Alkara rotates between the line of archers. The range struggles to accommodate them all. Merchants and porters and tailors. Most every kind of profession found themselves training.
The fifth day of training stretches toward sunset. Many trainees come and go, having to return to work and earn their living. Still, improvement descends on some in noticeable ways.
Alkara stifles a yawn. Her work remains on the range. Five days of training extracts its toll. But she’s smiling. Who would have expected such results so soon.
Arrows bury themselves into targets at regular intervals. An occasional errant missile brings a guffaw from the bowman. Hitting stationary targets isn’t the same as hitting moving ones. Only a few had made the switch, and their progress slows but doesn’t stop.
Alkara’s ribs tighten. These people needed protection, not tricks. Learning a few tricks would defend against highwaymen, but aberrants would need professional.
It is helping.
With the spread of stories, people flock to the range. They’ll stand up for themselves, and if they fall to some monster on the road, the guilds will be blamed. Alkara widens one of the trainee’s feet, putting them shoulder-width.
She eyes Guen’s now familiar basking spot to the range’s side. But the panther isn’t in the darkening. Her heart thumps. With wild eyes she scans the range. Guen had moved to the other side of the range, where the sun still shone.
Of course. I guess it’s late evening already.
Alkara breathes hard. Dre and Chiron will be back home by now. Hopefully. Dre having returned from getting alchemical supplies from Ileta. And Chiron… Chiron may or may not be home from his own dealings. Chiron’s vague answers worry Alkara. Every morning she asks the same questions of them.
Where are you going? Which route will you take? When will you be back? Their answers have become short, to the point. Chiron’s terse responses seldom hold a joke.
But for three weeks their hidden adversary has waited. They’ll strike soon. Whoever they are. Probably waiting for Uncle Iro to stop snooping.
Uncle Iro instructs some of the more straightforward folk with spearwork off to the range’s side. The archery range’s owner Malic let them reserve the area to help those less inclined to bowmanship.
A newcomer thrusts at Iroshi with a blunted spear. Uncle Iro parries the slow strike and steps into the boy’s reach. The spearman flinches, dropping the spear. He shakes his head with wide eyes, backpedaling.
Alkara quirks her mouth. Uncle Iro’s complexion dissuades some. Dark elves reputations’ burn hot in the collective memory of surface people. Uncle Iro’s bluish hue softens some of those fears. But being surrounded by others humans helps encourage others.
The spear practice proceeds well. Iroshi shows the combatants tricks he’s learned through many centuries. Tricks which surprise Alkara.
Definitely making himself the target.
Alkara’s gut contracts. Showing them the unusual skills he’s developed only makes Uncle Iro stand out. That’s the plan. No alternatives present themselves. She clenches her jaw, Uncle Iro will continue whether she agrees or not.
The feeling smooths out. Uncle Iro adjusts a too-young youth’s stance, pushing the boy’s foot back to its starting position. Alkara’s smile creeps onto her like a Volq Chameleon. Memories of her training sessions echo through her.
She had insisted on the dagger. Besides, arrows approximate small spears, so she trained with them after a fashion. It earned itself a place as backup in desperate times only.
Her persistence had won out and paid dividends, as Eryl calls them. She need rely on it only when she can’t reach her bow. The great panther she took as a friend deters most things from coming too close. Even when aberrants are in her face she turns them into pin cushions as a matter of course.
She shakes her head clear, but not the smile. She’d paid for the lessons with scars. They’re worn like badges showing her stubbornness. Learning sword and board would be easier, but not nearly as much fun. Or satisfying.
The youth thrusts again, this time keeping his back foot planted. His mop of straw-colored hair swishes with the movement. A burly man, mayhap the father, claps the boy on the shoulder and he staggers forward, losing that hold on the planted foot. They chuckle together.
Alkara’s smile melts. The training delays any questions about the orphanage. Those who live in the Depths buy children not unlike the young spearmen. Spearboy really. Alkara’s stomach curdles.
Cato the Younger spearheads that particular issue, not that that’s exactly comforting. Alkara prefers a more direct approach. Hopefully Cato has something worth sharing when Uncle Iro sees him later.
The day’s training draws to a close with the sun. Bowman and some of the spearmen trainees approach with pouches of coin. Alkara shakes her head, declining the payment as usual.
A portly mustached man approaches. The stench of decaying flesh follows, one of the tanners. “You deserve mor’n this lass.” The deep voice builds with each word. He shoves a pouch into Alkara’s hand.
