-proverb

Early Winter 3133, Greywater Deep

The city of Greywater Deep was quiet, as was often the case so early in the morning. Nevertheless, Baeren's head still pounded from the mead and ale he drank the night before. He rubbed his temples with his fingers and swayed, leaning on his companion for support.

"If you can't keep your feet, then go back to the inn and sleep another hour, but don't lean on me this morning," Said Gaelen Howe. "You'll regret it when you wind up wearing my dinner from last night."

Baeren steadied himself and looked at his friend. Gaelen Howe stood a full head and shoulders above Baeren. His face, normally nothing to brag about, was even uglier today. His dark hair was matted to his face with a stinking mixture of sweat, mead, and rain. His nose, abnormally large for his face, was swollen from one of the several brawls he had been involved in the night before. His left eye was swollen almost completely shut. He was opening and closing his mouth slowly in repetition, his right hand holding his bruised jaw. His massive knuckles were bruised and scabbed from punching everything the night before from a City Guardsman wearing a helmet with a nose-piece to inanimate objects such as walls, chairs, and barrels. His good eye was bloodshot and only half open. Yes, thought Baeren, a night on the town with Gaelen Howe was something to be remembered, and rarely repeated.

Baeren rubbed his own jaw. It ached also.

"You should take less offense when you are called ugly by a three-toothed whore, and try not to pick a fight with five of her clients next time," He told his friend.

"I don't know why you're upset about it, you hardly did a thing. I'm the one who took on all five of them," Gaelen replied, "Your only bruise is from hitting the floor when you passed out!"

Baeren was not about to argue with the massive man, his stomach was a little too uneasy for arguing. He ignored the comment.

With Carl Hygul away with Baeren's father, Gaelen had little reason to stay in Hygul's manor and see to his normal squiring duties. He was soon to become a full-fledged Carl, anointed by the Duke as soon as he returned, no doubt. He did not bother training when his master was away either. He had mastered the use of his heavy mace and two-sided war axe. There wasn't a man in Greywater Deep who had anything left to teach him except those who left with the duke. Training against other squires would be fruitless, and quite dangerous for them. In the heat of battle, Gaelen had little self-control. Baeren had seen him hit a man so hard in training that he nearly split the man's skull with a practice sword when he was only 13. He had filled out since then. Now, at nearly 18 summers, standing nearly six and a half feet tall, and weighing at least twice as much as Baeren, he was frightening with a weapon. Of course, he was equally frightening with a mug of mead.

"It will be morning soon, I suppose Maeric will be sending out the guards to find me soon." Said Baeren half in jest.

"So your brother's become quite the worrier since he became Lord of the Keep, eh?" Asked Gaelen, patting Baeren on the back with one of his huge hands. Baeren nearly fell forward on his face, regained his balance, and then nearly lost his dinner.

"Please, no touching…" moaned Baeren when he felt he could speak without losing the contents of his stomach.

"Fine," said Gaelen. He stopped suddenly, clutching his stomach. "I think I might need to dispose of some mutton…" he grunted as he dove for the shadows to loose the contents of his own stomach.

Gaelen turned the corner just ahead of Baeren and disappeared in the darkness. Gaelen was not fond of the major inns in Greywater Deep. Instead, he preferred the smaller, shadier establishments near the Deep itself. These were the taverns and inns used by sailors and vagabonds who came in the city via the harbor. Needless to say, the City Guard frequented such locations seldom, and there was little light in the alleys around them. The food was often rank and poorly prepared, which made the after-drinking vomiting a regular ritual.

Baeren leaned against the cold stone of the building he stood before and waited for his friend to finish. He closed his eyes a moment as he leaned there out of weariness when a scraping sound behind him startled him fully awake.

He turned, and saw nothing through his hazy vision. He listened, and heard only the groans of Gaelen who had only just begun to empty his guts.

Must have been a rat.

He leaned back against the building, and closed his eyes again.

