Blood and Honor

His pace slowed as he approached a shabby-looking warehouse that stood a couple of streets back from the waterfront. There was no sign over the weathered door, and nothing could be seen through the grimy window set into it. As he reached for the handle, the door opened suddenly, and a cloaked figure pushed past him, hurrying off down the street. Catching a glimpse of the man’s face in the gloom, Mordan stopped in his tracks, staring at his retreating back. After a moment’s deliberation, he set out after him, treading softly and taking care not to be seen.

“Stop right there, friend.”

Mordan cursed and spun round, drawing his rapier. He found himself facing a figure dressed in the Brelish style and standing just beyond the reach of his sword. In one hand, he held a short, stubby wand of black metal, tipped with an orange crystal. There was a pause as the two took the measure of each other: the stranger’s narrow features and pointed ears hinted at elven blood, although his figure was more human in its proportions. A half-elf.

“Nice wand,” said Mordan. “What does it do?”

“You want to find out?”

“Not especially.”

“Then put your sword away.”

With a shrug, Mordan complied. The half-elf relaxed a little but still kept the wand pointed at him.

“I saw you and your changeling friend,” the Brelander continued. “What’s your interest in the lady?”

“What’s yours?”

The half-elf smiled. “Since I’m the one holding the wand, why don’t you answer first?”

Mordan shrugged again. “It seems she and I have a common interest.”

“And what might that be?”

“A certain cavalry unit, lost in Cyre on the Day of Mourning.”

The half-elf considered this for a moment.

“Karrnathi?” he asked.

Mordan nodded.

“This cavalry unit have a name?”

“The Vedykar Lancers. But she doesn’t know that.”

There was a blur of motion, and the Brelander recoiled with a yelp, clutching his wrist. His wand clattered across the cobbles. Before either of them could react, two bulky figures moved to block the alley in front of them. One was a half-orc, and the other appeared to be human. Mordan glanced over sis shoulder at a soft sound behind them. Another group of thugs had moved into place, cutting off any hope of retreat.

“Hello, Mordan,” slurred the half-orc, hefting a massive club.

The half-elf raised an eyebrow. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Ikar wants to see you,” said the half-orc. “He’s very unhappy about that last Metrol run.”

Mordan shrugged. “You win some, you lose some,” he said.

The half-orc snorted. “Ikar doesn’t like to lose,” he said, taking a step closer.

Mordan stayed as still as a statue. His eyes narrowed, hardening like chips of ice. “Then he shouldn’t have sent you, Slarn.” His voice was quiet, but had an edge like steel. “You and your clowns couldn’t—”

He never got to finish the sentence. Twisting to one side as the half-orc’s club narrowly missed his head. Mordan drew his rapier and put his back to the wall of the alley. The half-elf did the same, drawing a shortsword as the thugs fell into a loose semicircle around them. The one that Mordan had taken to be human opened his mouth in a feral snarl, his teeth elongating and his features warping into a bestial mask.

There were two others beside the half-orc and the shifter. One was a wiry halfling with quick eyes and a deadly-looking curved tangat. A Talenta boomerang in his sash explained what had happened to the Brelander’s wand. The other was an elf, armed with a pair of shortswords.

The shifter lunged toward Mordan’s companion, slashing with fingernails that had grown into iron-hard claws. The half-orc swung his club at Mordan’s head again. The others tensed, ready to exploit any openings created by comrades’ attacks.

The Brelander brought his sword up to a guard position, blocking the shifter’s attack, and followed through with a slash that cut deep into the creature’s shoulder. Mordan sidestepped the half-orc’s club, touching his opponent’s shoulder with the bound stump of his left wrist. There was a flare of black light, a smell of scorching, and the half-orc howled in pain, dropping his club and clutching his shoulder. Although the blow had not been hard, it had left a grayish mark on the half-orc’s hide.

As the half-orc dropped back, the elf leaped forward, his two shortswords weaving a complex pattern in the air. Such a display might have intimidated an untrained opponent, but Mordan flicked one blade aside with his rapier, stepped inside the slashing arc of the other, and slammed his pommel back-handed into the elf’s chin, dropping him to the ground like a sack of coal.

The Brelander, meanwhile, was in a stalemate with the wild halfling, blocking one attack after another but unable to land a blow against his agile foe. The half-orc, recovered from the shock of negative energy from Mordan’s spell, charged with his club, only to stop short. He looked down in surprise at the small puncture in his chest, and then at the lark blood on the end of Mordan’s rapier. He wavered and then fell down dead.