The #Broken_Dagger Forum

The sun beat down upon the street, tendrils of dust rising as wagons passed along the way. From feet trudging fitfully along, from horse hooves clomping in time to the drudgery of their owners. Others lingered about, resting for a moment as the high heat rose within the township. Lingered and, perhaps, watched the man who strode down the street in flamboyant fashion. The heat did not appear to affect him in any manner.

A wide brimmed hat sat upon his brow, shielding his features from the orb above. It was red, trimmed in golden thread. A feather of white flowed outwards from the band around the top. The shirt he wore had a tall neck, riding right to his chin. It was silky-alabaster with snugly fitting wrists. The doublet, overtop of that, was a thick vermilion velvet. It looked snug, too. Tightly fitting around the man’s torso and shoulders. Around the waist hung his sweeping sword, scabbard and all flashing in the sun. He walked on with only a single guard trailing besides him.

The single eye that remained to him swept over those who lingered at the sides of the street, at those who moved aside for his ‘party’. There was fear in some of those faces, and joyful recognition. He smiled at them, each and every. His emeraldine eye flashing with good intentioned humor. And then it happened. A partial struggle within that off to the side crowd.

A woman broke free from the resting group and flung herself at the Duke’s feet…

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A scowling face watched the scene sweep forward. Lips pulled into a tight frown as the woman pulled herself from one of her children and tumble onto her knees before the Duke. The soldier had half drawn his sword at the sight, but gloved hands rose and brushed him aside. He was kneeling, or so it would seem. A knee bent and leveled, head lowered to listen to whatever sob story it was that the woman was telling. Whatever it was, it seemed to touch the man.

A hand had raised, there in the middle of the street. Gloved fingers touched at the woman’s brow and words were offered. Probably a benediction of some sort, though he’d never remembered Burel being particularly religious. But then again, ten years did change most men. Silus shifted in his seat, reaching a hand down under his cloak to touch the sword-hilt at his side. It was… similar. Very similar to the one Burel bore. They could have been twins. Slender fingers wrapped themselves around the throat of that weapon, stroking the herons emblazoned upon the hilt.

He flicked his gaze to one side and then the other. The four toughs he’d hired were moving. Silus continued to scowl…

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”Now then, Sara… Please, no more tears. I cannot temper the pain of your loss. I, too, would be lost and adrift if I lost my own precious wife, just as you have lost your own husband. Please. No more tears. Huw?” This to the soldier, who took a step forwards and bowed slightly to the Duke. Burel rose a hand, then flashed four fingers before opening his palm to the man. He nodded and opened the leather pouch at his side.

Four golden sovereigns were dropped into that open palm, which were then set into the woman’s trembling hand. ”Here, lass. Take this. As I said, it will not lessen the pain, but it may help you gain your feet once again.” It was at this point that the soldier reached down and touched the Duke’s shoulder. Four fingers loosely at that juncture of neck and shoulder. Trouble it seemed, and in a pack of four. Burel rose to his feet, motioning for the soldier to watch over the woman.

Four men came out of the crowd, two drawing short swords and another a heavy two handed blade. The last pulled free a pair of longswords. As a group they advanced….

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Silus formed a grin at this. The soldier drew his sword as well, a curving thing reminiscent of the sabre that most of the Thessilaneian soldiery bore. His hand moved the woman behind him, as he placed himself before her. Burel stood still in the middle of the circle the men were forming. Unflappable, it seemed. He had to admire that. ”I shall ask you once. Put aside your swords, and none of you shall be harmed. You shall not be harmed and allowed to leave, as this is not Thessilane.” Yet the implication was there. Were they in Thessilane, he could have had them arrested and put to the question. Of course, that was the whole reason for doing this here.

The men edged closer to the Duke, who continued to remain steady. Two-sword came from his right, as did pug nose. That one bore one of the short swords. The one with the two hander had blue eyes, and the last was bald as a baby’s rear end. All but blue eyes approached from the right. Silus had heard that Burel had lost some of his vision there. Here was the test. He nodded at a guarded look from two-sword.

The attack begain…

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Two-sword charged forwards, then. Shouting something unintelligable at the onset of combat. Burel simply shifted his stance. Foot jutted out to catch him in the knee and tumble the would be assassin. Pug nose slipped forwards next, though this time it was Burel’s blade that rose to deflect the attack. Pivot, and his arm was sending that short bladed sword into the dust. The third man, hesitated at seeing this. They had not been told how fast Burel could be. Blue eyes came from the left.

