The Enchanter's Children

[Breaker]

Takes place during the 'Long Winter' phase of the last FQ.


The streets of Knife’s Edge never seemed to end. You could walk all night in that icy city and never pass the same corner twice. You could walk all day and never meet a friendly face. The civil war hadn’t just separated church from state; it tore families apart at the seams. Everywhere I looked lay broken houses, broken hearts, broken lives. I never considered it before. How many husbands and wives differ in faith? Start a religious riot outside their window and you’ll find out. Each time I heard a door swinging loose or saw a bar boarded up, I wondered. Where had the inhabitants gone? Were the yawning cupboards and bare shelves emptied by opportunistic looters, or rampant pillagers? Shards of furniture littered the frozen roads in neighbourhoods that resembled tiny ghost towns. And then I turned a corner and bathed in the pale lamplight of a wealthy locale with their Watch Patrols on the quarter hour. The city’s high walls and fortified defences became obsolete as it ate itself from the inside out.

I felt like a rat in a mad scientist’s maze. For all my training and advanced senses, each new turn I took made me feel a little more lost. I had given up on the idea of spending more than one night at any inn. Half the time I couldn’t find my way back to the last place I stayed. The other half I worried the rioters would ransack my belongings if I left anything behind. What began as a meticulous, methodical womanhunt devolved into feverish pacing through anonymous districts. Stress balled in the back of my neck and the arctic air kept my muscles strung tighter than a sitar. I couldn’t meditate. Meditation required focus, and calm breathing. Each inhalation stabbed my lungs like an icemold spike, the ensuing exhale a puff of steam that wreathed my face. I had my head stuck in the damn clouds.

Tinker’s instructions seemed so simple that I'd accepted the request without a second thought. Travel to Knife’s Edge, find his daughter, and protect her. Not as easy as it sounded. Just getting into the city gave me a headache when I had to convince the guards I wasn’t a zealot terrorist come to stir up more mobs of ethereal sheep. But the real problem arose when I found the charity Tinker had told me she worked at. The old crone who ran the place barely spared enough time to tell me Kristina Rythadine had quit when the war started. No idea where she lived, no idea where she went, no sir I can’t help you now if you don’t need a bowl of soup, please step outside. The idea of Kristina alone amidst the insanity didn’t sit well with me. The more I searched the more the possibility occurred to me that she had either left the city or died in it. But I couldn’t stop. The memory of Tinker’s pleading eyes and the portrait of Kristina that hung over his fireplace haunted my conscience. The old alchemist had made me a pair of enchanted boots when we first met, tools to help me stop his son from releasing untold evil upon Salvar. And he had wept tears of joy when I told him I hadn’t killed Geoffrey Rythadine. The poor hermit loved his children too much.

My sole consolation was that if I couldn’t find Kristina, no way in hell had Geoff located her. That bastard planned to hold his own sister hostage in order to to force their father into making weapons of war. Weapons that could turn the tide in favour of the Ethereal Sway. Until I arrived in Knife’s Edge I hadn't cared who won. Civil war always had its reasons, and they didn’t interest me much. But the church’s kneel-or-die tactics had made it clear the Crown needed to emerge victorious, and soon. Riots ripped through the city’s less fortunate districts on a daily basis, leaving a trail of murdered men and women. Every time I saw a caved in roof my steps snapped a little faster. I had to find Kristina before she fell afoul of the zealots.

Frost crackled beneath the Breaker Boots. The street had gone from square stones to frozen mud in the space of a single step. As if the masons had run out of bricks, or flipped a coin and moved off to a new location. I hated walking on those unfinished roads. No matter how I strained for silence, the steady crunching announced my presence like a delegation of tiny heralds. Here comes the dumbass who can’t find a needle in a haystack. Tinker you old bastard, why didn’t you give me more information?

The sound of splintering wood rent the night air like a small explosion.

“No, please! Stay away! Lars, quick, they’re coming in the door!”

The woman’s panicked screams stopped. As if someone had switched the channel from one radio drama to the next, her husband’s voice chimed in.

“Sons of orc-doxies, come any closer and you’ll taste my pike! Stay behind me Selane! By the Blanket, get back you blaggards!”

My head whipped towards the noise like a flag when the wind changes. I sprinted, squinting through the murky darkness. Moving shapes solidified, growing sharper by the second. A group of men wearing rough coats and patched caps, wielding rusted weapons. Rabble recruited by the Sway, promised power for their service and instructed to exemplify all unbelievers. They stormed the front door of the only occupied house on the block. They hovered just shy of the shattered portal, kept at bay by a long bladed spear that thrust outwards again and again. Bottlenecked in the thin opening, Lars fought valiantly but didn’t last long. A sword slashed through the haft of his rusted pike. Selane screamed again as the ruffians poured into her house. I ran like a horse, arms and legs a blur, focused on the flickering light in the doorway where screams of terror had turned to pain.

I couldn’t find Kristina. No way in hell could I let more innocent people die.

[Breaker]

The rabble forced their way past Lars and Selane’s threshold, but the narrow doorway jammed them temporarily in a tight pack.

I hit them like a wrecking ball. Head down, shoulders hunched, barrelling at full speed. A bull in bloodlust would be more subtle.

My kinetic energy shattered the group. The man my shoulder actually hit went straight through the wall, dusty timbers decorating his broken spine. How they kept the room warm with such shoddy insulation, I couldn’t imagine. The man at the front pitched forward straight onto the rusty dagger Lars had drawn. The three in the middle collapsed under the concussive force and I trampled over them, barely avoiding doing the same to the man I saved. The rabble found their feet quickly and wisely turned and ran. I let them get to the street before I struck.

There’s no proper way to attack three men at the same time, even from behind. I launched myself through the air, composed as a gymnast on the dismount. My steely arms wrapped around one’s neck while my knees and boots collided with the other two. Down we went, my arms constricting like a pair of pythons around the first man’s throat. As he gasped the last of his life away I saw Lars following in my wake, barefoot in the slush with murder in his eyes. He looked well past middle aged, probably a retired soldier. Rusted as it was, he buried his blade in the first roughcoat’s chest. The second acted fast, swinging his sword and laying Lars’ chest open. My elbow crushed his skull before he could swing it again. Both men fell at the same time; one dead, the other dying. Blood bubbled between Lars’ lips and leaked from his chest to mingle with the frozen mush.

I dropped at his side, my first aid training coming back from years before. One bare hand pressed hard on the wound, hopelessly trying to keep it closed. The other lifted the victim’s unconscious head, to keep blood from pooling in his throat. I didn’t know what more to do. The gash looked fatal to my inexperienced eyes. Nothing to do but wait and watch Lars pass as his blood dyed the sleeves of my jacket.

Something moving like a freight train saved me from that particular displeasure.

It knocked me a clean two yards away from the bleeding man. I landed hard on my back, the coarse road digging between each vertebra. Someone on top of me grappled to the mounted position. Two slim hands hammered my face, precise palm-heel strikes that smashed the back of my head onto unforgiving ground. I reacted instinctively, bridged and rolled, wound up on top. Powerful legs locked around my torso, controlling my posture as the open hands rained upwards. I saw stars for a second, forced my weight down on top of my assailant and wormed an arm across her throat. A woman. I could feel firm breasts pressed against me, even through heavy winter clothing. My vision cleared as I managed to pin both her arms. I stared at what I saw until she kicked me off. Stood up and kept staring. She aimed a kick at my groin. I caught the heavy leather boot and tossed it upwards. Her other foot glanced off my jaw as she turned a back handspring, smooth as silk. I staggered, but the blow had finally knocked my tongue loose. Even then I choked on the single word. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of certainty. I had seen this valkyrie before, in the portrait over Tinker’s fireplace.

“Kristina.”

[Breaker]

I half expected the name to work like an incantation, magically ending Kristina’s vicious onslaught. It didn’t. She dove in again with reckless abandon. At that point I realised she had brought backup - two men and a woman, standing like spectres in the darkness. The woman dropped to Lars’ side, working on the wound with expertise that put my amateur attempt to shame. The men advanced in Kristina’s wake, curved swords rattling from sheathes like angry serpents. The situation suddenly became clear to me. They thought I had been attacking Lars.

I met Kristina’s next rush head on, gripped her wrist and shifted my hips. Wrenched her arm behind her back and snatched the dagger from her belt. Pressed its keen edge to her throat like I meant it. I could have killed her eleven different ways with my bare hands, but something about seeing a knife on a friend’s neck has a tendency to stop the bravest soldiers in their tracks. The swordsmen halted but stood their ground, never lowering their blades.

“Release her immediately, and we’ll let you live.” The taller of the two called. Like a serious business proposition. He and his partner held their battle stances like statues hewn from living rock. It wouldn’t be easy to talk them down.

“You’ve made an error in judgement buddy. I saved that man and his wife. She’s inside, unconscious but alive. Put up your blade and I’ll let Kristina go.” My hostage struggled like a chained leopard, but I had my right arm laced through both of hers in a crushing hammerlock. The swordsmen showed no sign of backing down.

“So you say,” The tall swordsman growled. Again her name failed to charm them. “But we have authority here, and I say you’re guilty until proven innocent. Release her before I count three or I'll remove your head.” I saw him tense up, shoulders tightening, a blue vein pulsing in his cheek. I improvised.

“You’d be dead before you swung your sword,” I bluffed as a stiff chilling breeze swept between us. Then I lowered my head to Kristina’s ear and whispered as fast as I could.

“Your father Tinker Rythadine sent me to find you. Your brother Geoff is here, looking to use you to force Tinker to give him enchantments for the war. I’ve been to Tinker’s old church, and I’ve been in his house, in his basement. His workshop. I recognized you from the portrait on the mantle.” The words came out in a rush of steam that temporarily clouded around both of us. When it cleared I saw her friends take a step forwards. She stopped struggling, frozen against me like a sapling in midwinter. The swordsmen took another step, and Kristina made her decision.

“Sheathe arms.” She barked the command like a drill Sergeant. The tall man’s face twisted in distaste but he slammed his blade into its scabbard as quickly as his partner. The shorter man remained impassive, but that may have been because of the thick white scar that ran diagonally across his face. Gently, I replaced Kristina’s dagger in her belt and released her arms. She snatched my wrist and spun, trying to reverse the hammerlock, but ran into unmoving ironclad muscles. I placed one wide hand on her chest and shoved her away. She looked graceful even staggering on the uneven road.

“There’s a woman unconscious inside. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt,” I repeated myself. Kristina took it in stride, a consummate professional.

“Matthews, get in there and make sure she’s alright. Don’t let her come outside; she doesn’t need to see her husband like this.” She directed the command at the short scar faced fellow. He nodded, nonchalant as ever, and trotted towards the shattered door. I opened my mouth, but the tall swordsman beat me to it.

“We can’t trust his word, Nina. We should lock him up just to be sure.” He was the only member of the foursome not wearing a hat. Greasy black hair fell just past his ears and he stroked his sword hilt lovingly, probably without noticing it. A dangerous man.

“I give the orders, Lieutenant.” Her tone matched the city itself for iciness. “You’d best remember that if—"

“My wife! Selane!” I looked down. Lars was awake, and delirious with pain, speaking to me through gritted teeth. “Selane, is she alive? We killed those damn Roughcoats eh boy? Good show- OW- all around. Where’s Selane?” He strained to stand but the healer held him down, her soft voice soothing his worries.

“She’s fine, your wife is fine. It’s you I’d worry about. Stay still, by the Frost.” Lars relaxed slightly and the woman resumed wrapping gauze thickly around his torso.

