Valor and Violence

Erwell pounded down the tunnel with his men at his back. It was still dark, but they paid no heed to the risk of tripping and falling. From the intensity of the sounds echoing toward them, this fight would be over one way or another, and soon.

Why was there a battle taking place in the mountain? Nothing he had encountered until now suggested a third faction. The surprise reveal of one presented either unmissable opportunity, or catastrophic complication.

He needed to know what was happening. Now.

Despite their best haste, though, the sounds quickly died down, ceasing entirely as the party burst out of the tunnel into a subterranean amphitheatre.

It was better lit in the cavern, thanks to the multitude of chimneys carved into the high roof arching a good forty metres above them. The stone was shaped into smooth curves at the edges, the walls stretching down to a level, circular floor about a hundred metres in diameter. Numerous tunnels on the far side led deeper, all of them far larger than the one they had just exited, though they were partially obscured by the mess of crates, carts, and tools strewn about.

“The Pit is this?” Oliver asked, shouldering his way to the front of the crowd.

“If I were to guess? Some sort of workshop,” Erwell replied, pointing to a row of furnaces arrayed against the far wall. “I think this is where they forged the Resonance Ore. Carted it down here in small lots and then built whatever they needed here. It would save them the effort of building expansive tunnels all the way from the surface.”

“Good, this means we are close!” Oliver replied, his voice almost giddy.

“Close to what, Spymaster?” Erwell replied, rounding on him.

Oliver settled, his eyes turning cold. “No doubt you’ll discover soon enough, Captain.”

Erwell’s hand drifted unconsciously to his sword, but before he could do anything with it, loud swearing from the far side of the arena drew his attention. The commotion came from a group of about thirty people stumbling out of a tunnel.

They were a ragged mix of Aderathian men-at-arms, Risim duelists and a few knights, all of them covered in dirt, sweat and blood. Based on the fact they were still moving, most of the blood had come from somewhere other than the men wearing it like a coat of paint. Dalion was at the head of the crowd, dragging a dead eyed Phillip by the scruff of the neck. He stopped, his eyes going wide as he spotted the Calandorians, but his surprise quickly gave way to rage.

“Because of course it had to be you, you miserable cur!” he shouted at Erwell as he strode into the room, the rest of his posse shaking out into a skirmishing formation behind him. “I would tell you to move aside, but to be honest? With the day I’m having, I’d much rather cut you down.”

Erwell grunted and drew his sword while his men did the same or hefted javelins, preparing for a fight, until Olive unexpectedly stepped between them, holding up a hand to stay the charge.

“Easy now, Dalion. These aren’t your regular fighters. They’re Calandorian Royal Marines. They’ll carve up your little group in a heartbeat if you force a brawl. But fortunately for you, I have an offer.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Erwell growled, too low for the foreigners to hear.

“We need him alive, Captain. I need to know what happened,” Oliver replied, still pointing a strained smile at their foes.

Dalion was having none of it, though. “You overestimate their chances of success, Mr. Primary-Sycophant-to-Whatever-Unimportant-Court-Dignitary!”

“Scathing rebuke there,” Groth helpfully shouted, prompting a few snickers from the gathered marines.

“Shut up! I would like to see you insult someone in a second language!”

“Mi dispiacerebbe ucciderti. Tua madre è la mia preferita prostitute, non voglio renderla triste!”

Dalion gasped. “Figlio di puttana!” he screamed, hoisting his rapier into the air and preparing to charge.

“Easy now! Easy!” Oliver shouted, trying to wrangle the escalating situation back under control.

“No! I will deliver death to you all, escape this accursed place and bury it all! Deep! Where no one will ever find it, or your corpses!”

He charged, his rag-tag band of fighters following, streaming around the scattered detritus like a pissed off river as they shrieked a motley assortment of battle cries.

“Sir,” Groth muttered, “what’s the plan?”

Erwell narrowed his eyes at Dalion before they slid to the mage being dragged along beside him. “The Terrian looks stunned, like he has battle shock. If he snaps out of it, though, he could cause a lot of damage. Keep Dalion busy while I deal with the mage,” he said before raising his voice to address the squads. “Work in pairs, draw them into gaps and cut them down one on one. Use your spears to keep your distance from the duelists and don’t let anyone get around your flanks. Squad leaders, make it happen!”

