They charged.

Askles hadn't been expecting that at all, but it made sense; the Faravahar had the advantage for now, but that would change once 'Kles and Pitie made it to the gates. This meant the Fafafucks had to make sure Neva and his men stayed hemmed, while forcing 'Kles and Pitie to fight on two fronts.

Not bad for a bunch of sheep-fucking stone-suckers, he had to say.

Everything became a blur. 'Kles couldn't see out his right eye, and he couldn't turn his head all the way 'less he wanted to lose sight of the enemy up front, but Pitie had his back.

Yelling, the men who'd been cowering at the gatehouse charged with sticks of wood and bits of metal that looked like they'd been wrenched from the gate itself, but 'Kles had his eyes up front at another charge; the men from beneath the overhang dashed toward them, roaring. They had weapons, too, though some of them were improvised—and, well, fuck, was that a torch and poker?

"Pitie!" 'Kles bumped the man's shoulder. "East wall!" He shifted his foot toward the table. "Hit the gate, then we run."

"'Kay, 'Kles. One."

"Two."

"Three!"

They kicked the table at the mob bearing down from the gate, forcing them to scatter; 'Kles and Pitie ran to the east wall then stood with their backs braced against it, shields and spears up.

"Neva!" 'Kles hollered, "Now's a good time to go back upstairs!"

The man didn't answer, but 'Kles heard the rapid thump-thump-thump of footsteps and the creak of opening shutters.

The two friends barely had the time to brace themselves when the mob, now one, was on them; all 'Kles saw were weapons and snarling faces. He snarled back, striking with his spear and parrying with his shield, reassured by Pitie's steady presence at his side. His spear always stuck, and with each howl of pain he grinned harder, bellowed louder; his life became a monotony of fleshly thuds and screams, the thwock of weapons hitting his shield.

He heard Neva yell. Some rocks rained down, but not close; they hit one or two Fafafucks, but glancing blows, and 'Kles realized Neva was scared of hittin' him and Pitie.

It wasn't to last. A battle always moved, and soon 'Kles and Pitie were maneuvered from the wall by poking sticks, by sudden strikes and charges; they kept their backs together, but in an eyeblink, they were surrounded. 'Kles kept at it, slapping away strikes as they came, but he couldn't hit back, held hostage by the sustained flurry of blows.

Neva was yelling at someone in Eirian. 'Kles didn't understand any of it, but he didn't have the wits to care; here was a xiphos: 'Kles kicked it away. Someone came at him with a metal poker, and as he raised his shield to deflect it, a wooden club came down, forcing him to shift sideways—away from Pitie.

Fuck.

Someone slammed into his back and 'Kles tumbled; he went with it, tucking and rolling over his shield, 'cept—

This shield was shit. It was absolute shit, and when he put his weight on it with his roll, it creaked and cracked; the next blow he blocked shattered it, and all he had was a useless handle.

Ha.

'Kles thought of the vultures.

Not Red Stride Canyon, after all.

Hā́idēs take it, then.

Askles began to laugh.

Hā́idēs take 'em all, worthless stone-suckin' sheep-fuckers.

With a roar, he tossed his shield into his opponent's face then slammed his forehead down onto his nose. The man wheeled back and 'Kles reached out and gripped him by the hair, wrenching the man's face into his knee.

There was a crunk and a howl, and a warm gush of blood spilled over his leg and splattered over his feet, but 'Kles didn't pause; stopping was death.

Maybe 'Kles was meant to die here. But that didn't mean Pitie had to go, too. Not today.

Not on his damn watch.

"Come on, you Fafabitches!" 'Kles taunted, "I'll show you a real Illosian man. I'll fuck you with my spear. Git over here, ya soft-bellied cunts!" Bellowing, 'Kles kicked the man's legs from under him then stomped on his head, using it as a stepping stone to spring upward. He brought his spear down and nailed a fucker through the foot and grabbed him by both ears as he screamed; he slammed the man's face into the butt of the spear then shoved him off, ripping the spear from his foot as he stomped his heel into the fucker's eye.

The man shrieked; 'Kles stabbed down with his weapon, right in the mouth, all the way down and through, then yanked it back out. He didn't check to see if the man was dead, already ducking to avoid a wooden club. He kicked out and caught his attacker in the balls, then stabbed up with his spear as the fucker reflexively bent over with a whimper.

