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Dearest Readers, as a note in lieu of the chapter's ending, we continued here with the grand tradition of relocating NPCs from their usual spot in the game.
Again, my thanks for your patience in this wee journey!

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"You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the ocean in one drop." – Rumi

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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿

Book Two: Wandering Water | Chapter 58: Wave of the World (Part Two)

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"Let's flow."

The circle of enemies tensed and inched forward; weapons ready in their hands. A snare closing in around the fox.

Yet Irse kept her eyes straight ahead, still and seemingly ignoring the world, not even an inkling of her next move. For though excitement tightened the muscles, an odd calm draped over her soul, icy and grounding as it were an ocean vast and unmoving.

No more waiting.

In a burst of motion, Irse bolted to her right and brought the scabbard down upon the head of her first target. This, the man hurriedly tried to parry and thusly failed to block the blade tearing across his stomach at the same instant. A wide step to her left, and the ironwood saya cracked viciously against the temple of the second man, too slow and feeble with his own dagger. A push with the foot to the right, a stretched swipe of the sword hand, and the kissaki of the tachi sliced through the third man's neck as he approached. In the same motion the elf wheeled to face the others now rushing forth.

This time, she met them. No more running away.

The fourth leapt upon her, shortsword slashing up and askew. Irse edged away, rounding counter to his direction. The tachi lacerated his unguarded side while at the same time the scabbard deflected a strike from the fifth foe. Immediately the Kogitsune lopped off his thigh clean and the man tumbled down like a hay pile bereft of its bottom bale.

The remaining attackers set upon her as one, but instead she glided among them, calmly deflecting their strikes, the tachi and saya gusting as the whirlwind. Wood and steel in each hand, that dot of opportunity exploited - reach of offense lengthened, swiftness of defense assured, mobility even when fully compassed by one's foes.

Indeed, Okami said it true of swordsmanship - not a dance as most saw this exercise. Rather, a cycle, a path as all things must undertake in their due course. Breeze to a full gale, current to a tidal surge, a spark to the raging flame. The blade from the cold well of its sheathe to the heated heart of the enemy.

Focus. Clarity. Sight clearest, most minute of motions observed and contemplated in dilated time like the dances of devotees. Scent sharpest, iron tang of blood and pungent salt of sweat like perfumed oblations burning on an altar. Sound both deafening and dim, the clang of steel like the notes of hallowed crystal bells, pained screams like the supplications of a temple chorus. Nothing else existed in the realms but this very moment, the past forgotten and the future unthought, here in the gates of purpose and the sanctuary of the soul, only the now and the infinite.

Precision. Freedom. Elation.

This, her soul hummed to the tune of unspeakable bliss, this is the Flow.

The flat of her blade batted at a quarterstaff from the sixth man. In a blink of a window where the wooden stave whipped up, Irse drove in, saya at the guard and speared him in the torso with the tachi. Pulling the blade and spinning, the Kogitsune easily swatted a blow from the seventh, the scabbard snapping the front of his throat.

Stepping over the fallen, she marched towards the eighth and ninth. They dithered, tossing urging glances at each other. Irse made the decision for them. Lunging to her right, she looped the tachi and cleaved one of them through the shoulder. With a kick, she sent the body hurling towards the last man. He evaded then leapt in to twirl and thrust his sword. Irse casually swatted his blade with her scabbard and finished with a stab through his navel.

A handful still stood afar, watching but quaking, armed only with daggers and wooden clubs. Irse cast them a careless gaze, eyebrow raised in impatience. Some threw their sticks and backed off, while others put their knives away, wagging their heads at Neira's glare.

"Fearful fools," the woman spat at them. "The Lord of Shadows take you all in terror."

Karlat ignored his companion, hefting his axe in an unhurried advance. Irse sank back to a defensive stance, the Kogitsune in seigan and the scabbard leveled at the side.

"Maybe you ain't at the end of your rope yet," he said. "But now, it's old Karlat's turn to hack it short for ya."

