Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  “None,” Mehta replied. “I was hoping she could stay here with you.”

  Palomi’s expression soured, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Grandfather spoke first.

  “Of course she can stay,” he said.

  “Grandfather?” Palomi hissed. “We cannot afford to—”

  “I don’t intend to burden you without compensation.” Mehta produced a leather pouch and extracted only two gold coins from it. Then he cinched the pouch shut and tossed it to Palomi, who caught it. “That is all that remains from the Temple of Laeri in Sefera. I have what I need to buy provisions for my journey. The rest should be more than enough to care for Ferne and for yourselves until I return.”

  Palomi stared down at the pouch then looked up at Mehta and Grandfather. “This is more money than I’ve ever seen.”

  “We would have cared for her anyway, Mehta,” Grandfather said. “Where you’re going… that is no place for a child. Xenthan is called the Black Realm for a reason. It is a land of darkness and terror, a place of danger and peril. I fear that if you venture there, you will not return, and we have only just gotten you back.”

  Mehta met his grandfather’s eyes. “I will return. You have my word.”

  Palomi stood, scowling, and without so much as a word, she gently scooped Ferne into her arms and carried her into an adjacent room. Then she shut the door behind her.

  Mehta frowned, but Grandfather placed his withered hand on Mehta’s shoulder.

  “She is concerned for you,” Grandfather said. “And so am I.”

  Even so, doubt filled Mehta’s chest. Was he making the right decision by leaving them behind?

  For so long, he’d only served his Xyonate masters. Then he’d served himself—until he met Ferne. Elanil had charged him to protect Ferne with her dying breath. And now that he’d found his family again, a new drive ignited within him to keep them safe as well.

  Perhaps leaving them would not achieve that end. Perhaps Palomi was right, and Mehta would only get himself killed. Where would that leave his family and Ferne?

  There was no certainty to be found in any decision.

  If he stayed, he could protect them directly, here at home, but someday Lord Valdis’s men might overcome him. They would come to know who he was, and they would pursue him specifically. He would either flee or fight to his death, and both outcomes would tear him from his family once again.

  If he left, though, before anyone else knew his plans, he could use that secret to his advantage. If Lord Valdis didn’t know he was coming, Mehta could reach him more easily. And with Valdis dead, Mehta could finally live with his family in peace.

  Lord Valdis was Mehta’s final commission.

  “When are you leaving?” Grandfather must’ve seen the renewed resolve in Mehta’s eyes.

  “Tomorrow morning. Early.”

  “Do you want me to wake Ferne to see you off?”

  Mehta considered it. “No. It will be better if I am just gone.”

  Grandfather hesitated, as if about to say something, but he just nodded.

  As Mehta crept out of his family home the next morning under the cover of darkness, the frigid mountain air sent chills rippling across his skin. He pulled his bearskin coat tighter around him and shivered, exhaling vapor.

  He surveyed the moonlit mountaintops, particularly the cratered mountain to the east. It would serve as his marker, a guide to bring him back when he fulfilled his final commission, just as it had brought him home once before.

  As he took the first steps of his new journey, a small voice called his name. He turned back to find Ferne following him, her pack slung over her shoulder.

  “Ferne, go back inside,” Mehta said as she approached. “Where I’m going, you cannot follow.”

  Ferne shook her head and looked up at him. “No. I’m going with you.”

  “It’s not safe.”

  “Nothing that’s happened so far has been safe,” Ferne countered. “I’m going with you.”

  Mehta crouched down and cupped her shoulders with his hands. “No, Ferne. You can’t come. I can’t be responsible for a child in Xenthan. It’s too dangerous.”

  Ferne’s face scrunched, and her lip quivered. Tears pooled in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She latched onto him with her arms around his neck and squeezed, sobbing.

  Mehta returned her embrace, and regret and doubt stabbed his heart.

  “You can’t leave me here,” Ferne said between sobs. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  Mehta closed his eyes, grateful for her additional warmth on this cold morning. “You won’t lose me, Ferne. I’m coming back.”

