Yoharum’s mountain soldiers moved covertly through the panicked crowd, protected by the privacy chaos permitted. Blending in was easy in guild uniforms. They waited as a contingent of Casoyan spearmen marched past, heading south. Bartiin looked for his exit but a tug on his arm suggested the moment had vanished. He was corralled with the other warriors across the dockyards in a deliberate and unhurried rush.

Of the original sixteen warriors and Bartiin, only seven remained. Yoharum had left. Two women and a man had died in skirmishes with Casoyan soldiers, but most had been separated and left behind. Unity was a luxury afforded to those who could keep up. They continued north through the crowds. What they intended to accomplish further with six tired warriors, Bartiin couldn’t guess. Soldiers were plentiful now and each time they passed a unit, Bartiin anticipated the moment the ruse faltered.

Behind them, the Auction House towered over the neighbouring blocks. It stood indomitable. Opposite the grand structure, remains of what had once been a market littered the cobbled streets. Broken and empty stalls stood like skeletons of forest after fire. The shops around the square hadn’t yet been damaged or looted, but that would change soon. People flooded north, escaping the carnage and chaos of the south.

And then the moment came. A stranger collided with the warrior who had been leading him onward. He fell. Bartiin was unhanded. The others were separated by the tide of the crowd. Bartiin looked back at the warrior on the ground. Another person stepped on him and he winced, reaching his hand up for help. Bartiin looked at the outstretched hand and then met the warrior’s gaze. He turned away and ran.

Bartiin pushed through the crowd, trying desperately to fly. He could still make out the ships in the harbour. The tallest and proudest among them stood as his guide to freedom. He ducked and pushed through the desperate mob. He came out the other side along the wide harbourfront. Desperate and panicked, people crowded each ship at berth pleading for a place aboard. Sailors loaded their ships with a frantic hurriedness. Others fought off the desperate mob. Bartiin looked around. Freedom was at hand. He just needed a ship. A Careyago ship. There had to be one. He searched the docks, looking frantically for any sign.

A sound caught his attention. It was a bit like his name and Bartiin turned, expecting one of Yoharum’s warriors. It wasn’t. A young man was rushing at him. A glint on the blade’s edge in the morning sun was his only warning. Decades of training kicked in. He dodged the sudden strike. Bartiin blinked in vague comprehension. Evade. Defend. Gaagian. Angry. Fearful.

He had his own weapon in his hand in a flash. He raised it to meet the boy’s blade. Metal clashed on metal and it rung clear. The force of the smaller heavier blade brought painful tingles to his fingertips. Had he been a fraction slower, the stranger’s weapon would have cleaved his skull in two.

“I’ll kill you!” the young man roared.

The boy swung again, the style unmistakably familiar. Gaagian. The blade, however, was not. Shorter and without a curve, the weapon was ill suited to the style. The boy’s attacks also lacked finesse. They were raw and visceral. Obvious in their killing intent. Bartiin’s own blade felt clumsy in his hand. It was a Casoyan short sword. Straighter and heavier than he was used to. He parried another, and then a third strike.

He was older than Bartiin expected. Less a boy and more a man. He had his mother’s thin features but his father’s stubborn expression. Ohacha Krimas raised the strange blade in threat. Not a Casoyan weapon, that one. Where he had found it, Bartiin couldn’t guess. There was a lust for blood in the boy’s eyes. He aimed to kill. He would never get the chance.  

Bartiin tightened his grip. He was a swordsman and this was a duel to the death. I wont die here. Not so close to freedom. Not to the boy prince whose life had stood in the way of that freedom for years. Now was his chance. One he never imagined he would have. An order he was moments away from walking away from. He thought back to his last fight in the open street. Lord Kulimas had ruined his plans to abscond. He had almost died in that fight.

Doubt crept in. Why is this important? How does this boy threaten the future of Gaag? How can he stand against the new Gaag? One under the protection of the Careyago Empire. He can’t even wield that blade properly. Is this a danger worth braving when I alone bare the risks? He thought of his family. He thought of his own children and made up his mind. He ran.

