

This book is a work of fiction. All names and places are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 by Daniel Lawlis

All rights reserved.

The Infiltrators (volume six of the series The Republic of Selegania).

Stock photo © sidneybernstein

(Adjustments to photo made by Daniel Lawlis)

The Infiltrators

Chapter 1

Eat your food while it's hot!

It had been a long time since Righty heard those sagacious words issuing from his mother with all the love and affection of a drill instructor. Once, a scrawny, awkward kid needed to hear them in order to overcome his lack of enthusiasm at emptying his plate.

But just as the child had grown to be a ravenous hulk of a man who could clean several plates with the alacrity of a tornado, so too had the application of his mother's wisdom evolved far beyond its sweet simplicity.

He had murdered the chief of police, killed two federal agents, dispatched several politicians, and blown the city's police station into about five million splinters. He could almost see the storm soon to emanate from the nation's capital, moving towards the city of Sivingdel like a swarm of locusts thick enough to blot out the sun and ready to devour any and all responsible for the recent outrages.

Whether he would survive that storm was not a prospect he himself would have cared to place a bet on, which meant the next several days might be the last he would ever get to spend in peace with his family.

Thus, while every instinct urged him towards commencing the meticulous steps necessary to weather the merciless tempest headed his way, those ancient words from his childhood reverberated in his ears, assuring him that he would forever regret not taking this opportunity to spend a few days of bliss with his wife and daughter, during which he would store a treasure trove of happy memories to sustain him during the black days ahead.

Chapter 2

Many a man has remarked with sullen perspicacity that few moments live up to the grand expectations preceding them. An adherent to this philosophy would have sourly witnessed the replete happiness of Mrs. Simmers, who proudly defied this unwritten law of human nature.

Absent were the quizzical stares Righty had uneasily expected from his wife regarding the grandeur of her and their daughter's new home. Perhaps his belief in the justness of this moment's happiness gave his words an irrefutable conviction when he explained that the new store in Sivingdel was succeeding so wildly as to make possible the purchase of this remote estate without so much as a penny of debt.

A house roughly two hundred times the size of their measly shack at the edge of Ringsetter greeted them with open arms, assuring Janie she had not ruined her life by following her heart into marriage with a savage boxer. The immaculately kept garden, the gently blue sky, and the proudly tall pine trees added to the chorus singing to her that she had finally reaped the rewards of placing her life's bet on Righty Rick.

Yet while Janie reflected on the many signs surrounding her as proofs of the correctness of her life's course, Righty appreciated far different aspects of the ranch. It was no hop, skip, and a jump from here to the nearest town. And he had previously found time to make clear in no uncertain terms to the several servants Righty had permitted to stay at the ranch that not one newspaper was to arrive without his express permission.

Righty had whisked Janie and baby Heather away from Ringsetter the same morning the first news of the unfortunate events in Sivingdel began to reach local ears, so no troubling questions were to spoil these three days of bliss.

Righty spent many a moment bouncing Heather up and down on his knee and listening to her giggles as gratefully as if they were medicine in acoustic form, traveling down the corridors of his ears into his soul to remove the blackness of deeds recently committed.

As he looked into her innocent blue eyes, he promised her silently that he would one day fix this situation. He would get out of his current trade. He would cut all ties with crime. He would be a legitimate businessman.

But he also asked her to understand that Daddy had made a bit of a mess and even daddies have to clean up their messes.

Life as a legitimate businessman will only be possible after far more blood is spilled.

But he was beginning to formulate a plan—a plan that would ensure far less blood would be spilled than what he was thinking just days before. It was in scattered pieces, but a rough outline was beginning to form.

He almost jumped as he felt his wife's fingernails suddenly stroke the back of his neck. He was initially relieved he had not done so, as this may have caused her to ask what had him so apprehensive. Then, he felt alarmed at his failure to detect her approach.

You'll have plenty of time for jumping at every shadow soon enough, friend, a rather unpleasant voice told him.

"I love seeing you happy with her," Janie said softly. She looked deep into his eyes. Those were the looks that had been leading to a lot of amorous exercise the past couple days, so much in fact he justly forgave his temporary relinquishment of sword practice.

At this pace, Heather will soon have company, he told himself, as he continued to look into Janie's eyes.

The thought left him confused more than anything else. Heather brought him so much joy, but he feared he would one day cause Heather twice that amount of pain. Could he rationalize bringing another creature into his world?

"What's on your mind, babe? Something's got you worried," Janie said, her blue eyes searching his dark ones tenaciously.

He paused, searching for a story.

"Is it because this can't last forever?"

He couldn't help looking up at her a bit abruptly, wondering what was the basis for her uncannily accurate guess.

He held her eyes, preferring to wait for her to elaborate, rather than betray his own sentiments while attempting to extract more details from her.

"It's not meant to, honey," she said, grasping his hand warmly. "That's what makes this paradise."

Her eyes seemed to say much more than that, reinforcing the display of her firm understanding that Righty had meant for this to be a special time that they would never forget, and he almost sensed in her eyes that she knew there were things he wasn't telling her but that she would gladly ignore them, provided he could make her feel the way she felt right now.

He slid towards her, feeling as if he were gliding across the stone bench in front of the sparkling lake before them like some kind of mythical creature. He kissed her passionately, and it seemed as though she knew tonight would mark the end of their three days in paradise.

Chapter 3

Harold's tight-lipped demeanor would have worried any other passenger perched atop this formidable, yet beautiful, creature cutting through the early morning sky headed for Sivingdel. A different passenger may have interpreted the silence as the icy preface to a cruel death to be bestowed upon the hapless victim, unless he had the guts to jump and travel several thousand feet to the ground below.

But Righty was no ordinary passenger, and to him, under these circumstances, silence was a good thing. Harold was quick to warn of danger, and thus his refusal to discuss the current circumstances in Sivingdel meant, at a minimum, things weren't half as bad as what Righty had been bracing himself for.

Harold set him down in the forest of the city's small park and then flew off without a word.

Righty was beginning to feel Harold was overdoing it with the mystery, but he quickly changed his mind as he found nothing he had expected to encounter. Absent were the checkpoints every stone's throw. Absent were the scowling policemen with suspicious eyes patting down everyone in sight and asking them their business for daring to move about in a war zone. Absent were the even more formidable faces of federal agents dashing to and fro atop large horses with an arrogant smirk on their faces and swords dangling brazenly from their hips, just waiting for the first excuse to lop someone's head off in furtherance of peace.

Instead what he saw was what he had seen during every other visit to his beloved city. Men walking about quickly with business on their faces. Women scanning the meats and fruits they were buying with the severity of a detective at a crime scene. Children running about. And an occasional bum begging for change.

Righty handed a hundred-falon bill to first one he saw, thinking it only proper to reward the surreal scene with a surreal tip to a man whose immediately bulging eyes served the purpose of informing Righty there had been no dramatic inflation during his short vacation.

With a singular purpose, Righty walked at a pace that blurred the line with jogging until he reached the first newspaper stand. He paid for copy of The Sivingdel Times and marched to the nearest bench, sat down, and began devouring.

A RETURN TO NORMALCY

Though a few misanthropic naysayers suggest Governor Sehensberg should have continued the state of martial law a bit longer in order to ensure the evildoers be completely annihilated, the hardworking men of this city have spoken with their feet and rejected such ludicrous suggestions of ongoing danger by returning to their businesses and getting this city back up and running.

The absolute lack of any violence since the bold mass execution of our city's foulest criminals several days ago leaves none but the most inveterate pessimists thinking that there is any reason to doubt that the governor, with his muscular yet judicious response, succeeded in stomping on all of the cockroaches responsible for the dastardly deeds.

The governor promises to replenish the police force to normal levels as soon as funds are available. He thinks the city's surplus can cover most of the cost but believes Sivingdelians will prove with their wallets that they believe in their city. Reports of donations have been received, and it is this paper's belief that they will only increase, proving to the rest of Selegania, and to the rest of the world, what kind of mettle we Sivingdelians are made of.

Righty almost left the paper on the bench, but thought better of it, tucking it away inside his coat as a souvenir. With a smile on his face, a whistle on his lips, and a spark in his step, he headed towards the city park. There would be a donation tonight, all right.

Chapter 4

Senator Hutherton was in a black mood. The reports of a return to normalcy and suspension of martial law in Sivingdel were not exactly the ingredients for this senator's happiness. Here he was dragging his feet through interviews while the crisis in Sivingdel was already yesterday's news, and the governor's unexpectedly assertive actions had already sapped the political will out of everyone in the senate and out of the president himself to go in there with a heavy-handed response.

Hutherton's sole comfort was that The Two for Two Act was law, and that was a reality regardless of whether the cowards in government had lost the guts to go into Sivingdel and find out who was really responsible for the recent crimes. Hutherton didn't believe for a moment that the guilty had been captured and punished, at least not all of them.

He would get his two hundred new agents, bide his time, and then find out what really happened. He could sense that he had a powerful nemesis. He could almost see the man, perhaps seated and gloating. Perhaps sitting pensively and thinking about his next move. But of one thing he was sure. There was a bold leader behind the recent attacks, and he was going to bring about the arrest and execution of this individual if it was the last meaningful achievement he accomplished in this life.

A profile of his foe began to emerge. He was no seasoned criminal. No twentieth-generation crime boss, this man. The crimes were far too brazen for that. They were the acts of a madman. A man who thought no rules applied to him and that he could crush anyone in his path.

An in-betweener?

Yes, he bore all the traits one would expect from an in-betweener. True crime bosses knew their place. They came to an agreement with the police, and the police set the terms. And when there were disagreements, they were handled delicately. No professional crime boss would ever think he could box the ears of the state and expect a good outcome. This man had to be a newbie, no doubt riding a wave of riches brought about by the illicit drug market, something whose profits made the old rackets of extortion and loan-sharking look like a child's lemonade stand.

But this newbie is winning.

Hutherton groaned aloud, then braced himself for his next interview.

"Come in!" he barked.

Chapter 5

Zelven and Hutherton had far more in common than they could have realized, though their current perspectives on the situation could hardly have differed more drastically.

They shared the same foe and just a very short time ago had been on top of the situation. Then, they had seen their fortunes reversed in the blink of an eye.

But while Hutherton lamented the cruel twist of fate, Zelven relished it and saw in it deliverance from over a year of cruel boredom.

Life "at the top" for Zelven had turned him into little more than a courier overseeing the delivery of large amounts of Smokeless Green to wholesaler George Hoffmeyer each month. The death of Heavy Sam had crippled the once seamless money-making machine atop which Mr. Hoffmeyer sat, leaving Hoffmeyer with considerable difficulty moving the incoming product through his distributors.

When Hoffmeyer suddenly disappeared, that meant things were going to get interesting for the Metinvurs in Sivingdel. Two of Heavy Sam's former distributors had subsequently killed each other in a mutual ambush attempt, taking out around thirty of their associates with them. Most of the surviving elements of Sam's organization had already dissipated or outright switched over into Mr. Brass's organization.

Thus, there was going to be no attempt to rebuild the once formidable group that had ruled Sivingdel's underworld with an iron fist. The upstart Mr. Brass had taken over.

Zelven had already sent his swiftest messenger back to the king to acquire detailed orders, but he knew that at a minimum he had full authorization to do whatever it took to heavily infiltrate Brass's business and impose surveillance upon him so that Brass's fate would be henceforth no safer than that of a man standing head in noose atop the gallows with the Metinvurs' hands on the trapdoor lever.

It was a cool night, and Zelven had already spotted a pack of four street peddlers whose furtive glances, menacing scowls, and quick movements suggested they were not selling silverware.

Zelven walked up towards the tallest of the bunch, a mean-looking cuss with a scar on his left cheek. His eyes turned predatory as Zelven neared, and he shot at least three wild-eyed glances back to his compatriots, no doubt assuring them to ready brass knuckles, switchblades, and clubs, should this unrecognized patron prove himself less than a Grade A customer.

As Zelven got closer, the man's chin lifted, and his eyes grew as they looked down the slopes of his cheeks towards his mysterious guest. As Zelven got closer still, the man took no pains to hide the fact his right hand had gone back towards his waistband, and in fact a smug grin communicated that he hoped this had been noticed.

"State your business, friend," the man said in a voice that was calm but with thinly concealed aggression.

"This spot's taken," Zelven replied.

"That's right. It shooooore is," the man said, almost singing his words.

The man took two steps towards Zelven. When he took his third, Zelven's two hands shot up towards the man's shoulders quicker than a cobra strike, pulling him towards him and delivering a knee to the groin with the power of a sledgehammer. As the man doubled over in pain, Zelven brought his right forearm under his chin, placing it directly against his windpipe, reinforced his right hand with his left, and then jerked upwards.

The man's windpipe collapsed, and then Zelven quickly lifted him up and smashed him down on top of his head.

It was at that moment one of the man's friends approached from Zelven's right. Zelven stepped forward at an angle and sent the knife-blade edge of his hand flying into the man's throat like a rock from a slingshot. He then grabbed the man's left hand—which by this point had grabbed Zelven's shoulder—and pinned it against his shoulder with his left hand while suddenly lassoing his right arm around the trapped arm.

He then let go with his left hand and clasped his right. He then stepped backwards with his left foot and torqued viciously with his hips, ripping the man's shoulder out of socket.

He then swiveled back towards the man, bringing his knuckles against the back of the man's neck in the process. He then punched him in the throat with his left hand, seized his throat, and then kicked his left leg out from under him with a vicious chopping motion with his own left leg. He slammed the man's head against the ground, crushing his skull, and then immediately did a roll across the ground to avoid what he knew was an attack from behind.

A club smashed into the stony ground, and the noise reverberated throughout the street as if from a nasty firecracker. A knife slid from Zelven's wrist to the palm of his right hand quicker than a card into the palm of the most accomplished cheat.

He blocked the large overhead swing by grabbing the man's right wrist. He then brought his knife into the man's bicep, slicing it to the bone. He then brought the double-edged knife up onto the other side of the man's arm and pulled down viciously, slicing his tricep to the bone. He then quickly reversed the grip of the knife from blade up to blade down and brought it against the man's throat in the same motion as throwing a hook punch.

He gave a stiff sidekick to the man's chest and avoided most of the ensuing blood geyser.

Before him, he saw an emasculated, wide-eyed man sitting on the ground, pushing himself away, looking like a child trying to escape a belting.

"I hope you're more reasonable than your associates," Zelven said calmly, tossing him a small bag filled with Smokeless Green. "The night's still young, and there's money to be made. You just introduce me to your customers and let them know there's going to be a fifty percent discount sale all week."

The man nodded uneasily, his eyes still a quarter the size of the full moon above.

Zelven extended his hand. "Let's get to it!" he barked.

The man grabbed it and stood up promptly, nodding but mute.

Chapter 6

"There's a new ranch hand that's been earning quite a name for himself," Tim Sanders said.

"They say he has his way with people no matter what the contest—boxing, sword play, wrestling . . . you name it."

"Well, it sounds like he might be a good man to consider for inclusion in the Ranch Guard. What do you think?" Righty inquired of his most-trusted rancher.

"Usually, that's only an option after a fella's proven himself for several months, but I've gotta confess I'm itchin' to see Halder—that's his name—prove himself. And, if he can, then, yes, sir, I'd like him to become part of the Ranch Guard. I'll make him one of the thirty contestants this afternoon."

"How long has he been on the ranch?"

"Just a little over one month."

"How big has our Ranch Guard gotten to?"

"A hundred and forty-five, sir."

"Well, let's go have a look."

An hour later, thirty contestants lined up, looking like soldiers presented for close inspection. Righty walked down the line and eyed them all closely.

"If I like what I see, I'll pick the top ten of you."

Some nervous gulps ensued. It was well known that the Ranch Guard was the place to be if you wanted to move up in Mr. Relder's organization. That was the name he was known by here, and although the original ranch hands had once known him by a different name—Richard Franklin Simmers to be precise—he had long ago told them that was an alias and that due to his growing trust in them, he was going to henceforth use his real name: David Relder, but "Mr. Relder" as far as they were concerned.

He knew full well some of the ranch hands might rightly suspect his story was the inverse of reality, but they kept whatever suspicions they had private as far as he could tell, and even his konulans—who had been instructed to alert him anytime anyone on the ranch used the names Richard Franklin Simmers, Mr. Brass, or Righty Rick—so far had not heard one instance of these names.

The ranch hands continued to stand straight and tall, but a few slight fidgets betrayed their eagerness to prove themselves. There were stories that those in the Ranch Guard earned several times the salary of the regular ranch hands—or even more—and there were rumors too that these men got to engage in action or at least would at some point in the future.

Righty had Tim make the matches, since he was far more attuned to which would be the most even lineups for the opening bouts. The bouts were randomly chosen by Tim to consist of either sword play, grappling, or empty-hand striking. The swords were wooden, but close replicas of the real thing. Protective gear was used for these matches, and while Righty normally had empty-hand striking done with protective gear also, he ordered it off for these matches. If he was going to count on any of these men having his back, he had to know if they could take a punch, but he wasn't interested in seeing any of them having their heads split wide open from the heavy wooden swords.

If Righty had managed to survey the contests in an even manner, he would have been happy at what he saw. There were now hundreds—almost a thousand—men working on the ranch, and getting a job at the lowest level was no picnic. He depended on the original ranch hands for that. He had them scour rural communities for men that were tough as nails, but honest workers, enticing them with double the wage they could earn anywhere else.

From there, everyone became an aspirant to the Ranch Guard. Tim and the other original ranch hands did a good job of watching the men's nightly combat classes and picking the best to vie for the chance at the Ranch Guard.

But Righty was unable to recognize the overall high level of martial prowess that was beginning to emerge in this laboratory of violence. Because from the moment he saw Halder move, he was as enthralled as if he were twelve years old again watching Jason Sevden thrash Harry "The Cat" Beld. It had been said that no one could hit Harry The Cat, because his damn reflexes were like lighting rubbed down with oil.

But Jason's powerful legs had enabled him to sprint after the rascally Cat and douse him with body blows, something The Cat's quick head movement did little to mitigate. The Cat had been carried from the ring looking like a cat that had a head-on collision with a wagon wheel, and it was at that moment that Righty's passion for body blows and explosive leg movement had been born.

Boxers at the gym laughed as he sprinted at the bag from eight to ten feet away. But there was one who didn't—Coach Ryler.

Here, kid; you wanna build up your sprintin' muscles, you better add a little resistance.

The next thing young Richie knew he had a rope tied around his waist, and a twenty-pound bag of sand attached to it. Undeterred, Richie had charged and charged at the bag, telling his brain there was no weight behind him and that he had to run faster and faster.

By the time he was starting to earn a name for himself—in his mid-teens—he was regularly sprinting at the punching bag dragging a hundred pounds of sand behind him. Once that rope was untied, and he charged at the bag "naked" (as he often put it), he sometimes looked like a blur to the other fighters gaping at him uneasily in the gym, fearing that at any second they were going to hear Coach Ryler barking that it was there turn to spar with Righty Rick.

But Righty now found himself thinking that not even Jason "The Legs" Sevden (as he became known after laying waste to The Cat) could have so much as laid a finger on Halder's head.

It was like one second Halder was there, and the next he wasn't. Righty watched beautiful, technically sound jabs and crosses whistle by Halder's head, as he moved just ever so slightly out of the way—so slightly it seemed as if he wasn't moving at all, as he appeared to never move one millimeter more than what safety required.

When his opponents tried their luck with body shots, he did odd-looking blocks with his forearms. It looked like what Coach Ryler used to call "Fancy Stuff." No Fancy Stuff was ever allowed his gym, but Righty was aware of a few people at his school who had practiced it. He had gotten into a fight with one of them, and while to this day he still couldn't be sure whether he had perhaps antagonized the classmate into fighting just so that he could see how much Fancy Stuff was worth in a real fight, what he did find categorically proven was that Fancy Stuff didn't work in a real fight.

The classmate had blocked one punch, but as soon as Righty began throwing fakes he quickly worked his way around the classmate's blocks and hit him wherever he wanted. Righty had hit him with around ten percent of his normal power, since the fight was more of an experiment—at least in Righty's mind—than an actual fight, but when the classmate had landed a shot to Righty's nose that drew blood, Righty responded with a body shot that cost his adversary a month of school.

Righty had never given Gicksin any serious thought after that and considered his coach's summary of it as Fancy Stuff to be more than adequate.

But here, in this place, at this moment, if long-since-deceased Coach Ryler had been here with Righty, they would have shared an intense moment of disbelief. Halder's blocks hit his opponent's arms with enough force to practically end the fight all by themselves. He could see the brave fellow wince in pain every time the curious Halder slammed the blade of his forearms into the incoming arms of his pugilist opponent.

And even when his opponent threw quick combinations of punches, Halder delivered his series of blocks with so much speed and grace it looked like nothing but a series of blurs emanating from the catlike figure. Coach Riley had always taught Righty that those fancy blocks were never good except when going against street thugs who threw wild, looping punches and explained that against technically sound punches only evasive movements with the head and feet and covering movements with the forearms would do any good.

But beyond even these amazing feats there was something else that caught Righty's attention, though it was only a hunch. It seemed evident to him that Halder could at any point devastate his opponents with a single punch, and yet he only delivered light punches while putting on this spectacle of speed.

Next up were the grappling matches. Once again, Righty had tunnel vision and kept his eyes peeled on Halder. The opening match practically floored Righty, as Halder's aggressive opening was like nothing Righty had ever seen.

Halder ran up to his opponent, jumped up into the air, wrapped his legs around his head, brought him to the ground, and simply stood up and walked away. Had Righty not seen Halder's earlier magic, he would have yelled at him to go back to his opponent and keep fighting or to get the hell off his ranch and never come back. But, prior magic show still in his mind, Righty awaited curiously to see what happened.

The man on the ground was motionless. Tim walked up to him and looked closely and then put his hand under his nose. He gave a thumbs-up to Righty and then lifted the poor fellow's legs up in the air. About fifteen seconds later, like a man emerging from a deep sleep, he looked around him and struggled to make sense out of what had just happened.

"You okay?" Tim asked.

The man nodded uneasily, got up, and walked towards the combatants who had been eliminated, looking ashamed.

"I'm next," Righty announced, catching not only Tim but himself completely off guard, and immediately wishing he could go back in time and take back those words. But while he did have a bird the size of several eagles put together that could fly him a day's journey in a matter of minutes and a large army of konulans that could perform the surveillance duties of ten thousand spies, a time machine he did not have.

"You're the boss," Tim said, shrugging.

Halder looked at him calmly, his gaze betraying neither arrogance nor fear. Not even curiosity could be seen. His eyes were impenetrable.

"Even the chef's got to get into the kitchen," he said, immediately questioning whether his attempt at humor made sense.

Halder smiled lightly.

As they faced off against each other, Righty found that while he had not lost his apprehension about facing this enigmatic ranch hand, he had at least lost regret. Though there was no time for deep analysis, subconsciously he wondered whether he had been watching some kind of fraud in progress and felt he had to experience this man's skills for himself.

Righty had never considered himself a natural at wrestling, but his regular sword practice sessions with Pitkins had included empty-hand techniques for quite some time, and Righty was slowly making progress at grappling.

He lowered his stance considerably, which Pitkins had taught him to avoid leg attacks. But after what he had seen happen to his predecessor Righty wasn't so sure Pitkins' lessons were going to do him much good.

As Halder came towards him and Righty reached out for him, only to grasp a handful of fresh, empty air, his mind was unable to even slightly comprehend the dizzying movements that followed, but his subconscious turned briefly to tales he had heard as a child about seafaring folks.

It was said that at sea—which took many months by land to reach, out to the east of Selegania—there was a creature that would sometimes grab a net full of fish being lifted and hitch a ride up to the deck. Once there, though slightly smaller in its torso than a human, it would begin attacking everyone on the ship with its large number of rope-like legs that it could flick away from its body rapidly like a whip or lasso around its prey and drag them towards its bloody mouth.

There were stories of powerful men attempting to overcome the beast, but in vain they grabbed at its legs only to find themselves grabbed by its free legs as it wrapped around and encircled them, rendering them all as helpless as children against an angry lion.

When Righty had grasped empty air, Halder had rolled onto the ground in front of him in what looked like a silly, foolish position, but before he knew it, Halder was in a different place, his feet acting like hands, grabbing Righty's legs wherever they willed, while Halder's equally dexterous hands assisted his legs, and the next thing Righty knew the man was out of sight.

His first clue as to where the magician had gone came when Righty felt himself being elevated up into the air. The next clue came when he felt himself falling backwards and falling right on top of the man.

Before Righty could even momentarily appreciate the fact that he at least knew where his opponent was he felt a death grip around his neck, surely worse than that of the tightest noose.

He was sure he would soon be choked unconscious or perhaps killed right then and there in front of his many ranch hands, who looked up to him tremendously. Ignominiously, he would die at the hands of this demon who had crept out from some hole Kasani knew where—or perhaps was an assassin sent by some rival drug organization he had not even heard of. Not even Harold would have a chance of plummeting from the sky quick enough to prevent the poisonous serpent with which he had so foolishly chosen to interact.

But before his mind could torment him any further he heard a calm whisper into his ear. The speech was rapid, but Righty caught every word: I needed to get your attention. We talk in private afterwards. Now, escape and beat me.

It took more than a second for Righty to process what he had just been told, and while he had always reviled faked outcomes, he didn't feel he was in much of a position to argue with this man.

Righty quickly began attempting an escape, something that just seconds before would have seemed the height of folly. He could hear the man grunting and gasping—perhaps as a show of effort—but at the same time the death grip had softened. Righty grabbed the man's forearm, pulled it down, and began moving towards the choking arm's thumb, as Pitkins had taught him to do from that position.

A long series of reversals followed, every one of them masterfully acted by Halder, whose grimacing face suggested he was fighting for his life. Righty had to do little faking, as even this new version of Halder was leaving him gasping for air and feeling like he was going to throw up at any second, due to the tremendous exertion. He tried to perform every counter he could that Pitkins had taught him, as Halder assailed him with a flurry of grappling attacks, every one seeming to fail by a hair.

When the time for the match expired, Righty surprised Halder by grabbing his arm and lifting it, announcing him as the victor.

"This man has made it into Ranch Guard. Tim, I've seen some good fighting today. You pick whichever are the best nine after Halder," realizing the best nine probably wouldn't be able to take Halder at the same time.

"Yes, sir," Tim said quickly.

"This way," Righty said to Halder, and they began walking towards Righty's cabin.

Chapter 7

"We almost there, Sonny?"

"Over this way," Sonny said.

Sonny was a son of a whore, but that was no epithet. His mother was Rosie Culvendale, and she had worked both the streets and bordellos of some of Sivingdel's roughest areas. When he was born, she named him Chris, but the ubiquitous sight of the young tike running around the bordello playing with toys while other kids his age were at home playing with their siblings became quite a sight.

Who is he? many would ask.

Oh, the son of some whore . . . Rosie, I think her name is.

As Chris got old enough to go to school it didn't take too long for the little secret to reach the ears of his classmates, but it wasn't until middle school that Son of a Whore practically became his proper name.

Those were sad years. Many lonely lunches, many black eyes, and many nights full of brooding.

Chris left school at age twelve, thinking he could outrun his past. He found odd jobs pickpocketing and serving as lookout for some of the town's more nefarious bandits while they entered businesses and even private homes. Somehow, the past caught up with him, and though he did good enough work that most of his bosses wouldn't say it to his face, he would hear them chuckling and saying it behind his back.

But the real problem was with his peers. They said it to his face all day long, but oddly enough, not always in a mean way. It seemed as if they wanted him to accept that name and not take it personally.

The first time Chris drew blood was when he was fifteen, and he had spent that entire night chanting aloud that he would either kill the next person he heard call him that or he would kill himself if he lost the nerve.

The next day, as if fate were testing him, Freddie Big Ears, greeted him with a warm clap on the back and a "Good Morning, Son of a Whore!"

No sooner had Freddie turned his back than Chris let a butcher knife slip from his sleeve—a move he had practiced in unison with his chanting—and then plunged it somewhere in between the spine and the shoulder blades, and Freddie let out a howl that could have been confused with a wolf's.

Once he crossed that line, there was no turning back, and Chris began hacking and slashing away in a frenzy and then finally caught Fred right in the throat with a poke. Around that point, Joshua Evans had said, "Sonny . . . calm down, man!"

Like a beast calmed by some magical incantation, Chris's countenance immediately lost its ferocity. He put the knife back inside his sleeve after a quick couple of wipes against his boot, and looked menacingly at everyone as it went up his sleeve, as if saying, I can just as easily pull it back out.

The effect of the sound of "Sonny" on Chris had not been lost on the other two hooligans together with them that day, and within a day or two more and more people began testing it out on him.

Over the next several years, Sonny had to reinforce his preference for the abbreviated form of his name by attacks even more vicious than the one against Freddie, but as of the present moment, it had been a good five years since the last reminder had been necessary.

Sonny was no tough guy in a fair fight, but he had an uncanny ability to ambush. Ryan Sims, the next man after Fred to call him "Son of a Whore" to his face, had found this out the hard way.

After saying it to him, he had stood on guard, staring Sonny down.

Sonny seemed as calm as a blade of grass on a windless day. Fifteen minutes later, however, when Ryan turned his back just slightly to demonstrate how he had climbed into a window the prior day, the knife had fallen into Sonny's hand too quick for anyone's notice, and a half second later he jabbed it halfway to the hilt into Ryan's armpit. The scream he emitted passed into legend, but it was short-lived.

There was no wild hack and slash attack this time. The knife had been pulled out and traveled the full distance of Ryan's throat in less than a blink.

Sonny was pondering these happy memories while he strode down the street with Jack Hillmeyer, the man in charge of five blocks of Sivingdel street corner real estate, and he aimed to put on a good showing today. Being around Jack was kind of like being in the light of the brilliant sun after a few days cooped up inside the house with the flu.

He oozed energy, confidence, and charisma in a way that made everyone standing around him feel a few inches taller. Sonny hadn't exactly held too much love in his heart for his slain compatriots, and he was hoping that with a good performance today Jack just might put him in charge of the next crew.

"We're close," Sonny said in a half-whisper.

Jack stopped and spun around to look at him.

"Here's the deal," he said with those powerful eyes boring into Sonny's skull—"You make it quick—wham, bam!!" he finished, his lips smacking together in a way that made it unnecessary to drive the point home by clapping, one of Jack's favorite tools of emphasis.

There was no need to go over the finer points of the setup. They had drilled it to the point of agony last night, and if Sonny didn't have it down by now, he never would.

Sonny gulped and began walking in the lead position, Jack just inches behind, and several other toughs behind them, sundry weapons barely concealed within their long coats.

It was around 9 p.m., but the lights of the surrounding businesses—most of which were of a nocturnal nature—prevented the men from being shrouded in complete darkness.

"Mr. Sonny," a calm voice exclaimed.

Sonny turned around quicker than a cat.

Zelven was there, just finishing the task of lighting an unusually long cigar, his back resting lazily against a building, his eyes full of energy.

"Mr. Ritmer," Sonny replied uneasily.

"You've brought some colleagues, perhaps even your wholesaler. Fantastic. If he can beat my buying prices, I'll gladly become his retailer. If I can beat his buying prices, I hope he'll see reason and become my buyer."

Zelven blew a large, perfectly shaped circle of smoke towards Sonny, and as it passed his head, he couldn't help but feel he was seeing a noose approach and wrap around his neck.

"Well, won't you introduce your friends?" Zelven asked. "I see you are rather popular."

The men had stretched out in a line long enough to block most of the alleyway.

Sonny's heart was beating so loudly, he almost wanted to yell at it to shut the heck up because he was sure Mr. Ritmer could hear it thundering inside his chest.

Without even intending to actually drop the knife into his palm, he made the slightest twitch with his right fingers, as if wanting to make sure they had not gone numb and lost their ability to do their deed. A hundred witnesses scrutinizing Sonny would have seen nothing, but no sooner had they moved than Mr. Ritmer said, his eyes never having left Sonny's, "Ohhhh, you don't want to do that now, do you?"

A twinkle danced in his eye. Sonny felt like he was about to throw up.

"Oh, just do it, would ya?!" Jack said. "He's alone for Kasani's sake!"

Somehow, Jack's contempt overrode Sonny's fear, causing the knife to drop into his palm.

No sooner had it dropped, than he felt a sharp sting in his eye. Jack, standing next to him, heard a slight "whoosh," but what caught his notice more than anything was the sudden spurt of blood that went flying out of Sonny's right eye and his quickly crumpling body.

Jack prepared to yell and then charge but immediately felt a sharp sting in his throat. The words didn't come out. He brought his hands up to his throat, and they were immediately showered with spurts of blood.

WHOOT! WHOOT! WHOOT! WHOOT!

The sounds came out in quick succession, and one by one the line of men began to crumple over, blood jetting from their eyes or throats.

