The Final Life

CHAPTER 11

  Glint snapped awake with a gasp. Breath heavy, the boy tried to clutch at the evasive memory of a dream. It was the same one he got most nights, but this time there was a new detail that didn’t elude him. The image of a face. How could such a simple thing bring so much despair and hopelessness along with it?

  Glint shivered, and knew that he was in his room in the manor as he took in the details of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was being punched in the face, then sent flying with a kick, looking at a clear blue sky with birds chirping in the distance, and a fistful of beard in his hand. Now, in the cold from an open window, and with no shirt on, Glint’s blanket offered no warmth.

  He tried to lift himself from the bed- and collapsed back on it, gasping from agony, realizing how badly he was hurt. Both of his arms could barely move, as both elbows were shattered along with his right fist. Glint’s lung still seemed like it was somehow out of commission, although he could breathe better than he could during the fight. A burn similar to molten lava plagued his ribs whenever he tried to move. To top it all off, Glint’s head now throbbed in an almost hypnotic way, and he felt suddenly nauseated. Glimpsing a metal bucket next to where he lay, Glint took to it immediately and emptied his insides despite the pain of heaving. With that done, he lay unto his bed, reminiscing on what happened the night before.

  Why had Azrael caused him to fight with Alfjötr if he was going to save him when he lost? He had assumed the ATB wanted him dead, to get the manor for himself, but that didn’t seem to be the case. It wasn’t as if Glint stood a chance to begin with. And despite him being so outspoken with the guildsman, it seemed to Glint like that wasn’t the only reason Alfjötr had been furious with him. The whole evening hadn’t made much sense at all. Even the look on the man’s face when he saw Glint’s armour was disturbing.

  Either way, he was now used to living in this manor, it had become a second home, Glint decided. Snuff the guilds and settle here, he said to himself. He hoped he could be content with that. He wanted nothing to do with extortionists and villains.

  The young warrior was about to drift back to sleep when a sudden knock on the door jerked him back. He opened his eyes and took in the sight of Azrael stepping into the room with a tray in his hands, laden by small vials filled with foul looking substances. He greeted the man with a long colourful spell of curses, being unable to get up and strangle the crow’s thin neck at that moment. “Donkey toothed double faced traitor!” he finished, and then began to pant painfully. In response Azrael stepped to him and plopped a cloth, which smelled like it had been dabbed in the vials’ contents, over his face.

  Oblivious to Glint’s gagging sounds and his inability to move enough to remove the cloth over his face, Azrael hummed to himself quite pleasantly as he poked the master of the house all over his body with a finger, nodding or tutting depending on Glint’s squeals of pain. After he was done, he removed the cloth, allowing Glint to take a long deep breath of fresh air. Before he could begin swearing again, Azrael interrupted him with, “Well done, young master!”

  Glint said incredulously, “What do you mean, well done? You made me fight with a monster!” Nursing someone back to health was no excuse for being the reason they got injured in the first place.

  Azrael smiled at that. “Well, yes, but you were in no danger of dying. I made sure he was drunk enough to hurt you but not kill you. I also made sure you had a chance to show him your skills last week.” The man turned around to attend to other servants entering the room.

  Glint stared. There was too much to process. Show him his skills? “Week?” he ended up asking.

  Azrael just answered him over his shoulders as he set about directing people to brighten up the room with colourful flowers. “Quite,” he said, “I’m afraid you overstepped your boundaries and Lord Alfjötr thrashed you rather soundly.”

  Glint started to argue but then realized Azrael was speaking not just to him, but also for the benefit of eavesdropping servants. He quieted down as Azrael went on. “You’re lucky the man was drunk out of his mind and so couldn’t control his energy properly, otherwise there wouldn’t be a speck of you left. Luckily, not only did his attacks lack power and speed, but he also fell asleep promptly after knocking you out. A day and few tonics later, he had cooled down enough for us to resume our negotiations.”

  Glint frowned at that, and noticed one of the servants twitch as she perked up a bit to hear, her blonde braids dangling as she feigned work. “What negotiations?” he asked.

  “Threefold, master Glint,” his butler answered, setting about his tasks with a passion, but keeping his left hand up with three fingers splayed, lowering one with each statement. It was at times like this when Glint thought Azrael was not at all a courteous butler. Sometimes the man acted like he had half a mind to rule the world, if you took apparent contempt as an indicator. “Firstly, the guild will cease their protective services for the region under your control, as per your request. Secondly, Tim Dienst has been appointed a direct correspondent between the guild and this area. I think he shall do splendidly, due to his persuasive powers and calm mind. He shall take requests from the townspeople, mansion servants, as well as nearby villages allied to this manor, and post them as paid quests to the guild, making constant taxes unneeded. It’s a new system I came up with, modelled after Agents. It’s rather good.” He announced that last part proudly, with a smile on his face, and Glint actually agreed, despite not quite knowing what an Agent was. It was a good solution where no one could be exploited, as long as the middle man was honest. Tim would do rather well, in fact.

  “Lastly, you are to be accepted into guild Quicksilver, should you wish to be. All of the clauses of this agreement are effective immediately, save the last. That remains pending your approval and arrival at Quicksilver’s Iron Door.”

  Glint’s mouth hung open. His mind reeled with shock. He recalled the astonished look on Alfjoetr’s face when he saw his armour, and how he had never been told exactly which guild the giant was a part of. He had always wanted to wear the Quicksilver crest, the ring with a drop beneath it, but... “How did that happen?” he asked, fearing the worst.

  “Well, these things are usually very official, and people must be tested. However, considering your art and how passionate you were about it in our earlier conversations, I made an assumption that you wished it, and the guild itself was interested in your skills. So, master, arrangements were made while you were...occupied.” The last word was said with such a smug expression that Glint wished he could slap the man across the face.

  “Who was Alfjötr, Azrael?” Glint asked, hoping it wasn’t what he thought it was. Who could decide such things so fast? His fears were mounting higher with each second.

  And Azrael answered them perfectly. “Why, Lord Alfjötr Christon, master of wolves, the titan,” he said innocently, “also known as the axe of calamity, high lord of Quicksilver and all regional guilds of the area. About a sixth of Shien, I believe. He also bade me clear the misunderstanding between the two of you. It seems he’d thought you were a thief.”