Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

    “Jason Cosmo must die!”

 

    A big fighter with a wild red beard pushed to the head of the line and waved a battle ax at me like it was a fly swatter and I was the fly. The forty killers behind him responded with curses and threats, clanging their weapons together and stamping their feet in the dust. This scene was about to get ugly.

 

    The ax-man was a full head taller than me. His hair was done in Malravian war braids, knotted around bits of metal and bone. Not that he was Malravian. This was simply the fashion among street brawlers. Equally fashionable was his brass-studded cuirass from the Militas Pro collection. Solid enough gear, though there was plenty of no-name armor just as good. With Militas you were really paying for the label.

 

    Trendy he might be, but my foe was no pushover. Even the other killers—as rough a lot as I’d yet seen here in Caratha—kept their distance as he raged at me.

 

    “You die this day or my name is not Kyril the Red!”

 

    “Is your name Kyril the Red?” I asked.

 

     “I just said so!”

 

     “It was actually more of a conditional statement. But you need to get back in line, Kyril. We’re not ready to start.”

 

    “Why not?”

 

    “I have to set the scene.”

 

    “Don’t you know where you are?”

 

    “I do, yes, but those just joining us may not. After all, some last saw me kissing the lovely Sapphrina in the garden of my villa a few weeks ago. Others may dimly recall events that haven’t happened yet, or that occurred but have not yet been recorded. Then there are those meeting me for the first time. I’ve got to bring them all up to speed.”

 

    Kyril frowned. “You lost me.”

 

    “Let me put it this way. Apropos of nothing, here I am surrounded by dozens of vicious fighters all seeking the dubious distinction of becoming The Man Who Killed 

Jason Cosmo. It wants some explaining before you lot start hacking on me.”

 

    “I suppose.”

 

    “You sound doubtful.”

 

    “Well, we could just get to it, couldn’t we? Begin in media res, as it were. Save the explaining until we’ve had a little action.”

 

    “Fair point,” I said. “But who will explain things if you kill me right off?”

 

    “Er ... I see what you mean.”

 

    “Thank you. Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

 

 

****************

 

    When the Dark Magic Society put a price on my head of ten million gold carats——enough to ransom a score of kings——they meant to flush a great warrior out of hiding. To spur on the hunt, the Society’s agents spread false stories across the Eleven Kingdoms of Arden. They said that Jason Cosmo was a thief, a reaver, a slayer. A king of bandits, a prince of pirates, a baron of badness. A kicker of puppies and maker of bad puns. No town, no temple, no treasure, no maiden’s honor would be safe so long as such a villain roamed free.

 

   The Society desired to so blacken my name that every hand would be against me and even the noble and good would be impelled to join the pursuit. In this aim, the dark cabal succeeded beyond their wildest imaginings. Mainly because the infinitely wilder imaginination of the general populace took over. Malicious rumors begat drunken gossip and idle speculation which sprouted into tall tales and instant legends. It was said by some that Jason Cosmo was Death’s own cousin, stealing souls at a glance. Other claimed he was a Demon Lord in human form who ate babies for breakfast and drank blood by the bucket. Soon I was “Arden’s Archvillain,” the most feared man in the Eleven Kingdoms.

 

    While my infamy grew, I was growing turnips.

 

    The Society, you see, had missed their mark. I was no warrior incognito, but a mild-mannered turnip farmer and woodcutter, in the dismal and destitute kingdom of Darnk, a land so far from the beaten path that it is left off most maps. My homeland was literally the last place anyone would look for an archvillain.

 

    Or for a hero.

 

    Which is what I had to become to survive. I emerged from Darnk into a whirlwind of danger and intrigue that took me across the Eleven Kingdoms, through the heart of the Incredibly Dark Forest, and into a final confrontation with the sorcerous overlords of the Dark Magic Society. Somehow I survived it all. After beating my foes, I decided to hang up my sword and enjoy the many marvels and delights of Caratha, the World’s Greatest City, with my newfound love, Sapphrina.

 

    Happy ending, right?

