Chapter Text
Sarmenti’s breath was taken as a sharp, stabbing pain rended his stomach.
His vision turned black at the edges as blood coursed from the wound, a deep crimson staining the cloth of his motley. With his fading strength, he kept a desperate grip on his dagger. The creature that pierced Sarmenti hefted him in the air in a shriek of triumph. The sound sent a jolt of white hot rage through him. He lifted his dagger in the air. It met the creature’s face with a sickening crunch. Sarmenti grinned even as blood trickled from his mouth.
The bulbous face of the monster—his tormentor—his past—is all he saw as he stabbed his dirk down again, and again, and again, until only a mass of pulp was left under his hands, and yet still—
A blinding rush of light crashed down on his head, and all Sarmenti knew was darkness.
In the last vestiges of the day, Sarmenti sits on the outskirts of the Hamlet.
It’s a place few venture to outside of necessity, even more so with the sun readying to set. The darkness deepens the shadows that haunt the Estate, and though nothing has yet breached the walls of the village, rumors of foul beasts lurking just beyond is enough to keep most people tucked away in the safety of their houses or barracks.
The solitude is what Sarmenti needs. He sits on a half-broken log on the side of the road, his lute cradled in his hands. It was a month spent in the Sanitarium recovering from the last expedition. At worst, the Sanitarium nurses were perfunctory and ungentle, with no bedside manner to speak of, but they cared for his wounds, dire as they were to leave him dangling on the brink of death.
But more than anything, he hated the feeling of being confined. It made unwanted memories claw up his back, made ice spike through his veins.
He shakes his head, resting a hand on his stomach before grasping too hard on his lute. He takes a shaky breath. But now, he’s freed, watching the sun’s gradual descent below the horizon.
He’s free from the sterile confines of the Sanitarium. He’s free from the torture and humiliation of the Court.
He’s free, he’s free, he’s free—
The wood of the lute creaks under his fingers. He hadn’t dared touch it as it sat in the corner of his room, afraid to cut the already tenuous thread he was holding on by. Even now, he doesn’t think he’s ready.
It’s as patchwork as his motley—the neck haphazardly glued together, threatening to snap again under the pressure of his fingers. Large chunks are still missing from the body, likely still sitting on the floor of the cove. The strings are sloppily threaded through the pegs.
Sarmenti strums a couple testing chords and winces at the discordant sound. His fingers fall limp and the lute settles into his lap.
Even this, his last reprieve, was taken from him.
“Let me have this, at least,” Sarmenti pleads under his breath, his chest growing tight.
A clumsy movement of his wrist, a sharp pain in his finger. His finger, digging too hard into the string of his lute, cuts open as it slips. He hisses through his teeth, watching the trickle of blood.
It’s been months from his escape, from his magnum opus, since he was truly free—since he freed himself. And a month still since that—expedition.
A shudder rips through him and his lute slips from his grasp.
The echoes of his past still linger like a haunting melody in his mind.
It was meant to be a simple expedition: scout the Coves and retrieve the eldritch relics of the Heir’s Ancestor before they could be used for nefarious purpose by the fishfolk. With both a heavy infestation and arduous journey expected, the Heir assigned four of his more experienced adventurers, Sarmenti among them.
The journey went smoothly at first: the enemies met quick ends against the might of their blades and daggers, and one of the relics was easily found among a pile of debris, to be carefully bundled and packed away. But it was just as quickly that their luck seemed to run out; Tardif’s skill in scouting warned them of ambushes from the fishfolk, but it was still a staggering number of enemies in their way. And with no sign of the remaining relics even as they searched every far off corner and crevice, supplies began to run low.
That would be bad enough, but as they ventured farther into the winding caverns, something began to prickle at Sarmenti’s ears. A low whisper, barely audible above the shuffling of their feet or the slow drips of water from the ceiling. It didn’t seem to have any obvious source, sounding sometimes behind, beside or above him.
Sarmenti glanced up with furrowed brows. It sounded almost like—laughter. Not a joyous, uplifting kind of laughter, but harsh and mocking, the kind accompanied with intrusive stares, curled lips and pain. Nausea coiled in his gut. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the sound from his ears, quickening his step as if to escape it.
“Sarmenti!”
Junia’s warning was too late. A stabbing pain shot through Sarmenti’s foot, the flimsy cloth of his stockings providing no protection against the spike of the trap. Tardif yanked him backwards by his collar. “Going to wander ahead, better look where you’re damn walking.”
“Thank you for the sympathy,” Sarmenti snapped. As Tardif released him, he slumped against the wall with a hiss of pain, careful of his lute as he slid to the floor. Blood pooled on the ground around his foot and Junia knelt beside him. She held her hands over Sarmenti’s foot and a faint light shone from under her palms. It was a small measure of relief—the bleeding, at least, stopped, though Sarmenti was already lightheaded. But even under the dim light of the torch, Sarmenti could see the wan pallor of her face, the still drying blood on the sleeve of her arm where a blade had found its mark—this place had taken its toll on all of them. The glow sputtered from her hands after a few seconds, her chest heaving with exertion.
