'Bill' (fantasy, 12,000 words, 16+)

Lastower struck me as a dour, beaten-up, homely sort of town, the sort that gets you nostalgic for the times when bricks and mortar were new and exciting developments. It takes its name from the square spire at its centre, now a grand Mayoral mansion but long ago used for beheadings. The top level is shaped to let the heads roll down and into the cheering crowd, to be caught like wedding bouquets. I picked this up from my innkeeper. Seems like the time to mention it. It was ages back, when the Western Wildmen ruled. I understand their executioners were given free room and board and a nice black hood. Better days.


Upon arrival I traded Swicewise's diamond tooth cap for a nice room at a fancy inn. I had a servant wake me after a few hours and he was even polite about it. The room sat on a second floor just by the gate – I suppose they make their money from tired travellers and tips – and I had an ideal view up the road.


Regarding the tooth: please remember that these sorts of gangs go around taking money off of corpses all the time. The adventurers probably earned the diamond by selling ancient weapons pried from the knuckles of cursed skeletons, or the frozen hearts of zombie Kings or something. Tomb raiding is just grave robbing plus time.


I suppose the zombie Kings are already dead when you find them, to be fair. Touché, as people like to say when they haven't really been wounded.


The poached milkfish was delicious and the tea came in a big pot. It was a good morning. By mid-afternoon I saw the three figures I had been waiting for come over the hills, talking and trudging, and I shot downstairs immediately, secreting myself outside the gate in a quiet spot. It was simple enough to follow along and look busy while catching snatches of their conversation. Most of it was, as you would imagine, about what a wonderful fellow Swicewise was and how they had not expected to ever lose him, let alone before the final leg of their quest.


This, of course, is why I did him first. When you're dealing with one of these mixed warrior groups, you want to kill the really good one with your first blow. Don't let him catch you in some sort of duel near the end of the job. Get him sorted right away and then start your work proper, since after that they'll be expecting the next strike and start readying themselves. So the first blow, the easiest one, should hit the leader. The legend in waiting. He who speaks with the most authority and gazes into the moonlight for the longest bloody time. But the second in line is always a bit trickier to choose.


Watching their entrance to the town, I struggled with the decision. They seemed to be having the same trouble. The giant was clearly their best fighter, as his long strides reminded everybody, but the armoured woman was notably walking in point, as if to imply to her friends that he had inherited the position. This is, of course, how folks who can afford armour walk ordinarily, but she was making a good case for herself regardless. The mage tramped at the back, humble and thinly-clad as before, but there was something about him. Never trust a man with pointy shoes.


Wasting no time, the trio asked the gate guard about suspicious characters coming into town earlier today. No luck. I had come in over a crumbled bit of the wall.


The barbarian had his hands on his hammer during all of this, as though I was about to jump them at any moment in the middle of the street. It must have weighed him down, I thought. I wondered if he was getting some sort of masochistic thrill from the extra weight, punishing himself for letting his friend go. They're a funny bunch, the big men.


As the three passed me I made show of eating a bit of apple and looking deep in thought. Everyone gave them the old, 'Oh look, a knight, a wizard and a barbarian just walked into town, ho ho, sounds like the beginning of a joke doesn't it?' sort of look, so I joined in with that.


The woman in steel kept glancing back at us all. "If the bastard is one of the Beastmaker's men," I heard her say in a voice that was far too posh to convincingly swear, "he will be here ahead of us."


Well, yes. Obviously. Although to be fair I was not exactly one of 'his men': I had never met the bloke. Apparently he didn't have his own killers on staff though, because I was hired on by Big Langley from the Drakkhen Arms, same as I get most of my work.


"He is certainly here,” the old man answered, much quieter, “and he will reveal himself when he thinks the time is best."


"And then he will die!" A wit, this one. The giant gave her a pat on the shoulder plate.


While I dropped behind a little, they found a decent inn further into town; not as swanky as mine, but low-key and defensible enough not to get them into any trouble. From the end of a corridor I watched them hire a big room and congregate inside. As I said – the second kill is always the tricky bit. Various ideas went back and forth through my head while I listened to them distributing supplies and planning their next steps. They had been planned out perfectly before, of course, by Swicewise. Now they needed to rethink it all and it was clear nobody wanted to start the conversation. The only thing they agreed on was ordering dinner.


