MERCS AND MAGI

A SHORT STORY COLLECTION

Jamie Edmundson

Contents

STRIKING OUT: INTRODUCTION

STRIKING OUT

STIFF’S STANDOFF: INTRODUCTION

STIFF’S STANDOFF

DEMON DAYS: INTRODUCTION

DEMON DAYS

BLOOD TIES: INTRODUCTION

BLOOD TIES

BONUS 1: PREVIEW—OG-GRIM-DOG: THE THREE-HEADED OGRE

AN OGRE OF THREE HEADS

DARKSPIKE DUNGEON

BONUS 2: INTERVIEW WITH THE DARK ELF

INTERVIEW WITH THE DARK ELF

Acknowledgments

Jamie’s Series Information

STRIKING OUT: INTRODUCTION

This is the prequel story to my epic fantasy quadrilogy The Weapon Takers Saga. It was written at the back end of 2018, at the half way point of the series: books 1 & 2 were already done. Since then it has spent its life as an exclusive read for members of my newsletter.

The story details a period in the earlier life of one of the POV characters in the series—Moneva. She refers, loosely, to these events in book one, Toric’s Dagger.

It was fun to expand on this part of her history and give her the freedom to show her badass side. For various reasons, Moneva begins as a somewhat enigmatic figure in the series, though I think she grows to be one of the most dynamic characters. Striking Out gives her the early character development she deserves.

STRIKING OUT

COLDEBERG, CAPITAL OF BARISSIA, was arguably the second most important city in the Empire. But Moneva had never warmed to it. And Coldeberg Castle was the location she liked the least. Huge stone walls, massive towers, it stood like a giant grey beast on the top of the hill, looking down on the rest of the city, intimidating those in its shadow. No finesse, no sense of welcome to the visitor; just a brutal display of power.

‘What’s in the boxes?’ asked the soldier.

They were standing in the yard of the castle, half a dozen wagons of goods ready to hand over.

Moneva sighed. She really didn’t like Barissians. Some indefinable, can’t put your finger on it reason, that made her think they were all a bunch of arseholes.

‘It’s exactly what we agreed with Lord Orlin that we would deliver. No more, no less.’

‘Yes,’ said the soldier, speaking deliberately slowly as if she was stupid, ‘and what is it?’

Ernst and Gernot stirred uneasily either side of her. Two big brutes of men, she had brought them with her to avoid this kind of bullshit. But it clearly wasn’t working. The Barissians had raised an army of unpleasant fuckers like this one, and clearly weren’t intimidated by her henchmen. This soldier had asked a question, and probably didn’t want to be seen to back down in front of the others in the castle yard. Pathetic little men with ridiculously huge egos. Yes, she remembered now. That was what she didn’t like about Barissians.

She walked over to the first cart, jumping up into the driver’s seat where she had left her cloak. Rummaging in a pocket, she found the itemised list of goods.

This whole job, a delivery run, was so beneath her. It didn’t require any of her skill set to perform. The only reason that Max gave it to her was that the profit they stood to make was staggering, and he didn’t trust anyone else with that kind of money.

She returned to the soldier, his arms folded, a smug look on his face now that she was doing as she was told.

‘Did you want numbers, or will a list of items do?’

‘Items will do fine.’

‘Food: crackers, oats, bread. Peas, carrots, cabbages, and various other vegetables. Meat: chicken, duck, goose, lamb, pork, beef, salmon and various other fish. Hay fodder. Barrels of ale, mead, white wine.’

Moneva paused, looking up at him.

‘Continue,’ he said imperiously.

‘Armour: plate, chain and leather. Shields. Weapons: spears, bows, arrows. Shoes and clothing, various.’

The soldier nodded wisely, giving the list his own personal approval.

Stupid bastard. Moneva sighed. ‘Sundry items: saddles and other accoutrements for cavalry. Oil. Timber. Nails, rivets, hammers…’

Moneva needed a drink, and George’s House was as good a place as any. It was small, out of the way, and didn’t suffer from large groups of foreigners or soldiers. She sat by the bar, letting the tensions of the day seep away.

It had taken a good two hours to get full payment for the items, having to cajole various soldiers and officials into honouring Duke Emeric’s contract with Max. And it wasn’t just that. What also stuck in Moneva’s craw was that they were helping Emeric and the Barissians to win a war they had started against the Black Horse tribe of the Midder Steppe. It was a war of aggression with little pretence at justification, fought to bring glory to an ambitious duke still brooding that he had been beaten to the title of emperor by Baldwin of Kelland five years ago.

She took a swig of wine, a sharp Barissian white, inferior to Kellish wines in every way.

That was how things were going now. Max gave her a job, Moneva fulfilled it, and each time they made a lot of money and made the world a little bit worse than it was before.

‘That any good?’ A man had taken the seat next to her, a soldierly looking type.

That was all she needed. Usually, two swords strapped to her back were enough to put off unwanted attention. But there was always the danger of running into idiots, drunks and worse, who felt like trying their luck. She gave him the once over. He didn’t look like he fell into those categories. Well-kept and not bad looking, though the hint of a smirk on his face that she didn’t like the look of.

‘Tastes like piss,’ she answered.

‘Only that bad? Give me a glass of what she’s got,’ he called out to the barkeep.

‘You’re in the army?’ Moneva asked.

‘Yes, for my sins.’

‘You don’t sound like a Barissian.’

‘I’m not, praise Toric. I’m from Magnia.’

‘I see. A mercenary, then.’

He looked at her. ‘Do I detect a note of distaste?’

Moneva raised an eyebrow. He was touchy. ‘Trust me. I’m in no position to judge anyone else.’

He nodded, eyeing her with curiosity. His drink arrived, and he took a gulp, then made an astonished face.

‘By Toric, whose piss have you been drinking?’

Moneva laughed despite herself. That was a good one, she had to admit.

‘So, what’s a nice boy like you doing in Emeric’s army?’

He made a sour face, taking a second gulp.

‘Getting paid. Between you and me, it was a mistake. This war stinks. We’re treated like animals, and we’re ordered to treat the Middians like worse.’

She had to admire his honesty. ‘Can’t you leave?’

‘Not really. Deserters are given an unpleasant death, for one. But it’s not good for one’s reputation to break a contract either. I’m thinking I’ll have to stick it out. Anyway, at least I’m here for the night.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’m picking up supplies for my company. Salvinus obviously trusts me, or at least he trusts me not to steal too much.’

‘Who is Salvinus?’

‘Gervase Salvinus, leader of my mercenary company. Making quite a name for himself. If you want someone to kill innocent women and children for you, he’s your man.’

Moneva grimaced. ‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’

‘What have you got to feel bad about?’ he asked.

‘Those supplies you’re picking up are probably the same ones I just delivered.’

‘Ah. War profiteer. I had you down as a spy or an assassin or something. So that’s why you’re in no mood to judge me. Well, at least you’re making proper money out of it. That must be some consolation.’

‘Not really. Even if it was, it’s not my money. I’m working for some bastard, same as you.’

Moneva knocked back the rest of her drink and ordered another. It wasn’t like her to open up to someone else this much. But then, he was being pretty open too. He was studying her, a sly, thoughtful expression on his face.

‘Maybe we can do something about our situation. Do something for ourselves.’

Moneva shrugged. ‘I’m listening. But that’s all I’m doing.’

‘It’s chaos in the army. Between Emeric’s officials, his noblemen and mercenary captains like Salvinus, no-one’s really in charge. Once I deliver these supplies they get inventoried, but after that it would be very easy to go and pick some up with no-one noticing. I get them, pass them on to you, and you sell them back to the army again. It could be a nice little earner, that only we need to know about.’

Moneva considered it. Earning her own money, independent from Max, was tempting—though that could be the drink talking. It could be dangerous too, and she would have to trust someone she’d only just met.

‘I need to go back to Essenberg now,’ she said. ‘That will give me some time to think about the offer. If I think it will work, I’ll find you.’

‘How will you find me?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Herin.’

‘If I want to, I’ll find you.’

They cut east, then joined the Great Road that led north to Essenberg, the seat of the Brasingian Emperor.

It felt good to be back home, in a proper city, where the people were too busy making money to be any more than moderately rude. She would have felt happy if she didn’t have to see Max. Their relationship was increasingly strained. She had adored him once. Now she felt shackled, and he knew it.

Max was quite possibly the richest man in the Empire, but even his eyes lit up when he saw how much money Emeric had paid for his war supplies.

‘His chamberlain, Orlin, says they need more,’ said Moneva, handing Max a list.

Max took it and scanned the list of items, whistling in astonishment.

‘How are they paying for all this up front?’ Max said. ‘Where is he getting his money from?’

Moneva shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They’re acting like money is no object. They’re spending so much the war will be over soon,’ she warned him.

‘Don’t worry. While the tap is turned on I’ll be filling my cup. Still, I’ll need some time to get my hands on this little lot.’

‘Good. I could do with a few days off.’

He gave her the look he used whenever he had suspicions about her absolute loyalty. She had never given him reason to question her, and that look was one of the reasons why. It spoke of what might happen if she did.

‘If you had to deal with the Barissians you would need some time off too,’ she said defensively.

He smiled at that, though there was little warmth.

‘Fair enough Moneva. But I’ll need you to handle this for me again. You need to be ready to go back to Coldeberg in four days.’

Four days. Just enough time.

‘This way,’ said Herin, leading her through the early evening half-light.

Moneva’s nerves jangled. She didn’t like the Steppe—it was unfamiliar, alien terrain. Too flat, no buildings. And now she was here, she wondered at the wisdom of it all. For all she knew, Herin could be leading her into a trap.

He looked about him, forehead creased in confusion.

‘Surely you know where it is?’ she demanded.

‘It’s dark,’ he responded hotly, brushing his hand through his hair irritably, ‘and everywhere in this place looks the fucking same. There,’ he said finally.

He took her to a patch of grass that at first sight looked just like any other. He knelt, brushing away dead grass and debris. Moneva joined him to help.

It was cleverly done. Beneath the grass were wooden boards that they lifted to reveal a large pit dug into the ground. Inside was a treasure trove of the most expensive items Herin could lay his hands on, mainly weapons and armour.

‘Well?’

‘Not bad,’ Moneva conceded.

She turned around and put her fingers to her mouth, whistling into the evening sky.

She heard a rumble in response, as Ernst and Gernot brought the wagon to the location. They walked the horses past the pit, jumped down and flung open the rear door ready for loading. A third figure joined them. Ernst and Gernot were big men, but this man was even taller, and all muscles, making them look small by comparison.

‘Are you sure we can trust him?’ she asked Herin.

‘Of course. He’s my brother. I trust him with my life. Can you say the same about them?’

She couldn’t, so she kept quiet.

There was a substantial amount of heavy equipment, but Herin and his brother handled the lifting with ease. She had never seen Ernst and Gernot work so hard before, not wishing to be shown up by the two brothers. Before long, Herin was replacing the boards and camouflage over an empty pit.

‘I don’t foresee problems selling this stuff,’ she said to Herin. ‘We’ll come back soon with your share.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Herin.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m sure you’re a woman of your word,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not letting you get your hands on all the money. Too many things can go wrong. I’m coming with you, to make sure I get my share there and then.’

Moneva shrugged. She would have done the same.

‘Won’t you be missed?’

‘Clarin will cover for me. He’ll tell them I saw a band of Middians and followed them. When I come back in a couple of days I’ll just say I lost them.’

‘Very well. We need to get back to Coldeberg before nightfall.’

They cut it fine, the guards at the West Gate letting them through once they explained their business and handed over a bit of coin.

Ernst and Gernot were happy enough to sleep in the stables of George’s House and keep an eye on their wagon full of loot, especially once Moneva said she would pay to have a meal brought out for them. Herin and Moneva got a room each and shared a meal downstairs, toasting their imminent success with a bottle of Barissian white. They both agreed that it tasted no better the second time around.

Back in her room, Moneva found that she couldn’t settle.

She had never crossed Max like this before. It wasn’t even crossing him, not really. It was striking out for herself.

Still. She didn’t know what she felt about it. He had become her parent since her own died; her mentor; her boss; her lover. He was in her blood, her soul. Was she feeling guilty? Feeling free of him? Feeling strong and bold, or scared? It was all of those things, and more.

Her head spinning, she left her room and went to Herin’s. She opened without knocking. He was lying on his back on his mattress, not a care in the world.

He turned to look at her, then got to his feet.

She shut the door behind her.

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away much longer,’ he said.

‘Oh, shut up.’

She marched over to him, put one hand round his neck, and pulled him in. Her heart thudded in her chest as they kissed, Herin’s hand sliding down her back. He pulled away.

‘I have this effect on women,’ he said, sounding almost serious. ‘But you should know, I’m not the falling in love, happily ever after type.’

‘This has got absolutely nothing to do with you,’ Moneva said, and pushed him back onto the bed.

Early next morning they brought their wagon to the yard of Coldeberg Castle. A tired looking guard gestured for them to come in.

‘What have you got?’ he asked brusquely.

‘Weapons and armour.’

Maybe he recognised them from last time because he didn’t seem interested in interrogating them further. Or maybe he’d been on the night shift and was ready for his bed.

‘I’ll fetch someone. Wait here.’

Moneva grew nervous with the wait. She would be glad when they had got rid of the stolen loot and left Coldeberg behind.

‘Shit,’ Herin murmured. He dived down behind one side of the wagon, hiding himself. Moneva looked. The guard was returning with one man: tall, well built, he walked like he owned the place.

‘It’s Salvinus!’ Herin hissed. ‘He’ll recognise me. I’ve got to go.’

Moneva felt her stomach lurch. These weapons were from Salvinus’s own stores. Would he be able to tell?

Ernst looked about for Herin, unsettled. Moneva caught his eye and gave him a stare. They had to act normal. He nodded at her, pulling himself together.

‘So, you’re our weapons dealer?’ came a voice. It was measured and composed, spoken by a man who was completely confident that he was in control of the situation.

Moneva instantly disliked him.

‘If I’d known you were such a fox I’d have made the effort to meet you earlier.’

Now she loathed him.

‘If I’d known you were such an ass I’d have avoided you.’

Salvinus laughed. ‘Well, that would have been a shame,’ he said as he approached, walking up so close to her that she had to prevent herself from taking a step backwards. ‘Let me see what you’ve got,’ he said quietly, still so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

Moneva gave a silent sneer, but walked around to the back of the wagon, pulling down the door. He followed her, peering in. He picked up a sword, studying it closely.

Oh fuck, he knows, he knows what we’re doing.

He thrust the sword forwards, parried with it, swinging it left then right.

He was showing off. Thank the gods, he was more interested in showing off his sword skills in an effort to impress her, than he was in actually studying the items.

‘It’s well balanced,’ he admitted grudgingly, keeping hold of the weapon. ‘How come you’ve only brought the weapons and armour? Last time you brought everything at once.’

‘Max had these ready,’ she said with a shrug, as if it was of no real interest to her.

‘Unusual,’ he said. ‘To have a stockpile of weapons and armour just lying about. Normally those are the most difficult items to source.’

So, he was suspicious after all. She would have to be careful.

‘He anticipated that you would want more. He’s good at what he does.’

‘Oh, I’m sure he fucking is, making himself a fortune while the rest of us are putting our lives on the line. He’s my hero. If he’s so damned successful,’ he said, an unpleasant tone to his voice as he walked up to her while he brandished the sword, ‘he won’t mind me borrowing you for a while.’

She looked at him, astonished.

‘I want you to work for me. I’ll pay you just as much. Max isn’t the only one with money anymore.’

Moneva laughed the idea off. ‘You really think Max just lets his people walk away?’ She didn’t have to fake the bitter humour in her voice. ‘I don’t get to choose who I work for.’

Suddenly, Salvinus’s arm shot out and he grabbed her face, thumb and forefinger pressing her cheeks into her teeth.

Gernot started forwards but Salvinus’s other arm lashed out, blade pointed at Gernot’s head. ‘Not a good idea, friend.’

Gernot stopped. He knew well enough not to interfere.

Salvinus turned back to Moneva. ‘You don’t seem to get it. I’m the one you should fear, not some Kellish merchant sat at home in Essenberg counting his money.’

‘Not entirely true,’ said a new voice.

Salvinus released her, looking at the newcomer.

Orlin, Emeric’s chamberlain. His piercing blue eyes studied the scene dispassionately. He was a cold, calculating bastard, and Moneva had never expected to be pleased to see him. But she was.

‘Lord Orlin,’ said Salvinus, giving an elaborate bow that smacked of sarcasm. ‘How’s that, then?’

‘Duke Emeric demands a victory from us in this war, nothing else will do,’ said Orlin reasonably. ‘We will only achieve victory if the Barissian army continues to be well supplied. To my mind, then, and of course more importantly, to the duke himself, our relationship with Max is crucial. Whereas, as valuable as your services are Gervase, you are replaceable.’

‘You think Max gives a stuff what happens to her?’ Salvinus asked, waving his sword at Moneva.

‘That is his business,’ said Orlin, angry that the conversation was continuing. ‘She is his representative. I will give her the money that Duke Emeric agreed to pay and she will take it to Max. It’s really that simple. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get on with it. I hate wasting time unnecessarily.’

Moneva, Ernst and Gernot returned to George’s House. They went straight to the bar, where Moneva ordered them drinks.

They looked at each other, each of them sporting a slightly hysterical expression.

‘That’s a lot of money we just made,’ said Ernst in a slightly bemused way, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. The leather bag containing Emeric’s gold was slung over his shoulder, and he couldn’t refrain from patting it.

‘And a lot of risk that went with it,’ Gernot reminded him.

‘True enough,’ Moneva said. ‘We earned it.’

She felt exhausted, as the tension of the day left her body. Salvinus had made it worse than it needed to be. That was bad luck, but it didn’t take anything away from what she had achieved. This was the day she finally freed herself from Max. She looked about her, determined to remember this moment.

And that was when she saw. Fool that she was, she had been too wrapped up in their success to notice before. A group at a table were looking her way, as was the barman who had served them. None of them were looking at her, exactly. They were all looking at her glass of wine.

She saw Gernot raising his drink to his lips.

‘No!’ she shouted.

He stopped, confused.

