The Wanderer followed the foot-made path through the woods, his dirtied white cloak covering his sides and back like a blanket. Though the cloak hid his appearance, it was clear that he was tall, with some muscle about him. Every step he took caused a metallic clink, plates of steel jostling one another as he wandered on. 

  A village sat on top of a hill in the distance, though great, unkempt walls disguised the settlement. With no other locations nearby, it was clear that this was The Wanderer’s destination, and so he sauntered into the village. 

  The streets were like that of every other village he’d seen; flattened brown dirt that had been trodden on ceaselessly for years. The houses too were the usual, terraced and made of wood. The Wanderer had seen this scene countless times before and would see it countless more.

  A tavern wasn’t too hard to find, the noises led him there. Unlike the village, the tavern was unique; every tavern he visited was. They all had their little quirks, from their decoration to their menus. It helped stop the days from bleeding into one another. This tavern had a small booth section opposite the door, which was at the tavern’s bottom left. In between, small wooden tables were strewn where they could find space, frequently placed around timber support beams. The place itself was crowded, and The Wanderer struggled to traverse through the tavern.

  Like his establishment, the landlord was easy to find. He was behind the bar, cleaning a well-worn mug. The Wanderer approached, and the barkeep took notice.

  ‘Greetings, stranger!’ he welcomed jovially, ‘Welcome to The Murky Oak. What can I get for you?’

  ‘What can you tell me about this place?’

  The Wanderer’s voice was eerily calm, serene even. An underlying tone of inquisitiveness was apparent to the few who took note. It was also clear he was somewhat dehydrated, as there was a slight hoarseness to his voice. He quite likely hadn’t drunk in a while.

  ‘Oh? You want to know about Brimiff? Well, despite our size we’ve tons of importance to the Baron. We’re the artisan capital of the area, and proud of it. None are prouder than the Goulds though. They’re the-’

  The landlord continued talking, and The Wanderer listened to every word with rapt attention. He was still alert, however, as he could feel the eyes of a few were glued to him. He knew why they looked, of course, he was something new, and that was certain to draw attention. He still stayed alert, though. You could never know when trouble might brew.

  ‘-and that’s how we got to where we are. Gotta thank you for asking, been a while since I’ve been able to make use of my knowledge. Is there anything else you’re after?’

  ‘I’m looking for work.’ he stated, ‘Are there any job listings here?’

  The master of the house took a moment to consider. By now, he’d likely picked up his trade.

  ‘If you’re looking for work, your best askin’ old Wilfie. He’s down there.’

  The landlord pointed to the top right corner of the tavern, where the booths sat.

  The Wanderer nodded his thanks and left a silver coin; it was common courtesy. He then turned quickly on his heel, his cloak fluttering with him as he trudged through the packed bar.

  ‘Wilfie’ was of average height, but had a noticeable weight. His hair was short, neatly cut and grey, which, alongside his handlebar moustache, gave him a stereotypical officer look. It was his eyes, however, that The Wanderer paid most attention to. They were a chocolatey brown, though this detail was drowned out by just how tired they were. In his own opinion, it was a miracle that the man was awake. 

  He wore a bright, scarlet coat with tails, and on the cloth rested a diagonal white sword-belt which, unsurprisingly, had a sword attached to it. On his right hip, there was a holster, a revolver neatly packed in it. Finally, the man had a neat pair of white pants, which were cleanly tucked into a pair of shiny black boots.

  At this point, the officer had taken notice of him and was tense, likely in response to his approach, and awaited him.

  The Wanderer sat on the seat opposite and unhooded himself, revealing his appearance. His eyes were a weathered grey, which nearly blended in with his pale skin. His dirty and battered blonde hair cascaded down his neck, just reaching the top of his spine; it covered the sides of his head as well, and a bundle of hairs going down to his nose parted the sides of his face. Said face was worn, but there was still a youthful nature to it. It was as though no matter what life had thrown at him, he had yet to break.

  ‘Calm yourself.’ The Wanderer said, ‘My name is Ishmael Faust. I’m a Guardian.’

  The officer before him let out a relieved sigh, a hint of recognition passing through his exhausted eyes.

  ‘A Guardian? You’re one of those monster hunters?’ The man questioned.

  ‘One in the same, though we do deal with more than just monsters.’ 

  The reply was practised; he’d said it a thousand times.

  It worked in getting the man’s full attention, though. His eyes seemed to alight with a small spark, and a gentle smile appeared on his aged face.

  ‘Then it is a pleasure to meet you, Master Guardian. I’m Wilfred Coburns, an officer of the Brimiff militia. Your arrival is most fortunate.’

  Ishmael’s lips turned downwards for a moment, before quickly returning to their regular, passive self.

  ‘Let me guess. You’ve got a problem, and you don’t know how to deal with it,’ Ishmael said in a dry tone.

