Balfred wasted no time, jabbing at Vaskir with his superior range. Vaskir warily took half a step back, correctly judging the length of the attack and having the spear tip miss his right eye by an inch. They returned to circling.

‘Damn,’ Vaskir thought, ‘this’ll be a waiting game.’ In his 8 years of experience, Vaskir has met, and fought, against many a spearman. He had found that it was nigh impossible to approach them and weather a rain of quick jabs, each one capable of piercing a lung or heart. So, it was a game of overextension and patience; patience being the crux of success. Balfred attacked again, Vaskir parried. Two full minutes of wary jabs and parries passed, the air of tension rising—before finally, Balfred exploded into a lunging jab.

This was the game. The attack was a feint, Vaskir guessed, used to lure out a large movement. Instead of responding with a powerful, two-handed, parry, Vaskir fought his instincts and nerves and simply waited, hoping that whatever training Balfred had undergone was so ingrained that he would feint the attack despite Vaskir’s inaction. He did. Stopping as quickly as he had started and throwing a quick jab at Vaskir’s stomach.

Vaskir parried easily. Balfred’s attack was thrown from an awkward position, meant to take advantage of a moving and open opponent, not the readied blade. The low crunch of iron against wood echoed loudly. Balfred’s spear was knocked aside as Vaskir stepped in and thrust, aiming for centre mass. If Vaskir had not been wounded earlier the lightning-fast strike would have pierced Balfred’s heart. Instead, Vaskir’s wound burned and sapped his speed, allowing Balfred time to step sideways and only lose a shoulder.

Balfred groaned in pain and pulled back, teeth gritted. Still, he kept his spear levelled between them, discouraging any follow-up attacks.

‘You’re no milksop, are you, sir?’ Balfred said after gaining some distance. Vaskir walked forwards warily but was happy to let the man bleed as he talked.

‘No, sir,’ Vaskir replied.

‘I was overconfident!’ Balfred righteously declared. The man seemed surprisingly upstanding. ‘Thought I could end this quickly against some runt trying to make a name for himself. Instead! I was met with a stalwart defence.’ Vaskir got closer, feeling like something was off. ‘So, take heed, my allies, let my own follies not be yours! Let us learn! And strive! Together!’ He raised his spear, almost in a victory salute, and the spearmen behind him cheered, slamming the butts of their spears into the mud. Balfred focused back onto Vaskir, who was standing, sword slightly lowered at the display, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then, as Balfred began to inch forwards, both hands on his weapon, Vaskir understood. Balfred’s wound had closed.

‘How much does a regenerative fruit cost these days?’ Vaskir asked, offhand. Balfred grinned.

‘Two thousand Queens, or so I was told,’ he answered. They clashed, Vaskir fending off Balfred’s unending assault with practised grace. Two minutes passed with neither side gaining an advantage, and yet Vaskir appeared to be waning; every blocked strike was assaulting his stamina just as effectively as his body. Balfred’s regenerative fruit kept him strong, replenishing his energy as quickly as he expended it. Balfred grinned and doubled his speed. Finally, just as Vaskir seemed on the edge of letting a strike slip through—the assault ended. Balfred sauntered away, back turned, twirling his spear. ‘You have it!’ he shouted, turning back around. Vaskir was breathing heavily, sweat pouring down into his eyes. ‘You have that twinkle in your eye, sir. That deep-rooted need for victory. What was your plan, if I would have continued my assault? Take a killing wound, yet strike me as well? Try a desperate new attack?’ he laughed. ‘Your kind are the worst to fight against, and make the most terrifying allies.’ He turned to the men behind Vaskir. ‘I apologise, friends, but I will be taking your champion's life today.’ He levelled his spear once more. ‘I will leave you no openings, Sir. Yours will be the death of a thousand small cuts. Yet I will be impregnable, a sheer cliff you cannot scale. Die well, friend.’

‘This guy talks too much,’ Vaskir thought, despising being toyed with. And yet, he remained confident. Balfred closed in on him and Vaskir retreated, playing for time whenever he could. Balfred was also making good on his promise, not going for any killing blows. After a minute, Vaskir had been pushed dangerously close to Balfred’s line of spearmen. Vaskir struck out, forcing Balfred to block high. Vaskir started straining, pushing his blade down. Balfred, still feeling fresh, pushed back, shaking his head in disappointment at Vaskir’s final play.