Audrey kneeled beside Junia and cupped her face gently in her hands. “You’ve given all you could, love.” Junia sighed as she leaned into her touch.
Tardif rummaged through his pack and threw a roll of bandages at Sarmenti, who managed to catch it right before it hit the ground. “Patch yourself up and let’s get ready to set up camp.” His eyes scanned the darkness around them. “Need to find a safe place, first.”
With shaking hands, Sarmenti wrapped the bandage around his foot. Junia spared a glance at him as she was being helped up by Audrey. “Did you need assistance with that?”
Sarmenti hissed as he pulled the bandage a little too tight. “This is my own damned fault, so I might as well take care of it myself.” He realized his tone might have been too harsh as he watched Junia’s expression tighten. “But—thank you.” She managed a small smile and held a hand out to him. He only had a moment of hesitation before taking it, awkwardly ambling to his feet. Though he still couldn’t put much weight on his injured foot, the pain was slightly abated.
Audrey took Junia’s arm and followed after Tardif. “You need to be more careful or you’re going to make the big man very angry,” Audrey said with a backwards glance. “And I think he’s the scariest thing in this place.”
Sarmenti sighed. “Yes, I’ll be more careful. I was just…distracted by those cursed whispers.”
Audrey and Junia glanced at each other, both their brows set in a matching frown.
“What whispers?”
“You know. They’ve been—” He waved his hands over his head with a nervous chuckle. “Coming from everywhere, haven’t they? Been bothering me for a while.”
“Neither of us has heard any whispers,” Audrey said slowly. “Tardif hasn’t mentioned anything, either, and you know how paranoid—”
“Meticulous,” Junia chimed in.
“—meticulous he is,” Audrey said without missing a beat.
Sarmenti’s blood ran cold. “You’re not serious, are you? They’ve only grown louder the farther we’ve traveled in this shit hole.”
Audrey’s narrowed eyes and Junia’s concerned expression spoke loudly enough in their silence.
“Found a place just down that way,” Tardif said, jerking his head down the path behind him. “Follow me.”
Sarmenti ducked his head to avoid Junia’s backward glance as she and Audrey followed after Tardif. He ambled slowly behind the group, wincing at every other step he took. With a look back, Tardif sighed and strode over to him. Sarmenti flinched, but Tardif only slid an arm around his back, taking the weight off his injured foot as they walked.
“You know,” Sarmenti ventured, “it might be easier if you just carried me.”
Tardif glanced down at him with a snort. “Don’t push your luck.”
They set up camp in a tucked away cavern. Tardif passed out rations as Audrey readied the fire, and Sarmenti found a small sliver of respite around the warmth and light of its flames. Audrey reapplied the bandages that had been hastily wound around Junia’s arm, while Sarmenti gingerly rubbed salve over his foot. There was a gaping hole in the foot of his stocking and he regretted not bringing his needle and thread.
Even Tardif seemed worn down, taking off his mask and shroud as he slumped in front of the fire. As Sarmenti rested his aching body, rewrapping his injured foot, he strained his ears for any sign of those whispers. But all he could hear was the sound of Junia and Audrey’s hushed voices and the scratch of a pencil along with intermittent humming as Tardif scribbled in his notebook.
He’d seen it before, the slow descent into madness. Greenhorns who overestimated their readiness and volunteered for missions far beyond their capacity. Even hardened minds, faced with the true form of what was born from the shadows, could shatter. Sarmenti felt pity for them, but also felt that he was above such things—that the horrors he survived, even before coming to the Hamlet, surely meant that he was steeled for any obstacle, any enemy.
But, these whispers…it was the same harsh jeers that had echoed in his ears, day after day and week after week, month after month, always accompanied with his pain and humiliation. The voices of the dead, chasing after him in the depths. There was a dull ache from his pinky that was no longer there—a phantom pain. He cradled his hand to his chest and closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. The face of the tyrant flashed in his mind. With a sharp exhale, he opened his eyes and stared into the flames until his eyes watered.
“You alright over there?”
Sarmenti looked up at Audrey’s voice. She had shed her hat and coat and leaned against the cavern wall with her hand around Junia’s waist while Junia leaned her head on Audrey’s shoulder. The nun already looked half asleep, the dark circles under her eyes prominent in the glow of the fire.
“I’ll survive,” Sarmenti muttered as he rubbed at the aching stub of his pinky. “Probably.”
“Oh, don’t sound so disappointed! Why don’t you play that little lute of yours,” Audrey said with a wiggle of her fingers. “Calm yourself down.”
He gestured to his foot. “I can’t say I feel much like playing right now.”
“You don’t play with your foot, do you?” Audrey said with a raise of her brow.
“Audrey!” Junia whispered and tugged at Audrey’s hand. Audrey’s expression softened as she looked at Junia, and she shrugged.
“Just a suggestion, sweet thing.”
