The Heart of Everything

[Letho]

(Closed)

“So, you heard the order?” one sentry asked the other as the sun started its final approach towards the western horizon, painting everything in the hues of orange and bronze. The two men were nestled amidst the bushes that clung to bare rock, sitting on the precipice of a cliff that offered an almost breathtaking view of much of the Radasanthia barony. The land was spread before them like an unrolled map, with the Niema River cutting through the green of the pastures and gold of the wheat like a stream of mercury. And at the western end of it, though they couldn’t see it in the diminishing light, was Radasanth, or Empire City as the Rangers dubbed it during the campaign.

“Indeed. We press on northward,” the other responded. His hand slipped past the hem of his cloak and went to the breast pocket of his tunic, fishing out a wooden pipe that looked like it had seen better days. He blew out the ashes out of it, then procured some tobacco from another pocket and started stuffing the fragrant dry leaf into the pipe, seemingly unconcerned.

“Does he know its Empire land northward?” the younger of the two asked, obviously restless and concerned. He poked at the rocks below with the far end of his bow, sending a couple over the edge and rolling down the long slope.

“Oh, I’m rather certain that he does. That’s why he’s making us take off the insignia,” the veteran with a salt-and-pepper beard responded, tapping a patch on his shirt that was clearly cleaner and greener than the rest of his clothes. His companion, noticing the sword-and-bow emblem on his own uniform, proceeded to rip it off swiftly and secure it in his satchel.

“Much good that’ll do us,” the youth muttered. When his aged companion failed to respond with anything save a lit match that made the tobacco smolder, he continued. “I just don’t get it, Geralt. What are we even doing here? We should be fighting the Empire, not looking for some godsforsaken caves out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Look, Darvile...” the graying ranger tried to say, but his companion continued.

“No, don’t get me wrong. Letho is our leader and I obey his orders. But ever since his woman died, he’s been a bit... odd, don’t you think?” The young bowman looked sideways to his comrade, half fearing that Geralt might scold him or whack him or worse, accuse him of treason. But the battle-hardened ranger just kept puffing his pipe, monitoring the land below like a perched hawk. “First he disappears and we get all these conflicting news about him joining the Empire, and burning a bunch of priests, and getting in league with the necros, and then falling off the face of Althanas. And then suddenly he’s back and he doesn’t even report to the headquarters, but takes us on this futile goddamn mission. I think there’s something wrong with him,” Darvile concluded. “He’s not the same man he was before.”

No, he most certainly wasn’t, Geralt thought, but voiced not his thoughts. Letho was still Letho, there was little doubt about it, with his stringent frowns and proud posture and a rumbling voice that made the hair at you nape stand up. But as someone who knew the Marshal prior to Myrhia’s death, Geralt could notice the subtle changes in the man. He was just a bit quieter, a bit more rigid, a bit more numb to the world around him, a bit more reckless in a battle. For many days Geralt dwelled on this change in his leader and finally came to a conclusion that it wasn’t that Letho didn’t care anymore, but rather that without his beloved all of this seemed like a job to him, just a piece of business where he had to play out his role. He would do his duty, help them win the war, but there was no longer the drive in him to make it personal. He was just going through the motions.

“He’s changed, I’ll give you that,” Geralt finally admitted, eyes on some point far on the horizon, pipe stuck at the edge of his mouth. “But I don’t think there’s something wrong with him. He had loved and he had lost. And it struck him as hard as it would any man. Harder even. Imagine being as powerful as him and not being able to save the one thing that matters to you the most. Would you be able to shrug that off and reenter the fray? If you saved a dozen lives every day, but couldn’t save the one that you hold dearest, would you remain unchanged.”

Finally releasing the pipe from between his teeth, he shook the still-smoking tobacco out. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just a man.”

***

Once the sun was snuffed out by the shroud of the oncoming night, the small group of about a dozen Highwaymen descended from the passages of the Comb Mountains. They traveled on horseback, moving through the countryside in an unorganized formation, pretending to be a pack of mercenaries looking for work in the Empire. It wasn’t a story that would get them far, especially not past the Empire patrols, but the locals would probably buy it what with the Empire recruiting just about anybody to do their dirty work. Not that there were many locals out in the dead hours of the night.

They managed to slip past several slumbering villages unhindered, circled around the palisades of a small town enlightened by torchlights, but soon enough their horses weren’t the only one whose hooves beat against the dirt. They’ve picked up a trail, possibly a patrol from the entrenched town they passed about an hour ago, and they needed to find some cover. Unfortunately for them, it was mostly flatlands around them, with not as much as a hillock or a grove to hide in. And the moon (a treacherous half of a silver coin above their heads) provided far too much light for them to try and lose their pursuers.

“There’s a town up ahead,” Elijah Marran, once a captain of the Corone Armed Forces, suggested once they brought their horses to a halt to devise a plan of action. The grizzly turncoat pointed towards a set of barely visible lights huddled around the main road. “It’s pretty much a one-horse town, so I don’t think there would be an Empire garrison there.”

Letho eyed the town engulfed by darkness, then cast a look in the direction of their invisible pursuit. There was no doubt that they could take care of the patrol, ambush them from the high grass and cut them down before they even got their bearings. The problem was tomorrow morning. A missing patrol raised questions and the locals, mostly loyal to the Empire, were sure to point the finger to this odd looking band of mercs that just happened to pass by. No, they had to play these shadow games and hope for win.

“Good. We shall seek refuge there,” the Marshal finally responded, clucking his horse towards the paved road and the town that hugged in on both sides. They approached the settlement at a serene trot, careful not to look as if they were trying to flee, careful to look every bit like the outfit of hired swords they had claimed to be. There was nobody to greet them in the streets, nobody peeking through the curtains on their windows, not even a demure tune coming from the inn at the center of the town. But there was still light in there and the doors weren’t barred yet; it seemed that with the war draining the economy everybody tried extra hard to earn an extra coin or two, even if it meant staying up all night. The Highwaymen dismounted, tied their horses and entered the inn with a simple order from their leader.

