Mercs & Magi

by Jamie Edmundson

  He thrust the sword forwards, parried with it, swinging it left then right.

  He was showing off. Thank the gods, he was more interested in showing off his sword skills in an effort to impress her, than he was in actually studying the items.

  ‘It’s well balanced,’ he admitted grudgingly, keeping hold of the weapon. ‘How come you’ve only brought the weapons and armour? Last time you brought everything at once.’

  ‘Max had these ready,’ she said with a shrug, as if it was of no real interest to her.

  ‘Unusual,’ he said. ‘To have a stockpile of weapons and armour just lying about. Normally those are the most difficult items to source.’

  So, he was suspicious after all. She would have to be careful.

  ‘He anticipated that you would want more. He’s good at what he does.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he fucking is, making himself a fortune while the rest of us are putting our lives on the line. He’s my hero. If he’s so damned successful,’ he said, an unpleasant tone to his voice as he walked up to her while he brandished the sword, ‘he won’t mind me borrowing you for a while.’

  She looked at him, astonished.

  ‘I want you to work for me. I’ll pay you just as much. Max isn’t the only one with money anymore.’

  Moneva laughed the idea off. ‘You really think Max just lets his people walk away?’ She didn’t have to fake the bitter humour in her voice. ‘I don’t get to choose who I work for.’

  Suddenly, Salvinus’s arm shot out and he grabbed her face, thumb and forefinger pressing her cheeks into her teeth.

  Gernot started forwards but Salvinus’s other arm lashed out, blade pointed at Gernot’s head. ‘Not a good idea, friend.’

  Gernot stopped. He knew well enough not to interfere.

  Salvinus turned back to Moneva. ‘You don’t seem to get it. I’m the one you should fear, not some Kellish merchant sat at home in Essenberg counting his money.’

  ‘Not entirely true,’ said a new voice.

  Salvinus released her, looking at the newcomer.

  Orlin, Emeric’s chamberlain. His piercing blue eyes studied the scene dispassionately. He was a cold, calculating bastard, and Moneva had never expected to be pleased to see him. But she was.

  ‘Lord Orlin,’ said Salvinus, giving an elaborate bow that smacked of sarcasm. ‘How’s that, then?’

  ‘Duke Emeric demands a victory from us in this war, nothing else will do,’ said Orlin reasonably. ‘We will only achieve victory if the Barissian army continues to be well supplied. To my mind, then, and of course more importantly, to the duke himself, our relationship with Max is crucial. Whereas, as valuable as your services are Gervase, you are replaceable.’

  ‘You think Max gives a stuff what happens to her?’ Salvinus asked, waving his sword at Moneva.

  ‘That is his business,’ said Orlin, angry that the conversation was continuing. ‘She is his representative. I will give her the money that Duke Emeric agreed to pay and she will take it to Max. It’s really that simple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get on with it. I hate wasting time unnecessarily.’

  Moneva, Ernst and Gernot returned to George’s House. They went straight to the bar, where Moneva ordered them drinks.

  They looked at each other, each of them sporting a slightly hysterical expression.

  ‘That’s a lot of money we just made,’ said Ernst in a slightly bemused way, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. The leather bag containing Emeric’s gold was slung over his shoulder, and he couldn’t refrain from patting it.

  ‘And a lot of risk that went with it,’ Gernot reminded him.

  ‘True enough,’ Moneva said. ‘We earned it.’

  She felt exhausted, as the tension of the day left her body. Salvinus had made it worse than it needed to be. That was bad luck, but it didn’t take anything away from what she had achieved. This was the day she finally freed herself from Max. She looked about her, determined to remember this moment.

  And that was when she saw. Fool that she was, she had been too wrapped up in their success to notice before. A group at a table were looking her way, as was the barman who had served them. None of them were looking at her, exactly. They were all looking at her glass of wine.

  She saw Gernot raising his drink to his lips.

  ‘No!’ she shouted.

