The Antiheroes: The world needed heroes...It got them instead. Read online

  He rose from the table unsteadily, some part of him thinking it still might not be too late to talk his way out of it, a thought that was shot down as soon as he saw the man’s face. Saw, too, that he was holding the knife like he meant to use it. Luckily, meaning to do something and knowing how to do it were very different, so when he brought the blade down, Dannen, gut and all, rolled off the table, narrowly avoiding the blade but not quite managing to avoid the knee of one of those sitting at the table, apparently too excited about the show to get out of the damned way.

  The knee—bony as all shit—struck Dannen in his already tender nose, but, life being what it was, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him after he’d managed to pick himself up off the ground was just how angry he was. That anger was the reason he’d sworn off violence—and swords—years ago. Proof yet again that he was a fool, if anyone was still bothering to keep track. After all, just because a man swore off violence didn’t mean violence swore off him.

  Dannen knew he should relax, take it easy. But knowing changed nothing. Suddenly, he didn’t care if the man wanted to talk it out or not, and when the thug rushed at him again, remembering which end of the blade to hold and no more than that, Dannen gave him a bloody smile. The thug swiped at him, telegraphing the blow so much that he may as well have drawn a diagram. Well, he might have been out of shape, might have had aches in his knees and elbows he wouldn’t have imagined a man could have ten years ago, but Dannen wasn’t the type of man to pass up an invitation, not when it was so kindly put. So when the thug extended his front leg and started a spin that looked like it might be finished some time tomorrow, it was an easy enough thing to kick him a good one in the balls.

  Another one of the bits of wisdom life had been kind enough to teach Dannen was it didn’t much matter how big or strong a man was, how angry either. A well-placed kick in the balls was enough to make him rethink some things—when, that was, he was able to think at all. The thug let out a shriek, dropping the knife and gripping his aching fruits instead.

  Dannen felt no small amount of satisfaction as he wiped an arm across his bloody nose, staining his tunic—a new one too, and damn the priests for saying the gods weren’t cruel—watching the man writhe for a brief moment. Then, remembering that there were still a couple more of the bastards behind him, he did what any sensible man would do under the circumstances. He kicked the bastard in the face. Best way to keep him out of the fight, that was the reason, had nothing to do with enjoying it. That’s what the second kick was for.

  With the man thoroughly unconscious, Dannen spun to face the others, and a part of him that wasn’t full of anger—an increasingly small part—felt a stab of worry. It wasn’t good to get angry, not for anybody. His old swordmaster had told him as much repeatedly a lifetime ago, and on that much, at least, he’d been right. Anger was bad, was dangerous for anybody, but for Dannen most of all, so he took a slow deep breath.

  It didn’t help. But then, a man had to breathe so there was that. He realized his fists were clenched at his sides and the lunatic, gibberish ravings of fury he’d heard for the last several seconds were coming from him. Easy, he told himself, take it easy, damnit, but the words made no more sense than the snarlings coming from his mouth. The second man hesitated, suddenly looking unsure, and who wouldn’t, when confronted with a raving man with blood pouring down his face, mixing with flecks of spittle in a crimson froth?

  The man hesitated, but Dannen did not. He charged, screaming wildly, feeling happy, really happy, for the first time in years. It was strange how anger and violence could make him feel that way when all the drinking and whoring in the world didn’t come close.

  Strange..

  It was the last rational, truly understandable thought he had. What followed weren’t thoughts so much as shouts of fury inside his head, growls and hisses, the language of violence, a language no man truly understood. Though, it had to be said, that Dannen Ateran, once known as the Bloody Butcher, understood it better than most.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He woke in a damp alleyway. The first thing he became aware of was the tacky, coppery taste of blood in his mouth. It was a taste he was all too familiar with. Gingerly, he probed along the inside of his cheeks with his tongue to discover, unsurprisingly, that he’d bitten chunks out of both sides. He’d done it before, many times when the battle lust was on him. It was a wonder he had any cheeks left. Still, as annoying as the sharp pain was, he didn’t think that was the worst of it.

