The young woman stood a dozen yards in, facing towards him, desperately keeping the three assailants off of her with deft swordsmanship. The alley was narrow, cradled between multistory shops that towered above. All manner of trash and detritus littered the area, as well as a hefty layer of accumulated grime. The smell was almost overpowering, rotting fruit and sewage assaulting his senses.
She fights at least as well as Aiden, he realized. The moment of self-assurance fled before the thought as he saw how paltry his skill was next to someone so well trained. He had to do something, though, and dashed forward with far less confidence.
She glanced past her opponents, determination etched onto her face. Upon spying him, her eyes narrowed. She fixed him with a stare of anger and fleeting hope.
"I can kill four as well as three," she snarled. So much for surprise, Daron thought. She dodged and parried flawlessly, holding at bay three opponents. The narrow confines of the alley helped, forcing her assailants far closer together than was good for full swings.
Daron frowned as he charged the last few steps. How could she mistake him for another attacker? The glowing Oathblade in his hand was a recognizable symbol. It wasn't something you could mistake. He shook his mind into focus, drowning out his own thoughts and concentrating on his breathing. Careful, controlled breaths. Memory from years of training took over, rather than conscious thought. Is this what Aiden meant? Daron thought. That's just training, not the gods.
One of the assailants disengaged and took two quick steps back, boots squelching in the muck. He turned to parry Daron's initial attack, while the other two spread out a bit farther apart, allowing them better area to press forward. Daron swung a vicious blow, but it was knocked aside, a high pitch whine humming through the air. The shock rolled up his arm. It felt different than the years of sparring he was used to, more visceral. Somehow, it felt more real, even though he'd fought with naked blade hundreds of times before.
He slid to a halt and held his blade in a defensive position. The blazing light threw harsh shadows against the building walls beside them.
"I ain't never killed a man of the Order," the man said, grinning wolfishly at Daron. His shirt and tie looked new and unused, recently purchased and hastily donned. "Looks like I might get paid double."
"Out of curiosity, how much?" Daron asked.
The man frowned in confusion. "Thirty silver nobles," the man said finally.
Before the last syllable was fully uttered, Daron lashed out with a series of attacks. Each was met squarely. He cursed at himself silently. Basic training forms were worthless in a fight, but he'd instinctively dropped back into a familiar routine. He'd have to vary it up, somehow.
Thrusting a hand into a pouch on his belt, he found it empty. He cursed again. He hadn't bothered to pick up any more pebbles. He'd have to rely on his sword, and then. Summoning darkness would do as much harm for Daron as it would for his opponent. His mind cycled through other cantrips he knew, but none would do much for him.
Daron lunged forward in a sweep against the man's legs, but the man quickly danced sideways and beyond his reach. Daron nearly slipped as his weight came down on his leading foot, sliding a few inches in the muck.
Beyond he could see the young woman holding her own against the other two, though a large tear in her shirt across her stomach revealed an angry red line seeping fresh blood. She paid the wound no attention, and moved with expert precision to defend against the incoming attacks. She was making no headway to press the fight forward, however, having to remain on the defensive.
Daron attacked with a series of short, controlled steps, hoping to keep his balance. He thrust at a knee, and then quickly diverted to another thrust at the eyes, hoping to get the man to flinch. Instead his assailant grinned a gash of yellow teeth at him, undaunted, and met Daron's blade with ease.
Why did I never bother to pick up a gun? he thought. Aiden carried one. The Order didn't train with them, but it wasn't something that was forbidden. They were only good for a single shot before needing reloading, or two with a more expensive model, but it seemed he might not be in such a predicament if he'd bothered to carry one.
Each swing and thrust Daron levied was batted aside. His arm began to ache with the exertion, each attack calling a groan of protest from his shoulder. He ground his teet. The match was too even. Neither man could create enough of advantage to end the fight. Daron was relieved he'd managed to hold his own, but if the mercenary managed to keep him occupied much longer, the other two would eventually overwhelm the young woman and move on to him.
Rain pattered down cold and unyielding as he frantically weighed his options. Images of his final test flashed to him. Instead of fully blocking a thrust that came for his midsection, Daron stepped forward towards it. He prayed he could execute it half as well as Aiden. He lightly tapped his opponent's sword, just enough to ensure that it missed his stomach, and then he stepped in and turned.
