\\-----1-----//

  Drinking to Drown

  Meralin City, Merchant State of Meralin

  Five years since the fall of Peran

  Matrien no longer celebrated the day of his birth. He hadn’t for many years.

  Instead, granted a week’s leave by the Free Eastern Armies, Matrien had wandered, like a death wraith, stumbling through the central district of the merchant city of Meralin, his brutish figure attracting unwanted attention from many he passed. Moved on from every tavern he had entered, a few more eager scoundrels approached him as he walked, but those who did soon realised it would have been better not to.

  It might also have been an overstatement to argue that he had been ‘granted’ his leave. That would suggest that the generals of the Eastern Armies – those with whom he worked with so… closely – had, out of their own kindness, been willing to let him take his birth week off. Of course not. If he had been anyone else, any normal soldier, this would have been unthinkable – impossible – as all men were needed at the front. But for him; well… he had a reputation.

  The Onslaught had not yet reached -Meralin, and it showed. Children still wore smiles that stretched harmlessly across their faces, while parents did not yet see fit to keep their younglings close by. City guardsmen made their rounds without much worry, making banter with passers-by. Their armour was light, their swords kept sheathed at their waists, and they carried with them a sort of innocence that Matrien was not used to seeing on men of the sword. Unprepared. That was what Meralin was.

  Brightly coloured linen sheets hung overhead from poles made of some sort of bamboo-like tree, shading the bustling market beneath, while the smell of wet paint meandered from stencilled enlistment slogans that covered the nearby walls. Children looked upon them with wonder, while adults seemed to ignore them entirely. Oh how they had no idea.

  The great battle of our age, one of the slogans read, a fight for glory, a fight for you! Matrien couldn’t even force a laugh. Your nation needs you! And what nation would that be? Their number was growing thinner and thinner by the month, all falling under their control.

  As a less experienced lad, such words might have appealed to him, convinced him, even. But that was then, and this was now. That was not why Matrien fought, not for honour or money or glory. He had real reasons.

  Matrien ducked where one of the overhead sheets sagged, emerging where the market opened up into a dusty square. The smell of fresh bread and spiced meat hit him as he perused the stalls on either side with half-drunken interest. Many – though he could not be sure of all – sold goods he knew to be stolen from men such as he, good men who had fallen in the fight against the Onslaught. Again, had he been a more influenceable man, a more sober man, this might well have angered him, but it did not. He did not often find himself free of the responsibilities of battle, and he would damn well be making good use of it now. No distractions. It was not the smell of food or the dealings of this place that had tempted him here. No. That was not what his pittance of a wage was for.

  A low-rising structure cowered in one corner of the square, hidden carefully behind a shack selling butchered meat. At first glance, the building looked no different than any of the others that made up the square’s outskirts – it was made of the same sandy white stone and was equally flat-topped. It was, perhaps, a little more run down than the rest he could see, but so was much of Meralin.

  What one might notice should they watch for long enough, however, was the way the shutters remained shut even on the hottest of days, the clanging of the sliding peephole as each guest was inspected, or the fact that men would often enter as early as the morning and seem not to leave until well after the sun had already fallen again.

  For Matrien, however, he did not have the time to be waiting to find such things. He could recognise places like these from ten leagues away.

  Careful not to raise suspicion as he approached, Matrien nosed into the butcher’s stall, poking at a piece of red meat turned slight brown. The butcher was quick to notice Matrien’s slight joyfulness, and shooed him away with flapping hands. This was all as Matrien had intended, and he reared around the side of the shack, finding himself beside that sad-looking building.

  Matrien closed in on the structure. It seemed even more dreary up close than it had from afar. Its roof was not entirely flat, instead sagging in the middle beneath the weight of itself. At its front, a small porch protruded, kept upright by heavy stone pillars at either side. Matrien stepped into this covering, glad to be free of the dusty sand that had been gently smacking at his clothes since he arrived in the region. He set to looking.

  What he was searching for was confirmation that he had come to the right place. It would be hidden well, undiscoverable by anyone not in the know. It would be small, faint, unique. Or not. At the base of the doorframe, drawn awkwardly in opaque white chalk or paint was an emblem in the shape of a diamond. Within it – hilariously obvious, Matrien thought – was what could only be described as a smirking face atop a circular coin. Smiles, gold, diamonds: could a gambling house make themselves any more obvious? It was a wonder that authorities had not yet discovered it. Or perhaps they had.

  Matrien knocked three times against the heavy wooden door. This was not his first time approaching such places, though this was his first in Meralin. He knew how they worked, that it was better to be straight-forward, confident, like you knew you were meant to be there.

