by CJ Whrite
He better make sure that this new mercenary was up to scratch, thought Corin, increasing his pace. It was up to him to make sure that the young Lord was well protected.
Corin stepped into the entrance hall, his reflection shining from the polished floor as he walked across it. He opened the Vandarman front door, his eyes scrutinizing the new mercenary who waited outside. He had long, flaming-red hair, tangled strands hanging past his shoulders. A long, dark cloak hung from his shoulders, bunched up onto his back. A dirty green tunic hung below his knees. He seemed oddly potbellied and flushed at the sides, as if he had no hips or waist. Corin sniffed; the man did not look build for fighting.
Don’t judge too quickly, Corin reminded himself. The man could turn out to be an excellent guard. The mercenary was olive skinned, his face looking so smooth Corin wondered if he had ever needed to shave. A small leather cup covered his left eye, thin leather bands tying it behind his head. The mercenary smiled nervously as Corin stared at him.
“What skills do you have?” said Corin, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of what smelled like horse dung coming from the man.
The mercenary took a few steps forward and Corin saw that he limped heavily; his right foot bend to the side at an alarming angle.
Useless, thought Corin.
“I have some skill with the crossbow, Lord,” he said.
“I am not a Lord, man. My name is Corin.”
“I am called Red, Lo ... Sir,” stammered Red.
“What happened to your foot?” said Corin, not unkindly. At least the man had good manners – but manners would not keep the young Lord safe.
“Run over by a wagon as a boy, sir ... but I am really good with a crossbow, sir, even though I am a bit slow with swords and such,” Red said quickly.
“I would like you to prove it to me, Red,” said Corin. He was not a cruel man, and the cripple at least deserved a chance to prove himself.
“As you can see, I am unarmed, sir. Can the house lend me a bow per chance?”
“Wait here,” snapped Corin irritably and disappeared back into the mansion, his attempt at kindness forgotten. Red could hear the old man’s muffled yells through the closed door and he reappeared moments later carrying a huge crossbow and a quiver of bolts. He handed it to Red.
“Shoot that tree over there,” said Corin, pointing at a birch about forty paces away. He would never find his mark, but at least Corin would have showed his compassion, but Red surprised him by asking, “Which part, sir?”
“What do you mean which part? The trunk of course!”
“The trunk is too big and it will not be a good test, sir,” said Red. “See that crooked branch shaped like a lightning bolt ... I’ll shoot that, sir,” and before Corin could reply he lifted the crossbow and pulled the trigger. A bolt slammed into the branch, leaves shaking at its tip. Corin caught himself just in time – he had almost clapped his hands. It was very fine shooting and he immediately changed his mind about Red.
“Walk with me,” said Corin and slowly walked across the mansion grounds, Red limping alongside him. “During the day we leave the protection of the Vanderman family to the House Guard. From sunset to sunrise, we have hired men who patrol the grounds. You will be paid fifteen bronze for every night – that is four and a halve silvers per week.” He smiled kindly at Red; it must seem a fortune to him.
“Does that mean I can work for you, sir?” asked Red, his eye misting over. Corin was touched.
“It is not easy work, Red. You should be prepared to give your life in exchange for the family.”
“Of course, sir. I would do nothing less!”
“Very good. You should come back tonight then – but do not open the gate yourself, there are vicious dogs that will first need to get used to your smell.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Red solemnly.
*
Red returned promptly at sunset, limping across the grounds while the dog handler allowed his dogs to sniff the crippled man. The dogs barked once, and then ignored Red – he was not the enemy. Corin watched Red with a pleased expression. No intruder would be able to get past Red’s good shooting. It just showed him not to judge a man by how he appeared.
Red spend the first few hours limping around, his crossbow held in both hands, but after a while his leg hurt so much that he retreated to the back of the grounds. The grounds ended sharply at a cliffs edge, and he leaned against a tree there, massaging his knee. The ocean was below the cliff, waves lapping against the steep side, and the air smelled of salt and seaweed. The rear of the mansion stood against the cliff, and there was just enough space between mansion wall and abyss to manoeuvre around the building.
After a while, Red resumed his patrol, but his limp grew heavier, and he returned to rest at the cliff’s edge more frequently. The other mercenaries did not mind Red taking frequent breaks. It looked very painful as Red walked, and he was, after all, trying his best.
*
It was late at night, and the windows of the Vanderman mansion had turned dark, the household sleeping. Red again went for one of his frequent breaks, and anyone watching could see that his leg was paining him immensely. He leaned against the mansion wall, breathing in the cool air, and then he swung himself around the corner, so he stood on the ledge separating mansion and ocean. Standing with his back pressed against the rear wall, he dropped the crossbow into the ocean below. He could not hear the splash as it struck the water. He untied his cloak and dropped it at his feet, stepping onto it. He pulled his green tunic over his head, and it followed the crossbow. He chuckled as he flung the leather cup covering his left eye over the edge. A thin rope was thickly wrapped around his body, from stomach to chest and again around the shoulders. Just a glint of silver flashed from under the rope, but otherwise the coils of rope hid everything from view. He stooped and picked up the cloak, flinging it over his shoulders. The bunched up look disappeared as he wrapped it around his body. He kicked his boots off, and barefoot, he turned to face the rugged wall, his fingers searching across the wall for holds. His toes dug into a cleft in the wall, and he pushed himself up, fingers hooking around protruding stones. The balcony above him was a mere fifty feet away, and behind the large window, Sirol turned in his sleep, a smile on his face ...
