Wildfire Riders

It wasn’t much for news, as far as Old Town went. Two citizens, brawling, one drew a knife, the other died. Misfortunate, but what could you do? The Watch came as much to clean up the mess as anything else, because someone had to do it. What they found, besides a rapidly cooling corpse and a bloody knife, was a room full of men who were doing a spectacularly bad job of caring about either of those things. Even the presence of the Stormwind Guard aroused more bafflement than anything else.

Their sergeant had served in Outland, so he recognized the scent before anyone else; it took him a moment to get over his disbelief. You smelled cooked lotus in the bedchambers of disaffected nobles, in the laboratories of unlicensed alchemists, on the breath of the Draenei ambassador. Six touts on Cherry Lane would’ve had to have made quite a score to afford a diversion like this. And really, most of what they were doing with it was nodding off in the corners.

The law was a bit fuzzy on the subject, but they were witnesses and couldn’t put up much resistance to boot, so five of them were hauled to the closest watch-station, shuffling and spitting and complaining. The sixth, it turned out, had nodded off quite completely under the thick black lotus blanket and was in no hurry to wake up. They put his body with the knifed man, who had apparently been engaged in a disagreement with a seventh fellow, the exact nature of which none of the touts could say. That disagreeable man was, of course, long fled.

Shaking his head at the senseless waste of human life, or at least something approaching it, the sergeant maneuvered his men and their various burdens out onto Cherry Lane.

**********************

“We should’ve listened to Billy.” Johan van Brust was a big lad, six feet and change at sixteen with a coat of black hair starting to sprout on his cheeks, but he was nobody’s idea of intimidating right now. He huddled miserably in his rickety seat, eyeing his ale like it was poison. “We never should’ve talked to the Angel.”

“You don’t make a name sittin’ in your own piss, waitin’ for some bugger to give you a hand up.” Davie Fennett had created a remarkable image with that sentence, and let Johan and the others contemplate it for a moment before continuing. “You take the opportunities when they come.” He pronounced the word one syllable at a time, like something in another language. For the likes of Davie, it might as well have been.

“You don’t make it stewing in the Stocks for a cutter, neither!” Johan hissed that quietly and then immediately looked around, but nobody in the tavern was listening to them. “Billy said-”

“My brother talks a lot o’ shit.” This was unarguably true. What nobody felt like saying right then was that Snapping Will Fennett talked a lot of shit because he had done a lot of shit, whereas Davie – well, to play a trick of the vernacular, he hadn’t done shit. He was closer to a man with a name than anyone else at their table, but that wasn’t saying much. Davie challenged the younger boys with a hard, scruffy stare. “Respect the bloke and all. Don’t let ‘im run you. I ain’t letting him run me.”

Silence fell, as the young men variously drank or contemplated their ales. Davie frowned at his empty belt sheath. Johan picked at his nails, and finally spoke. “Do you think they’ll know it was yours?”

“Fuck no. Lots o’ blokes got knives.” Davie laughed it off and took another drink. “Old Town, innit? Nah, nobody’s got my name – ‘ceptin Gared.” He laughed again, a bit more forced this time. Gared hadn’t been a mate, exactly, but he knew the boys and the boys knew him. That sort of sudden absence wasn’t meant to come at the hands of their own. “So everything’ll be daisies and all we need to do is sort out the next drop.”

“What’re ye droppin’, then?” The voice came welling up out of the shadows in the tavern, insouciant and nasty. Snapping Will was a hard man in a fight, sure, but he’d made his name where nobody saw him making it until it was too late, and he came to his brother’s table with the same sly suddenness. Davie managed not to flinch, but everyone saw him restraining himself so it was the same thing. Johan and the rest couldn’t even try to hold their surprise.

William Fennett folded himself into the empty seat, his clear brown eyes flickering around the table out of the sallow crevices of his face. “Evenin’, Billy. What’re you drinkin’?” Davie smiled, a bit shakily. “Hope the answer’s shit beer.”

“Droppin’ turds? Droppin’ packages? Droppin’ bodies, is it?” Billy was well practiced at ignoring his brother; never even looked at him, but fixed his viper gaze on the rest of the boys at the table. “Droppin’ bodies is what a man got his ear ta the ground hears.”

Davie chuckled uneasily. “Shoulda known you’d hear on it, Billy. Yeh, I done for fat Gared – he got greedy on the deal.”

