by James Hunter
I didn’t have time to watch since I had my own share of Accipiter bruisers to deal with.
A leather-clad thug with a spiked Mohawk charged me from the right, his machete glinting in the firelight as it sailed toward my head. I sidestepped the blow, slipped inside his guard, and threw an elbow into his sternum, triggering Black Caress. He doubled over with a grunt, gasping for air as he clutched at his chest. Instead of letting up, I pressed my attack, smashing his exposed wrist with a crack—his weapon clattered to the floor—then hooked my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down as I slammed a knee into his mouth.
Blood splattered as he went down, limp as a rag doll—alive, but without an ounce of fight left in him.
I wheeled around, stealing a quick glance at the gambling hall:
Forge was buried beneath a pile of guards, cursing up a storm as he swung and kicked wildly, putting up one helluva fight despite the odds against him. Vlad and Cutter weren’t doing any better. One beefy Accipiter had the Russian pinned to the floor, furiously raining down blows, which Vlad weakly fended off with his forearms. And another guard—built like a black bear with a face not even a mother could love—had Cutter locked up in a bear hug while another goon worked him over, delivering brutal gut shots with a feral grin stretched across his face.
Other than me, only Amara and Abby seemed to be holding their own. The ladies stood back-to-back near one of the card tables, moving in a slow circle as they fought. Abby twirled a sleek dark wood staff, carved with ember-red script, dealing out painful, but non-lethal burns with every strike. And Amara … Well, she hooked, jabbed, and kicked like an MMA pro, busting noses, jaws, and kneecaps with equal ease, leaving a trail of wrecked bodies in her wake.
Even with that one, glimmering light of hope, I just couldn’t see how this would end well for us. In a straight-up fight—weapons and magic flying—our team could win, no doubt, but in an unarmed brawl against so many enemies?
No, we didn’t have a chance. What we needed was to stop this fight cold …
I triggered Shadow Stride—the world around me lurched to a halt, invaded by an explosion of blacks, whites, grays, and swirling purples—and waded through the crowd of frozen bodies caught mid-battle:
A fist hung frozen in flight. A spurt of blood lingered unnaturally in the air like a fine mist. Abby’s staff was only inches away from cracking some poor schlub’s head. I left them all behind, maneuvering around tables, shocked patrons—their eyes wide, their mouths hanging open in awe or fear—and the dog pile of bodies accumulating on top of Forge. All the way to the far side of the room, where the balding Accipiter, Hakim, stood with his arms crossed and brow furrowed.
He didn’t look like much of a fighter. He was too old, too flabby. No, he looked like a shot caller. A man who paid others to do his brawling for him. In my experience, people like that were far more comfortable commanding violence than receiving it in any form.
At least, I hoped that was the case.
I slipped behind him, pulled my warhammer from my belt, and dropped into a crouch—necessary due to our significant size differences. Then I steeled myself, saying a silent prayer as I stepped back into the material realm. Time sprinted back to life in an instant: the punch landed with a wet thwack. The blood, suspended in the air a moment before, splattered across the mosaic floor. Abby’s staff landed with bone-breaking force and the poor guard staggered away, clutching his head as a streak of red gushed down his forehead.
I ignored all those things as I slipped one arm around Hakim’s neck, holding him tight, then placed the razor-sharp spike on the top of my warhammer firmly into his neck. Tucking it up under his chin just hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood. Just hard enough to let him know I could kill him if I wanted to. His body stiffened, his neck tensed from the pressure of the spike, and suddenly he went stock-still, afraid to so much as breathe. “Call them off,” I whispered into his ear, not bothering to hide the threat in my voice. “We’re not here to fight, but if you push it, you’ll be the first one to hit the floor.”
There was a tense pause as he considered my words, my threat. Could he get away, perhaps? What was the chance I’d be able to kill him before his guards could respond? Was I bluffing?
His body wilted a second later, deflating in defeat. “Enough! Enough!” he cried out, his gruff voice echoing off the walls. The winged guards froze, eyes wide and confused, before falling away like faithful dogs called to heel. Every eye turned toward us, expectant.
