Bacon Macleod
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B3 Interlude 11 : Movement
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 21:30:03 +0000 UTCCinching his quilted robe tighter, Hanrick took a long sip of brandy and savoured the smooth burn that coated the back of his throat.
He stared mindlessly into the distance, sinking further into his favourite fireside chair as he gazed past his four-poster bed — losing himself in the star-speckled night sky visible through one of his many windows.
Beneath the twinkling lights, a pale imitation of the heavens beauty spilled out across the ground in the form of thousands of ward-lights. It made it hard to relax — how was he supposed to enjoy a moment of peace in his quarters while Deadacre screamed for his attention through the windows that lined every wall?
Probably intentional, he guessed. Bloody self-aggrandizing bastard of an ancestor probably thought it a ‘duty of the station’ to never have a moment to forget the poor sods who lived outside the keeps wall.
He’d bet his left leg that old Jansile Frent, first of his name, never accounted for dealing with a damned apocalypse.
Between the refugees, the suspicious beast activity, and the guild turning the whole damn city upside down just to see what fell out of its pockets, he was on the verge of a nervous bloody breakdown, he was.
Shaking his head, Hanrick slammed back the rest of his tumbler and reached for three-quarters full bottle sitting on his reading table. Brightvalley, and a vintage old enough to be his grandfather — and that wily rat had made it to the second tier, so it was old indeed. Properly worked alchemical distillery, that one, so it kicked as good as it tasted.
Pouring another, he ignored the platinum’s worth he spilled on the floor in favour of another drink.
Knuckles wrapped on glass.
Hanrick shrieked, tossing his crystal tumbler and irreplaceable brandy halfway across the room — right onto his bed.
He snapped to the noise, voice raising as he remembered to call for his guards. It had come from his balcony — was it an assassin?
His knees grew weak as he took in the giant of a man standing by his balcony, linen clothes billowing in the night wind.
He froze.
“Stop acting like a startled rabbit and open the damn door, Hanrick!”
Wait. That voice.
“Rieker?!” he questioned, doubling over in relief as he recognised the guild master.
“Just open the damn door!”
Hanrick hurried over, undoing the latch to let the man — and the cold — in.
“Wait. How’d you even get up here? We’re five floors up! More importantly why the fuck are you in my bedroom in the middle of the night?!”
Rieker grinned. It was a wide thing — hungry and predatory, like a bloodhound that had caught a scent.
“I need to mobilise the guild — Middle Iron and up — and to do that I need ye to sign this writ of Special Authority.” Rieker shoved a rolled up leaf of paper at his chest, leaving him to flounder in an attempt to grab it.
“What? Why in the blazes would you need to do that?”
Somehow, the guildmaster’s grin got even hungrier.
“I found the fuckers. Some of them, at least. Now bloody sign it.”
…
Stark kicked up his legs, enjoying a rare quiet moment of peace as he reclined in one of the high-backed overstuffed chairs that were scattered in front of the room's fireplace. A bunk room might have been a cheap way to stay in a well furnished inn like the Iron Tankard, but it meant he rarely got a break from Jon’s incessant prattling.
Bastard was lucky he was such a bloody good rogue, or he’d have thrown him out of the team a decade ago.
Thankfully, the man had succumbed to his own endless reserves of energy. When he, Inra, and Loryn had wanted to relax upon their return to the city, Jon had lasted all of fifteen minutes before he’d rushed off to the guild to sink a dozen pints and spin some tall tales.
The door to their shared room slammed open.
“Stark! Stark!”
He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. It hadn’t even been a bloody hour — he might have loved the man like a brother, but he sure as fuck wanted to punch him like one too.
“By all that the mother Erentha holds holy, if you don’t stop shouting I will fry you where you stand!” Inra scowled, sitting up in her bunk as a crackle of electrical mana sparked across her fingers.
“Oh, put a cork in it, Inra! This is important.”
Stark could only sigh in defeat as a flash of golden light cut across the room with a loud pop and drew a startled yelp from Jon.
“Hey! That was uncalled for.”
Practically snarling back, Inra pulled herself out of her bed and stalked to one of the remaining chairs, her tangled black hair sticking out a dozen different directions.
Groaning at all the ruckus, the final member of their team was roused from her nap.
“Elyntyr’s tit’s, it’s right impossible to get a full night's sleep around you lot — half a mind to pay fer me own room.” Loryn said.
Stark rolled his eyes. He knew as well as she did that none of them slept alone any more — too many ambushes made it hard to get a good rest without one of them being awake.
Leaning an elbow on the fire’s mantle, Jon fixed them all with a grin as he waved his hand to cut off their complaints.
