“You killed her, Ishild,” screamed Dunstan. The Mayor of Kahlanwald suppressed the bitter bile surging through, churning the sumptuous and expensive meal that he lavishly consumed for lunch. His bloated frame lurched forward trying to hold the half-digested contents from unceremoniously spilling on the luxurious carpet of his home.
“No, I did not,” Ishild protested with a shaky voice. “I closed her mouth and then she stopped breathing.”
“You killed her, Ishild. That is what it is. She is dead,” Dunstan was acutely aware of his own trembling lips -- in fear or in anger. The exact sentiment did not matter.
“I told her not to scream and it would be over. I promised to send her back unharmed, but she did not listen. So I only closed her mouth to stop her from screaming.” Ishild repeated thoughtlessly. It was one thing to kill another human in a drunken stupor and earn a moniker but another to watch someone’s life ebb out while in full control of his senses. Ishild the slicer, contrary to his name, was shattered.
“You murdered her.” The Mayor of Kahlanwald grabbed his companion by the kravat.
The cheap quality fabric, meant to provide an air of sophistication to the uncivilised, now cut into Ishild’s neck, forcing the man’s wide eyes to monstrously bulge in their socket.
“You should do something. She refuses to breathe.” Ishild noted somewhat futilely.
“She is cold and not breathing.” Dunstan violently pulled his companion despite the other clearly possessing an advantage in physical form and stature. “It is called being dead, Ishild. You killed her.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yes, You did. You messed everything up,” accused Dunstan. With a spat, he released his grasp on the attire of the almost catatonic Ishild. The Mayor of Kahlanwald felt his vision blocked by a stream of sweat trickling down his brow. He tore a piece of clothing from his companion’s shirt to wipe and callously threw the sweat-soaked rag at the man’s face in disgust. In frustration, Dunstan turned away from Ishild and paced restlessly like a caged tiger. He scratched his chin, digging his chipped fingers into the scarred skin leaving small marks of red lines.
Why is it difficult to find competent men? Dunstan pondered.
“Do you know what Marquis’s messenger brought today?” scoffed Dunstan indignantly. “The thieving usurper claims Kahlanwald will have to elect a new Mayor should any damage occur to his villa.”
Like an ever-surging tide, Dunstan’s anger seethed even more. “Orders me to clean his villa pristine once I am done with my rat-chasing farce of an adventure. That audacity of Marquis Evenmist knows no bound.” The thud of his heavy footsteps, as he paced, shattered the silence in his office.
Just as Ishild felt that the fury of Dunstan was about to abate, the latter fumed again.
“Who runs Kahlanwald?” posed Dunstan to no one in particular. “Not some Lord with a flappy butt on a cushioned seat in a remote castle on a mountain.”
“What should I do about the girl?” asked Ishild, still jinxed and confused.
Dunstan’s nostrils flared, billowing a stream of fiery breath. “You mean the corpse.” Forcing himself, almost dangerously close to Ishild the slicer, he tapped the forehead of the latter. His chipped nails sank deep into the skin of the skull uncomfortably with each thrust, making a statement. “Get it in your head. She is dead and She is a corpse now.”
Any other man, or at any other time, Ishild would have repaid the affront with the only gesture that he knew -- by slicing an ear or a finger. But the terrible vision of pale lifeless eyes still staring accusingly haunted him. Ishild the slicer found his limbs bound by an ephemeral chain of cessation.
With the predatory eyes of a blood-starved wolf, Dunstan considered Ishild from close, again. Only a singular thought reigned through his voracious avarice. Ishild had outlived his purpose. Many prospective leaders have met an unfortunate early end by surrounding themselves with incompetent underlings. Deep in the unfathomable pit of his heart, Dunstan knew that Ishild would bring him ruin, sooner than later.
“Perhaps, we can use it to our advantage.” Dunstan bore a lopsided smile. “Leave the corpse by Skeldell villa with some incriminating evidence pointing at kobolds and goblins. Just some cuts with crude weapons would be sufficient.”
