Act 1 | A Night of Grudges

  It was a night of ale and merry making, a night of warm summer winds, fires and red lit grins. It was a night of easy victory as Fenris Whiteeyes stalked through the siege camp that sat fat and jolly in the shadow of Lynetor’s walls. On his right, Karlin the half-giant, or so men said. On his left, Borke, the watchful and wary. They made for the edge of the tent city, for the little village of camp followers and the merchants plying their trades for the waiting army.

  The three men were seen, beckoned to, called. They waved back, but kept their course. Kept their daggers tucked neatly by their sides. Even in camp, men died.

  They passed into the lanes of the merchant village, the straight military lines trading place for stumbling men, planked walkways and winding allies selling food and drink and potions and sex. There were crystals to clear your mind, blue and purple flamed candles to ward away the night, and a limp hawker selling flowers for vitality. Anything to tilt the Balance. But Fenris Whiteeyes had need for none.

  They found their tent, a burgeoning structure with a red lantern hanging by the entrance. Sweet perfume leaked through the opening. This was the place.

  “Evening, sirs,” the madame greeted them. She was old and squinted over her pinched nose. “We are full at the moment, but perhaps I can offer you some wine while you wait?”

  Anger bubbled up in Fenris Whiteeyes. This was not the night for foolery. “We should be expected.”

  The madame leaned in close. She could barely make out his face, barely make out the broken nose and the colour-drained irises of his eyes.

  Borke cleared his throat. “Madam Alva, I asked you to keep a room for us ahead of time.”

  “Ah, Sir Borke,” she said. “Back again already.”

  That got a deep, booming chuckle out of Karlin. Even Fenris, who was all business on a night like tonight, couldn’t resist the grin that spread up one side of his mouth.

  “He’s a horny fellow,” Karlin laughed.

  The madame craned her skinny neck to look up at the man. “I recognise that voice too,” she said. She turned back to Fenris. “But who is this one? I don’t think that you have had the pleasure of visiting us before.” Her words were punctuated by muffled moaning that seeped through the canvas walls.

  “No, I have not,” Fenris said. “Our room, please.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I have stocked it as requested, and there is a brazier that you may use. It is yours for the night. Let me know if you would like any company sent in for you.”

  “No company tonight,” Fenris said.

  “Very well.” She shrugged. “Your business is your own.”

  Their room was small for three people, would have been smaller with four, no doubt, but the blind madam had kept her promises. There were three cloaks folded on the bed, sitting between plump red pillows, and a small brazier filled with hot coals. There was even a wine jug and cups sitting on the bedside table, but they would not be drinking. For Fenris Whiteeyes and his men, it was not a night of lust and drinking. Tonight was a night of grudges.

  They waited, Broke sitting on the bed, Karlin on a stool and Fenris standing by the brazier, staring into the coals until the late hours of the night. The sounds that slipped through the tent walls so easily, the drunken passers-by, the loveless paid-for sex diminished into quiet whispers. All that was left, the tense breathing and hand wringing, of three men about to enter into the fray.

  Fenris ended their silence. “It’s time.”

  They exchanged their cloaks for the plain brown of the cloaks the madam had left for them. These would do little to keep out the cold, but there wasn’t much cold tonight, only watching eyes. Then Borke undid the binding between two of the canvas panels that made up the tent wall, and they slipped out into the night.

  The three marauders were swift through the merchant village, but didn’t head back for the main way through to the siege camp. Their path took them around the outskirts, and they threaded their way between shadow and sentry, passing unseen.

  The auxiliary’s quarter was in the south. This was the quarter for men who’d no care for the death of a childless king, no care for quarrels of succession. They were paid mercenaries riding high on an easy first month of warfare. Fenris Whiteeyes and his were part of the auxiliaries, and they knew this part of the camp well, but were known well in return.

  Fenris halted the group behind a dry stone wall and peeked over the top. There were a few men still milling about around dwindling fires, some stumbling around with half-filled ale mugs. A soldier walked to the camp’s edge, took a piss that splashed more onto his boots than the ground. Fenris’s company was positioned further up, on the opposite side of the quarter, but they could still be recognised here, and not all would be pleased.

  Piss done, the soldier went back to his fire, and Fenris Whiteeyes and his men vaulted the dry stone wall, sprinting hard but quiet for the cover of a nearby tent. They caught their breath in the shadow, then Borke checked around the corner.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He reeled back. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Hessen. He’s here,” Borke whispered.

  Fenris looked out, saw the lanky mercenary standing by the fire. “Bastard should know to keep to his own part of camp.”

  They would be seen tonight, that was guaranteed, but if they were recognised, it would be because of someone like Hessen. He was new to their company. This would be his first campaign with them, and he had not formed the same grudges. But the bastard had been warned about them, should have known better.

  “Nothing changes,” Fenris said.

  “Aye,” Karlin muttered.

  They waited, waited for the conversation Hessen was in to pick up, take his attention, and strode out of the shadow with their heads down and hoods up.

  Whether or not they were seen, Fenris Whiteeyes didn’t know, but they were moving down the lane before anyone could say a word.

  The tent of Ralke Grey was in some dark corner where the fires had burnt to coals. They could have gotten there in minutes from their part of camp, not hours, but Fenris Whiteeyes knew to cover his tracks. He’d waited hours in a brothel and sculked through the shadows to do just that.

  Fenris pressed his ear against the tent’s wall. Nothing.

  “Wait here and watch,” Fenris said to Broke, and the man nodded.

