The Undead King: The Saga of Jai Lin: Book One (27 page)

All seemed to grow quiet as Mercer walked out of the forest. The only sounds were the quickened pumping of blood in his head, his shallow breath. He completely forgot his plan to act drunk, he was so certain he was about to be discovered. Yet he walked straight into the camp without any of the mercenaries looking twice at him, most not even staring up from their mugs of beer or the naked women being passed around.

Mercer felt Brook squeeze his arm. Reflected in her gaze was the unease percolating within his gut, the fear at being in the middle of such a barbaric, wild place. He winked at her, trying his best to act brave. Suddenly, he remembered his plan to act drunk. His head drooped and his knees buckled. He tottered around and began to lurch. In this way, they made their way deeper into camp, on the lookout for the tall cosmologist or Solloway’s bushy beard.

Brook pulled her cloak tighter around her body. She could feel eyes on her, though the men she saw in the street seemed too drunk to pay her any mind. The leering seemed to come from the shadows within the tents themselves. They knew the shape her body took beneath her cape, their hands wanting to do unspeakable things to it. She shivered. Leo tried calming her by rubbing his broad head on her thigh; though she felt safer with him by her side, she knew that were they to encounter a handful of rapacious, lustful mercenaries, they would most likely die fighting them off. And then who knew what they would do with her corpse? The thought made her sick.

They stepped over the bodies of mercenaries bloated with beer and mutton, over puddles of fetid water and body waste. Hogs ran freely through the camp, eating whatever scraps they could find and occasionally nibbling on a comatose mercenary’s leather shoes.

Ruins of old buildings sprouted up like mushrooms through the camp, one of which they were coming upon. It was a squat building made of stone, still retaining much of its shape and function. The caterwauls of women and laughter of men wafted out through the hollow windows on the wisps of charred smoke. A few mercenaries mingled outside, smoking leaf or drinking beer. The two travelers walked by without making any eye contact, Mercer still drunkenly stumbling, Brook with her cloak pulled tightly around her body. Despite their best efforts, one of the men standing outside called to them.

“A lass like you care to try your luck in the House of Screams?” The man had a voice that sounded familiar to both, phlegmy and filled with vitriol. “Or you laddie? You look like you could use a good ride atop a bucking mare. Two silvers for a night you’ll never forget, I give you my word.”

Mercer shook his head and mumbled something, as though he were too drunk to string coherent words together. In reality, his heart was punching his chest harder than ever, worried that they’d be found out and forced to fight their way back out of camp. Brook didn’t even turn her head, instead tried to keep walking. The man by the House of Screams wasn’t satisfied with their non-answers, and followed after them.

“I feel like I’ve seen you before, lass. Salty here never forgets a face. Why don’t you turn a bit so I can see you better?”

Brook felt her limbs turning to ice, as she now realized who the man was. It was the slaver who had caught her in the trap a quarter-moon before, the Wandering Bastard who wanted to eat Leo and had ultimately left her to be eaten by killim. He had a nose like a turnip and a leather belt adorned with dirty lace.

“It’s awful rude to not turn around when spoken to, friends. I hope you don’t mean to be insulting Salty’s honor.” Mercer felt more mercenaries taking notice of the scene. Thus compelled, he turned around, hoping his feigned drunkenness would be enough to diffuse the situation.

“I’m very… sorry, sir… but I am not feeling all too well. This is… my sister… she means to put me to bed. So if you don’t mind…”

“Ah, well after she tucks you in, perhaps she can tuck old Salty into bed too.” The slaver reached his long, spindly fingers out towards Brook, then grasped her forearm with a strength that belied his size. His eyes glowed with a terrible yellow light, spittle leaking out the corners of his mouth.

Mercer acted on impulse, Jai Lin leaving its sheath like a crack of lightning from the sky. It flashed through the air, cutting through Salty’s forearm with one clean swing. The slaver didn’t even register what had happened until Brook was able to pull away from him despite his attempt to keep her close. Blood spurted from the stump of his arm, splashing onto Brook’s cloak. Salty’s yellow eyes went even wider, his lips peeling back from his teeth as he brought his amputated arm before his face.