Ohacha blinked in stunned silence as Bartiin turned and fled. He had imagined this moment countless times; the day he finally faced and killed Bartiin Foxstring. The man who had hunted him his whole life, who had killed his uncle, and Ander, and so many others. Who had destroyed his family, and their kingdom. He had imagined their duel to be noble and righteous. He would slowly best his enemy with skill and expertise. And then, once Bartiin was beaten and at his feet, the bastard would plead for mercy. And Ohacha would not grant it. And Bartiin’s death would serve as the first step towards his vengeance against his uncle Belvaas.

He had never once considered Bartiin might flee at his challenge. He felt disrespected. But more than that, he felt emboldened. Single-minded resolve drove him after Bartiin. And as he pursued, Ohacha stepped one foot deeper into the darker emotions beyond anger. A hatred so pure, concentrated, and self-righteous that no other thoughts could possibly penetrate his focus. Catching and killing Bartiin became his sole focus and he raced into the crowd.

Ohacha pushed and shoved his way past faceless strangers. He was locked onto Bartiin’s figure as they rushed through the massive crowd. Bartiin tousled through a mix of broken market stalls and Ohacha followed, gaining with each step. Bartiin turned. Ohacha chased.

Bartiin scrambled under a handcart and Ohacha followed, ducking his head and catching his balance on his hands. He stumbled back to his feet as fast as he could manage. Nothing would stop him now. Not when his revenge was so close at hand. A woman ran out in front of him and Ohacha barreled through her. He stumbled, regained his balance, and ignored the unfortunate soul. He didn’t spare her a glace. Looking up, he barely caught a glimpse of Bartiin ducking into an alleyway. This is no time for apologies. She would understand.

As Ohacha rounded the corner of the alley, Bartiin stood at a stop at the end of the dead-end passage. He pulled desperately on a door, and turned to face his pursuer when it didn’t open. Ohacha panted heavily. He stood at the mouth of the alleyway; Bartiin’s only escape. Bartiin eyed his surroundings, looking for an escape. When he didn’t find one, he met Ohacha’s gaze. Ohacha raised the assassin’s sword.

“You coward!” Ohacha shouted. He used the Gaagian term with the most offence. One who betrays their own principals.

“The last time I killed one of your men in public, the Casoyans tried to hang me” Bartiin replied. “I’m not looking to die today. But now we’re alone. No one can rescue you here” he taunted.

“I’ll have no need of rescue. You’ll be dead at my feet” Ohacha challenged.

“You sound very confident” Bartiin said. “Do you really think you can best me without Cask or Gaba’ké protecting you? You’re nothing without them.”

The insult stung in exactly the way Bartiin intended. Ohacha peered over his shoulder and grasped for the first time that he was indeed alone. No Cask. No Rolena. No Gaba’ké. No Yuromi. He hadn’t thought of them before charging after Bartiin. “I don’t need them. I can take my revenge on my own” Ohacha retorted. He hoped he sounded more confident that he felt now.

“Revenge?” Bartiin repeated the word as if surprised by it. “For your traitor of an uncle?”

“For Aramuk, and for Ander, Lord Kulimas, and for my parents!” Ohacha replied. “For all the people you’ve killed for your revolution.”

Bartiin scoffed. “I’d do it all again to keep your lunatic of a father from dooming us all in an unwinnable war.”

“My father wasn’t a lunatic!” Ohacha shouted.

“Your father was the worst thing that ever happened to Gaag” Bartiin scorned. “He refused to see reason. His own power and control over the throne mattered more than Gaag itself. More than the lives of our people. His arrogance landed him in an early grave. All he needed to do was capitulate.”

“A cowards move!” Ohacha countered, confident in his argument. A sense of pride welled inside him. That confidence vanished as Bartiin laughed aloud.

“You must be jesting” he said through wheezed breaths. “That’s comical!” Bartiin finally said, “really… a cowards move?” Ohacha frowned, not wishing to be patronized again. “Then by your own pronouncement, Aramuk Krimas was the biggest coward of them all. It was his idea to capitulate to the Careyago armies. He was the one who started our revolution.”

“I don’t believe you!” Ohacha glowered. “Aramuk wouldn’t have done that. He was a good man.”

“The way you speak of him, I’m not sure you really knew your uncle at all” Bartiin provoked. “It was Aramuk’s idea to depose your father. After King Golan refused to back down, promising to descend us into war against the Careyago, it was Aramuk who planned the coup.”

