Sabledrake Magazine
August, 2001
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Diary of a PBeM, Pt 1: Foundations
Down and Out in Wren's Crossing, Pt.3
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Crossbow Point
Copyright © 2001 by L. D. Korn
Sartille had owned and operated his own leather shop for almost one month now in the small fishing village of Crossbow Point, which got its name because the fishermen all used crossbows to catch the salmon each harvest. He had successfully purchased an old building, fixed it up with a few repairs here and there, and then opened his doors for business a mere three and one half weeks ago. And business was getting good. But it wasn’t that way at first.
Sartille, who was from back east, was originally met with some opposition about his new business endeavor. Some of the locals had even commented that he was “overdressed” for every day life. That his new style wardrobe of unique colors and that flashy dagger of his were a bit too much to be worn around town all the time. Some of the locals also thought he was just in their fair fishing community to take their money. But, through no faults of anyone’s own, just about everyone else found the opposite to be true. Sartille himself was quite a generous man. He had donated money towards a new pier being constructed which would certainly allow more fishing vessels to unload their fresh catches in a more timely manner. And he had donated four barrels of wine from his own homeland back east in the Fermented Straits, to the local pub, “Pass the Bar”. Because of these actions, no doubt unheard of around Crossbow Point, Sartille began to enjoy an extremely handsome following of clientele. With the addition of a new pier forthcoming, as well as a few nights of free intoxication of some really good spirits from Sartille, most everyone in the town seemed to need leather goods almost overnight.
Sartille had his hands full. Orders were coming in from all over. A pouch was needed here, a quiver for arrows there, a flint bag had to be constructed before the afternoon had expired and lots, lots more. Naturally, Sartille had to employ a couple of helpers from amongst the village. This, of course, really impressed the people of the community, not to mention the free wine.
So, three and one half weeks into his new venture, Sartille de Col opened his leather shop up for its fourth week of pursuit. The twins had arrived promptly as usual for business with the public. And when any business gets good, like this one, someone else always is equally attracted to the same location.
The door to Col’s Leather Goods opened up without a creak sometime after noon. The top of the door gently tapped against a bell that had been suspended just a foot or so from the ceiling. The individual who had just entered looked up at the contraption that gave away his entrance.
“Are you Sartille de Col?” the young man asked while staring at the bell hanging from the ceiling.
“I am,” he replied and scratched at his newly grown beard, the sign of recent success.
“I like the bell idea. Did you come up with that?” the young man inquired. He was wearing fairly nice clothes, but it was painfully obvious that they’d been on his body for days. He was in his late teens. That much was for certain. And his certainty drew close to the counter and face to face with the owner of the establishment.
“Yeah, I came up with it. But you can use it if you like,” Sartille returned.
“Well, you’re just like they said you were: real friendly,” the boy didn’t smile much.
Sartille looked this boy up and down, but in a discreet manner so as not to insult a potential client. The proprietor of the establishment drew himself closer to the counter and widened his smile and charm just a little more for this…boy who had entered only moments ago.
“Perhaps you’re looking for something in particular?” the shopkeeper asked.
“It’s funny you mention that. I am as a matter of fact. I am,” and the boy put both of his hands on the shining glass-top counter to which he commented, “Did you design this, too?”
“Sort of,” Sartille began. “I actually had it designed, but someone else built it. You may utilize the same design if you so choose-“
“You’ve done pretty good here,” the boy said as he began walking to one side of the store with his right hand smearing along down the top of the glass counter.
Sartille said nothing.
“Wow, only four weeks and everyone wants you to make them new goods. You gotta’ be rollin’ in it already, huh?”
“Rolling in what?” Col asked, although his tone denoted that he already knew the answer to the boy’s question.
“That’s what I’m here to discuss,”
Sartille de Col slowly walked down to where the young man was and, with his left hand, unlatched the strap holding a dagger in its sheath which was located just about midway between them both.
“What do you want?” Col rested his left hand on the hilt of the dagger. It was a nice dagger, too. His grandfather had made it himself and even worn it into battle in the Vampire Wars a mere ten years before. The dagger had survived. Col’s grandfather had not, so it was very special.
“I represent a group of people, Mr. Col,”
“Let me guess, I need to donate a cut of my profit each month, right?”
“Half would be even better,” the boy smiled. He had only a few teeth and they were nothing to brag about over dinner.
Sartille decided to go on for just a few seconds more to keep the youth at an agreeable disposition. He kept his left hand on the hilt of the blade. “And if I were to…refuse such a kind offer of only half?”
The boy turned to face the owner of the leather store. A large black stick slid out of the youth’s right sleeve. The miniature club swung up against the side of one of the panels of glass on the counter. The glass fragmented and the shards went in various directions all over the floor. The boy looked to the proprietor and was about to say something. But Sartille, who understood the flare for kids to have something smart-ass to say just after doing something incredibly stupid, had already commenced his own plan. And the boy never got to say anything smart.
The vampire-killer was pointed right at the throat of the freckled-extortionist. Sartille’s aim was matched only by two other entities: the point of the weapon was being pushed at just the right amount of persuasion against the tubes in the boy’s neck without making a withdrawal, and Sartille’s other hand was gently wrapped around the backside of the boy’s head. The club fell from the would-be-thief’s hand and was heard hitting the broken glass on the floor.
“You can’t be part of some guild, that much is obvious,” Sartille began. “Now, tell me who you are, or I’ll develop an alternate method for your breathing to resume,” and the vampire-killer called forth one drop of the boy’s fluids.
“Okay, okay!” he yielded. “My name’s Sayre,”
“You can’t be without a home because you look well-fed, so where is it?”
“Mom!!” the boy cried out in great volume.
Footsteps could be heard coming from one side of the store towards the front entrance. A shadow began approaching the doorway. And there stood a woman. A fat woman. An ugly woman.
“Mam,” Sartille began. “Is this your boy?” he asked as he slowly released his grip on the back of the lad.
“Yes. What’s he done?” she answered while shoving some bread into her obese frame.
“He came into my store and tried to extract…payments, 'mam,” Sartille explained as the woman drew near to the physical confrontation.
“Is that right?” she asked her son.
He didn’t answer.
“Is that right!?” she insisted again.
With his head hung low the boy responded to his mother, verifying what the shopkeeper had said.
“He broke an expensive piece of glass as well,” Sartille added pointing to the glass on the floor.
“Is that right?” she asked while her appetite devoured more bread.
Once again, the boy verified the merchant’s explanation of events.
“Look, he doesn’t have to pay for the glass. I prefer he just doesn’t return to the store, 'mam,”
“Son,” the giant woman said while finishing her bread. “You can’t go around doing things in that manner, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” the boy with only a few teeth replied.
The woman stretched both arms and produced a large, rusty blade from her side, which she then swung into position.
“This is how it’s accomplished, my son,”
Sartille had no where to which he could escape.