The Hell of It by Peter Orullian Read Free Book Online Page B

gratitude.
    â€œI’ll take my third now,” Malen said. “I need to get home.”
    Almost as if rehearsed, the two men drew knives and pointed them at him. “Appreciate your help. You can go.”
    I’m a fool.
    â€œThe hell I will. You can draw all the knives you own. I’m not leaving without my share.”
    The second man picked up a steel realmcoin and tossed it to him. “There. Paid.”
    The men sniggered, and one began separating the loot by coin type.
    â€œAnd if you get brave, remember that son of yours,” the first man said, his fingers gingerly building piles of coin.
    â€œExactly right,” Malen muttered.
    These thieves had no idea who they were speaking to: A father who’d run out of options for how to put meat on his family’s table; a widower who’d gambled away the last tangible pieces of his lost love; a man whose only thing of value left was a promise he’d made. One he’d keep, by damn.
    None of which meant he wasn’t scared at the prospect of fighting men with knives. Foolish thing to do. He’d avoid it if he could. But it might wind up being the only way to make good on that promise—to take care of Roth, see that the boy grew up proper, even if it had to be on the wharf.
    The men had begun putting the loot back into bags, this time organized and divided for each to carry. Roth thought about the city-man not too far off, and backed slowly toward the door.
    What came next passed in a blur.
    The men turned just as Malen threw back the cross brace, flung open the door, and cried out into the alley, “Here! The thieves are here!”
    The two men dashed toward him. Malen ducked into the alley, raising the alarm again. “The thieves are here!”
    Just keep them in the alley until the city-man arrives.
    He’d gotten five paces from the door, and was just turning to meet his pursuers, when hands yanked him back. He swung around and struck blindly, hitting nothing. A barrage of heavy fists beat his face and neck and chest. He fell. Boots laid into his gut, stealing his air, and kept pounding at his face and groin. He took a severe beating, tasting blood in his throat and feeling bones snap as he tried to curl into a defensive ball.
    He drew ragged breaths down his throat trying to withstand the assault. And mercifully, one hard strike on the head sent him into blackness.
    *   *   *
    He awoke to the cries of harbor gulls. Muted grey light filled the sky high above the alley where he lay stiff and cold. He knew this time of morning, when men would soon be trudging toward the docks for another day with their nets. It held a strange quality, both hopeful and sad. Make a good poem for Marta , he thought randomly. Morning seemed to bring with it the promise of some new thing, and yet, walking through the grey dawn toward another day aboard a trawler, eking out a thin plug … it was a dreary, monotonous life.
    Malen rolled onto his stomach, grunting with the sharp pain of ribs he knew were broken. But it was the only way to push himself up to his knees. After struggling to his feet, he began his slow, painful walk home. He hoped his boy was safe. Hoped that he’d slept well, not knowing Malen hadn’t come home. And hoped he would forgive Malen. For everything.
    His body had loosened up somewhat by the time he came to his stoop. He brushed back his hair with his fingers, scrubbed his face briskly with his rough hands, and began to key the lock … but it was already open.
    With his heart beginning to race, he hurried through the door. One step inside, he stopped abruptly. Four men sat in his home, two city guards and two Leaguemen. And between the latter stood Roth, looking terrified.
    He knelt as his boy raced into his arms. The force of it against his beaten body, not to mention the lad’s tight embrace, hurt quite a lot. But he didn’t let it stop him from hugging his son in