“Jason Cosmo must die!” It was going to be one of those days. The kind of day when a pleasant morning stroll through Pantheon Park can become a tense confrontation with more than two dozen of the worst cutthroats and killers in Caratha. Or, as I called it, Whooshday.
The big bruiser so loudly demanding my death wore a wild red beard and his hair done in Malravian war braids, though he was certainly not Malravian. Furnished in studded leather, he waved a heavy ax about like a flyswatter—with me the fly. From the glazed look of his bloodshot eyes, he was hopped up on something stronger than herbal tea. Even the other killers kept their distance from him.
“Do you hear me?” he roared. “Today you die!”
I hear him, but my mind is elsewhere. There is not a single cloud in the early summer sky—and this particular spot in the park is one of the best vantage points in the city for enjoying my favorite sight.
#
Caratha is a majestic metropolis of red and purple rooftops lining the golden hills where the River Crownbolt meets the Indigo Sea. Within its sturdy walls stand marvels unmatched in all the Eleven Kingdoms of Arden: the graceful Bridge of Swans, the sprawling Grand Bazaar, the hat-shaped headquarters of the League of Benevolent Magic and the awe-inspiring Consolidated Temple of The Gods, to name but a few.
None of these compare to the magnificent palace called the Alcazara. On a promontory beside the river it stands, a bright garland of jeweled towers and stately domes. By day, the Alcazara commands a view for many leagues across land and sea. After sunset, the softly glowing Blue Dome looms over Caratha like a rising azure moon.
This massive crystal hemisphere anchors the palace. At its apex sits the Shining Tower. The tower was once the home of Caratha’s legendary founder, the Mighty Champion. There, for more than a century, the greatest of all Arden’s heroes ruled wisely and well, bringing peace and justice to all the land. There his heirs built upon his legacy to make Caratha first among nations. But there too, in later times, the House of Might was swept from history, undone by hubris, madness and a Bloody Revolution.
Today the halls of the Alcazara swarm at all hours with servants and soldiers, clerks and courtiers, knights and knaves. But the Shining Tower, abandoned as a residence by Caratha’s ruling princes, stands empty and forlorn. Empty and forlorn, that is, except for guided tours at ten and two Whooshday through Freshday, with an additional four o’clock tour on Vanaday.
A sweater or light jacket is recommended.
#
I have toured the Shining Tower six times since my arrival in Caratha, mere weeks ago. Aside from the thrill of spotting ships and caravans on the far horizon from its balconies, the docents are quite knowledgeable and the interactive exhibits explaining how the Mighty Champion overthrew the demon-haunted Empire of Fear, freed the enslaved peoples of Arden, and set the standard of heroic perfection for the next thousand years are informative and inspiring. Also, I am determined to get my money’s worth from the Shining Tower Season Pass I overpaid for on my first visit.
But on this bright Allgreen morning I admire an aspect of the Alcazara not not apparent from the palace itself. On a clear day such as this the Blue Dome is almost invisible against the sky. Like a desert mirage, the Shining Tower seems to float in the air unsupported. Or perhaps it hangs suspended from the sky by the slender spire of purest tanium that rises from the tower roof. At the tip of the spire—which is the highest point in the city——is set a massive and mysterious blue gem of unknown origin. It is called the Heart of Caratha. Lit from within by arcane fires that dance and flicker unceasingly, the Heart of Caratha gleams like a small star at night. Even by day, it shimmers against the sun.
I am entranced by the sight. The jewel seems to call to me as I stare up at it, like a long lost lover summoning me to an embrace. Not with words, nor even images. It is more a feeling, an impression, a sense of connection. And probably just my imagination. After all, I was born about as far away from Caratha as you can go and still be in the Eleven Kingdoms. I only arrived in the city a few weeks ago. There would be absolutely no reason at all for me to have an inexplicable link to a priceless crystal said to mystically embody the essence and spirit of the World’s Greatest City. Most likely the sensation is a combination of newcomer’s excitement, hearing the tour guide’s spiel one time too many and eating that spicy Xornite sausage at breakfast.
