26. The Duel
They spent the rest of the evening and night in recovery. The Sellsword couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten such a hearty meal. The old man was free with his cooking and in good humor and, to the Sellsword’s surprise, had taken quite a shine to Nicene.
“She’s got spunk she has. Told me she had discovered you were in trouble and needed my help in getting to the bottom of it. I knew you went to attack Varlak for Anaias, but that’s as much as I knew. Then we discovered that Varlak had won and Bearcoat was marching around the city like it was under martial law, that being Varlak’s law so she said we had to find Anaias to get to the truth, and that red-bearded pecker-head didn’t want to tell us nothing. Too busy nursing his wounds and damaged ego. Good thing he got stuck in a bear trap.”
Nicene stifled a giggle.
“Where is Anaias now?”
Nicene broke in, “A hole. Bearcoat raided his best place and his men looted near everything worth taking. He was so desperate the last time I saw him, I don’t believe he had another place to hide or anything of great value stored. I don’t know where he would go.”
“I have an idea, but it can wait until morning.”
That piqued his companion’s curiosity, but he was already fast asleep.
***
Come late in the morning the Sellsword roused himself, feeling like he was nearly at full strength. They ate breakfast, prepared some gear and looked over their weapons. This time, instead of oversized armor, Nicene had a riveted leather vest and a light helm and carried a long knife, a flatbow, and quiver. She had no skill with it, but neither did she with any other weapon. The old man carried a flatbow as well, and he, at least, was a little more versed in the use of it.
“Where do you think, he will be?” asked Nicene. “I’ve known him for years and I couldn’t find him when we searched.”
“I told him about something that caught his interest, and it’s my gamble he will be there if he has nowhere else to go,” said the Sellsword as he led them on.
When they reached the outer wall surrounding the Temple of Dyzan, Nicene gasped. “Of course!”
This time the orange robed priests bowed to the Sellsword, but looked curiously on the strange garb of Nicene and asked her to leave the flatbow at the door. The old man did the same.
Inside the temple, displaced folk still crowded the floor and slept upon the pews.
“Up here,” said the Sellsword, leading them up the winding stair.
“Wait, do you think Anaias is hiding here or is just biding his time for revenge?”
“I think he knows he is done, but he needs a witness.”
They rounded the steps and came to the small chambered room. Anaias lay there crouched on the floor. Blood seeped from the wound on his ankle. There was also a gash across his face that looked infected. He sucked on a long thin pipe and was wreathed in opiated hashish smoke. He coughed an exhaled a lungful. He tapped the pipe with a long nail and saw that it was finished.
“So you’ve come at last,” he whispered.
The Sellsword faced him. “Are you ready to atone for your crimes?”
Anaias chuckled weakly, his pale face blanching an even whiter complexion. “Who do you think you are to judge me? Huh? I regret nothing save letting you live as long as I did.”
“I judge you by the divine right of the king’s law and you are guilty.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nicene.
Anaias growled at her, but answered hoarsely, “My homunculus. I saw and heard everything it ever did. I knew you were on my roof across from those adepts that were slaughtered along with my men. I knew it was you. I wanted to see what else you were capable of and when I thought you were getting too dangerous, I hired Uriel to kill you. The man has never failed so many times in his life. Swore to me that he tried four times.” He coughed again. “But I’ll succeed where he failed at the last.” A Dragon Powder charge fell from his sleeve. His thumb tapped the button.
The Sellsword grasped the charge and threw it at the window above. The charge crashed through the glass. He then took hold of a divan and put it over his back as he held it over Nicene and the old man. Anaias lay on the floor, shouting some unintelligible insult.
Thunder rocked the temple and stone blocks were hurled back. Destruction hit the divan and sent the Sellsword to his knees. Throwing off the shredded divan, they saw a hole knocked into the wall behind them. Great blocks of stone had been cast about, but miraculously had missed them. One however had landed squarely on Anaias, crushing him.
