Mercenary

Context: PoV character (Primin) left his superior behind to die, then lied to his commander to cover up his cowardice.

“Cross of the Cleansed,” Jesper said with enough triumph to make Primin sick, and he set the card forth for all to see. Sicker than the piss taste of shroom-ale already had him, at least.

“Skarl shit!” Tarl slammed his cards on the table the sixth time, rattling everyones mugs the sixth time, stray eyes flicking annoyance their way the sixth time. He stared at an old man looking back from the bar, gave a taunting shrug to say, ‘Fuck you gonna do about it?’. The old man shook his head then went back to his plate.

“You really need to do that every time you lose?” Primin asked, feeling the pressure of those wandering eyes. Last thing he needed was unwanted attention.

Tarl pointed a trembling finger at Jesper. “Only when this slippery cunt stacks the deck.”

“Me?” Jesper put a hand on his chest, eyes wide and wet like a puppy's, but that shit-eating grin said it all. “Cheating? Why, I’d never do such a thing. Not to a man of such caliber and honor, no!”

“Think you can mock me, you little—”

Soon as Tarl’s chair screeched against the tavern’s swollen planks Kael already had a hand on his shoulder. “Sit,” he murmured, quiet but firm. “Bad luck is all. My hand was worse.” And he laid out four cards to prove it. Two half-circles of Redemption, one Slash of the Punished, and a Goblet of the Pure-Blooded—a right poor hand. Primin felt bad for Kael, though not any worse than he already felt for himself.

Tarl grunted bitter disbelief. “Bad luck, he says. Call giving me the losing card right after he gets the winning one bad luck?”

“We’ve all had that lately,” Dingus admitted. “Bendt most of all.”

The group nodded at that. That heavy metal of guilt came back to sag on Primin's shoulders. So he took another swig. Best not think of it. Enjoy your drink. Enjoy what Bendt never will again, as he rots out there inside that plant, turned to shit in the mud while you take his place as captain.

“To Bendt.” Kael raised his mug. “A decent man. Decent leader, I’d say. Got our sorry selves through who knows how many scuffles.”

“Aye, to that old fool,” Tarl said, and they all clinked their mugs together in a mockery of respect, sending spats of wasted ale to dampen Jesper's deck. “Always looked out for his boys no matter the stitch. Didn’t have no business being a mercenary, that’s for fucking sure.”

Genius waved his mug at Tarl. “Didn’t he pry you out of a snatch once?”

“He did—back when I was fresh. Still got the scars to prove it. Learned to watch my feet after that. Never did it again.” They all looked glumly at their drinks, then downed another gulp in unison. “Right. Respects and all that given. Now, back to this cheat…”

Jesper leaned forward, swept up the couple gleaming shares with an arm. “What can I do but wish you better luck next time, old friend?”

“Shuffle the deck in front of him so he’ll shut up,” Dingus suggested.

Jesper raised a finger—and nodded. “If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes. Any objections?” There were none, so everyone handed in their cards and watched him shuffle, Tarl most carefully. “We are playing for shares again, right?”

“For shares.” Tarl reached in his cloak then, producing a golden, dropped it on the scratched wood to let it rattle that money sound.

“Calling him a cheat even though you’re so quick to put money up.” Dingus smirked. “Real genius you are.”

“Be nice, Dingus,” Jesper’s trained hand flicked cards out to each man, “Not all are born with a big brain like yours.”

Dingus set a golden in the lot. “So he reminds me every night.”

Tarl snarled at the two of them like a mad dog barely held back on its leash. Kael added his own share in, caught Tarl’s eye and doused the fire in them. He sniffed hard, then sighed.

Primin never understood how the loudest and most quiet of their squad had become good friends; you’d think one would complain about the other.

Opposites attract and all that, I guess.

“Who needs a big brain when you’ve got a big cock?” Tarl shot back. No one laughed.

“Shame you got neither,” Dingus said.

Primin reached into his own pocket. Empty. He took another swig, swept the hair from his bleary eyes and shrugged.

“You out already?” Jesper asked.

“My coin, like Tarl’s brain, is fleeting.”

“So… yes?”

Another swig. Empty, damn it. “Yes.” Being out of money for Jesper to scam was good. Being out of both that and drink wasn’t.

“Spend it all at the whorehouse?” Tarl chuckled to himself as he fiddled with his cards.

