Bells tolled off to the west first and were soon picked up by the other belltowers. The city quickly descended into an orchestra of panic. Soldiers rose from their stations. Citizens opened their windows at the alarms, only to find reason to shut them tight again. Bartiin cursed to himself as the first bell tolled, knowing he had likely missed his window. Still a few blocks from the bay, they would close the harbour. None would be let leave. He could fight through. Escape. But that would be an admission of guilt. And what if they sent ships in chase. What if they caught him. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

With that decision weighing heavily on his mind, Bartiin pressed on through the city streets. He followed along the grand canal, where he met up with his men. They were an odd mix. Careyago mercenaries and Gaagian military men Bartiin had little history with. Neither liked the others. All tolerated his leadership. Eight fighters, and sailors and crewmen aboard the ship. All hoping this would be one that would send them home.

Bartiin had come from the auction house. He had facilitated the sale of the Gaagian throne. He and the ambassador had worked together to whisper the rumours that would make their way to Aramuk, coaxing him from his den. The others had checked in on Yoharum, tracking his actions and keeping tabs on his progress. They knew of the dozens of men who had been snuck inside the city’s walls. All it took was confirmation that Aramuk had left the safety of Yohati’s estate, and Bartiin’s men had given the signal. All that remained was for Yoharum’s small army of thugs to do the rest.

Finally, after years of planning and attempts, threats to the new stronger Gaag would be crushed. A new era of prosperity for Gaag could begin. One under the empire and its hunger for resources and power, yes, but one where a strong leader could use the empire for Gaag’s own gain. Belvaas the elder was that leader. And now Belvaas the younger was every bit the man his father was. Equally capable. Even if Bartiin and his men were caught here trying to escape, knowing their mission had succeeded would be worth it in the future. For Bartiin’s children. For all the children born today into the new empire. Belvaas the younger would honour his sacrifice as a hero of the new age. But that didn’t mean he wished to follow that path. Better to be a father than a martyr.

The others were already waiting for him when Bartiin arrived. But, now that the bells had tolled, running would no longer be the easy option they had counted on. Yoharum and his men had struck quicker than they hoped. It was a good sign, despite the added complication. Now, a leisurely walk back to the harbour was in order. Nothing to draw attention. Nothing to signal to all of Caso that these men, his men, had been the architects of chaos.

A new bell joined the ruckus from the coastal watchtower, just north of their group. The echoes of alarm emanated from all sides. The tune was lost to noise. The narrow alleys were made to feel even more claustrophobic. At least if they made it to the ship, they could wait out the chaos in peace and learn if their plan had been successful. It seemed improbable that it should fail.

Crossing the canal into the southern half of the city, Bartiin and his men let a platoon of soldiers pass. They marched across the bridge with haste in the direction of the Great Auction House. Bartiin let out his breath. As they walked, the streets emptied. Regular citizens became scare. They sought the safety of closed doors. And without a crowd to blend into, Bartiin felt exposed. Their foreign clothes and faces and armour, once a source of pride for him, now felt as if they drew unwanted attention. He felt as if he were going mad. Each passing face seemed to see past his façade and cast judgement. Each step they took out in the open sought to betray their escape. He could swear they were being followed.

Unable to face the stares. The fear. The soldiers on every corner along the wharf. Bartiin deviated from the plan. He ducked his men into an alleyway. The ship wasn’t far now. They could make the rest of the journey without attracting attention. It would be easier that way. Despite the grumbles from his men, they listened and followed Bartiin into the dark alley. As did the figure that had been tailing them.

Out of the eyes of the public, the soldiers under Bartiin’s command walked at most in pairs as they navigated the narrower street. With dusk still an hour away, the main cobbled street had been bright and wide despite the setting sun. Now, tucked in between tight buildings, darkness loomed heavy. Shadows lurked in each corner. The bells tolled on, but their screams were muffled.

The men crept around the piles of garbage and junk that had been discarded. Hens clucked away in boxy wire cages. Ahead, a small dog chased a rat across a narrow intersection, yipping the entire way. At the junction, only echoes of the animals remained. The constant noise crept through him like nervous reverberations. He was going mad. Anxiety buried itself under his skin. Not for what was done, but for getting caught so close to the end. Just make it to the ship. Everything will be alright. Soon you’ll be home, once and for all.