A huff of breath as that sword swept through the air. It was enough for Burel, that. He shifted his stance. Sword arced and rang in a crash of metal against metal. He paused long enough to gaze with his single eye into that man’s face. ”Why?” No answer came. Burel became a whirlwind. He blocked another attack against him. Sword sweeping in a circle around his body. Sword crashed against sword, and then blood flew through the air. Pug nose went down in a bloody heap.

Death had come upon the dusty street…

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Burel could not understand it. He knew that some people wanted to see him dead. Silus was a great example for that. He remembered that duel quite clearly. His victory had not been assured, then. But now? These men were adequate. A merchant would have found their skill easier to pay off, than to fight against. He barely felt the resistance as his sword sliced through pug noses stomach. Barely registered the sound of him gasping and hitting the ground in a thud.

Sweep again. Two sword was working him back and forth. Left and right. It took Burel only ten strikes to figure the rhythm. Long sword swept down, Burel ducked, and his sword blossomed up through the other’s chest. The point flashed into the bright day through his back. A gasp rose, a woman screamed. Burel turned and threw the limp body in the direction of blue eyes. It caused him to stumble, bury his sword in the dust.

The Duke turned to focus his attention on the bald one….

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Silus growled under his breath. Hand twitched at his side. These fools, so incompetent! He would have to do this himself, apparently. But wait. Wait… let the Duke wear himself down a small bit more. Silus moved, sending himself off to one side. As if to get a better vantage. But that was not it, he had to strike down the other soldier first. It would make things easier. Much easier.

He continued to watch. Burel danced well, it would seem. Bald head tried to catch the Duke in the chest, but the weapon was deflected wide. A sweeping cut took the man in the stomach. He died screaming out loudly. This brought Burel back towards blue eyes. He could see the Duke narrow his eye, adjusting the grip on his sword. Two hands were better than one, in this case.

Silus prepared himself to strike…

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Burel released a breath. He was one with his sword and the ground. One with the man across from him, who had adopted a look of concentration. Whatever they had been told, it was not of the Duke’s skill. Worry also crept into that other’s face. His friends were bleeding into the dust, two not moving at all, while the third twitched slowly. He rose his sword and charged, bringing it down in a heavy two handed chop.

Sword rose, catching the attack upon the blade. Metal rang out loudly, screeching from the impact. It was hard, this. His muscles screamed at him, but it floated across the exterior of the void. He was one with the sword. Two more attacks. He grunted softly and twisted. Momentarily he lost sight of the man with the blue eyes as he spun. But he felt the resistance. The slowing of the blade as it cut through sinew and bone and muscle. Heard the grunt as he fell to the ground.

And then he heard the woman scream once again…

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Silus drew his sword out of the soldier’s back, kicking the woman with his boot and sending her scuttling away. Four pieces of gold flickered upon the hard-packed ground. Weapon was held out to his right, swept forwards and then held in stance. Both hands upon the long throat of a hilt, lips curling into a snarl. His face as a fractured one, a pale scar screeching it’s way down the length of visage.

”I hope you enjoyed your dance, usurper! Prepare to meet your doom!” And hatred, oh fiery hatred and anger, upended carefully laid plans. Silus surged forwards. A downwards cut was deflected by a quick thrust to the face. Silus growled. A slash, that started from his shoulder, was blocked by a cut coming upwards. The two swords danced between the two men. Silus continued to try to get onto Burel’s left side. He was sure the man was blind, there. The eye patch proved it. He had seen the hesitation earlier!

And in the sun, the two men dueled…

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Burel sucked in a breath. Sword swept and arced and twisted. All motions designed to keep that other sword away from his very own flesh. Twice now, that had failed. Ribbons of his velvet coat and silken shirt were torn open. A rivulet of blood seeped along his thigh. But Silus fared no better, as of yet. He had scored a good hit along the man’s arm. He could only presume that rage fueled his assault. Another array of sword clashes. He could see his man crumpled in the dirt. The woman on her backside and scrabbling rearwards, the coins forgotten in the dust.

”How nice to see you again, Silus… Still angry I see… You know I acted only on beha-“ He did not get to finish. The other sword came down for his skull, and the blow was blocked. He twisted his sword to lock the blades for a moment. Behind Silus he could see a number of others approaching. Too far away, they were just too far away. This would be decided in the next few heartbeats. He knew it for a fact.

As blood ran crimson, steel struck steel…

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”For the people! FOR THE PEOPLE! To hell with the people!”Rage took him, there. And his attacks became more reckless. Twice, he felt the pain of Burel’s sword. Gasped when that razor’s edge cut across his thigh, and again when it sliced at his upper arm. But he continued on. Strike! Strike! He screamed something. He struck again.

