Christophe wasn’t happy. To be fair, Christophe’s default emotions were irritation and sometimes mild satisfaction. If something got in the way of satisfying him, he was irritated and destroyed it. It kept life simple, and his enemies afraid of him. Most of his enemies feared him, and the ones who didn’t were dead. Except for one. Somehow, Quentin Quintius survived the savage beating and impalement and now for the past two weeks hit the south side at least every other day.

Orchrisus had enjoyed a period of relative peace and prosperity for long enough. Now, the streets erupted with violence and normal citizens kept their eyes open for trouble. Fights started at the drop of a hat and were so widespread the Watch had almost entirely given up on trying to stop it. They stuck to the edges of decent neighborhoods and kept the gangs out. There were parts of the city not at war, but the bottom half of the north side and the top half of the southside were warzones.

The Warlords had plenty of men. It was their greatest strength, but the constant attacks meant only some of them got to attack, and their numbers thinned with every northern intrusion. The worst part about dealing with Cicero was that his strength lay in being indirect. He didn’t have direct control over his mercenaries and various tools. He didn’t order his men into battle like Christophe and Piro, he painted targets and told them to have fun, and he knew exactly where and when to strike.

“That’s another shipment of wine stolen,” Piro recited to Christophe, reading the note. “Apparently they’re not even reselling it or anything, they’re just drinking it as they saunter off. We’re really getting our asses hammered.”

Christophe snarled. “How is this even possible? He should’ve been dead. You saw him! How are they not losing nearly as many men?”

Piro winced. They were in their usual spots in the back of the Dancing Flame tavern, alone. None of their men wanted to be around them right now, and Christophe was grateful to not have to watch his temper around them. They were losing enough men.

“Well,” said Piro, setting the message down on the table, “apparently they’re really good at working together. Our boys are vicious and fierce but like half of them are just angry kids. Good enough for scraps down here, but we’re up against professionals. I didn’t think they’d be so eager for war, but I think you might’ve pissed Mr. Cicero off by punching the moonkissed. For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing!”

Another growl. Christophe stood up, the two stools beneath him creaking with the loss of his weight. He lurched over to the window, wincing in pain. The magical rings kept him alive and kept the damage from hurting him too badly, but the healing was an uncomfortable, draining, tedious experience. He neared fully recovery by now. What a bitch it was that Quintius was also a cheater.

“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Christophe said, looking at some of their boys standing in the streets, kicking around a leather ball. Those boys were too soft. They were losing enough men, it was time to get some of them blooded and ready to fight. “What about cutting off his access to the port?”

“I’ve tried that,” said Piro. “Tried ambushing one of his luxury shipments. Turns out it was a counter ambush. He’s really good at those. It’s really unpleasant fighting a war against someone who knows everything.”

Christophe turned to level an incredulous stare at Piro. Piro just shrugged, laughing.

“I don’t get why this is so fucking funny to you,” Christophe growled. “You started this war, and now we’re losing it. All of this because you can’t get over some cheap piece of ass.”

“Because I can’t get over an excellent piece of ass,” Piro said. He ducked from the mug Christophe flung at his head. It collided with the wall, shattering. “Hey!”

Sometimes it was hard not to strangle Piro. He was a good partner and strong and cunning, but he never knew when to keep his damned mouth shut and not make things worse. Something he and the bitch had in common. Christophe focused on his breathing, and staying calm. “Alright. I think that we need to make appearances ourselves. They’ve been keeping us on our back feet. We need to hit them back harder.”

Piro nodded, serious now. “You know, part of me was going to suggest we be a little patient, but I think you’re right. I’ve been working on something anyway. It’s not perfect, but it will do the trick.” Piro fished into his garish jacket’s pockets and pulled out a little silver mushroom.

“Fantastic,” said Christophe. “I trust the fungus will protect you from harm.”

“Close! The fungus will protect me from being seen by the palace Shadowspeakers.” Piro flipped the mushroom over in his hand. Tiny etched lines covered the surface. “Won’t do anything for my control, but it’ll give me time to get something done. How’re your wounds doing?”

Christophe stretched. It only hurt a little. “I’ll live. Got another shield ring handy?”

Piro fished another ring out and slid it across the table. “This is my last one. Try not to get this one melted before I make some more, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Christophe scooped it off the table and put it on his left middle finger. Even without any magic of his own he could feel the buzz of something greater in each of the four rings he now wore. He wiggled his fingers, smiling. “Where do we hit?”

“SO glad you asked,” Piro rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got the perfect two locations for us, based on our spy’s reports. We take two teams and split up and hit them simultaneously. We do it tomorrow before the next attack on us. I’ve been looking at the attacks’ timing and I’m pretty sure I know exactly when to strike.”

