The Land Below our Feet III (Legacy)

HORDE

Iktan took a deep breath as he spied the large crowd that had just emerged from the tree line through his old field glasses one last time before resolutely letting out a sharp but still innocent sounding whistle that resembled a bird call, and which he knew would instantly alert the other hidden half of his crew across the road to set their trap.

Squinting, he followed the rapid procession of intruders with his attentive eyes and noticed that they weren’t trying to be stealthy in the very least. Their stomping footsteps and their bellowing voices echoing in the night air, a clear, intimidating way of announcing their arrival and perhaps inducing fear among the residents.

But as fierce as the horde might have seemed at first. After taking one good look at them, Iktan could already tell that they weren’t prepared. Most were struggling to move while carrying the heavy firearms, and the ones with smaller handguns weren’t even holding them the right way.

The Yahurian soon spotted their female leader and watched her advance decidedly towards the modest buildings, unknowingly guiding her colleagues directly to their ambuscade.

He would patiently wait until they had reached the heart of the neighborhood and began knocking doors down to unleash hell upon them.

-All right, let’s go! – Iktan yelled, raising a fist in the air, urging the heterogeneous group of masked and unmasked warriors forward – And remember, we want them alive, so don’t shoot to kill, or you’ll answer to me!

He had been given very strict instructions about when to proceed and how, and as he cautiously ushered the squad ahead, he went through them again in his mind.

“Well? How did that go?” – Ussiariah asked when he entered the room after spending a couple of enlightening hours with his old servant boy in coerced chatter – "Did you have any fun?"

“You’re not going to like this, Ussi” – He’d grimly announced – “This isn’t just about the guns, and those aren’t simple thieves… Apparently, you have a mutiny”.

“Yeah, I suspected it when Greghan mentioned their age” – The Commander had tiredly sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose – “Youngsters tend to be fueled by their ideals more often than not. So, what is it? What do they claim to be fighting for?”

“Payback… Most are war orphans. They blame the Arganteans for their misfortune, so now they are seeking to exterminate them... all” – Iktan had informed him, shaking his head – “So, I wouldn’t say their cause is precisely idealistic, Commander. In fact, it is quite hateful and biased”.

“It doesn’t matter. In the end, all that matters is what they believe” – Ussi had retorted, taking a seat and pensively scratching his chin – “If they are so firmly convinced that they have been wronged by these people, that’s all they’ll need to justify their actions and give themselves permission to kill”.

“So, what do you want to do?” – The Yahurian had obediently asked – “How do you wish to proceed?”.

“We do this the Yahurian way” – The warrior had simply said, nodding at him – “Now, about that Xiblenean kid…”

The sound of the rounds being fired desperately in his direction made him lose his train of thought and focus his efforts on the task he had at hand.

The rioters had arrived at the site and promptly barged into the Arganteans' homes with every intention of slaughtering them in cold blood, including women and children, with no mercy or contemplation at all.

Even when some of them had migrated to other towns, most of the Argantean community had stuck together in Lowland’s gate, and they all lived in that secluded place.

But the rebels had soon come to realize that the reason why the neighborhood seemed so silent and dark was not because of the late hour, but because nobody was there.

Iktan and his task force had evacuated the premises hours prior to the attack, following the Commander’s orders. Knowing that when he’d said to do it the Yahurian way, that meant clearing the civilians out first.

The unit that the former priest was leading wasn’t even that big compared to the huge crowd of rioters, but it was composed of the best gunslingers that the Yahurian and the Crimson Guard had.

Even when none of them were allowed to shoot a gun on a daily basis, the selection of warriors that Ussi and the ex-cleric had handpicked themselves had all proved to be exceptional marksmen sometime in the past. And that dexterity, paired with the extremely effective tactics that both armies possessed, had left little room for mistakes.

With their targets gone, the trespassers had found themselves caught between the two relentless fronts of Yahurians and Crimson Guards. So, they had inevitably panicked and tried to shoot their way out.

But Iktan had prepared for that reaction beforehand, strategically positioning thick planks of lumber for his men to take cover behind.

Unsurprisingly, their attackers were not very skilled yet at the use of their newly obtained weapons, and the added pressure of trying to do it under siege wouldn’t do them any favors.

The result was a very quick and mostly uneventful operation that would render the rioters cornered and unable to escape.

Despite their best intention of standing their ground, the majority of the youngsters had surrendered after seeing a few of them receive a bullet to the arm or leg and watch them fall down like flies.

