A Sellsword's Mercy

by Jacob Peppers

  The Speaker frowned, considering. He did not like to think of the magi as a man, for a man might be pitied, might be, in some way, understood, yet he felt the unmistakable ring of truth in the dead king’s words. He thought, too, that some great knowledge, some great secret that might lead to victory, lay hidden within them. He was just opening his mouth to question the Virtue further when the door began to open, and the misty form of the king vanished, the shifting fog that comprised his form fading into nothing.

  The Speaker nearly called him back, desperate to finish the conversation, for over his long years bearing the Virtue of Will, he had never heard the dead king speak so plainly or so much, and he thought that that, too, was significant. But he remained silent, for the Virtue was no servant to appear when called. Besides, the need for comfort was a quality of normal men, and though the man, Raenclest, might have been right to seek it, the Speaker of the Akalians was more—and less—than normal men.

  So the Speaker pushed his doubts, his uncertainties and questions aside, and turned to see one of his brothers standing in the doorway, studying him silently. The newcomer took in the figures at the bed and the princess standing beside them. Another might have been forced to wonder at the Akalian’s thoughts, but the Speaker could see his own concern mirrored in his brother’s eyes. He gave a nod to tell him to go on with his report, and he watched, a dread building in him as the Akalian relayed his message through the hand signals unique to their kind.

  Finished, the man bowed, and the Speaker returned it before watching him depart as silently as he had come. Then he turned back to where the princess knelt by the bed, hating the news he would be forced to tell her, for the choice she would have to make. It was a choice much like the one the man, Raenclest, had made many years ago, glancing back over his shoulder amid the swirling sands of that distant land and seeing, for the last time, the small tent he’d shared with his wife and daughter until it vanished over the horizon as if it had never been. There was nothing more terrible, he knew, than being forced to forsake one love for another, to abandon one duty in the effort of fulfilling a second. It was a terrible choice, a crushing one. And it was one the princess would have to make—and soon.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Darrell was greeted back to consciousness by a variety of aches and pains, most of which he was long-acquainted with. Not friends, exactly, but familiar anyway, a group that had grown to a crowd over the years, each demanding his attention. A shoulder that had been knocked out of socket one too many times whispered quietly, stiff fingers murmured their own entreaty, his lower back spoke louder to be heard over the others, and his knees nearly shouted to be recognized. Aches and pains and scars he’d gathered over the years that never failed to make themselves known when he first awoke, proof of battles fought and battles won, but no less painful for all that. But today there was a new, fresh voice in the chorus, one that the passage of time had not yet lowered to the susurrating drone which the others shared, one that screamed, making itself heard over the din.

  A sore shoulder rotated and stiff fingers reached out, gently exploring the ache in his side, and he found that someone had taken the time to bandage it. That, at least, was something. He felt no joy at adding another voice to the symphony of a life hard lived, but better that than the song being done altogether. He was not quite ready to hear those final notes, the end of the melody—soon, perhaps, but not yet. Not when so much was left undone.

  He opened his eyes warily and winced at a bright light, turning his face away.

  “Ah,” a voice said, “seems you ain’t gonna die, after all. I’ll take my gold now, Shits.”

  There was a muttered curse at this, and the swordmaster heard the unmistakable clink of coin changing hands.

  Darrell blinked slowly, enduring the sharp stabbing sensation in his eyes as they grew accustomed to the light without complaint. After all, nothing taught one the ability to endure like growing older, and though the years were sometimes a harsh teacher, they were always thorough.

  When his eyes grew used to the light, he regarded the figure looming over him. At first, he couldn’t place who the man was, his thoughts scattered and uncertain as they often were upon waking. Then, after a moment, he recognized him as Urek, the man from the night before. “You…saved me,” he said, the words coming out in a croak from a throat unaccountably dry.

  The man grunted, “I had a hand in killin’ those bastards right enough, as we all did. But it was Beautiful did the savin’.”

  Darrell cast his mind back, following the foggy, shifting path of his memory to the woman with hands of fire that had set his side ablaze. A plain face, missing teeth, and shoulders wider even than the thickly-muscled Urek. “Yes,” he said, “I remember.”

