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

 

[Evaine]

Evaine stood in calm quiet, unsmiling as she slowly pulled her hands free of her riding gloves tucked the effects neatly into the loop of her horse's breastcollar. Though the Dreadlord made no eye contact with the man, she was listening.

To him.

To the scuffling men.

Just a silent mountain burdened with snow, waiting to unleash a wave of unbridled destruction at the opportune provocation.

She loosened her horse's girth, giving the commotion within the dust plume a short glance at the clang of plate smacking against the ground.

"Lourke," the woman drew in a slow breath through her nose and loosed it on a tight, even sigh, "you have five minutes."

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Spoiler: Music

The halberd whizzed by his head, air whoosing past his hat and kissing his neck. Hugo grit his teeth, then caught the second blow, crossing his pair of swords to keep it from splitting his face. His body burned from exertion, swords and halberd rattling, boots grinding dust, the guardsman pushing him back.

This was getting too dangerous. They were well-armoured and well-trained. Whenever he went to finish one off, aiming to pierce where the armour was weak - armpits, helm-slits, behind the knees where the greaves ended or below the neck-guard - another stepped in from behind and nearly skewered him.

He supposed he ought to be proud. It spoke of the quality of Anirian training - training he had once overseen. Unfortunately, at this moment, it happened to be a true pain in the rear.

What he needed was more of a hammering weapon, denting their steel and inflicting blunt-force trauma. If only he could get his hands on that halberd . . .

Another came up behind him. Hugo shoved the halberd back, retreating from both - though his shortsword got caught in the curving hook of its axe-head. He left it to clatter on the ground, and rather than be trapped between two guardsmen, he employed his footwork to take him well out of their reach.

Perhaps it was time for a change of scenery . . .

Meanwhile, Lourke gave an awkward grin to Evaine and nodded, hefting his own sword.

"Won't even be two, I tell ya."

He turned, only to find the silhouttes suddenly rushing to his left. The cry from one of his own followed:

"He's running away! Get him!"

Lourke cursed and dashed to catch up to them. He found them in a small alley between ramshackle buildings, his fellow guardsmen pursuing the old dog into the dingy habitat of his sheltering peasants. It figured he would hide behind the skirts of these villagers. But even though only two men could stand abreast here, he noted with grim satisfaction how his comrades kept a close formation, the halberd-wielder stabbing his longer polearm between their shoulders.

Lourke wasn't the only one to mind this formation. There was little Hugo could do to break their steel wall. But in this confined space, they could not surround him, at least - only push him further back, slowed down by their armour and need for not tripping over one another's legs. Hugo's heels swept back broken tiles and litter. One particular building offended his senses, its low rooftop sagging below its own weight of poorly placed tiles, held up by thin wooden supports. Rapidly, his engineer's eye spotted a structural weakness.

Without much thought, he stepped back, allowing his pursuers to advance, before swiping at the supports with his remaining sword. A small avalanche of grit, dirt, rotten logs and broken tiles spilled onto the line of guardsmen, the half-finished shack crumbling over them like a collapsing siege tower. They cursed and shouted and ducked, only for one of them to feel the cross-guard of Hugo's sword crashing into his helmet, bending the steel there to press into his scalp. Hugo had switched the grip on his sword to hold it by the blade, using its hilt as a hammer. A clumsy implement, but useful.

The halberd responded. As expected.

Again, he met its shaft. But this time he held his own sword with two hands, like a staff, allowing him better control - and to slide it straight up below the axe-head, slotting into its socket. With that placement, he heaved, dragging the halberd-wielder in between his stunned allies. Pulled into this stopping hedge of armoured shoulders and chests, the guardsman lost the grip on his weapon before Hugo's pull. And Hugo earned himself his desired weapon.