-Cowards! Come back! – Their female leader had shouted, waving the golden rifle, and firing aimlessly left and right.

But it was already too late, Iktan had already spotted her. So, one second she was standing there ranting at the top of her lungs, and the next one her wrist had been cleanly pierced by a pellet and the shiny weapon blown away from her hand.

-No! – The masked man heard the woman shriek in despair as she was duly apprehended and dragged away from the site by the armpits – This isn’t over yet, you bastards! You haven’t seen the last of me!

-Bring that boy too – The Yahurian ordered, ignoring her babble and nodding at the young man with the scarred face that he noticed she had purposefully looked at as she was being escorted by two of his men to a cart while uselessly trashing and fidgeting against her captors.

-What about the others, Sir? – Mikkho asked, gesturing at the large crowd of men and women standing defeatedly all around.

–Throw them in the dungeons… For now – Iktan tiredly sighed – Let’s see what these two have to say about the cause.

The nervousness on his custodians´ faces was quite evident to the Xiblenean prince. It grew with every minute that passed, and Dahro was perfectly aware of this. He could sense the wheels turning inside their brains and the doubts beginning to plague their thoughts... This was his chance.

-It’s been forever, hasn’t it? – He teased them. Smirking at the pair, knowingly – I bet your people have long fled the city and abandoned you two here to take the fall with me.

-Shut up! – One of them shouted, angrily pointing a handgun at him – Say one more word, and I’ll send a bullet through your skull!

Dahro didn’t answer. Instead, he remained calmly seated in the corner where they had tied him to a metallic ring embedded in the wall.

The ropes that they had used were quite thick, and the knots were tight enough to restrain him. But what they didn’t know was that he had a trick up his sleeve, and that he had been patiently waiting for the right time to use it and break himself free.

Back in the alley, Dahro had been extremely hesitant to put on the tattered clothes that Kai had thrown at him, but which he now wore. He’d drawn the line at swapping his boots for the old, scraped shoes that the boy had offered him though, mainly because he’d found them disgusting, but also, because he knew there was a last resort hidden inside his footwear in case things went south.

And now that things had massively gone to hell, he was glad that he had at least listened to his gut before it was too late. In the middle of this hole that he’d so foolishly dug himself into, there was still a tiny silver lining that he could hold on to. And it made him be very thankful for his Xiblenean roots.

His mother had always talked crap about his late father, and she swore he was always up to nothing good. But Dahro believed that he was just a misunderstood man, and a very resourceful one. He’d picked up a thing or two from the tales he’d heard throughout the years… Hence, why he always carried a blade concealed in one of his boots.

So, as his captors were immersed in a heated discussion, wondering if the others had ditched them or not, he was very busy cutting the cord that secured him to the bricks and letting himself loose.

By the time one of them finally spotted him creeping behind his interlocutor, only a startled yelp erupted from his throat before he’d grabbed his partner by the neck with one hand while he reached for the gun he carried on his hip with the other.

They’d struggled briefly. The one that he was choking flailing his arms all around as he desperately gasped for air… The other scrambling for his own weapon and shakily trying to aim it at the fugitive prince.

But the man’s sweaty fingers and his inexperience would make him slip, and the only thing he would hit with the shot he managed to make was the dusty ceiling, a chunk of it plummeting in a cloud of debris over them.

Coughing and disoriented, the three men had then fought tooth and nail to get on top of the situation. But Dahro would be quicker, and luckier than his rivals. Given that the gun he had snatched from his adversary had practically gone off on its own, and one of the two men standing before him had ended up falling down fulminated with a loud thud and a missing eye socket as a result.

The other would let out an animal growl and pounce on him with a maddened scowl which had made Dahro clench his jaw and press the trigger with closed eyes several times.

When he gathered the courage to reopen them, the room was silent, and the man was flat on his back with a hole carved in his chest.

Trembling and feeling a strange stupor tickling through his limbs, like hot syrup, the boy had then run away, clutching the gun in his palm and aiming it left and right on his way out.

The patrons upstairs had been too drunk to care, and the bartender hadn’t seemed the least interested in getting involved in his affairs.

So, he’d run and run, until no air was left in his lungs and he had collapsed on the dirt, laughing hysterically and crying tears of equal joy and despair.

He’d been much calmer once he’d finished covering the pit where he had laid the gun and walked away.

His hoarse voice starting to rehearse aloud the phrase that he would recite to the guards keeping the gates once again… Help! I am the Prince of Xiblen and I have been abducted! Please, help!