The Mercenary Prince (Legends of Windemere Book 9)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  Delvin wrinkles his nose at the smell of garbage that fills the air when the rain is nothing more than a gentle trickle. To avoid being recognized, he keeps his cloak around his body and bends his cowl further over his head while waiting for Tzefira to finish her dealings. A few rough-looking elves eye the pair as they come out of an herbalist shop, but the warriors move away when the Mercenary Prince pats his bastard sword and growls. His attention shifts to the tavern at the end of the street where he plans on beginning the search for his old friends. As if taunting him, the rain turns into a rare sprinkle that the citizens take advantage of. People rush through the wide street, only a few keeping their cloaks on as they try to reach their destination or the next awning. The calm lasts for five minutes before a fresh downpour beats on the rooftops and drenches those that were not fast enough.

  “You should have made a run for it,” Tzefira says as she finishes placing gold coins on the counter. She hoists a bundle of kindling onto the windowsill, earning a big grin from the appreciative blacksmith. “I’m only getting some suits of armor and weapons. You don’t have to help me carry it back since you’re not one of my men.”

  “I feel like I owe you for letting me come along,” Delvin replies with a sigh. He flinches when a hand smacks his shoulder and knocks him out from under the store’s awning. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Get used to it if you’re serious about us being family,” the scarred elf mentions while her men grab the new gear. She waits for the mercenaries to leave before extending her hand to the champion. “I know your reputation, Mercenary Prince. You never let friends down when they need help and you always do what you feel is right, which is odd for a mercenary. Makes sense for an adventurer though, which is why I trust you’ll take good care of my daughter. Though you should get back to your friends as soon as you can.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t have left?”

  “I’m saying that you should stop thinking you made a mistake by leaving,” Tzefira replies before touching the polished shield. She traces the winged stag with her finger before realizing why the symbol seems familiar. “Nyx turned my bracelet into this shield and gave it to you. That means you’re special to her and she supports your decision. Remember that, young man, and do whatever it takes to return to her alive. Hell, get back to Nyx half alive and let her nurse you back to health. Just focus on doing what you have to do. That’s how you survived as a mercenary and it’s how you’re going to survive as a champion.”

  Delvin smirks and tightly clasps the woman’s forearm. “In other words, stop moping and don’t be an idiot. I agree since I’ll have to be the Mercenary Prince again in this town. I already lost count of the times I’ve been sized up. Good luck with your next job.”

  Tzefira waits for the younger warrior to let go of her arm before knocking on his shield and trudging toward the town’s heavily reinforced gate. Delvin waits until she is through the modest-sized doors before collecting his thoughts and getting his mindset back to that of a sword-for-hire. Fort Journeyman has a reputation for being almost as dangerous as Rodillen, but the threat here is in the easily angered residents. Unlike the thief-run city, the hub of the mercenary system will see you dead more often than robbed. The deaths are always because of a fight over payment or some ridiculous misunderstanding, which means it is best to watch your step and give off the air of someone not to be challenged.

  Deciding to make an impact, Delvin stuffs his cloak into his bottomless pouch and strides through the downpour. Rain splatters against his polished chainmail and rivulets run down his shield, both of the enchanted items unable to rust. There is nothing but a cold stare on the warrior’s face as his hair is drenched and his boots are caked with mud. He glances at the tavern’s hanging sign, the twin maces having recently been repainted. The sounds of singing and arguing can be heard through a crack in the window, so he remains to the side of the door in case a hapless drunk is sent hurtling into the street. A familiar shout causes Delvin to pause and curse, the task of finding his old friends suddenly developing a new obstacle.

  “I really hoped she would be on a job,” he mutters while making sure his weapon is loose in its scabbard. The warrior is surprised to find that the sword is dry, making him briefly wonder how much of its old enchantment remains. “Hopefully this meeting goes as smoothly as it did with Theresa.”

  The tavern goes silent when Delvin opens the door and wipes the water from his face. He removes his wet gloves and tosses them into a nearby bin that sits at the feet of an old, stuffed giltris. All of the mercenaries watch the warrior, who recognizes several of the faces including those that are sporting a few new scars. An Orcish bartender signals for a trio of bards to continue their performance, which causes half of the cautious audience to return to their conversations. The rest refuse to turn away from Delvin because of the woman sitting on a chair that has been nailed to the top of the central table. Hiding a smirk behind the rim of her mug, the blonde takes a long sip of ale and calmly examines the familiar figure. Not wanting to come off as threatening, she unstraps the shortsword from her side and lets it drop into the hands of one of her men. Leaning back in her chair, the short-haired woman drapes a leg over the arm and flicks a peanut shell off her leather armor.

