>
>
> “Thin but strong, thrice worked and boiled wool,” a professionally-smiling Percy explained under Salonius’ intense scrutiny. Sir Gregor was standing outside the private showroom at the back of the large shop. The knight was eyeing a young customer wearing the academy’s robes talking with Verania at the front hall. Licinia, young Cyrus assistant watching over Vacia and Alistair. Two four-horse drawn carriages and ten solitary horses blocking the road outside Salonius Emporium. The extra riders part of Faye’s boisterous entourage or posse of Northerners already causing chaos in the high-end Artisans District. “The fabric seamless and warm if worn over cotton undergarments, especially for this time of year your grace.”
>
> “What if we don’t favor them Mister Percy?” Monica half-teased inoffensively just as the second woman clerk bringing the dresses in the showroom stepped inside from a side door leading to the workshop. I wasn’t mistaken earlier, Monica thought hiding the nervousness under a blank expression. Why are you here?
>
> Is this what you do now?
>
> “Answer the Queen,” Salonius ordered croakily and his business manager blinked unsure.
>
> “Apologies… any fabric will suffice your grace,” Percy expounded.
>
> “Um,” Monica agreed looking at Vita.
>
> “Or nothing at all,” the former priestess added and Salonius ogled his eyes wide, half in the mind to backhand his female clerk but Monica intervened.
>
> “We’ll wear those low-heeled country shoes Mister Salonius,” she said and gathered her dress to sit in the comfortable armchair. Percy brought the soft leather low-ankle boots from the counter and went to kneel in front of the sitting Queen but Licinia gasped in shock behind Monica’s back and stopped him. The talks inside the showroom dying down and now only Faye’s men were heard from the street.
>
> “What are you doing?” Salonius was heard hissing horrified.
>
> “Eh,” Percy muttered caught unawares and glanced at Monica, then at his comically grimacing boss and finally Sir Gregor who had stepped inside the showroom probably after a discreet sign from Cyrus who was watching as well from the door. “I’ll… Vita you take… see to help the Queen,” Percy finally managed to say and stood up, only to immediately bow his head low. “Your grace,” he said stiffly receiving no response from Monica.
>
> Salonius grabbed the ill at ease shop manager by the elbow and shoved him out of the door where Cyrus stood next to the Sir Gregor and to the front of the shop. Cyrus ushering the rich merchant out as well.
>
> “The Queen’s ankles,” the chamberlain elucidated and Salonius gulped down afore pursing his mouth almost offended at the near slipup.
>
> “Of course,” he groused and walked out.
>
> Monica sighed and pulled her dress up to her knees staring at Vita’s blond, well-combed head. The scene almost surreal inside Salonius’ lavish showroom but while the location was unfamiliar, all other things weren’t.
>
> Vita’s fingers touched the leather strings and then pulled them one by one to untie the knot on Queen’s ‘old’ footwear. Nothing malicious in what she was doing or offending to a watcher’s eye but it felt that way to the young queen. Monica’s nails dug in the velvet armrests, the sides of her mouth twitching nervously and the talks of the boisterous Nords turning indecipherable.
>
> The fingers moving and the leather loosening up.
>
> Words… oh, so distant.
>
> Yet so close.
>
> Goddess is a caring servant.
>
> Goddess washes the sins away.
>
> Goddess is a forgiving mother.
>
> Yearns of a touch hidden in a pray
>
> Spurns it like a piece of skin ye flay
>
> “Goddess prays for those led astray,” Vita whispered and Monica heard the thudding of boots in the adjoining hall and the clinging of blades on armour.
>
> Cleanses the soul n’ drags the sleigh…
>
> …out o’ sorrow’s way.
>
> Goddess is a patient lover.
>
> “That’s enough needless shopping. By the spirits this is excruciating,” a miffed Faye announced walking inside the showroom. “The lads are about to riot and there’s enough crowd gathered for this to turn bloody.”
>
> It was impossible to make sense of what Faye was talking about most of the times.
>
> Monica pushed her dress down stopping the former priestess’ ministrations. Vita stared her way in hurt disbelief.
>
> “We are finished here,” Monica said and stood up feeling lightheaded. “Have Salonius deliver the shoes to the palace.” She ordered Cyrus. “You’ll handle it.”
>
> “Aye, your grace.” Cyrus replied with a rigid curtsy. Monica walked towards the frowned Faye without looking back. Torn between crying and screaming in anger.
>
>
>
> She would do neither for a while.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Lear ‘Razor’ Hik
‘Captain’
‘Butcher of Drek River’
‘Man from Atetalerso’
‘Best killers coin can buy’
Part III
-A long way to Cartagen-
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Two weeks later
Storm’s Rest
Winter of 195 NC
The large road coming from the bridges cutting parallel between the town’s northern gates, the outer walls and the Third Legion’s summer camp.
“You pass by the Main Square, then turn left at the base of the statue, west that is,” the aged Lorian merchant explained from his muddy wagon.
