Mercenary (Blade Asunder Book 1)

by Jon Kiln

  Mercenary

  Blade Asunder: Book One

  by Jon Kiln

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  1

  Ganry and Myriam made slow progress. They didn’t speak. Partly to avoid making any unnecessary noise and partly because Ganry was annoyed with himself for having got unwittingly caught up in whatever mess was unfolding in the Kingdom of Palara. Eventually, the creek that they had been following crossed under a bridge, and he decided to chance their luck on the road for a while, heading in the general direction of Castle Locke.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” asked Myriam quietly, sitting behind Ganry on his horse.

  “Not exactly, but Castle Locke lies due west from the Kingdom of Palara, so we’re heading the right way.” He waved his hand in a vague westerly direction. “Why is Locke a safe haven for you anyway? Who’s waiting for you there?”

  “My mother’s family hold Castle Locke.”

  They rode on in silence for a while.

  As they rounded a bend in the road, they came upon an armed road block.

  “Halt! Who goes there?” challenged one of the soldiers.

  Ganry quickly assessed the situation. Two soldiers, the one who spoke with his hand on his sword hilt, and the other with an arrow held loosely in his bow. He knew that the archer would pose the biggest problem. Even if they turned to gallop away, the bowman could easily shoot their horse down.

  “It’s them!” The archer raised his bow.

  Without hesitation, Ganry pulled a knife from his boot and threw it at the archer, hitting him high in the shoulder. The arrow sailed harmlessly over their heads. He spurred his horse, Bluebell, forward and rode directly at the remaining soldier, drawing one of his short blades. In one smooth motion he slashed at the soldier’s face as Bluebell pushed past. The soldier bellowed in pain and fell off his mount. His comrade, with a knife in his shoulder, was none too keen to follow them. Ganry urged Bluebell on without looking back, and they remained at a canter until they had put several miles between them.

  Myriam turned around but did not see any sign of pursuit. “They’re not following us. Are we safe for now?”

  “Princess, we are a long way from safe,” cautioned Ganry. “Those soldiers will call for reinforcements and will be after us in no time. Plus, there’s no knowing what lies ahead. We have a couple more hours of daylight left, then we’ll need to find somewhere to spend the night.” Ganry turned Bluebell off the road and returned to the forest trails where they were less likely to encounter soldiers or other travelers. They followed the creek, pushing deeper into the forest, always heading to the west.

  “So it seems that your Uncle is not that keen for you to leave the castle,” observed Ganry wryly, breaking the silence. He might as well try to learn more about what the the hell was going on. “Are you ready to explain why I’m fighting Palaran soldiers, with a Palaran Princess?”

  Myriam didn’t respond for a time. Ganry thought she might have fallen asleep. He heard her sigh softly. “My father has held the throne of Palara for the last twenty years,” began Myriam. “He has one brother, my uncle, Duke Harald. Harald has never married. His focus has always been on our kingdom’s army and our defenses. It’s been a relatively peaceful period for our Kingdom, a time of prosperity. My father never really discusses affairs of state with me, but things seemed to begin to sour between them last summer. My uncle wanted to mount a campaign to expand our Kingdom, to overpower our weaker neighbors. My father refused.”

  Ganry stifled a yawn. He wasn’t really interested anymore, but talking would help keep him awake. “So how did you escape the coup?”

  “Leonidavus, my tutor, had become worried about the tension between my father and my uncle. For the last few weeks, one of my handmaidens slept in my bed and I slept in one of the spare rooms in Leonidavus’s chambers. When my uncle took control and had my family arrested, I had just enough time to escape before they realized that the girl in my bed was not me.”

  Ganry was impressed with the subterfuge and the young blond girl’s resilience. “And tell me again, why is your uncle hunting you?”

  “He wants to kill me so I no longer have a claim to the throne. Either that or he wants to marry me to cement his own claim.” Ganry could hear her teeth clench. “I would slit my wrists before marrying him.”

  “I see,” nodded Ganry. He tried to change the subject. Might as well find out a bit more about the reception they were likely to get. “So how well do you know your mother’s family?”

  Myriam shivered in the growing cold, and the emerging dusk. “Not very well. My grandfather, my mother’s father, died when she was quite young. It is my grandmother who is the head of the house now. They control all the land in the Berghein Valley. My tutor, Leonidavus, was from Berghein. I am sure that I will find sanctuary there. My grandmother will protect me.”

  The creek that they were following eventually led them to an old mill with an inn next to it, set back from the road. Ganry went inside to check whether they had any rooms available. Myriam sat patiently on Bluebell, who had dropped his head to snack on the lush grass that was growing nearby. The forest was quiet. She could hear the wheel of the mill turning slowly as the water rushed through it, creaking and groaning.

