The mercenary trilogy bo.., p.19
The Mercenary Trilogy Boxed Set, page 19
part #1 of The Mercenary Series
Hagan loosened the sword by his side. He’d greased the scabbard this morning, the sort of thing that’s saved a man’s life. Hagan sipped this second ale. Strange life. I’m an exile. A…renegade.
It hadn’t sunk in. His departure from Morwella had been rushed. No time to dwell on niceties. Too busy dodging arrows, stealing boats, stowing away on merchantmen. And here I am…
Permio. A tavern, in the worst corner of a very bad city, Cappel Cormac. Hive of every cutthroat, cutpurse, and murderous whore imaginable. A place where, he, Hagan felt quite at home.
But he was angry. He felt wronged––they’d exiled him. The Duke, his people. And for what? A bit of raiding and robbing. Hagan the Highwayman. Hagan liked the thought of that. But it was the principle. The word exile tasted bad. Lacked honor. I didn’t deserve that.
Others had done far worse and they hadn’t suffered such a punishment. They’d been hanged, a few hung, drawn and quartered. But he’d been exiled––the dishonor was a stain on his family’s name. Not that that mattered as they were all fucking dead. But the Delmorier family had once been wealthy merchants, before Hagan’s grandfather had squandered every penny, except the few his only surviving son lost in the vice dens. Father choked on his ale one night––selfish bastard, served him right. Didn’t leave much for the skinny boy he’d abandoned, Hagan’s mother having left them years earlier.
He’d grown up poor––survived the streets of Vangaris. Had nothing except his family’s name.
But a name was important. A name meant—everything. Until now. Way down here he was just another villain, another killer with a grudge.
Hagan sipped his second ale, his mood darkening as he thought about how they’d wronged him back there in the north. A thousand miles away. I can never go back––see home again.
Didn’t matter, Morwella was a shithole anyway. Taxed and squeezed not only by lofty Duke Tomais, but by the High King over in Kella City.
At least he was free now. Almost spent of coin, no horse, no home––but free. Hagan smiled a third time. It’s becoming a habit. Then turned his head as fighting broke out near the door.
The newcomers had rounded on those gang members at the table. Old score by the look of it, Hagan wasn’t interested. Just glanced over, saw the bottle broken and rammed into the fat one’s eye. Messy, that. Hagan, mood shifting again, chugged down his drink and stood up. He needed somewhere to sleep out the afternoon, and food. That too.
The fight settled almost as soon as it had started. Two dead on the floor, the fat one screaming as blood streamed from his ruined face. The gang had fled, the three big lads were seated at their table. They wore broadswords, Hagan noted. Northerners like him.
Mercenaries.
One glanced his way as Hagan waded through the crowd, smoke, and perfume of whores as he aimed for the door. That swung open again, creaking, the hot afternoon sun blinding Hagan for a moment.
A man stood there. Tall, long shaggy hair, and a huge sword swung across his shoulder. He barreled in, clearing a space through to the taproom where Rezala still sweated and grumbled.
“You’re banned,” Hagan heard Rezala say. Glancing back, he saw Shaggy-Hair reach over and grab Rezala’s collar. Not the innkeep’s day.
“Shut up, and pour me a large one.” The accent was odd but familiar. Another northerner. Hagan was intrigued, and he noted how the three big men at the table were also staring at this longswordsman. They looked angrier than before. And one reached for his blade. The tall fellow didn’t notice; he was watching Rezala fill a tankard.
“Better enjoy that,” Rezala said. “Last one you’re getting.”
Hagan saw the innkeep nod to the nearest mercenary.
“That him?” The sellsword asked. Rezala nodded. The longswordsman seemed oblivious, cradled his ale and sighed, as though he was sharing a tender moment with his lover, no one else around. Hagan wondered if he were soft in the head.
All three were on their feet. Big, angry, and well balanced. Confident. Professionals. They shoved sweaty bodies aside heading for the place where Shaggy-Hair was making love to his beer. Men grumbled and swore, the odd one spat. But they parted like palm leaves in summer storm letting the three large figures through.
