BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy

by James Alderdice

  “You must get going. Now!” urged the old man.

  “Are you not happy to see me?” Denae asked.

  “I am ashamed that I brought you to this lowly station and could not atone for it and rescue you myself.” He wept and she clasped him to her breast.

  “Now is not the time.”

  “Go!” ordered the Sellsword.

  “I can never repay you,” said the husband.

  “I don’t expect you to. Go and never gamble again or I’ll kill you,” he snapped, harshly. The old man backed away.

  The husband nodded multiple times and gathered his children back to the stable. The old man went with him saying, “I’ll prepare the horses.”

  Denae paused and looked to the Sellsword. “Don’t judge him too harshly. He is a good man.”

  “If you were my wife, I’d have died rather than give you up to those dogs.”

  “It was my choice to save his life.”

  The Sellsword nodded. “What is done is done. Get out of here and be happy somewhere far away.”

  She leaned in on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “He was right, we can never repay you, but will be eternally grateful and pray to the gods on your behalf. What is your name?”

  “Gathelaus.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes went wide.

  “Say nothing.”

  “I shall keep you in all my prayers and beatitudes. Long may you—”

  “I said say nothing.”

  “But why?”

  He moved a finger to his lips as he had when first rescuing her.

  She nodded then hurried to the stable.

  The old man led the carriage out. The family of four boarded and raced away toward the city gate. Denae gave the Sellsword a hopeful look as they disappeared into the night.

  “Will they need help in getting through the gate?” asked the Sellsword.

  “No, I bribed the paladins at the south gate to be gone for the next hour or so. No one will molest them, at least not yet. I suppose with the damage you have done tonight none shall be able to pursue them for some time. Maybe they’ll make it.”

  “I hope so.”

  The old man slapped the Sellsword across the shoulder. “I was wrong about you, Sellsword. There is good somewhere deep down in you.”

  “You didn’t already think so?”

  The old man shook his head. “No, I just thought you were a seriously bloodthirsty prick.”

  “Thanks.”

  18. The Chase

  Word spread faster than the flames and Varlak’s men came with their hungry swords and axes to extinguish whatever remained of Anaias and his gang. The crowd of onlookers that had been watching the burning spectacle vanished when they saw the mob of Varlak’s men approaching at a dead run.

  Without a clear leader to guide them, the bulk of Anaias’s men fled into the night, running down dark passages to hide in whatever hole they could. A few brave souls, the big hulking brutes, stood their ground and let the charging mob hit them like the sea upon the breakers. There was a great splash. Blood and bone smashed against them and while they took down thrice their number, they were eventually submerged and overcome by the steel tide of men.

  Gore flowed in the streets and filled the low places like rain. Moonlight reflected grimly. The city was turning blood-simple upon itself and the only clear language was that spoken by the sword.

  To this the Sellsword came. He caught one of Anaias’s fleeing servants on the street. The man clutched a bundle of weights and measures from the gambling hall.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” asked the Sellsword, catching the man by the front of his cloak.

  “All is lost! Let me go.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somehow Varlak used Dragon Powder to destroy Anaias’s tower. I barely escaped with my life. You should do the same. Varlak’s men will kill us all on sight.”

  “What happened to the Duchess? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She was with Anaias, but I saw them leave.”

  “Where? Upstairs to his quarters?”

  “No. They left the tower shortly before all hell broke loose. But that doesn’t change anything. He’s lost too many men. Varlak will prevail. We must flee with what riches we can,” sputtered the man, pulling away despite the Sellsword’s grip on his cloak.

  The Sellsword let the man go and continued his own way.

  Reflecting upon the harsh truth of the damage done, he loped down the streets toward the Duchess’s villa. If she had not been inside Anaias’s keep perhaps they had returned there.

  He wasn’t sure what drove him on, a sense of right? Something that made him want to protect the woman despite all other senses screaming that this was a sure path to death?

  He reached the villa. The drawbridge was down and the door was smashed open, barely hanging on its hinges. He warily went inside the dark shadowed entry and heard nothing. Lighting a lamp that had been cast upon the floor, he explored the darker recesses. The place had been ransacked, but he saw no sign of blood or struggle beyond the simple-minded looting. Basic food stores and small furnishings had been taken, but expensive art still hung on the walls. It seemed the average looter was looking for quick easy things to sell, nothing the local paladins might later prescribe to them.

  He quickly searched the rest of the villa, but found no sign of the Duchess nor Anaias. He left, unsure of where to look, though an obligation to the woman nagged at him.

  A fine slick of rain began to fall. The grimy, wet cobbles caught the dancing light of torches. Shadows slunk thick upon the edges of the cross-road like rutting cats. The Sellsword was aware he had run into a circle of waiting blades.

  A horde of hairy men with dirty blackened faces and leering white eyes stared at him with ravenous appetite. Lips curled back in toothy snarls while fists clenched steel.

  The Sellsword kept his thumbs in his belt, offering to look like he was no threat or enemy to them. “Let me pass.”

  The nearest man spit and the motley horde laughed in derision.

