Beguiler

by Maxx Whittaker

  “River,” mumbled a gaping Witt. “You’re...you’re…”

  Bannock raised a brow.

  Witt gestured to the lamplight. “Look at you! You’re the biggest man I’ve ever seen!” He skipped around Bannock, crouching, peering, poking. “What are you?”

  “Bloodsworn.” Bannock felt sure they’d had this conversation already.

  “Does it give you magic?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Animal form? Immortality!”

  It gives me a lack of patience. “The weapons you mentioned?”

  “Oh, right! Huh. Well, I was thinking some of this junk,” Witt toed a pile of pitted blades and armor at the foot of his bed, “But I think I found something more your size.” He waved Bannock along, slipping through a crag in the wall and into a second chamber. “Do they make you pay extra at the brothels?”

  “What?”

  “Because there must be two of you. Two of you!” Witt laughed at his own bawdy joke, dragging out a chest from a hole in the stones.

  “You’re a strange lad.”

  “I know. Here,” Witt raised a dirty canvas bundle.

  Bannock unwrapped the blade and froze. “Where did you get this?”

  “During the dry season, the mara move to deeper water for hunting. I pick through the bone piles they leave behind.”

  “This is a Crusader sword.” Bannock turned the lean blade, thumb caressing deep-etched runes on its grip. “I can’t believe a Crusader was overcome by some swamp demons.”

  “I found that with two sets of armor like this…” Witt held up a flat black pauldron engraved with silver scrollwork. “These were mara-gnawed. But not the one you said was a Crusader.”

  Inquisition armor. What did they need to hide?

  “Crusader was already dead, then. They dumped him here to hide the truth,” observed Bannock.

  Witt shrugged. “Could be. Mara feed on the living. All I know is what they leave behind.”

  Bannock unslung the pack. “Here. A deal is a deal.”

  Witt let his bag hit the dirt. “Whoa. No, that sword is special.”

  “How do you know it’s special?”

  “Just look at it! You owe me more.”

  “By all the fucking gods,” muttered Bannock. No more deals today, or any day. “What!”

  “You’re bigger, tougher than any Tainn knight.”

  “So I am.”

  “I bet you see some fighting. And... adventuring.”

  Bannock swallowed, feeling unreasonably nervous around a fifteen-year-old boy.

  “And you’ve got no squire....”

  Bannock grunted.

  “You can see where I’m going with this,” finished Witt.

  Bannock grunted again, backing away a step.

  “So, I can come with you?”

  Why? Why couldn’t his luck run out like a mortal’s, a trickle and then a few thin drops before drying up?

  “Come on! Look how helpful I’ve been already. I’m fast…” Witt raised arms and turned in a circle. “Not a single mara bite. No wolf’s gnawed on these bones! I’m… clever. I can be devious. Plus –” Witt sucked in his belly, and even through the dirty tunic tucked into the boy’s britches, Bannock could see the absolute bucket of his stomach, “I don’t eat much!”

  He didn’t have time for this. Bannock needed to cut ties and move on. “Let’s make another bargain,” he said, acutely aware of how poorly bargains had gone today. “Pick up one of those blades. If you can so much as nick a scratch on my –”

  Witt leapt, spun, and cut a slash across the front of Bannock’s cassock, drawing a few drops of blood from his thigh.

  “I wasn’t done with the rules…”

  “Ha! Haha! Yes!” Witt threw down the sword, jumping with fists in the air, ignoring his gaping companion. “I’ll get my things.”

  Bannock clenched his jaw to keep from screaming.

  No more deals. No more bargains.

  Ever.

  -Five-

  “They hanged you?”

  Bannock swiped his throat with a finger. “From the neck.”

  “You let them hang you?”

  “Of course. I wanted them to think me dead as long as possible. Hide in that grave for as long as possible. Thanks to the witch, that was only twelve hours. But still.”

  “Still,” breathed Witt, nodding. “I only know one other man who was hanged. One-legged Toby.”

