Crossing to the shadows chapter 14 raw first draft

"The Dextera were decimated, yet still one stands for them. Despite being cast out."

Rico looked up from his list, still sitting at the table he struck the deal with Salius over. Eyes narrowed. He leaned his head a bit, checking around the other tables. The crowd shifted over the hours. Currently, he looked to be the only one not nodding agreement to the loud mouth of Strabo Cato.

Wisdom told him to avoid the bait, wait a bit, then walk out. Pride said walk over and deck the blowhard. Anger agreed with the latter. Age told him the best solution was to find someone younger to deal with the younger man.

Tonight, after a long day thinking over supplies needed, making arrangements to get his own weapons and gear back from those holding them, Rico was not in the mood for reason. Strabo Cato would hound him regardless, seeking some way to discredit him further. His clan was one of the few mainland ones known to be regarded as "pure" enough by the islanders for him to enter their realms. Laying down two coins, Rico quietly murmured something.

The fool took the bait. "Oh, mumbling about buying your way out of trouble? Did that work when I was allowed to winnow out your precious century?"

Raising his eyes, Rico found the face he hated most, still unbroken. He started to speak, but found another taking his side.

"Sextus Strabo Cato. Still threatening young Custorae today?" The feminine voice held more than an edge. It dripped venom, and the accents the fool tried to mimic. "Plan any more adventures to send one into without permission of your betters."

Rico leaned back, not sure if he should take offense at being lumped in with lady riders, or admire the guts of the numena, taking on one of the few who still wore the blue mark of the Centuria Sinistra openly. Cato, apparently, never expected one of those he served turning on him.

Twisting a bit in his chair, one arm draped over the back, Rico let his smile show. "Cato getting his ears twisted by an islander, I should offering odds on the winner."

He winced at the glare the woman tossed him. "Stay out of this (vagrant)."

Rico stood, pushing his cloak, showing the one item he already recovered. Light gleamed off his chablys lorica, highlighting the jade inlays of the Centuria Dextra. The crimson cape marking him as under the Imperatrix's orders, not any others. "Oh, I think not. Cato badgered me first. I think I'll pull rank and age on you, (young woman)."

Eyes met his with anger fading to doubt, eyes noting the breast plate and few other marks of rank. "Centurio?"

He let his head incline barely a finger's breadth. "Cato, care to repeat what you said about my Hundred again?" His hand settled onto his gladius, a ceremonial,  but functional, weapon.
Cato's grin prompted Rico to glance around the room. Mostly islanders, a stacked deck. The few exceptions were two elves and dwarf seated across the room, and a strange humani wearing the leathers of the Kensori, rare to be this far out, but not unheard of.

"Draw that blade and die, as your decimated ones are doing now, Centurio!" Cato drew his gladius. The proprietor of the tavern blanched, but dared not challenge a member of the Left Hand.
"Is that The Cato? The last of his clan?" An elvish voice, high and filled with mirth, rang out bell-like in the room. From the dwarf.

"Pumillo, you should have been slain at birth." Turning on the misshapen elf, stunted limbs, slightly deformed face from some congenital defect, Cato's grin brightened for a moment.

"Good thing we are both on leave, eh consorbrinae?" The elf to the stunted one's left rose. In full Legionairre attire, neat, trim and ready for a fight.

Their other companion rose, hand resting on the hilt of an acinias of the Custos, but one far more decorated than a standard service one. "Yes. Besides, I am sure that our gubenatrix could take half this room, and the Loricus the other. Shame that our Praetor has yet to join us, he would enjoy watching this fight."

Cato sneered, still not making the connection that Rico's mind found.

"You can call me Rico, young Varus. But this is my fight, and the tres triconis can watch and learn skills they may not yet learned."

The misshapen numen refused to back down, nor did the others show any sign of letting Rico take on the whole bar alone, At his waist hung not the weapons of his own kind, but an ax and daggers. On his back rested the spatha sword of the eastern kinsmen. "Sorry, Didius. He wants me dead, I get to defend myself."

"Personally, the Dux told me to stay out of trouble tonight, but I never listen Avunclus." Billenius drew the fancy blade, revealing a chablys blade covered in arcane sigils, each glowing with power folded into the steel during its forging. "Besides, I saw us walking out of this shambles this morning in my dreams."

Now others stirred. Dreams spoke loud among their folk, warnings from the gods, and many here apparently heard of the boy's seer powers. Many grins at slaying a main-lander faded from mouths and eyes.