“What statue be that?” Edge asked pursing his mouth.
“It’ll be a giant horse when it’s finished. You can’t miss it either way. The Praetor’s famed thoroughbred Stormbolt. It made the journey to Jelin’s Edge and back. Aye, it did,” the merchant elucidated with a zealous voice.
“Right,” Edge yielded and gave a nod with his head to thank the merchant. “Much appreciate the help mister Bluto.”
“Fittingly a storm is coming,” Bluto replied returning the nod with a last look at their rugged from the road group. “See that you lads find proper cover.”
“A good rock to put yer back on and a tree’s shade is all that’s needed feeble southerner,” Nis rustled returning the stare, thick white brows with some red hairs popping wild here and there.
“Ugh, we’ll take yer words into account Master Bluto,” Lear intervened and the former legionnaire Bluto led his wagon through the gates a moment later.
Lear walked to the sullen Mark, the young ranger had almost died a couple of weeks back but had managed to pull through, now standing on the saddle a weakened, dispirited wreck of his former self.
“There are a couple of good army Dottori in the town,” Lear said patting the horse’s neck. The humidity of the nearby River Groin between East and West Tributaries penetrating their bones. The chill of winter noticeable and coming from the not so distant mountains. “They’ll look to fix you something so you can use the arm. I’ve seen it done afore.”
“Never heard of a one-armed marksman mister Lear,” Mark murmured sadly.
“I have but it won’t be easy to do,” Lear replied. “If you expect me to sugarcoat it then know that I won’t. More likely than not you’ll be useless and incapable to defend yourself, live like a pariah and die a hungry beggar by some dirty square never reaching old age.”
Mark gulped down and took in Lear’s serious expression, a twitch marring the young man’s pale face.
“If you let it,” Lear continued and got the crossbow out of the saddlebag. Folded his left arm at the elbow and placed it under the barrel enough to keep it steady. “It’ll be a pity if you would,” the bounty hunter said raspingly and returned the weapon in its place. “You could still help us out and you could help yourself. A man can walk with a cane. Learn to handle a blade and fire a shot a different way. I’ll take that stubborn person, trust him to have my back if he’s brave enough to overcome this, over a four-limbed coward like Jack.”
“Oh, come on Hik!” Jack protested, raised lapels half-hiding the lower part of his face both to keep the cold out and obscure his identity from the authorities.
Lear frowned not bothering to answer and kept his eyes on Mark.
“It hurts to move it,” the young man croaked.
“Pain can keep you on edge. Focused,” Lear retorted. “A good thing that eventually will go away.”
“It will?”
Nah. It was a lie kid.
“We got things to do lad and we need yer help, what will you say?” Lear asked instead meaningfully. “Are you going to be defined by the piece that’s missing or the rest of you that’s still here?”
Mark stood back with a grimace of pain. “I want to help.”
“Then you shall,” Lear retorted and patted the horse’s neck once more afore turning around to meet Edge’s inquiring eyes. “You’ll take him in the city. Take Jack along. Enter in two groups. They expect me and Jack but it’s confusing who is who at this moment and this a military run town mostly. This was a Direwolf attack that turned bad and we had to amputate and burn the flesh. Take him to a carpenter next.”
“This is a cold day ahead,” Edge noticed and Lear nodded narrowing his eyes.
“Plenty of woods across the road to the west and near the mountain path’s mouth. We’ll stay there. Without me present you’ll go unnoticed. In a week’s time we’ll meet again before the slopes following Durio’s Road.”
“What if snow falls?”
“It changes naught,” Lear replied and glanced at the bearded Nis. “Got an extra woolen blanket old bones?”
“Don’t need it young blood but ye might,” Nis rejoined and Edge rolled his eyes to the white at the brawny exchange.
Two days later
The woods near the slopes and the ruined Legion fort
Three kilometers from Durio’s Watch, the fort guarding the mountain road towards Oras Navel.
Lear cracked the dry branch away from the dead tree with both arms. The snow melting away but still a thin layer of white remaining on the ground. The forest silent but for the occasional sound of birds of prey squealing and the distant groans of forest bears. Most of the sounds blocked by the leafless trees. The terrain a mixture of three colors. Black, white and something in between.
He stared at the burning fire on his return to their campsite. The roasting forest rabbit melting away over the hot coals. Nis drying the skin out to make soles for his boots sitting right next to it. Several big boulders that had tumbled down from the slopes and had crashed into the forest at some point in the past, creating enough of a cushion from the cold wind.
It blew through the trees bending the smaller ones. It came and went alike a beast’s rugged breath. Started and then stopped without warning. Lear could see the large road between the bare trees and crooked branches, not even half a kilometer away. Less at some spots. Smaller paths crisscrossing the forest. Made by animals and men. Hunters probably used them the most leaving no other signs behind, while Army lumberjacks and carpenters who had followed these same paths had left large squares open inside the guts of the forest that nature is now trying to reclaim again.