  Gods, but I should know better.

  His head was pounding like an anvil beneath the blows of a blacksmith with a cruel streak. He groaned, opening his eyes with a monumental effort. He climbed his way to a sitting position, propped his back against the alley wall, and began to take stock. His mouth and chin were covered in dried blood from where the thug had busted his nose, but not enough to account for the blood staining his once-white tunic—so much that a man could have been forgiven for believing the tailor had used crimson fabric.

  Someone, then, had done a lot of bleeding, and it hadn’t all been Dannen. Knowing well how he got when the lust came on him, he doubted even most of it was his. A good thing, sure, but bad, too. He sighed heavily. It wasn’t the first alleyway he’d woken in, more’s the pity, but he’d promised himself years ago that the last time would be the last time. A liar, then, as well as a fool.

  If the gods had a sense of humor, it was a dark one. The skin on his knuckles was scraped raw from hitting something—what, he didn’t remember, but considering that the answer was likely one of the thugs’ faces, he’d just as soon not.

  Well, he hadn’t had a sword on him, so at least that was one vow that was still intact. Probably. Certainly he didn’t remember drawing a blade, and if a man couldn’t remember breaking a vow, did it even count?

  He hocked and spat up a mouthful of blood then swallowed past a dusty throat. He considered just lying there, going back to sleep or at least to an oblivious unconsciousness. Based on how much he hurt, moving would probably be a mistake. The problem, of course, was that hanging around until friends of the person—or, more likely, people—he’d hurt showed up would be worse. He began to rise, a job made more difficult by the incessant throbbing in his head, though whether that came from a blow he’d taken or the drink there was no way of knowing.

  He was halfway to his feet when a shout came from the end of the alleyway.

  “There he is!” cried a heavy-set woman in a blue dress, pointing at Dannen like he was a piece of cow shit she’d nearly stepped on. Only a glance was enough to tell him that here was the sort of woman who made for a miserable husband. Or, more likely, a dead one, and that no doubt under suspicious circumstances. It was a toss up then, which was more intimidating: the woman or the four uniformed guardsmen standing beside her, all with bared swords in their hands.

  “He’s the one burned down Pelver’s tavern!” the woman exclaimed—he had a feeling she never spoke, this woman, only exclaimed. Her shrieking wasn’t doing any favors for Dannen’s headache, but he thought that probably the least of his problems, the frowning guardsmen a bit higher on the list.

  “That true, stranger?” one of the guards asked, the tight grip he had on his sword showing he had little doubt.

  How the shit should I know? Dannen thought. But since he figured there were probably better ways to die than being hacked to pieces by four offended guardsmen, he shrugged. “Doesn’t sound much like me.”

  “Of course he did it!” the shrew screeched, and Dannen felt another twinge of pity for her husband. If the poor bastard wasn’t dead yet, he was damn sure trying to be. “He’s wearing the gods-blasted sign around his gods-blasted neck!”

  Dannen followed her pointing finger—wielded it like a sword, that one—and was as surprised as the guardsmen to find that the woman was right. A thick wooden sign sat at his chest, hanging there by a chain around his neck which at least went a little way toward explaining the ache he’d been having. Pelver’s Tavern,
it read, NO Fighting.

  There was a bit of blood staining the sign—more than a bit, in truth—enough to nearly obscure the word “fighting.” Blame it on the drink or the ridiculousness of it all, but something about that struck Dannen as funny, and he started to laugh. He regretted it immediately, of course, for it sent a fresh wave of pain through his fragile head. More concerning, however, was that the laughter did a pretty good job of ridding the guards of any lingering doubts they might have had that he’d been up to mischief. They marched toward him then, their blades at the ready, looking like they were waiting on an excuse to start chopping.

  Dannen sighed. Maybe he could have outrun them—certainly there was plenty of alley between him and them, but why bother? His whole body hurt, and he thought maybe a night in the dungeons—or a couple of them—might not be such a bad thing. Of course, if he’d actually killed any of those poor bastards back at the tavern it might be a bit more than that, but he thought he’d probably remember a murder or two.

