Beauty Killed the Beast

I woke much too early. Another night of fitful dreams and haunting memories. Lovers of ages past, enemies long rotted, battles won, treasures claimed, fortunes lost, lifetimes wasted. I'd given up that existence, walked away from it, but it came back to torment me all the same.

Half a bottle of the red ere breakfast. When sleep denies you, what else is there to do but drink? The rest to wash away the unpleasant aftertaste of a morning meal of salty broth, dry bread, rancid butter, and lukewarm ale. Afterward, I had called for another red, just to pass the morning hours with a semblance of company. Not much for conversation but willing to give me its all. No friend better.

The sun was nearing its zenith when my second bottle ran empty. I called for more. The innkeep gave me that sour look that precedes a nay, but the gold five-sovereign I set spinning upon the table—more than most men could hope to make in a year—convinced him otherwise. The old me would have demanded music and women to go with the wine, but that man was gone, buried deep in distant lands, forgotten.

It would be my third for the day. Nothing to write home about, but the local vintage was sour, heavy, and generally disagreeable. I told the innkeep to bring me something else, something more to my liking. What would please Master, the fawning bastard asked. Surprise me, I told him. The old me would kill if the surprise weren't to my liking. The new me wouldn't.

The man was all smiles and helpfulness now that he had the measure of my true worth. Greed and fear. Gold and magic. The sovereign and the spell that would keep it spinning until the end of the world if I so desired. Why had I done that? Set the coin spinning. Why indeed? Old habits, bad habits. Both die hard. No more to it.

I was cradling my second—or third—brandy. Something local made from plum. Too thick. Too sweet. Too heady. Poorly made, watered down, sugared, and spiked. The worst kind. It mingled with the sourness already inside me and threatened to upset my precarious equilibrium. I regretted, and not for the first time, coming into town. Another bad old habit that was hard to break.

The door to the tavern flew open, letting in unwelcome light and a gust of fresh air equally unwanted.

Without thinking, my hand slid down, unseen beneath the wooden table, to where—for the longest time—I had borne my trusted blade, Quicksilver. I no longer carried a sword. I didn't need one. I was no longer in the killing business. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Or so the bards claimed. I had left mine in the heart of the last man I murdered. How terribly I missed it sometimes. A finer sword had never been forged. The perfect balance. The razor's edge that never dulled. The fuller that drank blood and souls in equal measure.

A girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen winters of age, stood in the doorway. She was young and sweet, supple as a sapling, on the verge of becoming a woman, but not quite there. Her skin was the pale of snowy winter fields, her hair the color of those same fields in summer, ablaze. I smiled then, ever so faintly, for it occurred to me that years ago, I had set this shire on fire. Pillaging and burning. Another business that was no longer mine.

She had to duck to get inside. Gods were she tall. Tall as a man grown—and then some—despite her tender age. Perhaps she was a bit older than I had thought. Some girls reach womanhood without much in the way of curves. I looked her over again like I would a horse I wasn't sure about, trying to make up my mind. I had misjudged her. She was woman enough all right. Just there was more quality than quantity to her if you catch my meaning. She might be sixteen, sweet seventeen perhaps, past marrying age around these parts.

She danced forward, on legs so long and slender. Her clogs and the old maid's dress she wore didn't do her justice. Someone should take her to the seamstress and have her made a real dress, one that enhanced rather than obscured. Jewels to sparkle with her eyes. And shoes. Legs like that should have heeled shoes, like those worn by the painted women of Southron courts or go barefoot. Not me, though. I no longer whored, no longer seduced. The old me had. The forgotten me. The warlock. The reaver. The heart-stealer.