Heat was the only warning he had. 'Kles ducked just in time to avoid the torch, but it had been a two-pronged attack; something hard, heavy, and metal slammed into the back of his knee and 'Kles howled as he went down, remembering to roll: stopping was death.

Blood, warm and wet, dribbled from the soft skin behind his knee and 'Kles knew it was his; it didn't matter. He hardly felt it, and he could still move—so he moved.

He swung his spear as he stood, catching the fucker's ankle; the man weren't stupid, though, and he rolled, too, away, just in time for another man to step in from behind 'Kles and punch him in the head.

'Kles surged up and caught it in the shoulder. Getting pounded in the head was death, too. He spun on his heel, using the momentum to turn, snapping the spear around and catching his assailant. It was only a glancing blow, but there was another one coming at him—

'Kles couldn't die yet. He had to kill more of 'em, 'cause Pitie was good, but he was only one man. He was too dumb to run, too, so that left numbers; 'Kles would fight 'til he couldn't, and he'd bite their fucking ankles 'til he went out.

And once he went out, he'd haunt Lucky 'til he fucking dropped, that stupid, hot-headed fuckwit. What'd he been thinkin'? That stupid shit. This had been an absolute dumbshit idea. Stupid. Beyond stupid.

And for what? Some worthless, ungrateful stone-suckers who were breaking the law?

Gods damn. If Lucky didn't take care of Pitie, 'Kles would pox his whole stupid house.

"Over here, ya motherfuckers! Ya got cunts for cocks! Yeah, that's right, bitch! Get over here and eat it!" 'Kles grinned widely, taunting a big man with chipped, yellow teeth.

His opponent snarled out something in Eirian, but 'Kles didn't wait for him to finish; he lunged, grappling, and when the enemy bared his throat 'Kles went in, clamping down and tearing at his jugular as the man's cries became gurgles. 'Kles spat out meat and blood as the man wheeled away, clutching at his wound which was spurting blood with each heartbeat.

Howling like a wolf, 'Kles bore down on him, picking up his spear and ramming it through the dying man's belly, only to wrench it out and slam the butt backwards; he caught the guy sneaking up from behind, winding him. 'Kles didn't give him a chance to recover, whipping the spear around as he turned and slamming the butt into the gasping man's temple.

Someone grappled his spear. 'Kles tripped him, but lost his grip, and they tumbled together in the wet, clumping dirt that stunk like a copper mine; 'Kles got him around the throat from behind, locking his arms around the guy's neck and squeezing down, hard.

'Kles had a blind spot to his right. He knew that. He paid attention, 'cept this time, he didn't, and he didn't see the torch, only felt the heat, but by then he was trying to throttle the guy who was writhing and twitching, trying to throw him off, and it was too late, way too late, and—

"'Kles!" Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his would-be killer go flying. It happened too fast to see; one second, he saw the torch, the sneer, the big body lurching forward as he turned his head to look. In another second, that body was flying backwards, Pitie's fist slamming into the smug fucker's face and sending him on his back even as the rest of him surged into view.

Pitie didn't pause. He brought his spear down and stabbed, then stabbed again; he picked up the torch and lunged over 'Kles bent back, striking a guy in the face and burning his eyes as the man screamed and wheeled backwards.

"Pitie!" 'Kles said—or tried to say. His jaw creaked. His tongue moved. But what came out was garbled—fuck, had he been clocked in the face? When? Did his face hurt? His knee sure as fuck hurt—

"'Kles!" Pitie shifted, and 'Kles felt his back against his. "Ya lost yer 'ead, ya idiot? Whatcha run off for?" He sounded upset. "Back-to-back, ya dunder'ead!"

"Pitie," 'Kles said, and this time he managed. "Damn good t' see ya." Well, not really, on account of facin' the wrong way—but whatever.

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"You chāghi cunts are meat," a man snarled, and 'Kles looked up—then laughed.

"Yeah? We look like meat, ya limpdick fucker?" 'Kles clutched the guy in the headlock harder, then put his knee to his back and yanked; there was a gurgle and a crack, and the body went limp. 'Kles grinned. "We look like meat, huh? Ya sure yer doin' the chewin', bitch?" He shoved the body to the gap-toothed Fafafuck, though he didn't quite have the strength to lob him. Dead weight was dead weight.

