Bargain (Heroes By Necessity Book 2) Read online

  But if things were going to be as simple as just having Elise return to her duties, the Temple wouldn’t have sent an armed host to capture them.

  Twice.

  And it wasn’t like these hosts were just an escort for Ydia’s chosen Champions to give them aid and succor. It was an army to capture wanted criminals who had escaped justice.

  Cold reality settled back in and Elise steeled her heart against the voice that told her she wasn’t good enough. Giving herself up would only result in her being thrown back in Auernheim. Elise prided herself on never being blinded by her faith, and so she wasn’t about to throw herself into danger and put Ydia to the test to keep her off the executioner’s block. Again.

  Elise crept along the shadows of the street, feeling exposed as she was within spitting distance of the Temple. She watched the grounds carefully for a sign of approach and curled around herself more and more as she scooted forward. When she reached the next intersection of streets that would lead her away from the Temple and towards the small house they had rented in the western district, she hesitated and cocked her head to the side.

  A familiar sound wafted on the morning air, freezing her to the spot like prey when it knows it has caught a predator's watchful eye. The sound was gentle at first, but grew, separating from a cacophony of noise into the individual sounds. Like the sounds of armor rattling. Of orders being shouted. Of booted feet and of weapons drawn. From the direction of the Temple grounds. Coming her way.

  Fear lanced through her from her toes right up to her heart. Elise managed to stop it there as she fiercely held onto her wits to keep herself from bolting. Elise took a deep, steadying breath. She was the only person on the street. Fleeing would look suspicious. But so would standing in the center of the road, frozen and staring. Arms and legs shaking, Elise walked as calmly as she possibly could out of the open, managing a relatively controlled scurry into the nearest alleyway. It wasn’t long after sunrise still, and so the gloom of the dawn still hung over the more crowded parts of the city. Elise was confident she could lurk in the shadows between the buildings while whatever was coming went past.

  The clattering of boots and armor grew louder, and the host came into view.

  Her heart sank when she saw the host led by Conscripts with torches to throw back the darkness in the streets and clear the way for the armed force behind them. They were headed in the direction of the rented house Elise had hoped would escape notice for another week at least. Elise almost chastised herself for her paranoia in assuming they were coming for her, but then paused. While she had no confirmation of the hosts’ intent, it was very clear they were after someone, and something in her gut told Elise that the host was looking for her and her friends.

  After none of the torch-bearing Conscripts even so much as peeked down the alley she hid in, Elise felt brave enough to creep closer to the mouth of the alley to get a better look at what her and her friends would be up against.

  A familiar face marched at the head of the host, just behind the torch bearers. Hern. Elise’s heart skipped several beats, not calming until he passed beyond the alley. Trailing behind Hern was a mixture of Conscripts and Temple Guards. The Temple was getting serious. They wanted her captured. Hern’s presence proved it, but his retinue following him sealed the deal.

  Hern was Elise’s childhood bully, but calling him that gave him too little credit. Elise could still recall him screaming to his lackeys to kill her as she fled through the alleys of Khule. She recalled his ruthless threats to sell her and her friends into prostitution. His face, contorted in pain and anger at his capture, still woke her from the deepest of sleeps. And while Hern and Elise had made amends, mostly, since that day almost fifteen years ago, she still resented him. And likely he resented her as well.

  When he had joined the Temple to avoid punishment for his crimes, he quickly established himself as one of the most gifted combatants who had ever joined the Conscripts. His pure skill, without training, would rival even Ermolt. That raw skill, and ruthlessness he employed with it, led him to be promoted quickly to a Temple Guard. Everyone feared the Temple Guard with him leading them. And so if the Temple was sending Hern, it raised some doubts that the Temple actually wanted her and her friends captured alive.

  As if to underline the thought, the last row of Conscripts passed her—the host was nearly forty members strong—and the group was followed by a complement of Clerics. Clerics were the Temple’s healers and medics, and if they were accompanying the host, it meant they didn’t just expect a fight. The Temple expected injuries.

