A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 11

  Aaron gritted his teeth as he studied the man. Aster Kalen’s face bore a diagonal scar that started just below his left eye and stopped at his right jaw in a hooked pattern. His head was shaved so bald that it seemed to glow in the weak lantern light. The thin man’s smile widened as he took in Lucius’s hired muscle, then he pulled a chair out and lounged in it lazily.

  “I’ll take another beer at that table over there,” Aaron said to the barkeep, indicating a table within hearing range of Lucius and the others. The surly old man grunted in response, and Aaron stood and walked to the table, careful to keep his back to Lucius lest the informant recognize him. He needn’t have bothered. The man was too intent on his discussion to have any idea what was going on around him. Aaron sat down, his side to the group, and watched them out of the corner of his eye.

  “—told you he’d come after me.” Lucius was saying, his voice sharp, “he nearly killed me.”

  “You worry too much, friend.” Aster replied, and Aaron had to struggle to keep his hands from balling into fists at the coolness of the man’s tone. For all the emotion he showed, he could have just as easily been discussing the weather as killing a man. “He will be in hand in good time.”

  “And the girl?” Lucius asked, “I thought you wanted them both.”

  “The … girl is of no consequence to me beyond being a means by which our dear Mr. Envelar might be found." The sellsword shifted in his seat. The man had only hesitated for a moment, but it had been long enough to make Aaron sure that he wasn’t the only one who knew the princess’s true identity. Yes, Aster knew who she was, but instead of trying to kidnap or ransom her, he was focused on Aaron instead. What in the name of the gods does he have against me? True, his profession wasn’t the kind that won a man any popularity contests, but he couldn’t remember ever having wronged the thin man in the past.

  “Make it known that whoever finds them can do what they want with the girl, but the man I want alive if possible and if not … then just make sure that his killer comes personally to claim his reward.” Aaron frowned, there was something strange, he thought, about the way the man had said that, but he didn’t have time to consider as Lucius’s wheedling voice continued.

  “You never did tell me why he’s so important to you.”

  “I didn’t tell you why I hunt him,” Aster answered lightly, “because it is none of your concern.”

  “I think I could help you more if I knew what was going on,” Lucius said in a sullen, almost whiny tone.

  “I don’t pay you to think, Lucius. Leave such weighty matters to your betters.” Aaron didn’t need to look to know that the man was smiling. He could hear it in his voice. “You are a rat,” Aster said, his tone matter of fact, “ a sleazy, blight on the face of humanity, but one who—by his very nature—attracts little attention, and therefore is able to hear things others would not. You are a listener, Lucius, not a thinker. Leave it at that.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” the informant said, and despite the fact that he tried to sound threatening, Aaron could hear the quaver in his voice. “Maybe I’m tired of listening. Maybe it’s time you did some listening.”

  “Oh?” Aster asked in an amused tone, “is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Lucius said, his courage increasing in the face of the man’s lack of reaction, “Maybe you should listen now. I’ve done what you’ve asked; I’ve put the hit out on that bastard Envelar. Kind of funny, really. Everyone calls him Silent. Well, he’ll be really silent soon, won’t he?” He tittered a nervous, high-pitched laugh, and Aaron calmly began to consider how much he was going to enjoy dusting the bastard. “But that’s not important,” Lucius continued, “What is important, is that you understand something.”

  “Yes?” Aster asked in a bored voice, “and what’s that?”

  “I’m a man to be respected, that’s what. I’m not a dog to be ordered about, to be thrown a bone once in a while to keep him happy. If you want any more of my help, I want to be a partner. The way I see it, you wouldn’t bother yourself with a no account asshole like Envelar unless there was something damned good in it,” Aaron could hear the greed in the man’s voice, “Whatever it is you’re working on, I want in. You got it? I want a fifty-fifty split or you can find him yourself.”

