Arcane mercenaries gener.., p.1
Arcane Mercenaries: General, page 1
ARCANE MERCENARIES: GENERAL
MARK AUGUST
FOUR FANS PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2022 by Mark August
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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For Cris. I love the first page we’ve written together in this new chapter.
CONTENTS
1. Drowning
2. Body
3. Misunderstanding
4. Trusted Talons
5. A Small Favor
6. More Intel
7. A Plan Gone Wrong
8. Recovery
9. Justification
10. Guards
11. Retreat
12. Syndicate
13. Captain of the Guard
14. Licking Wounds
15. Mercenaries
16. Release
17. Maro Negotiations
18. On the Road
19. Arrival in Semturm
20. Disease of the Touched
21. Challenge
22. Cure?
23. Lord Mayor
24. Investigation
25. General's Disdain
26. Hospital Research
27. Strategy
28. Bishop's Play
29. Imperial House
30. Doctor's Advice
31. Bold Decision
32. Emperor's Plight
33. Friends and Enemies
34. Cardinal
35. Defeat at every angle
36. Tul Emissary
37. Apocalypse Theory
38. Race
39. Miscommunication
40. General
41. To the Rescue
42. Battle of Eastwater
43. Retreat
44. Pep Talk
45. Prep the Battlefield
46. Battle of High Forest
47. Through the Lines
48. Hiding Out
49. Observation
50. Pursuit
51. Unexpected Respite
52. Tul Influence
53. New Plan
54. Military Leadership
55. Gamble
56. Touched
57. Exploring the Possible
58. Queen
59. Ceasefire
60. Betrayal
61. Treaty
62. Ez
63. Transition
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Mark August
1
DROWNING
Grant didn’t want to be a hero. He would surrender every ounce of his Star-Touched power if he could eliminate the curse coursing through his veins and seething in his soul. Someone else could run the Arcane Mercenaries, and they could take care of their blood contracts. Someone else could be a hero.
He’d tried before.
Images swirled in his blurry vision, and his balance swayed as he clutched the wooden edge of the bar. Crown Prince Christoph stood with his arms crossed and shook his head. How many times had he let that man down? Grant blinked away those memories, and the image of his friend’s broken body lying on the military cot forced tears down his cheeks. Christoph was like every other battlefield corpse—peace did not come with death. Death was final.
Cheli joined the crown prince with that slight scowl she wore when she disapproved of Grant’s decision. She’d tell him they’d have to think through their options, which always meant she was about to explain why she was right. Her amusement faded to panic as her hands clutched her throat, trying to stem the blood flow. No matter how many times Grant tried, he couldn’t save her.
The mug in Grant’s hand was empty again. He pushed it back toward the barkeep, watching it tilt and fall to its side. His eyes tracked the rolling motion, guessing if it would crash on the floor. The bartender wasn’t interested in more broken mugs and grabbed it off the bar.
Grant raised a wavering finger and pointed at the collection of bottles shelved against the back wall. He couldn’t make out the labels, but it didn’t matter which one. His Touched power fought against the poison he poured into his belly, and his curse just couldn’t keep up with his ingestion.
“You can’t afford that.”
Grant’s fingers obeyed his command as he reached inside his beer-stained, sweat-soaked shirt. Somehow, he loosened the drawstring and found a suitable coin from his diminishing collection. He pressed the silver chip between his thumb and forefinger and tried to focus his blurry vision. Grant ignored the man’s look of pity as he turned toward the shelves to select the next fiery beverage.
Grant didn’t care. That’s why he was here.
He cupped the coin in his palm and slammed it onto the stained surface of the counter. The impact rocked Grant back, forcing him to clutch the cool, brass rail lining the bar for balance. His feet shifted as he tried to maintain stability and fought to stay upright.
Voices fought for his awareness throughout the room. Old, young, male, female. All sounded the same as the volume fell and rose with his antics. People drank in a bar. Why would they care about a tired, old mercenary?
“Leave the bottle,” Grant mumbled out through a hoarse throat.
“We all have to come back to reality and face who we are. The bottle doesn’t help,” the bartender said.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t try, Grant thought. He wasn’t in the mood for a life lesson from a bartender.
Grant remembered the barkeep was also the owner. They’d talked… when? The time didn’t matter, but he was a large man with a bushy beard and thick forearms—a nice guy looking to make a profit. Grant would keep him in business.