“Got greedy, aye? Fair, fair. I canna abide at all a greedy cunt. Canna abide at all.” It wasn’t quite worth your life to point out the absolute falseness of Billy’s northern accent, but nobody at that table wanted to find out exactly what it was worth, even with his thoroughly southron brother sitting right next to him. “Far as keepin’ me ear ta the ground, but...” Billy leaned back. “Fact is, I got dragged out o’ Light-hand Rosie’s with the news, this doin’ naught at all ta improve me mood. Who d’ye think telt me?”

Davie shrugged and took a drink. “Couldn’t say, Billy.”

“It matters not a shite, Davie, you stupid wee fuck. Nobody ye ever met.” Billy grabbed Davie by the ear with the singular quickness that was his hallmark, fingers tightening around his squealing brother’s flesh. “But they knew. People. Fucking. Know. Ye think this is the purge again? Think ye can put blame on the park beast or Old Gio? Do fer a punter, Davie, an’ folk take notice.” He let go, maintaining only his firm grip on the shreds of his brother’s dignity, while Johan and the rest carefully avoided eye contact and Davie glowered.

“So alright!” Davie said petulantly. “So the Right People know – what fucking matter, Billy? No fucker’ll turn over. Nobody gives a shit that Fat Gared’s dead. We was the closest thing the stupid bastard had to mates, ‘part from whoever he chummed with in the North Corner. He–”

“You did a North Corner lad!” Billy laughed incredulously, unsmilingly, only the scar twisting up a corner of his mouth giving the illusion of humor. “Davie, you stupid wee fuck – that is a punter makes a sound. He got a family, aye? And I dinna doubt they got money.”

“Course they got money, that’s why we needed him!”

“Davie, keep your voice down!” Johan grabbed the younger Fennett by the arm, looking around the tavern, where a couple of the old codgers who frequented the place were giving them the eye. Davie glared, but waited for the old men to look away before he said anything – and then, of course, Billy interrupted him, his eyes flat and murderous.

“Ye took the deal, then. Frae that big poofter. The Angel. Ye put up the money for the flowers.” Davie swallowed and nodded. “Och Light, Davie. I knew ye were a stupid wee fuck an’ all, but...” Billy liked to talk, they all knew that well enough, so when he wasn’t saying anything that was the time to feel fear. He stared calmly at his brother, bare arms folded across his chest, his face betraying nothing but the slightest tinge of worry.

Johan swam into the silence. “It might’ve been a mistake, William. Mister Fennett. Sir.” He held up his hands, palms front, flinching from the flicker of Snapping Will’s snake-flat eyes. “But...there’s mistakes, and there’s mistakes.”

“The fuck’s that meant to mean, ye plump wee cunt?” The words were said amiably enough; he wasn’t really worth Billy’s anger. Johan looked around again, leaned forward, and put his hand beneath his vest to grab the pouch. He slid it under the table until it tapped Billy’s leg, then suffered a moment of terror as Snapping Will snapped his hand around the boy’s wrist. Not a muscle moved on the scarred face as Billy deprived him of the pouch, worried it open, and looked down beneath the table.

There was another one of those long silences, while Davie glared hotly at Johan and the rest of the crew stared nervously at one another. At last, Billy Fennett looked up at the big lad. “What’s yer name, bairn?”

“Johan, sir.”

“Ye count this yet, Johan?” Billy’s face was still neutral, but the question alone was an answer in itself. He was in.

“Yessir. I count –”

“Not here. Never ye mind.” Billy looked down at the pouch again and dipped his long fingers again, the coins clinking slightly as he relieved his brother’s crew of more than a few crowns. Davie looked set to choke, but he wasn’t fool enough to say anything. The pouch came back under the table, lighter, and Johan pocketed it again. Billy looked around the table, then leaned forward. “Ye need ta talk ta yer Angel. Tell him what ye done. Doin’ business with a man lays out this coin, it pays to be honest.” He cocked his head. “Tell ye what, then. I’ll come with. Make sure ye get treated fair.”

It was artful enough, but they all knew that leadership of their little arrangement had just passed from David to William, up the Fennett chain a pace. Nobody really minded, except for Davie, and his objections had just singularly ceased to matter. “That’s right kind of you, Mister Fennett.” Johan toasted him and took a foul swallow of warm beer.

“Billy.” Snapping Will grinned, the ridge of scar along his face tugging his lips up cruelly on one side. “Call me Billy, mate. So why d’yeh no’ tell me – how’d an honest lookin’ lad like yerself come ta be tradin’ in black flowers?”

