The Skymaster's Shadow (Updated: 29/05/16) Chapter 19 Released)

[Lortano]

Excellent chapter! I like the way that both the ships and the characters have back-stories - the Sickle, with its history apparently going back to a prototype schooner, and the historical connection between Jenkins and Hralfur.

The historical connection between the two men is pivotal, hence why the next chapter will focus on them. This story, while ultimately a way to show the future to the Stormy Skies is very much a story of Thaddeus Jenkins and his actions.

[Merchant of Venice]

Great work Lortano, loved the last chapter and the desperate nature of Carson to seek almost seek approval from Jenkins. The last bit has me questioning the father's death, but hmmm....

[Lortano]

Side Story 1: The First Apprentice

26 years previously The sun was just beginning to vanish over the horizon, as Thaddeus looked out from the deck of the Sickle. He was reflecting, as he often did on his time off. At the ripe old age of 34, he was the most famous captain in the newly created royal navy, having recently completed the first ever flight in a frigate. Women swooned over his very presence, men begged him to let them be part of his crew. And the other noble families of the land just would not leave him alone, despite his polite suggestions that they bugger off and let him be. “What a load of bollocks!” he shouted out to the sky, leaning on the railings as his voice echoed over the plains of the Hundred Tribes. He often brought the ship out to heathen lands, just a brief respite for him and the crew. He loved the open plains, the way the sun shone as it went down over the perfectly flat horizon. Even the natives weren’t so bad when you got to know them, he’d started to learn the language a few years back and found them to be much more agreeable once you started speaking to them properly. He especially liked the hero worship that went on around here, specifically the cult that had formed around him. Supposedly, some folk stories spoke of ‘The White Coated One’ who descended from the skies and drove off marauding thieves. He’d once visited one of the Hundred Tribes and was instantly showed with gifts, while people bowed before him in supplication. He appreciated the gesture, but the thought of having a shrine dedicated to, ‘The White Coated One’ where people would genuinely pray at in a few hundred years made him laugh. He’d seen one such shrine already and it portrayed him in a very flattering light, to say the least. And naked, save for the coat, which his crew had mocked mercilessly. He chuckled as he remembered some of the numerous quips they’d had prepared for him once they’d got back in the air. Then he heard a small cough, coming from far below the deck. He peered over the side, just in time to see a pair of legs slip in through one of the hatches. He cursed to himself, perhaps it was some thief, come to steal things from them? Either way, he wasn’t taking any chances; he headed down into the lower decks. He knew exactly where the figure had ended up, one particular hatch in the schooner led into a storage cupboard, the perfect place to hide for a while. He approached the door cautiously, ending up next to it with his back up against the wall. Slowly, the door creaked open, hiding him from the view of the person coming out. There was a brief pause, likely the intruder was checking to make sure nobody was around, before a silhouette crept around the door, right into Thaddeus’ waiting arms. Once he’d closed the intruder in his arms, it fought back with desperate strength. Kicks flew into Thaddeus’ shins, flailing arms smacked his nose and face and then the bastard bit him, twice in the bicep. Cursing, Thaddeus slammed him into a wall, repeatedly, until the figure stopped its struggling. Its head drooped and it slid down the wall, pale little hands illuminated in the light of the candles. It had been a quiet struggle, but a few of the crew woke and began to mutter as Thaddeus threw the unconscious figure over his shoulder, carrying it up to the top decks. “Bloody animal worshippers.” He heard one of the voices say. A few minutes later, the boy stirred. Thaddeus had put him on the table in his cabin and sat patiently until he came around. He’d searched him, just to be sure and found a scimitar on. It was a common weapon around these parts, but how a boy this young had gotten his hands on one was beyond him. Looks could be deceiving though, after all this boy had the guts to sneak on board an Isim vessel. He was very pale, an unusual look for the denizens of the Hundred Tribes, only those of the purest Hierofalt blood could possibly be that pale. As the boy groaned and raised his head, groggy and confused, he spotted Thaddeus. With a fearful yelp, he leaned back too far and fell off the table, the loud bang and groan likely meaning that the fall had knocked the boy fully awake. Thaddeus got to his feet and circled round the table, leaning on it as the boy coughed and spluttered, getting to his feet. He saw Thaddeus again and reached for his scimitar, only to find his scabbard empty. The Pioneer loved that look, the look of pure despair when even the last glimmers of hope were extinguished in his enemy’s eyes. But there was something about this boy that intrigued him above all else. He’d dealt with thieves before, even had to deal with a whole platoon of the bastards who stowed away inside barrels. But very few of them had come with nothing other than a scimitar. “You speak my language?” Thaddeus asked, as the boy sank to his knees in fear, his knees knocking slightly. Nervously, perhaps realising that Thaddeus wasn’t going to behead him instantly, the boy stammered out. “Errr….I speak….little, little bit of language.” “Excellent. Why did you try and sneak aboard my ship? I thought you lot had no time for Isim and their flying ships, let alone the poster boy like me?” The boy slowly stood up and spoke quickly, perhaps trying to convince Thaddeus that he meant no harm. “I did not steal. You….you White Coated One?” “Indeed. Not as grand as you were expecting, eh?” “Oh no, much grander. The eyes like fire, skin like sun. I hear you great warrior.” Thaddeus liked being showed respect, but even this was a little too much for him, so he cut the boy off before he could continue. “The compliments are appreciated, young man. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good fighter, why do you ask?” “I want learn from you.” Thaddeus stroked his chin, slowly. It was traditional in Isim for the heads of noble families to take several apprentices, in fact several offers had come from other noble families to train their own sons in the art of combat. He supposed it would be nice to have a few protégées, someone nice to say the eulogy at his funeral. Even if it was in a broken version of his tongue. But he wasn’t satisfied with the nobility simpering at his feet. Perhaps it was slightly hypocritical with him being the head of one such family, but he wanted the strongest to be his apprentices, not the silver spoon fed imbeciles that he constantly had to look at. On the other hand, a hero training someone who was clearly ‘of the enemy’ was not going to look good. But, as Thaddeus always reminded himself, the people who often said this were not the people who had lived long enough to fight the heathens in battle, as he himself had when he was young. So, with a small nod of the head, he spoke. “I like you, lad. There aren’t many who’d sneak aboard my ship to get me to train them. Reminds me of a younger version of me really…alright then, you win. I’ll train you.” The boys eyes widened and he lunged forward, grabbing Thaddeus around the waist and hugging him tightly. Thaddeus couldn’t help but smile at that, it reminded of him of his own sons, before they turned into spoiled :wub:s that is. The boy began to mumble in his language, and he could make out the words as being part of an old poem that the heathens sung to honour their gods. “God of Mercy, God of Kindness, thank you, thank you!” Thaddeus smiled again and placed an arm round the boy’s back. It was always nice to have a moment of compassion, especially as the boy had no idea that his idea of training was brutal and involved a good deal of violence. He then remembered that he had completely forgotten to ask the boy his name. He mentally slapped himself, his mother had always taught him to be a gentleman and ask names. “Before we head off to sleep, I’d like to know your name.” The boy looked up at him, as if in awe that Thaddeus would even care about his name. “My name is Hralfur.” He said, before he fell asleep, crumpling to the floor in a heap. Thaddeus rolled his eyes and picked the boy up in his arms, heading to the door. “This fainting business will be stopped by the time I’m done with you, boy. You won’t ever sleep with both eyes closed again.” He said half-jokingly. Hralfur, for his part, simply started to snore.