Squeezing between two black-cobbled buildings, Bartiin finally emerged from the alleyways and onto the wider wharf. They were near the southern dockyards. In the distance, Bartiin thought he could make out his ship. Long piers with warehouses stretched into the bay. Here, business hadn’t ceased. The yards were still a bustle with activity. Workers and sailors hauled cargo and materials. Traders held their hands over their ears, annoyed at the disruption. The fortress atop the stone peak loomed high overhead, a reminder of their need. All they needed to do now was walk to the ship.

A shrill voice sounded from behind them. A lone figure emerged from the alleyway. Bartiin and his men turned. At first, Bartiin presumed the individual to be a local. Perhaps just somebody they had upset by being careless in the alleyway. That was until he noticed the knife in the person’s hand. Reassessing, Bartiin finally looked close at the figures face. The man looking back at him was the ghost of a man long dead. A man Bartiin recognized from the paintings that still hung in the Gaagian Imperial Palace. It was the ghost of the last King of Gaag; Belvaas Krimas and Ohacha Krimas’ grandfather, Zhiigan Krimas. Bartiin froze, stunned at the impossibility. And it was impossible, King Zhiigan Krimas was long dead. It had been his very death that had led to the eventual infighting between his three sons. Yet there he stood, knife at the ready.

Bartiin’s hand went down to the sword at his hip and he placed a firm hand on the scabbard of the thin weapon. His soldiers, eight in total, each reached for their own weapons. The man with the knife didn’t react. Bartiin’s eyes darted left and right, expecting others to appear. No one else did. The idea that this man who looked like their dead King came alone to face them almost frightened him more. A shiver ran down his spine. His hairs stood on end. Bartiin took a closer look at the man with the knife. He was dressed in a dark cloak that hid his features. He had Gaagian features, the thick eyebrows and long face. He looked old and tired but his gaze was intense and murderous. Yes, this man looks like King Zhiigan Krimas of Gaag but it’s not him, Bartiin mulled to himself. He’s far too old to be prince Aramuk, and far too young to be Belvaas’ cousin Ohacha.

Then, like magnets released, recognition came. The old man was Yoliim Kulimas, former lord of Middle Gozhu. He stood across from them, alone. He was much older now, older than Bartiin thought he’d be. It has been a few years, he supposed. The old lord looked more like his uncle, King Zhiigan, than any of the kings’ true born sons had.

Lord Kulimas shouted at them in Gaagian, “The bells; they’re for your lot, aren’t they? What have you done?”

It was odd to hear the familiar tongue in such a foreign setting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” Bartiin shouted back over the noise.

“Don’t play me a fool, Bartiin Foxstring” Kulimas shouted. “I feared for the worst the moment I saw that throne appear on stage at the auction house. And I confirmed those fears when I caught you slinking out of the building. You’ve sent assassins after Aramuk and Ohacha, didn’t you?”

Bartiin’s smirk was filled with pride, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” Bartiin repeated.

“I think you do” Kulimas said. “How many did you send?”

“Enough” one of his men shouted back. Lord Kulimas simply nodded at that.

“What was the purpose? Why sell the throne?” Lord Kulimas asked.

“That was the bait, to bring you to the auction” Bartiin said.

“We didn’t know about the throne until after we arrived.”

“You didn’t,” Bartiin taunted, “but I made sure Aramuk knew. Didn’t you think it odd he changed his mind at the last minute? Very unlike him.”

“He’ll survive whatever trap you’ve got in store for him” Lord Kulimas replied.

“You wont” Bartiin sneered. “You made a mistake, coming after us alone Yoliim.” Bartin shouted back.

“No, I haven’t” Lord Kulimas said. There was no fear in his voice. He believed those words. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve come to kill you, Bartiin.”

“By yourself?” Bartiin shouted back, a little surprised.

“I must admit, I didn’t want to believe that Belvaas would send you, Bartiin” Lord Kulimas shouted. “I knew you were one of his favourite pets, but I didn’t take you as foolish enough to waste your life chasing ghosts. But, when I saw you at the auction, I realized it was time. I’ve had enough. Enough of running from your assassins. Enough of hiding. Enough of waiting and letting you make your moves. It’s my turn.”