A mean feral grin, ignited by the prospect of insatiable greed, appeared on the Mayor of Kahlanwald’s face. Self-congratulating, he watched the rugged form of Ishild leave. Dunstan thought to himself; only he possessed the remarkable ability to turn a loss into a self-serving profit while solving two problems at once.
Eddyrn Rubyforged drew her travel-worn cloak around herself. The radiance of the late morning sun failed to dissipate the chillness of spring lurking in the air. Yet, it was not the iciness in the air that bothered Eddyrn, but rather the cunning looks that she received from the citizens of Kahlanwald mulling lazily in the town square.
The Shieldwall of the Shieldmaidens was well aware of the meaning harboured by some of those eyes and the subsequent perils that would befall should she fail to tread the delicate balance. Dwarves, they might be but they were still women. And there were always those who would see them that way. Mercernaries, who would risk their life for coins, is what they see. Some would try luck at enticing them with the prospect of easy gold to partake in the services of the world’s oldest profession. And Kahlandwald has its fair share of those who would try to tempt them to that trade. Eddyrn sought to smooth out this conflict. After all, they are roving mercenaries and no matter where the affront lies, no city would entertain their citizens manhandled by outsiders. She deferred to Baernis’s decision to let the Shieldwarden avail the company of Quill of the Shieldmaidens during the meeting with the Mayor of Kahlanwald while she, in her capacity as the second-in-Command, would chaperone the rest of the Shieldmaidens.
Eddyrn let her gaze assimilate the sight of the Shieldmaidens scattered around her. She let her thoughts flow through while masking her emotions with a solitary expression. The unruly bunch, which she had come to realise was close to a family, would definitely incite a riot and it was her duty to make sure that events do not come to such.
The Shieldwall’s fears were realised when a thin man in a carrick gave a toothy smile beamed at some of the shieldmaidens. His coat, so large and disproportional to his frame, reminded Eddyrn of a weasel in a fancy robe. His hand, covered in a well-abused glove, slowly escaped the confines of the overtly large fabric and his fingers twiddled in an obvious and universal sign of clanking coins. The confrontation that the Shieldwall expected had finally manifested itself.
Inga rose, swifter than the racing thoughts of Eddyrn, and approached the man. Clutching an earthenware bottle tightly in her hand, she slurringly prodded, “So you like dwarven women, eh?”
“Small, pretty and tight.” His voice, almost an uncomfortable wheeze of a dying man, only served to consolidate his effrontery. Stooping a bit lower, his grin widened revealing a few vacant spots for teeth. “I like it that way.”
Holding the earthenware bottle to her lips, Inga let the content drain through her throat. She darted her tongue along the bottle's rim to consume every trickle and drop of the divine elixir. Satisfied that none of the mead would be wasted, she then clasped the earthenware bottle in a vice grip of her arms to shatter. Looking up to weasel in carrick, without blinking an eyelid, Inga offered, “Ten Guldens for the skilful use of my hands to relieve you.”
Accompanied by Marilis, who miraculously scurried to the Shieldwall with feline agility, Eddyrn raced. The latter feared for the man to lose the remaining of his teeth to the unbound tempest called Inga. Eddyrn hurried her pace as she sensed the man visibly wince in terror.
Shocked by the horror of what he witnessed, only the tugging of an episodic wave of fright, helped him fall back, narrowly avoiding the steel-like fist of Inga. In sheer panic, his testicles retreated far deep inside that they become cellmates with his brain.
“Inga, you with Cosette now.”
Inga stood in her place, arrested by the ironclad command of Eddyrn.
“You spoil the good moments.” Cosette’s complaint was met with a cold stare -- the kind that mothers reserved for petulant children -- from Eddyrn. Yet, the formative vernal mind of Cosette ignored the warning and defended Inga. “You know she did nothing wrong. The misbegotten sod deserved it and more.”
“Inga, would you like to get back with the Shieldsisters? I am sure I spotted an unopened flask of rum.” Marilis’s attempt to dissuade Inga, despite her best attempts, only met the scoff of Inga.
“Hey, fifteen Guldens for my mouth. I got good teeth, you know.” Inga flashed an ear-to-ear grin, revealing her sharp array of teeth, which elicited the same response as one would expect when presented with a ravenous maw of a shark from the terror-stricken man.