  “Look, fellas,” he said, trying his best to be reasonable—it was important, being reasonable, kept a man from killing or getting killed…except for when it didn’t, of course. “I’ll come along quietly, alright? There’s no need for the blades.”

  Which was true enough. If he’d had a mind to fight just then—something just about as far from Dannen’s mind as anything could have been—he thought he could have been conquered pretty damned thoroughly by another shout or two from the woman.

  “Put the weapon down!” one of the guards barked. “Slowly.”

  Weapon? Dannen thought, what in the name—that was when he noticed the stick in his hands. Probably, he should have noticed it sooner, but circumstances being what they were, he’d been a bit distracted. The stick was a foot and a half long, but judging by the jagged edge it had been decidedly longer at some point. An edge that, as it happened, was stained with dried blood.

  Well, he thought. Bastard no doubt had it coming. Not that he could remember that nor, if he was being honest, could he strictly remember who the bastard in question had been. Whoever it was though, stabbed with a length of broken off wood or not, he doubted his day was looking as shitty as Dannen’s own. He tossed the broken piece of wood away. There was nothing else to do.

  The two guardsmen approached warily despite his words, and considering his appearance, he couldn’t really blame them. The woman was right behind them, actually gripping the jerkin of one of the guardsmen, and between them, he figured her to be the scariest.

  “Look,” he said, holding up his hands, “I don’t want any trouble.” The guards didn’t believe him, that much was obvious, approaching like he was a wild man—a wild man who attacked people with brooms and passed out with a tavern sign hung around his neck. Which, of course, he was. Likely, the blood staining his hands didn’t help matters, but at some point it just became gratuitous anyway.

  “Put these on,” one of the men said, producing a pair of manacles from where they hung on his belt and tossing them at Dannen’s feet.

  Dannen stared at the hateful metal cuffs, lying there in a coil like some snake about to strike and felt his jaw tense as a flood of memories threatened to beat down the wall he’d built around it, a wall which was always eroding, always in need of repair. “No.”

  “The fuck did you say?” another guard asked.

  “Kill him!” the shrew screamed.

  “Listen,” Dannen said softly, doing his best to quell his rapidly-beating heart. “I’ll come with you, and if it turns out I’ve earned some time in the dungeons, I’ll take it without a word of complaint.” He glanced down at the manacles again lying a foot away. Had they been so close before? Or had they moved closer when he wasn’t looking, eager to find a home clasped around his flesh, stealing his freedom? Never again, he told himself.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said again, his mouth as dry as if he’d swallowed glass. Which, considering how the night had gone, he supposed was possible. “But I’m not putting those damned things on.”

  The second guard grunted, scowling and opening his mouth, no doubt to utter some threat or another, but the shrew beat him to it.

  “You’re a criminal, that’s what you are! I saw what you did—I saw.” Saying the last like he was some sneak thief caught with his hand in her pocket. Ridiculous, of course. Dannen was no thief, and he wouldn’t have dared reach into the woman’s pockets even if he had been. Probably full of snakes and vinegar.

  “Look,” the first guard said, clearly struggling to keep his patience, “I don’t know what all this is about, but it’s our job to figure it out, savvy? So why don’t you just take it easy, huh?”

  Dannen glanced down at himself, covered in blood and spilled beer and the gods alone knew what else. “This is me taking it easy, and I get it. You’ve got a job to do. Fact is, I did a lot of drinking last night, and I’m not really sure what happened.”

  And that was true enough, at least the part about the drinking. No need to go any further than that, to talk about the other thing. “Well, sure, sure,” the guard said, nodding repeatedly in a way Dannen thought people usually reserved for the very old or very insane. Considering how many aches and minor pains he was feeling just then, he thought he would have traded places with any of the former quickly enough. As for the latter…well, sane men didn’t wake up in alleyways with tavern signs around their necks clutching bloody lengths of wood.

