The Bloodied Shield

by Michael McKenzie

  But Razzar had completely missed his target. All that was left had been Sol'reve's laughter, echoing in the darkness.

  The Elf then turned, snatching Fel up by their throat and hoisting them up off their feet. The man dropped their torch and tried to pull their sword, both awed and surprised by Razzar's speed and power. The Elf smashed the weapon out of their hand as if Fel was a child trying to present a stick.

  Before he could gag and black out, Fel found himself forced to his knees again, looking up into the baleful, glowing eye of Razzar the Red. The Fox perched itself on Razzar's shoulder and stared down as well, their teeth bared their fur bristling. Despite trying to struggle, the swordsman found himself just as unable to move as he had been in Sol'reve's presence.

  However this time, it was a hand clenching their throat by something that Fel was becoming acutely aware that the myth of Razzar may very well be fact.

  "Your life is in your hands right now, Indbore Fel." The Fox snarled sinisterly. And the Elf leered over Fel, and yet even with Razzar's face obscured beneath a scarf, there was an intensity that reflected a rage that put a real fear of dismemberment and death on Fel's face.

  "Repeat, and slowly, exactly what Sol'reve said to you and pray to the Gods that whatever you say I believe or I will send you straight to the Pantheon of Darkness right the fuck now."

  <><><><><><><>

  "So how many we got?" Kral asked a fellow dwarf across from him as he wiped the blood from a dagger in hand.

  "They arrested bout hundred plus. Some of'em in bad shape, but they're up, angry and hungry for a fight."

  "Good good, we be sure they don't know about the little jailbreak?" Kral questioned further and looked down at a dead guard at his feet.

  Kral and his dwarven kin were standing among several dead Guards who served as jailers for the Dock District Prison. It had a hundred small, confined cells with cots for two prisoners to sleep and a bucket to relieve themselves. It was cramped, even by dwarven standards, and the thick iron bars would have taken a considerable amount of effort to cut through.

  There were no cells lining the outside walls, with the only light source being torches illuminating the cells through the bars. The stone walls were unpainted and bland, and he could feel inches of dirt between his leather soles and the stone at his feet.

  Using their skills from the organization that relied heavily on going unseen and unheard, they had scaled the walls and killed all of the guards. The ones who paraded now on the outside were Mercenaries dressed in the dead Guard's uniforms.

  The ones inside were left were they died.

  "None got out, me made doubly sure or that army o'guards on the march to da harbor be on the way here."

  "Oh aye, knew that was comin'. Warstalkers and the Brigand element don't right mix much. A hard kill too. Sent at least five times the number we be gatherin at the half breed arse once a'fore." Kral snorted, putting the knife away.

  "Only managed to kill a Priestess and the damned Orc. Apparently, that half-blooded demon bastard and the human managed to drive away the rest a'fore the Royal Army came. Crippled the Warstalker bitch and we been thinkin' she was done."

  "Losin' an arm didn't slow'er down any."

  "Shoulda' used Dwarves." the other offered. "We woulda ended da problem a'fore it was a problem."

  "Oh aye, ain't no doubt bout that. But we gots to prod at the dangerous ones a bit, risk'n'reward aye? Best use others to do the nasty stuff so we don't lose a hand."

  "And that patron'o'theirs? The Jeria." Kral chuckled, swatting the chest of the dwarf across from them. "That one be a rabid Worg. We gonna jab him with a spear'n'he ain't gonna know who did what. He gonna take out the wrong group, which helps me and us in the end."

  "Ye sure bout that?"

  "Oh aye, aye aye aye." Kral nodded, gesturing for them to head down the corridor. "Go get whoever passes fer a leader for this louts. We give'em the weapon'n'armor out of the lock up, wrap'em all in green and turn'em loose."

  The dwarf offered a salute and jogged away, barking orders to other dwarves, all in dark leathers and geared with an assortment of knives both long and short, to free the prisoners.

  Kral peered down at the dead guard at their feet and offered the human corpse a kick as a smile spread across his weathered, gray-bearded face. The dwarf was missing a tooth, and there was a fading bruise across the left-hand side of his face where someone with a club had bashed it before prying Triden from Kral's fingers at the Stone Samurai Tavern.

