BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  He climbed stone steps that were shallow half-moons in the middle from the tread of millennia, then through the batwing doors where he stopped to take in the place. It had a long bar with a dozen stools. There were six or seven tables scattered about the room with old men playing dice at half of them. A homely trollop did her level best to entice a trio of men to take her up to their rooms, but they appeared more interested in each other. A few world-weary looking men drank alone in somber repose. It wasn’t as crowded as the other places the Sellsword had seen, but there would be cheap talk here and information if he bought enough drinks.

  A grizzled, old bartender looked at him and said, “What will you have?”

  “Milk?”

  The bartender’s eyebrows raised in stupefied confusion. “Milk!? Does it look like I have room for a cow in here?”

  “Easy, I was joking, old man. I’ll have mead.”

  The bartender shook his head but poured a tankard for the Sellsword. “This isn’t the kind of town to be telling jokes to the wrong people in.”

  “Are you the wrong kind of person?”

  “No, I’m not. Just an old man that has seen too much.”

  The Sellsword gave a lopsided grin and tossed down a few small coins. “Tell me about it then.”

  “Aldreth is a town where the dust is never allowed to settle. Some kind of trouble is always going on. We have had an especially rough crowd here lately, too. Bastards that like to destroy everything for the sake of a little blood money. You look rough yourself. That why you’re here?”

  “I’ve heard things. But I wanted to see for myself.”

  “Are you here to sell your sword to the highest bidder?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? They’ll come asking, believe me, a big strong warrior like you. This town is mining blood these days. It used to be we’d sweat and get iron, now we weep blood for gold.”

  “Aren’t you making a profit too?” asked the Sellsword with a lop-sided grin.

  The bartender snarled and waved his hand about in anger. “This used to be a special place. The richest hill in the world they called it. We had more iron and silver in our mountain than anywhere. Aldreth used to be a special jewel of the empire, all the steel in the empire came from here. These days we’re just a bunch of savages remembering the glory days long past. Now that the Usurper has the crown in Hellainik we’re all just shades of what we used to be. And all those new killers like you, just want to burn it all down and leave. Not me. I might make a few coins on conflict, but I’d rather it all go back to how it was. Probably just the dreams of an old man, but I have grandchildren here too, and I don’t want their lives ruined for blood money.” He slammed his fist on the bar, then sniffed and wiped away a tear.

  The Sellsword nodded and tipped his tankard at the bartender.

  “We don’t have to toast about it,” said the bartender. “I’ll be all right.”

  “No, I want a refill.”

  “You, smarmy bastard!” He snatched the tankard away from the Sellsword and refilled it from the cask behind him, sliding it across the bar with enough force to slosh upon the dark wood.

  “You can tell me what you really think. How’d it come to this?”

  The bartender wiped up the spilt mead and said, “Ten years back, the veins seemed tapped out. It was like they had taken all the iron and silver and the mountain had no more to give. Sure there was still dross, and the gods know how much slag we have piled about, but the boom was gone. It was over. Many people left to who knows where. But the Duke and his father the Marquis—”

  “Who is the Marquis?”

  “I’ll get to that. They wanted things to go back to how they were.”

  “Don’t you too?”

  “Shuddup. I want it to go back to honest work. Pride in our accomplishments. They wanted it to go back to making them rich as kings. You asked about the Marquis. He isn’t royalty. He doesn’t have any more noble blood than the damned Usurper barbarian holding the crown does. They received a dispensation from old King Roose; he had them declared defacto royalty for services rendered the crown, which is how he got the title of Marquis and his son was declared a Duke. No royal blood at all, but they did have the know-how to really get the mines working. He brought in the tools, and the workers and made Aldreth what it is. But he is too old, he’s decrepit, never leaves his tower and rumor says he has the plague. He turned things over to his son, Owain fifteen years ago. The Marquis, he kept things running smooth, until the ore ran out. Things have crumbled under the Duke’s management.”