A minute later, a wagon filled with hay came by. The driver got out and began to inspect one of his horses' hooves, while three men slid out from underneath the hay, picked up the bodies, shoved them under the hay, and then hid themselves back under the hay. A few people took notice, but paid little attention, as the nonchalant nature of the men's movements seemed so natural despite their abnormal actions.

Zelven extinguished his cigar and put it carefully into a coat pocket. He had sold quite a few pounds of Smokeless Green tonight, and at the prices he was selling, he knew his corner was going to become very popular quickly.

This would no doubt lead to another visit. Perhaps the next one would be with more reasonable people. There were ways of dealing with those who preferred violence to negotiation.

Chapter 8

Righty felt an odd sense of anticipation as he and Halder neared the cabin. He was worried by the fact it seemed his curiosity was greater than his fear of his overly capable guest, thinking perhaps he was little more than a moth being drawn to the flame.

He breathed a sigh of relief as to Halder's intentions when he offered no qualms about being the first to walk through the door which Righty now held open for him, though another part of him wondered if he had not made a fatal error by declining to send a coded message to Harold to have this man taken out during their stroll over here.

He made a mental note that following this meeting, should he survive it, Harold would be given a code word for precisely such an attack.

Halder readily sat in the chair that Righty pulled out for him, and Righty walked quickly to the chair seated across from Halder, barely suppressing the urge to run over to it.

He sat down and looked Halder squarely in the eye. Halder's gaze was as calm and impenetrable as before. No twinkle, no sneering glare of triumph; just calm, indecipherable energy.

"Well, let's get to it," Righty said. "I'm not used to sitting across the table from a man more dangerous than myself. I can't exactly say I like it. But here we are, and I'm dying to know just what in the hell a man with your skills is doing as a ranch hand and not working in the service of some luxurious king who can shower you with riches for your unrivalled services. Just what in the hell do you want with me, stranger?"

For the first time, a flash of emotion came across Halder's eyes. It was difficult to interpret, but it seemed like a bolt of lightning breaking the calm of a clear day followed by the arrival of thunder and ominous rain.

Righty felt more than one hair lift itself just a tad off the back of his neck, and he again questioned the wisdom of not calling for Harold to dispatch this monster while he had the chance.

Halder leaned forward on the table, his eyes boring into him like a pair of sharp drills.

"You're in danger, Mr. Simmers. Real danger."

Righty gulped. Somehow he couldn't muster the false indignation in attempting to tell this man that his real name was Mr. Relder, not some Simmers alias he had used ages ago.

Lies, it seemed, would be incinerated by this man's gaze as easily as dry hay by a fiery torch.

Righty leaned forward, holding the man's gaze steadily.

"I know that, Halder," Righty began, allowing a little derision to adorn his guest's name so that he did not think this alias was any more believable than Righty's, which he had so blatantly refused to recognize. "I knew that from the moment I sold my first bag of this stuff, and the lesson has been reinforced many times over. Danger is the very ether surrounding my entire existence. Do you think I don't realize that everything I have out there could be taken from me at a moment's notice? Do you think I don't realize I'm in constant danger from the forces of the state, the agents of rival gangs, or even the treachery of my own men?

"Are you here to lecture me on the dangers of this business to which I have risen to the top, while you're no more than a damn ranch hand?!!" Righty thundered.

"Huuuuuuuu!"

Air whistled out of Halder's mouth as though a punch had gotten past one of his catlike blocks and delivered a powerful blow to his solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of him. But the quickly appearing smile on his face immediately showed he had been levelled by some unintended humor.

"THE TOP?!!" shouted Halder, now standing and looking down at Righty like a schoolmaster with some fool student.

Righty felt a combination of powerful anger and shame wash over him, as he immediately sensed this man excelled him in all things and that he must somehow kill him right now, even if he had to unabashedly summon the help of Harold and all the konulans to aid him in the process.

Something—perhaps a sincerity, but Righty couldn't put his finger on it—in the man's gaze soothed his anger just enough to prevent an all-out battle from taking place at that moment, but his face and neck still burned red.

"THE TOP?!" Halder repeated, with as much emphasis as before but less derision.

Halder leaned forward towards Righty several more inches and told him, "You're nothing more than a pawn for forces whose power and methods are as unknown to you as their existence!"

"And I suppose you're part of those mysterious forces, or otherwise you wouldn't know, would you?" Righty shot back angrily. "Look, stranger, say what you've got to say, or get the hell off my land!!"

"I could do that," Halder said calmly, stepping away from the table and sliding the chair underneath it. "I could step outside that door, disappear from sight in minutes, and you'd never hear from me again. Is that your wish?"

Righty paused. Halder's matter-of-fact tone convinced Righty he was serious.

"Your ability to disappear from me isn't as absolute as you might think, stranger," Righty said, in a matter-of-fact tone of his own.

Halder's gaze seemed incredulous for a moment, but when it was replaced by a certain degree of credulity, Righty felt perhaps he should not have made even a veiled reference to the one ace he held up his sleeve.

"Sit!" Righty said affirmatively, pointing to the chair, and then he himself resumed his seated posture.

Halder, studying Righty's face and eyes in so intent a manner it made his skin crawl, walked back to the chair, pulled it out, and sat.

"So—what do you say we both cut the crap. You're a killing machine. No doubt about that. Hand to hand, and perhaps even with weapons, you could take anyone on this ranch, probably myself included. But you want something, and you want it from me. You didn't just crawl out of some hole and sniff me out in order to spit in my face and move along. There's something I have that you want, and there must be something significant you think you can offer me in order to obtain it."

"Sorry for the drama, Mr. Relder," he began, inserting no sarcasm into his use of Righty's alias, instead saying it as naturally as if he had known Mr. Relder by that name for years. "I never feel I've fully measured a man until I see him angry. I was pretty sure you were the right man before I ever set foot on this ranch. Now, I have no doubt."

Righty's quizzical expression urged him to continue.

"You are right. I do need you for something. And you need me even more, even though you don't know it. You need me for survival. I need you for revenge."

"Survival?"

"Your entire country is being subjected to high-intensity covert warfare for the purpose of exploitation and possibly outright invasion. It is being carried out by the organization I was once the head of. They export the Smokeless Green here for the purpose of money and to wreak havoc inside your country. Selegania is being used as the base from which other countries are supplied, making it look like Selegania is the ultimate source. Selegania will eventually become a pariah nation. Within Selegania, powerful men such as yourself are being allowed to rise but only for the purpose of one of them eventually being chosen as the national monster, against whom all police and military resources will be directed without mercy.

"I've closely watched your rival kingpin in Selegania, and he is without a doubt being supplied directly by my former colleagues, though he doesn't know anything about them. Every other kingpin amongst Dachwald, Sodorf, and Selegania is either being supplied by your rival, directly by my former colleagues, or by yourself.

"You're the only one who has managed to become fully independent, due to this ranch. My former colleagues may not yet be aware how you have managed to achieve such high status without being supplied directly by them, but I can assure you that the price of your success is that you are going to be the man they ultimately turn into the national monster.

"But even these things are only preliminary to larger ambitions."

"So, there's a highly sophisticated organization in a foreign country behind the arrival of Smokeless Green, and they're using it to finance themselves, create disorder, and eventually do something bigger."

"You've understood well enough."

"So, what are you offering me, and just what in the hell do you have to gain by going against your former comrades?"

Chapter 9

It had been an okay night on the streets, but Zelven knew something was awry. The first night he had sold Smokeless Green at half the going rate, he had run out after just a few hours and had to go resupply and come back.

Here it was after midnight, and he had only sold half his stash. He considered the possibility other dealers had lowered their prices to compete, but his men had snooped about, and no one could sell at his rates without taking a stinging loss. No, something else was afoot.

He had already sniffed out the problem with sufficient certainty to formulate a plan of action, but when his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an approaching buyer, he thought of a new plan.

Though pretending to be calm, the buyer betrayed to the hawk-like eyes of Zelven that he was glancing around a bit too much to just be checking for police.

"What will you have, my good man?" asked Zelven cheerily.

"A-an ounce, man. That is—well, you know, if the discount's still good tonight, man."

"Oh, it is indeed. But I tell you what, how would you like to have two ounces if—"

"TWO?!" the haggard man said with childlike enthusiasm.

Zelven had a nasty temper when interrupted, but he could conquer it when the prize was sufficient.

"Yes, my friend. Two. Exactly two."

"Ha . . . haha," the man said nervously, running both of his hands through his hair like combs, considering the proposed trade-off. "Well, how much you want fer it?"

"Oh, it isn't money, friend. It's something far easier, just a little information."

The man's eyes grew wide, and he looked around furtively, as if he were a bandit who had already spent five minutes in the bank vault and expected the sheriff and an army of deputies to arrive any second. He looked up at Zelven with shiny, mischievous eyes.

"Shoot."

"Well, business has been a little slow tonight . . . a little too slow, and I suspect perhaps someone has given the very bad advice to customers that it would be a mistake for them to come visit me."

"We ain't supposed to," said the man, with delight in his eyes. "That's what they say."

"You know, friend, there's a lot of monkey business that goes on with this beautiful plant from the time it comes from someone like me until the time it reaches someone like you. Have a little whiff of this."

Zelven extended the palm of his hand with a fair share of green powder in it and poured it into the man's hands, outstretched like those of a beggar.

"Mmmm, smells sweet," said the man, before sucking it up his nostrils greedily. He then gave a couple of quick shakes like a wet dog drying itself and said, "Okay, here's what I know—anyone who buys from you's gonna wish he didn't. That's what they say."

"Who's 'they', friend? I'm a man of details. Specifics are to my mind what colors are to the painter's eye."

"Well, I know where they stay at, but I don't know their names. They's the bosses of this section of town."

"Well, friend, here's what you're going to do. You walk towards the place, and when you're there, stop and have another whiff of this," Zelven said, extending an ounce to the man. "No one will know I'm following you, not even you. Once you've done as instructed, you'll find the second ounce in your pocket before you count to a hundred."

The man's face grew solemn for a moment, ageing him twenty years in the process, but then that mischievous gleam came back, and he turned to walk off down the street.

Zelven's hand shot out like a mamba and went around the man's shoulder.

"One more detail, friend. Play me like a fool, and I'll be very cross." As he said that, he pinched a nerve in the man's shoulder he never knew he had but released it just as a howl of pain traveling up the man's throat was about to depart. The quick cessation reduced it to a soft whimper.

Soberly, the man said, "Yes, sir," and took off down the street, practically trotting.

Zelven disappeared behind several barrels and appeared no more than a minute later looking like an unshaven, greasy-haired vagrant. He took off down the street, guide in view.

To the careless observer, the unrecognizable Zelven made perhaps a slightly excessive number of stretches and adjustments of his hat as he stealthily walked down the street eyes glued to his guide. But to the thirty Varco agents watching closely with small telescopes atop the roofs, Zelven was speaking to them quite clearly and succinctly.

The slight adjustments of his hat, the movements of his fingers camouflaged by his decoy stretches, and last, but not least, the grinding of his right fist against his left palm communicated to them fully what they needed to know.

Zelven was beginning to think he was going to have to break the drug addict's neck, toss him aside, and formulate a new plan, when suddenly the druggie stopped, took a sniff of something from his lifted palm, and then even tilted his head slightly towards the left.

Zelven gave another of his disguised signals, and just when the now-accountant drug addict reached number ninety-eight someone bumped into him and apologized. The distrustful druggie checked his pockets, having forgotten about Zelven's promise and thinking instead that he had just been pickpocketed.

Then his face changed quickly from abject despair to that of a child opening a birthday present as he discovered his precious ounce now had a twin brother. A mean, suspicious look then spread over his face, and he trotted off down a dark alley, perhaps headed towards some hole where he could sniff at pleasure for a couple months with no thieves to sully the fun.

Zelven surveyed the building. It was quite a bit taller than the others, at six stories. Three men stood scowling at the entrance looking like a collection of granite statues. There was an alley on just one side of the building, and it was a narrow one and seemed fully within view of the three guard dogs.

Zelven extracted a different cigar from the one he had used to fire steel darts into the throats and eyes of his late would-be assassins and lit it calmly.

As he approached the three guards, the nearest one turned towards him, an even meaner grimace now on his face, both arms crossed revealing forearms meatier than most men's thighs, and with a sneer on his lips that looked so exaggerated Zelven wondered how he could wear it without laughing at his own ridiculousness.

"What the f--- do you want, old man? Walk around, would ya."

"Got any greeeen?" Zelven asked, a rasp coming out of his mouth along with a cloud of smoke thick enough to be confused with a forest fire.

"F---, man," the scowler said with supreme annoyance, swatting at the smoke as if it were a swarm of hornets. "Get lost, would ya, or I'll break you in half, fool!"

"Eeee . . . nice to meet you, feller," Zelven said, belching smoke out of his mouth, and turning to cross the street.

"Ah, hell naw," groused the scowler, taking a step and a half towards Zelven with what looked like the intention of belting him across the mouth with his right hand, but the four glaring eyes of his compatriots seemed to quickly draw him back to his post as effectively as though they had been four lassoes.

Some of the smoke was drifting towards them now as well, though Scowler had certainly borne the brunt of it.

"Fu's crazy," Scowler continued, as he resumed his post. "Man, he like to smoke though, HAA!" he suddenly exclaimed with what had been his first good-natured laugh in approximately three months, though as far his two compatriots knew it was his first ever. They looked at him suspiciously, frowning deeply.

They then looked back to the front, hoping the night would get back to normal.

"FU . . . LIKE . . . TO . . . SMOOOKE!!" Scowler suddenly sang out at the top of his lungs and then began laughing uncontrollably.

"Hey, Kyle, get real, fool!" his adjacent guard told him with a vicious punch to the tricep to drive the point home.

This brought forth more laughter than if he had tied Kyle down and tickled his feet with a feather. Kyle collapsed into a ball of howling laughter and began writhing on the ground. The third guard now joined in on the lecture by kicking Kyle right in the ribs.

"Yo, Ky, snap out of it, man. I know somethin's got you cracked up, but you's gonna get all three of us killed, PUNK!!"

He then gave another vicious kick to Kyle's ribs, after which he began convulsing terribly.

"Hey, man, suck it up and get up, you feel me?!" the man said hunching over his friend, now appearing to express some genuine concern.

As the two huddled over their fallen, writhing compatriot, a now well-dressed Zelven slipped behind them and into the building.

Kyle was now beginning to writhe in a manner that seemed exaggerated even for having been kicked by Big Gary. Sure, Big Gary had killed men before with a kick to the ribs, but those were normal-sized men, not muscle-bound sycamore trees like Kyle.

"F---, Gary. I think you wasted him, hommie!"

"Naw, man. Yo, Kyle! KYLE!!"

Quite a few heads began to turn. Even for a seedy part of town, this could count as a spectacle.

"Sh--, man. We gotta bring him inside, fool."

Kyle began writhing far worse as they dragged him towards the doorway, blood spurting out of his nose and eyes, and he began vomiting uncontrollably.

He breathed his last at the very moment he crossed the threshold. He only beat his compatriot Jerry to the afterlife by a couple of seconds. As soon as Jerry crossed the threshold, a knife punched into the back of his right lung up to the hilt and then slit his throat from ear to ear with so much speed Big Gary didn't even see the attack.

By the time Big Gary turned to see his friend falling to the ground in a shuddering heap with blood gushing out of his neck he felt a small noose enclose around his neck and the tip of some sharp weapon poke against his ribs.

"There will be plenty of time for crying and mourning later, young fella."

Gary started to turn towards his attacker, but the noose around his neck immediately tightened to the point he could feel blood trickling down his neck.

"Easy there, fella. This ain't a noose like one you've ever seen. One more squeeze with this lever I've got in my hand, and you'll be with your two friends there in less than a blink."

Gary fumed, and tears strode down his face. Kyle and Jerry were his best friends. Perhaps he ought to join them.

The unpleasant poke of the dagger convinced him life might be worth living after all.

"Now show me where your boss is. The one who doesn't believe in free markets."

"He'll, he'll, he'll KILL you, man!" Gary said, struggling against the noose.

"Do I seem like the risk-averse sort to ya?" Zelven asked in a singsong accent he sometimes used.

Zelven gave another squeeze. He heard the gag reflex and released the noose just enough to let Gary vomit out a couple eruptions before warning him with a few tight squeezes to wrap that business up or choke on his own vomit.

As soon as Zelven was convinced Gary had sufficiently cleared his airways, he resumed the pressure with the noose, lest he do something foolish like cry out.

"March me to them, mate, or I'll kill you right now," Zelven said without any bluff, sticking the knife a full inch into Gary's back, just shy of any vitals.

Gary answered with his footsteps, which began moving quickly forward.

Zelven heard a peculiar, but very familiar, rapping sound. He turned around slightly and noted with approval as he saw ten men spilling into the room from the street outside. He had no concerns about whipping a few punks inside, but the contents of this particular building had not been previously reconnoitered, and Varco training demanded preparation for the worst-case scenario.

"Let's get going," Zelven told Gary. "If you're no good to me as a guide, I'll send you to join your departed friends."

Gary paused only the briefest of moments to consider his options before moving his large frame forward reluctantly like a stubborn plow horse that realizes its owner will cave its skull in if it refuses to budge.

"Don't even think about sneaky warnings," Zelven instructed. "Whistles, knuckle-cracking, signature footsteps—they're all plain language in highlighted bold caps to me, son."

Zelven thought he could see Gary's bull-like neck turn a couple shades redder and almost feel the heat rising off of it.

They continued walking up the stairs until Gary stopped and lightly rasped something.

Zelven released the noose just enough to let him speak in a whisper: "The men you want to see are on the top floor. There are guards on every floor until the top, starting with the third floor. It's because we keep a lot of . . . stuff here."

"Thank you, friend. You would only be a burden from here on out."

Zelven clamped down on the device holding the wire noose around Gary's neck. It penetrated through the voice box almost instantly, severed a couple major arteries, and sent the large statue of a man tumbling towards the ground.

With catlike reflexes, Zelven squatted down and slowed the man's fall, permitting almost no sound to issue from the hulk's demise.

Zelven immediately gestured to his compatriots that the target was on the top floor and that every floor hereafter had guards.

Zelven took out what looked like a flimsy rag but that fitted perfectly to the contours of his shoes, providing him with excellent grip and a very soft step. He led the way down the hall, and as he neared the end, he pulled out a reflection-free periscope and sought out his adversary.

Atop the steps slouched a young man, dozing off with a half-finished bottle of whisky next to him. Zelven extracted a cigar, put it to his mouth, and blew. What could have passed for a sewing needle while stationary expanded substantially at the tip as it sailed through the air, two razor-sharp wings unfolding, before the missile buried itself in the drunkard's throat.

As Zelven approached the fourth floor, he wasn't particularly surprised to see several guards through his periscope.

The closer to the target, the meaner the obstacles.

He signaled appropriately to his assistants to inform them of the situation and announce a countdown.

Five seconds later, in a move that some observers may have confused with top-level synchronized dancing, eleven Varco agents rolled across the ground in unison. Perhaps an artistically minded bystander would have expected the man in the center to stand up, send a ripple through his body in pantomime fashion, and then be joined by his cohorts in a well-rehearsed display of spins and acrobatics. But any such expectations were dashed when the men, crouched low to the ground, fired darts in unison at their preselected targets with a lethality that mimicked dance only by its impeccable timing and accuracy.

Each guard got a dart in the throat and at least one other vital area, but in spite of this synchronized kill there was no way to avoid the sound of several large men crashing to the ground.

Yet, no sooner had the Varco fired their darts than they sprinted up the stairs to where Zelven, after a quick peek through his periscope, led them onward.

Coming down from the fifth floor was a skinny runt to check on the noise he thought he had heard. A dart through the throat prevented a scream, and Zelven caught his body as it stumbled towards him.

Zelven hopped up the next several steps like a rabbit, and just as he was putting his periscope to the corner, it got knocked out of his hands by a vicious kick. It went rattling against the ground and made more noise than any of the late guards combined had been able to.

Zelven grabbed the man's foot before he could retract it and sliced the tendon behind the heel. Zelven immediately regretted it, as the man let out a howl of pain that made the recent racket with the periscope sound like a feather landing on silk.

Zelven quickly threw his knife into the man's throat, but just barely missed the voice box. He was gurgling blood but managed to let out a couple more howls before falling into shock.

There was no need for Zelven to give any instructions to his agents this time. This scenario was dealt with exhaustively in Varco training. Any time a stealth mission with a known target lost its element of surprise, there were only two options—abort or race ahead every man for himself.

Zelven decided for them when he moved ahead. As soon as he reached the fifth floor, a bat came hurtling towards his face. He wasn't sure what tipped him off—a sudden blurry movement or perhaps the breeze from the swing—but some instinct took over, and he let his body drop to the ground immediately.

The bat missed his head by two inches as he plummeted to the ground. A brute of a man stood before him and raised the bat with a grin on his face that suggested he was already visualizing the geyser-like eruption of Zelven's brains.

Zelven smacked his feet together hard, causing a knife blade to come out the tip of each shoe. He arched backwards and sent his right foot directly into the man's groin.

He yelled like an enraged bear, but, to Zelven's dismay, he appeared not to be dissuaded by this injury from continuing with his geyser show.

As the bat prepared its descent, Zelven saw the tell-tale redness around the man's nose that bespoke frequent Smokeless Green usage, and he had no doubt the man had had a grown-up's dose sometime recently.

Zelven rolled to the side a half blink before the bat buried itself into the floorboards, sending splinters flying.

Zelven stood to kick the man in the throat, but—almost to his disappointment—saw his agents finish the man off with a quick series of slashes that made the most seasoned butcher appear slow and sloppy.

"SHUT THE HELL UP DOWN THERE, MOOSE!! THAT'S THE SECOND TIME YOU'VE GOTTEN HIGH TONIGHT!"

Zelven wasn't sure if it was a ruse, but his spirits leaped at the prospect of paying a surprise visit to his target after all.

He quickly motioned to his men that they were back in stealth mode and to follow his lead.

Zelven was surprised when the peek through his periscope on the sixth floor revealed no one. With quick motions, he communicated to kill only when necessary, as he wished to speak to whomever they could restrain.

Zelven turned left, five men following quickly behind him, and the other five veering off towards the right.

He had only taken a few steps when he heard laughter.

"You really shut Moose up, now didn't ya, hahahaha?!!"

"If Moose was any dumber, I'd cut his head off and attach it to a club. It would be more useful."

Someone howled at that response, and the unmistakable sound of a glass being filled with liquid emanated from the room. A couple more steps, and the tell-tale smell of alcohol permeated Zelven's nostrils, letting him know he was going to be crashing one hell of a party.

"HEY! Go check that there telescope, now won't ya? I like to know about myyy . . . competition," a man said, appearing to have struggled to put together the sentence.

"He's gone, I told ya!"

A loud sound like a slap across the face echoed, followed by, "HEY! Who's the boss here, anyway?"

A sigh was emitted, and the sound of more liquid being poured sounded somewhat like a bubbling brook.

"He's gone, Lefty! Sheeesh!"

"What did I tell ya? Did it work, or din't it? You ain't always got to use violence to win the game!"

"I know, Lefty. It's like you said. If there ain't no fish in the pond, ain't no one gonna stick around too long."

"Yep," came the reply with the satisfaction of a teacher whose dumbest student has finally grasped a basic concept.

Zelven could tell based upon the voices roughly where each man was situated, but he was suspicious about there being only two voices. He quickly signaled for the other team of Varco agents to kill everyone they came across. He had already decided which one man would survive in this room.

He motioned to his nearby Varco agents which man was to be spared, and on the count of three they burst into the room.

Zelven sent a small throwing knife spinning through the air and buried it cleanly in Lefty's neck as he downed the last glass of hard liquor he would ever enjoy on this side of eternity.

A thin man looked in horror at the team of assassins, his right hand still clutching the telescope with which he had been peering down into the street just moments earlier.

Two other bodyguards were in the room, but his agents took them out before he even had time to register their presence. A few stifled screams echoed down the hallway, and then he turned to the now petrified man still clutching the telescope.

Taking a chair next to Lefty, Zelven said, "Please, sit. You're in no danger. Quite the contrary, tonight your life has taken a lucky turn."

The petrified man stood still, but as it appeared to be from fear rather than defiance, Zelven told him amiably, "Sir, please do as your bid."

The man glanced quickly at Lefty, and while he seemed a bit unnerved by the grisly sight, not even Zelven's scrutinizing eyes could spot a hint of mourning. Cautiously, he sat down.

"Lefty didn't call you by your name, so would you do me the courtesy of introducing yourself."

"Tim," the man said so timidly it almost sounded like a question. "Sometimes Thin Tim," he added uneasily.

"Well, I admire a man who keeps his weight under control. It's a sign of not just physical, but also mental, fitness. My name is George—George Ritmer, at your service."

Thin Tim took the extended hand uneasily, his fear of displeasing Mr. Ritmer only slightly outweighing his fear of getting near him.

"I feel much better now that we have been properly introduced. Do you know why I'm here?"

You're a robber and a killer, Tim wanted to say, but shook his head, afraid he would surely join Lefty if his answer was unsatisfactory.

"Well, that's to be understood. A man could have many motives for entering in such a bizarre fashion. Let me explain it to you in economic terms. I have often been accused of being an idealist. You see—I believe in free markets. If I stand on the same street corner as you, it ought to be up to the buyer whether he poisons himself with your Smokeless Green or mine. The right to choose is very fundamental to individual liberty, is it not?"

Tim nodded.

"Ah, I suspected you to be a free market man the moment I heard your conversation with Lefty here," Zelven said, pointing to Lefty as naturally as if he were alive and fully active in the conversation. "I think it was your reticence to carry out Lefty's protectionist order of checking the telescope to see if the competition had returned. At that moment, I told myself, Those are the reluctant footsteps and grudging tone of a man not fully onboard with this arrangement. Thus, here you sit before me, heart still beating, body still in working order. We free marketers are not exactly brutes, you know."

"Lefty . . . Lefty was the one behind it. He said you killed some of our men, so he sent . . . some guys to spread the word that they wasn't to deal with you," Lefty said, with the tone of a tattletale.

"Well, I'm willing to assume you were acting under duress."

Tim's face brightened, until Zelven resumed: "But duress doesn't cover all sins. It's a rather persnickety legal defense, and not all jurists agree on its full scope. Let's say we simplify it with a simple proposition."

"Just name it, Mr. Ritmer," Tim said with the tone of a man eager to descend the gallows.

"I have a predicament. I am looking to move up in this organization, but I happen to have an independent source of Smokeless Green. Thus, while I believe I could be a tremendous asset to this organization, I see my optimal role as being one of supplier. I suspect I could be of great benefit even to the largest wholesalers in this organization.

"Now, I thought I would go the traditional route and just start selling to users on the street, make a name for myself, begin supplying retailers, then wholesalers . . . well, I don't mean to condescend to you; you know how this works, don't you?"

Tim nodded unconvincingly.

"But, I keep hitting snags. First, a few men tried to rob me, and I only narrowly survived. Then, Lefty here started threatening my clients. I'm starting to think I'm going about this whole process wrong. I'm thinking maybe you know some people higher up in the food chain, if you will permit a metaphor, that perhaps I could sell to directly. I can guarantee you I'll supply them more cheaply than their current supplier, these vicious attacks against my person will cease, and we can all go back to earning money."

Tim looked pale.

"Now, forgive me for being presumptuous—it is one of my vices—but I can read a man. And if I'm not mistaken, you look like you've got some valuable information for me but are afraid to part with it. Go on. We're both businessmen."

"Well . . . I do know a guy. And, yeah, he's up the food chain. But—"

"Please speak, sir. No obstacle is insuperable."

"Well, he's Lefty's brother."

"Ahhh, ironic yes, but unworkable no. Are you familiar with Gantler's masterpiece The Quest for Power?"

Tim shook his head, thinking it best not to mention he couldn't read.

"Well, I won't spoil it for you, but there is an applicable part, I think. You see, when Frivulian, suspecting a traitor in his organization, kills every man in his inner circle, one by one, until only his brother is left, and yet the attacks against his wife and children continue, he cries aloud, begging forgiveness from the gods for the innocent blood he has shed, and crying bitterly that he had suspected his brother from the start but couldn't bring himself to act on the unthinkable.

"Moved by his remorse for the innocent blood spilled and by his reluctance to commit fratricide, the gods take pity on him and confuse the minds of the very assassins hired by the treacherous brother, who then kill him, mistakenly believing him to be the target.

"For family honor, he never discloses his brother's treachery, he weeps and eulogizes at his funeral, and he promises vengeance against the assailants, but actually hires them to replenish his ranks."

Tim looked at blankly, but then a malicious cunning crept into his eyes.

"Lefty has cheated on Robert before."

"And has this slight come to Robert's attention?"

Tim sighed, and then joy came into his eyes as he continued. "More than twice. He said he'd kill him the next time. I happened to be standing right next to him. Boy, Lefty was mad. He denied it and cussed a blue streak, but Robert sent him packing with a punch to the jaw and a kick to the backside."

"Do you believe he would have?" Zelven asked, his blue eyes piercing like daggers into Tim's.

Tim exhaled deeply, as if knowing his answer better be precise. "Shucks . . . he was awful mad . . . they is brothers . . . but, seein' how Rob's temper is, yeah, I think he'd a killed Lefty if he ever cheated him again. I seen him kill before."

"Excellent," Zelven replied.

Chapter 10

"So, let me get this straight," Rob said between large bites off a steak bigger than the plate holding it. He had heard the story, and he was examining its taste. It left something to be desired. Whereas the steak he was wolfing down had been seared to perfection, its tender, juicy composition providing a mild anti-inflammatory effect to his nearly perpetual anger, the story he had just heard had a far less exquisite taste.

Perhaps if he tried the very words in his own mouth he would get a better idea whether to swallow them or spit them right back into Thin Tim's face and order his throat cut while he proceeded with his meal.

"Lefty was aimin' for my spot. But he figured if he just killed me outright, that might not sit too well with my supplier . . . or my men," he said, casting a quick look at his bodyguards to assay the extent of their mourning in the event of his demise by treachery. A few shook their frowning heads, and he decided that would suffice.

"So, he hires some guy—and I mean a guy with some bad dudes backin' him—to start killin' people in our backyard."

Rob gulped down a piece of steak, slashed off another, shoved it into his mouth, and resumed.

"Bam, bam, bam—one guy after another gettin' stabbed, slashed, disappeared. You name it. Then, I'm to be the next target. And I die along with a whole crew of guys inside Lefty's building.

"Lefty somehow survives, promises vengeance, and then takes my spot.

"How am I doin' so far, Tim?"

"P-perfectly, sir."

"Good. Cuz here's where we get to the part that don't taste right. Just how in the hell was these guys gonna kill me when Lefty's in the building, but I AIN'T?!!!" he snapped and then swallowed another large chunk of meat and then began laughing menacingly.

His toady bodyguards dropped their vicious frowns just slightly, as mean smiles traversed their cruel mouths.

"Let me tell you, Tim. That ain't exactly what I call an ingenious plan. I mean I ain't no grand master strategist or nothin', but if I wanted somebody dead, and I wanted it done inside a building, I'd probably want the guy THERE INSIDE THE BUILDING!"

Rob threw his arms out to either side with a smile while looking around at his bodyguards. They were just waiting for the order to throw Tim off the seven-story building atop which they were currently enjoying the afternoon sun.

Tim gulped nervously. "Lefty . . . he—" Tim paused as he noticed he appeared to have the undivided attention of Rob. That was a good sign because he had never seen a man brought before him under bad circumstances walk away in one piece unless Rob got that look on his face. But on the other hand, even then a fellow's odds were only about fifty-fifty.

"Lefty started drinkin' that day, Rob. And I mean early. By about 2 p.m., he was drunker than a skunk, and he just kept fillin' his glass. Lefty hadn't told me anything about him bein' behind the killins, but he did tell me that he planned on inviting you tonight for somethin' real special. He laughed every time he said 'special.'

"Sometime around four, he just fell flat on his back passed out. While he lay there, he started cryin'. He said somethin' like, 'YOUASKED FOR IT, ROB!' Then, he would just start mutterin' to hisself.

"I sat there waitin' until about eight, and that was when Lefty woke up. He sat back at the table and just went right back to drinkin'. I asked him, 'Wasn't you supposed to bring Rob over here? You said you had somethin' special for him.'

"He said, 'Noo, you fool. Rob's my brother. I couldn't do that.'

"He seemed real angry when I asked him, and I didn't think it smart to ask again.

"He just went back to drinkin' and said 'Brothers have to stick by each other ALWAYS' about a dozen times.

"I just sat there watchin' him drink, and then all of a sudden, some guys came bargin' into the room and wasted everybody except me.

"Then the guy asked to speak to Lefty because he wanted payment for the job and had somethin' to sell to Lefty too.

"I told him Lefty was sittin' there deader than a hammer, and the man—Mr. Ritmer's his name—was pipin' mad. He asked me how he was supposed to get paid now that Lefty was dead.