His men acknowledged the orders with a roar that reverberated through the cavern as they surged forward. Unlike the chaotic charge of the foreigners, though, the marines pulled up short, blocking off key access routes between the discarded equipment, establishing a cohesive defensive perimeter. There they waited, poised to deal death.

The mob fell upon them in a frenzy, war cries giving way to grunts, curses, and shrill screams as men died. Erwell, meanwhile, clambered onto a cart, searching for Dalion and Phillip.

He found them, the duelist dragging the mage around the outskirts of the battlefield, trying to get behind the Calandorian line.

“Groth! With me!” Erwell shouted as he leapt from his perch and chased after them. He weaved through the maze of abandoned boxes and carts, his blood pumping in his ears with the thrill of the chase. He was just a few twists and turns from his quarry when he rounded a corner and ran into a trio of knights. Literally. He bounced off the closest one, turning his stumble into a diving roll as a horizontal slice passed only inches above him. He flew to his feet and parried another sword strike, then threw himself aside as the final knight brought his mace down in a crushing overhead blow aimed at his head.

Shit, he thought as he backpedaled, giving ground before the unexpected onslaught of three armoured warriors. He was able to keep himself alive, barely, but it wouldn’t be long until they backed him into a-

Thunk.

He glanced behind him as his heel kicked against a crate the size of a small hut. That was less than ideal. He turned back to face the knights as they advanced, preparing a final, unified attack to finish him. With no room to manoeuvre, he had no hope of surviving.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his grip tightening on his sword. At least one of these bastards was coming with him. On some unspoken signal, they charged, their weapons raised, and Erwell snarled, determined to sink his blade into a neck or armpit before he died. The knights loomed, filling his vision, swords and the mace glinting with reflected light and then… disappeared in a blur as someone barrelled into their flank, a bundle of muscle and rage bowling them to the floor.

“I’ve got these arseholes, sir,” Olic said as he picked himself up off the floor, “but I think the Sergeant Major could use a hand.” The corporal’s faced was flushed, a wicked grin complementing the excitement blazing in his eyes.

The knights clambered to their feet with surprising speed for such heavily armoured warriors. Erwell moved to help, but the marine just shouted “Now!” and hurled himself at the Aderathians. A boot to the chest sent one knight flying as Olic grabbed another, hoisting the struggling fighter off the floor and hurling him at the last bloke still standing. Erwell tried not to gape at the sight. He knew the corporal was a big man, but the way he manhandled these armoured knights was almost unbelievable.

A cry of pain that could only have come from Groth snapped him out of the moment. Even though he had never heard Groth make the noise before, he knew it had to be him, because no one else could sound so much like a wounded bull when hurt. He sprinted toward the sound, leaving Olic to face his three opponents alone.

Erwell didn’t have to run far. He skidded around a clump of broken wagons and found the giant on the floor, his right thigh a mess of shredded meat. He was glaring up at Dalion, the mercenary standing over him with his chest heaving and his rapier pointed at Groth. A sadistic smile was plastered on his face.

“Ah!” Dalion said, his gaze rising to meet Erwell’s. “My dear Captain, you made it just in time to witness the death of your oafish second. Any final words for him?”

Erwell inched forward, eyes darting around to gauge the space. They were in a small clearing amongst the clutter, maybe five metres by five. Aside from Phillip, who was sitting in a corner rocking and muttering to himself, it was just the three of them. But though the distance was short, Erwell wouldn’t be able to reach Dalion before he could deliver a fatal blow to Groth.

“Not really,” Erwell replied, resisting the urge to nervously lick his lips. “A marine who can’t win in one-on-one combat isn’t much of a marine at all.” He stared at Groth’s weapon, laying just outside arm’s reach. “I would encourage you to take up your sword, Sergeant Major, if you want to live.”

Groth glanced at him sharply, but after following his gaze, gave a curt nod. Dalion was fixated on Erwell, and didn’t notice the exchange. In his ignorance, he started laughing.

“I did not expect this from you, mio amico. Truly, you are a cold-hearted commander. I think maybe I am doing Groth here a favour, releasing him from your service, as it were.”

“Fine by me.”

Erwell shifted his weight, ready to explode forward as Dalion’s eyes crinkled in mirth. The duelist tensed, about to run Groth through.

