A Sellsword's Mercy Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Newsletter Signup

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Newsletter

  Come say hi!

  Note from the author

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Sellsword’s Mercy: Book six of the Seven Virtues

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Copyright © 2019 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Visit the author website: http://www.jacobpeppersauthor.com

  To my son, Gabriel,

  If you’re a distraction,

  Then you’re the best kind

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Darkness lay settled on the woods like some great slumbering beast, the chill passage of the wind its restless exhalations as it threatened to awaken from its deep sleep. The watcher crouched fifteen feet up an ancient oak, the balls of his feet resting on a limb thicker than a man’s thigh. He did not stir, did not so much as move, and anyone seeing him might have taken him for no more than some misplaced statue, pulled up into the tree by children, motivated by that unexplainable sense of fun which adults have long since forgotten.

  The night was quiet, unnaturally so, as if even the insects and birds had abandoned their homes and shelters in the face of what stalked through the forest. The only sound was an almost imperceptible rustling of the dead leaves littering the forest floor, so quiet that a man might easily have convinced himself it was no more than his imagination. But the watcher knew better, knew well what the sound meant, what it foretold, and so he waited, motionless, peering into the darkness.

  He didn’t have to wait long. No more than a few minutes had passed before figures in faded gray robes appeared on the forest path beneath him. They slunk forward, their unnaturally long arms nearly dragging the ground upon which they walked, their stretched, mutilated features turning left and right as they scanned the darkness around them, making full use of their preternatural sight as they searched for signs of their prey.

  The figure knew this, just as he knew that they would, inevitably, find that for which they searched. He and his brothers had trained for many years in the art of disappearing, of covering their own tracks, but their retreat had been made in haste, and they’d had no time to eliminate all traces of their passage. What few signs they’d left behind would have escaped the notice of even the best trackers the race of men had to offer, but those which walked beneath were not men but abominations, and sooner or later they would pick up the trail.

  He shifted to keep the creatures in view as they passed beneath him. A silent turn, yet the one nearest him abruptly froze and cocked its head. He watched it, waiting for what would come, and there was no fear or excitement in his eyes, only a mild curiosity as he readied himself to draw the sword at his back, waiting for what would come. Even one on one, many of his brothers had fallen to the beasts, and he knew that, should the one notice him high in his perch and draw the attention of its comrades—if such creatures as this could be said to be comrades at all—he would soon be following his brothers into the great dark. So he watched. And he waited.

  The creature seemed about to look up at the tree in which he crouched when, abruptly, its head snapped around with the unnatural speed of its kind to look back in the direction of its comrades. The watcher followed his gaze. The other abominations had frozen on the trail and were all standing in a semi-circle beneath a tree equal in size to the one in which he crouched.

  There was a whoosh of displaced air and a moment later the one that had been standing beneath him huddled with the rest of its kind. The watcher raised his eyes to the dark-clad figure crouched high in the tree’s branches. Despite the black clothing that covered him, leaving nothing but his eyes exposed, the watcher recognized him. He did not know his name, for they had all long since given up such things, but he knew him just the same, had known him since he’d been little more than a child and had first been brought to the Akalians. The man currently crouched in the distant tree had come the same year, and they had often trained together with all matter of weapons, the tally of their victories in the bouts almost always even, the watcher slightly faster, his brother the stronger.

  Yet such strength or speed, they both knew, would avail a man little against such as these. The black-garbed figure looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met. There was no anger there, no fear or plea for help, only a purpose that had long since driven out all other concerns. It would only be a moment, the watcher knew, before the creatures looked up and discovered his companion’s hiding place, and his brother knew it too. Without so much as a nod or a word, his brother drew the blade at his back and leapt from the tree, his sword flashing in the darkness.

  Crimson flew as his blade cleanly severed the head from one of the creatures’ shoulders. He spun, going for the next closest,
but before he had a chance the tips of three slender swords erupted from his chest in a shower of blood. The man grunted, no more than that, and dragged himself further onto the blade of the nearest, getting close enough to use his own shorter sword and bring it down between the creature’s neck and shoulder with his formidable strength.