"I wasn't sure quite how to answer that question, seein' as it was him that killed Lefty, not me, and plus, I didn't know what their business was.

"He musta seen I was confused because he went ahead and explained everything right then and there. He said Lefty had told him to just kill everyone except Lefty and the thin guy sittin' at the table.

"That's when—"

"Hold your horses," Rob thundered. "Then why did he kill Lefty?"

"Mr. Ritmer said Lefty was supposed to go relieve himself right at the time the attack was to happen. I guess he figured I was the thin guy but thought you was Lefty, since you both kinda look alike, and it was dark."

"And why were you supposed to survive?" Rob asked menacingly.

"I didn't think it too smart to ask Mr. Ritmer that. For all I knew, he may have thought it over and decided killin' me made better sense, no matter what Lefty had said."

"Aghh," Rob said in exasperation which he chose not to explain and then motioned for Tim to continue.

"Mr. Ritmer was pretty mad, and he said, 'Take me to Lefty's boss, or we'll throw you out this window.' I told him, 'Look, mister. I'm as good as dead if I take you to Lefty's boss without permission, so just let me go talk to him, and tell me what you want me to say.'

"He said, 'Tell him I want payment for the job I did for Lefty, and I want to make him an offer—all the Smokeless Green he wants, twenty percent cheaper than whatever's he's gettin' it at.'

"I say, 'How do I find you?'

"He says, 'Tell him we'll meet this Wednesday at precisely 11 p.m. in the alley next to Georgie's Pub.'

"I say, 'Well, I'll tell Rob, but I can't guarantee nothin'.'

"He said, 'I can guarantee you something. You'll be there, or you won't make it to the next sunrise.'"

Rob swallowed the last morsel of his mammoth-sized steak and looked at Tim with predatory eyes. No juicy steak was now vying for his attention. Rob had twenty years of mean street experience to inform him whether Tim was going to walk out of this meeting alive.

Rob gave a quick exhale out his nose like an irritated bull.

"It stinks, Tim. It stinks to high heaven. It's too damn complicated. But that's good for you because it's just a little too damn complicated for you to have come up with."

Tim surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief while attempting to maintain a posture of granite.

"BUT," Rob began icily, "that don't mean you ain't involved. It just means you ain't the one who thought of it. You could be workin' for whoever is. As a messenger, but still workin' for him."

Rob grew silent. There were quite a few factors preventing him from ordering Tim to be sent on a seventy-foot plunge over the side of the building. Lefty had been an ambitious SOB his whole life, and he had cheated Rob far more than the couple times Tim was aware of. Rob, in fact, had been considering offing his brother for quite some time but had always invented an excuse for himself at the last second.

One thing was clear—whoever these guys were who had knocked around his toughs as if they were a team of fifth-grade sissies, they were nobody to mess with. Their prowess screamed ex-military, but even that was inadequate. Just how in the hell Lefty got connected with a group of guys like this without his knowing about it was unsettling.

Maybe they're just climbin' up the ladder.

Yes, that was possible. After all, the first guys to get knocked off were dirt-level corner dealers. Then, their crew leader, their supplier, and the supplier's bodyguards. Next, Lefty and his bodyguards.

So, maybe they had just contacted Lefty because he was next up the chain.

But how was Lefty so stupid as to not get out of there?

Conscious and subconscious thoughts merged, as he began to see his and Lefty's conflicted relationship march before his eyes. Their brutal fistfights, often followed by sincere, albeit temporary, reconciliation. Lefty's envy as Rob always seemed to be a step ahead of him.

Maybe he really did have a change of heart but was just so drunk he forgot to get him and his men the hell out of there.

He wished he could tell himself that was absurd—that Lefty wouldn't get that drunk. But his drinking had been getting worse and worse by the month, commensurately with his envy, or so it seemed.

As much as he hated to admit it, Tim's story seemed plausible, and if he didn't keep Tim alive and take him to the meeting, it could be his last chance to meet Mr. Ritmer on his terms. Tim's absence could raise suspicion, and he didn't want to do that needlessly.

After all, he could have his men check every surrounding rooftop for bowmen or crossbowmen or anyone for that matter, and he would only go through with the meeting if the roofs were both cleared of enemies and filled with his henchmen.

His misty gaze regained its hawk-like nastiness once he reached his decision:

"Mr. Ritmer and I agree on one thing. You will be at that meeting, or you won't make it to the next sunrise. After that—we'll see."

Rob looked towards his bodyguards. "Keep an eye on him. He stays with us till the meetin'."

Tim gulped.

Chapter 11

Righty's ego was stinging more than a little as he flew away from the ranch, leaving from the thickness of the surrounding woods.

He had gone from feeling like king of the world one minute to feeling down in the dirt with the lowest beetle.

But his boxing days had taught him how to take a lot more than a physical whipping. He had simultaneously learned how to deal with the emotional wounds left by having his ego crushed like a piece of rotten fruit underneath a wagon wheel.

When Righty had put on enough muscle in the boxing gym to start giving out some whippings of his own, and sparring partners would complain he was hitting too hard, there were many present to vouch for the fact Righty had taken ten times worse without ever complaining.

In the stillness of the night, he would sometimes cry bitter tears, as he reflected on his helplessness against the bigger guys and the humiliation and pain of getting the wind knocked out of him, getting his head rattled like an empty can, and getting his ribs sledgehammered by Big Fred's massive fists.

He imagined himself climbing a rope. Below, swam sharks and other nasty creatures. Above, lay a beautiful green meadow full of soft lush grass better than any luxury bed. A peaceful afternoon breeze would cool him while he enjoyed the picturesque beauty of the mountain range beyond. A bubbling brook ran nearby and would provide water to his soothing throat and throbbing, rope-chafed hands.

But, as he climbed, bees stung him. The stings hurt, but he knew he only had two choices. Keep moving up or fall to the sharks.

Though it varied greatly in the extent to which it could revive his wind-battered spirits, it never failed to at least pull him into the gym five days a week. And once he stepped foot inside the hot, smelly room full of grunts and groans, he brought to his mind again the rope, the sharks, and the meadow.

As he flew through the air—a meeting with Pitkins on his schedule—he found to his surprise how powerfully he was having to focus on the old rope metaphor to lift his spirits. He had been hit today by more than just a blow to his ego.

A danger had been brought to his attention, one that made even the very real threat he had faced from Heavy Sam and still faced from both aspiring kingpins in Sivingdel and rival kingpins from other cities look like the threat posed by a growling, thirty-pound mutt.

There was no way Halder was bluffing. Righty had probably learned more about how to read the human face during his last several years of dealing with cutthroats and traitors of the vilest sort than he had in his decades of prior life experience. He felt he had transformed almost into a human hound dog, his eyes scouring every part of a man's face, eyes, and soul, looking for the slightest trace of trickery.

Halder's prowess at combat alone was sufficient to quickly cross off the possibility of braggart and blowhard. And his impenetrable eyes and intense countenance reinforced the point.

But treachery?

That remained a topic of intense internal discussion. On the one hand, he could have struck down Righty while they spoke in the privacy of his cabin, so assassination seemed it could be eliminated from the list of possible motives Halder had for being at his ranch.

But maybe he's here scoping out the place until bringing some of his buds down to take it over for themselves?

And so he decided to reveal himself when he could have just lain low until his cronies arrived? And he decided to warn you about the fact they're coming for you . . . all to make their eventual arrival easier?

No, that didn't make any sense. This guy was really sore with his past pals. His stated motive—revenge against them—made the most sense.

But why?

That was what bothered him. If he didn't know why he was sore, he had no way of knowing how long this resentment would last. He didn't like the idea of forming an alliance with someone whose only motivation for helping him against a very dangerous organization was his resentment.

Suppose they patched things up?

Yeah, that would be real swell, wouldn't it?

Sorry, Mr. Relder. My friends and I have had a bit of a reconciliation, and your ranch is now surrounded by two hundred men as deadly as myself. I'll tell you what—for old time's sake, I'll hold them off for five minutes while you hightail it the hell out of here and leave your multi-billion falon ranch behind. If you're quick and quiet, I think you've got a fighting chance.

He had already assigned a rotating detail of five konulans to watch Halder day and night, monitor every conversation, and alert him immediately if he attempted to leave the ranch. He had also ordered about fifty konulans to circle the perimeter of the ranch and alert him immediately of any suspicious visitors.

As for Harold, he had gone ahead and assigned a kill command. If in Halder's presence he ever said "My head itches today" and began to scratch his scalp, Harold would drop from the sky at several hundred miles per hour and take care of the problem.

But this wasn't enough. What if he had said too much when he told him his ability to disappear wasn't as absolute as he might think? Perhaps his organization used birds for spying, and he would notice something suspicious about the konulans.

What if he took them out with his crossbow before they could come and warn him and the next thing he knew he was stalking him in the woods and watching him get on Harold?

If that little rat bastard manages to ambush and kill Harold, you're through. And that means your family too . . . .

"WE NEED PHOLUNGS!!" Righty suddenly shouted to Harold as they cut through the air at almost two hundred miles per hour.

Righty expected Harold to be taken aback by the odd, spontaneous request.

"I'll begin the hunt for chicks tonight. I'll have to raise them from birth if we're to have any chance of their loyalty. It will require me to travel far to the northernmost parts of Dachwald. That is the only place I know of that pholungs still exist. It won't be easy. They usually only have about three eggs per clutch, and the strongest sibling often kills the weaker ones while mama's off hunting for worms and lizards.

"Even to just find five or six, it could take me longer than a week."

"BLAST IT!!" Righty shouted furiously.

There were several konulans riding on Harold's back with him in order to conserve their energy.

Righty looked down at them immediately once he heard one of them muttering away about something.

"We know how to find pholung nests," Little Roger said.

Harold gulped. He had been less than honest with Righty and had planned on surprising him by finding pholungs far faster. But if he had done that, it would have raised questions amongst the pesky konulans, and they just might have figured out he was once a konulan they knew quite well: Chip.

"I can't spare Harold for more than a night. NOT RIGHT NOW!" Righty said, surprised at how hysterical he sounded.

"Could you find at least one pholung chick per night, Harold?"

"He can!" Little Roger said happily. "'Cause we'll show him where to go."

Chapter 12

When Righty arrived at Pitkins' door for his lesson, he was brimming with excitement. This was just the kind of thing he needed to get his mind off today's lousy trajectory and maybe even replace it with a happy ending.

He rapped on the door quickly, and to his relief he soon saw Pitkins standing before him, a grin on his face and seeming like he too perhaps had a genuine enthusiasm for today's lesson. Perhaps he also had cares that only swift strokes of the sword and body slams to the mat could assuage.

"Mr. Simmers - how's my favorite student?"

"I've seen better days, that's for sure. But here I am and hoping to change the course of this one."

"A day that's only half over holds as much promise as a day that's just begun."

"In that spirit, let's begin," Righty said, taking a peak at the afternoon sun before stepping into Pitkins' sword shop.

"All right, let's see your progress. I know it's hidden somewhere," Pitkins said.

Righty was standing barefoot on the mat wearing a loose pair of pants he had brought with him.

Suddenly, quicker than a snake strike, the sword slipped from Righty's sleeve into his hand, extended fully, and was then brought into a labyrinth of seemingly spontaneous—yet precisely calculated—movements.

"YES, that's IT!!" Pitkins said, his eyes glowing with zeal, as he watched his student flawlessly embark on the third of The Five Death Dances, the present one being Winds of Death.

It was as if Righty didn't even hear. There was no pause in his movement. No nod of acknowledgment. He had stepped foot into an alternate plane of reality, where no one and nothing existed except for him, his sword, and the enemies whom he was currently slaying with brutal efficiency.

"HUAAAA!!" Righty shouted out in precisely the correct moment upon executing a circular stroke with so much force Pitkins doubted a fully grown oak tree could have withstood the blow.

Next, a dazzling display of single-handed, figure-eight sword spins commenced while Righty's other limbs tended to other matters, such as launching gale-force side kicks, poking out eyes, and ripping out throats.

Pitkins watched the unbelievable display before him commensurate incredulity. Richard Simmers was a phenomenal student, and he had always considered both his discipline and innate talent top-notch. But what he was witnessing right now was something otherworldly. The man before him—surely capable of dispatching twenty competent swordsmen, should they enter this dojo at this very second—was not the same Richie he had seen just last week.

Any hint of stiffness. Gone. Any hint of self-doubt. Gone.

He was witnessing pure art manifesting itself via a human medium as if Righty was nothing more than a conduit for some divine force currently present in the room.

And yet, there was a certain maleficence in Righty's interpretation of the dance that seemed more violent than even its name suggested. It was as if somehow Righty had entered a different dimension, acquainted himself with the blackest of spirits, and summoned its furious energy to be used at his own pleasure.

When Righty finished the sequence, he made eye contact with Pitkins for a brief moment before bowing respectfully. In that moment, it seemed that Pitkins had caught a glimpse of a demon, but a second later he was looking into the calm, humble eyes of the sweat-soaked, heavily breathing hulk of a man in front of him.

A brief moment of silence ensued, as if some magic from the demonstration still lingered in the room and would vanish disdainfully upon being defiled by the sound of human speech.

Pitkins approached Righty with slow, respectful steps, maintaining solid eye contact.

He placed a hand on each shoulder.

"You could become one of the greatest warriors who ever lived. Your skills defy any purely natural explanation. Not just practice. Not talent—it isn't a pure enough word for what you possess. You have been given the gift of untricht. That's a word from my mother country that means death and destruction.

"Tell me, friend, with what aim do you seek to progress so far in the arts of combat?"

"I've got a family to protect, sir. I've got a ranch to protect. And, I've got myself to protect."

Pitkins continued studying him.

"Sir, if I do have the gift of untricht, I have yet to see it applied to the grappling arts. A fellow at my ranch yesterday whipped me pretty good."

"Oh?" said Pitkins, chuckling slightly. "That's kind of you to train with your men. Are there bandits about?"

"There're rumored to be. Some of the ranch hands worked there long before I bought the place, and they say that years ago bandits used to attack ranch owners that refused to pay 'protection money,' as they called it. They'd kill cattle, kidnap women, do whatever it took to make sure they got paid.

"According to the stories, the ranchers started to fight back. Those wars were years ago, and they drove the bandits away, but ranchers have passed down some of the combat arts to their workers over generations as a tradition. My men were real deadly with the crossbow by the time I met them. They've learned quite a thing or two about the sword lately, thanks to you."

"But some fellow there whipped you in grappling, you say?"

"'Whipped' is putting it nicely. A lion slapping around its cub might not even suffice to describe how lopsided this wrestling match was."

Pitkins chuckled good-naturedly. "Do you remember anything in particular that he did?"

"Well" (Righty retracted his sword and put it back inside his sleeve), "it went something like this. I came forward to grab him." Pitkins then imitated Righty's movements.

"And then he just kind of dropped to the ground and—" Righty attempted hopelessly to imitate the way Halder had collapsed into a ball, rolled towards his legs, and begun using legs and arms interchangeably to wrap up and off-balance Righty.

If snow had started falling on a blisteringly hot sunny day, Righty would have been less surprised by the sudden chill that overcame Pitkins' erstwhile warm demeanor.

His eyes bore into Righty's, and while Righty maintained his gaze, he didn't exactly find it a pleasant endeavor.

"Have I said or done something inappropriate?"

Pitkins shook off the chilly exterior quickly, seeming a bit embarrassed in the process and quickly muttering, "Sorry, it's not you."

"Well, sorry I can't show you better what he did, but the next step was—"

Righty then demonstrated as best he could how he was then dragged down into a vicious choke.

He stood up, dismayed to see the icy exterior had returned.

"Who is this guy?" Pitkins asked with only thinly veiled fury.

Righty had never felt overly worried about saying too much in Pitkins' presence, because Pitkins was typically a man of few questions who seemed to highly value privacy, but this sudden inquisitive streak could be just a few steps away from uncomfortable territory about who Mr. Simmers was, what he did for a living, and how he managed to travel here so often.

"You don't like him either!" Righty said, with a bit of a chuckle. "And you ain't even the one who got whipped by him!"

Pitkins' exterior softened again slightly, but not as much as the first time.

"I don't know anything about him really other than that he offered to start training the men. We had a contest yesterday to get to see who will get moved up to Ranch Guard, and this guy just cleaned house. I embarrassed myself in front of all my men by challenging him to a grappling match, and after everyone saw how he handled me I figured I had two choices—fire him or hire him as combat instructor."

Pitkins was studying every square inch of Righty's countenance with an intensity he didn't particularly care for.

With total absence of the usual comradery that was typically in Pitkins' tone, he told Righty icily, "Find out who this man is—most importantly, where he's from. There are few men who use the combat movements you just described. Most of them are wicked beyond your imagination."

Righty gulped.

Chapter 13

After Righty left, Pitkins went into a deep melancholy. Though his body was still his mind was traveling, turning back page after page as his mind went hurtling backwards through the book of his life.

Having heard the news of his wife and children's grisly demise did little to brace him for the sight of it as he went galloping away from camp. Sogolian tradition demanded that if the head of the household survived a murderous attack on his family, the bodies of his family should be left untouched for five days, in order to give him the opportunity to place their bodies in caskets and spare them the dishonor that could be brought about by an outsider handling such a tragic scene.

He had to urge his horse to new limits of speed and endurance, as the fifth day was closing in by the time he neared his home. The local sheriff greeted him somberly as he came galloping up to his house, and he immediately beckoned the armed guard surrounding the house to retire.

Pitkins was not mindful of the receding witnesses as he shrieked out in horror at the sight of his beloved Aithne. No longer visible were the twenty armed guards, whose cold corpses had long since been extracted by the sheriff and his men. But Pitkins had already heard of their demise.

As he neared his wife—who still adorned a large pike, looking dignified even in this most undignified of circumstances, as if to tell her husband she had lost her life but not her pride—his mind suddenly came back to the present. He was sitting cross-legged in his dojo in the Sogolian warrior meditation pose, and he was dripping with sweat.

Suddenly, he screamed out loud, as if the scream he had just heard in his mind now echoed back from the past. He stood up and went sprinting out of the dojo, his memories closing in fast, his feet doing everything to outrun them.

The Metinvurs didn't exactly have to leave behind their business card to let him know they were to blame. He knew he had been a target of the Varco for years, and though he kept his family moving around a series of secret, heavily guarded locations, he somehow knew this day would come. He had lived it in so many nightmares before it actually came that as he stood before the mangled bodies of his family he spent a moment in shock unsure as to whether this was yet one more nightmare warning him of the inevitable.

No one had led the Sogolians in battle to more victories against the Metinvurs than he, and he never failed to see through their covert warfare attacks. When a priest, noble, general, or some other important person died under suspicious circumstances he always ordered the most exhaustive of investigations, and if there was any evidence the Metinvurs were to blame he would lead a retaliatory invasion into their country.

Only when a Metinvur city was surrounded by trebuchets ready to lob flaming boulders into it could they be lured into open combat and out of the realm of shadowy assassinations. It was a strategy no other Sogolian general dared employ, for it was known from centuries of conflict that the Metinvurs preferred to kill the general of an army, or his family, rather than defeat the army itself. "Defanging the cobra" was what they called it, and he bitterly experienced first-hand the aptness of the metaphor, as the Sogolian army was subsequently paralyzed by its general's incurable grief and malaise.

He had sworn to the god Leol to one day personally kill each and every Varco agent responsible. While his subordinate generals recommended they kill every Varco captive in retaliation, Pitkins took a different path. He approached one of the Varco, a man named Zolgen, and ordered him to teach the Varco's combat secrets. While the Sogolians were the Varco's equal or superior in open combat in general, and in sword fighting in particular, it was well known that in the arts of hand-to-hand combat and ambush attacks the Sogolians were their lowly inferiors.

"Never," Zolgen told him.

Pitkins grabbed a heavily restrained Varco captive named Vilizen and told Zolgen, "Will you watch your compatriot be cut to pieces one at a time," extending the man's pinky finger.

Pitkins sensed some hesitation in Zolgen. "You know that, even if we released you, you would be dead, since your colleagues would suspect you have been turned into double agents."

Zolgen faced an internal struggle. Few things in this universe present more contradictions than the Varco rules governing capture. They were not written down anywhere, because there were no official rules.

Any captured Varco agent who then was rescued or escaped by his own cunning had to report the situation immediately to his superior officer, upon which he would be taken into custody until trial.

At his trial, it would not be the burden of an overworked prosecutor to present meticulous evidence of the agent's guilt to a neutral jury while simultaneously sidestepping a host of snares such as hearsay or evidence obtained without a proper warrant.

Quite the contrary, it would be the agent, without any counsel, who would stand before a jury of twelve peers seeking to convince them beyond a reasonable doubt that his capture had not been the result of incompetence or treason and that his escape or rescue had not been the result of collusion with the enemy.

Before the hapless agent stood before these twelve hard faces, they were admonished in the most ardent language by the king himself to keep in mind the strong likelihood of the agent's guilt or treason. If the agents found the defendant's case of innocence so compelling as to find him not guilty, the defendant was far from free.

Only if the king himself expressed his agreement with the jury's decision would the defendant once again be allowed to resume his services to the crown. This rarely happened, and it was rumored in fact that nearly half the time a jury found in favor of a defendant the king then had both them and the defendant executed for treason and conspiracy.

As a result of these rigorous steps to prevent cowardice and treachery, Varco agents were often recommended by their superiors to commit suicide in the unfortunate event they were ever taken captive by men that they were not likely to escape from quickly.

Supervising field agents who were aware of a prompt escape from enemy captivity often looked the other way, but if the secret got out amongst multiple agents it was usually too risky for the supervisor to risk not detaining and reporting the unfortunate agent.

Well aware of these harsh methods to ensure both competence and loyalty throughout the Varco ranks, the Sogolians often found little incentive to keep Varco captives alive. Their resistance to torture was legendary, and like a captive cobra that is peacefully milked a hundred times before unexpectedly delivering a death bite to its handler, Varco were considered unpleasant captives to keep around, due to the short duration for which any lock, shackle, or bond could refrain them and prevent them from attacking their captors.

Pitkins had been a bit unpopular in his decision to keep Zolgen and Vilizen alive, but an odd hunch that defied logic so clearly not even he attempted to explain himself rationally told him one day they would be useful.

Zolgen had been in captivity for years, and by now he knew there was certainly going to be no rescue party. He had seen several Varco attempt escape only to be impaled on pikes as a warning to the others. Even if he miraculously did manage to escape, he knew he stood little chance of convincing both the jury and the king that he was not incompetent. The general rule of thumb was that if you were held captive for six months or more before "escape" your chances of being cleared of both incompetence and corruption charges were effectively nil.

What could be the harm in teaching techniques to a worthy adversary? It would allow him an enjoyable respite from his chains from which he was currently only freed about once a month to be doused in cold water while ten crossbowmen surrounded him at point-blank range.

"I'll do it," Zolgen said.

A wave of silence descended upon the group, no one, not even Pitkins, having expected this answer, yet only one or two of the most cynical guessed that Zolgen's motives had little to with his concern about Vilizen's fingers. Truth be told, Vilizen had been largely to blame for Zolgen's current capture, his aim with a blowgun having been just slightly off, cutting the carotid, rather than the larynx, of an approaching guard, whose ensuing blood-curdling scream brought a whole host of Sogolian guards, who overwhelmed Vilizen and Zolgen, albeit at great loss.

"TRAITOR!" shouted Vilizen.

Men grabbed the hilts of their swords, like wagon passengers gripping their seats in preparation for a rough patch of road. Faux quarreling amongst Varco was a known diversionary tactic. A few of the Sogolian officers had been narrow survivors of it, having thought their help was needed to break up a bloody fight between two Varco only to discover them fighting as one a half-second later and severing the throats of the intervening Sogolians.

Pitkins watched Vilizen closely, and it seemed to him that perhaps his passionate objection had been the result of his misreading Zolgen's intentions, thinking that he wished to stage a quarrel.

"It beats sitting in chains all day," Zolgen replied softly, which seemed to take Vilizen off guard, though only the subtlest of hints could be seen in the shrewd man's face.

"Where are our friends—our compatriots, Vilizen? You know we're both as good as dead, should we ever leave this place. Do what you will. I will teach . . . but only under certain conditions," he said, looking carefully at Pitkins.

Pitkins' icy stare was his only invitation to state his proposals.

"I will only teach you and your ten highest-ranking officers. Not one more. If I am going to part with this knowledge, it shall only be to the most worthy."

Pitkins eyed his fellow officers. Few would dare question him now. Not only did his rank exceed theirs, but few wanted to test the temper of a man who had just suffered such tragedy.

"And I have my condition for you, Varco," Pitkins began. "If you so much as injure me or one of my chosen officers, I will lift the Sogolian ban on torture for your sake and your sake alone. We will slowly cook you over a fire. Even Varco pain tolerance has its limits. And I will first strip you and starve you for five days to ensure you do not cheat torture with one of your Varco herbs. Do we understand each other?"

"When do we begin?"

Pitkins knew the condition about limiting the instruction to his ten highest-ranking officers was symbolic rather than practical. In reality, the Sogolians had little use for the highly sophisticated empty-hand techniques, called Gicksin, that the Varco thrived on. Gicksin was for the realm of assassinations and ambushes. Sogolians prided themselves on their mastery of open combat, where their heavily armed force faced its enemy with swords, axes, and other instruments to determine mastery of the field.

Such engagements were seen as the height of folly by the Metinvurs, though Pitkins had to grudgingly concede that the Metinvurs' army was only slightly inferior to the Sogolians' in open combat. Even this "conventional" army was shrouded in secrecy. Some said all Metinvurs were soldiers and that they could be called away from their blacksmith, accounting, and cobbler shops with an hour's notice to suit themselves up in armor and march to battle.

Others said the army was made up of those who didn't quite make the cut in Varco training but were seen as too valuable to be executed. Still others said that the army was by bloodline and that the two oldest males of every soldier were pressed into the military at age eight, trained in conventional warfare until age eighteen, and then released into the civilian population but required to train periodically throughout the year and to always be on call for war.

Pitkins suspected the truth involved some mixture of these elements, and he couldn't help being impressed by the results. The Sogolian army was made up of men offered as boys to the army by their fathers, usually by the age of twelve. Rigorous martial training ensued until the boys reached manhood at seventeen, at which point they were given the choice of retiring into the civilian population or serving in the military as their full-time career.

The latter choice resulted in a binding contract that required a minimum of twenty years' service before retirement became possible—albeit difficult. Only after a full thirty years' service did a soldier earn the right to retire at his own discretion. Those who performed exemplarily achieved entry into the Nikorians, the most elite unit of the Sogolian army, of which Pitkins was general.

To a Sogolian, loss of one's weapon on the battlefield was seen quite similarly to the way capture was seen by the Metinvurs. The Sogolians viewed such a man as having already died in combat. Thus, rather than focusing on empty-hand combat training to increase the chances of survival in such an unfortunate situation, they armed themselves with a variety of weapons, in order to have numerous replacements.

It was not unusual for a Sogolian soldier—and particularly not for a Nikorian—to have several large daggers attached to his person in various sheaths, ready to be drawn and used immediately in the event he lost his main weapon.

Pitkins was one of the few Sogolians who realized that, while there was certainly some logic to the Sogolian combat strategy, it was a bit rigid and overly inspired by antagonism to the Metinvurs and a desire to excel in areas where they faltered.

Pitkins had lost his sword in combat multiple times, and though he had managed to use a secondary weapon to recover his sword he knew that the gods themselves had surely intervened in several close encounters where he had managed to sever the large artery of a Metinvur who was strangling him and only needed a second or two more to render him unconscious.

Thus, it was with relish that—after a protracted period of mourning for his late family—he emerged from his grief and threw all his energy into learning Gicksin.

Progress was painfully slow. The use of various parts of the feet as though they were hands, the intricate grips, the meticulous body positioning all combined to make study of this science a physically and emotionally challenging endeavor. Three hours each morning and three hours each evening, the men gathered for studious observation of Vilizen's and Zolgen's demonstrations, followed by merciless repetitions of each technique, sometimes stepping up into the thousands.

But after three years, Pitkins found himself almost romantically in love with the fluidity and cunning of the techniques and found to his chagrin that it worked against his vow to find and kill the slayers of his family.

After a full nine years of training, Zolgen informed Pitkins that, while study of Gicksin was indeed a lifetime discipline, he had reached such a high level of sophistication that his further advancement would merely require the continued practice of the techniques but not further instruction.

Zolgen and Vilizen then requested, as a gift for the knowledge they had imparted, a small portion of a particular herb so that they could end their lives honorably. Pitkins reluctantly agreed, admitting to himself that he also would not desire a long life in captivity, and by the next day the only two Metinvurs for whom he had ever felt anything besides murderous rage were dead.

As time marched onward, the obstacles to his revenge became practical rather than sentimental. It was not too long afterward that he was framed for treason and banished from the kingdom. He took this as a sign from the gods that revenge was not the plan for his life.

But today, as he ran madly and aimlessly through the woods, he was beginning to question that assumption. His lessons with Mr. Simmers were nearly the only thing to break the merciless monotony of his life. He crafted few swords because he had noticed a new breed of men in the City of Sodorf.

They were pompous, extravagantly dressed, and yet not from the nobility. Their uncouth pronunciation and grammar identified them immediately as rascals. Men who had made themselves rich in the city's flourishing underworld of Smokeless Green.

Yet, as a man who had been surrounded by combat and violence for most of his life, he easily perceived traits that set these men apart from the average rascal roaming the street searching for an easy pocket to pick.

Violence—even justified violence—left its traces in a man's eye, just like a man's diet leaves its footprint on his waistline and muscles. But cold-blooded murder left not only a more pronounced, but very different, mark. Pitkins was used to seeing the hard, somewhat unfeeling eyes of his veteran Nikorians, and they were markedly different from those of a civilian.

But his exposure to Vilizen and Zolgen had given him his first opportunity for prolonged exposure to the eyes of men who have killed all manner of victims—armed guards, businessmen, politicians, soldiers, wives, even children. Sometimes he could see Zolgen's eyes glowing as he demonstrated a particularly nasty neck or spinal break, and he knew Zolgen's mind was flashing graphic reminders to him of just exactly what it looked like when that technique was applied to completion.

He had seen too much of Zolgen in the eyes of the men approaching his shop asking for swords, and he had told such men that he had no swords currently for sale.

They usually began to argue, swearing they had direct knowledge that so-and-so had recently purchased one, but Pitkins' eyes had drilled into the pupils of such customers as he repeated icily, "I have no swords currently for sale."

He had long ago concluded that the shedding of human blood initiated one into a bit of a brotherhood. Many times, he had remarked to a civilian that a man they had both been speaking to was a killer, and virtually every time the civilian responded with derision, saying that "you can't judge a sword by its sheath."

Pitkins had never wasted time arguing with such men. He only repeated his observation whenever given the chance as a kind of experiment. In the end, he had concluded that less than one in a hundred civilians could recognize the eyes of a killer, while killers themselves never failed to recognize their own.

It was this that had ended any further argument from the young rascals who had invited Pitkins' icy gaze, for they too knew that they were staring into the eyes of a man well-versed in shedding blood.

Though it succeeded in getting them off his property, it worried him that he was beginning to accumulate enemies by the week. Then, just a couple of weeks ago he had stopped receiving visits from anyone.

Initially, he was relieved at the subtraction of this annoyance, but this was promptly replaced by a boredom so intense he almost felt like placing ten swords on his back and walking through the worst parts of town yelling out "swords for sale!" like a common peddler. Then, he began to worry that the sudden cessation of visitors might be the prelude to an attack or threat of some kind.

Though it had not yet happened, it had caused him to go galloping home a couple of times to check on Donive. While relieved to find her and the pets safe and sound, it had lately triggered questions from Donive: "What's wrong, honey? Are you thinking about the past? Have you had trouble with anyone lately?"

He had attempted to shrug these questions off with humor: "No, I just miss your sweet face, babe," he would tell her. "Plus, with Lookout here, there's nothing to worry about."

Lookout was the name they had finally settled on for the stray cat they had adopted. Pitkins sometimes teased their Great Dane, telling him, "Mervin, you better watch out, or Lookout will steal your job as guard dog."

Mervin would bark happily, wagging his tail, as if to say he would be honored to step aside for someone of Lookout's caliber.

Lookout was like nothing Pitkins had ever seen. He stayed close to Donive constantly, and if anyone ever approached the house, Lookout began meowing ferociously, sometimes ten minutes before the visitor was even within sight.

He often put himself between any visitor and Donive and would only step aside if rebuked harshly. On one occasion, Pitkins found a dead coyote outside the henhouse with claw marks all around its neck, and even though the coyote had managed to nudge the door open enough to where Lookout could have entered and eaten a few chicks if he had the inkling, all animals were found safe and sound within.

At night, Lookout could often be seen checking the windows, with a malicious glow in his eyes that Pitkins thought could be an even greater deterrent than Mervin's 180 pounds.