“Like I was saying, I’d been down at the guild, having a few pints with our old mate Yerrel — seeing as how we haven't been in town at the same time and all, I thought that I’d swap a few stories, see if he’d ran into a few beasties that we hadn’t — especially since we all know how much of a bitch it can be to find the right levelled creatures now that we’re mid Iron and all — it’s blood tough, but you’d never guess who decided to join — wait! Don’t! It was Shole — “
Another crackle of mana played across Inra’s fingers again.
“Jon, you have two seconds.”
Jon paled.
“Rieker’s calling us in! And Shole’s team, the Hooligans, Brightward’s crew, Jensmi’s team, and—”
Jon’s prattle continued, every extra name he listed drawing Stark’s eyebrows further and further up. That was…that was everybody, or it might as well have been. Two thirds of every active duty Iron and Steel team currently in the city.
He opened his mouth.
“Wait!” Jon held up a hand before he finally took a breath. “Wasn’t finished — rumour is the old guildmaster’s even calling in fucking Bronwyn’s team.”
Stark paled. Bronwyn? He was the head of Deadacre’s only Silver crew — and the bloody operational lead for the chapter, no less! No one had seen them since last bloody summer! They’d been out in the field constantly, culling every major threat that had cropped up around the city since the first fucking day of the phase shift. If Rieker was recalling them…something serious was going down.
“When?” Loryn asked, already standing to move to her carefully packed away heavy-plate.
“Now!”
“What?! By the bloody gods Jon, that should have been the first thing out of your mouth! Inra, zap him.”
“With pleasure.”
“Wait, what?! Don’t!”
Stark ignored the affronted yelp as he leapt to his feet and ran for his bunk. Something like this? They needed to be geared. Never in his fifteen years of delving for the Deadacre guild had a summons go out for this much of a force.
Something that was bad enough that the guildmaster had recalled Silvers? A team in the one-twenties like his own was going to be neck deep in shit.
He hauled on his light-plate as fast as he could, working the straps like they owed him money. Thank the gods he hadn’t stripped out of his gambeson yet.
Five minutes later he was out the door, halberd in hand as he sprinted the five blocks to the guildhall as fast as his feet could carry him — his team right next to him.
They formed up outside the front door, clearly seeing the milling crowd in the common room. Much like their own, half the people there seemed frazzled and half put together — but not one had been so green as to come kitted up for anything less than an all out war.
“Been too long since I cracked a few skulls — shall we?” Loryn nodded to the entrance.
“Pretty sure I saw you smack something with that hammer of yours literally this morning, Loryn.” Jon replied.
“Like I said, too long.”
Stark sighed, brushing a gauntleted hand through his hair. Some days being a team leader felt like herding cats.
He led the way in, the interior of the common a riot of loud questioning and nervous tension. They barely had to wait for five minutes before they were silenced by a sharp clap from one of the guild’s receptionists — though, notably not Ro.
“Right! Everyone’s here — file into the meeting hall on the third sublevel, please. You’ve all been here long enough to know where it is. Rieker’s already waiting for you.”
The mood was pensive as sixty of the strongest delver’s in the entire city made their way to the back of the hall and down the stone stairs. This didn’t happen — they all knew that. Stark couldn’t help but think that it had to be related to the sudden beast migration that had happened to the east of the city.
They’d been hunting out west, but he’d heard of the sudden unnatural change that had overtaken every beast for dozens of leagues.
What else could it be?
He filed into the room, immediately locking onto the figure who stood in the middle of the stage that stretched across the back room. He looked furious. Radiated the power of the second tier — a pressure that made him want to buckle to his knees.
No. Not the beast’s — simple monster’s wouldn’t make the famously stoic guildmaster look like he was ready to rip someone's head off and drink their lifeblood. This was so far beyond his pay grade he didn’t even know what to think.
Shifting his attention to Ro only heightened his nerves. She stood behind Rieker in her normal spot. Her normal fire was gone, replaced by a cold focus that swept across the room. A chill shot through him as her eyes met his own. Quiet. Her goldname, only less intimidating than Rieker’s own to those who had not heard of her exploits.
Giving his team a nervous look, he led the way to one of the many tables that dotted the room. Finding an empty spot with four chairs — better to leave the bigger tables for the teams of five or six — he took a seat and waited, every second bringing more questions to his mind.
He didn’t have to wait long. It was still nerve wracking — this was Rieker. The fucking Wardog, and it certainly seemed like someone had roused the fury that had earned him that moniker. He hoped whoever they were, that their deaths would be swift.
“Thank you for coming.”
Rieker’s voice cut off every remnant of noise in the hall.
“One of our teams has been taken, for the crime of growing too fast and knowing too much. Sold out by two of our own, to a criminal, who then passed that information onto a crime lord with ties to the Onyx — a man by the name of Old Yon.”