“Good.” I slowly backed away, pulling my hostage toward the back room he’d emerged from moments before. “Abby, Cutter, Vlad,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm and level considering the circumstances, “come with me. Forge, Amara, I want the two of you to stand guard outside the door while we have a word with the boss, here. Now”—I swept my gaze around the room, staring at each guard for a heartbeat—“if any of you tries anything heroic, your boss dies. End of story, end of the game. Everyone understand?”
I was bluffing through my teeth, appropriate since we were in a gambling den, and I fervently hoped no one would call me on it.
For a second, which dragged on and on, the room teetered on the brink of more chaos and violence. Then, Hakim finally yelled, ending the tense stalemate. “You do nothing!” he screamed, quivering in panic. “Make no move. None. But if something happens to me, I want them all dead. Every last one of them, anlamak?”
His thugs nodded as we backed into the connecting room. I kicked the door shut once Abby, Vlad, and Cutter were through, leaving Forge and Amara stranded by themselves on the other side. They’d be okay, though. They had to be. I wheeled around and shoved Hakim into a plush office outfitted with the same mosaic floors, gray brick walls, and wall-mounted sconces. Colorful rugs and low couches, covered in pillows, littered the space, along with a boxy table surrounded by backless stools. Dark wood cabinets ran along the left wall, loaded down with books, ledgers, and folders of various shapes and sizes.
Not so much a library as the sprawling filing cabinet of a bookie.
Most intriguing, though, was the enormous door inset into the back of the wall. It was a massive circular thing that reminded me of a bank vault, though fashioned from crystal instead of steel. “Everyone, sit,” I said, nodding toward the stools surrounding the table. Slowly, carefully, I maneuvered Hakim into a chair, forcing him down, before finally releasing my choke hold around his throat and backing up a step. He turned his stocky body, glowering at me over one shoulder as he retrieved a cloth from his pocket and dabbed at the blood decorating his throat.
He grunted, sniffed, then turned, staring coolly at Cutter.
“You miserable soysuz prick,” he said to the thief. “You’ve got real stones coming back after what you did to me. A thousand gold marks, you cost me, not to mention dragging my good and reputable name through a pile of boktan.” He tilted his head and jabbed a finger at Cutter like it was a knife. “What did I tell you would happen if you ever came back?”
“That whole period’s a bit fuzzy,” Cutter replied from across the table, canting his head to one side, “but I vaguely recall something about dismemberment and sand tigers.”
Hakim squinted. “I told you I would have you drawn and quartered, then fed to the Kan-Kaplan in the fighting pits. It is a hard thing to forget, I think.”
“Well, none of that matters,” I said, skittering around the table and taking a seat next to Abby. “I don’t know what your problem is with Cutter, but you’re not dealing with him anymore, you’re dealing with us.” I jerked a head toward Abby.
“And who are you two, huh?” Hakim asked with a scowl, turning his disgruntled gaze firmly on me.
“We’re the leaders of the Crimson Alliance,” Abby replied evenly. “We’re the face of the Eldgard Rebellion, and rulers over both Yunnam and Rowanheath.”
That knocked the sneer off his face and gave him a moment of pause. “And so? What is that to me?” he finally asked, slouching as he absently insp
ected his fingernails. “You are flies circling the colossal turd that is the Empire. Perhaps you are powerful in the East, but this? This is the West. The West has little concern for the affairs of the Empire or the Rebels.”
“Wait, I do not understand?” Vlad interjected, slouching forward, then running shaky hands through his hair. “I thought the Accipiter were part of the Rebel Alliance against the Empire? Am I incorrect in this?”
Hakim’s contemptuous sneer returned, his lips pulling back to reveal crooked yellowing teeth and deep creases in his pudgy cheeks.
“You’re technically correct,” Cutter replied, shrugging one shoulder. “The Accipiter royal houses are sympathetic toward the cause, but the wars never reached this far, so most of the regular citizens don’t pay it much mind. And even if the Empire were on Hakim’s doorstep, he wouldn’t care unless there was money to be made or lost. Money’s the only thing he cares about, isn’t that right, Hakim? He’s a businessman, through and through.”
