A Sellsword's Mercy

by Jacob Peppers

  The chamberlain turned and looked at the Speaker as if the Akalian was some alien creature which he had never seen before. “In any event, the king began to marshal his armies, preparing for what would no doubt be a long siege—yet before they had even begun to march, word reached them of Yasidra’s destruction. It was said that the fires of its burning could be seen from miles away.”

  “An evil place,” the Speaker said, “of evil deeds. Even after the infection had been excised, the villagers let free, the ghost of what had happened there lingered and could only be cleansed with fire.” He turned to Aaron. “The magi is capable of great evil, has what tools he needs to bring it upon the world, but for all the danger he represents, his evil is one that has been seen before.”

  “I understand,” Adina said, and they turned to her. “And I’m thankful that you saved those people and did what you had to do with the lord and lady but…I don’t understand what this has to do with Baresh.”

  “Plenty, I suspect,” the chamberlain said, his eyes never leaving the Speaker, “for, as I said, the fortress was thought to be unassailable. Yet, that is not what strikes me about his words the most.”

  “Then what?” Adina asked. “It is a terrible story, truly, but why is it that you and Caleb look as if you have both seen a ghost?”

  “Forgive me, Princess,” Gryle said, bowing his head, “but if I seem…discomfited by the Speaker’s words, it is because the razing of Yasidra took place over five hundred years ago.”

  Aaron and Adina both jerked as if struck and, for a time, neither could speak. Then, finally, the sellsword turned to the Speaker. “Five hundred years?”

  The Akalian nodded slowly, bowing his head to Gryle and Caleb. “Yes,” he said, meeting Aaron’s gaze. “I was young then, only just named the Speaker of the Akalians, yet it is a time I cannot forget.” He sighed. “Some images, some memories, it seems, stay with you no matter the passage of the years.”

  “But how is that possible?” Aaron managed.

  The Speaker gave him a small smile. “Will, Aaron Envelar. We spoke of it before, do you remember?”

  “Yes,” the sellsword said uncertainly. “I thought I was dreaming.”

  “But you were not,” the Speaker said. “Still, many others have claimed much the same after feeling the power of the Will upon them, for it is not so very different. After all, in dreams, we feel as if we are not in control of our own bodies, our own minds, do we not? And I, of course, apologize for exercising the bond against you, but I thought it best, given your recent…episode.”

  Episode, Aaron thought. A kind enough way to describe being taken over by a murderous rage that makes a man want to destroy anyone or anything he sees. “Never mind that,” he said, waving it away. “You were right to do it, but I can’t say I love the idea of my control being taken away from me. But I want you to answer me something else, Speaker—just how old are you?”

  “I am six hundred and fifty-three years old,” the Speaker said. “The day of my birth will come in little more than a month’s time, but I will not be here to see it. My time will soon end.”

  Adina and the others gasped in surprise at that, but Aaron only studied the man in shock. It seemed so long ago now that Co had first bonded with him, that she had explained that the Virtues would make a man live longer, but over six hundred years…Is that possible, Firefly? Can the Virtues really make a man live so long?

  I do not know, Aaron, she said back. The longevity given by the bond of the Seven is not so long as that. At least, I have never heard of it being so, but, then, I did not know that my father had become as I am either. Still, I would not be overly troubled, for I do not detect any deceit within him.

  Nor do I, Aaron answered, and that’s exactly why I’m troubled. It was one thing to know that there was an evil, ancient mage out there who’d been alive for thousands of years and was set on the destruction of the world—a hard thing to understand, to imagine, but he thought he’d come to grips with it. But here, before him, stood a man that, by all evidence, was as mortal as he himself, yet generations had been born and died while he lingered upon the earth. Aaron wondered at what such a man must feel, dedicated so completely to the impossible mission he had set for himself that he had not even allowed himself to die. Still, the newfound knowledge at least explained the timeless look of the Speaker’s features, and Aaron’s inability to even hazard a guess at his age.

