The son turned around. “I want more than this!” he shouted, pointing at the dying fields.
“What are you thinking?” asked the farmer. “Joining with those that ruin our lives! What about tradition?”
The son threw up his hands and waved the old man away. “I’ll live my own way. Tradition be damned!” He turned his back on them and trotted toward the city, swinging the sheathed sword at invisible foes.
The woman caught her husband’s attention and mutely pointed at the Sellsword.
“What do you want?” asked the farmer.
“Some water from your well.”
The farmer pointed at the well, indicating the bucket and ladle. The farmer lamented to his wife, “The young are all fools now. There is no reaching them. They grasp onto every new thing with no respect for the past. They don’t realize they are dancing upon the blood of our ancestors.” He scowled at the Sellsword. “And that blood attracts wolves.”
The Sellsword took a second draught from the ladle and glanced at the farmer.
Embarrassed at his accusatory words and perchance dire consequences, the farmer went inside the house then slammed and audibly bolted the door.
The Sellsword wiped his mouth on his sleeve and dropped the ladle back into the bucket. He adjusted the harness that held his swords upon his back and continued his journey.
The fields along the road looked as if blight had struck them. Seedlings were wilted and sorry-looking despite the moisture readily available from the irrigation canals. Trash discarded along the road increased the closer the Sellsword got to the city gates as did the foul reek of a place no one took any pride in.
The portcullis was raised, the visible iron teeth flaked with rust. There was a fat guard asleep beside the wall. He reclined upon an old wooden chair, snoring. Tempting as it was to kick the legs out from under him, the Sellsword resisted and went through the gate.
“Hey you! You can’t just go walking in like that.” Declared a voice from above.
The Sellsword looked up to see a skinny, little man wearing a guardsman’s tabard over his nightclothes. He only had one boot on.
“I just did.”
The skinny guardsman folded his arms across his chest. “Oh, wise-ass, huh? You know what we do to—”
“Quit barking at me, dog, and tell me where to find the man in charge.”
Having his authority ignored and insulted made the guardsman check himself, finally realizing the imposing nature of the Sellsword. He scrutinized the weapons upon the Sellsword’s back as well as the blue tartan cloak and wondered at the Sellsword’s station. “I’m sorry, you were horseless and I didn’t recognize you. Perhaps you are looking for Master Anaias. Or excuse me, did Master Varlak, send for you?”
“I don’t know either of those names. I thought Aldreth was ruled by a Duke.”
“Oh yes, Duke Owain. He is technically in charge of Aldreth.”
“What do you men technically?”
The skinny guard smiled and came down a couple steps from the rampart. “Listen, do you have any money? Do you want to make some?”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re a sellsword right?”
The Sellsword grunted.
“You give me a tiny cut, and I’ll give you some good intel on things here in All-Death.”
The Sellsword frowned but tossed him a copper.
“Thankee. The Duke is supposed to be in charge of the city but his chief advisor, the wizard Varlak was the one really running things, but then his apprentice wizard, Anaias the Whisperer, broke with him and each have been working to consolidate control of the city. There has been no end of trouble and bloodshed here. We guardsman are well paid to remain as unbiased as we can be. All in all, it makes for a good situation for one such as you to find work. Both of us, really. Might I suggest going to Master Anaias first, he is the stronger of the two parties, tell him that Durst the gatekeeper sent you.”
He pointed to a tall, black stone tower on the east. It looked like a fortress turret and flames belched menacingly from the top. “That one is Anaias’s keep. You can see it from anywhere in the city. The grey one farther to the west is Varlak’s home.”
The Sellsword scrutinized the guard, who finally became aware of his state of undress. He took off his one boot. “How long has this been going on?” asked the Sellsword.
“Well, the Duke has let Varlak run things in his stead for years. But the dispute between Varlak and Anaias has been inflamed for the last few months. Since around the time the Usurper took the crown in Hellainik.”
