Redemption: Chapter 1 - Black and Red

Chapter 1 – Black and Red

        The Hell’s Inn was filled with its regular peak afternoon activities. Most of its residents slept, preparing for a hard night’s journey ahead. A few traders talked amongst each other, bargaining for supplies and goods, while others gambled with dice over drinks. On one side of the main floor, isolated from the pocket of activities, three men seemed to be involved in a heated conversation.
        “Twenty gold pieces was the price we agreed to, freelancer, and I’m not paying a nugget more. You can’t blame me for any misfortune you may have encountered.” The slight quiver in Elmar’s voice dulled the edge on his assertion.
        The figure garbed in red eyed the two opposite him from under the brim of his hat. “Misfortune?” spoke a deep thirsty voice. “Are you sayin’ you didn’t know the man you hired me to kill was a wizard? Who do you think you’re dealin’ with?”
        Elmar swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes flickered sideways to his much larger companion. If he was looking for assurance he failed to find it. “Listen Dante,” he began tentatively, “if we had known, we would have told you. Why would we lie to you?”
        “Maybe cuz you knew I’d charge you double what I had asked for? Or maybe you were hopin’ the wizard and I would finish each other?”
        “Stop making assumptions! I hired you for your versatility and getting the job done. You probably encounter surprises like this all the time, so why is this job any different?  Twenty gold pieces is what I consented to, ten before and ten after. By asking any more you’re breaking our agreement!”
        “Look Elmar,” Dante pulled a rolled leaf from behind his ear, “you can say what you want at this point,” he picked a splint from the table and struck it across his red leather gloves, “but one way or another, I’m leavin’ with forty golden nuggets,” he lit the leaf now hanging at the corner of his mouth, “with or without your consent.” Dante blew a thin wisp of smoke from the other corner. Elmar stared, mouth open, as the low rumble of social tones rolled over them.
        The figure in red shifted his eyes between Elmar and the man beside him. He reasoned that the man must be Elmar’s bodyguard. With tree trunks for limbs, a fat belly and an unkempt beard, he didn’t seem to be useful for much else. If Dante was going to get Elmar’s money by force, he would have to deal with the big guy first.
        Fatandugly caught Dante staring and glared back. Dante took a deep drag and exhaled slowly.
        Before Elmar could say anymore a creak from the front of the inn caught everyone’s attention. Dante shifted his eyes to take in the newcomer, keeping Elmar’s muscle man in his peripheral vision.
        The traveler silhouetted against the afternoon sun was dressed in black from head to toe. She wore a cloak and a wide brimmed hat with a point. She examined the room at a glance and made her way to the bar. There was not a single bead of perspiration on her face.
        “Tche,” Dante exclaimed. A witch. That was never good news for Dante. It’s not that he inherently disliked witches, or wizards, it’s just that he could never recall meeting one who wasn’t trying to kill him. Now, admittedly, this was usually because he was trying to kill them, or they thought he was trying to kill them, which turned out to be the case more often than not. Dante wondered what a lone witch was doing on the Pearl Route but wasn’t allowed to ponder on it for long.
         Elmar had used the distraction as an opportunity. Dante saw the faint movement of his shoulder as he nudged the bigger man underneath the table. Slowandstupid got up drawing a long knife.
        Dante’s right hand was already at his side. He pulled out his weapon and pressed down on his index finger. A shattering crash echoed through the inn as the man dropped heavily on the table. It was over in a heartbeat.
        The floor went silent as everyone looked up to see the source of commotion. Blood pooled on the floor underneath the table. Elmar stared wide eyed at his now dead companion.
        “40 gold pieces Elmar," Dante broke the silence "or you’ll be joinin’ your friend.”
        Elmar stood up, trembling. “Okay, it’s yours, just don’t. . . just don’t kill me.” He threw a sack on the table that clinked and ran for the door, never looking back.
        All eyes on the floor were fixed on Dante now. All, except one pair. Dante was no stranger to attention. He knew when to expect it and how to use it to his advantage. So when he noticed the witch at the bar simply staring at the drink in her hand, something didn’t feel right. 
        “Hey! You better be ready to clean up that mess, mister.”
        Dante looked up at the bar keeper. Standing behind the bar with a dirty rag in one hand and a clay serving cup in the other, he didn’t seem like the kind to follow up with an ‘or else’, but Dante didn’t want any more trouble than was necessary. He reached out for the sack Elmar had graciously left behind and pulled out a gold nugget. He flicked it to the barkeep who caught it in the clay cup.
        “I hope that cleans it.”
        The floor slowly resumed its conversations as Dante made his way to the stairs leading to the upper levels. But the tone was different now. Instead of the slow lazy drawl that it had been it sounded faster, more urgent. Dante reckoned he could figure what the subject of conversation was.
        As he passed behind the stranger at the bar, he felt his hackles rise. A witch. That was never good news for Dante.