She steps back, keeping her hand open, “No, no.” Alkara waves her hand at him, “You’ve learned well. And fast.” She raises her voice, throwing it out for everyone to hear, “But you need to keep paying for escorts.”
“Oh, aye?” A thin man with freckles pokes up above the crowd. “What’re we hitting these things for?” He waves at one of the misshappen dummy targets.
A dark-skinned woman, gripped with cough, nods along, “I been ‘ere every day with you. I can hit some dumb beast.”
Alkara tilts her head, smiling. “You’re all doing well. I’m sure with time you’d take down the worst things on the road.” She hops onto one of the benches. “Out there, now,” Alkara points northwest, along the Grain Road, “There are creatures Guen pauses at.” Some turn to look at the panther. She lay in her roost without rebuttal. Alkara takes an arrow from her quiver and lets the dying light reflect on the mythril. “Some are only felled by these. So learn, practice, and getter better. But don’t go alone.”
Some grumble. A few eyes glisten with a dull sheen. Still others stare at the targets bristling with arrows.
Alkara sighs, “You’ll all learn in time. But give it that time.”
By Urdima, if this is even close to what Uncle Iro felt when I asked— demanded, really, to go to the Wastes…
Alkara and her Uncle return to the city, Guen taking her usual place a few yards behind. They walk in silence. The labors of the day course through Alkara. She imagines through Uncle Iro as well. Even Guen trudges along the road and she wasn’t training anyone. Unless there were some cats present.
They embrace just inside the gates. Uncle Iro directs himself toward the Scrivener’s headquarters and Cato. And as exhausted as she is, Alkara turns down the road toward the Melted Griffin. Nightmares visit at night, and delaying them is certainly preferable to the alternative. Plus, her drinking buddy might be there. Should be there.
Please let him be there tonight.
Eryl helps a lot. Discussing her dreams provides some relief, even if he can’t understand or do anything about it. And he’s strangely fascinated by them. Most people don’t want to hear about nightmares or aberrants. He listens with wide-eyed enthusiasm. Sometimes asking for the strangest details.
Small pockets of privacy compete for bits of space in the tavern. It’s like the whole neighborhood decided to visit. Cheers erupt when Alkara enters. Her face flushes as she waves. She scans the room, with so many here it takes several moments before she’s sure Eryl isn’t present.
Her heart plummets. She retreats toward ‘her’ spot at the counter with her head tilted down. She sighs and counts minutes. Sixty to go before she bails.
The night air clings to Iroshi. His breath bursts into little clouds of steam. As usual, townsfolk afford him extra space as he travels to the market. People crowd through the area. More than usual. Still, no one jostles the half-elf half-forsaken.
Murmurs drift behind him, popping up in his wake. “His skin is so blue though.” “Is he allowed here?” “Why won’t anyone stop him?” The whispers don’t agitate him. Iroshi is practiced in receiving these slights. His brethren stoke fears with the surface dwellers.
Iroshi holds the gaze of those that stare. His expression neither defiant nor apologetic. His early years taught many lessons about living in human lands. One be-freckled man holds his gaze overlong. Iroshi turns and heads toward a food stall.
Strange. Not many townsolk carry swords. Could be coincidence.
Iroshi smiles. The plan to make himself the target had as yet yielded no result. This man plays a convincing part for harasser, but it’s not concrete.
No harm in being thorough.
The vendor Iroshi finds has apples and oranges. This late hour of the evening left only castoffs. Iroshi examines them with half his attention. The other half checks on the observer. The citric scent of the oranges doesn’t quite warm Iroshi up but it’s close.
The fruit seller makes her way over, a Copaishan woman with fiery hair tied in a bun. The wrinkles speak to her age, “What can I get ya, deary?” She blinks at him with milky eyes.
Iroshi picks up an apple that seems least likely to have snout beetles, “How much for an apple?” He sneaks a side glance at his observer friend sharing a meaningful glance with another.
So there’s a friend involved.
The elder peers down at her wares, “Bakin’ a pie?” She grips her stall with gnarled hands. “I’ll do three for a half-coronal.”
Iroshi drops one of the bronze halves on her counter and turns away. “I only need the one,” he departs from her subdued ‘oh’ without another word. The observer falls in behind Iroshi.
A couple of interested parties isn’t much to go on. Maybe they think I look good for a dark elf. Time to make myself more of a target.
