Bad to the Throne, page 22
part #15 of The Good Guys Series
I spun around, my hands out, ready to face my next opponent.
But everyone had moved back.
Everyone who was still able to, that is.
Down from nine to four.
Leaderman had extricated himself from the corpsemissile. Half Shaved Head Girl was slowly spinning her war pick around. Glorious Mustache had taken out a small shield, a buckler, from somewhere and had it on his left hand. Beardie had his mace-club ready to go, but was definitely glancing back at Leaderman, as if asking if they were really going to keep going with this.
I wiped some of the blood off my face and whipped it off my hand onto the floor.
Scalp wounds like to bleed a lot, and since I had a really nice one going down the middle of my head, I was liberally covered.
I don’t think that they knew about my abilities, because in this momentary combat pause, my body was knitting itself up again. And all the blood was covering that up nicely.
“Are we done playing?” I asked. “I’m already in trouble — my tailor is going to fucking kill me for what I did to these pants. I mean, she’d probably kill me just for rumpling that jacket.”
“All at once,” Leaderman said.
“Really? We don’t–”
I didn’t finish before Leaderman blurred.
I brought my fist down where I thought he might be going with a hammer punch.
As his dagger went into my neck, my fist connected with some part of him, driving him down to the ground. Leaderman crumpled just to my left, and I stomped on him before I could even figure out what part of him I was stomping, grinding him into a paste.
The pointy bit of the pick went in my back, through my ribs, and poked out my chest.
I threw myself back, and I felt the scream more than heard it as Half-Shorn Head got her own war pick in her chest and then got all my four-hundred-plus pounds on top of her as I took her to the ground.
It definitely hurt to drive that pick farther into my body. But then again, everything seemed to hurt. I noticed my neck doing that fun arterial spray painting, and I knew I had a really short time to end the fight for good.
Glorious Mustache brought his mustache up close as he leapt on me, driving his sword through my stomach.
He grinned.
I smiled and reached up to grab his arms.
He got a confused look on his face, which then twisted into a rictus of pain as I ripped his arms off. Then I pushed him off me and got to my feet.
I glared at the last member of the assassin squad, Beardie, who stood there, arms trembling. But, credit where it’s due, he stood his ground.
I tossed an arm at the man’s feet.
“Want to give me a hand?” I asked.
His eyes went wide, and he didn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, “terrible pun. And I guess you’re going to make me do this myself.”
My neck had stopped gushing as my body pulled itself back together. But it couldn’t heal around the war pick that was still in my chest.
I grit my teeth and had to push it back through, putting my finger an unpleasant distance inside my own ribcage before I could get my other hand around my back to grab the hilt.
As it clanked to the ground, I would have let out the breath I’d been holding, but instead, it burbled out my newest set of matching holes.
Beardie hadn’t moved. He just held his ground, scared senseless.
I looked at the carnage around me, and saw that a few of the killers were still alive. Maceman, who I’d just slammed against the wall and buried under a meatshield, was trying to get out from under his former friend.
I went over and stomped on his hand, feeling the bones break under my heel.
He screamed.
I tossed MeatShield 2.0 off, sending that corpse into the wall while I yanked Maceman off his feet so that we were eye to eye.
“You… can’t… do… this…” the man eked out, fighting against the pain of his ruined hand.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
A sword came out of my belly.
I sighed, and looked over my shoulder.
Beardie stood there, hand still on the sword, having stabbed me while I was talking with someone else.
He pulled the sword out. I turned to face him.
Still shaking, but working to overcome that fear, he lunged for me again.
I stepped out of the way, got my hand on the back of his head, and just drove his face against the wall as hard as I could.
Which was the end of Beardie. Funnily enough, though, he did leave some of his beard behind on the wall. Along with a fair amount of his face and bits of his skull in a splatter pattern I thought Pollock would’ve enjoyed.
Maceman groaned.
I winced, flicking a speck of gore, probably brain matter, off the end of my nose.
“Now,” I said, still holding Maceman up so his feet weren’t touching the floor, “where were we?”
61
Maceman was not forthcoming about his employer. Not necessarily because he didn’t want to talk, but because he’d passed out. After looking over his body, I realized it wasn’t just his hand I’d broken, but also several of his ribs.
I laid him down on an area of the floor that wasn’t completely awash in gore, and sat down next to him, taking a moment to think about the situation I’d found myself in.
Not great.
First of all, I’d just killed a bunch of people.
I glanced at the kill notifications, hoping I might get some hint of who they were or why they were there, but the system didn’t seem to want to give me anything for free. All I got were levels (between 23 and 33, higher than I expected), species (human), and Choices (all variants of thug or bruiser or something).