  Wilfred nodded in agreement, ‘Spot on. Just yesterday, Brimiff’s local mage, Thalia Morrow, was found dead, her throat sliced open. Loui- err, the Captain believes it was a suicide, but me and a few others aren’t quite so sure. It’d be a massive help if you could join me in investigating the death further; we aren’t used to such incidents here.’

  Ishmael’s eyes widened ever so slightly; he’d dealt with mages before, but never with the death of one. 

 ‘You can expect my aid. What else can you tell me about this mage? What complex of magic did she use? Does she have any family? Friends?’ Ishmael queried heavily.

  Wilfred almost immediately froze, giving an expression not unlike a fish out of water. Ishmael gave him a moment.  

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know all too much about her. No one does really, she was a recluse. Doctor Gallagher’s your best bet if you need any questions answered. He’s the one currently holding her body.’

  ‘Take me to him, then.’

  The two men promptly rose from their chairs and left the tavern. 

  Ishmael’s eyes surrendered to the midday sun the moment the pair left. He’d forgotten how bright it was. Whilst his eyes were closed, something touched his arm. 

  They opened instantly. 

  Before him was a small group, about five people total. One of them, a man about his age but a little shorter, had seemingly bumped into him as the Guardian was leaving. The man shot Ishmael a scowl before continuing.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, them.’

  Wilfred’s entire demeanour had changed. He’d gone from a comforting, familial face to having a scowl not dissimilar from the man just before.

  ‘I take it you two have a history?’ 

  Wilfred barked out a somewhat manic laugh before responding, ‘You could say that. He’s the leader of the local delinquent gang- The Brown Roses, they call themselves. Don’t really do much more than loiter, but they’ve been involved in the odd theft. I’ve tried to throw them in the slammer, so many fuc-’

  He took a deep breath in, then a deep breath out. His face had lost its righteous fury and had returned to the tired one that Ishmael first saw.

  ‘Sorry, sorry; it’s a sore spot for me. I love this place, I truly do. Everything I want and love is in these walls. And to see someone try and disrupt that, it- it sickens me.’

 Understanding dotted the Guardian’s face, but no sympathy seemed apparent. Instead, he suggested that the pair head to the doctor’s.

  ‘Yeah, yeah that’s a good idea.’  

~?~

  The doctor’s office was a small building located just a few streets down from the tavern. It too was made of stone and wood, but was unique in its cleanliness, which was abnormal for its kind. The Guardian’s weathered and dirtied clothing stood out far more than the streets.

  Wilfred was the one to ring the bell on the counter, and just a few seconds later a man rushed through a door in the back. He was of average build, with curly brown hair that was neatly cut. His green eyes sparkled with youth, the kind of look only a man who could still love every part of the world could have. Ishmael’s flat grey eyes locked with his, and the man seemed to lose some of his confidence. 

  Rather quickly, he walked over to Wilfred, who he embraced in a genial hug, greeting one another the way friends do. Ishmael tuned them out, but his name came up eventually.

  ‘-and this here is Ishmael Faust, a Guardian. He’s here to investigate Thalia’s death.’ 

  The doctor turned to face him, a warm smile enveloping his face.

  ‘Greetings, Master Faust, I am Doctor James Gallagher. I take it you have some questions?’

  The Guardian just nodded in response; James’ smile fell. 

  Wilfred stepped in. 

  ‘He has quite a few questions; why, he was asking me non-stop a minute ago!’ he chuckled.

  Ishmael’s face stayed impassive; James’ smile failed to return to his face. 

  Wilfred finished his laughter awkwardly before gesturing to Ishmael to begin. 

  ‘What can you tell me about the witch?’ inquired the Guardian, somehow managing to seem both rapt and distant.

  ‘Well,’ began James, ‘Thalia was quite the recluse. She was Brimiff’s potioneer though, so I talked with her every now and again. I don’t know much more than that.’

  ‘Do you know what complex she could use?’ Ishmael continued.

  Before the doctor could answer, Wilfred interrupted.

  ‘Pardon me, but would you mind explaining what you mean by complex?’

  A foreign look of faint shock took hold of Ishmael’s face. It vanished as quickly as it came. 

  ‘I take it you know the basics of magic,’ he answered, almost treating the older man like a child with his tone, ‘how we all have magic but only those with training can use it; and how soul is the fuel of magic, and is expended when magic is used?’ the Guardian waited for Wilfred to nod before continuing. ‘Well, magic on its own isn’t structured- it just is. Some magic, though, is more difficult and uses more soul than others, so the mages of old divided magic into complexes, thirteen through to zero, to structure the skill needed for each spell.’

  Ishmael recited the knowledge rather robotically, and his distant expression stayed throughout. Wilfred, however, looked as though a whole new world was revealed to him.

  ‘Perfectly explained, Master Faust!’ James applauded, before turning to face the Guardian. ‘As for your question, she was a witch, not a sorceress, so it was only the intermediate levels. But this does bring up another question. I take it you want to see the death certificate?’

