Completed Burned

[Duresh]

Alyssa Crentor stood on the balcony of the estate, glass of wine in hand. The setting sun hanging on the horizon. Vel Anir under the veil of orange and purple.

"I~~...know something~~..."

She smiled and sang the words. Swaying side-to-side with them.

"You~~...don't know~~..."

Blood dripped from the knife in her hands. And she laughed softly and drank from her glass and looked back over her shoulder into the bedroom at the Banick henchmen down on their knees and the Crentor henchmen behind them with daggers to their throats and there before all of them the body of Artur Meng, another of Garron Banick's plentiful bastards. His face purple. Like the sunset sky. Beautiful, in its own way.

"I~~...know something~~..."

Five throats slit and five bodies shoved down to the floor to bleed out.

"You~~...don't know~~..."

Oh the sweet taste of a lovely red wine.

* * * * *​

Duresh sat in his single room tenement. His legs crossed, hands rested on his knees, eyes closed. Across from him sat two other orcs, a husband and wife, seated in much the same way.

"Cover the breath with your awareness," Duresh said.

He breathed in. He breathed out.

"Let it come and go naturally."

He breathed. They breathed.

"The moment you notice a thought present in the mind, watch what happens to that thought. Where does it go?"

Elan. The news of her death on the island. All his fault.

"Simply observe it."

Breaking a chair in his rage. Punching the wall until his fist bled.

"And come back to the feeling of breathing."

He breathed. Thoughts lingered.

"Raw sensation."

A hard knocking on his door. Duresh opened his eyes, glancing back. He wasn't expecting anyone. Not for business or otherwise. Though it was not entirely out of the question for certain tasks to be requested of him quite abruptly, it was rare. Most often there was some advance notice.

The husband and wife orcs had opened their eyes too. Duresh motioned for a moment's time, then stood and went to the door and opened it.

Christoph was there. After Isaac had disappeared, he became Duresh's new handler and contact with the Crentor family. He said firmly, "We're going to the Silver and Steel. Now."

Duresh nodded. Said, "A moment to prepare," and left the door ajar. He said goodbye and gave well-wishings to the husband and wife and they left his tenement and Duresh got dressed for his work and gathered his weapons and tools and stepped out with Christoph.

Tenements. Apartments. Insulae. There were many names for these cramped city dwellings in Vel Anir, but none seemed more apt to Duresh than a simple word, in Orcish. Gogan-ur. Cages. Willing lived in by their occupants. But such was life for the majority of city-dwellers.

They walked through the streets and toward Anir Square.

"What do you have for me?" Duresh said.

Christoph shrugged. "Hell if I know. Just got word to get you and get to the Silver and Steel, that's all."

It wasn't too surprising. Certain opportunities arose and fell away quickly in the grand game of politics in Vel Anir. Truly, the more surprising facet was the speed of communication between the Banicks and the Crentors to get Duresh on whatever work needed doing.

They walked through Anir Square. And the large face of the Silver and Steel inn and tavern emerged from among the other buildings here. They moved through the sparse evening crowd of people on the street and inside.

Duresh knew the place well. The first floor a tavern and adjoining kitchen and stockroom, the other two above all the rooms of the inn. Both he and Christoph looked around at the patrons. Some city guard, off-duty military, civilians of all stripes, non-human outsiders. This was the time of day when taverns in the city were most busy.

But there was no one Duresh recognized.

"Fuck," Christoph said, rubbing his forehead. "Alright. Have a seat. Get a drink or a bite to eat if you want. I'm gonna try to figure this thing out, and I don't know how long it's gonna take." Under his breath, he mumbled: Fucking Crentors.

"Very well then," Duresh said.

And Christoph went to the stairs and hiked up them two at a time while Duresh went to the bar counter and sat down on a stool.

He waited. Listening to all the other patrons talk. Joke. Laugh. Listened for anything of note.


Xyrdithas

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

He stood for a moment. The beach was once again before him, and beyond that through all the smoke and wind, was the sea. Between he and it lay a wasteland of destruction, and death. Several other men shuffled past him, and then amid the small crowd he too drudged his way once again, and his feet once more fell on softer ground.

His breath was heavy, and his mouth dry. His left arm nearly limp, a ghastly wound withstood. Besides that, little more than some nasty scrapes and bruises. His exhaustion slowed him physically, but his mind was yet ready, and there was one thing he couldn’t help but dwell upon. As they came nearer to the shoreline the group began to disperse, heading to either a skiff or to a healer. Erën however, went another way.

Just down from their mustering point he spotted the remains of two burnt skiffs, which had clearly collided. His eyes traced up the beach from that point, and the view was far different than he last remembered. Far more ruin, and much more death. He began toward the tree line again. Someone shouted. His pace quickened. His eyes cast down. He looked quick. Then shortly, he stopped.

At his feet, laid an outstretched hand. Within it rested a familiar item, crushed and bloodied. He stood there quiet for a moment, until someone he did not know came to his side saying something. He didn’t hear. Then he knelt, grasped the item and stood again, fixated on it. The person near him fell silent, and a hand rested on Erën’s shoulder. He held it tightly as his hand fell to his side.

Erën looked up.



***



Erën looked down.

There he sat, hunched over the bar of one of Anir Square’s many taverns. He hadn’t paid any heed to which one. In one hand he held a glass, with something harder than he usually cared for. In the other, a broken flask. His eyes remained still upon it, but his mind wandered far. Yet there he lingered, bound in regret. Fueled by righteous cause he'd pressed forward in spite, leaving someone he'd found fine fellowship with alone.

To die.

Fool… such a foolish thing to do. How could you believe …

And one who was already blessed with much fewer years than he. He drank. Gone. Then, with a gentle thud the glass met the bar, and with rage of his own loathing in his eyes he beheld an unwelcome sight. Orc. And he was sitting just a few stools away.

Whether it was his sorrow or the drink, or both, he couldn’t be bothered to hide his contempt. He stared with eyes like razors, examining him. He was odd for an orc, thinner and less unpleasant looking, and quiet. In Erën’s experience, you often heard an orc before you saw them. Not this one. But, before long his mind once again swirled into mourning, his expression eased, and he no longer stared directly at the orc, but rather just past him.

Without looking, he lifted his glass from the bar as the keeper walked by. With the twist of his hand he motioned, another drink.

 

[Duresh]

Duresh focused. Listened.

Plenty of inconsequential chatter in the tavern from all of the different patrons. Hey, how was your day. That last shift of gate watch duty almost broke me man, so boring. I keep telling my son that painting is just too expensive to pick up, but he won't listen. Is it true that the new captain is a fucking asshole? I swear if my apprentice drops another vial I'll have him stitch it back together with tree sap.

Lots of chatter.

He did hear something peculiar, amidst all the general noise. The slow, careful, grating whine of wooden chair legs against the wooden floor; not the sharp grind of someone standing normally. A few of these noises, asychronously. People were getting up and out of their chairs at their tables discreetly, or as discreet as they could be.

He didn't look back. There was no guarantee that those who stood from their tables quietly had some manner of unpleasant business with Duresh, but if they did, he wanted to keep a card in his hand. Let them think he didn't know.

"Having anything?" the bartender said, coming around.

