BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  “I saw something that needs handling.”

  “That worries me,” she said.

  “Good.”

  17. The Damsel

  Dusk fell and the hulking guardsmen at Anaias’s tower parted for the Sellsword like clouds around a mountain.

  His reflexes were taut as he was still convinced it had been Uriel who had shot at him earlier that morning. Inside the main hall there were gamblers, whores, and wild crew of men carousing. Things had not truly got going yet, they would need full dark to begin the revelry.

  Anaias was seated at a table upon a rostrum and beckoned for the Sellsword to join him. Once the Sellsword was close enough to hear him, he hoarsely complained, “You took long enough getting here. What was the holdup?”

  “I had to wrap up a few things.”

  Anaias squinted at him. “Fine. I was just telling the men, that we are going to hit Varlak tomorrow morning.”

  The Sellsword was the only one not seated. Uriel sat at the table as did Flynn, the paladins’ second in command, Brantus, and a few more underbosses as well as Nicene.

  “Why wait?” asked the Sellsword.

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.” He waited a moment for the Sellsword to pull up a seat beside Nicene. “I’m consolidating everything. It takes time for the men to get their orders and this last rush only hurt us. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Snap judgments are foolish,” muttered Uriel.

  The Sellsword rolled his eyes.

  Brantus broke in. “We have to get the men back to work. My hold on them is tenuous at best. They have to—”

  Anaias cut him off. “I understand your concerns, but your presence at this meeting is a gift not a requirement. I don’t need your input.” Brantus scowled and hung his head. “I want to catch Varlak in a pincer movement. Get men inside his tower and rip his guts out, and then open the gates for the rest of us to get in and finish the job.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” murmured an underboss.

  “Who could do that?” asked another.

  “There is someone who can do it,” said Anaias with a wicked grin.

  The Sellsword inwardly recoiled. He was being setup. He pondered cutting his way out of this mess. From his place at the table he could cut Flynn’s throat and the underboss beside him before having to block Uriel’s sure strike. If only he had sat closer to the foe, but he knew the man was quick. He might not be able to get the drop on him that fast. Then there would be the other guards called in for support. It was tight quarters, but not tight enough to shield him from flatbows. He was trapped unless he just got out period. Up the stairs? Would the roof afford any escape? No, the walls were far too high. Should he casually accept the suicide mission and leave off?

  “Nicene can get in.”

  “Me?” gasped the Duchess.

  “Her?” shot the Sellsword? “She can’t open the gates.”

  “She is the only one who can,” said Anaias. “Who else would Varlak welcome through his doors now?”

  “The Sellsword,” murmured Uriel. “Saying he wants Varlak to hire him again.”

  “He’s right,” said the Sellsword, grudgingly. “I can do it, but not her.” He pointed at Nicene. “She’s too frail.”

  “I can do it,” argued Nicene. “But what is the plan?” she asked, looking to the Sellsword, of all people, for reassurance.

  “Don’t look at me. I think it’s a bad idea. You’ll get a knife in the ribs for your troubles.”

  “Let me worry about that,” whispered Anaias. “We’ve got a few more tricks up our sleeves. Sellsword, you and the others go and get some rest. Your part will be simple enough in the morning. I’ll speak with Nicene alone.” Uriel, Brantus and the others left the table. Nicene looked expectantly at the Sellsword.

  “We will speak a long while, planning the future,” said Anaias, clasping her hand.

  The Sellsword lingered there until Anaias forcefully waved him off and said, “Laerdo, show our guest a bed. I require privacy.” One of the gangly interior servants appeared, bowed and silently asked the Sellsword to follow him to the sleeping quarters. They left the magnificent opulence of the gambling hall and turned down a tight hallway and down a flight of stairs that must have been below ground. The walls felt like sharkskin. They were rough stone and the Sellsword had to duck so as not to bang his head on the ceiling. It was dark as pitch and lit only by the servant’s flickering lamp. After a few false starts by looking in on sleeping men, the Sellsword was finally shown a cramped bunk in a windowless room. It might as well of been a jail cell. There were no other men sleeping inside.