“No different from you, you treacherous whoreson,” Hakim snapped, crossing his sausage-plump arms.
“Fine,” I said, raising a hand to stop them before things escalated further. “If you’re a businessman, then let’s talk business. We”—I waved vaguely toward the rest of the crew—“aren’t looking to pick a fight with you. We’re looking to make a deal. All we want is some information about the Cult of Arzokh. They’ve got a Citadel in Ankara, and we need to find it. That’s it. That’s all we want. You tell us what we need to know and we’ll get out of your hair”—I glanced toward his balding head on instinct—“faster than you can blink.”
His lips formed a harsh, thin gash as he stroked at his double chin. “Let us say for a moment, I have the information you want.” He paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Now, let us further say I am willing to overlook this violation of my fine establishment. What would I get in return? I am a businessman, not a priest—I do nothing out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Well,” Abby said, leaning forward, resting her forearms on the table. “What do you want? Jack and I lead the Crimson Alliance—we can get you money if that’s what this is all about.”
His face screwed up in disgust, and he dry-washed his hands as though the very thought were distasteful. “Money, she says. You bring this, this, this …” He absently twirled a hand through the air, searching for the word. “This sneak-thief with you,” he finished. “You assault my guards. You take me hostage and embarrass me in front of my clientele. And then? Then you offer money.” He leaned over to one side and spit onto the floor. “Despite what Cutter, there, says, money is not the end all be all for me. I have a vault full of money.” He waved toward the circular crystal door.
“We could give you something else, then. Weapons?” Vlad offered. “Or, perhaps armor? You may not know this, but”—he shrugged modestly—“I am one of the most accomplished Alchemic Weaponeers in all of Eldgard. I could make you something, perhaps?”
Hakim gave the Russian a look as dry and flat as a savannah. “I’m a businessman, not a warlord. I employ thugs, not soldiers. And do I look like a man who wears armor or carries a sword? What need have I of such things? This is an issue of pride, now. Of saving face. And nothing you can give me will accomplish that.” He faltered, fingers tented as he regarded us. “Yet, clearly, you are a capable lot and we are at an impasse. Battı balık yan gider, as my people are given to say. Perhaps there is a way we can come to an understanding. Let us say I will give you the information you need, but first, you must do a job for me.”
Cutter groaned, pressing his eyes shut tight. “This isn’t gonna turn out well,” he muttered.
I held up a hand to silence him. “We’re listening,” I said, running my fingers over the cold metal of my warhammer.
“Excellent, excellent. It’s nice to know at least one of you has a level head.” Hakim leaned forward, his gut pressed up against the edge of the table. “As I said, this is now a matter of pride. Though Cutter may think money is the only thing I care for, he is wrong. We Accipiter put great value in status. We care about pride even more than money.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Pride and revenge. There is a man, a rival of mine named Yusuf. He runs a gambling establishment just down the road. A place called the Bloodletter. He has a trinket. An old amulet, dear to my heart”—he thumped a fist against his flabby chest—“and I want you to steal it.”
“Is it magic,” Cutter hedged, “this amulet?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort,” Hakim replied, waving away the question. “Purely sentimental. It belonged to my mother. We came up together, Yusuf and I. Running the streets together, though rivals of a sort, even then. But things changed. He betrayed me. Broke my legs.” He rubbed thoughtfully at his knobby knees with a wince. “Then? Then he left me for dead in a rotten sewer and took the necklace as a token of victory. Twenty years ago, that was.
“Now? Now I want this necklace back. I want the amulet so I can rub Yusuf’s dirty face in it, as he has rubbed mine in it. I want it so I can flash it at him when we pass in the Temple. So I can have my pride back.” His words oozed venom. “If you rob his vault and get me the amulet … Well, then I will tell you where this Cult of Arzokh is. This heist, though, has one provision. One.” He stuck a quivering digit up. “You mustn’t kill anyone. Yusuf most of all. I want to gloat and I want him to live in shame, but I am not interested in a turf war. Understand?”