 

    Wrong. My evil reputation remained in place despite my heroic deeds. Most decent people did their best to avoid me. But for an alarming number of individuals my bad reputation inspired an entirely different response: they wanted to kill me.

 

 

    “That’s us!” said Kyril the Red.

 

    “I’m not done yet.”

 

    “Sorry.”

 

 

 

    So much for hanging up my sword.

 

    At first it was just an ambush here, a drive-by crossbowing there. As word of my whereabouts spread, the tempo of attempts on my life increased. Beating back these constant assaults made it hard to do much else. Every stroll down the street became a running battle. Dinners devolved into death duels. I couldn’t stop in for a pint without finding myself in a full-fledged free-for-all. And forget about spending a romantic evening with Sapphrina. Nothing spoils the mood like a band of Nynja assassins bursting through the front door. Again.

 

    It was Sapphrina who suggested the solution. If I could not prevent the many attempts on my life, I could at least plan around them. I put the word out that whomsoever wanted to kill Jason Cosmo would find me available each Whooshday morning at the Dueling Green in Pantheon Park, near the duck pond. Preference to be given to those who sign up in advance.

 

****************

 

    “So who wants to kill me today?” I said.

 

    Again the gathered killers shouted and threatened, though they volleyed as much vituperation at each other as at me. There was pushing and shoving. Mothers were insulted. Parentage was questioned. Punches were thrown.

 

    “Pipe down!” I said. “You’ll each get your turn!”

 

    “Turns?” said Kyril the Red. He raised his ax. “Enough waiting! Jason Cosmo, prepare to—urkkk!”

 

    An arrow punched through his thick neck. Kyril the Red took two tottering steps and toppled to the ground. He was Kyril the Dead now. I nodded my thanks to the archer, a shabby fellow clad in forest green. He wore an odd hat made of a stag’s head with one antler missing.

 

    The line of killers looked to me expectantly.

 

    “Let’s stay calm,” I said. “The whole point here is to let you do me in—or try to—in an orderly way. Which means you’ve got to wait until your name is called.

Otherwise, the whole thing breaks down and you end up fighting each other instead of me. I’ve seen it happen more than once. So wait your turn! If you fear that another will kill me first, just remember this: if you don’t get to be The Man Who Killed Jason Cosmo, you can always become The Man Who Killed the Man Who Killed Jason Cosmo!”

 

    My little joke got a laugh every time. A grim, bitter, cynical laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. The killers nodded their understanding. A few spat and grumbled, but order was kept.

 

    “Is Antonius here?” I said, searching the crowd. “Antonius!”

 

    “Here, Mister Cosmo! Excuse me! Excuse me! Coming through!”

 

    A skinny young scribe wended his way through the crowd. He wore a frayed brown robe, rudely patched at the elbows. His hair was cropped short, which had the unfortunate effect of accentuating his jug-like ears. He held a battered leather binder in the crook of his arm. An assortment of pens and quills filled his ink-stained breast pocket.

 

    “Sorry I’m late, Mister Cosmo!” said Antonius. He huffed and puffed, obviously short of breath. “Traffic on the Swan Bridge,” he explained.

 

    I waved away his tardiness. “Have you the list?”

 

    “Right here, Mister Cosmo!”

 

    “Then let’s get started. We’re all busy people here.”

 

    “Right away, Mister Cosmo! Right away!”

 

    “You can cross out Kyril the Red,” I said, indicating the impatient killer’s body.

 

     “Jumped in line, did he?” Antonius opened his binder and made a mark. “Fortune and glory first, Mister Cosmo?”

 

    “Sure,” I said.

 

    Taking appointments was working well so far. Random attempts on my life were down by sixty percent. After all, killers have lives too. It was a lot of work to stalk me, learn my routine, and choose a time and place to attack, with no guarantee that I wouldn’t alter my plans at the last minute, putting all of an assassin’s preparations to naught. Booking in advance was a win-win for all. Which reminded me ...

 

    “Wait!” I said, as Antonius cleared his throat to call the first name. “I almost forgot! If you are here for the ten million carat bounty, it is already paid out!”

