A flaming arrow shot through the air and down the tunnel towards them, only to ricochet off the highlander’s shield and go sailing further into the darkness.
The man in the red shirt and the black vest broke formation; he’d been right behind Castille, keeping pace, crabbing along in the Ala Mhigan’s wake, his eyes scanning the shadows for potential ambush. That alone was why he noticed the sellsword they’d just passed, in the brief moments of illumination before the flaming arrow fell and was doused in the water that covered most of the tunnel floor. He threw the knife in his right hand at the hired blade, mere distraction, as more flaming arrows flew overhead. Not all of them landed in the water - one, in fact, skidded off the swordsman’s gauntlet, along with the knife - and so the midlander had plenty of light to work with when he drew back his right fist with a sadistic grin and struck the other man in the gut.
“You bitch,†the sellsword grunted... and then the man in red and black drew the knife held reverse-grip in his left hand across the sellsword’s throat, before immediately dropping to his right, the mercenary’s last desperate swing barely missing him.
The midlander pushed himself back up and onto his feet as the corpse-to-be let out a death rattle and collapsed behind him with a splash. At a glance… there, Castille, rooted as firmly to the center of the passageway as an Arbiter to his Rock. To his right, another swordsman. More beyond… but there was room for clearance. A breach.
“HUNTRESS,†he bellowed, “LET’S GET GOING!â€
Her ears were twitching this way and that; she and the other hadn’t advanced yet. He took the lead, staying low, their footsteps echoing faintly as the clash of steel rang out loud and clear amidst blood curling screams, punctuated every so often by the occasional twinge and whistle of an arrow being let loose. His heart hammered in his chest.
“Passing left!â€
The swordsman facing Warren pressed against him, desperate to drive the large man back and block the breach… but the highlander hunkered down and braced himself, his mass and weight holding her at bay. The man in red and black was the first to slip behind and past him, his eyes scanning the assembled as he drew another knife from inside his vest.
Pointless. He grimaced. Archer, armor, armor, more behind. The armor on the left, gilded. Left and right both with battle axe in hand.
The thief cowered in fear.
The assassin knew better than to try.
The soldier assessed the odds and came up short.
Through the chaotic din came a hiss that shattered that instant like a sledgehammer to glass. “There. Lazarov.â€
The monk chuckled as he dropped his knives, left his steel behind as the armored sentinels surged forward, the one on the left thrusting with precision, the one on the right with axe held high. He drew his right fist back as his stance shifted, his elbow drawn up past his shoulder…
Earth is the element within which it is steeped, and from it, one may attain its strength, resilience and endurance.
…and he struck down through the water and drove his fist into the stone. A sudden eruption of scalding water, hissing steam, and shards of rock greeted his assailants, and he slipped away to his right just as one axe head tore at his left sleeve and the other descended. Sparks flew as steel assaulted stone. A mere moment sooner and he’d have been pinned and crowned. No time for idle thought. He tapped at the linkpearl held in his ear, the one that belonged to Kiht, and whispered, “go.†He turned and his eyes widened as his exit from the spray brought him up alongside the swordsman from earlier… the swordsman with long flaming hair.
Crofte.
He turned again and found himself facing armor. Plain. Not gilded. He didn’t think; he didn’t have time for it. He drew the brass knuckledusters from the tassles riding on his belt and struck out once, twice, three times. The sentinel deftly caught one blow on the haft of the axe, but the second and third struck steel plate and drove the combatant back a step. The axe went high again…
"I am a servant who knows the difference between revenge… and JUSTICE!â€
Crofte to his right and somewhat behind. The sentinel in front. So he smirked and broke left, trusting in the man he’d brought with him to have his back, to fulfill the purpose for which he’d been brought. He pushed off with his right foot, then planted his left and fell into a runner’s crouch… there. The man in the gilded plate.
A burst. It’s a burst. From everywhere, all at once.
He pushed off, low to the ground and impossibly fast as he crashed into the armored man’s legs. He rebounded, left shoulder sore as he rolled away, prepared for the suit to come crashing down on him, but the other man grunted and fell to one knee as part of his armor gave way. Their eyes met, emerald and amber. The amber blinked.
