What, Another Heroic Interlude?
The giant betentacled monstrosity collapsed with a sound not entirely unlike a deflating balloon, or perhaps the largest whoopee cushion since the 'Hurricane of Laughs' of Baron von Zhallowumor. The foul wind that it exhaled only fanned the fires which ravaged what had been a beautiful forest glade.
A bronze sword broke its skin. From the inside.
This was, of course, completely the wrong way of going about such a course of action. From a traditional point of view, it should have been the larval form of the monster which tore its way out of the chest of the human. However, the youth of today showed little regard for the finer forms of established culture, and so the eighteen-year old Guiche de Gramont tore his way out from inside the chest of the great beast, presumably to undergo some form of metamorphosis shortly thereafter.
Even if he was a little old to be a larva.
"You let me get eaten!" Guiche shouted, covered in colourless fish-smelling slime. Holding one of his bronze golems' swords, he hacked at the opening, trying to force it wider without dropping the slime-covered sword.
"Hey!" Kirche objected from behind an icy barricade. She was covered in sweat and soot. A similarly dishevelled Montmorency sighed in relief at the sight of him, and slumped down. "We were kind of busy here. Kind of really busy! It had all those tentacles! And they had hooks and mouths on them! They weren't the f-"
"You let me get eaten!" Guiche repeated, on the grounds that now was not the time for innuendo.
"-un kind of tentacle," Kirche continued, on the grounds that it was always time for innuendo. She paused. "Anyway, remember the mystic scroll we found? It did tell us that the monster was a) weak to sharp objects from the inside, and b) liked eating blonds."
"This was part of your plan?" Guiche managed, slithering out of the wound. "You didn't say that!"
"Wait!" Monmon said, her voice also rising. "I didn't see the bit about it liking blondes!"
Kirche rolled her eyes. "No, of course it wasn't part of a plan. You were meant to block the tendrils while I burned it. Only it started using all that slime which didn't burn well. Which isn't very fair at all."
"It's in my mouth! It… it tastes of fish," Guiche moaned. "Give me something to wash out my mouth, quickly! It tastes like rotten fish and… I'm going to be sick."
Montmorency winced. "Harvesting its eggs is going to be really unpleasant," she said. She put on long gloves, and drew a sharp knife. "Kirche, be on your guard in case it's playing dead. We need to get to those eggs and get them on ice before they start rotting."
"Right," Kirche agreed. "They're like rubies. If rubies rotted. And smelt of fish and..." she sniffed and made a face, "... rotten eggs, I think. Urgh."
"This wouldn't have happened if Tabitha was here," Guiche said sulkily, heading over to the packs washing his mouth out with wine. "She could have just frozen it solid."
"Yeah, well," Kirche said, with a shrug, as Montmorency started butchering the abomination. "She had to go home back to Gallia for something."
…
Long ago, the monarchs of Gallia had realised that the throne swung between Good and Evil with all the regularity of a metronome, and in a display of sideways logic and pragmatism had decided to make use of it. By institutionalising the royal family's tendency towards heroic bravery and utmost wickedness, in theory Gallia would have an advantage against all other nations because both Good and Evil would be working together for Gallia. Hence, members of the royal family were trained in roles appropriate to their natural temperament – or at least their temperament as it was perceived – and so in theory they could work together in unassailable harmony.
In practice, of course, it meant that a lot of royal relatives got murdered by court-trained assassin-princes hungry for power or executed by morally outraged judge-princesses who had just found what their Evil brother was up to. That was just an implementation detail, however, and the theory was still held to be sound.
Unfortunately, the current generation of princesses had certain… issues.
Princess Isabella of Gallia clasped her hands to her chest. With a morose exclamation, she sprawled backwards onto her plush chair, her long and very pink dress flowing out around her. "Oh, non!" she declared. "Woe to uz, zat ze world eez such a wicked place! How can zose of uz who are good stand against such dreadful cruelty, non? Of course, I am not speaking about you, couzin, for you are one of zose aforementioned wickednesses! And ze duc d'Normandie! Oh, 'ow wicked eez 'e! If only 'e would rid ze world of 'is unrighteous self! Ah, non! But we 'ave given 'im clemency for 'is many wrongful deeds!"
