A Test of Two Killers

“Well then,” Maryn smiled at Deacon from behind her frothy mug. The smell of honeyed mead never sat well with the black-skinned demon, but the mountain people of Starklevende adored the golden substance. “You certain you wish to seek out this man? The mercenary?” One of Maryn’s red eyebrows peaked, her grin teasing his motives.

“I’ve spent many days traveling for that very purpose. So, where is this Jarek Defiler?” Deacon was a patient demon, but he had wasted enough time waiting in that inn, conversing with these three strangers.

The young man sitting with them looked somewhat worried. No doubt unsure of what’s to come of the situation. I suppose I can't blame the youth, Deacon thought. I am a foreigner after all. They seem protective of the Defiler. The older man, however, still sat there with a smile, not entirely grasping the conversation. For he too was a traveler.

Then there was the sickly individual in the back of the inn, nestled under some heavy furs. Oddly enough, his raspy cough ceased some time ago. Deacon paid him no mind.

“The answer you seek is well within your grasp, Master Deacon.” Maryn held up her mug.

“That means nothing to me. Is no one capable of giving me a straightforward answer? Or do you simply choose not to? I suspect the latter.” Deacon stood, his thumbs tapping the expertly tanned black leather belt sitting tightly around his waist. He noticed the eyes of the strangers focusing on his two dark daggers resting in their sheath. He raised his hands, presenting his palms. “I mean no harm. I simply grow impatient. I’ve wondered this land for days trying to find this man—”

“And he found you,” a voice from behind, strong, confident, but not harsh or overtly deep. Deacon would have guessed it to be youthful, if not so filled with wisdom and experience. It was the sickly man, apparently cured.

Deacon turned around. We meet again. Standing before him, was the man he sought for all those days, Jarek Defiler, the mercenary. Deacon looked him in his hazel eyes. The man wasn’t as tall as other Starklevendens he’d seen, yet still stood a good foot and a half taller than he. As when they first clashed, he wore nothing other than his lightly armored banded pants, studded wrist guards, and strapped leather boots. How does he not freeze in these mountains? But there on his back, sitting comfortably in a leather shoulder scabbard, hung the massive longsword that nearly ended Deacon’s life weeks before. He found himself gently rubbing his side where that sword had wounded him. Despite having already healed with no scarring, it somehow itched in the presence of its creator.

“So, I've finally found you,” Deacon said, reaching into his pocket. Jarek titled his head, but didn’t react defensively or even cautiously. Deacon then pulled out the bronze brooch Jarek had given him after their bout. A symbol to grant him guidance through these mountains in search of the Defiler. “I have come to discuss your offer, mercenary.”

“Truly?” Jarek grinned, reaching out and gently taking the brooch from him. He rubbed his thumb over the surface. A look of sentimentality quickly washed over his face before melding back to its smiling form. “I must say, I did not expect you to seek me out—given our last encounter. But when word was sent to me from Torr in the Raspy Rivers Inn, I have to be honest, I was somewhat elated.”

“Hmph,” Deacon grumbled, not being one to let his guard down. “I find that hard to believe, Master Jarek.”

“Please, simply Jarek will suffice. Or Defiler, for we are one in the same.”

Deacon was puzzled. One in the same with who? “Very well, young Jarek. I was simply curious. I've no intention of outright joining you or taking some oath. I simply wish to”—Deacon looked to the ceiling for a brief moment, contemplating—“explore other options in my career.”

“I see. Fair enough.” Jarek flipped the brooch in the air before catching it and placing it in one of his pants pockets. “I don’t expect you to trust me after our first acquaintance. I suspect you wish to feel me out, test the waters, yes?”

“It would be only sensible. I did try to kill you after all.”

“Bah,” Jarek waved away the comment before crossing his sinewy arms. “Rules of the trade. We mercenaries are nought but fodder for the wealthy, ha! Story of my life. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Deacon noticed that Jarek’s accent wasn’t as thick as other Starklevendens. He suspected he grew up somewhere in the southern holds. It was then that he also noticed the copious amounts of scars lining Jarek’s shoulders, base of his neck and down to his forearms. Is that what mine would look like if my skin could scar? Shamelessly, Deacon stared with deep interest.

Jarek took notice of his wondering eyes. “Decades of sacrifice, mistakes, and trial and error my friend. But please, let us discuss terms.” He held out his hand, ushering Deacon to a table in the back of the inn. Decades? He can't be more than three. Deacon nodded and accompanied him. “Maryn, I thank you for your assistance, my dear.”

Maryn giggled and held up her mug, splashing some mead on her soiled apron. The older and younger men sitting with her seemed relieved at their cordial departure.

The conversation at the table was tense, given the two warriors’ past. But they both remained professionals, seeking a common ground in their negotiations.

“Surely you jest?” Deacon sat back, crossing his arms in frustration. “You mean to tell me you’re the sole member of this mercenary company you touted to me all those weeks ago?”