  He stared at the Speaker with awe, imagining the things the man must have seen, imagining how the world must have changed during his unusually long life. And all the while he was looked down upon by those who he would save, treated like some monster from a children’s story. “Gods,” he said finally, “that must have been terrible.”

  The Speaker smiled then, and the expression lit up his features. “It has been…interesting.”

  “Alright,” Aaron said, since none of the others seemed capable of speech just then. “You’ve sold me—I believe you can open the gate. Now what?”

  “Now,” the Speaker said, an unmistakable strength in his voice that had not been there before, and Aaron thought that he felt the touch of the man’s Virtue as it floated on the man’s words. “Now, we must prepare. You are all great warriors in your way,” he said, meeting each of their eyes in turn, “and you have fought valiantly, stood gravely against the darkness. Yet, for all your courage, you have been incomplete, and for all your honor, for all your sacrifice, if you continue as you have, you will fall. And the world will fall with you.”

  He turned, locking his eyes on Adina, and such was the power of his gaze that she seemed transfixed, and it looked to the sellsword as if she barely even dared to breathe as the power of the Virtue, of Aaron Caltriss’s Will, fell upon her. “You have been like a knight riding to battle, yet afraid to guide your horse as it must be guided, for you fear some unknown danger, some unseen pit or trap that might snare your mount and steal its life.”

  Adina opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out, and the Speaker was already turning to Caleb in any case. “You are an archer with great skill, knowing the wind like no other, one with the bow in your hands, yet still you hesitate, for fear that your shot will fall short, that it will not be enough.” His eyes seemed to flash a bright, brilliant white for a moment as he stared at the youth. “That you will not be enough.”

  The youth’s face twisted with emotion, and his gaze turned to his feet, but not before Aaron saw the defeated expression that arose on his features. The Speaker was already looking to Gryle though, and the chamberlain watched him with wide, frightened eyes like a deer cornered by a wolf. “And you, strong one. There is pain in you, for that which you have lost, for what you see as your failure. Yet, you carry within you the heart of a warrior, one you have buried beneath doubt and uncertainty, choked with your belief that you will fail, that surely you must fail. Yet for all your efforts, it still beats within your chest, begging for the release that you so refuse.”

  Then the Speaker turned to Wendell, who fidgeted nervously, looking as if he would have rather been anywhere besides sitting in that room just then. The Akalian studied the sergeant for several seconds. Wendell winced as if expecting a blow, but to Aaron’s surprise, the Speaker only grinned. “Ah, but here is one with great wisdom. A coarse sort, no doubt, like some precious gem covered in dust, buried deep in the ground. But like that gem, of incalculable value, if one only takes the time to excavate it, to wipe it clean and see it as it truly is.”

  The scarred sergeant made a strangled sound in his throat then looked behind him as if the Speaker must surely be talking about someone else, but the Speaker only grinned wider, his expression only sobering when he turned to Aaron. “As for you—”

  “I know, I know,” the sellsword interrupted. “A child swinging a sword.”

  The Speaker grinned wider. “Just so.” He looked at each of them in turn then. “You have all demonstrated a courage few possess. You have sacrificed much for the good of others, and you will sa
crifice more before it is done, yet without belief in yourselves, without understanding your true selves, you cannot win.”

  “Then what are we supposed to do?” Caleb’s voice, sounding weak and afraid.

  The Speaker raised his head, and though Aaron didn’t notice any more of a change in his stance than that, suddenly he seemed much taller, larger somehow. “You must find the courage not only to face the magi and his abominations, but to face yourselves. You must find your will.” Aaron studied the expressions of his companions, saw the doubt there, a reflection of his own, but the Speaker only smiled.