When Pitkins petted him affectionately and said, "You're the official guardian of this house when I'm gone," Lookout had purred with an intensity that suggested his comprehension of the statement went well beyond what was expected.

Pitkins continued his aimless sprint through the woods, now stripping his shirt off, as it was thoroughly saturated and dripping with sweat, while his mind processed all the random memories of both long ago and the recent past.

It had only been today that he had fully ceased denial of a change in Mr. Simmers' eyes that he had noticed quite some time ago. His polite, unassuming, low-key, seemingly transparent demeanor had caused Pitkins to first tell himself that almost every rule had its exceptions, and Richard surely was one, as everything else about his demeanor belied the content of his eyes.

And sometimes it seemed as though even his eyes themselves changed, as if he had built-in curtains that normally blocked a part of his soul that he did not wish others to see. But today, while he witnessed his uncannily masterful interpretation of Winds of Death, he had seen Zolgen's eyes in the figure before him.

Pitkins, who had been sprinting at full speed for twenty minutes, was beginning to feel some stiches in his side.

And when he had mentioned the man who embarrassed him at grappling, he knew right away this man was associating with a Varco agent.

In spite of the mastery he and his ten chosen officers had acquired at Gicksin, it had never spread through the Nikorian ranks, much less those of the general army.

It has to be a VARCO!!

But why is Mr. Simmers associating with a Varco, and why are his eyes acquiring the look of a murderer?

His first instinct was to cut all ties with Richard. After all, he didn't need the money. But he was immediately reminded of the extreme melancholy caused by his recent boredom.

Shut this guy out, and you're going to be counting cracks in the floor at your shop or counting weeds in your yard.

Just as Pitkins stopped his pointless run and bent over to catch his breath, something caught his eye.

He turned and looked and saw a large bird leaving the forest. His mind immediately told him it was a pholung, but he dismissed that as preposterous. It was too far away to tell. Plus, he hadn't seen a pholung in years. It was well known they did not live in Sodorf.

He glanced again and barely saw a speck in the sky. While he subconsciously noted it was traveling towards Selegania, his mental filter did not condescend to bring that detail up the chain of command to be analyzed by Pitkins' conscious mind for potential relevance.

Somehow, the only message that reached Pitkins' conscious mind was that the next time his curious student left his shop he would follow him. He needed to learn more about Mr. Simmers.

Chapter 14

Righty was feeling conflicted as Harold transported him towards a gigantic cumulonimbus. It looked like a mountain, and as he drew nearer it seemed one moment to resemble Halder's face and the next Pitkins'. He pierced the cloud before there was time to determine whether either was an even remotely objective observation or if his mind was having fun toying with his perception.

Pitkins' praise still resounded in his ears but so did his hostile questioning about the ranch hand who had whipped him in grappling.

He seemed angrier than me at that SOB, and he's not even the one who got whipped by him.

Pitkins sure must have had an ax to grind with somebody and seemed almost desperate to hear of anyone who might know or be connected with those people.

But how could a sloppy description of a man's fighting style get Pitkins so interested? If there is someone, or are some people, he's aiming to settle a score with, could their fighting style really be so unique as to identify them?

And what was the phrase he had used? "Wicked beyond imagination"? Maybe Pitkins has led a sheltered life. Maybe if he knew some of the rough sorts I know—

He stopped himself there as he realized something about Pitkins that Pitkins had also realized about him. The eyes. Pitkins had seemed like a soft-spoken, overly trained instructor who, while a wellspring of knowledge about combat, surely couldn't, or at least wouldn't, hurt a fly.

But today had been the first time he had seen a different texture to those eyes. In the moment of his fury, while asking endlessly about the curious ranch hand, Righty had gotten the impression he was looking into the eyes of a killer.

Every assumption he had held about Pitkins' incapability of violence had gone out the window in that split second with as much certainty as if he had just seen Pitkins cleave a man in two.

"Harold?"

"Something tells me you have a question about Pitkins."

"Kasani! Today everyone's ahead of me. Yes! As a matter of fact I do. Just who the hell is this man anyway?"

Harold let out a short squawk, and the hitchhiking konulans scattered quickly, just barely staying within eyesight but being far out of earshot.

"Hey! What's going on here?"

"Do you want real answers? If so, you don't want the konulans within earshot."

"What's your beef with them? Is there a conspiracy afoot?"

"No. Let's just say I consider them to be on a need-to-know basis, and this isn't something that interests them."

Righty's day seemed to have been cursed from the moment he opened his eyes. Even the unexpected peace and minimal police presence in Sivingdel now seemed to take on a sinister light, as if all the police had traded their uniforms for plain clothes and were closely on his tail. He had been whipped in front of his men, barked at suspiciously by his usually calm combat instructor, and was now being made aware of distrust amongst Harold and the konulans—the one realm he thought free of secrecy, jealousy, and conspiracy.

"Do you trust them?" Righty asked directly. "After all, you brought them to me."

"Look, Mr. Simmers," Harold said, with unaccustomed formality, "let's get something straight. The hierarchy is not simply you, then me, then the konulans. I brought them here. I can take them out anytime I want. I can leave anytime I want. I'm not your slave. I'm with you because your life is exciting, and I'd have little to do otherwise. Plus, I see you as a friend."

"Of course—you're my best friend!" Righty said sincerely.

"Good—then let's just set a boundary. Managing men is your territory. I'll advise you but never attempt to overrule you. Managing the konulans is my territory. You can advise me, but I have the final say. That clear?!"

"It is," Righty said flatly, wondering whether he would be bucked off this flying bronco at two hundred miles per hour if he asked another improper question.

"Look," said Harold, far more softly, "managing konulans is not like managing men and vice versa. You know mankind far better than I ever could. But I know konulans."

"You got it."

With a calm voice, showing the conflict was behind them, Harold began, "There are many rumors, but separating them from fact is no easy task. He's from Sogolia. He used to be a general. Little more is known than that. I used to work for—" (for some reason, the word "wizard" just couldn't quite make it out of his beak, even though it was a simple fact) "a man who was very interested in a prophecy.

"The first man in Sodorf to be knighted for a deed of heroism, and not for possessing noble blood, signified the opportune time to set in motion a plan for Dachwald to attack Sodorf."

"What?!!!" Righty asked in genuine bewilderment.

"Before you get all worked up, just remember you've never deigned to ask about my past. But I've never held it from you either."

"Maybe I was afraid to know," Righty conceded. "So how in the hell did a Sogolian general end up in a small sword smith shop in Sodorf City?"

"The best I can reconcile the contradictory rumors, he had a falling out while general in Sogolia and was banished, just narrowly escaping execution. My former master had him kidnapped, thinking that was vital to the prophecy. He planned on killing him once Sodorf was vanquished. Sodorf had been pummeled to the point only a small fraction of their army remained, and it was cornered in Sodorf City.

"Pitkins escaped with the help of a pholung, convinced the Sogolian king to lend him his army, and he came in and knocked the hell out of the Dachwaldians, killing them almost to a man. Then, he went back to his sword shop and his wife. That's pretty much it."

"Pretty much it?! You couldn't make this stuff up!"

"Now, if you wanted to know more, you'd need to talk to the pholung who rescued him. His name was Istus."

Righty felt a camaraderie with his enigmatic instructor, as he realized the two of them would have quite a contest proving which had the most bizarre past, and also from realizing that Pitkins too knew the thrill of flying through the air without the limitations of foot or horse.

But what does this do to advance your understanding of his bizarre reaction today?

"Do you know of any people he might hate, and I mean really hate? He said the guy who cleaned the grass with me today was likely from a group of people that are 'wicked beyond imagination.'"

"Well, the Sogolians hate the Metinvurs even worse than the Dachwaldians hate the Sodorfians, but as for any personal beef Pitkins might hold towards a group of people, I couldn't guess."

"The Metin—who?!"

"The Metinvurs. The nation of Metinvur borders Sogolia to the north. They have no diplomatic ties with any known country on the face of the earth. They're reclusive. They make a statue look gregarious. They don't allow anyone to visit their country. Anyone entering would be greeted with as much hostility as an invading army."

"How do you know all this?"

"Oh . . . my former master used to talk from time to time. Not necessarily to me . . . but I heard things."

"Where is your former master?"

A tear came rushing towards Harold's right eye but was shot down right before it reached the surface. A knot entered his throat, and he was silent for a while before answering, "I don't like to talk about it."

Righty felt a sudden pang of anxiety at the thought Harold's loyalties could be torn to pieces at a second's notice by the arrival of his former master, yet he dared not ask a follow-up question.

"I can research this matter for you, you know."

Righty was tempted to respond by telling him the konulans would be far better for a mission of that sort, but Harold's newfound assertiveness caused him to hold his tongue.

"I'd be most grateful, sir," Righty said.

"Don't mention it."

Chapter 15

Righty decided the best way to alter the course of his rocky day was a little nature and a little sword practice. He surveyed the mountains below, searching for a spot no human could reach without difficulty, if at all. He soon settled on a large mountain below that had a broad section with a smooth rock surface at a very slight angle.

Both sides approached it steeply, leaving it out of reach to all but the most avid hiker with spikes and climbing rope. He sent the konulans below to scour the area for any humans or large beasts, and when they reported the area was clear, he had Harold set him down.

The sun was shining brightly, and he welcomed the rays as he took off his shirt, his skin soaking up the warmth eagerly.

"I've got a mission, and I need twenty volunteers," he said, looking eagerly at the twenty konulans before him.

Their current number escaped their awareness, as they began vying eagerly for the task.

Righty sent them to go inspect all of Tats' mansions and usual haunts to locate and then watch him and make sure he was okay and to report back in a few hours.

Harold announced he was going to go hunt, and after a flurry of wings and feathers in various directions, Righty found himself all alone atop the mountain.

Though the loneliness in a spot from which he most likely could not extricate himself did cause some distress, it simultaneously provided a degree of exhilaration, perhaps serving as a metaphor for combat, in which survival was never certain.

Breathing slowly in the manner Pitkins had taught him, he pulled his sword from its sheath in unison with his breath. Just when it seemed he would exhale until the end of time while moving in slow motion like a man waking up from a hangover, he brought the sword down in a quick chopping motion, crouched low to avoid a slice to the head, inverted his grip on the blade, and thrust the tip straight into the midsection of the warrior approaching him in an apparent moment of weakness.

"HAAAAA!!" he exhaled sharply, springing to his feet and sticking the sword deeper into his opponent before pivoting around with the precision of a first-class dancer and combining the withdrawal of his blade from the man's stomach with a brisk upward slash to an advancing opponent's groin, cutting him up to his navel.

His breathing slowed again as three attackers circled him. He was building up his oxygen levels for the flurry that was about to come. On the count of five, he charged, unwilling to wait for their attack.

Pitkins would have remarked that the performance was as good if not better than the already flawless execution Righty had given earlier that day. Righty felt there was something magical about this height. The exhilaration of knowing other men's feet could not even touch where he currently tread, nature having provided him with both an excellent platform for his practice and a view whose beauty defied description.

The cool wind soothed the heat on his back and chest from the stinging sun, as did the sweat which, by now, three hours into his practice, was cascading down his body.

Just as evening began to throw the first hints of it arrival, Harold returned, sitting before him, his beak ominously red from his recent dinner.

"What's next?" he asked.

"Hopefully, we'll go say hello to Tats."

Harold was silent.

They waited about twenty minutes, and then the konulans arrived.

"We found him!!" one of them said, in a welcome eagerness that offset Harold's overly gloomy disposition today.

Righty went and mounted Harold without saying a word, sensing correctly that it was lack of action that had his avian friend somber, and he sensed his mood improving as his wings beat violently through the air.

Chapter 16

Since this wasn't a planned meeting, Righty's arrival required a little discretion.

After the konulans assured him a grove of trees in a yard near Tats' house was unwatched, he was set down there and then walked quickly to the street, hoping he didn't hear shouts of "THIEF!" or "CALL THE POLICE!!"

This was a day he was hoping to wrap up soon, ended by some long, warm cuddling with Janie and maybe even a little lovemaking to boot.

Calm reigned as he reached the street and then approached Tats' house.

He viewed with a mixture of approval and fury the sight of several large guards mulling around the perimeter of Tats' house. He would have probably cursed Tats for not having them, yet at this particular moment he wasn't in the mood for obstacles or introductions.

He walked up confidently to the house, and, as he expected, the large cavemen quickly eyed and then approached him with keen interest.

"What do you want?!" one asked gruffly, looking at the only slightly smaller Mr. Simmers, but whose body packed three times the strength.

"I'm here for Tats," Righty said calmly.

"He expectin' you?" the man asked suspiciously.

"No."

"Then why you think he wanna see you?"

"Bosses don't have to make dates with their employees, friend," Righty said with a hardness in his eyes that softened the man like butter exposed to fire.

"Let me check for you, sir," he said softly, his friends looking at him with hard eyes and then back at Righty cautiously, sensing there was something special about their guest.

Tats soon appeared at the doorway and quickly beckoned Righty forward.

"Mr.—" Tats began, censoring the word "Brass" awkwardly upon realizing he might not want his identity known.

Tats' thugs seemed intrigued about the missing word and as though they were attempting to guess it themselves.

"What he asks for he gets, you hear?" Tats said sharply.

"Yes, sir," they quickly replied.

Righty felt worried his day might not be as close to ending as he had hoped when he noticed to his surprise Tats was walking rather quickly towards his basement and urging him along all the while.

Once they reached the basement, Tats sent four more bodyguards packing, all of whom seemed as interested as their counterparts above regarding the identity of their unexpected guest.

Tats handed Righty an ice-cold lemonade while he took a shot of brandy for himself.

"What's up, Tats? Police heat back? I went to town earlier today, and everything seemed back to normal."

"On the police side, yes."

"On the police side?" Righty inquired with a curiosity now far greater than that of the hulking bodyguards whose footsteps had now faded away.

"We've got problems, Mr. Brass. Maybe not as bad as I'm thinkin', but bad enough I was hopin' you'd drop by."

Chapter 17

At 10:50 p.m., as Rob strode into the alley next to Georgie's Pub, ten bodyguards leading the way, five bodyguards on either side, and around thirty toughs scouring a block in each direction from the entrance to the alley, looking for sign of any faces that spelled trouble, Rob told himself he shouldn't feel particularly vulnerable.

He had ten men on top of each building adjacent to the alley, and though he suspected it to be overkill, he had even sent ten men on top of the building on the opposite side of the street. All men on top of the buildings had searched every nook and cranny starting an hour before he even began heading this way, and they gave an "all's clear" whistle as he approached the entrance of the alley.

They were all armed with crossbows, and while they were no crack shots, he had only selected them for the mission after they demonstrated reasonable proficiency shooting melons at around twenty yards. Nonetheless, he had warned them not to shoot at anyone closer than three feet to him. He would rather die by an assassin's knife than a crossbow bolt from one of his underlings.

But in spite of all these precautions, he felt butterflies he hadn't felt since he had ambushed Fred Pfeiffer, the man who used to hold his current position. These guys Thin Tim had described seemed like something from a campfire ghost story. But having seen the slashed throats and the entry wounds of some sharp projectiles in the vitals of the numerous guards in his stash house, passing it all off as a ghost story wouldn't fly.

And yet the fact the men had stolen none of the several hundred pounds of Smokeless Green stashed there seemed to pull the story back into the realm of fantasy, as no thugs he could imagine would have left that much wealth untouched.

He had a lot more men with him than there had been guarding the stash house, and all of his crew tonight was primed for action. He looked in disgust at a man passed out drunk lying next to the wall. Vomit surrounded his head, and a nearly finished bottle of rum was still clutched in his hand, like a toy clutched by a baby. He had long hair and looked around sixty years old.

"What's this place comin' to?" Rob piped self-righteously. He had spent his share of nights passed out drunk on the street in his teenage years and even a few times in his twenties, but he had found his calling in life with the passage of SISA and had gotten serious about his future.

He had cut his alcohol consumption to a shadow of its former glory, and he sure as hell didn't plan on spending the rest of his life with a couple minor wholesalers underneath him. He was looking to move up in the world. He was pulling in over a million falons per month, but he knew he hadn't reached the ceiling yet.

He visualized himself one day sitting at a table with Mr. Brass himself, offering advice on where they should focus their shipments to avoid police. Mr. Brass would nod gratefully at his wisdom and end every conversation with the phrase: My right hand man.

He didn't know whether Mr. Ritmer represented a serious bump in the road, or whether the elusive man might somehow propel his career. His claim he could provide Smokeless Green twenty percent cheaper than his going rate couldn't be passed off as mere puffery. It seemed consistent with the fact he didn't deign to touch a single gram from the hundreds of pounds he had at his fingertips at the stash house.

But what was really behind all those deaths . . . if he just wanted to talk business?

Maybe he just wanted to get your attention and show he was the real deal.

Maybe he had started out killin' people for Lefty and then decided it would be better to do business with you?

Rob was anxious regardless of which path this meeting took. If the guy was for real, and he offered Smokeless Green twenty percent cheaper than what he got it at from Ethan, Ethan wasn't going to be too happy about him breaking ranks and going outside Mr. Brass's organization.

Heck, Mr. Brass himself might not be too happy about it.

But with a guy like Mr. Ritmer in your corner, maybe Mr. Brass would know better than to meddle.

But he knew that was a bit simplistic. The word on the street was Mr. Brass himself had blown the police station sky high and scared the daylights out of the city's politicians, causing them to quickly round up a few of Mr. Brass's disposables and hang them to save face.

Any dude who can pull that off you shouldn't be messin' with!

But Mr. Brass had not always been Mr. Brass. He had once been a nobody, while everyone swore Heavy Sam was going to rule this city for decades and pass it on to his children and create a dynasty. But with a little guts and a lot of ambition, Mr. Brass had broken the rules and risen to the top practically overnight.

That's what you need to do! Get some guts! Form an alliance with Mr. Ritmer!

When Rob realized it was 11:05 p.m., he quickly became furious. He had paid off every cop on the beat within three blocks, in case things got ugly, and had dragged practically his entire crew here, leaving several of his other stash houses almost completely unguarded.

And after all that, Mr. Ritmer is gonna be a no-show?!!

He looked suspiciously at Thin Tim, who avoided eye contact but had clearly cringed upon seeing Rob's stare from the corner of his eye.

"Eleven p.m., he said, right?" Rob asked with steel in his voice.

"Yes, sir, Robert. That's exactly what he said."

"On Wednesday?"

"Yes."

Rob considered it a sign of weakness to wait for anyone more than ten minutes past the scheduled time. Mr. Ritmer's offer—if Mr. Ritmer even existed—was just what it sounded like: too good to be true.

It vexed him that he still didn't have a clue just what in the hell was going on. The lack of any assassination attempt so far, coupled with the lack of Mr. Ritmer showing up, seemed to suggest Mr. Ritmer simply didn't exist. But Thin Tim sure hadn't killed all those people at the stash house or masterminded it.

But he knows more than what he's saying.

"Well, our date stood us up, men," Rob said with affected jocularity, seething on the inside.

He would have to go on dealing with Ethan, whom, while he had never disliked him before, he suddenly hated. He now saw Ethan as a repressive obstacle, practically a slave master.

All in good time.

Part of him wanted to wait another hour if that's what it took to meet Mr. Ritmer, but he knew he had already lost face. He nudged one of his gorilla bodyguards and told him, "Take Thin Tim to some place far from listenin' ears and do what you have to to find out all he knows."

Richard looked at him with a serious face but smiling eyes and nodded. He then grabbed Thin Tim by the left tricep so hard he almost made him squeal.

No one noticed the keen interest the drunken man was paying to the entire scene with his right eye just a few centimeters open.

Chapter 18

"Some of it's rumor. Some of it's as good as fact."

"Just spit it out, Tats."

"Someone's—some group of people's—climbing up the hierarchy killin' people as they go.

"They say it started with a random attack on some street dealers; then, when their boss—Jack Hillmeyer—tried to lay an ambush on one of these guys, Jack and all his muscle just plain disappeared. Then, they hit Lefty's stash house and killed everyone except for some toady named Thin Tim.

"They demanded a meeting with Lefty's older brother, Rob, and I just got wind that it went down last night, but the guys were a no-show. No one's sure exactly what these guys are after, Mr. Brass, but they're climbing straight upwards. Some people fear Rob's days are numbered and that even though they didn't attack him last night they got a look at him and followed him.

"Above Rob, there's Ethan Forrester and then just a couple more wholesalers, and then it's me. No one's exactly sure what these guys are really after. The leader calls himself Mr. Ritmer, and supposedly he wanted to meet with Rob 'cause he could sell him unlimited Smokeless Green at a twenty percent discount. But since he was a no-show, obviously that ain't what the meetin' was about.

"No one knows what these guys are after, but they're movin' upwards fast. Real fast."

"Me," Righty said calmly. "It's me they're after."

Tats gulped, not quite sure how to respond.

"Remember when I told you I'd expand the amount of knowledge I entrusted you with if it became necessary to the survival of this organization?"

Tats nodded somberly.

"Well, it's about to expand again. Can you take me by Ethan's place tonight?"

Tats had objections. He felt like bunkering down and not peeking outside until someone cleared the streets of this menace eating its way through their organization like a fox inside a henhouse. And going past Ethan's mansion, which by now was likely under the surveillance of these phantoms, seemed a good way to get himself under surveillance and make this his last night on earth.

But a private would have sooner voiced these objections to a four-star general than Tats would to Righty.

"Give me a minute. I'll make it happen."

Tats dashed upstairs and began asking amongst the dozen or so toughs posted inside the house at various windows and doors (another couple dozen were outside) whether any of them knew where Ethan lived.

Finally, he discovered that one of the men's sisters was dating Ethan. She had bragged to him once about her new beau's gorgeous mansion, and he had followed her one day to it and surveyed it with a combination of awe and malicious envy.

He thought that perhaps Ethan was in trouble of some sort, so he happily conveyed the information to Tats, hoping Ethan had some kind of comeuppance in store tonight.

Tats ran downstairs with the information and quickly began consulting a large map on the wall showing the entire city. He studied it cautiously and mentally noted the spot after touching it with his finger, though putting no marks there. He didn't want to make the police's job any easier if they ever raided this place.

"I'll get two horses. Should we bring any muscle?"

"Just our own. This is a low-profile job. You ride in front by a hundred yards or so, and, without stopping, just grab your hat and adjust it slightly when you're next to his house. Will it be to your right or left?"

"Right."

"Got it. Let's go."

They stepped outside, and Tats quickly explained to the guards that if for any reason Mr. Brass came back alone he was to be given full access to the house and they were to take whatever orders he gave.

Tats then rode off down the street. Righty waited a couple minutes and then began after him.

The trip was without hitches. Road traffic was very light, and there was nothing obstructing the view of Tats when he adjusted his hat.

Righty had begun to worry he wouldn't know the exact spot Tats had been at when he himself reached there, but the exquisite nature of the mansion—even though surrounded by luxurious houses on either side—left no doubt as to which was the one in question.

A couple hours later, Tats and Righty were back in the basement, and Righty told him.

"We need to talk outside in the backyard. No guards."

Tats went out and sent all the guards to the front, and their curious faces darted back and forth multiple times as they headed away, wondering what spectacle they would miss, but not thinking it worth their life to sneak a peek at it.

A moment later, Righty and Tats went outside, and to Tats' surprise he saw five small birds on the table, looking directly at him and showing no signs of fear.

"Say hello to your new friends."

Tats mechanically said "hello," feeling so foolish he blushed in the process.

"You ever heard of talking parrots?"

"Heard of them, yes. Some say they're a myth."

"They're not," Righty responded, realizing then that he actually had never seen one himself.

"These birds are a tad smarter. I've raised them since they were chicks. I trust them with my life, and I would view any injury to them as an injury against myself or a family member." Righty paused to let that sink in.

"They're going to be watching you, for your own protection. If anyone suspicious attempts to approach you—whether at your houses or while you go down the street—they will take certain steps to help you. If you need to send me a message at any time, just whistle and one will fly down to you. Give him the message, and he'll take it to me right away."

He could see Tats thought he had gone crazy and was making inhuman efforts to disguise his disbelief.

"It's all right," Righty said, chuckling. "I wouldn't believe it either if I didn't see it. Go ahead give it a try." He looked upwards, and the birds immediately flew away.

"Now, just a soft whistle. We don't want your guards coming back here and seeing something they've got no business seeing."

Still feeling foolish, Tats let out a really soft whistle.

A konulan immediately dropped down and landed on the table smiling.

"Call another if you feel one's too few for a party."

Tats let out four short whistles, and the rest immediately dropped down onto the table.

"Well, let's convince of you of the rest. What would you like Sammy here to tell me?" he asked, pointing.

"Mr. Brass is a good man," he said, the words coming out mechanically.

Sammy turned to Righty, "Tats says you're a good guy."

"Were those his exact words?"

"No."

"What were they?"

"'Mr. Brass is a good man.'"

Tats' face was now a completely different shade of incredulity. Skepticism as to whether Mr. Brass's claims could possibly be true was replaced with skepticism as to what his eyes and ears had just reported to him.

"That's . . . that's—"

"Amazing. Yes, it is."

Tats exhaled in astonishment.

"Tats, look at me."

Tats turned.

"You now know essentially all of my secrets. I trust you more than anyone else in this organization, and so I had no choice but to part with this. Believe me—it wasn't easy. I hope you'll understand that if this information were to be discovered in any way that was due to your lack of discretion I would be very disappointed."

"I've got it."

"The day may come where more have to know if we're to survive against our enemies. But I don't think we're there yet."

Tats nodded.

"And I want you to know that your safety is one of my highest priorities. I'm in the process of working on some additional protection, but for now this is the best I can do. These birds will warn you if you're in danger. If they do, get to one of your mansions as soon as possible. You don't want to fight these guys out in the open."

"What do you know about them, Mr. Brass?"

"Right now, not much. But I plan on changing that soon. I'm pretty sure a new fellow that's working at my ranch used to be part of their organization. Finding out more is one of my top priorities," Righty said.

Tats wanted to ask more but knew better.

Righty closed their meeting with a firm handshake.

"Watch your six, friend, and pass the word down to everyone that they're to do the same. Ethan would probably be best off if he got himself a new mansion and soon. He should get one that's far less luxurious, yet far better shielded by trees. Then, he can surround it with guards without catching the neighbors' attention, and he can brace himself for what's likely to be an attack very soon.

"If they were watching Rob secretly when he showed up at the place they told him to, they're soon going to be following all of his couriers closely, and they'll eventually discover his source."

Tats nodded. "I'll pass the word down, Mr. Brass."

"You take care of yourself."

Righty let out a whistle, hopped on Harold, and set off.

When Harold set him down at the periphery of his new ranch that night, near a horse tied to a tree, he told him, "Change of plans. Go find some pholung chicks. I'm not leaving this ranch till you have. And if you don't, then I'm through with this business. There's a storm comin', and I'm gonna need a lot more muscle."

Harold nodded immediately and then set off, squawking dominantly, ordering a large portion of the konulans to accompany him.

"Some first day back on the job," Righty muttered to himself as he rode up to his house.

He found some tolerably warm food left in the oven and, when he reached the bed, some tolerably warm company.

Chapter 19

"Head south of Ringsetter. Hide in the woods behind Righty's old house," Harold said.

But Ringsetter's south. The pholungs are northwest of here, the konulans wanted to say, but they had already seen Harold assert himself earlier that day with Mr. Simmers, and they now fully understood there was no appeal to Harold's instructions.

"I'll meet up with you soon—hopefully before dawn—and then we'll go pholung hunting. I've got some pressing business to attend to."

Their paths were nearly identical, but whereas the konulans flew almost directly south, Harold's path was just slightly southeast.

Around an hour later, Harold perched in a tree outside Pitkins' house. He wasn't sure whether he'd succeed at all, much less before dawn.

His sharp eyes pierced the darkness. He saw a large dog outside the house, but no sign of Koksun.

He had arrived realizing he was going to have to do something slightly bold and risk exposure, so he decided to proceed now rather than wait for Koksun to step outside of his own accord.

He flew high into the sky, almost directly above the Great Dane. He then dropped at free-fall speed until he was around sixty feet from the ground.

He then flared his wings out wide and flew directly past the handsome animal.

Mervin leapt to his feet and began chasing the intruder, barking ferociously for good measure.

Mervin's hearing was far better than his eyesight, however, and while he would never have fallen for such a trick with a terrestrial animal, he continued chasing in Harold's direction not realizing Harold had doubled back towards the house while traveling at several hundred feet.

He landed on the roof carefully, just as he heard a door flung open, followed promptly by quick footsteps.

He saw Pitkins with a nasty-looking sword in hand, turning around in all directions, scanning for the source of the usually peaceful Mervin's alarm.

When Pitkins was a good thirty paces away, Harold risked letting out a soft meow. A moment later, he saw the slinky beast cautiously exit the house, nose twitching and ears perked halfway up to the roof.

"Koksun," Harold said softly.

He looked up.

"It's Chip. Southeast corner of the property in ten minutes. Climb a tree; I'll find you."

Harold left the house in the opposite direction, thinking it best if Koksun didn't see Chip was about five hundred times his old size, and while Harold glided silently over to the western edge of the property, he realized how lucky he was that it was a moonless night.

As soon as he reached the cover of the woods, he circled around to the southeast corner and climbed a large tree.

He wasn't sure if he'd risk doubling back again if Koksun didn't come, so he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the slinky little rascal approaching the southeast corner, stopping every several yards to sniff and investigate for danger.

"Hey, hurry it up, would ya?" Harold called once Koksun was within a few hundred yards.

Koksun speeded it up, but couldn't help notice the once chirpy voice sounded far more majestic and authoritative.

Some of Tristan's tinkering, no doubt, he thought to himself, having no idea how right he was.

He climbed swiftly up the tree, still expecting to see the little bird he could swallow at a whim, and when he saw the monster sitting atop a large branch he nearly fell from the tree.

"It's all right, Koksun. Tristan gave me an upgrade. You spared my life when you could have taken it many times. You have nothing to fear from me now that I could do the same."

Koksun was grateful for the statement of goodwill but not for the observation that his life existed only at Chip's pleasure.

"They no longer call me Chip. Tristan himself changed my name to Harold."

"I've hoped you'd come by for a long time."

"You have?" Harold asked in genuine surprise. "Why?"

"Do you have any idea—can you even imagine—what it's like playing the role of housecat when you're fully capable of engaging in intelligent conversation?"

"I guess I've never been in that situation. Well, do you want to come with me? What's keeping you here?"

Koksun looked at Harold suspiciously.

"What have you done to occupy your time lately? I suspect you eat pretty damn good."

"I haven't suffered hunger yet," Harold conceded.

Koksun was at a loss as to the sudden opportunity to exit his painfully boring life at Pitkins' house. He enjoyed playing with Mervin, but he was too used to a life of adventure to stay here forever. Even when with Tristan, he had played the role of close adviser to a man constantly scheming. But life at Pitkins' house could not be more routine.

Yet, now that he was offered an escape, he suddenly felt himself unable to leave. He felt somehow he might be needed there one day, yet he had no idea why, other than it related to Smokeless Green.

"What is Tristan up to these days?"

"Couldn't tell you. I haven't seen him in years. I found him shortly after I left you here, and then he disappeared."

"Then what have you been up to? You were always a workaholic. And why the hell did Tristan upgrade you like that if he was just going to leave you afterwards?"

"He told me he was training my new master and that one day he will return to me."

"But you don't know when?"

"That's right."

"So, what the hell do you do all day?"

"I'm currently a partner with my future master's father."

"Doing what?"

"Selling Smokeless Green."

"YOU WHAT?!!!"

Koksun leapt across the five feet separating him from the trunk Harold's branch was connected to, pushed off it, and within less than a second he had his claws wrapped around Harold's throat.

Harold knew he could take off and let the prospect of a several-hundred-foot drop inform Koksun's decision as to whether it would be a good idea to slash his throat, but instead he looked right at Koksun unmoved and unshaken.

"Remove your claws, Koksun. It'll be better for you."

His calm demeanor impressed him more than the command itself.

Reluctantly, he let go and hopped down onto the same branch Koksun was on.

"Why the hell're you doing that? What's gotten into you?"

"As you said, I'm a workaholic. I was bored before I came across my current partner, and now I rarely have a boring day. I'm not even so sure I'll accept my new master if and when he appears."

"But Tristan will—"

Koksun stopped. He admired Harold's new mentality. His sycophantic deference to Tristan had been a bit repulsive, even though he himself had done the same to save his hide. He wished he had the nerve to stand up to Tristan—even if it was just by talking like that behind his back. Tristan had robbed him of a promising career in the Varco. He was no friend.

He stopped his thoughts when he noticed the intimidating sharpness in Harold's eyes.

"What are you here for, Harold? I'd be happy for a social call, but I doubt that's why you're here."

"It's not."

"Then?"

"I need information."

"And what do I get?"

"I just offered to take you out of this place, but you weren't interested."

