Shards of the Past

by Zalzaleous

Times were tough in the streets of Altear. You just did what you had to do to get by. But for a man haunted by a gruesome past he does not want to remember, it became a new home. But how long will his solace last? You can only run so far and so long.

It was dark in the streets of Altear, dark and wet. The rainy season had come not long ago, and the western winds wrought their fury upon the winding narrow passages that the locals called roads in the southern district. Given the choice, Garrick would not have chosen to spend his night here. In fact, there were many places he would rather have spent his evening. Possibly in the nice inn he was staying . The Watchman's Post was not the most comfortable inn he had ever been in, but the warm ale, friendly wenches, and jolly atmosphere more than made up. Even better he could be in his own house, with his wife and two girls. They had been gifted with his wife's soft curly blond lochs and her crystal blue eyes, but they were damned with his nose.

But no, Garrick Weatherby was stuck in the damnable streets of Altear, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the rainy season. Luck did not seem to smile upon Garrick, quite the opposite was his common fair. Poor harvests and a rampant disease in his small herd of sheep was what lead him here. The nobleman had given him enough gold up front to feed his family for the next two years, and had promised five times more pending safe delivery of this satchel to a friend in a seedy district of Altear. Maybe had they had enough food to last the week, less the winter, Garrick may have listened to his wife's misgivings on this trip. Maybe if it was not for the harsh taxes that the local Lord, Sir Michael Fallon, had recently issued, he might not have had to worry about the money so much. But needless to say, Garrick needed money, and seeing all those gold coins in that soft black velvet bag had blurred Garrick's vision. He had never bothered to ask why the noble would not take it there himself, or what he was getting himself involved in. No all Garrick could think of was all that gold.

A flash of lightning and an almost immediate crash of thunder shocked Garrick back to his senses. Darting under the awning of a shop, Garrick tried to collect himself. He had to have passed at least three intersections already, or was it four? All these streets looked so damnably similar, it was impossible to tell one from another. The man had said to head straight from the inn ahead two intersections, hang a right and head five more intersections then make a left and then… and then … damn it, it was so wet. The merchant had promised him that the leather of these boots had been treated by the master alchemist Al'aron Man'chenzo, or something equally exotic, to keep out the water. Garrick had spent enough money to feed his family for a week on those boots, and yet the water had still penetrated them, and now his socks. Garrick shifted uncomfortably, his feet now soaked and freezing.

He had to concentrate, now what was it he was supposed to be looking for? Was it a dragon? No, not quite. Some sort of serpent? Almost, but it still was not quite it. Standing here, however, was not getting him any closer to the door that that symbol was to be engraved on, and more important the fire that would surely be behind it. Even in as rude a place as the city, surely people had to have the simple courtesy of lending one's fire to a weary wet delivery man. That had to be common courtesy, did it not? Garrick could not seem to focus his mind at all as he plunged once more into the torrent of stinging raindrops.

The lightning was getting even closer, the flash and boom were almost simultaneous now. Garrick could just imagine the bolts smashing stone along the outer walls, or splitting the trees in the outlying forest. The flashes cast strange shadows across the street. A chimney here, a peek there, it made the skin on the back of Garrick's neck crawl. He could almost feel a sort of static in the air.

The shattering of a clay shingle hitting the pavement once again snapped Garrick back to reality. There was something out there in night. Something dark, almost ethereal, lingering near, almost as to breathe on the back of his neck. Garrick saw snippets of phantoms haunting every shadow of the road. The positioning of the roofs made it impossible to tell the origin of that shingle. Possibly, had he been paying a little more attention to his surroundings, he might have known. Garrick ranted at himself for his stupidity. All he could do now was run.

Another intersection and he turned left. Garrick could swear that something was following him. Something that clung to the periphery of his vision, something born of shadow that glided the rooftops like a ghost in a cemetery, always followed a pace behind and a step ahead. A left and then two more intersections, a right and then another three, Garrick quickened his pace, practically running through the dark streets. He cursed the leather satchel that was nestled at his side under his cloak. He cursed the noble who had sent him on this fool's errand. Mostly he cursed himself.

Garrick harbored no hope now that he was not lost. He felt it in his gut, rising like sickeningly sweet bile up his throat. He ran for his life through a surreal world of flashes of light and blinding, driving rain. He was so lost in his own reality that he never saw the pothole coming.

He could feel his ankle twist as he fell to the ground. The loose gravel and paving stones tore at his hands and shins as he hit the road. Part of him did not want to rise. Let death come for him here and now. Then he reached into his pocket and felt the small brass amulet that lay there. It was one of the only luxuries life had ever granted Garrick, and it was his most valued possessions. With quivering fingers, he removed it from his pocket and opened it to look for one last time at the picture of his family. The artist had charged a winter's worth of supply money for the small picture, but lying in the cold wet street, Garrick would not have rather spent one of those coins on anything else. Oh goodness, did he wish he could be there holding his girls like he had been then. That gave him the strength to push himself up off the ground and keep running down the street.

Garrick cried himself hoarse, screaming for help, but all the houses and shops on either side of the road stood like cold giants patiently waiting to witness his end. Street after street, everything began to blur into one grey mess, as if reality was melting into a pile of mud. The last words Garrick Weatherby ever heard were "Sorry, nothing personal. This is just business."

The sun was just starting to go down. A red tinge lingered on the edges of the sky as the giant orange ball of a sun just kissed the lake. Ben liked it up here. It was quiet, which in a house of seven children was something to be cherished. Not that Ben minded, it was just that as the youngest he got caught up under foot all the time. He felt like he was invisible in all the shuffle of things, which is why sometimes he liked to run into the woods. It felt better to be alone when he was lonely, then to be surrounded by people. Loud screaming people that never even noticed he existed. But here, it was quiet, particularly quiet this evening.

This bluff was one of his favorite spots to go to. Nobody knew about it but him. It was tucked away down a few deer trails, which he had meticulously memorized. Ben had found this spot one night when he had gotten lost in the woods on one of his frequent escapes from his life. He had spent the night curled up against the log he was sitting on now. That was then though, when he was only five. Now, four years later, when he was more grown up, he knew this part of the woods like the back of his hand.

Night was coming soon, though, so Ben decided to return home. Even though he knew the woods, Ben preferred to be home at night. The dirt was soft, almost muddy on the trek home. Thaw had just occurred, and the air still smelled heavily of spring. Ben loved that smell. As he got closer to home, he smelt something else in the air. Almost like… like… roast pig? Mmmm, Ben loved his mother's roast pig. Ben picked up the pace, he did not want to be late for dinner. His mother's roast pig was so popular, it went very quickly. Sometimes the other villagers would even stop by for a bit of it. His mom kept saying that if he did not start getting home by dinner, she would start giving it away. Ben did not want to test his mother on that.

After a mile and a half of quiet deer trails, Ben heard a sound that made him skid to a stop. A scream, suddenly muted, echoed in the silent woods. It was close… too close. Ben stooped down and continued forward on his hands and knees. As he neared the main path he could see two figures in the path, one lying prone and the other kneeling on his back. The two figures were well cloaked in the shade of a tree, made worse by the lowering sun.

Ben began to slowly approach the duo. His steps were slow and cautious, so as not to draw any ill attention to himself. Ben had always prided himself in being kind of sneaky, but he also had a tendency of blowing his cover at the worst… SNAP. The upper person's head snapped up, and slowly oriented itself on Ben. Ben's heart began to go up his throat. He knew something was not right about the way that person, that thing, was looking at him, and it did not take him long to understand what.