“Why are wizards in a mining city like Aldreth?”
The guardsman grinned, enjoying his position of being the town-crier he had always wanted to be. “Don’t you know? Aldreth was the greatest producer of iron in my grandfather and great grandfather’s ages. But, the veins ran dry, now there is nothing but slag and dross. Duke Owain brought in the wizard Varlak because he’s an alchemist. Varlak said he could find the formula to change the mountain—make it full of iron again.” His eyes brightened as he spoke of the supposed miracle.
“Iron? Why not gold if he has such power?” scoffed the Sellsword.
“That’s what I said at first, but we’ve all learned a thing or two about alchemy here in All-Death since the wizard’s arrival. Anyway, iron is a baser metal and therefore much easier to transmute from base materials. It must be coaxed to evolve into the next highest element.” His hands reached into the heavens like an evangelist as he explained. “Varlak knows how to do it. I’ve seen the results. It really worked.” He nodded sagely.
The Sellsword pointed towards the abandoned mines behind the city. “Doesn’t look like they’re working now.”
The guardsman rolled his eyes, as if the Sellsword had said the most ignorant thing imaginable. “That’s because of the wizard’s civil war. Everything was working again, quite well indeed too, for perhaps a week. But Anaias felt cheated by his master and so the apprentice rebelled. Varlak was no friend of the people and most who have taken a side are with Anaias the Whisperer.” He struck his own chest twice to signify he was Anaias’s man. “Varlak has more money, but little influence outside of his handful of guild members and the iron merchants.”
“Why is he called the whisperer?”
“Anaias is a conjuror of foremost class. He is amazingly skilled but when he was younger he mixed some elements that exploded. He made a homunculus from it, I’m told. But it affected his voice, now he whispers. That’s about as loud as he can speak. Trust me, you wouldn’t want him to have to try and raise his voice.”
“And the Duke?”
“He stays out of their way. He has no spine. The Duchess has made him a cuckold.” He laughed longer than necessary.
The Sellsword rubbed at his jaw. “Which way to the Dukes?”
The guardsman smirked. “Ah, I see that got your attention. Go straight down this road, the two-story white villa with an empty moat, the drawbridge is always down, that’s it. I warn you though, the Duke will have no need of your sword—but,” he chuckled, “the Duchess may be your sheath if you strike her fancy. But mark my words if you want coin, you take your sword to Anaias. You will be passing by one of his strongholds, The Stygian, on your way to the Duke.”
“I’ll remember that.” The Sellsword turned and strode down the avenue.
“Remember to tell Anaias, that Durst the gatekeeper, sent you,” the guardsman called after him. “He will reward us both!”
3. The Duchess
The city was filthy. Dark soot covered everything in a thin film like black cobwebs. Trash littered the streets as well as crippled, old bodies. Most of the fallen appeared to be drunk’s lying where they had fallen from the previous night’s revelry. If some were dead, the Sellsword could not tell without examining them closer. Many homes and buildings were boarded up or in ruins, some showing fire damage. The only establishments still in operation appeared to be the brothels, saloons, and gambling dens. Boisterous laughte
r staggered out their doors like the drunks themselves as did the occasional catcall or woman’s vibrant scream.
The Sellsword had seen towns like this before, but never one so large. One that’s glory days were not that distant in the past. He saw a handful more of the city guard, but they all looked as sorry as the gatekeeper had. If not for their official tabards labeling them as paladins of the realm he would not have been able to tell them apart from the robbers he had slain the night before.
But the horrors of the city only increased.
Passing through a wide central courtyard, he noticed the brackish water in the fountain. Rats floated on the surface like paddle boats for flies. A large calendar had not been updated for over three months gone by; the last date posted was the auspicious day of the Toad, week of the Rat and the month of the Demon. It was a date he knew all too well in another place and time.
He walked on, noticing the tall smelters for the ore shops. This one was a hundred spans high with a ladder and scaffolding running halfway up its length. It did not look like anyone was working upon it now. What was working in this city?