The female stepped aside, placing herself nearer his table. "No, it's both our fight. Not yours."

"Milady, I am Quintus Norbanus Rufinus Norbanus. I cannot, by my code of honor as a legionnaire, allow a lady to fight alone against such odds."

Glancing around, Cato tried again to stir up the mess a bit. "The seer has renounced his powers, refused to enter the temples. The gods will abandon him." Grinning, he looked again at Rico and the woman. "Please, choose your side wisely, Decima Hantia Urbana Mithria."

Drawing her weapon, the numena smiled grimly. "You stain my name speaking it, meddler. I asked no favors, the position I held gave far more potential than the one you forced upon me by interfering with my superiors."

"You will choose for your blood. Or die here."

Billenius chuckled. "I have seen something else this morning, Dom Strabo." Resting his free righ hand on the misshapen one's shoulder, his face turned grim. "You will die amid snow and ice, under an club in this one's hands." Eyes narrowing, his voice took on a strange echo. "But as you said, I could be wrong. It could be your death is now, by the blade of light in a dark bar."

One other rose, A heavily built Domorushtuun, black skinned, well muscled, bearing no weapons. "Varamus will not fight alone, and I too have an complaint against Strabo."

Now many backed away. The tongue the southern man spoke was not that of the Urukian tribes, but Latin, with an accent all recognized.

"Draco." The whisper in the quiet room spread one thought. There was a fourth member of the Triconis, a young dragon, scoin of the great dragon of the mountains towering over the town.
Cato now started to back pedal, but some fool from the Insulae drew and swung at the dwarfed one. "Death to the twisted blood that stains our race!":

Rico felt steel enter his hand, wishing for more than who already choose his side, Cato moved not towards him, but the young seer. Something the Triari said the night before came to his mind.

"According to the great augur of the Parcae, the boy is at risk from the Cerulean Century. Guard him from the Left Hand, if you can."

Chairs and tables spilled over, combatants moving fast to overwhelm foes. Steel and chablys clashed in one spot, as Ringelius the dwarfed elf dropped several with a single swipe of his ax, ripping guts open to spill over the stone flagging. Rico found himself pressed backwards, away from the others, two foe wielding iron tipped spathae. Lacking his shield, the numen found himself spending time blocking blows, unable to press either safely.

The female charged her opponents, knocking one aside, a thrust ending the other. Spinning withdrawal let her lay a superficial but annoying cuts along his foes' backs and buttocks. Using their pain filled moment, Rico sliced the right hand opponent's sword arm, forcing a drop. Back striking high, his sword slit through the other's neck. Noise behind him forced Rico into an about-face, blade barely blocking a crippling leg blow. This time three fellow elves faced him, each in Left Hand regalia.

Luckily, the Centuria Sinistra rarely fought sword fights, allowing him a slight advantage. Their skills leaned towards subterfuge and magics, steel being used only ignominiously from behind. Facing an opponent left their weaknesses at formation fighting exposed. Using soft twists of his blade, Rico maneuvered the center numen's blade into the off hand of the right foe, freeing the left for a gut feint rising above a breath later into a shoulder unprotected by armor.

Around him, several other fights raged. The seer proved skilled at saber dancing, drawing foes commitments, permitting the boy rapid forward thrusts, most to disarm or wound, but several islanders lay dead in his corner. The large man proved beset, unarmed combat leaving him deprived of offense, but using throws effectively. Until two dropped after heads smashed together under his hands.

A back touched his lightly, the woman proving her skills against foes lacking the reach her acinias gifted strikes with. Accepting the situation, glad his back now guarded, his blade danced again with his still standing opponent. The elf's skill at blocks hinted fencing training, but the soldier's spatha lacked speed such demanded. It required a dozen passes for his blade to find flesh and finish the numen.

Two heads bounced in front Rico while seeking his next foe. The axe of the pumillo sang wildly, ripping the air, scoring each swing. Cato danced his way clear, seeking the doorway. His back open, Rico made a rush, point seeking a kidney. His foe detected his advance, sidestepping it.
Leaving the young Custor seer facing Strabo's blade as Rico staggered past them.

Blades danced a few minutes, Sextus Strabo Cato's experience forced the boy into retreat, pulling the fight away from Rico. He cursed Fortuna, the goddess of luck softly, finding his way now blocked by several scoundrels he knew well. Elves he aided in discharging from the Legions.

