The Mercenary Trilogy Boxed Set, page 22
part #1 of The Mercenary Series
Hagan staggered, stretched, and clambered through the garbage until he found a wider alley leading deeper into the city. He shuffled for an hour, blanket over face hiding his northern features. Limping, he’d found a cup and held it up whenever someone got close. They spat at him, several kicked, and one man stabbed out with his blade. That one died in a deserted alley.
Hagan stooped over the corpse. Big brute, most likely some local bully boy. Wasn’t going to hurt anyone with his throat wide open. Hagan dragged the body into a drain cut. Stripped the big lad bare, and pilfered coin and purse. He didn’t need the cudgel, but stowed the three throwing knives up his sleeve.
Dirty shirt three sizes too big for him. Hagan was tall but lean as a whip, there’d be more flesh on a sparrow these days. He found some jerky in the man’s pocket and stuffed the contents into his mouth. He was thirsty. Time for a tavern as he dared not test the water in this city. Stale water meant slow death.
He walked on, back straighter, face knife-sharp, eyes scanning streets, alleys, walking up, closer and thicker into the city main. Less crap here, the streets were widening to avenues and he needed to be careful. Not so many scumbags here, Hagan would stick out like a swollen thumb.
But he needed a drink and somewhere to glean information. Fortunately, opportunity provided. Serendipity––sometimes you have to help it along. A wealthy looking fellow took a wrong turn. Red cloak, expensive boots, the fool stopped to take a leak in a side cut. Hagan detoured craftily. Crept up behind the man. Poor fellow was drunk, and fiddling with his drawstrings. He grunted as Hagan’s knife hilt cracked open the back of his skull.
This lad was more his size, though a bit shorter. It would suffice. Hagan stripped, and redressed in the unconscious man’s clean garb. It smelled perfumed which had his nose crinkling, so used to smelling shit.
Thanks, mate.
Hagan stepped out into the alley a different person. Cloaked, booted; the fit was perfect. Made for me. He wore a hat that covered his head and allowed him to mask his features. Two more knives and a second sword. This curved towards the point and hardly used.
Better still, a purse containing three gold coins and a jingle of silver.
Tavern time...
Hagan walked briskly now, more confident –– another well-heeled visitor to the city. He looked the part as long as no one smelled him. That would be bad. He needed a wash, but first had to drink plenty lest he weaken further.
A tavern. Shabby broken door hanging on one hinge. Hagan shoved it aside and wandered in. A girl squinted at him with her one good eye.
“We’re closed––so fuck off.”
“Thanks,” Hagan said and took seat on the battered stool, facing the taproom. “But I think you can help me.”
“Orn!” The woman yelled to someone upstairs and Hagan heard heavy feet approaching from a back door. “You were warned,” the woman said. “Now my bro’s going to bust your skull open.”
Orn was a brute, even bigger than the alley thug Hagan had murdered this morning. He grabbed a cudgel from behind the counter and swung hard at Hagan’s face.
Bad idea. And just the encouragement Hagan needed. He caught the club mid-swing and pulled Orn close, upsetting his balance so the big lad almost fell on him. Hagan butted him hard, knocking his head back, and then chewed at Orn’s nose until he cried out in alarm.
The woman heaved a chair and circled on him screeching like an abandoned kettle. Hagan knocked her off her feet and slipped a stolen knife into his hand. He pricked Orn beneath his jaw, a small bead of blood getting the thug’s attention.
“I need water, clean water. Your bitch sister can fetch it.” Orn nodded, and the woman staggered to her feet, swore at him, but returned with a pitcher she slammed on the counter, its frothy contents spilling over.
Hagan switched hands, keeping his left on the blade. He swiveled on the stool and pored the cool liquid into his mouth, spilling half of it on his lap. Didn’t matter, he soon felt better.
“I need information,” Hagan smiled at the woman.
“We don’t know nothing,”
“Well, then I’ll just cut his throat open, and while he’s dying pass the time by giving you a good stoking. That done, I’ll gut you too,” The way you deal with these sort of people. Crude but effective. It worked. She looked scared for the first time, and Orn made a gurgling noise.