Before her knelt Princess Charlotte Helene Orléans de Gallia, the duchess of Orleans, who more commonly went by the name of Tabitha. Presumably she had reasons for that. She, as appropriate for an individual who was self-evidently as evil as her cousin was good, was dressed entirely in black. There were small, decorative spikes on her glasses.
"What you are ordering me to do eez to go to ze estate of the duc d'Normandie, kill 'im and 'is family, and make eet look like a suizide," Tabitha said bluntly.
Princess Isabella sighed extravagantly. "Suizide would – oh! – be a most unrighteouz sin, and would damn 'im forever," she said, resting her hands on her heaving, albeit typically sized for the Gallian royal family, bosom. "I could not pozzibly condone such an action! Eet would mean 'e would be condemned by ze Church... and not even receive a righteouz burial!" She narrowed her eyes. "You wicked, sinful girl! 'Ow could you possibly say zat I could tell you to do zat? Even eef 'e eez a traitor 'o eez working with ze Regenzy Council of Triztain and ze Albioneze Reconqueezta! Oh! 'Ow hard eet eez being Good, and unable to order 'im to be killed een such a way! Eef I was as wicked as you, I would mozt certainly order you to do zat, no?"
Tabitha really did wish that her cousin would get over the whole 'trying to be Good' thing and go back to just directly telling her to kill people. Princess Isabella had started talking about how she had to 'fight against her heritage' and 'be a better person' and 'choose her own path in life', but the main difference seemed to be that Tabitha now had to try to interpret her orders from what she was ordered not to do. And in addition, she now got insulted for being Evil, rather than all the other reasons which Isabella had used to insult her. She didn't mind killing people. It was easy. But sitting here and being lectured at was hard.
Also, her cousin's mannerisms were very annoying. And all the pink got on her nerves. Tabitha
hated pink. It was such a masculine colour.
She wished she was with Kirche, Monmon and Guiche. They never lectured her about being Evil. They just took her to interesting places where there were lots of exotic things living, which almost invariably tried to kill them. It was nice, mentally simple, and challenging work. As a prodigal graduate of the very elite Gallian Assassin's College, Tabitha had never expected to encounter as wide a variety of foes as Kirche managed to stumble into on a weekly basis.
It was remarkable, really. She strongly suspect the forces of Evil were following her friends around, because that was the only explanation she could think of to explain all the various mishaps they managed to get into. Well, the forces of Evil which weren't her or Irukuwa.
Tabitha was vaguely aware that she hadn't always found Evil so easy or natural. But that lay in the past, and she did not think of that. It hurt to do so.
"I will be on my way, wiz your permizzion, oui?" she said.
"As long as you do not go kill ze duc d'Normandie," Isabella said, momentarily cold eyes staring down over the top of a large fan before she remembered she was meant to be coquettish.
Tabitha nodded, and rose.
"Whatever you do," Isabella called out from behind her, "do not make sure zat ze entire line eez extinguizhed! That includez the baztard daughter 'e keeps living up een ze tower! If someone were to murder ze necezzary seventeen individuals, ze estate would return to ze crown. Zut alors, you are une problem! 'Ow wicked are you zat you would conzider such a theeng?"
Ice on the stairs should do it, Tabitha thought to herself. Or maybe she should just have Irukuwa tear the roof off and eat the girl. Her familiar did so like eating people. And Tabitha liked making her friends happy.
…
Montmorency grinned. "Well, since she's not here, she doesn't get a share of the money," she said. She was methodically cutting out the eggs from inside the monster and putting them in ice. "I really do appreciate the way that everyone else has gone running off after the kidnapped princess. We get to pick up all the other well-paying contracts without any competition at all."
"We should be trying to save Princess Henrietta," Guiche said, in the tones of someone bringing up an old argument that he didn't particularly expect to win. "Don't you have any patriotism?"
"I am a very patriotic Germanian," Kirche told him, smirking. "And that means I don't have to spend time running around wasting effort when no one even knows where this Steel Maiden person keeps her base and the reward they're offering is… kinda on the small side for rescuing royalty. And anyway, all the Tristainian heroes are running off after the princess, which leaves all these sweet, sweet profitable opportunities for us while they take care of it." Her expression soured. "Plus, she has Minions. With a capital 'M'. You know there's an entire breed of Minions who are just
completely immune to fire magic? That's basically blasphemy."
