The Nomad Process

[Breaker]

Book 2 ~ Scarlet Brigade We Are Not



The dance floor stormed, a jungle of gyrating bodies. Arms and legs whipped and lurched like vines and branches in the wind. Torsos swayed like rain-soaked tree trunks, thick with the perspiration of accumulated body heat. High powered colored lanterns flashed lightning through dense clouds of artificial fog pumped out by enchanted smoke machines burning scented herbs. The dancers thought and acted as animals, functioning on instinct more than anything. That tangle of grooving people contained both the exotic thrill and the illicit danger of any jungle, concealed amidst the foliage of shining silk and satin clothing.

Joshua Cronen reclined on a round padded stool, spine braced against the bar at the back of the massive club. His chiseled features, covered by tanned skin and a thin layer of stubble on his chin, remained stationary while hazel eyes scanned the room. A five man band played bass-heavy instruments on the elevated platform to his left. On his right a field of tables and chairs grew from the floor. The café section of The Flesh Failures was sparsely populated, most of the patrons a part of the thundering mass in the centre of the room. Overtop of their reaching hands he observed the double doors opening and closing intermittently as new guests entered. Radasanth’s premium nightclub neared its capacity of one hundred people. Soon the doors would be barred, adding weight to Cronen’s responsibility. As head of The Flesh Failures’ security, those hundred people’s safety rested in his palms.

Josh had his eye on a pair of men who slowly worked their way into the space of a lone woman. The first stood over six feet tall with heavy shouldered and bulging forearms rippling out of his wifebeater. The second was the one who had caught Cronen’s attention. He looked nondescript, average height and build, oily black hair that fell just far enough to touch his matching leather jacket. But the Martial Artist could feel a signature of arcane power radiating from the smaller man as surely as he could hear the guitar melody over the pounding bass. After a few minutes of concentrating on that power, he picked up its details. If the oily haired man managed to kiss the woman he was dancing with (or any other woman, for that matter) on the lips, she would fall temporarily under his spell, would respond to his suggestions as a private to a general’s commands. Five minutes… long enough to get her out of the club and alone somewhere. More elaborate than the standard methodology of slipping a sleeping elixir into someone’s drink, but it was still date rape, the intention clear as vodka.

In the few minutes it took him to read the man’s peculiar talent, Josh noticed his body language growing increasingly aggressive. He touched the unwary woman more often, his sticky fingers lingering longer and longer. His muscular wingman had sleazed his way behind her, blocking a potential retreat. Josh had no intention of letting the leather-jacketed man get his lips on anyone’s flesh. He deposited the glass of whisky he had been swirling on the bar and dropped his hand to waist level, made a fist, splayed his fingers, then pointed at his feet.

Two of the five bouncers under his command spotted the signal. Both burly men with heavy cudgels on their belts, they leaned close to each other and conferred for a moment then the shorter of the two ambled over to take Josh’s place at the head of the room. Nodding his thanks, the club’s protector strode into the thick of the dance floor. Bodies parted to let him through as birds flutter to avoid a panther; everyone at the club knew the man with the scar on his cheek and knew to make way. He stopped beside a willowy woman with long blonde hair and touched her elbow.

Angeline, the club owner’s daughter, turned to face him. She abandoned the two or three anonymous bodies who previously occupied her attention and turned to him, gorgeous features slack in a drunken smile. She laced her fingers around the back of his neck and ground her hips against his thigh, the sheer material of her sifan cloth dress grating his coarser black vlince pants.

“You finally decided to have some fun with me,” she shouted close to his ear. Her cherry tongue accidentally-on-purpose caressed the lobe.

“Not exactly,” he responded, hooked a sinewy forearm around her waist and dragged her to the fringe of the floor.

It was Angeline who had landed him the job after a shared night of passion at a nearby inn her father also owned. Subsequently she tried to get him fired when she spotted him kissing a beautiful drow woman, but her father had refused the whim due to Josh’s evident effectiveness as Head of Security. Since then the two had developed a friendly relationship, but she never stopped flirting with him. It wasn’t infatuation or love, or lust for that matter. He suspected that she enjoyed chasing anyone who said no.

“Where are you taking me? Up to your room? You’ll have to tie me up to get me there.” He smelled the alcohol on her breath but ignored it. She wasn’t as drunk or as shallow as she demonstrated. Obliging her continued grinding, he moved his feet in time to the music, following the sway of her firm body glued to his. As they danced he leaned in like a boyfriend whispering sweet nothing. The ditz-screen in her eyes evaporated as she listened to his instructions, responding with nods when necessary. Thirty seconds later he pecked her on the cheek and felt her palm smack his ass as he walked away. Resisting the urge to shake his head, he ignored it and strode past the bar. In his peripheral vision he saw the two-man abduction team, closing in for the kill on their hapless victim. Unseen by the occupied pair, he opened a door in the club’s back wall and slipped into a short hallway which led to the rear exit. The hall had two purposes; deliveries of imported alcohol going straight to the bar rather than through the cluttered kitchen, and throwing out unruly patrons.

He let the door close almost all the way but kept his right hand on the knob, a hawk peering at two rats through the thin crack that remained.

Angeline appeared between the two men like a wraith in a red dress. She pressed her torso against the woman they had cornered, allowing the heavy shouldered man to grind against her shapely backside. The sleazy pair registered surprise which quickly became the smiles of hyenas gazing at a wounded gazelle. As surely as a champion of the tango, Angeline guided the intended victim towards the rear of the building. The men followed, the shorter man with the incubus’ kiss backpedalling until he was just two feet from the wall.

The door opened. A black clad arm seized the collar of his leather jacket and hauled him outside.

[Breaker]

Josh pinned the oily haired man in the leather jacket against the stone wall of the alley behind The Flesh Failures. One immovable palm compressed the smaller man’s chest. He cut through the other’s whining with short, clipped words that buffeted him into silence as surely as a knockout punch.

“Quit proclaiming your innocence and wait patiently. If your buddy doesn’t follow us out here and take a swing at me, you’re free to go back inside and dance the night away.” He had barely finished when the club’s back door burst open. The heavy-shouldered man exploded into the night, the single lamp above the door casting him a demonic shadow. His thick muscles rippled as he threw a wide roundhouse punch.

