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Book 6: Chapter 27 - A Parting Blow
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 14:09:22 +0000 UTCBeyond Narilmu’s northern walls, the jungle broods like a green ocean, forever hungry. Its canopy hides ancient ruins from before the Cataclysm; their empty halls a place of many other mysteries.
Dawn there smells of rot and orchid spice; dusk hums with unseen wings that bear fever on their whispers. Even the native Goblin tribes tread lightly, for vines move when no wind blows and pale eyes bloom amid blossoms brighter than blood. Adventurers speak of gold, scholars of lost histories and powerful artifacts, yet every map ends in damp blankness where the trees begin, the only safe passage the Giant’s Path that cuts through the green hell.
It is a place even I fear to tread.
- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.
The man who returned with the steward Samir was a strutting peacock, puffed up with borrowed pride, garbed in silk too fine for his bearing. Jewelled rings winked upon every finger he lifted to fuss at an imagined speck of dust. Every gaze—servant, notable, guard, and perfumed court‑lady alike—swivelled to the newcomer. I studied the lad’s stride: too quick, as though fearful of being late for a revel; too shallow, as though afraid the polished tiles might sully his slippers. Pride and uncertainty warred behind his weak eyes. Seeing me, colour drained from his cheeks, yet stubborn vanity squared his shoulders once more.
I turned, just enough, to address the broken figure slumped upon the throne. “Old man,” I called, voice carrying to the far corners, “you have not yet told me the name of your heir.”
It took Teshik a heartbeat to claw his thoughts from whatever dark place they wandered. His lips moved soundlessly before a hoarse rasp emerged. “My first‑born,” he said, “my heir, Zhezlik. Come here, my son.”
The youth stiffened at the pronouncement as though new chains had been buckled round his chest. I inclined my helm in mock courtesy. “Zhezlik,” I echoed, tasting the syllables like bitter fruit. “Step forward as your father bids.”
Automatically, the puffed-up youth advanced three reluctant paces, then halted where the dark blood‑sheen, from where I had thrown the functionary from before, lapped at the toes of his expensive slippers. He snarled and stepped away half a pace, lifted his chin, and found his voice.
“What nonsense is this? Who are you to disturb my father’s hall?” The thunder he aimed for ended in a tremor.
“I called you here so that you may save your city that your father swore an oath to protect,” I answered, lifting the visor of my helm, doing all present the honor of allowing them to gaze upon my countenance.
Around the room came titters of surprise. No doubt they had expected something more monstrous.
“You will swear, before this court, these witnesses, that you forfeit every claim, title, land, tax, and privilege that binds Narilmu to you and your blood.”
Murmurs rippled again like wind through dry reeds.
Zhezlik’s jaw sagged in disbelief. “Relinquish my birthright? For what imagined crime? Father, explain this madness!”
The Pasha lifted his head, sorrow swimming in miserable eyes. “It is no madness, my son. Our dealings with the Mer are judged treason by Her Sublime Majesty, Sultana Aelayah the First. Gilgamesh stands here as the First Tamkar of Al-Lazar, the arm and hammer of her justice.”
Zhezlik spun towards me, voice cracking like a boy denied a toy. “We are loyal subjects! I am a loyal subject! I have signed no treasonous pact, made no treacherous oaths; why should I pay for secrets I never knew?”
I let patience temper my tone, so that it sliced all the deeper. “Because, whelp, if you cling to inheritance, your father’s death will purchase nothing. The keep will burn, the town will feed crows, and your mother will cross the Shallow River alongside everyone else. All for the stubbornness of a son who cannot measure consequence, who cannot do his duty. Your ignorance is the only shield, the only reason, that I am considering sparing you.”
A brittle laugh burst from Zhezlik’s lips, echoing oddly against the vaulted quiet. “This is nothing more than empty threats and theatrics! Guards, seize this sand-blind fool!”
He flung an arm toward the nearest rank of spear‑bearing soldiers. Not one man moved. Their spears remained grounded, faces carved of oak. A bead of sweat meandered down Zhezlik’s temple.
With a cry, Lady Selma tore herself from the dais and hurried to her son, skirts trailing through spilled ink and wine. She flung her arms about him, whispering frantic pleas I did not care to listen to. The young Zhezlik clutched her back, eyes bright with confusion and fear, but the ember of pride still smouldered.
“I will not bow to this weak attempt at blackmail,” he snarled defiantly, finding a hidden shard of courage.
I sighed, the sound hollow. “Very well. Let this serve as a reminder, and a warning, that you hold these people’s lives in your hands. That your words have the power to kill.”
