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Vol.3, Extra 1, P.1

 

“Done an’ done…”

Frieda loosed a long breath, fresh from a full, feline stretch. The streets about were yet awash with midlight as she strolled away from the mercenaries’ guildhall. With her duties all stamped and sorted, the freelance then began fancying some merriment or leisure to while away the rest of her day with. But nary a thing was decided before a familiar voice found her ears.

“F-Frieda!” it cried from afar. “H… hold there…!”

She turned, discovering the young guild clerk pelting down the pavement, waving for her as he came.

“Oh, thank goodness I’ve caught you!” he said breathlessly as he arrived. “C… Come, Frieda! A new commission’s arrived… just for you!”

“For me?” our freelance wondered aloud, but a thought, and her mood soured instantly. “…Right then,” she relented.

Cunning and constant, Frieda was long a favourite in this corner of Londosius. By now, she had garnered a loyal clientèle that oft sought her sword by name. All well and good. Or perhaps too good, for some amongst that claque were persons as powerful as they were pesty.

Pesty? Why, yes indeed. Well, “petty” might ring just as true, for quite frequently did such personages seek Frieda for errands worthy of neither mention nor memory. But much coin and connection was to be had from them, and from the frantic haste of the clerk, it was clear to our fair freelance that this newest of commissions had come from one such fat-pocketed soul.

Yet there was nothing for it. Inly sighing, Frieda began dragging her feet back to the guildhall.

 

♰

 

“You have my every gratitude, Frieda.”

Teeth beamed, white and bright. But merely blinking in return, our freelance steered her eyes back to the shrubbery ahead. Walking beside her through these sun-washed woods was a young man by the name of Edvard Hafgren—or “Eddie” as his peers and intimates liked to call him. Well-dressed, well-groomed, and well-moulded of face and figure, Edvard might have very well passed for a dandy had he not a drop of noble blood in his veins. But he was very much of aristocratic issue, a cadet to the house of Hafgren. Though unfortunately unlanded and like to fade in this generation or the next, the Hafgrens were yet a full-fledged baron-family—and Edvard himself: an unmistakable bur biting into the side of Frieda’s bum.

Indeed, he was today’s “pest” of a patron. Frieda had little recourse in the matter. The guild clerk had insisted upon it, for the pay was too princely to pass up. And so under the forest foliage did she now find herself, aiding the lordling Edvard in searching out one of his servants, who had gone missing recently and rather mysteriously.

To be more specific, the target in question was Ronja, a young handmaiden. In accompanying a party of other servants through the woods during what was ostensibly an urgent errand, poor Ronja had strayed from the pack, and was the sole servant not to report back to the Hafgren residence.

“And you, my sword,” Frieda answered Edvard at last.

Drab was her tone, but she meant no ill by it. Rather, the reason for Frieda’s cloudiness clinked and clanked behind her: Edvard’s retinue of not less than ten houseguards trundling in tow, each with faces pouting and unimpressed. “Houseguards” was key here, for they were little more than long-employed hirelings themselves, their payroll demanding that they stand post on the estate premises, not brave the bushes as they were doing. Thus they ought be out of their element—babes in the wood, even—but such was their confidence in both arms and number that they had thought to tag along nonetheless, something that Frieda was none too pleased about.

“M’liege,” one of the houseguards called, whilst questionably eyeing the backside of our mercenary. “We’ve got swords ’nough. Why open the purse for ’nother, if ya pardons me askin’?”

“Aye to that,” agreed another. “We numbers a nigh-dozen, we does. An’ that be scarce countin’ yaself, m’liege; why, you be best blade o’ us all, I reckons!”

There was truth in what was just said: Edvard was, in fact, famed for his fencing. And thus the odds of him being beset unawares by an errant behemá or some other wile of this wood was unthinkable.

“Come now, my good men,” Edvard addressed them softly. “You know I have got gratitude enough for each and all of you, for graciously do you assist me on this most pressing of happenstances. But in the dark of despair does opportunity sparkle, and today she has a name: ‘Frieda’.”

“Sparkling opportunity”—rather choice words when young Ronja was in dire straits right to this moment. Such was Frieda’s thought as she frowned at the lordling, but too satisfied with his own segue to take notice, Edvard merely flashed another smile in return.

“You truly are as charming as they say,” he cooed at her, “and a fine sword-arm besides, if the rumours are not mistaken.”

“You flatter me,” Frieda answered, sharp and low, before whisking her gaze elsewhere. Hardly the attitude to take upon one’s client, but such was not the case here, for reflected in Frieda’s eyes now was a behemá—a lone drollhound, darting down the bush with slobbering fangs full-bared.

Blades, too, were soon to be bared in turn. But just as the houseguards laid hands upon their hilts, Frieda’s was already drawn and poised. Yet it stayed unswung, for Edvard was quicker on the cut: to the beast he pelted, and might and main drave unto the drollhound his own hewer.