“I never lied,” Jarek grinned that infuriating grin. “I informed you that I was starting my own mercenary company. For I am all alone in this endeavor. But I seek others with great skill, as well as great scruples. The company aspect will come later, when we grow our ranks. I wish for something small; no more than ten men or women. All of great skill. A band of the elite. Quality, over quantity, yes?”

“Quality is wise. But so is quantity. Why such low numbers?”

“More manageable. More intimate. I wish to travel with those I can trust; forge bonds, learn about their past, loves, hatreds, likes and dislikes. Impossible with hundreds or thousands of warriors.”

“Hmmm,” Deacon rubbed his chin. Idealistic. Foolish even. “You seem to be viewing the life of a mercenary company with bright eyes and naïve smiles, young Jarek.”

Jarek responded with a large smile; mocking or proving a point, Deacon couldn’t tell. “You keep referring to me as, ‘young.’ I've been in this business for quite some time, my friend.”

“And you keep referring to me as ‘friend.’ I suppose we’re both neither. I meant no offense, but I am over six hundred years old. Humans are always young to me.”

“I see. I now understand your use of language. No offense taken. But perhaps we simply stick with our true names, yes?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, Deacon.” Jarek leaned in, resting his elbows on the sturdy wooden table. It was then that Maryn came and messily plopped two mugs of mead down before them. Jarek’s eyes grew wide and he thrust the mug up to his mouth, winking at Maryn as he drained half of it in one go. Deacon nodded his thanks to the innkeeper but gently pushed the mug to the center of the table. “My one true weakness: mead. Yes, Deacon, I am guilty of being somewhat—optimistic in regard to my dream of building a mercenary company. But the truth is, it’s possible. Men and women can be vetted. Probationary periods could be implemented.”

Deacon squinted his eyes. “You’ve thought much about this, haven’t you?”

“Why would I not? One must strive for perfection in their trade. Otherwise, what will become of your reputation?” Jarek slapped a missive down on the table. “Our first contract together! Bandit chief holed up in a cave deep in the mountains. I've dealt with many of this sort. I'm sure we’ll do splendidly.”

“It may be the first, but it also may be the last. I've made no guarantee to join you. Remember that, Jarek.”

“Oh aye. Consider this a test, for the both of us. If you’re not satisfied, by all means, leave. Likewise, if I find you inadequate, then we go our separate ways. Would be a shame, given how far you’ve come to track me down.” 

“Indeed.” Deacon eyed Jarek up and down. We shall see with this one.

***

Such immense speed! Deacon was shocked witnessing Jarek take on the bandits with swift ease, not so much as breathing heavily. Some were more than wet behind the ears, leaving them cowering in fear as he and Jarek struck down their betters.

Deacon moved to end the young recruits, only to have Jarek stop him. “These won't be causing us any trouble. Will you?”

“N…no sir,” replied the one with a red scarf covering his mouth. The young boys shook their heads before dropping their weapons and running out the cave entrance.

“Is that wise?” Deacon questioned. “They may come back or alert their allies.”

“Perhaps. But we don’t know that. Those aren’t hardened criminals; they’re but lost boys. No doubt orphans from the impoverished mountain villages. Maybe one learns the error of their ways and builds a prosperous mead brewery, experimenting with new flavors. What then, Deacon? Would you dare deprive me of one such possibility?” That smirk crept up Jarek’s face once more.

“It is best to be sure than leave things to fate.”

“I tend to make my own fate. That is something you will have to grow accustomed to if you choose to join me. Mercy is a most precious gift.”

“And one that could very well lead to your grave.” Deacon slashed the throat of a wounded bandit, ending him quickly. Jarek approved.

“I find it dreadfully boring to live in the, ‘What if.’ ‘What if they come back?’ ‘What if they start another bandit camp?’ ‘What if they raid a village in their escape?’ Truth is we don’t know, Deacon. And unless we do for certain, I choose not to end the lives of some scared boys who are merely trying to survive.”

“And yet we took away their survival. Now they must seek another, in the wilds.” Deacon nodded to a passage in the back of the cave. Jarek continued forward quietly, his longsword leading the way.

Deacon thought Jarek would be hindered by his massive blade in the cramped quarters of the caves. But he wielded it as if it were his own arm, flowing effortlessly in tight spaces like a rush of wind blowing past the damp walls. No wonder I lost to this man. I've never seen such skill from a swordsman. How can one so young wield such expertise? Deacon was no slouch either. He twirled and flurried with his daggers, occasionally bringing out his bow for a well-placed shot to the forehead of a rushing bandit.

The two silently pushed deeper into the cave, taking out each passage and chamber one at a time with deadly efficiency. The deeper in the cave they went, the harsher the resistance. They were going up against the veterans now, coming at them with strong axes and cudgels wrapped in leather and iron spikes. Luckily, most were drunk, not expecting a raid late at night. But they were still fierce, and strong as bulls. One even managed to slam Deacon up against the wall, spitting obscenities before his head suddenly vanished from his body, spraying copious amounts of blood across Deacon’s face.

“Apologies for the mess,” Jarek quipped, placing his blood-stained sword on his shoulder as he looked about the now crimson-filled chamber. Deacon noticed something odd with Jarek’s blade, as if it were draining the blood on it—absorbing it.

