A Sellsword's Hope

by Jacob Peppers

  He cast his eyes about him, desperate for any weapon that he might use, and was surprised to see the bag of caltrops within reach. He lashed out with his gloved hand, and at first he couldn’t get a grip on it past the thick material of the glove then, finally, he did. “Try this on, you son of a bitch,” he growled as he slipped the bag over his attacker’s head. The creature reacted instantly, thrashing wildly now, and Wendell pulled the bag tight, keeping as many of the caltrops from spilling out as he could.

  In seconds, the bag was soaked through with blood, dripping onto Wendell’s face, but he held on grimly until the creature’s struggles finally ceased, and it collapsed on top of him, unmoving. Sucking in deep, ragged breaths, the sergeant pushed the creature off with a grunt and rose unsteadily to his feet, careful not to step on the caltrops scattered around him.

  He stared down at the creature, the blood-soaked bag covering its head like some particularly terrible hat. For the moment at least, he was safe. Dozens of soldiers were engaging the creatures all around him, but it was the giant that caught his eye and the chamberlain that stood, small, yet defiant, in front of it. A pocket of space had opened around the two, and Wendell watched as the massive creature bellowed, its insane eyes falling on the pudgy man who dared stand in its way.

  The giant raised one massive fist, and Wendell started forward, knowing he would be too late, and would arrive only in time for the chamberlain to be smashed to bits. “Look out, you crazy bastard!” he shouted, but if the overweight man heard, he gave no sign, and the giant’s fist descended with inevitable finality. But instead of being crushed beneath the blow—as Wendell had expected—the pudgy man caught the fist in both hands in an impossible display of strength. The giant must have been as surprised as the sergeant, for he stared down at the smaller man in front of him with something like disbelief in his twisted, strange features.

  The creature’s unnatural muscles strained as it tried to force its fist down on the pest in front of it, meaning to crush him. The chamberlain’s feet slid across the grass under the force of the blow, yet still he held the creature at bay. Then, with a roar of his own, the chamberlain strained, heaving against the fist and—it seemed it was a day for impossibilities—the creature was forced back a step, then another, until the chamberlain gave another shout, thrusting his arms forward, and the creature stumbled away.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Wendell said. There was a hesitation then, as if the creature was trying to figure out how such a puny opponent had managed to stand against it, but Gryle didn’t wait. He charged forward, landing a punch on the creature’s midsection. The creature let out a grunt, the air exploding from its lungs in a whoosh. It stumbled back into the torchlight, remaining standing only because it slammed up against a tree with a crash.

  Gryle followed, but before he could close with it, the creature made use of its much greater reach, sweeping an arm out and hitting the chamberlain. The smaller man hurtled through the air, striking a tree, and Wendell winced as he heard the thick oak—one that had no doubt stood for centuries—crack at the impact. A moment later, the tree wobbled and crashed to the ground, and the chamberlain was hidden from view in a shower of limbs and leaves.

  Oh gods. Wendell hurried forward, his expression grim, expecting to find a bloody mass that had once been the chamberlain pooled at the trunk which was all that remained of the once massive tree.

  The creature, too, seemed confident that whatever threat the chamberlain had presented was no longer an issue, for his mad eyes locked on Wendell, freezing the sergeant in his tracks. Wendell glanced down at the glove still on his hand, remembering that—fool that he was—he’d forgotten to pick up his sword from where he’d dropped it. “Well, shit,” he said, facing the creature.

  Suddenly, several soldiers rushed beside him, and a quick glance showed him that they’d apparently managed to finish off the remaining creatures by weight of numbers, but the corpses littering the ground—most of which weren’t the too-thin forms but ones he recognized all too clearly as some of the army’s soldiers—showed they had paid for what victory they’d achieved.

  “Sergeant,” one of the soldiers said as him and the others gathered around Wendell, eyeing the giant with a naked fear not unlike the terror Wendell felt seizing his own heart. “What do we do?”

  Die, like as not, Wendell thought, but didn’t think it would be inspiring to say so. He was still trying to come up with something better—die fighting, maybe—when movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. The pile of branches obscuring the chamberlain’s form began to stir. “No fucking way,” he said.

