B3 Interlude 11 : Movement

Cinching his quilted robe tighter, Hanrick took a long sip of brandy and savoured the smooth burn that coated the back of his throat.

He stared mindlessly into the distance, sinking further into his favourite fireside chair as he gazed past his four-poster bed — losing himself in the star-speckled night sky visible through one of his many windows.

Beneath the twinkling lights, a pale imitation of the heavens beauty spilled out across the ground in the form of thousands of ward-lights. It made it hard to relax — how was he supposed to enjoy a moment of peace in his quarters while Deadacre screamed for his attention through the windows that lined every wall?

Probably intentional, he guessed. Bloody self-aggrandizing bastard of an ancestor probably thought it a ‘duty of the station’ to never have a moment to forget the poor sods who lived outside the keeps wall.

He’d bet his left leg that old Jansile Frent, first of his name, never accounted for dealing with a damned apocalypse.

Between the refugees, the suspicious beast activity, and the guild turning the whole damn city upside down just to see what fell out of its pockets, he was on the verge of a nervous bloody breakdown, he was.

Shaking his head, Hanrick slammed back the rest of his tumbler and reached for three-quarters full bottle sitting on his reading table. Brightvalley, and a vintage old enough to be his grandfather — and that wily rat had made it to the second tier, so it was old indeed. Properly worked alchemical distillery, that one, so it kicked as good as it tasted.

Pouring another, he ignored the platinum’s worth he spilled on the floor in favour of another drink.

Knuckles wrapped on glass.

Hanrick shrieked, tossing his crystal tumbler and irreplaceable brandy halfway across the room — right onto his bed.

He snapped to the noise, voice raising as he remembered to call for his guards. It had come from his balcony — was it an assassin?

His knees grew weak as he took in the giant of a man standing by his balcony, linen clothes billowing in the night wind.

He froze.

“Stop acting like a startled rabbit and open the damn door, Hanrick!”

Wait. That voice.

“Rieker?!” he questioned, doubling over in relief as he recognised the guild master.

“Just open the damn door!”

Hanrick hurried over, undoing the latch to let the man — and the cold — in.

“Wait. How’d you even get up here? We’re five floors up! More importantly why the fuck are you in my bedroom in the middle of the night?!”

Rieker grinned. It was a wide thing — hungry and predatory, like a bloodhound that had caught a scent.

“I need to mobilise the guild — Middle Iron and up — and to do that I need ye to sign this writ of Special Authority.” Rieker shoved a rolled up leaf of paper at his chest, leaving him to flounder in an attempt to grab it.

“What? Why in the blazes would you need to do that?”

Somehow, the guildmaster’s grin got even hungrier.

“I found the fuckers. Some of them, at least. Now bloody sign it.”

…

Stark kicked up his legs, enjoying a rare quiet moment of peace as he reclined in one of the high-backed overstuffed chairs that were scattered in front of the room’s fireplace. A bunk room might have been a cheap way to stay in a well furnished inn like the Iron Tankard, but it meant he rarely got a break from Jon’s incessant prattling.

Bastard was lucky he was such a bloody good rogue, or he’d have thrown him out of the team a decade ago.

Thankfully, the man had succumbed to his own endless reserves of energy. When he, Inra, and Loryn had wanted to relax upon their return to the city, Jon had lasted all of fifteen minutes before he’d rushed off to the guild to sink a dozen pints and spin some tall tales.

The door to their shared room slammed open.

“Stark! Stark!”

He closed his eyes, sighing deeply. It hadn’t even been a bloody hour — he might have loved the man like a brother, but he sure as fuck wanted to punch him like one too.

“By all that the mother Erentha holds holy, if you don’t stop shouting I will fry you where you stand!” Inra scowled, sitting up in her bunk as a crackle of electrical mana sparked across her fingers.

“Oh, put a cork in it, Inra! This is important.”

Stark could only sigh in defeat as a flash of golden light cut across the room with a loud pop and drew a startled yelp from Jon.

“Hey! That was uncalled for.”

Practically snarling back, Inra pulled herself out of her bed and stalked to one of the remaining chairs, her tangled black hair sticking out a dozen different directions.

Groaning at all the ruckus, the final member of their team was roused from her nap.

“Elyntyr’s tit’s, it’s right impossible to get a full night’s sleep around you lot — half a mind to pay fer me own room.” Loryn said.

Stark rolled his eyes. He knew as well as she did that none of them slept alone any more — too many ambushes made it hard to get a good rest without one of them being awake.

Leaning an elbow on the fire’s mantle, Jon fixed them all with a grin as he waved his hand to cut off their complaints.

“Like I was saying, I’d been down at the guild, having a few pints with our old mate Yerrel — seeing as how we haven’t been in town at the same time and all, I thought that I’d swap a few stories, see if he’d ran into a few beasties that we hadn’t — especially since we all know how much of a bitch it can be to find the right levelled creatures now that we’re mid Iron and all — it’s blood tough, but you’d never guess who decided to join — wait! Don’t! It was Shole — “

Another crackle of mana played across Inra’s fingers again.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Jon, you have two seconds.”

Jon paled.

“Rieker’s calling us in! And Shole’s team, the Hooligans, Brightward’s crew, Jensmi’s team, and—”

Jon’s prattle continued, every extra name he listed drawing Stark’s eyebrows further and further up. That was…that was everybody, or it might as well have been. Two thirds of every active duty Iron and Steel team currently in the city.

He opened his mouth.

“Wait!” Jon held up a hand before he finally took a breath. “Wasn’t finished — rumour is the old guildmaster’s even calling in fucking Bronwyn’s team.”

Stark paled. Bronwyn? He was the head of Deadacre’s only Silver crew — and the bloody operational lead for the chapter, no less! No one had seen them since last bloody summer! They’d been out in the field constantly, culling every major threat that had cropped up around the city since the first fucking day of the phase shift. If Rieker was recalling them…something serious was going down.

“When?” Loryn asked, already standing to move to her carefully packed away heavy-plate.

“Now!”

“What?! By the bloody gods Jon, that should have been the first thing out of your mouth! Inra, zap him.”