[Alwyn]

Good chapter! I enjoyed Thaddeus' down-to-earth reaction to the hero worship and the encounter and dialogue between Thaddeus and the intruder.

[Merchant of Venice]

And so the plot thickens. Hralfur was Thaddeus' protegee. Now I can see why he wants to help Carson. Brilliant chapter.

[Lortano]

Apologies for missing a week. Here's a long one just for you all.

Chapter 5: War (October 28th)

The next day, Carson stood in the central plaza of Urbpolis, with Sykil just behind him. The announcement had gone out that Nosorum was going to be speaking to the entire city, something that was practically unheard of. Heralds shouting from rooftops were common, but for the king to do so the situation would have to be serious. Most of the city knew the truth by now, that King Victor was dead, by the hand of an assassin. But the rest was rumour and speculation, he could hear them whisper around him, rumour and counter rumour spreading through the crowd that was kept back from the centre of the plaza by a ring of city guards, all armed with muskets and swords. “I heard it was the Prince of Hierofalt himself, jumped through a window and shot him.” “Nah, it was an inside coup. Nosorum must have gotten tired of waiting for his turn to rule.” “I heard that Victor fought off eight of them using a fruit knife before he died.” But all that was silenced as the iron gates of the Citadel’s outer wall opened, the stones grating as the doors passed over them. From within came no fanfare, no marching army, but a solitary figure with firm purpose in his strides. The winds, pushed through the streets by the very nature of the city’ structure, caused his black hair to rustle as he approached, the bandage on his hand visible and ever so slightly bloody in the centre, where his wound still lay. So came Nosorum, jumping onto the fountain in the plaza and climbing his way onto its pinnacle, stepping on the carved heads of the ancient kings to get there. He seemed slightly awestruck by the moment, as he took a moment to survey the crowds that had come. His eyes briefly lingered on Carson, though he had no doubt he was actually looking to Sykil for some support. Then he began to speak, his voice quiet and slightly shaky. “I have heard the rumours that have been spread around this fine city. I have heard all the stories, the fantasies, the lies. But I’ll tell you one thing for certain and that is that my father is dead.” There came a gasp from the crowd and muttering, but it was cut off instantly by the King, whose voice began to pick up in speed and volume, his anger beginning to bubble to the surface. “He was murdered by a Thanos Cultist. Oh you all know them, the heathens who murder for the sake of their false Death God. But who sent them? Who would be so daring as to murder an old man at his dinner table in front of his own son? What kind of callous, underhanded rogues would do something so terrible?” The crowd made no noise, their eyes fixated on the gesticulating Nosorum, his finger slowly pointing towards the south gate of the city, directly visible from the plaza. The audience followed the finger with their eyes as he shouted out the fateful words, “Who else but Hierofalt? The treacherous scum, who we signed many treaties with guaranteeing peace, sent this assassin. I heard from the mouth of the Cultist himself, as he gloated amidst the ruins of my father’s skull, that Prince Krolssi himself ordered this!” There was a roar of outrage from the people and the guards had to hold the crowd back as they tried to surge towards the fountain. But Nosorum wasn’t finished, he raised aloft his wounded hand and shouted above the din, “Yes, he killed my father and then put a hole in this very hand! But there’s an old saying, while you can break the paw of a wolf, it still has its teeth to fight with. But am I wrong? Is Isim the wolf that slinks away, tail between its legs as a new foe enters the fray?” “NO!” came the cry and the crowd began to push again at the guards. Nosorum motioned to let them through and through they went, surrounding the fountain in a throng of seething anger and rage. This was something Carson had never seen before. This was the power of the people in action and Nosorum had managed to harness it so incredibly well. “Will the Prince and his many gods ever have the better of Lupum, the God Slayer and his people?” he asked and the response was deafening. “NO!” “Will we allow this insult to go unpunished?” “NO!” “Will I have to fly to Hierofalt alone to face the endless heathen armies?” “NO!” Carson found himself shouting along with the others, as he kept his eyes fixed on his King. “Then I have one last question. Do you all want war? Do you desire it with all your hearts and minds, do you want to hear the death knell of a heathen soldier as he falls to your blade? Do you want to watch our glorious navy drive them into the dust?” “YES!” came the final roar and then the cheers, chants of Nosorum’s name filled the plaza as the King’s chest rose and fell heavily. He looked slightly drained but at the same time triumphant, a small smile on his lips as he gazed out at the throngs. With that, Sykil shouted above the din, the crowd turning in expectation as he raised a piece of parchment into the air. “If you want to fight the heathen, then join the navy today! Write your name upon this and carve it forever into our nation’s great and glorious history!” He was then unceremoniously swamped with hundreds of people, of both genders and all classes, demanding their name be put down. Carson slipped away from him and began to walk towards the Citadel. Now that war was confirmed it would make sense to find Marshal Jenkins and give him his answer. He would go to war with him, no matter what. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Marshal!” Carson called above the din of the skydocks. Having just managed to escape the crowds that had swarmed Nosorum in the main plaza, he’d rushed all the way here, more determined to fight than ever. And there was Jenkins, talking with some of the other captains on one of the struts, but he turned as soon as Carson shouted. “Ah, young Carson. I heard the roars of the crowd from here. Did Nosorum say something especially stupid?” “He just declared war on Hierofalt.” “Ah, that’s the special kind of stupidity that I like.” He turned back to the two captains he was talking to and spoke, resting his hand on Carson’s shoulder. “My friend and I here have some things to talk about regarding the war. Spread the word, we’re going to slaughter some heathens!” The two saluted him and headed towards another group of captains, the word spreading like wildfire in a forest. As they left earshot, Jenkin spoke again. “You still want to take part in this war?” “That’s what I came to tell you. I want in more than ever.” He nodded his head slowly at that, “Come on, follow me.” Once they entered the Sickle's cabin, Carson saw someone else sitting on the leftmost chair of the three. As the person turned, Carson recognised Marshal Sykes, her brief smile as she saw Jenkins turning into a frown of suspicion once her eyes reached him. “Why is the youngest here Thaddeus? Did Sykil get murdered by the mob?” Jenkins chuckled as he leaned on the table. “No such luck I’m afraid, Ryla. This one wants a little taste of the action.” Sykes’ gaze turned to Carson, she looked him up and down before rolling her eyes and sighing. “He’s definitely Robert’s son. Lupum help us all.” Thaddeus chuckled again as he placed a bony finger on the map that was sprawled across the table. It was a map of the known world, with the three civilised kingdoms: Rivcon, Isim and Castfor in the furthest north. Beyond the mountain chains stretching across the north edge of the map, there lay only forest and fell beasts that dwarfed any that lived in the land and few, if any, had ever been there and returned. To the east lay the Gash, the ruined wastelands that ran in a crescent from the furthest north of the map to the furthest south along the easternmost portion of the map. Carson had never seen it with his own eyes, but apparently it was a grey, dusty waste filled with all manner of vengeful spirits and other such horrible things. It also extended further east than anyone had ever dared go, it was simply that dangerous and impossible to explore. At the very bottom of the map lay Hierofalt, the Principality that had always been at odds with its northern cousins, but ever since Lupum the Black Wolf had risen to godhood over a thousand years ago the hatred had become far worse, with numerous terrible wars fought between them and the civilised kingdoms. And between the two great rivals were the lands of the Hundred Tribes, the petty kings of the plains who fought each other for most of the time, but if threatened banded together into an alliance that could not be outnumbered by either Hierofalt or Isim. It was here that Thaddeus placed his finger, drawing a circle leading from Urbpolis, winding through the very centre of the Hundred Tribes, and right back to its origin. “As I used to in the wars with our neighbours, I’ll be going out scouting. We don’t know how many of the tribes have fallen in with Hierofalt, nor the numbers we’ll have to deal with. Unfortunately, the safest way is to fly overhead and see if they start shooting. I think that’ll be the closest you’ll get to a war for now. In my opinion, it’s always best to get used to this sort of thing slowly. Ryla snorted at that and shook her head. “Are you joking? You beat the living hell out of me in my first week!” “True, but unlike Carson you showed me no respect on that first week. Clearly I didn’t hit you hard enough, the lack of respect still shows. Anyway, on to getting Carson on board the Sickle without anyone noticing. I think one of my disguises will be needed here.” Ryla slowly lowered her head into her open palm. That made Carson slightly nervous, if she was unconvinced by an idea then it was likely to be a bad or embarrassing one. “One of your disguises Thaddeus? Do I need to enlighten Carson about the last time we used one of those disguises?” Jenkins raised his hands in mock surrender. “Come now. It was a long time ago.” “He had me dress up in this outrageous dress-“ she continued. “It was a perfectly fine dress.” Jenkins interjected hastily. “Yes, for a two credit prostitute!” “Look, enough about that. Let’s see if we can find Carson something.” He headed over to the nearby wardrobe and reached inside, pulling all kinds of clothing. There were many different colours, fabrics and types within and Thaddeus quickly picked out a few items and tossed them over to Carson. He caught them and found himself staring at a blue silk scarf and a black eyepatch. “I think that’ll do for now.” Jenkins said as he closed the wardrobe door. “Where did you get all of this stuff?” Carson asked, genuinely curious. “I’m Thaddeus Jenkins, one of the richest and most powerful aviators in history. Naturally, I stole them all from the corpses of my enemies.” “He’s not joking.” Sykes added. Carson suddenly felt the weight of the items he was holding and forced himself to keep looking at Thaddeus, rather than thinking about the previous owners of the items. “That scarf belonged to one particularly vicious heathen I fought with on the ground a long time ago. He was an alright sort of man, but he was terribly superstitious. Thought that the scarf brought him luck.” “It’s not surprising. It looks really nice.” Carson commented “Indeed, you’d be amazed how much water it took to wipe the blood out of it. You might not want to wear it too long, considering the luck it brought its previous owner.” “So I wear this and come here when you’re going to ship out?” Carson decided to ask before Jenkins mentioned any more gory deaths “Aye. It usually takes news about seven days to spread from here to Hierofalt, thanks to some very fast horses and the willingness of the Hundred Tribes to spread news to our enemies. So I reckon we’ll be shipping out in a week. Meet me near the ship and we’ll smuggle you on-board.” “And you promise you won’t let Sykil or Anna know?” “Lad, when I was your age I’d done things that were far worse than this. Don’t worry, both of our lips are sealed. Isn’t that right Ryla?” Sykes nodded and gave a small smile, yet her eyes were as hard and cold as ever. That was something that always terrified Carson, whenever he’d seen her marching around the Citadel or talking with anyone, she had that cold, hard look that unnerved all but the toughest of people. And the stories that people told about her were equally terrifying, during the last war with the neighbouring kingdoms she’d eviscerated one of the Princes of Castfor with both of her rapiers and then hanged the body from the rigging of her ship for all to see. Ridding his head of such thoughts, Carson bowed his head before both and turned to leave. “Thank you both so much! I’ll be here in a week, don’t you worry!” he said, before exiting the cabin and slamming it shut.

