Barron listened intently as his companions recounted the tale of their skirmish in the Smoke Ward that had taken place earlier in the day, unsure exactly what he felt about their tale. At first he was annoyed that he was not there for the fight, as it sounds like they could have used another set of blades as outnumbered as they were. But his companions were nothing if not capable, and as such all of them were alive to tell the story even in spite of his and the mighty gladiator Marrow’s absence. Barron still felt weak and groggy from his encounter with the abnormal deadly mist from the night before, and he might not have been much help had he been there anyway, he realized ruefully. He had expected his new friends to be overcome with concern and curiosity at the supernatural encounter, but Bexley and Sinikka had responded to his tale with “yeah, we told you it was dangerous,” while the others thought it was foolish to return there alone. Barron had known it was foolhardy, but he was also driven by an overwhelming need to find out what had happened to Aqima’s sister on that dark night. And now he knew. Now he just needed to find a way to make sure that no one else suffered the same fate as that poor girl.
As his companions continued their tale, Barron’s demeanor switched from being regretful that he was not present for the excitement to confusion as to what the attackers were hoping to accomplish. Such a show of force, in broad daylight and in full view of the denizens of the Smoke Ward – this did not have any of the hallmarks of a robbery. There were easier marks: wealthier and less armed; traveling in fewer numbers; marks moving with the misfortune of having no witnesses around to describe the attackers. No, this was something else. It was either an orchestrated hit or it was a feint designed to draw the quarry into the open so that they might be followed to their next destination. When Barron interrupted to ask whether they “had taken any prisoners to interrogate” or if they were “careful not to be followed,” they returned his queries with blank expressions. His friends were icy, dangerous with their blades, but they were also so square. “Not a rat turd worth of street smarts among ‘em” as Earl used to say when they were sizing up new recruits upon the streets of Manea.
Then Burryaga chimed in, presenting a worn scrap of paper with Carl’s picture on it and some scribbling underneath, and Barron’s blood grew ice cold. Those sodding witches! Barron thought angrily, gripping the hilts of his kukris tightly, his teeth clenched and brow furrowed and twitching in rage, as he stared daggers at the image on the paper. Why were they so intent on killing this child? What was so wrong with a boy who was gifted with the magic arts? His rage grew as he thought back on the two women in the alley the night before, their manicured hands wrapped around the boy’s delicate throat, intent on stealing from him of his last whisper of life. Life was hard enough in Alcott; harder still for the youth. Barron had grown up on the streets and had seen children mutilated, imprisoned, or killed for trying to eke out a living. The streets were a gauntlet of leches and creeps and users and takers and killers; greedy hands feeding upon the goodness and innocence of youth. Those hands had forged Barron into a creature of pure molten steel, once hard and deadly but now growing brittle and broken from overuse. Other children were not even that lucky, lacking the strength, will, or just plain stubbornness to survive as they were ground to dust beneath the overwhelming weight of this life.
Barron stewed in anger for the rest of the conversation, mulling over the feeling of satisfaction that he would feel after wiping the lifeblood of the Enclave abominations off of his blades. After a long while, Mordantyr asked the group a pointed question, “Why did we save that boy’s life?” Marrow chimed in with “because it is the right thing to do,” and the rest of them murmured in assent. “So what do we do if we come across the next child being treated the same way? And the next? And what then do we do with the women who were doing this – powerful sorceresses from the Enclave?”
He was looking at Sinikka as he spoke, but Barron butted in first. “We kill them,” he answered in a low, cold voice.
Mordantyr looked surprised but somehow encouraged at this reply. “Why? How?”
“Because they broke the rules of the game,” Barron answered, his fingers idly tracking around the hilt of one of the wicked curved daggers on his belt, his steel eyes as calm as a storm.
Sinikka in turn expanded upon his pithy answer, responding in a more elegant and dignified way about the need to protect the innocent and the importance of maintaining law and judgement and order. The squire’s reasons were the same as his, just gilded and coated in a more sophisticated tongue. Barron’s code was simple, “you harm anyone not in the game and your life is forfeit.” Enclave, crown, badge, guild; none of these will shield you from judgement.
When Sinikka had finished speaking and the rest of the group nodded in assent, Mordantyr looked relieved and…a little nervous? The slight man took a deep breath and said, “Well, that is good. Now I have something important to tell you….”