With both hands he hefted his broad axe, leisurely sweeping it side to side, establishing his rhythm and the distance between them. Unperturbed, Irse slowly backed next to a butcher's stall, now empty with the owners and customers having long fled the fighting. Eyes unnarrowed, she let egen sight show her everything, the broad axe whistling in front of her, of the dwarf and his height and reach of his weapon, of the thickness of his splint mail and helm. Of Neira, unusual among the warriors encountered so far, for favoring her left hand which wielded a cudgel, a small buckler strapped to her right arm.

Of Neira standing peculiarly still rather than advancing, pulling out instead a pendant from her neck. With the same hand grasping her cudgel, the lady bounty hunter proudly held up a disc bearing the likeness of a black mask tainted with red, her eyes focused on the elf, a triumphant smile on her lips.

In Irse's mind, there flashed a dim memory of the priests in Candlekeep and the temples in Iriaebor petitioning their gods for spells and blessings while clinging to consecrated relics in the shape of carved figurines or disc pendants displaying a holy symbol. Like the one in Neira's hand.

A divine caster! "Nope," Irse chanted, by reflex swiftly clasping both scabbard and tachi in one hand, reaching down to grab the first thing within her reach in the stall's floor.

A bucket brimming with discarded offal and smelly water.

With a forward stomp, she swung the pail and hurled it at Neira. The sickly splash and crisp smack of the wooden bucket drowned the mantra and quenched the beginnings of a faint halo around the holy symbol. Drenched, the woman spluttered, shocked at the interruption, but more livid at the foul liquid and trimmings clinging to her face and armor. Karlat paused, pointed and laughed brutally while Irse grimaced at the disgusting sight.

"You'll pay for that," Neira shrieked and lunged with cudgel raised behind the shield.

"Enough with them sissy prayers already," Karlat grunted at his companion as he likewise charged.

At once, the pair of bounty hunters bore down on the elf. With the scabbard she fended off Neira's club while the tachi parried Karlat's axe. They struck without letting up, never halting, never giving an opening for a counterattack, and yet-

Irse raised her brows, not with impatience, but with interest, eagerness. None of the frustration from her foes' relentlessness; only acceptance, allowing, leading to recognizing and matching their patterns. Effort, both unthinking and controlled, coursed through her. Strength conserved by deflecting and redirecting their blows. The flow of combat realized, attained, implemented.

With a cry more of impatience than ardor, Neira crouched behind her shield and with all her weight bashed against the elf. Though the tachi shot up in time to absorb the shock, the force sent Irse treading back a few paces. The lady bounty hunter charged, club raised, so eager to land a blow that she left Karlat behind.

Irse beamed. Poor woman just made a fatal mistake.

Just as Neira swung down with the club, Irse sidestepped to her own right, rounding to face the other woman's unprotected flank. The adamantine tachi sliced clean through the leather bracer, flesh and bone of the woman's forearm.

Just as Neira opened her mouth to scream, shield dipping in wounded shock, the scabbard whipped and cracked at the jaw of her helm. Like a one—handed puppet cut at the strings, Neira crumpled lifelessly to the ground. Immediately Irse settled again into a defensive stance, brows up in surprise at seeing Karlat merely guffawing.

"About time somebody shut 'er up," he said while heaving his axe once more.

Let steel do the talking at last. Irse nodded and without further ceremony, they charged at each other. No frightened crowd shrilled around them now, instead they fought in silence and the whistle and trill of clashing steel, unmindful of the gasps and murmurs of morbidly curious bystanders, the muted groans of the wounded and dying.

With the tachi she deflected the axe head, with the saya she probed the dwarf's defenses. But Karlat thwarted all attempts, solidly blocking with the axe's handle for he wielded his weapon as it were a staff – grasping each end with his favored hand just below the blade. And then in a blink, the axe head would come swinging at her, with only reflex swift enough to repel with the tachi.

And then their weapons locked together. Against the underside of Karlat's axe, Irse pressed the hilt of the tachi, yet the dwarf's superior strength in one hand pushed back in easy counter. Frantic eyes staring at the glinting edge closing in, Irse braced the saya against the sword hilt, both hands straining against the axe.