  “Delvin Cunningham the Mercenary Prince . . . or is it Delvin Cunningham the champion of Windemere now?” she asks to the chuckling of their audience. When the other warrior opens his mouth to talk, she throws her mug and the remaining ale splashing onto his boots. “How dare you retain your title after leaving the trade? As the Mercenary Princess, I order you to choose a successor and leave Fort Journeyman forever. Or you can simply put up a fight and let us beat some sense into you. Doubt you’re much of a threat without your friends.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Belle,” Delvin replies with a yawn. He tucks his hands into his pockets and takes a seat at the bar, nodding as a drink is placed in front of him. “Thanks for remembering my credit, Geldyn. Can I get anyone some ale before I leave? I only stopped for a drink and then I’m heading back to business.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” his old lover shouts, startling everyone in the tavern. The slender woman grabs her weapon and leaps off the table to approach the bar. “I’m not letting you take the top spot in this place again, Cunningham. You always claimed the best jobs and left me the scraps even though we’re of equal rank. I refuse to let you stroll into my turf and act like you’re better than me.”

  With a lazy yawn, Delvin passes a drink to Belle and rolls his shoulders. “I’m only here to find my old gang and ask if they’ll help me with a special job. I’ve no interest in stealing work from you. Although I should point out that I am better than you because I don’t get riled to the point of making a mistake. Sorry about the insult, but I never lied to you when we were together and I don’t plan on starting now.”

  “Such a benevolent soul. What do I get for telling you where Tavris and the others are?”

  “You can claim my remaining credit in Fort Journeyman.”

  “I can get that by beating you in combat. Survivalist rules after all.”

  The sound of scraping chairs causes Delvin to turn and face the mercenaries that are moving to surround him. The six men are dressed in black and show clear signs of having taken several punches to the face. The only differences between them are the styles and colors of their hair, which the champion guesses are to help Belle tell the brutes apart. Maintaining his unconcerned façade, Delvin notices that all of his potential opponents are rubbing their knuckles. Their gloves are tight around their wrists and fingers while the rest of the hand looks suspiciously thick. With a sip of his drink, the warrior hides his prideful smile at recognizing the shape of hidden metal knuckles and solid plates. He puts his sword and shield on the bar while fixing his belt to make sure his chainmail does not shift too much during the fight.

  “Were you this difficult when we were together?” Delvin asks while rubbing his chin and sizing up the taller warri
ors. When he realizes that none of them are as big as Timoran or move as gracefully as Luke, the young man yawns again. “Maybe I only remember the good stuff, Belle, but I don’t remember you being this combative. Foolish and short-sighted, but you could usually be bribed rather easily. I’m going to be nice and recommend that you have your boys stand down.”

  The blonde warrior takes a seat on the bar and licks her lips. “Sorry. You made me mad and they tend to lose control when their precious princess is insulted. Anything else to say before we take everything you own and toss you out of my territory?”

  “Do you have a schedule with them or do they draw straws every night to see who gets to bed you?”

  Belle taps her finger on the bar, which is the signal for her warriors to pounce. Delvin tackles the man in the middle, taking a few awkward punches to his back. His armor dulls the impacts as he stomps on his first target’s groin and scrambles under a table, which he flips over to block his pursuers. The other patrons move to the edges of the room while Belle gleefully whoops and shouts orders from the bar. Delvin kicks a chair in the way of some of his opponents before sidestepping and catching a punch. With a grunt, he flips the long-haired man over his shoulder and through another table. The other mercenaries converge on the champion and deliver painful blows to his ribs. He silently wishes he could get to his shield, so he is surprised when the enchanted disc barrels through his enemies and straps itself to his arm.

  “Guess I didn’t need to call for you,” Delvin says with a smirk. He blocks an incoming punch and kicks the man’s knee, the crunch causing the crowd to groan in sympathy. “You might want to call your pets off. Unless you’re in the mood to recruit some new fodder. Seriously, Belle, can you even spell standards?”

  The woman leaps off the bar and rushes into the fight, but she is shoved back by her remaining men. One of them is about to talk when Delvin punches him in the face, the strike sending several teeth flying at Belle. She picks one of the bone shards off of her armor and flicks it at the champion, who is receiving a solid blow to his chest. The Mercenary Princess dives over a chair when Delvin crashes to the floor, the woman hurrying to pin him with her knee against his throat. Her two remaining followers prepare to punch the downed warrior in the stomach until he passes out. Both of them grunt when their fists hit the shield and they try to attack again before their enemy can retaliate. With a strangled roar, Delvin shoves Belle backwards and into the path of her men’s fists. The punches strike her chest and the clear snap of a few bones is followed her sharp gasp of shock and pain.

  “You two are definitely fired,” the brown-haired champion says in a strained voice. He retrieves his bastard sword and whirls around to smack the charging mercenaries in the face with the scabbarded weapon. One of the men collapses immediately while the other requires a half-hearted shield strike to his stomach. “I really didn’t want to fight you, Belle. Our time together wasn’t that bad even though it only lasted two months and you left me in trouble at least once a week. Anyway, I politely suggest you use your recovery time to reconsider your recruitment standards. These guys are beneath you . . . unless their willingness to assume that position is part of your requirements.”

  “Go to hell, Cunningham!” Belle shouts as the crowd laughs at her defeat. Holding her sides, she unleashes a flood of curses at the other mercenaries until they stop. “Do you have any idea how much damage you’ve done to my reputation? I’m going to be out of action for weeks and people are going to spread word of my defeat to every corner of Ralian. It will take months for me to do enough big jobs to be taken seriously again.”