"Oh, you're done chewing," the man said, and 'Kles laughed as the words whistled.

"An' so're you," 'Kles said, snickering. "Nice whistle."

The man put two fingers in his mouth and blew sharply, twice. The men that were attacking pulled back, and 'Kles could see they were regrouping, circling so their line was organized. Away from the wall, 'Kles and Pitie were surrounded.

The gangster sneered. "You—"

"—Are talking to the wrong boys, Vaha."

They all turned, so quick their heads nearly snapped off.

It was Neva. They'd come down, unarmored as they were, and they were all clutching improvised weapons: kitchen knives, fire pokers, thick slabs of wood. Some even had proper swords and spears, and 'Kles could see they were looting the bodies for them.

Gap-tooth—who was apparently named Vaha—only sneered, and replied in Eirian. Neva said something back, so eerily calm that even 'Kles was starting to feel impressed—shit, was this the girly-man who'd just finished boarding up the windows?—and Vaha's eyes widened as his gaze went up.

'Kles looked up, too.

Well, damn. Payam and the boys had come down, and climbed the gate. They stood atop the gate itself now, on the rooves of the lower-level shops, silent and ready, slings in hand.

"Well," said 'Kles. "Guess you boys're meat."

And then he grinned.

----------------------------------------

Pitie could've sworn—He could've sworn—that 'Kles had been right behind him. Right behind him.

It weren't that 'Kles was bad at fightin'—he weren't!—it was that he had a big ol' eyepatch now and he couldn't see good to the right.

That was dangerous in a fightin' man. Real dangerous.

So Pitie had thought—he'd planned—to have 'Kles with him, right there, t' make sure nuthin' happened.

'Cept when Pitie turned around, 'Kles had gone off by himself to the center of the courtyard, yellin' and screamin' like a real idiot.

What was wrong wit' 'im?

"'Kles!" Pitie ducked, then lunged forward, tackling his attacker around the chest while slipping his foot behind the man's and jerking up. The man yelped and fell backwards, and Pitie brought his spear up and slammed the wood into his throat; the gangster gurgled, pushing at the shaft, and Pitie slammed his forehead into the guy's nose, which was nice an' pointy. He yelped and jerked backward, and Pitie leaned, putting all his weight on the wooden shaft until the bones crunched and his neck sagged in. Twitching, the man wheezed.

He didn't wait for the guy to quit movin'. There were too many of 'em, and he had to get to 'Kles, and quick.

"'Kles!" Pitie shouted again, but he seemed to 'ave gone deaf.

Well, the only way through was...

...through. Or sumthin' like that.

He was almost too late. Almost. Pitie saw the guy with the torch comin', but it was clear 'Kles didn't; he took the five feet or so in a running leap, using his spear to jump further and leading with his fist on the way down.

There was a crunk, impact jarring up his hand and into his shoulder, and Pitie almost howled. That fuckin' hurt! That weren't right at all, and the pain that had been like a wee little fire with hot coals became red-hot, flaring all the way down his arm and back like tendrils of sticky-vine.

No helpin' it now. Pitie ignored the throbbing and picked up the torch, shoving it into a guy coming at 'Kles. There was a sizzling sound and the smell of cooking meat; it should've turned his stomach, 'cept he was used to the smell now. The moanin' men were tryin' to crawl away from the brawl, but they weren't in no condition. They were bein' trampled, by their own guys, guys who kept slippin' and slidin' in all the olive oil.

Fafafucks were crazy!

And stupid.

But mostly crazy.

But so were Neva and his boys, and, well, fuck! That was some damn good timin', weren't it?

"Neva!" Pitie grinned as the battle fell into a lull. Fights were like that; lines moved, and sometimes a man could catch a breather. This weren't a proper battle, since they didn't have shields and proper lines, but the Fafafucks were real disorganized, and cowardly, to boot; they ran real easy, and died real easy, too.

Pitie didn't think they'd stand a chance against Sanders. Sanders just appeared outta nowhere—well, the sand, maybe, or the rocks—and then bam! Dead bodies. And then—poof! Gone. Like they'd never been, 'cept the dead and bloody men.