Karlat's meaty fist landed a blow on her left side. Irse sputtered from the dull pain. By Tethrin's mercy, he didn't aim for her liver. Though not the first time that something solid and unforgiving got chummy with her midsection. One day, she'd have to thank Okami for toughening her up with the blunt iaito, and Kerda's carpet-destroying blow in that valuable little test from long ago.

Karlat pulled back for another punch, and Irse seized the chance to push against the unbolstered axe and slam the scabbard down the crook between the dwarf's exposed neck and shoulder. Karlat merely flinched yet loosened his hold. They staggered apart then charged at each other again.

Every now and then, the axe head swayed too near. Each time, the sting of a cut and an angry red line blooming across the cloth warned her just how close it had been. Every now and then, the tachi succeeded in sundering some scales from Karlat's mail, the gray links falling to the earth like silvery leaves stained with dark sap. On and on without ceasing, for how long they did this, Irse could no longer tell.

Soon a worrying awareness crept in – leaden weight setting into the limbs, head throbbing, throat parched whether from the heat or blood loss, no longer discernible. Equally, the dwarf seemed to be succumbing to a subtle listlessness of his own. The adamantine tachi had managed to chip away at places in his mail, scales missing in patches where wounds blossomed and poured. A particularly deep cut at his side already leaked badly, yet by sheer will and inherent hardiness of the Stout Folk, Karlat stayed on his feet, swinging his axe.

Strangely, it was in that deceleration in the flow that Irse finally took true note of Karlat's method. Almost smacked herself in the head. Why didn't she realize it until now? Sure, Karlat always gripped his axe with both hands, off-hand around the bottom of the shaft and the favored hand just right at the base of the head. With this grip, he parried her strikes as if himself wielding a short staff. But when he pulled back for the blow, rotating his body, it was then she realized how his dominant hand slid down the shaft to join the other hand, allowing the axe head to swing free, a deadly pendulum.

Once more, the dwarf trundled his axe, but this time, just as his main hand slid away from the blade head, the elf seized the chance. Stretching, overreaching, the stroke by itself a risk for exposing her unguarded, Irse reached over and obliquely slashed with the tachi just as the axe began its zenith above Karlat's head. Yet it was Okami's words which returned to her, encouraging, upholding the decision.

To strike at opportunity, not in convenience.

The adamantine edge sheared through the wooden shaft. Karlat's eyes and mouth broadened into saucers, stunned at the sight of the axe head spinning away, his head turning to face her in time for the saya to clout his helmed temple.

Both combatants stumbled apart, but barely had she time to pause and breathe when the rageful dwarf barreled into her midsection. The world spun, earth and sky whirling indistinguishable, stopped only by the feel of the ground slamming against them, dirt and gravel sharp against skin. Dazed, Irse scrabbled to get up as she reached for the sword and the scabbard mercifully not far, but a mad bellow nearby snapped her back to her senses. Karlat rushed upon her, in his hand the axe head. Quickly Irse sprung to her feet and with both hands grasped his wrists as they fell in mid-stab. Against each other they struggled, and only the dwarf's wounds kept him from overwhelming the likewise weary elf.

Heaving, she finally pitched him to the ground, kneeled on his chest and once more grabbed the dwarf's wrists. Though himself shaking, Karlat desperately gripped the axe head as it were a dagger, the keen edge biting into his hands as blood slicked down his arms. Darned fool just wouldn't give up. Irse strained to hold him down, herself close to exhaustion yet unwilling to yield.

"Blasted knife-ear. You ain't the last one I'll kill with this here axe o' mine."

The last one? Irse snarled, "You're right. I won't be the last."

Irse clasped his wrists, hunched down with all her weight, and pushed the axe blade to his throat. Angled, it slashed through the side of his neck and Karlat made gurgling choking sounds.

A faint glimmer caught her eye. By his head and upon the ground lay a small disc, a pendant, loosened out of his armor during the struggle. Irse narrowed her eyes at the thing, absently picking it up. Polished to a shimmering bronze yet now smeared with his blood which filled the grooves forming the hideous mark carved on its surface.

A grinning skull surrounded by teardrops.