[Merchant of Venice]

There's something not quite right about Rila Sykes, she seems up to something. Actually her and Jenkins seem up to something and I think Carson is going to get caught in the middle of it.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

I think I agree with Merchant.

Actually, there seems to be a lot of weird stuff going on, doesn't there? No doubt it all has significance and will be explained in due course. Well, all the more for me to look forward to!

[Lortano]

Actually, there seems to be a lot of weird stuff going on, doesn't there? No doubt it all has significance and will be explained in due course. Well, all the more for me to look forward to!

Indeed there is some strangeness going on, and next chapter we see what our heroes' mortal enemies are up to down in Hierofalt...

[Alwyn]

There is strangeness here indeed, I look forward to finding out what is happening in Hierofalt.

[Lortano]

Chapter 6: Prince Krolssi (November 3rd)

The week went by, and Nosorum’s grim decision spread far and wide, like a pebble in a small pond, its ripples spreading further and further with each passing hour. First it was to other cities in Isim, then to the curious ears of the other civilised kingdoms within a day. Then word spread further, through the Hundred Tribes, their ancient and fast communication system meant that it took merely five days to spread from Isim to the very borders of Hierofalt. And word, having no inclination of borders, entered the realm of the many gods and finding its way to Hierofalt, the capital of the Principality. The city was ancient, it had existed for many hundreds of years before Lupum had spread his heresies and possibly before the fall of the mighty civilisation that had come before. The buildings reflected this, despite being mostly wooden, they had been well preserved by constant repairs and by ancient charms set upon the city in the times when such magic was possible. As word entered the city it spread like the cold wind down the narrow streets, funnelled through by word of mouth. It wound its way through marketplaces, into taverns, and wormed into the great spires that rose above the city in their dozens. These were the temples of the Jomitorn, the heathen gods of Hierofalt. Even the priests at their altars were shaken from their vigilance, some knocked over their fires in fear, others clamoured for war and yet more threw another log onto the altar and called for prayer. And finally, word reached the centre of the city. On a small hill, surrounded by a low curtain wall, sat the palace of the Prince. Its walls, made of marble, shimmered in the early morning mist, the ancient charms placed upon it given it an unearthly glow amidst the wooden buildings that surrounded it. And word entered even that palace, reaching the very chambers of the Prince himself. He was relaxing at his fireside, his children on his lap, when he heard the news that brought the harsh reality of the world crashing down upon him. He reacted immediately, calling for a meeting of the High Priests of the Jomitorn. Over a thousand in total came, from those in the richest temples whose spires cast shadows over the great city, to those who had a small altar to an extremely minor god. Yet they came as one. Not for twenty years had such a gathering taken place and the public were stunned to see them march within, wearing robes of many colours, some armed, others with staffs, some wearing armour forged in the fires deep within the temples. They went across a stone bridge, through the iron portcullis and up a stone path to the doors of the palace, where two guards armed with rifles pushed them open. In silence, the priests marched in, past the stoic guards who saluted in respect. As they waited in the entrance hall, the doors leading further within flew open, the cold wind from within blowing over them as Prince Krolssi emerged. He was a young man, twenty two summers he’d spent upon this earth, yet he looked like a man approaching the middle years. His skin was paler than most, a consequence of the purity of the blood in his veins. His beard was short and coarse, like a black mane that covered him from chin to the top of his head. He headed up the nearby staircase and leaned upon the railings at the very top, and the room fell silent before he even said a word. His glare was terrifying to most, helped by his cloak that was made entirely of the pelts of two huge white wolves he’d slain in the wilds when he was in his teens. Their heads were mounted as shoulder pads, their dead eyes glaring out from their slightly open jaws. At last, he spoke in the tongue of Hierofalt, his words coming out like the growl of a huge bear. “Priests. I trust you’ve heard the rumours?” he asked. “Aye! There’ll be heathen blood aplenty spilled by the time this is over!” Vesily Sotarak said. He was the High Priest of the War God and his cry was met with a small group of cheers from the crowd. But Krolssi raised his gloved hand aloft and it stopped immediately. In it was a letter, with well written handwriting on it. “Enough. I have here the message sent from the King of Isim. It seems as though old King Victor was murdered by an assassin claiming to have been hired by me. Some nonsense about me refusing the betrothal offer he sent me a while back.” “The Thanos Cult?” came another voice from the crowd, followed by roars of outrage from the rest of them. Of all the priesthoods, the Thanos Cult was the most reviled, even among those that dedicated their lives to the Jomiturn. Krolssi responded by nodding, his mouth twisting ever so slightly into a grimace. “Yes. The Thanos Cult were apparently involved. With that in mind, Grandmaster Palvema, show yourself and explain this.” The crowd looked amongst themselves, but there was no sign of the Thanos Cult’s leader. And some breathed a sigh of relief at that. There were few sights more frightening than that young man. He was stone blind and often walked the streets alone, stick in hand as he felt his way along. But there was something off about him, he was always sniffing at the air, as if there was a bad smell that he couldn’t quite get rid of. And the way he walked was so confident, even with the stick, that it was hard to believe he was actually blind. “So he won’t show himself? I say we raid that temple of his and drag him out! We must know the truth!” Sotarak shouted, drawing his mace from his back and pointing at his fellow priests. There was a round of applause and they turned to the door. “Hold your horses. Who’s talking like the heathens now?” A voice called out from the entrance. As they turned, a man came wandering in, dressed in bright fabrics that stood out from the bland wool that most priests in Hierofalt wore. He had a large grin on his pale face, and grey eyes that had a gleam in them that never faded. Despite this cheery demeanour, the whole room shuffled back a few steps as he entered, for he wore a tabard with the mark of the Thanos Cult upon it, the face of a man crying black tears. Even Sotarak took a step back, his