‘I expected better, sir,’ Balfred said, mustering the burst of strength needed to push Vaskir’s blade away and end this fight.

‘You know,’ Vaskir said, grinning, ‘we make for quite the spectacle.’

‘What?’ Balfred said, but it was too late. Pravin, who had been diligently following Vaskir’s plan, had cut his way through one of the sidewalls of the tent and crashed into the right flank of the spear wall, causing a loud outcry that only rose in volume as 5 screaming axemen followed behind him. Balfred’s eyes went wide at the sight and his grip wavered. Vaskir pushed Balfred’s spear away, grabbed him by his pauldrons, and threw him into the waiting spears of his own men.

Surprisingly, one of the spearmen was so shell-shocked at the unexpected flank that he did not move his spear so as to not skewer his commander. Balfred screamed as Vaskir watched a spear tip poke out of the front of his iron armour.

‘Charge!’ Vaskir screamed, himself retreating to his running soldiers. The plan was simple. Cradow, being a baying hellspawn, was already the main focus of half of Balfred’s group. During the latter half of Vaskir’s duel, he was forced to truly go on the defensive, palm striking every spear jab sent his way. Vaskir was the secondary distraction. If he could put on a good enough show to get the rest of the men to focus on him and his duel so that they wouldn’t notice Pravin cutting his way into one of the tents, the better. Balfred stopping and giving his speech only played into Vaskir’s hands. With every eye watching the two of them, 5 axemen appearing on their flank was a terrible shock. The swordsmen charged into a disarrayed line and quickly swept through the enemies, eliciting a rout and quick surrender. Five minutes later Pravin and Cradow found Vaskir laying next to the left tent, pale and sweating.

‘What fun,’ Cradow said, ‘the pair of us make for quite the distraction.’ Pravin crouched down to get a better look at Vaskir. He was covered in small cuts, each one slowly pooling droplets of blood.

‘Balfred’s been captured,’ he informed. ‘The soldier who stabbed him was smart enough not to pull the spear out and most of the group surrendered shortly after.’ Vaskir chuckled.

‘Course he’d live,’ Vaskir said, looking up at Cradow. ‘What do we do with him?’ Cradow thought for a moment, then shrugged.

‘It’s your victory, choice is yours,’ Cradow said. Vaskir nodded, expecting the response.

‘Well then, let’s go see what he has to say.’

Balfred was laying on his side, 5 men watching over him as another slowly pulled the spear out. The spear puller was stopping every few seconds to let the wound close up and Vaskir recognized him as the man who accidentally stabbed his commander. The rest of the swordsmen had formed a quick perimeter, allowing for a modicum of safety as the attack continued around them. Balfred noticed Vaskir, Cradow, and Pravin as they walked closer.

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‘You have no honour, Sir!’ Balfred said, glaring.

‘If we had no honour you and your men would be dead,’ Vaskir answered.

‘And how many lived?’ he asked.

‘Most. We’ve bound them. Captain Monver will decide what to do with you once this is all over.’ Vaskir crouched down, his legs aching from the movement; life or death situations really do a number on your glutes.

‘What are you protecting?’ Vaskir asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Balfred frowned.

‘You truly don’t know? I thought you were the first blade of an unascendant clan.’ Vaskir shook his head.

‘Just a sellsword on the wrong contract.’ Balfred snorted, then gritted his teeth in pain as the man extracting the spear gave another yank.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the man said, sounding genuine.

‘You poked the thing into me you’re getting it out!’ Balfred said, looking over his shoulder. Vaskir frowned and looked at Cradow. They were allowing an enemy soldier to arm himself, even if briefly? Cradow grinned, loving the situation his orders had created.

‘I ask again, sir,’ Vaskir said. ‘What are you protecting?’

‘A 3rd class foundational manual,’ Balfred said. Vaskir snorted, looking over his shoulder to Pravin who was shaking his head in disbelief. Even Cradow seemed unconvinced.

‘The Consortium wouldn’t even get involved if that was the case,’ Pravin said.

‘Until they tried to buy it off of whatever clan sacrificed enough to get it,’ Cradow added.

