Cask stood at the head of the column as men jostled around impatiently. He stood, looking back over the three carts and tens of soldiers arrayed behind him. At the head of the column was Patzau Yohati’s personal guard, a retinue of six fierce looking soldiers and bannerman. They were the only soldiers wearing metal cuirasses. The rest of Yohati’s personal guard wore shells or metal scraps sewn over leather leg guards and helmets. It was a good tactic when fighting with shields, yet none of the men carried them. All wore wide-brimmed hats or helms to keep the sun off the skin. Behind the six elites were a dozen servants to pull and carry the cart. Inside sat Patzau Yohati, looking increasingly frustrated with the continued delays. Next to him sat his wife, Reah, but where the daughter had disappeared to Cask wasn’t sure.

In the second cart sat Aramuk and Ohacha. Like Yohati’s cart, a tent extended over the seats to keep the two princes comfortable in the shade. Lacking the space to seat more than just the two princes, Gaba’ké had elected to walk alongside the cart. With most of the fleet sailed on to Juking, only the small retinue that had come ashore that first day remained. Cask recognized each and every man and women. They were the best soldiers Cask had left. The only soldiers he had left.

The third and final cart in the column was reserved for their cargo. On the way to the auction house, that had meant the precious stones and ancestral heirlooms of the Krimasian dynasty. Now they had exchanged those treasures for gold. A lot of gold. Cask had watched the auction house attendants carry the heavy chests. Each gold coin was stamped with the Casoyan seal on one side and the eight-pointed star representing the guilds on the other. It was a fortune, even for a king. It would be enough to pay the men and fund several more years of. . . whatever it was they were doing these days. Rebelling? Cask realized wasn’t sure anymore.

If it weren’t for the guild’s gift of forty foot-soldiers, Cask would have advised against attending, despite the great profit. Two parallel rows of twenty soldiers would guard the short trip to Yohati’s estate. Some were armed with guild-issued spears and short swords but most carried the wooden ghata used for bashing in skulls. None in the escort wore shields. It seemed an oversight.

Cask looked around one last time for Lord Kulimas and Rolena. Neither had reappeared and now he was starting to grow concerned. Where the hell did they disappear to? Cask worried to himself. He flicked his sword out of its sheath with his thumb and the blade slid back in along the oiled sheath. It was a nervous tick. One he tried time and time again to kick.

The men had been ready for a long time now and the lack of movement was trending moral downward. Despite the early setting sun, the day was still hot. The sun saps all men’s strength. Even Cask felt it as sweat collected on the top of his head and clung to his brows. He wiped it away only for the sweat to return moments later.

“Swordsman” Patzau Yohati shouted at him. Cask looked over at the Patzau. Annoyance was written plainly across Yohati’s face. “I’ve had enough. Tell your princes were leaving” Yohati said flatly. “Whoever it is we’re waiting for isn’t worth this nonsense. They can stay behind if they damn well wish but my carts and my men are returning home with or without them.”

“Yes, Patzau” Cask said. Kulimas, Rolena, wherever the two of you are I hope know the way home. He walked down past the soldiers and approached the second cart.

“Patzau Yohati has instructed us to leave or be left behind” Cask said.

Aramuk cursed. “Lord Kulimas is his own man. He can do whatever he well wishes. But where is Rolena? What good is a hired sword if she’s not here when you need her.”

“Perhaps” Gaba’ké added, standing on the opposite side of the cart, “Rolena is with Lord Kulimas.”

Aramuk grunted disdainfully but didn’t argue. “Let’s get a move on then” Aramuk said.

“Where would you like me in the column, my prince?” Cask asked.

“Here” Aramuk said, “with us.”

“Perhaps” Gaba’ké interjected, “it be best that Cask remains with the soldiers guarding the silver. It would be a devastating blow if it were somehow lost along the way.”

“I thought the streets of Caso are said to be the safest in the world” Ohacha said.

“Safe to those walking down the street without a great fortune in their arms” Gaba’ké countered. “No place is free of greed.”

Yohati’s cart lurched forward and the soldiers began their march. As the column strode forward without him, Cask stepped into line at the rear and watched as the long precession moved at a slow pace onwards. Most of the Caso’s wealthy had already departed the auction. Even with them gone off to their homes and parties elsewhere, droves of people still filled the streets. All parted before Yohati’s grand procession.