“You bastard!” Salty screamed. “I know you! Black Wing whore! Intruders in camp! Intruders in camp! You bloody fucking bastard, I’ll kill y_”

Jai Lin flashed through the air again, this time finding Salty’s neck. His screams became gurgles as the sword passed through the slaver’s flesh. Salty reached up with hand and stump, feeling at his neck, the blood flowing freely from the wounds. His eyes locked with Mercer, disbelief shimmering beneath the film of death already passing across his vision, before rolling into the back of his head. The man crumpled in a heap at their feet, his bald head rolling free.

Brook was stunned, but Mercer knew there was no time to waste. Salty had called loudly into camp before Mercer could fell him, and even though there were very few men around, they all eyed them suspiciously, unsure of what to do. Mercer tried to assume his drunken act again, despite how much he was shaking. “Are you… alright, sister?”

Brook nodded, tears in her eyes. “Sorry about that… friends. I promise you… I will clean up the mess in… in the morning… when I am a little less drunk...”

Mercer saluted the men standing around and then began to totter off in the way they had been going. He prayed that he would see Solloway or Jompers and then know which way to go, but the men were nowhere to be seen. He just had to trust his instincts that he was going in the same direction they were.

“Mercer…” Brook whispered to him.

“Just keep walking.”

“No, Mercer, everyone is staring at us.”

“I know. Just keep walking.”

There was a loud shout from behind them, an anguished wail. “Salty!” The man’s voice was authoritative, powerful. “Who did this?!”

Mercer felt the eyes on him more strongly, as if they were barbs hooking into him, preventing his escape. He tried to keep walking, but it was to no use. He knew he had been caught. The ruse was up.

Now there would only be more violence, more death.

“You…” The man said. “Turn around. Now.” Mercer did as he was ordered. Standing over Salty’s decapitated body was an extremely large man, well-muscled, with a long strip of hair slicked back and a mustache draping his mouth. He had strapped to his back a large gun and a bastard sword in his hands. It was Matchless, the leader of the Wandering Bastards.

“Salty was one of my best men,” Matchless seethed. “What will you give me in return for taking his life?”

Mercer felt a slight tinge of hope at the man’s question; a slaver thought every human had a price, so why shouldn’t he be able to pay however much silver this man believed Salty to be worth?

“I’ll give you twenty silvers for taking Salty’s life,” Mercer said, gesturing to Brook for the bag of coin. “Plus another sixty for the Black Wing you took in the Borderlands a week ago.”

The man scoffed. “Twenty silvers? You insult me, friend. Salty was worth eighty at least and I’ll take no less.”

Brook grabbed Mercer’s arm. “Mercer, no. We need it for Crow…”

“I know,” he whispered to her. “I’m sorry, but twenty is all I can spare. However, if you give us the Black Wing you have in your possession, then we’ll give you the full eighty.”

“We sold that henpecker days ago. People who bought him paid us triple what you’re offering, too.”

Brook gasped, the black cloud of fear which had been hanging over her for the past quarter-moon finally opening up and drenching her with its reality. They had missed their chance to rescue her brother, had taken too long to make it to Dusty’s camp. Now who knew where Crow was?

He’s still alive though,
she thought. The slavers had not killed him, which had been her worst fear. At least there was hope her brother was still alive.

“Who did you sell him to?” Brook asked.

“Ah, the lady speaks,” Matchless said, not doing anything to hide the lecherous glint in his eyes. “Now look, you first take my man’s life, then you ask me questions as if I owe you an answer. You two insult my dignity, you do. We all know you both don’t belong here, that you’re not a part of Dusty’s cause. You’re intruders, you are. I don’t think anyone will mind if I take your head in exchange for my man Salty’s. How do you feel about that, mister…?”

“Crane. Mercer Crane.” Mercer twirled his wrist, Jai Lin’s black edge glinting in the torchlight. “My father said a man should always know the name of the one who kills him.”

“Oh is that so, Mercer Crane? Then know that my name is Matchless, and today you die at my hands.”