  He stopped, confused.

  ‘Weapons!’ she screamed.

  The expressions of the men at the table suddenly changed. They got to their feet, pulling out weapons concealed under their cloaks.

  The first of them collapsed as Moneva grabbed her knife and threw it, the blade embedded in his forehead.

  The door of the inn burst open. She knew they were Salvinus’s men. Knew he would be outside somewhere, directing the operation, with orders to take her alive. She knew it all now and she should have known it sooner.

  She threw herself towards the bar, drawing one of her swords as she did. She leaped onto the bar, sliding over it, at the same time clobbering the barman with her sword. It wasn’t an accurate hit, but nonetheless she connected with him and he fell to the floor.

  Moneva landed on the other side of the bar. She had no time to spare a backward glance for Ernst and Gernot. Maybe they would follow her. But she knew that wasn’t their style. They would fight it out in the bar, and the chances of them getting out alive were already virtually nil.

  She ran behind the bar, into the private rooms of George’s House, where barrels of drink were stacked against the walls. If Salvinus had really wanted to make sure, he would have put men here too. But he had expected them to drink the poisoned wine, and he had the inn surrounded just in case that went wrong. Would that be enough?

  Moneva had a habit, instilled in her by Max, and beaten into her by experience, to take note of all the exits from a building. And she had found out that in George’s House, the barrels of wine were delivered, not to the front door, but to the street behind the inn, one street nearer the castle and slightly higher. Here, metal grates in the pavement could be opened and barrels sent down a wooden chute into the back of the inn.

  It was possible that Salvinus knew this and had stationed men there. Possible, but not likely.

  Moneva moved into a storeroom and found what she was looking for. Concrete steps went up to the metal grates. She moved quickly, fiddling with the metal locks that held the grates in place. She pushed them open, not caring that they banged onto the pavement above. There were either men there, or there weren’t. Being quiet wouldn’t make a difference either way.

  She walked up the last steps and out onto the street. No-one was there. She looked down the chute, hearing noise from the storeroom. A head appeared, looking up at her. It wasn’t Ernst, or Gernot. It was one of Salvinus’s men.

  She turned and ran away, into the city.

  As she ran, turning this way and that through the maze of streets, her fear of being followed faded, and was replaced with a cold fury. Ernst and Gernot were almost certainly dead now. Salvinus had their money. That was bad enough. But worst of all, she had let it happen, sleepwalking into George’s House without looking out for the threat. Celebrating her success, without realising that for Salvinus, it wasn’t over.

  Without being conscious of what she was doing, without thinking it through, Moneva realised that she had been travelling in a circle through the streets of Coldeberg and had returned to the area around George’s House. She stopped, trying to regain control of the emotions that threatened to spill over and make her do something stupid. She had worked too hard, been through too much, to give her life away cheaply. If she was going to avenge Ernst and Gernot, if that was what she really wanted, she had to make the right move at the right time.

  She moved slowly, drifting past houses, keeping to the shadows. This was what she was good at. Cat-like, she climbed onto the roof of a shop on the opposite side of the street to George’s House, shuffling forwards until she could peer down onto the scene outside.

 
; The hacked bodies of Ernst and Gernot had been dragged onto the side of the street, a red smear from the pavement to the door of the inn. With fierce pleasure Moneva noted that two other bodies lay next to them, while a third man sat slumped against the front of the inn.

  To one side of this spectacle stood Salvinus, giving out orders. Two men walked off in the direction of the castle, the bag of money they had taken from Ernst slung over a shoulder.

  She remembered Ernst’s expression, bemused but delighted that they had come away with so much money.

  And that was when she lost it.

  Fuck thinking things through. Fuck always being in control. Fuck being patient, waiting for the right moment. And fuck Salvinus. She was going to kill him, here and now.

  She wriggled backwards, her legs dangling over the edge of the house, then dropped down, landing in a crouch. She moved around the back of the shop, walked past another, looking to get as close to Salvinus as possible before being seen.