  The big man grinned, and at once the menace and coldness vanished from his hard face. “Aye, I imagine you do, you poor bastard.”

  “I…I would like to thank her, if I could.”

  The big man’s grin grew wider, and he held his hand out to his side, palm up. The man called Shits shuffled forward, scowling, and dropped several coins into the waiting palm. “You see,” Urek said by way of explanation, “Shits here figured there weren’t no way in Salen’s Fields that any man would thank a woman for subjecting him to what you went through night afore last.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “He’s young still, and stupid the way only the young can be. He don’t understand age teaches a man to be grateful for the little things and that pain is just a matter of course.”

  Darrell opened his mouth to respond, but swallowed instead, trying to get some of the dryness out of his throat. Urek winced, grabbing a mug of cool water from the nightstand and offering it to the swordmaster, who drank it greedily.

  “Sorry for that, friend,” the big man said. “Beautiful’d have my hide she knew I was sittin’ here gloatin’ and runnin’ my mouth without offerin’ you a drink. It’s the fire powder, you see. Works wonders on all matter of wounds—some of the lads think eatin’ enough of it would turn a man into a god, but I don’t believe it, and wouldn’t try it even if I did. Likelier than not, the silly bastard’d shit fire until he burned up, and even if he didn’t, I’ve seen enough of the powder doin’ its work to know godhood just ain’t worth some things.”

  Darrell studied the man as he downed the rest of the water—his throat was still dry, but now, at least, it didn’t feel as if he were trying to swallow past a mouthful of gravel and dirt. He realized that he still didn’t know what had motivated the man and his companions to save him—he’d been too busy dying to ask. “Friend?” he wheezed.

  “Well, sure,” Urek said, winking. “I’m old enough to know a fella can always use another friend—my experience, they got a way of dyin’ on ya so it’s a wise man keeps around some spares.”

  “Who…are you?”

  The big man shrugged. “Just one more useless son of a bitch in a world full of ‘em, I reckon. But if you’re meanin’ who are me and the lads here, and why did we find it in our hearts—not kind hearts, mind, no matter what lies folks tell—to pull your old wrinkled ass from Salen’s door, well, that’s another matter entire.”

  “I prefer…well-aged,” Darrell managed, finding a smile coming to his face despite the pain—quieter now but still there—in his side. There was something about the big man’s affable nature that made him nearly impossible not to like, though judging by the scars on his sinewy forearms—knife scars, and Darrell had seen enough to know—some people still found a way.

  Urek barked a laugh at that. “Sure, and I’d prefer makin’ women swoon to makin’ babies cry when they have a look at me, but preferrin’ a thing don’t make it so. I like you, swordmaster. You seem like a fella knows how to keep perspective. Some folks, findin’ themselves all banged up, surrounded by a group of no good criminals like ourselves…well. Let’s just say we go through sheets quicker than a brothel as folks end up findin’ out their below-works ain’t quite as dependable as they thought.”

  Darre
ll gave a weak laugh. “My…below-works haven’t…been dependable for some time.”

  The big man chortled in answer. “Well, sure and why not? But, then, you got all those wrinkles to show for it, ain’t ya? Not a fair trade, maybe, but as fair as we poor mortals can expect.”

  “You…still haven’t…said who you are.”

  Another man stepped—practically leapt—forward to stand beside Urek. He was a thin youth, no more than seventeen, and his thin, sharp-featured face twisted into a smile the way a young child’s might when he finds, unexpectedly, that he knows the answer to his tutor’s question. “We’re Hale’s army, that’s who we are, ain’t that right, Urek?” he said, turning to the big man but continuing before he had a chance to answer one way or the other. “We’re the boss’s men, through and through and—” He froze abruptly, his body tensing as if in expectation of a blow.

  “That’s alright, lad,” Urek said, shaking his head at Darrell in a long-suffering, almost fatherly way. “Beautiful’s out getting more medicine for our friend here, so it seems you’ve a reprieve from meetin’ Salen face to face. Still, my old sergeant used to say a man ought not practice holdin’ a sword the wrong way anymore’n he’d practice holdin’ his pecker crooked. He was a real son of a bitch, but he was right enough in that, I think. Bad habits with the blade’ll get a man killed quicker’n anything, and I reckon the same could be said of our Beautiful.”