“Glad you appreciate the situation,” Hagan smiled, pricking Orn’s throat again. “There are northerners in this city. Mercenaries. Where do I find them?”
“Don’t know,” the woman said, and Hagan pricked Orn again.
“Try harder.”
“He knows,” she motioned her brother.
“Well played,” Hagan grinned, and lightning fast switched the knife point to rest under Orn’s left eyeball. “But you see I’ve a trust issue with you pair. So Orn can speak or lose an eye.”
“The Green Duck on Upper Dock Street. Close by the tanneries,” Orn spat the words out, his sweat dripping on the floor. “It’s not far, close to the west gates leading to the upper city. Less than a mile. Keep climbing, the lanes will lead you there.”
“Thank you,” Hagan said pleasantly. “I’ve enjoyed this little visit. If you’ve lied I’ll return and kill you both, and torch this shithole to cinders.” He stood, slammed the knife hilt into Orn’s temple and pushed him forward. The woman yelled, but Hagan kicked her to the floor and left without further ado.
He’d had water, food, and now he had a plan. Life was looking up.
***
Borgil hated Permio as much as his mates. But whereas they spent most their waking hours bitching about it, he took a more practical view. A man could get rich here. Bide your time, do a few local jobs. Killing, robbing for the right people. Stay clear of the Elite like most sensible folk. Big city, plenty of room for everyone.
Outlawed in the north, Borgil and his team had ridden down here with the High King’s posse hard up their arses. They’d reached Raleen and laid low for a time. But that country, although fiercely independent, was still part of the Four Kingdoms—and the High King’s arm reached down there too.
Permio was their salvation. Last stop before the hangman’s noose. Surrounded by desert on three sides, and sea to the north, the Narion’s Delta coiling around the Upper City like a fat lazy snake. Be hard to invade a place like this. But easy to make a living for those who kept their heads screwed on.
Borgil determined to do that. Fond of his head, he always wore his kettle helm despite the wretched heat. It was his trademark, that and the queer eating habits. Badger Borgil the lads called him on account of his taste for road kill. You take what’s on offer in this life. Don’t pay to be fussy.
Besides, he liked the Green Duck. An odd name for a tavern. Borgil hadn’t seen any ducks in the vicinity. Perhaps on the river? The hostelry was well run and the grog not half bad. The lasses were easy, but you had to be careful lest you catch something. Coffee was good too, and the odd smoke.
And they liked northerners, or at least pretended to. Borgil’s boys had straightened out some of the local gangs, putting a halt to the protection racket in this corner of the city.
They’d only been here three months, arriving at the end of the war between the sultan in Sedinadola and the rebels from the trading city Agmandeur––wild deranged tribesmen led by some savage they called Wolf of the Desert. Borgil had never been to the desert and had no desire to go. Flies and dust and bugger all else. Why go there?
They had everything they needed in Cappel Cormac.
The Duck was busy this morning, the girls weaving back and forth with dishes and mugs. Borgil reached across and squeezed one’s behind. She winked at him and faded off into the kitchens. Borgil would catch up with that one later.
Lazy morning. The lads were dicing, save Coly and Dol who were away down the docks checking on vessels, and newcomers in town. Borgil’s team were unofficially working for the big man away in Sedinadola. Of course, no one ever mentioned that, and the Crimson Elite would ignore that small detail were an altercation to occur.
That said, it kept the common rogues at bay. They’d cleaned up this part of town. Twelve big northern lads. Veterans of the eastern frontier where the Four Kingdoms held back the barbarians who continued to raid out of the endless forests of Leeth. Some were retired Bears, others deserters. Redhead Dol was an ex-Tiger who’d been thrown out the regiment for murdering a corporal. Good lad, Dol. Nasty temper.
Borgil was originally from Kella City but the three regiments had turned him down––even the Wolves, who weren’t normally that fussy. That was part of the reason he took to robbing the Great South Way. Made a good income until Lord Caswallon, the High King’s new enforcer, took an interest and sent a squad of thugs to nail him.
Borgil had bolted to Kelthara the outlaw city—Caswallon’s claws had small influence there. He’d met the others, decided on this long-term career plan. Tenacious Caswallon wouldn’t stop until they were swinging.
