There was a muttered gasp from the two watchmen and a hasty stir as they stowed their weapons. The guy in the breastplate still seemed skeptical—what with me looking like a murder hobo—but he kept his mouth firmly shut at the word of his commanding officer. Smart man.
“I’m Commander Arendu, and you have my deepest apologies, Vigil,” the commander said, bowing and scraping his way over, dusty brown mustache fluttering as he spoke. He regarded me as though I might be a feral bear that would maul him at any second, but still he kept coming closer, blinking and twitching and rubbing his hands together. He made a good show of not actively inspecting me, but what he was really doing was taking careful stock. I stood my ground and waited. My stance was clear: yes, I have weapons, and yes, I know how to use them.
The newcomer had a gut, a double chin, and a balding pate. Two of those traits spoke of a life well lived while the other just spoke of unlucky genes. His overcoat was patched, but expertly. Someone took care of him. A wife or daughter. Someone good with a needle. He had rings on all his fingers, which told me there were people in the town with money to burn. The fact that he was a guard, even a commander, with that kind of money could also mean he was on the take.
“We’ve had a problem with some highwaymen these past few months—travelers going missing and such,” he explained. “My men, they’ve been jumpy. Just didn’t recognize you from a distance.” He offered me an uneasy smile and dry washed his hands. “But that is no concern of yours. You’re here for the monster, I’m sure. The Custodians must’ve sent you from Hollaheim when they heard about our problem.” As he spoke, golden words swam across the air just like they’d done back at the cave.
<<<>>>
Bounty
Terror of Ironmoor: A deadly Mortka with powerful abilities at its disposal prowls the streets of Ironmoor, a provincial trading hub in the province of Oakenward. Old hate drives the beast to kill, and only a Vigil Bound has the power to end its bloody reign. This is no ordinary monster; its form and nature are cloaked by dark magics, its identity hidden behind false faces and guarded even from the eyes of Raguel, the Five Faced. Identify the nature of the beast, slay it before at least one witness, and restore justice and order to the city of Ironmoor.
Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Seraphic Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x Chaos Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x True Form Transformation Token, 1 x Scalable Master-Rank Armor Item
<<<>>>
I scanned the prompt, my breath catching in my throat as I read.
Well crap. For better or worse, I’d just stumbled into an enormous shitshow. This wasn’t even remotely like the bounty I’d completed before. There was something bad roaming the streets of this little city, and if the reward for killing it was any indication, this mission wasn’t going to be a stroll in the park. Problem was, I didn’t know my asshole from my elbow, had no idea how these fancy new powers of mine worked, and wasn’t even sure where to start with an investigation into a string of brutal monster-related killings.
Hell, I still wasn’t even one hundred percent convinced that I wasn’t in a medically induced coma or strung out on morphine.
I couldn’t say any of that, though. So instead, I smiled and tried not to look completely lost in the sauce.
The commander was still jabbering away and didn’t seem to notice my hesitation.
“Praise be, indeed. Arbitrator Arturo has been praying for aid, but we were beginning to fear…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you’re here now. Praise be!” He reached his hand out, thought better of it, and stuffed it in a pocket. “You look the worse for the wear, Vigil. Red-skinned miscreants you say? Musta been the Crave Ghouls that live near the point. Nasty creatures, and good riddance to ’em.”
He turned his head and spit into the dirt.
“But listen to me blathering on while you’re standing there looking like a right mess. A terrible way to greet such an esteemed guest. Let’s get you to the inn, eh? We have several, of course, but only the best will do for you. We’d be damned poor hosts to leave you out here in this state. Please. Come. Please.” He waved me toward the gate.
The portly commander guided me through a warren of cobblestone streets. The city was enormous but looked medieval—almost like something out of a fairy tale, if not for the dirt and grime adorning every conceivable surface. In this quarter of the city, the buildings were one or two stories tall and built of stone or wood. They had boxy windows protected by wood-slatted shutters, and the roofs were covered with thatch or wooden shingles.
Through a window I spied a family sitting down to eat. When the mother caught me peering in, she made a gesture that looked like the sign of the evil eye and slammed the shutters tight.
The commotion on the street ebbed and flowed around us, but there was more ebbing than flowing. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like people were pulling away when they saw me, retreating into their homes, gathering their children behind their skirts and muttering as I passed.
“Not many strangers visit these parts?” I asked the commander, cocking an eyebrow.
Commander Arendu snorted with laughter. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We’re one of the largest trading posts this side of the River Torne. Ten thousand men strong we be, not counting the women and wee folk, of course. People come here from all corners of the kingdom.” He stole a sidelong glance at me then pointed to a doorway hung with a boot. “We have the finest Galbanian leather, shipped here from the Azulean shores.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The words made sense in my head, but the locations meant nothing to me. I wished Cal was here or even Renholm—anyone who could help me decipher what the guy was yammering on about. No such luck. The pixie was still hungover in my satchel and there was no sign of my dead friend.
I didn’t want to offend him, so I just offered him a thin smile and a noncommittal grunt.
We ducked under a low-hanging roof and hung a left, almost colliding with three young men who were idling by the corner and smoking from bulbous pipes. They quickly scurried out of our way, but did nothing to hide their astonishment. If this was how they greeted strangers it was a wonder they did any trade at all.
Arendu ignored their whispers and escorted me to a three-story place bordering the town square. It was by far the largest and most impressive structure I’d seen so far. There was a wooden sign dangling out front declaring it to be The Three Chimneys. The warm glow from the windows and sound of stamping feet promised a good time.