"Well, the Optio who turned his back on us, Cadamus." The speaker was dark of hair and complexion, a numen descended from the clans of the Insulae Australius.

"Yes, Morentius. The famed Optio Loricus, now fallen on hard times." The blade this one held gave Rico pause. The metal held the blued silver tinge of steel, not chablys' bronze to gold hue. The heavy glove worn, not to mention the large brass quillions at the hilt, spoke the danger that metal held for elves.

"You betrayed us all, giving aid and information to the enemy before the battle there at the Crystal Wastes. And after, you tried to poison our own. All in the name of blood purity, yet we are all of the Numeni, Decimus Daetilus Cadamus. Nor is Decimaustralis Patavinus  Morentius less guilty in those crimes." Nodding to the heavy poison metal broadsword, Rico settled his stance. "Speak with your spathae, only your skill at arms will accent the words of the lex talionis you seem certain to invoke."
Mentioning the Law of Revenge, foundation block of the code for duels and revenge killings disturbed them a bit. Merontius almost sheathed his blade, stayed only by Cadamus' hand.

"Yes, we invoke the Lex Talionis." The snarl from the dark skinned one barely carried amid the din the various fights created.

"I, Decimus Loriocus Didius Loricus, accept your foolish challenge." Left hand grasping a bowl filled with steaming soup, Rico grinned. "Ave atqua vale!" The bowl sailed towards Merontius' face, scalding liquid reaching his face before he dodged it. Lifting his blade from its low left guard position, Rico twisted his body to the right, presenting a narrow target for Cadamus' deadly blade. The blow missed, his foe spinning aside, to his own right. Into his half blind comrade. Tangled by the move, they fell, Cadamus atop Merontius.

A single strike, fast and clean left both elves mortally wounded, his gladius severing the great abdominal conduits transporting blood. Morentius attempted to escape the skewer, rolling left, forcing Rico's gladius through his spine. The motion enlarged his comrade's wounds, speeding death's icy hand on them both.

"You betrayed the codes." Cadamus sought Rico's eyes.

Sadly shaking his head, Rico withdrew his blade slowly, both elves crying out painfully while their life bloods mingled on the stones below them. "You broke the code, fool. Iron weapons, not offering solo combat. Your deaths reflect your lives. Treacherous to the end."

Turning his back, seeking further contest, the words of curse from Cadamus haunted him. "Memento mori, Optio. Resurgam." Remember you must die, preceding I shall rise. The vow to carry the feud beyond the grave, to their next lives.

Rico waved off the promise, right hand granting them both a nasty hand gesture, implying they lacked manhood. "Requiescat, both of you. For my part, the feud is done."

"I shall not rest until your anima is bound, never to return." Voice fading to a whisper, Cadamus passed away. Merontius lingered long enough to cast his own curse. Ignoring it, Rico worked through carnage he'd not expected. Despite their superior numbers, all but a few foes fled or lay wounded or dead. Only two fights still raged. The Custora against the most brutal Left Hand Centurion, Decimillius Orbillius Sticcius. Her blade yielding far too often under his blows. The other fight shocked the veteran.

Young Varus, bearing only a few minor cuts, tip touches at best whose bleeding was more nuisance than danger, pressing the Centurion hard suddenly. The Custor's acinicas darted about, parrying each blow the older elf attempted, sliding smoothly in for a cut of his own and returning to the appropriate guard hold for his opponent's position. Cato held his side, lorica discarded nearby, buckles cut from it speaking its demise early on.

Rico nodded, watching the young elf hold his own. A fatal mistake, Cato thrusting beyond balance, won the match at last. The boy danced aside, over two corpses, laying a kick upon the presented fundament. Instinct granted Cato respite from joining many comrades. He dropped his weapon to catch the wall. Saving him the indignity a weapon lodged in a wall might cause. Though, not the lost pride being knocked out by the same wall would cost him.

Blood gurgling throat noises turned Rico towards the Custora. Sticcius staggered back, throat damaged. The elf finished the move in some islander flourish, overly showy, not something he encouraged those under his command using.

Few others remained. Most still standing sought the various exits, before the local constabulary arrived. Inside moments, only Rico, the Custora, young Varus and the legionnaire Triconis remained of the standing, Sticcius staggering away, seeking medical aid. Looking around, then meeting eyes, all four smiled.

"Well, what shall we tell the magistrate?" The Legionairre asked.