“I said today you die!” repeated the big guy with the ax. “So says Kyril the Red!”
“I heard you the first time,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Kyril. “You were just staring off into space.”
“Sorry,” I tore my eyes from the Heart of Caratha. “Now where were we? You’re all here to kill me, right?”
This brought a general chorus of hoots, shouts, curses and vile threats from the two dozen or so assembled contenders for the dubious honor becoming the Man Who Killed Jason Cosmo.
I raised my hands for calm. “Pipe down!” I said. “You’ll each get your turn! But we’re going to do this in an orderly way!”
“What do you mean we’ll each get a turn?” demanded the crazed fighter with the ax. “How do we get our shot if someone else kills you first?”
“Trust me, no one else is going to kill me first.”
“Aye! Because Kyril the Red will finish you now!” He raised his ax in a two-handed fighting grip. “Prepare to—urkkk!”
An arrow through his neck turned Kyril the Red into Kyril the Dead. He took two tottering steps and toppled lifeless to the sward. I nodded my thanks to the archer, a shabby fellow clad in faded forest green. His hood was fashioned from a deer’s head, complete with antlers.
“That’s what happens when you cut in line!” I said. “For those truly worried that someone else will kill me first, remember this—if you don’t get to be the Man Who Killed Jason Cosmo, you can always be the Man Who Killed the Man Who Killed Jason Cosmo!”
The crowd chuckled grimly. My little joke got a laugh every time.
“Is Antonius here?” I said, searching the crowd. “Antonius!”
“Here, Mister Cosmo! Excuse me! Excuse me! Coming through!”
A gawky figure of a young scribe wended his way through the mob of killers. He wore a brown robe, frayed at the hem and patched at the elbows. His light brown hair was cropped short, with the unfortunate effect of accentuating his jug-like ears. He held a battered leather binder in the crook of his arm. An assortment of pens and quills filled his ink-stained breast pocket.
“Sorry I’m late, Mister Cosmo!” said Antonius. He was huffing and puffing, obviously short of breath. “Traffic,” he explained.
I waved away his tardiness. “Do you have the list?”
“Right here, Mister Cosmo!”
“Good. Let’s get started.”
“Right away, Mister Cosmo! Right away!”
“You can cross out Kyril the Red,” I said, indicating the impatient killer’s body.
“I see. Yes.” Antonius opened his binder and made a mark. “Fortune hunters to start, Mister Cosmo?”
“Sure,” I said. “Call the first name.”
I was an unknown woodcutter in the tiny village of Lower Hicksnittle in the distant land of Darnk when the Dark Magic Society put a price on my head—ten million carats, enough to ransom a score of kings. As the Society hoped, the outsized bounty triggered the largest manhunt in history, with me as the target. While I went about my simple life in blissful ignorance, hordes of hunters, ranging from knaves to nobles, scoured the Eleven Kingdoms for any sign of me. As the hunt grew, so did the speculation. Just who was this Jason Cosmo everyone sought? What were his crimes? They had to be terrible indeed to warrant such a steep bounty. Ignorant of the Society’s hand in the matter, people assumed that I must be the vilest villain alive. The fact that no one had even heard the name Jason Cosmo before the wanted posters went up did not prevent lurid tales of my supposed atrocities from circulating, growing wilder and more improbable with each retelling. By the time the hapless Lombardo of Calador stumbled upon me in Lower Hicksnittle, my undeserved infamy as the most dangerous man in the Eleven Kingdoms was cemented into the popular mind.
Given my reputed taste for fresh blood and alleged fondness for recreational dismemberments, most people did their best to avoid me. But for a surprising number of individuals my dire reputation inspired a different response: they wanted to kill me.
Their motives and methods varied. At first the attacks were sporadic—an ambush here, a drive-by crossbowing there. But as word of my presence in Caratha spread the tempo of attempts on my life increased. Soon I could not leave my home without being set upon by would-be killers. In time, even my house was no haven. Or houses, I should say. I had lost three so far.