  Aster laughed good-naturedly, “Ah, Lucius. You can’t begin to imagine what I’m working on. I doubt if even that sellsword understands, but he will, soon. Oh yes, he’ll understand when I rip it from his fucking chest,” Aaron tensed at the sudden, unexpected rage in the man’s voice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Lucius was leaning away from the man in fear and surprise. For several seconds, they sat in silence. When Aster spoke again, his voice was calm once more, as if his outburst had never occurred, “No, I’m sorry to say that being partners is completely out of the question.”

  Lucius’s mouth worked for several seconds before he finally spoke. “Well,” he said, struggling to sound confident as he gestured to his two goons, “it’s not your decision to make anymore.” The two bruisers moved forward, and the one with the black-eye jerked Aster up by the front of his shirt as if he weighed no more than a child and turned back to his employer, raising an eyebrow in question.

  The informant nodded, a cruel smile on his face. “Hurt him.”

  The big man grunted and pulled a thick, meaty fist back. Before he struck, Aster slapped at his face offhandedly in the same way a man might wave away a fly, and the air was split with a loud crack as the hired man’s jaw shattered and his head jerked sideways as if struck with a mace. His body followed, and to the sellsword’s astonishment the hired man actually flew over the table, smashing into the wall with a deafening crunch before crumpling to the ground in an unconscious heap. Aaron felt his own jaw drop. That isn’t possible. The man’s at least three times Aster’s size. Nobody is that strong.

  It’s him! Co, who’d been quiet for the length of the proceedings, suddenly whispered in a terrified hiss. It’s Melan! You must go!

  The sellsword hesitated, unable to pull his eyes away from the spectacle before him as the other hired man, the silent one, lifted a nearby chair and swung it at the thin man. Aster stepped forward, a small, knowing smile on his face, as he swatted at the chair with one hand. It exploded in a shower of splintered wood, and the big man grunted, taking two stumbling steps backward. He lifted his hands, staring at them in wonder, and Aaron saw that they were coated in blood where the wood had bit into him when it shattered.

  It’s him! Don’t you understand? Run. Aaron, run! Aaron was so concentrated on what he’d just seen, so focused on trying to figure out how it was possible, that, despite the urgency in the Virtue’s voice, her words seemed to be coming from far, far away. He watched, stunned, as the bruiser took another nervous step backward, glancing from side to side as if for help as the thin man stalked slowly toward him, his smile still in place.

  Please, the Virtue pleaded, you have to go now. Co’s words were frantic now, coming as sharp, agonizing bursts in his mind.

  He jerked himself out of his chair, surprised at the pain in his head. “Stop it,” he hissed, gripping his head with both hands, “you’re killing me.” But if the Virtue heard, she gave no sign. Instead, her screams grew louder, each word more desperate, more painful than the last, until it felt as if Aaron’s head would explode.. Run. Run. HE HAS MELAN. I KNOW HIM. I KNOW HIM. I KN—

  “I know you!” Aaron shouted, the words ripped from him in a flurry of pain and unexplainable rage and fear.

  As one, the informant, the bruiser, and Aster turned and regarded him, the first two with surprise. Aster’s smile widened, and he nodded, “Ah. The sellsword. Do you see, Lucius?” He asked, turning to the terrified little man who looked on the edge of bolting, “I told you it was only a matter of time.” He regarded Aaron calmly, “You have something I want, Mr. Envelar.”

  The room had descended into silence as Aster had fought the two men, but that silence suddenly shattered
as, all around Aaron, the inn’s patrons began to rise from their chairs, weapons they’d had hidden under tables or behind chairs appearing in their hands like magic. He was stunned to see that even the serving girl, who’d only just been trying to avoid a supposed drunk’s pinch, was gripping a kitchen knife in a white-knuckled fist and staring at him with an almost hungry expression. Slowly, but purposefully, the group started toward him. “Shit,” he muttered to himself, “this was a bad idea.”

  Scanning the room, he saw that some of the inn’s patrons were watching with wide-eyes, trying their best to be invisible. So not all of them worked for Aster—a good thing. The bad thing was that there were plenty enough who did to finish the job, even if the man himself hadn’t been some kind of … some kind of what? Later, he would have to ask Co just who in the name of the Keeper’s Lantern Melan was. That was, of course, assuming that he made it out of the inn alive, an outcome that was looking less and less likely by the second.