  The kid nodded, his eyes wide as if he’d just received a death threat which—according to the sober looks of agreement from the other men in the room—seemed the prevailing opinion. “Yes sir, boss, sorry, boss. That is to say,” he said, turning back to the swordmaster and visibly concentrating on each word before he spoke, “we are Hale’s men and women through and through.” He finished, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Darrell felt a vague twinge of unease at that, but not much of one, for he had come to suspect as much while listening to the men talk. Still, he found himself frowning as he glanced around the room. Four men here, and if he recalled the night before correctly—no way to be sure as he’d been concentrated, mostly, on the blood pouring from his side—then there were no more than ten in total.

  The content of his thoughts must have showed on his face, for the man Urek let out a sour grunt of agreement. “Sure, swordmaster. I imagine a fella of your profession ain’t much impressed by an army the size of our’n, and I can’t say I can blame you. We ain’t of a number to go marchin’ against no castles or standin’ in front of armored men swingin’ swords and the like, and the only time the ground shakes when we’re on the move is if Shits here had beans the night before.” He winked. “Young and dumb, as I’ve told you, and the young take longer to learn their lessons than us old bastards. ‘Course,” he said, shrugging, “they got more time to learn ‘em too, so I suppose that’s alright.”

  “But…how so few?” the swordmaster asked, rubbing at his dry eyes.

  “Ah, head hurts, does it? And the eyes too?”

  Now that he thought of it, Darrell realized that a headache was beginning to form in his temples, one that had gone unnoticed with all the other aches and pains he felt. “Yes.”

  “That’ll be Beautiful’s fire powder. Wreaks havoc on the eyes, I’m told, makes everythin’ brighter, painfully so, as an after effect.” He shook his head “You ask me, swordmaster, there’s some things are worse than dyin’, but we needed you alive, so there’s no help for it.” He motioned to the man, Shits. “Get the swordmaster another glass of water, will you, Shits?”

  “Why me?” the man asked. “Why not have the kid do it?”

  “Well, Shits,” Urek said, giving the man a hard look. “On account of I ain’t heard you complainin’ for the last few minutes and decided I missed it, figure it’d be best if I gave you somethin’ to bitch about. Now, go on.” The man did, muttering all the way as he grabbed the empty glass and stepped outside. Urek watched him go before turning back to Darrell and shrugging. “I know he seems like a pain in the ass—truth is, he is a pain in the ass—but for all his bitching and moaning, Shits is a good man to have beside you in a scrap. A mean son of a bitch when the mood’s on him, and one you can count on to cover your back for ya.”

  Darrell was still focused on something else the man had said. “Why do you need me?” he asked. “I’m not sure what I can do to help you.”

  “We’ll get to that,” Urek said. “First, I reckon it best we talk about what’s goin’ on in the city, and why our numbers are so down as you’ve clearly noticed. See, that bastard Grinner has the boss locked up in the dungeons—you’ve heard as much?”

  “Yes,” the swordmaster said. “May has also been imprisoned.”

  “The fire-headed she-devil, is it?” Urek said. He grunted. “Yeah, I’d caught a rumor or two about that.” He shook his head as if in wonder. “I tell ya, swordmaster, ain’t nobody this side of the grave caused the boss as much trouble as she has. Been a thorn in the boss’s ass—in all our asses—since I signed up. Ain’t a woman I know—save maybe Beautiful, that is, and don’t you tell her I said no different—to match her. There was a time—few years gone, now—when one of the boys took it in mind to kill the she-devil, thought maybe it’d get him on the boss’s good side. He failed, of course—the man was a fool through and through, and his not knowin’ the boss’s mind on the subject any better’n he did was just a symptom of it, not the evidence. Still, word of one of his men makin’ a move on May Tanarest reached the boss’s ears, and it weren’t long before Hale figured out who was responsible. If you’ve met ‘em, then you know that when the boss starts askin’ questions a man with any sense left in ‘em will do whatever he can to answer.”