“I’ll take a bit of blood over death any day. You…have my gratitude, Defiler,” Deacon bowed his head slightly, his eyes still fixated on that sword.

“Heh. People always refer to me as the Defiler when in combat. That’s not truly my name. I’ll tell you where it comes from in time. For now, I suspect we’re at the chief’s quarters, right around that bend.” Jarek used his sword to point down the passageway.

The tunnel was dark, leaving Jarek to rely on Deacon’s keener demonic senses for stealthy travel. Delving deeper, a glimpse of light finally came into view. Noises could be heard: metal clanking and scraping about, and mutterings.

When they arrived to the last chamber of the cave system, they discovered the bandit chief struggling to put on his armor—armor that was most definitely not built for him, as it seemingly took all his strength to squeeze his rotund gut into the tight cuirass. Upon seeing them, the chief rushed to his war hammer sitting by the mountain of stained pillows that apparently made up his bed. But before Deacon could utter a word, the bandit chief’s hand was soaring through the air, fingers flapping about like fallen leaves in a windstorm.

“Gaah! Curse thee!” the chief swore, falling to his knees while holding his bloody stump.

Jarek stood over him, sword resting on his shoulders yet again. “If I had a bottle of mead for every time I've been cursed by some ruffian, I’d open my own tavern.”

“You little piss pot. You’ve no idea ‘oo I am. I’ve got boys all over the ‘old. You’ll be ‘anging from yer toes by the morn. Broken and bloodied. Enjoy this victory while ye can.” The bandit chief’s face was growing pale.

“Perhaps. But I think not. Any last words before I have your head? Have to bring it to the magistrate. You understand.”

“Aye.” The bandit spat on the ground, sweat dripping down his pudgy face. “Just get on with it. My time has come. Heh. ‘ave to admit, you’ve lot got some skill to make it this far. Me boys were no slouches. Come. Let me ‘ave it.” The bandit sat up straight, presenting his neck with a smile.

“Admirable,” Jarek said, before the sword sliced and head rolled.

“No mercy for this one then?” Deacon said, staring at the bloodied appendage as it came to rest at the base of the pillow mound.

“He was the target, and not worthy of such. Trust me. This man has done terrible things.” Jarek sheathed his blade and picked up the head, placing it in one of the empty potato sacks lying on the ground.

“Haven’t we all,” Deacon sighed.

“Most assuredly. However, the question is, what do we do going forward? This man would always be a bandit, preying on the weak and innocent. And I don’t know about you, Deacon, but I've never raped, nor killed innocent men, women and children. I’ve never stolen either.”

“No, you’ve only slaughtered people by the dozens,” Deacon smirked. “How do you justify it? Because they were criminals? Murderers, such as yourself? Or were you simply doing your duty?”

“I'm not sure. I've never felt the need to have to justify my work because I never took a contract that wasn’t justified in and of itself. I do my due diligence. Also, I tend to work with those I know and trust to give me proper contracts…mostly. What of you? You were after my client when we first met. A good man that deserved no death at the hands of an assassin.”

“Hmph,” Deacon sniffed, looking away. “At least I'm honest with the atrocities I've committed. And I've come to terms with them. Justified or not.”

“I see.” Jarek stared at him for a brief moment, tying the sack securely with leather straps. “Well, so long as you know your place in this world, I suppose I cannot judge. After all, you are correct. I too have done many atrocities, even if I thought them just.”

Deacon nodded before following Jarek out of the cave. Walking through the chambers was a different experience entirely. Being in the moment of slaughter, one could justify their actions, their barbarity. But once the dust settles, and the corpses lie still, it allows one to see the true fruits of their labor.

“Some of these boys can't be older than 14,” Deacon shook his head solemnly.

“Is that a hint of sympathy I gauge in your voice? Perhaps remorse?”

“I have a heart, Defiler. I take no pleasure in ending lives.”

“Yet you still do it, and given your talents and age, you’ve done it quite a lot.”

“It is all I know. And in all honesty, what I am best at. Does that make me a monster?”

“No more than me, ha!” Jarek guffawed, slapping Deacon on the back.

They exited the cave and stood at the entrance overlooking the mountain forest a few meters below. The moon was out and glowing happily. Deacon’s keen eyes picked up some movement past the tree line. It was a pack of wolves, feasting on something. Squinting, he could make out a red scarf and wool tunic among the carnage.

“Blessed night. Cool and crisp.” Jarek breathed in deep, embracing the brisk air.

“Cool indeed,” Deacon replied, shivering.

“Come to enjoy it, Deacon. For this is where our journey will mostly be held for the time being. That is, if you choose to stay…” Jarek looked to him, one eyebrow peaked.

Deacon looked away, gazing over the forest. His eyes occasionally glancing back to the feasting wolves. “I must admit—you intrigue me, Jarek Defiler.”

“As do you. And Deacon, I think I'm not wrong in calling you ‘friend.’”

“Perhaps,” Deacon smirked, wrapping his cloak around him to stave off the chill. “Perhaps.”