face red from anger. “Cultist! Where is Palvema?” Krolssi barked, his voice stern and impatient. He’d had enough of the machinations of priests and much preferred a conversation to pointless backstabbing. “Forgive the blind man for not hurrying, my Prince. He was busy handling another assassination request. You know how it is. He sent me though, and I’m almost as good. Loputos Nocturnus, the Mouth of Thanos.” The assassin said, bowing before the assembled priests. “I don’t especially care what you call yourself.” Krolssi said bluntly. “Did you kill King Victor of Isim?” “As it so happens, yes. Our assassin involved returned yesterday. What of it?” “What of it? His son just declared war on us all!” Krolssi waved the letter at Loputos, who merely raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Tsk. Used to be a time when we’d get a bonus if we took out the family as well. Perhaps we should have done here…” “I don’t care about your profits, Cultist! Why did the assassin say that I was involved in this?” “Oh. Well, the client told us to do that and to leave the young prince alive. Strange request really, but he paid us enough so-” Loputos shrugged nonchalantly. “The name of the client, if you would be so kind.” Krolssi responded, the last clause said in such a way that it could only be interpreted as a threat. “I refuse. The Cult prides itself on anonymity unless the client specifies otherwise, so I’m afraid that information is private.” “And if I threatened you with expulsion from the city on pain of death? Would the information be private then?” The smile faded and Loputos stared directly at Krolssi, as if sizing him up. “You could try that. You could even try to enforce it. But keep in mind, at the moment the Head, Mouth and Spear of Thanos are in this city. We are beyond any enemy that would come for us and you would be wasting an incredible number of resources to wipe us out, resources you could use to fight your war. Speaking of that unfortunate war, Grandmaster Palvema asked me to wish all of you good luck. After all, the arrogance of young men must be paid for in blood, and there is no blood finer than a heathen’s. Good day.” As he turned to leave, one priest stepped in front of him, the worshipper of some minor deity. “Will you not help us? Will you just leave us to face Isim alone, without the best fighters in this city? Cowards, the lot of you! Cowards and traitors!” His finger shook as he pointed in Loputos’ face, the smile well and truly wiped from it. The cultist gave a small nod and raised his hands apologetically. “I understand your frustration. But, if you ever try to cross a Thanos Cultist, you must always keep an eye on what’s behind you.” The priest turned quickly, only for Loputos to flick a pistol out of his sleeve and shoot him in the back. As the man landed with a thud on the ground, blood leaking through his dark green robes, he stepped on him and put a second bullet in his head. There was a deadly silence in the hall as he stowed the pistol back in his sleeve and spoke, his voice carrying a very unsubtle threat. “You see, we might not be the most loyal of priests, but our pride is just as strong as any other. If any of you wish to drag us against our will to battle, Thanos awaits you the same way he awaited this fool.” He stepped over the corpse and walked out, past guards that didn’t dare block his path. As he left, Krolssi turned back to the crowd, his expression even darker than before. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was having his authority questioned so blatantly. “Priests, I have a dilemma. Nosorum has promised in this letter that his goal is the eradication of the Thanos Cult and us if we stand in his way. On one hand, it is my duty as Prince to protect against an attack on the Jomiturn. On the other hand, do we really want another war? I may not remember old wars, but I have heard the stories and they were long and bloody affairs and sent many of our greatest warriors down to Thanos. Must we put our people through this again? I leave it to you to decide.” As one, the priests drew whatever weapons they had and turned, pointing them at the wall. There, chiselled into the walls, lay the pledge that Krolssi’s ancestor had written there many years ago. To protect the Many Gods, the people of Hierofalt and all who bow to the true Successors. This I pledge, and my descendants shall pledge in turn. Krolssi stared at that pledge, his eyes scanning it many times before he sighed and reached behind him, removed his old hunting rifle and released the spring loaded bayonet at the front. And with it in hand he spoke once to the gathered people. “You are right. As Prince of Hierofalt, I hereby answer the challenge of Isim. Set the spires smoking, call the people out to war and pray to the Jomiturn for victory.” With that, the call to war began. Messengers headed out into the Hundred Tribes, calling for aid against the northern heathens. From the spires of the greatest temples rose black smoke, the great altars burning as they had not burned for decades, so that for miles around the great reek could be seen. And all who saw it felt the same sense of dread and foreboding, for Hierofalt was going to war. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hralfur saw the smoke rising from the altars as he sat aboard his schooner just outside the gates of the city. He was sipping some of the fine tea that one of the Hundred Tribes made, a particular delicacy in these parts, as a crew member attended to the wound on his shoulder. It was healing and the arm would be as good as new within a week. Still, it had been an annoying experience, to be shot by a mere boy like that. Had his orders not been to eliminate the King and the King alone, he would have gladly shot the boy in retaliation. Still, he couldn’t help but admire the boy for his courage, there were few who would stand in the way of the Cult, let alone raise a gun to them. He thought such thoughts as he sat outside of his cabin, the cold slightly biting but not nearly enough to be painful. This was a true Hierofalt autumn, the harbinger for the hard winter. And this year, the winter would be harder than it had been for a long time. He looked around, his flitting over the surroundings. For, unlike Isim suspected, Hierofalt did not have a few dozen schooners built and ready for war. As Hralfur looked around, there were over two hundred surrounding the city, not in advanced skydocks like Isim, but sitting upon the bare ground. Most were schooners, some were frigates belonging to the commanders of Hierofalt’s new navy. Three hundred more were stationed at other cities, as far as Hralfur knew and together they had a force more than capable of giving Isim a nasty shock. With a chuckle, he stood up and leaned on the railings as the black smoke began to rise from the spires. “War. Just as the client expected.” He said to the crew member, who bowed and walked away in a hurry, leaving Hralfur to mull over the coming battles that he would watch from the side-lines, like a true assassin.