Iroshi skips ahead, darting between the throng of people before they part naturally. The admirers sweep in behind. That settles the matter. Iroshi raises the apple to his nose as though smelling it. It masks the intonation he speaks. A whitish film covers the forefingers on his left hand. He takes a bite. The apple, deprived of some vital ingredient, sours in his mouth.
Vendors pack their stalls up, though some remain open for the last customers. Iroshi approaches a stall with trinkets. Never too late to grab a trinket for one of the little ones. He smirks.
Not so little anymore.
From the other side of the market two cloaked figures converge on the same path. They hold their cloaks tight against their bodies. The fabric outlines long scabbards.
Iroshi delays at the trinket vendor. Stuffed dolls, carved figurines, and toy swords comfort each other on the stall. Iroshi examines them without interest, allowing the trailing pair to gain some distance.
He spins back toward them, and rushes forward. Arcane words rend the air. With each syllable Iroshi’s form blurs against reality. He draws his rapier and the metal screeches against the very air.
People part before him. Most of it is the abruptness of his movement, but partly the magic coursing through him. Shouts follow his path.
The two tails backpedal. Each of Iroshi’s steps push him further along, every stride worth two of the pursuers. They grab at their swords, arms crawling along the arc toward the handles.
Iroshi grabs one pursuer’s face with his left, coated hand. The white, waxy substance streams from Iroshi’s hand to the man’s head. Everywhere the white gleam touches erupts in flame.
Screams fill the air. The man stands unseeing as his eyes pop. Flesh runs in rivulets through Iroshi’s fingers.
The woman has her sword half out of its scabbard when Iroshi plunges his rapier through her forearm and into her chest. Black-grey tinted blood dribbles from the wound.
Iroshi grimaces, setting his eyes on the woman but alert to those around him. “Who is your employer?” The woman gapes, her eyes widen. Black spiderwebs spiral out along her arm from the rapier.
Bolts clatter along the cobbles a few yards behind Iroshi. The woman’s frantic screaming fills his ears. The man with scorched head drops to the ground.
Iroshi rips the blade from the woman. Her screams shrink into noiseless blubbers. The two from the market hustle toward him, closing the distance he’d just added.
Iroshi slashes the rapier’s tip through the woman’s throat, ending her suffering.
And there’s crossbowmen. They know my routes.
Iroshi scans the rooftops and nods at an eastern building. Two silhouettes mark the bowmen against the skyline.
He grasps his necklace around his tunic’s cloth and wills power to flow through it. A sheen of glittery gold light envelopes him. He turns back to the duo on the street and takes a few steps forward, ready to test the breadth of their skill before committing.
One, a scruffy bearded man with pocked cheeks, drops back while the other moves toward Iroshi’s left. They give him a wide berth. The second squints from under bushy eyebrows.
Two bolts ping off the protective screen. Iroshi steps backward, drawing the scarlet feather from his epaulet. His sparring partners eye him, glancing between rapier and feather.
Iroshi tosses the feather into the air where it erupts in a cloud of the same. Some drift downward, unveiling a hound-sized bird. Iroshi smiles at the two squaring off, “Rowan, kill,” he points to the rooftop, “Leave one alive.” Golden light glints from its tail as it flies away.
A dagger-wielding man pushes through the fleeing crowd. The alleys choke on people leaving the market. Iroshi sprints toward the newcomer.
Better to fight this one than make the pair into three.
Footfalls follow. Many people push through a narrow gap at the end of the alley, but the dagger-man has breached through. His arms are thin, meat must not fit into his diet.
A shadow slides along the wall to Iroshi’s right. He launches himself forward into a roll. The attack cracks through the protective screen. Pain radiates from his side as his clothes dampen with blood.
Shit.
Iroshi kips to his feet in front of the puny dagger-man. The man drives forward, planting his feet in awkward positions. Iroshi grabs the man’s wrist and pulls him forward as Iroshi steps past.
The puny dagger-man falters until one foot lands on an apple core. He tumbles into a heap. The alley-ambusher brandishes a spear, its tip glazed in blood.
Another bolt streaks out from the rooftop. The first grazes Iroshi’s shoulder. The second… doesn’t come.
Iroshi grimaces. He squeezes the rapier’s handle and stomps his foot into the ground. With a yell he steps into a thrust at the spearman.
The spearman jabs with the tip. Iroshi back pedals and launches a dagger. The spearman swings the polearm down, passing through the space the dagger flies through too late. It catches the spearman in the belly.
The man clutches at his stomach and falls backward onto his butt. The duo catch up. They reach the downed spearman and one pulls the spearman to his feet.
