For Gold and Revenge

by Noah Layton

  He turned to glance over at me, assessed that I wasn’t a threat, then returned to his stoic position.

  Every available bounty was placed on a huge noticeboard in each post, and this one was no different. What’s more, every bounty poster followed roughly the same layout.

  The words WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE were stamped at the top of almost every poster save for a few exceptions. Below was the name, and upon around half of the posters was a rough illustration of the character in question. Beyond that was the name, the crime, and the reward, as well as their last known location, or where they were likely to be found.

  The one thing that they all had in common was the final words, stamped in huge bold block capitals at the bottom of every poster.

  WARNING – CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. APPROACH AT OWN RISK.

  That was a disclaimer that couldn’t be read any other way. It stopped any amateurs who thought they were professionals from getting in too deep.

  And for the ones who chose to ignore it? Well, let’s just say there was no chance of a legal case against the High Council.

  The rewards often matched the crimes. Common thieves, swindlers and those running from assault charges fetched around 100 gold pieces, while one-time murderers brought in 200-400. Above that level there were the psychopathic serial killers and the assassins which moved into 1000+ territory.

  Strangely enough, though, those weren’t the highest-level bounties available. That spot was reserved for the gangs.

  Gangs were in abundance in Spire City, running every racket imaginable. Every race and creed had at least one gang it could speak of, and it was a good day if they stayed out of each other’s ways. Fights and hits amongst them weren’t uncommon, and on an off-day, innocents could get in the way.

  Because of their antics, they fetched the highest prices. Specific members could be worth between 1000 and 2000, while leaders could bring in 5000-plus.

  The gang bounties were the ones that had been on the board the longest, though. So long, in fact, that the posters were becoming tattered and yellowed.

  Almost nobody dared to make a hit on the gangs. Making the kill was one thing, but if you were ever caught by them, either after the hit or in the process, they would pull you apart while you were still breathing, then go after everybody you had ever known or loved.

  Most gang members walked free in public without a problem, even with bounties on their heads that were worth a fortune.

  Maybe that had to change.

  I scanned the bounties carefully, searching for something worthwhile. The lowly criminals were too much of a time-sink, but some were worth it.

  It didn’t take long for one with just enough risk-reward ratio to catch my eye.

  WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE

  The JONES BANDITS

  For the crime of grand larceny upon a merchant caravan, and the murder of three tradesmen

  200 Gold Pieces per Member

  Bonus of 200 for a complete set

  Likely location: Within proximity of the Night Market, Adler District

  WARNING – CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. APPROACH AT OWN RISK

  Complete set, I thought to myself with a chuckle. They make them sound like collector’s items.

  There were four of them in total; a group of sinfully ugly assholes with disgruntled frowns on their faces. Whoever had supplied the description to the illustrator clearly didn’t like them.

  Then again, if they were stupid enough to rob a merchant caravan, maybe the pictures did do them justice.

  The Adler District. They were in the area.

  I snatched up the parchment and pocketed it, heading back out and returning to my quarters at the tavern.

  Only when I arrived at the foot of the stairs did I realise what I’d forgotten.

  Alcohol to clean out my wound.

  ‘Hey, Mavis?’ I said, calling to the landlady where she now stood behind the bar, cleaning glasses for the night ahead. ‘What’s the strongest thing you’ve got back there?’

  ‘Little early, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve got a cut that needs cleaning. Don’t want it to get infected.’

  ‘Ah. Just a moment.’

  She finished off cleaning the glass and leaned to a back shelf, tracing her finger along the labels. She clasped her hand around a clear, dusty bottle with a peeling label housing clear liquid.

  ‘Here. Abarinthius 220 Vodka. 88% proof.’

  ‘88%?!’ I exclaimed. ‘What the hell do you even have that for?’

  ‘I use it to wake up the unmovable ones at closing time. Gets them on their feet fast enough, believe me. Even the orcs can’t handle it.’

  ‘How much do you want for it?’

  ‘Consider it a courtesy. Just bring it back when you’re done. Oh, and your shift begins at eight tonight.’

  I thanked her and headed up the stairs to the corridor where the guest rooms were. Just as I reached the landing I heard light footsteps, and looked up to see the edge of a boot flicking into the room next to mine just before the door closed.

  The situation I was in meant that I had to hide out in a place like this. I wondered what the hell the story was of the woman in the room next to me. I could only assume it was a woman considering the singing I had heard last night.

  That said, I was so exhausted that I could only vaguely remember it. For all I knew it was my delirious, exhausted head playing tricks on me.

  I returned to my room and locked the door behind me, running a hot bath and taking off my clothes in the meantime.

  I was down to just my bandages. I started with the one on my arm first, undoing the bandage to see the two healing holes that it had formed.

  The blonde farmer’s wife had done a damn good job of stitching both sides up. It would unquestionably be healed within a few days.

  That was the easy part.

  I untucked the bandage around my stomach and unwrapped it, coiling it around myself in looser and looser strands until it dropped away, leaving me with the dressings.

  I peeled it away carefully and observed the wound.

