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“What do you mean? A murderer? Here?”
Erastos bristled at the label, shaking his head.
“He was a soldier in the Nesian wars. They say he killed more of them than any other Odian soldier.”
“That man? With big lips?” Alexander asked incredulously. For a moment, he thought Erastos was pulling his leg, but the look on his friend’s face was anything but jocular.
“Yes, that very man. How do you not know of him? The “Vicious Veteran.” They say something broke in him during the campaign. He was dismissed from service after some injury, never to be recalled again. I don’t know what he did or what happened, but when he got back —”
“You must know this all sounds rather exaggerated,” Alexander laughed.
“Lower your voice.”
Alexander, still unsure of his friend’s sincerity, though not so drunk as to lose all of his senses, became quiet. Erastos continued.
“After he returned he was irritable, and found occasion to duel — this was after it was outlawed, mind you — scores of people for petty offenses. It was as though he searched out a cause for it. Many say he just enjoys the kill, that it sustains whatever part of him formed during his time on the Isles.”
“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“That’s the thing… no one knows. He even,” Erastos lowered his voice even more, and beckoned Alexander come closer to listen, “killed four Aeolite men. Three were from Xistera and one of Iphalus. Not the most powerful families, but what Aeolite would stand their child’s murder?”
This surprised Alexander. His own experience with the fierce retribution of the City, as witnessed during the execution two days prior, left him doubtful that any man would be allowed to harm any of his class, whatever their status as an accomplished soldier. The man didn’t look formidable either. The storied warriors, like Allaxae, were giants in their own right. Their arms and chests rippled with muscles, and their very person seemed to scream of their previous victories. This man, with his pinched face and wiry frame, didn’t look fearsome in the least. If anything, he seemed rather loose and effete. Still, Alexander understood enough of the world to know that looks were deceiving, and he trusted his friend enough to believe him.
“Thank you, then, for stopping me,” Alexander said, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“You’re welcome. I don’t think he’s done anything recently, but I would still be careful. The least we can do is retain a ‘respectable’ level of voice,” Erastos replied, waving his hand with an air of pomposity as he drew out the word. Alexander chuckled. He was glad for Erastos. Without his friend, he likely would have walked headlong into the end of a sword. How many would have happily let me go on with Diaxus, eager to see my ignorance punished? He wondered.
The uplifting effect of knowing the sword’s history had not left him either. Internally, he swelled with pride at the thought of being thanked so generously by the Orator. Perhaps, if he were sober, he would have wondered why Phlaxus had not included his name on the gift, but such concerns fell away into the great undercurrent of unconcern, crowded out by the pride which swelled in his heart.
For whatever reason, Alexander had been chosen from among the clerks to aid in their rhetoric. It was he, not Johorus, who gave the advice so appreciated by the General and Phlaxus. His mind began to wander, as it does in men of ambition, towards thoughts of how this success could be parlayed into greater opportunities. He even revived in his heart a dream which had lay dormant for so many years, aspirations toward a captainship in the navy. A dream which the General could, if Alexander could make himself useful enough, make a reality.
“What are you thinking about?” Erastos asked, swirling the wine in his glass.
“I was just hoping I might wake up to another knocker in the coming weeks. Perhaps next time I’ll get a carriage,” Alexander joked.
“If I were you, I’d be hoping for a daytime summons. What’s the point of these professional successes if you can’t boast about them?” Erastos replied with a smile, finishing his glass.
“I don’t need recognition. At least not from my peers,” Alexander returned, finishing his own glass. His eyes went wide and he pointed to the carafe in appreciation. Erastos gave him a silent salute.
“A good carriage sounds better than any honor right now,” Alexander continued. “But alas, we must walk.”
“Are we done celebrating already?”
“If I drink anymore, I shall down… I shall drown,” Alexander replied, thrusting his finger in the air.
“But I can still understand you,” Erastos replied with a smirk. Alexander stood from his plush chair, straightening his robes and tightening his belt.
“Oh alright, but I must settle up with Brank,” the short man said, pushing himself out of the chair and steadying himself before sauntering off toward the bar. Alexander looked around for the barmaid, whom Erastos had inexplicably rebuffed. As he searched the various faces of the thinning crowd, he thought he spotted Alloa in the crowd. It turned out to be some older blonde woman, evidently perturbed by the sudden interest of the Aeolite.
He had forgotten, as he often did, that the Brick Pig was not an establishment frequented by many of his peers. Its patronage consisted mostly of lower merchants and musicians, none of whom were higher than Graedarite. The woman looked to be a textile merchant, though he supposed they all looked that way. She held his gaze, wondering if he would ask or say something. He gave her a polite nod, and turned away. If he had continued looking, he would have seen her expression of relief.
“I made him swear he would leave the silver with the barmaid,” Erastos pronounced as he returned.
“You are a gallant,” Alexander chuckled. Erastos only raised his eyebrows mischievously, and Alexander shook his head.
“Shall we?”
