MQ: Chasing Shadows

The machine stared calmly at the bleak white landscape of eastern Salvar and wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing his chest for warmth. It was a futile gesture and he knew it as such, for the cold here bothered him less than it did the rocks. Less, in the sense that rocks could explode from the force of this cold. For if water were to find its way down into the smallest cracks and crevices of those rocks, and then freeze - Well, needless to say, a man did not want to be near to one when it went off.

Come to think on it, I've rarely seen that happen. But I have seen trees do that before.

He pondered the thought, then shrugged it from his consciousness. It would have to be something he looked into later. For now, he thought with a small frown, he would have to put his mind to other, more important matters. He turned from his silent study of the bleak landscape and faced the bustling port city he had been called too.

Aihnrekvolok. The great Port City of Eastern Salvar. Jewel of the Eastern Ocean. Eastern Gate to the lands of the Frozen North and about a hundred other slang names or conotations that the machine could honestly give a rats ass about. It was also the current residence of the High Lord Cilarnen Volipril, closest cousin to the King and protector of Salvar's eastern reaches.

The machine regarded the sprawling city with a feeling of disgust and pity, although he carefully kept his face blank, lest he alert his company to his unease. The city was grand yes, but also a great metropolis. Formed from the remnants of four or five smaller cities some hundred or so years ago, the then newly formed city had seperated itself into five distinct quadrents. Both to retain the individuality of each old city, as well as establish some semblance of order to a then chaotic land.

The northern most quadrant, called the Lords Quarter, was lavish, pompous and pristine. Few people entered into this area unless specifically invited, and if such an invitation was not granted, the City Retainers made sure one did not make that same mistake twice. Clean and well paved, this section of the city occupied the least space but boasted the largest captial.

To the west and south of the Lord's Quarter stood the Workmen's Section. A well maintained place, squared away and clean cut, and perhaps the easiest of the five to navigate. The City Guard that patrolled the streets kept it that way, ensuring that anyone who lived there or was simply passing through, knew it too.

Sprawling south and slightly west lay the Commons. The largest of the five quarters, it was also the most chaotic and run-down. The City Guard patrolled here often, but more often than not, the moment their large patrols vanished around the next bend in the street, whatever had been happening before they appeared to quell it quickly resumed. Boasting most of the residences, as well as a fair amount of the shops, Inns and warehouses of the city, the Commons had every right to be as it was. It saw the most business and as such, was the most unkempt and chaotic.

To the east and slightly north lay the Merchants Quarter. A gaudy and pompous section of the city in which many, if not all, of the local and passing merchants found heart and hearth. This section was filled mostly with large merchant houses and even larger shops and warehouses, accounting for whatever else was left over from the Commons. Merchants, being who and what they were, regimented their section and as such, it was second only to the Lords Quarter in cleanliness, and came equally close to the Workmens Section in simplistiy.

And finally, to the north and slightly east, was the Port. A very large system of piers and dikes, the Port was perhaps the largest in all of Salvar. Hundreds of ships entered and exited the port on a weekly basis, carrying with them trade and supplies for the city, as there was little farming to be had in the vast tundra that encompassed the city.

This day there was little activity down amongst the massive piers and warehouses, as the machine could only see twenty seven of the great three masted ships, with only seven or eight equally sized vessels anchored just beyond the piers in the harbor. He had seen it like this a few times before, so it was of no consequence that he ignore it this time. He did know however, that if that kind of activity carried on for too long, the city would steadily starve itself out and become quite desperate and much, much more dangerous than it already was. As if last month wasn't a testament to that...

"We are ready to move now Captain," a voice said behind the machine, jostling him from his mental monologe, and there was a light jingling of armor and tack as horses and men moved. Right, he thought. I've got a job now.

Having found it easier to earn his money in an honest sort of living, the machine had put it upon himself to enlist in the local City Retainers and, after quickly distinguishing himself in their ranks, had risen to become Captain of Lord Volipril's personal guard. An esteemed position, or so he had been told, but all he was really concerned about was the pay, and what he could purchase with it. Not that a machine had any real need for precious worldly attachments, but he still found some solace in buying them. He already owned a nice house in the Merchants Quarter, a single story thing with a modest entry hall and modestly extensive rooms. He hardly ever went there however, as he found no real comfort in its cold halls, but it still felt good to know that if it came to it, he'd have a place to stay without being yelled at.

Turning from his study of the ugly city in which he now lived, the machine raised his head to address his mounted company. "You know the drill Lieutenant Lorin, you have no need to wait for me."

Lorin, a gangly under-lieutenant in the Lords personal guard, smiled and bowed from atop the horse he rode. "Of course Captain, but as you know, we shalln't move til you give us the word."

The machine sighed, letting his features sag a little. The man was right, of course. The guard would not move, could not move until he gave the order. After a moments respite the machine lifted his head once more and then his arm, silently signaling his men to move out. There was another soft jingling of armor and tack and the twelve men of the Lord Volipril's personal body guard began to advance out from the large estate said Lord owned and lived in.

Today they marched to the Commons, for their Lord wished to visit each Quarter of the city at least once every four weeks, and this week, it was the Commons. The guard would have to be on their toes this day, as the last time they had ventured into the Commons, complications, had arisen. Resulting in their Lord having to be nearly run back to his estate, lest he fall upon the wrong end of a rather unruly crowd of weapon brandishing 'well wishers.' This was perhaps the main reason for doubling his Lordships guard today, as he normally only went with six, instead of a full twelve. There were only twenty-four guards, a separate entity from the City Retainers, and of that they were separated into two squads of twelve, then down into four smaller quartets of six. There was little need of having a strong personal body guard when living in the city, as the City Retainers dealt with most problems before they could reach the Lords estates.

One can only hope, the machine thought, as he and his twelve exited the Lords estate and began the day long journey to 'witness' the Commons.