"Blasphemy?" Monmon asked, raising her eyebrows. "What, it's a blasphemy for things to not die when they're set on fire?"
"Yes," Kirche said promptly. "Pope Igniferon III issued a papal proclamation that since fire cleanses all sins, only the irrevocably damned do not burn, for they have forsaken all chance of redemption. Not being flammable is a sin."
"Wait a minute," Guiche said, frowning. "Didn't he try to set fire to the ocean? And excommunicated some mountains for failing to melt?"
"There were dragons living in those mountains," Kirche said, sounding hurt. "They were evil mountains."
"I know you're enjoying this theological discussion," Monmon said, shaking her head, "but maybe we can get to emptying its hoard and making sure we get all those valuable eggs? Before anyone else shows up?"
"Right! I'll go find the hoard." Kirche glanced at Guiche. "And you better go jump in a pond. You stink."
…
The pond did not help a great deal, and Guiche's horse was decidedly unhappy by the time they got to an inn. His mole familiar was even less happy, for it had a very sensitive nose, and was therefore riding on Monmon's horse; as far away from its master as possible.
This left her somewhat distressed, especially when it kept on licking her ear. It was for this reason that she put her hands on her hips as soon as they arrived, informed Guiche that he would be taking a bath, and ordered him to not get out until he no longer smelt of dead betentacled monstrosity.
"Scrub everywhere! And I mean everywhere!" she concluded.
"My my," Kirche said mildly, grinning.
"I am not in the mood! I… I will wash your filthy mouth out with soap!" Montmorency snapped, whirling on her. "And I don't even know what you mean by that, but you said it in
that tone of voice so it couldn't be good!" She turned on Guiche. "Go! Wash! Now!"
Throwing his hands up in mock protest, the boy departed.
"So," Kirche said, when he was out of earshot, "I really don't get why you two don't just get rid of all the sexual tension and just do it. You already act like an old married couple."
Monmon frowned. "You wouldn't understand," she said, taking a seat at a table. "I am a proper young lady and we don't do certain things."
"Like cutting a man's throat with an icicle?" Kirche asked, grinning and sitting down opposite her.
"That… that was in self-defence! And it wasn't a man! It was a werewolf!"
"You didn't know that at the time," Kirche pointed out. "But seriously, you've killed, you've stolen… sorry, liberated… and you in particular are now rather wealthy. You could totally propose, or hint strongly to him that he could propose. No one would object, either."
"Firstly, that werewolf? He had a knife! I want to make that clear! I didn't do it for no reason! It was self-defence!" Monmon crossed her arms. "And as to the other point, why are you being such a… such a pain about this?"
Kirche shrugged, sinking down on her seat. "I dunno. Maybe because… look, when we started this, the two of you were from poor noble families. Now he's independently wealthy and you're rather more than that because of those investments you made. If you wanted to, you two could marry."
Monmon swallowed. "I'm… I'm not ready for that," she said quietly. "I'm not even eighteen yet. I don't want children and marriage or…"
"Oh, trust me," Kirche said, smirking, "those two aren't related. At all."
"They are if you want any respect!" the blonde retorted. "Brides who do the kind of thing that we do are disreputable. Even if they're rich – in fact, doubly so if they're rich. I know what families like mine think of women who are mercenaries. They're barely better than women who sell their bodies in the other way. I have to keep a clean reputation, or…"
"Do you think it matters to Guiche?" Kirche asked gently.
"It matters to me! And it matters to everyone else!" Monmon snapped.
Kirche fumbled for her purse. "Or maybe you're just waiting for someone else and leading him on," she said. "Maybe you think there's some 'true love' out there waiting for you?"
"What? No!" Monmon said. "It's not like…" she looked over to the bar, "like I'm holding off so I can jump into bed with, say, him. Trying a bit hard, isn't he?" she said, nodding towards a man stood at the bar. It was definitely a man. Not only were his heels tremendously high, but his cuffs were so lacy that they were getting in the way of his hands. His doublet was a deep crimson and decorated, as was the style among certain young men, with purely ornamental knife cuts, revealing a second layer of fine black fabric. He wore both a wandsword and a short sword at his belt. His long curled strawberry blonde hair was thrown with manufactured carelessness around his shoulders, and his face was elaborately rouged.