Keeping his left hand on the weasel’s chest, Josh flared his right elbow up and blocked the blow with his triceps. His downward chop to the aggressor’s collarbone flowed as a part of the same motion. The big man’s arm dropped limp and Josh seized his wrist, turning it and spinning his body at the same time, attempting to drive him face-first into his comrade. But the weasel was swift, and danced away so his partner got a face full of brownstone. Oil-hair drew a switchblade and snicked it open, lunging in for a low thrust. Still pinning the big woozy man against the wall with a twisted chicken wing, Josh lashed out with his right foot. His soft-soled boot broke the weasel’s wrist, his weapon clattering along the alley. Before he could cry out in pain the foot whipped up again, delivering a stinging blow to the would-be rapist’s mouth. He collapsed with blood pouring from where his teeth had punctured his incubus lips. It would be a long time before he felt comfortable kissing anything.

With one quick torque Josh broke the heavy shouldered man’s wrist as well, propelling him onto the pavement beside his friend. Eyes blazing with disgust, he stood watching them until they regained enough sense to cower in fear.

“My psychic servers had me watching you both from the moment you got through the door. They read your filthy minds, and we know what you intended. Let me make this perfectly clear.” The martial artist crouched in front of the whimpering pair. His powerful hands seized them both by the throat in identical eagle-claw grips. He stared into their eyes one at a time as they gasped for air like grounded trout, cartilage flexing nervously against his fingers. He saw fear in those eyes, outright terror, but no questioning. He had frightened them enough to make them believe he actually had psychic servers.

“I’ve left you each one hand intact. I suggest you use them to get yourselves off rather than trying to kidnap young women. But if you ever set foot in my club again, I’ll see to it that neither of you ever get off again. You get me? Good.” With one might shove he sent them both scrambling on all fours over discarded bottles and shredded trash, finally finding their feet and sprinting awkwardly out of the alley, broken wrists cradled. The small man limped, the large one staggered, but eventually they made it around the corner and out of sight.

Josh wanted to scrub his hands with soap after touching the pair, but remembered the switchblade as he reached for the door. He found it beneath a crumpled up newspaper. It was a fine blade, especially considering the previous owner. Its five inch Delyn blade, still locked straight, glistened in the single lamp’s light. Josh picked it up and closed it, then touched the trigger that sprung the knife open. Since his return from Salvar, he ordinarily carried no weapons. Sssnick. The switchblade might be worth its risk, though. A knife found many uses in a security guard’s life. Sssnick. And switchblades made for excellent intimidation. He might twist fewer arms and crack fewer skulls if he could scare sleaze off just by flexing his muscles and opening the knife.

Sssnick.

Schnoff.

Josh’s head snapped up, eyes torn from his shiny new toy. The horse snorted again, its head just visible around the corner of the alley. It attempted to graze, nibbling at a few choked weeds which sprouted from a crack in the cobblestone. Apparently finding them unappetizing, it tossed its mane and trotted forwards. It wore no rider but a saddle with a line affixed to the pommel, which drew a second horse into view when pulled taut. The second animal repeated the same actions as the first, but when it moved out of sight it dragged a limp man behind it, his left leg entangled in the stirrup.

“Whoa there!” The cry seemed foolish, but it was all he could think of. It worked; the horses stopped dragging their helpless cargo as Josh darted towards them. The keen switchblade sliced through the stirrup, the man’s leg slipping to the ground with sickening slackness. Josh’s callused fingertips found a pulse on the man’s carotid, weak but regular.

“Hey! Buddy! Are you okay? Can you hear me? What’s your name?” He pinched the man’s ears and cheeks gently but got no response. Whoever he was, the rider was out for a long count.

With the patience of a surgeon he rolled up one of the victim’s pant legs and inflicted a short shallow scratch with the tip of his new knife. The man twitched and whimpered, a spasm of pain erupting on his face before it fell back to neutral unconsciousness. Good. He was not paralyzed, hopefully safe to move. Cronen lifted the listless figure as easily as a child and draped him across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. With one arm securing his burden, he used the other to gather the horses’ reigns and walked carefully towards the back door of the Flesh Failures.

[Breaker]

*

The moon shone her silver blessing on the slums of west Radasanth, bathing a depleted and forsaken warehouse. Its front, with illegible signs falling down and boarded up doorways, bordered on a dirt road. The rear looked down on a side street that was half the width of the main road and contained twice the litter.

The tall man trudged down the deserted back alley, hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. He reeked of alcohol but walked in a straight line with his head up and eyes roving. He breathed raggedly but his footsteps made no sound. The broad shoulders and clandestine demeanour covered by his foul stench would bring any observer to the conclusion that he was a soldier turned alcoholic.

But no living creature watched him as he paused to take a swig from a flask. It vanished into his hip pocket.

The tall man scrubbed a callused thumb through the thick stubble on his upper lip. He looked up and the moon lit his tan Akashiman face. Tired eyes tracked from the warehouse on his right to the row of shabby low-income houses on his left. Which would he like to sleep in tonight? The vermin had chased out most of the residents. His liquor-fogged eyes suddenly became sharp as a hawk's.

The Wraith appeared from the folds of the shadows. A breeze tugged at the trash but did not touch its long black cloak. It hung straight and seamless, as silent as the sinuous steps. It did not seem to breathe but still the tall man sensed It and turned around slowly. There was nothing drunk about his eyes or his gesture as he clutched at his chest. Black lungs gasped for air that seemed strangely scarce. He sank to one knee.

“Teod Goshawk.”

The Wraith’s voice was as dry as dead leaves and patient as time.

Goshawk seemed to control his ailment from the semi-fetal position. He put his hands back in his pockets then covered his mouth. Puffed the lit cigarette and tossed the match away. His breathing returned to its haggard metronome as smoke whirled in the moonlight.

“I thought we had no names in the Brigade,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. Two thick fingers removed the cigarette. It was half gone from the speed at which he smoked.

“I dunno’ why they call it that anymore. By the Crystal Spire, you’re just a pack of ghouls.”

