by Joseph Lallo
The bribed messenger curled into a ball on the ground, fearful of receiving more blows. “It wasn't my fault. It was a bounty hunter who turned you in, and you haven't got any men on the night watch yet!”
“Who was it then? Which bounty hunter had the audacity to claim the price on Duule of Sarrin?”
“I don't know! They say he wore a mask. Those who dealt with him swear they've never seen him at the morning bounty announcements.”
“Well, if he's wearing a mask, how would they know that?” Duule taunted, raising his hand for another slap and grinning as the man flinched. “Listen carefully. Go back to Gallishasa. If this masked bounty hunter shows up again, I want to know. Find out anything you can. And I suggest you impress upon your fellow watchmen that a masked bounty hunter is not the sort of man they should be dealing with.”
“What do I tell them about you?”
“Tell them you were ambushed and I got away, obviously. Though you'll need a few scars to show off. Wouldn't want them to get suspicious.” He turned to the heftiest of his bandits. “Make it convincing, but don't kill him. It costs a fortune in bribes to get a decent man in the capital.”
The grin returned to his face as he turned away and climbed onto the back of the spare horse. Behind him, his men delivered a beating that would certainly be enough to convince even the most skeptical of watchmen that he was at the center of an ambush. The grunts and cries of pain faded into the back of his mind as he began to think aloud.
“It must be someone from the north, or maybe someone from the Crescents. Surely there's no one in Tressor who hasn't heard about the dangers of crossing me,” he mused. “I want a description of this new hunter, and once I have it, I want to know where he lives, I want to know who he loves, I want to know where he spends his money . . . and I want them all in ashes!”
#
In the seaside town of Sarrin, a jovial and hard-working dwarf had just loaded the last bit of cargo and untied the last line of the week. The sun was just at the horizon, and with a smile and a wave, he set off toward the city to buy a few bottles of ale to pass the long night. His favorite tavern was a squat little building tucked among a cluster of the tallest in the city. It had been built long after them, and was set deep in what was either a narrow courtyard or a wide alley. Curiously, it had its door facing away from the street. One would think that such an arrangement wouldn't attract very many men and women—and it didn't, but men and women were not the desired clientele. This was a dwarf tavern, one of the only ones that could be found beyond the foothills of the mountains. The tall buildings kept the place in shadow, dim and cool, just the way a person raised in the mountains and mines preferred it.
Sarrin was a large port, and thus saw its share of every race as ships came and went. Enterprising members of each race saw the potential profit in giving their people a little taste of home, and thus places like The Wayward Vein opened their doors. In the case of the dwarf named Gurruk, it was half of the reason he'd settled in this town.
He was jingling a fresh payment of coins in his pocket and looking forward to a cool bottle of ale or three when he heard a sound from a side alley.
“Gurruk.”
The dwarf stopped. He knew the voice, chiefly because he'd made special note of it as a voice he hoped never to hear again.
“Back so soon?” he grumbled under his breath. “Do you want to kill me now?”
“No.”
“Never hurts to ask,” he said with a shrug.
Gurruk turned to the dark little notch between two of the towering buildings that surrounded his trusty watering hole and saw the gleam of animal eyes.
“You said that the next time I saw you, I would get what I asked for.”
“Is it my soul that you want? Because I don't think you'll find much use for it. Not exactly the purest one around.”
“I'm not interested in your life or your soul, Gurruk,” Teyn growled. “I want you to make a purchase.”
“What sort of purchase?”
“Slaves,” Teyn said, tossing the sack of coins and trinkets to Gurruk's feet. It landed with a weighty thump. “I want you to take this money and use it to buy as many slaves as you can and pay to wipe away their scars. I want them to be freed. And when it is through, give what money remains to them to start their lives.”
Gurruk knelt and pulled open the sack, rummaging through the contents. He glanced back to the darkness. “Why?”
“Because it needs to be done. Because it should be done. And because no one else will do it.”
Gurruk considered what had been said. “True words. True words. Sorry to say it, but it takes a lot of money to set a slave free. At least, the way I know how. This is probably only enough for one.”
“So be it.”
“What good will it do to just free this one slave? Once he's out, what'll you do for the next one?”
“That is my concern, not yours.”
Gurruk hefted the bag, deep in thought. “I promised you I would do what you asked. I promised when I was drunk, but drunk promises mean more. When you're drunk, silly things like reason and good sense don't get in the way of the truth. For the life of me, I can't imagine how a mally like you, a mally who would do what you did to those slave-drivers, would do this, too. I don't know if you're a saint with a mean streak or monster trying to atone. That's not for me to figure. All I know is that after I do this for you, you don't darken my door again. No voices out of the shadows. No knocks on the door in the middle of the night. You keep your bloody claws and your lost causes far, far from me.”
“If you do as I ask, you have my word that you will never see me again. But know this: if you take those coins and do not keep your promise . . . you will not see me then either.”
