by David Benem
“And you have but one mouth,” Karnag said, “but you blather on as though you have ten. Perhaps my hands are as potent.” He snatched a dagger and flung it hard and true. It cracked into the center support at the mouth of Drenj’s tent, mere inches from the youth’s head. The tent collapsed about him in turn.
The company of hired killers laughed heartily. Drenj cursed and yanked the linen away from his form, his kohl-lined eyes narrowing. “Are all of you northerners like this? Savage ingrates with thin skins and thick heads?”
Fencress Fallcrow, a raven-haired woman clad as ever in black, sauntered across the clearing. She was a hard lass, rough-featured and muscular, yet had a roguish charm with her sapphire eyes and biting wit. She stopped near Drenj and flipped a copper coin at him. “And are all of your kind painted like whores? I fear you make even me feel like a man, Drenj.”
“Not much of a stretch, eh?” said Paddyn, a scrawny lad with grubby skin and a missing front tooth.
The company laughed again, all save Karnag.
Karnag slid his daggers into the sheaths sewn into the blood-red leather of his jerkin. He straightened and his countenance darkened. “Shut your mouths and saddle the horses,” he said, sweeping his eyes across his four companions. “We have murder to make.”
The old forest creaked and yawned, with veils of white moss swaying from the boughs like haunting wraiths. The thick canopy strangled away all but the brightest beams of sunlight, and narrow hunting trails twisted through the brush-choked floor in a maddening webwork. Distant beasts howled in the gloom.
Karnag vainly sought obvious hoof-prints amidst muck and brush, while Drenj found markers in the form of every bent blade of new grass and crushed spring clover. The young man located the tracks with ease, forcing Karnag to admit that, in spite of Drenj’s mindless tongue, he was a skilled woodsman.
“How far away?” Tream asked, urging his chestnut mount close behind Karnag.
Ahead of them, Drenj looked upward and appeared to locate the sun through the heavy weave of trees. “We should manage to travel perhaps half again as fast as the Lector and his retinue. I’d wager we’ll be upon them by nightfall.”
Tream leaned forward in his saddle, as though he could spy the Lector and his companions in the distance. “Trample and torch their camp, eh?”
“No,” said Karnag. “That would invite chaos. We’ll gut the Lector in his sleep.”
Tream looked at him wide-eyed. “The man is a member of the Sanctum, its Lector no less! They say in the Old Faith the Lector speaks the word of Illienne the Light Eternal, the very goddess who guides the kingdom of Rune from her grave!” Worry pinched his pimply brow. “It’d be better for us all if we didn’t gut this man like an animal.”
Karnag shook his head. Tream had a decent sword arm but his head was made of mush. “I’m sure people say all sorts of things about the Lector. And we’ve been hired to kill him. Do you think your soul would be spared if the man burned to death or if his brains were squeezed loose by your horse’s hooves?”
Fencress chuckled behind them and Tream turned to give the black-garbed woman a hard look.
“Perhaps it would!” Tream said. “I mean, if the Lector happened to catch fire, it wouldn’t be me doing the killing.”
Fencress giggled again. “Well, if you were to stab him,” she said, humor dancing in her blue eyes, “it wouldn’t be you doing the killing, either. You could blame it on your sword.”
Karnag glared at them and in an instant they fell silent.
After a time Tream cleared his throat to speak, his eyes downcast. “This is no ordinary man we hunt, Karnag. I mean…” He paused and picked at his brown, pitted teeth. “I mean this is the sort of thing that could curse us, if you believe the Old Faith. Curse us forever.”
Karnag stared at the man in silence. Tream stared back but his watery eyes quickly broke away. “We are hired killers,” Karnag said, and no doubts quailed in his heart. “We were cursed the moment we first accepted coin to kill someone who’d done us no wrong. Accept your path. Revel in it.”
Three days had passed since Karnag and his four hired killers had left the town of Raven’s Roost, two days after the Lector. They’d ridden hard, for time was against them. “You must slay him before he reaches the mountains,” their patron had demanded. That gave them another two days’ ride before the Lector would reach the Southwalls, Rune’s southern border. It was time enough to do it right. They traveled lean and needed none of the comforts required by a man of the Lector’s pampered station. Signs of his passage were growing fresher, more obvious. The task’s conclusion was becoming a certainty.