 

    “What?” cried a mustachioed fellow clad in mauve. He wore a bandolier of throwing knives across his chest and pair of hatchets at his belt. He was the Mauve Marauder, an up and coming bounty hunter. “Paid to whom?”

 

    “To me,” I said. “I collected the bounty on myself.”

 

     “Are you serious?” said a dour gentleman done up in a Death hood, skeleton mask and black leather chaps. He idly twirled a lariat. “I’m the Grim Roper. I rode three weeks from Ganopolis to nab you. You’re telling me it was all for naught? Jeekers!” His rope went limp. He threw up his hands and stalked off through the park.

 

    “Now see here!” said the Mauve Marauder. “That is hardly proper, collecting your own bounty! Why, you’re not even a licensed bounty hunter!”

 

    “But I am a ‘notorious villain,’” I said, making air quotes. “I don’t care about licensing.”

 

    “Still, it isn’t right!” The Marauder stomped off after the Grim Roper, followed by three other disappointed bounty hunters.

 

    To Antonius I said, “I hate to waste their time. They’re just trying to make a living.”

 

    “No problem, Mister Cosmo,” said the scribe. He marked the names of the departed, then cleared his throat again and bellowed. “Malik of the Seven Blades! You’re up!”

 

    Dusky of skin and grim of eye, Malik wore the loose, flowing robes of a desert tribesman. It was not suitable attire for Caratha’s climate, but I forwent comment. Malik bore a curved sword in his right hand and a hooked dagger in his left.

 

    “To the death?” I inquired, as he stepped forward. “Or will you be satisfied with a good thrashing?”

 

    “I will be satisfied when my blade drinks deeply of your blood and spills your life upon the ground, thus winning me eternal glory,” said Malik, bowing.

 

    I sighed. “To the death then.”

 

    Malik struck so fast that I barely saw him move. Too fast for me to react in time. Fortunately, I held Overwhelm, an enchanted broadsword once wielded by the Mighty Champion himself. Forged of the magical metal miraculum, the invincible blade sliced through granite like soft butter. It enchantments included a onblade fighting intelligence that recorded every blow of every battle the sword took part in. Overwhelm dissected a foe’s fighting style on the fly, quickly learning to anticipate and counter his moves. Though I had never faced Malik before, Overwhelm had his number. My sword flashed upward to meet his, dragging my hand along for the ride.

 

    Malik’s scimitar shattered like glass against Overwhelm’s blade.

 

    Unfazed, he slashed at my face with the dagger. I ducked behind my shield, deflecting the thrust and swinging Overwhelm at Malik’s unprotected right side. He twirled away from me, hurling his broken sword as he skipped beyond reach of my weapon.

 

    I batted the missile away. Malik drew a short thrusting sword from a scabbard on his back and came at me again. His blade bit below my breastbone.

 

    The sword bent in two. I jokingly called my coat of mail the Cosmosuit. My armor lacked a proper legendary name, but it was another relic of the Mighty Champion, impervious to any weapon. At least, any I had met thus far. Even so, Malik’s blade would leave a bruise.

 

    Malik jabbed his hooked dagger into my side. It broke.

 

    That would also bruise.

 

    “You’re Malik of the Four Blades now,” I said.

 

    In reply, he snapped his arms in a peculiar motion. A pair of punching knives slid from his sleeves. These resembled brass knuckles with six inch knife blades attached. Malik feinted, ducked inside, and once again got past my guard. This time he went low, aiming a jab at my thigh followed by a slam punch to the crotch.

 

    “That was just mean,” I said, wincing more at the thought than from any actual pain. The Cosmosuit protected my more sensitive bits as well as it did the rest of my body. The punching knives snapped like stale toast against a brick.

 

    Resenting the low blow, I advanced on my foe with a furious flurry of thrusts and slashes. Had even half of my blows connected, Malik’s head and limbs would have flown in six different directions. His quickness saved him. Dodging and tumbling, Malik avoided my attack, culminating his evasive maneuvers with a standing reverse somersault. From mid-air he launched a pair of razor-edged throwing stars at me. I raised my shield to deflect the deadly projectiles. One embedded itself in a tree. The other whizzed past the head of waiting fighters, severing his ear as it flew by and whirled off into the park.