He was dreaming of his new Dukedom.
Chapter 25
Hands curled around the balcony edge and Roland pulled himself over the side, landing catlike on the balcony floor. He remained crouched, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.
He loosened the rope coiled around him, his eyes fixed on the window; heavy curtains hung unmoving behind it. The rope ended in a small, iron claw, which he hooked around the balcony railing, dropping the rest of the rope over the side so it hung past the cliff’s edge. Sliding down the rope would be far quicker and easier than climbing back down the wall, and the claw would allow him to retrieve the rope once he reached the ledge.
Heart beating wildly, he tried prying the window open. It would not budge; it must be locked from the inside. Feeling along the edges, he found a large wooden hinge. Pressing the point of the zhutou underneath the hinge, he slowly forced the securing pin out, and he caught the window just in time as it toppled toward him.
Roland pushed the heavy curtain to the side, peering into the room beyond. There was a low fire burning in a hearth in one corner, and after his climb in the dark, his eyes were well adjusted and the firelight was enough to make out details in the room. Thick looking carpets covered the floor, and richly upholstered chairs and couches surrounded a table in the middle of the room. Portraits hung on the walls, and a tall silver mirror stood next to a large desk filled with parchments and writing tools. Sirol lay sleeping in a massive bed close to the fire. Silk drapes hung from the ceiling and fell over his bed.
Roland climbed through the window, the carpet soft under his bare feet. Silently he walked to Sirol’s bed, firelight dancing madly in his eyes.
He stood next to the bed, loo
king down on the sleeping man, his expression unreadable. From his sash, Roland pulled a small silver vial. Holding it between thumb and finger, he studied it in the firelight. He pulled the small stopper from the vial, and liberally spilled the contents onto the zhutous tapered end. The empty vial disappeared back under his sash, and the zhutou pricked Sirol’s throat.
Sirol’s eyes shot open, rolling madly, but his body did not move. His eyes focused on Roland’s face, grew wide, but he made no sound.
Roland leaned close to Sirol, and whispered, “Two years, four months and five days ago, there was a girl and a boy sitting in a park. She gave the boy a gift, smiling and alive, her hair like the setting sun. Do you remember what you did to her, Sirol Vanderman?”
Sirol could only stare, his eyes bulging from his head.
“You raped and killed her, Sirol. You took everything from her, and you stole her from the boy. You thought you had killed the boy as well, but he was still alive, carrying the scars you gave him on his face and more ... but I guess you don’t recognise him, do you?”
Roland pulled his fingers down his face, and for one horrible moment, it looked as if he was peeling off his skin. Light brown flakes fell from his face, revealing the long jagged scar on his cheek. “Face paint,” said Roland conversationally, showing Sirol his palms which were covered in what looked like clay. “Women are clever, don’t you think? They took war paint and made it their own, like real skin. And the hair –” he brushed a strand of red hair from his eyes, “– a foul smelling concoction used to change the colour. Underneath the red, my hair is dark, black, like you will be once buried.”
Roland pulled the thick quilt from Sirol’s body, smirking at the silk nightgown he wore beneath the covers. The hilt of a dagger showed from under the pillow, and Roland shook his head sympathetically. Roland grabbed the nightgown by the hem and pulled it up to Sirol’s chest. From his sash, he pulled a short, rusted knife, the blade pitted and wickedly curved. He rested the edge of the blade against Sirol’s soft flesh, smiling down at him kindly.
“I won’t use the weapons Li Ho gave me on you, but I think that this knife will suffice.”
Unhurriedly, Roland sliced the knife up and down while tears steamed from Sirol’s eyes, and sweat rolled down his face. Roland balanced the limp, useless organ on the width of the blade and then flicked it into the fire contemptuously. It sizzled and shrivelled, the smell of burning hair wafting from the coals. Blood poured from between Sirol’s legs, pooling onto the expensive sheets.
“I have a letter that I have taken the liberty to write in your name,” said Roland, taking a parchment from the fold of his dark shirt.
I, Sirol Vanderman, cannot live with the shame anymore. In my darkest hour, I have violated and murdered several young girls, the last of which was a beautiful young woman by the name of Carla Aderston.
I herewith confess all my crimes, and have decided to rid myself of that which leads me into temptation.
This is not enough punishment however, and I have decided to take my own life.
Sirol Vanderman.
“A tragic fate for one so young,” said Roland and placed the letter across Sirol’s chest. “But I fear that someone – your father for instance – might realise that the signature is not your own, but I believe that I have a way to solve the little dilemma.”