Near mid-morning they came upon the ruins of an ancient shrine in a clearing along the trail. Drenj’s skills as a tracker proved infallible, and he discerned that the Lector and his entourage had paused at the shrine less than a day prior. The horses were lathered from their ride, so Karnag called for a respite.
The shrine was a mess of moss-covered stones, indistinguishable from the remains of any other ruin but for the unique construct. Karnag had seen its like before, and the markings of the Old Faith were known to him. Eight stone pillars in a round with a well at their center. It seemed a fine place to test the company’s mettle.
Tream dismounted and spoke in a hushed tone. “This is an old shrine, from before the faith was rewritten. Eight pillars. One for the High King of Rune, and the others for the immortal Seven Sentinels. The well is for the Godswell, the place where the gods descended into oblivion.” He approached one of the pillars and laid his hands upon it. “Reminds me of the rhyme my mum used to sing:
Illienne named eight on the eve of her death,
Rune’s high king and seven more blessed,
Aspects of god each gifted in gloom,
And together cast Yrghul down to his doom,
The king’s line reigned with the god’s light grace,
Whilst seven stood watch to guard men’s fate.
There were more rhymes, of course. But that one was my favorite. Always made me feel safe, somehow.”
Karnag looped the reins of his steed about a branch then ambled through the jumble of stones to the well. He coughed once, twice, and again. Loudly. When he sensed the company’s eyes upon him, he lowered his trousers and began to piss. Several heartbeats passed before the stream sounded its arrival at the well’s depths.
Tream charged forward with arms outstretched, as though to snatch the piss in his hands. “Fool! You fool! That’s a Godswell! This is holy ground!”
Karnag finished and turned to Tream, who stood with mouth agape.
“This,” Tream said, breathless, “is holy ground.”
Karnag slapped him hard across the cheek. With his other hand he snatched a knife from a scabbard stitched into his jerkin and pressed it against Tream’s stubbly throat. “Then I piss on the dead gods,” he growled.
Tream fell back and slammed against one of the pillars. “You cannot do this! This is a shrine to the Old Faith, from before it was corrupted and the Sentinels were banished! I can’t allow this blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy? Against what? Against whom? I’ve disgraced holy ground. What is more, I’ve slaughtered hundreds—hundreds!—of men. I’ve killed women and children. I’ve set fire to homes with families barred inside. I’ve had people mutter prayers with my sword at their throats. Did the dead gods stay my hand? Even once? Did the dead gods strike me down? No. Your faith is nothing more than a sad way to endure the cruelty of life, to claim there is some divine ‘plan’ guiding things. There isn’t. There is only you against everything else, and your reward for surviving is determined only by what you can take.”
Tream blinked and looked skyward. “Dead gods forgive him!” he breathed. “Karnag, you cannot speak this way! Not here!”
Karnag shook his head and grabbed Tream by the shoulder. “I cannot trust you with this task, Tream. You’re too weak. You’ve said these things here, yet you’d have me believe you’ll stand by idly when I plac
e my blade at the Lector’s throat? Ha. We are murderers. If there are such things as gods, how could they abide villains such as we? Do you think it matters who we kill? Or how we kill them? Or,” he laughed, “where we piss? We are wretched people, and if there are heavens above they will most certainly be shut to us. I set my own fate. If your faith tells you otherwise, then go home.” He turned Tream about and shoved him toward the horses. “Be gone.”
Tream stumbled several steps before turning to face Karnag. “My coin,” he said, his eyes wet and pleading. “What of my share of the coin?”
Karnag measured the four in his company. He knew Tream wasn’t the only of their number rotting with doubt. He’d seen Paddyn, their skinny archer, mumbling prayers when they’d caught sight of the ancient shrine, and the grimy lad averted his eyes now. Fencress Fallcrow, a cold-hearted assassin who’d never voiced any qualms about her dark work, kept a religious totem strung about her throat. “I prefer my bets to be of the hedged variety,” she’d once told Karnag. She was a good friend—perhaps Karnag’s only—and could be trusted, but her heart certainly held some measure of doubt for this task. Drenj was newest to their company, but Khaldisians were said to think paying tribute to gods was naught but a waste of good coin.
