BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  The red-headed man noticed the Sellsword watching him and said, “Orphans. No fodder, no mudder—poor little bastards.”

  “Maybe this can help out,” said the Sellsword, giving the man a pair of gold crowns.

  “I’ll say it will. Thankee.”

  “Have you seen a fine looking blonde woman? High class?”

  The man nodded. “A bit ago. Went into Ju Jess’s place, the Big Ship, yonder.”

  The gambling house of Ju Jess was a happening establishment. It was called the Big Ship, despite not looking anything like a ship nor having anything to do with the sea, because it was said that on the weekends it served enough liquor to float a ship, a big ship. Liquor flowed freely here even if it was of low quality, it was cheap. The miners appreciated cheap. Midday and the house was crowded full of people, mostly out of work miners, and they roared their excitement with the many games and dancing girls. Cards were played toward the back and spinning wheels of chance up front.

  The Sellsword moved through the throng with ears open, hoping to learn something of Nicene’s whereabouts.

  “What is money for but to spend?” said the gambler as he rolled the dice. “You can’t take it with you. After all, what do we slave away for underground but to find that ore and spend it on a good time up here!” He still cursed when he lost.

  Ju Jess owned the gambling hall she named for herself, and it had to be the only place left that one or the other of the wizards didn’t have their fingers into yet. The Sellsword figured it was as neutral an establishment as existed in the city.

  “Can I buy you a drink, stranger?” asked a slim, young woman with light brown hair. She wore a low-cut, green gown and too much makeup. She was pretty, however, and very forward, sidling her arm python-like around his.

  The Sellsword nodded. “I can even tip you, for some information.”

  She smiled wide and cocked her head to the side while saying, “I don’t work here. I just thought a big, strapping man like you could use a drink. What’s your name?”

  “What drink are you offering?” he asked.

  She gave a coy smile. “Anything you’d like, Mr. Drink. Should I call you tall drink?”

  “I’ve no time for games. I’ve got things to do.” He moved past her.

  She tugged on his arm. “Well,” she said, as he turned to look at her, resisting being too forceful in pulling away. “Since you’re already here, you could let me get you a drink and who knows, maybe I could help you find whatever it is you’re looking for. Hmm? Let me at least try to help you.”

  “I’m looking for a friend,” he said.

  “A man or woman?”

  “A woman. Blonde hair, a very fine lady.”

  She grinned. “I’ll help you. Let me get you that drink. Ale?”

  “Mead.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She swished away to the bar through the crowded floor.

  The Sellsword’s height allowed him to see over the tops of most of the gamblers and games. He began to doubt Nicene had come here. It was too rough an environment for her tastes and sense of comfort.

  There was a commotion and folk began moving en masse toward the back of the establishment. Ju Jess, herself, stood on a raised platform taking tickets. “There will be enough room for everyone, but nobody gets in without a ticket!” she cried, doling out little stubs just as fast she could take their coin.

  The woman returned with a tankard of mead. “Here it is. Drink up, Love.”

  He disliked her familiarity and pushy manner, but took the tankard. He brought it up to his lips, but was bumped by a man hurrying to the ticket stand, and spilled a small amount on his chest. He lowered it in frustration, the man had already moved on. The woman looked anxious.

  “Sorry, about that,” she uttered. “They’re excited for the fight.”

  “What fight?”

  “Whatever Ju Jess has been able to scrounge together. Whatever it is, it must be better than usual.”

  He again moved to sip the mead, when another man shoved another beside him, and he careened into the Sellsword, spilling the tankard.

  “Let me fetch you another,” the woman offered.

  “No thanks, you’ve wasted enough coin on me.” She frowned and disappeared into the teeming crowd. He shrugged at her sudden indifference, but didn’t mind as he was suspicious of her offerings anyhow.

  Men in the crowd haggled with Ju Jess. “All right, but it’s not Bijoro is it?”

  “It’s not,” Ju Jess said plainly, as if she was tired of reiterating the fact.

  “Ok, then my money is on the brown.”