A new quest popped up:
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: Hakim’s Revenge
Hakim—a local crime boss and the owner of the Lucky Rooster—has agreed to provide you with the location of the Cult of Arzokh, but only if you can pull off a special mission: infiltrate the Bloodletter and retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf or his guards. But be warned, the necklace is located inside a strongbox, which is further stored in the Bloodletter vault.
Quest Class: Unique
Quest Difficulty: Infernal
Success: Retrieve Hakim’s necklace without killing Yusuf.
Failure: Fail to retrieve the necklace; kill Yusuf or his guards in the process.
Reward: Location of the Cult of Arzokh; 15,000 EXP per group member.
Accept: Yes/No?
<<<>>>
“Yes,” I said, accepting the quest, “we’ll do it. But we’ll need some time to plan.”
“Of course,” Hakim replied, his grin predatory and hungry. “The layout to the Bloodletter is identical to this gambling hall. Take all the time you need.”
EIGHTEEN: Breaking and Entering
Three hours later, creeping up on 9 PM, Cutter and I shouldered our way into the Bloodletter, a delightfully named place that in no way increased my anxiety. I took a quick scan of the room. Hakim was right, the layout was almost identical to the Lucky Rooster. It featured the same open gambling floor and the same balconies running along the sides, overlooking everything below.
There was a stage on the left, a bar on the right, and a door at the back. Same, same, same. Even the winged goons looked like carbon copies. Burly bouncers loitered around the room, leaning up against the walls, trying to look bored or drunk, but failing. Even more bouncers—these wearing dark black leathers and wielding stout cudgels on leather braids—lined the upper decks, staring down with ever-suspicious gazes. With that said, Hakim and Yusuf shared very different interior decorating strategies.
In place of fancy tile, the Bloodletter had uneven sandstone floors, covered in hay and splashes of old vomit. In place of elegant felt-lined tables, there were simple slabs of crude wood, worn from heavy use and stained by countless spills. Heck, even the lighting was different: sooty, smoky, and strangely threatening. And instead of high-class tourists with lots of money to burn, this place catered to Accipiter locals in rough-spun tunics or mud-caked armor. But despite dour faces, tired eyes, and a lot of hard-worn years, the patrons laughed loudly, hooting as they drank from dirty mugs and slapped coins on tables with gusto.
My eyes skipped past all
the thugs and patrons, frantically searching for Abby and Vlad. I let out a soft sigh of relief as I located the pair seated together at a table near the reinforced door connecting to the back room. They were playing cards, working to blend in and doing a passable job—especially considering how much they stood out. It helped that they were losing money hand over fist, playing like a couple of clueless, hairbrained outsiders with more money than sense. The locals ate the act up, laughing as they crowded around their table, scooping up piles of brass and silver.
So far, so good. Thank God for small miracles.
Cutter and I beelined for the bar huddled against the right wall, keeping our heads down and our profile low. Cutter slapped me on the shoulder and leaned in as we walked, a fake grin plastered across his face. “You need to calm down, Jack,” he whispered in my ear. “This isn’t like back at Hakim’s place. No one’s looking for us, not unless you give them a reason to, eh?” He thumbed his nose knowingly at me. “Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Gotta admit I’m pretty impressed with the plan. Nothing groundbreaking, but for such short notice, you and Abby did alright. It’ll work fine. Just get in place, stay calm, and do what you need to do.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I replied, voice low and muted. “You’re not the distraction.”
He offered me an evil grin and shot me a wink as he saddled up to the bar and plopped down onto a stool. “That’s the benefit of being the snarky, dreamboat sidekick,” he said, before turning to the bartender—a paunchy Accipiter polishing a dull silver mug with a dirty cloth—and ordering a pair of drinks. The bartender grunted a half-hearted acknowledgment, swiped the handful of coppers Cutter laid out on the counter, and pulled out a couple of hearty pewter steins full of foamy red-gold mead.
“I get all the reward with very little risk—being a follower isn’t all bad.” He forced the drink into my hand and gave me a curt shove toward a narrow set of steps leading up toward the balconies. “Now, go get ’em, friend.”
