Erwell grunted, catching a blow on his cross guard, then snagged his assailant by the collar and slammed his forehead against the bastard’s nose. The man’s head snapped back, and Erwell plunged his sword through the clavicular notch, his opponent crumpling like a scarecrow robbed of its timber supports.

He stepped back a pace, chest heaving as he flicked the blood from his blade. The corpse joined the three others scattered through the clearing. Well, probably three others, Oliver was currently kneeling atop one, going to town with an empty wine bottle in one hand and his stool in the other. Judging from the mess, and the stolen sword protruding from the unfortunate’s belly, Erwell was fairly confident it was a corpse.

They had been running from skirmish to skirmish for the past week, never lasting more than a half a day before encountering another scouting party. Although they had tried to make for the rendezvous at Stonegrove, the net had been cast to drive them further into the mountains.

Erwell didn’t know how much longer they could last, being hounded through the bush like hares pursued by Dalion’s beaters. He collapsed onto the ground, eyes staring off into nothing as he waited for his breathing to settle.

“On your feet, Captain. Check the dead for food, water, anything useful. I want to be moving again within the minute,” Oliver said, retrieving the sword from his victim and affixing it to his belt. He gave a soft cheer as he rifled through the rest of the man’s stuff and found a hip flask, but the cheer turned into a curse when it turned out to be empty. He tossed it away with a disgusted groan and moved onto the next corpse.

“You know, Oliver,” Erwell said, standing with a wince as his stiff body protested the movement. “You’re handling this much better than I expected.”

Oliver paused long enough to fix Erwell with a hard stare, before he shrugged and resumed searching. “The flesh remembers, even if the brain forgets. Been quite a few years since I’ve done field work like this, but it’s all coming back to me.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“More times than I can count. Pit, it was my wetwork specialty. Targets in their castles, or mansions, or wherever else, are hard to reach. Surrounded by solid walls and well-established security. But make yourself a target, draw them into the wilds, and they become vulnerable.”

“You know, if you had revealed this skill set earlier, we might have avoided this predicament.”

“Like I said, it took a little while to come back. Besides, I was retired from this shit. Things were never meant to go this far. Get the proof, get out. Let the young uns wrap up the loose ends. But no, you had to go and screw it all up.”

“We didn’t have many options.”

“We could have scapegoated Olic.”

This again.

Since going on the run, Oliver had taken every opportunity to complain that the entire debacle could have been avoided if they had just sacrificed Olic. Turned him in as a ‘deserter’ back at Stonegrove, publicly denied his claim that the company had been wiped out, and laid Jimmy’s death at his feet as a vicious and tragic murder.

Erwell stood, his grip tightening around his sword hilt. “I’ve already told you that was never an option. I am done discussing it.”

Oliver looked at him, then down at the weapon. He scowled and went back to rummaging. “Put that thing away, Captain. What’s done is done. No sense coming to blows over it.”

“There wouldn’t have been many blows.”

Oliver scoffed and shook his head. “No, there wouldn’t have. If you didn’t toe the line, I would have murdered you and Groth in your sleep and done the job myself. Like I said, too late for that now.”

That was too far. Erwell jumped forward, snatching Oliver by the collar and spinning him around, his blade’s tip pressed against the spymaster’s throat.

“You’re gleefully hopping, skipping and jumping across the line that separates ally from enemy, Oliver. You don’t want to be my enemy.”

“Boy, I’ve put scarier men than you in the ground. Now put that fucking sword away before I make you.”

“You so much as twitch, and I’ll run you through.”

“Alright then, let’s see how this plays out,” Oliver said, staring at Erwell over the cold steel blade between them. He stared. And stared. And stared some more, while Erwell fought a war in his head over whether to kill the bastard. After a full minute had elapsed, Oliver’s face twisted into a mask of contempt.

“Is this really your brilliant plan, Captain? Stand here like this until the next scouting group catches us? You’re truly a tactical genius.”

“Maybe I’ll just kill you and be done with it?”

“You already would have by now, if you were willing. A shame, really. If you had the balls to run me through, maybe you would’ve had the guts to finish this task on your own. But you don’t. You’re too soft for the fate of the realm to be riding on your shoulders.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“It’s not soft to cherish the lives of your own.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I will not compromise my values for your convenience!” Erwell roared, spittle painting Oliver’s face. The spymaster didn’t even flinch.

“And that’s why you won’t kill me. Make no mistake, Captain, our countrymen number among our enemies. If we don’t win this contest, the entire realm could fall. Your morals will be scant comfort when you see the nation you swore to protect brought to ruin, its people crushed and enslaved.”

“I can stop this without casting aside what I believe in,” Erwell said, his voice mirroring the steel in his grip. Oliver cocked his head a little and grunted, then hooked a finger over the sword tip and pushed it away.

“We will see. But know this; If I feel you can’t, ever again, I will do what’s needed. For victory.”

When Erwell let the sword drop to his side, Oliver turned and walked off, angling once more for the mountain peaks in the distance.

“Spymaster,” Erwell called. Oliver stopped and faced him, his expression thoroughly bored.

“What now?”

“You played the part of an incompetent bureaucrat back in Stonegrove.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been playing a part for me and Groth too, haven’t you?”

A silent glare answered the question.

“Who are you? Really?”

Oliver turned and kept walking.