Movement caught his eye and the grotesque display made him pause in wonder. A mangy dog padded by with a bare human foot in its mouth. He had seen many horrors in his time adventuring across the continent, through countless battlefields and skirmishes, highway banditry and vicious assassination attempts, but never such a gross display of indifference within a so called civilized city.
Perhaps Aldreth did deserve the moniker of All-Death. He shook his head and walked on after seeing no sign of the unlucky footless corpse.
A large casino with a gaudy façade caught his eye. The Stygian was emblazoned across a sign hanging over the large doors. Out front loitered at least dozen men of ill repute, openly brandishing either swords or harlots on the covered patio. Some bullied the handful of people passing by. Tattoo’s across their faces and backs marked some of them as members of triads from beyond the sea, others had cropped ears or were missing hands, all denoting them as murderers, thieves, and vagabonds. If the local paladins were worth their salt, these rogues would have been arrested on sight and ejected from the city. But this was Aldreth.
When they saw the Sellsword, they jostled one another and jeered. “Hey, blue-coat! It’s a long way from the royal army!”
“You better retreat! The barbarians are coming!”
“That’s it! Keep walking! Blue boy!”
One held a topless harlot by the elbows and shook her violently ‘til she moaned, while he cried out, “Maybe Blue-boy has blue balls? Eh? Take a look Blue-boy! See what you cannot have!”
“What are you saying? Everyone knows the blue-coats have no balls! If they did they wouldn’t have lost to the Usurper and his barbarians!” A roar of laughter followed each insult.
The Sellsword ignored them and kept walking. He wasn’t ready to start something unless they drew weapons. Their insults hung in the air until he was far enough away that the other city sounds drowned them out.
He had no trouble finding the white villa of the Duke. It was the only building in the city with white washed stucco, even if it looked sickly grey now, not unlike the ever-watchful statue of Innara above on the mountainside. The moat was indeed empty, with a coating of trash and grime in the bottom. Something living, but far too small to be a man stirred within a pile of leaves near a culvert. The Sellsword never saw what it was, but small yellow eyes glowed hatefully from the dark recess.
Shrugging at that mystery, the Sellsword crossed over the broken drawbridge, went up the handful of steps and struck the great knocker on the reinforced door.
A doorman with a face that looked like it was in the middle of melting off his skull answered. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Duke Owain. It’s urgent.”
His bored face with eyes staring straight ahead hardly acknowledged the Sellsword. “What shall I tell him this is in regards too? He is a busy man and not at liberty to speak with every traveler that passes through our fair city.”
“He’ll want to speak with me. It business.” The Sellsword produced a letter and held it out the doorman.
The doorman glanced at the seal, sighed and said, “Follow me then. You shall wait in the parlor while I return and report to my Lord.”
The Sellsword followed him into the entry and was directed to a large velvet chair that sat in the hall, flanked by a pair of overly decorative and equally useless suits of armor. Great tapestries adorned the walls, but the keen eye of the Sellsword saw these were threadbare and moth-eaten. Likewise, much of the wood paneling within was warped or had holes denoting vermin. To the casual eye, the place might have seemed gaudy and decadent, but that was a long time ago.
He waited for several minutes before a young blonde woman of perhaps twenty-five years appeared at the doorway. She wore an expensive green gown which clung tight and accentuated her voluptuous figure. Her hair had a brilliant sheen, curled into wavy ringlets. “I’m sorry, my husband isn’t in right now. I am Duchess Nicene. Perhaps I could help you with something? Anything?” Her green eyes were penetrating and full of mischief.
The Sellsword stood and the Duchess gave an approving smile as she looked him up and down.
“I’ll come back to speak with him later then.”