“That man needs to be properly stitched up,” Kristina said loud enough for all to hear, but aimed her stern gaze at the tall Lieutenant. “Arvide, you’re in charge of the crew. Get these people to a safe house, make sure they’re comfortable, then take the rest of the night off. This man,” she jerked her head towards me, “Is a friend of my father’s. He’ll help me finish the shift.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, so I stood with my arms crossed, staring confidently into the tall Lieutenant’s eyes. For a moment I thought he would take a swing at me, but then he turned and stomped over to help the healer tend to Lars. Kristina gestured for me to follow her. Confused, I did so, the two of us crunching side by side down the road. I wondered which of us would have more questions.

[Breaker]

The streets of Knife’s Edge seemed warmer with Kristina by my side. She knew the twisting alleys better than any map, navigating a path that kept us in the occupied slums where lantern light still danced in the windows. Where people still needed protection. I walked in silence for a time, studying her in my peripheral vision. She moved with intentional military stiffness, belaying the natural grace that rose to the surface when she fought. Like a flower that only bloomed under heavy fire. Her dark brown hair tucked up inside a dark cap, but I could not mistake that rosebud shaped face, or the eyes like molten chocolate. In Tinker’s portrait they had shown warmth, compassion. As she studied me in her peripheral they could have frozen flame. Our eyes locked for a second, then we both looked away. I opened my mouth to speak just as she did the same, and we both stopped awkwardly as our words jumbled like woodsmoke in the frigid night air.

“Speak,” she suggested. She tugged at her coat lapels and re-settled her belt, as if the situation had embarrassed her. But she didn’t sound embarrassed. Her tone carried much of the same authority it had when she spoke to her lieutenant. A superior officer being friendly to an underling.

“Very well,” I mused, glancing down a darkened alley. “I’ll ask the first question, but only if you give the first answer. And only after you put that knife away; you won’t need it.”

She re-sheathed the dagger she had tried to hide in her sleeve and looked straight at me. Face already red from the cold, I couldn’t tell if she blushed. But I doubted it.

“These streets are dangerous at night.” She stated, completely matter of fact. Explaining. Like I didn’t already know that. I rubbed my jaw ruefully.

“Don’t worry, princess. I’m here to protect you.” I stuck my nose in the air like I imagined a princeling might. She chuckled, a little genuine mirth drawing dimples that I hadn't previously noticed in her rosy cheeks. We walked in silence for a short while. The noiseless night pressed in on us, but it no longer placed a weight on my shoulders. I felt as if the hardest part of my job had ended. I had found Kristina, and for the moment, won her trust.

“Is my father well?” She asked, “I have not made contact with him in some time.” Probably at least a year, I thought, considering how little information he gave me.

“Tinker’s doing great. He’s a genius for one thing. Still lives in that cabin on the mountain. He’s worried sick about you, though.” I locked my eyes into hers, hoping she might agree to leave the city. “You really should come away with me. Your brother is in the city, and he’s godamn determined to find you.” She turned away, pretending to spot movement in an empty alley.

“I’m not leaving,” She stated, and the small amount of warmth that had entered her tone when she asked about Tinker vanished faster than the heat of her exhale. “I’m sworn to protect Knife’s Edge from itself, and I’ll be here until they burn this place to the ground.” She crossed her arms across her breasts with an air of finality. I felt like I should stomp the ground, bellow “Yes ma’am!” and march out of her office. Instead I shrugged and kicked a broken piece of chair down the street. It skittered noisily against the frozen ground. I waited for it to settle, then responded.

I said, “That’s fine. We’ll stay here. Nothing in this city can harm you while I’m around.” She twisted her shoulders like she might hit me, but then laughed again. Real warmth emanated from her, fighting back the frost as surely as a bonfire.

“Anyways,” I went on, sweeping the area with my eyes, “You could tell me exactly what we’re doing on this shift I'm helping you finish up.” For a moment I listened, really listened. The cold affected me less than most people. I could hear the controlled shivers that ran through her body, and how her breath came in quick gasps. I went on, “But if you don’t mind, could we do it somewhere warmer? I’m not quite used to your Salvarian winter.” In truth, it hardly rivalled the average Canadian winter. As quickly as thoughts of my home world arose they faded away, as if the years since my arrival on Althanas had obscured older memories. I scrubbed a hand over my forehead and focused on the present.

“Certainly,” She said teasingly, but with a genuine smile, “We’ve patrolled enough for one night. Follow me.”

She changed direction and led me down a narrow, twisting side street. Trash littered the ground, most of it long frozen solid from exposure. The petrified bones of what had once been a peaceful community. Kristina increased our pace considerably. She must have been even colder than I thought. Even so, no one less perceptive than me would have noticed anything as she spoke.

“When the riots started, the City Guard requested reinforcement from the military. They provided troops to patrol the streets and the few underground areas that haven't caved in.” She rubbed her gloves together, trying to generate friction through heavy leather. I kept my bare hands jammed deep in my pockets. No reason to show her that I didn’t need insulation.

“Initially I only trained soldiers in hand-to-hand combat,” she continued, “but when they started looking for volunteers, I joined the first riot squad we had. It was easier back then. Normally our informers had us on the spot before anything really happened. We’d arrest the instigators and disperse the crowd. Had to crack a few skulls in the process, but that’s how the dung freezes.”

Her eyes glowed when she mentioned cracking skulls. I chuckled as we rounded a corner, emerging into an alley that boasted a single lantern pole. Two soldiers with short spears and bucklers stood against a door that the lamp illuminated. They obviously recognised Kristina, because they didn’t give me a second look.

“So how did riot police squads turn into these little groups?” I inquired, moving quickly to keep up. I figured the door must have been our destination, because Kristina lengthened her stride again.

“Some Sway mastermind separated the rioters into shock troops and assigned cadres to districts. Every night rabble like the ones you slew break into a few houses each. They take what’s valuable and give the occupants a choice; join the Sway or die. We call them Roughcoats, and there’s a kill or capture imperative on them. Come on!”

She finally broke out of the stiff military gait and ran the last few yards to the illuminated door. Her natural grace came back then, and it wasn't until she turned and beckoned for me that I realised I had stopped moving to watch. I uprooted myself and jogged to join her. The lantern cast an angelic glow on her face, an aura that stayed with her even when we stepped into the darkened interior. She smiled and touched my shoulder, our first contact since she'd tried to smash my face in.

“Welcome to the Hideaway,” she beamed.

[Breaker]

The Hideaway was the love child of a coffee shop and a night club. An acoustic band bordered the hardwood floorspace, playing a quickstep rhythm that had the dancers sweating and calling for more. Kristina led me to a table in the quietest corner. Mismatched chairs surrounded surfaces of all shapes and sizes, the patrons crowded together to make room. In the opposite corner a long bar served everything from hot meals to shots of liquor. Kristina deposited her heavy coat on a chair and told me to wait. I swung my jacket off and draped it across the ladder-like back of an oaken chair, then sat and watched Kristina. She looked fantastic. Her uniform jacket had been covering a long sleeved leather shirt that clung to every curve of her body. The stiff military posture she carried outside dissolved as she mingled through the dance floor that surrounded the bar. I scoped the room out, and realised everyone in it was either with a soldier or some kind of law enforcement. A cop bar. Not like any I had seen before though.

Kristina returned and placed a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me. It smelled so strong I didn’t detect the shot of whisky she'd added until I sipped it. The harsh brew warmed me from the inside out. My frigid muscles loosened up in the atmosphere of the club, and my headache surrendered to the blessing of caffeine. Kristina sipped from her mug and then continued the explanation she had left off outside.

“Anyways,” she drawled, drawing the first ‘A’ out in a long syllable, “We split the original riot squads up into smaller groups. We work six days on, two days off. There are two six hour shifts each night, and I prefer the later one,” she looked up from warming her hands over her mug and directed a friendly grin at me. “I like to watch the sun rise. We spend as much time as we can patrolling the slums, but as you can see,” she gestured grandly at the packed establishment, “it’s cold outside. We have watchers all over the city who can call us if anything significant happens.” She quirked an eyebrow at me over her mug as she sipped. I took the bait.

“How exactly do they call you?” I inquired, genuinely curious. The Salvarian Military had a pretty good system going, from the sound of it. But communication made a pivotal point in any security operation, and I didn’t see any radios. Kristina’s eyes sparkled. I knew she'd hoped I would ask that question. She raised one finger and tapped her temple. Elegant hands, despite calluses that described long hours of weapons training.

“I’m a telepath. It’s standard Officer training for Salvarian Special Forces.” From her playful facial expression I thought for a moment that she was teasing me. But she went on: “Every squad leader has similar abilities. In fact, Lieutenant Arvide would probably outrank me if he had the mentality for it.” She rolled her eyes in exaggerated fashion. I returned the smile with a cunning wink.

“He wants you, you know.” I intoned in mock-gossip, “to bed you and wed you, as they say in Corone. I could tell.” I chuckled as she punched me in the arm, hard enough that I almost spilled my coffee.

“Lieutenant Arvide? No chance. And ouch... I’d better stick with palm strikes from now on.” She shook her hand, loosening bruised knuckles. I laughed.

“Oh trust me, it's true He just won’t say anything ‘cuz he knows he hasn’t got a chance.” I finished the sentence with a low growl. Kristina slammed her empty mug on the table, choking as she tried not to laugh around the hot liquid in her mouth. I finished my coffee, savouring the granular dregs as she cleared her throat. Something had piqued my curiosity, and I took the lapse in conversation to bring it up.

“You know... your fighting style reminded me a lot of your brother’s. You two learned from the same teacher, didn’t you?” I hoped that she wouldn’t take offence at being compared to her sibling. She did not; in fact she answered the question casually.

“Yes, father had us both learning from a young age. We reached the fourth tier of the mountain together. I don't know if Geoff kept training after that or not, but I used to kick his rump around the courtyard every day.” She waved to someone by the bar and got a wave back.

For a moment I lost myself in thought. Geoff had mentioned the same thing when I fought him. Tiers of the Mountain. I didn’t bring it up, but Geoff must have kept training, because his technique was considerably deadlier than hers, especially in the grappling department. I looked up to ask Kristina what “tiers of the mountain” meant, but something else caught my attention. Her posture. For most of the conversation she had leaned inwards, focused on me. That changed. She sat back in her chair, hands clasped on the table rather than around the still-warm mug. And her eyes strayed between me and the far corner of the room. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe I read too much into her actions. But I doubted it. I took a gamble.

“Tell me something, Lieutenant Kristina Rythadine of the Salvarian Special Forces,” I intoned in a mock-formal voice, “What the hell are you looking at?”

The cautious look in her eyes evolved into a shining smile. She stood up and took my hand, flipped her hair back as she tugged me to my feet.

“Call me Nina.” She whispered as she led me across the room.

[Breaker]

I never considered myself much of a dancer. Normally I avoided it, for safety reasons as much as personal reservations. All those bodies boiling together provide assassins with ideal cover to sneak up and stick a knife in you. But I followed Nina as she towed me across the room. I needed to watch her back, after all, and felt confident she would do the same for me. Besides, the exclusive patronage of the Hideaway made it a pretty stupid place to kill someone. We shouldered our way between mercenaries and soldiers until we neared the centre of the hardwood floor. Nina’s grip shifted on my hand as she faced me, but she didn’t stop. It felt odd, holding a woman’s hand almost as callused as my own. Especially considering the feminine shape of her curvaceous body and cupid lips. Thos high cheekbones made dimples every time she smiled. Her hips swayed and flicked in time with the music as she led me out of the forest of gyrating bodies to a booth nestled next to the bar.

