Rise of the Blade

Chapter Sixteen

Seagulls screeched overhead. Fishermen muttered to themselves and to each other about the dismal weather. The stench of the sea, of dead fish, of algae and barnacles permeated the docks. There was a chill in the air as the sun peeked into Chev's hiding place. The warrior scowled and shielded his eyes, wishing to sleep and to dream of her once more, but with the sunlight there was also a beckoning in his heart.

It beckoned the warrior to violence. To vengeance.

He rose from his slumber and threw off the ship's canvas which had been his blanket for the night. The nearby fishermen were startled by the warriors sudden appearance, and even more worried as he openly carried two swords, one with dried blood on it, and no scabbards for either.

He strode westward past the fish markets, which in his time had been in the open air with only canvas tents overhead, but were now covered on three sides with brick walls and an open side facing towards the sea.

This was not the city he remembered. Buildings were missing and new buildings had taken their places. Although many of the streets were the same, they were different, altered, sometimes even unrecognizable. Even the cobblestones were different. The streets now bore patterns and cobblestones of different colours were laid out to depict various sea creatures, monsters, ships, mermaids, and sea elves.

How much time had gone by since he had been petrified into a stone statue? He knew of such magic, had even seen the Makarov family make use of such, and since gathered this was what had happened to himself. He had been, for a very long time, nothing more than a statue. For him it was as if a blink of an eye had occurred and decades had gone by. Yesterday, for it now felt like yesterday, it had been summer and the year was thirty-nine ninety-five after the Last Demon War, and now it was winter... And everything was changed.

The Makarov family during his time had consisted of less than a dozen people, yet the woman last night had said there were hundreds. They were people living on borrowed time, as far as Chev was concerned. They must all die for their betrayal. The Makarovs. The Xarsians they had been working with, and the Merchants Guild. All of them must die.

The decades that had gone by didn't matter so much to him. This was a minor detail. He could find out the new year soon enough. For now he needed food, and as luck would have it he had no money on him.

A group of four men were leaning against a tall stone stockade that penned in horses, taking turns smoking for a long pipe. Each of them were wearing matching black carbonized chain mail and red cloaks, like it was an uniform of some sort that Chev did not recognize. When they saw the warrior approaching with his swords drawn they moved to oppose him.

They didn't look like Xarsians, but they certainly reminded him of them. In his time Xarsians were fond of wearing red robes and were not outfitted like soldiers. Xarsians to him were priests and acolytes, very much a religious order.

"Where are you going hmm?" asked one of the men, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"West," answered Chev, who kept walking, moving to the left so that he could pass.

Two of the men jostled each other and moved to block the warrior's progress.

"I don't think you've paid your taxes," said another of the men, his hand also on his sword. "Maybe it is time you pay up."

"I don't have any coins," answered Chev, staring into the eyes of the man nearest him.

"Oh ho! Will you look at the way he's looking at me? This one wants a fight, I see. You can tell he wants it!"

"Listen you! If you can't pay the tax then you're going to go to a work camp where you will stay until you work off your debt to King Derek!"

"King Derek?" asked Chev, unfamiliar with the name. "Is he a Margusite?"