The Wraith waited almost politely as he finished the smoke; a farewell favour for a former comrade.

“By the way,” the tall man said as he reached down to snub his cigarette. Like lightning he tossed a handful of gravel with one hand. The other threw a knife drawn from the sole of his boot.

The gravel showered the warehouse wall as the Wraith slithered past it. A black gloved hand caught the pinwheeling blade. It returned the throw even as it flowed forwards. With a yell Teod Goshawk deflected his own knife. The iron bracer beneath his sleeve rang a hollow sombre sound in the empty street.

The Wraith attacked like an enraged panther. Its black gloves became molten metal. Claws that singed flesh as they slashed through it. Goshawk defended rapidly but found that every time he blocked a blow smoking lacerations opened his forearms. He gasped in agony but could not match the overwhelming speed of the attack. Spinning in to his enemy with the skill of a master judoka, he stooped for a shoulder throw.

The Wraith leapt onto his back. It clutched at his clothing and constricted around his abdomen like a python. Clawed hands seared the skin around his neck. A blob of thick blood gushed from his arteries as the Wraith tore his head off. It backed away from the draining body and tossed the head into a pile of wooden scraps. The blood pool on the ground glowed black by the moonlight. Not a drop stained the creature’s still cloak. It turned and vanished in two serpentine steps, melted into the shadows of the night.

*

[Breaker]

Leonard Silverton looked up from the smudged pages of the Radasanthian Reader. It covered a portion of his cluttered desk, open to the obituaries page. Powerful but grizzled hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair as tears blurred his view of the ornate oaken door, the artwork on his office walls. Those coloured oil masterpieces came to life in the sunlight that poured through the window. He focused on the depictions of battles from the Age of Darkness, hardy dwarves defending their stronghold against demon invaders, until his eyes cleared. Think about anything, he told himself, anything other than the name in the newspaper.

Teod Goshawk. A name he never should have known, but the man had been his closest friend for a long time. They had battled dark elves and orcs, saved each others’ lives a thousand times in the field. But that was years ago, and bygone memories had no place in his schedule.

Silverton’s grey sifan cloth shirt stretched across his barrel chest as he wheeled out from behind the desk. His short silver hair shone in the sunlight around his small reflective bald patch. He handled the awkward chair deftly, ignoring its squeaking as he reached the door. With one hand braced on the left wheel, he heaved the heavy door open and said a few words to his receptionist, then rolled across the room to fix himself a drink.

“He’ll see you now,” The receptionist said to the only person in the cozy leather-furnished waiting room.

Joshua Cronen rose wordlessly and gave her a grin of gratitude, but his eyes remained as sombre as if he shared the old man’s pain.

[The International]

Esme stepped out of the transport wagon and into the remains of a chaotic scene. His hazel eyes relished in the violent splendor of the canvas that was the ground beneath his feet, and the methodical strokes of several artists that used each others’ blood as a palette. There was a range of emotion being expressed in this masterpiece of war. Some artists managed to express extremes as they bludgeoned their subjects, creating a polka dot pattern on the gravel road. Others were methodical and tepid as their slashes were clearly indicated by straight splashes along the blades of grass and across the tree trunks. Someone was even hung, so said the bloody wire hanging off of the irrigation system. This work of art was topped off by a backdrop of an orchard full of apple trees, from which the ruby red fruit gave an extra dimension. One common thing that could be said about every artist here: nothing was personal.

“So I take it the bodies have been disposed of?” Esme turned and asked the nameless foot soldier of the City Guard.

“They have been taken away due to possible incrimination of those involved.” The red caped, armor clad peacekeeper and his comrades had taken on a few new jobs during the Empire’s reign of Radasanth, one of which being a secretive courier of those with influence. They quickly learned not to ask questions so long as they were sufficiently paid. He pointed to a young woman already examining the scene. “Is she with you or do I need to ask her to leave?”

“Consider her my assistant.” Esme glanced at the young woman clad in a midnight blue halter top and flamenco skirt. Her jet black hair hung as she bent over to examine a blood stained rock at the edge of Niema River. She looked up at Esme and the guard with a pair of glacial blue eyes, and greeted them with a crooked, but strangely cute smirk. Somewhere on her person, Esme had no idea where, was a sheathed wakizashi sword.

“She’s pretty.” Said the Guard as he lifted a hand to wave.

“She gets her good looks from me.” Esme said as they began to walk towards her. He didn’t have to see the man to know the surge of awkwardness that went through his body, which he immediately worked to remove. “Feel free to take a shot. She can take care of herself. Although I’m pretty sure she’d snap you like a twig.”

“I brought what you asked for.” Esme’s daughter, Ludivine said with a slightly raised voice as she held up a small pouch. “A veil of red wine vinegar, and ground wolf bone.”

“Good. Stay there by the river. And you.” Esme turned to the Guard and pointed at him. “You have to stay here. The information I’m about to gather is above your pay grade.”

The Guard took offence as he looked away to hide the face that indicated so, but he stayed put nonetheless. Esme stopped at the river beside his daughter and adjusted his crème doublet as he knelt down to examine the region’s best known body of water. At the same time he reached into his pocket and handed Ludivine Villeneuve an envelope. “Do you know whose seal that is on the front of the letter?”

“This looks like…” Ludivine put the broken red wax seal close to her porcelain face as she narrowed her eyes. “Cornelius Reed.” She said as she handed her father the letter and lowered her voice. “Do you know how many people wanted me to ‘take care’ of that guy? The only reason I haven’t is because they’re all poor. What are the ingredients for?”

“One is to activate my nose, and the other is to dial it up from one to twenty.” Esme said as he grabbed Ludivine’s tiny ankle. “But first I need the third ingredient, and I need a visual to get that ingredient.”

“Are you scrying?” Ludivine asked. Just then she felt a tingle in her ankle and the rest of her body go slightly loose. That answered her question. “Yes, you’re scrying. How far back was this?”

“Not far.” Esme said as he held Ludivine’s ankle with one hand and drew circles in the water with the other. “Late last night at the latest.”