Iroshi jumps forward, near to alley’s wall and away from the duo, and stabs the spearman’s through the cheek. Blood curdles as it flows along the blade.
The second cloaked figure grabs the helper and pulls him back. Her hood jostles open with the motion to reveal ruddy skin. They back away from the dying spearman and draw gleaming swords.
Ensorcelled… who paid for this?
Iroshi strides toward them. The puny dagger-man crawls out from the alley before standing. The other man, armed with some mystical sword, grins through a beard.
Iroshi nods to each. “Who sent you lot to die?” His side grips him, sending reminders of the wound.
The woman throws her hair back with a shake of her head, “Put your rapier down and we’ll take you to meet him.”
Iroshi chuckles. “Maybe next time.” He steps to the alley entrance. The trio have spread out so that one is to his left and another to the right. His shoulder tenses with muscle spasms. Poison from the bolt tricks his muscle control.
At least its not my sword-arm, but this has to be done quick.
The swordsmen move in from either side. The woman slashes low while the man thrusts high. The attacks complement each other.
Iroshi steps into the left-side thrust. He swings his rapier up parallel to his body as he turns towards that side. The ambusher twists his sword so the edge faces Iroshi.
Iroshi ducks away, forcing space between his body and the blade. Every nick counts. Especially when poison is involed.
Iroshi steps back from the strike and repositions into the market square. The woman pulls short, stopping her slash from cutting into her companion. Both sidestep with Iroshi, into the market square.
The puny dagger-man hasn’t moved a muscle. He stares between Iroshi and the swordsmen before looking at his own weapon. He rushes forward until the woman barks a command to stop.
Iroshi strafes leftward, using the buildings to cut off approach from his left. Forcing the swordsmen closer to each other.
They fan out again. The man feints several times. Iroshi tests the attacks with his own. Each step of the woman is met with Iroshi’s retreat.
Iroshi grabs a handful of flour from a pouch at his belt. The movement sets off a new assault. The swordsmen lunges. This time the dagger-man rushes in as well. The woman rushes forward on the right, creating a gap between her and the dagger-man.
Iroshi steps into that gap. He ducks under a wild slash of the dagger. The woman stabs at Iroshi before he can counter-attack.
Instead, Iroshi sprints forward past both and out of reach of the sword. Once past, he turns. The bearded man stopped. He circles around the dagger-man to be opposite the woman.
Not close enough.
Iroshi steps back and left, into the center of the market. The woman steps in from his right and stabs low. Iroshi bats the sword away and steps into a riposte.
She disengages as the dagger-man jumps at him. Iroshi slices with his rapier before the dagger closes in. The bearded man rushes in, forcing Iroshi to step away. A deft cut deflects the sword.
Iroshi clenches his left fist, forcing away the knot in his shoulder. Warmth spreads from the flour through his fingers. His skin shrieks at him.
The bearded man slices across the torso and Iroshi pulls his sword down to block. The swordsman steps back as the woman slashes from behind. Iroshi doesn’t have time to block.
Iroshi falls into a roll toward his left and away from the woman. He hops to his feet, sparing a glance at the woman. She stalks in, holding something in her off hand.
Iroshi backs up to draw them together in pursuit. Instead they keep their distance, fanning out. Iroshi frowns with tightened jaw. His hand burns.
Iroshi sprints toward the woman. She retreats and the bearded man pursues. The dagger-man stabs at Iroshi’s stomach.
Iroshi breaks his sprint and steps into the attack. He grabs the man’s wrist and pulls him off balance. As the dagger-wielder stumbles past, Iroshi slashes the man’s ankle.
Iroshi turns as the bearded man stabs from the left. Iroshi slices against the weapon. The bearded man angles the sword against the rapier and slices against Iroshi’s rib.
Iroshi forces the blade away and staggers back. He clenches his teeth and pushes his fiery fist against the cut. Iroshi lunges but the bearded man dances backward.
The woman steps over the dagger-man. She doesn’t spare a look at the wretch. Both she and the bearded man close on Iroshi.
Iroshi steps off-balance toward them and flings the flour into the air around his enemies. The bearded man pulls back as the dust erupts into a starbursts of flame.
Fire licks at the woman and hobbled dagger-man. They groan and clutch at their faces. The flame-bursts balloon to engulf both. The wimpers and cries evaporate with the air, leaving scorched husks.
Iroshi breathes in ragged bursts. Blood dampens his tunic now in two places. His left arm hangs in rest, the shoulder no longer cooperating.