  “Sir?” the soldier asked, confused, and Wendell, suddenly unable to find his voice for the first time he could remember, pointed to where the chamberlain was knocking the branches aside and slowly rising to his feet.

  The chamberlain was bloody, battered, his clothes torn in dozens of places, as if the force of the impact had nearly ripped the clothing from him, but still he was standing, regarding the creature with a hate and anger visible even in the poor light of the torches. Can’t be, Wendell thought. Ain’t no damn way. The man ought to be dead, not standing up looking pissed off, yet there he was, bloody, true, but damn sure not broken, and looking just about as ready to fight as any man Wendell had ever seen. Then the man wasn’t just standing, but stalking toward the giant creature, his bloody lip turned into a snarl.

  The giant, however, didn’t seem to notice, still studying Wendell and the others, walking toward them, apparently unaware of the chamberlain stalking closer, assuming—rightfully so, as far as the sergeant was concerned—that he was out of the fight. He wasn’t though, and the massive creature discovered that a moment later when the chamberlain latched on to one of his massive wrists, dragging it to a halt.

  The creature turned, and the chamberlain gave a mighty tug, pulling the giant down so that they were eye to eye. He said something Wendell couldn’t hear then, with a massive heave, Gryle spun, still holding onto the creature’s wrist, and someone beside Wendell gasped as the creature flew through the air, striking a tree much like the chamberlain had, its greater mass not stopping but plowing through it to strike a second tree which cracked in a shower of splinters.

  The chamberlain stalked toward the creature, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and the giant was only beginning to rise when Gryle grabbed hold of him again, jerking him to his feet. He punched the giant in the stomach once, then again, and the creature bent over, its breath clearly knocked from it once more. But for all the punishment he was dealing out, the chamberlain wasn’t invincible, and striking the tree as he had had clearly taken its toll. So instead of following up the attack, he stood trembling, heaving as he drew in ragged, gasping breaths. The creature, then, had a moment to recover, and it rose up to its full height once more, towering over the middle-aged, overweight man standing before it.

  It swung one of its massive fists, and Wendell winced in anticipation, but to his surprise Gryle called on whatever last reserves of strength he had, bringing his arm up and catching the fist in his hand, stopping a blow of so much force that once again his feet slid back across the ground. Still, the chamberlain held on, letting out a growl that was somehow angry and exhausted all at once, then he gave the hand holding the creature’s fist a savage twist, and its wrist broke with a snap.

  The giant bellowed in rage and pain as it tore free of the chamberlain’s grip and took a lumbering step back. Gryle followed it, and the creature struck out with its other hand. The chamberlain grabbed this one too, shouting as he gave another jerk, and the creature’s forearm snapped, the bone ripping out of the skin in a shower of blood. The noise that issued from the giant’s throat this time held no rage, only pain and the unmistakable sound of fear.

  “You killed her!” Gryle shouted, his voice breaking with emotion, and he waded into the creature, his fists striking it in the midsection with a mechanical regularity, each blow punctuated by what sounded like ribs snapping. Finall
y, the creature fell to its knees at the chamberlain’s feet, and the pudgy man left it wobbling there uncertainly, moving to a nearby tree and ripping a limb as thick as Wendell’s waist free with no more effort than a normal man might show snapping a twig in his hands.

  Gryle stalked back to the creature and unceremoniously rammed the makeshift weapon through its chest. The wood exploded out of the creature’s back, burying itself in the forest floor. That done, the chamberlain stepped back, watching the creature, his back to Wendell and the others. The giant struggled weakly, as if it might somehow tear itself free of the limb impaling it, but it was stuck fast and, in another moment, it slumped over the bloody limb, dead.

  Silence descended over Wendell and the gathered soldiers then, a silence of shock and awe at the chamberlain, at the feat he had accomplished, but a silence, the sergeant thought, that also held more than a little fear. The chamberlain had won, but there had been something in the man’s face, something in his shouts, that Wendell didn’t like, that seemed somehow…inhuman.