And how am I going to get my piece? Johan kept the smile off his face. This was how it worked, he was starting to understand – how you made your name. “It’s a long story, Billy.”

((This may or may not be going somewhere. Watch this space.))

Boys in the Wind
Tarq worked on this as well.


Andry had been running the streets of Old Town long enough to know that friendship wasn’t worth a pail of cold dog piss. He had tried to convince himself that he was wrong, that he and his crew could be like the heroes he heard so much about: The Riders, the Rose, the Sticks. For a while--a long while--it worked. But his crew did not last. Adrianna died from the cold during a bitter winter. Stephan was killed by one of the Bloody Prince’s creations. Siobhan was caught in an elemental rift, while Bakker was killed when Deathwing swooped on the city. Cookie signed up with the army, and he was shipped to Kalimdor. One by one his crew turned their backs on the dreams of being the next wave in Old Town, till only he and Johann were left.

At first, Andry thought he and Johann would get work with the Riders. Johann, who grew a head taller and a lot bulkier, found work with a crew he didn’t want to talk about. He still met with Andry, especially to talk maths, but then Andry was sent off to the University for more magical training. Bittertongue handled that. Some sort of scam to plague the Headmaster...but it paid off. Soon Andry was too busy for Johann. They drifted a bit, but they both offered to get the other work. It was a brilliant lie that Andry wanted to believe from the bottom of his heart.

The first problem arose when Bittertongue gave Andry his first real work: Running messages. For weeks on end, Andry was running letters between Ulthanon, Lore and Bricu. He tried to get Bricu to hire on Johann, but Bricu refused.

“Can’t have both o’yeh. Not yet. An’ yeh’ve been ‘round. Johann’s been running with nether knows who.” he said.

“But if I can get him and he’s willing...”

“Then I’ll get ‘im somethin’. But I need yeh ta vouch fer ‘im.” Bricu said.

It was three weeks on the job before Andry saw Johann again. They were both taking the thieves highway: Running from rooftop to rooftop, dropping to the alley when the Patrols flew too close. Andry saw Johann first. He was running towards the warehouse district, carrying a parcel. Johann wasn’t one to take to the highway: He preferred running on the ground to Andry’s instinct to hide. Andry The one Ulth was watching. Andry watched him jump down yards away from Ulth, then take a street rat tunnel from Ulriks Pottery to the warehouse. Andry knew it well enough: He made the run when he was much younger and smaller, before it was a place of interest.

His mind raced. He didn’t worry about the tunnel itself or what was going on in the warehouse. What Andry worried about was Johann. What had he gotten himself into?

A day latter, Andry cut his classes and looked for Johann in all the usual spots: The tenements. The Recluse. The Lamb. He found him, eventually, at Galahads: Eating veal and drinking mead. Far too pricey a meal for two street rats in Old Town.

Johann looked up, and his face lit up like the moon. “Andry! I didn’t - pull up a chair! Let me buy you something.”

Andry sat, smiling. Everything else besides, it was good to see Johann. “Big Jo. Lookin’ well.” It was true - he was stocky instead of chubby, and well-groomed. It made him look older, a man grown instead of half a boy. “I’m not hungry, thanks.”

“Then drink!” Johann passed him what was left of Noy’s mead, still smiling. “Old enough for that now, aren’t we? Hell, Andry, how long has it - well, what’re you doing here?” He gave the shorter boy a sly nod. “You must be making some coin.”

“Ah, not hardly.” Andry didn’t touch the mead. “I was gonna say the same of you, mate. Came here cause I heard you would be. Surprised me and all.”

Johann smiled even wider. “Business is good, Andry. Stumbled right on into it, I guess. Doing books and sums and...you know, business. It’s treated me - but damn me! Are you looking for work?” Andry wasn’t sure what to say, but luckily, the other was talking enough for both of them. “I ought’ve guessed - I’ll get you set up, mate, easy. You always had the gab.”

Andry stared at the mead in front of him, instead of Johann. “So what’s the outfit, Jo? Who’re you runnin’ for?”

“Sitting, not running.” Johann chuckled, but his smile flickered for the first time. “I don’t think you’d have heard of ‘em. They’re new in town, I guess, not really a guild and all - Twisting Nether, mate, who’d have thought it’d be me looking to get you a job?” He couldn’t seem to stay on the same sentence for long. “I mean, you were always the boss, huh? When we were little. Weird how these things - you’re not drinking.”

