Blackguards

by J. M. Martin

  “Killed a wolf and wore its bloodstained skull as a helmet. You started that rumor, didn’t you? Whispered it in someone’s ear from the darkness. You have become the most feared figure in Vulcrest, and you’ve done it with your hands tied, because anyone who so much as sees your face, even without knowing your crimes, will kill you on the spot. You are a monster at a glance. I am not. I can speak to humans, and elves, and dwarves. I can mix with society. Meet face to face. I can be your face to the world, if you require. Whatever it takes to put my weapons in your hands. If either of us settled for anything less it would be a crime.”

  The assassin released a seething hiss, then snapped back to his main concern. “Enough about that. Tell me how you found me.”

  “Anyone can follow the crumbs. The mark of an assassin is unmistakable, but you aren’t the only one. I found three before I saw a wound that might have come from my father’s blade. From there I traced your path, found where you lingered.”

  “I know you were following me. I know you’ve come close before. Tell me how you found me.”

  “The last few steps came from that satchel on the ground. I brought it from Entwell. Inside are a few precious strands of your hair, a few flakes of dried blood from an old bandage, and a pinch of soil from where you slept. Coupled with an incantation the gray wizard taught me, it draws itself toward you. Without it, I’d never have found you. Destroy it and neither I nor anyone else ever will again.”

  The Shadow stood silent once more. Desmeres knew the time for talk was nearly through, the killer’s mind nearly made up.

  “I don’t know what you believe in, but I know you believe in something. You aren’t an assassin for the thrill of the kill. The men and women who have fallen by your blade are, without exception, corrupt and deceitful. You are selecting people who deserve to die. Perhaps you wish to punish the wicked, perhaps you simply wish to ease your conscience. I don’t know. What I do know is that if what you are working toward is truly important you are obligated to take every advantage offered. Anything less and you are turning your back on it. Let me help you.”

  “…You would ask me to trust you?”

  “You would be a fool to trust me, and I would be a fool to trust you. But I’m more than willing to live what remains of my life with a knife to my throat. I don’t even care if it finds its way to my back.” He pointed to his fallen weapon. “As long as it is one of mine.”

  The assassin took two fluid paces toward Desmeres. They stood face-to-beastly-face, Desmeres’s eyes locked on the predatory gleam beneath the assassin’s hood. With a flicker of motion, The Red Shadow held one of the daggers formerly concealed beneath Desmeres’s jacket.

  “If I decide I have use for you, you’ll see me again. If not”—the assassin held up the stolen blade—“you’ll get your wish.”

  With those final words, The Red Shadow stepped aside, and in a blur of motion was gone. Desmeres adjusted the bloodstained bandage and breathed a long, slow breath. His eyes turned to the ground. In departing, The Red Shadow had snatched up the satchel and the fallen blade.

  Desmeres smiled.

  “And so begins the legacy…”

  Sun and Steel

  Jon Sprunk

  “Sun and Steel” is set in same fictional world as my Book of the Black Earth epic fantasy series. It illuminates the origin of Jirom, one of the series’ main characters. This story explores the brutal nature of this world, as well as the honor and duty that binds its characters together.

  ~

  The afternoon rays gleamed off the rusted sign above the Rearing Donkey. Crammed between a whorehouse and a kafir den, the tavern had the reputation as the worst dive in Pardisha. Jirom had only been inside once, and his decision not to return had been based mainly on a desire not to be knifed by one of the Donkey’s prepubescent doxies who made their living rolling drunks and dumping them in the littered alley behind the tavern.

  Three Moons had made the Donkey his newest home-away-from-home not long after the Company first arrived in Pardisha. Wherever the mercenaries went, their resident sorcerer was quick to put down roots, and that usually involved surrounding himself with a crowd of addicts and “free thinkers.” And Jirom had been tasked with finding him.

