Uninvited Guests

Lamb's first feeling was one of relief- he didn't have to deal with any vengeful workers- but this was quickly replaced by dread and hate. Wardens. The tyrannical 'protectors' of the human world. Once upon a time they might have been warriors of justice, knights of honour and compassion, but they'd been given too much power. That, coupled with their obsession over their so-called 'prophecy', had served to turn them into something much darker. Nowadays they were little more than superpowered thugs, government dogs that would happily tear a community apart if it meant furthering their aims.

He might not have to deal with any mobs, but having a Warden here could be just as bad; if not worse. Not all of the patrons had such scrupulous morals as him, and if one of them had gotten on the wrong side of a Warden it wasn't just their problem; it had become the problem of everyone here. Lamb wouldn't have been surprised if the Warden tore the whole place down enacting his revenge.

The tension kept rising. The Warden said nothing, just stood there in the doorway, blotting out the sunlight. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. If it wasn't defused, and fast, someone was going to snap and, do something stupid and irreversible.

Lamb vaulted back over the counter, doing his best to remain his usual carefree self. "Salutations, good sir. Art thou here to quench thy thirst? Or mayhaps to satisfy thy hungry stomach?" The armoured man made no response, nor did he move in any way. "I grant thee," Lamb blundered on desperately, "we may not be the greatest of establishments, but our doors are always open to valiant warriors such as thee..."

The man took a single step, moving out of the shadows, and Lamb trailed off into nothingness. A suit of shining steel armour, unblemished, impregnable. No sword- a Warden might not need one- but a dagger sheathed on his left hip. A single giant ruby, the size of his fist, pulsed away threateningly in the centre of the breastplate.

Slowly, inevitably, the man raised his right arm, reaching out for the boy, silent as the grave. Lamb's mouth went dry and he took an inadvertent step backwards. The gauntleted fingers stretched towards his throat and he took another panicked step, finding himself trapped with his back to the bar. The Warden took another step towards him, painstaking, prolonging the moment.

Backed into a corner, Lamb found, much to his surprise and for the first time in his life, that he was angry. Not just irritated, not just resentful, but outright angry. His fists began to clench, his jaw began to tighten. The more receptive occupants of the room picked up on the change, racing out the exit before they could get caught in the clash of titans.

The Warden took another step; the cornered boy bristled. "Fine! You want some?!" The Warden took one last step, grasping hand brushing against Lamb's throat, and he slapped it aside. "I'll crush-"

The Warden fell over.

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They simply froze, stunned, struggling vainly to comprehend what had just happened. Lamb took the opportunity to retreat to the other end of the room, anger rapidly fading with the presentation of an escape route. He remained there. Waited for the Warden to get up. They didn't move. Nothing happened. Another couple of minutes, and he came to the conclusion that nothing was going to.

The remaining patrons had cleared out long ago. The Warden was unconscious, or at least incapacitated. Tentatively, drawn by curiosity, Lamb approached. The man still wasn't moving so, against his better judgement, Lamb reached out with his foot and prodded him. No response. He'd been right; the man really was unconscious.

Slightly calmer but still not quite at ease, Lamb pulled up a chair, sitting beside the prone knight. This was a problem. If he left the man here and ran for it, he'd still have to face him when he got back. Dumping him elsewhere in the city might work, but it really depended upon how injured the warrior was- if he could remember coming here, he'd hardly be pleased to find he'd been abandoned. It would probably just make things worse.

At the same time, Lamb had no idea how to treat him if he did keep him here. How were you supposed to deal with a wounded knight? Would it be disrespectful to remove his armour? If he didn't do that, how was he supposed to look after him? Would he be expected to pay for a healer to come here? Would he be punished if he didn't?

Lamb spent a second wondering whether he should tell Jence, but no longer. It would only stress the old man out, and when the tavern master was stressed Lamb became the target for his emotions. Besides, it wasn't like he'd know any more about this than his peacekeeper. If anything, Lamb decided, dealing with this kind was exactly what he wasn't paid for.

He knelt down, getting his arms under the suit of armour to lift it off the floor and immediately sensing something was wrong. Most things felt light to Lamb, but even so this person was a featherweight. They were nowhere near as heavy as someone their size should be, but there was more to it than that. It was clear from the way the plate rolled loosely in his arms that the fit for the suit was all wrong. Whoever was inside, this armour didn't belong to them. Which meant- the cogs in his mind slowly ground away- this person might not even be a Warden.

