Chapter 6
You Won't get what you Paid For
"Down!"
A wave of frigid light washed over the Oars in the front of the group, where men once stood only frozen bodies remained. Kendal's flipped back barely avoiding being frozen herself.
The sodding bastards have a mage, she thought.
The coterie nest was larger than what the Viscount had warned them it would be, over thirty heavily armed cutthroats, with at least one mage in reserve. The Crimson Oars had managed to breach the entrance, taking out the sentries before they could sound the alarm. Now it had become a battle of attrition in dimly lit stone corridors, with the cries of the dying as background music.
The central chamber was by far the best defended, a row of archers took aim from wooden scaffolding, while the mage remained behind them throwing fire and ice at the advancing Oars. Swordsmen and pike men stood ready should any of Kendals crew get past the range fighters.
The Oars were losing badly.
The coterie men jeered at the Oars, laughing at how their attack had been stalled, it seemed that Threnhold's bully boys would not get through after all.
That was when a fireball blew up the scaffolding, spilling both the archers and the mage to the ground in the central chamber.
The panicked coterie tried to advance only to have their entire front line impaled by a wall of jagged icicles. Those behind tried to fall back.
That is when Malcolm Hawke stepped into the chamber, his eyes blazing red with magical light, another fireball dancing on his fingertips.
"Form up on Mal," Kendals cried, "he has cleared the path; now let's step through, to victory lads, to VICTORY!"
Malcolm met the coterie mage spell for spell, ice met fire, fire met stone, arcane shields shimmered in front of his fellow Oars. It had been almost two months since he had been able to let his magic flow freely. It felt good.
Think only of whom you choose to spare.
Kendals struck again and again from the shadows, her blade slicing throats, and plunging into backs.
"That's the stuff Mal!" Kendals cried laughing madly, "Teach these blighters a lesson!"
Mal gritted his teeth, he could feel exhaustion starting to settle in, but he would not falter. The men needed him. He would stand.
The coterie mage charged him, their staves cracked together as the two mages battled for dominance. Mal twirled his staff viciously, slicing a shallow cut across the Coterie's chest with the bladed end of his pole arm.
The coterie mage laughed.
The blood leaking from the man's wound began to rise, swirling like a hurricane as he drew power from it.
A blood mage.
Mal sodding hated blood mages.
Malcolm gestured.
The coterie seemed to deflate, Mal's dispel curse drew the magic out of the air like a sponge, an Oar Mabari leapt past him tackling the coterie to the ground. The dog ripped out the mage's throat before he had a chance to cry for help.
The battle became a route then. Mal used fire to drive the survivors into his fellows grasp. Scooping up the dead Coterie's mage staff, he fired lightning at the disorganized survivors.
As quickly as it began it was over.
The coterie had been destroyed utterly, of the thirty Oars that had participated in the attack four were dead, and six were wounded. Despite his exhaustion, Mal tended to the injured soldiers, blue light flowed from his hands, healing all but the most grievous of injuries. He even healed the Mabari that had ended the coterie mage's life. The dog lapped at his face happily.
Some of his fellows looked at him suspiciously, the old fear of magic clear in their eyes. Glaring at their ignorance Kendals strode into the middle of them, dragging Mal along with them.
"What?" she snarled, "So our little Mal is a mage, so what? He saved this little venture of ours, and now we get to go back and collect some of the Viscount's coin. I dare any of you sons of whores to speak poorly about him in my presence. I dare you!"
The Oars were silent. Finally a single voice rang out in the middle of the group.
"Hawke," the man chanted, "Hawke, Hawke!"
Soon all the Oars had picked up the chant, the chamber rang with the echoes of the young apostate's name.
Hawke. Hawke. Hawke. Hawke!
Mal just stood there, he was exhausted, his mana completely drained, but he was victorious.
We are victorious.
His fist went up in salute to his fellows. The cheers rose echoing off the darkened chamber.
Malcolm Hawke had found his place. He was a Crimson Oar.
IOI
The Viscount was very pleased with the Crimson Oars victory. The arm of the coterie that had refused to pay his protection had been dealt with, and he had gained a powerful new ally in the Crimson Oars.
A lesson was taught to all.
On top of the payment the Viscount had offered, the Oars were also granted rights to salvage all the goods from the coterie base. The sum of fifty six sovereigns was recovered, not to mention an arsenal of new weapons and armor.
Kendals divided the loot accordingly, the sum of five sovereigns a piece would be sent to the families of the dead Oars. The survivors also got their pick of weapons and armor raided from the coterie. Mal decided to keep the dead mage's staff, as well as a supply of lyrium potions and a new chain shirt.
Not bad for a days work.
That night he joined his brothers and sisters celebrating in Hightown. The new casino was jumping with nobles and mercenaries eager to spend their wealth. A number of nobles even approached Kendals seeing if she was offering the services of some of her men as body guards.
She agreed to take all these offers under advisement.
As they celebrated, a runner from the dwarven merchants' guild approached Mal. Apparently a Lady Ilsa Tethras wished to hire the oars for a job. Someone had been attacking her trade caravans on the road to Starkhaven. Mal promised the dwarf to take the offer up with his Captain at the earliest convenience.
But not tonight he thought, tonight is for us.
Mal was surprised to see Ser Maurevar at one of the tables that night. He found himself wondering if the Templar ever slept. He joined his new friend for a few hands of diamond back. Together they cleaned out two nobles and the leader of the White Falcons.
"Never bet against a Templar lads," Mori chuckled, "We always have the Maker on our side."
Life was good for the Oars in Kirkwall.
Life was good.
IOI
The man known as Grey crept into the destroyed coterie nest. He had a long bow in hand, an arrow nocked and ready, a pair of daggers at his belt.
Coterie he spat angrily, he never should have trusted them.
The place had been ransacked; the Viscount's men had been very thorough.
As he checked the bodies he found his merchandise, the mage that he had been promised was dead, his throat torn out by some large animal.
Grey supposed it was too late for a refund.
Shit!
The commander was going to be furious with him. He had paid the coterie fifteen gold up front, it was unlikely he would see any of that coin again, but what was worse that the mage was dead.
Grey had nothing for the sacrifice.
He knew he should return to Ansburg, the Commander needed to know the whole deal had gone south. They still needed to find another mage, and soon.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
How long would the seals hold without reinforcement. Grey did not know? Such information was way above one such as him.
Keep searching! There must be something here you can use.
Grey surveyed the damage, the burn marks on the walls, the puddles of melting ice.
There had been another mage here.
The coterie mage's staff was missing; a pack of mercs would not likely have taken it. The Templars would, but it was unlikely they would arrive for another day at least.
Another mage.
Grey sighed; it would be unlikely that anyone in Kirkwall would deal with him now. They would assume he had something to do with this. Perhaps, whoever did this?
He would return to Kirkwall, whoever did this was likely there. They would also likely be at Threnhold's side. Grey would find them. He would find the mage that had been here.
One way or another, this mage will help us. I will not take no for an answer.
Grey slipped quietly out of the ruined base. It would take time, and that was not on his side. Yet, he would be successful. It was all about finding the right place to put pressure. You found the soft spot, and you squeezed.
Whoever did this would pay.
He swore it.
