The dock creaked under their boots while a midnight breeze nudged the boats secured nearby. Chris led the way through the maze of warehouses. During the day the area was bustling with laborers unloading ships. But after the taverns closed, the dockyard revealed its nightmarish quality. It was the only section secluded enough to ensure Bayliss’s experiments would go unnoticed.

Between the brass bells and the splashing waves he heard something else. Whispered chattered, followed by something dropping into the depths below. As Zack investigated darken windows Chris poked his head around the corner. In the edges of a lantern’s light, a smoldering speck burned and vanished; then a sound of bliss from a long drag on a cigarette. At the end of an uneven wharf two men tossed a long bundle of canvas into the harbour. They chatted as they grabbed another from an overflowing cart and tossed it with the first.

“What are we looking for?”

“A building a rich mentally disturbed man could use as a secret lair for his disreputable experiments.”

“You just described every building here!” An unnatural earthy groan rumbled under the dock. He pulled Zack into the shadows. “What was that?” It reminded him of a rickety house rocking in a winter wind. As boards snapped in the darkness, Zack shook his shoulder. Pointing to the sky were a silver tentacle flailed in the moonlight.

“Looks about right.”

He assessed the two dock workers guarding the entrance. Like the Blue Bloods from the Horse, they're dressed too neatly to be a member of the Impoverished Club. Now that he thought of it, that was probably the day Bayliss bought Flann's loyalty. The smug bastard made a show of it. How many men did he toss out only to bed them later? Now Bayliss's minions stood guard, dressed in deceit, and waited for a punch to the face. Yeah, this is the place.

Zack tossed a few rocks off to the side, skipping the stones over the water’s surface. The soft plunking caught the attention of one goon who slipped from his post to investigate. Once alone, he crept from his hiding spot behind a tower of shipping crates. Inching closer, he slithered towards the man in the dusty flat cap who stared into the shadows. He swallowed hard, slowing his breathing while crouching over the gravel.

His hands quivered as they reached his ears. He inhaled the smoky sweaty scent before clamping his palms over his mouth and nose. Using his elbows he restrained the flailing limps, his heart slammed against his chest, but when the muscles relaxed, he knew it was over. As he dragged the limp man behind the abandoned barrels his partner returned. But Zack was waiting, his punch flew from the side of the building and the man collapsed stone cold into the dirt.

Inside were walls of crates stacked almost twice a man's height. Each with packing labels from across the continent. Rotting beams hung over them, and the only light was from small square windows under the roof. The building rattled again knocking the occasional box from their pedestal. He was hesitant of Mages before but Zack’s fight with Moira changed everything. He watched spellbound as she commanded trees to life and moved oceans to great heights. He didn't want to consider what a desperate Mage, imprisoned and tortured, was capable of. Zack reached a rusty door at the other end of the room. Together they slid it over a corroded track wide enough for them to squeeze through. They stepped into an impromptu battle arena as a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the center.

“Whoa...” Zack pulled him back, “is that what I think it is?”

The ground shook as a giant stone tail slapped against it. A serpent twisted, the stone grating against itself as it moved to defend the woman in the middle of the coil. Patches of moonlight peered through the shattered roof and reflected across the stony scales. The woman, with short stringy hair and tattered clothes, held her staff above her head. A chuckle drew their attention to the man baiting the snake from the corner.

He didn't recognize the man, who appeared too painfully average to discern from another. But the violet stone set in a silver ring was unmistakable. It rested on his middle finger and taunted the beast with it. The serpent grated, moaning as the empty mouth snapped at the space in front of the ring. It feinted bites, but the man didn't budge. She motioned with her staff and the beast slithered from her side, stretching the length of the arena, and lunged at the man. Chris adverted his eyes against the glare emitting from the gem. When it faded the serpent hung suspended in mid air.

One flick of his hand sent the creature whizzing through the air but stopped short of smashing against the wall. She shrieked, desperate to regain control, but he indulged in her frantic pleas. When he grew tired of her wails, he rolled his hands in the air. Like yarn spun by a hag the snake contorted, grating, and grinding against itself as it squeezed its form into a sphere.

It rocked the arena as it slammed to the floor. Zack turned to him, demanding confirmation to his unspoken fear. But he didn't wait long, the boulder shuddered, springing to life, as it rolled across the ground. She limped in a pitiful escape but it was futile. He shut his eyes but the sound of screams, broken bones and finally the squash of rotting pumpkins infiltrated his imagination.

