Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 6)

Here is serial 6 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to catch up with things: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

They were shorter than the merchants. The rogue was sure they were not of the city of Tabun-Stoh. Their round heads were shaved but stubbly. They wore no beards, and they had painted their eyes a bright red. They wore crudely worked furs. One wore a wolf's pelt that was thrown over his shoulder, and the other was wearing a collection of necklaces made of bone-beads. Both were leaning on long spears with bronze heads that came to sharp points. They were drinking something from a bladder, and passing it back and forth. Occasionally, they laughed.

The Rogue did not know what to do. If he approached they might attempt to attack him, and although he was confident in his fighting abilities, he did not know if they deserved death or not. The Rogue knew humans, though. Of these folk: he didn't speak their tongue, didn't dress in their manner, and surely did no pray to their God, and so their first reaction of him would of course be hostile. But this did not make them intrinsically his enemy. They would be behaving the same way many people would behave. He needed some way of assuring them that he meant no harm. And then the idea dawned on him.

He was not afraid of the sight of blood. He understood the sight of it moved many men, and he used this knowledge to his advantage. He opened a gash on his left arm with his blade, sighed in pain as the blood began to drip down his forearm. Afterwords, he ripped his right sleeve and smeared his face with dirt. He would pose as a wounded and destitute man. Humans, although they feared healthy and upright foreigners, tended to empathize with one of their own species (when it was at their mercy, of course, and appeared to be unable to cause them harm).

The Rogue was a skilled actor, and so, when he moved out from behind the rock and shambled forward, moaning with pain and gripping his bloodied arm, the subtleties of his expression, the manner of his posture, the tenor of his voice, the shaping of his eyes--all of these micro-messages speaking as powerfully and as intensely as any language--he was perceived by these two men laughing and sharing wine by the river as a traveler who was down on his luck.