Hagan scratched his face where a mosquito had bitten him. He hadn’t cared about the earlier fracas, but was interested now. Why were these northerners here? And who did they work for? He needed to know, could be useful later.
“Outside.” Hagan saw Rezala hint the door as the nearest mercenary stormed up behind Shaggy-hair. “Don’t want another mess in here.”
The man ignored him, and slowly slid his broadsword free for maximum effect, men parting either side to allow him room to swing.
“Put that back or I’ll shove it up your arse,” the accent was almost Morwellan. The lead mercenary paused, sword half out of scabbard, his fellows hustled close behind.
A mistake.
Shaggy-hair turned, and with a speed Hagan had seldom witnessed, slammed an open palm hard into the leading mercenary’s face, cracking the small bone in his nose. He crumpled, sunk from view. The other two leaped forward.
And were knocked back.
Elbow to face, fist on balls, boot stamping on ankle. Shaggy-hair grinned as he grabbed the pair by their ears and slammed their heads together. They slid to join their comrade on the floor.
Shaggy-hair turned away and started on his ale again, ignoring the swarm of eyes and hostile glances.
“And you said I was drawing attention to myself,” Hagan muttered to Rezala, who had glanced his way briefly before crouching low, whispering to a boy. Hagan watched the lad vanish out a back exit, the bright glare dazzling him a second time.
“Off to get the Watch I should imagine,” Hagan said, as men resumed their seats, apart from the three sprawled on the floor. They showed no sign of moving any time soon.
“Expect so,” Shaggy-Hair turned slowly and noticed Hagan for the first time. “Don’t know you.”
“Just arrived,” Hagan said. “Think I’m going to like it here.”
“No one likes it here,” Shaggy-Hair said.
“Friends of yours?” Hagan hinted the three on the floor.
“Not really. They work for his boss,” Shaggy-hair leaned over the counter, grabbed an empty tankard and hurled it at Rezala - catching him on the back of the head and knocking him from his feet.
He turned and grinned at Hagan. “I was banned anyway,” he said, draining his tankard and striding from the room, a wave of bodies parting to let him through. Hagan suspected most had hands on daggers, and some would be following.
He chose to tag along.
“Wait,” Hagan said, and the longsword stopped, turning slowly to stare hard at Hagan. A man like me––a killer. Someone with a grudge.
Steely eyes, the hue of northern oceans. Lean face, long bones, wicked scar above right brow. Black leather tunic and trousers. Silver studded belt, and battered mail shirt showing beneath.
“Name’s Hagan Delmorier.”
“Corin.”
“From where––I can’t grasp that accent.”
“Fol––I’m Corin an Fol,” he replied as though that were significant.
“Isn’t that a province of Kelthaine?”
“Fuck off––it’s a free country,” the man called Corin said. “Nothing to do with Kelthaine, or the fucking High King.”
“Sorry,” Hagan shrugged. “Just curious.”
“So are they,” Corin said. Hagan turned and saw at least a dozen men had followed them out into the swelter of a Cappel Cormac afternoon. They stood in a circle surrounding Hagan and his new friend.
“I would leave if I were you,” Corin said. “Me they want.”
“I’ve only just arrived,” Hagan yawned–-past time for his afternoon nap. The stomp and scrape of boots in the distance, getting nearer. Shouting too. “Sounds like the Watch.”
“Time I left,” Corin said, and whirled around planting a fist neatly on the jaw of a bystander who’d got too near. He stepped sideways, slid the huge sword from its scabbard and shoved it point-first into the hot dry mud that served as a street in this shithole of a city.
The watch filed in looking nervous, tense, and very angry. “Your move,” Corin said, flashing them a grin. They shuffled, glanced sideways at each other. A captain of sorts pushed his way through. Rezala yelled at him, holding a wet cloth to his bleeding skull.
“I barred him,” Rezala said. “He’s a troublemaker.”
“All your punters are troublemakers,” the captain looked pained, not wanting any of this. He pointed to Hagan. “And who is this?”
“I’m Hagan––just arrived.”
“Well you’d better bugger off,” the captain of the watch said. “Else we nab you for collusion.”
