“Owners. Nobody who’ll be missed.”
Hagar nodded with a sage ‘not bad’ expression. “Alright then. You speak Lotherian?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. Whisper some to me.”
Mark leaned in and whispered. “My Lotherian is just fine. I have travelled many miles and seen many places. She sells sea shells by the sea shore.”
“That’s pretty fluent. Where’d you learn?”
“On my travels.”
“Fair enough. It’s good. You don’t need to mimic a specific accent. Each tribe has its own accent, but there are so many tribes out there that if you just avoid a Darlothian accent then you’ll be fine. Your accent isn’t too thick, but watch out for that. You’d be better off having an accent that’s strange or difficult to place rather than one that’s identifiably Darlothian.”
“Mmm. I see.”
“In terms of appearance, I can see two problems.” said Hagar, taking a big sip.
“The scar and the eyes.”
“Yes. That scar. How’d you get it?”
“Warlord Durthu hit me with his sword.”
“Looks a bit jagged for a sword-strike.”
“It was a jagged sword.”
“Almost looks like the kind of scar a bear’s claw would make. Of course, if you’d been mauled by a bear, you’d have at least a couple more scars to go with it.”
Mark took a couple of moment to work out where Hagar was going with this. He shook his head. “No.”
“It’s just an idea.” he shrugged.
“You want me to cut my face open so it looks like I’ve been mauled by a bear?”
Hagar shrugged again. “Seems insane, doesn’t it? It’s the kind of thing that it wouldn’t even occur to you that a person might do. Nobody would think you’re the famous Mark of Darloth once the rest of the getup is in place. Speaking of which, your eyes. Everyone knows about your ice cold eyes. There’s not much we can do about that, except to get rid of one.”
“You already asked me to cut my face.” Mark scoffed, “Now you want me to rip out one of my eyes?”
Hagar laughed. “Not exactly. An eyepatch should do fine. Just don’t forget to wear it. If folk see you’ve got a perfectly good eye beneath it, that’s a sure-fire way to get yourself cut open like you did to those warlords.”
“Fine.”
“As for the rest of you, I suggest you don’t wash for a couple of months.”
“Way ahead of you.” grunted Mark.
“Otherwise, grow your hair long and your beard thick.”
“Mhmm.”
“Good. Now as for what to wear, each tribe has its own look, be it tattoos, woad, animal pelts or whatever. If I were you, I’d disguise myself as a member of an obscure tribe. Some shit inbred clan that lives high up in the mountains. That way you’re unlikely to bump into one of your own, which would be troublesome. But the druids will have heard the clan’s name before, and that will lend credence to your story.”
“If I get tattoos, that should make it more convincing.” said Mark between sips of his drink. “Who’d get a tattoo just to dress up as a barbarian, right?”
Hagar grinned. “Now you’re thinking like a true spy. As for what to do once you get there, you’re going to need to blend in. If they’re revelling, you need to revel. If they’re drinking, you need to drink. If they’re sacrificing goats and reading their entrails, you’ve got to be prepared to get your hands dirty. But the trick to getting to the folks who matter,” he said, leaning in, “is earning their trust.”
“And how do I do that?” asked Mark as Hagar knocked back the last of his drink.
He slammed his tankard down, and his eyes shot open. “Behind you!” he roared.
Mark’s heart jumped. He ducked down. A crossbow bolt whizzed over his head and thunked into Hagar’s sternum.
Mark leapt, grabbing the table as he did so and overturning it as he fell.
Two bolts flew past him and shattered on the wall behind. Two more bolts thudded into the table, shearing the wood, even before it hit the ground.
Mark, the table, Hagar, their tankards and Hagar’s crossbow all clattered to the ground at once.
Taking a few hurried breaths, Mark’s eyes shot over to Hagar. He was dead. His eyes shot back to see the three card-players overturning tables and sheltering behind them to reload. The barman and the wench both scuttled behind the bar, crossbows in their hands too.
Pain shot through his leg. Mark cried out in agony, grabbing at where he felt the pain, a bolt right through his calf.
