BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  When he finally paused, twelve men lay either in the dirt of the street or upon the floor of the casino bleeding out from stumps on either the right or left side. Three had passed from blood loss already and members of the crowd wasted no time in taking their revenge and beating the former bullying thugs to death before stealing whatever valuables they had on their person or within the casino. The arms, however, they left untouched, as everyone agreed that those had been earned and paid for by the Sellsword.

  “Tell Varlak what you saw,” said the Sellsword to the two astonished guardsmen. “Take him proof if you think he might doubt. I will be at The King’s Crown awaiting his answer.”

  They nodded, speechless. The Sellsword wiped the blood from his blade and strode away.

  The two guardsmen gathered the severed arms in a cloak from one of the dead and slung them over their shoulders. They hurried away as someone called that more men of Anais were coming.

  ***

  The two guardsmen carried the cloak into the council chamber of Varlak. The wizard sat upon a gilded velvet-covered chair that may as well have been a throne.

  They dropped the cloak. A smear of blood stained the white marble floor. Varlak cursed under his breath for their bringing him such a gory mess. “What is that? Did you fools think I would want you to bring me his body, once he failed against Anaias’s men? Idiots!”

  “No, Lord, but we thought you had best see what he did,” answered one, still breathing heavy from the weight of his burden.

  The second man nodded. “We thought you would want proof,” he said. “It would seem impossible if we hadn’t seen it with our own eyes.”

  Varlak peered down at the soiled cloak, leaking crimson gore.

  One of the men threw back the cloak revealing a dozen tangled arms, some still covered in mail or with steel vambraces upon them, some held silver rings as their wage from Anaias. He was called a ring-giver for such payments. The arms themselves came in many shades of skin tone: white, red, black and yellow, sallow olive, and even a grey tinted northerner.

  “One man did this?” gasped Varlak.

  “Aye, Lord. The lone Sellsword took the arms of twelve men in front of The Stygian just this morning.”

  “All at once,” added the other. “There was no help and some of them were good fighters too.”

  “Were,” agreed the other.

  Varlak’s gaze took in the gruesome sight, and he smiled. “I must have this man in my service.”

  “He says he is staying at the King’s Crown. That’s a dive bar down on Hurricane Street, Lord.”

  “Send for him immediately,” said Varlak. “We cannot delay. We must use him to destroy Anaias this very night!”

  ***

  The Sellsword was drinking at the bar when the two guardsmen arrived.

  “Varlak wishes for you to meet him at his tower.”

  “How much will he pay me?” he asked, sounding disinterested.

  The two looked at each other. “We don’t know. But rest assured, it will be most handsome.”

  “I will not come until I hear a price I like. Tell him that.”

  They gulped, disliking the idea of raising the wizard’s ire, but equally reluctant to raise the Sellsword’s rage. “We will return.”

  “Soon,” assured the other.

  They came back an hour later promising. “The wizard, Varlak, has said that he would pay you as much as he pays a squad of his men.”

  “A whole squad,” agreed the second.

  The Sellsword hardly looked up from his mead. “And how much is that?”

  They looked to one another uneasily. “He pays us a crown a day.”

  “A squad of men would pay you twelve a day,” said the other cheerfully. “That’s a lot in this town.”

  “Not where I come from. I want more,” said the Sellsword, before finishing his tankard of mead.

  The bartender slapped the table, trying to get the Sellsword’s attention. The look of exacerbation on his face was comical to the others.

  “Where do you come from, stranger?” asked the cheerier of the two.

  “Is there an amount, we can tell the wizard you request?” asked the other.

  The Sellsword wiped the foam from his lips and said, “I want him to struggle. I’m not cheap. He better offer more. A lot more.”

  The guardsmen exchanged apprehensive glances and left.

  “You fool! What do you think he is going to do with you, if you don’t deliver for him?” snapped the bartender. “What might he do to me for harboring such an arrogant lout such as you? What makes you worth so damn much?”