“Melkire…?!†The armored man snarled, and his next few words echoed throughout the tunnel. “This is NOT Lazarov!â€
Splashing from his right. Osric spat at Jameson’s faceplate as he dropped his knuckles, fell back into a crouch, his hands falling to his boots and drawing the pair of misericordes he’d commissioned from Lon’qu Jin not a moon past. He turned to face the oncoming mass and rolled to his right, the blades clashing against the sentinel’s left greave. He winced as the impact sprained his left wrist and knocked him bodily aside as he tumbled, his grip on the blade’s hilt lost, scattering it from his hand. He moved to push himself upright, but someone or something tripped over him. He went sprawling, a dull ache tearing at his left side.
â€Endure.â€
He sucked in a breath and reached deep for that reservoir of light, the well of aetheric energy known to a few as the Sacral. Shot by shot, glass by glass, tumbler by tumbler, bucket by bucket, he fed that sweetness to his wounded side.
“MELKIRE! WHERE is LAZAROV?!â€
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He needed to laugh. Needed to live, even in these final moments. The ruse had clearly succeeded. He’d grown his hair out, like Nero’s. Dyed it, like Nero’s. Shaved his face clean, like Nero. Found himself a red shirt and black vest, along with some leather boots and gloves… like Nero’s.
Osric Melkire pushed himself wearily to his feet and drew his last two knives from their scabbards. In front of him stood the man in gilded plate, his own weapon held at the ready. Stout. Resolute. Fiercely determined to survive, just as the sergeant himself was. He smirked.
“That you, Jameson? Or are you the double?â€
No response, other than another swing of the axe, the motion abrupt, as if fueled by anger. Instinct took over; Osric stepped in, as close as he could, his knives rising in a cross-guard to catch the haft of the axe. Their eyes met again, their faces close, the Royalist’s breath fogging the Monetarist's faceplate.
“You have been a thorn in my side for far too long,†whispered Taeros… and then he pressed down on the man with all of his not-inconsiderable weight.
Osric’s knees buckled for moment. He dropped the left knife and caught the haft in his fist as that weight bore him down to one knee. Mistake. Same as with Armstrong. Dead. Don’t ever get in this close. Mistake. Dead. Dead. Those were the panicked thoughts that went scurrying across the surface of his mind… below that, however… below that….
Perfect.
His lips quivered. “Jameson, I’ve a question for you--“
The man reversed his axe and sent the haft straight down into Osric’s upright knee.
Blinding white agony. He cried out. He collapsed, his leg giving way. Down on both knees. Sharp. Sudden flame. Up his leg, side, and back. Aching. The knee. How had he known about the knee? He had….
Wrong knee.
Melkire’s vision came swimming back to him. Jameson, standing over him, axe rising for a follow-through. Standing entirely too close, no longer bearing down. Osric dropped his remaining knife, and his right hand climbed up over his back to his shoulder blades. He grasped, gripped, and pulled at something there… and his shirt tore open, all the way down his spine, as he snapped his wrist out and brought his arm down and around, a bright gleam of silver in his hand, a sword of light…
No.
A gunblade.
Jin’li’s gunblade.
With an inward twist of the wrist, he punched up and out and drove the weapon into the waist joint of Jameson’s armor. The blade caught there, pinned by pressure, unable to pierce through whatever quality plate Taeros was wearing… but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what came next, and what came next warmed Melkire’s murderous little heart. He smiled that shite-eating grin for which he was so well known.
“What do we do with a drunken sailor?â€
The axe came down.
He pulled the trigger.
BLAM.
Red. White hot. Red again. He screamed. He cried. He couldn’t see. He could smell blood. Shoulder. Axe head in his right shoulder. The bastard was trying to take his arm.
As if I’ll let you.
Osric’s left fist clenched tighter, clenched down on the haft as he twisted his grip, pushed upward, pulled in, screamed again. He couldn’t. Hurt. It hurt. Dying. He was dying. He was going to die.