 

    “Are we done, Malik of the Broken Blades?” I said. “Or is this still to the death?”

 

    Malik glared at me, but made no move to attack.

 

    “Done, then.” I turned to Antonius. “Who’s next?”

 

    Malik’s speed startled me yet again. Swifter than a falcon striking its prey, he closed the distance between us. With one hand he reached over my shoulder to grab my chin and yank my head back. With the other he sliced a serrated knife across my throat.

 

    The serrations of the blade made popping noises as they broke off like the teeth of a cheap comb. “The part of my armor that protects my neck is called the gorget,” I said. “I just recently learned that.”

 

    I pivoted and smashed Malik with my shield, slamming him to the ground. I pinned him with a foot to the chest.

 

    “That was eight blades!” I said, pressing Overwhelm’s point to his throat. “You’re a cheater!”

 

     “No, I’m not!”

 

     “Calling yourself Malik of the Seven Blades when you have eight is, at the very least, disingenuous.”

 

    “I was named for my Uncle Aktar.”

 

    “Uncle Aktar?”

 

    “Aktar of the Seven Blades.”

 

    “Right then. Well, nephew of Aktar, do you want to stick with ‘to the death’ or have you reconsidered?

 

    “I’ve reconsidered. If it is all the same to you.”

 

    “It is. But before I let you up I want to be sure you understand that you’ve had your turn. If you come at me with a ninth blade, these remaining gentlemen so patiently waiting their turns are well within their rights to take you out. I know Antler Boy there has an itchy bowstring.”

 

    “I am finished. Truly.”

 

    “Then better luck next time.” I helped him up. “Antonius?”

 

    “Haakon Hookhand is next. Haakon!”

 

    No one stepped forward. I scanned the crowd, spying a sturdy sailor who was missing his right hand. In its place was a wickedly sharp steel hook.

 

    “Are you Haakon?” I asked.

 

    He glanced around nervously. “Who me?”

 

    “Yes, you. Haakon Hookhand?”

 

    He hid his right hand—or hook, rather—behind his back. “Maybe. I mean no. That is to say ... it’s not what you think!”

 

    “What do I think?”

 

    Haakon laughed nervously. “Funny story really. You see, me and me mates were down at the Sassy Seahorse the other night, drinking rum and boasting, as we sailors will do. One thing leads to another and next thing you know I’m saying as I could take on Jason Cosmo himself.”

 

    “Do go on,” I said.

 

    “I didn’t mean nothing by it! It’s more like a figure of speech. Like I’m so hungry I could eat a horse! or I could arm-wrestle an ogre! More of an exaggeration than an accurate declaration of one’s true intent. But then Seamus said as how you were here in Caratha and taking all comers. He called me out and I couldn’t back down. I’ve been at sea for the past two years. I had no idea you were in town or I’d have kept my fool mouth shout, and that’s the truth!”

 

    “No doubt,” I said. “But you did sign up to kill me.”

 

    “That I did,” said Haakon resignedly. “But it was the whiskey talking, I swear!”

 

    “I thought you said rum.”

 

    “Rum did most of the talking, but I’m pretty sure it was the whiskey as convinced me! Oh, I should never have turned to drink. Me mum said it would be the death of me!” Haakon fell to his knees. “I repent of it all! Never will I touch another drop, just please don’t kill me, Jason Cosmo!”

 

    He clasped his hands together in desperate supplication, forgetting that one of his hands was, in fact, a hook.

 

    “You just hooked your own hand,” I said.

 

    “Yes, I noticed.”

 

    “That has got to smart.”

 

    “Aye,” said Haakon, through gritted teeth. “The pain is considerable.”

 

    “Well, I can’t fight you now. So I guess you’re off the ... well, anyway. Perhaps another time.”

 

     “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you!”

 

    “You should have a surgeon tend your hand before it gets infected.”

