GOING BOSTAL
4. A Walk in the Dark (part b)
"I don't like the look of this, Chiisai-chan," Wolfson muttered uneasily.
"But the door's wide open," Anna pointed out, as they drew to a halt.
"That's what I don't like." Wolfson drew his longsword, holding it ready. "If the door's open, it either means no-one's home... or someone's already been here. I want you to stay close, Chiisai-chan, and keep an eye out. If we're attacked, run for the inn. Don't let anything or anyone stop you."
Anna just nodded, eyes wide. "Hai, Oukami-sama."
Cautiously, Wolfson edged closer to the open doorway. Manticore Lane was a narrow, twisting street in one of Port Bostal's shabbier neighbourhoods – the area abounded with brothels, tattoo parlours and seedy drinking establishments. This particular dwelling was a two-storey structure that had seen better days. The paint on the window shutters was faded and peeling, and there were cracks in the brickwork. The door to the ground-level apartment swung idly on its hinges in the gusting wind.
Maybe this Nezz and Brink live in the other apartment, Wolfson mused. There was an open stairway at the side of the building that led up to the first floor, and he briefly considered checking out that apartment first... but his instincts told him that this was the place.
"Not so close," he whispered to Anna, as she clung nervously to the back of his doublet. "I won't have room to fight if you're tucked up against me like that."
"H–hai," she said, reluctantly, looking up at him. She had his cloak wrapped around herself for warmth, but her hair was wet and straggly, her eyes mutely appealing. Wolfson bent forward and kissed her forehead, and she smiled wanly.
"Ready?" he asked.
She just nodded, determinedly. Turning back to the doorway, Wolfson slipped inside.
There were no signs of a struggle in the small living area just inside the door – just the kind of mess that only two privateers could possibly make or bear to live in. Filthy clothes were strewn everywhere, along with empty wine bottles, used bowls and grime-encrusted mugs.
"This place smells, Oukami-sama," Anna complained in hushed tones as she stepped through the doorway behind him. Wolfson just held a hand up to silence her as he stood in the living area, giving the room a quick visual sweep. The only thing that seemed out of place was an often-mended dress, lying in a pile off to one side as if hastily cast there.
And now that they were inside, away from the dull thrum of the rain, he could hear a woman sobbing quietly. The sound was coming from one of the bedrooms.
Turning to Anna, Wolfson pointed straight down at the floor, catching her eye and repeating the gesture insistently. Stay here.
Again, she nodded, and slipped back to press herself against the wall, next to the doorway. She'd have cover there, at least, and she'd be able to warn him if anyone else decided to show up. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
Holding his longsword ready in front of him, Wolfson carefully stepped across the living area, trying to make as little noise as possible. But then his foot brushed against one of the ubiquitous wine bottles, causing it to roll against its neighbour with a soft muted tink. He froze, listening carefully, but there was no change to the rhythm of the woman's sobs.
What's a woman doing in here, anyway? Wolfson wondered. Ollie didn't mention anything about Nezz or Brink being female...
Cautiously, Wolfson peeked his head around the door jamb, the tip of his longsword poised to strike anyone who might be waiting in ambush. But instead, all he found was a naked girl crouched on the bed, crying pathetically over something. It looked like... a man. The build was definitely that of an adult, though from what Wolfson could see, the limbs seemed a bit too short...
The girl's head whipped up as Wolfson took another step forward, into the doorway. Her face was pale and damp, and her eyes were glassy. "K–keep away!" she pleaded, holding her hands out in front of her as if to fend him off. "Don't... don't do anything more to him! Please! Please just leave him alone!"
"Relax," Wolfson advised, keeping his tone reassuring but not letting his guard down. This scene wasn't quite what he'd been expecting, but that was no reason to be any less wary. "I'm not going to hurt you, or your friend..."
"Did you see him?" the girl sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "The... the one who did this to my Nezz?"
"Nezz?" Wolfson asked, as he stepped forward into the room to peer curiously at the unconscious sailor. "I... oh, shit."
Blood stained the sailor's face, dark clotted masses of it obscuring the area where his nose had once been. The mattress was also smeared with crimson streaks, and Nezz's left hand was smudged red as well, clasped against the left side of his head.
