A little bit of assassination by a famous band of mercenaries, however, would deliver the right message to the rest of Dellerin’s empire. Fall in line or Heygar’s Hounds will get you.
“One hundred and twenty gold apiece is a mugging!” roared the king. This, too, was a fine reply. He slammed his fist down on the table. The table appeared unperturbed by such an assault, as was the mercenary.
“One hundred and thirty gold apiece.”
“You dare to barter with me in such a way?” Lemier cried, looking every day his twenty years. Heygar was double this span and thrice as experienced. He had seen and led wars, and Lemier had done little more than taste a lover's gift and enter a biased tournament or two.
“You should know who you dare challenge. One hundred and fifty,” whispered Heygar. This was going splendidly. He slid a thin, iridescent dagger from his wrist gauntlet smoothly. Eralorien, his weaver, had spent hours casting a fragile illusion on it, and it took a moment for Heygar’s eyes to acclimatise to its deadliness. It took the king even less.
The mercenary shook the enchantment from the blade as though covered in droplets from the rain, and he watched the weapon reveal itself in all its glory. King Lemier’s face grew pale. He eyed the doorway from which he’d entered, a few feet away. He might make the precarious journey before Heygar charged him down, but he made no move to do so.
Heygar could read the man’s thoughts easily enough. What type of foolish king allowed himself to sit and negotiate with an armed mercenary? A king that would require new guards with a keener eye for weakly concealed weapons. They had taken his longsword and shield and assumed a man of his integrity would leave himself defenceless. They did not know his legend at all, did they? They never would.
The city gallows would know ample business come dawn, he imagined. Heygar should have felt guilt for knowingly damning the three men who had secretly escorted him into these chambers, but money was money. There was nothing like a little fear to loosen the pockets of a parsimonious royal.
“It would take but a cry from my mouth for the guards to stream through the doorway,” the king whispered, feigning confidence.
Heygar laughed.
“And when the first fell, I would have two weapons in my hands. You could send an entire legion into this room, and they would fall under my blade, but you would never see the eventual outcome regardless. So, cry out, my liege.”
The royal said nothing.
“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. It is possible you might escape with most of your limbs intact, and I would eventually fall, probably out in the gardens somewhere among the waterlilies, and that would be the end of the infamous Heygar. But remember this: I still have my six remaining Hounds, and I am uncertain what retaliation they would take on the kingdom. I have led them for a time. I am their king in everything but entitled blood.” He slid the blade through his apple, carving a thin slice and popping it into his mouth. Delicious. “One hundred and sixty.”
“Can you do this deed loudly?” the king asked after a few cautious breaths.
“The Seven can do anything asked as long as there is payment.” Heygar had never known true defeat, even in war. He had been a fine enough general, he supposed, but as a leader of a wild group of mercenaries, he had found something close to divinity. Had the king not heard the tales? Had he not hummed the songs? He probably had, hence the lack of outcry to a pack of doomed guardians standing guard outside the door.
“And what if Mallum offers thrice for you to return the favour?”
Heygar couldn’t decide if he were trying to insult him. The young man’s hands were still shaking, so he forgave him the insinuation.
“You may accuse me of lashing a hard bargain, but if I give my word, it is a gift worth more than gold. Think of it as this, Your Highness. If I accepted payment from every man or woman who pleaded for their predestined lives with oaths of quadrupled payments, I’d have retired many a year ago or else never received a second bout of employment due to earning myself a bad name. If you pay me, Mallum will die,” Heygar said with a coldness shared only by a man who treated death with the respect it deserved.
The king took a few moments to consider this. Heygar could have truthfully added that he did, in fact, favour this king’s seat. He was no great political mind, and he had brought no great prosperity to the people, but crime was at an unprecedented low, and hunger was scarce enough across the land. Under a different ruler, everything could easily change. Heygar was no saint, but a few bags of gold were no excuse to hurt those who idolised him and his Hounds. He intended to do the king’s biddings. He could have said this, but that would have set his opponent’s worries at ease. Business was business, and he still wanted payment.
“For your word, I will pay two hundred apiece. One quarter now, and the rest upon your return,” Lemier whispered and placed his hands upon the table.
Heygar dared a smile. He thought it a fine counter-offer. The king was speaking his language and winning his favour outright.
“Deal struck, my liege.” Heygar spat into his hand and held it out. It was a crude gesture used by commoners, and to his surprise, the king mimicked the act and shook his hand firmly.
For only the briefest moment, Heygar imagined the king may have been willing to part ways with a little more, but it didn’t really matter. He had more than enough to pay off the last payment on the ring he intended for Cherrie. And after that? Well, retirement was but a breath or two away.
There was the matter of a little bit of killing in the world’s most unforgiving place. Once word spread that The Seven were marching, Mallum would know well his fate, and he would be waiting. Heygar thought it doubtful that the dead man would step into the source without a terrible fight.