  The Sellsword again shook his empty mug at the barkeep, who took it with a grimace, refilled it and slung it back.

  “As I was saying, things crumbled, and they slowly lost the bulk of their great wealth. Gambling debts were called in. Did I tell you what a terrible gambler the Duke is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s the worst. Folk say if you know what the Duke is betting, bet everything against him, he always loses, no matter the odds.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said the Sellsword, quaffing his mug.

  “We’re all paying for his final bet. He met the wizard alchemist Varlak and brought him here to restore the ore in the mountain.”

  The Sellsword frowned. “That seems an impossibly tall order.”

  “So said we all. But we did witness results. The mines produced again.”

  “But?”

  “Keep your hounds leashed, I’m getting to that.”

  The Sellsword grinned and held his hands up.

  “The price is too high. Varlak had an apprentice wizard named Anaias. Skilled but proud, powerful yet vain. When the student thought he was greater than the master, they quarreled, and we are all paying for their feud. They each brought in the worst sorts of men to strengthen their hold on the city. Now the city is full of these vipers, and we can’t get rid of them. Men like you.”

  The Sellsword didn’t deny the accusation. He sipped the last of his mead, then asked. “The Duke couldn’t maintain order? What of the city guard?”

  The old man snorted in disgust and spat the name as he said it, “Captain Bearcoat, of the city paladin guard, is as big a thief and murderer as any of them. He is in Varlak’s pocket. But enough of the other guardsmen side with Anaias that they all do nothing and let the gangsters fight with each other. Rarely do they intercede except to enforce the wizard’s will in the name of the Duke. The Duke rules nothing. He is a tarnished figurehead, nothing more these days.”

  “Sounds like your town is in a bad way. What if the king was to hear of the chaos?”

  The old man snorted. “I don’t know if the Usurper would care at all. But fear that the king would come and break up the vested interests has made the wizards keep silent on matters. They have tried to keep word from spreading of the discontent. I don’t know what could be done at this point. Even if the king were to intercede, it would be disastrous for the common folk who live here. All those mercenaries and criminals in this town would probably burn it all down as soon as be captured. No, I think it would take a miracle of the gods to get rid of these leeching bloodsuckers.”

  “Even if the wizards were removed, it wouldn’t change everything back to the way it was.”

  The old man rolled his eyes. “I’ll take the good where I can get it. But see here, Varlak showed a handful of people how to do the alchemical work. He needed ingredients, elements to make the transmutation work. The Guild masters, they know the secrets. They could do the work if they were allowed, but so long as Varlak and Anaias war with one another we are all doomed and no one is making an honest cent except the mortician. Hear that?”

  A dull sound of knocking echoed nearby as if tuneless drummers played.

  “He and his sons work night and day now to accommodate the dead.”

  “How many innocents are caught between the wizards?”

  The old man shook his head. “A sellsword asking who is innocent anymore? Well,” he pondered a long mom
ent, “I tell you, there are many. Collateral damage in their war has been harsh. More to come, I’m sure, until one triumphs over the other. By the time it’s over, the living may envy the dead.”

  The Sellsword rubbed at his jaw and jiggled the tankard for another refill.

  “If you had a lick of sense, you’d get the hell out of Aldreth. No one is going to win this war. They’ll all just get dragged into the mud, one after the other. I like you. You should leave.”

  A middle-aged man with a scraggly beard to hide his cleft-pallet, burst through the tavern doors and stumbled up to the bar. “The Duke is dead!” he cried. “He was cut to pieces on River street.”

  “Who did it?” asked the Sellsword, gripping the man by the shoulder.

  Cleft-pallet scrutinized him, pulled his shoulder back and said, “Someone with a blade. Who is this?” he thumbed the question, asking the barkeep.

  “A friend,” answered the old man.

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “How should I know?”

  “This is bad, real bad,” said the old man, shaking his head. “Without the Duke as a false sense of order, the wizards will rain blood and fire in the streets. They’ll try to end this quick before word of the Duke’s death gets out of the city. Everyone is going to take a side by tomorrow; we luckily have a reprieve tonight.”