  Not as bad as it could have been. The stitches were secure, just like the one on my arm. It would take a little longer to heal, but as long as I was careful I shouldn’t have had a problem.

  I couldn’t afford an infection though, and it needed cleaning again.

  I had received a lot of injuries during fights in the past when bounties decided that they really didn’t want to go anywhere, and I had gotten plenty of scars as a result.

  The funny thing about injuries was that getting them wasn’t nearly as bad as the aftermath; the cleaning, the stitching, the continued treatment.

  Much like many things in life, the anticipation of pain was worse than the actual pain itself.

  No time like the present.

  I took up the bottle of 88%-proof and unscrewed it. I dared to take a whiff and felt tears coming to my eyes as my mind begged me to hold the bottle at arm’s length.

  ‘Damn…’ I muttered to myself. ‘That is rancid.’

  Ghosts might as well have come spiralling out of the bottleneck, it smelled that strong.

  I placed a roll of gauze between my teeth and bit down.

  I took a few short, sharp breaths, readied the bottle and poured it over my wound.

  A pincered sting echoed through my whole body. If the gauze hadn’t been between my teeth I would have likely shattered them from how hard my jaw clenched in a repressed, pained moan.

  This was no opportunity to stop. I raised it to the wound on my arm and splashed it again. Another jolt of pain.

  I held up the bottle in my hand a few seconds later.

  No, I’m not drinking that.

  The pain subsided after a few minutes. I took up the new dressings and patted them down securely over my wounds, then took the rolls of bandages and wrapped them up tightly.

  ‘Good job, man,’ I said sarcastically, patting myself on the back before collapsing onto
the bed. I couldn’t help taking up the bottle again and glancing at the label. ‘No, definitely not drinking that.’

  I capped the bottle and set it on the nightstand, then entered the bathroom and cut the faucet off. As much as I wanted to, there was no way that I could I sink into the water. My wound was still too fresh. Once it was a little more cleaned-up I could afford to have a proper wash.

  I sat on the edge and dipped my legs into the steaming water. Taking up my journal, I flicked through the pages to the entries that I had made on my old guild.

  Like I said at the start of this mad-cap journey, I had to plan ahead. Even if I was a cold-blooded killer, I didn’t stew in my own filth on a day to day basis. I kept thorough track of important details, just in case they would come in handy later.

  At a time like this for example.

  My old guild was comprised of four members, including myself.

  First there was Bartram. He was the little guy, well-known for having a serious inferiority complex and swaggering around like he owned wherever he was walking. He had a weakness for opium, spending many nights at a den nearby.

  Second was Wargo. He was a walking tank who had hardly ever spoken a word to me in the time that I had known him, but showed his talents elsewhere; gold was only half of the reward for his job. The part that really did it for him was the act of killing, and doing it slowly. He had a weakness for gambling, which he partook in frequently in the dens near his quarters.

  Finally there was Killian, the head of our guild. He’s the guy you’ve already met; committed to the status quo of sitting behind his desk and sending us out on small-time gigs while taking half of the reward for himself.

  He was the guy I was most interested in taking down.

  But they were bounty hunters, and they didn’t have prices on their heads. Killing them was a crime punishable by having a bounty placed upon my own head, and that was the last thing that I wanted.

  Which meant I would need to do it without leaving a trace. Fortunately, being dead, I had the element of surprise on my side.

  I set aside my journal and washed myself down with a sponge, forwent shaving for the sake of my new appearance, fixed my hair, and returned to the bedroom where I relaxed on the bed and ate the cheese and cured meats that I had picked up in the market.

  The ticking clock on the wall indicated that 8pm was about to roll around, so I dressed in my fresh set of clothes, equipped my sword and dagger in their sheaths at my waist, and headed downstairs to the bustling scene of the bar.

  The tavern was even busier than the night before, just as Mavis had said it would be. It was bustling with all forms of life from the city; humans, goblins, orcs, elves, gnomes and satyrs, all drinking and cheering and laughing over ale and freshly-cooked meals that steamed with heavenly scents.

  Mavis nodded to me as I looked over to her at the bar, a nod which I returned. I crossed to her and she moved to meet me as she pulled a pint into a clean mug.

  ‘Keep your eyes open, other than that you’re free to roam the place. Hell, get a drink if you want, just as long as you keep your wits about you.’

  ‘Are you expecting trouble tonight?’

  ‘Just the usual. There’s a group of guys who like to come in here and drink sometimes. More often than not they can get rowdy, and I don’t like having that in my establishment. If push comes to shove, deal with them. Try to use your fists and not your sword, although if it’s a last resort go ahead. I’ll vouch for you.’

  ‘You got it.’

  My job for the next few hours consisted of sticking to the shadows at the edges of the bar, watching the room and scanning for any signs of trouble. Occasionally I made a move outside to take a look around the busy street, not just for those trying to get into the tavern but for anyone who might be looking for yours truly.

  Maybe I was being paranoid, but I had been killed once already, and I didn’t plan on doing it again.

  Little trouble flared up all night. In between the occasional drink and an order of garlic potatoes to keep me going, I thought that the night was going to run smoothly.