"He... he just burst in..." the girl wept, her voice shrill and wavering. "Just broke in and started doing that to my poor Nezz... started cutting him, and cutting him..." She sobbed hysterically, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
"We'll find whoever it was," Wolfson promised, leaning forward to inspect Nezz's wounds. It was hard to tell under the conditions, but the wounds seemed curiously familiar. The nose cartilage had been severed cleanly – almost impossible to accomplish with a heavy weapon like Wolfson's longsword. Likewise, Nezz's left ear had been removed with almost surgical precision. "What can you tell me about his attacker?"
"He was... he was dressed all in black, just like you," the girl sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. "Dark eyes, dark hair. Had a long skinny sword with a funny-looking grip."
"And... and what did he want?" Wolfson asked, as unpleasant thoughts started chasing themselves around at the back of his mind. "Why did he do this?"
"Just... he just wanted to know where he could 'find them'. I... I don't know who. He... he said something about a 'Clancy'..."
No. Wolfson stared at her as the final piece clicked into place.
"...and a name. A girl's name." The girl was practically talking to herself now, babbling freely. "Something like... 'Kana'?"
"Kurai-sama?"
Wolfson turned, appalled to find Anna standing there, staring down at Nezz's mutilated face in horror.
"Oukami-sama?" she asked, in a tiny voice, not looking at him. "Did... did Kurai-sama do this?"
Of course not, Wolfson wanted to say. Darkling would never do a thing like this. This... this is the act of a psychopath – or, at best, a twisted sadist.
But he found he couldn't say anything. And, as Anna sniffled helplessly, just once, he turned to the girl on the bed, words falling from his mouth as if by rote.
"Did he say where he was going? The attacker, I mean?"
The girl nodded, her bare shoulders heaving with renewed tears. "Dock... seventeen. A ship... one of the ships there."
"Chiisai-chan." Wolfson turned, sheathing his sword, and strode for the door. He paused there, looking back at Anna. "Chiisai-chan, come on."
Automatically, she turned to follow him, tearing her gaze from the disfigured sailor with a visible effort. "Where... where are we going, Oukami-sama?" she asked, as Wolfson led her back out into the rain-lashed night.
"We're going to find Darkling," Wolfson said grimly, taking her hand and breaking into a run. "I just hope we're not too late."
"To save Kurai-sama from the slavers?" Anna asked, looking up at him anxiously.
Wolfson just shook his head, trying to shake off his fears about the darker side of his friend's nature. "To save him from himself."
It was no good. No matter how hard he tried, Darkling just couldn't find a gap in Brink's guard. The cudgel wove back and forth easily in the Blood Mongrel's grip, making it nearly impossible for Darkling to strike without risking another clash. And the enchantment laid on the club meant that trading blows with Brink was something of a bad idea.
Who the hell enchants a club, anyway? Darkling thought to himself, savagely. For Lambult's sake, go more upmarket or something! Enchant a mace or a morning star... anything but a stupid club! Enchanters obviously have far too much time on their hands...
Frustrated, Darkling feinted another strike, forced to pull the blow short when Brink swung his club to block. They stepped carefully around each other on the rain-soaked deck, keeping just out of range of each other's weapons.
"Why don'tcha run away?" Brink taunted, hefting the club easily in his hand. The weapon's grip was insulated from the sonic vibrations, Darkling guessed, or perhaps simply unenchanted. If he could get a good swing at the club's shaft... "Or better yet, let the club kiss ya goodnight! C'mere! Brink'll make it easy on ya!"
Darkling backed away a couple of steps, focusing again. He raised the katana, widening his stance a little as the blade's point shifted restlessly, and concentrated on the segment of the club's shaft just above Brink's right hand. He took a deep breath, and braced himself.
"Chanbara Flurry!" he screamed, launching himself forward at the startled Brink. His katana whirled and flashed as if he were wielding half a dozen blades, not just one. The Blood Mongrel's eyes widened as the whirlwind of razor-sharp steel flew at him, a confusing blur of intricately woven patterns. Somewhat daunted, he brought his club up and held it ready.
Through the almost instinctive barrage of kata he'd learned as a child, Darkling trained his thoughts on the club's handle. Even as Brink gritted his teeth and swung his club to parry, Darkling shifted his focus a couple of inches, nudging his pattern across just a fraction so the katana's blade would neatly intersect with—
The katana struck the club's shaft and went spinning from his numbed hands, vibrating with a crystalline, bell-like tone. Darkling howled with frustration as Brink, not even pausing to gape at his good fortune, swung the club hard, smashing it into the side of Darkling's head.