The air was no longer humid, burned away by a long day of sun. The dry heat felt inescapable. It cooked you from above and then cooked the ground at your feet, making only shaded areas safe. Still, the precession moved through the winding streets, the sounds and smells of the market faded as they moved along quieter streets on their path home. Buildings loomed, casting long dark shadows over the men and women below; a welcomed respite from the sun’s gaze, but disorienting to the eye as bright spots contrasted with dark corners.

As Cask walked, the effect worsened until the shadows appeared to twist every so slightly with a subtle life of their own. It felt like the heat was melting his brain. His throat was parched now and he needed water. But at the same time, his unease grew. Something felt wrong and instinctually his senses heightened. He found his hand on his hilt, eyes scanning the dark corners that felt too dark.

He drew his blade in a split second as the first set of eyes appeared from the side alley on his right. First one, then two and then ten. All at once, a torrent of armed men appeared, each one brandishing a weapon: long knives, hand axes, crude handmade spears, ghata. One man even carried a set of shears. All carried makeshift shields, mostly made from wicker baskets and wood scraps. Cask flicked his wrist and the first attacker died by his blade. Other soldiers in the column hadn’t been as quick to react. Men clashed and the city’s soldiers buckled under the unexpected ambush. The servants carrying the rear cart dropped it as the soldiers before them were cut down and drawn into the fighting.

Chaos erupted and shouted filled the streets. Cask tuned the noise out. He focused on his immediate surroundings. The guild soldiers were better equipped, but not better prepared. The assault caught men unaware and they died in the street like livestock until Cask was among only a handful left. He was a fine swordsman, but no man can fight long while outnumbered. The thieves encircled Cask and the remaining soldiers and cut down anyone in their way. A quick twitch let Cask parry a slash from an attacker’s short sword and a second slash opened the man’s throat. A second attacker used the opening to stab forward with a spear only to find his left hand separated from the rest of him.

They had him cornered, yet none dared to attack. The three dead men and the handless man’s screams cemented their fear of him. Worse, Cask couldn’t press or escape either. There were too many, and so they stood at an impasse. A commitment to attack would mean death. None were willing, Cask included. He cast a glance up the column, waiting for support only to see it wouldn’t come. Spirits help us, Cask thought, as he saw the swarms of men and boys hacking their way through what was left of the soldiers in the column. Ohacha! Aramuk! Cask thought, belatedly. There was no way he could reach them. With Rolena missing, only Gaba’ké could protect them. All he could do here and now was protect himself and the chest of gold as best he could.

Gaba’ké walked at a leisurely pace. He was grateful for the comfortable shoes he had worn, opting for comfort over status. On the rough cobbled streets, his feet thanked him. He wished, for the first time, that he might have earned a place in that cart. He wasn’t a young man anymore and the long years were starting to catch up with him. He walked in line with the column, Aramuk and Ohacha on his right side, the line of city soldiers on his left. He had tried making conversation with the soldier beside him but the man didn’t speak Tralang, only repeating the phrase, “I don’t understand” to even the most common questions in a thick Casoyan accent.

Then he felt the softest of nudges against his agindan sense; like the softest breath on the back of one’s neck. Gaba’ké reacted on instinct and intuition. He turned inward, pushing all of his fortitude into his spirit and condensing it. His was the spirit of the earth itself. Of mountains, fortresses, and stone and his agindan reflected that solidity. With his spirit secured against attack, he channeled power through one of the vesseled spirits in his breast pocket. His spiritual power surged through the spirit and changed form like light through an optic or water through a funnel.

The very makeup of Gaba’ké’s body changed. His skin and bones hardened under the effects of his sorcery until as tough a rock. Danger danced at the edge of his senses, there’s an Aginjigaade lurking near by. His eyes scanned the sides of the street for some sign of the other sorcerer. It was very difficult to hide from another Aginjigaade, but never impossible. And some sorceries are best used at a distance. Gaba’ké braced for the Aginjigaade’s mental attack. It would come as a torrent of consciousness. He could protect his physical body exceedingly well, but non-Aginjigaade would never understand perpetual vulnerability having an agindan sense brought. It was both the source of an Aginjigaade’s greatest strength, and their most profound weakness.