Then he heard it again. He snapped his head back up, his head spinning in the process. There was still nothing. Across the narrow alley, the shadows filled the small spaces between buildings, and with his vision impaired by too much alcohol, Baeren could not pierce the darkness. He leaned back again, this time his back to the wall, and closed his eyes until only a slit remained for him to see through. Then he saw it.

There was a narrow gap between the buildings not ten feet away, and something definitely moved in the shadows, and it was no rat. It was large, and definitely glinted of steel.

"Gaelen!" he hissed in a whisper. His friend was still vomiting, and apparently did not hear.

He felt at his side for a sword or dagger, and found nothing.

Of course not! Who brings a dagger whoring and drinking?

He slid his back down the wall until his hands could reach the ground, his eyes never leaving the shadows across the alley. There was definitely more than one figure there in the darkness. He could see them from this angle as they slid off the roof of the nearest building. One, two, three, plus the one he had already seen. He felt the ground around his body for a rock, stick, or anything that he could use as a weapon. His hands found only pebbles and dirt.

The figures stepped one-by-one from the shadows and formed a half circle about Baeren. He could see them clearly now- they were men dressed in dark cloaks. One carried a short sword, so short it could have been a dagger for a large man, another had no visible weapon, but finer garments, the other two had crude clubs.

"S-Stay back!" He told the four men. "Don't lay a hand on me, I am-"

"We know exactly who you are, boy," Said the one with the blade. "Why do you think we've been a-followin' you since the tavern?"

"What do you want?" he asked them. "I have no money, I spent it all-"

"We're not after yer money, boy!" the man interrupted again, "It's yer skin we're a lookin' for!" He took a step closer, the sword held before him. "Now that yer large friend has gone off on his own, I think we'll be takin' that pretty head o' yers off yer neck!"

The unarmed man stepped forward then, looking deep into Baeren's eyes, searching for something.

"Do you know me, boy?" he asked in a thin, hissing voice. "Do your recognize my face?"

Baeren was shaking, and his heart was beating rapidly. He looked at the man's face, but noticed nothing familiar. The man was tall and thin, with angular features. His skin was dark, unless that was an effect of the darkness, Baeren could not tell. He had sharp, piercing green eyes, and a head entirely devoid of hair. A thin mustache framed his upper lip and two long tails of it fell alongside his mouth. The hair was black, and oiled.

"N-n-no," he answered, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

"Well," answered the man in a voice that made Baeren's skin crawl, "I know you, and nothing else matters." He stepped back and allowed the other three men to step closer, weapons raised.

He could that these men were brawlers, but he did not know if they truly knew the art of fighting. He had been trained since youth to fight. Granted, he was usually trained with a sword, but he was very good at reading opponents' instincts. At least Carl Mitter Wycke always said so.

He knew he could not wait for them to jump him. He was outnumbered four to one. No, this situation called for escape, not bravery. He paused only a moment to think of Gaelen, but could think of no way to alert him without causing the men to kill him even faster. But if he could draw them away, Gaelen should be fine.

Thinking quickly, Baeren stood slowly, his hands up before him as if he was ready to surrender to these thugs. The man with the blade lowered his weapon, a toothless smile spreading across his lips as he assumed his prey would surrender easily. The man took a step closer to Baeren, and reached out to grab him by the wrist with his free hand. Baeren sprang. He quickly grabbed the man's wrist, pulling him off balance. The man was surprised by the sudden action and fell forward, flat on his face. The sword went clattering off into the alley, and his friends stood in shocked indecision. The bald man lunged forward, his long-nailed fingers clawing at Baeren's cloak. Baeren balled his right hand into a fist, and swung with all his strength at him, catching his jaw squarely with a satisfying "crack!" The man went tumbling backwards, unconscious from the hit. Now was his chance! Baeren gathered himself to leap over the sprawled man and run for safety. He was an athletic young man, and could have done that jump in his sleep…when he was sober. In his drunken state, he landed on the back of the man's leg, and his ankle twisted sideways.

Sharp, stabbing pain from his sprained ankle shot up his leg as he fell to the ground. The other two men were on him immediately. He felt a sharp blow to his side as the first swung his club into his body. The crack of breaking ribs was sickening. He drew his breath, and stabbing pain shot through his entire body. He tasted blood.

