(Four parts. 6000 words.)
ONE
Lesnar found himself in a tavern on the day the contract ended. A coded letter promising gold had lured him there. The stranger sitting across from him had reminded him of the occasion.
“And you’re certain this is the last payment?” Lesnar asked. The graying mercenary had long ago lost track of time.
“Positive,” the smug stranger replied.
The mercenary narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know you. Where is the usual courier?”
“Dead. A true shame he couldn’t make the final run.”
A tense silence settled between them.
“What will you do now that the contract has reached its end, old man?” the stranger asked presently, sipping from a cracked cup.
Lesnar dipped two fingers into the purse before him and drew out a pair of silver coins. Ensuring he retained the stranger’s gaze, he flattened the coins on the uneven table and pushed them forward. “You’re going to answer my questions,” he proclaimed.
“Questions?” the stranger repeated, twisting a lock of flaxen hair around a pale finger. “I’m already behind schedule. I have no desire to be away from the capital any longer than necessary.”
“That is why I’m paying you.”
“Did you ever ask questions to the former courier?”
“No need,” Lesnar replied. “The contract had not yet reached its end. As long as my payments continued to arrive and the contract remained valid, I had no desire to learn the happenings of the Four Kingdoms.”
The stranger held up a finger and finished his ale. Then, he spoke, “Just one kingdom now. Has been that way since I was just a child.”
“Whose?”
“King Mire’s of course,” the stranger chuckled, pouring himself another round from their shared pitcher. “He’s nearly as old as you. Still celebrated for his skill with the blade. Although, I suppose those rumors could be of his own design. I’ve never seen him fight with my own eyes. The kingdom has been at peace for my entire life.”
The mercenary drank. “That will make my job easier.”
“What job, old man? After twenty years of these payments, you’ve gotten enough money to last ten lifetimes. Twenty lifetimes in this godforsaken part of the world.”
“And yet,” Lesnar mused, tapping the purse with his cup, “this is all that remains.”
“How is that even possible?”
The mercenary growled. “I am the one asking questions.”
“Fair enough.” The stranger flicked one of the silver coins back across the table. “How did you manage to spend so much coin?”
“I was not created to live a peaceful existence.”
“Ah,” the stranger beamed. “A good time is rather expensive, especially the company of women.”
The mercenary ignored the comment. “Where can I find him?”
“Who? The King?”
Lesnar nodded. “I assume he moved the capital. Mire always hated his ancestral home. He knew that its walls could not stop me.”
The stranger raised his brow. “You … want to kill him after all this time? Why?”
“I’m done answering questions.” Lesnar finished his drink, slid the silver coin back across the table, and stood. Despite the early hour, his weary bones protested the sudden movement. “Now. Tell me where the King is. We have unfinished business.”
“Goldmire.” The stranger scratched his unshaven chin. “Used to be called something else. Gold … forest. No. That’s not it. Maybe Goldleaf?”
“Goldwood,” Lesnar corrected.
The mercenary tightened his weapon belt and exited the tavern.
*
The city of Seascape was perilously crowded during the summer. However, the mercenary took no notice of those wandering its dirt roads, of the myriad of vendors shouting from behind their stalls, of the cries of street performers, and the seductive whispers of whores. His dark eyes denied all question, and his imposing – albeit labored – gait drove others from his path.
You’ve made a mistake in crossing me, Mire, Lesnar scowled. He was fortunate the old fool had held up one term of the contract after breaking the other. Ironically, it would be that coin which allowed the mercenary to reach his doorstep. You will not escape my wrath!
Swift footsteps from behind. The distinctive scrape of steel against leather.
The mercenary spun away from his attacker, wincing as the knife sliced into his side. The befuddled assailant standing before him somehow managed to avoid a strike intended for his head.
Growling, Lesnar brought the man to his knees with a kick to the groin. “Mire?” he questioned, setting his blade against the assassin’s throat.
The man responded with a bloody grin.
Lesnar ducked a blow from behind … only to find that he could not rise. Diving to his left, he narrowly evaded a second attack. Still, he could not regain his feet.