  “I took twelve of Anaias’s men’s arms today. He knows what I can do. He’ll come offering me a king’s ransom to fight for him. He can’t afford to have me against him.”

  The bartender pulled at his hair. “And what about Anaias? He’ll come down on me like the hammer of the gods for serving you!”

  “Don’t worry so much old man. He’ll be just as anxious to hire my sword too. The only war you will see today will be a bidding war.”

  8. The Wizard

  It was eventide when a noble-looking captain of the guard entered The King’s Crown. His armor was finer than most, but ill fitted, given the leather straps on the side had been lengthened beyond measure. He had grown fat since the armor was first made for him. Several of the customers in the tavern tried to look as insignificant as possible. The captain surveyed the scene, imperiously, and finally settled in beside the Sellsword.

  “I am Captain Bearcoat. I understand you had a run-in with some of the vandals that work for Anaias at The Stygian today.”

  The Sellsword, absently answered, “No run-in at all. I disarmed them.”

  “Perhaps you could have left that to the local constabulary,” suggested Bearcoat. “Give me a lager,” he said to the bartender.

  The bartender reluctantly poured him a tankard and handed it to him with a bow.

  The Sellsword answered, “They were bullying the local populace. Something I guess you should have taken care of before I got there.”

  The old bartender violently shook his head, trying to get the Sellsword to take back his inflammatory words.

  Bearcoat’s face went red, but he retained his composure. “You sound like a barbarian out of the north. Thinking you can take matters of the law into your own hands.”

  The Sellsword looked at him and said, “I’ve seen the justice that comes from civilized men, and there is more injustice here than what a savage can take care of himself in the north.”

  “That way brings chaos and the rule of men like the Usurper, and I won’t have you running rough-shod over my town. Understand? Or I’ll have you thrown in prison this very night, unless you’d prefer the justice of a dozen quarrels in your back.”

  Half a dozen guardsmen stood behind the captain armed with flatbows.

  “But, I’m not here to threaten you. Just to say, that you should go and speak with Varlak the wizard. He tires of your games and holding out for more coin. Go and speak with him now, if you know what is good for you. Are we agreed?”

  The Sellsword held up an empty tankard and nodded.

  “Good,” said Bearcoat. “I’d hate to run someone in who may be as useful as you.” He turned and left without paying for his drink. A moment later his troop of guardsmen with their flatbows vanished through the doors.

  “Damn you! Now Bearcoat thinks he can come and take from me without paying because you are here, and he is exacting his revenge on me for your patronage.”

  The Sellsword scowled and tossed a gold crown to the old man. “Guess I better go negotiate my price.”

  “It won’t be so simple. He’ll want you to do his killing for him, and then get rid of you soon as he can, so he doesn’t have to pay.”

  “Then I’d better be real persuasive,” said the Sellsword with a smirk.

  ***

  The Sellsword strode through the open doors of Varlak’s tower. After he passed through the sma
ll portcullis and iron-bound doors of oak, they slammed shut. He was ushered further inside by a big man with but one eye and a hooked nose, wielding a pole-ax over his shoulder. Guttering torches flared murkily within the stone hallways.

  An inner chamber functioned as an audience room with the white-bearded wizard, Varlak. He sat at the head of a long table, slightly raised upon a dais. Varlak was dressed in a cloak of deep purple, fringed with fur of the snow leopard. Gold rings that held fiery gems were upon his pale, bony fingers. A dozen of his leading warriors sat along the table. A chair was left vacant for the Sellsword, directly opposite Varlak at the far end.

  The Sellsword couldn’t help but notice the stained cloak holding the arms of the men from earlier was on the floor. Like trophies, they remained off to the left between himself and Varlak.

  “You, stranger, bid that I see what you were worth for me to hire you, and you have accomplished more against my hated enemy than the rest of my men have in the last two weeks.”

  There were soft mutters of protest from the gathered men, but nothing loud enough to be traced to a single man.

