A Sellsword's Wrath

by Jacob Peppers

  Aaron grunted, staring at the cracked and misshapen sergeant’s face, his broken nose. Any normal man would have been screaming in agony from such wounds, but the man only stood there, staring at Aaron with that arrogant smile as if it was all a game.

  “Tough bastard aren’t you?” Aaron said, “well, being tough’s all good, but unless you want to be a dead bastard, you’ll hand me those keys you’re carrying.”

  The thing reached into the pocket of its tunic, its hand coming out with the key ring, “These, do you mean?” It said, and Aaron noticed that the thing’s voice had changed. It didn’t sound like the sergeant at all, now, sounded like someone else. A voice he didn’t think he’d heard before, but one that sounded familiar anyway. “Sure, take them,” he said, and when Aaron reached out a hand the thing that wasn’t the sergeant threw them at him instead. Aaron recoiled, surprised by the movement, trying to catch them with his free hand by instinct, his instinct forgetting that his free hand just happened to be chained to his sword hand and the sudden movement pulled on his wrist, tugging the blade away from the thing’s throat.

  The imposter took a step back, screaming for all he was worth, “Guards, to me!”

  “Damnit,” Aaron hissed as the halls suddenly rang with shouts and the sound of men running.

  The sergeant gave him another bloody smile, “Oh, Aaron,” it said, “You really should have just come along, like I asked. I would have made your passing as painless as possible. Now, well … I do not think the men who come will be so kind. Still, you always have had to do things your own way, haven’t you?”

  Aaron felt a cold shiver run up his spine at that strange, alien voice coming from the sergeant’s mouth. “What are you?”

  The man started to answer but suddenly he looked behind Aaron, his face a mask of pain and terror, “Thank the gods,” he said, “this man is an escaped prisoner, trying to assassinate the queen.”

  Aaron glanced behind him to see two guards coming forward. Shit. Any ideas, Co?

  Um … the Virtue said, run?

  Aaron glanced back and saw that two more guards had approached behind the sergeant, the man now hobbling and holding his face as if overcome by pain. A quick look showed Aaron that there were no doors to run into between him and the guards on either side of the hallway. Thanks a lot, firefly, he thought. “Listen,” he said to the guards, knowing it was a waste of his time even as he did it but having no other options, “that isn’t your sergeant,” pointing a finger at the wounded man. “It might look like your sergeant, but I promise you—”

  “That’s enough out of you, bastard,” one of the guards spat. “You’ll pay for hurting the sergeant.” Aaron moved so that his sides were facing each group of men, trying his best to keep his eye on both at once as they inched forward, their own blades drawn.

  He watched them coming closer, knowing it was hopeless. One against four, his wrists and ankles manacled? Sure, he was still holding the keys, but somehow he doubted the guards would just stand by and watch while he unfastened the manacles at his ankles and wrists. “You have to listen to me,” He said, glancing at the thing pretending to be Sergeant Gant, seeing that it had taken a couple of steps back so that it was behind the guards. Its expression was still pained, but he could see the dark amusement in its eyes. “This … thing is not your sergeant.”

  The guards ignored him and suddenly one was rushing forward, swinging his sword in a fatal arc. Aaron batted the blade aside with his own then charged his shoulder into his attacker sending him stumbling backward into his companion.

  “Wait,” Aaron said, turning to the two guards behind him who’d used the opportunity to move closer so that they were nearly within striking distance, “just fucking wait. Look, I know it doesn’t make any sense—”

  “Wait!” A hoarse shout came from further down the hall, and Aaron turned with the guards to see the real sergeant Brandon Gant shuffling toward them, one arm clasped around his bloody stomach, the other using the wall for support and leaving a bloody trail along its length to mark his passage. “That …” he said, clearly struggling to stay upright let alone speak, “is not me. The thing jumped me in the hall, fucker stabbed me. Aaron’s telling the truth.”

  “Sergeant?” One of the guards asked, he and his companions shooting nervous glances between the real sergeant, holding an arm over his bloody stomach, and the impostor.