Two minutes did pass - to the sound of banging steel, crunching armour and agonised groans - and rather than dragging out Hugo's corpse from the alley, Lourke pulled himself and a fellow guardsman out, tripping over his feet and scrambling to rise again, dust whirling around him like a mantle from his efforts. His helmet had fallen off, revealing a strand of blood running down his temple, his earth-brown full beard, horse-shoe hairline and small, pale-blue eyes currently darting with confusion and fear.

Evaine

 

[Evaine]

Two minutes was about the amount of time necessary for the Dreadlord to check over her horse and take stock of her current supplies. Rations were adequate after a few nights of successful hunts. Fire starter was running a bit low, and though she was sure the other Guardsmen likely had their own, she liked to be equipped to handle any situation. Including those that rendered her on her own.

A few things needed refilling; waterskin, healing ointment and herbs, spices, and arrows. With a measured survey of her immediate surroundings, she guessed she might be able to purchase at least two of those things in this small, shabby little town. Evaine knew for certain she'd passed a trade goods merchant store several buildings back, though it hadn't looked open.

Annoying.

Shhup went the buckle of a saddlebag at her horse's flank just as Lourke reappeared from the scuffle looking much less victorious than she'd hoped he would. Three steps took her away from her horse and into the open lane that cut through the center of the village. There she greeted Lourke's fleeing self with a stare of disappointment so intense it could have been the business end of the halberd presently hounding his retreating self.

Just a bloody outlaw indeed.

She sighed and strode past him, leaving him in a silence far worse than any tongue-lashing.

Her boots stopped just beyond the dust of the alleyway. Dreadlord she might be, she still couldn't see through a cloud of debris. Didn't have those kinds of powers.

"Come out now," she called, though her voice did not carry far, "it's only me."

 

[Hugo Farlance]

Hugo stepped out from the alley, halberd resting on his shoulder, wicked axe-head throwing a grim panoply over his sand-shrouded silhouette. The worn leather soles of his boots crunched dusty pebbles like millstones crunching seeds. Burdened with injury, he faced the Dreadlord, seeing her mid-length hair blowing in the obscuring wind like straw from a village totem - a portent of doom made physical.

Human she might seem, but Hugo knew exactly what she was. The extended and sorcerous hand of Vel Anir. A weapon made flesh, forged in the furnace of the Dreadlords. There could be no victory against them. Even if by some miracle he managed to slay this one, more would simply take her place. And this village would surely burn as a consequence.

Lourke crawled back with his unconscious ally, desperately dragging him away from Hugo, crying out:

"He's bloody possessed, he is! That's no man. Eyes of a daemon! Only a daemon fights like that!"

Shrill with panic, the sergeant crawled away. Hugo let him. There was little point to ending his miserable life now, however much he might desire to indulge revenge. But taking- and dealing a beating could do mighty work in shifting one's priorities. And right now, all he wished for was some manner of respite.

A nasty wound leeched the strength from his left arm. Lourke's sword had caught his bicep and cut through leather and coat alike. Now the sleeve of his officer's coat billowed with this gaping hole, revealing blood that leaked like wine from a ruptured waterskin. His mouth twisted downward in a pained grimace, and he lowered the heavy burden of the halberd, allowing its axe to bite sand rather than the Dreadlord. With every wasted second, he could feel his strength draining.

Vel Anir punished those who sheltered traitors dearly. And traitors were deserving of the highest penalty, or so it was said. He knew this. No matter what he did - win or lose, die or survive - this village would suffer because of him. The wrath of the republic would surely find their malnourished lives and end them, once news of this encounter spread.

Hugo saw little hope for himself either, weary with running from the fangs of fate, as it finally seemed to close its jaws around him. But perhaps, he could stave the suffering of others on his account . . . A heavy sigh escaped him, draining the air from his lungs and the remaining struggle in his limbs.

"Hark, Dreadlord." He spat on the ground, a glob of rust-red phlegm colouring the sands. "Promise me one thing, and I won't resist." Hefting a lower grip on the halberd, Hugo prepared himself to lift it quickly - should it be needed. "Don't let these villagers suffer on my behalf. They knew not who I am."

Evaine