"I'll take the cheapest beer you have, a tankard full of it," Duresh said. The beer wasn't necessarily important.

"You got it."

The bartender got a tankard and began filling it. Duresh noticed from the corner of his eye two men leaving the bar counter then. One person left, the one who just ordered another drink, a hooded and cloaked figure. Vaguely familiar. Was he an elf? An outsider? Duresh could remember perhaps seeing him out and about Anir Square before. Certainly he was in the abundant category of "Seen, but never spoken to."

Footsteps now. Heavy, armored footsteps. The chinking of mail and the shifting clank of plate.

He didn't seem to be a part of what was about to happen, the hooded one. But Duresh couldn't be sure. The bartender set the full tankard down in front of him. Duresh gripped the handle. Pretended to think as he looked into it.

"You there."

The voice stern. Authoritative. Some of the chatter died down in the tavern. Odd, that the voice wasn't directly behind Duresh.

He turned his head just enough to look. Four city guards, three of them young men, one older man, all standing behind the hooded elf adjacent to Duresh. Their hands on the hilts of their swords. The three young men all stared at the hooded elf with serious intent, but the older man seemed agitated.

And the older man glanced at Duresh. A quick glance. Duresh didn't look away. Only took a sip of the beer. Duresh did not understand the full context, but he could see it in the older man's expression: something had gone wrong. So why did the older man look at him?

One of the younger guards spoke again, "You are under arrest for the murder of Artur Meng, a citizen of Vel Anir. Lay down your arms and come with us peacefully."

All of the conversations in the tavern went quiet. The off-duty military men and women took a keen interest in the situation now.

Artur Meng. Duresh knew that name.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

He continued to look on just past Duresh, until the two who had sat between them left abruptly and hid themselves in the blind spot his hood created. But his ears were very keen, and now he was paying very close attention. They were not as inconspicuous as they would have liked, not to him, and he too had perceived an unsettling development. Deliberate motion. He looked straight ahead. Tense footsteps, heavily behind him. He narrowed his eyes.

“You there."

A deep frown. He made no other reaction.

“You are under arrest-" oh… this is really not the time for this… “-Artur Meng.” He didn’t know him. The guard went on.

Erën made no attempt to see them, but from what he could hear he guessed their number. They had the upper hand, especially standing just behind him. He held tightly onto the glass in his left hand, just freshly refilled. He looked down again at the broken flask in his other.

“I'm afraid you've found the wrong person…” he attempted, reluctant to lash out. Perhaps this was his day? “… now let's forget about all this shall we?”

He set the flask down, gently. One foot silently left the rung of his stool, set lightly on the floor. He would need to be quick.

 

[Duresh]

The four guards immediately drew their swords. The two tables with off-duty military tensed. A few civilians quickly and quietly left through the front door.

"Lay down your arms and come with us," the lead guard said again. "It is only by the good graces of the House of Crentor that you are not summarily executed here and now. But you will not be asked again."

Duresh kept his gaze on the older guard. Two possibilities. One, the hooded maybe-elf was also an agent working for the Crentors. Duresh's own clandestine service wasn't well known; only by those who truly needed to know, and those of that category did not number beyond a few. He appeared an independent sellsword to most, and perhaps the hooded maybe-elf was the same or similar.

Two, these guards actually did find the wrong person, as the maybe-elf said. Which meant they were likely looking for him. How vague was the description they were given? Were they purposely misled, was this a 'two birds, one stone' situation, or was this altogether a colossal mistake? Difficult to tell.

The older guard, though. He looked back to Duresh.

"What are you looking at, orc?"

"You." Duresh took another small sip of the beer. Maintained eye contact. Showing deference or weakness was not wise.

"Interference with the enforcement of law is a crime," the older guard said.

"Hmm."

Duresh kept the tankard in hand, pressed to his lips but not drinking anymore. He watched the older guard. The older guard watched him. The barkeep backed away from everything slowly.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

The sound of their drawing swords sang in his ears, and he barely resisted shaking his head.

But still, a lingering feeling. He did not wish to harm these men, not terribly at least. For it was only a short time ago he fought alongside their very own, perhaps even father, brother or son. And his fallen friend, who he could visualize thrusting her fist into the air and declaring her devotion to her home. No, the Anirians had managed to soften him…somewhat.

Foolish. Human.

The leader addressed the orc. They exchanged words. Erën only allowed for so many.

In a blink his left arm became a right angle, flinging his liquor into the face of the guardsman just there – a brief disorientation. His weight left his seat, and with his free foot he kicked the stool back into the guard just behind him, toppling him. Then just as quickly he whirled around to his right, grabbing the stool just next to him and slammed it into the third guard. He too fell, latching on to the first guard and pulling him down before he could react. Finally, in the same motion he flung his glass toward the leader, whom standing so close, had little time to process. He took it in the cheek, and the glass didn’t break.

His eyes darted to the remaining patrons, the off-duty guards. Erën was fast - they were yet in a bit of shock. He moved to draw his sword, a plain blade. He had no desire to use his magic here... and not much desire to flee just yet.

 

[Duresh]

Smart.

The hooded maybe-elf did what Duresh was planning on doing: turning something unconventional into an unexpected weapon. Seemed the guards needed to bring a larger force. Or a more prepared and experienced force.

Both of those would be coming shortly, though. Civilians bolted from the tavern at the first sign of outright violence, some screaming and shrieking, those with more collected heads shouting for help and the assistance of more guards the moment they ran outside.

The tables with off-duty military exploded with activity. The men and women, eight in total, leaping to their feet and drawing sidearms--daggers, shortswords. They weren't armored like the guards, but still they held deadly weapons. Threatening enough.

Duresh stood from his stool and left the tankard on the counter and took stock of the situation. The four guardsmen, reeling on the ground and getting distance and scrambling backwards to stand and regroup. The bartender with his hands up behind the counter and back pressed against a wall. The two groups of off-duty military off to his left and right, eyeing him and the hooded maybe-elf both.

It was then he noticed that all the other non-humans had fled the Silver and Steel.

Just Duresh. And this maybe-elf.

Duresh moved his hand to his belt. Fingered one of his throwing knives.

"Don't be a fool. It's over," said one of the off-duty military men. A clean-shaven man with red hair. "There's nowhere to run and you can't take all of us."

"You don't know what you're doing," Duresh said.

"Duresh."

Christoph's voice. From the staircase. Duresh turned his head just enough to see him there.

Christoph said, flatly, "Put it down."

Duresh narrowed his eyes. Was this it, then? After all this time? Another pawn removed from the board? The long harbored dread that such would come to pass, now realized. And for what? Something that Duresh was never involved in nor even knew anything about? Some "mild inconvenience" that needed to be tidied up, surely, that's how it always worked. Did this order come from Garron himself?

All at once the rage surfaced. And Duresh drew the throwing knife and flung it at Christoph. It caught him by surprise in the chest, missing the center. He yelped and staggered and hurried back up the stairs and out of sight.

And the off-duty military men and women charged Duresh and the hooded figure alike.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

This has only just begun.

Erën felt no pity for man in the stairwell - he'd likely more than earned what he got. As for these others now. He yanked at the stool to his other side and hurled it at the group approaching from the right. He advanced on the still disassembled guards before him, booting one of his previously employed seats toward a pair of them yet again. He reached for the leader.