Roland pulled the dagger from below Sirol’s pillow, placing the tip onto the letters signature. He curled Sirol’s limp fingers around the hilt, ignoring his pleading eyes, clamping his hand tightly over Sirol’s fingers.
“I’ve warned you that you are already dead. And I’ve told you that I would reap your soul.” Roland slowly increased the pressure on the hilt, the blade sinking through the letter and into Sirol’s chest. Blood spurted from the wound, covering blade and letter, the black writing shining brightly through the glistening red. Blood dripped from Sirol’s mouth, his breath rattling from the sides of his mouth. Roland pressed the dagger to the hilt inside Sirol’s chest, and then he spat on Sirol’s lifeless face.
As if waking from a sudden dream, Roland stood upright, looking around him in a daze. He shook his head as if trying to clear his mind and then he pulled a hood from below his shirt. He slipped the hood over his head, and tied the silk scarf over his mouth and nose. It would not do for anyone seeing his face as he escaped.
He quickly made his way to the window and climbed through the hole and onto the balcony. He lifted and pressed the window back into to place, slipping the pin back through the wooden hinge. Roland swung his legs over the balcony and slipped down the rope. A few moments later the rope slackened, shook, and then the claw slipped from the railing ...
The night was quiet and nothing moved, as if darkness itself held its breath. Behind the locked window, a mutilated body and a bloody confession silently waited for its cry to be heard.
Epilogue
Six years later ...
The winter was the coldest in past memory. Snowflakes sifted relentlessly onto the rooftops and streets of Darma, blocking up doorways and freezing over fountains.
Fresh snow crunched underfoot as folks hurried through the streets, eager to get to their destinations and away from the cold. An old man slipped on the forming ice, but he quickly regained his balance and he wrapped his cloak tighter around him, his long grey hair ruffling as the bitter wind picked up, snowflakes swirling around his head. He grinned as the wind failed to pierce through his thick cloak.
Nothing like Dragon East, he thought proudly. It was his best cloak he owned and coin well spend.
He stamped the snow from his boots and entered a tavern, the white fog riding his breath dissipating inside the warm glow of firelight. He aimed straight for a table were a group of men sat drinking wine. They greeted him with good-natured banter and as he took a seat, a serving girl brought him a cup brimming with crimson wine.
“That’s much better,” he said after a long draught from the cup, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Colder than witches’ tits out there!”
“You hear about the latest assassination?” said one of the men, grinning broadly.
“You mean more of this Reaper business?”
“That was him o’right,” croaked a man from across the table. “Nobles living in fear these days. Can’t put one foot wrong or ...” He pulled a finger across his sagging throat in a threatening manner. The group of men chuckled.
“Soul Vanderman have put a new reward of twenty thousand gold coins on any information about him. Keeps raising the amount like he’s possessed.”
He spluttered into his wine. “Twenty thousand! He still believes his lug of a son was assassinated then?”
“Impossible. He was found in a locked room with a letter of confession – could hardly believe what he’s been up to once I heard about the contents. Well, pervert he was, but in the end he did the right thing. Officer Kendly saw the letter an’ all, said it was suicide.”
“An’ all that coin for nothing. No one knows anything about the Reaper, an’ even if they did ... Well I won’t say anything if I did. He’s only killed the ones who we all know mistreats common folk.”
“My cousin’s one friend said that her Pa saw the Reaper one night. Says he’s not human. All black and floating a few inching above the ground.”
“Is it really true?” they asked in hushed tones.
“Sure is. Says the last thing you see is a silver flash, and then ...” he dropped his head onto the table, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth.
“Bah, he’s just a man,” said one of the men rather forcefully, as if trying to convince himself that a man could not possible float.
“Well, that’s me,” said another and stood up importantly. “Got an ’pointment.”
“A what? Who in the blazes would make an appointment to see your ugly face?”
“Healer Altmoor. Said it was important I come back soon after my last visit.”
“You mean at that new sick house, the ...?”
/> “Leaf and Shield,” said a serving girl who had been listening to them talking. She leaned over the table, her enormous bosoms pushing wine cups out of the way, a dreamy look on her face. “You think he’s a foreign prince of some sort?”
“What, Altmoor?”
“Of course not,” she said in indignation. “I mean the owner ... Healer Roland. How else can he afford to keep the Leaf and Shield free to visit? And he also employs a few Healers, and several women who help looking after patients.”
“Well, I’ve heard he charges nobles double. Only poor folk are allowed to get free –”
“He’s a prince, I’m sure,” she said, her face lighting up as she spoke. “Have you seen his rugged scars? He must have escaped from his kingdom, fighting for his life ... and now he uses his treasures to look after poor folk! Oh, what a man ...”
“Stick to serving wine, girl. Next thing you’ll say he and the Reaper is one and the same!”
Boisterous laughter filled the warm tavern as snow fell thicker and thicker outside, hiding dark footprints underneath a cloak of white.
* * *
C.J. Whrite is a pseudonym