BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  The Sellsword merely grunted.

  “Please join us in a toast,” said Varlak, as he pushed a crystal goblet of red wine toward him.

  The Sellsword picked it up and held it out.

  “To victory!” proclaimed Varlak and Orlov as they brought their goblets together. The Sellsword crashed his into theirs much harder than was necessary, causing Orlov’s goblet to break and his own to crack. Shards of glass cut Orlov’s hand between the thumb and forefinger. The Sellsword let his wine spill onto the man’s exposed hand as he pushed in again.

  Orlov shrieked, at the sight of the tainted wine splashing upon his exposed wound. “You idiot!”

  “That’s how we do it in the north,” said the Sellsword with an uncaring shrug.

  Orlov went to suck away the wine from his wound with his mouth, but paused and wiped it furiously upon his sleeve. Varlak’s ice blue eyes were wide with fear. He had drawn his hand back suddenly at the splashing of the wine, but he said nothing.

  “You act as if the wine burns,” said the Sellsword, calmly. “What’s that matter?”

  Orlov snarled at him and hurried off in a panic. They could hear him crying for water and milk in the next room.

  Varlak stared shrewdly at the Sellsword, but remained silent.

  “It was but a scratch,” replied the Sellsword, “and yet he acts as if it were poison.”

  The Sellsword put his cracked wine glass upon the table.

  “What would you think if I told you that Orlov had a blood condition and even a scratch might make him bleed out and die?”

  “If he dies, he dies. The gods must will it if he has such a simple weakness.”

  Varlak grinned. “Weakness, ah, yes, the answer of the north for all conditions that do not meet your ideal.”

  “I saw the scratch, he did not appear to be a bleeder, despite his caterwauling.”

  Varlak nodded. “True, but he is a valuable man of mine. I’d rather he not come to harm.”

  “What am I?”

  “You are very valuable. You are leading my men against Anaias. I’m simply saying I would hope you haven’t permanently harmed Orlov.”

  “It would take a potent poison to deal death from being splashed upon such a small scratch. Perhaps Wymore extract,” said the Sellsword, pointedly. His wolfish grin was savage in the half-light of the torches.

  Varlak’s mouth dropped, and it took him a half-moment to close it.

  The Sellsword put his brawny hand upon the wizard’s shoulder, saying, “I resign my commission.” He pulled the twenty gold coins from his pouch and slung them on the table, letting several tumble out and fall to the floor with a loud clink.

  Varlak’s mouth dropped once again before he could stammer, “What did you say?”

  “I’ve decided I don’t wish to fight for someone that thought they could try and kill me. Have your men open the gate or I’ll cut my way out of here.”

  “But…I’ve paid you in good faith. What are you talking about? You can’t refuse me. I’ll pay you more.”

  “You’ve lost nothing from me. I’ve returned your coin, and you’ve lost nothing else at my expense,” said the Sellsword, as he turned on his heel and went out the door.

  Varlak followed shouting, “You work for me! What’s wrong with you? Are you a coward who falters when found out you will be leading men into battle this morn?”

  The Sellsword turned and laughed. “You have no idea what I have done, but I know what you have done.”

  “What?”

  “You let your viper of an advisor talk you into trying to kill me. He’ll be lucky to recover with only a dead hand,” answered the Sellsword, as he beckoned to the guard at the gate to open the door.

  “Wait!” cried Varlak before the guard opened the door.

  The guard looked from Varlak to the Sellsword.

  The Sellsword again made the motion with his hand, saying, “Open it, or I’ll cleave your skull to the teeth and still open it.”

  “I said wait,” argued Varlak. The guard looked ready to run, but the Sellsword turned to look at the wizard. “I will pay you double what I promised before if you will lead my men today and then leave our city.”

  The guard breathed easier, and his body sagged slightly in relaxation.

  The Sellsword considered Varlak’s words a long moment but said, “No.”

  “Please,” said Varlak. “I need your sword.”

  “Open the gate,” demanded the Sellsword. “Maybe Anaias will pay better and keep his word.” The guard quickly complied and the Sellsword went through and out onto the street.

  “You can’t threaten me like that!” snapped Varlak from the doorway like a victorious dog who had succeeded in chasing off a bear.

  The Sellsword wheeled and crossed through the threshold, sticking his nose in Varlak’s face, cowing the wizard. “I just did.” He went back out to the street and vanished into the city’s amorphous, grey murk.

  ***

  Roaming through the crowded streets of night, instinct of the wilds made the Sellsword aware that he was followed once more. The figure was cloaked within a drab dark green cowl and was not as subtle as any good assassin should have been. He turned a few random corners to be sure it was purposeful and once again, ducked into a tannery around a tight corner. The figure came and looked both ways in surprise before hurrying on. Now the Sellsword was the pursuer.

  He followed the figure at a short distance, until a wide fork in the streets gave way to any number of possible paths. Guarded by the throng of passersby and the verbal pandemonium of a hundred wagging tongues, he surprised the follower by slamming them up against the wall of a shop, none too softly.

  “Why are you following me?” he growled.

  “You’ve bruised me,” accused the near-breathless woman.

