Anad stepped past the fallen door, and the coppery smell hit him like a slap to the face. He’d been put in the back while the other Tailcoat’s had rushed in, and now he saw why. Bodies. So many bodies. Blood everywhere. And there was no doubting how they were killed; their injuries far too perfect to have been done by anything other than an Order-blessed sword.
Were they all sorcerers? They had to be, right? There was no other reason for the killing, even after what Sir Reghald had said. But, as Anad looked at them, his fist tightened around the cane in his left hand, and everything around him slowed down. Order flowed into him from his sword, even without unsheathing it, as the Trance took hold, and details became crystal clear to his senses.
These people were…old. And not just old compared to him; they were practically ancient. Not a single one had hair that wasn’t white with age, if they had hair at all. The youngest one he saw could have easily been his great-grandfather.
“What…what are we doing?” he asked himself quietly, eyes roving across the wide room in search of somebody still alive.
There wasn’t anybody.
Even the Mediators who’d rushed in ahead had already left the room, and now it was just Anad and the few Regulars milling about behind him.
This wasn’t why he’d joined the Mediators. This wasn’t protecting. This was murder, plain and simple. This was…
“What have we here?” a voice drawled from somewhere above him, and Anad’s head snapped up to find a metal catwalk stretching across the wide entryway.
Just visible from his angle was a single upraised sword, poised to strike, and something in Anad’s chest clenched. Another life was about to be lost. No, not lost – taken.
“No,” Anad growled, crouching slightly and then launching himself upward at the catwalk. His right hand touched the railing as he crested the six-story leap, guiding him over, just as the sword began its descent.
Fully within the Trance, Anad took the whole scene in before his feet even touched down. A Clocksmith on his right huddled on the ground with his arm shielding his face from the coming blow, though it would do no good against the Order-blessed blade, while the Mediator on his left grinned from ear to ear.
The sword came down almost in slow motion as Anad’s perfectly-polished shoes silently touched down on the catwalk and he thrust his left arm out. There were only two things in the known world that would reliably resist the cutting edge of a Mediator’s sword; another sword – or the cane-sheath that held them.
Clang, the sword sang as it met the immovable black cane in Anad’s hand, and both the Mediator and the Clocksmith turned shocked looks in his direction.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” the Mediator, Sir Bafalo asked, acid in his voice, but Anad barely heard him, his own eyes widening in surprise at the Clocksmith on the ground. The Clocksmith who looked impossibly familiar.
Older, of course, but it couldn’t be anybody but…
“Tel?” Anad whispered, but the Clocksmith had already turned and was scrambling away on all fours without really looking at Anad.
“Rookie!” Sir Bafalo roared, and Anad had no choice but to turn his attention back to the man on his left. “Explain yourself.”
“He’s no sorcerer,” Anad said. “None of them are. There’s no need to kill them.”
“I kill who I want to,” Sir Bafalo growled, his fingers whitening around the polished handle of his sword. “And I want to kill somebody right now, so you can either move out of the way or…”
Anad stepped into the center of the catwalk between Sir Bafalo and the Clocksmith, his sword still sheathed as he switched his cane over to his right hand. “The bloodshed ends here. It’s enough. We can stop.”
“No, we’re just getting started,” Sir Bafalo said, sliding his left foot back and then predictably lunging forward lightning quick.
Blade streaking straight for his neck, Anad stutter-stepped back and slapped the sword aside with a quick parry before bringing his cane up in a sabre-like guard position. Had that attack landed, it would’ve ripped his throat out. Sir Bafalo had just tried to kill him?
“You’re quick, rookie, I’ll give you that, but this is your last chance. We don’t suffer traitors,” Sir Bafalo said, resetting his feet and holding his blade parallel to the floor, tip pointed squarely at Anad’s face.
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“You’re the one who attacked me,” Anad said, but didn’t shift his position. He’d seen Sir Bafalo spar back at the garrison, and while the man was lightning-fast and accurate, he also only held firm to one style. His attacks were all thrusts and lunges meant to punch holes in his opponent, and Anad kept his cane nearly vertical but angled across his body. “Please don’t do this.”
“Oh, good. Begging, I was hoping we’d get to that,” Sir Bafalo said and charged in. Feet a blur as he advanced, crossing over and stuttering before lunging in, his blade lanced out once, twice, three, four times. Again and again, it came as Anad withdrew, his wrist barely shifting to change the angle of his cane and push the attacks aside.
Left, right, left, and Anad parried yet another strike at his left side, then riposted with a snap of his wrist that brought the tip of his cane down on Sir Bafalo’s exposed wrist with a sharp crack.
“Gyah,” Sir Bafalo snarled and retreated, shaking his hand to stave off the pain, and glared daggers at Anad.