  “Do not worry,” he said, his eyes flashing again, and this time there was no questioning whether Aaron saw what he thought he did, for the man’s eyes blazed white. “You will find it. I will show you.” He turned back to Wendell once more, the sergeant still with a stricken look on his face. “If you would be so kind, wise one, you may leave us, for there is nothing I might tell you about yourself that you do not already know.”

  The sergeant nodded solemnly, but Aaron didn’t miss the childlike grin of relief that broke on his features as he turned and walked—practically jogged, in truth—to the door. Once he was gone, the Speaker turned back to the others. “I will show you your will,” he said again. Then he raised his hands to either side, and suddenly the blurry, white form of Aaron Caltriss, the long dead king, appeared beside him. And when next the Akalian spoke, it was not with one voice, but with two. “We will show you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You…will…tell us what you know,” Grinner panted, collapsing onto the stool in the corner of the dungeon cell. He let the leather whip he held rest on the floor as he stretched his arm, rubbing a hand across his sweaty forehead.

  Hale, the other crime boss of the Downs, and Grinner’s long-time rival, watched him with emotionless eyes. His wrists were manacled to a bracket on the ceiling to keep them in place, and his feet dangled so that only his toes could touch. A normal-sized man would have been left with nothing to support his feet at all, but the crime boss was bigger, taller than most.

  Shirtless, he reminded Grinner of some great bear, thick with muscle and sinew, his chest covered in dark hair that resembled fur. But if the man was a bear, then he was a poorly treated one, for his chest, back, and sides were striped with bloody wheals where the whip had scored his flesh. Yet despite what must be terrible pain, the giant of a man showed no sign of his suffering on his face, only watched Grinner with eyes that seemed to carry no emotion, yet they were even more disturbing for all that, and Grinner sneered, angry at himself for the fear and uncertainty they caused him.

  “You think yourself tough, is that it, Hale? You stand against the pain, against the truth, and for what? You suffer needlessly. All you need do is admit that you were in league against Queen Isabelle and the kingdom of Perennia, divulge the plans you formed with May and the other conspirators, and your pain will end.”

  Hale didn’t answer, and despite his own exhaustion, Grinner jerked himself up from the chair, baring his teeth behind the silver mask he wore. “Damn you,” he yelled. “You stand in my way!” He paused, glancing at the two guards who had accompanied him into the dungeons before turning back, forcing a calm he did not feel into his voice. “You stand in the way of Queen Isabelle, and for what purpose?”

  Hale hocked and spat out a mouthful of blood, then he turned to the old man and gave him a bloody grin. “A man doesn’t take a stand because he has something to gain by it, Grinner. That’s one thing you never seemed to understand. A man stands because that’s what a man does, that’s all. And as for my pain bein’ brought to an end, I don’t reckon that’s true of anyone, save the dead. Now, why don’t you bring that toy whip of yours over here again and get back to work? I’m tired of listenin’ to your blather. Or,” he said, grinning wider, “are you not quite finished with your rest?”

  Grinner sneered and motioned sharply to one of the guards. “Perhaps fists will find the truth where reason cannot.”

  The guard hesitated, glancing at his fellow. “Sir, are you sure—”

  There was a grunt from Hale that might have been a laugh, and Grinner felt his face flush with anger. “Yes, I’m sure!” he screeched. “Or do you think to question your queen’s orders?”

  “O-of course not, sir,” the guard stammered, “it’s only…” He glanced at Hale’s bloody form. “I don’t know how much more he can take, sir…”

  Grinner opened his mouth to speak, but Hale beat him to it. “You go on now, son,” he said to the guard, then he paused to wince and spit out some more blood. “It won’t be the first beatin’ I’ve taken, and I don’t expect it’ll be the last. Besides, I reckon I’ve got it comin’ and then some, even if it ain’t for the reasons this bastard’d have you do it.”

  The guard hesitated another moment, swallowing hard, then he stepped forward, beginning to remove his armored gauntlets as he did.

  “No,” Grinner said, smiling cruelly at the big crime boss. “Leave them on.”

