Chapter 958 Single, Well-Trained Tent Group

"You are correct," the mercenary leader nodded. "I'm a busy man, Inquisitor. I've other duties to attend to. But take heart, dear friend. With our 'show of force'-- or whatever you'd like to call it, you have my veritable confidence."

Without another word-- and thankfully, another breath, Clayton Smith turned and walked off.

...Though Jovanus quietly wished for it, the Statesman's flowing red cape did *not* get stuck in the carriage door.

The carriage departed, horses and all. Several dozen pairs of eyes, two tent groups worth, quietly watched them go...

The mercenary leader's absence made Jovanus uncomfortable-- almost more than his attendance.

"What's wrong, Inquisitor?" Dario called as he jogged over, "Is there a problem with the payment?"

Jovanus held out his hand, "Three Imperial feet, Decanus."

Dario's face twisted, his indignation clear, but he kept his distance.

Only when that was clear, did Jovanus continue.

"According to Mister Clayton Smith, you'll get your coin. However, he trusts the contract to be fulfilled expressly *without* his supervision."

Dario's face contorted through a variety of expressions as the implications worked through his thick, concussion-addled brain.

"Does he think we're Flamescarred idiots?!" He yelped. "This is obviously a trap! We're surrounded by gangsters and pirates and metal beasts-- isn't it obvious??"

Jovanus found it odd that the Decanus failed to mention the undead-worshipping heathens.

However, he was still young. It was likely that he had no prior dealings with Nemayan heretics... and was ignorant to the danger of their witcheries.

"Leave if you wish," Jovanus waved. "I am not your Commanding Officer, nor do I wish to be."

There were no good reasons for a Flame-fearing man to be hundreds of miles away from his home.

Jovanus was there on behalf of his family.

It was not a good reason. He didn't even like his family.

For a dishonorable cur like Dario of Rixus, his reasons might have been related to blackmail. Or perhaps he'd fallen prey to pecuniary extortion. Whatever it was, it was likely that if he abandoned his position, a worse fate awaited him when he returned.

"...Flame take these scum-sucking Bone Rat bastards," Dario spat. "And Flame take me for trusting them to do their part. Flame take it ALL! Inquisitor, I'm taking my tent-group. We'll find the marks and end them with Tyrion steel!"

"No need to tell me," Jovanus waved him off, "Do as you please."

Jovanus was accompanying Decanus Dario and his tent-group as a *favor.*

It might have been *implied* that he was to take command or claim responsibility for ten men and women he'd never met prior... but none of that was in writing.

The only thing he cared to know about Dario and his ilk, he knew prior to meeting them.

The lot of them were were fools.

They had to be, to enslave themselves to a contract on such vague terms.

From what Dario had mentioned in passing, his mission-- the mission assumedly shared by all parties present, pertained to a rogue guild from Alizeau.

It was a small guild, formed in recent years by a minor noble, albeit a wealthy one.

...It's what they were told. It's what they believed.

Some eighty or so other mercenaries were gathered on Clayton Smith's behalf.

Their demeanors varied, but most had seen combat... carrying scars of battle, wearing grisly trophies on belts and bandoliers.

Some had signs of former incarceration... or their spirits were so rife with barbarism and violence, that they could scarcely contain their bloodlust.

More than mercenaries, it was better to think of them as a pack of feral dogs, starved for meat.

However, instead of loosing them on prey in the wild... Clayton Smith decided it best they ambush their marks within the walls of City-State Whitehearth.

The sheer audacity would be unthinkable in a Tyrion city-- which was yet another reason Jovanus felt so out-of-place in this strange land.

One or more of the marks had entered a small restaurant. A dozen thugs from the local and ill-named 'Bone Rat' guild followed soon after.

The enemy numbered ten or less.

...Smith's forces comprised nearly a century.

Decanus Dario was an Iron-Rank Legionnaire.

Of the others, Jovanus noted two blue-robed Alizeaun Witches.

For the undead to move freely, there was at least one Nemayan Necromancer in the area.

There were two metal golems, certainly capable of savage strength... then, a well-decorated Red Cape Officer accompanied his squad-- they were human, as far Jovanus could tell.

Altogether they had at least four Iron-Rank mercenaries, two plausibly Gold-Rank beasts, and a veteran Gold-Rank swordsman.

