A candle was lit in the window of the chancery. Faint, flickering beams slithered out into the fog of a dark Tardusian night, and played across the face of Hungdai, the chancellor, as he settled again at his writing desk. There were too many letters tonight, as every night: proclamations from the king for the Duke’s urgent response (soon to be scraped and used for yet more tax edicts); protestations from the Fisherman’s Corporation that they could not bear the taxes while the season was so lean; some bill from the Thaumaturge for a recent service rendered; and endless wheedles from the Count to the south and the Marquis to the west, begging or bullying for an inch more land for their demesnes, fairer levies at the customs houses, more concubines fresh off the boat.
Hungdai would read them all – or at least skim. It was his duty to the Duke, for the old grizzle-bearded warlord fiercely guarded the secret that he had never learned his letters. Guarded from all except Hungdai. The chancellor licked his lips and passed a soft hand over his brow – already it had been a long day, and there was no swift end in sight.
Three scrolls of parchment in, it happened. Blearily he had unrolled another and affixed it with pins to his lectern, pinched the ridge of his nose (as was his habit), and began to read.
Moest Worshippfule And Pius To The Goddse
Duc Of Revanceaur
Yourre servant bids yeu wellcome
We – mie grasious companie ane meselfe
Haff founde itte.
As itt maye pleise your Worshippe, do sende
Asisttance in its recoverie butte swiftely.
We thie Companie of Armmse of the Setinge Moon remayne,
Your Servants Ever.
They had found “it”? What was “it”? Thought Hungdai. Of course, he recognized the name and the doggerel writing; the Company of Arms of the Setting Moon was the Duke’s preferred mercenary company. Hungdai had lost count of the times he had drafted haranguing missives to the captain of that company, berating them for the murder of innocents, the rape of young women, and the ruination of any public good will to the Duke when all they were hired for was to merely make sure a shipment of silk got through Burden Way to the docks, or some other trifling matter of trade. Hungdai was not fond of the Setting Moons.
But what were they up to now? The chancellor scoured his memory for the last time the Duke had him correspond with that gang of thugs – it was months and months ago, on the matter of some intimidation of the Ironworker’s Corporation. But that had all been resolved by summer. Had the Duke spoken with them in his absence? And what was “it”? Why could they not say what it was?
No. It couldn’t be. A flash of clarity struck in his weary mind, and he knew it must be. The Duke had spoken with him, a chance word in the interim between hearing a case of fraud and a case of assassination, many weeks ago. They had spoken of the Sword of Bohamen, and the Duke had greatly wished to find it.
The Sword of Bohamen. It had been held in the hand of Tarnelad’s most vicious hero, the turn-coat leader of the Beton Rebellion, the blood-stained and battle-torn Bohamen of Balasin, who had in ages past brought the Terskin warriors to their knees, stolen the Keltan Veil, and even cheated Getilas, the Dark Lady, out of her virginity. In a pitched duel, he had fallen to the blade of Callor-Way the Just, ending the rebellion, and his enchanted sword and his people had passed under the iron hand of the Tardusian king.
But, as the dynasty of Callor-Way waned and his successors the Katchanai, once good, stout rulers, grew fat and addled, the sword had been lost. The visible symbol of Tardusian supremacy slipped into hearsay and folktale, and the power of the king had faded with it. But the king in Hungdai’s time, who was greatly fond of history, had issued a prophecy and proclamation – the Sword of Bohamen would be found in his days, and he who restored it to the crown would be granted wealth everlasting, and power enough to sustain himself and his children’s children for as long as that sword was kept in the palace of the kings.
