A Sellsword's Mercy

by Jacob Peppers

  It was a day like any other, full of broken hope and stolen dreams, and it was the day May would die. She did not rail at the thought of it, did not bellow at the injustice, nor add her voice to that unearthly, piteous chorus. At least, not any more than usual, for she, like the others, had become a moaning, desperate beast, so full of pain that she could not have told a healer—had he asked—what it was that hurt, for the hurt was all over now. Each bruise, each dried tear, had fused together so that they were no longer separate pains at all, but one great aching despair, and in this way, she had become like the prisoners in the cells around her.

  All, that was, save for Hale. The man had suffered greatly in the past days, his body beaten and misused, but he alone still stood tall in the face of what he had endured, keeping his feet against a furious storm that had long since scattered and broken his companions. May loved him for his strength, his courage, for being able to hold on and shout his defiance into that raging tempest. She loved him, and she also hated him, for his refusal to break, to submit as she and the others had, serving as a stark reminder of what she had once been, of what had been ripped from her.

  Even now, he sat with his back against the wall of his cell, his arms draped over his knees. Had one not been able to see the wounds covering his body she would have been forgiven for thinking he could have been relaxing in some tavern somewhere, had sat down to play a hand of cards, perhaps. He did not speak, only studied her with his dark-eyed gaze. And in that gaze was a question.

  He’d studied her often of late, in just such a way, his dark eyes measuring, weighing, and for this, too, she hated him. For the question his eyes held was one she did not want to answer, not even to herself. Are you broken? those eyes asked. Even now, so close to the end, the answer came reluctantly, but she forced herself to give it.

  Yes.

  Are you beaten?

  Yes.

  Will you fight, when the time comes?

  She sneered at that, a flicker of anger rising in the cold despair filling her. “Fight with what?” she rasped, unaware she was going to speak out loud until she did so. “Fight who?” A woman could not fight shame, could not conquer despair. They were opponents for which there were no weapons and against which there was no victory. Was she to wield a sword against injustice, against evil? Such things could not be slain with a blade or bow, and even if they could she was not the one to wield it, for her arms were as weary as the rest of her.

  But if the crime boss heard her, he chose not to answer, only continued to study her with that dark, terrible gaze, with those eyes that held no pity, no sympathy for what she was, what she had become. Those eyes which did not give her answers, only questions, and asked them without remorse or compassion, battering her with them even as tears began to form in eyes she had thought long since dried up.

  Do you want to die?

  She quailed from the question, pushing herself further into the corner of her cell and jerking her eyes away from the crime boss’s visage as if, in doing so, she might somehow avoid the piercing question, as one trained in such things might avoid the blade of a sword.

  “Damn you,” she hissed, oblivious of the spittle that flew from her mouth as she did. The crime boss still did not speak, did not so much as move at all, as if he had been carved from stone, put there, across from her, as another form of torture, to serve as a counterpoint to her own pitiful state, to show her what it meant to endure.

  Do you want to die?

  Who in the name of the gods did he think he was, to ask such a question? Even in her wretched state, she felt a spark of indignity at it. She would not have thought that she could still feel such a thing, had thought that the depravities to which she had been subjected had stripped her not only of her dignity but of the memory of it as well. But the spark vanished as quickly as it had come, extinguished by the creeping despair that had settled over her, for such despair was a jealous companion and did not suffer others in its place.

  Do you want to die?

  She let out a sound that was somewhere between a snarl and a moan. What difference did it matter what she wanted? The day had come. Even though she did not know what hour it was or how long left there was to wait, she knew that much. Soon, perhaps even now, the guards would be on their way to fetch her and the crime boss, their manacles hanging at their belts, their swords drawn in case she or Hale put up any fight. She could have told them, had they asked, not to bother with the last. What fight she’d had had dimmed along with her red hair. It was not a question of whether she would fight or not—her only fear was whether she would be able to walk, when the time came, whether she would be able to put one foot in front of the other, knowing full well where the path she trod would lead.

  But doesn’t it always? a part of her asked without much curiosity or any sort of feeling one way or the other. From the moment a child was born, she set her feet upon a path. There were none—not scholars or profits, not even priests—who might tell her all the twistings and turnings of that path, but they all knew well enough where it ended. The only question was how many obstacles the girl would face, how many heartaches, how many pieces of herself she would lose, to win the right to reach the path’s end.

  Adina gone, Aaron gone, and no sign of either. Both of them gone and most likely dead, along with Gryle and Leomin, even the boy, Caleb. All taken, and she able to do nothing about it at all. She, a woman who had once fancied herself a power, believed herself capable of nearly anything she set her mind to. But she had learned the lie of that, had been taught it over the past days.

  Even Thom, if he still lived, was doomed along with the rest of Perennia, the rest of the world, for Kevlane would come, sooner or later, and his creatures would come with him. And then would begin the slaughter. May could do nothing to stop it—no one could. It was, she’d realized some time ago, inevitable. All things died, after all. Why should the world itself be any exception?

  Do you want to die?