(Closed)

The smell of sweat stained the cage, overpoweringly sour.

I stood in my corner, facing the bars, leaning forward. A metal water flask hung from my hand, empty, its own perspiration glazing the dull black iron. I dropped the vessel, letting it fall into my corner's hands. The big man refilled my canteen from a jug and passed it back, water dripping onto his hair covered arms. I drank sparingly, feeling the moisture return to my mouth. The last fighter had used fire, conjuring it from thin air and sewing flames that hungered for my flesh. The intensity of that battle won me momentarily, adrenaline pounding thick in my bloodstream, hurling myself away from the darting fire. It took me five minutes to get close enough to snap the mage's neck, and by that time the heat had squeezed every drop of moisture from my body. I dropped the flask again, empty, but the burly corner did not fill it again. His scarred face tilted up as he spoke, my keen ears picking up his tone over the roar of the crowd.

"The manager says you are finishing the fighters too quickly."

"Then he should find me some better fighters." My voice flatlined like a Kevorkian EKG, emotionless as the dark on a moonless night. I had spent the last few hours locked in intense pranic meditation, barring any thoughts not related to the fight.

Perhaps unconsciously, the corner glanced down. His right leg was strong and healthy, undoubtedly as hairy as his thick arms. His left leg ended in a stump above the knee. He had lost the limb fighting in this very cage, now scraping a living as the challenger's corner. He got the job done well, and I appreciated it. If he still had his leg, he might have been a match for me. The look of loss on his face passed quickly, and he spoke agian.

"They want you to fight--"
"Two men at once, I know."

I could smell them, and hear their footsteps on the hard platform. One light tread, one heavy. It stood to reason that the manager would try to shake things up. I nodded to the corner, and that was enough. A bell clanged, and the battle began.

I turned, flowing out of my corner like autumn leaves drifting to the ground. My feet barely whispered over the platform as I met the two challengers halfway across the cage. One stood a head taller than me, probably a hundred pounds heavier, with knuckledusters on both hands. His partner tilted to the other end of the spectrum, short and slim, a cutlass in his right fist. They reeked of booze and sex, doubtless trying to win some money to procure a little more of each. Even as untrained fighters, they made an excellent team. For anyone but me, the battle might have been a nightmare.

Like most people, they knew coming at me together would improve their chances. Unfortunately for them, like most people, they didn't spread out. I moved to my right, putting the big guy between myself and the small one's stabbing blade. The gorilla swung a wide haymaker that missed my nose by a quarter inch. As the brass-covered fist sailed past I closed in, bearhugging myself against my larger foe, trapping his right arm against his neck. He staggered back and I jumped, lifting my body until it was parallel to the ground. My knee crashed into the little guy's skull and he melted to the floor, eyes rolling back to stare at his brain.

Three seconds, only one down. Am I losing my touch?

The yeti wrapped his free arm around my back, trying to squeeze me to death. I breathed easy and tightened the choke, right hand going on my left bicep, left hand pressed onto his forehead. I was using his own beefy arm to choke him out. He began to pant, trying to draw breath through the crushing power of my triangle. Panicking, he lifted me up high and jumped, dropping me in a full body slam.

Big mistake.

Even as my back cracked and the air rushed from my lungs, I hooked both legs around my enemy's thick midriff, constricting like a python. My chest and back hurt from the impact, my lungs burning, nostrils flaring for breath. A rattling sound came from the large man's throat, and then he was asleep, passed out, a three hundred pound monster on top of me. I tossed him off without much diffculty then rolled over and crawled back to my corner.


A half hour later I could breathe normally once more. My sternum felt badly bruised, giving me a twinge of pain every time my lungs filled with air. I spent the time changing and splashing pitchers of frigid water over my body. My skin blossomed purple in several places, nothing I couldn't handle. Not a bad bill considering the hard day's work I put in.

Leaving the prep room, I donned an army-green jacket, the stitching tattered but the fabric warm. I pulled up the hood and crossed the sawdust covered floors, broad shoulders gaining me an easy path through the bloodthirsty crowd. They ignored me, focussed solely on the two men in the cage, beating the crap out of each other. I sought the manager in a private booth at the back of the house. He said nothing, just nodded to a fat sack of gold on the table. The bag disapeared into my pocket, uncounted. It felt right, and the biggest cheapskate in the Commons wouldn't try to short change me. I returned the manager's nod then made my way to the exit, jostling patrons aside.

Aihnrekvolok awaited me outside. I couldn't pronounce the Salvic town's name without hurting my throat, but thinking it did no harm. To be honest, I couldn't be certain why I was there. "As good as the next place." I reminded myself, grinning wryly as I released the Pranic void. Frost crunched under my boots as I made my way down the street, blending with the crowd, just another busy citizen with a place to be.


~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Before long, mud covered my boots. Despite Salvar's frigid climate, the frost melted into the dirt roads of the Commons, making for several inches of sticky muck. Wooden plank walkways lined the buildings, but a thick crowd marred that area. Many of the townsfolk had no problem with the slow moving pace of the boardwalk, content to stop like backed up traffic, gazing into space or down at their grimy shoes until the way ahead was clear. Hawkers dotted the planks, shouting the name of the service or product they offered. Ever since I witnessed a "Chef" pouring sawdust into his meat pies, I had avoided purchasing anything off the street. Hookers sat and leaned in doorways, leering at any passerby who gave them a glance. Flash a little silver and they would follow you to the nearest back alley, but I avoided them as much as the Hawkers' wares. Avoiding infection provided motivation enough to find proper women to lay.

Trudging down the middle of the road, I had to dodge around the odd horse or buggy but still made better time than those that travelled on the boardwalk. Many of the hardier townsfolk followed the same logic as me, slogging doggedly through the street. Occasionally I would spot a resident with wooden platforms lashed to their shoes, acting as clogs to keep the footwear relatively clean.

