The Butcher and the Bard, page 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by J. E. Harter
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review, as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Cover Artwork: Miblart
Editing: Erin Young
Map Design: Alec McK
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9886106-0-1
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-9886106-1-8
Author's Note
The book contains subject matter that might be difficult for some readers, including extreme fantasy violence, blood, gore, language, sexual content, panic attacks, flashbacks of rape (consent withdrawn), and references to sexual abuse.
Chapter 1
Marai
Like a black smudge in a sea of white, a dark cloaked figure chased a man through a winter wood.
The cold wind roared as the man hurtled through the dense pine trees, his assailant right at his heels. Snow streaked through his thinning hair, mixing with the clouds of steam huffing through his chapped lips. He was losing speed. The stranger moved swiftly; a looming wraith, closing in.
In the hazy dusk light, wearing only his cloak and simple dressing gown, the middle-aged man tripped over a root. He tumbled into the thick layer of snow. Upon lifting his head, he came face to face with the sharp tip of a sword.
“Please,” he begged, hands shaking as he clasped them together in prayer. The bellow of the wind was the only sound besides his whimpering. Sweat froze on his temples and upper lip as he gazed at the ominous figure looming over him.
The assailant’s entire face was hidden by a black scarf, and the hood of their cloak was pulled down so far the man couldn’t see their eyes. In one tattered-gloved hand, they held a lightweight broad sword to the man’s neck.
“It wasn’t me. Tell Isif I didn’t do it.”
The stranger said nothing. They were used to pleas—marks always begged for their lives before the end. A pitiable sound.
The stranger pulled back their sword and took aim.
“No, no! I’ll pay him back.”
The blade whistled as it sliced through the air.
“Lirr save me,” the man cried.
Sharp metal cleaved the man’s head from his neck, and his body keeled over. His head thudded into the snow; the trail of red stark against the pure white.
The mercenary slowly wiped their sword on the man’s cloak.
Their work now complete, a calm emptiness took over them. A numbness that came after every death and never truly left.
The stranger pushed back the hood of their threadbare cloak.
The young woman took a deep breath of the winter air, cleansing away the darkness from within. Needles of ice pierced her lungs, filling up that emptiness. At least she could still feel something.
Another day, another kill: a thought that didn’t bring her joy or satisfaction. She sheathed her sword and stared down at the body. Another nameless mark. Another addition to a tally so long it could have encircled the continent.
The next storm was rolling in, loud and dark like a stampede of wild horses.
Marai . . . Marai. The rough, wicked wind seemed to whisper her name; a word that hadn’t been uttered in years. Since her work was done in the shadows, all those involved were as nameless and shifty as she was.
She bent and searched the man’s cloak. He had little on him, save a few coins. Marai pocketed the money—the man wouldn’t need coin in the Underworld. Every cent she earned during the winter kept her one tiny step further from starvation.
The town of Gainesbury was nearby, but Marai hesitated. Gainesbury was not a stop she had intended to make. The town was surrounded by dense forests of pine and spruce, and sat on one of the highest peaks of the White Ridge Mountains. They were called “White” due to the snow, but the peaks were obsidian rock. The ridge was difficult to travel—steep inclines, rocky terrain, and paths that crossed the peaks with nothing beside them but a precipitous drop to nothing below. Behind Gainesbury, a few leagues away, were the Cliffs of Unmyn, which dropped down into a rough, frigid sea.
However, Marai had no choice. There was no other shelter nearby, and her stomach rumbled ferociously. She sighed through her nose. Despite her recent earnings, she had little money to spend, and the few coins in her pocket jingled forlornly. Marai tried to remain anonymous, performing low-paying work to avoid detection. It was the only way she would survive in a world that hated her kind.
Resigning herself to spending coin, Marai drew up her hood and scarf, and walked to the town of Gainesbury. Nearly frozen to the bone, she passed through its weathered wooden gate.
Gainesbury was devoid of life. Not a soul could be seen. It wasn’t abandoned, though; smoke puffed steadily out of every chimney within the petite thatched houses. Firelight danced in the windows, proof that life existed here, somehow. The townsfolk knew that one didn’t venture out into a blizzard.
She pressed onwards to the center of town, leather boots crunching in the already solid snow. She arrived in the main square, which was merely a large stone pillar engraved with the town’s name. Marai pulled the tattered black cloak tightly around herself as the swirling wind and snow intensified. She then spotted her destination: the solitary, dilapidated tavern.
A gust of wind swept through as Marai pushed open the doors, causing those inside the small dining room to turn and glare. An uneasy hush fell over the room. Seven burly men sat at tables, clothed in thick skins and fur, faces drawn and lined with fatigue.
That’s why I dislike these mountains. Constant winter and limited daylight took all the joy from people.
Her gaze stalled on a younger man seated alone in a corner, watching Marai with keen interest, his goblet frozen at his lips. He didn’t look like a typical Northerner. The people of Grelta were fair and tall, muscular, built for hard labor and surviving treacherous winters. His coloring was tanner, body leaner. Astye was a diverse continent; the man came from some country further South.
