The attack on the north had crushed the enemy. Monver and his lieutenants snuck their way past the mud field, taking some few archers unaware, then moved on towards the centre. From sneaking up to reaching the middle command tent it took them 10 minutes. An excellent distraction indeed.

Vaskir noticed a familiar face rounding the corner, it was one of the scouts assigned to Monver’s force. The man noticed the now dwindled group and rushed over.

‘An excellent attack, sir Cradow,’ the man said. Cradow grinned and nodded.

‘Where’s Monver? He find what we’re looking for yet?’ Cradow asked.

‘We’re hold up just outside the northern entrance to the command tent. Whoever these bandits are, they have a barrier specialist,’ (Vaskir flinched, a thoughtful look briefly crossing his expression) ‘and I was sent to see if the barrier extends all the way around the tent.’

‘It will,’ Vaskir said. ‘Orders?’ Vaskir asked Cradow.

‘We’ll regroup with the main body,’ Cradow said, playing the part of commander. ‘A word?’ Cradow nodded to Pravin and Vaskir, then dismissed the scout to his assigned job with a flick of his wrist. ‘Looks like this'll be a toughie,’ Cradow said, now in private.

‘Maybe,’ Vaskir said. Both men looked at him.

‘You got a plan brewing?’ Pravin asked.

‘More like a theory,’ Vaskir answered. ‘At this stage, it’s obvious that these men aren’t bandits.’ They had interrogated Balfred some more once their scheming was finished, but the man, quite rightly, remained silent on the name of whichever clan he was a part of. ‘A barrier specialist must cost a pretty queen to cultivate. And if you had a barrier specialist,’ he asked the men, ‘where would you use him?’

‘South flank,’ both said, immediately.

‘Right. But they decided to protect the command tent.’

‘Yeah, they probably have some scared lordling,’ Pravin said. ‘He made a bad call and now he’s stuck.’ Vaskir frowned; he hadn’t thought of that.

‘Would you send an inexperienced commander to retrieve a 3rd class manual?’ he asked.

‘This is beside the point,’ Cradow interrupted. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I think the command tent is a distraction whilst some smaller force makes off with the goods.’ Both men looked thoughtful.

‘They were expecting an attack,’ Vaskir added. ‘However the news got out that they had discovered a manual must go both ways. They knew they were being hunted. Who wouldn’t use a barrier specialist to shore up their most vulnerable flank, and with no good obvious reason not to?’

‘You’re right,’ Cradow said. ‘I feel it in my gut. What’s the move, then?’ Vaskir stared at Cradow.

‘You won’t like it,’ he said. Cradow silently waited for an explanation. ‘We can’t tip Monver off that we’re making a move. You need to regroup with him and tell him that you left a few men behind to keep watch over a commander you defeated. It would even be the truth, in a way.’

‘So…’ Cradow said, trying to get the story straight. ‘I left some of my vulnerable men—in the middle of an enemy camp—to watch over a defeated commander—we threw, naked, in a ditch… You think he’ll buy that?’ Vaskir looked to Pravin then back at Cradow.

‘No offence, mate,’ Pravin began.

‘But you don’t come across as particularly tactical,’ Vaskir finished. Cradow stared at both men.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. Vaskir and Pravin laughed. ‘But don’t think I won’t make you pay if this is your way of leaving me behind and running off with the loot.’ Cradow looked at Vaskir seriously, then undid a small scabbard on his hip. ‘This gift binds us,’ Cradow said, pressing the scabbard into Vaskir’s chest. ‘Let it be a symbol of growing brotherhood.’ Vaskir took the knife and tied it to his thigh, then put his hand on Cradow’s shoulder.

‘Thank you. You said we’re in this together and I agreed. Let’s show some trust and in a few weeks we’ll both be rich.’ Cradow grinned.

‘You know just what to say to get me going.’

Five minutes later, Vaskir and Pravin were making their way back towards Balfred’s location— mostly as a ploy to make the lie more believable if any of the men were questioned.

‘Now we’re in the middle of an enemy camp, searching for a man, or a random group of soldiers, that might have a priceless artefact on them,’ Pravin said and looked to Vaskir.

‘Genius, I know,’ Vaskir muttered, diligently looking around. ‘But we’ve got a good chance of finding something. By now most of the enemy soldiers are either dead, fled, or captured. Any movement is suspect.’ Pravin nodded.

‘What do we do with Cradow?’ He asked, now keeping an eye out.

‘I think, if we’re lucky enough to get the manual, we ditch him at Port Royal.’ Vaskir said, feeling slightly bad as he felt his new scabbard jostle on his hip.

‘But he knows where we’re going: Chilbrow.’

‘Chilbrow’s a big city and we won’t be making any noise once we get there.’

‘True. I’ll miss travelling with you, once I’m rich.’ Pravin said and Vaskir chuckled.

‘Well, let’s focus on actually getting—’ Vaskir choked down the words as he spotted a group of soldiers entering a tent. He grabbed Pravin and dragged him back a few steps, then hid in the entranceway of the tent, peeking through the flap.

‘Did we get lucky?’ Pravin asked.

