BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  Wheeling about as they fought, the Sellsword caught sight of a grotesque aberration, one of the rotund onyx statues. Twisting to avoid a blade, he danced his way over the corpses, and slammed his blade across the statue’s backside. He expected a hard rattle from the strike, but the statue proved hollow and broke as easily as a cast-off wine vessel.

  Almost instantly the two guardians slowed, breathing hard from their exertions. They looked to each other and lost some of their fervor as if noticing for the first time that it was only they and the Sellsword left in a room full of corpses. They backed away to the door.

  The Sellsword followed. One held the door while the other disappeared into the darkened hallway. The Sellsword advanced. Then the other was looking over the shoulder of the first with a flatbow. He pulled the trigger and lightning reflexes had the Sellsword dodge aside and back as the bolt sailed beneath his ear, taking the golden loop with it.

  Snarling like a wounded tiger, the Sellsword charged and rammed his blade through the cuirass of the man in the doorway. It stove in the front of the corrugated metal as it punched through. He wrenched it loose with a sickening rip and was out and after the last man.

  The guardian was already halfway down the steps, pausing on the landing and fishing for a bolt to load into the flatbow.

  The Sellsword leapt from the balcony to the landing below as the guardian looked up in horror. The man’s body broke his fall with a crunch.

  His bloodlust was up and the Sellsword glanced about for anymore threats to come charging out of the gloom.

  Several more bodies of red-robed cultists littered the walkway at the bottom of the stairs. Despite the ruckus, it didn’t appear as if the commotion had alerted anyone else yet. There was no sign of movement out on the streets. He waited several minutes to see if anything changed.

  Nothing.

  Anaias’s tower was less than a hundred yards off. He shut the smashed doorway of the building as best he could and stalked purposefully toward the front gate.

  15. The Double-Cross

  At the front gate, he was stopped by a pair of burly guardsmen who were a little taller and twice as weighty as himself. They were armed with poleaxes and had short bull horns upon their helmets. Spikes jutted from their terrible vambraces, and their faces were long and sour.

  “What do you want?” asked one with crooked teeth that resembled tusks.

  “Who’re you?” asked the other, rumbling like a storm.

  “The Sellsword. Anaias knows me. I have information he will want. Fetch him.”

  The two looked to each other. It was clear no one was going to just fetch the wizard, so one nodded and went inside. He looked to the Sellsword and said, “Come along then.”

  He followed the big man inside and went through a tunnel that almost certainly had invisible murder holes looming above him. Torches inside gave only the barest light to see by. The big man knocked on a thick door at the end of the hall.

  A metal opening rasped back, and a man with the face and eyes of a toad squinted at them. “Who is that, Darnell?” he asked with a slur.

  “The Sellsword. Says he needs to see the boss.”

  “The boss?” asked the voice incredulous. “Nobody wants to see the boss this time of night, tell him to go away.’

  “I understand he’s very persuasive. He’s the one that killed everyone at The Stygian.”

  “Oh,” said the doorman, letting out a low whistle. He unbolted the door, and it creaked open. Inside was a wide chamber, full of men participating in all manner of gambling and revelry. There were spinning wheels and card tables, tiny rinks of various colored chips and even a miniature arena with a scorpion, as big as a rat, fighting against a mongoose. Laughing women in sheer negligees carried trays of drinks when they weren’t sitting upon laps. The voices were raucous and held an arrogant stilt that bespoke of too much drink and too little restraint in the Sellsword’s mind. One man was angry at his losses at the gambling table and was summarily thrown out by a gargantuan guardsman.

  “Wait here,” ordered the doorman, before he went up a flight of stairs to a darkened alcove.

  He came back shortly and stopped halfway down the steps. “He’ll see you, but you have to leave your weapons down here.”

  The Sellsword shook his head. “I’ll talk to him anywhere, but my information has a price and I keep my weapons.”

  “Maybe you don’t understand,” rumbled the doorman.

  “Maybe I could teach you,” answered the Sellsword.