  This would do. She could see him, talking with half a dozen of his men. What was he waiting for? For some of his soldiers to arrive, dragging her with them? Then he wasn’t ready for this.

  Moneva sprung out from her position, both swords drawn, and ran at them.

  They were all caught by surprise, reacting with instinct, and the natural response to their situation was to escape the blades.

  Salvinus’s soldiers moved out of her way, pulling weapons from belts, surrounding her. It gave her a free shot at Salvinus. She swung at him, aiming to slice his neck open. He dived away at the last minute, hurling himself to the ground, but she felt her blade connect nonetheless.

  Then his men were on to her. She blocked with one sword, parried with the other, caught one of them on the hand causing him to drop his weapon. She took a blow on the arm, one on her back—glancing strikes—and a third on her thigh, which was excruciating, giving her a dead leg.

  She felt and heard something buzz past her head, thinking at first she had narrowly missed a fourth blow.

  But one of them yelled, ‘Archer!’

  She didn’t know who or where the archer was, but she knew she had to get out of there, fast.

  She half ran, half hobbled back the way she had come. Her leg responded well enough for now, but she knew it would stiffen and seize up before too long. She sensed the soldiers following her, but another arrow came at them and they threw themselves to the ground behind her.

  She made it to the gap in the buildings, from where she couldn’t resist looking back. Salvinus was up, one knee on the floor, one hand clutching his face. She had sliced deeply into his cheek, the flesh almost fully cut from the bone. Where Salvinus held the wound closed blood still flowed freely. He looked her way, a strangely neutral expression on his face.

  She had failed to kill him. But she’d given him something to remember. That would have to do. It was time to disappear for good now.

  Moneva wasted no time in leaving Coldeberg. If Salvinus had ordered the gates shut and conducted a thorough search, it would have made things difficult, even for her.

  She found herself walking, painfully, in a vaguely south-westerly direction across country, away from Coldeberg and Salvinus, away from Essenberg and Max. Where to, she didn’t know. Not yet.

  She heard horses coming behind her. Had they tracked her down so quickly? Damn them. She wasn’t half as good at moving across country as she was in a city.

  ‘Hold up!’ came a voice.

  She frowned. It couldn’t be?

  She stopped and turned. Coming her way was Herin, mounted on one horse and leading a second.

  He pulled up.

  ‘Where are you rushing off to? You left without your share.’

  He grabbed a leather bag from amongst the various items he had attached to his saddle and threw it in her direction. It landed with a satisfyingly heavy jingle. Her share of the money.

  Moneva took a second look at the paraphernalia he was riding with and pointed to a bow.

  ‘Didn’t know you could use one of those,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah well, I’ve been practising. Still room for improvement.’

  He offered her the reins of the second horse.

  Taking them, she tried to lift her foot up into the stirrups but grunted in pain instead, as her leg refused to bend at the knee.

  Shaking his head, Herin dismounted and walked over.

  ‘Here, let me give you a hand.’

  Moneva nodded, but when he approached she put her arms around him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Not many would have done this.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your friends. Here, let me get you up.’

  Moneva let herself get manoeuvred up into the saddle, and Herin swung himself easily back into his.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘The Steppe.’

  ‘You’re joking? After all this?’

  ‘None of them saw me. My brother’s still there. Plus, I signed a contract. Have to see it through.’

  So, that was that. She couldn’t complain. He’d told her he wasn’t the falling in love type.

  ‘How about you?’ he asked her.

  ‘Thinking of staying away from the Empire for a while,’ she said.

  He gave her a smile. ‘Yeah, I think that’s best. I’ve always thought Cordence might be a good option. Lots of money there, not much going on. A good place to lie low for a while.’

  ‘Cordence,’ she said, mulling the idea over.

  ‘Yes. Then there’s the wine, of course. The place is flowing with smooth red wine. You’ll never have to drink Barissian piss again.’

