Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  The city was big. Much bigger than Merigold had anticipated, so that she was uncertain where to start on her seemingly overwhelming mission.

  This was Meri’s first time out and about since arriving in the city. Mostly, she had been feeling ill and wallowing in her room, trying to fight the emptiness that was attempting to consume her. Thinking about Saren and Chad and Ragen. Thinking about being alone in the damp darkness. Thinking of bloody remains. Thinking of the untouched bodies, seemingly sleeping. Thinking about the demon child growing within her, the product of a man who’d raped and imprisoned her. Maybe a man that she’d killed—one left to starve, the other stabbed in the neck. Maybe a man who’d been killed by the magical attack in Dunmore, or who was still alive, somewhere, out there. It was easier to escape into herself and just be a shell, the same way she’d coped in the cellar.

  Cryden had mostly left her alone those first few days, going about his business, booking passage on the ship and whatever other enterprises concerned the arrogant cautaton. Almost unerringly, however, he’d checked in on Meri with regularity, typically dropping in around mealtimes. And she knew that he could sense her, just like he’d managed at the Duckling. She’d gone down to the common room one evening, drawn to the familiar sounds of imprecise voices, laughter, and the kitchen. Almost catatonic from the memories, she had sat in a chair and just stared at nothing. Remembering, maybe, her old life, when she had been untouched by any true grief aside from the loss of a mother who she could not remember.

  A greasy, skinny man had approached her, pulling a chair up to her table and sitting backwards.

  “Hi, sweetheart. I’m thinking you’re going to need some company tonight. No one with you?” Meri had barely glanced in his direction, not responding.

  “Hey, bitch! I’m talking you to!” He had grabbed her wrist then, his hand unknowingly encircling the exact spot where Fenrir had left a bruise so long ago. She had lost control.

  A few moments later, Cryden had pulled her off the man, blood under her fingernails, her hand reaching back for her knife. The man had staggered backward, clutching his bloodied face.

  “You psychotic cunt! I’m getting the guard!” the man venomously spat.

  “No, you aren’t.” Cryden’s tone had been ice. Merigold hadn’t been able to see his face clearly, but the man had blanched, mumbled something, and left. Cryden had turned to her, stern and commanding.

  “You are not to leave your room without me. Hunesa is a much different place than Dunmore and your little inn. People mean each other harm here. Especially upon women.”

  “Cryden, you cannot control me,” Meri had said fiercely, blood still aflame from her assault on the greasy man.

  “My dear lady, I can control you, but I choose not to do so. I was hoping that we could be amicable about this situation. I simply do not want anything… untoward… to happen to you while we are here. Please, it will be much safer in your room. You don’t want me to find you fighting again.”

  Another man trying to lock her away from the world, ostensibly for her own good. Merigold had supposed that apparent compliance would allow him to relax his guard, give her an opportunity to escape.

  It had worked, too, and now Merigold was moving about freely, overwhelmed by the sights, smells, and sounds of this massive city. People here didn’t seem to mean her harm. Rather, they seemed oblivious to her. Oblivious to everyone except for themselves. Locked in their tiny lives, lost in a massive place, having little or no impact on the world around them. At least in Dunmore, even a smile would travel a long way. Here, a smile would be stamped on, spit on, or, more likely, just completely ignored.

  “Excuse me. Pardon me.” Merigold couldn’t get anyone to stop and listen to her. She decided to try a different tack. She approached a small metalworking stall where the vendor—a lovely girl about her age, though appearing quite damp and irate in the misting rain—was threading tiny beads onto a twist of wire. Seeing Merigold approaching, she set her work aside amidst cheap jewelry and an array of small knives and daggers. Merigold had learned, upon entering the city days ago, that only guards were allowed to bear swords or spears. All weapons with a blade longer than their hilt qualified as a sword, and all weapons longer than five feet qualified as a spear, according to the law. As a result, the devious had devised a weapon called a hapler, a weapon with a two-foot hilt and a two-foot blade. Many people wore these openly, and evidently the lawmakers in the city were in a gridlock and had not yet passed a law to forbid the weapons. This girl had mostly knives, though one wicked-looking hapler was leaning in the corner of a stall.

