For Those Who Do Not Die: And Those Who Can’t

By Barry Corcoran

In a dying world where life itself is staggering to a halt, an elite soldier of the God’s Order wrestles with his world’s impending doom and takes brave steps to alter its fate. Steps that lead himself and his friends into a web of chaos and bloodshed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398416789

Barry Corcoran

Barry Corcoran is from Bray in the county of Wicklow, Ireland. He has studied classical animation and has a BSc in geology. Growing up, Barry had a love for all things creative, particularly in the genre of science fiction and fantasy. His first novel, For Those Who Do Not Die, is the first of a three-part series that he began working on while he was studying geology. Barry currently lives in Wicklow with his wife and daughter.

Book preview

Chapter One

A Lonely End

The Tardy Wench was busier than usual. Thick smoke and edgy noise filled the air. Music played but was impossible to hear. The atmosphere was merry for the most part, but hints of drunken aggression crept in as the hours passed. Boiling point may not be far away, Rezz thought as he sat at the bar. He was tired but feeling good after a successful day. A good wage wasn’t always guaranteed in his line of work. Slaves could take ill, escape or simply die for various reasons. Gods forbid, some might even resist slavery, meaning execution in severe cases, which was always messy. When someone took a whole shipment off your hands in one transaction, it was considered a very, very good day.

Cal sat beside him, dividing the remaining coins from the day’s trade. This was to pay the rest of the men, the hired guards and the barman who was quickly losing his stock. He had neatly stacked the coins and bars and now began dumping each into a canvas purse to be doled out. The atmosphere in the bar was getting rowdy; drink had taken a firm grip.

‘Be best to pay the men in the morning to avoid confusion,’ Cal mumbled.

‘Agreed,’ added Rezz.

A bearded slaver crashed face-first into an empty stool to their left and lay motionless on the floor. Cal glanced over his shoulder on the off chance he might be the next target, but no assailants were present; just his own crowd of loud drunken slave traders. The man must have simply fallen victim to the drink. As he looked around, he noticed three figures sitting in an alcove just left of the entrance; nothing unusual but after years of watching shadows and knowing the trade so well, his instincts tingled. More ruckus and falling chairs behind him; someone started singing.

‘Rezz, check out the—’

‘I know, I’ve been watching ’em.’

Rezz had run all the underhanded trade through the area for several years now. Officially, his dealings were always illegal in Black Fall, but it had never been an issue. Guards of the Kingsland out this far didn’t get paid too well. For a few coins, he could have them look the other way. For a few more, he could have them as security, which he sometimes did.

He usually operated from West Fall, a tiny village just over the border, and spent his personal time here. But over the last year, it became just as easy to do it all in the one place. Besides, tonight was a special night. Black Fall had begun as a proud frontier of the Kingsland, but by midnight tonight, it would be part of the Queensland. This change of territory meant the slavers could do as they very well fucking pleased in Black Fall.

On such a night, he felt it was time to lay the foundations on how things would be from now on. There was nothing to fear; after all, half the drunks in the tavern worked for himself and the Boss, and the rest knew not to cross him. This was his world. So why could he not stop looking at those fuckers in the corner? A second body crashed to the floor, but the man got up again, laughing and staggering with blood pouring from his nose. The singing increased but all melody was lost.

‘Hurry up with that counting, will ya?’

‘All done. Four ten for each of ’em. Best wage they’re ever likely to get. Finish your drink, we’re going.’

Rezz downed the rest of his drink. He didn’t miss much as a rule. He knew that the big hooded prick in the middle of those unwelcome bastards was watching him intently, even though the other two were trying to play their presence down.

‘I’m going for a piss first.’ Cal got up, stepping over the unconscious drunk.

Rezz noticed the blond bastard at the right edge of their table also move and then stop when he noticed Rezz hadn’t budged. He thought of all the debts he owed, thought of who he owed them to. No, this was too ballsy. Then he thought of that screaming bitch he had run through the other morning. Maybe she had three big brothers. ‘Fuck it, I’ll kill ’em,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Start as you mean to go on and all that.’

He caught the attention of the hired guards at their table and gave the cue to stop drinking and grab their gear. The barman dropped another drink in front of him. Looks like I’m staying now anyway, he thought, although he’d lost his thirst for the moment. Rezz nodded to his personal security head in the far corner.

