Worse than all that, he was a murderer with a price tag, a liar, and a drunk. Having loyalty primarily to one’s self was not something unheard of to her, but to hold one’s loyalty for sale? To hold nothing sacred at all? Even misguided piety or devotion seemed a better alternative to her than the complete void of meaningful attachments.
”Merrikovek?” her master called her name quietly, so similar to a father’s voice. Not hers, of course: he had sold her to a flesh-dealer as soon as she’d begun to bleed. Other fathers she had seen, loving and cherishing their sons and daughters; that was voice of Kristven now.
”Hmm?” she replied, stirred from her frustrated musings.
”Rest your thoughts, child,” he said with a gentle pat to her arm. “You worry about things you cannot see.”
”Yes, Master,” she answered with a nod. At his bidding, she turned her thoughts to other things. Namely, what the Tomb Marauders were doing here, in Austerval of all places. True, the continent ruled by feuding lycans, vampires, and a rumored lich was said to hold beautiful and deadly instruments of war. However, with so many opponents actively vying for such items, surely they couldn’t expect to claim their prizes without competition, could they? Being the aggressive opportunists their reputation beheld them to be, perhaps they planned to take advantage of the chaos to slip in and out with their treasures. Either way, she felt a deep foreboding at the seeming coincidence of their travel westward across the ocean so soon after she, Kristven, and the rest of his small entourage of hangers-on had made the voyage.
Her thoughts wandered to the memories of the journey. Originally projected to take only three to four weeks, Kristven had approached the captain to warn that he should sail south for five days before turning back to the west. Not a man of the sea, his advice went ignored, and the ship ended up caught by a hurricane. Their cartographer estimated that had they listened to the “holy man’s” words, they could have not only avoided having the storm overtake them from the rear, but also caught the system’s whirling winds and rode around the southern end of it with far greater speed than they could have ever otherwise achieved. Put another way, they could not only have avoided the dangerous weather, but arrived a week ahead of schedule.
Instead, they found themselves sailing blind with furled sails through a wall of wind, rain, and waves. Sailors and passengers alike prayed to whatever gods they hoped would save them, dispair mounting by the day. Only Kristven seemed calm — maddeningly so at times. In fact, after nearly three weeks of bobbing over surf taller than the masts, the crew threatened the captain that either he would throw the man overboard for his arrogance in the face of the gods’ wrath, or they would throw him overboard for having allowed such a heretic onto the ship in the first place.
The captain capitulated to the crew’s terms, and came in the night with rope to bind Kristven and prevent resistance to the death sentence. He found him not asleep, but sitting against a bulwark, watching the captain’s approach expectantly.
He didn’t even wait for the captain to give excuse or explanation, and said, ”With or without me, in two days this ship will run aground on a shoal reef, but will take no damage. It will sit there as the storm rages on for five days. On the eve of the fifth day, the sea will pluck us from the rocks, and the storm will expel us. After three more days, we will be in calm waters. The ship will gain no leaks, and no one on board will be lost.” Whether it was the confidence with which he spoke, or how he fearlessly presented his wrists to be bound, but the captain decided not to throw him overboard. When the crew learned of this, they refused to heed his words when he repeated Kristven’s message and prepared to carry out their threat. However, every time they attempted to, an unexpected surge slammed the ship in a way that tossed them all to the deck. Persistently they tried, all the while the captain repeating what he’d been told.
Finally, one crewman exclaimed, “Enough of this! We’ll throw the heretic overboard ourselves!” Some went with him to find and bind Kristven.
They discovered him alone on the upper deck, clinging with one hand to the rigging and staring out into the dismal black of the storm. Even though they could not be heard approaching over the sound of raging wind and surf, he turned to address them. “One more day, now. We will run aground, but the ship will take no damage,” he proclaimed, his voice perfectly clear despite the ambiance.
”He’s mad! His heracy will drive the gods to crush us!” shouted some of the crew, though they made no move to seize him. ”Who's ever heard of a ship running aground without taking damage?”
”One more day, now,” Kristven insisted. “Trust me.”
