The Sword of Wisimir

By Allen Stroud

Opportunistic thief, Jack Von Drey thinks his luck is in when he steals the Governor's taxes from the back of a treasury wagon. But it turns out, this is a game with higher stakes than he bargained for.

City Minister, Urin Braymes makes one bad decision. Unfortunately for him, it opens him up to being blackmailed for the rest of his life.

Magister Leel's scheme to recapture his position of power seems to be right on track. But, when he makes a bargain, he finds he has unleashed magic that even a wizard cannot control.

And Jarno Herren? Well he just wants to find out the truth.

The Sword of Wisimir is a fantasy tale of crime, intrigue, life and death. Where ideals are cheap and, in the end, everyone finds out what they'd sacrifice to survive...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Stroud
• Release date: Nov 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781910987094

Allen Stroud

Allen Stroud (Ph.D) is a university lecturer and Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror writer, best known for his work on the computer games Elite Dangerous by Frontier Developments and Phoenix Point by Snapshot Games. He was the 2017 and 2018 chair of Fantasycon, the annual convention of the British Fantasy Society, which hosts the British Fantasy Awards. He is he current Chair of the British Science Fiction Association. His SF novels, Fearless, and Resilient and titles in The Fractal Series are published by Flame Tree Press.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Impulses

Stop, thief!

Jack Von Drey didn’t stop.

He elbowed through the busy market crowd in the noon heat, running fast, the large sack on his shoulder clinking loudly.

In the name of His Majesty, halt!

As he reached the last stall, Jack could feel the two bottles of wine he’d drunk an hour earlier, but he wasn’t stopping. A lurching sprint took him out of the main street and into the alleyways. He sensed the pursuers, the wagon driver from whom he’d relieved the sack, no doubt, and probably a member of the Watch, shouting; the first a trifle, the second a concern.

Hey you!

He kept running, a mazy course, angling toward the city walls. There was a wine sweat on him now and his breathing ragged, but no minion of the crown would stop him, especially with several hundred little majesties jostling in the sack, urging him on.

They could have shouted ahead, but somehow they didn’t. He reached the shade of the fortifications, safe from bowshot here, even if they did alert the sentries. He paused a moment and looked back. The sun beat down on the flat white houses and spidery streets of Wisimir, but revealed no sign of the chase. He crouched down, hunkering into a corner, dropped the sack in front of him and drew a knife from his belt. His next move had to be smart and quick. He cut the sack open and pulled out a handful of coins, stuffing them into his pockets. When they were full, he tucked more into his shirt and filled his boots. When he could carry no more, he used the knife to dig a shallow hole and emptied the remainder of the coins into the earth, smoothing over the dirt when he was done.

You hear something? said a rough voice from above.

Jack froze. The slats of the battlement creaked above him and a dark shape moved across the beams.

Only your whingin’, came the growled reply.

There was a rustle of cloth and then a stream of piss ran down through the wooden boards, missing Jack’s hiding place by inches. Midday sun made the smell ripe and made the wine in his guts rebel.

Then it was over. The beams creaked again as the men moved off and the last drips soaked into the dirt. Jack waited a few more minutes to make sure they were a distance away and checked the alleyway again – nothing. He crept out carefully and headed south.

---

Jack Von Drey! Well, this is a treat, the great Jack Von Drey at my door!

Hello, Orri.

South Wisimir, also known as the Southside, was notorious. A man might get his throat cut for a slice of bread; for a woman, worse. But Wisimir needed the Southside like an addict. The port wouldn’t run without cheap labour, so the Watch turned a blind eye. Scum were left to fight scum and those that ruled the streets stood on the faces of their victims. The houses were the same; dodgy wooden shacks, crammed into every inch and built onto and over each other.

Orri occupied a middle tier in the hierarchy, a fixer and a shifter, able to get rid of things with no questions being asked. The fact he was well over forty was his testament. You didn’t survive long around here if you weren’t good at it. His home squatted half way down a side street not far from the port. In some streets, shacks were piled three high. At least Orri’s was on the ground.

So what does ‘Lord’ Von Drey want with the like’s o’ me?

