Vol.5, Ch.3, P.10
That outburst sprang from nowhere other than the thundering throat of Sigmund, who, in his fury, rammed his right fist into the ruffian’s face.
“Gapfh!?” the latter yelped. His dagger fell, bloodless. His body foundered, bloody of nose. Sigmund stepped nigh, keen to continue the tussle. But somehow escaping unconsciousness, the ruffian fumbled back to his feet, took up his dagger, and stood dangerously again.
“…Why, I’ll get ye fer that!” he barked. “Get ye dead! Dead!!”
“Then come get it done!!” Sigmund roared, and with stunning speed, he pelted unto his opponent. The dagger flashed in answer—but found naught. The hand that held it convulsed; the arm that swung it twisted. For Sigmund had seized the man’s wrist, and wrenched it, and wrung it with such force that once again the dagger fled the ruffian’s fingers. And right when it did, another sound affrighted the air—a crack, a crunch, a crumble, altogether at once—as deep into the man’s shoulder plunged Sigmund’s elbow.
“Gwaaeegh!?” so wailed the man, and for the third time, he buckled unto the cobblestones, there to cower as Sigmund resumed his assault. “Bwahh!” the man gagged. Beating his belly now was the cap of Sigmund’s boot; a kick so cruel so as to leave the victim’s lungs lost of all their air. Yet Sigmund was merciless. One after the other, the kicks continued. The roaring continued. The whimpering continued. Till at length, silence and stillness returned, if only for a moment. The man, upon a puddle of his own saliva and vomit, laid curled and quivering. “Akh… khahh…” he wheezed.
But the air shook again. “Get me ‘dead’, ah!? Get me dead!?” Sigmund screamed. “Well, get up, then! Up! Up with it!!”
So resounded one man’s mercilessness for a world so without mercy.
∵
The alleyway was quiet again. The scoundrel had escaped, all in a drivelling panick. Remaining in the mirk now was Sigmund and the wench.
“Y-you, er… I…” she stammered, but fell softly to silence. Sigmund stood without response. Spent he was now of what faint fancy he had for this affair. And so, with damsel saved and villain dealt with, the former mercenary began to take his leave. “Wh—! Oy!” the woman called after him.
“Ah?” Sigmund grunted.
Finding him now stopped and turning sharply her way, the woman shrank a bit. “Er, I ehm,” she began clumsily, but collecting herself, said on, “T-thank ye. Thank ye kindly.” At that, Sigmund looked away and replied with but another grunt. “…Ye reight saved me, ye did,” the woman said quietly. “That prick. ’E were wantin’ t’bugger up me face. Would’ve spelt the end o’ me, ’ad ye not step’d in.”
The dagger blade flashed bright in her mind, and she quivered for it. Not that the covess was unaccustomed to cruelty. It went with the trade, so to speak; violence and violation were common vices to her eyes. Too much so. Such was why she had revolted little at Sigmund’s rage. But a blade intent upon her face? Nay, nay—aught and all but that. Indeed, just the thought of it left her weak at the knees and shivering at the shoulders. Himself having under his belt no few dealings with women, Sigmund could not help but yield to the pang of pity.
“…Eh, well. Better mine than yours,” he said less astringently now, before pointing to his own face. There it ran down his right cheek: a large scar carved out by the black blade of a certain rebel.
To that, the woman laughed softly. Then, as though heartened by Sigmund’s words, she revealed a wistful smile. “Ain’t got much t’me name, see,” she began explaining herself. “No crib, no coin. Thought t’bezzle a bit t’get by, if ye catch me.”
“Aye,” replied Sigmund. Curt, yes, but it was all he could say, to be sure.
Once upon a time was coin coerced from the woman—a mountain more than was rightfully required of her. The injustice sent her plunging into debt, destitution… and desperation. Of course, none of this did she relate aloud to Sigmund in that moment. But the man himself guessed as much. It was, sadly, not so seldom a story, after all. Not in these parts. Not in this world.
“Well…” said the woman, “…want t’get warm, then? It’s on me.”
A night of passion, free of charge. It was all she could offer in thanks, painfully empty of purse as she was. Sigmund, however, was blunt in his answer.
“No,” he said, “not tonight.”
The woman hung her head. “Reight…”
“Chin up. I’m needed elsewhere. That’s all.”
“Needed?”
Sigmund pointed over his shoulder. “The army wot’s camp’d outside.”
“…Ah. A soldier ye be, then.”