He set them down on their back, none too gently, on the bar. Then, no longer worried about the possible consequences, he removed the helmet. And whistled softly to himself.

Wrong for the second time- not only was this person not a Warden, but she wasn't even a man. A young girl, perhaps his age, perhaps a year or so older. Naturally pale skin, but reddened from exhaustion. Long blonde hair, bordering on silver. A pretty face. Much better looking than most of the females they got here.

Working downwards and suddenly taking a lot more care, he began to remove the plates of armour. She was dressed, for rather impractical reasons which he couldn't understand, only in her underwear- a fact which under normal circumstances might have been rather fixating, except that she was covered in blood. Her body was covered head-to-toe in deep, freely bleeding lacerations, and her skin had been rubbed raw by the armour. Looking at the state of her, it was small wonder she'd passed out like that.

Alone, for once, in the presence of a girl his age, and yet rather than trying anything he'd found himself forced to look after her. She couldn't stay unconscious forever, and she'd probably be very grateful to him when she was better, but that was little consolation- and it was assuming that he was able to save her. His knowledge of healing didn't really extend beyond hangovers.

For the second time he considered telling Jence about this turn of events, and for the second time dismissed the idea. Warden or refugee, it really didn't matter. The result would be the same. And besides, the girl was his find.

Careful not to jolt her too much, he lifted her in his arms like a baby, carrying her up the stairs and into his room. He laid her down in his bed, tucking the blankets up to her chin and making sure she wouldn't get too cold. Jence never entered his room without permission, so she should be safe there as long as she didn't make too much noise. And besides, there was no way she'd recover her senses by the time he returned.

That done, he locked the door just to be sure, then pulled out one of his new coins to roll across his knuckles. Clothes and shoes. What do you know- he might actually need the money after all.


It didn't take him long, after leaving the tavern, to realise something was wrong. Not overtly so, but his time as a peacekeeper had taught him very well how to read moods, and the streets weren't right. The vendors were still crying their wares, the urchins were still an annoyance, and the layabouts were still... laying about. But there was an abnormal chill in the air. The whole place was on edge.

He ignored the atmosphere, pressing on towards the marketplace to buy clothes from an elderly clothier he knew from Jence's errands.

He smiled to the man, nodding a greeting. "How's work?"

The clothier scowled good-naturedly. "Slow as always. I swear I only get a dozen customers here."

"A day?"

"A month. And half of them are the old man's mistresses." They shared a short laugh at that. "So what are you after today?"

"Kinda the same, 'cept for a girl."

The clothier raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me he's into that kind of thing?"

"Hell, no. A friend of mine."

"Hah," the man snorted, "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Bitter, old man?"

"Who are you calling old? You want an outfit or not?"

"Yeah, whatever. You've got one, right?"

"What kind of question is that? Give me a minute to find it."

The man dragged a pile of clothes down from a shelf, rooting through it and dumping them carelessly on the ground. His clothes weren't exactly the best quality, but they were cheap, and he was a friend of Jence's. And, more importantly right now, he was a gossip.

Lamb leaned in conspiratorially. "So..."

The old man glanced up. "So?"

"This place feels off. Somethin' I should know about?"

"What," the clothier glanced up in surprise, "you mean you don't know?"

"Know what, exactly?"

"About the Wardens."

"What about them?"

"Apparently..." his voice lowered to a hush, "they've started killing each other."

"Why?"

"Damned if I know. But apparently one of them went rogue, attacked another then fled."

"I don't get it. Why's everyone here so bothered?"

"Well that's the thing; apparently this is where they ran to." He pulled out a blouse, skirt and pair of stockings, dumping them in the boy's arms. "Have a nice day. And try not to get in any trouble."


Try not to get in any trouble. Spoken in jest, but those words hit a little too close to the mark. A traitorous Warden, killing another and running here to escape. A wounded girl, dressed in a Warden's armour, passing out on his doorstep. There was no way that could be a coincidence. He hadn't thought she was a Warden, because the armour certainly hadn't been hers; but what if she'd worn it to blend in, to pretend to be one of the loyal ones?

He shook his head. He refused to believe that. Such a pretty girl could never be a Warden. Hell, a female Warden would have to be an ogress, a disgrace to her gender. She'd be even worse than a male one.

Despite how he often acted, Lamb wasn't an idiot. Wherever the clothier's story had come from, it sure as hell wasn't a reliable one. A rumour like that could only have been spread by the Wardens themselves- and if that was true, and they'd spread a lie, it was because they were hiding something.

Which meant they were dangerous.

