Rul the Rat and the Demon Dagger

The demon dagger was fated to be his. Why else had he chosen that mark to rob on this cold and damp night? Why else had the man smirked at him, taunted him, until he had no choice but to stab him in the stomach? If the man had been meant to keep the dagger, it would have protected him.

It pulsed inside its box. Rulk could sense it like he could sense his own erection, hot and throbbing and eager. It needed to slide into something hot and wet, hear the screams, listen to the gasping breath.

As far as Rulk was concerned, the blade was his by rights. It called to him from the box that slipped from the dead man's hands and landed heavily in the filth and blood of the alley.

The dead man had other treasures. A purse full of silver nobles. A fine coat of dark green wool. Soft boots of cunningly worked leather.

The dead man had no need of any of them, so Rulk stole them from his corpse. But when he took the box with the demon dagger, he was simply claiming what was his.

The man's breath was still rattling in the damp night when Rulk the Rat slid back into the shadows, his lanky hair clinging to his skull, his satchel bulging. He wasn't concerned about the Watch -- they rarely ventured far from the main thoroughfares, and never on a night like this -- but fresh blood would bring the ghouls. If the dead man's heart stopped beating before they found him, they'd feed. If not, a new flesheater would run with the pack.

Rulk felt no urge to see what happened. He'd witnessed both before -- the feeding and the transformation -- and beyond a certain morbid fascination it held no excitement for him. Others couldn't get enough of it. They'd venture out into the alleys at night, hoping to catch a glimpse, daring each other to shuffle closer, then running off with shrieks and laughs if one of the ghouls turned their way.

The truth was that the ghouls were like any other vermin that plagued the City: the gulls that shat the docks full, or the rats that lived in every shadow. A fact of life and death here, and not the worst danger that lurked in the dark. It was easy to avoid them with a little care, and they weren't difficult to outsmart if they gave chase.

A clever thief could even use them to his advantage, by following in the pack's wake and seizing opportunities in the fear and confusion they caused. If pursued by the Watch, or worse by the Gutter Gate Society or the Waterfront Widows or one of the City's other gangs, leading the chase along the pack's route was a sure way to escape.

Even so, Rulk preferred to stay clear of them if possible. A stench of death hung over them that lingered in the nostrils and on the tongue for days. Besides, he'd known more than one poor fool who'd let himself be caught between two groups of ghouls. He'd even tricked one or two rivals and associates into that position in the past, so he was well aware of the risks.

Now he made his way up onto the rooftop highway as soon as he could. A pile of rotting crates halfway along the alley got him onto a shed that held, judging by the squeals and the smells, half a dozen pigs. From there he slid along a wooden wall, around a shit-filled courtyard, until he could pull himself up onto the roof of the butcher's shop that owned the creatures.

The shingles were slick with the dampness that filled the air, but this wasn't the first time Rulk had walked this way. A pair of coarse woollen sleeves over his low boots gave him better grip. They'd wear through by the time he made it back to his den, but the old woman who pretended to be his landlady -- when she wasn't claiming to be his grandmother or, on one drunken occasion, his lover -- would knit him a new pair.

The moon was full. Not the best night to be out on the highway, but the drizzle and the City's own thick air covered the roofs in a blanket. No-one -- no Watch Captain's owl, no gargoyle perched on a tall tower, no sorcerer taking the shape of a bat to spy on a rival or a comely neighbour -- would give a second thought to another shadow gliding through the fog.

As it was, there was only an hour or so until sunup when Rulk dropped down from the roofs and wandered the last stretch to the tenement that he called home. A lone torch hissed in the fine rain, and from Low Street nearby came the sounds of the last merrymakers trying to forget the powerlessness of their lives.

Upstairs in the garret that he rented from the old woman -- he'd never caught her name, and after two years he didn't care to ask -- he lit a candle, then he cleared space on the cluttered table for his satchel, with the dead man's coat and boots and purse. And the box.

The purse was pleasingly plump. On a normal night Rulk would already be at the Nag, celebrating his haul, but now he barely glanced at the gleaming nobles.

The boots were better than the ones he wore now, and a good enough fit. Wearing his breeches low would hide the distinctive patterns in the leather for a few weeks. After that, if anyone asked, he could say he'd found them.