Second, I was at a very swanky ball, attended by a lot of people hyper-trained to notice anything the slightest bit out of place with the various party guests, in order to pass judgement. My guess was that coming out of the basement covered in blood might not establish me as an upstanding duke within the Empire. And while technically I didn’t care what these people thought of me, I also knew that I had to maintain a veneer of respectability to handle the business side of things for Coggeshall. Which meant I couldn’t really just head up the stairs and back to Valamir’s. Especially since the fucking stairs lead right into the damn ballroom.
Which really left me with only one way to go: through the other set of doors deeper into the basement of this stupid house.
What the fuck was this space?
Also, I wasn’t sure what to do with Maceman.
Killing him in the midst of a fight was one thing. Doing it after the fight was just cold-blooded murder, as far as I could figure. I could bind him, or I could hobble him. There were a wide variety of things I could do that weren’t murder, but were justified, given what he’d just attempted.
I tore some of his clothes off his body and then tied his legs together in a few places. Nothing that would keep him immobile long term, but it would keep him there for a spell until he managed to untie himself. And I didn’t think it’d make breathing difficult. He might die because I didn’t help him, but he wouldn’t die because of how I restrained him. But ultimately, I guess, I just left him there on the floor, having trouble breathing while passed the hell out.
I picked up my coat, which was surprisingly blood-free, and my shirt (also clean), and I maybe also went through the pockets and pouches of all the dead people. Not like they’d really need their things in their post-life state. Then I walked through the double doors at the far end of the room.
They led to another room. This one was smaller, and looked a bit like a wealthy school’s changing room. Wooden lockers lined one wall. It had plush carpet and some very big, comfy-looking leather chairs, one of which was occupied by a small man who had a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. A book was balanced on his lap. When I entered the room, he looked up at me, then whipped his head up to get a lock of hair out of his face.
“Right about on time,” he said, setting his glass of amber liquid down on a side table.
“You were expecting me?”
“Indeed I was.”
I frowned.
He dropped his cigar into his glass, causing a slight hiss. Then the man stood up and adjusted his smoking jacket. He slipped the book into one pocket and clapped his hands.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“I doubt it. I only know of you from reputation and assignation.”
“Assignation?”
“Indeed. An organization I am associated with was contracted by a certain someone who wished for you to meet me.”
“Ah. Tollendahl.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. You see, the organization I am associated with—”
“Which is?”
“For me to know and for you to never find out, ideally.”
“Is this a murder thing?”
“It is, yes. You are already dead, but you have yet to realize it.”
“Odd, I don’t feel dead.”
“I know. That’s the magic of it all!”
“Care to explain?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Fair. Is it magic or just like magic?”
“Is there a difference?”
“I mean, you seem like the magic man, so…”
“It is magic. And I haven’t heard that before, but I do appreciate that term.”
“Magic man?”
“Yes. I think I might try to make that my new nomenclature.”
“I don’t think that means name.”
“Of the two of us, I would be more confident I would know what I was talking about instead of you. I mean, look at you.”
“Being covered in blood doesn’t have any bearing on my knowledge or vocabulary.”
“While that is true, I did not mean to imply your current appearance has anything to do with it. You see,” the man said, gesturing at himself, “when you look at me, you see someone who has, by his nature, eschewed the physical in order to elevate the intellectual. You know, then, that I must be someone who has chosen to focus upon the magical if I am to be in this situation of death here. I see you, and I see someone with a body unattainable by normal means, and know that you have chosen to focus your gifts on your physical attributes. Which, by virtue of knowing we all have limited points to spread about, means you have forgone your intellect. I certainly hesitate to look at your particulars–”
“Wouldn’t want to be impolite now.”
“Scoff all you want. But I find the moments between life and death quite important, and it would be highly improper of me to be anything less than cordial in this meeting. Or meetings such as this.”
“So, this is something you do often?”
“It is. And while I understand, from your position, that it may be difficult to imagine, but what I do is not personal. I will find no joy in taking your life. It is just business. I am only doing my job.”
“I mean, you could not do your job.”
“And where would the honor in that be?”
“There’s honor in not killing people. You could try, I don’t know, saving people.”
“What people?”
“If you really are the magician you claim to be, I’m going to have to assume you’re fantastic at what you do.”
“I am.”
“Then a man of your powers could probably wander this world without much fear.”
“Likely.”
“So you could wander the world and find those who don’t have your skills or gifts, and you could protect them. Get them out of trouble and make a safe space for them.”
“Oh, and how would I live like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“People like that, the ones who need saving, they have nothing. Otherwise, they’d be able to save themselves. And if they have nothing, I will get nothing from saving them.”
“The being good is what you’re getting. Instead of being a sword for hire.”
“Altruism being the extent of what you seek in life?”
“Something along those lines.”
“I suppose I could use my gifts that way. But it seems like somewhat less of life. How would I eat?”