Several large men began to shift around the back corners of the tavern. He’d always been paranoid in the outside world. But this was new. Something didn’t sit right about these three. Innocent or not, these bastards were going to pay a heavy price for putting him on edge on such a memorable evening.

Slowly, he stood up and drew his sword. The noise and the music began to fade. Large shadows came over him from either side, his own men. A path through the crowd quickly opened as other slavers and patrons realised what was happening. A vast space surrounded the three unwelcome visitors, dividing them from the rest of the tavern.

As Rezz reached the divide, four hired guards armed with swords and shields formed a loose swaying wall in front of him. Silently, the three began to edge out from their table and face the wall of shields. A blond character in black and blue leather and plate armour stood in front of the door. A grim-looking bearded one with a long hammer stood in the middle while the big hooded one with a bandaged face was at the end. Their body language and silent intensity put pause to the room.

Rezz felt a little chill go up his spine. The music, now loud, screeched to a stop. ‘Get out of my tavern or I’ll have your fucking heads.’

Silence was the return. The big one scratched at his bandages and weighed up a large axe in his hand. Rezz didn’t feel so brave, even with his men behind him. Still, he took a gentle step forward, pulling one of the guards with him. ‘I said. Get the fuck—’

‘You know slave trading is punishable by death.’ The bearded man in the middle cut him short.

‘Not anymore.’ Rezz looked back to his head of security who nodded to confirm that it was past midnight. ‘This is the Queen’s territory now and I can do what I fucking want.’

The bearded one looked at his two companions and then back at Rezz. ‘Well, we’re here now. Kingsland or Queensland doesn’t change the facts. I’m bringing you back with me, or you can die here.’

Cal quickly realised what was about to happen when he re-entered the tavern and immediately made his way to the side exit. He didn’t mind blood, but he preferred to avoid it when possible. He made his way outside to the cool air. The drink had hit him harder than usual. Must be serving stronger stuff tonight. No wonder that poor fella collapsed. Still…I only had…um… He couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had. He weighed the sack of coin purses and grinned to himself. Life wasn’t half bad as a slave-trading accountant and it was gonna get easier. He’d head back to the safehouse. Rezz could catch up with him. Things were turning out okay.

A high-pitched scream came from the tavern. Some shocked woman obviously didn’t like blood either; he knew the feeling. Poor fools were probably only passing through and ended up in the wrong tavern on the wrong night. He spared them a quick thought before turning to make his way to a cosy bed.

Rezz’s first brave guard screamed wildly while clambering around in bloody circles on the floor trying to reach the hilt of the big fucker’s axe that had gone straight through his shield and most of his forearm. Rezz stood back as he ordered the three other guards forward. The blond casually pulled an oversized loaded crossbow from his back and effortlessly skewered a second guard through shield and armour before drawing a sword and shield of his own.

The third guard’s shield was speared and used against him as leverage to drag him forwards and down while the big fucker came over the top and put an axe into his skull. The last guard died quietly under a hail of hammer blows, possibly too drunk to have even raised a defence. A moment of silence blanketed the room.

Three men lay dead on the floor. The speed and ferocity of their dispatch was impressive. So much so that no other slavers offered any assistance. The blond, the big fucker and the grim-looking one stood silent and calm at the door. While opposite them, an entire barroom of people quickly considered their situation. Rezz knew he had to act quick before doubt set into his men. He let out a deep yell and charged. Enthusiastic or not, his men boldly followed.

More yelling, shouting and screaming mixed with the violent moving of furniture. Cal picked up his pace a little. The screaming flowed out into the street now just behind him. He stopped and looked back to see a dozen or so builders, tradesmen and prostitutes rushing from the tavern, abruptly finding their way home. Something was wrong.

The sounds of more furniture smashing and the ear-piercing clash of steel on steel. Now the tavern door swung open again with more fleeing patrons and also two of Rezz’s personal guards, one holding an extra arm under his arm and one missing an arm. A third guard crashed out and stood on the balcony, but it took Cal a moment to realise he was missing a head. Like a felled tree, he toppled in slow motion. Another couple of dull thuds and sickening moans drifted out before an eerie silence fell.

Cal realised he was walking backwards. Before he could turn and run, the tavern door opened once more, very slowly. The big fucker with the hood stepped out. He was wiping down the blade of a large axe. There was over thirty yards between them, but even so, and through the panic and chaos of fleeing tavern patrons, Cal could tell that he had this bastard’s full attention. He looked down at the coin purse and then back at the big fucker.

