by Tim Marquitz
Another mercenary fell away, his throat a geyser of thick claret, and yet another, the man clutching desperately to his ruined manhood. Gryl spun from the shrieking man and dove beneath the nearest table, thrusting his blade into the knee of a mercenary too foolish to step away. On the other side, Gryl stood and kicked the table into the crowd, scattering the men. Their shouts filled the tavern with raging echoes. Still, there was no clear way to the door.
“What in Hades is going on?” Korbitt shouted from the upstairs landing that overlooked the tavern floor. The room went silent, all eyes turning to look.
There behind the hulking knight stood Vai. Thin and pale, Gryl knew her for what she was without hesitation. Her long white hair was dirty and unkempt, strands hanging heavily over her face. Her lids were nearly closed, but the brilliance of her purple eyes leaked from beneath them. She was naked, her young charms on display for all to see.
That was the final straw.
A razored growl erupted from Gryl’s throat as he jumped onto the nearest table. Heads snapped to face him as he drove his sword into the spine of a man too slow to react. Blood windmilled off the blade as Gryl pulled it loose and dove into the crowd of startled mercenaries. In close, he was an abattoir.
Flesh parted beneath his silvered blade, a butcher’s dirge of steel cleaving meat. The mercenaries scrambled for space but Gryl plagued them with nagging wounds, keeping them in tight. Warm breath steamed from his mouth as he cursed them for forcing his hand. They traded blow after blow as he slithered between his foes, but he felt little of it. His flesh so scarred from the ritual purification of the Avan seers, his body was a patchwork of welted and raised flesh hardened over a lifetime of agony. Blood oozed from his wounds but didn’t run. The mercenaries could not say the same.
One by one they met their end by steel, ravaged corpses tumbling to form a circle around the whirling dervish of Gryl’s offense. And then they were gone. Only the plaintive groans of the dying resounded in the room, playing a duet to Gryl’s even breaths. He stood with his sword extended, crimson dripping from the blade as he reined in the battle fury. His tunic had been shredded. It hung like rags from his blemished shoulders, stained with the ochre of his enemies.
“You can’t have her,” Korbitt’s words rang out behind him. “Drop your sword.”
Gryl turned to see the knight and Vai’s position reversed, Korbitt standing behind the willow of the girl at the base of the stairs. He held a blade to her throat. Vai trembled but did not move. She looked at Gryl through the slits of her eyes. His pulse roared through his veins.
Raised in perpetual torture by the Avan, seeing others like him tormented day after day, had carved a hole in his heart for the young of spirit. He had suffered enough for a thousand children and would see none harmed while he still drew breath. Gryl nodded, tossing his blade aside.
“Now walk toward me…slowly…or I bleed her.”
Gryl nodded once more, knowing Korbitt wanted him close only to put his steel to work. The material of Gryl’s tunic clung to him and he peeled it loose as he shuffled forward, keeping his hands in sight. “Don’t hurt her,” he said, pushing the skull cap from his head. He felt the cool, night air tickle his scalp as he revealed his scarred head.
“Keep your clothes on, boy,” Korbitt growled. “I’m no buggerer.”
Gryl grinned and raised his hands, circling around a bloodied table and coming to a stop about ten feet from the knight. “Of all the things I know you to be, that isn’t something I’d ascribe to you. Rapist, murderer, slaver: now those titles I’d hang from your corpse without regret.”
“Don’t test me.” Korbitt pressed the blade to Vai’s neck with a snarl. The girl whimpered.
“Not I, sir knight.” Gryl held his arms out from his sides. “What would you have me to do to keep the girl from harm?”
“You need to come closer.” Korbitt spit the words out, keeping his bulk shielded behind Vai.
“Do I?” Gryl felt the familiar tickle of his scars as he stood his ground.
Korbitt’s eyes narrowed and Vai’s drifted open, only to snap shut. She sensed what was coming. Gryl swallowed his rage and let it sink inside, his flesh warming as it went. The Avan hadn’t just decorated his body with puckered memories, they’d woven their dark sorceries throughout.
“Stop! What-what are you doing?” The knight’s dagger hand began to shake as he stared.
