I mean, look at you, would you want to be called swine, now that you’re hanging from the ceiling? Yes, this is a butcher’s shop. They hang the pigs from these hooks.
Where was I? Right! Helping the less fortunate paid off, literally. A few of the lattice urchins agreed to play bait for me. They had learned to stay away from certain corners, what with brutes roughing them up or leering at them, sometimes even both. Disgusting, I know, and I would love to kill all of them, but there’s too many of them bastards around. Sick fucks. Gut them all I say!
No, I won’t let you down; maybe hanging from the ceiling will make you realize what it’s like to be helpless.
Anyway, we set out to the rougher part of Halharra. It’s always the harbor, or the district that has the most warehouses. You never find the obvious scum in the noble quarter or near villas—those bastards hide behind silk curtains and chains of gold.
Nice chain. Platinum, is it?
So, while the urchins dispersed to beg from sailors and merchants, I hid in the shadows and waited. Daylight faded, shadows lengthened, and then, by the sound of the evening gong, a group of Caretakers arrived. They gathered the kids and spoke with them. I wished I knew magic, such as being able to hear from a distance, but the gods are fickle in passing on such gifts. Still, whatever they told the children was effective, and soon they led the group of urchins away.
My urchins each had white pebbles to drop as they walked, marking a way easy for me to follow. The priests did not lead them back to Eanaigh’s temple, they never went anywhere near that direction. Instead the group went through the back alleys of the harbor district, past shady taverns and seedier inns.
Just like yours.
The warehouse that these false priests—because Eanaigh’s clergy would not stoop that low—entered was guarded well enough. Mercenaries, by the looks of them, stood in pairs at every corner, with four guarding the entrance. No real Caretaker ever needed people in chainmail, armed with swords and spears, to watch over them. The door closed behind them, and even though lights flared up in every other place around me, this warehouse remained dark. I’m not much of a warrior, you know? Never fought a battle, so . . .
What? Knight doesn’t necessarily mean in heavy armor and armed to the teeth. It’s a position, way more comfortable than yours.
So, I had to worry about at least six, if not eight, warriors.
I decided to go for all twelve. Better safe than sorry, right?
No! Not all at once! That’s fucking insane.
I circled around the building, searching for any other guards.
Sure enough there were some on the warehouse’s roof and hidden at strategic points all around. Bloody fortress, I tell you. All in all, there must have been twenty-five or so. All right, thirty.
Oh, come on, don’t make such a face. I’m over three hundred years old; I said I’m not much of a warrior, by elven standards. Of course, I’ve had my share of bouts, pretty fucking stupid not to practice if you have to deal with guards and shit, that’s the fun part of being a Knight.
No, I am not much of a warrior, compared to elven warriors! Once sparred with a former arena fighter, the elven woman had spent fifty years in the arena, battling for money. I felt like an infant trying to snatch sweetcakes back from an adult. She would have made short work of the thirty.
It took me a little longer.
By sundown there were ten holding slit throats, ten more sporting gouged-out eyes, a few futilely holding their guts in place, and the rest nailed to the ground with their own swords.
I told you, your family is still unharmed, your guards . . . let’s just say they need to be replaced now. Not that you have other things to worry about, right? I mean what with you dangling from the ceiling and all.
I entered the warehouse, killed another pair of guards, unfortunately not before one sounded an alarm. What followed can be described as a dance, blades, guts, and blood. Sure, they knew how to fight . . . against human warriors.
Oh, before I forget, your marble floor needs a good scrubbing.
At the end, I actually was sweating.
The children were caged, like animals. Naked, humiliated, one of their guards was still inside a boy when the lady guard received me and my sword at the door. The woman who had so kindly received my sword lent me hers, so I could spear the one remaining bastard to the wall. Must have been off my aim, wanted to hit the shoulder, got him in the lung, gargling mess that. His victim wasn’t satisfied with the death, tore the sword from his chest and tore into him again.