The constant attacks made it difficult to get anything else done. A walk down the street became a running battle. Dinner and a show turned into dinner and a brawl. I couldn’t stop in for a pint without a full-fledged free-for-all erupting. And forget about any kind of romantic evening with my lady love Sapphrina. Nothing spoils the mood like a gang of Nynja assassins bursting through the front door. Again.
It was Sapphrina who suggested the solution. I could not halt the many attempts on my life, but I could at least schedule them. I put the word out in every disreputable tavern, crooked gambling hall and other gathering place for murdering lowlifes. Anyone who wanted to kill Jason Cosmo would find me available between the seventh and eighth hour every Whooshday at the south dueling ground in Pantheon Park, near the duck pond. Preference to be given to those who sign up in advance. I hired Antonius to keep the appointment book.
The new system was working well so far. Random attempts on my life were down by sixty percent. After all, killers are busy people too. It was a lot of work to stalk me, learn my routine and choose a time and place to attack, with no guarantee that I wouldn’t alter my plans at the last minute, putting all of an assassin’s preparations to naught. Making an appointment to kill me was a win-win approach for everyone.
Which reminded me ...
“Wait!” I said, as Antonius cleared his throat to call the first name. “I almost forgot! If anyone is here for the ten million carat bounty, you’re too late. It has already been paid out.”
“What?” cried a mustachioed fellow clad in mauve. He wore a bandolier of throwing knives across his chest and pair of hatchets at his belt. I believe he was known as the Mauve Marauder. “Paid to whom?”
“To me,” I said. “I collected the bounty on myself.”
“Are you serious?” said a dour gentleman done up in a Death hood, skeleton mask and black leather chaps. He idly twirled a lariat. “I’m the Grim Roper. I rode three weeks from Ganopolis to nab you. You’re telling me it was all for nothing? Jeekers!” He let his rope go limp, threw up his hands and stalked off through the park.
“Now see here!” said the Mauve Marauder. “That’s hardly proper, collecting your own bounty! You’re not even a licensed bounty hunter!”
“I’m a notorious villain,” I said, making air quotes. “I don’t care about licenses.”
“Okay. Good point. Still, it ain’t right.” The Marauder stomped off after the Grim Roper, followed by three other disappointed bounty hunters.
To Antonius I said, “I hate to waste their time. They’re just trying to make a living.”
“No problem, Mister Cosmo,” said the scribe. He marked the names of the departed, then cleared his throat again and bellowed. “Malik of the Seven Blades! You’re up!”
Dusky of skin and grim of eye, Malik wore the loose, flowing robes of a desert tribesman. He bore a curved sword in his right hand and a hooked dagger in his left.
“To the death?” I inquired. “Or will you be satisfied with a good thrashing?”
“I will be satisfied when my blade drinks deeply of your blood and spills your life upon the ground, thus winning me eternal glory.”
“To the death it is then.”
Malik struck so fast that I barely saw him move. Too fast for me to react in time. Fortunately, my sword was Overwhelm, an enchanted weapon once wielded by the Mighty Champion himself. Forged of the mystical metal miraculum, the invincible blade sliced through granite like soft butter. It enchantments included a fighting intelligence that remembered every blow of every fight, learning from each encounter. Overwhelm analyzed a foe’s fighting style, quickly learning to anticipate his moves. Though I had never faced Malik before, Overwhelm had his number. My sword flashed upward to meet his own, dragging my hand along for the ride. Malik’s scimitar shattered like glass against Overwhelm’s blade.
Unfazed, he slashed at my face with the dagger. I ducked behind my shield, deflecting the thrust and swinging Overwhelm at Malik’s unprotected right side. He did a fancy twirling move away from me, hurling his broken sword as he skipped beyond the reach of my weapon. I batted the missile away. Malik drew a short thrusting sword from a scabbard on his back and came at me again. His blade bit right below my breastbone.
And bent in two. I called my coat of mail the Cosmosuit, though not out loud. Another relic of the Mighty Champion, the Cosmosuit was impervious to any weapon. At least, any I had encountered so far. Even so, Malik’s hit would leave a bruise.