 

    Haakon scowled. “The last time I had the surgeon tend an injured hand I ended up with this bloody hook! I’ll just pour some rum on and apply a bandage. It will be fine. Thank you again, sir, for your mercy and kindness!”

 

    “You’re welcome. Spread the word.”

 

    Haakon hurried on his way, dripping a trail of blood behind him. I regarded my remaining opponents. “Anyone else having second thoughts, now is your chance to leave!” I said.

 

    Two men bolted immediately, sprinting past poor Haakon. After a moment’s hesitation, another would-be combatant lost his nerve. Two more followed him.

 

    “That thinned the herd a bit,” I said.

 

    “That is all for the fortune and glory list,” said Antonius, referring to those whose main motivation for wanting me dead was making a name for themselves. “Any bounty hunters still here? Cladius of Gos? Is Cladius here? Cladius is a no-show. Last call for bounty hunters! Pros next! Contract killers, assassins. Anyone here to kill Mister Cosmo for pay. I’ve got Nestor Breen and the Boys, the Blue Crew, the Black Sheep, the mysterious Spider Guild, and something called Quik Kill.”

 

    I knew of Nestor Breen and the Boys by reputation. They were Reorganized Crime muscle, the bane of shopkeepers who fell behind in their protection payments, gamblers who reneged on their debts and others who ran afoul of Caratha’s criminal element. The Blue Crew was a rival band of hoodlums, blue-skinned Cyrillans who wore blue caps and capes to further emphasize their blueness. The Black Sheep were young bravos from otherwise good families—mostly younger sons of aristocrats who stood to inherit little and considered honest work beneath them. Slay for pay they had no qualms about.

 

    I frowned. Those who sought me out to prove their fighting prowess or to win a glorious reputation were annoying, but I respected their motives. Our martial age honored strength of arms. It was natural for men of the sword to seek out a challenge.

 

    Nor did I look down on bounty hunters. Their usual prey were outlaws, brigands, pirates and other scoundrels. My villainous reputation made me fair game for the bounty hunting brotherhood. I tried to go easy on them.

 

    Hired killers were another matter. They normally preyed on the weak and helpless. They lurked in the shadows, set traps, attacked from ambush and did everything that their low cunning could devise to ensure that their victims met a violent end with as little risk to themselves as possible. With them, I would not hold back.

 

    Oddly enough, few of Caratha’s top assassins had come after me. For the most part it was second-rate killers-for-hire like this lot who sought me out. I suspected someone was directing a steady stream of low grade thugs my way. I didn’t know who or why, but I was certainly happy to rid the city of such villains.

 

    “Breen Boys, Blue Crew and Black Sheep, I’ll take you all together!” I said. After warming up with Malik, I could do with a challenge myself.

 

    “What’s this?” said Nestor Breen. He was a pock-faced, greasy-haired, beady-eyed walking cliché of a contract killer. “I don’t work with blue freaks and fancy boys!”

 

    “Oh, yeah?” said one of the Blue Crew. “We don’t need any help from the likes of you anyway!”

 

    “We simply shan’t consort with these lowlifes,” said the khaki-clad leader of the Black Sheep, speaking in the clipped nasal tone affected by his class. “We shan’t!”

 

    “Yes, you shan—I mean, shall,” I said. “Look at it this way. By attacking together you have a slightly better chance of beating me than each group alone would. If you win, you can fight among yourselves after. It’s a twofer!”

 

    “I don’t like it,” said Nestor Breen. “But if you insist.”

 

    The other gangs nodded their assent. Eying one another warily, the three groups arranged themselves around me. The Breen Boys favored clubs and knives. The Blue

Crew had cheap swords. The Black Sheep had fancy swords with mother-of-pearl grips, jewelled pommels, engraved monograms, and other  adornments.

 

    At an unspoken signal, the killers charged en masse. Giving Overwhelm free rein, I blocked, ducked, cut, thrust, pivoted, kicked, elbowed, and otherwise stayed in constant motion amid the press of my foes. The ground was soon littered with a score or more of lifeless bodies. Thankfully, none of them were mine.