Theirs was one of these relatively open spaces, located by a cluster of rocks.
“Where’s the rest of the rabbit?” Lear asked hoarsely breaking pieces out of the rotten wood to drop on the coals.
“He who gets the kill eats first.” Nis retorted and wiped the grease from his beard.
“What about the one who cuts the wood and builds the camp?” Lear griped and used his dagger to cut a piece out of the half-cooked meat. He brought to his mouth and chewed on the gummy rabbit flesh for a while, Nis opting not to answer him.
“We got lucky,” Nis said after Lear had tasted enough of the badly-cooked meat to opt for a bit of wine and water instead.
“It’s a shitty weather Nis,” Lear noticed with a grimace.
“No, it isn’t. And I wasn’t talking about that,” the veteran adventurer replied.
I know.
“Eventually the stubborn wolf will kill off his own pack,” Nick continued gloomily. “Left to hunt on his own. It’s a lonely road you are on Lear.”
Lear scrunched his face this way and that, then he stood up with a grunt. “You are talking about yourself,” he finally said raspingly. “Time comes for all.”
“In part and it does,” Nis agreed crooking his mouth where he’d a couple of teeth missing. “The difference is you care because their company keeps you sane. Keeps you human. You’ve done all else and nothing tasted the same. You are not special lad. The lone wolves don’t retreat to die in a cave when our time comes or in a city’s square, more so some Library’s stairs,” Nis continued using the staff to shuffle the coals about. “They opt to die on the path still hunting, roaming in them woods and out in the wild surrounded by our enemies and the ghosts of past’s kills. Not all kills but those we could have avoided.”
“You are a barrel of laughs old bones,” Lear grunted sourly.
“We owe this realm the blood we opted to spill succumbing to our urges. Remember that when your own time comes,” Nis said soberly and got up himself with the help of the old staff. “Do as I have done and leave yer friends behind. Spare them your fate and some part of the pack shall survive.” The veteran adventurer and former headhunter added with a glance at the cloudy later noon sky. The clouds a dark mauve but holding steady.
“I can’t stop now Nis,” Lear rustled.
“Aye. Thou can’t,” Nis agreed narrowing his eyes. His gaze searching the surrounding soggy tree trunks. The wind resting for those last couple of moments and the silence deceptive as it was filled with a myriad little sounds. Water trickling down, snow melting, the fire crackling, with nearby branches creaking and small twigs swishing. The distant fauna responding from time to time.
But not this time.
Lear felt the hairs on his nappe raising, the primordial predator’s instincts sending warning jolts down his spine and he twisted around to search for the hidden danger that had alarmed Nis. Another predator had approached their camp.
“He’s in them woods,” Nis rustled and raised his staff to crack open the bladed part when an arrow whistled across the opening. Lear barely saw it but felt it going through his left bicep as he’d jerked aside instinctively. The tip pressing at his coat’s sleeve from the inside.
Nis glanced to see if he’d been hit badly but Lear grunted sidestepping casually and reached to break the protruding shaft. He then found the metal tip and ripped the sleeve open to get it. Pulled it out and smelled blood in the air. Heard feet tip-tapping in the trees, a pause and another arrow whistled out. This time it almost took his left eye away. Lear had moved out of the way at the last possible moment, a deep bleeding cut starting above the cheekbone and ending at his left ear.
He stumbled a couple of meters and unsheathed his sword trying to locate their attackers or attacker. The sound of light feet again coming from his left side and Lear turned that way, the fire between him and Nis who also turned towards the noise.
A dark clothed, lithe individual had burst out of the woods and was rapidly approaching the adventurer. The glint of a blade dull but it caught Lear’s eye. Nis stepped forward and swung with the staff in a sharp arc but the figure with the hooded cowl that left only the slanted eyes visible, rolled under the custom spear. He then attacked using what looked like an ice-axe from very close. Nis stepped back with a grunt just as Lear moved to get into the fight and saw the adventurer partially block the blow with the butt of his staff.
A groaning Nis stumbled back, a splash of blood painting the ground and downed the staff to crash his opponent’s head. The Cofol jerked aside and stabbed the bigger Nord with a shortsword under the sternum, the blade breaking partially going through bone and mail. The Nord swung again parallel to the ground, the Cofol jumped in the air gathering both legs to avoid the custom-made spear and caught Nis again going down with the climbing axe at the left side of the neck. Bone cracking and flesh ripping when the nasty weapon was pulled out in a great spurt of gore.
Lear hacked with the sword to catch the distracted assailant but he nimbly cartwheeled away like an acrobat, boots covered with black cloth and tied to the loose black pants that were part of a bodysuit in reality. Nis went down on a knee bleeding profoundly from several gruesome wounds and a scowling Lear went after the feline-like masked attacker, himself sporting a couple of injuries as well.
The Cofol went from moving away to attacking from one foot again, unsheathing a scimitar mid-air so Lear had to pause to parry the blade away first and then downing it like an angling pendulum. The idea been to both block the steel ice-axe the Cofol had used for a secondary attack and cut the smaller man across the chest.