Malik jabbed his hooked dagger into my side. It broke. That would bruise too.
“You’re Malik of the Four Blades now,” I said.
In reply, he snapped his arms in a peculiar motion. A pair of punching knives slid from his sleeves. These resembled a set of brass knuckles with six inch knife blades attached. Malik feinted, dodged, darted and once again got past my guard. This time he aimed low—a jab at my thigh followed by a slam punch to the crotch.
“That was just mean,” I said, wincing more at the thought than from any actual pain. The Cosmosuit protected my more sensitive bits as well as it did the rest of my body. The punching knives snapped like stale toast against a brick. But I resented the low blow.
I advanced on my foe with a furious flurry of thrusts and slashes. Had even half of my blows connected, Malik’s head and limbs would have flown in six different directions. But his quickness saved him. Dodging and tumbling, Malik deftly avoided my attack, culminating his evasive maneuvers with a standing reverse somersault. From mid-air he launched a pair of razor-edged throwing stars at me. I raised my shield to deflect the deadly projectiles. One embedded itself in a tree. The other nicked a swordsman waiting for his turn at me, tracing an ugly red line across his cheek before whirling off through the park.
“Are you done, Malik of the Broken Blades?” I said. “Or is this still to the death?”
Malik glared at me, but made no move to attack.
“Done, then.” I turned to Antonius. “Who’s next?”
Malik’s speed startled me yet again. Swifter than a falcon striking its prey, he closed the distance between us. With one hand he reached over my shoulder to grab my chin and yank my head back. With the other he sliced a serrated knife across my throat.
The serrations of the blade made popping noises as they broke off like the teeth of a cheap comb. “It’s called the gorget,” I said. “That’s the part of my armor that protects my neck.”
I pivoted and smashed Malik with my shield, slamming him to the ground, then pinned him with a foot to the chest.
“That was eight blades,” I said, pressing Overwhelm’s point to his throat. “You’re a cheater!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Calling yourself Malik of the Seven Blades is, at the very least, disingenuous.”
“I was named for my Uncle Aktar.”
“Uncle Aktar?”
“Aktar of the Seven Blades.”
“Right then. Well, Aktar, do you want to stick with your earlier call of to the death?
“Not really.”
“Good choice. But before I let you up I want to be sure you understand that you’ve had your turn. If you come at me with a ninth blade, these remaining gentlemen so patiently waiting their turns are well within their rights to take you out. I know Antler Boy there has an itchy bowstring.”
“I am finished. Truly.”
“Good. Better luck next time. Antonius?”
“Haakon Hookhand is next. Haakon!”
No one stepped forward. I scanned the crowd, spying a sturdy sailor who was missing his right hand. In its place was a wickedly sharp steel hook.
“Are you Haakon?” I asked.
He glanced around nervously. “Who me?”
“Yes, you. Haakon Hookhand?”
He hid his right hand—or hook, rather—behind his back. “Maybe. I mean no. That is to say ... it’s not what you think!”
“What do I think?”
Haakon laughed nervously. “Funny story really. You see, me and me mates were down at the Sassy Seahorse last night, drinking rum and boasting, as we sailors will do. One thing leads to another and next thing you know I’m saying as I could take on Jason Cosmo himself.”
“Do go on,” I said.
“It was just talk! I didn’t mean nothing by it! It’s more like a figure of speech. Like I could fight a bear! or I could wrestle an ogre! More of an exaggeration than a real declaration of one’s true intent. But then Seamus said as how you were here in Caratha and taking all comers. He called me out and I couldn’t back down, now could I? I’ve been at sea for the past two years. I had no idea you were in town or I’d have kept my fool mouth shout, and that’s the truth!”
“No doubt,” I said. “But you did sign up to kill me.”
“That I did,” said Haakon resignedly. “But it was the whisky talking, I swear!”
“I thought you said rum.”
