Fan Fiction ❯ November Rain ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )

Prologue

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The tavern was deserted save for the group of men sitting at a table on the far corner, the bartender at the middle of the room, and a man at the corner opposite the group. The small group had assembled themselves together to discuss the division of their newly acquired spoils and the selection of their next employer. A ragtag group of mercenaries calling themselves the Marauders, they held no qualms about murdering, raping, or slaughtering. Their main concern was toward which employer would pay them the most for the least amount of work.

Their leader fashioned himself to be known as the Marnis Road Pirate, for before he had formed this group, he had been a petty thief - not petty, the most celebrated thief in Marnis he prided. Cayarin was the only name that he knew of for himself. It was his birth name, preceding no surname but for one that he had as well fashioned for himself. Cayarin Thriceslash, for any murder he performed, he would mark his victim with three slashes. One on the brow, a deep cut that reached near to the brain; one through the throat, which many speculated would be his first strike to incapacitate the victim; and one through the chest, which was usually first exposed to him if it were a woman he was to kill.

The Marnis Tavern marked the center of the Marnis Road, which ran the country north and south. It was the general meeting place for many travelers, adventurers, and rogues all the same. Twenty times had the Marauders met at the Marnis Tavern by Cayarin's count. Maybe more - he couldn't count very well. Nonetheless, it was really only on special occasion when he would call his group to such a public place; their regular meetings held off-road in forests, caves, or mountain passes.

Late night usually found the tavern quite empty. Only those fearless of the road's bandits - or the bandits themselves - found themselves inside the tavern. Otherwise, those that had decided to stay a while were lodged upstairs. Now, the tavern itself was at times at late night a place for making peace or waging combat with a rival or enemy of a sort. The bartender was a marshal in his own right. At any given moment, found on his person would be at least two daggers, plus a longsword hidden underneath the bar somewhere. A crossbow was kept in plain view of everyone to remind them of his authority in the bar.

Cayarin drew the attention of the Marauders to himself with a few poundings on the wooden table with his empty ale mug. One by one, they ended their previous conversations and fixed their gazes upon the leader's gray eyes. Drunk as he was, he still kept his composure to not slur in speech. At least, attempted to do as much, for even his first words were slurred. "Iamshore…" he said lazily. "I am sure," he then corrected himself, "that upon our last completed job, we were able to net a full…umm…fifty gold pieces!"

His drunken companions looked upon him queerly. "That's only if you spent about three hundred of it for yourself already!" replied Tarlin, the group's only educated man. "Our last, uh, jobber rewarded us five hundred gold, fifty for the each of us!"

There were seven of them.

"You fucking drunkard!" Cayarin spat. "You accuse me of cheating the Marauders? I created us. If it wasn't for me, you'd probably still be sucking your mother's teat just to ask her for the money to buy dinner! I've done a large part to keep this group together…executed a lot of ungrateful bastards just so that we could stay together. No one brings us down."

"That wasn't what I implied Cayarin. You're drunk as you are stupid," Tarlin retorted.

"Fuck you then," Cayarin hastily replied, drawing a dagger from his cowhide belt. He pointed it at Tarlin and threatened, "Another word from you this night and I'll remove your tongue and feed it to you. And if that still don't shut you up, I'll have your manhood fed to the crows!"

Tarlin remained silent as Cayarin kept his cold stare on him. "Now…as I was saying…we were paid well for our last job. And for that, I think that we could take a month's vacation from our plundering and all. To each bandit his own share of the money. Equally I say. And should anyone take more than what is due, I'll cut off a finger. But since some of you are already a hand short, I'll just gouge out an eyeball. Now…barkeep! Another ale! Make it taste better than this…this…horse piss. And just put it on my tab."

"The tab you haven't paid in these last ten years?" the bartender replied.

"Best you keep your mouth shut about what I owe you, lest you want your manhood fed to the crows. I'll make a eunuch out of you yet, you'll see."

"You'll forget about it by the morning. By that time, your head will be hurting more than your groin after having your balls smashed by a hammer. No, forget that. It will probably feel all the same."