‘Weapons!’ she screamed.

The expressions of the men at the table suddenly changed. They got to their feet, pulling out weapons concealed under their cloaks.

The first of them collapsed as Moneva grabbed her knife and threw it, the blade embedded in his forehead.

The door of the inn burst open. She knew they were Salvinus’s men. Knew he would be outside somewhere, directing the operation, with orders to take her alive. She knew it all now and she should have known it sooner.

She threw herself towards the bar, drawing one of her swords as she did. She leaped onto the bar, sliding over it, at the same time clobbering the barman with her sword. It wasn’t an accurate hit, but nonetheless she connected with him and he fell to the floor.

Moneva landed on the other side of the bar. She had no time to spare a backward glance for Ernst and Gernot. Maybe they would follow her. But she knew that wasn’t their style. They would fight it out in the bar, and the chances of them getting out alive were already virtually nil.

She ran behind the bar, into the private rooms of George’s House, where barrels of drink were stacked against the walls. If Salvinus had really wanted to make sure, he would have put men here too. But he had expected them to drink the poisoned wine, and he had the inn surrounded just in case that went wrong. Would that be enough?

Moneva had a habit, instilled in her by Max, and beaten into her by experience, to take note of all the exits from a building. And she had found out that in George’s House, the barrels of wine were delivered, not to the front door, but to the street behind the inn, one street nearer the castle and slightly higher. Here, metal grates in the pavement could be opened and barrels sent down a wooden chute into the back of the inn.

It was possible that Salvinus knew this and had stationed men there. Possible, but not likely.

Moneva moved into a storeroom and found what she was looking for. Concrete steps went up to the metal grates. She moved quickly, fiddling with the metal locks that held the grates in place. She pushed them open, not caring that they banged onto the pavement above. There were either men there, or there weren’t. Being quiet wouldn’t make a difference either way.

She walked up the last steps and out onto the street. No-one was there. She looked down the chute, hearing noise from the storeroom. A head appeared, looking up at her. It wasn’t Ernst, or Gernot. It was one of Salvinus’s men.

She turned and ran away, into the city.

As she ran, turning this way and that through the maze of streets, her fear of being followed faded, and was replaced with a cold fury. Ernst and Gernot were almost certainly dead now. Salvinus had their money. That was bad enough. But worst of all, she had let it happen, sleepwalking into George’s House without looking out for the threat. Celebrating her success, without realising that for Salvinus, it wasn’t over.

Without being conscious of what she was doing, without thinking it through, Moneva realised that she had been travelling in a circle through the streets of Coldeberg and had returned to the area around George’s House. She stopped, trying to regain control of the emotions that threatened to spill over and make her do something stupid. She had worked too hard, been through too much, to give her life away cheaply. If she was going to avenge Ernst and Gernot, if that was what she really wanted, she had to make the right move at the right time.

She moved slowly, drifting past houses, keeping to the shadows. This was what she was good at. Cat-like, she climbed onto the roof of a shop on the opposite side of the street to George’s House, shuffling forwards until she could peer down onto the scene outside.

The hacked bodies of Ernst and Gernot had been dragged onto the side of the street, a red smear from the pavement to the door of the inn. With fierce pleasure Moneva noted that two other bodies lay next to them, while a third man sat slumped against the front of the inn.

To one side of this spectacle stood Salvinus, giving out orders. Two men walked off in the direction of the castle, the bag of money they had taken from Ernst slung over a shoulder.

She remembered Ernst’s expression, bemused but delighted that they had come away with so much money.

And that was when she lost it.

Fuck thinking things through. Fuck always being in control. Fuck being patient, waiting for the right moment. And fuck Salvinus. She was going to kill him, here and now.

She wriggled backwards, her legs dangling over the edge of the house, then dropped down, landing in a crouch. She moved around the back of the shop, walked past another, looking to get as close to Salvinus as possible before being seen.

This would do. She could see him, talking with half a dozen of his men. What was he waiting for? For some of his soldiers to arrive, dragging her with them? Then he wasn’t ready for this.

Moneva sprung out from her position, both swords drawn, and ran at them.

They were all caught by surprise, reacting with instinct, and the natural response to their situation was to escape the blades.

Salvinus’s soldiers moved out of her way, pulling weapons from belts, surrounding her. It gave her a free shot at Salvinus. She swung at him, aiming to slice his neck open. He dived away at the last minute, hurling himself to the ground, but she felt her blade connect nonetheless.

Then his men were on to her. She blocked with one sword, parried with the other, caught one of them on the hand causing him to drop his weapon. She took a blow on the arm, one on her back—glancing strikes—and a third on her thigh, which was excruciating, giving her a dead leg.

She felt and heard something buzz past her head, thinking at first she had narrowly missed a fourth blow.

But one of them yelled, ‘Archer!’

She didn’t know who or where the archer was, but she knew she had to get out of there, fast.

She half ran, half hobbled back the way she had come. Her leg responded well enough for now, but she knew it would stiffen and seize up before too long. She sensed the soldiers following her, but another arrow came at them and they threw themselves to the ground behind her.

She made it to the gap in the buildings, from where she couldn’t resist looking back. Salvinus was up, one knee on the floor, one hand clutching his face. She had sliced deeply into his cheek, the flesh almost fully cut from the bone. Where Salvinus held the wound closed blood still flowed freely. He looked her way, a strangely neutral expression on his face.

She had failed to kill him. But she’d given him something to remember. That would have to do. It was time to disappear for good now.

Moneva wasted no time in leaving Coldeberg. If Salvinus had ordered the gates shut and conducted a thorough search, it would have made things difficult, even for her.

She found herself walking, painfully, in a vaguely south-westerly direction across country, away from Coldeberg and Salvinus, away from Essenberg and Max. Where to, she didn’t know. Not yet.

She heard horses coming behind her. Had they tracked her down so quickly? Damn them. She wasn’t half as good at moving across country as she was in a city.

‘Hold up!’ came a voice.

She frowned. It couldn’t be?

She stopped and turned. Coming her way was Herin, mounted on one horse and leading a second.

He pulled up.

‘Where are you rushing off to? You left without your share.’

He grabbed a leather bag from amongst the various items he had attached to his saddle and threw it in her direction. It landed with a satisfyingly heavy jingle. Her share of the money.

Moneva took a second look at the paraphernalia he was riding with and pointed to a bow.

‘Didn’t know you could use one of those,’ she said.

‘Yeah well, I’ve been practising. Still room for improvement.’

He offered her the reins of the second horse.

Taking them, she tried to lift her foot up into the stirrups but grunted in pain instead, as her leg refused to bend at the knee.

Shaking his head, Herin dismounted and walked over.

‘Here, let me give you a hand.’

Moneva nodded, but when he approached she put her arms around him.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Not many would have done this.’

‘I’m sorry about your friends. Here, let me get you up.’

Moneva let herself get manoeuvred up into the saddle, and Herin swung himself easily back into his.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘The Steppe.’

‘You’re joking? After all this?’

‘None of them saw me. My brother’s still there. Plus, I signed a contract. Have to see it through.’

So, that was that. She couldn’t complain. He’d told her he wasn’t the falling in love type.

‘How about you?’ he asked her.

‘Thinking of staying away from the Empire for a while,’ she said.

He gave her a smile. ‘Yeah, I think that’s best. I’ve always thought Cordence might be a good option. Lots of money there, not much going on. A good place to lie low for a while.’

‘Cordence,’ she said, mulling the idea over.

‘Yes. Then there’s the wine, of course. The place is flowing with smooth red wine. You’ll never have to drink Barissian piss again.’

She smiled. ‘You’ve sold me.’

‘I’ve nearly sold myself. Maybe after this war’s over.’

Moneva turned her horse to the south.

‘Farewell Herin,’ she said over her shoulder, not looking back.

‘Until next time.’

Moneva pushed her weight forwards and told her horse to go. They had to make good time, because they weren’t going to stop until they had left Barissia behind for good.

STIFF’S STANDOFF: INTRODUCTION

Stiff’s Standoff was originally written for the grimdark anthology Beyond The Shadows (published 2019). It was then picked up by Grimdark Magazine for their January 2021 edition.

Given its origins it’s probably one of the most genre-specific stories I’ve written. I really wanted to hit the (for me) key tropes of grimdark fantasy: morally grey characters; trying to get by in a gritty world; with some dark humour to make the pill go down a bit easier.

Thus Lothar ‘Stiff’ Sauer was born: a largely unsuccessful mercenary leader who has got by thanks to his motto: don’t get into something you can’t get out of.

I probably leaned into the humour quite hard in the end. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, until the editor of Grimdark Magazine mentioned it, that there is zero magic in the story. I guess that’s how gritty and realistic it became!

STIFF’S STANDOFF

LOTHAR PAUSED, CLOSING his eyes as a gust of wind blew dust in his face.

His feet throbbed, but he walked on until he reached the crossroads. Only then did he stop to examine the village.

Don’t get into something you can’t get out of, he reminded himself. ‘What a shithole,’ he murmured, looking around.

He saw a collection of wooden shacks, leaning against each other on either side of the two roads that met here. The only substantial building was the church, set in its own grounds on the north-east edge of the village. He smiled to himself bitterly. Poor fuckers the world over kept themselves poor by giving all the spare money they had to the Church. It was the ultimate long-odds gamble of the desperate and the hopeless.

Footsteps behind. He knew them to be Mirko’s.

‘Shithole,’ said a gravelly voice.

Lothar nodded. He considered the wooden shacks and the people who lived inside. ‘What possesses someone to decide to live their life in a place like this?’ he asked.

‘Because the place they’ve left is worse.’

Lothar turned around to look back down the road that had taken them here.

Two more figures approached on foot. One was a young man, big framed, with impossibly large shoulders and a thick torso that was equal parts muscle and fat. He walked in an awkward fashion, as if his body had yet to master the mechanics of the movement. Second was an old man, paper thin and worn looking, as if each passing year had made him more transparent. Another winter and he will disappear completely, Lothar speculated.

‘This it?’ asked Karl, the old man, as he and the young man caught up.

‘Yes. We’re expecting him to arrive from the east.’

Lothar pointed down the east road. It was empty, just like the others.

‘Good,’ said Karl. He began to shuffle with his trousers, tugging at the string and pulling them down.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ demanded Mirko.

‘Need to relieve myself.’

‘Not in the middle of the street. We don’t all need to see your shrivelled slange, you dirty old man.’

Karl shrugged, as if he had long ago given up on understanding the complexities of decorum, and tottered off to a narrow alley between two shacks.

‘Emil,’ said Lothar. ‘Can you keep an eye on the east road for a few minutes while we get a drink?’

‘Sure, Stiff.’

Lothar looked around.

‘Over here,’ said Mirko, walking over to one of the wooden houses.

A picture of a beer stein hung on the wooden door, indicating that the wife inside had brewed a fresh batch. Mirko knocked before they entered.

The wife was ready for them, had perhaps been peering at them through the cracks in her walls. She motioned to a couple of wooden chairs and a table.

‘Very civilised,’ commented Lothar, pleased to give his feet a rest as he sank into one of the chairs. ‘Is it a good brew, missus?’

‘Yes,’ she said, as she opened the tap in the barrel and began pouring out the first drink. ‘I only made it yesterday.’

She served them their ale.

‘Two coppers each,’ she said.

Lothar dug a silver piece out of a pocket. He offered it to the wife.

‘For me and my friends.’

The woman took it, staring at it just long enough for Lothar to guess it was one of the few times in her life she had held a silver piece, then put it in her apron.

‘Much obliged,’ she said with a nervous smile.

Lothar took a long swig of ale, keen to quench his thirst. It was sour to the taste and watery. By no means the worst batch of ale he had tasted.

Mirko smacked his lips. ‘Nice and sweet. Dates in there, is it?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said the wife, looking pleased with the praise.

His thirst somewhat quenched, Lothar took a proper look at the wife. She was young, and though her hair was tucked away under a wimple, he could still tell she had a pretty face.

‘I’m Mirko,’ his companion continued. ‘What are you named?’

Lothar didn’t like where this was going.

‘Never mind exchanging names. Drink up. We’ve got work to do,’ Lothar said, draining his drink and placing the stein on the table with a thud.

‘Emil’s on lookout, isn’t he?’ said Mirko, his face twisting into something ugly.

‘Emil’s waiting for his turn to come in here for a drink,’ said Lothar, standing up, his chair scraping along the floor.

Moments passed as Lothar stood and Mirko sat. The wife moved to the other side of the house, busying herself with nothing.

‘Very well, Stiff,’ said Mirko at last, finishing his drink and cracking the stein onto the table, before stalking out of the house.

‘Many thanks, missus,’ Lothar said to the woman. ‘My two other friends will be in shortly. They are... no bother.’

‘You’re welcome, sir,’ said the wife, her nervous smile now replaced with a neutral expression.

‘What the hell was that?’ demanded Mirko as Lothar stepped outside. ‘No exchanging names?’

‘Don’t get into something you can’t get out of,’ said Lothar mildly.

‘Oh, don’t start with that shit,’ said Mirko, storming off towards the east road. ‘Your turn,’ he shouted over to Emil and Karl, nodding towards the house. ‘Just don’t ask missus inside what her name is,’ he added.

Lothar followed him.

‘What he say?’ Karl asked Emil as they passed Lothar on their way to the house.

‘Don’t ask the wife her name,’ answered Emil.

Karl frowned, as bemused as ever by the rules of etiquette.

Lothar sat by the side of the east road. Mirko was positioned on the opposite side. Neither was in the mood for talk, so time passed by in silence. Lothar would have enjoyed the rest, were it not for the flies that pestered him and the clouds of dust that swirled up when the wind blew.

His mouth grew dry and his mind kept drifting to the missus and her barrel of sour ale.

Then he heard hoofbeats, distant but clear nonetheless. He looked over at Mirko, who gave a barely perceptible nod before looking away.

Lothar looked down the east road but saw nothing yet. The sound grew louder, and he began to feel the reverberations through the ground.

Then the horseman came into sight. Lothar knew instantly it was who they were waiting for. The rider had made no effort to hide the luxury of his clothing. Fine leather boots were tucked into stirrups, and a cloak, deep blue, billowed behind him as his stallion cantered up the distance to the crossroads.

Lothar and Mirko made no movement as the rider approached. He didn’t slow his pace, showing no interest in them or the shitty little village they lazed in.

But he should have been more careful.

Suddenly, Lothar and Mirko were up on their feet, a length of rope held between them reaching across the road. The stallion reared up in alarm and the rider tilted backwards on his mount. It was an easy thing to nudge him with the taut rope so that he fell off the beast, landing on his back.

Lothar quickly moved over, drawing his short sword from its scabbard and placing the blade to the neck of the rider.

He looked over to Mirko, who carefully approached the horse, reaching for its reins.

‘Easy boy, panic over,’ Mirko said reassuringly.

Turning back to the prone body on the floor, Lothar met eyes with the horseman. He had a long face, framed by chin-length straight brown hair. Lothar gestured for him to sit up.

Mirko appeared with the length of rope.

‘Do you know who I am?’ the man demanded, words and diction confirming his nobility.

‘Of course we fucking do,’ Mirko replied, beginning to wrap the length of rope around their captive.

The captive wasn’t ready to play along.

Once they hauled him up, he made a run for it, legs pumping fast despite his arms having been bound by Mirko’s rope. Mirko sprinted after him, tackling him to the ground. Lothar caught up to them and put his weight on the nobleman. When Mirko approached, a murderous look on his face, their captive lashed out with his legs, kicking him in the shins. Mirko roared in pain, then let forth a torrent of expletives loud enough for the whole village to hear. He launched himself at their captive, landing several punches on his face.

With his arms tied, there was nothing the nobleman could do to protect himself, and Lothar called a halt to the punishment.

Mirko walked off a few steps, his aching hand under his armpit. ‘Damn, he’s got a bony face.’

Lothar looked at their captive. There was a bit of blood but didn’t seem to be serious damage to the face. He looked dazed and no longer resisted when Lothar yanked him to his feet.

‘Let’s get him into the church,’ said Lothar.

Lothar led the captive; Mirko opened the doors and led them inside. It was a single-roomed hall, dark, and smelling of sweat and rotting wood.

‘Hey!’ said Mirko.

A figure lurked in the shadows at the far end of the church. Lothar saw that he wore the habit of a clergyman.

‘We need to borrow your church, priester!’ Mirko informed him, sounding reasonable enough.

The clergyman didn’t argue. As the three men made their way into the building, Lothar guiding their captive down the aisle of the church, the priest manoeuvred past them towards the door. He was much smaller than them, poor looking. Probably can’t read much himself, thought Lothar. Just enough to impress his ignorant flock.

Lothar watched him sidle out of his own church and leave them to it. Not that Lothar thought less of him for that. He agreed with the course of action wholeheartedly. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of.

Lothar returned his attention to their captive. The far end of the church was partitioned off, presumably the priest’s living quarters. He prodded the nobleman past the musty smelling curtains into the small space and sat him down on the priest’s mattress.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Go to hell.’

Mirko cracked his knuckles. ‘Don’t make me hit you again. I’ll use the pommel of my knife next time.’

‘Alright.’ A pause. ‘My name is Alexander. What do you want from me, you filthy thugs? Give me my sword and you won’t feel so brave.’

‘Oh,’ retorted Mirko, ‘I didn’t realise we were dealing with a fucking hero.’

‘Not a hero, just a man. Real men don’t punch defenceless prisoners in the face.’

‘I really don’t like you,’ said Mirko quietly, his knife finding its way into his hand.

Lothar looked around. There was nowhere for their prisoner to escape to. He made eye contact with Mirko and nodded in the direction of the nave.

Reluctantly, Mirko followed him, not yet prepared to return his knife to his belt.

They brushed past the curtains and made their way to the far end of the church.

‘It’s definitely him,’ Lothar murmured.

‘So what now?’

‘Take him to whoever wants him.’

‘Who wants him? And did they specify he had to be alive?’ asked Mirko, fingering the blade of his knife.

‘I’m not sure,’ Lothar admitted.

Mirko looked at him suspiciously.

‘Not sure about what? Who wants him, or whether they want him alive?’

‘I’m not sure about either.’