So that was the Duke’s game. It had to be. But why was he fool enough to trust the Setting Moons? What was stopping them from making off with the sword themselves? There had to be something. After all, they needed some “assistance.” Well, thought Hungdai, he’d get them assistance. He shuffled through the pile of wax seals he had pried off of various scrolls, and found the one that had been affixed to the Moons’ letter. From Vol’Mendeng, if he gauged the crossed wheat stems and the ascendant cockerel right. A little hamlet, three days’ ride, maybe, from Vol’ Revanceur and the Duke and all this muck Hungdai wallowed in. Just a three day ride…
A strange resolve had been growing in the chancellor. He was not a particularly moral nor honest man – his loyalty to his Duke had been bred, mainly, of expediency for himself and his family, some desire for safety, and an expectation of steady, clean enough living. But it was not clean – every day he engaged in some minor fraud; some dislocated robbery; some quiet, easy murder of a few here, a few there. It was not even very safe. Keep the guildmasters in line, keep the cash flowing in, show the cold steel when you have to. From Hungdai’s pen, though the Duke commanded him, flowed every rotten deed that came from the castle, signed, sealed (he had many luxurious seals), and delivered, though never in person. If ever there had been some naïve attachment to his office, the slow tide of black ink had quickly engulfed it, leaving nothing but cold, callous indifference.
But here was something. Here was a door out. Was it wrong to cheat the Duke out of this endeavor? But how many had the Duke so cheated, through Hungdai’s own words no less? When, ever, had that wizened rascal responded to his orders from the king, or refrained from skimming taxes off the imports, or even allowed his own flesh and blood their proper dues? Clarity was growing in the chancellor’s mind. He hadn’t noticed, but a steady hatred had been bubbling up against the Duke for years, and now that some kind of exit was seen, it all flooded swiftly out. By God Khalasis, he hated that old man! That wine-bibbing, lecherous, luxuriant old villain! And he had dragged Hungdai down with him! Down into the tarpit of sin! And ought he to have this thing, this wealth without end, and yet more power?
Without thinking, Hungdai had risen. His will, long suppressed in service to his office, flared in fire. It would be he who found this thing. It would be Hungdai! He stamped his soft-shoed foot, rolled up the letter, put out the candle, and swept out of the chancery.
The castle of the Duke was quiet, though never silent. Meandering gasps of voices winded between the shadowy arcaded passageways, echoing from the servant’s quarters, the guardrooms, and the various departments of the languid bureaucracy, many of whom, like Hungdai, kept long hours. The exchequer and the parsimon and the assessor, and all that den of thieves in silk, thought the chancellor as he hurried through the passageways, let them all rot here! He would escape!
The air was cool as Hungdai heaved the great oaken doors of the central courtyard open, mumbling words of greeting to the guardsmen who sat, swords on lap, playing checkers by their posts. Wary wastrels, thought Hungdai, as they eyed him fluttering down the stairs to the Royal Street, his silk robes blowing in the latesummer sea breeze. He had to find a man, somebody skilled with the sword, preferably only one man. One would be easy to deal with. Get a whole confederacy and they suddenly want deals, titles, heraldry, heredity. One would take some loot and go. Or… But leave that for later.
Market Street flashed past, the stalls all empty. Burden Way, stretching down to the sea. The Sailor’s Quarter, with light and dancing and shouts from the endless tea, mead, and alehouses. The Merchant Quarter, towers rising, garden brooks babbling as they ran to the sewer. Better still than these would be the house of Hungdai, when he was at last where he ought to be!
Soldier’s Street. The barracks, cold and quiet, all abed for fear of stocks or whips or head-wheels. But the public houses, the bargaining places of the Companies, all alight. War was for the soldiers, but these days war was inconvenient – money, not honor, greased the grinding wheels. Hungdai had often sent missives to that street, but had never set foot there. It was a dirty place, filled with the squalls of brawling drunks, the titter of flouncy half-dressed trollops and the mocking shouts of heraldically attired freelances, each with an overflowing girl-thing on his arm. For the brothels were here, but Hungdai, who disdained even the warmth of his own wife, had little to do with such business. He gingerly stepped past a gaggle of betting men throwing down coin on a pair of wrestlers locked in bloody grip, and, though almost shoved to the ground by a squealing doxy pursued by some bewhiskered mercenary, staggered into the closest alehouse.
