The Present
“You won’t mind if I sit down, I hope?” The fop in front of Vero was dressed in a rich cream-colored doublet, with a grand necklace of gold and pearls. His fingers were covered in rings which sparkled in the firelight of the inn’s common room. His skin was much too dusky to be a local of the region.
“I would rather drink alone.”
“I can be very pleasant company, I assure you. I think we’re the only two here that speak a civilized dialect. Let me fetch us both a couple of drinks at least.”
Vero did not like the notion, but she did not object in time and the man left to do as he had suggested. She wanted to enjoy her rabbit stew and black bread in peace, and pass through to her destination before anyone took notice of her. Being associated with an effete noble pretender would not help her do either of those things.
She had always heard that the north was a conservative region, but in the chaos of the endless succession crisis it seemed that a kind of religious fanaticism had seized everyone. She already passed flagellants more than once on the road, and there were fresh ashes from an auto-de-fe performed in the courtyard of the traveler’s inn where she was taking her supper.
She needed to be careful how she handled the man to be sure that he would not cause a scene, or try and rile up a mob to get back at her. He could not speak the local tongue; neither could she. He would need to find someone who spoke old Imperial if he wanted to start causing mischief for her. Most settlements in the north had someone who did, but she would have time to be on her way before he found them.
She decided to wait and see what he wanted.
The noble returned with a bar maid and eased himself onto the bench beside Vero. “There’s a good fellow. May I offer you a glass of the local apple wine?”
“I’d prefer another beer.” Vero did not care for any alcohol made to the north of the Imperial City – as far as she was aware – but she found the beer the least objectionable.
The aristocrat expressed their orders to the wench with only a little difficulty. “Rather coarse, but I suppose that is the style here. I make it a habit to always explore the local production of spirits whenever I travel. You’d be astounded were you to catalogue all the myriad ways which men have found to make themselves legless. And it’s not a trait which extended only to mortal men, but also to all other man-like creatures such as elves, dwarves, giants, hermaphrodites, gods, and women. Where do you call home, friend, and what do they drink there?”
“I don’t have a home.”
The wench placed the beer and apple wine down on the table.
The man took a careful sip of his wine, but appeared to find it acceptable. “Ah! I am a traveler myself. But what you’ve said has given me a curious thought. If our homes do not exist, what do they drink there? That is to say, what do they drink in nowhere? In limbo? That’s why we all drink after all, to return to that realm- to go into oblivion.”
“They drink nothing.”
“The bitterest liquor of all. It’s just as well. In truth my family have been courtiers in the Imperium for generations, but I’ve ever had restless feet. There they drink wine made of rice, which has the most delectable fragrance I have ever-”
“No, they don’t.” Vero replied before she realized that she ought not to.
“Excuse me?”
Vero sighed, placed her stew down on the table, and put her straw through the floating layer of her beer. “Rice wines were spoken about as rich gifts in the scriptures, but the Imperium banned them a century ago. This is also a matter of personal taste, but when I did eventually smell an elven rice wine, I couldn’t have considered it delectable. I guess you hoped your complexion would be taken for steppe elf heritage, but you look completely human to me. Your accent isn’t quite right either. I suppose you’re from one of the Oasis Cities, or somewhere else far to the south.”
The man smiled and gave a bow of the head. “A clever one, aren’t you? Very well, you have caught me. Just north of the Oasis Cities, in Lusitan, where we drink a deep red with a flavor as rich as butter. Most southerners are not well loved here. So, I invented this little Imperial identity, full of confidence that these ignorant peasant barbarians would not know southeast from southwest. Mostly because all of creation is south from here. How was I to know your road had led you there? Men from the free kingdoms such as ourselves rarely want anything to do with those jackals. You have plucked me of my pride, and left me chastised. I apologize to you most abjectly.”
Vero drew a long drink and put the mug back down. She took up her bread and began to swirl it through the stew. She tore off a hunk with her teeth and found it very tough even after being soaked with broth. “You needn’t apologize. Only speak plainly now, please.”
“I will, if you promise to do the same.”
“I haven’t lied to you once.”
“And I’ll thank-you to continue to be so forthright. Are you a slayer, by chance?”
The question caught Vero by surprise, and it took her a moment to respond. “A peculiar question.”
It was only half a second of hesitation, but the man’s smile told her he had noticed it. “Is it?”
“Why do you think I’m a slayer?”
“The north is suddenly lousy with them, to hear the stupid peasants’ talk at least. You’re a stranger, traveling alone. You carry a sword-”
“A lot of men carry swords.”
