The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Never mind.’ The farmer readied himself to whip the horse’s rear end. ‘Those scrawny legs could do with a little exercise.’

  ‘Hang on.’ William reached into his bag, his fingers deftly dodging a collection of worthless knickknacks and keepsakes before finally wrapping around the hilt of his flintlock – he had stowed it there in the hopes of looking innocent, but it seemed that hadn’t worked out. He planted his feet and whipped the pistol up, training it on the farmer’s tanned pate.

  The hammer clicked back under a practiced thumb. He twisted his grip slightly so the sun winked off flowers engraved in the silver flintlock, asserting, ‘you’ll take me where I want to go.’

  ‘Well I never…’ The farmer plucked the spittle soaked barley from his mouth and flicked it to the road. ‘If you had such a fine item for trade, why didn’t you just out-with-it to begin with?’

  The farmer was about as ruffled by the pistol as he would have been by a turnip. He delved a hand into his dungaree pocket.

  ‘Stop that.’ William shook his flintlock. Highway-robbery style bluffing only worked if the victim was afraid, and he was ever-so loathed to spend his last bullet on a farmer. ‘I don’t want to kill you, but if I have to, I will. I need this ride. My feet are sore, my water’s running low, and I ran out of food miles ago. I’m desperate, and you know how desperate-men can be.’

  ‘Steady on now.’ More cautiously, the farmer withdrew his hand from his pocket.

  William tensed, ready to shoot if he saw the hilt of a firearm. Instead, what came out was a well-worn monocle.

  The farmer raised it to his eye and peered through. ‘That is one fine weapon you’ve got there, son. Trade it to me, and it’ll pay for your passage.’

  ‘We’re past that now,’ William snarled. He was impressed by the farmer’s level head, and supposed that was down to tilling land in guild territory. He wondered if the man would make a good sponsor. ‘I’m threatening your life; take me to Blackbile or lose it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ The farmer reclined in his seat and turned to the passengers huddled in the back of his cart. ‘What do you lot think? Is he bargaining or threatening?’

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s done.’ A terse northerner at the far side of the cart stood up. The top of his head was barely visible behind the portly woman. ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  The woman shuffled her bulk across the bench-seat almost flattening the pig-faced boy, who cringed into the folds of the spidery man’s jacket.

  The northern man was a diminutive three feet tall, but no less intimidating. His face was crooked, and one large tooth protruded from a split in his lip. The hair atop his head had been tonsured, and while the centre was sprouting stubble, the edges hung lank and greasy. He rolled his shoulders to adjust a long brown coat and clambered onto his seat for a better vantage. Though his hair suggested devotion to a religious order, the sizable blunderbuss in his hands ruled out that possibility.

  William weighed the odds; a mad dwarf with a gun as big as he was, easily surpassed an eighteen year-old blonde stripling with a flowery pistol.

  ‘Let’s kill him and be done with it,’ the little man snarled, flecks of spittle flying from the cleft in his lip. ‘I don’t have time to wait around.’

  ‘My argument isn’t with you.’ William kept his flintlock trained on the driver. He had been too slow to react to the little man’s announcement, stunned by how awkward it was. ‘I just need a ride.’

  ‘Why bother us at all?’ the spidery man shuddered the words out, cringing against the unclean presence of the young boy and wringing his hands nervously. ‘Leave us be.’

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ The little man fumbled in his coat for shot and powder. ‘Let me load this thing and I’ll have his head off.’

  ‘Stop.’ William balked, swerving to aim at the little man. ‘I’ll only give you this one chance.’

  A gun-hammer clicked, and the sound chilled him to the core. In the driver’s seat, the farmer had taken the opportunity to draw and cock his own pistol. Now William had two enemies and still only the one bullet.

  ‘You should have pulled the trigger when you had the chance, boy. Now, lower it,’ the farmer insisted.

  William kept his pistol up. The little man continued to calmly load his blunderbuss.

  ‘I said lower it!’