  “It’s a trick,” the impostor said, “this … man, whoever he is, is in on it. Cut him down men, while you can.”

  The guards hesitated unsure, and the imposter shouted, “Now, damnit!

  The authority in his voice was enough to make the guards’ heads snap back around, and they began moving toward Aaron, one breaking off to make his way toward the wounded sergeant, his blade in front of him. “Wilhelm?” The real Sergeant Gant said, “That you? Look, lad, it’s me, alright? Remember, what was it, two seasons past, when your girl, Bella, came down with the flux and you didn’t have the coin to take her to a healer? Who was it, Wilhelm, lent you the money you needed to get her seen to?”

  The guard that had been moving toward the sergeant came to an abrupt stop, his eyes going wide. “You did.”

  The wounded sergeant nodded weakly, leaning heavily on the wall and looking past Wilhelm. “And you, Dale, you know me. You’re the worst card player I’ve ever seen—always callin’ on a draw ain’t got a chance of hittin’.”

  “Sarge?” One of the other guards, presumably Dale, asked. “Hold on,” he said to the others, “That’s him. That’s the sergeant alright, now—”

  He cut off at a growl of frustration from the imposter, something not quite human about it. “Fools,” he said, “You should have done what I told you—now you’re all dead men.”

  They were still staring at the imposter when, suddenly, his flesh began to heal before their eyes. His cracked face reformed, reshaping itself to its original look, and the gashes on his face, caused by the chains, began to shrink. It was all done in an instant, and when it was finished, the only proof that Aaron had attacked the man at all was the blood still covering his features. Blood but no wounds.

  Gods be good, what is he? Aaron thought.

  Aaron, Co said, her voice panicked, it’s Carlyle, it has to be.

  Carlyle? Aaron thought, unable to take his eyes away from the unmarked flesh of the imposter’s face. Another brother, is it?

  “What the fuck?” One of the guards asked, managing to find his voice and pulling Aaron away from his thoughts.

  “What are you?” Another of the guards said, his voice high and frightened.

  The thing that was not the sergeant tilted its head at an impossible angle and smiled that too-wide smile again. “Me?” It asked, “I’m complicated.”

  Then Aaron watched in shock as the creature’s arms began to grow and lengthen at its sides, the hands transforming into sharp spikes of flesh at the end. It bellowed a scream of rage and pain, and suddenly four more arm-like appendages erupted from its sides, ripping the shirt it wore into tatters. It screamed again and six spiked appendages shot forward, impossibly long, lancing toward Aaron and the others.

  Aaron lunged desperately to the side, hacking at the impossibly long limb that would have impaled him had he not moved, chopping it clean through with his blade. The limb severed easily enough, flying across the room in a shower of blood that splashed on Aaron’s face and clothes. Then, more on instinct than conscious thought, he spun and threw his sword, impaling another limb that had been shooting toward the wounded sergeant and pinning it to the wall.

  He shot a look back at the creature, ready to defend himself against another attack and cursing himself for throwing his sword—what a fool move that had been—but the creature was only standing there. Its form was still manlike but there was no question that it wasn’t a man, not now. Six spikes protruded from the creature’s body, the one Aaron had cut, the one he’d pinned against the wall, and four others. He followed their lengths and saw that each of the four gu
ards had been impaled, the men struggling weakly as they died.

  “What the fuck?” He said. The thing smiled at him again and, in the blink of an eye, the protrusions of flesh retracted in a blur of motion and then it was only the man standing there once more, his shirt in tatters where the flesh spikes had ripped their way out of his body.

  “You should have gone peacefully, Aaron,” the creature said, starting toward him down the hall, a confident swagger in its step, but Aaron could see that it seemed winded, at least, as if it had just run several miles. “Now, there will be pain.” It grinned, “Great, terrible pain.”

  Aaron glanced over at the sergeant only to see that the man had apparently passed out, though from pain, blood loss, or plain fear, Aaron couldn’t say, and he couldn’t have blamed him either way. “What do you want, you bastard?” Aaron said, looking at the four dead guards lying in the hallway.