“Excellent! Finally carrying your fucking weight,” Christophe said. Piro flipped him off and together they laughed.

The next day couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as the plans coalesced, Christophe focused on handpicking his best men for the mission and making sure they knew what was at stake. This wasn’t just a raid on enemy territory, this was a full on assault to make them regret their poor life choices. Together, they were going to leave a pile of bodies behind big enough to make even the bravest man rethink fighting them.

When they went out, they went out in force. The Warlords didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were: an invading force out to cause some damage. Christophe led a force of forty men directly onto the streets. When people saw them, they wisely turned tail and ran or found themselves indoors until the threat had passed. They encountered no resistance until they got to the bridge and met the Watchmen standing guard.

“Turn around,” the head Watchman said. He wore a silver badge and headed up a crew of six people, spread out across the entrance to the bridge. “We’ve had enough of gang violence. Just go home and don’t cause trouble.” The rest of his crew didn’t look too enthused to be there.

“Get out of my way or die,” said Christophe. Then, in an attempt to be diplomatic, he said, “you’ve got eyes. You have to know you can’t win against us. Save yourself the headache and just move.” He held out his hands, wiggling his fingers before squeezing an invisible neck.

“Todd, run up north and get reinforcements!” The leader barked. Todd, whoever it was, didn’t move. The leader looked behind him, but none of his men looked him in the eye.

Christophe grinned. “They know better. They’re smarter than you. So, last chance. You going to live, or are you going to die?” From behind him his gang burst out laughing and jeered at the small assembly of lawmen.

The man looked up into Christophe’s unhinged eyes with a scowl. He was a brave one, if nothing else, but Christophe had no use for brave. Especially when it stood in his way and threatened him. “Turn the fuck around or I swear to the gods I’ll --”

Christophe rushed forward, grabbing the silver badged dumbass by the face and dragging him along the ground. The other watchmen scattered to get out of his way. Some of them went for their weapons, but nobody drew. The leader thrashed and tried to break free from his grip, but Christophe was frightfully strong. A few seconds of futile struggles was all it took for them to get to the side of the bridge.

“Let go of me you son of a --”

Whatever he was going to say, it didn’t matter. As far as last words go, “let me go you son of a --” were certainly words. Christophe slammed the Watchman’s head into the side of the bridge. The first hit made his entire body twitch. The second slam and the body went limp. The third and fourth were purely for Christophe’s own enjoyment. Either way, the leader was silent now.

“So, does anyone care to tell me what happened here?” He directed the question at the remaining Watch members, who stood very still and watched him with a mix of horror and resignation.

One of them, Christophe liked to imagine it was Todd, piped up. “Commander Paulson was running across the bridge and tripped and fell over. His body was never recovered.” His voice even managed not to waver. He was going to go a lot further than his late commander.

“Very good,” said Christophe. He grabbed the body by the front of the uniform and threw it over the side. The currents carried it off in seconds. The giant looked out over the remaining watch and his own men. “You boys ready?” he called out.

The Watch got out of the way. It was hilarious how careful they were, stepping to the side like moving carefully would mean avoiding his notice. Funnier yet, they were right. Christophe had no love for the Watch but they were inconsequential when they knew their place and stayed the fuck out of his sight. The Warlords cheered and some raised knives and swords into the air.

“Yeah? Then fucking march. We’ve got us some whores and Shades to send to the Darkstar!”

Once more they marched northward. The bridge was a mile long, and the best part of the trip was seeing the people heading south either try to squeeze by the sides and hope they’d go unmolested by the Warlords or turn right back around and go north in a hurry. Part of him almost worried at advance warning for the north’s Watch, but anything north of the river was at risk today.

Maybe it was luck, then, that had the north side of the river completely abandoned. Either lucky, or a good warning and wiser coppers than they had down south. Either way, dozens and dozens of warlords filled the streets and brought with them an aura of dread to anyone who saw them. They pressed further north, up to the Boulevard of Saint Trassius where Quintius’ people operated. Christophe’s fingers clenched and unclenched. It wouldn’t be long now.

The Boulevard was semi-familiar territory. More importantly, it was the perfect place to cause some trouble. While Christophe wanted Quintius and his bitch dead, it was time to take a page out of Mr. Cicero’s book and be indirect. If the Warlords lost some men, it cost them a few warm bodies. If Mr. Cicero’s associates lost men, they lost trust in Cicero.

“Alright lads. Isn’t this a lovely bit of a city?” He got a few jeers, but mostly his assembled army was eager to get moving. Who was he to get in their way?

”Break it.”