â€Come home to me.â€
A small rumble. A chuckle. Cackling. Full blown laughter. Absurd. This was absurd. Why not? All this effort, wasted, and why? Why was he still suffering, when it was so easy to end it all?
All I have t’do is pull a trigger, eh?
So he did.
BLAM.
Clattering and clinking of mail. The pressure on the haft was suddenly gone, and several moon’s worth of training under Worthy Jetsam took over as he bellowed and pushed and wrenched the blade from his shoulder. The axe fell to the floor and his left hand clutched at cobblestones as he dragged himself back, farther down the tunnel, away from… from….
He looked up, and through the tears and the blood he could see Taeros stumbling back, one hand held at his midsection, something blue trickling down his leg.
Jameson was staring at him in fear.
The words dripped from his lips, then danced together, one eerily melodic tune cutting through the sudden silence.
“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…â€
“No…â€
“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…â€
“James!â€
The pirate in him smiled. "Weigh, heigh, and up she rises, early in the mornin'~."
“Gideon--“ Taeros choked, blood… odd blood… seeping from his wounds.
Osric’s head was swimming. Odd. Why was everything so odd? He was wounded, yes, but… numb? Why was he…? No. Not now. He still had something… something left to… to say.
“This,†he hissed, “this snake… ruttin’ hells!â€
He cried out. Shoulder. His shoulder. Ignore it. Endure. Drank. He drank from the reservoir.
“…deserves no gods-damned LOYALTY!â€
Something else was leaking from the bullet holes hidden beneath Jameson’s fingers. Something blue, and glowing like the sea beneath the moon. The fop glanced down. “No.â€
The sergeant squinted. Was that…? Ceruleum, had to be. Why…? Swimming again. Vision blurring. Why did Jameson sound…?
“Don’t… worry,†Osric forced out. “Grimsong’ll… send you… Lazarov soo--“
Acidic. The taste in his mouth…
Ah, shite, I’ve been poisoned.
The cobblestones rushed upward, Thal descended from on high, and someone draped the night sky over his eyes. There were no stars to greet him.
Oblivion.
The man in the red shirt and the black vest broke formation; he’d been right behind Castille, keeping pace, crabbing along in the Ala Mhigan’s wake, his eyes scanning the shadows for potential ambush. That alone was why he noticed the sellsword they’d just passed, in the brief moments of illumination before the flaming arrow fell and was doused in the water that covered most of the tunnel floor. He threw the knife in his right hand at the hired blade, mere distraction, as more flaming arrows flew overhead. Not all of them landed in the water - one, in fact, skidded off the swordsman’s gauntlet, along with the knife - and so the midlander had plenty of light to work with when he drew back his right fist with a sadistic grin and struck the other man in the gut.
“You bitch,†the sellsword grunted... and then the man in red and black drew the knife held reverse-grip in his left hand across the sellsword’s throat, before immediately dropping to his right, the mercenary’s last desperate swing barely missing him.
The midlander pushed himself back up and onto his feet as the corpse-to-be let out a death rattle and collapsed behind him with a splash. At a glance… there, Castille, rooted as firmly to the center of the passageway as an Arbiter to his Rock. To his right, another swordsman. More beyond… but there was room for clearance. A breach.
“HUNTRESS,†he bellowed, “LET’S GET GOING!â€
Her ears were twitching this way and that; she and the other hadn’t advanced yet. He took the lead, staying low, their footsteps echoing faintly as the clash of steel rang out loud and clear amidst blood curling screams, punctuated every so often by the occasional twinge and whistle of an arrow being let loose. His heart hammered in his chest.
“Passing left!â€
The swordsman facing Warren pressed against him, desperate to drive the large man back and block the breach… but the highlander hunkered down and braced himself, his mass and weight holding her at bay. The man in red and black was the first to slip behind and past him, his eyes scanning the assembled as he drew another knife from inside his vest.
Pointless. He grimaced. Archer, armor, armor, more behind. The armor on the left, gilded. Left and right both with battle axe in hand.
The thief cowered in fear.