The scratch of Tardif’s pencil grew loud until there was the sound of paper tearing. “I”m going to take another look around,” Tardif said as he got to his feet, already donning his mask and shroud.
Audrey watched his back as he exited the cavern. “Do you think we made him angry?”
“How would you be able to tell,” Sarmenti muttered. He slumped sideways onto the cold stone floor. His face landed right on a cold puddle of water and he cursed under his breath. With a grumble, he slowly got to his feet, limping around until he found a sufficiently dry patch of ground.
It wasn’t long before he heard the soft, even breathing of Audrey and Junia, both having fallen asleep. Accompanied by the sound of their sleep, Sarmenti’s eyes began to grow heavy. He had to force his eyes open after each blink—Tardif had yet to return and Sarmenti was loath to fall asleep in this place. The aching in his foot served as a means to stave off sleep, but he’d gotten used to worse pains before. He could only cling to consciousness for so long.
It was then, just as he was losing the battle against his fatigue, striding on the edge of consciousness, that he heard it. No longer a whisper but a sharp cackle that rang through his ears. He shot up, grabbing wildly for his dirk, head turning every which way. It was gone as soon as it came, with no sign of its source lurking nearby. But surely he heard it—surely this time it was real—
The faintest echo of footsteps approached the cavern. Sarmenti shrunk back against the wall, holding the dagger in trembling hands.
“You won’t take me back,” he whispered. “You won’t, you won’t, you won’t.”
The source of the footsteps became clear as Tardif strode through the mouth of the cavern. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Sarmenti. “You can calm down. It’s only me.”
Sarmenti didn’t lower his dagger. The thrum of his heartbeat pounded in his ears. “Was that you?”
Tardif cocked his head. “Was what me?” He pulled off his helmet and regarded Sarmenti with narrowed eyes. “You can put the knife down, now. Didn’t see anything nearby that would give us trouble.”
Sarmenti already knew it wasn’t Tardif, the man’s gravelly voice familiar to him. So either he was going mad or—something else was coming for him, and he didn’t like either prospect. Sarmenti’s breath came out as a low whine in his throat.
He was so, so tired.
Tardif stepped slowly, carefully, towards him, as if approaching a cornered animal. “Sarmenti. Put the dagger down.”
“Could you not hear it?”
Tardif stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Maybe going mad was preferable. At least it was better than the threat of being dragged back there.
But they’re all dead. Sarmenti frantically shook his head. And this is a place where skeletons and abominations crawl up from the dark. Who’s to say his tormentors can’t return to enact their vengeance?
By the time Tardif reached him, Sarmenti’s hands shook so much the dagger nearly slipped from his grasp. Tardif kneeled in front of him and slowly held his hand out.
“Gonna hurt yourself like that.”
Sarmenti stared at him with wide eyes. He made no move to resist when Tardif pulled the dirk from his grasp and set it on the ground. With the adrenaline wearing off, Sarmenti only had enough energy to slump against the wall with a sigh. Tardif dug through his pack and handed a strip of meat to him.
“How do you keep so much stuff in there?”
Tardif glanced up at him. Sarmenti could swear there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Trade secret.”
Sarmenti breathed out a weak laugh, picking up and sheathing his dirk before gingerly taking the strip of meat. Tardif nodded once, as if in satisfaction.
“Eat. Then sleep. I’ll take first watch.”
Sarmenti didn’t have it in him to protest. He nodded as he slowly chewed on the jerky. It settled heavy in his stomach, but he forced down each bite until it was gone.
Tardif settled a short distance from Sarmenti, leaning back against the wall with a groan and resting his axe across his lap. Sarmenti slumped to the ground as exhaustion set in. He curled in on himself and winced at the pain in his foot—and the phantom pain of his pinky. He kept his lute and sickle, his prized possessions, within his line of sight and let his eyes slip shut. Already he felt sleep take him and he had no more fight left to resist it.
At least he was only going mad. A giggle slipped unbidden from his lips. Right now, his madness was some small comfort. At least they weren’t coming for him.
At least they were all dead.
Sarmenti awoke with only the vestiges of a nightmare slipping from his mind. The shadow of it opened a cold pit in his stomach. His head swam as he pushed himself off the ground, his limbs heavy and leaden. The fire had long died with only the faint smell of burned ashes remaining. He shivered as the dank cold of the cavern sank into his bones and he wrapped his arms around his middle.
Junia and Audrey were already awake and eating the meager rations. They were running low, Sarmenti knew, which left them with little recourse other than to quickly finish their mission—or retreat. He wasn’t in any hurry to face starvation again.
Junia looked up as he stirred. The color in her face had returned, though there was still a heaviness to her eyes. “How is your injury faring?”
Sarmenti stretched his leg out in front of him. There was a small patch of blood on the bandage, but it was long dried and the ache from the wound was dulled—unlike the stabbing pain of the previous day. (Or was it the same day, still? Time was inscrutable this deep in the caverns.) He’d endured much worse. “Better,” he said tentatively. Then, as if remembering, “Thank you.”