  Then, the moment passed, and with an abruptness that nearly made Wendell scream, the soldiers all around him erupted into cheers, clapping and shouting in approval. Wendell, too, felt a great relief to still be breathing, great relief at the chamberlain still being alive. But such relief as he felt was tempered by the reality of the impossible violence he had just witnessed, violence of which no man should be capable. Such power, he thought, should not exist, would be better if it had never existed at all, for men, being men, were not to be trusted with it.

  Being a sergeant in the army, Wendell had a good understanding of what most weapons cost—swords and bows, and no matter how crude or how magnificent, there was always a price. Weapons, power, neither was ever free. He thought, looking at the chamberlain’s slumped shoulders, his fists still clenched at his sides, that the price for such power as the man now carried was more than any should have to bear.

  Gryle finally turned to look at the soldiers applauding him, and Wendell felt a surge of fear, as he saw the man’s features twisted with an insane rage, a hate so great that it had not been extinguished when he vanquished his foe. The man visibly shook, as if barely able to contain the murderous need he felt, but the soldiers seemed not to notice, clapping and cheering, and Wendell tensed as the chamberlain stalked closer, to within feet of where he and the others stood. Finally, and to Wendell’s great relief, the chamberlain seemed to win whatever battle waged inside him, and the snarl of hate left his face, and he no longer looked angry, only tired.

  Abruptly, he collapsed to his knees on the ground, his head hanging as if in shame. The shouts, the cheers, went on, and with each yell of victory, the chamberlain flinched as if he’d been struck. “Shut the fuck up, will ya?” Wendell yelled, and the soldiers turned to him.

  “B-but sir,” one of the nearest said, “he saved us…it…I’ve never seen anything like that in all my life.”

  “Course you hadn’t,” Wendell spat. “Just leave off it and go see to the wounded—see if any of ours are still alive.” The men hesitated, glancing between the sergeant and the chamberlain, and Wendell let out a growl. “Now, damnit. Unless each of you fancies being sent out on deep scoutin’ duty with those fuckers.” He waved a hand at the corpses of the creatures littering the ground.

  That got them moving, at least. “Alright then,” he said, turning back to the chamberlain who was staring at a headless body, his features twisted in unmistakable grief. Combined with the blood from a cut on his forehead and what dribbled from his lips, it gave the man a terrifying visage, and Wendell cleared his throat, remembering all too well the anger and insensate rage that had possessed the man only a few minutes ago. “Everything uh…everything alright, Chamberlain? Not plannin’ on, I don’t know, goin’ crazy and killing anybody or anything are you?”

  The chamberlain spun on him with a surprising swiftness, and the sergeant took an involuntary step back, thinking again about how his coin wasn’t the only thing—or the worst—that a man could lose. “I’m not crazy,” Gryle yelled. “I’m not!” He turned back to the corpse as abruptly as he had looked at Wendell, and when he spoke again his voice was low, little more than whisper. “He’s crazy. Sure. Just about as crazy as anyone—or anything—can be. All he wants to do is kill. It’s all he cares about, all he thinks about. But not me, I…I’m not crazy.”

  “Well, ‘course not,” Wendell said warily, glancing around to see how far away the nearest soldiers were. “I was just uh…just foolin’ with you, that’s all. And I’m sure he is crazy. Whoever he is. Ain’t no fault of yours, no sir. Certainly not somethin’ to, you know, get pissed off over, maybe kill a certain sergeant as talks too much.”

  The chamberlain turned back to him, slowly this time, studying him with an expression Wendell couldn’t quite identify, and the sergeant waited tensely. “I wouldn’t kill you, Sergeant Wendell,” Gryle said in a whisper, but his voice held no real conviction, no real emotion at all. “I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that. You’re a friend. My friend.”

  Wendell nodded, the man’s empty tone doing little to reassure him. “Sure I am. Bad business, killin’ your friends. After all, who are you gonna borrow money from then, am I right?”

  If the overweight man heard, he gave no sign. Instead, he began studying the corpse once more. “Anyway,” Wendell went on, after pausing to clear his throat, “I think a ‘thank you’ is in order.”

  “You’re right, of course,” the chamberlain said, still in that dull, uninflected voice. “Thank you, Sergeant Wendell. I appreciate all of your help.”