  There would be no peaceful resolution.

  The thought was sobering. Fear fled her body and was replaced with cold, hard anger. She had to get back to her friends, and now. But first she had to deal with whomever was behind her.

  She’d noticed the gentle sounds of something approaching as the Clerics passed, but when no attack came, Elise assumed she shared the alley with a rat. But now there was a gentle rustling sound as the creature dug through her bag.

  Elise whipped her head around to find an urchin delicately tugging her sack of groceries open and peeking inside. The dirty child’s eyes snapped up, meeting hers, and she could see the calculations behind those desperate eyes. She knew the kid was trying to decide if the bag of food was too heavy for them to carry and still outrun her. It forced Elise to make the same calculation. Even if she could catch the child and retrieve her groceries quickly, the bag would slow her down as she gave chase to the Temple’s forces as they descended on her friends.

  She also considered how she felt back in her youth on the streets, whenever she came across such a windfall as a full loaf of bread—let alone the package of minced beef that accompanied it in the sack—and knew that even if everything went perfectly, she would think back to this poor child with regret if she snatched what must look like a year’s worth of food from them.

  “It’s all yours, kid,” Elise said finally. She looked back at the tail end of the marching host as it continued down the street. “I’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”

  “R-really? Th-thank you, miss,” the small urchin said, pulling the bag tighter to them.

  “If you want to thank me, do me a favor.” Elise tilted out of the mouth of the alley to watch the host for another moment. “Gather some others—about four or so should suffice. And slow that host down. Don’t get yourselves caught, but just be a nuisance. Can you do that, for the Glory of Ydia and the will of Her mighty dragon Meodryt?”

  There was silence behind her and Elise assumed that the kid had run off. Instead, they stared up at her with wide eyes, the clutched bag dangling from their fingertips. When they realized Elise was staring in anticipation, the kid straightened up and nodded firmly. “The d-dragon? Y-yes, of course! I’ll go grab Suluna, and Idem, and—“

  Elise shook her head. “I trust you’ll do fine. But I need to go. Just remember—stay out of the way of trouble. Hern has never been afraid to rough up some urchins.”

  Chapter Three

  Athala was a firm believer in the idea that Ermolt couldn’t surprise her anymore. She saw how he moved in combat. His movements with a weapon in hand were brutal and elegant at the same time. The gracefulness was akin to a dance, and was a testament to his years of training. Athala knew that no human could be so gifted and still have had the time or energy to be skilled at anything else.

  Seeing him at work in the kitchen reminded her that Ermolt was not human. He was a barbarian of the northern lands, and not bound by the same limitations that ruled normal men.

  Ermolt moved through the kitchen as he waded through battle—with confidence and surety that all would go his way in the end.

  Athala had woken up that morning to find Ermolt sneaking noisily through their tiny house with a sack clutched in his giant arms. She didn’t ask where he had gone. It wasn’t because she trusted him or because she wasn’t curious, but it was because he showed her his bounty. Vegetables. Fruits. Asparagus and onions and p
otatoes and peppers. There was even a lemon and a bunch of scrawny bananas in there.

  Her stomach had cramped with desire at the sight, and she’d immediately felt guilty. Elise had tried so hard to care for them the past few weeks. She’d done her best to spend the little coin they had wisely, and was able to make satisfying meals with few ingredients that staved off the hunger. But efficient food did nothing to fulfill the other needs a person had.

  Athala had expected Ermolt to put the vegetables aside to wait for Elise’s return. But when he went to work with mixing bowls and frying pans, she was more curious about why he had allowed Elise to take care of all their cooking for the last three weeks.

  “You’ve seen how stir-crazy she’s been,” he said as he poured a banana-scented batter into a bread pan as the fire-heated oven warmed. “I wouldn’t want to take away one of the few things she has to keep herself occupied.”