  "Aye." the elderly dwarf laughed softly. IIt was a mirthless, hollow sound that went further than a whisper. "Gonna jab that bastard with a spear, get'em good and blind. And if Ossin be smilin'? Me get that boy'o'mine and his filthy breed with da thrust."

  Chapter 17

  The battle would be a bloody affair.

  Jeria had ridden to be within a good hundred feet of a line of Kallaxians wearing Samurai Wargear, spears and swords, and he could make out bows somewhere in their rear. They had filed from the storehouse as soon as the line of Rilstarin Royal Infantry had turned down the same street.

  The Storehouse itself had been hastily fortified and barricaded. They were expecting a fight.

  Slipping off the Worg, Jeria patted Grok and stepped forward. He was soon joined by Charles and Grigs who had dismounted from their own horses.

  "Some of them aren't even Kallaxian." Jeria observed with a raised brow. "It seems there are Mercenaries bolstering these ranks."

  "Standard offer of clemency?" Charles asked, glancing towards Jeria.

  "Where was the clemency for the Family that had been murdered. For the people who stood up to them. For the people displaced?" Grigs replied with a familiar edge to his voice that Jeria recognized.

  Hatred.

  "Where was the mercy for my Mother or her children she left behind when Kral had Fel kill her?" Grigs continued, looking to Charles.

  "These men did not kill your Mother." Charles frowned, though he did draw his sword.

  Grigs drew his own. "No, but they are here now. And one of these bastards slew a Mother, and her children."

  "Asking them for surrender would be a mistake." Jeria offered his own opinion. "Some of them are Kallaxian, and they maybe Samurai. Demands for surrender and their weapons are an insult."

  The Rilstarin Lord nodded, "But not all of them are Samurai?"

  "Weren’t that many around me when I feel at Kynco Valley." Jeria offered a shrug, "But I was stone and beneath the mud for fifty years. Much could have changed."

  "I could be wrong about the Akuza, the Uginaga Samurai, and everything up to this point. Yet I am certain of three things. They are an armed mob, they obviously do not want us in that warehouse, and they are openly brandishing weapons to the Royal Army and the Lord ot the District."

  Jeria glanced at Charles, “If I had been the one in charge, I would have attacked already.”

  "But there is a chance that I could appeal to those who aren't looking to fight?" Charles questioned, raising a brow.

  "And there is Rebekka." Jeria rolled his eyes, offering a gesture of dismissal. "Do whatever passes for civility. But it is a mistake."

  Charles stepped ahead, surveying those before him with an air of contempt. "You are surrounded and you are outnumbered by City Guard and the Royal Infantry of Rilstar. Lay down your weapons and surrender!"

  "Why?!" shouted someone within the green ranks. "We didn't do anything wrong!"

  "You are wearing the mark of known criminals who have harassed and murdered-"

  "-no proof-!" someone else shouted, and Jeria noted they were Rilstarin in accent.

  "-innocent people as well as Citizens of Westwatch. By order of the King of Rilstar, you are to lay down your weapons and submit to questi-"

  Jeria moved around Charles in an instant, his sword escaping its scabbard and slicing upward, knocking an arrow from its course for the Jakuul Lord's heart.

  Charles balked a moment, as well as others who were rather surprised, ev
en the men that stood against them.

  "Shields!" Charles shouted as he ducked into an archway. Jeria followed suit, kicking in the door and dragging the Rilstarin Lord in behind him.

  Grigs made a mad dash for the same building leaping through the Window as Grok made it well within the alley adjacent.

  Just as they all found cover, arrows rained from the sky. White feathers bouncing off the cobblestones and embedding into the woodwork audible thunks.

  Jeria pushed Charles from the door, looking back to the Infantry who had just managed to get their shields up in time. There were a few cries of pain, more than a few gaps in their formation where an arrow found a foot or someone had been too slow.

  There were horses down, wounded and neighing in pain. The one Charles had ridden here had some armor, and there were a few arrows lodged into its back, but it managed to trot off, having no rider to deter it.