Gryl knew what Korbitt saw, but felt no pity for the man.
The scars that covered every inch of his body, save for his face, crept like angry worms beneath his skin. He could feel them squirming and coming to life, his flesh bulging with their frantic passage. Heat washed over him as they traveled on, darting faster and faster as though a mound of serpents lived between his skin and bones.
“Stop it. Stop!” Korbitt screamed, but he could not tear his eyes from Gryl’s scarred flesh.
Gryl smiled and took a cautious step forward. There was no stopping it now. The magic of his scars filled the air for all to see. He sensed the virulence of the knight, the sour deeds that clung to his spirit. Its energy was building, the sickness bubbling in Gryl’s veins.
“No! Don’t come any…closer.”
Arms still out to his sides, Gryl let his scars dance, willing them to a fervent pitch.
“No! Stop!” Korbitt trembled, just as Vai had, but still he did not draw the blade across the girl’s soft neck. The plague of memories had taken hold. Korbitt knew the fear he inspired, tasted the foulness of his blight upon the world. The Avan spell ripped it to the surface. His every sin was his to taste.
“It is time. Atal zan,” Gryl whispered. Drop down.
Without hesitation, the girl pushed the knight’s arm away and fell to the floor. Gryl closed the distance in a heartbeat, wrapping his fingers around Korbitt’s hand and slamming his own knife into his mouth. Teeth shattered as the blade sunk home, blood bubbling in its wake.
Rapist, murderer, slaver: corpse. Gryl loosed the knight’s hand and let his body fall to the floor, the knife still embedded in his face. He wiped his soiled hands clean on Korbitt’s tunic and pulled the knight’s cloak free, before holding a hand out to the girl.
“Come, child. Delvin has missed your company.”
Vai entangled her fingers in his and rose without shame, accepting the cloak. She wrapped its cover about her slim frame and turned to Gryl. Her eyes traced the line of his scars. “Do they hurt?” she asked, the words soft and melodious.
Gryl laughed. “Not anymore.”
A Taste of Agony
Originally published in Blackguards 2015
Gryl snarled low in his throat, dispersing the wispy breath against his palm. After a sevenday on the hunt, he’d found his quarry…and more.
Crouched atop a gentle rise, the sullen droop of snow-burdened pines masked his presence. He glared through the swirl of white flakes at the chaos unfolding below. The clash of steel fractured the air like thunder, and the frantic shouts of men followed. Gryl had expected the Thrak berserkers—it had been their clumsy trail he’d followed—but the cluster of Shytan soldiers this far north was a surprise; a most unpleasant one.
His stomach grumbled, echoing mournfully inside the shell of his leathered cuirass. He’d been counting on the spoils of the Thrak to provide his next meal, but the appearance of the Shytan left a hollow emptiness gnawing at his guts. It had been many days since he’d eaten last. It would be even longer thanks to his former enemy encircling the two berserkers. Too weary to imagine the Shytan losing to the pitiful beasts, Gryl settled in to watch.
The largest of the knights wielded a serrated falchion, its edge dripping with ichor. While little more than a butcher’s tool, he put it to fair use. He stood behind two of his companions, darting between them to carve chunks of wet flesh from the berserker’s mottled torso. The Thrak howled, frothy spittle gleaming in its sharpened maw. Its blue-tinted flesh gleamed in the dim haze of light. Spatters of red and black dotted the whiteness at thei
r feet.
The Thrak whipped its bone blade in a wide arc, an ivory halo blurring above its furred head as it brought its weapon to bear. The closest knights parried in tandem, leaning into each other to absorb the beast’s fury, turning the blow aside in a clash of pale splinters. Their banded mail rang with the impact. The third took advantage and cleaved the life from the berserker’s muscled frame. The Thrak would soon fall.
Its horde mate, however, would not meet its end so easy.
Gryl watched the second of the berserkers bury his blade in the unprotected neck of a knight. The man’s head snapped sideways with a muffled pop, his eyes wide though none of his agony escaped his throat. His head tore free of his shoulders to the wretched dirge of ripping cloth, his braided hair writhing like serpents in the air. The head fell into the snow, gouts of red conquering the crystalline canvas in rhythmic spurts. The knight’s body toppled after, stumbling sideways into his brother-at-arms.
