Spider Guild’s headquarters were in the southeast. If these Eschaton mercenaries stumbled upon him and his best…
Haern ran faster.
Deciding speed was more important than stealth, he cut to one of the main roads and trusted himself to outrun any patrols. He raced south, all the while doing his best to ignore the pain in his stomach. The wound there hadn’t quite healed, though it was hardly more than an angry red scar. Still, the movement was enough to stretch the skin and agitate it. What he’d have given for an extra day or two to heal before all this madness hit.
“You! Stop!”
Haern cursed as he saw a group of five up ahead rush toward him, no doubt thinking him a fleeing member of the guilds. The houses were packed tight on either side, so it was either turn back in search of a route around, or go straight through.
“Move!” he screamed, hoping to startle them with his mad rush. He slide-kicked just before nearing, avoiding an arrow that whistled overhead. His kick took out the legs of one, and he rolled away. Smashed under that much armor, he’d be killed in seconds by the others. A sword swung for his head, but he twisted and fell to one knee. Two others lunged, their swords thrusting. Haern dove to his right, landing hard on his shoulder. He’d made it to the other side.
“We said stop!” one of them shouted. Haern laughed, wondering who exactly he thought would obey the command. He weaved side to side, not surprised to see one last arrow plink into the dirt beside him. With their heavy armor, they couldn’t hope to match his speed. Last he looked, they’d abandoned the chase and instead smashed in the door of a nearby home. He offered a prayer to the inhabitants as he ran.
It seemed the very air grew thicker as he plunged deep into southern Veldaren. He counted five fires now, and one of them wasn’t far off. The smoke whirled down the streets, its distortion good for the thieves, bad for the mercenaries. He heard sounds of combat from one home with a broken door, and he watched another group battle, four Hawks against two mercenaries. He let them be. There were too many fights for him to help them all. The graveman would be busy tomorrow, he thought grimly. Whatever didn’t burn would soon have its walls painted with blood.
A plume of smoke erupted to his left, accompanied by a deep explosion. His curiosity couldn’t take it. He turned, climbed onto a rooftop, and hurried that way. Whatever he was expecting to see, what he found was not it.
The area opened up to a fountain carved in the likeness of two women bathing each other, long broken and out of water. At least twenty men lay dead, half mercenaries, half thieves, their blood mixing together to stain the surrounding cobblestones red. A large group of thieves remained, Wolves judging by their colors. They faced off against only four, a strange four at that. Senke guarded one half of the fountain, parrying and blocking with his two flanged maces. On the other half fought a short man in platemail, a punch dagger in each hand. Delysia stood in the fountain behind Senke, her lovely red hair matted to her face by a cut across her forehead. She was taller than he remembered, and she wore the white robes of a priestess. His heartbeat raced faster, and he forced himself to move. While Delysia cast spells that bathed them with white light, the last of the four stood in the other side of the fountain with his hands surrounded by fire. He wore a yellow robe and a pointy yellow hat. The color reminded Haern of dandelions. He had red hair similar in color to Delysia’s, and a well-trimmed goatee.
Guy’s half off his rocker, the mercenary had said about Tarlak, their leader. Haern had a feeling that was him. Only the insane, or the extremely confident, would dare wear such an outfit.
This Tarlak swung his hands in a circle. Fire danced across his fingers, then streaked toward where a group of three hid behind an overturned wagon, trying to fire crossbow bolts from cover. The wagon exploded into shrapnel and embers. The short man seemed hard pressed fighting the one, but the wizard kept zapping thin bolts of blue lightning, knocking the thief back and keeping him from scoring a kill. Senke fought three at once, yet seemed to be doing better at protecting the two in the fountain. Having been on the receiving end of so many smacks to the head and kicks to the chest while training with him, Haern wasn’t surprised.
Decision made, he drew his swords and charged. It was Senke and Delysia he’d come to protect, so it was them he’d help. The wizard saw his approach and turned, magic shimmering on his hands.
“It’s Haern!” Senke shouted just as the lightning arced out, having seen his approach as well. Haern rolled, wishing he’d had far more training in dealing with spellcasters. The roll seemed to work, for he heard the ground behind him crackle and break from the impact. He kicked back to his feet and jumped, having closed enough distance to reach the first. The Wolf turned and tried to impale Haern with his sword. Having had enough of that nonsense only a few days before, Haern landed short, batting aside the thrust while still in the air. His opponent exposed, it was easy work looping his other sword around and cutting his throat.
“Sorry!” he heard the wizard shout.
Damn fool, Haern thought as he linked up with Senke, standing side to side as the Wolves closed in.
“Glad you could join us,” Senke said between breaths. Despite the smoothness of his parries and kills, he was clearly winded.
“I shouldn’t have to. What the Abyss are you doing out here?”
“Fight now, insult me later.”
As one they went on the offensive. It felt like old times, carelessly training in Thren’s safe house. But this time it wasn’t dummies they fought, nor did they wield wooden swords. This time their opponents bled. Haern struck both high and low, forcing the thief to make desperate parries with his daggers. The shorter weapons made his arms move more than Haern’s to keep up with the attacks, and Haern used that to put him more and more out of position. At last he feinted a wide slash, pulled his sword in, and stabbed. The edge sliced through cloth, flesh and into lung. As the thief fell, Senke gave him a good bash on the head with his mace, just to be sure. Two more rushed ahead, but a blinding flash from behind Haern dazed them. With such a handicap, they fell with ease to the skilled fighters.
“Help Brug!” Senke shouted as three more Wolves approached from the north, joining the others.
“Brug?”
“The short fat guy.”
Haern felt a moment’s hesitation. He’d fought alone for so long, he wasn’t used to obeying orders. But then again, he felt himself slipping once more into the past, nothing but an awkward child learning from his masters. He turned and circled the fountain, joining Brug, who was bleeding from his shoulder and face. A dagger was still lodged in the crease of his armor. He yanked it out as he ran past, hurled it at his opponent, and then followed it up with a flying kick. The dagger hit the thief’s throat with the hilt, and then Haern’s foot cracked his chest. The Wolf dropped to one knee, lifting his dagger in a clumsy defense. Haern cut him down, a clean slice through his throat.
Brug looked ready to explode.
“I had him!”
Haern blinked. “Uh, sorry?”
A fireball sailed over both their heads, delaying the attack of several Wolves who had abandoned their attempts at shooting the wizard and instead chosen to close the distance. Haern felt the heat of it on his neck.
“Damn it, Brug, what am I paying you for? And you, Haern, right? Keep him alive, will you?”
Haern turned to his opponents, somewhat amused at how much redder Brug’s face grew. He blubbered, then rushed ahead, punching the air with his daggers. Haern’s amusement left. The idiot was going to get himself killed because of his pride. He rushed after, the two of them barreling at the three Wolves as if they were madmen. At the time, it was a fair assessment. The Wolves wavered, he saw the doubt in their eyes, and then they turned to flee. Haern killed two, for he was too fast and had far too much momentum to be outrun. He sliced the hamstring of the third as he ran on by, allowing Brug to catch up and eviscerate the thief with his punch-daggers.
Sucking in air, Haern turned back to the fountain. The last of the Wolves were either dead or fleeing. Tarlak stepped out of the fountain, helped Delysia follow, and then waved.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.
Haern shook his head. Off his rocker, indeed.
14