“You’re lying!” Ohacha shouted, angry now.

“He was the one who talked his brother into the plan. I was there! Aramuk planned to overthrow your father” Bartiin continued, ignoring Ohacha’s protest. “Although, he wanted to do it without any blood shed. He and Belvaas planned the whole thing together and then, when Aramuk realized there was no bloodless alternative, he played the coward again. He cautioned your tyrant of a father and betrayed the whole plan. Instead of one death for peace and stability, he plunged us into a useless and destructive civil war.”

“You’re a liar!” Ohacha repeated. “We should have fought the Careyago! We should have defended Gaag from their imperial control, not handed them the kingdom on a silver platter. My father fought for a free and independent Gaag!”

“Your father fought only for his own selfish gains. And it’s a damn pity he fooled so many folks into dying needlessly for his pride” Bartiin held, now serious. “You speak with the confidence of the ignorant. When we surrendered the city to the Careyago, there were an equal number of soldiers in their army as there were people in Gaag. The imperial navy is sixty warships strong. There is no contest against a force that large and that strong. You’d condemn us all to die, the same as your father tried to. I have no personal ill will against you or your father, Ohacha. But I love the people of Gaag more than I need a King.”

Bartiin grasped that their conversation had ended and raised his own sword defensively. It was apparent that Ohacha wasn’t listening anymore. His words were falling on disinclined ears. You can’t teach reason, Bartin thought with regret. It didn’t matter anyway. He would kill the boy and finally escape this cursed city. Ohacha’s knuckles were tight around the grip of his little sword and his teeth were gnashed in rage. He was upset. His attack would be overly aggressive. It would be his downfall.

Distant screams and shouts filled the otherwise silent alleyway. The walls seemed to narrow in anticipation. For Ohacha, six years of terror and hatred culminated in this precise moment. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, the war drum beating to the rage within.

Bartiin took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to steady his breathing. His heart beat steadily now. He wouldn’t run this time. Now he was sure this was the right path. The boy is exactly like his father. Impetuous, unreasonable, and enamoured by his own self-interested ideals. He knows nothing of what it means to be a man of the people. Of Gaag. And for our people to thrive in this new era, they will fare better without him. This was the opportunity to rid Gaag of its last self-centered despot. And Bartiin would finally return home once and for all and leave these years of his life behind him.

He made no move, no aggressive gesture. Bartiin stood poised. Yet, in that stillness, in the careful set of his shoulders and the unblinking assessment in his gaze, was the undeniable weight of experience. The world seemed to hold its breath. The distant sounds of the riot faded to a muffled thrum against the taut silence between two men. Two enemies.

Ohacha charged forward. Fury, pure and blinding, drove him. Bartiin held his breath and braced with his muscles. As Ohacha closed the distance, Bartiin exploded outward like a coiled spring. Ohacha’s blow came from high overhead, just as it had the first time in the square. Bartiin remained low, ducking under Ohacha’s slash and brought his own sword up into Ohacha’s exposed side. The blade cut true, slicing through fabric and flesh with ease, biting into Ohacha’s rib. Surprise flashed across the boy’s face as Bartiin pulled back the sword, elongating the gash, and raised it in time to parry an unruly swing that sought to take his head. Bartiin withdrew and readied himself again for their next exchange

“You share your father’s arrogance” Bartiin said, trying to provoke another attack.

Ohacha didn’t respond. He seemed stunned by the injury he had taken. Perhaps he’s never been cut before, Bartiin considered. Or perhaps he’s come to realize how lacking his skill is. The boy stood there like a statue; eyes locked on the ground and sword raised defensively. Bartiin let out a held breath and tried to slow his heart rate. He needed it under control. The duel wasn’t over until the boy was dead.

Pain blossomed in Ohacha’s side. He staggered backward as blood seeped steadily from the fresh wound at his side. He reached across his body and held tight to where Bartiin’s blade had cut him. The blood was warm and sticky on his fingers. His blood. And with the blood came pain. He hadn’t been prepared to lose their first exchange. Nor was he prepared to die. His confidence vanished. A hollow feeling overwhelmed him and Ohacha felt immobilized by indecision. Fear returned, extinguishing the rage. Fear and shame, shame in how swift his defeat had come.