I looked around, my eyes settling on a grey‑bearded man in fine clothes. He was to be the object of my demonstration, a deliciously disposable target. With ghost‑swift motion, I crossed the marble, Improved Dash turning twenty paces to none.
The man’s eyes widened, his mouth shaping a shout of surprise, before my blade kissed the hollow of his shoulder. Power Strike made sure that the God-metal scarcely slowed as it sheared through flesh, ribs, and spine, exiting above the opposite hip. Blood fountained in a dark arc across tiles. The halves of him slid apart, one collapsing before the other realised it was dead.
A single shriek, raw and primal, burst from somewhere behind me; it was answered by many. Notables stumbled back, some retching, others burying faces in scented sleeves. Still, the guards held fast, discipline, or terror, rooting them where they stood. I casually flicked my sword, and crimson droplets rained upon silken gowns; iron’s sharp perfume flooded the air like spilled festival wine.
You have gained 3 experience.
“That was mercy,” I announced, voice cutting through chaos. “The next obstruction will cost you someone you hold dear.”
I turned toward Zhezlik. He quaked, blood speckling his cheek like ruby freckles.
Teshik spoke then, voice a threadbare whisper. “My son… heed him. Spare Narilmu this ruin.”
Zhezlik looked from the bisected corpse to the silent guards, then to me. The weight of inevitability crushed him. Tears tracked across his cheeks. He sank to one knee, dragging Selma with him.
“I… Zhezlik, son of Teshik… hereby swear, before Divines and men, to relinquish every right and claim to the city and keep of Narilmu. I will bear no title, levy no tax, command no man within these lands henceforth.” His voice splintered, yet the vow was clear enough for all present.
I nodded, casting my gaze across the assembly. “You have all heard. This oath is sealed by witness and by blood already spilled. Let any who contest it share that dead man’s fate.”
None dared meet my eyes.
Silence heavier than lead followed. I faced the Pasha. The light limned the gaunt planes of his face, granting him the aspect of a weathered idol. He held my gaze without flinching.
“Do it,” he breathed.
I moved with the grace his death deserved. Cutting Leaf rose, edge gleaming. Selma’s sob tore the stillness. The blade lashed in a silver arc, and Teshik’s head sprang from his neck in a geyser of arterial red. It bounced down the dais steps, tracing a crescent of scarlet with each bound, until I pinned it beneath an armored boot. The body sagged sideways, robes soaking as the lifeblood pooled.
You have gained 15 experience.
I bent, seized the Pasha’s head by its grey hair, and raised it high, inspecting my work. A clean cut that would have made the most skilled of executioners jealous. Fen would have been so proud. Gasps rippled outward, and somewhere I spied an old woman fainting.
The act felt just, felt right.
Pivoting, I strode for the doors, footsteps sounding a funeral drumbeat. The guards parted before me, wordless. My boots left scarlet prints, a trail of reckoning. Behind me rose cacophony: Lady Selma’s keening, Zhezlik’s broken sobs, courtiers clamouring, for sense, for mercy.
None dared block my way or lay a hand upon me.
I found the men where I had left them, their heads tilting in silent question. The grisly prize dangling from my gauntlet answered all. Wordlessly, we stepped into the courtyard, where the late‑day sun blazed down, heedless of the bloodshed within. Looking up at the sky for a moment, I found my own spirit grow lighter. I had done my duty and played my part, played well the role of the unsung hero of this chapter of history.
For a heartbeat, I wondered what would become of this place, now headless. I grinned before the thought drifted off on the wind, and I let it go. Caring, I found, was as of late in rather short supply.
***
Not wishing to parade our trophy through the revels, one of the men, a soldier by the name of Kadir, produced a plain cedar coffer; we laid the Pasha’s head within, wrapping it in thick linen.
Around us, the festival thundered on, pipes skirled, dancers spun, and incense perfumed the air. All were blissfully ignorant of how close Narilmu had come to ruin. In a world as cruel as this one, ignorance could be a mercy.
By executing the local lord, I had, in my own fashion, protected the joy that they now enjoyed. The Sultana’s writ named only the keep and the Pasha’s blood, yet I knew Damien’s sellswords: once the fires of violence grow hot, they would feed it until the last embers die. Had I opened the gates to their appetites, the whole of Narilmu would have burned to ash and ruin. Something I was sure was planned by Aelayah to sate her need for spectacle.
Shamefully, I found that I did not wholly fault her, for her situation had forced her hand. The arithmetic of terror is cold but clean, and there is a certain elegance to such pitiless calculus.
We veered from the main thoroughfare, slipping into an alley, bound for the Mercenary’s encampment beyond the western gate. Halfway down that narrow spine of stone, the hairs on my nape rose. We were being watched. I knew it in my bones
I hissed the warning. Steel rasped in answer, blades bared, shields lifted. Our Scale of men would not be found surprised by attacks.
