by Chad A. B. Wilson
in Issue 113, June 2021
The reddening sky matched the small fire’s flames, which crackled as the rabbits sizzled. Brock turned the makeshift spit and looked to the mountains far behind him. Prairie and nothingness lay between him and those peaks. The road in front—a dirt trail, really—led from Middlin, the largest city south of the capital of Falsea. Some sparse woods dotted the landscape. The clouds rolled on, mostly high, but some low and moving fast, pushed by the cool breeze.
Something else interrupted the calm: the screeching and banging of a wagon rushing down the road. A cloud of dirt bore down on Brock from the direction of Middlin. A wagon only went that fast when it was out of control or it was being chased.
Brock stood and took his bow in hand. He shouldered the quiver and nocked an arrow as he walked back to the road. The cloud of dirt obscured the exact cause of the disturbance, but it was close enough by now to hear the yells of men.
The wagon appeared, pulled by two horses running at their fullest gallop, spittle swishing from their lolling tongues, clearly not meant to run so fast when pulling an open wagon with two men in the front seat. One of them was old with a white head of hair, the other younger. The rush of air felt good, right before the dust hit him. Then, directly behind the wagon, four horses followed, men on all, swords drawn, one grabbing hold of the wagon itself from the rear.
Sometimes there’s nothing to be done, Brock thought. We make do with the choices we’re given. Instead of contemplating any longer whether he should, he lifted the bow, took aim, and loose two arrows in quick succession. The man who had made it partially onto the wagon fell back into the road, only to be trampled by one of the other horses, which faltered, tried to halt, and then pitched forward, the horse’s head in the dirt. The rider catapulted.
One of the remaining riders stopped and turned to look at Brock. The other rode on until he realized his companions were no longer with him. Then he turned and galloped back to where his friend stood in the stirrups of his horse, trying to see Brock through the dust.
They were too far away to take a good shot, so Brock walked back to the fire and set his bow and quiver down. Then he moved back to the road and stood there in the middle facing the two riders. They started toward him, not at full gallop, but moving briskly. Brock unsheathed his sword and smiled at the zing! it made when he unleashed it. He stood his ground as the men came on, both with swords, coming quickly now, more dust rising behind them.
He didn’t get a good look at them until they were almost on him—the first one had dark splotches on his face, some kind of tattoo; the second had a head of long blond hair flowing behind him.
Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. Brock jumped to the right as the tattooed man reached him, and he came up with the sword on the left side of the second rider. The blonde man had been expecting Brock on his right side, however, and he couldn’t pivot to defend his left. Brock’s sword struck the horse first, and then sliced through the rider’s calf. Both horse and rider tumbled in the dirt.
The tattooed rider turned back and came on again. Brock pulled a knife from under his cloak, grabbed it by the blade, and flung it. The rider lost the reins as he grasped his chest with both hands, his sword thudding to the ground directly in front of Brock, the horse and rider running harmlessly on. A few gallops further and that last rider fell with a thud. The horse ran on.
Brock walked over to the blonde man, who lay on the ground a few feet from his horse. “My leg!” the man screamed. “You cut off my goddamn leg!”
Brock towered above him. Blonde’s leg was still there, of course, but just barely. Functionally, the man was right.
“Hey, wait!”
Brock stabbed him in the chest. Blood gurgled from his mouth as he gasped and died.
The horse scrambled in the dirt, a few feet away. Brock stepped towards it, and it kicked harder, almost gaining its feet before collapsing again, this time staying still, breathing fast and hard, its top eye watching Brock. Damn waste of a fine horse. Brock walked towards its head, grimaced, and put it out of its misery. A sword through the brain did the trick.
Then Brock walked toward where the others had fallen. The air began to clear. The first one he’d shot attempted to crawl away on his stomach, groaning. Brock stabbed him and walked on, waving his hand around his head to clear the last of the dust. The tattooed man with the knife in his chest laid in the road, arms splayed to each side, a stream of blood running from his chest to the newly formed reddish-brown pool beside him. Brock looked up and around, and, sure enough, the one who had been pitched from his horse was running through the prairie toward the woods, limping and holding his arm. Brock shrugged. He’d hopefully die in the woods.
He looked up and saw the wagon down the road. It faced the other way. Brock hoped he hadn’t screwed up. Not much time to consider, but he had assumed quite a lot when he’d decided to intervene. If the wagon were full of brigands, they didn’t deserve the rescue. If they came back, they were probably innocent. If they rode on, probably guilty.
Let them figure it out. In the meantime, Brock searched the bodies and found a small purse, a few coins, swords, knives, and two skins of wine. They probably had a camp nearby. If he could find that, he’d get the rest of their spoils. They weren’t great at their job, but they had probably managed to take a few merchants unaware. Not starving was a measure of success. Oh well. He never was that good at tracking. He’d probably never find the camp.
He took their stuff back to the fire. When he looked up, he saw the wagon coming towards him. The younger one who had been the passenger rode one of the brigand’s horses and led a second horse by its bridle. Good for them, Brock thought. They came back. And they had caught the other horses. Maybe they’d share one. He sure would love a horse. Damn shame he killed the other one.
“Ho!” the wagoneer called. “May we join you?”
“The weather’s fair,” Brock replied.
“And we’re all under its canopy,” came the traditional reply. Two men approached the fire, and Brock stood.
The passenger got off his horse and walked over, along with the older man, who had climbed down from the wagon.
“I’m Ivers,” the older man said. “This is my son, Coth.” Ivers pointed to the younger man beside him, then extended his hand to Brock.
Brock shook it, then moved to the younger man. “I’m Brock.”
Another man walked up behind them. Brock hadn’t even seen that there was a third in the wagon. He must have been laying down in the back. “This is Granthe,” Ivers told Brock. Granthe set a lute case on the ground and joined his two friends by the fire.
Great, Brock thought, a bard.
“I don’t know how we can repay you, sir,” Ivers told him. “That was some fine fighting. You know your way around a sword.”
“Sometimes it comes in handy,” Brock said.
“Well, if you don’t mind that we join you, we have some vegetables to be roasted, if you’ll share your rabbits.”
Brock gestured to the open space in front of him.
The two men retrieved a basket from their wagon, then busied themselves wrapping and putting the vegetable packets on the fire.
“Tell me, Mr. Brock, where’d you learn your skill?” Ivers asked.
“King’s Finest. Too many years.”
“Well, we’re a day outside Middlin, and it will take another day to get to Blinhe. With what just happened, I’m a bit nervous not having an escort, if you know what I mean. If you’re headed that way, perhaps we can ride together.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Brock told the old man.
“I’m not sure what we can pay you, though,” Coth said.
“I’ll take one of those horses,” Brock said. “I’m going that way, anyway.”
“Of course! It’s yours! They’re both yours if you want ‘em,” Ivers said.
“No need.” Brock half-smiled. “Only need one. The mare, if you please.”
“Certainly,” Ivers said. “Good, then. It’s a deal. Let’s celebrate with a song!” Ivers motioned to Granthe, who opened his lute case, a gleeful expression on his face.
“No, no,” Brock insisted. “Let’s dispense with the singing. That’s part of my pay.”
“What do you have against music?” the bard asked.
“Few weeks ago, I destroyed a kid’s lute. Nearly killed the bard. I’ve had enough singing for a while.”
That shut him up.
#
They came upon Blinhe in the late afternoon. They passed a few farms, and the workers looked up as they rode by. A man stood by a cart and nodded.
Brock turned to Ivers, who drove the cart. “Blinhe has its own farms. Why do you come here to sell?”