The thing's cloak serperated and spread out into… into wings? As if the wings were not terrifying enough, the beast flicked up a scorpion like tail and took a few stretching steps into one of the last of the pools of daylight left. The grotesque barely-humanoid figure caused Ben to fall over backwards; thin deep red flesh pulled tightly over sharp bones, crimson leathery bat wings framing a black bony sting. Ben groped backwards for handholds, he was too scared to remain there yet too terrified to glance away from the living nightmare. Ben was so horrified he did not even notice that his pants were becoming increasingly warm and moist, but the creature noticed. It seemed to almost drink in the scent of unadulterated fear. This made it so happy it bared its mouthful of dagger-like teeth stained crimson from its latest meal in a macabre parody of a smile.

As the beast took to wing, Ben could feel his life coming to a close. He saw it all passing before his eyes. And right as he was about to let go of all hope, the thing's stinger slowed and stopped, not a hand's length from his heart. The weird thing then seemed to do a dive backward into what looked like an ill-planned landing on its back. It then scampered up onto its rear legs. From under its black horns, its crimson eyes scanned Ben in a look of almost bewilderment. Without further ado, it took off down the path, very quickly.

Relief flooded into Ben with such force it knocked him into a state of shock. As the world slowly went black, Ben thought about that scent. With further thought, it really was too sweet a scent for roast pig, and was that a hint of rotting eggs mixed in?

His head hit the bar with a thud. Striker jerked his head up in surprise, and started wiping his face with the back of his hand. What hardly surprised Striker was the deep throaty laughter coming from the other side of the bar. He shot a glare at the dwarf keeping the bar.

"Hoho, my boy ye shoulda seen the look on yer face. It was priceless." Maric seemed to be in a good mood tonight. Even behind the braided copper beard, Striker could see a huge grin, and his big blue eyes hardly hid a huge gleam. "If yer tired, ye should go upstairs and take a nap."

"You know damn well I can't do that." Striker replied in a harder than necessary tone. "You should know as well as anyone here that I have places to be tonight, and Rose made it perfectly clear that I couldn't get out of this one."

"Ye know Rose's been sweet on ye. She wouldn' say anything if ye copped out tonight."

"That and I still need to get talk to Rose about where to drop off the package. This last job left a bad taste in my mouth and I just want to get rid of the goods." Striker normally was not suppositious; he thought supposition as a whole was a defacement to logic, but Striker felt miserable since he killed that poor man and took the satchel. He wished he could have done it another way, but a job's a job, and Striker needed to eat, so he took his orders.

Maybe it was the brass amulet the man had been clutching as he died. Normally he thought it unprofessional to loot corpses, but something about the picture prevented him from dumping it in the harbor with the man and the rest of his belongings. The faces in the picture haunted him. He could hardly close his eyes without seeing those happy faces, and thinking about the family the man must have left behind. Striker knew plenty about being left behind, more than those children would, but still he could sympathize. Striker wanted to blame that amulet for the nightmares. That seeing those faces reminded him of his loss. That, however, did not make sense, since the nightmares had been coming to him for the past few weeks. He could hardly sleep at night, and it was starting to affect his job.

"Foster said you were so sloppy tonight, you knocked a tile off a roof." Striker glanced up to see Cedric mounting the stool next to him at the bar. "You really need to learn to be more careful if you intend to stay with us, especially when I take over." Cedric was Rose's son, and since Striker had been taken in from the streets by Rose, Cedric felt the need to lord his position as real son over Striker. Cedric knew the Syndicate was his when his mother stepped down, and loved to remind Striker of that at every opportunity. Not that Striker cared, either way. Striker knew somewhere that this was not were he was meant to be. Still it irked him the way Cedric went about it.

"To the lowest forge of the Abyss with you, and Foster too if he can't keep his nose out of other's business. I got the job done, and that's all that maters. By the way, I'd watch your words if I were you, you talk too much about things that shouldn't be talked about in public."

Striker watched with no small deal of satisfaction as Cedric's cheeks turned at least ten shades of red. Cedric's blue eyes flashed daggers at him, as the man turned almost falling off his stool and strode away in a huff. Somebody needed to keep that brat in his place, and Striker felt himself the man for the job.

The Watchmen's Post was slowly closing down for the night. It was a nice enough inn, nice enough to not attract the wrong crowd, but purposefully not nice enough to draw much clientele. It sat in comfortable mediocrity, one among tens of its kind in Altear. Maric, the dwarf at the bar, was an outstanding bartender, if you knew him. His trick was to keep most of his insight to himself. Hints garnered from passing farmers and merchants could be quite valuable to the right people, best not to let them know what they knew. Of course, Maric knew the right people, and it kept him in comfortable standing with the Syndicate. Garrick was one of those gems Maric picked up. That Striker's mark would come right to the Syndicate's front door was amazing.

The entertainment lately had been almost too good. Many of the uppers in the Syndicate were getting nervous that this fellow's songs could draw crowds. Rose did not seem to mind though, partially because there was marginally more business, which fattened her purse; but also because they seemed to be old friends. Striker did not really care all that much. The music was a nice diversion and the fellow seemed generally nice if a little superfluous in his speech, but he also seemed to glance at Striker a bit more than Striker was comfortable with. Striker did not like to draw attention to himself. His black eyes tended to draw more questions then he would like. Nobody could understand the effect of watching your family tortured, raped, and slaughtered before your very eyes could have on the body less the mind of a nine year old boy.

Then there was Ellien, cleaning up the tables near the giant stone fireplace. She looked almost too beautiful to be a bar wench, but that had to do with her "other profession." What Maric could get out of a man at the bar was nothing compared to what Ellien could get with just a touch of her hand less…, best not to think on that. Ellien's older brother was very protective, and a legend in these parts. Eric Foster freelanced for the Syndicate very frequently. They said that nobody knew Altear better than Eric. Striker was not positive on that, but then again Striker liked to keep his distance from Eric. He was good, real good, but he knew it and was terribly arrogant about it. That arrogance grated on Striker so much some times he just wished Eric would fail, just so he could realize he was still just a human.

In the rear corner sat the terrible trio: Molly, Aaron, and Cordealia. If you saw any of them following you on the street, you knew you were dead… that was if you ever saw them. They were the people the Syndicate mobilized if they needed somebody dead. Striker had often wondered why they had not been tapped on the Garrick job. They could have done the job much better than Striker. Striker kept his concerns to himself, there was a lot of gold on the line for this job, which meant his cut would more than triple his savings. Striker often wondered if they begrudged him the work, not that he would ever ask them. The only one who was nice to talk to was Molly, but the jealous looks he got out of Aaron when he did speak with her were more than enough to dissuade him.

Striker heard the pots clang. To an unknowledgeable stranger, it would have just sounded like clumsy scullery boys in the back cleaning the dishes, but Striker knew better. This was his cue. He stood up and stretched then walked to the stairs. Ellien gave him a knowing smile, as she went about her cleaning. Striker climbed the stairs, and went back to the library, his entrance for the night. In the library, he went to the third last bookshelf and tugged on the unlabeled book in the fifth shelf. The bookshelf slid back to reveal the ladder leading down.

Climbing down the ladder, Striker slipped into the back of the meeting hall. It was still early. Striker took one of the empty tables. They were all long wooden tables, with wooden benches all along the same side, so that everyone could face the dais at the front with the wooden podium etched with the Rose, the emblem of the Syndicate. Near the front of the room sat Roland, that bastard of a mage. Striker had bad history with mages, and Roland did not help. He thought himself a god among men, and demanded treatment as such. Striker found him to just be a pompous ass with a few flashy light tricks. He would not understand real power if it shattered that fat head of his.

