55

The Sower of Discord

‘Good. I’ve been looking for you lot!’ The robed form of the summoners turned their masked faces towards the door, where Ludgar awaited them, blade drawn and leaning against his shoulder. ‘Last time, you caught me with my trousers down. Not this time.’ Ludgar made a point of having his thumb resting through one of the belt loops. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

They drew their blades, opting for something longer than the more subtle weapons of their botched assassination. Short swords made for better weapons in a siege than daggers.

They spoke together, one after the other.

‘The black wolf.’

‘A small mistake.’

‘Not of significant concern.’

‘It shall be corrected.’

The three of them stepped forward, forming an arc around Ludgar. Then another one stepped out from behind each of them, making six in total.

‘That’s... new.’

The six spoke in unison.

‘Black wolf of the mercenaries. You shall fall before Arimah: Paragon of Phaos and Sower of Discord.’

‘Ah ha! I knew it! I knew you were from Phaos!’ Which, if anyone had been listening, would have been of no surprise to anyone. Even less surprised was Arimah, who used the chance to launch their coordinated attack on Ludgar.

There sure was a lot of them. Far more than the guild mercs could deal with. As it stood, it was about ten to one in the revolutionary's favour.

Kathiya sat at a window, just in the shade where the dark shrouded her. She had already told everyone she could, which just ended up being Sethel, and who knows what he would do in a situation like this.

Should she leave? It wouldn’t be difficult. Rip off the old drapes, wear them like a cloak, and wander ease her way into the crowd. They’d be none the wiser. Then she could sift her way through, out the back, and into the city.

Hell, there was probably so much looting happening that she could just wander into any old store, and walk out with pockets full of coin. Then head to Giltani and quadruple it... or lose it all.

It would be so easy. So sensible. So safe.

She reasoned that Caspar would be fine; he’d probably sleep through the whole thing. Sethel probably should have died years ago, so there’s not much chance he’d die here. Who the hell knows what Ves’sa was up to? As for Ludgar, well he must have been through worse, right?

This? This was nothing. In fact, he’d probably love something like this. The first time a real battle has begun since they started journeying together. He was probably out there already, swinging his blade like a crazy man.

He didn’t need her, right?

What use was there for someone like her in a battle like this?

Giltani: where fortunes are made as quick as they’re lost. Where anything can be bought or sold for the right price.

The hub of all commerce throughout Artella, rivalled only by Orrick itself, and that’s a city of kings.

The centre of all innovation throughout the League.

The City of Gold.

There were far worse places to be. Here, for example, where the only force for protection was about to be crushed beneath the people they were supposed to protect.

Guess that’s where greed gets you.

There was something to think on that, which she began till she was distracted by Caspar speeding through, doing something that was midway between a run and a hop, as he was still in the midst of getting his boots on properly.

He was running so fast he didn’t notice her and kept going through the hall and towards the stairs. Right where the battle was.

Did he know? Should she tell him?

She didn’t have to. She was under no obligation. Even then, obligations can be thrown off if circumstance permits.

She could leave. She could leave right now, and it would be over, and no one would say anything.

In the grand scheme of things, she didn’t matter. None of them mattered, and she knew it.

She would be gone, and so would Caspar, and Sethel, and Ves’sa, and Ludgar...

‘Ah, shit.’ She sighed, grabbed her bow, and followed Caspar.

‘Hold the line!’ she screamed over the carnage.

She was hoping there’d at least be a parley first. That’s what usually happened whenever Toulmonde found herself in such a one-sided siege.

They arrive, show their force, and if it was far too much for the defence, they’d make a deal to be released and offer no resistance. Everyone leaves alive with minimal cost to life or property. That’s what would happen with competent leadership, anyway.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Here, it seemed she wouldn’t get the luxury of such. Given the lack of armour, the proper weapons, or the proper training, those in charge didn’t care about the costs. They probably weren’t the ones paying them.

It didn’t matter what it cost or what sacrifices were made. All that mattered was victory.

Sounded like something Sergrave would have said.

No point deliberating on the past, though. Not when the sharpened blade of the future was aimed right between her eyes. An eager revolutionary had climbed the barricade, blade in hand.

It didn’t take much to send him back. A quick deflect and a swift jab to the nose sent him hurtling back and sprawled along the floor.

Brave guy. Stupid, but brave.

The corner of her eye caught the shine of steel coming at her, too quick to dodge. On instinct, she threw her arm up to meet it. Better to lose an arm than to lose a head.

It caught her between the steel plates and caught the leather between. The swing was strong, and the blade went deep. Toulmonde felt the sharp sensation of steel cutting her flesh.

She hissed through her gritted teeth, twisted her arm around to grip at the flat of the blade, pulled it back to the shock of the revolutionary holding it, and bashed him in the face with the hilt of her own blade.

More climbed over, forcing the mercs back.

‘Shield wall!’ she screamed over the chaos. A line of mercs raised their shield, bringing them side by side, and pushed forward, forcing the revolutionaries back, giving Toulmonde a moment to breathe.

There was a cut in her arm. Thankfully, it wasn’t a deep one. In fact, it was far less deep than she was expecting.

She looked over the revolutionary’s blade. Simple, cheap, and new. Nothing extraordinary, but gets the job done if you know what you’re doing with it. She held it lengthways and peered down its edge.