“I need neither dissent nor hesitation,” Karnag said, voice rising so to be heard by them all. “Any holding quarrels with our task should return to Raven’s Roost. Such a person will have no ill feeling from me, and I’ll gladly pay a third of their share upon my return. However, if you do remain, and your beliefs become a hindrance, you’ll be the first person I slay after the Lector.”
Drenj looked at him incredulously, waving his long-fingered hands wildly. Karnag leveled his eyes at him in hopes of silencing the protest, and the Khaldisian shut his mouth.
The others remained quiet. Karnag studied them each in turn. Even Fencress seemed pensive in that moment, twirling a strand of her black hair and looking askance. The whole of the company appeared to be waiting for someone to voice a decision.
“A third of his share,” Karnag said.
“But Karnag!” It was Fencress, rising from her seat on a stone. Her thoughtful look had been replaced by a playful grin Karnag was pleased to see. “If I left I wouldn’t get to kill anyone. Besides, think how dull this whole venture would be without my charm?”
“Death’s dancing mistress!” cheered Paddyn, slapping his hands on trousers that ruffled like empty sacks on his thin legs.
Fencress offered a genteel curtsy, her arms moving in a flourish. “The very same.”
The company laughed. It sounded as much like relief as good humor. Thereafter they resumed their casual banter. All but Tream, who kept to himself.
After a moment Tream turned about and strode toward the horses. He pulled himself astride his mare and turned the horse on the path, toward the way from which they’d come.
“I’m sorry, Karnag,” Tream said. “I’ve fought at your side many times. But you’re right. I can’t do this.” He looked away and rubbed at his eyes before continuing. “You’re getting involved in things much bigger than us, and to be honest it scares me. My mum prayed every night to the goddess Illienne. My da called her crazy, and I may have a time or two as well. But I’m not about to wager my soul on the chance the woman was dead wrong.”
They rode in silence the remainder of the morning. No one voiced questions about Tream’s departure, and there were no questions about their task, either. Karnag hoped the matter was settled, and those who’d stayed could be counted upon.
The forest about them was dense and the oaks and poplars squeezed the trail. Maintaining their pace proved difficult. The horses slowed to pick their way through brush strewn across the path, and low-hanging limbs made the group leery of a gallop.
The pace seemed to make them more aware of their surroundings. They were jumpy, and Karnag noticed their hands straying to their blades with every crunch and crash in the forest. Even he started once when an owl alighted from a tree to snatch a rodent in its talons. Karnag cursed his nerves, reminding himself he was the predator, not the prey.
“A thousand silver crowns is a lot of coin,” said Drenj, his voice jarring in the quiet.
Karnag turned to see the Khaldisian rubbing long fingers together. Karnag grinned, amused by the lad’s avarice. He also found himself glad for once to have the distraction of small talk. “I’m not so sure we’ll see any more than the four hundred we were paid in advance,” he said. “You think I’ve ever offered to pay even a partial share to a man who didn’t finish a job?”
Drenj cocked a black brow. “It had crossed my mind that you had lost yours. I was wrong for doubting you.” He paused, his smooth face twisted in thought. “Do you really doubt we’ll see the rest of the money?”
“It seems possible. Tream may be a dullard, but the man was right when he said we’re in a mess bigger than ourselves. Things like that don’t usually end as expected.”
“You think we’ll be swindled?”
Karnag shrugged his broad shoulders. “Perhaps worse. The Lector is a powerful man. Not the sort whose death will be treated lightly. There will be consequences. What’s more, the man who retained us might not be the sort to trust us with the knowledge of this deed. He may want his secrecy preserved by knowing we guard it in our graves.”
Drenj slumped in his saddle. “You’re not planning on returning to Raven’s Roost to try to collect, are you?”
“I may,” said Karnag. “I may not.”
The Khaldisian’s face brightened. “Why not just run with the coin we’ve already been paid?”