  At least it would be an end. When the slaughter came, when the streets ran red with the blood of Kevlane’s victims, of Grinner’s victims, there would be great pain and sorrow. She did not doubt that many would stand and make of themselves heroes, but they would die just the same. Everyone would die, and there would be none left who might sing the song of their glory. It would be a time of terrible agony, terrible loss. Perhaps, the world itself would weep cold tears upon witnessing the massacre, but she did not believe that it would.

  Either way, however unbearable the agony of what was to come, the city would not have to endure it for long. Sooner or later, it would be over. No longer would men and women go to sleep in fear for themselves, their children. No longer would smiths and merchants pause in their work, casting troubled glances east, toward Baresh. All fear, all worry would be no more. It would be a brutal, cruel end, but it would be an end.

  Do you want to die?

  “Yes,” May answered, and this time there were no tears winding their way down her face. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Adina paused on the edge of the forest, staring at Perennia in the distance, across the wind-swept fields. From this far away, the city looked beautiful, its white walls shimmering in the morning sun as if thousands of diamonds had been embedded there. The castle reached proudly into the sky, a testament to the great things of which men, working together, were capable. Seen from here, it might have been some castle out of the storybooks her nurse or her father had read to her when she was a child. Inside, she could almost imagine great knights and ladies dancing and laughing together.

  If it were a story, there would no doubt be treachery, some evil man with which to do battle—there always was. But in such a story, the end was certain even as you began reading it. Some unknown girl or boy would rise up, proving themselves and saving the kingdom. They would be heralded far and wide for their courage, their resourcefulness. Perhaps, there would be a celebration, a feast. Either way, no matter how dark the tale became, at its end, the
castle would still stand, and those within its confine would remember how to laugh, how to dance.

  But this was not a story, and there was no knowing whether the evil that had come upon the city would be vanquished, or if she and those with her would only die in the attempt. Perennia might look picturesque from here, but she knew that when they drew closer, they would be able to make out the blood-stains on the ramparts, stubborn proof of the battle waged here only months before when her brother, Belgarin, had brought his armies to conquer and had only been beaten back by the sacrifices of hundreds of lives.

  Such beauty always came at a cost, and when one drew near, its flaws inevitably presented themselves. The thought made her sad, but she put it aside. Her companions stared at the castle as if their thoughts echoed her own, all no doubt considering, too, the distinct possibility that they would not live through the day. They need a leader, she thought, and following on the tail of that, you are enough. She turned to the Akalians who had accompanied her and the others through the forest in case Kevlane’s creatures attacked them. “I thank you for the escort,” she said, bowing her head to each of them in turn. “Please, return to your brothers with my blessing.”

  Wendell frowned. “You sure about that, Queen?”

  Adina nodded. “They have their own battle to fight, Sergeant, for Kevlane’s creatures might, at any moment, discover the barracks. If they do, I’m sure the Speaker will need all the help he can get to hold them off. Besides, with what we intend, two men—no matter how skilled—are unlikely to make a difference in any case.”

  The scarred sergeant grunted. “Don’t know that I agree with that, Majesty. Seems to me that one man’s enough to stab a fella aimin’ to kill me. Think that’d make a pretty big difference, least so far as I’m concerned. There’s a couple of whores, too, I imagine’d be put out by it.”

  “And if Kevlane’s creatures do find the barracks, with Aaron still helpless as he tries to help Tianya?”

  Wendell winced. “Right, well, I hadn’t thought of that. I guess maybe you’ve got the right of it, after all.” He shot a sidelong glance at the two Akalians. “Leastways, if they haven’t eaten him already,” he muttered.

  Leomin rolled his eyes, opening his mouth. Adina suspected it was to tell Wendell for the near-hundredth time that the Akalians weren’t in the habit of eating people, but she gave him a small shake of her head, and the Parnen subsided. “Very well,” she said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Then we are in agreement.”

  “It will be very dangerous, Majesty,” Gryle said, coming up stand beside her and gazing out at the distant city. Adina studied him with a small smile. The months since they’d met Aaron and begun their quest had changed everyone, and the chamberlain was no exception. Where once, he might have been terrified at the prospect of the coming violence, his voice quavering as he spoke, now he did so without inflection, simply making an observation. There was a hardness in his gaze, a determination Adina had rarely seen that would have shocked her not long ago. She wondered if he thought of Beth. Her death had affected them all, but Gryle had been closest to her. He had spoken little of the events that had occurred since Aaron found him in the inn, and Adina felt a stab of guilt that she had not taken her friend aside and talked it through with him. There was no time to do so now, but she promised herself that she would when this was all over. Assuming they survived it.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It will be dangerous.”

  The chamberlain nodded, his expression calm and without fear. “Say,” the sergeant said, “you reckon the Speaker and those other fellas might need some help? I could—”

  “No, Sergeant,” Adina said, unable to keep the smile from her face. “I think that they’ll get along well enough without us.”

  He grunted, shrugging as he studied the distant city. “Well, it was only a thought.”