Before he was able to get back to his feet Erën grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up and back.

“Enough!” he yelled, kicking the man he now held in the back of the leg to bring him back down to one knee, and then he brought his sword to his neck, “I'll cut out his throat!”

The leader threw up his hand, halting the advance of the others. They saw the fear in his eyes, the steel firmly against his neck.

“Get back!” he hollered, jerking his hostage for effect. They hesitantly complied. He glanced over to the orc, apparently named Duresh. It seemed that the pair of them were for some reason or another involved. Perhaps they could get out of this together too.

He shook the leader again, glaring at the restless guardsmen, “tell them to leave,” he growled, the sword pressing ever so subtly more on his neck, “now!”

 

[Duresh]

The off-duty military charged, and those few seconds were precious.

It would only serve to make the situation worse if Duresh killed them. Christoph was different. He was involved; the guards and the off-duty military weren't. Yes, they'd seen his assault of Christoph, but they already believed he was complicit with either murder, interference of law, or both. That could not be ameliorated, but he need not exacerbate things further than need be.

Non-lethal it is, then.

A stool, thrown by the hooded maybe-elf, colliding with one of the off-dutys who in turn collided with the man on his side. Duresh snapped a hand back to his belt and flung a pouch of blinding powder at the other two off-dutys from the right. A bursting and a cloud of white powder so fine it was akin to smoke and the two off-dutys yelped and clutched their eyes and stumbled and tripped and fell to the floor.

Enough!

Duresh spared a glance. The maybe-elf had a hostage. Leverage against the numbers bearing down on him and Duresh both. Good.

"You heard him! Leave!" the hostage guard said with a voice laden with ill-concealed panic.

One of the other guards. "Sir, you know we can't do th--"

"Get the fuck outside or I'll have you all hung for insubordination! Go!"

The guards were the first to leave, being under their leader's direct command. The off-duty military, instilled with the Guardsman spirit, were more hesitant, more visibly torn between the order given and the commitment to a fellow brother-in-arms. But leave they did, and the door of the Silver and Steel was left ajar in their wake. Indistinct movement outside.

More time purchased. But surely not much.

Duresh looked to the hooded figure and nudged his head back toward the stairs, the ground floor being a poor option. Said, "We should go. Quickly."

Duresh kept a hand on his belt as he lunged up the steps two at a time. Christoph was still around somewhere, presumably. Somewhere upstairs in the halls or the inn rooms. Him and whoever else might possibly be involved in this.

"What is your name?"

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

His eyes bore down on each man and woman as they left. He respected their loyalty; however ill placed it may have been.

They made the proper choice. Duresh offered a potential escape route. Erën concurred. Now for their hostage. But first, he made for the opposite direction dragging the guard captain along still. He neared to a door leading behind the bar – likely through to a kitchen or storage room or something. He struck the guard captain in the back of the neck and knocked him unconscious, opened the door and laid him there.

He sheathed his sword and took the Anirian's. He’d surely be given another, if he was not discharged. Or worse.

Not my problem.

He turned, and hastily made his way to follow Duresh up the stairs. He grabbed something off of the counter as he passed it. Upstairs, he was unsure of what they would find, especially given the trail of blood they were following from Duresh’s unfortunate victim and whomever else be there with him. But Erën did have an interest in speaking with that particular fellow – if time allowed.

“Erën,” is all he said for now, leaving a more formal introduction for a more appropriate time – if one is even deserving to this orc. Though he would not be the first of their kind to gain Erën’s favor, he would certainly be one of the few.

 

[Duresh]

"Erën it is then."

Duresh reached the second floor landing. He spared a cursory glance down the hall. Light from the window at the end. Two of the doors were ajar, the heads of the occupants sticking out, roused by the earlier commotion, their curiosity tempered at the doorway of their rooms. Christoph could be here on the second floor. But Duresh didn't want to waste time on a search that would likely prove fruitless.

With a quick gesture of his head to the stairs again, Duresh started up to the third and final floor.

He said to the hooded maybe-elf, "Did you do anything?"

The question flat, a probing for information that lacked judgment or accusation. He might lie, the maybe-elf, he might not. Either would not alter their current situation. Duresh suspected that Erën had nothing to do with the charges levied against him, and that his guilt or non-guilt in the alleged murder was irrelevant to the person pulling the strings.

The game being played as it always was, day in and day out, for all the years that Duresh had witnessed and been a part.

And perhaps that part was coming to an end.

Duresh stood at the third floor landing, glancing, his hand on the hilt of his falchion.

* * * * *​

Christoph sat in the latrine room at the end of the hall on the third floor.

Vague and distant militaristic shouting from outside the open window behind him.

He had one hand to the knife in his chest and the other covering his mouth.

* * * * *​

Sergeant Brecker stood outside the Silver and Steel. The ranking man currently on the scene. He had his hands on his hips as he listened to one of guards explain the situation.

"And you just left him in there? With the outsider criminals?" Brecker said.

"Sergeant, he ordered us all to leave."

Brecker regarded the man as if he'd said he'd seen rain fall upwards back into the clouds. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head and said in his booming voice, "Surround the building. At least one man to all four sides until we've enough to go in."

He pointed to the off-duty Anirian Guardsmen and said, "Help us with coverage of the building. I don't expect you to fight but I expect you to holler if you see them. My Captain will send your Captain his gratitude come tomorrow for your service."

And Brecker said to the city guard gathered under his command, "Watch those windows. Be ready. Hold your positions. I'll have enough reinforcements to go in with force soon. Delay the criminals if you see them. You're the anvil, my force and I are the hammer."

A firm point with his whole hand. "Go. Surround that inn. No one leaves."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

With his signal he followed Duresh up the second set of stairs to the third floor.

“No,” he replied, “nor have I even heard of this Meng.”

He was irritated. But not with Duresh, rather the unsavory thanks he was receiving for his part – despite knowing full well it was likely unrelated to his previous journey.

They reached the top floor, and Erën halted with Duresh. He still held the Anirian's sword. His eyes followed the floor, a spotted trail of blood leading down the hall. Perhaps that person knew some things of use, and at this point it seemed that would be his only source of information if the gods’ willed. Then, there was this orc’s apparent affiliation with him to think about – but for the time being that was a secondary concern.

“We have little time, but I have an interest in speaking to your friend,” he clicked his tongue, “if he still lives.”

He bolted down the hall, and with a spin he booted open the door to the latrine. There was Christoph. Erën’s eyes glanced out the window, which from his angle he could see little – but he heard much. Time was indeed short. He glared down at Christoph, whose time also seemed short.

He approached the injured man, raising his pilfered sword to point at him. His face showed fury.

“Who sent you, and who is Artur Meng,” he demanded, “speak and you may yet live.”

It was a hollow offer.

 

[Duresh]

Garron Banick despised being beckoned aside during one of his social parties. Mostly whatever bad news was soon to grace his ears was irrelevant, and valuable time spent conversing with other well-traveled noblemen would be lost. Busy men all, Garron himself included, and while it was feasible for perhaps two of them to meet and talk on any given day, rare was the opportunity for him and his circle of peers to meet all together. They spoke of their particular exploits abroad, shared discreet locales with certain exotic specimens, black market contacts for the trafficking of females of various races and species, and so on.