  The sword bit deep, and blood fountained into the air. A moment later, the creature collapsed to the ground, dead. Yet more silver flashed in the darkness, and the Akalian followed his own victim down. The watcher looked on in silence as the creatures gathered around his fallen companion, eerily quiet as their blades came down again and again. Soon, it was over. The creatures took no time to mourn their own dead only turned and started on their path once more as if nothing significant had occurred.

  The Akalian watched them until they were out of sight then climbed down the tree and began the trip back to where the Speaker and the others gathered. He did not check on his companion, for he knew well enough that the creatures would not have left the thing undone, nor did he pay much attention to the direction in which the creatures traveled. After all, the man lying dead was not his only companion, nor he the only watcher.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Speaker of the Akalians stood in the doorway of the small room, watching the sleeping figure. There were dozens of other such rooms in the place that had, for the last few months, served as a barracks for him and the others, many more than they needed after the deaths of the past two days. When they had erected the barracks, there had been nearly seventy-five of his brothers with him, but now no more than a dozen still lived.

  He mused on how quickly things could change—even now, he thought he could detect the faint smell of freshly-cut wood still coming from the walls of the barracks in which he stood, while most of those who had helped build it lay dead in the forest.

  The woman rolled restlessly in her sleep, but did not awaken, and for the first time since they built the barracks, the Speaker realized just how small the rooms were, with only just enough space for the simple beds—little more than pallets, in truth. He realized, too, how spartan they were—no paintings hung on the walls, no souvenirs or knick-knacks to tell the stories of those who lived here, nothing whatsoever to speak to the identity of the men who called it home. Such was the way of the Akalians. Such was his way. And yet, for the first time in a very long time, he felt the lack of such mundane things as a small, aching sadness in his chest.

  Scared townsfolk called the Akalians monsters or demons, and though they were neither, in his darker moments the Speaker felt that either was nearer the truth than calling them “men.” For in their dedication to their task, their purpose, they had long since abandoned all the trappings of men: fortune, fame, personal property. Love. The last thought sent another ache through him, yet had anyone watched him they would have seen none of the emotion he felt show in his placid expression.

  He heard the soft sound of footfalls at the end of the hall—a courtesy he and his brothers showed to each other, when they could—and turned to see an Akalian approaching. The Speaker waited until the black-garbed figure came to stand within several feet of him, the figure’s hands flashing in the intricate language known only to those of their number.

  “They are close then.”

  Another flurry of hand motions.

  “Yes,” the Speaker said, nodding once. “He fought well. Go and tell the others—we leave in two days’ time.”

  The black-garbed figure hesitated, as if he might say more. “Something troubles you?”

  The figure’s fingers moved slowly, as if still reluctant to share whatever he wished to say. When he finished, the Speaker nodded. “I understand. Yet for all their gifts, they will not find us so quickly as that, I think. We have two days, at least.”

  The figure nodded, no sign of whether or not he agreed showing in his eyes or posture, and that was no surprise. Akalians did not argue, they did not ask questions—they obeyed. The Speaker watched the man go, his expression as unreadable as ever, yet if one had looked closely enough, he might have seen the not-fully concealed worry in his eyes. “Two days,” he muttered to himself. “We have that much time, surely. We must.”

  He turned back, once more watching the woman lying in the bed. For all her anger when awake, for all the vengeance she carried within her like some festering wound, in her sleep she looked almost at peace. Looking at her, taking in the lines of her face, he remembered a little girl, barely old enough to walk, and the wide eyes that had seemed to study everything, to question everything. She rolled in her sleep again, but aided by the herbs the Speaker had given her and the others to help overcome their shock at what they’d experienced, she would not awaken just yet, and he thought that for the best. For many reasons, not the least of which was because she had the look of someone who got little sleep.

  He stood there another minute, watching her, then he eased the door shut. He took a slow, deep breath and turned, starting down the hallway. There was much to be done, and far too little time in which to do it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grinner sat at the throne room’s finely appointed table, savoring the cool feel of the silk shirt against his skin. Since his injury, he experienced regular fevers, and no matter what medicines or potions the old fool of a healer gave him, he’d often wake screaming from confused, horrible dreams, his bed clothes soaked through with sweat, and on more than one occasion he had even experienced the shame of voiding his bowels in his sleep.