They departed in silence. The refugees wondered at the sound and looked outside but were unhurt.
“Is it over?” asked the old man.
“Almost.”
They took their equipment and walked somberly back to The King’s Crown.
“That was a miracle,” said Nicene. “I wasn’t sure I believed in them anymore, but I don’t know what else to call it.”
“Call it anything you like. I just did the best I could,” said the Sellsword.
“I’d say it was miraculous and don’t ever discount what the gods who find favor in you are capable of doing for our benefit,” said the old man.
“Likewise, the bad ones can seek to do us harm too,” reminded Nicene. “We still have to—”
“I know,” answered the Sellsword.
They were nearly to The King’s Crown when they saw a familiar, lean figure standing before them.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Uriel.
“Good,” muttered the old man.
“Anaias is dead. If you have any sense you’ll get the hell out of here!” shouted Nicene.
Uriel snorted. “I don’t take advice from women or old men.”
“Then you’re a fool,” answered the Sellsword.
“It was you that betrayed Anaias,” accused Uriel, as he drew his curved sword, a beautiful katana of folded grey steel, forged in distant lands. It was only sharp down one side, but the Sellsword had seen the style before used by the warriors of Shang Henj and knew it was a formidable weapon.
“I did,” answered the Sellsword, bringing his bastard sword to bear.
“Not enough money for a dirty two-bit mercenary? Did someone offer you more? Or were you just going to steal it?”
“A baby killer like you has a lot of nerve judging me.”
Uriel chuckled. “When I’m paid for a job, I always deliver.”
They circled one another at about four paces distant each other. Eyes locked, blades ready.
“No one is paying you now.”
Uriel snorted in derision. “I was paid in advance and one of the jobs was taking care of you. I still don’t know how you avoided the poison bolt through the window, the spiked drink at the tavern, or even the spider. But I can more than finish it now with this.” His dark eyes flashed and a wicked grin split his face, revealing bright teeth. He wagged his tongue over them.
Uriel was swift, as swift a swordsman as the Sellsword had ever faced. He lunged in and the Sellsword twisted away from what might have been a killing thrust. It only sheared a section of his cloak away and skidded across the links of his chainmail.
Though the Sellsword was the bigger man, standing a head taller than Uriel, he moved with the speed and agility of a cat. The lean man parried and slashed, and dove in with a cut meant to slice a throat. The Sellsword blocked with his vambrace and pressed, using an elbow to knock him away.
Uriel retreated before the Sellsword’s blade could hammer into him. He leapt up in the air and spun his blade about. “Now it’s your turn.”
The Sellsword bounded with the speed of a pouncing tiger and wheeled his own blade back and across, nearly catching the lean man’s neck.
Uriel with matching feline speed, laughed at the death that was but an inch or two from his throat. With a flashing feint, he brought his katana back and sliced into the Sellsword’s shoulder. Only his plate steel and leather pad saved his arm from being severed as
the katana even bit through several links of mail.
The Sellsword used the movement to crouch and sweep his opponents leg with his sword, catching the shin and shearing away a wide chunk of his fancy boot. He then sprang up and drove his blade at the foe’s chest. It was but a glancing thrust, yet blood spurted across Uriel’s white silk shirt.
Uriel parried the next attack and redoubled his efforts to slash the Sellsword, cutting him across the hand and making the big northerner switch his sword hands.
Blood flowed freely from the wound, but there was no time to look.
Steel clashed and rang. The two men were well matched with footwork and sword craft. A lightning slash sheared Uriel’s ear free of his head, and he cried out in pain. His balance was affected. He put one hand to his wound and snarled at the Sellsword. “A pox on you, northern dog!”
The assassin’s skill was still formidable, and in a fury he charged and swept his blade in shining arcs of steel that forced the Sellsword back.
Hammering against each other, they pushed as sweat and blood droplets showered the ground. Then they broke unexpectedly, giving each other a space for a moment, while breathing hard.