Irse frowned. Hadn't she seen this one before? Didn't this symbol belong to –

"You," she spat at the dying dwarf and shook the pendant over his face. "Is this why you've killed for money? Because you worship that- that evil, that dead-"

So wicked, so heinous had been this one god's legacy, so grievous had been Gorion's admonition to never seek any knowledge of him, that Irse couldn't even bear to say the name, more out of disgust than fear.

Karlat looked up at her, his eyes strangely widening, seemingly gazing into her and beyond her. "M- my lord?" he stammered, hushed, reverent, far from his gruff and abrasive manner earlier. "Yes, all- all. F-for you-"

Irse wagged her head. Who is he talking to? The man has gone downright delirious, eyes glazed and unseeing as they fluttered with his own fading life.

"Now you're here, my lord," he croaked. "Karlat can- go- now."

No further breath rattled from his throat. Dead and broken like his battle axe. Irse rose to her feet, half-stumbling half-dragging herself to collect the tachi and saya. A few times more than the usual, she flicked the blood off its blade. Paused. Turned her head. And glowered, surprised.

"You butterfingered lily livers are still here?" Irse snapped.

The remaining ruffians glanced at each other, as if themselves amazed at their having stayed throughout the ordeal.

"Well, you an' the dwarf duking it out was quite something."

"Besides, you'd prolly just run us down like the others."

Darned right. For where else can chickens flee in a coop when the fox can easily chase and pounce on them?

She took a step towards the stragglers. They edged back, trembling in their trousers, mumbling their pleas. Shouts rang out through the street.

"The Fist! The Fist! They're here!"

And with that, the thugs tried to flee, only to be barred by a troop of the liveried mercenaries and their halberds. The rest of the Flaming Fist grim and silent marched in and surrounded them. Unlike the lazing lackabouts in the barracks, these were a blindingly polished armored contingent. Irse tilted her head, unimpressed. About time these ham-hands finally showed up.

"By the gods! Not Captain Brage," one of them wailed, pointing to the leader at the head of the squad, a man in gleaming full plate, tall and imposing like a mountain of iron.

This Captain Brage they seemed to fear so greatly, stomped to a stop. Eyes like steel beneath his helm, he leveled the street with a hard gaze.

"Cease this bloody barratry this instant, and lay down your weapons," he boomed with incontestable authority. "In the name of the Flaming Fist and by authority of the governance of Beregost, for disturbing the peace, you are all under arrest!"

This he proclaimed while glaring solely at Irse. Incredulous, the elf scowled back, wringing her hands, still clutching the tachi and scabbard.

"I'm under arrest? Why? What did I do?"

Not dignifying her protest with a reply, Brage merely glared down at the elf, eyes broad with rebuke. Taken aback, Irse blinked, then glanced around. At the bodies and limbs and viscera scattered among puddles of blood and grime.

"Ahem," Captain Brage coughed impatiently.

Irse glanced back at him, grinning, shoulders gathered like a guilty cub, stealing glimpses at the sudden hubbub around her. The Fist seemed mighty preoccupied at the moment with roping in and questioning those caught, and dragging away the deceased. Even Brage hadn't drawn his sword, still standing before her but busy with supervising his men - alternating between a glare at someone working too slow, a stern recount of proper Fist procedure to another displaying the slightest hint of hesitancy in their job, and a well-deserved but withering admonition for a poor sod about to make an obvious mistake.

Of herself, bruised and nicked in places, but the rush of battle fueling her veins yet to fade, still enough wind in her lungs and legs to make a break for it. How easy it ought to be then to merely hightail it now, straight out of town and into the woods where surely they wouldn't bother, not with all the bandits and monsters mucking around out there.

The way looked clear. Deftly she lifted one foot, about to pivot away.

Then her stomach rumbled, long and loud and roaring, melodious in its lengthy complaint. The others, Fists and thugs, paused to stare.

Rubbing at her belly, Irse sighed, defeated and resigned. She turned back to look up at Captain Brage with a sheepish smile.

"Eh, you serve meals in jail, right?"

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Why, they do serve meals in jail!