The interior was brightly light, candelabras jutting from the walls at even intervals, and the floorboards were clean enough. There was a roaring fire on the far side of the room, complete with a pig on a spit and a carver in a leather apron. My mouth watered. The rabbit had been ages ago, or at least it felt like it, and I couldn’t even remember what my meal before that had been. I was ready to chow down. I also idly wondered what kind of perks I might get from feasting on the pig while strung out on Hunger Affinity Scales.
Super strength, maybe? Or the uncontrollable desire to wallow in the mud. That could go either way.
Serving women flowed among the tables and patrons, who were laughing and stuffing their faces and banging their tankards on the rough-hewn wooden tabletops.
A tall, slender woman with long red hair flowing down her back stood on a raised stage at the other end of the room, singing as she plucked and hammered away on an odd wooden board covered with strings. Her voice was spun honey mixed with strands of pure silver, and her fingers worked their way over the instrument like it was part of her. The song had a knee-slapper of a chorus that the patrons all knew and sang at great volume.
Me and the boys would’ve had a blast in a place like this. Good food, beer aplenty, and decent looking women. What more could a platoon of Marines ask for?
The merriment slowly faded as we wound through the room and the patrons caught a glimpse of me for the first time. I must’ve looked like absolute shit, since I killed pretty much every conversation in passing. After a few seconds, the common room was dead silent. Even the entertainer had quit playing.
“Well, don’t be rude now, eh?” the paunchy commander barked. “We all know what he is and why he’s here. Go about your business and let him go about his, eh?”
No one moved a muscle.
“Play.” I nodded at the musician and gave her a get-along-with-it gesture. “Let’s get the party rollin’ again.”
Her lips parted in a smile, but everything else about her posture screamed fear and uncertainty. Despite that, she strummed her instrument and drew at least half the eyes in the room away from me. Unfortunately, the other half stayed glued on my sorry ass. I placed my machete on the bar. Seemed like the polite thing to do. Perhaps if they saw I wasn’t about to take up arms against them they’d chill out a bit.
“Maggie!” The commander turned toward a busty brunette working the bar. “A room and fresh clothes for the Vigil Bound, and be quick about it now. He’s had a rough trip. Waylaid by Crave Ghouls, if you can believe it.”
“From the looks of him, I can most certainly believe it,” she said before flashing me a smile that would’ve melted my bones if I hadn’t been so damned tired.
“Maggie here will take care of you, lad,” the commander said. He went to clap me on the shoulder then reconsidered. Smart move. “I’ll be around to assist you however I can, Vigil. When you’ve washed and supped, we can talk about taking you to meet the Arbitrator.”
“Arbitrator?” That didn’t sound good. Very official. Like a lawyer maybe. In my experience, official usually meant complicated and complicated usually meant dangerous. Especially if lawyers were involved.
“Arbitrator Arturo, yes. The Custodians didn’t tell you?” He cocked his head to one side.
Obviously, the Custodians, whoever they were, would have told the Vigil, whoever he was, about meeting the local Arbitrator. Unfortunately, I was from out of town and hadn’t gotten the message, so I kept my trap shut tight. Remaining silent is a powerful conversational gambit. My rule in situations like this was to tell as few lies as possible and avoid making shit up. Lies are too hard to track, and the longer silence stretches, the more other people talk.
All I had to do was wait.
Not for long, either.
The commander was a twitchy type who couldn’t relax into an uncomfortable pause. “The Arbitrator has prayed for your arrival,” he prompted.
Cool. Praying lawyers.
“He will be most anxious to see you, I’m sure. The church doors are always open and he’ll make time for the Vigil, even if he has…” He paused and smirked at Maggie. “Other obligations.”
Maggie threw her head back and roared with laughter. Check. Whatever obligations the lawyer engaged in had turned him into a laughingstock. Good to know.
“If the priest can stand up this late in the day and string a sentence together, I’m a pig’s uncle,” Maggie replied.
“Aye, aye,” said Arendu. “That’s as may be, but the holy man may see things others cannot comprehend. Dealing with such burdens is no easy task, so we must forgive him his cups.”
Ah. Not a lawyer. A priest. One who liked a drink. Better than a lawman any day.
After another brisk nod, Arendu trotted around the bar and disappeared, leaving me with the brunette bartender. She was in her early thirties maybe, though there were fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and laugh lines etched into her cheeks. Her curly hair framed her face like a halo and she wore a leather corset, cinched so tight her breasts were bobbing over the top of her blouse. I didn’t mind the view and she didn’t seem to mind me looking.
“I’m Maggie Yount,” she said, “and you’ll be needing a room.”
She produced a brass key from a pouch at her belt and held it out, but just far enough from me that I would have to reach for it. I waited, matching her smile for smile but not leaning over the bar to take what she offered. She’d come to me if I wanted her to. She was a tease, but unlike the commander she seemed more interested than scared.
“So, you’re really one of the Vigilant?” she asked.
That was what the commander had called me too. A Vigil. I wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but the fact that these people thought I was a Vigil seemed to be the only thing keeping me from the inside of a jail cell or out on my ass, so I played along.
“That’s what the commander said, isn’t it?” I replied, not really answering her question, but not outright lying either. The less I said, the better off I’d be.
“I suppose it is,” she replied with another one of her wicked grins, before hiking herself up and leaning forward, resting her very pleasant cleavage on the bar and handing me the key. “I’ll bring over some fresh clothes while you clean up. You’ll find your bedroom upstairs, three doors down and on the right. You can’t miss it. It has a fancifully carved door and the best bed you’ll find in Ironmoor. If you need the jakes, there’s a room at the far end of the hall.”
God, but this place was mystifying. Arbitrators? Vigils? Now jakes? There was so much that didn’t make any sense, but once again I didn’t want to let on, so I nodded politely and accepted the key. Holy hell, but I needed to sort some of this shit out—I couldn’t bluff forever.