His sword cut through Burel’s shoulder. Rending shirt and coat… and ringlets of mail underneath it all. Silus all but screamed when he saw that. Moving too slowly? That was why! He had been ready for this! Planned it all! He screamed again, saw blood seeping from the wound he had just caused. But he could not quite understand why his arm was not responding.

Until he saw it sitting in the dust besides him…

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Burel let out a sigh, his left arm was useless, now. Bleeding fiercely. Silus had lost his right arm, it lay in the scuffed dirt. A turn, and he drove the sword deep into Silus’ stomach. Drove it deep until he was face to face. Minutes had passed. The sun had barely moved in the sky above. A woman screamed again. Guards were rushing forwards.

And then… A knife flashed, Silus had drawn the dagger at his waist. A dying scream and he drove it into Burel’s chest, on the right hand side. ”See… how the people deal with… this.” Silus slipped, then. Groaning as he fell off of the sword. Burel had dropped it, that sword. Took a step backwards, and gazed around him. The woman, Sara, had a look of horror on her face. A Sergeant in the Order of Straka was suddenly there at his side. Burel glanced down at the dagger protruding from his chest. ”Sergeant… See… to the wo-.”

And the Duke slipped off of his feet, collapsing into the crimson-stained mud…

A Sergeant in the Order of Straka was suddenly there at his side. The sergeant was panting with the effort it had taken to reach the Duke in time to hear the words that slipped through Burel’s mouth. He gazed, horrorstruck, as Burel glanced down at the dagger protruding from his chest and said, ”Sergeant… See… to the wo...”

And the Duke slipped, his legs collapsing under him, and sank to the crimson stained mud.

The sergeant yelled loudly, “Quickly, Danes, run for a healer! We haven’t any time!” The sergeant’s eyes moved over the bodies, and over the gathered crowd, and what he saw was grim, indeed. He swiftly crouched next to the only man left living, the Duke, and gestured for the crowd to stay back.

“Anders, Crowe, keep back the crowd. Rolland, see to the woman.” The woman was trembling, barely managing to make her feet. The blood splattered coins lay forgotten in the dust.

-*-*-*-

Danes turned and ran as fast as he could towards the Headquarters, the closest place he knew with a healer who could save an almost dead man. The Hospital was too far to run and get back in time. He had sharp eyes, had Danes, and he managed to avoid most of the people that would have gotten in his way. Except for one.

The horse was so large that it blocked half of the street. The bright sunlight gleamed off of polished tack and the horse’s dark, sweat-slicked coat. Astride the horse was a man that Danes had been familiar with not so very long ago…

-*-*-*-

Prince Gareth Rayin Taliaferro was surprised at the sudden appearance of a frantic guardsman. Members of the Order of Straka were common enough in town, but they generally did not look quite so panicked. He recognized the guardsman almost immediately and said, “Guardsman Danes, hail!”

“Captain! Err.. your highness, sir, I mean no offense, but I can’t linger. I’m to fetch a healer! The Duke of Thessilane is bleeding his life out into the dust, and he’s not going to live long without healing,” Danes replied breathlessly.

“Which way?” Rayin replied, the tailor and Ealasaid’s dress already forgotten.

“That way, sir,” Danes said, pointing, as he made his way around the Prince’s horse.

“Tell Smitheson to make ready a bed for the Duke, if he is still in charge of the healers, Danes. I will bring the Duke to the Headquarters. Hurry!” He cried, while he pulled the horse into a swift turn and galloped towards the crowd, leaving the flabbergasted tailor and his bolt of lavender silk behind.

“Aye, Captain!” Danes said, “I mean, your highness!” He sprinted between two buildings and towards the headquarters with only a little pink in his cheeks.

-*-*-*-

Rayin raced in the direction that Danes had pointed. His streaming tail of honey-gold hair blended with gold of his velvet surcoat. The undershirt of thin cream silk fluttered in the wind. He wore only a plain steel dagger and a saber with a golden hilt. The sound of his own heart beating and the saber slapping his leg seemed too loud to his ears. Time slowed as the fallen men and the Duke came into view.

The crowed quickly parted ahead of the horse’s thundering hooves. Their eyes, however, were not for the elegant, well-bred horse, but for its rider. Many eyes lifted from the Duke and veered towards the Prince’s face. Some smiled in recognition, but their smiles were cautious – the Prince was not an easy man to look upon.

The expression on his face was one of urgency, and the scars that ravaged the right side of what were once handsome features could not hide that. The crowd parted like water, and he leapt from his horse’s back when he was only a few feet from the sergeant and the fallen duke.