                                                                               -------------- ((O)) ---------------

        The hubbub only rose as the man in red disappeared. Drinking and dicing had stopped. The babble continued to rise to a crescendo after which people almost had to shout over each other. Most people spoke in the Common Tongue, so one could tell the subject of conversation was fairly similar from one table to the next. But not everyone spoke the Common Tongue. Or, it would be more appropriate to say, not everyone spoke in the Common Tongue. And for those with something to hide, this seemed like a wise choice.
        Abdul and Tariq could not be picked out from the other denizens of the inn by their clothes alone. They wore loose white gowns, dishdashas as they call it, like most traveling the Pearl Route through the Mugabe, which made everyone blend in like camels of the same breed. But a closer look would reveal their darker tans, black curly beards and eyes which seemed to have been squinting at the sun all their lives. That and their speech set them apart.
        Their Semitic dialect was easy enough to pick out over the commotion, what with words sounding like they were gargled in a dry mouth and the occasional emphatic consonants coming from deep within their throats. But they did not seem too concerned about this; after all, no one else understood. Or so they thought. None the less, those well travelled and familiar in the languages of this world would easily have picked them out as merchants of the Bedouin Peninsula.
        “What did I tell you? Rasool-Al-Maut, uh?”Abdul said knowingly.
        “I’m not sure who or what he was, but it’s best we stay away from him.”
        “Stay away? He’s exactly the sort of person we’re looking for!”
        The sun would start to fall in a few hours and their caravan would have to move out. Tariq had been hoping to rest himself before they left. But now that Abdul had his interests spurred about the man in red he wasn’t going to let the matter drop easily.
        “Do you have a better idea?” Abdul pressed over his brother’s silence, “I’m not leaving this place unless we have another wizard or a few mercenaries with us. And you can bet none of our other men will either.”
Tariq let out a sigh. His brother had closed in on the point they were discussing earlier, right before the inn’s peace had been disrupted. This did not seem like another of Abdul’s impulsive judgments, but Tariq was not ready to admit that just yet.
        His eyes wandered around the room as his brain searched for that idea. They ended up on the back of the inn’s latest occupant. “Psst,” he leaned in closer, whispering to his brother over the din, “what about her?”
         “What? No! Why her?”
         “She’s a witch! She probably has places to go”, Tariq stated matter-of-factly, “we’ll offer her the same thing we would have offered your friend in red; food, bedding and a warm fire at night.”
        Abdul stared at his older brother with a blank expression. “You’re joking with me, right?”
        “What?”
        “First of all, she’s a woman. Secondly, am I the only one who remembers what happened to Aziz at Pearl Bay?”
        Tariq had seen this coming at his mention of the witch, “She’s not just a woman, she’s a witch; it’s different. . .”
        “Tell that to the men. . .” Abdul said under his breath.
        “. . . and Aziz was an amateur. The most I’ve ever seen him do was reheat a cup of tea, lull the waves, and put up some simple barriers. He was good enough to keep away bandits and thieves, which was what he was hired for, but he didn’t have a chance against that monstrosity, so you can’t use that reasoning.”
        “But this man is Rasool-Al-Maut, the Harbinger of Death”, Abdul exclaimed in the Common Tongue, “If even half the rumors about him are true, he supposedly eats witches and wizards for breakfast! There’s no one better for the job.”
        “Then he’s overqualified! Besides, how can you say for certain he is this so-called Rasool-Al-Maut?”
        And there was that blank look again. And Tariq felt a little stupid this time. A man donned in red leather that seemed to be made out of scales in the middle of a desert; a hat with brims curled at the sides, adorned with teeth of various sizes around the crown. The description fit the rumors. You would have to be crazy to dress like that or the genuine article. Besides, there was the obvious fact of the skills that he had displayed.
        Tariq looked over to the table where the freelancer had been sitting. The dead man had been escorted out. An inn boy was on his knees wiping the blood with a dry rag; water was too expensive to waste. Some people said the man in red used very powerful magic while others said he held a weapon contracted to him by Shaitan himself. Either explanation was equally disconcerting to Tariq. Abdul had his back to the wall but he would not admit it. He hated that look on Abdul’s face. Both brothers had been leaders of the caravan travelling the Pearl Route from Ijazah for five years now. By culture and tradition, the older brother assumes the role of leadership and responsibility. But no one who had ever travelled with the brothers could deny that Abdul played the more dominant role in this relationship, if not always the more rational one. And this irked Tariq to no end. He loved his brother, as an older brother had to. But time and again he had given into his younger brother’s impulses and whims. This time, though, a part of him knew that in the face of sound reasoning from his brother, it was his pride getting in the way. And that made it all the more hard.
        “Abdul, I’ll be honest. This man seems ill fated. People say he’s a demon, or that he does Shaitan’s bidding. If we bring him on our caravan, Eloha will not be forgiving. We will be carrying our own doom back to Ijazah.”
        Abdul sighed, “You’re overreacting. He is flesh and blood, like us! You saw him sweating.” Abdul thought the man was crazy to be wearing that outfit in what some considered the hottest desert in the world, where everyone else was wearing loose whites. That made the freelancer and witch stand out like prickly pears on a cactus. But the witch was understandable. “That demon talk is just superstitious tattle spread by ignorant country folk who have never seen any magic. He’s just a man, probably hiding some magical artifact. Don’t worry. Listen, can we at least ask him if he will accompany our caravan in return for food and bedding? If he asks for more. . .we can ask the witch,” Abdul closed reluctantly.
        Tariq looked into his brother’s eyes, contemplating the deal. The caravan had to make it intact out of the desert and to Ijazah, no matter the cost. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as his pride gave way. “Fine, let’s do it”.