How strong, then, were the ten or fewer targeted by Clayton Smith?

And what was the identity of the rogue guild's wealthy benefactor?

Jovanus was about to berate Dario with facts and logic... but he was not afforded the time.

The ground beneath him began to shake, deep fissures forming in the road. The restaurant's windows shattered all at once, and its solid, brick-and-mortar form began to throb and spasm as if it were flesh.

Jovanus dropped his body, one knee to the cobblestone. He lowered the brim of his buckled hat, guarding his face from a cold blast of wind and a shower of rocky debris.

Deafening cracks of stone and the groan of metal reinforcement drowned out the sounds of hysteria and men dying.

...After several too-long moments, it was over.

As the adrenaline waned, Jovanus noticed a hot, throbbing pain emanating from his left hand.

A cool fragment of glass had pierced through his leather glove, drawing blood.

--but on further inspection, it was not glass.

It was... ice?

The concrete and stone of the unassuming building had transformed dramatically into two, giant, skeletal hands. Dark and powerful magic held those bones together, but the muscles and tendons appeared to be made of flowing water.

Held aloft by those hands... was a churning blue sphere as large as the building that birthed it.

The dead bodies of the Bone Rat guildmembers were somewhere in that watery mass.

It was also possible Jovanus was observing the cycle of a single man's severed parts, but he thought that unlikely.

"Wake up! Wake up, cur!"

An oddly familiar voice was shouting.

It took a moment, but Jovanus realized it was him. The recipient of his demands was Decanus Dario, knocked on his arse by magic and in a state of confusion.

His own thoughts were a mess... but he honed in on something in the back of his mind:

--a battle litany.

Jovanus learned it at the academy... ages ago, when he was very young.

He didn't know what the ancient words meant... just that the rhythm of the prayer had a certainty to it-- a pulse.

--an eternal heartbeat.

His body moved on instinct.

He kept a low profile, hooking Dario's arms, and dragging him backward. The muscles in his back and thighs ached, but his combat training and adrenaline-addled brain bid him rescue at least one of his countrymen.

"I-inquisitor?!" Dario screamed, "What in the FLAMESCARRED F*CK is THAT!?"

It was a question Jovanus did not want answered.

He had borne witness to a giant, whirling sphere of blood, bone, and broken concrete.

It was dark witchery. It was an affront to human life and all that was good and just.

It was an illusion.

If not... then the blasphemous magics rivaled the lesser miracles of the High Oracle.

Jovanus raised his voice, straining his throat to be heard above the panicked cries of lesser men.

"Loyal servants of the Eternal Flame, TO ME!! The warriors of the Tyrion Empire will STAND TOGETHER!!!"

Thankfully, Dario's dogs did not forsake their training. Without question, they ran, crawled, and dragged their companions to Jovanus' position.

"MOVE! Flame TAKE you, slow bastards-- I SAID 'MOVE'!!!!!"

It was fortunate that they did. As his countrymen lifted their shields, icicles the length of swords began to erupt from the swirling sky sphere.

Through the shield wall, Jovanus watched a man die, speared through the heart.

He was Nemayan.

It was a sobering realization. Before creed and nation, Jovanus' first thought of that man as a fellow human being.

The Nemayan was not the first.

More died.

Amidst the screaming, the two blue-robed Alizeaun Witches stepped forward to conjure a magical shield around those near them.

Of the others, Jovanus did not see.

Refocusing his attention to his countrymen, none appeared to be injured.

They were safe. The shield wall-- it held.

Decanus Dario, however, was still stunned silent.

Was it his first time experiencing witchcraft?

He was lucky. The worst of the heretics' dark magics could summon swarths of daemons or transform the land into a hellscape of rusted iron and putrid flesh.

The magic cast by the enemy witches was unique, yes... but Jovanus was forced to operate under the assumption that its true purpose was to elicit fear.

It was a reasonable option against a force with superior strength and number.

Such a tactic could be overcome by a single, well-trained, Tyrion tent-group.

Jovanus looked around him.

True Tyrions held their shields strong, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Dario and his tent-group-- they cowered behind theirs, their eyes filled with fear and their bladders emptied on the street.

A single, well-trained tent-group... Jovanus wished he had that.