"Shut up. Give me my fucking drink before I have your tongue."

"Your threats are empty. There's a keg of ale on the other side of the room. Just get up and take some for yourself."

"Bitch of the Drow," Cayarin cursed as he stood up. For a moment, he considered attacking the bartended but decided otherwise. The crossbow was already in the barkeep's hands. He'd be dead before he even made it halfway, he speculated drunkenly. "You remind me too much of that John bastard I killed years ago."

"Yes, I remember. But as I see it, you're the one that should come out with the title "bastard.'" The barkeep laughed very loudly, unafraid of Cayarin or any of the Marauders. "He went rogue on you guys and killed your father. Then again, he never was really with you in the first place."

"Fuck him and his mercenary ways. We never had any use for him anyway. So what if he could swing a damned sword. We all can do that."

"As I recall…"

"…as you recall," mocked Cayarin. "You've probably gotten yourself fucked by three maidens at the same time as you recall. Enough of your mindless talking, I'm getting my drink."

The thought of John still troubled Cayarin, truthfully. He had been…a friend, could he call it? When he had still been alive, he considered John as a business partner. He never had to even lift a finger while John was around. Maybe that was why he still thought of the sellsword? No, an easy life just wasn't for Cayarin. His life had been all hardship, nothing coming easily. But having such a help around did make life seem a bit better he reflected. But the sellsword was never consistent. One job…and paid for it in full. But he did many things that it would take the whole of the Marauders days or weeks to plan…and the whole of their force to plan as well. The sellsword would be finished within three days.

He thought it funny how he was reminiscing about a ghost from the past. Or maybe this is his way of haunting me, Cayarin figured. "Fuck you, fuck the sellsword's ghost, and fuck your tavern too," he said without thought. "This is the last time I set foot in here."

"Then pay your tab," the barkeep said almost automatically. Cayarin gave a look at him for a long moment, thoughts of killing him running repeatedly through his mind. Instead, Cayarin just sighed and made his way to the keg of ale. Pouring himself a satisfactory amount, he turned and made his way back to the rest of his Marauders, oblivious to the heated conversation that their leader and the bartender had just held.

Sitting back down at the head of the table, he found that two of the men had fallen off into a drunken sleep, their snores loud and drool … or vomit … flowing from their mouths. The others seemed content enough to be given the time to continue their previous discussions. But as Cayarin sat back down, everyone silenced themselves so that their leader could once again pick up from where he had left off.

"Now, methinks that we should go whoring tomorrow, find ourselves a few nice wenches to spend some of our moneys on," said the Marnis Road Pirate proudly. "There be a cheap brothel northeast of here. I've been there many times. Fine whores that pleasure you for half the cost of the damned royal courtesans. More provocative too! Might be we find some elves in there too. I've seen one once."

The men at the table began hooting. Elves were an incredibly rare sight in brothels. They were "too high above the realm of men." Cayarin would have loved to fuck her, but she was already taken. Besides, the price was higher for her than any of the other whores. But the pay from this job would probably get him a session with the elf girl.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, settle down. You can all pleasure yourselves to the thought of her in your dreams tonight. In the meantime…" he looked past his men and saw the man sitting in the shadows in the corner. "You," Cayarin said, pointing violently at the man. "Eavesdropping on us, are you?"

The man neither stirred nor made any reply to Cayarin.

"Might be that he's asleep," he admitted. "Anyway, get yourselves a room tonight and rest. Tomorrow, we go a-whoring!"

The Marauders hooted in approval to their captain's orders. The barkeep felt differently, however. "The inn's full tonight. No vacancy. Get yourselves a nice cave to sleep in instead."

A cold sweat dripped down the back of Cayarin's neck. "I've had enough of your fucking comments. Open your mouth once more and I'll have your tongue out. I've got you outnumbered…" he counted, ignoring the two sleeping Marauders, "five to one. Your crossbow can't shoot five bolts at the same time now can it, Drow bitch?"

"No, but your men are too bloody drunk to do any good in combat right now, and I doubt that they're any good without their ales either!" the bartender challenged. "Have at ye then!" he shouted, grabbing for the crossbow.

