Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Callum

T onight is about revenge. The conversation with my father in the tavern last week has played upon my mind many times since. It also confirmed that he is more than merely a blacksmith.

My thoughts stray to the bundle I found under his bed as a child—the sword.

I want to ask him more, yet now is not the time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after I have proven myself again, he will share more about himself and his past. I'm eager for the changes and to become a man. Not in the ways associated with age, because I am already measured as a man in that way, but in the mindset, in the way demonstrated through deeds.

My father, myself, and a man I have never met before meet in the shadows of an abandoned shop. John is a small, skinny beta of similar age to my pa, with intelligent eyes and a purposeful manner. As I listen to their conversation, I realize they have been acquainted for many years—part of my father's secret life, I presume.

A fourth man, with the bearing of a soldier, comes to join us. I have seen Anders talking to my pa at the workshop on occasion. A heavy cloak covers up his city guardsman uniform in a way that disguises it at a glance, but not on closer inspection.

He nods at my father, glances at John, and then at me, before returning his gaze to my father. "Got a couple of lads waiting for when it's done." He pats his hip, drawing my attention to the rope hanging there, ready to use.

My stomach clenches, and I feel a little queasy. Events happened in a rush when we raided the slave markets, leaving no time to think. My father was right. It is very different when one takes deliberate action that will lead to a man's downfall. I'm about to take a step here from which I cannot go back.

Surprisingly, it was not rage that consumed me when I killed the men at the market, but a sense of intense justice. The same sense envelops me now as I swallow down the sickness. It solidifies my purpose and holds my hands steady when I feel they ought to shake.

Anders' eyes are back on me. "Your lad?" he asks my father.

"Aye. Callum wished to be part of this."

The city guardsman nods. "He has your bearing." His lips curl up in the faintest of smiles before he directs his focus to the street and the tall row of townhouses opposite. It has been snowing all day and has only just stopped. The passage of feet and carts has churned up the snow, leaving behind slushy mud. It is a miserable time of the year, although at least it has not settled deep.

"Aye, and his late mother's hair," my father says.

John chuckles before indicating the townhouse two doors down on the far side of the street. "Third floor. Attic room, facing the alleyway out the back. A dozen or so families call that dump home. Neighbors won't interfere. Folks keep to themselves in this part of the city. We won't have any trouble. The father's name is Cecil, and he's already filled his belly with ale before turning in for the night. Word is tempers have been short among those who run the slave markets since the raid, and Cecil copped a beating among the fallout." He grins. "If a few of the bastards get offed while they are infighting, it's a bonus all around."

"He won't be missed, then," Anders says.

"No," John replies. "They will find some other worthless twat to replace him, and look no further."

"Let's get this done," my father says.

We've gone over the plan. It is simple. We will go in, subdue him, bind him, if necessary, and punish him.

My heart rate kicks up as we walk across the street, enter the weather-worn wooden door, and follow John up the rickety stairs. They creek under our heavy footfall. An old man opens a door and peers out as he hears our footsteps approaching, only to slam it shut when he sees us passing. John is right. This is a rough part of the city. The people who live here are either down on their luck or deadbeats and criminals. Criminals know when to keep their noses out of other people's business, as do those other unfortunate souls who call this district home.

It is a marked difference from the attitude in the streets near our workshop, where we look out for one another. Nobody gives a fuck here. I daresay someone in this building might be acquainted with Cecil. Perhaps there are even some who are his friends. Or maybe they despise him and will be glad when he is gone.

I don't know, and I don't care, so long as they don't interfere.

We arrive at a landing on the top floor with only two doors—John thumbs toward the one facing the back of the building.

Anders lifts his boot and kicks in the door.

The noise is loud and jarring, and we surge into the room.

He sits at a table with a lit candle on the mantle over a cold fire. As he registers our entry, he stumbles up and comes out swinging.

My father told me to let him handle this part.

I don't.

I charge forward, knock one swinging fist out of the way, and take him by the throat. His other fist lands against my ribs, but weakly, and I barely notice it. I toss him, sending him bowling into the wall just as the door slams shut on the ruckus we create. My blood is pounding through my veins.

There is only one thought in my mind.

Punish him.

Punish him for the marks I saw on Ada's face.

Punish him for all the things my father told me he was responsible for, the cruelty toward that sweet lass when, as her father, he should have fucking cherished and cared for her as my pa cares for me.

Instead, he betrayed her in the deepest, most vile of ways, turning abuser and then selling her to pay his debts.

I fist his shirt, drag him to his feet, and punch him in the jaw.

"Who the fuck are you?" He spits out a gob of blood as I stand before him, chest heaving and my hand still fisted. The others have spread out in the room but don't interfere as I take the measure of the man with his lank, greasy hair and scruffy beard. I see nothing of his daughter in him except he is small.