The block was partially successful which meant that the steel tip dug in his ribs, breaking one and mauling the flesh so that was that while Lear’s own attack found empty air. The man had managed to jump from one leg, twirl around a meter from the ground avoiding the blade and land on the other.
Lear took a half-step back and the Cofol came after him again, ducked a left punch making it seem easy but lost the ice-axe to Lear’s sword who had adjusted to this fancy fighting and impressive footwork.
If there was a hidden reason Lear hated the circus and it eluded him all those years now he had his bloody answer. Acrobats creeped him the fuck out.
The Cofol grunted not expecting to lose the axe and angled the scimitar to run Lear through the gut but the bounty hunter grabbed his forearm and stopped him.
“Ah,” the Cofol grunted and went for a head-butt. Lear jerked his head right, made to raise his sword but got blocked by his opponent’s free arm just as the Cofol’s forehead smashed at the base of his neck with a thud right above the clavicle bone and bounced off probably bleeding since Lear had a bit of metal above the shoulder stuffing of his leather jacket. Mail shirt underneath it. The two of them fighting inches apart now and the vicious scrap losing whatever grace it may have previously held.
The Cofol switched his grip on the strange sword, Lear had thought it a scimitar at first but upon closer inspection it wasn’t, in an attempt to stab down and get at the bounty hunter’s legs but Lear snapped his own head forward forcing the attacker to defend himself.
And the motherfucker actually managed it by jerking his neck back enough to absorb the head-butt. So a seriously pissed-off Lear, who knew he was bleeding out fast, went for whatever was close enough instead. The bounty hunter opened his mouth wide like a real wolf and lunged for the Cofol’s masked face, teeth closing around the tip of the nose over the fabric. He bit down maniacally, skin tearing and flesh ripping until he found the thin bone. And then Lear gnawed through that too.
With a horrible guttural cry of pain the Cofol jumped away from the bloody-toothed bounty hunter, the mask torn off of his mauled gore-covered face and retreated a couple of steps trying to stop the blood spurting out of his half-eaten nose.
The scowling Lear spat the piece of flesh down. The Cofol’s blood bitter to the taste and spicy of sorts, he thought whilst reaching with a hand to touch the bleeding ribs and check on the damage. Not ideal but he had gotten hit plenty of times harder.
Pain gives focus and the injuries provide much-needed incentive.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“Come on then son,” he taunted his opponent with a wolfish leer. “You might pull through still. Ye got to make another try.”
The Cofol unfurled the cowl from his head, revealing a gaunt pale face covered with tattoos. Strange tiny glyphs written on his cheeks and shaven skull in vertical lines. He took a step back and then another, the cowl kept on his wound to staunch the bleeding. His eyes going from Lear to the ground where his ice-axe had fallen.
You’ve lost that, Lear’s eyes told him.
With a grimace of pain, he started retreating again towards the woods.
Lear moved sideways as well, the adrenalin keeping him upright, towards the wounded and still knelt Nis. The Nord’s breaths coming out rugged and fast. A pool of blood under him creating vapors due to the chill.
“Finish him off you lazy fuck,” Nis grunted before Lear had time to get a word out. “Else he’ll come again.”
Eh, Lear thought looking at his sweaty, wrinkled face not knowing what to say and knowing that standing there like an undecided fool wasn’t going to solve anything, he turned around with a grunt to go after the Cofol that had almost reached the woods in the meantime.
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Lear used the razor to cut bandages out of his clothing and staunch the worst of the bleeding. The cold gnawing at him inside the damp woods but he could keep his back on a trunk at least and follow the Cofol’s trail. Because you can’t walk on mud or melted snow without leaving tracks behind.
Droplets of blood here and there. Your stench of sweat in the air.
“I remember ye cunt face from Asturia,” Lear rustled, his hoarse voice reverberating inside the trees. “You done fucked up taking the contract lad. Came all the way here to get yourself killed for gold. I’ve got your taste now and I ain’t letting go.”
Lear followed the footsteps slowly, going from cover to cover and avoiding the openings or the forest paths. The tracks left behind far apart and partially concealed. Half of them done by stepping on dropped wood or rocks, but Lear was an excellent tracker. It wasn’t a difficult skill and he did have the Cofol’s scent in his nostrils. It was there. Different from the forest’s other smells.
“League of Lone Slayers my arse,” Lear continued his taunting. “Ain’t difficult to lay an ambush. You’ll know yer measure when the opponent fights back. When you get hurt and start bleeding. The cold air cooling yer skin and chilling yer bones. Hands start shaking and your legs turn heavy when you are hunted.”
Deeper they went into the woods but then the Cofol turned and started heading for the road again. A semi-circle. Trying to hit the same paths again and blend old footprints with new, muddy the trail.