   Ishmael nodded. Wilfred recovered.

  ‘Great, let me get it for you,` he said, before entering the door from which he had entered.

  He returned a moment later, several sheets of cream paper in hand. He passed them to Ishmael, who noticed that the document had been signed just a few hours ago. Before he could take a further look, the doctor started talking. 

  ‘As you can see, Thalia died due to a cut to the throat. I believe that this was suicide, however.’

  ‘Suicide!’ exclaimed Wilfred, ‘What would drive poor Thalia to that?’

  ‘I’m not too sure. I think that she lost too much of her soul though.’ explained James.

 Wilfred’s brows furrowed, so once again, Ishmael stepped in to explain.

  ‘Remember how I said soul was a fuel? When you expend it, you lose a part of yourself. If you lose it all, then you're gone. Your body stays, but your mind- that’s gone.’

  The officer froze, eyes glazed over, and failed to respond to James’ questions. Ishmael paid it no mind, for a detail had caught his attention.

  ‘You’re saying that she killed herself over a lack of soul?’ he queried. 

  The doctor nodded, and he continued. 

  ‘That’d be a first; could I see the body?’

  The question caused James to tense. The Guardian noticed it immediately.

  ‘Are you sure? It is quite a grizzly sight.’ James stammered.

  ‘I insist. Don’t worry, I’m used to the dead,’ Ishmael’s voice had taken on an authoritative quality, and it succeeded in intimidating the doctor. 

  He led him further into the office, with Wilfred following behind him, finally having fully processed the Guardian’s prior answer.

  Thalia Morrow was a woman somewhere in her early twenties; just like him. She was of average height, and had pure white hair that flowed to her lower back. Her eyes were closed in a peaceful manner; in stark contrast to her throat. It had been marred by a thick, angry line that stretched from end to end. Most of the blood had been dried or cleaned off, though it only served to expose her trachea. It was an awful sight, but one that the Guardian was accustomed to. 

  Wilfred gasped once they entered. For an officer, a lot of things seemed to perturb him. But he’d stayed in one safe place his whole life. He had yet to see the worst of the world. 

  ‘Is that all?’James said swiftly, hand fiddling as he spoke, ‘We are all at risk of disease if we stay any longer.’

  The distance on the Guardian’s face failed to shorten, and instead he was more interested in a new line of inquiry.

  ‘Tell me, did she have any friends or family?’

  The doctor seemed to think on it for a moment, before coming to an answer, ‘It’s- it’s more… gossip than anything, but I have heard that she might have been in a relationship with Kieran Goul.,’ James sputtered out.

  ‘Ki-Kieran Gould, are you serious?’ Wilfred responded, shock evident in his voice.

  ‘I take it,’ Ishmael drawled, ‘that this Kieran is someone important?’

  ‘Beyond important.’ Wilfred gabbled, ‘He’s the heir to the Gould family; the main merchant company of the village. They practically own Brimiff itself!’

  ‘Well then, I know who I need to talk to next.’

  ‘Hold on just a minute!’ interrupted the doctor, ‘Surely you have enough evidence to conclude your investigation. You really don’t need to bother the Goulds.’

  Ishmael just turned to face him.

  ‘Stay out of this,’ he commanded, annoyance dripping from each word.

  James merely gulped and stayed quiet.

  ‘Well,’ began the Guardian, facing Wilfred, ‘if you don’t mind, I will need your help in finding these Goulds.’

  The officer nodded in return, seemingly recovered from his earlier shock.

  ‘James, I’ll see you soon’ 

  ‘You as well, Wilfred, you as well.’ replied the doctor meekly.

  The two men promptly left. Inside, James fell to his knees and prayed.

~?~

  The Goulds lived at the rear of the village, against the back wall, and far away from the rest of the community. They owned the only detached house in Brimiff, and they flaunted the fact with the house’s architecture. Constructed predominantly of stone, the building was almost as tall as it was wide, about seven by six metres. Wood decorated the exterior in a gorgeous criss-cross pattern that repeated all around the building. The roof was less impressive, only being made of thatch, but still clearly of good quality. The house also had a garden attached to it; a beautiful botanical work full of tiger lilies that had quite obviously been kept by a gardener.

  A lone crow watched the pair march up a pebble path. It was quickly scared away though, as a hoarse sob echoed from the house and into the streets. It repeated a few times, before the street was cast back into silence. For once, Wilfred was unperturbed, and continued leading Ishmael to the door. He promptly knocked, the door knocker pounding against the oak, before a few footsteps measuredly approached the door and opened it.

  The Guardian looked down to see the face of the answerer, as she was about a foot shorter than him. Her hair shined like gold itself, gently falling down to her upper back. Her eyes sparkled akin to emeralds, and her skin was pale and immaculately clean. She was dressed in a tight, low-waisted gown made of a fine linen which was as white as purity itself. Gold and silver jewellery covered every place where it would fit, the most striking piece being a finely made rosary, which ended in a noose made of silver.

