What price is honour? Chapter two (2)

The loud shout had come from behind them, and Faultner had no sooner
turned around to face it than he had drawn his bow, stringing an arrow
as he moved his body. When he turned, he saw a stout, middle aged man in
the uniform of the Ismail bank guards, with round helm, Ring mail, and
blue tunic and cape. He held a long sword with his right hand, pointing
towards him. His round face was red; his eyes narrow as he yelled his
warning.

In an instant, Faultner aimed his arrow, and without the slightest
hesitation, let it loose. It struck the Guard straight in his throat,
showing that training of the Gardenan scouts was not easily forgotten.
The guard slumped down immediately, no noise coming from his mouth as
blood seeped out of his open wound.

No sooner had that guard fallen however, Than Faultner felt a
presence behind him. Twisting back around as fast as his body could
allow, he saw another guardsman, this one younger and quicker than the
one he had just killed, charging towards him, sword raised and ready to
strike. Hatred was in the young man’s eyes, as well as tears, as he
rushed forward.

“You fucking Bastard!” Screamed the Guardsmen, as he swung his blade down, in a fast wild stroke, at Faultner’s chest.

Taking a swift leap backwards, Angling himself so that the blade’s
point missed him by a fraction of an inch, Faultner quickly flung his
bow down, it now being of little use in such close quarters.

“Tisza! Keep running, I’ll handle him!” Shouted Faultner, though he needn’t had bothered.

The young woman had never stopped moving, and now she was almost at the vault.

Paying her no further attention, he drew his daggers, holding them
blade downwards in each hand. His foe had righted himself after his
downward swing, and was now holding his sword with both hands. He made
to charge again, motioning his arms to take a sideways swing at
Faultner.

Anticipating this, Faultner Swung his body to the left, aiming to
avoid the blow. The Guardsman’s sword hit air, and his body came forward
with his strike. Faultner now readied his killing blow, his daggers
already raised, ready to plunge them into the back of the young man’s
neck.

Yet before he could do this, the Guardsman, seemingly reading his
movement, rammed into Faultner with the full force of his shoulder,
slamming him into the stone wall. The force of it caused Faultner to
drop his daggers, and he yelped as the sharp pain ran up his spine.

The Guardsman drew back, letting Faultner slump to the ground, and
pointed his sword downwards, ready to bury it in his foe’s chest. But
Faultner had long since learned to soak up some pain, and swift as he
could he aimed his leg in an upwards kick, his boot striking the young
man’s groin. The pain of this strike led the Guardsman to drop his
blade, His hands reaching downwards to grab the afflicted area.

Taking a breath, Faultner got to his feet. Yet before he could make
another move, the Guardsman was charging at him again, having taken no
time at all to recover from the blow that had been inflicted upon him.
Faultner could tell that the man whom he was fighting had the rage of a
beast, his eyes wild with anger and hatred.

Faultner raised his arms, his hands grabbing the Guardsman’s. The two
of them pushed against each other, hands locked in a grapple lock, in
the style of the wrestlers at the arena. Each was testing the others
strength, Faultner digging his feet into the floor as he strained
himself, hoping to overwhelm the younger man. Both where panting with
the effort, sweat running down their foreheads.

Faultner felt his hands being pushed back, the young Guardsman’s
strength starting to overpower his. Making a swift decision, he swiftly
head-butted the younger man, a trick he’d learned in the alleyways of
The Ache. The Guardsman stumbled back, letting go of Faultner’s hands.
Blood poured from his nose and lip, and Faultner could feel his own
forehead bleeding slightly.

Faultner looked about him, trying to find where his daggers had
fallen. Catching sight of one of them, he dived down to grab it.
Reaching the floor, he took the dagger in his right hand, gripping it
firmly.

However in doing this, he had taken his eye of his foe, and sure
enough, as he turned upwards to rise to his feet, the Guardsman was upon
him again, jumping down onto Faultner. The young man made a grab for
the dagger with his right hand, aiming a punch for Faultner’s face with
his left. Faultner moved his head out of the way, avoiding the punch,
but could not stop the dagger being prized away from him.

The Guardsman, sensing he had the upper hand, lifted the dagger
upward, aiming to bring its point down on his enemy’s face. For a
moment, Faultner believed it was all over, that his life would end here.
Yet an idea swiftly sprung to his mind, and he reached his left hand
behind his back, towards the quiver he carried there.

With a guttural scream, the Guardsman motioned to bring the dagger
down. But before he could move any further, he saw an arrow heading for
his eye, and then half of his world went dark. He screamed in pain,
keeling over to his side, letting the dagger loose from his hands as
motioned them both to where the arrow had struck him. He tried to pull
it out, but it was in too deep, the wound now oozing with blood.

Faultner did not think he needed to waste any time, and reached for
his dagger. He found the other one, and picked that up too, and after
that he grabbed his bow, holstering it on his back. He looked down on
the Guardsman, and he could not help but grimace. The young man was now
crawling on his hands and knees, the arrow still in his eye. He was
heading down to where the other Guardsman lay dead, and he reached out
an arm, as if to touch him.

Faultner leaned down, and pressed the dagger to the young man’s
throat, to end his suffering. Yet before he made the final cut, the
young Guardsman opened his mouth, determined to say his last words.