“Scheh!” he cried with spirit, as blade and odyl ripped through hide, flesh, and bone. Such was the strike that the creature was cloven in twain, a sight which then roused a jolly ruckus from the houseguards.

“Splendid strike, m’liege!” they cheered. “As dashin’ as ever!”

Havin’ your charge do the chargin’, Frieda began inly chiding them, a bunch o’ bird-brains, you lot! But the thought stopped asudden, for Frieda realised then that she herself was just as guilty. Protocol dictated that as a bodyguard, she ought stand her ground and strike the threat as it came. After all, leaving her charge’s side was a needless danger. Thus it had never dawned on her that Edvard, the very subject of her protection, would end up defying that very danger, if even just to flaunt.

“Frieda,” he said, sheathing his sabre with a simper on his face. “No claw or canine has caught you, has it?”

“No, Lord,” our freelance returned tepidly. She had much a mind to urge better care from her charge, but seeing how pleased Edvard seemed to be with himself, Frieda forsook the gesture. She realised then, as well, the reason behind his brazen display: Edvard yearned for her awe. More precisely: her adoration. More precisely still: he believed her already smitten with him.

What Frieda had not known, however, was that amongst the aristocracy around these parts, Edvard was the living image of a lady’s man. Handy with a blade and handsome to boot, in truth, there was nary a maid, maiden, nor madame to whose cheeks his bladecraft did not bring a blush. And if it had worked on them, so must it work on this wondrous woman.

Or so he had thought.

“Right. Onward, then,” Frieda said, stepping ahead without ceremony.

Edvard’s grin crumbled. “O-oh, yes. Of course.”

 

♰

 

Thereafter, the search party wended on through the wood, meeting along the way some ambushes here and there from the endemic behemót. On no occasion did Frieda brandish her blade. Edvard handled that duty, and with enterprise most eager, to be certain. And after every victory, never did he fail to flash a smile towards Frieda. Our freelance made sure to show him some regard in return—a “well done, Lord” and other like phrases—but by Edvard’s measure, they all rang rather hollow. By now, the sun was beginning to wester, and frustrated by Frieda’s seeming reticence, the lordling asked thus at last:

“…Frieda. What see you in my sword?”

The mercenary blinked. “‘See’, Lord?”

“Y-yes, ‘see’,” Edvard said. “Might there be some blemish to my brandishing of it? That you’ve not the courage to correct, mayhaps?”

Oh, how hotly had this cadet of House Hafgren looked forward to this day. So certain he was that Frieda’s heart would fast be his. But try as he might, no amount of flaunting and flourishing could cut through our freelance’s cold shoulder, a travesty that now left the young master’s spirits muddied with misery.

“It’s small use, Master Eddie,” a houseguard answered in Frieda’s place. “Some lot be too lead-pated to tell a twirl’d twig from a sword well-swung.”

“Then you can better judge my sword, is it?” Edvard asked.

“Oh, that we can, aye,” another said after a chuckle. “By our measure, we marks m’liege’s a master’d sword, we does! An’ we’re all the more awed for it! Right, lads!?”

Paying poor mind to the chit-chat, Frieda halted her steps. After a quick scan-about, she then said, “We’ve arrived. This ought be the spot, no, Lord?”

“Oh, er,” Edvard stuttered and turned to his retinue. “Well, men? Is it?”

…Silence.

Edvard cocked his brows. “Hm? What’s the matter?”

“…Aye, ought be,” a houseguard answered. “Map says it ’ere. ‘Ronja, last seen’.”

“Very good,” their lordling remarked. “Rather deep into the wood, aren’t we? Passing brave of our servants to have cut the same path—”

“Lord!” Frieda cried asudden, but was outsounded by a new noise: the clash of arms. To Edvard’s spine had slashed a sword, but the devilry failed before the felling, deflected as it was by our freelance’s lightning action.

“Tch!” the offender clucked, scowling as he recoiled. “A bane to the end, eh, woman!” He was no ambushing brigand, but one of the houseguards themselves. And neither was he alone—no, it was the entire retinue that was in on the act. Ten backstabbing swords, bare and bright. Twenty nefarious feet, circling about the soldier-of-fortune and her client of finery.

“Why… my men!” Edvard said, aghast. “W… what’s the meaning of this? Tell me!”

“Nothin’ to it, really,” shrugged a houseguard. “A lordlin’, lost in the wild wood—eaten limb to limb by some beasts. A tale as common as coppers, innit?”

Edvard could not believe his ears. “W-w… what…?”

Yet it was a simple matter.

One of assassination.

“Nothing to it”, indeed. But for Frieda, her part in this play had changed little. And so did she step forth, her sword ready to protect her charge.

“Time I earn’d my keep,” she assured Edvard.

