46

Combat Without Trousers

Ludgar was used to fighting people in strange situations. The stranger the better, he found. When it comes to assassins, he’d usually like to get his trousers fully on beforehand.

Three of them, dressed head to toe in shadow that shimmered peculiarly in the occasional moonlight of an improperly opened window. Tight hoods, masks resembling the pained faces of some tortured soul of some kind, soft leather to nullify any noise.

These guys were professionals.

He was no stranger to assassins. You can pay a merc basically anything and they’d be willing to kill the man standing right next to them. He encountered a few like that, only he didn’t know if they were killing him for coin or just because they wanted to. In war, a kill like that is basically invisible. No one bats an eye and just assumed it was another casualty among many. It’s just that mercs aren’t good at the whole cloak and dagger thing. They’d kick a door down sooner than they’d pick the lock.

There was no doubt that these guys were professional. They’ve been trained their entire lives for this.

His blades were at the distant end of the room, and all he had on hand was nothing but an old, brass candlestick.

‘Come on, you don’t attack a guy while his trousers are down. That’s basic etiquette.’

A dagger came at him, right between the eyes. He brought up the brass implement and managed to deflect it. Before it even clattered against the floor, another assassin was on him, trying to drive the dagger into his throat. Ludgar stopped it between his palms, the edge lightly splitting the skin of his hand.

He got a good look at the assailant’s eyes. Through the slits of darkened steel, there smouldered the uneasy glow of gold. Powerful, yellow eyes stared back at him, with a void of darkness cut into their centre. Felinid eyes. Not all too unsimilar from Kathiya’s.

Strong guy, but not strong enough. It didn’t take much effort for him to push the knife back, enough so he could hear the assassin struggling against the pressure.

Then from the side, a knee came up and crushed its way into his stomach, and Ludgar doubled over in pain. The third saw to the door, bringing down a wooden bar and blocked the way in.

They surrounded the winded Ludgar, who knelt on the ground, holding his stomach and trying not to throw up.

They surrounded him, raising their daggers clenched in both hands.

Some kind of ceremony? Looked like it. Who the hell were these guys?

Ludgar never cared much for ceremony and threw the candle holder at the assailant to his left. It flailed back, and Ludgar went in with a jab to the neck. An arm to his right came at him with a knife, so Ludgar moved his arm over it, catching it in a lock between his arm and torso, bending the arm at an awkward angle. The assassin seemed desperate, ineffectually trying to strike at Ludgar with their weaker hand.

There was a thud at the door. Someone was trying to get in. Toulmonde, he hoped.

'Ludgar, what the fuck are you doing? Open this door!'

Before he could yell out for help, the third assassin ran in with a thrust of their blade. Ludgar released his attacker to get out the way, but just a little too late, as the knife sliced him across the side of his torso.

Through gritted teeth, he let out a pained grunt. He caught the third by the wrist, pulled it close, and slammed his head into the mask. Can't go wrong with a good headbutt.

It stumbled backwards, holding its mask together as best it could, and Ludgar went in for another punch. Another struck him right where he was cut, sending a wave of pain both sharp and dull cascading through him.

A sharp spike of pain struck him in the back of his head, and bright sparks flashed through his vision. He fell to his knees, blood leaking from his side.

The three stood over him.

Was this it? Killed by some unknown assassins in Savanti of all places. He wished it was one-on-one, at the least.

Where was his blade? Over there, by the bed. No way he could reach it now.

At least he was awake to see it. At least he didn’t die in his sleep.

It wasn’t the way he wanted to go, but it was better than most. If he had the choice, it would have been in a good fight against a single person. Someone strong and worthy.

Maybe they could even use hydrospears.

No, fuck this. Not here.

In a final act of defiance, he took the bundled mass of trousers in his hand, and threw it at an assassin.

It missed and flew out the window.

At that moment as they watched the trousers sail their way out the room, the door splintered open, and Toulmonde stood in the frame, wielding a short sword. He didn’t know where she got it, knowing her, she’d have a hiding spot for them all over the keep.

She dashed in, dressed somewhat more modestly in her silken night robe, swinging her blade at one of the surprised assassins. It caught one in the arm, slicing into bicep flesh, and sending it fumbling backwards as the other two took defensive positions around it. No blood poured out.

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They made no sound. However, they did look at Toulmonde, then at each other, then at Ludgar, then back to each other. A moment to reevaluate their tactics, or was it a moment of confusion, as though something didn't go as they had originally planned? Ludgar knew that feeling well. Usually happens at least once during each battle.

From its hand, one summoned a shining orb no bigger than their thumb. It threw it at the ground and in an instant, there was a blinding flash, and the room was engulfed in brief pale smoke.

Toulmonde slashed through, trying to hit what she could. One grasped her arm. She went to hit it with the other. It grabbed that one too.

'Wait!' she heard Ludgar yell.

The smoke cleared. He was the one gripping her arms.

'They're gone,' he said, releasing his grip and then holding his bleeding side.

'That looks bad. Sit down.' She pushed him onto the bed and went to the bottom drawer of a dresser pulling out bandages and a vial of some colourless liquid. She kneeled beside him and got to work bandaging up his side, fresh cut from an assassin's knife.

They weren’t the strongest he’d faced, but the three fought in unison, each knowing what the other was doing and where they were going to be, all without speaking. Good synchronisation like that can be more deadly than even the sharpest of blades.

‘What were they? Assassins?’

‘Yeah. Decent ones, too. Brothers of Blood, maybe?’