They were solemn now that their first day as a threesome was facing its end. They'd had time to adjust to the shock of his death and of course that time wasn't nearly enough. The atmosphere in the inn, in the town, was heavy, as though they were walking through wet mud with nothing special at the other end. The knight's armour looked somehow less silly when when it was being dragged through a tight corner or scraped against a ceiling beam without care. The wizard's papery blue eyes staring ahead looked, you know, wise when his lids began to weigh on them. The barbarian hadn't grinned all day, and I almost forgot it was him. Their innkeeper looked miserable just dealing with them. Even I began to feel the loss of their leader.


The old man took off his had and propped his gilded wooden staff against the crumbling plaster. The barbarian let down his hammer at long last. In this mood, with these faces, they looked a little bit like heroes. The knight drank noisily from their water canteen as though it were her mother's milk, then dropped her arm back, spilling a few drops and glancing through the window at what light was still out.

I had visions of buying a crossbow. Standing out on the sil, shooting her in the head and diving into the night. The dream didn't last. I find with my job that if you're having fun, you're doing it wrong. Arrows don't kill, poison makes them sick. You have to run up and stab.


But not yet. Right now their hands were never a foot from their scabbards, and they had taken to greeting everyone who got within a few yards with a suspicious frown, absolutely ready, almost aching for someone to leap out from the shadows with a knife. Let them be paranoid. Well, not technically paranoid under the circumstances. Perhaps over-cautious. Let them be that. I would strike when they expected it slightly less.


I waited with a half glass of mead downstairs with the other diners and worked through it in sips so small that my body barely recognised it as liquid, let alone alcohol. I had secreted myself into a group of working men who looked about my age and class, and awkwardly joined in their conversation as though I maybe possibly knew one of them. That's a beginner's tip, there: don't ever be the man who sits in the corner of the inn by himself and glares at the adventurers with dark eyes until they have to ask who he is and what his problem is. Those men, foreboding as they may appear in their shady nooks, usually end up dead before closing time.


Luckily for the poor blokes I was invading with my forced laughter and knowing nods, my targets slumped downstairs soon after. The assembled locals gave the three a look for a moment, but it passed and we got back to our drinks. I kept an eye and an ear out.


Leifhelm and the knight had been talking, quietly enough for it to stay private. Seeing their fellow in the corner of his eye the woman raised her voice without meaning to. "He will be avenged, Tenrunes." A few of the eyes at the near tables glanced back in their direction, which did not please.


"Yes, he will." Not exactly a voice like thunder. Like a jolly stiff breeze through bulrushes.


She visibly stumbled for a response and lamely offered, "He would be proud of us," which the wizard ignored. I barely heard it myself.


Tenrunes. I had guessed it would be something-beard, or something-staff. Greystaff.


They carried their drinks to a table and placed a food order as my thoughts drifted to my work. The knight had removed her plates but still had on a chainlink vest. I looked for places to stab through. Sizing up the big one, I winced: could I even cut through that neck? It was like a bloody tree trunk. None of this gave me any joy, by the way. I don't actually enjoy cutting people open. No-one does. That's why it pays.

"I did not expect stealth from the Beastmaker," Leifhelm said to the table. "I assumed he would ready an army to wait for us at his bridge, perhaps send his creatures to surround us in the East. But not this."

Tenrunes seemed momentarily heartened. "No," he started, began to raise his glass to his mouth, stopped. "But we have seen so little of him up until now. It makes a certain sort of sense."


"Exactly."


Something had changed in the knight. She seemed to be playing with her cutlery but when the fork dropped she didn't notice. "Whoever he has sent to pick us off,” she said, clear and steady, “has learned our schedule. It hardly matters how at this point.” The chainmail sighed as she unfolded. “So we need to mess with it." Yes, well done. "Change our route, change the timing, leave less evidence of our passing through the towns." Three good ideas in one breath, there. She was absolutely going to be next. Decision made, thank you. "And two of us will keep watch while the other rests, even in the inn. Suppose we move the bed away from the window, find two vantage points."


The big man's hand squeezed rings into her shoulder. "You sound like him."


"He told me a lot of his tricks." She began cradling one side of her head now, pushing the hair away from itself with a nail. She didn't know what to do with her hands. "Wish I'd listened, harder,” she muttered. “I, uh – I never thought it would come in handy. I never thought of a future without him around."


I wondered for a moment if she and the elf were in love, but thankfully I immediately stopped caring. Don't get bogged down in the quest.