“I only stepped out to enjoy the sunshine,” Hagan said. No one was moving: captain, innkeep, the watch, tenants from the inn, and now bystanders and street vendors and even the odd, scarf covered whore––everyone had eyes on that two-yard sword, and the wild-eyed northerner leaning on it.
The captain approached Hagan, while staring at the other northerner. “I said go,” the watch’s leader hissed in Hagan’s ear, then turned and yelled at his men. “Get him!”
Three spears levelled and poking, their owners thrust forward without too much enthusiasm. Bad mistake. You have to do something properly, or not at all. Hagan stepped away from the captain and blinked as metal glinted, there was a whoosh and a meaty thud. He saw a man’s head rolling in the mud. A second joined it, then an arm.
“Time to run!” Corin shouted across to him.
Past time. Hagan turned on his toes, cat-graceful he pounced at the captain and kicked him in the groin, following up with an elbow to the face as the watch leader crumpled. Hagan grabbed an arm, swung the captain around into the next man attacking him. Both sprawled. Hagan saw Corin was loping down the street with that huge sword whirling like a windmill.
For fuck’s sake… Thanks for waiting. Hagan stepped back, slid his rapier free and cut left and right. Swift clean strokes. They backed away. A gap appeared. He ran through just in time to see Corin vanish into a side street.
Two hours later they were in in another corner of town. Bells ringing, a chain of shabby shaven-headed priests chanting their way off to prayer. Hagan yawned.
Keep drinking––fend off sleep. He needed to learn the rules here. If there were any.
Another tavern. This one was empty, though no cleaner than Rezala’s had been. Hagan guessed there wasn’t a decent quarter to this city, or if there was it was well hidden.
He studied his new companion. Odd fellow. Tall and ungainly. Scary eyes–– funny, they always said the same about Hagan himself. His own were slate gray, this Corin’s flecked with winter blue. Long smoky-dark hair tied back, almost combed. He wore a cloak, pinned by a golden broach, a wolf’s head stamped upon it––almost aristocratic. Stolen? Hagan smiled. We could pass for brothers.
“Safe here,” Corin grinned at him as a girl glided close and placed a hot dish of rice and beans, and, was that chicken? Before them at the table. Corin tucked in. Hagan stared at the food and realized he hadn’t eaten since he’d jumped off that ship this morning. It smelled wonderful. He took a bite. Spicy, hot.
“Silon’s place,” Corin said, glancing up and blowing a kiss at the girl who grinned lopsidedly and vanished into the kitchens.
“Who?”
“Boss,” Corin munched.
“Pay well?”
“Hope so––only been working for him a month. Down here the whole time.”
Hagan looked up. “So, your boss ain’t from here then.”
“Fuck no,” Corin laughed though Hagan failed to see what was funny. “Silon hates Permians––especially those in this city.”
“Where’s he from then?”
“Raleen,” Corin said, his eyes on the girl who had reappeared with two large mugs of ale. The fourth round since they’d arrive. “Atarios––though he owns a villa near Port Sarfe too. Minted.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Met him during the war,” Corin said before Hagan could ask. “Helped me out with a personal issue, then persuaded me to work for him.”
“Doing what?”
“A little light dusting.” The laugh again. Strange sense of humor.
“Does he need a second sellsword?”
“I can ask.”
“Thanks––I’m between jobs,” Hagan said.
“Last one didn’t pay well, by the looks of you,” Corin picked up his plate and poured rice into his mouth. He belched and wiped his hands on his shirt, already grimy from the fight before.
Hagan felt his face redden as anger rose. “It’s a sore point,” he said. “I come from noble stock.”
Corin shrugged. “None of my business.”
“That’s right,” Hagan said. He managed a crooked smile. “You weren’t to know. I’m a wanted man way up in Morwella.”
“And in Permio,” Corin grinned.
“Those louts?”
“That captain will have bleated to the Elite by now,” Corin said. “The sultan’s special boys. Crimson-cloaked tosspots. They don’t like us northerners––despite us saving their ruler from assassination several times.”
“Who were those three toughs?” Hagan said. “Looked like ex Regiment lads.”
“Bears,” Corin said, fingering the gold brooch and scowling.
“Ah,” Hagan was surprised to discover himself smiling yet again. “And you were a Wolf––under the late Lord Halfdan?”