  The big doorman looked up the stars to the shadows. Another man came down, then a third, and finally Anaias himself at the top of the stair. Everyone went silent. His hoarse whisper carried over the room. “You tire me Sellsword. What is it?”

  “I have information you will be very keen on.”

  Anaias cocked his head as if to signal, I’m listening.

  “For a price.”

  Anaias smirked. “You are the biggest mercenary in the city, of that I have no doubt. This would be much simpler if you would just work for me outright. I promised you a handsome wage.”

  “If I did that I would lose some of my marketability.”

  “Oh? Is this information you are also selling to Varlak?”

  “No, but he would pay dearly to keep it from you.”

  “Very well.” He clapped his hands and the man beside him handed him a small pouch. “Here is a good sum. Show him into the council room. Sell me your information Sellsword, and I’ll deduce a fair price.”

  “Master?” gasped one of the guardsmen.

  “Do as I command. But seat him opposite me at the table,” said Anaias, with a venomous grin. He then vanished back into the shadows upstairs.

  The doorman guided the Sellsword down a long dimly lit hall. At the end, he unlocked a door and opened it into a wide vast chamber full of the finest of furnishings. Golden chandeliers hung from the rafters, producing glowing light. Silken divans and exotic décor was arrayed everywhere. They stepped around a tinkling fountain, and there in front of a roaring fire and on a bearskin rug was an old man cradling a young woman.

  The man looked up in shame and horror, but quickly his red face snarled and he shouted, “What are you doing here? This is my time to be alone with Denae!”

  “Sorry, your Lordship, but the master told me to bring the Sellsword here for a council meeting.”

  “Very well,” huffed the old man, as he stood and adjusted his robe.

  The woman, Denae, was the brunette the Sellsword had seen at the cemetery. She slowly pulled a silken robe over herself to cover her nakedness. Her face was mask of emotionless chalk. It was clear this was no passionate embrace they had interrupted, but a terrible act of brutality. She quickly dismissed herself into an adjoining doorway. The old man soon followed, muttering curses at being interrupted.

  “Who was that?” asked the Sellsword.

  “The miner’s guild master, Brantus.”

  “And the woman?”

  “She is a looker isn’t she? Denae Reed was the wife of a well-to-do iron merchant. But he had gambling debts to the boss. The boss is smart, always knows how to arrange things. Brantus wanted her bad and since he had the miners in his pocket, Anaias put Brantus in his pocket by offering up the woman. Brantus will do anything for her. He is madly in love with her.”

  “Where is the iron merchant?”

  “Heh,” laughed the doorman. “Once the debt was settled and all the paperwork stipulations were in place, the boss arranged for an accident happen to the merchant. Everything became his, including the woman, so she was offered up to Brantus in exchange for his full support.”

  “Slavery isn’t legal in the realm,” answered the Sellsword.

  “It isn’t,” agreed the doorman, “but indentured servitude is. And hers is a debt she can’t hope to repay, not in ten lifetimes. Anaias saw to that in the contract.”

  “Didn’t I see her with children?”

  “Ha! She has a couple brats. I’ll wager they�
��ll still be paying the debt when they’ve grown but I think Anais keeps them away at some orphanage. Brantus doesn’t want to hear their mewling when he ravishes their mother. Can’t say I blame him.”

  Armored men, all of Anaias’s captains, entered the chamber and motioned for the doorman and Sellsword to follow. At the far end was a long chestnut table surrounded by a dozen chairs. The doorman gestured for the Sellsword to take the far end seat, then he stood close behind, with his hand on his hilt.

  Anaias entered and sat at the head of the table. The old man, Brantus, came and sat his side and frowned at the Sellsword. “Why is he here? Isn’t he the one that slew some men of our men at The Stygian?”

  “My men,” corrected Anaias. “But everyone here is now a welcome ally to me, and I have no worries of spies or traitors. Varlak will soon be finished. The man must be nearly broke. He can’t afford to pay his underlings a single copper.”

