Skywark Keep was as strong a position as any Flinzer had ever seen. The walls of the redoubt were stout slabs of rough-hewn granite with icy, unscalable bluffs on either side. When they were a hundred paces from the drawbridge, Flinzer held up a thumb. He pegged the tops of the twin bartizans at fifty yards tall.
What a wall!
The path fell away sharply until the only approach was a narrow bottleneck. An advancing army would funnel down to ten abreast as archers rained down hell. At the end of the path, a deep rift split the keep from the mainland and served as a natural moat. The drawbridge was raised. Skywark wasn’t expecting guests.
“Tough nut to crack,” Stripes opined.
Flinzer nodded in agreement. He could say the same of Stripes. Faded lines from a cat-o-nine hatched his oldest friend’s face. Stripes’ arms were thick as a normal man’s thighs. His broad back was a madman’s map of deep-set scars. Stripes had seen suffering, and then some. He was fun when there was rum, stoic when sober, steely in any sort of scrape.
“A hundred could hold here against a thousand,” Flinzer figured.
“Hope some of them hundred are home. I’m hungry,” Bluddox rumbled. The axe man nodded to the empty walls.
“I wouldn’t stand about in this wind, either. Let’s pay them a call.” Flinzer strode close to the edge and raised his hand to hail. A warning shot was his welcome. As the red-fledged arrow shuddered in the turf, a red-faced man howled down at them.
“BACK AWAY FROM THE BRIDGE! AWAIT THE LORD!”
“We’re here about the bounty!” Flinzer took a step backward and kept his palms high.
A second arrow whistled down and skipped off a stone beside his boot. Flinzer took a second step back, looked up, and caught the impertinent archer’s eye. The bowman ducked away, but it was too late. Flinzer never forgot a face.
“AWAIT! THE! LORD!” the flush fellow bellowed again. Flinzer committed him to memory, too. By the pretentious peacock plume atop his kettle helm, this twit was the captain of the guard. Hopefully, the lord of Skywark would be more reasonable.
More archers appeared, until Flinzer’s force was outnumbered three-to-one. There was nothing to do but stand, shiver, and wait. Shouts sounded in the tower, and the drawbridge creaked downward.
“A warm welcome surely awaits,” Cocker muttered under his breath.
Ives and Ames hissed at him. Flinzer swallowed the urge to scream. He could feel this bounty blooming into a full-blown fiasco, just like the last one. And the one before, and the one before that.
Swinging back to strangle cocker would be unseemly, so he took ten deep breaths to steady himself. The drawbridge clinked down slow, link by link. When the edge was at eye-level, the gatemen loosed the windlass. The bridge slammed down so hard it nearly knocked them off their feet. Bluddox yelped, and a smatter of laughter ran along the wall. Apparently, this was what passed for sport in Skywark.
“Bit rude,” Whent rued beneath his breath. The others grunted in agreement.
“Don’t let them vex you.” Flinzer dropped his voice low. “Those rubes have nothing better to do. A month hence, we’ll be counting our bounty on an Ibexian beach. We’ll drown in palm wine and pretty women while these wall-warts freeze their balls off all winter long.”
The men nodded, bolstered by his smirk. At the core of every bounty hunter was contempt for mundane men-at-arms, especially guards. Flinzer’s men lifted their chins, hawks before the chickens of the garrison. The bitter wind blew, the wait wore on, and they clenched their jaws to keep their teeth from chattering. At last, the portcullises rattled and raised. A stiff line of pikemen advanced with spears pointed at the seven bounty-men. They came to a halt, arms raised as if to repel an assault.
Flinzer rolled his eyes and sighed at the formation. He’d parlayed with kings who took less care. A pair of trumpeters took the wall and blared a brash fanfare. The aged lord of Skywark hobbled forth into the protective pocket of pikemen and peered at the strangers.
“ALL KNEEL BEFORE LORD MALORN MORANEY, VANGUARD OF ADDER VALE, LORD OF SKYWARK KEEP, PROTECTOR OF THE REALM!” the herald cried.
Flinzer blinked at the daft command. They owed no fealty to this Moraney. He made no move to bend the knee.
“Pass,” he replied.