  Ferne pulled away from him and shook her head. “I don’t believe you. If it’s really so dangerous, you could die.”

  “After all you’ve seen, do you really think there’s anything out there that can kill me?” Mehta granted himself a grin.

  Ferne stared at him, then she lowered her gaze to the ground. “No.”

  “Exactly.” Mehta wiped away her tears with his fingers. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  She grabbed onto him again. “I still don’t want you to go.”

  He patted her back. “I know. I don’t want to go, either, but I have to. It’s the only way to ensure that my family is safe. And that includes you.”

  Ferne released him again and looked at him with reddened eyes. “I’m part of your family now?”

  Mehta smiled. “Yes. You, my sister, and my grandfather. If I don’t protect the three of you, I’ll have nothing left. And in order to protect you, I have to leave for now. Do you understand?”

  Ferne nodded. She reached into her shirt and pulled out a shining object—the silver pendant she’d worn since the day he first met her. A triangle, pointing down like an arrowhead. The symbol of Laeri, the Goddess of Light.

  She pulled the leather cord over her head and handed it to Mehta. “Here. Now Laeri will keep you safe.”

  Mehta stared at the necklace. Even in the waning moonlight, the pendant glimmered. “I can’t take this, Ferne.”

  “You have to. You’ll need Laeri’s protection where you’re going more than I will here.”

  She had a point.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Mehta handed it back to her. “Help me get it on?”

  As Mehta bowed, Ferne slipped the leather cord over his head and positioned the pendant so it hung just under the center of his neck. The cord was a bit small for his neck, but it would have to do.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful?” Ferne said.

  “I promise. And I’m coming back here as soon as I can.”

  Ferne hugged him once more.

  When they let go of each other, Mehta nodded toward his childhood home. “Now hurry back inside. It’s cold out here.”

  Ferne gave him a sad smile, and then she turned and ran back to the house. With a final wave, she went inside.

  Mehta turned east, toward the cratered mountain, and started walking.

  Chapter One

  Garrick Shatterstone had a job to do, and he wasn’t going to leave the small pub until he’d gotten what he came for.

  He sat in a rickety chair in the corner, watching and listening as Coburn Tye, a member of Garrick’s three-man mercenary crew, tried to charm his way into the blonde, busty barmaid’s good graces—or possibly into her bed. By the tone and timbre of the conversation, Garrick wondered if Coburn had once again swayed from the task at hand.

  The bar was a freestanding, rectangular space set in the middle of the pub. It offered service on all four sides, but only one barmaid was working that evening.

  If Garrick didn’t interject, they’d be here all night. He cleared his throat loudly and nudged his pewter tankard forward. It scraped across the table toward Irwin Tiller, the third member of Garrick’s merc crew.

  Both the barmaid and Coburn glanced at Garrick. As the barmaid moved to pick up a pitcher of mead, Coburn took hold of her wrist.r />
  “Don’t be long,” he oozed, stroking her skin with his index finger.

  She blushed. “I won’t.”

  Garrick watched her round the bar with the pitcher in hand. She had a nice shape to her and a common, yet pretty look—not that it mattered much to Coburn. He’d pursue virtually anything female that walked upright.

  The barmaid poured Garrick a full tankard of mead, and he produced a pair of copper coins from his money pouch and set them on the table. She took them, gave him a slight bow, and turned toward Irwin.

  “Anything for you, mister?” she asked.

  Irwin shook his head. “Negative.”

  As the barmaid headed back to the bar, Irwin stared at her from behind, and Garrick caught Coburn’s eyes. Garrick motioned his index finger in a circle and mouthed the words, “Get moving.”

  Coburn scowled at him but nodded.

  Irwin adjusted his spectacles. “I would’ve gone up and gotten you another one.”

