“You have no fear of anyone, brother. And a fearless man is a fool.” The Baker turned his attention back upon his guests. “My brother tells me you wish to hire us, as part of your escort? You are to leave the city soon, is this so?”
The Wall nodded. “In the coming days.”
The Baker manifested a coin in his hand, moving it between his knuckles, cartwheeling from one to the next. “How much are you willing to pay?”
“Whatever you want,” Saska said.
“Truly? We decide our own fee?” The Baker gave a chuckle. “You may be able to outbid Denlatis after all.”
Saska frowned. “What do you mean, outbid?”
“Cliffario wants us to protect him,” the Butcher explained. “From the wrath of the snake. He fears that Krator will do everything in his power to kill him, if he is still alive. A fair fear, yes. He has offered much money for our swords.”
A fair fear indeed. Of those who had betrayed Elio Krator, Cliffario Denlatis was king.
“We’ll offer more.” Saska wanted the Butcher with her, him and Merinius and the Baker as well, and whatever other Bladeborn men they had left. “My grandmother will pay.”
“The fee will be high,” the Baker told her. “Many of our men have died for you already. Death does not come cheap.”
The Wall bristled, a snort pouring through his nose. “You are sellswords. That’s the risk you take. One we all take in war. Or would you prefer to die protecting a merchant rather than a princess?”
The Butcher smiled at that, scars drinking in the firelight. Sometimes they looked like lines of flame crisscrossing his face, like he was some infernal demon risen from the depths. “I am overwhelmed to hear that you want us to come with you, Coldheart. I had feared you would wish to see the back of me and my tattered red cloak.”
“Once,” the giant knight admitted, in a grunt. “But you proved yourself during the battle. You and Merinius both. I would have you in the company.” He looked to the Baker, less sure. Sir Ralston Whaleheart was not a man given to trusting others easily; one must work hard to enter his confidence, and even then, he kept them at a distance. “I have heard they call you the Baker for the manner in which you treat your enemies. You bake them alive.”
White teeth glinted. “I do,” the sellsword said, proudly. “I bake, my brother butchers. I took inspiration from the iron dragon of Eldurath, do you know of it? It is in the Golden Square, where they…”
“Roast criminals alive, I know. They are put inside the iron beast and have dragons blow their flame upon it. It is a vile torture.”
“Vile to one man, victory to another. Would that not depend on the criminal, and the crime?”
The Wall did not offer an answer.
The Baker went on. “You think yourself a great knight, your honour beyond reproach. Perhaps some others do too. But not all. To many you are a monster, a brutal beast from whom men run in fear, a tale to tell children at night… ‘beware the steel giant in his steel suit, if you’re naughty he’ll cut you in two’.” He laughed. “We say this here, in Aramatia. And all across the south. The monstrous steel man who cuts children in half and drinks the blood from each end like a cup. But is this true? No, I do not think so. You do not murder children and drink their blood, Sir Ralston, and…” he leaned in, crooking a finger, reducing his voice to a whisper, “….and this is just between you and me…but I do not bake men alive either. Not often, at least, and only the very worst of them. But it is good for a sellsword captain to have a name, and so here we are, the Baker and the Butcher, names to strike fear into our enemies. But do not let that concern you, my friend. If you can trust my brother, you can trust me. And I fought well during the battle too.”
The Wall looked at him flatly. He seemed stuck on this notion that they told tales of him killing and drinking the blood of children here. “Yes, so I’ve heard. I won’t deny you did your part.”
“Well now…” The Baker looked at his brother with brows upturned. “Praise, from the praise-less one. And so early in our acquaintance. I feel my heart may explode with pride.”
“I am envious,” the Butcher said, tone serious. “It took much longer for him to give me a nice remark.”
And me, Saska thought. Praise was hard to come by from the Wall, that was true. “Don’t get used to it,” she warned them. “It’s like trying to get blood from a stone with him.”
Sir Ralston seemed to sense that it was time to leave, with all three of them ganging up on him. “When will we have your answer? We expect to depart in days.”
“By which route?” the Baker asked. And for which purpose? his eyes inquired.
The Wall hesitated, glancing down at Saska. It remained a matter of contention, this route they would take to the north. By now they had expected to have heard back from Ranulf, but no, nothing, not a whisper, not a word. “We are still contemplating our best course. The hope was to travel north, across the Aramatian Plains and then through the Everwood, if possible.”
“Yes. And then?” The Baker peered at them. “The Everwood is not where your journey is to end. My brother tells me you plan to go much further north than that.”
“We do. Into Vandar.”
“Vandar.” The Baker’s eyes took on a reflective look. He tapped at his chin. “Why Vandar?”
“That is not your concern.”
“I beg to differ. It is of great concern to me. There is a lot of war in the north, Sir Ralston. And a lot of dragons as well.”
“War is where heroes are made,” was the Wall’s stiff reply. “Dragonkillers live forever.”
“And most who try…die. For every dragonkiller, there are a thousand dragon-diers. I have no interest in hunting dragons, if this is your quest. Marco, Garth, Stan. They already died for that.”
Saska dipped her eyes at those names. Marco of the Mistwood. Garth the Glutton. Slack Stan, with that wobbly jaw. All had died the day they went out onto the plains so she might hone her useless dragon-killing skills. There were others too, many others who had perished for her along the way. They all lost their lives because of me. And none of them knew why.
She was not going to make that same mistake again. The Butcher had helped train her, and he and his brother had helped shatter Krator’s coup. She owed them both for that. They deserved to know the truth.
“I’m the heir of Varin,” she said.
Silence, thick as mud. It filled that dusty basement room from sandstone wall to wall.
The Wall frowned down at her. His voice was a warning. “My lady…”
“The last of his direct bloodline, granddaughter to King Lorin,” she went on. “Blessed with godblood in my veins.”
“My lady,” the giant reached out. “That’s enough.”
“No,” she said fiercely, swerving away. “I’m fed up of hiding the truth.” She motioned to the sellswords. “If they’re to risk their lives for me, they deserve to know why. We can trust them.”
