Fireteam Delta J. Halpin (top 10 books of all time TXT) 📖

more than just mutants. Summers looked up once more at the ears of the man hanging closest. They were round, human ears.

This man had, at some point, been one of their own. Maybe even someone who had gone through exactly what Summers had.

Maybe they’d been driven crazy by the hamr; Summers couldn’t imagine the locals would be able to take down actual soldiers. Not if they still had their weapons. He had to assume these men were deserters, or people who had been lost like they were. Or something else entirely. Either way, he supposed they at least had a lead. If there were more like them still around, they might finally be able to get some answers.

Synel approached Summers as he departed the ship.

“I’ve spoken to the captain and his men. I can assure you that none will be spreading rumors anytime soon.” Synel offered Summers her hand as he stepped onto the dock.

It took him a moment to understand what she was saying. The last time they’d been in town, the merchants they’d traveled with had more or less destroyed any semblance of cover they had. Apparently, Synel had learned from, and foreseen, a similar situation here.

Synel gave him a half smile, seeing the understanding on his face.

“I hope not, anyway. Had to employ some very colorful language, and I’d hate for you to have to follow up on those threats.” Synel eyed the captain behind her.

Summers nodded in understanding. He had noticed the man looked a little anxious. Now, he knew why.

Still, at least her heart was in the right place. Sort of. If the hanging bodies were any indication, the locals probably would not take kindly to Summers’ recent changes either.

“Don’t suppose you have any friends we can talk to here?” Summers eyed the woman.

“It depends . . .” Synel walked beside him toward the village proper. “What would you constitute as a friend?”

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“He’s a slave merchant.”

Synel led the group through the small marketplace that lay at the city’s center. She’d explained that this far south, she wasn’t familiar with many locals. However, she did know one man who happened to trade between the various cities of the north and south using one of the few resources neither would deny.

Synel had clarified that she’d often act as a courier for men like him, buying the freedom of his “wares” with coin the families sent. Many were simply sold into slavery after battles between cities, debt, or more often, as the prizes of duels between affluent houses.

Though Summers had never met the man, he could tell they were not going to get along. But he could be someone who could help them.

Asle had wandered off, along with Nowak, and had found some information on the town’s “décor.” The bodies hung from the trees and walls were those of invaders, or maybe more like bandits—possibly even monsters, given how the armed townsfolk seemed to regard them. They’d shown up in droves throughout the night over the past few weeks, some more bestial than human, attacking anything that moved. They were faster and stronger than most of the elves; however, they were badly outnumbered, and an arrow would still kill a man no matter how strong or fast he was.

That wasn’t to say they’d gotten off easy, though. Asle had learned that more than a third of the town had been lost defending against just ten of these enemies. Summers was only thankful the infected soldiers hadn’t brought weapons, or they’d have arrived to another smoking crater in the ground.

Eventually, they found themselves at a stall not unlike the others. The man behind it—a skinny elf with long, greasy dark hair—greeted Synel with a bow.

“Mr. Fritjof . . .” Synel returned the bow.

“Ms. Synel, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He glanced to Summers and the others, inclining his head to them. “Would this be a business-related, or personal visit?”

“We were hoping you may be able to help us.” Synel gestured to Summers. “My friends are mercenaries looking for work. I believed you might know something about the local . . .” Synel paused. “Landscape for such things.”

“Unless you’re in need of my wares, I’m afraid I can’t be of much service.”

Synel paused at that, glancing at Summers.

He understood the meaning. Synel had warned them that most merchants were less than charitable. It was clear the man wanted payment before he started talking.

And Summers was not about to make that kind of a deal. New world’s laws or not, he did not want to be the kind of man who helped assholes like this.

“We’re not interested . . .” Summers started.

“How can you know before you’ve seen what I have?” Fritjof pressed. “In fact, I’ve recently acquired a prisoner from one of the past few battles. A strange woman, with an even stranger strength. Surely warriors of your stature would be interested in such a specimen.”

Summers blinked, looking back at Synel.

“Tell me more . . .”

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Fritjof led the group through a small warehouse in the back of town. It had been heavily guarded as they made their way to a small basement filled with smaller, bricked-off rooms. They looked more like medieval jail cells than anything.

“As for where they’re coming from, I can only tell you it’s somewhere east of here. The fools hardly say a thing and speak gibberish otherwise. From what I’ve heard in other towns, they seem to just be wandering out there on their own.” The man tapped at the side of his head. “I think it may be a sickness of the mind.”

Summers tilted his head. The man wasn’t far off with that guess.

“But this . . .” Synel struggled with the word. “This merchandise you’ve acquired, has it said anything?”

“As I said, only