  ‘Lieutenant Coburns,’ the woman softly greeted, a rather large smile on her face, ‘it is a pleasure to see you. Is there anything I may assist you with?’

  Her tone was quite demure, close to honey. She spoke in a formal voice, each word dripping with drilled politeness. 

  ‘There is in fact. I am investigating the death of Thalia Morrow with Master Faust here. We have just learnt that your son was in a relationship with her. Might we be able to talk to him?

  The woman’s smile switched to a small frown, measured and artificial warmness masking every sentence as she spoke.

  ‘I’m afraid that our boy is quite torn up over the death of his lover. He is in no proper state to speak about such matters.’

  ‘Then perhaps we could speak with you instead,’ interrupted Ishmael, his voice immediately drawing the attention of the woman. It seemed that she had finally noticed him, and undisguised recognition dropped the facade on her face.

  ‘Why, I am not quite sure what insight you might gain from me, but you are welcome to if you wish. Come on inside, my husband will probably want to speak with you.’ she responded, rather flustered.

  She led them into the house and through a wooden hall. Every inch of it was covered by a symbol of wealth, whether it be a painting or sculpture mattered not. It was done in good taste, however, and at no point did it feel cluttered.

  At the end of the hall was a large, oak office, that the pair were quickly led into. Bookshelves lined every wall, packed with various books; classics, academic, all of them were beautifully made. A window on the back wall, stained with what the Guardian assumed to be the family’s crest, acted as the sole source of natural light. In front of it sat a desk, and behind the desk sat a man. Upon hearing their steps, he turned to face them in an eased manner.

  He wore a green, unsleeved doublet made of leather that let the white arms of his tunic show. Fine trousers made of a fine brown linen cleanly tucked into his black leather boots. The man’s hair was practically clung to his skull, and his hairline was beginning to recede. His measured topaz eyes turned to face them, and his lips turned upwards into an easy smile. 

  ‘Adalyn,’ he greeted, in a velvety, rich voice with an air of confidence, ‘you didn’t tell me we had guests today.’

  ‘We weren’t expecting any, but the good Lieutenant here is investigating Ms Morrow’s death.’

  At the mention of Thalia’s name, the man’s face turned into a controlled frown. Before he could respond, however, Wilfred spoke.

  ‘I’m not actually investigating the death- Master Faust is.’

  At the mention of the Guardian’s name, the man’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

  ‘Quite right.’ Adalyn replied, ‘He wishes to ask us a few questions.’

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  ‘Why, it would be my pleasure. Please, take a seat.’

  At this, the man gestured to two couches, opposite from one another, in the bottom left corner of the room. Ishmael followed his request and sat down, with Wilfred to his right and the merchant directly ahead, who wore a small smile quite proudly.

  ‘As I doubt you know, my name is Byron Gould, owner of the great Gould Merchant Company, my pride and joy. This here is my lovely wife Adalyn. Now, I understand that you have some questions for us?’ the man said, his face returning to an artificial smile.

  ‘I do. What do you know about Thalia’s death?’ the Guardian said in a brisk, business manner.

  ‘Well,’ began Byron, ‘I’m told it was a suicide, or at least that’s what my son told me. Such a terrible thing. She must have been going through a horrific time to even consider such an action.’

  The smile never left Byron’s face as he spoke.

  The Guardian paused for a moment before continuing, ‘What can you tell me about your son’s relationship with her?’

  It was Adalyn who spoke this time. She too had a smile, which, like her husband, was most unnatural.

  ‘Kieran never told us he was in a relationship for the longest time. I’m not sure why, we only care about him marrying the right person. But he eventually told us, just a few days ago in fact, he even went as far as proclaiming his desire to marry her. It was quite a sweet thing. As for specifics, well, we’re not the type to pry in on our boy’s private life. No, not at all.’

  Ishmael let out a small noise of discontent before speaking, ‘About Thalia, what did you think of her?’

  ‘Rather unfortunately, we never got the chance to meet poor Ms. Morrow. But our dear Kieran has told us so much about her; so we can only hope that she was good to him before she took her own life,’ said Byron, speaking somewhat robotically. 

  For a father whose son seemed to be madly in love with a girl, he knew shocking little about her.

  ‘That’s about everything. Is there anything else you wish to add?’

  ‘There is in fact. While we do truly appreciate what you're doing, I truly don’t think there is anything more to this matter. As a father, I worry that this investigation might only hurt our boy further.’ said Byron, his voice once more coming out in the honeyed tone that only those used to mercantile conversation could speak in.

  ‘Your concern is noted,’ replied the Guardian dryly.

  ‘Alright then,’ sighed Wilfred, ‘we shall be on our way. Thank you for your time, Mr Gould, Mrs Gould.’