“Not really thirsty, neither.” Andry looked up from the mead. “How new?”

“Oh, y’know, since after the...the bad times and all.” Johann had lost his parents when Deathwing came; too old for orphanages, too young to be an orphan. Thinking about it shut him up for long enough for Andry to think in the silence. “I’m not sure, exactly,” he eventually offered.

“Jo.” Andry licked his lips. “Jo, tell me it ain’t...tell me you ain’t sellin’ flowers, right?” Johann stared back at him. “Big Jo. Look me in the eye and tell me you ain’t...” He trailed off, as the bigger boy looked away. “Come on. Come on!”

“Well, what if I am?”

“Uther’s balls Johann!” Andry shouted. The patrons at Galahad’s turned to look at the table. Andry, out of place and out of breath, Johann suddenly startled and sullen and now visibly a little bit drunk. Andry was escorted out by Chibon, Noy’s favorite Dwarven server, and Johann was served with the bill shortly thereafter. He found Andry pacing back and forth outside, starting to speak and then stopping.

“Twisting bloody Nether, Andry, I wasn’t even done!” Johann scowled and then clapped him on the shoulder. “But maybe it’s better we talk out here - I can get you started as a runner...”

“Running flowers. You’re slinging lotus now?” Andry said softly.

“That’s the job.” Johann said, too quickly. “They always need runners. Or dealers. Or enforcers. There money, well, you’ve seen what the money’s like - and there’s perks. Discounts on all the flowers, and the girls, Andry...” Johann gazed past Andry. He started to mouth a few words, but Andry could not hear them. He was looking at his friend’s face. At his friend’s sallow cheeks, and too-bright eyes, and the spit at the corners of his mouth...

“Johann. JOHANN.” Andry raised his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” Johann stopped his ramble, and then smiled and started right back up. “So what d’you say? It’d be good to run again, like we used to.”

“I’m not interested in flowers, Johann.” Andry kept his voice level with an effort. “And I think you should let me help you get out of it. It’s bad, you and yours are looking at a lot of trouble...”

“Trouble?” Johann blinked, and then laughed. “It’s as under control as anything in this city, Andry. Crews are rounded up, the Costas are out of business, and you know the Watch can’t find their arse with both hands. And as for Seven...” He laughed again. “Not going to be trouble from Seven, I tell you that. They like a good quiet city.”

“How ‘bout the Riders, Johann? How ‘bout trouble from the Riders?”

“The Riders.” Johann just shook his head, amused and tolerant. “I swear, Fitzwallace, you’re such a damn kid. That lot can’t even keep our business out of Old Town. Has-beens and second-raters.”

Andry lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping that Johann would follow. “Jo, you know that ain’t true. Just cause they got quiet doesn’t mean they got soft. That’s a name rings out like no other.”

Johann didn’t whisper, but at least he kept it down. “Come on, Andry! We’re not playing Jolstraer and Tarquin, alright? Stories for kids. You know if they rated in this town, they’d be in the game my bosses are - and they aren’t, so what does that tell you?”

As angry as he’d ever been without throwing a punch, Andry balled his fist. “It tells me they got better fucking sense, Jo, better’n you. Tells me they bled for Old Town, died for Old Town even, and they wouldn’t stoop to fuckin’ poisoning it. I think the only thing your new crew fuckin’ rates on is drinkin’ the life outta workin’ men an’ women.” He was louder than he’d meant to be, but Johann didn’t rise to him. He just stared, a wide-eyed look on his face. “An’ I know they got better sense’n to be sniffin’ fuckin’ flowers themselves, Jo. You got me scared, mate. You scared yourself? Cause you-”

“Fuck you.” Johann hissed at him, flushed red, his voice quiet but by no means calm. “Fuck you, Fitzwallace. I’m not scared. It’s them ought to be scared. We took out Half-Face and we burned out that Greymane bitch. You think any of them got the balls to stand? You think they’re gonna do shit with Seven watching?” He stepped forward, looming half a head over Andry. “Tell you something else - any fucking crew in this city bleeds and dies for itself, and that’s only if it’s shit. You don’t see us bleeding.”

Andry stared up at him. “You...Jo, I swear to the Light, you listen to your fucking self one word and if you hear what you’re sayin’...”