Six or seven people of both genders occupied the booth. It was difficult to get a clear fix on the number because of their casual, entwined posture. Two young women with dark brown hair sat atop the back of one of the benches, their legs draped across the chest of a ruddy faced young gentleman who had fallen asleep. A veteran was leaning over from the opposite bench, grizzled face skewed in concentration as he tried to fish a cigarette out of the younger soldier's pocket without awakening him. Aside from that, there were simply too many people - a jumble of grey and navy garbed arms and legs - occupying the veteran's bench to identify.

"These are my friends," Kristina said, releasing my hand as she presented me. "Everyone, this is Joshua Cronen. Saviour of helpless young maidens like me." A chorus of guffaws and catcalls greeted the declaration. I grinned easily but couldn't think of much to say until a black haired youth with a thick beard emerged from the mess of people in the booth.

"You look like a regular Coronian captain alright," he said. I shrugged. The bearded boy circled me and put this back against the bar, rapping its rough surface thrice with his knuckles. "Have you ever played Firewhisky Press, Cronen?" A tall, stout glass bottle arrived at his elbow, along with two oversized pewter shot glasses. My grin widened. I had never even heard of the game he proposed, but welcomed any distraction from the fact I'd thought Kristina wanted to dance with me. Especially one that involved more whisky.

"No, I've never heard of it..." I told the hyena-faced youth, approaching and uncorking the bottle. It's label read Yurik's Firewhisky in flowing script, and the smell brought me back to the best twenty year scotch I'd ever sampled. "But I bet I'll have a lot of beginner's luck." The comment earned me a hoot of appreciation from Kristina's friends.

"We invented this game to help keep warm during long winter shifts, and to ration the whisky. Yurik's is the best - made by Dwarves in Alerar, and they charge a Queen's dowry per bottle, but a shot can keep you warm for an hour." The animated youth took the whisky from me and poured himself a generous measure. Savouring the fumes like a man on his way to the gallows, the boy set the cup on a clear patch of floor next to the booth. "This way, we get our gold's worth from every drop." Despite the music I noticed conversation on the overburdened benches had ceased. Kristina's friends were watching.

With a ritualistic expression on his face the bearded boy dropped to a pushup position and exercised, pressing his lithe frame up and down rapidly. I wasn't counting, but he must have reached at least fifty before he stopped, barely winded, and looked up expectantly. Kristina stooped down, having taken a strip of stiff canvas from the bar and rolled it into a straw for his drink. Still holding himself prone three inches off the ground, the boy downed the shot through the straw with one loud slurp.

He bounced to his feet amidst patronising cheers and jests from his comrades. "There you have it," the suddenly red faced lad exclaimed. "If you can't do at least as many press-ups as me, you have to buy the bottle!" The few tangible retorts I caught from the peanut gallery indicated that they expected free booze shortly.

"And what if you can't match my press-ups?" I asked, ignoring the catcalls.

"Then I buy," the bearded boy crossed his arms over his chest. I smiled, and nodded.

I took my time pouring the double shot and placing the cup on the floor. I flexed my arms and rolled my shoulders, feeling the pop and click of tension knots compressing and bursting. I dropped to the prone position, head above my cup, and then kicked up into a handstand. A chorus of jeers clashed with the acoustic serenade of the band, but they died off as I dipped into a smooth series of vertical press-ups, lifting my entire body weight over and over again, my core muscles clenched to keep me balanced straight as a pole. By the time I reached fifty perspiration beaded on my brow, and half the Hideaway was watching. Kristina held the straw in place, and I lowered myself like a bucket down a well, brushed her knuckle with a coy kiss, and downed a shot of the finest whisky I'd ever tasted.

I flipped to my feet amidst a round of applause that drowned out the music, accepting congratulations as the bearded boy sheepishly fished in his pocket for a coin pouch. I turned to see if my petty kiss had any effect.

Kristina’s eyes rolled back in her skull and she melted into my arms, limp as a dry rose.

[Breaker]

I cradled her wilted form protectively in my arms. Searched the club for signs of a threat while my hands checked her for injuries. None. I dropped to one knee, held her against my chest. No need to check for a pulse; I could feel her heart beating strong and regular against my own. My fingers massaged her neck as I yelled in her ear.

“Nina, wake up! Can you hear me? Nina!” I reached blindly and grabbed the nearest body. Dragged the bearded boy over by his wiry ankle, him hopping awkwardly and bellowing in outrage.

“Berevar's Blanket! Let me go you hulking oaf of a—“ I struck him dumb with a look. It took an effort to keep my voice calm and level.

“She passed out, I don’t know why. Get a healer.” Although I spoke to the boy, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Kristina’s serene face. The bearded young man tapped me on the shoulder, a quizzical expression on his face.

“She's well uh, Sir. She’s just receiving instructions. Look, she’s not the only one. Something big must be happening. I’m glad my unit commander isn’t one of ‘em. I get to stay here.” The boy pointed out several other fallen soldiers, then slunk back to his friends, my attention diverted. Five or six men and women had passed out in similar fashion to Nina. I was the only one in the establishment who acted alarmed. The underlings of the other telepaths propped their leaders up in chairs. They donned winter clothing and settled tabs, waiting in a bizarre ritual for their superiors to regain consciousness. The band stopped playing, for the drummer had keeled over off his stool. The relaxed, fun atmosphere tightened into tense anticipation. Everyone's obvious nonchalance toward the magical interruption made me less comfortable. It was really, really weird.

I lifted Nina in my arms and carried her back to our table. Dropped some unfamiliar silver coins on the oaken surface, donned my jacket, and picked up Kristina’s things. I managed to thread her arms through her crested coat without too much trouble. Way easier than cuffing a crack dealer on angel dust. Stuck the thick leather gloves on her hands and stuffed the woollen cap on her head. All the while I wished that the Salvarian military had taught their special forces to resist the cold as well as communicate telepathically. Or maybe instead of. I picked the well-wrapped woman up again and found my way out the door.

The night air hit me like a thousand icy needles. Even the dim lighting of the club seemed bright and chipper by comparison to the lonely lantern pole outside. The armed guards turned to face me, one incredulous, the other nodding.

“Must be getting an assignment,” the nodding guard said, nudging his companion. “Or else she just had too much to drink!”

They chortled together for a moment. I got the feeling it was a recurring joke. Sentry duty had bored them to the point of stupidity.

“I heard that, Adams.” I looked down in surprise. Kristina achieved an appearance of military severity despite her compromising position. I dumped her onto her feet. She straightened her hat and coat, eyes burning a hole in the hapless sentry’s skull. “You can be my demonstration partner next time I teach your class, Adams. Be wary, both of you. Half the force is about to come out those doors.” She turned and stalked away, ignoring the identical salutes she received from both guards. Adams the comedian looked like he might vomit. I couldn’t resist a quick quip.

“Try calling her Nina, Adams. She likes that.” I winked and hurried after Kristina, chuckling at the panicked look the guard gave me. He practically soiled himself at the idea of being on a pet name basis with Lieutenant Rythadine. I caught up, easily matching her marching stride.

“How long were you awake for?” I asked, the familiar puff of steam ensconcing my head.

“Long enough to know you’re built like a frosted mountain.” Her enticing voice sounded odd coming from a body with such military posture. Odd, but certainly not unattractive. I found myself wondering what we would be doing if she hadn’t passed out.

“You could have warned me that you faint when your magic... telepathy kicks in.” I admonished. She pouted below smiling eyes, mock sorrow that showed just how full her lips were.

“Did I frighten you, man of muscle? Did you weep over me?” Even in jest, those eyes could break your heart. She skirted a frostbitten table, never looking away.

“Not really,” I lied, “actually I just thought you were faking it at first. Good thing your friends stopped me from tossing you in a snow bank eh?” She started to giggle then slammed her stern soldier’s mask back into place. The starless sky showed more emotion than her ramrod spine.

“We’ve got a job to do, Josh. Take it seriously.” I nodded in mock severity.

“Right behind you, Lieutenant.” Her mask slipped in favour of a grin when she backhanded me in the shoulder. Somewhere in the darkness the biting breeze banged a loose door against a wall over and over again. I empathized with the wall.

“If you keep calling me by my rank I’ll start treating you like a Private,” She warned, shaking a leather wrapped finger under my nose. The threat carried some weight when I recalled the guardsman’s primal fear.

“Fine by me,” I countered, “But only if I can be your demonstration partner at the next class.” I made the term ‘demonstration partner’ sound more like He-doxy. My voice dipped to a lower octave, deeper than the wind moaning between buildings.

She nearly missed a step, and not because of the uneven, icebound road. She staggered closer to me and grabbed my hand for balance. The militaristic posture vanished as she rose to her toes.

“If I had you in one of my classes—" She whispered.

“You could have me anywhere,” I cut her off.

“I’d wipe the mats with you.” She continued.

“I’d spank you if you tried,” I growled. Her eyebrows jumped to her hairline.

“I dare you,” she declared, breath steaming my chin.

Her heavy pants dulled the sound, but a distinguishable smack still echoed amidst the darkened, empty houses. One moment my palm struck her ass, the next she had me wedged against a stone wall. Nearly tore up my scalp as she grabbed two handfuls of hair and pulled my mouth down to hers. Her legs and arms encircled me, a full body embrace that eradicated the cold faster than hellfire.

[Breaker]

“Berevar’s blanket on a jilted glacier! Cronen, this is no time for that. We’ve got a job to do!” Her voice only wavered a little, and she tried to march imperiously away but tripped on the headboard of a dismantled bed. Stumbled and caught herself then kept right on marching. As if I started it. Well, perhaps we shared the blame. I took a moment to adjust myself then followed her, rubbing my head gingerly. I began to see why the lesser soldiers feared Kristina Rythadine. But the same qualities that scared them more than a night naked outdoors attracted me to her. She carried enough vitality to inspire the entire abandoned district. My long legs propelled me along the desolate road until I reached her side. She stared straight ahead, but I knew that the colour of her cheeks didn’t come from the cold. Best not to mention it.

“What are we dealing with?" I inquired. Out of habit my eyes returned to roving the shadowy corners and side streets. At least that way I didn’t have to watch her flashing legs and nymphlike face. I needed to calm down, prepare my mind for combat. “How much detail did you get in your uh... telepathic briefing?” I occupied myself too much with pretending to scan our surroundings and slipped on a slick patch of ice. Nina caught my elbow on a reflex, kept me on my feet. We looked at each other for an instant, the electric contact tangible through glove and sleeve. As if that current carried an unspoken agreement we separated and went on walking. Two yards of chilled air formed a barrier between us.

“I’ll explain when we get there. Five minutes at most.” She sounded strained. So I wasn’t the only one who needed a cold shower. As we travelled the buildings went from residences to low standing warehouses and two story barns. Same social class, equally as uninhabited, but the structures differed. Still no movement in the shadows. Nothing to distract me. Although the arctic climate allowed little precipitation, small banks of snow accumulated wherever walls met. I detoured to one of the banks, plucked a handful of slush and rubbed it across my face and neck. It had about the same result as tossing the slush on a bonfire. The silence between us smothered me. It was our first truly awkward moment since she'd jumped me hours earlier. I cast about for a conversation starter and came up with something decent.

“Was that some kind of curse? Berevar’s blanket on a... jilted glacier? What the hell does that mean?” She quirked an eyebrow as though I had asked why the sun rises. “Oh come on,” I defended myself, “I’ve been in Salvar for less than two months. I’m not exactly an expert on local turns of phrase. Look, I know that Berevar is the northern border, but—“ She took a deep breath and cut me off in a needlessly patient voice.