The water near his hand began to darken, but within a few seconds it began to glow as it reflected the fickle silver moonlight of the previous night. The scene was exactly as he had depicted it, at least as far as he saw. Several soldiers of the Rangers and the Empire fought over the contents of a wagon in the Rangers’ possession, but that was none of Esme’s concern. There was a frail excuse of a man that he was looking for. A mage of great talent… and there he was retreating with a ranger on horseback. Esme watched as their reflections ran along with the flow of the river. They eventually stopped nearly a hundred yards down beyond a point of visual detail. He let go of his daughter and the Niema River resumed its daily routine of reflecting the sun and those closest to it. He took a look at his beard before he stood.

“They went west,” Esme started down the river. “Which was to be expected. Hopefully we’ll find something nearby; maybe something they dropped. This is… What’s wrong?” He turned to look at his daughter who hadn’t moved.

“Give me a second… You made my leg fall asleep.” The young assassin of the family shot her father a contemptuous look. Esme shot back a mischievous smile in a desperate attempt to mask the severe loss of comfort. It didn’t matter how well he knew her. Some of her ninja inspired habits gave him the creeps.

He made it no more than fifty yards west when he came across a follow up of the previously mentioned scene of chaos. There was less blood here, but he had his leads. The first of which was a peculiar blood stain along the gravel road. It was dark cherry red, indicating a member of a different species.

“Aleraran Elf.” Ludivine said over Esme’s shoulder. He made sure not to jump in surprise, but he made sure to address her hair-raising ways.

“You don’t have to do that.” Esme said as he tampered with his second lead, the bronze entrails of an apple that outlined the print of a horseshoe. He held them in his hand and held out his other. “Wolf bone and vinegar.”

“Here you are.” Ludivine dropped the contents into his free hand as he began a quiet chant. She stepped back as a flame ignited in his palm. Embers floated into the air for a moment or two before the flame went out and left a putrid hot chunky soup. “And what don’t I have to do?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Esme sipped the soup and made a dog’s face as the strong flavor of the vinegar and the awkward texture of the ground wolf bone burdened his mouth. He gave the ground up apple a good sniff before he emptied his hands and rinsed them off in the river. Soon the inside of his nose began to tingle. His sinuses became warm, and suddenly he knew where to go. Even when the horse tracks disappeared the scent of the apple and the horse that stepped on them would linger in his nose. “Let’s head to Radasanth.”

[Breaker]

Joshua Cronen paced across the spacious office's hardwood floor and accepted the glass of single malt whisky Silverton pressed upon him. With the sun still below its apex it seemed a little early to be drinking, but the quality of the booze and the company altered his decision. He sampled the expensive liquor, swirling its aged flavor across his palate as he sat in the room's only chair. Its back was straight, leather padded, and it swiveled on well oiled hinges. While Silverton established himself behind the desk and appeared to read or at least stare at the newspaper, Josh enjoyed the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the large bay window.

He had only visited Silverton's office on three previous occasions, but had fallen in love with the old man's base of operations after the first. The fine glass windows seemed to turn morning sunlight to golden vapor, and when the depleted rays touched him his skin tingled and his heart gladdened. Two masterpiece paintings hung either side of the office's entrance, the complexity of their colors matching the subtlety of the artist's brushstrokes. Josh had familiarized himself with Coronian history. He recognized the Battle for Teria on the left, during which demon forces had occupied the Dwarven stronghold in a single day. On the right he observed dwarves, elves and men led by a figure in shining armor. The well defined features were intimate to him, for he had seen the statue of Radasanth the Savior in the city’s center many times.

Josh found it curious that Silverton chose to hang the paintings on his front wall, while the paneled wood behind him was a mural of medals and awards. Silverton had been a successful soldier in Corone’s Armed Forces for many years. He had spent decades abroad in dangerous lands such as Salvar and Alerar, working undercover often as not with little to no reinforcement. The third time they met, the friends had drank long into the night while the older man related stories of his adventures. The tales had covered much of his career, detailing everything from a fiery love affair with a drow princess to the cannonball which had destroyed his legs. In Silverton Josh found a kindred spirit, a man he’d like to emulate one day if he lived long enough. In Josh the one time warrior found an unparalleled agent, not to mention a younger version of himself he could live vicariously through.

Silverton still seemed possessed by whatever he saw in the paper, so Josh finished his whisky and grabbed his friend’s empty glass as he stood. The fiery liquor had lent him unnatural warmth which spread from his cheeks all the way down to his toes. The enchanted black metal boots he wore made no noise as he strode to the dry bar in the corner of the room.

Unlike the old man’s desk, his bar was spotless and orderly. Rows of polished glasses were stacked behind military columns of minted bottles. Josh uncorked several which were not sealed, sampling their luxurious aromas. He found the right bottle by smell - the label read Yurik's Firewhisky in Aleraran scrawl - and poured them each a generous measure, then reorganized the bar to its regimental neatness. He returned and replaced Silverton’s glass then settled into the leather chair and sipped from his own, swiveling slightly toward the sunlight.

“There are many things I’ve kept secret from you, Josh.” The old man finally broke his silence. Josh stopped rotating the chair and looked up, but could not meet Silverton's eyes, for the old soldier stared at the shimmering liquid in his glass as he swirled it around. “Not because I didn’t trust you, understand, but for our mutual safety. Because I was afraid, I suppose, and I didn’t want to complicate your life any more than I already have.” Silverton took a deep breath and tossed back two fingers of whisky, staring out the window resolutely.

When Josh refilled his friend’s glass he had noticed that the old man was glaring at the obituaries as if to set them on fire by magic. He felt curious, and saddened by his friend’s emotional agony. He did not want to rush the respectable fellow though, so he swirled his drink patiently.

He was unsurprised that the crippled aristocrat had kept secrets from him; it seemed perfectly natural that some facts from his history of violence would go with him to the grave. What Josh didn’t understand was how a name in the obituaries could inspire Silverton to bring him closer in his circle of confidence.