“Lord Reemd,” Ivers said. “He’s always been good, and the farmers here don’t grow the more exotic produce we do outside Middlin. There’s no market here, so the village only produces what its people need to survive. We generally spend a few days here.”
“Why?” Brock asked as the village came into view. Brock had been here before several years earlier, but he had only passed through. Small villages didn’t often have need of his services.
“It’s a nice little village, and we’re known here. Made a few friends.”
Brock spotted the Lord’s manor up on a slight rise. It wasn’t like the rich houses in the capital’s Gardenside district, and it certainly wasn’t a castle, but it might as well have been. It’s low stone wall, two-story towers at each corner, and the larger three-story house itself stood in stark contrast to the rest of Blinhe.
They rode over a small bridge spanning a creek that wound through the town, snaking around some wood and thatched-roof houses. Then they came to a stone building still under construction. It was large, with a wooden fence surrounding it, directly in front of a large plot of farmland. About one-half of the new building was already complete, but the other half had only partial walls.
“Any idea what that is?”
“Wasn’t here a year ago when we came,” Ivers answered. “No idea. Looks like it’s attached to the church.”
Sure enough, they came upon the typical, small village church. A few people milled about outside. Kids played in the road. A dog barked.
They made their way toward the manor house, and Brock pulled up his horse. “The inn’s on the other side of town, if I remember right,” he told the others. “Aren’t we staying there?”
“Have to see the Lord first,” Ivers called back. “That’s the rule. When you go into one of these small towns, have to present yourself to the Lord.”
Yeah, Brock thought, I just never do it. He considered going on to the inn but decided to meet the Lord, anyway. Maybe the Lord could be useful.
Granthe leaned forward from the back of the wagon. “Never hurts to meet a lord, I say. You never know when a rich patron will sweep you off your feet!”
Then he started whistling. Prick.
“If you don’t want to come, you can go on, Mr. Brock,” Ivers said.
“Deal’s a deal,” Brock said, as he turned his horse to follow. “Lords can be just as vicious as brigands, in my experience.”
The gate stood open, and they entered the courtyard with its several horses and other farm animals milling about. A guard stood by the door leaning on the side of the building, his leather armor hanging loosely. The man didn’t even bother to put it on right. Still, he had a sword on his side, which was enough to make him dangerous.
An old man came out to greet them, even older than Ivers. He wore a nice set of clothes, but they were worn, and he had dirty patches on his knees. The old man worked.
“Hello!” he called, as he approached. “Ah, Mr. Ivers, nice to see you again.” Ivers climbed off the wagon and the two shook hands. Brock and Coth dismounted and joined Ivers and the bard.
“Mr. Green, you remember my son, Coth. This is Brock. And Granthe, a bard who rode with us from Middlin.”
Brock nodded.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Green!” Granthe swept low with an overpronounced bow. “I am available for all sorts of musical entertainments, of course!”
Mr. Green gave Granthe the slightest smile before turning back to Ivers. “You have a load of vegetables for us, Mr. Ivers?”
“Of course. Finest from Middlin.”
Brock almost laughed. He loved it when dramatists got their due. The bard just followed the group–more humbled, Brock hoped.
A young man, probably not more than twenty, occupied a large chair at the other end of the room. He glared at them as they entered. His short cropped brown hair was obviously styled with some sort of lard. It contrasted with Mr. Green’s unkempt dusty gray.
Brock looked over at Ivers, who appeared surprised.
“Lord Reemd died last year,” Mr. Green said softly as they entered the hall. “You remember his son?”
“Of course,” Ivers replied. Brock looked for further reaction, but Ivers didn’t reveal anything.
“Lord Reemd, Mr. Ivers and Mr. Coth, farmers from Middlin. And Mr. Granthe, a bard.”
“My Lord!” Granthe exclaimed, motioning all around the room with both hands, as he bowed and held his lute case in his left. “I am very pleased to be introduced to such a fine town as Blin!”
Brock’s lip upturned just a bit at the bard’s mispronunciation.
“I am always available for private entertainments, of course, My Lord! Songs, stories, tales of woe and heroism!”
“Whatever, whatever. Get on with it.” Reemd motioned the bard out of the way.
“And Mr. Brock from, uh…”
Brock shrugged and shook his head.
Someone shifted in the back of the room, behind Reemd, obscured in the shadows, watching. Brock couldn’t place him, but he seemed familiar. He stood against the wall with his hands clasped in front of him, a sword hanging. Obviously there to protect Reemd.
“My Lord, we were attacked by bandits a day north of here,” Ivers told Reemd. “Mr. Brock here killed them and made sure we arrived to Blinhe safely.”
Reemd looked up. “Did he, now? How quaint. What do you think about that, eh?” He motioned to the man behind him. The man just shifted his weight to the other foot. “Had another story about those ruffians and tried to get my men here to take care of ‘em, but they couldn’t find them. Have to have some discipline for that, eh?” he called back again.
Silence.
“They’re taken care of now, My Lord,” Ivers said, bowing slightly. “And Mr. Brock allowed me to bring you an assortment of produce from just south of Middlin: olives, cauliflowers, artichokes, and asparagus.”
“Fine, fine,” Reemd said, waving his right hand and inspecting something on his left digits.
“I am sorry about the loss of your father, Lord Reemd,” Ivers said. “He was a good man.”
“Fine, fine, yeah, take the lot of the produce, Green. I want the olives, artichokes, and cauliflowers.”
“All of them, my Lord?” Ivers said, smiling.
“Yeah, yeah, and I’m sure the church and abbey will buy the rest. You can pay me for allowing you to sell in Blinhe by giving me the produce I want. That’ll be all.” Reemd stood and took a step away, but Ivers protested.
“My Lord, I appreciate you allowing us to sell in Blinhe, but the olives and artichokes are my prized produce.”
“The best goes to the Lord, as even lowly farmers should know,” Reemd said.
“But your father allowed us…”
Reemd took three steps toward Ivers, and Ivers looked down.
“I. Am. Not. My. Father,” Reemd said, trickle of spit running from his lip. He paused and regained himself. “You will leave the olives, artichokes, and cauliflowers with Green. Then you can sell the rest as you wish. Do you understand?”
Brock looked from Reemd to Ivers, back to the man still standing in the rear of the room. How did he always get into these situations? Brock wondered. Life just kept throwing him into things. There’s what’s right and there’s what’s right. Whether a brigand or a Lord, didn’t matter much to Brock. Alas. Sometimes there’s nothing to be done.
“We’re not leaving anything.” He looked at Reemd and didn’t move.
“Excuse me?” Reemd said, turning to Brock.
Brock sucked in and briefly shut his eyes. He wanted to smile. To maybe wipe the smug look off Reemd’s face.
“How about we take our produce on to the next town?” Brock offered.
Ivers stammered. “No, no, Mr. Brock, that’s okay. Lord Reemd may have the produce.” Then, to Brock, more quietly, “Please, Mr. Brock, it’s not worth it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brock saw Granthe start looking around the room, backing towards the door. Coward.
Reemd stepped closer to Brock, close enough that Brock could smell the wine on his breath, mixed with something more offensive–the stink of sweat and grime. Lords were worse than commoners: they thought their shit didn’t stink.
“Brock, huh? And what are you, old man? A washed up sellsword?”
“Yep,” Brock said. “And we’ll be going, if that’s alright.” He turned to leave.
“Of course,” Reemd said. “Leave the produce with Green.”
Reemd turned and walked back toward the chair, his hand waving them off.
Brock stepped forward, but the other man was there, right in front of him, his hands grabbing Brock’s shirt and pushing him back a step. No one does that, but then Brock realized that the man in his face was not just anyone.