From above, the second assassin observed him triumphantly. He raised his spiked club, blocking out the midday sun. “Too slow, old man.”
Lesnar awaited a death that did not come. The second assailant crumbled to the ground before him, blood streaming from his eyes.
A soft hand pulled the mercenary to his feet.
“You?” Lesnar asked, genuinely surprised.
The stranger from the inn shrugged. “I have a bone to pick with King Mire as well. Perhaps we can help each other reach the capital. Call me Owen.”
“Not interested,” the mercenary scoffed.
“But I just saved your life!”
“Are you not one of Mire’s assassins? He always preferred groups of three.”
“Assassin?” Owen grinned. “I prefer mercenary.”
TWO
The graying mercenary neared the edge of the city at a brisk pace, pain in every step. Even as the spike of adrenaline ran its course, Lesnar knew he had enough strength to reach sanctuary. Once he had summoned a healer and cleared the haze from his mind, he would be on his way.
“You’re limping bad, old man. Bleeding too,” the man named Owen observed from his side. The fair-skinned assassin walked backward with arms raised and fingers crossed behind his head. “Find a bench, and let me tend to the wound.”
Lesnar shook his head. “Blade wasn’t poisoned. I’ll make it.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Your pace has significantly slowed.”
“Been through worse,” the mercenary remarked. He focused his blurry gaze upon the ground. One foot in front of the other. “I’m certain you’ve heard tales of my countless triumphs.”
“Afraid not. In fact, I have no idea why King Mire paid you so much over the years. Took on this assignment purely because of the reward.”
“Impossible!” Lesnar exclaimed. He grimaced as fresh pain lanced through his body. His next words were a bitter whisper, “Does the name Lesnar of the Blood Moon mean nothing to you?”
Owen shrugged. “No. Should it?”
“I’ve felled a dozen kingdoms and ended twice as many royal lines. Never broken a contract. The sight of my crimson armor at a city gate was enough to make a King flee his own castle!”
“Doesn’t ring any bells. Sounds like something the bards would sing for centuries, and I know those that populate the capital well.” Owen paused. “Where are you leading us anyway? At this rate, you’re going to bleed out. No one will be able to save you then.”
“My room is near.”
“All the reputable inns are in the other direction We’re headed toward the city’s southern gate in case you haven’t realized.”
Lesnar came to a stop in the middle of the street. Ahead, the city wall rose against the exhaustive rays of the summer sun. In the shadows of the stone barrier, the ramshackle inn in which he claimed residence nearly escaped notice. He pointed at the structure.
“Ah,” Owen laughed. “Not an inn. A drug den.”
On his next step, the mercenary collapsed.
*
Lesnar awoke in a familiar setting. He relaxed, dismissing his latest fever dream. Soon, the first of his scheduled appointments would appear. Money was tight, but that was never a problem for long. As he reached for the pipe of sweet leaf on the small table next to his cot, his body revolted in agony.
“Perhaps you were telling the truth about being some sort of legendary warrior. That’s the only way all of this makes sense,” a familiar voice mused from his side. “Knife got you good, but it should heal up. I have a spark of the divine in my left hand. Decent enough at healing. The blood loss did make it rather challenging. Warned you about that.”
“Who are you?” the mercenary managed.
“The man who dragged your barely breathing corpse to this … inn.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you remember? We are going to put an end to King Mire for reasons you’ve yet to explain.”
Lesnar extended his hand. “Pipe.” Only as the smoke filled his tired lungs did the mercenary recall meeting the other man, the attack on the street, and his vendetta.
“I’m certain you’re aware that sweet leaf isn’t great for your health,” Owen remarked. The young man claimed the pipe and proceeded to fill the grimy room with smoke. “Especially leaf of this quality. If you’ve wasted your fortune on this rubbish, it’s no wonder you couldn’t avoid the knife.”
“It helps me think.”
“Right. So the burnouts say.”
“I’m no burnout … I’m Lesnar of the Blood Moon!” The next hit from the pipe sent the old mercenary into a fit of coughing. It also brought further clarity to the situation. “You claimed to be a mercenary, Owen. A lie. You didn’t carry out your contract.”
“A bold accusation against the man who saved your life.”