  “Whaddya need?” The girl’s gruff, irritable voice belied her pleasant looks. Maybe she would not be easier to approach and work with than a male vendor. But, she was lovely…

  “Some information, if you don’t mind.” Merigold put on her sweetest face, the one she would have worn if she’d wanted a large tip. The girl sucked snot into her throat and spat behind her.

  “Information don’t pay my rent. You gonna buy? Or you gonna leave.” The last was a statement of fact.

  “Um… well, I could use a small boot… knife? I can pay…” The girl’s demeanor changed immediately as Merigold pulled out a small, jingling purse (separate from Ragen’s money—she wasn’t that ignorant of a peasant).

  “Yes, miss! We’ve several of those! Which you wanna see?” The suddenly enthusiastic woman pulled out several, each appearing identical under Meri’s inexpert analysis. She brushed her fingers against them, cold metal so unlike her rusted, slightly-bent little knife, secreted on a leather thong around her neck and occasionally scratching raw the area between her breasts. “We’ve sheathes, too, that clip right into your boot. No one’ll know you’ve a little more protection hidden down there.”

  “Um, let me see that one.” Merigold pointed, and the girl handed her a small knife. Meri made as if to admire it, testing the grip and balance, though she knew nothing of weapons.

  “This one should do… By the way, do you know where I can find some men for hire?”

  “A girl like you don’t need to hire men! Men must swarm you!” The woman winked bawdily.

  It took a minute for that to sink in.

  “Dear Yetra, no, not like that! I need soldiers for hire. I figured that, you selling weapons, you might have an idea.” Color was in her cheeks, and the girl had a wide grin.

  “Ah, mercenaries. There’s always mercenaries in Hunesa. Why do a girl like you need fighting men?” the girl asked while searching for the appropriate sheath.

  Meri’s face darkened. “That is my concern.”

  “Tight lips. Well, fine. Probably your best bet would be to check the Cleanly Hog. A big inn and boarding house, by the northern gate to Enowl. But, you mightn’t want to go alone. The men’re rough, down there, and the guardsmen don’t care much to contain ’em.”

  “Well then, maybe I’ll need a second boot knife.”

  Chapter 27

  The name “Cleanly Hog” was obviously a pun. The place felt… sticky. As Meri pushed open the heavy, wooden door, in the process passing several rough-looking, leering men who were loitering outside of the building, she felt dirtied simply by crossing the threshold. The air was stale, and it reeked of beer, vomit, and what smelled like eggs. And not fresh eggs. The wooden floor was warped from spills and her boots stuck to the panels—a disgusting squishing noise working its way out with each of her steps.

  At the Duckling, Meri had seen many a road-weary traveler, covered in the dust, muck, and dirt commonly acquired when trekking from one place to another. She had seen mercenaries and other fighting men before—honor guards, traveling soldiers, and the like. Ragen had even, at times, opened up rooms to the destitute, men and women who had fallen on hard times from Dunmore and beyond. The men (and few women) in the Cleanly Hog, however, were unlike any Meri had met. Here, she was filled with a deep unease.

  The common room was spacious, much larger than the Duckling’s. Wooden benches stretched
across the room, and all furniture seemed to be firmly attached to the ground or a wall. There were none of the decorations—paintings and wall hangings—that one would expect to see brightening a common room. Judging from the oft-patched stucco walls, any decor had already likely been destroyed by the rowdy, raucous groups of mercenaries. The mercenaries, themselves, could not so easily be described. Fat, wiry, muscular, gray-haired, brunette, or blonde; Sestrian, Ardian, or Rafὀnian; there was no standard look. However, there was a standard feel. The men radiated a confident ferocity, having the clear appearance of those who had committed violent acts in the past and would have little problem doing so in the future.