Ohacha retreated back slowly, and then rested awkwardly against the alley wall. Bartiin remained poised. All the rage he felt, all the years and months of simmering vengeance felt inconsequential. All the days spent training to wield a sword with Cask felt wasted. When it mattered most, he’d ignored everything he’d ever learned. All of the lessons Cask had drilled into him regarding patience, control, and speed had gone unheeded. Why did I do that? I had the lesser range. The smaller weapon.

Now he would die for that mistake. Bartiin advanced slowly and Ohacha raised the assassin’s blade as best he could manage, backing away down the alley. Even now, Bartiin maintained his patience and composure, unwilling to be baited into attacking prematurely. Ohacha envied Bartiin. He was like Cask. He was the kind of swordsman Ohacha wished to be. Yet at the same time he cursed him, spitting at him as he approached. Bartiin ignored the gesture, pushing Ohacha further and further down the alleyway. It was Ohacha’s turn to consider running. But he knew he’d never escape. Not in this state. It was all he could do to stay upright.

Bartiin tested outward with his blade and Ohacha managed to parry his blow despite the pain. Fear came. Regrets filled his mind. Bartiin tried again, and Ohacha continued to back out of Bartiin’s reach, only parrying the blows that risked reaching his limbs. Then the real attack came, and Ohacha let go of his side, parrying the first strike and countering with a piercing attack of his own. Bartiin was ready for it. The swordman slammed his heavier blade down hard against Ohacha’s strange sword. The blade came free from his grasp and Ohacha stumbled backward onto the ground. He crawled backwards, desperate to live on. It was all he could do now that he was disarmed.

This is it, Ohacha realized. This is where I die. Fears and regrets consumed him. All the things he wished to have done. All the things he wished he hadn’t. Those were his final thoughts and they brought shame with them. He couldn’t grasp why.

Then Bartiin hesitated. He was looking past Ohacha now, no longer focused on the defeated prince.

A familiar voice pierced through the fog of pain and defeat. “Ohacha!” Cask said. Ohacha continued to back away as rapidly as he could manage. Once there was enough space between them, he cast a quick and hopeful glance over his shoulder to where Cask stood behind him. Tears came. Whether from the excruciating pain at his side, or the slim hope that was resurrected, Ohacha couldn’t be sure. Perhaps both.

“Bartiin” Cask said, addressing his former pupil.

“Cask” Bartiin answered. He kept a firm grip on the blade he carried, but noticed that Cask only carried one sword, like his own. Where are his blades? He wondered.

“I’m taking Ohacha” Cask said, raising his weapon. “Don’t follow us.”

Seeing Cask without his swords brought a boost to Bartiin’s conviction. Without them, Bartiin almost felt confident in his chances against his old teacher. The fear of being forced into a contest against his former sword master dissipated, as did the compulsion to flee. “You seem to be missing your swords” Bartiin said. Testing strike.

“I said,” Cask repeated, “I’m taking the boy.”

Cautious parry, Bartiin determined. “And why do you think I’ll let you do that after he tried to kill me?” He twirled the large Casoyan sword in his hand as a show of strength. Second test.

“I use this now” Cask replied, showing off the Casoyan blade. “It’s a stronger symbol of my skill as a warrior. I’ve created a new style. One that merges ours and the Casoyan way.”

Bartiin scowled. Unexpected deflection. Symbol of skill? New style? Bartiin focused more intently on the blade in Cask’s hands. There didn’t appear to be anything special about the blade. He’s bluffing, he concluded. Show strength when you lack for it. A calm smile returned to his face. “I never knew you to be one for lies” Bartiin challenged.  

“Do you want to try it or not?” Cask said flatly, ending the measure. “I’ve got my sword and you’ve got yours. Do you want me to come test it against you or not? I don’t want to.”

Cask’s admission surprised him. ‘I don’t want to’. Those words felt strange and unfamiliar coming from Cask. Yet Bartiin shared the same feeling. I don’t want to fight him. Bartiin cautiously lowered his sword, “I always thought you wouldn’t hesitate to try and kill me if we ever came face to face again… after everything that’s happened.”

“I always thought so too” Cask answered. “Things change.”

“Things change” Bartiin agreed.  