Lesnar sought further clarity. “I can’t trust a man who doesn’t hold to a contract.”
“If you must know, I only signed on to deliver your final payment. As for the assassins … well, that is technically a bounty. No formal agreement on bounties. More of a bring your head to King Mire’s court and claim the reward type of arrangement.”
“Speaking of,” Lesnar replied, sliding a heavy ring from his finger. “Get this to a courier and lay claim to that reward. Make sure to coat it in my blood to prove the validity of your claim. Mire will certainly have his sorcerers examine it.”
The younger man exhaled, traded the burning pipe for the ring, and examined it in the candlelight. “Nice ring, old man. Where’d you get it?”
“From the corpse of the last King of New Moon.”
“The last King of what now?” Owen asked, raising a brow.
Lesnar let the appalling display of ignorance go. “Deliver the ring to a courier. Take coin from my purse, secure two horses, and find a trustworthy healer. I can’t afford to have this minor wound reopen in my battle against Mire.”
The mercenary paused to finish his leaf. “The contract is as follows: you will accompany me to Goldmire and help me kill the King. Under no circumstances are you to interfere with our impending duel, but you will be required to keep the royal guards at bay. You will be paid with a sizeable share from the royal vaults upon completion. Do we have an agreement?”
Owen grinned. “This is wisest investment you’ve ever made, Lesnar of the Blood Moon.”
*
Four days later, the two mercenaries cantered beneath a cloudless sky. The road beneath their horses was one of compacted dirt, well traversed by countless wagons on their way to the bustling port of Seascape. Those travelers they passed, upon seeing their imposing demeanor and blades, gave the mercenaries a suitable berth.
Owen smoked quality leaf from his own pipe, leaving the delusional old man free to roam within his fractured mind. Lesnar had allocated over half of his final payment to securing enough booze and leaf to see them through the journey to Goldmire. Little did the old man know that the assassin’s blade had been poisoned. Lesnar had yet to comment on the nature of second killer’s death, on the crimson tears that signified blood magic. It was likely that he failed to notice such minor details in his old age.
Could he truly have once been the fiercest warrior in the realm? No. Impossible!
“I’m curious, old man,” Owen said once he had finished his smoke, choosing his words with care as his companion was charmingly unpredictable. “If this was always your plan, why bother to take the contract in the first place? You stood a much better chance at killing Mire and the others in your youth. Your fighting days are nearly behind you.”
“The contract was a mistake,” the old man replied.
“How so?”
“Mire and the others were in a war for my services. Each wanted to become the undisputed King. I brought them to a neutral location to negotiate the best rate – another mistake. After a clandestine parley, they agreed to a peace between the four kingdoms and promised to give me an absurd amount of gold if I agreed to go into exile.”
“Ah. Then I revealed that King Mire had failed to hold up one of the terms.”
“Aye. Mercenaries must honor their contracts. Kings as well.” Lesnar narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “It remains to be seen if you can truly claim such a noble title.”
Mercenary? A noble title? Owen stifled a laugh. “What is your plan when we get there?”
“The ring you sent the King of course. I’ll be at your side when you claim the bounty.”
“Won’t King Mire know Lesnar of the Blood Moon on sight? You are archenemies after all.” Owen smiled inwardly. The man before him had the appearance of a drug-ridden drifter. There was no chance that anyone would recognize him.
“A mercenary must adapt to fulfill their contract. I am no stranger to deception. I will simply accompany you to collect the reward posing as your companion.”
And you call me an assassin…
“Fair enough,” Owen remarked, fingering the sigil ring hidden within the pocket of his cloak. “I will prove to you that I am a true mercenary, Lesnar of the Blood Moon.”
“Until then, I’ll have my eye on you.” Lesnar took a long drink from his flask. “Let’s pick up the pace!”
Owen watched the old man gallop ahead, pondering the real agreement he had made with King Mire. Then, he followed.
THREE
Owen had expected to feel relief upon seeing his home, however, the familiar haze hanging over Goldmire reflected that which clouded his mind. Glancing at the old man riding on his left, he cursed himself for falling prey to such a pointless dilemma.
