Swordmaster
Gameth Ron almost laughed at that, but then got control of himself and put down the paint brush. He’d rented the small office space on the wrong side of the tracks two weeks ago, but hadn’t gotten around to doing anything useful with it. Though he wasn’t much of an artist, the single sword he’d drawn was easy enough to recognize, and even if the small vine markings along its length meant nothing to anyone that walked by, it was important to Gameth that they be present and easy to identify.
It had never been his plan to sell out a strong-arm for hire, but circumstance had forced his hand and left him with few other options. While there were several standing offers waiting for him around the globe, they all came with commitments or expectations that made them unappealing. At home, his career in the military had been cut short by an unfortunate incident and while no charges had been laid, he’d been drummed out of the corps and into the ranks of civilians.
Jobs at fix-houses and commercial industries had proven pointless – he was not suited for such mind-numbing tasks and quickly earned the ire of both managers and employees alike. Working for himself was the only choice that made sense but until he saved a co-worker from a potentially fatal situation one evening after work, he had no idea what form that work would take.
“Thank gods for you, Gameth,” the young man had said, watching his would-be killers flee with sliced arms and cut legs, “you and that sword are a service any man could use.”
At first, Gameth assumed the fool had too much drink and not enough sense but quiet inquires of others brought a need to light – civilians lived in fear and were willing to pay well for the protection of a swordmaster.
Obtaining a license for his new venture had been easier than he anticipated; the dull-eyed woman at the city office asked for none of his certifications and seemed surprised he wanted to provide anything of substance. He had considered unsheathing his sword and proving his worth, but the office guards seemed ready to fight at any perceived slight. Though defeating them would have been no difficult thing, Gameth worried such an act could delay his permit processing.
Two weeks later and the paper was in hand, giving him permission to set up wherever he liked. He'd been careful to avoid mentioning any outright violence in the description of his business endeavors, and though the underlying concept of his venture was clear, the city appeared desperate enough for small operations to set up shop that they were willing to let him act along the fringes of law.
That suited him just fine.
“Excuse me?” A small voice said, interrupting his thoughts.
Turning, Gameth was met with the figure of a thin man, dressed well enough there was no way he lived in the surrounding area. That meant he was lost, or -
“Are you Gameth Ron?” The young man's face lit up. “Oh you must be – you look just like I've heard you described. I need your help.”
Gameth opened his mouth to reply, but the thin fellow kept talking, a stream of quick and jerky words that painted him as unsure at the very least and scared to death in the worst case.
“Wait. Wait. I should start with my name. Rel Deroy. That's my name – at least for now. I might change it if things get to hot, but do you think they'll get hot?” He glanced up and paused for a moment, but Gameth didn't answer; clearly, more was coming.
“I have a problem, you see, and I don't think anyone else can help me with it except a swordmaster. In fact, I'm that's what I need. You see, I've run afoul of a pistoleer -”
“What?” Gameth cut off the stringy fellow. “A pistoleer? How does someone like you -” he gestured at the man's fancy clothes and silk hat, “come anywhere near one of those freaks?”
“I...let's just say we had a number of business dealings. At first, the terms were quite favorable, but I put a tad too much trust in my new friend and suddenly found myself blackmailed into a corner. I need help, Mr. Ron, and I need it from you.” A small smile spread across Rel's. “I pay very well.”
Gameth grunted, mind spinning. Talented marksmen, most pistoleers were military vets that did their time and then got the hell out – their skills had been hard-used in the recent conflicts. A few chose to go rogue, either defecting from the service or hiring themselves out as thugs to the highest bidder once their term with the corps ended. Where Gameth's aim was to offer protection at a price, pistoleers were known to commit any act for the right price, and typically leave no survivors. That the thin man had run afoul of one meant he was far less innocent than he appeared.
“No thanks,” Gameth said shortly, turning back to his logo. “I'm not interested.”
“Please! Please, you have to help me,” desperation crept into Rel's voice, panic at the prospect of being hunted down and disposed of in cold blood. “Does the name Marlin Roth mean anything to you?”
Anger surged through Gameth and he turned, ripping his sword from its sheath. “What did you just say?”
“Marlin Roth,” the thin man repeated. “He's the man I had working for me, the one that's going to kill me now unless I do what he says. I thought perhaps since you ran in the same circles -”
“No!” Gameth said sharply. “Roth and I run nowhere near each other – we are nothing alike.” It was difficult to keep his voice under control along with his temper; he hadn't expected to find his younger brother shaking down dishonest merchants in the city. “I'll take your job,” he grated. Clearly, a reunion was long overdue.
- D
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