“Rum did most of the talking, but I’m pretty sure it was whisky as convinced me! Oh, I should never have turned to drink. Me mum said it would be the death of me!” Haakon fell to his knees. “I repent of it all! Never will I touch another drop, just please don’t kill me, Jason Cosmo!”
He clasped his hands together in supplication, forgetting that one of his hands was, in fact, a hook.
“You just hooked your own hand,” I said.
“Yes, I noticed.”
“That’s got to smart.”
“Aye,” said Haakon, through gritted teeth. “The pain is considerable.”
“Well, I can’t fight you now. So I guess you’re off the ... well, anyway. Perhaps another time.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you!”
“You should have a surgeon tend your hand before it gets infected.”
Haakon scowled. “The last time I had a surgeon tend an injured hand of mine I ended up with this bloody hook! I’ll just pour some rum on and apply a bandage. It will be fine. Thank you again, sir, for your mercy!”
Haakon hurried on his way, dripping a trail of blood behind him. I regarded my remaining opponents, most of whom dared not look me in the eye. “Anyone else having second thoughts, now is your chance to leave!” I said.
Two men bolted immediately, sprinting past poor Haakon in their haste. After a moment’s hesitation, another would-be combatant lost his nerve. Two more followed him.
“That thinned the herd a bit,” I said.
“That’s it for the fortune and glory list,” said Antonius. “Any bounty hunters still here? Cladius of Gos? Is Cladius here? Cladius is a no-show. Last call for bounty hunters! Okay, pros next! Contract killers, assassins—anyone here to kill Mister Cosmo for pay. I’ve got Nestor Breen and the Boys, the Blue Crew, the Black Sheep, the mysterious Spider Guild, and something called Quik Kill.”
I knew of Nestor Breen and the Boys by reputation. They were Reorganized Crime muscle—the bane of shopkeepers who fell behind in their protection payments, gamblers who reneged on their debts and others who ran afoul of Caratha’s criminal element. The Blue Crew was a rival band of hoodlums for hire, blue-skinned Cyrillans who wore blue caps to further emphasize their blueness. The Black Sheep were young bravos from otherwise good families—mostly younger sons of aristocrats who stood to inherit little and considered honest work beneath them. Yet they were okay with slay for pay.
Those who sought me out to prove their fighting prowess or to win a glorious reputation were annoying, but I respected their motives. Our martial age honored strength of arms. It was natural for men of the sword to seek out a challenge.
Bounty hunters likewise had my regard. Their usual prey were outlaws, brigands, pirates and other scoundrels. My villainous reputation was undeserved, but it made me fair game for the bounty hunting brotherhood. I tried to go easy on them.
Hired killers were another matter. They didn’t face armed foes in honorable combat. They didn’t hunt criminals. They were criminals. The last thing they wanted was a fair fight. They lurked in the shadows, set traps, attacked from ambush and did all their low cunning could devise to ensure that their victims met a violent end with as little risk to themselves as possible. They harried the weak and defenseless, the very folk I was sworn to defend as Champion of The Gods. I was only too happy for another opportunity to thin their ranks.
Oddly enough, few top tier assassins had come after me. For the most part it was second rate killers like this lot who sought me out. Someone was directing a steady stream of low grade thugs my way. I wasn’t sure who or why. I wondered if some mysterious benefactor was making it easier for me to rid the city of such miscreants by paying them to perish at my hand.
“Breen Boys, Blue Crew and Black Sheep, I’ll take you all together,” I said.
“What’s this?” said Nestor Breen. He was a pock-faced, greasy-haired, beady-eyed walking cliché of a contract killer. “I don’t work with blue freaks and fancy boys!”
“Oh, yeah?” said one of the Blue Crew. “Well, we don’t need any help from the likes of you anyway!”
“We simply shan’t consort with these lowlifes,” said the leader of the Black Sheep, speaking in the clipped nasal tone affected by his class. “We shan’t!”
“Yes, you shan—I mean, shall,” I said. “Look at it this way. All of you attacking together have a slightly better chance of beating me than each group alone. If you win, you can fight among yourselves after. It’s a twofer!”