  When no answer came, Matrien’s brow furrowed. Perhaps he had been wrong. Intending to bash the thing again, he brought his mammoth arm back up, fist clenched. Ready to slam, the hatch slid open. In the darkness behind it, two eyes prodded at him, judging. He pulled his hood down, and his shaggy hair fell loose to his shoulders.

  “Yer business?” A raspy voice asked from beyond the door.

  That was unusual. Gambling houses usually had code words. Matrien thought to take a step back but maintained his confidence.

  “I bring three wishes and a pot of gold,” Matrien said. That had been one of the phrases used in some of the other dens. That had been four months ago, though – the last time he had escaped the front. Codes might well have changed since then.

  “Those wishes have been used up, lad,” the other replied. “Used months ago.” The metal peephole slammed shut.

  Matrien’s heart thumped as the eyes vanished. Where else would he get his fix? He tried to remember locations he had beaten out of the information broker in Lardin. He couldn’t. None close enough to reach within his last few days of leave, at least.

  Maybe he could just beat the door down. It was certainly an idea. But then they likely wouldn’t let him play, and he wanted to play. He shook his head and shifted away from the door. There would be no use making a scene. He could try again after a few more drinks.

  “But that pot of gold might come in handy,” the croaky voice continued. Matrien used his fleet-footedness to spin back unnaturally quick. The peephole had opened no more than a few finger-widths. “Handy for me, at least. One or two would do, maybe three.”

  Matrien smiled, reaching for the gap between his white, silky top and dreary outer robe. He had tried to dress in a manner befitting someone with such meagre earnings as he – simply – but Matrien had ensured he made the correct precautions that an officer in the Free Eastern Armies should. He kept most of his earnings hidden well within the leather bag strapped tightly over his left shoulder but left a few coins easily accessible within his garments – enough so that pickpockets would think they had stolen everything from him, but too little for it to be life-threatening if lost.

  As Matrien fumbled about his robe, the single peeking eye hung with nervous anticipation. It seemed to watch each movement eagerly, clinging to the squirming creases that rose where his fingers did, desperately awaiting the re-emergence of his hand. Noticing this, Matrien wasted a little of the man’s time, coins in hand but fingers play-moving. On multiple occasions, he brought his hand to the gap where his robes crossed, his wrist emerging, only to pull a look of confusion, and push his hand back in.

  Eventually, the man’s patience ran. He knocked a heavy hand against the door, before beginning to shut the sliding peephole again. “If you do not have the coin,” he said, voice gruff, “then move along. Others will be coming soon. Others who do.”

  Matrien tried to hide his smirk. He’d had his fun. Five coins will do, he thought. Five coins was enough to buy his entry and more. It would curry favour with the doorman of this establishment, and who was better to find favour with than the man who controlled entry to his favourite pastime? If he should come back again, however unlikely that was, Matrien would hope to find more satisfactory treatment than that which met him today.

  Five silver coins – a mix, adorned with the faces of different rulers – sat in his dry-skinned palm. All coins were of equal value in the Merchant City of Meralin, so long as their weight was the same. Two were coins of Meralin – thinner but greater in width. Two were of Lardin – thicker, with a smaller imprint – and the final one came from some nation whose name was too scrubbed to be read. Matrien never gave away coins printed with his father’s image. Never.

  Matrien brought his hand in line with the hole, and the eye lit up.

  Metal clinked first as the man closed the peephole, second as he unlatched the locking mechanism, and third as its hinges strained under the weight of the swinging door. It opened inward, and Matrien stepped in.

  A box slid across into the opposite corner of the small room as the man scurried away from the door. He was much shorter than Matrien had thought he would be, much too small to be seeing through that high-sitting peephole. Matrien chuckled. The man’s face grew a deep red.

  “The coins,” he blurted, his body turned to the side and his arm raised into an open hand.

  “Show me first,” Matrien said. He knew how these sorts of men worked. First the shrivelled old man would ask for his coin, and then he would charge extra to show him the hidden entrance. He had fallen for that his first time.

  The man huffed a great huff but started toward one side of the room, where a wardrobe stood, outlandishly tall and wide, against a poorly plastered wall. Again, Matrien thought, how worryingly obvious. Perhaps so obvious that it had become hidden in plain sight. Otherwise, the room, lit only by the cracks in its window shutters, looked mostly unused. A chair sat in one corner, only three of four legs still standing, while boxes and cupboards collected dust, and an unusually decorative rug lay, trodden and dirty, on battered floorboards.

