The Deepcombers

Chapter Five

Just when the mustached officer made to rise the lad brought the hammer down. The first blow broke the Crol's shoulder and knocked the wind from his frame. The mustached officer fell back in the water and gasped to catch his breath. He made a lame attempt to snatch the iron lash, but the muscular lad was much too fast, and merciless. Lon still clung to memories of this bully's sickening abuse. It was a medical condition that could only be cured with vengeance.

The scoundrel tried to crawl away, but Lon stopped him with another blow across his back. The Crol cried out in pain and Lon retracted the chain to strike again. And again. The next blow struck his head and stove-in his skull. The blow bulged his eye and still he blubbered and lived at the water's edge. Perfect. Let him exist that in agony for as long as Kluth wills and let him understand. 'You are nothing!' Lon yelled. He tried to yell. He thought it loud and tried to shout it, but he had no voice. He stared down in silence at the half dead wretch in the wash. 'You are nothing,' he mouthed and tried to say again. He wanted to repeat what they'd told him so often, but no words came.

Twenty feet away, the burly sailor's head popped-up in the water; the chesty brute that'd steered the craft had surfaced from his expulsion. Buoyed-up by the waves the navigator gulped in terror at the sight of the white-haired sacrifice standing over his friend. He swam for more distant rocks.

The burning sail blazed overhead and his shadow danced on the stones as he pulled himself up on the treacherous shore. He crawled to the top of the breakers and gasped for air.

Lon heard the chesty sailor's inhale and he spotted the survivor. His anger boiled-up again. He fetched a lump of wood and sprinted toward the castaway. He ran around and leapt fearlessly with his bare feet onto the rocks below the Crol.

The hefty sailor raised his saber in a lame attempt to defend himself. Bad move. Lon walloped him with a broken plank. He hit the Crol in much the same way a furrier might club a walrus. Thump! The big galoot probably didn't expect the captive slave to be there so soon, or to be so dexterous on the slippery stone. Thump! Lon hit him a third time with the lumber and his shiny blade clanked into the surf. A fourth strike and he collapsed entirely. His unconscious form rolled and splashed in the sea.

The sea drover waded into the water waist deep and dragged the Crol toward shore. The sailor struggled briefly and tried to get free but all his attempts failed in the face of Lon's faculties. The lad pinned him underwater and stepped on his head until he drowned and was dead. He had the idea to strip the body of clothes; he liked the sailor's shirt and shoes.

From the dead guard's pocket there slipped a wooden tile which had portraits of a mother and child. What have I become? This wasn't Amon's Code. To murder another feigor like this was wrong, and the shocking realization of what he'd just done quenched his temper. The sight of the drowned sailor made him feel sick.

He'd killed both brutes like a veteran, yet these were the first two lives he'd ever taken. What worried him was that he didn't experience the slightest remorse. Not even now that he'd thought it. He hadn't enjoyed the deeds. It was done to ensure his own safety and secure these provisions he needed. It was calculated. It was intelligent, he told himself. It was because these feigor were evil and had murdered so many of his friends. They'd laughed at corpses and made cruel jokes because they believed their bodies were better than his. Not anymore. He'd killed em both on shore in his first five minutes of freedom.

Clyde of Barobell watched Lonastasius approach. 

The handsome valet stood calm by the water's edge and studied Lon without fear. He still held the weapon Horne had issued at his side. 

Lon was impressed. He imagined it'd be difficult to be brave in the face of an unrepentant killer who'd just vanquished two worthy opponents, but the noblekin appeared unconcerned.