The two men ran at each other, each of their swords extended behind them. Brook screamed Mercer’s name, hoping against hope that he would turn around and run from the camp with her, but it was too late for that. Matchless or Mercer would die that evening, the ground turning to mud from their blood. As steel blade met steel blade in an ear-piercing clang, Brook only hoped that it would not be Mercer.

A boisterous crowd had begun to gather around the two fighters, cheering when Matchless scored a hit with the butt of his sword, jeering when Mercer gracefully dodged the large man’s blade. Mercer had been able to gauge Matchless’s fighting style rather quickly: the slaver was all brute force, putting all he had into every one of his attacks. For a bear of a man such as Matchless, it was a style of fighting that had most likely served him well. Yet, against someone as patient and agile as Mercer, Matchless would tire out quickly. Mercer could already see it in the man’s wild eyes and flaring nostrils. His slashes were becoming sloppier, more desperate. Mercer would be able to make his move soon.

No one interfered with the fight, as was the way of the Green Lands: if two men engaged in combat with one another, they were entitled to finish it on their own terms. She could feel how strongly Leo wanted to jump into the fray and tear Matchless’s throat out. The pup had grown to love Mercer, but Brook wondered how much of that love actually stemmed from her. She quickly pushed the thought from her head when she felt the hot breath of the man next to her on her neck, his curious fingers on her back.

Leo growled, and the man took a few steps backwards, a lecherous grin on his face. Brook knew that Leo’s presence was the only thing keeping the hands of the gathered mercenaries off of her. She wondered at the futility of Mercer’s fight, at the senseless violence occurring in front of her. Now found out, they would never leave this camp alive, no matter the victor of the dual.

Her only hope rested with Solloway. She wondered if the bearded man had made it to the center of camp, if he had met Dusty Yen, if he had stopped a war. That was why they had really come this far east, why they had endured all manner of perils along the road. While rescuing her brother was important, stopping war in the Green Lands would affect far more lives should it prove successful. This mission had not been in vain, as she had helped Solloway and the others get as far as they did. She had to remember that.

Matchless’s bastard sword arched through the air dangerously close to Mercer’s cheek. He felt a few hairs split, saw them slowly float through the air on their way to the ground. Had he underestimated the slaver’s endurance? It seemed like the man was getting a second wind. Matchless roared as he swung his sword again, Mercer deftly knocking the large blade up just enough that it missed his face, then flipping backwards, putting himself at a distance beyond the slaver’s reach.

“You fight like... the young girl I bedded... in the House of Screams last night...” Matchless huffed to the delight of his men. Mercer knew the slaver was buying time, recharging his strength. While Mercer needed a moment to calm himself, he knew that his victory in this fight hinged on pushing Matchless beyond his limit.

“Only cowards bed girls against their will,” Mercer said. The mercenaries in the circle booed and threw dirt clods and fruit pits at him.

“I am what I am, but a coward? Hardly. I’ve stared death in the face more times than you have hair on your head. I’ve seen once proud men broken to pieces, have seen brothers enslave brothers, children sold for a loaf of bread or a cask of ale. I’m not a coward, Mercer Crane. I just know the world for what it is: a place where the strong take and the weak give.”

Mercer had heard enough.
As swift as a hawk, as unfettered as a stream
, he thought as he rushed forward. Hawk-stream style. Matchless couldn’t react in time. Mercer swung Jai Lin up as though its tip were tracing the outline of a crescent moon. The sword ran up the slaver’s ribs, like a stick along a picket fence, the man’s fleshy chest splitting apart with the greatest of ease.

He had swung hard but not deep; a man could survive a wound like that as long as it did not grow green. As Jai Lin finished its arc, Mercer turned around and gave the large man a side kick. Matchless stumbled backwards, blood spurting from his wound, red octopus tentacles grasping for a handhold as the huge man crashed to the ground.

A hush had fallen over the crowd, and Mercer could feel their gazes upon him as he stepped over to Matchless’s body. The man was grasping for his bastard sword, which had come free of his grip, but Mercer stopped that by stepping on his wrist.