"He lives in your blood." For a horrible moment I feared some sort of tribal wisdom was forthcoming from the Northman: there is a story amongst my people, etcetera. But if there was one at his lips then evidently he wasn't up to telling it, as he only finished the thought with, "He will fight with us."


I could almost believe it. It would be just like that prattling ponce to make me kill him twice.


The mage mumbled, "We may need him," through his cheek, then when they gave him their attention he only reached for his wine. Not an optimist, then. Not willing to become the knight's new mentor. I notice these things. Sometimes they're important. Often, not. I used to find it all quite exciting, but you get used to it.


"We do not know what forces the enemy will muster,” Leifhelm agreed, “and that ignorance is dangerous even in itself. Do not forget the stories I heard: the uncanny creatures that were sighted in the murkland. The monster we saw. He may have an army of half-breed berserkers for all we know."


Bloody hell.


"Swicewise was our best hope." The knight.


I got lost in thought here, I'm afraid. Swept up. Whoever this enemy of theirs was, he suddenly seemed rather serious. Legitimate dark-sorcerer-in-a-magic-tower serious. Possibly even he aspired to magical-stone-and-resurrected-demons levels of seriousness. We've all heard the stories. Whole towns get decimated when these people rise up, even when the band of disparate heroes do stop them.

I checked myself. The world hadn't ever ended yet.


Leifhelm raised his voice a touch. "His hopes were placed in you."


The reply came in, "I'm not my father!" I think I might have rolled my eyes. Of course she was somebody's daughter. Of course she was.


"You will succeed where he failed."


"Or I'll meet his fate."


I wondered if her father was the enemy. That one never gets old.


The mage interrupted them again. His eyes opened wide and I caught myself staring. "Perhaps you will," he conceded flatly. "But if you honour his friend then you will fight like him first."


The fear dropped from the knight's face. "Yes I will."


Leifhelm chipped in, "Remember what he taught you. Use what Alain gave you."


Tenrunes looked at her with a strange intensity, told her, "You will survive long enough to get your chance. We shall move at dawn," and left it at that.


I've tracked people who were somebody's son or daughter before. They can turn out to be very dangerous in the end. She might be heir to some sort of power, some relic. Destined for something. She was absolutely, definitely going next. As soon as possible.


The giant made a toast to bolster their spirits but I wasn't listening. A cook was plating up their food and kicking open the kitchen door. I stood.


On my way to the bar, I wondered what an army of half-breed berserkers might look like. As I caught the barman's eye I tried to guess what the other half of them consisted of and imagined the worse. I dropped a few coins to settle my bill and thought, what in the hell is a Beastmaker?


The blast of fresh air cleared my head as much as I had hoped. I slowed into it, let the little breeze close my eyes for a second and empty my lungs. I had my job. I had until dawn, and then I'd follow their new route, whatever they decided it would be.


With the streets empty – the locals would be settling in at home by now, putting children to bed and tiring themselves out at a mangle or a beer barrel – I couldn't help but feel exposed. The cover of darkness is over-rated, I find. It niggled me, just strolling along all exposed at the end of the street. Felt a bit wrong.


I realised a moment later that this was very sensible and I should have acted on it.


I heard the closing-in swish of a sword being flung at me and jumped back, spine first, curling away on instinct. My arms flailed and my gawky, open-mouthed face must have looked daft as I hit the window frame. My head, at least, was working hard. I saw the blade falling away – bronze with precious stones, shimmering unnaturally – dwarven make. Lucky. The dwarf folk of Nilhamar are truly master smiths, unparalleled and uniquely gifted, unless you want them to make you something particularly tall. Thank buggery for dwarfs. Any other make of sword and my chest would have been emptied.

I saw the blue eyes pushing folds of skin out of their way, suddenly more fierce than I had ever seen.


The wizard.


Right.


My legs ached with the force I made them use. Fleeing, out of breath, with my back to him had to be better than staying here and letting him summon the others.


But he had followed me out alone. Must have been right behind me at the door. He saw me watching? Tracked the diamond tooth cap somehow? I limply ran through a few scenarios, stopped with nothing. I had no time then to work out how or when he had clocked me, and more than that, I really wasn't that interested. People turn out to be cleverer than me fairly often. There's no novelty in it at this stage of my life. When I was new to this job, I might have given him a respectful look or congratulated him with a sly grin or something, but not now. What did his opinion of me matter – one of us was going to be dead in a minute. As much as I'd have liked to think of him being taken aback by my manners and elegance as he wandered back to his friends with my head under his arm, I'd rather have avoided him having any sort of lasting impression at all.


