A Man with Silver

By the front gate at the edge of the fief there squatted an obsolete brick guardhouse, run down in contrast to the rest of the area. The wall against which it slumped stood tall and strong, as it was a fief robust in defense. The basement of the dilapidated guardhouse, hidden beneath a trap-door and fortified with brick, was far larger than the structure above it. The ancient chamber, furnished with faded tapestry, relics, and elegant library shelves, was kept hidden beneath the bustling township. An older, taller, thickset man was standing next to one of the bookshelves, searching through the titles he had routinely dusted not a week ago. It was getting dark outside, but the grizzled man searched row by row, oblivious. 

Here. 

He pulled back a wide, faded, leather bound book hidden behind two others. He flipped through it, taking time with each page, careful not to crease any. A little under halfway through he paused, squinting down at the parchment, and tilted his head. He reached over, sliding a thumb beneath the previous page, feeling for thickness. 

Ah. The man smiled grimly. 

He set the tome down on an ironwood table, pulling a small, sunflower-crest engraved blade from a sheath behind his waist. He inserted it into the middle of the thickness of the previous page before tugging downward through the parchment, revealing two separate pages that had been stuck together by time. 

A thickly calloused finger traced down the parchment. 

Lucrum. It was three words down, the fourth on the page.

His mind flashed back to the word, spelled out in small intestine along the floor next to the poor boy, the metallic odor pervading the entire room. 

His finger scraped laterally along the parchment to the translation. 

Profit. 

The constable raised his head, pupils widening. He stared at the mosaic of a muted red sunflower on the brick wall, his mind suddenly very loud against the town’s quiet. He was right. 

* * * 

“Constable?” 

The constable turned around in the last vestiges of sunlight to find the Baron’s darkened eyes watching from the gate. The Baron looked taut, strung too tight, as if held together only by his new, destructive purpose, thought the constable. 

“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, sire,” the constable replied. 

“Find him, and kill him. For me,” the Baron said, voice flat. 

The constable only watched as the Baron squeezed the pommel of his sword by his side, dark knuckles whitening around the inverted gold triangle of the arms monopoly. The Baron breathed once, twice, relaxing a muscle in his jaw before speaking once more. “Find him, constable.” 

The constable met his gaze. 

“Yes, sire.” 

The Baron turned, walking off stiffly. The constable watched on, sorrow leadening his stomach. He had not told the Baron, nor the King, of his suspicions. He would do so, he decided, eventually, provided he could confirm them. His eyes then sought out the red flag once more, watching it wave sharply in the wind. It bred a certain excitement in men, one he had once known. Perhaps it was time he knew it again. 

He mounted his horse before turning to lead it past the edge of the fief. He inhaled once, blowing the air out before spurring his horse on in the direction of the imposter. *** 

Why profit? 

The constable galloped along a side road as his mind spun. 

Why write it in a dead language? Why leave it at all? Misdirection, or a cruel joke? The constable glanced down. This horse would not last much longer. It was his third, he’d ran the first two lame. 

The constable stopped at the nearest town, heading straight for the stables. He dismounted, spotting a stable-hand. 

“I require your fastest horse. Any price,” he said, lashing his stallion to a post with practiced ease. The horse stumbled, exhausted, and he steadied it before looking around for the stable owner. 

“You with the o’r one then?” the boy drawled, glancing up at him in the dark. The constable’s gaze shot back to the stable-hand. He nodded, slowly. 

“How long ago did he leave?” 

“No’or than half’our ago,” the stable-hand replied. 

Making good time. The constable flipped him a silver, and the youth caught it against his chest. He examined it first, then gaped at the constable. Just then, a well-dressed ball of a man, wider than he was tall, rounded the corner. He strode toward the constable, placing himself squarely in front of the stable-hand. 

“How can I help you, traveler?” he asked, smiling too wide, skin too tight around his eyes. 

“I require your—” the constable stopped as the youth shook his head behind the stable-owner. 

Ah. The constable chose his next words more carefully. 

“I would like to examine your horses,” he said instead. The owner’s eyes hardened, but his smile widened, and the stable-hand nodded slowly behind him. 

“Of course, good sir, right this way.” He led the constable down a set of stalls, and the youth followed. The constable watched both carefully. 

The owner gestured toward a large Thoroughbred near the center. 

“This here is our finest horse, fast too, for his size…” the owner continued on, but the stable-hand looked away, toward an Arabian mare near the back corner. Smaller, not quite as majestic. 

“...and as much as I’d hate to lose him, for a man of your impressive disposition, you must have an an equally impressive—” 

“I’ll pay for that one,” the constable interrupted, gesturing to the Arabian. The man’s smile froze. 

“Of course, sir,” the larger man said after a moment. “May I ask why?” The constable’s lips moved into a grim smile for the second time that week. “I rather think he matches my disposition.”

The stable-hand smirked behind the owner, who lost his smile, unable to find anything funny. 

The constable then pressed fifteen silvers, far more than the cost of both the Thoroughbred and Arabian combined, into the owner’s hand, and the man rocked back onto his heels, frozen entirely. 

The constable turned and wasted no time transferring his saddle, armor and equipment to the new mare. He moved in practiced, precise efficiency while the owner watched in an almost drunken stupor. 

The constable prepared to leave, climbing atop the saddle in one motion. This shocked the owner to his senses. He rushed over to the constable, looking up. 

