GOING BOSTAL
4. A Walk in the Dark (part a)
There were disadvantages to being a vertically challenged sailor, especially in a group like the Blood Mongrels, where status and swagger were everything. Nezz knew the facts better than anyone – new shipmates would almost invariably remark on the length of his arms, claiming he wouldn't be able to count a fathom properly, or comment that if the ship ever lost its anchor, they could use Nezz as a spare.
Nezz would just grin crookedly and laugh along with the rest of the crew, but if the newcomer continued to press the point too hard, slipping from good-natured ribbing to something harder-edged... well, that was where the advantages to being Nezz's height came into play. Since he stood not quite four feet seven inches tall – well below chin level to the average Blood Mongrel – Nezz was very rarely taken seriously at first glance.
In combat, Nezz's foes seldom got the chance to reconsider their initial impression. Nezz was as handy with a sabre as any of his shipmates, compensating for his lack of stature with a bloodthirsty savagery that was well-respected by the more experienced Blood Mongrels. His height made certain parts of an enemy's anatomy more readily accessible to an incapacitating blow, a fact Nezz was all too willing to exploit – he never fought fairly if he could help it.
Nezz's height also made certain parts of a wench's anatomy more accessible as well, leading to his well-earned reputation as a womaniser of some renown. Combined with his more-than-ample earnings from privateer work (and hush-hush jobs on the side for patrons like Mister Clancy), that meant Nezz rarely spent the night alone when he was in port. In fact, he was enjoying a little female companionship right now – a sweet young shop assistant named Louisa, who had stolen away from her father's home to indulge her desire to do something reckless and dangerous. Nezz fitted the bill, in both regards.
The only sound in the small apartment was Louisa's high-pitched whimpers, her trembling sighs rising urgently in pitch every time Nezz moved inside her. He was sprawled on top of her naked body on the bed, sucking hard on one erect nipple while squeezing the accompanying breast none too gently. Her bare skin was sweaty and hot, and she was warm and tight around him, welcoming his presence inside her.
She was the kind of girl he liked: still innocent, still fresh. Not one of those wenches who'd been around the neighbourhood a couple of times over. And gullible, too – he even fancied she meant it when she said she wanted to be with him always, though the sex had started winning her over now as well, so much so that she'd been absolutely frantic for him the last few times he'd come back from a long spell at sea. She didn't talk about marriage anymore; well, not as much. She just came to him because she wanted to be fucked.
Stupid cow.
"Are ya ready for it?" he asked her, lifting his head from her bosom momentarily to look up at her. She looked down at him with a slightly lost expression on her face, nodding her head jerkily as she panted, her breathing harsh.
"Do me, Nezz..." she whispered, pleadingly. "Do me hard."
Nezz grinned crookedly. "A pleasure." Bringing both hands up now, he took a firm grasp on both of her breasts, feeling the pliant mounds give at his touch. Louisa yelped as he shoved himself deeper inside her, feeling her pulsate and writhe around him. "That's it, m'girl," he encouraged her, harshly. "That's it. Just a bit—"
A loud bang from the front door almost made him lose his rhythm. What the...?
"That you, Brink?" he yelled, cocking his head over his shoulder to look at the bedroom door. "Nowhere near midnight yet, ya—"
The bedroom door burst open, kicked in by a booted foot. Silhouetted against the darkness of the front room was an even darker figure, dressed all in black with a naked blade in its hand.
"Nezz?" Louisa squealed, wriggling underneath him.
"Hush," he muttered, remembering too late that his knife was out in the living area with his belt and Louisa's torn dress. "Whaddya want, stranger?" he snarled, sliding off Louisa and turning to face the shadowy intruder. "Don't see how ya have any business breakin' in here and interruptin' a man's—"
The blade flashed, catching a shaft of light from the streetlamp outside. Nezz felt a sharp sting on the left side of his head – a sting that abruptly burst into a swell of throbbing pain. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to clasp his ear.
It wasn't there. Just the warm sensation of blood pouring from the side of his head.
"Kana," a voice said, in low and deadly tones.
"Uh, wha... wh–what's that?" Nezz asked, doing his best to appear puzzled as Louisa shrank back on the bed behind him. "Don't know anyone by that name, I'm sorry..."
"Then maybe you know the name Clancy," the stranger snarled, stepping forward into the light. Nezz blinked, finally recognising him. "Your name's Nezz, isn't it? It'll be 'One-Ear Nezz' now, won't it?"
"Well... well, that all depends," Nezz said, uncertainly, daunted by the pale gleam of the man's eyes. His expression was fixed and twisted. It might have been a smile. It might not have been. "There's a lot of sailors in this city, y'know, and—"
The blade danced through the light again. Pressure surged through Nezz's sinuses, forcing him to bring one hand up to clutch his face. Blood spurted from between his fingertips as he squinted his eyes against the throbbing ache.
"Don't make me ask again. Where are they? Where's he keeping her?" The tip of the stranger's sword came to rest against Nezz's groin. "'One-Ear Nezz'. 'Noseless Nezz'. Cute nicknames, aren't they?" It was definitely a smile on the man's face, but it was like no smile Nezz had ever seen before. Or ever wanted to see again. "Now, unless you want them to call you 'Actually-Still-Has-Most-Of-His-Penis Nezz', start talking." The stranger's brittle smile deepened, but the light didn't touch his eyes.
No, his eyes were cold and hard.
