PEREGRIN – LOYAL BANNERMAN INN, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
9TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Peregrin completed his sweep around the Inn, meticulously cataloguing the entrances and exits in his mind. These included both the obvious ones and the ones available to a special individual with dexterity and an appetite to climb walls or move along rooftops.
There were several things he did not like about this establishment.
‘One: there are humans everywhere. They are mostly proving themselves selfish, incompetent, and illogical. But I have no solution for that, so we must accommodate this problem.’
Peregrin began to move back inside and towards his room, and those of the rest of his group.
‘Two: while the building seems reputable enough, some of the clientele seemed decidedly unreputable. It was impossible not to notice some of the denizens paying too much attention to our group. Maybe they were staring because I am an elf, but there are enough elves in Klydor that seems unlikely.’
‘More likely they have heard the silly legends that Silver haired elves are rich. I was warned by my order to pay particular attention to that.’
‘Or perhaps they are connected to the denizens who wish to harm Mitchell and his companions. This is almost certainly the worst of the possible explanations.’
But not all of his problems were being caused by external factors.
Three: because of some strange custom that makes little sense, we did not all just sleep in the one room. We have split ourselves up, making it more difficult to protect everyone. But that does not mean I will not try.’
Peregrin smiled as his eyes, currently attuned to see magickal auras as he walked around, spotted the divination and protection wards around their rooms. While he suspected the reason, he looked and checked to see if any of the other rooms had these protections. They did not. He focused more intently on the auras, and sensed they were divine in origin. That eliminated Mitchell as a possible source for the wards.
‘At least Alicia has wisdom. She has protected the obvious entrances to our rooms. Likely some kind of alarm spell. That will let me rest a little easier.’
He returned to his room, making sure to lock his door and confirm his window was latched. He made himself comfortable upon his bed, and began to clear his mind. He went through his very well established routine of calming himself so that he could enter his dream-sleep state of Olos Enyalië.
****
Peregrin’s consciousness stirred the moment the lockpick entered the lock on his room. He could not be entirely sure, but he suspected he had only been ‘sleeping’ for about an hour.
He quietly moved from his bed, quickly placing his bedroll on the mattress, and then throwing the bedding over it to make it look at first glance as though the bed was still occupied. He armed himself with his two scimitars and took up a position behind the door.
Whoever it was trying to pick the lock, they were either making a statement they were not very good, or that the locks in this establishment were far better than should be expected. Peregrin very much suspected the former.
Finally, after some agitation from what sounded like two other voices, the door was unlocked.
“Remember, just take his stuff and go. If he resists, try to knock him out. Only kill him if we have to. Dead elves probably bring a lot more Inquisitorial attention than we want from a simple robbery,” instructed a whispered voice.
“Right, we got it!” replied another voice, apparently somewhat annoyed at the inferred necessity for the instruction.
“I just don’t want a repeat of last time. That old lady did not deserve to die, Harold,” said the first voice pointedly.
“She surprised me when she came into the room,” defended a third voice. “I didn’t mean to kill her.”
‘Charming. Simple robbers, who stray into murder when required. Try to spare two of them if possible. Harold dies.’
And then the intruders began to slowly open the door.
Peregrin let the first two step slowly into the room before he threw his weight into the door, knocking it closed and bouncing the third figure back into the hallway. Immediately he had both blades pointed at his assailants backs.
“Surrender and you may live Ala-Lie,” he stated calmly. “Turn around and you die.”
“Give us all your gold and we let you live,” replied one of the intruders. ‘Harold from the sound of it.’ Harold turned around.
The first figure, a tall and gangly man with a folded handkerchief over his face, had a loaded crossbow, but it was still pointed the wrong way, and he had not made any attempt to turn around. Harold had a blackjack in his hand; a padded hammer or cudgel intended to knock someone out with a blow to the head, but without killing them.
“I wish I still had my mace. Probably gonna have to hit you a couple of times with this stupid thing,” Harold said as he began to move forwards.
Peregrin never really got to see how good Harold might have been with the blackjack. He spun under his clumsy swing, and cut a long and deep incision across his belly with one of his scimitars. He stepped past the likely fatally wounded murderer, and with his second scimitar he slapped the now rotating crossbow out of the masked man’s hands.