Marai hated all those eyes and hastily closed the heavy wooden door, taking a seat at a table in the darkest corner. Noise resumed amongst the townsfolk and Marai’s stiff spine relaxed. The bearded barkeeper gave her a wary look, but approached anyway. In small towns such as Gainesbury, people could not turn down a paying customer. It was especially rare for someone to pass through during the winter, when everything was scarce, including hope.
“Can I . . . get you anything?” he asked.
“Water and whatever warm meal you have,” came her quiet, gruff voice from underneath all the layers. Marai’s clothing, posture, and attitude alerted those in the tavern that this wasn’t someone to approach.
The barman quickly dropped a wooden cup of water in front of her and retreated to the kitchens. Marai pulled down the scarf covering the lower half of her pale face, enough to take a sip. She kept her hood drawn, sensing the men’s eyes boring into her back. There was always a heightened chance of being discovered if she lingered someplace too long.
Snow and ice thrashed around outside. Despite the chatter indoors, Marai heard the wind howling, windows rattling, as the snow blanketed her route out. She hated the cold. She’d always craved warmth and sun in places like the Southern coast.
Surprisingly, there was entertainment at the tavern that evening. Marai didn’t turn to look when the musician took to the stage, but she heard the man introduce himself.
“Good evening,” he said enthusiastically and received no response from his audience. His voice was young, light. He cleared his throat, a nervous sound. “My name is Ard the Bard. I’m thrilled to play for you today.”
Ard the Bard?
Marai nearly choked on her water. Clearly, the villagers also thought his name was rather pathetic because they made no sound. The barkeep’s frown deepened as he poured a few drinks.
“Right . . . then I’ll get to it. I’m sure you all know this one,” Ard the Bard said with a tremor to his voice. He strummed a few notes on his lute, and began to sing “The Girl of Veilheim.” This was indeed a popular song and most folk around the Continent of Astye knew it. It spoke of the love the songwriter had for a beautiful young woman, who was coincidentally betrothed to five men at once. However, the song was old, having been written at least four decades prior. The original composer had been deceased for some time.
Ard possessed decent skill with the lute and his voice was quite melodic, but every song he played was written by another, more talented bard. A cover of someone else’s success. All of his songs were in every musician’s repertoire. There was nothing special about him. The villagers didn’t exactly boo and hiss, but they hardly clapped at the end of each song. There was a smattering of applause after his earlier pieces, but halfway through, the villagers stopped entirely and began talking over him. She could hear the bard’s confidence draining, wavering the further along into his performance he went.
Stew and rustic grain bread were deposited in front of Marai by a frumpy woman, most likely the barman’s wife. She gave the mercenary a quick glance of disdain. Marai wasn’t offended, nor was she picky; the thick, bone-broth stew was warm and had
She ate slowly, savoring the warmth, blowing on the hot stew, but never once dropping her guard.
They don’t know what you are. They aren’t a threat. But Marai had never been comfortable amongst others. The weight of the sword and dagger at her hip eased some of those nerves.
She kept her ears open while she ate. This type of small town didn’t get much in terms of interesting happenings, and what they knew of the outside world was little more than rumor, but occasionally a bit of important news snuck in.
“Did you hear—the King of Tacorn married again,” one of the burly men said to his table of companions. They all had pints of ale in front of them, which they drank from steadily.
“What is that, his third wife?”
“Fourth.”
The three men shook their heads. “Runs through ’em quick, doesn’t he? Didn’t his other wives all die?”
Marai had heard of the match between the Princess of Varana and King Rayghast of Tacorn. There were nine powerful kingdoms on the Continent of Astye. Grelta in the North was the most expansive. Tacorn was in the middle, the Empire of Varana in the East. The union between Rayghast and the princess had bolstered Tacorn’s already plentiful coffers and armies.
“I heard Tacorn soldiers have been spotted on the border.”
“Our border? Why?”
“Roughed up a few young fellows near the capital. Apparently they’re looking for something. Or someone.”
Looking for something? This was certainly new information to Marai. She’d noticed an increase of Tacornian soldiers in towns and cities further east when she’d passed through Varana a few months prior. Tacorn soldiers, like their king, were known for their brutality.
Ard the Bard continued his musical set. No one was paying any attention to him anymore. At another table, Marai’s ears perked up at a different conversation.
“No, she truly bedded a vampire.”
A skeptical laugh. “You jest! That’s a fiction.”
“I assure you, that’s what Belme told me, and her cousin lives in Lirrstrass. It’s apparently all the gossip there.”
Someone slammed down their cup on the table. “You’re telling me, our Queen Nieve of Grelta consciously let a vampire into her bed? Was she coerced? Threatened?”
“Don’t know, but its name was Nosfis or Nosfilious.”
“Abominations, the whole lot of them,” a man said. “I wouldn’t let one of them near my bed, if it were me.”
