STALKER7

An ongoing story about professional dungeon delvers and the dirty, dangerous jobs they’re hired to do.

10 – TALL TALES AND HEAVY TOLLS   

“Single file. After me,” Mikal said, and stepped onto the Bone Road. 

He’d armed up with his war pick and shield, swapped his forced grin for a hard, thin frown. It was time to work, not second-guess. Right then, the job was to put one foot in front of the other and reach Yash Vyat.  

“You heard the man,” Vera said. She waved the other five into a line; Shen first, Orba and her brother, Davorin, then Lomer Jon. She took up the rear, crossbow ready.     

The roadway scrunched under their boots. Mikal kept his eyes up and forward. 

Back in High Town, the lawyer, Mescebran, had said if he took this job he’d be making history in his own way. ‘One of the first to cross the Black Line after a century,’ she’d said. Mikal soured on that now. This wasn’t a legend in a book. He was walking on the dead. 

Even the ground beside the Bone Road was lifeless; two dozen paces of chalky gray dirt on either side. Maybe nothing wanted to grow near the track. Maybe the Tyrants had poisoned the soil. The thought made his skin itch. 

Mikal veered to the eastern edge because the tree line felt a hair closer. He was used to tight, underground spaces. They had their own problems but open areas always left him feeling exposed, watched, and he hated that. That side shaved off a stride or two in case of attack.

He called over his shoulder. “Orba, bring your brother up.”   

As they came alongside, Mikal gave the medicus a quick nod before turning to Gellert. The boy had a face you’d pass twice and not recall, plain as bread – but he always seemed to be listening to something. “In the carriage,” Mikal said. “You knew your history. Remember?” 

Gellert grinned broadly. “I like books. They talk to me.” 

Mikal pursed his lips. “Tell me about Yash Vyat.” 

Gellert took a breath and opened his mouth to recite. 

Mikal cut him off. “Hold the sing-song. Just the facts.”

Gellert’s face scrunched. He leaned toward his sister. “It’s okay, Gel,” she said. “He’s not scolding you. He just wants the meat of it, okay?” 

Gellert’s brow creased, then, “Yash Vyat was the biggest of the three Ur’Gench temple cities. The closest to the southern lands. Historians say tens of thousands of southlanders were fed to the blood engines there. Sometimes they’d feed so many, the sky would glow at night. In the Uprising, after Horiach Tien fell to Olo and Domokos, the High Binder Ennika Khoren rallied what forces remained there; soldiers, slaves, beasts, demons, all packed behind the walls.”

“You mean Faceless Ennika?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Ennika Khoren was Zael’s right hand. Always at his side. That’s why they called her the ‘Tyrant’s Shadow’.”

“But she was killed. ‘After eight days,’ you said.”

Another nod. “By Olo’s Sacrifice.” His brow furrowed again. “Although some records claim Domokos delivered the killing blow.” 

Mikal waved him on impatiently. “Everyone knows Olo cut her down. His sword, Quiet Blade, took her head clean off. What about the temple? Do the chronicles say anything about it, specifically?”   

“There’s no record of its destruction. Only that her body was impaled on a temple spire. That means at least one was still standing.” 

“So unless someone razed it later, chances are it’s how Olo and the Unshackled left it,” Mikal mused. That thought didn’t sit well.    

Orba piped up. “It must be overgrown by now, right? Hard Northern winters, a hundred-plus years of wear and tear… It’ll be heaps of broken stones.”

Mikal took in the rugged wilderness around them. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said. “Time knocks it down – history makes it larger. Winners need to write a brave shine on all the murder and mud, eh?”   

He patted Gellert on the shoulder and gave Orba a smile. “Appreciate your help. Mind me and Vera, and we’ll get you back home in no time.”  

The two dropped back in line. Mikal picked up the pace and fixed an image in his head: a tumbled, frost-cracked ruin covered in creeper vines and scrub brush. Yash Vyat was just like dozens of sites he and Vera had delved before.  

Another old place with a bad reputation. No more. No less. A bit of quick torch work and we’re that much richer.   

Still, something sat at the back of his mind. Small and uncomfortable.  

***

They stopped to rest mid-afternoon. 

Mikal had pushed them, wanting to reach the turn-off to Yash Vyat before sunset. And get off that road. It was unnatural – the straightness of it. Hard and flat as an anvil. No ruts or chuckholes. Not even loose stones.    