“Yes, Berevar borders our northern territories. But we’re not friendly with the orcs that reside there.” She touched her dagger, perhaps unconsciously, at the mention of orcs. “In fact, there’s enough bad blood that we rarely venture into the orcish domain, and they behave likewise. The only conflicts we have beyond skirmishes are verbal. It’s common knowledge here that the orcs refer to themselves as a blanket that coddles Salvar, a blanket that could smother us at any time.” The patient tone receded as anger heated her voice, and she walked faster, feet thrashing the frozen road. “Of course, they are far too disorganised to challenge our military force. Berevar’s blanket is a ludicrous concept, Cronen.” She swelled with pride as she went on, and I had to look away from the generous bosom that bulged against her coat. “Are you not interested in hearing the rest?” She asked when my head turned. I barely managed to not stammer.

“Just keeping a lookout. Don’t want any of those nasty orcs jumping out of the shadows and stealing you away, princess.” I heard her shift as if to hit me, but the blow never came. A good thing. Any contact at that point would have been counterproductive.

“I can care for myself,” she snipped, but continued the explanation. I listened with genuine curiosity. Knowing so little about the foreign lands I visited often became tiresome. “Glaciers are a symbol we take pride in. They represent the people of Salvar; strong, unstoppable, always moving towards a final goal. Some say coming between a Salvarian and their desire is as good as starting a shoving match with a glacier. So; a jilted glacier is a person who doesn’t achieve what they—" She stopped herself before she finished the sentence, but I understood the meaning. I could no more have halted the smile that spread across my face than win a shoving match with a glacier.

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re a very graceful glacier,” I commented. She buried her face up to those sparkling brown eyes in her collar, but I knew a similar smile possessed her. I satisfied myself with a mental image of her dimples. We walked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes; the only sounds my crackling footsteps and her controlled breathing. I could keep my respirations quiet, but she used an indecipherable trick to stalk silently. I started to ask about it, but spotted a light in the distance. The flickering luminance of a lamp shone through a barn’s wall, the ancient structure riddled with cracks that resembled a glowing spiderweb. I looked to Kristina. She nodded, held a finger to her lips, and drew me into the shadows between two warehouses. Her voice barely reached my hypersensitive ears.

“Listen and remember. These buildings are used for storage...”

[Breaker]

The calm night took on a cutting edge as we crept in tandem towards the glowing barn. The latticework of hair-thin cracks gave the building a ghastly visage that leered as if inviting invasion. We stopped twenty yards away in the lee of a nearly identical structure.

“These buildings are used for storage,” Kristina whispered, a thin plume of steam barely escaping her lips. “Obsolete weapons and medical supplies, mostly. Before the riots started we had two guards to every building at night. Now it’s two for the entire district. The contents of any one of these buildings could provide armaments for a small horde.” While she spoke her focus never shifted from the glimmering barn. Assessing the risk. Looking for entrances, exits, and possible threats. Giving it the same once-over I had performed from a hundred yards out. Superior vision certainly had its benefits. She said, “How do you think we should approach?”

“You stay here while I check it out,” I replied. I was half-joking. Half, because I really did think that would be the best way to approach it. But I knew she wouldn’t agree. She ignored my suggestion entirely, so I proposed another plan. “Fine. I’ll hit the door. When it goes down you slide past me and cover the right corner. I’ll be in right behind you and take the main room.” She couldn’t argue with that. She got to go in first, but hopefully would end up out of the way if anything happened. I hoped I was over preparing. But I couldn’t put any stake on hope. Like two earthbound clouds we crept to the barn’s large double doors. I breathed in, rolled my shoulders, and exhaled silently. Held up three fingers, and Nina nodded. I put my middle finger down. Planted my feet in the least slippery patch of ground I could find. I put down my ring finger, bounced on my knees a bit, then added my index finger to my fist. Kicked the right hand barn door near the hinges where the wood had rotted most.

Whump!

Time and weather had taken their toll on the door, and the decayed timbers separated from the hinges almost silently. The door hit the ground and caused an eruption of sawdust that choked the air. If the door had splintered, I might not have heard the twin snicks of two crossbows firing almost simultaneously. Kristina charged past, following the plan, but I caught her and swept us both to the ground.

Thwap-thwap!

Two crossbow bolts impaled the empty road just behind us. I assessed the scenario at a glance. Two crossbow bolts meant two snipers in the hayloft, one a little faster than the other. Two snipers in the hayloft meant at least twice as many footmen on the ground. In the same instant as we landed I hauled Nina back upright, her following the manhandling as gracefully as possible. Good reflexes, good instincts. She would know what to do. I tossed her like a ragdoll, high into the air. Heard her landing muffled in the loft. Heard the shouts of panic from the snipers who suddenly found a wildcat in their midst. The dust settled, and the onslaught began.

Four men on the floor, as I had predicted. Two rushed me almost together. Similar to how one of the bowmen had faster reflexes, one of the footmen had longer legs. A coarse battle cry ripped through his thick beard as he charged, swinging an axe in a downward stroke. Probably would have split my skull. I ducked, stepped into him, and plucked the prevaldia bayonet from my boot. The roar of attack turned to a cry of surprise as he tripped over my shoulder, then a wail of pain when my dagger hamstringed him. He landed like a leaky garbage bag. Whimpered his last few breaths away as blood flowed freely from the severed femoral artery. The fact that I had gone straight through him altered his partner’s game plan. The second man’s cracked teeth grinned like a jolly roger as spindly legs circled him away. While he prepared for a straight thrust with his spear I threw my bayonet. Droplets of blood spattered from the pirouetting blade until it buried itself in his throat. The skeletal mouth gaped in pain. A hollow gurgle announced his imminent death as he fell in slow motion. The sawdust did a good job of absorbing the vital fluid that seeped from his ruined windpipe.

The second pair of men seemed of a different breed. One tall and lanky, the other short and stout. Both heads shaved, and both moved with a deadly grace. Identical knowing grins flitted across their faces. “We’ve seen your type before,” they seemed to say, “you’re as good as dead,” they implied. The skinheads circled in opposite directions, put me between them. Good strategy, but not great. They made the same fundamental mistake as the Roughcoats I had already killed. They expected me to wait for their attack to defend myself. I preferred to get my retaliation in first.

I rushed the lanky man. Used a crescent kick to sweep his thin rapier blade aside. I didn’t give him an inch. Got right in his face, too close even to punch. My elbows smashed him one after the other, like machine gun fire. He crumpled after the first two, but I managed to hit him three more times before he fell out of range. I sensed the stocky man’s approach, heard his thundering footfalls on the grubby floorboards. I turned to face him, throwing a spinning heel-kick. Lethal as a helicopter rotor with the metal Breaker Boots on, but he ducked away. Came at me again in shower of short quick stabs. I had rarely seen a weapon like the one he wielded. A short push dagger. An assassin’s tool, possibly poisoned. I didn’t take any chances. When he stepped too close I gripped his wrist and yanked him off balance. He stumbled and I caught his throat in my free hand. Unforgiving fingers formed an eagle's talon that tore his jugular out. He became a crimson fountain as he fell to the floor.

I moved to retrieve my dagger and a falling corpse missed me by inches. It thudded to the ground, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, blank eyes staring in shock. I looked up and saw Nina glaring down at me.

“That’s for tossing me without warning, you rat!” She panted.

“I thought you’d enjoy a roll in the hay with a couple Roughcoats.” I shot back.

“One of them got away. Jumped out the back hatch and bolted.” The full weight of the situation hit me. Someone had specifically tried to have us assassinated. And whoever it was, they now knew they had failed.

[Breaker]

~ * ~

The room was hardly appropriate housing for the mastermind who would bring the Crown of Salvar to its knees. The harbinger of the Ethereal Sway. The man who would finally set the oppressed people of the Northlands free. Even as a temporary residence, it fell far below what he deserved. The wallpaper grimaced sourly with watermarks that spread to all four corners. Corners were something the legend of a man loathed. He longed to return to the round chambers of his mountain home. There, his students revered him. Soon all of Salvar would follow in their footsteps. His plans had been thrown askew so often that he had deemed it necessary to travel to Knife’s Edge, where he could oversee the operation first hand. He sat upon the lumpy mattress, reading a book on Salvic beasts. The penmanship was elegant, the voice active and exciting. It should be; he had written it.

The bed made an uncomfortable seat, but the room’s only chair looked prone to collapse under a hare’s weight, let alone his own muscular bulk. So he endured the bed. He was the sole warrior of the First Tier of the Mountain; he had suffered greater travesties than a lumpy seat. One of the bedroom’s doors led to a shoddy privy, the other to a dismal antechamber. And this was the so-called prime suite at the excuse for an inn his protégé had selected. The Mountain Master felt tempted to barge into the antechamber, throw his weight about and curse his underlings until they soiled themselves. Behave like the feared leaders in the stories children read. But his fathomless patience would never wear thin. Showing weakness through such primitive rage would only undermine him in the eyes of his followers. They already knew his power, and knew he did not hesitate to punish incompetence with death. But none of those he employed were incompetent. When there was information to be had, he would have it. Until then, he enjoyed re-reading about the various strengths of Arctic wolves, and meditated on the importance of a proper bed.


In the antechamber, Geoffrey Rythadine paced like a tiger caught in a pitfall. The room only allowed him five steps before he had to turn and march in the other direction. Five steps, past the ramshackle table and two folding chairs, stop at the wall, turn. Five steps back, stop at the bookshelf, turn, repeat. He had tried reading, but could not focus. His men had left three hours ago! He should have at least heard from them. A messenger - Anything! But time passed, and still they did not arrive. Each time he paced towards the shelf his eyes focused on the brass knob of the front door, praying to the Sway for it to turn. Each time he paced in the opposite direction his eyes dilated in fear of the possibility that the bedroom door might open. But that door stayed shut as well. He could not begin to comprehend the self control of his master. The legendary man had tucked himself away with a book penned by his own hand three hours prior, and had made no noise since. Geoff felt ready to explode. Another hour and he would reduce the furniture to splinters from sheer frustration. How long could it take those morons to kill Cronen and capture his sister? He had sent six of them, just to be sure. Only heroes in stupid stories survived being attacked by six men.

The door opened. The front door. Geoff spun around, a maniacal expression on his face. For a moment he only stared, and then slumped into one of the chairs. It creaked dangerously but held.

“It's you,” he mumbled, head in his hands.

The man at the door closed it silently behind him and took the room’s other seat. It didn’t make a sound, but then the man was thin as a wire. He was also a telepath who worked for the Salvarian Special Forces. A traitor with a price, one which Geoff had doubled. The telepath barely had an inch of hair, and as usual it lay perfectly combed upon his egg shaped skull.

“Have the others returned yet?” The dandy in the ultra-fine woollen cloak asked. Stupid question, for a telepath.

“What do you think? – No.” Geoff added as an afterthought. The skinny fellow could project telepathic messages across miles, but couldn’t figure out which of his fancy wolf skin boots went on which foot. Geoff wouldn’t put it past the turncoat to make a crucial mistake. “What message did you send her? Tell me exactly man, word for word. I haven’t got anything else to occupy my time.”