“At least it wasn’t a faerie. Damn magical creatures . . . I’m glad they’re all dead.”
Marai stiffened.
“How is Queen Nieve alive? I thought vampires kill their victims?”
“Our noble King must not be very satisfying then, eh?” More laughter from the table.
Marai finished her meal, her stomach full for the first time in days, and pulled up her scarf. The barman removed the empty bowl and cup from her place swiftly, eager for her to be on her way. Marai left two precious coins on the table.
One glance out the window to the howling, frosty gale, and Marai’s hopes of leaving sunk. Thick white snow had completely covered the glass, and it was impossible to see the village through the blizzard.
I shouldn’t stay. She didn’t want to risk discovery, but she’d die of hypothermia or frostbite if she tried to sleep in the forest, as she preferred. In this powerful storm, when visibility was limited, she might even step off the edge of a cliff.
Marai let out a resigned huff and turned to get a glimpse of Ard the Lousy Bard.
It was the young man from the corner table. He was probably not much older than twenty and two. Tall, in a lean body, with wavy chestnut hair that fell into his eyes. His tunic, trousers, and vest were a little shabby and plain, and had none of the flair one might expect from a bard. Marai could see his displeasure at the lack of enthusiasm for his performance. His eyes scanned the crowd, mouth struggling to make a smile.
Lirr, take pity on him and end his misery.
Marai couldn’t imagine the goddess would approve of Ard’s lackluster presentation. She imagined Lirr shaking her head. Although, Lirr had blessed the young bard with adequate skill; he wasn’t reaching his true potential.
The bard finished his set of songs. No one clapped, and he came to a nearby table, disheartened. He placed his lute on an empty chair next to him, a seat away from Marai. A little too close for her taste. She tensed as he sat.
“An ale, if you would?” he asked the barman, who gave him a frown of annoyance. He was clearly not pleased with the bard’s performance, but brought him an ale just the same. He then held out his hand. “But I’m the bard. Musicians usually get free drinks when they perform.”
“Aye, you would if you sang anything we haven’t heard a thousand times before,” said the barkeep. Ard reluctantly handed over a coin and drank a sip from the stein. Marai caught a flash of a dark brown birthmark on his left wrist. A strange shape—at first it looked like a splash of mud, but as Marai stared, it reminded her of a sunburst, with wavering rays extending from a circular center.
“The ale isn’t even that good,” he said under his breath.
Marai let out a quiet snort. The sound unintentionally caught his attention.
Ard brazenly turned to her. “Did you think my performance was that bad?”
Marai didn’t move. People so rarely spoke to her. At first, she wondered if she should reply, but Ard waited patiently, his face expectant.
“You played well. Your voice is good. But you are a lousy bard,” she said, getting to her feet.
The bard’s mouth fell open. “Lousy bard? I beg your pardon, but it takes many years and much skill to learn all those songs. What would you know of music? Who are you to judge anyone’s talent? Are you some sort of mysterious master of music? You, in your cloak and hood?”
If she’d known he would unleash such a barrage of words, she would have ignored him, but it’d been a while since she’d conversed with another person, and Marai found herself responding.
“I’ve been to a number of taverns in my life and heard some of the best musicians in The Nine Kingdoms. You, in comparison to them, are nothing.”
Ard scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I think you are equally as unwelcome here as I am. Maybe more so. At least I bathe.”
It was unusual for people to initiate speech with Marai, but to be confronted and challenged by someone in this manner was entirely new.
Ard was unperturbed by her appearance and harsh manner, so she shifted her cloak, revealing the long blade at her side. A warning. Ard’s eyes snapped to her sword and widened.
Marai ventured back to the door. She’d spotted a stable on her way in, a decent place to spend the night. Marai yanked open the tavern door and stepped out into the howling blizzard. Fighting through wind and snow, she ducked inside the stable. It was quite drafty and smelled of manure and musty hay, but it was better than sleeping outdoors. And it was free. It’d been months since she’d slept in an actual bed. A horse gave a soft whinny as she curled up on a pile of hay, hand on the hilt of her sword, and closed her eyes.
Ravenous lips were on hers. His tongue pried her lips apart and claimed her mouth. Like he owned it. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.
She tried to pull away. “Captain, please—”
Marai jolted awake. The stable came into focus around her. She was used to vivid dreams haunting her night after night. Working in the shadows, shame and death followed her everywhere; ghouls moaning in her ears. Reminding her that she would never be normal . . .
When the blue light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the boards, Marai awoke and brushed the hay from her clothing. It was deceptively dark outside, with the ground entirely covered in snow and the sun hidden behind opaque grey clouds. However, the storm was gone.
Marai adjusted the sword and dagger at her belt, then stepped into the powdery snow, over a foot deep. While her boots were thick, she could feel the cold soaking through them instantly. The snow came up to her knees, and not for the first time, Marai wished she had longer legs. No one had attempted yet to shovel a path, so Marai braced herself and set out on her way.