“Scatter.”

[Breaker]

Terr Bellfounder.

The departed sun’s final rays had left their mark on the cobblestone streets and solid buildings. The city of Radasanth stayed warm like a fresh bruise, pounding with pained energy. More and more doors hung on loose weeping hinges. The civil war tore families asunder as easily as looters kicked in those doors. Blood ran in the gutters as citizens took sides. Some would enlist in the army or run off to join the Rangers. Others took matters up with their own weapons. In busy districts such as the Bazaar swords were seen strapped to hips as often as stacked on tables.

A beggar limped out of one of the abandoned houses. He sniffed the air like a wolf as the door swung behind him. The streets smelled of sun-cooked dirt, the houses mostly of rot and vermin. He meandered along the street due east. Although he traipsed like an alcoholic an imperative task filled his mind. Beneath the odor of liquor and the tattered hooded cloak Joshua Cronen’s hazel eyes blazed.

He had seen this happen to a city before. He fought that frigid Salvarian war in Knife’s Edge and barely escaped with his life. After a harrowing sea voyage he returned to Radasanth only to see the same thing happening there. At first he ignored it and lived a comparatively peaceful life running security for a bar and teaching bouncers to fight in the basement. Then a man named Silverton had asked him to find the remaining deserters of the former Scarlet Brigade.

Terr Bellfounder.

Many of them had already fled the country or suffered a slaughter started clandestinely by the Coalition. Josh had skirmished with one of their Wraith assassins on several occasions. He had no desire to do so again in the near future. His limp was only partially feigned; stitches still held together three long gashes inflicted by the soulless’ claws. They throbbed dully on his left shin, a constant reminder to stay alert. He was determined to find Terrance Bellfounder, the last name on the list. Find him, and convince him to join Silverton’s elaborate sleeper cell. With the Corone Armed Forces roving the countryside and Letho Ravenheart missing in action, it seemed like Silverton and his organization might be the Rangers’ only hope. So far every lead on Bellfounder had brought him to a dead end. And each time he had to turn back and start over his relentless energy increased.

Cronen’s enchanted metal boots scraped along the cobblestone as he rounded a final bend and trudged towards the only two-story building on the block. Burlap rags covered the boots and the rest of his body, as thick with sweat as his cloak was with dust. The deep hood hid chiseled features which he had smeared with soot to hide the unique scar on his cheek.

Dark clouds frowned downwards, displeased with the tall building’s sorry state of disrepair. In another life it had housed wayward youths, an orphanage funded by charitable benefactors. Charity, like so many other things, was washed into the sewers by the war. Long cracks marred the masonry and loose patches of thatch showed on the roof. The stone steps to the front entrance were intact, but what had once been an iron fire escape lay like a dead spider in the building’s back yard, long legs broken and bent at odd angles. The suicide door was set in the upper story’s wall just below the cobwebbed eaves.

The Breaker Boots made a cacophony of metallic clicks as Josh climbed onto the rusted hulk of what was once a stairway. He looked up at the door in the apparently abandoned building. If Terrance Bellfounder resided there, that room on the upper story would undoubtedly be where he slept. Josh envisioned his plan for entry; a single straight jump to a cat catch on the lip of floor which extended beneath the suicide door. He would wait there for a few moments to gauge if anyone had heard him, then power up and through the door and hopefully start explaining himself before Bellfounder was fully awake.

As Cronen bent his knees to leap the pile of metal shifted beneath him, and three things happened almost simultaneously. A thick iron bar slid across one of his boots, trapping it in place; he looked down; the suicide door exploded open and a dark shape leapt downwards.

Josh heard the splitting of tired timbers and the familiar whisper of a certain blade leaving its scabbard.

The drow assassin Kron Sh’aketh’s eyes glowed in the darkness as he plummeted towards his mortal enemy. His black diamond ninjato slid eagerly from the case on his back, chopping in a downward arc. In his mind’s eye he saw the blade piercing Cronen’s pate, splitting the human’s head in two.

Josh knew he had no chance of blocking or evading the attack with his foot stuck in place. He acted on instinct, snapped the clasps on his boots open and leapt straight out of them. He met Kron in midair, one hand catching the Aleraran’s wrist while the other smashed his biceps with a paralyzing blow. Their bodies collided and fell in separate directions, both curled into balls and rolling on the ground like well trained tumblers.

Josh regained his feet and looked across the pile of scrap iron at Kron Sh’aketh. He saw well at night but found it difficult to get a fix on anything other than the drow’s eyes. The assassin’s black skin and dark vlince clothing made his sinuous movements almost imperceptible. Kron circled left, padded boots silent on the hardpack earth, trying to retrieve his fallen blade. Josh kicked a shard of rusted iron with his bare foot, and as the Aleraran ducked under the projectile he dove and rolled, snatched the long lethal blade in the process. He found his feet again and crouched a mere meter away from his enemy. With nothing separating them the two circled like starving wolves over the carcass of a rabbit.

“My brother’s blood still stains my hands where it ran as he died. I will wash them clean with yours, Cronen.” Kron’s voice dripped with corrosive menace as he drew a curved dagger from a sheathe on his shin, the blade made from the same black diamond as his sword.

Josh ignored the comment and compartmentalized the memory it conjured of him slicing Shynt Sh’aketh’s chest open. He had the longer blade and that gave him an advantage, just not in the manner Kron suspected. Although an expert with most weapons Josh knew very little of swords.

He stepped forwards and swung the sword back to slash at Kron’s ribcage. Then as the elf defended with his hooked dagger Josh punched him in the jaw instead. The Aleraran staggered three drunken steps and cracked his skull off the building’s stone wall. He retreated woozily. Josh dropped the blade and reached backwards over his right shoulder, mirroring the motion Kron had used earlier. His drew a large revolver instead of a sword, which he aimed at the Aleraran in a two-handed grip.