His eyes shot over to the last of the punters who had been sat on his own behind him. He was also armed with a crossbow, and was scrambling to his feet looking to find cover. Mark whipped a knife from his belt and launched it at him. It thudded into his chest, the impact and shock sending him slamming against the wall behind. He dropped his crossbow and it clattered to the floor. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he slowly slipped down to the floor to die.
Mark grabbed Hagar’s crossbow and shuffled close to the overturned table. His heart raced. He had no idea what was going on. He could hear the other five cranking their crossbows as they reloaded.
“I have a crossbow!” Mark called out to them. “If I’m going to die, I’m taking one of you with me, just like your friend there.”
“We don’t want that.” called Beaumont. “We’re bandits. We just want your money. Come out with your hands up and we’ll take your coin and leave you be.”
“Bullshit!” shouted Mark. “If you were here for my coin, you wouldn’t have shot at me six times already. You’re here for blood.”
“Alright, you got me.” called Beaumont. “We’re assassins, here to kill you.”
“Who by?” called Mark, trying to stall the assassins and give himself time to think. Beaumont was doing exactly the same thing, keeping Mark talking as he gestured instructions to the others.
“I can’t break client confidentiality, Mark.” he said. “But look, assassins or no, we don’t want to die. And we know who you are and what you’re capable of. Hell, we’ve seen it first hand with what you did to Aron over there.”
“I can hear someone moving.” shouted Mark. “Is it the blonde wench? Tell her to stay where she is, unless she wants to be the one to die.”
“You can tell her yourself.” she called from behind a wooden pillar not too far from the bar. If she jumped out from behind it she would have a clear shot at him, so Mark aimed his crossbow in that direction. But he knew his time was running out. If he was aiming his crossbow towards the pillar, then he wasn’t aiming it at any of the other four assailants.
“Let’s make a deal.” called Mark as blood dripped from his wound, forming a puddle where he crouched. “We all come out at once. I die, and so does one of you. How about that?”
No reply was forthcoming. None were eager to die.
“What’s that they say about honour amongst thieves?” laughed Mark, morbidly.
“We’re not thieves, as you’ve established already.” said Beaumont, as cordially as he could.
“What’s that I hear? Is it you other three? Does one of you want to die?” Mark called out as he heard their tables scraping across the floor as they pushed them closer to Mark’s position. His eyes stayed on the pillar, but he could see the bar from the corner of his eye.
“Come now, Mark, you can’t expect us to sit here all day in some kind of standoff. What if someone were to walk in and disturb us?” said Beaumont.
Something occurred to Mark. “Wait…What happened to the staff? The regulars? The punters?”
“They’re dead. Freezing in a pit out back.” said Beaumont, as he gestured to the blonde and began a five finger countdown. “That’s right, Mark. We killed a lot of innocent people to get to you. Including the boy who delivered your message to poor Hagar.”
“You didn’t need to do that.” said Mark, with a fleeting pang of remorse.
“No. But we did it anyway.”
As his last finger went down, Beaumont popped up from behind the bar just long enough to get Mark’s attention. No sooner had Mark’s eyes and crossbow turned his way than he crouched back down, and the blonde jumped out from behind the pillar and fired.
The bolt thudded into the table leg which stood between her crossbow and Mark’s face. Mark desperately squeezed his crossbow and the bolt flew. It was a snap shot, but it was a good one, hitting her in the shoulder, sending her falling back. She and her crossbow hit the floor.
Mark knew he only had moments to act. He’d shot his load, and the rest were fully loaded.
He lifted up the table to use as a shield, his leg screaming in pain as he hauled himself and the table off the ground, and he charged towards the door. Not quite knowing what else to do, the three card-players fired their bolts, which all thudded into the table. Then Mark smashed through the door, using the table as a shield-cum-battering ram, and he and the table tumbled outside.
“Don’t follow him!” called Beaumont as he popped up from behind the bar. “He could be waiting outside the doorway with those axes of his.”
“What do you suggest then?” said one of the muggers, Alfred, who wore a floppy wide-brimmed hat, as he and his mates reloaded their crossbows.
