The Marechal Chronicles: Volume IV, The Chase: A Dark Fantasy Tale Read online

  Melisse and the Marechal de Barristide have survived a demonic battle only to find themselves at odds with one another.

  A noble yet lonesome man, the Marechal would have her stay at his side while he searches for the evil behind hideous murders throughout the realm. Yet Melisse believes her destiny lies over the mountains, far from her past.

  But that same past finds its way back to her and Melisse learns of yet another murder at House Perene. Only she is too late as she learns that the blood running in Helene Perene’s veins is no more noble than her own.

  Meanwhile, Silas has learned to play the game of intrigue and deception at the Estril court while he remains captive and consort to a High General’s wife. Jealousy threatens his very existence but nothing will stop him as he strives for his own freedom.

  Behind them all lies the broken tower of the Alchemist. It is a curse to anyone who falls under its shadow. In bitter chagrin, Melisse discovers she is no exception as she makes the attempt to unravel its terrifying mysteries.

  The Marechal Chronicles: Volume IV, The Chase

  (A Dark Fantasy Tale)

  By Aimélie Aames

  Copyright 2014. All Rights Reserved

  Get updates for new releases and special offers by subscribing to Aimélie’s Newsletter:

  http://eepurl.com/hvbU2

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One: The Marechal

  Chapter Two: Melisse

  Chapter Three: Raffiran

  Chapter Four: Melisse

  Chapter Five: Silas

  Chapter Six: Melisse

  Chapter One: The Marechal

  "How long did you say he’s been there?” one man asked another as they both marched down a squalid alleyway.

  “Rubio said at least three days, maybe four,” the second man responded, practically out of breath.

  The pace his companion set was fast.

  “And you say he’s been drinking this whole time..?”

  “Not me...Rubio,” was the breathless reply, then, “Says he ain’t moved in three days...just sits there, ordering bottle after bottle.”

  “Well, I have a hard time believing that,” the first man said, “I mean I don’t care who you are, a man’s got to piss some time.”

  “I know. I don’t believe it either. But Rubio says the fellow pisses only silver and his purse is a deep one. He says there might even be some yellow among the colors of his coin.”

  The first man stopped suddenly, then jabbed a finger into the other’s chest. It sunk in a ways as the breathless man was more than a little fat.

  “Nenouf, how in the hell did Rubio find this man in the first place? And before you answer, you know damned well I don’t want to hear that L’Anguille and his slimy partner are involved.”

  His eyebrows bristled as he looked down at the shorter, portly man he had called Nenouf. Black as coal, his hair was almost blue and his regard just as dark.

  “The Butcher’s Boys don’t work for that lot. Never have, never will...got it?”

  Nenouf’s lower lip trembled as he looked up at the other, then his eyes shifted down to the pair of meat cleavers hanging from his companion’s belt.

  They had been modified, their handles fitted with cross pieces just behind the wide blades and Nenouf had already seen on more than one occasion just how effective one was at blocking an opponent’s weapon while the other crashed into living flesh and bone.

  His eyes flitted back up to the man frowning down at him.

  “Butcher...now, don’t be mad Butcher, but it might be that Rubio got a message to go to that tavern, after all.”

  Nenouf had no problem admitting that he was afraid of Butcher. While he had never been a real butcher, the black-haired man’s father had been. Right up until the day he had cuffed the son up the side of his head, as rumor had it. Seems that was when one of the very cleavers hanging upon his wide leather belt had found its way between the father’s eyes in what was apparently a bizarre accident. As some said, a sort of occupational hazard, really.

  “Ok,” Butcher said and Nenouf could almost see steam starting to waft from his ears.

  “Looks like I need to have a heart to heart with Rubio. Right after we get the job done,” he said as he turned and started off again.

  Nenouf hurried after him and heard him continue, “But not before we start counting all that silver and gold. Rubio is gonna have to come to terms with me first...”

  Butcher whirled around and in his hand, Nenouf saw one of his long, thin knives. He knew that it had originally been used as a boning knife in his father’s shop and that the thing was sharp enough to shave with.

  “...because, if not, then....” and Butcher held the knife close to his own throat, then slid it slowly to the side.

  Nenouf understood what the bigger man meant and was very thankful that he had not been the one to receive the message from L’Anguille’s right hand man. For one thing, that man’s reputation as a cold blooded killer was well known, even more so than Butcher’s, and for the other, was the fact that Butcher could not stand the idea that anyone else was leading the way. Least of all being led by L’Anguille and his scary partner, Modest Klees.

  The fat man caught up to the other, but not too closely, then they started off again down the dark alleyway where sewage lay piled up in building corners and where one could no longer tell the rest of the street from the gutters.

  Dirty, all of it just so dirty, as was the thing they were about to do, Nenouf thought. A dirty deed, indeed.

  Castang and Vinsou were waiting for them at the street corner opposite the tavern.

  The two men were hulking figures, dressed as they were in great overcoats against the evening’s chill.