Grant grunted as his fingers clutched the smooth glass. Not trusting his hands, he leaned the bottle toward his mouth and used his teeth to pry out the cork.
“At least let me help you with the bottle. Don’t make a mess.”
Grant relinquished his prize and watched as the man smoothly removed the cork. A pair of glasses appeared next to the bottle. Or was it one glass? He couldn’t focus his vision well enough to tell. Grant grabbed the container and tried to pour another shot.
The liquid burned the back of his throat and up into his nostrils. The fire raked its way down into his gut. Grant fumbled with the empty glass on the table and kept one hand gripping the bar. He turned his head slowly to prevent a collapse on the sticky floor. Someone might want to share a drink with him.
Touched power matched the beat of his heart and assaulted the damage caused by the alcohol. His curse responded to injury and protected him from near-fatal wounds. But even the StarTouched had limits. Too many of his friends died on the battlefield or in stupid bars like this. Even his arcane abilities could be exhausted, and Grant was long past that limit.
His power surged in a fruitless effort to burn off the alcoholic poison coursing through his veins. His vision changed from the kaleidoscope of colors through tear-soaked eyes to the colorless grays of his arcane world. Gravity always followed its rules, and Grant witnessed the order imposed by the downward forces. Vector lines threatened to overwhelm his mind with too much information, and chaos threatened to claim his sanity. Grant fought back his panic and focused on himself. His power buttressed his balance, and the storm of his rocking world faded as the last spurts of his energy saved him from an ungraceful collapse.
Memories of his losses crashed against his returning sobriety. Grant turned back to the bar to plant his arms on the surface. He couldn’t feel his fingers, but the firm surface stabilized him. He reached for the bottle, but his fingers wouldn’t make contact. The barkeep sighed and poured him another shot.
Grant saluted the man with a raised glass and threw back the liquid into his mouth. It was a fruitless effort. All the alcoholic beverages in the world couldn’t drown the memories of his friend and commander, Christoph. He shouldn’t get rid of those memories—not ever.
Their first battlefield was over a decade ago, and Alenann should have lost. They were surrounded and defeated, but Grant just wouldn’t die. He wanted to. He tried to. But his cursed Touched power wouldn’t let him. Scrapes and bruises healed without a thought, and dangerous trauma only slowed him down for moments.
Grant remembered the banner falling. The Alenann imperial flag fluttered with the motion as a lifeless hand released the pole. Cries grew around the battlefield. Some were screaming for victory, and others wailed in defeat. Grant was silent as he fought his way toward that standard. It was only a symbol, but it was the last reference point in his life.
Countless soldiers died at his hands as he slogged his way forward. He’d been at war for years as a young soldier and as a mercenary, and Grant understood how he could manipulate the forces of gravity around him. Arrows and muskets were useless near him as he kept a constant field to protect his advance. Hand-to-hand combat was a brutal, two-person affair. Only one would emerge from the struggle.
Grant was unbeatable in single combat. A gravitational tug on boots was as effective as a slice across the legs. Warriors who couldn’t move were like wheat waiting to be cut in the fields. Grant reaped a bloody crop on that battlefield.
Christoph’s personal guard fought with astonishing gallantry. Their untarnished honor forced them to surrender the last moments of their lives fo r their leader, the Crown Prince of the Alenann Empire. Their opponents continued the relentless assault as each Alenann soldier gave up their last breath. Grant couldn’t move fast enough to the last spot of resistance on that low hill.
Boots slipped in the mud and gore as people tried to climb into combat. Steel flashed in the fading light, red with not just the reflection of the setting sun but the splatter of wasted lives. Grunts and screams marked the struggle, and heavy breathing indicated the inevitable outcome of the battle on that rise.
Grant made his way to the top and stood with the guards. He broke three swords in that battle. There were always suitable replacements with bodies from both armies stacked around him. He fought with a sword, axe, mace, spear, and dagger. His Touched power raged with each beat of his heart. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his power wouldn’t let him down and let him fall.
Christoph and Grant fought back to back with no hope of victory. The bodies would stack up around them, but the entire army would eventually cut them down. Grant remembered smiling—it would be an excellent way to die.