2
Cast A Lure
As Heygar suspected, the king had him escorted from the palace, but not before they paraded him through the court. Every visit to this room always impressed him, with its obsidian floor, marble walls, and decorative sheets of glistening hanging silk. A lesser man might lose the run of himself, imagining himself becoming a king and sitting upon the lavish throne of silver and crystal, but Heygar had little aspirations for such a title.
His footsteps echoed loudly as the crowd of privileged dukes and regents fell silent to his peasant’s march. He could read it on their powder-painted faces, and they were correct. The weaver known as Mallum was about to learn the full reach of his king.
Heygar concealed his disdain for the insincere bows offered. Replying with a slight tilt of his head to all other males in attendance, he did almost enough to show deference. The ladies of the court, regardless of age or status, thrust out their chests that little more, for he was the dominant male in this room—the real king, should he try. To them, he offered a polite smile of acknowledgement, and to those with fancier allurements, he allowed his eyes to drop further to enjoy their gifts a little more. Let them take it as a compliment. Besides, he was a full-blooded man, was he not?
Waiting guards opened the court’s doors of golden adornment. Freedom from such wealthy decadence was all but a step away. Then a large, booming voice called out to him.
“Good hunting, Heygar of The Seven. May no demons be upon your back,” King Lemier declared, displaying none of the anger or uncertainty he had shown moments before as he seated himself upon his throne. If there had been any doubt why the mercenary was visiting the king at court, there was little now.
Heygar knew well to play his part. He spun around gracefully despite his heavy burden and bowed magnificently. They had paid him a fine fortune. May as well offer all the accoutrements. He placed his hand across his chest, suggesting allegiance.
“For the good of the kingdom, and for the good of my king, I will serve my liege.” That sounded just right.
The king knew well the depth of his loyalty, but such a pledge would keep the howling wolves from the noble gates that little while longer. They whispered words as Heygar left the room. The wheels of rumour had
already begun their turning.
Heygar allowed himself a wry smile as the doomed guards escorted him out through the gardens to the city. By the time they locked the gates behind him, he had convinced himself that when retirement came, he might survive the political cutthroats and the privileged vermin of the royal court. Cherrie would need a little time to adapt to becoming a divine lady of court though.
He laughed to himself at such a thought as he made his way down through the cobbled streets of Dellerin City to meet with his little pack of maniacs. However, not before he made one more secretive liaison with an old friend.
Bereziel’s house was like many others in the centre of the richest part of the city, but it was a mansion without an owner’s love. Heygar never believed Bereziel had truly loved much in his life, apart from fighting with the Hounds, studying the source, or perhaps bedding down with Cherrie. He looked up at the three-story monstrosity and shook his head in dismay. His oldest friend had let the place fall to ruin. It hadn’t tasted a lick of paint since its construction, the impressive gates were rusted right through, and the garden hadn’t received a cutting of any kind in many a season.
Heygar knocked upon the oak doorway. When there was no reply, he turned the handle and stepped into the domain of the finest weaver of the source he had ever known.
“Are you dead?”
The artificial smell of lemongrass permeating throughout the claustrophobic home disguised the smell of damp, age, and rancidness. The door closed behind him, leaving him in near darkness but for a dim light a few floors up.
“General,” croaked a voice from above.
“Not dead, so.”
Heygar began the precarious climb up the wooden stairs. Stacks of archaic tomes and forgotten scrolls, likely scribed with invaluable incantations and weavings, were disregarded upon each step like a toy after its child had grown weary of play. While each creased and tied scroll or stained book were appreciated well enough by Bereziel, to the rest of the ignorant world, they would have been invaluable. The weaver had the finest collection of words gathered upon the source and its weavings, but Bereziel never liked to share. Ever.
Heygar followed the light until he reached the small study on the top floor. It was overflowing with rune stones, bottled ingredients, and mysterious weaving assortments. With even more ancient books filling large bookcases on either side of the room, it was no surprise his friend had let his home fall into disrepair. All the weaver could ever need or desire was in this room.
Bereziel sat perfectly still behind his messy desk as if he were a porcelain figurine—fragile and priceless. With mounds of notes and script on either side of him, he could easily have remained concealed with his head dipped, hiding beneath his long white hair. It was even whiter than Heygar remembered, and it had only been a few months since they had last spoken.
Oh, Bereziel, what have you done to yourself?
“When have you last looked up from one of these books?” Heygar mocked, running his fingers along the nearest volume from his resting place in the doorway. It was The Medicinal History of the Snakewood Shrub, Volume Two.
Fascinating.
Bereziel looked up from his book to this jest, and Heygar cursed in surprise. The improper use of manipulating energies had aged the man. It did with all weavers, but Bereziel had aged as though a century had passed since they last spoke. They were born in the same year, yet Bereziel resembled less a brother and more a grandfather. His skin was tight and yellow, as if wild cancer ran freely through his blood, and his eyes sat in deep, emaciated sockets. The wrinkles that had formed through the unnatural use of the arcane had transformed the man from an intimidating warrior into a decrepit wretch.
“You’ve been weaving something terrible, haven’t you, my old friend?” Heygar said. He felt the weight of the coins in his waist pouch, heavier than before.