Being beckoned aside interrupted such talk of pleasure with talk of business. As if there wasn't enough of that outside of his socials.

This time, however, it was a touch different. The bearer of news was not one of Garron's subordinates. It was Roman. His son. His only son, born from his loving wife, of course.

Garron excused himself from the others seated in the fancy chairs in the ballroom of his estate. He stood and followed Roman up the stairs to the second floor and his hand glided along the balustrade as he looked down at all of his guests slow dancing below. Roman led him into one of the upstairs studies and shut the door when Garron entered.

"What it is?"

Roman ran his tongue across his lips. A slight twisting of his head as he tried to the find the words. And he said simply, "Alyssa."

"Crentor."

"Yes, Father. Alyssa Crentor."

"What has she done?"

"She's killed Artur and she's killed Murran. Had their bodies thrown from the north balcony of the Crentor estate. And our source says she's about to kill Balduin as well."

"Goddamn it." Garron ran his hands through his hair and then placed them firmly on his hips. Eyes absently tracing the design in the mastercrafted carpet as he thought. "So be it. She cannot be salvaged and must be removed. Take as many men as you need and make it happen."

"That's...not all, Father."

A restrained look on Garron's face. He gestured with his hand for Roman to continue.

And Roman took a moment. Said, "Horus Crentor is dead, and it seems more than half of the Crentors, all those not loyal to Alyssa, are dead as well."

One of Banick's allied minor houses. Imploding. All in a single day. Perhaps it was a mistake to allow Alyssa to carry the baby to term.

"There is, perhaps, something of value to be salvaged from this," Garron said. "We will have to move quickly to secure assets and property and other--"

"Father."

"What."

"Horus...panicked, before he was killed. Alyssa suggested that Artur's murder be covered up, and suggested someone to be framed. Horus listened."

Roman looked to him. "That someone was Duresh."

* * * * *​

No. Of course not.

It was merely Erën's word but given their circumstances and given this city such seemed sufficient. Perhaps the Vel Anir that stood in the light operated differently, but the Vel Anir that stood in the shadows--the Vel Anir that Duresh was familiar with--worked with an inverted sense of justice. The guilty were made innocent, the innocent made guilty, all dictated by the grand strategy of the Seven Houses.

Perhaps Erën was guilty of some other charge. It did not matter. For the one which he now stood accused of he was likely innocent. Duresh's case the very same. Funny, really, in a dystopian fashion. Here, one's true crimes were excused and one was persecuted on charges fabricated.

It was over.

Duresh knew it was over, and it had been a long time in coming. The accumulation of dust and ash across time into an upturned glass. And now it finally spilled over.

He would leave. But not before seeing the face of his father again, now as a man.

I have an interest in speaking to your friend...

Duresh looked up. Brought back to focus on the present. His mind had drifted.

Erën ran ahead, and Duresh backpedaled after him, keeping vigilance on the stairs. A loud crash; Erën's boot to the door at the end of the hall. Duresh stayed in the doorway of the latrine, neither in nor out, still watching the staircase. Merely a quick glance at Christoph.

The point of the sword made Christoph flinch, the movement making him groan and clutch at his chest more firmly. He said with some forlorn disdain of his circumstance, "Ha. May yet live..."

Christoph coughed. Blood from his punctured lung dribbling from his lips. He gestured meekly. "You tell him who Artur Meng is, Duresh."

Resigned eyes back to Erën. "Who sent me. You don't want to know. Just fucking run."

Duresh glanced to Christoph. "Where did the order come from? The Crentors or the Banicks?"

"What does it matter to you?" More coughing. "Can't you see it's over?"

Duresh slipped past Erën and pressed down on the throwing knife stuck in Christoph's chest. "Where did the order come from?"

After a moment of resistance and struggling and squirming and screams of abject agony Christoph shouted, "The Crentors! Horus Crentor! For godssake, Horus Crentor!"

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën moved aside to allow Duresh past, and then he stepped back to afford more attention on the door. He listened for the Guard’s impending entry, as well as to the continuing interaction. So, Duresh knew who Artur Meng was, at least according to this man – who really had nothing else to lose. That was interesting.

Its over he said to Duresh again. Curious. Then finally, some answers.

Horus Crentor, you’ll have some explaining to do…

Crentors. A noble family. He knew a few of others, mostly from his recent affiliation in their operations, but not this family. He was unfamiliar with the Banicks as well. But he did understand a few things, thanks mostly to the direction of his now deceased acquaintance, he understood that they played games. Erën even surmised at this point that his involvement was no more than an unfortunate coincidence and that perhaps this Duresh was the real target. Wrong place, wrong time. Regardless, now he had been implicated, and that would not go unanswered. And judging from Duresh’s handling of the situation, he guessed he too was likely unaware of this alleged murder. He seemed equally taken aback.

That could prove beneficial, for them both. But Erën couldn’t help the fleeting thought that working alongside this orc could land him in much more trouble than he’d bargained for. Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the stairwell with a crashing sound from below.

It was time to go.

* * *​

Dariu arrived shortly after the Sergeant had given his orders. He’d been asked to come, which was strange. Normally he’d simply receive orders to be somewhere, in fact he’d always simply received orders. He’d never been asked before. Perhaps his recent appointment had something to do with that. Regardless, he still thought of himself as nothing more than a Guardsman, and he would follow Brecker’s instructions, whatever they may be.

“Sergeant,” he beckoned to him as he dismounted his warhorse.

“Hoofton,” he replied, regarding him with an upward nod. There was no salute from either, “we’ve got the place surrounded. I need to you go in.”

“What are we dealing with?”

“Outsiders,”

“Yeah and…?”

“We think one of them is from Falwood, could be a spellcaster. Or worse… a spy.”

Dariu’s face curled into a frown. Falwood? One of them? He was told there would be only one, and nothing about an Elf. He blinked, odd eyes flickering from one side of the inn to another. He had a gift, one that was quite rare among Men. He could see, and it was not how well he could see that was the gift but what he could see. He really didn’t know; all he knew is he could do it. Not only this, but Dariu was no small deal – he was a large man, and quite the swordsman by all accounts. He could handle himself.

“I need you in there, now.” Brecker’s tone was harsher – but still not an order.

Dariu didn’t look back to him, instead kept his eyes on the inn. With an affirmative grunt and an enthusiastic head nod, he started on his way. He drew his sword as he approached the door, his feet thundering on the boardwalk beneath him. But he was not here to be the muscle – Brecker had that well in hand. No.

He was there to see.

He entered in, and immediately spotted the incapacitated guardsman. He hurried over to his side and knelt by him. His eyes darted around, focusing. He saw no signs of magic left lingering in the air, and no trail to follow. He looked through the doorway – a kitchen, one with a door on the far end. But his gut told him otherwise.

“They’re upstairs!” he shouted, prompting the guardsmen who followed him in to make their way.

 

[Duresh]

Horus Crentor.

The patriarch of the Crentor family. If the order came from him it very well may not have originated with him. Duresh had caught on to certain patterns in his assignments, and those that he knew of that came directly from Horus and then to his handler always had explicitly Banick interests as the goal.