  Nenouf knew, too, that those overcoats served to hide the heavy weapons the two brothers preferred. Sometimes nothing more than a simple logger-man's maul, other times, veritable bludgeons fashioned to stove a man’s head in with a single blow. Something at which both of the big men excelled.

  “Butcher,” one of them said. Nenouf could not be sure which. Neither of them moved their lips much when they spoke and their collars were upturned, hiding most of both their faces.

  But a pair of dim blue eyes, the others, a dirty green, looked Nenouf up and down, then he heard one of them say, “Why bring little fatty?”

  “Yeah,” said the other, “No reason he gets a share of the pickin’s, Butcher. Not when we’s the ones what do the hard part.”

  “Shut yer traps, the both of you,” Butcher said with a growl, “Rubio sent Nenouf to let me know, that’s all. And, I’m the one who decides who gets a share.”

  A pair of muddy blue eyes narrowed at those words and the silence that followed was chilling.

  One of these days, those three, are going to have at it. But surely not tonight, as there’s bigger fish to fry, Nenouf thought.

  “There’s bigger fish to fry, right?” he said, cracking a smile and hoping that they would not decide to butt heads right then and there.

  “What’s fish got to do with it?”

  Nenouf thought it might have been Vinsou who asked.

  “Oh, that’s just a finger of speech,” the fat man replied matter-of-factly.

  “What?” said Butcher, “No...it’s a figure of speech, Nenouf. A figure.”

  “Are you sure, Butcher?” Nenouf asked, “I don’t see what math’s got to do with it. Besides I ain’t never been too good with math...all that figuring just makes my head hurt.

  “Now a finger of speech makes more sense, right. Like it points the way to what the person mean
s to say. You see?”

  The two brothers appeared to nod their heads slightly at the fat man’s impeccable logic and Butcher grinned a brown-toothed smile.

  “Yeah. Fine. Now let’s go see what this fellow’s about and maybe lend him a hand with his heavy purse.”

  He nodded in the direction of the tavern, then continued, “Lighten the load, if you get my meaning, boys.”

  “Oh, we get you, alright,” said a muffled voice.

  Nenouf still was not sure which one of the brothers had spoken.

  They’s like two peas in a pod, he thought, then smiled, thinking that particular phrase was a fine finger of speech, too.

  Three men walked toward the tavern, their steps heavy and determined. Another man, rounder and shorter than the others, followed in their wake but not too closely, either.

  Rubio shifted nervously on his stool. He had been sitting there for hours, waiting for Nenouf to get his message delivered to the rest of the Butcher’s Boys. He took a measured sip from his bowl of beer, grimacing at the bitterness he forced himself to swallow.

  The tavern owner frowned every time he made a pass with his broom in front of Rubio. The place was dead that evening. Not a soul other than Rubio and the drunken fool across the room from him. A third person was in the room next to them, of that Rubio was sure. Only that room was left in the dark, used only when the tavern was full enough to warrant lighting a fire in the second hearth and the rest of the oil lanterns that smoked with a sickly sweet scent of rendered fat burning.

  He had heard the creaking of a chair from the shadows there followed just after by a faint snoring.

  Doubtless another drunk left to sleep it off in a back corner.

  It did not matter, in any case. All that mattered to Rubio was the man across the room from him.

  The drunken man hung his head over a deep pewter cup, his hair unkempt and falling down to cover his face. From time to time, he roused himself just enough to lift the cup for a swallow or two, or when he found that he had emptied the thing and forgotten that he had, he would signal for another without bothering to look up.

  The tavern owner kept as close an eye on him as Rubio, though, and whenever the fellow stirred, he was sure to bustle over with a pitcher of red and fill that pewter cup to the brim.

  The wine that was poured was no local brew. Whoever he was, the man had coin enough that the barman poured him only a pale red wine brought hundreds of leagues from the north. Not the sort of vintage that any local folk would ever pay for themselves.

  Rubio was amazed that the barman even had any on stock. Although, he imagined it posed no problem for him to send someone to buy up all that could be found in the other local taverns.

  The man’s coin gleamed bright silver from time to time and seemed to flow just as easily as the wine. That was the kind of coin that washed away problems like where to find good wine.

  It was the kind of coin that men like Rubio followed, once he had been put on the scent with a message from the frightening Modest Klees.

  None of the Butcher’s Boys had ever seen Klees. They knew him by reputation only. And that reputation spoke volumes about the man that not one of them would ever want to meet, despite all their bravado.

  Some folk called him L’Anguille’s Poignard, the Eel’s Dagger, and from the stories told of him, even if only a small fraction of them were based upon the truth, then he was not someone they would ever want to cross.

  Butcher stayed away from L’Anguille’s organization. Rubio could understand why. Their own little business got along well enough. A little blackmail here, some protection paid out there. Life and enterprise were relatively fruitful for all of them in the high mountain town of Haccia.