  “I wanted to interrupt Coburn. He’s got a job to do, and he’s not doing it.” Garrick took a swig of his mead then wiped his mouth with his wrist. He glanced over his shoulder at his long-handled, double-bladed battle-axe leaning in the shadowy corner. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to use it. “Besides, the less the other folk in this pub see of us, the better.”

  “You’re right,” Irwin pulled out a parchment folded into a small square and opened it enough to scribble Garrick’s mead payment into the ledger. “We’re approaching our predetermined spending limit for this establishment. And that’s not including whatever Coburn has spent thus far.”

  “We’ll stay as long as we need to stay,” Garrick said. “We need that information, and this pub has strong ties to the Crimson Flame. The diagram Lord Valdis gave us won’t mean a thing until we can actually get inside the temple.”

  “And the longer we stay, the more likely someone will notice us,” Irwin countered. “And the more coin we’ll burn.”

  Garrick couldn’t argue with Irwin’s logic. “Just be patient. Coburn will get us what we need.”

  Lord Valdis had wanted them to keep a low profile for this mission. Garrick didn’t prefer it, but he always put his employers’ wishes before his own, and Lord Valdis had hired him for close to a dozen jobs over the years. For that kind of loyalty—and that kind of money—Garrick had no problem playing things quietly.

  But being close to seven feet tall and weighing nearly 400 pounds, Garrick had to take additional measures to look inconspicuous. In this case, he wore a brown, hooded cloak that covered his huge frame, large head, and most importantly, his green-tinged skin and dark blue hair.

  Back in Xenthan, no one cared what he looked like because everyone had seen far worse. Orcs, goblins, and other fell beasts roamed the land freely, so the sight of a huge man with troll blood in his veins didn’t faze anyone.

  But now, on Etrijan’s side of the Thornback Mountains, he’d opted for anonymity for the sake of the mission. Here in the pub, he’d even taken to hunching over to make himself look smaller and less imposing.

  “What’d you say your name was?” Coburn asked, wearing a wide smile.

  “Falna,” the barmaid replied with a smile of her own.

  “Falna,” Coburn repeated. “What a lovely name. It reminds me of an enchanted forest I once saw, a place whose beauty pales only in comparison to yours.”

  Falna blushed again. “You’re too much, mister… what should I call you?”

  Garrick’s grip on his tankard tightened. Please don’t use your real name, Coburn. Please don’t be that stupid.

  “Rowburn,” Coburn said. “Rowburn Brye.”

  Still too close for Garrick’s comfort, but it would have to do.

  “You’ve got a knack for words, don’t you?” Falna leaned closer to him, resting her elbows on the bar.

  “That’s not the only thing I’ve got a knack for,” Coburn uttered.

  Garrick wanted to strangle him. They had a job to do, and all Coburn had in mind was rolling in the hay with some small-town barmaid.

  “Miss?” a voice called from a table at the other end of the bar, near the door. “More ale? And some bread and cheese, too?”

  A gruff man with a long, red beard held up a pewter tankard similar to Garrick’s and waved it.

  Falna gave Coburn a wink and started gathering a basket to take to the man. Once she left, Coburn turned back toward Garrick and Irwin.

  Garrick conveyed every ounce of his anger and frustration in one look. He mouthed, “Get to the point” to Coburn.

  “I’m loosening her up,” Coburn mouthed back.

  “You’re wasting time,” Garrick countered.

  “It’s fine,” Coburn mouthed.

  Garrick drew his index finger across his neck and then pointed at Coburn.

  Coburn held up his hands and mouthed, “Alright, alright.”

  He faced forward just as Falna returned to the bar. “Welcome back, enchantress.”

  Falna giggled. “Stop. You and your silver tongue.”

  “Speaking of silver tongues…”

  Garrick cleared his throat again, plenty loud.

  Still facing forward, Coburn waved Garrick off with his hand behind his back so Falna couldn’t see. “…I was wondering if you might answer a question or two for me.”

  “Depends on the questions.” Falna leaned on her elbows again, her face only inches away from Coburn’s. “You may have to persuade me to answer.”