“It’s imperative now though," Silverton said suddenly, "it’s necessary. Heed me well my friend,” The old man slammed his glass down on the desk and scratched at his shoulder where an old scar still tormented him. “Please Josh, think before you answer what I’m about to ask you. I have a mission, perhaps the most vital undertaking this civil war has seen. You’re the best man for the job, but it will put you under the scrutiny of the Viceroys themselves, and therefore the most dangerous assassins in Corone. I’ll gladly find someone else to do it if you say no.” Silverton stopped himself from scratching just shy of putting a hole in his shirt. He reached for his glass but found it empty, and so snatched up a gold fountain pen and tapped a military tattoo on the arm of his chair.

Josh immediately opened his mouth to agree, but paused. Out of respect for his friend’s request, he reflected briefly on it.

Silverton had indeed complicated his life a great deal. Months prior, after leaving Scara Brae and the life of a Dajas Pagoda Master behind, Josh had travelled to Radasanth to accept a long-standing job offer at The Flesh Failures. He'd felt happy there, running the popular establishment’s security by night and teaching martial arts in the basement by day. For a time his life was peaceful and simple, but then a series of freelance jobs had brought him into Leonard Silverton’s circle. Combining the old man’s wisdom and social contacts with Joshua’s relentless desire for justice, the two had nurtured the eyes and ears of the rebellion in Radasanth, and assisted many unwilling citizens of the Empire in escaping to the Ranger-controlled lands further south.

For Josh, there had only ever been one side to the civil war. The very name of the Freedom Fighters spoke of his life’s work, although he hadn’t joined them until personally invited by Leonard. But his life had recently gained a degree normalcy he hadn't felt in years. Could he knowingly sacrifice his peace amidst the chaos, his sanctuary, to follow a path which might very well banish him from Corone?

“Stop trying to dissuade me Leon, if you say I’m the man for the job then I want it. I want this country's freedom as much as you do.” As if to seal an oath, Josh downed the last of his whisky and placed the glass on Leonard’s desk. The old man relaxed visibly, dropped his gold pen on a pile of papers and stopped fidgeting. The worry left his shadowed hazel eyes, replaced by a grim determination.

“I know you looked over my awards,” he said, waving one hand in a careless gesture at the wall behind him. “But one of my… no, my greatest accomplishment, is not among them.” He leaned forward candidly, and Josh mirrored the action, intrigued. Irrepressible pride swelled in the old warrior’s chest, and a red glint tinted his eyes.

“I am, or so I believe, the only man to have received an honorable discharge from the Scarlet Brigade.”

[The International]

Sorry for the wait. I was trying to give it some more meat, but I couldn't.

The scent that tickled Esme’s nose so led them to a stone edifice. Esme scowled at the words Flesh Failures ostentatiously over the set of double doors that led inside. Even they couldn’t save the muted grey building from looking cold and dead within the radiance of the day. Perhaps it looked better in the Anti-Firmament. At night it probably rose from the dead like a flamboyantly dressed vampire ready to suck everything but blood from its patrons; sweat, tears, and lots of money. The proper and indecent alike probably convened here, and then it occurred to him.

“Before we go in…” Esme held a hand out to stop his daughter. “No one in there’s going to recognize you, are they?”

“This is Vespasian’s kind of place.” Ludvine said. “He’s the dancer in the family.”

Esme rolled his eyes. “I’m so proud of my manly son right now.” He looked at Ludivine. “Just follow my lead, and act sad and scared. I know grifting isn’t your thing, but we need to make this work. Shed some tears if you can.”

“Ouch. Tears.” Ludivine gritted her teeth. “I’m not a fan of tears. How about I just disappear?”

“That works.” Esme started for the door again. “And stay close okay?” He turned to look at his daughter again, but this time she was nowhere to be seen. He shrugged his shoulders and stopped at the door for a moment.

His head dropped, his breathing became shallow, his eyes welled up with would be tears, and his eyebrows curved up as he pushed open the double doors.

“Is anyone here?” Esme’s voice, which now squeaked with weakness, bounced off multicolored walls and luxurious countertops. It was all dampened by the darkness of the dormant dancehall’s innards. “Please! Anyone!”

“Sir…” A large fellow appeared from a back room somewhere. “This establishment is of the nocturnal kind. If you seek aid, find it elsewhere.”

“I know. I know. It’s just that.” Esme feigned a loss for words as his jaw dropped and his hands rose. “There was a guy who was here last night. I’m sure of it. Yea tall, tougher than he looks I hope. He’s got to be in a world of pain right now. He’s in danger, and if he was here then you’re in danger too.”

The man Esme assumed to be a bouncer rubbed his chin. “Was he accompanied by two mounts?”

“Yes!” The spy’s eyes twinkled with hope. “You saw him?”

The bouncer popped his head back into the door from which he came. “Joshua!”

[Breaker]

Josh blinked, but not from the sunlight streaming in the office window.

It seemed Leonard Silverton was made from more layers than an onion.

To Radasanth at large the aristocrat hid behind the guise of a semi-bitter, partially senile war hero. He seldom left his mansion estates on the north edge of the city, appearing in public only to give short speeches at military ceremonies or donate at charity events. Rumors circulated throughout the city that he was close to death and paranoid, that he re-wrote his will each day and slept in a different room each night, always with guards on the other side of the door. Silverton manufactured many such rumors himself to justify his reclusiveness to the public domain and because he only enjoyed the company of a choice few people. Remembering the way Leon had grinned and tapped his nose when he shared this particular tidbit, Josh suspected that the old man enjoyed deception as much as glass of Yurik's.

Now like a quick change artist Silverton had thrown off yet another costume; that of the ex-military tactician. Joshua’s eyes flashed and one eyebrow arched as he realized how closely attached Silverton was to clandestine affairs in Radasanth.

“Josh… do you know what the Scarlet Brigade is?” Silverton looked almost crestfallen until Cronen responded.

“I've heard they were an elite group of warriors shrouded in secrecy. Lots of fanciful tales about initiation rites. But I also know what the former means.” The two men met each other’s gaze. A lesser individual standing in between them might have been fried to a crisp, but the intensity was one of trust between comrades strengthening.

“Assassins.” Josh finished.