“Now!” Erwell shouted. He hurled his sword at Dalion and charged as Groth scrambled in the dirt. The blade didn’t connect, it was never designed to be thrown after all, but the duelist still flinched away, giving Erwell the split second he needed to cross the gap between them. He leapt booting Dalion in the chest. The mercenary grunted in pain as he sailed through the air, but recovered quickly, using his momentum to roll smoothly to his feet as soon as he hit the ground. He came up cursing bloody murder.

“Cheeky bastard,” he spat, stalking towards the captain. “But stupid. Only an idiot throws their only blade!” he shouted and lunged.

“Sir!” Groth called, tossing his sword to Erwell. He snatched it out of the air and smacked it against the rapier, driving the blade aside, though it still clipped his ear as it slid past his head. Wincing at the sharp pain, he reversed his swing, aiming a backhanded strike at his opponent’s neck. It whistled through thin air as the mercenary danced away from the blow.

“Oh! Well played, captain!” Dalion said, stepping back a pace and drawing his epee as blood dribbled down Erwell’s ear. “But this has just delayed the inevitable. What was it you said to Groth a moment ago? A marine who cannot win one on one is no marine at all?” He scoffed and attacked. “No one can out duel a duelist!”

He lashed out with lightning quick strikes, Erwell stumbling back under the onslaught. The mercenary was far quicker than he remembered from Stonegrove.

Shit. He was playing with me too, Erwell realised as he ducked a thrust aimed at his eyes, then threw his head to the side to avoid a rapid follow up. Neither blow connected, but it put him off balance and Dalion pressed forward, stamping on Erwell’s foot as the marine staggered.

Erwell could do nothing but flail as he fell, hitting the ground with a thud. He sat up, raising his sword to strike at Dalion’s shins, but found the tip of the rapier quavering bare inches from his nose. His eyes followed the blade back to the hilt, to the gloved hand holding it, and up the arm to that smug face with stupid facial hair.

“You can’t fight your way past my men, Dalion.”

“I won’t need to. My remaining duelists and the knights will be more than enough to deal with your soldiers. You will all die down here, your corpses destined to be nothing more than food for the beasts pursuing us.”

Erwell’s eyebrows snapped together. “Beasts? You were battling animals down here?” he asked as his mind frantically thought up a plan. He was on his back, but his sword was still in hand. Dalion’s foot still trapped Erwell’s, though the pressure had lessened as the mercenary spoke. He shuddered, his eyes momentarily clouding over before he shook the memories free. “No animals I’ve ever seen. The guiding grace of the gods was absent when those abominations were created. I will do this world a service, burying this accursed crypt so completely it will never be rediscovered. And you will be buried with them.”

Erwell scoffed. “You’ve intrigued me, Dalion. I want to know more about these beasts. Surrender, and I’ll let you tell me from the comfort of a cell.”

For a moment, Erwell thought he had pushed the duelist too hard, as Dalion’s face contorted in pure fury. With visible effort, though, he fought his emotions under control and chuckled, the tip of the sword shaking in time with his hacking laugh.

“I admire your confidence, unfounded though it may be. There’s no way you can win, Captain. I am the superior duelist.”

“Without a doubt,” Erwell said, the fingers on his free hand closing around a fistful of dirt. “But I never claimed to be duelling.”

Erwell yanked his foot free and hooked Dalion’s calf, smashing his other foot into the duelist’s knee. Dalion cried out and fell, his leg painfully hyper-extended. They scrambled back to their feet at the same time, Dalion raising his blades with an infuriated shout. It morphed into a spluttering cough as Erwell hurled his handful of grit into Dalion’s face.

The mercenary had not been expecting such an underhanded tactic, and his eyes were wide open when the dirt struck. He screamed and stepped back, swinging his rapier in desperate arcs as he clawed at his face. Erwell stalked after him, watching for an opening. It didn’t take long. Dalion’s swings grew wider as his panic mounted, and after the blade’s tip flew past Erwell’s face in a particularly large arc, the marine shot forward, driving his sword through the centre of Dalion’s chest.

The duelist stopped struggling. A weak sigh of pain escaped his lips as Erwell pulled him close to hear his whispered parting words.

“Such tactics are below a duelist,” Dalion said, blood flecked spittle coating his lips.

“Nothing is below a soldier defending his homeland, merc.”

He ripped his blade free, and Dalion crumpled unceremoniously to the ground.