"Practical and impractical," I judged, "Might keep your boots clean, but I'd hate to be caught in a fight with chunks of timber tied to my feet."

Ahead of me, a four man team from the City Guard turned a corner. Several subtle changes immediately effected lif on that block. A few of the whores straightened from their half-concealed positions, meandering among the potential clientele with sultry whisperings slurring from their lips. A scraggy group of men carrying swords and cudgels stepped from a nearby alley, clearly some sort of gang enforcers. They looked around at everyone with challenging eyes bloodshot from booze. I meant to keep an eye on them, but a shot to my left distracted me.

"Little faggot thief, I'll teach you to pick my pocket!"

A small boy cried out, reeling and clutching his face. The man who had just backhanded him pursued, eagre to swat the youngster again. A thin leather purse dropped from the boy's hands, the accelerant of the conflict. I changed direction slightly, picked up speed, and walked straight into the angry man.

He was somewhat wealthy, for a resident of the Commons. His face showed only a few days of stubble, and his denim clothes didn't have too much mud on them. That didn't last long. He staggered backwards from the collision, clogs catching in the mud and tripping him up. He went down hard and mud sprayed on a pasing horse cart. The boy scampered away, blending with the crowd on the boardwalk. The now very muddy man surged to his feet, red-faced and sputtering.

"You bastard! How dare you stop me from teaching that scamp a lesson!"

I stood casually, looking at him the way you might look at a dead rat in the gutter. Not particularly pleasant, hardly worth noticing.

"I stumbled in the mud, bumped into you by accident. You have my apologies, now take your purse and leave."

He left. Unwise as it may be to start an argument in the Commons, I couldn't stand to see children abused. The tiny pickpocket looked as if he hadn't eaten in days, and I silently hoped he would be more successful on his next lift. I squelched to the boardwalk, stepping carefully up onto the elevated timber. Had it been at street level, the planks would soon disapear beneath the mud. I turned down a side alley, one which I knew twisted and turned many times before finally leading to my Inn.

The alley smelled of human and animal waste. I stepped over and around piles of unruly mess which gave the muddy backstreet a toxic nature. The buildings here were mostly warehouses, some boarded up and broken into, others padlocked and barred. It was a strange transition from the crowded street; few citizens dared walk alone in such an alley, even during daytime. Knowing this made me doubly surprised when a man stepped out in front of me.

The first aspect of my surprise came from the appearance of another person in the alley. The second aspect was the person's garb. A robed man of the cloth stood before me, his sash proudly displaying the crest of the Ethereal Sway. He looked to be about fifty, with mostly grey hair well combed across his temples and brow. He wore particularly large clogs, lifting him high enough to keep his robes clean. Ignoring him, I moved to step around and suddenly a gun appeared in his hand.

Instantly, I began to meditate. In Corone firearms were scarce, but since coming to Salvar I had seen a few primitive guns. The priest held a shiny new double-barrelled flintlock pistol. Both hammers cocked back dangerously, and his finger rested on the trigger. With my senses doubled I could smell gunpowder through the stench of the soiled mud. I also noticed the quiet footsteps approaching me from behind. Pretending to ignore the accomplice creeping up on me, my mind raced. The situation called for delicate, precise handling. My eyes left the pistol and met with the priest's. Then, a hand closed on the hilt of my knife.

I carry a long prevaldia bayonet on the back of my belt. Whoever had crept up behind me clearly thought that once relieved of it, I would be less dangerous. He never got the blade out of its sheath.

Both my hands moved at once, the right shooting out and grasping the gun barrel, jerking it from the Priest's hand. My left reached back, fingers closing like a vise on the offender's wrist. I pivoted, twisting the arm. From behind me I heard the man fall to his knees, beginning to whimper and hyperventilate from the excruciating pain. Glancing back, I saw a slovenly mess of a man, free hand reaching for a dagger at his waist. My foot flashed out in a shower of mud, leaving a brown boot print on the unfortunate's forehead. He keeled over backwards, unconscious.

"I know you probably don't care much for that man's well being, Father, but keep in mind I could do the same thing to you. What the hell is this about?"

The priest did not look frightened, ignoring the flintlock levelled at his chest. In fact, it seemed as if he had expected this. In a calm, level voice he spoke, a man of great confidence.

"Were you to harm me, you would meet a swift death thereafter. But I am not here to quarrel with you, young man. I am here to recruit you."

I stared him down for a moment, then clicked the pistol's hammers away from the firing position and stuck it in my belt.

"Recruit me? What if I don't want to be recruited?"

A patronizing smile played on the older man's lips, never reaching his eyes.

"You have been carefully observed and selected, my son. The Church of the Ethereal Sway requires your services, and you will be rewarded handsomely. A man of your talents is worth a great deal of gold."

In a world devolving into a primal state of disregard for society or each other, the only true primal being present was myself. I stood alone. Salvar was my new home, the people my new family. I had learned a lot since leaving the realm of Berevar. My life as a nomadic hunter was had changed. In Berevar life was simplistic. We roamed the frozen tundra; we hunted the elk and yak. Everyone in the tribe was a hunter, except for the elders and shamans, who were always magically inclined. In the frozen lands of the north, we were the masters of survival. No humans passed through the mountain’s, none tore the land up with their plows and forced their own ideals and ways of life on the natural ecosystem.

Since my departure of those lands, I had come to understand the way of humanity. They lived in very large grounds, in the numbers of thousands. Compared to my people, a single ‘town’ of humans could easily overthrow us clan by clan, though the strength of our people would quickly throw them out. These humans, in such huge societies, paid part of the money – coinage punched by the government alone – so they could be protected. The people of Salvar were weak, cautious, and scared of those that supposedly protected them.

The concept was odd to me. To have a goal in life that offered nothing more than selling wares of others, raising children and living in a solid immovable home, it was the life goals of the people. However, the government was just a single portion of the problem that lurked in the magically controlled townscapes. The gods they worshiped and those that served them were another problem that swept the frozen lands.