  Meri had once seen two hawks battle for an injured duckling in the brush outside of her home in Dunmore. The two predators had dived for the duck simultaneously, almost on cue, tearing through the wind at impossible speeds. Instead of going straight for the duckling, one of the hawks had smashed into the other, and both had been knocked from the air by the impact. They’d fought brutally, bloody feathers littering her yard, and the echoes of bestial rage and pain had filled the village. Eventually, the hawk who’d attacked first had stood over the corpse of the other, hiding its own pain under puffed feathers. With a stumbling leap, it had then flown off, wobbling in the air.

  The duckling, having instigated the battle with his mere existence, had been left unharmed, and hobbled off no worse for wear.

  These mercenaries were hawks. Predators. There was something about how they held their bodies, something about their eyes. It was more than the occasional visible scar or missing appendage (though a man with a shifted bandage, revealing an oozing ear-hole, particularly repulsed her). A feeling of confident brutality filled the room. These beings were men who would rather kill each other over some loot than share. These were men who would visit violence on an enemy without trying to talk out their issues first. These men were killers.

  Meri steadied herself, thinking, This is for Papa. This is for Papa.

  It became a mantra as Merigold stepped fully into the inn, the doors closing heavily behind her like they guarded the entrance to a crypt. It had seemed like such an easy thing, finding some fighting men, paying them some money, and having them lead her to her father and the people who’d destroyed her life. Now, looking around, she was overwhelmed, and scared. Most of these men appeared to be at least as capable of atrocities as Saren, and at least as unrestrained. She wondered if it was too late to turn around, walk back to her cheap inn, and go off to learn about magic with Cryden. She even paused and turned around, but someone stopped her.

  “Girl. Whatchaneed?” asked a squinting, bent man who was presumably the owner of the establishment.

  This is for Papa.

  “Pardon me?” she asked.

  “What. You. Need,” the man growled through his surprisingly intact, white teeth.

  Merigold steeled herself. “I need to talk to whomever is in charge here, of these fighting men.”

  The man gave a creaking chuckle. “‘Whomever.’ We got a duchess here.” He peered around for an audience and, finding none, he continued. “Girl. A little advice. These’n’t men to tangle with. If they didn’t bring me so much coin, I’d stay clear, myself.”

  This is for Papa. She took in a quiet breath, finding just a smidgeon of courage. “I don’t need advice, good sir. What I need are fighting men. Direct me to the leader here.”

  The man grumbled, but waved for her to follow. Merigold exhaled, her feigned confidence having been exactly that—fake.

  “Sergeant Paran. A girl,” the man said, leaving her at a corner table. He caught her eyes for a moment, almost seeming to plead with her. She met his eyes in return, though, hopefully appearing unafraid. He sighed deeply, and walked back toward the door.

  The sergeant didn’t look any different from the other mercenaries, except that maybe his clothing was a bit finer, and that the others seemed to give him the slightest touch of deference. He was middle-aged, his face and head completely hairless, a thick scar running just above his right temple. It was as wide and long as a finger, pinkness standing in stark contrast to the pallor of his skull.

  “What’re you looking at, chit?”

  “Um, nothing, sergeant,” she stuttered, remembering his title. Apparently, she’d been openly staring.

  “That’s right. Nothing. Now, what could a little blonde piece like you be doing in a place like this? We usually only get a very… specific type of woman in here.” The sergeant, and his two cronies, laughed at that, and one stood up and gestured with his hips at a scantily-dressed, rather voluptuous woman sitting on the lap of a fighter nearby. Merigold gulped, knowing full well what he was talking about.

  This is for Papa. “Sergeant, are you the man I speak with to write up a contract for service?”

  Paran smirked, which somehow stretched out his head-scar, making it harder for Meri to avoid looking at it. “I’m as close as you’re going to get.” Meri’s mouth was as dry as ash.

  “Fine. I have need of experienced fighting men, brave and honorable soldiers like yourselves. Trackers, too, if you have any—people who can follow an old trail.”

  The three men glanced at each other, and then laughed uproariously, one coughing and sputtering as his ale went down the wrong hole.