  “I was looking for work and wanted you to know I’m worth every gold coin,” said the Sellsword. “But the pittance your men offered me in your name was insulting.”

  “Insulting?” questioned Varlak. “You must have been misinformed. I offered to pay you the same as a squadron of men. Twelve gold crowns.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  Varlak stared in shock. He answered, “Fifteen then. That’s a king’s ransom.”

  The Sellsword stood up from the table.

  Varlak’s mouth dropped. His surprise betrayed his sense. “Twenty gold crowns. That is more than enough.”

  The Sellsword spoke softly, saying, “I think Anaias might pay more.”

  Varlak’s lieutenant argued, “My Lord, we do not need him.”

  Varlak stood from his chair. “I said twenty gold crowns!”

  The light murmuring continued from the men gathered about the table.

  “My Lord, Varlak, surely—”

  “Silence, Orlov!” grated Varlak at his lieutenant.

  The Sellsword strode out of the audience chamber. “Open the gate,” he bellowed at the guardsman standing there.

  “Wait!” cried Varlak. “Come with me.”

  The Sellsword looked at him, but did not answer.

  “I want to show you something and have us come to an understanding with one another,” said Varlak. “This way.” He gestured to a large double door banded with dark iron.

  The Sellsword rubbed his chin and cautiously followed the wizard. Charcoal grey stone was built block upon block, and they followed a stairwell down a deep chasm. Soon enough they were deep into what the Sellsword could only presume was the mountain. A reptilian smell smacked him in the nose, and he tried to hold his breath. “What’s down here?”

  “Insurance,” said the wizard. “I want you to know that despite the problems with my rival, I will triumph and you had best pick the winning side. I wanted you to see my ace in the hole. To know I am not all talk.”

  The stairs ended and a cavernous chamber opened up before them. Varlak slapped his hands together and a half-dozen torches flared to life. “My simplest and perhaps second most useful spell,” said the wizard.

  The Sellsword had no intention of asking what the most useful one was.

  The torches illuminated a wide featureless chamber. There was nothing but stone to look upon save for a wide circle of raised stone on the floor, that looked like an oversized well. It was perhaps twenty paces in diameter.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what I brought to show you.”

  The Sellsword was ready for a trick. If the wizard tried anything he would knife him, but it seemed there was no malice nor cruel artifice at work, just a man who wanted to show something off.

  “Look, there,” said Varlak, himself looking admiringly into the abyss.

  Down in the pit, perhaps thirty paces deep, were four large reptiles as big as full grown crocodiles, though these were far more stout and with wider heads. They looked up at the men with black eyes that seemed to beg for them to throw down their bodies that they might dull the hunger within.

  “I’ve never seen such beasts.”

  “Basilisks,” said Varlak. “It’s taken me years, but I finally hatched a dozen of them.”

  “I see only four. Where are the others?”

  “Oh, that is all according to my plan. I feed them nothing. These four have eaten their brothers, and soon enough I will have only the strongest one left. He will be my secret weapon to destroy my enemies. So you see, you need to be on my side, for no other one will remain.”

  “Plus room and board.”

  Varlak mulled it over for a fraction of a moment as a grin split his face. “Of course. I can have my servants attend to your every need. Anything you want,” responded Varlak. They went back up the long staircase, and he beckoned for Orlov to hand over a pouch of gold, which the lieutenant reluctantly did. “Here are twenty gold coins for now. You will receive more after we destroy Anais.” He handed the Sellsword the pouch of heavy coins, then clapped for the serving girls, ordering them. “Take the Sellsword master to his chambers on the third floor. Grant him his every request. I shall call for you within the hour,” he said, clapping his hands again.