The assassin knew better than to try.
The soldier assessed the odds and came up short.
Through the chaotic din came a hiss that shattered that instant like a sledgehammer to glass. “There. Lazarov.â€
The monk chuckled as he dropped his knives, left his steel behind as the armored sentinels surged forward, the one on the left thrusting with precision, the one on the right with axe held high. He drew his right fist back as his stance shifted, his elbow drawn up past his shoulder…
Earth is the element within which it is steeped, and from it, one may attain its strength, resilience and endurance.
…and he struck down through the water and drove his fist into the stone. A sudden eruption of scalding water, hissing steam, and shards of rock greeted his assailants, and he slipped away to his right just as one axe head tore at his left sleeve and the other descended. Sparks flew as steel assaulted stone. A mere moment sooner and he’d have been pinned and crowned. No time for idle thought. He tapped at the linkpearl held in his ear, the one that belonged to Kiht, and whispered, “go.†He turned and his eyes widened as his exit from the spray brought him up alongside the swordsman from earlier… the swordsman with long flaming hair.
Crofte.
He turned again and found himself facing armor. Plain. Not gilded. He didn’t think; he didn’t have time for it. He drew the brass knuckledusters from the tassles riding on his belt and struck out once, twice, three times. The sentinel deftly caught one blow on the haft of the axe, but the second and third struck steel plate and drove the combatant back a step. The axe went high again…
"I am a servant who knows the difference between revenge… and JUSTICE!â€
Crofte to his right and somewhat behind. The sentinel in front. So he smirked and broke left, trusting in the man he’d brought with him to have his back, to fulfill the purpose for which he’d been brought. He pushed off with his right foot, then planted his left and fell into a runner’s crouch… there. The man in the gilded plate.
A burst. It’s a burst. From everywhere, all at once.
He pushed off, low to the ground and impossibly fast as he crashed into the armored man’s legs. He rebounded, left shoulder sore as he rolled away, prepared for the suit to come crashing down on him, but the other man grunted and fell to one knee as part of his armor gave way. Their eyes met, emerald and amber. The amber blinked.
“Melkire…?!†The armored man snarled, and his next few words echoed throughout the tunnel. “This is NOT Lazarov!â€
Splashing from his right. Osric spat at Jameson’s faceplate as he dropped his knuckles, fell back into a crouch, his hands falling to his boots and drawing the pair of misericordes he’d commissioned from Lon’qu Jin not a moon past. He turned to face the oncoming mass and rolled to his right, the blades clashing against the sentinel’s left greave. He winced as the impact sprained his left wrist and knocked him bodily aside as he tumbled, his grip on the blade’s hilt lost, scattering it from his hand. He moved to push himself upright, but someone or something tripped over him. He went sprawling, a dull ache tearing at his left side.
â€Endure.â€
He sucked in a breath and reached deep for that reservoir of light, the well of aetheric energy known to a few as the Sacral. Shot by shot, glass by glass, tumbler by tumbler, bucket by bucket, he fed that sweetness to his wounded side.
“MELKIRE! WHERE is LAZAROV?!â€
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He needed to laugh. Needed to live, even in these final moments. The ruse had clearly succeeded. He’d grown his hair out, like Nero’s. Dyed it, like Nero’s. Shaved his face clean, like Nero. Found himself a red shirt and black vest, along with some leather boots and gloves… like Nero’s.
Osric Melkire pushed himself wearily to his feet and drew his last two knives from their scabbards. In front of him stood the man in gilded plate, his own weapon held at the ready. Stout. Resolute. Fiercely determined to survive, just as the sergeant himself was. He smirked.
“That you, Jameson? Or are you the double?â€
No response, other than another swing of the axe, the motion abrupt, as if fueled by anger. Instinct took over; Osric stepped in, as close as he could, his knives rising in a cross-guard to catch the haft of the axe. Their eyes met again, their faces close, the Royalist’s breath fogging the Monetarist's faceplate.
“You have been a thorn in my side for far too long,†whispered Taeros… and then he pressed down on the man with all of his not-inconsiderable weight.
