Mercs & Magi

by Jamie Edmundson

  She served them their ale.

  ‘Two coppers each,’ she said.

  Lothar dug a silver piece out of a pocket. He offered it to the wife.

  ‘For me and my friends.’

  The woman took it, staring at it just long enough for Lothar to guess it was one of the few times in her life she had held a silver piece, then put it in her apron.

  ‘Much obliged,’ she said with a nervous smile.

  Lothar took a long swig of ale, keen to quench his thirst. It was sour to the taste and watery. By no means the worst batch of ale he had tasted.

  Mirko smacked his lips. ‘Nice and sweet. Dates in there, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the wife, looking pleased with the praise.

  His thirst somewhat quenched, Lothar took a proper look at the wife. She was young, and though her hair was tucked away under a wimple, he could still tell she had a pretty face.

  ‘I’m Mirko,’ his companion continued. ‘What are you named?’

  Lothar didn’t like where this was going.

  ‘Never mind exchanging names. Drink up. We’ve got work to do,’ Lothar said, draining his drink and placing the stein on the table with a thud.

  ‘Emil’s on lookout, isn’t he?’ said Mirko, his face twisting into something ugly.

  ‘Emil’s waiting for his turn to come in here for a drink,’ said Lothar, standing up, his chair scraping along the floor.

  Moments passed as Lothar stood and Mirko sat. The wife moved to the other side of the house, busying herself with nothing.

  ‘Very well, Stiff,’ said Mirko at last, finishing his drink and cracking the stein onto the table, before stalking out of the house.

  ‘Many thanks, missus,’ Lothar said to the woman. ‘My two other friends will be in shortly. They are... no bother.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir,’ said the wife, her nervous smile now replaced with a neutral expression.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ demanded Mirko as Lothar stepped outside. ‘No exchanging names?’

  ‘Don’t get into something you can’t get out of,’ said Lothar mildly.

  ‘Oh, don’t start with that shit,’ said Mirko, storming off towards the east road. ‘Your turn,’ he shouted over to Emil and Karl, nodding towards the house. ‘Just don’t ask missus inside what her name is,’ he added.

  Lothar followed him.

  ‘What he say?’ Karl asked Emil as they passed Lothar on their way to the house.

  ‘Don’t ask the wife her name,’ answered Emil.

  Karl frowned, as bemused as ever by the rules of etiquette.

  Lothar sat by the side of the east road. Mirko was positioned on the opposite side. Neither was in the mood for talk, so time passed by in silence. Lothar would have enjoyed the rest, were it not for the flies that pestered him and the clouds of dust that swirled up when the wind blew.

  His mouth grew dry and his mind kept drifting to the missus and her barrel of sour ale.

  Then he heard hoofbeats, distant but clear nonetheless. He looked over at Mirko, who gave a barely perceptible nod before looking away.

  Lothar looked down the east road but saw nothing yet. The sound grew louder, and he began to feel the reverberations through the ground.

  Then the horseman came into sight. Lothar knew instantly it was who they were waiting for. The rider had made no effort to hide the luxury of his clothing. Fine leather boots were tucked into stirrups, and a cloak, deep blue, billowed behind him as his stallion cantered up the distance to the crossroads.

  Lothar and Mirko made no movement as the rider approached. He didn’t slow his pace, showing no interest in them or the shitty little village they lazed in.

  But he should have been more careful.

  Suddenly, Lothar and Mirko were up on their feet, a length of rope held between them reaching across the road. The stallion reared up in alarm and the rider tilted backwards on his mount. It was an easy thing to nudge him with the taut rope so that he fell off the beast, landing on his back.

  Lothar quickly moved over, drawing his short sword from its scabbard and placing the blade to the neck of the rider.

  He looked over to Mirko, who carefully approached the horse, reaching for its reins.

  ‘Easy boy, panic over,’ Mirko said reassuringly.

  Turning back to the prone body on the floor, Lothar met eyes with the horseman. He had a long face, framed by chin-length straight brown hair. Lothar gestured for him to sit up.