"Don't move!" He bellowed, but the drow raced around the corner. Josh cursed and bolted after him. By the time he reached the stone wall and peeked past it, the elf had disappeared into the night.

Josh leaned against the wall and breathed the fire from his lungs. He had followed another false lead, this one a trap masterminded by the vengeful drow. He holstered the large steel revolver against the skin covering his spine and went to retrieve the ninjato. The fact that Kron knew enough about him to lay the trap was a problem. Although the Aleraran adamantly worked alone since his brother’s death, he still shared intelligence with the Coalition. And since he had failed to kill Cronen, he would share his information. Within the hour they would have Josh’s last known location and a description of his disguise. Josh yanked his boots from the ingenious spring-loaded bar trap Kron had left for him and jammed them on his feet.

As soon as the Coalition knew his whereabouts, they would send the Wraiths.

He found the ninjato’s scabbard jammed upright between two supports of the former staircase. Judging by the broken leather strap it had fallen from Kron’s shoulders when the two collided. Josh sheathed the sword and locked it in place. He tested the weapon and found it made a decent improvised walking stick. The skirmish with the drow, short as it was, had left the wound in his leg pulsating angrily.

No longer caring about seeming inconspicuous he half-ran down to the nearest street until he found and intersection, where he turned east. His burlap cloak snapped like a sail in a storm as he propelled himself towards the city limits. With his lead on Bellfounder and his location compromised, his primary objective became more basic.

Get out of Radasanth. Now!

[Veatrix]

“Mister Kurama, with all due respect, this is getting tiresome.”

Veatrix Bane clutched the electronic device to her ear, speaking into it like it was a living, breathing organism. She received the rectangular gadget from Kurama, the President of the Schwarzer Vogel Organization, as a means of communication. It was a strange little thing – white, with a few flecks of orange here and there, and “Sony Ericsson” engraved upon the front. It flipped open like a pop-up book, and it vibrated slightly – that was how she knew Mister Kurama was calling. A “cellphone,” he had called the gadget, and apparently it was from another dimension, one where technology and science reigned supreme. How the thing worked, the half-Elf didn’t care, but as long as she was in touch with her boss, her job still clung on to its desperate existence.

But then again, the steady money Schwarzer provided her with was more than enough for her to get by. After being introduce to the organization by a sorceress named Christina, Veatrix was appointed an unofficial member – a bodyguard/hitman or sorts, only less violent and more efficient. The Schwarzer even provided her with her own bed, room and office. Not bad for a secretive Radasanth organization. Regardless, she was already out in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a man travelling deeper into the middle of nowhere. Might as well hitch along for the ride – no point in riding all the way back to Radasanth empty-handed.

Veatrix flipped her blonde hair back, away from the strange cellphone. “I’ve been waiting here for ten hours, doing nothing. I expected some action, a little bloodshed even. But no, I’m stuck here in this dingy inn room, with my horse eating what’s left of the town’s hay, and no Letho Ravenheart in sight."

“Just keep waiting, Miss Bane. Mister Ravenheart, according to my sources, is on his way to your location now,” the voice on the other end said. “I don’t expect there to be any bloodshed, so please don’t try to cause any.”

“Fine,” she said, exasperated.

“And you do remember what to say?” he asked testily.

“Yes, yes,” she sighed. Putting on her politest tone, the half-Elf recited her creed. “’Oh Mister Ravenheart, after witnessing all your heroic efforts, I would like to dedicate my life to serving your cause. You are such a huge inspiration of mine, I even took up swordcraft and magic to become more like the warrior you are. If you would have me, please let me be part of your travelling group. I have my own horse and sword, and I promise I will not be a burden!’”

With a smug smile, she flopped on to the feathery bed, its lack of greasing wholly apparent. It wasn’t only the bed that needed some freshening up, the whole inn – no, the whole town needed its life back. The room was dreary, the twilight bleeding through the faded beige curtains. Mildew stained one whole wall of the room, while the washroom was unusable, even to those that didn’t care for hygiene. There were no furniture in the room, just a bed and what looked to be a dining table chair. Veatrix smirked at her bleak surroundings – it’s what you get for paying only two gold pieces.

“Good enough. It’s the best we can come up with. Lady Luck be on your side.”

“Thanks for–“

And with that, he disconnected.

[Letho]

There was exactly one patron in the Mudcrab Inn when Letho and his Highwaymen entered and the drunken sod was lying on the hardwood floor, hugging the spit bowl as his hair soaked in what looked like fresh vomit. This disgusting display of inebriation didn’t seem to upset the owner, however. The skinny innkeeper behind the bar looked quite content on his barstool, back against the wall and head on his chest as his snorting filled the otherwise empty main room. The mug in one hand had long departed from the rag in the other, now resting precariously at the edge of his lap, barely hanging on to his loose fingers. The thick, fat candle before him still had a long way to go before it would burn out, but most of the others that hung from the walls were growing shorter by the second, offering sparse light to the room. Not that there was too much to see. It was a typically dreary place, filled with as much tables and chairs as one could reasonably fit in such space, with only a huge shell of a mudcrab nailed to the wall to differentiate it from the inn at the next town over.

By the time Elijah Marran approached the slumbering proprietor the Rangers were already spread across the room, sitting behind the tables in twos and threes in a seemingly random pattern. Only it wasn’t so random. Three men were seated next to the entrance, three right next to a doorway that probably led towards the kitchen and the back door beyond, while the rest covered the corners and windows. Letho himself sat next to one of the windows, wiping of the dust and peering at the night beyond. The Lawmaker gunblade, wrapped in thick canvas, was propped against the wall. He couldn’t be the one to talk to the owner and take care of the business. His face was far too well known in the land of Corone, or at least the resembling copy that was looking back at people from the ‘WANTED’ posters that the Empire spread wherever they went. Elijah had no trouble taking over the helm.

