BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  The Sellsword scrutinized Anaias’s words, these were matters beyond his ken.

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you? I’m not gonna explain it more than summoning daemons, spirits and such. Listen, it’s possible for him to make her to come, even if she doesn’t want too. If he has her hair or toenail clippings, something of her body, he can get a hold on her soul and pull, he can draw her body along with the spirit and then she’ll be physically in his grasp. Whatever you do, don’t give him any part of her, unless you don’t care if she dies.” He grinned and winked.

  “Why didn’t you want her to know this?”

  “Women are frail and stupid. They don’t understand that they are just pieces on the board of our world to move around the game. Oh, they like to think they are players, but you and I know the truth. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have even bothered telling me that Varlak wants her hair unless he had a stake in the game with you? Something you want?”

  “He has a friend of mine that he is threatening to kill unless he gets the hair.”

  Anaias slapped his knee. “There you go. The game goes on. Now, you have to decide what matters more. Your friend or her? Wait,” he paused, “You have a friend? Who?”

  “A good acquaintance.”

  “Whatever. You decide. I personally don’t care either way. Nicene has worn out her usefulness to me and she is getting on my nerves. I’m tired of hearing how she thinks she is going to help run the city when this is all over. She won’t be ruling anything, even in jest. It might even be a good thing for me to be rid of her sooner than later.” He seemed to ponder a long time, staring at a point in the ceiling. “Where was I? Oh, yes. You decide Sellsword, and with my blessing do what needs to be done. She won’t be hard to gain hairs from. Look here, on her chair, there is one now.” He grabbed a long blonde hair from the neck of the chair. “One down. Two to go.” He cocked his head and gave an evil grin.

  The Sellsword took the hair and put it in his pouch. Then turned to leave.

  “Oh, and Sellsword,” called Anaias after him. The Sellsword turned to glance at him. “You better finish this matter up quick, the next time I see you I might be saying its go time. My preparations for an assault on Varlak are almost complete, and then that bastard will get a hell of a surprise when the walls come tumbling down around him.”

  The Sellsword nodded his agreement. “He will.”

  “I grow weary of this fence sitting of yours. I have no more patience for it. We are going to move when I give the word.”

  “How soon?”

  “Within the day.”

  “Understood.”

  “When you’re ready to leave, have my man, Odacer show you out.” Odacer, a tall man with a shock of blond hair and a long beard nodded.

  The Sellsword nodded back and went to find Nicene. She was drinking wine by herself at the far end of the dimly lit hall.

  Nicene looked at him with bleary eyes. She had been crying and apparently drinking a lot. There was an empty bottle beside her and another half empty. “I can guess what you were speaking of. You want my hair to give that old pervert so he can fantasize about me and ravish me in his dreams, well, I won’t have it. Just because I’m a normal woman with needs and had an impotent husband does not make me a bad person.” She took another big swallow of wine.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve heard the rumors, I know it. Someone must have told you by now, even if I was afraid too.” She almost fell off her stool. “The Duke was impotent.” She held a finger skyward and let it dangle downwards. “The Marquis was furious when he found out he would never have an heir beyond his son. He wanted to do the job himself, but I wasn’t about to lay with that dirty old man. You on the other hand, you,” she smiled, and fell into his arms. He propped her back up on the stool. “I’ve had a few lovers. So, what? I had needs, you know? A few greedy fools thought they could bribe the Duke and I…” She snorted. “Anaias took care of them for me. He’s a good friend. But I think he is tired of me too. I need someone like you to look after me.”

  The Sellsword remained silent through this, then took her wine glass and emptied it himself.

  “Hey! Wait a minute. You want my hair for that old bastard. Why?”

  “He has a friend of mine.”

  She put her hands over her white-golden curls. “No, it’s my hair. You can’t take it to give to that old bastard.”

  “I’m not going too, but if Anaias asks, tell him I did.”

  She had a puzzled look on her face. “Really?”

  “You should go to bed. Get some rest.”

  “My room is that way,” she gestured absently behind her. She fell from the stool again, but he caught her and picked her up. She giggled.

  He carried her down the hall until she said, “That one.” He brought her inside and laid her on the bed. A low burning flame coiled in the small brick fireplace. Nicene snuggled into the warm white furs and moved her body back and forth. “Why don’t you stay a bit? With me,” she cooed.

  He lay beside her for a moment when movement caught his eye in the dimly lit room. He thought at first it was shadows playing tricks on him or maybe a rat, but it moved with a different articulation. Climbing across the top of the poster beds rail it let itself down the wooden frame. Nicene was snoring, so he leaned up on his elbow to look closer. Whatever it was dropped halfway down on the bed, plump like a kitten, and made its way rapidly toward them. Putting a hand beneath the blanket, he flung it away and stood up to examine it.

  It was a great, hairy black spider, big as a kitten! He took his thrusting sword and caught the creature through the abdomen just as it righted itself and came back for an attack. Its legs spasmed as he held it up on his blade. The myriad eyes leered hate while the massive fangs moved back and forth like sharp pendulums. He tossed it into the fire and it writhed in terrible tremors before going still and smoking. He glanced about for more, but saw none.