“An old man in my position has additional costs. One must accept employment where one can,” the weaver said softly.
Heygar recognised the lie for what it was. Bereziel needed no money. He desired to know more of the world beyond this one, to step where no weaver had in the few hundred years since the first of their kind emerged from their nonexistence. Heygar knew more about weavers than most, but even he was denied any truth or history. He was not their kind.
He wondered if the mystery of their origins was known even to themselves. Perhaps every child who displayed the trait intrinsically knew of their own lineage or learned it from their master. Any time a mere legend as Heygar asked questions of the source and weavings, every weaver he had ever met would leave the question unanswered. A smart man wouldn’t continue pushing at an adawan nest, lest the inhabitants bite. They were as human as the next with unusual abilities, clueless how best to control them.
Bereziel knew how to control his abilities, but soon enough he would spend too much of his soul into weavings and die. Heygar sighed, eyed his friend, and lamented how things had turned out.
With shaking fingers, Bereziel wiped the ash clear of an incense burner and dropped a few stalks of dried lemongrass inside. With a pestle, he ground the plant down and set it alight with a candle. Before the flames could overcome the plant, he blew it out and the embers released a fresh fragrance into the air. Watching how strenuous such a menial task had become for him depressed Heygar greatly. Another great man lost to unnatural things.
“You still spend your fortunes on female company. I thought a few years living in Venistra would shake such urges from you?” Heygar mocked, though the humour was lost in the tragedy he saw in front of him. This was the cost of losing a soul.
He eyed the room’s ramshackle appearance and felt a little guiltier. How many incantations had this man performed for him throughout their life? First, as a general upon the battlefield, and then even more after the last war was won. A great weaver should have focused his efforts on greater things, like love, family, or the unhealthy pursuit of unlimited power. Instead, Bereziel had offered his soul up for the benefit of Heygar’s rising star. However, he had been one of The Seven, so that was something at least.
“Not all of them would charge the rates that Cherrie would,” the weaver said.
Heygar saw the glimmer in the eyes of his old friend. Bereziel had taken her to bed first. He would never allow him to forget that.
Heygar eventually stepped into the room. “Perhaps I’ll tell her you’ve returned from your exile in that cursed place and suggest she drop in and earn herself a little of the gold I’m about to pay you.”
Bereziel’s face darkened. “You gave your word you wouldn’t tell anyone I had returned. Nothing good can come from any soul knowing I am here.”
Heygar laughed. “You’ve always suggested dark things are stirring, yet still, I see no sign.”
“Yeah, well, one of these decades I’ll be right, and when I am, I’d rather no one knows where to find Bereziel of The Seven.”
“I’ll know.”
“True, but I can take you in a fight, Heygar.” Bereziel smiled and accepted the embrace from his friend. He felt like ragged bones in Heygar’s grip. Whatever wanderings he had taken in Venistra had left him at death’s door.
The old weaver shuffled back to his desk and collapsed in his seat. “The king has plans for you, has he not?” As he spoke, he swiped a large tower of ancient scrolls from his eye line. They toppled from his desk and scattered among the countless others along the floor. Bereziel didn’t seem to notice, and Heygar wondered how desperate Iaculous, his youngest Hound and apprentice weaver, would be to spend time in this room, studying any of the mysterious enchantments so casually discarded. It was unlikely the young man would ever be welcome, however. Many of their kind might think it a shame that Bereziel would soon die without passing on his knowledge first.
“Venistra.”
“You ask me to cast a lure on your pack,” Bereziel whispered. He eyed the doorway as though eager ears were about—as though casting a lure was against the law, and its punishment
was death. It was, but it would take a brave battalion to hunt either of the men down.
Heygar removed the pouch from his waist and dropped it on the desk. With the loss of the money, he felt even guiltier. He took a seat and waited for the usual argument. How many times would Bereziel challenge his honour on such matters before acquiescing to his demands? This evening would be no different from any other as long as Bereziel still had any incantations left in his broken form.
“The dark world has gifted me many things, but it has left me a shell, at least for now.”
“You are still fierce,” Heygar insisted. He thought again of the pledge ring paid off in full and the possibility of retirement in a house bigger than this. Cherrie was still young enough for one pup. A wife and child settled in a vineyard would be a grand thing. Sacrificing his friend’s soul was just another price to pay.
“Every time I weave darkness like this, more of my soul disappears into oblivion,” the weaver whispered and reached for his bag of gems. Heygar wasn’t even sure Bereziel knew what his fingers were up to. He moved as though something in the dark parts of his mind controlled him. “I’m not sure how much of me is even left.” Bereziel placed seven gemstones into a little stone case. He rubbed his fingers across the surface and sighed as the realisation struck him. “I don’t want to cast this. Of all the enchantments, this one is the most treacherous.”
Here we go.
“My masters always believed enchantments to be godly things, but any enchantment requiring a prayer to a demon will never end well.”
Yes, yes, Bereziel, I know this already.
The Seven Page 2
