reacted with an appropriate grimace when realizing what was asked of him. And lastly at Zaber. “Yes, like this. I have to give it to this one, he is doing a great job at the looks.”

At this very moment, several vitreous clashes and muffled outcries rang through the door and walls. Someone was calling for Marghe, the croaking and upbeat voice of a man.

“Be the Griffon with us, that’s them,” said Marghe. “I will speak to them, this is my house. Do – not – interrupt – me – again. Understood?” She looked at Asher and Zaber, not Ceyhan. Somewhat rash, her voice had shifted firmly into fierce. She tamed loose strains of her hair, once more, and adjusted the bodice of her dress upwards. Not to hide, but to bring forth the best of her.

“Wait,” Asher reached out for Marghe, like Ruwer, but got held back by his greasy and unkempt companion. Though it was still enough to gain the Madam’s attention “Pay?” Asher smiled.

“Huh?” Marghe’s eyes were wide and empty. She looked at the smoother one of the rude pair, obliviously.

“What’s the pay?” emphasized Asher, rubbing his thumb over his middle and index finger, right in front of her face.

“Uhm–” Time was marching fast and Marghe’s thoughts were rushed. It worsened with every yell of her name from the parlor room. “One silver coin each, for being here. For every fellow you fell, you get one more.”

“Roll out,” turned Asher to Zaber and pointed onward, by the tip of his bycocket hat. “You know the routine.”

“Hold on!” the Madam rushed even more. “I take half of it away for any you kill.”

The pair of veterans gave a curt salute, but moved out without hesitation. A stifled laughter appeared next to Marghe. It grew into a wholehearted one, and Ceyhan looked at her as left-behind as the Madam herself.

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“What?” shrugged Ceyhan, caught. “I think you just told them that Mob lives are worth half a silver.” Ceyhan spun his quarterstaff around with a kick at its lower end. He wielded it like a yoke and stepped outside as well, where all three men built a corridor for Marghe.

“Maaar~ghe,” yelled a man, slightly older than the Madam, across the brothel. He wore a plain, old, and open padded jack, similar to what many guards had. The same kind of arming sword too. The gray strands in his hair were almost invisible in the bright blonde thatch. It was held together by a red piece of cloth, folded around his head. “Marghe~he!” His voice pitched up and down. “Come out and talk to me, bitch!”

A literal mob of scoundrels had lined up behind their ringleader, each more grim than the last. Around their heads, arms and even legs, each and every one was marked with red fabrics. They had brought cudgels and daggers. To Asher’s and Zaber’s trained eyes, two of them stood out. Right behind the fella, who had to be Salm, a hulking brute carried a riveted club on a leather knot. Wild, dark hair, kept in check by a red bandana. A half-open padded jack, in washed-out black, showing off some chest hair. Next to him was a shifty fella with a milky-scarred eye who was scanning the room. His brown padding fit like a glove and his cloth marking was wrapped around a shoulder. His gaze stung like the dagger in his belt when the Madam revealed herself.

“Oh Queen of Harlots, you have summoned us,” said Salm, laughed and bowed. “So, what the fuck do you want?”

The music had ceased and customers and women alike fell silent. Every slurp of a drink, or rolling coins, boomed like screams. Those faint of heart tried to wiggle themselves outside. Most were too curious, though, or worked here.

Marghe bent over the balustrade and looked down. “Cut the crap, Salm. I only wanted to talk to you… but your underlings are cordially invited to sit their arses down and find a service to their liking,” she said and looked at her girls. “First drink’s on the house.”

The pair of veterans made sure that they were seen and looked mean. Zaber glimpsed behind himself and waved with two fingers at Ceyhan to join. “Fourteen, but only three threats,” he said and got a nod from Asher. Their fellow from far away didn’t follow the routine but understood.