"The Dux will hear us, patruelis. Highest ranking non-involved officer in the area." Varus glanced upwards, cleaning his saber carefully by touch.

Laughing, the Custora held out her left hand after sheathing her sword uncleaned. "I'd say we let the fates decide that, Varus."

The boy set his hand over hers, palms touching, sharing the blood staining them. The legionairre added his closed fist beneath them, supporting the vow. Shifting his weapon from left hand to right, Rico touched his fist atop. "Comitis." His word sealed the blood deal.

Turning, shock hit the veteran of many bar fights. A single bottle of wine still stood on one table nearby. Leaning out to grab it, his balance off a bit, he offered a proposal. "A drink to seal our pledge?"

Billenius answered first. "Should we not use that for a round of cottabis over who speaks to whoever tries our case?"

Mention of the chance game where one tossed droplets of wine tripped Rico's own gallow's humor. The table  failed holding against the shaking laughter caused. Later, he took pride over not breaking or spilling the wine.

Dangers in Spring's Arrival - Poem of the Streets

The prowlers move around early,
looking for places to hide away
to sleep off the unavoidable crashes
their nights of being high evoke.

I see them, each morning
as I descend from my camp.
They make few efforts to hide
some even crashing on sidewalks.

With the beds cut back
at the shelter, as every summer,
the addicts seek other places now
to use and then recover.

Or perhaps, to fade away.

The streets are more dangerous,
campsites stolen or pushed each night
as their funds run out finally
from these long, foolish binges.

But, seeking that next high,
they now prey upon others slowly.
The rates will climb until turning
of the calendar's pages comes.

Leaving me at higher risk,
being allergic to things they smoke,
and very aware of who's moving
around places I frequent regularly.

I'd rather keep my possessions.

We all are getting edgy.
Tempers fray more easily these days,
tattered by this incursion of evil,
flowing more from Hell's Block.

Darkness carries voices more often
than the winter nights passing held.
Darkness gives their crimes some cover
from eyes of the Law.

The city changes from safe,
to just an annex of Hell,
demonic druggies dancing amid imaginary flames
their substance abuse conjures forth

which leaves them all insane.

Patterns must change each night,
you dare not fall into routines
that they can predict when moving
lest you become their prey.

Sober hands hold gear tight,
Clear minds make eyes dart about
not from paranoia, just some caution
for the shadows have occupants.

Not all movements there hold
danger to me or other travelers,
but, heed my advice, night's wanderers.
Never flash your cash openly

for the druggies are back
and they drive summer's crimes.

11April2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Rampant Rumors, Unconfirmable. - A warning

Once more, rumors at the library speak of another stabbing by the Road Home. This makes over a dozen reaching my ears since Turkey day, and I know many more go unheard until bodies get found the next few weeks, based on past years. Betting a few others happened, and the victims managed to crawl off, before any knew it happened, to some hole they either survived in, or passed away. 

News still lies silent, but often is on evening events until morning. 

Still, one more reason to stay well clear... of Hell's Block. No way I will return there, short of being armed to the teeth myself. Or suicidal. Not feeling the urge for either now, but steel rests on my belt, I step lighter than ever before, and sleep, when out, with one eye open. Not a good thing for my health and sanity. 

. 

The Troubles Spread Now - A Poem of Warning and the Streets.

Spring's first thunder
rumbles out from Hell's Block
as the fools boil out like roaches
bringing their crimes, drugs, violence
back to streets.

With warmer weather
the troubles spread from there.
The druggies get kicked out more
from the Road Home Shelter
after Winter's tolerance.

Already the campers
speak of camps being "pushed",
thin-packed shadows every entering sites nightly,
and fights and issues arising
well before dawn.

Know it's true.
My site is borderline now,
as I had to rise from bedroll
when the predators came calling
more than once.

Each warm day,
evil tendrils slither further afield
yet the echoes from those still in
speak of continued drug use
openly inside shelters.

Brazen thieves roam
those areas again by night
and even during times once deemed safer,
heard of one guy stealing
coffee from packs.

Bold and fearless,
thinking we live in fear,
not seeing the growing amount of "steel"
on belts of we elders
as we walk.

Count those knives,
count cell phones in hand
as we move about even by day,
and you know the tensions
are boiling over.

No safe place,
save the libraries by day.
And that only as cops patrol hard
and security finally clamps down
on worst offenders.

The staff's attitudes
now sour the good ones
as things approach the annual "turn-out",
coming near April's Fools Day,
When beds reduce.