Mirko stared at him with dead eyes. ‘I should have fucking known…’ he said in a resigned tone, which Lothar found unfair.

‘It’s like this,’ Lothar began. ‘I overheard a conversation in the inn, someone offering a large bounty for this Alexander, heir of Berkhopen.’

They both looked back to the curtained area of the church where their captive waited.

‘They described him and said he would likely be coming in this direction. So, we have him, we just need to find out who wants him and why. Could turn out to be our biggest pay day yet.’

Mirko considered the situation. ‘But if this man was offering a large bounty, we’re not going to be the only ones after him.’

‘No,’ said Lothar, wondering why some people needed everything explained to them as if they were children. ‘There’s always potential dangers when the reward is so high.’

A shout came from outside. It sounded like Emil.

‘Stiff!’

Lothar hurried out through the doors, closely followed by Mirko.

‘It’s riders, Stiff!’ said a panting Emil, pointing west.

Lothar could see them at the crossroads, a cloud of dust stirred up by their arrival was still swirling around them.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ asked Mirko.

‘Hide the horse,’ Lothar instructed him tersely.

Mirko ran over to Alexander’s mount and led him back towards the church.

‘How many are there?’ Lothar asked Emil.

‘Seven.’

Seven riders, Lothar considered. If they’re wealthy enough to arrive on horseback, they’re likely to be well armed too. The odds didn’t seem good.

‘Where’s Karl?’

‘He stayed in the house, Stiff. Sent me to get you.’

‘As if he’s going to make one jar of difference either way,’ commented Mirko, arriving back from the church.

Lothar thought about their situation. We could leave right now. Give up our prize. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of. But giving up now when he had got so close?

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘We hide out in the church. With any luck they ride on out of here and we leave with Lord Alexander, sell him, get the money. Agreed?’

Mirko and Emil nodded, but neither of them gave the impression that they were feeling lucky.

Stiff!’ came the shout.

A woman’s voice. And a familiar one at that.

Lothar looked over to Mirko, who rolled his eyes. Emil sat on the mattress next to Alexander, his weight making it sag alarmingly.

‘Emil,’ Lothar began, ‘you stay here with him. Mirko and I will go and talk to her. With any luck—’

‘Please, don’t,’ interrupted Mirko.

Lothar made his way to the doors of the church, reluctant and excited to see her at the same time.

As he made his way out into the sunshine, Anke stood waiting for him, hands on hips. Peter was with her. That was a shame. They waited for Lothar and Mirko to approach.

Her hair was bleached from the sun, tied back out of her face. Her skin was tanned too; maybe a few more lines than last time he had seen her. But they somehow added to her beauty, made her even more desirable. He felt a lurch in his chest at the sight of her.

‘Hello boys,’ said Peter, that sardonic smile playing on his lips.

‘Hello fuck face,’ responded Mirko.

Peter smiled, making a decent job of pretending to find the remark amusing.

Why was he here with her? Had he become Anke’s second-in-command already? Lothar wouldn’t put it past the smug bastard. Was he screwing her? The thought made him feel sick. He felt his jaw tighten and he made himself take a calming breath.

‘Seems like we have a shared interest in a certain nobleman,’ said Anke.

‘What do you mean?’ Lothar asked, allowing himself a little smile.

‘Oh, come on, Stiff,’ said Anke. She wasn’t amused, looking away from him into the distance.

The doors to the church opened and Alexander emerged, still bound. He glanced their way before turning around and running in the opposite direction. Lothar had to admire his form. He had a long stride and pumped his knees up high as he ran. If he had the use of his arms, Lothar would wager he could outrun any of them. As it was, Mirko ran him down, then began directing some brutal kicks to his midriff.

Emil poked his head around the door, looking sheepish.

‘Sorry Stiff!’

‘You were saying?’ asked Anke with one raised eyebrow.

‘Oh. That nobleman.’

‘We might need him alive, you know,’ she added.

‘Mirko!’ Lothar shouted.

Mirko gave their captive one last kick before desisting.

‘I see you’re still working with the same high-quality professionals,’ said Anke.

‘Is he my replacement?’ asked a grinning Peter, nodding over at Emil, who was helping Alexander to his feet.

‘Yes, a more than ample one. Best shot I’ve seen with a bow since Sven Silkbeard.’

Silkbeard was a name that garnered immediate respect amongst those in the business, and Anke nodded at him, looking over at Emil in an appraising way.

‘And that’s not an invitation to steal one of my hands again.’

Anke sighed. ‘If you paid your people properly, Stiff, they’d be less likely to leave you.’

Lothar thought up a retort, glanced at Peter, and decided to keep it to himself.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ she added.

‘Like hell you will,’ Lothar countered. ‘We got him first.’

‘It’s my job. You’ve stolen it.’

‘The job was given to me too.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Anke, and Lothar thought he could detect a dismissive tone.

‘Come on, Stiff,’ said Peter. ‘There’s seven of us here. All professionals. We’ve been preparing for days. What have you got? A fat archer, a psychopath, an old man supping too much beer, and you’ve somehow blundered into a score. You’ve always been sensible. Known when to take a risk and when to back off.’

Patronising shit, thought Lothar, feeling himself rile up. Since when do I take advice from him?

‘I’ll give you 50 pieces for your trouble, Stiff,’ said Anke, making it sound generous. ‘You turn a tidy profit for a day’s work, everyone gets to leave with their reputation intact.’

Now she was doing it. Trying to buy him off for spare change. But Lothar knew something was up. He knew Peter and Anke plenty enough to tell that. Both trying a little too hard to appear nonchalant.

He glanced over at Emil and Mirko leading Alexander back to the church, and took a couple of backward paces towards them. He touched a hand to the hilt of his sword.

‘He’s our prisoner, Anke. We took him fair and square. I suggest you back off.’

‘Stiff,’ she replied, her voice sounding strained. ‘Don’t be fucking stupid. If you make us take it off you, we will.’

He raised his eyebrows at that, gave a little smile, and retreated back into the church.

They weren’t expecting that,’ Lothar announced, shutting the doors behind him. ‘I could tell. They expected Stiff to give up, back off. Well, not this time.’

Silence greeted him. Lothar looked at the three men. Alexander was slumped on a pew, beaten up, defeated looking. Mirko stood next to him, looking back at Lothar, eyes narrowed. To one side was Emil, looking down at the floor. No doubt still embarrassed about letting his captive go.

‘One thing I got from that conversation,’ Lothar continued into the silence, ‘they want it. Not him. It.’

He moved over to Alexander.

‘What have you got, boy?’

Mirko’s eyes lit with interest. His knife had found its way into his hands.

‘I’ll make him talk, Stiff. I’ll get it out of him.’

Alexander looked up to the timbered roof of the church, as if looking for answers from heaven. He sighed. His long face looked morose; tragic. Lothar kind of admired it. If he had pulled that face he would have just looked pathetic. But this nobleman possessed a heroic countenance. He despaired, because the gods were against him. But at least they had noticed him. Whereas Lothar knew the gods didn’t give a holy shit about his miserable existence.

‘Letters,’ said Alexander finally. ‘They’re in my cloak pocket. I’ll give them to you if you let me go.’

Mirko looked to Lothar expectantly and he nodded back. Mirko wasted no time in cutting the rope restraining Alexander, then unwinding it.

‘Don’t even think about trying anything,’ he warned him, placing the blade on Alexander’s neck. With his other hand he rummaged around in the cloak, before pulling out a stack of parchment, tied in string. He tossed it over to Lothar, who caught it and examined the spidery black writing.

‘What’s it say, Stiff?’ Mirko asked.

Lothar frowned. Surely Mirko knew full well he couldn’t read. In which case, was he trying to bluff Alexander into thinking he could decipher the writing? He shook his head. No, that was altogether too clever for Mirko.

‘Who wrote this?’ he asked Alexander.

The nobleman sighed.

‘Lady Francoise,’ he announced dramatically.

Lothar’s crew looked at each other. Mirko opened his mouth, no doubt to ask who the fuck Lady Francoise was, but with a barely perceptible shake of the head Lothar persuaded him to shut it again.

‘To you?’

Alexander nodded.

‘You’d better explain,’ said Lothar.

‘Until last summer I was at the royal court. I had a passionate affair with Lady Francoise. But the king took an interest in her. I was sent away. We continued to write each other, and in those letters is evidence of our love. Now, she is due to marry the king. These letters, if they get into the wrong hands, would ruin the match.’

‘Why?’ asked Mirko.

‘Because they demonstrate that she is not a virgin.’

Mirko laughed. ‘So?’

‘Hush, Mirko,’ said Lothar, getting annoyed. ‘So, her family want these destroyed?’ he asked Alexander.

Alexander nodded. ‘And their enemies want to get their hands on them before the wedding.’

Lothar whistled.

‘What is it, Stiff?’ asked Emil.

The simple boy was looking at him earnestly, not understanding the significance of what they had.

‘These,’ said Lothar, holding up the bunch of letters, ‘are the most valuable items I have ever held. They will decide who will be the power behind the throne for the next twenty years. If Lady Francoise gives the king children, she and her family will control the court. Many powerful men stand to lose or gain, should that happen.’

Lothar thought about it, tapping the papers into the palm of his hand. Anke would have been offered a small fortune to get these letters. But who was she working for?

‘And where were you riding off to in such a hurry?’ he asked Alexander.

‘I had a meeting with an agent of the Bishop of Aplerbeck. He was going to pay me for the letters so that his master could stop the marriage.’

‘You would give the letters to the enemies of Lady Francoise?’

‘The enemies of her father! I want the marriage stopped, so I can have her back!’

Mirko laughed again. ‘I think the young miss may have accustomed herself to the idea of becoming queen by now.’

‘We are in love!’ cried Alexander.

Mirko snorted. ‘Women fall in love with whoever has the most money. She was happy with you until she saw she could land a bigger fish.’

‘Quiet, Mirko. Now, Alexander, listen. This second crew who have arrived are being paid by Lady Francoise’s father. If they get these letters they will destroy them, and the marriage will go ahead. But if you tell me about this bishop’s agent, I will take the letters to him, and you will get what you want. Do you understand?’

Alexander looked at him, perhaps for the first time really looked at him. What does he see? Lothar wondered to himself. A man he can trust? Or a man so desperate he’s risking his life, and that of his crew, for a stack of foolish love letters.

‘Very well,’ said Alexander, in a resigned tone. ‘I’ll tell you where I had agreed to meet him.’

Stiff!’

Anke’s voice.

Lothar peered outside, through a gap in the church wall.

‘Seven of them,’ he said.

Anke’s crew stood in a fan shape in the road outside the church. Anke, hands on hips, in the middle. Not far from her Peter, his sword still scabbarded. Gerard, muscular and bearded, gripped a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Hild, Anke’s tracker, held a light spear. Three other men, armed with spear or axe, whom Lothar didn’t recognise.

‘No archers,’ he added.

‘Emil could put two of them down before they could react,’ suggested Mirko, looking out. ‘That would even out the odds.’

Lothar nodded and turned to Emil. ‘Find a location you like,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and talk to her one last time. Otherwise…’

Emil nodded, serious faced.

Lothar knew the young lad would do his best if it came to it. Moving slowly, as if he could delay the confrontation forever, Lothar opened the church doors and walked towards Anke’s crew.

The wind swirled dust about them. Five of them held their weapons at the ready. They could chop him down in seconds if they chose to. Lothar didn’t make a habit of walking towards armed adversaries, but he made himself walk steadily, as if they were of no concern. Anke and Peter had yet to draw their weapons, which suggested they were not going to kill him. Yet.

He stopped in front of Anke. She looked angry. He imagined her forgiving him, riding off with him to collect the bounty, renting a room together above an inn where they would schtup all night and day for a week.

‘My crew all want paying, Stiff,’ she said instead. ‘I’ve promised them. If they have to kill you to get paid, they will. Hand him over.’

‘Do you want the letters as well?’

Peter started. Anke didn’t miss a beat.

‘So you’ve found out about the letters. It doesn’t change anything.’

‘It does, Anke. We can burn those letters. On a signal from me, or if your crew get threatening in any way, Mirko will burn them.’

Anke sighed. A look of hatred briefly crossed her face. Lothar found that he didn’t mind so much. Hatred was better than derision.

‘And if you don’t hand those letters over, we’re going to cut you down.’

‘Indeed. No-one wins either way.’

‘What are you saying, Stiff? If you have a proposal, spit it out. I’ve already offered you money, and time is of the essence right now.’

‘We join up. For this job. We all get paid for the letters. From no-one wins to everyone wins.’

Anke looked at him. ‘Alright. You’re not giving me much of a choice, are you?’

Lothar smiled. ‘I’m giving you the choice to get very rich. It just means I get rich too. There are more of you, so we keep the letters until the handover.’

He held his hand out.

‘Anke!’ It was Hild.

He kept his hand out. Anke was a woman of her word. One shake of hands and he would be rich.

‘Anke!’

Anke turned to her tracker.

Hild pointed back to the crossroads. ‘Riders!’

They stared in stunned silence for a few moments as the shithole of a village filled with armed riders.

‘Forty?’ asked Peter.

‘At least,’ said Hild.

‘Who are they?’

‘Whoever they are, it can’t be good,’ said Anke. ‘And we’ve left our horses up there. Thanks to you,’ she added, glaring at Lothar.

‘Hide in the church?’ he asked.

‘They’ve seen us already,’ said Hild.

‘You lot get in the church,’ said Anke, ‘so we can hide our numbers. Make it look like there are a lot of you.’

‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Lothar.

Anke shrugged. The rest of her crew turned to the building.

‘Do I shoot them, Stiff?’ came a voice.

Anke looked at him. Lothar offered a hand. Wordlessly, Anke took it and they shook.

He couldn’t see his archer but had no doubt he was ready to fire. ‘No Emil,’ he shouted, ‘there’s been a change of plan.’

Half a dozen riders, armed with spears, trotted toward them, as Lothar watched and waited with Anke. It seemed ridiculous under the circumstances, but he liked that they were now working together.

‘So, who are you going to sell the letters to?’ he asked.

‘The highest bidder,’ she responded. ‘Who is likely to be the Bishop of Aplerbeck. He is desperate to stop the marriage.’

An arrow flew from the roof of the church to land in the dirt a few feet in front of the riders. They pulled up. Lothar was close enough to see one of them rummaging in a saddlebag before they held up a white rag. Anke held up one arm and indicated that they should approach. They did, more cautiously than before.

Lothar could see their chain mail armour was in good condition. They wore no identifying livery. Even if, as he suspected, they were some nobleman’s retinue, they would not advertise it when engaged in clandestine work such as this.

The six men stopped a few feet from them, eyeing them up. They glanced over to the church. Emil had his bow trained on them from the rooftop. Gerard stood outside the door, which was open enough to reveal more armed men inside.

‘Am I speaking with your leaders?’ asked one of them finally.

‘You are,’ replied Anke.

‘I have an ultimatum for you from my lord, no negotiation. Deliver up the letters and we will leave you alive, along with your mounts. If you do not do so within one quarter of an hour he will order his soldiers to kill you all.’

‘Who is your lord?’

The messenger turned to Lothar with a humourless smile. ‘You do not need to know that. You just need to know his offer. I was instructed to inform you of this only.’

The rider pulled on his reins with one hand, turning his horse around.

‘And if we destroy the letters?’ Lothar called after him.

The riders trotted their horses away, ignoring his question, but he saw them share a smile amongst themselves.

‘Hmm, I don’t think they mind if we destroy them,’ Lothar said.

‘Agreed. Which would mean they are working for the Count of Vechelde.’

Lothar raised an eyebrow.

‘The father of Lady Francoise,’ Anke added, shaking her head at his ignorance.

‘Do you think they’ll attack?’

‘I think the Count of Vechelde would sacrifice a few of his soldiers to secure the marriage of his daughter to the king. So, yes, I’m pretty sure they mean what they say.’

Lothar nodded. He wracked his brain, trying to think of a way out of the situation.

‘What’s more,’ Anke added, ‘I would think the Count of Vechelde would sleep well tonight if all of us, including Alexander, were dead. Then there would be no danger of stray letters from Lady Francoise reappearing in a few days’ time.’

‘Yes,’ Lothar had to agree. ‘Then we find ourselves in a pickle.’

They entered the church. Mirko and Anke’s crew stood about them, eager for news. Alexander sat at his pew, looking forlornly about him as events began to pass him by.

Lothar thought it best to let Anke explain the situation.

‘Could we make a fight of it?’ asked Mirko when she had laid out the facts.

‘We’re outnumbered four to one!’ said Peter, exasperated.

Lothar looked at Anke’s crew. They weren’t in a fighting mood.

‘What if we give them half the letters and keep the other half?’ asked Mirko.

Lothar smiled at his cunning. He was offering more than Anke’s so-called professionals.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Anke. ‘Once we hand over the letters, what’s to stop them killing us anyway? They’ll want to make sure that we haven’t cheated them.’

Half her crew looked worried at that idea. Cowards, thought Lothar. They were used to making easy money with Anke. Weren’t used to risking anything.

‘The best option we have,’ he said, ‘is to negotiate with them. They’re not interested in negotiations now because they think we’ll just give them what they want. But if we make things difficult, start exacting a price in injured and dead soldiers and time, then they may decide that talking to us isn’t such a bad idea. Then they might decide to part with some coin, for example.’

Everyone was looking at him intently. He knew he was right. Would they agree?

‘As Anke says,’ he continued, ‘handing over the letters means we give away the one bargaining chip we have.’

Once Lothar had finished, the crew turned to Anke. She looked back at them, chewing on her lip. Eventually she sighed. ‘I agree with Stiff. Handing over the letters is a bad call. So, that means we have to defend this church. What are the threats?’

‘Fire,’ said Mirko. ‘The timber’s bone dry. If I were them I’d burn us out.’

‘And a good fire would deal with the letters,’ added Lothar.

‘There’s not much we can do about that,’ said Peter. ‘We don’t have any material to stop a fire.’

‘Tell Emil to target anyone with a fire brand,’ said Mirko.

‘If that’s their plan, they’ll wear full armour,’ said Anke. ‘Emil couldn’t stop them. We’d need to rush out and cut them down. Then we’d be out in the open.’