  “Brown it is. Five to one.”

  The Sellsword had no idea what or who this Bijoro or Brown were and curiosity got the better of him. He moved with the crowd, bought a ticket, and found himself in a small outdoor arena. The seats were arranged in an oval about the showground which had a ten-foot wall of stout wooden pikes holding whatever would be inside at bay. The arena had a hard packed field of perhaps twenty paces wide and forty long.

  There was a large shaggy bear on a chain. That didn’t seem very sporting, it being on a chain. He knew he wouldn’t be the only one booing if a man came out to sink a spear into a shackled animal.

  The rear gate opened and a huge black bull came charging in. A trick with the chain was pulled and the great brown bear was free.

  The bear retreated from the thundering charge of the bull, and the crowd roared with delight. It narrowly avoided being gored by the stout white horns. Then the bear stood and its giant paw slashed out, ripping a chunk from the bull’s great shoulder. It grasped the bull in a deadly hug, and tore at it. The bull bellowed and stamped, all the while bear gouged and ripped flesh from its flank and rump.

  “It’s over! It’s over!” screamed half the crowd who had bet on the bear.

  “Whad’ya think of that?” asked a cheering man beside him.

  “It’s not over yet,” replied the Sellsword.

  “He’s done for,” countered the man.

  The bear held on and swatted the bull’s back, raking its claws. Blood pooled on the hard packed arena floor. Then the bull broke loose. It was a gory sight, dripping with blood, but it charged the bear, ramming its horn into the creature’s side and back again. The bear tried to retreat, but slipped in a pool of blood. The juggernaut of a bull, hooked, gored and stamped at its foe. The brown got out one last feeble attempt at clawing the bull until it was gored again. Maddened beyond belief, the bull turned the bear into a pile of lacerated flesh and broken bones. Even then it stomped and kicked until the pile was nearly beyond recognition. It glared at what remained of its enemy. Then it wobbled, dropped to its knees and rolled over—dead, never-the-less the undisputed victor in the encounter.

  Men called in their bets and argued, but the final outcome was decided.

  “Can you believe that? He shouldn’t have gotten away from the bear’s hold like that.”

  “Well he did, didn’t he? Pay up!”

  “That would have been quicker if it had been Bijoro.”

  “Shuddup, what do you know about Bijoro?”

  “I’d bet on Bijoro against a dragon.”

  “Shuddup with your Bijoro worship.”

  The Sellsword didn’t know who or what this Bijoro was, but if it was affiliated with either Anaias or Varlak, he’d take care of it soon enough.

  He drifted out of the arena with the others and wondered if he would bump into that woman offering to buy him drinks again. Instead, he was surprised to see Nicene trying to wave him down.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she said. She was dressed in a brocade silken robe and looked every bit the noble lady. But she definitely needed sleep. Her eyes were dark and concerned.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said.

  “Yeah, I can tell,” she quipped. “Because you know I’m all about the bullfights.”

  “I was told you came in here.”

  “I did an hour ago, looking fo
r you, but since you weren’t here I left, since that is the sensible thing to do when someone isn’t in a place you are looking.”

  “You came back.”

  “Because the orphans told me you were in here.”

  He raised his brows. “Well, we’ve found each other.”

  “Oh! That’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you! Varlak has your friend, the innkeeper!”

  The Sellsword looked piqued. “Who?”

  “The old man from The King’s Crown. Varlak’s thugs grabbed him and left a message saying that you had better go to his keep and speak with him. Who is that old man to you anyway?”

  “An old man.”

  She looked curiously at him. “So, you won’t go right? Because that would be suicide. It’s clearly a trap. You can’t go.”

  “I have to, I can’t let them harm the old man on my account,” he said, checking his fighting belt and swords in their sheathes.

  “But he isn’t anything to you. Let this go, until we are ready with Anaias to take the fight to him.”

  “Some things a man has to do. I have to do this.”

  She looked away, downcast. “Well, goodbye then. I’m going back to Anaias’s lair. Come find me if you make it out alive.”

