“I’m here at your son’s request. I take care of things.”
“Too late, for my son, I may add.”
“Do you want answers?”
His lips moved soundlessly, and then he sighed. His angry tone radically changed to one of a broken down, old father. “At what price can I have these answers? What kind of mercenary are you to keep a kindly old man from knowing who willfully murdered his poor son?”
The Sellsword didn’t buy a word of it. “The kind that knows full well you can pay what I’m worth.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, his demeanor returning to what it was before while asking, “How do I know you’ll come through? Are you worth it?”
“I am.”
“I’ll pay twenty gold crowns.”
The Sellsword turned to go.
“Fifty.”
“You’re wasting my time, unless you add a couple more zeroes,” said the Sellsword, as he reached for the door.
“Outrageous! One hundred then!”
“You heard me,” said the Sellsword, as he opened the door. Terance stood behind it looking expectant.
“Wait, all right. I’ll pay,” cried the Marquis.
The Sellsword closed the door on Terance.
“Who did it? Can you bring them to justice?”
“I can. But this city needs more than that. You need more than that.”
The Marquis considered that a long moment. “My son was a fool, a wastrel who wasted the empire I built. His one saving grace was the possibility that the alchemists could transmute the mountain again, but now that the two wizards war with one another that dream is a nightmare. One wizard is fine, but two is a disaster. If you can eliminate one and restore order, I would guarantee a hefty reward for you.”
“How much? I warn you, double your first offer.”
The old man frowned through his ruined lips and pus squeezed from the sores on his cheeks. “I can promise a thousand gold crowns—IF you deliver me both a wizard’s head and that of whomever is responsible for my son’s murder. I don’t care which wizard, though I would prefer Anaias.”
“I need a guarantee.”
“Terance!” bellowed the old man. “Get in here, you big coward!”
Terance entered with downcast eyes. “Yes, sir?”
“This mercenary needs a guarantee of a princely sum. Find the good stamp and draft a sealed document guaranteeing him of one thosand crowns from the vault or any institution we hold coin in.”
“Gold crowns,” corrected the Sellsword.
“Gold crowns,” said the Marquis, reluctantly. “To be paid upon completion of a task I will dictate to you.”
The Sellsword interrupted. “I could use a down payment now.”
The old man frowned, again, the expression making the disgusting pock marks weep. “Very well, grant him one hundred gold crowns now, Terance. Change the contract to nine hundred gold crowns.”
The doorman nodded, but asked, “Where do you wish the one hundred coin to be drawn from, sir?”
“The personal vault, you imbecile.”
Terance disappeared, but the Sellsword knew where the doorman went to collect the coin. It was the doorway beside the one they had entered to come upstairs. There was no other option.
Terance came back with a leather pouch, containing one hundred gold crowns.
The old man recited the full context of the contract once again for Terance. Then he coughed and spit a wad of green laced ichor beside his bed. “Mercenary, this must be done post haste. The wizards will destroy my city if this goes on much longer, and then I will be in no condition to pay you.”
“Understood.”
“Now that you have your down payment, Mercenary. Tell me who do you think killed my son?”
The Sellsword glanced inside the pouch and gauged its weight. Satisfied, he answered, “I visited the Duke’s home yesterday as I told you. I spoke with the Duchess.”
The old man shook in anger at the mention of the Duchess, and he murmured, ‘Trollop’. Terance listened intently too, though not appearing shocked at the mention of the woman.
“A courier arrived while we were speaking, and she departed in a hurry. I waited in his home on promise that he would soon be there. When she returned, she had blood upon her slipper. It was apparent that she knew of his demise despite not speaking of such. The blood was testament of that.”
“The slut!” shouted the Marquis, as he raised himself from the bed a moment before falling back into his pillows in a hacking fit. “I knew it! She wants it all for herself.”
“Does she stand to gain anything by her husband’s death?”
The old man snarled, “Of course! I thought you were professional enough to know this! Have I hired the wrong man? If she manipulates the wizards and sides with a winning party she will steal everything I have built up, the whore! And don’t think she won’t do it.”
“Who do you want it to go to? Is there an heir?”
The old man smiled cruelly and gave a false laugh. “I’m not dead yet, though I know I look it. Don’t you worry about me, I have other plans set in motion. Terance, see him out. I must rest.”
Terance gestured for the Sellsword to follow.
In the foyer, Terance said, “I warned you not to mention women. It puts him into spasms.”
“I didn’t think his daughter-in-law counted.”
Terance gave a melancholy look. “The Duchess is a woman of infamous beauty and appetites. At one time, she was supposed to go to the Marquis himself but his son, the Duke, claimed her first with her approval. The Marquis never forgave her for that insult. It was he who brought her here from Avaris in the first place.”
“I thought she sounded foreign.”
“Indeed. Since she has been in Aldreth, the rumors of her infidelities have grown every year. The Marquis even tried to take advantage of them once, but was spurned yet again, so he hates her all the more. As for her conspiring to do away with the Duke for her own gain, I would not doubt it. There is little she will not do for wealth and power. She has been a thorn in the father and son’s relationship since the very beginning and her sexual reputation is legend. It is not folly to think that more than a dozen men would kill for her at a moment’s notice. If she suspected you knew of evidence against her, she would set men upon you as well. You best watch your back.”