I was alone in the world, a quiet and massive figure in a sea of worried and dissonant faces. At my side was my dire wolf companion. He was a sixteen hand tall wolf, twenty hands long, with a white coat so pristine it rivaled the most pure of snow. I called him Brute, a name bestowed upon the massive beast by a small child I rescued from the harsh tundra. The name was fitting. Everyone that saw him feared him, I was given room no matter how crowded the streets, and the humans were more afraid of him than I. A concept that, too, confused me. He was passive, quiet, never growled or howled unless a dire circumstance arose.

“Sir,” the voice pulled me from my lone pondering. The intricacies of the human society where easily able to draw me into a thought filled void, and to have someone talk to me was the quickest way to pull my attention. “You are the man from the north, the legend and the myth. I have been sent to find you. You are wanted by the Church of the Ethereal Sway.”

I turned towards the man. The metal chains that swayed from his heavy torso clashed in a cacophony of sound. He peered at the small man. I stood six and a half feet – by human standards – and weighed three hundred pounds. To the humans, I was a giant for the most part. I could meet eyes with some, but those armored and loaded down with weapons could not claim my weigh without weapons and armor. The man had soft brown eyes, wearing a clean robe, and a silver chain necklace. He was clergy of the Sway, a man of power by the look of him.

‘Only the rich and powerful don’t have shit all over their boots’ was the only tip he had been given to discern the nobility from the wealthy merchants. I gave the man as small smile from beneath my heavy helm. The iron helmet covered down to the tip of my nose, cut around the edges of my lips, went around my ears, and to the nape of my neck. Out either side of my helm were long, three foot horns of iron signifying my specified animalistic personification. The smile did not fit the long horns, or the warm auburn eyes that touched the eyes of the priest.

“I am the one they see as a legend,” I responded, a very heavy hand patting the back of my wolf. “And what task could the Church have with me?” I was worried about working with the Sway. They were infamous for control, famous for their use of spirituality for the means of fear and forcing others to do what they want. Destiny meant nothing. As far as I could tell from my proximity to them, and from watching their works, as long as they accomplished their own ‘religious goals’ they were satisfied. No matter what happened in the wake of their wills.

“Please,” he said with a smirk, the emotion from which brushed me the wrong way. His eyes fell to the large wolf, but his eyes offered no fear or intimidation. He truly believed the ways of the Sway would offer him a resistance to the strength of the wolf, or my own will. “If you are interested, you should follow me to the one that is to lead you. As you can see the state of Salvar is dire distress, a world torn apart by civil unrest and the rumors of our wills conflicting with the rule of the King. Ignore them,” he said with the same smirk smeared across his old face, “I promise I can explain things as we go.”

Salvar’s reputation of being a frozen country had been an exaggeration. Amaril had come to the new country in hopes of finding a cold climate, so that he could live in physical comfort. Upon reaching the foreign land, he had only found mild temperatures and plains that continued for miles. Those plains had been less than inviting. Now, in a city that he couldn’t pronounce, the half-dragon could finally feel the benefits of moving to Salvar.

Naryx hadn’t been as excited about moving to a northern region. The young, baby dragon had finally recovered from being trapped in his deceased father’s lair. With Amaril being his savior and newly appointed parental figure, the yellow scaled reptile was now living in a country far too cold and too unlike his former home in Dheathain. Upon living in Aihnrekvolok, the youngling typically stayed in Amaril’s room for large portions of time in order to keep warm.

Amaril’s personal room was in a lavish inn not far from High Lord Cilarnen Volipril’s home. The room was a gift from the High Lord for rescuing Elena Volipril, his niece, from the Ethereal Sway’s uprising on the plains to the southwest. Unaware of any civil war going on, the half-dragon had found himself amidst the local uprising of town citizens who sought the deaths of the Volipril family in the name of the Ethereal Sway. Through sheer luck, Elena became the sole survivor and the two escaped with little more than their lives. Upon coming to the port city, Cilarnen had given Amaril the place to stay and offered the warrior a distinguished job.

Now, one of the personal guards of the High Lord of Aihnrekvolok sat on his bed in the Star Ruby inn, watching Naryx sleep on a shredded lump of wool on the ground. It was time to join ranks with the other eleven guards and the odd machine captain.

“Naryx, I shouldn’t be gone longer than a few hours. You’ll be ok until then?” The half-dragon stood, tying his sheath in place between his wings.

I’ll be fine. If I get hungry, I can go downstairs and get food, you know? We’ve made it clear to the inn keeper that I’m smart enough to deal with people on my own.

Amaril nodded and buckled his daggers to his belt. He knew that the baby dragon could handle himself. There wasn’t any real danger in the city to worry about, but he still found himself anxious about the creature’s well being.

“Then I’m off. I’ll see you this afternoon.” With a final glance toward his companion, Amaril walked out the door and left the inn.

It was a short, uneventful walk to the Volipril home. The guard arrived before a few others and found himself daydreaming about Elena. Hardly older than twenty, he knew that she was too young for him. She wasn’t a buxom beauty, but her elegantly simple body and cascading brunette hair enticed him to a degree he had never felt in his long life. Even more appealing were the expressions her charming facial features could create. The fact that she welcomed the half-dragon’s company, despite his monstrous appearance, didn’t help to quell those feelings.

Shaking the undesirable thoughts from his mind, he looked around to see that the rest of the squad was ready to go. He hurried to his place as a rear guard, chancing a glance at the balcony attached to Elena’s room. His heart leaped. She was there, gazing down at the company. There was a look of worry in her gaze, an apparent fear for her uncle. Her eyes met Amaril’s for a brief moment, smiled, and went back to the High Lord. It was enough to send him on another spell of distraction as the company started their mission to get in touch with the commoners.