The man whispered, growling, an order. “You’re going to apologize to Lord Reemd. Then you’re going to leave the produce with Mr. Green. Then you’re going to spend the night at the inn. Am I clear, Constable Brock?”
Brock couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing. It had been a long time since he had been called Constable Brock. He recognized him now: Hoffstead. The one who was there when he had killed his commanding officer. The one who told him if he ever saw Brock again, he would kill him. The one he had avoided for fifteen years.
Yet here he was, guarding this little shit, Reemd.
Brock backed off and nodded. “Yeah, you’re clear.” Then he turned and walked toward the entrance, glancing back to make sure Coth and Ivers followed. Granthe scurried through the door first. Coth and Ivers bowed, thanked the Lord, and left just in front of Brock. Brock saw the self-satisfied smile on Reemd’s face and realized that he was probably going to have to finish what he and Hoffstead had started long ago. It would end with one of them dying, most likely. Then he’d wipe the smile from the Lord’s face.
The inn smelled of lamb and winter vegetables, probably roasting in the back. It was warm inside, which was perfect. Brock’s bald head didn’t appreciate the cold. There were two others in the place, both men, both burly, both with beards and long hair. Probably farmers or blacksmiths or something else typical for a village. Brock had traveled through many of them, and they were all pretty much the same.
“Something to celebrate!” Ivers said, lifting his mug high.
“Bah,” Brock grumbled. “Bastard stole half your yield. Don’t see much to celebrate.” He chinked his mug anyway. “No need to waste an excuse to drink, though.”
“Come on, Mr. Brock,” Ivers said, still smiling. “What the church paid more than made up for the Lord. Seems they’re building an abbey and already have a dozen novices living there. They need more than the village farms can produce. Maybe we didn’t make quite as much as we could have if the Lord had paid us, but it was still a decent haul.”
“What do you think, Coth?” Coth was not the talkative type, but Brock had had come to appreciate him over the last day or so. If he said it, it was probably right.
“Father saved the yield by haggling with the Abbess, but I’ll tell you this: I’m not bringing a load to Blinhe anymore.” He drank. “Not as long as that arsehole is still in charge.”
Ivers lifted his mug. “Never begrudge a wise son, Mr. Brock. He takes after his old man.” They all drank.
The bard sat on a stool near the door, tuning, listening carefully to each note while letting the lute ring close to his ear. Brock figured he couldn’t stop the bard from playing at the inn. At least there was ale to distract him.
“You back to Middlin, then?” Brock asked.
“Got a friend to visit in town. Probably go see ‘im tomorrow and head back the next day.” Ivers paused. “But we could use your company if you’re heading back. Never know what’s on the road.”
Brock shrugged. “Wore out my welcome in Middlin, I’m afraid.”
“I can pay you a little, Mr. Brock. You’re damn worth it. Hell, I thought you were going to cut down Lord Reemd right there in his own parlor. ‘Till that other guy stepped in.”
“Yeah,” Brock said. “Speaking of which, I’m expecting a visit from him tonight. You may want to steer clear when he comes. Might end badly.”
“I figured you knew ‘im,” Ivers said. “King’s Finest?”
“Yep. Constables in the same brigade. Had our own companies.”
“What happened?”
“You remember the Poldish War?”
“Of course. I was too old, and Coth was too young to fight, but yeah, of course I remember it. Wasn’t that long ago. And it lasted for bloody ever. Then that dragon…”
“Yeah, well, I started that damn war.”
Ivers and Coth both laughed and looked at one another, then back to Brock. Brock didn’t smile. He drank instead.
“Innkeep, get me a whiskey, please.” The innkeep put a glass on the table and poured Brock a shot. “Ended up killing my Colonel over it, too. An accident, maybe, but I knew I was right. Everyone thinks the Polds invaded Searithia, but that wasn’t it. Like I said, I was there. We marched our two companies right in and tore apart a whole Poldish brigade, me and Hoffstead, that bastard protecting little Lord Shitbrain. Then they wanted us to go back and lie about it, say we were attacked. I told him I wouldn’t do it. The Colonel said he was going to execute me for treason if I didn’t. Hoffstead, the conniving coward, agreed to lie about it. Me, I told the Colonel to shove his treason up his arse. Then he pulled his sword on me, and I shoved that up his arse instead. An accident, maybe, but the Colonel was dead just the same. Hoffstead let me go; said if he ever saw me again, he’d have to kill me.” Brock downed the rest of his whiskey and motioned for another.
“Damn,” Coth said.
“You figure he’ll make good on his promise?” Ivers asked.
“He was a good man. Best friend I ever had. Yeah…I figure he might.”
The bard began a jig. Brock shook his head.
“Mr. Hoffstead,” the barman said when the door opened. Brock shut his eyes. Well, if life were going to keep putting him in these situations, he would have to keep going through with it.
Hoffstead appeared much older than he was. Gray stubble lined his face, his hair white and stringy. His eyes sagged, which accentuated the lines above and to their sides. Brock and Hoffstead were the same age, and Brock hoped he didn’t look as haggard as his old friend. Brock had just had his head shaved in Middlin, and his life as a mercenary kept him in meals and clothes because he was good at killing people. Hoffstead, though, was a husk of a man. His clothes sagged as much as his eyes. Yet he had that sword at his belt and who knows how many knives hidden under his cloak. He was deadly with them all, Brock knew. The two of them had sparred many times, and Brock knew to be wary.
Brock motioned for two ales. The inn was empty except for Brock, Hoffstead, and the proprietor. Brock took the two mugs to a small table away from the bar itself and sat down, motioning for Hoffstead to sit across from him.
Hoffstead nodded and pulled out the chair, sitting down, sighing a bit too loudly, as if he rarely received such a luxury. “You remember what I told you the last time I saw you, Constable?” Hoffstead asked, taking a long drink from his ale.
“I have feared no one like I feared you. Sheath take me, I haven’t even been near Jermiah. Walked all over this damn empire, and the south I gave a wide berth. You’re the one man who could kill me.” Brock drank.
“Well, I’m not doing it tonight. Too much wrong in the world for two old friends to kill one another. Believe it or not, I always hoped I would never find you. Too afraid to keep my promise.” Hoffstead finished his mug and motioned for two more. “What was that, fifteen years ago?”
“Something like that. A long time. A really long time.”
“Ages.” Hoffstead cracked his knuckles, and Brock remembered his friend’s habit. Fifteen years, and everything changed, yet people remained the same.
They clinked their fresh mugs together. Hoffstead nearly smiled, the creases around his mouth taking on fresh crags. Brock tried to relax. He drank.
“I see you’re no longer in the Finest,” Brock mentioned.
“Nope. Finished the Pold War without getting my ass killed. You know the Princess signed a treaty with ‘em? Pulled us right out, no concessions. Damnedest thing.”
“I remember,” Brock said. “I was in Falsea at the time.”
“Bastards promoted me to Colonel. Without a war, I lost interest. I quit after about a year or so.”
“How did you end up here?”
Hoffstead leaned back and sneered. “That’s a long story. How ‘bout you? You’re too good at killing. I know you didn’t stop. I still remember you cutting through those hellhounds like butter.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve seen plenty since then, but those Halburd devil dogs still give me nightmares.”
Hoffstead smiled and leaned forward.
“So you act as personal bodyguard for farmers now?”
“You act as personal bodyguard for asshole lords now?”
Hoffstead laughed and leaned back. “Nice parry. We all make mistakes, you know.” He cracked his knuckles again.
“But you stayed.”
He raised his glass. “Like I said, ‘mistakes.’”