  “If you are looking for honorable men, you’re in the wrong place. Look around.” Meri didn’t. “If you want scoundrels, thieves, murderers, you’re in the right place. If you want men who would stab someone in his sleep, or who would steal a child from his mother, we are what you want.”

  Merigold shivered. But, this was for her papa.

  “In that case, I need scoundrels, thieves, and murderers. I need killers. I need vengeance.” The ice in her voice surprised her. Merigold had never before said, out loud, that she was out for revenge. Rather, it was for Papa that she was doing all of this, to save her father and anyone else she could from Dunmore. But it was more than that, she now admitted to herself. It was to bring agony to those who had ruined her life. It was to balance the scales in a way that Yetra had not, could not, or would not. To make those who’d visited suffering upon others experience their own suffering in whatever way that she could.

  Wasn’t it true that Saren had been punished—by her hand—for his terrible misdeeds against her? As had been Chad, though she tried not to picture his surprised, young eyes, the way they’d looked as his blood had washed over her hand and soaked his clothing. She was willing to balance, create Harmony, where Yetra was not.

  After all, one couldn’t expect a bolt of lightning to strike someone who’d committed an evil deed.

  She felt more certain, more resolved, than she ever had in her short life.

  “Strong words from a small girl. Come. We never talk terms in the common room. Musk, outside. Woody, you’re with me.”

  Strange names for strange men. Woody, she saw, had probably gotten his nickname from a poorly-fitting set of wooden teeth. Based on his youth, the man had probably lost his teeth in a battle, and instead wore a constant grimace due to the oversized implant. Musk… Well, she didn’t get close, but he looked like he had an odor about him. Looking around as they walked to a back room, Merigold imagined that most of these man would carry quite a foul scent. For a man to be nicknamed “Musk,” he must be very special indeed.

  Down a hallway to a small office with a few chairs and a table. Musk stayed outside, giving Woody a resentful glare. Must be upset not to be the favorite.

  Merigold sat down opposite Sergeant Paran, with Woody flanking her, folding her hands in her lap to resist the urge to tug on her sapphire studs or her braid. Though she’d been feeling slightly more courageous, today’s ordeal was far from over.

  “So, girl. You have my interest, something that doesn’t come for free. Nothing is free, in this line of work. Let’s see the color of your money, or we’ll go no further.” Paran leaned forward.

  This is for Papa.

  Merigold pulled out her larger coin pack, sl
owly opening it to reveal the majority of Ragen’s fortune. Paran grinned, and she could hear Woody sucking loudly on his teeth.

  “This will do. Woody.”

  Woody reached down and grabbed her arm, not gently, as Paran snatched the pack from her grip. A few coins slipped loose and tumbled to the rug-covered floor with no sound.

  “What? Stop this!” Merigold shouted, jerking to the side as she stood, just managing to escape Woody’s grasp.

  “Didn’t I just tell you? We are not honest men. We take what we want, when we want it, and that’s that.” Paran didn’t even glance up at her. He was absorbed in the neat stacks of coin before him.

  “Sarg, I’m thinking I want a little bit more from this deal,” Woody said, sucking his teeth, a mean look in his wet eyes. Merigold shrank back.

  “Don’t get greedy. We’ve enough here, to never have to draw a sword again.”

  “Ah, Sarg. I think I’d like to draw just one more sword.” He gestured meaningfully at his crotch. Woody was between Merigold and the door, her only escape. Dear Yetra. Dear, dear Yetra. She would not be hurt like this again.

  “Fine, Woody. Just be quick about it. I’m going to do some counting, so try to keep quiet, too.” With a mere dismissal, the sergeant gave permission for his man to take Merigold.

  The hawks who’d fought, back in Dunmore… The beast that had struck first, unexpectedly and with great commitment, had been the one who’d survived, leaving his opponent bloody and dying in the brush. Though Merigold was more like the duck…

  She pushed herself against the wall as Woody approached, working on unlacing his pants, sucking his teeth again in obvious anticipation. Merigold made as if she were terrified (which she was) and crouched down, cowering.