  The cleft-pallet agreed. “I’m taking advantage of that and leaving tonight, if the guards will let me. You should too if you have any sense.”

  “You know I can’t,” said the old man.

  “What’s the reprieve?”

  The old man rubbed his face, answering, “Tonight is the festival of the goddess. We have one night, I suspect, without bloodshed. People will flock to her temple for a celebration. It gets wild. Stay here if you have any sense.”

  The Sellsword rubbed his chin pondering, and then asked the cleft-pallet, “You said the guards might not let you leave? Why not?” asked the Sellsword. “And don’t give me a stupid answer.”

  The old man nodded that it was all right to answer, and passed his friend a tankard of mead. The cleft-pallet downed it in one great gulp. “It depends who’s on duty and how drunk they are. They might not let any perceivable workman leave. They’re gonna want miners when this is all done, but it will become a virtual slaving operation under either wizard. I want out.” He saluted the old man then rushed back out the door.

  “Awful jumpy,” said the Sellsword, reaching across the bar to refill his own tankard.

  “If you had any sense you’d be right behind him. Get out of town before they really do seal the city up!”

  The Sellsword shook his head. “No, I think I’ll stay. This town needs cleaning. If its half as full of bad men as you say, I’m gonna do what I do best.”

  The old man scoffed. “What’s that mean? Who will you join? They’re all bloodthirsty dogs!”

  The Sellsword gave him a serious look and said, “I won’t join anyone. I’ll take them down.”

  “Ha! You!? By yourself? You might be a great warrior, but they are two wizards each with an army of killers!”

  The Sellsword rubbed his jaw. “Pour me another while I think. I’ll find a way. I’ve taken down dangerous men down before. I can do it again.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  The Sellsword grinned. “Don’t fret old man. I’ve got a talent for a place like this.”

  5. The Goddess

  Excitement over the great celebration in honor of the goddess had built to a fever heat in the city of Aldreth. At first, he thought they spoke of Innara, but it was soon apparent that was not the case. Word on the streets crowded with drunken celebrants spoke only of Boha-Annu. As night approached, great crowds moved toward the temple of the goddess, located in a grove on the summit of the hill across from a narrow bridge over the river. Consumed with curiosity about a pagan rite he’d never before witnessed, The Sellsword joined the celebrants as they jostled toward the temple.

  Following the stream of people, he entered a large standing circle of stones. Beyond this ring was a beautifully constructed shrine. The central building of the temple had been built in blocks of polished limestone which had been rubbed smooth until they shone like marble. A porch circled the building, elevated slightly above the level of the grove, almost like a stage. Its roof and balcony was made of finely carved timbers supported by stone columns. At one side of the colonnaded balcony an area had been set apart by screens woven from rushes to form a blank background upon which only the shadows of gyrating female dancers could be seen. At the back of the stage there was an alcove leading into the temple itself, guarded by a curtain of rich fabric.

  Flickering braziers gave no light, but drifted a heady, musky incense over the crowd. The Sellsword counted no less than a dozen of these spread round about the standing stones and four more before the temple stage.

  Below the stage a group of red-robed musicians played on flutes and harps in the far eastern style. A battery of skin-drums beaten by the fingers of the musicians gave the music a throbbing rhythm and had a way of warming a man’s blood.

  Instinct warned the Sellsword there was something sinister here. Shrill laughter followed the drunken crowd as they pushed through the standing stones toward the stage. He thought perhaps he should leave but the beat of his pulse in his temples and the throbbing rhythm of the dusky musicians, drowned out any voice of conscience. With the others he pushed on, eager to reach the front.

  Five temple priestesses appeared from a behind the shadowy stage screens. Their bodies grouped together and apart again as they began a slow, indescribably lascivious dance. They taunted the crowd with full lips and whispered, ‘Come hithers’, but a squad of red-robed adepts behind the musicians allowed no one entry.