“You also carry a dagger, a crossbow, wear chainmail under your cloak-” He annunciated each point with the lifting of a finger. “-And I have a very keen nose.”
“You can smell slayers?”
“Your bags. They hold aloe vera, amaranth, belladonna, hellebore, monkshood, wormwood, crushed feathers, and guano… and also, the teeth, organs, and tallow of an animal or animals I cannot identify. Amongst other things.”
“Slayers have an interest in natural history?”
“No, but they do have an interest in-” he silently mouthed the final word, “-sorcery.”
Vero finished her bread and drank a mouthful of the broth from her trencher. After the slice of bread she had just eaten, she could not imagine what the consistency of her trencher must be like and did her best not to find out.
She was beginning to get bored of the equivocating. “Very well, since you have obviously managed to search my baggage without my noticing already. I am a slayer. If there’s anything missing from my pack, I will take it back from you. Now, what do you want?”
“I’d like to hire you of course. My name is Ramiro.” He smiled more broadly than Vero thought his face ought to be able to accommodate.
“Virgil.”
“Well met, Virgil. I suppose I should start at the beginning. I am the youngest son of the Count de Merilla in Lusitan. I had no inheritance, so on my father’s death I was sent north by my brother with a generous stipend to study for the priesthood.”
“You weren’t.”
Ramiro gave her a blank look. “Excuse me?”
After Vero finished her meal, she had begun to observe Ramiro more closely. “Your doublet is second hand; besides being patched, I can see the stitching from the retailoring. It’s rather clumsy, so I presume you tried to do the work yourself. And your rings are fitted with colored glass, not jewels. You are a liar. And a thief too, if I don’t miss my guess.”
Ramiro clutched his grand necklace and moved it beneath his clothes to hide the false pearls from view. “You wound me, friend.”
“Not yet I haven’t.”
“I take your point. No more lies. I am a thief; a thief, a student, a swindler, a son, a brother, a lover, a friend, a rogue, and a gambler, each in my own time. It is the last which has given me trouble this time. I recently relieved several men of a great deal of coin-”
“-By cheating.”
“No!” Ramiro tried to look indignant, but he must have been able to sense how unnatural it looked, because he abandoned it in another moment. “No. I was prepared to cheat, of course. But, in this case, chance showed me such favor it was totally unnecessary.”
“So, where is the trouble?”
“Those whom fortune favors in cards, she often castigates soon after. Won honestly or not, these fellows still want their money back.”
“Give it to them.” Vero finished her beer.
“I would rather give it to you. Part of it, at least. I’ve already given most of it away already, I fear. That’s why I’m afraid they now mean to kill me.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Get the money back from the people you gave it to.”
“I gave it to some poor orphans, and I have no notion where they are now.” Vero gave him a look and he acquiesced at once. “Well, fallen women often come from difficult circumstances. I presumed they were orphans when I paid them. I’m willing to give you everything I have left to act as my bodyguard.”
“Slayers hunt monsters, never men.”
“Well, if you’re able to the kill the former, then I’m more than confident in your ability to handle the latter.”
“It’s not a matter of competency. The answer is no.” Vero stood up to find another beer.
“You haven’t heard how much I have to offer yet.”
“I don’t need to. The answer is no.”
“I see.” Ramiro hung his head like a whipped child as she left. “Then I shall trouble you no further. Or anyone else ever again, perhaps.”
It was a cold dawn. The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon, but in the thick arboreal forest there was very little light. A layer of frost covered the ground, and the grass crunched under Vero’s boots. She secured her bags to Papillon and prepared to set out from the inn.
Vero whispered with the mare, as she did every morning. Papillon informed her she wished to have a rest. Vero had been riding her hard the past few days after leaving Dora. They had made good time so far, and Vero decided to walk for the day.
At the entry to the stables the draft blew cold against her. She raised her hood and pulled her cloak tight around herself.
She often found that on an early unpleasant morning, the first step was the hardest. She sucked in a long cold breath, which she expelled as a visible mist. Then she took the step, and – as she expected – the others followed much more easily.
“Gods you wake early. And it’s colder than the Veiled One’s teats out here.” Ramiro hurried after her, still pulling his own cloak over himself. “I hate the north.”
Vero stopped. “I gave you my answer last night.”
“I know you did, but my pursuers don’t. If they see us together, they may give up. And if they do attack, there is always the chance that your cold slayer’s heart may still melt to see my plight and cause you to step forward as my champion.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“In this weather, neither would I. But you wouldn’t be the first reluctant partner I’ve eventually convinced with persistence, and I’m afraid you haven’t left me with any other choice. Shall we set off?”