  “I’ve booked us one room,” said Ganry as he emerged from the inn. “I’ve said that you are my daughter, traveling home to our farm in the west. Try and keep yourself hidden as much as possible, and don’t talk to anyone.” He led Bluebell around the back of the inn to the stables and made sure that he had food and water for the night, before he escorted Myriam upstairs to the small room that they would be sharing.

  “Thank you,” said Myriam softly as she sat on one of the narrow beds.

  “For what?” asked Ganry, the evening light catching the tears that glistened on the cheeks of Myriam.

  “For helping me. For protecting me.”

  “Just doing my job,” nodded Ganry gruffly, embarrassed by the display of vulnerability and the fragility of the cargo that he had been entrusted with. He opened the window of their room and breathed deeply as he looked out over the forest. The air was s
till, the forest was quiet. The calm before the storm, he thought grimly.

  The last ten years on the road had left Ganry feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. He had seen things that he would not have believed possible: the cruelty of men, the evil caused by greed. He too had done a lot of things that he was not proud of, things that disturbed his dreams and kept him awake at night.

  Ganry laid his weapons out on his bed. He began cleaning the short blade that he had used to fight off the soldier at the road block, wiping the blood away. The throwing knife that he had used on the archer would have to be replaced. He was disappointed about that. It was one of his favorites. Light and easy to carry but deadly accurate in the hands of an experienced fighter.

  His most treasured weapon was his long sword. Forged by the mysterious Grimlock blade-smiths, it was one of the last remaining swords of its kind. No one knows what happened to the fabled Grimlocks, and their secret blacksmithing techniques died with them. Ganry picked up the sword reverently and gently ran his finger down the length of the dark blade, admiring the craftsmanship, the strength, and the power of the one constant in his life. He sheathed the sword and pulled out another of his daggers, handing it to Myriam.

  “You should have a weapon, just in case.” Ganry liked this blade too, and was reluctant to give it away. He had a strange fondness for all his weapons. They were his only family now. He briefly considered her earlier threat and wondered if this would be the blade she would use to slit her wrists if Harald ever forced their marriage.

  “I already have one,” said Myriam meekly, pulling up her dress slightly to draw a small dagger attached to her slender calf. “It’s just a knife really, I guess.” She presented it to him. “My mother gave it to me three years ago. It is a Palaran custom to present a ceremonial dagger upon a girl’s twelfth birthday, to symbolize her entering womanhood.”

  “It’s beautiful,” admired Ganry, taking it carefully from the Princess, turning it over and studying it. It was an elaborately decorated dagger, with precious stones and gems decorating the handle. The blade itself shone almost white as it caught the evening light that filled the room. He could tell it was made by a master. “Who forged this?”

  “I’m not sure who made it, my mother never told me. She said it had been in her family for generations. She called it ‘Harkan’. It came with this ring.” Myriam held out her hand. Ganry examined the ring and noted that it was a perfect match for the knife. It was decorated in the same gems, shining with the same bright, white light.

  “Keep these hidden,” cautioned Ganry. “You shouldn’t show anyone that you have them. It will only attract undue attention. Only draw the blade if your life depended on it.” Ganry packed his weapons away and stored most of them under his bed for the night, tucking a simple dagger into his belt as a precautionary measure. “We’d better go downstairs and get some food before the kitchen closes,” he said, leading the way. “Keep your cloak on, and try to remain discreet.”

  2

  Ganry and Myriam took a seat at one of the small tables in the bar. The innkeeper came over and took their orders. Venison stew was the only food available. Ganry ordered ale, and Myriam took small sips of watered wine. The only other patrons in the inn were three shady looking brutes sitting at the back, nursing tankards. They stared at Myriam, making her uncomfortable. She was glad of Ganry’s rough appearance and muscular physique. They instinctively sensed that Ganry would not be easy pickings, so left them alone.

  The food at the inn was surprisingly good, large chunks of meat in a thick gravy, served with a loaf of fresh bread. They both ate heartily, their stomachs reminding them that it had been a long time since their last meal, after a hard day of riding.

  As they were eating, a well-dressed young man entered the inn. He carried a longbow over his shoulder and looked like a nobleman. Ganry rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger, uneasy at the prospect that agents from Castle Villeroy may have tracked them down. The young nobleman took a seat at the bar and ordered some wine. He carried a large pouch of coins by his side, which did not escape the notice of the three brutes at the back. On closer inspection, Ganry sensed the young man was nervous and inexperienced, almost like he didn’t belong in an inn like this. He was unlikely to be looking for them, but still Ganry still kept his guard up.

  The largest of the brutes smacked his fist on table, making Myriam jump in surprise. “You seem a long way from home, little man,” he said loudly, attracting the attention of the nobleman.

  “Just passing through,” replied the young man politely, sipping his wine at the other end of the bar from Ganry and Myriam.

  “Do you have any spare coin for some honest woodsmen?” asked another of the men, getting up from their table and leaning next to the nobleman. This one was slimmer, with a hooked nose like a hawk. He had the type of smug face that Ganry just wanted to punch. “The least you could do is buy us a drink!”