“Surrender. Last chance,” he said urgently. He was already slowly stepping around the masked figure to put him between Peregrin and the door. Any second Peregrin was expecting to see the third figure come running back in through the closed door.
The masked intruder appeared to wait a few seconds, likely hoping for the same thing. But as the seconds dragged on, and the likelihood of a saviour intervening diminished, he raised his hands and surrendered.
“Hands on your head, and get on your knees,” commanded Peregrin.
As the intruder did as he was told, the door to his room finally opened.
Alicia stood in the doorway with her mace in her hand, and a shield held protectively in front of her. Peregrin could see the final figure was lying incapacitated on the hall floor outside.
“Are you injured?” she enquired.
“I am not. This one has surrendered, and this one will be dead very shortly. He confessed to murdering an old lady during another of their robberies, so I suggest we let him die,” replied Peregrin.
“I cannot do that. I must, if possible, try to save him,” explained Alicia. “If his wounds are too great then he dies. And I will not shed tears if that is his fate.”
Peregrin nodded his understanding. Alicia began to move towards Harold, who was still on his knees, his hands clamped tightly to his wound as blood spilled out onto the ground around him. With a quick-step, and a flash of steel, Peregrin stepped back towards him and drove his blade into Harold’s back. He pulled the blade that had delivered the clearly fatal blow back out, and Harold slumped dead to the floor.
Alicia was clearly a little stunned by his actions.
“The world is now a better place because Harold is not in it,” he replied simply.
Peregrin wasted no more time on consoling the Chandrilar priest, and focused on matters at hand. He placed one of his blades on the ground, well out of reach of anyone, and used his now free hand to disarm the intruders of all obvious weapons.
By the time he had taken the weapons from the unconscious form in the hallway, other people were starting to stir and come into the hallway. The owner of the establishment also came rushing up the stairs, a large cudgel in his hands.
“Is everyone OK?” he asked.
“One of the criminals is dead. The rest are captured. Nobody else was harmed,” replied Peregrin in a very matter-of-fact tone.
He was puzzled by one thing though. Nearly all the doors of all the rooms had now opened because of the increasing commotion in the hallway. But the room for Hawkin and Mitchell remained closed.
He moved towards it.
“Alicia. We may have a problem,” he called out.
He knocked loudly on the door. He waited patiently but nobody responded. As he knocked a second time, Alicia came into the hallway.
When they failed to answer, Peregrin tried to open it, but it was locked. Alicia called to the owner. She also placed an arm between Peregrin and the door when she saw he was about to try and force his way through it.
“Do you have a key which can open this?” Alicia asked. “Our friends do not respond to our knocking.”
The owner fumbled in the pockets of his gown and retrieved a set of keys. Reading off markings on the keys, he selected the right one, and opened the door.
Alicia pushed her way through to be the first into the room.
It was empty.
“They are gone?!” Alicia said. She looked equal parts confused and alarmed.
“But my alarm spell never went off,” she exclaimed.
“Were you detecting things both coming and going, or just intruders entering the doors?” asked Peregrin.
A look of knowing came over her face.
“Just those entering. I saw no need for the other,” her shoulders sagged. “And I didn’t want the spell to go off the moment one of them went to the toilet, or perhaps went downstairs for some water.”
“Then we can assume the most likely outcome is they have not been kidnapped, or harmed in anyway as part of this recent episode,” reasoned Peregrin. “The most likely answer is they simply left. As their equipment is still here, we can assume they just went out to have ‘some fun’.”
“I am going to kill both of them,” Alicia replied.
“I assume that is a figure of speech, but I will not intercede if that is in fact the punishment for an act this stupid,” Peregrin commented drily.
JOSAK – PORT DISTRICT, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
9TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
As Josak recounted his failure in the woods to capture either the children or the precious cargo they were apparently carrying, he could see the smug grin on the blond man standing at the back of the room. Anders was far younger than Josak, but had risen swiftly through the ranks of the priesthood. Likely noble born, and accustomed to privilege, he did not hold the proper respect or reverence for those superior to him.