He had grown to admire the delusional warrior over the course of their week’s long journey. There was something fascinating about Lesnar’s refusal to recognize his limitations. Without that stubborn persistence, and Owen’s discreet work to keep the lingering poison at bay, the old man would never have made it to the capital alive.
Toying with the sigil ring in his pocket, Owen delved deeper into his storming mind. The reward for delivering Lesnar alive to King Mire remained enticing, but a share of the vast treasurers cached in the royal vault was without equal.
It would have been far easier to let Lesnar perish at the hands of his previous companions, but the paltry reward for returning the graying mercenary dead was hardly worth the trouble. Opportunity had arisen, and Owen had taken it. Fortunately, time remained. In either scenario, he would deliver Lesnar to the royal hall of King Mire. But which old fool he would aid?
It was now all too clear that the alleged feats of Lesnar of the Blood Moon had been claimed by King Mire in the mercenary’s lengthy absence, that the King was far from the saintly warrior everyone perceived him to be. Would the world be better off without him? Then again … what if Lesnar was unable to defeat him in combat?
You idiot! It’s no wonder Erin never lets you make important decisions!
To pass time on the road, Owen had gradually drawn the memories out of the old man’s eternally-altered mind. After much trial and error – and hearing the same tale a dozen times – he had finally uncovered Lesnar’s version of how twenty-odd kingdoms had become four. Unfortunately, Lesnar’s stories were likely as exaggerated as King Mire’s.
Well, since they are both mentally insane, then I should just take the sure thing. Lesnar does not suspect the trap awaiting him. Owen frowned. But I’m almost certain he can defeat Mire. A share from the royal vaults would be worth a hundred completed contracts…
Lesnar remained somewhat skilled with the blade. Each day at sunset, he forced Owen to spar with him in secluded locations off the main road. The old man had quickly rounded into decent form. More impressively, he seemed to fight exponentially better the more smoke he inhaled.
Again, Owen cursed himself. Erin is going to kill me! She would never consider staking our futures on the blade of a burn out…
Another truth had become clear upon the road. Mire’s kingdom would fracture upon his death. The old king was rumored to be ill and had no legitimate heir. Whispers of minor rebellions led by the last of supposedly-eradicated lines had long been present in the capital. As soon as Mire perished, the realm was destined to return to the chaotic state of Lesnar’s youth.
Whatever choice I make, I will need to take my reward and disappear, Owen concluded, continuing to fiddle with the old man’s sigil ring. Perhaps somewhere beyond the sea. One of those unfamiliar standards at Seascape. As long as Erin is with me it doesn’t matter where–
Owen jerked his mount to a halt, nearly colliding with the exhausted horse of his companion. Lesnar had dismounted and trekked a short distance to the top of one of the many hills overlooking the crowded city. Owen slid from his saddle and joined him.
“This city has grown out of control,” Lesnar rambled between pulls from his flask. “No way to properly defend from an invading army. Mire has grown soft in his old age…”
At this point, Owen had mastered the art of withholding his laughter. The truth was that Lesnar of the Blood Moon and King Mire were cut from the same cloth. Both refused to accept the fact that they had aged, that they weren’t the champions they claimed to have been in their youths.
“Why did you dismount?” Owen asked when the old man had run dry of words. “We don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.”
“I need to resupply before battling King Mire,” Lesnar pronounced. “If I am not at my best, he may defeat me. The rumors of his skill are not exaggerated. We have always been closely matched.”
“You’re saying you need more leaf,” Owen surmised.
“Aye. Also, a helm, a shirt of chain mail, and oil for my blade.” The graying mercenary met his eyes. “I trust you can locate these things. You claim this city as your home after all.”
Owen nodded, imitating the seriousness of his companion’s tone. “I know just the person…”
*
Lesnar paced inside the foul-smelling stable, hand on the hilt his blade as he stared down a host of suspicious steeds. The young assassin had nearly convinced him of his worth, but he had learned long ago not to carelessly extend his trust. Something bothered him about the assassination attempt in Seascape. Unfortunately, his memories of the assault were fragmented.