[Alwyn]

Another excellent chapter! I enjoyed the description of the ancient city, the way you describe the news of Nosorum's decision and the conversation between the Prince and the Grandmaster. The line at the end about the client is an effective and dramatic one.

[Lortano]

Another excellent chapter! I enjoyed the description of the ancient city, the way you describe the news of Nosorum's decision and the conversation between the Prince and the Grandmaster. The line at the end about the client is an effective and dramatic one.

Loputos is not the Grandmaster I'm afraid. We won't be meeting him in person for quite a while!

On an unrelated note, I've edited the OP to include a cast list. Just thought it'd be a little helpful.

[Alwyn]

Sorry for misunderstanding who Loputus is . I should have paid more attention to the line where he says that he is the Mouth of Thanos and not the Grandmaster. (The cast list looks helpful).

[Lortano]

Chapter 7: Departure (November 5th)

The docks were packed as Carson, wearing his disguise, weaved through the crowds of sailors. The attention seemed to be focused on his destination, the Sickle, which made him feel slightly queasy. If any of them recognised him…no, it would be fine. The disguise was good, he hardly recognised himself when he’d admired himself in the mirror beforehand. It would be fine. The week had passed uneventfully, any subtle hints he’d dropped about going to war with Sykil had been ignored, so presumably none of his family wanted him to go out and fight. Though at the time, Sykil was enjoying mocking Tarkon, who was still in bed with his wound, though it was healing fast. The verbal jabs had clearly bruised Tarkon’s ego even more, especially when Anna suggested vandalising his uniform by cutting off one trouser leg. He approached the strut where the Sickle was docked and saw Jenkins standing next to his ship, leaning on one of the lampposts that lined the docks. As Carson approached he nodded and gave a wry smile through that wrinkled face. He could tell that the old man loved breaking the rules and though he preferred following them, he couldn’t deny the joy that such antics gave him. He approached him and Jenkins spoke immediately, his white hair blowing back in the breeze. “Not a bad looking disguise lad, not bad at all. Now, let’s-“ His hand went to Carson’s shoulder and squeezed, his voice lowering to a whisper, barely audible above the noise of the crowd. “Get on-board, now.” He warned. Carson turned his head and saw Sykil striding towards the dock, flanked by two rather large burly men armed with rifles. With not so much a breath, he jumped aboard and grabbed a nearby mop. He pretended to scrub the deck, but kept his ears open to hear the conversation that was undoubtedly coming. “Thaddeus!” he heard. It was Sykil’s voice, no doubt. The Marshal answered, not a hint of nervousness in his voice, Carson marvelling at his willingness to lie so blatantly to his superior’s face. “Sykil, how are the preparations going? And how’s that foolish brother of yours?” “Which one?” Sykil answered, Jenkins chuckled a little at that. “Tarkon’s fine, but it’ll be a while before he can walk well enough to command a ship. About a week or so, if Anna’s right. Preparations are going well. The detachment from Luscon just arrived, fifty ships in total and the Fidelis is almost fully supplied and ready to move. It won’t be long now before we can test Hierofalt’s resolve.” “Good to hear. I’m just preparing for the scout mission. Just my ship, in order to keep speed at a maximum. Wouldn’t want to lose any of those fine new schooners we had built.” “Oh definitely. Old Hardwyk would lose his mind if one of those new ones went down. Anyway, regarding the scout mission, you’ve done it so often that I don’t need to wish you any luck old man.” “No doubt, young whippersnapper. Anyway, I’m just about done here, so I’ll be shoving off in a few moments. Good day, Admiral.” Sykil gave a bow before departing, his bodyguards glaring menacingly at anything that so much breathed in his general direction. True to his word, Jenkins leapt aboard and beckoned Carson to follow him. He left the mop where he originally found it and followed Jenkins, up to the poop deck. There sat the Sickle’s wheel, carved out by some of the best woodworkers in the entire nation. It had seen better days; there were many scuff marks on it, from the many famed battles of Thaddeus Jenkins. How many could Carson recall from mere memory? There were at least three against Hierofalt and seven against the neighbouring kingdoms, one of which was an absolutely crushing defeat for Castafor. He remembered the tales he was told of that battle as a boy. Jenkins had lead the fleet in the fight a few hundred feet in the air above Isim’s western border. With him were his three apprentices and some of the greatest captains of the day, against a force that matched them in number and was led by the King of Castafor’s son, Prince Alexavier, apparently considered one of the most handsome and gifted men in the world. For five hours, the battle was fought and the individual duels during that battle were truly legendary. Thaddeus had leapt into the cabin of a frigate from the deck of the Sickle, going through the glass window before stabbing the captain in the back. Hralfur and Father had fought side by side against two frigates, emerging victorious after a long and vicious fight. But the real memory Carson had of the stories told was the endgame, where Marshal Sykes had woven her way through the fleet and met Alexavier’s ship in battle. That meeting was a grim affair, with great losses on both ships, before at last the Queen of the Skies overcame the Prince, eviscerating him with her two rapiers. The Sickle had emerged from such battles with the scars on the wheel, but each scar was a testament to Isim’s greatness and especially to the greatest of all the Kingdom’s soldiers. The man himself gripped at the wheel, waving a half-hearted hand to the cheering crowds of sailors on the docks. The cries came back louder than ever, “Get ‘em Jenkins!” “Show those heathen scum what for!” “Pioneer! Pioneer!” It all helped make Carson feel proud to be a part of Isim, that glorious nation that had filled the world with the wonders of this technology. And to be on the ship that started it all filled with even more pride. How many could say that they had been flying with Jenkins? How many could say they fought alongside Jenkins? But the Pioneer snapped him out of the daydream by shouting at his crew, in a way that made Carson feel motivated and eager to help, such was the enthusiasm in his voice. “Fire up the engines boys! No slow starts today, I want to be out of sight within an hour!” The call went down the ship, down into the lower decks and at last into the engine room itself. They fired up, the propellers built into the bottom of the ship beginning to rotate rapidly, the ship starting to rise from the docks. While Carson had been flying before in quite a few ships, this sensation always got him every single time. He held on to the railings as the twin propellers that controlled lift caused the ship to rise clear of its dock, hovering in mid-air. Then the propellers at the back began to spin as well, and the ship began its journey south, with Jenkins shouting praise to his crew. And as Carson looked back towards Urbpolis once last time, he did so with the smug satisfaction that he’d fooled his own brothers. After all, there was no better feeling than that for the youngest in the family.

