Oh, the bitter relief of bukke. After the long trek into the bloody green hell with the promise of fortunes. I can’t believe my luck, our luck. I told my wife that joining the Blackroots would sort us out. Whether I stick to my promise of moving the little ones from the outer districts, or undercity as it is now known, we’ll have to see. Maybe the sweet horn will show me what the future holds? I’ll sort my own supply out, more grog and hookers like a rising star. 

The strange man in the furry poncho offers the pipe after taking his hit. He sways with merry bliss. Must be good stuff then, I hope I see this heaven he mentioned.

My hands are too slow from the grog in my gut. Dilwert’s hairy fingers snatch it first. What a tosser, I think while lighting his horn.

Flint touch

Shame we only butchered the green witches' creatures in the wilds. I’ll never advance in the House without a victor’s prayer. 

That raid will offer enough spirit to push me up the ladder, with all the coin from the slaves and a hearty empowerment, I’d be Topside by next summer. That’s where the best brothels and taverns are. My wife’s a wart on my side anyway, the kids don’t even look like me. I’ll cut them all off and start a new life.

Dillwert huffs and coughs. I take the pipe as he wracks his lungs like a boy.

The stranger fills my bowl, shifting uneasily in the humid rank air. He removes the thick bear coat of the green witches' soldiers and adjusts his armour. I notice a strange burn mark on his palm, an ugly thing, no wonder he keeps it covered. But Order knows I want that coat, it would look better on my thick shoulders. A real hero, but he won’t sell it to me. I wanted to stab his greedy eyes out and take it from his corpse, but then he offered me a dream.

Inhaling deeply. The smoke is bitter, kinda tastes like ebony. A new blend he said. Rut it, don’t look a free whore in the face they say, she’s usually hideous. 

A warmth travels from my mouth to my bowels. Shifting them violently, I’ll need to find a hole soon. Or should I just squat in this filthy alleyway? Handing the pipe back, we hear some commotion down the street, I hope they want a fight. I love breaking faces while swimming in euphoria. Wow, that’s a big word. I think I heard Dwen say it, he’s a smart man. Shoulda tried to be more friendly with him on the trek home, he’d take me places.

I crouch into a half squat and tense my bowels, a long soundless fart escapes. The tension from my stomach goes but the warmth remains.

The stranger says something to Dilwert who looks over, in the darkness I see his mouth contort like a splashed puddle. He looks so weird that I can’t help but laugh.

We bod and stumble our way back to the party. I can’t wait to see my lot, this is the best night of my laugh. 

“I think you might be my best friend.” Says Dilwert to me with his arm over my shoulder.

An angry man hits the street as our brothers laugh from the doorway. I kick him in the groin as he tries to stand up. 

“Piss off you little runt!” Dillwert spits on him.

We push on inside to a grand welcome, cheers and slaps on the back from our comrades. This truly is the best night I’ve ever had. Order’s watching over me now.

I see everyone thinks the same. Staff sings a shanty in the corner and plays his fiddle. Belinda starts a knife throwing contest, using the boar and deer heads on the walls. She sinks a fat blade deep between a fat thing's eyes to elicit another cheer.

Dillwert stares at me. “Why’s your skin look so dry and… purple?”

“Free drinks for the Blackroots!” A woman shouts from behind the bar.

“I want more grog.”

Arm in arm, we make our way there. Snatching a dark bottle of liquor to share with our new friend. I turn to see he’s vanished.

“Oi, where’s old mate with the bear cloak?” I ask.

“Daemon! Rutting Daemon!” Dillwert screams in my face and tries to push me away.

I hold on and shake him.

But it’s not him, his hair is gone. His skin smoothed out and young. A small boy stands in my arms staring back at me with dismay.

It’s my first son, It’s Frank Junior.

“Junior? My boy! I thought we lost you.” I cry out and try to embrace him but he resists.

“Lost me. You sold me off like meat.”

“No it’s not like that-

“How much did the recruiters pay? A penny?!”

Others around me hear the confrontation and step back.

“Please. I have money now, I can look after you.”

“I’m already dead. The raid needed its sacrifices. I tried to hide but they made us charge.” His face begins to redden and blister. “Why didn’t you help me? Why did you abandon me?”

No please, Order. Not like this. Junior starts to smoulder as his skin smokes then erupts into a fire.

“Help him!” I cry out to my brothers.

But they just stand there in horror, pointing at us and drawing swords. Belinda pushes through and aims her knife.

“Verox!!!” She screams as she throws.

The blade hits Junior in the arm.

“Father!” He screams as the fire chars and blackens his flesh.

