A Sellsword's Mercy

by Jacob Peppers

  His attention was fixed on May and Hale, the two prisoners having finally become visible when the guards stepped away to meet the onrushing threat. The two had clearly been beaten repeatedly, and judging by the long, bloody weals on their flesh and their clothes—torn in dozens of places—someone had taken to them with a whip. Darrell thought he knew well enough who that would have been, but pushed down his anger with the efficiency of long practice. There would be a time for anger, for revenge, but this was not it.

  Still, the sight of the two of the prisoners was not one easily banished. Hale leaned heavily on a guard for support, the much smaller man obviously struggling under his weight, and the crime boss’s eyes seemed clouded, as if not seeing anything at all. The swordmaster pulled his gaze away from the grim spectacle with a will, looking to where Captain Gant strode toward the bloody-faced guard who even now stood over the dying man, watching him with a small smile on his face.

  Brandon growled something Darrell couldn’t hear, grabbing the other guard by the shoulder and roughly shoving him back toward the prisoners, and the swordmaster didn’t miss the look of pure hatred the guard gave the captain as he took up position among his fellows. The captain didn’t notice, however, for he was turning to the man on the ground, kneeling beside him and ripping a piece of his own sleeve free, pressing it against the man’s wound in an effort to slow the bleeding. “Healer!” the captain shouted. “Is anyone here a healer?”

  Darrell noticed for the first time that a muted, sullen silence had settled over the gathered people, and the captain’s voice rang out clearly in the morning air. At first, no one answered, and the swordmaster reflected that men and women who dedicated their lives to preserving life would not be drawn to the spectacle of its taking, but no sooner had the thought occurred to him than a heavy-set, middle-aged woman stepped out of the crowd. “I’m a healer,” she said, glancing nervously at those around her as if she’d just stepped into a church and claimed herself a heretic and was only waiting to be stoned to death.

  “Help him,” Brandon said. “I’ll cover the cost.”

  He rose, his hands bloody, as the woman moved forward with a surprising speed and dropped beside the wounded man to begin ministering to him. As she did, Darrell saw the captain glance down at his hands, covered in so much blood that he might have been wearing crimson gloves. Then he looked at his uniform, seemed to take in the ripped sleeve, staring at it as if he couldn’t fathom how it had come to be torn. Then a hard resoluteness entered his eyes, as if he had come to some decision, and he wiped his hands on the front of his uniform, covering it in crimson streaks and irrevocably ruining it, continuing to wipe at it, studying the fresh stains on the fabric with a cold expression.

  In a few seconds, however, the moment passed, and the healer turned from where she’d been working on the wounded man. “Captain?”

  At first, the man didn’t seem to hear, and she had to repeat herself before he turned to her. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry…h-he’s dead.”

  The captain stared at her as if unable to comprehend her words. “Dead?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, “I’m afraid…his wounds were too grave. Had I perhaps been at my shop…” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

  Brandon studied her, and though his expression did not change, Darrell thought he saw something die in the man’s gaze. He gave a sharp nod. “Very well. Thank you for your kindness. What is your name?”

  “Tilda, sir,” the woman said, her voice timid.

  “Thank you, Tilda,” Brandon said again. “I will find your shop and bring payment as…as soon as I can.”

  The woman protested weakly, saying something about how she had done nothing and therefore was owed nothing, but Darrell was hardly listening, nor was the captain. The man turned to look at the crowd, his expression hard and set, as if carved from stone. “Two deaths, this day was promised,” he said, nearly growled, into the morning air, “and now in our foolishness we have given it more than it was owed.” His eyes swept the crowd, and where his gaze touched they seemed to recoil. “You will have your spectacle, your show, but let us have no other lives wasted today.”

  His gaze swept the crowd, and Darrell was surprised when none shouted in disagreement or anger, but only watched him quietly. The swordmaster rose to his full height, craning his neck in an effort to meet the captain’s gaze. For a moment, Brandon’s gaze hesitated, and Darrell thought, but could not be sure, that they locked eyes. Then, without another word, the captain turned and walked back to the head of the procession, sparing a glance that promised retribution for the bloody-faced man as he passed.

  Did he see me? Darrell thought to call out to the man despite the risk of attracting the attention of the other guards, some, if not all, of whom he suspected to be Grinner’s men. But a moment later the decision was taken from him as the procession started forward once more and, as if waiting on their cue, the crowd took up their cries, though he didn’t miss the way those in the front shied away as the guards passed, fearful for their own lives after witnessing their fellow cut down so quickly. He thought they were right to be fearful. With what the city was quickly becoming, they should all be afraid.

  He watched the captain, his heart going out to the man who had been put in such a situation, on the one side stood what was right, on the other a duty that he had spent his life committed to, believing in. But did he see me?