  “That right?” It seemed a bit of an advantage to Bannock, Toby’s being short a leg. Lighter on the weight scale.

  “Mmhm. And he died of it, so he wasn’t very special.”

  “No, I suppose not. But for the most part it’s best when a killed man stays dead.” Bannock thought back to the Ealinor boneyards and shuddered at the truth of his words.

  “You all right?”

  Bannock didn’t answer the boy.

  They’d come out of the forest and into cragged hills chopped into the landscape between the mountains and the sea. Madainn was in the literal middle of nowhere – even the best maps wouldn’t waste leather or parchment to show how far it sat from any civilized place – but it held such an advantageous position that Bannock imagined no one here cared if the empire stayed well south.

  And they did stay south, because the empire liked chasing land and witches and staying the hell away from goblins. Whatever exorbitant cut the goblins took from empire trade, it was worth it to the emperor and his Ten to lounge in their great halls while trade flowed through and the goblin manned Four Corner’s guild stayed somewhere near the top of the world.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Bannock asked when the third gust screamed in off a silt-silver coast. Witt, clad in his loose white shirt, britches, and boots, rattled like a peddling tramp with the junk armor he’d strapped on… but he hadn’t bothered bringing a cloak.

  Witt’s grin poked out his ruddy cheeks and red nose tip. “I’m well enough!”

  He reminded Bannock of a dog they’d kept in the army, a wooly brown beast who liked to ride atop the supply wagon. He didn’t stop whining until the horses hit full gallop and his jowls flapped in the breeze.

  On the last slope before the tide lands, gold grass sprouted in thick, obstinate mats, made tough by cold and salt air. It hid the spaces between lichen-dotted chunks of granite and made crossing the open fields slow going, something that pricked at Bannock’s soldiering instincts.

  Witt stumbled along far too fast, outright falling now and then, but still grinning all the while.

  “No ma and no da?” asked Bannock, feeling unusually conversational. “What happened to them?”

  “Happened?” Witt’s face blanched. “I don’t remember. Moved about for a time and then… just felt better off on my own. It’s all in the past now.”

  “A man’s entitled to his peace,” agreed Bannock. Entitled to his secrets. Bannock hated being pried at and resisted doing the same to his companion. It would disappoint the lad when it came time to send him away. Or, Bannock thought, he could skip off in the night and leave Witt behind. But one way or another, Bannock had no intention of dragging Witt through Madainn and back across half a continent.

  “Bannock your only name?” asked Witt, taking the wrong lesson from Bannock’s previous remark.

  “Only one I need.”

  “What other have you got?” asked Witt.

  “Nonovure.”

  “Nonovure?”

  “That’s right. As in none of yer affair.”

  Witt slapped his knee and guffawed. “That was good.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  They followed a curve in the coastline that brought the mountain’s foot directly in their path. They were now within sight of the city, and Bannock felt some of Witt’s surprised gasp.

  Walls of timber and iron, double high, filled a natural pass at the mountain’s base. Gates wide enough to let the largest merchant caravans pass inside were flanked by watchtowers two abreast, with whole companies of men standing loo
kout.

  “Look at the size of those timbers! You’d think they were keeping out an army.”

  “They were, once. Now the goblins keep out everybody else. Or keep their spoils in. The Four Corners guild brooks no theft, no competition, no interference.”

  “You know a lot about them.”

  “You don’t? Living in that bog, I’m surprised you’ve never had a run in. Or been far enough to see the port.”

  Witt shrugged up bony shoulders. “I hadn’t been in the swamp very long. And I didn’t venture out much. When you find a sweet spot…”

  “I had no idea there was such a science to scavenging and thieving.”

  “Now you know.”

  “And I’ll return that favor of knowledge. There’s only two things you really need to know about the guild. They’re called Four Corners because their trade and influence reach the four corners of these lands and this city – three walls and the port. Two, they’re goblins. That’s an important bit.”

  Witt jumped down a small bluff and stood thinking. “I don’t know anything about goblins.”

  “Did you stumble into the world yesterday?”