  On such nights, he’d wake covered in his own filth, disgusted with himself beyond what he would have believed possible. Even worse, during such times, his body was so weak he could barely move, and he was forced to allow one of the healer’s assistants to clean and bathe him. If he had not already seen to the death of Silent and the others, then the experience of having the heavy-set, simple-witted woman strip him and roughly lift him—as if he was some newly-born calf and she a farmer’s maid—before carrying him into a waiting bath would have been ample motivation.

  Yet for all the humiliation and loss of dignity, there was no denying that the bath water—so hot as to be nearly scalding—worked wonders on his weak muscles. “Heat to beat the heat of the fever,” the healer had told him after the first such bath. It had not been the first or only time the crime boss had considered having the man killed, yet he had hesitated. For all his foolish talk and the uselessness of his medicines, the man was known as the best healer Perennia had to offer.

  Besides, he consoled himself, though he might have suffered terrible wounds to his face—ones that, even now, he could not bring himself to examine in a looking glass—his enemies were all either dead or imprisoned. Hale and the woman, May, were the only two still alive, and they would be dealt with soon enough, as soon as he could convince the sow of a queen that the only answer to their treachery was death. She was close now, he knew. Another day, maybe two, and she would see the wisdom of his words.

  He reached for his wine glass, bringing it to his mouth only to remember at the last moment that he wore the silver mask. He had spilled many drinks over the past days as he grew accustomed to its presence but this time, at least, he saved himself such embarrassment. He raised the mask with one hand—just enough to expose his dry, chapped lips—and took a long drink of the soothing wine. Before him sat a plate of fine food, the best cuts of meat, various cheeses, and breads, yet as usual, he had little appetite.

  Since his injury, something as simple as chewing his food sent daggers of pain lancing through his ruined face, and he knew that he had lost weight. The old healer told him he must eat to regain his strength, but for all of that Grinner ate little, and beneath the fine silk clothes, his body grew frailer with each passing day. He had always been thin, but the lack of food was beginning to tell, and he thought it wouldn’t be long before his arms became as skinny as a child’s. Yet despite knowing this, he could not force himself to endure the pain of eating for long, and so he spent his days subsisting on thin soups and taste
less broths.

  He glanced at the plate of sugared pastries on the table, and didn’t bother to suppress the sneer that rose to his face—not that it mattered much, as the featureless silver mask he wore hid his expression. That was one thing, at least, to be grateful for, considering the amount of time he’d spent around the fool queen of late. Once, such pastries had been his favorite, yet now the thought of chewing on something even so soft as they made his skin go cold in anticipation of the pain that would follow. He closed his eyes against a brief bout of dizziness brought on by the fever, taking a slow breath as he waited for it to pass. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his manse and crawl into his bed, to close the door against the world and lie in the cool darkness until the pain lessened. Instead, he was stuck in the castle, for he dared not risk losing his growing influence on the queen.

  And for all his suffering and his pain, there were things to be pleased with as well. The deaths and imminent deaths of his enemies, of course, but that wasn’t all. While he spent his days seated at quiet lunches or dinners, his second-in-command, Eustice, sent his men throughout the city to every tavern and whorehouse within its walls. There, they drank, whored, and most importantly, subtly spread rumors of how Grinner foiled the assassination attempt on the queen as well how Silent and the others had abandoned Perennia right before battle with Kevlane and his armies.

  Grinner was quickly becoming a hero to the populace, and it wouldn’t be long before the names of Aaron and his companions would be used as curses. The crime boss was well on his way to the power that he so deserved, if only he could suffer through the queen’s company a little longer. Once he was decidedly entrenched in the hearts of her and her people, there would, perhaps, be another attempt on the queen’s life, one that, despite Grinner’s heroic efforts, succeeded, leaving the city with no leader and only one man to fill the role. If, that was, he could keep his patience.