I should never have allowed myself to fall out of fighting shape, the mercenary knew. The gold had soured his desire to train, to maintain the peak physical condition that had allowed him to flourish.
Fortunately, Lesnar had easily shaken off his rust on the journey to the capital. In three days, he would be ready to face the dishonorable King.
The graying mercenary had declined Owen’s suggestion to make the exchange within an inn. He couldn’t take the chance that someone would recognize him. He refused to believe that tales of his countless triumphs had completely died off. The assassin was simply not a patron of history. Young minds were far more concerned with their own name.
Lesnar knew that truth better than anyone.
At the sound of footsteps, the mercenary prepared for an ambush, only to lower his blade as Owen revealed himself. A shorter figure bundled in a cloak emerged from the shadows a pace behind, face concealed beneath a dark hood. The fair-haired assassin carried a sack bulging with equipment over one shoulder. His eyes held a hint of concern.
“Who is you companion?” Lesnar questioned sharply. “Identify yourself!”
Owen tossed the sack at Lesnar’s feet. “Easy, Blood Moon. She’s a friend, and the one who procured all these items without drawing unwanted attention.”
“Your tastes are expensive, mercenary,” the woman said from beneath her veil, “but I was able to gather every item on your list. I have no interest in what you need them for.”
Lesnar wasn’t convinced.
At his insistence, the woman lowered her hood to reveal a youthful face framed by raven-colored hair. An item smoothly slipped from her sleeve to her gloved hand. “Here’s your leaf. Owen helped assess the quality. Best in the city.”
The graying mercenary snatched the velvet pouch out of the air. “You have my thanks. I will repay any debt after my task is complete. Now, begone!”
Lesnar waited for the woman to leave the stable before turning his stern gaze to the assassin. “You should not have brought here her. We can’t risk Mire knowing that I am alive.”
Owen sighed. “I … could not deny her request to see Lesnar of the Blood Moon. She promised to be discreet if I cooperated. As she stated, I didn’t tell her the reason you had come to the capital.”
“Do you trust her?”
“With my life.”
“Still, we can’t take any unnecessary chances,” Lesnar said after confirming the contents of the bag. “Let’s return to our true base of operations to train. The time is nearly upon us.”
*
“I’m sorry for doubting you, my love,” Erin said as she slid into the seat opposite Owen. Her dark eyes passively surveyed the crowded common room as she poured herself a drink. “The way he looked at me, something about his eyes … I should not have accompanied you.”
Owen lowered his tankard and shrugged. “No matter. He thinks you are a thief and that I am an assassin. He believes gold to be our primary motivator.”
“An accurate assessment.” Erin tapped her painted nails on the table, her way of externalizing mental debates. “Where is he now?”
“Sleeping in a rundown hovel. Training exhausts him.”
“And you?”
Owen held up a glowing finger. “Limitless energy.”
Erin rolled her eyes.
“What news of the King?” he asked.
“My acquaintance inside the castle confirmed that Mire is ill. The city’s best healers have all visited the King in his chambers, but none have been able to resolve his ailment. It is safe to say that he is dying. No one seems to know how long he has left.”
“Did you learn his plans for Lesnar?”
“No. However, it is something extravagant. Some believe the King has gone mad.”
“So,” Owen mused once her fingers had come to rest, “what do you think we should do? Do you think that Lesnar stands a chance at defeating Mire, that he is all he claims to be?”
“Stop trying to convince yourself that an old man fueled by drugs can kill a King in the middle of his castle and survive long enough to pay out your reward. You never think these things through. Even if Lesnar of the Whatever Moon kills Mire, neither of you will walk out alive.”
Owen groaned. “I thought I finally found a way to get us out of this dying city. We could explore the world. We could start a family.”
“Really? A family?” Erin scoffed. “Is that what you think I want?”
“It sounded better in my head.”
The woman laughed. “What if I told you don’t need to decide. That I have a better idea.”
“Honestly, I would be relieved.”
“Excellent. I suggest we take our scheming to my room. Perhaps we can make good use of your limitless energy. You have been away for some time.”
Owen grinned. “Lead the way.”
FOUR
Three days later, a determined Lesnar approached the gargantuan castle.