  “Well…”

  “No joking about. They’re small, wiry, scheming, avaricious little braggarts. Trap-setters and fire starters with an unmatched skill in brewing draughts, potions, and committing extortion.”

  Witt gaped. “How small?”

  Bannock cut a line at his thigh.

  “What! How does anything that small cause so much trouble?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Like what?”

  Bannock raised a brow. “By being underestimated thoroughly from the start.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it all the same. The Four Corners took this land, the port, the mountain pass, and this city from the duwende. Drove the dwarves back up into the mountains and have kept them there for nearly a hundred years now. Dwarves,” Bannock repeated for emphasis. “Not known for being meek or passive.”

  “And you’ve come here to steal from those goblins?” Witt exhaled, perhaps beginning to understand just what he’d gotten himself into.

  Bannock shook his wrist, ringed by Agetha’s silver cuff. “Not by my own choice, that’s for damn sure.” He thought a moment as they swished along through the scrub once more. “Well, perhaps partly by my own necessity. Without three hundred crowns, doesn’t matter which way I travel or what errands I’m forced to run.”

  “What do you need with three hundred gold?”

  “The Inquisition off my back. And the last ship out of Hastings before winter sets in.”

  “How much have you got already?”

  Bannock wasn’t sure he should tell a thief what he did or didn’t have. He ground his back teeth. “Nothing, as a matter of fact. I was hanged before I collected my pay, and those idiot undertakers stole my purse. So, I’m a long way from my destination and my ship’s fee.”

  “Three hundred? Is that all?” Witt snorted. “I could have that for you in less than a week.”

  “Could not!”

  “I could. Make a wager on it.”

  “Not a chance in hell. No more wagers.”

  “I get you three hundred crowns in less than seven days, and you take me with you to Hastings.”

  Bannock crossed his arms, which made walking downhill rather difficult. “No.”

  “Make the wager or I don’t get you the coin at all.”

  “And when we get to Hastings, if we get there? You’ll go your own way and leave me be?”

  Witt sucked in a breath, eyes half closed. “No. I’ll hop aboard that ship and just… sail.”

  “I’m not taking you on the ship!”

  “If I can pay my own way, it’s nonovure.”

  “Hah. Beg, borrow, and steal six hundred crowns in less than seven days? I’ll take that wager. And if you lose, I’ll skin you and sell your hide to the tanner for whatever he’ll pay me.”

  “Deal!”

  “Why do I have the sense –”

  “Shh! Someone’s coming.” Witt ducked into a hollow between two upturned stones. Bannock followed suit, and then wondered why. Anyone was free to cross the tidelands. The goblins were eager for newcomers to lose their coin at the betting tables and take soul-selling loans at a lender’s exchange.

  “How do you know someone’s coming?” Bannock, for all his instincts didn’t see a thing or hear more than the tide.

  “I just know.”

  “But why exactly are we hiding?”

  “I heard armor, and weapons.”

  Bannock poked his head up above the grass line. Sure enough, the stalks parted in an unnatural line – two or three figures crossing the fen at least three hundred yards away.

  “There’s no chance you heard them over wind and wave,” he whispered to Witt, who winked.

  “I don’t rankle on about your Bloodsworn bit, so don’t guff me about my thief’s lot.”

  “You’re a weird lad.”

  “Aye. Should we go around them?”

  Bannock stroked his chin a moment. “No. Let’s see why they’re prowling about out here. Walk on for a bit as we were.”

  They stood and started once again for the road.

  “Should you take out your sword?” murmured Witt. “Give them reason to stay clear?”

  “No, I absolutely should not. For several very good reasons.” Bannock didn’t need anyone in this part of the world seeing him with a Crusader sword. Or a rare blade of any sort. He had no intention of provoking the newcomers by drawing, and he couldn’t exactly weather the consequences if it came to combat.

  The men came into full view early enough that Bannock had time to regret his decision.

  Witt must have seen him draw up a step. “What is it?”

