The Definition of Vengeance: The Serpent Knight Saga, #3

By Kevin Wright

The small village of Untheim has a big problem. Folk go missing with alarming frequency. Even more alarming? They turn up dead. And a young girl's just disappeared.

Sir Luther Slythe Krait also has a big problem. He's stuck in Untheim. Penniless and poor and on his last legs, Sir Luther shoulders the task of tracking down the missing girl. The good news? He finds her. The bad? She's heading home in a box.

And that's just the start.

Bound by oath to hunt down the girl's killer, Sir Luther treks through town and wilderness, hounding the populace, ferreting leads, and drawing back the shroud of a decades-old secret privy to a select few. It's a dark secret, and those few want it kept that way.

Will Sir Luther find the killer? Will he exact justice? An eye for an eye? A head for a head? Or will the head lost be his own?

Read 'The Definition of Vengeance' and experience the horror and black humor of the latest installment of the grimdark detective series, 'The Serpent Knight Saga.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Wright
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201065942

Kevin Wright

About the Author Kevin Wright studied writing at the University of Massachusetts in Lowell and fully utilized his bachelor’s degree by seeking and attaining employment first as a produce clerk and later as an emergency medical technician and firefighter. His parents were thrilled. For decades now he has studied a variety of martial arts but steadfastly remains not-tough in any way, shape, or form. He just likes to pay money to get beat up, apparently. Kevin Wright peaked intellectually in the seventh grade. He enjoys reading a little bit of everything and writing sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. He does none of it well. Revelations, his debut novel, is a Lovecraftian horror tale. GrimNoir is a collection of his best short stories, and Lords of Asylum is an insane detective fantasy. His mom really likes all of them even though she’s never read any of them and wonders continually why he can’t just write anything ‘nice.’ Kevin Wright continues to write in his spare time and is currently working on a new full length novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

My Dearest Pernicia,

...I cannot help but see the massacre as a sort of blessing, for has it not brought the two of us together? Perhaps the fallen were some sort of sacrifice of eld, consecrating our union in blood, blessing our consummation in...

—excerpt of a letter from Edgar Godrick

I WALKED IN SILENCE through the night. Bone weary. Dead tired. Slather in some other threadbare metaphor for the war of attrition between soul and road. The bards churn coin by waxing poetic on the hardiness of men’s souls.

Me?

I’ll take the road any day.

The wagon trundled along by my side, ripping over ruts, splashing through puddles, bouncing over clad-iron roots groping across the trail. One wheel squeaking constantly. Was like a stiletto in my ear for the first fifty miles. Now? Slogging raw? Dead tired? I could barely hear it.

Our wares sat packed in the back. Beer. Wine. Medicinals. All manner of sundry lugged from Herhoff in the east. Across the mountains. The valley. The river. Karl sat up front, foot up on the buckboard, catching a snooze, that crossbow of his slapped across his lap. Carver sat alongside, reins in hand, head lolling like a dollop of cream set to drip off a spoon.

Need a spell? I asked.

Huh—? Carver snapped to attention. What?

Toothpicks for your eyelids, maybe?

Carver blinked, looked around, stifled a shudder. Nay. Nay. I thank you, but I’ll manage.

Just don’t run her off the road, yeah?

I-I shan’t, Sir Luther.

I nodded. Me. Sir Luther. The one and only. I glared with envy up at that seat but trudged onward. Stay sharp. Yeah, like me. Stumble stuttering like a punch-drunk fighter harried through the ring, tripping over grasping roots and half-hidden mires, fighting to stay awake myself.

The Old Forest encroached from all quarters, the cloying stink of rain and worms melding with the fallen rot of dead leaf litter. Branches from gnarled trees, monstrous in the lantern-lit gloom, groped out leviathan-like, forming claws, limbs, faces. Mosquitoes buzzed. A soft breeze rustled. A wolf howled, sounding loud, sounding ominous, sounding near.