This order may have come from Garron Banick himself. And the mere thought of it simmered the rage in Duresh's blood. Perhaps his gut instinct had been right. Perhaps he had been fool all this time, operating solely on a misplaced and misguided hope, ignoring his rational inner voice that had always told him so.

He had to know. This day, he had to know, once and for all. He had to speak with his father. All else be damned.

The crashing and heavy echoing of armored boots from down the stairwell. Duresh heard it, as had Erën.

First things first. Escape. Crentors. Then Garron.

Duresh swept out of the latrine and left Christoph to his fate there and went to the window in the hall and said as he moved, "I know where the Crentor Estate is located, and I intend to inquire about tonight's transpirings. Do as you will, Erën; leave the city, come with me, either course of action I will understand."

The rhythmic sound of many footfalls on wooden stairs. They were coming, their number unknown.

Duresh drew his falchion and with the pommel broke the window and with the blade cleaned any jagged pieces still attached in the frame and sheathed his weapon. From his belt he produced a grappling hook and eyed the building across from the window.

He did not know if Erën had a means of soundly escaping or not. All he said was, "Good luck."

And with that Duresh threw the hook across the gap between the Silver and Steel and the adjacent building and the hook found purchase. He jumped out through the window in a single motion and swung his feet forward and stopped himself against the side of the adjacent and half walked, half climbed up and onto the roof.

Down below a guard in the alley yelled out his position. Called for more men. Called for bows or crossbows or spells.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Dariu hadn’t been but a moment to bolt toward the stairs. He would be among some of the first to reach the top, but not quite the leader. Before they reached the second floor he heard glass break.

It was easy to see they weren’t on this floor, so they quickly continued up. Then, like the cascade of water breaking through a dam, a dark cloud spilled down into the stairwell – so thick as to be asleep. The men panicked.

“Stea-" Dariu got out, before one of the guardsmen ahead of him let out a heavy oof before falling into the guard behind, and then them into him.

They rolled down the few remaining steps in a heap, the shadow reaching down even here. They were more or less unscathed, but Dariu was furious.

Such cowardly magics, he thought.

Almost as fast as they'd fallen did he scramble to his feet, his eyes having taken only a short time to see through this magic, and he started again up the stairs. When he reached the third floor, he beheld the broken window at the end of the hall. To the left there was a door swung open. He hurried to enter.

He turned into the room, just in time to see a strange man robed in blue leap from the windowsill.

* * *​

Erën knew he would not have made the jump to where Duresh had gone – not from there. Instead the building next to it, albeit shorter, was the perfect stepping stone.

He leapt.

He soared through the air with no lack of elven grace, and found his feet atop the shorter, shallow roofed building. He rolled. The shouts roared up again, there’s the other one. He came to his feet, full stride, and with the freedom of the open air leapt high, grabbing hold of a protruding stone with his free hand, and with a great hoist lifted himself just enough to manage his feet onto the rooftop.

Only but a few arrows managed to sneak through the fabric of his cloth, adding more tears to the worn cloak.

Relatively safe and unseen from those below, he took a moment and looked back to the inn, locking glares with a large man staring out at them from where they'd came – the Nightshade all but dissipated now.

Then he turned to follow Duresh.

 

[Duresh]

One roof.

To the next.

A strange kinship of grace between himself and Erën. Still Duresh was not altogether certain of his being an elf, having not gotten a worthy look at him beneath his hood, but with the way he conducted himself in his movement along the upper reaches of the city he seemed so. They the two of them fellows in their sudden and shared circumstance, the reaches of Arethil from which either hailed rendered moot in this peril, their commonalities eclipsing their differences.

One of the off-duty military men from the tavern had taken on a mighty effort to keep pace with them down below on the street. An incredible sprinter. He glanced up regularly to check Duresh's and Erën's positions and bellowed out these facts for other guards possibly up ahead to apprise them on the fly of the situation of which they were unaware. A pair of civilians took it upon themselves to run with the off-duty, pointing out and shouting for help as well. Four armored guards had been called to action by these men and they ran too, trailing just behind the off-duty and the two civilians like the tail of a comet. None armed with ranged weaponry.

Duresh knew two things.

One, soon he and Erën would need to cross the street below and get out of Anir Square and head north to reach the Crentor Estate. Two, they would need to lose the guards and the spotters--before or after said street crossing. He could use his Invisibility. Could, but it was a poor option, the paramount reason being that he would likely need to save as much as possible to infiltrate into the Crentor and Banick Estates. His impromptu ally would also be left by the wayside by this. So no, he would need--

An arrow struck him in his pelvis, embedding itself at an oblique angle on his left side, the metal point scraping against bone beneath flesh. A hunter or an adventurer armed with a bow, not even a guard, had taken the shot, spurred to do so by the off-duty and the two civilians. The arrow landed while Duresh was in mid-jump, sailing down from a two-story shop to a single-floored shop.

His feet touched the edge of the roof.

And his leg twitched and gave out under the shock of impact and his weight.

Duresh toppled back and fell. The sunset sky above. His body turning still. The walls of the alley in which he was falling into. He twisted his body further and righted himself much like a cat and landed on the ground with his arms and one trusted leg spread out.

"Over here!" said the faster of the two civilians, standing at the mouth of the alley and pointing. "He's here!"

And the guards began to assemble there. Weapons drawn and eyes on Duresh. Faces grim and stern.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

He remained some ways behind Duresh – but not too far. He took a slightly different route, straying only as far as the adjacent side of the same building.

Sometimes up, and sometimes down.

He watched the orc carefully. He could not lose track of him – Erën would be hard pressed to find Horus Crentor without him, and Erën wanted answers now, justice. Order. He would not be held responsible for such a heinous crime, and now that he was involved, he had no choice but to bring what was hidden into plain view. To some, a monstrous undertaking. To him, necessary.

Through his observations he affirmed Duresh to be far more like himself than he would care to admit. But then, he seemed no ordinary orc. He was agile, carefully placed in every movement. Precise.

Atop one rooftop he rolled, and in its fulfillment sprang into the air bound for the next landing. Below, he could hear the shouts of the pursuing men. He was impressed at their determination. This Artur Meng must have been someone…important.

Just as his feet fell onto solid surface, he watched Duresh launch himself again. As Erën neared the edge he saw the arrow find its mark.

Damn…

As Erën leapt once more, he did so in a twisting and erratic display. He saw Duresh fall. He pulled the ties of his cloak, which unbound and whipped into the air, caught up in it – a worthy eye-catch. His feet rested on the edge only briefly before he jumped back and descended into the alleyway.

He landed between Duresh and the arriving soldiers. The cloak fluttered its way down into the alleyway some ways behind them both, and its absence removed the doubt from anyone's mind of his heritage. He scowled at the guardsmen and drew another sword – leaving the gem-blade yet untouched.

His eyes darted back at Duresh to see how he made out with his landing. He'd weathered it fairly well, which was certainly a good thing. But Erën didn’t think it wise for him to engage the guardsmen like this, no. The Anirians would offer to quarter now – he knew this. He would need to repel them and would likely be more able to hastily retreat once Duresh fled.

“Go.”