Lord Malorn Moraney raised his hoary brows at the slight. For a second, he seemed about to order them shot on the spot. He singled out Flinzer and beckoned him closer. Flinzer stepped onto the drawbridge, then halted as the pikemen advanced a step. Their spearpoints were a foot from his face.
“Absurd.” Flinzer grimaced.
Moraney split his thin lips and flashed a gap-toothed grin at Flinzer’s predicament. The lord leaned his head left, then right, then dead at Flinzer, as if to advise any trick Flinzer tried would end with spikes in both his eyes.
Flinzer sighed and resigned himself to the farce. The border princes were all like this. The pettier the lord, the greater the airs. At a gesture, the pikemen stepped aside to let them parley. Flinzer hoped the old man would get on with it, the day nearly done.
No such luck.
A sad remnant lingered on old man Moraney’s face. He was strong once, but no longer. Lord Malorn Moraney of Skywark was three score, stooped and sallow. His beard was threadbare, and his breath was abominable. From deep pits of discontent, the hoary old landlord’s eyes squinted at the world like it was half of what he was owed.
Already, Flinzer regretted every step he’d spent to reach Skywark. Still, the old man said nothing. Flinzer wondered if he was demented.
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Just then, Moraney suddenly came to life. His pale eyes blazed with animus and his full focus fell on Flinzer. Flinzer didn’t flinch. Others had tried this trick on him before. Moraney bore down and dared him to blink first.
The contrast was stark. Before withered Moraney, Flinzer stood tall and unbroken with a sword at his side and a bow at his back. His own beard was gray, but he kept it tidy and trim. Sly, green eyes twinkled above his hapless grin. With all the charm he could muster, Flinzer lifted a lone eyebrow to invite the lord to break this childish charade and have a laugh with him.
Moraney declined the gambit and glared on. The awkward moment devolved into a full-blown stare-down. It would have been far wiser for Flinzer to drop his eyes and afford the lord his insignificant victory.
He was too cold to care.
He held the stare and stewed on the insult. Ten days march to be snubbed at the unfriendly edge of a drawbridge by some senile old man. Mannerless Moraney glared on, furious Flinzer stared back, and the seconds bled out slow as sap. If Moraney thought he could out-wait a bounty hunter, he was sorely mistaken. Flinzer expertly loosened his knees and settled in.
It was clear now why the bounty on Threewolf was so large and longstanding. A deadbeat gleam shone in the old landlord’s eye. Sure as sunrise, Moraney would contrive some reason to cheat them when they brought back Threewolf’s head.
Alas!
If only it was spring, Flinzer would have turned on his heel and headed home, far away from this backwater border. If it were midsummer, his troop would have never trudged to this homely little fief on the ass-end of Albaria. But it was fall, the bitter end of a rough season. Nights grew longer, times got tighter. Those golden ducats could see Flinzer’s troop through ‘til spring, if they could only pry the prize from this ornery old man’s hands somehow. He drew a deep breath.
“We’re here about the bounty on Threewolf,” Flinzer announced loud enough to startle. He wanted every man on the wall to hear him.
“Obviously,” Moraney rasped back, unflapped. “Why are you wasting my time, then? Begone, and don’t come back without his head.”
“Skywark is a province of Yarlsbeth,” Flinzer stressed. “By Yarlee law, all who seek a bounty must first meet with the issuer and reach an oathbound agreement before witnesses. Word of mouth or a waybill alone are not binding.”
Moraney narrowed his scabby lids and ground his scanty teeth. Flinzer saw the old man knew the law. At once, the long climb into the clouds was justified. Had they simply turned up unannounced with Threewolf’s head, Moraney wouldn’t have paid.
“Fine. A hundred for the head, with these men as my witness. Done.”
Flinzer decided to dicker. If Moraney agreed easily, it meant he wouldn’t pay the purse, oath or no.
“Not so fast. Your bounty’s light for a legend and a hundred ducats won’t divvy. Make it a hundred and five. There are seven of us, that’s fifteen apiece.”
Eager to slip out of the insipid stare down, Flinzer turned back to sweep a hand toward his six well-armed accomplices. Bluddox had his double-headed axe strapped to his back. Ives, Ames, and Cocker all carried cross-barred spears; the sort used to hunt boars. Each man wore a sword as well, and all but Bluddox had bows.