Two cloaked figures were seated at opposite ends of the back table. They were regulars at the Syndicate, "outside contracts." Essentially they had their pockets lined by the Syndicate and in exchange they used their respective positions to protect the interests of the Syndicate. Therefore, it was best that nobody knew who they were, so Striker just thought of them as Fat Man and Tall Man. Fat Man exuded a sort of natural arrogance in his demeanor; Striker's best guesses landed him as a politician, or wealthy merchant. Tall Man was built like a warrior and had a gleaming silver eye patch that his cloak couldn't cover completely. Most likely, he was a member of town guard.

Foster perched on a backward chair up near the dais. He was the only Syndicate member that got their own chair, but he "deserved" it. I guess it was a small price to pay to keep somebody of his skills, or maybe a reward for a service that Striker did not know of. A lot of the jobs the Syndicate did were kept hush. Rose maintained an "elite clientele." What exactly that meant to her, Striker could never determine. It seemed like they would go through a lot of low-ante jobs while passing up higher stakes work that they could handle. Then all the sudden some things would come along from a client that would be worth ten times more than there normal work. Striker kept quiet about his confusion, money was money and a job was a job, but there were a number that were much more vocal about their concerns. This mostly came from the trio, they knew their abilities and their worth, and they wanted better compensation. In the end though, everyone bucked up or got out.

Striker leaned back and settled in, it would still be a little while till the meeting started. It was imperative not to draw any suspicion, as to all the people pouring into the basement of the Watchman's Post, otherwise their cover would be blown. For a group like the Syndicate, which operated somewhat outside the law, secrecy was key. A few lower class thugs came down the back stairs, Striker kept tabs on most people, but the lowers in the organization were below even his interest. After a couple more minutes Molly came down, and with a toss of her long curly red hair, she took a seat next to Striker.

"Word is ye're making qui'e the name for yeself." She said with a tight little coy smile.

"Apparently I'm all the talk tonight," Striker said in a deeply sarcastic tone. "It was just a little job, it's done, and now I just want to unload the goods and get my pay in good Altearian gold."

"Apparen'ly the clien' was a regular of Rose's, ol' 'ime associa'e" She added. She stared up at him with her big green eyes. "You could be goin' places."

"I could care less whether…" Striker never finished his sentence. Aaron had just entered by the door in the front of the room, and seeing someone else speaking to Molly in his absence, he hurdled the first table and had knives in his hand before he hit the floor. With a dagger pointed directly pointed right at Striker's throat he said, "Know your place, Striker."

Striker just pushed his arm aside. Even in one of his jealous fits, Aaron knew better than to kill a fellow Syndicate member in the meeting hall. Still this did not sit well in Striker's stomach, Aaron and Striker both knew all to well that things happen in the streets, and Striker would not put it past him to be lurching in some shadow somewhere.

"Now wha's yer problem, love" she said softly to him. She took his hands and pulled him gently onto the bench next to her. Aaron shot Striker a toothy grin. "Now, ye shod know I 'ould ner do any'in' to 'ur' ye."

Striker would have done anything to get out of that situation, and his unfortunate salvation came in the form of a gnome with a bowl cut. "Oh my, my Mr. Striker, how are you tonight? Isn't it such a nice night? A truly fabulous night, indeed, isn't it sir?"

Striker glanced down at Clip. Clip Glinkle was an interesting piece of work. If you would see the gadgets and gizmos that came out of his lab, you would think him absolutely brilliant. Then you talked to him. Clips mind went in at least ten directions at a time. Still, pretending to pay attention to his long winded explanation of the ratio of gears to axels in his newest "project" was an improvement to the uncomfortable situation he had been in. At least it was for a while.

Soon the gibbering became incessant, driving Striker mad. Striker started glancing around. Molly was still trying to quell Aaron's rage, though now Cordealia was standing next to Aaron. She was so short, though, that she was only slightly taller then them sitting. Apparently he had upset her because her slanty little eyes were shooting bolts as keen as those from her crossbow at him, or were they? She was such a sure-shot, and the eyes where a little off. Was he the target, or someone else? Cedric was now upfront chatting with Roland, they seemed to be enjoying whatever they were talking about, they looked like two grammar school girls with some juicy gossip.

The room was really starting to fill up. Meric had been forced to take a spot against the wall. He had been joined by Kra. The two of them certainly looked the odd pair. Meric, while tall for a dwarf, certainly did not get anywhere near the broad shoulders of Kra. Striker was a tall man, standing above the heads of almost all the guild, but Kra had a head on him. Kra's taunt greenish skin stood in contrast to the pale wrinkles of Meric's face. It was just on object of race. Kra's father had been an Orcish raider. What possessed Kra's mother to procreate with him was the subject of many jokes and tall tales around here, but Striker preferred not to think on such matters. Still despite his parentage, Kra, as well as Meric, were some of Striker's favorite members of the Syndicate. They were good people, Meric always knew what to say and Kra knew when not to say anything. Right now they seemed to be having a good laugh at the little predicament Striker had fallen into.

Striker was ready to take a religion just to have a god to prey to, to end this wait, but luckily the large wooden door opened behind the dais, and a small figure stepped up to the pedestal. Silence fell so quickly, it was almost as if by magic. For such a small woman, Rose commanded obedience with such authority no one in their right mind would question her. Her blond hair fell out of her midnight blue robes, cascading down in a waterfall of gold that defied her age. She hit the pedestal twice with a little gavel, but her very presence made it superfluous. Despite being a short woman, she carried an air of something greater that always seemed to precede her.

"Good evening friends, associates, and family. May we begin tonight with a short prayer to El'Allion. May you protect our feet from squeaky boards, our hands from hidden traps, and our heads from the axe." Rose continued into the regular business of the Syndicate. Striker could not help but admire her. Aside from the fact that she had taken him in from the streets, she was an amazing person. How many people would take an eleven year-old young boy on the run from an angry arch-mage, and give him work too. Beyond that she completely managed the Syndicate, including all the thugs and strong arms without any mutiny. Furthermore, never once had a member been taken by the local law enforcement for more than a couple of days less gone to the executioner.

She proceeded through the regular fare, old business, new business, and schedules, in her straightforward manner, but at the end she shocked the crowd with a special announcement. "Finally I've got some news about a large scale job. Eric, Cedric, Aaron, Cordealia, Molly, Kra, and Striker stay. Everyone else pick up your jobs from the stack in my study on your appointed day for the week."

The excess members filed out in a carefully planned, staggered manner. Finally only the eight of them where left. "Ok, now that they're gone, time to get to business. This is a simple assassination job with a couple clinchers. Number one, we are not sure of the exact number of targets, but our estimates but it at around a dozen. Number two, they will be entrenched into a defensible position. Number three, we do not know were that position is going to be."

Though no one would openly defy Rose, there was a lot of mumbling in the meeting room. "I know what you're going to say, this sounds more like an assault then an assassination, and I know that's not our forte, but there will be considerable compensation for those involved. Anyone want out?" Not a hand in the audience went up. The offer of gold certainly helped her case, but Striker doubted that anyone there would have not done a job that Rose had requested. "Good, here's how it's going to go down. Striker is our go-to guy on this mission. Tonight he'll be meeting with a contact. The contact will give us our information to go on. Tomorrow, at lunch, Molly and Striker will start to stalk the target…"

Striker climbed the back stair. Normally he would have been upset at having to meet with the contact tonight. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and tonight was not a cake walk either. But the client on this new job was the same as the one for the last job. Striker wanted to get rid of this satchel, which felt like it was getting heavier by the moment.