“You’ve wounded me worse than any I’ve ever met,” snarled Uriel. “I’ll make you and yours suffer.” He pointed with his katana toward Nicene and the old man.
“You’ve already lost,” rumbled the Sellsword.
“Eh?” questioned Uriel. “I haven’t lost too much blood to kill you.”
The Sellsword licked his wounded wrist and hefted his sword. “This is over.”
Uriel removed his hand from his lost ear and waved his blade frantically before him.
The Sellsword threw his blade at Uriel with the might of a thunderclap. It flew through the air like a silver lightning bolt and sank to the hilt. The blade stood transfixed out the assassin’s back. Uriel sank down to his knees with a wretched moan. He dropped his sword with a curse and was still.
“Why didn’t you do that sooner?” asked the old man.
The Sellsword shrugged. “I thought he could block it before. But the loss of an ear and blood took its toll. He was quick.”
“Not that quick.”
The Sellsword shook his dark mane at the old man’s wit. Nicene moved in for an embrace. They held each other a long moment staring into each other’s eyes.
“Is it over?” asked the old man.
The Sellsword shook his head. “You know it isn’t. There is at least one more man that needs the King’s justice.”
“Who?” asked the old man. “Or do I have to guess?”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a heavy slapping hit the cobbles which echoed down the close-knit streets. Everyone turned to one another in wonder at what could be making such a curious sound. Then it would pause and there would be a momentary scream of man or beast. A hard crackling and crunch of rending flesh and breaking bones and then the heavy slapping on the cobbles came closer.
“What the hell is that sound?” asked the old man.
“I don’t think you want to know,” said the Sellsword. “Quick, get off the street and into cover. A basement or tunnel.”
“Why? What is it?” asked Nicene. She put her hands to her ears when a horse screamed in its death throes and was suddenly silenced by the wet, sloppy sound of chomping coming from right around the corner.
“Move now, it’s fast.”
The quick slapping of heavy feet on the road came again and the massive beast shot its head around the corner. The tongue darted out, tasting the air like a great serpent while the gaping mouth behind was brimming full of needle sharp teeth.
“I never heard of a lizard being this big,” said the old man.
“This one was bred of sorcery and ate its kin.”
“What is it?” gasped Nicene.
“Basilisk,” grated the Sellsword.
27. The Basilisk
Its green, reptilian body was as wide as a wagon, but with head, neck, and tail it was easily as long as five wagons end to end. Black claws hung from its long toes like curved spear points. The head, large as a horse’s body, swung back and forth. It black beady eyes blinked once at the mass of people, and it came scraping forward on bowed legs at incredible speed. No man or beast could outrun the thing. Its attack was death incarnate.
While others ran in a blind panic, the Sellsword held his ground with both hands upon his retrieved sword and waited for the monster to come.
The basilisk was in a blood frenzy. It chomped, and bit, and swallowed at anything it could, but there was so much for it to choose from. Its long toes and claws slapped against the ground like a hideous drum as it came ever closer to the Sellsword. He readied his strike.
The Sellsword was bowled over by the massive monster as it ran over the top of him and a dozen others. It went mad at the fleeing feast before it. Huge as it was, the basilisk couldn’t taste everything before it, and it snapped in every direction. Besides the crunching of meat and the slap of its feet, it made virtually no sound. No bellowing or growling, just an insatiable attack, slap and crunch. Its mouth distended to fit the whole of a horse or ox into its maw, but then, to the further horror of everyone who dared watch, it would vomit out its meal and go for yet another.
The Sellsword picked himself up from the trash heap he had been flung into and picked up his sword. He shook the dizziness from his head and cracked his neck in readiness.
He screamed and charged at the insanely huge lizard. It was utterly heedless of him and scampered with its awkward gyrating gait after more prey fleeing farther down the street. In a moment, it was already a full block away from him.
“You lucky bastard!” called the old man, “Get in here now and we’ll wait the damn thing out. I have stores in the basement.”