The mercenary marched with confidence, each step bringing him closer toward his goal. The blade sheathed at his side was perfectly sharpened and oiled. His features were shadowed beneath his newly acquired helm. His mind was clam, cleared of troubling thoughts by the last of the leaf.
Owen walked a pace ahead. The young assassin had nearly proven himself a true mercenary. He was apt with both mind and blade. It had been Owen’s idea to include a third member of their party, the resourceful thief. The woman’s figure would draw eyes that could otherwise prematurely reveal Lesnar’s identity. Not to mention that King Mire preferred groups of three.
The party was not questioned as they passed through the castle’s innermost gate. As expected, the sigil ring had fooled Mire. The King expected a trio of assassins coming to claim their reward, not a ghost from his past. Lesnar’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade in anticipation.
He used me, the mercenary scowled. Mire knew that I would honor the contract, that he could defeat the others once I was out of the picture. I will remind him that contracts must be upheld!
Murals of Mire’s conquests adorned the castle walls. The scenes were intimately familiar. As Owen had stated, Mire now claimed the legend of Lesnar of the Blood Moon as his own. The mercenary observed the scenes with open disdain, knowing that Mire could have easily constructed a reputable legacy with his own skill, with his own deeds.
I must restore honor to the name Lesnar of the Blood Moon!
Owen brought the party to a halt ten paces before the doors of the throne room where a trio of armored guards stood statuesque. He turned and observed the graying mercenary with an unreadable expression. “Are you ready, old man?”
Lesnar met his gaze. “Remember the contract.”
Wisely, Owen said nothing more. The young man approached the guards, removed a summons from the pocket of his jacket, and waved it in the air. Wordlessly, the guards opened the doors, revealing the chamber beyond.
Where Lesnar had expected extravagance, there was little to be found. Mire’s ancestral throne, a gilded monstrosity, shone bright beneath a crystal chandelier. Banners bearing the sigil of his house hung from the stone walls. Candles grouped beneath stained glass windows flavored the air. Otherwise, the room was empty.
Mire sat on his throne, his appearance just as Lesnar remembered. Time had done little to diminish the King’s stature. Absent the gray in his hair and beard, Mire looked no different than he had before Lesnar’s acceptance of the ill-conceived contract. The crown strung through his lengthy hair was simple, yet elegant. The sword leaning against the throne’s arm was familiar and deadly.
Lesnar wasted no time. With a flourish, he threw his steel helm to the ground and drew his blade.
“Mire! You broke the contract! You have claimed my deeds as your own!” he bellowed. “Now, you must face the consequences!”
Wordlessly, Kire Mire took his blade and rose. He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply, the sound echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. In response, a stream of armored men marched through the throne room doors and encircled the two warriors. The smell of alcohol and burning leaf trailed the new arrivals.
“Afraid to face me alone? I’m not surprised,” the graying mercenary remarked when silence again claimed the room.
“It is good to see you as well, my old friend,” Mire grinned as he descended the dais and brandished his blade. “Oh, how I have waited for this moment!”
*
Clutching Lesnar’s sigil ring, Owen watched the two old men awkwardly circle each other in preparation for their arduous and arthritic duel. A smattering of forced cheers came from the onlookers before the throne room doors shut.
“So?” he asked the lone remaining guard. “Where do I retrieve my reward?”
The man shrugged. “Do I look like the royal treasurer?”
“Can you at least point me in the right direction?”
The guard stepped past Owen and gestured to an adjacent hallway. “Follow this hall to its end, then ascend two flights of stairs. Room is marked by–”
Owen caught the guard as he collapsed and dragged him through an unlocked door and into a crowded storage room. Frowning, he drew a cloth from his pocket and wiped the blood streaking down the man’s face. A wise assassin took the time to cover his tracks, when possible.
As he moved toward the rendezvous point, Owen considered the decision he had made. The entire castle had been left virtually undefended so that the royal guard could witness the dying King’s self-aggrandizing skirmish.
Mire was obviously not concerned with paying out the reward. Lesnar had failed to notice Erin divert from their party shortly after entering. The two old men were meant for each other.