Gaba’ké quickly scanned the alleyways and shop fronts looking for danger. He found it. Amongst the crowd, Gaba’ké spotted a familiar face. A dangerous face. He couldn’t place the man at first, but then the hawked nose and rough beard jogged his memory. He stared at the man he had seen watching the estate several days back. The man stared back at him with the same intense glare. Gaba’ké’s heart froze. He turned to give proper warning. This was an attack. “Aramuk!” Gaba’ké shouted. He turned to look upon his friend. To give warning, just as the first quarrel took his prince in the chest. A second quarrel followed the first with a sickening thud.

All occurred in an instant. Then the mental attack came. Gaba’ké was ready for it. Another’s consciousness slammed against his own. Fearing for Aramuk and Ohacha, knowing their safety was in his hands, Gaba’ké didn’t hold back. The full force of his own consciousness, honed over decades of experience, pushed back against his attacker. He felt the spirit of the Aginjigaade on the other side, as well as her fear as his counter attack pierced her defenses. Her consciousness faded in an instant, succumbing to his greater power. He couldn’t tell if he’d killed her or not. Right now, he didn’t care.

Free of the pressure on his spirit, Gaba’ké lunged into action. Ohacha sat next to his uncle’s body, staring at the twin shafts protruding from his chest. There was terror in his eyes. Gaba’ké followed the direction of the arrow shafts and saw the bowman on the rooftop. He leapt forward and reached out to protect Ohacha as a third arrow plunged into his outstretched arm. It buried itself in his hardened skin and despite the physical enhancement, pain flooded his senses. Bodkin tipped. Armour piercing heads. Gaba’ké yanked Ohacha down from the high seat, dragging him over his uncle’s dying body. Both men tumbled to the cobbled street. The boy fell and landed heavy on his lap, which was still hard as stone, just as a fourth arrow struck the seat where he had been seated.

Aramuk coughed violently. The arrows lodged in his torso pierced his lungs. He drew in painful wheezing breaths. Hell on earth, Gaba’ké cursed. He reached up to pull his prince down off the handcart to safety but he didn’t budge. If Aramuk could have, he would have screamed. Instead, the noise came out wet and muffled. It was inhuman. The arrows had pierced straight through Aramuk’s body and into the wooden backrest. The old prince went limp, and Gaba’ké wasn’t sure if he’d passed out or passed on. Ohacha reached for his uncle, desperation in his eyes and Gaba’ké pulled him back down into cover from the archer.

Men continued to pour from the side streets and alleyways on either side. The city guards reacted, drawing their weapons but the sheer number of attackers was staggering. Order yielded to chaos. Men fought and died. Screams of life silenced screams of death. Gaba’ké peered up and saw the bowman on the rooftop looking his direction. He ducked as another arrow exploded on the cobbled street behind him. Gaba’ké turned to see where the projectile had gone. If it had hit Ohacha. In turning, he locked eyes with the hawk-nosed man, who had just slain the last city guard in his way.

The man was terrifying. A born killer if Gaba’ké had ever met one. He was tall and muscular, and had dark eyes that seemed bent on destruction. His destruction. In mere seconds, the killer would be upon them. Aramuk, still slumped over, was as good as dead. Gaba’ké made the choice to leave his friend and protect Ohacha with his life. Instead of facing the attacker, Gaba’ké pulled Ohacha to his feet and drew the boy’s sword from its sheath, placing the blade in his hands. Ohacha grasped the sword with weak fingers.

“Your uncle is gone! Ohacha!” Gaba’ké shouted, “You must survive! Stay close to me and watch out for that archer.” Ohacha nodded silently. It would have to be enough.

Desperations breed mistakes. No person is immune to the crosswinds that are necessity and fear. Even those well-trained and experienced, when facing overwhelming circumstances, can succumb. So, it was with Gaba’ké of Ayaan. Trapped between the mountainous killer and the archer on the roof, he turned desperate. Fueled by a need to protect Ohacha above all else, he reached out with his agindan. Turning not to the vesseled spirits stored on his person, he needed something offensive. He needed a weapon. Gaba’ké dropped the physical enhancement and hastily selected a spirit from amongst the plethora in the vicinity. It felt like what he was looking for. He channeled his power through it.