The sword slid past his exposed belly by mere inches. Immediately Daron pivoted and clamped his free hand down onto the extended wrist. Another quick step put one of his own legs in front of the mercenary's knee, and he continued the pivot.
This time, the grime clinging to their boots aided him. The man slipped and tumbled, thrown off balance and tripped against Daron's leg. He slammed face first down into the muck, sword skittering from his grasp. Daron hooked a foot under the dropped blade and heaved. It splashed down near some rotting crates beside a shop.
Daron resisted the urge to roar in triumph, but the giddy sensation welled up from within anyway. He'd done it!
With one foe temporarily out of the fight, he spun. One of the two remaining men was already down and still, unblinking eyes staring up into the rain. Daron raised his blade for a blow, but hesitated. He couldn't strike at the man's back.
It was moot within a moment, however. The girl battered the mercenary's blade one way, and then another, and stepped in to catch the man in the throat with a great sweep over her blade. He spun and collapsed beside the other one, his blood bright and almost glowing in the light of Daron's blade.
Her eyes snapped up to meet Daron's. Wodyr's hand, he swore silently. In the glow of his Oathblade, her eyes looked copper. Like brightly polished metal. She eyed him wearily, sword held ready to shred through yet another throat if needed.
Daron lowered his own blade, praying this wouldn't be the final act of a fool. She stared for another moment, and then let her blade fall to her side, apparently satisfied. He breathed a quick sigh of relief. She'd been exceptionally well trained, holding off so many attackers at once. He doubted he could do much more than die quite impotently if she'd pressed the attack.
He could see the hurt in her eyes, a haunted look of unimaginable pain to her very soul. The eyes watched him, almost as if waiting for an inevitable betrayal. White fingers clutched at her sword, driven bloodless from a grip of fear and anger.
"Thirty silver nobles," he said with a light chuckle, trying to diffuse the situation. Confusion flitted through her eyes, though her posture remained tense, like a lion crouched as it eyed its soon-to-be dinner. Daron shook his head, trying hard not to feel like he was walking into another fight. "For that price, I can think of a few of my classmates I'd willingly sell."
Movement caught the corner of his eye. He spun, and found the mercenary he'd knocked prone lunging forward, a short dagger appearing in his hand. Daron swore aloud. He'd forgotten the mercenary in his focus on the young woman.
The man snarled as he surged forward, aiming past Daron at the young woman. It wasn't a blow intended to kill her. She was needed alive, he realized.
Daron reacted without thought, his own blade sweeping up and around, slamming the glowing blade into the man's gut at an upward angle. The darkness flowed in as the light from his blade vanished into flesh and viscera.
The mercenary stiffened and moaned, eyes rolling back into his head as he fell heavy and limp, splashing back into the muck. Daron stared in horror as the man convulsed once, and then lay still. Blood shed from his blade, flowing away like oil and water, leaving it clean within a few heartbeats.
His mind went blank, and the cantrip faded, his blade dwindled from incandescent white to a tiny flicker of light. The alley plunged into near darkness.
Daron dropped to his knees, not feeling the cold filth soaking through his pants. He called forth the wellspring within him, summoning his focus and strength for healing. I've always been good at healing, he thought randomly, staring down at the body and the pool of darkness growing against the mud. Warmth flooded through him and out his numb hands, and vanished into nothing.
He stared into the glassy eyes, blinking the rain from his own. He'd just killed a man. The warmth within died, leaving a hollow coldness behind. It seemed even the strength of the gods had faded at his act.
I killed him, he thought. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, storming into the narrow alley after the young woman with barely a thought, but the thought still wouldn't leave his mind. The rain pelted down on him, unyielding and uncaring.
He crawled forward on his hands and knees a few feet and promptly emptied his stomach. I had to do it, he thought, but his stomach continued to heave.
He knelt there until the retching stopped. Wiping his mouth with one sleeve, he numbly pushed himself to his feet. She stood there, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. Nodding to herself as if he'd just passed a test, she slid her blade into its sheath, and then squatted. Her hands flitted through the pockets of the dead as he watched.
Questions formed in his mind, but he could barely find the strength to voice them. It was hard to form any sort of thought at the moment. He watched as she pulled a few coins from various pockets, which quickly vanished into her own. A folded piece of parchment came next, which she opened. Her eyes danced over the contents, and with a snarl she crumpled it and tossed it away into the mud.