“Bitch, do you take me for a fool?” Salm called off the invitation. Some of his men were already following it, until he clapped. Loud. “We got word from the streets that you were getting some muscle – so I brought mine. And made sure that folk would think twice to come here.” He walked up the counter and grabbed the beer off a poor fella, who took the note and scrammed. “So, you wanna break your old whore-mother’s arrangement and find yourself some hot new hands?”

The shifty one gesticulated orders with his hands and eye, and the Mob would spread through the parlor-room. Soon enough, every woman had a crook next to her. Noticeably, they kept their distance to the armed customers. Asher and Zaber had long spotted Ruwer in the crowd. The fella assigned to him and the wenches on stage went straight past him. Instead, the thug placed himself far away… next to nothing.

“My dear mother, be she among the Stars–” said Marghe and her eyes went up. “Did good business with you lot. But this is my house now, and you have not fulfilled your end of the bargain in a long time. And you know the rules of this – my – house. If–”

Salm chugged down the beer and stomped the mug so hard that it interrupted the Madam. “Yea, yea, fuck you. Do you even hear yourself talking? You–”

“Fuck you!” Marghe yelled back, infuriated. “You will wait until I’m done. If you disrespect me in my house again, I will have you thrown out.” She knocked against the railing of the balustrade. Elevated like this, her voice sounded more imposing than standing directly in front of her and Marghe used this to her advantage. She stood tall and her posture was nigh majestic. “If you don’t receive a service in my house, you do not pay for it. And you have failed your service to me.”

“Bitch, you are disrespecting me in front of everyone,” said Salm and smashed the mug. “My daddy loved your mother and that is the only reason why I kept his word. We are more than bare business associates and you know that. If you throw everything out, why even still call it The Red Carpet?” He kicked pieces of the mug around and flailed his arms in anger. But not for a moment did he not look at Marghe. “You ain’t even a damned ginger!”

“But mother was, and this is her legacy!” The conversation devolved more and more into a shouting match. The Madam bent so much over the balustrade that some of her girls feared she might jump. “You cannot handle the Morells anymore. Be honest to yourself and focus on whatever horseshit you and your wastrels have going on.”

“We are from the same mold,” grumbled Salm and looked for another drink. The waitress recognized it and acted fast. “Bitch, you and me go way back–” He gulped down another beer. “Why can’t you trust me? We are keeping them out of Westwatch. This is our turf and that includes you and the girls.” He stomped around the parlor-room and made many liquids judder. His steps led him towards the stairs.

“Stay down! you are not allowed up here.” Marghe turned to the side and ran to the stairs, in a desperate attempt to block them. “I believe that you try your best, but I need assurance. You know why you can’t see your beloved Alna right now?” She and Salm stared at each other but Marghe had the high ground.

“Wha–”

“Because she’s at the barber,” said Marghe with pinched lips. “Carrying her teeth in a bag.”

“Are you fucking with me?” The ringleader set foot on the first step of the staircase. It provoked Asher, Zaber and Ceyhan to move from behind Marghe. “Which one of them? Why didn’t you tell me right away?!” Salm clenched his fists and eyed the men backing the Madam.

Asher pushed his arms back, stretching a crack. He took a step in front of Marghe, with a big smile on his face. “Let me take over this negotiation. This leads to nowhere–” Everyone looked at him confused. Everyone but Zaber, who kept an eye on the Mob.

“No he’s not,” said Marghe and tried to wiggle herself in front again. “Listen Salm, I know you lot are good-natured at heart, but you’re not cut out to fight the Morells. You’re thieves and frauds and whatsnot. What I need right now is a ruthless murderer,” she sounded miserable and all felt it. “To settle this for good.”

“And this is where we come in,” said Asher and walked down the stairs, leaving the Madam behind. He stopped in the middle, to keep the high ground too. “As you can see, we are merely three, and you are fourteen. Rest assured, we can show you our credentials in the utmost peaceful ways possible.” His motions were big and wide and true showmanship shone through. He spoke more so to the room than to Salm and presented his body and arms alike.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Salm belligerently. He tilted his head while looking at Asher, but also Zaber and Ceyhan. “Is that a murker? You trusting a sandfuck more than us?”