 “You’ve got a lot of guts, old man…” Bartiin shouted, “coming by yourself. Do you really think you can fight all of us?”

Lord Kulimas laughed gravely. “I don’t expect to survive this, Bartiin.” Lord Kulimas said, calmly. “Aramuk would have tried to stop me. Even after all these brutal years, he’s still a good man. Better than you and your governor.”

“They’re dead men, now” Bartiin taunted. “The bells chant the truth.”

It didn’t have the desired effect. The old lord appeared to ignore the comment. Unease began to set in. They were supposed to be fleeing to the ship. Not standing off against an old traitor. Now that weapons were drawn, people stopped and stared. They, like him, watched nervously, unsure of what was about to transpire. Moments passed. The clangour of bells counted down the seconds Bartiin and his men had left to escape.

Bartiin waivered, unsure how to proceed. The easiest action would be cut the old lord down and run for it. It would be quick, but there would be no more hiding. It would be a sprint to the ship and if chance were on their side, they wouldn’t pass any soldiers. Running would be risky. But even if they didn’t attack, the old lord would, leading to the same end. Perhaps he could order an attack and then use the opportunity to escape. Sacrifice the Careyago soldiers. At least some of us should make it out alive, why not me? Why not my men?

Unable to make a decision, Lord Kulimas made it for him. From behind his back, the older man drew out a slender device and pointed it directly at Bartiin. With a squeeze of the trigger and a quick snap of the bow string, the crossbow launched a slender quarrel directly at him. A second crossbow appeared with a second click. The first quarrel careened over Bartiin’s left shoulder, missing him by a mere finger’s length. He felt the wind of it. His body reacted, but far too slow. The second quarrel imbedded itself deep in the shoulder of the soldier who stood before him. The man screamed in pain and hit the ground hard on the flat of his back. Bartiin froze. If he had been but a single step to the left, the first bolt would have killed him on the spot. His men, the ones who hadn’t just felt death’s whisper, charged.

Knife still drawn, Lord Kulimas stepped forward to meet his five attackers. He pulled another weapon from his hip and threw it as he charged the oncoming soldiers. The weapon, an axe, flew silently over the first soldier as he ducked and hit the soldier behind him square in the chest. The man dropped like a stone. Within seconds, the other four soldiers were upon him. Lord Kulimas dodged the first sword swing, ducking under and sidestepping left to meet the next attacker. The second soldier was caught unaware as Lord Kulimas’ knife slid deep into his belly. The old lord pulled out the knife and stabbed again, but within another heartbeat, he was skewered by the first of the next three swordsmen who had charged him. Two more blades found their mark in his torso and the old lord cried out in pain.

In his dying breaths, the disgraced lord could only do one last thing. He stabbed the same soldier over and over, blood splattering everywhere. It gurgled from the old man’s mouth, from the dying soldier’s neck and stomach, from the countless sword wounds that pierced through the dying lord’s body. A soldiers wrestled the knife out of his grip. Yoliim Kulimas’ hands went to his face, blood smearing as he wailed. Bartiin watched as his soldiers in horror. They stabbed the dying lord again and again. Blood emptied from the deep wounds. Lord Kulimas buckled, no longer able to stand, but Bartiin’s men held him upright and took turns sinking their blades into his flesh. He was still upright and long dead as they finished their vengeful butchering. His insides were more outside than in by the time they let his body crumple to the cobblestones.

Screams erupted from the crowd that had watched the fight. The butchering. Bartiin cursed his enemy. He spit in his direction. The soldier who had taken the crossbow bolt to the shoulder was injured, but alive. The man who had taken the axe to the chest stood, miraculously unharmed. The flat of the handle had hit him, rather than the blade. He held his abdomen, probably nursing a broken rib or two, and looked around at the others in bewilderment. Only the soldier who had been caught by Lord Kulimas and stabbed in the throat and stomach appeared to have died. He lay next to the old nobleman.