All around him the Warlords fanned out, drawing their weapons. All smart people vacated the street. The rest, largely merchants and beggars, realized what was about to happen right as the first warlike howls erupted from the gang. Christophe stood there and watched as two men caught up with a fleeing merchant and took him to the ground, kicking and stabbing. More ran ahead, laughing and howling to the midday sun as they attacked anyone too slow or dumb to leave.

Christophe himself took his time, unworried about the limited time they had. Piro was going to take care of the Watch by making a bigger splash than even them. All they had to do was have some fun and break things. Christophe lumbered over to a wooden stall where they sold fruity drinks. He grabbed one from behind the counter and drained it, smacking his lips. “Not bad,” he said. Then he kicked the stall apart, stomping it down until it splintered into nothing.

They invaded the local inns, the Warlords grabbing what shards they could and wounding a person or two before running out and moving on to the next building. Within minutes the sounds of screams and shouting were the only thing to be heard over the laughs. One of the buildings caught fire. Christophe didn’t even tell them to do that, but it figured at least one of them took after Piro that way. Either way, it didn’t take too long for defenders of some kind to show up.

Cicero’s men weren’t unified like the Warlords, but there was a certain look to them. Someone dangerous and street smart who knew their role in the local ecosystem, growing fat off the excess of the sharks they served. Dangerous, but too disciplined and used to some manner of civility to really handle themselves around real strength. The first group of men arrived from the east, clashing with the Warlords furthest out.

Christophe held a fist in the air. He leveled it at these new faces and bellowed wordlessly. A group of five young men, some of his best, charged and met them on the battlefield. He sauntered over and watched the show. Cicero’s men were better. There was no denying that. The five of them formed a defensive ring and managed to stay alive for a while. Problem was, they were horribly outnumbered. The five were pressed in by ten.

The fighting drove them eastwards, closer to his prey’s home. One by one Cicero’s men dropped. The first clubbed over the head before three men fell upon him with knives. The second parried one attack only to be run through by his buddy’s thrust. The third they tackled to the ground and beat into a red paste. After that, the remaining two turned and ran. It was too late. The Warlords surrounded them.

“Well well well, what have we here?” Christophe called out.

“Dead men!” One of his men shouted, and the others crowed their approval.

“Dead men.” Christophe nodded. “We could do that. Or we could demand a real fight. You pissants know where Quentin Quintius is?”

One of them nodded.

“Go get him, tell him to bring his men and to hurry it up. The longer he takes the more of his neighbors lose their homes and businesses. Gonna make sure they know exactly who to thank for this!” Christophe motioned for the crowd to part.

They hesitated, but in the end they obeyed. That was strength none of these soft northies understood. Northern mercs thought it better to be highly skilled, legendary individuals fighting for recognition. They were wrong. Real power and strength was in having a diehard group of half feral manchildren who’d do anything for you if it meant being part of something bigger. Real strength was in making an angry, bloodthirsty mob obey you without question.

The mercs took off running. At another motion from Christophe, the mob advanced pillaging as they went.

As fun as it was, it couldn’t go on forever. Eventually the Watch would respond to a group of this size, or possibly even the palace guard or dune rangers if things got bad enough. He had no plans to be there for longer than it took to kill Quintius, and possibly the whore too if they won fast enough. Wouldn’t that be an excellent day? It put a smile on his face as he waited.

They almost made it to Quintius’ neighborhood when the first masked men showed up, turning the corner around the front line of Warlords. The Shades poured out from that street, all armed with shields and either a short sword or a spear. By the time the Warlords reacted, the Shades formed a line of shields across the wide avenue. A few seconds later, Quintius came out in a mask of his own.

“What’s with the mask, Freak? Did I bust up your face that badly last time we met?” Christophe clapped his massive hands together and rubbed them eagerly. Finally!

“Sure did. Took me an entire week to heal that one off. This mask’s padded, so the next time you hit me it won’t hurt as much. I’ll be fine.” Around him, the Shades laughed. The moonkissed stepped forward past the shield wall, shield and sword of his own out. “You shouldn’t have come here, Christophe.”

“Why? What’re you going to do, run into my fist and die again?” Christophe made his way to the front of the fight. He stopped just a few feet away from the pimp, hands balled into fists. It was tempting to just slug him right then and there, not bother with talking. But dammit if he wasn’t curious. “How did you get back up?”

Quentin shrugged, cocking his head to the side. It had the damnedable effect of looking almost like a real face for a second. “I’m the Darkstar’s favorite child and I’m going to keep coming back until I finally kill you.”

Ahh yes, the so-called miracle. Christophe took another step forward. Quentin didn’t back down. Even with the mask on, something in his body language told him he wasn’t even worried. That just wouldn’t do. “Then I guess I’m going to have to try harder to make it stick, aren’t I?”

He punched Quentin Quentin right in his stupid mask. Game on!