  Coburn cackled, and it grated on Garrick’s nerves like it always did.

  “I’m up for just about anything,” Coburn replied.

  “I’ll bet you are.” Falna brushed the tip of Coburn’s nose with her finger. “So what is it you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for some red fire,” Coburn said. “Know where I might find some?”

  Red fire was a coded term that Irwin had discovered during an interrogation the week before. They’d managed to capture a member of the Crimson Flame, and Irwin, being an alchemist, had coaxed it out of him with the help of one of his many concoctions.

  Falna’s countenance shifted from flirty and fun to a guarded seriousness, then it changed back again. “Red fire? Whatever are you talking about?”

  Coburn stroked her bare forearm with his fingers. His voice low, he said, “You don’t have to play coy with me, enchantress. I’m told that red fire can burn through even the most resilient of souls, refining them into perfect beings worthy of eternal reward.”

  Falna cleared her throat and straightened up. “Well, yes. Of course.”

  “So can you help me find some?” Coburn straightened his back to match her posture.

  “I—I’m afraid—” Falna gulped, and her eyes glanced around the pub. “I know of what you speak, but I couldn’t tell you where to find it.”

  Garrick didn’t like her reaction. The very mention of red fire had set Falna on edge. But Garrick didn’t move. Either Coburn would handle it, or he wouldn’t.

  “Falna, beautiful,” Coburn said. “I’m just asking you to point me in the right direction. That’s all.”

  Falna shook her head and glanced toward the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brye, but I can’t help you.”

  The bearded man seated near the door stood to his full height and started toward Coburn and Falna.

  Garrick watched his every step. The man carried a bit of extra weight around his midsection, but he walked with absolute confidence. Garrick figured him at mid-forties, six-foot-three, and close to 300 capable pounds of muscle. His red beard reached to the center of his chest.

  Around here, logging was the driving economic force. This guy had probably been felling trees and hauling logs to the nearest major city every week since he was a teenager. So he knew his way around an axe and had no qualms about dealing with other strong men.

  The bearded man stopped three paces from Coburn and asked, “This fellow bothering you, Falna?”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Coburn said, his voice firm, “but the lady
and I are having a discussion.”

  Garrick sighed. If Coburn had wanted to, he could’ve handled that better. Instead of actually working his charisma on the man, Coburn had decided to vex him instead. Garrick downed a long glug of mead and cracked his knuckles.

  “And I was talking to the lady, not your scrawny ass.”

  Coburn chuckled. “Call me scrawny again, and see what happens.”

  Garrick mumbled, “Here it comes.”

  Irwin covered his face with his hands. “Why does this always happen?”

  “‘Cause his ego’s big as a mountain and more fragile than a butterfly’s wings.”

  The bearded man leaned closer to Coburn and uttered, “Scrawny.”

  Coburn grabbed a fistful of the man’s beard with his left hand, yanked down, and sliced it clean from his chin with the knife in his other hand. The man staggered back, stunned, leaving Coburn sitting there with most of the beard still in his hand.

  “You forgot this.” Coburn tossed the clump of red hair at the now-de-bearded man and tucked his knife back into his clothes.

  “You… bastard!” the de-bearded man shouted. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to grow that?”

  Coburn shrugged. “I warned you.”

  With a savage growl, the de-bearded man lunged at him.

  Coburn sidestepped the de-bearded man, and he collided with the edge of the bar. Then he whirled around and reached for Coburn a second time. This time, Coburn ducked under his grasp and came up behind the de-bearded man again.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t keep this up,” Coburn said. “I fight for a living, and I’d rather not—”

  The de-bearded man swung at Coburn’s head, but Coburn slipped the punch and kept speaking.

  “—Pardon me, but I was saying I’d rather not have to hurt you.”

  The de-bearded man’s rage turned to a sneer. “Good luck with that.”

  Two men seated behind Coburn stood from their chairs and grabbed his arms, anchoring him in place. They were each almost as big as the first one.

  “Should we do something?” Irwin hissed.