  “I’m not sleeping in there.”

  “It’s all we have.”

  “Seem to recall you’ve lost quite a few men lately, where are those other bunks?”

  “Why do you think this one’s empty?” responded Laerdo, with a shrug. “Check the door. Not like I can lock you in.”

  “Thanks anyway, but I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

  “Suit yourself. Mind you don’t disturb the others and if the master asks, I showed you what we had to offer.”

  “You’ll catch no grief from me.”

  With that Laerdo left, taking his light with him. The Sellsword shuffled in the dark until he found another lamp. With flint and steel, he brought it to life. Pinching the wick to as small a flame as possible, he started exploring down the passageway. Beyond the sleeping quarters were a myriad of pantries, wine cellars, armories, and storehouses. Sets of stairs led upwards to the kitchens, training rooms, and a locked door to what the Sellsword was sure was just behind the main gate. Continuing in the deep black, the final flight of stairs wound upward to the second story.

  He crept up the creaking stair. Dust licked his hands, testifying the age since this passage had seen use. At the top, two doors stood opposite each other. He listened and heard nothing in either chamber beyond. Pushing the one on the left open, revealed the end of a gloom-ridden hallway that opened on the rooms and balcony overlooking the gambling hall. The scent of women’s perfumes teased at his nostrils and the sound of giggling, grunting, and cooing spoke enough of the bordello wing.

  Closing the door, he had an idea of where the other one led and decided to investigate. Forcing it open slowly, he found himself back in the chamber room he had been in the other night for the council meeting. The fireplace flickered as flames sprouted momentarily from the coals only to vanish again into the blackened log. Orange lights warred with the shadows across the red draperies and silken cushions. Here too incense was used in an attempt to cover the natural smells of bodies entwined. A faint snore came from behind a wide, high-rimmed silken divan.

  The Sellsword had his short thrusting blade drawn and silently stepped around the side.

  The old man, Brantus, slept beside the woman Denae. She was awake and her eyes flared wide in horror at the Sellsword’s sudden appearance.

  The Sellsword brought a finger to his lips. She reluctantly nodded. He drew her nude, voluptuous form up from the divan.

  The old man’s hand reached for her and his eyes began to open.

  The Sellsword moved to run him through, but Denae pulled his wrist, shaking her head urgently. She whispered, “Please, just go. If harm came to him, I would be murdered and my children too.”

  “That is exactly why he should die for his crimes by the king’s law!” he grated through his teeth.

  Brantus began to stir, his hand waving across the sheet in vain for her soft body.

  His blade was poised over the old man, but instead he took a vase and crashed it over Brantus, just as he opened his eyes.

  “Why?” she pleaded.

  “I’m taking you away from here.”

  She grasped her girdle to herself, shaking her head. “I cannot.”

  “I absolve you of any debt to these dogs.”

  “Do you think to take me for yourself?” She backed away, the glow of the fire against her skin painting her a queen in his eyes.

  �
�Never,” he said. “I seek to return you to your children and husband. But we must be swift.”

  She cocked her head at him, and somberly replied, “My husband is dead.”

  “Nay, good lady.”

  Her eyes brightened. “You are certain?”

  He nodded. “But he will be if you don’t both flee the city before the coming chaos ensues.” He tossed her a sheer purple robe and waved a hand at Brantus’ slippers. “Put those slippers on.”

  “They’re too big.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re not leaving this place as yourself.”

  Her eyes welled up again. “It’s not possible, there are too many men, too many swords, too many . . .” Tears fell freely across her purple gown.

  “I tell you true, you’ll leave here alive and well.”

  The servant, Laerdo, came through the passage door, holding his lamp high. He was followed by a host of the hulking guardsmen. “Looks like the boss was right to have me keep an eye on you. Just you wait ‘til he hears about this.”

  “So he doesn’t know of my desire for the woman?” lied the Sellsword.