I found some money, Jack told him.

By found I guess you mean stole? Orri scratched at his shaven scalp. Bald was the poor man’s fashion, it kept the lice away.

I mean found, Jack insisted.

Orri’s grey eyes fixed him. So this money wouldn’t happen t’be a sack of crown coins that fell off His Majesty’s tax wagon sometime around noon and last seen over the shoulder of a drunkard making fer th’ gates?

Jack swallowed hard. What of it?

Please tell me you at least got rid of th’ sack?

Threw it on a cart bound for the westlands.

Orri wiped his stubbled chin with his hand. No one as lucky as you, Jack Von Drey. Then again, no one else’d have the balls to pull a stunt like that. What d’you want me to do?

I need to make it last,Jack said.

So no wastin’ on wine and whores?

Not this time.

Jack heard shouting in the distance and Orri’s demeanour changed instantly. Inside now! he barked at Jack and hauled him through the doorway.

Orri’s house was little more than four wooden walls and a roof. A straw bed lay in one corner amidst the detritus, a shard of mirror glass and a stone bowl in the other. Jack turned back as Orri shut the door. You didn’t get here fast enough, the fixer snarled. The Watch’s already been round once, looking for your pretty face. He shoved Jack towards the stone bowl. They’re looking for a lordling, not a Southsider. Only chance is to cut them whiskers.

Jack’s hand strayed to his knife. I need your help, not your orders!

In response, Orri pulled a rusty sword from the wall. Get used to it, he hissed. You cut your hair or I’ll stick you with this and take your new coins. No amount of your money is worth my neck!

---

Jack faced the mirror glass.

He knew the man looking back. Orri was right. Dark brown eyes, groomed beard and a loose ponytail betrayed him as being too well born for the Southside, but he had no illusions about that. Son of a prostitute and some unknown noble, he’d never belonged anywhere. The hair made little difference.

Orri tipped water into the bowl; Jack wetted his blade and set about scraping off the beard. Meanwhile, the fixer took the ponytail in his hands and hacked it off.

When they were done, all he recognised was his dark eyes and hooked nose; just in time, as a mailed fist pounded on the door.

You’ll burn in the sun, but that can’t be helped, Orri said, throwing him a cloth. Get on the bed!

Quickly Jack did so and Orri opened the door.

Master Garner, good to see you again.

How can I help you, Mister Jarno? Orri asked.

We’re after the thief mentioned earlier, but the Captain suggested I pay you a special visit.

You honour me, Watchman.

None of your horse dung, Garner. The man stepped through the door and glanced around the room. Jack sat up pretending to have woken.

Who’s this?

My nephew, newly arrived from Ardal.

Jack held the man’s gaze and said nothing. After a few moments the Watchman looked away. Quite a shithole you have here, Garner, he remarked coolly. I trust you’ll be right on to us should you or your people find anything?

Of course, Watchman.

Make sure you do and don’t sit around. We know you’ve got friends and we want results.

I understand, Watchman, Orri replied. I’ll head out this evening and find out whatever I can.

We’ll talk again in the morning.

Right.

The door closed and Jack breathed a sigh of relief.

---

Three hunnerd an’ twenty four crowns.

Jack sat barefoot and bare-chested with his boots turned upside down and shirt in a puddle on the floor. Orri’s eyes didn’t leave the money that lay in a pile between them. Jack decided he wouldn’t mention the rest buried under the city wall.

I never seen so much all at once, Orri said.

When mother died three year ago from cough, she left twenty crowns, Jack said. I thought it was a fortune.

It was, Orri replied.

What’ll this buy? Jack asked.

We can’t spend it, Orri told him. Dump coin in this city right now and the Watch’ll be hanging us both.

Then what do we do?

We find a way out of here.

We could take a ship, Jack said. Use some to buy passage.

Orri screwed his face up. Two Southsiders buying passage? They’d smell sumthin’ straight away. Besides, if they think the money’s here, the first thing they do is check anyone leaving by ship.

What about Storm Isle? Jack said. Get a little boat and row out there in the night?