  “Then why cook now?” Athala asked. She immediately regretted it as he retrieved a giant knife and started to finely dice an onion. The sound of a knife going through vegetables awakened a homesickness in her that she hadn’t felt in years. There was a moment where she entertained the idea of apologizing for asking, but he didn’t seem phased by her curiosity.

  “I thought it would be a nice gesture,” he said with a shrug as he began to heat an oiled pan with one hand while the other fished a root vegetable out of the bag next to him. “Just because she needs the activity to keep busy doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate a day off from it.”

  Athala had, for some reason, insisted on helping. Perhaps it was Ermolt’s earnest desire to make Elise feel better. The Conscript had been so stressed out the past few weeks, and it was no secret that she worried too much about Athala and Ermolt. While it was true that they would have likely been captured already without her help, it sometimes felt as if she didn’t trust them. That if she let her guard down, they would mess up in some monumental way.

  So guilt had likely spurred Athala to volunteer, and as she attempted to season a simmering sauce she tried with equal vigor to remember why she thought she could help. It certainly wasn’t to take some pressure off of Ermolt, as he was spending as much time answering her constant barrage of “what now?” and “is this enough?” and “how much longer?” as he would have likely required to just make it himself. Meanwhile, Ermolt’s hands danced between two different pans of sauteing vegetables and a still-active cutting board, carefully timing and metering the vegetables.

  “So how long was this supposed to simmer?” Athala asked, looking at the fragrant brown mixture. It smelled of garlic and ginger and set her mouth watering.

  “A bit longer yet,” Ermolt said with a chuckle as he added chopped mushrooms into one of the pans, leaving the other without. The spatula in his other hand somehow kept the vegetables moving in both pans at once, keeping them from burning. He leaned closer to the simmering sauce and sniffed a little. “It’s a little heavy on the salt, though.”

  “That’s what happens when you don’t tell me how much to add!” Athala said, looking around. “Do you want me to just... Add more of everything else? Dilute it or something?”

  “How are you not good at this?” Ermolt said in a teasing tone. “Isn’t your family the most... prolific... potion... uh... potion-maker family?”

  “Potions are exact!” she said, wincing at the whine to her own voice. As she continued, she tried to suppress her defensive tone. “No potion maker in the history of my family has just said something as vague as ‘add salt to taste’ and expected perfect results!” She pointed at his hands as he stirred one pan of vegetables while he shook the other pan to toss the mushrooms into the already-cooked contents. “That right there is art, Ermolt. I’ve never been artistic.”

  Ermolt paused for a moment before shaking his head. “Just go ahead and keep it at a simmer. I’ll take care of it when the vegetables are a little closer to being done.”

  “But how?” Athala threw her hands up in frustration. When he only chuckled in response, Athala frowned. “If you told me you were going to pull the salt grains out by hand, I would believe you. I just don’t understand. Teach me.”

  “There isn’t enough time right now, Athala,” Ermolt said as he grabbed a third pan.. “How about you go set the table instead? I’ll need you out of my way for the next part, anyway.”

  Athala took a half-step back out of the kitchen, to stand next to the low table they had designated as the dining area. Instead of setting the table as asked, she watched Ermolt work. A growing sense of awe and wonder filled her.

  The enormous barbarian worked methodically. But it wasn’t just that. And it wasn’t just his grace. Athala felt herself gawking at the indescribable way Ermolt was able to tend to four pans on the stove at the same time. He kept the vegetables from burning, he kept the sauce stirring, and he somehow added scrambling eggs to his tasks without hesitation.

  “I don’t believe this.” Athala murmured as she rubbed at her eyes, trying to decide if she was actually awake, or if this was just an extremely elaborate dream.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” Ermolt said with a quick smirk thrown over his shoulder. “I’d do the eggs sunny-side up like you like, but I’m a bit out of practice.” He turned back to his pans, and Athala expected to see his shoulders shake with laughter. It took a breath for her to realize he was serious.