“One word?” Johann leaned in, spittle spraying. “One word - done. That’s your fucking Riders, kid, that’s your fucking fairytale. Done. The Oathbreaker, and that ginger bastard, and his sweet-talking cunt-”

He might have said more after that, but the roaring in Andry’s ears drowned it out, and then Johann was on his arse on the street, blood pouring from his nose. They stared at each other, Andry’s knuckles aching, and for a long moment, Johann had nothing to say. “We’re done,” Andry told him finally, and turned away, his eyes on the cobblestones.

“Fud ewe!” Johann yelled from his seat on the ground. “Fuddin’ kick the thit outta you, addole!” He didn’t, though; didn’t get up. Even when he a boy, half again as big as any of them, Johann had never had it in him to hurt anyone. He didn’t now, either. He kept talking, but Andry kept walking and didn’t listen. His crew was gone, and so was his last friend in the world.
---

Over the next few weeks, Andry focused on two things: His work and avoiding Bricu. He took reports from Ulth to Lore, and left dead drops for Bricu in the usual places. When Ulth mentioned that Bricu was looking for him, Andry left all of his notes with Kara and went to the last place Bricu would bother to look: Stormwind University’s library. It quickly became his haven. It was warm and quiet, and no one would expect a street rat to take to books.

He congrautatled himself for dodging Bricu for three days. It was on the fourth that his heart sank.

Bricu was sitting at Andry’s table. He wasn’t dressed for a fight, but he wasn’t dressed in civvies either. [Uther’s balls, how am I going to expalin this?

“Oi, boyo, sit down. I’ve got another meetin’ in an hour an’ I want ta talk ‘bout the job yer doin’.”

Andry huffed his way to the seat across from Bittertongue. He sat down and crossed his arms. Instead of looking up at Bricu, he stared at the pile of books he had in front of him.

“Well. Why’ve yeh been dodgin me?” Bricu asked.

“I’ve been fucking busy.” Andry snapped. He regretted it the minute he said it. He looked up, thinking that Bricu was going to back hand him across the room. Instead he sat there, quiet and impassive. It was nearly worse than the expected slap.

“I heard. Made yer deliveries, good notes on what yeh observed. Not one time were yeh caught by the watch. Good work.”

Andry snorted.

“But that’s not why I wanted ta talk ta yeh. Word on the street is that this crew is lookin’ ta expand by takin’ some younger blokes on ta their rolls. Yeh hear anythin’ like that?”

“No.” Andry said quickly. “That it?”

Bricu sat further back in his chair. He studied Andry for what felt like an eternity. He knows. Andry thought. He knows and he’s only asking because he wants to confirm. And he knows i’m lying. He couldn’t help but fidget.

“It is now. Dodge me again an I’m cuttin’ yer pay boyo.” Bricu said softly.

“I’m not your BOYO. I’ve got a lights-damned name.” Again he blurted something before he thought better. Angry. I can get him to leave if he thinks I’m angry. He can fire me too. That’d be perfect...

“Right then. Yeh can get ta class then. We’re done here.” Bricu said. He still did not’ raise his voice.

Andry’s mind raced more. He tried to think of something witty to say, or a clever way to get under Bricu’s skin. He thought about telling me about Johann and the offer. He even thought about what Johann said about Ili...about all the riders. His thoughts came all at once, and even the recitation of an arcane formula didn’t help him keep his thoughts in check. He stood up, and before he knew it, he was saying something he would completely regret.

“Fuck you and your stupid fucking crew, you old fucking bugger. I want out of this shit.”

Bricu folded his hands together and looked up to Andry. Half of eternity passed before he spoke up.

“No. Sit back down an’ let’s hear it, Andry.”

“Fuck off. What if I don’t stand. You going to yell and scream like the busted down drill sergeant you are? You going to smack me?”

“If I thought yeh were goin’ ta be me solider, I would. I thought yeh wanted more than that, Andry. I thought yeh wanted ta be leadin’ yer crew. Not bein’ a petulant, spoiled, lyin’ brat. He can go if yeh want. Yeh can quit if yeh want.” He placed a stack of gold crowns on the desk in front of him. “Here’s yer pay and yer bonus. Take it an’ quit or sit an’ talk. Yer call, Fitzwallace.”

Andry stood still. He thought about taking the money and running somewhere else: Theramore, Darnassus, even the Exodar. He thought about sitting down and telling Bricu nearly everything: Johann, the job, the right hook...

Bricu said nothing. Andry felt his eyes on him the entire time. He settled for a compromise. He took the money, then collapsed into his chair and wept.