Ramiro waited for Vero to begin marching again. Then, he happily started off after her, intermittently humming a jubilant little tune as he did so.
The sun eventually rose higher, but if the day ever got warmer Vero could not tell. She kept up a rapid stride just to stay warm, which Ramiro regularly complained of. Twice she found herself slowing her pace so that he could catch up, although she did not know why. As afternoon turned into evening, he began to fall further and further behind, until Vero really could no longer justify slowing her pace any further.
Eventually, he disappeared behind her.
The sun sank beneath the trees, and Vero stopped marching to make a fire and eat dinner. She coaxed Papillon to lay down on the ground and laid out her bedroll next to the mare so that they could share warmth. She was nearly finished with her typical meal of hard bread, nuts, dried meat, and fruit when Ramiro stumbled into her camp.
“Thank the gods you have a fire going. I am frozen to the bone. What I wouldn’t give for a bath.”
“There’s a river nearby. The water is flowing, so there shouldn’t be any ice.”
“A hot bath.” He collapsed to the ground beside the fire. “Slayers would do better to leave the wit to jesters.”
“If you marched faster, you wouldn’t be so cold.”
“You say that so easily it disgusts me. I don’t suppose you prepared any food for me.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“No…” Ramiro looked at her in a strange way, sentimental perhaps. She could not say for certain. “You are very beautiful like she was though. I hope you aren’t offended by my saying so.”
“I am. Offended- I mean. Do not speak that way to me again.” Vero tried to read his expression to see if he suspected something.
They were silent for a time, until Ramiro held up his hands and laughed to release the tension. “Then I retract my words. I only said it to please you. It was merely a shallow attempt to convince you to save me from being murdered by cruel assassins. In fact, I find you very ugly.”
Vero was more than happy to ignore the advance. She removed the tome from her bag and laid down by the fire.
She warned Ramiro not to disturb a ritual bowl she had prepared earlier and set beside the fire. He swore to stay well away from it. Confident that everything was under control for the time being, Vero settled into her studies.
Friar Theobald’s final destination was Burgorod, a city built into the foothills of the southeastern leg of the Star Mountains. It had a population of only a few thousand at the time, but that was still very large for the region. Speaking to the merchants she had met on her journey, Vero learned that it had grown since. It was a center of trade and the main road should take her there.
The friar stayed in the city for over a month, learning about his new mission field. He made mention of how strict the nightly curfew was taken, and how troubled his sleep was due to unremembered nightmares- both of which had an unsettling ring of familiarity to Vero. It was in Burgorod that Theobald first heard the rumors of the ancient fortress.
The prospect of finding the ruin seemed to fascinate the friar, because he soon devoted all his time to uncovering new information on the subject. However, most of the locals were loath to speak on the topic, and they often warned him that his inquires might bring him unwanted attention.
At the time, the city was controlled by a council of burghers. They were theoretically appointed by the bishop of Helios, who controlled the city as a fief, but de facto they had been almost totally independent. The friar sought a meeting with the city’s burghermaister, who was the greatest political force within the city walls, and also represented the city in the Landtag. However, he had been put off so long that he presumed he was being actively avoided.
From what Vero had been told by the merchants she met, any alliances between free cities had been prohibited by the last Kaiser several decades past. Since then, the burghers had been tightly controlled across the north, and the Landtag hardly wielded any influence in Teutonia any longer.
In Burgorod in particular, the bishop had deprived the merchants of nearly all their previous liberties. As it was, she did not believe it would be worth her time to try and question the city’s lay officials. At the same time, she also did not relish the idea of trying to infiltrate the cathedral.
At last, after weeks of trying to arrange a meeting, the burghermaister invited Friar Theobald to supper. However, as the nightly curfew was so strict, he would have no choice but to remain with the burghermaister for the rest of the night afterwards. Regardless, Theobald was so grateful to finally be seen by one of the local authorities, that he agreed at once.
“There he is! Grab him!” Vero’s study was interrupted by a call from the path.
At the sound of the voice, Ramiro yelped like a kicked dog and scampered around behind her. Papillon also jolted up and fled into the dark, but Vero had already told her to expect an intrusion and knew that the animal would not go far.
There were four of them. Their leader had the look of a robber knight. He wore chainmail and held an ill-kept broadsword. Two others looked like hired thugs in thick padded gambesons with clubs. She spied one more, farther back than the others, holding what looked like a hunting bow. That one was probably a poacher when he was not working as a murder for hire. He had a shaft ready, but he kept it pointed to the ground. It was too dark to make out what type of arrowhead was fastened.