The Sellsword grunted. If the Duchess had done away with her husband, why now? She would have to be a world class actress, considering her behavior when they last spoke.
“Never turn your back on her,” said Terance. “I understand she keeps a poisoned dagger strapped to her thigh.”
“I’ll watch myself.”
“She is a master of poisons, and she has close affiliates in the underground apothecary works.”
“You seem to know an awful lot of bad things about her.”
“The Marquis has had me send men to spy upon her many times. I unfortunately am quite intimate with her secrets. She desires my life, and I have not left the keep for some time because of it.”
“Thanks for your candor.”
Terance nodded and let the Sellsword out.
On the walk back toward The King’s Crown, the Sellsword felt the weight of being followed. He acted indifferent and when opportunity presented itself, he ducked into an alley to watch and wait.
Within moments a weasely looking man in a dingy cloak came skulking around the corner, visibly disturbed at having lost his quarry. As the man glanced up and down the avenue, the Sellsword rushed in and locked arms about the man, pulled him into the alley.
“Why are you following me? Talk quick or suffer a broken neck.”
“Pity, master. I’m but a messenger. I was to follow you back to your lair and leave the letter. That’s all. I swear it.”
“Letter? From who?”
“Please let me go,” the weasel struggled, but the iron hands of the Sellsword held him fast, crushing him against any attempt at escape. “I cannot breathe.”<
br />
“Answer or you’re dead.”
“The Duchess,” gasped the weasel.
The Sellsword felt for a parchment, took it from the weasel’s belt, then flung him to the ground.
The weasel tried to get up.
“Stay down,” growled the Sellsword. He scanned the parchment while keeping a second eye on the weasel, plus an ear open for anyone else passing by the alleyway. The letter was not signed, but suggested he come back to the Duke’s villa after dark. “What does she want with me?”
“I don’t know. I was only instructed to leave the letter where you would soon find it.”
“How did you find me?”
“She told me to look for the tall fighter in a blue cloak with two swords on his back. Those royal army cloaks are unpopular here and were easy enough to spot moving through the grey streets an hour ago. I saw you go into the Marquis’s keep, so I waited.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll strangle you with your own entrails.”
“Never, master. I wouldn’t lie to a slayer like you,” said the weasel, daring to stand up after a nod of approval from the Sellsword.
“But I can’t have you knowing where I sleep,” he said.
The weasel’s eyes showed panic as the Sellsword’s fist shot out, catching him on the chin and knocking him into darkness’s waiting arms.
7. The Confrontation
“You can’t go back there,” said the bartender. “It’s a trap, even if it’s not a deadly trap, it’s still just a trap. Her bed may as well be filled with broken glass.”
The Sellsword grunted. He scanned the letter again, looking for any other clue as to its meaning.
“There is no code there but that of a ring-tailed hussy,” said the bartender. “Stop reading it.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like.”
“I know what crabs are like. I was in the army when I was a young man.”
The Sellsword’s brows rose in surprise, but he had no words.
“Oh, Shuddup,” grated the old man, with a wave of his hand.
The Sellsword rubbed his chin. “I may still need to see what she has to say—to help me find a chink in the wizard’s armor.”
The old man looked somber and said earnestly, “I hate to tell you this, you being an experienced warrior and all, but wizards don’t wear armor.”
“You know what I mean, old man. But first I think I will get the game moving faster. You say the wizards still haven’t started anything in the streets. It’s time I forced a couple of hands.”
The old man shook his head. “And I still say you’re crazy to try. How about you square up your bill with me before you do anything stupid?”
The Sellsword grinned and tossed a gold crown to him. “I’m off to proposition Varlak. Wish me luck.”
“You crazy bastard. Why not just give me the rest of your valuables before they kill you?”
“Because I want you to pray to the gods for my safe return,” he answered with a laugh.
***
The Sellsword strode the long way through the avenues to Varlak’s tower. He passed by the Paladin’s headquarters and the mortician busy building more caskets. The mortician and his sons paused their work to watch him. He made a mental note of everything he could, asking some passersby questions about this old building or that, trying to understand the age and history of differing places. Walking up one of the many terraced streets along the mountain he couldn’t help but notice the many mine shafts. Most were locked up, some had been for years, he was told.
“How long has that mine remained closed?” he asked a cobbler, who was working across the street from the rusted hulk of a door. Great chains hung limp across its face.
“I rented this place for my shop ten, no, nine years ago. Couldn’t have done that if the place was running, so it’s been more than ten years. My shop used to be the weights office for that mine’s book keepers.”
“Does anyone ever go in?”
“No,” laughed the cobbler. “Those doors have remained shut all this time. There’s nothing worth a damn in that mountain anymore.”
“It’s not used for storage or anything?”
“No, too damp I’d imagine.”
Thanking him, the Sellsword moved on, making similar inquiries about the features of the city.
At Varlak’s tower, a pair of wide thugs stood guard. They stared in confusion at the sight of the Sellsword coming straight at them. They shifted their weight uneasily, renewing the grip upon their weapons.