  Before the wooden wardrobe, the man stretched a twig-like arm for one of its handles, pulling the thing against its squeaky hinges. The door swung open, before shuddering at its full extension. Dust fell from atop the wardrobe, falling to the floor like grey rain.

  “You’ll have to push through the clothes,” he said, gesturing to some poorly hung drabs, “we’ve got to keep it hidden somehow.” The man took a small step back, allowing Matrien space. The man seemed to cast his gaze upon Matrien properly for the first time as he neared, his mouth gaping in a sort of half-awe. “Ah,” he coughed, “I must apologise for my inability to open the other door. Something about it being rusted shut, or something, I think. Anyway, you will have to squeeze through. I do apologise.”

  Matrien shook his head. But he could deal with this much. The man held out his hand once more. Matrien placed four of the coins down, pocketing the last. Tax for his attempted scam. The man seemed not to notice, or at least pretended not to.

  Pulling his sword so that it stuck tight to his body, and bringing the leather bag to his side, Matrien tried to make himself thin.

  It was not as if he did not know it already, but there really was no way to make a man such as he – a man trained only to battle those monsters of the Onslaught – small. His shoulders were much too broad, his arms too thick. Should he turn to the side, his chest would still be too large. But money was calling! By the gods he would get through.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Breathing in heavily, he made his move.

  Holding his breath so tightly made his head go funny, but it made him smaller at the waist, even just a little. He stepped one heavy foot inside the wardrobe. As he did, the lower reaches of his stomach came into contact with the sanded side of the rusted-shut door, while his back felt equally tight against the outer edge of the wardrobe. Fat fuck, he called himself, before shoving his gut through. The rest of him soon followed, his chest squeezing through only when he let out the air in his lungs. Finally, he brought in his rear leg. As he moved to place it on the hard bottom of the wardrobe, it clipped the inside face of the locked door. The thing creaked open.

  Matrien stood in shock for a moment, before turning back to the man, who he expected would be an even deeper shade of red than earlier after such a mistake. But he was wrong. The man seemed rejuvenated and prideful, as if he had done it all on purpose.

  Matrien had fallen for it completely. He could not even be angry.

  The man smiled and bowed, bringing a hand across his chest toward his heart. He seemed now like a court jester. “The name’s Arin, for future reference,” he chuckled. “And I must thank you for the coin, Master Soldier. Do enjoy your games!”

  The man slammed the door shut, and the interior fell into darkness.

  Matrien struggled not to smile as he pushed through the rack of clothes. A small part of him wondered if he really was entering a gambling den, or if that mischievous old man had tricked him into a real wardrobe. For a very brief moment, he honestly thought he would find nothing but a wall of wood.

  Thankfully, Matrien’s foot fell onto a lower step as he pushed past the last of the clothes. Further down, candlelight flickered.

  Matrien pulled up his hood as he neared the bottom of the stairs. The types of people he would find here were not the kind you would want staring more than they needed.

  The steps beneath him squeaked loudly beneath his weight, as if squealing for help. Lucky for him, however, that the den was loud enough to conceal such noise. No need to draw all attention to himself at once.

  What he found at the bottom of the staircase was a regular scene. The place was much like a tavern of the surface, but for its lack of sunlight. Along one side, those who did not bet occupied arch-fronted booths, chugging their bottles or tankards of brownish liquid. In each corner, men at least as wide as Matrien stood watch, waiting for the next argument, the next fight. These men wore their heads mostly bald, but for a thin black line of scruff through the middle. They were Barrowmen – mercenaries; the kind used by many places like these. Through the large room’s centre, an array of different tabletop games found themselves surrounded by rowdy onlookers, while the bar was equally crowded. Well-dressed dealers passed out cards or threw dice atop the velvet-topped tables.

  Matrien could tell who was winning by the number of women that flocked to each man. Those who were most nervous, whose very life rested on the games they played, found themselves alone in their endeavours, while those with larger piles of coin, those better dressed and better groomed, clutched at their arms some rather interesting looking women.

  In many cities, including this one, it seemed, women were not given the right to gamble. Instead, they were forced to watch as the men enjoyed themselves. Peran had outlawed the practice entirely centuries ago, citing some moral reason for why its people should not be allowed. Of course, this ban had only applied to those of lower standing. Matrien had known many of his father’s closest friends to be avid gamblers; they spoke of their winnings over warm fire and slick alcohol.

  An officer in the Free Eastern Armies, Matrien would fit somewhere in the middle of those who frequented this place, well dressed enough so as not to look like a beggar, but not putting down large enough amounts to attract unnecessary attention. Though it was not the attention of the women here that he longed for.