Despite being off balance, the second knight managed a desperate parry against the berserker’s follow up stroke. Bone clanged against steel, the man’s arms shuddering as he was driven back, boots sinking ankle-deep in the snow.
The knight’s companion—a twig of a boy, only just coming into his manhood—stood his ground and thrust a barbed spear into the Thrak’s muscled side. The point sank between the berserker’s ribs, but the beast turned, twisting the haft. Gryl watched as the boy struggled to pull his weapon free, but the spear was held immobile, caught in the Thrak’s flesh.
“Hold him, Kel,” the knight shouted, pressing forward with his broadsword.
The blade found meat, slicing into the berserker’s shoulder until it thunked into bone. The beast roared, the sound setting Gryl’s ears to ringing, and lashed out at the knight. Mountainous knuckles collided with the man’s face. The sharp crack of broken bone sent him reeling. He spun about and fell to his knees with a shriek, hands clasping at his cheek and jaw. Gryl saw his one remaining eye whirling in in its socket, the other half of his face an oozing sea of ruby waves. A line of blood ran from the knight’s ear. He was dead, but had yet to realize.
The Thrak grasped the spear in its guts, wrapping its gnarled fingers about the shaft and brought its bone blade around. The weapon sheared through the wooden haft with ease, leaving nearly a foot of wood protruding from its side. The Thrak paid it no heed. It rumbled a challenge and charged.
The boy’s leverage gone, he stumbled backward and fell, wide eyes locked on the approaching berserker. His hands scrabbled for purchase but he could find little in the soft wetness beneath him.
Cold sickness washed away Gryl’s hunger. He cast a wishful glance at the surviving knights only to see them focused on the other Thrak. They were winning the battle, but none had noticed their dwindling numbers. By the time they did, they would be down one more.
The boy—Kel—to his foolish credit, held his voice, though in bravery or fear, Gryl couldn’t say. He sighed, realization souring in his throat. To leave the boy’s fate in the hands of the knights meant the boy died. Gryl pulled his skullcap tighter across his scalp to ensure his scars remained hidden and sprinted down the rise.
He drew a throwing knife from the belt that crisscrossed his chest and whipped it underhand at the Thrak, just as it reared up, readying to bring its sword down upon the boy’s head. The blade pierced the small of its back. Sharp as it was, the knife was nothing more than an inconvenience, the sting of a wasp to a giant. It sank less than two finger joints into the berserker’s flesh, its handle quivering. It was enough to earn the beast’s attention, though.
As expected, the Thrak spun about with a guttural bark. Gryl knew the berserkers well, years spent on the battlefield alongside the hordes. The slats of the Thrak’s red eyes gleamed with rage as it spread the trunks of its arms in challenge. It went silent mid-roar at seeing Gryl, posed as though it were a morbid statue. Its upper lip peeled back in a confused sneer. Despite never having the knack of discerning one of the beasts from another, Gryl was certain this Thrak knew him, recognized him. Gryl closed in its confusion.
He reached out and clasped the end of the spear that jutted from the berserker’s side. The Thrak’s eyes followed Gryl’s hand, seeming only then to grasp its danger. Gryl’s free hand wormed its way into the beast’s wooly mane, closing about the knotted mess and pulling the berserker’s head down. The waft of rotten meat and rancid flesh flooded Gryl’s nose, but he clenched his teeth and exhaled hard in defiance of the stench. At the same time, he twisted the spear in the Thrak’s guts and drove the remnants of the blade upward into its chest until it grated to a halt. The beast shuddered and loosed a spray of bloody froth that peppered Gryl’s cheeks, tinting his vision red.
The Thrak’s eyes wavered and rolled in their deep sockets. It loosed a wet growl, a low rumble fading in the depths of its chest, before the last of its life spilled out warm across Gryl’s gloved hand. Its full weight sagged onto the spear, and Gryl let go. The beast crumpled to the ground with a sigh, its gaze still locked on him. There was accusation in its sightless stare. Worse still, Gryl felt its betrayal clawing at his conscience, a sting he was not prepared for.