The stairs seemed to go on forever; each footfall was heavier than the last. Striker began fantasizing about how good his mattress would feel under his back. Suddenly Striker heard a muffled blast, and felt a tingle run along his spine. Striker took the last flights of stairs at a full-out run, bounding two to three stairs at a time. Why did this guy have to use a room on the top floor?

Striker kicked down the door and burst into the room, to find an old man in burlap robes casually kneeling on the floor in the corner of the room beside his bed. "Well I schertainly had hoped Missch Rose taught her group betta manners. Schtriker, I presume? Well don't jusht stand there with your jaw dangling boy, take a scheat." His thick accent seemed to stick on his tongue and dribble out like a honey.

Not wanting to offend the client any more than he had already, Striker pulled a chair from against the wall into the middle of the room, and sat down on it facing the old man. "I am sorry, sir. I had heard commotion and worried that you might be in danger."

"Ah that ish betta, I had almoscht loscht hope in you Schtriker. No, there wasch no danga here any worsche than schome pescht control." The old man pulled a large rat the size of a small dog off the floor. "If you could dischpose of that for a poor old man, that would be wonderful."

"I am sorry, sir. We have never had a rat problem at the Post. I will have the scullery boys look into it first thing in the morning."

"Don't defasche yourschelf boy, it doschn't schuit you. I doubt you need to worry yourschelf or the overworked kitchen schtaff over rat infeschation. I would worry more about anyone with a large headache tomorrow. But I'm schure you don't want to keep exchanging pleaschantries, scho let'sch get down to buschinesch. You may call me Noal, but my name isch to schtay between you, me, and Rosche. I believe you have a package for me?"

Striker drew the little black satchel with the dragon like emblem on it from under his midnight blue cloak and handed it to the man, Noal began eagerly glancing over the documents in it. Striker began fumbling in his pocket with the amulet trying to decide whether he should give it to Noal or not. "Oh juscht keep the little trinket, it may be of usche to you someday."

Striker bit his lip so hard it bled. This man was a mage. Striker hated mages, hated them with a passion. Now here he was getting himself into the thick of it with another mage, and nothing good ever came from their kind. "Oh don't worry too much about me Schtriker. I do like to dabble on occaschion with people, but you will find me to be a generally nice guy."

Striker knew he would have to keep his thoughts better guarded. Striker could have sworn that idea put a smile across Noal's face. "Well everything scheems to be in orda here, here isch the payment. There, of course, will be twice as much gold afta the next job. Schpeaking of which, your target will be in the Riverside market about two hours after noon, but your window will be fairly schmall. You will know him becausche he will be in a black robe, and he will have froscht white hair. Make schure to schtay out of schight. You DO NOT want to be schpoted."

Striker could not believe the weight of the bag of gold, this was easily twice what he had expected. He almost missed the information for tomorrow. "Thank you, sir. They will be no more by this time tomorrow."

"Hopefully then we schall drink to schucschesch tomorrow. Before you leave though, you may want to look at thisch." Noal motioned at the large window. A small figure burst out into the night streets. While he was not entirely visible, it was clear that he was very drunk or very upset. Was that Cedric? "Now good night Schtriker, and good luck. From the look of it you'll need it."

Ben hated scrubbing days. The floors of Thaeise's tower were all stone and hence forth all needed scrubbing. Now Ben had seen Thaeise's legion of construct servants and outsider butlers, but still Ben was responsible for scrubbing the floors. Thaeise told him it was "to build character." All Ben could tell that it was building was calluses.

Thaeise had taken Ben in after the burning of Raliea out of pity. Like it was some sort of act of charity. It was Thaeise's fault the town had burned. The demon army had been after a small signet ring Thaeise kept in a glass case on his desk. All his family, friends and neighbors had lost their lives for a silly trifle Thaeise left on his desk. And where was the army of golems and elementals that Thaeise had pledged to use to defend the Raliea? They were all defending his tower.

After Ben regained consciousness from his "incident" with that thing Thaeise referred to as an "imp", Ben stumbled out to the town. It was a night of pure terror for Ben, hiding in the bushes, too afraid to move or even sleep. It was there that Ben got to watch his family raped and murdered by demons. The next morning, Ben walked alone through the burning rubble that had been his town. The places that he had known since birth lay in blood-spattered, smoking rubble. Ben took a bucket of water from the well. Looking into the bucket through a veil of tears, Ben first got to see his new eyes, charred black from the night's spectacle, in the blood laced water.

Ben had gone into his house, but everything was broken and stained crimson. He lay down in the remains of his bed and cried. He cried till his eyes burned and his throat was raw. Then too hoarse to even whimper, Ben collapsed in exhaustion. Ben awoke with a new flame in his chest. He did not know how, but some day he would make all those responsible pay. On his knees he offered oaths and prayers to every god he could think of. Then on shaky knees and weak legs, he climbed to Thaeise's tower and demanded audience to find out why he did not protect them. That's how he ended up here.

So here he sat, fingers bloody from scrubbing. It had been a little over a year since he had first come here. Thaeise forced him to take lessons. The arch-mage swore that it was necessary for Ben's growth as a person. Ben just found them to be obnoxious. He never could get the grasp of arcanna and grammar, but history and arithmetic seemed to sit well with him. Ben still did not see how this useless academia was making him "grow as a person." But Ben was biding his time until he could escape.

Finally this room was done. Ben picked up the sponge and bucket and walked on to the next room. There was extra scrubbing today because the lessons for the day were canceled. Apparently Thaeise was meeting with an old friend today, and could not be troubled with Ben. Ben almost dropped his bucket when he entered the new room. On a pedestal in the center was a large sword. It was the kind of thing young boys dream about. The blade was long and wide with small arcane symbols carved through it. The crossbar was intricately worked platinum, and the hilt was wrapped in new leather. The placard on the pedestal said Spell Cleaver. Spell Cleaver, eh? This was the type of weapon that could make Ben's dreams of retribution a reality. He had to hold it.

He placed his hand on the soft leather of the grip. It felt so good in his hand, like he and the sword were meant for each other. He wrapped his hand around the grip and lifted. The sword was much heavier than he expected. He took his other hand and wrestled the blade off its resting spot.

Ben took a few stammering steps to get his balance with the heavy blade now in tow. Making a few clumsy swings with the sword, Ben realized he had put his full weight behind it to even hope to swing it. Then he heard a noise right behind him. Ben had never seen the little homunculus of Thaeise's come into the room, but Spell Cleaver found him easily enough. The blade went through the flesh of the little frog like thing like a warm knife through butter. It lay in halves at Ben feet. Ben could not let Thaeise find it, or it would be his hide. Maybe he could throw it into a fire, and if he scrubbed the floor really well to get the blood up…

Then a new thought came into Ben's mind. It was time to make his escape, and Spell Cleaver was coming with him. Thaeise's traps only kept things out. It would not be a problem to walk right out the front door, and since Thaeise was tied up in his personal library with this friend of his, Ben should be able to get far enough away to loose the mage. For the first time in over a year, Benjamin J. Striker had hope.