  They don’t look anything like woodsmen. Woodsmen don’t carry swords.

  “Not today, sorry gentlemen,” replied the nobleman, trying to sound firm but looking increasingly nervous.

  “Oh, we’re not gentlemen…” snarled the third brute, standing in an intimidating position behind the nobleman. This one was even uglier than hawk-nose, with a long scar along his jaw. “My friend here asked if you would be so kind as to buy us a drink. If you’re going to be rude, then we will have to show you exactly just who is in charge in these here woods!”

  “You should help him,” whispered Myriam to Ganry.

  “Why? It’s not our fight. You don’t know who he is. He could be one of Duke Harald’s men out looking for you.”

  “Give us your money!” shouted the largest brute, who was now standing threateningly in front of the nobleman. He grabbed the young man around the neck, tipping him off his stool, sending him crashing to the floor. He yanked the coin pouch, pocketing it, and they all began kicking the young man, stomping on him as he rolled around on the floor at their feet. They cheered each other on, laughing all the while.

  “He looks familiar,” whispered Myriam urgently. “I insist that you help him! Criminals should not have free rein in my father’s kingdom. He would not have tolerated that.”

  Ganry reluctantly stood, drawing the attention of the men to him. “That’s enough now, fellas. Take his gold and leave him be.”

  “Mind your business!” snarled the largest brute. He drew his knife, took a few steps forward and pointed it at Ganry’s face. “Or you’ll be next.” He leered at Myriam sitting behind Ganry, her eyes wide in fear. She thought the brute looked a lot scarier now that he was closer, and directing his focus on her. She instantly regretted asking Ganry to help. There were three of them and only one of him. The brute grabbed his crotch crudely. “And we’ll have some fun with that sweet girl you’ve got hiding under that cloak.”

  “You asked for it.” Ganry had held onto his tankard as he stood from the bar. While the large brute’s attention was focused on Myriam, Ganry smashed his tankard over the brute’s head, forcing him to reel back with a bloodied cranium, and drenched in ale.

  Scar-jaw came running with his fist raised. Ganry kicked him in the knee, sending him sprawling to the ground in pain.

  Hawk-nose drew his sword. “You bastard. I’m gonna slice and dice you, and then poke that bitch of yours until she screams for more.”

  In one quick motion, Ganry stepped in to meet him, catching him with a straight left jab to his beak like nose, crushing it with satisfaction. “Let me give you some friendly advice,” Ganry hissed, grabbing him by the throat. “A dagger is much better at close quarters. Here, let me demonstrate.” Ganry drew his dagger, sticking hawk-nose in the stomach, dragging the blade up and out.

  The large brute rushed at Ganry, who swiped his dagger in a horizontal arc, cutting the brute’s face, drawing a howl of pain and anger. Ganry stomped on the hand of Scar-jaw, who was reaching for his own dagger. He thought about leaving it at that, but he didn’t want
to wake up in the middle of the night with large men looming over him, so he thrust his blade into Scar-jaw’s neck, silencing him for good. Ganry pivoted immediately behind the large brute, quickly slitting his throat. He stepped towards Hawk-nose to finish him off, but he already lay in a pool of his own blood, his intestines spilled on the floor.

  “What am I going to do with these bodies!” protested the innkeeper, emerging from behind the bar where he had been hiding.

  “They’re thieves,” replied Ganry. “Probably rapists too. Bury them like thieves. Just don’t put them in your stew.”

  “You didn’t have to kill them!” exclaimed Myriam, helping the battered nobleman to his feet.

  “I tried asking nicely,” Ganry shrugged. “Men like that only respond to one thing.”

  “Princess Myriam?” asked the nobleman weakly, trying to focus on Myriam’s face.

  “Yes. Do I know you?”

  “What are you doing?” growled Ganry. “Do not reveal your identity!”

  “I know him. I think. Get some water for him, please.” Ganry grudgingly fetched a pitcher of water and helped Myriam guide the injured man to their table.

  “Thank you for your help.” He sat down gingerly. “I am Artas,” said the nobleman. “My father is Lord Holstein.”

  “Lord Holstein? I do know you! He is one of my father’s closest allies!” exclaimed Myriam. “I remember you, Artas! What are you doing here?”

  “When Duke Harald took control of Castle Villeroy, he arrested my father and all of my family. I only just managed to escape through the stables with my bow and a small pouch of spare change.” He looked around for his coin pouch. His bow was laying on the floor, miraculously undamaged in the brief scuffle.

  Ganry unceremoniously flipped the large brute over, retrieving Artas’s pouch, and dropped it on the table in front of him. The cord fell open and Ganry could see that it was filled to the brim with gold, more than he would earn in ten years. Spare change, he called it. Ganry rolled his eyes. Myriam grabbed the bow and handed it to Artas.