“A woman took it. All I’ll say.” Because if he said more, Helma wouldn’t bother covering for his ass anymore. The old girl had kept her word and his coin. Like his parent’s had always told him, ‘You shake hands on a deal, you see it through’.

Especially one that keeps you alive.

“Oh?” Jesper peeked over his cards. “Which special lady is getting the attention of the world-renowned, honor-bound knight of the most esteemed Company in the empire?”

Tarl jabbed an elbow in Primin’s side, just about knocked him out his chair. “Yeah, Prim, who is it?”

“Maybe that red-head from Peerson’s corner the other night,” Genius supposed.

“Or maybe the one that sits on the crates by the docks in the late-night,” Tarl said. “Been meaning to pay her a visit.”

“Speaking of big cocks…” Kael rubbed at his chin.

“That’s no lady,” Genius spluttered out, along with his drink. “Thought the beard would tell you as much.”

“I heard that’s a thing with western women. In the fashion out here or something.” Tarl looked at each of them. “Right?”

Jesper bit his lip. Kael snickered. Dingus howled laughter. Primin took a swig. Still empty, damn it.

“Here, Prim,” Jesper reached across the table and dropped two goldens in his hand. “Be a good lad and get us another round, would you?”

He was their captain now, shouldn’t be letting any of them order him around like an errand boy. But it was a free drink, and a free drink was all it took to get him practically skipping across the tavern, yearning for more of the warm bliss of ale as he stepped graceless around one table, accidentally kicked the foot of another man’s chair and got something shouted at him. Wasn’t sure what but it didn’t sound very nice. Primin didn’t mean to do it—the drink did it. Always the drink, that lovely lass. Hard to stop once you’ve sucked her free from the bottle, or mug in tonight’s case. He knew he didn’t want to.

His foot ached again, rivaling the stabbing in his right arm tight in the sling cutting into his nape. Proof gained from when he’d tried to be a good man in a bad situation. He stretched his shoulder, ended up stumbling into a whore working her ways on another mercenary of the Open Hand while he fumbled with the coins in his own, blushed as he accidentally copped a tit, then hurried to the counter while she called after for payment.

“Excuse me,” and he flagged down the bartender girl serving two rough looking watchmen at the far end. She didn’t look to pleased about it, or them, maybe.

“In a sec,” she shouted with a pretty smile, turned her attention back to the watchmen.

Hard as it was to hear over the laughs, the shouts, the strumming of strings that were making a jolly tune, there was no mistaking the heat of an argument. The sound of a man and woman yelling at one-another. Brought Primin back to the north. Back to his father's forge.

One of the watchmen looked his way. He’d a dinghy looking eyepatch over an eye, a jagged, raw scar cut from its top that stretched down pink to his lip. The other one pointing a finger at the poor girl was bald—unless you counted a few odd, absurdly long strands of hair as keeping you from being bald.

“What’dya mean we don’t get refills?” One-eye whined.

The girl crossed her arms. “You don’t get free refills.”

“We got a right to free drinks! We keep this shithole safe from the shags!” Baldie slapped a hand on One-eye’s shoulder. “My friend gave an eye for you people and he can’t get a free drink?”

Primin slid carefully closer. Not that he wanted to join the fray of words—unwanted attention was the last thing he needed, but he needed his damned drinks and fast. The girl was pretty, too. Always had a thing for red-heads.

“We don’t give freebies to nobody.” The girl leaned forward on the counter and whispered, “Especially not to your kind.”

“Our kind?” The muscles in One-Eye’s jaw were twitching something fierce.

“You think you’re entitled to something for being watchmen? Alright then. You men can watch me fill up mugs for everyone else. Might learn a thing or two about how to hold a drink.”

“So that’s how it is?” One-eye ground his jaw around.

“That’s how it is.”

One-eye turned to his friend. “You know what I like about traitorous bitches?” The girl was breathing something heavy as he looked back at her. “They make themselves so easy to catch. Always give a good reason to bring ‘em in. ‘Specially this last cycle.”

“Aye. Been giving a right easy time lately. A good time.” Baldie put a hand on the mace stuck through his belt.

One-eye gripped the pommel of his sword. “Lots of good times.”