  The serving girls took the Sellsword upstairs to his private chamber. While the inside of Varlak’s tower was not so opulent as the Marquis’ keep, it was well furnished. Much finer than the Duke’s. Though there was the fascination with large robust statues of nude women, something especially peculiar to the barbaric mind of the Sellsword. All of them made from smooth black stone. It seemed every fine establishment here in Aldreth had them in varying sizes. Most would be from the size of fat children to full grown women, but the largest one here was as big as an ox. And certainly, much heavier.

  Now that the Sellsword thought about it, the only female statue he hadn’t seen that was dark like the others was the bust of Innara upon the mountainside. She was the only one not made of black basalt that was polished until it shone like obsidian.

  Once inside the chamber, the serving girls bathed and washed the Sellsword. Assured that was all they were needed for as of now, they gave him clean new garments, but he kept his weapons and mail close at hand. When they were done, they sprayed him with cologne that was said to come from the elixir of the god, Daimoth, but it smelled like the musk of a Tazelwyrm to the Sellsword. He dismissed the girls and finished buckling his arms himself.

  The Sellsword then went to Varlak’s audience chamber. He stepped quietly, making his way down the winding stair. Approaching the cracked door of the audience chamber, he overheard a pair of muffled voices. One was Varlak, the other sounded like his lieutenant, Orlov.

  “My Lord, I am your right hand and I receive but fifteen gold crowns a week.”

  Varlak answered, “You speak of hands but what about the arms!”

  “I saw the arms, Lord.”

  “No other man can do such damage and just walk away. With him I may not even need the basilisk. We can’t afford not to have him.”

  “I’m not arguing we don’t need him, Lord, we do. Anaias has twice our numbers now from what my spies say, but that much coin for one man is demoralizing for the rest.”

  “You mean demoralizing for you.”

  “Not just me, Lord. It slaps all of your men in the face.”

  “Show me another man who can match him! Look at that pile of arms! Damn! Have you ever seen the like? A warrior that can do that will topple nations and yet today, he works for me. For me!” he shouted.

  “Until the mines are running again we will deplete our coffers which are running perilously low. None but we know that the treasury is near empty. I’ve spread word far and wide that we are well stocked, but the lies can’t last much longer. We will not be able to meet our rationed payroll by this time next week,” said Orlov urgently.
/>   “What do you suggest? Worm,” snarled Varlak.

  “We attack as soon as possible and crush Anaias utterly.”

  Varlak mulled that a long moment. “My counter spells are not ready, but with the Sellsword we could still triumph.”

  “Of course, but we can’t allow that Sellsword to remain about thereafter. He’s too deadly, requires too much gold, and has too much ambition for our little city. I say we poison him once the battle is done and be well rid of him.”

  Varlak answered, “Agreed. Do it. Use the watered down Wymore toxin in his drink an hour before battle. He will put up a good fight for us and then drop dead by midnight tomorrow.”

  Orlov laughed. “I will do it as soon as I ready the men, Lord.”

  The Sellsword backed away from the door and slipped back up the curling, circular steps to his private chamber. Inside, he relaxed and stretched out upon the bed. He waited only a few minutes when a servant knocked and asked him to come to Varlak’s audience room.

  Trotting back down the steps, he made it to the chamber ahead of most of Varlak’s other lead warriors. Orlov was there with a bottle of wine. It appeared that Varlak and he were already drinking from it.

  “You never told us your name, Sellsword. What is it?” asked Orlov.

  “One is as good as another in my profession. Sellsword does the job.”

  Orlov was irritated at the answer and questioned further. “Surely you would prefer your real name or even a new name which men will come to fear you by, considering your prowess with a blade. It is a wonder I have not heard of you before now.”

  “Perhaps you have,” said the Sellsword curtly.

  “As you wish,” said Orlov, working to contain his displeasure. “But will you join us in a toast? We drink to the success of our raid against Anaias. We move to destroy him at dawn. With you leading the way, of course. Word has reached us as we ready our men at the front lines of our territory that Anaias’s men are preparing as well. You certainly put the fear of the gods into them with that twelve-arm stunt. I imagine most of those men are dead now, eh?”