  “What was that?” she asked sleepily.

  “Nothing. Sleep,” he said, before leaving and closing the door.

  ***

  Out on the street, the Sellsword pulled out the one hair of Nicene’s he had and let the wind take hold and carry it away. He pondered what to do as he walked slowly toward Varlak’s tower. If he acted like he had the hairs and would give them up, could he assault the flatbow men, and guards, and slay them in time to save the old man? Unlikely, they all knew his speed now and would be cautious to keep themselves spread apart with multiple bowmen on guard. There had to be another way.

  A pungent stink hit his nostrils and he looked to the left to see a dairy and butcher shop. A few cows were already strung up to be drawn and quartered, a dozen more stalled not far away. Pigs, chickens, and goats were all in cramped pens to the side. Several men busied themselves with the task at hand. A horrendous snorting occurred along with loud thumps. The Sellsword saw the sides of the stable buckle under the force of something kicking it. Curved horns and a massive hump covered in tawny hair were visible above the corral but nothing more.

  “What’s that?” he asked one of the butchers.

  “A bull named Bijoro,” said the butcher.

  The Sellsword’s ears perked at the name.

  The butcher continued. “He’s a big mean one from up the valley. Master Tanner said he was too dangerous to keep so we bought him, thinking about using him for the arena, but he’s already killed three bull fighters, a lion, and a drake. No one dares to face him, and there is nothing to be done with him that doesn’t involve harm, so he is to be butchered. Tough meat, but the poor will eat him.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Sure. Are you a bull fighter?”

  “You could say that,” answered the Sellsword, as he hopped the fence and strode to the stable to look at the bull. It was a huge beast with thick, brown horns and dark eyes. Its hide was a reddish tan, but the hump on its back was covered with long, sandy colored hair. He reached over and patted the
animal, and it slammed against the stall in agitation.

  “What did I tell you? He’s mean.”

  Another butcher repeated the same tale. “Bijoro has slain more than three bullfighters, that’s just what he did last week in the arena. There is no money with him since no one will bet against him. He is a threat to all other living things.”

  The Sellsword looked at him for that remark and grinned. He hopped back up on the corral and reached over and yanked a few hairs from Bijoro’s hump. The bull snorted, stomped and rammed its horns against the pen once again.

  “I wish you wouldn’t a done that, he’s going to be powerful ornery when we have to take him down,” said the first butcher.

  “When?”

  “Later today,” answered the other.

  “Keep him at least one more day while I make up my mind if I will buy him.”

  “His meat is worth at least twenty silver dinars,” said the first butcher, as if thinking it was an exorbitant amount.

  The Sellsword tossed him a gold crown.

  The butcher’s eyes went wide. “He’s yours.”

  “Let me make up my mind within a day or so.” The butchers looked suspiciously at him. “Whether I do or don’t, you can keep that, but give me a little time to find where I can house him.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  With three long blonde hairs in hand, the Sellsword strode away.

  ***

  Passing through the bazaar markets, the Sellsword found a scent-shop and purchased a few drops of sweet oil to coat the hairs in and give them a pleasing feminine odor. He also bought a small black velvet pouch to put them in. He then hurried to Varlak’s tower.

  He was met outside the tower by a motley group of men. Several were wounded and all of them looked at the Sellsword with malice. He kept near the fountain, a good thirty paces from the gate of the tower.

  “Tell Varlak I have come and would do the exchange with him outside his walls.”

  The sniveling voice of the wizard boomed from out the top of the balcony above. “If you would treat with me, turncoat, you must do it inside.”

  “I have what you want, but I will not be cornered.” He held out a bag of black velvet.

  “Don’t trust me eh?” taunted Varlak.

  “No more than you do me.”

  Varlak pondered a moment. “Let my man, Styrling, inspect the package.”

  “And you will bring the old man out here to the gates and release him.”

  “If Styrling says you have the package.”

  The Sellsword stood his ground and made the man, Styrling come to him. He had placed himself as far from bowshot as possible so he could gain cover.

  Styrling casually strolled up the Sellsword, muttering under his breath, “This better be worthwhile, or I’ll have my men stake you to the ground with their arrows.”

  “You’d be the first to die, dog.”

  Styrling frowned, but glanced at the package as if he expected a poisonous serpent to be inside. The Sellsword held it open. Three golden hairs were plainly evident against the black velvet.

  Styrling turned and faced the balcony, shouting, “It is here, my Lord.” He tried to pull it from the Sellsword’s grasp, but his grip was feeble in comparison.

  “Get the old man, or you die first.”

  “Give me the bag, and I will return the old goat.”

  The Sellsword snorted. “Varlak, I’ll not deal with your lackey’s anymore. Bring me the old man, or kiss this chance goodbye.”

  Varlak snarled, “Fetch the old man.” A pair of men near the door went inside and returned a minute later with the old man between them. He was battered and bruised, but capable of walking.

  “Let him go, you jackals.”

  Varlak signaled the go ahead, and they released the old man who slowly walked forward. It was apparent that he half-expected an arrow in the back as he moved toward the Sellsword. When the old man reached them, Styrling again tried to snatch the bag and the Sellsword kept it and shoved him to the ground.