Striker hated dreaming of the past. Striker hated the past in general. Here he was, years later, and still no one had paid and he still had no solace. Spell Cleaver had become a way of putting food in his stomach rather than the tool of justice he had planned for. His family was still an open wound and every day it seemed to eat just a little more of him. Anger was the only thing that helped him roll himself out of his bed every morning; anger and the hope for the blood of the mages responsible because he was sure that would take the pain away.

Striker pulled the sheets back and got out of bed. He walked, still kind of groggy to the basin of water he kept in his room, and splashed the water in his face. The shock of the cold water snapped Striker into the day. Striker took some time and got ready. No rush since it still looked like early morning thru the window in his room, but the clouds looked ominous. Striker slipped into a padded suit designed by Clip. To the casual observer it looked like a loose fitting black tunic and pants, but tucked carefully underneath was one of the finest suits of leather armor Striker had ever seen. With storms coming Striker grabbed his specially treated cloak. Most alchemists in the city sold some sort of "water-proofing" gel or "special water-proofed" garments. Most of them were over priced and never really kept the water out. They were essentially a way of padding merchant's wallets at the expensive of naïve tourists. It seemed Clip though had actually gotten the formula down. You had to hand it to him, that little scatterbrain could come in handy.

Before stepping out the door for the day, Striker fastened Spell Cleaver to his waist and took the pouch of coins from the night before and slipped it into his hip bag. It was time to get paid.

The inn's main room was quiet this morning; mostly regulars and Syndicate members. Roland was sitting at the bar with his head in his hands, and Meric seemed to be getting a hearty laugh at his expense. Striker wasted a second to smirch at Roland's misfortune, with all the pomp and arrogance he wore like a mantle, he deserved whatever Meric was dishing out. Kra was busy looking threatening at the door, not that it was particularly difficult for him. When you are a head above anyone nearby, built like a wagon, and carrying a large war axe like it was a short sword, you tend to be a little intimidating. Noticing Striker descending the stairs, Kra gave him a nod and a visible grunt. To an unknowledgeable overlooker, this might have seem harsh or even hostile, but Striker knew this was about as warm a welcome as Kra would give anyone. Striker returned the nod and strode down to the bar and sat on a stool across from Meric. Roland gave him a smirk, perhaps it could even have been a sneer, and staggering to his feet went upstairs.

"Wow you got rid of him quick. " Meric said with a wide grin. "E's been down 'er since first light nursin' some sorta headache. 'E was tryin' to look all important and stuff, talkin' 'bout how things'll be changing, and a new order or somethin'. I decided 'e needed to put down a couple notches so I started bashin' 'im on a copper chain e's been wearing. Told 'im under ol' Fallhorn, only the ladies wore anythin' round 'er necks."

"All the same, I'd keep my eyes on him. There's something about him that I don't like; and it's more than him being a mage, so don't even think of saying anything Meric. Any word of Molly? We have business in the market this afternoon."

"Saw 'er earlier. Said Clip had a coupla things for the two of you. I'd mind myself around 'er. I get a bad vibe from Aaron lately, and you know 'im. On a good day e's prone to actin' rash."

"Dually noted."

"'Ow 'bout some eats while ya wait. My boys in the back 've got some stew 'er sayin' is amazin'. First dibs sound good? Ye'll need yer strength for today. And some of yer favorite wine? I just opened a bottle of my private stock."

"With pleasure. You seem in a good mood all the sudden."

"'Ny one who can get rid of that rat so quickly climbs a notch in my book."

Something about that sentence bugged Striker. It was like something in the back of his mind wanted to come out. Before he could think too much on it, though, Meric was back with a heaping bowl of stew, a loaf of thick alterian bread still warm from the oven, and a deep crimson wine in one of the fine goblets.

"Now don't say ol' Meric ner do anythin' for ye, boy." Meric bellowed clapping Striker on the back.

"Good morrow, am I in'errupting."

"Ne'er Molly, Stricker and I 'ere just talkin' bout 'ow lovly ye're." Meric said with a bit of a smirch. Striker turned around to see Molly standing behind him in a robe of the same material as his cloak. Her sweet smile and big eyes and the way her hair framed her face… she certainly did look lovely, but best to keep his thoughts to himself. "I'll be right back with some food for ye too. Now not a single protest, ye'll need all the strength ye can gather for today, and ye know it."

Molly took a stool and sat down next to Striker. Her head drooped a little, and she looked like she hadn't slept much last night. "You alright?"

"None of yer business." She said in a biting tone. Then she shook her head and kind of blushed. "Sorry love, long nigh' last nigh'. I just 'ould ra'er ner' 'alk about I'."

Striker sat there in a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. In an attempt to break the silence he turned to her. "So Meric said you went to see Clip about today."

"Yeah, ae' gave us 'oys fer 'oday."

And the silence returned…

Striker's suspicions had been confirmed. The mornings beautiful skies were soon wrapped in a cottony blanket of clouds. And then the rain started. Luck seemed to be on Striker and Molly's side this morning though. An overturned cart in a dark alley gave them an easy path to an excellent vantage point on a high roof. So far the rain was only a drizzle. It would get worse, Striker had no doubts about that, but that might hold out long enough for them to track this guy.

Striker lounged against the neighboring building which jutted up against this roof they were on. Water dripped off his hood, down in front of his front. Something rubbed Striker about how easy it was to get up here and how perfect the view was. He took a few seconds to watch Molly. She was totally professional about this, perched atop the roof like a gargoyle. Her big eyes, which usually looked so sweet and innocent, suddenly looked more like those of a hunting hawk. She was supposed to be one of the best trackers in the city, and Striker saw no reason to doubt it.

Molly leaned over the ledge and rolled the robes up her arms. "'Er 'e is, love," she stated pointing down into the market. Striker tugged his hood down and walked to the edge and placed one hand on Molly's arm to steady himself as he leaned out to look, but as soon as he touched her soft skin he felt her shudder. Striker looked down saw a series of fresh black and blue marks up and down her arm. Striker cocked his head and gave her a questioning stare with his black eyes.

"Lis'en S'riker, it wer' ought. Aaron und I 'ad 'ad a bit of a 'iff. 'E really does love me, 'e just dosn' unders'and some 'ings. Lis'en, no worries, eh, love?" Striker gritted his teeth. Nobody deserved that type of treatment, especially Molly. Had Striker had just a little more courage, Aaron might have had to worry about Striker. Of course, Striker tried to convince himself it was that he did not get involved in this type of stuff. After all, that sounded so much better in his head than that he was a coward.

"Come'on Striker we go' a job 'o do now. If ya really wanna worry 'bou' 'his we'll 'alk later." Striker shook his head and went back to looking out at the market place. Sure enough, there was their guy. He stood out like a sore thumb, with his long stark white hair and pitch black robe. "'Ow i's jus' a wai'in' game, love." He went about his business obviously completely unaware of his stalkers. He visted several apothecaries and alchemists with a certain hurried manner that seemed to be offset with an overly stately mannerism. Striker smirked. Unlike the last guy, Striker may very well enjoy putting Spell Cleaver right through his heart.

Before Striker could get to into his fantasies of slaughtering mages, he heard a soft thud behind him and a tingle went up his back. Softly he whispered into Molly's ear, "We're not alone up here any more. Just keep on his trail. I'll get this guy." Striker spun around drawing Spell Cleaver mid-turn. This guy was good though, back flipping as soon as he saw that he had not surprised them. Clad entirely in black leathers with a hooded face, he moved almost inhumanly. Striker began slowly circling him, gauging his movements. This guy was really good, maybe too good. When his attack came it would be sudden and swift. Still, Striker was not one to back down once he got himself into something.