‘Can’t tell,’ Vaskir said. ‘Let’s watch a bit.’ After a minute the group of soldiers exited the tent with an additional member; a tall man in a red robe. He was carrying a small wooden box. He stopped just outside the tent and called the soldiers to him. After what seemed like a brief barrage of orders he handed the closest man a small piece of paper and dismissed them. The group of soldiers followed the paper holder back towards the command tent.

‘What’s that paper?’ Pravin asked.

‘No clue.’ The man watched the soldiers leave and then started making his way in the opposite direction.

‘A distraction force?’ Pravin asked. ‘To give him more time?’

‘Maybe,’ Vaskir said. ‘Let’s ambush him quickly and see what’s in the box. I don’t want to follow what could be a dead lead for long.’ Vaskir felt Pravin tap his shoulder in acknowledgement and they silently followed the man. The red-robed man reached the edge of the camp, standing some 10ft away from the eastern mud field. This was their best chance, so Vaskir silently drew his sword and snuck up behind him. Pravin knew better than to follow and stayed on the camp edge so as to not make any noise. As Vaskir approached he started to make out the man’s features. He was bald, with two tattoos on his head that reminded Vaskir of spider legs. He had a large build with thick, bulging arms.

‘Impressive, it is unlike a common sellsword to think beyond what’s in front of them,’ the man said, still looking out over the mud field. Vaskir immediately attacked. The man’s arm shot out and grabbed Vaskir’s blade before it could reach his shoulder.

‘The hell?’ Vaskir managed to get out before his sword was wrenched away from him. He stumbled back. ‘Of course,’ he thought. ‘If these people can afford a Q2000 regenerative fruit, they can afford a few Ascendants.’

‘It is rude to attack a man when his back is turned,’ the red-robed man said, turning around.

‘I apologise, sir,’ Vaskir said, keeping his cool. ‘May I ask if the 3rd class manual is inside the box you are carrying?’ The man grinned. He had deep sunken eyes and perfectly white teeth. His gaze was direct and forceful, like a drowning tide breaking on your skin.

‘I am Bowood,’ he said. ‘And yes, yes, I hold the manual.’ Vaskir bowed politely.

‘Then the cost of taking it is too high,’ Vaskir said, trying to get himself and Pravin, who was hopefully running for the hills, out of this alive. Bowood smiled again.

‘It is rare to find a mercenary so versed in diplomacy. I guess manners are still alive in this day and age. Still, you know I cannot let you leave.’

‘You can tie me to a tree, out in the wilderness,’ Vaskir said, pressure mounting. ‘That way I can’t report back to my commander until you’re long gone.’ Bowood nodded. ‘There's no need for my death.’

‘Yes,’ Bowood said, and a glimmer of hope sprung up in Vaskir’s chest. ‘There is no need. But, there is a want.’ At this Bowood threw Vaskir back his sword, which he almost fumbled in the catching. As the blade settled into Vaskir’s grip his will faltered. It had been a long day. The accumulated wounds seemed to pulse all at once, reminding Vaskir of what condition his body was truly in. He stared, opened mouthed, at the grinning Ascendant before him, then, slowly dragged his gaze down, to the clenched fist holding his sword. He thought back to all the important choices that brought him to this moment, running away from home, the tough lessons as a beggar, the things he did to escape that life, meeting Pravin, his mother’s death. All of this… just to die to an Ascendant.

‘At least I’ll go down fighting,’ he thought, double gripping his blade and bringing it up.

‘Hmm, what fun,’ Bowood said, and carefully placed the box down. Next, he took off his robe and draped it over the box. ‘Don’t want it to get splattered during the scuffle, you see,’ he said. For Vaskir, no man had ever intimidated him more, and with such a small display.

‘Is your skin impenetrable?’ Vaskir asked, whether stalling for something or genuinely curious even he didn’t know.

‘For you? Yes.’

‘Shame, would have at least liked to have a chance.’

‘Life’s unfair,’ came the reply, and Vaskir thought that no truer words had ever been spoken.

Vaskir’s original assessment of the man did not do him justice. His robes had hidden a patchwork of scars and lithe muscle, defined enough to look like they could rebound a sword blow—in this case, they could. His groin was covered in a simple cloth, leaving his legs exposed. His calves looked welted and bruised, obvious signs of training; Vaskir had the same on the palms of his hands.

Both men entered their respective stances, Vaskir’s simple yet solid, Bowood’s forward-leaning and aggressive. No more than 5 feet separated them. They struck. Vaskir’s strike contained not a thimbleful of trickery, but damn was it fast: a downwards swing meant to cleave arms.

Bowood had to take a step forward, forced to close the distance as he seemed to be a pugilist like Cradow. His attack was a simple slap, aimed at Vaskir’s temple. Both blows landed at the same time; Bowood’s momentary repositioning delayed him enough for the two men to trade attacks.

Vaskir, moving on pure instant, felt the spirit presence of another warrior for the first time in his life, and the sensation of Bowood’s accumulated battle experience, his knowledge that whatever Vaskir did would be ineffective against his iron body, and the quick death he would deliver after, terrified Vaskir into a new height of reactivity. Vaskir flinched his head backward, and instead of the slap landing on his temple and ear, it dragged across the top of his forehead—removing a fingertip-depth's worth of skin and muscle.