  Frustrated, angry, and feeling more depressed than he could ever remember, Darrell began to push his way forward through the crowd, toward the city square where Urek, Balen, and all the others waited for what news he would deliver. He only wished he had something good to tell them, for the day had possessed more than its share of bad news already, and he hated knowing that the word he brought would only add to it, for no plans had been made. There was nothing more than a single glance, and even that might have been no more than his imaginings. But did he see me?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Urek stood with Beautiful in the crowd, a surprising amount of space around them. Everyone else was so pressed together that if one of them decided to take a piss, twenty would leave the square wet. Those around them appeared reluctant to draw too near, and he thought he knew why. Beautiful had decided that a lady, visiting such a spectacle as the one which they now attended, would have worn a dress and taken great pains on her appearance. Despite Urek’s adamant refusals that had quickly turned to pleas, she stood beside him in a sleeveless dress, smiling as if she’d come out for a pleasant stroll.

  Beautiful was big, possessing more muscle than he himself, and the effect of the sleeveless dress was such that she looked like some giant from legend, some ancient warrior god of destruction, always only a moment from erupting into unrestrained violence. The dress, as it turned out, did nothing to soften the image, for the only thing worse than an avatar of death standing beside you, at least in Urek’s thinking and those gathered around them seemed to agree, was one who was obviously insane.

  Thankfully, Beautiful took the extra space only as her due, a politeness the city’s populous extended to a lady. As he stood there, the woman smiling at the stolen glances those nearest shot her—no doubt thinking those glances admiring, and completely oblivious of the stark, naked fear in their gazes—Urek wondered, not for the first time, why he hadn’t stayed a soldier.

  “Noble populous of Perennia,” a voice rang out, and Urek turned to see a man dressed in finely-cut clothes standing on the wooden platform that lay at the heart of the square, “I wish to thank you for attending today’s spectacle, for putting your own errands on hold to see justice done.”

  There were several answering shouts of approval, and Urek frowned. No matter what they told themselves, the crowd hadn’t been drawn to the square with thoughts of justice and order, but with thoughts of blood, of the validation, the assurance one might find in watching another’s life end and knowing that, however shitty their own life was, they, at least, still had one. Most of those ga
thered seemed to know it too, for though there were a few shouts of agreement, there weren’t many, and most of those who called from the crowd did so to point out that it was already several minutes past noon, and no heads had rolled as they’d been promised.

  The man answered these queries, his voice surprisingly strong despite his small frame, explaining that yes, they were running behind and that, yes, to everyone’s obvious relief, the executions would still take place. The man droned on about other things, and Urek was only half paying attention, focused on looking for the swordmaster. The man should have been back by now, one way or the other, and Urek was growing increasingly sure that something had gone wrong.

  “Such a fine day, isn’t it, Sir Urek?” Beautiful said from beside him.

  He turned to stare at her and realized, for the first time, that she had put on face paint. Such mixtures of herbs were often used by women of station to hide wrinkles or accentuate the lines of their faces, and he had seen them used to surprising effect before. The problem with Beautiful, of course, was that she had never used face paint, and even he knew enough to see that whatever she’d done, it had been wrong. Instead of softening the hard lines of her face—of which there were many—instead of lending it an air of femininity, the marks and red streaks looked like nothing so much as war paint. Another reason, no doubt, why the crowd gave them such a wide berth.

  Urek was suddenly overcome with the impression that he had somehow stumbled into some play, yet knew none of his lines or the mark upon which he was supposed to stand. “Give it time,” he said. “It’s early yet.” She gave him a small frown at that, pursing her nose in what she must have taken for a dainty way.

  “Oh, but you must learn to enjoy yourself and not be so maudlin, Urek. We have been treated kindly all day, yet you scowl at everyone around us as if they were wild animals in need of being put down.”

  As far as he was concerned, that wasn’t all that far from the truth for men and women who would willingly come to see another killed, but he didn’t say so. He understood, too, that he himself was a criminal, a man who had killed people and taken what they had, but he, at least, did his own killing, his own taking. He didn’t make a sport of the thing, some event where watchers might eat pastries while others bled out their last then go on to drink themselves into a stupor and spend the evening recounting stories of the thing to each other, as if they both hadn’t been there and seen the same head leave the same shoulders.

  Beautiful looked away, and he frowned at her, thinking. She’d always been…well, call it what it was and say crazy, but she seemed to be acting even more so than normal. If the swordmaster didn’t manage to get in touch with the captain and, between them, contrive a plan, they’d be doing this the bloody way—a way that almost certainly ended in the death of him and his crew—and it would only be over all that much quicker if Beautiful decided to be a lady instead of a killer.

  He distracted himself from his dark thoughts by looking around at the gathered people again, and was rewarded with what he hoped was the swordmaster’s gray pony-tail in the crowd not so far away. A moment later, Darrell emerged from the crowd, pushing his way through with a look on his face like that of a drowning man who has managed, by luck more than design, to thrash himself onto dry land. An image that was further enhanced by the fact that he was soaked in sweat.

  “Swordmaster,” he said, nodding his head in acknowledgment. “I was startin’ to think maybe you’d decided to miss the show, after all. Not that I could blame you.”

  Darrell frowned, staring over Urek’s shoulder. “Is that—”

  Urek gave a frantic shake of his head before Beautiful turned around. “Ah, Sir Darrell,” she said, curtseying, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. Fine day, isn’t it?”

  The swordmaster glanced between her and Urek, a bemused expression on his face, but he must have noted the warning stare the big man gave him, for he only gave a graceful bow in return. “A pleasure to see you as well, my lady.”