  He nodded to the merchants respectfully as he and Ishmael exited the house. 

  Wilfred let out a large, depressive sigh once they left, ‘That was a whole load of nothing, wasn’t it?’

  ‘They were merchants, what did you expect?’ the Guardian shot back. 

  The officer gave Ishmael a look. He didn’t waver. 

  ‘I suppose that’s it then; nothing more we can do. If you give me a minute I'll sort out your pay,’ lamented Wilfred, head hanging low.

  Ishmael’s eyes didn’t meet the officer's, however. Instead, he was listening in on the hoarse, croaky sobs from above. The Guardian knew who the voice belonged to, and he knew that they were broken. Memories of others flashed through his mind. Duty overtook him.

  ‘If you don’t mind, there’s one last thing that I’d like to check.’

  His words caught Wilfred off guard, shocked eyes greeting the Guardian.

  ‘Are you- are you sure? You’ve done all that you can. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to check,’ the officer sputtered out, faint hope evident in his voice.

  ‘There is; Thalia’s house.’

  The officer’s eyes immediately brightened.

  ‘Of course!’ grinned Wilfred, ‘How could I forget the place itself! I’ll take you there at once! It’s just out of tow.,’

  Wilfred had a smile on his face the entire way there. 

  A lone crow followed the pair.

~?~

  A cottage loomed on a hill about half a mile from Brimiff. A forest towered to its rear, but its sides were open to the dominating afternoon sun that took its usual place high in the sky. A dirt path lined with honeysuckles and yarrows led the pair to Thalia’s house.

  The cottage was made from timber and was about two rooms long. Only a single floor. a slanted thatch roof protected it from the elements.. Quaint would be the best word to describe it.

  Wilfred had calmed down from his earlier glee, though a smile still rested on his face. Ishmael was still his distant, eerie self. They eventually reached the door, and entered.

  After having gone through several himself, Ishmael could say with certainty that it looked as though a storm had ripped through the room. A bookcase occupied a fair bit of the floor just ahead of the entrance, having been thrown down. Behind it a table had collapsed in on itself, the various potioneering equipment once placed on it now scattered beneath. Another table, this one in the bottom right, had also been knocked over, a leg having been detached in the process. Opposite the entrance, a door led to what was presumably the bedroom. A window on the back wall bathed the room in a brilliant yellow, illuminating the pair in ochre. A desk stood before it, on which a dark red stain covered the centre. 

  Ishmael advanced further into the house with Wilfred following him, moving to the desk. He looked to his left, where the table was, and, as he did, noticed ‘it’. ‘It’ was another patch of blood, much larger. Unless Thalia moved to the table as she was dying, which was rather unlikely, there shouldn’t be any blood there. Noting it down in his mind, the Guardian swiftly moved to the desk.

  A floorboard creaked behind him. 

  Wilfred was to his right. 

  The Guardian’s instincts took over. 

  A sword was unsheathed.

  A warrior spun with the weight of the movement.

  The strike struck true. 

  Blood ran down Ishmael’s sword, some hitting the ground.

  A body hit the floor, a knife following with it. It let out a scream and clutched its half-mutilated wrist. 

  The Guardian now got a good look at his attacker. The boy was a youth hardly older than eighteen. He had curly brown hair and eyes, though they were distorted by the tears swelling within. A simple set of a tunic and pants had now been stained crimson, a rosary on his neck having been covered with blood as well.

  His observation was quickly interrupted by another presence. Right next to the table with the broken leg stood four people, three men and one woman. 

  The sole woman of the group was covered in dirt and grime, not even her black braided hair an exception. The only unmarked feature of her was her eyes, which glared a matte blue. Like the boy, she too wore a simple tunic and pants. A rusty axe was clenched in her right hand.

  One of the men lacked hair and had a beard, which was a bit odd considering he appeared to only be a few years younger than Ishmael. He was rather large though, in that hard labour sort of manner. Regardless, he was dressed in a leather tunic and woollen pants. A wooden stick with a rough ball of metal in what was a crude approximation of a mace sat in his left hand. It was arguably the most dangerous weapon to the Guardian.

  Another of the men was the complete opposite of his peer. Skinny and short, the dagger in his hands was perfectly suited for him. In what was appearing to be a commonality among the group, he too was dressed in simple clothes.

  The last person that Ishmael took note of was the most interesting. The man, near his age, had roughly cut short black hair, and his head was held high. His glossy brown eyes made direct contact with the Guardian’s, and even his flat, eerie gaze did not disrupt the man. Uniquely, although he too had basic clothing, he was donned in a set of leather armour that protected his chest and elbows. He proudly displayed a roughly made short sword, something Ishmael wouldn’t be caught dead using.

  ‘Well well, what do we have here, aye? Two lost lambs at the butchers. They better leave while they can,’ the man asserted loudly, every word coated in mockery.