He was also beardless and appeared to be about twelve, despite the fact that he had ordered the largest measure of beer that the inn was serving.
Kirche sighed. "You can say that again," she said sadly, shaking her head as she rose. "Hey! Dani! Get over here!" she called out, waving.
"Kirche!" the boy called back, whirling around.
"You know him?" Monmon asked.
"Dani? Yeah. Just a bit. Being that he is, you know, one of my younger brothers."
"Ah, I see." Monmon blinked. "But wait, you said…"
"
He is one of my younger
brothers," Kirche repeated, slowly. "Do you understand?"
"But…"
"Don't make me set you on fire. Which I will, if you're not going to be civil to
him," Kirche said in a low, flat, and completely serious tone. "I look after both my sisters and my brothers. I am a protective older sister or brother, depending on whether Dad's around."
Montmorency worked her jaw and went slightly cross-eyed, but said nothing more.
"What are you doing here?" Dani demanded. "What are you wearing? Father would be
so angry if he caught you dressing like that," he said, crossing his arms.
"Just as well he's not going to catch me," Kirche retorted, flicking her brother on the nose. "I keep track of him, and he's in Iberia at the moment. You could get out of your manly lace and high heels and wash the rouge off your face and dress like a girl, you know; if you wanted to. You know, like he does."
Dani sniffed. "Why would I want to?" he said. "Dad's not right about everything."
"You'll change your tune once you start having to wear a corset all the time to get away with that figure," Kirche pointed out. "And you will. It's bloody painful."
"I won't!"
"You're already having to wear looser shirts," Kirche said, pointing at her brother's chest.
Dani crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "They're not going to grow anymore! Not if I don't want them to!"
"You're a von Zerbst," Kirche said knowingly. "They'll grow. And mother's even bigger. Face it Dani, I'm going to have to help you deal with them."
"They won't grow!"
"Much as I'm enjoying watching you air your… uh, strange family situation," Monmon drawled, "and really, I am, don't let me stop you…"
"Who's she?" Dani asked. "Blonde, ringlets… oh, is she the barely adequate piece of filly Father said you were doing the rumpy-pumpy with?" he said, his tone shifting as if reciting what someone else had said.
Monmon turned bright red. "Wha-?"
Kirche rolled her eyes. "Father gets the wrong idea about many things," she said wearily, and paused. "Especially when I did sort of lie to him about that, remember? You had to go fix my ribs after I fractured one and we needed an excuse to get me away from him."
"Barely adequate?" Monmon said, her pitch rising.
"Oh yeah, that." Kirche looked sternly at her brother. "Dani, don't call my friends that. Just because Guiche is a prettier blond than her doesn't make her 'barely adequate'."
"Hey!"
"Look, Monmon, Guiche is so pretty that I'm actively not attracted to him. I prefer my men more rugged. It's no great sin to be less pretty than him."
"But it's what father said!" Dani said mulishly.
"You yourself just said he's not right about everything. And we're in Tristain at the moment. The standards of behaviour are rather different." Kirche shook her head. "Food!" she said, changing the topic. "I'm starving. We killed a vast slimy monster with tentacles today, you know. And picked up some rather nice gems from its mound."
"And all kinds of very valuable alchemical reagents from its eggs," Monmon added snidely.
Dani's shoulders slumped. "You… already got it," he said flatly. "Yeah, thanks a
bunch Kirche. I was going to kill it!"
"Sit," Kirche told him. "Dani, what were you thinking? And oi!" she hailed one of the servers, "milk for the boy!"
"Aww, but…"
"Would you prefer cider?" Kirche asked, shrugging.
Dani wrinkled his brow. "Fine, milk," he muttered. "And that's not fair! I was going to kill it and…"
Kirche sighed, waving his complaints off. "Does Mother know where you are?" she asked, bluntly.
Her brother crossed his arms. "Like she knows where anyone is," he muttered. "She's off on another one of her trips. God forbid she actually spend any time at home when she could be off enjoying herself. I think she's off on holiday in Roma on some pilgrimage again. She's
always on some pilgrimage or another. And before you ask," he added, "Sam's back home, so he's looking after the younger ones."
"Right. Good. Now, Dani, listen." Kirche said. "There's no way you were prepared on your own to face that thing. It took three of us, and Guiche got eaten by it."