‘You should be grateful to even be in the room. You are no High Priest of Razilin-Tera. It was only Ronardo’s favour that earned you admission. I should not have to put up with your insolent joy at my failures.’
There were five of them gathered in the wine cellar of an inn not far from the Chandrex port district. There was the Indian Gin’Tak, who would carry word of their discussions to his master, Jakobi.
‘He will say little, although whether that is a lack of understanding of the language, or his lack of personality, I cannot be sure.’
There was Ronardo Nathoman, an aging, bald, wealthy Lotese noble, who claimed to be a powerful sorcerer and priest of Razilin’Tera.
‘But I figured out long ago you are more shylock and hustler than an actual accomplished magick-user. You are charismatic, and you have contacts everywhere. In that capacity you have remained useful to our group. How you have risen so far is still something of a quandary, but I will not be the one to end you. It is honestly a relief that one of my main rivals is in fact no threat at all.’
Behind Josak stood Drogan. Already he was showing signs of great potential, proving to be an accomplished tracker, excellent at getting the most out of his men, and proving quite adept at doing what he was told.
‘You will make an excellent resource. I impress even myself with my ability to read people and their potential value to our cause almost immediately.’
And then there was Anders. Even as Josak regarded him harshly, he nonchalantly ran his fingers through his long blond hair and grinned as though he had not a care in the world.
‘Young, ambitious, arrogant, and naturally gifted at just about everything. Equal parts mage and warrior, you are an incredible resource. But your ambition makes you a threat to everything and everyone. Even now you take great delight in our failures; my failure to capture the Stone, and Maragon’s escape from Ronardo at his tower.’
“The sword will be in hands soon,” offered Gin’Tak in very broken common.
“That is good news indeed,” replied Ronardo.
Josak had to try and hide his annoyance at this. Apparenly it had not occurred to Ronardo that if their current machinations were to succeed then Razilin’Tera would once again be walking the earth. And if that happened, then the race to be his Lord High Priest was on in earnest.
‘That position will be mine. I have earned it through years of service. I will not accept any other outcome. Even if it means making plans to recover the Kestrel sword myself. It is to that end that I have had my man, Gerard, secure a worthy guide to lead my forces into the Indiana Peaks and steal the sword from under Jakobi’s nose.’
“And if I were to say the Stone will be in my hands soon, will you congratulate me?” Josak asked sarcastically. “Speak to us of actual successes. Everything else is just a waste of words.”
“If it is actual successes that qualifies us to speak, then I think perhaps some of us will need to remain silent,” countered Anders, his smug grin growing. “Please continue my good man.” Anders indicated for Gin’Tak to continue.
‘Something is afoot. Anders is brash, but to openly speak against the High Priests like this, in this forum? This is bold, even for him.’
“Have your merchants delivered all the weapons and armour for the Antori?” asked Josak, directing his question to Ronardo.
“Yes. We have now essentially begun using the Golden Eagle merchant banner as our own. I have had my best man, Gerard, deliver the weapons and armour personally,” replied Ronardo. Josak smiled again.
‘You mean my man. As I hoped, Ronardo remains oblivious to the fact that one of his most trusted resources is actually in my employ. Ronardo, you are definitely unfit for the position of Lord High Priest. And besides, you would look quite foolish standing at the head of a ceremony and being unable to call forth even the simplest of blessings.’
“Do you have any leads on Maragon’s whelp or the Stone?” asked Anders.
Seething with the desire to lash out at Anders, but mindful of the fact he may still be valuable in all of this, Josak instead motioned for Drogan to respond. Drogan nodded politely before speaking.
“We tracked their small group from Garet all the way to Chandrex. They had wounded with them so the tracks were easy enough to follow, but they were moving too quickly for us to catch them,” explained Drogan, and when he could see some confusion he added, ”Most of the Brigade are on foot.”
“We know they have taken their wounded to the main temple of Chandrilar. The rest are either staying there as well, or have found other accommodation within the city. We are endeavouring to locate them as we speak,” Drogan finished.
“Is the stone in the Temple?” asked Anders.
“And what good would it do you if it were,” asked Josak. “The ground is so heavily consecrated that even stepping foot on it would probably cause you to burst into flames.”
