Ioren watched over his shoulder as Linoor approached Ardenel behind the rest of the group, leaving Thorne to shepherd them into the ravine village below. The chubby boy, Dal, whistled a tune as they approached the first of the crumbling ruins on the western road.
Ioren took a moment while he looked behind to take stock of his group: Ysmena and Elune walked just behind Ioren and Thorne, together as usual, Ysmena with her chin held slightly too high while Elune seemed to cower just behind her; Dal, who was now whistling rather than telling jokes, followed them; Violet and Petra tailed Dal, and were seemingly having a rather amicable conversation; Onep, the silent, pious Ivan man, took up the rear. He knew nothing of most of them, but they all carried weapons, so they would at least be a distraction in the worst-case scenario.
As he turned back to the village, Ioren felt a tiny, nearly imperceptible tug on his boot. He glanced downward just in time to catch the glint of a thin string in the sun as it was pulled to his right into a crumbling house. Immediately every hair on his body stood on end, and he felt stares drilling into his skull from every angle.
He had allowed the newcomers’ nonchalance to lull him into a false sense of security. With renewed eyes he scanned the decrepit village again. A narrow road with cover on either side within a ravine - it was a perfect chokepoint. Ahead of them lay a small pile of rotting lumber and broken rocks. Though not enough to completely halt their progress, it would slow a group enough to make them easy targets for a trap.
While he removed his backpack, Ioren slowed his pace and fell to the rear of the group before slipping into the shaded front room of a ruined home on his right. He quickly pulled out his boot covers and slipped them over his boots before abandoning his backpack. Speed was essential. Linoor would certainly notice they were walking into a trap, but she was a duellist, not a Finder. Her reaction was a dangerous unknown, and unknowns meant death in Danet. Ioren cursed Alastair for getting him to join a group.
A partially collapsed staircase gave Ioren access to the second floor where sunlight streamed in through the missing ceiling. He moved to the northern wall and climbed up to the roof of the conjoined building, lying low so as not to silhouette himself against the sky. The mantle up to the roof was surprisingly easy, as if he had lost twenty pounds in the last day. He attributed it to the thrill and not having his backpack, but thoughts of the powers Cantimorelius had promised crept into his mind.
Ioren pushed the image of the ancient deity from his head and crawled slowly upward to peek over the angled roofs of the buildings. As he feared, a man in dirty rags and a black headwrap that covered all but his eyes sat crouched on a roof three buildings ahead. The lookout shaded his eyes from the sun and stared down into the street at the approaching party. In his hand was a small silver box, a firestarter by the looks of it, and just behind him was a large bucket, likely filled with tar or another flammable substance. Fire was an easy way to eliminate and disorient a larger force, especially in a sneak attack.
Ioren stood on his wrapped boots and quietly crept forward. Each agonizing step was nearly silent as his soft footfalls caressed the angled stone roof. It took all of his self control not to sprint at the unsuspecting lookout and break the tension that gripped his heart.
Just as Ioren crossed the first roof and stepped over a small lip at the threshold to the second, the lookout removed his shading hand from his brow. Ioren froze and held his breath. Seconds ticked by as the lookout squinted at the group below, before he finally reached an arm backwards toward the bucket. He was going to make his move.
Ioren crept forward again, a little quicker this time, still crouched and tip-toeing across the second roof. The lookout’s hand touched the handle on the bucket but slipped, causing it to fall back onto the bucket with a slight clink. He reached back down, feeling around for the handle to the bucket, eyes still glued to the group below, when a cry rang out from below.
“Thorne!” Linoor yelled from the rear of the group.
I’m out of time, Ioren cursed silently. The lookout must have had the same thought, because he tore his eyes from the group to quickly grab the bucket with both hands, only to lock eyes with Ioren as he turned. He tilted his head in confusion for a moment as Ioren bounded two steps forward, grabbing the lookout by the chin and unsheathing his dagger with the other hand. He slammed the wrapped head of the lookout into the stone roof, stunning him, before bringing his dagger up to finish him. The dazed man flailed his body and leapt backward away from Ioren and the flashing metal, slipping awkwardly in the spilled oil and accidentally hurling himself off the roof into the street.
Ioren quickly leaned over the edge of the roof to catch several of the newcomers crowding around the fallen man lying crumpled in the dirt. Linoor and Ardenel had caught up and were speaking with Thorne. Linoor had already drawn her gauntlet sword.
“Siccs!” Ioren called out.
As if on cue, four hidden assailants in ragged clothes leapt from the rubble of a collapsed building across the street, flourishing metal weapons and advancing quickly on the surprised group of Finders. Ioren turned back to the rooftop to find two men climbing out of a dilapidated home just ahead to confront him. He unsheathed his second dagger and held one out to the men, beckoning them in for a fight. It was time to test this newfound strength.
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The man on the right was armed with a small knife, while the man on the left held a board in his hand, seemingly plied from one of the buildings below. Hardly a match for Ioren’s two military-grade daggers, bequeathed by his father. He held his ground, hoping one of them would rush him recklessly.
