Valor and Violence

“What a tosser,” Ban huffed, glaring at the guardsman behind them as he strolled beside Calris. Ahead of them, locals thronged the busy market street, vendors hawking wares from rickety stalls while affluent citizens ambled between them. Even for a port city, the goods on display were varied, ranging from pottery to exotic fruits and local tobacco smoking devices that resembled stained glass lamps. Grubby street urchins darted through it all, playing tag, while despondent and largely ignored beggars dressed in rags implored passers-by for their charity. The crowd parted agonisingly slowly before them, and Calris’ already dark mood worsened.

With the High Mage gone, the arsehole guardsman had the marines travelling well in front of the cart as bait, and to say Calris was unimpressed would be an understatement. The crush of bodies just made things worse, the crowds kicking up dust and blocking his field of vision. At this rate, they had no hope of spotting an ambush before it was sprung.

“Seriously though, such a tosser,” Ban continued, “Not like I want to be here either, I’ll add. I’d much rather be back at the tavern with Felicia.”

Calris nodded absently as he scanned the crowd. “Absolutely agree. Wait, who is Felicia?”

“The lass on my lap before you head-butted Gaelon.”

“You know that’s not her actual name, right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s a working name.”

“Nonsense! Why would you say that?”

“Emrinthians don’t have Calandorian names, Ban. She was a working girl.”

“Mate, I’ll have you know it’s actually a common name around these parts.”

“Really? How many Felicias have you met?”

“Fifty percent of the people I’ve met down here are called Felicia.”

Calris stopped and turned to his friend. “Bullshit. How many people have you met?”

“Two. One if you don’t count the barkeep. The guardsmen don’t count because they’re arseholes.”

“And Ferez?” Calris asked, curious how he would justify this one.

“He strikes me as a bit of a world citizen, so I’m excluding him for the purposes of this discussion.”

Calris snorted. “Gods, you’re an idiot. She was a prostitute! And she must have been pretty desperate if she was willing to go you.”

“Piss off, she was a wonderful lady, and I’d probably be bringing her back home as my wife if you hadn’t ruined things. Although,” Ban paused to do a sweep of the crowd. “I guess it’ll be a moot point if we don’t survive the ambush.”

“There won’t be an ambush,” Calris replied as his unease, momentarily forgotten in their banter, returned in force. “This’ll go off without a hitch and then we’ll swing back via the tavern. First rounds on you with the coin you owe me. And while we’re there, maybe I’ll find Felicia and ask what her rates are,” he said with a half-hearted chuckle.

“Your lips say no, but your eyes say, ‘I’m expecting an ambush any second’.”

“Only because I’m a professional. Just because nothing is going to happen doesn’t mean I won’t be ready when it does.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You know what I mean. Besides-”

Calris stopped, his expression darkening as he noticed a silent exodus around them.

“Shit. The beggars are leaving.”

He scanned the windows and rooftops as the beggars lining the road faded away into alleys or through doorways. Though the citizenry continued milling about as though nothing was amiss, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Beggars always had their fingers on the pulse in places like this. If they were making scarce, it was probably a good idea to do the same.

Calris turned to tell the cart driver to go back. He caught the driver’s attention, the man raising his eyebrows in a question, before a crossbow bolt appeared in the side of his head. He tipped over, sprawling across the driver’s bench, the reins slipping from his limp fingers. For a moment, everything froze; the citizens, the vendors and even the guardsmen.

And then someone screamed, and the spell was broken.

The crowd burst to life, terrified citizens rushing to escape the murder scene, trampling stalls and each other in a blind panic.

“Ambush!” Calris yelled, elbowing his way through the crowd as four cloaked figures leapt from windows and doorways, swarming the cart.

“Ban! We have to hurry!” Calris yelled as the guardsmen leapt to meet the attackers, the sound of steel on steel ringing through the street. As he finally broke free of the crowd, however, a fifth figure stepped out of the shadows to meet him. Underneath the cowl, Calris could just make out the pale skin and slender features of an Aderathian.

You’re a long way from home.

Calris twirled his spear and slowed to a jog, a smile creeping onto his face. He would never pass up the opportunity to cross blades with the ancestral enemy, but over the man’s shoulder he could see the guardsmen battling on.

They were skilled fighters, but their weapons were cumbersome in the narrow street, well suited to pitched battles, or mages probably, but the unarmoured men they faced wielded long, wicked knives and danced around just out of reach. They were isolating the two armoured warriors while a crossbowman waited for a clear shot nearby.