Silverton nodded and abruptly wheeled himself out from behind the desk. He collected both glasses and squeaked to the bar. Josh stood up and stretched like a tiger, flexing his back. He strode two steps to the window and looked out. A private hemp plantation stretched for an acre around the house in every direction, deep green bushes taller than a man. Every so often a branch would sway against the gentle breeze, and Josh wondered what was hidden beneath the leafy camouflage. Most likely an equal number of guards and traps, given what I just learned. The east-facing window was wide enough that he could observe both north and southern horizons. To the north beyond the stone wall which surrounded Silverton’s estates rose the Jagged Mountains. Josh knew that a district of warehouses and a long pier lay between the two impassive stone shapes, but he could not see them due to the height and proximity of the wall. To the south over the same cordon construction he caught a glimpse of the Citadel’s awe-inspiring towers.

The squeaking of the wheelchair subsided, and Josh turned to find Silverton back behind his desk, the glasses back on it, each one a quarter full of the amber liquid. Leon stared at the eddying ripples in his cup until they subsided, until the surface stood still and glassy.

“Some of us were assassins,” the old man admitted. “Not me though. I was always the anchor. My skills with weapons never quite paralleled my-” a ghoulish grin crinkled his face, adding years to his apparent age- “communications efficiency.” As he continued the story he pushed his glass around the desktop in tiny increments, like a general moving markers of troops across a map.

“The stories I've told you were all true, however I omitted key elements. It was Teod Goshawk and another man who carried me out of the harbor in Alerar, holding my guts in with their bare hands. But that is ancient history.” Silverton leaned forward and sniffed the whisky, as if its vintage could bring him back to his healthy youth.

“More recently,” he continued, reclining anew and lacing his fingers, “The Brigade became something else entirely. I don’t know all the details, but…”

As words failed him he spun the newspaper across the desk, knocking several less important bits of parchment askew in the process. Josh sat and picked up the obituaries page. For an instant he sensed the dry suppleness of the newsprint and the ink sinking into his skin. Then the adjacent headline hoarded his full attention.

Demon Hellcat Strikes Again!

Found in a back alley of our unsafe city’s northern warehouse district were the separated body and head of one Teod Goshawk. Formerly a Major in the Corone Armed Forces, Goshawk was dishonorably discharged for skimming funds and goods from supply trains under his supervision. His whereabouts were unknown until this morning when a CAF patrol found his remains. Based on the claw marks which cover his body in burned flesh, the investigating officers determined Goshawk to have been the eighth known victim of the Hellcat, a Haidian man-beast who roams the nighttime streets on a murderous rampage.

Wading through the stiff passive prose, Josh smelled bullshit as surely as if he’d stepped in it. He had made it an intentional habit to not keep up with the news, and as such hadn’t heard of the Hellcat before.

“Why don’t they just toss the bodies in the sea, or burn them?” He asked as casually as if he were critiquing the quality of writing. “Why use such an elaborate ruse?”

The knuckles of Silverton’s laced fingers turned a ghostly white in the bright sunlight, and his ruddy face deepened in hue.

“Fear,” he said. “That story has run the day after each victim’s death. Each week, they add something new. The Hellcat only preys on individuals alone at night, between the hours of one and four. It prefers the blood of the damned, so the virtuous are safe. Virtuous in this sense meaning those who obey the Empire.” He snorted like a stallion with a spike in its hoof.

“Exactly what happened to the Brigade, I cannot determine. But something caused a schism, and while some of my old comrades deserted, the majority remained. And they’ve become more powerful since then.” He leaned forward, expelling a breath as he tapped the section of the page which specified how the “Demon Hellcat” tore Goshawk’s head off. “None of the men I knew in my day were capable of that. Are you?”

Josh did not respond, hoping the question was rhetorical. He had never tried to rip a man’s head off, but he could break an unsuspecting sentry's neck one-handed. Uncomfortable by the stirred memories of his own violent past, he rose and paced to the window, to the bar, and back again. He felt like a caged animal; he wanted to get out of the office’s calm environment and beat the streets, start the operation Silverton had yet to outline for him. The older man noticed his friend’s restlessness and hastened towards the end.

“ I need you to find the surviving members of the former Brigade. They are my oldest friends, and they are being picked off one by one. What’s more, their experience will be invaluable to our cause. I need you to find them,” his voice nearly broke with sorrow as he finished, “before the Empire’s new pet killers can.” The contents of his tumbler disappeared down his throat, and Silverton sighed mightily. "If you can convince them you represent me, I believe they will join us."

Josh nodded a simple symbol of understanding. He strode to the desk and stooped forward, reaching out as if to shake Silverton’s hand. The two clasped arms instead, a soldier’s greeting and farewell. Then Leon opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a slim leather folder.

“All the intelligence I have is in these documents. It isn’t very much, but it’s a place to start. If you need anything…”

Josh was already halfway out the door, but he turned and met the older man’s gaze with an equally solemn look.

“Don’t worry, I know the right people to ask.”

The streets of Radasanth were a cacophony of hagglers and gossips, horses and heat, and beneath it all the ring of his metal boots on cobblestone. Josh wanted to follow his gut - he happened to know the editor of the Radasanthian Reader, and Peabody Polk owed him a number of debts. In previous times Josh had supported the rotund little man, but the shoe was on the wrong foot with the Reader publishing such smut. He needed to stop by the Flesh Failures first, if only to inform the staff he'd be out for the night, and they'd need to call in another man or five to replace him. Finding a pair of guests waiting not-so patiently at the bar (one sipping water, the other gin and tonic) was a mild surprise, considering Silvterton's revelations, but one he wanted to deal with quickly.

"Can I help you?" He directed the question to the middle aged gentleman rather than the surly faced girl, face open, mind already beating the streets.

[The International]

The man who went by the name of Joshua stepped out of the light of the employee’s entrance. The receding afternoon light made a spectacle of his light amber hair, reaching for every shimmering strand as the closing door took it away. His eyes of emerald and bronze were almost incandescent with single-minded intensity even in the dimness of the dormant night club. They were a stark contrast to his nonchalant strut across the main room to shake hands with Esme, who made no attempt to look taller than he was against the six foot tower of a Human. Sure, he would have liked to, but he was in character, and his character was under too much duress to submit to such vanity.