He looked up to see the second man raising his club for a blow to his head. He closed his eyes against the coming blow. It never fell. Just as he expected to feel the crush of the wooden club, another sound, that of fist-on-flesh, cut the air.

Baeren opened his eyes to see the second attacker lying next to him, his face a bloody mess. Gaelen had the other man by the neck, his feet several inches from the ground kicking wildly. Bearen could see the man's eyes bulge as Gaelen's fingers closed around his throat. The man's face turned a sickening blue as Gaelen choked the life out of him. Baeren breathed a painful sigh of relief until he saw Gaelen's eyes go suddenly wide. The big man dropped the choking attacker with a deep howl, and staggered forward, the hilt of a short sword protruding from his back. The blade was sticking at least six inches into his flesh. He fell to his knees, clutching for the hilt. He could not reach it.

Behind him stood the toothless attacker, a wide grin on his face. He reached under his cloak and drew forth a short knife and took a step toward Baeren.

"This time, boy," he said, "Y' won't be tryin' to run from me eh?"

Baeren tried to stand, but the combined pain from his swollen ankle and broken ribs was too great, and he collapsed on the ground. He was having trouble breathing, and his breaths came in painful gasps. Gaelen was still now. Baeren could not tell by listening if the large man was still alive, or if he was dead. He did not take his eyes off the approaching attacker.

"Wha-" began Baeren, he paused for a fit of bloody coughing, "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" mocked the attacker. "What a pitiful young boy you are! I want you dead, of course! I don't get paid until yer not breathin'! Each of the Gendry men as dies, he told me, is twenty gold! You and yer whelp of a brother! He's goin' to be next, you know."

Baeren tried to back away from the approaching blade, but he quickly felt the cold, wet stone of a building's outer wall blocking his retreat.

Gaelen was struggling to get back to his feet. He had managed to wrench the blade from his back, but he was losing blood quickly, and he could barely keep himself afoot. Baeren looked at his friend in hopes that the big man would spring to his rescue, but he only saw Gaelen sink back to one knee.

The attacker lunged then, plunging the knife into Baeren's belly. Gaelen let loose a monster scream of anger and threw himself bodily from one knee, through the air, to land on the man. Before the stunned man could react, Gaelen had him by the wrist, twisting the knife back around toward the man's throat. The attacker's eyes were wide with fright, and he struggled under the weight and strength of Gaelen's body to free his hand. Baeren could see the tip of the knife as it first made contact with the man's throat. A small trickle of blood appeared and ran down his neck. But the knife did not stop. Gaelen's face was serene, almost calm as he pressed harder on the blade, and it sank into the soft flesh. It all seemed to be happening in slow motion for Baeren.

The man made not scream as the blade bit into his throat, only a quiet gurgling sound as his windpipes filled with blood. After a brief moment, he stopped struggling, and he lay still. His eyes were fixed on Baeren's, in an eerie pleading stare. Gaelen struggled to rise to his feet, but sank back to his knees, and collapsed on his face next to Baeren in the street. His back was black with wet blood.

Baeren tried to stand, but found that the effort was too great amidst the pain. There was one man still alive amid the dead bodies, the one he had knocked unconscious with a punch to the face in the first exchange of blows. From where he lay, he could not see him anywhere. Had he gone? Baeren did not know. He grew suddenly tired and put his head back on the ground. Breathing was difficult, and his breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs aching with needle-sharp pain with each drawn breath. Baeren brought his hands to his eyes to wipe the dirt out of them. At least, he thought it must be dirt. There were spots to his vision. Dark circles where his sight was shaded. He found his hands to be covered in blood.

How could I have forgotten? The knife wound! That is my blood!

His friend lay unconscious nearby, probably bleeding to death in the street.

Bleeding to death…like me. He thought to himself.

As the dark spots grew and he lost consciousness, Baeren wondered at how, with all the blood he was losing, the knife wound did not pain him in the least.