hold himself upright. Solon gave Martin his shoulder, and hoisted him up, “Are you hurt, Martin?”
Martin slowly shook his head, “No, the mace barely scratched me. I just need to catch my breath.”
Martin clapped Solon on the shoulders as a thank you and walked on his own towards Raven and the approaching horses. “Nice work,” Martin raised an eyebrow at Raven, noticing the securely bound (and gagged) guard slumped and tied over the back of his stallion, “Never knew you were so good with a rope, Raven. We’ll have to discuss that later when we have a moment.”
Raven laughed at him, “Perhaps we should be thinking about that once we’re clear of the city, rogue.”
“Hey, this little ambush did have one big payout,” Solon smiled, and waved “his” new Repeater at Martin and Raven, “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted one of these.”
Martin laughed, “Well, Solon, after seeing you just now, that contraption is definitely in the right hands. That was a hell of a shot at the first guard.”
“Watch me dance and you shall learn, Meffini,” Solon grinned.
“Old one, eh? Be careful Laffala or this old one will remind you why you don’t want to be on his side of the argument,” Martin pointed at the unconscious guard on the back of his horse.
Solon’s grin quickly disappeared, and he mounted his horse, “Good point, shall we go?”
Martin made sure the guard was secure to the back of his horse, nodded to the group, and reared his horse towards the Keyarch gate. They passed under the massive gatehouse and into a tunnel leading through the curtain wall of Felkinrest. This lead out onto Vintner’s Way. The road was worn with wagon ruts and the footprints of many travelers, and Martin couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the fact that this too seemed unusually empty for this time of day.
Raven rode up beside him, “We stay this course until nightfall, and then turn north into Redwind Forest. Being that the forest road is along a trade route, we’re sure to find an Inn or two as we make our way through. The forest roads are not safe to travel at night.”
“Agreed. I would prefer to avoid any encounters with Reynard Wode and his band of miscreants for as long as possible,” Martin pointed out.
Reynard (as anyone in Kalia with working ears knew) was a notorious highwayman who prowled the Redwind Forest trade routes. There were many twists and additions to a now well perpetrated legend: That he was able to completely disappear as long as he was in the forest, that he robbed from the more unscrupulous merchants and provided food and shelter for poor travelers caught out on the road, and even stories of a more fantastical nature. Known as “The Green Wolf,” partly for his chosen refuge, and also for the complete inability for even heavily guarded caravans to escape him unscathed if they entered his sights, Reynard was easily the most long-lived (and successful) outlaw in Kalia.
“Well I, for one, would not mind a mug of ale after such an eventful afternoon,” Solon said, interrupting the silence, “Although it will definitely make for a good song tonight… Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to change it up a bit so I don’t give us away.”
Martin didn’t seem so sure, but decided against having the debate with Solon in the middle of the road. It was best right now, he knew to keep moving. “I simply can’t wait to hear the tale of Solon the Mighty and his deadly aim,” Martin jibed.
“You wound me, my friend! I would be sure to include the brave old man who hypnotized the guards with his ballet that would make a tavern maid envious,” Solon fired back.
Both Raven and Martin found themselves laughing uncontrollably at that remark as they continued down the Vintners’ Way. Solon glanced back towards Falkonrest, which was far behind them now, but still visible. He realized he had already started to miss the city, which had been his home for many years. After all, Solon thought to himself, I only just arrived after this last mission for Master Fynn. He resolved to put his foot down after this mission was complete and taking some time off.
Solon also couldn’t stop thinking about the fight earlier. Aside from Raven’s earlier description, Solon had heard plenty of rumors concerning the skill and training of the Order of Daggers. He had never dreamed they were fighters to the degree that he saw Martin demonstrate. Martin had taken on four highly skilled and trained guards with relative ease, and only suffered a bruise on his shoulder. His opponents had not been so lucky. Though one thing struck Solon as odd, and he decided to ask Martin about it later, specifically why he let the last of the guards go unscathed.
Martin turned his horse off Vintners Way and onto a small path, with Raven and Solon following close behind him. After a few minutes when he was sure they were out of sight of the main road, he dismounted his horse and secured him to a nearby tree. He hoisted the nearly stripped “guard” from the back of the horse and tossed him roughly to the grass.