If Orri’s face could have screwed up more, it would have. Storm Isle’s a place you don’t ever go.

Why?

Because the dead don’t let you leave.

Jack bit back an angry reply. Storm Isle, a little scrap of land out in Wisimir’s bay, had been a prison back in the first days when the city was founded. Murderers and rapists had been exiled to the rock where they starved. Jack knew the stories, but he was surprised to see his friend so pale and upset.

What other choice we got then? he said at last.

We go by road, Orri said. North to Ardal, or to the great cities.

Jack felt hungry; the day’s events had caught up with the wine in his stomach. You got any food? he asked.

Orri got up and walked out of the house. A moment later he returned with two large mellarn fruits. Jack took the one that was offered and drew his knife to cut into the hard circular shell. Inside, the fruit was soft. He scooped out a chunk with his blade and stuffed it into his mouth; sweet rich and delicious.

They’ll stop and search any walkers, Orri said. Wagons in train might have a chance.

Jack scooped out more of the mellarn, stopped, and eyed the fruit. How many of these can you get?

Orri glanced at him and then the mellarn. He started to smile. Enough.

---

How much was in the bag?

Approximately two thousand crowns, my lady, the entire levy from Ardal.

Urin bit his lip and held his breath as he delivered the news to Lady Governor Ellian Tarn, mistress of Wisimir, in her official chambers. Fresh from an odious state function and still dressed in long ermine robes, her face was a thundercloud and her rage would not disappoint.

Find my money, Urin, she hissed, or, I’ll gut you myself, with a spoon.

Somehow Urin kept his voice level. We are trying, my lady.

Try harder! Tarn’s voice echoed in the panelled room, her poise and manners forgotten. Stop everything. Impound the ships, check anyone leaving the city, I don’t care who they are, no one leaves without being searched.

Urin felt like a trawler on stormy seas. If we do that—

We do that Urin, I don’t care who we piss off.

Urin realised he had no option but to agree. We will need extra manpower to enforce this. The Watch will not be enough.

Then empty the King’s garrison, Ellian’s eyes were like chips of ice. Make the soldiers earn their keep.

His Majesty will want to know—

If we do not find the money, His Majesty will want to know why he has not received his tithe, now get out.

Urin bowed and backed away, closing the double doors of the chamber behind him. Once outside he snapped his fingers and an aide appeared.

Send a runner to General Wisell, and ask him to meet me in my office tomorrow morning.

Yes sir.

Urin took out a handkerchief and mopped the cold sweat from his brow. Previous governors of House Tarn had disembowelled bringers of bad news as they delivered it, by those standards, he’d got off lightly. Thirty years as an official aide had been negotiated by not taking risks, but today had been an exception.

He took a moment to compose himself, smoothing back his grey hair and rubbing his eyes before walking briskly to his own office. The Governor’s residence in Wisimir housed several bureaucratic fiefdoms. He walked through the hall of record - a mass of shelved scrolls - and the hall of clerks – a great room of desks where official quills scratched away to add yet more documents to the previous room - before reaching the safety of his office.

Once inside, Urin collapsed into his chair. He found something reassuring about the oak desk and the familiarity of routine. Today had been trying and wasn’t over yet.

He heard a soft knock.

Instinctively, the composed façade clicked back into place. Come!

The door opened and a twisted figure crept around the door. Long grey hair and a parchment white face peered at him from across the room. It was Magister Leel. For the first time that day, Urin felt a prickle of real fear.

Well?

It went as well as can be expected, Urin said.

She believed you then?

Yes.

Good. The man stepped into the office and shut the door. He wore long black robes and he hobbled towards Urin’s desk, leaning heavily on a short black cane. All that’s left is my share.

Urin pushed a small box on the desk forward. Five hundred crowns, as promised, he said.

I’m afraid that isn’t enough. The parchment face was much closer now; dead grey eyes promising clinical, emotionless punishment. I require a hundred more.

Urin shrank back in his chair, revolted at being so close to a man who resembled a living corpse. He knew Leel was his physical inferior, but that counted for nothing here. One word and he would be dead.

