EJBoston

I became a made man so I had ‘made’ tattooed on my hand. Every time I wanted to open my mouth about what I’d done to earn my stripes, to keep my stripes, prove my stripes, I glance at the ink.

It gives me pause.

It makes me think.

Think about freedom. Think about choice.

Think about what I would say if I had a voice.

They took my tongue, blinded me, and threw me in an off-the-books cell. Not the cushy kind where Dons and billionaires lounge. The kind that mind you wish that had just placed you in the ground.

To get me to talk, they cracked my face, but I’m a made man and I know my place. Here I only know vague light and pure dark. For every week that goes by, I make a mark. Because after ten years, the day will come when the magic in the ink will be undone.

I will still keep my vow of silence.

But I’ll completely shatter the one against violence.

© Ezekiel James Boston

Aduk snatched the halved silver coin from Xul and sized up the rotund drunk face down at the nearest table. Stone asleep, the codger had a death grip on what remained of a turkey leg. His loud snores came in spats and he reeked of soured wine. Aduk shook his head and stashed the coin.

“Hey!” Xul whispered, “That’s mine. Give it to him and ask.”

Aduk shook his head. “That guy wouldn’t know that turkey bone in his hand from his own pecker.”

“That is The Great Bard Jerus. I’d give him the fee, but he knows me and hates my order.

Aduk brandished the half-coin at Xul. “If he pukes on me, you bleed.”

Xul nodded. “More than fair.”

“Witch tits.” Regarding his companion, Aduk stood. “You talk me into dumber shit…” He sat next to the mess of a man. The oder made the fine dinner of venison and rice almost rise. Aduk swallowed hard to keep it down. “Jerus, here’s pay. Tell me of the Taumil Dragon Slayers.”

The snoring stopped. Jerus’s plump hand released the turkey leg and rotated palm up.

Taken aback, Aduk dropped the coin in the center of the fat hand.

Jerus closed his hand. He slurred, “Ssso, The Taumil, hmmm?” Forehead still on the table, he rotated his head to face Aduk. His words became amazingly crisp. “Their last run was against Flamesage the Red.” He opened his hand again. A full gold coin with the perfect edges the Taumil were famed to make sat on the doughy flesh.

Aduk licked his lips. To the right buyer, that coin–that relic–would fetch a lord’s ransom.

Jerus cleared his throat. “You can either hear about the Dragon Slayers or take this coin.”

Aduk rubbed his chin. He and Xul already had a map that led to the Slayers treasure hoard. The only need a Taumil coin to judge distance.

Xul would be pissed, but Aduk made his decision. He said, “Give me the coin, old man.”

“Take it then.” Jerus rested his cheek back on the table. He slurred. “Be gone and let an old man shleep.”

Aduk snatched it and rushed back to show Xul. “Look.”

Xul hung his head. “You dolt.”

“What?” Aduk turned the mint gold coin over in his hand. He checked around for thieves only to find Jerus sleeping and the tavern man peeling potatoes. He still chose to keep his voice low. “It’s an Taumil coin. Exactly what we need.”

Xul thumped his worn leather map case on the table. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Without a word, Aduk snatched it up and rushed from the tavern.

Xul hurried across the room to slip out the back. It wouldn’t be long before Aduk stopped and opened the case to compare the coin to the map. The dullard would be doubly pissed to find that he had an empty case and the same half silver Xul had given to him.

Minding his path on the loose cobblestone roads of Lomka, Xul wondered how’d he missed Jerus casting the illusion; hell, the man had barely moved.

© Ezekiel James Boston

“Barron Talis!” Barely able to keep up with his feet, Rex burst into the main hall. “They’ve taken Fort Dawn.”

Rex caught a quick glimpse of the Barron’s large pink and lilac chair. Empty. He doubled over, rested his hands on his knees and huffed. His lungs burned. The newly earned longsword on his hip pulled him to lean more on his left, but the weight of the weapon was nothing compared to the suit of chainmail and large shield on his back. For a brief moment, he wished he hadn’t been promoted from runner to guard.

The scent of roasted turkey, scalloped potatoes, and corn registered sweetly. Whispers and utensils on dishware filled the small gaps between his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He managed to bust in during Barron Talis’s afternoon respite. This perceived violation would be worth the month in the kitchens.

“And?” Disdain dripped from the Barron’s sole word.

“And the Dogs of War–” Rex gulped air. Reflexively, he stood to counter the stitch growing in his stomach. He knew better than to lean over, but the armor was so damned heavy. “They’ll be–“

Barron Talis opened his hand to let his silver fork fall from his slender fingers. Fingers that had never known dirt or the hilt of a sword.

Shit. Preparing for the stitch to take hold, Rex grimaced and bowed as customary. The stitch bit hard and kept him doubled. He fought through it to stand at attention.

