Fable - Ask Swords at High Noon

[Hugo Farlance]

Spoiler: Music

A village near the border between Maraan and Vel Anir.

"Well, look what we got here, lads." The voice of the guardsman rang out with harsh glee, muffled by his helmet. "The old Lieutenant Farlance himself. Back from the dead, it seems."

The four, armoured silhouttes sidled up through the blowing cloud of dust. Hugo squeezed the hilt of his shortsword, the leather of his glove crackling. One of them held an old man, dagger to his throat.

"Consider our surprise when we found Guard fortifications here," the front guardsman went on. Even through the closed helmet with a narrow slit for the eyes, Hugo recognised his raspy voice - Lourke Melscythe, a veteran of his former regiment. "A foss, sentry tower and palisades. Blimey, the peasantry certainly gets busy in these parts. What possible need could there be for such defences?"

Hugo worked his tongue on the inside of his cheek, choosing his words. There was little point in denying his work.

"The Guard won't protect them. So they have to protect themselves."

"That right? Well, fat lot it did against us." Grating laughter spawned from the four guardsmen, sauntering closer with all the time in the world. The old man was dragged to the front, where Lourke could casually point at him with his blade. "Talkative fellow this one, once you press him. Hiding a traitor deserves a traitor's fate, I say."

"Let him go. I won't run."

"No. You won't." Even through the slit in his helmet, Hugo could see Lourke's dark eyes narrow with calculation. In response, Hugo drew his second and longer blade with his left hand, letting the well-oiled steel purr slowly against its scabbard. Lourke chortled louder, encouraging the others to join in - but Hugo could hear the brittleness in his mockery. "Woah, now! Seems the old dog still carries some fangs! Very well. Let him off." Lourke's comrade kicked the old man in the rear, who stumbled to the side. With a head-tilt, Lourke sized up the tails of Hugo's officer coat, flapping in the wind. "Though you didn't even bother to drop the old uniform, did you? You got daft as a mutt too."

"Not nearly as daft as your decision today," Hugo said, his voice lowering dangerously. "If you make yourselves scarce, Lourke, I'll let you leave."

"Piss off!" Lourke shouted, swiping his gauntleted hand angrily. "As if you stand a chance. It's four against one, you daft bleeder, or did you forget to count? And we've got a Dreadlord to boot. May as well call it quits while you can!" Something malicious entered Lourke's voice, dripping with the envy and shame of the past. "You may have saved my hide once, lieutenant, so I'll give you this mercy: we'll grant you a clean death and spare you from being the Dreadlord's plaything. How's that sound?"

"Give it your best try." Hugo worked to match his nerves to the hard steel of his swords, noting their scattered positions and over-confident stances. "Though I'd do so in a proper formation if I were you."

Three swords and a halberd raised in reply.

"Kill the swine!"

Evaine

 

[Evaine]

These were not lands that held any familiarity. Situated far from what once was home and between what felt two separate lives, a Dreadlord cut an unhurried pace along the road at the back of her party. Dubbed Captain Cutthroat for the stories told of her adventures far across the southern sea in the distant lands of Malakath, the woman spoke very seldomly and let her actions do most of the talking.

Unfortunately for those that crossed the path of her squadron, her actions were rarely kind.

Perhaps it was best that she arrive late to the scene. Best that her pace for the day had slowed to give herself distance between her thoughts and the Guards under her command. Since her return, things had not gone as she had expected. Things were not how she had left them. The entire culture of Vel Anir seemed upended by Revolution and suddenly her mere stature alone as Dreadlord no longer held the weight it once did. If it had, she'd been shown to her father by now.

But not a word on him had been given.

There's a process to all this, they told her.

It takes time to get all the paperwork through, they said.

You are to report to General Blackforge in Vel Castere in the interim. He will reassign you.

So she made the month-long trek to Vel Castere. She sat through recruitment proceedings and quietly underwent the updated Guard training regimen enacted within the new Republic laws. Suddenly elves were no longer foes but allies. Dreadlords were no longer in charge of everything. Children of magical talent were no longer taken and forced into the Academy. The sullied half-breed slaves of the old regime had been freed. Vel Anir was making diplomatic ties.

Here she'd spent the last ten years of her life surviving in a hellscape that made these lands look like a playground. Now they wanted her to patrol trade routes and exterior borders, putting down soft-handed highway men and thugs.

It hadn't been long enough for her to get angry about it, but by the Gods was she ever bored. Bored was never a good status for Dreadlords.

Drawn by the raised voices of her squad, Evain brought her horse to a stop just at the peripheral of the small gathering. Quiet tension settled upon the town like a heavy fog. She needn't look to feel the eyes watching from windows as she dismounted and pulled the reins over her horse's head then quietly turned to lead it to a nearby water trough.

"Hold," said the Dreadlord as she removed her riding gloves calmly, one finger at a time, "is it a beast? Some monster you've cornered that needs four Guards to take down?"

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Lourke Melscythe swore under his breath. He jogged up to the Dreadlord, cursing his luck in that she would arrive right as he was to exact his revenge.

"Deal with him, lads! I'll bring her up to speed--"

The three remaining guards charged Hugo - and Hugo responded, blades a flurry of steel retribution, continually circling the three of them so they never had a chance to flank him, but could keep stumbling over one another to get to him. However, his two blades bit more plate than flesh, clanging harshly throughout the village. Hugo's swords struggled to find true purchase through the guards' solid plate, without exposing himself to a blade in the back.

"Beg pardon, Dreadlord Evaine," Lourke began, all bowing and scraping awkwardly in his armour, all whilst clangs and grunts issued behind him from the battle, their fighting forms silhouettes in the dusty wind. "Nay, no monster, not to worry. Just a bloody--" -he checked his own language, remembering who he was talking to-"I mean, an outlaw. We'll scrape him off the ground soon enough. No need to involve yourself."

A pained cry issued through the dust-storm, followed by the dull thud of a boot kicking a helmet. Lourke cursed, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly.

"Oh for sard's sake . . ." He turned briefly to Evaine, itching to join the fray, but needing her approval. "We'll--we'll finish this right snappy, not to worry--"

Evaine