Carver glared over his shoulder, eyes bulging wide and white. Lord, give us light. He crossed himself and snapped the reins. Old Bess, oblivious, trudged onward at her unvarying pace. Blighted wolves...

We’re nigh on there.

You certain? Carver said. Can’t tell one track from the next.

Land ho. Yeah. Just round the bend.

And out of the claustrophobic forest, like a man drowning, gasping, just shy of blissless oblivion, we emerged at the base of a gentle hill. Saint Helena’s sat atop. Its approach from each side lay shorn of all vestiges of forest, shielded from the bastards and blackguards of the world by a fifteen-foot tall curtain wall.

Those pious ladies take security seriously, Carver said.

Yeah, I said, and I don’t blame them.

Keeping my eyes to the fore, trudging on, boar-spear balanced over my shoulder, I knew I’d pass out if I sat down. If I clambered back into the wagon. Feared I might even afoot. The moon hung low and sickle sharp in the night sky, a slice of molten silver, caustic bright, casting a harsh sheen across this newfound world.

Out in the open, a slow, cool breeze caressed my face, and I could breathe full again.

A wolf howled from behind.

Carver craned his neck. Same one as before?

Who the hell knows?

Not far. Karl rumbled awake. If he’d even been sleeping.

Come on, Bess. Carver snapped the reins. C’mon.

Saint Helena’s gates rose before us flanked by towers. She looked more fortress than convent. More the place of war than solitude and holy contemplation. But that was the world we lived in.

Whoa there, Bess... Carver yanked on the reins, and the horse whickered to a stop, pawing the ground in frustration, bobbing her head, no doubt wondering why the hell she was up so late trudging through the muck and stuck with a trio of fuckers like us. Maybe wolves were finally on her mind.

I signaled the watchtower with a flip of the optic on the bullseye lantern.

Nothing happened.

I did it again.

Still nothing. Jesus. I flipped the eye again and harrumphed. Mightily.

C’mon... Carver fingered the reins.

Most like she’s sleeping, Karl rumbled.

What I’d be doing, I admitted.

Yar, no shit. Karl shook his shaggy head. That’s why I made ye walk.

"You didn’t make me walk."

In truth, he had made me walk, but I’d be damned if I’d admit it. Out loud.

I rubbed my eyes, yawned, stretched. My bed was calling from across the valley. Loud. Clear. Clarion clear. I envisioned ripping my boots off, plunking them on the floor, wriggling my toes, stripping down and drawing those warm blankets up and over me like muffled waves. Closing my eyes. Surrendering to the blessed weight enveloping me, crushing me, pounding me to dust and beyond before washing me away. Mirella somehow happened to intrude on my inner vision, her skin warm and smooth, her lithe body willing, gliding against mine, hands reaching, searching, finding, her long black hair in coils pouring over her shoulders. That wicked grin and elastic morals.

Odin’s eye! Karl hollered up through both hands. We’re here! Open the bloody-fucking gates!

The shutters on the high tower creaked open after a moment.

Shhhh! Lady Mary peered out. Everyone’s sleeping.

Yeah, except us, I barked.

I simply wished to see how long you would stand there.

You’re a peach. I bore but all of my gleaming teeth.

Lady Mary, our erstwhile companion across the continent. She’d been with me and Karl since Asylum, up the Abraxas, through Haeskenburg to the eastern road beyond. We’d had some history. And none of the storybook kind. She’d vowed to join the first convent we crossed. Saint Helena’s was it. She’d kept her vow.

I’ll be right down. As Lady Mary disappeared from her tower, another howl rent the night air. This one close. Damn close.

Odin’s eye— Karl whirled around, kneeling across our wares, sliding a bolt into his crossbow’s groove.

I took position between the wagon and the gnarl of twisted forest. Bloody hell.

Gonna get bloodier they come calling. Karl squinted.

"There there, Bess. There there..." Carver whimpered, Old Bess’s eyes bulging wide. That-That’s a girl.