He did not know how well Duresh would be able to proceed, if he even would. Perhaps they would make a stand here. Regardless, the same man whom he'd locked eyes with prior appeared behind the first row of men, still gathering at the opening.

He was confident. The close quarters would benefit him. He would hold.

He advanced.

* * *​

“She asked for you, specifically,” he said, “my lord thanks you for coming on such short notice.”

Behind the veil of a dark hood, the man almost whispered to him. It was not particularly quiet where they were, many of the surrounding shops were still bustling with activity, and their presence was neither out of place nor even hardly noticed. Dariu had little fear they were being listened to, but made no gripe. He could hear just fine.

“One of our own too. A shame. I never thoug- anyway. You'll need to be careful, Duresh is cunning.”

Dariu's eyes narrowed, he'd heard that name before. Not long ago, shortly after the Crentors had assigned him, he recalled the name's mentioning – something to do with the recent invasion off Cortosi Coast.

“You'll need to go now, if you’re going. Time is short.”

Then without so much as a nod, the hooded man turned and left. Dariu watched him disappear into the crowd before he too turned to leave, headed for his horse.

* * *​

Dariu hurried his way down the stairs, ushering the other men out as well.

“After them!”

He scrambled out of the inn. Breckers men were already in pursuit. He regarded him with a wave.

“Careful,” he hollered, “you were right, one of them uses magic, they both probably do!”

He ran to mount his horse, and quickly did so. With a thrash of the reigns and boots in its sides, the horse charged into action. Dariu had ground to cover. Eventually he came to a gathering of men, pointing and shouting. He drew close and dismounted, hustling to see what was going on. He was taller than the others, so when he joined with the group, he had no trouble seeing past. He saw now an elf, clad in incomplete and weathered armor – ornate and beautiful all the same. He looked sturdy, and his face bore a resentment that bothered him, someone scorned.

He charged, and Dariu saw. A light followed after the Elf in his eyes, magic propelled him with an unnatural speed. Within moments, a few of the guards were left writhing in pain. They were harmed, but not mortally. Strange. The elf relented, and knowing full well what he saw, he comprehended and understood. He countered the elf's assault by charging after him, matching him – somehow, and swung his sword, which was deflected. A back and forth ensued, leaving the guardsmen gathering behind, apprehensive to interfere.

Dariu had not yet noticed any others.

 

[Duresh]

Erën dropped down, sans cloak, and yes, his grace matched his form. He was an elf. An outsider, cast without exception into the same lot as Duresh in this city. The foreigner. The xeno. The tolerated, and haughtily so, as if the mere act of toleration were a privilege in and of itself.

It would be done with, in life or in death. Duresh would move on from Vel Anir tonight. A strange feeling of relieved elation in it. Like awaiting one's rebirth after being trapped in an wholly unsatisfactory life, knowing it to be nigh.

Erën was buying him time. Duresh didn't question it. He thought only of how best to utilize this resource. Patch himself up, diversions, flee and go north. Purely utilitarian, unconcerned with Erën's fate. The Vel Anirian view. The view of the old world he would soon abandon.

No. Away with that mode of thought, that way of being. Erën, this elf, put himself at hazard for Duresh's sake when he did not need to. Yes, it would be difficult, breaking the years and years of working in the dark underbelly of Vel Anir and the mindset it fostered, but break it he must. He needed to return to the old ways, the true old ways, the ones spoken of by his mother. The orcish ways, the ways of the noble warrior, the ways of respect and reverence and courage and forbearance. Of course. Duresh would make bring Erën's well-being to the forefront of his mind, honor his bravery, respect his actions as not merely a move in a game but the conscious decision from the heart of a fellow warrior.

Duresh stood. Winced but moved against the pain in his pelvis and came close to Erën and said in a voice low, keeping the words between them, "Cross the street when you can. Then head north. Strike true."

He hadn't time for much else.

Duresh backed up as Erën advanced. He grabbed the arrow and first with a weak tug felt the points of the arrowhead against the inside of his flesh and made the necessary turning and adjustments to minimize further damage to himself and then he yanked the arrow from his body and tossed it to the ground in the alley. He reached into a pouch on his belt. Pulled out a crude coagulating salve, applied it; the salve was crude because it was cheap and unnatural, and would need to be burned out within a few days for his body to properly heal. But for now, a quick fix.

On his belt again. Smokebombs and noisemakers in each hand. Perhaps the combination would cause enough confusion for any more guards running up the street and provide time for Erën to make a more or less clean escape. And Duresh needed to run past Erën and the guards he was fighting to cross the street. Concealment would be beneficial for the both of them.

Duresh ignored the throbbing pain in his side. He ran. Erën had already dropped a number of the gathered guards, making his escape mostly effortless. As Duresh broke from the alley a guardsman newly arrived saw him and swung his sword. Duresh slid down and sprung back to his feet and loosed his smokebombs and the noisemakers. A veil of smoke filling the street. A loud crackling and popping from the noisemakers that made several stray dogs in the area bark wildly.

And Duresh was gone. Vanished in the smoke.

* * * * *​

Sergeant Brecker gasped for air. He and all his men, chasing in their heavy armor. They ran, yes, but their pace had slowed. They'd be winded when the criminals were actually cornered.

And there. Up ahead in the street. One of them fighting Dariu and other guards that had been rallied. Then the other came out from the alley nearby and dodged a strike and--

A screen of smoke quickly filled the street from building to building and some godforsaken racket behind the veil.

Brecker came to a stop and so did his men on their side of the smoke. Caught a portion of his breath.

"Hold. Careful men," he said. "We don't know where they are on the other side of that smoke. Wait for the noise to stop. Then we go in. Keep your ears open and don't strike your fellows."

* * * * *​

Alyssa Crentor peered out through the open doors leading to the balcony. Careful not to expose too much of herself. A few of those guards gathering around the walls of the Crentor Estate had been rash enough to shoot arrows and bolts at the balcony. They had not in more recent moments, yet still. Oh, perhaps they had been told to hold their fire. Oh yes. Maybe Garron was on his way. Lovely.

The guards gathered by the walls of the Estate were keeping nosy onlookers away; hurrying them along on their way. Nothing to see here. But there was. There most certainly was.

They would know. All of Vel Anir would know the manner of man Garron was. And Alyssa would hold her hostages in the Crentor Estate and defy the "law" of the city and cause such a disruption and such a scene until it was so. There before the largest possible audience of onlookers would she proclaim the truth.

The rough men serving her and her allied family members did not know that she never intended for this to end with all of them alive. That she cared only about exposing Garron. Punishing him. And nothing else mattered.

For she had lost her baby boy, and would avenge him.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

With the Strength of Nykios, he made short work of dismantling their closest pursuers. They were quick yes, but he had more than just waning natural endurance on his side. He subdued them, relatively mildly – but painfully. A jab, a poke, a slice, in just the right places for them to drop their weapons and fall in agony. As he moved back, another came forward. He was faster, fresher. Erën danced with him for a time, proving his centuries of experience to be the better. He waited, sliding steel with this man to cause prying eyes to fall upon the flailing blades before the shadow behind.

Then Duresh made his move.