“Wake up!” he shouted at the young-looking barkeep, slamming a fistful of gold pieces against the smoothened wood of the bar. The boy beyond, probably snatched away from some pleasurable fantasy, started at the words, dropping the mug which shattered upon impact with the ground. None of the Rangers flinched at the sound. Elijah, half looking like an apparition what with his face missing an ear and an eye, did his best to mimic the cocky brashness of a mercenary leader. “You open? Cause me and my boys could use a drink and a meal. And if it’s good, maybe we’ll do you a favor and stay the night.”

It took several seconds for the sleepy bartender to get his bearings, several seconds during which he tried to knuckle the crust from his eyes and get a precise headcount of the crowd that suddenly materialized in his establishment. Another fist against the crummy bar made him lose count. “Tonight,” Elijah elaborated. “We’d like these drinks some time tonight!”

“Yes... Yes, sir. Right away,” the kid responded, tossing the rag away and jumping to his feet. Though slow to awake, the youth was rather quick and deft once he got moving, spreading ale mugs across the tables with trained skill. He was probably a son of the actual innkeeper, Letho deducted, stuck with the graveyard shift in the family business. He would grow up to own this place most likely, as would his son after him, and his son after that. It was how things went in the normal world, where people didn’t live their life on the road with a sword in their hand and a mission on their mind. It was a calmer life. Perhaps not better, but definitely calmer. Safer.

Fifteen minutes after their arrival most of the concealed Rangers were still milking their first mug of ale when their pursuers finally revealed themselves. Marching in like they owned the place, the Imperial patrol nearly tore down the door as they entered the inn, barging in with their weapons drawn and their horses still neighing outside after the hard gallop. Their leader, a stocky man with his plumed helmet hanging almost low enough to hinder his vision, would’ve been dead three times over already if Letho’s orders weren’t to stand down. They were amateurs, that much was obvious, probably local militiamen that found the mud of the battlefield more appealing that the cow dung in their pens back home. The Empire was more than happy to take such raw recruits, slap some armor on them, give them a solid weapon and let them do their best. The bad ones would die, the good ones would get promoted and all for half the money they’re paying the real soldiers.

“Evenin’ sergeant,” Elijah Marran said, his salute almost an insult to the real thing. The man before him didn’t seem to care, though, keeping the tip of his halberd pointed at the one-eyed veteran. “Is there a problem? I thought drinking was still legal in the Empire.”

“You? Are you the leader of these men?” the militia commander demanded, emphasizing his point with the sharp end of his weapon getting even nearer to Elijah. “Identify yourself.”

“I find it very hard to get to know people when there’s a weapon pointed at me, sarge,” the former CAF captain said, a smirk and a sigh completing the act. “But if it has to be like that... I am Alain Goodwin and these are the Immolators.”

“You mercs?”

“We heard the Empire was hiring,” Elijah responded. Despite being a soldier for most of his life, the man seemed to have a knack for deception. “But if we knew this was the welcome we would get, we probably would’ve went for Gisela instead. Those Rangers pay lousy, but the food is better and they don’t give their allies a sword welcome.”

The Imperial sergeant wasn’t convinced yet, but his posture seemed to relax just a bit, his grip on the shaft of his weapon just a tad lighter. “Maybe you did. For all I know, maybe you’re in league with them. You did come from the south, and in the middle of the night.”

“And we’re here to do what exactly? Challenge the Empire? All twelve of us? A real threat, no doubt,” Elijah continued, scratching the scar where his ear used to me. “No, my friend, we’re not working for that bunch of tree-huggers. We work for whoever pays the most and right now it’s your Empire. So come, take the load off, have a drink with us. We’re practically...”

Allies

Only that wasn’t the next word heard in the room filled with tension. Instead, someone called out for...

“Darvile?” one of the militiamen asked, his eyes straining in the dim candlelight as he tried to confirm his suspicion. He craned his neck and leaned a bit closer to the table where Geralt and Darvile sat. “Is that you?”

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the young Ranger said, but his tone was far from convincing. The fact that his hand moved to pull his hood even farther didn’t help his case either.

“Come on. I know it’s you. It’s Armand, from Underwood,” the bulky Imperial said, took off his helmet and approached the blatantly nervous Darvile “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been? Heard a bunch of people say you joined the Rangers, but I knew it was bull. So, you’re riding with these guys now?”

“Yeah,” was all that the youth managed to produce as an answer.

“I see,” Armand responded, then turned to his leader. “Ferron, these guys are alright. Come on, loosen up. We’re all on the same side here.” And to the barkeep, he threw a small jingling pouch. “The next round’s on me.”

[Breaker]

Josh munched on a handful of mixed nuts, the protein and carbohydrates important to keep him going all night. He stood in the back corner of a large canvas tent, boots silent on the tarpaulin floor, watching the man who slept on a pallet of stacked rugs and blankets. Darkness shrouded the tent’s interior to the point that even Joshua’s eyes could only catch glimpses of the sleeper’s soft Akashiman features.

“Kael Okami. Wake up!” His half whisper sounded like a whip and had the same effect. The Akashiman merchant bolted upright, fumbling beneath his pillow for a compact crossbow which Josh had already relocated to the floor.

“Who… who is there? I warn you, I am armed and very, very dangerous.”
“What you are is a terrible liar. Relax Kael, it’s me.” Humor chuckled in Joshua’s tone as he identified himself. The smaller man extracted his legs from the blankets and heaved an exasperated sigh of relief.

“Joshua! I should have known, you always show up when I least expect it. What do you need? Never mind, just a moment, I’ll give us some light.” The merchant stood up, opened an iron bound trunk with a key from his pocket and rummaged for a pack of matches. He wore a long white nightshirt and thick woolen socks, which topped by his olive skinned face and short black hair gave him the apparition of a comical ghost.