  ‘Leave,’ replied the Guardian with loosely masked annoyance.’

  ‘Hah- ‘leave’?. Who do you think you are? You might have taken that weakling down easily, but we’ll give you a real fight!’ he gestured to the people around him as he spoke, who all cheered, each sporting wide grins.

  ‘Hang on a minute, I’d recognise that voice anywhere.’ spat Wilfred, ‘You’re Landon Best! The leader of that delinquent gang.’

  Now that the officer had brought it up, Ishmael could clearly see that the man ahead of him was the same man he had bumped into at the tavern.

  ‘That’s right, Landon Best, leader of the Brown Roses, at your service!’

  It was apparent that these Brown Roses had gotten into murder, though as to why the Guardian did not know.

  Wilfred has unholstered his revolver now, and had it aimed straight at Landon.

  ‘Enough of this nonsense! In the name of the King, I hereby charge you with attempted murder. Surrender yourselves at once!’ barked the Officer with righteous fervour.

  Landon just laughed at him, ‘Surrender? To you? Hah, we could kill ya in a minute!’

  The Guardian decided it was time for him to step in.

  ‘Wilfred, lower your gun and restrain the boy. I’ll deal with them,’ commanded Ishmael.

  Wilfred hesitated for a moment, before rushing over with some rope to tie up the first miscreant.

  He stood ahead of the gang leader, only two metres stood between them. 

  The Guardian pointed his bastard sword towards the criminal, showing the blade to the room. It was a relatively plain weapon, about eighty centimetres in length, and with a simple horizontal bar crossguard. Its beauty, or lack of it, did not matter- it could still kill them.

  ‘Final warning, surrender.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen. We’ve been paid top coin to deal with ya.’

  Undeterred by this revelation, Ishmael put his left foot forwards and let the blade of his weapon rest on his right shoulder, crossguard tucked into his elbow. This was the roof guard, one of the many techniques the Guardian had learnt during his time as a student.

  The two sides stayed still for several suspenseful seconds, before all hell broke loose.

  The axe-wielder rushed at him, weapon held high, and struck down at him from her top right. The Guardian was prepared, however, and moved his right leg forward whilst placing his blade just above his temple to block the strike, catching the weapon before it could hit him. 

  The ox guard would always be a favourite of his.

  Swiftly, he twisted his sword so that he could grab the blade with his hand, then proceeded to hit the woman's nose with his pommel.

  He could hear the bone break.

  Ishmael didn’t waste the opportunity, and used her confusion to his advantage by grabbing her by the braid and throwing her into the nearby bookcase. 

  He didn’t need to see the result.

  The Guardian then darted to the table with the broken leg, brutally thumping the dagger-wielder while he was at it. From there, he picked up the broken leg with his off-hand and hurled it at the bearded man who had just turned to face him. 

  The effect was just as intended, and the man stumbled back into the tipped-over bookcase and fell on his head, blood flowing onto the floor.

  Ishmael snapped his attention onto the dagger wielder, putting the pommel of his sword at his hip, so that the blade covered his torso. Plough, this guard was called.

  Instead of attacking, his opponent retreated, shaking as he did so; irritated eyes locked with the coward’s frightened ones.

  Prompted by this cravenness, the Guardian switched his guard, changing his leading leg to his right and pointing his blade downwards to between his legs. 

  The fool’s guard, made to goad fools.

  His enemy proved he was a fool quickly, almost immediately thrusting at the swordsman's chest. Unaware of the power of this guard, the man’s eyes widened when his thrust was parried by the Guardian, who raised his blade back into ox, and returned with a downwards thrust of his own, right into the man’s spleen.

  The blow was fatal, the blood rushing out of him made it certain.

    A scream of rage erupted from near the bookcase, and a prior presence approached him. With a practised ease, however, the guardian moved his blade so that it rested on his right shoulder, with the blade pointing down and to the left.

  Wrath guard was, suitably, a vicious parry.

  It was confirmed rather quickly when Ishmael struck down left, completely blocking an incoming strike from the axe-wielding girl he had fought earlier, and left his sword at his left hip. 

  This was the wrath strike, one of the secret strikes taught to the students of the sword.

  Once more he blocked her attack, and once more did he respond.

  From his hip, he thrusted at her trachea, and listened as a sharp gasp escaped her lungs.

  Again, it was a killing blow. 

  The butcher scarcely had time to recover from his slaughter however, as the bearded man ran at him from his left, mace held high.

  Turning round with instinctual movement, he gripped the end of his blade with his left hand and held it in front of the mace.

  The deafening sound of steel on steel took his opponent by surprise, forcing him to drop his mace and cover his ears. Ishmael, face still unnervingly calm, exacerbated his opponent’s suffering by kicking him in the groin. 

  Deciding to end the man’s pain, the Guardian returned to a two-handed grip and cut horizontally from above his head through the man’s throat, decapitating him.