Lothar shrugged. ‘So, if they burn the church we’re screwed. Anything else?’

‘What about him?’ asked Mirko, gesturing at Alexander.

‘Give me my sword,’ said the nobleman. ‘I don’t want Vechelde to get his hands on the letters any more than you.’

‘Not likely. They don’t want him, do they Stiff? They just want the letters?’

Lothar considered it. An image of Alexander sprinting away came to mind, his knees pumping high as he disappeared into the distance. Not to mention they had his horse tied up outside the church. He didn’t want the young lord leaving on their one means of escape.

‘Tie him up and put him back there, out of the way,’ said Lothar, indicating the curtained-off area at the back of the church. They didn’t need any distractions.

‘Stiff? I said, they don’t want him, do they?’ repeated Mirko.

‘No, Mirko.’ Why did he have to repeat everything twice? ‘Like I said, put him back there, out of the way.’

It wasn’t long before Count Vechelde’s soldiers returned, this time three dozen of them. They came on horseback, the clopping of the horses and the creaking of armour announcing their arrival. They stopped within a few feet of the church. Anke and Lothar were there to greet them.

‘Tell your master,’ said Anke, as soon as it was quiet enough to speak, ‘that we are not giving up the letters without fair compensation.’

A rider pulled up his metal visor. It was the same man they had spoken with earlier.

‘Then our orders are to kill you,’ he said simply.

‘Then my soldiers will be given orders to kill you,’ she responded. ‘Leave now or face the consequences.’

Lothar kept his hand near the hilt of his scabbarded sword, but the soldiers just watched as the two of them retreated to the door of the church, where they stood with Gerard and another one of Anke’s crew, both gripping spears heavy enough to bring down a horse.

The enemy still didn’t move, talking amongst themselves.

‘Now,’ shouted Lothar.

An arrow flew from the roof. Whereas before Emil had shot to intimidate, now he shot to hit his target. The missile struck one of the horses on the shoulder, causing it to rear up on its hind legs, its rider grabbing it around the neck to stay on. Riders began to move their mounts clear of the church, knocking into each other in their haste to put safe distance between their horses and Emil’s bow. The retreat, induced by one archer firing one arrow, was a mess. Without clear orders, the soldiers took it upon themselves to return to the village crossroads, leaving Anke and Lothar’s crews as the victors of the first engagement.

‘They were expecting us to just hand them over,’ said Anke.

‘Indeed. But now they know otherwise, I expect them to return forthwith.’

‘Let’s look,’ she suggested. ‘Stay here,’ she said to Gerard, before leaving the church to follow the path taken by the mounted soldiers.

Lothar quickly caught up to her, and they walked on a few yards before crouching down by a house where they could get a good view of the proceedings. Most of the soldiers were dismounting, and Lothar heard orders being barked, no doubt readying the soldiers for an assault on the church.

‘What if we made a run for it now, before they notice?’ asked Anke.

‘We wouldn’t get very far before they caught up to us,’ replied Lothar.

‘What if we doubled back to get the horses?’

Lothar thought about it. The soldiers would be coming to the church on foot. If they left the church, sneaked back to the crossroads, dispatched any guards and took a horse each, they could ride away before the main body of soldiers had realised what was happening.

‘Anke. That’s brilliant. That could work.’

He grinned at her, and she returned his smile, a big genuine smile that he had never witnessed from her before. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I could tell her I love her right now. But this is hardly the right time or place for that.

‘Right,’ she said, her voice full of determination, ‘let’s do it. You keep an eye on them here, I’ll go back and get everyone ready.’

Lothar watched her go for a moment, then turned back to the village crossroads. The horses had been gathered together and the dismounted soldiers had been organised into groups of about ten. They seemed ready to head back in his direction. If they were quick, Anke’s plan might still work.

He heard shouting. He could see the soldiers turning to the north road, to his right, but at first, he couldn’t see what they were looking at, his view blocked by the village houses. Then he heard horses. And this time it wasn’t the sound of a single rider, or half a dozen, or even forty. He could hear a hundred horses pounding down the dirt road.

The soldiers occupying the centre of the village seemed to panic. A group on horseback, perhaps the leaders, fled along the west road. The rest began to run over to where their horses were gathered, desperately clambering onto their mounts.

Then the newcomers were on them. In a swirl of dust Lothar could see spear thrusts, hammers smashing down into armour. A few of Vechelde’s men escaped on horseback and were not pursued. A greater number were hacked to the ground. The rest surrendered, dropping weapons and falling to their knees. It was over in minutes.

Lothar turned around. Anke was marshalling her crew outside the church. But the situation had changed. He left his position and ran over to them. Anke paused as he approached.

‘A new force,’ he said breathlessly. ‘About a hundred of them on horseback. Vechelde’s men are either dead, captured or escaped.’

‘A hundred?’ repeated Peter, stunned. ‘Who would send that many men here?’

‘Only a few possibilities,’ said Anke. ‘What do we do now?’ She looked at Lothar.

‘Find out who they are? Maybe it’s good news, maybe it’s someone who’ll buy the letters from us?’

Anke made a face. ‘Men with a hundred soldiers at their back are generally not the best customers.’

Hild pointed back to the centre of the village. Small groups of riders were already conducting a search, knocking on doors. A group of three were heading in their direction.

‘I’ll go and talk to them,’ Lothar offered. ‘Maybe we can negotiate a deal. The rest of you stay here and prepare for the worst.’

‘We’re letting him talk to them himself, with the letters?’ Peter asked Anke. ‘We’ll never see him again.’

‘We’ll come with you, Stiff,’ she said. ‘Gerard, get things ready here if necessary.’

What precisely Gerard was going to get ready should a hundred soldiers descend on the church Lothar wasn’t sure. Their only chance was striking a deal with the new arrivals.

The three riders were looking their way. Lothar walked towards them, both hands in the air.

‘We’re not with Vechelde,’ he assured them as he approached. ‘Take us to your lord. We have news for them.’

The soldiers didn’t look impressed.

‘Who are you?’ one of them asked, his warhorse still skittish under him from the melee at the crossroads.

‘A mercenary crew,’ Lothar replied, as Anke and Peter joined him. ‘We have something your lord wants.’

The soldier pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Then follow on.’

He walked his horse back the way they had come, while his two companions moved to either side of Lothar and Anke. In this way they were led back to the crossroads.

Lothar looked around. A dozen corpses lay bleeding out on the road, already stripped of armour. A larger group of soldiers were sitting outside a row of houses, soldiers with swords and hammers keeping guard over them.

Lothar thought back to a couple of hours ago as he had walked down the west road with Mirko and stared about the deserted village. He looked at the dead soldiers, wishing he had turned around and left as soon as he got here. Don’t get into something you can’t get out of, that was his motto. What had prompted him to abandon it today?

He glanced at the picture the stein hanging from the missus' house and grinned to himself. He fancied that Karl was still in there, observing the chaos outside with a cup of ale in his hand.

‘These three asked to speak with you, my lord,’ said the lead soldier.

Lothar hadn’t noticed that they had stopped in front of a man on horseback. As he looked up he instantly knew whom he was addressing.

‘My Lord of Berkhopen,’ he greeted the man.

In front of him was an older version of Alexander. A long, bony face studied him. Devoid of the youthful foolishness of his son, this was the face of a man in control, used to getting what he wanted from people.

‘You know me, but I don’t know you. What are you doing on my lands?’ He waved a hand at the defeated soldiers, indicating the fate of those who invaded his territory.

‘We are the leaders of a mercenary band,’ said Lothar, immediately rejecting any thoughts he might have had of lying his way out of the situation. ‘We came here to take the correspondence between Lady Francoise and your son. The letters are very valuable to certain interested parties.’

‘So I understand. My son has been very stupid. And did you succeed in gaining said letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘And my son?’

‘We have him held captive here.’

Berkhopen didn’t react to this, but continued to study Lothar impassively.

‘And what is it you have come to speak to me about?’

Lothar wasn’t sure. He had the distinct impression that the Lord of Berkhopen would soon order the three of them to be killed on the spot. He turned to Anke, looking for some help.

‘We only wanted the letters,’ she said carefully.

‘Of course you did,’ Berkhopen agreed. ‘Why don’t we cut to the chase, here? I am a man of the world. I know full well that scum like you exist. As far as you’re concerned, it’s not personal.’

Lothar nodded.

‘You have my son. You’re trying to cut the best deal you can. Well, here it is. Return my son to me, and I will let you all ride out of my lands with no consequences. Anything less and you will all be made an example of, which will involve a slow and very painful death. Do we have a deal?’

Lothar swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. He shared a glance with Anke before turning back to Berkhopen. ‘Agreed. We will get him right away.’

Berkhopen inclined his head, before nodding to his soldiers.

Lothar, Anke and Peter turned around and began the walk back to the church.

‘So, that’s it, then?’ asked Peter as they walked, at pace, back to the church.

‘That’s the way it goes, sometimes,’ replied Anke. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. At least no-one got killed. We might have done it if it wasn’t for Stiff messing things up. Stiff?’ she said, turning to him. ‘What’s the matter?’

Lothar’s insides were churning. He looked across at her.

‘Just something Mirko said.’ He could hear how shaky his voice sounded. ‘When he asked me whether they wanted Alexander.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, sounding concerned. ‘He wouldn’t have done anything, would he?’

‘He would,’ said Peter flatly.

They half walked, half ran back to the church. Emil called out a greeting from the roof. Lothar ignored him. Gerard and Hild were standing outside.

‘Where’s Mirko?’ Peter demanded.

They shrugged.

Lothar flung open the doors. Two of Anke’s crew looked up. He walked past them. He had told Mirko to keep Alexander in the priest’s quarters at the back of the church. He strode down the aisle, Anke and Peter following close behind. He shoved aside the curtains. And there was Alexander.

The whole area was bathed in blood. It was up the walls, on the bed, even on the ceiling. Alexander’s body was slumped on a chair, his head sagging backwards and to one side. Multiple injuries covered his body: neck, torso, face. His hands were slashed and bleeding.

Mirko, perched on the bed, looked up at Lothar. His knife was still in his hands. He had made no effort to clean it and the front of his mail shirt was dripping in blood. He grinned knowingly, a gleam in his eye.

Anke and Peter entered. She gasped in shock.

‘You’ve killed us,’ said Peter, his voice sounding strange, devoid of emotion. ‘You’ve killed us all.’

I think you can leave now,’ said the missus.

Karl thought about it. She was right. He’d heard nothing outside for a good while now. He stood up, swaying a bit in that way you do when you’ve taken on a bit too much booze. He finished the dregs of his ale.

‘Thanking you,’ he mumbled and staggered to the door, letting himself out.

The fresh air hit him, and he had to wait awhile, swaying on his feet, before he felt steady enough to walk.

They’d left the bodies of the dead soldiers lying in the road, and the sight made him feel ill. Not to mention he needed a piss. His bowels gurgled. He needed more than a piss.

He wandered down the road for a bit. There was the church. Bodies lay strewn about, arrows sticking out of corpses. Only the devil knew what sights would assail him inside the building. His friends might be there, and he didn’t want to see that.

He walked in the opposite direction, on the other side of the road, away from the church and houses.

Something on the ground caught his eye. He grinned. The gods were looking out for him today. He reached down, taking the move nice and slow, and scooped up the pieces of parchment that had evidently been blown there by the wind.

He hugged them, admiring their soft texture. They were perfect.

He walked on a bit farther. To a good spot. Karl undid his string belt, letting his hose slide down his legs, and squatted down, the soft parchment with the spidery black text clutched in his hands.

DEMON DAYS: INTRODUCTION

Demon Days was written in 2019 for an anthology that never came to be. The theme was ‘rise above’ and was to be all about optimism in the face of depression, or similar hardship - quite different from Stiff’s Standoff, then.

This challenged me to write something a little different - no people hitting each other with swords here.

DEMON DAYS

SARI BLINKED as she struggled to open her eyes and then keep them open. She just wanted to drift back into oblivion. But she forced herself to move until she had managed to attain a sitting position on her bed.

‘Oh Lord Above, another day in your company. When will it end?’

There it was already, the voice that followed her everywhere, not giving her a chance to fully wake up before it began.

She turned to see her demon sitting on her desk, staring balefully at her.

Amorphous, it presented as a small, goblin-like creature, ridged skin a mix of black and green. Small dark eyes looked at her with hostility. Then it changed its appearance, transforming into Sari herself.

‘Here, want to take a look in the mirror?’

An ugly, bug-eyed, bucked-tooth girl stared at her now. When the demon had first shown her what she looked like, she hadn’t believed it. She remembered her mother always used to tell her how pretty she was. But she wasn’t sure anymore. Was her demon lying to her, or had her mother been?

Sari got washed and dressed, rushing to get ready for her first class. Her demon told her how much she smelt, how stupid she looked in her clothes. When she ate her breakfast, he told her how noisy and disgusting her chewing sounded. But he said the same things every morning, and she let his comments fade into the background.

She stopped at the door of her hut, steeling herself to leave.

‘Oh, are we scared to go outside, now?’ her demon asked. ‘We have become a pathetic waste of space, haven’t we?’

Sari opened the door and left.

Sari took the path that led from the accommodation block to the university. Others were making the same journey, and as she walked she began to hear the dry voices of adults in conversation, and the extravagant laughter of children messing about. The sound gave her a twinge in her gut. Since when did she fear the sound of laughter?

She tried to shrug the feeling off, but then a group of half a dozen children appeared from around the corner, walking towards her. She looked up at them and then straight back down to the path, worrying about having to walk past them. That twisting sensation in her gut returned, and a tightness in her throat. She could feel their eyes on her as she passed them, but they said nothing.

‘Did you actually flinch when you saw them?’ her demon asked.

He didn’t miss a thing, dwelling on every sign of weakness.

‘They were about three years younger than you!’ he marvelled.

Oh, shut up, she said to him, in her head. But he was right. What kind of miserable coward got intimidated by a group of children on their way to school?

‘I need facts!’ Sari’s schoolmaster demanded. ‘Your argument can’t stand without precise evidence.’

Sari racked her brain, trying to dredge up any information she could remember about the formation of the Maghdim Empire. She had not really understood the lessons, her mind wandering lost amidst a list of names and dates. Her brain didn’t work properly anymore—she couldn’t concentrate on anything, and now that she needed to recall what she had learned this term, it felt like walking through the sludgy mud of the riverbank where she had grown up. It would suck at her feet, not letting her raise her legs to move, stealing her shoes. It felt like that mud had somehow blanketed her mind, preventing it from thinking clearly, when once it had been sharp and agile.

Panangdaran the First had united traditional magical practices with the new national religion. But she thought that was some years after the formation of the Empire. Who had ruled before him?

She glanced briefly at the other three girls in the class. They were all looking at her with unreadable expressions.

‘They can’t believe how stupid you are, either,’ Sari’s demon told her.

The silence in the classroom stretched on and she had to fill it.

‘Panangdaran the First enacted policies—’

‘Panangdaran the First!’ roared her teacher, sounding incredulous. ‘Did he travel back in time some hundred years to give aid to his great-grandfather?’

Sari’s demon tittered at the joke.

He strode towards her. ‘What a waste, this education you receive for free, and have no respect for! What a waste of my time! We should send you back to whatever corner of the jungle you were plucked from!’

His stick came down, slapping her hard on the knuckles. It was the shame, more so than the pain, that made Sari turn red.

‘Kemala!’ the schoolmaster said.

The three girls turned around to face the front of the classroom.

‘Support Sari’s argument, please.’

‘King Seda passed a decree, On the Punishment of Users of Magic, in the year 391,’ said Kemala, reciting the history as if she were reading it from a text. ‘There were a range of punishments, with death only reserved for the more serious offences. Before the decree, death was the punishment for all use of magic.’

‘Fine,’ said the schoolmaster. ‘One precise fact that transforms an assertion into an argument. That’s all I ask for, Sari. A little effort on your part to learn the material.’

The lesson ended, the schoolmaster swirling out of the room without a backwards glance. The other three girls began talking together, deciding where they were going after school. They each had a little section of braided hair, with pale blue beads in, making them look similar. Sari thought it looked cute. She heard her demon laughing.

‘What are you going to do? Turn up in tomorrow’s lesson with those beads in your hair? That’ll be awkward. They’ll think you’re a bigger freak than they already do.’

Sari strode away, past the girls, out of the schoolroom. She didn’t know where she was going. The thought of returning to her hut by herself for the rest of the day filled her with dread, so she walked in the opposite direction, no destination in mind.

The jungle loomed ahead of her. The dense tangle of vegetation surrounded the campus. The university was a small oasis that had been carved out of the wilderness on the orders of the Emperor, perhaps to demonstrate his power over the land as much as any other reason. Sari didn’t know why it had been built at this location, far from any other settlement. She didn’t know why she had been plucked from her home and deposited here, when clearly, she was no good at anything.

On the outskirts of the university’s estate were the training yards, where the boys learned to become warriors. With nothing else to do, Sari wandered over to watch.

She saw Bakti exercising with a long spear. He would thrust it ahead, front leg stretching forwards as he did, then twirl the spear around and thrust in the opposite direction. He practised blocking up high and down low, and all the while his feet adjusted at dizzying speed, kicking up dust from the ground. He wore no top and Sari couldn’t help looking at his tanned skin, could see he was damp with sweat from the exercise. She thought it must be fine to be outside every day, working your muscles, instead of cooped up indoors with lessons, like the girls.

Bakti caught her looking at him and scowled.

Sari glanced away, as if she hadn’t seen it. She waited a few moments, so that it didn’t look obvious, then left the training yard.

Ahead of her now was only the jungle. Her legs took her there, leaving the university and its residents behind. She didn’t want to go. But equally, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

A path led through the trees. The jungle attacked it from both sides: creepers, branches, vines, all invading its boundaries to reclaim it, to eradicate the intrusion.

Sari knew that the path connected the university to other parts of the Empire, though she had little knowledge of the geography. A silly part of her thought that she might walk all the way back to her village and her family. But she had no idea how to get there. All she remembered was a long, meandering journey in the back of a cart, picking up other children on the way. It had taken four days to get to the university from her village. Even if she somehow found her way home, what then? Her parents would only have to send her back.

