51st, Summer, 514 AV
Too much to drink, Arend decided as he hobbled out of the Kelp Bar, yawning and listing to the side. It was a packed night with loud voices and thundering laughter that drowned out the poor musicians who were unlucky enough to be the entertainment tonight. Barely a soul had paid attention to them as they tried to serenade the raucous patrons. Someone had gotten it in their head that it would be a good idea to hold a drinking tournament, and things grew quite lively. Arend lost halfway through. Now he made his stumbling way down the street and in the general direction of home, red in the face and smelling like beer with a considerably lighter purse.
A fat full moon hung in the sky and he could hear the faint roar of the ocean on the nearby shore. Even drunk he could appreciate the beauty of Zeltiva at night. And the beauties in Zeltiva. A pair of young women sauntered by on the street, going the opposite way. He smiled crookedly and turned, walking backwards to appreciate them.
"Beautiful night, ladies." One turned and gave him a dirty look, and the other ignored him. Arend's smile broadened and he feigned hurt. "You wound me! Here I was trying to be kind." He tsked quietly and she scoffed. When they disappeared around a building he turned back the way he'd been walking, only to stumble on a loose stone and fall hard. Arend grunted as his feet slipped out from under him. He threw his arms out to catch himself but jarred his wrists and shoulders in the process. With a groan, he rolled over on his back. He could feel that he was laying in something wet, and his nose wrinkled, but the world spun too much for him to get up.
He realized now how much his head hurt. It pounded like a drum at the temples, and he threw an arm over his eyes to try block out the bright light of the moon and the firelight lamps lining the street. "Gods," he exclaimed quietly. Arend wasn't sure how long he laid there in the mystery puddle, but it felt like the entire night. When he finally pulled his arm from his face, the moon was still staring down at him. He groaned and rolled over, climbing slowly and awkwardly to his knees, then sat. "I'm never drinking again," he promised silently and cursed the violent music in his skull. In time with the beat, boots were approaching, but his attention was turned inward so intently that he didn't notice the two men until they spoke.
"Need some help there, boy?" Arend didn't move quickly. He lifted his head out of his hands and looked over and up at the pair of men standing in the middle of the street. The one who'd spoken was older by years. His black beard was peppered with gray, and he wore a grimy leather cap. The rest of his clothes weren't much better. The other one could have been his son, but they didn't look anything alike. Blond hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken recently.
"Thanks, but no. Too much kelp beer. I'll be fine." He assumed that would dismiss them, but they just stood there looking at each other and at him. The younger one smiled, but the older man killed it with a glare. Next thing he was smiling and offering Arend a hand.
"We insist. Nothin' would please us more than t'help ya home." The Inartan frowned, and before he could protest the two of them were hoisting him to his feet. The world spun and rolled, and his knees buckled but they kept him upright. "Up we come!" Arend tried to get his feet under himself, but they were walking too fast. His toes drug along the cobbles, legs kicking feebly. By the end of the street their less than gentle toting had his stomach churning and his head sagging.
"I think he's goin' to lose his beer, Bran," the youngest laughed.
"Drop him if he does. I don't want'a go home smellin' like kelp and ass."
"Let me g-," Arend tried to protest, but an elbow caught him sharply in the ribs. He fell silent with a wheeze and a fit of coughing. His stomach rolled threateningly and he groaned. "I'm going to be sick," he mumbled unintelligibly.
"Quiet!" the younger man threatened, and he received another sharp elbow.
A nasty gurgled escaped him, and instantly they dropped him.
"For the love of the Gods, quit elbowin' him!" the old man shouted. "Lest he gets sick on us! Ya' silly fool."
Arend rolled onto his side and peered at the men standing over him. "What do you want?" he growled, then gagged on bile.
The younger man shrugged and the old man frowned. With surprising strength he fisted the Inartan's shirt in both hands, picked him up, and drug him into the nearest alley. "I'm a little tired now, so I'm done playin'. We'll be takin' your coin. And your boots."
Arend had cold stone against his back, holding him upright. His toes were all that touched the ground. When he glanced at the other man, he saw the pale glint of a sharp dagger clutched in one hand. His mouth went dry.
"That's right," Bran said. Apparently that was his name. "You be nice and quiet, and nothin' will happen."
"But he's seen our faces. What if he squeals?" the blond complained, nervously glancing over one shoulder, as if now that he spoke the words aloud the Wave Guard would come running down the alley.
"You ain't goin' to squeal, are you boy?" Bran asked calmly. When Arend didn't say anything, he shook him hard. "Are you?" His skull bounced off the stone behind him his head reeled and he tried to push the man away. He pushed at his face and twisted in pain, trying to get away. The hands on his shirt released and Arend dropped like a stone to the damp alley floor. Before he could try to right himself, a heavy boot stomped and cracked two ribs. Arend cried out, sounding alien to his own ears. A hand closed roughly over his mouth to silence the yell, and he felt cold iron pressed hard against his side. The edge cut through shirt and flesh, and he felt hot blood against his chilled skin. That sobered him up quickly.
"We might have to shut you up now, dumb boy. Maybe cut your tongue out like that Silencer who's been huntin' them mages. Tear you up nice and throw you off the docks. Bet they'll think it was him."
"Or her," the youngest chimed in, sounding excited and scared at once.
"Or her," Bran agreed. "What d'ya think, boy?"
His mother had been right, he realized now. He was really regretting not learning how to use that dagger of his, currently tucked safely under his damned bed.