"Who were they?" he finally managed to ask. He could taste vomit on his tongue, a thought that nearly sent him back to his knees. He clenched his eyes closed and took a deep breath.
She glanced up. "I don't know. They've been following me. They weren't the first. Probably not the last, either."
Daron nodded, his head numb. She stood and regarded him for a moment in quiet, her eyes flicking down to the blade in his hand and back.
"Thank you," she said quietly. Daron could see dark circles under her eyes, auburn hair matted and unkempt. Her clothes were heavily worn and caked with grime, the front of her shirt slit neatly by an attack. The cut still seeped blood down a well muscled stomach, but if the wound pained her, she showed no sign.
"Let me take care of that cut for you," Daron said, stepping forward. He slammed his blade down into the mud and quietly urged the light to grow again. For a moment he worried nothing would happen, that the gods had abandoned him after what he'd done, but the glow began to brighten. Her fingers twitched reflexively over her sword hilt, and he saw anxiety flash across her face. "It won't hurt."
She nodded, uneasy. Daron prayed and felt the warmth course through him again, though it couldn't wash away the hollow feeling within. Gingerly he reached out and placed his hand on her abdomen. Her skin was warm to the touch, like stone piled around a campfire. She sucked in a breath at his touch.
He felt the energy welled within him surge, and the slash across her pale skin sealed close, leaving a long pink line and some dried blood behind. She gasped in astonishment, carefully touching her healed skin. Her eyes snapped up, filled with awe.
"How did you..."
"It's a bit of a story," he said, forcing a smile he didn't feel. His head snapped around at the sound of footfalls coming close. The town police. This was going to be a bit odd to explain. "Look, you need help. If you're being chased, I can help you. They'll probably want to question you for a while about all this, but should let you go after. I can help you, if you'll let me." He realized he was babbling, and snapped his jaw shut with an audible clack.
When no answer came, he turned back. There was no one in the alley with him save the three bodies and the cold autumn rain. He sighed without realizing it. Yanking his sword from the mud, he took a moment to brush away what muck he could from his hands and knees. He crossed the alley and retrieved the crumpled paper she'd thrown away, carefully unfolding it. A moderately well drawn likeness of the young woman stared back at him. He folded it and thrust it into a pocket.
He then knelt and muttered a quick prayer for each of the fallen. He had no idea what they'd sought after the strange-eyed girl for, but whatever their intentions, everyone deserved a blessing as their soul found their way to the Eternal Hall. It was up to Allene to judge them, not him.
Daron came to the man he'd slain last. Blank eyes stared back at him accusingly. He slid them closed and muttered a quick prayer, asking the gods to weigh his life fairly. Exhausted, he staggered across the alley to lean against a wall, but his troubled gaze kept returning to the mercenary.
Chapter 8.
Dawn came far too early. Daron was already awake, sitting in the common room of the inn, embroiled in haunting thoughts. He'd slept a few fitful hours after returning, taking a short but well needed bath before dropping exhausted onto his bed. When it was evident he wouldn't be finding any peace that night, he rose and dressed, and then seated himself alone downstairs.
Sausage sizzled and popped on cast iron pans in the kitchen, filling the air with a pleasant aroma. His stomach rolled at the thought of eating, so he simply sat and waited, staring off at nothing in particular. It wasn't long before he was joined by Jarod and Brynn. Brynn bounded down the stairs, braid bobbing behind her. She dropped into a seat beside him. Her characteristic smile froze and faded upon seeing his face.
"You look particularly miserable," she quipped. "Normally I'd be happy with that, but you look serious."
Jarod slid a chair around across from Daron and took a seat, leaning forward and frowning.
"I had a bit of a run in last night," Daron said weakly. He didn't feel up to relating the tale, but forced himself to speak. He explained the events of the previous night with as much detail as his hazy mind could recall. Jarod listened without asking any questions, letting Daron finish.
Retelling the events brought the wound back to the front of his mind. He hated himself for what he had done. Necessary, yes, but still a horrendous act. Maybe he wasn't cut out for being a Justice. Perhaps his failing with swordsmanship had been a sign from the gods to stay away and to move into another, less bloody, area.
"You saw no sign of her after that?" Jarod finally asked when Daron paused at the end. Daron snapped his head up, bringing his thoughts back to the present.
"Nothing," Daron said, shaking his head. "She probably climbed up to the roof. The buildings are close enough there that you can cross half the city without coming down."