Inside, a barmaid prayed to every God she knew, expecting her death at any moment.

‘What time is it?’ the hooded man asked.

It took her a moment to realise that the question was aimed at her. Huddled beneath a blood-dripping table, she looked up. The blond guy who had just massacred half the tavern with his two friends was looking down at her. ‘I…I don’t know.’

He turned to his scruffy bearded friend. ‘Think it’s midnight yet?’

‘Yeah, I’d say it’s well past.’

The door crashed open and the scrawny money counter she’d been serving drinks to all evening tumbled through, landing hard on his face. The third of the massacre trio stood behind him. He caught her gaze for an instant before turning back to his friends. ‘This is him,’ he mumbled in a deep gruff voice.

‘Sure is,’ said the blond. ‘I think it’s time we got out of here.’

***

It was the second morning since the bar incident. They had travelled slowly but consistently, without much rest, to try to put some distance between themselves and Black Fall. The weather was wet and miserable. Bramic rode in front with their new prisoner in tow, head down and away in his own thoughts. The rain was driving hard against their backs as they headed eastwards, home. They had strapped Cal to a horse’s back with his arms and legs bound tight. He was starting to complain. Kotam and Dukai rode behind. Dukai’s blond hair stuck to his face. Kotam’s beard poured a constant stream of water like an overworked sponge.

Dukai looked over. ‘You need a shave, it’s gone past its stylish look, just makes you look old.’

‘Well, you should get your hair cut. You look like a girl.’ They both had a little grin. Kotam looked over and grinned even wider.

Dukai dropped his smile, giving Kotam a suspicious glare. ‘What’s so funny?’ Kotam rarely smiled so wide unless something was particularly funny.

‘Your face.’

Dukai felt his face, which was sore. He had taken a few knocks two nights back and the bruising had just begun to appear. He had two yellowish-purple rings, one around each of his eyes, a thick upper lip and a bloodied nose.

Kotam had never seen such symmetrical black eyes. ‘You look like one of those bears, the ones with the eyes.’ He gestured circles around his own eyes. ‘You sure you’re okay ’cause your face is…’ He laughed.

Dukai put his hood back up. ‘Go fuck yourself. You won’t be laughing when you have to pay us. Extra this time for nearly getting me killed.’

Kotam stopped laughing. ‘Yeah, it turned a bit messy all right. Sorry about that.’

‘Too right, it got messy. You said we wouldn’t touch anything too risky. And make sure to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.’ Dukai exhaled deeply.

‘We just butchered over a dozen men in a busy bar, in a not so friendly place. And I came close to catching my end. I think we strayed a little.’

Kotam nodded. ‘Yeah, I think we did.’

They reached a large tree at the edge of a cliff face where they could take a little shelter. Bramic cut Cal from his bindings to the horse but not his restraints. He fell from the horse sideways with a sickening crunch as he hit the muddy ground.

Kotam stood over him with a foot on his back. ‘I hope you’ve decided that you’ll speak today, unlike yesterday. I take that complaining you were doing as a good sign.’

Cal spluttered some insult at the three of them.

‘Tell us, Coin Master Cal. How many innocents have you killed in your time as slave trading general of the west?’ Kotam bent down to hear better since the wind was picking up.

Cal spluttered. His breathing was still laboured from such a thump to the chest.

‘Well?’

‘I…I…I’ve never killed an-anybody,’ he said, his face half-buried in a puddle.

Kotam prodded him in the back of the head with a stiff finger. ‘So, you’re an innocent man?’

‘Fuck you!’ Cal snapped aggressively. ‘You know what I do; I’ve just never killed anyone.’

‘We’ve had an eye on your operation. We know that the slave trading food chain goes much higher than Rezz, but as you can understand, we’re running out of time. We want to know who’s above Rezz. Where they’re bringing the next batch of slaves in from? And who controls the southern buying and distribution? We need names.’ He prodded Cal sharply on the back of the head again.

Cal spluttered. ‘You should have asked Rezz. How would I know about things so much higher up than me?’ He giggled, showing his last bit of pride.

‘Because he’s impaled on top of the tavern bar with his own sword. I gave it all my anger when I ran him through. It’s gonna take a strong fucker to pull that sword out of him. I only wish I didn’t have to kill him. Death’s too good for men like him.’ Kotam gave a tired look, got up and walked away.