They started getting up. She took a step back. “Both of you get the fuck out before—”

Primin couldn’t say why he did it, but he had, and his sword was already coming out, gripped tight as he could muster with his good arm. It rang clean of its sheathe, that sharp sound of steel violence soon to come cutting through the crowded tavern’s noise. A few final notes were strung as the good vibes in the air went dead and everyone looked towards the counter. Towards him.

Unwanted attention was what he’d gotten. Always what he’d gotten.

One-eye looked him up and down. “Got a problem, sellsword?”

He thought of making a joke. ‘My mug is empty’, he wanted to say was his problem. It was true, after-all; he’d only come to get drinks for him and the boys. But the girl had to stare at him, green eyes full of fear begging for help. He was no hero, couldn’t give a shit for anyone else’ problems. He’d plenty of his own.

It probably was the drink that made him step forward and say, “I’m trying to get a fucking drink, and you’re bugging the girl who’ll be giving it to me. So yeah, I got a problem.”

“Sit down, boy.” Baldie waved his mace at him. “By order of a watchman, this girl is under arrest. Unless you want to join her—”

The tavern erupted in boos and jeers. Primin doubted anyone cared about the girl herself but more the fact that she poured the drinks and served the food, and her being taken meant no more of either.

“Go sit on a blue cock!” someone shouted.

“He probably does that every night!” came another.

Several other watchmen stood from their tables, hands resting fast on the grips of their weapons. Locals kept on with their resentment. His fellow mercenaries looked on with amusement, or eagerness to be paid to fight, or fear of getting dragged into one. Primin’s boys were already up, striding across the room towards him.

“Give the word, Prim,” Tarl said with a grin. “We’ll handle ‘em. Gonna be a fee later, but… y’know.” He wrinkled his nose and snorted. “Don’t think Helma will like this one bit, though. Supposed to be working with them.”

Hadn’t even thought of that. “I know.”

The bartender shot a glance at the two men, wriggled her mouth around, then grinned. She cupped her hands by her mouth and shouted, “Free drinks for whoever gets these two shits out of my tavern!”

And like that, chaos. Men, women, didn’t matter whom, aside from the other Watchmen, they all stood and stomped across, eager to claim promised loot. One-eye and Baldie were grabbed every which-way, punched, slapped, kicked. Profanities to make even Tarl blush were screeched, threats of deaths unimaginable were given. The two men disappeared into the crowd despite their struggling, hauled out through the front door. “We’ll be back!” One-eye shouted over the sweltering around him, but he was gone.

The rest of the watchmen looked hard at the girl, then Primin. “There’ll be consequences for this, Neera,” one said sadly.

“It’s about time someone stood up against the fools you got alongside you abusing their power, Mars. If it has to be me then so be it. Now get you and your boys gone.”

Primin watched the watchmen file outside. The sound of a scuffle peaked through the door as it came open, then taped off. Probably helping those two idiots of theirs. A few mercenaries walked out after them, probably hoping to earn a few shares by fighting for either side.

He sheathed his sword, wiped sweaty hair from his forehead. “Sorry about that.”

The girl smiled and shook her head. “Not a problem. Not at all. Thank you, actually.” She stared at the door and nodded. “Been meaning to do something like that for a while now. Place hasn’t been full enough to do it though.”

“Don’t like the garrison, I take?”

She scoffed. “Few do around here. Bastards work for the blue-bloods and take their money without a second thought.”

The old him from years back would be inclined to agree, and he still somewhat did. Elegant looking as they were, the Blue-bloods, there was no denying their taste for blood. But he was a mercenary working for them to fight shavhan in the west, so he changed the topic. “Right, well I don’t suppose me and my friends can get another round, can we?”

“Of course. Free of charge, in-fact.” She produced several battered mugs from under the counter, filled them overflowing until silky foam spilled down their sides. The boys all grabbed one each.

“Cheers,” Jesper said as he took a sip and swaggered back to his waiting cards. The rest followed after him, echoing their own approval —except for Kael, who remained silent as ever.

Primin grabbed his mug and made to leave, but the girl stopped him. “What’s your name, sellsword? You are one of them new ones come to town, right?”

He rubbed the edge of his mug. “That I am.” Not proud of it. “Name’s Primin.”

“Well, Primin.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and produced two golden shares. “I’ll pay you this much to watch over the place the rest of the night.”