  Darrell nodded. He’d only seen the towering crime boss a few times, and had exchanged no more than a dozen words with him, but he knew of what Urek spoke. There was a quality to the man—a very rare quality—that projected dominance, power. Even resting with his feet up as he so often had in the queen’s meeting chamber, the crime boss had seemed like a lightly-dozing lion, relaxed but ready, at the least provocation, to lash out. “I think I understand that much.”

  Urek nodded, grinning. “Sure. See, most folks think the boss is just a big brute that solves his problems with his fists and reckons why trouble yourself with a door when there’s a perfectly good wall to walk through.”

  Darrel smiled back. “And you’re saying he’s not?”

  “Gods no,” Urek laughed. “He’s a brute all right, and I pity the wall as stands in his way. Thing is, the boss also has a soft spot—don’t tell ‘em I said so, or I imagine I’d have some soft spots of my own before he was done correctin’ me—but he does. Got it for women and kids, mostly, and the lady May, well, she ain’t no exception. Shit, if anything, she’s the cause of it, one way or another.”

  He leaned forward, scowling at Darrell. “Now, I don’t want you thinkin’ the boss has any sort of designs on her, nothin’ like that. He loves his whores as much as the next man, and he’s got little use for a wife and all the shit that comes attached to her. Anyhow, point is, once the boss figured out who it was as went after her, he was as angry as I’ve ever seen him and intent on havin’ a talk with the fella responsible.” He shook his head. “Swordmaster, I don’t mind tellin’ you I’d rather face a she-bear protectin’ her cub than the boss when he’s of a mind to have a conversation of that sort. Well, I never saw that poor, stupid bastard again, and May Tanarest went right on doin’ what she’d been doin’, confoundin’ the boss and that old bastard, Grinner, as much as ever.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” Darrell asked.

  Urek shrugged. “Sometimes, I get to talkin’, swordmaster, and there ain’t no stoppin’ me. But I guess I tell you this on account of I want you to understand that if there’s a way to save the woman, me and the lads here’ll do it. Wouldn’t do us no good to get the boss out of that shit hole the queen’s thrown him in only to have him beat the shit out of us first thing. You might think we’re a bunch of
bastards that’d stab you in the back and take your purse as soon as talk to you—and, on most days, you’d be right, mind—but we’re on your side here.”

  Darrell considered that, but it didn’t take long. After all, if the man had wanted him dead, he would be. They wouldn’t have had to do anything but wait, and Grinner’s thugs would have taken care of it soon enough. “Very well,” he said, “and I thank you. But, tell me, what happened to the rest of you? I was under the impression that Hale had a significant criminal empire. No offense but…” He trailed off, not sure of how to finish.

  “But we’re only a few swingin’ dicks and a woman whose cures are worse than the disease,” Urek finished, nodding. “Well, you’re right enough there, swordmaster. See, the thing is, we’re criminals, just like all those other bastards that followed the boss. And when news got out that the boss was thrown in prison, and his men were bein’ hunted down for questionin’…” He shrugged as if it was of no great concern, but Darrell saw anger hiding in the big man’s eyes. “Well, folks started to ask themselves if it wouldn’t be better, things bein’ what they were, to see if Grinner had any openings in his own organization.”

  “So they changed sides.”

  The big man grunted. “No surprise, really. They’re criminals after all, not soldiers and certainly not saints. No surprise,” he said again, frowning, “but that won’t stop me from bustin’ some of those fools’ heads and carvin’ out my own thoughts on the matter in their flesh, if given the chance.”

  “Forgive me,” the swordmaster said, “but…with so many of your companions changing sides…”

  “Why didn’t we?” the big man asked. “No offense taken, swordmaster, it’s a fair question, one I been askin’ myself a lot lately while I been spendin’ my days tucked away in the back room of some shitty little tavern or another, my nights spent creepin’ around like some mongrel bitch afraid someone’ll come along and give me a good kick.” He shrugged. “Most times, understand, I can creep with the best of ‘em, but I can’t say I enjoy havin’ a whole city out lookin’ to poke a couple of holes in me, see what comes out. Anyway, I guess I figure that there comes a time a man has to stand for somethin’, and I’m too old to be lookin’ at starting over. Besides, the boss was always good to me, took in a drunk fool who spent his days beatin’ the shit out of people for coin only to spend it on the nearest whore or the nearest drink, and made somethin’ of me.”