  “Then,” said the Sellsword with a wicked grin, “you’ll be pleased to know that he is retrieving more gold tonight.”

  “Where?!” raged Anaias.

  “The Marquis.”

  “You lie! The Marquis would never double-cross me on this.”

  “I didn’t say it was a willing exchange. A spy discovered the Marquis’s secret vault and Varlak’s men are raiding it tonight while the truce is still in effect.” He held out a hand across the table for payment.

  “Where is this vault?”

  “The abandoned mine shaft below Snow street,” said the Sellsword. He caught a glimpse of Denae, watching from around the corner of her dark doorway.

  Anaias tossed the full pouch to him.

  The Sellsword caught it and put it in his belt. “I should also tell you to hurry, as I was late in telling of these developments.”

  “How late?”

  “A few minutes. On my way here, I overheard a fight in the building to the west of your tower. I went inside. It looked like several of your guardsmen battled a troupe of red-cloaked cultists. Everyone inside was dead.”

  Anaias’s eyes flared. “Everyone?”

  The Sellsword nodded as he stood. “You’re the wizard, I don’t know much of sorcery but it looked like the cultists summoned something that destroyed your men.”

  Anaias clapped and barked to his men, “Go check. Right now.” A trio of his biggest men moved out through the hallway in a hustle. “Sellsword. Join us for this. There will be more reward soon enough.”

  “I’ll consider it,” he said, wheeling and heading toward the door.

  “Oh no, you’re coming with us,” insisted Anaias. “I want a man of your extraordinary luck close by.” Several of his guardsmen had flatbows pointed near, if not directly at, the Sellsword. He paused.

  “Looks like I’m going with you.”

  ***

  They raced in carriages toward the Snow street mineshaft. Several times the Sellsword was sure they would tip over from the frantic pace as the drivers whipped their horses around the tight city corners. They stopped short of the Snow street mine and exited the carriages. Anaias had brought a lot of his best men. They crowded together the last block then fanned out with flatbows and swords at the ready.

  A burly man in a grey cloak, with the attitude of a wounded wolf, snarled at them but acquiesced to Ananias quickly enough.

  Anaias spoke first. “What can you tell me, Myrvin? How many men does Varlak have in there?”

  “At least fifty,” snapped Myrvin. He shot a sneer at the Sellsword, but he wasn’t pleased to see anyone. “You’ll never get him out. They could hold a bottleneck in there for ages.” When he gestured that last statement, the Sellsword caught sight of the paladin’s tabard beneath the grey cloak. So, this was another man of Captain Bearcoat’s who was bribed by the wizards.

  “Don’t be telling me lies, son. It won’t go well for you.”

  Myrvin frowned and sucked his missing teeth. “They probably have a back way out, I’d imagine.”

  “Do you know this? Or are you still playing games?”

  “All I know is they got here in a hurry and opened up the shaft, like there was something awful special in there. The gods know what. Then you and yours got here so they holed up, expecting a fight.”

  Anaias scrutinized the informant’s eyes, then said, “They still think you are on Varlak’s payroll do they not?”

  “So?”

  “You and the Sellsword, here, will approach them and get them to surrender. There isn’t likely another exit and I have plenty of flatbows covering that door. They need to surrender whatever gold is inside to me or die.”

  “Gold?” asked Myrvin. “Nobody told me about any gold.”

  “And, why would they?” snapped Anaias. “Get going.”

  The Sellsword gave him a reluctant look, but Anaias was in no mood to bargain. His dozen men had their flatbows out and ready. He nodded and started across the open street.

  The cobbles were the color of smoke in the moonlight. Somewhere a dog howled and the jingling of mail slapping against shields and scabbards behind him brought a terrible unease. Not nearly as bad as the idea of a bolt in the back.

  The Sellsword looked back a number of times as they slowly crossed the street. Anaias had men up and down the block. The tips of the bolts caught the dim light, reflecting razor-sharp cold.