Carver continued crooning, but Old Bess wasn’t having any of it.

Grab yer bow, Karl rumbled.

A-Aye. Carver fumbled for it, knocking his quiver aside, scattering arrows.

Old Bess seemed to be wondering what the hell was taking so long and started forward despite Carver’s protestations. And the locked gate. She whinnied, clomping, stomping, snorting, her eyes wide and wild, dilated past panic, trying to see past her blinders.

Grimnir’s spear... Karl hissed.

From the dense tangle of bracken, eyes gleamed large and yellow as twin moons.

Hey! I mule-kicked back at the wagon. You seeing this?

Yar. Karl leveled his crossbow, propping it across a box. Big bastard.

Yeah. No shit.

The wolves around Untheim were famous for being big bastards. Fierce bastards. And it seemed the tales spoke truth.

Oh, dear lord... Carver finally nocked an arrow.

The beast that loped from the protection of the trees was near the size of Old Bess. Slow, languid, hackles risen, it stalked forth, shoulder blades pressing up angular as axe blades, shifting back and forth beneath night-black fur. Its massive shaggy head sneered ear to ear, lips rippled back, black gums bared, breath steaming. And, holy hell, "What fucking teeth..."

Jesus Christ Lord, Carver said. "It’s come. It’s come!"

Shut it. Karl aimed through one eye. Yer Christ’s got no pull against fuckers like that.

You got him? I loosened my death-grip on my boar-spear, let the blood flow, adjusted my stance. Could hear Carver breathing hard, harsh, haggard. A man leagues past the fringes of panic. Deep breath, man. Take one. Then load the bow. Take aim.

For a fragment of an instant, the wolf just stood there, breath steaming past gaping jaws.

Fuck this! Carver bolted. Out of his seat, he leapt, arrow and bow scattering as he scrambled past Old Bess, hooves flying as she reared in animal panic.

With a snarl, the wolf burst forth and, Jesus Christ, it moved fast.

Saliva poured in ropes from its gleaming jaws, its yellow eyes dead set on the rabbit running.

Karl loosed his crossbow — thud! — burying the bolt in its shoulder.

Might have been a toothpick for all the good it did.

Open it! Carver clawed at the gates. Open it!

I set my boar-spear against my back foot, leveled it, watching this thing of murder and malevolence charge, eyes agleam. So bloody fast. I forced out a breath, tensed, but at the last instant, the moment of impact, the wolf angled, ripping past me.

Bess whinnied in terror, kicking, flailing, spastically dragging the wagon onward.

Carver pounded the gates. Please!

Don’t open ‘em! I railed, turning, giving chase.

Karl loaded another bolt, was taking aim over Old Bess’s bucking head. Down, girl!

Sir Luther— Lady Mary yelled from beyond the gate.

Let me in! Carver pounded.

Don’t! I tore on after. Mary—

Carver whirled, his back to the gates, nails scratching at wood as the wolf pounced, seizing him by the throat, bearing him down as it swept his legs out from under him, shaking him like a rabbit. Short, swift, violent strokes. Carver screamed. For an instant, his arms flailed, fingers clutched, feet kicked, but only an instant. With a crunch, something gave. A flaccid sack of flesh and still-born misery, flipping, flapping, flopping against stone, the monstrosity whipped him a last few times for good measure.

Or bad.

The wolf opened its jaws, and Carver plopped limp as a dead ferret against the ground.

I skidded to a halt. Swallowed. Nearly shit myself. Jesus Christ—

The wolf crouched, stalking toward me.

Watch it! Karl shot his crossbow and grazed the wolf, ripping through its ear. Fuck!

I slid back to Old Bess, front hooves slashing past my face. Whoa, girl!

What’s going on? Lady Mary’s voice was muffled behind the gates.

It’s circling round back. Karl reloaded his crossbow.

Leave ‘em shut!