They were sitting in the dirt a few paces off the roadway when men emerged from the trees. Seven of them, lean and filthy as stray dogs. Four of them had long bows, drawn back and ready. Two held heavy blade falchions. The leader, a squirrely, bug-eyed man in a fancy green overcoat carried an iron rimmed shield and a straight sword with an ornate basket hilt. He tutted when Vera reached for Grin. “Ah, ah, ah, love. Mind your hands, or my lads will shaft you.” 

That raised nasty chuckles from the bunch.   

Shit. Mikal cursed himself silently. Daytime, he hadn’t thought to put anyone on watch. Fear stirred his gut. He clenched and eyed his war pick. It was on his shield, just out of reach. “Mind if I stand?” he asked Green Coat.  

“Yes.” 

There were too many drawn bows with clothyard arrows to argue. 

“We don’t get many travelers around here,” Green Coat said as his mob spread out. “What are you lot doing north of the Black Line?”

“We’ve got work,” Vera answered.  

“What kind of work?” Green Coat scoffed. 

They were closer now, a few feet away. The four bowmen had relaxed a fraction, their eyes straying to Orba, Shen, and Vera. Green Coat was looking at their packs the same way. “What work?” he repeated. 

Mikal could smell him now. See the rust on this sword blade, a mouthful of scummy brown teeth. 

“Torch work,” Mikal smiled. “Surveyor work.” 

At that same moment, Green Coat must have spied their delve gear; lanterns, rope, prybars. He studied Mikal’s face, dirty forehead scrunched in thought. “You’re Mikal Shiver,” he said after a minute. He turned toward Vera. “That makes you Funk. Am I right?”

Mikal and Vera nodded.  

Green Coat opened his arms in a royal gesture. “Well, well. If it isn’t the famous Shiver and Funk come right to our doorstep, boys. These are proper tomb rakers. Most famous pair in Nagront.” 

He looked from Mikal to Vera, then back to Mikal again. “Times must be tough if you’re crossing the Black Line, looking to score.” He frowned. “Unless you’re dodging the good king’s justice.” 

He considered Mikal’s crew, his gaze hesitating on Lomer Jon. He turned back to Mikal. “Are you? Dodging?”  

Mikal considered lying, but any story he spun on the spur of the moment would be too flimsy. Cobwebs to a brick. The truth would have to do. Bits of it, anyway. And he could stretch for time. 

Mikal shook his head. “No. We’re on contract to survey a site.” 

“Horse shit,” Green Coat said. He stepped closer and his stink near made Mikal gag. “‘The King’s own would stretch anyone’s neck for panning Dominion dirt. Hiring a crew leaves a paper trail. That’d be signing your own execution writ. Confession of guilt, that is. Plain as day.”

“You know a lot about surveying work. You must be a digger.” Mikal shifted slightly to one side, trying to hold the man’s attention and get Vera out of his eyeline.

Green Coat gave a little bow. “Claudius De Bethencourt’s Appraisal and Recovery Consortium. At your service.” 

Mikal didn’t know the name. New outfits cropped up every year in Nagront, especially after a good haul. The lure of old gold conjured them like mushrooms in cow shit after a spring rain. 

That was a High Town name, too. Probably an ex-Guild Blueback with family money to fund his hobby. They didn’t dig the same dirt, as the saying went. 

Not that a man like that got dirty. 

Mikal nodded like he’d heard of him. “You Bethencourt?” he asked, keeping the skepticism out of his voice. 

“It’s De Bethencourt. And alas, no. Our principle met with an unfortunate accident. I’ve taken up the mantle, so to speak.” He tugged on the overcoat’s lapels. 

Another side step. “Where was your dig?” Mikal asked.   

The man jerked his head south. “Long ways back. Mrakovo Hills. Old Claudius said there’d be gold. Had a lead on virgin ground, he said. An undiscovered repository.”

Mikal bit his tongue. The Hills were just two days north-west of Nagront. They’d been scoured and scraped clean decades ago. “And?” 

“No gold. No virgins.” Green Coat cocked his head and smiled nastily. “Famous Shiver and Funk. I bet you pulled a trove or two in your day.”

Mikal shrugged. “We got lucky a few times. Of course, clients took the lion’s share. We got scraps. You know how it is.”