Hear the complaints
as the older guys talk,
about the nightly fights, open drug use,
and constant wandering of thieves
seeking weak moments.

Glad I'm out,
not stuck in that mess,
but worry the troubles will come haunting
the places I hide in
stealing my peace.

Watching the signs,
I fear needing to head
into the hills again these spring nights
taking the most determined predators
on long walks.
behind me,
nightly.

Hell's Block expands
And I know
it's gonna get much worse
before things improve.

24February2014 - Dyfedd Rex, growing eyes painfully in the back of his head.

Hints of Summer's Plague - A Poem of the Streets

The storm is coming.
That annual boiling out
of the most troubled hard-cases
away from Hell's Block.

Warm weather calls them,
luring them further out by day
tricking them with tolerable
nights to wander now.

Each spring it happens,
and we campers fear the dark plague
marked by crimes the addicts oft do
and we get blamed for.

Winter's deep cold helped
keep the disaster contained tight
around the shelter area
for most that season.

Already the worst
walk the streets by night, hunting prey.
Seeking careless to rob or mooch,
sidling up slyly.

My spot gets visits
each night now, from those shadowy
figures marked by empty backpacks
that speak their hunger.

They steal to get high,
addictions driving reason off
and no one is safe from fingers
that even dip friends.

Some head for high ground,
others disappear from the town
as those questors radiate out from
the place called Hell's Block.

We hear the rumors,
tales of the fools setting up sites
around the shelter to hide in
as they do their drugs.

Warnings from the guys
speak of worse things brewing inside
ready to squirt across the vale
as the low temps rise.

Beware, ye brave souls
who feel the town is your kingdom
for the den of theives sends them out
shutting half their beds.

Each spring, this happens,
each summer indignantly folks
cry their city is invaded
by the homeless bums.

But, they never left.
Only hid out the worst few weeks
that winter tossed at this city
then slither back out.

Seven hundred souls,
that is the count inside most nights
of men alone as I can recall,
in Winter's hard moons.

Now, they roll away
from the hole they have near destroyed
to seek new game to take toll on
and you might be next.

Walk with extra care,
you citizens of good standing
for the criminals slowly creep
out by night to hunt.

No care of target
they seek their next high or low fix,
or profit off unsuspecting
who don't see them there.

The campers take care
moving more furitively now,
knowing the first wolves wander nights,
and the pack follows.

You don't sleep that well
when the predators roam the nights,
knowing you could be the next one
whose hole they sneak in.

Already, we see
the 'tracks' of this pestilence
by torn open packs scattered round
and injured campers.

I walk soft these days,
and 'steel' once more lies on my belt.
I gaze at the forbidden hills
gauging the moment.

Soon, I will head up.
No question this year about that.
Not willing to be exposed now
to their drugs and crimes.

19February2014 - Dyfedd Rex

Forecast of Perils - A poem of warning to all.

Given the coming Ice-storm predicted here in SLC tonight, folks, take heed to the guy who once lived where they often occur.....

You will fall,
no matter how sure-footed,
even with all your cautiously placed steps,
so walk with extra care
keeping elbow tucked.

When you drop,
roll to pulled in side
and seek to find the frozen ground
with shoulder blade before head,
shoulder or arm.

Let it happen,
you'll just mess up backs
trying to argue with gravity and ice
as they seek to embrace
you like bears.

Power lines collapse
under the weight after while
and with six to twelve hours predicted
just count on those blocking
your forward progress.

Lights will fail,
as it progresses wrapping limbs
of trees not really bred for such abuse
snapping them off with pops
then tackling cables.

This is hell
at least if frozen over,
an ice skater's dream to commute across
a driver's worst nightmare risen
out of darkness.

So, take heed,
stock up on rock salt,
kitty litter and other traction aiding devices
slow down your pace some
and accept it.

'Cause hurrying around
just leads to nasty accidents
and there are too many of those already
come this time of year
that flatten cheer.

Most of all,
watch out for the walkers
who will plant their fundaments very hard,
before sliding into heavy traffic
before stopping's possible.

Call it revenge
of Jack Frost for Spring
as he covers the world around you
in beautiful ice that make
for picturesque moments.

Just never forget,
even while admiring that sheathed tree
there is danger all around you tomorrow
waiting to break your bones,
or bruise pride.

18December2013 - Dyfedd Rex, praying he and the weather men blow this forecast.