  “I get it,” the guard went on, trying for a laugh. “Shit, I’ve been there. We all have. One ale leads to another, so on and so forth. My wife, the gods bless her, I guess I’ve lost count of the times she’s had to wake me up when I passed out on our floor, not quite making it to the bed, understand? We’re all reasonable men here,” he said, gesturing to himself and the other guards but not, Dannen noted, to the woman. “So’s how’s about you just put on the manacles, eh? Then we’ll take you to the guard office, figure this whole thing out. You haven’t done nothin’, why, you’ll be gone in an hour and can get back to…” He hesitated, looking Dannen up and down. “Well, whatever it was you were doing.”

  Dannen didn’t feel reasonable, not then, not with him wearing the world’s heaviest tavern-sign necklace, and not with those steel manacles so close, seeming to hiss at him with deadly promise. “You want to go to the guard house,” Dannen said softly, “I’ll go to the guardhouse. If there’s a cell needs an ass in it I’ll be that a—” He cleared his throat. “What I mean is, I’ll go to the dungeon if I need to, answer what questions you have also. But I’ll say it one more time—I won’t be bound.”

  “Fuck this,” the second guard said, shouting as he charged forward, his sword leading. A young guardsman, this one, eager to prove himself to himself. Dannen saw a bit of the man he’d once been in the scowling face as it rushed toward him. A far younger, far dumber version, if such a thing were possible. It might have been the Dannen of twenty years ago charging forward, hungry to show his skill. The difference, though, was that the younger version of him might have been a dumb asshole, but he had known how to fight, and he never would have overextended the reach of his sword.

  Not hard, then, to step to the side of the wild swing, to grab a handful of the man’s hair, and give it a good yank before burying the guard’s head in the alley wall. There was a crunching sound as the guard’s nose broke—Dannen sympathized—then he let out a soft groan and fell to the ground unconscious.

  Shit. Well, that had been foolish. Breaking tavern signs was one thing but assaulting a city guardsman was quite another. Men didn’t do time in the dungeon for something like that—they were hung for it. It was the damned manacles, sitting there, making him unreasonable. “Hey,” he said slowly, holding his hands up again as he looked at the other guardsmen who were staring at their unconscious companion in shock as if still trying to piece together what had happened. There, too, Dannen sympathized. “Look, he had that coming, huh? The man seemed like a bit of a dick. Me and you, though,” he said, meeting the nicer guard
’s eyes, “we can work something out, right?”

  Whatever sympathy the guardsman had had a moment ago—real or feigned—it was nowhere in evidence now as he met Dannen’s gaze with a look he recognized all too well. Be hard not to, as many times as he’d seen it. It was a look that said the talking was over and any questions the guardsman might have had, he wanted them answered in blood.

  An unconscious guard, another with the battle lust in his eyes, shared by his two companions, and a woman whose screams echoed in his head like the end of the world. Dannen did the only thing he could do, the only thing any sensible man would do, under the circumstances.

  He ran.

  It felt awkward, running, not least because he’d lost his belt somewhere only the gods alone could guess, and his trousers kept trying to fall around his ankles. Still, that didn’t account for just how damned difficult it was. That question, though, was answered a second later when he noticed that he was only wearing one shoe. Maybe the other one had conspired with the belt, made off in search of a better life. Dannen would have wished both of them luck, but in his experience, a better life was something other people had.

  He managed to make it to the end of the alley without getting spitted so that was something, and he glanced back to see that the guards were actually some distance behind, the woman screaming words of encouragement or—and this was more likely—curses at their backs as they ran toward him.

  Grinning and feeling finer than he had since he’d woken—not saying much maybe, but he’d take what he could get—Dannen rounded the corner of the alley, falling trousers and all, confident that, if he could make it to the main street, he’d be able to lose his pursuers easily enough, becoming just one more asshole in a city full of them. He was already making plans for what he would do once he’d escaped—plans largely centered around having an ale, because if any man ever needed a drink it was him. Then he saw four more guardsmen waiting for him in the street.