The Barron dropped his frilly napkin onto his plate. “And tell me, if you know…” The Barron flicked his ear.

Rex had seen the motion several times before. The Barron was going to ask him three questions and expected accurate answers. Every I do not know would equal jail time. Three insufficient answers meant execution. Why’d he have burst in?

“If you have a brain, use it now — since you didn’t use it a moment ago.” The Barron raised a finger with each question. “Who is Barron over the land that Fort Dawn occupies? How many times has said Barron spread false information? If your report is accurate, to whom do these so-called dogs of war owe their allegiance?”

Rex knew the first, had a good guess for the second; he bit his lip. Barron Talis would never believe reports of independent gnolls.

© Ezekiel James Boston

Jerus Dragonfriend stopped at the crest of Aver Hill. The giant iron oaks that formed the forest line were rumored to be old forest guardians from a time when trees ruled the land. A time before man mastered the crafts of fire and magic.

True or not, he had made a spring tradition of coming to the forest line to sit in its cool shade to breathe in the sweet air full of blackberries and honeysuckle. With the calls of the emerald parrots echoing each other, he would stare at Bark Bones; the colossal testament to Oulst’Dar the Ancient Gold Dragon, The Last Great Dragon of Knowledge.

Having taken winter lessons from his great grandfather’s specter on this very spot, habit made him turned to take in Bark Bones one more time. It might be years before he could return. What would his great grandfather’s spirit do without a student?

“A piece of history for you, Marco.” Jerus motioned his head to Bark Bones. “Ten generations ago, my ancestor made Bark Bones from Nar’Dast’s remains.”

“Blood of a dragon slayer, huh?” Marco Direwind turned mid-stride to look back. “Tend tell me great boaster of deeds no one can verify, how did your family come to be Dragonfriend?”

Jerus smiled. “They’ll be time for that story any many more–“

“Spare me.” Marco cast his eyes skyward. “Just to be clear–” He leveled his gaze upon Jerus. “I’m not here to be your friend or earpiece. I’m being paid to take you to the Suntouched Stronghold and that’s it. I don’t need your tales of old. I don’t want your sagely reflections. I only want the purse offered for delivering you.”

Jerus mouth gaped open. How dare he?

Marcus moved past him into the iron oaks. “And save your indignation. You have the spark, but you aren’t a mage, kid. Not yet. So, do us both a favor.” Marcus strode ever deeper into darkening the woods. “Shut up and keep up.”

© Ezekiel James Boston

Like the Syrup and Butter private conference halls attached to The Big Biscuit Night Club, the Gravy hall was large enough to comfortably hold a five hundred person event or—if the center tables were removed to make a dance floor, mosh pit, or whatever—it could hold a thousand in a standing room only fashion.

The Gravy hall still sported the wedding set up from the night prior. White folding chairs crowded where left around round white wine-stained satin bunted tables. White lace strewn from the rafters in a complex braid and the white trestle, also braided with white lace, still stood on the wooden platform at the front of the room.

Standing door guard at the green room North Lord Maze was using to hold private meetings, Chuck Garcia kept steady watch over the fifty-three vampires still in the main room. Most gathered together in small clicks peering at the other small clicks.

Chuck sneered. Their posturing was like that of “cool kids” trying to out cool the others.

A few younger vampires, no more than a decade dead, tried to curry favor by running messages between the clicks as they power-played in innuendo; jockeying to control what part of the city Lord Maze declared public.

The only sound breaking up the whispers came from an obese, newly turned vampire. Oblivious to the others, she went around the tables desperately clanking lids away from plates with remaining food. Feeling starvation, she kept trying to eat. No matter how finely she chewed the food, right after she swallowed, she’d heave it back up, and would move on to the next plate or the next table.

Chuck had done similar when he was turned, but having been a raging alcoholic, it was booze for him. He couldn’t keep anything down and now, could only get a drunk-buzz by drinking from someone with a .4 BAC.

Any sympathy Chuck would’ve had for the woman unable to scratch her jones had been lost hours ago when the waft of uncovered day-old fish permeated the room. Her regent, a slightly larger man standing near two other rotund vampires, kept a lazy eye on her like a jaded parent would a toddler exploring a child-proofed house.

The smell didn’t bother the sloths, but everyone else—too cool to cover or throw away the spoiled food—spoke through crinkled noses.

Chuck would’ve done it, but he was on door duty.

For someone of Chuck’s prowess and skills, it was a simple job really. Don’t let anyone in that North Lord Maze didn’t specifically call for. A battle-tested veteran, he could single-handedly beat away any of these sissified cliques if they tried to force their way in. But, when Carolynn Crimson walked in, if Chuck could still sweat, he would’ve.

© Ezekiel James Boston