They were fighting on borrowed time.

“Ban! Get in there and even the odds. I’ll be along soon.”

Ban nodded and shot past, the hooded figure watching impassively before turning back to Calris. As they started to circle each other, the marine eyed him, trying to gauge his worth. He wore a black cloak and carried a pair of long fighting knives, the same as most of the other assailants. Going off his equipment and bearing, he was probably a gang enforcer or assassin. No match for a professional soldier in a straight fight.

Calris lunged with a roar, thrusting his javelin at the assassin’s heart. The blow wasn’t meant to connect, but to gauge his reflexes. As expected, the cloaked figure effortlessly parried and spun inside Calris’ guard.

His speed, however, was not expected. Calris was already leaping back as the assassin struck, and this foresight saved his life as the assassin turned into a blur and struck. There was a rush of wind at his throat as the knife missed its mark by a whisper. Calris stumbled and cursed, losing his balance and swinging his javelin in a desperate arc to buy some space, but the assassin ducked the wild swing and backed away, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face.

As he stared at it, Caris’ blood started boiling. The bastard was toying with him, trying to get him riled up or savour the kill or both. His pulse pounded in his ears and every muscle went taut, ready to tear that asshole limb from limb.

Easy now. Remember what Sarge said.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to remain calm. He was a professional soldier; cheap tricks wouldn’t work on him and losing his head with an opponent like this would see him, very literally, lose his head. Having said that, though, there was something else at play here. The Aderathian’s speed was beyond remarkable. It was supernatural, and the fight had nearly ended before it began.

Gritting his teeth, he darted in again, thrusting through thin air as the man stepped past the weapon, returning a strike of his own at Calris’ heart. He was ready this time, and he twisted away from the blow, letting the assassin’s momentum carry him forward. The knife tagged his jerkin but failed to penetrate as he swung his javelin, aiming a blunt strike to the side of the man’s head. It passed through thin air once again, but this time Calris knew why.

The assassin, dissolved, into a puddle of black smoke, the shaft cutting harmlessly through, before he reformed and unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Magic.

“You tricky bastard,” Calris grunted as he parried with the haft of his weapon, “that’s very unsportsmanlike.”

The assassin didn’t respond as he burst into smoke again, this time re-materializing on Calris’ flank, knives darting, that fucking grin still firmly in place.

Fool me once, arsehole.

The grin disappeared as Calris jammed the blunt end of his javelin into the man’s solar plexus, checking his attack, before driving a kick into his chest that sent him flying.

“Neat magic trick, friend, but you can’t attack until you’ve reformed, right?” Calris asked as he approached, javelin resting on his shoulder. The man writhed on the ground, moaning, before rolling onto his stomach and throwing up on the ground. “Painful, isn’t it?”

The assassin’s magical abilities definitely gave him an inherent advantage, but Calris had already figured out his attack patterns.

Guess the grumpy old bastard had a point after all? Calris thought, reflecting on his sergeant’s advice.

The man glared up at a smiling Calris as he struggled to regain his feet, shaking hands holding his knives out between them. Not that it would do much if Calris decided to end things then and there, but he had just accused this bloke of being unsportsmanlike, so it wouldn’t do to finish him while he knelt in the dirt. Calris settled back and whistled at the assassin, gesturing him back to his feet.

Indignation and anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “You should have finished me when you had the chance,” he spat.

The assassin burst into smoke, reappearing mid leap, knives flashing as Calris thrust. The assassin didn’t complete his reformation before dissolving again, reappearing and striking at Calris’ flank. The marine cursed and rolled to the side, his javelin lancing out as he came to his feet, only to find empty space before him.

His eyes widened when he felt the knife pierce his side, hissing in pain as the blade tore his flesh. He threw a blind elbow, guessing at the assassin’s location, a strangled yelp his reward as it connected. Side burning and wet, he stumbled back, exploring the wound with his fingers before tugging the knife free with a grim smile. The fates had been kind and a stud on his jerkin had absorbed the blow, turning the blade and preventing it from penetrating deep enough to be lethal. Sepsis could always do him in later, but for now he was still in this fight.

Barely. But those were the best kinds of fight, weren’t they?

“Why do you smile, Calandorian?” the assassin asked in his thick accent as he massaged his jaw.