Now Koksun was seriously beginning to consider the offer. Donive would cry for him—at least he thought so. Mervin would probably miss him, maybe even Pitkins. But he was getting sick of pretending to be an ordinary house cat.

Why in the hell wouldn't you take him up on this? You won't even have to see Tristan anymore.

"Okay, fair enough. You've made a pretty good offer. I'm not saying I'll take it, but it's appreciated."

"What is it you want to know about?"

"The source of Smokeless Green. Everything about it. Where it comes from. Who plants it. Everything."

"Okay, so first let me ask you something. How well do you get along with this 'partner' of yours? Does he know you can speak?"

"Absolutely."

"And he's okay with that?"

"Wouldn't you be if you were him? I'm a rather convenient tool, wouldn't you say?"

"I thought you were his partner."

"Obviously not in the way a human would be. I've got no use for his money. But I exercise independent control over a large number of his agents."

"Tell me more."

"Not so fast. You're getting lots of information, but not giving any."

Koksun grew silent. He knew Harold was right.

"What would my position be if I were to join you? I'm not answering to you. I can tell you that right now."

"The best I can do is promise to highly recommend your skills and wisdom to my partner, and I'm sure he'll find a way to put them to use."

"In what?"

"You've got all the information you're gonna get from me until you start answering some of my questions."

"Well, what makes you think I know a darn thing about Smokeless Green?"

"It's a hunch more than anything. There's this guy—"

Harold was about to explain the strange visitor at the ranch, his talk of a highly trained people transporting the Smokeless Green into the country, and let Koksun know he had overheard a conversation or two between him and Tristan many years ago, where Koksun discussed things—sabotage, combat, strategy—he had learned while part of an elite organization.

"No!" he said almost shouting. "You start talking. Or I leave you here. You can go back to chasing mice and lounging around all day."

"All right," Koksun said, hostility in his voice.

"Before Tristan downgraded me to cat, I was a highly trained Varco agent—the elite organization in Metinvur responsible for sabotage, combat, etc. We use Smokeless Green sometimes on missions to give us enhanced stamina, strength, fighting capabilities, energy, speed. But during training we are forced to learn how to take it in small amounts and then go days or weeks without it so that we can resist the drug's strong addictiveness. That's why I was so upset to learn you've gotten yourself involved in that. But I've overheard Pitkins talking, and it's everywhere, so I'm sure it would be spread around even if you weren't involved, so I guess it doesn't really matter."

"Why are the Varco doing that?"

"I'm stunned that they are. It was often said that introducing it into surrounding countries and encouraging laws against it would be the perfect way to spread our secret influence. Addiction would spread like wildfire, laws would be completely ineffective at stemming the tide, and in fact its criminal status would send prices through the stratosphere, causing rich drug barons to emerge, men whom the Varco could befriend or take out at their whim.

"All that disorder and corruption would then make it easier for us to secretly increase our influence in those countries. There are many routes the operation could take from there. It could be an ongoing money operation—exporting the drug surreptitiously to other countries. After all, whenever there was talk of such an operation, it was clear it would only be done with seedless Smokeless Green. As long as we retained the seeds, we could end the project at any time."

"So why was it never done?"

"There were those who pointed out that it would only take a few seeds getting mixed in with the powder to lead to men having access independently of us. In fact, there was sometimes talk of sending out Smokeless Green seeds but that would create seedless plants."

"Why would that be necessary?"

"Those getting the drug directly from us could ultimately be tortured by the authorities and lead them to us. Even though any Metinvur supplier would be using a credible fake identity from a country besides Metinvur, it was always understood that any supplier getting the product directly from Metinvur would have to be protected from law enforcement."

"Would that be difficult?"

"Not really. But part of spreading disorder and corruption required that a kingpin completely unconnected to the Metinvurs be allowed to emerge. By introducing a large amount of seeds, it would be possible for a man to create his own crop and become the top of the food chain. Thus, any investigation into him would have no chance of leading him to us. That way, he could be made a scapegoat and become the target of law enforcement. Having a public enemy was always considered to be an integral part of spreading disorder and chaos on a massive scale."

"But wouldn't that cause you to lose the ability to eliminate access to Smokeless Green outside Metinvur?"

"The plan was always that, if seeds were released, they would be just enough to allow a man to become wealthy and a credible threat to the public but not so wealthy that he would become too difficult to take down."

"And if someone screwed up and some of the seeds created plants that were also seed-bearing?"

"That was always pointed out as the danger with that strategy, and it was made clear that before the seeds were released they would be rigorously checked by Varco botanists."

"And if they screwed up?"

"Well, I guess theoretically it would be possible for the man who got a hold of those plants to create as big a farm and as many farms as he wanted, giving himself his own personal money machine and acquiring riches that would rival the wealth of sovereign governments."

"You've just described my partner," Harold said, with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Good heavens," Koksun shuddered. "There's a war coming that'll make what happened between Sodorf and Dachwald look like a spat between two lovers."

Chapter 20

Righty felt now was as good a time as any to go check on Robert's progress on the store in Sivingdel. He found him hard at work in a store full of customers. He noticed several staff members scurrying around helping people find the tools and hardware they were looking for.

Is this a sign—given that the facade for my real business runs smoothly while my real business can never find enough damn bumps in the road to hop up and down on?

"Sir!" Robert said with a happiness far more genuine than that which Righty supposed most bosses were greeted by. But Robert was a man who had reason to stand tall when his boss arrived, and thus, it seemed natural enough.

"Got a few?" Righty asked.

"For you, I'm always available, Mr. Simmers."

"Let's go to the back."

They sat down and Righty got straight to it.

"How are we doing? Can you show me some numbers?"

"We're definitely in the black. Business is going real well," Robert responded, pushing over a sheet of figures.

"Those are from last week. I aim to have this week's done Sunday night or Monday morning at the latest."

"Let's see some cash," Righty said. He felt it was probably unnecessary, but it couldn't hurt for even a young man of Robert's caliber to be left a bit on his toes.

Robert went to a vault in the back of the room, maneuvered a rather lengthy combination, and then extracted a large bag.

"Divenzoni."

"Sir?"

"The safe. You've got taste, Rob. I like it."

Robert blushed. "This is today's. I go to the bank once a day. I don't like letting too much of it accumulate."

"Bank deposit slips," Righty said calmly.

Robert went through a door, pulled out a file, and handed it over to Robert.

"I wish people like you grew on trees, Rob," Righty said as he looked over the immaculately organized bank deposits, all with the official seal.

"Here's for your troubles," Righty said, sliding over 20,000 falons in 100-falon bills.

Robert's eyes nearly bulged out.

"Now, I want you to know somethin', son."

"Yes, sir?"

"There's a reason I'm so good with you."

Robert was clearly on the edge of his seat.

"I recognize talent. Not always right at first, but when I do I try to make sure talent sticks with me. You're not only honest and hardworking, you're smart. And you'll go far, if you stick with me. Now, you know your crew, and I don't, so you reward them out of that as you see fit. Remember—generosity brings good luck."

A quick movement of Robert's eyes revealed he planned to store that aphorism away for later scrutiny.

"But, as with everything, there's a catch. Are you ready for a big task?"

"Yes, sir. You name it!"

"I've decided to close the store in Ringsetter. Here, there's plenty of room to expand, but it's going to be a waste of time and money having you go back and forth."

"I was thinking that," Robert said, then immediately wondering whether he had been too frank.

"Well, you thought right. You thought exactly right. I'm too busy right now sniffing out some potential new locations and negotiating a good price, so I can't be involved. Can you take care of it?"

Seeing a hint of doubt in Robert's eyes, he quickly added, "If you need to hire more people to keep the store running here while you go down to Ringsetter and clear out the store, that's absolutely fine. As long as you keep this store running deep enough in the black, I'll leave the rest of the details up to you.

"Here's a sealed limited power of attorney giving you the right to sell the store in Ringsetter."

Righty preempted Robert's next question—"Bargain some, but I want that thing sold in a week, even if you take a loss. You're too valuable to me to have you dealing with some relic of the past like that store. This" (he swiveled around in his chair and pointed around them) "is the future. Here, in Sivingdel.

"I want to go down as one of the biggest tycoons this city's ever seen."

"I'll head out today. There'll be a skeleton crew while I'm gone, but I'll leave Jimmy in charge of hiring some temporary help while I'm gone."

"As I said, I'll leave the details up to you."

Robert assured him he'd get it done, and then Righty headed out the door to his horse.

He felt that maybe a horse ride would be just the thing to clear his mind. He had told Janie he might be gone for a few days on business. Going to the ranch was out of the question while Harold and a large chunk of the konulans were out looking for pholungs.

He had packed some food and a sleeping bag based on a hunch, and he realized now that he could take his time and still make it to Pitkins' dojo for his next lesson. The time on the road would maybe be just what he needed to clear his mind.

Once he was out in the countryside, he whistled and invited a few konulans to join him. Seeing as their information-gathering capabilities exceeded even that of Harold's and that his life depended on their loyalty, it couldn't hurt to nurture their friendship a little.

"Anything odd happening in front of Ethan's house lately?"

"All's clear so far. We've got twenty of us taking turns watching it."

Chapter 21

Pitkins was in a sour mood today. Koksun had somehow gotten out during the hullabaloo last night, and Donive had sobbed half the night. Mervin also seemed gloomy.

Pitkins, aka The Serpent Slayer, ex-general of the elite Nikorians, had been unable to keep the house cat from escaping.

But his mood turned downright rotten when he saw the handwritten note left underneath a rock on the path he took from his property near the woods.

Dear Pitkins,

Do not fret! Blackie will one day return. I am his original owner. I have missed him dearly, and I tracked him here. My wife told me not to return empty-handed, and she meant it! I've heard you're awful good with a sword, and since I couldn't exactly prove Blackie was mine, I thought I had better just take him.

It wasn't exactly the most honest way, but my wife . . . . Blackie is going back to his original home, where there is much love. I am truly sorry. I will bring him back one day for a visit. I promise.

Fred

He was seething all the way to the shop.

When he got there, a curious bag was left by the door. He opened it, half-worrying he would find Lookout's severed head with an apology note from Mr. Fred rambling about his wife, in which case he planned on making it his life's mission to track down Fred and cut him to pieces.

He recoiled in far greater shock when he saw the bag was stuffed with money, all in large bills.

Consider this an advance. We'll be in touch soon. Keep making swords.

Your admirer

"Well, either Fred's a guy with money to burn and an obsession with cats, or this must be National Write Pitkins A Letter Day!!"

He grabbed the bag, whirled his body around several times, and then flung the bag as far as he could. The money went scattering everywhere.

"HEY, FRED! GIVE THIS TO YOUR WIFE! SHE'LL FORGET ABOUT MY CAT IN NO TIME, YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!" Pitkins screamed with more fury than he had felt in ages, though he realized far less than half of his fury had to do with Lookout, though he was fit to be tied over that.

He knew that the donor of the money would be coming around soon enough. The donor must have a connection to the punks he had turned away at his shop.

"Some big fish has taken a liking to me, and he ain't gonna like it when he learns money can't buy me."

Like a spark leaping from a fire and quickly disappearing, his mind returned to what just yesterday had been the biggest problem plaguing his mind: Mr. Simmers' bizarre encounter with a man whose fighting style stirred up bad memories. But his mind was back on the present problem with such focus Mr. Simmers had disappeared.

Were he all alone in the world, he would welcome the coming struggle with these sword-craving thugs, but as a family man he was vulnerable. Losing a house cat to some deranged thief was bad enough.

Losing Donive . . . .

"Donive!"

He jumped onto his horse, wheeled around, and went galloping back to his house.

Chapter 22

Pitkins didn't find a bloody mess at home or discover any disappearances, but he did find Donive red-eyed and pouting.

She looked at him with only brief surprise at his return home, followed immediately by a look of contemptuous indifference. Their family's cat had been robbed on his watch after all.

Pitkins kneeled down in front of Donive and grabbed her hand. She didn't retract it completely, but gone was the warm clutch Pitkins could usually take for granted.

"I thought that since I have to accept not having children it would be nice if we could at least keep a couple pets, but now Lookout's gone for good."

"Well, what do you say we fill the house with a replacement?"

"What are you talking about?" she said, knowing exactly, but thinking this must be some kind of trick.

"I mean it. I think it's time. You're not getting any younger, and I'm just about over the hill, so . . . ."

Koksun would have felt the following scene sacrilegious, as his hallowed memory was so abruptly replaced by animalistic fervor scarcely reminiscent of the grief his absence had inspired such a short time ago.

Pitkins feared injury briefly as Donive jumped on top of him and began tearing his clothes off in a manner that made him feel more like her prey than her husband.

The next thing he knew she was on top of him pumping wildly, and this characterized the rest of what had at first seemed likely to be a long, gloomy day. The bizarre note and even the ominous bag of money he had tossed to the winds now disappeared within the recesses of his mind as more pressing, and more pleasurable, matters vied triumphantly for attention.

By the time evening fell, they were both beyond exhausted and went to bed early.

Mervin, his loyal face showing he had not yet deemed the mourning period over, appeared at the side of their bed.

Pitkins patted an empty spot next to him, and Mervin soon joined him, providing Pitkins with an armrest. Soon, the three of them were dozing happily and peacefully.

Chapter 23

Pitkins awoke to the smell of fresh bacon and eggs wafting into the room and teasing his nostrils. He leaped up, feeling a hunger far more ravenous than he had felt in ages, and walked into the kitchen.

"Eat up," Donive said with a coy smile. "You're gonna need your strength for a while."

Pitkins patted her on the behind, kissed her on the lips, and said, "Is that so?"

"Mmhhmm. Sit and eat."

Pitkins did as told, willing to be submissive if the order was to chow down on a well-prepared meal.

Twenty minutes later he was out the door with a smile on his face, joy in his stomach, and a whistle on his lips.

As he approached his shop, a few nasty thoughts began to tempt his mood, like little ants trying to push over a delicately balanced object. His happiness stood firm, though he did feel his carefree bliss moving in the direction of a more neutral mood.

To his surprise, there was someone waiting at his shop. He was relieved as he got closer and saw it was no tattoo-covered punk with malice in his eyes.

It was a middle-aged lady, from what he could tell. Her horse was tied next to the shop, and she was sitting cross-legged by the door, looking like she didn't have a care in the world.

"Good morning," Pitkins said, hoping it would not soon cease to be one.

"Good morning, sir," she said, standing and looking at him directly.

She was a small lady, probably no more than five feet plus an inch or two at most, but he felt a power radiating from her eyes even before he could tell what color they were.

"You do know this is a sword shop, right?"

She smiled, as if she held some secret.

"Okay, well, come on in and have a look."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"Very impressive," she said, surveying the swords with the appearance of an expert. "May I hold one?"

"Just be careful."

The lady picked up a small one and gave a few graceful strokes through the air. She touched the edge of the blade ever so slightly.

"You combine aesthetics with utility. That is your reputation. I now see it is deserved."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Do you sell daggers also?"

"Over here," Pitkins invited.

The lady surveyed and touched several, expressing numerous compliments.

"Can we sit and talk business?" the lady asked.

"Absolutely," Pitkins said, pulling out a chair for her at a small table. He then seated himself across from her.

"I am a business owner. I am the largest brothel owner in the city. It's a law-abiding business even if it's frowned upon. We provide a service to willing customers and employ willing women. It's peaceful most of the time. But sometimes there are . . . problems. There's a new breed of criminals in this city, sir. Arrogant men, wealthy from the sale of Smokeless Green, sometimes think they can walk into my establishment and act however they please.

"Well, we have standards. I run clean establishments. And that refers to everything. The outside of the buildings are kept clean. The insides are immaculate. Any member of my staff who contracts a disease is let go with a large severance.

"That leaves just one factor in the equation."

"The clients."

She nodded.

"Most are respectful, but it's to be expected that from time to time someone will have to be kindly shown the door. But it's getting to the point we're facing some rough clients who not only don't want to be shown the door but are scaring any of my staff members who try to show them.

"We had an incident just last night where it took a combination of thirty minutes of pleading, threats to call for the police, and even the offer of money just to get the bum out of my store. He was wielding a nasty knife, and none of my staff have the necessary weapons to deal with someone like that.

"What I need is a large supply of weapons so that all of my security staff can be better armed than the criminals. Is that a need you would be interested in satisfying?"

Pitkins had been warned by his childhood nanny about the charms of Rodalians, the inhabitants of the southwestern portion of Selegania, including Sivingdel and Ringsetter. The theory was that cool weather from the nearby mountains gave them a lighthearted, winsome temperament, and their close proximity to Sodorf and Dachwald and their being directly on the pathway between the capitals of Sodorf and Selegania gave them plenty of practice in the arts of dickering.

Here he was seated directly before the person who had clearly left the bag of cash outside his door that he had angrily thrown to the four winds and who was most likely the directress of the sour-eyed punks he had sent packing over the recent months, and yet not only had he not thrown her out, he was thinking of conceding.

"Ms.—?"

"Havensford. Rucifus Havensford. But, please, call me Rucifus."

"Rucifus," Pitkins began, the name somehow feeling awkward on his tongue, "how about we start slow. You bring me your best security agent in need of a sword, and if he can convince me he'd make good use of the sword, I'm sure we can reach a deal.

"This city isn't the same city it was just a few years ago. As you yourself have noticed, it's got an emerging element that's none too pleasant."

"We'll come by tomorrow, Sir Pitkins. Thank you so much for your time."

Pitkins wasn't sure whether he had made a mistake as he watched Rucifus walk away.

If he's a creep, send him packing. You're not committed to anything.

Chapter 24

As soon as Robert and the last of his stern-faced, sneering entourage had exited the alley, Zelven stood up walking in zig-zagged lines. He counted to six and then swallowed the bitter pill he had just inserted into his mouth.

BLUAHHHH!!!!

Zelven emptied the contents of a rather large meal he had enjoyed just hours before.

"She SAID she'd never leave me!" he began singing as he threw back a swig of tea from the whiskey bottle he was carrying.

"But ROMANCE sure can be fleeting," he continued.

He had two dozen men on the rooftops, many of whom were just several yards from Robert's lookouts, hidden inside a hollow section of the roofs they had added in preparation for tonight's meeting. They were prepared with crossbows to assist Zelven in case his passed-out-drunk-in-the-gutter cover had been called into question or if perhaps Robert decided to kill the nearest thing to him just for being present at a moment of such displeasure.

Zelven looked towards the top of the roof of the building across from the alley. At first, he saw nothing.

Then, he saw it. A series of short, inconspicuous flashes could be seen emitting from a small hole at the side of the roof. They were plain language to him:

"Lookouts still on roof."

More small flashes.

"Engage?"

He turned around in a full circle, answering no. Then, he again chucked his cookies, this time against the side of the wall.

Thinking he had done enough vomiting for one evening, he downed another pill with the next swig of tea, this one a fragrant-smelling mint that immediately began to calm his tortured stomach.

He walked out of the alley, turned right, and began walking north, no longer with such exaggerated drunkenness. He had played his part well enough for any thuggish eyes on him. He didn't need to overdo it and find himself in an interview with a patrolman.

He could see the tail end of Rob's entourage if he squinted, but they were making ground and disappearing quickly.

He quickened his pace, there already being enough people about that he would no longer be the sole object of scrutiny for any eyes that might still be watching him from the roofs.

Already running ahead of him were multiple Varco agents, who had been placed several rooftops away from the meeting site. They were right now rappelling down a wall into an alley where several horses awaited them.

Zelven put on a pair of telescopic spectacles that immediately brought Rob and his entourage into focus. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw several of his agents, dressed as businessmen, ride out of an alley on horseback slowly keeping a healthy distance from one another.

He suddenly turned into a nearby alley, ducked behind a barrel, and pulled off his crumby jacket, revealing a shirt fit for any businessman enjoying a night out on the town. He removed his wig of long, dirty hair, revealing a respectable, short haircut. He turned the wig inside out and quickly folded it into a businessman's hat.

As he exited the alley, he sniffed violently several times, touching his nose repeatedly, and then let out a couple of good sneezes, appearing to be just another gentleman finishing up with a little green nose candy.

He reached his horse several minutes later, hopped on, and began to follow his agents. He soon caught up with them enough that he could see the entourage they were tailing.

Suddenly, the entourage went in three different directions, the carriage going straight on its original path while many of the toughs went left or right.

Zelven admired Rob's effort, but it didn't fool him. He grabbed his glasses and rotated the right lens several times. Sure enough, he noticed the rascal headed right with just a few bodyguards with him.

Feeling the heat, eh?

Zelven let out a relaxing whistle from a popular local pub tune and punctuated it with a slight jab at the end, informing his agents to go right. They did so, also making a few adjustments to their spectacles as they permitted Rob more and more breathing room.

The streets were getting less dense now. They were headed towards a nice neighborhood.

By the time Zelven and his agents passed Rob's mansion, they were traveling about ten minutes apart. Zelven admired Rob's taste in style but lost some respect with regards to his discretion. Being the only house to have multiple armed guards pacing around in front, it was not a particularly difficult target to spot.

Chapter 25

Righty's leisurely trip on horseback had now brought him to the outskirts of Pitkins' shop, which was skirted by a small patch of forest.

He almost found himself riding right up to the shop, glad for once to be able to proudly tie his horse in front like an ordinary man instead of risking yet again that Pitkins would ask how a man who lived in Selegania always managed to show up on time for his sword lessons in Sodorf City . . . on foot!

But he quickly realized that showing up on horseback today would only invite unwanted questions on the subject.

Hey, it's about time you got an extra pair of legs to help you down here. You jog most other times?

He wheeled his horse around and headed back into the forest. He quickly told the konulans with him that they were to bang against the shop if anything happened to his beloved appaloosa but that their first response should be to fly directly towards the eyes of any marauding snoopers.

He invited a couple to sit on his shoulder until he made it to the edge of the forest. He took just one step out before seeing something that made him backpedal even quicker than he had moments earlier with his horse.

It couldn't be, and yet he simultaneously knew it was.

It was none other than Rucifus, and she was standing there at the doorway talking to Pitkins and had someone with her.

"What in the blazes of holy hell is she doing here?" he whispered under his breath.

He checked his watch and saw his lesson was supposed to be starting in just one minute.

"Curses!"

"Go see what they're talking about," he told one of the konulans, and Dylan went to investigate.

Righty's hand went instinctively to his sword when he saw Rucifus's hands waving up and down angrily.

Choosing between killing a multi-billion-falon contact and letting his sword instructor fend for himself wasn't exactly a dilemma he expected himself to face today, but he knew as soon as his fingers caressed the cold steel of his sword handle what choice he would make.

"MISTAKE!" was the only word he could make out.

Dylan came flying back as Rucifus and a large gorilla-like man got on their horses and started heading away.

Dylan started to eagerly fill Righty in, but he responded softly, "Shhh, they'll be plenty of time later. I've got to get going as soon as they're out of sight."

He watched them carefully until they seemed to have made a good distance, and he noticed Pitkins was doing the same. Then Pitkins punched the door with what appeared to be a half-hearted effort, and yet Righty noticed a few splinters go flying off all the same.

Righty left the cover of the woods and began walking quickly towards Pitkins, feeling awkward to be seen emerging from the woods on foot.

Pitkins studied him closely as he approached.

"First time you've ever been late."

"I saw you had company and thought it best not to intrude."

Pitkins' eyes studied him closely. Too closely. Righty felt like a suspect in a lineup.

"Well, I guess you thought right. Wasn't exactly a pleasant conversation."

"My sword almost left its scabbard."

"Oh?"

"Well . . . not that you would need any help, but it's the principle of the thing. I wouldn't stand there and let that guy attack you without heading over here just in case you needed help."

"So it was the guy you thought was the threat?"

"Well—" Righty began confused, "he was almost two of you. I guess you mean the woman was the threat?"

"She made a good impression on me the first time I met her, but as soon as I made it clear I wasn't putting a sword into the hands of that guard dog she had at her side, I saw a viciousness I've never seen in a female—maybe not in any human being."

Righty raised his eyebrows but said nothing, though he wished he could concur, having shared Pitkins' ominous perception of Rucifus.

"Something tells me I haven't seen the last of her. She says she runs most of the brothels in the city and has lots of power and that I've made a big mistake."

"Pardon me if I'm speaking out of line, but one can't help hear things—I would think it mighty foolish of her to make such a threat when your wife's father is one of the highest-ranking nobles."

"You do hear things," Pitkins said with neither positive nor negative emotion in his voice, but a suspicious glint in his eye. "The nobles are a joke. They're a fixture . . . a decoration. They do hold legal power but not real power. That's been seized by the drug barons in this city. It's said that most of the nobles are addicted to Smokeless Green. They fatten their pockets without raising taxes by taking bribes from the largest drug barons in exchange for keeping the sheriff's men off their tail.

"She may be bluffing, since Donive's father is a noble, but he's lost considerable clout ever since the disastrous war with Dachwald. They say it was won for him, not by him, and many people blame him for the countless dead, since he was the head noble at the time. He's now just one more empty suit filling a chair at their meetings."

Right was tempted to say, I'll handle Rucifus, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

"It's the drug barons now who dictate policy to the nobles. And I've got a gut feeling Rucifus is somewhere way up there on the drug baron ladder."

Righty gulped nervously.

"Where's your horse?" Pitkins asked nosily without apology by word or tone.

"I keep her tied up back there in the woods. She's a real beauty, and I guess I figure if no one sees her, no one will steal her."

"Take me to her."

An awkward stare-down ensued.

"Look, Mr. Simmers. I'm normally not a prier. But you come back and forth from Selegania several times per week without a horse, and you've come across a fellow at your ranch that reminds me of a people I consider my fiercest enemies. Take me to your horse, or never come back here."

Righty was surprised at the bite in Pitkins' voice, but he figured it was reasonable, and he didn't have particularly thin skin in such matters.

"Come with," Righty invited.

They walked in awkward silence until reaching Susanna.

"Well, I do apologize. That is a beauty." Pitkins admired the animal for a long moment, then gently caressed her long snout.

Pitkins then turned and faced Righty directly.

"So, what's the latest with Mr. Octopus?"

"The grappler?"

Pitkins nodded.

"I haven't talked to him since last time I was here. We usually don't have combat training every day. I'm sure he'll whip me next time too."

"And why all this combat training? What do you do, Mr. Simmers?"

"I grow corn, coffee, apples, lots of things. The training was something you might say I inherited. When I bought the farm, I was informed by the ranch hands that they trained on a regular basis as part of a tradition. It all stems from wars—if that's not an exaggeration—they used to have with criminals from the south. They would kidnap ranchers in the area and charge a mighty high fee to give them back.

"They would demand a cut of all earnings from the farm. They said it was 'for the people,' whatever that meant. Anyway, it turned into a long-running struggle, and out of it the ranchers developed a love of the crossbow and sword. They eventually beat the bandits, and they stopped coming years—maybe decades—ago, but the combat heritage that came about never did die.

"It fit like a glove for me. I was professional boxer for a short time, and I didn't realize how much I could love the sword until I first felt one in my hands. Anyway, I've got a wife and a young one at home, and they need me in one piece.

"Is there a reason for all these questions?"

Pitkins seemed far more satisfied than Righty expected. Perhaps it was because he hadn't told a single lie. Left out a few things, maybe. But that wasn't exactly lying.

"Come on, Mr. Simmers. We've got sword fighting to practice. I'll tell you what—you've answered my questions without complaint. And I probably won't pry like that again—but with one exception. I want regular updates on Mr. Octopus. Don't trust him. I want a report on him every time we meet. Deal?"

"Deal."

They shook hands and headed to the shop.

Chapter 26

An hour or two after Mr. Simmers' lesson was concluded, Pitkins was polishing up a sword for Felindurv, one of the few nobles Pitkins had a few grains of respect for and that, to the best of his knowledge, had refused to accept any drugs or drug money. It seemed to Pitkins it was more out of classist arrogance than genuine principle, but it still put him several notches above the rest in Pitkins' mind.

Something sour raced through Pitkins' stomach, causing him to uncharacteristically break his usually impervious concentration when so close to completing the final touches on any project, particularly when involving swords.

He paused for a moment, mentally checking his consumption that day to see if he had eaten anything out of the ordinary or in excess. He fleetingly considered he could be nervous due to the importance of his current sword he was working on but shot that idea down as ridiculous.

Following a hunch that brought back memories he stubbornly forbade from rising to the conscious level, he first walked then ran to the door, not locking it in the process, and then hopped on his horse and slashed the tied reins with a sword stroke that would have taken a man's head off.

Before he had time to consider the prudence of any of his actions his knees were pressed against his horse's side more vigorously than if twenty assassins had been on his heels.

His mind was blank but sharp like the stainless steel of the sword he had so recklessly abandoned as he focused single-mindedly on clearing the distance between him and his objective.

The sight of his peaceful house tried to placate his anxiety, its unblemished appearance—becoming closer and closer—urging calm and coolness, but he dismissed it like a rascal at his door seeking to talk his way in.

As soon as his horse reached the house, he stood on top of him and then leaped into the air, kicking the door as soon as he reached it and went charging in like a marauding barbarian.

The ridiculousness of his actions almost brought a smile to his face and relief to his heart, as he expected a righteous scolding from Donive at any second, and yet no reprimand from that golden voice was forthcoming.

He charged up to the bedroom. Empty.

He rushed into every other room of the house. Empty.

As he passed through the family room and prepared to enter the kitchen and begin frantically running around outside, the slightest sound caught his attention. To call it a whimper would have been to exaggerate its volume. It sounded like a soft whistle from a half-mile away, perhaps the slight creaking of a rusty weathervane.

He looked around closely, and there, behind a large footstool, was his beloved Mervin.

Blood caked his head next to his left ear, and spatters were all over the surrounding area.

Again, he heard the light whistle from handsome beast's nostrils and saw his chest rise ever so slightly. Then, Pitkins noticed more blood on the downed animal, all emanating from his mouth, close to which lay several human fingers.

Pitkins quickly crouched down and looked at them and saw they were from a man.

Ever so gently, he squatted down and put his ear next to Mervin's snout. A slight breeze caressed his ears.

"You hang in there, boy," Pitkins said. "You've had quite a scrap. I just gotta go get something."

Pitkins was of a mindset that rarely was anything purely bad, and in spite of Lookout's soiling of the culinary form of Smokeless Green ("Spicy Green") that Donive had brought home long ago when it was perfectly legal, Pitkins had acted on a hunch and saved a separate bag but hid it deep underneath the kitchen counter, surrounded by many other spices so that the troublesome cat wouldn't take it upon himself to damage any more of it.

As he pulled it out, he took solace in the fact that, while it might not work, Mervin was minutes from death if extreme intervention didn't occur. He could live with attempting a failed cure. Watching Mervin pass away with his arms crossed, he could not.

"This is gonna be a little strong boy, but it's gonna help you."

Pitkins caressed the noble beast gently while he began daubing a little Spicy Green into the wound on his head.

Then, he went back to caressing his side gently.

"You've been a brave doggie. You did good," Pitkins said, pointing to the fingers.

Mervin looked at them briefly as if to say he saw them as insufficient evidence of valiant resistance.

Pitkins put his head to the dog's side. He could sense his heart beating faster and faster.

"Mervin?"

Two big, brown eyes looked up at Pitkins.

"I have to go find Donive."

Pitkins immediately, but gently, put his hand against Mervin's side when he attempted to rise.

"You've already done too much, pal. You need to rest. Donive'll be awful sad if you don't recover. That's what you've got to do now. Rest."

He leaned down and listened again to Mervin's heart. It seemed to be beating normally now, perhaps just a little faster than normal.

Pitkins brought Mervin some water.

"You get better, buddy. I'll be back."

Mervin looked up at him anxiously and then lowered his eyes again in what seemed to be assent.

Pitkins gave him a couple pats on his side so lightly they wouldn't have disturbed a feather, and then he dashed upstairs.

He stripped himself to the buff in five seconds flat and then began strapping armor onto his legs, arms, and groin.

No more than two minutes later he finished and then threw his clothes back on.

Inspired by the weapon Mr. Simmers had long ago requested, Pitkins had crafted himself multiple concealable swords, and he quickly inserted them into sheaths underneath both forearms and one into a back sheath.

Then, feeling only a second's hesitation, he kneeled before a window facing east and beseeched the Sogolian god of war and vengeance:

"Leol, hear my prayer. Guide my sword. Boil my blood. Kill my remorse. Freeze my heart."

He then sprinted outside, leaped on top of Frederick, and took off, headed for town with more zeal than he had ever gone to war with.

Chapter 27

Pitkins knew as he headed into town he was like a rock lobbed out of an unaimed trebuchet, but that would just have to do.

"Hey," he said to a passerby. "I'm lookin' for a whorehouse. Can you point me in the right direction?"

"Well," said the man, taken aback by such unusual frankness. "There's one not too far from here. Let's see . . . ."

Pitkins tossed a gold coin at the man.

"Today, would ya?!"

The man looked up at him ready to make a snide remark, but when he took a look into the tornadic eyes of fire and death he lost his anger and regained his memory all in the blink of an eye.