“I have allies too you know. You should try to not snap the throat of everyone who works for you. You may find you would have more resources too.” With that Anders feigned choking and struggling to breathe, “Hope you have a will prepared Drogan.”
“Yes… you could summon any one of your little pets. That is true. But of course, they would burst into flames even faster than you would. I know, perhaps you should summon all of them at once and then all rush headlong into the temple together. Once the combined flames from all of your bodies have burned the entire church to the ground, I will casually pick the Stone out of the ashes.”
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“I have some business contacts within the church. Perhaps they can help us,” interjected Ronardo loudly, tiring of the blustering going on around him. Anders and Josak continued to glare at each other for a few moments, but their bickering stopped.
“Perhaps,” conceded Josak, nodding deferentially to Ronardo,” See if you can find out if Maragon’s boy is there. He will be the one with the Stone.”
“I also heard a whisper that one of the Drasak Assassin Guilds had sent a large contingent into Chandrex. I know it sounds unlikely, but my sources seemed quite sure,” continued Ronardo. “If we could find them or their employer, perhaps they could help us,”
“Do you have any leads on Maragon or the other members of the Seven?” asked Anders.
‘Quite eager to keep the focus on the failures of Ronardo and myself aren’t you?.’
The Lotese noble shifted a little uncomfortably, but recovered quickly.
“We lost him shortly after he left the Tower. At least two more of the Seven showed up at the tower during our assault. We believe he may have used a teleportation device in the roof of the tower to teleport away before the tower exploded. I believe he will come here, and in fact, could already be here. But other than watching the gates into the city, and a few key places in the city, we do not have much to go on,” replied Ronardo.
“You were using some of our best people in an effort to capture the Seven. How many of them have we lost?” asked Anders.
“All of them,” replied Ronardo, a very sombre tone to his voice.
‘You already knew the answer to this. You just wanted to make him say it aloud in front of all of us. Humiliating your own master in this forum? I hope his punishment of you is half as wicked as what I would do to you for such insolence.’
There was a moment of silence as the impact of that sunk in with all the people in the room.
‘These are dangerous times for all of us, We do not have the resources to be losing key assets lightly. Mercenaries and other such tools can be sacrificed on a whim, but genuine believers must be preserved whenever possible. What good is a God without any followers to worship him? From where will he draw his power?’
“Then it would appear we all have much to do,” stated Josak, “From here Drogan and I will continue to follow the Stone. Ronardo, you keep looking for Maragon. Gin’Tak, you tell Jakobi that all is coming together as planned and that he can begin moving forwards with the bigger battles. Our forces will strike at Ashue-Te three tendays from now.”
With that, the five of them packed up their things and quickly slipped out various secret tunnels that would bring them back up into various back-alleys and darkened streets. Drogan and Josak went one way, staying together until they reached street level, at which point Josak continued on to the Golden Unicorn, the most expensive inn in Chandrex. Drogan moved off towards the Happy Fighter, a much cheaper establishment, where Josak had put up the rest of the Brigade.
ANDERS – PORT DISTRICT, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
Anders stayed with Ronardo until they reached street level as well, where they came out into an alley inside the Noble Quarter. It was becoming late in the evening so only a few sounds of people moving about echoed into the alleyway.
“Ahh… Klydor. So clean they don’t even have beggars in their alleys,” scoffed Anders.
“Do not fool yourself. It is just a false façade. They do not have half the wealth of the Lotese. I suspect they just do a better job of keeping the poor out of the noble quarter than we do,” replied Ronardo, eager as always to maintain the superiority of his merchant run Lotan over any of her neighbours. “Now be gone. I have a party to attend at the Devilliers Manor. And you do not have an invite.”
Ronardo was so busy adjusting his brightly coloured clothes and affixing his mask that he did not even notice Anders moving in behind him.
“I don’t think you would have enjoyed the ball anyway, Ronardo. Those Drasak assassins you mentioned are there already. I had to help with some of the finer points of their plan. And I am afraid they had orders to kill you on sight,” Anders muttered.
Anders imagined the pompous noble’s eyes widening in fear, as he reached out and clamped one hand around his mouth. With the other he drove his enchanted dagger into the man’s back.