Lear went faster for a while before slowing down again, already tiring and in considerable pain himself but far from giving up. As a matter of fact, the bounty hunter would probably die rather than stopping.
Ten meters from the open, cleared out terrain hugging Durio’s Road, Lear paused next to a thick tree trunk and stared at the now sparse woodland outlined by another hunter’s path. A foreign horse now visible some meters away. The grey spotted desert horse, based on its exotically decorated saddle, tied on a branch and chewing on twigs.
The saddlebags open and the tracks leading to it.
Lear got his razor out and moved his injured arm up and down to test its mobility. It was the broken rib that bothered him the most and the torn flesh there.
Eh.
“The Butcher of Drek River,” the Cofol said stepping out into the open, the cowl turned into a bandage on his face almost resembling the mask he had on earlier. His Common fluent but the bizarre singsong accent was there despite the voice coming out muffled from the injury. Alien and mysterious. Not a Horselord. This a pure-blooded Cofol. Whatever the fuck that means. “Is critical of other killers? Does one slayer differ from another? Abatis thinks you are being a hypocrite Lear Hik. You have been marked for death. Serapis gave the order. You should rejoice at the privilege. Dying at the hands of the League of Forsaken Slayers, cleanses the soul of its sins.”
“You changed the name?” Lear taunted taking a forward step and looking to find good ground.
“The word Soteras translated has different meanings, bug-eyed people fail to discern,” Abatis explained.
Ah.
“Well, if you fail and I kill you,” Lear retorted. “Dogs and crows shall eat your corpse and your soul shall rot where you drop uncleansed and pissed on thoroughly. I’ll make sure of that. Plenty of urine in me bladder.”
Abatis, the Cofol Assassin of the League, nodded as if accepting the risk and reached for that strange sword again. He got it out of the sheath above his shoulder with measured moves, using the right arm. The left dropping to a utility belt he had around the waist and then snapping forward.
A flash of light caught the hurled object for a moment and then it whipped past the moving to sturdier ground Lear’s ear. Another snap of the arm and there it was again, crossing the distance between them in a breath. Lear twisting away raising the arm wielding the razor to protect his head and something clanging on the vambrace he wore under the sleeves of his jacket.
Lear raised the arm to his eyes and saw the star-shaped disk lodged in his forearm, through the metal.
Aha, he thought a little amused at the bizarre throwing weapon and caught Abatis coming at him leaping nimbly right and left like an insect. Those flashes leading before the Assassin.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Damnation!
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Lear stumbled back rattled, two disks lodged in his chest breaking through leather and mail. The last one right below the right shoulder. He swung with the longsword wide to cut off Abatis' advance but the younger man was faster and circled around the faltering bounty hunter.
He came in for a side attack, but Lear lashed out with the razor, as he wasn’t that rattled and of the old school of thought that preached to trust the armour to minimize the damage done whilst leaving the worrying on the severity of yer injuries for after the scrap’s end. It would help you naught to know you’re dying out but it will fer sure cause you to get killed sooner.
So the injured Lear kept fighting.
Abatis changed his attack mid-move going for Lear’s face but the bounty hunter angled the blade to deflect the blow away whilst sidestepping out of trouble. The assassin came at him again, realized halfway through that he was bleeding from a deep cut on his other arm as the razor can carve the flesh painlessly sometimes when you’re pumped full of adrenalin. The Cofol growled and lashed out with his blade but Lear blocked high afore going for a savage hack to test the assassin’s blade quality.
The swords clanged sharply and Abatis pulled away a bit rattled but managing to maintain control of his undamaged blade. With a grimace of pain, Abatis changed his stance again and reached for a three-talon like tool he had on his belt, a metallic claw of sorts, with a thin black rope attached to it.
Lear whipped his longsword out and stopped the assassin from utilizing whatever that thing was but Abatis sidestepped out of his backwards jump to attack again cutting the slowing down Lear across the chest. Opening the jacket, partially severing the mail underneath and dislodging one of the disks away.
“Uh,” Abatis gasped rising his left hand to his face as if to check on the mask-like bandage there. Only he kept searching towards the back of the head, fingers digging out something out of there. A heavy-breathing Lear watching intently whilst taking a step back intending to attack low this time and slow-down or cripple his faster opponent.
Abatis left hand returned to the front, covered in gore to the wrist and holding a dripping blood small metal bolt in his fingers. The slightly slanted eyes ogling as if unable to fathom how the bolt had gotten there.
Lear had no idea as well but was way less saddened than his opponent truth be told and by the time he broke out of the shock at this new bizarre development, Abatis made a gurgling sound spraying blood out of his mouth and died unceremoniously on his feet. The next moment the crafty assassin planted his shocked face on the ground in front of the equally stunned Lear.
Another two bolts nailed on his back, so close together Lear had mistaken them for a single fat one at first.
“Eergh,” Lear grunted ineligibly and collapsed on his knees, half-dead himself. Being as he was very stubborn the injured bounty hunter willed his tired body to get moving again. He had to fight a sense of drowsiness overcoming him from severe blood-loss. Blinked once in fact and saw a small-bodied kid hopping about towards him.