  “You’ll see me again. I’ve tangled with wickeder dogs that that old scut.”

  She gave him a look like she didn’t believe him, but nodded and faded into the mass of gambling people.

  ***

  He stalked to the tower of Varlak. “Varlak!” he cried. “Open your doors! Varlak!”

  The iron portcullis raised and the great, thick doors slowly opened. It was only now the Sellsword truly appreciated how formidable the keep was. The doors were hewn of massive logs that had been squared and banded with iron. They had to be nearly a foot thick. The iron holding them in place was equally stout. The walls forming the entrance were nearly vertical, there was only a very slight slant to the stone to accommodate the great weight of the thick walls. He judged them to be several feet at the base and still at least two at the parapet. The keep was made to withstand the worst siege any force could muster, and, being within the center of the city, it wouldn’t be easy to bring siege equipment here.

  Varlak stood there. “Well? Come in, Sellsword. I have a task for you.”

  “You’re the one that owes me a favor and this is how you repay me?”

  The wizard gave a mirthless chuckle. “Oh, I think I’ll dispense with the pleasantries of pretending that I owe you anything. You’ve already taken much from me and mine. Now I want something that only you can give me. Come, come.” Urged the wizard, like he was coaxing a wild beast.

  “I’m more comfortable here at the gates than in your cursed abode.”

  “Very well. Let us deal,” said the wizard with a snicker. “This will be good.”

  The Sellsword kept a hand on his new throwing knife, ready for anything.

  21. The Golden Hair

  “You have something I want,” said the wizard.

  The Sellsword shook his head. “I don’t bargain.”

  Varlak snickered, and clapped his hands. “I have known many men like you. You like men to think that you’re a ravenous wolf, a terrible lion of wrath, and many think you are too, but I know better. You’re like a crab, armored and spiked on the outside, perhaps with even fearsome claws to rip and tear, but on the inside you’re soft and weak.”

  The Sellsword rolled his eyes. “Are we here to discuss a zoo?”

  Varlak still chuckled to himself. “Keep at it, brute. You can pretend to everyone you want, but I know and, even worse, you know the truth of my words.” He paused a long moment as if he was greatly enjoying this. “I have something you will want to bargain with me for. Bring him back in.”

  A pair of Varlak’s thugs brought out the old man. They forcefully held him up. He was tied to a yoke and could not see the Sellsword standing across the room from him, his eyes so badly swollen from his beatings. Dried blood caked his white shirt and his face was covered in more purple bruises than his usual tan coloring. His lips were swollen and black, and his ashen grey beard stained red.

  “What makes you think I care about some old man?”

  “Stop bluffing,” snapped Varlak. “Let us do business. I know you stay at The King’s Crown, and I know you patronize this old fool. My spies have seen you spend a great amount of time talking with him, I have no doubt that you care about what happens to him.” He signaled one of his henchmen to draw a knife. The henchman placed the blade under the old man’s throat. The Sellsword leaned in expectantly and Varlak said, “Lets’ deal, hmmm?” The Sellsword kept his thumbs in his belt and asked, “What do you want?”

  “Ah-ha! See, you are weak. I knew it.”

  “What do you want?” thundered the Sellsword.

  Varlak smirked and said, “You have the Duchess Nicene hidden somewhere. Now, of course, I don’t expect you to give her up for this old bag of bones, or even the other hostages I could take, as I suspect that I could grab most any innocent person off the street and hold them hostage to you. You have some peculiar notion of looking after the people of this city. Why? I have no idea. Some twisted sense of duty or cruel obligation to some silent uncaring god, I imagine.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I am a collector of beautiful things. I know you won’t give me the Duchess, but for the price of this old man’s life, and sparing me from having to harm anyone else I should find that you might care about, I ask for something, oh so simple.”

  “What?”

  “Give me three hairs from the Duchess. Just three hairs from the top of her head is all I ask. I want her golden hair for my collection. That is all. Nothing more, nothing less.” He rubbed his hands together with glee. “Do we have a bargain?”

  The Sellsword grated his teeth but answered, “Yes.”