There was a whisper of motion and a cascade of dust from high in the alleyway, and then silence. Gurruk felt that the creature was gone, but that the same time he felt that it was staring at him from every shadow and every corner. He glanced down to the sack of coins. Best to get it done. The sooner that thing was off his back, the better.
Chapter 19
Gurruk was as good as his word. The coins were only enough to buy the freedom and wipe the slate of a single triple-stripe slave, but it was proof that it could be done. For a time, Teyn watched the liberated slave, an elderly man with the dark complexion and faded tattoos of those tribes hailing from the very deepest southern parts of the vast Tresson kingdom. After what must have been a lifetime of labor and captivity, freedom did not come easily to him. Though the dwarf had indeed provided the man with what little remained of the hard-earned coins, it wasn't nearly enough to buy a home in a city, and he was far too old to be carving out a life of his own. And so the old man simply drifted, eyes distant and unsure. The shackles had been taken from his wrists, but they lingered in his mind.
Finally, clarity came to him. It was a clear, crisp morning, and the former slave roused to see the rising sun over an endless, sprawling desert field. After that moment, it was as though a weight had been lifted from him. Perhaps he knew this field. Perhaps the sight of so much land without a fence or wall to stop him finally reminded him of what freedom was. Perhaps he had finally found a place that looked like home.
Whatever the reason, from that day forward the man moved with purpose. When Teyn finally left him, the man had found a tribe of his own people, and they had welcomed him with the warmth and joy of a dear friend returning after a long hard journey.
Watching the life return to the old man's eyes had been rewarding, but it also had taught him that there was more to this than simply paying to have them freed. There needed to be something for them to move on to, some life to return to. How could he provide that? The answer wasn't clear, but there was little doubt that when it came to him, it would bring with it the need for much more than the small fortune it has cost to free this man. There was much work to be done.
In the weeks and months to follow, Teyn threw himself into his task like never before. He n
eeded money, and quickly. Once or twice, he tried to steal again, but it quickly became clear that for better or worse he was far more skilled at hunting men. Day and night, he kept his nose to the breeze and his eyes to the streets. He matched scents to faces, and faces to descriptions. He found bounty offices in half a dozen towns and sought to catch what scoundrels he could from each of their lengthy lists of wanted men and women. Sometimes he succeeded, wordlessly accepting his payment and disappearing into the night. Other times he failed, either when another bounty hunter chose the same moment to strike, or when the target noticed him and put up a fight. Word was spreading about the masked hunter who dragged away his prey in the shadows. The brigands and burglars were growing more wary. More and more often, Teyn ended a long journey bruised, bleeding, and empty-handed.
With each failure and each success, though, came wisdom as well. If others were reaching his targets first, then he must be faster. If the targets were ready for him, then he must be bolder. He must strike when they thought they were safe. So he found the narrow gaps in their defenses, and slipped through them even in the light of day. His boldness came at the cost of greater exposure. It was difficult to breathe while wearing his mask, let alone follow a scent, so too often he relied only upon his hood to hide his face until the time came to strike, and more than once he had been seen. Though witnesses caught only a glimpse each time, rumors and stories were quick to spread.
There was a malthrope lurking among men.
There would be consequences—that much he knew—but there was nothing left for him to fear. He had no home to be taken away. He had no family to threaten. He had squandered his only friendship to pursue this purpose. The purpose was all there was now. Anything to get the target. Anything to earn the bounty. If it cost him his life, so be it. It was a small price to pay.
#
In the cramped office of General Bagu, deep in the heart of the capital of the Northern Alliance, the icy and impatient Teht was sitting in one of the chairs before his desk. She had been there for nearly an hour, which was well beyond the limits of her razor thin patience. Her fingers drummed on the arm of her chair, and her lips were pulled back in a sneer.
“Where is that blasted—” she began to mutter, but a creak of the door startled her into silence. It was one thing to curse her superior under her breath. It was another to be overheard doing it.
The door creaked on its hinges and in walked a man Teht didn't recognize. He had an unremarkable face mostly hidden behind a heavy beard and the brow of an ornate hat. The headpiece was tall and trimmed with expensive fur. It was formed of stiff cloth and seemed round from the front and pointed from the side. The rest of his outfit was similarly ornamental and foolish-looking, all gold embroidery and needless detail. Tradition seemed to dictate that such elaborate garb be worn by all official representatives of a government when discussing important matters.
“I don't know who you are, but this is a private chamber for . . .” Teht began. Her voice caught in her throat when she noticed that the stranger was holding a thin but similarly ornate halberd with a gem set in its blade. “Oh . . . my apologies.”
A sly smile crossed the lips of the newcomer as he shut the door behind him. “None necessary, Teht. It has been some time since our paths have crossed. It is only natural you would not be aware of my latest 'role.'”
“Yes, General Epidime,” she said with a nod. “That is quite true.”
“I see Bagu is late. Again,” he observed.
“He is,” Teht fumed in response.
“Well, then,” he said, leaning against the wall near the door and absentmindedly tapping his halberd. “What has he got you working on?”