Not one man in the place turned to look at him. It was bad form for those with no client to appear desperate, and those who were employed had no reason to look at all. But, though the raucous jesting, singing, and arguing continued as the chancellor nervously wandered to the proprietor’s desk, quick flicks of the eyes kept him watched. Some silken bureaucrat? High-hat and all, with smooth white hands and soft shoes? What could he have to do here? And how much money had he? And would anyone notice if he lost it?
“How many, what business, and how long,” grunted the pub-master, official spokesman for all those seeking gainful employment in the house. It was a matter of course that one only drank on Soldier’s Street if he sought a sword for sale, and there had quickly formed a contract of convenience between the mercenaries and the publicans, for as the old wives say, “Money moves things swiftly where law keeps a blind eye.”
“One,” gulped Hungdai, his resolve having ebbed on the long walk. “Business… to be discussed privately.” A crooked eyebrow on the swart, slant-eyed pub-master. “It will, I grant, take… not more than five days.”
“Herek! Get over here!” bawled the publican. A great beast of a man, two heads above Hungdai, with cropped brown hair and gleaming grey eyes, stalked over, his sword slapping against his great green-hosened thighs.
“How much,” grunted the mercenary, lowering his craggy brows to brood on Hungdai, who felt very small. “’N what.”
“A great sum. And a mere recovery of… an heirloom from thieves.” He produced his coin purse from the folds of his robes, and it was weighty indeed. The eyes of Herek flashed as he beheld it, and he stuck out his meaty palm.
“On completion and recovery, my friend,” said Hungdai, with business sense enough. “But be assured, I keep my word.” He didn’t, but as all knew the lie, it was little better than truth.
“Thou’d better,” growled Herek. “Tomorrow then. Thou show the way and tell the work.”
It was as simple as that. Hungdai could not believe it. No negotiations, no treaties, no contract even signed. He could not believe it – and he should not have. But as he hurried off to his own small house, to ignore the protestations of his long-suffering wife and try, in vain, to sleep swiftly, he was blinded in his brain by visions of splendor.
***
They stood, overlooking the great hill that loomed above Vol’Mendeng, as the sun was setting; sodden and travel-stained Hungdai slouched next to the erect, glowering Herek. Their journey had been swift and mean – few words had passed between the two, only, on the last day, insults from Herek for the slowness of Hungdai to break camp. They had ridden two horses from the courier string, bargained for by Hungdai, which were now given them into the care of the courierhouse. There, Hungdai had inquired after the Setting Moons, who had apparently made camp near to the graveshrine of St. Liuforte – already, though only two days and two nights camped, they had a reputation for girl-stealing and had killed an old shrine tender for exhorting their removal.
“What will we do, then, Herek?” asked Hungdai, as they crept closer to the hill that overshadowed the graveshrine.
“Always want a plan, thy sort,” said Herek. “All plan, no action. No hot blood! We’ll kill them, ‘course, swiftlike in the night. An thou’ll have to help, toady. Get a little muck on your shoes an them soft hands.”
Hungdai had gotten used to such insults on the ride. He cared little for the opinion of a stinking mercenary, nor for whatever lackwit philosophy he espoused; but he was greatly afraid. The company was at least five men, if not more. But maybe less. In the night, perhaps… perhaps even Hungdai could be a great warrior like Herek, in the night.
The camp of the Setting Moons was disordered. Five tents around a fire, right at the moss-covered entrance to the shrine. Silver and azure stripes flapped the banner of the company, and the men sat in disarray, some around the low-burnt fire, some lying on blankets on the ground. They seemed almost drugged or pained, as they moved, and it did not sound like much was said. If they had waited a moment longer, Hungdai may have puzzled over this – but they did not wait. As soon as they had crept close enough, Herek had sprung from the darkness, howling, and taken two, one slashed across his stomach, the other stabbed just at the shoulder blade, shrieking, spraying crimson. Hungdai had drawn his dagger and stabbed another, dazed, twice in the gut and a third in the groin, then he had been punched himself, and grappled with, everything a confusion of dim firelight and shadow and blood and yells. Hungdai was beaten, again, and again, and smote about the face, until Herek had raced up, arcing his sword around and down upon the other mercenary, splitting the sinews, the skin, the bone cracking and flaring bloody white. There was one alone now, captain from the looks of his livery, and he abased himself swiftly, begging, groveling.