Blunt.

Who the hell gave these troops unsharpened blades? Even their armour barely fit them. It was a hodgepodge of ill-fitting, unmatching gauntlets, plates and helmets, as though they grabbed what they could and cobbled it together. Lucky for her, but the audacity of it was what pissed her off.

Still, clever tactics, maintained equipment, and rigorous training collapse under the weight of sheer numbers.

One merc would have to take out ten revolutionaries. Most people don’t win a fight that’s ten to one against them.

The shield wall made a good push, yet the opposition was far too numerous, pushing back and giving themselves more space to filter into the fort.

The mercs fell back, regrouping and setting their wall up again.

To Toulmonde, there seemed to be a lull in the enemy’s aggression. They seemed to be more hesitant in forcing their assault. Something in the crowd’s mood shifted, but she couldn’t tell what. Were they getting ready for something bigger?

Was there even a lull, or did she just hope there was? Either way, both sides seemed to have gotten themselves into a stalemate, with the revolutionaries choosing to launch whatever they had at their disposal. Rocks were thrown, glass bottles shattered against shields, even a sign hurtled through the air.

They had been forced back into the rear of the courtyard, and some of the more industrious revolutionaries took the opportunity to take the other entrances and windows into the different wings of the fort.

An annoyance, given that they were running around, breaking her stuff. The ones inside may hold them off, but if they were already inside, there wasn’t much that could be done at this point.

The mercs had borderline already lost, so why weren’t the revolutionaries pressing on and finishing them off?

Why were they standing back, looking at each other as though they didn’t know what to do?

Why weren’t they pushing forward and finishing them off?

Six against one was less fair than Ludgar wanted. Despite this, it had been a few days since he had a real fight, and the excitement started to set in. Not the generic excitement of any old standard sparring session, where you know both parties are leaving alive relatively intact. No, this was the itch he really needed scratched.

The full, life-on-the-line struggle where you know that at least one party isn’t going to be coming out of this alive.

The pain. The fear. The thrill.

The last time he felt something like that was with the shark. Well, maybe not exactly like that. This summoner wasn’t as good. They relied on numbers and coordination far more than they relied on strength and skill. Good in surprise ambushes, less good upfront with someone well trained.

One went in with a thrust of their blade, which Ludgar sidestepped, took hold of their arm, and threw them in front of another, going in for an opportune strike. The first collided with the second, and both fell to the ground.

Another went to stab him in the neck. Ludgar stepped back, and the blade only caught a sliver of his fur. A kick to the back of their leg and a barge of his shoulder threw the shadow into another, looking to make a strike.

The last two went in at once with wide slashes of their blades, fully expecting Ludgar to take a step back, bringing him closer to the first two who had recovered from their stumble, and into their blades. Instead, he went forward, ducking under their blades. He stood between the two, grabbing them both by their steel masks, and threw them into the ground.

Their greatest strength was also their greatest weakness. Their own coordination could be used against them. Logical manoeuvres made them predictable, and they struggled against some idiot who fought on instinct and didn’t care about the pain.

‘Not so good when you can’t stab me in the back, are ya?’

‘Ngh. Fool.’

They stood in unison, and another shadow stepped out from each, bringing their total number up to twelve.

No wonder these guys alone could push revolutions. They were one-man armies in themselves.

He sidestepped the blade of one that stepped in, and blocked the fist of another who went in for his stomach, but with his hands occupied, he couldn’t do anything against a fist coming right at his face.

It knocked him back. It wasn’t the hardest punch and didn’t affect him too much, until one kicked him in the side, another went for a slash on the rebound.

Ludgar managed to avoid most of the damage, taking a light cut along the chest.

A good kick gave him some distance away from them, giving him a moment to rally a little.

He guessed he should start taking this seriously.

The battle was brought to a stalemate. The Guild Mercs were beyond outnumbered, with the revolutionaries' ranks swelling by the minute, but they just couldn't seem to get past the shield wall. Yet the mercs couldn’t break it, or they would risk opening themselves up to an assault.

They were at an impasse. The revolutionaries didn’t have the strength to push through, and the mercs didn’t have the manpower to push back, leaving them stranded against the flowing mass of the revolutionaries' unordered, unregimented force.

A small island of order in a sea of chaos, each kick a violent wave against the walls of their shields. How long could they hold before the tide takes them and drags them under?

Some of their enemies made a few posturing feigns, making a sudden forward move, then backing down once they realised they weren’t taking the bait. They just held firm with their orders, shields gripped and packed tight together.

Then came a change in the attitude of the mob. They looked behind themselves, waiting for something.

There was more yelling. This time from only one person. They instructed the mob to step aside, as a carriage with windows smashed and wheels loose rolled uneasily through the parting mass of people.

Atop stood the indignant Sister Ezria, devoid of the peasant outfits she was known to wear, now donned in extravagant garb more fit for royalty, looking down her nose at her, eyes affixed with a mixture of anger and pride, righteousness and smug self assurance. As though Toulmonde was no more than a worm compared to her.

Toulmonde couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Not of the outfit she wore or what it represented. No, it was something a little bigger than that.

‘If it isn’t the queen bitch herself,’ Toulmonde said.

‘And if it isn’t the oppressive dog of the establishment,’ Ezria answered back.