  Grigs fuming drew Jeria's attention, and Grok offered a bark to indicate that they were fine, followed by a growl.

  Grigs stood, checking himself for scratches and hurts, then ripped his cloak off, revealing the armor he wore was still damaged from a previous battle with the Invaders. Again, the sword they had named Bob was in hand, and they even managed to keep a hand on one of their short swords.

  They were hungry for a fight.

  Another wave of arrows clattered across the cobblestone road, and Jeria snarled. "Dirty fucking Akuza."

  "That was mighty low." Charles agreed, watching the arrows come in again.

  "They were aiming to kill you." Jeria offered with a snort. "Kill the leader and the rest will fall into place, it's a favorite tactic."

  "We have to kill them all, Nephew." Jeria shot over his shoulder. "We can't let them go. Not any of them."

  “We need prisoners, Uncle.” Charles shot back, and extended a finger towards them. “Keep that in mind, dead men can’t be questioned.”

  “As long as none esca-”

  "-out back my Lord!" someone called. A commoner. Jeria glanced around at their surroundings and found it to be some sort of bakery. One of many spread out across the city. As a baker and their staff of employees cowered in the store, keenly aware of the fighting that was about to take place, one had stood and pointed towards the rear of this establishment.

  The pointing finger directed Jeria towards a window at the back.

  The it was a narrow side street perhaps used more as an alley then a travel route. There had been enough room for four men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The buildings across from the Bakery had to be another set of stores of some kind, with faded blue paint that had long peeled off the wood and their allies blocked off.

  Out of the window, Jeria could make out green pauldrons, Kallaxian in design.

  They had something silver shouldered, and they were marching professionally, their eyes locked forward. It was a force moving to flank the Infantry. There was no mistake this time as Jeria saw the intensity in the eyes beneath their mempo.

  Samurai.

  "Trap!" Jeria hissed, pulling Charles towards the Door. "Order the Attack! Let none escape!"

  As Charles was about to question what was going on, what proof that was had, Jeria had already acted. The Rilstarin Samurai put his hands over his head, and threw himself out the window.

  Charles scowled at the man before turning towards Grigs. "Watch his back! I'll send men in a moment!"

  "Are you doing what I think you are?!" Grigs asked, rushing to his feet.

  "Yes.' Charles frowned as he removed his gloves. "Go!"

  Charles stepped out into the street, his mouth twisting with words of arcane power, his fingers dancing before him. Stopping in the center of the cobblestone street, the Rilstarin Lord turned sharply towards the Samurai Formation and thrust his hands out over them.

  There had been a volley of arrows incoming. They were in flight, streaking towards the Royal Infantry.

  A crackling explosion erupted from Charles' hands as bright streaks of lightning screamed towards the arrows. The cheap metal, wood, and feathers disintegrated in mid-air, and as the magic shot from one arrow to another, none reached the ground.

  Instead, there was an ash cloud that drifted off with the breeze from the sea.

  Charles drew that sword at his hip. It was new, stamped with the Family crest at near the hilt of a soft steel blue blade.

  As the Akuza, and even the Royal Infantry behind him, recovered from the shock of a mage in their presence, Charles again spoke softly, drawing two fingers across the longsword.

  Lightning crackled and danced up the blade, coating it in a blue light.

  Charles Jackuul did not simply go to Lerst to be a simply envoy of Rilstar. They had gone to study and learn spellcraft far from the prying eye of others who would try to shame him, and the Jackuul Family for it.

  Now people were in danger, and Charles had no shame.

  Turning slightly to regard the infantry behind him, Charles held up the glowing sword above his head.

  "For the People of the Port!" Charles shouted at the Infantry. "For the City Liege! For the King!"

  Charles levied his sword before him towards the men in green armor.

  "Attack!"

  And the Royal Army surged forth.

  <><><><><><><>

  Tackling a green-clad Samurai, and rolling to his feet, Jeria found himself in the midst of men wearing Kallaixan Wargear, with most wielding Subspikes.

  Though they were surprised, they quickly began to surround Jeria, discarding the Subspikes for the Katana.