  One man roared a challenge, “For Varlak!”, and the Sellsword realized it was Orlov of the Black Hand. The rest of his men joined in the chant like a choir of devils. With two blades drawn the Sellsword met their crude iron attack with targeted steel.

  Using techniques honed from years upon the battlefield, the Sellsword’s first strike took a man’s head from his shoulders and gifted it to the crowd behind. Like a venomous serpent, his blades licked out, claiming three more lives in the blink of an eye. Still in shock more were caught in the wheeling death of his blades as he struck down three that stepped too close for the bastard and thrusting swords’ reach. But there were far too many. The only thing keeping the archers at bay was the drowning proximity of their comrades.

  Backing into a doorway, the Sellsword kicked it and shouted at the occupants to run for their lives. The folk inside, munching their evening’s dinner fled out the back. Damning the attackers in the doorway, the Sellsword managed even greater defense against so many. Only four or five could come at him at a time, but he could still improve those odds.

  Orlov cried for blood, screaming for his men to claim the traitor.

  The Sellsword stepped into the hovel, leaving only the doorway as purchase for his foes. Now they could only fight him one at a time. For a space. After slaying three more in that fashion, someone battered in a window and leapt thru, only to be slashed across the throat as he landed on the floor. The use of this place had quickly worn thin.

  Thrusting into the heart of the rogue before him, the Sellsword retreated to the back exit.

  The hairy-faced mob surged after him in rabid delight. Tongues wagged, tasting the thick coppery scent of blood in the air. Like hounds on the hunt, they bayed for his hide. The back door held fast, indicating the original inhabitants had tried to bar it in upon their retreat. Putting his shoulder to the door, he crashed through. A killer was on his heels with a wicked looking sickle and chain.
<
br />   There was a ball on that chain which stuck into the ceiling, missing the Sellsword’s skull by less than an inch. He could have kissed the spiked ball so close was its wind. The killer yanked on the ball to free it, but trapped hesitation cost his life and the Sellsword ran him through. The killer’s body fell against the wall, the sickle and chain swinging freely.

  Looking left and right, the maddened mob had already circled the house—fire and steel in their hands. He could not fight so many from three sides.

  The Sellsword tore down the alleyway straight ahead, past empty crates and through heaps of refuse. The far exit ahead suddenly had men with torches and blades advancing in a rush. Turning right, the Sellsword ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had to find a better place to make a stand.

  A high fence blocked his way and he scrambled over the top. Arrows smacked into the wood beside him. A dog barked, but stood its ground rather than attacking. Another fence marked an escape and as men already battered at the high fence behind him, he leapt over and fell farther than he had guessed the ground rushing up to meet him.

  He splashed into a canal of cold, black water. Unspeakable things floated in the filth. But when a hundred killers dog your heels, you ignore the little things. There was little current and he hurried as quickly as he could in the chest deep stream into an even darker tunnel ahead. If he had any amount of luck left to his name, they would think he climbed out of the slough and continued down the alleyway. He had the blessing that the continuing rain put enough water on the ground to conceal if he had crawled from the murk to the cobbles or not. At least unless someone was a trained tracker, but he doubted these city-rogues were.

  The Sellsword backed into the tunnel until he was about midpoint from the other side. Dim light from the other end revealed more of the city. It was not yet a safe venture. Remaining still, he lowered himself to watch and wait.

  As they were only pursuing a man, and not running for their lives, the killers had the foresight to look over the fence before leaping. They hacked a chunk of it down, using it as a bridge over the narrow canal. They crowded over to the street and looked up and down. The dog continued barking.

  “Where’d he go?” demanded Orlov. “Find that bastard!”

  “Must have gone into the drink.”

  The dog barked.

  “Could’a climbed out,” suggested another, waving his torch over the cobbles.

  The dog barked.

  “Someone shut that bitch up,” rasped Orlov.

  A yelp and the animal went silent.

  “What about in there?” suggested the one with the torch. He got down on his hands and knees and waved his torch before the tunnel.

  The Sellsword slunk lower into the grimy water. There was enough other flotsam and jetsam he guessed they could not see him. Especially with the torches so close rendering them night blind.

  “How cold is the water?” asked Orlov. The one with the torch hesitated. “By Innara’s teat’s you’ll tell me what that water is like or I’ll drown you in it myself.”

  The man was cowed enough by his chieftain that he gingerly put a finger in the murk. “It’s cold.”

  “Too cold for a man to hide in?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “He probably run off down the way back toward Anaias’s ruin,” said another.

  Orlov cursed and spit into the canal. “Damn you all to hell if he escapes. Half a you’s go that way, the other half the other. Torvald, you and Meech, stay here and keep an eye on the water.”

  The mob hurried off in either direction.

  The two men lingered by the edge of the canal. They spoke low and the Sellsword couldn’t make out the words. But they stayed together and didn’t appear to be watching at all. One even had his back to the culvert.

  Moving slow and easy, he gradually made his way to the far end of the tunnel. It was darker here and he saw no sign of anyone lying in wait. Behind him the two men still sat in quiet repose. The light rain stopped and spots broke open in the clouds revealing uncaring stars.