“I’ve got to kill it, or it will gorge on everyone in the city before moving on. Such a monster is without balance.”
“You damned fool! No man can kill vengeance from the gods!”
“Then gods be damned, I’ll slay the brute!” He raced after it.
Nicene went to follow, but the old man tried to hold her back. She broke away and continued after the Sellsword.
The monster had vanished again, but the sounds of its feasting were gruesomely near. The Sellsword ran toward the danger as fast as he could. Rounding the street, he slipped on the vomitus bile from one of the basilisk’s rejected meals. The monster was a mere pace away. Its tongue lashed out and the Sellsword brought his sword up, slicing a tip of the fork off.
The draconian beast recoiled and then snapped like a sprung trap. With his blade still raised from the stroke, he batted it sideways across the monster’s snout giving it a good sting.
Sweeping its tail out, the basilisk took the Sellsword’s feet out from under him, and he toppled into a mass of bloody, slime-covered gore.
Lunging forward, the great mouth champed. The Sellsword drove his blade into the open mouth of the monster. The blade slid into the gum line beside the teeth. The basilisk clamped down on the sword, and tried to shake the obstruction away, stealing the sword from the Sellsword’s grasp. It violently shook the needle that caused pain, tossing the blade far across the courtyard.
Wasting no time, the Sellsword sprinted to the cover of a porch that shielded him from the basilisk’s view.
Nicene ran around the corner coming face to face with death.
Dark eyes lusted for her flesh. Its great head swung to and fro coming for her. The slap, slap, slap of its feet, skidded past the corner that Nicene ducked behind. She ran for all she was worth, but no door was open, no alleyway presented itself. The monster righted its attack and came after her with a slap, slap, slap of its gangly feet.
The Sellsword used the distraction to lunge from his cover, grabbing the beast as it went by. He clung to the spikes on its tail and was dashed back and forth between the buildings and on the cobbles as the monster ran. His mail trailed sparks against the cobbles until he climbed higher up the tail.
The monster was nearly upon Nicene. She screamed in blind panic.
The Sellsword slammed his thrusting blade against the firm green scales until the blade bit deep between. The basilisk halted just before its mouth chomped down on Nicene. It spun about to look at what caused irritation.
Tears ran from Nicene’s shut eyes. But she was still alive! The monster had turned from her. She raced down an alley to her left.
The Sellsword pushed the blade to the hilt just behind the right rear leg. The monster spun about, trying to catch the man with its great teeth. The Sellsword hung onto the short sword’s handle as he was caught in the green whirlwind.
The wild tornado of a ride brought the Sellsword’s meager stomach contents racing up his throat. He closed his eyes against the blurred vision and his grip weakened as his legs were cast up into the air. He couldn’t hold on much longer.
The basilisk finally stopped spinning, roaring and rolling over to remove the thorn in its side.
The Sellsword was hammered against the cobbles and kicked away by the scrapping long-toed claws. Only his mail saved him from being eviscerated by those gleaming black nails. He remained on the ground, breathing hard, trying to discern what was ashen sky and slate grey ground in his spinning world.
He heard the familiar slap, slap, slap of those great feet retreating further away from him. He was still alive as the beast had not noticed where it had removed him. Blinking until he was aware of half his sense of balance he slowly sat up. The monster was gone. Where was Nicene? He had not been able to tell if it had reached her or not.
“Nicene!” he shouted in a panic. “Nicene!”
He slowly stood, almost falling over, and caught himself on the brick wall. His bearings came reeling back. He had lost all his weapons. Well, he knew where one was, still lodged in the basilisk.
Trudging back down the street, he intended to look in the refuse for his bastard sword. Halfway down the block, he heard a loud rasping hiss. The basilisk was looking right at him. It charged with the slap of its feet near deafening. It’s head swung back and forth while the semi-severed tongue still darted.
BRUTAL: An Epic Grimdark Fantasy Page 21