“Of course.”
They threaded their way among the various tables and chairs, the occupants of which huddled together, nursing tankards, stumbling occasionally, but never so much as to cause embarrassment.
As they reached the door, Erastos turned to the bar one final time.
“I shall ask her again next when we return! I expect her fuller, or furrier!” Erastos bellowed, laughing to himself. Brank smiled, but he kept his attention on the glasses he was polishing.
“Rascal!” Erastos followed, laughing more before turning to Alexander. “He really is a good fellow.”
“But a scoundrel nonetheless!” he shouted again, laughing harder still.
“Leave, clerks,” came that voice from across the room. They turned to see Diaxus, standing from his table.
“I only meant it in jest, Brank knows — ” Erastos protested, hands up. The smile on his face remained.
“You are a nuisance. Everyone here is too polite to ask you to leave. I am not. Leave,” Diaxus continued in an even voice, approaching them directly now.
“Come now, we were just celebrating an accomplishment of my friend...” Erastos began. But, the slow advancement of the wiry man made an impression which cut through the fog of drink, and he thought better. “We are leaving. We are leaving.” He grabbed Alexander’s arm and began leading him out the door.
Alexander, having consumed two northerns and three glasses of Odian red, retained a stern face as he looked at the man. While he was not so drunk as to do anything foolish, he could not help but stay a moment, as a mark of defiance. After a few seconds, he palmed the pommel of his sword, swishing his robes — which made an impression considerably less impressive than with a cloak — , and turned to follow his friend.
The air of the warm summer night swam thick about them, and the firelights illuminating the windows gave the streets a conspiratorial glow.
“Where did you get that sword?” a voice demanded from behind. It no longer possessed its former even qualities, but trembled with a deep rage.
“What?” Alexander asked, turning about.
“That’s not your sword,” Diaxus said, pointing to the rapier on Alexander’s hip.
“I can assure you, sir. It is his sword. He received it today,” Erastos interjected, hoping to defuse the situation. Alexander, believing himself to have suffered many indignities at the hands of this lanky man, could stomach the insults no further.
“Good sir. What offense have I given, for you to pursue me outside? We have done as you asked, we are quiet and leaving. Now you interrogate me about my sword? What business is it of yours?” Alexander barked. Given a clearer head, he would not have been so sharp with his words, but he had no time to self-regulate. Before he had finished, Diaxus had already drawn his sword.
“My good, honorable sir,” Erastos began, adding honorifics as though they alone would resolve the situation.
“Hush,” Diaxus spat, “My quarrel is not with you.”
Upon being excused from danger, Erastos held his tongue, giving the incredulous Alexander a shrug of his shoulders.
“Draw,” Diaxus demanded of Alexander.
“I will not fight you, sir. For I have caused you no offense,” Alexander protested. But he could see that the thin man was determined, and guessed his next word before it even escaped his lips.
“Coward.” It hung in the air like a great weight. To call an Aeolite a coward, no matter the circumstances, was inexcusable. Despite his drunkenness, Alexander could not refuse. In a moment, he drew the Nesian sword from its scabbard.
Diaxus assumed a fighting position, placing his left hand at the small of his back and bending his knees. Alexander, far from a master swordsman, mimicked his style. They advanced toward each other slowly, before gently crossing their swords to begin the duel.
Diaxus advanced quickly, drawing away Alexander’s sword with a feint to his left before thrusting up at his right shoulder. Alexander moved to parry the first blow, but his drunken motion carried him farther than he had anticipated. As Diaxus’ blow pierced his right shoulder, he winced, whipping his arms in reflex. The motion brought his own sword underneath Diaxus’ left arm, where the double-edged blade bit into the man’s flank.
Dismayed at the immediate counterattack, Diaxus withdrew his blade. But Alexander was pumping with fear, convinced he would die outside the Brick Pig at the hands of some irascible veteran, and took the moment to twist the sword aright and push downward, bringing it across the man’s stomach. Diaxus looked at Alexander with disbelief, and held his bleeding gut with his left hand, moving to put space between them.
Alexander pursued, fueled by a combination of spirits and indignance, dropping to a knee and slashing at the man’s leg. His aim failed, and he ended up catching Diaxus’ sword arm at the wrist. The man’s simple iron blade clattered onto the cobble street.
Alexander stood before his opponent, unsure of what to do next. He winced at the pain in his shoulder where Diaxus’ blade had pierced it, and looked to Erastos. His friend merely stared at him with a mixed look of terror and awe. He looked back at Diaxus, whose expression had changed from surprise to fierce hatred. They seemed to say that Alexander must kill him, if he wished to live. Those eyes would not yield.
In a moment of panic, Alexander imagined a future where he yielded and the man survived his wounds. Surely he would hunt him down, make him pay for the shame he had forced upon him. No, he couldn’t let him live.
With a few steps, a few thrusts, and a head dominated by thoughts of future vengeance, Alexander dispatched the wounded Diaxus.