  Mirko appeared with the length of rope.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ the man demanded, words and diction confirming his nobility.

  ‘Of course we fucking do,’ Mirko replied, beginning to wrap the length of rope around their captive.

  The captive wasn’t ready to play along.

  Once they hauled him up, he made a run for it, legs pumping fast despite his arms having been bound by Mirko’s rope. Mirko sprinted after him, tackling him to the ground. Lothar caught up to them and put his weight on the nobleman. When Mirko approached, a murderous look on his face, their captive lashed out with his legs, kicking him in the shins. Mirko roared in pain, then let forth a torrent of expletives loud enough for the whole village to hear. He launched himself at their captive, landing several punches on his face.

  With his arms tied, there was nothing the nobleman could do to protect himself, and Lothar called a halt to the punishment.

  Mirko walked off a few steps, his aching hand under his armpit. ‘Damn, he’s got a bony face.’

  Lothar looked at their captive. There was a bit of blood but didn’t seem to be serious damage to the face. He looked dazed and no longer resisted when Lothar yanked him to his feet.

  ‘Let’s get him into the church,’ said Lothar.

  Lothar led the captive; Mirko opened the doors and led them inside. It was a single-roomed hall, dark, and smelling of sweat and rotting wood.

  ‘Hey!’ said Mirko.

  A figure lurked in the shadows at the far end of the church. Lothar saw that he wore the habit of a clergyman.

  ‘We need to borrow your church, priester!’ Mirko informed him, sounding reasonable enough.

  The clergyman didn’t argue. As the three men made their way into the building, Lothar guiding their captive down the aisle of the church, the priest manoeuvred past them towards the door. He was much smaller than them, poor looking. Probably can’t read much himself, thought Lothar. Just enough to impress his ignorant flock.

  Lothar watched him sidle out of his own church and leave them to it. Not that Lothar thought less of him for that. He agreed with the course of action wholeheartedly. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of.

  Lothar returned his attention to their captive. The far end of the church was partitioned off, presumably the priest’s living quarters. He prodded the nobleman past the musty smelling curtains into the small space and sat him down on the priest’s mattress.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Mirko cracked his knuckles. ‘Don’t make me hit you again. I’ll use the pommel of my knife next time.’

  ‘Alright.’ A pause. ‘My name is Alexander. What do you want from me, you filthy thugs? Give me my sword and you won’t feel so brave.’

  ‘Oh,’ retorted Mirko, ‘I didn’t realise we were dealing with a fucking hero.’

  ‘Not a hero, just a man. Real men don’t punch defenceless prisoners in the face.’

  ‘I really don’t like you,’ said Mirko quietly, his knife finding its way into his hand.

  Lothar looked around. There was nowhere for their prisoner to escape to. He made eye contact with Mirko and nodded in the direction of the nave.

  Reluctantly, Mirko followed him, not yet prepared to return his knife to his belt.

  They brushed past the curtains and made their way to the far end of the church.

  ‘It’s definitely him,’ Lothar murmured.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Take him to whoever
wants him.’

  ‘Who wants him? And did they specify he had to be alive?’ asked Mirko, fingering the blade of his knife.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lothar admitted.

  Mirko looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Not sure about what? Who wants him, or whether they want him alive?’

  ‘I’m not sure about either.’

  Mirko stared at him with dead eyes. ‘I should have fucking known…’ he said in a resigned tone, which Lothar found unfair.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Lothar began. ‘I overheard a conversation in the inn, someone offering a large bounty for this Alexander, heir of Berkhopen.’

  They both looked back to the curtained area of the church where their captive waited.

  ‘They described him and said he would likely be coming in this direction. So, we have him, we just need to find out who wants him and why. Could turn out to be our biggest pay day yet.’

  Mirko considered the situation. ‘But if this man was offering a large bounty, we’re not going to be the only ones after him.’

  ‘No,’ said Lothar, wondering why some people needed everything explained to them as if they were children. ‘There’s always potential dangers when the reward is so high.’

  A shout came from outside. It sounded like Emil.