“What in the name of—”

The man approached the flatten body and plucked the broken staff from the pooling blood. Chris shook his head as he left the mess for someone else to deal with. He tried to warn him, but Zack’s golden heart wouldn't allow the knight to perceive the evil until he witnessed it firsthand.

“It’s up to you, do we keep going or is this where you draw your line?”

“I’m a knight,” he glanced at the body, “it’s my job to slay dragons.” A determined grin broke the knight’s face before he sprinted after the murderer.

They entered a spacious room with rows of covered boxes. They were twice as high as he was and as long. Zack ignored the mystery, choosing to investigate a conversation on the other end of the room. But the lifeless sheets made Chris uneasy, he knew he heard something moving underneath. He made himself as small as possible, careful to avoid wandering too close to them. A few meters ahead Zack watched something intently; gripping his hilt in anticipation of an attack. Not here, he moved swiftly along the narrow passage, but he tripped and crashed to the floor. A pale bruised hand gripped his ankle. Stifling a scream, he kicked it, and it slithered underneath the sheet.

“Are you alright?” Zack pulled him to his feet.

Curiosity replaced fear as he yanked the blanket with an angry flourish. The grey sheet floated like a ghost to the floor. Of the two persons cramped inside the steel cage, one laid motionless on the papered bottom. The second, the one who grabbed him, laid on his stomach, face down on the paper. His breathing was shallow, his fingers twitched, but other than that he didn’t move.

“They’re caged like animals,”

The image of the woman in Bayliss's basement flooded back. He fought the memory for days but she returned, to haunt him all over again. The rows of cages accounted for the entire width of the room. The sheer number was beyond his imagination. Pushing past the fear welling in his chest he forced his arms to yank the next sheet. It danced through the air; its grace contrasted the horrors hidden underneath. More cages with more Mages. Some dead or near death. A girl, around sixteen clutched two children as she cowered in the furthest corner. They were a little older than Sara, with hollowed faces and similar marks as the others.

He waited for them to scream or beg but instead they fell silent. Their bodies trembled; some couldn’t look him in the eye. A boom rocked the building, the captives cowered, and angry voices shouted from the other end of the room. Zack yanked him from the cages, through the rows of endless suffering to the source of the commotion.

Beyond the cages was the work area. Rows of cluttered tables sprawled over the floorboards in a horseshoe shape. Glass beakers, bowls, and slim silver measuring instruments littered the outer tables. In the middle was a narrow table with gems, artifacts and heavy tomes placed in an orderly fashion. A handful of men with glasses and white coats worked at assigned stations. Neither spoke, instead they were absorbed in their task and ignored anything else in the room. Chris scoured the room, planning his exit strategy. A staircase led to an office with large windows overlooking the ground level. Something told him if Bayliss was around he’d be there. But Zack’s nudge interrupted his thoughts, but he saw it. A pile of broken weapons near a small forage beyond the tables.

“Guess that’s the failure pile,” he mused.

“Judging by the size of it, they haven’t had much success.”

“Let’s count that as a blessing.”

While Zack went to observe the scholars, Chris investigated the forge where he had more coverage. Iron molds waited inside the flames; their contents concealed by the heat. On a hewn beam various precious metals waited for their turn in the fire. Beside them were open barrels containing strange black powder. But as he reached inside a glass shattered over the floor.

A scuffle broke out near the workstations, Zack held one scholar in a choke hold while threatening the other with his dagger. He demanded answers but the men refused to speak. Zack ordered them to release the Mages. But the hostage screamed, sounding the alarm to the people upstairs.

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Idiot, this is why I don't work with the honorable kind. There was nothing righteous about being dead. And there was no honor for those who die nameless in a gutter— which judging by the situation was the soon to be future. He contemplated sneaking out the way they came, leaving Zack to clean up his own mess. But reconsidered, fearing the wrath from the fallout. With his own neck on the line, Chris pulled out his dagger and stepped out from behind the rack of spears and swords.

“This is why I can’t take you anywhere.”

“We’re under attack!”

“Help!”

Even the Mages found the courage to tug off the sheets; watching the scene with new interest. A door upstairs crashed opened, shaking the open windowpanes, and ushered out a row of hefty henchmen lining the stairs. Chris eyed Zack, noticing the wide grin on the knight’s face. The goons, armed with swords and lead pipes piled at the base of the steps. Hard soled shoes tapped the wooden landing; the pretentious face of Mister Bayliss stood like a king addressing his subjects.

