NaNoWriMo Novel, chapter 1!

I will post the entire thing, chapter by chapter as they are completed, on the Radish Room. For those of you who aren't members on that blog, however, I'm going to post excerpts here. Here is the only complete chapter I will be posting, Chapter one.

Working title is "The Outlaw's Hand". I'll try to post a summary later, but I'm having a lot of trouble figuring out exactly how to summarize this story, so we'll just see.

Enjoy, hopefully, and comments are always awesome!

The Outlaw's Hand, Chapter One

The rain fell upon the town in a dogged, dispirited shower too heavy to be properly called a drizzle, but not quite enthusiastic enough to merit the label of torrent. It coursed down roofs of chipped, slanting shingle; soaked thatched roofs until they turned a sodden, dark color promising a healthy growth of mold and mildew in a few weeks; and slipped spitefully down even the flipped-up collars of the few men and women unfortunate enough to be still outdoors, hurrying through the narrow streets from work or to it, without any roof at all. There were not many of them, but such faces that showed were all stamped with an expression remarkably similar to the rain itself: surly and cold.

The largest gathering of people to be seen, numbering maybe fifteen in the darkness, was huddled outside a tavern which gave testament to the sort of clientele it serviced with the absence of any lettering upon the large, crudely painted sign which depicted a green fish stabbed through by a wicked-looking hook, garishly bright blood dripping from its sagging mouth. Some called the place The Bleeding Cod, others The Hooked Fish, but most just called it trouble. Sailors on leave, fishermen newly back in port after days at sea, and other types poor enough to be illiterate and to possess appetite without palate gave the tavern a steady enough stream of business to keep it running comfortably, but it still exuded an air of dilapidation rather than prosperity. Its bulbous and warped glass windows, so old and grimy as to be nearly as opaque as the walls which they were set in, were at the moment filled with a brown-yellow light, like smoke lit underneath by a sullen fire. The puddles in its little courtyard, lit feebly with that light, were iridescent with oily rainbows.

It was not the sort of place which typically drew bystanders, since any men passing were either of the type to go immediately within, or to hasten past before any brawling started. The crowd outside was not dispersing, however, but instead was growing, heedless of the miserable rain. There could have been a few reasons for this phenomenon, the first being the sound of a raised voice inside the building, which instead of being the usual bawdy slurring was sharp, authoritarian, and even through the thick stone walls had a clear accent not commonly heard in seedy port towns. Even more unusual, however, was the large number of horses standing and blowing steam in the slick and oily tavern courtyard. They were sleek, powerful beasts, and obviously well-trained to judge by their remaining in a stolid formation even though only a ragged boy--most likely a street urchin whose services had been bought temporarily with a tossed coin or two--stood guarding them, The rain dripped irreverently from their combed manes and tails, and soaked determinedly into the livery they wore, but even so the richness of the cloth and harness was unmistakable, and gleaming proudly upon each brow, breast, and flank was the winged crest of the king.

The girl, when she came hurrying around the corner and within view of the crowd, might have been dimly aware of some kind of disturbance and excitement taking place at the tavern, but the rain had drawn her hood up and her eyes down, and so she saw neither the horses nor the king’s crest they bore. But she did hear the sudden metallic crash which sounded from within the tavern just as she drew abreast of it, and, startled, she both involuntarily slowed her step and raised her head, taking in all at once both crowd and horses, crest and boy. While fights were not exactly uncommon at The Bleeding Cod, the sounds they made were far more likely to be the heavy, meaty cracking of fist against jaw or the crash of a wooden stool being used as a makeshift club, not the clear, cut-glass music of steel against steel. One of the larger of the bystanders, a wide-mouthed hulk of a man whose pierced ears and seamed, leathery skin clearly marked him as one of the tavern’s would-be patrons, took notice of the girl as she stood frozen and staring, and with the leering nonchalance of a man trying to endear himself to a woman, did his best to fill her in on the situation.

“Ye might want to be finding a different way home tonight, miss. That’s the king’s own men in there, and ‘tain’t for drink they’ve come. Came riding up like a storm they did, and burst straight-way through the door, swords out and shouting, though some went round the back and sides of the place too. I’ve some mates inside, meself, and I was to meet them, or I wouldn’t be here, but it’s not them your fine king’s boys are after; word is they have managed to trap--Hold, and where is it you be going?”--For the girl, instead of lingering to be regaled further concerning what was happening within the tavern, had begun to hurry away down the street, slipping a little on the wet track of mud the dirt street had become and clutching the empty basket she carried tighter in her arms. She had not gone more than two paces, however, when the tavern’s sturdy door was thrown open with such abrupt strength it rebounded with a loud crash from the tavern’s slimy wall. There was a sudden spill of yellow light upon the ground--real light, not the oil-slick dribbling from the windows. For a brief split of a moment, she saw the hard black silhouette of a man in the bright doorway. But then she felt a sudden firm grip upon her arm, and she before she could even cry out she was dragged through the crowd, which scuttled to make way, through the hot, steaming mass of horses in the little yard, and up to the man who still stood in the bright doorway. She had barely the time to comprehend that her captor was mailed and helmed, clearly one of the soldiers who had been in the tavern, and she had only just begun to struggle, when they reached the door. Bewildered and angry, and not a little afraid, she tried to speak to the man waiting there, but he scarcely even glanced at her face. His own face was lean but strong-jawed, and it was ridiculously elongated by the tall helm he wore, upon which a captain’s badge gleamed.

“She’ll do,” he said to the man who held her, in a voice both agitated and hard. “Take her in. Quickly, quickly--”

And the door was yanked shut once more, leaving the bystanders out in the rain once more, and hiding light, king’s soldiers, and girl all from view.