“Nonsense,” she said taking his hand. “Wait here for him. He shouldn’t be gone long at all. I expect him back any moment.” She led him into a parlor with big windows, two velvet divans and small potted trees. Obsidian statues of robust, full-bodied women reclining nude were placed about the room amidst the plants. One was of an especially corpulent woman standing on the back of a skinny man. A tiny fountain tinkled placidly in the corner while a large goldfish swam in circles. It was a finer room than the foyer, but still bore marks that betrayed it was in decline from greater days in the past.
They sat facing each other upon the divans. “Tell me, are you from Aldreth?”
“No.”
“What do you think of our city?” she asked coyly.
“I haven’t seen enough of it yet, to make an opinion,” he lied.
She laughed. “It is a dreadful place, you can say it. I hate it here. But it is the burden of empire. I couldn’t live the way I do anywhere else. Where do you live, Sir . . ?” She quested for a name but he didn’t give her one.
“I have a home in Hellainik, though I’m not there often. Duty calls.”
“Duty?”
“Business then,” he said, tapping the hilt of his sword.
“I see. And has business been profitable lately?”
The Sellsword let his grin be her answer.
She returned the grin and gestured about the room. “But here you are in Aldreth. New horizons? New opportunities?”
“You could say that.”
“I just did,” she said, licking her lips. She leaned in toward him when the doorman interrupted.
“Duchess, there is a courier at the door with an urgent message for you.” He vanished.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere. Stay right here,” she said, over her shoulder, as she vanished with a giddy bounce to her step.
The Sellsword stretched and made himself comfortable on the divan. He heard muffled voices, a clatter from the other room and the great door slam shut. Expecting the Duchess to return at any moment he was surprised when he instead saw her in a carriage rushing past the window at terrific speed.
He was tired from the journey and without a more comfortable place to rest; he stayed upon the divan and fell asleep.
***
He awoke hours later with the Duchess standing over him. “I’m terribly sorry, to have kept you waiting,” she said, “But my husband, the Duke, will not be home tonight.” She looked like she had been crying. Lines of drying moisture faintly glistened upon her cheeks. Her face was pale and her fingers twitched. The flirtatious girl was gone, replaced by a shaken woman.
The Sellsword nodded. “I’ll come back tomorrow, then” he sai
d.
“Do that,” she said absently, before turning and leaving the room. A stain on her left slipper, caught his eye. It looked like it might have been blood.
The doorman with the long, melted face presented himself to usher the Sellsword out. He followed the doorman and stepped out on the patio. He was about to ask the doorman a question when the great iron-wrought door was slammed shut. He heard the bolt thrown behind it. The Sellsword shrugged and strode off into the gathering twilight. A large bat flitted over his shoulder then twisted in the air with a screech and flew away.
4. The Bar
As close to deserted as the streets had been in the morning, at eventide they were thronged with people in wild carnival. The sour smell of dirty bodies pervaded the avenues, overcoming even the harsh scent of the smelters. It had rained in the last few hours and puddles filled the pockmarks in the broken cobbles with dark, oily water. The people were a motley bunch. Miners jostled in brown jerkins and dirty hats, whores covered in rouge and little else plied their trade, while the greasy paladins, already drunk, swaggered and jeered at those they thought below their station. It seemed everyone stayed drunk in Aldreth, or at least as much as they could afford to stay drunk. There were also plenty of listless, young men looking for trouble. They gathered in packs like dogs sniping at one another with reckless and feral abandon. Twice fistfights broke out in front of the Sellsword as he was walking only to be put down with incredible violence by folk nearby rather than the lackluster paladin city guard.
The Sellsword heard many secret things whispered by the townsfolk as he strode through the avenues, but decided he would wait to hear the most accurate word possible from the usual venues. A bar would do. Folk always gossiped there, and he could gain more knowledge by sitting still than eavesdropping in the streets. He passed by a dozen establishments with names like The Alley Cat, Bucket o’ Blood, The Cesspool, The Shovel, Pay Day, and The Graveyard. But he stopped and went into a bar called The King’s Crown.
BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy Page 2