The tent occupied a corner column in Radasanth’s Akashiman quarter. Every spring families and individuals emigrated from the continent’s eastern shores to the great city, each with their own reasons. Although some of them found lodging elsewhere, a great number chose to reside in the same district. They were a proud people with a culture of strong customs, old habits made easier by the company of like-minded folk. They lived like gypsies in temporary buildings and tents, finding a living however they could. Kael Okami was renowned in Akashima as a masterful merchant and maker of weapons, but he had followed his heart one spring to Radasanth. The young woman who led him by the nose had left him soon afterwards, but he fell in love with the city in her stead and decided to stay.

He struck a match and set about lighting a triad of lanterns, the dancing yellow glow washing his sleep-caked eyes. His love for the city and the country as a whole was strong enough that he had become one of Joshua’s conduits, a trustworthy man who could hold and deliver packages in exchange for a handsome fee which Silverton provided.

“That is better,” Okami smiled through his sleepiness and sat on his bed. “Now, how can I help you?”

“I haven’t got much time Kael, and believe me; you don’t want me hanging around long with the hounds that are after me.” Josh said in a clipped, calm voice. Despite his relaxed demeanor Okami sprang to his feet as if the blankets had bit him. He knew which ‘hounds’ Cronen referred to, and who had sent them. The taller man held up a placating palm.

“I need the package I gave you three weeks ago, you kept it safe I’m sure.” There was no doubt in his tone; he would not have entrusted such an important parcel to a man who would lose it. Okami nodded thrice rapidly, lifting a hand as if to bit nervously on a knuckle, then abandoned the action and leapt to the head of his bed.

“Can you help me move these?” He asked, tucking his fingers under the bottommost rug. “It’s under the pallet. I stored it with my savings and everything else I couldn’t stand to lose.” Josh stepped to the foot of the bed and mimicked him, and together they lifted the bed easily and set it down a yard to the left.

The pallet, with Okami’s weight combined with that of many rugs, had left a rectangular print in the tarpaulin. In the middle of the print were three short slits describing three sides of a small square. Okami sank to his knees and practically tore the flap away, revealing three wooden slats which he also shifted aside. Beneath stretched a small hole in the earth. The Akashiman’s hands went in and out with eye-blurring speed, removing an oilcloth package the size of his head then replacing the slats. The flap went back down as Josh put the parcel in one of his large pockets, then together they shifted the pallet back into place. The entire operation took less than a minute, by which time Okami’s threadlike hair was plastered to his forehead, sweat shining in the lantern light.

“Is that all? I do not wish to rude you my friend, but under the circumstances…” Josh tried not to chuckle at the Akashiman’s grammatical error as he crossed quickly to the doorway where he had left the commandeered ninjato.

“Just another couple of minutes, Kael. You’ll be fine, I doubt anyone will come asking. If they do, just tell them a big broad-shouldered man snuck into your tent and stole some food, that you just caught a glimpse of his back as he left.” Josh grinned and took another handful of nuts from the bag in his hip pocket, which he had indeed pilfered from the Akashiman. Okami seemed not to notice; his eyes were on the lethal weapon in Cronen’s hands.

“What can you tell me about this blade, my friend?” Josh asked as he passed the ninjato into impatient hands.

Although he was nervous and rushed, Okami’s slanted eyes showed awed appreciation as he gave the weapon a professional appraisal. He turned and tilted it, examined the wooden scabbard from all angles until he found the lever which unlocked it. He bared half the blade and cooed like an impressed pigeon, then unsheathed it fully and gave it a few expert swings. After a few more tests and indulgences he locked the blade back into its scabbard and returned it to the new owner.

“Made by dwarves, certainly. Masterful craftsmanship, and I don’t know anywhere other than Alerar to find enough high-quality black diamond. The scabbard is liviol, although I doubt anyone in this district but me could notice; it’s been dyed black and roughed up to look like normal wood. There’s a powerful enchantment in both, and it links them somehow. Magicks aren’t my area of expertise though, you’d have to see an alchemist or an enchanter to figure that one out. It’s the weapon of a powerful assassin, nigh indestructible and keen as a razor; you’d never need to sharpen it. Where on Althanas did you find such a thing?”

Fear forgotten, Okami’s eager face fell as Josh responded.

“That’s a story for another time Kael. Be well my friend, until we meet again.”

The tent flap fluttered and Kael Okami found himself alone in his tent again.

***

The beggar’s breathing came smooth and regular despite the pulsing wound on his leg and the blistering pace he limped along at. As he passed city limits the jigsaw cobblestone streets turned to dirt roads and the temperature dropped several degrees. The heart of night had arrived with a chill breeze, and the woodlands retained much less of the day’s heat than the city. Overhead clouds boiled with rage as celestial currents shoved them around. The air smelled damp and musty, but it would not rain, not for another day or two. In summer months Corone’s climate took longer to accumulate water vapor, like an old man who couldn’t quite gather his thoughts.

Beneath his disguise Cronen’s eyes were half shut, glazed in deep thought. He hated the feeling of helplessness which tore at him with sharper claws than the Wraith who had scarred his ankle. He remembered the drive to succeed when Leonard Silverton had first charged him with the task of finding former members of the Brigade. Over the weeks he had tasted the tang of victory and bittersweet defeat, recruited as many warriors to the cause as he had found dead bodies or men simply disappeared. Silverton, who had thought the task impossible until he met Josh, had been equally astounded by the young man’s success and optimism. The old soldier’s wily mind and network of intelligence combined with the young soldier’s boundless energy and street smarts had nearly accomplished the unthinkable.

They had been so close! He smashed the scabbard tip into the ground harder than necessary. Being forced to flee the city was only half the dilemma. When he found a chance to return, he would be starting the search for Bellfounder at stage one; canvassing informants, searching for knowledge. It had taken him two weeks to find the tip which whispered that the former Cleric of the Scarlet Brigade might be living in the abandoned orphanage where he was raised as a boy. That hint had broken the dawn after a dark stormy night. Hope had filled his heart like water in a kettle, but it was all false hope, steam swept away by the winds of reality, generated by a hateful drow.