Still blame myself for having been so slow.
Fortunately, he was the only victim. Could’ve been worse. I’ve heard of the disgusting things some of you animals do to boys and girls. Guess you all didn’t have the time.
No, your daughter is safe, and she will remain safe! Unlike those false priests, we Knights aren’t monsters.
In my zeal I had killed everyone who could have given me the information I needed, but fortunately the greedy and the corrupt have one thing in common, they are meticulous in their bookkeeping. The bastards kept ledgers, their disgusting trade put into columns of money gained, money spent, receipts, and, most importantly, where their “goods” were going.
I worked my way down the Tallon. No, this wasn’t sanctioned by the Royal House Kassor, this was me raging against the abusers of children. I sent word to Brisen and Talfyn to scout out the “office” of this organization of filth and abuse in Ma’tallon, and another missive to a handful of Knights I knew would treat this the same way I intended to do.
Yes, that’s why you haven’t heard from your contacts. This is why you haven’t been able to supply the Palace with fresh merchandise. All of your suppliers are dead.
Oh, don’t struggle; you should’ve known what this was about a long time ago. You’re the last link in the chain that runs from south to north along the Elven Road.
What was that?
Of course, I know who your main customer is! And I would love nothing better than to gut King Lerainh as well, but while butchering the likes of you is a minor crime, killing a king would lead to war, so the bastard is off limits.
The best I can do is kill his suppliers and the others cunts who enjoy raping children.
Do you know what this tray is for? Well, tub rather; at least it looks like a tub, right? The butcher catches the guts of whatever she slaughters in it, makes less of a mess this way.
No, I’m not going to slit your throat.
Your death will be slower.
The way you’re hanging, there’s a lot of strain on your stomach, a little cut, maybe a finger’s length, should suffice.
It’ll take a while. The tear will open slowly. At first your muscles will hold it back, but the strain will be too much eventually. And then, as you dangle here, your stomach will rip open and your guts will spill down, and you will still be alive for the few moments it takes for your guts to hit the tub. It’s not enough pain compared to what you and your “friends” inflicted on all the children you stole and sent to their deaths, but we don’t always get what we want.
I will tell your spouse what you did; I assume you kept this filth from those closest to you?
No? Only your daughter doesn’t know. All right, she’ll learn the truth. Your spouse will join you, shortly.
See, there? The cut wasn’t that long.
I’ll fetch your spouse now.
Good death to you.
Ulff Lehmann
About the author
Ulff Lehman is the author of the Epic Grimdark Fantasy Series Light in the Dark. It has been touted by Reedsy as one of the “25+ Grimdark Books to Tide You Over Until "Winds of Winter.”
This author is a German-born, but English-writing author, raised reading almost any and everything, from the classic Greek to Roman to Germanic myths to more appropriate fiction for children his age.
An avid fantasy reader, he grew dissatisfied with the constant lack of technological evolution in many a fantasy
world, and finally, when push came to shove, he began to realize not only his potential as a storyteller but also his vision of a mythical-yet-realistic world in which to settle the tale in he had been developing for 20 years.
Uff has also written many short stories in Anthologies, including Art of War: Anthology for Charity, Blackest Knights, and Blackest Spells.
For the Guild
By J.A. Mette
What are you willing to do for the Guild?
This mantra had been drilled into Kieran from the first day he came to the organization. He was nine—shivering, starving, and looking for a mark—when he first saw Tegan, the Guild’s leader. She stood at five feet, eleven inches tall, her porcelain skin a sharp contrast to Kieran’s deep bronze, weather-worn complexion.
Tegan wore her blonde hair short and slicked back. Most noticeable were her frosty, sage green eyes. Kieran always felt as though they saw—and saw through—everything.
The air had been an icy, heavy curtain, the type of cold that settled into your lungs and made them ache. Frost sparkled on the cobbles. Tegan was just another mark, easy to relieve of her coin, or so he thought. It took no more than three seconds for Tegan to disabuse Kieran of any notion that he could steal from her.
