The Infinite Bk. 02 Ch. 06

Chapter 6: Ripples

Fresh and sweet with skin red as a sunset and flesh like crisp frost, an utterly perfect specimen plucked by blessed hands. For Sir Edward Holmes, it was precisely what his dry mouth needed after hours of snoring. If only it could do something about the dryness of his eyes, seared by the light coming through the nearby window. It was midday, the sun's radiance shining down upon a polished shield for sale across the street and reflecting, with almost a malicious intent, straight into his eyes in the corner of the bar.

The Knight's Sheath was almost always busy at this time of year, but it had hit its daily lull. Those out in the streets were looking for food or too busy to get their rocks off. A few customers drank due to their loyalty to the girls, endless thirst, or need for peace. At the moment, Holmes wasn't interested in the first two. After the meeting in the castle, he had come to the Knight's Sheath to nap in a quiet corner. He was still technically on duty, at least until nightfall.

Almost every knight in the city was working night and day to keep everything peaceful. There were only so many times he could patrol the same streets before his feet refused to carry him even further, and if anyone spotted him here, he could claim he was helping stop bar fights. It was time to move once more or risk getting caught sleeping.

He got up and shuffled to the door. "Thanks, Lucius," he said to the bartender.

"Sure thing, sir."

Holmes stopped, rubbed his eyes, and looked back to the man behind the counter. "Who are you?"

"Daniel, sir. I'm sitting in while Lucius gets some rest. I'm the new guy."

Daniel was nervous, recognizing the silver insignia on his armor. It was bad enough to catch the soldiers' attention; a silver-ranked knight was several levels higher, both in authority and power.

"Oh, good. He's a friend of mine, lets me catch a bit of sleep when I've been out too long. Pour me a cup of tea, will you? With something sharp to help wake me up."

There was a nearby stove where embers were always smoldering, and Daniel added some pieces of wood to resurrect the flames and heat the kettle. While waiting for the tea, Holmes picked up a joint from a nearby jar and looked around, seeing how others were smoking them. He lit the end with a nearby candle, breathed deeply, and sighed in misery.

"I'm guessing things are rough?" Daniel asked.

"Thirteen years of guarding this city, and the week before Knight's Day is always the worst. They got me working almost nonstop, but with how rowdy this city is getting, I guess I can't blame them. I just wish the bronze knights didn't make it so hard."

"Those are the new ones, right? Newly graduated?"

"Not really 'new.' With ten years of active service, you automatically get promoted to silver unless you earn it sooner. Unfortunately, I was not one of those people interested in 'soon,' and now I'm paying the price by being stuck with underlings just like me."

Daniel laughed. "The best reward and worst torture are being surrounded by people like yourself."

"Where did you hear that?"

"It was written on the wall of a bathroom I once woke up in. I spent a good hour on the floor, reading that over and over again."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

The water came to a boil, and Daniel poured a cup of tea. His earlier cravings had faded, so his hands were no longer trembling. Then, with liquor added to put some fire in his belly, Holmes's liquid lunch was served.

"These Red Revelries are the worst. All these punks stirring up shit just for the fun of it."

"Hey, it's worse if you're a civilian. I was living out on the streets up until a couple days ago, and there are few things scarier than hearing swords hitting each other in the middle of the night when you're sleeping in a rain barrel."

"Yeah, but at least you don't have to deal with them. Some little noble shit spat on me while I was arresting him, told me he could smell my gutter blood."

"Ugh, I hate them so much. You know how many times I've been called a plebian since I got to Colbrand? A lot. Not enough to know exactly what it means or how to spell it, but still, it hurts. Every minute in this city, someone yells, "My father will hear about this!" The fuckers are everywhere."

Holmes chuckled. "You haven't heard anything until you've been to the dungeons. I was there before dawn, dropping off some riff-raff, and it sounded like a hundred cats all getting their tails stepped on. I'm toying with the idea of suggesting every applicant spending a week in a dungeon, make it required to join the academy. That ought to scare off the little shits."

"Why yes, I have been in your dungeons. So lovely, so comfortable. You can really feel the love and hospitality growing on the walls with the algae. I spent six hours in stocks because some soldier tripped over me in the street."