  ‘Stiff!’

  Lothar hurried out through the doors, closely followed by Mirko.

  ‘It’s riders, Stiff!’ said a panting Emil, pointing west.

  Lothar could see them at the crossroads, a cloud of dust stirred up by their arrival was still swirling around them.

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ asked Mirko.

  ‘Hide the horse,’ Lothar instructed him tersely.

  Mirko ran over to Alexander’s mount and led him back towards the church.

  ‘How many are there?’ Lothar asked Emil.

  ‘Seven.’

  Seven riders, Lothar considered. If they’re wealthy enough to arrive on horseback, they’re likely to be well armed too. The odds didn’t seem good.

  ‘Where’s Karl?’

  ‘He stayed in the house, Stiff. Sent me to get you.’

  ‘As if he’s going to make one jar of difference either way,’ commented Mirko, arriving back from the church.

  Lothar thought about their situation. We could leave right now. Give up our prize. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of. But giving up now when he had got so close?

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘We hide out in the church. With any luck they ride on out of here and we leave with Lord Alexander, sell him, get the money. Agreed?’

  Mirko and Emil nodded, but neither of them gave the impression that they were feeling lucky.

  Stiff!’ came the shout.

  A woman’s voice. And a familiar one at that.

  Lothar looked over to Mirko, who rolled his eyes. Emil sat on the mattress next to Alexander, his weight making it sag alarmingly.

  ‘Emil,’ Lothar began, ‘you stay here with him. Mirko and I will go and talk to her. With any luck—’

  ‘Please, don’t,’ interrupted Mirko.

  Lothar made his way to the doors of the church, reluctant and excited to see her at the same time.

  As he made his way out into the sunshine, Anke stood waiting for him, hands on hips. Peter was with her. That was a shame. They waited for Lothar and Mirko to approach.

  Her hair was bleached from the sun, tied back out of her face. Her skin was tanned too; maybe a few more lines than last time he had seen her. But they somehow added to her beauty, made her even more desirable. He felt a lurch in his chest at the sight of her.

  ‘Hello boys,’ said Peter, that sardonic smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Hello fuck face,’ responded Mirko.

  Peter smiled, making a decent job of pretending to find the remark amusing.

  Why was he here with her? Had he become Anke’s second-in-command already? Lothar wouldn’t put it past the smug bastard. Was he screwing her? The thought made him feel sick. He felt his jaw tighten and he made himself take a calming breath.

  ‘Seems like we have a shared interest in a certain nobleman,’ said Anke.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lothar asked, allowing himself a little smile.

  ‘Oh, come on, Stiff,’ said Anke. She wasn’t amused, looking away from him into the distance.

  The doors to the church opened and Alexander emerged, still bound. He glanced their way before turning around and running in the opposite direction. Lothar had to admire his form. He had a long stride and pumped his knees up high as he ran. If he had the use of his arms, Lothar would wager he could outrun any of them. As it was, Mirko ran him down, then began directing some brutal kicks to his midriff.

  Emil poked his head around the door, looking sheepish.

  ‘Sorry Stiff!’

  ‘You were saying?’ asked Anke with one raised eyebrow.

  ‘Oh. That nobleman.’

  ‘We might need him alive, you know,’ she added.

  ‘Mirko!’ Lothar shouted.

  Mirko gave their captive one last kick before desisting.

  ‘I see you’re still working with the same high-quality professionals,’ said Anke.

  ‘Is he my replacement?’ asked a grinning Peter, nodding over at Emil, who was helping Alexander to his feet.

  ‘Yes, a more than ample one. Best shot I’ve seen with a bow since Sven Silkbeard.’

  Silkbeard was a name that garnered immediate respect amongst those in the business, and Anke nodded at him, looking over at Emil in an appraising way.

  ‘And that’s not an invitation to steal one of my hands again.’

  Anke sighed. ‘If you paid your people properly, Stiff, they’d be less likely to leave you.’

  Lothar thought up a retort, glanced at Peter, and decided to keep it to himself.