The trip to the commons was a largely uneventful one for the twelve of Lord Volipril's personal guard. With the Lords Quarter locked up tighter than a penny hording merchants personal chest, as well as its relatively low population, marching was only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other.

Once the Guard emerged into the bustling boulevards of the Workman's Sector however, progress slowed considerably and the Guard was forced to advance forward at something closely resembling an upright crawl. Being an easily recognizable attachment to the High Lord did have its advantages though, as most people opted to steer clear of the men rather than impede their progress. All the same, progress was slow and that guard spent considerably more time navigating the crowded streets than Koran would have liked before they finally emerged onto the hard packed dirt streets of the Commons.

Even then, they had only just begun.

"Tighten up," Koran said briskly as he stepped down into the mud and slush of the Commons largest boulevard. "We don't want a repeat of last month." There was a moment of miny controlled chaos among the twelve as they reassembled themselves into a sort of loose square around the High Lords small carriage, but it was only for a moment. "Right," the machine said after he was sure the men were prepared. "Move out."

Of the five quadrants that made up the city of Aihnrekvolok, the Commons was the only one that was unpaved. Because of this the streets of the Quadrant were almost always muddy from the constant snow and rainfall. For an everyday citizen in the Commons this was nothing serious, as most simply used the elevated boardwalks that bordered many of the streets. For the exceptional few who did walk the streets, they wore a rather ingenious invention commonly referred to as 'The Aihnrek Clog'. A rather boxum looking wooden shoe that fit over most types of footwear and elevated the wearing a good four inches up above the mud, the Clog spared the wearer from most of the mud splatter. Like all the good things in life however, the Clogs came with a price. Being made of wood they offered little to no real traction in the mud, even less on dry land or other wood, and because of this the men and women of the Guard were not permitted to wear them while on patrol in the Commons.

Not that any Guardsmen would be caught dead with the things on anyway. They looked fucking ridiculous.

And it was because of this that many of the Guard that was on the rotation to patrol the Commons, dreaded doing as such. As they were required by city code to march, in formation, down the center of the street regardless of its condition and even though the High Lord Voliprils personal bodyguard was above such mundane tasks, they were still a part of the Guard and had to abide by Guard and City laws.

If a man thought marching through crowded streets was slow going, then he had never marched through mud that could swallow a mans foot whole. Now the Guard was truly reduced to nothing more than a crawl, and it didn't help that the High Lord had wished to ride in his carriage, instead of on horseback like he usually did.

Not that Koran could really blame his Lord for the choice. A carriage provided exceptional protection, far greater than that of simply sitting on horse back, and it gave the Guard an easily dependable point, as it was hard to keep track of a man on a horse in the midst of heavy fighting. Not that it had come to heavy fighting yet, hopefully it never would, but when it came to the defense of the High Lord, little was taken for granted.

"It's that little part that nearly cost the man his life the last time he came through here," the machine whispered under his breath as he, his Lord and his Lords Guard rounded the first of many corners in their long route through the Commons.

*~~*

They had been walking for only a half an hour when the machine began to notice that something was slightly amiss with how the people were watching the slow moving Guard. He couldn't quite say exactly what it was that he was seeing, as he couldn't quite place the looks on the peoples faces to any emotion he knew of, but he could say that it wasn't anything happy or pleasant. He realized then, and rather abruptly, that he had seen nearly the exact same looks in the citizens of the Workman's Sector as the Guard passed through there. It had been subtly suppressed there, as it lay in such close proximity to the Lords Quarter and saw regular patrols of the City Guard. But here, where patrols were larger but fewer in frequency, the looks could form, had formed, and could grow with more ease. Koran turned to address his lieutenant, Lorin.

"Be on your toes, there could be trouble ahead."

The man hadn't been on the last patrol through the Commons, but he had heard the stories, so he was quick to pass the order. Soon all twelve of the High Lords Guard was on the lookout for anything suspicious and after a moment of silence among their ranks, there came a whisper from the rear.

"We're being followed."

Koran risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw immediately what the whispering guard was referring to. Only four house lengths down the road, there appeared to be what most would call a small group of walking workmen, huddled together to maintain a group balance and all looking intently focused on keeping it as such. But a more practiced eye would have seen right away that these men were no workmen, be it from the cut of their probably clothes, to the way they held their hands half-clenched into fists by their sides. All of those men were fighters or brawlers and if they were even a little bit smart, which they looked to at least possess that much brain power between them, then they would have a grand assortment of knives, swords and short cudgels hidden beneath their shabby cloaks and workmen's vests.

A quick glance was all he got though as another guards frantic whispers brought his gaze forward again. "More, just to the front and in that alley to the left."

This time the group was more obvious in their intent, but again, to a casual passerby they would appear as nothing more than simple workmen, waiting for work or standing around chatting for lunch. The machine quickly shifted his gaze to the opposite side of the street and felt his throat clench. There was a third group, of approximately the same size, standing there as well and with the speed at which the guard was moving now, they would be between the two groups in only a manner of moments. The machines mind raced through the possible outcomes in a matter of milliseconds.

They would either pass by the two groups and continue on, with nothing happening. As groups of armed men frequented the Commons on a regular basis, mostly out of protection, this could just be a strange coincidence, meeting this many groups at once.

Or this could be exactly what it seemed to be. A staged ambush, against the High Lord during his monthly jaunt through the worst part of town.

Shit. "Lieutenant, halt the men here." The man didn't hesitate to issue the order; perhaps he had seen the same thing Koran had, and the machine turned around to walk toward the carriage. It was at that exact moment, and he would forever question himself as to why, that he looked up and saw the man armed with a heavy crossbow stand from his concealed position behind a stone worked chimney and aim the weapon down at the isolated Guard.

