The way they looked so relaxed, the jokes they passed between them, and the unguarded expressions on their faces—she used to have that. She used to have someone to talk to and laugh with. But her family was far away and no one here would dare get close to a Servant of Tavk, the Fallen Chaos god who ruled the Fallen Lands.
Tearing her eyes away, she abandoned her hair and drummed her fingers on the table. Tavk had insisted she’d come here; now she had to figure out why. The joy of serving a Chaos God…
A nervous cough brought her attention to the bartender. He stood a good three feet from her as though she was a coiled snake ready to strike.
“You desire something?” He indicated her drumming fingers.
Her stomach roared in response. “Food,” she said. He nodded and was about to scuttle away when she raised her hand. He stopped in terror, but she hardly noticed. Her memory tugged at her like a demon ripping chunks from a body. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment. “You said this was a guild…you in possession of job offers?”
“Ah, yes, but, uh, we don’t really have anything to, uh, your specifics.” He darted a nervous glance to the scar on her forehead. “We’re a quiet guild, you see. Don’t like attention.”
She dismissed his worry with a wave of her hand. “Show me what you have. I’ll know what I want. But first, the food.” Her stomach growled in agreement.
He nodded and scurried through the door that led toward the kitchen. In record timing, he returned with a glass box. She stiffened as he scooted it toward her. Shadows twisted inside and clicked against the glass. A demon. No, a storage demon, grown and designed to hold energy until an intelligent demon could consume it.
“Human food,” she hissed, her eyes never straying from the glass box as if it was about to leap at her. “I require human food.”
The bartender sputtered an apology and whisked the box away. She, however, remained stiff. The rest of the tavern remained motionless as well, none eager to catch her ire. It wasn’t until the bartender returned with a steaming bowl of hot soup that she finally relaxed. The smell of roasted pig drowning in broth made her mouth water, and she let out the air she’d been holding. Signing a quick prayer of thanks to Tavk—though he hardly deserved it—she dug in.
She had scarcely savored the last spoonful when the bartender coughed—again, three feet from her. He held a pile of papers made of pig-skin in his hands, eager to show her the jobs in an obvious attempt to get rid of her faster.
She toyed with the idea of glaring at him. Maybe even have her scar flare and watch him flee to his bar. She’d traveled non-stop for two days to get here; Tavk had insisted this mission was urgent. Now, since she’d barely arrived, surely they could allow her an extra ten minutes of rest.
The bartender coughed again; a chill stiffened the air. His other customers quieted, their eyes covertly observing the interchange. She could feel their nervousness rise like sailors in a doomed boat, all ready to abandon ship if she tried anything funny. With a sigh, she pushed the bowl away and waved the bartender forward. She should know better than to expect compassion. She served Tavk, after all; the god of demonic and insane killers.
Hopefully, she’d fit in neither of those categories.
The bartender fanned the papers, illustrating her many choices. “Did you have a, uh, specific job in mind?”
“Just go one by one.”
He nodded and slid the first paper onto the table. She didn’t even glance at it. He followed with the second one, then the third, and continued with the rest. She, on the other hand, studied her fingernails. Dirt resided under most of them. Not surprising, since she hadn’t taken a bath in months. She hoped this mission would take her to an area with more civilization. Largish bodies of water not owned by demons were hard to find in this area of the Fallen Lands.
Her gut clenched. “Stop.”
The room jumped at the vocal command, and the bartender barely kept his papers from flying. Ignoring their reactions, she reached out toward one of the papers on the table, her gut tightenening as she touched it.
“This is the one I want.” She frowned as she gazed at it. The handwriting was sloppy and faint; with her tired eyes, she’d develop a headache before figuring it out. She tossed it to the bartender, who swept it up, his hands deliberately avoiding hers.
“Oh.” His voice held a hint of surprise. “Yeah, I guess this would fall in, uh, your area.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s the job? I can’t read it,” she added when he raised his own eyebrow.
“It’s a spoiled Citizen in the Mutual Lands. He requests a trainer for his young child, specifically a Fallen Servant.”
She bit back the urge to groan and curse her own god. This was his urgent mission? Babysitting a child?
“Go on,” she mustered in a flat voice.
“That’s basically it. You’re either to sign this paper or show up at the Citizen’s door to accept the job. The address is here.” He pointed to an area near the top, but she ignored it.
“You mentioned it would fall in my…specialty area.”
He ran a hand down his apron as though checking for his knives. “Well, I can’t really say. It’s just that, uh, there’s been odd coincidences. This job’s been on the market for a year now. Four good trainers—none Fallen Servants, but still good trainers—tried the job, and he fired them. Then they all died. Not all at once, mind you, but somehow, each died within a month of leaving—all accidentally, of course. No one’s wanted the job since. He’s pulling it off the market. Today’s the last day to take it up.” He handed the paper to her. “It would be good if you took it. Looks like he’s enjoyed dangling hope for those who want to get out of here, and then gleefully designed their death. Would be nice if you gave him his due, eh?”
He laughed. She didn’t.
Continue to part 4.
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sending...
She must train the boy destined to kill her.
He must prove his birth wasn't a mistake.
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She is reformed! (when not losing, that is...)
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