Always alarming seeing visions of hopping kids when injured.
Or rabbits.
So he blinked twice more and the kid turned into an old girl, with a strange face and the body of a tall nicely-proportioned dwarf. Which was a little disturbing also. Nevertheless since no dwarves were like that and Lear had seen a gnome already to now know to tell them apart, this creature was a fucking Gish?
For crying out loud.
“Drink this you should. Chop-chop,” the female Gish said with a croaky voice she attempted to mask and make it sound lighter that it was.
It was a vial with a sparkly red liquid.
Ah.
“My friend needs… it. More,” Lear grunted looking into the Gish’s round and wide painted eyes.
“No he doesn’t. He-he. Dead your friend is already.”
Lear grabbed at the vial and stared at it for a long moment. When he raised his head again, the Gish had walked almost twenty meters away, now standing next to the shade of a large cider tree.
“The League was formed by a strange merchant in Tull Cautara-Magor before the First Era officially,” the Gish told him and pulled a bright yellow hood over her washed out pink hair. She stooped to carefully clean some of the mud from her boots next and grimaced as if the exertion had hurt her back. “But its origins probably hail from Mistland’s deserts and the lands of the Alafern.”
Then the Gish stepped behind the tree and disappeared. When Lear reached the spot five minutes later still dizzy from the aftershock of the healing potion he found no sign of footsteps leading or leaving the surrounding area. Being stubborn as he was, Lear searched out in a twenty meter arc and found nothing.
His small-bodied savior had vanished into thin air.
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Lear returned to their camp half an hour later. Nis had crawled near the base of the boulder and put his back on it. The old adventurer had died with his eyes open staring at the forest’s canopy and the moved Lear decided to leave him there.
‘A good rock to put yer back on and a tree’s shade is all that’s needed’ Nis always preached and Lear agreed with a respectful nod.
“I reckon it’s as close a place as any old bones,” Lear murmured hoarsely.
He then slowly carried rocks from the nearby opening and covered the Nord’s body, building a small wall around him. Filled the top with branches and poured mud over the rocks. It wouldn’t hold perhaps after the winter but Lear did it anyway. Leaving the area he took Nis’ custom-made spear with him and the Nord’s horse. Abatis strange sword and the grappling hook went into the bags as well along several of the strange disk or star-shaped throwing weapons. A purse full of the bank’s gold.
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A week later while waiting by the road, a carriage appeared at the turn just before the slopes. The driver a familiar figure. Teo Rullus was a heavy-set man in his youth and an even heavier man in his fifties. Strong as a bull and with a decade in the Legion honing his skills.
Rullus saw Lear and the horses and pulled at the reins stopping the carriage five meters away. He had a heavy fur coat on and a chopper on the seat next to him. A trimmed beard with grey hairs covering the lowered part of his square face.
“Razor Hik,” Rullus rustled loud enough for the passengers to hear him. “You look rough.”
“Saladino back there?” Lear asked sitting atop his horse. He’d lost a couple of kilos living in the wilderness and his beard reached well under his collar.
“You know Dittus,” Rullus commented and the side door opened for the wiry, lanky figure of Saladino to appear. The narrow-faced former ranger, now looking much older and in a fancier outfit. His long black hair, completely white but still full and caught at the nape. Dittus’ thick mustache was coal black though. It looked painted over but Lear chose not to taunt the prickly headhunter about it given the current climate.
He went straight for the bluff instead.
“Should we end it here Rullus?”
Rullus frowned and stared about him at the nearby forest and the open road.
“How many do you have?” He asked knowing that climbed on the driver’s seat as he was, he presented a huge target.
“More than Manuela thought,” Lear replied evenly. “Is she in there?”
“What’s the deal?”
“You speak for her?” Lear asked.
“If he wanted to attack he would have by now,” Saladino hissed and stepped away from the carriage looking at the treeline. He’d a crossbow in his hands pointed down. “Word is Bolt bought a farm. The size of a grave.”
“Found a younger lad. Much better eyes. Very skilled. These motherfuckers are cheap as fuck also,” Lear replied and raised his left arm high. Saladino grimaced and Manuela was heard from inside the carriage.
“I’ll hear him out.”
Her red head appeared at the door of the carriage, a female assistant glancing at Hik terrified from the interior. Manuela, now wearing a burgundy-colored leather travel outfit and tall rider’s boots, climbed down the small ladder and jumped on the ground.
She opened her arms wide. Lear lowered his.
“Call your dogs off,” he told her sternly. “You don’t want to die for this. There is always another road. It may even be cheaper. Your father taught me that.”
Manuela pursed her mouth, left fist clenched tightly and the right pressing at her chest.
“You don’t know economics Lear,” she finally said. “A treasury can empty out, no matter how big it is if its streams of revenue dry out.”
“Who would dry the bank’s coffers?”