Kieran had lifted Tegan’s coin purse from her belt, and was preparing to dash away in the swarm of yelling, giggling, jostling children when he felt a steel grip on his elbow. Kieran spun, using his momentum to kick his mark squarely on the side of her knee. The attack landed, but the mark absorbed the blow, letting her knee buckle just so, maintaining her balance and grip on Kieran. Her grip tightened, and Kieran whimpered.
“Drop the purse, or I break your arm,” the woman informed him in a flat, almost bored tone. Her accent was of the noble houses, cultured and urbane. Why was she walking the street in such shabby attire? And how had she absorbed that blow? Kieran had never known nobles to fight for themselves. They often relied on soldiers and hired muscle to defend them.
Kieran kicked at her leg again. It had just as much of an effect as the first attempt. He tried to figure out a way to wriggle out of her grasp when his thoughts were overridden by a sharp, wrenching pain. His arm was being pulled straight up, nearly yanked out of its socket. He cried out, wanting to pull away from the stranger, but knowing if he moved even an inch, his shoulder could become dislocated or some important bone he didn’t know the name of could snap.
“No, please!” Kieran cried out in his most plaintive, child-in-trouble voice. It had gotten him out of more than one sticky situation in the past, usually with his marks’ money. Tears sprang into his eyes and ran down his face. The pain even made the tears genuine. “Someone, please, help me!”
The street was suddenly, suspiciously empty.
“Last chance,” Tegan taunted in a sing-song voice. “You drop the purse, and the most you have to worry about is a sore shoulder and wrist.”
“Please, let me go,” Kieran sobbed.
“Sure!” she agreed in a honeyed tone. There was an increase in pressure, followed in quick succession by his bone snapping. A white-hot pain flashed up his arm and the purse fell to the ground. He collapsed in a heap, curling into a ball. Kieran cradled his broken arm as he shook from sobs.
Strong arms lifted him from the ground, sending only minor jolts of pain up and down his broken appendage. Kieran gazed up at the woman he’d just tried to rob. Her pale green eyes were hard and uncompromising, yet held a gentle kindness. Was there a hint of an apology in them?
“Let’s get you out of this weather, my Little Dark One,” she suggested, her breath a warm caress of butterfly wings. What she thought Kieran could do if he didn’t want to go was beyond him. His whole world had shrunken down to himself, this enigmatic woman, and the torment in his throbbing arm. The broken arm that thankfully dulled the grumble of his stomach, which had been empty for two days.
He barely registered her shrill whistle. The clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on cobblestones came to him as though from far away. Next thing he knew, he was cradled in the crook of her arms as she slowly guided the horse through the streets. Time seemed more fluid, different parts of the city coming into focus whenever Kieran stirred from his stupor, though he was always nestled gently in her arms. The position was comfortable enough that the Siren’s call of sleep was able to coax him into the sweet, painless escape of oblivion.
He awoke in a soft bed, the softest bed in existence, he was sure. The blankets enveloped him in a relaxing warmth, and his head felt as though a cloud was cradling it. It was a far cry from the moth-eaten, moldy sheet and wooden plank on which he’d spent countless, miserable nights where the only padding for his head was his weeks-old, rank clothes.
The dull ache in his left arm pushed to the forefront of his awareness. It was only then that Kieran noticed the splint strapped to it. All of the events leading up to his laying in this bed came crashing back. He looked around with wide eyes, his heart thumping a manic beat in his chest.
The bed was by far the most luxurious item in the bedroom. Its four walls were bare, the plain wood in good repair. The washstand next to his bed was also plain wood, the basin upon it a sturdy, unimpressive pewter. And there she was, silent and unmoving in a chair next to the bed, a look of concern on her face.