  “Want?” The creature asked, taking its time moving forward, in no rush, knowing that it was going to win, that it could do nothing else. “I want the world to burn, Aaron Envelar. Until nothing is left of it but ash and memory, until the memory itself fades. I want the only sounds in the world to be the sounds of women weeping for their husbands, their children, until even their cries grow silent and still and there is only the darkness. That is what I want.”

  Aaron dashed to one of the dead guards and snatched the sword from the corpse’s hand. He held it in front of him, forcing his breathing to slow and fighting down the panic that bucked in his chest like something alive. “I was hoping you’d say gold. A woman, maybe. True the whole skin spikes thing might throw them off, but you’d be surprised what a professional is prepared to accept, assuming you’ve got the money for it.”

  The thing grinned, shifting its shoulders backward, so that its arms hung down at an angle to the floor behind it. Then its arms blurred, becoming spikes that dragged the ground behind it as it stalked closer. “You are amusing, Mr. Envelar, I’ll grant you that. I have always thought so, for years now. It’s too bad that I have to kill you, but you have something that belongs to me, and I will have it back.”

  Aaron raised an eyebrow, pointing his sword at the piece of flesh lying on the ground where he’d sliced it off from the first attack, “You mean that? Take it—the gods know I don’t want it.”

  “Not that, Mr. Envelar,” it said, “something else. Something … magic. Tell me,” it said, cocking its head to the side in that unnatural way, “which of the Seven do you possess?”

  Aaron felt his skin grow cold, “Seven?”

  The thing spread its mouth in a silent laugh, “There is really no need to dissemble, Mr. Envelar. I know you have it; I’ve known for some time now, and don’t worry, you need not tell me. I will find out soon enough.”

  It took another step toward him then paused at the sound of armored feet approaching at a jog. A lot of them. “Damned nuisances,” it hissed then it turned and fled down the hall, impossibly fast.

  Aaron cursed, kneeling by Brandon and shaking him. The sergeant’s eyes opened, though with a great effort, and it took them several moments to focus on Aaron. “Mr. Envelar?” He said in a voice little more than a whisper, “is that you?”

  “It’s me,” Aaron said, “look, are you okay? I need to get that thing, stop it before it hurts anyone else.”

  “Can you?” The sergeant asked, meeting Aaron’s eyes.

  Aaron shook his head slowly, bending to use the keys on the manacles at his ankles and then his wrists, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Still, I have to try. Will you be alright?”

  The sergeant nodded, “Go, then. I’ll explain to my men what’s happened—they’ll fetch me a healer, and I’ll be along as soon as I might.”

  Aaron nodded, throwing the last of the manacles aside and rising, “Alright. I’d say it’s been a pleasure, sergeant, but….” He glanced around the room at the dead men and shrugged, starting away.

  “Mr. Envelar,” the sergeant said, causing him to turn. “May the gods be with you.”

  Aaron grunted, “That’d be a first. Still,” he winked, “at this point, I’ll take all the help I can get.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  He raced down the hallway after the creature, pushing his battered, exhausted body to its limits and then beyond them. Co, he thought, glad to not have the need to speak—not sure if he’d have been able to, with his breath heaving in his chest—what can you tell me about this thing?

  Carlyle, the Virtue said, her voice full of worry and something like hate, his was the task of channeling the Virtue of Adaptability, according to Caltriss it was the second most important virtue of all—second only to compassion.

  Damn, firefly, he thought, vain much?

  He said it not me, you ignorant ba—

  Alright, alright, Aaron said, turning a corner just in time to catch sight of the thing take a left at the next intersection, that’s nice, good history lesson. Can you tell me anything else, anything useful, maybe?

  Adaptability, Caltriss said, was a commander’s ability to change to suit his circumstances, to give himself the best chance of victory.