Flinzer’s flock were a hard-bitten bunch. Their faces were sun-scorched and wind-burned, scarred and scoured down by the dust of countless leagues. They wore fur-lined deerskin dusters dyed with drab blotches to break up their outlines. Beneath faded cowls, their eyes were cold and unforgiving.
Each hunter had seen so many pleading, defeated fugitives, nothing could move them anymore. The bounty-men stared back at Moraney with the impeccable boredom of veterans.
Moraney eyed them hard, sniffed, and spat off the side of the drawbridge.
“Pah! Threewolf is no legend. He’s a mere menace. A hundred ducats are more than generous. And don’t you fret about your divvy.”
“Why’s that?” Flinzer asked.
“Won’t be seven of you left!” Moraney broke into a wheezing laugh. A few cronies cackled along. Flinzer had an unbearable urge to surge forward and knock out the remnants of Moraney’s teeth. The pikemen tightened up, ready to skewer him if he tried.
“We’ll see.” Flinzer shrugged it off.
“We will, or we won’t. If you want your hundred and five, you can bring me his whole body. Every finger and toe. Try not to mark him much.”
“What? Why?” Flinzer squinted at the strange request.
“I’ll have him stuffed,” Moraney said.
Flinzer would have figured it was a joke, but the old man seemed serious. He shook his head.
“No deal. How do I know how many fingers he’s got left? It’s freezing up here. If you want us to drag what’s left of his carcass up that wretched road, it’s double. Three hundred if you want him alive.”
“Pah, no. Never mind all that. It’s whimsy anyway. I doubt your mangy crew will amount to much.”
“We’ll see,” Flinzer repeated.
“We will, or we won’t. Likely won’t. Now, if you want my advice…” Moraney led.
Truly, he didn’t. Flinzer would rather pour lye in his eyes than listen to Moraney mumble for another moment. But he knew so little of their quarry, any tidbit might make the difference. He kept his mouth shut and listened.
“Beware of beasts. They all dance to Threewolf’s tune. The man is uncanny. Don’t trust a word the locals tell you, either. Those traitors are all under his spell. Anything they say about me is a lie.”
“I’ll keep these sage words in mind.”
“Sarcasm from a sellsword. Very well. I won’t waste more wind on you.”
Flinzer stared back, certain he would.
“Except to say, should Hell somehow freeze over, and you somehow succeed, take heed. Once the deed is done, hunt down all three wolves as well. Else they’ll haunt you ‘til the end of your days.”
“Already underway. We’ll kill the wolves first to draw him out.” He threw a thumb back at Ives, Ames, and Cocker. The boar spears would work just as well for wolves.
He expected approval, but Moraney winced, taken aback at Flinzer’s tack.
“Wouldn’t recommend that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you rogues stink of failure, frankly. Your only hope is he underestimates you and you catch him with his pants down. But Threewolf dotes on those curs. Kill one of his flea-bitten friends, he’ll fly into a rage. None of you will escape.”
“We’ll see,” Flinzer said a third time. He was sick of the sight of Moraney and wanted to leave, but their parley was incomplete.
“When we bring you Threewolf’s head, we want the entire sum before the sun sets. One hundred ducats, true gold. No partial payments, no excuses. Are we clear?”
“Drivel. You can’t make demands on the back of what you’ve yet to do,” Moraney parried with a lemon-sucking smirk.
“I want your oath. Before all these men. Else we’ll turn right around and hunt some other bounty. And I don’t kill anything for free. If you want those wolves dead, you can cough up ten ducats apiece.”
Moraney took a long time considering. His gloomy eyes glazed and stared right through Flinzer. How many men had stood in this same spot, certain they’d be the ones? If Flinzer could figure what mistakes they’d made, perhaps he and his troop could be saved. At last, Moraney raised a bony palm.
“On my name, Moraney. Lord of Skywark, Vanguard of Adder Vale. I swear it so. A hundred ducats, true gold, for Threewolf’s head, on the very day you supply it. I won’t pay a whit for wolves. If you want to ignore my sage advice, that’s your problem.”
“Fine,” Flinzer spat. He turned his back on Moraney and stalked away.
Swirls of snowflakes curled around the seven spurned bounty hunters as they slogged back down Avar Mountain. It was a cold and miserable night.