“Father… I….. Forgive…. Me”

The blade slid across the young man’s throat, and he said no more.

Faultner quickly got up, that familiar feeling returning the pit of
his stomach. He fought back the urge to vomit, holdings his left hand
over his mouth as he reeled slightly. He could see the blood flowing
freely from the cut he had just made, the young Guardsman’s lifeblood
now pooling on the clean floor.

Faultner was more accustomed to most than killing. Be it during the
war, or scuffles in the alleyways of the ache, he knew how to survive,
and fight ugly to win. But he could never claim to take pleasure in it,
as no man should. Still, he had never felt as sick as he did now.

“It’s so petty”, Was all he could think. By his hand, a father and
son had met their end together, the latter being forced to watch the
other die before being robbed of his vengeance. They now lay dead, never
to home to their loved ones, and for what?

Faultner knew the answer to that question: Because he wanted to get
richer. He had no duty to be down here, and these two could never have
had any grudge against him had he not been there that day. In war, he
could console himself with the fact that his foes were trying to kill
him and his friends, and that had he not struck first then others
besides him would suffer for it. In the alleyways, it was simply
protection, as one fought off ruthless cutpurses who didn’t know who
they were dealing with. Here, it was just ugly killing, for nothing but
Faultner’s own selfish reasons.

“By the darkest stars, this had better be worth it Brill” mouthed
Faultner, under his breath. He now wanted nothing more than today to be
over, and to get paid, so he could finally leave this accursed city.

Turning around in the direction of the vault, he could see that Tisza
had clearly not been phased by the struggle that had just occurred. She
sat cross legged on the floor, directly in front of the vault, placing
her hands flat on the heavy door.

Faultner made his way down the corridor, as he was sure now that no
other Guardsmen would attack him. When he reached Tisza, he looked down
at her, curious to see how she intended to open this vault.

What struck him initially was that there were no tools of any kind
strewn about the young woman. He had expected her to use all kinds of
elaborate and precise instruments, the type he had seen other thieves
use, to perform the complex procedure of opening the vault. Yet Tisza
was using none of these, instead she simply sat there, hands flat and
unmoving on the vault door. For a moment, Faultner considered shouting
at her to get on with it, but then he noticed that Tisza’s eyes where
firmly shut, and that her lips were moving. Faultner tried to listen,
but the sound was barely above a mumble. From what he could tell, she
was speaking no language he had ever heard before.

Then in an instant, her voice got louder, and her eyes flew open, a look of steely determination in them.

“Ell, hekwen, canharrg arrite!”

With this exclamation, the vault door swung open. Tisza got to her feet, and without a word to Faultner, stepped inside.

For a moment, Faultner could only gawp like a simpleton at what he
had just seen. There was no doubt about it now; this woman was no
ordinary thief. She possessed power, the like of which was rarely seen
among the common folk of Gardena.

Regaining himself, Faultner followed her into the vault. He fought
down the urge to ask Tisza all sorts of questions, even though he was
desperate for answers. No doubt she might be a prodigy, or something of
the like, but he had never heard of prodigies who used their skills
without the authority of the realm. From what he knew of the woman, he
doubted she’d be straight with him right away. The best thing was to
wait until the job was done, then he could annoy her all he liked, until
she made it clear he should get lost.

Stepping into the vault, he found himself in a high ceilinged room,
which was lined with shelves on every wall, three apiece. On the floor
he could see at least ten large wooden chests, which he assumed where
full of gold. The shelves where lined with smaller chest’s surely also
filled to the brim with coin. Tisza had already opened on of the larger
ones, and was pulling out a large bag, that seemed to be heaving with
wealth.

Brill, it seemed, had not been misinformed about how much was down
here. Faultner was fairly sure that a large deposit had in fact been
recently made, meaning that they could surely be taking even more than
fifty thousand Garand’s.

Remembering his part of the plan, Faultner pulled out his whistle
from his pocket, and blew sharply on it. It sounded load, echoing off
the walls of the vault, and Faultner was sure that it could be heard
upstairs. Now, there was nothing to do but wait for Glarren and Brill.

Yet a minute passed, and he saw or heard nothing from them. He looked
back, towards the dead bodies and the stairs, but there was no sign of
his accomplices. He blew the whistle again, putting even more breath
into it, and once again he waited. But still, nothing, and Tisza just
kept unloading bags from the chests, seemingly unfazed by this new
development.

“Glarren! Brill!”, Faultner shouted, and again he blew his whistle.
Still no answer, and now He began to sweat. This was not in the plan,
and the slightest irregularity could mean disaster. Cold fear was
starting to creep into his heart, and Faultner cursed under his breath.

Crying out their names again, and blowing his whistle as hard as he
possibly could, he sprinted down the hall, leaping over the two dead
bodies as he did so. Reaching sight of the stairs, he saw that they were
high, and thst the banks main floor was clearly far above the vault.
That filled him with hope, as surely his whistles and shouts could not
be heard so far down. Taking to the stairs, climbing them two at a time,
he cried out again, hoping that he would be heard.

He saw the door that lead to the main floor, and started for it. But
in all his dreams, he could never have foreseen what lay on the other
side.