"Archer!" Koran yelled, throwing himself down to the ground even as the man let fly his heavy steel tipped projectile, but it was a warning that would prove to have be given a full minute too late. There was a soft whistle as the deadly dart sliced through the air, followed by a sickening thunk as it sunk itself deep into the flank of Lieutenant Lorin's horse. The animal screamed in terror and reared back, throwing the lieutenant from his seat into the thick mud of the street, just as two more men rose from concealed positions on the roof, brandishing gleaming crossbows, cocked and ready to fire at the unfolding chaos in the street.

Two more whistles came, followed by two more fleshy thuds and it was at that very moment, that someone in the crowd of passing people, screamed.

Then, as the saying usually goes, all hell broke loose.

((Koran, if I did too much here just say the word.))

It went down just like he said.

The priest's argument ended up being both compellin and lucrative. He had rattled on for some about the sins commited by the Salvarian State and how they must be punished, then gone on to shower praise down on my "unique talents and abilities." After wading through the bullshit, I still felt tempted by the tidy sum he offered in exchange for my services. First, he instructed me to gain the trust of Lord Volipril and his guards. What followed made almost no sense whatsoever. The priest told me to wait at a specific street corner, claiming that several gangs of footmen would attack Lord Volipril's guards there. Apparently, I was to use this ill conceived coup to get chummy with Volipril's soldiers. When the priest finally finished I traded him his pistol for a heavy sack of gold and headed for the corner he described. At that point, there was nothing to do but hunker down in an abandoned doorway and wait.

It went down just like he said. Without really being noticed I spotted the groups of men, rough hardy folk in heavy work clothes, more often than not concealing their weapons. Soon Volipril's men rode into view, standing out in the commons like an oasis in the desert. They surrounded a carriage which undoubtedly held the Lord himself. "Problems like this could be avoided if foolish Lords didn't make themselves such easy targets," I thought, standing and stretching out my stiff limbs. Just then, the workmen attacked. Almost as one they unsheathed their rudimentary weapons and rushed the patrol.

They attacked in classic swarm technique. First surrounding the target, each group moved simultaneously. In minutes the guards would be hemmed in on all sides, defending hopelessly with no where to go. "I've got to open an exit for them," I told myself, "That way they'll have space to work, and they'll only have to hold a single line."

I stood on the balls of my feet, straining for every extra inch of altitude. The patrol was being attacked from three sides; in front and behind on the main street, and from a thin side alley. "The alley." The smallest band of brawlers had stationed themselves there, and it would be the easiest location to defend form if the guards could wedge themselves in.

I breathed in, then out slowly, allowing the Pranic void to descend upon me. My senses doubled, making everything around me more real. The screams of fleeing citizens grated my ears but I shut them out, focussing on the alley. I began a headlong charge towards the small street, my feet churning up mud. One of the attackers saw me coming and laughed, drawing the attention of his friends to me. "That's right, look over here. Lord Volipril needs to stay alive if I want that payday." As I reached the group at the mouth of the alley, one poked is shortsword at me, expecting that I impale myself on it. My right fist struck the flat of the blade, knocking the blade flying. The man's eyes widened moments before I struck.

I plouged into the group of workmen like a running back. The difference is that I have about five times more raw power than any football player. The two men my shoulders struck died instantly, their necks snapping like kindling from the brute force impact. The force of my rush knocked the rest of the group flying, save for one nimble fellow who darted towards me, his dagger flashing. I grunted as a shallow gash appeared on my shoulder. The nimble fellow's grin of triumph froze when my hand caught his, twisting his arm to break it at the elbow. I took a step and spun, hurling the smaller man straight into his rapidly regrouping companions. They reacted a little better this time, several of the quicker men avoding the flying body altogether. The rest of them went down, one for good as his skull crumbled against a large rock. Without taking my eyes off the seething group I called over my shoulder, alerting the guards.

"Ahoy, Volipril's patrol! Back yourselves into this alley and defend from here! I'll carve out a sanctuary."

As I spoke a man of about my size rushed from the group of would-be attackers, swinging his cudgel as though teeing off from my head. I ducked, stopping his charge with an elbow to the midriff. Straightening up I spun him around and snapped his neck one-handed, catching the falling cudgel with my spare hand and pitching it into the seething pack. I was counting on them being cowed by my superhuman power, but knew that eventually they would regroup and attack. I crouched, ready, a maniac's grin painted across my face, eyes wild. Once again I found myself in mortal peril, and loving every minute of it.

The priest prattled endlessly, worse than any human I had ever encountered before. He was full of the zeal that any church official would be expected to have for the Sway. Underlining every word was a quiet murmur, hardly heard, but undoubtedly something meant to take affect without being completely understood. I did not care for the man. He was devious, his smirk never faded, and he gave as many caring and considerate glances to the shambling poor as he did to the walls of the buildings we passed along the way. Just as I had assumed, their religion was far more interested in the betterment of itself and its own political goals than the people it supposedly served.

It was a troublesome path that I followed so precariously. Precious time was being tossed aside by heeding the call of an unfamiliar group whose eyes were only on the end result. They had cast aside the leadership of the ‘king’ – a figurehead of the ‘government’, like a head chieftain of the humans – and condemned him. However, in the time I had spent within the beautiful lands of Salvar, I had come to know the better side of the government. They were a group of promise, looking for little more than the betterment of the common man and further study of ways to ease life in the frozen north. I could not see where the king had gone wrong, and indeed may have sided with him if the time had come sooner.

“This way Ki’Rial,” the priest said. But just as he said it, my attention was pulled the opposite way. A wide street filled my vision, presenting a picture of riot. Men were moving in aggressive attacks on a carriage, flooding the defenses in an attempt to kill whoever was in the vehicle. I could only assume it was a member of the government. “Pay that no mind. It has been planned out well enough, we should have little trouble with the remaining guards. You have other tasks ahead of you…”

But I could not pass the scene without paying attention. They were committing murder ‘in the name of the church’, in broad daylight. The people looked no different than the dejected citizens that we had crossed from the other side of the city. They were dirty, shabbily clothed, but carried weapons of all sorts. Heavy axes clashed with honed swords, ragged peasants fought against overwhelmed armored soldiers. “This is your Sway’s will?” I asked with a grunt, not understanding the true nature of the ‘sway’. “You take your politics and turn mobs of angry commoners on the soldiers of Salvar and their leaders? This is pathetic. If I do not help them they will be overwhelmed.”