Reaching his bedroom, he managed to balance the clothes- along with a pair of boots he'd bought with Jence's money- in his left arm, whilst fishing the key out with his right. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, shut it behind him, and then noticed two things at one.

Firstly, the bed was empty.

Secondly, he had a knife to his throat.

Chuckling at the absurdity of the situation, he found himself unable to muster the slightest bit of fear. "Honey," he muttered drily, "I'm home."

The knife pressed harder against his neck. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"

"I'm your guardian angel. I want to guard you."

The blade pressed even harder, enough to actually sting. "Very funny. Now give me a reason not to kill you now."

"Okay..." he thought about that for a moment. "Killing angels is bad luck."

The knife disappeared and he was shoved in the small of the back, stumbling obligingly across the room. He turned around to face the girl, hands on his hips. She stood between him and the door, dagger held shakily towards him in what was probably intended to be a threatening manner. But in her state, battered and bloodied and barely able to stand, it just looked pitiful. Even the normally cocky Lamb found himself feeling sorry for her.

"I won't let you take me," she growled, "You'll never have me."

"That's a crying shame. You're just my type."

"Do you enjoy this?" Her face hardened, looking torn between screaming and crying. "Is it fun, degrading me?"

"Y'know, I've no idea-"

"Well good for you! But I won't let you take me!" She reversed her grip on the knife, blade pointing at her heart. "I'd rather die that give myself to a Warden!"

Lamb crossed the room in a heartbeat, slapping the dagger out of her hand before she could do anything stupid with it. "Are you thick?"

Her face wavered. "What?"

"Do I look like a Warden to you?"

"You're saying... you aren't?"

He shrugged. "Far as I can tell. Can't you remember how you got here?"

"Should I?"

"Damn." He frowned. "I guess I've got to explain. You turned up running from the Wardens. I looked after you, you fell in love with me, and you swore you'd be mine forever an' ever."

Her mask fell away and she slumped to the floor, laughing at the poor joke through relief and exhaustion. "You really aren't a Warden, are you?"

"Course not." He swept his hair from his eyes, pretending not to notice it falling straight back into place. "Ain't no Warden alive with a face this handsome."

"Then," she paused, "if you aren't a Warden, why am I here?"

He shrugged again. "You just turned up and fell asleep."

"I... fell asleep?"

"Sort of."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry. I thought you were going to lock me up again."

"Again?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Fair enough. You sure you're comfortable like that?"

"Like...?" She looked down, seemingly noticing for the first time that she was half naked. "Oh."

She attempted to leap to her feet and snatch the clothes from his hands, but her legs gave way the moment she put weigh on them. Lamb stepped forward to catch her, causing her to gasp as a number of her injuries reopened, then set her down on the bed.

"Wow," he raised an eyebrow, "you really are slow."

"Shut up."

He handed her the outfit, averting his eyes as she changed, although he didn't see why he had to do so. It was hardly like he could see any more. Maybe she might not mind if he watched...

"What is this?" Her voice broke him from his thoughts.

"What's what?"

"Why have you dressed me like... like a..."

"Oh, that." He turned round to face her. A short pink skirt, barely reaching her legs. A low cut pink top which left very little to the imagination. Black see-through stockings, and black leather boots. "All I could find."

A pause. "That's a lie, isn't it?"

"Yeah. But I'm lazy, and it's what the old man usually gets."

The girl sighed, obviously fighting to keep her cool. "I guess I should thank you. I'd probably be dead right now if you hadn't picked me up."

"Told you," Lamb muttered, "guardian angel."

"Then I'll be going."

She started to limp towards the door, but he stood in her path, arms crossed. "You'll be what?"

"You've done enough. If I stay here, you'll be in danger too."

"So you're just gonna walk out on me? Blood an' cuts an' all?"

"I won't let you get hurt for my sake."

He stood there for a moment more before getting out of her way. "Fine. Least tell me your name, though."

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Gen."

"Matthias Lamb. That's Mattie or Lamb. Nice t'meet'ya, Liz."

"Yes," she smiled shakily, "you too."

She started walking again, but just as she stumbled through the doorway he caught her by the arm. "One last thing." He punched out with his right fist, hitting her square on the jaw and catching her as she fell. "Leave the Wardens to me."

Then he carried her over to the bed, laying her down and tucking her in like before. Maybe now she'd actually stay asleep. Then, shaking his head at her naiveté, he headed back downstairs and prepared to close the tavern for a while. It looked like he'd found himself a really stupid one this time.