Just then, lightning struck the ship’s rear. Wood could be heard splintering as the rudder shattered; the boat began to spin and whirl uncontrollably under the whims of the storm.
”Trust me: we all, and this ship, will survive this storm!” he proclaimed, then climbed down from the rigging and walked through them back to the hold. Be it panic or merely thrown off balance by the sudden list, but none stopped him.
Outlandish as his claims had been, the next several days occurred exactly as he’d said. With a jarring thud, it settled into a rocky shoal, but no cracks or splinters appeared. After five days of still-deck, nearly everyone’s spirits had recovered to a degree; at the very least, none of them were queasy any longer. Almost gently, the fifth night saw the storm surge lift them off the rocks. Now on the trailing edge of the storm, they were dragged along in the leeward winds, still tossed, but every day saw the violence of the tides diminish until, on the third day, the clouds simply left them behind.
Many of the sailors tossed overboard the marks and talismans of their gods who’d abandoned them to their fates. The ship’s carpenter managed to fashion a replacement rudder, allowing the helmsman to direct the ship’s course safely to their destination.
Despite the seemingly miraculous journey, Merrikovek and the other ragtag followers of Kristven couldn’t help but wonder in curious bewilderment what it was this man intended to do in these dreary lands. Now, to add to their puzzlement, she had been sent and succeeded in recruiting a faithless, loyalless, bondleas drunken sellsword.
Even with Kristven’s instruction to put aside her worries, she found her thoughts returning to puzzle out: why this man?
Korvik entered the room just then, his eyes still bloodshot and his movements wary but unsteady also. She mused to herself with disgust that the hangover must be well and strong in him still, despite having had ample time to sleep it off.
”Korvik the Black, so good of you to see me,” Kristven’s voice rang out melodically from his seat at the room’s only table. Since his remark to her, she noticed he had left her side and joined some of her fellows at a platter of food their host had provided earlier. She also noticed that he spoke with a respectful quiet, apparently also aware of the assassin’s state. “Come, sit; a bit of food will ease your stomach,” he added. She noticed that he accompanied his words with an inviting wave of his hand, in which he held the blow-gun she’d used to convince Korvik to come in the first place.
As she watched, a look of suspicious recognition washed over the half-elf’s face. With renewed determination, he forced himself stead as he feigned relaxation and made his way to join Kristven and the others. As he sat, she watched in silent astonishment as he handed the wooden tube over.
“I think if my acolyte had exercised a little more faith, she wouldn’t have needed to use this to strong-arm you into coming here,” Kristven states as he held out the simple instrument. “I’ve no need of it; here.”
Worsened by the addling properties of alcohol, Korvik studies him with confusion and suspicion before warily reaching out to take back his item. The instant his hand touched it, she saw something seem to jolt through him. With his next breath, his shoulders relaxed and the visible tension in his neck and brow eased. Still puzzled, he finally pulled his weapon from Kristven’s gentle grasp and slid it through a loop in his belt.
”I, ah... uh, thank you,” Korvik said, then reached for a roll off the platter. As he took a bite from it, he glanced around the room, momentarily locking eyes with her, and then resuming his scan of the room. Merrikovek noticed in that brief pause that eyes eyes were perfectly clear — no sign of the misery of a hangover or other ailment at all. Had her mentor just used magic of some kind to lift his self-induced misery? Was that his way of making a point to the man, or to her for that matter? True, the mercenary deserved his suffering, so what did Kristven intend to gain? She noticed him studying the newcomer, as bough peering deep into his soul. She knew she should no longer be surprised, but he seemed to not be bothered by the murder, deception, and undoubted loathing for others there; almost as if he were seeing whatever lay beneath that, as if there was anything.
”You will be Hames,” Kristven announced at length. “If you come with me, you will become an assassin of lies, not marks; your knives will be words that pierce the soul; you will topple the prisons and kingdoms of temporal powers, for a bounty no mortal or even time can steal from you. You will be Hames the Surgeon. You will have a home, a family, and a kingdom that you will take beyond the grave and into the life beyond.”