They sat in silence, and Hoffstead squeezed his eyes shut. The man set down his mug a bit too hard, and the ale sloshed onto the table. He grabbed his stomach, eyes and fists clenched.
“You alright?”
Hoffstead didn’t say anything. He stood, barely, knocking the chair to the floor. Then he fell to his knees before quickly regaining his feet. Brock stood, too. Hoffstead waved him off, then made his way slowly to the door, out into the brisk air.
Brock looked to the barman, who shrugged. “Happened before. He gets pains. Somethin’s wrong with that bastard, you ask me.”
Brock sat back down and finished his ale before retiring to his room. Something was wrong, alright. He had seen people with all sorts of illnesses, and nothing he knew struck like that out of the blue. The only thing that did that was magic.
Brock sat in the inn for most of the morning. Pleasant enough way to spend it. He ate corn meal mush and bacon with Ivers and Coth before they left to visit their friend. Then he sat alone and drank an ale while watching the village come alive through the common room’s window.
Nearing mid-day, Brock left and walked to the church. It was dedicated to Riaan, and Brock had some experience with them from years ago. One of their novices had healed him, and he had returned the favor by helping with a demon. Brock was not what one would call a religious man, but he had learned over the years to seek work in unlikely places. Goblins in the cellar? No problem. Demons in the crypt? Sure. Maybe a poltergeist was keeping the church’s construction project from completion. One never knew.
The church was run by the Abbess Bremea, a middle-aged woman who knew of Brock.
“Abbess Constantia mentioned you. Said you helped the Order in Falsea. Went to work with the Princess, I thought.”
“For a while,” Brock said. “Didn’t quite suit me.” He glanced around the Abbess’s study. “So you’re building an abbey next door?”
Abbess Bremea stood, straightened her robe, and motioned for Brock to exit. “Let me show you,” she said.
They walked through the small hallway full of offices and entered the main sanctuary with its high vaulted stone and glass. For most villagers, that church was the largest building they would ever come across. The lines of stone drew the eye up one side, across the vault, and down the other side.
“We’re dedicated to Riaan, but we support the worship of any of the twelve. We have at least one priestess for each of them.”
“For a small village, that’s a lot.”
They passed more alcoves, down one of the side aisles by the rows of pews that lined the center. She motioned through a door, and they left the church proper into the construction zone. It was what he had seen from the road when he had come into town the day before: a low stone building with a wooden fence surrounding the rest of the grounds.
“Why an abbey out here in the middle of nowhere when there’s one two days away in Middlin?”
“Good question. I like the idea of a country abbey. Many people would rather dedicate themselves to a familiar place. For country people, a country abbey makes sense. They may not wish to adapt to the city life of Middlin or Falsea.”
Brock nodded.
“We didn’t really have a choice, though.”
Brock stopped and looked at her.
“May I speak frankly, Mr. Brock?”
Brock didn’t move.
“Lord Reemd requested the abbey and then agreed to fund it.”
Brock squinted and cocked his head. “The new one or the old one?”
“The new one. Right after the Sheath took the previous Lord.”
“Not out of the goodness of his heart, I bet.”
“I fear not.” The Abbess walked on, and Brock followed beside her. “He’s put a lot of money into the new abbey.”
“I can tell. But what’s he getting from it, Abbess? And you’re only halfway done. You need a lot more gold to finish.” They walked together along the unfinished portion, stones and wood piled in various places inside the fence.
“I know, Mr. Brock, but he’s stalling. I fear he doesn’t really want the abbey.”
“From what I know about that little shit, I know he doesn’t. Doesn’t seem like the religious type. Pardon my crass way of speaking, Abbess.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Brock. Abbess Constantia told me you were blunt.”
Brock’s eyes shot up.
“Yes, she told me about you. She admired your bluntness. Said you were competent, too. You did what needed doing, no matter the cost.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. And when it needs doing, someone has to do it. But I’m not quite sure what we’re talking about here.” He stopped and faced her.
She looked at him, then looked out at the grounds. “He’s using our women, Mr. Brock.”
Brock squinted. “How’s that, Abbess?”
She sighed. “Every week or so, he sends for a new girl, who has to go and…stay with him for a while.”
“Are you saying he’s raping the novices?”
She breathed in deeply. “Yes, Mr. Brock, I’m afraid that is what I’m saying. He says it’s his right as the benefactor and Lord. Says it’s his prima noctae. They stay about a week and then come back…broken.”
Brock looked off and noticed the manor up on the hill above them.
“And then a few days later, he sends for another. I’ve tried to stop him, Mr. Brock, I promise I have, but I can’t do anything. If it were just about the money, I would give it up, but I’ve written to Abbess Constantia, and she says there’s nothing I can do. I’ve even written the Council of Priests, but they don’t believe me. They’re just set on getting the new abbey finished. I explained what was happening, but they won’t do anything about it until the abbey’s complete. I don’t know what to do.”
“Did he threaten you? Does he threaten the girls when he comes?”
“No, no, he never comes. He sends his man.”
“Green?” He knew, though, that it wasn’t.
“No,” the Abbess answered. “It’s that son of a bitch Hoffstead.”
Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. He was going to have to kill his oldest friend, after all. Then he’d deal with the Lord of Blinhe.
Once the inn had cleared for the night, Brock drank and listened to the storm rage outside. Ivers and Coth had turned in early, and Granthe sat in the corner, practicing more than playing. Brock wasn’t tipping.
Then the door opened and banged into a table, rain and wind whipping around the small tavern room. Hoffstead burst in, a cloak huddled around his lean body. He struggled to get the door shut. Brock watched him. Hoffstead glanced over, then turned away as the door clicked shut.
“Godsdamn, it’s feels like shit out there,” Hoffstead muttered as he walked up. He stopped about halfway to Brock’s table and proceeded more slowly after he’d met Brock’s eyes. The barman set down two mugs.
Brock nodded and watched Hoffstead.
“Mr. Hoffstead,” the barman said.
“Thanks, Hemi. How about two whiskeys, as well?” Hoffstead eyed Brock. The man knew something was up.
Hemi nodded and walked off. The two men watched each other, drinking in silence until Hemi returned with two glasses of whiskey.
“Hemi, would you mind giving us some privacy for a few moments?” Hoffstead didn’t take his eyes off Brock.
Hemi stepped back. “Um, yes, of course. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.” And he left.
“So,” Hoffstead said as he quaffed his whiskey. “Somethin’s in your craw. So what’s it gonna be?” He cracked his knuckles, and Brock grimaced at the sound.
“Sometimes there’s nothing to be done,” Brock said. He downed his whiskey in two swallows.
Hoffstead laughed, and it turned into a full-throated cough. “Godsdamn, it’s been years since I heard that. You only ever said that shit before you killed someone.”
“Yep.”
“So what’d you hear, Constable? Somethin’ about your old friend Hoffstead that just didn’t sit too well?” He cracked his knuckles again.
“Been talking to the Abbess.”
Hoffstead hung his head down and looked at the ground, his elbows on his knees. Then he stood up abruptly, and Brock jumped up, as well. Hoffstead reached out and pointed at Brock. “You don’t know what you think you know, Constable!”
Brock grabbed Hoffstead’s hand, turned the man around, and wrenched his hand behind his back, while pushing the table away. Their mugs thudded to the floor. One shattered. Brock walked Hoffstead across the room and slammed him into the wall. He pressed his old friend’s pained face into the wall with his left hand as he held Hoffstead’s right hand tight behind his back.
“Enlighten me,” Brock growled.
