The Raid

The smell of muddy streets and horse shit hung everywhere. Orrdin hated that smell. It reminded him of the fools who allowed their animals to let loose the filth in the street and failed to see it cleaned. As a Knight of The Ninth Order, Orrdin could not abide savages and simpletons alike. He spat his disgust in the streets as though his act of disdain were a blessing upon the packed earth of the dead end alley where he and his brother knights waited. None of the other knights there seemed to notice. It was a peculiar use of the word, calling them knights. These men were not like the polished riders of the far off De'Shattue , nor even like the knights of House DuBrea and the other lords of the fields and rivers and forests in Terra Carte. Hellknights were the farthest thing from that. None of them owned any land and none were anointed or knighted by a half-witted lordling. Each of the six men were clad in the looming black-iron of The Ninth Order; the iron that bore the likeness of some great beast or demon which the man had been given as his representation. They towered over most men, and made the other “true” knights seem to be boys wrapped in polished brass atop their father’s ponies. Orrdin’s commander was the most fearsome man he’d ever seen, his armor stylized as though a great minotaur. The man had even gone so far as to shape his great helm as though that of a bull’s head, the mouth guard made to amplify his already bellowing commands.

Across the alley from him stood the signifier Arthros. Arthros was slim for a hellknight, but in his black-iron armor he still dwarfed most men. He had produced his weathered harrow deck and was shuffling the cards as he always did when waiting. It was like he wanted to be asked for a reading; as though he played the cards in full view to remind his brothers that his potent magical abilities were good for more than just breaking the bodies and minds of men.

“Go on then and give us a reading” Orrdin muttered through the guard on his helm. He had decided to indulge the mage-knight and get it over with. Even behind the faceless helm of the signifiers, Orrdin could tell the git was smirking. Cards whipped up in an elaborate arch to finish the final shuffle as Arthos conjured up a half illusionary table to place the cards on.

“Well what is question?” Arthos said slyly at no one in particular. A hell knight with the helmet of a Gallu demon barked a response,

“Sure Arthos. Here’s a question for you. Who do you think finds the Shoanti first?” A snorting laughter came out of the toothy maw of the hellknights helm, echoed by some of the other men. Arthos cocked his blank faced helm to Gallu and, without saying anything in response, flipped out the nine cards of keys, most often interpreted as the lucky cards, and laid out a role card for each knight. To Orrdin came the crows. Gallu got the cricket. To the commander went the avalanche. The other two knights received the dance and the rabbit prince. Arthos drew his card last coming up with the Juggler. As soon as all the cards were down, Arthos had scooped them all up and was shuffling the deck again. Only half the time did the cards actually touch his fingers, the rest of the time, they whirled and danced around them as though animated in some tight-knit dance. Quickly, Arthos set out a flurry of cards creating a perfect three by three square, not once touching the cards drawn.

“Let us see what fate has for us then eh comrades?” Arthos quipped as he stowed the rest of the deck and made to reveal the first column. He started flipping from the bottom Such was as good a wish for bad luck as any act in most of Quarren, but Arthos always claimed to get his best readings that way. In the first column was the Hidden Truth perfectly aligned. “We have all seen through lies and deceit and found what is hidden here, all that waits is to take it.” The next column produced the Trumpet along the top and the Sickness on the bottom. “There is sickness here of the mind; corruption of law fills the streets and the men of the city lay with savages. But a declaration of power is made; the Law stands firm ready to be cleansed.” Arthos flipped the last column and stopped for a moment. In the bottom row was his card, the juggler, misaligned. Above it was the unicorn, perfectly aligned “We will find the Shoanti, but ill fate carries us to what we seek; the fates are against me.” he whispered the last part as though compelled to finish the reading but not wanting to say the words aloud. The alley was silent. None of the knights said a word for a several moments before Gallu cut into the silence,

“Bah! Just cards lad! Don’t tell me you’ve gone and spooked yourself now; we still need you to blast down the wall once we get there.” Arthos laughed weakly, but otherwise made no remark as he quietly stowed his cards. Another dull silence lingered after, broken only by the distant tolling of the Church Bank’s bells. As the last of the bells faded, the commander barked at the knights and they were on the move to Brasch Street Market

The market was an odd thing. Not like the Midland markets nor entirely like the crowded stalls of Old Korvosa, the Brasch Street Market sat in the street like a carrion animal. Brasch street was one of the oldest streets in Korvosa and had originally been made to be a grand thoroughfare some 40 feet across. Its time of grandeur came and went quickly as the city expanded and shifted during its formative chaos. Long portions of the street had been occupied by larger hostels and tall multi-roomed flats. The market had grown out of several popular shops which occupied the street and now included some hundred feet of the thoroughfare choked by an ever changing sea of stalls and lean-tos flanked on either side by old family shops, some of them almost as old as Korvosa itself. The crowded street stalls made an ideal grounds for less than legal ventures as well. Pickpockets dart to and fro in the street barely noticed among the crowd and violent thugs take their toll from both buyers and sellers in all manner of scam and racket.