Cal rolled over on his back and looked up at the grey sky. Heavy rain kissed his face. He felt sick and closed his eyes. He could only think of how lonely his end would be if he were to die out here. Lucky for the rain or they would have seen the tears trickle down the sides of his face. He remembered a girl he let get away only a few years back. He always thought she might have been the one. Jun was her name. He let her go because of this fucking job. He often thought about her and how things might have been if he had taken a different path—any path that didn’t leave him in this horrible predicament.

He allowed himself to drift away for a moment. He could picture her pretty face and warm smile so clearly, now more so than ever before. He had always missed her, even from the moment he left. He remembered the summer back when—Slosh! A wet rag dragged across his face.

‘Don’t go asleep there.’ The big ugly one leaned over Cal, only inches away, glaring down through saturated bandages.

The unravelled bandage end that pulled Cal from his daydream was now resting on his chin. Lying half-submerged in a puddle of mud and his own piss, with this monster’s wet wound dressing dancing on his face, Cal felt the last of his pride smashing into tiny pieces. How did it come to this, he thought as more tears forced their way out.

‘Would you like a drink? You must be thirsty.’ Cal was dragged up into a sitting position by the tree. His wrists were still bound, but a flask of water was placed between his hands. The big one and the bearded one now stood over him, both looking a little more impatient. He supposed it was time to tell them something. God forbid, they might decide to torture him. His stomach was far too weak for such trauma; he’d die of shock before they began. Regardless, he had always been a good liar. A few lies mixed with unimportant truths might just save his life.

Dukai’s face was sore and extremely itchy. He gave it a gentle rub and winced. He scratched away some dried blood from under his nose. He was feeling a bit sorry for himself and probably suffering from a little shock and dinted pride after his near escape during the skirmish. He stood away from the others, leaving them to their questions, as Cal rattled answers in a pitiful tone.

He felt bad for the accountant, guilty or not. He knew the outcome and didn’t fancy more death, not for a while anyway. His dad always reckoned that too much death in your life would eventually detach you. He was never fully sure what he meant, but this morning he thought it sounded right. Life just seemed so cheap. Is all life so valueless, even my own? he contemplated before quickly shaking the thoughts from his mind.

The rain was easing off slightly and clouds were breaking to the east. Bit of sun would be nice, he mumbled to himself. He rubbed his hands together, getting thick with grease again. He slid out his grandfather’s knife and began cleaning his fingernails. I could do with a wash.

Cal was scared. He could feel death. He continued to talk of everything and anything, but his voice was wavering. His two inquisitors hadn’t asked a question in what felt like an age. Maybe they know I’ve being telling lies. Panic raced through his mind. I’ll tell the truth. Looking at the two silhouettes standing over him, he already knew how this would end.

Until now, until their questions, he had underestimated how big this was. How deep were these three going? They weren’t just three professional thieving murderers. They were here to take down the slave trading empire. And he was part of that machine. The realisation of death hit him like a cold bath. His mouth went dry. He wanted his mother. He began to cry loudly. The bindings on his wrists were cutting in. He cried even more and then begged. His captors didn’t respond or even flinch.

‘Please, please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything.’ Cal was crying like a child now with snot coming out his nose. ‘Please, please.’ Suddenly, he was picked up by an arm at each shoulder and carried. His eyes began to clear of tears. The cliff edge came into view and sudden panic set in. ’No, no, no, no, no, please, please, please, I can help, I can do something.’

Amazing how, with only seconds to live, all your senses can become so alert. Just survive, Cal thought. ‘I can do something to help, please.’ The big guy had him by the right arm and the bearded one by his left. The cliff edge was getting close. He decided the grim bearded one was the way to go. He asked most of the questions and seemed to be in charge. ‘Please, you have to listen to me. Sable Devon is one of the main suppliers. I know more. I can help.’

They were almost at the cliff now.

‘In five days, there’ll be another shipment leaving Black Fall in the morning. It’s a shipment of old soldiers and workers. Please, you have to believe me. I can help.’

The grim bearded one turned to face him while still carrying him. ‘Did you know a young girl named Meg Willows? She was sold to a sex trader in the Barrow City but took her own life in protest.’

Cal was out of words. He had no idea about the girl and no idea how to answer. A wrong answer would surely mean his death. So he remained silent. But his captor had more to say.