Salm threw the jug that the waitress had given him at Asher. If it was bad aim, lack of intention or great skill on the smooth veteran’s side wasn’t clear. But with just a shift of his head, the glass missed and shattered at the wall behind Marghe and the rest. Beer was splattered everywhere, when Zaber unbuckled his belt and his weaponry hit the ground. The sound of metal on wood attracted the attention of the room, just as Asher did before him. Zaber knew how to play his part and behind his face of stone was a satisfied voice.

“Keep an eye on that,” said Zaber to Marghe and Ceyhan, before walking down the staircase and past Asher.

The third, armed with his quarterstaff, also moved down but was held back. “Let my friend do his thing, while I do mine. Lay back, earn some easy coin,” said Asher to Ceyhan and followed Zaber to the bottom. “This here man and myself have served under the Grand General Airich. But we have not come to bloody our hands as we did under his leadership!” Asher was like a carnival barker. He and his friend did not pay much notice to Salm when they passed him, left and right, flanking him. Asher also let go of his weapons as a show of good will. “We three against all of you! Face him first…,” Asher presented Zaber with a swift swoosh of his hand. “Until you defeat him. I will become your next opponent, before you may fight our strongest–” He turned around and was awestruck at the sight of Ceyhan, whose face became grim in confusion. “A man of ruthless reputation, a savage animal of the Sultan’s hordes!”

Salm stepped backwards, doubting himself and what he was seeing. His right and left hand men backed him up, with the sly one shrugging. The brute had lost himself in the spectacle, clenching his fists at Zaber’s sight.

“Alri–” Salm stopped himself from being careless. “Wait,” he said and linked eyes with Marghe once more. “Do you agree to this?”

The Madam inspected the mood of all her girls and witnessed excitement in her customers. The thought of cockfighting got them all riled up and Marghe was defeated by it. “Any chance I can reason with you, Salm? For old time’s sake?”

“No.” The head of the Red Mob smiled and shrugged the owner of this, her, establishment off. “Herk,” said Salm and looked at the hulking brute. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “I want this man to slurp broth for the rest of his life.” He turned to the rest of his crew. “Down with the steel and hard-knocks.”

“Perfect,” groaned Marghe and buried her head in her hands. She let herself fall onto the upmost stair and sat down. She pushed her feet out beneath her dress and pulled the laces off her ankle boots. “Have it your way. Be stupid.” She threw one shoe after another at Salm and missed him so much that there was no reason to flinch. Ceyhan sat down next to her. He looked just as overwhelmed as she did. But if anyone had the ability to settle into the impuissance of a situation, it was the Yesilians. And at least one of them behaved, Marghe thought.

The moment everyone had dropped their weapons, the women scrammed and the men cheered. Stools and chairs and tables were moved to make room for Zaber and Herk. The brute was already waiting in front of the counter, while Zaber got his path blocked by Salm. The ringleader walked around the greasy and unkempt man, eyeing him up from head to toe. A scoff later and Salm pulled a chair away from one of the customers and sat down at a prominent position. To have a good view.

“You motherfuckers think we’re scared when you throw around big names like Airich?” Salm stated unimpressed. He gave Asher a good, long look as well, when the sly veteran positioned himself right next to the ringleader. “I know a damned conman when I see one.”

“With the Stag as our witness, all you good fellas have heard the agreement!” Asher took off his bycocket hat and held it in front of himself. “Five of my gulden say that these three mean looking crooks here will get their arses whooped. And a groschen for each of the sorry rest,” he yelled and poured the announced coins into the headwear. “Closest to the outcome takes all, divided among the winners!”

“What. Is. Happening,” said Marghe when she saw how many of her customers flocked over to Asher. Meanwhile, Zaber and Herk just stood there, surrounded by folk. Like animals that sniffed each other out… staring. “My business…” she whined.

