The barkeep finally freed Simm next morning. Not only had he suffered the indignity of being tied up, but he’d also been drinking heavily the previous day, and a full bladder had eventually become wet trousers. The woman sniffed her nose as she untied him.
‘Councilman,’ he said with a smirk.
Simm considered snapping something back at her, but nothing came; there was really nothing he could say that would make this look good. Instead, then, he stood, flexed his limbs, and hurried out of the tavern.
He kept his head low as he walked through the streets of Westbara on that busy morning, hoping nobody would recognise him. The stink on his trousers drew some attention, but none of the locals at least seemed to realise he was the Player who had saved Westbara from the Malae threat.
Except, of course, he hadn’t. Not only had he outsourced the problem—his weapon was for training only, he rarely used it on beasts; at least not powerful ones—but also they had failed to deliver. He cursed himself—this was the last time he hired mercenaries with no brand recognition. And to brand themselves “The Trio” simply because there was three of them? That was pretty uninspired. That should have been the first clue.
It was as though the gods from home were turning a blind eye to his troubles today, for when he arrived back at his manor, he found that the door was ajar. Someone had broken in.
Simm summoned his bound alterblade, and gripped it tightly, ready to defend himself. Not that he’d kill, of course; killing someone in retribution for a simple burglary was hardly just.
He stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the lower level of light, he saw a figure walking down one of the two grand staircases at either side of the atrium, and he raised his blade. ‘You there! What are you…’
Simm trailed off when he recognised the face—one of the Duke of Westbara’s aides. And the man was carrying his ceremonial key.
‘In lieu of yesterday’s events—the Malae incursion on the western gate—the Duke sees fit to strip you of your reward.’
‘But I—’
The aide looked down at the oversized key. ‘I argued he should let you keep it, for what it’s worth. It’s not as though it unlocks anything, and despite yesterday’s rather long ceremony, the people will forget you the next time a hero comes along, anyway. But he insisted. He said these things matter, that we should rescind your award as a point of principle. And so… here I am.’ The aide continued down the staircase towards the front door that Simm still stood in front of.
Another indignity.
It was all too much, after the day Simm had had. Bloodied, beaten, urinated on—admittedly that last was his own doing—and now this.
‘You don’t look well, friend,’ the aide said as he approached, nose twitching as he picked up the smell of urine. ‘Did someone get the best of you?’
Too much. Before Simm knew he was doing it, he reached out to snatch the key to the city back. ‘It’s mine! I won’t let you take it!’
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
But the aide held on tight, trying to pull it out of the Councilman’s hands. ‘It doesn’t open anything!’
‘It’s mine!’ Simm repeated, and he tried to yank it once more, but the aide got the better of him—the key slipped from his hands. And so Simm drew his alterblade, concentrating on keeping it in axe form—his preferred weapon—though such raised emotions played havoc with this sort of magick.
‘Really?’ the aide asked, both smirking and raising an eyebrow for good measure. ‘You really think I’ll believe you’ll attack me?’ He moved to push past Simm, but the Councilman didn’t budge. ‘Simm, please. Move.’
‘That’s “Councilman” to you,’ Simm growled.
The aide’s smirk grew greater. ‘You know, my employer has dealing with Players all around the continent. Some of them are those in Amira’s pocket. The Council themselves. And do you know what they said, when I asked about you?’
Simm’s nostrils flared. ‘What?’
‘They said… “Who?”’
The Councilman’s anger got the better of him, a wave of red rising within. And with this anger, his weapon changed. He couldn’t control it—or, if he could, he didn’t want to. At least, not in that moment.
The axe became chain, and the chain shot straight forward, lashing out, Simm’s anger made weapon.
And it shot forward directly through the man’s heart.
The aide blinked down at his chest, at the huge gaping wound from which blood was already starting to pour. ‘...Oh,’ he said, as he dropped first to his knees, and then the ground.
Bile rose in the Councilman’s throat as he rushed to the aide, horror at what he’d just done making vomit rise up his throat. He choked it back.
‘No, no…’ Simm gasped, pushing his hands onto the wound to try to stem the bleeding. ‘No, I didn’t mean to…’ He knew already this effort would be in vain if he didn’t cry out; without the serious attention of a healer, fast, this man was not going to live. ‘Guards!’ he shouted, but stopped himself mid-word.
Simm looked down at the man, dying in front of him. If he shouted, if he got the soldiers’ attention, there was the smallest chance that the aide might live. But there was a certainty that he would be locked up, potentially for the rest of his life in this world. This world would not longer be available to him, and what with the corruption that was sweeping across so many of the others…
Simm stood up, releasing the wound, letting the blood flow.
The aide tried to cry out, but whatever they’d wanted to say was lost beneath the blood pouring from their mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Councilman said. ‘I’m… I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But I… I can’t go to jail. I can’t. I’m sorry.’
He forced himself to watch the man die.
Today, after so many years, he’d done the one thing he told himself he’d never do. He killed a living soul. One of the locals of this world. An innocent.
Simm stumbled backwards, panic rising and a terrible sense of change washing over his body. He looked around erratically, trying to force himself to ignore his emotions, to be practical. The emotions were there, and they were just like he’d always expected: horror, terror, and above all… guilt. Guilt that he’d done something unforgivable.
But at the same time… it wasn’t so bad. It felt terrible, sure, but it wasn’t insurmountable. He could breathe. He could settle his heart rate. He could… cope.
Did, then, a whole new world open to him? Could he kill after all? And if he relented to such a base instinct, could he rise to even greater heights? Would the Council finally grant him entry?
A memory of the night before flashed before his mind. The worldbender:
We know they’re after us. We know they’ve put a bounty on us; Niamh saw to that.
Simm stared down at his hands and sleeves, both dyed red with the aide’s blood. There was one way he could prove himself to the Council—he could deliver this bounty. He could take down the meddlers.
He could kill again.