“I don’t like it,” said Nestor Breen. “But if you insist.”
The other gangs nodded their assent. Eying one another warily, the three groups arranged themselves around me. The Breen Boys favored clubs and knives. The Blue Crew had cheap swords. The Black Sheep had expensive swords with mother-of-pearl grips and other adornments.
At an unspoken signal, the killers charged as one. Giving Overwhelm free rein, I blocked, ducked, cut, thrust, pivoted, kicked, elbowed, and otherwise stayed in constant motion amid the press of my foes. The ground was soon littered with a score of lifeless bodies.
“Who’s next?” I said.
“Quik Kill,” said Antonius.
Two trembling young men with the slightly unkempt look of university students stepped forward. They wore blue aprons emblazoned with a cartoon of a homicidal lightning bolt character brandishing a bloody knife.
“What is Quik Kill?” I asked.
“Uh ... well, we wrote the business plan for our marketing class,” said one of the young men. According to a badge on his apron, his name was Tab.
“Quik Kill is ‘Murder for the Masses,’” said the other, named Ryan. “If you’re rich you can afford to hire people to kill your enemies. But what about ordinary working people? They might have enemies they want dead too.”
“It’s a huge underserved market,” said Tab, nodding. “Quik Kill puts high quality pre-paid assassination services within the average person’s reach.”
“Pre-paid assassination?” I said. “What does that mean?”
“It works like this,” said Ryan. “You sign up as a Quik Kill subscriber and pay a low monthly fee, right? Then, if you need someone killed, you’ve got an assassin on call. By pooling the subscriber fees of all our members, we can afford to hire top line talent.”
“You two don’t look like top-line talent.”
Ryan and Tab exchange glances. Tab said, “We dropped out of school to launch Quik Kill, but we’re short of start-up funds. When our first customer ordered a hit on you, we had no choice but to do it ourselves.”
“The two of you are going to kill me?” I asked, cocking one eyebrow skeptically, as I stepped over the remains of one of the Blue Crew.
Tab swallowed hard. Ryan vomited on himself.
“Truthfully,” said Tab. “We were thinking of dropping the whole project and going back to school.”
“That would be a good idea,” I said. “Unlike Quik Kill.”
The overmatched entrepreneurs hastened from the park.
“Is that all for this week, Antonius?”
“Yes, Mister Cosmo. The mysterious Spider Guild is a no show. That’s it.”
“What about you?” I addressed the shabby archer. “Are you here to take a shot at me?”
The archer spat out a huge wad of tobacco. “Nope. I was just passing by. Thought I’d stop and watch for a spell. Mighty fine fighting.”
“Thanks. And for your help with Kyril the Red.”
“Don’t mention it.” He shuffled his feet. “Could I have my arrow back?”
“Help yourself.”
He retrieved his bloody arrow from Kyril’s neck. “Steel arrowhead. Not cheap, you know. Especially for a down on his luck former forest ranger.”
“Former forest ranger?”
“Let go for poaching deer. Though more for putting out my lord’s eye with an arrow while poaching deer.”
“You aimed at a deer and accidentally hit your lord in the eye? But you seem to be an excellent shot!”
The ranger spat. “I didn’t say it was an accident.”
“True enough. What’s your name?”
“They Call Me Deerkiller.”
“Well, Deerkiller—”
“Not Deerkiller. They Call Me Deerkiller.”
“That’s a mouthful.”
“T.C. for short.”
“T.C., how would you like to earn an honest hundred?”
His dark eyes lit up. “What’s the job?”
“Clean up these bodies for me. I’d do it myself, but I’ve got to get this story moving.”
“I can do it. Do you want them skinned and mounted?”
“Nothing like that!” I said. “Just stack them over there for the Body Cart. It comes round at ten.”
“Consider it done.”
“You’re a pal!” I counted out a handful of coins to T.C. and paid Antonius too. “Antonius, I’ll see you next week! T.C., you just pay the Body Cart guy. And keep the change!”