"Go down two blocks. Turn right. Go three blocks. You won't miss it."

"Kasani bless you, friend," Pitkins said, and then he nudged his horse forward quickly but not to a full gallop.

Sure enough, the pictures on the exterior, while far from pornographic, didn't require a genius to infer the place was a brothel.

Pitkins tied up Frederick and then approached the door.

For a moment, he thought the mammoth-sized man at the door was the beast Rucifus had brought to his shop earlier today and convinced him unequivocally to never put a sword into her hands or those of her men ever.

But as the stern-faced man turned his attention towards Pitkins, he realized it was not. The man's brother perhaps. But not him.

"Howdy, sir."

"Good afternoon," Pitkins said warmly, pulling out a bag of money.

"Hold your horses, there," the man said snickering. "You are ready to go, aren't you?! Just go ahead and lift up your arms; I've got to pat you down."

"I'm here to be touched by women, not men."

"Hey, it's my job, bud."

"Is this owned by Rucifus? I hear her girls are the best. And I aim to find out."

"She don't exactly like to be the focus of attention, but, yeah, she owns it. Now, if you can just raise those arms for me . . . ."

Pitkins raised his arms.

As soon as the hulk's hands touched his ribs, Pitkins said, "This is one time you should have just taken the money."

Pitkins overhooked the man's left arm and grabbed firmly onto his jacket. Then, he turned sideways away from the man, stuck out his right leg, and tossed him in a twisting motion to the ground.

Pitkins landed on top, and his two hundred-plus pounds did little to soften the man's fall against the hard ground below. No sooner had the wind begun to whistle out of the man's deflated lungs than Pitkins released his grip on his jacket, snaked his right arm behind the man's neck, placed his right hand underneath the man's armpit, and then arched his body upwards to the sky.

Had the man not been winded, there may have been some tug of war with a doubtful outcome, as his neck was almost the size of Pitkins' thighs. But with the wind and energy drained from him, a sickening pop was heard seconds later as two neck vertebrae snapped.

Several gawkers had clearly seen the whole thing and were whispering to each other frantically.

Pitkins stood up and marched inside the bar.

"What'll you have, partner?"

"Information," Pitkins said, slapping a small bag of gold coins down onto the bar.

"Well," said the man, eyeing the money with no little curiosity, "just what kind of information?"

"Rucifus—where does she live."

"He-he-he," the man chuckled nervously, shoving the gold back to Pitkins. "Let's just trade money for whiskey. That sound fair?"

"No. It doesn't."

Pitkins grabbed the man's hand before he could retract it from the bag he had just pushed forward, shook his compressed sword out of his right sleeve into his right hand, and then lopped the bartender's hand off.

"AHHHHHH!!!!!! KASANI!!!!"

Pitkins leaped atop the bar like a leopard, spun the man around, and put the dagger to his throat.

"I'd cut your head off with as little hesitation. WHERE'S RUCIFUS?!!!!"

"She-she—"

Pitkins saw he had company.

Five gorilla-sized men were tumbling his way on legs that could barely support their massive torsos. Three had clubs; two had large knives.

Pitkins sliced the man's throat, lifted him up, and hurled him at the infantry charge.

He landed against one of the men's head, knocking him slightly off balance.

Pitkins jumped over the bar in one leap, ducked beneath a club swing that would have caved in two men's heads, and sliced the man's right leg in half at the knee.

In a move so graceful it combined beauty with slaughter, Pitkins continued with his body's rotational movement and spun around just in time to greet the falling man with an upward slice that cut his head from his body before he even hit the floor.

Over his left shoulder, he saw a man coming towards him with his club raised overhead like a wild barbarian. Pitkins adjusted the grip on his sword, placed his left foot behind his right, and spun to meet invader with a snappy thrust that pierced through several inches of fat and muscle until punching right through his abdominal aorta.

Pitkins adjusted back to normal grip on the hilt and then pulled the sword out in a downward slicing motion, cutting the man down to the groin.

He saw an overhand club swing coming towards his left ear, and he immediately brought his sword up, while stepping to his right at a forward angle, and sliced the incoming forearm in two and then swiveled to his left bringing his sword in a horizontal slicing motion towards the guy's head. The man, seeing the sword coming, found it in himself to attempt to defend his head even while his severed arm was clamoring for attention, and he raised his left arm in a futile attempt to block four feet of razor-sharp steel.

His left forearm failed to even slow Pitkins' blade as it sliced through this petty nuisance of an obstacle and hacked the man's head clean off his shoulders.

This display had prompted the remaining two thugs to question whether dealing with such patrons was included in their job description, and both seemed content to keep their distance, each inviting the other to be the hero.

Pitkins didn't have time for a standoff, so he immediately lunged at one of the two muscle-bound oafs. The man took one, then two, steps backwards before turning tail and running for the door at a full sprint. He knocked over a patron who was making a subtler escape like a charging bull knocking aside a field mouse.

"Tell me where Rucifus lives, and you leave alive!" Pitkins shouted at his one remaining foe.

"Rucifus?! Heck! I just started here last Monday! Startin' to regret it too! Just let me leave in peace!"

"Drop the knife!"

The man glanced at it briefly before turning his frightened gaze back to Pitkins. He chucked it to the floor and turned to run.

Pitkins quickly sidestepped and cut him off.

In a series of movements so quick they blurred together, Pitkins collapsed his sword to dagger size, thrust it into his right forearm sheath, grabbed the man's right bicep with his right hand, and pulled him towards him, snaking his left arm underneath and around the man's arm, forming a shoulder lock that he immediately used to slam the man's face into the bar.

Pitkins then spun the man around 360 degrees to check his surroundings and then backed the man towards the wall so that he could survey the room without having to worry about his flank.

"I'm gonna follow my gut on this one!" Pitkins announced to the handful of patrons still in the room. Those remaining were either too drunk to realize leaving might be a good idea or too scared to try.

"Something tells me one of you knows where Rucifus lives!! Or knows someone who does!"

Silence.

Pitkins began torquing on the man's shoulder.

"AHHHH!!" he screamed.

"Why don't you go ask one of the whores, mister?" a sincere voice asked, peeking out from behind a deck of cards so that his eyes barely showed.

"Why would they know?"

"They say sometimes they get invited to the boss's house for parties."

"Is that true?" Pitkins asked the subdued bouncer.

"Yes."

"You seem to know more than what you were saying a moment earlier," Pitkins said, tightening his torque. "What happened to 'I just started here last Monday'?"

"AHHH!" the man screamed.

Pitkins relieved the pressure slightly. "You better do more than just scream, 'cause you're not getting up till you tell me something."

"The parties are well known. I've heard the rumor. That's all!"

"Careful who you work for next time. Associating with bad people can be dangerous." Pitkins ripped the man's shoulder out of socket and then threw him to the ground.

Pulling out his right forearm sword again, he headed upstairs.

He immediately disemboweled a bouncer who leaped at him as he turned a corner on the stairs and kept walking without pause.

He approached the first door and kicked it open. A whore was in reverse cowgirl position and seemed to be thrusting so hard the man's hip bones were surely seconds from shattering.

Yet it was a shout of rage from her victim, rather than appreciation, that Pitkins was rewarded with as he yanked her up into the air, put his arm around her throat, and put his sword to her face.

"Tell me where Rucifus lives, or you'll be charging half-price from now on, if you keep your job at all."

The silence, rather than the typical excuses, told Pitkins he was on to something. It seemed perhaps she was weighing the lesser of two evils.

"If it's Rucifus that's got your tongue, you just put it right back in your mouth and start talking. You help me find her, and you'll never have to worry about her harming a hair on your head."

Pitkins pressed the blade against the flesh a little, but not enough to cut it.

"TWO SECONDS!" he shouted.

He felt warm tears tickle his left forearm, which was around her neck, but Leol was holding the reins, and Pitkins' heart was as frozen as an iceberg.

"Tears won't help you with me, lady, not when Rucifus has my wife!"

"Find Rose."

"WHO?!"

The prettiest ten percent or so of the girls had been to Rucifus's parties, but most of these were held at lavish hotels that had been built in the last year or two due to the economic boom caused by the drug money. An elite handful had also been to several of Rucifus's luxurious apartments.

But the rumor passed around in soft whispers amongst the bordellos was that only Rose had ever gone to Rucifus's mansion and lived to tell about it. She had made the mistake of telling her best friend, Heather, who in turn told her best friend, Marie, and so on until it became known amongst any girl who lasted there several months.

How they had kept it from the bouncers was a phenomenon worthy of a sociologist's inquiry, but did not arouse a shred of curiosity in Pitkins.

"She's a . . . she's one of us. She's been there."

"WHERE?!"

"She doesn't work at this bordello."

"But you know where she does!"

A nervous sigh.

Pitkins shoved her towards her clothes like a brute.

"Put 'em on and don't dally!"

He then tossed several gold coins towards the saucer-eyed man on the bed. "For your troubles."

As soon as the whore had a dress on, Pitkins lifted her up like a sack of potatoes and threw her over his shoulder.

"You're taking me to Rose's bordello, and I'll warn you now that any memory troubles will put your life in grave danger!"

As soon as he opened the door he was met with a man holding a sword.

"Sheriff's deputy!" the man said with as much conviction as though it were a magical incantation.

"You slipped, but I got away."

Half second of silence.

"You've got one more second. I'm looking for my kidnapped wife!"

Leol wouldn't have permitted Pitkins to spare the deputy a second longer, but he unwittingly saved the deputy's life due to the madness he inserted into Pitkins' eyes.

A damp circle began to grow in the man's groin area, and then, knees shaking, he slipped and fell to the ground.

Pitkins had exhausted in that instant, however, whatever compunction had survived his earlier incantation to Leol.

Two men identifying themselves as sheriff's deputies were charging up the stairs. Pitkins let the whore slide from his shoulder, and he told her "STAY!" with the self-assurance of a man talking to a well-trained dog.

"You're under arrest!" the deputy at the top of the stairs screamed.

Pitkins turned his body at an angle and thrust his sword in and out of the man's heart with the calm and precision of a pool shark executing a simple shot. It was so fast the man continued walking another two steps, seemingly unaware of the wound, before his eyes rolled backwards into his skull and he collapsed down the stairs.

As the other deputy turned and looked at his fallen comrade, Pitkins sliced his sword hand off at the wrist and then kicked him down the stairs.

He turned and saw the whore still seated as instructed.

He yanked her back on top of his shoulder.

"I can walk, you know!"

Pitkins set her down and twirled her around face to face with him.

"Flee and you die," he said ominously.

Her eyes pulsated with fear.

He grabbed her left wrist, and she struggled to keep up as he ran down the stairs.

There was one more sheriff's deputy there, guarding the exit.

Pitkins grabbed the whore and pulled her towards him, placing his knife to her throat.

"Move, or she dies."

"You misjudged me, if you think a whore'll do for a hostage."

Pitkins feinted an overhead attack, prompting the deputy to raise his sword defensively.

Pitkins squatted down fast and cut the man's foot left foot off at the heel.

"I'd wager she earns her money more honestly than you!" Pitkins shouted to the downed deputy.

The whore, meanwhile, momentarily felt like a lady whose honor had just been defended by a valiant knight in shining armor.

A rude tug at her arm snapped her out of her fantasy . . . though not completely.

Pitkins threw her atop Frederick and was behind a half second later.

He leaned forward and slashed Frederick's reins.

"Which way?!" Pitkins barked.

"Left."

Pitkins wheeled Frederick around and put his knees against the noble beast's ribs. He was soon in a full gallop. He could hear alarm bells being rung throughout the vicinity.

Chapter 28

When Pitkins heard some thundering footsteps coming from up ahead, he quickly eased the pressure on Frederick's sides and brought him almost down to a walk.

"Scream, holler, wink, or any other tricks, and I'll run you through," Pitkins said, bringing out his dagger just enough to give a little prick to the back of his guest's right side.

"I won't."

"What's your name anyway?"

"Samantha."

"Well, Samantha, you're gonna be like glue until you introduce me to Rose. Once you do that, you can leave."

"Once I do that, I'm as good as dead."

"Not if Rose helps me find Rucifus."

Silence.

The thundering hooves were drawing nearer now. Pitkins' brought Frederick all the way down to a walk.

"My name's Ben, and you're my girlfriend, Kathy."

"If they're deputies, they'll probably recognize me. They visit the bordellos rather often."

"Then I'm Ben, you're Samantha, and I've bought you for the night."

"That's better, but there's just one problem."

"Which is?"

"Have you seen your face?"

Pitkins brought his hand up to his face and felt the blood even before he saw it.

"You look like you've put in a long day at the butcher house and forgot to wear an apron."

Pitkins cringed as the galloping horses slowed to a fast trot.

"Giggle and act like a silly trollop," Pitkins whispered.

Pitkins put his face to Samantha's right side and began lightly nibbling on her neck. She giggled.

"Can't you wait until we get a room?" she said in a playful voice.

The two approaching riders were on Pitkins' left. Out of the limited vision he had from his position against Samantha's neck, he could see they gave both of them the up and down but kept right on riding towards the sound of the clanging alarm bells.

Pitkins kept Frederick at a walk as Samantha instructed him on the various turns, and moments later several more deputies came galloping by, this time not even stopping to glance at the frisky young couple. The growing darkness also befriended Pitkins.

Ten minutes later, Samantha informed him they had arrived at Rose's bordello. From here, no alarm bells could be heard clanging, and all seemed oblivious to the small massacre that had happened a half-hour away.

Nonetheless, Pitkins knew that with his face and clothes looking like those of a man who narrowly survived a shark attack, there was no point wasting any time on deception.

"Stray more than five feet from me, and I will run you down and then run you through, understand?"

Samantha nodded.

"Do your best to convince people to stand aside, that is, if there's anyone here whose life matters a fig to you."

"I don't know anyone here. I don't even know Rose. I just know of her."

"Well, when you see what you see, just remember I never asked for any of this."

Samantha gulped. "I have a plan. Try to play along."

"I'll give it a shot. If fighting starts, you can get out of the way. But don't try running away."

"Got it."

Pitkins got off his horse, helped Samantha down, and then she led the way towards the doorman.

"Hey, handsome," she began in the smoothest voice possible, given the circumstances.

"I work at the Honey Trap. Gavin sent me and Ben over here because he got into a bit of a scrap helping us out with some creep who was slapping the girls around. He got a little banged up, and Gavin said to tell you a bath deluxe would be on the house."

The tall man looked at Samantha with cruel, suspicious eyes. "I play poker with Gavin several times a week. You have any idea what's gonna happen to you if one word of what you're sayin' turns out to be a lie. I'm gonna slap the teeth out of you, that's what. Kasani! This guy ain't presentable!"

He huffed.

"Don't blame me. It's Gavin's errand."

The man gave her a long, cold look.

"Come around back. Both of you!"

Pitkins and Samantha followed the man around until they came to a door with a large padlock on it. He fished around for the right key, then inserted it and opened the lock and then the door.

"Wait just a second. I've gotta make sure there's one available . . . or maybe make one available," he said irritatedly.

Pitkins considered entering without permission during the five minutes that ensued and was just about to when the man came back and motioned them inside, all the while looking around furtively as if they were breaking into a bank.

He quickly led them up the stairs and into a room with a bath and then shut the door behind them.

Pitkins gave a warning look to Samantha and then dunked his head completely underwater, rubbed his face vigorously, and then raised his head up, fully expecting her to have left. She was still there, looking at him strangely.

"No one would ever come looking for me if I disappeared. A couple people might care. But look for me? Ha."

Pitkins grabbed both of her trembling hands and looked directly into her eyes.

"I didn't ask for any of this, but I know you didn't either. Help me through this, and I'll pay you so handsomely you can leave this place—or even this country—forever. Understand?"

She nodded, a tear in her eye.

"Go find Rose for me. If she's with someone, see if you can sweet-talk her into coming this way with this," Pitkins said, handing her a small bag packed tightly with gold coins. "If she won't, let me know immediately. I'll come looking for you if you're gone more than five minutes," he said, pointing to his watch.

Pitkins happened to find a shirt lying on the floor, and while it wouldn't have been his first pick at a store, its lack of blood spatter made it irresistibly attractive. He quickly threw it over his shirt and then spent the rest of the five minutes crouched by the doorway, sword drawn, ready to ferociously pounce on anyone entering the room.

Seconds after the five minutes had expired, and just as Pitkins was getting ready to begin Round Two of butcher-house diplomacy, Samantha returned.

"I found her, but I've drawn some attention to myself in the process, and Rose is being stubborn, saying she has to finish with a client first. She said the soonest she can come is in a half-hour."

"Take me to her."

Samantha's eyes said, But . . ., along with a host of objections, but she bit her tongue, swiveled around, and walked out into the hallway, Pitkins close behind.

She took him down a long hallway, made a left turn, and then opened the second door on her left.

"What the hell?!" said an angry client, swiveling around. "What am I paying for here anyway?! I get more privacy in my damn house, and I've got five rug rats runnin' around!!"

Pitkins tossed him a small bag of gold. "This is for the inconvenience." The man's temper appeared to cool slightly as he took a peek at the contents and especially when he bit down on a couple of randomly selected coins.

"This is for not saying a word to anyone," Pitkins said, tossing another small bag of gold.

The man's temper appeared to have cooled completely. He hoisted up his pants, put his boots on, and began buttoning his shirt, while saying, "You're a reasonable man."

"One last thing," Pitkins said, letting a dagger slide into his right hand.

"This is what you'll soon see if you blab a word of this to anyone."

"It never happened!" the man said emphatically.

Pitkins' gut told him the man would probably wait fifteen minutes before blabbing, but he had no intention of sticking around that long.

As soon as the door closed behind the man, Pitkins dropped down to his knees, grabbed Rose's hands, and looked right into her eyes.

"Look, I know you don't know me. I know you have no reason to trust me. But Rucifus kidnapped my wife today. If I don't find her before tomorrow, I fear the only thing I'll ever find is . . . ." His voice choked at the end.

"They say you know where she lives. Please . . . take me to her! I beg you!"

"I'm dead, if I do," Rose said matter-of-factly. "And not just dead. Tortured, then dead."

"I'll pay you enough to retire," Pitkins said, tossing five gold pouches into her lap.

"The dead can't spend money."

Faster than a rattlesnake strike, a knife was at her throat.

His erstwhile teary eyes now blazed with vengeance. "Then choose between a certain death now and a future death I will do everything in my power to help you escape."

The sharp steel against her throat convinced her. She stood, threw a dress on, tossed the bags of gold unenthusiastically into a purse, and then said, "Will we be going out the front?"

"Samantha, lead us out the back. Rose, stay in front of her. If there's any fighting, stand aside, but don't run, or I'll kill you."

Rose sighed again, like a person unhappy about risking death but almost resigned to it.

Their trek down the hallway was uneventful all the way to the back exit.

The tall man was standing there with a smirk on his face.

"Somehow knew this story stunk to high heaven, but now there's no doubt. Sir, you can leave if you want. But you ain't goin' nowhere with either of these two girls."

Pitkins' hand shot out like a rock from a concealed slingshot and struck the man in the throat with his fore-knuckles and left him wheezing and coughing on the floor while he and his gals headed down the stairs to Frederick.

"There'll be no stopping between here and my horse, so if anyone approaches me, stand back."

But the approach to Frederick was uneventful.

Once all three were atop the large animal, however, a man shouted, "Rose?!!"

Pitkins turned and saw it was another doorman.

Pitkins dug his knees into Frederick, and they took off.

Several blocks later, Pitkins brought Frederick to a halt.

"Samantha, this is as far as you go," he said lifting her off. He handed her five small pouches of gold.

"I owe you more than this, but it's all I can give you now."

"And I suppose I'm supposed to wait for you to find me to give me the rest?"

"It'll be easier for you to find me. Just ask around to find out where the estate of Pitkins and Donive is located."

"Pitkins?! Theee Pitkins—?"

"Yes. For now, hide yourself. You'll probably learn of my outcome in the news."

Chapter 29

Rose and Pitkins rode a while in awkward silence, except for an occasional "Left here" and "Take this one right."

Then, with solicitude in her voice, Rose said, "Please . . . just let me get the hell out of here. You go up that street, and it's on your left . . . about halfway . . . should be the only place with guards outside; plus, it's the biggest."

Pitkins slid off the saddle; Rose looked down at him confused.

He placed several pouches of gold in her hands.

"But you—"

"I'll walk. You take Frederick. Watch over him for me, would ya? You'll know of my outcome via the papers. If I live, I ask you return him to me. If I don't, he's yours to keep or to give or sell to someone you think will take good care of him."

"You love her, don't you?"

Pitkins nodded. "Either I leave that place with her or die."

Rose gulped. "Not many people would do that . . . not even for someone they love."

"Then do they really love?"

Rose gave him a long look that suggested she'd like to say more.

"Can you do one last thing for me?" Pitkins asked.

Name it, she almost said, but a soft "What?" came out.

"You come to me if you're ever in danger. For what you've done tonight, I'm forever indebted."

"What about the police?" Rose asked, choking back tears at seeing a man walk to his death.

"You kiddin'?" Pitkins asked with a piercing look.

Rose blushed.

Pitkins grabbed her hand and looked deep into her eyes, "May Kasani always bless you," he said and then turned his back to her and began walking up the street.

As he walked up the street, adrenaline began to trickle and then flow into veins he had allowed the luxury of relaxing during their stroll. A hard lesson he had learned in battle was to the importance of suppressing adrenaline when it would serve no purpose. Failure to follow this practice could leave you mauled on the battlefield.

He loosened the sword straps inside both sleeves, ready to let them drop into the palms of his hands.

"Halt there, Pitkins; we know it's you."

Pitkins couldn't see the person yet, but he immediately determined its origin.

He quickly moved from the open street to some shrubs alongside it and began moving forward more stealthily.

"You ain't getting' into Rucifus's house, and we know that's where you're headed, so just come on and out, and let's talk."

Pitkins kept moving forward, clinging to the bushes.

"DAMN IT TO HECK! Get your butts out there and find him!"

Scurrying footsteps echoed from boots striking the cement of the street—the smooth, hard surface serving as a status symbol that distinguished it from the muddy roads throughout most of the city.

When Pitkins realized he was going to be outflanked, he reluctantly broke from cover and headed back to the street.

"Now that's more like it!" the voice rang out. "I ain't fixin' to play hide-and-go-seek tonight. Now, just keep on comin', and let's talk."

Pitkins saw a badge on the chest of the man barking the orders. The men heeding them looked like run-of-the-mill thugs.

He was now a mere fifteen feet or so from Pitkins, and his wolf-like servants were quickly moving around Pitkins in a circle.

"CALL YOUR MEN BACK!" Pitkins barked.

"Don't go any closer, gents," he said, and they stopped approaching Pitkins, but did not break the circle they had formed around him, each about six feet from Pitkins.

Pitkins kept walking closer to the deputy.

"Now it's your turn to halt, and I advise you do it right quick. I ain't fixin' to go toe to toe; I know a thing about your past. So just you stop right there and we'll talk. Otherwise, I let out one whistle, and you're fit for dog meat; get my drift?"

Pitkins stopped, about five feet from the deputy.

"Where's my wife?" he asked ominously.

"She's inside, and not a hair on her pretty little head's been hurt. Now, I'm a negotiator here, and—"

"An accomplice."

"Pardon."

"You're a damned accomplice to kidnapping."

"And you're a damned wanted rascal who's killed some deputies tonight. You'll hang unless I pin it on someone else; catch my drift?" he said, a glint in his blue eyes, the only attractive feature on his fat face.

"Take me to Donive. Or I'm going to her."

"Now just cool down there, son. What Rucifus wants is just for you to be the sword smith for her men. That's it. She'll pay you falons by the bushel. What's the harm?"

"Arming anyone who works for her would be as bad as handing a knife to the outstretched palm of a robber holding an innocent victim with the other."

"Don't get all moralistic, son. You've murdered a handful of innocent people tonight just doing their job and who didn't have anything to do with this kidnapping," he said with a gleam in his eye.

"Job hazard. People will start to question whether working for Rucifus is a good thing, wouldn't you agree? Maybe even deputies."

"Why you smart-mouthed fool! You could have your wife in your arms by now; instead you're blabberin' about job hazards!"

"So let me get this straight . . . ."

The deputy turned around, a sly look in his eye.

"If I agree to make swords for Rucifus, I get Donive back . . . right now?"

The deputy gave Pitkins a long, hard look like a man playing poker and deciding what his next move would be.

"Well, tonight might be a slight exaggeration, but once you craft a few top-notch swords, you'd have her back all right."

"So, basically, my wife—the woman whom I swore to love, honor, and defend until death do us part—is to be collateral to ensure that my stated acquiescence to your boss's extortion demands is in good faith."

"Lots of fancy talk, but I think we got an understandin'."

The right dagger fell so smoothly into Pitkins' hand it went without notice, but when a flip of a lever caused it to grow to a monstrous four feet in length, the display was anything but subtle.

Pitkins rushed forward while the deputy appeared to question what his eyes were telling him and stabbed him directly through his throat. He then grabbed the deputy by his hair to prevent him from falling and used him as a temporary shield while he breathed deeply and then sent a side kick flying directly into the trachea of a man rushing him like a bull.

His windpipe crushed so quickly he could make no sound as he toppled over to the ground.

Pitkins let his shield go and immediately introduced his left dagger to his left palm. He adjusted it to sword length as two men came rushing him from each side. He squatted down until his butt touched the ground and then thrust his body upwayrds with a loud "HUMPHH!!!" coming from his lungs as he shot his arms out laterally and poked each man through the tummy with cold steel.

He lunged towards an incoming man and brought his left sword down across his neck at an angle, followed immediately by the sword's twin brother, slicing through the carotid and cutting all the way down to his chest.

He then sucked air more vigorously than a whale and then exhaled loudly as he moved towards a group of incoming attackers with a series of tornadic twists and turns that presaged the helicopter blade.

He hacked off several legs and disemboweled four people until just one lone man was standing uninjured. He shrieked and went running down the street, appearing to have decided on early retirement.

Pitkins heard a groan and went towards it like a dog towards a bone.

The man had both eyes fully open, but his mind somehow seemed absent from them.

"I bet you'd love a little of this right now, wouldn't ya?" Pitkins asked, placing a small sample of Spicy Green near his nose.

The man salivated upon sensing the pungent smell.

"It'd take the pain down a notch or two, wouldn't it?" Pitkins inquired.

He took a quick look around him and then squatted down to one knee. He saw some blood coming out of the man's mouth.

Pitkins put his hand on the edge of his deep abdominal wound and then placed the Spicy Green near the man's nose.

"Your choice, pal. This or this!"

The man screamed in agony as Pitkins pressed down on the gut wound.

Pitkins dropped his face down to where his eyes were just an inch away from the man's.

"Is she here?"

The man's eyes twitched back and forth, as if Rucifus was standing directly over him, threatening something even worse than toying with his gut wound if he opened his trap.

Deciding Pitkins was the more imminent threat, he said, blood sputtering from his lips, "Earlier . . . maybe still, if you hurry. HUUUUH!" The man sucked in a greedy portion of air for his last breath, like a man making the most of the last call at the bar.

Pitkins closed the man's eyes and sprinted toward the shrubs.

As he navigated the bushes and edged towards the first sentry, he envied the Metinvurs. This would have been their element, their world. Yet, he felt like a fish on dry land. Open combat was his game, and yet Donive's life was going to depend on more than just charging and slashing.

As he continued slowly through the shrub bushes, he saw he was near the end of this cover and facing a large open yard. He reduced his speed even further, taking care that each movement would not crunch a twig or do anything else to alert half of mankind to his location.

Once he was down to a few inches of cover left, he cautiously spread the branches just enough to give him a peek of what he was up against.

He halfway regretted it. The front yard looked like a castle courtyard filled with an army ready to go to war against an approaching invader. There had to be at least fifty people, and while he didn't have time to do a written inventory of their weaponry, it looked like everyone had a club, knife, chain, or sword, and it looked like there were a few crossbows to boot.

His heart began to pound. He didn't care if he died. He had faced death with a sneer many times on the battlefield after his family had been killed, half wishing he would be felled by a worthy opponent. But there was a sweet, helpless innocent life depending upon his performance and not a damned soul in the world he could summon to help him.

Sure about that?

His left eye wandered down to his front shirt pocket. He hated what he saw Spicy Green doing to this town, but he had heard enough about its effects to realize that it was something he would have loved to give his Nikorian troops before a major battle. They had often drunk savitas before large battles, a bitter herb that could just about make you retch but that gave enhanced energy for hours. Its disgusting taste removed any serious risk of addiction, a protection he saw Spicy Green did not have.

But he had had a long day, and even if he had not had his energy drained by the combination of his prior fights and the soul-sapping adrenaline of constantly thinking about what Donive could be enduring at this very moment, he knew that what lay in the yard before him would be a suicide mission.

You owe it to Donive to do whatever it takes to get her!!

The judge ruled, and Pitkins poured a little Spicy Green into the palm of his hand, waited for a couple of the men in the yard to start talking, and then sniffed up the contents.

For five seconds, he felt nothing, and he wondered what in the world the big deal was, but then like lightning falling from the sky and striking the energy center of his brain, it hit him full force, knocking him back a couple inches as his mind rocked from the tsunami of energy that had just entered his body.

The most energetic, adrenaline-rushed moment he could think of suddenly felt like a nap in the shade compared to what he felt now. He could see the god Leol smiling wickedly at him:

You will find no peace until you avenge your family, but first you must find Donive. I will help you.

He remembered the oath he had made upon finding their bodies that he would avenge them, something he had regretted bitterly, as there was no way he could ever track down the Varco. It would be like chasing a cloud. But he had made it, and it was widely believed that Leol left no man in peace who failed to fulfill his oath, though some said he enjoyed helping people fulfill them.

Suddenly his mind cleared, the long-ago oath being brushed aside like a simple task on a to-do list that must make way for something more pressing.

He remembered the one time he had seen the statue of Leol. He was six years old, and the large, snarling face had given him nightmares for years. Now it seemed as if that face turned into dust and went racing into Pitkins' ears and infused itself into his soul.

"GRRRRRRRRR!!!!" he shouted like an enraged bear as he came shooting out of the thicket, a low sound that vibrated his vocal chords at depths he had never come within an octave of.

"Over there!" a man shouted nervously.

Pitkins sliced the first man in half with a scissor strike, the two swords coming towards each other at the man's waist.

With a quick expansion of air in his lungs and a whippy snap of his lat muscles, both swords went shooting forward into a man's chest with a speed he had never approximated in his best practice sessions.

Pitkins couldn't even believe his own eyes, as he watched himself pull out the two swords so quickly it was as if they had never even been there, and as he immediately spun to his right while stooping to one knee and bringing both swords around in a perfectly horizontal arc.

A chef would have turned green with envy as Pitkins' two swords cut the man into three slices so straight not even a geometer could have found fault with them, but instead would have cited them as proof of the existence of perfectly parallel lines in the natural world.

His breathing was deeper, calmer, and yet more explosive when needed than he had ever felt it in his entire life. He remembered one of his first sword masters telling him that the legendary masters of old could beat a hundred of the best swordsmen of modern times because modern man was too lazy to develop proper breathing, it being a discipline with little show value.

But now it seemed to Pitkins as if his entire body was one giant lung, gulping up greedy amounts of air at will and using it like coal in a furnace to fuel massive amounts of explosive energy.

He ran straight towards his next opponent, already calculating his next moves in advance. He jumped up into the air and planted a nose-shattering kick to the man's face, stuck his sword into the man's right trap muscle, and then vaulted over him, slashing his throat in the process.

He heard the creak of a finger on a crossbow trigger and immediately leaned backwards till his head touched the ground. An arrow whizzed over him and buried itself in the throat of a portly beast with a club in his hand.

"Watch it, Randy!!" a man cried out in alarm.

Pitkins sprang to his feet and charged at a skinny rail whose eyes grew wider than his torso when he saw he had been singled out, apparently lamenting his calculation that some other bastard would take this maniac out before he got a scratch on him.

Pitkins brought his right sword down towards the man's neck at an angle. The skinny rail somehow managed to jerk his own sword up to block it. A half-second at most passed before Pitkins' left sword came down and sliced the man's hand off neatly at the wrist.

Pitkins then spun to his right, disemboweling a muscular, tattoo-covered hulk heading straight for him, squatted to his right knee, and then brought his left sword around and sliced off the skinny rail's left leg at the meaty part of the thigh, severing the femoral artery.

He was performing many sequences from the fourth and fifth of the Death Dances, as these were designed for situations involving large numbers of opponents. One of their chief principles was training the body to never attack more than a second or two in any direction before reversing, in order to keep as many opponents at bay as possible.

He put his two swords over his head in an X shape, as he sensed an attack from behind, and when a club lodged there, he appreciated having followed his hunch. He stood and jabbed his right sword through a man's heart before spinning around and beheading the man holding the club.