  The Sellsword would have liked to wait longer to move, but the cold was getting to him. He was shivering and that wouldn’t help him once he got out. Much longer and he knew he’d suffer damage.

  He gingerly moved almost to the exit of the tunnel. The moon careened out from behind the silver-lined clouds and cast a cold reflection upon the black waters, revealing Orlov standing just above the tunnel’s mouth with an ax in his good hand. He was silently waiting for the Sellsword to come out.

  Looking behind the other two men still sat, making good on the ploy that they were faltering in their job as watchmen.

  Silent as creeping death, the Sellsword drew his bastard sword since it had the greater reach. The gloomy mirror upon the waters didn’t reveal anyone else besides Orlov and listening as strong as he could, the Sellsword heard no more men lying in wait beyond. It was cold. He had to make his move.

  Sliding forward in the water, careful to cause no ripple or wake, the Sellsword prepared his attack. With instinct and reflection as his guide, held the sword in both hands before him. Planting his feet square and true on the slippery bottom, he lunged forward and raised the sword up and over the lip of the tunnel, feeling the point bury itself in Orlov’s groin.

  Orlov cried out and sent his ax racing down, but in his pain his mark was off and the edge bit deep into the tunnel entrance just to the side of the Sellsword’s face.

  Ripping the blade free, the Sellsword raced to the edge of the canal and drew himself from the waters grip.

  Orlov fell to the ground crying out and holding his bleeding crotch with his good hand while the dead, black palm slapped the ground repeatedly.

  The other two men raced to join Orlov. They stood dumbfounded at how their master had been wounded, but confusion quickly changed to wrath as they charged the Sellsword. Fortunately, they only had swords and not bows. Water dripped from the Sellsword’s cloak and his boots squished with each step, but he met the men on top of the low bridge.

  Feinting left then right, both men attacked as one. The Sellsword met each attack and directed their blows, waiting for an opening. Orlov screamed for murder as he rolled back and forth in agony.

  When one of the men overstepped, the Sellsword swept his leg out from under him and slammed his blade through the man’s gullet. The other backed away to avoid the incoming strike but stumbled, leaving himself vulnerable.

  The Sellsword raced in and finished the job, piercing the man’s heart. Turning to look upon the last wounded foe, a surprising grin washed over the bleeding man’s face.

  Orlov’s good hand disappeared inside his jacket pocket. He drew out a tiny crossbow. “This is poison this is. You’ll still die at my hand.”

  The Sellsword raised his free hand and beckoned for Orlov to shoot.

  Orlov was puzzled, but gritted through his teeth and pulled the trigger on the crossbow pistol. The bolt loosed. It struck the Sellsword square in the chest, standing out from his breast. He grinned and plucked it out then strode to Orlov.

  “How?” sputtered Orlov.

  “Those things have no penetration for anyone wearing good mail.”

  Orlov struggled in vain to back away from the Sellsword.

  “Where is the Duchess?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He cuffed Orlov across the face. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” repeated Orlov. “We don’t have her.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” shouted the Sellsword, bashing teeth from Orlov’s face.

  Orlov moaned through pulped lips. “It’s true Varlak wants her, but if he had her, I’d know. He speaks of little else. We don’t have her.”

  “Where would Varlak hide her?”

  “Go to hell,” spat Orlov. The Sellsword heard men coming and saw the flare of torch lights approach high upon the nearby walls.

  “Taste it,” said the Sellsword as he slammed the poison bolt into Orlov’s mouth.

  Orlov
screamed though his mouth was held shut by the Sellsword.

  “Live by poison, die by poison,” snarled the Sellsword, as he held the struggling man’s head.

  Orlov twisted for only a moment before the deadly extract took effect. He convulsed, quivered then was still.

  The Sellsword got up and rushed down the street, heading for where, he knew not.

  19. The Hunt

  The rain returned and this time, it came down in sheets, then blankets and finally like the vast oceans of the sky were unleashed. The drenching, drowning effect brought much of the fighting to abate as folk crowded together under the eaves and beside warming fires indoors. By dawn’s gray shrouded light, the street battles and most of the rain had ceased.

  The Sellsword had slept fitfully for but an hour or so by cloistering himself in one of the abandoned guard towers along the city wall. It was a simple enough task since they were made to halt breaches and, even fallen into disrepair, he was satisfied with the effort. It was harder to catch a hint of sleep though as the torrential rain, leaked everywhere in the ruinous tower. Water dribbled every other pace and he shielded himself on a cot with an old plank.

  He felt like he was just getting to sleep as the sun rose, but he had too much to do to lie about. Rousing himself, he had a fresh washing pot thanks to the storm and splashed his face to wake. Cold was always better for that. He ran a stone over his blades and lamented the loss of his throwing dagger. Finding them free of rust and grime, the razor-sharp edge brought a smile to his face as it did all men who appreciate fine weapons.

  He scanned the smoke covered city, looking for a place to start. Even the great storm couldn’t fully wash away the grey haze that blanketed Aldreth. Instinct said to search at the Temple of Dyzan where Nicene had professed feeling safest. It was worth checking out since he had no other guesses. Anaias had other gambling halls and he would search those on the way to the temple.