So here they were in this filthy stinking fleshpot. Dicing, drinking, screwing and fighting like pike circling in a muddy lake.
The door creaked open spilling sunlight into the taproom. One of the lads swore, Borgil turned and saw a man standing there. A silhouette framed by glare, tall, lean, two swords hanging from a belt. Borgil reached for his ax and rose slowly from his stool. Strangers were enemies in this place.
He approached the door, two of the others joining him. The man said nothing, stood there gazing at them. He took a step forward. Borgil took stock. Lanky, confident, stank of shit but was garbed well enough. A thief, obviously. Murderer, most likely. Borgil slapped the ax haft into his left palm and blocked the entrance.
“Don’t think I know you,” Borgil said.
“Name’s Hagan––I’m Morwellan.”
“Not your fault,” Borgil said. “I’ve heard they’re all goat fuckers up there.”
“Sheep,” Hagan smiled at him showing perfect white teeth, his eyes gray as winter seas. “The goats are too agile.”
“You’re in the wrong tavern,” Strain the Rope said, standing beside Borgil, a long, wickedly curved knife in his hands, the red scarf hiding the torn tissue on his neck.
“Sign said Green Duck,” Hagan said stepping forward and stopping as Borgil and his men checked his progress. “I’m wanting an ale. Be good fellows and step aside.”
“Go,” Borgil slapped the ax in his palm again. “We don’t need Morwellans, especially if they all smell like you.”
“Unfortunate happenstance,” the man Hagan said. “I was ditched by my companion, left in the shit. You might know him. Operates down here. Tall fellow, scar on forehead. Fucking great sword.”
“That’s got to be Corin an Fol,” Rejen said joining them from a corner. Rej had his blade drawn and was pointing it at the newcomer. “He’s not welcome here either.”
“Well then you can help me find him so I can shove a sword up his arse,” Hagan said, taking another step into the taproom.
“You’re a confident bastard,” Borgil said. “There are ten of us in here, legal employees of the sultan. Charged with cleaning up this quarter. That means eradicating shitheads like you, and Corin an Fol––whoever the fuck he is?” Borgil shot a questioning glance to Rejen who shrugged.
“Got a reputation, heard him mentioned once or twice. A renegade Wolf. Down here during the war. Survived a massacre in the desert–-only one as did. Last I knew he’d gone back north.”
“I was with him last week,” Hagan said folding his arms. He looked bored, and Borgil was almost impressed by the man’s arrogance. How this Hagan had survived in Cappel with an attitude like that was remarkable. “I’d like to catch up with him again,” Hagan said.
Borgil saw movement to his left––his girl was back lingering in the corner. Time to deal with this pest. “You need to leave, Morwellan, else I cut a few chunks off your skinny hide.”
“You can try,” Hagan smiled, the fingers of his right hand brushing the sword on that side. The left hand held a knife. Where the fuck had that come from?
Borgil stepped forward. Swung hard and fast...
***
And Hagan leaped aside, his tossed knife pinned the rangy one with the scarf’s arm to the doorframe, and his right boot impacted the brute with the kettle helm. He stepped forward, rammed his sword pommel up under the big man’s chin. Kettle head slumped to the rushes.
The third man swung across with his broadsword but the blade stuck in the door, Hagan winked at him and then kicked him hard in the balls.
The remaining seven were on their feet, dice discarded and faces red with rage. The girls and odd customer looked on with interest, things not going as they’d expected.
The seven surrounded him, blades leveled. Hagan stepped over Kettle Helm and stowed his knife. “I was just playing,” he said, hinting their three friends on the floor. “If you boys want to increase the stakes, then do step forward.” They blinked, the sun’s glare in their faces, and eyes widened seeing the second sword appear in Hagan’s other hand.
“You scraggy cats are no match for me,” Hagan said, stepping forward and smiling as the seven backed away. “Be sensible. All I’m after is a drink and friendly chat.”
“We’ll kill you,” one said.
“I expect so,” Hagan smiled at that one. “But, you know––I don’t much fucking care. Been a shit year, and a man has to die sometime. Why not today? Besides, I’ll take half of you wankers with me.” He smiled again.
