Tired Of Death

Captain Simon Simmons was strolling along the main street, on his way back to his post, when the soldier ran up to him, panting and red in the face from exertion.

"Captain! Sir! We're under attack at the main gate! Come quick!"

"What?!" Simon exclaimed, grasping his sword unconsciously. "How did this happen? What size is the army? How did it get here without us knowing?" He trotted alongside the man, heading towards the main gate.

"It's not an army sir," gasped the guard, trying to keep up.

"Then who's attacking?" demanded the Captain, working his way against the flow of people, which seemed to be moving in the opposite direction with some urgency.

"It's just one man sir," he reported. "But a big fella' he is," he added in his own defence

"One man!!" Simon gave the trooper a Look. "There's about a hundred of you in the barracks down there! How many does it take?"

"Not a hundred any more sir," said the guard.

Simon scowled. "Very well, let me see to this." He lengthened his stride, rushing towards the gate, where he could hear shouts and screams, and the clash of metal on metal.

Pushing his way through the throng, he stumbled into a clearing. In the centre of the space, standing on a pile of corpses, was a large man wielding a black sword. As Simon watched, the man swung his blade, which seemed to be howling, and cut a soldier clean in half at the waist. The remainder of the guards encircling the attacker held back, not wishing to be the next victim of this madman.

The assailant threw his head back and laughed, then looked around and shook his weapon. "Come on then! Who's turn is it to die?"

"What is going on here?" Simon shouted, in his best schoolteacher voice.

The nearest sentry saw him and spoke quickly. "Please Captain, this fellow is resisting arrest, with violence," he added unnecessarily.

The attacker saw Simon and stepped forward, causing all the nearby guards to flinch.

"You! Are you in charge around here?" The bloodied black blade was pointed at the captain.

Simon drew himself up, determined not to show fear in front of the enlisted men. "I," he said, "am Captain Simmons. Who are you, and why are you… resisting arrest?"

"I am Veronica the Violator, Anti-Paladin, here on official business. These worms," he sneered and gestured at the onlooking guards, thought to question me. I don't take kindly to underlings questioning me."

Simon's eyes widened. "Forgive me Sir Violator. Let me, on behalf of our esteemed ruler, extend my hand in welcome, and apologize for the misunderstanding." He turned to the nearby sentry and shouted at him. "What do you think you were doing? This gentleman is a guest of the city."

"We were told to be on the lookout for a tall man in black with a dark sword," the guard answered, shuffling his feet like a naughty boy. "He's a tall man dressed in black with a dark sword." He indicated The Violator, being careful not to make any sudden movements.

"A tall very thin man," corrected Simon with a snarl, "does he look thin to you?"

"Well, two out of three isn't bad…urg," the guard's reply was cut short as Simon stabbed him in the midriff with a dagger.

As the body slumped to the floor, the captain turned to Veronica and bowed slightly. "Let me apologize again Sir Violator, for this gross incompetence. Usually I would see to it that the persons involved were disciplined, but I can see that you've taken care of that yourself." He indicated the pile of dead soldiers.

Veronica shrugged. "Never mind," he said, "it gave me chance to test out my new sword." He wiped the blade on a corpse before sheathing it, and brushed briefly at his robe. "What do you know, it really is stain resistant," he muttered.

"Sir, how may I be of service?" Simon asked.

The Anti-Paladin turned back to him and smiled widely. Standing with hands on h.i.p.s, head held high, cloak fluttering around him, he spoke in a clear, strong voice.

"Take me to your leader," he commanded.

~ * ~

"Just one more thing then," said Frumble, waddling his way down the narrow cobbled street.

"Finally," Tybalt replied, shifting the sack of goods that they had spent all day purchasing to another shoulder. "We get this last thing, then off to the inn for a flagon of grog. How's that sound wizard?"

"I'd rather just have a c.o.c.ktail," the mage replied, scanning the passing shops.

"Wizards," grumbled Tybalt. "What are we looking for anyway?"

"Specialist shop," said Frumble, "I need a couple of fish legs."

Tybalt raised his eyebrows. "Indeed."