  ‘We’ll take it from here,’ she added.

  ‘Like hell you will,’ Lothar countered. ‘We got him first.’

  ‘It’s my job. You’ve stolen it.’

  ‘The job was given to me too.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Anke, and Lothar thought he could detect a dismissive tone.

  ‘Come on, Stiff,’ said Peter. ‘There’s seven of us here. All professionals. We’ve been preparing for days. What have you got? A fat archer, a psychopath, an old man supping too much beer, and you’ve somehow blundered into a score. You’ve always been sensible. Known when to take a risk and when to back off.’

  Patronising shit, thought Lothar, feeling himself rile up. Since when do I take advice from him?

  ‘I’ll give you 50 pieces for your trouble, Stiff,’ said Anke, making it sound generous. ‘You turn a tidy profit for a day’s work, everyone gets to leave with their reputation intact.’

  Now she was doing it. Trying to buy him off for spare change. But Lothar knew something was up. He knew Peter and Anke plenty enough to tell that. Both trying a little too hard to appear nonchalant.

  He glanced over at Emil and Mirko leading Alexander back to the church, and took a couple of backward paces towards them. He touched a hand to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘He’s our prisoner, Anke. We took him fair and square. I suggest you back off.’

  ‘Stiff,’ she replied, her voice sounding strained. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid. If you make us take it off you, we will.’

  He raised his eyebrows at that, gave a little smile, and retreated back into the church.

  They weren’t expecting that,’ Lothar announced, shutting the doors behind him. ‘I could tell. They expected Stiff to give up, back off. Well, not this time.’

  Silence greeted him. Lothar looked at the three men. Alexander was slumped on a pew, beaten up, defeated looking. Mirko stood next to him, looking back at Lothar, eyes narrowed. To one side was Emil, looking down at the floor. No doubt still embarrassed about letting his captive go.

  ‘One thing I got from that conversation,’ Lothar continued into the silence, ‘they want it. Not him. It.’

  He mov
ed over to Alexander.

  ‘What have you got, boy?’

  Mirko’s eyes lit with interest. His knife had found its way into his hands.

  ‘I’ll make him talk, Stiff. I’ll get it out of him.’

  Alexander looked up to the timbered roof of the church, as if looking for answers from heaven. He sighed. His long face looked morose; tragic. Lothar kind of admired it. If he had pulled that face he would have just looked pathetic. But this nobleman possessed a heroic countenance. He despaired, because the gods were against him. But at least they had noticed him. Whereas Lothar knew the gods didn’t give a holy shit about his miserable existence.

  ‘Letters,’ said Alexander finally. ‘They’re in my cloak pocket. I’ll give them to you if you let me go.’

  Mirko looked to Lothar expectantly and he nodded back. Mirko wasted no time in cutting the rope restraining Alexander, then unwinding it.

  ‘Don’t even think about trying anything,’ he warned him, placing the blade on Alexander’s neck. With his other hand he rummaged around in the cloak, before pulling out a stack of parchment, tied in string. He tossed it over to Lothar, who caught it and examined the spidery black writing.

  ‘What’s it say, Stiff?’ Mirko asked.

  Lothar frowned. Surely Mirko knew full well he couldn’t read. In which case, was he trying to bluff Alexander into thinking he could decipher the writing? He shook his head. No, that was altogether too clever for Mirko.

  ‘Who wrote this?’ he asked Alexander.

  The nobleman sighed.

  ‘Lady Francoise,’ he announced dramatically.

  Lothar’s crew looked at each other. Mirko opened his mouth, no doubt to ask who the fuck Lady Francoise was, but with a barely perceptible shake of the head Lothar persuaded him to shut it again.

  ‘To you?’

  Alexander nodded.

  ‘You’d better explain,’ said Lothar.

  ‘Until last summer I was at the royal court. I had a passionate affair with Lady Francoise. But the king took an interest in her. I was sent away. We continued to write each other, and in those letters is evidence of our love. Now, she is due to marry the king. These letters, if they get into the wrong hands, would ruin the match.’