 

    “Who’s next?” I said, wiping my blade on the grass.

 

    “Quik Kill,” said Antonius.

 

    Two trembling young men with the slightly unkempt look of university students stepped forward. They wore blue aprons emblazoned with a cartoon of a homicidal lightning bolt character brandishing a bloody knife.

 

    “What is Quik Kill?” I asked.

 

    “Uh ... well, we wrote the business plan for our marketing class,” said one of the young men. According to a badge on his apron, his name was Tab.

 

    “Quik Kill is ‘Murder for the Masses,’” said the other, named Ryan. “If you’re rich you can afford to hire people to kill your enemies. But what about ordinary working people? They might have enemies they want dead too.”

 

    “Huge underserved market,” said Tab, nodding. “Quik Kill brings high quality pre-paid assassination services to the average person.”

 

    “Pre-paid assassination?” I said. “What does that even mean?”

 

    “It works like this,” said Ryan. “You sign up as a Quik Kill subscriber and pay a low monthly fee, right? Then, if you need someone killed, you’ve got an assassin on call. By pooling the subscriber fees of all our members, we can afford to hire top level talent.”

 

    “You two don’t look like top level talent.”

 

    Ryan and Tab exchange glances. Tab said, “We dropped out of Caratha Business School to launch Quik Kill, but we’re short of start-up funds. When our first customer ordered a hit on you, we had no choice but to do it ourselves.”

 

    “The two of you are going to kill me?” I asked, cocking one eyebrow skeptically, as I stepped over the remains of one of the Blue Crew.

 

    Tab swallowed hard. Ryan vomited on himself.

 

    “Truthfully,” said Tab. “We were thinking of dropping the whole project and going back to school.”

 

    “That would be a good idea,” I said. “Unlike Quik Kill.”

 

    The overmatched entrepreneurs scurried from the park.

 

    “Anything more, Antonius?”

 

    “No, Mister Cosmo. The mysterious Spider Guild was a no-show.”

 

    “What about you?” I addressed the shabby archer I had dubbed Antler Boy. “Aren’t you here to take a shot at me?”

 

    The archer spat a huge wad of tobacco juice. “Nope. I was just passing by. Thought I’d stop and watch for a spell. Mighty fine fighting.”

 

    “Thanks. I appreciate your help earlier. It kept things on track.”

 

    “Don’t mention it.” He shuffled his feet and glanced at Kyril’s body. “Could I have my arrow back?”

 

    “Help yourself.”

 

    He retrieved his bloody arrow from Kyril’s neck. “It is the only one I have left. I’m on a tight budget, being as I am a down on his luck former forest ranger.”

 

    “Why former?”

 

    “Let go for poaching deer. Though it was more for putting out my lord’s eye with an arrow while poaching deer.”

 

    “You aimed at a deer and accidentally hit your lord in the eye? But you seem to be an excellent shot!”

 

The ranger spat again, this time with feeling. “I didn’t say it was no accident.”

 

I laughed. “Fair enough. What is your name?”

 

    “They Call Me Deerkiller.”

 

    “Well, Deerkiller—”

 

    “Not Deerkiller. They Call Me Deerkiller.”

 

    “That’s a mouthful.”

 

    “T.C. for short.”

 

    “How would you like to earn an honest hundred, T.C.?”

 

    His dark eyes lit up. “What’s the job?”

 

    “Take care of these bodies for me. It’s a hefty fine if I leave them here. I usually clean up after myself, but I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning.”

 

    T.C. drew a hunting knife. “Do you want them skinned and mounted?”

 

    “Nothing like that!” I said. “Just stack them for the Body Cart. It comes round at ten.”

 

    “Done.”

 

    I counted out a handful of silver coins. “Tip the Body Cart guy a few, if you would. Antonius, I’ll see you again next week!”

 

    “Sure thing, Mister Cosmo!” He hesitated. “Say, so long as you’re handing out coin, did you think about that raise we discussed?”

 

    I laughed. “Done! You’ve well earned it.”

 

    Life was cheap in Caratha. But death was getting expensive.

 

 

 

 

 

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