Sigmund had not the libido to bed with her. Oh, indeed, that was the simple pith of it. He was expected back at the bivouac, true enough. But truer still, he was never so much a man for punctuality and appointments that it should keep him from the bed. Truest of all, however, was that he had neither the heart to outright reject so dejected a woman. Thus had he given what he gave: a convenient excuse—one with as much courtesy as his discourteous self could muster.
“Must be tough,” noted the woman, “marchin’ t’battle an’ all.”
“Yours looks no less a battlefield,” replied Sigmund.
“Maybe,” said the woman. The wry grin on her lips then faded. “But… I don’t reckon I can fight ’nother night. Not ’nymore…”
The ruffian prior—he was but a bottom-feeder, so to speak; a lowly tout to tug amorous men through the brothel doors. Rather typical for such operations: prostitution here had grown into an organised enterprise, the machinations whereof the woman was but a cog. That is, a cog that had sprung loose. To embezzle was to break an oath, and caught red-handed as she had been, the woman’s plight was paling by the day. True to her word, this war of hers here in Arbel—of selling her body on one night for a pittance of bread the next day—much seemed at its sunset.
Mournfully, she chuckled. “…Guess me luck’s run dry, anyhow,” she mused.
“You wot?” pressed Sigmund.
“Mm? Aye, wot’s a woman t’do without kin or schoolin’?” the woman explained. “Lived long an’ strong as I could; climb’d as ’igh, try’d me best—only t’land in a brothel, despite. An’ now, even that door’s meanin’ t’shut on me.” To that, Sigmund was silent, watching the woman wane in spirit. “Ah, well…” she sighed, “…least th’stars be pretty t’night.”
Up to the skies she searched. Surrender twinkled in her eyes. Such a light, such a heart—too familiar these seemed to Sigmund. And at that moment, he saw it again. Felt it. The piercing, stabbing rains of the slums. The shamelessness of nobles and their lacqueys. The irremovable reek and wretchedness of this world.
“Then shog on out o’ ’ere,” he suggested asudden.
The woman blinked. “Shog?” she half-gasped, as though the thought had never occurred to her. But, shaking her head, she said, “Ain’t no place left t’shog to, methinks…”
“Make for Balasthea, then, why don’t ya?” said Sigmund, strangely insistent. “They be needin’ ’ands for ’ousewifery, last I ’eard. Cookin’, cleanin’—ought give it a go, leastways, aye? ’Ell, could even try your luck in Hensen, if ya fancies it.”
Of late did Balasthea bustle. A fortress and trading stop both, merchants and material now crowded nigh-on its every corner. But with business booming, labour was sore-needed to support it. Long and back-breaking labour, to be sure, but an honest living just the same. Barring that, there was Hensen, as well, the gates whereof would rather welcome a world-weary woman as she. Indeed, such was the reach of the newborn economic sphere, that a daughter of Man could now seek employ in Nafílim places.
Albeit, this was all rather wishful thinking.
The woman hesitated. “H-Hensen?” she echoed breathlessly. “But thass in Nafíl country, innit? An’ Balasthea… well, I don’t know. A mite too mil’tary fer me taste, that place…”
“Hmph. Well, suit yaself,” Sigmund said, curt and cold again. Turning, he took his leave of the woman without a word, as ever was his wont.
“Er, ye… y-ye reckon I can make it, maybe?” she called to him as he slowly receded away. “In… in Balasthea? In Hensen?”
“Can’t bloody know till ya tries, now can ya?” Sigmund answered in passing. Or more precisely in his heart: better to be buried six heads under than to surrender to so insufferable a world. Better it was to fight than founder—just as he had done.
“Wot ’bout you?” the woman asked. “’Ave ye made it yeself?”
Sigmund scoffed as her question echoed down the alleyway. “Damn’d if I knows,” he said. “But leastways, I’ll fight tooth an’ nail till I does.” And there, Sigmund stopped, shot a look over his shoulder, and said to her, “Like a proper droll ’ound, aye?”
The woman winced. “Oy, reight sorry ’bout that, I am…” she weakly apologised, earning the faintest of smiles from Sigmund’s lips. With naught more to say, the swordsman took his leave in earnest.
What would become of this woman, he could not guess. Where she would go next on this night; where the sun would find her come the cold morrow—such uncertainties smouldered in his heart. And for that, he could not help but risk one simple wish.
That to wheresoever she wanders, may mirth and meaning bless this woman at last.
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)