“We follow him and bleed him out, like a wounded stag.” said Beaumont, stepping cautiously towards the doorway. “He was hit in the leg. He’ll be slow and bleeding. And out there, in that snowstorm, without his bear skin, he’ll freeze to death soon enough. That should keep him nice and fresh to take back to our good friend Tiroginus.”
“Did he get Greta?” asked another of the men, Farlen, who had an eyepatch and a scarred lip.
“’Fraid so.” said Beaumont, as he peeked through the doorway to check Mark wasn’t waiting to pounce on them. “One less share though, right?”
The last of the men, Vlad, bald-headed, grinned cruelly. “Right you are, boss.”
So the four men donned their winter pelts and trudged outside. In the light of the doorway they could see Mark’s heavy footprints in the snow, a dripping trail of blood following him. They could only just make him out in the snowy gloom but that was fine. Beaumont wasn’t intending to get too close until the time was right. Mark footprints gave them his direction, and what’s more Beaumont spied a barn sat atop a hill in the direction he was heading.
“Now if I were wounded and caught in a snowstorm, that’s where I’d got.” he said, pointing it out to his chums.
The chill wind blasted the assassins as they followed Mark’s trail, slow and measured, through the barren wasteland. They held their winter pelts close and kept their crossbows loaded and ready in hand. Their boots crunched in the snow with each thoughtful step.
The trail led them through fields and hedgerows, and eventually it began snaking its way up the hill towards the barn Beaumont had spotted earlier. The assassins began their gradual ascent, but when they neared the barn Beaumont gestured for them to stop.
“The trail leads to the barn. He’ll be inside. Let’s give him some time to settle in for the night. We should be able to take him by surprise.”
So the four men found some cover behind a fallen tree within view of the barn. They waited. They were chilled to the bone by now, exhausted by the cold and the long trudge. But they were patient, ruthless men, and their patience was soon rewarded as they saw the orange glow of fire coming from within the barn.
“He’s lit a fire.” Vlad grinned. “Maybe he’s not as smart as we thought.”
“I’d want some warmth after walking for two hours through a snowstorm on a wounded leg. Wouldn’t you?” said Farlen.
“Come on, lads. We’re on.” said Vlad, readying his crossbow.
“No, not yet.” said Beaumont. “Let’s stake him out. Wait ‘til morning.”
“You want us to sit in this ditch all night freezing our arses off?” scoffed Alfred.
“Yes that’s exactly right.” said Beaumont. “But if it’s unpleasant for us, what will it be like for him? He’ll be half-frozen already. A night in that draughty barn won’t do him much good. He’ll be exhausted. In pain. Bleeding out. But for now he’ll still be on edge and dangerous. If we wait until morning he’ll think we’ve lost his trail. He’ll either be asleep, dead or as good as dead.”
So Beaumont set about giving them instructions. The four men were to surround the barn and watch all exits – there was a door at the front and at the back. Then, the next morning, they’d go in and catch him unawares, or even better, they’d find only an exsanguinated corpse.
So the men surrounded the barn and waited. They sat in a ditch, or amongst a thicket of hedges, or lay in the snow. Beaumont stayed behind the fallen tree. They all kept their eyes on the barn, looking for any sign that he might make a break for it. As the hours went by, and the morning sun rose a rich orange beyond the horizon, the glow of the fire died down.
With the sun up Beaumont signalled to his men. It was time.
Beaumont and Alfred crept towards the barn’s front door, step by cautious step. Their crossbows were trained on the doorway, ready to fire off should their prey emerge. The other two approached from the rear.
Once they reached the barn Beaumont and Alfred pressed themselves up against the wall either side of the door. They took a deep breath, nodded to each other, and as Alfred slowly pushed the door open Beaumont peered inside.
He could see the charred remains of a fire. The embers were still glowing and smoke was still rising from it. There was something lying by the fire. He squinted to make out what it was. It looked, at a best guess, like a few sacks of potatoes. A ruse, perhaps, but only a complete idiot could mistake it for a person.
On the other side the guys burst in, and one of them duly opened fire, sending a bolt thudding into the potato sacks.