She smiled softly at him and the knot in his stomach loosened just a little bit.
Tardif rekindled the campfire and Sarmenti welcomed its warmth, but unease still hung heavy over his head. He steeled himself for the intrusion in his head, in his ears, as he sipped at the watery stew that made up their breakfast. (Or was it dinner?). But he heard nothing as they packed up, and nothing as they made their way back into the twisting dungeon. They were all tired, Sarmenti could tell, as Audrey’s needles missed the mark, as Tardif’s swings grew slow and blunt. Sarmenti’s hands tired as they were more occupied with his lute than his weapons, doing his best to keep his comrade’s spirits up.
They came to a stop, the last of their torches burning low, doing little to stave off the darkness. “This is the only wing unexplored,” Tardif explained as he looked over his meticulously-marked map. “Let’s get through before—” His head snapped up. He looked down the path they were headed.
“What—” Sarmenti’s mouth clicked shut as he heard it. A sound different from the fish-folk—more chittering and insect-like—interspersed with that haunting, mocking laughter. Bile rose in Sarmenti’s throat as he saw the tension in Tardif’s stance. “Do you hear it, too?”
Tardif nodded, slowly, and pulled his axe from his back. Sarmenti looked wildly around to find Junia and Audrey’s grim expressions. He bunched his trembling hands into fists at his sides. These sounds, the chittering, was unfamiliar, and in a place like this, that never meant anything good.
He unsheathed his dirk and sickle, gripping tight enough that it hurt. He followed closely at Tardif’s back as they trekked down the shadow of the corridor. The woeful light of the torch left little visibility, and the sound of chittering grew louder with each step taken. It was joined with the sound of many legs scuttling against the stone floor—approaching from the darkness.
A small glistening point on the ceiling was reflected in the light of the torch. It caught Sarmenti’s eye and he glanced up—and that’s when it flickered in a blink. He shrieked and stumbled back, running into Junia. There was a loud thud that sounded from where Sarmenti was just standing and as Tardif swiveled around, bringing the light of the torch with him, Sarmenti’s mouth ran dry.
In the dim light, one could almost mistake it for human, if not for its hulking form, with its tall powdered wig and noble garb. Until you laid eyes upon its visage: bulging insectoid eyes sat on a gaunt, pale face, with teeth so large and protruding it could barely close its mouth. It looked down at Sarmenti like it had caught its prey—like he was its new plaything—and he was pinned in place by its hateful chitter of a laugh, the sound ringing all too familiar in his ears. In its face flashed the faces of his tormentors—settling on the cruel sneer of his king—and something in him snapped. He barely heard the skittering of legs and harsh buzz of wings as more of the creatures closed in, his eyes set on the creature—the noble—the tyrant—in front of him. A shrill laugh leapt unbidden from his throat.
Like hell he’d be made into something’s plaything again.
Sarmenti’s body moved before he had time to think. His heart leapt into his throat and he vaulted forward. He saw nothing but the ghastly form in front of him, his ears deaf to the cries of his comrades. The creature raised its spindly arm to strike, but Sarmenti was quicker. His dirk sunk into its side and it shrieked. Its claw came down in one swift motion, Sarmenti barely dodging out of the way in time. It nicked Sarmenti’s arm—a shallow cut that was easy to ignore. He lunged back in and his sickle swiped against its torso, cutting through its cravat to make a clean line across its belly. It wailed in anguish and rage, this time lunging with its teeth bared.
The thing was large and imposing, its claws sharp and piercing, but it relied overmuch on its size, its hulking movements slow. Sarmenti dodged its swiping blows, striking as it recovered.
A blinding flash crashed against the creature’s coiffed head and it stumbled backwards, dazed. Sarmenti didn’t overlook this opening and he lunged forward, dirk raised to plunge it through its throat. There was a shrill keening in his ears and he only vaguely realized it was the sound of his own voice, ringing out in a scream as it echoed across the cavern walls. There was a crunch as he thrusted the dagger further into its neck, twisting it with all his might. He met the thing’s beady eyes—panicked and swiveling frantically.
He jerked the dagger from its neck—it can no longer laugh, let alone scream, only a pitiful gargle sounding from its throat. Sarmenti stood in front of the soon-to-be corpse, his chest heaving and a frenzied giggle bubbling from his throat.
This time, he gripped his sickle tight, reading to swipe the thing’s head off. But then—it was a last desperate attempt. The flail of a dying creature. Its arm shot out, Sarmenti stepping out of the way just in time. It reeled back onto its hind legs, bringing the force of its body down on top of Sarmenti. He was knocked to the ground with the full weight of the creature bearing down on him. There was a sickening crunch that he dimly realized was his lute being crushed under their combined weight. He let out an anguished cry. Blood from the creature’s neck spattered onto his face, his mask having been jostled off. He choked as blood ran down his throat from his open mouth.