  The tunnel entrance was almost big as the city gates, but it also had a standard sized door built into it and that was all the Sellsword intended should be opened. Made of the same rusted iron, this one had been forced by Varlak’s men. A broken chain and lock lay on the ground before it.

  The Sellsword rapped his knuckles against the hollow sheet of metal. It throbbed like a gong.

  “Who’s out there?” came a voice.

  “It’s the Sellsword. I’m the one who gave your master warning. Let me in.”

  Myrvin squinted at the Sellsword but said nothing.

  “What you want to talk about? How many men are out there?”

  “Too many.”

  Myrvin fidgeted, looking back at the rest of Anaias’s men. He was tense on his feet. The Sellsword surreptitiously watched him over the crook of his shoulder.

  The muffled voice from inside the tunnel continued, “We’ll open up, you come in quick, but no swords drawn or we’ll cut you down.”

  “Got it,” answered the Sellsword.

  They unbolted the door and just as the loud creak of rusted hinges sounded in the still night, Myrvin raised a dagger to plunge into the Sellsword’s back.

  Dodging to the side, the Sellsword dropped to his knees, lanced back with his short thrusting blade, taking Myrvin in the belly. The fat man gasped like a broken bellows.

  Checking the intent of the men inside the tunnel, the Sellsword rolled inside low to the ground. He had anticipated the next maneuver of Anaias.

  Attracted to the motion, Anaias’s men shot dozens of bolts at the door. Myrvin still standing and holding his pierced belly dropped, shafts sprouting from his back like new spring growth.

  The door slammed shut with the sound of hail striking it.

  A single oil lamp revealed there were only five men inside the tunnel, all looking back at the Sellsword. These were not Varlak’s most doughty fighters, but the greenest of his troops, the most expendable.

  “I thought there would be more of you,” said the Sellsword.

  One of the men, nodded. “That’s what we were ordered to do to make two-faced dogs like Myrvin believe. The master has a plan. We were simply bait.”

  The Sellsword put away his thrusting blade.

  “Not so fast,” another of the men said, raising his flatbow. “Not for you if that’s what you’re worried about. The master appreciates your help, but he knew there wasn’t any gold stored here. He wanted to set a trap for Anaias. Even now, the rest of the master’s men should be preparing to snipe them from shadows while they’re all focused on us.”

  “Varlak, got all that from my message?”

  “In a roundabout way, a
s I understands it. He told us you were a most useful man and if we had perchance to see you to tell you that if we spared your life tonight the debt was paid. But he still wanted to speak with you afterward.”

  The Sellsword grimaced.

  “What debt was it, if I may ask?” asked one of the men, gulping.

  “Just my comeuppance, I suppose.”

  The raw sound of cries of pain and surprise echoed outside the rusted door. “The master’s plan is working. He got the drop on Anaias’s dogs.”

  The Sellsword thumbed toward the outside. “Are you supposed to wait? Or should we go out and help finish the job?”

  “Should we?” one asked reluctantly. The five of them looked to each other unsure.

  “Douse that light and let’s go,” urged the Sellsword.

  The men murmured together a moment, then did as he asked, dousing the oil lamp and unbolting the door.

  The door still creaked but the forces assembled across the street were no longer paying attention. Varlak’s assassins loosed arrows and slings from the roof above them. Most of Ananias’s men were caught in the open with their only cover being toward the mine shaft. It left them vulnerable and without an easy retreat from the new attack.

  “Varlak is cleverer than I had thought,” mused the Sellsword, as much to himself as anyone. The men near him grunted their agreement then stepped around Myrvin’s pin cushioned body and went hard to the left to flank the enemy’s men.

  The Sellsword let them fade into the dark. He took a different route and went far right and away from the fighting. Let them kill each other. He would discover the results of his pandemonium in the morning. He headed for The King’s Crown and hopefully a good night of rest.

  16. The Assassin

  The Sellsword slept well that night and awoke early enough in the morning. He splashed water into his face from a pitcher and basin, glancing at himself in the mirror above the table. The window was behind him and he caught a sharp glint of sunlight and splash of movement from the roof across the street.