The world seemed to spin crazily, and it wouldn't stop. Darkling staggered drunkenly across the deck to run up hard against the portside railing. He clung to it helplessly for a few moments, shaking his head and trying to clear his vision. The sound of the rain was muffled, and the night was suddenly peopled with vague blurry shapes rather than solid objects.
"That's what ya get fer not takin' the club seriously!"
Brink's voice sounded distorted and far away. Darkling clenched his fists impotently as he strained to focus. Were those... footsteps? Or was it the laboured throbbing of his heart, echoing through his head?
The... katana. Where... is it? Where's... where's Brink? Is he... is he coming for me?
His head was pounding. Blood was streaming from his nose. He couldn't hear and he could barely see. What... why was he doing this?
Why? Why am I always the fucking idiot who never gets it right? Why do I end up fighting the brainless cronies with fucking magical clubs, for Lambult's sake? I never get it easy! I never get it right! I'm not the one who ends up with the girl who thinks sex is something fun to do in your spare time! No, I'm the one who ends up with Ka—
Kana.
The blood seemed to drain away from Darkling's head, leaving him lucid and clear. The rain stopped for a second. The wind's harsh bite against his rain-wet cheek faded away.
Violet eyes. A shy, sweet voice. The gentle touch of a soft white hand.
This has nothing to do with me, Darkling realised, chastened. This isn't about pride or vengeance or rage.
He straightened up, somehow managing to stay balanced. A pale blur was stalking towards him, holding something poised to strike. As Darkling blinked and let the seething emotions seep away, the figure resolved into the form of Brink, grinning widely as he held the club high.
This is about Kana.
"Imouto-chan," Darkling whispered, raising his face to the sky. Rain slashed over his cheeks, mingling with the blood and sluicing it away. He blinked, taking what felt like his first clean breath in weeks.
And then, turning, he ducked under Brink's first overhead swing, slipping deftly to starboard. His clenched fist swept up and caught Brink under the chin, making him curse and stumble sideways. Darkling took advantage of the moment to step backwards, casting his glance desperately back and forth in search of—
There. It hadn't gone overboard, thankfully. As Brink growled, shaking his head, and started advancing again, Darkling scooped up his katana and turned to address his foe. The Blood Mongrel didn't look the least bit shaken by Darkling's hasty blow; if anything, he just looked angrier.
"Sick of this now," Brink muttered, advancing on Darkling inexorably. "It's time for you to say goodnight! Meet the club!"
Darkling danced to one side, Brink's savage swing missing him cleanly. Brink's second swing was similarly unsuccessful as Darkling slipped just out of range at the last moment.
"Hold still!" Brink snarled, as Darkling backed away against the starboard railing. The two of them circled around each other, Brink growing more and more irritated as Darkling continually evaded his increasingly erratic blows.
To the skilled warrior, Darkling's sensei had often told him, it is not a matter of how many times you strike your opponent in battle. It is a matter of how well you strike when you do.
Darkling just grinned, shifting sideways as Brink's club whistled past his head, leaving Brink momentarily off-balance. Almost casually, Darkling lashed out with his left foot, catching Brink in the throat. As the Blood Mongrel gasped, choking, Darkling whirled and kicked the club out of his hand, sending it arcing into the dark waters of the harbour. Brink just gaped at his suddenly empty hand, his perplexed gaze drifting out over the starboard side of the ship.
"Here," Darkling offered, taking a firm grip on his katana. "Join the fucking club!"
With both hands, he ran the Blood Mongrel through. The katana slipped through Brink's chest with ease, and Darkling twisted the blade contemptuously before tearing it free, dark blood staining its entire length. Shifting his stance, Darkling planted his right foot against Brink's chest and shoved him over the railing. Brink didn't make the slightest sound as his body was swallowed up by the black waves.
Darkling collapsed against the railing, almost spent. There was a blurry haze at the edges of his vision, and his hands were trembling on the katana's hilt. He gasped for breath as the rain intensified, pelting him with stinging droplets. And then, slowly, he climbed to his feet.
Kana was waiting.
Next: My oniichan