The coat needed washing and mending. Slime from the alley clung to the wool in patches, and the slit where Rulk's knife had entered the man's stomach was wet with gore. The old woman could look after that. It was a fine garment, otherwise, falling to midway down the thigh, with a high collar and carved wooden buttons. Rulk could picture himself strolling along Upper Lane in it.

That left the box, and the demon dagger inside.

He'd known from the instant that he saw the box that it held a demon blade. The malevolence that clung to it was almost tangible, oozing out in pulsing waves that matched the beating of his heart.

Riches,

it promised,

riches and power.

Why the dead man hadn't used the blade to defend himself Rulk couldn't guess. He'd been caught unaware by Rulk, but with a demon blade in his hand -- or even on his belt -- that wouldn't have mattered. He probably wouldn't have been taken by surprise in the first place.

And now the dagger was Rulk's. It called to him again through the wood, sitting on the table with its uneven legs in this musty garret where damp crawled through the floor like the woodlice. It was his way out, his salvation.

Perversely, he didn't open the box immediately. This was an occasion, and it deserved to be drawn out. So he made sure the door and windows were bolted and moved all his new treasures from the table onto the pallet with the dingy blankets where he slept. A stone flask held enough cheap brandywine to fill nearly half his one battered copper cup. His only food was a lump of black bread, and he decided he wasn't that hungry. But a quick search brought a second stump of candle to join the first, and he set them on either side of the table.

Only then did he take a sip from his cup and turn his attention to the box. It was perhaps a foot and a half long, and half a foot wide, a little over a handspan deep. The wood was plain, but smoothly finished and oiled, with carefully fitted joints. The flat lid wasn't hinged, but clearly intended to be lifted off.

Rulk ran his fingers lightly along the box, searching for a catch or slide that would unlock the treasure. "Ah," he whispered, and pressed. A section of one of the short sides slid back to reveal a small lever.

He wanted to be careful, work slowly, but the blade called to him.

Power,

it whispered in his mind,

do you know what that means, Rulk? It means taking what you want, and never having to apologise.

He smiled. That sounded good.

Sliding the lever across produced the faintest of clicks inside the box. Fuck being careful. He reached for the lid. His hands were trembling slightly, he noticed, but they steadied when he touched the wood and lifted.

The lid came off smoothly, and he set it to one side before looking. When he did, he wasn't disappointed.

The dagger was packed in a bed of some shiny black fabric. Its sheath was slightly rounded, in a way that reminded Rulk of an erect cock. Sheath and grip were both bound in dark red leather, heightening the similarity. The guard was thick and round, as was the plain pommel. The candles' uncertain light flickered on gold tracing that seemed to dance to an unholy song.

That song was loud in Rulk's mind.

Take me,

it sang,

I am yours. All my power is yours. I will give you the world. All you need do is take me.

Images swam before his eyes. Wine, good food, a palace of his own. Naked bodies to slake his lust on. The rich and powerful of the City bowing before him and running to do his bidding. Feasts and orgies and blood games.

Taking what I want, and never having to apologise.

His lips were dry, he realised, and he ran his tongue over them. His shallow breath was loud in his ears as his hands reached for the dagger. They were steady now, and he lifted the dagger from its black bed, holding it by point and pommel.

It seemed to hum with the power it contained.

Yes!

he cried silently, and the blade's voice echoed his own.

His hand seemed made for the grip. He held the dagger before him for a moment, trying a few short stabs. It felt right. It felt thrilling.

Then he whipped the sheath from the blade in one quick motion. It came off smoothly, revealing broad, black steel with wavey patterns from its forging. It was sharp and slightly curved along one edge. He knew just from looking that it was wickedly sharp.

Power,

it whispered.

Rulk blinked. For a moment the patterns on the blade had seemed to form eyes -- cruel eyes, gazing at him from the depths of Hell with promises of power and pain.

Power,

it whispered again.

Power and pain.

*

Before he crawled into his bed, he went downstairs and banged on the old woman's door at the foot of the stairs. She was asleep, of course, and took an age for her to emerge. Her eyes were bleary, her gums were bare, and she wore only a thin nightdress and a mobcap.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, then interrupted her stammered reply. "Shut up. I don't care." Thrusting the coat into her arms, he went on, "Clean this. And fix the tear. I want to wear it later."