Magister, I’m afraid—

What’s the matter? Already spent yours?

No I—

Then fill the box, before I become less indulgent. The dead eyes were less than two feet away across the desk and Urin felt like a caged rat. Hands shaking he picked up a second box from the shelf behind his chair and placed it next to the first. He opened them both.

Count it, Leel instructed. We have time, before we attend to the loose ends.

Fearfully, Urin did as he was bid. One, two, three, four…

---

Twenty minutes later Urin held a torch and followed the same twisted figure down a spiral staircase into the prison vaults.

The black cane clicked on the stone steps as Magister Leel crept ahead of him. Fleetingly Urin wondered how many lives he might save if he gave the black robed creature a firm shove, but he couldn’t be sure he would survive the attempt. Wizards were notoriously difficult customers and none trickier than the Black Magister.

How old was Leel? Urin guessed somewhere between seventy and eighty years, but he was a wizard, so it was impossible to tell. Urin recalled whispered stories about a magister who wore black from his childhood. Could it be the same person?

They came to the bottom of the staircase and he moved up to illuminate the way ahead. The vaults were kept in abject darkness. The light invoked groans of hope and despair from the cells on each side as they passed.

Please! Help me! My children, think of my children!

A little food… or water… please…

Urin didn’t come here. Like everyone in the administration, he was aware of the prisons beneath the residence. The crimes and sentences of each inmate were a matter of public record. Yet the conditions of confinement and methods of obtaining information were not part of his authority. That belonged to the Magister.

We want number twenty four, Leel said, limping into the gloom, seemingly oblivious to the lack of light.

Urin could feel eyes staring at them out of the darkness as they passed each cell, the hatred - palpable.

They stopped and keys jingled as Leel fumbled with the lock. Urin held the torch over the cell door as the wizard opened it and hobbled inside.

Master Brenner?

A groan greeted Leel’s enquiry. Please let me out of here, begged a voice in the darkness. I didn’t tell them anything.

Urin moved into the cell and shone the torch. Master Brenner, the wagon driver sat in front of a table chained to a chair. His hands manacled palm downwards on the table desk, each of his fingers twisted at awkward angles. Urin realised they were all broken.

Please don’t leave me in the dark.

Master Brenner, Leel said again. You know who I am?

The terrified man looked up at the wizard. Yes Magister, he replied.

Good, then, I require accurate answers to my questions.

Yes Magister.

If you lie, I will know and I will extract the truth from your mind, a very painful process and usually results in permanent damage, you understand this Master Brenner?

Brenner’s eyes dropped to his hands again. Yes.

Excellent. Leel settled himself into the empty chair opposite and faced Brenner across the table. Shivering, Urin held the torch over them both, careful not to get it too close to the wizard.

Now, Leel said. Let’s go through what you did. You made your customary trip to Ardal to collect the tax tithe from the Sheriff?

Yes.

And you were escorted back to the city?

Yes.

Leel glanced up, and Urin met his eye. During the trip, you counted out one thousand crowns and placed them in a leather sack as Minister Urin instructed you to?

Yes.

And once inside the city walls, instead of driving straight here to the residence, you loitered en route, talking to distract your escorts?

Brenner looked up again; his turn to fix Urin with an accusatory glare. Yes, exactly as he told me.

And you were told you would be rewarded, so long as you kept your mouth shut?

Yes I was, an’ I did! Look at my hands!

So you told your interrogators nothing of the instructions? Leel pressed.

No, nothing, I swear!

Leel leaned forward. I am looking at your hands Master Brenner, are you looking at mine?

Urin’s gaze was drawn to the Magister’s own fingers. Long and skeletal, they rested gently on the table in front of Brenner’s broken digits.

Magic is a powerful tool Master Brenner, Leel explained. Those who practice are taught precision. Apprentices are required to understand many matters in precise detail. It is the details that count.

Urin watched the first two fingers on the Magister’s right hand grow, stretching and morphing into one. The nails elongated and darkened.

Magic is capable of many things Master Brenner, including the restoration of your hands. Leel held his own hand up and examined it. But that would require tremendous effort.

Casually the