He was hoping for a spirit that would allow him to manipulate the shape of the earth. Or one that would allow him to fire shards of stone like missiles, mowing down enemies like insects before heavy rains. The spirit he found felt like the latter. It felt right. Or at least close to right. And with little opportunity to truly test and investigate its nature, he counted instead on experience and luck. But desperation breeds mistakes.

The spirit Gaba’ké channeled his strength into did not produce the desired effect, backfiring immediately. Instead, the cobbled street between him and the brute advancing on him exploded. Sheer forces ripped the small stones both apart and out of the earth in a myriad of directions. Shards and flakes of stone scattered in every direction. They impaled everything in the vicinity. Windows shattered. Flakes imbed themselves in the wooden cart, window sills, and both men’s tender flesh. Projectiles riddled his body, especially across his left side burying into his arm, thigh and shoulder. Glancing shards sliced his tender skin, drawing blood. He howled in pain and released the sorcery, channeling once again on the familiar enhancement’s he used for defence. It didn’t stop the pain, nor could is cease the damage already done.

The only consolation was that the hawk-nosed brute had shared in the blast of shrapnel and lay flat on his back. Gaba’ké cursed his stupidity. It was the kind of mistake that gets Aginjigaade killed. The kind of mistake young fools make, not wisened old men. Only when Ohacha appeared unharmed did Gaba’ké forgive himself.

Ohacha gawked at the mayhem around him. Patzau Yohati’s handcart fled from the rest of the column at the first sign of danger. They had been lucky, as the attackers only appeared after their passing instead at their appearance. Five of his six elite soldiers still stood. One of the elites had his own crossbow and was distracting the archer on the rooftop. The guild soldiers who had marched at the front of the column abandoned their brethren at the rear, covering the Patzau’s retreat.

Gaba’ké and Ohacha followed in pursuit, hoping to catch up with the Patzau’s men and their greater safety. The wounds in Gaba’ké’s side and leg made running difficult. Ohacha was helping him limp away but to little avail. A pair of thugs gave chase and were closing the distance rapidly. It was clear they would catch up before he and Ohacha reached safety.

“Careful Gaba’ké!” Ohacha shouted.

“I see them” Gaba’ké answered. More trained killers. Bartiin’s work, assuredly.

Both attackers closed in together. Unable to escape, Gaba’ké stood firm between them bare handed. In this form, his hands were weapons. As heavy as sledges and as hard as rock. The two killers fanned out around him. They were trying to get closer to Ohacha. Gaba’ké didn’t let them. He lunged off his good leg towards the killer on his left. The attacker swung a wide slash and Gaba’ké caught the blade in his bare hand. The sharpened edge bit into hardened skin, but Gaba’ké’s clasped grip ensured it would stay locked there. He turned on the second attacker, and threw a hardened punch that took the man unaware in the shoulder. He flew backwards under the blow, quickly regaining his feet.

Ohacha tightened his grip on his sword. Panic flashed as he recalled Cask’s duel with the assassins in Onera. He felt helpless, and he hated it. He thought of the assassin who knew to go for Gaba’ké’s eyes. He couldn’t let that happened. This time, he wouldn’t sit idle and do nothing.

The second attacker managed to pull his sword from Gaba’ké’s grasp but the Aginjigaade managed to balance both men’s attacks all while maintaining the retreat. A third attacker appeared from Ohacha’s left. He was just a kid, younger than Ohacha and clearly battle-drunk. The attack that came from his long knife was sloppy and ravenous. Worse, it was slow. Slower than Rolena had been, and far slower than Cask’s quick strikes. Ohacha parried the blow with ease, Cask’s training kicking into gear. Ohacha’s blade danced around the untrained attacker and cut cleanly down the boy’s exposed chest, drawing bright red blood.

At the same time, Gaba’ké caught hold of one of the thugs he had been fighting. His iron grip tightened on the man’s wrist and the rock-like fist found the man’s face with a sickening crunch. The man dropped, face shattered by the blow. While focused on Gaba’ké, the second thug skirted around the Aginjigaade’s reach and pressed the attack on Ohacha himself. This attack, unlike the mad boy’s, was deadly and precise. Ohacha leapt backwards to avoid the arc of the killer’s sword. The second attack came in quick succession and Ohacha parried the wider slash that sought his exposed side. Ohacha wished he had a shield.