‘Your men found her, Cal. Just outside Stones-Battle. And you sold her for ten silvers. Ring any bells?’ The bearded one’s voice was raised now. There was rage in it. ‘What about the young boy you practiced your bow aim on? He didn’t live long, did he?’

Cal was silent and then whispered his defence, which was the truth, ‘I was forced to shoot at him. They made me do it as a rite of passage. I didn’t mean to hit him.’ They stopped at the cliff edge. Cal looked down at the jagged grey rocks below.

The big guy grabbed both his shoulders. The bearded one took his hand away from Cal’s arm, and while Cal looked on, he rolled up his sleeve. On his forearm, among a list of other names, was Cal Barnt. ‘Funny thing is, Cal. That little boy and young girl were brother and sister. It’s completely coincidental but tragically unfortunate. Luckily, you also murdered their parents, so none of them has to suffer on in pain. She left a note with information and a couple of names she was able to remember. And the boy, we found him just before he passed away from blood loss. Even my healer couldn’t save him.’ The rage-filled voice had broken to a dull drone.

Cal saw sadness in the bearded man’s eyes.

‘The boy was also able to give us a couple of names before the gods took him. Guess what name came from both the boy and girl—Cal Barnt.’

‘Please. If you let me live, I promise I can help.’

‘Sorry, Cal, but you’ve done enough.’

He didn’t scream as he was thrown. He closed his eyes and waited for his gruesome end in a lonely place.

The clouds were breaking above as the three stood on the cliff edge. Dukai looked up to see the clouds part, revealing the previous night’s sinking moon. It had a red tint. ‘Probably went too far this time. Again. Did we really need to kill the poor bastard?’

There was a small pause. ‘We did,’ answered Kotam. ‘Loose ends and all that. Just too dangerous to let him go back. Although if he had told the truth to begin with, we could have considered it. It took the promise of certain death to spill anything.’

‘He’s right, Dukai,’ said Bramic. ‘You know what happens if you let—’

‘I know, I know, I know.’ Dukai shook his head. ‘Just not sure how many more men I can watch die.’

Chapter Two

New Beginning

Veramear stood over the tiny tree where he had buried her. A bright moon cast a strong shadow of the small sapling, no more than a foot tall. She always said it was the quickest way to be taken back by the earth. She loved trees, and it made her happy knowing her final resting place would be beneath one. A pile of smouldering timbers strewn around a stone chimney and a couple of structural stone walls were all that was left of their cottage. Oddly, several large tree roots had burst up through the cottage floor adding fuel to the burning structure.

The fire was stubborn and the blaze must have been intense. Friends and neighbours were still bringing water to douse the remaining flames. He was told it had happened sometime in the small hours of the morning. He had been away for two days and had returned only hours ago to this chaotic nightmare.

His first task home was to bury his grandmother. She lay on a flowerbed outside the cottage when he arrived. Benjamin, a close friend, sat near her side. He owned a small farm not far down the trail, and he was the first on the scene. The smell of smoke had woken him, and he had arrived during the height of the blaze, in the early hours. He sent his son for help while he stayed with Veramear’s grandmother, even though she was already dead. He didn’t move the body; he just ‘kept her company’.

Despite the heat from their burning house, her body was noticeably cool. A single stab wound to the chest was the only injury they could find, the only indication that anything was wrong. She looked peaceful, asleep and even more beautiful than ever before, but murdered nonetheless. He helped Veramear bury her, even though they both knew the authorities might want to examine the body, but Veramear would be gone by then.

Now he had to make sense of it all. His mind was a flurry of confusion and conflicting emotions. Memories of past conversations they had flashed through his mind. He always complained that she worried too much. Seemed now that she had been right to worry and that he had been wrong to dismiss her. She died with a note in her hand which he had still to read. One step at a time, he thought. The strangest thing was the three charred bodies mixed among the wreckage. He guessed them to be her murderers. He wondered if there were more, now burnt to nothing or hidden still beneath the rubble. The whole scenario was beyond imagining. The arrival of the bright morning sun only intensified the grim reality.

Veramear struggled to look upon her killers’ corpses but found he couldn’t look away either. A heart-pounding rage tore at his chest. He wished they would wake from their smouldering sleep so he could kill them over and over again. One lay buried beneath a collection of charcoaled roofing beams; a head and arm were all that could be seen. Another body was by the front door, still burning strong. And a third body, impaled by one of the protruding tree’s roots, was held high up where only his feet had burnt away and his top half was just nicely crisped.