The bearded man’s eyebrows smolder, much of the beard has taken a holiday as well. Red blisters shine on his face. He steps backward once. Twice. Three steps.
Iroshi stalks forward. He breathes deep and nods at his singed opposite, “Let’s finish this.” Iroshi’s heart thumps, building speed.
The half-bearded man steps forward, throwing a short stab. Iroshi bats the sword away nonetheless. The half-beared man throws a handful of dirt, pebbles, and scree at Iroshi.
Iroshi steps back and waves his rapier in defense. Footfalls pound the cobbles, marking the half-bearded man’s flight from the market.
Strength depleted, Iroshi sinks to the floor. He musters enough vigor to shout, “Rowan, one more!” He sets the rapier down and blinks at the dirt in his eyes.
Rowan’s screech echoes through the empty square. Rays of light spear the cobbles, reflecting from the bird’s feathers. It disappears over the surrounding buildings.
Iroshi flexes his left hand. It’s charred in places from holding his spell overlong. The flesh protests the motion.
He inspects the sliced rib. The cut dug to the bone, leaving a small nick. Iroshi sighs and the rib stings him. The wound from the spear cuts deep. Iroshi staunches it with a small spell. The words rend the air as they travel into the wound and stitch flesh together.
No one to blame but myself. Shouldn’t have assumed they’d be amateurs. Better finish this and get going.
Quiet descends on the square. Onlookers peer through shutters and from behind barrels in side alleys. Iroshi ignores both.
He plucks his dagger from the spearman and wipes the blood off on the man’s trousers. Iroshi staggers to the bowmen’s perch. He flexes his burnt hand again, gritting his teeth through the pain.
The climb proves angry. Each handhold he finds with his left hand scratches against the scorched flesh. Iroshi grunts through each grip on his way up.
The crossbowmen lay near the roof’s edge. Claw wounds and pecked flesh mark their loss to Rowan. A sharp fecal stench rises from one. Empty eye sockets stare at Iroshi.
He passes by the dead and pushes the second over with his foot. The second bowman wimpers. He props himself up on his elbow and pushes himself back to the roof’s rail. One mangled foot trails from gristle and tendons. He squeezes bloody finger stumps with his right hand.
Iroshi squats in front of him. He pulls a dagger from his belt and rests it against his thigh. “I’m going to ask you several questions. How you answer will determine the number of fingers you keep today.”
The man groans and looks up at Iroshi. “I don’t know anything.”
Iroshi nods. A vein throbs in his neck, “Who organized this party?”
“I don-“
Iroshi taps the dagger on his thigh. “You’d prefer fewer fingers—”
“Oh. I know him! She is called Crofton.” He grimaces. “Her with the red hair.”
Iroshi waits. The man offers nothing else. Iroshi rolls his eyes, “Who did she get the job from?”
“I don’t – I’m not sure. He came to us with a bag of coin and said there was an elf to kill.” Iroshi taps his dagger again and scowls. “That’s all I know, I swear!”
Iroshi pulls the man’s good hand toward him, clutching it with his left, “Did Crofton say where she got this coin from?” The man starts to shake his head. “Not the person. Where was he in town? Out of town?”
“In town! They met at the Purple Dragon.”
“Do you know what this man looks like?” Iroshi separates one of the man’s fingers from the others and grips it, letting the action inform the man’s decisions.
The man’s expression wilts, “No. No, I didn’t go.” Tears stream from the man’s eyes.
Iroshi ponders for a moment. Time isn’t on his side. A flapping of wings announces the return of Rowan. “Did Crofton tell you it was a man? How was he described?”
He shakes his head. “He didn’t say either way.”
Iroshi nods. Nothing more to learn here. He rises and sheathes the dagger. The woman lets out a deep breath until Iroshi draws his rapier. “Please don’t, I won’t come after you again.”
Iroshi doesn’t reply. He sticks the rapier into the woman’s chest. She gasps once but doesn’t scream. The necrosis sets in too fast. The blackened flesh creeps out from her tunic towards her face. Pustules erupt to spill yellowish goo. The black spiderwebbing continues up to her face and scalp. Flesh ruptures as it progresses. First red blood flows out, then it shifts to a gooey purple-black oozing pus.
He strides over to the edge of the roof where Rowan sits, reaches down to one of the tail feathers, and plucks it with a murmured, “Thank you.” The bird disappears. Iroshi affixes the feather to his epaulet once more before descending from the roof.