His eyes widened. "Is he all right?" Dani asked. "You're talking about the Guiche de Gramont, yes? The man who captured Fouquet, and who slew the Beast of Boullission?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's Guiche. He's fine. He cut his way out from the inside." Kirche sighed. "Dani, you're twelve," she said. "Even I wasn't going out on my own at that age. Well, I mean, apart from setting fire to things like goblin tribes, but they're not real challenges. What were you thinking?"
"You do this kind of thing all the time!" Dani protested.
"Firstly, okay, I'm much older than you. And I do things as part of a team. And… listen, Dani…"
Whatever she had been about to say was lost in the noise of breaking shutters as a man swung straight through them, ignoring the perfectly serviceable door a few feet to their left. "Ah ha!" he declared loudly, to screams and the other inhabitants trying to vacate the bar. "Flee!
Si, flee you foolish peasants! Or stay and watch the triumph of evil! It is up to you!"
The man was dressed all in dapper black and held a blade and a duelling wandsword. One of the scabbards at his belt was plain black leather; the other was more elaborate, and bore the royal seal of the cast-down Albionese throne. Elegantly combed dark red hair flowed back from behind his black mask. What could be seen of his skin was tanned.
"Prepare to face the wrath of Don Marikos, my
sister," he sneered, dipping his blade to Kirche in a mocking salute. "Soon your blood will stain my sword, and the tears of your father will be my vengeance! My vengeance in the name of honour!"
Dani and Kirche stared at each other, and sighed.
"Oh, bloody abyss," Dani said, reaching at his belt for a knife and his wand.
"I know, right?
Another evil half-brother? Seriously, where do they all come from?" Kirche said sadly, taking another sip of her drink.
"Your father's inability to keep it in his pants?" Monmon said snidely, from behind the cover of an overturned table.
"Yeah, well, apart from that."
Don Marikos whipped his blade through the air with a silken tearing noise. "Be quiet. Spend your last moments asking your god for forgiveness, and then prepare to die!"
"Do you want a drink?" Kirche asked. "Before we fight? Oi, waiter, a glass of wine for my half-brother! Dani, do you know which of Dad's bastards this is?"
Dani shook his head. "I don't think so. I mean, he's Iberian, but I think the last evil Iberian bastard got killed by Sam."
"Oh, urgh. This is going to bug me."
"Take this seriously, please" Don Marikos said coldly.
"Oh, I'm trying," Kirche drawled, "and I'm failing. You're the eighth evil half-sibling to try to kill me. Two of them were demons."
"I've had two," Dani contributed. "The last one was only two weeks ago. I stabbed her in the wand-hand and then broke her jaw." He paused. "Rrrawwrr," he tried.
"Your bravado. Yes, very good," Don Marikos said. "Please, do not run. I have the building surrounded with a company of the best of the mercenaries of Iberia. They will kill everyone inside if you refuse to fight me in a duel of honour."
"Seen it before" Kirche retorted. "And killing everyone inside doesn't sound much like honour."
"Yes! The same lack of honour displayed by our dear sadly-not-yet-deceased father who left my mother penniless, pregnant and dishonoured – and he even killed her dragon! Yes, she was a dragoon! He took away her means of support!" he retorted, eyes gleaming. "Killing you will hurt him, sister, so I will kill you. And then your little
sister."
Suddenly Kirche was on her feet, wandsword in hand. "I'll gut you and then burn you alive," she said coldly.
"Ah ha. Yes, you can try, dearest sister. Touched a nerve, did I?"
"I'll touch your nerves. With fire," Kirche growled, kicking the table aside. The two of them circled, wand-swords drawn and tips on target. They did not cast. Yet.
Monmon grabbed Dani by the scruff of his elaborately laced neck and pulled him back behind the cover of the table.
"Let me go!" he protested. "I have to help my brother."
"… I'm not even going to get started on that," Monmon sighed. "But we're going to keep out of Kirche's way so she can cut loose. Behind a nice, solid, and – if you look, I've been busy – ice-coated table. And then if I get the chance, I can shoot him in the back."
"But that would be dishonourable," Dani said. "What are you, some kind of merchant?"
"I wonder if Kirche was this annoying when she was younger?" Montmonrency muttered under her breath.
