Jarek The Defiler

The hall is crowded. It’s always like Raymond to have such company in his court. Barons, duchesses, knights, mages, ambassadors of the dragon and demonic realms, and do I even spot a Hermonian wizard of all people? I've not seen one of their kind in decades…centuries, even? Lavish company indeed, Lord Raymond. I have no doubt they will be pleased with the feast and mummers. Raymond is no amateur when it comes to entertaining his guests. Evident in this positively intoxicating Sythian wine. Deacon’s black hand raised a jeweled cup to his lips, making sure to sip the wine, savoring every flavor his acute palate could absorb. Delicious.

His pale blue, nearly white eyes scanned the large hall before him. The lush, red silk curtains remained open on the windows, granting those inside a starry night view of the gardens and marbled plaza of the courtyard where many other guests laughed and bellowed under the weight of strong cups and honeyed words. So much extravagance. So much decadence. So many swindlers and liars. Another sip from his own cup sent a stream of warmth down Deacon’s gullet. Who am I to cast judgment? We’ve probably taken contracts from half of them. His eyes darted to a particularly rotund man with giant golden rings clinking on his fat fingers. He remembered taking that one on as a client in their battles with mountain bandits some years ago. Not a bad ruler, per se. The people seemed to respect him. Few can claim that I suppose.

But then there was another he recognized. She stood tall, even among the knights. Those dark eyes and even darker locks would normally be unforgettable, if not for the hatred behind them when she attempted to hire his company to slaughter a group of fishermen. Their crime? Having the audacity to cast nets in ‘her’ waters, despite the territory being in dispute at the time. Naturally, his commander declined the contract, making his disdain for the countess quite apparent. One must take sides. Alas, one of their competitors took the contract, and the fisherman were found on spikes some days later. The wails of their wives and children still rung in his dark, pointed ears.

“Are you not the Defilers? What is the purpose of your name if you’re not capable of staining your hands? Fools! Be gone from my lands ‘fore I have you flogged!” The countess was most unpleased. But little did she (or most for that matter) know that the name was not representative of their actions, but simply the moniker of their commander, Jarek Defiler, or rather his sword, the infamous ‘Defiler.’ Jarek adopted the name once the sword chose him. And at that time, one of the most successful mercenary companies was formed along with its second in command, who now stared daggers at that wretched countess while sipping his Sythian wine.

Speaking of the commander—he stood by one of the windows facing the garden, being sure to keep it to his front. He was surrounded by a small entourage of admirers, all of which he dwarfed with his tall, slender frame. Always smiles and laughter, Jarek Defiler, or Jarek the Defiler many called him, was more than willing to regale his audience with past exploits of ferocious battles and mighty adventures. Once Jarek was in his cups, the stories would flow unhindered, much to the delight of his admirers.

Most would see him as a barbarian if not for his reputation. With short cut hair and a brownish-red goatee that now dripped with Raymond’s quality mead, he was not a sight of nobility. For all he wore besides his strongly woven ankle banded pants and loose leather boots, were simple studded wrist guards; the same garb he wore into battle. One would never expect to see such attire in a lord’s court outside of a jester or firebreather, but Jarek and his company were given exception due to their past relationship with Lord Raymond.

Impressively, Jarek was the only guest allowed to keep his weapon upon him in court. Being arguably one of the greatest swordsmen of the era, he was trusted to keep it. Admittedly, Raymond liked a spectacle. And what greater spectacle than the infamous Defiler in his court? Jarek wouldn’t have minded allowing the servants to keep watch over it, but he was always thankful when a ruler allowed him to keep it upon his person. For it was a part of him. And there it hung off his back in a dark brown shoulder sheath scabbard: The Defiler.

Almost as long as a man, and just as heavy, the grey-steeled longsword shone brightly among the torchlight chandeliers. It held a small patterned pommel in the shape of a seashell. The black leathered grip appeared almost as metal with its sheen. The cross-guard was strong and woven intricately with some unknown material. And the blade itself, nothing other than masterful smith work of unknown demonic origin, laced with runes and a deep fuller used for reasons only his closest companions knew.

But the most fascinating aspect of all, was the blood red orb stuck in the rain-guard. It wasn’t quite a jewel, but rather an unbreakable glass bauble. The red came from within. And only those among the company and a select few without knew of that dark orb’s purpose, and why it shifted and swirled with red essence within. Many rumors have been spread. Many lies uttered. But only those who knew the truth could attest to the dark force within that heavy blade. For the Defiler is no ordinary sword. It is, in fact, a demon, or perhaps a demon’s lair would be more apt. And not a demon such as the second in command of the Defilers. Not one of the civilized, societal races of demons. No, this one was an outcast, a scapegoat, a berserker. A defiler.

But for some reason it chose Jarek. My closest friend and battle brother. A good man and even better leader. It chose him to feed its unsatiable lust. And with every enemy downed, every drop of life’s essence sifting into that fuller, the orb reddens, and the Defiler grows content. In turn, it feeds Jarek its strength. A dark symbiosis. Not that I approve, for I knew the Defiler before he was banished to the sword. This is not one I would trust nor wish to rely upon.

Yet here we are. But it has been decades, and so far, the alliance holds. I suppose the contract is sustainable for now…

A woman’s guttural laugh echoed across the tall, arched ceilings of Lord Raymond’s court. The Duchess of Klebraunt, a pleasant and charming woman. She is enamored with Jarek’s stories, as are many others. The mercenary commander’s audience grew by several listeners at that point. The women giggled at his animated accounts; the men guffawed at his child-like expressions. If only they knew him in battle. The stories would become tales of horror. Deacon knew. He knew what it took for him to become the swordsman he was today. The many scars on his shoulders, chest and back were testament to that. But what Deacon had seen Jarek the Defiler do in their various campaigns would leave many with mouth agape in terror. For that was the life of a skilled mercenary.