A shorter chapter, but it reveals a little bit of backstory.

[Zeus Almighty]

I am about halfway done with what you have here. I don't know what I was expecting, but I am happy to read it! The backstory and relationships are woven thick and well laid out. I will continue reading.

[Lortano]

Sorry about no update last week. I had Latin to study for. Anyway, now things get exciting.

Chapter 8: The Fireside Story (Late November 6th)

As Carson emerged from Jenkins’ cabin, clutching a bottle of brandy that the captain claimed was for ‘medicinal use’, he still felt the euphoria of flying, with the wind gusting through his air and lightly buffeting his face. In the day or so since they’d set off, he still hadn’t gotten quite enough of that feeling to satisfy him. Emerging back onto the poop deck, he handed Jenkins the brandy, the old man still at the wheel of the ship. Removing the cork with his teeth, he took a swig straight from the bottle and handed it back, smacking his lips. “Good strong stuff my lad! Perfect weather, perfect alcohol, perfect crew, what more could you possibly want for a little adventure, eh?” Carson had to agree, the crew may have all looked rough and ready types, but they were a good bunch really and had accepted Carson rather quickly. The morning after the flight had begun Jenkins had taken Carson to the middle of the ship, removed his disguise and then introduced him, referring to him as ‘Hardcastle’s boy.’ Little more needed to be said for the crew, who came and shook hands one after the other. In one day, Carson had learned more about his father than he had in ten years. “Go on, have a drink yourself. It does a boy good to get some of that stuff down you.” Carson slowly raised the bottle to his lips and downed as small an amount as he could. While he was hardly a stranger to drink, brandy, especially this potent smelling stuff, was not something he was used to. It tasted even stronger, he gagged ever so slightly and took a step backwards, hacking and coughing. “Marshal, what is this stuff?” “My family’s stuff actually. We Jenkins brewed brandy for years before I took them into the flying business. That one’s a vintage, about two hundred years old I think.” Carson would’ve liked to hear more, he would, but there was a big question that he was itching to get off his chest. For all the Sickle’s crew could tell him about father, there was still one man who had not told him everything. “Captain, I have a question.” He asked, trying to form the question properly in his head. “Go on, lad.” Jenkins replied, eyes never moving as he stared straight ahead. “I’d like to know a little more about my father.” The effect was immediate, Jenkins grip on the wheel tightened a little, and a small ‘tsk’ escaped his lips. He turned his head to face Carson and it was a face filled with regret and… Carson caught himself for a moment as he recognised fear etched upon the old man’s face. It was the first time he’d seen, no, even heard of Thaddeus Jenkins showing fear, but there it was, a reminder that even he had weaknesses. “I-I…We’ll be setting down as the light starts to fade. I’ll talk about him then.” Jenkins managed to sputter out, before turning back to the front of the ship, not even looking at Carson. His hand on the wheel was shaking ever so slightly. Carson began to worry, what if the old man had some terrible secret to hide? What if- He mentally slapped himself. Of course there was nothing terrible to hide. Jenkins was a friend of father, perhaps he was still not quite over his death? There certainly was no point in worrying, Carson reassured himself, so he headed down to the below decks, and tried to find himself some lunch. With the sun setting at last, the ship was put down upon the plains that made up the lands of the Hundred Tribes. They within the Hundred Tribes by now, they’d crossed the border at some point the night before and had spent a full day going over the tiny settlements that dotted the plains. As they landed, the crew swarmed like ants, ladders were lowered over the sides and they brought fire making tools and lumber with them. After eating a half decent cooked meal around several campfires, the crew began to drift off to sleep or into small conversation, but Carson and Jenkins did not. Both of them stared into their campfire, neither wanting to start off the inevitable conversation, but Jenkins broke first with a sigh. “So…you want to hear about your old man, do you?” Carson nodded, a knot tightening in his stomach. What kind of stone slab was Jenkins about to drop, if he was going to do that at all? “Your father was one of my three protégées, an accomplished fighter, an excellent flyer and a man right after my own heart. I’ll not lie, I saw him more as a son than my actual sons! I believe I first met him out in the east of the country, I was looking for a second apprentice to train with Hralfur and heard good things about him. And my intuition was right, as it so often is.” He began to chuckle to himself as he stared into the fire, his hand rubbing his chin. “I still think about him y’know. He stands on the deck of his frigate, the Stormchaser, with his hands behind his back, his coat fluttering behind his legs in the stiff breeze. His hair is short and unkempt, hidden under a three cornered hat and his eyes are a deep blue, filled with mischief. That’s the image I always had of him, the day he got that frigate and was as happy as any man on this fair earth.” He certainly painted a pretty picture, the fire seemed to flicker into these images that Thaddeus conjured in Carson’s mind. And in the back of his head stirred the faintest of memories, as though the words were fingers tugging on the back of his head. “Five years after I met him, Sykil was born. You lot never met your mother really, she was one of those wandering traders who hate being tied down to anything. Robert met her after protecting her ship from an attack by some raiders from Castafor and they apparently hit it off. Well obviously, he had four kids with her, but you get my meaning. But don’t you get any ideas on trying to find her. I tried after…well…after you lot were left alone and she was harder to track down than an honest Davenheart.” Carson hadn’t really thought about mother that much. He’d never met her, never really even heard that much about her. And frankly he didn’t honestly care. It was strange, but she’d never bothered to find her children, so he didn’t see why he should bother going to find her. “We flew many battles together and he became quite the favourite of the King after the War for the Queen. Then…well…” He paused for a moment, composing himself. Carson swore he saw a small tear starting to form in the old man’s right eye. “The engineers, bastards to a man, came up with a new idea, the three decked Skymaster. As the man who tested the first schooner and the first frigate, it was my duty to test it, it was my thrice damned duty. But your father was stubborn at the best of times and he told me that it wouldn’t be a problem, to leave it to him.” Carson felt the knot tighten further. He knew exactly how this story ended; he’d seen it with his own eyes, the fire and the wreckage that burned like a terrible funeral pyre. “You were there, so I won’t go into detail but…they found out that there was a minor flaw with the engine and that flaw was enough to blow the entire ship out of the sky. As a national hero, it should have been me on that ship, me dying in the name of progress, not Robert.” He fumbled for his pipe and began to smoke it, staring into the fire that danced and flickered as the wind picked up. “That’s why I kept well away from you boys and your sister over the last ten years. I don’t have the right to teach you as I taught Robert. At least, that’s what I promised myself a long time ago. But then you came to me and I thought that now might be the time for me to take my place, to mentor you to become greater than your father, perhaps even greater than me.” Carson reached forward and grabbed Jenkins’ hand, the wrinkled skin hard and beaten through hard work. With a reassuring smile, he spoke what little he could think of at that moment, “Don’t worry, Captain. I know that as long as I’m with you, no harm will come my way.” And, as with all words that tempt fate, as he finished the first gunshot rang out over the plains and a nearby sailor collapsed, clutching the newly made hole in his throat.