Irse ignored the ringing of iron bars as the cell door slammed shut, the faint jangling of keys and footsteps fading down the corridor. None of that mattered now except for the tray laid out on the floor in front of her, bearing what certainly counted for a feast in these prior days of deplorable hunger.

For the starter, mixed greens with bell peppers and artichokes and sliced oranges lightly tossed with seed oil. A wide cup of velvety chowder, brimming with chunks of fowl, cubed carrots and turnip. On a clay platter, strips of pan-fried rabbit delicately nestled atop a small bed of oiled leeks. Not to be forgotten, at the corner of the tray sat a small wicker basket of sweet nutty almond bread and soft cheese. And a pitcher of clean water. No cutlery came with the meal – clearly they weren't taking chances on lending her even the tiniest implement for a viable jailbreak, but the guards were thoughtful enough to leave a small rag for wiping her hands.

What an absolute boon thanks to Tethrin, Irse declared in her joyful little heart. The cook who prepped this simple yet wonderful spread ought to be promoted right away to Admiral General Marshal Supreme Leader of the Flaming Fist. Even up to Grandest Duke of Baldur's Gate.

Irse tore into the food, savoring each bite, each slurp, each crumb, nothing escaping not even the parsley garnishes. Next to that wedding feast back in Dearg, this must be the happiest day of her life!

Somewhat sated for the meantime, the elf leaned back for a contented belch. How much longer, the wait for the next meal?

Right, no more waiting, call out to them and ask for seconds. She rose from the floor and marched towards the bars, no longer halting nor wincing from pain. For all that intimidating and stern bearing of his, Captain Brage was considerate enough to have an acolyte fetched from the temple of the Morninglord in this town. Poor young fellow had paled at the horrific amount of wounds and trauma of those still living. And then the Fist promptly locked them up to await judgment. While the rest were dumped into adjoining cells, the elf was taken to a separate wing. The other prisoners begging for protection from her might have been the reason for the solitary confinement. Not something she'd complain about, anyway – finally, peace and quiet and all this space and food to herself.

Irse took a swig of water. What to do now in this tricky sticky fly-filled jam she'd gotten herself stuck with? The worst that could happen? Being detained here for a good long while, robbing her of precious time that should be spent searching for Okami.

Him, alone out there among bandits and forest monsters and scheming vultures while she's stuck here, thanks to this messed-up waggery that wasn't even her doing!

And that's not even the whole basket of cracked eggs. Sighing, Irse patted at her empty side. The Fist had confiscated the Kogitsune, even taking care to bind the sheathed tachi with rope and parchment, affixing a wax seal upon the wrappings. The sword was handed to Brage for safekeeping, along with the adamantine butter knife fished out of her belt pouch by a lady officer, a woman likewise appearing hardy and all business just like the Captain. Irse winced at the memory. Her stomach sank at the thought. In the hands of another the Kogitsune now languished, likely to be locked up and forgotten or even sold or appropriated by someone else.

Oh, to lose her mentor and his sword, what unbearable catastrophe, worse than a century without supper!

With growing panic, Irse grasped the iron bars and shook them. "Hey, please! Let me out of here. I told you all, it wasn't my fault, the whole thing!" But then, a lot of that slicing and slashing were her doing, but still-

"Hey!" Harder and with more urgency did she rattle the iron bars.

Shook them down to their fittings.

Until they dissolved to glittering ash in her hands.

"The nine hells-," Irse stammered, staring astonished at the rusty gilings now coating her palms.

The iron plague. Gone, the entire jail door, reduced to nothing more than dust at her feet.

She leaned through the frame, just enough to stay within the cell, and snuck a peek in the corridor. Empty, quiet, no obstacles. Free. And yet-

She edged back. Along with the pounding in her heart, the mind whirled, unsure.

It was no longer a question of what Gorion or Okami would do in this very situation.

Rather, what should Irse do?

Brows furrowing with the weight of her wavering conscience, she closed her eyes. Exhaling, Irse lifted a foot, letting it hover hesitant above the thin red line of dust, strewn across the threshold of the stone floor, gray yet made golden by the beams of the setting sun from beyond the iron-barred windows.

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End of Book Two: Wandering Water

Up next… Book Three: Meeting of Fires

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