Watch it! Karl flung a box out of his way as the wolf bolted under the wagon.

Old Bess screamed and kicked, bucking half-free of her harness as the wolf seized her hind leg and whirled, twisted, shook, tearing flesh, snapping tendon, cracking bone. The wagon tipped. Karl leapt free, and I dove aside, landing, rolling, managing to not gut myself in the process.

The wolf seized Old Bess by the base of the skull, vertebrae crunching, her squealing and being dragged kicking and flailing, still tangled in harness. Karl hurled his busted crossbow aside, clambered to his feet, drawing axe and dagger.

I tore to the forefront, hurdling box and barrel. Get away from her, you fucker!

Old Bess was free of the wagon, her leather harness torn asunder as the wolf dragged her back toward the Old Forest. I charged after, jabbing at the snarling monstrosity, dodging flailing hooves.

Growling. Glaring. With its monstrous teeth buried in Old Bess’s neck, the wolf’s eyes flashed murder. Blood black and shiny wet matted its back. Old Bess’s own lifeblood burst like a geyser, spurting from her throat, coursing down her neck, her legs, her belly.

Karl appeared at my side, hurling his axe, slashing into the wolf’s flank.

Still, the fucker didn’t react.

Not the way we wanted, anyway.

The monstrosity dropped Old Bess like a broken rat, her legs twitching haphazard, wrong, awful-wrong, nothing behind it but vestigial intent.

Watch it! I leveled the boar-spear. Too late—

The wolf pounced, burst through, scattering us like pins.

Quick to my feet, cursing the day I was born, I buried the boar-spear to the tines in the bastard’s side, driving in with my shoulder as I bulled it back and off Karl.

Howling then, howling so loud I thought my ears’d burst, it whirled, flinging me aside, rolling half-witted through the grit.

Odin’s eye! Karl growled.

In a pinch, I was on my knees as Karl slashed with a dagger, all he could muster barring tooth and claw. It growled, whipped around, snapping those huge jaws, its back turned towards me.

Over here, you fucker, I yelled, clambering to my feet, drawing my blade. Yolanda. Three feet of castle-forged death-dealing bastard blade. She had a knack for grim proclivities.

Blood streaming down the right side of his face, Karl stumbled to his left, ripping his thane-axe from the wagon wreckage.

Hackles risen, the wolf stalked towards me, taking its time, all cat and mouse with me plying the wrong end of a bad equation.

A crossbow bolt zipped from the tower, burying itself wide of the wolf’s feet.

Judas Priest! Lady Mary hissed.

Rearing back its massive head, the wolf howled. Coming on it from behind, Karl hacked with his axe. The wolf whirled, playing that same old song, biting, snapping, gnashing. I lunged in and played my own tune, the executioner’s song, the thin whistle of steel through cool autumn air, the bite as it parted flesh and bone.

The wolf yelped, whirling, knocking me back and on my arse then tore off for the forest, the thump, thump, thump, of padded feet all I could hear beneath the ringing in my ears.

It was long gone before I could see straight. Think straight. Before I could tell the buzzing in my head from the blood-simple swarm of ravenous mosquitoes. I took a breath, licked the taste of salt and blood from my lips, glanced over at Karl. You still alive?

Groaning, Karl rolled over, a string of pink spit connecting his lips to the ground. Yar.

Bastard couldn’t even get that straight.

Noticed you’re still kicking, too.

I taste worse than I look.

Hard to imagine.

Yeah. I winced, straightened up, vertebra popping, and loped over, offering a hand. Seem like typical behavior for a wolf?

Karl took my hand. Seem like a typical wolf?

There is that, I conceded, pulling the ugly little troll to his feet. Dire-wolf?

Huh?

"Means ‘bad.’" I sniffed, wiped my nose. Really bad.

Yar then. Sure. Odin’s eye.

You alright?

Hrmm... Karl glanced over at the gates and the corpse lying before them. Better than him.

