Another time, another place. Another cry from the shadows...
Mopping up. That was all recruits as raw as cadet foot-soldier Cutter 'Slash' Greenstone were deemed worthy of. Trailing far behind the real soldiers, picking their wide-eyed way through the shattered outskirts of the reclaimed city, doing their best to avert their neophyte gazes from the broken figures of the fallen and trying very hard not to breathe too deeply of the battlefield's charnel house reek. Searching for rebel stragglers or holdouts and hoping against hope not to find any.
With the smoke and the falling dusk, the toppled buildings and the choked roadways, it perhaps wasn't surprising they should become separated. That Slash should find himself alone and afraid, making his tentative way down the barely discernible remnants of what had once been a suburban street, longing to call to his squad-mates but keeping silent from fear as to what such a call might bring.
There were flowers in the front yard. Trampled and crushed, yet still striking in their vivid yellows and blues, strangely jarring in this torn apart world of greys and browns and blood. And although its door hung from one hinge and its windows were long gone, the house still stood. Still offered potential shelter for a rebel.
Still needed to be cleared.
The sounds of the advancing army had long since faded into the distance and all was silent. No insects clicked or whirred, no birds graced this barren hellscape with their song. The windows were dark. No movement stirred within. Sweaty hands grasping the hilt of his sword in a convulsive grip, Slash stood in tortured indecision.
He should find backup. He should track down Zed, the last friendly face he'd seen, or Ramson, his particular friend and the best sword in the squad, or his sergeant or any one of the other scattered boy-soldiers picking their way through the suburban wreckage. They couldn't be far. And yet, the longer he stood here wavering, the further they could be.
On the other hand—as much as he tried, he couldn't prevent the thought from forming in his treacherous mind—he could pretend he'd never even seen the wretched house. Who would know? Who would know if he turned and walked away? If he scurried back to the relative security of his squad, wherever they might be, tossing his sergeant a token 'all clear' as he rejoined their ranks? It wasn't as though any of the dozen or so other houses they'd checked so far had contained any threats. Why should this one—this hollowed-out shell of a home, this battle-scarred ghost of some family's long-dead dream—be any different?
He hadn't yet decided—that's how he chose to remember it, at any rate—when he heard the cry. Faint but unmistakable in the silence, forlorn and despairing, the kind of cry born of desperation rather than hope, base impulse over reason, a plea that didn't really sound as though it expected to be answered.
Instinct and reflexes carried him two steps towards the door before the new doubts assailed him, ending his valiant 'charge' as abruptly as it had begun. Was it a trick? Bait set to entice an unwary novice such as himself into an ambush? He'd heard of such things, stories spun by old soldiers, the hoary veterans at memorial dinners and regimental gatherings, tales of the treachery and deceit employed by the assorted enemies of the past, no underhanded tactic too low if it meant the end of a dragon and one less sword for them to face in genuine battle.
There was another cry. He managed another step.
"Only an eejit goes chargin' into a tight spot he knows nothin' about. Leastways, without someone to cover his arse." Slash could hear his squad sergeant's gravelly voice, picture his greying whiskers and gap-toothed smile. "Mind you"—he'd given the recruits gathered around him on the parade ground a broad wink—"there are worse things than bein' an eejit."
A third cry. Weaker now.
"Zed!" Voice cracking in a dry throat, Slash swallowed and tried again. "Zed! Anybody! I need backup!"
Silence. Silence from his squad-mates. Silence from the house. A silence that felt, somehow, final. A full-stop of a silence. A silence that terrified and taunted at the same time.
Screw it. Pale features set, sword on high, Slash charged.
And was too late. Much too late. Never again would he encounter so clear and graphic a demonstration of how the matter of a mere few seconds could equate to being so very, very late.
Without a sound, without so much as a glimmer from her pitch-black blade, Wonda came from the shadows. Blundering headlong into the alley, Slash never stood a chance.
Carri was a different matter. Too far behind the dragon to block the killing blow arrowing towards his neck, she instead let her dagger do the talking, drawing and throwing in one smooth motion, sending the little blade spinning with pinpoint precision at the assassin's head.
Or, at least, where the assassin's head should have been. Reacting with preternatural speed, Wonda twisted away from the streak of silver, receiving nothing worse than a grazed cheek but in the process losing the precision of her own aim. The thrust of her blade, usually so straight and true, wavered, and Slash, some hint of his training and experience at last penetrating the fog of his reflexive charge, also turned away. With uncanny similarity, Wonda's blade managed nothing more than to replicate her own injury, tracing the finest of scratches across the dragon's high-boned cheek, before the speed of their respective attacks carried them clear of each other.
As the goblin turned back to face her targets, Slash and Carri instinctively edged towards each other, and Hobe came pounding in from the street to rejoin them, as fast as his short legs could carry him. He squinted at the dark figure of the assassin, indistinct against the drab background of the alley, so dim after the brightness of the street.