  One of the pretend drunks rushed at him, his ugly, fat face twisted in concentration. Aaron stepped to the side, grabbed a hold of the back of the man’s shirt as he charged by and used his own momentum to toss him head first into the bar. Mugs of ale tumbled and shattered on the ground at the impact, and Aaron watched as the man collapsed to the ground in a heap. He was still watching when the bartender popped out from behind the bar with a crossbow pointed at him, the same bored, surly expression on his old, weathered face.

  He ducked quickly enough to keep the arrow from piercing his heart—where the man had been aiming—but not soon enough to avoid it tracing a line of hot fire across his shoulder. He cried out with pain, reached for a nearby chair and flung it at the approaching men and women who were looking to be five thousand coins richer before the night was out.

  The chair crashed into the closest person, a short, thin man with thick, shaggy eyebrows and burn scars on his face. Lacking his employer’s incredible strength, the man staggered backward into those behind him, slowing them down. Aaron eased his way toward the door, meeting the intent expressions of the people in the room. “So who will it be then?” He growled, his sword ringing sharply as he drew it from behind his back. “Who’s gonna make them some money? Lot of folks in here for only one of you to get paid though, wouldn’t you say?”

  His would-be killers hesitated staring first at his sword, then at each other. Gods I love the Downs. It was one thing to kill a man for gold. It was quite another to risk your life for a payoff you might not ever get, and judging by their distrustful, greedy expressions, they were beginning to realize it.

  One of the men up front pushed at one of the others trying to ensure that he would be first. The man who he’d pushed bumped into a woman, cried in pain, and staggered away with a dagger in his chest. “He’s mine,” the woman snarled revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. She was just stepping forward as a fist flew out of the crowd and smashed into her face. Blood flew from her mouth in a red fountain, and she tumbled to the ground.

  A tense, still moment passed. Then, as if on cue, the entire crowd erupted into vicious, frenzied fighting as people forgot all about their quarry even as they fought and bled for the opportunity to kill him. Blood and spit flew as they tore into each other like wild animals. Over the grunts and cries of pain, Aaron could hear the man, Aster, shouting at them, telling them that they were idiots, and that they would all be paid as long as the sellsword was his. Too late for that, Aaron thought with a grin. There weren’t many things you could count on in the world, but the human capacity for greed was definitely one of them.

  He was still grinning when a man flew straight up out of the crowd as if shot out of a cannon, screaming and flailing his arms wildly. The man’s screams abruptly stopped as he struck the ceiling overhead with such force that several of the roof beams snapped. Aaron followed the man’s limp, shattered body with a stunned gaze as it fell and disappeared in the roiling crowd. What in the name of the gods—Before Aaron could finish the thought, another would-be murderer flew out of the crowd following the unbelievable—and certainly deadly—course of the first. It was Aster; it had to be. And he was coming closer. Aaron could follow the man’s course by the mangled bodies raining from the sky, and if he was any judge, Aster wasn’t in a talking mood anymore. Alright then. His father had often told him that one of the most important things a general or even soldier must know is that there was a time to fight and a time to withdraw.

  He shot one more quick glance at the brawling mob, at the dusty counter that the bartender had disappeared behind then bolted for the door like Salen himself was behind him. As he barreled out into the waiting night, he ran into a man and woman who’d been about to enter, knocking both of them sprawling, barely managing to avoid impaling one of them on his still-drawn sword before he sprinted off into the street, ignoring their cries of shock and anger.

  He turned a corner onto a dark alley and jerked to a panting stop as two forms peeled themselves away from the shadows of the alley walls. “I told ya, didn’t I?” One of them said in a nasally, self-satisfied voice, “I told ya he’d come out. Better to wait out here then be caught up in the inn with those fools.”

  “Yeah, yeah, shut up about it already.” The man’s partner answered in a gruff voice that sounded like he spent his spare time gargling broken glass.

  Aaron turned his side toward them, his sword extended in front of him. Looking closely, he saw that the men—no doubt a couple of street thugs—carried cudgels instead of blades.