“Well,” the telepath said, and took a deep breath. “I waited five minutes after you started the riots, just as you said. By that time I could feel the air thick with telepathic frequencies. I sent Kristina this message;” the fool’s voice droned like a fly trapped in a glass, but Geoff forced himself to listen. “'Raiders in the warehousing district. Small group, stealthy approach suggested.' Then I checked the ambush.” The dandy unclasped his cloak and rolled his shoulders, shedding the garment onto the chair back. “Geoff, you haven’t got a thing to worry about. The Master himself couldn’t have survived the trap they laid.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Geoff warned, a glimmer of danger showing through the haggard worry in his eyes. “The Master has survived worse things than you can imagine. Did you know that he once—"

The anecdote ended abruptly as the front door burst open. The telepath scrambled to his feet with a cry of shock, wringing his hands. A broad shouldered man spilled through the door and slammed it behind him. The bookshelf nearly toppled as the man leaned against it, chest heaving, dark hair matted with sweat and blood. A large swelling grew just above his right ear. His eyes flicked wildly from Geoff to the alarmed telepath, who was just regaining his seat.

“Calm down man! Take a breath and spit it out, tell me what happened. Where are the others?” The pitch of Geoff’s voice rose at the end as he realised the dark haired man had returned alone. He recognised the bleeding fellow; one of the sharpshooters he had hired to put a quarrel in Cronen’s heart. Geoff’s fingernails gouged furrows in the table’s cheap varnish. He did not anticipate good news. The sniper took a moment to gather himself, then spoke in a rush of partially slurred syllables.

“We set it up just as you said sir. We had it all planned out for them to come through the door, and they did but by the Icemold, that Breaker moved so fast. He got ‘imself and the Lieutenant past our arrows, and smite me if he didn’t toss her straight up into the loft!” Geoff stared in stupefaction as the man took a few more breaths.

“You mean to tell me my sweet, endearing sister gave you that lump?” He spat the words like venom. The sniper shook his head, then winced and clutched it haplessly before continuing.

“No sir. She snapped my mate’s neck ‘afore either of us could lay another shaft. I went out the back window rather’n face her, knocked my head on the ground. But sir... I peeked in before I left. Cronen killed the four we had on the floor. I dunno’ ‘ow he did it, but he did! They was all layin’ there and he just stood among ‘em like a flaming hero outta’ some book...”

The injured man trailed off as Geoff closed his eyes. He breathed deep, meditating as his master had taught him. For a full five minutes the room remained silent. The sniper’s panting receded until he had his breathing under proper control. At last Geoff opened his eyes, and an unnatural calm radiated from them.

“Very well. You obviously went up against a superior force, and you alone survived. This is my failure, for not assigning more men of a higher calibre. May I trust that we will retain your services in the future?” The sharpshooter looked like he was about to nod, then winced and spoke the agreement instead.

“Yes sir. Although, I’d prefer taking a shot from say, a hundred yards away next time. I’d rather not be in the same room as your sister ever again. Well, unless she was chained down, like after we catch her. She killed my best friend. D’ye suppose I could—"

Geoff’s chair clattered to the floor. He moved over the table and across the room faster than eyes could follow. One seemingly bare hand seized the larger man’s collar and lifted him off his feet, slamming him against the wall. Rage contorted the young Rythadine’s normally handsome face.

“No one is allowed to harm my sister. Tell the others they failed miserably," he growled, voice demonic.

The sniper had a chance to take one last breath before Geoff’s spinning elbow struck his sternum. There was a sound like crackling eggshells as his ribcage collapsed onto his lungs, snuffing the life out of him. He crumpled to the floor and Geoff stepped away, face a serene mask once more.

“Get rid of that,” he said, gesturing at the corpse. The telepath squeaked in fright at the very idea. Geoff massaged his temples. “Alright then, find someone who can, then get back here and wait. I’ll have new instructions for you soon.”

No point in putting it off. Geoff walked to the Mountain King's bedroom door and pushed through, praying to the Sway that it would not be his day to die.


~ * ~

[Breaker]

Up and up the winding staircase we went.

Concealed within one of the many towers set in the royal palace's outer wall, the masons had crafted it firmly but humbly. Plain grey stone made up the walls and stairs, with the royal crest carved at every landing. I followed Kristina gladly, enjoying the sight of her lithe legs powering up the stairs. She carried a picnic basket in the crook of one elbow, balanced against her hip. After summoning a few uniformed guards to deal with the bodies in the blood soaked barn, we had stopped at an all-night boulangerie. Kristina selected a decent spread and then adopted a mysterious air and said she wanted to show me something. The advancing hour and her choice of location gave me a hunch at what it was, and my stomach growled at the smells radiating from the basket. But not only my appetite yearned to be slaked. Nina’s form fitting leather pants left little to the imagination. I wanted to take her right there on the stairs.

The stairs ended in a blank platform overlooked by the familiar crest. A ladder rose to the ceiling. We climbed up, ladies first as usual, and emerged on the top of the tower through an iron hinged trap door.

The view took my breath away. Empty space extended as far as my eyes could see. Outwards until the horizon line, upwards until the smoky clouds, and downwards until the streets of Knife’s Edge. The buildings looked like toys from so far away. Even my keen eyes could make out no signs of life. The sprawling city merely looked serene, at peace. I breathed deep and sighed in contentment, shoulders folding back to expand my chest. The air tasted clean as a mountain spring.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Nina said, “And you haven’t even seen the best part yet.” She took my hand and led me to the waist-high parapet. We ate cheese and bread and bacon from the basket and chatted, gazing out over the never-ending tundra. Despite the beauty of the view, my hazel eyes kept straying to stare into Kristina’s brown ones. “Be wary,” she chided, “You’re about to miss the show.”

Colors bled into the drab clouds that lined the horizon. Like a grey towel seeping slowly into a rainbow bath, the cloud cover brightened. First a flourish of light purple that flirted with the aged nimbus above, then a bright vibrant yellow that leapt over distant hills, spilling light onto everything below. The dreary plains between the city and the sun became less desolate, a playground for morning rather than a prison of night. The roofs of the houses and cookeries, offices and apartments, shops and slaughterhouses alike all flashed the glow of the impending sun. They returned the greeting the morning had sent them by way of reflecting its joyous light to new levels.

Kristina moved in front of me and folded my arms across her stomach. I rested my chin on top of her head and squeezed gently. Her callused fingers laced through mine and caressed my tough palm. I used my free hand to pull her hat off. The smell of her downy hair complemented the crisp air, rejuvenating my spirit. She lifted my arm and kissed the back of my hand, the pressure of her full lips subtle and sensual. I felt her lungs expand in anticipation.

“This is my favourite part,” she whispered, wiggling within my embrace.

A flock of birds sprang from beneath the eaves of the tower. They flew upwards past us, the drum roll of their wings and the cooing from their beaks heralding nature’s crescendo. I kissed Nina’s thick hair, inhaled her essence. A strange bliss radiated from my heart and filled the air around us, perfecting the moment.

A blinding white light crested the horizon in wake of frivolous yellow. I squinted, not wanting to miss the arrival of the sun. The brilliant orb emerged, dazzling; enchanting; awe inspiring as it ascended the heavenly ladder. The purity of its presence washed the other colors from the sky, bleaching the yellow and the purple and melting the grey covers until blue sky showed through. That majestic sapphire shone in the sun’s glory, the pride of Althanas unveiled for all to see. Bereft of pollution, its magnificence remained untainted, flawless as an uncut diamond.

Nina turned to me, eyes shut against the solar flare. She cupped my head in gentle hands and pulled my lips to hers. The brilliance of the morning inspired a red haze to my closed eyelids as we kissed, tasting the sweet nectar of common desire. We stayed there, locked in a passionate embrace, two mere mortals with eyes averted in reverence to a blooming day. For a time we swayed in the breeze, and the endless sky absolved us of everything save each other.

Our lips parted and I found myself lost in her eyes. Words rose from within, unbidden but welcome, for whatever they were worth.

“Thank you,” I breathed, “For showing me this. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” The simple truth of the statement lifted worries of sounding stupid from my floating shoulders. Nina’s smile could have charmed an early sunset. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to my lips, a scarlet blush painting her dimpled cheeks.

“Me too,” she whispered, eyes shining. Could those be tears gathering in the corners of her chocolate brown orbs? I didn’t know what to say. So I kissed her again, under the azure sky of day.

[Breaker]

The building had been a classy inn, once upon a time. The painted letters above the cracked front doors had long since faded into illegible smears. Its walls were still intact though, and the Salvarian Special Forces had occupied it as temporary quarters for their volunteers. Any carpeting that once existed was gone, unveiling watermarks and bent, rusty nails. The halls wore carved graffiti in place of decorations or furniture. An endless sea of names interspersed with the usual profanities. Not the prettiest place, with its gouged walls and floor littered with oak shavings, but it had character. Kind of the same way that a shipwreck or a mounted deer head has character. Kristina dragged me up six flights of stairs despite the way they creaked and groaned beneath my weight. We made it to the third floor safely, and Nina shoved me through a door that had her name engraved in its centre.

I barely had time to notice the double bed, the double square windows, and the long chest of drawers before her hands found me. Fingers intertwined and tangled with my hair, she pulled my head to meet hers, kissing me like it was her last day alive. I responded in like fashion, helping her shrug off her heavy crested coat as her fingers worked the buttons of my jacket. She smelled so alive, so packed with vitality, that I wanted to rip her clothes off without regard for fastenings or stitches. The sound of tearing fabric filled the room as a chunk of my shirt’s laces came away in her fist. I laughed into her hair but she had stopped, examining the object hidden amidst the jumble of fabric and string. It was a military grade mythril arrowhead with a hole bored in its base, threaded by a leather throng I kept around my neck. Kristina opened her mouth to ask.

Someone knocked on the door, twice, short and crisp. Her face flushed as her gaze wavered between the source of the sound and my ruined garment. Good thing at least one of us had exercised such admirable self control. Nina returned my property and broke away with evident effort, straightening her clothes.

“That's Arvide,” She said, and the name sounded like a curse. As she moved to the door I turned and looked out the window, more to hide my gaping garments from Nina’s partner than anything else. “He’s going to want me to sign the reports on last night’s raiding. I’ll have to go to the study, but I’ll be back soon.” She stumbled slightly on her way out the door, but got her official Lieutenant march back in place as she joined her underling.

I called after her, “Don’t be too long. I get jealous.” More for my own amusement than anything. She probably didn’t hear me. I peered out the window through lacy patterns of frost. It was still early morning, but the road below bustled with activity. Civil war or not, Knife’s Edge had to go on living and breathing. It felt heartening. Carriages, coaches and wagons wound around the occasional horseback rider, and droves of peasants on foot packed the street so tightly I couldn’t see much of the ground. I passed a few minutes idly observing the workings of a typical citizen’s day. I wondered what that would be like, just getting up and going to work, doing the same thing every day. Most likely it was boring, and with the riots and Roughcoats, it probably wasn’t much safer than what I did.

Kristina returned, saving me from having to contemplate exactly what it was I did for a living. The combination of Arvide’s company and paperwork had diminished her urgency. She came to me slowly, undoing a single button of her shirt at a time. As the last fastener slid free the heavy cotton blouse draped open, displaying the inner curves of her breasts and her smooth stomach, skin slick with sweat that shone in the light from the windows. She hooked a finger through the leather cord, which I’d retied around my neck out of habit, and pulled me closer.

“Why does a man who fights with his hands carry an arrowhead over his heart?” Her smell tantalized me, her lips so close I could taste them on the air.

“To remind me of the woman who gave it to me,” I pulled the torn collar of my shirt open farther, displaying the puckered pink scar over my left pectoral. “And so I won’t forget the importance of controlling distance.” I put my arms around her and lifted, arousal peaking as her lithe legs locked around my hips.