Gaba’ké bellowed and lunged for the assailant who now stood between them. Ohacha used the distraction to his own advantage, also launching a counter. The man dodged Gaba’ké’s hard fist and slashed outwards. The blade clanged noisily against his hardened exterior but didn’t bite into flesh. Ohacha’s thrust did. His own slash cut clean across the killer’s exposed shoulder, incapacitating the arm. The man tried to advance again but Gaba’ké dove painfully and caught the thug by the ankle, knocking him off balance.

The killer hit the ground on his front, losing grasp of his sword along the way. He twisted as Gaba’ké wrestled his way on top of the man. The thug drew a small knife at his hip and thrust it repeatedly into Gaba’ké’s side. Each time, the blade hit hardened skin and dulled and bent. The thug stabbed again only to have his hand slip from the hilt, slicing his hand straight down the broken blade. Blood gushed from the wound and the thug, now under the full crushing weight of the Aginjigaade fought back until Ohacha’s sword came down to end the struggle. He lay in a mangled mess and both men panted.

Gaba’ké regained his feet. His clothes and face covered in the man’s blood. The sight frightened Ohacha for a moment. He looked like an evil spirit, as if from a fable brought to life. But when he turned, Gaba’ké’s face echoed the same horror. They would both be haunted by this. Gaba’ké reached him and took Ohacha’s hand in his own, leading him away from the bloody scene. They stumbled away from the carnage until they caught up with Patzau Yohati’s soldiers. The soldiers raised their weapons, halting both men in their tracks.

Thankfully, one of the soldiers recognized them despite the blood that ruined their fine clothes. Ohacha was missing his precious bracelets but it hardly mattered now. Ohacha didn’t have the energy to care. “Thank you” Gaba’ké huffed through raspy breaths. “Stay close, Ohacha. We’re not out of danger yet.” Gaba’ké focused his agindan sense and quested for the Aginjigaade woman who had attacked him earlier. He still couldn’t sense her. Maybe she was gone. Maybe he had killed her. It wasn’t unheard of. His mind churned over the moments leading up to the attack; to Aramuk’s death.

The column was moving fast, soldiers checking alleyways and door ways as quickly as they could manage at the hasty pace. Gaba’ké was struggling to keep up. Alarm bells began to toll in distance towards the sea. They played a melodic tune. Eight notes. Another picked up the tune from inland. Gradually more and more bells tolled until the entire city was a cacophony of noise. Soldiers poured down the streets in vast numbers but seemingly without direction. Those who joined Yohati’s convoy happened upon it through chance rather than purpose. Soon they reached the gatehouse at the Patzau’s estate and the doors opened to allow the remnants of the convoy inside.  

Once behind the Patzau’s private walls, Ohacha let out a sigh of relief. Yohati and his wife descended from their cart and to Ohacha’s surprise, the old Patzau was bleeding from a wound on shoulder. Reah was already removing her husband’s shirt to address the wound. As far as he could tell, she appeared to be unharmed. Ohacha watched, exhausted as Reah’s shaky hands tried to press cloth against the open wound. Gaba’ké sat off to the side, his face plastered with the blood of their enemies. The other soldiers avoided him. Ohacha didn’t blame them. They hadn’t even seen what the man had done. Done for him. Done to save him.

Ohacha stood alone, a solitary figure amongst the disorder of crisis. Attendants and servants swarmed out of the estate with aid for the wounded. Soldiers rearmed and took up the small battlements the gatehouse offered. People ran in every direction. What they might be achieving, Ohacha couldn’t say. Aramuk is gone, Ohacha realized. Dead. Murdered in this cursed city. All of our soldiers are dead. Cask is probably dead. Lord Kulimas and Rolena are still missing. He looked to Gaba’ké. The old man looked so tired. Spirits, It’s just me and Gaba’ké now. We’re all that’s left.

A servant appeared with a towel and moved to clean the blood from Ohacha’s face. He took it from her hesitant hands and instead led her to Gaba’ké, who needed the attention. Ohacha felt terrified and shaky, but all things considered, he was fine. He seemed to be the only one who was. He and the servant helped remove the large cloak riddled with holes and cut to ribbons that Gaba’ké had been wearing. The old man winced as the bloody pockmarks were revealed. Dozens of small wounds, each one trickling blood. It looked like the old man had walked through a burr bush made of rock.

