A motley crew had never been so aptly named as the group consisting of a bastard, a con, a thief, and a hungry mercenary. It had long exposed Erik to doubts, whence were born all ill thoughts that bred viler deeds. Such a notion was not slander but acknowledgment that an unruly crowd follows no plan but its own. So if the money was great, and it always was, he expected a knife to the back. To him, it was no far-fetched theory.
Thus he had been cautious to reveal any detail of his being, lest it be used against him by the bastard, the con, and so on. Yet he was aware that amongst them, only one was as astute and observant as himself: the cynical con named Charle the Portender. The appellation, he bragged, was earned in ironic fashion, when he unwittingly predicted an oncoming blood moon, carousing a band of homesteaders into believing he was a holy man of the moon deity, and that his threats of divine punishment were true. They, in turn, acted upon his every demand, providing him and his malefic mass (that he'd briefly ridden among; no doubt swindling them upon exit and farewell) with all the provisions and coin they could muster. It was, in truth, a most cruel act, for he knew winter was coming and the crops had only just been reaped; so that when Charle the Portender and his merry band departed, the homesteaders relied on the viscera of a few cattle and horses for nutriment, since, as mentioned, all had been taken by the "holy man." Indeed, Erik found his emotional disposition, one of disgust and distrust, towards Charle the Portender a reasonable impression.
Another impressionable person was the bastard who rode in the name of his promiscuous father, Dux Revilan, whom Erik de Noir knew to be a deplorable character; for he once met a young man whom the Dux had defiled and left to die in the depths of a forest, where Erik had set camp interim while fleeing the Dux's houseguard in sortie, having cheated the nobleman in craps and absconded with much of his fortune the night after. The bastard's denomination, then, was Francois-Marie Vert, for all of Dux Revilan's acknowledged bastards bore that surname. Even so, this Francois-Marie Vert looked little more than a bastard in his steel armour tinted green and blue, his father's colours, along with the flowy hair that made him look more a lady knight-errant than a man of squalid occupation. Remember, it is not an accident that this man was part of this crew. He was known to have inherited his father's cruelty and carnal potency. That is, of course, what Erik de Noir had heard from the city they had just left. He was not a man of superstition or gossip, but Erik was aware (for he had lived long in a climate that does not shy away from them) that either of the two have an inkling of truth in them, no matter how absurd the proliferated tittle-tattle.
Speaking of another devil, the talkative among the rest, the affable boy-thief clearly originated from the far reaches of the East, for he adorned lighter, thinner clothes suited for torrid deserts. He was meandering to and fro the the open clearance in the woods as he spoke toward the deaf ears of the frail mercenary. Erik had heard of this man before, and it was no mistake that this was the person they called Najib min Al-Rimal. Although Najib was abysmally loquacious, his mouth seemed reticent about himself and the misadventures, crimes, and mishaps he had done or been a part of; and this subtle but sapient characteristic struck Erik de Noir with a respect he rarely bestowed upon other scoundrels in his trade. Even so, that quality was overshadowed by the rabble that came out of the man's mouth; there and then Erik wished that Najib was suddenly smitten by a black curse from the place of his origin—one that would suture his lips as tight as they could be strung and stretched.
The last member of this unlikely congregation was the aforementioned mercenary, who, by the appearance of his rusting armament and curved posteriority, seemed an outlier from the rest. The man was not accompanied by senility, nor was he brimming with youthful vigour; he was in that age where one feels all the disadvantages of both without the benefits that come with them. For the mercenary bore on his mien neither the wisdom of an old man nor the ignorance of a juvenile, but only a perplexity that Erik empathised with. Either way, this mercenary was only known as he claimed to be: Rodrigo de Quixada, el Perro. Whence the cognomen sprung, he did not bother to explain. Only that its inclusion was worthy because it was his title, and without the sobriquet, he said, all his deeds would be discredited.
Twilight had only just relinquished its final blush when the clatter of hooves announced the arrival of a finely bred horse, upon which rode an aristocrat of such poise and elegance that one might have mistaken him for an apparition of gold and silk rather than of flesh. He bore upon his countenance the sort of charm that cloaks deceit under civility; his eyes, sharp and colourless as pale steel, scanned the ragged assembly with a practiced disinterest, as though the crew were but an amalgam of curios at a bits and bobs shop. His name, as Erik gathered from the whisper of Charle the Portender, was Romualdez—bearing by birth the shade and countenance of a foreigner from somewhere South, but an aristocrat nonetheless.
Behind him loomed a lone houseguard clad in plate so thick that it was more fortress than armour. The man's visor revealed no eyes, only a faint glint behind the slit where light met metal, and he moved with the deliberate gait of something that had forgotten what it meant to be human. This walking monolith, as the nobleman introduced, was Rue Kent—his personal retainer and executioner, if ever the occasion called. When Romualdez dismounted, he did so with the indolent grace of one long accustomed to being obeyed. His boots pressed into the soil without sound, pairing nicely with his rodent-like qualities, and his smile, if such an expression deserved the word, was the courteous kind reserved for dogs who have yet to bite their masters.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice light as paper yet carrying the authority of coin, "you've been gathered for an undertaking of rare subtlety and rarer reward. I trust you've been informed of my expectations." No one answered. Erik, who sat with one knee raised and a knife turning idly in his hand, thought the silence apt, for none of them knew what this enterprise entailed.
Romualdez clasped his gloved hands behind him and began to pace. "A certain relic lies in the crypt of Saint Verena's abbey, two leagues east of here—a most venerated corpse whose sanctity, I'm told, has not waned with death. I require it delivered to my estate within three nights' time. Whole, unharmed, unremarked upon." He glanced at them each in turn, as though measuring which of them might betray him first. "In exchange, you will find your compensation… let us say... mmm... persuasive." He gestured briefly to Rue Kent, who unlatched a leather purse from his belt and threw it into their midst. It landed with a dull thud, opening a small slit held by strings, spilling the silver contents within.
"Half now, half upon completion," Romualdez continued. "Should you fail, consider this advance your burial fund. And, if by some folly word of this reaches the clergy—" his smile deepened, "—then I fear not even Saint Verena's blessed bones will intercede on your behalf."
The man turned upon his heel then, as though dismissing a meeting of lesser creatures, and with a silent nod to Rue Kent, remounted his horse. The pair departed in perfect poise and dreadful quietude. Only when the sound of their hooves had long faded into the clumps of trees did Erik de Noir speak the words:
"Well—seems we're grave robbers now."