Sari left the path and walked in amongst the trees and thick vegetation. It was crowded with plant life, all struggling against one another for access to the sun and the rain. It was even more humid here. Sari felt the wetness on her skin. The sweet smell of flowering plants mixed with rotting leaves and damp earth. The birds in the trees filled the jungle with sound. She trudged along, her pace instantly so much slower than on the path, as she navigated fallen trees. Sari was at war with herself. A part of her was wary of going much farther, knowing that she would soon get completely lost, unable to return to the path. Another part of her wanted exactly that. All the while her demon floated along behind her. He was quiet; he almost seemed content.

Sari soon grew hot and tired. And after all, what was the point of walking farther? She wasn’t going anywhere. She sat down by a tree, resting her back against it. Her mouth was dry with thirst, but she hadn’t taken water with her. She cried for a while then, at the sadness that had led her to this tree in the middle of nowhere.

‘This is it, then?’ her demon asked her. ‘This is the end?’

Sari thought about it. ‘This is as good a place as any.’

‘You’re just going to sit there?’ he asked. ‘Sharpen a branch and do yourself in.’

The thought of stabbing herself didn’t appeal.

‘I will just sit here,’ she said. ‘The animals of the jungle will find me soon enough.’

‘That’s true,’ her demon replied, sounding satisfied with the plan. ‘There are only a few hours until night comes.’

He perched on a low branch, waiting for her to die.

Except the plan wasn’t so great. An army of ants were the first animals to find her. They began to climb up her legs and started to bite. Being eaten alive by ants was not what Sari had intended. Besides, sitting there just made her hot and bored. She got to her feet.

‘Where are you going?’ her demon demanded.

Sari ignored him. She didn’t know.

She walked farther into the jungle. The canopy above blocked much of the sunlight, but she could still tell that the sun was beginning to set. The heat of the day began to dissipate a little.

After walking for some time, Sari began to detect the sound of trickling water amidst the other noises of the jungle. Desperately thirsty now, she headed in that direction.

Sari stopped. Ahead, on a rocky rise of land, a fast-flowing stream dropped several feet down into a pool of water. It was this sound that had drawn her, but it was something else that had made her stop. A timber-built cottage stood on the rocky ground, just next to the stream.

Sari had heard plenty of stories of the people who lived in such a place. Witches. They kidnapped children and took them deep into the jungle, where no-one could find them. Other stories said they had powerful magic, and that they might use their powers to help the sick and desperate, for a price.

‘We should get away from here,’ warned her demon.

Sari allowed herself a mirthless grin. He made it sound like he was concerned for her. Her demon’s dislike of the place only made her want to approach the cottage to spite him. What exactly should she fear? Was being killed by a witch any worse than being killed by the beasts of the jungle?

Sari walked over to the cottage. She looked about, in case anyone was working outside. The cottage had a garden with two small wooden huts in it. The stream babbled pleasantly up here, just before it dropped into the pool down below. But no-one was working outside.

Hesitantly, she approached the door. She gave it a knock.

‘Hello?’ she called, then waited for a response. None came.

She pulled at the door, which swung outwards.

‘What are you doing, you fool?’ hissed her demon.

Sari peered inside. It was a small cottage but looked well cared for. A rock hearthplace faced her, with a large pile of firewood to one side. The flooring and walls were wooden, and the roof was built from wooden rafters, thatched with dried reeds. The basic furniture inside was also made from wood, and hanging from every conceivable space—the walls and the rafters—were clumps of leaves, herbs, roots, bark and more. Some looked freshly picked, some had been dried out, but between them they gave the cottage an intense, aromatic smell. It was far more inviting than Sari had imagined. But no-one was home.

‘Good. Let’s get out of here while we still can,’ Sari’s demon said, still apparently concerned for her welfare.

But it was too late now. A figure was approaching from the trees. It was an old woman and she had already seen them. The woman looked about, perhaps wondering whether Sari had really come alone, or was part of a group. Satisfied, she walked towards her. A small carrying basket was strapped around her neck, filled with mushrooms and other ingredients she had foraged from the jungle.

‘How did you get here?’ she asked Sari, her voice full of authority.

Her hair had turned grey and her skin was wrinkled with age. She had deep, dark eyes, and Sari could imagine that once she had been beautiful.

‘From the university.’

The woman gave a grunt at that piece of information, looking up at the sky.

‘It’s too late to get you back there now. I’ll take you in the morning. Come in, you’ll have to sleep here.’

Sari followed her into the cottage, where the woman took the basket from around her neck and hung it on a hook.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sari.’

‘I am Mustika.’

She grabbed a large jug.

‘Here, fetch some water from the brook.’

Sari did as she was told, walking over to the brook and kneeling on the rocky ground. First, she cupped her hands together and brought some of the clear water to her mouth, repeating the process until her immediate thirst was sated. Then she filled the jug and returned to the cottage.

Inside, Mustika had got a fire going in the hearth and was working with a knife on her table, preparing ingredients and placing them into a large pot.

‘Here girl, fill these cups, then refill the jug.’

Once Mustika had prepared the meal, adding the water from the second jug to make a stew, she hung the pot above the fire and allowed it to slowly cook. Rich and spicy aromas began to fill the cottage, making Sari realise how hungry she was.

Mustika took a seat in her comfy chair to one side of the fire, while Sari sat on a rug by her feet, enjoying the heat that spread out from the flames. Her demon sat away from them, on the table in the centre of the room.

‘What’s your story, young Sari?’ the old woman asked, her voice not unkind. ‘You have walked a long way from the university, into the jungle.’

It was an obvious question to ask, and not one that Sari could easily lie about. There was no legitimate sounding excuse she could give.

‘I have had enough of it,’ said Sari.

‘Enough of what?’ asked Mustika, looking at her shrewdly. ‘Your studies? The people?’

‘Enough of everything,’ Sari replied, and found that tears were in her eyes, and the more she tried to blink them away, the more they came.

‘So you walked into the jungle. Why?’

‘To end it. I meant to not go back. But I happened upon your cottage—’

‘And just as well that you did, child. Now. Tell me what precisely led you upon such a course. And no hiding the truth or giving me part of the story, either.’

‘Don’t tell her anything!’ warned her demon.

Sari had kept her feelings to herself for so long now, it didn’t feel possible to tell someone else. But she was so tired of it, and she really didn’t see what else she could say to the woman, except to sit in insolent silence.

‘I am alone. Frightened of everything. And I have a demon—’

‘What of it?’

‘My demon controls me.’

Sari hadn’t even thought of it like that, until she said it out loud.

‘What techniques do you use to shut him out?’

‘What?’ asked Sari, not understanding the question.

Mustika studied her shrewdly. ‘How old were you when they brought you here?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nine,’ repeated Mustika, sounding angry. ‘Too young. And did the university talk to you about demons? Who did you talk to when it came?’

‘I—’

Sari thought about it. It was strange. She couldn’t remember when her demon had appeared. She knew that he wasn’t there when she was younger. But she couldn’t remember his arrival, either. There didn’t seem to be one day when he wasn’t there, then one day when he was. Her mind felt foggy just trying to think about it.

Mustika was looking at her, an intense expression on her face. Sari remembered her question.

‘No. I haven’t spoken with anyone about it.’

‘Fools!’ Mustika exploded without warning. ‘Taking youngsters away from their homes too young and leaving them to their own devices!’

She paused, eyeing Sari.

‘Do you understand, girl, that we all have a demon? When we begin to pass from childhood to adulthood, they attach themselves to us. None of us are spared.’

Sari frowned at the woman. What trick was this?

Mustika sighed. ‘You won’t believe me, will you?’ she asked, but the way she said it made it sound like she was talking more to herself than to Sari.

Even so, Sari shook her head slightly. Everyone had a demon? How could she believe that? Her parents didn’t have them, nor her teachers, nor her classmates. If everyone had one, how had no-one ever spoken of them?

‘You think I don’t have a horrific demon living with me here in this cottage, all by myself day after day? Look at me, child. Imagine what I look like when I undress for bed, what cruel things a demon could say to me! Look at you, with your angelic face! And don’t think I didn’t get a look at your pert bottom as you left to fetch water both times! Think how I must feel in your company, with my saggy flesh in all the wrong places.’

Sari’s jaw dropped in shock at the comment. She was ugly. Wasn’t she? Her demon always said so. But her mother used to say she was pretty, and now this woman was saying it as well.

‘Do you know what I am, Sari?’ Mustika asked, a different tone to her voice now.

How am I supposed to answer that? Sari wondered. But the woman fixed her with her deep eyes, waiting for a response.

Sari took in a shallow breath. ‘A witch,’ she said, her voice quivering.

Mustika smiled at that. ‘A loaded term, but I don’t deny it. There is something I can do that might help you. That is, I think it will help. It could make things worse. Since we are at this point, with you wandering into the jungle like you have done, I judge it is worth a try.’

‘What is it?’ asked Sari. Despite part of her warning herself not to get her hopes up, another part of her couldn’t help it. Could this witch kill her demon? But if she had such powers, she would surely have killed her own.

‘Although you don’t believe me, everyone carries a demon with them. We can’t normally see other people’s, just our own. But I can make it so that you can see other demons. It would only be for a day—it certainly wouldn’t do anyone any good to see demons everywhere, all the time. But I think it might help you to understand them if you could see others. I offer you this, for free. No wicked deals involved, where you must give me your soul or firstborn in exchange for the spell. But it is up to you, Sari. You must decide whether you want to do it, or not.’

Sari thought about it. One demon was bad enough. But she couldn’t help her curiosity. What if Mustika was telling the truth, and everyone had a demon? Sari felt like she had to know.

Mustika added some ingredients to Sari’s bowl of stew, muttering strange words that sounded like they were from a different language. By the time it was prepared, Sari was so hungry that she didn’t think twice about wolfing it all down. The mushrooms and vegetables were tender and tasty, and Mustika gave her a slice of hard black bread which she used to mop up the last of the broth.

Mustika gave her a look. ‘It should start to work soon.’

The witch glanced over at the table, where Sari’s demon had been silently perched for some time. Sari could just detect a shimmery form, sitting on the table next to her own demon. The more she looked, the more it took shape. It was much larger than Sari’s and resembled a female human form. Its arms and legs were long, thin and malformed, the bones set at awkward angles. The head was large and elongated, with a heavy-set brow and large mouth showing yellowed, razor-sharp teeth. She had to admit, it was more terrifying to look on than her own, though perhaps that was because she had not had time to get used to its appearance. To suddenly see a second demon in the room was shocking, especially if it had been there all along, invisible to her eyes yet watching her nonetheless.

‘You see it, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your journey begins. Even if this doesn’t wholly convince you, you must start to entertain the notion that everyone else has a demon too.’

‘What do you expect to get from this?’ Mustika’s demon said to the witch. Its voice was harsh and shrill, full of derision and hostility. ‘You think the girl will be so grateful she will climb into bed with you tonight? You think she will want to touch your decrepit body?’

Mustika’s demon cackled with amusement, and Sari’s joined in with his own demonic laughter.

Sari turned to Mustika with alarm. Was that really the price that the witch expected to extract?

‘You see?’ said Mustika, seemingly unruffled by the words. ‘Our demons know just what words are the most humiliating or hurtful to us. That’s because they have access to our own minds. They access our own most negative thoughts and emotions, and throw them back at us.’

Sari nodded, somewhat reassured that the witch wasn’t expecting anything in return for the spell. Mustika’s demon, knowing that it had the attention of them both, had said the most embarrassing thing possible.

‘Good,’ Mustika continued. ‘It would be lovely, wouldn’t it, to be rid of our demons forever? But life is too precious to waste it wishing and waiting for things that will never happen. Unfortunately, they will stay with us until the day we die. The trick is to learn to live with them. Despite them. My hope is that if you see that other people can do that, you will realise that you have the strength to do it too.’

Sari understood that Mustika was attempting to teach her an important lesson. Maybe it was a lesson her mother would have taught her, had Sari been allowed to stay with her family. But she worried that she couldn’t learn it. She worried that she simply wasn’t as strong as everyone else.

Sari was woken up by Mustika early the next day. After a breakfast they left the cottage, morning sunshine greeting them. They used the cool stream to wash and wake themselves up. Then the old woman led her back through the jungle in the direction of the university. The demons followed behind in sullen silence.

If Sari had tried to return by herself she would have got hopelessly lost, and yet it turned out that she hadn’t gone so very far from the path to get to Mustika’s cottage. Suddenly it was upon them, and Mustika was saying goodbye and good luck, in a gruff voice.

Sari leaned in and the old woman took her in an awkward embrace, patting the top of Sari’s head. Sari turned away and took the path back. She had a lesson to get to.

She emerged from the trees onto the university estate. Students and teachers would be leaving their huts and heading out in all directions for their first lesson of the day. It was strange to think she had spent the night in the jungle, when everyone else here had woken up in their usual beds.

A group of younger children crossed Sari’s path ahead of her. Her heart gave a lurch when she looked at them. None of them had a demon. Had the witch played a trick on her? Then she remembered. Mustika had said that demons only attach themselves when you get older. These youngsters were free. For now.

Sari approached the training grounds. This was the moment when she would see if the woman’s words had been true or not. She walked to the fencing and looked over.

A group of boys were running a circuit of the training yard. She could see Bakti in the middle of the pack, a look of determination on his face. And she could see, floating next to each boy, a demon.

She peered at the spectacle, barely believing her eyes. She could hear the taunts of the demons, though she could not quite make out the words. The noise got louder, as the boys circled around the edge of the yard and came running towards her position. A horrific medley of insults assailed her as they went past.

‘You’re slower than last time.’

‘You’re weak. You were born weak and you’ll always be weak.’

‘You’ll never be a warrior like your father was. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I said you hadn’t trained enough. You’re lazy.’

‘Everyone will laugh at you again.’

Then the boys were past her, continuing with their circuits, all of them with demons filling their minds with negative thoughts.

Sari staggered away from the fence, her eyes filling with tears.

She didn’t know what to think about what she had just seen. But she knew she had to get to her lesson, or she would be late.

‘You bore,’ the schoolmaster’s demon said. ‘These girls think you are a fool.’

It hung upside down from the ceiling, making unpleasant faces and noises in an effort to distract him. Sari found it hard to avoid looking at the creature, but she didn’t want her teacher to know she could see it. He talked over his demon, explaining the ingredients needed to prepare a cetek, how to treat them, and how to deliver them into your enemy’s food. It made Sari think of Mustika, with all her herbs and spices. Was it possible that she had once studied at this university? It was an intriguing thought.

‘Who cares about this nonsense you are making them learn? Do something useful with your life, you coward,’ her teacher’s demon scolded him.

Sari found that she admired her schoolmaster’s perseverance, his ability to ignore the constant criticism and focus on his students. When the lesson was done, he spun around and left the room, his demon dropping down and flying after him, informing him how terrible the lesson had been.

‘You’ll forget all that by morning,’ said one of the girl’s demons. ‘You don’t have the brains for it.’

‘You wouldn’t have the guts to use a cetek spell,’ Kemala’s demon declared. It was a black lizard that walked on two legs like a man, its long red tongue flickering in and out of its mouth as it spoke. ‘You get scared coming to lessons every day.’

Sari couldn’t quite believe that the confident looking girls in her class had demons too, that said much the same things as her own.

In her surprise, an involuntary sound left her mouth.

‘Oh!’

The three girls turned around to look at her.

‘There’s that girl, Sari, who knows how pitiful and shallow you are,’ said one of the demons.

‘They’re all staring at you,’ said Sari’s demon into the silence, sounding panic-stricken. ‘Please shut up, you’re going to embarrass yourself.’

Sari swallowed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m just—I’m having a hard time with my demon right now.’

‘Oh, tell me about it,’ said Kemala.

The girl walked around the desks to Sari, who stood petrified. Kemala linked arms with her.

‘Mine is being a complete and utter bastard at the moment.’

The other two girls laughed out loud at this, and Sari found herself grinning.

‘Come with us,’ Kemala continued. ‘We all need cheering up.’

She led Sari back to the other girls, and they all made for the exit to the classroom together.

‘Yes,’ agreed one of the girls. ‘I’d like to go see Bakti at the training yard. That always cheers me up!’

‘I like your hair, by the way,’ said Sari nervously.

‘The girls turned to her, eyes wide with excitement.

‘Forget Bakti,’ said Kemala. ‘We’re going straight to my hut and doing Sari’s hair for her.’

Sari glanced backwards. Her demon sat forlornly on a desk in the classroom.

Come on, she indicated with her head. You’re coming too.

BLOOD TIES: INTRODUCTION

Blood Ties is a previously unpublished story written in 2012.

Damir, a young novitiate at the Sorcerer’s Palace, must take his final assessment.

BLOOD TIES

The crowd waited for him to begin. The procession of a novitiate was enough of an occasion for the townsfolk of Noriburg to take a few minutes break from their daily chores.

Damir was not interested in the crowd, however. Let them wait a while, he thought to himself. For every novitiate this was a special moment—the second time they travelled up the Magician’s Path. Almost always, it was the most memorable journey they made. The first time anyone ascends the Path is upon admittance into the schola, signifying the beginning of one’s training in sorcery. The second time signifies that the training has been successfully completed and that you are close to real power. Ready to take up your position as a sorcerer.

Damir waited before taking his first step. He cast his memory back to the first time he made this ascent, five years before. For most of the boys who joined the schola with him, it was a moment of pride; parents and siblings watching on, waving and shouting. But Damir just remembered fear and heartache. The day before, his mother had taken him to this town and abandoned him here. Removed from his family and his tribe, surrounded by strangers speaking a different language, he remembered feeling lost and confused. He had fought back the tears that had threatened to humiliate him. As he stood waiting now, the crowd looking on, Damir relived that first memory, etched on his brain: acknowledging it, recognising how far he had come since then. Friendless, afraid, he was like the runt of the litter when he took his first step that day. If any of the townsfolk had stopped to look at him five years ago, they would most likely have put money on him being the first to fail. As it happened, that weakness turned out to be strength.

“Get on with it,” shouted someone from the crowd.

Damir hardly heard it. Such taunts were now background noise, like the wheels of a cart rolling past or the bark of a dog.