Hoffstead pushed back with his feet and left hand, turned around, and slammed his forehead into Brock’s nose. Everything went starry for a moment. Brock shook his head, bits of blood splattering the ground, just before he kicked and took Hoffstead’s leg out from under him. Then he was on top of Hoffstead, and his fist met Hoffstead’s mouth. Hoffstead smiled and coughed on a bit of blood trying to escape. He laid there.
Blood ran from Brock’s nose and dripped onto Hoffstead’s cheek. Hoffstead began to laugh. Brock got up and pulled a rag from his cloak. He wiped his nose. Damn, that hurt.
Hoffstead laid there, still laughing. It turned into more of a coughing fit, and then more laughing.
“Mr. Hoffstead?” The barman stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the tavern, watching Brock.
Hoffstead swallowed his laugh. “Yeah?” He snickered as he rolled over and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. “Everything’s fine. Don’t we look fine?” He got up and fell over again, still laughing.
“We’re done for now,” Brock said. “If I decide to kill him, I’ll call you.”
Hemi opened his mouth, then closed it. He left.
Brock kicked Hoffstead lightly, just to remind the man he was there. “What’s the matter with you, Hoffstead? What happened? You playing the villain now?”
Hoffstead got up. “The role I was destined to play.” He smiled. “Sometimes there’s nothing to be done, right?”
“Hmm.”
Hoffstead picked up his chair and moved the table back into place. Then he plopped down and spat on the floor while gesturing for Brock to return to his seat.
Brock waited a moment, then looked up and saw Granthe, still in the corner, standing on a table, trying to get as far away as possible from the two men.
Brock hrumphed. “Probably time to call it a night, eh, bard?”
Granthe nodded, climbed down, and walked by the two men, bumping into two different tables on his way to the stairs.
Brock went behind the bar and grabbed two more glasses and what looked like a bottle of whiskey. He pulled out the cork and poured two fingers for each of them. Hoffstead drank and spit again, wiping his mouth on his cloak. Brock drank and then wiped his own nose.
“We’re a sad sight,” Hoffstead said. “Two washed up middle-aged men beating the shit out of one another. Like a carnival act.”
Brock nodded.
“I’m not myself,” Hoffstead said.
Brock nodded. “Is that an apology?”
Hoffstead shook his head. “Nah. Too late for that.”
Brock poured another whiskey.
“I came through Blinhe right before I quit the Finest. Sweet little town back then. We had a small group stationed here, and I was leading it. Problem with bandits in the hills. Sheath take me, that was probably ten years ago. We were here a few months before we tracked down the bandits. One of ‘em got a spear through me, though. Right through the gut. I was a dead man.”
“I’ve been there,” Brock said.
Hoffstead smiled. “I bet. The company brought me back here, but there was no infirmary or anything, so they took me to the church. The old Abbess tried to heal me, but it didn’t work. I needed faith or some nonsense.”
“We already established you were the villain.”
Hoffstead smiled. “The Lady came, the asshole’s mother. She made them bring me to the manor. Made the old Lord Reemd send for an apothecary. Blinhe didn’t have one, so they sent someone to Middlin to bring one back. I laid for days. Someone removed the spear, but the blood didn’t stop. Got infected. Fever. Like I said, I was dying.”
“Go on.”
“That woman…” Hoffstead poured himself another.
“She loved you,” Brock said.
Hoffstead grunted. “I suppose. We met when I first came to town and started a little dalliance. A lovely woman. Best I ever knew.”
“Reemd realized it, I suppose.”
“Yep. Damn woman made it obvious. She sat by my deathbed. I was out of it, of course. I don’t even remember much of it. But supposedly, she didn’t leave.” He drank. “So the apothecary comes and says there’s nothing he can do for me. The Lady begged. The Lord is furious at his wife by this point, and I guess he wants revenge on me. Letting me die isn’t revenge enough. Oh no. He has to keep me alive so he can torture me some more.”
“Magic?” Brock asked.
Hoffstead smiled. “You heard this story before?” He cracked his knuckles.
“Ones like it. Once or twice.”
“Then you know magic isn’t just cast-a-spell-and-heal-someone, right? So he can heal me, but my pain just leaves me. It has to go somewhere. So he puts my pain or whatever the hell, I don’t know, in some amulet in a box or whatever. I’ve never seen it, I don’t know. Can’t tell you what it looks like.”
“But it’s still you.” Brock downed his whiskey.
Hoffstead nodded. “Yep. Still me. Or at least a part of me. So Reemd has this amulet with a part of me in it, and he can…cause….pain.”
“Like last night.”
“Yeah. Leaves me no choice. It won’t kill me, but it makes it impossible to do anything besides obey.”
“And the woman?”
“She died. Went to Falsea with two of her ladies and never returned. The Lord made me quit the Finest and stay with him here. I had to do whatever he said. He didn’t make me do a lot, though. Didn’t just torture me or anything. Pretty fair, considering what I did to him.”
“And the new Lord?”
“Ten hells, that little piece of shit doesn’t know fairness when it smacks him in the face. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in pain. I go to him, and he just laughs.”
Hoffstead shrugged. “So what now, I kill him for you?”
“I’m not sure what that’ll do. Magic’s weird, you know? It’s a part of me, but it’s like it’s attached to him. He doesn’t have to do anything to make me feel pain. He just thinks it. It responds to him. Somehow they passed it down from father to son, the bastards.
“But I can’t do anything about it. I can’t even get close to it. I went searching for it a few times, but the kid told me that if I ever got too close, it would incapacitate me, maybe for good. I don’t know, maybe the bastard was lying, but I couldn’t take the chance. I can’t even enter his room.”
“He won’t let you?”
“No, I can’t. Something stops me every time I try. I can’t actually get inside the room.”
Brock drank and looked at Hoffstead, who met his gaze. The blood had stopped, but it had dried on Hoffstead’s cheek and around his mouth.
“So what do we do?” Brock asked.
A shrug. “We steal the amulet.”
Brock always felt weird when he asked women to do dirty work. At first, he went to the Abbess and asked if there were any women who had not yet been sent to the manor. Nope. Any expected to come to the abbey in the next week or so? Nope. Any that Lord Reemd had requested repeat visits from? Nope.
Then the Abbess asked him why.
“I need access to Reemd Manor,” Brock told her.
“Well, there’s always his sister,” Abbess Bremea said. “She’s a member of the Order. And she lives in the Manor. You can ask her.”
Brock laughed. A sister. Great.
“I’m sorry, Mr., umm, Brock, but I don’t know you,” the sister said when he asked about where Reemd kept his valuables. The woman was in her late teens, and she was pretty, with long brown hair that curled, even in the tight bun she kept it in.
“I know you don’t, Miss Hyjienne, but I need your help. I’m not trying to rob your brother.”
Brock paused and reconsidered. Damn, why was talking always so difficult?
“Miss Hyjienne, do you know what your brother does with the women from the Abbey?”
“That’s not my business, and it’s certainly not yours.”
Brock paused again and leaned back. She knew.
“Do you want me to stop him?”
“If you want to kill him, that’s your business. Sheath take ‘im, the idiot’s a bastard who deserves it.”
Brock scoffed.
“What do you think about Hoffstead?”
She glared at him, leaned forward, squinted, and whispered, “I hate that man.”
So there it was. She probably blamed Hoffstead for her mother’s death. Knew that he worked for her brother. Knew he brought women for him to rape. As much as she might want the raping to stop, she wouldn’t help Hoffstead.
Brock changed tack again. “I’m looking for an amulet, owned by your brother. You ever seen one?”
She chuckled softly. “An amulet? What, like, he wears it?”
“Don’t think so. Anywhere else he might keep it?”
“Is that what you want to steal?”