  “Actually, you and your men challenged a champion of Windemere,” the bartender interjects, his pronounced lower jaw making his grin seem predatory. “You’ll be lucky to retain your title by the time you recover and get a new crew together. That’s if anyone will work with someone stupid enough to attack this man.”

  Belle glares at her former lover and groans when she tries to stand, the woman falling to her knees. “Are you happy, Delvin? I’m injured, embarrassed, and back to the beginning of my career. Do you want anything else from me?”

  “You could tell me where Tavris and the others can be found since that’s what I wanted in the first place,” the warrior replies while pulling a healing potion out of his pouch. He pops the cork and offers the bottle to the woman, who begrudgingly snatches it from his hand. “I don’t want any problems that will come back to haunt me, so you can still have the credits. All I want is the information I need. Stop being so stubborn, Belle, and make the smart move for once in your life.”

  The blonde woman drains the potion and throws the container back to Delvin. “Go to the House of Battered Bones. Hope you aren’t disappointed in what you find there.”

  *****

  Sitting across from a small Neberith temple, wooden skeletons have been posed to look like fighters on top of the House of Battered Bones. The building always has the top floor’s windows open, which allows everyone to hear the grunts and cheers from inside. It is the widest structure in the city as well as the only one with a concave roof to catch the rain. A central vent allows the water to flow through pipes that deliver the water to a series of barrels scattered about the interior. Those inside are constantly filling cups with the free drink when they are no longer able to afford a beer. Since the business is always open and crowded, there has never been a problem with flooding. The worst that has happened is an overzealous patron dumping the contents of a barrel into the roped off pit. It is a rather common event and one that is welcomed by the combatants who are fighting for pride, respect, and money.

  Delvin sits in a corner and watches the other mercenaries bet on the next match, the halfling owner standing near a rankings board and shouting odds. He orders another ale with a quick wave and jerks his thumb to notify the waitress that he wants the drink without the addition of water. A cheer erupts from the crowd as a bare-chested dwarf takes a kick to the face from a lithe calico. Delvin is impressed that they are allowing men to fight women since it never happened during his tenure. As the calico finishes her fight with an elbow to the dwarf’s forehead, the champion imagines what destruction one of his female companions would do in a match. The thought of Dariana beating several opponents at once while apologizing or Sari charming her enemy into leaving the pit brings a smile to his face. He shudders when he imagines Nyx blasting away half the building and forcing them to escape an army of furious mercenaries.

  “How are you enjoying the fight from back here?” asks the halfling as he approaches the Mercenary Prince. The finely dressed businessman takes a seat and lights his pipe, tossing the match into a nearby barrel. “I never thought you would come back into my place of business after you left the fold. I’m not seeing any of your new companions, which is a shame. I’d have loved to see that barbarian in the pit.”

  “You’ve had his people in here before, Nicholas,” Delvin replies while accepting his drink and taking a sip. He is surprised to taste coffee instead of ale, which causes him to suspiciously eye the black-haired halfling. “My newest companion is a woman who would wipe the floor with your best fighter. Maybe I’ll introduce you to her if we’re ever in the area. Not like I’d have to worry about her getting hurt. Thanks for the coffee that I didn’t order.”

  “Trouble follows you, my friend, and I don’t want your senses dulled,” the businessman states, leaning over the table in order to speak lower. “Your return has done more than rile Belle Carson. By the way, I’m making a no champion policy, which means you’re not allowed to touch my fighters. Outside of self-defense, of course.”

  “Well that goes without saying.”

  Nicholas glances over his shoulder and gestures for his announcer to start a fight between two female orcs. The women are identical twins who are wearing matching outfits to give the audience and workers a challenge in discerning the winner. As the halfling signals for his employee to subtly mark one of the fighters with a tiny colored spot, his arm mo
mentarily lingers in the direction of a heavyset warrior. The massive figure is dressed in blue and red robes, but every movement reveals flexible plates of armor beneath the thin fabric. His short white hair and long red beard help him stand out even more among the other mercenaries. Delvin observes that the man’s thick walking stick is really a metal staff expertly colored to resemble gnarled wood, a brief glint off the top the only sign of its true nature.

  The champion nearly gets out of his seat when the crowd closes in around the pit and reveals a trio of miserable mercenaries standing around the robed man. He recognizes three of his former traveling companions and a pang of guilt hits his heart as he watches them. The fully covered Scorpion is the only one whose mood Delvin is unsure of even though the slouch of the agile warrior speaks volumes. A crude bandage is around Gerdo Rintz’s neck, the lanky warrior in leather armor scratching at the uncomfortable wrapping. He pulls his messy, black hair into a ponytail, which gives his old leader a clear view of the first signs of gangrene on his friend’s flesh. Only his twin broadswords have retained their luster, the weapons strapped to his back in specialized, glass scabbards. The last of the trio now has a shaved head that makes his weasel-like face more pronounced. Pelo the Swift fixes his favorite blue tunic and adjusts his scimitar, his hand staying on the hilt long enough for Delvin to know the thought going through the man’s mind.