“A crazy man beyond the Pale Mountains.”
“Does he know trade? How to manipulate the markets?” Lear asked calmly, his eyes on the two headhunters but mostly Saladino and his crossbow. “When to buy, when to sell. Where to loan and when to make a deal?”
“His allies do. He’s a king that thinks differently. Gets his hands dirty. Wields enormous power and behaves like a thug or a crime lord.”
“Sounds as if you are describing old Federico.” Lear teased and Manuela narrowed her eyes. “Finally found someone not falling for your bullshit. Difficult to manipulate and slippery in his dealings. Take it as a challenge. Maybe share?”
“That’s a last resort,” Manuela hissed. “We’ll call his bluff first.”
“What if he calls yours?” Lear asked. “You are not a kingdom.”
“Kaltha might fall into the pirate Queen’s hands. Lesia is too righteous to fight an unfair war. The Toka support the Khanate. We need Lucius on our side. We finally have that. Don’t disrupt what many worked so hard to accomplish. The biggest army in the continent.”
Lear frowned and stared in her face soberly.
“You can’t built a house over a cemetery. The corpses will come out with the first flood and fill your cellars,” he finally said. “This your plan C. What’s next, if this fails? Because you fear it shall. All this bravado in front of Lord Bernard. Do you know the future milady?”
“The future can change without warning and for an obscure reason,” Manuela replied crossing both arms over her chest. “A king’s mind driven to rage and away from reason.”
“Difficult to see reason in murder,” Lear noted.
“You are the biggest murderer I know,” Manuela hissed. “You leave the bank out at least.”
“So you have another plan,” Lear taunted. “Usually when you’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel for solutions turds come up the surface.”
“Let us worry about that,” Manuela hissed.
“Call back yer dogs.”
“I’ll need something more,” she said after a moment of thought.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “What?”
“Bring Fausto back,” Manuela finally said.
“So Federico told you to negotiate if killing me didn’t work?”
“Nobody cares if you live or die Lear. You’re a relic.”
“Right. Fine. But it’ll be on my terms.”
“I want something more,” Manuela asked hoarsely and Saladino turned to stare at her unsure.
“You realize I only have the heads right?” Lear reminded her a little uncomfortable.
“I’d like to see her again,” Manuela insisted pursing her mouth. Lear was looking at the frowned Saladino. Hmm.
“I do that and you clear the road?” Lear asked after a moment’s thought.
“You do that,” Manuela repeated not really answering. Lear stared at Dittus since he’d caught a strange vibe from him earlier.
Could it be, Federico didn’t know?
“You can still ride a horse yes?” He asked her instead.
“Where to?”
“Storm’s Rest.”
“You can’t trust him,” Dittus said and Tullus puffed his cheeks out unsure.
“He can just kill us all right here,” Manuela stopped him. “Wait here with Salvia. It’s half an hour to ride to town. I’ll have your word Lear?”
Lear nodded and eyed the two headhunters. “Park half a kilometer away from here. Stay near the carriage.”
Manuela put a pair of gloves on and walked near his horse. Lear pointed at Nis’ mount.
“I could be tempted.” Lear said while she climbed easily on the saddle.
“You could have taken or killed me at Lord Bernard’s villa of orgies.” Manuela retorted and took the reins nervously.
“Orgies?”
“Did that shock you?”
Lear shook his head negatively.
Storm’s Rest
Fishing District
The two Bridges at the Groin
Edge froze at the door of the hostel. It was run by one of two Dottori living in Storm’s Rest. They had visited Vicar first, but he stayed in the army barracks so Lear guessed that Edge had come straight here and he was right.
Edge stared at the mounted Manuela all tensed up.
“Didn’t you say…?” He started and Lear stopped him with a sign to keep quiet.
“Long time no see Roland,” Manuela said from her horse.
“Milady,” Edge grunted a little confused. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Lear cut him off again. “Get the mule with the things.”
Edge grimaced. “As in… the bag?”
“Um,” Lear replied.
“Eh…” Edge cleared his throat.
“Get on it,” Lear said and climbed down from his mount. “I have the others waiting with Tullus and Saladino.”
“Right,” Edge said and clenched his jaw nervously.
“The lad is alright?”
“Better, got a new… arm,” Edge replied and turned to walk towards the stables.
Lear returned near Manuela. He pursed his mouth trying to find a way to prepare her for the ghastly spectacle but came up empty. “It’s been a while,” Lear warned her opting to keep it simple of sorts.
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Edge brought a short table out and stood in front of it to block the sight from the passersby. Mainly from the bridge that led to the River Groin. Crews and artisans heading back and forth as this was a town actively being built from the ground up. The roads were finished, the neighborhoods laid out and most of the official buildings were working already. But the majority of the houses were still under construction. One could imagine or see how the town would look though when finished, the army architecture prevalent but at certain areas it reminded Lear of Cartagen.
Especially the columned Main Square and the Forum next to the central market.