A murder of crows silently circled above the house. Hundreds of birds, not making a single sound, packed the surrounding treeline of the glade. The birds weren’t overly noticeable with just the moonlight, but as the sunlight broke, an eerie view was revealed to Veramear as he pulled his gaze away from the ruins.

‘Once again, Veramear, I’m so sorry.’ Benjamin stood beside him. ‘If you need somewhere to stay—’

‘Thanks, Ben, but I won’t be staying around. Not so sure how safe it is for me here anymore. Not sure how safe it is for anyone. I might have brought trouble, be best if I’m gone. Just make sure you lock up good tonight.’

‘Don’t worry. We all will.’ Benjamin hung his head slightly and put his hand on Veramear’s shoulder. ‘She was a good person. She’ll be missed.’

Veramear winced. He could feel the tears rising. ‘She was,’ he whispered. He didn’t want to break down in front of his old neighbour. He was still getting over the shock and insanity of it all. Mourning her would come later. He didn’t need it now; what he needed was a clear head and a safe place to go. But no matter how much he tried, his mind continued to plunge into confusion. All the things he wanted to say came racing forward. More anger gripped him. He took a deep breath and threw his head back, staring at the crows above.

More people were arriving, a few extra guards included. The whole village would be there soon enough. She was a much-loved woman, so undoubtedly many would be by to see what happened. Two guards began tentatively pulling the bodies from the hot wreckage. Wouldn’t be long before the questions came, thought Veramear. How and when was she killed? Why was the house skewered by tree roots like a pin cushion? Where was her body, and why was it buried under a fucking tree?

‘I better go. Tell anyone who’s asking I’ll have all the answers to their questions when I get back.’

Ben shook his head. ‘You said yourself you don’t know what this is. Surely, you’d be safer here.’

‘No. I wouldn’t be safer here. Neither would you if I stayed. If I know one thing, there’ll be more coming.’

‘Do you even know where you’re going?’ asked Benjamin.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Veramear. This time he put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘Stay safe. Tell anyone who’s asking I said goodbye. And make sure they don’t try to move her body; it was her wish.’ He quickly left the gathering crowd and made his way to the shed where his horse was tied. Veramear threw his leg over the saddle and gathered up the reins. He took one last look at the smoking timbers behind and a quick look at the grave.

As he was about to kick his heels, his attention was caught by the crows, which began cawing and cackling. They gathered in one spot among the other birds at the treeline. At first, he stared through curiosity, then he noticed damaged branches on a small tree and a trail in the long grass leading to it. He grabbed his bow and quiver, dismounted his horse and walked towards the trees. The commotion increased as other birds flocked to join the squawking crows. His pace increased. He faintly heard his name being mentioned by the gathering crowd behind.

Perhaps he’d been spotted, but it didn’t matter. He moved as fast and silently as possible towards the trees, scanning either side for signs of human activity. Broken branches between two small trees created a natural breach in the tree line. He came closer and slowed, noticing more clearly the drag trails in the grass. The birds fell silent as he approached. His heart began to pound. Has someone been watching me this whole time? He swept through the gap into the wooded area, nocking an arrow as he did so.

The glen wasn’t dense with trees, but the light was poor. He quickly picked up the trail of drag marks and followed it. He soon came across footprints followed by handprints in muddy pools. The trail was fresh, fresh enough. He raced along the trail with the bow half-drawn, awaiting confrontation with each step. He stopped at a clearing in the wood where the tracks seemed to die out. The light was dim. He took a moment to catch his breath. The wood was still. He relaxed the draw on his bow, now realising that for all his sprinting and weaving through the undergrowth, he had probably only covered a few hundred yards. Any remaining murderers were most likely long gone, no matter how injured or slow they were travelling. He crouched down and rubbed a dark glistening stone. It was bloodstained, but not human. Birds chirped just ahead and he drew his bow again. He slowly crossed the clearing towards a thick-rooted ash.

Apart from a trickle of water running through the trees, there was only silence. He rounded the trunk and a lifeless boot appeared in the little stream. Veramear aimed at the foot and tracked his arrow tip up along the leg. A masked figure in a dark grey uniform lay against the tree breathing very shallowly. His cloak was wrapped around him and he was shivering. Black blood stained his stomach and leg. Veramear kicked the silver-buckled boot and his kick was answered by a splutter.