“Fish?”
“I have little desire to sully my hands that way. I have spent my hours focused upon my goals, and I admit that I lack certain skills that others may consider basic. But I make up for that by being so good within my chosen field that I earn plenty of gold. And I can use that gold–”
“Same thing can happen outside. Except those people you save, they have those skills and after you save them, usually they’re more than happy to help you in return.”
“Perhaps, but it seems…inelegant. Especially when I am able to work with individuals of such talent and brilliance within this city that I am consistently amazed and learning myself. I would like to continue my growth until such time as I could claim the title of archmage, and I fear that is some distance away.”
“What was so impressive about tonight?”
“Do you not see?”
“I’m clearly not smart enough.”
“There were three levels to this killing — I am but the last in the line. But you were expected to get through the first two, and in doing so, you have managed to alleviate certain problems of those who have employed my services. And now those problems will make it easier for them to deal with you in the future. How brilliant is that? Now, while I have enjoyed this dalliance in thought, at least a smidgen, I fear I have run out of time. Which means you have run out of time.”
“I appreciate the courtesy of taking the time to talk to me.”
“Of course.”
“You won’t mind if I fight back, do you?”
“If you think you can, I might appreciate the challenge.”
“Lovely.”
He smiled.
I smiled.
He did a little thing with his hand, and I felt the tingle of magic against my skin.
I smiled more.
He did not smile.
I reached out and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground and well into the air. He was just a little guy, a hint over five feet. So there was nearly sixteen inches of space between his dangling toes and the delicate tile below.
His eyes bulged a little as his face turned a whole new hue.
“How–” he got out.
“Because there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I said softly, our noses nearly touching. “And you should watch out with that overconfidence — it can really backfire. Now, you have a chance to continue living, maybe do some good in the world, if you want, but it’s up to you. You want to tell me who sent you?”
“Don’t… know…”
“You know your damn organization. Tell me that, and I’ll just hurt you. I won’t even injure you or kill you.”
“Can’t…”
“Can’t or won’t? Bit of an important difference here.”
He didn’t answer; he just kind of went limp. Which was my fault — I’d been cutting off the blood supply to his brain, so I knew it’d happen. But I hadn’t timed it right.
I dropped him, and he fell to the ground. Then I picked him up, put him back in his chair, and sat down across from him. I grabbed his glass of whiskey and splashed him in the face with it.
He sputtered as he woke up to the stinging of alcohol, his half-a-soggy-cigar sticking to his forehead.
“Hi,” I said, getting in close to make sure I could grab him the moment he tried to do something.
Which he did, getting his hand up and sending out a gout of flame.
Despite the pain, I just smiled as I took the fire to my face. Then I grabbed his hand and broke it.
“No more magic,” I said. “It’s irritating.”
“What–”
My burns began to heal, at least in the spots where my hair hadn’t blocked the fire.
Magic Man seemed more than a little concerned with his predicament.
“I’m not big on threats,” I said. “So this is more of a ‘what’s going to happen’ instead of a threat. Which means, when I say I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know, I am just going to kill you, because I have a party to go back to. And yeah, I know that sounds pretty awful, but you brought all this on yourself. So, who sent you to kill me?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Again, is this a can or will situation?”
“It is against the code of my organization.”
“Oof, that’s not good for you.”
“I doubt you will kill me now that you do not see me as a threat. It would be against your code of honor.”
“Eh, calling it a ‘code’ is a bit much. It’s more like some general guidelines I have. I quite like killing, truth be told.”
He tried to bring up his other hand, but I grabbed it and gave it a swift shake, snapping all the soft tissue.
Magic Man’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to scream.
I chopped at his throat and heard his hyoid bone fracture.
No more noise came from him.
“That’s kind of the end for you,” I said. “You’re not going to be able to breathe without intervention, and I’m not really keen to intervene, being that you’ve proven yourself to be a murderous piece of shit. But then again, you’ve probably got a means to heal yourself, so—”
I grabbed his head and quickly broke his neck.
He went limp.
I watched him for a moment longer, to make sure he was actually dead.
GG! You’ve killed ‘Magic Man’, a Human (lvl 52 Arcane Assassin).
You’ve earned 5200 xp! What a mighty hero you are.
Huh.
Arcane assassin. And it was a bit weird I didn’t get his name, but maybe he had some weird ability that managed to keep his identity secret even after his death. Still, he was dead. I took a second to do the ol’ pockets and pouches probe. He had a few items worth swiping — a pouch of coins, a few little notebooks, the larger book he was reading, and some jewelry. I didn’t make the mistake of putting any of the jewelry on. I just swiped it and stuffed it into the slightly bulging pouch of ‘stuff I’d randomly found — totally not on dead people — that hung off my belt.