With a heavy hand I lifted the light hand axes from my belt. A grimace crossed my face, a scowl that only added to the terror of my horned helm. Brute let out a low growl in the direction of the mob. If I had not been so accustomed to it, I would have shivered under its purely primal rumble. I would not let the trained soldiers die at the hands of the pawns of the church. Mistrust extended deep when it came to the priests, the devious one yet at my side did little to ease that doubt in their true nature.

“Do this boy, and you will forever be allied against the Sway. We are far more powerful. We have far more number—“ I turned to him and let out my own deep rumble. His face finally changed to a wide eyed surprise, the first show of emotion since the sickening smirk. “You threaten me?”

“I do not have to,” I responded as I took a heavy step away. The winds outside the small street picked up my heavy fur cloak, the ends dancing as I moved. I lowered my head and let the six feet of iron horns catch the sun and glint. “You are a coward, like the rest of your kind. If you had peasants to command then I could understand having to fear turning my back to you. But I know you will not do a thing to stop me…”

And with that I left him. My right hand cocked back with the hand axe. My feet drummed against the ground, like a drum of war I was holding a steady quick pace. When I came within yards of the group I let loose the steady axe. It twirled end over end, picking up momentum. Before it even slammed into its target Brute was already charging forward. I chose to fight towards the other side of the caravan, picking up my axe and cleaving the fallen and those also knocked over from the heavy throw.

The machine hit the mud shoulder first and slid for perhaps two feet before finally coming to a halt. He didn't remain on the ground for long however, for as soon as he felt his body grind to a halt in the thick sludge, he was once again on his feet, this time slipping and sliding his way on hands and knees to the rear of the carriage. All around him the first sounds of a pitched battle were already beginning to fill the air. Swords rang free of scabbards, horses neighed and screamed as groups of men surrounded the carriage and its guards, intent on killing everyone there. Beyond the now quickly filling street, the crowd of people was rapidly dispersing, giving the fighters some much needed room, but also sowing chaos the Commons quarter could ill afford to have at this time. The machine growled audibly as he hauled himself to his feet using the rear wheel of the carriage and launched himself into the fray.

He had opted, upon his promotion into the Captain position of the Guard, not to carry any weapons upon his person. Personally he felt that using the long sword-kite shield combination that many of the guards favored didn't suit his purposes well, and because he really didn't need any weapons. He had had a sword when he joined true enough, but he had used it sparingly and even then, more as an intimidation device than an actual weapon. No, he didn't carry weapons because lately he had been feeling an urge to get in close and bash his enemies in with his fists, elbows and knees. The end results were almost always the same and there came a certain sense of completion when he used his fists, and it was that sense that made him feel good. So, when he pushed himself off the rear of the carriage and into the nearest group of attacking workmen, he balled his fists and lowered his shoulder to in effect, turn his body into a three ton battering ram.

The group of men he attacked were surprised to see him, the Captain of the guard without a weapon or a shield, charging at them with his fists clenched and his shoulder lowered, and if they had been watching the fight, they might have even laughed at the Captain, for his stupidity. All thoughts of laughter would have quickly vanished though, as the instant the Captain reached the group, their lives, which had once been numbered in perhaps days, or even years, now numbered only a matter of seconds. There were a total of six, and it only took the machine twelve seconds to dispatch them all.

The first man was easy, as he was the bravest, as well as the dumbest of the group and decided to counter-attack first. He had only enough time to raise his sword before his arm was broken clean in two just above the elbow and his head pushed so far backward that it snapped violently, killing him instantly. The second and third men, still caught up in the thought that they could easily kill this weaponless Captain, hadn't noticed the first mans fate, and suffered similar fates, except that both men had their faces smashed in instead of their necks simply broken. The forth and fifth men presented no small problem, as they had hung back behind the first three, watching their backs just in case of a flank, and hesitated before attacking. It was the hesitation that killed the two of them and both men soon fell to the blood soaked mud with the sides of their faces effectively caved in from being slammed into one another. The sixth man, who had up until that point been looking someplace else, turned now to finally see what had happened to his fellows and just before he died, he looked up at the now walking Captain, his mouth just beginning to open in a panicked scream.

Twelve seconds, six of the attackers dead behind him. Not a horrible start, but I could have done better, the machine thought as he shook blood of his hands, his eyes quickly scanning the area in front of him for any new targets. There were none, but the sounds of fighting men behind him told him that the battle was still far from over. He turned around and just in time to avoid a rather painful blow from a downward slashing cutlass. He reacted instantly, his arm reaching out to prevent the wielder of the sword from once again raising his blade, while his other hand balled into a fist and slammed into the mans face just above the crown of his nose. The man fell with a scream, his face a bloody ruin and his role in this fight quite thoroughly snuffed out. Another one was down, but two more quickly replaced him and the machine once again became lost in the both the will to live through this fight, and the bliss of smashing peoples faces in with his hands. A shout brought him out of his bloody retreat however, and brought into sharp reality, the severity of his and his men’s current situation.

"Ahoy, Volipril's patrol! Back yourselves into this alley and defend from here! I'll carve out a sanctuary."

It was a man’s voice, lost in the din of the fighting, but easily traced to someplace to the far left of the machines current position. The machine threw a man he had been holding into the faces of his three newest attackers and quickly looked around him, searching for both the man who had shouted, and the alley in which he had spoken. He found the latter first but before he could even begin to issue the order to retreat, someone slammed a blunt object of some kind into his left side and nearly doubled him over. He did manage to grab a hold of the object before it disappeared to hit him again, and as he spun around to address the newest threat on his life, he shouted into the air.