“Your highness!" The sergeant's voice held surprise and respect. The sergeant leaned away from the Duke to allow the Prince a better view of the wound.

He pulled a small brown paper packet from a pocket inside his surcoat and lifted a canteen from its hook on the horse’s saddle. Swiftly, he poured the packet’s contents into the canteen and shook it. He crouched next to the Duke and reached to open his mouth.

More guards had arrived and were pushing back the crowd. They shouted, "Out of the way, out of the way!” One called out, “There are wounded here, and you lummoxes are standing here gawking! Out of the way, I said!”

The Prince paid them little heed. He held the lip of the canteen to the Duke’s mouth and said in a quiet, urgent voice, “Drink, Burel. It is not your time, not yet. Not yet.” He tipped back the Duke’s head to force him to swallow, and his eyes glowed with triumph when the Duke coughed weakly and swallowed the liquid. Slowly he poured the canteen's entire contents into the Duke's mouth. The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg and something altogether different filled the street.

When the canteen was empty, the Duke gave Rayin as stern a glance as he could manage with only half open eyes. He coughed weakly again, and said, “What took you so long to get here?” as if he’d been expecting the Prince a very long time ago.

Surprise flickered over the Rayin’s face, but it was soon replaced by a small smile of amusement. “A minor revolt, your Grace. Nothing to concern yourself with. My apologies, please.” He paused, then said, in warning, “I’m going to remove this. Brace yourself.”

Suddenly, his hand was on the dagger, and he pulled it from the Duke’s chest. A fresh flow of blood spilled from the wound., and the Duke gasped, then slipped back into oblivion. Rayin yanked his surcoat over his head and balled it up over the wound, pressing down to slow the bleeding. The golden velvet swiftly turned the brilliant red of fresh blood.

“Sergeant Kerry, hold this,” he said sharply. Sergeant Kerry quickly complied. Rayin stared at the Duke, at the wound and his blood soaked surcoat, and some of the warmth leeched out of his wet earth brown eyes. He avoided eye contact with all who surrounded him as best he could, but flashes of everything from babies and weddings to vampires and demons slid across his vision while he stood and leapt back onto his horse. No one else would have even noticed an hesitation.

“Lift him up to me, Sergeant Kerry. Please. Don’t worry about the canteen.” He waited a moment, then added, “He’ll live until I can get him to the healer, I swear it. Just lift him to me. What I gave him will be enough.” Please let it be enough.

The sergeant only hesitated a moment before he called another guardsman over to help him lift the Duke and still hold the bloodstained velvet to the wound. It took a moment, but they managed it, with a little grappling on the part of the Prince.

With one hand tucked under Duke Burel and the other pressed against the surcoat, Rayin turned his horse in the direction of the Headquarters of the Order of Straka. With another squeeze of his knees, for he could not use the reins, he sent his horse galloping off towards the headquarters, with the guardsmen left behind to deal with all the dead bodies and the shocked crowd.

“Don’t worry, Burel, the guardsmen won’t let anyone defile the bodies of your attackers, or your soldier,” he said, to reassure the Duke, though he could not be certain the Duke was even listening. A quiet moan was the Duke’s succinct reply.

The Headquarters swiftly came into view. Rayin barely hesitated at the gate. It was already wide open, and the soldiers yelled, “Room 7, your highness. Smitheson is waiting for you!” He steered Asarte towards the small hospital. Only moments passed before they reached the entrance to the building.

Three medics helped him slide the Duke from the horse. He leapt down after him, and gave Asarte a swift pat. “Stay here, Asarte. Let the soldiers feed you.” He followed Burel and the medics inside, assuming that his horse would be fed and watered as it always had been.

“It’s a miracle that he’s alive,” he could hear Smitheson say. “The Prince brought him here, eh? That explains more than it doesn’t. I’d give an arm for more of that tea of his. Ahh, Your highness.” Smitheson looked up from Burel's prone body.

Rayin smiled slightly. “Can you heal him, Smitheson? I can keep him from death, but it would take me a very long time to heal that wound…” He gestured towards the Duke.

Smitheson adjusted his small spectacles and said, “Yes, I can, your highness. Not completely, of course, but enough that he’ll be able to hobble around alright, and a few days of bedrest ought to heal him up completely. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get to work.”

“Of course. Please forgive me.” Rayin backed away from the cushioned table on which they’d placed the Duke. He carefully avoided everyone's eyes.