  He didn’t want the assignment. He was a grunt at heart, but ever since he’d been promoted to squad leader his time was eaten up with even more responsibilities. He longed for the days when all he had to worry about was himself and the men beside him, and this town didn’t make his job any easier. Little more than a pile of limestone and dried brick, Pardisha was one of several dozen independent satrapies strewn across the deserts of Isuran. Its ruler, Amir Dazo He’Jahana, had hired the Company to protect him from his ambitious neighbors. Six nights ago the Company had successfully defended the town from two of the Amir’s rivals working in concert. As far as most of the brothers were concerned the mission was over, but this morning one of their patrols had detected a force of Akeshians approaching from the north. Jirom wasn’t privy to the details. He only knew there had been some debate as to whether their contract required them to defend the town another time. Yet, in the end, Major Galbrein had granted their employer an extension in return for a renegotiated bonus, to be paid when Pardisha was safe. According to the rumors, the amount was staggering—if they lived to collect it.

  Bracing himself, Jirom opened the tavern door, and almost bumped into a Company brother coming out. “Hillup,” he said.

  “Sergeant.” The tall corporal nodded. His eyes were bloodshot. “You come to see Three Moons?”

  “Yes. You heard?”

  “Unta told me. I was just headed to the east wall. The major wants every able body up there in plain sight in case scouts are watching the town.”

  “You can be sure they are. Keep a sharp eye up there.”

  As Hillup trotted off, Jirom pushed inside. He had to squint to see through the dense smoke lingering over the clutter of tables and benches. A few locals were passed out on the floor—their pockets no doubt already emptied. A short, squat woman in a shapeless dress sat at the end of the bar puffing on a thin cigar. Jirom nodded to her, and was ignored, as he went to the door behind the bar. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and pushed the door open.

  A green haze filled the tavern’s back room, which was almost as large as the front of the house. About twenty people lounged around on cushions and divans, while a bald-headed youth with kohl-lined eyes plinked on a zither. A naked girl lay sprawled on the floor, either asleep or dead.

  Jirom’s quarry sat in a tall chair against the back wall, surrounded by a group of young lovelies of both sexes. Three Moons wasn’t much to look at—a short, scrawny man with lanky gray hair and droopy eyes the color of old dishwater—but the brothers held him in awe for all the times he had saved their asses. They scared new recruits with tales of his sorcery gone awry, like the time in Yermin he drunkenly set the barracks on fire, nearly killing the entire Company.

  Jirom tried to get the sorcerer’s attention from across the room, but Three Moons stared at the ceiling without blinking. The air reeked of burning leaves laced with powerful narcotics. Jirom took a step inside, but stopped as three young men in various stages of undress surged to their feet.

  “Who you do think you are?”

  “Nobody invited you, tinman!”

  “Take another move, and I’ll cut you up!”

  The addict making the last statement waved a thin-bladed knife back and forth. Jirom frowned. This was precisely what he’d wanted to avoid. “I’m here to see Three Moons.”

  “He’s busy,” one of the youths replied with a sneer that showed yellow, slightly-crooked teeth.

  “You don’t want none of this, man!” the knife-wielder yelled, now making stabbing motions with his weapon aimed at Jirom’s chest.

  “I need to talk to him,” Jirom said. “Get out of my—”

  He stopped as the knife-wielder darted forward. The youth didn’t look like much of a threat, but Jirom
’s instincts took over. He caught the knife-hand by the wrist, twisted it backward until the weapon fell free, then he twisted a little more until he heard a satisfying snap. His other hand gripped the youth by his ragged collar and heaved him into the air. The room’s windows were covered by wooden shutters. Jirom picked the nearest one and sent the youth hurtling through it. The clapping of the shutters broke up the party. Everyone looked at him, including Three Moons.

  “Sergeant Jirom!” the sorcerer said with a smile. “Welcome to my dream.”

  “I need to see you. Alone.”

  The sorcerer nodded. “Begone, my children. Out into the world once again. Return to me with tales of wonder. And a little more kafir wouldn’t be amiss.”

  His entourage left in a shambling, groaning herd. Three Moons found a cup on the floor, sniffed it, and poured something into it from a flask. He held it out. “Drink, Sarge?”