Private dock number seventeen. The third ship on the left.
The rain was pounding down now as Darkling stalked onto the jetty. The wind was howling, and the small pleasure ships tied up to the dock were tossing back and forth on the dark waters. No-one in their right mind would be out in weather like this.
Darkling found that he kind of liked it. It suited his mood, and the brooding, sullen sky seemed to reflect the blackness in his heart. He'd lied to Kana earlier – or rather, he'd let the words carry him away, as they had a tendency to do. Dusk wasn't his time of day. He had nothing in particular against it, of course; it provided long shadows to hide in and the glare of fading sunlight to blur enemies' perceptions. All in all, Darkling liked sunsets.
But the night was his home.
The third ship on the left was a luxuriously appointed two-master, the type of craft that only saw use two or three times a year, and then only in fair weather. A status symbol for some rich lord or another, and nothing more. The rain and the darkness made it hard for Darkling to see, but there didn't seem to be anyone topside. Readying his katana, he vaulted across the shifting gap between the jetty and the ship, landing soundlessly on the deck.
Pausing, narrowing his eyes and trying to ignore the dull ache in his head, he stretched out his senses, straining to see if he could hear anything behind the relentless pounding of the rain. His hair and clothes were soaked again; he supposed he could have taken Nezz's cloak, but the Blood Mongrel was even shorter than Darkling was.
Like I need to worry about looking ridiculous, Darkling snorted to himself, cocking his head. No sound other than the rain. Across the main deck, on the port side, a set of narrow wooden steps led up to the poop deck, while a hinged hatchway led down into the main cabin. Faint light filtered around the edges of the door. Presumably, someone was in there.
It was time to find out. Darkling strode forward, ducking around the mainmast, doing his best to keep his footing on the slippery decking. Kana was close now. She had to be. He reached out for the hatch's handle and started to—
The sound of a muffled footfall from the poop deck sent him rolling instinctively to one side, katana held sideways, as a lanky figure leaped over the railing and landed with a thump where Darkling had just been standing.
"Good," Darkling's attacker said, before lunging forward and swinging his club at Darkling's head. Still in a crouched position, Darkling sprang forward desperately, the club missing his head by bare centimetres. He regained his feet a moment later, whirling around to face his opponent. Tall and skinny, with sparse hair that was so pale it was almost white, the Blood Mongrel wielded the slender club with ease.
"Brink, I presume," Darkling snarled, bringing his katana up and blinking fiercely at the slashing rain.
"Yeah, and ye're Kurai-whatsit." Brink grinned, hefting the club eagerly. "Ye've got a harder head than it seems, 'pparently. Well, I was gettin' bored here anyways. Time to reintroduce ya to the club."
"Any time," Darkling said, feeling his entire body tense up, ready to react.
"Right, then." Brink stepped forward, swinging his club like a bat. Effortlessly, Darkling brought the katana up to counter, catching the thick wooden cudgel on his blade and—
The katana sang in Darkling's hands, vibrating so violently that he almost lost his grip on it. As it was, his hands went momentarily numb, and as he stared down at the hilt, perplexed, he forgot his enemy for a moment. It was a moment too long.
He sensed the club's second swing too late. Caught off-guard, Darkling threw himself backward, but was unable to evade Brink's attack completely. The club clipped his temple, sending a loud piercing ring through his head that nearly deafened him. He staggered and fell over, the katana slipping from his hand and sliding across the deck.
Ah, hell! Bracing himself on one hand, Darkling turned sideways and kicked frantically at Brink's wrist, throwing the Blood Mongrel off balance and buying himself time to scramble back to his feet. His head was throbbing worse than ever before, and the sensation was unpleasantly familiar. It had felt exactly the same way when he and Kana had been ambushed.
Brink's weapon was no ordinary club – that much was obvious. Darkling's katana should have been able to lop it in half with ease. And the vibrations...
Sonic aura, Darkling groaned to himself, slipping sideways unsteadily and snatching his katana. Lambult's knees, where's Wolfson and his Thunder Slash when you really need him?
"Heh," Brink chuckled, advancing relentlessly as Darkling kept a wary eye on him. "I'll learn ya to fear the club. Fear it. Go on! Bow to the club!"
Kana, Darkling thought, helplessly looking past the Blood Mongrel to the cabin hatch. How the fuck am I supposed to get past this idiot if I can't attack him? One more blow to the head like that and... oh, shit.
He dove to the side again as Brink attacked, laughing grimly. "Run, Mister Kurai-smah!" the Blood Mongrel mocked him. "That's all yer good for! Run from the club!"
Will you just shut up for a fucking minute? Darkling grimaced, tightening his hands on the katana's hilt. He could feel his fingers again; that was an encouraging sign. But... but what was the use? He couldn't keep dodging around Brink like this, not all night. Not with Kana in there at Clancy's mercy. Who knew what the bastard was doing to her?
"Kana." Darkling uttered her name like a mantra, drawing a deep breath and straightening up. He focused on the Blood Mongrel, channelling all the rage and frustration and pain inside his soul. I'm coming, Kana. Wait for me. Just a bit longer.
"Oh, ye're gettin' serious now, are ya?" Brink asked, mockingly, as Darkling scowled, his eyes narrowing. "Come on, then! The club's waitin' for ya!"
Darkling's hands clenched. His entire body tensed with pent-up energy. And then, howling a battle-cry, he threw himself forward.
Next: A breath of salvation