“Who are you, now?” one asked.
The Sellsword shouted loud enough he could be heard up and down the street, and, he hoped, up into the tower’s balconies and inner chambers. “Tell Varlak, I want him to hire me on as a Sellsword. I’ll show him what I’m worth.”
The two looked at each other and one knocked on the door, whispered to a man within and then slipped inside.
A moment later an older man with a long, grey beard that twisted in the wind stepped out on a balcony high above. He glanced down at the Sellsword. “You want to be hired by me? And wish to show your worth?”
“Send a man to watch my progress at The Stygian,” answered the Sellsword. He then turned and strode off toward Anaias’s casino.
“Follow him,” ordered Varlak to his two outside men, “then return and report.”
***
The Sellsword made his way through the streets uninterrupted. It seemed as though folk heard of his goal and were already herding out of the way, keeping to the outsides of the streets to watch. Many from rooftops or taller balconies called to each other. He noted grungy paladins were exchanging money in what looked like bets upon the outcome.
Gusts of wind whipped down the streets and flung dust in the faces of those who stood slack-jawed on the sidelines.
The two guardsmen of Varlak worked to keep up with the determined Sellsword. They were behind him more than a hundred paces and the crowd would fill in again as the Sellsword passed, making it difficult for the two to catch up.
Three thugs out front of The Stygian knew something was happening. They saw the throng of people gathering, even if it was in an odd pattern following the Sellsword. They soon recognized the Sellsword striding toward them. They called to their comrades just inside and three more appeared. Six in total came down the from the surrounding walkway to jeer him once again.
“Blue boy is back!”
“Perhaps he wants to try his luck?”
“We won’t be easier than the barbarians you ran from in Hellenaik.”
The Sellsword gave them a lopsided grin and came within three paces. “You have big mouths for back stabbers and deserters.”
His words took them aback.
“I kill men from the front!” retorted a gap-toothed brawler with a top-knot. He patted the hilt of his scimitar.
The Sellsword spoke softly. “I recognize cowards when I see them.”
They snarled in anger, but did not approach any closer. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
The Sellsword took a step closer. “I’m talking to a bunch of pig-farmers playing at being warriors.”
“We are Anaias’s men. Famed for our bloodthirsty nature!” shouted one, striking his breast.
“I’ve killed seven of Varlak’s men!” shouted another brandishing his longsword.
“I have raided the Duggoth coast! I have killed more than I can count!”
“How many will you boast you have slain?” asked the gap-toothed one.
The Sellsword grinned a wolfish smile. “I’m not here to kill any of you today. I’m just here to disarm you.”
The thugs laughed boorishly. “You think you can make us give up our arms?” They laughed again.
“I asked nicely,” said the Sellsword, dead serious.
“Well, come and get them,” challenged the gap-toothed brawler.
“It’ll hurt,” said the Sellsword.
The gap-toothed brawler gave a war-cry and charged with his s
cimitar raised in a killing stroke.
The Sellsword sidestepped while drawing his bastard sword. The blade met the brawler’s raised arm and sheared through it behind the exposed bicep, freeing it from his body entire. Blood gushed like rain over the dropped scimitar.
The next three men came quick, crying like baying hounds. The Sellsword moved with the finesse of a true artist, painting with steel and blood. His blade slashed through an arm on his right, then his left and the right again. All three attackers dropped to the ground, singing pain in unison like a choir of the damned.
The Sellsword charged past the fallen, coming for the other two. They backed away in a panic, but were trapped against the raised porch of the casino. If they turned their back on him to climb they would surely be struck down, so they faced him apprehensively. They attacked together from opposite sides while yelling for assistance from those still inside. The Sellsword struck one man’s arm off hard enough to send it flying and hit the other beside him. Wheeling, he caught the second man’s downward blade with his own, pushed him back with the flat of his blade, and then finished the strike as the man tumbled backward.
One of the disarmed was still crying for help. The Sellsword ignored the wounded and leapt up to the raised walkway. Another bravo charged out the casino doors just in time to lose his right arm to the Sellsword’s blade. It sheared through his cloak and mail beneath as if they were no more than glass.
The Sellsword went inside the gambling den. He kicked over a card table and slashed his sword through a gaming chart on the wall. People inside screamed and ran out the back.
Five more men appeared with swords or scimitars. They shouted to one another to surround the Sellsword. Coming in like an inverted five-pointed star, they held their sword tips at him.
“I’ll let you live, if you throw down your arms,” he said to them.
They sneered at him. “We are five to one, fool! You’re dead!” Blades lanced forward.
The Sellsword knocked a gambling wheel into the nearest attacker, buying time for him to step back out of reach before they could counterattack.
Dancing between the racing death, he slashed arms and blades, cutting men down like grain in a red harvest. The crash of steel, the savage slap of meat and bone and the piercing anguish of suffering whirled together in bloody chaos. Frosted with the ecstatic joy of the onlooking crowd, the sound was a brutal symphony, the vision a savage masterpiece, the smell a revolting aroma, and all could taste the copper floating freely in the air.
BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy Page 5