  William sighed, defeated; he couldn’t take the both of them. For a killer, he really was too lenient sometimes. One of the more renowned assassins might have had them all dead in seconds and been off on the horse before they hit the ground. He just had to learn to commit to a killing, not dance around the thing like a politician around truth.

  ‘Toss me the gun, boy. It’s a fine piece and I’ll keep it for the trouble you’ve caused us,’ the farmer spat. ‘Then kneel down. I have to be hard-line about these things, what with going to Blackbile. If the guilders think I’m going soft, they’ll string me up before dawn.’

  A spume of fire and lead shot sprayed from the small man’s blunderbuss, and the farmer’s head was turned to the consistency of jam. Not the cheap stuff, but mid-tier cottage-style with whole strawberries in the aspic. It showered over William; wet, warm, and with the pervading odour of turning bacon. The portly woman screamed and rolled over the side of the cart. Thankfully, she landed with a kink in her neck, so the shrieking ended abruptly.

  ‘He does go on, doesn’t he?’ The little man planted a boot on the farmer’s drooping corpse and shunted him to the floor. ‘Couldn’t let one of the livestock take out a fellow guilder, even one as lowly as you, M.K.’

  M.K. was a decidedly worse nickname than the full title in the tabloids. Given the circumstances, William decided not to press the issue.

  ‘You’ll have to drive us though.’ The small man shivered as he took a seat. ‘I’m terribly afeared of horses. They let flies crawl on their eyelids.’

  That thought had never really occurred to William, but he supposed everyone had their weaknesses.

  ‘Hurry up, we’ll miss the opening festivities at this rate.’ The short man tapped the driver’s seat impatiently. ‘Plus, I’ve a fat whore with my name on her; branded her myself.’

  William set his belongings in the rear of the cart, catching sight of a wriggling cocoon of canvas and rope. Its shape and muffled cries suggested it contained a person even smaller than the assassin.

  ‘My sponsor.’ The little man patted the cocoon happily, and set his blunderbuss across his lap.

  William felt a pang of jealousy, and wondered if he should kill the little assassin and take the sponsor for his own; he decided not. His reputation couldn’t take the hit should news spread that he was a backstabber as well as a failure. He could offer to buy the sponsor, but some members of the guild could be a little changeable, so it was best to keep interactions to a minimum. There was always a good chance a snap decision would see the little man trying to take his head, something the murder of the farmer had proven he was entirely capable of.

  William slid his baggage under one of the bench seats near the spindly man – who seemed quite pleased the portly woman had alighted and left so much room for him to spread out – then moved for the driver’s perch. He had to step over the farmer’s corpse, so made sure to pocket the coin purse and tuck the additional pistol beneath his belt as recompense for being spattered with brain-jam.

  ‘Onward!’ the little man roared.

  Taking the reins, William was glad that among various methods of killing, he had acquired a few other skills. Princely among them – at least at this moment in time – was the ability to drive a cart and tend a horse. It reassured him that the blunderbuss wasn’t immediately reloaded. So long as he stayed useful, he hoped to avoid another stand-off.

  Although Blackbile was hailed by some in The Vitulan Empire as a pit of crime and depravity, William found the place surprisingly welcoming. There had been a little trepidation that his place on the blacklist would deny him entry, but that was only foolishness on his part. Whi
le anyone listed was denied work, it was actively encouraged for them to compete. He imagined the guild saw it as an easy way of purging unwanted members, but – should he do well – it was also beneficial for all parties to restore his right to contract. He passed a cursory check at the outskirts without issue.

  At a pedestrian choked junction, he steered the cart to the side of a shabby general store – pocked with evidence of woodworm and gunfire. With the proximity of the competition, every road to the centre would be equally burdened and continuing with the cart would prove difficult. The morbid tourists came to view the ensuing mayhem of the contest, in spite of the risk. More sensible residents were in the streets too, readying themselves to vacate to Starakow for the duration. It was a well-known fact that, on average, six times more spectators died than entrants. Given that, and a purposeful lack of analysis, William favoured his odds.