Grinding his heal into the flat roof, Striker shifted his grip on Spell Cleaver. It was now or never. Striker pushed off the ground with as much power as he could muster, dashing full speed at the form. About five paces from the fiend, Striker swung his blade feigning at the thing's feet. Right before reaching him, though, Striker cut in an upward arch trying to catch this thing in the chest. The thing rolled effortless to Striker's other side plunging his short sword into the back of Striker's calf. Somehow this thing had read him. "I guess this rules out being tricky."

Striker steadied himself again. His calf ached, in fact the whole leg was kind of wobbly. This did not bode well. Still Striker was not one to back down. He kept telling himself that. Striker came at it with a series of blows; crosscut, diagonal slash, thrust, crosscut, but the thing was always one step ahead of him. It seemed like this thing was just toying with him. With its strength and speed, it should have been able to kill him whenever it wished.

Striker was never one to wait. Some people would call him impatient, but Striker liked to think of it as living on his own time. And he would be damned if he let some black clad figure choose when he was going to die. Striker gritted his feet into the ground like he had, but slightly changed his grip on Spell Cleaver. Feigning low again Striker dove at him. In the back of his mind, Striker could just imagine the thing grinning under that mask. This time Striker twisting slamming his shoulder into it. Striker's momentum carried the two them back into the wall of the neighboring building. Apparently this surprised the thing. Striker grabbed the thing's head and started bashing it into the wall behind it.

Something thick started leaking thru the hood onto Striker's hand. It was blood, plain-old human red blood. This was not a thing, merely a man. Striker knew though that had not made it any different, this guy was still good, but at least Striker knew his opponent could die. The guy took full advantage of this little slip in Striker's concentration, stabbing Striker in the gut with a dagger Striker never even knew was in his hand. Striker staggered backward and tried to steady himself, but flopped prone for some unknown reason. This guy had apparently hit some sort of pressure point or something and Striker had lost control of his limbs. Striker struggled to move his hands or legs or even a finger. No good.

"I wanted you to have a better view as I killed you. No use you missing any of the details because we were wrestling. Just remember, this is just business." If Striker could have moved enough muscles in his face to open his mouth, he may very well have laughed out loud at the shear irony. Not a whole day ago he had said the same thing to another victim. Striker could now empathize with the poor fellow in the streets. Still Striker refused to be a victim. This was not how he was going to die, paralyzed and at the mercy of some assassin. Striker strained to do something to force this man back.

The assassin came at him at a dash, raised his dagger, and paused over Striker for an instant. Then there was a blur behind him, and he bent over as a short sword cut into his side. Somehow in the commotion Molly had gotten behind him. Seeing himself bleeding and outnumbered, the assassin ran for the hills.

"Damn you Molly, what about the target?"

"I'll 'ake a' as a 'anks, love." She had a bit of a smirk on her face, as she reached under her robes and pulled out a small green crystal pendant. "'Is was wha' Clip wan'ed to give us 'is mornin'." She pointed it toward the north and it started flashing amber. "I' oppera'es in 'wo modes: 'rackin' an' alarm. 'At one was supposed to be yers. I 'ope you didn' mind." She said with a bit of a giggle. "Le's get ya fixed up."

Ten… Eleven… Twelve… Then the flashes stopped coming from the window of the abandoned building across the street. Twelve mages and a handful of guards; things could get a little dicey depending on how powerful they were. Striker still could not help but smirk. They were the best the Syndicate could muster, and these mages would not know what hit them.

"A dozen mages and a handful of guards," Striker whispered to Kra standing next to him, "any thoughts?"

"Kra thinks makes for good smashings. Still, Kra no like flashy mage stuff. Must smash them faster." Dripping wet in his dark cloak and carrying that huge axe, Kra looked like some sort of executioner. Somehow that made Striker feel even better about the job.

"You know that's what I like to hear," and then he added, "Did you have any stew for lunch?"

"Yeah. Kra thinks is good eats. Where Kra comes from they eats good stews with fresh dear from the huntings. That be tastier, but Dwarf's stew is good too."

"I can only imagine."

"Kra thinks you need watch back with Molly. Aaron weirdo. Cut last guy that talk to her's throat out. Not pretty."

"Does everyone at the Syndicate feel the need to comment on everyone that I talk to. Would you like to warn me about Ellien too?"

"Now that Kra think's of it, Kra would be worried of Foster too."

"You are something Kra." Another flash in the window from Cordealia, that was their cue. "Let's get this started."

Peter hated guard duty; still it paid well. A couple nights a week, albeit down in the slums, could pay more than a standard service job would a month. The clients were wackos, some sort of religious cult or something. They paraded around in black robes, preying to some dark beast or something and sometimes they would offer up sacrifices, sometimes even human. Sure it was seedy work, but the coin was upfront and the bonuses were good.

Peter shifted in his stool by the door as a cold draft blew by. He was not sure why he always seemed to get stuck by the door. William had a nice seat by the fire, and Greg and Michael were playing cards toward the back of the room, safely out of the wind's reach. Peter hated guard duty so very much.

He started listening to the rain, beating in steady waves against the building. At least he found this relaxing. He swiveled around and propped his feet up on a nearby table. This was going to be a long night.

Then there was something else intermixed with the sound of the rain. Was it whispering? "Hey Willy, ya hear anything," Peter yelled in as gruff a tone as he could muster.

William tipped up his wide brimmed hat that had been resting over his face. "You hearin' voices again, kid? Geeze, you need to relax. How many times have you heard voices tonight alone? It's not like some huge soldiers are going to kick the door in right…"

The only thing Peter hated more than guarding was being right in these types of situations. A blade came through the door like it was nothing. The halves of the door hit the floor with a thunderous smash. Two cloaked figures where back-lit in the doorway by street lamps. One was huge, and the other was even bigger than the first. William tipped backward off his chair. A lance of lightning stuck, casting their shadows on the floor of the room.

The smaller figure stepped into the room. To call him small was a travesty. He was built like a mountain, but his companion dwarfed him easily. The smaller one swept back his hood and fingered his sword, a blade truly of adequate size for someone of his build. He shook his hair long wet hair out of his face and stared at Peter with these eyes. They were black as pitch and they seemed to be burrowing into Peter's mind. As he stared back into those eyes, the world melted around them into darkness. Peter never awoke.

Cordealia sat in the window bracing herself against her crossbow. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. They seemed to have this crazy idea that looking out the window for what just shot their comrades was a good idea. The only person that seemed to be benefiting from this was Cordealia.

Four… Five… Six kills. She had just laid down half of the targets. Well a little less than half if you wanted to be unofficial. All she knew was that she deserved one heck of a bonus after tonight.

She gazed into the windows of the building through the sight on her crossbow. All too easy. Then she saw something that peeked her interest, long curly red hair, cascading down a midnight blue robe. All it would take now was one shot. One shot and she could remove a big thorn in her shoe and a lot of obstacles down the road. No, now was not the time. It would be too easy. No, she wanted her to see it coming.

Striker climbed the stairs above the kitchen. The guards were not bad, but they were hardly a match for Kra and him. The defiled house that they were in was already being wracked by death screams. Initiative had been in their favor. Now things got tricky. It was about to become a rat hunt in the rat's own nest. Kra had been lucky, he was just in charge of guarding the exit. Striker wondered why he could not have been that lucky, but he had a sneaking suspicion that that Noal fellow was involved in that decision.