“Spirits, how did you get these?” Ohacha asked.

“My own stupid fault” Gaba’ké wheezed. “I tried to channel through an unfamiliar spirit; one I thought I recognized. Wasn’t careful.”

“Meaning?”

“I blew myself up” Gaba’ké coughed. “The sorcery didn’t function the way I thought it would.” Ohacha kneeled silently as Gaba’ké looked down and painfully removed small pieces of stone from his body.

“I don’t understand” Ohacha said, finally. “You can stop a blade with your bare hands but these stone fragments hurt you this badly?”

“An Aginjigaade can’t direct power in more than one direction at once” Gaba’ké explained. “I can harden my skin, or apparently blow-up stones. But I can’t do both at the same time.”

“Then you could have been stabbed in that moment? Felled by any old blade?”

“Aye” Gaba’ké said, “And I’m very glad I wasn’t. I’d take the stones every time.”

“Thank you,” Ohacha said after a moment of silence. “You saved my life. More than once.”

“I’m just doing right by you, Ohacha” Gaba’ké groaned. “You don’t deserve this life. No person should be hunted the way you’ve been.”

“Uncle Aramuk…” Ohacha said.

“He was a great man” Gaba’ké said. “He didn’t deserve this death. What your uncle Belvaas did to this family, his own family, it’s monstrous. Your uncles… they could have worked things out without violence.”

“Why?” Ohacha croaked.

“Why what?” Gaba’ké asked.

“Why do you think Belvaas did it? Turned on us? Betrayed my mother and father…”

“I can’t say for certain, but I did know the man.” Gaba’ké said. “I think he did it for the same reason I blew myself up. He was desperate and thought he saw a solution. He knew your father would rise to war against the Careyago. He knew it would be long and bloody. I think he did it because he didn’t believe we could win against them. I think we all thought so.”

“So, he would ruthlessly cull his own family to avoid war?”

“We’ll never know for certain.”

“Why do you stay with us?” Ohacha asked. He had wondered at this question a long time now. Now, in their darkest moment, seemed as good a time as any to finally brave the question. “After everything we’ve put you through…”

Gaba’ké leaned back, head resting against the wall. He had asked himself the same question before. “In life,” Gaba’ké explained, “it’s important to have just two things. The first is something you care about, and the second is something you hope to achieve. Having just one isn’t enough but they can be the same thing. If I left to go out on my own, I’d be leaving behind everything and everyone I care about.”

“What about…” Ohacha ventured, “your daughter?”

Gaba’ké sighed. “Cask told you, did he?”

“Not very much” Ohacha admitted.

“She’s long dead, Ohacha” Gaba’ké said gravely. “She’s long gone and my wife with her. She got very sick and died, young and innocent. She would have been about six or seven years older than you are now.”

“I… I never knew” Ohacha said, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Do you go around announcing to people that your mother and father are dead?” Gaba’ké ventured. “You don’t because no matter how much time has past, it still stings just a little bit and there’s never a right time to talk about it. That… hole that remains in their absence.”

That I can understand, Ohacha thought. He stayed silent.

On the other side of the wall, there was loud argument. One that culminated in the gate opening just long enough to allow a long figure through. Cask walked inside, bloody and exhausted. His clothes were tattered and he had a pair of shallow gashes across his right leg just above the knee. Blood splatter covered every inch of his fine armour. He looked around nervously, right until he glimpsed Ohacha and Gaba’ké together.

“Cask!” Ohacha shouted, elated to see the swordsman back and alive. His face was ashen and blood had been splattered across most of his right side. And as he spotted Ohacha and Gaba’ké, it was as if a great weight was lifted off the man’s chest. Aside from the cuts across the thigh, he looked relatively unscathed. Then, to Ohacha’s surprise, Cask knelt and prostrated himself before him. It was an unsettling sight. Cask was a proud man.

“Ohacha, I am so sorry” Cask wept. “I’m ashamed. Ashamed as your guardian. I swore I would protect your uncle. I swore to protect you. I have failed. Aramuk is gone. Everyone is dead. The bastards took everything. Your fortune… I failed to protect even that. I failed you.”