The doors of the Prancing Pony banged wide as Sharpe stormed out into the chill night, his boots striking hard against the cobbles. Behind him, murmurs rippled through the inn, patrons whispering about the display that had just unfolded and the man who had just called out a stranger, a tall figure in black with a single eye glinting from beneath his hood.
Sharpe turned, squaring his shoulders and curling his fists, his voice rolling like distant thunder. “Come on then, you one-eyed git! Step out, and we’ll see what you’re really made of.”
The man in black did not rise to the bait. Instead, he pushed through the doorway with measured calm, his single eye steady on Sharpe’s scarred face. “Not here,” he said in a low voice, almost smooth. “Walk with me.”
Something in his tone gave Sharpe pause. He spat into the gutter, then nodded with a grunt, falling into step behind him. Together they cut a path through Bree’s quiet streets, past shuttered windows and empty market stall, until they reached the ruined wall of the old town. The moonlight cast long shadows across the crumbling stone, and there the man stopped.
“My name is Davick,” he said at last. “And I’ve been watching you, Sharpe of Beggar’s Alley.”
Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “Is that so? Folk who watch me usually regret it.”
Davick smiled thinly, unfazed. “I’ve no quarrel with you. I’ve an enemy. He is both dangerous and cunning, a man of warfare who has bested me in the past. I have not forgotten it.” Davick paused for a moment, looking out toward the Bree-fields. “I mean to bring him low, and I believe you can help me.”
Sharpe raised a brow. “And why should I stick my neck out for you?”
“He and I must face one another in a duel. That much is certain. But if fate tips the scales against me, that is where you come in.”
Sharpe titled his head, suspicious. “You want me to fight your battles?”
“I want you to finish what I start,” Davick corrected. “You and your men from the Alley, I’ve seen them. I need that strength waiting in the shadows. Should the duel sway his way, you fall upon him. Quickly and ruthlessly."
“You're having the best of the argument so far" Sharpe replied, "But what's in it for me?"
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Davick replied smoothly. “Gold enough to line your pockets and silence your doubts. Enough to make lives much easier in your… Alley.”
Sharpe’s grin faltered, just for a heartbeat. The words cut deeper than he cared to admit. He thought of Beggar’s Alley and the stench of poverty. He thought of his mother, dead in her cups before he’d even grown tall. Then, he thought of himself. Coin was an offer he simply could not refuse. The hunger twisted in him, as it always did. Hunger for more.
He gave a slow nod. “Alright, Davick. You’ll have me, and you’ll have my lads. But hear this, if this fight turns sour, we’ll not be the ones left bleeding in the dirt.”
Davick smiled thinly. “Nor will I.”
They stood a moment longer at the broken wall, shadows stretching long across the cobbles. Two scared men, bound by ambition, but strangers still. At last, Sharpe offered his hand to Davick. “A deal, then.”
Davick drew a dagger from his belt. This startled Sharpe slightly, but then he turned the blade on himself and cut his palm. Blood trickled down his arm, causing Sharpe pause. Just what had he gotten himself into?
“A deal. But know this, Sharpe. Should you try to double-cross me in any way. I shall know it. I shall provide the information that you require when the time is right. But until then, await my call.” Davick clasped his fist tight, causing the blood to drip all the more past his wrist. Moving past Sharpe, he trailed a finger across his cheek leaving a line of his own blood.
In the stillness of Bree’s night, a pact was struck, one that would draw blood before it was done.