Erën flourished and brought the force of dual blades crashing against Dariu, forcing him back – preventing any chance he lash out at Duresh. Then he too, like the others, suffered. A jab in the leg, followed by a boot to the face.

Duresh's mechanism exploded, and the smoke funneled into the alleyway. Erën leapt back and sheathed his sword, grabbing up the blue cloak – most importantly the attached brooch – and ran out into the street. The pops and crackles began to fade, and he heard the order to proceed. The smoke was yet thick.

He hurried, as quietly as he could. He bumped shoulders with a few civilians. With his feet caught up with theirs, he departed, and when he'd put sufficient space between, he ducked away from the small crowd and headed northward. Hopefully the Crentor estate would be well enough on display for him to find, or he would run into Duresh again. At least he felt he was on the right path. He kept himself to the shadows that were growing darker and more useful all the while.

No, his eyes were not much his friend in the dark. But his ears, they heard much.

Behind him, beyond a good number of folk either going about their evening of fussing about the recent racket, the guardsmen were carrying on - frantic to find them. As he ducked into a narrower passage and made his way further north, he perceived another fuss. Some ways ahead he could hear more civilians being ushered along by the ordering voices of guardsmen. He peeked out from a corner and beheld the Crentor crest.

Hmm…

No, he was not terribly familiar with the inner workings of Vel Anir’s noble houses, but even to him the behavior surrounding the estate seemed amiss.

He peered about, looking for any sign of Duresh - listening for following footsteps.

 

[Duresh]

The first and only rule of not looking suspicious: Don't look suspicious.

A Vel Anirian truism if ever there was one. Said for laughs in taverns and game rooms frequented by other members of the city's underbelly. Yet it was sound advice.

Duresh walked north, and he walked casually. He stayed to the streets, minor and major, avoided alleys. He passed a few guards, their eyes lingering on him for the sole fact that he was an outsider then drifting back to their own business. The general alert about him and Erën behind them. Spreading, certainly, but behind them. He would have to assume that the alert would have spread quite far after his visit with Horus, any trek to the Banick Estate that much more challenging then.

Duresh passed civilians heading home and left Anir Square behind. The setting sun casting blanketing shadows, the retreating orange and purple of the day. He walked with a slight limp. The coagulant crude and cheap indeed.

There. Erën some distance ahead, on the northward street. Duresh caught up with him when he stopped and peeked around the corner of a wall at the Crentor Estate. Erën glanced around, and Duresh gave him a knowing nod as he approached.

He came to a stop beside him. Said, "This is it."

And he heard it too. The general commotion and murmuring din unusual in this portion of the city. Duresh took a peek around the corner too. A number of guards keeping a cordon about the front walls and the gates of the Estate, keeping back a growing crowd of intrigued minor nobles on both the near and far side of the street.

"Strange," Duresh said. It ultimately didn't matter. They were going in regardless. "We'll take the long way around and go to the back wall of the Estate. Scale it. There is only the servants' quarters and the gardens back there. I suspect it should be lightly guarded, if at all. The back entrance to the manor ought to serve nicely."

It was best to avoid anyone and everyone on the streets and around the adjacent estates. Duresh knew neither he nor Erën would be particularly welcome in this section of the city, but the time of day was on their side.

The time had come to end what he had started.

End it on his terms.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Dariu lay in the alleyway, rolling himself onto his side – nursing himself all the while. The Elf has bested him and left him behind in misery. His leg ached, his head ached and of course more specifically his face ached. He groaned as he got to his feet, coughing in what was left of the smokescreen. A few of the others also climbed to their feet. He waved his hand around as he looked down, trying to find his sword.

Then it hit him.

That one. That one that got past him just then, the one he barely saw – that was Duresh…! Now he realized he'd been made a fool of – distracted by the Elf, by design or otherwise. Duresh: the one he had been called in for. The real threat. Blast it all.

He found his weapon and grabbed it up, hobbling out of the alleyway with as best a stride he could manage. Brecker’s men were mobilizing themselves for a search. They’d gotten away. That wouldn’t be good for him, or anybody else for that matter. He hadn’t been told but he imagined Duresh was a master of magic in some regard and could shield himself from natural sight somehow. Why else would he have been called?

And he could guess where Duresh and the Elf were likely to go.

* * *​

Erën nodded in kind to Duresh, pleased. He looked back at the estate, confirmed to be that of the Crentors. He watched the goings on while Duresh laid out a decent plan. Erën again agreed with the orc. He was almost pleasant company to the elf. Focused, perceptive, and quick. It didn’t hurt he knew his way around. Erën looked down the opposite way, back to the estate and then leaned back in.

He lifted his hood back over his head, “I will follow behind you. In case we are spotted… you know these Crentors, and how to get to them. I will make sure you reach them.”

He had no intention on being left behind, of not dealing with the Crentors. But he'd concluded that without Duresh, this would not be made right. He knew nothing, no one, and even if he were to storm the estate and slay everyone inside to find the truth, in the end, he would still be the murderer of an innocent man.

No, they had to be undone a different way, brought forth and shown for what is real. Unfortunately he knew he wasn't the one to do it.

* * *​

Dariu approached the Crentor estate, albeit with a limp. The gathering crowd at the front gate was an unsettling sight. He hastened as much as he could, eager to speak with the guards to find out what was going on.

 

[Duresh]

In all the years of serving in Vel Anir, all the years of doing the work they deemed necessary, all the years simply living and enduring through the assorted vileness of his station.

Here this elf, Erën, whom he had known for a fleeting evening's time, was more a brother to him than the crushing majority of humans he'd met and worked with and bled for.

"Then the plan is set."

* * * * *​

The long way around to the back of the Crentor Estate. This following the first and only rule of not looking suspicious. It wasn't troublesome at all. The commotion in the front of the Estate seemed to have attracted a large number of those who otherwise might have been out along on the streets.

The particular street along the backsides of the estates was narrow. Meant for servants who worked one or more estates to have quick access from major street to major street. And to keep them out of sight of the minor nobles for as much as possible.

Duresh produced his grappling hook and looked up at the tall stone wall. Close to or perhaps even a little over three times his own height. The prison of decadence the Crentors and the nobility in their entirety encased themselves in.

He swung the hook around once and tossed it up. Gave it a firm tug. Secure. He climbed the rope and reached the top and straddled the wall and waited for a moment for Erën to climb. In the short meantime he scanned the backside of the Estate grounds. Servants quarters, outhouses, marble arches, the gardens. No one around. Not even the servants.

All except one man. Hired muscles, judging by his armor and the sword at his hip. He smoked from a pipe and blew out smoke, nonchalant, unsuspecting. Duresh took the grappling hook when appropriate and wound the rope back up and secured it to his belt again. He slipped down the perimeter wall and rolled to spread out the force of the impact when he met the ground and rose to his feet. Quiet.

Duresh approached the man briskly and the man had half-turned when Duresh swept his legs with a kick and dropped him to the ground. Throwing knife in hand he put the point of it to the soft underpart of the man's jaw.

"Duresh? Where the hell have you been? And what the fuck gives?"

When Duresh saw his face he recognized him. Theo, one of the more common hired muscle for the Crentors. His tone, what he had said, it was off. Did he not know? Possible. Duresh doubted the man's ability to be anything other than simplistically sincere.