  ‘Thanks for the ride M.K.’ The little man hauled the bound midget over his shoulder and hopped from the cart. ‘I’ll see you at the opening ceremony!’

  ‘Yes. Thank you kindly,’ the spindly man added with more than a hint of sarcasm. The loose skin on the backs of his hands rolled around as he massaged them together. He seemed to consider saying more while he fiddled with a white ring on his finger, but decided against it and unfolded himself from the seat. As he moved from the cart to the floor he didn’t lose an inch in height and would have actually gained a little had his back not been as stooped. ‘Come boy, and stop touching me!’

  The piggy child gave a thankful and snotty grin to William, then trotted after his lanky companion, holding up a hand to be led by, undaunted by the rebuttal.

  William sighed. Although he had never managed to drop his guard for the thought of a blunderbuss turning him to paste, he had enjoyed the idle chatter shared on the road. Having been on his own so long, he had forgotten what it was like to share a journey, and now that his companions had dispersed, that lonesome weight was hanging on him again. He was compelled to call out for them – maybe they could walk together to the square – but all had disappeared into the crowd.

  He stepped down from his perch and took stock of the place. While he had heard many tales of Blackbile in his years amongst guild-folk, he had never actually made the Sinner’s Pilgrimage before.

  There was a horrible, overriding stench to the place, earthy yet sulphurous. The result of a natural spring and active volcanic pits that converged some way up the mountainside. By the time the waters reached the town, they had coagulated into a vast grime-choked river that looked more like roiling earth than a torrent of water. There wasn’t much guessing as to why it had been dubbed the Landslide; killers could often be the antithesis of creatives.

  In addition to its distinctive scent, the river was also uniquely suited to the needs of the townsfolk. The murky torrent was the ideal place to lose a body, or dispose of one’s faeces, and could have been the main reason Blackbile’s founders chose to settle where they did. William, however, didn’t feel that the river’s benefits outweighed the significant downside. To him, the pervading odour was more than a little distracting, and being unaccustomed could prove a significant disadvantage in the competition.

  As the sun disappeared behind the craggy volcano, the temperature plummeted. Thick ash-flakes began to fall from the sky like snow. Women in mud streaked dresses popped parasols in the crowd, ungainly affairs of smirched leather, quite unlike the painted silk and paper counterparts of Fairshore.

  Cold, and gaining his own covering of ash, William was reminded of the thick coat in his pack. He had stolen it after Valiance but had not much cause to wear it since. Dragging his feet from the sucking mud, he wobbled around the side of the cart. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the thought of the upcoming event, he probably wouldn’t have been surprised that all his belongings had been stolen. Given that the opening ceremony was only three hours away, he was actually quite startled. He cursed and kicked the cartwheel. There was nothing much of value, but it was all he had to call home.

  It was a small comfort to have a pair of flintlocks on his belt and more coins than he had started the day with. There was more solace in thinking on the light-fingered thief going through his pack to only find a coat, an eight-year-old tournament flier, a fist full of completed contracts, and a bottle of what looked like blood. Then his imagination strayed too far, and he pictured the thief tossing the collected affects into a hearth to feed his ire.

  He sulked for a good minute before buoying himself enough to peer into his coin purse. Eighteen silver pieces; not bad. He could buy himself a week in the grottiest tavern and still have spare for a little ammunition. Plus, if rumours were true, participants got cheaper rates than commoners.

  Loosening his belt a notch, he delved his hand into his undergarments to store the farmer’s coin purse with his own. There would be countless pickpockets here, children and adults alike. He couldn’t trust anyone, not even the lamest half-rotted leper, or the most pious man in the chapel on the hill. He kept his eye on the upturned cross on the black spire; it looked to be pretty central, a good landmark to keep his bearings in the muddle of crooked houses and intertwining streets.