“But as we are now running late, you may have already missed the fun and frivolity. But don’t worry. I will send the parts of your soul I don’t need on to Razilin’Tera this very night.”
Any sound Ronardo may have tried to make was muffled by his hand. But Anders did not care what he was saying, he was now focusing on the final spell Ronardo would ever bear witness to – a dweomer he cast from within his Dagger, “Soul-Eater”.
“In anima tua domine dominatur
(Over your soul I do claim dominion)
A te memoriam tuam capio
(From you I take your memories)
Tuam potestatem sumo pro mea”
(Your power I take for my own)
As he chanted he could feel the Dark Magick building around them, and could feel it focusing on the ornate silver dragon-hilted dagger embedded firmly in Ronardo’s back. And then he felt the dagger stealing Ronardo’s life-force, absorbing his power and knowledge and transferring them to the wielder.
The flow of power when absorbing a powerful soul was often intense, euphoric, painful, and quite exhausting. But in this somewhat disappointing case, it was all over within seconds. As the last of Ronardo’s life force ebbed from his body all he heard was Anders’ surprised voice.
“Is that it? That was the total power of a High Priest of Razilin’Tera? Ronardo, you were a disappointment right till the very end.”
Anders withdrew the dagger and wiped the blood on Ronardo before putting it back into its sheath. He then reached under the slightly pudgy man’s tunic, and removed the ruby and gold dragon-head amulet from around Ronardo’s neck. This was the final stage in his rise to High Priest, and he smiled as he let the body fall to the ground.
“Josak will be so excited when he sees me wearing this,” he said to Ronardo’s corpse, before walking out of the alley and turning towards the DeVillier Manor.
MITCHELL – MEN-AT-ARMS, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
9TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
The tavern setting had not been at all as Mitchell had expected. After visiting several of the drinking venues in the city Mitchell thought that the occupants of each seemed remarkably similar.
‘We seem to have sailors in all bars, regardless of their distance from the port itself. It seems these people will travel great distances, including walking past a great many other bars, to seek out a new bar seemingly indifferent to the rest. We have also found a remarkable assortment of travellers and merchants, each with a story to tell of their greatness, although it does vary as to whether that greatness is in the past, present or future. I suspect nearly all are lying or being a tad optimistic as to what their past, present or future holds.’
‘And then we have those I can only describe as ‘roguish’ individuals. While their clothing and the manner in which they conduct their business may differ slightly, their intentions seldom seem to change. It feels as though they watch everything just looking for an opportunity to take advantage of someone. And I fear I stand out as the easiest opportunity for each of them to do just that.’
‘If Hawkin is feeling any such emotions he certainly is not showing it. He has settled in at a bar or table each time as though he is a regular, and with an ease which I both envy, and find incomprehensible. He just starts up a conversation with whoever happens to be nearby. Right now that means a group of rough looking sailors.’
“Hey Mitchell, come meet my new friends,” called out Hawkin, his words slightly slurred from inebriation. “They are all sailors from the Defiance. Apparently she is the toughest free-ship around.”
Mitchell tried to smile and acknowledge the men in a friendly manner. The looks he got back were not friendly.
“They drink in the Men-at-Arms whenever they are in Chandrex,” Hawkin continued. Mitchell was about to ask where that was, when it occurred to him he was probably sitting in it.
‘It is possible the alcohol is dulling my mind too.’
One of the sailors in particular looked as though he had lived through a lifetime of fighting, with bad scars covering half of his face and most of his upper arms. His huge build suggested immense physical strength, and the barely concealed snarl on his face promised trouble for any who annoyed him. It seemed the people in here knew the sailors, as they all kept a safe distance. Even the staff of the place seemed to give these four special treatment, with Mitchell finding the barmaids behaviour all too friendly.
Mitchell remained silent through the banter, feeling out of place and uncomfortable in such a public environment.
‘Of all the places we have been tonight, this one troubles me the most. There are no representatives of the Klydorian Guard or any other form of law enforcement. And I suspect related to the first, although I do not know if it is the cause or a symptom, there seems to be a higher proportion of the roguish individuals. Even Hawkin’s charms seem to be floundering and out of their depth here.’
