***
“Wahahaha!” bellowed Alfjötr as he slapped his knees a few times with one large callused hand, all the while munching on a roasted chicken leg with the other. “And then I says to ‘er, how about a nice long beard to warm ye tonight?” he concluded with a flourish, obviously quite proud of himself. He winked and passed his fingers through his own braided whiskers, no doubt thinking the story subtle enough that the gesture of clarification was needed. Glint simply smiled and nodded along until the booming laughter subsided of its own accord.
This had been going on for a few hours, drink and stories with meals in between. Despite Alfjötr becoming increasingly befuddled with drink, it seemed to Glint that there was to be no relief in sight. He hadn’t the slightest inkling what Azrael was waiting for. The butler waited on the two with a bottle of glowing alcohol in his hands, pouncing on each empty cup to replace it as soon as possible.
In the silence that Alfjötr gave him, Glint remarked as honestly as he could, “I am truly glad that your trip went so smoothly, my Lord.” In answer the great mountain of a man lifted his glass to his lips, tipped the full contents down his gullet, coughed a couple of times as his eyes crossed and then went back to focus, then set the glass down on the floor next to him with a belch, where Azrael promptly and silently filled it back to the brim. Alfjötr glanced at the butler with an appreciative sort of look, then turned his attention to Glint, saying, “ez gun aa uffen games,” darkly, fixating him with his gaze sagely. A few seconds passed.
“Huh?” answered Glint finally, unsure of himself.
“I said, it wasn’t all fun and games!”
“Oh,” replied Glint. A few feet away Azrael bit his fist to hide his laughter, out of Alfjoetr’s sight.
“I found a bandit camp, not a few leagues away from ye,” continued Alfjötr, causing Glint to stiffen up completely. “They were killed a while back,” he added, “”what with the rot setting in and all. Ye hear about anything like that?” he asked, burrows furrowed.
Glint felt suddenly as if he was staring down the wrong end of a sword. He swallowed nervously and said, “I’m afraid I have not, my lord.” Alfjötr squinted at that, and Glint added, “Forgive my incompetence, my lord, but perhaps this happened before I became the master of this house?” He just hoped Alfjötr didn’t know who the old master had been, or else the trail pointing towards Glint’s murders would be all too clear.
The guild representative kept his stare fixed upon Glint for a few more seconds, before he laughed and said, “And maybe that’s true, boy. Who cares about a few bandits anyway? If they weren’t dead, I’d have probably killed them myself!”
Glint could do nothing but laugh along, his guilt threatening to swallow him whole. What would Alfjötr say if he knew that Glint was the one who killed those bandits? He didn’t know. Law was written by guilds and the continental councils. They liked to play by their own rules. Perhaps Alfjötr would even reward him for his cruelty, depending on whether they considered the Boar a bandit or mercenary band.
All the boy knew was that nausea filled him whenever he thought of that day. He would rather run away from it forever if he could, rather than take credit for it if it was some sort of twisted good deed. He didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. Did Old Crab’s life really balance against almost fifty men and women? One insane life, perhaps dangerous in its power, against those helpless many who, crushed under the pressure of their own horrible lives, chose to bully those beneath them? Who was to blame, if not the guild system that took the weak and broke them in this way? The guild system was only created because One Eye went an- no, Glint stopped himself. That kind of thinking was blasphemous.
Regardless, the youth remembered every slash, stab and parry perfectly, and in the midst of it all, Glint could only curse the man in front of him for bringing it up. For his part, the drunken Alfjötr looked most at home in his cosy surroundings, oblivious to Glint’s seething anger.
The Final Life Page 9