  “Don’t snatch,” growled the Sellsword, tossing the velvet bag onto his chest.

  “This isn’t over,” said Styrling as he got to his feet.

  The Sellsword ushered the old man to keep moving but said to Styrling, “Next time, you’ll taste my steel, lackey.”

  Styrling drew his blade halfway, but Varlak called him back. “Styrling! Not yet!”

  “Next time, you northern dog,” he muttered.

  The Sellsword stood ready for the man’s attack but none came. Styrling let his sword fall back in his scabbard. He spat and then turned around and went back to the keep, barking at his comrades.

  The Sellsword kept a hand on his hilt glaring at the rest of Varlak’s retinue before he and the old man disappeared around the corner.

  22. The Curse

  The Sellsword guided the old man up the steps of The King’s Crown since he still couldn’t see very well. “Just get me inside and I’ll know everything by feel again. I’ll be all right.” He stumbled on the final step, but the Sellsword caught him. “Let me go. I’m not a cripple.”

  The old man felt the familiar wooden bar, worn smooth by the years and innumerable patron’s hands. He felt around to the far side where he could flip the counter and go behind it. “This is probably gonna kill my business, you know that right? Nobody is going to want to patronize a man that could get snatched up by the wizards at any moment.”

  “Varlak said he wouldn’t do it again, once I gave him the package,” said the Sellsword, sitting himself down on a bar stool.

  “Ha! And you trust that? Who is the bigger fool here? You, or the fellow who stares back at you in the mirror? Hey, what was in that package anyway?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to take care of itself.”

  “Yeah, you say that about everything. Then look what happened to me!” He pointed at his face with a purple forefinger.

  “I got you out of it.”

  “You put me in it!” The old man sat down and rubbed at his sore face. “What made you pick my place out of all the ones the city had to offer anyway?”

  “The name. I’m partial to it.”

  The old man laughed. “What a joke is life. I named the place back when I was young and had hopes of currying favor back with King Dalee, then there was King Williamsun, then the tyrant King Forlock and now we have the Usurper. Each one worse than the last.”

  “What do you have against the Usurper?”

  The old man rubbed his head and said, “I guess I just don’t like the change. The idea that this warlord could come in from the north and just take over the kingdom. Nobody saw that coming.”

  “That’s the way of things when they get too settled. I know how the kingdom was: I know Forlock was an evil man. He was taken care of, just like this city will be.”

  “Ha!” laughed the old man. “Nobody is coming to save us. We are the forgotten. We are cursed.”

  “I’m here.”

  “You! You’re just a two-bit Sellsword who has succeeded with a brilliant amount of luck. Though I’ll give that what you did for Denae was something special,” he paused a moment before raising his trembling hands and his voice, “and that’s the only reason I’m not kicking you out of my bar right now!”

  “Easy old man, you need to heal.”

  Though his swollen eyes rendered him more than half blind, the old man knew the bar. He found a tankard, filled it to the top, and shoved it toward the Sellsword, saying, “You bet I do. I need sleep too. What will you do now?”

  “The kettle boils and I’ve to feed a little more fuel to the fire so that it will burn out quick.”

  “Riddles. All I hear from you are riddles and jokes. If you weren’t such a bloody man, it would be amusing, but argh,” he trailed off.

  A young man, not yet capable of growing a beard, but wearing an oversized helm rapped at the door. He was breathing hard from running. “Sellsword?”

  “Yeah?”

  �
��Anaias orders you to join him immediately.”

  “Where?” grumbled the Sellsword, taking a deep draught of mead.

  “He is assembling his men across from Varlak’s tower.”

  “Does he think they’ll just let him in?”

  “They have a ram. A big one.” He held his arms outstretched as if that could convey anything of a battering rams size. His oversized helm almost fell off his scalp. He caught it and blushed.

  The Sellsword smirked. “I’m coming.”

  The runner departed and the Sellsword looked to the old man. “It’s gonna get ugly. You going to be all right?”

  “Better than you,” he said, with a wounded laugh.

  ***

  He rounded a long-crooked corner and there was Y’damantos sitting on the edge of a fountain like he had been expecting the Sellsword to come all along.

  “I’ve wanted to thank you for the other night,” said the shaggy-bearded hedge wizard.

  “I was just upholding the king’s law. They had no right to try and murder you, even if you did interrupt their celebration.”

  Y’damantos threw up his hands in exasperation and mocking solemnity. “Celebration? Bah! A bunch of fornicating tarts and a bugger of a dancer who plays at being a minotaur.”

  The Sellsword remembered something entirely different from that evening. “Maybe you never saw the goddess then.”

  The hedge wizard paused, a worried look across his face for the first time. “You didn’t? No, please tell me you didn’t befoul yourself with that strutting harlot.”

  “She tried to kill me first.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Maybe you had a better idea than I did of what you were getting into.”

  The bushy wizard nodded sagely. “I suppose I did, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to die that night. I have at least ten more years left from what I have seen. I think I will perish upon the black sands of Dar-Alhambra or somewhere that looks like that. And I have no intention of going there for some time.”