‘I am convinced that these sailors were not being as friendly as the others Hawkin has spoken to. If he were to just stop talking, I am pretty sure the chatter would cease altogether. I wonder if Hawkin has even noticed he is doing 90% of the talking. Perhaps a better question is does he even care?’
Neither Hawkin or Mitchell had noticed the hooded figure in the corner of the tavern. The one watching their every move. The same one that had now followed them into the last three taverns.
‘Hawkin has already consumed more alcohol than I would have considered possible. It is a testament to either his body's tolerance, or how little brain power his body runs on, that he can still function normally. But he is slurring slightly, so this must be dulling his wits. How much have the couple of beers Hawkin talked me into affected my own capabilities. Could I even cast a spell right now? If Alicia or Maragon find out about this, I am in so much trouble.’
‘I think I better try to get us both out of here before something bad happens.’
Hawkin had just wandered back to the table of the four sailors, fresh beer in hand. Mitchell reached to tug on his tunic as Hawkin started talking about his father again. The big, scarred man rose suddenly and threw a massive right hook at Hawkin. The impact of the blow on Hawkin’s face knocked him from his feet and onto the hard wooden floor of the tavern.
Mitchell sat there stunned, as the big man rose from his chair and stood over Hawkin, almost daring him to get up.
“Where is daddy now, little boy?” he glowered.
Hawkin tried to roll away from his attacker, whose raucous laughter was now filling the room. Those in the immediate vicinity were now scurrying out of the way, while the rest of the crowd started to form a small circle around the ensuing battle. The chants of “Fight…Fight” started getting louder with each passing second.
As Hawkin tried to roll under the nearest table, the sailor grabbed it by its edge and flung it away, knocking over about 4 of the onlookers as it tumbled into their midst. He kicked Hawkin, but Hawkin blocked the brunt of the blow with his arm.
‘What do I do? I have no idea… But we have to help Hawkin’!
Mitchell lunged towards the big, scarred man. He connected with the full impact of his relatively small frame, and somewhat surprisingly, tackled the sailor to the ground, the two of them knocking over two nearby chairs as they rolled across the floor.
The sailor continued to laugh, obviously far more comfortable in this setting than Mitchell. Using his superior size and strength he was quickly able to wrestle his way on top of Mitchell.
“That’s a braver move than I woulda’ given you credit for little man.”
“Thank you,” Mitchell replied, almost politely, having no idea how we was supposed to respond to such a comment mid fight.
Mitchell was unable to say anything else but grunt as his head was now being bashed into the floorboards in time with the crowd’s chanting. But then the figure above him was gone, as Hawkin dived back in from the side and knocked the burly sailor into the table to their right.
Mitchell tried to shake off the stars he was seeing. While still dazed, he was sure he could now see a huge grin on his friend’s face as well.
‘Everyone has clearly gone mad. I think perhaps this alcohol stuff is the stuff of the Dark Gods. Probably Salercki, although given this fight we should not rule out Kazak’Ta.’
The fight was no longer limited to the three of them, as many others were now also scuffling, with most of the fighting centred around the group that had been upended when the initial table had been flung at them. There were tables and chairs flying across the room, and people now seemed to just be hitting anyone within reach.
‘Absolute madness!’
It was then that Mitchell suddenly felt himself flying through the air.
“Why be a spectator, when you can be part of the action,” came a deep voice from below him. Mitchell could vaguely feel the hands of the other two Defiance sailors, hands on his tunic, and then he was sliding across the bar. Glasses broke and tankards scattered as he hit them before he tumbled into a heap on the far side of the bar.
Looking up from the shards of glass now scattered through his tunic sleeves and the bandages on his arms, Mitchell could see the bar owner also taking cover from the brawl.
“I am sorry about the damages, Sir,” Mitchell offered apologetically. But the owner just waved his hand dismissively.
“Don’t worry about it lad. The Captain from the Defiance always pays for any of the damages. They say he’s found the lost treasure of the Northmen King.”
Mitchell brushed as much of the glass off as he could.