"It's something the constabulary will have to handle," Jarod mused. "If you had any idea where she might be, we could do something. We could spend weeks digging through the city and not finding her, though."
Daron nodded with a frown. He hated to admit it, but Jarod was right. She obviously didn't want to be found. He hadn't even gotten a name before she'd vanished. It galled him, being unable to do anything. Another insult piled atop the pain he already felt from the killing he'd done. Someone was in desperate need of help, but he couldn't offer any. He rubbed his aching temples and sighed.
Surprisingly, Brynn said nothing. Her usual lighthearted quips were nowhere to be found. She laid a hand on Daron's shoulder and squeezed.
"We've got a few hours until the ship leaves," Jarod finally said, watching Daron. Daron shifted uncomfortably at the scrutiny. "Do any shopping you need, and meet on the docks at lunch time. I've booked us passage on the River Siren."
He nodded and rose, Brynn mirroring his movements, but Jarod held up a staying hand. "A moment, Daron." Their commander threw a quick look at Brynn, who looked between the two men in hesitation, before nodding and heading back upstairs. She lingered for a moment on the first step, watching Daron. He tried to smile, but only managed a grimace. She vanished above as Daron dropped back into his seat.
Jarod drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, not making eye contact. He seemed to be weighing his words. Daron sat, shoulders slumped. At this point, another verbal lashing from his commander didn't really bother him.
"Don't lose this," Jarod said. No one else was in the room, aside from the innkeeper busying himself with preparations for breakfast and a few patrons across the room, but Jarod spoke in a voice that barely carried.
"Sir?"
"You killed someone, Daron. What you're feeling is normal. It had to be done, and you did the right thing, protecting her."
Daron sat shrouded in silence. In his mind he could still see the blank, accusing stare from glassy dead eyes.
"I'll be honest. As a Justice, you'll be forced to make hard decisions like this more than even if you'd joined the infantry. Without a war, they won't see much action. We, however, will have to do the difficult things, and sometimes that means taking a life."
Jarod leaned forward in earnest, fixing Daron with a gaze of steel. "It becomes easier," he whispered, almost as if to himself. "But the feelings of guilt and doubt do not. If you ever find yourself where it doesn't hurt to take a life, and then you're lost, Daron. It is sometimes necessary, but it should never be an easy choice."
His commander rose and walked by, clapping Daron on the shoulder once as he passed, leaving Daron alone once again with his thoughts. He'd realized that it was something that might have to be done, as a Justice. Those raised to the blue were the only one that could bring final justice to the condemned, a holy and necessary rite. He'd known when he'd joined that someday something like this could happen. It was a far different thing to experience directly.
It had needed doing, Jarod had said. That still didn't mean he had to like it. He couldn't imagine ever growing complacent with taking a life. Were there those in the Order that had? Daron sighed and stood. He had things to do, and had no time for brooding on the past. He prayed the gods would keep watch over the enigmatic girl, wherever she was, and went upstairs to wait for Brynn.
Half an hour later he stood outside the door of the inn in the thick morning fog beside Brynn. Aiden has risen and announced his intention to spend some time at the local church before boarding the ship, and had left before Daron could fill him in on the events that had transpired. Jarod reminded them not to be late, and vanished into the city, leaving him with Brynn. All the frigid stares she'd given him had abruptly melted, and she seemed back in normal form as they set out into the city. Daron had no idea what had changed, but it was a welcome thing in any case. He still felt miserable, but tried to shake himself out of it, finding a bit of comfort in Jarod's words. However stern the commander was, he seemed to understand.
"We've got around two hours before we need to be at the docks on the River Siren," he said, watching as the city awoke before them. Dozens of horse drawn carriages and wagons clogged the streets. The pedestrians were dressed in the fashion of the city, men in long overcoats that swirled down to their ankles, along with elegant rounded hats. Many walked with ornately carved walking canes in hand. Women wore long dresses with a great deal of ruffles, trimmed with lace in many cases, held carefully to keep from dragging through the muck that pervaded the city. None were armed that he could see. Wearing a sword wasn't something polite company did. He felt a little conspicuous with his own blade prominently displayed on his hip. He wished he had a blue cloak, signifying him as a Justice, but cloaks were even farther out of style than swords.
"Plenty of time to buy a hat," Brynn announced as they set off.