Salvation came with a trumpet’s blast and the thunder of tens of thousands of pounds of warhorses. A cavalry charge smashed into the enemy lines, and armored infantry fought to reach their liege through the carnage. Bodies surged, and steel crashed. The chanting chorus from the advanced soldiers restored hope and renewed Grant’s spirit. Light in the darkness, and the tide turned. The flag rose from the gore and mud, the colors barely recognizable.
Christoph turned and gripped Grant’s forearms. Grant’s life changed at that moment. And it changed again when he saw Christoph lying in a pool of his blood in Varenne.
“Let him go.”
The screaming voice was in Grant’s ear, tearing him out of his memory. His hands were wet and sticky. Even his sleeves were damp. It didn’t smell like alcohol or beer. More like iron. Like a battlefield.
“Please, sir, let him go.”
Grant didn’t recognize this voice. Pleading words. Why? Grant’s hands opened, and a thud hit the wooden floor. He tried to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, but he added more dirt to his face.
His hands were red. Again. But this wasn’t a battlefield. He was in a bar. And his Touched abilities raged against the poison in his system to regain control of his mind, to keep him alive. His curse. His burden.
Others approached Grant as he tried to blink away the blurry vision.
“What are we going to do with the body?”
2
BODY
The body.
Grant tried to process the information coming at him from every direction. The barkeep rumbled something Grant’s mind couldn’t decipher. The closer voices spoke to each other about the unfortunate individual on the ground. Others stirred and moved toward the exits.
Wet and sticky. Smells like iron. Blood.
Grant looked at his murderous hands and the two people gripping his arms. Ghosts of the past laughed in Grant’s face and danced at the edge of his vision. His hands curled into fists again as the rage rose with the rhythm of his heart.
“Hey, hold on,” one voice said. It was a woman close to his side.
“Yeah, we’re on your side, pal,” the other joined in. This one was a man with a rough voice.
“What will I tell the watch?” the barkeep asked.
“Nothing, pal. You won’t tell the watch anything.” The second voice was calm and collected, nothing like what a man who just witnessed a murder should sound like.
“I’ve got a body on the floor of my bar, and about twenty witnesses saw this drunk. I have to call the watch.” The barkeep’s voice was insistent and on the edge of panic.
“You won’t tell them anything if you expect to have this bar by the end of the week.” The woman’s voice matched her partner’s tone, and Grant tried to shake his head to clear his thoughts.
“You can’t just stand there and threaten me.” The bartender didn’t raise his voice, but the two didn’t cow him.
“As a matter of fact, pal, that’s exactly what we are doing. Think carefully about your next move,” the man said.
“The drunk has been here every day. He keeps looking for something at the bottom of the bottle,” the bartender said.
“Don’t we all?” the woman said with a chuckle.
Grant didn’t know how to interject into this conversation. The barkeep was mortified that a patron killed another with his bare hands. At least Grant imagined he used his bare hands because he sold off his weapons not long after entering the city. Anything related to his checkered past was gone.
Until now. If the other person had a weapon, Grant could have disarmed and used it against them.
What happened?
He couldn’t get the fog out of his head or focus his vision. His belly burned with the alcohol while his heart pumped with Touched power. He was his own battleground, and he wasn’t sure who would win. He glanced at the bottle on the counter.
“Hey, pal, what’s your name?” The man’s voice beside Grant’s ear was gruff and smelled like old smoke. That would explain the dark voice. Focus.
“Doesn’t matter.” The words that came from Grant’s throat were nearly unrecognizable, even to himself. The best he’d done for days was order enough food to stay alive and as much drink as he could afford.
“It’s going to matter when the watch shows up. We need to figure out what to do before one of these patrons goes and fetches the night watch. If you want our help, you’ll tell us.” The woman tried to use a commanding voice, one that expected compliance. It didn’t work on Grant.
“Grant.”
“That’s it? Just Grant? Look, pal, you’ve got a few moments to think about what side you’ll be on,” the man said.
Hands pressed against Grant’s shoulders, and the smell of old smoke churned the acid in the pit of Grant’s stomach. He tried to push aside the man’s clutches, but his captor wouldn’t let go.
“Wait, Grant, as in the mercenary?” The female voice shifted from command to awe.
Grant grunted. No matter where he went, his reputation emerged.
“Bruno, be careful.”
The hands released Grant’s arms, and shuffling feet put distance between Grant and his two opponents.
“What do you know about him, Sofie?”
