Fistful of Souls

A Lost and Tainted Soul's Adventure

After Prince Igor’s Battle with the Polovtsy (1880) by Viktor Mikhaylovich Vasnetsov

A Deal is Struck

‘The task is simple,’ the Kazir said.

Meaning it isn’t, Auron thought. He caught the arrogant smile of the Kazir’s money-handler forming beneath his pinched nose and beady eyes. He hadn’t cared enough to learn his name or title.

‘I need you and your band,’ Kazir Tuson craned his neck to catch sight of Samuel and Kain behind Auron. ‘To bury the dead of Djuber. A hundred at most, leave the rest of the dead to rot in the sun for all I care.’

‘All lost souls can become tainted, Your Excellence, any could attack your people, threaten the roads, cause blight amongst the crops,’ Auron said. The money-handler tsk’d. Auron rocked on his heels, hands resting in the small of his back. Palm trees towered behind the Kazir, offering shade as the sun peeked in the cerulean sky.

‘It is dead Djuberans that concern me. Not Magals or Tithish or any others. You’re welcome to bury them if you wish but I will not pay for it, let their own people pay for their own burials,’ the Kazir said. He made circles with his hand, a cluster of gold rings clacking as he did so.

‘Both fought beside the High King with you did they not?’ Auron received a second tsk from the money-handler. He glanced to the monks drawing with coloured sand between him and Kazir. You listen to this all day. No wonder you have to take a vow of silence.

‘There is no love between Djuberans and Magals. We owe fealty to the High King, that is our only similarity,’ Kazir Tuson rolled his eyes. ‘Enough questions. You will bury my dead, I will pay you after it is done.’

‘Before,’ Auron said. He earned his third tsk from the money-handler.

Kazir Tuson’s bushy eyebrows came together. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We require payment up front. Expenses to cover and the battle site is not exactly nearby,’ Auron said. There was a pause. The money-handler leaned over but before he could speak Auron added, ‘Send a scout in three weeks. It will be obvious to all that we have buried your dead,’ the flag of Djuber, an eagle with wings spread, a sword in one talon and a gold coin the other, flitted behind the Kazir. ‘If not, well I assume the penalty is death and your city is at a significant crossroads. I would be hard-pressed to avoid it,’ Auron could think of at least four ways to never set foot in Djuber again.

The Kazir scratched his hairless, narrow chin and mmm’d so loud the money-handler backed off, sullen. ‘Very well. If my scout reports no burials your lives are forfeit. Two-hundred denir will be enough.’

‘Four-hundred,’ Auron said. The money-handler gasped. Auron couldn’t help but smile.

‘I could arm and equip five score warriors for that,’ the Kazir’s thin face failed to portray the terror he wanted.

‘Yet they would not be able to kill the fiends that corrupted souls sprout. I can,’ Auron said. ‘It is expertise you’re paying for, not size.’

Kazir Tuson scowled and fidgeted with his emerald green robe. His dark eyes darted beneath their dense brows before settling back on Auron. ‘Do you make a habit of extorting your betters?’

‘I make a habit of being paid for a job well done,’ Auron said. A monk smirked as he knelt brushing pink sand into a curve. ‘Again, I warn you, professionally speaking, any of the dead could turn. It is best we deal with all the dead.’

‘And I suppose you would want my city as payment?’ The Kazir’s eyes flattened and stared into the middle distance.

Auron tapped the toe of his boot on the azure tiled floor, ‘Not quite, two-thousand would do it, and I would need those five score men to assist.’

Kazir Tuson’s fist slammed down on the arm of his chair. A monk jumped, his finger jolting and spilling a torrent of pink and orange sand across the floor. ‘Bury the Djuberans. Make it obvious. Take your four-hundred denirs and do not return. Clis, pay him,’ the Kazir flicked his finger from the money-handler to Auron.

Clis’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all around, ‘As you wish, Your Excellence.’ He turned and opened a plain dark wood box on a copper table. He picked up four pouches of denir and strode over to Auron, the money-handler’s face went white as he handed over the small fortune.

Auron accepted the money, bowed, ‘Thank you, Your Excellence,’ and spun on his heel. He tossed the pouches to Kain and grinned ear to ear.

The Battlefield