"You have a dozen hats."
"Not one from here," she protested. "Besides, I could only pack one with me. A single hat is a travesty."
"Who am I to argue with a Justice of the Order," he said with a mocking bow. "Lead the way."
The rain had fortunately given pause, though clinging fog rolled through the streets. It mixed with soot from the chimneys pouring out of nearly every building, giving the air a acrid and unpleasant smell. The denizens of the city seemed oblivious to the quality of air as they went about their business. It made him long for home, for the forests and mountains he'd grown up around. He smiled at the thought. He hadn't been back since before joining the Order. Could it even be called home properly, now? For that matter, now that he was thrust out into the world, where was home now?
Street vendors were already crowding the sides of the narrow streets as they meandered through the city. Merchants hawked all manner of wares at passing potential customers, bellowing out prices on fine bolts of cloth, tailored shirts and dresses, and all manner of trinkets. When they turned a corner, the stale smell of soot soon mingled with the sweet smells of freshly harvested fruit and just-baked bread, which finally awoke his appetite. Daron paused long enough to purchase a steaming pasty from a vendor parked in front of a bakery and savored each spiced bite as they walked.
Brynn grabbed him by the sleeve and towed him to a merchant that had a variety of clothes strung out on lines that spanned from her cart to the building beside as he popped the last morsels into his mouth, nearly dropping it in the process. Dozens of wooden heads sat out on shelves that pulled from the side of the wagon, displaying all manner of hats. Many were variations on the popular rounded hat the men wore, but a wide brimmed deep purple one caught Brynn's eye.
She tried it on with a flourish, spinning slowly for Daron to appraise. "How does it look?" she asked.
"Pretty decent," he said, squinting in mock scrutiny, judging it from various angles. "On you it's ridiculous."
"Perfect," she laughed, paying the merchant lady with a few triangular silver coins mixed with a liberal amount of square copper pieces. As they walked away from the vendor Brynn paused to dig a rock from the sole of her boots, flashing Daron a hand signal. Followed. Daron nodded slightly and they continued on, pausing at a merchant wagon a few yards further on selling bolts of dyed cloth. Daron carefully let his gaze wander back the way they'd come, pausing on no one in particular, but saw no one watching them.
I see nothing, he flashed as she pawed through the piles of cloth. Brynn's eyes swept past him.
Nothing now, she confirmed. She leaned in close. "Thought I saw someone following us in the corner of my eye. Nothing there now."
Daron frowned and glanced back down the street. How she could tell someone had been tailing them was a mystery to him. The streets were filled to the brim with carriages and walking people bustling about in every direction, a dizzying mix of horses and pedestrians with no order to their movements. Really beginning to hate cities, and Upper Terrin is huge by comparison, he thought.
They strolled for a few hours, moving at an unhurried pace as they shopped at street-side vendors. Daron bought nothing, preferring to save his money, though Brynn purchased all manner of things that were quickly secreted away in her backpack. A clock affixed to the top of a tall tower near the church tolled out the time, telling them they needed to hurry up to the ship. With a small pout of protest, Brynn followed along.
At long last they came to where the river cut a wide swath through Gathon. It had been widened where it joined the city, perhaps a thousand years before. A dozen piers jutted out into the languidly moving water, with twice as many boats moored along them. The River Siren was easy to spot, a tall three storied steamboat, it's single massive paddle wheel at the stern towering above the dock. A group of men were busy loading large crates onto the ship.
Climbing the ramp to the ship, he spied Jarod talking with a bear of a man. A shock of dull red hair crowned his head, and his arms were nearly as large as Daron's thighs. They looked like carpeted trees to Daron. He bellowed a laugh at something their commander said as they boarded. He clapped his enormous hands together in glee as he spied them, and then tapped two sausage fingers to his throat in respect.
"And these must be the last of your intrepid crew," the man boomed. "Welcome to the River Siren, my lord and lady. I am Captain Yates."
They bowed respectfully before the giant. He laughed again, and had the look of a man with a perpetual smile etched upon his face. His simple white shirt hung open at the front, revealing a large golden coin dangling on a fine chain that bounced with each laugh.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain Yates," Daron said.
"Oh, so formal," Yates said. "You are customers, and Order. There is no need to be so stiff. My humble ship is honored to carry you."
"You mean the Order pays well," Jarod said, smiling.