She staggered from the force, looking up at him from beneath her cap. "But--" she began in her reedy voice, then fell silent when he glared at her.

"Do it, old woman." He shoved her, and she gave a wail, then fell onto her arse, legs in the air. Her nightdress slid up to reveal thin, bony legs covered in blue veins.

Power,

the demon whispered in his mind.

Power and play.

Rulk laughed at the sight of the old woman struggling under the coat. Seeing her so helpless, legs spread and nearly naked, sent a rush of blood surging into his cock. For a moment he thought about taking her, just to prove his power, to see the look on her face as he fucked her. But there were fresher cunts waiting for him, although he promised himself he'd be back later for a taste of that toothless mouth.

He went back up the stairs, stripped naked and drained the last of his brandywine. Then he crawled onto his pallet and pulled the dirty blankets around him.

In his hand he cradled the demon dagger, holding it like he'd hold his own erection. It felt hot, almost alive, and he fell asleep with it clutched against his body.

For the first time he could remember, his dreams weren't of skulking or running. They were filled with soft, naked flesh: men and women prostrating themselves before him, begging to please him in whatever way he desired.

His mother, her eyes as pale and moist as ever, asking him to forgive her for not having enough food to feed him. For making him fight with his siblings for survival. For drinking away what little money she had, and for getting caught by the ghouls that last night.

He spat in her face and turned to the next.

The whore who'd taken his copper common to make him a man, and instead had laughed at his unwilling cock and told her pimp to beat him. The priest who'd invited him to take shelter in the temple, and had spent the night feeling him up. Garver, the old thief, who'd beaten him and fed him and taught him everything he knew, and then beaten him some more, until a knife in the dark ended it all.

The old woman, toothless mouth wide, sucking his cock in, swirling her tongue around it, bony fingers stroking the soft flesh around his arse, until he exploded and she screamed and cackled, and then her face was his mother's, and he recoiled in horror, but he was still hard, and the woman was on her back with naked legs up in the air, showing a glimpse of grey hairs and--

He came awake with a start. The blanket was sticky, but his cock was still hard.

Power,

the demon dagger whispered, still clutched in his hand.

Potency.

Through the threadbare curtain Rulk saw that the sun was going down outside. He'd slept away the whole day. He crawled from the pallet, wiping his cock on a blanket, then walked to the low window at the back of the garret for a piss.

By the time he walked onto the street the sun was down and the evening's mist was setting in with the twilight. He was in his fine new coat. The old woman had done a good job fixing and cleaning it. He'd rewarded her by tossing a pair of copper commons onto the floor, then laughed as she scrambled after them on her knees.

All in all, he was in a good mood. He was wearing his new coat with the plump purse tucked safely inside, and he had a pair of fine boots on his feet and a demon dagger in his belt. The world was waiting for him to take it and fuck it up the arse.

Long ago, the tavern on Low Street had been called the Black Horse. Then one day, the sign that swung over the door had lost its head and been inexpertly repaired. Now it was known as the Neckless Nag, in a reflection of both the kind of patrons it attracted and their level of wit.

Inside it was gloomy. It always was, even with a handful of torches making a halfhearted attempt to light it. The walls and ceiling were painted with the greasy soot of decades. The handful of early drinkers were still in the quiet stage of their endeavours, broken only by the occasional curse or, more rarely, chuckle. Three working girls were huddled at a table, not even trying to tempt the patrons at this hour. Fat Stovey the innkeep sat sullenly by his tap, nursing a generous cup of something.

He looked up when Rulk strode in, mimicked a moment later by the three whores. They all knew him, and their heads were about to drop again, returning them to their musings, when they halted and looked again.

Rulk felt himself smile.

Oh yes, now they'll notice me. Now everyone will notice me!

On his belt the demon dagger moaned to itself.

By the time he reached the bar every eye in the place was on him. He raised a finger and held it up before Fat Stovey. The innkeep looked from Rulk's face to the finger, then followed it when it pointed to one of the dusty bottles on the top shelf, then a large ham hanging from the ceiling, and finally to the bar in front of Rulk.