“Inga, your unruly act will bring the attention of town guards.” Eddyrn could do very little to suppress the knot twisting inside her. “A violent outrage, even if the other party provoked, will incur a hefty fine of a punishment in most cities.”
“A punishment with heavy fine...” restated Cosette, “...means legally allowed for a price.”
“So not a crime,” uttered Inga to no one in particular.
Deliverance appeared to Eddyrn in the form of an earthenware flask thrust to Inga by another Shieldmaiden. Eddyrn, never the religious sort, still gave futile thanks to whatever deity had taken pity on her plight. With scrutinizing eyes, she watched Inga greedily gulp the contents.
“Slow down, Inga. This is not dwarven brew,” said Marilis, “Sea elf rum from port Marabalk Isle. Stuff burns like liquid fire down your throat. Very soon you would be complaining about the scorching sun.”
“This is Inga you are talking about,” slurred Inga, turning her attention to Marilis, “No floating ball of fire can harm me.”
“But the sun is not a ball of fire,” countered Cosette with a hard squint.
“Of course, it is just a big gaseous ball of fire,” garbled Inga somewhat coherently despite her blood almost turning alcohol.
“You are wrong, Inga. How can something burn up there where there is no air?” Cosette almost screamed indignantly while a smug sneer held her cheeks.
“Because it is gaseous,” replied Inga. Her veneer of patience had almost run thin.
“Then what is preventing those gases from flowing towards us,” asked Marilis in defiance. She would not let a drunk Inga spout non-sensical theories.
“Because they belong to the sun and there is void in between,” slurred Inga with ardent fervour to defend the honour of her claim.
“Inga,” came the dour tone of Marilis laced with infuriation, “there is no such thing as void or vacuum. If there is then it would have sucked all air. Since we have air, it means there is no void or vacuum.”
“This has always been your issue, Inga,” said Eddyrn in a gentle voice, “You get drunk and spew illogical things like the world being a rock floating through the void.”
“And you also claimed it is a sphere,” added Cosette.
“But it is,” Inga defended, all traces of alcohol washed out of her system so swiftly that the other three Shieldmaidens wondered if perhaps -- as implausible as it might sound -- if Inga was actually a giant. Mayhaps, like a diminutive giant.
“I once met this sea elf cartographer in Valteburg who showed me all those maps,” said Inga defensively. “He told me that the shortest distance between any two spots on the map is always a curve because the world is spherical.”
“The shortest distance between any two spots on the map is always a curve because your sea elf friend is always drunk,” retorted Cosette irately. “And Marilis you are wrong too. If you go higher and higher up the mountains you will feel the air is less dense and if you go far higher there will be no air.”
“That is because we are dwarves. We are not supposed to be living up on a mountain. That is our body telling us that we are in the wrong place,” replied Marilis vehemently.
“My gnome neighbour had these fancy instruments to prove that the air is indeed less dense in the mountains,” shouted Cosette in sheer anger.
“All gnomes are liars,” shouted Inga back.
Eddyrn felt helpless against the headache pounding inside. Between Inga, Cosette and Marilis; it was hard to fixate on their shifting association with each other. Their disassociating alliance, so transient, made the covenant between Dark Elf houses seem everlasting. Her sanity cautioned her against correcting either of them. She knew the price, should she reason with any of them. Only a soft tender voice with a hue of suppressed authority pulled Eddyrn from her current predicament.
“Good Citizens of Kahlanwald,” addressed Dunstan from his elevated position on the large platform outside the town hall, attracting the attention of both the citizens and the denizens. “I now present you, your brave heroes who have travelled from far, answering our call.”
Every face in the crowd -- assembled at the vacant cobblestone space that Kahlanwald boasted for a square -- looked at him attentively. The subtle timbre in his voice projected all the benevolence of a grieving father. The moisture in his eyes gleamed further tugging at the heartstrings of those who gathered.
As the Mayor of Kahlanwald orated, with words ardent enough for stones to shed tears, Eddyrn watched with a barely concealed amusement. Not a newcomer to politics, the Shieldwall instinctively knew that one does not become a Mayor of a sprawling city, the size of Kahlanwald, by being emotionally moved. But a competent politician is always a decent thespian and Dunstan has mastered the art.