The figure looked up and spluttered again, accompanied by blood this time. He spoke in a soft raspy voice, ‘Oh…it’s you. You found me…crawling on hands and knees…fleeing for my wretched life.’ The man gasped for air. ‘Which is funny…as it was us who came looking for you.’

Veramear aimed the arrow at his face. ‘Did you kill the woman back at the cabin?’

‘She’s dead…good.’

‘Did you kill her?’ yelled Veramear.

‘We all did,’ he answered.

Veramear loosed an arrow into the bastard’s already wounded leg. A high-pitched scream rang out through the wood. Veramear gave him a moment to compose himself before continuing. ‘Who are you? Who are we? What do you want with us?’

He answered with pain in his voice, ‘It doesn’t matter. She is dead and you are found. More will come and you will be reborn.’

Veramear drew another arrow. ‘You didn’t answer me. This will be a slow painful death if you don’t tell me who you are and what you want with me.’ Veramear looked to his arrows and then back at the bloodied figure who understood his meaning. ‘I’ll ask again. Who are you?’ Veramear aimed the arrow higher up his leg. Tears were building in his eyes as he drew the bow.

The masked figure’s shoulders slumped even more. ‘I am nothing…and you are everything.’

Veramear didn’t wait but shot the arrow in his thigh.

The figure moaned and almost sobbed. ‘You are lord and you are…’ He vomited as he crumpled to the side. ‘…here to lead us—here to give us a new beginning.’

An arrow smashed through his right leg this time. Veramear’s tears were flowing as he fumbled to grab another arrow. The sorry figure was attempting to crawl for cover, moaning in pain as he dragged himself through the dirt. Another arrow slammed through his lower back pinning him to the ground. His howls of pain were muffled by the dirt. Veramear counted eight arrows left as he stiffened his lip. He cleared his nose and took a deep breath. His pincushion seemed to have given up.

He composed himself and breathed out, looking up to the canopy of the trees. In the morning sky, through a gap in the leaves, he noticed a lingering moon with a reddish tint. A bloody moon for a bloody morning. He looked back down at his moaning victim. ‘Are you ready for eight more?’

Chapter Three

Trix

Trix stood over the bodies and scratched his chin, his tall thin frame casting an ominous shadow. Twelve in total. Cal was most likely dead too—whatever the case, they would never meet again. He looked east towards the Kingsland, the direction that Cal was taken. He toyed with the idea of following but quickly shook it off. No point adding his own death to the massacre. He heard it was only three men. Hard to believe three men could just stroll in, cause this much devastation and stroll back out.

There were a good few witnesses, but no one knew who they were. No one living, that was. Pity the dead can’t talk. Surely Rezz or one of his men must have known who they were prior to meeting their grizzly end. Trix had a few ideas of his own. He had met a shaman officer, or whatever they were called, out this way not two months ago. Seemed like a nice guy now that he remembered him. But he had two friends with him, and one was grim enough.

The shaman had always sent men out this way to keep peace in the king’s name. Trix always believed it was to keep an eye on the king’s town guard who were garrisoned there. They were a corrupt bunch and usually helped the slavers for extra coin in their own pockets. It was a seasonal tradition that when visitors from the Kingsland or shaman came through, they all put on a good show to make the town look good.

The slavers even kept the crime down by knocking off a few troublemakers. The slavers would lay low out west till the visitors were gone, and then it was business as usual. He even helped the barman’s wife put up hanging baskets last year. He couldn’t help but feel he was onto a connection, if not the very same men he’d met. The boss had lost quite a bit of coin due to this incident. His competition would find it hilarious. The real kick in the teeth was that the boss had led the party on this harvest and personally put in bloody work.

Trix wondered how much planning they had put into this little surprise. It took balls to steal from a man like the boss, in his own den, not to mention killing most of his employees, including his manager, and kidnapping his accountant. Not the work of common thugs. A cold breeze like icy fingers caught the back of his neck. He glanced around almost expecting someone to be there and was surprised when there wasn’t. He looked back at the corpses, stepping backwards to unshroud them from his shadow. He always remembered being told as a boy to never let your shadow linger on the dead. Trix was a lot of things, and superstitious was one.

He walked into the Tardy Wench where the massacre had happened. Furniture was still strewn about, some of it smashed beyond repair. Sticky bloodstains randomly covered the wooden floor. Directly below where he stood, a section of timber was blackened as if it had been scorched. He tapped it with his foot and the timber cracked. He continued, trying to pick his footsteps around the blood and beer as he made his way to the back towards the bar. He spotted a severed hand hidden beneath a chair and grimaced at the thoughts of losing a limb.