Kron Sh’aketh. The makeshift cane with its leather-wrapped handle and square metal guard seemed to thump in time as the Aleraran’s name rolled around Cronen’s mind. That dark-skinned assassin had devoted his life to destroying Cronen ever since he had helplessly watched Josh butcher his brother. What Kron failed to realize and could never understand was that his eyes had deceived him. It was Breaker, the sociopathic repressed persona, who had slaughtered Shynt Sh’aketh. Josh had watched, trapped inside his own mind while a berserker used his body to carve out the drow’s life. What Kron would never believe was that Josh hated death, hated killing, and would never take a life except to save another. But Kron’s black eyes had seen a psychotic killer enact his favorite form of amusement. What could possibly strike such a horrid memory from his mind?

Cold air gusted into Josh’s hood and chilled his damp collar. Although he ran in an ungainly gait he covered ground like a cantering horse. The leaves in the trees shook, foreboding war rattles. The gun strapped to his back felt heavy and cold, the sword in his hand unfamiliar yet intimate. As the wind picked up he tasted it like a lizard and caught the scent of horses, many horses, their dung and sweat equally unpleasant. His formidable memory recalled a map of northern Radasanth and the small village which came into sight as he rounded a last bend in the road.

He left the cackling trees behind and slowed his pace as he stumped into the open. Shadows shrouded the single story houses and fenced pastureland, as if the inhabitants had picked up and left rather than going to bed for the night. The only sign of life came from the centre of the town; the sounds of hooves tapping at the earth and horses snorting.

Cronen had intended to pass through the village and not stop until he reached the safety of the Comb Mountains, but what he witnessed outside the town’s only inn froze him in his tracks. Any city dweller would have condescended to the tiny cluster of buildings as a one-horse town, but tethered in two distinct groups Josh counted no less than thirty well-fed steeds. A brief moment of indecision seized him, but his curiosity quickly won the battle.

What the hell are all these horses doing here?

The larger group of mounts was picketed in a mock-military line that would have made any drill sergeant blue in the face. Just the same the form screamed of Corone Armed Forces, but undeterred Josh examined the second, smaller cluster of beasts. They were all well cared for, strong animals with long necks and sturdy legs. These horses almost seemed to interact peaceably with each other, some sleeping while others appeared to keep watch. The astute training of the animals struck a familiar chord in Cronen’s mind, but he couldn’t quite place it.

This doesn’t make any sense… nothing for it but to take a look inside.

As he approached the door he assumed the character of the beggar. His limp became more pronounced, describing a lifelong cripple rather than a wounded fighter. His broad shoulders collapsed inwards, upper arms wrapped around the ninjato to conceal its true nature. With his hood pulled up and head bowed, he looked like an unhealthily aged man who had limped all night and could barely support himself on his meager walking stick.

The door swung open, and he stumped through the wash of raucous banter, eyes down, heading for the hallway which led to the inn’s rooms. Attitude was as important as appearance when it came to deception. The beggar cared nothing for the inn’s other occupants; he merely hoped to crawl into a free bed unnoticed and sleep for a few hours.

The intermittent click of scabbard on floorboards caught the young innkeeper’s attention. He dropped a tray of drinks hastily on a table and ran to bar the beggar’s path, hands on his hips and hair hanging in his eyes.

“You, you can’t go in there! It costs five gold pieces for our cheapest rooms. Now if you want to stay you’ll have to pay!” His voice sounded shrill but authoritative; after serving so many intimidating soldiers the beggar was someone he could hold himself over.

“Please, s-sir…” the voice from beneath the burlap hood shook with fatigue and fear, the shoulders hunched further to ward off unwanted attention. “Please, have mercy young master, I needs a place to rest but I haven’t any coin, these old bones can’t stand up much longer.”

The youth crossed his arms, clearly demonstrating his adversity to concession. Josh's ears sorted through the conversations in the tavern, trying to siphon out information as he pictured how the whelp’s eyes would bulge, his jaw drop if he saw the contents of the package from Kael Okami. Among other things it contained Coronian Gold Crowns and Mythril Raiearan currency totaling over five thousand gold pieces.

“This ain’t no charity old man, we’re a proper business and we expect payment like any other. Now if you ain’t buyin’ nothin’ or rentin’ a room, get out!” The boy’s finger indicated the door like a signpost, rigid and unchanging.

The beggar’s knees shook, then his torso, as if weeping silently. Unintelligible pleas for permission to sleep in a closet or barn loft fell on uncaring ears. The youth’s mouth remained a firm line, his head shaking firmly, finger still pointing. With trembling steps the beggar turned and stumbled towards the door, leaning heavily on his stick.

From beneath the hood Joshua Cronen’s hazel eyes drank in every detail of the crowded barroom.

[Veatrix]

The half-Elf trudged down the stairs of the dinky old inn, just wishing for either her job to be over, or her boredom to be fulfilled. The gloomy candlelit lamps of place weren’t enough to light all of the hallway, but black holes along the edges of the wall gleamed with red orbs. Obviously, the place couldn’t afford pest control. Mister Kurama said that Letho Ravenheart was close by – no details, no time estimations of how close he could be, just simple phrases that were more vague than an oracle’s mystical message. The man wasn’t one to be trifled with though. Veatrix knew better than to cross the President in bad fashion.

As she reached the end of the stairs, Gainsborough clanking away in its sheath, Veatrix’s eyes feasted upon a huge crowd. She heard a bunch of people making some such noise while in the hallway, but the half-Elf wouldn’t have figured that more people were in the inn than in the actual town. An hour ago, when she went to get some mildly clean water from the barkeep, the inn was quieter than a graveyard. Business seemed to have picked up within the time she was gone, as a whole throw of what looked to be mercs and Imperial soldiers filled the place. Beer and spirits were being merrily passed around, but the political tension between the two sets of warriors was thick.

Closely watched by a few men parallel to the counter, she walked back up to the barkeep, an empty glass smacking on to the table.

“A bit more water?”

The young barkeep snapped himself out of a light reverie. His brow was furrowed nervously – seemed like the amount of people in the inn gave him anxiety chills. “Sorry. Yeah, sure.”