What?! Someone had been grabbed? By the fucking Onyx? What the hells were they doing in Deadacre? Last he’d heard they were only really a problem in the Dukedoms and Wight’s End.
Stark’s mind raced, trying to piece together who it could have been. It didn’t take him long — only one team fit the picture. The enigmatic new kids — the suicidal pair who delved with a warbeast. There’d been an awful lot of whisper’s amongst the old-guard about how long those kids had been spending time in the guild hall. Stick around for enough decades and you got pretty good at sniffing out prodigies.
They’d been taken, had they? A shame, a crying shame. He’d hoped he would never have to kill another man again, but it seemed like it wasn’t to be. He tightened his grip on the haft of his halberd
A low growl of mutters spread through the room, mirroring his own anger.
Rieker gave them all a satisfied nod.
“Good, you’re angry — I would bloody well hope so. I’ve hand picked all of you because you are veterans. Those who have proven again and again that you are hardy, strong, but more than anything else honorable and trustworthy.”
Stark sat up straighter, a thrum of pride straightening his spine.
“We’ve uncovered detailed information that will lead us straight to one Old Yon. Our primary goal is to capture him, or his lieutenants who can lead us to where our guildmates are being held. Everyone else will only be spared if they surrender. Ro can explain more.”
Ro stepped forwards, pulling an inscribed crystal from a storage device. A moment later, light projected above it, showing a detailed diagram of the city — and a massive network of utterly unfamiliar tunnels and structures beneath it.
Twisting her hands, Ro gestured upwards, enlarging the diagram so that it was easily visible to all in the hall. The projection zoomed in, a handful of small spots centred around the poorer sections of the city glowing in gold.
“First things first — we’ve learned the city is built on Empire foundations.”
A nervous grumble set out through the room.
“Thankfully not a war installation — strictly civilian settlement. However, this map is incomplete, so don’t get complacent. These sections here are the entrances we will be targeting.” She gestured to the glowing spots on the projection. “Iron will encircle and prevent anyone escaping who tries to flee, while Steel will invade and subdue anyone they find.”
With a flick of her finger, three spots deep within the warren of tunnels started to glow.
“These are your targets. As Rieker said, no killing if they surrender — they’re most likely bound for the noose anyway, so no point getting the governor all nervous about an uprising.”
“What about us?”
Stark snapped to the voice. It came from a tall man with silver hair, his hardened physique bound in light-plate enameled a forest green. Bronwyn.
Ro grinned, baring her teeth. “You’ll be with me and Rieker, pretty boy. We’re aiming for the head of the snake, but he’s a slippery one, so we’ll need speed.”
Bronwyn nodded and took his seat, happy with the explanation. Bloody hells — to have that strength. Stark would be happy to sell his life’s savings if he got to see Rieker and Ro in action.
Ro turned her attention back to the assembled delvers.
“I’m glad all of you came in your gear, because we strike in a few hours, and none of you are leaving this room until we do. We’re taking no risks of this leaking.”
Stark grinned, feeling his blood heat. As if any one of the old dogs in this room hadn’t known what was going to happen the second they’d gotten the call — the quarry might have been a surprise, but not the hunt.
“On the off chance you are missing something, my assistants will be coming through soon with a dossier for each leader, explaining your objectives in more detail. You can ask them to fetch your things.”
She paused, before giving the room a single nod. “This is a personal matter, for Rieker and I, so I appreciate that you all turned up on such short notice — this favour won’t be forgotten.”
His eyebrow shot up. Personal? They’d gotten attached — those kids had to be way more special than he had assumed.
This Old Yon prick better hope those boys weren’t dead in a ditch, because he shuddered to think what Ro would do if they were.
Mutters spread across the room, growing louder as Ro stepped back to let them confer amongst themselves.
Loryn kicked her leg up onto the table, nearly cracking it under the weight of her fingerwidth heavy-plate. She hefted her two-handed warhammer into her lap.
“Guess I will get to kill a man with this beaut before I replace it. Hasn’t been the same since the bloody bandits started running scared twenty levels ago, the cowards.”
A/N: bit of a longer one than usual, since I enjoyed the hell out of writing this chapter
Comments
Kronos
Great chapter!
Antonio
It is always good when even the author enjoys writing the chapter!
Sagidec Ursidae
Nice work contrasting backwards to show how grizzled and hardy level 100's are seen as in the frontier. Stories tend to find it hard with such perspectives when the protagonists outpace the norm.
Kevin Boyer
Genuine excitement every time I see Interlude in my notifications
Joshua Little
Thanks for the chapter.
Books And guns
Man, this is my favorite chapter so far. I cannot wait to watch the Guild tear through Old Yon.