“Hmph…!” the houseguards—or rather, the freshly uncloaked mutineers, scowled at the interfering freelance. Livid as flames they were. Edvard had been as a witless hart, open and unsuspecting; that blade to his back ought have ended him right then and there. But alas, this mercenary, this wild card, had to ruin it all. Such was why they had objected to her company from the outset.

More chores to this job, then, all thanks to this lordling’s lusty loins. But no matter. Soon to come was the sweet release. Thus did the mutineers point their every sword at the two and close their treacherous circle.

“H-how now,” Edvard yelped, glancing from face to face. “Come, men. This is an ill time for jest…”

No.

It was time to strike.

The mutineers pounced. Murderous eyes glinted in every direction. Pale blades flashed under the sylvan sun.

“Gwah!?”

“Ach! Tyke, you!”

But echoing now through the wood: curses, cries, and the collapse of fresh corpses.

Before a blade could dare break Edvard’s skin, Frieda had flown through and flourished at last her sword of swiftness. Half a moment later, the forest stirred as it beheld two bodies splayed ablood upon the shrubbery.

“Nghr!” growled one of the mutineers. “More trouble than you’re worth, ya ‘ireling whore!”

They had all thought themselves above mercenary rabble, these mutineers. Nay, their cause laid not in rebellion against some status quo, for their pride as guardsmen to a noble house yet burnt bright. But if that were so, then doubtless their deception was part of a greater device, led by a lord more eminent than Edvard himself. This assassination, this bloodying of their hands, then, was, to them, more a crusade than a sin.

A crusade stopped by a single sellsword, that is, a development dyeing each of their faces in full indignance. Scarce able to leash themselves any longer, the mutineers pounced once more. And Frieda answered.

“Seht!” Our freelance flowed through the throng, finding flesh, severing vitals. A clear contrast to the coarse cutwork of the criminal men, Frieda’s was a song of swords, swift as wind and soft as water. But such beauty was baleful to the mutineers, for two more of their number were now as fodder for the forest. The remaining six scorned their luck.

“Bloody ‘ell!”

“Forget the fox! Kill the ponce! Kill ‘im!!”

Such they screamed. Such they set themselves to. Six swords, twelve eyes. Reflected in each: Edvard, still shackled in shock. Blades bit and barked once more.

“W… were you not… my men…?” the lordling maundered amidst the slicery. “…My… my friends…?”

“Get a grip, will you!” Frieda shouted from the front of him, whilst shutting down one treacherous sword after another. None of the backstabbing six seemed a threat by our freelance’s measure. Even attacking altogether as they did, the situation yet skewed in Frieda’s favour, for—as the mutineers were slowly beginning to realise—hers was a prowess far above theirs.

But there was a rub: Edvard needed protection. And dumbstruck as he was, the lordling was not making it any easier for Frieda, especially now that the mutineers were desperate for his death. Why, it was Frieda’s immediate defeat were a single blade to touch her client. And so did she fight on and on, keeping afront of a frozen and unmanned Edvard. But with every blade blown back, Frieda yielded more and more ground. Indeed, things were turning grim.

“Aahn! What a pain in the…!” our freelance grumbled. Such was a quirk of hers when so cornered, one she was yet blissfully unaware of, but nonetheless was revealing to all ears anear. Hard put to it, Frieda then fired off a fierce sweep of her sword. The glinting tip sliced through the side of a mutineer’s neck; bright blood spewed from the artery therein, a sight causing the cullions to recoil in horror.

Espying the opportunity, our freelance straightway snatched the lordling’s back-collar—”Ow, waah!?”—and bolted off with him in a mad dash. Luckily, the sight of spraying blood had not only shaken the mutineers, but also snapped Edvard out of his shock. Finding his feet, he soon began fleeing along with our freelance.

“After ‘em! Let not one get ‘way!!” the mutineers shrieked, an angry noise the two put behind them as they threaded through the thicket.

At length, the clink and clamour of armour mildened to a distant murmur. Such gear had worked against their wearers, it seemed, as well as their choice of place for assassination: by this time, the wild deeps of this wood had hid our escapees behind many a trunk, bush, and knoll. Their flight had proven a success. But only for a short while. The mutineers dearly needed Edvard a corpse by sundown, lest they themselves be “silenced” in turn. The assassination of a noble—whichever way it would end, Death would be there waiting. Whipped to life by the thought, on and on the men screamed and snarled out of sight.

“Up there!”

“Off with ‘em ‘eads! Off with ‘em!!”

Their obsession seemed to have charmed the fates, for Frieda and Edvard, fraught in their flight, now found themselves halted. Behind them: the far barking of the mutineers. Afore them: the edge of a cliff.

Edvard groaned, frantic. “Frieda, what now!?” he whispered hoarsely. “They’ll gain us soon!”

“Then down we go!” Frieda answered—and decided—most immediately.

Edvard’s jaw dropped. But a second, and our freelance clutched his lapels, leant forth…

“Wh—!? Uaaah!”

…and with him plunged from the precipice.

 

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