The roar of fire filled the room as the two mages attacked at once. A wash of heat marked the two jets deflecting each other. As if by mutual consent, they ceased, and the man stepped in, swinging at Kirche's head.
Metal clashed with metal, and she barked a single word. Don Marikos went to deflect the fireball, and thus was somewhat surprised when he was hit in the stomach by a lump of rock. He gasped and staggered backwards, but managed to deflect her flicking cut. He dived backward, kicking a chair at her to gain distance, and then lunged with a fireball of his own as she cut through it.
Back and forwards they jostled for position, stray bursts of fire scorching the ceiling and walls and shattering the pots of olive oil against one wall. Flames crackled hungrily, and the ring of steel on steel sounded again and again between the barked incantations and bursts of fire. The air soon filled with smoke from broken, burning furniture, but the mages fought on regardless. If one attacked with magic, the other would deflect it. If they attacked with steel, the other responded with fire. Both blades sought the other's wand as they tried to deflect them off target with swordplay, or disarm them entirely.
And Kirche was the better swordsman, or possibly swordwoman. Step by step, she was forcing him back, and none of his attacks were getting close.
Surprisingly, though, her half-brother showed no fear or concern. The man barked a single word, spraying blinding sparks everywhere. He stepped in with a straight cut, only to be met by Kirche's blind stop thrust. The blade went through his neck with a wet, meaty sound. Kirche whipped the blade out and immediately returned to her guard position, blinking the sunspots out of her eyes.
The man didn't die. He didn't stop. He just kept on attacking.
"What?!" Monmon hissed.
There was no sign of the mortal injury he had taken. His throat was intact. Yet the blood stained Kirche's wandsword. Another flick, and she cut under his guard and slashed across his face. This time, the onlookers saw the gash close nearly instantly.
"How?" Kirche accompanied the word with a feint.
He patted his scabbard. "It was just lying around in an Albionese royal tomb for anyone to find," he smirked, leaning back. "Sure, I had to desecrate the grave a bit to get the dead to rise up and try to kill me so I could get past one of the final wards, but who doesn't do that? It was just a grave."
Kirche glared. "When I desecrate graves, it's totally different!" she snapped, breathing heavily.
Marikos stepped in, and stepped in again, forcing Kirche to retreat. She cut to his head, and the noise of blade striking bone sounded out as he blocked the chop with his forearm.
Then he stabbed her. She screamed as his wandsword went through her shoulder, and staggered back, desperately trying to keep her guard up.
"Uh, uh. Too slow," he chided her.
"Go stick your h-head in the… the Abyss."
"Now, that's not very nice. Don't speak that way in front of your little sister. In the few moments she has left before I kill her too."
Kirche straightened up, teeth clenched together. Left arm pressed to the injury, she forced herself to advance, throwing fireball after fireball in his face with reckless abandon. The cloth he wore didn't even smoulder, and he smiled throughout.
"I'll k-k-kill you," she growled.
Don Marikos spread his arms wide. "Come on, then," he said, smirking. "Come at me, sister."
Kirche gasped, trying to hold onto her wandsword with trembling fingers. She kept her injured arm pressed up against the wound, and eyed him up, from top to bottom. Panting, she tried to take a slow breath, and then stepped in, her blade dancing. Rather than stab, she slashed, flowing from cut to cut. And then she stepped back, gasping in pain.
Her half-brother smirked. "Oh, come on," he said. "You didn't even break the skin. That's not very good, is it?"
Then his clothes dropped off him in slithers. Somehow, even his boots disintegrated, slit down the sides. The sound of his codpiece hitting the ground was surprisingly loud in the silence.
Kirche managed a weak grin. "Well, looks like you're not much of a Zerbst
there," she said weakly, slumping to the ground as she dropped her wand. "Mummy's boy, really."
"What did you…" her newly denuded brother exclaimed.
"Oh, like F-Father wouldn't teach his eldest
that trick," Kirche said. "It's… even easier on men than women. Don't have to… to avoid… the breasts. He… made me practice. On pig carcasses in dresses. Drilled me until. I had it perfect. Took me… now!"
Monmon rose from the cover, sending a volley of ice barbs. He spun and snapped a word. The ice met fire and melted, clouds of steam billowing forth.