Erin was right. Both of them are nothing more than fools. We can only look out for ourselves…
*
Lesnar probed Mire’s defenses with his blade, considering the King’s words. The familiar feeling of doubt returned to the heightened mind of the mercenary. Something had been wrong since the attack in Seascape. He needed clarity.
“What do you mean, you’ve waited for this moment?” he asked.
Mire cackled as the mercenary parried another testing strike. “I don’t remember you being so dull. Did you honestly believe that I would allow you to reach this room alive if I did not wish it?”
Frowning, Lesnar evaded a series of blows and sought a brief respite. Lifted by the high-quality leaf, his mind worked with unmatched effectiveness until revelation arrived. His frown deepened when he noticed the absence of his sigil ring from the King’s hand.
“Ah! Now you have seen the truth of things,” Mire smirked. “The boy was never your friend. He is one of my finest assassins, tasked with bringing you to me in one piece. I’m inclined to pay him extra as he managed to fend off the nasty poison coursing through your veins.”
Lesnar was unfazed. He had never trusted the assassin. Owen’s appearance in the alley, his subsequent explanation, the ease with which they had entered the castle. It had never felt right. Few could be trusted to carry out contracts, to bear the noble title of mercenary.
“What is the point of this duel?” the mercenary questioned.
Mire unleashed another probing strike. “I thought I had accomplished everything. Only as my body betrays me, do I realize that my life’s work is incomplete. To secure my place among the gods, I must slay the mercenary that once brought this land to its knees!”
For some time, the sound of steel against steel filled the throne room of Goldmire. Their dance was one of unquestioned skill, a display of prowess found only in a select few. Drunken cheers urged them on. At last, the combatants separated, gasping for air.
“You haven’t changed at all,” Mire laughed through deep breaths. “Pointlessly honoring a contract for so long, only to come rushing back when you found I had broken it. How predictable! If you would have just looked up from your booze for a moment, perhaps you would have been able to properly exact your revenge. Instead, you have fallen into my trap of mutual destruction.”
Lesnar growled as they came face to face. “This is not the end, Mire!”
The King spun around a strike and countered. Their blades came together in a test of strength.
“Oh, but it is,” Mire remarked through bared teeth. “If you manage to defeat me, my men have orders to run you through. Even in your youth, you could never prevail against such overwhelming odds. I have erased your legend from my kingdom, but I know not to underestimate you.”
Stepping back, the mercenary took in his surroundings. There were no more than twenty guards, all of whom were in a various state of impairment. The throne room had two definitive exits. A third was likely hidden in case of a successful breach. Certainly, there was a chokepoint he could hold against overwhelming numbers.
I will not die here. Not when I have unfinished business to attend to!
“This day will be your last!” Mire hissed as their blades met once again.
The mercenary smirked, preparing to end the deceitful King. “It is apparent that even you have forgotten that I am Lesnar of the Blood Moon!”
*
Owen took a final look at the two weathered chests filled with gold and gems, then pulled the tarp tight over the bed of the small wagon and secured the final knot. The castle grounds were hauntingly still. He had only needed to add two bodies to his count to secure their escape route. All in all, it was perhaps the easiest job he had ever completed.
“Are you going to stand there all day and wait for someone to notice us?” Erin asked from beneath the hood of her favored cloak. “The duel could end at any moment. If Mire dies, word of his death will send the streets into chaos.”
“Almost done,” Owen replied, putting the finishing touches on a deadly spell. Any who attempted to rob them would not live to tell the tale.
A moment later, he climbed the wagon and sat beside Erin bearing a triumphant grin. “Have I ever told you how brilliant you are?”
Erin sent the horses into motion. “Not nearly enough.”
“So,” Owen said, glancing back at the castle. “Who do you think won?”
“For the last time, it doesn’t matter. We are the winners here.”
He sighed, twisting the sigil ring around his finger.
“What’s your problem, my love?”
“Nothing.” Owen wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her close. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
Yes, he had broken the contract with the old man, but there was no way the delusional warrior would survive the day, let alone ever track him down.
Still, Owen couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth in the legend of Lesnar of the Blood Moon…
THE END