  Oh, well this fucker changes alright, Aaron shot back, thinking of the way the creature’s flesh had erupted in spikes, impaling the guards. Any fool with the sense the gods gave him would be running the other way, but, then, he’d been called a lot of things in his life and smart had never been one of them.

  Aaron, the Virtue said, her voice full of warning and worry, such a one as has bonded Carlyle … he will not be easily slain.

  Tell me something I don’t know, Aaron thought, remembering the way the creature’s face had healed in an instant. A cleaning lady was in the hall, frozen looking after the way the creature had gone, her eyes wide and skin pale, and Aaron was forced to dodge around her as he turned down another corner. He was gaining on the creature now, twenty strides away, no more, and it turned back, bearing the teeth in its too wide mouth at him even as its arms changed again, this time becoming similar in form, if not size, to hooks fishermen might use to catch fish.

  It was approaching the end of the hall—an end with no hall on either side, only a large stained glass window. Aaron came to a panting stop, knowing he’d need strength and energy left to fight the creature, once it realized it had nowhere to go but through him. Instead, it didn’t so much as slow, leaping out the window, its clawed arms behind it. Stained glass shattered and flew out into empty space in a cacophony of sound, and Aaron stared after it, slack jawed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He crept toward the window, peered out, and was immediately overcome by a sense of vertigo. He’d known that they were high up, but he hadn’t realized just how high, the houses and shops beneath him like little more than a child’s toy village, the streets populated by people the size of ants going on about their daily lives. He squinted his eyes, trying to see if he could make out anything of the creature’s shattered form below but saw nothing.

  Dreading what he was going to see, Aaron leaned out of the window and looked up to see the creature using its hooked arms as climbing instruments, working its way further up the castle to what appeared to be a balcony jutting out near the top. “Shit.” Aaron said. “It doesn’t exactly take a genius to know who that belongs to.”

  It’s the queen,” Co said, Aaron he’s going to try to kill the queen.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said, still looking up at the creature making steady progress up the castle wall, apparently oblivious that it hung out over nothing and that one slip would send it plummeting hundreds of feet below. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing, “it looks that way.”

  Well? Co said when he didn’t move, what are you going to do?

  Aaron considered then finally spat out the window, “One of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, I guess.” He said. He started to slide his sword in its sheath at his back only to remember that this wasn’t his sword at all, his sword—as well as its sheath—having been taken by the guards when
he entered the castle. “I’d bet they’d regret that right about now, if they were here to see this.”

  But no one is here, Aaron.

  “I know, damnit. So I’m the only one regretting it.” He tossed the sword to the ground. True, if he made it to the top, he would be forced to face the thing without a weapon—not exactly an appealing thought. Of course, the thing was he’d have to make it to the top first, and he’d need his hands and his feet free—shit, would have taken two more hands, if he could get them—to have any hope of making the climb. “Alright then,” he said, more to himself than to Co, “it’s just climbing, that’s all. You’ve climbed before.”

  He glanced down at the ground again, swallowing hard. Sure, he’d climbed. But only high enough so that falling might kill him. Two stories or so. This high up, a man would have enough time to ask himself some very pointed questions, should he fall. The only bright side was that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have time to answer them.

  Aaron—

  I know, I know, he snapped, I’m going. He grabbed hold of a couple of protruding stones to the side of the window and then, cursing himself for a fool, jumped. There was a stomach lurching, heart wrenching, wild-eyed scared as shit moment when his feet were touching nothing but air. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief when they hit the castle, and he managed to get a toe hold on the stones.

  What I was going to say, the Virtue said, was that you could have taken the stairs.

  Aaron laughed then, and if it sounded a bit wild, a bit like a scream, then that was understandable, given the circumstances. “Sure,” he grunted, moving his right foot up then reaching another stone with his left, “and I’m sure all the guards would be fine, letting me go, letting some stranger head toward their queen’s quarters.”

  Oh. Right. Because a few men with swords are way worse than this. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  Aaron grunted. You know, firefly, he thought, you can be a real pain in the ass. Anyway, he glanced up at the man or whatever it was, scaling the wall above him, he’s doing it.