‘True,’ Balfred said, nodding, ‘unless—’

‘Unless it was newly unearthed,’ Vaskir muttered, eyes wide. ‘And we’re the first people on the scene.’ Balfred solemnly nodded. ‘The Consortium is making a play. The lives of a few sellswords mean nothing if they can get their hands on a 3rd grade. They would be able to sell it to one of the big clans for an extortionate price—’

‘How much are we talking here?’ Pravin asked, far more money minded than Vaskir. Vaskir did some maths in his head, trying to keep everything in mind.

‘Maybe… a little over a million queens?’

‘Ascendants’ balls,’ Cradow muttered. Pravin’s jaw hung loose.

‘But that’s not the end of it. The Consortium has never been a martial powerhouse. Third class… foundational? You said?’ Balfred nodded. ‘They could hide it, train up a future powerhouse.’ Vaskir shook his head. ‘And that’s just if the Consortium gets it. If the New Baskers get it? The Bellows? Frenzy?’ Cradow swore at the mention of the last name, and Pravin went pale.

‘So what do we do?’ Pravin asked.

‘What we’ve been paid for,’ Vaskir said, and Cradow nodded.

‘We do our jobs!’ Cradow said, ‘and then… we take it for ourselves.’

‘Are you insane,’ Pravin began, but a gentle touch from Vaskir calmed him.

‘Ourselves?’ Vaskir asked.

‘I like you boys!’ Cradow said, looking down at Balfred and grinning. ‘Hell, I like anyone that can put rich pricks like him down into the dirt.’ Pravin was shaking his head, glaring at the man, Vaskir was stone-faced, looking at Cradow like he was a coiled snake.

‘Putting our burgeoning friendship aside, let's speak in privacy,’ Vaskir said, nodding his head towards Balfred. Cradow shrugged and the three men formed a circle some few feet away from prying ears. ‘You plan on stealing the manual?’ Vaskir asked.

‘We,’ Cradow said, miming pulling everyone together, ‘are going to… take an unknown artefact away from bandits.’

‘We never should have been placed in so much danger,’ Vaskir said, looking at Pravin.

‘We can’t sell the fucking thing,’ Pravin said. ‘What use is it?’

‘We can,’ Vaskir answered, ‘I know a few people at Chilbrow that can pawn it off at a good price.’ Pravin looked at Vaskir, surprised.

‘Didn’t know you used to be a—’

‘I’m no criminal, Pravin. I just had… strange friends,’ Vaskir said, and it was technically true.

‘Yeah, great idea, or…’ Cradow said, ‘how about we fucking use it?’ Both Vaskir and Pravin looked at him like he was stupid.

‘And draw the ire of, huh, literally everyone?’ Pravin said, looking to Vaskir for confirmation. Vaskir gave a sad nod.

‘You're both bitches,’ Cradow said.

‘Because we’re not suicidal?’ Pravin asked. Cradow thought about it for a second.

‘If anything over 4th grade is so fucking good, one of the three of us should become powerful enough to tell the clans to fuck off.’ Vaskir let out a small laugh.

‘We’re not stage 3 Ascendants,’ Vaskir said. ‘And… even if the manual did provide such a powerful boost it would take years—years—to reach that level.’ Cradow sighed.

‘So we sell it,’ Cradow said.

‘There’s that “we” again,’ Pravin muttered.

‘Yes,’ Vaskir decided, looking at the men around him. ‘If we survive this suicidal attack, and get to the manual first… who’s to say some “bandit” didn’t take it and run off into the jungle? Whoever the contractor is would be forced to go along with it, the Consortium won’t want this mission investigated.’ Cradow was grinning, giving Vaskir a direct and exciting stare.

‘Fuck yeah, man. Now you're speaking my language.’ Cradow said. Vaskir grinned—Cradow had a powerful and excited energy about him that Vaskir felt was infectious. Even Pravin was biting his lip in excitement, staring into middle space, probably thinking about what he would do with all the money. A thought struck him.

‘How much can you pawn it off for?’ Pravin asked.

‘Thirty thousand queens,’ Vaskir answered.

‘Holy—’ Pravin said.

‘Each,’ Vaskir added.

‘Shit…’ both Cradow and Pravin muttered.