“Look at ‘im!” barked Herek, pointing with his sword. “Sniveler! What a sorry lot of little dogs this was!”
“The sword!” croaked Hungdai, still reeling from his beating, waves of hot rage with cold hatred foaming at the breakers splashing in the sea of his heart. “Tell me where it is or die swift!”
“It was in the- the grave!” groaned the captain, his hands about his throat. “The grave! Now’s in my… tent!” His words came out in gasps. Hungdai saw that he clawed at a collar of bronze about his neck, tight as any torque around a soldier’s arm.
“Why did the Duke trust you? And what proved you loyal?” Hungdai asked, staying the sword of Herek with a hand. He had to know.
“It was a great trick! He quartered us- in the inn… He had called up the Red Tiders.” The Orderly Company of the Red Tide, another favorite band of the Duke’s. Hungdai remembered having sent an invoice to them recently to report to his Worship, but never had found out the cause. Here it was! “And they set on us in the night! And they… they put these things on us!” Desperately he waved to the bronze collar about his neck, as it seemed to tighten further. “Can’t hardly – Can’t hardly breathe! Some devilry…”
Of course. Of course! The thaumaturge, the very same that Hungdai had sent thirteen gold holies to that very night it had all begun! A knavish trick, but one to keep knaves in step. Oh, the cold cunning of the Duke!
“But if you haven’t the- The secret word!” gasped the captain, doubling over. “Then–”
Hungdai stood, his silk travelling robes all torn and muddied and sprayed with blood. He waved Herek on, and the great mercenary severed the captain’s head from his neck with a thwack and a thump.
Hungrily Hungdai swished into the greatest of the five tents, eagerly strewing the various articles of clothing, the bedclothes, and the rack of weapons. There it was – it must be. The scabbard, all jeweled and glimmering in the half-light, peeking from underneath a blanket. The sword lay by it, and its greenish metal almost seemed to hum as Hungdai lifted it into his hands.
***
It was morning. Hungdai had barely slept – the dull aches over all his body had tolled throughout the night like the striking water-clock in the Duke’s hearing rooms. So, too, had his visions kept him awake, relentless visions of what he might do with all the gold, the silver, the gems that the king, no doubt, would shower on him. When he finally gave in to waking fully, he saw that Herek was awake before him, crouching on a log, running his unwieldy hands lightly over the blade of Bohamen’s sword. He must have snatched it from my tent, thought Hungdai, as greed and fear comingled in him, flaring green and black in his heart.
“Give me the sword, Herek, please,” he had said, stickily. “We’re nearing the end of our contract, and rich is your reward, as we agreed.” Sitting up, he crawled out of his tent, jingling his coin purse in one hand.
“I dunno,” said the mercenary, leveling his beetle-browed stare on the chancellor. “I dunno. I got to thinking while thou’s asleep. I remember hearing word from some folk, that there was some big important sword what the king wanted.”
Hungdai’s heart fell, anchorless, down into the pit.
“Yeah,” grunted Herek, turning back to the sword. “Yeah. So’s I thought, seemed likely. Whole company of sell-swords. Thou so desperate, so sneaky-like. I think I’ll keep it, ‘n thou can keep thy coin. Yeah.”
Reason left Hungdai, and he leapt for the sword, dropping the purse and all. Herek stood and buffeted him on the cheek with one great fist, knocking him to the dirt. He kicked him, and smote him on the back with the flat of the sword. Hungdai curled into a ball, almost whimpering.
“Little silken worm,” growled the mercenary. “Duke’s dog.” He kicked Hungdai again, cruelly. “Groveller. Thou think thou’re like me, like my sort?” he spat, staining the already sodden wreck of Hungdai’s cloak. “My sort, we do what we like. It’s thy kind, the wheedlers, what try to keep us in check and in chains. Not today.” He grinned at the sword shimmering in the sunlight as though it were a prized lover. “Get up. We’ll go crossroads, an thou can get back home to thy cushions. And me… I’ll get my proper due. From the king.”