Sarmenti’s dirk slipped from his grasp and lay just out of reach on the ground. He stretched and fumbled for it as he was being crushed by the weight of the creature, his breath coming out as a wheeze. There was a moment of relief when it rose again to its full height and he used that opportunity to snatch his dirk. He tried to push himself to his feet even as his whole body ached.
That’s when the creature raised its arm and brought it down to pierce right through Sarmenti’s stomach. The agony was overwhelming. His vision flickered black as blood sputtered from his mouth. A ragged wheeze sounded from the creature’s throat and he slid further down its arm as it was raised up to meet its eyes. Even as blood gushed from its throat, its horrid mouth split into a grin—a facsimile of a smile, showing only cruelty.
Even as the edges of his consciousness dimmed, a white hot rage surged through Sarmenti. With his fading strength, he gripped his dirk in both hands and raised it above his head. He was only vaguely aware of the words coming from his mouth as he plunged the dagger straight into the monster’s eye. Its garbled shriek rang high in his ears, but Sarmenti wasn’t satisfied with that. He brought his dirk down onto its head again and again, until it slumped to the floor, dragging him with it. And even then, when its face was turned into a formless pulp, even as agony sang through him with every plunge of the blade.
He felt something pull at his shoulder and he tried to shrug it off. The creature wasn’t even twitching anymore, and he couldn’t tell which blood was his and which belonged to the monster.
It was only a moment that he was aware of the bright light before it came hurtling down on his head, and only then did Sarmenti finally fall still.
To say his next surging of consciousness was him “waking” would be charitable. He drifted in and out—though mostly out—of consciousness for an indeterminate amount of time. Each waking he was only vaguely aware of figures huddled around him, but he was keenly aware of the staggering pain that shot from his stomach—with every breath, with every twitch of muscle. He was grateful when oblivion claimed him each time and longed for it every moment he was conscious.
Sarmenti couldn’t say how much time had passed, but one day he awoke without being accompanied by overwhelming agony. The head nurse, a stern woman from his experience, was looking him over. Noticing his sudden lucidity, she told him he had been hospitalized for two weeks.
“Two weeks,” he croaked back, voice scratchy from disuse.
“You were lucky to have survived. And that you were traveling with such an accomplished healer.”
Sarmenti stared at her, still dazed. Was he lucky? He rested a hand on his stomach. He would have been glad had his last moments been spent drenched in the blood of his tormentor—or its shadow, at least.
“It will still take some time for you to fully heal, but the worst, at least, has passed.”
There was a twinge from his stomach and he nodded vaguely. The slow flood of memories that had been kept at bay while he slept was let loose. His eyes widened and he shot up in bed, ignoring the surge of pain as he cast his eyes around the room. “My lute, where—where is my lute?”
The nurse bowed her head, lips pursed, and Sarmenti’s heart sank. She strode to the far corner of the room and picked something up, carrying it in a gentle grip back to him.
“It fared less well, I’m afraid.”
At the sight of what used to be his lute, a pathetic whine slipped from Sarmenti’s mouth. It looked as though there had been an attempt to salvage it, but the splintered pieces were too badly damaged to fit together, and many of the strings were snapped. The latter could be fixed, but…
He held his arms out and with a nod, the nurse placed it in his arms. His one companion, the source and resolution of his anguish, lay broken in his arms, and Sarmenti wept.
The rest of his time in convalescence passed by in a grey blur, days spent in bed if not being forced to walk to keep his legs from atrophying. There were few visitors but he couldn’t stand their pitying gazes, looking upon him like a broken creature.(But wasn’t he?) He was released with little ceremony and headed back to his room in the barracks to coop himself up.
He was given a day’s grace before the Heir called for him. He supposed he should have been grateful the man didn’t visit him in the Sanitarium, he thought with a vague bitterness. Sarmenti shuffled with a quiet indignance towards the Estate. He made no secret of his dislike of the Heir—a noble, naive and inexperienced, sending others out to their doom while he sat comfortably in his manor. The last thing Sarmenti needed was his competence called into question by someone like that.
He passed through the Estate and stopped in front of a room with large double doors. Sighing inwardly, he knocked. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps through the door and they opened, the face of the Heir meeting him. The dark circles under his eyes betrayed his vague smile. “Sarmenti,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”
Sarmenti strode past him and stopped in the middle of the room. The Heir took a seat at his desk. His smile looked strained. “Take a seat.”
Sarmenti tapped his foot. The Heir sighed. “Please.”
Sarmenti was glad for his mask hiding his sour expression. He slumped onto the chair.
“I am glad to see you well again. My apologies for not visiting you earlier; surely you understand how things are around here.”
“Just as well as I know that you didn’t call me here to talk pleasantries,” Sarmenti replied with a little too much bite.
The Heir pursed his lips. “I suppose you’re right. Then let us cut straight to the matter: I would like the opportunity to hear what happened on that last expedition—in your own words.”
Sarmenti’s back stiffened. As prepared as he was for this question to come, it was not something he would willingly want to recount. “We encountered these—” He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “—things I had not yet seen before.”