The later sort of activities is what brought Oliver Hutter to his knees. Another blow knocked him back into one of the stone walls, the rough, unworked river rock scraping his face as he slid against it. He had brought some old painting to the market to pawn off on a vender and walked away with a coin purse full of gold pieces. It was more money than he could make in a year and he intended to stretch every copper of it. The local thugs though had another idea for the poor lads money. As soon as he’d left the throng of the market, he was pulled to one side in a shallow dead-end alley. In full view of the market, the men assaulted him. A tough leather boot connected with Oliver’s side, sending him back into the wall. Blood was dripping down his face and back now, pooling under him as he lay there clutching at his coin purse. He’d see Sonath before he lost this much gold to common thugs.

One of the thugs halted his assault to employ a simple negotiation tactic. “My friend, give us gold, or we kick in teeth. Will be hard to chew food without teeth, no?” The words came out gruff and stilted, a true labor-born the thug was. He and his friend had likely never seen so much gold in one place either. The other thug stopped too, towering over the bruised and bloodied man, waiting eagerly for an excuse to hit him again. Oliver made to plead mercy, but was cut off by a harsh cry from behind the wall. As soon as the cry was issued, the wall burst open right above Oliver as though a pane glass window struck by a hurtling rock. Both of the thugs were thrown back by the blast, the one closest to the wall nearly shredded open by the sudden spray of hot stone. The other thug who had just threatened Oliver was struck square in the face by a rock large as a horse's head and sent toppling into the tent behind him. Similar explosions echoed around the market as the stone walls were torn open. Before the stones had even landed, figures of black iron with faces like those of devils and beasts rushed out of the new entrances into the market.

Oliver could do not but cower against the wall as the hellknights rushed in through the opening above him. His ears rung from the blast and his body still shook from the force of it. Black-iron boots filled his vision for a time as a full dozen of the fearsome warriors surged forth from the torn wall. Quickly they were met with resistance. The market in which Oliver had so peaceably strode through mere moments ago was now filled with chaos and violence. Hellknights before him shook the ground with heavy steps and cut through the market like a bloody knife. The crowds were as though a great beast of writhing flesh to be corralled by the sudden press of the knights; the people scrambled over each other in desperation to escape the heavy maces and hammers brandished now against them. Others among them had produced hidden weapons in an attempt to resist the Hellknights.

The same merchant who had bought Oliver’s painting now lay face down in the street outside his stall. Oliver couldn’t tell if the man was dead or alive, but blood ran down the man's face and soaked his thin beard. A blow to the head by one of the zealots of law no doubt. Oliver could feel sensation returning to his limbs and sound back into the world. His mind no longer swam in the haze of the explosion above him, but instead was drowned in the roar of noise that assailed him. The screech of steel on steel grated at his ears and the cries and wails of the market goers tore at his soul as he saw them fall and crushed under the stampede. There was nothing he could do, nor anything he wanted to do, but stay still and escape later. He still had his gold and he still had his life. Sonath would not see him this day.

The chaos before Orrdin would have made him uneasy some time ago. He was still young then, only a squire in service of his brother many years his senior. The violence seemed unnecessary then. He thought why not talk to them. Surely the rabble rousers and instigators of riots and panic could be reasoned with. That was before his brother had been ambushed on a nightly patrol. His breast plate had been caved in from repeated blows and his legs crushed by wagon wheels. It took a pair of signifier healers and a blacksmith to remove the armor and keep him alive. Even still, he did not survive the fortnight, his wounds to severe and burned through by a fever. That had made Orrdin change his mind. These people were not to be negotiated with or peaceably made to see the way of law. It must be beat into them. As one would beat the chaff from wheat, it was a hellknight’s duty to beat the chaff from civilization so that only the lawful remained and order reigned supreme.

Now was one of those times. Orrdin barked out commands and litanies of law alike has his hefty warhammer connected with another man’s skull. He had made to pull a knife on his belt and had not stopped at Orrdin’s command. Now he lay face down in the dirt, blood streaming from the side of his face and down onto the ground. The blank stare that met Orrdin’s gave him pause. Not to long ago, he would have felt overwhelming remorse for the man. That was gone. All he felt now was a wicked sense of disgust. Not for killing the man, but that the man had forced him to. He should have known better, should have relented and thrown down the weapon as soon as the hellknights had come into the market. It was a shame the man had thrown away his life. But Orrdin could not dwell on that, there may still be other lawless rogues and vagrants among the crowd to be brought to justice. Worse still, there could be Shaonti.