He wagged his finger at her. "Uh uh uh," he said. And then he was hit by a ballistic, foam-clad and sopping wet Guiche.
The two boys staggered together and slammed into one of the abandoned and miraculously unburnt tables. Don Marikos screamed as the blond stomped on his foot, and he went over backwards. His flailing arms reached for something, anything to arrest his fall, but only managed to knock the pitchers of olive oil down onto the two of them. Then they got to work trying to kill, or at the very least maim one another.
Montmorency paused, wavering. She should help Guiche. He might have had the other man locked in a hard grip despite the oil that covered both of them, holding him tight from behind, but what if the villain escaped? The grunts and yelps as they competed to dominate the other told her how close their conflict was. But a glance at Kirche changed her mind. The other girl was pale under her tan, and her top was covered in blood.
"Help Guiche," Kirche managed. "Ignore m-me."
"You idiot!" Monmon snapped, rummaging in her bag for bandages. "I should charge you for this! What possessed you to go and do that show-off blade thing after he'd stabbed you! You probably made the wound worse!"
"He was doing it wrong," Kirche managed through clenched teeth. She was pale under her tan, and shaking. "I… had to get his… belt off."
"Idiot! You complete and utter… idiot!" Monmon snapped, producing thick cloths and holding them to the wound. "Keep these in place," she told Dani while she dived back into her bag.
"The scabbard… his invincib… thingie which meant he didn't get hurt," Kirche said faintly, her words almost lost under the noise of the brawl between the Iberian and Guiche. "Albionese. Heard of it. Myth. Had to get his belt off." She gave a weak, bubbling laugh which quickly became a cough. "Not usually the context. I say that. But then again. He is my brother. Have my. Limits."
Monmon pulled out two stoppered bottles. Uncorking one, she splashed it all over her hands. The second went over the wound and Kirche screamed.
"It's an astringent," Monmon said, conjuring snow with a gesture. She handed it to Dani. "Hold this over the injury. We need to slow the bleeding before I can start a proper healing. And we need to deal with…"
Guiche shouted three words, and the floor rumbled, shaking the room. Stone wrenched, and Don Marikos sunk into the suddenly liquid stone. The spell ended with him trapped on all fours, feet and hands sealed inside the stone.
"Ah ha!" Guiche declared, one hand on his hip while the other held the other man's wandsword. With terrible slowness, the last remaining bit of his vital foam covering detached, and landed on the floor with a splattering noise. "We have you now, wrongdoer! You will know the justice of the Crown!"
Monmon stared. Glancing sideways, she realised Dani was staring too. "Guiche…" she said warningly.
"Such does good always triumph." Guiche bit his lip, turning to face the girls fully. "Sorry," he apologised. "I had my head underwater, and then I smelt smoke, but I didn't realise something was up until I heard Kirche scream."
"Ha. Ow ow ow," Kirche gasped. "Should… have screamed earlier." Her eyes drifted south. "You go, girl," she told Monmon.
"You're… you're terrible," Monmon managed, turning back to pay attention to Kirche. "At a time like this?"
"Can't think. Of better time. Hurts less when I'm not thinking of it."
"Dani, move your hands," Monmon told her, wand in hand. Muttering, she turned the snow packed into the injury back into water, and let it sink in. "Hold the bandages. I'll need you to staunch it if the blood flow increases."
"Danny, is it?" Guiche asked casually. "Sorry we have to meet like this. Mon, how's Kirche?"
"Bad," she said tersely. "Don't distract me. I've got the bleeding down, but it's going to be touch and go."
Dani stared at his half-brother, sunken into the ground. "How did you manage that?" he squeaked.
"I got my hand on his wand," Guiche explained simply. "It took a bit of getting used to. His wasn't much like mine. It was much narrower. But once I got a proper grip, it was pretty easy to leave him helpless on the floor like that. It's all in the wrist movement, see?" He demonstrated by flicking the wandsword. "I might keep this, actually. Imagine the fun I could have with two."
"You'll pay for this!" Don Marikos ranted.
"I could gag him," Guiche suggested. "Stop him being a distraction."
"Guiche, you're distracting me plenty," Monmon said. "Go put some darn clothes on."
The boy blinked. "Oh," he said, covering himself and dashing out.