  Matrien always bet just enough that he could enjoy his night to the fullest – sometimes winning big, sometimes not – but never enough to risk going without food. He had important things to be doing, things that meant more to him even than gambling. He could stop when he needed to. In that way, he did not consider himself an addict.

  But when alcohol got involved, however; well that was a different game entirely. As he patrolled the outer rim of the room, scouting, he recalled multiple times where, sent over the edge by one or two too many drinks, he had found himself coinless and desperate. In such cases, he would offer a bet against his clothing, or would pester another customer for the chance to win it back in a duel. Men that came to these kinds of places would always pick the former, and, strangely, Matrien always seemed to win back just enough to feed himself.

  Matrien stumbled across the room, finding himself at the back of a crowded table. Noticing his approach, the crowd parted, and Matrien found himself a seat.

  Noneratt was the game he chose. It was the simplest they had here. In his state, that much was essential if he wanted any chance of winning. As Matrien placed down his buy-in – three silver coins – the dealer began handing out cards. There would be seven in total. The key here was variation, a variety of different numbers.

  Once all cards had been handed out, the dealer – dressed head to toe in dark cloths, his face covered – took the top card from the remaining pack, laying it face down atop the table. All Matrien had to do now was choose a card from his own deck. He chose the King’s card – representative of the number ten. The other five players made their guesses: two chambermaids – threes; a shield man – four; a spearman – six; and a knight – seven.

  Nervous anticipation lingered visibly upon the other players, as Matrien was sure it did on him. He clutched nervously at his remaining cards, wondering if he would have been better to play it safe, to go for a card toward the middle. Either way, it was much too late now to be changing his decision, so all he could do was wait.

  The dealer moved slowly as he reached for the face-down card, meaning only to heighten the players' rapid heartbeats even further. Picking it up by its corner, he span the thing over with an experienced flick of the wrist, slamming it gracefully against the table, only this time its decorative design faced the ceiling.

  Shit, Matrien thought, so close! Staring up at him was the smirking face of the second prince, the number eight. He shook his head and chuckled. This was not going to be a good day for him, and he could feel it.

  Five full games later, fifteen coins down, and Matrien had not won even a single one. He could not tell how long he had been playing – it could well be dark out by now – other than that, at his side, three empty glass tankards sat, their contents having quickly disappeared as he continued to lose.

  “And so he loses again,” the polished man opposite said, looking in Matrien’s direction. The man wore expensive-looking garments – dyed purples and reds – wrapped neatly around his thin torso and was one of those that had women clinging at his sides. “How many is it now?”

  “Five, Sir,” the man’s attendant highlighted, though he knew that no one needed reminding. This rich bastard seemed to be winning every round.

  The man had been quiet at first, making no jests as Matrien found his place at the table. But his confidence seemed only to grow with every drink and every victory. Now, red-faced and words slurring, he chose the biggest man at the table, Matrien, as a target for his insults.

  “What business has a mercenary like you in a place like this, anyway?” The man asked, smiling. Matrien did his best to ignore him, but that high-pitched voice was beginning to grind at his gears like rough sand against stone.

  When Matrien didn’t reply, the man rose in his seat, saying: “Did you not hear me? I asked you what business you have here.”

  Matrien continued to ignore him, though he could feel the eyes of the others at the table turning to him. The cacophony of noise seemed to have dimmed too.

  “Oi!” The attendant shouted from behind the man. He was an older fellow, grey hair falling thin and limp at the sides of his head, the top shiny and bald. “My young lord is talking to you. You would do well to reply.”

  Cheeky, Matrien thought, bringing a tankard to his lips, downing a swig of the liquid gold. Attendants in his father’s palace would not have spoken like that, even to lowly folk.

  He slammed the tankard down against the table. Those nearest to him jumped as it smacked against the hard wood. “My business is none of yours,” Matrien grumbled. If he could just turn the man’s attention away. What did a rich merchant care, anyway?

  “But it is,” the man replied. “It is the business of all in Meralin to know why a mercenary finds himself within our walls, drinking our beer, gambling in our great gambling houses.”

  “And who is to say I am a mercenary?” Matrien replied.

  “The sword at your hip, for one.”

  At his waist, it appeared that the hilt of Matrien’s sword had begun to show itself from within his cloak. He gripped at the materials edges, bringing the cloak together at his front, concealing the thing.

  “Only mercenaries carry swords?” Matrien asked.

  “Mercenaries or—”

  The man’s face sunk.

  “Or soldiers,” Matrien finished his sentence. “I am no mercenary. I am a soldier of the Free Eastern Armies, even if I do not look like it.” His appearance was rather ragged in comparison to most. “So I think it is you would do well to respect me, don’t you think? Who do you think protects you from the Onslaught?”