  “I can’t wait. The sooner you comply, the sooner we release your friend.”

  The Sellsword pointed at Varlak. “He better remain unharmed. Release him from that yoke and see to his injuries, or I’ll take it out on your men and you.”

  Varlak gave a welcoming gesture and signaled his men to do as the Sellsword had asked.

  ***

  Venturing from Varlak’s tower, he took a zigzag pattern through the streets to better be sure of not being followed. Only after several wild turns and lying in wait was he sure he was alone, and then proceeded to the far tower and the secret entrance to Anaias’s lair.

  He went up the broken stair to the keep and once inside, opened the trapdoor and slid down. He jogged down the dimly lit tunnel, past the street bazaar where he could hear the merchants hawking their wares even if he could not see them.

  When the tunnel forked, he followed the right-hand path until a chamber opened with two men playing cards. They jolted in a panic, struggling for their weapons. If it had been an attack they would have been dead and they knew it.

  “Wasn’t I expected?”

  “You shouldn’t do that to a body,” said the first one. The second nodded.

  “I’m here to see Anaias and the Duchess.”

  “They are expecting you, and uh, don’t tell them you caught us with our pants down, huh?”

  The Sellsword grunted and went through the door as the second man pulled back the lever, revealing the hidden tunnel.

  It was only dark for a moment, until the small chamber he was in spun about and he was facing the greater hidden fortress. He strode past the wounded and other thugs of Anaias, still in disarray from losing the upper tower.

  An underboss, who recognized the Sellsword, thumbed that he was to proceed to the back room.

  Through a great beaded curtain and down a short flight of steps, he found himself in another opulent hall which was just as grand as the one that had been destroyed. Here a handful of the wealthier merchants and guildsmen were gambling and drinking as if there was no civil war and Dragon Powder had not demolished their earlier playground.

  Anaias w
as seated at a table with Nicene and a few others the Sellsword did not recognize. He strode toward them and a thug, in a dented cuirass with a flared scimitar at his belt, tried to bar passage.

  “Where do you think, you’re going?” growled the thug, with a pipe between his teeth.

  “Didn’t you learn about the dangers of fire the other night?” retorted the Sellsword.

  The thug made a move toward the blade at his belt, but the Sellsword already had him in an arm bar and hurled him to the ground.

  Several other reacted, included those with flatbows, but Anaias noticed and hoarsely shouted them down. “Easy, he’s supposed to be here.”

  The Sellsword strode past the thug who struggled to pick himself up off the ground. He stood beside Nicene. “Varlak has a strange request.”

  Nicene who had been near to dozing, blinked aware. “What does he want?”

  “He said he wants three of your hairs for his collection.”

  Anaias murmured something to his men, and one got up and left in a hurry.

  “What’s that about?” asked the Sellsword.

  “I just want to be sure you weren’t followed,” whispered Anaias, with a concerned look.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, well for all the good you do, you sure bring a load of bad luck my way,” rasped Anaias.

  “I daren’t give him my hair,” said Nicene. “Who knows what he would do with it?” She shivered in disgust.

  “That’s what I wanted to ask Anaias. What might he want it for?”

  Anaias gave a cruel grin and looked at Nicene. “You ought to leave for a minute and let the men talk.”

  “No, I can hear whatever it is you have to say,” she said stubbornly.

  “Go! Now!” Anaias rattled as loudly as he could. “I mean it.”

  She got up with a huff and slammed her chair into the table, disturbing the wine goblets and causing one to topple over. She stormed off to the back and vanished in shadows.

  Anaias gestured for the Sellsword to sit. “I don’t wanna have to raise my voice again and I don’t wanna repeat myself, so listen up. Varlak specializes in transmutations, that’s his thing, that’s what brought us to this hellhole, All-Death, in the first place. But he is also a dabbler in potions and summoning’s. I think if he had Nicene’s hair he might be able to summon her. It’s unusual as humans are the only beings in the universe that can’t be summoned by name alone. Unless of course they allow themselves to be, most do it for money nowadays.”