  The blood stained the dirtied coat further.

  Landon was the only enemy remaining. In spite of his friends’ death, he still had that confident smirk on his face.

  ‘Well then, Guardian, I best give you a proper fight, aye?’

  Ishmael didn’t respond to the bait, his eyes locked to the other man’s weapon.

  His short sword was an issue to be concerned about, as it had some reach. Ishmael put himself back into the plough guard before prodding at his opponent.

  He quickly noticed that his enemy loved his dodges, jumping back whenever the Guardian thrust at him. He also was, unsurprisingly, quick to attack, rushing at whatever false openings Ishmael left.

  He was a quick learner.

  The Guardian forced the man in close, and positioned his blade so that it only protected his stomach.

  Landon slashed once more, and Ishmael let it through.

  The short sword slashed against his chest. 

  Landon’s cocky grin widened further. 

  Ishmael hardly felt the blow through his steel chestplate.

  With Landon’s arm so exposed, it was hardly an effort for Ishmael to drag his short sword up with his longsword, nor was it an effort to move the weapon out of striking range of the Guardian.

  From here, Landon couldn’t do anything to his foe. 

  From here, Ishmael could do anything to his foe.

  The butcher swiftly moved his sword downwards before performing a horizontal slash, which cut through the stomach skin of his enemy; the blow completely ignored the leather armour on his chest. The man howled in agony. 

  The Guardian then made strike after strike on the man’s abdomen. Eventually, his intestines started slowly spilling onto the floor. 

  After several blows, Ishmael finally decided to finish his torture. 

  His foot collided with the man’s chest and forced him down on the ground.

  Ishmael stood above him, and drove his sword into his chest.

  Landon Best had been bested.

  The fight had taken less than a minute.

  Once finished with his slaughter, the Guardian merely pulled out a cloth from a pouch on his hip and began cleaning his blade of blood.

  He failed to notice the stupefied expression on Wilfred’s face, nor the horrified one on the boy he had restrained.

  Ishmael continued drying his blade of his butchering before a noise rang out through the room. The Guardian quickly spun to face the source of the noise, raising his half-cleansed weapon at it.   

  A weathered boy stood at the door. His short brown hair was an utter mess, and his green eyes were swollen and puffy. In contrast to his broken appearance, he was garbed in fine clothing. His sleeved, yellow doublet was made of high-quality linen, his pants too. 

  The boy quickly noticed the Guardian’s weapon and raised his hands, ‘Peace! Peace! I come in peace,’ the boy said, his voice hoarse and innocent.

  The Guardian didn’t respond- eyes still wide and alert. He did lower his sword, however, but only so that it faced the floor.

  The boy took his actions as confirmation to continue, ‘My name is Kieran Gould. I saw these people heading up to Thalia’s house from my window. I followed them, but it looks like you’ve already dealt with them.’

  Kieran gestured to the corpses as he spoke, clearly showing what he meant by dealt.

  ‘By God!’ Wilfred interrupted from near the desk, ‘Why are you here young man? Don’t you know how dangerous it was to follow this lot?’

  The boy let out a sigh before speaking, ‘I- I know I should've just stayed- but I saw them walking up to here and I couldn’t just let them make a mess of the place, c-could I! It would have been an insult! A grave insult! Such an insult to poor Thalia. Poor, poor Thalia.’

  The boy’s speech broke, and he began to weep. Wilfred, who had finished restraining the first ruffian, walked over to him and pulled Kieran into a tight hug. The two stayed embracing for a few minutes, Wilfred allowing the bereaved boy to sob into his shoulder. 

  Ishmael just finished cleaning the blood from his blade, eyes distant and glazed over.

  Once the boy had cried all he could cry, the officer turned to speak to the Guardian, ‘The survivor, what do you want to do with him?’

  He didn’t respond with words, instead, the butcher stalked over to the wounded captive, crouched down and forced the boy to look at him with his hand. 

  ‘Who hired you?’ he interrogated, the harsh rays of the sun revealing crimson ichor daubed on his face.

  The boy whimpered.

  The Guardian sent a confused look to the nearby Wilfred, who carefully unembraced Kieran and came over to help him. Once there, he gestured for Ishmael to back away, which he did so with confused acceptance. 

  The officer gently squatted down so that he faced the captive.

  ‘Come on kid, tell me what happened,’ he questioned calmly.

  ‘W-well sir,’ he stuttered, ‘I’m Colt- Colt Greer and Landon came to us ‘bout an hour ago and said we had a job. We just had to kill some man who was snoopin’ about. He- he said it’d be easy, but…’      

  Wilfred shot the boy a look of concern before continuing, ‘Who hired you then?’

  ‘The Goulds, sir.’

  Kieran broke at this, and fell to his knees. If he hadn’t just wept all he could weep- he’d have certainly sobbed a sea of tears now.