Still. Operate assuming worst conditions.

"Where's Horus?" He didn't pull back the throwing knife.

Theo blinked. Looked from Duresh to Erën and to Duresh again.

"Horus is dead." The man said it like it was obvious. "Madam Alyssa's in charge now."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

So, they were decided.

As they started on their way, he cast a glance once more toward the assembly out front. There was that man again, speaking with the guards. He was indeed persistent. But that was ultimately irrelevant. For but a fleeting moment he surrendered his attention, then focused his mind on the task at hand.

They darted down a narrow lane and came to their place avoiding all detection. Duresh, even injured as he was, maintained himself quite well. Erën appreciated that in him. He kept his vigilance as Duresh readied to climb, and when the time was right Erën followed suit. He slide the Anirian sword between his belt on his left side to do so.

He refused to give it up, for some reason.

He crested the wall and balanced himself effortlessly on its top while he knelt there as Duresh wound up his rope. Erën of course had inspected it on his way up. It was finely crafted, and the grapnel a familiar make. A useful tool. Though he had made do without one so far, he thought perhaps it was something he too could make use of.

Hmm…I’ve got to get one of those.

In the light cast out from the home he saw much the same as Duresh. But his ears had heard before his eyes beheld – the quiet crackling of burning leaf, a relaxing exhale. Duresh moved, descending down the wall like a shadow – silent and precise. He advanced on the man and dropped him to the ground, stilling him with the fear of a blade imbedding into his head.

Erën descended, easing his fall by bending his knees and then dropping on one, stretching one hand out before him, steadying him. His free hand rested on the sword. He rose, and quietly approached Duresh and his prey, coming into view.

“Horus is dead,” he said, “Madam Alyssa’s in charge now.”

His eyes fell to Duresh for a moment. Equally surprised it seemed.

I see, he thought, indeed.

* * *​

Dariu was growing impatient. There was little time. At least the guards were talking with him, and not dismissing him like some pedestrian. Well he wouldn't have had much of that, not under these circumstances. But this was little better.

“Listen,” he said to one of them, “I understand you’re not letting anyone in, but I’m working. There is some vital information I need to pass along.”

The guards looked between themselves for a moment, stunned. Almost angrily they turned back to him, hands grasping the hilts of their swords.

“You mean to tell me you know about what's happening inside?”

Dariu held his ground, but displayed no lack of confusion at their changed demeanor, “I… what? No, I don't even know why you're here, I thought…”

Just then, Sergeant Brecker and a few of his men showed up. He saw Dariu, and came to him, soldiers in tow.

“What seems to be the problem here, boys.”

Good. Brecker was certainly some leverage for him. The guardsmen regarded him appropriately as their superior, but there was a reluctance to their answering him.

“I asked you a question.” His voice stern.

“Sir, we have orders to keep the Crentor estate on lockdown. There have… been some problems.”

They eyed Dariu suspiciously, but Brecker’s impatience with them mitigated any further apprehension. They explained as much as they could: the truth was they were trying to get past a lockdown. Something was going on inside, they weren’t exactly sure but what they did know is that there were hostages, some rather important ones too.

Brecker nodded, and turned to Dariu, “you know anything about this?”

“No, but I think our friends are headed in there… I think there's more to them than we first believed.”

Brecker scratched his chin, “you think you can talk to her, or at least someone?”

Dariu thought for a moment, “I don't think they want any uninvited guests. But I was called in for one of them specifically - they'd probably want to know if they're on their way.”

Maybe she knew this is how it would go. Ever since he began working with the Crentors he slowly began to feel less and less of a soldier, and more a game piece – and hardly a bishop, or rook at that. They came to an agreement. Brecker and he wanted their criminals for interrogation, and now they needed to know what Alyssa wanted, how many men there were, anything. Everything. Not only this, but soon Garron Banick would be here, and that meant…

Things had really escalated, and he found himself wondering now just what exactly it was he'd gotten into.

He went in, declaring himself as Dariu, the Eyes of Crentor. If he wasn't shot or stabbed now, then getting in would be the easy part.

 

[Duresh]

Duresh glanced to Erën. Unexpected, this turn of events. An expediting of vengeance, certainly, but one that begged more questions then provided answers.

Back to Theo. He regarded him. Said, "Dead."

"Yeah. Dead. Madam Alyssa's making a power play. Hardly matters to me and the boys who's paying us. What coin don't spend?"

"Tell me about Artur."

"Who?"

"Artur Meng."

"I don't know who that is. Ask your friend there. Maybe he knows."

He actually meant that, Theo did. Not an ounce of awareness in him. The man had just the right amount of brawn and lack of other faculties for his chosen profession.

"Where's Alyssa?"

"Inside. Hey, she's looking for you, Duresh. Don't know what for."

"That's what I intend to have clarified. Let's go. You first."

Duresh stood and put the knife away and Theo stood and started to say something as he turned and Duresh grabbed him from behind and about the neck. Held the hold against Theo's surprised struggling. Denied his brain blood until he went unconscious and limp. Duresh set him back down on the ground.

Whatever Alyssa was playing at, it was possible she hadn't deigned to tell her men about Duresh. Overconfidence, perhaps, that Christoph and whomever else she had sent to dispatch him would succeed. Regardless, no chances. Theo may well have been an isolated case.

Duresh nodded to the plain-looking backdoor that was closer to the servant's quarters rather than the ornate door nearer to them. Said, "Kitchen entrance. I don't know what the situation is like inside, but if we can get to Alyssa we can force her to have her men stand down. Then we'll talk."

To the kitchen entrance. His back to the wall beside it. A slow and quiet drawing of his falchion. The door had no lock. Carefully pushing it open and peering inside.

No servants, no hired men. Dinner dishes left half-finished, fruits and vegetables left unprepared, meat left blackened above the dwindling fire in the stone oven.

Light from the grand hall coming through the small window on the door leading to the same. Duresh moved to it. Peeked from the edges of the glass.

Alyssa, her back to the kitchen, with five of her men standing by the front doors of the manor. Other men, scattered throughout the grand hall on both the first and second floors; nearly twenty by Duresh's count, and that was what they could see. Bodies. A small pile of them, all clad in noble finery. Crentors. Horus himself likely in that dismal congregation of the dead.

And Duresh looked to Erën. Said, "That's her. By the front doors. This is as good as its going to get."

Duresh didn't doubt their ability to play off of one another. They would have to. They didn't know all of the variables to form a proper plan. And they hadn't needed one back at the Silver and Steel and the subsequent escape.

Erën was capable. A pleasure to work with, despite the circumstances.

And now it came to this, the clearing of their names on the line.

* * * * *​

Alyssa saw him coming from her spot beside the balcony doors. Dariu. One of the fixers frequently employed by Horus and his brothers on behalf of the Crentors. Ah, she was expecting news of Duresh, the half-orc bastard of Garron's. His arrest preferable, but his death acceptable.

Alyssa left the bedroom and went down one of the staircases of the grand hall and summoned five of her men to her side. One of the men opened the door and let Dariu inside and shut the door after him.

A cordial smile, and Alyssa said, "I see you've convinced the gaggle of guardsmen out front to let you pass. What news do you bring? And did any of them mention Garron Banick by chance?"