“Is this your sick handy work?” Zack shoved the scholar he gripped and drew his sword.

“Since it is you who are intruding on my private property, I will ask the questions. Now, who are you?” If you are dumb enough to give him our real names, I will cut you.

“We aren’t the ones torturing people here. You’re the one breaking the law,”

“Breaking the law?” Bayliss baulked, “I bought this property which isn't breaking any housing laws. I pay the wages and the King's taxes.”

“And them? What price do they pay?”

“I know you,” Bayliss’s eyes focused on Chris’s face, “you are the thief who broke into my home. You owe me for the wine you stole.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“What do I call you?”

“Artie,”

“No Artie is that imbecile who brings in the Mages. He isn’t capable stealing from me once let alone twice.”

“Twice?” Zack glared at him.

“No, Flann warned me about you. He said you may get yourself caught up in this if you caught a sniff of what I was doing. Well, I’ll teach you about the dangers following your nose could cause, Master O’Connell.” The Mages sprung to life, as if sensing bloodshed that was, for once, not theirs. The rattling cages echoed their battle cries. Howls and hisses mimicked wild animals, thirsty for a hunt.

“Chris,”

“Yea, Zack?”

“You’re going to owe me.” Chris saw the grin; a fight always rejuvenated a warrior.

“Don’t worry, you know I’m good for it.”

Zack's fist landed across the thug's nose, spraying blood over his shirt. The metallic screech of knifes pulled from their sheathes was music to Chris's ears. A boor of a man with an unkept mustache grinned at him with pissed colored teeth. He wiped the scratched blade of his long knife over his pressed shirt. Chris rolled his arms unlocking his elbows and shoulders with a pop.

He lunged, but Chris parried. He hit like a hammer, using his weight behind each move. But Chris was faster, more précised, catching the blade with his before forcing him back. They continued the dance, moving their feet over the creaky planks, through the workshop. One swung, the other ducked. A lunge and a dodge. A loose floorboard meant his end; as Chris preyed on his opponent's tumble. Gripping him into a headlock he squeezed the pulsing vein in his neck before plunging his dagger into the man’s stomach. The knife dropped, bounced over the rotting wood into the pooling blood. The groaning form crumpled to the floor.

It wasn’t until wiped the blood from his blade that he noticed Bayliss was gone. Coward. But there was only one place a rat like him could hide. He reached the bottom step to the office when something hard whacked him between the shoulders. An iron grip yanked him from the step, feet dangling, until he whizzed through the air, crashing into a table of measuring beakers.

The weapon of choice, a rusty pipe swung through the air, but he rolled over the glass to avoid it. Climbing over an overturned table he staggered to his feet. The goon wound up, before throwing a clumsy punch. Chris fell back over the table but escaped with his nose intact. Grabbing a wooden stool, he swung it across the henchman’s face. Spit and blood launched into the air but he stood dazed. Another swing, which pummeled the stool into pieces, brought the man to the ground. He plucked his dropped dagger from the glass and raced towards the shouting Mages.

A whack against his lower back sent an agonizing pain through his spine. He stumbled forward, smashing against the planks. Tears stung his eyes, but he rolled over to face the final blow. A tall wide shoulder with crowbar clubbed at the space inches from his ankles. A frenzied look in his beady eyes added to the ferocity of the attacks. As he caught his breath, Chris kicked him backwards into the grabby arms of the captives.

His screams mixed with their raspy cries. They gripped his clothes and contorted his limbs until they snapped. Their neighbors cheered them on, relishing in the vengeance. His stomach churned; the sounds made his skin crawl. One bit his wrist, spurting blood over the floor, but twitching fingers dropped the crowbar. He grabbed it before they would use it on him, but he realized none of them noticed him. All anger and intent were on the abuser. He walked backwards, eyeing the cage as a precaution, when he was safe, he pushed the weapon in a flailing hand and left. The snapping sound of steel padlocks told him they were on their way.

He returned to the remnants of the workshop, spying the abandoned items scattered over the floor. Among the pieces, was a ring, like the one Artie wore. Next to it was a short sword decorated with the gems from the tiara he gave Sexton. As he studied the hilt his thoughts drifted to the legendary sword Zack carried. For a moment, Chris allowed himself to indulge in the future; a future of war and immeasurable magical powers. If that future came to pass, the only one who would be able to stop people like Moira would be men like Zack.