A tempting offer. God knew he needed the money. The nagging pain in his left foot and right arm gave a harsh reminder of how a job can go. No telling when you took a sweet one thinking it’d be easy and it ends up sour. Things often had for him.

If the watchmen did return—and he was counting on it because a man scorned for his work never forgets—he was prime to get his head stomped to bits on the very floor below his aching feet.

There will be consequences for this, One-eye had said. Sounded like he meant it.

“Not one to turn down money, but…” Primin drew her eyes to his slung arm with a wiggle. “I might not be best suited to protecting your—” and he looked around at the rotting planks, the cobwebbed corners, the rickety front door and smoked-out windows, “fine establishment just yet.”

She leaned forward on both arms and he couldn’t help but check the valley of her tits. Hoped she didn’t notice, but the crease of a smile hinted otherwise. “You scared of those bootlickers?”

“For myself? Not at all! But if my arm or my foot act up while I’m facing down, say, three or four or more of them, then I’ll be worried about you. My employer.” What next, what next? “If I’m worried about my employer while fighting then I’m liable to miss a parry, or dodge a thrust, or—”

The girl bent over and bellowed laughter. Thankfully the others were too busy playing and no one had come back inside yet. No witnesses to the stomping of his pride, or what little remained after the last few years. She wiped a tear from the corner of an eye. “Not the first time watchmen have tried to pull that act with me. If I were arrested every time they said I was, I’d be covered head-to-toe in chains by now.” She put a gentle hand on his bad arm, made him fight back a blush. “Don’t worry about them. They won’t be coming back here tonight. I’ll more be using you to help clean up the place and to kick out the drunks after last call than I will be for fighting.”

“Oh. Well then. In that case—” he thought a moment. Never close the deal without a little haggle. “Two goldens, and another round for my--” Almost called them friends. "Comrades."

As he pointed to the four fiends playing cards, the front door banged open and the horde of whores, sellswords, swindlers, beggars, and who knew how many other unsavory types came rushing in toward the counter.

“Deal—”

“A drink, a drink, a drink!” an old man in the front chanted. The crowd picked it up and chanted with him.

“If I’ve got enough ale by the end of the night.” He remembered having forgotten to ask her name when she said, “I’m Neera, if you were wondering. Tavern’s my father’s, but he’s busy as of late, so I’m running the place.”

Primin picked a stool and sat, resting his aching arm on the counter with only a slight wince. “Good to know. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear about the excellent service given tonight.”

She laughed. “Oh, that he will be. For sure he’ll enjoy having a new dish washer.”

Oh no…


[Scene change]


The lone standing torch dug into the dirt beside the stairs crackled lightly, its embers starved by a breeze barely rivaling that of a fart. No light came through the slits between the boards nailed over what red-stained windows. Probably looked pretty in their time--a way to hide the degeneracy took place inside.

Primin still didn’t get why Helma had decided to settle the Company of the Open Hand in the dusty, roach-laden remains of a brothel. For such a well-renowned Company they sure settled in some shitty places. Fitting for a few of the women mercenaries who were bringers of joy, he had to admit. Couldn’t say the men brought any.

Worry crept its ugly head up when he reached the pit’s bottom step. Two men were to stand guard here all night. No getting in or out without the boss-ladies say-so. Unless you were a captain as he now was. Could do all sorts of things.

“You idiots had one job,” Primin muttered to the dying light above. His worry wasn’t about bandits, or thieves, or anyone else didn’t belong being around. The hideout was an hours walk or less to Zephyr to not need giving those kinds of villains room in his foggy head.

That sinking feeling in his gut telling him to run was what bothered him. And the ale. Too much of a good thing—

Acid burnt the back of his throat. Primin leaned on the doorframe, gagged and wretched until a bile fountain splattered the dirt to mud. “Fuck me—” he managed through coughs as he got onto his hands and knees. If only Neera could see him now.

She’d worked him, and hard at that. She was a good talker, had to be with her profession, he knew. They had talked for hours about nothing—his life out here in the west and how much cock it blew; her agreement that the notion of the west being the marshy ass-end of the empire being true. The boring parts were helping wipe down the tables, the mugs, filling barrels needing filling, dumping those needing dumped. And yes, washing the dishes, and yes, kicking out the drunks.