“Yes, my name is Erick Vanderbilt.” He said as he intentionally allowed Joshua to grasp the thinnest part of his fingers. A firm, manly handshake was not what this character called for. He motioned towards Ludivine who sat shyly on one of the barstools. “This is my daughter, Lyanna. We’re looking for a young man by the name of Ferrin Mae.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vanderbilt.” The man said after a moment of contemplation. He opened his hands in a quizzical gesture. “I don’t recall anyone by that name. We have almost a thousand people who frequent this establishment every night.”

Esme peered off into the distance. Something was wrong here. This Joshua had to have been in a managerial position or else the other bouncer wouldn’t have called him. There was no doubt the young arcane master made it here last night, and given the theme of the establishment he would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone was lying to him. He threw a tiny pebble in the pond. “Maybe he used another name. He had to have been severely fatigued.”

“I’m sure a mature man such as yourself doesn’t frequent a place like this. We lack the sophistication and class you seem to require.” Joshua said as he went around to the other side of the bar and fetched a thin stack of papers riddled with ink and handed it to his subordinate, who immediately scanned them for the name in question. “But everyone is severely fatigued after a night at the Flesh Failures. That doesn’t narrow the lot down much.”

The flattery was cute. The invented effort was as well. They weren’t getting off that easily. Esme decided to throw another tiny pebble in the pond. “He was wearing a cloak.”

“A common garment in Radasanth.” The bouncer said as his eyes darted back and forth on a page of last night’s guest list. He flipped to the next page and started again. “Especially if the man you speak of arrived here at night.”

“Emphasis on if.” Joshua waited a few moments as they watched the bouncer finish scanning the list. He looked up with an apologetic face and shook his head. Joshua spoke for him as he made his way to the main entrance. “Once again I’m sorry, but if that’s all you have about this Ferrin Mae I can’t help you.” He opened the pair of heavy oak doors and the sunlight came pouring in as a white curtain that outlined his black masculine silhouette. “Now if you and your daughter will excuse me, I must be on my way.”

It was time to drop the rock. “Two horses!” Esme’s voice echoed around the room and rang with desperation. It managed to freeze Joshua like a time spell from the Tap. “He had two horses with him. One belonged to him and another belonged to…” Esme lowered his head, as did Ludivine. “A brother in arms. Blessings of the Thayne be upon him.”

“Ah the horses. I remember the lad, Cronen!” The bouncer said in all his good-willed naïveté . “You brought him just before last call. Frail little thing he was, but obviously smart. His name is nowhere to be found on the list.”

Both Esme and Ludivine stood up and exuded smiles of excitement. Not because they had a new lead, but because of the man that stood before them. This bouncer may not have known who his boss was, but they did. Joshua “Breaker” Cronen was a big name in the intelligence community, almost as big as Izvilvin Kazizzrym. Esme knew what his smile was about. Even after seven thousand years of being a spy, meeting another in the field was, how the kids put it, cool, whether they were on the same side or not. He could only guess at Ludivine’s smile. Perhaps she wanted the pleasure of mounting him. Perhaps she wanted the honor of killing him. Perhaps she wanted both. Esme capitalized on this outpour of excitement. “You saw him? He’s in danger.”

The light began to narrow as the double doors closed, and Esme could have sworn he saw a sigh from Cronen just as he said. “Come with me.”

Esme and Ludivine stepped into the light and started after Joshua, who didn’t seem to bother to slow down. The streets of Corone’s capital were very much alive with activity, but not exactly bustling due to it being the weekend. Shopkeepers took this time to clean up their vendors. A low baritone hum of conversation surrounded them. They stayed on the side of the street as the equine drawn transports dominated the center of the human river, making their presence known with horseshoes that sounded off like snare drums.

Joshua had to speak loud enough to be heard over Radasanth’s commotion. “So where do you know Ferrin from?” he said as he tossed Esme a glance like one would toss a coin to a beggar on the street. His eyes were daggers, but the spy was used to that. What made him uncomfortable was the fact that Cronen had no reservations about showing his suspicion.

“Actually, we barely know one another.” The best lie bore a bit of truth. “But we have many mutual friends – brothers in arms one might say. He’d barely remember me if he saw me.” Esme didn’t know for sure where Cronen stood in the politics of the region, but one thing was for sure; he felt it necessary to hide the young mage.

Joshua nodded his head and crossed his arms as they stopped to cross a street. He did a double-take at Ludivine, who didn’t stop, but simply changed her walking speed to barely miss the riders on horseback and carriages whizzing by. “Why didn’t one of them come for him? Don’t you think he’d be better off in the protection of someone he knows and trusts?”

“As you know the postage network isn’t as efficient as it used to be.” Traffic finally gave way and the two men made a brisk jog across the street in a brief moment of tranquility. It seemed to have stopped just for them. Just as they reached the corner of the next street a, caravan came charging through to churn up a cloud of dust behind them. “Word hasn’t gotten to his closes allies yet, but the message has been sent. He was supposed to meet me this morning, and when he didn’t show I got worried and sent word.”

“Is that so?” Joshua said as he once again made no attempt to put a mask on his skepticism. Esme didn’t take it personally. If he were in Joshua’s position, he’d be skeptical as well, but it was his job to get to the young man and his precious cargo.

“Yes…” He stopped just across the street from the great ziggurat known as the Citadel. “Mr. Cronen, I get the feeling that you don’t trust my intentions.”

“ He doesn’t know you. You don’t know him. Is there any way to prove that your intentions are just?” Cronen scratched his head as he finally gave Esme a look.

“No way that would be sufficient for you.” Esme said with a sigh. “How about this? He’s probably safer in the care of a bouncer than that of a noble, so all I need to do is see him, hear from him that he’s safe, and that he trusts you. You can take safety precautions from there. Hell, relocate him if you feel it’s necessary.”

Joshua said nothing. He simply started up the massive stone steps of the Citadel… clever.

[Breaker]

"We're called Doormen," Josh said as he grasped a heavy iron ring and heaved the thick half-moon door open, holding it for them with a mock bow.

