Mageslayer

Peter's left ear ached, though not from infection or illness. His ear ached only in the absence of magic. He had cut his way through the last of the wizards in the city, and now his ear ached.

The trull snoring beside him could easily have helped him to forget the dull throb centred around the stud he wore in the cartilage of his left ear, as she had last night, but that would cost him another silver. He was out of silver.

Not that she hadn't been worth it, but silver was silver, and the ache in the hard tissue of his ear was deepening his already foul mood. Peter was enjoying being in a foul mood. He was also looking forward to leaving this thrice accursed city. Another dalliance with the whore in his bed would only serve to weaken a perfect travelling mood and delay the start of his journey. Neither prospect appealed to him.

Slowly, with deliberate care, he removed himself from the sodden tangle of the straw pallet, gently easing himself from the embrace of his companion. Passion in return for money was nothing new to him, but this whore had been a particularly talented one, and worth the silver he had spent to acquire her services for the night. Skill and talent in one's calling were to be admired. Everyone had their place in the world, and aptitude the only variable. To be the best in one's field was the greatest of achievements in his world, and if his experience was any sort of benchmark, this harlot had excelled. Now however, payment had been made, services had been rendered and the contract was fulfilled. Peter would have been perfectly within his rights to wake her up with a rough shove and expect her to depart his room without a word. The professional that she was, Peter could have count on no less from her, but he left her sleeping in his bed as a complement to her skill. The room was paid up for one more day, and the innkeeper had strict instructions concerning his privacy. She would be left alone if she wished. One day's peace was all the kindness he would offer, but that was still more than most would ever willingly part with for her.

He dressed quickly and silently. A loose fitting pair of buckskin trousers, a plain woollen vest, his riding boots and gloves were the only clothing he possessed. He needed little else. Three feet of steel hung loosely at his left hip, secured to a plain leather belt that also held two knives; one blade for hunting, the other for wizards. The hunting knife was steel almost as well tempered as his sword, the other was of bone. The bone knife had been fashioned from the thighbone of the first person Peter had ever killed. One edge was serrated wickedly, designed to inflict maximum damage both on entry and exit. The opposing side of the blade had taken Peter weeks to hone to razor fineness. The bone held it's sharpness better than steel and fashioning the edge had been the most arduous task he had ever undertaken. The bones of a wizard were laced with magic that knit them together with strength greater than that of any material on earth. The bones of a sorcerer or sorceress were the only weapon that could kill another of their kind. The sorceress whose thighbone hung at Peter's right hip had been loath to give it up, and only Peter's skill and cunning, along with a wizard knife borrowed from his mentor had been able to separate her from it. She had died well, with courage and grace. She had forgiven Peter her murder with her last breath. She had also been his mother.

The users of magic rarely sired future wizards, but it did happen often enough. Mostly, their offspring were born without magic and went on to other, more mundane professions. Once in a great while, a wizard or sorceress would bring into the world one who would become a hunter. Mage slayers were rare, and revered...

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