“I–” Ceyhan stuttered and shook his head. “I have no idea. But you know what?” He looked at the Madam and tried to cheer her up. “I’m here for it. I cannot imagine anything more fun than watching some beyazı mess each other up.”

Marghe sighed and lightened up. “Nothing else to do but watch my ruin, isn’t it?”

The audience saw how both men prepared themselves mentally. The sight incited the audience and their mood began to boil. Waiting for a starting signal.

Herk had a full head and multiple pounds on Zaber, whose stature wasn’t weak but small in comparison. To start, the veteran threw a feinted jab at Herk. To provoke a reaction. Any reaction. But this was not your average street fraud, he was big and had some professional background. The giant tried to grab the slow punch. But it came short on purpose and Zaber switched to a quick low kick at Herk’s knee at the last breath.

The giant wasn’t fast, but he could tank a hit like this with ease and still throw a haymaker to follow up. The fight had begun and Zaber blocked the retaliation with a raised elbow and a step towards his foe. A firm grip around the arm, in one swift motion. The leverage was there and Zaber lifted Herk over his shoulder.

The crowd was in awe when the hulking brute smashed back-first into the counter. Zaber knew that a fella of this size wouldn’t go down easy, thus he lunged after him with another kick. The kick was aimed at the back of Herk’s head, but his skull was too thick for even that. After a dire roar from the impact, the brute turned and swung an aimless backhand, right at the scar on Zaber’s jaw.

After three hits, just one was enough to stagger the greasy and unkempt man to the side. Zaber crouched and stumbled, raising his arms in a reflexive defense. Space was once more established between the two, but Herk was on the move. The biggest of the Mob was wide open and couldn’t walk straight, but he was a threat nonetheless. Until an uppercut shot him right in the nuts. Out of nowhere. Equally aimless as the backhand before.

Zaber might have been the smaller man, but he had regained composure first. Standing tall, he stepped next to a whimpering Herk. A fist would not do for a fella of this size. Zaber raised his leg high for a coup de grâce and double knocked Herk’s head on the floor. Coins downright rained into Asher’s hat and the room was hollering.

“Boo!”

“Bullshit!”

The run-down veteran just stood there and looked at the crowd and criminals. No change in breath, no sweat to see. “Forget what my friend said.” Zaber wiped his jaw. “You don’t need to go one-by-one. Don’t stand around and let me wait!”

“We honor our words!” yelled Salm and stood up, angered. “Unlike others.” He looked up at Marghe.

The Madam held both her hands in front of her mouth, shocked. She knew many of these fellas for her entire life. Grew up with them. Star-forsaken souls, born into the wrong lives. But Herk was not just anybody among them. He had always been the biggest kid in Westwatch, ever since they were young. A gentle giant, until pressed into joining the Watch and thrown into jail. She once saw him tear apart a guard’s shield with his bare hands.

“I–”, she mumbled. “I was overthinking this.”

“Huh?” Ceyhan looked gleefully outraged. The mob had pestered his kind for long enough, second only to the damned dogs of The Baronet. “Look at him go.”

While the next fighter was jumping into action, right into an outstretched elbow, Marghe gave Ceyhan only a side-eye. To not miss the spectacle. “I’ll just hire this monster to kill the Morells,” she said, as they watched one after another getting thrown around by close grapples or knocked out by brutal strikes to vital areas. Ears, throats, nothing seemed sacred to Zaber. To finish them fast.

“Don’t cripple them,” shouted Asher from the side, laughing his ass off as he counted the coins. “The Madam only wants us to teach them a lesson.” He also looked up, matching Salm’s gaze. “To show them who is the boss of this, her, establishment.”

“So…” Ceyhan put aside his quarterstaff. It became obvious to him that it was not needed, when Zaber stopped a man’s charge with a knee to the face. And a headbutt after that, for good measure. “Are we good? You hire the funny fellas, and me and my brethren are your cavalry.” He flinched at the loud crack of a broken nose. “And you’ll provide hiding when we need it?”