It was a miracle. Bartiin had avoided death. Only one of his men had died in the attack. He had vastly underestimated the old man. If the spirits of luck had favoured him instead of Bartiin, half of Bartiin’s men would be dead, himself included. Bless the spirits who look favourably upon me. But what the old man failed to accomplish in life, he accomplished in death. Bartiin’s plan to avoid attention was as dead as the old man. There would be no more hiding. Their only hope now was to make it to the ship unincumbered. No waiting around for information, they would need to set sail now.

Three of the local dockhands shouted curses at them in Tralang. Another man shouted at them in Casoyan. Bartiin ignored them all. They didn’t have time for any of this. His men were crowded around the two dead bodies in the streets. The alarm bells continued to toll their incessant noise and the crowd around them grew larger as people screamed and shouted.

“Time to go!” Bartiin shouted at his men in Tralang.

“What about Benzha?” one of the remaining soldiers said, pointing to the body of the man Lord Kulimas had slain.

“He’s dead. We need to leave, now. If the Casoyans catch us, we’ll be worse off than him.” Bartiin said, agitated. “Let’s go.”

“We can’t just leave him here!” the soldier argued. He was Careyagoan, just like Benzha.

“I can and I fucking will!” Bartiin shouted, enraged. “You can bring him back to the ship if you want. I won’t wait for you.” Turning to the rest of the men, Bartiin shouted over the noise to run.

The crowd parted for Bartiin and his soldiers. But even as they ran down the wharf, locals followed behind shouting and screaming. The odd person would throw a stone at them as they ran on. Only getting to the boat matters. Escape is my only chance now. Escape is the only path home. My only way back to Gaag. And I’ll sacrifice each and every one of these men to do it if necessary.

Rolena watched from the alleyway as Lord Kulimas’ killers turned to flee. She sat on the edge, perfect witness to the horrible butchering that had just occurred not ten paces from where she hid. The lord’s body lay motionless in a vulgar splattering of his own blood and entrails. For the first time in the many years she had served as a hired sword, Rolena thought she might be sick. As the soldiers fled, local citizens chased after them, hurling both stones and insults. She wanted to follow. She wanted to give chase. Her legs didn’t budge.

In her efforts to gain information, Rolena had made a mistake and found herself in a restricted part of the auction house. Soldiers forcefully removed her from the building. The callous guard escorting her simply pushed her out the nearest exit, rather than back to the main lobby. She banged against the door until the guard came out and pushed her to the ground, warning her to piss off. She argued until he pulled the ghata out. That shut her up. A man, some foreigner, appeared behind the soldier and squeezed through. He wore a large flamboyant hat and the soldier let him pass.

Dusting off her clothes, Rolena got back to her feet and skulked back towards the front of the building. But as she turned to give one last hateful look at the exit she had been thrown from, she spotted Lord Kulimas of all people. She recognized his face, even if she didn’t recognize the vengeful look plain across it. He carried a pair of crossbows, and a single-minded focus. He didn’t even look in her direction, opting instead to follow the foreigner out into the city. She followed him. He was her employer’s vassal. It seemed the right thing to do. It too was a mistake.

As the old lord chased after foreigner and his soldiers, Rolena followed in behind. She had mistakenly presumed that she might aid or assist in his vengeful quest. But as their chase entered the narrow alleyways, the thought of catching up seemed a poor idea. She saw it in the way he stepped; quick and determined. When they reached the end of the alley and Lord Kulimas stepped out, ready to confront his enemy, Rolena only watched. They argued in a tongue she didn’t speak, and then killed over words she didn’t understand. It was monstrous.

Yuromi Ashill watched with horror. The foreign soldiers before her butchered the old man with a degree of violence she had never before witness. This was a vendetta. A blood-feud. Savagery. They let the ravaged corpse drop to the bloody cobblestones. There were people all around. They watched with the same fear – the same horror. What the blood hell did I just stumble upon? Who the hell are these people?

The figure Yuromi had been chasing through the streets kneeled just a few paces before her. Her thief appeared to be a woman. She had foreign features and warrior’s armour. But no crossbows. Yuromi spotted them, ahead in the street. Discarded next to the body of the butchered man. Her mind raced. What do I do? Screams erupted from the crowd. Terrified voices. People ran. Those who remained shifted their voices from fear to anger. They screamed insults and accusations.

