A Mercenary's Heart

The bloodied war axe descended towards the fallen child’s exposed neck, ready to complete yet another slaughter of an innocent. The crude iron weapon never reached its destination. The axe wielding orc grunted in frustration and his beady black eyes glared down in disbelief at the four feet of steel that was now protruding from his chest. The axe fell to the ground and the orc found himself falling into darkness. His lifeless body fell to the cobblestones with a resounding thud and his blood joined that of the innocents he had slaughtered. The frightened child, a boy of no more than ten summers, watched through inquisitive eyes as the bastard sword was pulled from the fallen orc by its darkly armored wielder. The boy’s savior was dressed in dark blue scale mail and the boy wondered if those were actual dragonscales and not some well-made imitation. A flowing dark blue and black cloak trailed out behind the armored warrior, the cowl pulled over his head and blocking his face from view. A large steel shield bearing some foreign symbol of a broken horn over a black backdrop was in the fighter’s left hand and was splattered with the blood of his fallen enemy. The ornate bastard sword at the cowled man’s side had been wiped clean of orc blood and was being slipped back into its jeweled scabbard. Black gloved hands pulled the midnight blue cowl down, letting unbound locks of mahogany brown hair to fall down armored shoulders. Cold blue eyes stared down at the young boy who was steadily backing away from the menacing knight who had just saved his life. No emotion was visible on the man’s face as the boy fled away from him and back towards the now smoldering village. The orc marauders had been through and had sacked most of the town already. The remaining villagers had assembled near the only stone building and tavern in the whole town, the Farmer’s Flagon. The darkly armored warrior turned on booted heels and headed after the young boy. It was time to collect payment.

“You would ask for all that we have knowing fully well that these damned orcs took almost everything away from us?!” The village elder’s voiced rang out in the crisp night air and the assembled villagers, almost fifty in all, turned cold stares upon the man who had only hours ago saved their village from certain destruction.

“Perhaps you wish to not honor our agreement then?” The knight’s reply was curt and stern. He was not about to back down in this argument.

“The price we agreed on was 400 silver, not a silver less. If you wish to break our contract and not pay me the full amount then I do plan on taking it in other goods.” With this said, the darkly cloaked man glanced at a pair of farmer’s daughters with unspoken yet obvious intent in his cold gaze.

The two women backed away into their father’s arms, whimpering quietly. The farmer returned a stare of equal contempt and hatred for the thoughts that were directed at his beloved daughters. The dark knight returned his gaze back to the old village elder, a smirk playing upon his bloodless lips. The elder staggered back a step and whispered something hoarsely into the ear of one of the men that was flanking him. The young farmer, who was just a few inches under the seven-foot mark, moved towards the mercenary. A crude pitchfork was in his large hands and was smeared with blood, whether it was that of an orc or of some farm animal the mercenary could not tell.

“We have given you 100 silver. I believe that is enough for your service this day stranger…go before I have to place this pitchfork into your chest…” The peasant shouted, waving his pitchfork menacingly.

Shouts of “Get that damned bastard Orson!” and “Give ‘em one for me!” rang up through the gathered crowd. The dark knight chuckled coldly and laid a gloved hand on his sword hilt.

“Orson…is that your name boy? Well, if you are so inclined to die this evening and deprive your town of a much needed sword arm, then I will kindly oblige. Before I take your life and send you to meet your god, allow me to tell you my name so that your family can curse it for all time. I am Balinthan Darkhope, a dark emissary of a god who shows no mercy to those who break their word. A pity for you that you are the one to represent those oath breakers.” The mercenary said coldly, his hand closing around his jeweled sword hilt.

Balinthan’s blade was drawn from its scabbard in a quick movement that Orson couldn’t even register. The edge of the sword glowed a crimson red and slashed downward into Orson’s pitchfork. The wooden weapon was no match for tempered steel and shattered in the youth’s hands. Balinthan brought his sword back and across, leaving a streak of red across Orson’s throat. The bewildered youth fell to his knees, his hands clutching at his throat. Lifeblood seeped through clutched fingers and Orson looked up with disbelief in his eyes at the man who had just struck him down so quickly and so dispassionately. Balinthan looked down at the dying peasant and merely brought his sword back down across the head of Orson, showering the horrified onlookers with their countryman’s blood. Orson fell silently to the stone ground, horror forever held in his eyes. Balinthan turned to the village elder who was sobbing from the burden of sending his only grandson to his death.

“Perhaps now you wish to pay the remainder of my contract?” the mercenary asked inquisitively, holding out his hand.

A rough leather purse was placed in the outstretched hand by one of the villagers whose eyes showed nothing but hatred for the murderer of one of his own. Balinthan cleaned his sword off on Orson’s bloodied tunic and sheathed his blade. He opened the leather bag and deftly counted the silver coins within. Nodding with satisfaction, the dark knight placed the coin purse on his belt and turned on his heels, leaving the mortified townsfolk to bury their dead and rebuild their shattered lives. Their contract was done and payment had been received. Va’Kir was pleased and Balinthan had no more reason to remain in this town. With stern determination, Balinthan mounted his nearby black charger and disappeared into the approaching night with no remorse in his heart from killing Orson. Such is the heart of the mercenary.