'Nah. If they were, you'd be dead already. Expensive business, regardless. So, who do you think would have sent them?’

‘Well... there's that rat lady in Oldtown, I bet she’d want to kill us. The Serpent, maybe? Heard he likes to take care of things before they become a problem. I guess Lord Isanthol would like some loose ends tied up as well. Also, may have burned down one of his taverns. Not me, just an incident with Sethel, Caspar, and a fireball. Then there’s all of Phaos, probably? They seem to be attacking anything, lately. Then... you, I guess.’

‘No. Not me. Considered it, but it would have been unsatisfying.’

‘Figures. Then there’s everyone before I left. Didn’t make a lot of friends then. Even less during the war.’

‘Maybe not, but I doubt it’s enough to send assassins. Know anyone that can help?’

‘I do,’ he said with a sly smile.

‘They know anything about assassinations?’

‘Well, he knows a little of everything. Don’t know if any of it’s accurate.’

His copper scaled fingers ran along the blackened floor, lifting dark soot with them. He brought it to the thin slit of his deep, rust-coloured eye. He rubbed it between thumb and finger, and the soot-like substance spread between each digit. He licked it. Tasted... salty?

‘Well, what is it?’ Ludgar asked, squatting next to him.

‘Tastes salty. Must be arcana.’

‘Magic tastes salty?’

‘No. Only the places where arcana has been. Otherwise, it tastes sweet.’

‘Honestly,’ Ludgar said, turning to Toulmonde with a shrug, ‘I can never tell if he’s fucking with me or not.’

‘Not who I expected when you said you knew someone.’

Sethel’s attention turned to the window, where he looked outside to the balcony. It seemed to only have room for one person to stand on.

Flight? Avians, maybe? Not by what Ludgar said of their eye colour. The only people that tend to have felinid eyes are the felinids, unless they stole felinid eyes and replaced their own, but that was impossible, unless it wasn’t.

Logic would state they descended from the roof, but he would have to keep an eye out if eye transplants were now possible.

‘Does arcana come from the salt mines?’ Toulmonde asked as he re-entered the room.

‘What? No!’

‘What about the sea? That’s incredibly salty.’

‘Shut up. No, it’s not. The sea is not inherently magical in any way, unless you go really far down.’

‘So, are those bags of chopped potatoes fried in oil made with arcana?’ Ludgar chimed in.

‘No! Silence! Arcana is not salty! It just tastes salty! There’s a difference.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘Salt! There is no salt involved!’

‘Then why is it salty?’

‘It isn’t! It’s…’ Sethel stopped, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. ‘You’re deliberately agitating me, aren’t you?’

‘Now why would you think such a thing?’

'Tell me what happened when he used his magic,’ Sethel said, choosing to ignore what Ludgar said. ‘I want every detail, from what they said to how their hands moved.'

‘One brought his hands together, there was a strange colour, then a bright flash, then he was gone.’

‘Ah yes. It sounds like an Instant Flare spell. Classic. Looks like we’re dealing with someone who knows a little magic.’

‘Don’t they all?’

‘Perhaps, yet this appears to be no standard mage. Looks like you could be dealing with a summoner.’

‘So someone who can summon some flashing light,’ Toulmonde added dismissively. ‘I’ll let any bat-folk know if we encounter him.’

‘You don’t understand. They could summon anything! Vile weapons from realms beyond our own, horrid monstrosities and demonic abominations, with feet that decay the earth and wings that could blacken the sun! Incomprehensible, evil creature from deep in the recesses of the Fracture, that can melt your eyes and boil your blood with merely a thought.’

‘The Fracture?’ Ludgar asked.

‘You didn’t hear that,’ responded Sethel in panic.

At that moment, a beast descended upon the balcony, wreathed in the shadow of night, eyes alight from the lamplight within the quarters. Toulmonde took a step back, readying her blade. Ludgar put a hand on her wrist, stopping her from unsheathing it.

‘What the fuck is that?’ She yelled.

‘Don’t worry. She’s just Ves’sa. Don’t be insensitive. Hey Ves’sa!’

Ves’sa grunted a greeting in response. She stepped down off the balustrade, powerful talons clicking against the cold stone.

They once offered to get her some special avivid footwear that would allow her to perch and use her talons, but she would have none of it. Never said why.

‘Thought you had your own thing going on.’ He went to put his hands in his pockets, forgot he still wasn’t wearing trousers, and awkwardly put his hand on his hips instead.

‘I do.’

‘What brings you here, then?’

‘This.’ Ves’sa pulled out a folded piece of parchment from beneath her sturdy vest and tossed it to Ludgar.

He caught it between two fingers and flicked it open, feeling impressed with himself for that minor feat.

‘Looks like you’re not the only one profiting from this revolution.’ He handed the note to Toulmonde, who nodded over the contents with the affirmation of someone who already knew all of this.

‘That’s the way it goes with these kinds of things. Usually ends up being a waste of money. Few people outside the League realize how incompetent and unlikable these kids are.’

‘Tell Kathiya she has my grati-’

‘Too late. She has departed.’ Sethel gestured to the empty balcony.

'She does that sometimes,' Ludgar said to Toulmonde. 'You don't hire the falconic tribes for their social graces.'

‘Could use some troops like her…' She stopped, only just now looking at the bottom half of his body. 'Where are your trousers, anyway?’

‘Outside... somewhere.’

‘Do you have any more?’

‘I was hoping you did.’