When Yuromi began her pursuit, she had been confident. The woman before her had to be the thief she was after. But what might happen when the chase ended, she never considered. But when the first alarm bell tolled and it sang of trouble at the auction house, Yuromi felt vindicated. She had been right.

Her thief must have stolen more than just a simple crossbow or two. Perhaps there was more than one culprit. A larger conspiracy. She was doing the right thing for once. Then the second bell post picked up the alarm, tolling in unison. Trouble near the auction house. It echoed the first. But when the alarm failed to cease, Yuromi began to understand the issue was more serious than a simple robbery. What the hell is going on? She needed to act.

“Drop your weapons” Yuromi demanded in Tralang. She stood over the Oneran mercenary. It was as commanding a tone as she could muster in a party dress. The woman turned on her. She was as pale as a light spirit. Whether from the brutality just witnessed or the surprise of being caught, Yuromi wasn’t sure. The stranger raised her hands in surrender. “Empty your pockets! Drop any objects or weapons you’re carrying!” Yuromi ordered, drawing close.

“I have nothing!”

“Who are you?” Yuromi demanded. She checked. The foreigner appeared to be telling the truth.

“I– I am called Rolena” the woman answered, her voice cracking.  Her accent was thick but her voice was low and smooth.

“What are you doing here? Who are those men?”

“I… I don’t really know” Rolena answered, finding a strange truth in her words.

“Restrain her” Yuromi said, commanding one of the soldiers she had brought. “We’re going to follow those soldiers. Bring her with us. I want to know who those dead men are.”

“The man they murdered” Rolena said, hands still on her head, “His name was Yoliim Kulimas. He’s a nobleman from Gaag.”

“You know him?” Yuromi asked, confused.

“He was an important lord in my master’s service” Rolena said. “Prince Aramuk of Gaag. I was following him.”

“Why are you slinking here in the alleyway while he’s out there, dead?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I didn’t know what he was doing” Rolena answered, her voice filled with regret. “I saw him chase after those soldiers and I thought he might need help. Spirits!” Her voice cracked. “Look what they did to him!”

“Let’s go!” Yuromi commanded. One of the soldiers yanked Rolena to her feet. He led her in pursuit of the other foreign soldiers fleeing south along the bay.

Passing by the piers that branched off into the bay like fingers reaching into the sea, Bartiin and his five remaining soldiers closed in on the docks where they had first come ashore in Caso just a few weeks ago. The crowd continued to harass them as they fled. There was still chance that they would make it aboard the ship in time and be able to hold off the mob long enough to flee. He would have to hope. Then, like a ship hitting a reef, Bartiin’s hope sank. Slowly at first and then all at once. The useless soldiers that had loitered and played cards at the head of their pier now had it blocked off. More soldiers were marching down the esplanade. Too many.

He considered it briefly; fighting his way past them. He could run them down and make it to the ship without any trouble. He could kill again. He could. He thought about it. They might escape. Or they might die trying. They still needed to launch the ship. As the continued to run towards the soldiers, Bartiin recognized he needed to make a decision. Spirits guide me! What should I do? Kill? Flee? Swim? Abandon?

The soldiers watched, uneasy as Bartiin and his soldiers approached with the aggressive mob at their backs. They drew their weapons, already expecting trouble. Recognition flashed in the soldier’s eyes as Bartiin came to a stop a few paces ahead of them.

“Don’t try it” the lead soldier said, eyeing the six men. Bartiin looked back and considered what they saw. Four strange foreign soldiers covered in blood, one of whom was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and an angry mob at their heels. And at the front of the pack, leading them was himself. Yoliim-fucking-Kulimas will be my downfall. It was almost amusing.

They approached and Bartiin’s men raised their weapons expectantly. The soldiers did the same. The time to act was now. There was only one strategy he could think of that didn’t mean making themselves enemies of the guilds.

“Please,” Bartiin pleaded, offering his sword, hilt outward, “An assassin tried to kill us. We are ambassadors from the Careyago Emperor. We surrender ourselves to you for protection. We submit in the name of justice !”