“This is my favourite distance,” she mumbled against my ear as I laid her on the bed, moving on top of her, wanting inside her. Her moans stopped being words, and I stopped thinking.

[Breaker]

The alarm shattered our siesta like a diamond-tipped icepick. Its harmonised wail ebbed and swelled, the rhythm of a hand-crank siren. The sound swallowed the shouts of the Salvarian Special Forces pounding down the hall.

I woke up with Nina sliding over me and into her pants in one motion. So much for having the day off, I mused, almost stepping into my boots before remembering my pants. The piercing siren succeeded at driving the last of the cotton from my brain as we dressed rapidly. Although the urgency of the situation seized me, I still found myself admiring Kristina's movement. The mid-day light permeating the covered windows gave her pale skin a ghostly glow. Her rough clothing rasped as it slid over those supple limbs.

"It's not usual for an attack during the day," she said suddenly, noticing my gaze, "I got a short briefing before the alarm sounded. They're storming the gate." She finished buttoning her jacket and yanked the woollen toque from her pocket, and then used it to make her auburn locks disappear. I opened the door, ready in my thin jacket and magical metal boots.

"Lead the way, Milady." The affectionate touch that grazed my elbow was different than her usual palm strike response. Not in a bad way.

We raced through the hall and down the stairs, sloshed along the murky mid-day alleys and joined the growing group of warriors. Some buckled on swords or shouldered axes while others carried pikes or strung longbows. Men and women in varying degrees of dress and armour, we beat the streets until the square surrounding the palace gate opened before us.

Sunlight shattered on hundreds of bloodstained blades as they parried and thrust throughout the plaza. Bodies dead and dying of men and women, horses and even half-orcs, seemed to grow from the tiled stones like weeping willows. They wore rough coats or military garb as they fought and bled. The steam of a thousand breathing beasts and fresh wounds made a fog across the battlefield. A ram wielded by a team of half-orcs and bulky human-hybrids thundered against the giant oaken gate. I had seen the thickness of the gate and the massive walls when Kristina held me upon them mere hours earlier, but the stone structure seemed to shudder with each strike of the ram's blunted tip. Arrows and tar fell like hail and rain from the parapets, but a host of Roughcoats carrying shields improvised from scavenged furniture protected their comrades. Most of the constructions wouldn't take too many arrows before collapsing, but they had temporarily nullified the defenders' positional advantage.

"The men without thick coats are a different breed of fighter," I said to Kristina as our knot of warriors paused on the edge of the fray, "one of them is more dangerous than five Roughcoats." Amidst the rabble the men in lightweight clothing moved like vipers in a henhouse. They wielded their weapons and bodies with the confidence of those comfortable using both for killing.

Kristina responded by wedging her back against mine and shouting to her troops, "The Roughcoats will scatter if we slay the orcs and the men who wear no layers. Fight as one! Strike swift and true!"Battle cries erupted from the throats of our comrades as they threw themselves into chaos.

It felt like diving into the ocean through a layer of flaming oil. We plunged into battle hearing weapons leave sheaths all around us. Adrenaline surged in my veins as Kristina and I charged a group of spearmen empty-handed.

[Breaker]

Blood and ice washed the cobblestone square, making basic movement a troubling task. Kristina's sure footed quickness and my enchanted boots gave us an edge in mobility that we exploited mercilessly.

As we charged the spearmen I moved a half step ahead. Kristina placed her palms on my shoulders and exhaled sharply. Her weight loaded on my shoulders then vanished as she vaulted over me, clearing the wall of spear points and landing amidst the Roughcoats. They gasped and fell and bled and screamed as her elbows and knees whipped about, striking shortribs and throats, busting noses and groins. I caught the hafts of the first two polearms that sought to open my veins and yanked them from startled hands. Smashed the group with a salvo of blunted thrusts and swings. The old oaken poles cracked and split against skulls, elbows, knees and shins. The Roughcoats scattered from our synchronised assault, some dropping their weapons and escaping into nearby alleys, others looking to regroup and find less vicious would-be victims.

"With me!" Kristina called as I snatched the only two well forged spears from the gore-spotted ground. She was not even breathing hard, I noted as I tossed her one of the oak-and-steel weapons. She had a shining red mark beneath one eye and a gash on her shoulder that had found only fabric, and caught the spear comfortably in both hands. Auburn hair fanning to frame her face like a valkyrie of old - she had lost her toque in the melee - she stalked toward a pair of the skin-headed, lightly dressed warriors. Tiers of the Mountain.

They moved and fought with the poise and confidence of hunting wolves. Though one was short and boulder-backed and the other decidedly average with a thin moustache, they matched rhythms strike for strike and step for step. Always protecting each other, always attacking. Back to back, curved scimitar-swords spilling blood wherever they flashed, the pair looked unbeatable. I leapt over the gurgling corpse of a Salvarian soldier with a ruined throat, and flicked a chain of spear-thrusts at the swordsmen, circling to my right. They reacted in tandem, one turning to follow my path while the other kept an eye on Kristina's wary advance.

"Brrreaker!" The battle cry ripped from my throat as I spun and brought the spear-haft around in a baseball-bat swing. The burly man who faced me got his sword up smoothly to counter, but the yell and the heavy thrumm of the sanded haft had distracted his partner for a split second. Nina skewered them both on her spear with one straight thrust. Stuck like gnats on a pin, they collapsed sideways into the muck, insides bolstering the mess on the ground.

Crrraaack!

The sound of blunt impact upon the gate went from bass drum to rolling thunder. The ram crew set up a cheer and re-doubled their efforts, protected by a patrolling foursome of half-orcs wielding wicked greatswords. They each wore an entire table strapped across their backs, the planking so peppered by arrows from above they resembled giant hedgehogs. Kristina claimed both snakelike swords from the downed mountain warriors and we hacked and stabbed our way through another patch of Roughcoats like woodsmen clearing thorns. A screaming heretic's dagger scratched my elbow and opened a shallow gash on my neck before I shattered his jaw. Kristina seemed untouchable, her twin swords a blur of shining death that formed a protective halo.

"Salvar to me!" She screamed as a burly man with a thick beard died on the points of her swords. "We must push them away from the gate. Special Forces to me!" A host of her brothers and sisters formed around her, battling feverishly until they claimed a section of stone wall to the right of the splintering gate. A number of the ram crew abandoned their stations to unsheathe weapons and assist the two half orcs who hacked fervidly at the slow-advancing knot of military fighters. If I removed the sentries on the far side, nothing could stop the Special Forces from re-taking the gate.

I wanted no part of engaging two greatswords at once, so I hurled my spear at the first half-orc as I approached. Black blood spattered as the spear punched through the far side of his neck. He tottered like a lop-sided Frankenstein and reached for me dumbly, nerveless fingers losing his weapon. I rolled and caught the hilt as it met the ground, mud and gore painting my clothing. As the first half-orc fell I rose, feinting a wide swing at his partner and turning the attack into a low thrust. The second orc's sword thupped into the muck alongside two of his fingers.

Rage contorted the massive being's angular green face as he charged, roaring, reaching to crush me between scar-crossed gorilla hands. I released my greatsword and mirrored his action, bent my knees and slammed my shoulder into his midriff with all of my force.

[Breaker]

Air left my lungs as if I'd slammed into a mountain. The half-orc's abdomen felt like a boulder, his smell a choking mixture of sweat and shit. At first he tried to break my grip from around his waist, slab-like hands with stony fingers grabbing at my sides and squeezing, lifting. For a moment that seemed like a century, we were locked in an insane embrace, teetering and turning. Our feet churned the muck and gore as we raced in a furious circle, a dogfight, each trying to knock the other off balance, neither succeeding. Then the horrid hybrid disengaged his damaged hand, lifting one arm away to deliver a sledgehammer strike.

My brain cried out for oxygen, which seemed scarce in proximity to the brute's odour, but my body moved on its own. I ducked under the orc's swing as he swatted air. I leapt onto his back, legs constricting, right hand hooking under his chin and twisting the block-like head back.

The orc grunted in exertion, and then made only gooey squishing sounds as my left hand yanked the bayonet from my boot and thrust it through his exposed throat. My arm worked like a piston, stabbing the beast six times before we hit the ground, his head lolling loosely in a flood of steaming blood.

"Defend the fallen! Rally to your telepaths!" The cry went up among the soldiers as what seemed like one defender in ten dropped to the ground unconscious.

I managed to separate myself from the still-shuddering, dying half orc. A screaming roughcoat lunged at me, swinging an axe haft with no blade. I leaned back just far enough to avoid the wooden weapon, not seeing a short iron nail protruding from its end. The improvised icepick tangled in my torn shirt, the ripping sound barely audible above the battle. I spun, peeling my ruined garment the rest of the way off and wrapping it around the axe handle. I disarmed the man as I began my turn, casting a quick look along the ground through a forest of limping and lunging legs. I noticed Kristina's woollen hat on the ground between two dead roughcoats, but caught no glimpse of her auburn hair. I finished the turn, putting all of my frustration and concern into a spinning sidekick that must have cracked the heretic's ribs. It propelled him back against the castle walls so hard he bounced off and landed spread-eagled, unmoving. Probably fractured the back of his skull to match the ribs.

Despite the decimation of their numbers, the Special Forces combined with the castle guard formed a defensive perimeter, pushing back and dispersing the attackers. I raced amongst the fleeing roughcoats, harrying them to the alleys and sewers with humming swings of the re-captured greatsword. Despite the blade's breadth, it never found a mark. My senses focused solely on finding Kristina, my head snapping about like a lost child in a market, eyes searching every face for the familiar rosy cheeks and deep brown eyes.

[Breaker]

Cold and worry compacted between my shoulder blades like a gravelly iceball. The wind swooped in on the carnage like a kettle of frozen vultures, pecking and clawing at my face, freezing rivulets of blood and sweat on my bare torso. Every part of me felt the cold except my feet, protected by one of the many enchantments of the Breaker Boots. The boots crafted by Tinker Rythadine.

I forced myself to a halt and grounded my feet on the red-brown sludge. I wasn't any more likely to spot Kristina in the thinning mob than I was to track her scent from the woolen cap I'd picked up and jammed on my head to keep in some fraction of my heat. I focused on the Roughcoats, fleeing in patterns like startled birds. Surprisingly, only half of them ran along the streets and allies. The rest were jumping through collapsed storm-cellar entrances and kicking out lower windows in abandoned buildings.

"No, Fuck. It can't be the tunnels..." I swore to myself as I sprinted toward the nearest cellar opening, flat of the greatsword resting on my right shoulder.

I had heard of the subterranean passageways designed beneath the city of Knife's Edge, but the majority of the rumors and my own brief ventures had the same conclusion; the tunnels were not a reliable means of lodging or travel. Sections of stone wall and ceiling fell in every day, leaving many of the main routes blocked, and making any time spent down there a serious risk. There wasn't any way a disorganized mob would find their way through that... unless they had serious leadership and organization coming from somewhere.

With a wordless roar I leapt into the cellar, swinging the sword overhead and stabbing downward between my legs. The Breaker Boots warmed slightly as one of Tinker's clever enchantments allowed me to make the boots each weigh a crushing hundred pounds.

There were men in the cellar, talking and moving around, but when I struck the false wooden floor it gave way in a shower of splintering boards and howling bodies. I found myself rolling painfully on damp, gravelly stone. Blood flowed down the right side of my face, the scalp above split, and the same red warmth seeped into the fabric over my knees and dripped from my bare elbows. The Roughcoats had fared far worse. Those who survived laying broken and groaning. The building above them groaned louder, and I bolted as it began to collapse.