The Heir flipped through a few loose sheafs of paper on his desk. “Yes, they were described to me as—’bloodsuckers’.”
Sarmenti scoffed. “Suppose that’s appropriate.” The Heir nodded, motioning for him to continue, and Sarmenti gritted his teeth. “We were…tired. I was tired—exhausted, and injured on top of that.” The memory of the fear and rage in equal measures flashed for a moment in his mind. “I misstepped. And, well…” He rested a hand on his stomach. “Got skewered for my troubles. I’m terribly sorry my near death prevented the retrieval of your precious relic.”
The Heir slowly shook his head. “The relics have already been obtained during your convalesce. That is not my concern.” He regarded Sarmenti with a curious stare and Sarmenti tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. “A misstep, you say, but the other reported you charging in—in some kind of frenzy. You ignored a mortal wound in favor of mutilating its face. Junia had to knock you unconscious for you to stop.”
“Ah—” Sarmenti shook his finger with a tsk. “Nearly mortal wound.” The Heir did not look amused. “And, well, you know how it is,” Sarmenti said with feigned nonchalance. “That was over a month ago, wasn’t it? And I’ve been either drugged out of my mind or passed out for much of that time.”
“And yet, other things you recall quite clearly.”
Sarmenti’s lips stretched into a mirthless grin behind his mask. “Memory is a fickle thing, isn’t it?”
The Heir folded his hands on his desk. “It is not my wish to needlessly pry into your past, or dredge up unpleasant memories. But we have had increased reports of ambushes by these bloodsuckers on unrelated expeditions and I simply need to know if you are…compromised.”
“‘Compromised’.” Sarmenti bristled. He hated all the more that it rang true.
“Everyone has a breaking point.”
“You would know, wouldn’t you?”
The Heir’s gaze steeled. “Yes. I would. Which is why it is my duty to see such mistakes are not repeated.”
“Stop beating around the bush, then. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know if you have any history with these creatures.” He picked up one of the parchments and his eyes scanned over it, his brow furrowing as he read. “From your comrade’s reports, it sounded oddly personal.”
“I can’t say I knew them from Adam.” Sarmenti ignored the churning of his stomach, the pang of pain that shot from his wound.
“‘I’ll die before you take me back’.”
Sarmenti froze.
“Your words, heard clearly by all three of your companions. In case you’ve had another bout of fickle memory.” The Heir couldn’t quite hide his sigh. He steepled his fingers, his lips pinched in a frown. “The reason I am extending such courtesy to you is your fine work these past many months. But I cannot put any more lives on the line—and if I cannot trust you, then there is a problem.”
Sarmenti had not divulged the details of his past to anyone. Some manner of sordid history was not a rare occurrence among the mercenaries who made their way to this Hamlet, but killing a King and his Court—that was an entirely different matter. To anyone who knew Sarmenti, they assumed he was some stray madman playing as a court jester, and that suited his purposes just fine. He could only imagine the reaction of the Heir—this noble—if he were to come clean now. “I’ve told you everything I could. I didn’t know those freaks.”
“And yet, you’re keeping something from me.” The Heir rubbed his temples. “This brings me no joy, Sarmenti, but if you’re not going to be forthcoming, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to limit your participation going forward. You have fulfilled your duties well until now, so I am loath to dismiss you outright. I hope you understand that this is for the well being of not just you, but also the rest in my employ.”
Sarmenti shot up from the chair and stormed out of the Heir’s office. He half expected the man to call after him, but he was accompanied only by the sound of his stomping footsteps. For a moment, he considered the tavern—drowning himself in drink or other pleasures—but he didn’t have it in him to face anyone’s questions or pity right now. Instead, he headed to the barracks and retrieved his broken lute, carrying it with him to the outskirts of the Hamlet.
And it’s there he sits, hunched over and cradling his broken lute as a sob threatens to claw up his throat.
“Are you alright?”
Sarmenti’s head snaps up and he unsheathes his dirk, crouching in a defensive stance. The sun must have set a while ago, for the figure standing above him is illuminated by the moon’s light—a man, broad and tall, clad in matching gold mask and cuirass, framed by a tattered cowl. But the most striking thing is the silhouette of a massive sword slung on his back. Sarmenti’s grip on his dirk tightens and the man takes a step back, holding his hands up in supplication.
“My apologies, I did not intend to startle you. I promise you, I mean no harm.”
Sarmenti’s eyes narrow behind his mask. The man nods at Sarmenti’s side. “You seem to have dropped your lute.”
Sarmenti chances a sideways glance. Indeed, his lute lay on the ground, where it must have slipped from his lap. He grabs for it, still with his dirk raised.
“Oh,” the man breathes. “I hope I am not the cause of its broken state. I would gladly compensate you, if that was the case.”
Sarmenti huffs out a bitter laugh. “It was already broken.” Sighing, he sheathes his dirk on his arm and gets to his feet, still careful as he slings the lute on his back. If this man wanted to cleave him in two, he could have easily done so while Sarmenti was distracted wallowing in self-pity.