The two men continued to exchange gripes, arguing over whose life was more miserable. The complaints included more and more jokes, and soon, they were actively trying to make each other laugh.

"So in the dream, I'm kissing this blonde babe who used to babysit me when I was a little kid, but I'm coming out of it. I know something feels wrong. I open my eyes, and I'm locking lips with a rat the size of a toddler!" Holmes released a loud snort, and Daniel had lost all ability to tell the story with a straight face. "And believe me, this was an affectionate rat. I think I actually got tongue and copped a feel. Rat teats, I was fucking fondling rat teats on the floor of a warehouse!" Both men were laughing so hard they could barely remain upright.

"'Fondling rat teats' might be the funniest three-word combination I've ever heard."

"Someday, I'll write a book about my life, and that will be the title."

"Ah, it feels good to laugh. Thanks for that. Returning to work now won't feel so awful. I'll see you around." He got up from his stool and paid for his drinks with an extra tip.

"You be careful out there," said Daniel.

Back out in the streets, Holmes tossed the stub of his gonlief cigarette onto the ground and started walking. His armor felt so heavy, but the rattling of the saber at his hip was comforting. His eyes, still dry from fatigue despite his nap, scanned the crowds. After so many years patrolling these streets, he had learned to size people up with a glance and memorized countless faces. He felt the flow of the traffic like he was measuring the tide. By now, it was second nature to him, though he continued to complain under his breath as he walked. He was thirty years old, but his personality had changed little since he was a child in this city.

"Sir Holmes!"

It was Frigga, and she looked even more tired than Holmes.

"Hey."

"Where have you been? I haven't seen you in hours."

"Just taking a break. Anything happen?"

"A couple small scuffles, nothing out of the ordinary."

"Want to grab some food? I'm starving."

"I've been pecking around here and there, but if you're offering..."

"Fine, consider it a reward for your promotion, your ONLY reward."

They found a food stall where a merchant was selling 'borc,' from the dwarven word for 'random.' As its name suggested, it was a collection of meats from various animals cooked as shish kebabs, with everything from lizards to mountain lions. The randomness made it popular, as a thick sauce hid the various scents of the meat, and they couldn't be identified until they were bit into.

Holmes and Frigga ignored the line of customers and went straight to the cook. No one made a fuss, as it was the norm for nobles and knights to bypass the restrictions that commoners followed. Rather, it was uncommon for a citizen to protest such moves, as it was simply something they were used to. Today, the cook was fortunate, as these knights actually paid for the food.

Holmes and Frigga moved off to the side of the road and began feasting on their lunch. "I'm getting goat... chicken... some kind of fish... and... cat?"

"Ugh, damn seagull. I hate seagull with a fiery passion."

"You have no passion, Holmes, remember?"

"I'm passionate about plenty of things, like how my shoulders are going to start bleeding if I have to wear this armor for another minute."

"That one, I can agree with. Just until nightfall, then we can rest, and soon this war will be over."

"You know that baker in the western district? His shop was robbed last night. I stopped by, and it seemed like everything made of glass had been broken."

"Good God! I hope he doesn't go out of business for this; he makes the most delicious cakes." The two of them started walking. "Oh, that reminds me, you know Delilah, right?"

"The palace florist? The one with the mole?"

"Yeah, she caught her husband with a female beastman."

"You're kidding."

"Please, I'm a follower of Wassenschtal. You know I can't tell a lie. She was the wife of a Viscount, and her husband didn't even know what she was."

"What you call honesty, everyone else calls gossiping."

"Just keeping you informed. Last night I ran into a foul little dwarf, who, after cursing me, vomited onto my shoes. He had eaten clams, Holmes. Clams."

"So that's what that smell was." Holmes then came to a stop. "Helena, you see that?"

He pointed to a cloaked figure ducking out of the street. Robes and cloaks were not a strange garment, even preferred for those who specialized in magic over physical combat, but the limping stranger had the hood pulled down over his face. Grond disappeared into the empty courtyard behind a cathedral and sat down on a stone bench so that he could examine his leg. Even the Harajin, taught to ignore pain, could not remove Noah's arrow without hissing and cursing.

"Stop right there. Hands where we can see them."