Reaching the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched back toward the front of the house. The hallway was flanked by doors on both sides and capped by large picture windows at each end. Striker thought the door in front of him was as good a place to start as any. Shifting all his weight onto his back foot, Striker raised his front foot and kicked the door off of its hinges. The little windowless room was lit by two torches on either wall, and a young woman in a long black dress lay on a cot against the back of the room.

She slowly raised her head up with apparent difficulty, stringy blond hair clinging too her face. "Oh thank you kind sir," she said weakly "please help me up. I'm afraid I can't stand on my own."

Striker walked over to the girl and gave her his hand. As she reached gently up to touch him a burning pain shot up his arm. The girl's face transformed into a twisted cackle, and then some sort of chanting. Striker fought his way out of her grasp, but the door had somehow shut behind him and would not open.

The air in the room became heavier, taking on almost a smoky quality. Twin skeletons crawled out from under the bed carrying daggers in their mouths. "Oh great, a trap," Striker said under his breath. "Listen lady, I don't know who or what you are, but you're going to have to do a little better than a couple of skeletons." Striker drew Spell Cleaver and judged its weight in his injured arm. Sure the arm hurt, it hurt like it had just been cut by a sword, but aside from that the arm was still usable. Striker swung Spell Cleaver at the skeleton on his left aiming right between the ribs and the hips at the thin point in the spine. The blow hit, and it was solid, but the blade rebounded like it had hit solid steel. Something was not right here.

The girl seemed to find this amusing, almost loosing her chant to a giggle. Striker could feel the other skeleton trying to sneak its way behind him. These maybe stronger skeletons, but they sure were not any smarter or more agile than the "normal" breed. Striker could just see it behind him raising its dagger over its head and beginning the down strike. At the last second, Striker swung around bringing Spell Cleaver into a defensive position, braising with his other hand. The skeleton shattered his knife on the blade, and was so surprised that it lost its balance. While falling, its femur detached itself from the knee, leaving the skeleton lying on the floor trying in vain to reattach its leg. The other skeleton tried to capitalize on its comrade's position and came at Striker from behind, but its slash went wide.

"It looks like your skeletons are going to pieces over me." Striker swung down at the skeleton on the floor, but once again the blow bounced off. Something was very wrong here. This time the skeleton behind him got lucky and landed a blow on his shoulder. It was not a particularly deep wound, but it stung despite. It stung more than it should have. Striker hacked in the heavy air. Why was the air so heavy? And where was the smoke coming from? Striker turned to the girl. That witch!

Striker bounded over a swipe from the downed skeleton, and rolled under a blow from the other one. The closer he got to the girl though, the harder it was to move. It felt like invisible hands were grabbing him till just steps in front of her he could not even move his little finger. The girl giggled and got up from her seat on the cot, coming toward him with her hand outstretched. This could not be it. Striker would not let himself die at the mercy of some little tart. He would not! Striker was not going to die! Forcing out with his mind, Striker shattered the hands holding him and fell to his knees. Wasting no time, Striker took an ascending slash at the witch, catching her across the chest.

The slash tore silk and skin alike, blood dripped down her robes. She was at death's doorstep and knew it. In desperation she drove at Striker with her hand. The skeleton was striking too. Striker saw his opportunity. Dropping Spell Cleaver, he grabbed the witch's wrist. With his other hand he used the witch's own momentum to carry her onto the incoming blade of the skeleton, bringing her down on top of the skeleton with its knife sticking through her heart. With her dying scream, the two skeletons disintegrated into dust and vanished with the smoke.

Striker hated mages.

Aaron worked his way along the rafters. He was feeling good. He loved the way it felt when he dropped down behind the fools and held a knife to their throats. He loved to listen to them plead for their miserable lives and offer him immeasurable wealth and riches. Oh sure he would kill them anyway, but he loved that feeling of control. He also knew his impressive kill tally of three thus far would get him somewhere with a certain lady when he got back to the inn. Aaron loved his job.

Aaron spotted his next target. A dark cloaked figure standing all by itself, alone in an old bedroom. This guy was making it too easy on him. Aaron grabbed his dagger in his mouth and dropped to the floor as softly as he could. The figure did not even move. Was this guy deaf or just stupid?

Aaron took the knife from his mouth and put it to the man's throat. "Do get that blade away from my neck, especially if you know what's good for you." The figure said as it pushed away the dagger. The man turned around and took down his hood.

Aaron was shocked, but somehow not all that much. "You?"

Striker felt some invisible force push past him as he continued his way down the hallway. Seconds later, the window behind him exploded outward. Striker ran toward the window and looked out into the street, but there was nothing there except for shards of glass in pools of water.

"STRIKER!" Striker spun around to see a figure hobbling through a door at the other end of the hall. Striker left the window to rush to the aid of the figure. To his surprise it was Aaron that collapsed into his arms. His face was covered in crimson, and blood had soaked through his black leathers in several places.

"Striker, you know there's bad blood between the two of us, but I have to ask you a favor. Upstairs, second door on the left, is an ante chamber, in there is a door to another room. Beyond it is a very powerful mage. I had no hope against him, and if he gets the drop on anyone else they'll be goners. I need you to go there and confront him for me, while I go get help."

Striker could have killed him right there, and blamed it on the mages they were hunting, especially after he had seen those bruises on Molly. Nobody would have been any the wiser. But, no that was not the way Striker did business. "Fine, just try not to be too long."

Eric had perched himself on the roof of the building. Sure lookout was not glamorous, but Eric was had the best eyes in Altear, and he knew it. There was a fowl wind in Altear tonight; Eric could smell something was wrong. He felt it in the very beat of the heart of the city, and he did not like it one bit. Dark days were coming.

Eric was there when the window exploded. He saw the glass fly into the air and shatter on the payment. They did not hit right. Eric scurried down to the streets below, and looked at the pattern of the shards. They floated in the puddles that were ever growing from the rain, catching the light from the street lamps and bending it like a thousand little prisms. There was something else in the water, something inky. Eric dipped his hand into a puddle and got a little of the substance on his finger, and looked at it under the street lamp. Was this blood?

Dark days indeed were ahead, and Eric had a sneaking suspicion that this was where it would all begin. Eric looked down the alleyway across from the window. He had quite a chase ahead of him, especially when he could not see his prey.

Striker stood at the door and paused for a moment. Something about that shattered window still bothered him. It just kept popping into his mind. Maybe it was also a desire not to open this door. Sure he hated mages, and knocking another off would be great, but part of him was scared? Aaron was a jerk among other things, but one thing he was not was bad in a fight. If this guy could do that to Aaron, he was going to be a tough fight, and Striker still ached from his other wounds. Maybe he would not have been so scared if he was in pristine condition. Maybe.

He brought Spell Cleaver up over his head. Now was not a time for cowardice, the Syndicate was counting on him and it was time to deliver. He brought the sword down through the door, and the door fell away in front of him. It was him, the man with the white hair standing before him. "This is for what you did to Aaron."

The man was absolutely beaming. "I can't quite remember this 'Aaron' fellow, but considering my methods, I'm sure whatever I did to him was absolutely delicious. After all you can't expect me to remember ever pest I tortured and killed, I mean really." That was it, no matter how sadistic a jerk Aaron was, this guy was ten times worse. Striker charged.