  Fenris and Karlin passed between the tent flaps, all shadow except the moon’s glint on their blades. Ralke’s tent was dark, but from what little they could make out, the man had been living a good life in camp. There was a rug, soft underneath Fenris’s boots, a strong coin-laden chest and a side table with a clay pitcher and cup next to a cot holding the sleeping body of Ralke Grey.

  As Karlin followed slowly behind him, Fenris let out a low, steady breath. Take your time. Keep your wits about you. It was a night of grudges for Fenris Whiteeyes, a night of blood. He and his had crossed Ralke Grey before, opposite sides of a paid war. He didn’t much like him for that, you couldn’t, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have been on the same side in this one.

  Images of scouts, men Fenris knew, nailed to trees, broken legs, missing fingers, shattered teeth and hollow eyes flashed through Fenris’s mind. You could kill a man, and you could kill a man. Fenris believed in gold and silver more than honour, but there was a right way of doing business. He’d educate Ralke on such matters presently.

  “Evening, cunt.” Fenris Whiteeyes shook Ralke Grey by the shoulder. As Ralke turned in the cot, Fenris raised his dagger. He’d kill him as soon as Ralke was awake enough to know it was Fenris Whiteeys.

  But there was something wet, something warm that trickled onto Fenris’s hand. “Damn.” Fenris pulled it back in disgust. He felt it between his fingers, then, “Blood.”

  In the shaft of pale light from the open tent flap, Fenris Whiteeyes saw the savage cut across Ralke Grey’s neck. The man’s eyes stared, lifeless, and his agape mouth was surrounded by a blood-spattered beard. Someone had gotten to him before Fenris Whiteeyes.

  “Karlin,” Fenris said. “Ralke is dead. Already.”

  “Aye.” Fenris couldn’t see the big man’s face, but he could hear the expression in his voice. It would be that deep pondering expression, the one that made people think he was a stupid man. But Karlin thought a lot, just said very little. There were weapons to do the talking. “It’s a bad thing, Fenris. Trouble.”

  Thoughts of old grudges, bad blood, and hated names flooded into Fenris’s mind. Plenty in the mercenary axillaries didn’t like Ralke Grey. Less would want him dead, but more than just Fenris and his men. Hell, what was Hessen doing in this end of camp, what were the others with—Fenris sinched off these notions like they were the blood from a severed arm.

  “We need to leave,” Fenris said.

  Suddenly, it felt like the shadows and dark that had been their company this fine night of ale and merry making and grudges were harbouring unwelcome guests. The mercenary, Fenris, felt naked and watched, felt strange eyes on his person. The adrenaline and grim certainty of his cause flushed out of him, replaced only by the nervous twinges of fear.

  As they left the tent, Borke nodded to them. “How’d it go?”

  “He’s dead, Borke.” Fenris hissed.

  “Good.”

  “No,” Karlin said. “Dead, already.”

  Borke swore and shuffled to keep up with them as Fenris and Karlin made for a line of tents and shadows. The moon was full and bright, casting the world in black and white. They headed for their route back along the camp boundary, back to their room in the brothel. There was wine, a brazier there in which Fenris had expected to burn a blood-spattered cloak, and most importantly, a witness who could testify that they had spent the whole night in her fine establishment, just in case questions were asked.

  They were back at the dry stone wall, Fenris and Broke were over the other side, Karlin getting his hands on the wall, when they heard a clear and triumphant “Who goes there?”. It was a sentry.

  Karlin froze, not turning to face the soldier. He gripped one of the stones that made up the top of the wall, gently turned it to make sure it was loose. He was ready to bludgeon the man’s brains out.

  “Bide your time,” Fenris hissed. A hated mercenary killed in his sleep was one thing, but dead sentries? That was messy business. The lords in charge of the regular army would be getting involved. Lord Herik and his own.

  “Can a man not piss in peace?” Karlin said over his shoulder.

  “You can piss all you like, just show me your face and give me your name,” the sentry said.

  As they spoke, Fenris turned to Borke. He was crouched, dagger ready.

  “Only if it goes to shit, understand?”

  Borke nodded.

  Fenris scampered further down the wall. From the sound of them, he’d got himself at a good angle.

  “I’ll get decent first,” Karlin said.

  “You’ll do as you're told.”

  Fenris vaulted over the dry stone wall, using a nearby tree stump to propel himself. He landed just in time to see the sentry reaching out to grab Karlin’s shoulder. That was as close as anyone got to the man before he did something awful violent. He pulled his hood so his head was in deep. If his face and white eyes were seen, no number of good words from an upstanding brothel owner would convince anyone otherwise. Then Fenris Whiteeyes rushed the man.

  The sentry turned, just in time to be caught by Fenris’s right hand. Whiteeyes hooked a second fist in the soldier’s jaw. The soldier stumbled but got a hand on the mercenary, and they went to the ground. Fenris scrambled, got on top. The soldier had his dagger out quick. Fenris grabbed his wrist, and they were locked with the deadly slow movement of the blade, before Fenris Whiteeyes drove his forehead into the sentry’s nose. Then a second time, and the man was out cold.

  “That’s what I was going to do,” Karlin said.

  Fenris checked the soldier. Still breathing through the blood and broken nose. “Except I can hit a man without killing him.”

  “You would, if you could.” Karlin grinned a flash of silver moonlit teeth. And that was the last word said, before they reached the wine and quiet fire of their room. It was a night of sculking and brawling, a night of secrets and dead men.