His drunken conscience appeased, Mitchell slowly peered over the bar. The fight had engulfed nearly the whole bar, and the bodies of the defeated lay among the broken chairs and tables. Mitchell looked through the chaos for a sign of Hawkin or the sailors from the Defiance, but he instead found his vision drawn to another figure that was wading from the door and into the heart of the chaos with virtual immunity.
He was a dark-haired man, with a thick beard, a brown studded leather jerkin, and a massive Axe hanging over his back. Those that swung a blow his way found their arms bouncing off large metal plates which covered both of his shoulders, and he used his heavily armoured left arm as a hammer to smash people out of the way. His hands were protected by ornate metal gauntlets, both of which seemed to have gold weaved into them creating the image of a serpent’s head on the back of each hand.
He strode through the room, smashing the gauntlets into those unfortunate enough to come within his reach. While some of his opponents were facing their attacker, this man seemed to have no reluctance in punching those that were not looking. In fact, it seemed to Mitchell that this man particularly relished the opportunity to strike from behind, driving the gauntlets repeatedly into the back of people’s heads and bodies. And in each case the result was the same, with the victim clutching at the struck area, almost as if they had been stabbed, before collapsing to the ground.
But this man was capable of far more than sniping people. Several times he was confronted by small groups of people, often the friends of people he had just put down. Each time he was able to despatch all of the attackers with ease. Sometimes they landed a few blows of their own – usually they did not – but he weathered the blows like someone accustomed to taking hits in combat. And then with a series of sharp punches of his own, and the more than occasional wrestling throw, he would leave his attackers in a heap on the bar-room floor.
“That is Gerard,” offered the Bar-keep, “he is a Lotese Wagon Captain. Very hard man. Even the toughest sailors leave him alone.”
As Gerard flung another victim through the air Mitchell finally saw Hawkin amid the ruckus. He was still involved in a melee with two of the Defiance sailors, including the large scarred one, but there were now many others involved. It almost seemed as if Hawkin and the sailors were now on the same side, fighting off a group of six men. And although outnumbered, they seemed to be giving at least as good as they were receiving, with the scarred sailor still laughing loud enough to be heard above the din of the brawl. And Mitchell thought he could even hear Hawkin laughing now.
‘I almost expect a Faylenian Inquisitor to walk in and immolate everyone to purge the Dark influence of this place. Not sure I would blame them.’
‘I have to get to Hawkin and get out of here.’
He jumped back over the bar and began to make his way toward his friend when a big drunken man stepped in his path, leering at him with alcohol misted eyes, and a mouth full of yellow and broken teeth. Mitchell froze. The next second he was reeling backwards as pain exploded around his left eye socket. Mitchell tumbled back into the bar from the wild haymaker. He looked up from the floor, expecting to see a boot or fist coming his way, but luckily for him a hooded figure interceded and with a graceful sweep-kick his would-be attacker fell to the ground. Mitchell did not want to wait to see the final outcome of that battle, and tried to stand. He found his feet were no longer responding in a co-ordinated fashion to his brain’s requests, and he instead remained stranded on the floor.
Hawkin, meanwhile, had just finished pinning the arms of his opponent behind his back, and his new scarred ally was now laying a series of punches into the trapped man’s torso. Gerard stepped in from the side and grabbed the scarred sailor, lifting him into the air as easily as you would expect him to pick up a mug of ale. With one hand around the sailor’s throat and the other pulled back and poised to strike, he spoke, his commanding voice easily cutting through the raucous noise.
“These are my men you are fighting. And I need them all in working order later this evening. So if this brawl must continue, either stop fighting back, or I will consider it that you have damage my property, and therefore you owe me a lot of money.” Mitchell could tell that Gerard had now seen the rather bulging money pouches that were hanging from the sailor’s belt.
The sailor was still flailing and trying to defend himself, but he seemed unable to raise his arms from his sides. And the strain of being deprived of air was beginning to show on his face.
‘This man is a juggernaut. What kind of idiot would go up against him?’
Gerard was just reaching out with his other hand to take the money pouch when Hawkin’s right fist slammed into his jaw.
‘Oh… that kind of idiot.’