Fuckin' Sanders. They never stood and fought like real men. They fought like women-folk—from the shadows. Like fuckin' witches.

Fuckin' spooky, 'til Command had gotten a clue. They'd started putting caltrops under the sand and hidin' razor-wire 'round the camps. That'd fucked 'em up good. Ha.

No, Fafafucks woulda gotten fucked by Sanders—but Neva and his guys had made it, hadn't they?

Yeah, Pitie had a good feelin'. These fuckers would be proper buggered—and if they'd had any sense, they wouldn't 've messed wit' real soldiers in the first place.

"Epitus," said Neva. "We must finish this quickly. Before they regroup—again."

"Don't worry none," said Pitie. "I think they're runnin' scared." He paused. "An' we're doin' a good job killin' 'em, too!" He beamed, but Neva remained somber; the look on his face was hard to read.

What? Had Pitie said sumthin' wrong?

"You feelin' bad 'bout killin' 'em, Neva?"

Now the older man's eyebrows went up, very slightly. "Murder is a crime, Epitus," he said, finally. "You must not enjoy it."

"This ain't murder, though," Pitie said. "They tricked ya an' took yer kids." He shrugged. "That makes it justice." If someone had tricked Pitie into selling Eulos, or even one of the girls?

He woulda cut the fucker's throat open and pissed in it.

Neva was silent. Finally, he spoke. "I cannot reprimand you, Epitus," he said. "You and your friends have freed us, and this blood, we spilled together." He seemed to hesitate, then plowed on, "But I cannot be so light-hearted when we have killed so many. Anahita weeps this day."

Pitie shrugged. "Sorry 'bout yer lady. Hope she feels better soon—she sounds real nice." Neva opened his mouth, but closed it again, shaking his head slightly. Pitie continued. "But ya gotta make 'em stop somehow." He nodded to the dead bodies. "Lucky said yer talk went sour, so we had t' kill 'em. They woulda gone after ya like a dog wit' a bone, get it? Ya don't let men like this alive, Neva. Ya just don'. Tha's stupid."

Pitie weren't clever like Lucky and 'Kles, but he weren't stupid, neither. Men like Vaha—men who liked feelin' big and strong by kicking people in the teeth—they didn't like it when the men they kicked in the teeth got back up an' barked. They hated it. Men like that were happy t' burn a house down 'round 'im, as long as the guy they hated were in it, too. They had to be put down, like dogs with frothy-mouth. Pitie liked dogs, and he didn't like puttin' 'em down, but frothy-mouth made a dog crazy, and when a man got frothy-mouth, well...

It was real messy.

So the dog had to go. And men like Vaha had to go, too.

Neva sighed. "Yes. That is right also. If only..."

Someone yelled. Pitie instantly went on alert, head snapping to the side, looking for 'Kles.

There.

He hefted his spear, holding his torch aloft. Pitie had never killed a man with torch before—it was kinda neat, 'cause the guys all got scared when he went at 'em with a big ol' flamin' stick—but it weren't very clean or fast. Pitie liked killin' clean and fast, so the torch was more for show. It worked real good.

He left Neva, dashing to 'Kles as Vaha and his men approached.

Oddly, man had his hands up.

"Peace," Vaha whistled. "We will speak with Neva."

The crazy man named Harya began to laugh. "You wanna negotiate? Sure, Vaha. Drop yer loincloths and we'll cut yer dicks off. No fuckin' and sellin' our kids then, am I right?"

"Last I checked," said Vaha, "Your name's not 'Neva.'"

"Get fucked." Harya hefted the xiphos he'd taken off a dead gangster. He had two blades and he moved real fast. It was a sight to see. Pitie hadn't ever seen a stone-sucker fight so good with blades, 'cept maybe Lucky, but Lucky weren't a proper one. He was...well, he was the Lion. And he was only half stone-sucker, so that didn't count, right?

Vaha ignored them. "Neva!" He raised his voice, words booming through the courtyard. "You've made your point. Come here and parlay."

'Kles and Pitie glanced at each other.

That didn't seem like a good idea. Neva weren't that stupid, right?

'Cept he was soft.