"Sh-- show me some coin first." It took the fat man a visible effort to get the words out. "Sorry, Rulk, but you don't usually--"

Rulk patted the pocket of his coat. The coins jingled with a magical sound that seemed to dance across the thick air. He hadn't planned on paying, but the chance to show off was too much for him to resist.

"Drinks for everyone." He gestured to the tap. He wasn't feeling generous enough to share the expensive brandywine, after all.

He also made them wait until Stovey had set out the bottle, with a delicate glass that seemed out of place in the Neckless Nag, and sliced a substantial pile of ham. Only then did he give the innkeep the nod to pour ale for the rest.

While that was happening, Rulk took a sip from the glass. The liquid burned his mouth, but added a burst of flavour that was missing from the rotgut he was used to. He wasn't sure he liked it -- and he was far from sure he thought it was worth the silver -- but he took another sip, then stuffed a piece of the cured ham into his mouth.

The ham combined remarkably well with the brandywine, and Rulk ate in silence for a while, watching Fat Stovey go round with the tray of mugs. He nodded once when the man reached the table where the whores sat, wide-eyed now, and shot him a questioning look, then he smiled at the thin women when they drank gratefully.

The pulsing throb of the demon blade's heartbeat had settled in his cock. Pressed against his thigh, his shaft was hot and swollen. He knew its outline would show as a bulge in his trousers. For now, he let his coat hide it, but he'd reveal it soon enough.

After acknowledging the thanks of the other drinkers with an aloof wave, he turned his attention to the whores. He knew them all. Izzie with her pale hair and small, tired breasts. Ka, copper skinned, too tall for most men. Lellie the mousy brunette with the thick thighs and bad breath.

He'd paid for their favours before, each of them, when he'd had coin to spare. Or when he couldn't spare the coin, but the lust came upon him with too much force to ignore. They'd taken him out into the yard behind the Nag and let him do his business, barely bothering to keep their boredom to themselves.

Now he watched them drink his ale, seeing the liquid wet their lips and bring a flush to their cheeks. They whispered among themselves, shooting him glances and smiles.

He waited until they finished their drinks and their eyes were darting hopefully from him to their empty mugs and back, then he took off his coat. The bulge along his thigh must have been plain for all to see, except Fat Stovey, who'd returned to his place behind the bar.

Rulk unfastened his breeches and pulled them down far enough that he could draw his cock up and free it from its prison. Hot, hard and swollen, it stood out before him, moving slightly as he breathed in and out.

He pointed at Lellie and opened his mouth to speak. Just then, the tavern's door opened, bringing a gust of cold air and the tramp of booted feet.

They appeared out of the shadows that hid the front part of the tavern, striding swiftly and purposefully to the centre of the taproom. Six women, of various shapes and sizes, but all dressed in scuffed, hardened leather under their dark cloaks, and with cudgels, daggers and even a small crossbow on their belts.

No, they weren't all in leather, Rulk realised. One at the rear wore a tight-fitting waistcoat over a soft grey blouse, although her breeches were the same leather as her companions'. This one came forward now, the others forming a group behind her and to either side. They eyed the patrons with distaste, Fat Stovey with scorn and the whores with a mixture of sympathy and contempt.

The tavern had fallen silent when they entered, and remained silent now. A torch guttered and flickered, and one of the drinkers burped, then gave a whimper when a tall woman glanced his way.

At last the woman in the waistcoat -- clearly the leader of the group -- turned her gaze on Rulk. "Rat," she said, "you have something that isn't yours."

Her voice was low and dangerous, and she spoke with a confidence that hinted at comfortable authority. Standing at the centre of the taproom, her face and dark hair were lit by the uncertain light of the torches, but her eyes seemed to burn from within.

Still, Rulk wasn't intimidated. He didn't even wonder how she knew his name, or how she'd found him. For years he'd skulked in the shadows, the lowest of the low. Now he had power.

"If I have it, it's mine." He kept his voice deliberately low. Let the woman strain to hear his words.

If she had difficulty, it didn't show on her face. It was a striking face -- more handsome than beautiful, and still young. Rulk guessed she wasn't more than a score of years old. The fiery eyes smouldered below a pair of black brows, and the mouth was wide, with thin lips.