Once inside, the smell of rain and mud and wet stone was instantly replaced with that of sweat, sour drink, grease, and, more peculiarly, onions. But stronger than any of those smells was the smell of blood newly-spilled, so strong it stuck to the back of the throat like smoke, and could be tasted upon the tongue. To one side of the dingy common room, that farthest from the roaring fireplace, was a small and ragged group of men. They were mostly patrons, looking somewhat bemused and foolish, though there was also in their midst an immensely fat, immensely distressed-looking man who was probably the owner of the place. Standing before the windows and blocking the door were the king’s men, their swords up and wary but as yet unmoving. Upon the floor, almost tangled among the soldier’s booted feet, there lay in their still hot and stinking blood the bodies of two men, their skewed helms and the badge upon their surcoats flickering redly in the firelight. And backed into the farthest corner of the room, beside the fireplace, blade still red-running in his hand, stood another man.

He was not tall, but he did not stand like a small man. His clothing was very plain and very weathered, and he wore no cloak, though one hung discarded upon the back of a nearby chair that had somehow managed to stay upright during what looked to have been a fierce struggle. He was not breathing hard and did not seem agitated in any way despite the half-ring of king’s steel drawn up about him, but there was a dangerous, eager light in his eyes that was very like to that of a wild beast which has lately killed and which knows it must very soon kill again. His face was darkened by the sun, as were the backs of his hands and what little could be seen of the proud line of his throat, and his hair was long and dark.

One of the soldiers, the most senior under the captain, had been speaking to him in a low, wheedlingly reasonable tone of voice when the captain returned with the girl. His jaw was grey and stubbled, but his voice did not sound old.

“Give yourself up, man. The place is surrounded. You will not win out alive.”

“I have done so before,” the man replied cooly.

“Ah, but that was in Altressor, was it not? To each land its own, but here we do not allow men who are enemies of our laws and our king to escape. It was over for you the moment our man recognized you in the street.”

“So you told me once before,” the man answered, “and yet there lie two of your men dead. If you are so sure I am taken, why do you hang back as though afraid? I shall tell you: It is because you are afraid. But of the stories, I wonder, or of the man?”

The soldier was saved answering by the captain unceremoniously thrusting the girl forward, his left arm wrapped around her so that her arms were pinioned tightly to her sides, and a thin knife glinting where he held it poised against the quick-beating hollow of her throat.

“Not as afraid as she is, eh, Gold-Head?” He said, coldly. “Drop the sword, or she dies.”


“Sir! Please, sir, I was only passing, I was not looking, I swear I was not--”

“Silence,” he growled, tightening his grip on her arms. But she still struggled, furious at how pitiful and scared she must look to this roomful of armed men, and terrified all the same. She did not want to die.

“Please, sir, I have to be home, my mother--” She felt the sudden tang of king-forged steel at her throat, and a red wire of pain burning there. With a hideous sound, partway sob and partway gasp, she froze.

The man beside the fireplace had also gone very still, his sword held half-up in guard, but his eyes fixed upon the thread of blood trickling down into the girl’s collar.

“Ah,” he said. He had a peculiar voice. “So not even you can quite entirely believe your own propaganda, Matthew? That’s good.”

He did not wait for a reply. Quite calmly, he let fall the blade, and it rang upon the stones of the hearth. He raised his hands carefully into the air. Before the echo of metal had quite faded, they were upon him. He was slammed down across one of the few tables still standing and whole, and she saw a few quick flashes of silver as various knives and other weaponry were retrieved from his person. His hands they bound with a leather belt.

When, after a surprisingly short time, they dragged him upright again, he was pinioned, weaponless, and breathing a little erratically. There was blood upon his mouth from where his face had struck the tabletop, but his voice and carriage was just as courteous and bitter-calm as they had been before. He nodded to where the girl still stood, rigid in the hands of the man who held her, her eyes as round as coins.

“Go on, Matthew. Let the child go. She has served your purpose.”

Instantly she felt the vice-like grip upon her arms slacken, and the cold touch of metal against her throat was gone. The captain shoved her from him, impatiently rather than contemptuously, and replaced his knife in the leather sheath at his hip. His long face was alight with satisfaction, but his entire attention was now bent upon the captive swordsman, and as quickly as she had been dragged into the whole wretched business, she was now dismissed. Forgotten for the moment, she stood in the firelight, pressing trembling hands to her throat and then staring blindly at the red upon them when she drew them away, as the dead men upon the floor were dragged away and the tavern-keeper, plucking up some feeble semblance of courage at last, began to attempt to needle the captain about paying compensation for the broken furniture and the bloodstains upon his already filthy floor.

They gave her a silver penny for her trouble. Numbly, she took it, and when the youngest of the guardsmen lingered to offer to walk her home, she accepted the offer with the same wordless numbness. Several times on the way he attempted to engage her in conversation, bubbling and ebullient with the triumph at the tavern, but she replied not a word.

A lamp still burned in her mother’s window, when at last she stood upon the threshold of her own house, in her own quiet street. The young guardsman there took his leave of her. He was a handsome lad, with thick auburn hair and green eyes, and even though garbed in the leather and heavy steel of the citadel and king’s service, he walked with a spring in his step.

She stood watching him, dreamlike, until he had quite gone into the darkness, and then, shifting her empty basket upon her arm and smoothing her skirts, she tried to open the front door. More than a half-score times did her shaking fingers slip useless upon the latch. Suddenly, she wished she had cast the silver back in the courteous face of the man who had given it to her, and that she had walked the dark road home on her own.