Gerard was shaken by the blow, dropping the sailor to the ground. But he recovered quickly, and parried Hawkin’s follow-up blow, riposting with a quick hand to the throat. As easily as he had with the sailor, Gerard now lifted Hawkin into the air, except this time with his right hand. Within seconds dark green veins began to pulse visibly on Hawkin’s face and neck, and his face visibly contorted in pain.
Mitchell willed himself to stand, and while he was able to regain his footing, he knew he was moving too slowly to ever reach his friend in time. But then he noticed the hooded figure moving in, the same one that had assisted him only seconds earlier. He watched as the figure moved quickly and gracefully through the brawl, and stopped only feet from their combat, beginning to move his arms and legs through a very short precise series of actions and gestures, none of which struck anybody.
Mitchell could not hear the words, but he recognised magick when he saw it. It was a Universal spell, but in his drunken haze, he could not make out the spell itself.
While the figure had not laid a hand on Gerard, he suddenly reacted as if his strength had been sucked from his body. Suddenly unable to support Hawkin’s weight in one hand, he lowered him to the point that Hawkin’s feet were again touching the ground. And the green pulsing veins also disappeared from Hawkin’s face.
Now standing face to face with his attacker, Hawkin hammered another right-hand blow to Gerard’s head, this one clearly staggering him. But again, Gerard refused to let the blow fell him. Hawkin grabbed a bottle from the nearby table, and brought it smashing down on the top of Gerard’s skull. As shards of glass sprayed around them, the Lotese Wagon Captain collapsed to the ground unconscious. Hawkin grinned like a fool who had won some prize fight.
The four remaining figures around Hawkin were stunned by the fall of their leader. But rather than break them, one by one they began to draw their weapons, no longer content for this to remain a simple pub brawl.
“Hawkin, we have to go. Now!” Mitchell yelled through the din.
But the four figures were now standing in a line separating Hawkin from the door. Mitchell tried to channel the energy to cast a simple sleep spell, the same enchantment he had used on the guards at Hawkin’s house the night they had left Garat. But either the pain in his face or the alcohol in his veins prevented him from mustering even the slightest bit of magical power.
For at least the third time in the brawl the mysterious hooded figure assisted them. Moving in behind the two central men blocking Hawkin’s path to the exit, the figure knocked them both to the ground with a flying body tackle, elegantly spinning through the air and catching them both at shoulder height with his feet and elbows.
‘Who is that? And are they a friend? Or just a really cunning foe?’
“Run now, human,” ordered the figure, his voice serene and melodic, despite the chaos around him.
Taking full advantage of the opportunity Hawkin sprinted through the gap, hurdling several people and other obstructions that now lay scattered across the floor. Mitchell was now also running, albeit more shakily, and he fell into line behind his friend. As they neared the door another figure moved to block their path. But Hawkin lowered his shoulder and ran straight through the man, knocking him out of the way and sending him crashing into the wall only inches from the doorway. Hawkin led his friend through the doorway and into the cool night air, the mysterious hooded figure following only a few feet behind.
They crossed the cobblestone street, dodging the drunks and beggars, and sprinted down a dark alleyway. But immediately Hawkin saw he had led them into a dead-end.
“Now what?” Hawkin asked, as he sucked in the cold night air trying to catch his breath.
“Hide,” responded the hooded figure. Both Mitchell and Hawkin responded, and within seconds all three had taken up hiding places behind the few crates and bins scattered throughout the alley. They saw three of Gerard’s men exit the tavern soon after, and they immediately scanned the street for signs of their quarry. Gerard exited moments later, holding a cloth to his head. Blood could be seen flowing down his face, and much of the cloth was now stained in blood.
When his men could see no trace of Hawkin, he grabbed the nearest drunk and hoisted him up so he could look at him eye-to-eye.
“Three figures just ran out of here. Which way did they go?”
The drunk, too scared to admit he did not know, just mutely pointed up the street away from the water’s edge and the wharves of ships. Gerard and his men began moving in that direction. Once they had moved about sixty yards away, Hawkin grabbed hold of Mitchell’s arm and started to move out of the alley. Focusing on the small group Gerard was leading up the street, they both stepped out of the alley and began to sprint the other way.
Mitchell saw it first and tried to evade, but his dulled reflexes were too slow.
Hawkin never even saw it coming.