He brought his left sword up to block an incoming club attack, but the combination of the weight of the club and his inadequate time to properly position his feet caused the club to knock the sword out of his hand.

He leaned back, however, just in time to cause the club to sweep through air rather than crash against the side of his head. He immediately stepped forward and sliced through both the man's right arm and torso, cleaving him completely in half.

A club smacked hard against his right thigh. Upon contact he immediately lifted it and side-kicked the man right in the throat and then brought his sword down in a massive overhead swing that cut the man from skull to groin, a feat many a warrior bragged about around a late-night fire, but that was thought to be purely legend.

A club smashed against Pitkins' back, and he immediately went with the direction of the blow, somersaulting across the ground and then delivering a straight thrust into the belly of a man so fat Pitkins wondered momentarily if he would ever extricate it.

He pulled it out just in time to use an upward slash against the chest of a man who was coming at him with an overhead club attack. He didn't have time to position his feet for proper torque, but the slash still cut several inches deep in a long, two-foot gash that left the man hollering like a banshee.

When his opponents made the mistake of crowding in too closely but without executing any well-planned attacks, he unleashed a series of vicious spinning attacks, and within less than a minute, bodies were strewn about.

A club hit Pitkins on the back of his head, and though he immediately moved his head with the blow, he knew it had been a nasty one.

He thanked the deliverer of that message by whirling around and hacking both of his legs off in a single chop.

Yet, as soon as he did so, another club struck Pitkins in the back of his head.

He felt no pain, yet could properly sense the seriousness of the last two blows due to the blood trickling down his scalp and neck.

He whirled around, cutting the man in two and hacking a large chunk out of the man next to him. He properly sensed another blow coming towards his head, and he ducked, spun around and hacked the right leg off a man and then immediately turned around and jabbed his sword through another man's stomach.

"He's crazy!" a man yelled. Pitkins noticed his opponents were beginning to keep their distance. They surrounded him, and he quickly spun, appraising his adversaries. It seemed they were down to a dozen or so. Bodies lay everywhere, but he suspected some must have skedaddled, as he didn't think he had killed the full difference between the original army standing ten minutes ago and the paltry dozen men left.

"HEY PITKINS!"

Like a wild lion stopping its feeding frenzy to identify the source of a minor interruption, he glanced up towards the noise, and in a moment felt his strength evaporate.

There Rucifus stood on the balcony with a large knife to a crying, bruised Donive's throat.

"DONIVE!!" Pitkins shouted. He saw her chest heave with a sob, but she didn't dare speak, as the knife was pressed too closely to her throat.

Pitkins saw a small adjustment in Rucifus's line of sight. His muscles urged him to respond immediately to the threat, which he could tell was to his right and slightly behind. But his heart took over his warlike spirit, and after feeling a large crash against his skull, everything went black.

Chapter 30

Righty took his time on the way back to his new ranch. He figured it might be at least a day or two before Harold came back with pholungs, and so he might as well enjoy a little time in the country.

He had expected to be bored as heck on the way back from Pitkins' dojo. After all, traveling through the mountains on horseback to his main ranch wasn't something he was about to try, nor was riding through bandit country to the east.

He figured a slow stroll back to his new ranch, maybe camping underneath the brilliant night stars a couple times, would be a personal vacation for him and an opportunity for a little soul-searching.

He rode back to his old shack that he used to call a house but that was smaller than Janie's walk-in closet at his new place. He tied up Susanna and took a stroll through the place he had planted his first crop.

"It all started here," he told himself aloud.

He walked by the place some young punk at Eddie's school had hanged himself after a friend had fallen fatally from a large horizontal branch. For reasons he couldn't have explained unless perhaps deep under hypnosis, he found himself climbing up the tree, and then, with his heart lurching in his stomach, he crossed the long, horizontal branch that had been the cause of one of those young boys' downfall—quite literally.

His mind briefly wandered to Eddie. Had he been too young to go abroad for boarding school? No, he couldn't have been, because there was no being too young to get ahead in life. He had learned that the hard way, but Eddie would get some safe, cozy business job, and by then, maybe, just maybe, he would too.

He climbed up the tree on the other side and found the small fort Eddie had built. "Little guy was obsessed with wizards, that's for sure," he said aloud, admiring the artwork.

He wanted to take a stroll through town, maybe past the lumberyard, see what his old buds were up to, but he knew a trip down memory lane with them would end with ten empty beer jugs, a mean hangover, a resumption of his old habit, and probably a lot of tongue-wagging that would reveal quite a few things best left unsaid.

The very thought of such foolishness made him realize it was time to get going. This town had little in the way of sweet memories to offer him. He had seen it as a pit stop on the way to greatness during early high school when he was just starting to dare to dream big, and by the time he was a senior he figured he would be living in an enviable mansion in an upscale portion of Sivingdel, married to Janie, and spending his days at the gym working on building the most legendary boxing career Selegania had ever seen.

But instead Ringsetter had become his prison and—

He began scurrying down the tree. The memories seemed to be increasing in intensity. This was a small town where small things happened to small-thinking people. He had way too much on his plate to start letting the virus that infested this place get into his system at a time like this when things were on a nice, upward trajectory but with storm clouds on the horizon. The men attacking his organization didn't sound like cops or rival thugs. They were trained killers and probably connected to the mysterious guest at his ranch.

Just what has he been up to lately anyway? Probably has half the men calling him "sir" by now.

As he trotted across the horizontal branch, the thought upset him so much he slipped.

He caught himself first with his left hand and then with his right, and unlike the skinny little runt who had taken the plunge from here, Righty was in tip-top shape, quite capable of squeezing out thirty pull-ups in a minute.

He yanked himself up and then stood and walked cautiously to the other side of the tree, descended it in a manner suggesting his parents were orangutans, and then went sprinting towards Susanna.

She was munching lazily on some grass and found nothing about the small town so objectionable.

Righty untied her, leapt on top, and went off at a brisk trot, avoiding a full gallop only because of fear of being spotted by someone who might recognize him.

As soon as he reached the countryside, he pushed Susanna almost to her limit, but then eased up on her when he twisted around and saw the town was way back in the distance.

Chapter 31

Righty camped that night but reached his mansion early the next afternoon. He was getting ready to enter the house when he saw something moving off to his right. He glanced and saw Harold flying just barely above the trees. He was clearly trying to get his attention. Otherwise, he wouldn't do something so foolish.

He almost turned and went to Harold first, but he knew Janie was going to be itching to see him, and if she saw him suddenly go sprinting out to the woods after a few days away it would raise more questions than Righty cared to answer.

As he entered the house, a servant told him she would go notify Janie immediately. Righty had almost forgotten he had a servant. She kept to herself mostly, and he had only hired her because she had worked there for the prior owner, and he couldn't bring himself to let her go. Her admirable work ethic seemed to make clear she didn't take her ongoing employment for granted.

Janie greeted him warmly, and Righty was most appreciative of the lack of nosy questions. He volunteered that the new store in Sivingdel was taking off admirably and that he expected to add a new store soon.

She looked deeply into his eyes and smiled.

"I'm proud of you. You make it happen," she added with a playful poke to his chest.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and minutes later they were making love happen.

Righty was beyond relieved when Janie said, "I didn't meet you yesterday, Rich. I can read you like a book. You're itchin' to get back to town. Well, go on, but say hi to our little angel first."

Righty went over to the next room and picked up Heather. She smiled as he picked her up, and he sat there for at least a half hour just rocking her in his arms.

He was now genuinely wanting to stay, but the allure of Harold's pending message was just too much.

"I should be back soon," Righty said, planting a kiss on Janie's lips.

She went back to a book she was reading, and Righty was glad not to detect any resentment.

Wondering if Janie might be watching from a window, he resisted the urge to bring Susanna to a gallop, but she trotted briskly to the woods.

Ten minutes into the forest, Righty was beginning to wonder if Harold had flown away, bitter at having been made to wait a couple hours, but then Righty felt the familiar gust of air that foretold Harold's landings.

He had never been gladder to see Harold. Being land-bound even just for these last couple days felt like a couple years.

"Harold!" he exclaimed jubilantly, and hopped off Susanna to go give Harold a big hug.

Harold seemed to tolerate rather than appreciate the hug, but Righty didn't care.

"How have you been?"

"We found six," Harold said, cutting straight to the point.

"Six?"

"Six pholung chicks. That's what you sent me for."

"Sent us for," said a konulan, flying by his head, laughing.

Harold shot him an annoyed glance.

"Hop on; I'll take you to them."

Righty leaped onto his back, and then Harold flew about fifty yards to the top of a large tree where around fifty konulans were racing back and forth, giggling with glee, dropping off worms for the new addition to the clan.

Harold approached cautiously and then did his best to hover still so that Righty could get a good look.

Six mean sets of eyes stared at him from behind long, sharp beaks that looked like weapons even at this young age. Worms were inhaled, rather than eaten, into the seemingly bottomless pits of these young savages.

Righty reached his hand forward to pet one of them and just barely avoided a vicious snap.

"Always so friendly?" he asked Harold.

"So far, yes. I took a few vicious nips putting them into a large bag I brought, and I've kept my distance ever since. They seem to be warming up to the konulans better than me."

"They're bringing home the bacon," Righty observed.

"They might not look like much, but give them a year or two under my guidance, and you'll have an invaluable addition of muscle at your beck and call."

"I'm indebted to you, Harold."

Harold shrugged slightly. "You're welcome," he said, sounding humble but pleased.

Righty looked at his watch and almost fell off Harold as panic set in.

"Crap! I'm due for a lesson in Sodorf City in just one hour. You think you can make it?"

Harold made a few authoritative clicking sounds to the konulans, which they seemed to understand, as they responded with chirps, and then Righty found himself hanging on for dear life as Harold began cutting through the air faster than Righty had ever seen.

"So worried about missing a lesson?" Harold asked, a newfound joy in his voice that suggested he was game for anything involving speed and adventure.

"Hey, I make this instructor mad, and there goes my instructor, and there go my combat skills, and then, someday, when I need them the most, as some thug puts his boot on my chest and raises a sword over his head, I'll think to myself, 'Man, I wish I wouldn't have lost my combat instructor!' Small mistakes, big consequences."

Harold continued pummeling the air without comment on Righty's philosophical insights.

Chapter 32

As Righty exited the woods on foot towards Pitkins' shop, he was relieved to see no exasperated Rucifus outside waving her arms about in truculent fashion. Now, if he could only find Pitkins to be without his newfound curiosity, he wouldn't have to invent stories about why Susanna was nowhere to be found.

He crossed his fingers for luck as he approached the shop. He found himself the curious one today as he noticed the door standing wide open. That was a first, as best he could recall, especially as there were no sounds of emanating conversation to suggest Pitkins was at the doorway in the process of excusing a client.

He double-checked his watch and saw he was right on time.

One step closer, and he realized something was badly wrong. The door wasn't just open but practically knocked off the hinges. He immediately pulled his sword out and adjusted it to business length with a quick SCHHNAP!!

He went charging into the store. It was completely wrecked. All the swords, daggers, and other weapons were gone; drawers were open and even scattered across the ground; and papers were strewn about the place. He crept through cautiously and found that even the sacrosanct dojo had been wrecked.

A lump traveled up to the top of his throat as he saw the mat where he had learned so much venerable knowledge had been hacked to pieces. Once he verified the entire place was empty, doubt and confusion clouded his mind for a moment, before a sudden epiphany hit him:

"RUCIFUS!!!" he shouted so loud anyone within a half mile would have heard him.

Sprinting outside, he suddenly screeched to an abrupt halt as he realized he was about to sprint to the home of a multibillionaire with half an army of vicious thugs at her disposal without so much as a sketch of a plan.

Don't you think it would be a better idea to talk to Pitkins first?

It sounded great for about a half second until he realized he had no idea where Pitkins lived.

He went running back to the woods, as it could hurt little to talk this over with Harold.

Harold was at the edge, ready to see what was the matter, his beagle-like nose having sensed Righty's unease.

After Righty explained what happened, Harold barked, "Get on!"

Righty didn't argue, but hopped right on Harold's back and was being flown at a speed so brisk the earlier velocity that had impressed him so much this afternoon seemed like a stroll.

For a moment, he almost rebuked Harold for flying straight across Pitkins' large estate out in the open without first sending the konulans to scope out the area, but he had a growing respect for Harold's judgment and didn't utter a peep.

When Harold landed right in front of Pitkins' front door, he announced, "Pitkins—Rich Simmers here!!"

He noticed the door was ajar and appeared to have been kicked open sometime recently, given a large indentation in the door roughly the size of a man's boot.

He proceeded inside, again calling out "Rich Simmers here!" several times.

He heard a soft whine coming from ahead, and he walked forward briskly to investigate.

His heart nearly broke as he saw the soft eyes of a beautiful Great Dane looking up at him. It was covered in blood and had clearly been beaten nearly to death but had somehow pulled through.

He again heard the soft sound reverberating from his nasal cavity like a gust of whistling wind.

As Righty squatted down and sat next to the beautiful creature, its eyes flicked back and forth, and its nose twitched, apparently trying to decide whether the guest was friend or foe.

Righty extended his hand very softly and lightly petted the beast's back.

"Water?" he asked.

A happy whimper answered yes.

Righty found a jar and then a bowl, filled it, and brought it to the animal.

It lapped it up greedily but whimpered again when attempting to stand up.

"Easy there, fella," Righty said softly, stroking his back. "Food?"

"Wuf!" the dog barked affirmatively and smiled.

Righty searched around the kitchen until he found a few scraps of meat and then brought them to the dog. He wolfed them down voraciously and then smiled.

"Pitkins?" Righty inquired.

"Mmmmm?" the dog whined with a query of his own, perhaps wondering if he was nearby.

"You just relax there, fella," Righty said gently scratching his ears. "I'll get you some more food, and then I'll go find Pitkins."

The dog looked hopeful.

Righty brought him some more meat and water and then gave a good-bye pat to the dog's head.

As Righty walked across the kitchen towards the door, a piece of paper caught his eye.

He turned, thinking it was likely to be nothing, but picked it up when he saw it was a note:

You're a stupid man, Pitkins, making it come to this. A man will come by your shop tomorrow to pick up three of your best swords. The bag of money you threw to the four winds will serve as down payment for the next ten swords after that. Once you settle that debt, you can have your cute blondie back.

Don't dillydally. I don't know what will be left of your princess if you do.

Sincerely,

You Know Who

"KASANI!!" Righty yelled at the top of his lungs. He sprinted outside and leapt atop Harold, planning on directing him to Rucifus's mansion immediately, but then caution marched to the front of his thoughts, demanding an audience before he made any major decision.

"Take me to the woods, Harold. We've got a major problem!"

Chapter 33

"Thompson," Righty said to a konulan, as soon as they landed, "go back to my ranch. Bring back all the konulans except five."

Righty could see he was in shock that Righty would leave so few konulans guarding the ranch and knew something urgent was afoot. He was off and out of sight in moments.

"You four," he said to the remaining konulans, "are about to embark on your most important mission yet. The wife of a very dear friend of mine has been taken by a very bad person. She needs our help. Bad things are going to happen to her if someone doesn't help her soon. And—"

His train of thought derailed as he realized his focus on Pitkins' kidnapped wife had caused him to forget about Pitkins himself.

Pitkins . . . where the hell are you, buddy?

He didn't know Pitkins well except for what he had observed during sword practice, but that had been more than an enough to develop the deepest respect Righty had felt for any man in his entire life.

So just what the hell would such a man do in a situation like this?

"He'd go kick some ass," Righty said aloud, answering his own question to the perplexity of his animal friends, who weren't privy to his private conversation.

"Harold, show the konulans where Rucifus lives. Have them surveil the premises for any word on Pitkins' and his wife's whereabouts. I'll wait here. There's nothing else I can do until I learn more."

Harold took off headed high into the sky. He was going to need some serious altitude to fly above the city without becoming a spectacle.

Righty spent the time uneasily walking around in a large circle inside the woods, his heart rate as high as if he was charging into Rucifus's mansion sword in hand, lopping off heads and tearing out guts.

More than once he considered heading over there without further waiting, but his desire to see this through successfully restrained him barely like a cage taking a beating from a wild animal inside struggling to get out.

Just when he thought he was going to have to either start heading towards Rucifus's home or go crazy, a konulan went flying by his ear, and Harold's welcome landing gust tickled his face.

"Whatta you got?"

"Pitkins is in jail," Harold said somberly.

"JAIL?! What in the blazes?! His wife was kidnapped for Kasani's sake!"

"The other konulans are still eavesdropping amongst the workers in the yard. They aren't particularly talkative today. We came as soon we had a morsel worth sharing. All the windows are closed, so no news could be gotten that way yet."

"That's it?! That he's in jail?!"

"He killed a bunch of people," little Billy spoke up.

"What?!"

"We couldn't get all the details, but it sounded like he basically turned Sodorf City into a war zone. He killed deputies, bouncers, and a huge chunk of Rucifus's thugs at her house," Harold said.

"Deputies?" Righty said with such bewilderment, looking away, it seemed the question was to himself.

"Does that really surprise you so much?" Harold said in a voice that sounded accusing but with a hint of jocular sarcasm.

He glanced uncomfortably at Billy. The konulans' playful, innocent nature made him feel uncomfortable talking about acts of violence in their presence, though he was sure they were all well aware of his recent rampage in Sivingdel.

"Yeah . . . but Pitkins is different. He's a good man. He's not like me."

"Maybe those deputies were on Rucifus's side," Harold responded.

"I've got to see him. Billy—can you lead the way to the jail?"

"I can go ahead of you and look for it. I'll fly right by your left ear if I find it. In that case, follow me. If I fly by your right ear, there's trouble."

"And what do I do then?"

"That's your decision," Billy replied with a series of chirps Righty thought might be laughs.

"Harold, keep checking back with the konulans at Rucifus's mansion. Once the others arrive, I won't be able to communicate with them, 'cause there'll be too many people around. Don't have them all congregate at Rucifus's. That would be a waste of time. Have them scour the entire city listening for Pitkins' name . . . and more importantly his wife's name. Until we know that, we don't really know who we're looking for."

Harold took off with a mighty flap of his wings and began a nearly vertical climb, while Billy—a far less conspicuous creature—enjoyed the benefits of his small size and went horizontally towards the city, ready to start looking for the jail.

Righty took off on foot bitterly noting the irony that while he had gotten first-rate transportation to Sodorf City, he was now relegated to a rank even below that of the common man, who typically had at least a horse to accelerate his terrestrial movements.

He walked along quickly, almost trotting, and as soon as he saw a carriage that looked available for hire, he hopped in, handed two solid gold coins to the driver, and said, "To jail."

He hoped Billy had seen him get inside the carriage and simultaneously felt foolish for thinking it would be such a Herculean task to find the jail. Perhaps his excessive use of aerial transportation had made him a bit forgetful of some of the niceties of land-based travel.

His worries about Billy getting lost evaporated when he suddenly saw him perched on his knee grinning. He then flew out of window but not before whispering into Righty's ear, "Don't worry; I'll be nearby."

Righty's heart was pounding heavier than ever. Pitkins wasn't even in this filthy business, and yet both he and his wife had fallen victim to it. It brought back to Righty's mind unspeakable fears that he had quelled recently with the purchase of his remote ranch for his wife but that now came back to his mind with full force.

If it can happen to someone not even involved in the business, it's only a matter of time until your turn comes.

His heart began to race even faster at this ominous thought. He felt partly responsible, even though he clearly had no collaboration in, or foreknowledge of, Rucifus's actions, but what he did know was he was going to rectify it or die trying.

"Here she is," a kindly voice said from ahead.

Righty snapped out of a daydream full of broken images he fought to repress—all belonging to Pitkins' grieving face or the corpse of his wife.

He looked at his watch. An hour had passed. He tossed another solid gold coin to the man and started to get out of the carriage but then stopped himself.

"How many more of these will assure I can find you here reserved for me throughout the next hour?"

"Oh, I think two would be sufficient."

"Great—here're three, and you'll have another three to take me back."

"Thank you sir!" the erstwhile reserved man said with enthusiasm.

Righty stepped out of the carriage a bit uneasily and headed towards the jail.

Two heavyset deputies looked at him suspiciously as he approached the main doors.

As he walked in, he was greeted by the soles of two boots pointed directly at him and the backside of a paper. A tuft of unkempt hair poking above the paper was the only other clue that there was a sentient being in the room.

The crumpled paper obscured most of the contents, but Righty saw the words "massacre," "Pitkins," and "bloodbath" more than once.

"Hehmmm," Righty said, clearing his throat lightly.

The paper lowered, and he saw a pair of cruel eyes glaring at him from behind a large pair of glasses.

"Yes?" was the flat reply.

"I'm here to visit a friend."

"You keep company with criminals?"

"No, sir."

"Then what's your friend doin' in a place like this?"

"That's what I aim to find out."

A deputy sauntered in with a hot mug of coffee, looked at his colleague and then the guest, and then proceeded over to a desk, but not without shooting a few sideways glances over at Righty.

"Who you here to see?"

"Pitkins."

If there had been tension in the room before, it now seemed like a relaxing foot massage compared to what followed once that seemingly harmless name issued from Righty's mouth.

The other deputy now stared directly at Righty with undisguised hostility beaming from his eyes. The eyes behind the deputy's glasses grew even crueler—a feat Righty wouldn't have believed possible seconds earlier.

"Friend of yours?" he asked, a threat ostentatiously in his voice.

"Of sorts. I've got business to discuss with him."

"He won't be conductin' any business ever again. The hangin's scheduled for next week."

"The hanging?"

"Did you just drop down from a cloud, boy? This man killed almost a dozen deputies and about twenty civilians beyond that. That means he swings, you see."

Righty felt panic wash over him, as he realized he had no plan of action, but a gut feeling told him not to do anything brash before he had found Pitkins' wife. Rucifus could probably pull some strings and get Pitkins off if he decided to play ball, but once he was dead—or if he escaped—his wife was as good as dead.

"Well, DAMN IT, he owes me money, GALLOWS OR NO GALLOWS!!" Righty thundered in a voice so loud he practically knocked the glasses off his inquisitor.

A long silence ensued, broken first by the footsteps of a deputy who poked his head in to see what the commotion was all about. He quickly figured one of the deputies had done the shouting and turned and left.

"Now you just cool your heels, son," the deputy said, moving his boots to the ground, setting the paper aside, and giving Righty his full attention.

He turned to the other deputy—"Chris, take him back there. He's got five minutes. If he tries any funny business, you know what to do."

"Yes, sir," the deputy said, standing, and he beckoned Righty to follow him with a scowl on his face.

Righty felt a sense of doom and gloom as he strode down the dank hallway, the hacking coughs of nearby inmates doing little to add a sense of cheer to the miserable ambience.

Just when a feeling of intense claustrophobia was about to set in, the deputy inserted a long key into a door, turned it with some struggle, and then opened up a creaking steel door.

"Five," the deputy said, looking at him with a juvenile sense of self-satisfaction.

When he saw the deputy show no sign of moving from the side of the door, Righty put a couple gold coins in his pocket.

"For a little privacy."

"You got it," he said with undisguised glee before quickly putting a frown back on his face.

Righty heard the deputy's footsteps growing more distant down the hallway as he walked inside and saw a lifeless body stretched out on a bed.

Righty, if anybody, had seen his share of aftermaths of whippings. After one fight in particular, a boxer at his school was visited by everyone from the gym for about a month while he recovered from a match that nearly cost him his life.

That, and perhaps that beating alone, prepared Righty for the pulverized sight before him.

Pitkins' usually trim, business-like face with a razor-sharp jawline was swollen into something resembling a giant piece of fruit. Both eyes were sealed shut with large, rat-sized lumps protruding around them.

The rest of his body was concealed beneath a blanket, but Righty figured the rest couldn't be much better.

He pulled a small stool over to the bed.

"Hey there, pal," he said, using a degree of familiarity that somehow felt fitting to the circumstances but that would have been unthinkable days ago.

A quick rasp from Pitkins' mouth suggested he had been startled, but with his injuries the best he could do was move his head slightly towards Righty at a speed that would have made falling molasses look like greased lightning.

"Simmers?" he rasped.

"Tried to duck on me, didn't you? You know we had a lesson planned today."

A slight rasp and a barely perceptible movement at the corners of Pitkins' mouth suggested some appreciation for the attempt at levity.

Righty cast a stealthy eye over his shoulder, got off the stool, and then leaned forward just a few inches from Pitkins' ear.

"Look, friend. I'd like to stay and talk longer, but the guards won't let me, and I don't think you're in any shape for it either. But I want you to know this. I'm gonna get you out of here, and I'm gonna find your wife."

Pitkins groaned in pain as he moved his head more in Righty's direction, where it appeared he just might be able to see him through a pair of razor-thin gaps in the bruising.

"Please," was all he could muster.

Righty felt a lump the size of an apple in his throat when he saw a clear substance trickling down the puffy mounds around Pitkins' eyes.

"What's her name, friend?"

"Donive," he rasped.

"Donive," Righty said back in confirmation.

"Can you stand a little good news?"

"Huh?" Pitkins rasped.

"Your dog's alive. I gave him some meat and some water. He'll make it."

Pitkins' grotesque face seemed to smile, and Righty felt the lump in his throat grow to the size of a watermelon. He coughed a couple times to regain his composure.

"Simmers?"

"Yes."

"Guh . . . green."

"Green?" Righty asked in bewilderment.

Rasp. "Healed dog. Spicy Green healed dog," he said amidst incredible rasping, leading to severe coughs.

"Spicy Green's illegal," Righty said cautiously, aware it had once been lawfully sold as a culinary spice in Sodorf City.

"Heals," Pitkins responded simply.

"Okay," Righty said confused.

"Bring," Pitkins rasped. "Bring Green."

"You want me to bring you Spicy Green?" he asked, fully understanding the question but thinking Pitkins had perhaps lost his mind.

Pitkins moved his head up and down slightly and then appeared to doze off.

Righty stood up, walked out, and began making his way down the hallway.

"I'll walk you out," the deputy said cheerily.

Chapter 34

As Righty walked out of the jail, his head was spinning, though he didn't know which was the greater cause—the images of the bludgeoned pulp that was left of his sword instructor or the fact that at this moment the biggest drug kingpin in all mankind was racking his brains trying to think of how he was going to quickly score some Smokeless Green for the last man on earth from whom he would have expected such a request.

He realized he had no better place to look than Pitkins' house, since he said it had healed his dog. As far as he knew, Spicy Green was nothing but Smokeless Green with a bit of pepper added to it, and he did not know of pepper to have any healing properties.

Would regular Smokeless Green work just as well?

As he got into the carriage, the irony dawned on him that it would practically be a tie between taking the carriage to the edge of town, walking to Pitkins' house, and finding Spicy Green (even if he found it there right away) and then walking back until he found a carriage and returning to the jail that way versus hopping on Harold's back right now, flying to his ranch and picking Smokeless Green right off the plant, and then flying back.

But he had no idea where Harold was at right now, and even if he did, hopping on a bird's back in the middle of town and taking off would draw a little more attention to himself than he cared for at the moment.

His anxiety lay not with Pitkins, however, but with his wife's situation. Every minute that passed without him finding her was an increase in the probability she would be killed, violated every way imaginable, or both.

Were the situation reversed, he would sure hope that as he lay there pulverized in a jail cell that his friend would move a hell of a lot more quickly to find Janie than he was doing to find Donive. Heck, her name was all he had to show for his efforts so far.

Just as he began to think this was a trifling detail, little Billy flew into the carriage and onto his lap. As Billy's face looked intently at Righty's, the theory occurred to him that while the little fellow's brain was sure small, it quite efficiently read faces because he could practically feel the little devil reading his mind.

He picked Billy up and whispered, "Donive. Her name's Donive."

He didn't have to say anything else. Billy flew out of the window with such a flutter the driver shouted, "Feel free to close the windows if necessary. Sounds like a bird's trying to keep you company."

"It's gone, thanks," Righty replied.

Giving her name to Billy and seeing his enthusiasm suddenly made him feel like that little pebble of information might turn out to be a gem after all.

Righty let that optimism sustain his otherwise low spirits to the edge of town, where he then told the driver, "Here're three gold coins to wait an hour. If I'm not here, they're yours. If I am, I'll give you double what I paid last time for trip to the jail."

"Thank you, sir!" the man replied, pocketing the money so quickly it appeared he was worried Righty might change his mind at any second.

As soon as a look over his shoulder confirmed he had walked out of sight from the carriage, he yanked his boots off and then began to sprint towards Pitkins' house.

A gust of wind came by him, and the next thing he knew he was looking right at Harold.

"Aren't you supposed to be watching Rucifus's house?"

"There's nothing I can do that the konulans can't, and in fact they're far more useful than I am during daylight. But as for right now, you appear to need a lift."

Righty's quick jump onto Harold's back was his answer.

Several minutes later, he jumped off with five feet still between him and the ground and went sprinting into the house.

The dog flinched momentarily before seeing it was the man who had given him water and meat earlier, and he quickly lay back down.

Righty considered it a good omen when a bag lying on the kitchen table almost immediately caught his attention. He sniffed its contents cautiously from a few inches away. It certainly smelled different than Smokeless Green, but the spicy odor stinging his nostrils left him little doubt it was the substance Pitkins asked for.

He took another look at the dog and the amount of blood caking its coat. He squatted down and saw the remnants of a huge gash on its head where the blood had to have come from, but rather than a large open wound there was nearly fully healed flesh.

"How you feelin' there, fella?"

"Wuf!!" and a smile were the reply.

Righty brought the dog some more meat and water and told him softly, "Just take it easy there. I'll be back."

The dog smiled and then began wolfing down the meat.

Righty grabbed the bag of Spicy Green, tied it securely, put it inside a coat pocket, and then sprinted outside to Harold.

Harold knew Righty like a book and whisked him to the grove of trees closest to where the carriage was still waiting.

Righty arrived there nearly out of breath, hopped in the back, and threw several gold coins into the man's hand. The carriage took off.

When Righty made it to the jail, the sun had set nearly completely, and darkness was quickly gobbling up what little was left of daylight.

Righty walked up promptly to the jail door, but when he attempted to turn the door it wouldn't budge.

He knocked loudly, and after a few minutes a small peephole appeared where before there had been only wood.

"You again?!" a gruff voice asked.

"I've got some papers I need Pitkins to sign, or I'll be out a pretty falon."

"The hangin's next week, not tomorrow morning! Come back then, and not a second sooner!!"

The peephole slid shut with a clack as loud as the man's exclamation marks.

Righty knew that short of kicking the door down, he had certainly reached a dead end.

When he turned around and saw the carriage had taken off leaving him stranded, he figured he had nothing better to do with his time than take a stroll around the jail.

As he headed behind the jai, he felt foolish for having expected to possibly see direct access to the tiny barred opening he had seen in Pitkins' cell. Instead, there was a tall fence with seemingly razor sharp spikes on top about twenty feet away from the wall.

Frustratingly, he could see the tiny openings from the cells.

He thought about waiting for Harold to give him a lift over the fence, but at that very moment he felt a wave of urgency that made even his prior scrambling about that day seem like a casual stroll around town. His mind went back to the deputy's cruel eyes, and he realized those eyes had soaked in every aspect of his appearance and carefully stored it.

And for what purpose?

If Pitkins is alive, it can only be because Rucifus thinks it convenient for him to be so. After all, no Pitkins, no swords.

She must see some pretty serious trouble on the horizon for her to suddenly care so much about having top-of-the-line swords.

His mind wandered back to the deputy and his purpose for scrutinizing his countenance so closely.

If Rucifus chose the city jail to be where she attempts to exert pressure on him, she's also going to have a very keen interest in knowing of any visitors he might receive.

With your build and Seleganian accent . . . .

As he realized Rucifus was probably mere hours from knowing of his visit to see Pitkins, and of his insistence on seeing him, the full cascade of his collaboration with Pitkins began to dawn on him.

You could end up not just losing your largest business contact but going to war with her.

And that was just half of it. His entire business had been simplified into two separate customers: Tats, who in turn supplied all of Sivingdel, and Rucifus, who was the biggest supplier in Sodorf City. The fact they were brother and sister didn't exactly help.

You could end up at war with the majority of the underworld in conjunction with an immediate loss in all your customers and ability to make money.

"For another time!" he whispered to himself harshly under his breath, as he began scaling the spikes. Seconds later, he was twelve feet off the ground and was one horizontal bar away from where the sharp spikes began.

There wasn't enough room for a foot and leg to be squeezed between the horizontal bar and the vertical spikes, but there was for a hand and an arm.

Surprising even himself, he yanked his body up with an explosive pull-up, and as he neared the height of the movement he pushed viciously with his feet against the vertical bars and threw his body into a cartwheel movement.

He braced himself for impact as he went flying over the spikes, but to his relief the soft ground spared his knees any damage. His feet stung as if they had been slapped with a wet rag, but he barely noticed as he made his way quickly, crouched like a cat, towards Pitkins' cell.