  “Deserters, from Kelenth’s army.” Raulf and Murad. Denys and Willit were probably about somewhere about, too. “In my defense, I knew them as mercenaries. The deserter bit… I discovered that after.”

  “You know them!”

  “Know them?” He glanced at Witt, smirking. “I was one of them.”

  -Six-

  “Jestyn Bannock.” Raulf grinned with skeleton teeth between the orifice of greasy hair that ringed his mouth. He raked a look over Bannock’s dirty cassock. “Ye’ve wandered far beyond the Order’s golden light.”

  Bannock clasped his hands serenely. “The Order shines its light in all corners, Raulf Ironshield.”

  Raulf laughed, Murad laughed. Bannock, equally in on the joke, did not laugh.

  He nodded to Raulf’s threadbare jerkin and dirty shirt, especially stained across his pot belly. “I see you’ve wandered beyond the reach of mercenary pay.” It was sad; Raulf’s old crew had been one of the better Bannock had ever run with.

  A shadow flashed in Raulf’s slitted dark eyes, the look of a man who was always certain of having the better hand right up until the cards were down. “I did what I thought right. And so did you.”

  Bannock didn’t appreciate the inflection. He glanced back at Witt, who looked completely separated from their exchange, staring up into the sky like a turkey in the rain. “So we did, and now here we are. And here I go. Until next time, Ironshield.”

  “Whoa ho!” Raulf raised his blade broadside, smacking Bannock’s chest as he passed. “We’re all doin’ our best to get by, if you take my meanin’. Sure, you understand.”

  Murad wove a step closer on bowed legs.

  Bannock understood, and he’d tried to part ways as amicably as a one man who wants to geld another could part ways. He’d weighed the Burdens on his arm and dammed up his temper. That dam was twigs against a tidal wave now.

  “Fucking pigs and pillaging brothels not paying the king’s tolls, eh?” Bannock clucked his tongue, glancing from Murad to Raulf.

  “Just gimme whatever you got and maybe I won’t gut you,” said Raulf.

  “I have nothing.” Bannock patted his burlap robe. “In keeping with my vows.”


  Murad leaned his bony body to see past the pair. “We’ll have the lad then.”

  Bannock turned and looked Witt over, weighing.

  “No!” Witt backed up a step. “No one will have the lad, thanks very much.”

  No, Bannock supposed not. He wouldn’t have the lad much longer, and neither should Raulf and Murad. It was a bit mercenary to trade in flesh, even by his standards.

  “We’ll take it in coin, or take it in flesh,” said Raulf, advancing.

  “Flesh it is.”

  Raulf growled, pulled his blade, the same he’d had when they’d fought together. It was in considerably worse shape than it had been, pitted and rusty, if still deadly. “Looks like you take care of your weapon about as well as you took care of your cock. Remember when you got the rot from that whore in –”

  Raulf roared, swung wildly at Bannock’s head. He was quick, a skilled swordsman, and the blow came in hard and fast. The kind of strike that ends a fight quickly.

  Against a normal opponent.

  Too bad for Raulf that Bannock was a Bloodsworn.

  He almost rolled his eyes as he took a tight step to the side, leaning just enough to let the blade pass within a finger’s width of his head. Wind from the strike ruffled his hair as he straightened, hands still folded.

  He didn’t draw.

  Raulf took a step back, eyes narrowed, canny enough to know that something was off. “Not gonna fight back? Perfect.”

  Bannock had certainly weighed it. Especially with his new blade, he could end this quickly. But he was close to the end of earning Burdens, and even two more was a weight he wasn’t prepared to bear. And he wouldn’t draw a Crusader’s blade within sight of the city walls. Guards watched the exchange across the distance, peering from the top of the wall, but they made no move to interfere.

  Murad drew two curved daggers that winked in the sunlight like flaming teardrops. He was sneaky, the type to take a man from behind when his guard was down.

  Bannock sighed. He couldn’t kill them.

  But there were other ways of ending a fight.

  Witt rifled through his junk, produced a wicked axe, and held it out. “We can put their heads on pikes!”