[Alwyn]

Great chapters, the old man's recollections about the three-decked Skymaster's tragic end are particularly well done.

[Lortano]

Side Story 2: The Second Apprentice

Thaddeus kept a wary eye on the alleys on either side of the cobbled roads. Beside him, Hralfur had a hand on his scimitar. In six months of training, he’d grown impressively, to the point that men whispered of Jenkins and his heathen boy. He’d even killed a man during their time together, in self-defence admittedly, but it proved his mental fortitude. He’d seen older men break after killing a man, but his protégée had carried on, still full of confidence. However, they weren’t in the easternmost city of Isim, Luscon, on any sort of naval business. No, they were here to find Thaddeus’ new protégée. While Hralfur had grown strong by fighting Thaddeus, it was obvious that he would do better by fighting someone closer to his own age. Luscon, while hardly lawless, was the perfect place to find disaffected youths who knew their way around a fight. Thaddeus knew that well enough, he’d once spent days lost in those streets when he was a small boy and lived to tell the tale. They’d asked around for three days, searching for the strongest youngster they could find. It had taken that long to find someone, but eventually a former guard had told them of a gang led by a young man who’d once pickpocketed the captain of the guard and then beaten up his pursuers. He sounded perfect to Thaddeus, a rough and ready sort of fellow who could be moulded like clay into a real fighter. Unfortunately, they’d also been told that the gang in question numbered in the dozens and were notorious for their violence. Still, he was hardly going to let such a fact bother him, he’d faced far worse than angry gangs of children. “If they resist, do we kill them?” Hralfur asked, his pale green eyes never staying in the same place as he checked the surroundings. Thaddeus hadn’t wanted to bring the boy along, but he’d insisted, at one point even falling to his knees and begging him to take him. When he was in such a mood, resistance was futile. “If any of them try anything, you have my permission. But the leader is mine.” As they hurried on down the street, a young lad came rushing out of one of the alleyways, looking behind him with a look of panic upon his face. In his rush, he smashed straight into Thaddeus and fell backwards upon his behind, while Thaddeus merely stumbled back in surprise and held an arm out to stop Hralfur from executing the boy on the spot. As he recovered, Thaddeus grabbed the boy by the collar and lifted him up, a smile on his face as he kept a tight grip. “Watch yourself there lad! You could have hurt me if you’d been a bit older and taller. Now, I assume you know about a gang of young fellows round here?” The boy paled and glanced down the alley he’d come flying out of, before his eyes flicked back to Thaddeus and he shook his head wildly. “N-no sir, I don’t-“ Hralfur raised the scimitar to the boy’s neck, making him squeak ever so slightly as the point of the blade brushed his chin. “Please don’t lie to Master Jenkins. I don’t want to ruin his coat.” The pale apprentice said, head leaning to the side as he twisted the scimitar ever so slightly. The boy turned even paler than Hralfur and began to babble out an incoherent reply, but Thaddeus ears had picked up a new sound, the sound of running feet and shouting. Out of every alley came a large group of boys, rough and ready types wearing clothes that were full of holes and covered in patches. Most of them were armed with blunt weapons or daggers, but some had swords strapped to their waists. Still, Thaddeus couldn’t help but smile, for all their bravado these boys were clearly untrained, they had an air of overconfidence that hid Out of the crowd of boys there came a larger one, carrying a infantryman’s sword that Thaddeus’ recognised as being standard issue equipment for city guards. This one was clearly a little more dangerous, and obviously the boy he’d been looking for. But the lad had no interest in Thaddeus, as he immediately began shouting at the boy he held in his arms. “Whelp! Didn’t I tell you what’d happen if you squealed? I told you that I’d make you squeal even more and believe me, I have ways!” Thaddeus dropped the whelp to the ground and turned to face the leader, who had the grin of one who believed that he was in complete control. A grin Thaddeus hoped to beat out of him, once he had shown him the error of his ways. “Robert Hardcastle?” he asked, as politely as he could, hands raised as a sign of peace. The boy frowned and looked slightly confused at how a strange old man could possibly know his name. “Yeah, that’s me. I’ll ask yours out of politeness, but I have to be on with my business, so don’t waste my time.” “Oh, the deal I’m about to offer you will not be a waste of your time.” Thaddeus replied as he opened up his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Thaddeus Jenkins, pioneer and all around living legend at your service.” The effect was immediate, and not entirely unexpected. There were a few gasps of surprise and then mutterings among the boys, a few fingers being pointed and excited whispering. It did feel good to be recognised, Thaddeus smiled to himself inwardly. But Robert raised his hand and silence fell, he seemed surprised, but there was no way in hell he was going to show it in front of his boys. Thaddeus was beginning to like this boy more and more. “You’re joking, right? Not the Jenkins who flew the schooner and the frigate on a successful flight? Not the Jenkins who fought and killed six of those heathen bastards at once, all by himself?” “That very same Jenkins, although I also had to fight their wives and some of the men were polygamous. I don’t appreciate you reminding me of that, it was a nasty one.” Thaddeus responded with a nod. “You-you’re alright. For a toff.” “A toff eh? Well, I must say that you are one of the finest lads I’ve ever met…for a street urchin.” Robert grinned at that and moved a hand to stroke his chin, where a pathetic start to a beard was starting to form. “I’m starting to like you, toff. Now what’s this deal you’re offering? If it’s navy service, we ain’t interested. Never have been.” “Oh I would never offer that to you. The rest of this lot maybe, but not you. Oh no, I have something far better in mind. You might have noticed my pale young friend here.” Thaddeus gestured to Hralfur, who still held the scimitar in his hands. “I’m currently looking for someone to join him. And you fit the bill in every way.” There was more muttering, but Robert just laughed, throwing his head back and letting out a particularly loud one that echoed down the streets. Thaddeus frowned at that. Normally, when he offered something, it