The tunnel forked and twisted as often as snow falls in Salvar, but I made the same decision at every crossroads; take the easy way. Despite my extra-human vision I could barely see in the musty tunnels, but even in low light signs of a path being cleared were evident. I gambled, guessing that the Roughcoats wouldn't have bothered to shift more stone than absolutely necessary. If they had cleared a second path as a distraction, I might never have found my way. But they hadn't.

I ran with blood soaking my hair and pants and pounding from the pads of my fingers to the heels of my feet. Exhaustion threatened with each step. Dust choked me and looming irregular walls threatened to stop my race abruptly, but eventually there were no more forks or crossroads. Just an ever winding, ever rising passageway. It reminded me of the stairs Kristina and I had climbed within the watch tower, less than twelve hours ago. I realized I must be climbing the inside of a mountain, and pushed myself for greater speed, using my boots to gain extra traction on the slick floorstone. As the ground leveled I removed Nina's toque and stuffed it in my back pocket.

Eventually the tunnel opened to a plateau framed by empty grey sky. My heart pounded hard enough to sway the arrowhead against my bare chest as I witnessed Geoffrey Rythadine standing next to a bald man who seemed part of the mountain. And between them, Kristina, bound and struggling.

[Breaker]

My boots ground into the frost glazed rock. The Rythadines stood with the man who could only be the King of the Tiered Mountain. He was bald and boulder shaped and scars decorated his bare chest, arms, and face. He wore long dark breeches and soft matching tabi boots, the big toe separate from the others like the thumb in a mitten. They stood in the center of a jagged hexagonal plateau. Four sides looked out to endless grey sky, the fifth being the tunnel entrance behind me. The sixth side formed a thin path that followed the mountain's spine up and over the cave opening, around the conical wall and out of sight.

A furious wind whipped Kristina's hair about her face like flames darting in daylight. For the first time I saw fear in her eyes. Her hands were bound behind her back, and the Mountain King had one tree-branch arm wound between her elbows in a painful hammerlock. I thought I'd caught them just shy of forcing her up the ridgeway to some new cavern, until Geoff opened his ugly mouth.

"Welcome to your death, Cronen." Rythadine took two deliberate steps toward me. He looked smug, and he should; he wore a pair of invisible gloves, a birthday gift from Tinker, that ensured the wearer a safe fall from any height. Of the four of us, only he could survive a fall from the heights. "You have the honor of dying in the presence of my Master, the greatest Martial Artist in the History of Althanas. The Engineer of Salvar's Doom, the King of the--"

I sprang forward and closed his jaw with a front-leg snapkick.

The toe of the Breaker Boot clipped his chin and he reeled to his left, brown Rythadine eyes rolling behind a spray of blood and spittle. He lost control of his legs and flopped to the ground, fighting for consciousness. I hoped he'd fall off, even with those damn gloves.

I found myself slipping and followed the motion rather than resist it. Even Tinker's enchanted footwear failed to give me an edge when the glazed ground peeled away in icy layers. Kristina noted the direction of my forward tumble and snapped her legs open. I rolled cleanly through and beneath the Mountain King's wide horse stance. I snared one of his black-clad legs between both of my own and whipped my torso up through a hundred and eighty degrees like a massive inclined situp. My arms coiled around the bulky warrior's neck and crushed inward as I stomped my metal boots atop his soft ones to root him in place.

"Nina, now!" I uttered with the last of my air before sucking another deep breath. My stranglehold had forced her kidnapper to release the hammerlock and defend his throat. I'd hoped Kristina would conserve as much energy as possible while waiting for a moment to seize. I gave her the moment, and she bent her knees and flew through a front flip, tucking and looping her wrists around her ankles. She landed unsteadily, but with hands bound in front the same balance that kept her upright while defending the streets of Knife's Edge held true. She yanked the gag from her mouth and spat the taste of burlap out. She lunged and smashed into her brother, who had barely regained his feet, bringing a series of elbows and knees that made the strikes she'd hit me with last night look like a therapeutic massage.

"How could you Geoff?" Her screams echoed off the mountain wall and fell hundreds of yards to jagged rocks below. "You are murdering our father and our homeland! I will kill you! I hate you!" She beat him like a bass drum in a marching band, driving him across the plateau and into the rough stone framing the cave entrance. He managed to wrap his arms around her and halt the barrage, leaning into her and trying to regain his senses. Blood dripped from his nose and cuts on his jaw and cheekbone, but he still fought to regain control of his older sister.

I felt like I was strangling a fifty year old oak. The Mountain King had an iron grip with both hands on the forearm I'd laced across his throat. No matter how I squeezed with my arms, pressed with my chest, pulled with my legs or stomped with my boots, I could not advance past the stalemate position. Filling my lungs with thin high-altitude air, I re-energized my squeeze and then released the hold and elbowed him in the temple. I unhooked my legs and slid off his back, arms cinching around his waist as I sank to one knee and attempted to toss him off the cliff.

He countered by breaking my grip with one hand and catching my hair in the other, and hurling me like a ragdoll toward the struggling siblings.

[Breaker]

Rrrrip!

"Ooof!"

My lungs emptied as I impacted the cliff side-on. My shoulder and hip roared in agony and my mind fogged in denial. The Mountain King was stronger than me, possibly faster, definitely more durable. He laughed into the wind and planted hands on hips. Chuckles like the beginnings of an earthquake followed the frigid gusts down a seemingly endless drop.

I peeled myself off the tunnel opening opposite the Rythadines locked in their lethal embrace. Geoff had managed to entangle Nina's arms with both of his own, using his longer limbs to grasp her throat. But she'd braced her palms on his chin and each time he squeezed she drove him back against jagged stone, threatening to open his skull to the Salvarian chill.

My eyes locked with the Mountain King's, and for a moment they struggled in an arcane battle of hazel against grey. But we exploded in movement, not magic.

The boulder-shaped man made for the grappling Rythadines, and I leaped to intercept him. He moved with the quick-stepping wide base of a true martial artist, never off balance or unaware. My boots slid as I landed and leaned right into a trifecta of pinpointed blows to the body. One of my ribs cracked beneath the first, and the following two nearly emptied my recovering lungs of oxygen. Adrenaline had long since sedated pain though. I sliced an elbow viciously across his brow. Blood sprayed from the sharp bone's trauma and smeared my enemy's vision. I stomped him straight in the knee, then turned and avenged my ribs with a sidekick to his midriff. He staggered away, shaking the gore from his eyes, narrowly avoiding the spinning wheelkick that would have taken his head off as surely as any greatsword. The furious torque of my motion refused to stop, so as I spun I reached out and grabbed Geoffrey Rythadine's neck.

The ginger scumbag had broken the lock with his sister and circled away from the rocks. As I caught him our opposing momentum tore our feet from the ground. Suspended as if weightless for a moment, I looked past Geoff's snarling face and clawing hands and saw Kristina charge the Mountain King. Her feet whispered over the frost like the lightest snowflakes.

Me and Rythadine landed in rough succession amidst matching grunts of pain. I let my training take over and secured my grip on his lapel and throat. His head anchored my twisting roll to take his back. I laced my arms and legs around his neck and sternum in the same crushing stranglehold I'd attempted on his master moments earlier.

The worst decision I ever made.

Kristina chopped at the Mountain King's neck with both hands and followed through with a knee to the groin.

He moved like springthaw running down a glacier. Tree-like hips twisted and lifted and trapped her thinner leg between them. A scarred hand seized her fiery hair and she spat in his face, hopped once, and bulled forward in attempt to force him to the ground.

He caught her arms from above in a crippling hammerlock, forcing her right shoulder back away from her head and trapped leg. And then he straightened and twisted with a potent exhalation.

Geoff gurgling in my grip, the frigid rocks boring into my back, we both watched it happen.

Hard to say whether her scream or the bone-shattering cra-aack was more haunting.

"Nina!"

The heartbroken cry didn't come from her brother or I, but some stereo garble of our voices. She fainted forwards leaving the King of the Tiered Mountain standing tall. He pressed a palm over his bleeding forehead and pointed an accusatory finger at me.

"Kill my disciple, Joshua Cronen, and I will destroy your spine as well, and leave you and this traitorous bitch here to freeze. But let him free, and provided Father Rythadine is agreeable..." His chuckle cut off abruptly as I released the strangledhold, braced my palms and shins beneath Geoff's shoulders and thighs, and launched him off the plateau.

Geoff's roar was of surprise and frustration rather than fear. He attempted to swoop back to plateau, making full use of Tinker's enchantment, but fell short and floated like a feather toward the ground far below.

I bolted upright so fast the mythril arrowhead bounced on its throng about my neck.

The Mountain King was distracted by his airborne student for a fraction of a second, head twisted sideways, eyes wide in shock.

I snatched the arrowhead mid-bounce and flung it at his exposed neck. The masterwork projectile embedded in the heavy muscle there, lacerating his jugular.

Blood spewed out faster than his meaty fingers could staunch it, but he applied pressure all the same, glaring at me past his seeping brow. He took a menacing step forwards.

Nina stirred at his feet. She hooked his heel with both arms and yanked with all of her remaining strength, crying out in pain. A flower's touch, and yet in that moment it toppled the mountain.

His wide base destroyed, precious blood spilling with every second, the northern warrior staggered and stumbled and slipped off the edge.

He fell as he'd fought. Silent as a stone.

[Breaker]

I never heard him hit the rocks below. Either the whipping wind or the roar in my ears covered the sound. Exhaustion and paralyzing pain hit me harder than the former Mountain King's punches. Cracked ribs throbbed menacingly, and I bled from a dozen gashes and scrapes inflicted in the attack on the palace gates. But the safety of anyone in Knife's Edge no longer concerned me. I sank to my knees and crawled to Nina's quivering side, cradled her head and lifted one of her frigid palms to my cheek.

"Warm," she murmured, smiling like a schoolgirl on her first mushroom trip, "Breaker, you finally saved me." She giggled and then whimpered and coughed. Crimson droplets speckled the frost.

"More like you saved me," I said, trying not to choke on the words, "I couldn't have beaten him on my own." I stroked her fiery hair and made myself look below her face, below the Salvarian Special Forces jacket she wore with such pride.

Her spine had snapped just above the hips. Her long legs and heavy boots jutted away to the north at a horrifying angle. Above the waist she shivered uncontrollably... below there was no movement at all. The scarlet flush faded slowly from her cheeks.

I pushed the hems of her jacket and shirt up and saw dark purple blood pooling beneath the skin of her lower back.

Her icy fingers touched my abdomen, and with a wince I looked down to see she'd performed the same test on me. The bruising over my ribs matched hers with a lighter but deepening shade. I attempted to lift her and she cried out in pain and stopped me by grabbing two handfuls of my hair. She kissed me, the tang of blood and bravery mixed with a bittersweet aftertaste of what might have been. Finally we drew apart, and her brown eyes gazed into my hazel ones, our noses touching.

"You should go," she breathed, distant eyes begging me to stay. "Your wound will need healing."

In answer I wrapped myself around her like an armchair, letting her head and shoulders reline against my chest. I gathered her hands and as we laced and unlaced our fingers and explored the scars and calluses of each others hands, I told her of my life. How I'd grown up in another world wanting only to protect others and serve myself. How my lonely career in high-risk government projects had led to my appearance on another planet, in another galaxy as far as I knew, on a continent called Corone. I told her of earning a living as a cage fighter, and the friends I'd made and lost, and my final decision to take the long voyage by ship to Salvar. Nothing had mattered beyond my next meal and a place to sleep and some extra gold in my pocket, until I'd met Tinker Rythadine. He'd introduced me to the less known world of Althanas, the world of powers great and terrible, and those who would abuse them. Like his own son, and the recently fallen King of the Tiered Mountain.