Vaskir’s blow landed solidly, and if a simple man had been standing before him, it would have cut his arm off at the shoulder. Instead, there was a dull thud, followed by a grunt of pain from Bowood.

Vaskir screamed, falling backward, clutching at his ruined face. Blood flowed down into his eyes, quickly staining his vision red. Above him, he heard Bowood chuckle.

‘Damn, felt that one, didn’t I? I don’t think I’ve been shaken by a blow from an unascended in a century.’ Vaskir was too busy screaming to make much of the statement. Then, the screaming stopped suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped. Bowood looked down at Vaskir. ‘Shock get to you?’ he asked, kicking Vaskir to turn him over onto his back. Bowood arched an eyebrow at the sight of Vaskir’s still-breathing body. More than that, he was awake, staring up into the sky.

Vaskir was having a bad day. The kick had turned him onto his back, causing the blood to begin to pool; he squinted to keep his eyes clear. When did it come to this? This endless struggle. Vaskir could not remember the day his life turned into a march against hunger and poverty. It did not happen quickly, of that Vaskir was certain, it was a slow pull down into the depths of toil, a roiling sea whose cool fingers dragged him ever downwards until the light of calm and peace faded into memory. He missed his mom. His favourite childhood memories were of her. Her sharp tongue. Her gentle nature, and the strength of character to see people for what they were, good or bad. What would she do in this situation? Vaskir giggled. In a situation like this, she would die spitting venom.

‘You slapped me,’ Vaskir said, his voice light. ‘Like a little girl!’ He burst out into cackling laughter. Bowood grunted and walked over to Vaskir. ‘It was so cute! If I wasn’t trying so hard not to laugh I would have taken your arm off!’

‘A duel between warriors is no laughing matter, boy,’ Bowood said.

‘And you stripped down!’ Vaskir’s laughter echoed through the jungle. ‘I thought we were going to start wrestling in the mud. If there were any fair women in our expedition I bet we could have wrung their wallets.’ Bowood grabbed Vaskir by the neck, easily lifting him off the ground.

‘You have gone mad. Comport yourself as you did our meeting and die with dignity.’

‘No one dies with dignity, at least, not in our line of work.’ Vaskir wheezed out.

‘We are not in the same “line of work”, boy.’

‘We both kill. I guess the only difference between us is that I don’t kill unnecessarily. “There is no need. But, there is a want.” Ascendant’s balls. How long did it take you to come up with that?’ Vaskir said, grinning. Bowood increased the pressure on his neck until the flow of air stopped. Vaskir could tell that he had gotten to him. Bowood's face was twisted in a snarl.

‘Die a rambling fool,’ he said and before the pressure snapped his neck Pravin’s greatsword slammed into the back of Bowood’s head. Bowood fell forwards in a heap. The pressure relented and Vaskir gasped for air, scrambling away from Bowood. It was the right choice, as Bowood immediately righted himself and jumped at Pravin.

‘The hell,’ Pravin managed to get out before Bowood was on him. Vaskir did his best to recuperate as Pravin fought.

Pravin seemed to be about as strong as Bowood, managing to keep the much smaller man at bay as they wrestled on the ground. Pravin, sensing that this was his best chance of subduing the man, did everything in his power to keep a hold on him, but the difference in technique was too great. Bowood seemed to employ some kind of martial arts as he wrestled, slowly twisting Pravin until he was on top, raining small blows onto the side of Pravin’s head. After a minute one of Bowood's strikes knocked him unconscious, and he slumped back. Bowood snarled in victory and grabbed Pravin by his collar, dragging him a few feet to the mud fields, then pressed his face into the mud.

‘I sensed you!’ Bowood shouted at Pravin’s drowning body. ‘I sensed you when your mad friend was sneaking up on me.’ He pressed Pravin’s face deeper into the mud.

Vaskir slowly got to his feet, head pounding, face now covered in blood, and carefully drew the knife Cradow had given him. He stumbled towards Bowood, vision growing dimmer by the second. As he neared he could tell that Bowood was rambling as he pressed almost all of Pravin’s head into the mud. Vaskir let out a desperate scream, marshalling all of his strength, and fell on Bowood, aiming for the gaping wound on the back of his head.

The blow landed. Bowood spasmed as the knife pierced his brain, yet still held onto life. He turned and grabbed Vaskir’s free arm, the one not holding the knife, and squeezed. As Bowood’s adrenaline spiked so did his strength, and Vaskir screamed as he felt his bone crack. Vaskir, barely conscious, forced the knife deeper. Bowood’s face was only an inch away, and Vaskir could see the blood vessels in his eyes pop from the pain.

‘It wasn’t… meant… to happen… like this,’ Bowood said, eyes rolling back into his head.

‘Life’s unfair,’ Vaskir snarled into his ear.

Before the darkness took him, Vaskir’s final thought was one of regret, wishing that he had the strength to remove Pravin’s head from the mud. And yet, he had not the strength, and his heart stopped beating as he lay on top of Bowood’s corpse.