The man drops his hands, his shoulders easing a fraction, and cocks his head. Sarmenti can only imagine the sight he makes—holding a broken lute on the side of the road as he cries. Another likely to think him mad. So be it.
“You’re heading to the Estate, aren’t you?”
The man perks up at that and nods. “Yes, I heard tell that hired swords were needed. But…the carriage dropped me off a ways back, and to my shame, I have been having trouble finding my way.”
Sarmenti nods up the road. “You were on the right track. Follow me.” He takes off and, after a few moments, the man strides up next to him. Even at Sarmenti’s full height, the man stands nearly a head taller than him. This close up, Sarmenti can see scars on the man’s face that mark the deep brown of his skin. Sarmenti squints. Are those burn marks?
“I appreciate your assistance.”
Sarmenti darts his gaze back to the road and shrugs. “Least I can do after pulling a knife on you.” After a moment, he adds, “Name’s Sarmenti, by the way.”
The man smiles gently. “Pleased to meet you, Sarmenti. I’m Baldwin.” He rests a hand on his chest with a small bow. This one’s a proper gentleman, isn’t he. Sarmenti is a little taken aback. Through the bandages covering his arms, Sarmenti can see the same marked skin underneath. Baldwin seems to catch his gaze. “I suppose I should address the elephant in the room.”
Sarmenti considers him. “I’m a stranger to you, stranger. Just another mercenary. You owe me nothing.”
“If we are to be working side by side, I believe it only to be fair.” A sharp exhale leaves his lips. “I am afflicted with leprosy. It is the reason I left my homeland and came across the sea to…here. I have been searching for a place I can still put my sword arm to good use, while I can.” He bows his head. “And here, I have found somewhere I can still make a difference.”
Baldwin’s noble words stand in sharp contrast to the oppressive atmosphere that surrounds the Estate. “Talk like that, not sure you’ve come to the right place, I’m afraid to say.”
Baldwin looks down at him with a thin smile. “There are scant few other places that would have me.”
Sarmenti doesn’t doubt that’s true. The confidence with which Baldwin carries himself, the heft of the sword strapped to his back, Sarmenti can’t imagine him passively wasting away in a leper colony somewhere. Still…the typical lot that comes here are mercenaries with various degrees of sordid pasts, not people who have such virtuous endeavors as Baldwin.
“You seem like a good man, so I’ll give you some advice—this place chews up and spits out lesser men. Some of them,” Sarmenti jerks a finger up the road, “I wouldn’t trust as far as I can throw them.” He shakes his head. “You want to do good, you’re better off somewhere you won’t croak in the middle of some unspeakable filth.”
“That would likely be my fate, as it is. I would rather spend the last of my days with my sword in my hands.”
Sarmenti wonders how long that resolve will last. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “Suit yourself, then,” he says with a shrug. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Baldwin smiles down at him. “The warning is appreciated, I assure you. Truth be told, I was worried if I would be able to find a friendly face in this place. I…” He clears his throat. “I was expelled from the carriage on the way here. The other occupants were not comfortable sharing the space with me, due to my condition.”
Sarmenti can’t explain the jolt of anger that shoots through him, for the sake of this man he met but a handful of minutes ago. But he looks up at Baldwin, his abashed smile, and feels the anger this man won’t express in his stead. And a less charitable thought—if I’m the friendliest face he can find, then he’s in trouble.
“Wait until they get a look at something a whole lot uglier. They’ll probably run with their tails between their legs.” After a beat, he adds, “No offense.”
Baldwin’s mouth falls open.
Ah. Shit.
“Sorry, I—”
Sarmenti’s apology is cut short by Baldwin’s laugh, sharp and clear. “I cannot say if that is a reassuring sentiment or not, but…thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for insulting you, I’ll get the wrong idea.” Sarmenti can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. It feels almost unfamiliar on his face.
When was the last time he smiled?
Baldwin’s chuckle is a low rumble. “What else should one expect from a jester?”
“My music is a lot better than my jokes, I’ll have you know. I’d offer to play, but, ah…”
Baldwin’s head turns, likely catching sight of the broken lute on his back.
“There was a mishap,” is all Sarmenti says, his bitter smile hidden by his mask. Baldwin nods and doesn’t question further.
“You seem to know your way around this place. Might I ask how long you’ve been in the Estate’s employ?”
Sarmenti barks out a laugh. “Too long. The better part of a year, likely. I stopped keeping track a while ago. Wasn’t good for my nerves.”
Baldwin hums. “There are rumors abound about the Estate. Dark rumors.” Baldwin doesn’t need to specify. “How much of that is true?”
“Most of it. And some more you don’t hear about; the real nasty stuff. Things people don’t want to talk about—or can’t.” Sarmenti cocks his head up. “You seem quite ready with that big sword of yours, though.”
“It’s seen better days.” Baldwin looks down at him with a smile. “You’re not the only one working with a broken instrument.”