I scanned the fringes of the Old Forest, the low ground, surrounding us like some clandestine army creeping up, setting to ambush us in the night. Can’t imagine worse.

Urrg... Karl plunked down at the wagon’s wreckage, rubbing his head. How’s our girl?

I drew my favorite dagger and knelt by Old Bess’s side, her round black eyes shining in the night. She was breathing fast, heavy, hard, her head and neck wrenched in a way not meant to be. Not so good.

Want me? Karl tested the edge of his knife.

No. There, there. I stroked Old Bess’s neck, long and smooth, as I whispered in her ear. You’re a good horse, and you got us out of a scrape or two. And maybe that ain’t much, but it ain’t nothing, either. I licked my lips and nodded. See you on the other side, old girl.

Then I covered her eye with the one hand and ended her life with the other.

Chapter 2.

My dearest Edgar,

...it a blessing? Nay. We are cursed, you and I. We did not die that night as so many others, but indeed we should have. We were no better than they. And yea, lower still, I say, for after those monstrous blackguards and we parted ways, the monstrous parts dwelling within us held sway...

—from the private collection of Prioress Clad-Iron Hex

JOSHUA AND SARAH WERE bawling something awful even before we’d finished saying the words. Huddled together, weeping, arms wrapped round each other, shoulders bobbing, lips trembling, they stood over Old Bess. That horse. The kids’d grown fair attached to her in a short while. I looked over to Carver, splayed out in ruin against the wall. Him? Not so much. ‘Course, he’d never given them rides round the convent’s courtyard.

I set another busted crate in a crooked stack. You two alright?

Sarah wiped her eyes and offered a tepid nod. Joshua just bit his lip and frowned, looking anywhere but at me. He and I hadn’t had much to say to one another for a stretch. Not after I’d killed their brother back in Asylum City. And had a hand in killing another. Their parents weren’t better off for having known me, either. Both were with their brothers. Wearing dirt.

It was fair to say Joshua had his reasons.

Sarah, though? She’d speak to me. On occasion. It was a low bar, true, but who was I to complain? Neither offered more than a word or grunt as they shuffled over to Lady Mary, entrenched in her needlework. The three of us, Lady Mary, Karl, and me had been their guardians for nigh on half a year, since our exodus from Haeskenburg.

Hold still. Lady Mary bit her lip, wincing as she worked the needle through the gash on Karl’s forehead.

Karl grunted assent.

Any brains left in there? I asked as though he’d ever had any.

Fuck off— Karl grimaced.

Jesus-Fucking-Christ. I hefted another crate. Watch your tongue.

Please stop moving. Lady Mary gripped Karl’s shoulder. Judas Priest, you’re like children. Grimacing, she pulled the thread through. Did you garner any word of Stephan in your travels?

Yeah. Stephan was my brother. My idiot brother. He’d forged a pact to head a cult of flagellant madmen cavalcading roughshod across the countryside. That old tale. He and his lunatic horde marched through Herhoff about a month past. Word is, they kept heading east. Karl and I’d been returning on a supply run from Herhoff. Caravanning goods. Busting our backs. Making a pittance.

You’re certain it was him?

No, but it was a horde of lunatic scourgers. How many can there be?

In these days of ruin and rage?

Fair point, I conceded.

I trust Yeoman Karl shall endeavor to survive? Sister Pernicia, the prioress of Saint Helena’s, marched out the convent gates with firm purpose, a cadre of shorter, lesser nunlings scurrying along in her wake. They put me in a mind of a mother duck harried by her ducklings.

Ask him yourself, I set a smashed crate aside, "though I doubt he knows what endeavor means."

Oh my word, hold still. Lady Mary fumbled the needle but recovered. She’d lost a hand back in Asylum, was still adjusting, learning, but could still stitch fair clean. You can punch him later.