It’s quite astounding really. With exception of a few knights and warriors, this nobility, never having to partake in battle or true adversity, stand around him, awestruck by his tales of adventure. Yet none know of what such adventures truly entail. None know of the vomitous stench when having to burn an entire village to the ground due to an infestation of plagued ghouls. None know of the metallic feeling of your enemy’s drying essence on your soiled hands after fighting hours upon hours. They can't fathom the taste of blood mist when the sun begins to rise over a fog-laden battlefield. The screams and wails of agony alone would see most nobles bed-ridden with fear and stress.

And the Defiler? Heh. They never saw him decapitate a man in one powerful swing. They never witnessed him pull out an enemy’s entrails that had the misfortune to injure one of our own. Minds would change if they saw him tear out a man’s throat with his bare teeth. He tends to leave those parts out of his stories, Deacon chuckled. All part of being a mercenary. We live how we live.

Another loud bellow from one of the seasoned knights, someone who could appreciate the struggle of combat at least. Jarek threw his hands in the air at a particularly exciting moment in his story, spilling mead on some of the guests before him. They simply laughed away his apologies, too enchanted by his tales to care about some silly spilled mead on their expensive regalia. At least he retains his humanity. After all we’ve done, and seen, at least he is still human. As well as the others. Deacon’s eyes looked to the other members of their company enjoying the mirth.

But then the ever-growing crowd began to part. Laughter was met with salutations and bowed heads as Lord Raymond pushed his way through to Jarek.

“And we all know how well you fared at the Battle of Waterbridge, my friend!” Raymond put a hand on Jarek’s shoulder, offering him another drink. “Seven against hundreds, and you held. Unheard of in any realm. I raise my cups to my honored guest and his companions. May we never find ourselves on the other side of their blades, ha!” Raymond turned to Deacon, raising his cup to him as well. Deacon returned the gesture with a slight bow of his head.

“Hear, hear!” “Indeed!” “God forbid, ha!” “To the Defilers!”

“Now, let me steal him away from you, my humbled guests. I have something to discuss with our beloved Defiler. Forgive me.” Much to the admirer’s dismay, Raymond ushered Jarek through the crowd and back toward the head of the table on the far end of the hall.

Deacon watched as the two tall figures passed the mass of nobles, knights and patrons. They sat at the table, Raymond on his throne, Jarek in the advisor’s slot opposite of Raymond’s wife. Then they spoke. What they discussed, Deacon could only guess. But no doubt it was business, given the sudden somber look washing over Raymond’s visage. No surprise. Raymond rarely invites us just for pleasantries. Then again, few do. Jarek remained smiling, occasionally nodding at Raymond’s words.

Then, with a snap of Raymond’s fingers, one of his advisor’s hobbled forth and handed him a small scroll, still bearing a seal. Jarek took the scroll and stood. Bowing to Raymond before taking his leave. His destination? Deacon.

The black-skinned demon tipped back the last of his wine before setting the cup on a nearby table. A servant immediately passed by and snatched it up. Jarek gently pushed through the crowd of guests, many of which paid him their compliments and greetings. The smile never ceased, even when he finally arrived at Deacon and handed him the sealed scroll.

“Day is never finished,” the mercenary commander said behind bright hazel eyes. “It would appear Raymond is having trouble with the river pirates again.”

“The ones to the south? That’s Platus’ turf, no?” Deacon broke the seal and began reading over the letter. Fools. If Platus knew of this, their heads would be on spears within the hour.

“Apparently, Platus has been engaged in a war with another syndicate. His deal with Raymond has been upheld, but he can't afford the manpower to handle some ‘measly pirates.’ His words.”

“And given the letter, he will be subsidizing our fee.”

“Fair is fair. Raymond is content with the deal. Either way, they have been causing much grief to the riverbed villages. Many killed. Many raped.” Jarek’s smile waned slightly at the words of pillage. He’ll always have a soft spot for the people.

“Very well. But you do realize that this is far below our, what shall I say, pay grade? Why not send some soldiers or purchase a lesser company?”

“Raymond wants to show the people that he cares. Spare no expense. Besides, we’re already here. May as well enjoy ourselves.” The smirk returns.

“And, he knew you wouldn’t say no.”

“He knew I wouldn’t say no,” Jarek chuckled.

“Mercenary with morals. You’ll be the death of us all.” Deacon rolled up the scroll and put it in the satchel he always carried. “I will inform the others.”

“Aye. We leave at daybreak. Shouldn’t be more than a two-day trek. By all accounts, the fools have grown bold. They don’t even bother hiding anymore. Should be easy to track down in no time. I suspect no more than a five-day campaign. And Raymond promises a barrel of his finest mead to sweeten the deal.”

“Your weakness for mead will find us destitute one of these days.”

“Which is why I have you to oversee our finances, ha!” Jarek slapped him on the back before taking his leave. “I will retire. The days ahead will be long and filled with much blood.”

“Aren’t they all?” Deacon smirked before catching the eyes of their other companions and nodding them over.

As they approached, he gave one last look to their commander, who was heading down the large hall to the guest wing. His giant sword swayed from side to side with each step. Each guest passing him, cordially bowed or nervously looked away. The soldiers standing to attention stood a little straighter when he walked past. Such respect for one who partakes in slaughter as easily as a chef carves a pickled ham.

Deacon looked down at his own hands. The blackness of his skin contrasted with the whiteness of his nails. No scars or blemishes plagued his flesh, as his demonic blood renewed his physical being with ease, albeit over time. But the scars on Jarek will never heal. Nor the others that stood around him now, waiting for orders. He looked them over, these people he grew to love over the years. His family. “We got a job.”