Sarmenti snorts. “S’pose that’s some small comfort. What a team we’ll make, huh?”
The trees around them thin as they approach the Hamlet, and the moon already hangs high above. Passing through the gates, Sarmenti spots a group being led through the village by the Caretaker. He narrows his eyes and nods at them with a look to Baldwin. “Those the ones who kicked you out?”
Baldwin follows Sarmenti’s gaze then clears his throat. “Forgive me, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“We have a cleric,” Sarmenti counts off on his fingers, “a knight and someone in a hood I can’t quite make out.”
Baldwin bows his head. It’s a few moments before he answers. “Yes, it is the very same. Though…the hooded figure did not speak a single word, either against or for me.”
That same anger flares up in Sarmenti’s gut. He stomps off in the opposite direction and calls out over his shoulder, “This way.”
Sarmenti can hear the heavy footsteps of Baldwin trailing after him. Sarmenti might be shorter, but he’s fast. It’s a short trip to the barracks and Sarmenti leads Baldwin down the well trodden path to the farthest building.
“The Heir will want to speak to you tomorrow,” Sarmenti says as he slides the door open, “but if the damned Caretaker doesn’t want to do his damned job and make sure all the recruits get here like they’re supposed to, I’m making the executive decision to give you priority on a room.” He adds under his breath, “Damn old coot.”
Baldwin’s steps turn light as he follows Sarmenti past the threshold, and he stops only a few paces in. “Are you certain I would be allowed in this place?”
Sarmenti knows what he means, but he decides to play stupid—something he has unfortunately gotten very good at.
“Unofficially, this is the wing for veterans,” Sarmenti indicates himself. “But there are some vacancies following several…incidents.” Sarmenti refrains from divulging he was nearly one of them. “I don’t think the Heir will mind it being occupied.”
“No, I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
They stare at each other through their masks.
“I wouldn’t offer this if I didn’t want to.” He looks, really looks, at Baldwin. This man who stands so tall, has so regal a bearing, looks somehow small against the frame of the door—so uncertain.
Damnable Light, when did he get so sentimental?
“I was skewered through the stomach by a giant insect—thing a month ago. I’m not terribly afraid of leprosy at this point.”
A smile slowly crests Baldwin’s face.
“Thank you, Sarmenti.”
Baldwin’s sincerity itches at Sarmenti’s back. He covers it up with a harsh laugh. “It’s too early to be thanking me. You’ll see.”
Sarmenti leads Baldwin down the corridor, a door lining the wall every few feet. “This room is Audrey’s. Oh, and that one’s Damian’s. The room next to him is free, but lodging next to him would be, ah, less than ideal. And—that one’s Missandei’s—Alhazred’s—Reynauld-or-Dismas’s, I always forget which—” He rattles off names of occupied rooms until reaching the end of the hall, stopping at the last rooms. “And this is mine,” he says with a flourish of his hands. “I like my privacy.” He nods at the room next to his. “This one is…currently unoccupied. How lucky!”
Sarmenti can feel Baldwin’s questioning stare behind his mask. “I do warn you, I have a habit of playing in the middle of the night—ah, but with a broken lute, I suppose that won’t be too much of a worry.”
“Are you certain—”
“I do not like repeating myself, Baldwin.”
“You are not the only one living here.”
Sarmenti crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. “And anyone who has a problem with it can come to me. But they won’t, because me and my lute have saved their asses more times than I can count. Certainly Dismas can’t count that high.”
The tension in Baldwin’s shoulders eases. He huffs out a quiet laugh as he nods. “Alright. Then…I’ll gladly take you up on the hospitality.”
Sarmenti claps his hands together. “Splendid! Then let us retire before Dismas barges out and yells at me for making too much noise. Again.” HIs hand pauses on the doorknob. “Oh, and…there are no locks, on account of no one being able to keep a hold on their keys. So…don’t leave anything too valuable laying around, I suppose.”
“I carry little with me that is worth stealing. And less likely is it that someone would be willing to steal from me.”
“Very good, very good. I suppose even leprosy has its perks.”
Baldwin sputters out a laugh. “I had never considered it like that.”
“You shouldn’t; I only talk nonsense.” The creak of a door opening sounds down the hall, and Sarmenti pulls his own door open. “And that’s the cue to make myself sparse.” He smiles, despite himself. “Good-night, Baldwin.”
Baldwin’s head lowers in a small bow. “Good-night to you, Sarmenti,” he says in almost a whisper and disappears into his room. Sarmenti follows suit, gently closing the door behind him. He strains his ears and is rewarded with the faint sound of Baldwin’s footsteps. He sets his lute in the closet and pulls his cap off, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. His mask he lays on the bedside table before flopping onto the bed with a groan. Walking and moping take a lot out of a man.
Shivering in the cold night air, Sarmenti pulls the blankets over himself. He closes his eyes, listening to the soft shuffling sounds from the next room. That night, his sleep is dreamless—and, for once, peaceful.