Brock nodded. “Not to sell it or anything. It’s not valuable in that way. I just need it to help someone.”
“To help whom?”
Brock watched her.
“The women of Riaan, for one.”
She squinted at him. “How?”
Damn, there was no way around it.
“Look, Miss Hyjienne, you need to make a choice. On the one hand, your brother’s a menace who preys on young women using his money and influence. On the other, you hate Hoffstead. If you want me to stop your brother, you have to help me help Hoffstead. I need the amulet.”
She looked away. Eventually, she turned back, then stood to leave.
“I need to decide which is worse,” she muttered as she strode from the room.
Brock sat there until Abbess Bremea came back.
“Well, Mr. Brock, will she help you?”
Brock shook his head. “I have no idea.”
Four days later, Brock returned to Blinhe. He went straight to the inn, ate a bowl of mashed potatoes and carrots with a piece of chewy beef, then crashed into bed. He had spent four days on the road—two traveling back to Middlin with Ivers and Coth, and two back to Blinhe–and he didn’t like traveling all that much. At least he had a horse this time.
The next morning, Brock awoke early and went out into the crisp morning air. He walked to the Abbey and knocked on Abbess Bremea’s office door. They exchanged a few pleasantries, and the Abbess seemed out of sorts. He wanted to ask about it, but he refrained. If it was something that concerned him, the Abbess would tell him. If not, he didn’t need to get involved in religious squabbles.
Miss Hyjienne scowled at him as soon as she entered the office. Was she transferring her hatred of Hoffstead onto him? Living with Reemd might make the woman hate everyone.
They sat across from one another in two armchairs. Neither said anything. She looked out the window while Brock looked at her. It was either get revenge on the man who destroyed and possibly killed her mother, or help the women of her chosen order. It was a toss-up.
And there it was, the beginning of a tear. It built up in the corner of her eye, then began to roll.
She wiped it and glared at him. “What?”
Brock shrugged and looked out the window.
“He hurt Yimeen,” she said but didn’t look over. She stared out the window, too.
Brock didn’t say anything. He had learned to keep his mouth shut. If people were willing to divulge information while being contemplative, let it happen. It didn’t need his intervention.
“I kept seeing her in the house, but she would cry. Then she couldn’t walk. Then she was in the medic.”
“I’m sorry,” Brock said.
She looked at him.
“What does the amulet look like?”
“I don’t know,” Brock said.
“How do you find it?”
“It’s in his room, I think.”
“Why can’t Hoffstead just go take it, then?”
“He can’t enter. There’s some kind of ward on the room.”
She smiled. “Oh yeah? A ward? Not a use of that word I’m familiar with.”
Brock hrumphed. “Magic of some kind. Prevents Hoffstead from entering.”
“Magic? Do you believe in goblins, too?”
Brock nearly laughed. He choked but held it in. His left lip turned up the slightest bit, and Miss Hyjienne looked at him sideways, her scowl lessening. Yes, in fact, he did believe in goblins. They were very real. Goblins, demons, the whole lot of ‘em. He’d fought more than his share.
Brock choked it back. “Ever wonder why Hoffstead sticks around, Miss Hyjienne?”
She shrugged. “He’s paid?”
“Hmm. Why do you hate him?”
“He killed my mother. Sheath can take the bastard.”
Brock’s eyes widened. “He killed your mother? You sure about that?”
She shrugged again. “True just the same. He may not have held the knife, but it’s because of him she’s dead.”
Brock nodded. “Who held the knife?”
Another shrug. “Some ruffian, most likely.”
“Who hired him?”
“My father, Mr. Brock. He was a good man most of the time, but he was jealous, too. And Hoffstead made him a cuckold.”
“Why not kill Hoffstead, then? Why kill your mother?”
Shrug. Damn these shrugs.
“She loved that rat bastard. Too easy to kill him. Wouldn’t change anything.”
“So your father did the right thing?”
“Don’t put your words into my mouth, Mr. Brock. It was wrong. But my mother was wrong, too.”
“So why did Hoffstead stay after that?”
Shrug. “I suppose my father had something on him.”
Brock nodded. “Yeah. He used magic on him. He holds a part of the man. Can use it to cause pain. Keep him here a slave.”
She looked at him. Shrug. “Not my problem.”
Brock looked away. “That’s why I need the amulet.”
“To free Hoffstead? Like I said, ‘I hate the man.’ Why do I need to help Hoffstead to help the Order?” She leaned in, a whisper. “Why don’t you just kill my bastard brother?”
Brock leaned back. “Well, because I owe Hoffstead. He once…helped me.”
“I. Don’t. Care. About. Hoffstead.”
Brock leaned back again. He didn’t know whether this girl would help him or not.
Seven days later, Brock rode back into Blinhe. He was getting tired of these trips to Middlin, but it was hard enough to find someone who knew anything about magic. Out in the sticks like Blinhe, it was impossible. He had to avoid going to the same places he had been on his previous visit, and he got some hints the thieves were still looking for him—the assassin who confronted him his first night in town gave him a clue—but he had eventually found a magician who never actually admitted he knew theurgy, just that he could…”do things.” The old conjurer couldn’t figure out a way to destroy the amulet without, at least, having the thing in hand, but he thought they could put it in a case that couldn’t be opened, one sealed with magic. He contacted the man last time, and he went back this time to pick up the box that would seal itself when it was locked. Cost him more than Hoffstead was worth, but he figured he owed the old boy.
Now he just needed the sister.
Abbess Bremea was in a huff when he called on her the next morning. One of the novices had disappeared. She had gone to see Reemd and never came back. Hyjienne said the girl hadn’t been at the manor for several days. Either the novice had run off or Reemd had killed her. Either way, Sheath take him.
“I wrote to Abbess Constantia in Falsea yesterday. I mentioned that I had been in contact with you, Mr. Brock.”
Brock smiled, then stopped as soon as he realized it.
“I told her about the missing novice and how Reemd has been taking our girls. She has no power, but perhaps she can convince the Council of Priests to take action against him.”
Brock nodded. In the meantime, he needed to get the amulet.
“I have a method, Abbess, but I need to speak to Miss Hyjienne one more time.”
He didn’t even have to convince her this time. She was ready. She didn’t cry, but she wouldn’t look at him, either. “I’ll get you in,” she told him. “The rest is your problem.”
Brock sat at the inn drinking that night. Hoffstead came in and sat across from him.
“Good to see you back, Brock,” Hoffstead said, and they clinked their mugs together.
“Tomorrow night. You need to be gone.”
“I can’t just leave, you know.”
“Go as far as you can. Just get a horse and go.”
Hoffstead nodded and drank.
The next evening, Brock made his way down the road to the manor house. Blinhe was deserted, of course. At 1:00 a.m., even the inn was shut down for the night. He strode through town in the middle of the road, pulling his cloak tight. He took the bend, crossed the river, and the stone wall came into view. He checked his cloak one last time. The box and key were there, ready to be sealed once he had the amulet.
Hoffstead was the chief guard, Hyjienne had told him, but there were four others who took turns patrolling the grounds at night. Even if Blinhe was a peaceful town, it didn’t mean brigands didn’t pass through, and anyone would take a shot at an unguarded manor house. Hyjienne waited at the gate. The iron hinges creaked as she opened it, and she nodded as he passed through.
“Where’s the guard now?” Brock asked.
“On the other side,” she told him. He walked quickly up to the manor door, the girl right behind him.
“I need you to take me to his room,” Brock whispered.
The girl opened the door, and the two of them walked through the foyer, and then Brock tilted his head as she opened the double doors into the main receiving hall, the same one he had met Reemd in a week or so back. Torches were lit inside. Brock heard the soft sound of a lute playing.