Green Coat nodded along, his mind elsewhere. “Hear that, lads?” he called out. “This bunch found more than bones and old crockery. Shame old Claude wasn’t like the famous Shiver and Funk.” 

“We should have signed with them,” a bald man with a falchion said eagerly. He was a step or two from Shen, his gaze running up and down her body. 

He didn’t notice she only had her hands half-raised and was throwing side glances at Vera, waiting for a signal.        

Mikal shifted another half step. “So, the Hills didn’t pan out and you crossed the river to work a site here?” 

Green Coat spit. “No. No maps for these territories. We’ve been… waiting on new opportunities, you could say.”

“New opportunities. Like what?”

Green Coat brought the point of his sword up to Mikal’s chest. “Like you.”

Mikal didn’t move. “What is this? A toll?”  

“Oh, you know what this is,” Green Coat smirked. “This is your last moments. Gonna be unpleasant. But I’ll make it quick. On account of you being famous, and all.” He winked at Vera.  

Orba whimpered. One of the falchion men had moved behind her and was reaching over her shoulder, one hand down her shirt. The bowmen laughed. 

“Orby?” Gellert asked. 

“Shut it,” the groper snarled. 

His hand clenched. Orba whimpered again, louder. “C’mon, girl” he growled. “You love it.”

“Orby?” Gellert’s voice rose in desperation.  

“Thought I told you to –”   

He yelped as he was lifted a good four feet into the air. For a heartbeat, everything went still—then he flew backward toward the tree line. He hit a thick fir with a loud crack and slid down like a rag doll. 

Everyone turned, first at the body, then at Gellert who was on his feet, hands stretched toward the now broken body. His usually placid face was knotted in fury. Wind swirled around his legs like a small cyclone, whipping the dirt and weeds at his feet. “Leave Orby alone!” he shouted. 

The muggers gaped, frozen. Mikal and Vera’s crew acted.   

Shen flicked her wrists and a slim knife appeared in each hand. In one step, she closed the distance to Baldy, flurried five, six wet jabs to his gut, then twirled like a dancer toward the nearest bowmen. With a high sweep of her arms, she sliced his outstretched wrist and throat. He fell.  

The archer next to Lomer Jon recovered fast enough to loose his arrow at Gellert, only to see it whirl away in a gust of wind. A half-second of astonishment was all Lomer Jon needed; he head-butted the man, snatched the hatchet off his belt, and buried it in his head. The thug’s face scrunched up like he was ready to cry, then he collapsed at Lomer Jon’s feet.   

Davorin had a pair of muggers on him. The big farm boy had laid his staff on the ground, and with a quick stomp of his boot, he flipped it upright into his hands. He swept the first man off his feet and hit the second in the chest on the backswing, knocking him down. Two overhand blows finished them for good.  

Vera lunged for Grin and almost got to her feet before Green Coat slashed at her belly with his sword. She threw herself back and fell. Mikal snatched up his war pick and came at him with a shout. 

Rat-quick, Green Coat spun to face him, sword and shield ready.  “You want me, you creaky old fuck?” the man spit. “I’ll carve you up.” 

He darted forward, sword flashing a series of high and low cuts. The man was scabby and stank like a pig, but his blade work was fierce. Without his own shield, Mikal ducked and twisted, fell back. The thrusts came fast and close until Green Coat feinted, lunged, and Mikal felt the sword slice his heavy leather vest by his ribs. 

Off-balance, he lashed out with his war pick. There was no force behind the blow, but Mikal managed to snag the back hook on the rim of Green Coat’s shield. Mikal tugged down, tried to yank it away – but his boot slipped in the loose dirt. He stumbled, left side exposed. 

Green Coat smiled and raised his sword – and Grin smashed him across the face. There was crunch, a warm spray of blood, spit, and teeth on Mikal’s neck. Vera stepped up as Green Coat folded onto the ground, her eyes glittering with rage. 

“Fuck you,” she said, and hit Green Coat in the head again. 

Panting, Mikal surveyed the scene. Seven bodies on the ground. Vera and the rest on their feet – except for Shen, who was kneeling beside Baldy, rifling his pockets.  

He gulped a breath and looked over at Vera. “Why is everyone calling me old lately?” 

***
That’s all for now. Have a good weekend.

To be continued.

***
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