Apparently the white haired fellow was expecting this. Forks of green lightning struck forth from his fingertips, tearing through Striker's flesh. The attack brought Striker to his knees. The white haired man fell into boisterous laughter. "Hahaha. You intend to avenge your friend with just that? I hope your friends are better prepared when they come to avenge you. I mean, come on, I like a little challenge from my 'killers'." With that he began chanting and making weird gestures. A small red orb began taking shape in his palm. If Striker did not think of something fast he was going to die here and now, and no priest in Altear would be able to sew him back together.

No, Striker was not going to be murdered by some mage, and he certainly was not dieing for Aaron. The only thing he had left to rely on was Spell Cleaver. It had seen him through quite a few tight spot, and hopefully it would see him through several more. He put all his energy, all his faith and trust into the blade, and it runes began to glow. Just a faint glow, but it glowed none the less.

The figure released the orb and it came flying at him at an astounding speed, but Striker was ready. With every last ounce of his strength, he stuck at the orb with the broadside of his sword. The orb went flying back at its caster who was so surprised he could do nothing but bring his arms up to brace himself.

The orb exploded like nothing Striker had ever seen. Not only did it knock the figure back, but it brought the whole room down on top of him, and with the floor weakened from the blast it gave way underneath him. The sheer force of the stone crushed the level bellow, and the level bellow that all the way to the basement.

Striker collapsed without even the energy to break his fall. He could not even push himself up to walk over to the opening that used to be part of this room. He had to drag himself there, pulling Spell Cleaver along with him. The rain had quickly made the edge slick, making Striker glad he was not standing on it. Staring down at the pile of rubble, Striker felt sure that nothing could have survived that, absolutely nothing. At least until he started seeing the explosions.

Stones and fire erupted out of the ground, almost like miniature volcanoes. The white-haired man burst forth from the rubble like a phoenix, wreathed in flames and alighted behind Striker. This was not good. Striker pushed himself up onto shaky legs that threatened to give way at any second. The slippery footing was definitely not helping matters either.

"Had you really thought a little fall like that was going to hurt me? You are a sorry excuse for an avenger, little ant. Maybe you would like to know what that felt like?" Striker could tell a lot of that was bluffing. The man had apparently taken quite a bit of damage from the explosion, the collapse, and the fall. Still this was the type of mage they wrote fireside stories about; the caliber of nightmare that did not only break the body, but destroyed the very soul. Striker knew he was in mortal danger.

The mage began a new spell, tearing a glowing hole in the fabric of reality. Shards of shear energy poured out of the hole with blinding fury. Striker batted them away feverishly, but he could only swipe away so many. Shards cut his arms and legs. There was no end, they just kept coming, and Striker was loosing his footing. Gritting his teeth, he began summoning all the energy he had left. It was not nearly enough, he kept pulling energy from reserves he never knew he had. He felt his body slowly going numb, and it was all he could do to stay conscious, but he kept pulling energy. More energy shards started stabbing him, he barely had the strength to swat away any of them now.

When he felt like he was going to collapse into a black void he hurled it. He did not even know how he did it or what exactly it was, but it felt like he was hurling a javelin into the mage's head forged of his shear will. It just felt so alien and at the time so familiar.

The world was going black quick, and with the last of his energy he dove sword first at the mage. He did not even feel the blow connect. It all went black.

Molly always loved watching them burn the bodies as they floated out to sea. The little flames casting an eerie hew over the harbor, dancing through the early morning fog. It was a ceremony that Rose had put into place years ago. Rose said that the fire warmed and protected the soul on its passage to the next life. It seemed almost like a church service, not that Molly had been in a church in a long time. They seemed to frown on her profession in the local churches.

Molly had always liked Rose, not that she could think of many who did not. Molly just wished that Rose would take better paying jobs. Aaron kept threatening to leave the Syndicate and take the rest of the trio with him. Not that she, particularly wanted to leave the Syndicate, but she did what Aaron told her to do, it was easier and less painful that way. She could see his point too; she could have done with a nice fur coat for the coming winter and some jewels for her fingers.

The group was pretty small tonight. Eric had disappeared from the scene at some point. Aaron had told her that Cedric had gone to report to Rose, and Kra had gone to carry Striker home. Why Cedric could not have taken Striker home was beyond Molly, but she knew those two had had a weird relationship over the years.

She had been the one to find Striker, lying there with his sword through that mage they had been following. Not that anyone in a ten span distance would not have known were to find them. They had brought down almost a whole side of the building. Molly knew deep down one day he would be a powerful warrior, if he did not get himself killed first. Molly always liked powerful men; they made her feel safe no matter how they treated her.

It took them awhile to drag all the bodies to the harbor, at least this side of town was all but deserted at this time of night. Four guards and twelve cultists, the numbers checked out according to Cordealia's figures. She felt bad she had only taken down one, a stodgidy old wizard who kept fumbling over his own spells. Not exactly anything to brag about. Striker had gotten the alpha kill, and you could tell that Aaron was visibly upset that Striker had gotten to kill that guy.

Molly was the last to leave the docks, she always loved watching the bodies disappear, either loosing their buoyancy and sinking, or floating off to the horizon. Apparently Aaron and Cordealia had wanted to get some sleep after their high kill nights. It was alright though; Molly just wanted a little time with herself. She needed to collect her thoughts.

The edge of the horizon had a tinge of pinkish grey in it as Molly approached the inn. She had been thinking of Striker a lot on her walk home. She knew well enough that she needed to get those thoughts out of her head, or else Aaron would be very upset. He had his way of knowing about other guys that entered her head and Aaron could be very jealous.

Molly could barely see the inn when she heard it. A woman's scream pierced the morning air.

Ben was thirteen when he decided to take up the name Striker. It had been over a year since that cold rainy night that Miss Rose had taken him in from the streets, gave him a small room under the stair, and made him a scullery boy. Ben could not say that he like scrubbing pans much more than he liked scrubbing floors, but the people made the job worth while.

There was the friendly door man, Kra. Sure he talked kinda funny, but he took Ben under his wing right away, and taught him how to use a sword. Ben always viewed those lessons as taking him one step closer to his vengeance. Then there was the dwarf who tended the bar, who would always tell him the best jokes. And of course Miss Rose, the beautiful lady that took Ben off the streets and was so kind to him.

Sure her real son, Cedric, hated him, taking every chance he could to snub Ben, but even he was tolerable. The time that he spent at the inn was the happiest Ben had known in a long time. Nobody chased him off with a broom after seeing his "bewitched eyes," or made him clean out cow manure for a chance to sleep on a stack of wet hay. Things were not the best, but they were better than he had any right to expect.

It was that day, on his thirteenth birthday that Rose first brought Ben before the Syndicate and gave him his new name. His responsibilities in the beginning were very light. Essentially just what he had been doing as a scullery boy, but now he needed to listen to the customers talk and record anything about any topics he was given. He was now also expected to spend certain amounts of time training with Kra, as if he needed to be told. Now it was his job!

Ben, now Striker, would never forget the look on Miss Rose's face, how proud she looked at him now that he was a member of her Syndicate. She had asked him to just call her Rose now, but he knew that that would take awhile to get used to. Striker did not know what he would do without Rose. She had given him so much, and he would give his life for her.

Striker awoke to a large blow shaking his door. Another blow made the door buckle. Where was his sword? He could not find it anywhere. Another blow and the door split and three figures in heavy armor piled into the room. These must have been town guard, but Rose's contacts never let them come near the inn. Striker would have fought back, but he was still so weak from his last fight. The first two guardsmen easily grasped his wrists and the third held him at sword point.

"Benjamin J. Striker, you are under arrest for the murder of Rose McGowen."