  Laerdo’s face contorted in confusion, but he recovered himself ordering, “Take him!”

  The trio of big men rushed in brandishing blades and cudgels.

  The Sellsword pushed Denae behind him. He had his thrusting blade out, but also drew his dagger and threw it with herculean force at Laerdo. The blade caught the servant in his left eye. He dropped to the ground, lamp and all. The oil spilled across the carpet and flames whipped over the ornate furnishings and up the silken drapery.

  The Sellsword backed into a pillar as the trio raged. As one on the left stepped closer, the Sellsword kicked a couch at him, tripping him end over end. He then launched a swift attack at the others, lancing cuts across each, though not deadly strikes.

  Denae picked up wine bottles and threw them at the trio. One man dodged the missile, but was distracted enough for the Sellsword to slice him across the arm and drop his weapon before he could recoil away. A second wine bottle caught a man in the teeth and he staggered, leaving him wide open for the Sellsword’s deadly thrust.

  The third man recovered himself and launched a vicious attack, roaring as he swung madly. His blade tore open a divan’s innards then clanged across a marble pillar, leaving a terrible gouge as the Sellsword backed out of range.

  Acrid black smoke filled the room as the flames gobbled up the fine furnishings like a starving man at a feast. The thrown wine only helped spread the blaze.

  One of the two remaining guardsman moved to circle around and grab Denae as the other pressed his attack on the Sellsword.

  Unwilling to let them gain a hostage, The Sellsword backed into her. The fireplace was at their rear. He felt the heat of it upon his neck. Sweat and blood dripped.

  “Give up dog! We have you cornered,” threatened one.

  “Or I have you. Shoot them, Piertor,” said the Sellsword, looking beyond the pair at the raging fire as if he saw a welcome friend.

  Warily, they glanced back and the Sellsword crashed upon them, raining blows like a storm. He stuck one through the ribs and swung him around to use as a shrieking human shield from the other. The second guard’s blade lashed out and caught his companion across the shoulder, biting down through the scale mail and crushing bone beneath.

  Flames lit the chamber like the noonday sun, but the curling tendrils of smoke obscured everything.

  Denae found a vase and threw it at the final hulking guard, but he dodged and lanced his blade at the Sellsword’s breast, pushing ahead with his full weight.

  Leaning hard, the Sellsword avoided the strike and returned his own, gashing the man’s neck.

  Following his charge, the man turned, put his hand to the pumping red mess at his throat, looked puzzled and collapsed.

  Fire washed over the tables and chairs at the far end of the chamber. There was a crash as something large fell in a great commotion.

  Brantus stirred and struggled to his hands and knees. The Sellsword stepped on him, crushing him to the floor. Denae was coughing.

  “Stay low,” urged the Sellsword.

  “I can’t see,” she cried.

  Flames blocked the passage he had intended to use back down the staircase. The only way to go now was out the front into the gambling hall and casino.

  He took her hand and guided them to the hallway. Opening the chamber door, smoke billowed out after them. Women in the adjoining chambers screamed as the roar of flames and smoke alerted everyone to the dire emergency.

  They moved down the hall, but a pair of bravos blocked their way. “What happened? Why do you have Brantus’s woman? Where is he?”

  “Back there,” grated the Sellsword, thumbing to the burning chamber.

  Then Brantus struggled from the threshold. Half of his face was burnt and his hair was gone save from a few smoking wisps. “He did this! Kill him!” Then the old man collapsed.

  The two drew their weapons and moved forward.

  “Stay low,” ordered the Sellsword to Denae. He did not draw his sword but stood by as the two men approached.

  Denae dropped to her knees, coughing.

  The two guardsmen were cautious and suspicious, but seemed slightly more at ease since he did not draw his weapons.

  “Help me get her out of here.”

  “To hell with her. You retrieve Brantus or we’ll cut you down to size.”