Without the Trance, or the magic of the tuxedo, the blow would’ve shattered a normal person’s bones, but the Mediator shrugged it off and once again took up his fighting stance.
“Really, please stop this,” Anad said again more forcefully, his cane back in a cross-body guard.
“That’s it, rookie, keep begging,” Sir Bafalo snapped and charged in again.
Another left, right, left combo; the man must’ve been too used to overwhelming his opponents with the speed of the Trance, and Anad simply stepped back and parried. As the next left came in yet again, Anad slapped it aside and then thrust his cane straight out into Sir Bafalo’s sternum at the same instant the man lunged in.
Whomp, the cane drove into the Mediator’s chest, aided by the man’s own momentum, and Sir Bafalo’s feet momentarily left the ground before the force of Anad’s thrust tossed him back.
Anad didn’t give chase, instead bringing his guard back up, while Sir Bafalo scrambled to maintain his balance. Sword in one hand, cane-sheath in the other, he windmilled his arms until he got his feet underneath him, then leaned forward with his left hand coming to his chest.
His breath came in raspy gasps and pain etched his way across his face, only to be replaced with a burning anger when he looked up at Anad. The Trance and tuxedo had saved his life, but if he didn’t have at least a cracked rib or two, he was beyond lucky.
“Last chance,” Anad said, done with requests. “If you stop now, we can forget this ever…”
“Raaaaaah!” Sir Bafalo shouted, frustration ripping its way through his lungs and out his mouth, and he came on in a fury of thrusts. His footwork was messy, his attacks without their previous edge, but he made up for it in sheer volume.
Left, right, left, left, over and over he came – didn’t he know anything else? – right, left, left, right. Enough. With the next left, Anad parried then stepped in and whipped his cane around in a prise de fer. Binding Sir Bafalo’s blade with his cane and sweeping it far out to the right where it was little threat, Anad stepped in again and brought his left hand across in a hook that slammed into Sir Bafalo’s face and twisted him to the side.
Dazed and off-balance, Sir Balafo staggered hard into the railing, his sword falling from fingers weakened by the earlier blow to the wrist to clatter on the catwalk. His cane-sheath dropped when Anad punched him, Sir Bafalo’s other hand groped for anything to steady himself. He missed. And as his legs buckled underneath him, he slipped out into the empty air high above the blood-soaked lobby floor.
“Aaaaah,” Sir Bafalo screamed in panic, the fall enough to injure, possibly even kill a Mediator, before Anad grabbed him by the collar and hurled him back onto the catwalk.
Careful to put himself between Sir Bafalo and his fallen sword, Anad leveled his cane at the man. “We’re done,” he said.
“Done? When I tell Sir Reghald that…” Sir Bafalo started.
“That you attacked me with a bare blade?” Anad interrupted. “Please, do tell him. I’d be happy to explain what happened after that. And I’m sure the others would get a good laugh hearing how a rookie put you on your ass.”
Sir Bafalo scowled at Anad from where he sat on the catwalk, his left hand against his chest, and spit out a glob of blood. “I won’t forget this, rookie.”
“Neither will I,” Anad said, backing up while keeping his eye on Sir Bafalo. Three steps and he hooked the toe of his shoe under the other Mediator’s sword, then nonchalantly gave it a little kick over the side of the catwalk. “Oops. Looks like your sword fell down below,” Anad said, followed by the distinct schunk of the blade embedding itself in the stone floor. “I bet there’s a staircase behind you somewhere if you want to go down and get it.”
Sir Bafalo grabbed onto the railing beside him with his right hand and hauled himself to his feet, a pained groan escaping his lips at the same time. Another pained grunt as he picked up his fallen cane-sheath, he turned a scowl in Anad’s direction. This one didn’t come with a promise of retribution though, and the older man turned and limped towards the hallway.
Anad took one calming breath, and then another, and finally lowered his cane when Sir Bafalo rounded a corner in the distance.
Yeah, no way he was going to get out of this one without getting in trouble. He couldn’t just stand by and let the man murder the Clocksmith in cold blood…
The Clocksmith!
“Tel?” Anad asked again, turning back the way the Clocksmith had gone. Could it really be Tel? After all these years? But the man wasn’t on the catwalk anymore, and after a quick glance to make sure Sir Bafalo wasn’t coming back, Anad walked in the only direction Tel could’ve gone.
The catwalk led to another stone hallway, which went straight for twenty feet, then did a sharp turn to the left, and ended in a huge, closed, metal door. One that made the front door look like something used to keep a dog out.
There seemed to be some kind of dials on the front of the door, as well as a heavy wheel. The dials turned smoothly under Anad’s fingers, though they didn’t do anything, but the wheel was stuck firmly in place. Even his Trance-induced strength didn’t budge it.
A quick look around, there were no other possible exits from the room, and Anad took another look at the door.
“Tel, what did you get yourself into?”