Karnag hadn’t considered that option. He was quiet for a moment, contemplative. He recalled his meeting with their patron, a thin man with a face hidden in the hood of his black robes. His voice had been that of a serpent. Karnag did not fear other men, but this one had unnerved him.
Drenj flailed his arms. “Why not run?” he asked, dark eyes pleading.
Karnag looked hard at the young Khaldisian, his gaze a reprimand, then settled back into his saddle. He fingered the hilts of his various blades and found comfort in them. Purpose.
“Four hundred crowns is a small fortune,” Drenj said. “One hundred crowns a man. Enough almost for a dozen head of fine cattle. We could pocket the money without spilling a drop of blood. If you’re certain our patron will double cross us, then why shouldn’t we do this?”
Karnag drew his short sword from its scabbard and held it straight before him. He would drive this blade to the hilt through the Lector’s belly while the man wept in agony. Perhaps the Lector was holy. Perhaps killing him would invite the wrath of the dead gods.
But therein resided the challenge, the allure, the glory. By killing the Lector, Karnag would prove his measure. He would kill to prove he could.
“Why shouldn’t we?” Drenj’s voice was frantic.
“Because I do not do these things for the coin.”
Drenj shook his head dumbly. “It’s the coin that justifies these abominable deeds. The coin feeds my family and buys me a better life. It gives me a reason. Without the reason there is only depravity.”
“You sound even more the whore than you look.”
Drenj’s eyes snapped back to Karnag. “I daresay you are not a good man.”
Karnag chuckled and spat. “Good? I do not quibble with my conscience, nor do I try to divine the whims of dead gods. My ‘goodness,’ if there is such a thing, is defined by my usefulness, my effectiveness. I am a slayer of men, and in that I endeavor to be the very best of all.”
After midday they came upon the remnants of the Lector’s next encampment, a swath of trampled ground in a clearing. Karnag counted eleven empty wine bottles, and the amount of discarded food was enough to feed several men. He smiled, thinking how soft these men were, how easy the task suddenly seemed.
He found the carcass of a roasted pheasant near a fire pit and shooed away the flies buzzing about it. “The Lector eats well,” he said, picking a chunk of
meat from the bones.
Paddyn scratched his short, sandy hair and squatted low to the ground. “Perhaps a dozen men,” he said, his voice whistling through his missing tooth. “And at least as many horses. More than we thought.”
“These are soft men, Paddyn,” Karnag said through a mouthful of meat, “and no match for us. You need not fear.”
Drenj inspected the fire pit. “The ashes are still wet. The Lector and his men got a late start, then lingered here for lunch. This fire was doused not long ago.”
“We’re close, then,” said Paddyn, green eyes searching the forest about them.
“Aye,” said Karnag, leaning back against a poplar and tossing away the bones of the pheasant. “We’ll let the horses rest for a while. We’ll wait and come at them in the night while they’re sleeping off another feast.”
“You’re right, of course.” Drenj said as he retrieved a discarded bottle and drained its contents. He looked at Karnag and smiled sheepishly. “Or we could run off with the advance we were paid.”
“You know my answer to that. You’re welcome to ride to Raven’s Roost with Tream, where the two of you can wait for me to pay you a third of your share.”
“I don’t take it you’d come,” said Drenj.
“Never.”
Karnag lurked in the darkness, masking himself in the trees near the camp’s perimeter. It was much as he’d expected. The Lector, a thin and ancient man draped in white robes, knelt close to a fire with hands knotted in prayer. His men bantered loudly, faces glazed with the grease of cooked meat and teeth stained by too much wine. Counting the Lector there were eleven in all.
Karnag turned to his company, making sure they’d not fled or strayed too close to the camp. Paddyn’s gap-toothed grin shone in the dark, an expression Karnag reckoned was one of anxiety. “Keep your mouth shut,” Karnag snapped. Paddyn shot him a puzzled look but complied.
The company had grown restless as they’d waited in the dark, their unease obvious. Karnag noticed Drenj’s eyes wandering back to the direction of their horses, a few hundred feet away. Few truly relished the moment of the kill.
