Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 11

"Shit!" Totlenn glares at Merreth. "Cut me loose and get behind me. Their blood's up and like as not they want you!"

"Tiandraa used the damned whip," says Merreth as she slices through the ropes.

Totlenn strides forward and raises his arms. Red rivulets course down from his shoulder, soaking his trousers and spattering onto the thirsty ground. His entire back must be a sea of fire, but Merreth sees only the occasional flinch. She shoves her dirk into her boot top, and itches to wrap her hand around her sword hilt.

Watch nobles draw their weapons, swords flashing in the sun. The Red Hand already has steel in hand. No crossbows though, or none that Merreth can see. Still, the spot between her shoulder blades tingles, anger, fear, excitement flooding through her as the crowd closes the distance.

"Hold up, you bastards!" bellows Totlenn.

They slow, but still stumble forward, pushed by those behind.

"STOP NOW, DAMN YOU!"

The commoners lurch to a halt, jostling and craning their necks for a better view. Arms jab in Tiandraa's direction. "It's Brinnt," someone calls. Another points at Merreth. "She gave 'em Brinnt! Brought 'im with her and gave 'im over to the red hag!"

"You think this helps? Running all over like a bunch of fuckin' clanners?" shouts Totlenn.

A welter of furious shouts erupts from the crowd.

"Why you stickin' up for her, Totlenn?"

"They want you dead! She's part of it!"

"Bloody black skin is a lyin' snake, makin' like she's one of us!"

Noble mounts snort and stamp the ground. "Damn rabble! Domina, let's whip the curs back to their hovels!" Tiandraa forces Brinnt to his knees, runs a gloved hand through his hair, smiles at Merreth, and then backhands him, snapping his head back so violently he almost topples over.

The sun winks off a sprinkling of previously hidden blades within the crowd.

"Make ready!" bawls a constable commander.

Vicious little weasel, thinks Merreth, you want to stir the pot, don't you? We'll be swimming in blood, some of it mine unless something is done. She retrieves her hat, tugging the brim down to shade her eyes as she walks towards the commoners. "Please, let this work," she whispers.

Totlenn stares after her. "What are you doing, Merreth? Are you mad?"

"Merreth," yells Charadell. "Merreth, come back here, at once!"

"Yer mother's calling," sneers the black-haired brute. "Time to scurry away."

Merreth's pace is slow, deliberate, calculated to draw every eye her way. The crowd quiets. She hopes the constables keep their crossbows and swords lowered.

She settles on a large slab of a man with black, greasy hair, wearing a tunic that looks stretched over rock. Merreth wrinkles her nose at his rank odour. I probably don't smell any better, she thinks. She tries not to feel weighed down by the countless stares. "What's your name?"

He crosses arms thick as fence posts. "Droellan."

"Blade."

Droellan's eyebrows come together in a frown. "What?"

"Your blade. Don't tell me you don't have one." Merreth holds out her hand, palm up. "Now, show me."

Droellan plucks a bone-handled four inch steel sliver from his boot and slaps it into Merreth's palm. She draws her own dirk and holds it out hilt first. "Only fair," she says. He hesitates a moment before one of his massive hands closes around it.