was grasped with both hands and feet, potentially with a small dance of joy. But this mangy dog, this mere child of the streets was literally laughing off his offer like it was nothing. Lupum above, I’m recruiting him if it kills me. Robert was now wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling slightly. His boys stared wide eyed at him; even they seemed confused at this. Then came the moment that Thaddeus had dreaded. Hralfur stepped forward and pointed the scimitar directly at Robert, a look of pure hatred etched onto that normally ice cold face. “You’d mock Master Jenkins? You die for that, pinkface.” Robert looked him up and down and slowly reached for his sword. Thaddeus stepped in front of Hralfur immediately, and raised his right arm to calm things down. Hralfur was not to be risked, it was pointless to try and get two apprentices and end up with none. “Ignore him. He’s awfully…defensive about my honour. No need to fight in such a wonderful city after all.” “Good point.” Robert said, hand beginning to move away from the hilt. Then a wicked grin crept onto his face and he moved it back, slowly drawing the sword from its scabbard with a metallic grind. “Then again, I suppose if he lets an old man tell him what to do, he’s not worth my time anyway. He looks weedy anyway, I reckon my mother, Lupum bless her dead soul, could have an even fight with him.” Thaddeus cursed to himself and his right hand clenched into a fist. He knew exactly what Robert was doing here and if Hralfur was an older and wiser man he would have been utterly unconcerned. But if there was one thing that really infuriated the boy, it was questioning his honour and his skill. Sure enough, Hralfur shoved Thaddeus arm aside and marched forward, despite being younger and shorter he glared directly into Robert’s eyes with a snarl etched across his face. “Mock Master Jenkins and then mock me? Pray that I end you quickly.” Robert’s grin stretched wider as he looked side to side and addressed his boys. “Not a bad talker is he? For a paleface youngster with zero talent that is.” Hralfur darted forward and struck instantly, but Robert parried it aside with a grunt. Thaddeus could only watch as Hrlafur forced him back into the crowd, they parted as the two fought their way through with increasing ferocity. He’d seen Hralfur in this mood once before, and that had led to the deaths of two bandits who’d tried to jump them. Stopping him would be pointless until he’d calmed himself down. Robert was clearly losing control of the fight, his parries became wilder and more desperate as Hralfur’s swings became more vicious. At last he tripped over a drain, his sword flying out his grip as Thaddeus’ apprentice stood over him, raising his sword for the killing blow. “ENOUGH!” Thaddeus shouted, his raised voice startling Hralfur, who turned his head in confusion. He wasn’t used to Thaddeus shouting, come to think of it, neither was Thaddeus himself. He hadn’t had to truly raise his voice for years, so even he paused momentarily to gather himself. Robert lunged forward with his foot, catching Hralfur in the stomach and sending him scrambling back as he dived for the sword. Grabbing it, he backed away as Hralfur recovered, his hands literally shaking with rage for being caught off guard. Then one of Robert’s boys came up behind him, a shiv in hand. He was only slightly older than Hralfur, and his hand’s shook as he raised it to strike. Before Thaddeus could even shout a warning, Hralfur turned and with one swing of the scimitar took the boy’s hand off. The boy stumbled back, screaming, blood pouring from the open wound. As he hit a nearby wall, Hralfur moved in, grabbed him by the collar and struck him twice, the first eliciting a scream, the second only a thump as the body hit the ground. The silence that followed was one of the most frightening silences Thaddeus had ever endured. The rest of the boys began to back away; even Robert took a few steps back, his eyes wide and, for the first time, with a hint of fear in them. Thaddeus stood stunned, his eyes locked onto the dead boy. His dead eyes stared up at him, still filled with terror. He shuddered as he looked upon the corpse and turned away, sick to his stomach. He’d seen the dead before, of course, but a sight like that…he’d seen only a few times before and they were always the most unpleasant of sights. His apprentice turned to Robert and began to walk towards him, the scimitar dripping with blood. Robert, to his credit, stood up and charged, driving Hralfur back towards Thaddeus, but the fear on his face was undeniable. At last, he swung wildly and missed, Hralfur drove his small fist into the young man’s stomach, sending him to his knees. Then, he slammed his knee into Robert’s face, sending him crashing to the cobbles. Thaddeus couldn’t help but marvel at his apprentice’s skill. While he liked to think that a lot of that was down to his training, he also recognised talent when he saw it, and Hralfur oozed it as he stood over the prone street boy. And slowly raised his scimitar for the killing blow. You bloody fool! Thaddeus rushed forward and as Hralfur turned, punched him hard in the face. The scimitar slipped from his hand and he sank to the ground, knocked out cold. Breathing hard, he slung Hralfur over his shoulder, and then followed suite with Robert. He grunted under the weight of the two, they were heavy bastards for sure, and turned to leave. He spotted the boys staring at him from within the alleys, shrinking away in fear as he stared at them. Then he turned to look back at the dead boy and shook his head. “I’m sorry. He goes too far sometimes.” What more could he say? Give them money to pay for the sewer they’d dump the body in to? No, there was nothing more he could do for them. Then he stopped and thought. These boys were willing to stay with Robert when a scimitar wielding paleface lunatic chopped one of them apart. Perhaps they could be more useful if they stayed with him? “Actually.” He spoke again. “There is an offer I’d like to extend to you. My ship will be in dock here for another day. If you’d like to serve alongside Robert here, then you’re more than welcome to come. If not…well, enjoy your living your life on the streets.” And, with a wave, he grunted again as he began to walk, carrying his two apprentices with him.

So, for flashbacks or backstory set before this story, I'll put them under the section of "Side Stories" I'll also take the liberty of updating the OP with links to all chapters and side stories. Later!

[Alwyn]

Great side story! I enjoyed Thaddeus' reaction to the leader of the gang. The dialogue sounds authentic, each character has a distinct voice. The action is powerfully done and Thaddeus' thoughts and reactions add an extra dimension to it.