“Ah, excuse me sir, if I’ve forgotten, but who did you say you were again?” The constable leveled dead eyes against the owner’s placid smile. 

“A man with silver.” 

“I–I–see,” said the owner, put off. 

The constable led his new horse past the stable hand, nodding his thanks. “You’ll catch up in un’er a day with her, sire.” He tilted his head toward the owner. “‘E gave the o’er man a Thoroughbred.” 

The constable dropped another silver to the youth, careful to keep his horse between the falling silver and the owner. The youth caught it deftly and smiled back, pocketing it. Good kid. 

* * * 

The Arabian mare proved more than up to the challenge. The constable rode through the night and into the morning, having not slept for three days. What was one more?

By noon the trail the imposter had left in his haste had slowed down from a gallop, the spaces between hoof-marks that of a trot. 

Curious. Perhaps he thinks he is safe. 

The trail split at a fork in the road, presenting as though it went into the adjacent town and back to continue riding, but… 

Something is off. 

The constable swept his gaze over the tracks with a practiced eye. 

The forked road contained only hoof-marks leading away from the village, not towards it. He rode on, stopped, then walked his horse backwards into town. Smart. But then of course, no fool could steal a Jerrin Medallion. 

The constable rode into the town and headed straight for the inn. A large Thoroughbred like the one he’d been offered stood hitched to a post outside. He ducked past the bar entrance to find the rooms upstairs. One door stood ajar, a single candle burning within. As good a place to start as any. 

The constable entered quietly, turning back to close the door and remove the handle. A hair on the back of his neck stiffened, and he hit the floor, a crossbow bolt flying through the space his torso had just occupied. It embedded itself three inches deep in the poorly built wall adjacent to the door, and the constable whirled around, freeing an ancient sword from its custom sheath on his back. His gnarled fingers tightened around the hilt as he spotted the man in the corner-shadow of the room. 

“You’re quick for an old man. Not quite the pawn I thought,” the imposter said, stepping forward from the corner. He dropped the crossbow in favor of his own sword. His skin was as patchy as ever, pale blue eyes ringed with dark circles from not sleeping. Even now, they held everything in a cold objectivity. 

“Perhaps more of a knight, I’d say,” the man continued as he took another step toward the constable. The constable merely watched him, holding his blade in guard. “Who made that?” the man asked, nodding toward the blade. “Beautiful craftsmanship, so clearly not ours. The sunflower is a nice touch.” 

“I don’t know,” answered the constable, truthfully. 

“Ah, I see.” The man smiled. 

No you don’t, thought the constable. 

The man took another step. “Well, I’ll find out sooner or later.” 

The constable smiled back. 

No, you won't. 

The man took another slow step, now almost within striking distance. “How’d you find someone to make it for you in the first place? I’m fairly certain we own everyone, even those who claim to run their own shop.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I don’t believe—” 

The imposter lunged mid-sentence, feinting high before swooping low in an attempt to catch the constable across the knees. The constable stepped back to avoid the blow before countering with a heavy handed strike from above. The imposter cursed, twisting to bring his own blade up to block in time. Steel clashed against steel with an array of sparks and a resounding clang that reverberated through the room, and the man stumbled back. The constable pressed forward, but the man recovered quicker than he expected, thrusting toward his midsection. The constable parried downward, but not quite fast enough. The blade carved through the outer meat on his left thigh, lodging itself in firmly. 

I’m getting slow. 

The constable grit his teeth, locking the blade against his leg with his own and twisting away from the man, ripping the hilt from his grip. The man’s eyes widened, and he turned away towards the door, grabbing for a handle that no longer existed. 

I don’t think so. 

The constable hefted the perfectly balanced blade of the imposter in a reverse grip before hurling it forward like a javelin. The man turned back, eyes narrowed almost in accusation, to catch the blade in his chest. It sank into him with a soft thump, and he sputtered, grabbing the wall behind him before falling hard onto the clay floor. 

The constable limped over, sighing. 

The imposter spat red onto the wall, as if annoyed at his own sword buried in his chest. “I’m not a pawn,” said the constable, falling down next to him to tear off a piece of fabric from the bed. He looked at the crimson trail on the wall. It reminded him of something. He thought about it, and then smiled for the fourth time that week as he circled and pulled tight a knot of fabric over the wound. 

“But I’m no knight either. Perhaps an older rook, you might say,” he said. The imposter gurgled on his own blood in response, wheezing through a single, functioning lung. The constable noted how similar the man’s sword was to the King’s sword, or the Baron’s sword, identical except for the silver eye inlaid in the inverted golden triangle.

Real gold. 

He fixed his dark eyes on the pale blue gaze of the dying man.

“Tell me what this means,” he said, tapping the silver eye, “and I’ll end it quickly.” The man raised a single finger in an unrefined response. The constable sighed, reached out and snapped it sideways. The man twitched, but otherwise didn’t react. The constable forced himself to stand up and search the man, finding the medallion of the same crest as the pommel of the man’s sword hanging around his throat, as well as a blank sheet of parchment. He held it over the candle to reveal an address, and negotiation instructions. One sentence caught his eye. 

Use Lilith, if you must. 

He knew that name. He lit a burner with the candle, slumping down next to the soon-to-be corpse. He stared at the red stain on the wall and exhaled smoke. That name meant trouble.

About the Author

With little to no hope of earning a living through creative writing, Carson Magnuson is often instead incredibly busy writing code. This will ensure (hopefully) that he will not starve to death should he make it out of university alive.