“Late?” Corin’s eyes were sharp as daggers and locked on Hagan.
“Murdered––or so they say—by Lord Caswallon,” Hagan felt slightly unsettled under that scrutiny. Not like him to get unnerved by another’s gaze, but there was a raw savageness, almost a hunger in Corin’s eyes.
“A rumor I heard,” Hagan said dismissively. “Tavern talk.”
“I don’t believe it,” Corin said, and called across to the girl for more beer.
“So, what’s with you and those Bears?” Hagan knew of the famous rivalry between the three royal regiments in Kelthaine. The Bears, the Wolves, and the High King’s favorites, the Tigers, were all fiercely competitive.
“They’re sultan’s men,” Corin spat on the floor.
“You said the sultan hates northerners.”
“I know what I said––they fight well, and he pays well. Uses the twats to round up other decent folk.”
“I didn’t think there were any decent folk down here.”
“Diminishing fast,” Corin said. “They’re fucking traitors, Hagan. We fought a war down here…good people died in that desert, and now these… ex-Bears side with the man responsible. Just for coin.”
“I thought that’s what mercenaries do,” Hagan said. He didn’t know the politics down here, but had timed his arrival poorly, the war with the desert tribes having ended scarce two months ago. A war he could have got lost in.
“Us and them,” Corin said. “You work with Permians, not for them. Those boys crossed the line. I’ll kill them one day.”
“So why are you down here?” Hagan asked. “Why not guarding your wealthy merchant up in Atarios.”
“Silon has investments in Cappel Cormac,” Corin said. “He owns four coffee houses and this tavern. He likes to keep an eye on things down here, got his grubby nubbins in lots of pies.”
“Sounds busy.”
“I know Cappel,” Corin said. “Was stationed here in the war. Sprawling city, no shortage of hide outs. There’s a man called Krugan, owes Silon money. Lots of money.” Corin drained his beer. “Local villain, operates south of the city.”
“Need a helping hand?”
“No,” Corin said. “Got this. Silon wants Krugan watched. He thinks the man’s a spy for the sultan, posing as a gang leader. Things are complex down here.”
“Seems so.” Hagan was about to enquire further when the girl rushed into the taproom, her dark eyes huge with fear.
“What is it, Letti?” Corin reached for his massive sword, and Hagan grabbed the hilt of his own weapon.
“Elite,” she said. “Coming this way. Grolly the kitchen lad spotted them at market. He ran back to tell me.”
“Good lad,” Corin said. “Best we spread.”
“I thought you said we’d be safe here?”
“We ought to be,” Corin stole across to a backroom, Hagan followed close behind. “Someone must have followed us.”
“We ran for an hour,” Hagan said, helping Corin break through the mud wall that opened on the stables. “Switching from street to street.” Hagan kicked a fist-sized hole in the wall. “This city’s huge––we must have lost them?”
Corin shrugged and pitched his long body into the wall, it crumpled and Hagan slammed against it again, the pair crashing into the stables as the sound of shouts and heavy steel-shod boots entered the taproom behind.
“Grab a nag,” Corin’s face loomed out the murk. Dark and hot in the stable. “We’ll make for the Strand,” he said.
“The what?” Hagan, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, saw Corin vault onto the back of a pony.
“Yah!” He reared the beast and it kicked out knocking the doors asunder.
Hagan blinked. He saw a torch, helmets appearing from behind the collapsed wall.
No fucking saddle…
He leaped onto something––hoped it was a horse. A sword whooshed through air behind him. Hagan dug his heels in and the pony cantered out into the late evening gloom.
He crouched low over the pony’s head, heard the sound he dreaded. Arrows whining, then thudding into mud and buildings as Hagan hollered at the beast to pick up its pace. There was no sign of Corin an Fol. Thanks for sticking by me, Longfellow.
Hagan made the docks. Dismounted, forced a fisher at sword point take him onboard and cut the bowline.
Hours later, dark and silent, stars studding the black above, the skiff beached on a sandy shore. Hagan leaped from the craft, tossed his last coin to the fisher by way of compensation and strode up toward the distant shadow of palms.