“Ten hells.” Brock opened his cloak and pulled out his sword.
Hyjienne motioned him to step into the main hall, a wide smile across her face. She’d set a trap, and he’d fallen right in it. Served him right to trust her. He sighed and moved into the hall, his attention now directed at Reemd, who sat on the same oversized chair near the rear of the room. Brock glanced back and saw Granthe sitting in a chair behind him, playing a soft dirge. Brock met his eyes, and Granthe shook his head slightly. So that was where the bard had gone off to. He figured he had left while Brock was in Middlin. Nope. He had just gone to work at the manor.
Reemd’s smile made Brock shake his head. Then the boy started clapping. Sheath take him, he wanted to kill this bastard.
“If it isn’t our old friend, the washed-up sellsword. And what are you doing this fine night, Mr., um, Brock, right?”
“Came to steal your shit.”
“Well, that’s not going to happen now, is it?” Reemd stood, just as he had those days ago, and walked right up to Brock. He smelled even more of wine…and piss.
Brock glanced over and saw Miss Hyjienne moving toward the rear of the hall near where the boy had been sitting. She watched them, smiling.
“I guess I have no choice now,” Brock told him. “Guess I just have to kill you first, the rest be damned.”
The boy nodded. “You would think that, wouldn’t you? Fortunately, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Shows what you know,” Brock said.
“There’s always Hoffstead, right? Who knows what will happen if you kill me? Won’t it kill your old friend, Mr. Brock, Brock?”
Really? A chicken sound was the best he could do?
“I’ll take my chances. Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. Sometimes you’re dealt the hand you don’t want, and you make the most of it. Seems like you’re gonna make me kill you, the cards fall where they will.” Brock stood motionless as Reemd circled him slowly just a foot or so away. Reemd wasn’t a threat. Pretty boy probably didn’t know the first thing about a sword.
Granthe played the same slow tune, some minor song Brock thought he remembered but never bothered to learn the words to.
“Sometimes there’s nothing to be done, eh?” another low, gravelly voice said from the back of the room behind where Hyjienne now stood. Brock looked up, and his shoulders slumped.
Hoffstead stepped into the light, his sword already in hand. He walked up to Brock, and Reemd backed off, clapping happily, positively beaming now.
“The girl told him everything. He wouldn’t let me leave,” Hoffstead said. “Sorry, old friend.”
Brock turned to the Lord, who had moved back to his chair. Hyjienne was already there, standing, a bit to the side.
“Now what, Reemd?” Brock asked.
“Can’t you figure that one out, old man? You and Hoffstead fight.”
“But if I kill him, you lose your slave.”
“I’ve always hated Hoffstead,” Reemd said as he motioned to the man standing there in front of him.
Hoffstead raised his eyebrows to Brock, as if he agreed.
“I figure it’s worth a chance,” Reemd said.
“If I kill him,” Brock said, “there’s nothing between you and me. You won’t stand a snowball’s chance in one of the ten hells. I’ll cut you down before you can get out of that stupid, oversized chair.”
“Like I said, ‘worth a chance.’ But I don’t think you’ll get that far. I’ve seen Hoffstead fight.”
“Me, too,” Brock said, and shook his head. “But you haven’t seen me fight. What if I refuse?”
Hoffstead winced and dropped to his knees, the sword clanging against the stone. He groaned, the muscles strained and the veins in his face popping out, his mouth set in a grimace.
Brock sighed. So that was it. There was no refusing. Reemd would just kill Hoffstead if Brock didn’t fight.
Reemd clapped again, laughing this time.
“Guess I could walk away,” Brock said.
“I’ll just make Hoffstead follow you. You’ll have to kill him.”
Hoffstead looked up at Brock and breathed deeply. “Sorry, old man,” he said, then picked up his sword, got to his feet, and cocked his neck to one side, then the other.
“Me, too,” Brock said.
“Bard!” Reemd called. “A happy little thing! Something to meet the spirit of the moment!”
The music stopped, and then Granthe went into something else Brock half-remembered. It built, faster and faster until it jigged all over the place.
Hoffstead winced again, then lunged at Brock, his sword swiping down in a powerful but messy swing. Brock dodged back, but he didn’t have to block it. It swung wide on its own. Hoffstead regained his footing, then squinted and came again, this time up with his sword, but Brock wasn’t there, either. He stepped to the side.
Hoffstead went to the ground again, collapsing.
“Come on!” Reemd cried. “You’re not even trying, you lazy ruffian! Get up and kill the bastard!”
Hoffstead managed to get to his knees, then slowly climbed back to his feet. He breathed in and cocked his head once more.
Granthe’s melody returned to the refrain, his fingers searching for a melodic resolution.
Hoffstead went at Brock in earnest, the sword swinging and parrying and thrusting in a blur. Brock met it step by step, move by move, each thrust with a deflection or a dodge, each swing parried with controlled movements. The swords clashed against one another, but there wasn’t enough time for a clang. The room filled with the constant chimes of metal on metal and the footfalls of men who had trained and killed many others who had been trained to do the same. Brock and Hoffstead danced around one another, their eyes locked, each movement graceful and purposeful, without wasted energy.
Then they stopped. The two men held their swords out, still staring, still facing one another. Brock noticed drops of sweat on Hoffstead and realized that he was sweating, too. They circled. Reemd watched, a smile from ear to ear, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, his hands quietly clapping. Hyjienne stood behind him, her lips slightly parted. Brock noticed for the first time the four men armed with swords at the door. The bastard’s guards. Sheath take him, even if he killed Hoffstead, he had to contend with those four.
Granthe slowed it down for a moment before building.
Hoffstead winced and came at Brock again. Brock blocked the swing and grabbed Hoffstead’s sword arm with his other hand. They stayed locked there for a moment, both snarling, trying to force the other man away, their muscles straining. Then Hoffstead pushed Brock back and kicked out, hitting Brock in the thigh. Brock fell backwards, but his sword came up and sliced through Hoffstead’s calf. Brock slid back, then jumped into a crouch. Hoffstead limped twice, looking down at his calf.
Granthe kept it up, the jig veering into alternate melodies, still dancing, bouncing along.
“You bloody bastard,” Hoffstead said. “You cut me.”
“Truth be told, I didn’t mean to. You pushed me. Sword just hit you.” Brock stood.
“What about sword control? You forget everything we learned?”
“Been fighting monsters and rogues the last fifteen years. No need for sword control.”
Hoffstead fell to his knees again, not from the wound, but from the amulet. Brock looked to Reemd, who sat there, still smiling.
The music shifted, a new key, a new melody, something sadder, slower, more restrained.
“Fuck this,” Brock muttered. He walked ten steps toward Reemd, whose eyes went wide. Reemd looked to his left and right, but there was nowhere to go and no time. Brock was quick, and he plunged his sword through the boy before he could even get up. Reemd stared into Brock’s eyes, his mouth wide, his breath held, his brows squinting. Then the lord looked down at the sword hilt all the way to his chest.
“That’s right,” Brock said. “That’s a sword.” Brock stood up straight and pulled the sword out, a crimson river flowing with it. He turned to face the four men at the door, who had pulled their swords but hadn’t moved closer.
Granthe stopped playing. The bard looked around, probably seeking an escape route. Damn coward.
Brock heard a thud and a clunk behind him as Reemd fell off the chair.
Hoffstead was still there on the ground, but a smile crept over his face.
“How are you, old boy?”
“Fine, I think.”
“Good. More to come, then.” He nodded toward the door.