Herek broke the camp swiftly – his side, at least. Hungdai miserably, silently, gathered his tent up and repacked his sack, gingerly avoiding the scrapes on his hands and the bruises all over. The mercenary didn’t say a word, just glared at him or grinned at the sword, muttering. It never left his hand. Wordlessly they trudged back to the road, Hungdai tripping and stumbling behind, and after a final slap and a venomed warning to not dare follow him or try any tricks, as if he could, Herek had stalked off, towards the north and the capital.
***
Hungdai had walked three steps the other direction. Just three steps were enough. The rage and shame, the shattered hopes, they tore him back. Every blow upon him stung as if it were fresh – and he followed the mercenary north. Always just behind; sometimes he had to tumble into the ditch to avoid an errant glance, but Herek never sighted him. And on they went. Hungdai was filthy. He was bone-tired. His soul sorrowed almost to the pitch of despair. And then – Herek had stopped for the night, departed from the road for a little wood surrounded by three hills, and set up camp. His follower had crept up one hill, nose just peeking over the ridge, and waited long, watching as the thug set his tent, gathered his wood, and rolled out his blanket. With a song on his lips, ease and care in his limbs! The scorn of it!
He thought Hungdai was just another bureaucrat? No. Hungdai had done hundreds worse than this brute. Hungdai was a greater slayer of men than the whole public house, the whole Soldier’s Street. How many death warrants had he signed? How many orders for scourings, flayings, breakings on the wheel? Without a qualm! Hungdai had done this! His brain reeled over these things and many more when at last he crawled, hands over knees, down into the dell where the fire smoked. That bastard thought he would just go home? He knew not Hungdai.
For Herek slept. Just at the mouth of his tent, turned away from the fire, body hunched. Sword beside him, with one meaty hand grasping the hilt. The man who had once been a chancellor crept, silent as only he knew how, quiet enough to arrange the Duke’s papers for him in his chambers without waking a soul. Quiet, invisible Hungdai. Over-confident, blood-drunk fool; he knew nothing of the razor wire of life in the court, of the daily double-dealings, of making sure every palm was greased and every temper soothed. And every t crossed, every i dotted. That was the duty of Hungdai.
He loomed over the sleeper, tattered clothes whispering in the breeze that gently caressed the night air. Out came, smoothly oiled, the dagger, his father’s dagger. Down he leant, closer, closer, almost too close. One hand on the grip, the other pressing down on the hilt, like a great pin on his lectern, he drove the dagger down into the neck of the mercenary, his eyes flaming, his teeth gritted. A strangled, gurgling yell erupted from the mercenary and he leaped up, ripping the dagger from Hungdai’s hands and sending him sprawling. Herek’s wild, sleep-drugged eyes bulged as he sought the source of the burning, tearing pain in his throat. He was choking, choking on fire, on rocks, on blood. He reared and wheeled, grabbing at the wound that sucked the air, cursing in a gurgling, gargling, airless voice the sniveling worm he saw before him, triumphant on the ground. Then he fell, backwards, into the tent.
Hungdai crawled in after him, hands wet with the spray of blood and grimed with mud. The mercenary was sprawled, eyes open, staring. The sword was in his hand, useless. Hungdai wiped his hands on the dead man’s jerkin, and picked up the sword carefully, slowly sliding it into its gemmed sheath. A light rain hissed on the fabric of the tent.
Hungdai stood erect, his silks in tatters, his face bruised and bloody, his hair lank across his doughy face. As he stepped out into the night, he chuckled. He held the sheath in both hands, running his eyes up and down it in the hissing firelight, as the rain pattered on his blotchy, weary skin. He began to laugh.
— AJ B-C is a student of history and a scheming court scribe. You can read his pseudo-fiction journal at https://lamanchianmag.substack.com/