"You fools!" Don Marikos managed groggily, trying and failing to get his hands free. "My loyal, vicious and wicked mercenaries have this place surrounded. If you kill me, they'll kill you all! Let me free and I'm prepared to take you captive, where I will ransom you off. That's my final offer."
"Mercenaries," Monmon said coldly. "I see." She refilled the ice in the bucket. "Keep pressure on the wound," she told Dani. "I'm just going to go out and deal with those mercenaries."
"All on your own?" Dani gasped.
"I may be some time," Monmon said simply.
Dani sniffed in an aggressively manly way, and wiped his eyes on his lacy, blood-soaked cuff. "I'm… I'm sorry I called you barely adequate," he muttered.
Monmon let out a cold smile. "Oh, I think you'll see why the group keeps me around. Beyond the fact that I'm the only one who's any good at healing, that is."
She stepped outside, and then there was silence.
…
No more than five minutes later, she stepped back in, dusting off her hands. "They're no longer a threat," she said, frowning. "I wish there could have been another way, though."
"So fast?" Dani gasped.
"Well, they were only mercenaries," Monmon said casually.
"They are the blackest-hearted fiends in all of Iberia! I refuse to believe you slew them all that quickly and silently!" Don Marikos announced.
Monmon snorted. "Kill them? I
hired them. After all, their current employer - or rather;
previous employer - was our captive. We do have rather a lot of money. Though I hate to spend it like that."
"You! How could you do that!" Don Marikos gasped.
"They're mercenaries."
"Black-hearted elite killers who serve my every order."
"Mercenaries work for pay."
"They've been with me for almost two years! How could you convince them to betray me?"
"Which bit of 'mercenary' did you not understand?" the blonde asked, with an annoyed flick of her hair. She went back to check on Kirche, and nodded with grim satisfaction. "Congratulations," she told Kirche. "You're probably not going to die today."
"Good," Kirche whispered. "Have plans. Plus, Tabitha would kill me if I died on her."
Montmorency's eyes narrowed. "Stop making this into a joke," she ordered.
"Aww. Monmon. Are you worried about… about me?"
"I'm worried about you!" Dani snapped. "You… you…"
Kirche reached out and patted her brother's hand. "There, there," she said. "You're… you're still going to be fourth in line." She coughed. "And we're taking you with us. Can't have you running around. And they'll need… need a fire mage. Even if you're just a line rank."
Monmon bit back a comment about a twelve year old being 'just' a line. "Guiche! Are you dressed yet?"
"Almost," he called through, before emerging, hopping as he tried to do up his boots. Dani blushed at the sight of him.
"I hired three hundred mercenaries to stop them killing us. We need a way to put them to use which means we're getting our money's worth."
Guiche frowned. "Why are you asking me?" he asked.
"Because you have all these impractical large scale plans which would work if we had a few hundred loyal soldiers. And because I'm busy making sure Kirche doesn't drop dead."
Kirche coughed. "Your bedside manner. Could do with work."
Guiche's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful," he declared. "And… I think this is none other than Don Marikos. There's quite a bounty out for him. The papacy put a price on his head."
"Oh, really?" Monmon said, some cheer entering her voice. "We might even manage to avoid losses from this night, then. Oh yes, Guiche, this is…"
"Kirche's little brother? Yes, the resemblance is clear," Guiche said with a shrug.
"Dani," Dani squeaked, by way of introduction. "Father mentioned you." He coughed, running a hand through his strawberry-blonde hair. "He said you had promise, for… despite how you looked."
Guiche smiled broadly. "He did? Wow. Kirche says that's high praise from him. Hello, Danny," he said. "Sorry we had to meet like this." He turned back to Monmon. "Hmm. So we'll want to get Kirche somewhere safe, and we also need to hand this villain over to the proper authorities."
"And collect the reward," Monmon added, looking up from Kirche.
"Presumably, then… well, we may need to escort this sacred treasure of Albion to a safe keeping place until the crown is restored."
"That's a good point," Monmon agreed. "That has to be worth another reward."
"And then maybe we can make best use of these mercenaries." Guiche frowned. "I've never had mercenaries before. Gosh! This is exciting!"
"And I suppose he did say they were blackhearted fiends…" Monmon said to herself.
"… are you going to suggest we turn them in for the reward?"
"What, me? Never!" Montmorency lied.
…