  It was then the Sellsword realized he was staring into the deep green eyes of the Duchess, Nicene.

  9. The Secrets

  “You shouldn’t have been following me,” he said, letting her go, but still blocking her escape.

  “Who says I was following you?” she snapped. “You sprung upon me now! Like a wild animal, you brute.”

  “No games, girl. You were following me and we both know it.”

  Nicene looked away. “I wanted to see where your allegiances lie. Now I know.”

  “You don’t know anything,” he shot back.

  “I saw you in Varlak’s lair. I heard you cut down Anaias’s men at The Stygian.”

  “Does that trouble you?”

  “Only if you are taking a side in our town’s war.”

  The Sellsword laughed. “I did that to see if he might employ me, but he reneged on the deal. Anaias was not the only one who lost in that gambit. I am currently without a paying client.”

  “So, you are not Varlak’s man?” She asked, sounding hopeful.

  “I am not. Why? Do you side with Anaias?” He probed, still watching the side streets for any other possible spies.

  Nicene shook her head. Plaited braids of platinum blonde teased from beneath the cowl. “I despise both of them. They each have made Aldreth a hell, but Varlak especially has been creeping about on me, hoping he could bed me. And now I am without a person I can trust.”

  “That sounds like trouble of your own making.”

  She tried to push past him, but he blocked her with a brawny arm. “That’s not true. I am very dutiful.”

  “I heard the Duke couldn’t trust you.”

  “Lies,” she spat scornfully.

  He grinned. “You didn’t seem so faithful the first night I met you.”

  She blushed. “I have my ways of trying to understand every man I meet. There are only so many ways a woman can ascertain a person’s character. I had to see what you would do.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” he said, with a widening grin.

  She bit her lip. “I can handle myself.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  Nicene returned the grin and guided h
im to follow her eyes and look down. She had a dagger drawn and pointed at his belly. “I was ready for anything.”

  He snatched the blade away, breaking her icy grip upon the hilt as easily as the noon-day sun melts frost. “Like hell, you are. Tell the truth, if you can.”

  She tried to pull away but he held her wrist in a vise. “A woman has to do what a woman has to do.”

  “I don’t begrudge you that, but I can’t have you waiting in the dark with a dagger for me.”

  “Jumpy?”

  “A man in my line of work has cause to be cautious.”

  “That wasn’t for you anyway. I just wanted you to know I could take care of myself.”

  “Speak truth. Why were you following me?”

  “Can we get out of this alley? Somewhere less noticeable? Perhaps my home?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going back to The King’s Crown, if you want to talk come with me.”

  “I can’t be seen in such an establishment. It isn’t becoming.”

  “With the rumors I’ve heard bandied about, it won’t seem so harsh.”

  “I told you those were horrible lies.”

  He raised his brows, probing for a better answer.

  “Mostly lies. I had an understanding with my late husband. But I won’t talk about it with you on the street.”

  “So, keep your cowl on and follow me.” He walked down the street not bothering to look and see if she followed him.

  Nicene watched the dark corners, waiting to see if anyone might have noticed their conversation. Spotting no one, she hurried after him but baleful, yellow eyes flared in the gloom and took wing.

  ***

  Seated at a table in The King’s Crown, the Sellsword gestured for a pitcher of mead. “I suppose since everyone else knows I’m residing here for now, I could have just told your messenger where to find me.”

  “What messenger?” asked Nicene.

  “The one you had following me. A small weasel-like fellow. He gave me this message, said it was from you,” he said, drawing the note from his belt. He handed it to Nicene, curious as to her answer.

  “I did not write this. I have no one I would trust to send for you.”

  He looked suspiciously at her, reading for any sign of a lie.

  “It’s not my style at all,” she said. “I’m much more direct.”

  “So, I’ve noticed.”

  The bartender brought a flagon of mead and a plate of cold beef. He looked contemptuously at Nicene, but said nothing and returned to his bar.

  “Seems your caretaker does not care for my company.”

  The Sellsword took in a great mouthful of roast, then shrugged. “People,” chew, “have,” chew, “their,” chew, “opinions.”

  “You really don’t have any manners, do you? You spoke true when you told me you were not city-born.”

  “I never told you where I was born,” he said, downing his tankard.

  “Where then?” she asked, leaning in.

  “I don’t know. Likely on horseback, somewhere on the open steppe. Why feign interest in my past? What do you want?”

  She gave a half-smile. “Just curious. I keep forgetting you don’t want to be played.”

  He narrowed his gaze at her.

  “Some people enjoy it,” she said coyly.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want and quit wasting my time.”

  “Harsh. But all right. I need a bodyguard. Someone capable enough to keep me safe during this war until . . .”

  “War?”

  “What else should I call this dispute between the wizards? They each employ an army of cutthroats. They murder and plunder the city by day and night while the city guard does little if anything. The gods know Bearcoat is on their payroll, siding one way or the other with each bribe at every passing hour.”

  “You want me to get rid of him?”

  She smiled wider. “If that were possible, yes. But I don’t see how it could be done. Right now, I just have to stay alive until enough of this blows over, and I can make peace with the victor. Preferably Ananias. He is the more reasonable of the two.”