Just as he’d hoped, the man with the knife ran at him, screaming wildly. Danet was a dangerous place, but luckily, most people had not been trained in fighting. The man thrust once, but Ioren made quick work of him, instantly severing the tendons in the back of his hand, causing him to drop the knife, before following up with a second stab that slipped between his ribs in his chest. A deep breath escaped the man as he hunched forward into Ioren, and a white puff of smoke came with it. The smoke swirled in the air for a moment before rushing into Ioren’s nostrils.
It was like breathing in fresh morning dew, if the dew was made of salt and lightning. His entire body instantly became invigorated, sending a rush of energy and power through his limbs. Ioren easily heaved the man’s body off of him toward the other advancing man, who slipped to his hands trying to avoid it. He dropped the board he held as he slipped and it tumbled off the roof with the corpse.
“No, no, no, no, no!” He shouted as he watched the weapon tumble. With a primal fear in his eyes, the man grabbed a handful of oil and threw it at Ioren before turning to run. Ioren easily sidestepped the thrown liquid before pouncing forward, his knee landing on the man’s back in an instant, sending him to the floor with Ioren atop his back. Power surged through his muscles as he pressed into the small of the fleeing man’s back with his knee, hearing bones crunch beneath him. He had never felt such strength before.
The ragged sicc below him clawed at the stone roof, trying in vain to struggle out from beneath Ioren’s powerful clamp. Blood streaked the roof in places where his fingernails had come off in his frantic attempt. As Ioren looked down, pitying the sight, he considered allowing the man to go free for a moment.
However, as Ioren’s gaze drifted upward toward the dilapidated building ahead of him, he saw a pile of backpacks in the corner of the room, some with torn straps, most with bloodstains.
No, these were siccs, and there was only one punishment for siccs. He brought his blade down into the flailing man’s back. The same white smoke rose from his dying gasp as Ioren inhaled it.
If his body were a river, then the smoke from these men’s dying gasps was a flood, sending freezing water rushing through every branch and tributary until it overflowed the banks and broke the dykes. Are these the bonds Cantimorelius spoke of?
Out of habit, Ioren patted down the dead man for belongings. A small paper wrapping in his pocket held a piece of half-eaten dried meat, which Ioren discarded. He eyed the group of backpacks through the decaying roof of the building ahead of him. The smell of food and dried sweat permeated the air, and he noticed several bedrolls splayed out on the floor. It must be the building from where they based their attacks.
A low bellow from the street reminded Ioren of the group below. He walked slowly to the lip of the roof to gaze at the scene below. Everyone had drawn their weapons, but only a few seemed to have used them. Dal, Elune, Ysmena, and Violet huddled together in the center of the group, each facing a different direction. Ysmena pointed her sword at the first man that fell from the roof, still crumpled on the ground. They all looked to be shivering. To the rear lay three ragged corpses around Linoor and Ardenel, as well as one near Onep, who held some sort of long staff in his hands. To the front of the group sat Thorne. He was hunched over, one hand holding his abdomen and the other supporting himself on the ground. Two more ragged corpses were splayed out ahead of him, their long hair cast across the ground like halos behind their heads.
“Is everyone alright?” Ioren called from above. Linoor clapped Ardenel on the shoulder and pointed up at Ioren.
“Do you see anymore?” Ardenel called.
Ioren scanned the village on both ends of the road. All seemed quiet.
“I don’t see anything, but keep your wits about you,” he reminded them. He noticed Elune fall to her knees as Violet consoled her. Ysmena was still frozen in place, sword pointed at the fallen man.
Ioren turned back toward the room ahead of him to find Petra already rifling through the pile of backpacks.
“You’re quick,” Ioren remarked from behind.
“I found ‘em first,” Petra said, turning her head to glare at Ioren. Her eyes traced down to the bloody daggers hanging from his hands, and she quickly changed her tune. “But I’ll letcha have some too.”
Ioren wiped his blades on the corpse at his feet and replaced them on his belt before heading to the pile of backpacks. Petra had already discarded four of them, leaving around eight in the pile. Several of them had custom stitchings of roses or tulips. One had the name “Veloria'' stitched in pink across the top flap. Suddenly, the come-down from the fight hit Ioren like a gut punch, and he leaned over and vomited.
“Thought ye’d’ve been past that,” Petra snorted.
“Guess not,” Ioren answered. He knelt down beside Petra and began sorting through the backpacks, searching for artifacts, tasty food, or weapons. In the past such a find would have elated him, but now he could only think of the white smoke. The strength still coursed within him.
“I was right before, weren’t I?” Petra asked while she searched through the packs. “About you’se bein’ the one who killed his friends.”
Ioren was in no mood to argue or defend himself, so he simply sighed.
“I don’t mind. Sometimes I forget it’s everybody for themselves out here. Good to have a reminder, you know?” She said without a hint of malice.
“Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie,” Ioren responded. The faces of his former comrades flashed through his head, as he was reminded of that day in the southern swamps. The screams. The betrayal.
Outside, a once-proud soldier moaned in pain beside a group of shivering nobles.