He turned his gaze to the Magician’s Path, three hundred and seventy-seven steps which curved upwards from the street and stopped at the gates of the Sorcerer’s Palace; the tallest, most impressive and most important building in the town of Noriburg. Five years ago he had been the runt of the litter. Now, he was the only one of his peers to make the second journey. Damir took one final breath and placed a foot on the first step.

The Magician’s Path had been used as a method of separating the wheat from the chaff for generations. But now, five years after he had joined the schola, Damir had no fears. As he ascended the steps, so that he now stood above the heads of the onlookers, he approached the first test. He remembered this well from five years ago. That time, a ring of fire appeared on the steps above them and the boys had to jump through in order to progress. Waiting at the back of the line, he had heard a kerfuffle, and shouting. One boy, his eyes wet, was shoved down the line until he stood next to Damir. The other boys had all jumped through the fire and now looked down, jeering.

Damir realised that the boy had not dared to jump through, so he approached himself. Flames licked out but the ring of fire seemed to be hanging in mid air, so that it was not clear what the flames were feeding on. He could feel the heat coming from the fire and was wary of getting singed. Still, he could see the other boys had managed to do it without injury. They now jeered down at him, seemingly expecting him to falter. Steeling himself, Damir jumped through to the other side, to the obvious disappointment of the others. He turned around to look at the last boy. Wiping his eyes on his arm, the youngster approached the ring of fire again. Unlike the others, Damir did not find his predicament amusing; he just did not comprehend what was stopping him from jumping through. The boy looked up and for a few seconds met Damir’s blank stare. Then, shaking his head, and with fresh tears, he turned and made his descent back down the Magician’s Path, to humiliation and with more jeers ringing in his ears. Damir looked up at the grinning faces ahead of him. Despite his youth, he realised that their reaction betrayed their own sense of fear. The failure of one seemed to give the others strength and confidence. In turn, this realisation, that they were scared just like him, gave Damir confidence.

This time Damir faced a similar illusion, but instead of a ring of fire there was a wall of fierce orange and red flame blocking his path. As he approached, heat poured from the wall in waves. He stopped. Despite being aware that the wall of fire was an illusion, his natural bodily instinct was to stop when he got within a certain distance. He had to force his body to walk again, using his mental discipline. It required some effort and for the first time Damir appreciated the failure of that small boy on the steps. He simply hadn’t been able to make his body move. As Damir closed his eyes and passed through the wall of fire, he could feel the flames burning him; felt his hair and clothes catch fire; felt his skin melting and peeling away under the intense heat. When he reached the other side he opened his eyes and checked himself. He was unharmed by the magic.

Innumerable times, over the last five years, Damir found himself to be stronger in such situations than those around him. This, he put down to his early years on the steppe lands. Raised in one of the Azarian tribes who made their living from the harsh environment, Damir had been toughened up by the experience, in a way that the ‘civilised’ town dwellers around him, with all their luxuries, hadn’t been.

He remembered the long days in the saddle, through rain or scorching heat, in the open grasslands of his home where there was no shelter. The tribe would only stop moving when it was too dark to see. Quickly raising their yurt, Damir’s parents would send him to his bed and he would sleep as soon as he lay down. The next day, they would move on again, herding their animals towards new pasture. It wasn’t just travelling in all weathers, there was also privation. Totally dependent on their animals for survival, they could not afford to kill them whenever they were hungry. Damir vividly remembered a particularly lean period, which must have been weeks long, when their food had gone. His parents drank only water and they fed him milk and cow’s blood.

When his father still loved him, he showed Damir how to safely draw the blood from the cow’s neck. He also told him how to take it from a horse. This was something any Azarian would be loathe to do, since the horse provided them with both transport and their military strength. Such measures seemed a long way from the affluent world Damir had experienced since arriving at Noriburg.

Damir easily negotiated the next trials, further tests of his magical powers set by the sorcerers of the schola which were in fact mere formalities for him. As he approached the last steps of the Magician’s Path he came upon the final test. Ahead of him the Path separated and multiplied until innumerable Paths appeared before him, challenging him to select the correct one. Pick the wrong one and he might wander eternally in some other dimension. But Damir could easily tell the right path from the wrong ones, his mind now so keenly attuned to the differences between reality and illusion that he could sense and feel the difference instinctively.

The final test on his first journey along the Magician’s Path had been, in its own way, equally straightforward for him. As the children reached this point five years ago, an apparition appeared before them and explained to them that if they continued beyond this point their parents would die. Was the statement truth, falsehood, half-truth? The children had to work this out for themselves. For most of them the outward self-assurance visibly shattered as they were faced with a stark choice between ambition and family. For young Damir, however, the choice was not so difficult. Abandoned by his parents, they were effectively dead to him anyway. He had no reason to worry himself about them—indeed, if they were to die it could be seen as a just punishment for their actions. Young Damir was the first to walk past the apparition and go on to reach step three hundred and seventy-seven. Seeing this, those boys who could follow him joined him at the top. Those who couldn’t retreated down to their families.

Older Damir now repeated the feat, completing his second journey along the Magician’s Path. This time he was the only one to do so. All the other boys who had completed the first journey with him had fallen by the wayside.

He rapped his knuckles on the gates of the Sorcerer’s Palace and waited to be admitted.

Damir knelt in front of Maelgwn the Sorcerer, one of the leading members of the Sorcerer’s Palace and Damir’s most fearsome teacher. Maelgwn’s tests had accounted for more students failing, and therefore leaving the schola, than any other teacher. Damir himself had come close a number of times. When he joined the palace school Maelgwn had taken an instant dislike to him, keen to get rid of the ‘filthy Azarian’. His feelings, as far as Damir could tell, had changed little. But Damir knew that a grudging respect had emerged over the years, as Damir began to excel in lessons.

The teachers encouraged competition amongst their pupils from the outset, undermining any sense of comradeship that might have developed. Damir was instantly marked out as a victim by his peers. Small and wiry, he was different: a foreigner, who could barely speak their language. Snubbed, humiliated and beaten, his was a lonely existence. He was nearly broken in those early weeks and months. The only thing that saved him was his intense interest in the lessons, to which he devoted himself. Outside his lessons he spent his waking hours practising his craft and this, combined with his natural ability, began to transform him into one of the most successful students.

Simeon, his most consistent tormentor, was a spoiled son of a minor nobleman, to whom most of the other students automatically deferred. But he was an average user of magic and in the world of the Sorcerer’s Palace this began to matter more than social position in the outside world. One day Damir caught him alone. Jumping him from the shadows of the cloister, Damir knocked him to the ground and pummelled his face until it was a bloody, pulped mess and Damir’s knuckles were stripped raw. Simeon’s shouts of defiance, then fear, stopped, but Damir still worked on his victim’s face until he was too exhausted to continue. The attitude of the teachers, which had allowed Damir’s beatings to go unpunished, now worked in his favour. They were largely uninterested in the attack on Simeon and the other pupils were now too scared of Damir to exact their own revenge. Simeon recovered physically but never regained his former confidence and dropped out of the schola soon afterwards.

Meanwhile, in lessons, Damir went from strength to strength, leaving the other pupils even more wary of the power he now controlled. By the end of the fourth year he had achieved a dominant position amongst the pupils, who gave him a wide berth whenever possible and avoided earning his wrath. In his final year he even delighted in taking them on in spell casting, contests which they usually backed away from. In the final months it was clear that the teachers had lost interest in anyone but Damir. The other pupils faded away until Damir alone remained, invited to tread the Magician’s Path a second time.

“Damir,” intoned Maelgwn, “you understand that you are to be set your final assessment, and that the successful completion of it will allow you to take your place among us as a member of the Palace?”

“Yes, master,” replied Damir.

Damir fully understood what was about to happen. He had proven himself as a sorcerer. Now his loyalty would be tested in some way. The sorcerers of the palace demanded his obedience. Obedience would see him accepted as one of them. Disobedience would lead to his destruction, for they could not allow a powerful magician to live outside their control.

“Two leagues northeast of Noriburg is a village named Berva. Set into the side of the hill which overlooks Berva is a portal. It is bound by certain magic spells. Your task is to open this portal. If you succeed you will have passed this final assessment. Lodgings in Berva have been provided for you. Do you have any questions?”

Open a portal? Too easy. There was a catch, but Damir understood that Maelgwn would not reveal this to him now. “I have no questions, master,” he responded.

“Very well. You may take a mount from the stables. You should go now. The people of Berva will direct you to your lodgings when you arrive there.”

Damir enjoyed the short journey to Berva. To be out in the countryside was a release from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the palace, where he was always being assessed; always judged.

When he arrived, he found Berva to be an unassuming place; he was in the centre of the village before he realised it. There was a small church but all the buildings were modest, one storey, timber affairs. It was deserted. Presumably most villagers were in the fields tending their crops, something about which Damir knew nothing. He reached the far end of the village and was contemplating riding off to search for the inhabitants when he saw a female villager walking towards him along the road. He waited for her. As she got nearer he saw that she was young, about his age, and pretty, with long blonde hair tied up at the back. She carried a basket and as she approached him, he could see it was filled with berries and mushrooms, suggesting that she was returning from foraging in the woods.

Unsure about the social niceties, Damir decided to dismount from his horse.

“Hello,” he began, “I am come from Noriburg…”

“Yes, you are Damir,” the girl interrupted, a slight smile playing on her face. “I am Maura. I will show you where you are staying while you are in Berva.”

Maura gestured for Damir to follow her and she turned off the road along a path. Damir walked by her side, leading his horse. She led him to a small cottage.

“We must see to your animal first,” said Maura, holding out a hand. Damir gave her the reins and she tethered the beast to the gate, around which was a suitable grassed area. She next fetched a bowl of water for him. Only then did she invite Damir to the front door of the cottage.

“This is your cottage?” asked Damir.

“Yes. You will be staying with me while you are in Berva.”

“Oh. Do you have family here?”

“No,” said Maura, “I live by myself here.”

Damir didn’t want to be rude, but he was too inquisitive to not ask further. “That is unusual. Do you mind me asking—”

“It is my father’s cottage. But he is rarely here.”

Maura led Damir inside. It was a well kept one-room house, dominated by a kitchen hearth that was scrubbed clean. Maura had set up beds at either end, straw filled mattresses which lay on the floor. Damir left his small carrying bag on his bed.

“It is very kind of you to put me up,” he said.

“You are welcome, Damir. I think there is time for me to show you the way to the Portal you have come to examine. Then I must get on with the dinner and other chores.”

Maura led Damir out of the village. Within minutes they were in the countryside, walking along a rough track. The land around Berva was soft and gentle compared to the harsh steppe where Damir was raised. Moving off the path they crossed a meadow, their shoes picking up the moisture from the grass under their feet. As they walked, Damir could not help taking glances at Maura as she walked along. She would occasionally stop to explain some feature and then set off again, her hips swaying slightly from side to side as she walked. Having spent the last few years almost exclusively with boys and middle-aged men, Damir felt it was a privilege to be sharing this walk with the girl.

The route Maura led him on now took them to higher ground, rockier than the lush grass they had passed through. There was no longer a path but Maura seemed sure about the direction. They came upon a rocky outcropping which rose ten feet tall. Maura put one hand onto the surface and moved along the outcropping, tracing her fingertips along the rock. As Damir followed her she stopped and gestured at the rock. At first he saw nothing unusual but as he focused on the surface of the rock, lines and images began to reveal themselves. Words and pictures emerged and the lines connected to show the shape of a door or archway in the rock. The Portal. Damir held out his hand and placed his palm onto the surface. He sensed the power that was present. It was a subtle and shifting magic, reluctant to reveal itself.

“I will leave you to your work for a while,” said Maura, causing him to start; his attention on the portal had almost led him to forget her presence. “But please return to the cottage within the hour.”

“Of course.”

“I—I know you are likely to get caught up in what you are doing and forget the time.”

“I promise,” replied Damir.

Maura smiled at him and began to retrace her steps back towards the village. This time it was the girl who held Damir’s attention. He did not begin to study the Portal again until Maura was completely out of sight.

The next few days were the happiest of Damir’s life. During the day he would head up to the Portal and spend his time puzzling out the riddles and magical incantations which had been set to keep the Portal closed. It was challenging work, but he enjoyed it and felt confident that he would find the solutions in the end. He worked non-stop and, through patience and perseverance, he would unlock two or three of the spells which had been placed about the rock, presumably by sorcerers from the Palace.

With a sense of achievement, having got nearer to the end of the task, he would head back down to the village when the sun began to set. Despite his work during the day, the truth was that it was the evenings in Berva that he enjoyed the most. Maura always prepared a good supper for him and he revelled in the fact that someone had spent time and thought into providing something for him. He would then do his best to help her with the end of the day chores: washing, tidying or fixing. She would poke fun at him when he got things wrong. Then they would sit, just the two of them, spending the evening in lazy conversation. Damir was perfectly open about what he was up to at the Portal since Maura already seemed to know why he was here. She was not especially interested in that, however; she wanted to know about his past; his family; his time in the Palace.

But Damir liked it best when Maura talked. She mainly told him stories about the other villagers: who she had traded food with; who had been rude to her and what she had said back; the foolish, everyday acts that went on; who was having a hard time and what she did to help. Damir would sit there, half listening, but also just watching her. He gazed at her expressions as she told her stories: her frowns, grimaces, and her laugh. He noticed how her hands waved around when she was particularly animated about a topic. Damir knew he was falling in love with her. He had no idea what to do about it—how to proceed—whether she had any feelings for him. But he didn’t really mind. He was just happy to sit in the same room, listening to and watching her, until Maura decided that it had got too late. They went to bed on their straw mattresses, on opposite sides of the cottage. Damir would close his eyes, think about how he would approach the Portal the next day, and he would go to sleep happy.

It was on the sixth day that Damir’s progress on his task came to a halt. It was not the magic; he had identified and removed every spell laid on the Portal he had come across. It was a few words. They had emerged in the surface of the rock the previous day, after he had unlocked one of the most challenging enchantments. It had taken a lot out of him and he had knelt in the ground, catching his breath, when he noticed the words appearing slightly above his eye line:

The Portal demands a sacrifice of the blood of the beloved

He had run through the line endlessly yesterday and again this day, but could not make out the meaning of it. There seemed to be no obvious riddle in it and he could detect no magic involved either. The words just stared at him from the rock. For hours he stared back. Then he gave up.

Frustrated, Damir made the journey back down towards Berva. It was only mid-afternoon, but he hoped that a change of scene might help. He walked along the track that led into the village. The end of the track joined the village road and as he got closer he noticed a man on horseback, looking in his direction. Damir walked over while the man waited for him. He got very close until he realised, with a start, that it was his teacher, Maelgwn. He had been the dominant figure in Damir’s life for the last five years and yet Damir had not recognised him. Berva had become like another world to the Sorcerer’s Palace in Noriburg. But, of course, it wasn’t another world at all. The only reason he was here was because Maelgwn had sent him and the old man’s presence was a sharp reminder of that reality.

“Damir,” said Maelgwn, his voice like grating stones, his eyes piercing and sharp, as if they were trying to cut a way through Damir’s body to look at his soul.

“Master,” acknowledged Damir, lowering his head.

Maelgwn took his time to say anything further and Damir waited in silence. “How does it go at the Portal?”

“Well, sir, at first it went well but I have now…become stuck on the task,” Damir admitted candidly.

He looked up to see the sorcerer’s response, expecting anger or some such emotion. Maelgwn, as ever, tried to hide his emotions but Damir knew him too well for that. Maelgwn was pleased and there was something else. Relief?

He wants me to fail, Damir realised.

“Well, you do not have long to correct this, Damir. In three days you must appear at the Sorcerer’s Palace with proof that you have unlocked the Portal.”

That was all Maelgwn said, there was no “or else…” But Damir didn’t need telling what the consequences of failure would be. The Sorcerer’s Palace wouldn’t allow a failed novitiate with significant magical power to go wandering around the world, stuffed full of their secrets. If Damir didn’t complete this task he would be tracked down and killed.

“I suggest you get back to your work instead of wasting your time around here,” said Maelgwn reprovingly. The sorcerer nudged his knees into the flanks of his horse and was on his way, travelling back to Noriburg. Damir watched him go. He turned around to head back to the Portal as he had been told. But he caught himself.

What’s the point? he thought to himself. I can’t stare at those same words for the rest of the day.

Damir carried on to Maura’s cottage. He hoped, he almost prayed that she would be there. He needed her to chase away a growing sense of despair. She was there, her back to him as she prepared the food for the evening’s meal. She turned around with a gasp when he entered the cottage.

“Damir! What are you doing here? You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry,” said Damir, grinning. He then lost his smile. “I—the Portal. I’ve got stuck on it. I don’t know what to do—”

“Oh, I see. Well you can come and help me peel vegetables then,” she paused. “You saw my father?”

“Your father?” said Damir, shaking his head. “No, I—”

“Maelgwn.”

“Maelgwn?” No other name would have shocked him more, and yet when she said it he somehow knew it must be true.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Maura shrugged. “I promised not to. I’m his sinful error. You must know sorcerers are not allowed families. He keeps me here, away from Noriburg, but close enough for him to visit and keep an eye on me.”

“Your mother?”

“She died six years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Here, you can do these carrots.”

They worked in silence for a while, as Damir processed the new information and Maura allowed him to.

“Your father told me I have three days to open the Portal. If I don’t…”

“You will, Damir. I know you will.”

“Maura, I’ve got to tell you something. This time I’ve spent with you, I feel—”

Maura put down her knife and put a finger to his lips. Damir stopped talking. With her other hand she brushed his cheek, held his neck and pulled him into her. They kissed. Damir’s heart was racing as the restraint they had both shown until now was swept away. Maura led him over to her bed. She undressed, showing him her body. Breathless, Damir did the same.

They made love in Maura’s cottage. Damir finally said what he had wanted to say, “I love you.” He then began to cry.

Maura didn’t tease him; she lay with him and stroked his hair. But she didn’t understand why Damir cried.

At last, he understood the words on the Portal.