  This proclamation brought out a chuckle from those who listened in on their conversation.

  “The Onslaught?” the man joked. “You mean your little battle in the desert?” He stood from his seat. “Is it you who keeps plastering our walls with your slogans, too? It is costing me a few coins a week just to remove them!”

  Remove them? Why would you do that?

  “Your army is a joke,” the man continued, “you are no soldier.”

  Matrien’s heart was beginning to beat faster, his stomach churning at the man’s comments. He was a soldier, even if those who did not know refused to admit it.

  Matrien slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, calming his mind. If he could just remember his training… If he could just stay calm…

  “You are nothing more than the measly remains of some weak Kingdoms, lost to even weaker opponents. And yet you dare to suggest that you protect—”

  That was enough. Matrien stood quickly, throwing his tankard toward the man. He gripped at the underside of the table, digging his nails into the splintery wood.

  With a fleeting motion, he ripped the table from its place on the ground, tossing the thing into the air. Doing so did not seem as taxing as it should have.

  Cards and coins flew through the air, the sounds of the metal hitting the floor shimmering like a great band of percussionists. Squealing noises, much like that of a pig being branded or a man being stabbed in the gut, emerged from beyond the table as it landed at the feet of the lordling merchant. Matrien stepped away, chuckling at the idea that it was the man’s shrieking, rather than that of the women who accompanied him.

  The crowd that had stood around the table scurried to where the coins had fallen. One was stuffing the silver things into his dirty cloak like a rodent might food into their cheeks.

  The dealer, his long black hood flowing as he moved, was already on the other side of the room, hurrying toward a door beside the bar. Matrien could not blame the man, he was not paid enough for this.

  All four corners were now empty, the mercenary guards hurrying in Matrien’s direction. Those at the bar, and within the booths, watched on. All eyes were on him, and he wouldn’t have long.

  Matrien jumped atop the table’s edge, which was now raised highest with the heavy thing flat on its side. Even with his drunkenness, his balance remained true, trained, and he stood upright.

  Below him, cowering on his behind, the lordling brought his hands before him, waving his hands like an idiot.

  “I’m not a real soldier,” Matrien joked, smiling, “what is it that scares you so?”

  The man was breathing quickly. “Don’t hurt me,” he said, “I was just…” He looked around, searching for help. “I was just joking. I meant nothing by my words.”

  Matrien hopped from his spot atop the table, pulling his sword from its sheath. He landed with his feet at either side of the man’s chest. Lowering his knee so that his shin lay flat across the floor, Matrien brought the sword to the man’s throat. Time stopped.

  All in the room fell silent, realising that Matrien had not been disingenuous in his claim to be a soldier. Those that had been scurrying for coin stopped their moving, while the mercenaries, who now found themselves at the edge of the scuffle, remained equally still.

  Yes. This was the thrill Matrien had been looking for.

  “Say it again,” Matrien said.

  The man shook his head as though he could not remember.

  “Say it again, damn it.”

  The man was still silent.

  Matrien slammed his head against his prey’s, red blood seeping from the man’s nose after the contact. “Tell me that my people are weak,” Matrien spat, “tell me that the enemies we fight are weak. Tell me that those I have lost died poorly. Tell me that my revenge is unnecessary.” He tightened his grip on the leatherbound handle. “I dare you!”

  The man shook his head, only this time it was because he was sorry; not because he felt true remorse, but because his cockiness had been called out, and he had been too scrawny and weak to defend himself.

  “Yes,” Matrien said, letting the man free from beneath him, “this is how you people really are. I had forgotten.” He stood, spitting on the man as he crawled away. Turning to the crowds that watched him, Matrien continued: “You all have no idea. No fucking idea. If it weren’t for us…” His drunken mind struggled to think of the right words. “Well, your tiny little brains couldn’t even imagine it. The Onslaught will come for you soon enough, as it did us. And then you will know.” Matrien burped as he took a step toward one of the women who had stood at the cocky lordlings side, crouching before her so that his face met hers. She turned away partially. “When I step aside and let it take your land, your children, your lives; then you will know.”

  Of course, Matrien would never step aside, not in the face of his enemy. But it served his purpose to have them worried. “You would do well to prepare yourselves,” he said, rather stoically. “War is coming.”

  Matrien put up little fight as the Barrowmen neared, dragging him toward the staircase. He was angry. Angry at these people for their unwillingness to realise the danger, but angrier at those he called superiors, for they were even bigger cowards.