The Death Merchant: The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered, #4

By Steven E. Wedel

When he kills a poet singing a song mocking Tarod the Puppet King, Minnea's former ruler is arrested and sentenced to hang. Tarod meets new friends in prison with a plan to escape, but the greater danger is the sword of Bolkar the Death Merchant, a bounty hunter who never brings anyone back alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoonHowler Press
• Release date: May 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223042181

Steven E. Wedel

Steven E. Wedel lives with his dogs, Bear and Sweet Pea, and his cat, Cleo. A lifelong Oklahoman, he grew up in Enid and now lives in Midwest City, with numerous addresses in between. He is the author of over 35 books under his name and two pseudonyms, but still has to rely on his day job of teaching high school English to keep himself and his furry dependents eating in air-conditioned comfort. Steven has four grown children and three grandsons. Be sure to visit him online and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

The Death Merchant

The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered #4

Steven E. Wedel

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MoonHowler Press

Copyright © 2023 by Steven E. Wedel

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

1. A Compact is Made

2. Ballad of the Fool King

3. A Clash of Steel

4. Sentenced to Death

5. Brotherhood of Swords

6. On the Gallows

7. Noose or Sword

8. Escape

9. The Death Merchant

10. A Raven's Visit

Also by Steven E. Wedel

About Author

Chapter one

A Compact is Made

Bolkar stepped from the doorway of the tavern into the silent street of Philan. He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply of the cool autumn air. Under a cloak of bear hide, the rings of his chain mail strained as his massive chest expanded to take in the night air. The hilt of a great two-handed broadsword protruded from beneath the hairy cloak at his right shoulder. The sword, like the mail and the weathered face, showed the signs of many battles.

Bolkar placed his metal helmet, a simple but strong piece of armor, onto his head. His black eyes were pits on either side of the steel nose guard; his long black hair spilled below the helmet to mingle with the fur of his cloak. He always wore his helmet when walking the streets; in his profession, a lethal fight could occur at any moment.

A rustle of cloth alerted him that someone was approaching. He swung to meet whoever it was, the mighty sword unsheathed and ready to taste sweet blood once more. An old woman dressed in rags shuffled up the lane toward him. Her watery eyes regarded him nervously from the shadows of a dull scarf wrapped about her head. An ethereal wisp of gray hair floated about her wrinkled face as she walked.

Bolkar relaxed but did not sheath his blade as she drew near. Her eyes were fixed too intently upon him. He knew she approached with some purpose. Was there a dagger up her sleeve? Was she a distraction for a hidden assassin with a bow? There were enemies everywhere … friends and family of those who had tasted his blade.

You are Bolkar. The old woman’s voice was a rough croak. The one they call the Death Merchant?

I am. Bolkar’s voice reverberated through the night, momentarily drowning out the sounds of revelry coming from the tavern door behind him. The woman stepped forward with an outstretched hand. Bolkar shifted the weight of his blade to one fist and reached toward the woman, ready to tear her arm from her body if she tried some assassin’s trick. The hag pressed two gold coins into his palm.

A much better prize awaits, the crone said, holding his gaze firmly with her own. If you will come with me.

Where? Bolkar demanded. What prize?

The woman turned and shuffled away. She did not look back when he spoke, but continued retreating in the direction from which she’d come. Unsure of his guide, but prepared for any opportunity that promised profit, Bolkar sheathed his weapon, pocketed the gold, and followed, keeping one hand on the hilt of the long dagger at his belt.

The walk was not a long one, though it seemed to take hours because of the achingly slow pace of the woman’s steps. The hag led Bolkar into the area of Philan where the beggars came to sleep on the nights when the weather did not allow them opportunity to ply their sad trade. He knew the place, as he’d often hunted his quarry among the destitute and those who pretended to be in order to hide their true identity. On this warm night, the area was nearly deserted; most of the usual occupants where in the busier parts of the city. The woman led Bolkar to a leaning shack near the back of the slum and paused a moment before pushing open the sagging door. Recognition dawned in the bounty hunter’s eyes; he knew who the woman was. Bolkar followed the midwife into the hut.

I am back, the hag whispered.

Is this him, Yaspet?

It is, the crone answered.