“These Shieldmaidens have come to aid us. To rid us of the invading pests.” Dunstan allowed a pause for the thunderous ovation to die down. He only wished it were for him.
Eddyrn spotted Baernis standing a few steps beside Dunstan, her bright red hair, braided and tugged behind her helmet with a single rebellious braid out. A communication in code that only Eddyrn knew to interpret. The pay isn’t good.
“A thirty gulden for every ratfucker’s head.” Someone screamed from the crowd. Followed by a more agreeing chorus of voices.
For an ephemerally fleeting instant, Dunstan flirted with the idea of sacrificing Ishild by having him accompany the shieldmaidens down the tunnel. He cast a barely perceptible glance towards Ishild in the crowd before scoffing at the incompetency of his minion and quickly abandoning the plan.
Eddyrn followed the swift glare of Dunstan, refocusing her attention on the man in the crowd. From the depth of her consciousness, she found him slightly unnerving. The way his eyes squinted, narrowed almost to a slit, reminded her of a viper slithering through the grass. Without a moment to spare, she decided that whatever is brewing beneath the facade of a benevolent Mayor is not worth their involvement. After all, it is another job to earn their pay.
“We are not savages motivated by bloodthirst,” chided Dunstan, greed stirred within. “The safety of the honest folks of Kahlanwald is what matters. And what is a hand full of guldens to our brave heroes?” With a dramatic gesture, the Mayor of Kahlanwald extended his palms, open and receiving, to Baernis. “The real wage is the eternal gratitude residing in the heart of every Kahlanwalder for our brave heroes.”
Amidst the loud ovation from the crowd at Dunstan’s declaration, Eddyrn simply wished to trade gulden or florin for eternal gratitude.
Weaving through the crowd, Marilis isolated herself from her Shieldsisters and then she shouted, mimicking an old fishwife, “But they are still getting our tax money. How much are we paying?”
Dunstan’s predatory eyes roamed through the crowd, seeking the one audacious enough to heckle him. Eventually, he abandoned his pursuit to the more prudent path of answering the question. “Aye, let it be known that we are not devoid of kindness. Ninety guldens for the completion of the task awaits our heroes.”
Gritting her teeth, Eddyrn dug her nails deep into her palms. A wave of frustration washed over her. Ninety guldens are not enough to comb through sewers. Ninety guldens are not enough to dredge through the filth of the city. Ninety guldens are not enough to navigate the pocket of noxious fumes knowing death is just one misstep away.
“That is not even a bare minimum of a mercenary pay,” shouted Cosette, grasping her trusty repeating crossbow in a vice grip. Indignation rolled off her like billowing fumes from an enraged drakaina. “If you going misogynistic, at least pays us sixty-nine per cent of a standard mercenary pay.”
For an interminably charged and narrow instant, Dunstan’s forehead furrowed and a deep squint marred his visage. With baleful eyes, he cast his searing glare at Cosette. “That is the pay for full people.”
The implication in Dunstan’s words blanketed Eddyrn with a torrent of vile rage. She gritted her teeth and shrouded herself in a veneer of calmness. This is just another contract. She told herself. A job to be completed and pay to be collected -- however measly it is.
“But be assured brave Shieldmaidens. Hospitality is not lost upon Kahlanwald. The finest room in our inn is prepared for our heroes,” uttered Dunstan and added as an afterthought, “for a discount price.”
Eddyrn caught the sight of Soraya Gemtamer stirring uncomfortably, making a barely perceptible move towards Baernis. The Shieldwall could already guess the source of the restlessness haunting Soraya. At ninety guldens a contract, they cannot afford any rooms -- even a stable is beyond their means.
Baernis broke her seemingly vow of silence and finally spoke, “We are consummate professionals, Lord Mayor.” Something about the way Baernis uttered the last two words sounded almost like vicious mockery. “Hence we would not be able to avail the luxury of Kahlanwald’s finest. The extermination commences as of now.”
And then, the Shieldmaidens stalked towards Skeldell villa without a word or grumble.