  “No. The major sent me to find you. We’ve got trouble coming.”

  He outlined the situation with the Akeshians. Three Moons finished his drink and dropped the cup back on the floor. “I suggest we pack up and get out after dark.” After a long belch, he added, “Preferably with as much booty as we can carry.”

  “You’re not the first to make that suggestion, but the major wants plans for how we can defend this place.”

  “How in the six hells would I know? You should talk to the sappers. Ridder and Hance will have some ideas.”

  Jirom stepped closer until he towered over the magician. “You aren’t hearing me, so I’ll speak up. The major sent me to find you. I guess he wants you to cook up some of your infamous nasty tricks.”

  Three Moons rubbed his chin, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Hmmm. Give me some time, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “We don’t have time. Grab what you need and come with me to headquarters.”

  “Well, I don’t know—”

  Three Moons reached for his flask but Jirom snatched it away and threw it through the open window. “Now,” he said, putting some growl into his voice. He had his own reputation among the brothers, and it wasn’t for playing nice.

  The sorcerer came along without any trouble.

  #

  A hand shook him out of a dream. “Sarge! You need to get up.”

  Jirom blinked and looked up. Longar stood over him. The light coming through the shuttered windows of the barracks house was pale gray. He’d been up half the night readying the town’s defenses, which mostly meant patching the gaping holes that time and neglect had eaten into the outer walls. Given a few more months and access to a decent quarry, he might actually accomplish something. “What hour is it?”

  “Almost second bell. The major’s been asking for you.”

  He got up, buckled on his body armor and sword-belt, and looked around for something to wash the sticky dryness from his mouth. After a minute, he gave up on the drink and left the barracks.

  Major Galbrein was waiting in his office, surrounded by the Company sergeants. “Did you find Three Moons?”

  Jirom bit back a curse. “He didn’t come find you? I put him to work on the problem. I assumed he would report in.”

  “Never mind that now. The Amir has demanded that we march out to meet the enemy.”

  Sergeant Skawl chuckled. “You’ve got to love this asshole. He figures if we get ourselves killed, he won’t have to pay up.”

  “Are we?” Jirom asked. “Marching out?”

  Major Galbrein shook his head. “Our mission doesn’t include mass suicide. The latest scouting reports are in.”

  Jirom looked over the sheets of parchment handed to him. “‘Twelve hundred infantry. Six hundred light cavalry. Two hundred archers.’ Sir, we can’t handle this many.”

  “I know, but we’re committed now.” The major stood up. “I have to get back to the palace. Where are we on the town’s defenses?”

  “Not very far,” Jirom replied. “But I’ll go check on it.”

  “Good. Focus on the reinforcing the gates. The Akeshians won’t wait long before launching their offensive.”

  His words proved prophetic. The Akeshians made their first assault an hour after full dark, aided by the full moon. They hit the northeast and west sections of the walls simultaneously. Jirom stood atop the southern gate with half of his squad. The other half was below piling stones against the gate’s timbers in anticipation of an attack. Longar and Furuk stood next to him, watching the approaches.

  The desert spread out beneath the walls in all its barren glory. Nothing but sand and rocks, and yet there was something hauntingly beautiful about the dunes at night with the moonlight dappled across their ridged slopes.

  “We won’t see the fucking sand-fleas until they’ve crawled right up our asses,” Furuk muttered.

  Furuk was the only one in the Company who actually hailed from this part of the world, and he was less tolerant of its natives than anyone.

  Longar chuckled. “Sounds like you’re talking from personal experience, Sweetness.”

  “Kill the chatter,” Jirom said.

  He turned as Three Moons climbed the stone stairs to the battlements, huffing with every step.

  “Where’s the major?” Three Moons asked.

  “Probably on the north wall overseeing the defense, which begs the question: why are you here?”

  Three Moons unslung his bag and set it at his feet. “Because this is where they’ll attack next.”

  “Sergeant,” Furuk said, pointing.