  He gave her a penetrating look. “Why did you have blood on your slipper that night when your husband, the Duke, was killed? Did you do it?”

  She gasped. “Gods no! How could you ask such a thing?”

  Spinning his dagger on the table, the tip gouged a hole in the oak table. “Answer the question.”

  “A courier brought a note saying Owain was in trouble. I took the carriage to go find him. I knew he was supposed to be at the apothecary, getting something for his . . . condition.”

  “What was that?”

  “I’ll tell you later. It always takes him awhile so when I rode there to meet him, I had the carriage go around back to where the stable was. I got out and he was face down in the hay. It was awful. Someone had slit his throat.” She looked away then buried her face in a silken kerchief.

  “Doesn’t make sense. How would a courier have time to bring you news of anything?”

  “It was from the apothecarian. He is a friend. He knew someone was harassing Owain.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t know. When I found Owain I knelt in the straw to see if he was all right. My slipper soaked up some of his blood. It was beneath the straw. I was frightened. Iaero, he is the apothecarian, said he would help me. We moved Owain to his shop and that’s when I alerted the city guard. Bearcoat himself told me he would take care of it, but he, likely as not, was behind it.”

  “You want me to find out who did it?”

  “Of course I do. Perhaps our relationship wasn’t perfect, but I loved him like a brother.”

  The Sellsword tried to retain a straight face. “But—”

  She acknowledged the absurdity. “I know what I said. We had an arrangement. That’s where the rumors and lies come from. Disgusting people who hoped to take advantage of an unfortunate circumstance. Men like Varlak and the Marquis himself.”

  The Sellsword scrutinized her further. “And you trust this apothecary?”

  “Implicitly. He served Owain faithfully for years. Iaero is an old man, but knew his roots and tonics, they all helped in making Owain seem,” she searched for the word and settled on, “normal.” Aware of the Sellsword’s probing look, she continued. “He wasn’t he manliest of men, but he had a good heart. He wanted to do the right thing and, with the right combination of powders and salts, once a week, he could have a little fire in him to stand up to the alchemists and his father. I think maybe they were getting worried he would finally send word to Hellainik for help.”

  “They were right,” he said, quaffing his tankard.

  Nicene frowned. “Any of them might have murdered him. He was no threat. He let them walk all over him for years. Nothing will ever change in this city.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I have money, but can’t collect until some people die.”

  The Sellsword’s brows raised and he thumbed his dagger, tossed it up in the air, and caught it.

  “No, no. This person should be dying of disease and old age soon enough.”

  “The Marquis.”

  Nicene’s eyes brightened and, if possible, her smile grew even wider. “Frankly, I’m surprised he has lasted as long as he has. Plague has been eating him for the last twelve years.”

  He finished his tankard and waved at the barkeep for another. “When I spoke with him, he didn’t seem too worried about time left, at least for himself.”

  A worried look crossed her face. Her eyes darted left and right. “No, it can’t be possible, but it’s the only explanation. His great secret.”

  “What?”

  Nicene went quiet while the bartender refilled the Sellsword’s tankard. He rolled his eyes behind her back and pointed at her and the door. The Sellsword subtly nodded and drank deeply.

  She shook her head, still gathering her thoughts. “Rumors, just rumors that he was dealing with black arts.”

&nb
sp; “Sorcery?”

  “Black magic. Diabolic rites far beyond anything the wizards are doing alchemically.”

  The Sellsword grew self-conscious that he was the one asking questions rather than leading the discussion and holding all the cards. He needed to reverse that.

  “There must be something to it. I was blind to not realize it sooner, unless an enchantment is why I couldn’t sense it.” She stood up suddenly, jarring the table. “Tears of Bashima! Of course!”

  “What?”

  She leaned in close with realization filling her eyes. “I see it now. And even in my own home!”

  “What?”

  “I dare not go home. What am I to do? Where hasn’t her dark clutch taken hold? It could be my body she intends to use.” She looked over her shoulder fearfully and out the batwing doors to the murk-covered streets as if expecting some terrible force to come flying toward her.

  The Sellsword rubbed his jaw. “Talk sense, woman.”

  Nicene shivered. “I believe he has made a pact with the dark goddess.”

  “Who is that?”

  She seemed genuinely surprised at his question. “Surely you have seen the many idols of her. There are perhaps a dozen in my home alone. Gifts from the Marquis,” she sniffed. “His own keep is filled with them. Others worship her as well. She is the patron goddess of the city.”

  “I thought Innara watches over the city.”

  Nicene laughed. “That’s not Innara. It is Boha-Annu, the dark goddess. Haven’t you seen her image all over the city? Her voluptuous form pervades all of our art.”

  “I have seen them, but gave them no thought beyond their peculiarity. We have no such idols where I come from nor have I seen them in Hellainik. Is she even a real goddess? I thought perhaps it was just a bizarre art form, popular in Aldreth.”

  “She is very real. Bound to this place like a cosmic mosquito requiring continual sustenance. I see it now. He has made a pact with her. That is why all has gone to hell here. She feeds off the malice and discontent. Fear and pain are her balm and succor.”

  “But the giant bust of Innara on the mountainside?”