  “What? No, gods, man, I mean I should be thanking you.”

  “Thank me?” he said, not turning from the corpse he studied.

  “That’s right,” Wendell said, in the most reasonable voice he could muster, the same one he’d used when trying to convince Leomin and Darrell that it hadn’t been his plan to get them both covered in shit when he’d pushed the cart. A voice that, to anyone that knew him, might normally serve as an indicator that he was getting ready to tell the biggest lie he thought the listener could swallow. But not this time. This time, he meant every word. “Well, you’re a hero, ain’t you?” he went on. “Saved us all from that big bastard…well…” He paused, looking grimly at the dead around them. “Maybe not all. But I gotta tell you, Gryle, if I hadn’t been here to see it, I don’t know I ever could have believed it. The most incredible thing I ever saw, and I once seen a three-legged mongrel chase down a cat and…well, it ain’t important. Just say by the time the day was over, they were both wishin’ it had gone a different way.”

  “I’m no hero,” Gryle whispered. “Just a fat, foolish old chamberlain with more curiosity than sense.”

  Wendell frowned. “I ain’t tryin’ to argue with you, but it seems to me that killin’ monsters is pretty damn heroic. Anyway, so what if you are fat? I know a wh—that is, a woman, just as big as you please, but she don’t let it slow her down in her occupation none, I can tell you that. Havin’ some meat on her don’t make her—or you—any less.” He grunted a laugh. “Makes you a bit more, in fact.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Gods, no I ain’t,” the sergeant blurted, all too aware of the blood coating the chamberlain’s fists and how it had gotten there. He took a slow, deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “Look, Chamberlain, so you got a bit more on you than some, what of it? You’re fat, and I’m ugly, and the sun’ll still rise tomorrow. There’s worse things than carryin’ some extra pounds or havin’ a face looks like a pissed-off cat took after you, and that’s the truth.”

  “Like what?” the man asked distractedly.

  Well, being dead, for one, Wendell thought, but figured maybe it wasn’t the best thing to say at the time. “Shit, plenty. I knew a man, once, a rich bastard, he was. Had enough gold, I reckon he could’ve bought the sun and the moon both, he was of the mind. Good lookin’ fella, the type women always swoon over whenever he walks into a roo
m, the kind’ll get an ugly bastard like me feelin’ sorry for himself and fingerin’ his blade, if he’s carryin’ one. Not that I’d have ever had the balls to try anything. The man could fight too, you see, his da had paid to have him trained in the sword from a young age, and I don’t reckon I’ve met many—save General Envelar and those Akalian fellas—who could’ve bested him, but I suppose a tutor can’t teach you some things. There’s some lessons a fella only learns once someone comes at him with steel in his hand and blood on his mind.”

  “Forgive me, Sergeant Wendell,” the chamberlain said, “but I fail to see your point.”

  Wendell grunted. “What I’m sayin’ is, this man, he had just about anything anyone could ask for, had all the things a fella like me spends his nights dreamin’ on. Women. Coin. Skill with the blade. Women.”

  “You said that one already.”

  “Sure, but I figured it needed sayin’ twice. Anyhow, you know what this fella didn’t have?”

  The chamberlain turned to him then, a dubious expression on his face. “In a story, I suppose he would be cruel, lacking compassion.”

  “Shit no. He was a nice guy, this one, though I’ll admit I hated him all the more for it. Seemed to me then that if a fella has everything he did, he ought to at least be a bastard, so folks like me could hate him and feel good doin’ it. But he wasn’t. Like I said, a nice guy. Used to buy drinks for everyone in the tavern, whenever he happened in, and that was most nights. Type of guy that’d be willin’ to give you his last coin, shit, the shirt off his back, if you asked it of him, and smile all the while. Nice to nobles and commoners too, leastways, I never heard of him so much as whisperin’ an unkind word about anyone. But you know what, Chamberlain? As nice as this fella was—as downright blessed as he was—my ugly ass is still lingerin’ like a pockmark on the face of the earth while he’s buried in some lonely graveyard, the dirt and the worms seein’ to whatever looks he had long ago.”