“Because I’m enjoying myself, of course,” Calris replied as he pulled a dressing from his belt and hastily bound the wound. It was bleeding profusely, but with a grunt, Calris drove the cloth in deep, the bandage rapidly swelling as it absorbed his blood and made an imperfect seal in the wound.

“Yet your blood coats my blade.”

“It is but a scratch.”

“The next one won’t be.”

“Well… Let’s just see, shall we?”

Calris held out his hand, now covered in his own blood, and beckoned the assassin. The Aderathian chuckled and spat out a glob of blood as he drew another knife. He looked like he was finally getting serious.

They charged.

The assassin was fast and skilled, striking repeatedly and without pause, every time from a different angle. Calris spun on his feet, evading and counter-striking, with his weapon where he could, or with fists and feet where he couldn’t. Blood and sweat painted the ground as they circled and thrust, parried and jabbed, both men sporting a dozen cuts and nicks apiece, but neither able to land a decisive blow.

Calris’ heart sang as he fought. The blood pounding through his veins made him feel alive, and no sight or sound found his eyes or ears but the thunder of his pulse and this strange assassin. Calris’ grin widened and turned savage.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had fought an opponent so dangerous.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive!

He didn’t want it to end.

But, deep down, he knew he had to finish it soon. His lungs and limbs burned, and he would start slowing down soon, while the assassin was as fast as ever. The fight would go downhill fast if he didn’t break the stalemate.

He thrust, letting the javelin go as the assassin parried it. He shot forward, barehanded, and grabbed the assassin’s free wrist with one hand and his throat with the other. The assassin gave a strangled cry, eyes widening, as Calris smashed his forehead into their face, then swept their legs and choke slammed them into the dirt.

Calris fell atop him, but exhaustion slowed his hand as he tried to drag his sword from its sheath, and the assassin threw a desperate swing. The attack was wild but still struck Calris’ helmet with enough force to knock him to the ground. Pain lanced through his skull and shadows swam in his vision as he rolled away, feeling dirt spray the side of his face as the assassin’s follow up attack missed by a hair.

He scrambled to his feet, too quickly, and fell to a knee again as his vision dimmed.

“Good hit, mate,” he muttered, tasting copper in his mouth where his teeth had split the inside of his cheek. He took a moment to breathe, the assassin doing the same on the ground before him as they glared at each other. He wasn’t usually one for a breather in the middle of battle, but Calris needed the break and, from the look of him, so did the assassin.

His cloak was dishevelled, the cowl having fallen back to reveal a classical Aderathian face, all high cheekbones and imperious distaste framed by shoulder length ebon hair, now plastered across his face with sweat and blood. A strange charm hung around his neck, fashioned from some brassy metal Calris didn’t recognise.

His eyes narrowed. It was a curious trinket, resembling a fanged maw, and a faint blackish-green aura flickered around its edges. Calris had heard tales of magic items, but he had never seen one before. No one in the company had, except maybe the sergeant or the captain. They were supposed to be rare.

“Hold on,” Calris said, slowly regaining his feet, “you aren’t a mage at all, are you?”

“I never said I was.”

“I think that’s cheating,” Calris said dryly, pinching a nostril closed with his thumb and snorting congealed blood and dirt from the other. The sudden pressure in his head sent pain shooting through his skull again, and he nearly passed out.

Bloody sand.

“There is no cheating in battle. Only winners and losers. And you were fated to be the loser when you woke up this morning,” the assassin said as he stood, clearly building up momentum for a monologue. “That brutish little manoeuvre of yours caught me by surprise I’ll admit, but it’s a, how do you say? One trick donkey. It will not work again. The amulet I bear is unique! Its power is vast! And combined with my elite skills as a Guild assassin-”

“By. The. Pantheon! Shut up! Fucking Aderathians.” Calris grumbled as he stumbled forward. “Shut your mouth and fight before I run my sword through it!”

Calris could hear the slur in his voice, though from a concussion or just exhaustion he didn’t know. He would have liked a few more moments, just to breathe, but the assassin had been getting on a roll and Calris, bloodied and bruised as he was, did not have the patience to listen. The assassin scowled and sunk back into his fighting stance, poised for the final exchange that would decide their fates. Calris tensed, prepared to strike, and recoiled as the Aderathian burst into flame, disintegrating before his very eyes. Calris stumbled back from the heat, throwing his hands up to shield his face.

“What…” he mumbled, turning his head and finding Ferez in the middle of the street, hand outstretched, face terrible and awesome. The mage’s robes whipped chaotically from the wind gusting off the pillar of flame, and the power emanating from him was almost palpable. He turned to face Calris when there was nothing left of the assassin but a blackened pile of ashes.