  The young guard’s eyes went wide at that, and he glanced between Grinner and Hale. The big crime boss rolled his shoulders, stretching his neck from side to side. “Best get it done, boy, before I fall asleep. All this talkin’s makin’ me tired.”

  ***

  May listened from her cell opposite Hale’s own as the torture—which Grinner dubbed as questioning—continued. She had long since looked away, for despite all the horrors she had seen in her life, all the terrible things to which she had borne witness, there was something about watching Hale hanging senseless as that thug Grinner had his way that turned her stomach and brought tears to her eyes.

  She listened to each meaty thwack of gauntlets on flesh, cringing at each pained grunt from the big crime boss, not even bothering to wipe the tears from her eyes any longer. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? She had always known that she balanced her life on a knife’s edge, that, at any moment, a single slip would be enough to bring it all crashing down around her. She had known, but somehow she had never believed it would happen, and she’d certainly never had any inkling that the man who would cause her destruction would be the aging crime boss, Grinner.

  She thought that she should be, if not pleased, at least ambivalent at the torture Hale was being forced to undergo. After all, he and his men had posed a danger to her and her operations for many years. Yet try as she might, she could find no satisfaction or contentment in his suffering, only pity and more than a little awe. For whatever else he might be, a self-admitted cheater, liar, murderer, and more, there was something somehow noble about the giant crime boss, something deserving of respect. It was as if he had entered into the wrong calling, had been born into the wrong age, for May thought he would have been more at home on some ancient battlefield, fighting against—or with, on this point she wasn’t sure—hordes of barbarian savages bent on civilization’s destruction.

  In such a place, such a time, a man like Hale would have been respected, honored, and she believed that men would have followed him with a loyalty and dedication that few others could engender in their troops. He was a man built for a bloody age, yet now it was he who was bleeding. And you too scared to even so much as look, woman, she scolded herself. No matter what he has done in the past, he was your strength when you had none of your own—the least you can do is bear witness to his suffering.

  And so she turned, resisting the urge to snap her eyes closed as she took in the crime boss’s battered form. His head hung low, his lank hair dripping with sweat, but it was his chest, his stomach, and arms that drew her attention, for they were covered in blood and fresh bruises from the guard’s attentions. Gods help him, she thought. He may not be a good man—though I’m not sure about even something so simple as that any longer—but he is a man, and he does not deserve this. What’s more, she knew that to no small degree, the crime boss was taking the beating for her. Of course, they hadn’t collaborated to plan the queen’s assassination or the fall of Perennia, or whatever o
ther evils Grinner was now trying to lay at their feet, but if Hale decided to tell Grinner what he wanted to hear anyway, then his suffering could have been over. All he needed to do was lie, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done that much and worse before, yet the giant only hung in silence, drooling blood and grunting with each impact of the guard’s fists.

  “Alright,” the big man said finally, the word grating out with the sound of two great boulders shifting against one another. “I’ll…tell you.”

  The older man made a pleased sound in his throat, and May felt her heart flutter in her chest. Still, she could not blame the giant, for he had suffered far more pain than most would—more than she would herself, she was certain.

  Grinner held up a hand to the guard, and the man stepped back, panting heavily and resting his hands on his knees. “Oh?” he asked. “Have you finally been made to see reason then, Hale? Will you finally admit the truth of what you and those others—May Tanarest among them—were about in plotting the assassination of Queen Isabelle and the downfall of her kingdom?”

  “Yes,” Hale grated in an agonized tone barely loud enough for May to hear. “But…closer. Hurts…to talk.”

  Grinner slunk forward, every bit of his posture screaming his pleasure at the other crime boss’s agony, and May was reminded of some great spider, cruel and malicious for no other reason than its own enjoyment. “Yes?” he asked when he was close, leaning forward with his ear cocked to the giant. “You have something to say? Some truth you would finally like to impart?”