“Sure,” uttered Marghe, unable to avert her eyes. “Sure, we’re golden.” She folded her hands and a shiver went through her body. Zaber had just been assaulted with a bottle, but it had switched hands too fast for an untrained eye. It shattered all over the floor and another member of the Red Mob went down.

With his last goon fallen, Salm could not contain his rage any longer. “No weapons! We agreed to no weapons!” He stomped on the ground and looked at his last underling, the shifty one. “Koe! He’s worn out; work him up good,” he said and prepared himself by tightening the red cloth around his head. “I want to finish him.”

His right-hand man, Koe, had watched the brawl with his one sharp eye. Only a handful of customers in the parlor room were not blown out of their minds by this performance, and he was one of them. Koe had been calm and collected, watching. What shook him were the words of his friend and leader.

“What?” he looked insulted, but obedient, at Salm. “You think I can’t take him on my own?” He stepped over one of his fallen comrades and onto the glass shards, slowly turning his head at Zaber. Until he got slapped. From the dead angle of his dead eye. “What. The. Fu–” His face turned thunderstruck.

“Eyes on the prize,” said Zaber with the same intense stare he maintained for the whole fight. “You were paying good attention. I’ve been looking forward to you.” Asher had been right from the very beginning…

Koe held his face, staring at an unstoppable force that had mowed down every single man thrown at him. Even Herk. He inspected Zaber with his good eye; how his chest pumped and all hair was sticky with sweat. As Salm said, he was worn out. “Yes, I’ve watched you,” Koe snapped back and shifted into a fighting stance. “I know what to look out for.”

Zaber, not taking a stance himself, swung his right leg in a crescent at Koe’s left side – the blind one. But this one was nimble, a sly one. By a hair’s breadth, he was able to bend backwards and avoid a hit. Only his nose was grazed, and he turned his head with the force.

“No, you don’t,” said Zaber ice cold. He took a low stance, and for just a moment, a smile flashed over his lips.

The sly one wiped his nose and checked for blood, but none was found. He smirked. “I very well do,” he said, adjusting his feet. “You got proper training – grappling, likely in armor. You strike to kill, to survive.” Koe’s hands remained open. No fists were formed when he held them out at his enemy, undefeated as he was. “I’ve seen the likes of you in the guards – some fancy son with years of tutoring. Acting all dirty and playing in the gutters with us poorfolk.”

“Shut up,” said Zaber with narrow eyes.

“Make me.”

Both men struck forward, and their jabs connected, as they were of similar size. Koe had planned for a follow-up punch, the fist in his face staggered him for the length of a one-eyed blink. Shoved away, he assumed the same had happened to his foe. But Zaber pushed through the strike, and Koe felt himself lifted from the ground in a tackle. The sly one’s reflexes made him lash out, and an elbow smashed onto Zaber’s skull.

Distracted by the pain, Zaber overshot and crashed Koe into a table, making everyone jump off their chairs. A struggle ensued, and the veteran and criminal tried to gain control. Where Koe was trying to grab Zaber’s arms or hands or anything, the greasy and unkempt veteran already had him by the neck. Pushing him down with all his weight. Futile attempts at twisting joints or limbs by his sly opponent did not stop Zaber from pummeling him into the ground. Punch after punch, until Koe’s hands went limp and his face changed colors.

The voices around Zaber intermingled into one big mess of excitement and the voice behind his eyes. Dreading over loss of coin and a faint hint of Asher yelling at his friend. Sweat dropped onto Koe’s face when a crude kick to the head sent Zaber flying and his surroundings scattered.

“Congratulations,” said Salm, and looked down on Zaber. Asher stood right behind him with glee in his face. He had not stopped the ringleader; instead, he was sorting through the bets. Salm, however, put his foot right next to an exhausted Zaber. “You’ve proven you are better than us. We are scum and you and your fancy arse friend over there got paid into excellency.”