Hoffstead got to his feet and turned to the door. “Branf, Deer, you guys know me. Everything’s good. Take the night off. Go home.”
“No, everything’s not good!” Lady Hyjienne yelled from behind Brock. “He just killed Lord Reemd! Kill that man! Now!”
The men looked to one another, shrugged, then took a few tentative steps forward.
Hoffstead got up and kicked his leg out a couple times. “You guys know me,” he called. “You know I’ll kill you. And if you just watched this man here, you know he’ll kill you, too.”
The men looked to one another.
Hoffstead went to the ground, groaning this time. Then he vomited and collapsed, the sickness splattering across the smooth stones. Brock stepped to him, still keeping an eye on the men with swords waiting to kill him.
“Hoffstead,” Brock called to him.
Another groan.
“Now there’s only one, you spineless twats! Kill him!”
Brock turned to the girl. She was furious, her mouth in a twisted rage. Her right hand pointed at Brock. Her left hand clutched something beneath her robe. She squeezed it, leaning forward, a drop of spittle falling from her lip.
Hoffstead climbed back to his knees, but he vomited again and struggled to remain upright.
Brock turned back. “Godsdamn.”
“I told you I hated the man,” she said, shaking her head.
“You used me to kill your brother. And if I kill Hoffstead, no big deal, huh?”
She shrugged and smiled, glancing at something behind Brock.
Brock turned and glimpsed the man come at him with his sword up. Brock had no time to do anything, but something hit the guard, pieces of wood flying all around the cluster of men. A single discordant twang! filled the room.
It was Granthe, who stood in the midst of six armed men, the neck of his lute in hand and the guard there beneath him. Brock smiled, a broad grin that covered his face from ear to ear. Damn that bard. Sometimes people surprise you.
Brock didn’t ponder long. He brought his sword up as one of the other guards tried to cleave him in two. He stepped out of the way, the man’s momentum carrying him forward, nearly stumbling to the ground.
“I don’t have to kill any of you,” Brock said as he took two more steps away.
“Then I guess you can let us kill you,” one of the men said.
“Or you can all go home, and we can pretend this never happened. If you think she’s gonna pay you when this is over, you’re mistaken.”
“Kill the man!” the girl screamed from behind him.
Granthe, meanwhile, backed up all the way to the door and stood there. The one he had hit with the lute had regained his feet, still dazed.
A swing. Brock parried, then kicked, and the man went sprawling to the ground. Another came at him, and Brock ducked and kicked him in the knee. There was a snap as the man collapsed, his sword falling from his grasp, his hands clutching the fractured bone. The next tried to get Brock with a two-handed strike, the full-length of his body. Brock couldn’t help but smile. He stepped out of the way and pounded the man on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. Blood splattered from the man’s broken jaw and lips, and he slid across the floor, his sword staying behind.
Granthe’s victim came at him, and Brock had to turn to block the strike. Then he swung, and the man blocked it. Brock’s mouth turned back. Not bad. Brock reached out with his left hand, grabbed the man’s shirt, and threw him to the ground.
The second man was standing now, but he looked around at the others, one writhing with his knee to his chest, another crawling away, blood and spittle trailing behind him, the other getting up, but obviously not anxious to get back in the fray. Brock shrugged. The man looked to the girl, who stood there, mouth open.
One guard walked to the door, glanced to Granthe beside him, then opened the door and left. The other one looked around and followed. The one with lute splinters in his hair did the same. Except he turned, looked at Granthe, and suckerpunched the bard in the nose. Granthe sprawled, blood streaming down his mouth, yelping as he hit the ground. The guard shrugged and left.
Brock shook his head and turned to the girl.
“Give me the amulet.”
She stepped back and shook her head. “No.”
“Give me the amulet,” he said again, stepping forward, louder this time.
She looked behind her, but she was backing into a corner. Nowhere to run. She hit the wall, then turned back to Brock. “I’ll kill him!” she said, clutching the amulet.
Hoffstead groaned, but Brock didn’t look back. He finally stopped about five feet from the woman. She shrank down, crouching, trying to get away from him. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Brock reached out, grabbed the leather cord around her neck, and yanked it, hard. It broke, and the girl fell to the floor with the force of his pull. In his hand was a rather ugly iron symbol, something like a few geometric shapes all mashed together. Probably the magician’s symbol.
Brock looked back to Hoffstead, who was shakily getting to his feet. The man wiped his mouth and felt his limbs, like he was checking to see if anything was broken.
“You alright, Constable?”
Hoffstead looked up and shrugged. “Guess so.” He hobbled over to Brock, who towered over the cowering girl. “So she had it the whole time, huh?”
She didn’t say anything, but the tears stopped, and a furious expression darkened her face. She stood up, pushing against the wall for support. “I hate you,” she told Hoffstead.
Hoffstead shrugged. “I hate myself most of the time.”
“What about the room?” Brock asked. “He said he couldn’t go in the boy’s room.”
“Idiot. Nonsense my brother made up. He didn’t want you to know I had it. Wanted you to think it was him.”
“Wow. I didn’t think he was that smart,” Brock said. “The boy fooled you into thinking you couldn’t go in his room! Hah!” He slapped Hoffstead on the arm.
Brock held out the amulet.
Hoffstead stepped back. “Get that thing away from me!”
The girl let out a soft laugh.
Brock laughed again, and tossed the amulet to Hoffstead, who caught it, juggled it with both hands a moment, then realized that it wasn’t dangerous, and held it, shaking his head.
“How’d you get it?” Brock asked.
“My dying father told me what it did and gave it to me. Told me it was mine, that my stupid brother was too cruel to have something so powerful.”
“Didn’t know you were a masochist, too, huh?” Brock asked.
“A what?”
“Never mind. What do you want to do, Hoffstead?”
“Get out of this town.”
Brock nodded. Shrugged. “Sounds good to me. See ya, girl.”
The two men walked toward the door, and Brock pulled the magical box from his cloak. He handed it to Hoffstead. “Put that in there,” he told him, “and it can never be opened.”
Granthe followed them out into the courtyard, a handkerchief to his face.
“What? Like magic?” Hoffstead asked.
Brock shook his head. “Is that the weirdest thing you ever heard of, Constable?”
“Right.” Hoffstead placed the amulet into the box and closed it with a sigh. Brock handed him a key, which Hoffstead inserted, and it clicked. They heard a release of air, and that was it. Hoffstead put the key back in, and it wouldn’t turn. “Nice.” He put the box inside his own cloak, then cracked his knuckles as he walked on.
Granthe jumped in front of them.
“What happened to you?” Hoffstead snickered, grinning widely.
“That huge bastard hit me,” Granthe said.
“No shit!” Brock hrumphed. “You smashed your lute on his head.”
“Exactly!” Granthe said excitedly as the trio left the courtyard. “’The Ballad of Brock and the Bard!’ One for the songbooks! Our story will be told through the generations. Granthe the bard helped rescue the poor, dying Hoffstead and defeat the evil…young…beautiful…girl!”
Brock laughed.
Hoffstead stared at the bard. “You’ve been here, what, seven nights? I’m tired of your shit, bard.”
“But I saved you! Did you see that? Brock would be dead if I hadn’t sacrificed my only possession, the greatest instrument I ever owned, just to save your two sorry asses!” The bard practically ran in front of them as they made their way back to the inn.
“Bards,” Brock muttered.
“As a wise bastard once told me,” Hoffstead chuckled and cracked his knuckles, “’sometimes there’s nothing to be done.’”
©June 2021, Chad A. B. Wilson
Chad A. B. Wilson has been published in Schlock! Webzine, the anthology Slaughter is the Best Medicine, and previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.