"Fall back to the alley! Attend to his Lordship and fall back!" He smashed his attackers face in with his elbow and threw the man into another charging one. The two fell to the ground in a heap of tangled flesh and weapons, both men effectively out of the fight. "Fall back!"

The machine glanced up at the carriage and grimaced. Somehow he had wandered to far from the thing and was of no use in the rescue attempt that would have surely been taking place. Or the assassination. He could only spend that breath of a moment worrying about the High Lord however, as he was once again beset upon by two new attackers and was once again lost in the fray. Fucking Commons!

Amaril had thrown his body under the carriage as soon as he heard his captain’s warning of archers. Mere seconds later, he realized that the ranged attack had succeeded in distracting him from the real danger; the countless ruffians surrounding Volipril. He yanked his enormous prevalida blade from its sheath and waved it in a wide arc to keep the rear attackers at bay. At the same instant, he formed two iced darts and spat them forward. Two men screamed silently with the icicles lodged in their throats, before collapsing onto the ground.

Two more men charged on either side of him, undisturbed by the deaths of their comrades. The half-dragon turned to parry the swing of one attacker and quickly shot his tail backward at the other, impaling the scaly weapon into his chest. Steel clashed onto his hardened scales in a wild attempt to escape, but the man quickly succumbed to his death. In front, Amaril had a slightly more difficult time. His enemy wasn’t an expert swordsman, but neither was the newly appointed guard. He jabbed the sword forward, but the attack was parried easily.

Suddenly, he found a sharp blade coming dangerously close to his chest. He stumbled backward, tripping on the fallen man still stuck on his tail. He tried to jerk it free twice before he had to roll on the muddied ground to escape another attack. As a third attempt on his life approached, he kicked forward and knocked on of the attacker’s legs off the ground. Losing his footing, the man fell on top of Amaril and the two locked themselves in a mix between wrestling and fist fighting. The fight didn’t last however, as a fellow guard ran up and stabbed the man in the side. To finish the job, Amaril plunged his claws into his foe’s chest and threw the dying body off of him.

Grabbing his sword, which had been knocked a foot away during the struggle, he cut the body holding his tail hostage and vomited a bit. The mud was mingled with a gory mess and he looked elsewhere for a place to fight. It was then that he heard the Captain’s command to retreat to the alley. He quickly saw it and climbed into the carriage.

“Lord Volipril, come with me. We need to get somewhere safer.” Amaril grabbed the frightened man’s arm and half dragged him out of the wagon. Almost immediately, a crossbow bolt pierced his arm, forcing him to let go. He clenched his teeth and fought back a tear of pain. “Lord Volipril, move god damn it!”

The High Lord seemed to awaken from his daze and followed the half-dragon guard to the alley, where he only found two allies in combat with quite a bit more enemies. Putting his desire to help the men in combat aside, he knew that Volipril needed to be safe first. He spread his wings and felt a second bolt fly right through one of the thin membranes. “Hold on to me,” he exhaled and Volipril obeyed. Seeing one of the archers from above raise the crossbow once more, he beat his wings furiously and became airborne. Before another bolt could hit him, he flew over the heads of those fighting in the alley and reached the back, where the roof stuck outward and would halt the crossbow attacks.

“Stay here,” Amaril told the High Lord, before running toward the entrance of the alley and the violent battle there.

The sounds of battle roared all around me.

Behind me in the open street I could hear men and horses screaming as they fought and died, the well-trained Lord's guard defending against overwhelming odds. I stole a glance over my shoulder and saw a magnificent creature that seemed to be a human-dragon hybrid assissting Lord Volipril through the melee. Facing off against my own group of foes, I went over the priest's instructions.

"Gain the trust of the Lord and his soldiers... better clear this lot out."

Eight men remained facing me, packed tightly in the narrow confines of the alley. They shouted taunts at me, all the while conferring madly amongst themselves, trying to work out a method through which they could all attack at the same time. I had chosen my battleground well; the muddy terrain mixed with the close walls meant it would be nearly impossible for more than two men to attack simultaneously.

In the next instant, the leading pair did just that. One had dark hair, the other fair, but aside from their locks they could have been brothers. Idenical snarls of rage lit their faces as each descended upon me, swinging similar longswords. I pivoted right and grabbed the blond haired man's arm before his blade could connect. A heartbeat later I felt his companion's blade part the flesh on my left shoulder. I drew in a quick breath of frigid air, gritting my teeth. Trapping the blond in an arm bar, I snatched his blade and ran the other through, blood slipping from his abdomen to mingle with the mud and slush. Without skipping a beat I used the arm bar to force blond in front of me and, using him like a battering ram, charged the remaining six offenders.

Caught off guard, the rabble tried frantically to defend, and my prisoner ended up with three blades through his torso. I used his dying body to crush a burly fellow against the wall, then turned just in time to backhand a ratlike man that was about to knife me. The impact caused his head to snap back at a funny angle, where it stayed as he fell to the ground. My maniacal grin now showed a full row of shining teeth as I faced off against the four footmen.

I expected them all to run, but only two took the oppurtunity. The other two remained, glancing from one another to me, then back again. It took me a moment to understand; they were dressed better than the others ahd been, and carried better weapons. A heavy flail dangled from the gauntlet of the first man, while the other had armed himself with a pair of serpentine shortswords. They seemed to be sizing me up; I was breathing hard, nearly panting, while they both looked relaxed and confident. Clearly, this pair had some training, and considered themselves a suitable match for me.

"Time to be careful. There won't be any money if you get yourself killed."

Both hands reached to the back of my belt and retrieved my nunchaku and bayonet. I held the dagger with the flat of the blade pressed against my left wrist and began an offensive pattern with the chuck, then charged at my last two victims.