Frigga's order came before he could apply a healing potion. He kept his face downcast to conceal his mask, but just from the rattling of her armor, he knew her to be a knight. The sound of a sword being drawn followed. No, two swords.

"Pull back your hood and show us your face," demanded Holmes.

They were standing twenty feet away on the brick path winding through the courtyard, having snuck up on him while pulling out the arrow. His gloved hands raised, Grond pulled back his hood and showed them his mask, causing the two knights to tense up.

"So the Harajin really are in the city..." Frigga muttered.

"Remember what Sir Tarnas said. We need to try and open a dialogue." They hesitantly sheathed their swords, much to Grond's confusion. "Last night, one of your associates spoke of delivering a peace accord to the king and was in possession of a knight's sword. He was later found dead with no such document, and the sword was missing. If you know anything about this, speak now."

Grond said nothing, for nothing Holmes announced made sense. He came to Colbrand believing that no other Harajin would be there. Were they from another clan? There had been no rumors of peace talks back in Ezeria, but that wasn't enough to refute the possibility.

Did the elders know about his deal with Cyrilo and sent pursuers after him? The man in the shadows, did he really work for Cyrilo? The kingdom? The Harajin? All he had was suspicions, and he could not think of any answer to satisfy the knights and get him to safety.

'It's a trap.'

He remained silent, and Holmes and Frigga glanced at each other. They exchanged a slight nod and slowly began to approach. It was a single moment, a brief instance for them to draw their swords. That moment was forced upon them, and it would reverberate long after this day. If they had not sheathed their swords, they could have defended themselves and deflected the blades hurled in their direction. Upon seeing Grond's sudden shift, they reached for their swords but could not draw them fast enough. A small dagger struck Frigga in the eye, drawing both blood and a scream, while another bounced off Holmes's forehead while leaving a deep cut.

Grond closed this distance with surprising speed, considering his leg was spurting blood. From how he struggled to maintain his balance, it appeared the price was more than he had expected. Holmes had just enough time to draw his sword and block the two daggers that Grond was wielding, one with the blade of his sword and the other by grabbing Grond's wrist. It became a battle of strength, but both sides were handicapped, Holmes by his fatigue and Grond by his leg.

"Shit!" Holmes cursed in pain.

The daggers he thought Grond was wielding were sickles; two meat hooks with added razor edges, and the tip of one had been buried in his forearm to try and make him release Grond's wrist. His greaves had stopped it from penetrating too deep, but blood was quick to flow, and the pain was intense.

Holmes dared a glance at Frigga, on the ground and not moving. Was she dead or simply passed out? Grond didn't miss the opportunity and disengaged from Holmes to try for another swipe with one of his sickles. Holmes avoided the attack and kicked Grond in the leg, right where he was wounded. The pain forced him to retreat before he could collapse. Both sides were at an impasse. Grond's leg or the wounded Frigga; a health potion could solve either of these and turn the tide of the fight, or give the enemy the chance to act.

The two fighters realized they had only one choice: win the battle as quickly as possible. Holmes assumed a fencing stance with his armed side facing his opponent. Unlike the traditional longsword used by the knights, he wielded a one-handed saber.

Grond put away one of his sickles and drew a handful of small throwing knives, like the two he used earlier. Because of his leg, he'd have to get Holmes to close the distance. He hurled three with as many throws, one aimed at Holmes and two at Frigga. Holmes knocked two out of the air with his sword, but the third struck his shoulder.

"Damn it," he hissed as he charged.

A flurry of steel was unleashed, Holmes slashing and stabbing at Grond with every bit of strength he could draw from his exhausted body. Grond's skill with his sickles was just as great, but he dared not move from where he was standing, lest his leg give out on him. Instead, he used his good leg as a pivot, keeping his foot glued to the ground and rotating.

Every time Holmes leaned in for a stab, Grond would parry the blade or dodge, and when he did manage to land a hit, the loose cloak would receive the cut, dispersing the energy with its billowing and keeping the blade from reaching his body. If not for the few hours of sleep he got earlier, Holmes likely would have died after the first minute.

The sound of blades striking was like the chirping of a chorus of birds, only to be drowned out by the grunts of exertion from the two fighters. Holmes soon stepped back out of Grond's reach to catch his breath. He had managed to get a feel for Grond's style and patterns, so it was time to take a risk. Holmes assumed another stance, holding his sword like a pool cue.