  She smiled. ‘You’ve sold me.’

  ‘I’ve nearly sold myself. Maybe after this war’s over.’

  Moneva turned her horse to the south.

  ‘Farewell Herin,’ she said over her shoulder, not looking back.

  ‘Until next time.’

  Moneva pushed her weight forwards and told her horse to go. They had to make good time, because they weren’t going to stop until they had left Barissia behind for good.

  STIFF’S STANDOFF: INTRODUCTION

  Stiff’s Standoff was originally written for the grimdark anthology Beyond The Shadows (published 2019). It was then picked up by Grimdark Magazine for their January 2021 edition.

  Given its origins it’s probably one of the most genre-specific stories I’ve written. I really wanted to hit the (for me) key tropes of grimdark fantasy: morally grey characters; trying to get by in a gritty world; with some dark humour to make the pill go down a bit easier.

  Thus Lothar ‘Stiff’ Sauer was born: a largely unsuccessful mercenary leader who has got by thanks to his motto: don’t get into something you can’t get out of.

  I probably leaned into the humour quite hard in the end. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, until the editor of Grimdark Magazine mentioned it, that there is zero magic in the story. I guess that’s how gritty and realistic it became!

  STIFF’S STANDOFF

  LOTHAR PAUSED, CLOSING his eyes as a gust of wind blew dust in his face.

  His feet throbbed, but he walked on until he reached the crossroads. Only then did he stop to examine the village.

  Don’t get into something you can’t get out of, he reminded himself. ‘What a shithole,’ he murmured, looking around.

  He saw a collection of wooden shacks, leaning against each other on either side of the two roads that met here. The only substantial building was the church, set in its own grounds on the north-east edge of the village. He smiled to himself bitterly. Poor fuckers the world over kept themselves poor by giving all the spare money they had to the Church. It was the ultimate long-odds gamble of the desperate and the hopeless.

  Footsteps behind. He knew them to be Mirko’s.

  ‘Shithole,’ said a gravelly voice.

  Lothar nodded. He considered the wooden shacks and the people who lived inside. ‘What possesses someone to decide to live their life in a place like this?’ he asked.


  ‘Because the place they’ve left is worse.’

  Lothar turned around to look back down the road that had taken them here.

  Two more figures approached on foot. One was a young man, big framed, with impossibly large shoulders and a thick torso that was equal parts muscle and fat. He walked in an awkward fashion, as if his body had yet to master the mechanics of the movement. Second was an old man, paper thin and worn looking, as if each passing year had made him more transparent. Another winter and he will disappear completely, Lothar speculated.

  ‘This it?’ asked Karl, the old man, as he and the young man caught up.

  ‘Yes. We’re expecting him to arrive from the east.’

  Lothar pointed down the east road. It was empty, just like the others.

  ‘Good,’ said Karl. He began to shuffle with his trousers, tugging at the string and pulling them down.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ demanded Mirko.

  ‘Need to relieve myself.’

  ‘Not in the middle of the street. We don’t all need to see your shrivelled slange, you dirty old man.’

  Karl shrugged, as if he had long ago given up on understanding the complexities of decorum, and tottered off to a narrow alley between two shacks.

  ‘Emil,’ said Lothar. ‘Can you keep an eye on the east road for a few minutes while we get a drink?’

  ‘Sure, Stiff.’

  Lothar looked around.

  ‘Over here,’ said Mirko, walking over to one of the wooden houses.

  A picture of a beer stein hung on the wooden door, indicating that the wife inside had brewed a fresh batch. Mirko knocked before they entered.

  The wife was ready for them, had perhaps been peering at them through the cracks in her walls. She motioned to a couple of wooden chairs and a table.

  ‘Very civilised,’ commented Lothar, pleased to give his feet a rest as he sank into one of the chairs. ‘Is it a good brew, missus?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, as she opened the tap in the barrel and began pouring out the first drink. ‘I only made it yesterday.’