Tucking her golden blonde hair behind her ear, Veatrix leaned her elbows on the counter, staring blankly into space. The night usually kept her up, sleeping was no one of her strongest points, but something about that night made her eyes flicker in fatigue. Maybe it was the 10 hour wait.

Then, in the corner of her eye, she saw not a familiar figure, but face that she had been waiting for. He looked just as how people described him – tough, bearded, tall and brooding, intimidating. The pinnacle of warrior archetypes. But something in his demeanor was… off. Regardless, he was unmistakable. He was a local legend in these parts. Letho Ravenheart wasn’t that hard to recognize.

Finally. Thank you, Mister K.

Pushing aside the lewd stares from the starved men sitting in various tables around the room, Veatrix abandoned her cup of water for a more special kind of satisfaction. All Veatrix wanted was a job well done, and the money didn’t hurt either, but meeting Ravenheart was more than enough to make this night eventful. Despite her immense pride, she was humbled. Gathering her bearings, she walked right up to the brooding warrior, a smirk pasted upon her face. She walked right past some bendy old croak snailing his way out of the inn, discouraged.

“The great Letho Ravenheart. I’m honoured.”

[Letho]

Her words were like a bad joke, infecting the atmosphere with stillness to such a degree that mere seconds after her approach there wasn’t a soul moving in the room. His name brought chit-chat to an immediate halt, allowing the annoying buzz of the crickets to creep in through the woodwork and into the main room of the inn. Eyes all around the room, seconds ago unfocused and half-covered by eyelids, snapped out of their lethargy and landed on the shadowy figure in the corner and the beauty that stood humbly before him. Hands did their instinctive thing, reaching for whatever weapon stood fastened around the belt. In one fell swoop, the girl has managed to turn the rowdy barroom into a showdown, where everybody waited for it to strike noon.

Sergeant Ferron, with his unkempt beard soaked in ale and his helmet dangerously slanted atop of his head, regained his footing at the sound of Letho’s name, kicking his chair back. But the alcohol did its job, making the man nearly topple over as he reached for the halberd he had previously dislodged on the floor. It would’ve been comical if everybody wasn’t at the edge of their seats, the Imperials antsy to see if there was truth behind the girl’s words and the Rangers waiting to see whether the ruse will continue or will they have to paint the walls blood-red.

“You there, get up!” the officer of the Corone Armed Forces demanded, his weapon and his footing finally steady after the initial battle with gravity. Letho didn’t move an inch. Sitting on the bench the way he did for most of the evening, he looked at the lass that single-handedly blew their cover. There were times when such a nymph would’ve brought a smile to his face, when he would’ve grinned at this setback before letting the battle frenzy take over. Times of carelessness when a barroom brawl was just a barroom brawl and a mission to the mountains was some insignificant treasure hunt. But times change. People change. And what was about to transpire was not something Letho would enjoy.

“Is she right? Are you truly...” Ferron didn’t finish his question; he was close enough now to see the answer with his own eyes. The man before him looked a bit older than in the portrait, maybe a bit different around the eyes, but the resemblance was definitely there. “By the Thayne! It is you. To arms, men! TO ARMS!!!”

His call was followed by an overhead swing of his polearm, but it turned out to be a botchy move at best. The reach of the weapon combined with the relatively low ceiling of the inn resulted in his sluggish strike hitting one of the beams overhead instead of the infamous Marshal before him, leaving him defenseless for just a moment. It was all that Letho needed. Rising up, he booted the shabby round table that stood before him, sending it crashing against the Imperial sergeant who was thrown back against the far wall from the force of the blow. By then, the entire room was up on their feet, steel singing as it was being drawn from the scabbards.

“Now you have gone and done it, girl,” the bearded Marshal said to the troublesome stranger at his side. His face was emotionless, his eyes regarding her for just long enough to make it clear that he was addressing her before they sought out other Rangers in the room. A nod and a glance to the three near the front door was clear enough to make them bolt the entrance, another made his men bar the back exit.

“HIGHWAYMEN!!!” his voice rumbled over the growing commotion, calling out his men. At his sides, his gauntleted fists clenched and a pair of talons popped out with a familiar shink! at about the same time as a flaming white aura enveloped his body. A sonic boom exploded outwards, knocking out the windows and shoving the brown-haired girl away from him and onto the bench in the corner. The trance made his voice almost guttural, his command sounding like a rumble of some beast freshly awoken after a century of slumber. “Leave none alive!”

And thus the fight for Mudcrab Inn commenced. Though there was no room for advanced tactics or elaborate strategies in such close quarters, the Rangers still had the upper hand. They stood together in twos and threes, guarding each other’s back, covering as many angles as possible. They were like a well oiled war machine; once you got it rolling it did its job efficiently and mercilessly. Only Letho stood out from this organized bunch, a whirlwind made of light and blades, cutting through the middle of the man-made chaos.

[Breaker]

As Letho Ravenheart’s behemoth voice growled the lethal command, Breaker reared his ugly presence in the shadows of Cronen’s mind.

Leave none alive!

The sociopath mimicked the Marshal’s words. As blades danced and drew blood Josh stifled his alter-ego’s rabid bid for control. He meditated, at peace in the sudden chaos of roaring men and ringing weapons. Once again death had drawn him to witness its horrid carnage. It left him no choice but to act.

Change something. Save a life.

The beggar spun in a half circle, the locked scabbard a whirlwind in his hands. The young innkeeper stood rooted to the spot with a blank look of shock on his face, oblivious to the screaming danger surrounding him. Josh leapt like a panther and tackled the youth just has a thrust from a deflected spear sought his stationary chest. The serrated iron tip of the spear tore an angry hole in the beggar’s cloak as the two tumbled to the ground. Josh rolled to his feet and yanked the now whimpering child up with him. One hand gripped the cotton collar of the boy’s shirt while the other used the sword like a short staff, designing intricate figures of eight which fended off any misled attempt to harm them.