Osric’s knees buckled for moment. He dropped the left knife and caught the haft in his fist as that weight bore him down to one knee. Mistake. Same as with Armstrong. Dead. Don’t ever get in this close. Mistake. Dead. Dead. Those were the panicked thoughts that went scurrying across the surface of his mind… below that, however… below that….
Perfect.
His lips quivered. “Jameson, I’ve a question for you--“
The man reversed his axe and sent the haft straight down into Osric’s upright knee.
Blinding white agony. He cried out. He collapsed, his leg giving way. Down on both knees. Sharp. Sudden flame. Up his leg, side, and back. Aching. The knee. How had he known about the knee? He had….
Wrong knee.
Melkire’s vision came swimming back to him. Jameson, standing over him, axe rising for a follow-through. Standing entirely too close, no longer bearing down. Osric dropped his remaining knife, and his right hand climbed up over his back to his shoulder blades. He grasped, gripped, and pulled at something there… and his shirt tore open, all the way down his spine, as he snapped his wrist out and brought his arm down and around, a bright gleam of silver in his hand, a sword of light…
No.
A gunblade.
Jin’li’s gunblade.
With an inward twist of the wrist, he punched up and out and drove the weapon into the waist joint of Jameson’s armor. The blade caught there, pinned by pressure, unable to pierce through whatever quality plate Taeros was wearing… but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what came next, and what came next warmed Melkire’s murderous little heart. He smiled that shite-eating grin for which he was so well known.
“What do we do with a drunken sailor?â€
The axe came down.
He pulled the trigger.
BLAM.
Red. White hot. Red again. He screamed. He cried. He couldn’t see. He could smell blood. Shoulder. Axe head in his right shoulder. The bastard was trying to take his arm.
As if I’ll let you.
Osric’s left fist clenched tighter, clenched down on the haft as he twisted his grip, pushed upward, pulled in, screamed again. He couldn’t. Hurt. It hurt. Dying. He was dying. He was going to die.
â€Come home to me.â€
A small rumble. A chuckle. Cackling. Full blown laughter. Absurd. This was absurd. Why not? All this effort, wasted, and why? Why was he still suffering, when it was so easy to end it all?
All I have t’do is pull a trigger, eh?
So he did.
BLAM.
Clattering and clinking of mail. The pressure on the haft was suddenly gone, and several moon’s worth of training under Worthy Jetsam took over as he bellowed and pushed and wrenched the blade from his shoulder. The axe fell to the floor and his left hand clutched at cobblestones as he dragged himself back, farther down the tunnel, away from… from….
He looked up, and through the tears and the blood he could see Taeros stumbling back, one hand held at his midsection, something blue trickling down his leg.
Jameson was staring at him in fear.
The words dripped from his lips, then danced together, one eerily melodic tune cutting through the sudden silence.
“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…â€
“No…â€
“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…â€
“James!â€
The pirate in him smiled. "Weigh, heigh, and up she rises, early in the mornin'~."
“Gideon--“ Taeros choked, blood… odd blood… seeping from his wounds.
Osric’s head was swimming. Odd. Why was everything so odd? He was wounded, yes, but… numb? Why was he…? No. Not now. He still had something… something left to… to say.
“This,†he hissed, “this snake… ruttin’ hells!â€
He cried out. Shoulder. His shoulder. Ignore it. Endure. Drank. He drank from the reservoir.
“…deserves no gods-damned LOYALTY!â€
Something else was leaking from the bullet holes hidden beneath Jameson’s fingers. Something blue, and glowing like the sea beneath the moon. The fop glanced down. “No.â€
The sergeant squinted. Was that…? Ceruleum, had to be. Why…? Swimming again. Vision blurring. Why did Jameson sound…?
“Don’t… worry,†Osric forced out. “Grimsong’ll… send you… Lazarov soo--“
Acidic. The taste in his mouth…
Ah, shite, I’ve been poisoned.
The cobblestones rushed upward, Thal descended from on high, and someone draped the night sky over his eyes. There were no stars to greet him.
Oblivion.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