The Portal demands a sacrifice of the blood of the beloved

Maura was the beloved. Damir loved her. So did Maelgwn. This was the real task that had been set—a test of loyalty, not magic. Damir had to kill Maura to open the Portal. By doing so he would prove that his loyalty to the Sorcerer’s Palace came above everything else. The sorcerers had decided that Maelgwn would have to lose his own daughter to make this point. A sacrifice given by both master and student. No wonder he had looked relieved when Damir told him he had got stuck.

Damir cried. He felt sick to his stomach. He knew that if he refused he was as good as dead.

In the Sorcerer’s Palace in Noriburg, Damir knelt in front of Maelgwn the Sorcerer. He presented him with a chalice, a chalice that he could only have obtained by opening the Portal at Berva and therefore completing his final task. Both men knew it meant much more than that. Damir could see it on Maelgwn’s face as he struggled to control the shock and the grief. They waited in silence for a while.

“Stand, Damir,” said the sorcerer, his voice firm and unwavering. “You have successfully completed your final assessment. You are now a Sorcerer of the Palace. You are one of us. My brother.”

Maelgwn strode over to Damir, gripped his shoulders and gave him an embrace. He then pulled away; all emotion gone. No questions about Maura.

“We will arrange chambers for you. There is much for you to do; you will be kept very busy. Someone will call for you when we are ready to tell you more.”

Damir left the Palace and headed into town, feeling lightheaded. Maelgwn had lost a daughter and gained a brother. And he had accepted it. But that was not something Damir could ever accept. He entered the stables of the inn. Maura was where he had left her. She was still very pale; very weak; but alive.

Once Damir had realised the situation he was in, he knew he had to act fast. If Maura hadn’t agreed to the plan he would have gladly gone to his death. But she agreed. So over the next three days Damir bled her. He bled her like his father had shown him how to bleed a cow or a horse all those years ago in the steppes of Azaria. Opening a vein in her neck, he would quickly seal it again before she lost too much blood. Maura lay on her bed and he cared for her, gave her plenty to eat and drink. He would then go up to the Portal and splatter it with Maura’s blood. How much of her blood did it want? Deep down, he knew it would be a lot. He let her rest and recover and then he would take more. It was not until the fifth time that it worked. The door receded and Damir entered a tiny chamber where the chalice was waiting for him.

“How was my father?” asked Maura.

Damir shrugged. “Upset at first. But he accepted it.”

“So you have been accepted as a sorcerer?”

Damir nodded.

“Then you should stay here, Damir. It’s a great honour.”

“Thank you for saying that. But we’re not staying in this place a moment longer.”

Damir helped Maura onto her horse and mounted his. He led them out of the town, through the same gate his mother had taken him through all those years ago.

He now realised that he owed his mother his life. Magic was forbidden in the steppes but as Damir got older the signs were there to see. His father grew angry and bitter towards him; started beating him. Others in the tribe became suspicious. Damir wasn’t sure what price his mother paid to leave the camp in secret with her son, in the dead of night, and take him to safety. He had been so full of anger towards her he had blinded himself to the truth. She had taken him to the best place she knew, where he would have the greatest chance of survival. She had done all she could.

As they left Noriburg, Damir and Maura turned around to give the town one last look.

“They will find out what happened soon,” said Damir. “But if they want to find us they will have to look for us in the steppe lands.”

“If they do find us?”

“Then I’ll be waiting for them.”

BONUS 1: PREVIEW—OG-GRIM-DOG: THE THREE-HEADED OGRE

Og-Grim-Dog: The Three-Headed Ogre is the first book in the Me Three series.

The first two chapters are reprinted here.

AN OGRE OF THREE HEADS

It was night-time at the Flayed Testicles. Drinking time.

Conversation swirled around the inn, laughter erupting from one corner, dark and secret mutterings in another. Men and women talking and drinking, with nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. You could say it was an inn like any other in the land of Magidu.

Except for the landlord.

Tea towel permanently draped over one shoulder, he was the oil that kept the wheels turning, serving food and drink with cheery amiability, a dirty joke for the women and a wink for the men. Respectful yet familiar; controlled yet approachable. And no-one ever tried to make trouble in his inn. For he was an ogre, and he was an ogre of three heads.

It could have been awkward addressing an ogre of three heads. Which pair of eyes to look at? Use one name or all three? But this ogre insisted on being called Landlord, and Landlord only. And if you called out this name, then invariably you found three pairs of eyes all looking your way, each head giving you their undivided attention.

And so it was that this night, the regulars called out this name, a name that was not really a name at all. No longer demanding to be served his ale, though that would continue to flow all night, never fear. They demanded something they had found to be even more valuable, and something never watered down, either. They called out for a story. For, in the quiet and peaceable backwater that was Magidu, they loved a bloodcurdling story, and no-one told a story quite as peculiar, or marvellous, or chilling, as the Landlord. The Landlord’s stories were outlandish, outrageous, preposterous, completely unbelievable. Yet, when he told them, the Landlord’s customers all agreed it sounded like he had been there himself. This, they would tell each other, is the mark of a truly great storyteller. Not to mention, with three heads, he was very good at doing all the voices.

The conversations died down, the anticipation heightened. The Landlord took his time wiping down the bar, letting the tension build as all great performers know to do.

But this night would be different from all the other nights.

It wasn’t because of the Landlord or his regulars. It was because of a newcomer.

Sitting at the table at the front of the inn was a small, bespectacled man. His clothing was old-fashioned and worn-looking. It had the effect of making him look older than he really was.

As the Landlord wiped at his bar, getting ready to begin, he couldn’t help but notice that large segments of his audience were distracted. People were gesturing at the man on the front table, a quill in one hand hovering over a piece of parchment, apparently ready to record whatever words might be emitted from the Landlord’s mouths.

The genial mask slipped somewhat.

‘What are you doing?’ asked one of the heads.

‘I intend to record what you say,’ answered the man matter-of-factly.

‘Why would you do that?’ asked a second head.

‘Because I know who you are. You are Og-Grim-Dog.’

Gasps erupted around the inn. A name—they had a name. No longer the Landlord, this ogre was Og-Grim-Dog, one name for each head, together forming a whole.

‘You must have me mistaken,’ said the second head.

‘Mistaken?’ asked the man, the pitch of his voice rising at the end of the word. ‘How many three-headed ogres are there?’ he said, a little smugly.

‘You’d be surprised,’ suggested the third head.

‘Come on,’ said the man in a chiding voice, wafting his quill at the ogre. ‘You are Og-Grim-Dog, infamous across Gal’azu.’

The regulars at the Testicles muttered at this. Had their Landlord really come here from Gal’azu—the dangerous, edgier province to the east? Could it be? Could it be that his stories, so fanciful and fantastical, were episodes from his previous life?

‘Everyone in my homeland knows at least one story about your exploits,’ continued the newcomer. ‘But I have travelled here to find out the truth. To sift the facts from the fabrications, to peel back the layers of myth-making, the exaggeration and the misrepresentation; to record for posterity, what really happened. Once I have done my work, broken in and bridled the fable with my tools—this quill, this ink, and this parchment—I will have copies made and distributed, so that all may know the truth of it.’

‘You dare to make such a claim?’ demanded the Landlord’s first head, in a deep growl of a voice that none here had ever heard before. The ogre before them seemed to grow, and the Testicles shrank. As if awakening from a stupor, or a spell, they could see the hard, grey skin; the giant teeth; the thick black hairs sprouting from knobbly warts. And it was only then that the regulars of the Flayed Testicles recognised their terrible folly, of frequenting an inn owned by a three-headed ogre.

‘You, with your puny tools, a feather and a small bottle of ink, will break and shackle our legend? We are Og-Grim-Dog! We have been loved and reviled! We have been the Hero of the Hour, the Darkest Villain, and everything in between! We have saved this world and travelled to worlds beyond it! We have deployed weapons of death beyond your imagination! They have called us The Destroyer! The Unclassifiable! We graduated top of our class in Rhetoric! We once shagged a—’

The second head coughed. ‘Remember, we agreed not to mention that,’ it said under its breath.

‘Oh yes, sorry,’ replied head one. It turned back to the man, a mean and fiery look in its eyes. It opened its mouth, revealing its teeth, each the size of a human’s hand. It made its hand into a fist, the size of a human’s head. The newcomer crumpled under the glare and the hostility and the threat of imminent, bloody violence. ‘You think you can distil the life of Og-Grim-Dog into some words on a page?’

The inn became silent. It was the silence of a question left hanging in the air.

‘Maybe,’ squeaked the man.

The silence transmuted, to the sound of the Flayed Testicles holding its collective breath. They hadn’t come out tonight to watch a man be torn apart and eaten in three separate, ogre-sized mouths. Having said that, it would be something to tell the grandchildren…

‘Very well,’ said the ogre, in a surprisingly calm voice. ‘You accept the challenge. But know this. Failure on your part will result in not only your death, but the death of every man, woman and under-age drinker in this inn.’

A third silence. The silence when everyone thinks to themselves, I could have stayed at home tonight.

‘Agreed,’ said the stranger, apparently entirely comfortable about risking the lives of all present.

The regulars of the Testicles stared at the man with antipathy, but he seemed oblivious. He dipped his quill into his ink pot and held it at the ready. ‘Where shall we start?’ he asked.

‘Let’s start in the middle,’ suggested the ogre’s third head.

‘Why the hell would we start there?’ demanded the first head angrily.

‘A non-linear narrative is more flamboyant,’ explained the third head.

‘More pretentious,’ countered the first.

‘It’s also a better stylistic choice for this project,’ continued the third head, warming to the subject, ‘which is based on our recall of our collective memories.’

The newcomer scrunched his face up at this and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. That approach is going to make it a lot harder for me.’

The Flayed Testicles looked anxiously from the man’s troubled expression to the ogre’s first head. Anything that made the task harder for the Recorder made their deaths more likely.

The ogre smiled—a sly, self-satisfied kind of smile.

‘Then the middle it is.’

DARKSPIKE DUNGEON

Are you Og-Grim-Dog, the three-headed ogre?’ asked the goblin.

‘D’ya see any other three-headed ogres round here?’ asked Dog, rather impolitely.

Grim sighed. There was no need to be rude, and sarcasm was wasted on goblins. It was now looking around the cavern for other three-headed ogres. Dog barked with laughter at the creature’s confusion.

But there was no-one else in the cavern, and barely any furniture. A wooden chest stood against one wall, a weapons rack on another. In one corner was the ogre’s pile of bones.

‘Yes, that’s us,’ said Grim. ‘Gary, isn’t it?’

The goblin grinned, pleased that Grim knew his name.

‘I bring a message from—’

‘Wait. Wait a moment,’ interrupted Dog. ‘Your name is Gary? Why, by the twenty-three circles of fiery Gehenna, is your name Gary?’

Grim felt Og wake from his snooze next to him.

‘Stop persecuting Gary!’ Og demanded drowsily.

‘Persecuting him? I’m not persecuting him, I’m just asking why he has changed his name. He had a perfectly good name. What was your name, son?’ he asked the goblin.

‘Grarviaksrurm,’ the goblin answered promptly.

‘Exactly! Perfectly good name,’ said Dog, though Grim detected a hint of doubt in his voice now. ‘A perfectly good goblin name. Gary just sounds ridiculous.’

‘He’s changed his name,’ said Og, now fully awake and getting louder, ‘because goblins are discriminated against! The system has forced him to take a human name. Don’t blame the victim!’

‘System? Victim? What the—’

‘Yes, victim! You’re just perpetuating—’

‘SILENCE!’ shouted Grim.

This always happened when Og and Dog had an argument. They shouted at each other, but since Grim was the middle head, they actually both shouted at him. He was sure he was going deaf as a result.

‘Gary says he has a message for us, so I think we should find out what it is.’

‘The orcs want to see you. Immediately.’

‘The orcs?’ Dog asked, making a face. ‘If the orcs want to see us, why don’t they come ask us themselves?’

‘Exactly!’ said Og, as if he had just won their argument.

‘Please,’ said Grim, trying to forestall further shouting. ‘Why don’t we just go and see what’s up?’

Og-Grim-Dog followed Gary out of their cavern and up the gently rising stone path that linked their home to the rest of Darkspike Dungeon.

Most of this part of the dungeon had been formed naturally: the stone walls were rough and untreated, the ceilings damp with water, so that there was a constant dripping noise, whether day or night. It was a lovely part of the world, and Og-Grim-Dog had made sure that no-one else was tempted to share it with them. Indeed, if you ignored the noise from the kobolds upstairs, it was a very peaceful place to live.

Up they went, to the next level of the dungeon. Here, things were more hectic. It was a densely populated area, full of orcs, goblins and trolls, or ‘green-skins’ as Dog called them. Grim didn’t use the term, since Og insisted it was racist. They did all have green skin, though.

Gary led them through the dimly lit corridors, past rooms full of goblin warriors, who peered out at them suspiciously. They negotiated the dungeon traps that had been set here and there to catch out unwary trespassers. The smell of blood came on the air: freshly-slaughtered meat. Grim’s mouth watered and the ogre’s stomachs rumbled.

They came upon a scene of violence and destruction. Doors had been smashed off hinges, splinters of wood everywhere. The clean-up operation had begun, but many orc bodies still lay sprawled where they had fallen. Elsewhere, ribbons of blood and guts, in shades of red and brown, glistened on the ground where bodies had been dragged away.

Amidst the carnage, hands on hips, stood Krim, the Orc Queen. Seeing Og-Grim-Dog, she waved them over.

‘Thanks, goblin,’ she said to Gary, giving him a little trinket before waving him away.

She cleared her throat noisily, and for some time, until an orc standard-bearer, flustered looking, rushed over to her side.

‘Way to make me look stupid,’ she said sourly. ‘Get on with it, then.’

‘Her Exalted Royal Majesty, Sovereign and Despot of the Black Orcs of Darkspike Dungeon, Overlord of the Orc Nation!’ he declared in a powerful voice.

‘Really, Krim?’ asked Dog. ‘What’s with all this pompous flimflam?’

‘It may be flimflam,’ she conceded. ‘But it is high time we learned a thing or two from the humans. They’ve been giving themselves ludicrous titles for centuries. And now their people just believe it all. And obey. Why shouldn’t I do the same?’

‘Why does everyone want to behave like the humans?’ Dog demanded.

‘Because they’re winning,’ said Krim. ‘Look around you. Another attack—my soldiers slain, any treasures we had left taken. We orcs are done. There’s not enough of us left to even give them a fight next time it happens. And that means they’ll come after the rest of you. It’s orcs who are dying right now, but don’t think you’ll be spared.’

‘Well, leaving your treasure lying around doesn’t help for starters,’ said Dog. ‘You’re inviting trespassers down here.’

‘You’ve done it again!’ Og shouted, into Grim’s ear. ‘Blaming the victims. That’s twice in a matter of minutes!’

‘But that’s just it,’ said Krim, mercifully cutting off another argument. ‘There was nothing left to take. I haven’t had enough fit and healthy warriors to go out raiding for months. The humans must have known that. They took all we had left the last time they attacked. They didn’t come down here to win treasure. They came to kill us.’

‘Hmm,’ said Grim. ‘Trespassing down here to find treasure we stole from them is one thing. But coming with the sole purpose of murder is quite another. But what should we do about it? More traps and stronger defences aren’t doing the trick.’

‘Someone needs to go up there,’ said Krim. ‘Find out what is going on, who’s behind it, and why. I’d try myself, but I’m up to my neck in it here. Besides, the humans kill orcs on sight now. Quite frankly, it needs to be you. You’re the only other person in this dungeon with the brains to do it.’

Ogres are stubborn, bull-headed creatures. Abduct their mother, threaten her with all kinds of torture and they’ll offer to do it themselves, just so no-one thinks they’re a pushover.

But flattery. That works every time.

BONUS 2: INTERVIEW WITH THE DARK ELF

Interview With The Dark Elf is a companion story to the Me Three series. It was originally published in 2020 in the villain anthology From The Shadows.

It can be read independently but chronologically comes after/alongside book three, Og-Grim-Dog and The War of The Dead. Readers looking for a totally spoiler-free experience may want to read the first three books before this.

INTERVIEW WITH THE DARK ELF

The ranks of menials marched ineptly through the gates of the Kuthenian city of Jiezhou. Lilith, Dark Lord of Fell Towers, had led her army here, in support of her ally, Emperor Tugh. The truth was, however, that the mastermind behind the march south was none other than Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa, most loyal and able of The Dark Lord’s henchmen.

The advantage of the menials was their numbers. There were thousands of them. This was offset by their incompetence. It took someone with the logistical brilliance of this aforementioned henchman to get them to their destination in one piece.

Arriving in Jiezhou, however, turned out to be an anti-climax.

‘The League armies are gone,’ the imperial officer informed them, once the henchman had helped his Mistress from her mount. ‘We drove them from our lands.’ He eyed the army of The Dark Lord. ‘Without your help.’

The henchman admired his mistress’s forbearance, in allowing the insolent fool to live.

Of course, the truth is always more complex than army grunts are cognizant of. The henchman’s status meant that he was privy to the subsequent meeting of the most powerful leaders in all of Gal’azu. The emperor, his generals and his advisers. But most important of all, Mistress Lilith and Master Samael. For all the pretence that Tugh was in charge here, the henchman knew better.

‘The threat from the armies of the League has been replaced by a much greater one,’ Samael explained. ‘An army of the undead now roams Kuthenia. It is so dangerous that we must divert all our resources into dealing with it—Kuthenian military and menials of Fell Towers alike.’

The henchman had nothing but disdain for the raised eyebrows of the Kuthenian nobility. They would soon learn what all drow knew: creatures that survived death were very much real.

‘What of our enemies in the League?’ pressed The Dark Lord, disappointed—as the henchman was—to learn that some other enemy had displaced them in Samael’s thoughts. ‘They may have retreated, but they are not yet defeated.’

Samael gestured at the Dark Elf. ‘Send your henchman to deal with them.’

Heads swivelled to stare at Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa, but his expression of cold disdain remained, even if he did feel some pride in the suggestion. Now these Kuthenians were beginning to understand his importance—how he, singlehandedly, could be trusted to deal with an enemy their armies had spent months fighting.

‘Very well,’ agreed The Dark Lord. She turned to her most trusted henchman. ‘And why not lead some of these undead into the lands of our enemies while you’re at it?’