For a few moments, none in the room stirred, or even breathed. Merrikovek practically seethed inside: true, she had been a harlot when Kristven found her, but that had been a life forced on her. She had stayed in that life after earning her freedom because it was all she knew, all she was good at. No one would hire her for anything other than to keep their beds warm at best, or take their seed after a brief romp. He had offered her a chance at an alternative, to be truly free from a past she despised.
But this half-blood? He had chosen his work. He could have picked a noble to show loyalty to and stood for something, put his talents to a purpose, albeit a misguided one. Kristven had just made a pronouncement so similar to hers — to one’s given to all of them, in fact — it galled her inside to think someone so base, so selfish, so vile could be worthy of a benediction so similar to hers.
”You’re either a madman,” she heard Korvik comment, breaking the silence; she realized in her jealous anger, she’d stopped breathing. “Or you’re the most silver-tongued charleton I’ve ever heard. Bet: my blades against your prophesy. I’ll be honest: if you’re right, I’d be a moron to turn down such an offer — wealth no one can steal? Unlikely. But if you’re wrong, I keep my blades and my services,” he said. His words were completely free of slurring, though the skepticism was palpable.
”By the blood of the Infinite Prince,” Kristven replied with his hand extended for agreement. “Even I would not be who I am of not for him. I am but his mouth-piece, and even I don’t know exactly what it will look like when he takes hold of you.”
”Definitely leaning towards mad,” Korvik muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, as he clasped Kristven’s arm. “You’ve piqued my curiosity, I’ll admit.”
”A willingness to put aside the lies known in exchange for the truth revealed is always a good start,” Kristven replied as they broke off, and then reached for the clay pitcher to pour water for both of them.
”So, madman: what is it you intend to do here in Austerval, besides prostholetize society’s dung?” Korvik asked in skeptic curiosity.
Good, she thought to herself. At least he acknowledges the depths of his wallow.
”I will be receiving an audience with Marquis de Ville,” Kristven replied in a matter of fact tone. Again, the room froze, as much at the statement as Korvik’s sputtering and wide-eyes reaction.
”The Marquis de Ville,” he said in blatant disbelief. “The oldest vampire, who pitted lycan slaves and vampiric lieutenants against each other in fights that then spread into the feudal wars we see today. The night-stalker whose feigned neutrality or whose downfall is courted by every nobleman on the continent. The so-called Dread Emperor who founded Austerval as a land of both figurative and literal darkness for no reason other than his own ego. You have an appointment for an audience in his court?” If Korvik had been merely skeptical before, now he was practically aghast. Everyone else looked between him and Kristven in similar shock, as they had only heard seemingly-fanciful tales of the marquis’ misdeeds.
“Yes,” Kristven replied in near-nonchalance. “I have no doubt I will die there, but not before speaking to him about my God. Whether he accepts what I have to say or kills me for it is between him and the Timeless Emperor. My job is simply to go there and tell him.” Murmurs began to flood the room like raindrops through an open window.
Merrikovek shuddered in fear, now fully aware of what her leader intended to do; not so much for herself, but for him. Would he truly go so willingly into the slaughterhouse of the world evilest, most-depraved vampire? All to give the least deserving being of all a chance to accept the word and law of a God that was so thoroughly despised? Suddenly, it didn’t seem so strange for Kristven to have recruited a sell-sword: at least he hadn’t yet sold his soul in exchange for immortality at the cost of untold lives.
”Damn your ‘prophecy’ to the hella and back,” Korvik said, slamming down his cup and spilling the water within. “And damn my own boredom. If you want to go feed your blood to that monster, that’s on you; but without me and my connections, you won’t even get close to his castle. You want to go there? I’ll get you there. But don’t you say I didn’t warn you,” he said, then stormed out of the hall. It wasn’t anger she saw in his eyes, or fear, but something more neutral, or at least, less volatile: determination.
What, she wondered, was her master and mentor leading her — leading all of them — into?
ns 172.70.131.114da2
and then Add to home screen.