  And it did – right up until just before closing time, that is.

  Six hours passed in the haze of drinking and yelling and laughing, and by closing time at 2am there were only a select few people left in the bar; myself, Mavis, a lone hooded drinker tucked into the corner table, and three hangers-on chugging back a few final shots of whisky each that they had purchased at last-orders.

  Problem was, last order had been called twenty minute ago. I was stood on the other side of the room with both eyes on them, leaning against a wooden post with my arms crossed.

  One of them, a burly guy with a bald head and a huge scar running down the side of his neck, staggered up to the bar and slammed his hand down upon it.

  ‘Three more shots of whisky.’

  ‘Last call was an hour ago,’ Mavis said kindly. ‘It’s time for you guys to head off.’

  ‘Come on, one more round.’

  ‘The same rules apply to you as they do to everybody else.’

  Mavis turned her back to place a glass on a shelf. The bald man’s frown turned into scorn, and he slammed his hand down on the bar, this time so hard that the glasses hanging above the bar rattled.

  Mavis dropped the glass and it shattered by her feet.

  ‘I said,’ he commanded. ‘I want another drink. Now.’

  She looked over at where I was stood but failed to see me; I was already by the bar, moving towards the troublemaker.

  ‘I think that’s enough,’ I said calmly, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe it’s time to head home, huh?’

  The best fight was the one you didn’t start, so I tried to fix the situation diplomatically.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’ He barked, batting my hand away and puffing his chest out as he faced me.

  Looked like that way wasn’t going to work.

  ‘I’m the guy who’s going to kick your ass then gut you like a little bitch if you don’t get the fuck out of here right now.’

  You could’ve heard a pin drop in the bar.

  At the edge of my field of vision I could see bald guy’s friends now standing from their seats, ready to approach.

  My opponent glared me down, before his frown turned into a wide smile.

  ‘Hahaha…’ he laughed lowly, looking over at his friends before turning back to me. ‘You’re a funny guy.’

  ‘Well, I try.’

  He wasn’t going for a weapon. The only thing he was going to use was his fist.

  It clenched loosely and he launched it at me.

  I wasn’t going to use a weapon either, but there was no chance that I was going to let him go easy considering how many chances I had given him.

  I executed a swift elbow block, bruising my arm for the worthy cost of delivering my own hit.

  The booze hadn’t taken nearly as much of an effect on me as these guys, so I could calculate it better.

  I launched my fist forwards, slowing it slightly just as I reached his neck. I had no intention of killing him, but a broken nose would probably just make a guy his size angrier.

  Safely incapacitating him and doing it quickly was the best option.

  My knuckles connected with the fleshy softness of his Adam’s apple, and he dropped to his knees like a rock.

  He clutched madly at his neck as he rolled to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath.

  His buddies jumped up from their seats and bounded towards me. I drew my sword and swung it around, pointing the tip their way.

  They halted immediately.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, dickheads,’ I said sternly. ‘Just get him up and out of here. I don’t want to see your faces around here ever again.’

  They exchanged a look of quiet defeat. I nodded to their friend and took a step back, still holding my sword before me.

  The men moved forward and pulled him up by his arms. I afforded him the courtesy of getting his breath back
for a moment as he leaned against the bar, and a few seconds later they started towards the door.

  I sheathed my sword and exchanged a look with Mavis. She nodded at me and pulled a not bad expression.

  I winked at her and returned my gaze to the trio of idiots about to head outside.

  But somehow they weren’t done yet.

  The bald guy had finally caught his breath. He shot another look of malice at me, over his shoulder this time, then paused by the door.

  He turned his attention to the one other person in the tavern; the hooded figure seated at the corner table.

  Every unknown figure had been a point of interest for me all night, especially if their face was covered. The paranoia might have been getting to me, but this one didn’t match the profile of any of my enemies from The Poison Stag.

  He sat perfectly still, half of a scotch sitting on the table in front of him.

  ‘Hey... Hey you,’ the bald guy said to the hooded figure. ‘Give me your drink.’

  The figure remained still for a few moments before he reached out a slender hand and took up the glass, knocking back a little of the drink and placing it delicately back on the table.

  ‘What, you didn’t fucking hear me? Think you’re better than me?’

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ I muttered to myself, starting to cross the room between the tables and reaching for the handle of my sword.

  I was about to draw it and shout to him, but I didn’t need to.

  The bald guy went for the drink, and his hand was batted away from it immediately, this time by the hooded figure. The man looked at his hand confusedly, as if he couldn’t figure out what had just happened, then dove straight at the figure in an animal rage.

  The figure swiftly snatched up the glass, moving insanely quickly, and slammed it down into the head of the bald guy.

  The glass shattered and he screamed out, his face turning to a mess of whisky, blood and broken glass.

  ‘AAGHHHH!!! MY EYES!!!’

  He staggered back and his friends moved forward. The hooded figure quickly produced a pair of blades from hidden sheaths at his waist and held them in a practiced fighting stance.

  Whoever this guy was, he was skilled.

  ‘Try it,’ the muffled voice said from within the hood. ‘Let’s see who moves faster out of the three of us.’