“More to do with that prophesy he's so enamored with,” she grumbled. “He's got me back to chasing a malthrope around the south. Again. Slippery thing. Every time I think it is dead or caught, it pops up again.”
“Mmm. Yes, they tend to be wily devils,” he remarked. “But, then, they would have to be, to still be alive these days.”
“I honestly don't understand why he's assigned this task to me. Surely you would be perfectly suited to it.”
“I assure you, nothing would make me happier than taking a jaunt down to Tressor and spend some time tracking a malthrope. Fascinating creatures. But you know our noble leader. Once he makes a decision, he clings to it tenaciously. Besides, Kenvard has been giving us trouble of late. Strong-willed people, those Kenvardians. After twenty years of war, they are having doubts about the future of the Alliance. They are considering pursuing a separate peace. It has taken some careful manipulation to quiet them down and get them to fall back in line, and there's much more to be done. Even if I succeed, that whole land has got a rebellious streak. We'll have to deal with this sort of thing once or twice a generation, I suspect. People like that need a good deep scar to brood over before they will fall in line for good.” He tapped the halberd a few more times, then raised an eyebrow. “Is this the same malthrope that you were 'quite positive' could not have survived a few years ago?”
“Most likely,” she muttered. “It is madness to suggest such a thing. Two years ago, he ran amok. Murdered nearly everyone on that damned plantation Bagu had me ruin. A creature who is already hunted performing an act like that? It should have been dead in days. Yet in the fleeting moments that I can detect him, the blasted creature gallivanting down there today has the same shape, the same aspect to his soul. There was an outburst not long ago that felt precisely the same as the one that ruined the plantation. I think we are following the wrong creature. I am quite positive that the sort of creature who would commit such an atrocity is the precise opposite of the noble warrior we've been charged with locating.”
“In light of recent developments, I should think you would be cautious of anything about which you are quite positive.” He grinned. “I love a good riddle, and this does seem to be a stimulating conundrum. What precisely is keeping you from your prize?”
She grumbled something under her breath and crossed her arms. “The blasted creature has got an undeniably powerful soul, but he never uses it. It is nearly impossible to find him with magic. The only time I am able to gain a glimpse of him is when he lets his emotions take hold, and he rarely allows it. As I said, it happened again not long ago, so I know that he is alive. No matter how many times they send me to that blasted place, though, I cannot find him. The spells simply do not exist to track him properly.”
Epidime shook his head. “Teht, my dear. I can appreciate that the mystic arts are your particular area of expertise, and thus it is attractive to solve every problem with your skill in that regard, but you must learn to use the other resources at your disposal.”
“What resources? They only ever let me bring some of Demont's worthless cloaks. If they granted me a strike force of reasonable size, I'm sure we could have him in no time.”
He sighed. “I shall forgo the usual speech about why force must not be used in this situation. If the first dozen explanations haven't taken root in your mind, once more won't do any good. Instead, consider this: the greatest bit of good fortune we've had since our arrival here was the simple fact that one of the creatures we would one day need to eliminate was a malthrope. A race already hated on the entire continent? We couldn't have wished for better luck. I've put a good deal of work into whipping that hatred into a blind fury on both sides of the battlefront. Have there been any stories circulating about malthropes lately?”
“There are always stories of malthropes doing every manner of crime. I'm beginning to think those people see malthropes in their sleep.”
“Anything notably different of late?”
“You expect me to listen to the endless prattle of those simpletons?”
“Fools may be fools, but they always outnumber the wise men, so it is best to know what they are saying.”
“There was . . . well, lately there have been more criminals complaining about malthropes than anyone else.”
“Yes . . . ye
s, yes, yes. You see? There is your answer,” Epidime said.
“What possible answer could you find in that?”
“We are seeking a creature destined to be a hero. A hero does not decide one day to fight for what is right. It is a part of them from the day they are born, present deep inside and perpetually bubbling to the surface. Given the slightest excuse, a hero will take up a cause. This is our target stepping into his role. After all, who has more reason to complain of a hero's actions than a villain?”
She looked at him doubtfully. “Even if that is so, what good does it do me?”
“Things such as this have a way of rippling upward, both on the side of law and against it. In time, the malthrope will run afoul of whatever figure stands tallest among the thieves. Failing that, then he will need to deal with those who administer justice. I would be very much surprised if he was not already being sought by some very influential figures on both sides of the law. And the chances are very good that these men are skilled at finding their targets through conventional means, rather than mystical.”
Teht considered the words. “So if I am able to find those seeking him, they may be able to point me in the proper direction . . .”
“Or, better yet, they may be able to do your job for you, which I've always found to be far preferable. If you were to provide them with a few specialized gifts to aid their cause, this malthrope will be yours in no time.”
Teht nodded, a grin on her face. “I tell you, Epidime, the threads you choose to tug at always seem to cause things to unravel. This is why Bagu should have sent you rather than me.”