There was a shimmer around his blade, like a heat haze, as it came alight with mana. In his exhausted state, the power was slow to gather. He compressed it at the tip to make it glow like a welder's spark, burning bright enough to cast Holmes's shadow.

There was no time to waste; Holmes was low on mana before the fight even started. He lunged, keeping his arm extended, and Grond, in turn, leaned in with his blades crossed. He'd deflect Holmes's sword with one and go for the throat with the other. At least, that was the plan. Holmes grabbed one of Grond's wrists to stop his counter, and the thrust was made, but with far greater speed than the assassin anticipated. The tip of Holmes' sword snapped Grond's other sickle like it was made of glass, then pierced his cheek and did the same to his jawbone. It had cut through the ceramic mask like a circular saw, leaving no cracks.

Holmes had missed his target spot because of his fatigue, but the attack was still enough to put the fear of God into Grond. For a brief moment, he could ignore the pain in his leg, and backed up as fast as he could. Blood poured down the side of his neck, and he could barely move his jaw.

Holmes stopped to reform his stance, then shot forward for another thrust. He couldn't allow Grond to draw another weapon, and this time, he was aiming for the knee of his good leg, a blow that would cripple him.

"Stop right there, knight," he heard, coming from Frigga's direction.

Holmes managed to halt himself before fully committing to the attack and looked back. Crouching beside Frigga was another Harajin, the troupe leader, and he was holding a sickle to her throat.

"You son of a bitch!" Holmes yelled.

"Don't move. Just drop your sword, and we can part ways without further bloodshed."

"How do I know you won't just kill us both?"

"Because at the moment, it would probably be in everyone's best interest to keep the body count low. Drop the sword."

Though he didn't like it, it was an offer he was lucky to receive. Facing off against two Harajin would be suicide. "Very well." He discarded his sword and kept his hands raised. "There, now let her go."

"Not until my compatriot is beside me. Grond."

Grond still wasn't sure who could be trusted, but he, too, was blessed by this interruption. With a hand covering his neck wound, he limped over to the other Harajin. "Klein," he said, reading the letters on the fellow's mask, though that was all he could say with his damaged jaw.

Once Grond was next to him, Klein stepped away from Frigga. Holmes remained where he was, running simulations in his head. How quickly could he get to his sword? "Now tell me about this supposed peace accord and the knight's sword your friend was carrying."

"Just be grateful that your friend keeps her life."

The two Harajin fled the courtyard, leaving Holmes to rush to Frigga's side. Klein had to help Grond stay on his feet, the man bleeding profusely from his leg and neck wounds. He pulled him into a dark alley, free of the homeless, and set him down on the ground. It took all of Grond's strength to open up a healing potion, and Klein looked away as he drank it.

"My team and I have been sent here to find you, Grond."

Grond, now healed, tightened his grasp on his sickle. "For termination?"

"Not today. Quite the opposite, in fact. Apparently, one of the healing potions Urandil gave you was actually something else. Our mission is to warn you before you take it and to return it to him."

The dread that filled Grond, albeit nauseating, was not the first of its kind. He felt his stomach twist into knots in ways he never wished to feel again. "Did he say what it was?"

"No, only that it was something incredibly dangerous. He described it as worse than poison. Recovering is an absolute priority. Do you have it?"

"I lost it."

"You incompetent—!"

Klein was cut off, both he and Grond sensing approaching footsteps. The two men each held their breath and disappeared like a fading mirage. A soldier was passing through the alley in search of troublemakers. He passed right by the two Harajin without the slightest clue. Neither Klein nor Grond moved a muscle, even blinking, until the soldier finally left.

Once alone, they released their held breaths and reappeared. "How did you lose it?" Klein asked.

Grond faced a conundrum: start stacking lies or see how long he could ride the truth until finally twisting it into a lie. Harajin were trained to handle no-win scenarios, but the stakes were skyrocketing. Either way, he had to get that potion back from Cyrilo before the others followed the trail.

'At least he doesn't know Urandil's real involvement, a small blessing.' "Fighting last night with a reveler. It was knocked out of my hand, and I was forced to retreat. They probably have it now."