“Calris, are you alright?” he asked, eyeing the marine’s wounds with concern.

“I’m fine, Ferez,” Calris replied, still in a bit of a daze, “but… the others?”

“They seem to be finishing up.”

Calris turned. One guardsman was down, the rude one from what he could tell, a bolt piercing the mail skirt at his neck, eyes open and unseeing. The assassin who killed him lay on his back in the dirt, his head cleaved in two by one of Ban’s axes, and beside him, the surviving guardsman was pulling his halberd from another’s body. Ban was a few metres away, the last assassin present struggling in his iron grip, the marine’s second axe lodged in his femur. There was a grunt, a squeeze, and a loud snap, and the hapless killer went limp. Ban dumped the body to the ground, gave Calris a grin and a double thumbs up, then planted his boot on the corpse and started working his weapon free. The final assassin was nowhere to be seen.

Must have cut and run when he realised they were fucked.

Ferez strode past Calris, sorrow etched on his face, and crouched by the dead guardsman, who Calris now felt somewhat bad about referring to as a tosser. The mage said a brief prayer and closed the man’s eyes before inspecting the dead cart driver.

“Asim, do you know who these men were?”

“I do not, High Mage,” the surviving guardsman replied as he delicately gathered his fallen comrade in his arms and placed him in the back of the cart. It was clear from the way he moved he felt the loss of his comrade keenly. That was something Calris could relate to.

He limped over and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder in a way he hoped was comforting. The guardsman turned, surprise in his eyes, before they softened, and he nodded in thanks. Satisfied that he had done something nice for once, Calris collapsed against the cart, his hurts growing as the adrenaline burned out in his system.

“Hey, Ferez,” he said, trying to breathe through the pain and fatigue. “The one you turned into a Sunday roast said something about being a Guild assassin, if that helps?”

Ferez swore under his breath. “It does, though this is not good news.”

“Well, there’s more you may be interested in, then,” Calris continued, groaning as he lifted himself back up and hobbled over to the pile of ash that had been a man until a few seconds ago. He crouched and sifted through the remains, stirring up the fine grains until his fingers brushed something cold and metal. Grunting, he stood back up, the assassin’s magical medallion dangling from his fingers. “He was also wearing this.”

It was covered in bits of burnt Aderathian, but beyond that was undamaged. If anything, the surrounding aura appeared stronger than before, and Calris swore he could hear a faint thrum emanating from it. Ferez hurried over, hand outstretched.

“Show that to me.”

Calris handed the chain over and the old mage held it to his face, eyebrows knitted together, the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl.

“It seems we have earned the attentions of the Guild Master himself,” he muttered.

“Sir, are you certain?” the guardsman called Asim asked, stepping forward to inspect the medallion as well. “Guild assassins frequently freelance or organise themselves.”

“The letter I received was a trap, Asim. My associate was already dead when I arrived at his shop, and three Guild assassins were waiting for me.”

From somewhere behind them, Calris heard a surprised grunt, and he turned to find Ban rummaging through the pockets of the dead.

“Ban. Really?”

“What? I’m looking for intelligence.”

“I can see the coins in your hand. Have some decorum.”

Ban mockingly mouthed the words back at him but dutifully retracted his hands from the dead man’s pockets. Didn’t put the money back, though.

“So, Fez,” Ban said, standing and dusting his hands off on his pants, “you killed three assassins by yourself with time to spare to get back here and save our hides too?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Mostly just impressed.”

“Ah, well, thank you for the compliment, Ban, but this isn’t my first run in with the Guild. My suspicions aren’t just due to the numbers involved or the organisation of the attack, either. This medallion is further proof. I will explain later, though, for now we must hurry. Calris, I see you are wounded, and I hate to ask, but will you stay with us? With one of my guardsmen dead, we will be vulnerable until we reach my tower.”

Calris felt shattered. The fight with the lone assassin had taken more out of him than the entire battle at sea.

Literally.

He grimaced at the blood coating his hands. He wasn’t in much of a shape to fight right now, he needed to get back to the ship’s infirmary and get the wound cleaned before infection set in. However, as Ferez waited expectantly for an answer, Ban leant into Calris’ ear.

“Fifteen silvers says we get attacked again before Six Cities.”

“Fuck off Ban,” Calris hissed back. “And no worries, sir. We don’t leave a job half finished.”