The Marauders stood their ground as if statues. Cayarin laughed. "You must be in a hurry to die then, you know! Open combat was not what I challenged you to. But if that's what you want, it will be single combat. Your sword against mine. In the meantime, boys, go upstairs and get yourselves rooms. Kill the tenants if you want and take their money. Rape their women."

The sleeping men were awoken and they all went upstairs to the lodgings. Cayarin reached for his longsword in its sheath. As he grabbed it, his eye turned to the corner, finding the man there was gone. Looks like he went upstairs before my boys. He'll be dead in the morning.

The bartender stood his ground behind the bar, crossbow still in hand and aimed for Cayarin's chest. It was obvious that he dared not to enter single combat with the Marnis Road Pirate. So the crossbow remained primed and aimed, and primed and aimed it would stay. Until the first shot was loosed at least. That point would be his best opportunity to strike an attack - if he lived, that was.

"Coward, are you?" Cayarin mocked. "Duel me with swords, not your damned crossbow. The only real use for that thing is to shove it into a bitch's cunt and loose the bolt. Or are you just afraid of fighting me up close? Want to keep your distance so you can get a head start when you run away is it? Ha! Run now why don't you and spare me the time of having to kill you."

"Get your Marauders and get out of my bar," the bartender said stubbornly. Cayarin could see a drop of sweat trickle down over his eyes. Now! Cayarin thought, taking the moment's opportunity. In one quick motion, he dropped his left hand to his belt, grabbed a dirk, unsheathed it and through it by its point at the bartender.

The throw went wide and so did the bartender's shot. The bolt whizzed past Cayarin, missing him by many feet. At that, he lunged at the bartender, his longsword swinging wildly in the air as if dancing with an unseen partner. The bartender was unable to grab his own longsword and was therefore reduced to using his two daggers, whose only real purpose, in Cayarin's opinion, was to parry.

One quick slash at the barkeep and one of the daggers went flying out of his hand and to the ground. A quick rush pushed him to the floor. A third slash sliced off the hand with the other dagger. As the barkeep lay on the floor clutching his bloody stump of a hand and crying, Cayarin leaned over him with a smile that went from ear to ear. "I'll take the liberty to burn down the inn when we're finished here," he said maniacally.

For a moment, the barkeep kept silent and lifted his head up to see something. Cayarin turned around and heard as heavy footfalls rushed toward him accompanied with a black shadow with a large sword. He put his longsword up to parry the blow. It came just in time, but the force of the attack sent the blade falling to the floor. Defenseless, Cayarin ran to the door.

The figure followed right behind him, dogging his every motion. Cayarin opened the door and ran outside to be welcomed by the sight of all the Marauders, their bodies slashed and dismembered. They had been thrown from a broken window at the top of the inn, maybe four or five flights of stairs upward. They were massacred…it doesn't even look like they were able to draw their blades! True enough, he observed that their weapons were still in their sheathes.

He turned around to find the figure behind him, just waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. He was dressed entirely in black. But what struck Cayarin the most was the long flowing leather jacket and dark bandana that seemed to dance in the wind. "John?" Cayarin called finally. "I thought I killed you…"

The figure stood there, staring at him with eyes neither caring nor moving. He took his sword, a large curved blade with three sharp notches worked into the back, possibly as a way to pull a weapon…or a limb…from an enemy.

"It is you!" Cayarin said, recognizing the sword. "John, it's so good to see you again!" he lied desperately.

The figure moved forward and kicked Cayarin in the face to the ground. Lying there with a mouthful of blood, he gave up all hope of any mercy. The ghost grabbed his hair and picked up his upper torso and brought him up to a kneeling position and then casually walked away. Cayarin dared not to turn around to see what sight would await him.

"What are you doing back here?" Cayarin demanded as a last wish. "You're dead! I killed you!"

"Redemption," the ghost replied. With a swift slash, Cayarin's head was removed and rolled on the ground to come to a stop at the bloody corpse of another one of the Marauders. The ghost remained a moment longer to view his freshest kill, and then deciding he was satisfied, he walked away northward, a bloody path before him.