I tower over him. I've always been big for a beta. Maybe the size difference means I should feel some guilt for the beating I'm about to put on him.

I don't. He is filth, just like this hovel where Ada grew up. I take my eyes off him to glance around the single room Ada called home. There are two bedding areas, one with a full wooden-framed bed and another with a rough curtain, currently tied back to reveal a straw bed on the floor.

My nostrils flare. That is where she slept, I know it—fucking bastard.

"A friend of Ada's," I say, turning back to the worthless thug who wavers on his feet after a single punch.

He holds up his fists as if that might offer a credible threat to me.

"I was going to bind him," Anders says casually. "But happen you've got it covered, lad."

"The fuck do you all want?" Cecil demands, spittle flying from his mouth as his eyes dart between us.

"Absolutely nothing," I say. Stepping forward, I go for an uppercut. My fist connects with his chin, and his head smacks against the wall. The training my father put me through, the boxing practice of an evening, pays off. My fist swings fast again, and he doesn't even get a chance to counter it as I follow up with a jab. He staggers a bit. His swinging arms lose coordination. I go for his gut, and he folds, gasping for breath.

His feebleness lights a fire inside of me. He is a bully who has preyed upon his own child. My next punch sends him reeling. He hasn't even hit me back. I wish he would. I'd welcome some kind of resistance. He is weak, feeble, and pitiful. He is the lowest form of scum. My fists move fast and furious. Landing blow after blow. My knuckles go from pain into numbness. He's on the floor, I am over him, and my fists still fly. I hear a crunch as his nose breaks. I want to tear him apart. It's not until a hand rests on my shoulder, stilling me, that I realize how much I have done.

"Enough, lad," my father says.

My chest heaves like a bellows. The man before me is barely recognizable. His face is swollen, and the floor is splattered with his blood.

"Death is too good for him, Callum."

I stagger away and glance around to find Anders and John wearing tight, approving looks.

My gut clenches—I have done this. My father keeps his hand on my shoulder, though, which calms the raging beast inside me.

Anders steps forward with the rope, and John assists as they swiftly bind Cecil.

"Bastards!" The ruined man struggles weakly. "My fucking nose. My friends will come for you. Mark my words."

"What friends?" John scoffs. "You don't have a single one. Unless you're talking about the scum you work with. Do you think they give a shit about you? They don't."

They finish binding his hands and drag him to his feet, where he sways, blood dripping from his nose and over his chin.

My father drops his hand from my shoulder and approaches the pitiful man. "Have you heard of the orc mines?"

Cecil gives him a wary look.

"Aye, I see that you have. You might last a year. Maybe less, maybe a bit more. When you wake up every morning, and you realize your miserable fate, when you feel the sting of a whip or a boot to your pathetic ass or a cuff from the mean orc bastards as run the mines, I want you to remember your daughter, Ada. Remember how you sold her out."

"That's what this is about? My fucking whelp. That ungrateful little snot."

My father drives a fist into his belly, knocking the wind out of him even as he reaches back with his other hand to halt me in my tracks.

"Aye," my father says. "That's what this is about… Get him out of here. He's never going to repent. May he suffer for what he did."

Anders takes one arm and John the other to haul the broken man toward the door.

John pauses when they reach me. "You handled yourself well, Callum." He sends a meaningful glance at my hands. "Best take care of those knuckles when you get home."

I flex my fingers, only now looking down. I practice daily, and my hands have toughened over the years, but the skin is still an angry red, swollen, and split.

They move on, taking Cecil down the stairs.

"I've never had cause to use my training like this before," I say quietly.

"That filth wasn't a person," my father says, glancing around the room. "You might want to check that pitiful nook, which likely belonged to your lass. See if there is anything personal we should take."

I swallow at the mention of my lass. I've kissed her once, and I'm fucking besotted with her, yet I have no claim.

Not yet.

I want one, and that sounds ridiculous and primitive; not that I can deny all I feel.

"I'll take a look," I say gruffly, striding to the bedding nook that makes my heart ache to see. The blankets are threadbare—I wouldn't keep a dog in this filth.

As I feel under the edges against the straw, I catch something firm and draw out a small leather-bound book. The pages are words on one side and beautifully drawn pictures on the other—a storybook. A couple of pages are torn, but the rest are whole.

I slip it into my jacket pocket and quickly check the rest of the area. "A book. Nothing more. I'm done."

Turning our backs on the filthy room, we head down to the street where John awaits us.

"Guards took him. Tomorrow he will be in a caravan bound for the mines."

"Good," my father says.

"See you tomorrow in The Green Man," John says. "I'll give you an update, then."