  “I’m sure,” Adina agreed. She turned to take in all of them with her gaze. Gryle, the man standing proudly, standing tall, so very different a creature than the man he’d once been. Wendell, gazing at the city as if it was a snake that might bite him, but not fleeing for all that. Leomin and the woman, Seline, standing side by side, close enough that their shoulders were touching. An unlikely pairing, Adina thought, but one she was glad to see nevertheless. “Are we ready?” She waited for each of them to nod. “Alright. Then let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The crowd in the city square was larger than any Balen had ever seen; it seemed to him as if the entire population of the world had come to see the execution. Men, women, and children were crammed together so tightly that they couldn’t turn without bumping several other people. To Balen, it was as if they weren’t individual people at all, but one great heaving beast, and if the stares and expectant voices—loud, excited voices that combined into a thunder of indecipherable words—were any indication, this beast was hungry.

  Just looking at that churning mass of humanity made Balen break out in a cold sweat. He’d never done well with crowds. Sure, on a ship, sailors were stuck with each other for weeks, sometimes months on end, but they, at least, weren’t strangers. Not necessarily friends—the gods knew a ship was full of more arguments than a brothel with only one customer—but on a ship a man had enough room to walk around, to stretch his limbs and maybe even spit if he’d a mind without hitting somebody square in the face and getting himself in a fight.

  Not that anyone would be able to so much as raise a fist in such a tightly-packed crowd. Balen wasn’t even sure how the poor bastards managed to breathe. He glanced over at his companion, but if the older first mate felt any anxiety at the thought of entering that throng, he didn’t show it. Instead, Thom’s face was creased with hard, angry lines, the way it had been since he’d heard the news. After he’d finished shouting, of course, and Balen—with the help of the others—had managed to convince him that maybe rushing headlong into the city, knocking every guard he saw over the head, wasn’t the best way of saving the club owner.

  It hadn’t been easy going, that—some of the more unfortunate sailors had fresh bruises to show for their troubles and one a black eye that reminded Balen of a rotten fruit—but they had eventually managed to calm the older man down long enough to tell him their plan. He hadn’t said much, only stood there looking like a storm cloud ready to burst, and Balen had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d finally agreed to it.

  “Well,” Thom said now, in a snarl that sounded more like it came from the throat of a wolf than any human. “Let’s get down there.”

  “Sure,” Balen agreed. “But how?” He said the last with a wince, not wanting to anger the old man any further—he himself had some fresh bruises, and he wasn’t keen on feeling the first mate’s fists again, if he could help it—but unable to imagine how they would be able to force their way through so many people to the front, where it had been decided they would need to be.

  “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  Balen sighed—careful not to do so loud enough for the first mate to hear—then followed him as he stalked purposefully toward the crowd. Thom didn’t waste time on any social niceties such as “excuse me” or “pardon me,” not that Balen suspected he would have been heard over the roar of conversation that filled the city square, anyway. Instead, he took the more direct approach of shoving people out of his way as if there was a chest of gold at the front of the crowd, and he meant to have his share of it.

  Balen followed in the man’s wake, murmuring apologies to the angry men and women they passed. After a few minutes, he looked up, trying to gauge how far they had left to go, but he could see nothing past the heads of those gathered around them.

  He was still trying to catch a glimpse of the wooden platform when he heard a grunt of anger, and his attention snapped to where Thom had pushed the most recent man out of the way. This one, though, wasn’t satisfied with an angry look and reached out to grab the first mate’s shoulder. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” he demanded.

/>   He was a big man, looked to Balen like maybe he spent his time juggling boulders, but if that gave the first mate any hesitation he didn’t show it. Thom turned, and his knee shot up between the man’s legs with no more expression on his face than a man might show swatting a fly.

  The man, though, had expression enough for both of them, his eyes going wide as he screamed in shocked pain. His hands went to his fruits as if they’d caught fire and he was trying to put them out. Balen shouted him an apology before following after the first mate who was already plowing ahead, and a moment later the big man—and his sore fruits—disappeared in the crowd.

  “Fella probably didn’t want to have children anyway,” Balen commented, but the first mate gave no sign of hearing him, and Balen decided that was probably for the best. The big man might not have wanted children, but Balen himself wasn’t quite sure on the issue one way or the other and would just as soon keep his options open.

  By the time they made it to the front, he was sweating heavily, unbearably hot, and he figured that if there was a place of perpetual torment as some priests believed Salen’s Fields was, then he’d gotten there without so much as a sign post to guide his way. The people nearest them frowned and shot them sullen glances, not surprising, he supposed, considering that Thom had pushed them aside the way a man might push away undergrowth in a forest and with even less thought than that.

  Balen did his best to not meet their eyes directly, keeping an apologetic look on his face, and hoping none of them decided to make a fuss. He was still concentrating on not getting punched or stabbed—he’d had enough of the former for one day, thanks to the first mate, and had no intention of ending it with the latter, despite the fact that there was a better than even chance he’d do just that—when his gaze lighted on the wooden platform at the square’s center.