“S-s-s-orry for… f-for…” the boy stuttered as Josh struck one soldier in the back of the knee and a second at the base of his spine. Skirmishing teams of Rangers devoured both shortly with their swiftly biting blades.

“Save your breath to run,” Josh growled. His leg lashed out as they reached the window, metal boot clearing the few glass shards which remained after Letho’s burst of power. He lifted the boy as easily as a puppy and shoved him carefully but firmly outside. “Tell anyone in the streets to stay away from his place. The Empire has brought death here. Then find a good hiding place and don’t come out ‘till morning.” He whirled from the window as the boy raced away. One of the Rangers, following Letho’s order to the letter, had picked Joshua’s kidneys as an easy target for his broadsword. The martial artist ducked under the low thrust, crouching on one knee as he leaned forwards and struck upwards at the opponent’s extended arm. The bone of his elbow struck a nerve cluster next to the soldier’s triceps, and the sword dropped from numb fingers. The suddenly healthy beggar, still hooded but with half his cloak torn away, attacked like a snake. His forehead smashed the Ranger’s sternum as his knee clipped the man in the groin. The force of the combined assault toppled the burly fighter backwards, through a flimsy table which collapsed on top of him.

Josh skirted the main melee, making his way along the wall. He wondered if he had lied to the young innkeeper. Is it the Empire who brought death here tonight? Between the forms of fighting men, he watched the mad Marshal rampage through enemies. Josh wondered if he had been wrong to support the Rangers’ cause. He had fought Letho’s battle for months in the heart of Radasanth. As he watched the previously absent leader ripping through soldiers like undercooked lamb, he wondered a great many things which he would address later. In that moment, there was only action.

Move! The girl! Get her OUT!

Blood pooled thicker on the floor as its scent grew heavier in the air. Teams of Rangers still guarded both exits, steely eyes staring past their slashing blades. At the window nearest to the blonde woman four soldiers with long halberds made their last stand. They fought frantically, desperately, using their polearms to fend off the Rangers’ shorter spears and draw blood. As Josh approached them the tip of the scabbard blurred in the air until it seemed to form a funnel. It caught one of the halberds and tossed it aside. He barged through the hole in their defenses, bulling all four men away from the blonde woman. The Rangers followed, shouting battle cries as they seized the opportunity. Josh watched the rest of the room warily from the sanctuary he had created. One hand kept the scabbard moving in endless defensive patterns while the other gestured calmly at the girl.

“Get out,” he hissed, jerking his head towards the window. “Get out before they kill you!”

[Veatrix]

So what if she had caused a little “bar room fight?” It wasn’t that big of a deal, and Veatrix knew that traveling makes for a good amount of stress. And what’s better to relieve stress than a good old workout. And to be fair, the half-Elf had no idea of Letho and his company’s situation – who was she to know that the other patrons in the Mudcrab Inn were soldiers of the Empire? Patrons were patrons, and the patrons she was used to usually faceplanted on the floor ten minutes before midnight, almost drowning in a puddle of their own puke.

Regardless, “bar room fights” always proved to be fun. Not always efficient or beneficial, but its some light entertainment. Plus, Veatrix had been itching for something to do for ten hours, and the dull town provided little means of enjoyment. With just one sentence, the half-Elf created herself a playground.

Swords sang, shields clanged, weapons danced, bodies moved. It was all very chaotic and confusing. Veatrix didn’t exactly know where to start, or who to start it with. Rangers against the Imperials, both fighting for a picture bigger than the rickety old inn that housed their battle. And then there was the little Schwarzer employee, fighting for some gold and possible treasure – a noble cause if I may say so myself. Unfortunately for the Imperials, the Rangers were clearly on the upper echelon – Letho Ravenheart fought like a monster, just like how local legends described him to be. The great men tore opponents down easier than a lumberjack tore down trees. The rest of the men weren’t as equally talented, but their skill in sword and shield was enough to keep their enemy at bay.

But men nowadays were so rude. Letho had given her a seething glare as her walked off and killed someone. Many other Rangers growled and stared the moment she blew their cover. Even the old beggar man hissed at him, forcing her to get out and save herself.

How rude.

If she was any other girl, she would have smiled and obliged like a good house wife.

Too fucking bad, guys.

“How ‘bout no?” she said simply at the old man. Looking closer, the half-Elf noticed that the old man… wasn’t an old man at all. His face was young-ish, maybe only a few years older than herself. Like Letho, the man was familiar, almost especially distinguishable without all the unfancy robes. She had seen this man before in the Schwarzer files the Organization President had provided for her.

Joshua Cronen. Shit, she thought, slightly alarmed. She looked back at the ravaging battle in the Mudcrab Inn. I may just be a little in over my head.

Despite the “bigger picture” revelation, battle still danced around her, screams and grunts and hollers and pained shrieks of warriors echoing all around her. Instinctively, the half-Elf pulled out Gainsborough, the steel short sword pleading for a fight. Around her, warriors began to close in on her, their weapons drawn and ready to strike. Joshua Cronen tried to make her go away with his complex swordplay, but Veatrix wasn’t one to back down from a fight.

“Oceania!”

Raising her right hand, magical power gleamed from within the half-Elf, making her translucent wings glow a bright blue. Her soul set itself on fire, Gainsborough channeling the raw power that emanated from her. As the words punched out of her mouth, the drums of beer the stood quietly behind the bar counter began rocking dramatically. They rocked and rocked until they fell to the floor, setting free the bitter juice on the floor.

But beer, in normal circumstances, didn’t come to life.

The alcohol jumped from the floor, not leaving a trace of it behind, under the influence of the half-Elf’s spell. A huge splash of beer came flying through the air, droplets of it raining down upon the battling crowd. Veatrix clenched her hand, and pointed her palm forcefully at two of the oncoming enemies. The juice flew through the air, and tackled the two men, sending them to the wall like fragile dolls.

Facing Joshua, Veatrix smirked. “You were saying?”