“Shit.” Vlad hissed as Beaumont rolled his eyes. Their cover blown, Beaumont and Alfred went in and looked around as their accomplice reloaded his crossbow.
The barn had two levels, with stacks of hay either side of a clearing in the middle where the fire had been lit. There was a pool of dried blood by the fire, and a gory bolt snapped in two.
“He’s in here somewhere.” said Beaumont. “Start looking around.”
They’d lost the element of surprise, but Mark was trapped in there with them. In the condition he’s in, Beaumont reasoned, it was only a matter of time before they got their man.
The men began to pace their way around the barn, searching for signs of Mark, but they were reluctant to stray too far from the fire and into the shadowy labyrinth of hay bales.
“I see more blood.” said Farlen, seeing a trail of blood-drips leading towards one of the bales. He peered into the gloom, and made out an orange glowing.
Farlen gasped as he saw something move in the dark. The glowing thing was tossed amongst the bales – a smoking log burning with embers. Farlen fired, but the bolt missed its mark and thudded into the wall behind as the dark figure slunk out of view. As he set about frantically reloading his crossbow he saw the embers turn to fire in the dry hay, and soon a plume of smoke was rising from the bale.
“I saw him! He’s in here! He’s setting fire to the place!” he called.
“We’ll have to move quickly, then. Where did he go?” asked Beaumont.
Farlen pointed towards where he had seen the shape moving, and Beaumont nodded to Alfred. Alfred paced his way over there and peered round a bale of hay.
There was a thud as an axe flew through the air and hit his face. He fell back with the weapon lodged in his fizzog.
“Shit!” cried Vlad as he rushed over to him and saw a dark shape clambering up a ladder to the second level. “He got Alfred!”
“I can see that!” snapped Beaumont, looking around frantically.
“He’s up there!” called Vlad, pointing up.
The fire was spreading fast, moving from bale to bale. The flames began to climb up the walls of the barn, and thick black smoke filled the uppe
r level. They could barely see a thing up there.
“Go up and take a look.” Beaumont instructed.
“Fuck you, I’m not going up there with him!” snapped Vlad.
The fire spread further as the men aimed their crossbows at the second level, peering through the black gloom. He couldn’t stay up there forever. The fire and smoke would root him out. But equally, the assassins didn’t dare stake him out for too long or they’d be trapped inside.
Beaumont turned to the rear doorway, which was already being licked by flames. It would not be long before the front door was also consumed by the fire. The heat and smog was making the barn unbearable. With fire closing in, one man down, and with Mark significantly less dead than he had anticipated, Beaumont decided to take a different tack.
“Things have gone to shit.” he whispered to his men. “Let’s get out of here. We can stake out the barn, and when he comes out we’ll shoot the bastard.”
His men were only too happy to oblige, and the three of them gratefully slunk off towards the doorway.
As he was leaving Vlad looked up towards the upper level just in time to see Mark leap out of the fiery smoke like a demon born of fire. Vlad let out a meek cry as Mark’s axe slammed into his face.
Mark screamed as he landed in a heap. Though he’d mostly landed on Vlad, softening the fall, the shudder of the landing made pain surge through his leg.
Beaumont and Farlen shot round as they heard them. Farlen’s eyes were wide with terror as he loosed his bolt, but Mark had pulled Vlad’s corpse over him, and so the man’s bolt planted itself in his fallen comrade. Beaumont held his nerve and didn’t fire.
Mark grabbed Vlad’s crossbow. He squeezed the trigger and the bolt flew into Farlen’s leg. He shrieked as he fell clutching at the bolt in his shin.
“Don’t leave me!” he pleaded to Beaumont, but he was having none of it.
“Sorry mate, you’re dead meat.” he said as he made a run for the door. The barn was fully ablaze now. Smoke filled his lungs. The heat was unbearable. The doorway was shimmering with flames.
Mark staggered to his feet, wincing as he put weight onto his wounded leg. His skin was pallid and wet with sweat. Upon his face was a hateful, weary scowl.
Warlord Slayer Page 11