Of course, she would not have wanted to risk relying on her chainmail to catch the arrow – no matter the head – if she could avoid it.
“Who is this? Hired a protector?” The hedge knight spoke old Imperial, but with an atrociously thick local accent.
“He’s a slayer. He’ll kill all four of you without even working into a sweat if you press him.” Ramiro spoke very bravely by the standards of a fellow hiding behind a woman for protection, Vero thought.
To his credit, she did not believe he was aware that she was a woman.
Some of the henchmen looked unnerved, but the robber knight was smirking as he spoke. “A slayer? You hire as bodyguards to thieves?”
“No.” Vero kept her temper. “He’s just following me. Betting that I won’t stand by and allow an unarmed man to be murdered in cold blood.”
“And is that a good bet?” the hedge knight asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose you’re the one who will force us to find out. Or not.”
“Leave now slayer. You will have no trouble from me.”
“And I say the same to you.”
The robber knight stopped smirking, and began to chew the ends of his mustache.
“Remember what happened the last time you called my hand.” Ramiro piped up while holding a wide eyed and terrified poker face.
“Kill-” Vero had watched the knight’s posture. Before he could finish his order, she kicked over the contents of her ritual bowl into the fire.
Immediately a thick smoke bellowed forth, obscuring everyone from view. She did not try to stand, but instead lay down so that she was beneath the smoke screen and could follow the killers by their feet.
The poacher was the only one far enough away not be immediately immobilized by a spasming fit of coughing and retching. She hurled her dagger at the bowman. She could not see if it struck, but he dropped his weapon to grab his side with a scream.
Vero drew her sword and crossed the distance to the knight by crawling on all fours. Before he realized what was transpiring, she had cut him just below the groin where his chain shirt ended.
Blood gushed; she had severed his femoral artery.
The knight’s legs buckled under him while he took a wide and desperate swing Vero easily evaded. His wound was mortal, but it would take time for him to bleed to death. She crawled backwards to stay away from his crumpled form.
She turned back to the poacher. He was searching for the weapon he had recklessly discarded when animal instinct compelled him to clutch at the sting of pain in his side. She moved past the cloud and rose to her feet.
The poacher found the bow and bent forwards to retrieve it. He was in the process of straightening back up when Vero impaled him through the chest from behind. There was a short – almost surprised – gasp of breath, and she pushed him forward off her blade.
The smoke began to clear, and the last two thugs tried a clumsy and ill-coordinated assault. Their eyes were both red and swollen, and mucus was running down their faces. She doubted either could see much more than a blur in the dark.
Vero dodged the first blow with no trouble and cut the man’s legs out from under him. Then she evaded the second with no more difficulty and tore the man open diagonally from hip to shoulder.
The hedge knight had tried to rise to his feet with the aid of his sword, but Papillon emerged from the dark to kick him over from behind. She then trampled him under her hooves until his screams of pain ceased.
Once Vero was certain there would be no further resistance, she kicked the survivors’ weapons away from them, and slit their throats. With the battle over, she proceeded to check their bodies for anything of value.
“Gods. What happened?” Ramiro was still recovering from a state of shock. He stood and looked around in a daze without really comprehending anything he saw.
“They’re dead. You won your bet, I suppose.”
Unsteadily, Ramiro set himself back down by the fire, shivering very badly. “I did at that.”
The hirelings had only a handful copper coins, halves, and quarters- except for the bowman who had a pair of chipped and worn Velian silver crowns. The knight had a few gold sovereigns and several pieces of silver jewelry under his armor. All of them had rations, of course.
She took the valuables, the food, gathered up the weapons, and stripped their armor. She was happy enough with what she had, and the collection was already heavy enough, that she did not bother to take their boots.
Vero whispered her thanks to Papillon and settled her back down beside the fire.
“This is all rather grim, isn’t it?” Ramiro posited once Vero had finished cataloguing her plunder.
“They’re dead, what use do they have for these things? I did them the favor of killing them quickly so they wouldn’t be left in pain. And I killed them on your behalf I remind you, before you presume to judge me.”
“Oh, I owe you my life, I am well aware of that. If there is ever anything I can ever do for you-”
“No payment.”
“Of course not. But if you ever need a friend, you will find me your most devoted servant.” Then after a space he added, “Should we light a pyre for them? It would be the pious thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m certainly not going to leave the fire to chop more wood. I slit their throats and turned them to the sky. If their souls are still trapped, they’ll just have to hope the crows take them.”