                                                                               -------------- ((O)) ---------------

        The inn was ventilated by towering wind shafts that caught the draft high above the desert. Wind passed through wet fabric as it went down the shafts, which further cooled the interior. During the night the tunnels would be shut and the clay held enough heat from the day to keep its residents relatively warm.
        Dante stood bare chest beneath the wind vent in his room, bathing in the cool wet draft. His red hat, tunic and undershirt lay strewn on the straw mattress.
        The room was small; the sleeping pallet and water basin took up most of the space, leaving little room to walk. The Hell’s inn was far from a luxury stay and was only meant to be a quick rest stop.
        As he made to sit on the straw mattress, Dante pulled out the last of his dried tobacco from a pouch. Small leaves were delicately shaken out into a larger one and were rolled up with careful practice in one hand.
        Dante lit a splint on his pants and moved it towards the roll hanging from his lips. For a moment he just stared as the flame slowly burned the thin splint. Fire danced in that small, sweat saturated room. It moved back and fourth, prostrating in a drunken stupor. Dante finally lit the roll as he felt the flame near his fingers.
        He needed rest. In a few hours the trade caravans would set off on their journey into the night and Dante meant to be on one of those caravans. He hoped his little act downstairs had ensured him a ticket out of this left-for-dead land.
        Having to wear his red leathers in the Muagbe had been strenuous. But the uniform carried a reputation with it, perceived or true it didn’t matter, and Dante was well aware of that. And while it had been tiring to parade it in the desert, it would now help him on his way out. But right now getting out of the Mugabe wasn’t the only thing on his mind.
        He figured he was overreacting; there were plenty of good reasons for a witch to be on the Pearl Route. After all, he was here, wasn’t he?
        She had revealed herself though, which was a good sign. That meant she didn’t have anything to hide. But that was peculiar in itself. He supposed she wore her blacks for the same reason he wore his reds; it carried a reputation with it. Depending on which part of the world you were in, people often found themselves being helpful to strangers bearing the colours of magicians.
        Dante drew fingers through his clammy hair. The long dirty blonde strands fell right back. The cigarette butt, sucked up of what little flavour it had, fell to the floor and was crushed beneath his boot. He had done his job and gotten paid for it. The Mugabe had been a successful venture, even if he had lost a prospective client. He would soon be on a caravan heading out of this hotpot and behind him would be Elmar, this inn and that witch.