“You there…halt,” a harsh voice called out, its tenor demanding obedience.
Gryl cursed his preoccupation with the Thrak, suddenly able to hear the crunch of booted steps at his back. He loosed his sword and swung it about, leveling it just inches from the nose of the approaching knight, bringing the man to a sudden halt. Blood dripped from Gryl’s fingers, the warm fluid hissing as it hit the snow. He tightened his grip on the hilt to keep the tremor rattling down his arm from showing.
Shorter than Gryl, the knight stared up the length of the blade. His stained falchion held too low to defend, he forced a grin. Its glimmer never touched his dark eyes. Gryl gave the faintest of nods and backed away with measured steps, circling to keep the remaining knights and the boy in his sight. He lowered his sword but didn’t put it away.
“That was impressive, stranger,” the boldest of the knights said. The coldness in his tone was equal of the chill in the air. “Never seen anyone take out a berserker so easily.” He shook the blood from his blade and slid it home in the sheath at his waist, ceding to the unspoken truce. “Name’s Brant; sergeant in the 101st company of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Army. And you are?”
“Gryl,” he answered simply, following suit and sheathing his own sword. Though he understood little of the hierarchy of the Shytan forces, he knew well enough that five knights and a boy hardly made up a squad, let alone a company. “Where are the rest of your men?” He glanced about, though confident they were alone. He’d seen no sign of any others from his vantage atop the hill.
While the soldiers wore the traditional black and red of their land, the swooping raven sigil of Shytan stitched into their sleeves at shoulder and wrist, Gryl had seen more than enough discarded uniforms scattered about the countryside to have doubts as to the knight’s sincerity. He’d almost taken a suit himself.
Brant glanced at each of the other knights in turn, a crooked smile forming as he turned back to face Gryl. He raised a finger to his roughened lips. “Shhhhhhh. We’re on a secret mission for the empress.” A sonorous chuckle followed.
Gryl said nothing, letting the laughter fade, the sharp edge to Brant’s voice confirming what he suspected.
After breaking the backs of the Avan Overlords, the Shytan forces had pulled south to shelter for the winter, leaving the frozen northlands to the still-rampaging Thrak they could not bring to heel. Gryl had followed in the army’s wake. While he dared only the furthest outposts in order to trade the baubles and coins he’d scavenged from the dead and the scalps of the berserkers, he’d tread a generous portion of the north since his freedom had been won. The only living beings he’d come across beside the Thrak were bandits or deserters, there being little difference between the two. These men could be either. Whichever they were now, Gryl was certain they were no longer beholden to the regimented forces o
f the Shytan.
Kel scrambled to his feet in the awkward silence. “Thank you, sir. I—”
“Shut up, boy,” Brant told him, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb.
Kel hurried to do as he was told, moving to stand at their backs with a sullen pout. Gryl watched him until he settled in place, childhood memories stirred awake by the boy’s meek compliance. He had known such fear himself.
All the while his thoughts churned, Brant’s stare seared his cheeks. Gryl met the knight’s eyes once more. The two stared without saying a word, hands hovering near their swords. There was no mistaking the knight’s disapproval, though Gryl could only guess the source.
“It’s okay.” The smallest of the knights broke the standoff, stepping alongside Brant, though Gryl noted he kept a respectful distance. Not even the knights were immune to Brant’s wrath, it seemed. “We’re all friends, right? Gryl here saved your boy and took out a Thrak for us, right? That’s good, yeah?” The smaller knight stared at Brant until he conceded.
“Yeah, Mihir, you’re right.” Brant eased his hand from his sword but the threat still glistened in his eyes.
The second knight joined in. “What are you doing out here?” He had none of Mihir’s nervousness.
“Foraging.”
“And your people?”
Gryl nearly smiled at having his question turned back on him. “Lived north with my tribe in the Ural Province until the Thrak came ashore. Most of my village—my family—fell the first night, before full dark even settled. Those who made it to dawn were scattered to the wind. I’ve been on my own since the last of my kin were swept away in the Avan retreat these moons back.” He’d sufficient practice spewing lies since he’d made the new empire his home. This one was no more difficult than any of the rest.