I unsheath my sword and swing at her before she can throw again. It bites in her neck, her face a wash of surprise as blood pumps out.

“Stop him!”

“Kill the bandit!”

“Daemon!” 

My Blackroots, my family, they sneer with disgust and horror. They mean to do my boy harm, I can see it in their eyes. I swing at the traitors. Comrades that only moments ago, I would have died for. But I won’t lose Franky Junior again. I take hands and heads. 

Blade of Flint

My sword is deflected by an axe. As the edges meet, a shower of sparks fly out into its wielder's face. He falls to his knees, blinded for life.

I gasp as immense pain hits my rear. I turn and backhand the Blackroot. Only to discover it's my son with Dillwert’s bloody dagger in his hand.

“Why didn’t you save me?” He whimpers, his tears evaporating from his burning clothes.

I can only stare as his burnt arm pulls back to slash me again. I can’t hurt my boy.

A great hulking brute, Vamos, crashes into my side and we hit the ground. My head smacks the wooden planks and darkness threatens to swallow me. Vamos, known for being the shield of our raids, holds me down under his immense weight.

My son screams and thrashes as the Blackroots struggle to subdue him, still crying for me to save him. He falls when they slash his hamstrings. I can only see his hand from between the bodies as they stamp and pummel him with weapons.

“My boy!!!” 

Our fingers brush each others, unable to reach him I cry out in frustration. He stretches and jerks violently from the impacts, till his hand lays down, motionless.

“He’s bewitched you fools!” Someone snaps out. “Take him out!”

Vamos pulls back his melon sized fist, it swells to the size of his head and then falls down on mine.

“Junior!” 

My mouth is dry and bloody. A pounding in my skull feels like tiny mice are in their swinging hammers. I can only see out one eye as the side of my face has swollen over.

“Plat hwust ghoning oooo.” I spit out.

My mouth is on fire, I try to feel the damage with my tongue. But only touch my back teeth, which intensifies an overwhelming anguish. I almost pass out from the pain.

“You bit your tongue off.” 

I hear footsteps behind me as I try to look around. Realising I'm still in the tavern. I try to stand but find I'm stuck on the floor. I feel my bindings squeeze as I resist. Crushing my lungs.

He slaps the back of my head. “Stop struggling unless you want to die sooner.”

I recognise that voice, it’s Tarak, the Black son who led the excursion into the wilds. He must have been at the party celebrating as well.

“Breath, come on now. Relax. You are safe. This is just a precaution.” He touches the silky webs around my torso as he walks around.

His sleek uniform is immaculate and sharp. Obsidian through and through.

“The House has worked hard to pull its name from the gutter. Years of work to redeem ourselves, to stand side by side with the Yorks and be called. Peers.” He bends down and looks at me. Judging my plump build, filthy clothes and bruised face with disgust.

“Damages to a business. Assault on members of the public. Murder of the tavern owner. These are mere scratches, minor details that can be ignored. But! But killing your own. Well, that cuts deep, all the way to my heart. The house isn’t happy. Are you?”

I shake my head in reply.

“Of course not. We’ve made you rich. Made you proud to walk these streets in the Black. Fear and respect go where you go. So why take arms against those that made you?”

I look down in shame, unsure. My memory is a haze, difficult to grasp. I see the party, the happiness it once gave me is gone. I try to concentrate, but can only see Dillwert’s laughing face.

Tarak-son watches and waits.

I can’t remember, I want to tell him but can barely meet his gaze.

“Shame will eat you alive, but stay strong. This isn’t your fault. You were set upon by a curse. You both were.” He indicates the floor.

I see his mop of wild hair, crusted with blood and brain matter.

A wet cry escapes me and replenishes the fire of pain, but I don’t care. I’ve lost my friend, my brother.

“Don’t let his life go to waste. Help us avenge him, all of them. Now breathe and focus.”

Following his instructions, I take deep breaths. Trying to sort the puzzle in my mind. 

Bit by bit, the pieces become clear. 

A bear man, no. It was only a cloak. We went somewhere with him. The alley. We smoked bukke, that must be how he cursed us. But how can I tell Tarak-son. I need a detail.

I remember an image and look up.

“Yes, you have something.”

I nod to the curved blade on his hip, he unsheaths it and places it into my hand.

Using its point, I scratch onto the tavern's planked floor.

“Are you sure?” Tarak-son asks.

I nod a yes.

“You’ve done us a great deed.” He takes the knife back. “Your family will be well looked after.”

My family?

He sinks the blade into my throat. My clothes soak up my lifeblood as it pours out.

“But like this crime, you will be forgotten.”