The jolt was enough to wake the man. While the sleeping drug had worn off enough now that he could maintain consciousness, he still looked slightly groggy. Martin turned him over to a sitting position and clapped him upside the head. The man’s eyes went wide for a moment when he recognized the face of the man in front of him. He glared defiantly when he realized his hands and feet were securely bound.
Martin flexed his right hand back, releasing the mechanism that kept his wrist blade securely sheathed. On seeing the wickedly sharp and deadly blade, the guard blinked slowly and sighed. He was trained, Martin thought, most men would piss themselves at the sight of the Assassin’s wrist blade. Time to test your resolve, Martin thought.
Martin took a slow, deep breath, and suddenly his eyes flashed that yellow and red flame. He sliced off the gag that wrapped around the guard’s mouth in careful, horizontal sweeps. Each time removing a thin layer of cloth until he was satisfied the gag was fully cut away. Martin let his blood and thoughts flow normally again after waiting a second or two for effect. Whatever training the man may have had failed him when saw the blade move in a flurry of motion towards his face. He was visibly shaking now, “Gahlek damn you! Who in the frosted hells do you think you are dealing with?! Don’t do that again or I’ll—“
“You’ll what, friend? Let’s get a few things straight here. I’m the one asking the questions and giving orders, you’re the one giving the answers. Whether or not you ever leave here in one piece or end up like that gag there is up for me to decide. How you answer my questions will vastly determine how you leave this little palaver. Is that understood,” Martin asserted, waving the wrist blade in front of the man’s face, causing him to flinch, before Martin sheathed it again.
“Understood,” He said.
“Who are you, and why did you attack us?”
“I am Syr Merrin, Noble Guardsman of House Felkin—“
Martin backhanded him hard across the face, sending him reeling onto his back in pain. Martin pulled him back up to a sitting position, “I should mention, friend, that I absolutely will know every time you lie. Another little gift we receive in training. Try again, and think hard this time before you lie.”
Solon watched in stunned amazement as the guard’s demeanor changed to a look of cold determination. “I am Anish Enin azi-Okimbe, leader of The Cavern Rats, a mercenary band from Galeria. I was paid to capture and detain you and your friends until our benefactor could come and collect you.”
Martin finally recognized what it was about the man and the group that tipped him off in the first place. His pale skin andgolden hair, unusual for a “southerner” (much less the Baron Felkin’s royal guard,) and not to mention the blue diamond tattoo that was now clearly visible on his cheek, showed that they were indeed men from Galeria.
“Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it, Anish? Now, who is your benefactor that was supposed to, uh, receive us?”
Anish shook his head, “I don’t know, we were supposed to wa—“
Martin clapped him hard again, causing his ears to ring this time, though he managed to stay upright. “Shite, you,” Anish snapped, “I don’t know! We were supposed to
take you and wait for them at The Crimson Lion Inn to hand you off and get our payment.”
Martin scratched his chin. The man was telling the truth, he could see no lie in his expressions. “Fine,” Martin conceded, “how much were they paying you for this?”
Anish thought for a moment, “Fifty zen—“
Martin raised his hand threateningly, “Twenty-five zenari,” Anish corrected, realizing his mathematical error.
“Well Anish, you’re in luck,” Martin wagged his finger back and forth, “You already know me and my line of work. You also know an Assassin always honors a contract, correct?”
Anish’s eyes went wide with fear now, “Please, I was honest with you!”
Martin smiled at the misinterpretation, “Not you, you sell-sword idiot. You’re not my contract. But good, you do understand. So, I propose a new contract for you.”
Anish calmed down, “I find myself suddenly very receptive.”
Martin laughed, “First off, you sell your skills too cheap. Your men were a good challenge while I was… keeping things fair. Anyway, that aside. One hundred zenari.”
Anish’s eyes blazed with avarice, “I am listening. For what? If you need an escort I am your man.”
“Not quite,” Martin tilted his head, “But you’re on the right track.”
~~~Back to Top
Breton and Tzara, the