His reactions and movements were slow as he tried backing away from her. The dull ache roared into white hot agony as he used his broken arm. His heart crawled up into his throat. His arm was a painful, panic-inducing reminder of what this woman sitting before him was capable. Kieran sank further into the plush bed, trembling at the thought of what her presence could mean.
“I am sorry for what I did to your arm,” she began, “but I did warn you. All you had to do was let my purse go, and you would not be in your current predicament.”
She sounded sincere, but Kieran had been using his emotions to help him lie through his teeth for years now. He scrutinized her features, looking for any sign that she was lying. No clues arose. He stopped cowering and settled for a mistrustful look. It was more of a glower but, given his present circumstance, it was the best he could muster. He attempted to fold his arms, but quickly remembered why that was a bad idea.
“Oh, my Little Dark One.” She grinned, laugh-lines highlighting her deep set eyes. “Let us become properly introduced. My name is Tegan, and I think you will do well here.” She paused. “That is, if you would like the chance to join?”
“Kieran,” he blurted. “Join what?”
He berated himself for allowing his curiosity to get the better of him.
“The Guild. My guild.” There was an air of possession to how she said it. My guild. This woman, Kieran realized, was a lioness and he merely a plaything she could just as easily kill or cuddle without fear of recourse.
“And the people of your Guild steal valuables, right?”
“Amongst other things.”
“Such as?” Kieran cocked an eyebrow. Tegan smiled, saying nothing. Kieran sank deeper into the bed. “Why would you want me? You caught me pretty easily.”
“I am rarely noticed, unless I mean to be.” She let the comment hang in the air. “It is as I said, my Little Dark One, you would do well here. Assuming you survive the Winnowing.”
Kieran glossed over the “survive” bit of that last sentence. He—a street smart gutter rat—had impressed her. His mind was already working through all the possible angles and scenarios, their benefits and drawbacks.
“What’s in it for me, and how do you know you can trust me?”
“Right to the point!” Tegan smiled. “I can answer both questions with the same answer: look around you. This bed and this room will be yours. You have the look of someone who has gone too long without a meal, uncertain from where or when the next one will come, or what you will have to do to get it.”
There was a hint of recognition in the woman’s voice. Kieran wanted to plumb those depths, but decided shutting his mouth was best, for now.
“Knowing what I do of urch
ins such as yourself, I know anywhere you sleep can only be considered a bed within the loosest definition of the term. And it is always temporary. You will have food and a place to sleep here, provided you pull your weight and follow our rules.
“And unless you are lamentably stupid, you will not risk losing that for a silver decanter or candelabra you could pilfer from us.” Tegan leaned in, her face hard. “Men and women have lost their lives for less.”
Kieran blinked. There was that hardness again. His brain spun at how quickly she could change her attitude, the mask she wore. Of course, everything she offered sounded too good to be believed. His gut told him that, much like Tegan, all wasn’t as it seemed.
“Ok, so,” Kieran then paused, making his skepticism obvious, “it’s a great deal for me, but what’s in it for you? You aren’t the type of person who helps someone out of the goodness of your heart.”
“My, you are a sharp boy,” she congratulated him, smiling again, the mask replaced once more. “As I said, you are skilled. Especially for one so young. The Guild always has a need for talented individuals such as yourself. You are a good thief. I can teach you how to become the greatest.
“I must warn you, though.” She raised a finger. “You are not guaranteed a spot. You will have to go through a skills assessment and training. The aforementioned Winnowing. Though I am the leader, my voice is not the only one that matters.”
“So I keep doing what I’ve been doing to survive,” Kieran replied, “but now I get regular meals and a comfortable bed to sleep in. And I have to follow the rules.”
“Provided you are accepted into the Guild.”
“Provided I pass your tests.”
“Any more questions?”
“Two more: when do I start and what do I do while the arm I usually use to steal heals?” Kieran gave her a hard look, trying as best he could to place some kind of blame on the woman.
The First Stain Page 11