He barely noticed the blood on his shirt, his hands, and his breeches. His eyes were all for the table, and the spell that Smitheson was preparing. Smitheson might have seemed plain, even common at first glance, but he was an excellent healer, and the Order of Straka was lucky to have him. The Duke’s breathing slowly began to even out, and the color returned to the Duke’s face.

When Smitheson was finished, the room smelled sharply of some unrecognizeable herbs, and the Duke’s chest was brilliant red where the dagger wound had been. The Duke’s shoulder was an angry red as well, but mended enough that the arm was not useless. His other wounds had closed completely.

Smitheson sat down and lifted up a glass of water that sat waiting for him next to the nearby chair. Smitheson looked tired, but triumphant. “There, your highness. He’ll live. He ought to wake up in just a minute, too, I’d wager, though I doubt he’ll be awake for long. The stress of almost dying gets to you, it does. I’ve no doubt he’ll be back asleep in a quarter hour, and be that way ‘til tomorrow morning sometime. He’ll be alright though, and we’ll see him back to the Fortress.”

Rayin smiled slightly, relief clearly written on his scarred features. He stepped closer to the table to wait and see if the Duke would wake as Smitheson had predicted. Meanwhile, he took a wet cloth one of the medics offered him and wiped the blood off of his hands. "Danes," he said quietly, with a glance towards the soldier who had so thankfully run into him, "Would you please fetch me a cup of tea?"

"Aye, sir."

"Thank you."

Silence within the chamber. The sound of heavy breathing that was slowly winding its way into calm and unfettered. Breath that faded and rose in slow and even motion. His face was relaxed. Composed and silent, as if the near fatal injuries had been little more than a scratch, or less. Another breath, held and then released as if with punctuation. Burel opened his eye and settled it upon the Prince.

Silent that brilliant green orb was. As silent as the mouth that was pressed into a fine line. It searched Rayin slowly, carefully. Lucidly. At least the shock had not scrambled his wits. ”Rebellions are… a nasty thing, you know... Never… let the people suffer. E’en if you have to suffer humiliation… never…” He stopped, as if even that small bit was too much to speak on. Too much energy, too quickly.

His eye had closed as he had stopped, remained that way for several long moments. Perhaps long enough for the Prince to believe him asleep. Then, before the man could move away from the bedside. Right arm rose and gripped at a sleeve. Knuckles white, as fingers formed a ball. It was more strength than he had.

”Tell me I… that I have ruled wisely and true… Mmngh… That I have done well.”He took another long breath. A sigh, more likely. He had not given Rayin the chance to answer before he spoke yet again. ”Do me a favour… Do not tell Lenore… She would… have a fit to learn that I ruined that shirt.” More likely have a fit to know that he had been almost slain, both men probably knew that.

But before he would slip back into unconsciousness, a smile formed upon pallid lips. A quirking of lips that brought a momentary light to that emeraldine orb. And then the darkness over took him.

Seeds of loyalty can sprout take root in the strangest places for the oddest reasons and that is what had happened to Samariah. Since the moment the duke had tossed the bag of soverigns had left her to contemplate her future all she had done was ponder what to do now and why .... why hadn't he chosen to punish her she'd left him with no doubt as to her occupation. The days had blurred into nights moments of wakefulness blended into sleep so seamlessly she was no longer sure what was real and what but a dream.

Watched always when ever she dare ventured outside, she knew it was not for her own safety but the security of peoples purses and yet despite seeing several opporunties Sam felt no desire to slip into familiar ways and it had naught to do with soverigns weighing down her purse.

She was a easily overlooked as Rayin rode in the Duke cradled carefully before him a hand pressed to the mans chest. Forgotten as soldiers moved to help the scarred prince with his valuable cargo, room 7 she heard the soldiers offer and she was stepping back, melting into the shadows. A niche she found and climbed the wall secretting herself into a small space near the window, ears pricked to listen.

Yet again she was a silent unknown witness to that which in no way could be considered her business. The exchange between the healer and the prince reached her ears and then through the long silence that followed she barely moved breathed so heart rate slowed kept her from being easily detected , muscles frequently tightened and relaxed to prevent cramping. As the moments bleed into each other she found herself falling back into a habit abandonned before she ever became a thief she found herself offering words of pray to forgotten gods for the life of a man she barely knew. Not once did she wonder about Silus beg for him to be dead to be safe it was a selfless act in its entiriety.

Stuttered gasp of breath was drawn in when she heard Burel speak in those raspy tones and she shifted perhaps made enough sound to be detected, yet she was not aware of it no she simply leaned closer ears pricked for every word. "lady of the forest please let him live" She whispered to no one imparticular. She did not want to think her fear of silus had let her words come too late be for nothing.