Another kick to the ribs followed, but Zaber had curled up in full defense. Right after the attack was over, he rolled to the side and used the momentum to get onto his knees and feet again. “Shut–” Zaber wheezed, “your damned mouth.” He pushed a thumb on one of his nostrils and snorted a clot of blood onto the floor.

“I hate the likes of you,” continued Salm. “Even more than your smootharse friend over there.” He gave Asher the stink eye, cautious of being slapped like Koe. “I look at him and I know he thinks lesser of me. You fucking pretend to look like us. Trying to look real tough, ain’t you?”

While talking, both of them started to circle each other like hungry wolves. Remains of the table, shattered glass, and the stink of alcohol were splattered all around them. The folk were rooting for Salm and Zaber rubbed the scar of his jaw with his scarred backhand.

Many replies went through Zaber’s head, but none escaped his clenched teeth. All he knew was to push forward, and that he did. Not indulge in the voice. Not let it win. Those times were over…

A punch, deflected, followed by a counter-punch. Barely blocked with his forearms, Zaber had to admit that Salm had been right. The ringleader was running on full energy, while Zaber had defeated thirteen. He was used to fighting in armor, but also to taking hits in armor. Now, everything that landed stayed with him.

For the first time, Zaber was on retreat, getting pushed back. Up until the snorting sound that Asher lovingly described as Zaber’s signature move. Caught off guard, Salm’s skull hit the wooden floor and he held his face in disbelief. He looked at spit between his fingers, coming from his face. The roles had reversed, and the leader of the Red Mob had to curl up as he was kicked in the ribs. Kicked and kicked and kicked until a loud crack and cry signaled the finishing line.

“My name is Zaber,” slurred the exhausted veteran. His boot sat right next to Salm’s face. But instead of a coup de grâce, he turned to the audience. “I have claimed your stupid burned-down temple. Trespassers–” He looked around the room, wheezing, making every man avert his eyes when they met. It was hard to tell if it was awe or fear, or whatever. “Will end like him.” The crowd went silent. “Or him,” added Zaber, and looked at the rest of the Red Mob. “Or him. Or him.”

Asher was counting coins and about to join his friend’s side. But even the smooth veteran was taken aback by what happened next. Zaber began to walk through the parlor room, away from Asher. One by one he unbuckled the straps that kept his run-down, brown gambeson together. When it opened up, his neck was revealed first behind the high collar. He threw the padded armor to the side. His arming cap fell too, when he stripped away the old tunic to let his sweaty, hot body breathe.

He was scarred all over, a testament to almost two decades of soldiering. Stabbed in the torso, slashed at the shoulders, arms and neck. He stood right in front of Ruwer, who had not moved or stood up during the spectacle. A whore sat next to him, looking scared at the sweaty, greasy, unkempt and exhausted looking veteran.

“You’re next,” said Zaber.

Ruwer looked rather unimpressed and took a sip of his beer, inspecting the challenger. “Son,” he said. “Don’t overplay your hand.”

“If I win, you take the damned job,” said Zaber, looking grim. “And you’ll apologize to that animal.”

Seeing what his friend had in mind, Asher clapped amused and put away their earnings. With Salm still lying on the ground, he walked back up the stairs to a baffled Marghe and a laughing Ceyhan.

“I wanna make a wager too,” said the Yesilian. “In one week, your friend will be dead.”

“Bet,” said Asher, and winked at Ceyhan with a smirk. “But first…” He held his open hand to Marghe, who’d ignored him. She craned her neck to not lose sight of Zaber and Ruwer. “You owe us coin. Split between three.”

“Yes, yes,” said Marghe and waved her hired muscle to the side. “What the fuck is he doing? Did he fall onto his head?”

“Oh he?” Asher pretended to not know for a moment. “He’s doing his thing. Now pay up.”