Average people wouldn't survive a bloodthirsty engagement against the likes of her. The weight of every insult and violent act his kind committed against them began to take their toll. He looked at the Mages clawing, screaming, and crying for freedom, what if they took their revenge on him, on Lollardum? The sword before him sparkled as if it was his only salvation; a guarantee of his survival.

As he reached for it, they shouted out; finding their voice and freeing themselves from their prisons. Like Moira's cyclone, they descended upon the rest of the henchmen. Without their staffs they resulted to punching, biting and any other feral attacks to satisfy their bloodlust. Panic flooded over him, he was next and he knew it.

“Chris! it’s time to leave!” The knight held a barrel over his shoulder and black sand leaked from a narrow crack at the front. Beside him a man in tattered clothes held a candle in his trembling hand.

“But the office, Bayliss might still be there.”

“He's gone, and we got to get going. Phillipe here says the guards are on their way.”

“No!” The anger boiled in his limbs. He didn't accept failure, but it burned in his throat. He squeezed his fists until his knuckles were white. “It can't end this way!” He kicked the weapon sending it spinning under the overturned barrels of sand.

“It won't, believe me my friend, we'll get him. But tonight, we retreat to fight another day.”

“What about this?” he motions to the warehouse, “we walkway for them to just pick up where they left off tomorrow?”

“Not quite, Phillipe here, has informed me of some interesting developments.” He motioned to a trail of dark sand leading from the barrels to the one Zack held.

“What are you doing with that?” He asked the malnourished Mage carrying the candle.

“We need to make sure they don't hurt us again,” Philippe snarled.

“With a candle?”

Zack yanked him to the doorway and dropped the barrel as Phillipe commanded. It smashed two feet from the exit, they continued to run but the Mage didn't follow.

“Gods keep you safe Phillipe,” he called after the man. Chris saw the Mage give a small military salute and a regretful smile. Chris had reached the door when Phillip threw the candle in a pile of black powder. It ignited across the warehouse floor zipping along the trail Zack made.

They cleared the door as an explosion thundered behind them, forcing them into the harbour. It swallowed him, forcing him downward into a dark abyss. The warble sounds from above filled his ears as water infiltrated his lungs. He clawed and kicked but he sunk further. As he lost control of his trembling body, he felt a strong-arm wrap around his waist forcing him to the surface. Zack held him above the water as he gulped the smoky air. The sky lit up as flames engulfed the warehouse. People filed into the streets; a mix of fear and awe as the spectacle dominated the waterfront.

Vibrant colors popped and fizzled across the stars, never had he seen such a marvel. If the wooden beams weren’t cracking and tumbling into the lapping waves, he’d consider it a religious experience. The night air chilled his soaking skin and he tasted the murky chemical taste on his lips. Nothing lived in the harbour and he gagged, fighting the vomit in his throat. Zack guided him to an abandoned portion of the wharf, where he hoisted himself over the planks. Between the explosions he heard the gasps from the spectators. They sat, both wet and out of breath, overlooking the blaze. As the timbers snapped, he wondered if anyone survived; others he hoped burned. Violence plagued his entire life, but perhaps, Lollardum finally crossed a line.

“What the hell is happening here?” Zack asked no one in particular. He let the words and uncertainty hang in the air. Even he didn’t believe it. “You can’t stay here, they know your name, that asshole will imprison you if you’re caught.”

“Like I have anywhere else to go,”

“Alexanderia, the ferry leaves in a few hours.”

He made it sound so simple. To get up and go somewhere else. Then again, maybe it was that simple. He had more to lose by staying. Celia would be safer without him around, Tristian too. He didn’t have time to say goodbye. But he hoped she would understand. It wasn’t forever, he told himself. He couldn’t let Tristian grow up in a kingdom where Sexton existed. No, the bastard would pay. For that he was certain.

“You know I haven’t had a vacation before, imagine the possibilities,”

“This won't be a vacation, keep your head low and nose clean. Especially, at the palace.”

“The palace, eh?” he stood wringing his shirt, “are you sure you want to bring a top-notch thief into a place made of expensive things?”

“It’s a horrible idea, but I rather you in the stocks in Alexanderia than dead in a gutter here.”

“That’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me,” he pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Shut up,” he hit him in the stomach, “go get your stuff and I’ll meet you at your place.”