Fausto had turned a nasty black color. The skin dried out from the salts and the cheeks sunken so much it was difficult to stare at him. Manuela did for long and then nodded at Edge who was standing across from her at the table with Lear at one end of it.
Edge picked up the severed head and placed it in a new leather bag carefully. Then poured more salt over it. He took his time to get Eleonora’s head out. The mouth gaping and teeth turned black from rot and old blood, one eye cracked open and milky. Hideous to look at. But no corpse is supposed to be pretty.
Manuela started sobbing and stepped forward to take Eleonora’s severed head in her hands. She brushed the dirty and dried up gore covered blond hair back. Pressed her lips on the emaciated forehead shaking like she had a fever. Lear pursed his mouth tightly and glanced out of the corner of his right eye at the sniffling Edge. He had to kick him under the table to force the moved bounty hunter to snap out of it.
Edge was always sensitive like that. Lear couldn’t afford to be, but still he’d a bitter taste in his mouth watching Federico’s daughter rocking her lover’s mummified head in her arms and a severe burning in his stomach. The citizens of Storm’s Rest walking by them oblivious to the cause of the woman’s grief outburst as they couldn’t see what she had in her arms.
Or imagine it really was what it looked like.
Lear smacked his lips, Edge murmuring a quick prayer to Oras next to him, fat tears running down his eyes and the mood too heavy to withstand it for much longer.
“Milady,” Lear grunted raspingly and when that didn’t work he put a hand on Manuela’s shaking shoulder. “It is better to put it in the bag again.”
Her.
Eh.
Manuela closed her teary eyes and then wiped her face with the back of her now dirty hand.
“You truly are a cursed man Lear,” she told him hoarsely.
“Aye,” Lear agreed soberly. “Many a times milady.”
“I want her in a separate bag,” Manuela ordered Edge.
“A… aye ma’am. I’ll get one emptied.”
“Gratitude mister Roland,” Manuela whispered and Edge’s face distorted heavily conflicted.
“We have a deal?” Lear asked to help him out.
“The Bank is kept out,” Manuela said.
“I won’t lie. Pray the King keeps a clear head. He’s known to be reasonable. I want the road cleared.”
She breathed out her eyes set on the bags Edge had placed on the table. The bigger one, discolored and worn out. The smell coming from them pretty bad even in this chilly weather.
“Many interested parties have made their own arrangements,” Manuela finally said in a business-like manner recovering some of her wits. That was all of her soul they were allowed to see and that window had now been closed again.
“The Duke?”
“The Baron,” Manuela replied evenly. “Via the Duke.”
Lear narrowed his eyes. “Are they worse than the Bank’s?”
Manuela licked her dry lips and grimaced at the bitter taste. Her mind unable to make the connection but it would eventually. When she retired for this night or some other, all this would come back in a horrific nightmare.
It was the same for all.
“The Baron is the most dangerous man of them all Lear,” Manuela had replied. “The Bank has dealings with many skilled killers and affiliate groups, even trains its personnel occasionally. But there is word in the streets that he has close ties with the real thing.”
“The League?” Lear asked curious thinking of Abatis.
“The League works for the Bank of Dinar historically and we loan them from time to time,” Manuela elucidated. “Nattas straight up employs Silent Servants is the word along his own army of thugs. Smugglers, whores, money-laundering. Nobody knows how much dirty coin ends up in his stained hands. He is the underworld. Murders someone every other day and nobody learns anything about it.”
“Did he have Alistair or Jeremy killed?” Lear asked her point blank.
“You didn’t have her head,” Manuela said all serious. “So you gave me only Fausto.”
All that coin and you failed to be happy, Lear thought. You couldn’t get out in time as well.
“I didn’t.” Lear agreed with a grimace of sorrow.
“I’ll see to keep her close,” Manuela explained in a low voice. “My father would have wanted to tell you Nattas was behind everything. He should have been right? He is such a thorn in our sides,” she sighed deeply, her face hardening. “But he wasn’t. Not in those two murders.”
“Why did he get involved then?” A frowned Lear asked.
Manuela shrugged her shoulders and then walked slowly towards Nis’ horse. It was loaded with the two bags they had given her. She paused near it and turned to stare at Lear and the uncomfortable Edge. “Maybe there’s something more there disturbing enough in the grand scheme of things or equally dangerous he doesn’t want getting out. We all have our secrets Lear.”
Edge watched her galloping away for a moment and then turned to the glowering Lear.
“Don’t even think about it. We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“I’m not.”
“Sure. Where’s Nis?” Edge asked him accusingly.
“He didn’t make it,” Lear replied pursing his mouth. “Get Mark ready. She might change her mind when grief slaps her in the face.”
“Why give her the heads?”
“To buy us time and keep our options open,” Lear replied frostily. “It’s such a long way to Cartagen Roland and we are running out of friends.”
Staying by himself in the woods wasn’t something Lear had enjoyed at all. The old adventurer had been right.
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