Sister Pernicia frowned. She didn’t like me. She didn’t like Karl. She did like Lady Mary, though, which on the whole spoke well of her. She was a tall, stately beauty who put me in mind of a nun I’d once convinced to change habits. At least for a night. I’d shared that story with the prioress. It hadn’t gone over as well as I’d hoped.

You needn’t be so neat about it, Lady Mary. Sister Pernicia crossed her arms, casting a discerning eye over Lady Mary’s handiwork. What’s another scar to this brute?

Karl chuffed a laugh.

Sister’s got a point. I set down another crate. No looks to ruin. Maybe sew his mouth shut...?

Karl swore under his breath.

Anything worth doing is worth doing right. Lady Mary pursed her lips and kept at it. And I’ll be done shortly, Sister.

Good. Sister Pernicia crossed herself. Then I trust the carcass shall be off our doorstep and shortly?

You mean the horse? I wiped the sweat off my brow. Or Carver?

Lady Mary cast me a look. It was less than approving.

What? I said.

Even as we spoke, the Lord-Father’s men gathered Carver up and loaded him into their wagon. Sir Bardin, the First-Sword of Untheim, picked at something in his eye as he stood by.

"The horse’s carcass, Sister Pernicia said caustically, adding unconvincingly after the fact, of course."

Joshua bit his knuckles, tears sliding down his red cheeks.

I straightened, chafing a bit at Old Bess being called a carcass but let it slide. I hadn’t delivered the bill of lading yet and figured on having the grand prioress as congenial as possible til accounts got settled. It seemed a tall order.

I grunted, lifting another busted crate.

Those shall need be delivered into the courtyard, Sister Pernicia observed. In the back, near the stables and neatly, if you please.

Yeah. I stooped, snatched another busted crate, stacked it aside. You have a wagon? Or a handcart?

The rear axel of our wagon had snapped. And the rest was doing about as well.

We do but not for your disposal. Sister Pernicia adjusted her robes.

Then what are they for? I deadpanned.

It is not a far walk.

I grabbed another crate, cursed beneath my breath, or somewhat above, truth be told. If you didn’t notice, we had a rough night.

I understand, Sir Luther, and I’m certain you’ve had more than your fair share of rough nights. Hound and hare, I’m sure your life has been rife with ‘rough nights,’ many I should think, of your own making. I would hope a man as hale and enduring as yourself might be inured to them by now. She raised a schoolmarm finger. Scripture tells us that to toil is to pray.

I yanked the bill of lading from the money box, marched over and thrust it toward her. "To toil’s to be paid."

Yet a job left unfinished... Sister Pernicia broke the wax seal, unfolded the bill and contract. She tapped a finger against her lips as she took it in, intermittently glaring over at the broken crates shattered across the ground, contents strewn, wrecked, ruined, her eyes narrowing as she calculated red mental sums. A fair many lay sundered.

Extenuating circumstances, I explained in minute detail.

Our herbs are ruined.

So your food’ll be bland.

"Our medicinal herbs, you simpleton. Sister Pernicia cast a hand toward Karl. It is not only stitch-work. We were relying on this shipment to bolster us through the winter months. The orphans require care, and over a hundred sisters reside here, a great many aged, decrepit, infirm. She shook her head. We shall simply have to make do."

Exactly. I wiped my hands. Now if—

I shall pay you for the goods intact. Wholly intact, mind you.

Might I remind you, we kept that thing from getting inside?

Sister Pernicia sneered. Hound and hare, the beast, you mean?

Wolf. Dire-wolf. Horrific monstrosity. Yeah.

It was my understanding Lady Mary held the door locked.

I glanced over at Old Bess, the bite marks and torn flesh on her muscular neck raw and awful in the early dawn. Steam rose from those ragged gashes, melding with the morning mist gathering fast. Well, yeah.

Then the laurels for holding the siege intact rest upon her brow, no?

I straightened, grumbled, said nothing.