  From somewhere behind the dais the deep voice of the man sounded, vibrant and strong, speaking in a tongue the Sellsword did not recognize despite his many travels. A strange, bizarre figure suddenly appeared on the stage. The body below the shoulders was that of a man. Tall, dark-skinned, magnificently muscled and wearing only the briefest of loincloth, his skin glistened with oil and he moved with the grace of a dancer or, the Sellsword thought, a trained fighting man.

  His head was made to resemble a bull from the shoulders up. He wore a wondrously lifelike mask with jeweled eyes that sparkled. It had been fashioned with exquisite care by a master craftsman; even the horns were polished silver and gleamed like the moon. Minotaur’s were only a legend of course, but that the image of such held any sway here in the north was a surprise to the Sellsword.

  The crowd greeted the appearance of the minotaur with incredible enthusiasm and noise. This could not have been the first time they had seen him.

  The shouts died away as the tone of the music changed and the dancing priestesses formed a circle around the towering minotaur. Their movements, which had been merely suggestive and voluptuous at first, now became indescribably lewd, as they moved about the minotaur in a dance of absolute carnal invitation.

  Clouds of incense wafted into his face and the Sellsword felt fire burning in his vitals, a flame that threatened to consume all reason and turn him into a fount of raging desire. He found himself pushing forward toward the dais, ignoring the hands of women in the crowd who pulled at his clothing and his body. Others nearby were locked in amorous embraces and some seemed to go farther despite the pressing crowd.

  The priestesses danced before the minotaur, gyrating and crying aloud in ecstasy, but he refused to respond to their advances even as they cast themselves at his feet. One tore her veil away and flung herself naked at his feet, but he spurned her. Suddenly, he brandished his horns in faux anger, and chased after them, tearing their gowns away. All naked, they rushed from the stage in mock terror to the safety of the temple beyond.

  By now the Sellsword was only a few paces from the far right of the stage and realized the huge form standing directly above him on the steps was not a statue but a gray-skinned titan. Nearly ten feet tall, he wore
a red turban, with a single white plume attached to it by a golden pin engraved in the form of a dragon’s head, a jeweled dagger with a curved blade was thrust into his belt. But a dagger for a being that size might as well have been a sword. The Sellsword had seen titans before in the courts of Dal-Alahambra and also in the wars with Kathul, but never one quite so tall and powerful as this giant of a man. The titan ignored the crowd swirling about his knees and stared out over their heads with emotionless gray eyes.

  The crowd surged, calling for Boha-Annu. On the dais, the man in the minotaur mask returned to the curtained recess at the rear of the stage and his deep booming voice shouted again, still in a language the Sellsword did not understand. His cry rang out over the crowd and silenced their pleadings for the goddess.

  The enraptured crowd became still, every eye fixed upon the dark curtain. The people waited, hardly daring to breathe lest they break the magical spell being invoked by the minotaur and again chanting priestesses. As the voice of the minotaur and priestesses died away, a light began to glow at the base the curtain aperture. It slowly crept upward, growing brighter every moment until it filled the space behind the curtain with a strange unearthly light. If he been able to take his eyes from the curtain, the Sellsword would have seen the red-robed adepts standing beside the stage bearing torches then snuffing them out with metal cups attached the long handles. The light grew in the curtained alcove, while all other illumination died, leaving the crowd within the standing stones in utter darkness and only the space behind the curtain containing light.

  A hushed breath of excitement came from the crowd. An incomprehensible miracle was taking place behind the curtain as it was rendered transparent by the light. The body of an hourglass-shaped woman took form there.

  More incense was fanned over the crowd by the priestesses.

  “Behold!” cried the minotaur, his voice carrying through the standing stones like the rolling of thunder in a storm. “Behold your goddess, Boha-Annu!”

  The crowd answered back the name. “Boha-Annu! Boha-Annu!” They cried in unison.