At the first corner I heard him bellowing something dramatic about shadows that I didn't follow, and fell back around with Swicewise's dagger ready.


Gone.


I went further into the streets, turned as many more corners as I could, aiming vaguely into whatever shadows I could find. Lastower's ramshackle layout gave me a chance to jump over a railing and onto the roofs of a row of houses built on a lower plane, and seeing the chance to escape I all but hurled myself off the roof, landing painfully on my right knee. I gave it half a second to heal and then pretended this had accomplished something when I yanked myself up on its weight.


Something heavy landed in front of me immediately and and threw dust in every direction. I looked dead at it but saw nothing in particular. Something, but something vague, something half-there, as if in the corner of my eye. I had to keep blinking, tried to keep my eyes still, trying to see this thing that–


And then a clear thought: Oh cocks, it's the invisibility thing.


The shortsword came at me again, the glint of the half-clan's gemstones helping me focus on it despite the spell. I tumbled backwards. A sound emerged from somewhere in the murk blocking my path, in the wizard's voice but not at all in his tone. Not a Spellmoorer's voice, not even quite human: the pitch was much too fast, the source too far back in the throat. I responded by tripping over myself backwards. The sword came again and again. I lurched away, but every thrust bit an inch or two from the gap between us, and we both saw that.


In the next instant I noticed with surprise and silent joy that I'd instinctively gotten up and gotten running. Toward the market square, the middle of the maze. A good place to lose him.

I changed my mind about this immediately when the scream and the dwarf-sword reappeared from musty air, on my left side, and he slashed a long red line, almost a fingernail deep into my chest. Gracelessly I span around and dived into a smithy's stall, thinking myself ingenious as I tried to kick one of the wooden supports over and nearly broke my foot. I leaped involuntarily and reappeared on the other side of the stall, trying to make it look like a particularly tricky lunge.


Gone. Again. And I was dizzy. The silence around me and the stillness of my body were too sudden. My eyes flicked about like a lunatic's, looking for his spell, some movement, some odd feeling.

It was his breath that gave him away this time though. He was holding it in, as though he were holding back fire. I dove back from his reach once again, slashing wildly and hoping to get an arm. I didn't see it connect but I felt the resistance of a sleeve and then sinewy flesh, and I certainly heard him. Another strange scream as he switched arms and fell at me. The bright edges of the sword came far too close, their glow cutting through his magic and showing me a bit of a silhouette. I ran again.


Behind the backs of stalls, doubling around to lose him, ducking behind counters, behind a long, red drape meant to cover a butcher's stock from the flies.


When the tightness in my chest finally came to my attention, I stopped. I'd been cut. I just stopped. It was all I could do stand up straight. I just stood there, behind the drape, sucking my teeth and trying to learn something from the experience.


Never underestimate the quiet ones.


Do him second, right after the leader, before he does you. Then you can fanny about with the rest.
 Look for the one who's the most pissed off.
 In fact, just do the wizard second from now on.


And don't try and hide behind a fucking drape.

Wooden slats ached dully on my shoulderblades and prodded the back of my head while I smelled my blood. I assumed it was a matter of time before he found me. I felt a pointless, ungainly smile growing on me. I bet I'd have made a good adventurer. I was supposed to be a carpenter. Wanted to travel though.


Finally I felt something bump into my leg, and when I looked down I saw swirling dust but no foot. My eyes strained at it.


Here goes nothing.


I jabbed the knife through the cloth. And it stuck. Deep.
 The weight of his falling body sucked the dagger from my hand and dislodged the drape, knocking me onto the street with it. Now we saw each other.
"Oh..." he said, in a tone of voice that made me think the rest of the sentence would have been, "...for fuck's sake." Evidently he wasn't satisfied with that selection of Last Words, and who can blame him, so he looked me square in one eye, one corner of his mouth twitching, and warbled, "I do not fear death."


He made it sound like a curse, a threat, but something told me he wasn't ever going to make good on it. It was just defiance.


I lent him a long glance, let him shuffle off as serenely as he could manage. When he likely couldn't hear anymore I mumbled, "That's probably why you lost, mate," and went through his pockets.