"Here we go, this place may have them." The Halfling indicated a small shop on the corner of the street.

The two wandered over to the store. The streets were getting less crowded now, as evening drew in. Not that the wizards quarter had been very crowded to start with. They were a strange lot, reflected Tybalt, as the mage pushed open a creaky door. The wizard had dragged him around a whole load of gloomy establishments, manned by weird old men with too much beard. He'd never seen so many strange powders and, well, other things floating in jars that were probably best not thought about too much. Looking around the dingy environment of the latest shop, he found it much the same. A rather sharp smell permeated the place, and he wrinkled his nose.

"Shop!" cried Frumble.

An old man, no surprises there, tottered from a back room into the store. He was dressed in faded red robes, and had a white beard that reached his waist. Peering over half moon glasses he looked around, finally spotting Frumble. "What do you want?" he asked, rather abruptly.

"I require several piscipede," said the Halfling in a snobbish voice.

"Fish legs eh?" The store owner hobbled over to a shelf stocked with jars of murky liquid. "Haven't had much call for them recently." He took down a bottle and shook it, peering into the interior. "Here we go. Only three left I'm afraid." He put the bottle on the counter with a thump, causing a cloud of dust to puff into the air.

Frumble picked the container up and examined it. "They look a bit old," he said.

The storekeep shrugged. "Them's all I have. Take 'em or leave 'em, I don't care."

Frumble scowled but nodded. "Very well." He turned to Tybalt. "Pay the man then." So saying he stalked out of the shop, banging the door behind him.

Tybalt sighed and reached for his pouch. Dreth had given him the money, along with stern instructions about the return of the Halfling with the needed ingredients for the counter-spell. He counted out the gold, and added the fish legs to the sack.

"Finally," he said to himself. Nodding to the old man behind the counter, who completely ignored him, he went to open the door. And stopped. "Oh crap."

Peering through the glass he saw Frumble, but the wizard was not alone. He was busy talking to a woman dressed in black leather. A bow was slung over her shoulder and a short sword hung at her hip. Tybalt recognized her from somewhere, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly where. It didn't matter anyway; Dreth had left very clear instructions about talking to people. Or rather not.

Turning back, he addressed the shopkeeper. "Hey, old fellow," he said, holding out his sack. "Would you hold onto this for a while?"

The man, who was eating something out of one of his own jars in bold defiance of all laws of hygiene, glared at him. "What do I look like, a baggage service?"

Scowling, Tybalt reached into his pouch again and withdrew a gold piece. "Here, there's one more of these for you when we collect it." He flipped the coin over to the man, who caught it deftly enough and, after examining the payment, accepted the shopping.

That problem dealt with, Tybalt turned to address his other one. Frumble was still outside, and from his gestures was remonstrating strongly with the woman. He opened the door and approached as subtly as he could, trying to overhear.

"...left me. I was the one captured and forced to go along with Dreth!"

"So why are you here, wandering around free and well in Real then? You've gone over to the other side haven't you? I knew you weren't to be trusted. Maybe you even set it all up. You let the others get killed for some stupid wizard plan."

Tybalt smiled to himself and wandered up to Frumble, putting his arm, rather awkwardly, around his shoulders. "Hey mage, come on," he said. "We need to be getting back to Dreth and the others. They'll be waiting for us. Who's this? Your girlfriend?"

Frumble looked up at Tybalt, a puzzled expression on his face. "What?" he asked.

"I knew it! You betrayed us! I should have listened to my father. Never trust a wizard!" Riot reached for her sword, but then stopped, realizing she was outmatched here.

"Riot…" Frumble started.

"Riot?" exclaimed Tybalt, pretending to be surprised. "Didn't you say you'd managed to lose her?"

"What?" asked the mage. "What are you talking about?"

"What!" said Riot at the same time. "That's it!" She turned around and stormed off, in the manner of angry females everywhere.

"What are you doing?" asked Frumble. "I never said that."

"Sorry." Tybalt shrugged. "Dreth was quite clear with his instructions. You have to return with me. If you don't I'll never get to be with Emerald. I couldn't risk you falling in with your old friends."