"What did I miss?"
"Oh, nothing much," replied Carri, never taking her eyes off Wonda. "Only Captain Stupid here doing his best to get us killed."
"Hey," protested Slash, before realising he didn't actually have a whole lot to protest. "Um. Yeah. I guess that pretty much covers it."
"Fortunately," continued the elf, "some of us take a slightly more suspicious view of mysterious cries for help emerging from random alleys. Particularly at a time when megalomaniac aristocrats with more money than morals have every reason to want us dead. Ever since we left the tavern, I've had the feeling we were being followed, and the playacting from Little Miss Stabby here just sealed the deal. If you'd given me half a second before charging in like the world's biggest dumbarse with a death wish, I might have had the chance to say so."
"Yeah, yeah," said Slash. Contrition was all well and good, but there was a limit. "Carri smart, Slash dumb, yada-yada, case closed, let's move on. Now, you,"—this was directed at Wonda—"Hirschnopple sent you, right?"
The goblin's only reply was to edge closer, sword held at the ready.
"You know, you might want to back off there, missy." Hobe hefted his axe. "I mean, top marks for ball...uh, that is to say, bravery and all that, but in case you hadn't noticed, you're outnumbered."
"Good advice," agreed Carri, drawing a dirk from her sleeve as Wonda continued her slow advance. "With surprise on your side, you might have stood a chance, but that ship has sailed. You're fast, but I doubt you're that fast. Why don't you put down the sword?"
"You know"—Slash wiped a trickle of blood from this cheek—"I don't think that's going to happen."
"Oh, yeah?" replied Hobe. "And why's that?"
"Because, I've only ever seen a black blade like that once before." The dragon swallowed. "And that was in the hands of a League acolyte."
The dwarf's ruddy face went pale. "Oh, shit."
"League?" Carri raised her gleaming weapon as the assassin drew remorselessly closer. "What league?"
"Uh, long story," replied Slash, "and now's not really the time. Suffice it to say, the last time I faced someone like her, she took down six of my squad. Single-handed. And she was wounded."
"Yeah?" Pursing her lips, the elf puffed a stray lock of hair from her eyes. "And here's me thinking dragons were supposed to be handy in a fight. Well, I guess this one will just have to settle for the three of us." She beckoned to the goblin. "Bring it, bitch."
With the first hint of emotion she had shown since they'd entered the alley, Wonda smiled. And then, leapt to the attack.
Just as Slash expected, the black blade flashed towards Carri, his satisfaction at predicting the goblin would first target the adversary she gauged to be the biggest threat warring with his chagrin at not being that adversary. Regardless, he managed to deflect the thrust away as Carri rolled beneath it, slashing at Wonda's legs as she did so. In a stunning act of strength and agility, the assassin leapt clear of the dirk and somersaulted clean over her opponents, landing behind them and launching a slash at their backs, which would have taken out both the dragon and the elf if not for the desperate blocking lunge of Hobe's axe. Whirling around, Slash and Carri swung in unison, their blades hissing through nothing but empty air as Wonda backflipped away and out of range.
The three soldier again closed ranks, weapons held at the ready and wide eyes watching for the goblin's next move.
"Nimble little minx, ain't she?" said Hobe.
"Nimble, fast, strong," agreed Slash, "and adaptable. League acolytes are essentially killing machines, trained from childhood. They have no fear, no remorse, no compassion—basically no personality, whatsoever."
"Reminds me of my last ex," murmured Carri.
Given no fear would have to be pretty much a prerequisite for a relationship with the elf, Slash wasn't surprised to hear this, but had the good sense not to say so. "The point," he continued, "is that—"
"We're in deep shit?" suggested Hobe.
"Well, yeah. Obviously. But what I was going to say is, if we're gonna take her out, we need to do it fast. Before she learns our strategies. You know, our moves."
Carri raised an eyebrow. "You have moves?"
Slash sighed. Banter, now? Really? "Time to find out, I guess. Let's do this."
This time Wonda simply waited for their attack, moving not a muscle until the first blade swung but then bursting into frenetic yet tightly controlled motion, parrying and dodging the three weapons which thrust and slashed at her, ducking and weaving with astonishing judgement and precision, the razor-sharp edges missing her by a hairsbreadth time and again. She didn't land any blows but nor did she attempt any, and as much as Slash would have liked to believe this was because of the ferocity and skill of their onslaught, instinct and experience told him otherwise. It felt very much as though they were being toyed with. Treated with a modicum of respect, perhaps, for having lasted as long as this, but no more than that. Once this monster had their number—if she didn't already—he suspected things were going to get ugly fast.
And it seemed he wasn't alone in his supposition. Although still swinging, Hobe began to back away. "I dunno about you two," he panted, now at the extreme edge of his range, "but I've had just about enough of this bollocks."
And without further warning, the dwarf dropped his axe, turned tail, and fled.