I took careful aim down the barrel of my gun, and squeezed off a quick burst of shots.

The gun itself was very, very different from how the dwarves had designed theirs. They had taken a crossbow's wooden shoulder-stock and simply replaced the prods of the bow with a big iron tube, whose trigger was just a lever that would touch a slow-burning match to a flash-pan full of powder on the side of the barrel, whose ignition would lead to the ignition of the main charge inside.

What I had done was take the barrel, wrapped it in a shroud of carefully-bent sheet metal so I didn't risk touching the hot barrel, and gave it a one-handed grip with a mechanical trigger that held back the internal spring-loaded blasting hammer, along with a grip for my other hand in the form of the detachable magazine, and a shoulder stock that had been made from thin strips of plate steel riveted together so they could pivot and fold up when not in use. It could be used easily in one hand, but also with two hands, and/or braced against my shoulder, for better accuracy and stability.

I had also taken the liberty of installing a set of sights on the top of the barrel, so I could more easily line up accurate shots. I'd stop needing it once I got really good with this thing, but that'd take years, so it wasn't exactly a waste of time to install them now.

"C'mon, Maxwell," I called out after I stopped shooting. "Fight me like a man, don't just run like a dog."

It was a little depressing, just how accustomed people were to fighting in the streets. Everyone hurried inside, shuttered their windows, and generally tried to be anywhere that wasn't 'near a running fight between a thief and a pissed-off elf with a gun.'

For my part, I tried to make sure there wasn't anyone alive in the path of my bullets, and so kept my aim low, gunning for Maxwell's tires and feet. I didn't have high hopes of hitting said tires and feet, not unless that would somehow make things interesting, but at least it made me feel like I was trying to accomplish something.

"How stupid do you think I am?!" Maxwell yelled, darting down a tight alley I'd never fit my own bike into, earning himself a few seconds of respite as I had to ride all the way around the building. As much as I was faster than him on my bike, I had to admit he still had some kind of advantage, here. You didn't become the King of Thieves by being a complete clown who had zero good options when a novice Mage-Knight tries to kill you. You needed at least three, including divine magic that he wasn't skilled enough in spellcasting to use while riding an enchanted bicycle. A common problem, that, but hey, look who'd been trained from birth to ride with such ease that he could cast spells while riding.

Not that I would cast such spells. Not now, anyway- I'm damn near out of magicka.

"You don't want me to answer that," I said, because hey, why not trash talk this guy? After all, if he realizes my position isn't as secure as he thinks, then he might try something dangerous.

The waterfront district was also sometimes known as the warehouse district, what with all the many, many warehouses that got built near the docks. And with the warehouses around came a lot of clutter on the streets, like empty crates repurposed as a street vendor's stall, or an empty cart with a ramp down the back.

And so when Maxwell deftly wove through a tightly-packed crowd, I simply shot the legs out from under one side of a cheap table and ramped over the crowd, trusting in my magic and also the pneumatic suspension of my bike to stick the landing. Sure, that vendor was probably upset about it, but I'd find him later and compensate him for his troubles.

"What happens next, Maxwell?" I asked, as I pulled up alongside the King of Thieves. "Are you just going to ride around the city until one of us collapses from exhaustion, or I finally manage to shoot you? I know you're not stupid enough to run from an elf in the forest."

He threw a knife at me, and I slammed the brakes to dodge it, letting it whizz right past my nose.

"Of course he's got knives," I muttered, letting off on the brakes but still letting him lead me so I wasn't in a convenient knife-throwing position. "A Thief always has knives."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"He's got at least twenty three more throwing knives up his sleeves," Volex said.

"Mother of fuck," I muttered. "And now he's remembered he can throw those at me."

He threw another knife at me, this time back over his shoulder, and I had to duck and weave to the side, and then again as he threw a third knife.

"Twenty one knives."

"You don't have to keep count, darling."

We left the warehouse district, moving into a more residential area, where the working poor and their families lived, sending their kids to school and working at either factories or the many shops dotting the streets. The next knife Maxwell threw, I actually caught, nicking my fingers a little in the process. But better me than the kids playing in the street behind me, who didn't have anything to do with this.

"People live here, you asshole!" I yelled out.

"People live everywhere!" Maxwell yelled back, before throwing another knife and swerving down an alley between apartment buildings.

I followed after him, and thankfully, he also didn't want to try and fight in this neighborhood, because now we were heading back towards the river, this time into the Guild district, where the various Guilds were headquartered. Even the Thieves' Guild, which you'd think would be hidden away, what with being an obvious and well-known criminal cartel and all, had a public headquarters here, because nobody could afford to offend the God of Thieves that much.

Still, I could do my best to herd him away from the Thieves' Guild headquarters- using my speed to get ahead of him, and in his way, before he could turn towards his home base, and just deal with the knives.

"Out of my way!" Maxwell yelled, trying to get around me, and being blocked at every point.

"No," I said, before leaning out of the way of his thrown knife, and leaning over to drive the one I'd caught into his thigh.

He screamed, and turned the other way, heading away from the Thieves' Guild building, but I was fully prepared to keep following him. Lucky him, he doesn't need to pedal that thing; if he tried that with a knife in his leg, he'd be screaming even louder.

He led me deeper and deeper into the Guild District, but strangely, he didn't seem to be heading for the Thieves' Guild anymore. There were too many other Guilds that he could be heading for instead, but I was pretty sure none of them would give him any more sanctuary than they had to; nobody liked the Thieves' Guild, only tolerated them.

Huh. That's the Fighter's Guild building. Why's he turning here? I turned the corner a second after him, just in time to see him ride up on some poor Fighter and steal their sword right off their hip, and I came to a stop.

Maxwell wheeled his own bike around, coming to a stop at the other end of the block, stolen sword in hand.

"So, it's come to this," I said.

"It ends here," Maxwell said, snarling.

I called a new weapon to my hand- not my gun, but a rope, with a slipped loop at one end. A lasso, as the cowboys on the frontier called it.

Without another word, we both kicked ourselves into motion in an instant, him charging with a sword aiming for my neck, and myself with my lasso. I'd marked it for recall to my hand on a whim, later thinking it might be useful for climbing or setting a tripwire, but now, I was glad I had it, as I readied myself to throw it, occult insight flowing through my mind.

Our paths crossed for the last time. I let go of the handlebars, leaning all the way back under his outstretched blade... but he wasn't so lucky in dodging the rope.

I grabbed the other end of the rope, and opened the throttle all the way, speeding up even more, until the rope went taut, and then loose again, with a horrendous tearing sound. I let the magic guide my next move, as I jerked my bike sideways into a sliding stop, then let go of the rope and lifted my hand, closing it once again in the hair of Maxwell Tenpenny's messily-severed head.

"Well, Max, looks like you will live forever," I said quietly, holding his dripping head in my hand. "In history books and dime novels alike, as the first man ever killed by Joseph Ironheart." I pulled out the enchanted bag Mom had given me specifically for his head, and stored it away; I kept my promises, and I would not be leaving without his head for her to put on the mantel.

I eyed the Fighter that Maxwell had robbed, and watched him decide just how badly he wanted to hassle me about this. Discretion, it seemed, was the better part of valor, and he scurried inside. Still, I did just murder a man in the streets in broad daylight, so... I'd better get the fuck outta here.