It felt like an eternity crossing the hundred yards to his cell, but once he was there he realized he was far from being out of the woods yet. If he spoke loudly enough to get Pitkins' attention, there was some risk a guard might overhear him.

Expecting a dozen dogs to start growling viciously the moment his knuckle made contact with the outside bars, giving them a quick three raps, his ears almost began to ring with the flood of adrenaline and paranoia sweeping over him.

Nothing.

Rap, rap, rap.

It sounded so slight it might be his imagination, but then he heard something trying to move in the cell below, accompanied immediately by a stifled groan.

He's awake . . . go for it, you fool!

He pulled out the securely tied bag, shoved it between the bars with some difficulty, and then let it plop down inside the dark bowels of the invisible cell.

Silence.

Then, in a voice so slight as to almost be inaudible, he thought he heard, "Thank you."

Righty turned to sprint back to the fence but then stopped himself.

"Pitkins?" he whispered.

"What?" he barely heard.

"Promise me one thing. Don't try to escape until I contact you. Otherwise, Donive's as good as dead."

"Deal," he thought he heard.

Righty then went back across the field in a low crouch at a speed approaching a brisk jog and then without hesitation leaped up against the bars and began to scale them.

He executed the same cartwheel motion, but this time the impact against the dirt road sent bolts of pain shooting through both of his feet and knees. He ignored it and began a brisk walk. It was nearly pitch black out, the sliver of the moon doing little to alleviate the victory of darkness.

With the most urgent task now completed, his mind immediately began to insist he ponder the ramifications of what he was doing:

Will Tats stand by you if you go to war with Rucifus?

Can you expect anything but war with Rucifus if you use force to rescue Donive?

This line of inquiry brought to mind his incredible lack of force at the moment.

Just what in the hell are you planning on doing—slashing your way through a small army of thugs, throwing Donive (whom you've never met) over your shoulder, and then riding off into the sunset?

The absurdity of it all frustrated him, and yet for the first time since he could remember he felt like he had a genuine purpose in all that he was doing, something that had eluded him for months now, as he accumulated wealth but not satisfaction and had not the slightest idea what his vision was for the rest of his life besides hoarding wealth and putting his family in danger.

He could fly Harold to his ranch and get several able-bodied men onto Harold's back and have them back—hell, he could probably convince the enigmatic combat genius at his ranch to come play a part with him.

But do you really want even more people learning about Harold?

And it wouldn't just be Harold, they would inevitably witness conversations with the konulans, the secret would soon spread far and wide, and he would lose his most important edge in this business.

And Pitkins?

And Donive?

A whir went past his ear, interrupting his thoughts. He quickly saw it was a konulan, and he turned into the first alley and began walking.

Five minutes later, he saw the konulan come back. Next thing he knew, Billy was hovering before him.

"News?"

"She's not at Rucifus's mansion, not anymore."

"But she's alive?"

"Unclear. I heard some of the guards outside the mansion say she had been taken elsewhere, shortly after Pitkins got clobbered."

"Anything else?"

"The konulans have arrived from Selegania. There are about 150 of us. We have started following everybody that leaves Rucifus's mansion. It's only a matter of time before they lead us to her."

"And just a matter of time before Rucifus gets weary with the whole thing and decides to slit her throat."

Silence.

"And Harold?"

"He's barking strict orders as usual, keeping us on our toes," Billy said rather good-naturedly.

Righty felt some stress slide off his back at this mildly good news, but still felt he was carrying around a piece of lumber far heavier than any he had ever hoisted during his years at the lumberyard. He was exhausted, felt he had accomplished little today, and yet knew of nothing else he could do until he learned of Donive's location.

And he had no idea just what in the hell he would do once he learned it.

He flagged down a carriage and then took it to the edge of town and then headed towards the woods. He needed to rest and wanted to be completely alone except for updates from the konulans.

He lay out underneath the dim stars and closed his eyes.

Chapter 35

When Righty felt a gust of wind against his face, he thought he was still dreaming. Moments earlier, he had been flying around on Harold's back without a care in the world. No kidnapped lady. No choice between turning his back on a friend and losing a multibillionaire client, with whom he would probably be shortly at war. No choice between keeping this a secret from his most trusted subordinate and asking him openly to side with him against his own flesh and blood.

Just pleasant breeze.

Yet, when he dared open his eyes and saw Harold seated a few feet from him with business written all over his serious face, he knew dream time was over. It was still dark out. A quick glance at his watch revealed he had slept about five hours. Dawn would be fast approaching.

"We know where she is," Harold said matter-of-factly.

Righty jumped to his feet as quickly as if he were under attack. Then immediately felt an urge to go hide. This was too soon to be good news. He wasn't psychologically prepared. A subconscious part of him now realized the agony of uncertainty was still less terrifying than the moment of truth.

"Really . . . how?"

"Rucifus has some big mouths working for her. The konulans have been within earshot of every thug patrolling her yard and reporting to me every several minutes on their conversations. I already have a pretty good idea of what went down that night, but that's neither here nor there.

"Rucifus knows you went to jail, and she's mighty frightened about it. At one point, she had the window down and was talking to one of her subordinates and told him to go move Donive at once and triple the guard around her. She also told him that if Pitkins steps one foot outside that jail before coming to an agreement with her, Donive is to be killed immediately and that she is starting to think it would be best to kill her very soon if Pitkins doesn't come to his senses."

Righty saw Janie's face in front of him and suddenly recollected a nightmare he had before his blissful dream took over. She had stood over his grave with crying Heather, now a toddler. Heather asked her mother why her daddy had died. Janie's eyes had filled with tears, but the rest of the dream faded away when confronted with the current reality of the situation like darkness fleeing light.

He strained to recall whether her face had been approving or vindictive. Had she seen him as a dead hero or a dead fool who had abandoned his family to meddle in someone else's problems? Not even that relic survived. Sadness was the only clear emotion.

"Righty?"

"Let's do this," he said mechanically.

"Why do you care about him so much?" Harold asked.

Righty paused, knowing he didn't have a perfect answer. "Perhaps my fate, or a loved one's, will one day be in the hands of someone else." He paused. "She was rich before she met me. But I've turned her into a monster. She had to have bought up at least three-quarters of the nobles to be able to kidnap a nobleman's daughter and have her war-hero husband go to the gallows for trying to save her."

Harold studied Righty's face, which was studying the ground.

Righty looked up directly into Harold's eyes. "I'm responsible, Harold. Heck, we're responsible, if you want the honest truth."

Harold looked away briefly.

"Let's do this," Righty said, the mechanical apathy replaced with genuine determination.

He hopped onto Harold's back and immediately took off.

"Lucky for us, it's still dark," Harold said.

Righty almost argued, before recalling Harold's night vision.

A konulan flew to Harold and emitted a quick series of chirps before flying back towards town.

"We've got fifty konulans either following Rucifus's thugs or reporting back to me on their location."

Harold adjusted his direction slightly each time a konulan approached him chirping.

In what seemed like cruelly insufficient time for Righty to prepare psychologically for what was to come, he heard the dreaded words from Harold, "They're right below us."

"Are they with Donive or en route?"

"En route," Harold replied without hesitation.

There couldn't be a worse leader in charge of tactical operations, Righty told himself gloomily.

If you wait till they arrive, you'll be dealing single-handedly with a larger force. But if you attack now, you won't be able to find Donive.

"Are they our only means of finding her . . . was an address or any other clue given?"

"None."

Righty groaned.

"All right. We wait till the carriage stops in front of a house, and then we strike. I'm gonna need your help, buddy."

"You got it."

Harold soared in lazy circles, easily keeping up with the plodding carriage.

Righty's spirits vacillated from terror to boredom and then back.

Then, when he least expected it, "They've stopped."

Righty didn't have time to bark any orders, and he barely had time to grab onto the strap around Harold's back and hold on for dear life as he abruptly dropped into a vertical nose dive.

Just when Righty thought his insides were going to explode from the pressure, Harold abruptly tilted upright. A fountain of blood shot out from where Harold extended his right talon and severed the head of a man just about to knock on the door.

Harold then flared his wings out wide, bringing them to a stop so quickly Righty felt his back was about to snap.

But he didn't miss a beat between that and rolling off of Harold. No sooner had his feet touched the ground than his hands went behind his neck, pulled out his dagger, and then extended it to business size.

He barely suppressed the desire to let out a warlike yell, which would have done wonders for relieving the unbearable tension but been less helpful at keeping the attack a surprise.

"Watch out!" a voice from the carriage cried a half second before Righty's right boot pulverized the lock on the door.

Five terrified faces looked up from glasses of whiskey and a game of cards.

Righty brought his sword horizontally across the closest man's neck and cut off his head so cleanly it stayed in place for a second before tumbling off like an improperly balanced decoration.

The next man was halfway out of his chair before Righty brought his sword straight down onto the man's skull, slicing it neatly in half.

The next man made it all the way out of his chair, and had his sword partially out of its sheathe when Righty crashed his boot into the man's belly. The second Righty's boot touched the ground he brought his sword across horizontally cleaving the man in two at the waist.

He blocked an incoming sword strike to his neck a blink before it would have sent a geyser of blood spurting from his jugular.

His block knocked the sword out of his opponent's hand, and Righty brought his own sword down diagonally cutting the man in two from his left shoulder to his right ribs.

The final man held his sword out defensively with horror painted all over his face. The momentary pause in action allowed Righty to hear some terrifying screams from outside. He barely resisted the urge to see what Harold was up to, realizing even just one peek might result in him being the one screaming.

Righty feinted convincingly with a forward lunge. As the man's sword came across center, facing downward to block the thrust, Righty quickly retracted his sword, brought it up over his head, and then brought it downward across the man's sword hand, severing it instantly.

He then lunged forward and poked his sword through the man's heart.

"HELP!!" came a frightened scream from a nearby room.

Righty kicked open the door so hard splinters went flying.

As he stepped inside, he would have been a dead man if a ready opponent had been within striking distance, for the sight he saw stole his breath from him.

Never before had he seen such beauty, such dignity. That she possessed it in light of unspeakable trials left him all the more spellbound. Her blond hair and blue eyes made him think he was surely dead from a lethal wound and was now witnessing a goddess come to soothe his soul.

He blushed when her alert eyes seemed to read his dumbfounded face, yet they were without judgment.

Her hands were tied above her with a rope fastened to the ceiling, and only by standing on her tippy-toes did she avoid being completely suspended in the air.

On the ground, face as red as an apple, hands shaking like leaves, was a man frantically trying to hoist his pants up over his nude legs.

Righty reduced his sword to dagger size with a quick snap and began walking towards the man with a dread determination in his eyes.

"NO!" shouted the man in horror, as if he had already guessed the specifics of his fate.

When he stuck a hand out to keep Righty away, he quickly grabbed his wrist and sliced the man's hand off as casually as though it were the top of a carrot.

He then looked deeply into his eyes as he grabbed a handful of unmentionable material and then squeezed violently.

"AHHHHHH!!!" the man screamed.

"Don't worry," Righty said coldly. "It's the last time you'll ever feel pain there."

A quick slice proved the point, and then the man went into convulsions of pain and writhing.

Righty picked up Donive's dress from the floor and walked over to her with a business-like gait he hoped would reduce her shame.

With a quick motion of his sword, he severed the rope above her. With a surgeon's proficiency, he grabbed both of her wrists and quickly hacked the rope between them.

He then handed her dress to her and immediately turned his back.

Only when he felt her arm encircle his, did he dare turn back towards her.

"Who are you?" she asked, a confused look on her face.

"A student of your husband's, ma'am. Though I would like to consider myself a friend."

"Where is he?"

"There's no time to explain now. I need to warn you that you're going to see some things that will make you think you're dreaming. Please ignore them, and trust me."

Her magical blue eyes seemed capable of withstanding anything to Righty, but for a moment he saw them cloud with fear.

She nodded with grim determination and followed him.

She came to an abrupt halt when the scant moonlight revealed that her next step would place her onto the feathery back of some unknown beast, but Righty eased her indecisiveness by immediately lifting her off her feet, carrying her onto Harold, and then giving him a sharp little whistle to take off.

Donive grabbed onto Righty's hand so hard he was beginning to wonder if he would ever regain circulation.

"Easy there," he said, giving her a little squeeze back to hint that he didn't appreciate the vice currently probing the breaking point of his bones.

When she suddenly fainted, he couldn't believe his good fortune. Half of him was beaming with pride for being a fairytale knight in shining armor with the rescued maiden; the other half was anxious to get rid of a burden so that he could go find his friend before Rucifus's thugs pounded his skull the rest of the way in.

If there was anyone tailing them and who saw what happened, it was a race between that person to tell Rucifus and her sending someone to the jail, and Righty finding some place safe to deposit his golden treasure before returning there himself.

Harold seemed to read Righty's thoughts, as he arched his head backwards and said, "Where to?"

"Her house," Righty replied.

Righty's heart sank as he realized he was going to have at least one more bloodbath tonight before he could even steal a few hours of peaceful sleep, after which he could then attempt to grapple with the enormity of his involvement in this affair and his acquisition of a powerful enemy at the same time his organization in Sivingdel was being infiltrated by some kind of shadowy, unstoppable force hacking its way to the top as easily as a swordsman through pillows.

Yet he realized he was going to have to get Donive some place out of Sivingdel. He knew intuitively Pitkins would rather Donive be tucked away somewhere safe, even at the expense of him having to fend for himself at the moment Rucifus's thugs arrived at the jail to finish off what little was left of him.

Once Harold set Righty down, it seemed he was outside his own body watching himself from afar as he hopped off and ran into Donive's house and came back with the large dog in his arms.

"Have you lost your mind, Righty?" Harold inquired.

"Possibly, but this here fella's comin' with us."

"One bite to my back, and I'm chucking all of you off."

Righty smiled, hoping he could convince Harold he was joking, although he knew he wasn't.

The dog's eyes shot rapidly back and forth with fear, but he then began to whine happily once he saw Donive.

"Wuf!" he shouted joyously.

This momentary calm was sufficient for Righty to get the dog onto Harold's back without being bitten.

Once he and his two passengers were somewhat secure, Righty tied himself to the main strap with a second strap he had the foresight to put there a long time ago, and then held on to his two guests tightly.

"To my house."

Righty experienced a moment of surreality when Harold asked, "Which one?"

"Where my wife lives."

Harold took off.

Chapter 36

When Harold arrived at Righty's house an hour later, he saw no lights on. As Harold touched the ground and Righty got off, the potential for misinterpretation of his late-night arrival with a goddess-like beauty in his arms suddenly dawned on him.

"Stay here, and try to stay very relaxed. I'd prefer she not wake up before I talk to my wife."

Harold looked slightly annoyed but didn't argue.

Righty went dashing upstairs and woke Janie.

"Honey?" Janie said groggily.

Righty brought a lantern from the hallway and tried to quickly plow the soil for the seeds he was about to plant.

To his delight, he saw she was quickly becoming alert as she looked at his face; then, his gratitude quickly vanished as her face turned to concern and then to horror.

"Babe . . . you've been bleeding . . . what's going on? You slaughter a cow tonight?"

He started to bring his hand to his face to inspect, then realized the futility once he remembered the reason for the blood.

"Babe . . . I need you to listen to me very carefully, 'cause I don't have time to explain. I had to help out a friend whose wife was kidnapped by some very bad people. They were going to kill her if he didn't do what they wanted and then kill him.

"I managed to get her, but he still needs my help. Kasani willing, I'll be back here in a few hours. If not, know always that I love you."

Janie began to cry immediately.

"Don't go!"

Righty didn't have time for this. He grabbed her by the shoulders gently but firmly and looked directly into her eyes.

"Babe, please just listen. These are good people. They didn't look for trouble. Trouble found them. What if I were being held somewhere, and the man who could save me was having this conversation with his wife? Would you want her to give him her blessing and best wishes?"

Janie gulped. She had never cared much for hypotheticals.

"We may need to give them a safe home for a while. I'll explain everything soon."

He began walking quickly downstairs, hoping to reach Harold before Janie saw him.

By the time he was reaching the main door he began to hear Janie's reluctant footsteps coming after him from upstairs.

Harold's face revealed he would be happier the sooner he was done babysitting, and he looked genuinely happy when he saw Righty pick Donive up and bring her to the porch.

Mervin quickly followed, tail wagging enthusiastically.

Righty gave a quick little whistle to Harold and then motioned towards the barn. In less than two blinks, he had disappeared into the night.

Righty turned around and was walking towards the door, golden-haired treasure in his arms, when Janie approached.

Janie shot Righty a quick glance, and he knew immediately she had swallowed some barb on the top of her tongue, perhaps, Not motivated by her divine beauty, are you?

But her heart seemed to melt with the soft whining of the dog, and the next thing Righty knew Janie was instructing him what room to place her in, and she didn't even object as Mervin entered the house following them closely.

Once Donive was placed into bed, Righty said with a smile, "Now, I know you'll wish me the best because it's her husband I aim to go get. And believe me, he'll keep a closer eye on her than you could ever dream of."

This brought a reluctant smile to Janie's face, and she immediately gave Righty a bear hug.

"Go get her husband," she said, a smile on her face and tears streaming down her cheeks.

He sprinted outside the house, and as he headed towards the barn, Harold came to him, flying low and fast.

He flared his wings and brought himself to a stop for a second so Righty could hop on.

The next second they were both headed towards Sodorf City.

Chapter 37

For a moment, Righty considered making a detour at his ranch to pick up a couple swordsmen but quickly decided against spilling his secret yet again and at the cost of a couple hours' time to boot.

Already he was beginning to see the slightest hints of dawn's arrival. It appeared Harold noticed as well, for his wings began to beat the air even more feverishly.

Righty took inspiration from Harold's indomitable resolve and steeled himself for one last battle, fantasizing about subsequent sleep the way a man in the desert would about water.

For now, he warmly greeted the flow of adrenaline pulsing through his veins, for he was going to need every ounce of energy he could get his hands on. He was also grateful not to have any immediate access to Smokeless Green, as he suspected the temptation would have been too much, but the thought did occur to him that perhaps keeping a small amount with him for emergencies might someday save his life.

A decision for another day.

He had begun to recognize the topography enough around the border from his slower journeys on horseback to know when he had crossed it, and at this very moment he saw Sodorf greet him, though he knew not whether it would be a fatal embrace.

While dawn continued her persistent arrival, the terrifying realization came to him that she would most likely beat him to the jail.

"There's no stopping till the jail," Righty said to Harold. "But bring me in from behind and drop me off in the alley."

What seemed like just moments later but was more like twenty minutes, Righty began to see faint outlines of buildings below. To Harold, however, they were in crisp detail, without serious obfuscation from either darkness or distance.

When Righty least expected it, he suddenly heard Harold say, "Strap in."

Righty ducked underneath a second strap on Harold's back and grabbed onto it until his knuckles turned white.

He barely suppressed a loud scream as Harold went descending mercilessly at a nearly vertical angle.

With practice, he was beginning to pick up the subtle hints of Harold's sudden stops, and as soon as he felt the angle of Harold's body change, he braced himself.

The foreknowledge still did little to alleviate the overwhelming force against his body as Harold came to an abrupt stop, but he immediately rolled off Harold and told him, "Stay here. Even if someone sees you, stay here. If anyone approaches you, deal with them."

Harold looked genuinely surprised but nodded.

Righty then went sprinting down the alley to the edge of the jail.

It was now light out, though just barely. An orange glow bathed the air, but darkness had not made a full retreat. Traffic was light. A few coaches on the street in the distance but none close.

Righty now had more adrenaline than he knew what to do with. His heart was galloping a mile a minute, and his hands were slightly shaking.

Rap, rap, rap. Righty's fist thundered against the door.

Silence.

RAP, RAP, RAP!!

Righty's fist shook the door and maybe even the wall along with it.

Silence.

Righty was prepared to knock again, but then it sounded like a chair had been moved. Then, footsteps were coming towards the door.

Silence.

Just as Righty's fist was poised to strike even harder blows the peephole slid open.

Expecting an irritated explanation that visiting hours had not yet begun, Righty quickly grew uneasy when there was no statement from the owner of the eye peering at him and even more so when the eye began scanning its surroundings. It seemed far more interested in determining whether the visitor was alone.

Acting on a hunch, Righty peered over his shoulder. Out of a building directly across from the jail no fewer than a dozen men were coming out and had little distance to traverse before reaching him. Most had swords, though a few had large clubs that looked fully capable of splintering a man's skull into about a hundred pieces.

Righty reached his hand back to his sword, unsheathed it, extended it, and then jammed it right through the open peephole. Only a brief yelp issued as it made contact with the man's eye and then buried itself several inches into his brain.

Righty kicked the door harder than he had ever kicked anything in his life. Nothing.

BAM!! Nothing.

He spun around and saw the men were picking up the pace and were only several yards away. Righty risked one more kick. The door broke at the top hinge and tilted inward slightly but otherwise remained intact.

Righty spun around with a wild slicing motion. A man jumped backwards in time to save his guts, but took a nice slice across the surface of his belly.

Righty could immediately tell by the man's reflexes these men likely had some training.

He breathed in deeply, soaking up all the oxygen he could and readying his body to explode.

One of the men came in with a vicious thrust. Righty parried it quickly and sliced the man's head off neatly with a horizontal slice.

He then immediately dropped low and went for the legs of the next incoming attacker. The man leapt up into the air like a child with a jump rope, but Righty immediately brought his sword back in the opposite direction, lopping off both feet at the ankles.

He howled like a banshee, watching his feet hit the ground moments before his detached body.

Righty met the next incoming attacker with a stiff thrust to the heart. The man was wearing mail, giving Righty's sword the chance to demonstrate the elite handiwork of Pitkins as it pierced through the armor with enough speed to punch a hole in the man's heart in spite of the minor speed bump.

Righty suddenly felt an arm wrap around his throat. "KILL HIM!!" the man shouted.

Righty stomped on the man's right foot and then stepped out into a wide, low stance, simultaneously bringing the tip of his sword down into the man's right calf, piercing all the way through and then slicing a chunk of it off.

He then stepped behind the man with his left leg and twisted his own body into the man, knocking him off balance. He plunged his sword through the man's heart on the way down.

Righty instinctively ducked, a movement he had often found beneficial in the ring whenever he was unsure of the next attack but knew it was coming.

A sword whistled over his head, and he then brought his sword across both the man's legs at the thighs slicing them off. He then rotated around and thrusted at a man's gut who was charging him.

The man succeeded in parrying, but Righty quickly rotated his wrists, went with the momentum of the parry, brought his sword up over his head, and then brought it down at an angle across the man's neck.

The man saw it coming and had his sword in the process of coming up to meet the attack, but Righty's sword landed one second too early for the man's defense, and he cut through his collarbone and down another foot or so diagonally, slicing multiple arteries.

Righty saw a moment's hesitation in the attackers' resolve, and he went charging towards the door. He leaped into the air and gave it another thundering kick. The top hinge came off completely, and the door tilted inwards even more.

Righty immediately turned around with a vicious horizontal slice and disemboweled two men in the process.

When the men retreated slightly, he again turned and kicked the door as hard as he could.

The lower hinge cracked but didn't come off, and the door tilted inwards even more.

He spun around with another slice but cut only air, as the men were still keeping a respectful distance, fear plastered all over their faces.

He was so taken off guard when his eye caught something falling from the sky that he couldn't help taking a step back and flinching.

Though his antagonists were jumpy, they thought it was a trick and grinned sarcastically at him, murder in their eyes.

Harold's talons plunged deep into two men's backs at three hundred miles per hour, and as he sent them flying towards the jail they collided with several of their compatriots.

Righty fell to the ground as the projectiles went flying over his head and smashed against the walls of the jail, their bodies exploding like pumpkins.

One man helped accomplish what Righty's now achy right foot could not, knocking the door off all remaining hinges and sending it flying into the bowels of the jail.

Righty didn't waste a moment. He sprinted inside, alarm bells now reverberating throughout the street.

The deputy he had bribed yesterday was there trembling almost to the point of convulsions.

"I had no part . . . none!!"

"Take me to Pitkins . . . NOW!!" Righty bellowed.

"Yes, sir. You're a reasonable man, and I'm a reasonable man," he said trotting down the hallway.

Righty was close behind him.

The deputy shoved a key into Pitkins' cell and opened it promptly.

He looked at Righty and again said, trembling, "I had no part . . . HONEST!!"

Righty hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to kill this quivering weasel.

"Rucifus might spare you if it looks like you went down fighting," Righty said calmly, sheathing his sword.

"No . . . PLEASE!"

Righty planted a quick jab and then a right cross against the man's eyes, hard enough to seal them shut for a few days, followed by an uppercut to the chin that sent the rascal onto his backside and sound asleep.

Righty turned his back to go into the jail cell, but then a frightening vision came to his mind:

Yes, sir, I saw him come right into the jail, covered in blood. He whacked me upside the head several times and then freed the prisoner.

Can you point to this man?

Yes, sir.

As Righty saw the now emboldened coward pointing towards him while he sat in a defendant's chair and Rucifus sat mockingly in the gallery, every person from the deputy to the judge in her pocket, he sighed.

"Sorry, pal." Righty lopped the man's head off with a quick overhead swing.

Righty ran into the jail cell, expecting the same pulverized heap that had been Pitkins the last time he saw him.

He lost his breath from the surprise. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, and while he certainly looked worse for wear, he looked more like a man who had taken a bad four rounds in the ring, rather than a man whose face had been used for target practice by an angry bull's hooves.

His face was still covered in bruises, but where two small boulders had once rested underneath his swollen eyes there were now two baby mice.

"Feelin' a little better there?"

Pitkins nodded with a sobriety that conveyed he was far from completely better. He stood with only great effort and shuffled rather than walked towards Pitkins.

"We'll catch up on a lot soon enough. Right now, we've got to scoot, so don't you dare argue with me," Righty said, bending down and scooping Pitkins up over his shoulder.

As Righty sprinted down the hall, he said, "Oh yeah, you're gonna have to forgive my untraditional form of transportation."

Chapter 38

In spite of the warning, Pitkins momentarily screeched to a halt upon seeing the monstrous bird but then kept going after seeing Righty fearlessly hop on the back and place a strap over his legs.

Pitkins belted himself in, Righty let out a whistle, and off they went.

In spite of the Spicy Green he had helped himself to once he heard the pounding on the door begin, Pitkins was still partly delirious from his recent beating.

"Biggest one I've ever seen," Pitkins remarked calmly, once they were at cloud level.

"Biggest what?"

"Pholung," Pitkins said, pointing to Harold. "You might be surprised to know this isn't my first time doing this."

"Oh?"

"That's a story for another day though."

The rest of the journey was silent, which was okay with Righty. He had his mind on bed like a runner eyeing the finish line towards the end of a grueling race.

When Pitkins realized Harold was starting to lower his altitude, he said, "I've got something I've gotta ask you. And if you refuse, there'll be no hard feelings. You've already done enough to indebt me for life."

"Shoot."

"Well . . . is there any chance you could help me go look for Donive tomorrow? Again I—"

Pitkins' voice started to crack.

"Donive?!" Righty said, feeling like a fool and just now becoming aware of the extent of his exhaustion, having failed to mention her. "Heck, you'll see her in about five minutes!"

"WHAT?!" Pitkins shouted with both enthusiasm and terror, something Righty attributed to a fear this was some twisted joke.

"Or three minutes, depending on how fast Harold flies," he said, giving Harold a playful pat on the back.

"What . . . you . . . ?"

"We'll have an awful lot to talk about tomorrow, friend. As for right now, I'll give you the basics. We're headed to my house. Donive's there. Your dog's there. You're gonna have the happiest reunion of your life. I'm afraid I won't be much of a host. The second I lead you to her, I'm headed to bed and plan to sleep for half a week."

"Sleep half a century, if you want! If you speak the truth . . . ." His voice broke off. "WHOOO!!!!" he shouted with the wild enthusiasm of a teenager. "I'll be indebted for two lifetimes!" Pitkins shouted.

"Pitkins?"

"Yeah?!" he asked enthusiastically.

"There are some things I'm going to have to tell you by tomorrow at the latest that . . . you're not gonna like. In fact, you're probably going to despise me. The way I see it, if I tell you now, I ruin your reunion. If I tell you tomorrow, you'll think I'm a liar and a deceiver. I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. So let me just ask you—do you want to know now or tomorrow?"

Pitkins' face grew somber, and then his eyes turned into demon-like slits the likes of which Righty had never seen and didn't particularly care to ever again.

"Was . . . how . . . is she?" he asked, the concern in his phrasing of the question revealing the unspoken questions.

"Do you want me to shoot straight and true with you? I'll do it, but you've got to tell me."

Pitkins closed his eyes for what seemed like a minute and then slowly nodded his head.

"She was tied up and as naked as the day she was born when I found her. Some fella was off in the corner hitchin' his pants up, but I don't know what all transpired. Don't really care to, to be honest. But he's a couple body parts shy of a man now, and it was with your sword that I took care of him."

Righty could see Pitkins was seething. "But . . . Pitkins, that wasn't what I was referring to . . . not in any way, shape, or form. What I've got to tell you has really nothing to do with that."

Pitkins looked at him for a long time and then said, "You're a drug smuggler."

"How did you . . . ?"

"I was growing increasingly suspicious by your obsession with security. The bandit threat to your ranch was feasible but never felt quite right. While your skills with a sword gave you the tools you needed to rescue me, only a man with some significant prior combat experience could have pulled that off under pressure.

"Killing's never easy the first time. I still remember my first battle," Pitkins said with a shudder. "There was a saying in the Sogolian army that your first battle gives you new eyes because they're never the same after your first kill. I've certainly seen an evolution in your eyes long before today," Pitkins said looking directly at him.

"I reckon if it had been bandits trying to rob your ranch that you had killed, you wouldn't have had any trouble telling me. So, it seems the fights you've been in were of a different nature.

"And then there was your reluctance to approach the day Rucifus cornered and threatened me. You arrived late that day to your lesson—first time ever. You know each other."

"How much of this do you think you can keep to yourself?"

"Every last detail," Pitkins said, looking him straight in the eye.

"In fact," Pitkins continued, "I have a proposal I'd like to make that I think you'd be very interested in."

"Oh?"

"But not now. You need your sleep, and I need my wife. We'll talk after a good rest."

"I like the sound of it," Righty said sincerely.

Harold came to a stop in the woods.

"Why here?" Pitkins asked.

"Janie—my wife—doesn't know about Harold here. I think I might like to keep it that way for a while. Truth be told, I really don't like anyone to know about Harold," Righty said, an edge in his voice. Pitkins nodded somberly.

"Donive knows . . . but only if she remembers. She might just as easily think she got here by horse and dreamed about flying on the back of a bird. She was out almost the whole time."

"I'll keep it secret until you say otherwise," Pitkins said. "As for now . . . I just want to see my wife."

Pitkins insisted on walking without help, though it seemed he had to concentrate to avoid stumbling over.

Moments later, they were in front of Righty's house.

"Wait here just a moment," Righty said.

He practically bumped heads with Janie who came running up to him and jumped through the air and into his arms.

Her hug said what words never could have. She squeezed him like he was a tree on the edge of a cliff, the only thing keeping her from falling a thousand feet into a misty ravine.

Righty hugged her back and softly caressed her back.

"Babe," he said softly. She looked up and into his eyes with the sweetest innocence he could recall. "I've got someone I'd like you to meet."

He brought her forward to Pitkins.

"Janie, this is the husband of our guest. His name is Pitkins, and he's a very dear friend of mine."

Janie extended her hand warmly. The sun had long since claimed full victory over darkness. The bright light of this glorious day would have seemed perfect for the beginning of a picnic or perhaps a long stroll.

But then it became clear that a beauty far more spectacular than even the radiant sun had caught Pitkins' attention.

Janie and Righty turned. Donive was standing in the doorway, two tears streaming from the blue lakes that were her eyes.

"Pitkins!" she said with the enthusiasm of a young teenager.

They rushed into each other's arms like two objects hurled at one another by a fierce storm.

Righty immediately began to feel like a voyeur in the presence of such passionate kissing and hugging, and he and Janie quietly slipped away.

As he made his way upstairs, he planned an embrace just as passionate with sleep. Each step felt like a mile, but as he reached the top, he made a quick detour to Heather's room. She was sleeping soundly, and he planted a quick kiss to her forehead.

When he reached his room, he was relieved to see the curtains all tightly drawn and only the slightest hints of light trespassing into the room. When he lay down, he felt ecstasy encompass him. Sleep now seemed to be rushing forward to meet him.

But alongside her was a monster. It was a messenger, and in his hand he had a letter informing Righty of a few discomforting facts. He had just lost a multibillionaire customer and made a bitter enemy out of one of the most powerful kingpins in the drug world, who just happened to be the sister of his right-hand man in Sivingdel; had a shadowy group of killers slicing their way through his organization; and had just taken in the biggest fugitive in all of Sodorf.

"A pessimist might be tempted to say I've got problems," he whispered to himself.

Then, everything turned black, and he slept with the dead.

The End of The Infiltrators

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