  He set off, preferring to walk, rather than battle his way through the traffic with the cart. He would be fighting here soon enough and it would do him good to learn the streets. It occurred to him that he could have sold the horse and cart for another silver piece or two, but by then he had reached the end of the street, and both had been stolen already.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A stranger pushed out of the crowd; a young Scoldish lad with mud smirched clothes and wire frame glasses.

  William’s instinct told him something was wrong. The lad may have seen him counting his coins, and though he looked harmless, could be part of a gang. His hand found the flintlock on his belt and rested there, ready. As he subtly scanned his surroundings, he found a few people dotted amongst the shifting flow of the street, watching him in stoic silence. One of the group worried him in particular, a large woman who might have been seven feet tall if the mess of knotted hair was included. He wondered if her bulk might protect her from a bullet – specially designed arms had to be used against giant beasts on the southern continent, and this woman was the closest thing to a rhinoceros William had ever seen. She was a guilder, no debate about that.

  ‘Are you William of Fairshore?’ the lad asked, a slim smile spreading across his face.

  William’s instinct shifted. A mugger seemed less likely, but an assassin tasked with eliminating any embarrassments to the guild; that was possible. In fact, something had been whispering at the back of his mind for a few months now, that he might find himself on the receiving end of a contract. As of yet, no attempt had been made on his life, and this lad didn’t seem like much of a threat – despite the watching rhinoceros. He had no weapon, and looked even greener than William. Like many of the tourists here, he could just be a fan. Deciding to remain cautious, William kept his hand on the flintlock, and replied, ‘yes.’

  ‘Oh, good! I’ve got something for you then.’

  If the initial approach had set William on edge, the way the Scoldish lad replied – with a slight widening of his smile and cheeky twang to his words – nudged him over the brink. His grip tightened around the pistol’s handle and his thumb tensed on the hammer. If there were any sudden movements now, somebody would be losing their life.

  ‘Here.’ The lad took off his glasses and casually tossed them to William. They bounced off his chest and fell into the muck by his feet. ‘Wear these, you might shoot straight next time!’

  The gaggle of collected onlookers burst into raucous laughter, none more-so than the girthy brute. William sneered and made a comment about how the jibe hadn’t been that funny, but it was lost under the needling merriment.

  As the flow in the street was beginning to falter, and a more organised crowd was forming about William and the cackling Scolds, he opted to curtail his humiliation, and stomped off towards the chapel. A fe
w more insults were called in his wake, but thankfully the brutish guilder – and probable ring-leader of the group – was swamped by adoring fans. He did take some satisfaction that he crushed the delicate eye-glasses under his heel as he turned. They wouldn’t be laughing when he won the prize.

  The sludgy roads led him towards what he hoped was the centre of town. There were sign posts, but each one was either vandalised or had been positioned to direct people down the dingiest alleyways. He didn’t want to ask for directions; that wasn’t done in Blackbile unless you wanted to wake up without a few of your organs. He was sure that sooner or later, he would spot a more genial guilder to point him in the right direction. Until then, he had to hope that the flow of the crowd would lead him to the town square in time for the ceremony.

  He bullied his way out of the mud and onto a wooden boardwalk that hemmed the road, finding himself amongst a group of tourists he presumed would be heading the right way. They were discussing the upcoming events, the best kills from previous years, and who their favourite winners had been. By their excitement and furtive glances about the street, William could tell they were on the lookout for guilders to swarm for autographs or perhaps slip them a note requesting their services. None of them seemed to recognise him, or maybe they did and just didn’t care.

  1672

  William sat silently in the galley of his new-found ship, peeling the skins from potatoes collected in a bucket. He had been aboard the merchant vessel for almost a month now. From what he had gleaned from conversations between the adults, they were headed for the Silken Coast; somewhere he had heard of, but had no idea how far away from home it was.

  He slipped a knife through a skinless potato and tossed it in halves into the cook’s waiting pot. His chores helped to keep his mind off the loneliness and sickness for home. While he was kept busy, he was also well fed and treated kindly by the merchant's journeyman-apprentice – whose position aboard the vessel was only eclipsed by the captain.