"Pardon?" The man quorked, all honest bemusement, as he strolled to the torchlit interior. The girl made as if to tug the door's twin open for herself, but before her hand reached the ring she decided walking past Josh quick was better than standing next to him for the fraction of a second it would take to tug open the door. She tugged the neck of her halter top. If Josh hadn't looked before, he did then, and something stirred. The girl who seemed strangely familiar increased her speed and followed the man. A small victory, like capturing a bishop in chess..

"Doormen, not bouncers." Josh repeated as he resumed the lead. The entry hall was a hive of monks speaking with warriors and leading them down the honeycomb halls. Other Brothers attended to the daily chores, sleeves of their brown habits rolled up as they replaced guttering torches and dusted old paintings, their sandals slapping on the smooth marble floor. I stopped one slight monk with a hand on his shoulder and muttered something next to his ear. He responded, quiet and complacent, then folded his hands into his sleeves and swept off towards a young hedge-mage who wore a longsword on his hip and had smoke wafting out his ears.

"Why is that?" the man who called himself Vanderbilt asked, like he needed something to say. The two of them followed Josh down a red brick hall lined with bronze suits of armour and tall whickering torches. He had already dismissed the fake names they'd given. The man's grief had been too perfectly balanced, almost metered, an exact emulation rather than a natural spasm. The girl didn't seem to care much for the effectiveness of the ruse. She acted more like she wanted to slit Breaker's belly with the blade under her skirt and move on to more pressing business. The recognition came suddenly, almost violently. Kyosku Tetsoma. Josh rolled his shoulders to feel the weight of the tanto strapped to his back. The little warrior ninja had given him the red-tasselled blade after their romp in the Citadel, entreating him to join her bandit brotherhood. No, Kyo had dark eyes, he remembered. Unless... Cronen glanced at not-Vanderbilt, studying the older man's hazel eyes. Like mine. Best colour for an undercover operative, because they're easy to disguise.

Too many questions, and he had more pressing business to attend. Stopping suddenly in a long, narrow stretch of the corridor, Josh opened the only door in sight. It was a heavy oak piece with knobby iron hinges, but it opened smooth and soundless. Josh gave a mock bow again, hoping that the recurring action would disarm the others' defences.

It did. Shoulders hunched and eyes all weepy, putting on a performance to shame the Tantalum or even the Tireless Travelling Troupe, the old guy stepped over the oaken threshold. Josh shoved him in the small of the back and spun, boot sweeping the door shut as his free hand enveloped the girl's neck and rammed her against the far wall. The door slammed, echoing down the hall and extinguishing a torch.

She twisted like a snake, down and sideways, wrenching out of his grip and reaching between her legs with both hands. Josh jammed his knee hard against her wrists, pinning the sword back in its sheathe after glimpsing the wakizashi hilt. She abandoned the blade and struck at his face with both hands, one a crane the other a tiger, thrusting at his eyes and gouging at his throat. Josh dropped his weight and lowered his head and let her fingers glance and graze his hair like a lover's caress. He spun to the ground and snared her ankle and suddenly she was tumbling over her shoulder and racing down the hall, laughter echoing after her steps.

"Were you pouting because Daddy didn't let you take point on this job?" He called after her. The tanto with the red tassel rasped as it left its sheathe and sang as he threw overhand. Its razor sharp blade split the hafts of three torches ahead of the little ninja, their flaming heads bursting on the floor amidst the clatter of steel on stone. She only paused for a second, more of a mid-stride slowdown than anything else, to crouch and leap over the sparking embers.

Long enough. He caught her in a single bound and coiled his arms around her midsection, then arched and turned and sprawled and suplexed her onto the marble.

"I have no taste for the theatrical bits," she panted, writhing in the bear hug and hammering him with upward elbows. Josh caught the blows on his shoulder but had to backflip away as she found room to draw her wakizashi and thrust for his groin.

"Who hired you?" Josh demanded, still pressing forward. He evaded a pair of chest-opening angular slashes. "Give me a name, a place, anything." She swung horizontally and he got under it, pinning arm and sword against the wall. "Tell me." His own arm twined around hers as he leaned into the shoulder lock. "You'll save innocent lives."

Rather than a cry of pain she laughed, and her arm dissolved in a pink mist before he could apply pressure. Her arm re-materialised as she stepped back and swayed like a yew in a summer storm.

"Innocent who? Imperials or rebels? They're all the same to me." She aimed a perfect sidekick at his chest, voice like chimes on a breezy day as it bounced down the hall.

Enough of this. Josh felt the impact of the kick all the way through his sternum to his spine. It felt like getting speared by a knight with a blunted lance. He bulled forward against the pain, driving her over the dying embers and turning her back to the wall and crushing her against it. He swatted away her dainty strikes and snapped her head down into a constricting front choke, cutting off blood flow to her brain as sure as a guillotine beheads the guilty. Nowhere to go but to sleep.

"You're an insult to your peers," Josh said as he squeezed, hearing her breath catch, feeling her struggles in weaken. "Do you even know who you are?"

She vanished, her entire body melting into that rose hued cloud. It rushed past his face, blinding him for a moment, and by the time he turned she had reappeared.

"A ninja," she said, reaching for Joshua's tanto, but he pinned the polished blade flat with a black boot. "a spy, a lover," her elbow came up like the arm of a trebuchet, aiming to shatter his nose. "An assasin," she growled as Josh took the shot on his chin. Seeing stars for a moment didn't stop him landing a solid two-handed palm strike to her chest.

When his head cleared Kyo - no, not Kyo, it couldn't be - was sprawled on the marble next to the door her partner had disappeared through. The last blow had thrown her over the dead remains of torch heads and past her dropped wakisashi. She was slightly winded, and Josh seized the moment's respite.

"Add fool to the list," he said, and pushed off from a torch bracket. He slid away as if on ice, enchanted boots smooth as glass. As he reached the corner he dove and rolled, hearing the wakizashi clatter behind him. Didn't learn much, Josh reflected as he raced through the bustling antechamber and out into the afternoon sun.

But it would be enough.