“He’s a fucking nutter,” another one said. But they hadn’t moved, seemed uncertain what to do. On the floor Kettle Helm groaned and rose to his knees. Hagan booted him in the face and he slumped forward again.
“Make your mind up time,” Hagan let the blades dance in his hands. “I’m having that beer, lads.”
The nearest shrugged and stowed his blade, a long-haired rogue with pony tail and eye-patch. “Let him through,” he said. “Every man deserves a drink before they die.”
“Sensible fellow,” Hagan glided through to the counter as the men surrounded him again. “Large one,” Hagan said to the nearest girl. “You boys can relax.” he rested the swords against the counter.
“Enjoy your drink,” Eye-patch said. “You’re leaving here in a box. They stood over him as the girl poured a tankard full of honey colored ale. Hagan downed the contents and belched.
“Ah, that’s better. Got my second wind.” He stood slowly, wiped his mouth, half turned, and snapped a palm lightning-fast into Eye-patch’s face. That one fell away but the other six were on him.
Hagan tossed a stool at one, taking him in the knees. He dived and rolled, hurled a knife at the next man pinning his wrist to the wall, kicked number three in the face, then jumped sideways and elbowed the next one trying to cut his throat from behind. Hagan stamped on that fellow’s foot and grabbed his balls with a hand, slamming up against the wall, the back of his head ramming, impacting a nose. He vaulted over to where the swords rested, retrieved the blades and swung them in unison.
The two left standing watched those swords for a moment and decided to call it a day. Kettle Helm was on his feet again, but looked a bit sick.
“What did you say your name was?” Kettle asked.
“Hagan, formerly of House Delmorier. Now an outlaw and renegade due to unfair circumstances.”
“Welcome to the Duck,” Kettle Helm rose to his feet and yelled the girls get ale for all. “I’m Borgil, and these are my crew. Think you’ll fit well enough in our gang. You seem to have the right attitude.”
“I’m not joining,” Hagan said. “I’m leading. You boys are looking at your new boss.” Strangely no one contradicted him.
Later that day, hard into his cups, Hagan questioned Borgil about the situation in Cappel Cormac—explaining how he’d only just arrived and had fallen foul of the Crimson Elite already. Thanks to that longshanks with the big sword.
“Elite are vicious,” Borgil said. “The sultan loves them nearly as much as his administrators, tax collectors, and priests. And they don’t like us–– the Crimson–– though we’re tolerated as we clean up their messes. Twats are overrated,” Borgil said and Hagan assumed this was a bone of contention.
“What about this Corin an Fol?” Hagan asked Eye-patch, whose name he’d learned was Dilan.
“Know him by reputation only,” Dilan said. “Something of a legend in the city. We arrived after he’d left. Think he was thrown out the Wolves.”
“People don’t get thrown out of the Wolves,” Borgil laughed. “They get thrown in.”
“It’s what I heard,” Dilan said. “He doesn’t like us Bears much, but I can’t say I blame him for that. General Belmarius tossed me and Ropey Strain over there out of the regiment for pilfering. Strain took it hard, killed a few lads at scoff. Belmarius let him swing for a time. Luckily, I found him, and cut the noose. Strain don’t say much on account of his squeaky voice. I heard they rejected you,” this last comment to Borgil who scowled.
“Fuck the Bears, I say,” Borgil said. “We’re free men down here.”
“So where is Corin now?” Hagan asked but no one knew and he was content to let the matter rest, especially as one of the girls had come and sat on his knee, her nimble fingers unlacing his drawstrings and fumbling beneath.
“Think I’ll call it a day.” Hagan allowed the girl to lead him upstairs. He saw them watching him leave. He’d sleep with a knife in each hand tonight. But first there was another appetite to appease.
Chapter 5 | Too Late
“So, what’s your plan––bitch?” The slap sent her sprawling, and the kick hurt so bad she started sobbing again. “Father’s going to find you and cut you open.”
Nalissa crumpled to a kneel, and wrapped her bruised arms around her knees, the fresh tears mingling with old stains. She knew she was a mess, lip badly swollen, hair disheveled, clothes torn and stained by grime. Her captor looked at her with cool dispassion, like a fisher observing the day’s catch.