  The community, itself, was the last outpost before the Ardoise mountains rose up in sheer spikes to form a natural barrier and frontier with the country that began upon their southern slopes.

  In the region all roads, even the least cow path, ran to Haccia. In the high country, there was nowhere else to go.

  Historically, people on religious pilgrimages had been part of the town’s beginnings. For over a thousand years, they retraced the footsteps of a sainted man, looking for another reason to count themselves among the faithful and all that walking meant that when, at last, they had reached the village that gradually grew into a large town perched just below where the trees gave up and sheer goat paths among craggy rocks took over, that meant hungry bellies.

  The residents of Haccia discovered how little effort it required to part these pilgrims from their last bit of coin in exchange for a place beside a warm fire and a bowl of hot stew.

  Later, when swarthy men from the southern slopes discovered how to preserve their hogs flesh, commerce in the northern regions’ mineral springs and the pink salt they found there anchored Haccia more firmly in place than any pilgrims ever could.

  Salt and faith, it might have been the town’s motto. Only it would not be a phrase concerning the religious zeal driving people over dangerous mountain paths to chase after the ghost of a man long dead. Rather, it would be faith in that the salt would never run out and that the southerners should never find another source so near.

  Rubio’s own father had been in the salt trade. The gambling and drink had done him in and the rest of the family with him. Their ancestral salt rights were lost in a game of dice, then his father lost himself headlong in a barrique of wine a few months later. They say drunks drown their sorrows. In his father’s case, it was in the literal sense when he was found with his feet in the air and the rest of him facedown inside an upturned cask.

  Creditors were merciless fiends.

  L’Anguille and his Dagger were the worst of these.

  The irony of the situation was not lost upon Rubio. Here he was preparing to waylay a drunken rich man and it was thanks to L’Anguille and Modest Klees that it was him, and soon the rest of the Butcher’s Boys, and not some other rough folk about to make themselves rich. On the other hand, it was thanks to L’Anguille and his henchman that Rubio was seated there, a low scoundrel among scoundrels, instead of sitting before his own hearth, a comfortable home surrounding him and the family’s flourishing salt trade business to keep him there.

  Worse still, Modest Klees would take at least three quarters of whatever they found remaining in the man’s purse. That was the part that ground Rubio most and would grind on Butcher even more.

  Unless, they were to tell the Dagger that there was less than expected.

  That was Rubio’s plan. A simple one, but one that should calm Butcher down once the blood stopped running and the rich man a’kicking. Paying out a percentage would sting, but it would surely be for far less than whatever they really found.

  The tavern keeper passed by him again, sweeping with his straw broom where not a speck of dirt remained, frowning as ever down at Rubio.

  He did not care. He had paid for his seat with a cracked earthenware bowl of local beer. Hard to drink, as bitter as tree roots. But it would do to keep him there in his rights until the rest of the gang came to keep him company.

  Rubio was sure it would not be long until they did. Then, in short order, they would have a drink of that pale red wine for themselves and something told him the coin that had paid for it would wash at least some of the bitterness away.

  The pale red color shimmered just inches from the end of his nose. He looked deeply inside his pewter cup and if he strained his eyes he could almost see her there in the bloody reflection of the wine.

  He could remember how sweetly she had smiled when they had finally reached the summit and the southern passes that lay before them.

  There were no trees at that altitude and even he had been out of breath, but mountain flowers ran through low grasses in every direction. The sight of them was like breathing air that no one else had ever breathed before. The purity of it invigorating.

  He would have like to pick one for her, to see it tucked behind an ear, framed by her dark, flowing locks.
/>   He would have liked to see her smile just once, if only once, for him and what he did for her.

  Instead, she smiled at the valley running away from her to what she said was her future. And away from what she thought was her past.

  “Melisse,” he said, “It is not too late to turn back.”

  It was not the first time he had said those same words.

  He had said them when she insisted they leave Licharre. Those same words lingered between them over the past two months as her desire to part grew more and more evident, until, at last, Melisse seemed unable to stand it any longer and the two of them headed south once more.

  He had said the words again as they began the long trek up and up through foothills that grew ever more rude the further along they went.

  And each time, her response had been the same. He did not know why he thought it might change now that they had passed over the worst of the mountains.

  She turned to him and the smile upon her lips was fading away. Instead, he saw anger broiling upon her brow and in her deep brown eyes, red flame flickered.

  He glanced down and saw fine wisps of smoke rising from where her feet touched the ground. Her hands were clenched into tight fists and from time to time, a tendril of fire would slip from her grasp to coil in the air, as if hungry, searching for something to burn.

  “Do you see this?” she hissed at him, “I can barely control it. You and your badgering about going back north to clear my name...it angers me that someone still tries to make my choices for me, Marechal.

  “And you know what happens when I get angry.”

  He had given her his name and still she refused to call him by it. The scarred man stood there, forcing himself to not take a step back from her and the wild power slipping through her fingers.