Nina slumped as our shadows lengthened, but opened her eyes when I kissed her paling cheek. I found her toque buried in my pocket and stretched it over her thick hair, tucking the edges down around her wind-bitten ears. She smiled.

The grey sky dissolved into freely falling snow as it darkened. She asked me to report to her superiors and send word to her father, but not to pursue Geoffrey. Told me to return to Corone, or travel to Scara Brae and try my might against the Masters of the Dajas Pagoda. I promised I would as the sun split like a great glowing egg over Sulgoran's Axe and oozed its last light along the breadth of the horizon. I found myself lost in the endless view, hoping to see Tinker and Geoff again some day. Separately. One to apologize, the other to murder.

The sun slipped out of sight, taking its last warmth along. Kristina Rythadine stopped breathing, and moments later the weak, steady beat of her heart ceased. I wanted to sleep there with her forever, to forget the loneliness and doubt that awaited me wherever I roamed. I wanted her. But all I had was her words and my promises, and a lifetime to keep them.

I buried her in a cairn of stone torn from the mountain's heart. Pieces of my soul stuck to the frost that sealed her uniformed body inside.


~ Fin ~

[Breaker]

Spoils Request: Salvic Notoriety. Cronen has become a known and respected icon on both sides of the law in Salvar. While his aid during the civil war and final report earned him an honorary position amongst the Special Forces and military, tales of him defeating the former King and throwing Geoffrey Rythadine from the heights have spread, earning him the moniker Uncrowned King of the Tiered Mountain amongst criminals and others who have eyes and ears in their dealings. Whether this is good or bad depend on the individual.
Items lost: prevaldia bayonet, mythril arrowhead

[Christoph]

Sorry for the delay. I got a little nitpicky at times with this judgment, but that's more a statement of how generally solid your writing is. I enjoyed reading the thread. I know you requested light commentary, but I got a little carried away. Hopefully you don't mind. Let us begin...

*

Storytelling: 7 You kicked things off with a decent hook and actually used finesse in working some backstory into the introduction. You could have provided a little more background to make me care about what had happened to Tinker and his children and transitioned more smoothly, but it's still well above average quests. Some events felt a bit too convenient, such as Kristina so happening to show up in the second post.

You effectively used implicit questions in the first few posts to keep me interested, especially Kristina's motivation for attacking Josh. That said, I felt a little cheated when it turned out to be a simple misunderstanding. I was hoping for something more serious and meaningful. Still, misunderstandings are a common trope for a reason, and you executed it pretty well, even if it did seem to resolve a bit too easily (but that just comes down to personal taste). Beyond that, you spun a decent yarn, even if the story was pretty straightforward and predictable.

Pacing: 7 You spend a bit of time setting the scene in the beginning, but you didn't drag things out and made it interesting enough, and didn't waste much time afterward giving the me a reason to keep reading. The tavern detour dragged on a bit, especially into the somewhat trite (in my opinion) drinking game. It didn't really add much to the story. The romantic subplot hurt the pacing a bit as well, but that was probably because you didn't get me invested enough in it (more on that later). Your scene transitions were pretty decent, though not perfect. Some of the fights dragged out a bit too much

Setting: 7 You did an excellent job of bringing the environment to life. I felt like I was actually walking through a city in the midst of war and chaos. So, good job there. On the other hand, I feel that you painted the conflict between the church and crown as too black-and-white. Especially early on, you painted the church as being the definite 'bad guy', when the civil war, like most conflicts of that nature, are much grayer than that. My last real gripe with Setting was beyond the cold weather and civil war in the backdrop, you didn't make Salvar really feel like Salvar. It felt more like a snowier Corone. Kristina's little history lesson was okay, but it only helped a little bit (though it did provide some nice subtle foreshadowing for the half-orcs showing up later on). It was too much telling and not enough showing.

Technique: 6 I can't say that I ever read any first-person from you before. I'm not sure how I felt about it. Stylistically, it felt the same as your third-person prose, with only the occasional I's and Me's to remind me. You used a lot of figurative phrases. Some worked better than others. On the whole, I felt like you were FAR too liberal with them, which steadily decreased their impact, which hurt more crucial and pivotal passages that actually needed the emphasis and flair. (See my notes for some examples.) In addition, the over-abundance of metaphors and similes clashed with your first-person prose, and just made it seem like Josh's own internal monologue was unrealistically verbose.

Mechanics: 9 Your prose is quite solid on a mechanical level and almost entirely free of errors. You use strong verbs, active voice, and a vivid descriptive style. My main gripe is a lack of brevity that frequently cropped up. While not extreme enough to bother me too severely, it was an ever-present annoyance that often left me feeling a bit impatient and tempted me to skim through those thick blocky paragraphs. Speaking of, many of your paragraphs should have been broken up to help things flow better and more effectively separate new thoughts and topics. Finally, you probably used too many "said bookisms" in your writing, which stuck out and made certain passages feel odd. That handful of minor issues kept you from scoring a 10 here.

Clarity: 8 Despite the issues I had with your Technique and, to a lesser extent, Mechanics, your Clarity was pretty top-notch. And I'm pretty damn critical of clarity. While you often over-described things and spammed figurative language, you always made sure the reader could visualize and generally understand everything that went on. The first real clarity issue came just before and just after the barn scene, as you didn't adequately explain the situation.

Action: 8 In the first post, it felt like you 'told' too much and showed too little regarding Breaker's abilities. You mentioned his training and heightened senses (albeit in the context of their current inadequacies), but failed to bring those things to life for the reader. Especially in an introduction, the reader won't have any context for what he can do, so simply mentioning it isn't enough. Your combat writing, while a bit wordy, was clear and believable, showing a good grasp on how fights actually unfold but without letting realism hold back the action-fantasy goodness. That said, you did rely a bit too much on terminology that, while I understood just fine, somebody without a good familiarity with martial arts and/or wrestling might not have. My main gripe is while your fights were clearly written and possessing gritty realism, they lacked the intensity to really get me excited while reading.

Beyond that, you use plenty of body language, making the characters feel alive and not like cardboard cutouts talking at each other. This is good. On the negative side, you probably overdo it from time to time, but that has fast become a theme to this judgment.

Persona: 7 With first person, your prose and character often blur together. This isn't good or bad, but just how the point of view usually works. Your first-person felt a bit dry at first – like I said previously, it didn't feel like proper first-person, especially early on. Fortunately, it seems you hit you stride a bit as the quest progressed.

On the whole, all of your NPCs felt like real people. Conversely, Cronen had a tendency to just seem too perfect. An impeccable physical specimen? Check. Excellent in a fight? Check. Quick-witted and clever? Check. Charming with the ladies? Check. If he didn't come off as so damned perfect, he would have been far more engaging. Kristina suffered from this to a much lesser extent, but you made it work better with her, as she still felt real and had flaws and roughness to her. Fortunately, you made that work well enough, getting me to worry more about her fate than Cronen's (since I never had any concerns about his ability to punch, kick, and choke his way through any problems), which paid off at the end.

I'm torn on Geoff as your villain. I couldn't figure out whether he was a religious zealot or merely a scheming power-hungry opportunist (as opposed to both). You made nominal mentions of him praying to the Sway, but again, that was telling, not showing. You could have much more realistically and compellingly portrayed his faith, if it existed (if not, portray his lack of faith).

Communication: 8 Your dialogue was a mixed bag of good and bad, though mostly good. It felt smooth and believable and conversations had good flow. My main issues came not with what was being said, but how other characters reacted. This was especially true with how Josh charmed Kristina so easily. You seemed to play him off as quite witty and charming. More so, no offense, than he actually came off to me a some of the time. A lot of the dialogue between Kristina and Cronen was pretty engaging in spite of that, even if it did too swiftly charge headlong into typical 'will they, won't they' territory – and you didn't get me invested enough in that romantic subplot to begin with (though that was more a Persona thing). I appreciated Cronen making a bit of a fool of himself when Kristina passed out for her telepathic communication. It helped offset his tendency to come off like a Mary-Sue.

Wildcard: 8 I think I ran out of things to say. Overall, a solid effort, but I won't deny that I was a little disappointed. Not because your quest wasn't good, but because I know you can do a lot better. Admittedly, you ended stronger than you started, which reflects the years in between. It was a good story with good emotion, despite its flaws. I enjoyed the read.


Total: 75

EXP: 4,560
GP: 400

Spoils and reverse-spoils approved.


Notes:

These are examples of comments made above that I compiled while reading. While far from an exhaustive list, these are instances that motivated me fully stop reading to record them, along with my thoughts at the time of reading.


"The civil war hadn’t just separated church from state; it tore families apart at the seams." – Great sentence idea, but 'at the seams' isn't necessary and robs the sentence of some of its punch. (Mechanics and Technique)

"I felt like a rat in a mad scientist’s maze." – This is just a wordier and more specific version of the classic cliché. What's worse, it didn't even fit the tone or setting. I can't say that I've ever associated Knife's Edge or Salvar in general with rat psychology testing. (Technique)

"and the arctic air kept my muscles strung tighter than a sitar." – I take it sitars are unusually tightly strung? Seemed an odd bit of figurative language to bring up out of the blue, especially since, like the whole mad scientist's rat maze simile previously mentioned, it doesn't match the setting. It's not like you gave the reader any indication previously that anything related to sitars (or mad scientists' rat mazes) had any significance to your character. (Technique)

"Each inhalation stabbed my lungs like an icemold spike, the ensuing exhale a puff of steam that wreathed my face." – Very specific. Too specific, too wordy. More setting-appropriate than the previous two, but is getting stabbed figuratively in the lungs by an icemold spike so much different than, well, anything more mundane? Half the point of figurative language is to take something unusual, extreme, or extraordinary and describe it in a way that is profound and easy for the reader to understand. (Technique and Mechanics)

"I had my head stuck in the damn clouds." – Despite the issues of the preceding sentence, this one follows it up quite cleverly. (Technique)

"the steady crunching announced my presence like a delegation of tiny heralds." – A nifty enough idea, but a bit sloppy in execution. (Technique.)

"As if someone had switched the channel from one radio drama to the next " – well, this is where I remembered that Cronen was originally from Earth. I feel like you should find creative ways to explicitly reveal that fact from very early on or else not use modern real-world references. This one stuck out big time, pulling me out of the story and making me go, "Oh yeah, this guy came to Althanas from Earth somehow." These sorts of phrases crop up a bunch of times throughout, so I won't list them all. I put my bias against 'characters-from-earth' aside, but I still think you need to either acknowledge early and often his origins so his mannerisms make sense, or fit your style more to the medieval fantasy setting your character now inhabits.

"My head whipped towards the noise like a flag when the wind changes." – I feel like I'm going to start repeating myself a lot as I continue forward. This one was particularly gratuitous and bordering on purple prose.

"I half expected the name to work like an incantation, magically ending Kristina’s vicious onslaught. It didn’t. " – A tiny bit wordy, but I still quite liked it. This marks where you started to find your voice. (Persona, Technique, and Mechanics.)

"He and his partner held their battle stances like statues hewn from living rock " – Same thing as previous examples. Adding "hewn from living rock" doesn't add to the sentence. It just draws more attention to the fact that the 'like statues' simile is a bit cliché. I'm going to stop listing these sorts of examples and simply state that they permeated the entire thread.

[Mordelain]

Experience and gold added.