  She beamed at that, and a moment later she was looking back to the stage with all the eagerness of a child at a magician’s show. Urek let out the breath he’d been holding, stepping away from Beautiful and toward the swordmaster, and speaking in low tones. “Never mind that, for now. She’ll snap out of it when the time comes.” I hope. “So, where do we stand?”

  The swordmaster dragged his gaze away from Beautiful and her dress with an obvious effort and winced. “I tried, and I can’t be sure but…I think we must assume that, for the interim, we are on our own.”

  The big man grunted. “I wouldn’t worry about it, swordmaster. It was a slim chance at best, anyway.”

  Darrell sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Urek nodded. “The bloody way it is then.” He raised one hand over his head and made a slashing gesture to let the others know they’d been unable to reach the captain. He just hoped that everyone had managed to get into their positions as they’d planned, the crowd making it impossible to know for sure. He made the gesture again for good measure, stretching his frame as much as he could in hopes of being visible above the mass of people.

  He was just about to do it a third time when he noticed several of the nearby people staring at him strangely, and he let his arm fall to his side, giving them a shrug. The people watched him warily, as if he was as crazy as the thickly-muscled woman in the dress beside him. Considering what they were about to do, that probably wasn’t all that far from the truth.

  The swordmaster said something else, but his words were drowned out by a roar from the crowd, and the mass of people to the left of the platform parted to allow room for what looked to be nine guardsmen as they escorted the two bedraggled prisoners toward the executioner’s block. As if he’d been hidden and only waiting for his cue, the executioner stepped up onto the platform from the other side, gripping the handle of a double-bladed axe in both hands. The man wore a black hood that covered his face as was custom, and Urek’s mind, suddenly alive with a thousand, random thoughts as the reality of what they were going to do set in, noted that the executioner must surely begrudge the hood of his station. After all, with the city in such a mood, the man could have gone to any brothel—following the proceedings—and no doubt not had to pay a single coin for a night’s entertainment.

  The executioner said nothing, only walked to stand beside the block upon which Hale and May’s necks would soon rest, if Grinner had his way. He waited, his dark visage seeming to study his would-be victims as they were led up and onto the platform by their guard escort, whose job was made more difficult by a sudden volley of rotten fruit and vegetables raining down on them from the crowd.

  Urek was shocked to see Hale—normally as steady and sure as a pillar made of stone—trip on his way up the stairs, as if his legs had simply given up beneath him, and the two guards that had been holding him on either side were forced down to one knee as they caught his full weight, only just managing to keep him upright.

  Beautiful shouted from beside him, and he spun, suddenly sure that seeing their boss in such a state had awakened the rage for which she was known and that the blooding would start sooner than they’d intended. Instead, he was stunned to see her reach down to pick up a rotten cabbage from where it had fallen at her feet. She studied it as if she didn’t know what it was for a moment, then she flexed her massive arm and threw it, where it exploded on one of the guards’ backs, making the man stumble from the force if it. The woman proceeded to let out a shriek of delight and clap her hands, caught up in the spectacle of the thing, and Urek felt another knot of unease form in his stomach.

  Against all likelihood, the guards somehow managed to get May and the big crime boss up and onto the wooden platform, standing them at one end of it. Urek turned to the swordmaster. “Now?”

  Darrell frowned, not turning away from the platform as he shook his head. “Not yet. He will want to be here for this, will want to witness it himself.”

  Urek gave a frown of his own, wonderin
g at who the swordmaster meant. But he didn’t have to wait for long to find out as the crowd on the other side of the platform began to part and what appeared to be at least twenty guardsmen formed an avenue. Gods, Urek thought, two dozen at the least. With the nine that had escorted the prisoners, that made more than thirty men, not even bothering to count all those stationed in the crowd in a vain attempt to keep order.

  Through the lane the soldiers created marched a man Urek recognized all too well even with the silver mask he wore. Grinner walked calmly, confidently, like a man who owned everything around him and knew it. If things hadn’t already been strange enough, the crowd erupted into cheers at the sight of him, yelling their thanks for him rescuing the queen from the assassination attempt, calling him “savior” and “hero.”

  Urek listened to their shouts of admiration in disbelief, thinking this was a sure sign the world was doomed—that a man such as Grinner, a man who had spent his life murdering, backstabbing, and cheating any who got in his way, could be hailed as a savior.

  Grinner, though, didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, appearing to take the crowd’s adoration as his due as he made his way toward the platform and up its steps. He walked to stand in the center, turning to face the crowd, and the shouts of approval continued until he finally raised a hand, bidding them to be silent which they did with a swiftness that disgusted Urek.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Grinner said. “Loyal subjects of Perennia and Her Majesty, Isabelle. I must ask for your forgiveness, for though I might be able, in some small capacity, to shield the queen from the blades of those who would do her harm…” He paused here, basking in the nearly manic shouts of gratitude that erupted from the gathered people. “I can do little, I fear, for those stresses and problems which come with her position. As such, Her Royal Highness will not be attending this most important matter with us today, for she is sequestered in her rooms, recovering from the ordeal of the last few weeks.”