“I’m not done” Ohacha said, picking himself up off the ground. Both men turned, surprised. Cask went to the boy, blade raised, and Ohacha threw up a hand to hold him back, then gestured for Cask’s blade. The swordsman hesitated. “Your sword, Cask” Ohacha demanded.

“No” Cask said. “This is foolish. You’re hurt.”

Ohacha gestured again, never taking his eyes off Bartiin, who eyed the pair suspiciously. “Cask” Ohacha repeated. “I require your blade.”

“Let me fight in your stead, if it must be” Cask urged.

“No” Ohacha declined. “This is something I must do myself.”

Bartiin watched the boy intensely. Blood bloomed beneath the boy’s trembling fingers, spreading down his side. It would be foolish to try it again. But Ohacha’s gaze was one of focus and determination. The rage wasn’t gone, but honed somehow. To Bartiin’s surprise, Cask yielded the sword, leaving himself defenseless. There would be no contest now when the boy fell.

“I’m ready to continue” Ohacha said, testing the Casoyan blade.

“You’re both fools” Bartiin mocked. He raised his blade again defensively.

Ohacha came again. His strikes were quicker and more precise than before. Bartiin parried and dodged as Ohacha gained ground, pushing him back down the alleyway. The wound that, just moments ago seemed so debilitating, seemed disregarded. The sharp clang of metal rung through the narrow street as Ohacha held his ground against Bartiin’s superior technique and experience. Cask held his breath.

Their blades shrieked. Ohacha felt his advantage waning as Bartiin grew better at predicting his attacks and begun countering with his own strikes. Soon Ohacha found himself on the disadvantage as Bartiin gained momentum. His lungs burned. His muscles ached. Bartiin pressed until Ohacha felt he had no better choice than to give everything in the next few moments.

Bartiin is the better swordsman. He will block my strikes…. And so, I must reach him another way. Ohacha trusted his instincts. His sword came down in a vicious diagonal slash aimed at Bartiin’s shoulder. Bartiin blocked the strike effortlessly but the strike left him exposed to Ohacha’s extended left hand.

No shield. Ohacha grasped Bartiin at the shoulder and twisted, pitching the swordsman forward over his own body.

It worked, but it bloody hurt. His sides screamed as Bartiin careened over his back and onto the cobblestones in a solid thud. They fell together. But Ohacha was on top. He didn’t know what to do other than pummel the man beneath him. His left arm held Bartiin’s sword arm down and his fist connected with Bartiin’s face. Bartiin raised his arm defensively. Ohacha switched to elbows. They connected and tore gashes into Bartiin’s handsome face. The bigger man tried to buck him but a wayward strike connected with Bartiin’s temple and he went limp as Ohacha continued to bash with all his might. 

A pair of hands pulled him back. He was being dragged off the unconscious man’s boy. Ohacha struggled but against Cask’s strong hands, there was no contest. “Let me at him!” he screamed. Cask did no such thing. Ohacha continued to protest. He wasn’t finished. He scooped up the small Mada’abi blade and swung it madly in Bartiin’s direction, begging Cask to let him go. Begging him to let him finish it. The way Bartiin would have.

Bartiin awoke and his face throbbed. Blood poured from a gash over his left eye and it blinded him. He pitched himself upward and wiped it away. It smeared, rather than returned any vision. He stared with one good eye as Cask dragged the thrashing prince away. Bartiin groaned in agony, and slowly returned to his feet. Blood splattered the cobblestones. His blood. The world spun. He didn’t understand what had happened. Had he lost? If so, then why was he alive. The prince seemed equally intent on that answer as he screamed in protest.

Cask ignored the boy. “Don’t follow us” he warned. They disappeared.

Bartiin stared down the alley long after both men were gone. He remained alone, brooding over the moment. He had lost. The boy’s skill was wanting and yet he had been beaten. Worse, the boy had slipped through his fingers. And they had let him live. Why? It ate away at him.

His head pounded. Pain lanced through his face and his head felt foggy. He wasn’t going to chase the boy any longer. He was done. Finished. In more ways than one. He stumbled over his first step, but regained his balance. Spirits, it hurts. Bartiin collected his blade. It was still marked with the prince’s blood. Home, was his first thought. I’m finally going home.

He would soon learn that he would be wrong on that count.