Two of the boss’s men were still trying to pry Rezz from the bar. He was skewered through the rib cage with his own sword. His attacker certainly had a powerful thrust arm. His chest was half its original width, crushed between the sword hilt and the bar, hanging lopsided like a rag doll.

One of them turned, looking a little queasy. ‘Never seen anything like this before.’ His head was continuously shaking as he spoke. ‘You want to have seen it when we first arrived, absolutely insane. Bodies everywhere, like the afters on a battlefield, but squeezed into this small hall. A few say it was only three men, but I find it hard to believe. Bargirl was here for the whole thing. She said they never used names and wore nothing that told where they were from.’ He turned back to his job of freeing Rezz.

Footsteps and then a deep voice came from behind Trix. ‘Boss wants to see you.’

***

Trix quietly entered the office. It was large and tidy. A collection of paintings decorated the walls. One framed painting on the boss’s desk was of an old man, very similar in appearance to the boss. The boss stood looking out the window, giving no sign of turning to face him. Trix took a seat of his own accord. The setting sun was casting a strong silhouette of the boss’s stout frame. He wore a long grey coat, black against the window. His slicked-back hair was immaculately smooth. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, and his sword hung motionless by his side. He twitched as if to turn but didn’t. ‘There’s another caravan of slaves arriving next week, a smaller amount this time, thirty, maybe forty in all. We can’t allow this little setback to slow our progress.’

Wouldn’t have called it little, thought Trix.

There was a pause and then the boss whispered, as if contemplating for the first time what he was saying, ‘This continued slave demand from the southern provinces appears to be unquenchable. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ He abruptly turned to look at Trix.

‘No, never seen the likes,’ added Trix.

The boss turned back to the window with the slightest of smiles, as if more clarity was gained by the second opinion. Trix had rarely ever seen the boss smile, but when he did, Trix noticed that it was so, so slight that it was really only noticeable in the boss’s forehead muscles. ‘There’s so much money to be made, Trix. We must supply the goods, no matter what. If we do not, our competition will.’ He paused for a moment, longer this time. ‘I’m sorry about Cal and Rezz.’

Trix moved uncomfortably in his chair, from the left side to the right. ‘Thank you, Boss.’ His new position in his seat was in the direct glare of the setting sun. It nearly scorched the eyes from his head. He quickly moved back to the left, sheltered by the boss’s shadow. Trix had only arrived and already he wanted out. Patience was not his forte, and the boss had a special knack of draining the life from him.

‘These people will pay, Trix, mark my word. They will pay with great pain and suffering.’

This is a form of pain and suffering, maybe he’ll sit them down for a chat.

Trix scratched his chin again. It itched more today than usual. ‘I think they might be shaman, Boss, at least one is…possibly. Tricky customers to take down.’

The boss turned his head to the side. ‘I have men in mind, well capable of the task. As soon as we finish this next deal, I’ll be organising our retribution.’ He turned his head back to the window and the orange vista beyond.

‘Will you notify the king? Or even the shaman themselves? Who knows, you might be compensated for such an unprovoked attack, especially if the attackers do turn out to be three of their own. You might be refunded some money at the least,’ suggested Trix.’

‘No. Not the king or the shaman. But as we speak, a letter is on its way to the queen. This incident is sure to interest her.’ Trix rubbed his left arm where his Queen’s Command tattoo was. A part of his life so distant now. He quickly shook the thoughts away. ‘Before you so humbly refuse, know that I’m offering you double what I usually pay my right-hand men. Take it as a token of my respect for you. I know you hate this work, but you’re one of the few I have left in which I put my full trust. Also, you’re not a mindless thug, which I have always been overstocked in. Thugs are plentiful in this game, whereas men of principle are hard to come by. And you are a man of principle, regardless of being a slaver who hates slave trading, that’s your own business.’

Trix found the chair to be increasingly uncomfortable as the moments passed.

‘I am also only asking you to look after this one last shipment. Then you’re free to go and buy slaves their freedom or whatever madness it is you’re planning, your business again. So, what do you say, Trix? Can I count on you to look after this deal?’

He began scratching his chin again but against his nature, thought it best to avoid a silence. ‘It