  ‘The Goulds?’ Wilfred exclaimed, ‘Why on earth did they hire you?’

  ‘We’d taken on an earlier job for them. Yesterday, they- they had us kill Thalia Morrow, sir. Said to make it look like a suicide. We broke in, and Karma, she- she slit her throat.  They paid a doctor to cover it up.’

  It turned out that Kieran hadn’t spilt all his tears yet, as at the news he broke further.

  Wilfred’s fatherly face broke too, and was replaced with horror and disgust.

  Ishmael was still focused on cleaning his sword.

  Several empty seconds passed, and Wilfred asked the question nearly everyone wanted the answer to.

  ‘Why?’

  Colt turned his head to the side in shame before he spoke, ‘They- they said she wasn’t right for their boy, sir, that she wasn’t the right class.’

  Kieran wept further still. 

  Wilfred’s skin paled.

  Ishmael hadn’t even looked up.

  The officer took a moment to relax before turning to Ishmael.

  ‘What do you want to do now?’

  Ishmael took a moment to think before responding, ‘Take the kid to the local jail and get Thalia’s body from the doctor. I’ll deal with Kieran.’

  Wilfred’s brows furrowed at his request, but complied nonetheless. After he led Colt out of the house, Ishmael guided the bereaved boy out of the empty tomb.

  A lone crow sat on the roof.

~?~

  A freshly disturbed patch of land now lay outside the house, the product of several hours of work. A mournful red line stained the sky. Behind it lay a freshly made stone slab, inscribed with:

Thalia Morrow

1498-1522

Sorely missed

Never forgotten

  Ishmael made sure the ground was even before placing the shovel next to the grave. He looked to his right and noticed Kieran staring at the resting place of his lover blankly. The boy crouched down and muttered something under his breath. Several forget-me-nots bloomed into existence in his hand, before being placed six feet above its recipient. 

  The display did not go ignored by Ishmael, ‘She taught you magic?’ 

  Kieran stayed silent for a moment before answering, albeit without facing the Guardian. ‘She did. It’s how I fell in love with her in the first place.’

  He took a deep breath and then continued, ‘I love her, I truly do. Even with all this earth between us, I can still feel our love. But she’s gone now. I won’t ever see her smile again, or hear her laugh or feel her lips on my face… all that’s left are the memories of her, but someday they’ll fade. A part of me hopes they do. The memories, they… they make me broken, more focused on what was rather than what will be. But another part of me begs for them to stay, that they keep me going, give me something to live for. It’s what she would’ve wanted.’

  The Guardian’s eerie, aloof demeanour didn’t exist without. Death was all too common in this world, and people chose different ways to deal with it. Some lingered, some buried.

  Ishmael hoped the boy chose the former.

  He didn’t dwell on the topic for long, though, leaving the boy to his lover. The lonely trek up to Brimmif was hardly unaccustomed. 

  Wilfred was waiting for him there, pouch in hand.

  ‘Your payment,’ the officer said.

  The Guardian took the pouch and played around with its weight. 

  ‘This is a fair bit more than the going rate?’ he queried.

  ‘You did a fair bit more than the average job,’ praised Wilfred with a smile.

  Ishmael let out an accepting sigh. 

  ‘What happens now?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Colt’s going to jail, that’s for certain. The kid was practically begging for it when he met with the Captain. As for the Goulds, well…’

  ‘Well?’ questioned the Guardian after the officer’s silence.

  ‘We’re not charging them.’

  ‘Pardon?’ he questioned almost too hastily.

  ‘Their getting away with it,’ the officer repeated exasperatedly.

  ‘If it’s an issue of resources then I can investigate the matter myself. Part of being a Guardian includes being a Justice of the Peace. I could hold court if need be?’ Ishmael responded, in a similar tone to his prior question.

  Wilfred let out a defeatist sigh before responding, ‘No, it’s not an issue of resources. The Goulds, they’re… they’re too influential, they bankroll every business in Brimiff. Convicting them would cripple the place.’

  ‘You’re serious?’ 

  ‘Yep.

‘...If it’s any comfort, I’ve come to find that there’s always a bigger fish, and it takes few mistakes till karma comes knocking.’ Ishmael reassured in his own awkward manner.

  Wilfred let out another sigh, this one of relief. A small spark seemed to return to his eyes.

  The pair then stayed in peaceful silence for a minute, before Wilfred spoke.

  ‘What’ll you do next?’

  ‘Wander,’ answered the Guardian dryly, ‘It’s what I’ve always done.’ 

  He began to walk down the hill, but Wilfred’s voice interrupted.

  ‘Would you promise me one thing?’

  Ishmael turned to face him and looked upon the officer, who was at the top of the hill.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Visit, sometime.’

  The Guardian looked down.

  ‘I… I’ll try.’

  There was no certainty in his voice.

  The Wanderer then continued his trek, and disappeared into the blood red sunset.