The Dark Elf nodded, a grisly smile on his face.

Samael nodded, the same grisly smile appearing on his face.

The Dark Lord nodded, and the henchman assumed the same grisly smile would be present beneath her helmet.

Emperor Tugh nodded as a grisly smile appeared on his face.

One of the emperor’s officers put an arm up in the air and yelled ‘Oh! That will be sweet!’

‘That’s just going too far,’ said The Dark Lord.

The Dark Elf had assumed that Mer Khazer would be where he would find the ogre and the rest of the Dark Lord’s enemies. But while the Bureau of Dungeoneering was still operational, the ogre was gone. And it was Og-Grim-Dog whom his master most wanted dead.

It took effort and considerable skill to track the ogre’s movements to Avolo. Og-Grim-Dog was in the company of a human wizard and a wretched Light Elf, travelling south down the river Auster. The henchman followed where they had gone, entering the great city at night and then mingling with its amorphous citizenry. If there was one place in Gal’azu that one of his kind could move with relative freedom it was in that great cosmopolitan city. Surely, he would soon be able to complete his task.

But the trail went cold. It was beyond strange that a three-headed ogre could just disappear, seemingly without trace. It was the kind of situation where an individual without the fortitude of Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa would give up.

And then his quarry was back, as mysteriously as they had gone. The Dark Elf watched them in conversation with the Avoluese general, Caborna, and watched them as they left the city via the West Gate. Just the three of them, alone in the countryside.

He followed them, wary of getting too close. The Light Elf was suspicious, always on the lookout for danger. Who knew what magics the wizard could deploy? And the ogre, the henchman had learned, while ungainly in its movements, could finish an opponent with a single blow. He would have to pick his time to act with care.

It didn’t help that the undead were now abroad in these lands, drawn to his beating heart and his pumping blood as much as any other living thing. He was forced to take his rests out of reach—high up in strong trees, while beneath him the creatures scraped their fingers bloody on the trunk. Ever moaning with their insatiable hunger, never tired, it made proper sleep hard to come by. When he awoke, the henchman would draw his twin swords and send however many of the creatures that had gathered below him back to Gehenna.

It was not until they reached the farm that the Dark Elf could grab an opportunity. Sent to sleep in some lowly human barn by the farmers, it left his quarry vulnerable. The henchman waited, deep into the night. This time, when the undead came for him, he didn’t send them to Gehenna. He captured them, tying them up, until he had a dozen of the creatures roped together.

Now to act. Leading his new recruits to the barn, he carefully removed several planks of wood, avoiding any sudden sounds that might alert those inside. Once the gap he had made was large enough, he released his captives, quickly moving away to a safe distance. The undead were drawn towards the nearest living creature. Rather than following the disappearing Dark Elf, they made their way inside the barn.

Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa allowed himself a satisfied smile as he waited, crouching behind a tree, for the undead to do their work. Their groans were shortly joined by startled shouts. Then, a sudden blast of pale blue light. The wizard. Doubt crept its way into the drow’s thoughts. The door of the barn burst open. Out came the ogre, Og-Grim-Dog. He was carrying the wizard, the elf running by his side. It all happened so fast that the henchman was left in his crouch, unsure what to do.

Follow them, he told himself.

For all his speed, he thought he’d lost them. Then, he saw them up ahead. They’d stopped. The wizard had pulled his robe up and they were talking amongst themselves.

Not a total disaster, then, the henchman told himself. The wizard’s been bitten. One down, two to go.

The Dark Elf stalked the group. It was no good coming from behind, with their anxious glances back to the barn and the undead. Instead, he circled around to the side, using the dark of night as cover, his twin swords sheathed for now, lest the cold iron reflect the moonlight and give him away. As he neared, he began to overhear their conversation.

‘…wasn’t deliberate,’ he caught the wizard saying.

‘…Please come to the farm with us. If there’s a chance—’ said one of the ogre’s heads.

‘Alright, Og,’ replied the wizard.

The henchman mouthed the words of a foul drow curse. Before he had reached them, his prey was on the move again, heading for the tall wooden enclosure of the farm—the only reason these humans had survived the undead apocalypse this long.

He followed them, still keeping his distance. Not to worry, he told himself. These humans aren’t about to sacrifice their families’ safety by opening up their defences to an ogre.

The ogre was banging on the wooden wall. Just as the Dark Elf was calculating a surprise attack, he heard the moan of an undead from behind him. At the same time as he turned to face the threat his twin swords were in his hands. Holding his left-hand blade in front of him, he swung his right blade in a huge arc. He had used plenty enough force for the sword to pierce through skull and lodge in the brain of the creature.

Another one returned to Gehenna, he told himself as it collapsed to the ground and he yanked his weapon free.

A burst of light then sent him scurrying away. That damned wizard again.

He looked over. No! The panels of the farmers’ wall were being removed and there went his quarry, welcomed into the farmstead. A dozen options swirled through the henchman’s mind, but none of them were viable. They had escaped him.

As the last panel of the fortified settlement was shoved back in place and fastened tight, the Dark Elf found himself outside; alone.

The shuffle of feet could be heard as the undead, attracted by the ogre’s noise, lurched their way towards him.

The henchman was quick to shake off the disappointment. He left the scene, but he wasn’t going far. The wizard would soon succumb to his injuries and that would remove a major obstacle. A wooden enclosure wasn’t going to prevent him finding a way into the settlement.

The elf and the ogre would be next.

The Dark Lord’s henchman received two surprises at once; one good, one bad. First, his quarry left the safety of the farm’s enclosure—alone—only a few days after they had entered. Second, the wizard was still alive. Both his lower legs had been amputated. He was strapped to the ogre’s back in a carrying device. But his survival was unwelcome. The henchman feared no-one and nothing in combat—indeed, welcomed the clash of blades. But magic introduced too much that was unknown for him to feel secure about the outcome.

Still, the Dark Elf could deploy patience if it was necessary. His master wanted their enemies dead. Far better to take his time and fulfil her orders than to do anything hasty and fail. No. Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa didn’t do failure. So he followed his quarry north and west, prepared to wait for his opportunity to act.

They moved from abandoned farmstead to abandoned village. The Dark Elf observed them searching for food that the humans hadn’t been able to take with them. When they were done, he was forced to scrummage for anything they’d missed or rejected. Drow could go for days without eating if necessary. But even he needed to eat something. If he had to pick up the last of the seeds from the dirt of a granary floor, so be it. Hardship didn’t frighten him.

After a few days of following at a safe distance it became clear where Og-Grim-Dog and his allies were headed. They were going to Mer Khazer, headquarters of the Bureau of Dungeoneering. What they hoped to achieve there was much harder to work out. This region was now totally infested by the undead. It was almost a certainty that the pathetic defences of that town couldn’t withstand them.

When he got his first sight of the town, he got confirmation that his instincts were correct. Lines of the dead were funnelling through the various entrances to Mer Khazer. The gates had been forced open by an undead horde, drawn by the quantity of living flesh inside. The fact that they continued to pour inside suggested that there was still some flesh yet to be eaten.

The odd thing was that despite such danger, the Dark Elf observed the ogre charging at one of the entrances into the town, the elf close behind. More through luck than skill they barged their way into Mer Khazer and disappeared down one of the streets.

Baffling. Nothing would have persuaded the henchman to risk his life as they had just done. It wasn’t that he didn’t comprehend, on a philosophical level, the decision to live a good life. Like all drow, he was far more on board with doing evil. It was a set of values that just came naturally. But he didn’t lack an imagination or recognise that some people had a different moral code. But risking one’s life for others? That was something much more difficult to understand.

Perhaps, before this mission had begun, the Dark Elf would have left his enemies in Mer Khazer and assumed they would be killed and eaten by the dead; returned to The Dark Lord and confidently assured her of their demise. Perhaps. But recent experience told him to guard against such optimistic assumptions.

His caution was rewarded when he spotted a party leaving the town via it’s south gate. His quarry had been joined by four others. Assata the Barbarian, he knew well from their mission in Kuthenia. Princess Borte—well, she had been their mission. They had kidnapped her and brought her to The Dark Lord. Now she had become the figurehead for the resistance in Kuthenia. Hassletoff the halfling, Director of the Bureau of Dungeoneering. They had never met, but the henchman knew of him. The fourth figure, a gangly human slung over the ogre’s shoulder, he couldn’t identify.

So, three had become seven. One could, the Dark Elf acknowledged, see it as a problem. It made his task more difficult. But he was inclined to see the opportunity. Kill this group and the enemy would be finished in one fell swoop.

The Dark Elf followed this enlarged group south. Where they were heading to now, he couldn’t guess. It was likely they didn’t know themselves. Where was there for these people to go? They spent a night in the open, the henchman finding another tree in which to make his own bed. When he checked on them the next morning, they were all there. But how long could they keep this up? The more he thought about it, the more he thought it likely that the undead would—eventually—do his job for him.

He followed them once they broke camp. More aimless wandering. Then he spied the group standing around the church of a deserted human village. Something had clearly caught their interest. The henchman waited until they had left the village before taking a look himself. A message had been scrawled on the white wall of the building. Find Sanctuary in Babylon. We are safe. Beneath it was an arrow, pointing in the direction that the ogre and his colleagues had taken.

Babylon? He’d never heard of it and doubted that his quarry had either. But they were desperate enough to follow the sign. Curious, he did likewise.

It wasn’t long before he got a sight of this settlement called Babylon. He had to admit that whichever humans had made their home there, had done better than he’d expected. A hill had been strengthened with earthworks in a concentric design. At the top, it had been flattened. The henchman could make out a few wooden buildings. Yes, it was basic. But crudely effective for keeping out the dead.

He observed as his quarry negotiated for entry into the hillfort. It was denied, for some. Three ascended the rope ladder that had been thrown down by the residents: the halfling, the elf and the princess. The remainder waited at the base of the hill, as the night drew in and the dead began to appear with tiresome inevitability. The ogre dispatched them with an almost absent-minded swing of his mace.

At first, the Dark Elf had trouble understanding what was happening. Then, when he saw them repeatedly tending to the gangly human, he worked it out. He’d been bitten, probably back in Mer Khazer. Why they hadn’t ended his life immediately, it was impossible to say. And why they stood about waiting for him to die and turn into one of the creatures was equally confusing. But that’s what they did. Only then did the barbarian use her sword. That was followed by a staggering waste of time and energy as they dug a hole in the ground in which they placed the body, before filling it in.

Finally, the ogre, barbarian and wizard were allowed to ascend the rope and enter this place they called Babylon. The Dark Elf was left to contemplate not only his next move, but the strange behaviour he had just witnessed.

The new residents of Babylon began to go about their business, still unaware that a Dark Elf had been following their every move. He spied on them from his new home up a tree. The hillfort afforded his quarry the best protection they had enjoyed since he first found them in the city of Avolo. But maybe it provided him with an opportunity, too. He gave himself time to develop a plan, convinced that the adventurers of Mer Khazer would not be leaving their refuge in a hurry.

Once his decision was made, the henchman got to work. It was a variation on his attack on the barn at the farm. He began collecting any undead who passed his way, lashing them to the lower branches of his tree. This time, he covered their faces with cloth, muffling the moans and groans they emitted.

Once he had harvested sufficient undead, he had to carry out the hard part of his plan. Getting them up to the top of the hillfort.

He waited, a whole day, then another, for the right moment. Finally, he took his chance. This was risky: climbing the earthworks of the settlement, trusting that the darkness would shield him from any lookouts at the top of the fort.

The henchman scarpered up the steep slopes, agile and powerful, fast-moving but silent. The defences were good enough to keep out the dead, but not an athlete such as he. The last, most dangerous part was leaping up to the palisade of wooden stakes that surrounded the flat top of the hill. He gripped it with both hands, then pulled himself up and over the palisade.

He allowed himself a few moments to catch his breath and wait to see if he had been spotted. It remained quiet. The people of the fort slept. Then he crept to where the rope ladder was stashed, threw it over the edge and climbed down.

Next, he returned to his tree and retrieved his collection of silenced dead. He roped the first two to the lower rungs of the ladder—two would be heavy enough, even though their decaying bodies were lighter than living ones—climbed past them and back up to the top of the fort. Then came the physically demanding task of hauling the ladder back up with the two creatures attached. Once he had got them up, he released them. At first, of course, their instinct was to eat him. But by once more throwing down the ladder and beginning his descent, they turned instead to the many bodies tucked away inside the wooden homes of the fort.

Again, and again, and again, the Dark Elf did this, not stopping to rest his tired muscles, stretch out his back or soothe his raw hands. He pushed himself to exhaustion. But each time he did it, another pair of undead warriors shuffled their way slowly towards the sleeping residents of Babylon. Eventually, bloodcurdling screams began to issue from the settlement as the Babylonians awoke to find the risen dead had entered their homes; were scratching and biting and chewing them. None had the presence of mind, at first, to come and check the rope ladder. The henchman completed his work. Once he heard the sounds of fighting and of organised resistance to his invasion, he retreated. Plan implemented, he retired to his tree and let his scheme play out.

The Babylonians defended themselves from the Dark Elf’s surprise night time undead attack better than he’d expected them to. A significant number of corpses were buried at the bottom of the hill the next morning. But only one that really mattered to the henchman. The wizard was finally dead.

He crept towards the gathering where the enemy performed their rites. When it was the wizard’s turn to get buried, the three-headed ogre spoke to the assembly.

‘I feel that we are partly responsible for the death of Sandon,’ said the head called Dog.

The Dark Elf could see the ogre’s fellow adventurers raise an eyebrow or roll their eyes at this statement. How amusing. Somehow, they blamed the ogre for the wizard’s death. Then, first one, then all three ogre heads began to leak water out of their eyes. They sniffled, as if they had suddenly caught a sickness.

‘Sandon was a very good friend to us,’ said the head called Og, in a strange, husky voice. It then appeared that the ogre had completely lost the power of speech. In the end, the Light Elf walked over, gave the ogre a gentle pat, and took over the rest of the speech for him.

At first, the Dark Elf thought that the ogre might be coming down with the undead sickness. But then, he realised that his afflictions were caused by sadness. He was most surprised to see such emotion on the face of a former henchman of The Dark Lord. Not least one who had done such terrible things as Og-Grim-Dog.

The henchman reflected on this. He had seen sadness before. Not even once in the harsh realm of Cly’ath Denori’Kilith Tu’an. But many times, since leaving his homeland. After killing his victims’ family members; or indeed their pets; he had seen humans—and other races—express sadness. He couldn’t recall seeing it after killing their colleagues, or allies. Though the ogre hadn’t called this wizard Sandon an ally. He had called him a ‘friend’.

The Dark Elf began to speculate what that word might mean. An ally who you would be sad to see die, he supposed. That led him on to ask himself the question, would anyone be sad if he were to die? Would The Dark Lord mourn him, as the ogre had mourned the wizard? He didn’t think so. She would wish he wasn’t dead, because he was her most valuable henchman. But he supposed, in the end, she would just shrug her shoulders and find a replacement.

Once the Babylonians had completed their rites, and returned to their fort, the Dark Elf found it hard to shake off this new line of thought.

The henchman had to admit that he was beginning to change his mind on a number of things. Not least, he had decided that despite his initial pride at being asked to complete his task alone, he did, after all, need some allies. Allies were not easy to find in a post-apocalyptic world such as this. The goblins who dwelled in Strong Club would have to do.

Their leader, who went by the—frankly ridiculous—name of Grarviaksrurm, was easily persuaded to intervene in the settlement of Babylon.

‘You have many more soldiers than they do,’ The Dark Elf assured him, aware that goblins were a weak and cowardly race at the best of times.

Grarviaksrurm smiled at this. The henchman found the goblin a little bit disturbing. Hard to read. Altogether too clever for a goblin.

‘I’m inclined to make Babylon the first conquest of my new empire,’ the goblin leader said.

‘Well, do what you wish, as long as those individuals I have specified are killed. Do not underestimate that ogre, either.’

Grarviaksrurm waved away his concerns. ‘I happen to have an ogre of my own. We can deal with Og-Grim-Dog.’

A goblin with an ogre. This was most unusual. But these were certainly unusual times. ‘Succeed in this and my masters will reward you most handsomely. Your empire might spread wider than you can imagine.’

The goblin beamed at the thought of his shitty little empire. Who really knew what Lilith and Samael intended to do with this part of Gal’azu? Indeed, all of Gal’azu? The Dark Elf suspected that a post-apocalyptic world such as this might be remembered as the good old days once they were done with it.

He turned and left Strong Club; left Grarviaksrurm to his plans and dreams. This mission had lasted long enough. It was time to return to his masters. Time to serve them in some other way.

The Recorder scratched the final words of the chapter onto his parchment, then rubbed his aching wrist.

‘So, that was it?’ he dared to ask. ‘You returned to The Dark Lord with the job half done? Did you tell her the truth?’

The Dark Elf shrugged with indifference. ‘I’d had enough of that mission. I left the rest of it to the goblins. But of course, I told The Dark Lord the truth. Only a fool would do otherwise.’

The Recorder allowed that answer to sink in for a while, before more questions surfaced. ‘Did Grarviaksrurm attempt to complete your mission? What did The Dark Lord say when you returned? What did she have you do next?’

But the Dark Elf appeared to have gone elsewhere. His eyes had a distant look to them, as if he were reliving some moment from his past. The Recorder shuffled his stack of parchment aggressively, but his interviewee didn’t notice. Just as he was thinking about standing up and leaving the private room of Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa—indeed, as he was thinking that leaving alive should be classed as a victory in itself—the drow’s attention snapped back to him.

‘All questions that can be answered another day. Suffice to say, it wasn’t the last time I saw the infamous ogre, Og-Grim-Dog.’

Acknowledgments

Thanks to all the individuals involved in putting together Beyond The Shadows, From The Shadows & Grimdark Magazine including Stefan Nardi, Bethany Hoeflich, Angel Haze, Adrian Collins & Mike Myers.

Beta readers: Michael Evan, Lisa Maughan, Lana Turner, Marcus Nilsson, Ian Edmundson, Jonathan Daniels.

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ME THREE

THE WEAPON TAKERS SAGA