CHAPTER 8

DWARF BUSINESS

Mark stepped into one of the bustling inns of Ikronion, finding it notably grander than those in the villages he'd frequented. The place exuded warmth and chatter, with people laughing and conversing. Approaching the innkeeper, a slender and alluring woman, she greeted him with a flirtatious smile. "Well, hello there, handsome," she purred. “What can I do for you?”

Mark grinned in response. "I can think of a few things," he teased, "but first, I'm curious if anyone's in need of a skilled swordsman like myself. I've got quite the knack for dispatching foes."

The innkeeper gestured toward a pair of dwarves seated at a nearby table. "Those two mentioned they're on the hunt for a mercenary."

"Much obliged," Mark said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some convincing to do. But after that, we can have some fun." He winked and headed toward the dwarves. The first dwarf sported long, snowy hair and a wrinkled face, while the second, younger one had a brown mane. Clad in silk attire, they resembled merchants – no surprise they sought a mercenary for protection, Mark figured.

"Greetings," Mark began. "I heard you're in need of a mercenary."

"Indeed we are," the elder dwarf, Yarouth, affirmed. "I'm Yarouth, and this is my nephew, Bakgrim." He scrutinized Mark. "You seem capable enough. I've lived long enough to tell."

"I am indeed quite capable. But my services don't come cheap."

"No need to worry about that. We've got plenty of coin, and there'll be more after our mission," Yarouth assured, downing his beer. "Nephew, explain."

Bakgrim spoke up. "In ancient times, dwarf clans constructed subterranean cities deep in the mountains of Kaznarlig. These cities were abandoned due to a plague and have been lost for centuries. We found an ancient map that supposedly leads to one such city through an abandoned human mine."

"Apparently, the humans stumbled upon something that made them flee their mining," Yarouth added. "That's why we need a tough mercenary to accompany us into the mine. We'll pay you five hundred gold coins. What do you say?"

After a moment's thought, Mark agreed. "Deal."

"Excellent. We leave tomorrow morning."

Mark nodded, then spent the night indulging in wine and pork before retiring to his rented room with the innkeeper, making love to her. The next morning, with the sun just peeking over the horizon, he awaited outside the town walls atop his horse. The dwarves arrived shortly afterward, riding two sturdy brown horses while a mule tagged along, laden with supplies. "Let's go," Yarouth declared.

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Mark nodded, and they spurred their mounts forward, making their way toward the looming mountains of Kaznarlig. As the sun dipped below the horizon, they halted their journey and set up camp in the grassy expanse beside the dirt road. Yarouth and Bakgrim set up the camp, and everyone settled by the crackling fire.

"So," Bakgrim began, "what's your story?"

"No story," Mark replied. "I'm just a wandering sword-for-hire, battling beasts and scoundrels, and savoring the marvels of the world."

"What were you doing before that?" Bakgrim pressed.

"I honestly can't remember," Mark chuckled. "I suffer from amnesia."

"And you don't want to recover your memories?" Yarouth inquired.

"Apparently, my old self decided to ditch the memories because of a loss so brutal I couldn't bear it anymore. So, no, I don't want to recover my memories."

The dwarves lay on the ground, dozing off, while Mark kept watch. Suddenly, he caught the sound of footsteps. Five hefty men, armed with axes and swords, had encircled them.

"What's going on?" Yarouth queried, having roused from sleep.

"We're surrounded," Mark replied. "You and your nephew stay put. No need to worry about your backs while I deal with these bandits."

Yarouth nodded.

A towering bald man bellowed, "Hand over all your goods, and we might let you off easy."

Mark drew his sword. "Not a chance."

As one of the bandits rushed toward him, wielding an axe, Mark swiftly dodged the attack. With a quick move, he thrust his sword into the bandit's back, the blade piercing through until it emerged from the other side. When he withdrew his sword, it was coated in blood. The bandit crumpled to the ground, his face twisted in agony, surrounded by a pool of his own blood.

Two more bandits came at him, one swinging his blade horizontally and the other wielding an axe. Mark leaped to avoid the blade, then blocked the axe just before it hit his face. Stepping back, he braced himself as the axe-wielding bandit charged like a whirlwind. With a swift parry, Mark severed both of his hands in a single stroke. A kick to the chest sent the armless bandit crashing to the ground.

The other bandit, brandishing his sword, let out a roar and lunged forward. Mark leaned back, narrowly dodging the blade, and delivered a swift kick to the groin. As the bandit groaned in pain, Mark swiftly brought his blade down in a vertical strike, cleaving the bandit in two from head to groin. The pieces of the man fell to the ground, blood pooling around them.

The fourth man charged at Mark, thrusting his sword with speed. Mark deflected the strike with his own sword. Again, the man attacked, and again Mark parried. As the man slashed once more, Mark sidestepped and swiftly moved behind him. With a single fluid motion, he swung his blade, cleanly beheading the man. The head soared into the sky, leaving behind a trail of blood, before landing on the ground, eyes wide open. The body, now headless, crumpled to the ground.

The final bandit, the bald man, trembled visibly as he gripped his two axes tightly. Despite his fear, he gathered his courage and lunged forward. Mark met him head-on, charging towards him. As he dashed, Mark leaned down, narrowly avoiding the swinging axes that grazed inches above his head, slicing a few strands of his hair. In a swift motion, Mark's sword severed both of the bandit's legs in a single stroke. Without his legs, the bandit crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around him.

Bakgrim stared in awe. "I've never seen anyone wield a sword like that before," he admitted.

His uncle nodded in agreement. "That was impressive swordplay," Yarouth said. "We made the right choice hiring you."

Mark grinned. "Thanks," he replied.

"But I'm curious about your past," Yarouth pressed on. "Someone as skilled as you must have been more than just a sword-for-hire. Perhaps a knight. It's a shame about your amnesia."

"I've said it before. I don't want to dig into my past. Now, let's get some rest because we're hitting the road again tomorrow morning."

True to his word, the next morning found them back on the move, heading towards the mountains of Kaznarlig. Such is the life of a wanderer – always on the move.