  The New Shadow of Westwatch did not trade words or banter. He did not hesitate or contemplate that he was alone in this side street, choked with an indeterminable amount of men brandishing steel.

  As soon as the Masamune had escaped from its scabbard, even as Jeria had risen to his feet, one of theirs fell clutching at their wound Jeria had given them.

  Turning sharply, Jeria cut down another who sought to exploit their exposed back. A cry had Jeria cant his head in time to see a black blur emerge from the same window.

  Grigs impaled a man with both of his swords and shoved them right up into the building across the alley. Even before the Tiefling could pull Bob from the fatal wound they inflicted, what could be seen of their victim's flesh had turned an unhealthy shade of blue.

  All men paused then to regard the crumbling remains of the man Grigs had slain, even Jeria who almost turned fully around. The man cracked like shattered glass along his midsection, and frozen pieces that struck the ground gave off a foggy haze.

  Yet the Tiefling did not seem to care how powerful that black, frost trailing weapon was. Instead, they turned towards the Samurai who had been at Jeria's back, marching at them in a fashion that sparked a small sense of pride in their on looking Father in Law.

  Then Jeria turned himself, grinning from ear to ear as he lunged at the men at his fore.

  Grigs focused outward instead of inward. The Master Thief could not help it. He was angry and disgusted and had no real way to aim his ire at the man who he felt responsible for causing it. The Tiefling had always reasoned he was not much of a Fighter. They were a Thief, good at what they did having never been caught with anything he ever took.

  Yet here he was, not only parrying sword strokes from professional soldiers but using the magical properties of a weapon Grigs never really trained with like he had it in his possession his entire life.

  The black-clad, violet-eyed Tiefling was shattering swords made brittle by the deep temperatures of 'Bob'. It cut through armor as easily as a cleaver and Grigs used that as well, not aiming for the weak points, but hacking away at them with Bob as his steel short sword kept their weapons at bay.

  Grigs parried, and he danced around their attacks, though not coming out unscathed. A katana managed to bite more than just leather on the Tiefling's thighs, just above the knee. He stumbled, barely able to find his footing as he rose and struck back at the man who injured him, who fell clutching at their own freezing wou
nds.

  Yet even as the other Kallaxian Samurai attempted to capitalize on the stumbling Tiefling, Grigs had ducked beneath a unified thrust and slashed out with that wicked, Black weapon. Several men fell over clutching at frozen stumps, their missing leg quickly freezing into the wet cobblestone. Others staggered back against their comrades, crying out in pain and fear at the loss of sensation of their legs that had only been touched.

  As they recovered, being pulled to the side by sympathetic comrades with others taking their place, Grigs managed to stand with a pained grunt. There was a burning pain in his knees as Grigs forced himself to stand. The wound across his thighs was not deep. It was cut, but it was there, it hurt, and he was bleeding.

  Yet Grigs ignored it. He was not done yet. How could any of these people murder a child? How could any of these people willingly serve someone who ordered the death of an Innocent Family?! The Tiefling gritted his teeth and stepped forward.

  They, the Samurai, all stepped back.

  There was no smile on his lips or a face twisted in rage. There was a look of determination. A dogged, tired expression filled with grim purpose. Yet there was an anger in those violet eyes as Grigs’ stared at them all. That rage that refused to surface on that black face.

  As soon as Grigs believed he could manage the pain, he renewed his assault.

  On the other side of the alley, Jeria offered no quarter and did not relent. Where Grigs had set himself a pace to keep the Enemy Samurai before him, Jeria danced amongst their foes like a fiend.

  Slashing, striking, kicking, and laughing at their misery, fear, and panic, Jeria frightened the Samurai just as much as the Black Sword wielded by the demonkin.

  Unlike Grigs, who wielded a weapon that flash froze the blood before it could escape the body, the Masamune did not share that trait. Life fluids sprayed across every surface that it could reach. The cobblestone, already damp and dirty, was become slick with red water. Though the Masamune could easily bite through most unenchanted armor with shocking ease, Jeria guided the weapon to where the armor would be thinnest.