  “All right,” answered the Sellsword, turning around as if he would go back for Brantus. He let the two men come closer behind him. They still had their sword blades out and pointed toward him. He took two steps forward and they matched him. Then he whipped about, grasping the one on the right’s wrist and sheathing the blade into the others gut. That one brought up his blade to strike at the Sellsword, but only hit his companion as the Sellsword pushed him. Drawing his own weapons, he finished each of them.

  Returning to Denae, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, heading for the stairs. Most folk had already cleared out of the hall, but a few were gathering what valuables they could and paid little attention to the Sellsword and his passenger. There was no sign of Nicene or Anaias.

  An explosion ripped through the keep from somewhere beneath the former boudoir chamber. Stone and wood was hurled in all directions. The Sellsword guessed it had been the wine cellar, for what else could accommodate such a detonation?

  Denae was unconscious but still breathing. He picked her up again and put her over his shoulder, but kept his other hand on his sword. He stumbled blindly through the filtering dust and smoke. The exit was blocked with jumbled stone, but there was just enough room for him to find passage.

  Out on the street, a crowd had gathered to watch to chaos. Some were Anaias’s people but many were just townsfolk. No one moved to try and put out the flames. Once he was out among them he saw some of the fire was a strange green among the jetting orange.

  “What does such a thing?” he asked a miner that stood by watching the inferno.

  The miner gave him and the unconscious woman over his shoulder an appraising look. “Dragon Powder. We use it clear stone deep in the mines. Anaias must have had a store of it in his keep, until a spark took it.”

  “Powder did that?”

  “Aye, Dragon Powder can move mountains.” He shook his head slowly, taking in the destruction of the keep. A tower on the west side of the complex collapsed on itself, the jumble of stones thundering in the night. “Seems Varlak will win the war with this kind of setback.”

  “Is there a preference?”

  The miner eyed him suspiciously. “I have no dog in this fight.”

  “Is one any worse than another?”

  The miner frowned and shook his head. “Each is slave driver. But with this turn of luck, Varlak will almost assuredly move quickly to destroy what is left of Anaias and his men. If you are one, stranger, you and your lady friend should leave town.”

  “I’ll consider that. I’m obliged
,” thanked the Sellsword. Denae had still not awoken, so he faded into the crowd and headed back toward The King’s Crown.

  ***

  It was after midnight and he cautiously approached The King’s Crown, watching for any who might be following him or paying a suspicious amount of attention. It seemed, with the carnage as of late, few were out and about in the streets, fearing to be caught up in the gang warfare between the wizards.

  He strode up the steps and into the bar. The old man was half asleep but blinked awake when he noticed the Sellsword’s passenger.

  “By the gods! You bring her right into my shop! Is she dead?”

  “She was knocked unconscious. Dragon Powder exploded and destroyed Anaias’s keep.”

  “You had to do that to rescue her? You are a brutal madman!”

  The Sellsword put Denae down on a stool and then gently slapped her awake. Ash and wood chips fell from her dark locks as she cranked her head back and fully awoke.

  “Where am I?”

  “In a friendly place, but we have to get you out of here. I have a carriage waiting for you in a stable nearby.”

  “And my husband and children?” she asked looking about worriedly.

  “They are waiting for you there too, but we must hurry,” said the old man, urging her to get up. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” She struggled with the first few steps but, like a new colt, soon found her balance.

  “This way,” urged the old man. He led them out the back and thru the darkened alleyway. The moon above gloated and curious night sounds met their ears. The cobbles seemed especially loud tonight and they all glanced over their shoulders more than usual.

  The old man whispered to the Sellsword. “You ought to go with them. They’ll need protection and surely all of Anaias’s men must know what you have done. Varlak won’t likely trust you either. This is no place for you any longer.”

  “No one knows. I’m staying here to finish my work.”

  “You crazy bastard,” snapped the old man, striking the Sellsword in the shoulder.

  They came to a crossroads and the old man spent a long while watching each direction. Then a boy cried out. “Mother!” He ran into the crossroads toward them. Denae went to him and scooped him up. Another smaller boy followed after and then the husband, hanging his head.