                                                                               -------------- ((O)) ---------------

        The courtyard of the caravanserai was bustling with activity. People yelled, horses neighed and camels groaned, each animal desperately trying to get their voice heard over the other. This was the busiest hour for the Hell’s Inn and Caravanserai. Merchants scrambled to get their supplies together, saddle their rides, count heads, deal last minute bargains and draw out travel plans to make it out of hell.
        Dante was greeted by the smell of sweat, dung and baked clay as he stepped into the courtyard. His rest was short, but it had been enough to revive him. Weaving in and out of the crowd, sidestepping animal droppings and clay pots, he looked like a man in search of something. But it wasn’t Dante who needed to do the searching; all he needed was to be found.
        He stood out well enough; a red dot in a sea of sweat stained white. Many people glanced up as he passed by, but were too occupied for the freelancer to hold their attention for long. Though most of the inn’s residents may have been sleeping during the Elmar incident, Dante knew that word had been passed around and back enough times by now for the facts to have been distorted.
        As he rounded a corner two men approached him at an intentional pace. He recalled seeing their faces earlier inside the inn.
        “Peace to you and yours, brother,” one of them greeted dipping their head. ‘Peace’ came out sounding like ‘Beace’. “I am Tariq Salahi and this is my younger brother Abdul Salahi.”
        “And peace to you and yours,” Dante recognized the accent and greeting of Bedouin origins and responded accordingly.
        “We are leaders of a caravan carrying pearls back to Ijazah, Eraq, and we are looking for some assistance. My brother and I witnessed your, uh, special abilities earlier. I feel that we can provide mutual assistance to each other. Tell us, are you the freelancer people have named the Harbinger of Death?” Their accent was strong, especially around their Ps, but they spoke the Common Tongue well enough. Most people in the traveling merchant business were expected to; consequently it was also known as the Language of Trade.
         “Lot o’ people call me a lot o’ things. How can I help you gen’lemen?”
         It took Tariq a little longer than Dante to wrap his mind around the unfamiliar accent. “Our caravan is heading east, out of the Mugabe to the peninsula of the Bedouins. The journey out of the Mugabe can be dangerous, and not in the least because of bandits and thieves. If you are looking for travelling companions, we would be grateful to have you with us. In return for your services we will provide food, water, bedding and fire at night.”
        Snagged, Dante thought. He stared around the courtyard as if in contemplation. If Dante turned them down for a better offer, he knew there would be others waiting in line to ask him. As Tariq had said, the Mugabe was a dangerous place and a man of Dante’s reputation would be an asset to have.
        “I’ll travel to the edge o’ the desert with you, as far Mahjong. And I’ll need a ride. Is that acceptable?”
        The brothers looked at each other briefly. Abdul had a glint in his eyes that he couldn’t hide and that Tariq couldn’t ignore. They expected trouble, if any at all, while they were still be in the desert. After that their men should prove enough for the rest of the journey.
        “That is fine with us. We will be leaving within the hour. We are glad to have you with us freelancer.”
        “The name’s Dante, Dante Del Toro”
        “So be it, Dante” Tariq tried to place emphasis on the right consonants by using the tip of tongue, but didn’t quite manage it. “We will be on the west side of the courtyard preparing our rides.”

        As they parted ways with their new travelling companion, Tariq left with a bitter taste in his mouth. Abdul saw this and slapped his brother on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, brother, this’ll work out for the best,” he continued in their native tongue. “We’re going to make it out of this desert and we’ll acquaint ourselves with a ma.  . .”
        A small figure stepped in front of the brothers, drawing them to a halt. Though she was short, her head barely reaching their chests, the crook at the end of her pointed hat made it past their eyes.
         “Peace to you and yours gentlemen,” a clear child’s voice spoke.
         “Uh, and peace to you and yours, sister.” Her sudden appearance and the fact that she had greeted them in their native formality had tied Tariq’s tongue.
         “I was wondering if you would like the assistance of a witch on your journey west out of the desert.” This question further added to the surprised confusion Tariq was experiencing. Had it not been for his brother he would have asked the witch to accompany their caravan, and now he was being presented with an opportunity to hire the two most sought after individuals currently in the caravanserai. Moreover the witch had volunteered her services, which was strange in itself. But he knew he couldn’t agree to the witch’s offer, not now. His brother wouldn’t let him without creating a fuss.
        “We thank you for your offer, sister,” Tariq bowed slightly, “but our caravan cannot afford your services. We wish you a safe journey, wherever you fare”.
         “Gentlemen. . .please,” her brow creased in worry. She leaned in, glancing to either side of the crowded walkway. “I. . .I don’t really feel comfortable here, being one of only a few women. If you understand.” She blushed slightly as her big pale eyes peaked from underneath her hat. Both brothers immediately felt flustered and embarrassed. Abdul was shuffling his feet and awkwardly pinching the hem of his white robes. “I have heard many things about Bedouin men. Their high esteem for women and chivalry is quoted as exemplary all across the West. I…I would rather not travel with anyone else here, if I could help it. I’m not asking for much, just food and bedding. However, I understand if –”
         “No sister, please!” Tariq began, “we apologize for, uh, not understanding your delicate situation before.” He waved his hands in front, as if to emphasize the point. “We can surely make room for you on our caravan. In fact my bother and I would be pleased to have you.”
         “Thank you gentlemen,” she curtly leaned back and smiled. “I shall see you before your departure then.” Turning on her heel, her black cape swinging around in an arc, she disappeared into the crowd as suddenly as she had appeared.
         Abdul and Tariq continued to stare at the spot she had occupied only a moment ago, neither quite sure about what just happened. If either of them felt like they had been duped they thought it best not to bring it up.