When the conversation had shifted to their pasts, Primin had to tread almost as carefully as he had when coming down the steps. She was born to her mother, a hops farmer from Halthen, and her father, owner of the tavern outside Zephyr. It was like a match made in heaven—until the divorce. When she’d asked him for his story, he told the truth—parent’s were smiths up in the north. Didn't like the trade, so he left. That much he could say without worry. The entire Company knew that. At least the ones who gave more than a shit for him. Could count them on one hand.

He rattled the door with a few knocks loud enough to get anyone's attention. Stupid move, that. Might not be any bad men outside, but there were some inside for sure.

Funny how a good man like him had tried to do right by the world and ended up in a gang of misfits and criminals. Funny, until he remembered he almost was a criminal. Worse than that to some folk.

The door swung open and someone grabbed the collar of his jerkin, yanked him inside. “Agh, what the—” He stumbled as they swung him around, pushed him across the main hall, slammed him against the wall.

A fist caught him square on the chin, knocked out what little sense the drink had left him. A punch slammed into his gut, belching what little of both was left down his brown jerkin, onto the red-leather of his attacker’s own.

A watchman jerkin.

“Gah!” The man looked down at the vomit plastered to his chest. “He puked on me!”

A kick this time, and no softer than the punch. Primin keeled over as the man let him fall to the floor, propped himself up on his good arm, gasping for air. The pain in his squirming guts, his shattered arm, his mangled foot, his clapped chin rang all-together with the deafening of a giant bell, making him squint hard through the ring in his ears and the tears in his eyes.

“Enough,” someone said from his right in the dim candle-light. “Don’t knock any of that pretty-boy’s teeth out.”

Primin looked up. Sad to say for him, it was about what he’d expected.

Teper sat with his legs crossed atop the long table, an arm resting on the wooden remains of their latest training dummy. He stared at Primin with a look saying he didn’t much care regardless of what he’d said.

“I don’t think so,” the watchman said, looking back to Primin. He had a dinghy-looking eyepatch over one eye, a scar running—ah shit.

“We paid you to help us with this,” another man to Primin’s left said. Baldie.

“You paid me to get you inside and I’ve done just that.” Teper fiddled with the throwing-knives in his bandoleer. “You gonna arrest him and get out like we agreed?”

One-eye huffed a bit, stared from Teper, to Primin, back to Teper. “Yeah, like we agreed.” He jerked Primin to his feet, spun him around and slammed his face against the wall. “Hands behind your back.” He kicked Primin’s legs apart, grabbed both his hands and yanked—

“Argh, stop, stop! My fucking arm is broke you—”

He got a mouthful of old plaster as his head was jerked back and slammed forward. Pain lanced hot through his broken arm as it slipped out its sling and the shackles tightened on his wrists. He spat that awful iron taste of blood out, tried to scream, got his mouth bound by a sweat-tasting strip of cloth for the effort.

“Try that again, and you’ll be screaming to the mites,” Baldie whispered in his ear. “Lucky we aren’t tossing you out in the caves.”

Primin’s eyes were swimming with tears. The pain was too much. He’d tried to do right, again, tried to help some girl being beaten on by the powers that be. What had that earned him but pain? A few goldens now plundered by Baldie.

What had trying to do right by anyone ever earned him but pain?

Teper sighed. “Off you go, before anyone wakes up and the next duty takes my spot. And we better not find him dead, you hear? Boss Lady won’t stand for one of our captains ‘disappearing’.” He caught Primin’s eye, gave a non-apologetic shrug. “Sorry, Prim, but work is work and money is money. You understand, yeah?”

Oh, I understand, you backstabbing cunt. "Yeffh..."

They marched him out the front door and up the steps. Back into the cold, dark night of the caves. Back through the empty, muddy streets of the settlement. A few vagrants lingering around the main street did their best to look away. A man smoking on his front porch saw them coming, gave a final tap on his pipe, then went inside. No one would help. He couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t help. Not anymore.

They passed by Neera’s tavern. One-eye spat towards it. The windows were dark, just as they had been when the two of them had closed up for the night. She was in there, somewhere, sleeping, no doubt. Primin hoped she would look out the window, see him in chains and come to his rescue. Shout something to the open air that would rally those who’d kicked and punched at these same men before. Or maybe she could get in chains and keep him company.

That thought was crushed same as all his other hopes and dreams as they passed the tavern, leaving it and the beautiful girl inside in the past behind.