  Athala shook her head. She didn’t know how to process this new information—that not only could Ermolt cook, but he was as fantastic at it, if not more, than when he faced an opponent in deadly combat. A curiosity bubbled inside her and she desperately wanted to ask where he learned this skill and how he got so good at it, but the barbarian seemed to actually need to focus now that so many pans were in jeopardy of burning, and Athala didn't want to be responsible for ruining breakfast.

  With caution, Athala stepped back up to the kitchen cabinets. She was so very careful to stay out of Ermolt’s way as she fetched the dingy eating utensils they had been able to salvage before they had to flee their previous home. Athala settled a napkin and fork in front of each of the three cushions that surrounded the low table, and set the one good knife they had in the middle of the table where everyone could reach it. Setting the table was a familiar task that Athala was able to find comfort in. Elise was usually in charge of cooking, and Ermolt complained that he was too tall to comfortably reach the low surface of the table when he set the silverware out.

  Instead, he usually took care of fetching the water from the rusted pump out back the domicile. But with him stirring pans and attempting to fix her salty mistake with what seemed to be a bit of diced, uncooked potato, Athala thought it best to handle fetching the water herself.

  She slipped back through the small bedroom toward the backdoor of the house. Three mats stretched the entirety of the room and so Athala had to hop over them as her legs were not long enough to step over them in one go.

  The first mat was Athala’s, noted by gently folded blankets and her old ragdoll that leaned against the pillow. Elise’s was next to hers, and even though the mat was nearly falling apart, the thing was neatly made every morning in a way that made Athala’s attempt look slovenly. The last mat, closest to the back door, belonged to Ermolt. His mat was bare, with the blanket sloppily folded next to it, still unused even as the nights grew colder with each passing day.

  Athala grabbed the clay jug that was stored next to the backdoor as she passed into the backyard they shared with the other rowhouses that circled the block. The container was heavy, and even though she was expecting the weight she still struggled with it down the two steps that lead from their bedroom into the yard. She rested at the bottom step, taking deep breaths with her arms over her head, as Elise had taught her.

  As her breathing was wrestled under control, the silence of the backyard became deafening. Athala was suddenly aware that she was alone.

  The morning sun had not yet crept high enough to illuminate every shadow of the shared space, and in every doorway
and behind every bin she saw the dark eyes and sharp instruments of Ingmar.

  A thousand different smiles crept along those shadows, each one enjoying the panic that rose in her chest. Each one threatening to coax a scream from her throat to sate his endless thirst.

  Athala stilled herself, trying to find calm.

  Ingmar was dead.

  She had seen his corpse. Had been coated in his blood. He was no longer able to dig into her flesh with his various tools, no longer able to make her scream for his amusement. She had to get herself under control.

  But no amount of logic would stem the panic as it rose, threatening to drown out the voice that begged for peace.

  Athala closed her eyes tightly, blocking out the jeering smiles and the threats they held. After a few moments of whispering encouraging words to herself, her heart rate slowed and the panic retreated. When she opened her eyes, Ingmar no longer threatened her from every darkened spot and Athala returned to her task at hand.

  She tried to ignore how much her hands shook as she drug the clay jug to the water pump.

  Athala struggled with the pump for nearly a quarter of a bell. The rusted contraption was a bitter old coot that mocked her attempts to wrestle water out of it.

  There may have been cursing.

  A lot of cursing.

  But eventually Athala was able to fill the vessel with cold water from the pump. She struggled to carry the heavy container back up the stairs, having to pause on each step to regain her strength. Athala knew they couldn’t afford to purchase a new clay jug if she broke this one, and the idea of having to work the old pump for individual cups of water was frustrating. So she took her time, even though she felt a flash of embarrassment as she tried to handle both the cumbersome vessel and the door at the same time.