Neva stepped forward, and Pitie tensed. This weren't a good idea. Pitie eyed the remaining Fafucks, wary. He noticed 'Kles was tense, too, and he knew they were thinking the same thing: they shoulda just killed 'em all quick.

"Neva," said Pitie, but the older man simply shook his head. He put a hand on Pitie's bad shoulder, and Pitie couldn't stop the flinch. Neva's eyes widened, briefly; he pulled his hand away, glancing at Pitie's tunic.

...Was it wet and stickin' there?

Aw. It was. Damn.

Neva turned away, facing Vaha. "What do you propose, then, Vaha?" He raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to call Heru down to this?"

Vaha's expression didn't change. "No." He spat on the ground. "You think that old man can annul your contracts?" Vaha shrugged. "You want something done, you talk to me. Heru's busy counting coins—as usual."

Neva's forehead creased into a frown. Pitie was frownin', too. Something weren't right here—well, it were more wrong than Pitie had thought—but he didn't know how. He couldn't figure it out.

'Kles muttered under his breath.

"Wha, 'Kles?" Pitie kept his voice low, eyes up front.

"Said this ain't right. Something's...there's somethin' 'bout this place that ain't right."

"I know," said Pitie. "But I can't say wha' it is."

"Lucky's in there alone, Pitie."

True. Pitie frowned, then brightened. "He'll be fine, 'Kles. He always is." It was true. Lucky always landed on his feet; he was the luckiest cat alive.

"Luck runs out, Pitie. I'm thinkin'—"

'Kles didn't get to finish.

Neva had been up front, guard down, talkin', and so had Vaha, 'cept...'cept...

There was some signal. That was all Pitie could think—that there'd been some signal, 'cept Pitie and 'Kles had missed it, chattin', 'cause the Fafafucks that'd been standing behind Vaha suddenly sprang into action; Vaha jumped back, and they jumped forward.

Pitie saw the blade coming. One man grabbed Neva, sinews bunching as he wrapped his arms around the man in a bear hug; another brought his short sword down, angled for a killing blow—

"No!" Pitie jumped forward, but Pitie was too far away.

"Neva!"

Harya wasn't.

The man was old, but he was fast. His blades came out; someone screamed, and the gangster that had gone in for the kill staggered back, appendage and blade clattering to the ground as he clamped a hand—now his only hand—over his gushing wound.

Well, fuck. Weren't that sumthin'.

Harya had two hands. Two blades. One had cut off the hand; the other had plunged into the neck of the bear-hugger, who slumped forward, dead on his feet. Neva struggled, but his attacker's death grip was strong; Pitie saw Harya bend down to help.

Yeah, Neva was fine.

That Vaha fucker sure weren't, though. That Vaha fucker was gonna be dead, real damn soon.

Pitie and 'Kles leapt forward, and everything went crazy; the men broke ranks, and they were running this way and that now. That gap-toothed coward was tryin' to run now, too, and he went skittering toward the overhang again, 'cept Payam and his boys shot and they shot damn good; Vaha took a rock to the shoulder and he screamed, and then Pitie lost sight of him in the crush of running, fleeing men.

Some of them slammed themselves against the front door, trying to break it down. They stepped over their own men, their fallen brothers who were still breathin', but burned, slippin' and slidin' in the oil, but they were actin' like animals now.

Well, they'd die like animals, then—and that's when it happened.

It had been an accident. That was the gods' own truth: it had been an accident.

Pitie had not meant to start a fire. He hadn't.

It was just that—with all the screamin' and runnin' and fightin'—he stuck the wrong man with the torch.

Pitie didn't even remember what the guy looked like. It was just that the fucker had gone slippin' and slidin' in the oil, trying to clamber on top o' his own men to get to a window, 'cept he kept slippin' and slidin' down, 'cause no shit, oil was real damn slippery!

He'd come at Pitie in a panic, and...

Pitie had just finished stabbing a fucker with his spear. So he'd shoved the torch in the guy's face, without thinking.

And his face had just lit up like a campfire.

And then the rest of him.

And then he'd gone screaming backwards into the pile of dyin', moanin' men—men covered in olive oil, right onto the oil-soaked ground, and...

Whooooosh!

Awwww, fuck. Now that was a fire.