  Jirom turned back to the wall. It took him a few heartbeats to see them, a column of shadows coming over a dune to the southeast. Moonlight glinted off helmets and the points of spears marching toward the town at a fast clip. “Elsig, go tell the major we’ve got company. Three Moons, what can you . . . ?”

  The sorcerer pulled a small wooden box out of his bag and set it on the wall. He opened the box and took out a tiny wooden post, which he attached to the top of the lid. Hanging from the post was a thin membrane resembling a leaf or a slip of brown parchment.

  “What’s that?” Jirom asked.

  “Just watch.”

  The sorcerer leaned close to the little apparatus and gently blew. The leaf-thing flittered and made a humming sound. Minutes passed, but nothing else happened except that Three Moons kept blowing and the Akeshians kept marching closer. They got within catapult range, but the south wall only had one working siege engine, a relic from Jirom’s grandfather’s time. It made a loud thwunk as it fired, launching a fifty-pound stone into the night air. A few seconds later, a cloud of sand kicked up in front of the advancing enemy. The Company sappers cursed at each other as they loaded the arm for another shot.

  Jirom was about to check on the preparations below when he noticed a dark cloud in the southern sky, highlighted by the moon. Dread inched up his backbone as the cloud moved against the breeze to follow the enemy column. When it got over the Akeshians, it dropped like a swooping hawk. Distant cries rang out over the dunes. Three Moons broke into a victory jig.

  Jirom tried to piece together what he’d seen and heard. “Locusts?”

  “Wasps,” Three Moons answered with a guffaw. “Big, angry suckers. I wouldn’t want to be those—”

  The sorcerer stopped dancing and clutched the wall. Out on the dunes, a pillar of inky smoke rose from the enemy force. The cries of outrage had ended. A few moments later, the Akeshians emerged from the smoke, once again marching in formation toward the town.

  “What happened?” Jirom asked.

  Three Moons opened his mouth, and then ducked behind the battlements. Jirom lost his balance as the entire wall rocked like it’d been struck by a fleet of battering rams. A few seconds later, the catapult exploded in a shower of broken timbers. After he sent Longar to organize a medic detail, Jirom propped up the haggard-looking sorcerer.

  Three Moons grimaced. “They’ve got a heavy-hitter out there, Sarge.”

  “Another wizard?”

  “And not just any hedge wizard
. Akeshian war-magi are bred to sorcery and trained up in fancy schools.”

  “So what are you saying? You can’t handle him?”

  Three Moons slid down on his haunches. “He’s wielding High Magic, son. Not the backwater bayou stuff I learned at my grandpa’s knee. The next time I pop off, he’s liable to squash me like a bug.”

  Jirom rested a fist on top of a merlon. The enemy had advanced to within bowshot. Company archers sent a flight of arrows sailing into the column, but without much effect against the heavily-armored infantry. He didn’t see scaling ladders or siege equipment with the enemy, but it was dark enough that he couldn’t be sure. And he didn’t have enough men to protect the entire wall. He estimated they could hold the gate for an hour, perhaps two, but he needed . . . .

  Marching footsteps echoed down the street behind the gatehouse. Jirom turned, and almost couldn’t believe his eyes. A small unit of troops in blue-dyed armor approached from the city center—the Amir’s personal guard. Jirom could have hugged them all. He started mentally placing the new arrivals at different spots along the wall to shore up the defenses. He hoped they had brought some crossbows, which would put a dent in the Akeshian advance.

  Three Moons leaned over the battlements. “What the hell?”

  Jirom was turning as a clash of steel erupted in the courtyard below. He looked down in time to see one of the new arrivals split a brother’s skull with a battle axe. The Amir’s bodyguard had surged forward to envelop his men at the gate. Spears and javelins flew in the darkness, painting the street with blood as they slammed into flesh.

  Jirom drew his sword and ran to the stairs when a titanic explosion, like the cracking of the world’s foundation, burst behind him. His weapon dropped from his senseless hand as he hurtled through the air. He saw a bright green flash of light, and then darkness closed around him.