  “Now, don’t you go and be getting’ any ideas, mister.” The first one who’d spoken said, “you’re probably tellin’ yourself that that there pricker of yours is better than these chunks of wood, am I right? Fact is, I’d have to agree with ya if not for one detail.”

  Aaron continued to watch them, and after several moments of silence, the first man who’d spoken gave a long-suffering sigh, as if disappointed that Aaron hadn’t asked, “Said detail bein’ that there’s a crossbow trailin’ ya even as we speak.”

  The sellsword shot a look behind him and saw that it was true. The man was little more than a shadow close to the entrance of the darkened alley, but he was there, that was certain. By the pale moonlight, Aaron could just make out the crossbow in the man’s hand. I’m really beginning to hate those damned things.

  “Now, I don’t know why that scarred fucker wants ya, and I don’t much care,” the talker of the group said, “all I care about is the coin he’s offerin’. Now you can come along quietly, and might be he’ll let ya live once he’s finished with ya, or you can go gettin’ ideas and end up spitted on the end of one of my partner’s arrows. Now I ain’t much for the thought of draggin’ your big ass back to the inn, so what’dya say? Be a good man and make this easy on all of us, eh?”

  Aaron frowned, “You talk too much.”

  The man sighed again, dramatically, “Why ain’t I surprised. Well, alright then.” He looked past Aaron and motioned, “Bronne! Plug this bastard, would ya? I’ve got some coins to pocket and a whore on Skinner street that needs seein’ to.”

  Aaron glanced quickly over his shoulder again, and both of the men rushed forward, eager to take advantage of his distraction. The silent one came first, swinging his cudgel in a brutal two-handed arc. Aaron barely managed to knock the blow aside as he stepped away from a strike by the smaller man that had been meant for his knee. They came on hard, swinging their cudgels viciously, and Aaron fought desperately, dodging the clubs when he could and batting them aside with his sword when they came too close. Against only one of them, it would have been an easy enough thing to slip his sword past the wild attacks, but with both of the men attacking at once, it was all he could do to keep from getting his head caved in, and his back itched where he knew, in moments, he would feel the steel of the bolt pierce him.

  He heard a grunt from up the alley where the crossbowman had been standing, but with the men pressing him hard, he couldn’t spare a second to look back. A few moments later, he heard the fatal
twang of the crossbow release and tensed in expectation.

  He was surprised, then, when the smaller of the two men, the talker, cried out in pain and staggered back, grasping at an arrow protruding from his stomach. Aaron didn’t have time to marvel at this, however, because the other man was still wading in behind a flurry of wild blows, oblivious of the fact that his partner had been shot. The man was strong, no doubt, and each of the strikes would have been enough to cave in the sellsword’s head had they landed, but the bruiser had no skill, and without the other man to keep him busy, Aaron was able to slip past the man’s guard as the club hurtled past. The hired man’s eyes were just beginning to show surprise as the sword sliced through the air and made a ragged ruin of his throat. The club dropped to the ground as he fell to his knees, groping at his throat in a hopeless effort to halt the torrent of blood sluicing out.

  Aaron felt a stab of sympathy at the sight of the man choking and gasping as his life’s blood poured out in a flood of crimson, but he pushed it away angrily. To Salen’s Fields with compassion. These men had come to kill him, and it was nothing but their own lack of skill that had kept them from it. He stalked toward the smaller of the two. The man lay on his back in the alley, his hands fluttering nervously around the arrow in his stomach, scared to touch it, but scared not to. It wasn’t until Aaron was standing over him that the man looked up. “P-please,” the man wheezed, “it … it weren’t nothing personal. J-just business.”

  The sellsword nodded. “Just business.” He brought the tip of the sword down, piercing the man’s heart and watching as the light faded from his eyes. He sighed, then suddenly remembered the archer and whipped around.

  Gryle stood a few feet away. The chubby man’s face was pale, and his fingers had gone white where they gripped the stock of the crossbow. His mouth worked soundlessly for several seconds before he finally managed to speak. “I-I came to h-help.”