As though in answer to his fears, the stalls before him burst open as a trio of Shaonti burn riders emerged from hiding. They hollered and yelled as their horses surged forward, making up the gap between them and the hellknights in a matter of seconds. That was all the time Orrdin needed. He plunged to one knee, planting his tall tower shield before him in the dirt and bracing for the impact. As soon as he had hit the ground, the riders were atop him and his brother knights. Spears almost twice the length as a man is tall were leveled and plunged into the ranks of the warriors mere moments after the ambush was revealed. Orrdin was thrown on his back as one spear shattered against his shield. As he landed, he saw the other riders collide with his other brothers. Arthos was struck square in the chest, the force of the spear driving him back with the charging horse and he was lost from view. Beyond him, Gallu had been speared through the leg, the broken shaft still embedded just above his knee. The rider that skewered him had not gotten away clean though. Gallu must have pulled him from his horse as the knight now held the rider down by his throat, pummeling him with his adamantine shod gauntlets, Morningstar mace all but forgotten.

Orrdin rolled to his side to see that Arthos’s rider had met a similar fate as the commander pulled the Shoanti out from under his own horse, a massive axe buried deep into its side. The rider that had struck Orrdin had fared much better as she rounded a quick turn and made back for Orrdin. With all the grace afforded him by his full-plate, he sprung to his feet just in time to ward off another blow from the rider, this time with a wicked shortsword topped with a slight hook. Orrdin took the opportunity to swing at the horse, bringing his hammer into the animal's legs as it ran past. He prayed to Kavos that the head of his weapon would connect and not the shaft. His prayer was answered quickly as the crunching of bone met his ears and the horse toppled behind him, it’s rider with it. Orrdin hoped the rider still lived. Capturing a Shoanti warrior was hard enough, but burn riders were notoriously hard to take alive.

The whole thing happened in a matter of seconds. Riders burst from hiding and charged the knights like lightning striking a patch of trees. Before Oliver knew what was happening, one of the massive horses was hurtling by him making a sharp turn to barrel down on one of the knights again. As the horse passed, it kicked up a spray of dirt in Oliver’s face causing him to sputter and cough. By the time he managed to clear the dirt from his eyes and mouth, the knight with the big shield was standing over a fallen horse, hammer bloodied and shouting at the rider presumably buried underneath the horse.

A sudden scream to his left caught Oliver's attention and he turned around to see a brute of a man with a bull’s head helmet pulling another rider out from under his horse. The rider’s leg was caught, but the knight seemed not to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. He gave another jerk and there was a loud pop. The rider slackened and went limp as he was relieved of his trapped leg. The bull helmed knight glanced at the missing leg and dropped the now unconscious man. As he did so, he glanced shortly over his shoulder. Oliver followed his gaze to see the thin signifier knight, the one caught with the spear moments ago, pinned to the wall of a shop. The spear had split open his breastplate and deep red blood bubbled out around it trailing down his waist and dripping off his toes into the dirt below them.

With barely a moment's hesitation, the warrior with the bull’s helm whirled around and brought an iron shod boot down. Oliver could no longer see the rider behind his horse, but the terrible sound made when the boot landed and the impact he felt in the ground below him left no doubt in his mind that the rider was dead. Oliver clutched his coin purse tighter and debated fleeing through the opening just above him. He willed his legs to carry him, but he could not take his gaze away from the knights as they swept through the market rounding up everyone who they could and cracking the skulls of any they couldn't. With that, Oliver decided it might be best to wait, let the hellknights finish their work and clean out the market. Surely he thought they would not notice him, tucked under the hole in the wall and covered in dust and blood. Surely he would live to see another day.

The raid was over almost as soon as it had started. Four teams of hellknights had breached the stone walls around Brasch Street Market with a band of some forty odd Korvosan Guard blocking off both of the street exits. Orrdin surveyed the fresh carnage of a lawful victory. The bodies of more than two-dozen savages and lawless fools lay in the market place. Among them were several bearing the markings of Shoanti. They had been here alright, just as he feared. Just as Arthos said they would be. But that only strengthened his convictions. There would be more raids. More fighting to keep the law pure. More sacrifices to keep it strong.

Those suspected of illegal market transactions and Shoanti sympathies were being rounded up to be questioned but his team had lost their signifier. Arthos the damned fool and his cards. The thought made Orrdin wince. Never again would he mock the words of a soothsayer and never again would he goad a harrower.

With his job done, Orrdin returned to his commander to make field report and request leave to return to the forge to clean and maintain his equipment. In short time, Orrdin was helping Gallu back to their makeshift entrance to grab what little gear had been stowed there. On his way past, Orrdin noticed a figure cowering against the wall. He was covered in dust and blood. Clutched in his hands was a bulging coin purse, its fabric nicer than any of the rags he wore about him. He braced Gallu near the wall and knelt down to the curled man.

“Give it here sneak-thief. I’ve my fill of killing today but one more pickpocket will bother me none.” without even waiting for a response, Orrdin snapped up his shield and brought its edge squarely into the man’s head. Dazed from the blow, he couldn't resist even if he’d wanted to. Orrdin reach out and slid the coin purse from numb hands with barely any effort. Without a second glance at the disheveled heap still crumpled against the wall, Orrdin returned to Gallu and stepped through the opening, bulging coin purse at his belt.