Yes, well, she followed my gaze, "I see your point. Yet still, I don’t see stipulations concerning ‘aggressive denizens of the forest’ in the contract. For emphasis, she made a show of running a finger down it. Hmm? Nay. I see no such language. She made a show of folding the contract back up neatly, precisely, further creasing the folds, and tucking it up her sleeve. And our budget is fixed, quite fixed, set in stone, not unlike the very commandments Moses bore down from Sinai."

Lady, I—

Lady? Sister Pernicia cocked her head. "I trust you are confused. I trust you’ve lost yourself in the moment. You may call me Prioress. You may call me Mother Superior. You may call me Sister should you choose to be familiar, and we, as you say, were never in danger from such a lowborn beast. Yea, we have dealt with such beasts before. No doubt we shall again. Sister Pernicia splayed a hand out, seeming to hold back the encroachment of the Old Forest, looming all around. For one hundred and seventy-seven years, the Blessed Sisters of Saint Helena’s have survived — nay — thrived out here in the wilds, under siege from a legion of threats, and yet we endure. Nay, such beasts pose us little threat."

Should’ve seen it, I said. Was damn-near brimming with threat.

I have, Sir Luther, and our walls are high, they are consecrated, and they are sound. And it is my understanding that wolves are not adept climbers. Nay. We are more at risk from you and your brethren than from any beast of the wild. She gazed toward Sir Bardin and his men as they dragged Carver’s corpse to their wagon, lifted it, cursing, and shoved it onto the bed. "More at risk from what you call civilization than from anything the forest might offer."

Fine. Alright. You didn’t need us. I get it.

I am not so certain that you do.

I kicked at a stone and missed.

Lady Mary, the prioress turned, please account for all of our goods, both whole and damaged, as soon as Sir Luther and Yeoman Karl have endeavored to deliver the viable portions to the courtyard. Ensure that they are whole. And I would that you accompany them the entire time.

I smirked and winked at Lady Mary, more to annoy Sister Pernicia than anything else. I reveled in my small victories cause they alone were the ones I had.

Sister Pernicia crossed her arms. Then make certain that they are fast on their way.

Chapter 3.

My Dearest Pernicia,

...and so I send you this paltry ring. Close your eyes and see me before you, penitent and calm as you feel its cool smoothness, and know that I kneel even now before the same altar of God, begging for your hand...

—excerpt of a letter from Edgar Godrick

A COLD WIND RIPPED through the joint as the old bloke marched up to my table. Still hale and strong despite his many years, he pulled a chair out and plunked down. All eyes in the tavern had a habit of flitting his way. Sidelong. Nervous. Surreptitious glances and open glares, none meeting his gaze directly or for long.

Please, by all means, I glanced up from my steaming bowl of stew, have a seat.

He was almost as tall as me, but wider, with shoulders like a farmer but a soft middle. His relations to manual labor were a thing of the distant past. His fine clothes told the same tale. His kempt grey beard and imperious blue eyes spoke of a man who expected what he said got done.

You are Sir Luther Slythe Krait?

I took a spoonful. Slurped. Chewed. Swallowed. In the flesh.

He pursed his lips. It’s been said you had some difficulties at Saint Helena’s last week.

"Difficulties? Yeah. Sure. More than just ‘some.’" Whether he meant the demise of my partner, my horse, or my livelihood, he didn’t specify.

I’ve heard of you.

All good things, I trust?

Forgive me, but if they were, I’d not be here.

Oh? My hand found my dagger as I leaned back, taking in the common room. A fair few folk’d turned out tonight for wine, women, and song. The Three Moons Tavern’s resident minstrel perched on a tall stool like some twig-insect, long gawky legs out and bent, softly plucking away at a lute that to my wooden ear, needed some tuning. Didn’t make anyone for looking to knife me in the back. Or the front. Yet. So there was that.

Apologies. The man caught my drift, straightened, stood. It was not my intent to disturb you.

No worries. Sit. I lowered my spoon, set it in my bowl, and