*

The two men scrambled, arrows bouncing off the stone around them as they clambered up the rocky slope. Though, really, it was more like a cliff face, Erwell and Oliver reduced to scrambling on hands and feet as their pursuers rained missiles on them. Apparently, the cowards were unwilling to risk their own lives on the treacherous slope.

Not that they needed to.

“Gods damnit, Oliver! You led us into a dead end!” Erwell shouted as an arrow struck the stone inches from his face. Their pursuers had found them just before sunrise, far too many to fight this time, and the spymaster had led their retreat right into this sheer wall of stone.

“It’s not a dead end. Just keep climbing. We’re nearly there!” Oliver replied, his pace steady despite the rasping rattle of his breath and the agony twisting his features. Erwell shook his head and redoubled his efforts.

If nothing else, he had to admire Oliver’s newfound mental endurance. The man was a fair few years his senior, and obviously out of shape from years of drinking and eating in relative comfort, but he still kept going, sheer doggedness driving his limbs. He would need to pay that debt soon, though. Erwell just hoped they were somewhere safe when the spy finally collapsed.

He reached the top of the cliff a few moments before Erwell, hauling himself over and, surprisingly, turning to extend a hand to the marine. Erwell grunted his thanks as Oliver dragged him over the lip, both men collapsing on their backs while their breathing settled and the burning in their forearms subsided.

After a few seconds, Erwell sat up and took in his surroundings. They were on a ledge, maybe a couple of metres deep and three or four wide, the cliff face resuming on the far side in a completely sheer wall of stone. What he couldn’t see was any viable way back down.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a dead end?” he asked, too exhausted to be angry anymore.

“Stow the attitude. This is fine. I have it handled,” Oliver said, sitting up as his eyelids fluttered from fatigue.

“How is this handled? We’re stuck up here with no food, no water, and no escape routes.”

Oliver grumbled but otherwise ignored him, unhooking the stool from his belt and flipping it over in his hand. He fiddled with the legs until one of them came free. He held it up in front of his face, eyes narrowed as he inspected it. After a second, he grunted and pointed it to the sky.

“What the Pit are you up to now?” Erwell asked, before a plume of flame erupted from the end of the leg, shooting in a narrow stream high into the sky. A wry grin appeared on Oliver’s face as he refitted it to the stool.

“I’m assuming there is a valid reason you’ve been carting around a Resonance Item? And waited until now to reveal it? And in a manner that inflicted precisely zero casualties on the men trying to kill us?”

“Of course, Erwell. Don’t insult my intelligence or make me doubt yours further.”

“So, what did that achieve?”

“It was a call for help. I’ve some friends in the area who should have seen it.”

“Friends?” Erwell asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you had any.”

“Eh,” Oliver replied, making a seesaw motion with his hand. “They’re more like professional acquaintances, if I’m being honest. Just keep us alive until they get here.”

“That’s hardly an answer, Oliver! I want to know- oh, and there he goes,” Erwell sighed as Oliver keeled over, his head bouncing as it smacked against the ledge. With a groan, the marine crawled over to check him. Alive, for now. Just passed out.

“Because of course you’ll leave me to do the heavy lifting,” Erwell muttered as he climbed to his feet and drew his sword. The sound of falling rocks and quiet cursing betrayed climbers approaching the ledge. It was a bold move. There was no way they had missed the stream of magical fire, but after such a display, they would need to eyeball the situation.

Erwell frowned and scratched the stubble covering his chin, his eyes narrowed in the noise’s direction. They were being awfully unsubtle considering, from their perspective, there might be a fire mage up here.

So if the distraction climber is there, then that means…

He turned, regarding the far side of the ledge, then strolled over, crouching just short of the lip. Sure enough, a hand appeared, followed by a pair of beady eyes. They went wide as the bandit found Erwell’s boot careening through the air towards him. It crunched against his face, teeth shattering and blood spraying as he was thrown off the cliff, screaming as he plummeted to the ground. Erwell quickly scanned the face, confirming it was unoccupied, then sprinted to the other edge, making it in time to boot another bandit scrambling over the lip.

As their second comrade screamed his way down the slope, two more hauled themselves onto the ledge before Erwell could stop them. They drew steel and charged, roaring their bloody intent.

It sounded a little tired, though. And Wheezy. They roared tired, wheezy, bloody intent.

Poor bastards are buggered from the climb, Erwell thought as he easily parried the first blow, turning the stumbling bandit into the path of his companion and running them both through with a single thrust. Unfortunately, it’s quite difficult to fatally stab two people at once and the men dropped, shrieking and flailing.

One had a sword lengthways through his midsection, entering above one hip and exiting above the other, while the second had a gut wound, the tip of the blade scraping against his spine. Erwell grimaced and quickly slit their carotid arteries to hurry them on their way.

When he was satisfied they were dead, he strode to the edge and glared at the men clustered below. Dalion was there, his rapier raised in a mock salute.

“Well done, mio amico!” he called up. “I expected no less! But it seems we are at an impasse. I wonder, though, which of us has time on their side?”

To answer his own question, Dalion gestured to one of his men, who produced a water canteen and loaf of bread. Erwell ignored the pang in his own stomach as he turned, retreating from the ledge. He did his best to ignore the duelist’s obnoxious laughter filling the air behind him.