Halfway to the western gate, the world tilted.
A hiss sliced the hush, and dark figures spilled from the eaves above like spiders shaken from a branch. They fell in near silence. I counted two dozen shapes before weapons flashed. Why couldn’t life ever be simple?
“Shields!” barked the Sergeant, though the order was simply habit; the men of the Scale acted before the words left my tongue. Shields locked with a clap, forming a ridged shell.
Even as a curved dagger screeched off iron and wood, vanishing into the gutter, I began to summon a spell, delighting in the opportunity to wreak arcane havoc in such close quarters.
They continued to land before us, lean killers clad in soot‑black jerkins, faces masked save for their eyes with blackened blades. They thrust at joints and throats, seeking weakness. Yet their weapons were ill‑matched against good armor. One drove a stiletto at a soldier’s; the steel rang off metal and was turned, drawing only sparks. The soldier answered with a pommel strike that caved an eye socket.
Even so, surprise has its own weight. The bearer of the box staggered as a slim blade winked between the overlapping gorget scales at his neck. He choked, eyes glazing, and the cedar coffer slipped from his grasp. The attacker, a female shape with a crimson sash, snatched the box mid‑fall and spun away, seeking escape down a side passage.
Poison, swift as maid’s gossip, blackened the veins across the man’s throat. He sagged to his knees, lips foaming. I felt the vaguest pulse of guilt. Kadir was already lost; the Pasha’s head must never leave my sight.
I surged after the thief, Improved Dash, tearing through the space between us. Freezing Aura rushed from me, a breath of winter, sapping what speed she had. She glimpsed death looming and swerved, meaning to vault a rain barrel, but my gauntlet closed on her braid. This close, the unholy cold stole what little vigor she had left, and it was a simple matter to reclaim the cedar box. Leaving the would-be thief a chittering wreck, I scooped the box one‑handed and pivoted back into the melee.
It had been too easy, but I had to give her points for trying.
Surprise evaporated like morning mist, and with my Freezing Aura adding its chill to the contest, the alley had become a butcher’s playground. I stood and observed, letting the men have their own fun. One of the black clad men tried to attack me, but a lashing backhand reduced him to a broken pile of meat.
You have slain a human. 8 experience gained.
Detachedly, I watched a tall sellsword hamstring one of the attackers, booting him into one of his fellows’ circle; the other soldier finished him off with a precise stab. Two killers tried to retreat up the walls, clawing for window ledges, but a thrown knife pinned one through the calf, dropping him screaming onto his comrade’s back. My men were making short work of them. Six bodies lay strewn like broken marionettes before the remaining assassins felt the tide turn.
They fled as shadows do before a rising torch.
A mercenary threw another shaft, striking a retreating figure high in the shoulder, yet it was not enough to stop his climb. Had I not the Pasha’s head to protect, I would have followed them with my superior speed and slaughtered them all to the man.
“Leave them,” I ordered.
The Sergeant knelt over the dead man, two fingers pressed futilely to the dead man’s neck. “Fast poison,” he muttered, spitting in disgust. “Heart stopped before the blade came free. A coward’s weapon.
I nodded once, the only epitaph a sellsword was worth.
“What is this cold?” he added a moment later.
Smiling, I drew back my magic. “Battleshock,” I answered flatly. “You would do well to save such womanly questions for later.”
***
Overall, I would give myself a very well done for my performance this day. Nine of ten lives saved was not a bad result.
They stripped Kadir’s corpse of its purse and badge, laying him over some stacked crates. The men muttered a quick prayer over his corpse, carving out an entreaty on the wood and leaving some silver next to him, hoping that the priests would soon claim him. I doubted it very much.
“Double‑time!” the Sergeant barked once the bare minimum to honor a comrade had been fulfilled.
I handed the cedar coffer to someone else and went to the rear in case the attackers regained their courage. So we pounded westward, boots flashing through puddles of sunset light even as the soldiers scanned the heights.
Narilmu’s revel still thundered beyond our alley skirmish—pipes and drums and laughter—but now it sounded thin, almost mocking. The crowd parted before us, eyes round with questions that would find no answers tonight. Those who witnessed our passage ceased dancing, sensing our grim purpose.
Before we reached the gate, the soldiers sheathed their swords and tried to affect a more relaxed aspect. As we approached the exit, the guards recognized us and waved us through with smiles.
It had been a rather interesting day.
Comments
Mesa
At this point they are kind of would-be thieves
Hussar L
Sultana hired the assassins
