Lizard at Arms, And More- "The Big Fight"

“Are you really sure about this,” Lee Toren asked the huge, lumbering Simpa with the tiger stripes on his arms and upper torso. Portenda the Quiet enjoyed a reasonable income as a landlord, a much better one from his Bounty Hunting contracts, and didn’t really want for much in terms of material possessions. He consistently found himself somewhat bored, however. He loved to roam the lands of Tamalaria, taking months at a time to simply explore the plains, the forests, the swamps, the hills, and even the dessert known as The Desperation in the southeast.

His big problem lay in the fact that he seldom met a real challenge in combat. He possessed a complete arsenal of both mecha and traditional weapons, from his first .38 revolver to the jagged, beaten spear he still carried on his broad back. He had trained in several forms of unarmed combat, though none for very long, and had a few very peculiar powers at his disposal. Those powers stemmed from one very important fact.

He was a freak of nature.

Portenda was the offspring of a Simpa, or Werelion, father, and a Khan, or tiger-man, mother. The two species had never produced a live birth in all of Tamalaria’s history, and never should have. The Gods themselves forbade it. Portenda had received outside interference that allowed him to come into being. Fate and Death had conspired to let him be born into the world, much to his own father’s chagrin.

Many months ago, he had aided a Human Alchemist by the name of Jonah Staples in finding and rescuing his sister from the clutches of a mad Alchemist, Genma. Genma had turned out to be Allen Staples, the boy’s uncle, and the madman was bent on turning his niece into a clone of his late wife through the use of science. With the aid of Jonah and his girlfriend (who was now his wife), Portenda had tracked down Genma and his tower, and the three of them, with the additional help of a Kobold mage named Kobuchi, destroyed Genma and his tower of Alchemical beasts and monstrosities.

The experience had been a challenge, a welcome one at that, but Portenda still hadn’t felt pushed to his limits. However, a contact of his in Desanadron had recently sent him a letter, telling him that if he was really looking for a match, he should track down and challenge a Red Tribe Werewolf by the name of Ignatious Stockholm who lived in the sewers. It was said by Portenda’s contact that nobody in the whole of the city was a match for the burly Red Tribesman, and the man offered Portenda ten thousand gold pieces to instigate a fight with this Stockholm character. Portenda, never one to frown in the face of a hefty paycheck, and learning that Stockholm was a leader in the local thieves’ guild, accepted the task immediately.

After nearly a month of traveling in his bestial state across the land from Ja-Wen to Desanadron, Portenda sat in a worn down old tavern, telling Lee Toren, another of his contacts, his plans.

“I only ask because, well, ol’ Stocky isn’t exactly someone to screw around wif, mate,” the Gnome Pickpocket said, quaffing his ale.

Portenda made no reply, simply downing his own drink with measured gulps. “Nobody has any idear how old ‘e is, or just what exactly he’s capable of. You may want to reconsider this agreement of yours.”

“I already sent word to my business friend.”

Portenda’s low, gravely voice grated against the nerves in Lee’s ears. He hated the Simpa Bounty Hunter’s voice because it almost never held any sort of inflection aside from anger or violence. Aside from the voice, the man’s eyes bothered him the most, so gray, so dead-looking. Not too much different from Akimaru’s, the Gnome Pickpocket thought. “I told him to expect a show.”

“Aw, hell’s bells,” Lee grumbled. “Well, what’re you doing hangin’ around here, then? Shouldn’t you be out lookin’ fer ‘im?”

“Nope. And you know why.”

Portenda’s voice again made Lee wince. Yes, he did indeed know exactly why Portenda had come to this tavern. He’d come here because this was Stockholm’s favorite watering hole when he came up to the surface of the city, which was less and less often since the whole Glove of Shadows escapade. The Simpa Bounty Hunter had asked around, made inquiries, and found out from the locals just where and when to expect his opponent. That habit set him apart from other Bounty Hunters. He didn’t snoop around and make himself suspicious. He came right out and asked people, often quite politely, about his targets’ whereabouts and routines. Often, he got the information he needed with some simple prodding. Nobody could remain hidden from him for long.

Lee Toren almost screamed when the saloon doors pushed inward on the palm of a furry, red arm.

Ignatious Stockholm, standing tall at around seven foot two, his arms and legs like tree trunks, his chest easily a good half a foot broader than Portenda’s, sauntered into the tavern with a stiff look on his face. He wore his sleeveless chain shirt over a pair of blue trousers, a loose fitting garment to allow him a full range of motion. He only had two weapons on him, his broad, double-headed war axe on his back, and a rapier sheathed in a simple loop belt on his waist.

Unbeknownst to either Portenda or Lee Toren, Stockholm had his own contacts throughout the city of Desanadron, and he knew full well that someone had been asking after him for the last day and a half. According to most of his contacts, the guy was ‘big as an ox and twice as nasty-lookin.’ One woman had described him as having ‘the deadest eyes I’ve ever seen.’ Stockholm had not only seen the big man sitting with Lee Toren through a tavern window they were seated near, he could smell the bastard a mile off. It was a scent he recognized, because the two men had met once, briefly, in Ja-Wen, during the quest for the Glove of Shadows.

Portenda smelled like death.

Stockholm had an immediate advantage over Portenda, in that Portenda had grown to sort of a public figure throughout Tamalaria. Few people knew who Stockholm was, or how important a man he was to the land.

He also had a disadvantage. He knew he wasn’t going to kill his opponent. He didn’t think Portenda intended to kill him, but he couldn’t be certain.

The Red Tribesman ordered a honey ale from the barkeep, who eyeballed him, then Portenda. He gave Stockholm his large stein of ale, and hustled into the back room, suddenly loaded with important work in the kitchen…where it might be safe.

The other patrons present also found various reasons to excuse themselves, asking their friends’ forgiveness, and the friends didn’t mind at all, they had someplace to be as well, and hey, say hello to the wife and kids for me, oh right, you don’t have a wife or kids, well, that doesn’t matter.

Lee Toren watched with silent wonder as the tavern cleared of all other life. Despite the free space at the bar and the various assorted empty tables, Stockholm came directly from the bar to the table at which Lee and Portenda sat. “This seat taken,” he asked politely, pulling the chair back that Portenda had been resting his feet on.

“No. Please, have a seat, friend,” the Simpa Bounty Hunter said levelly, his tone neither raising nor lowering one iota.

“Um, you gents moind if I just, ah,” Lee began sputtering.

“Get out of here, Lee,” Stockholm said curtly. He saw a flicker of surprise in Portenda’s eyes, but the Simpa-Khan hybrid made no other sign of discomfort. Though the Bounty Hunter’s powers of perception were supernaturally acute, Ignatious Stockholm’s nose was naturally keen as well, and he could smell the traces of both races in this big man’s blood. He hadn’t noticed that when first the two men had met.

Armed to the teeth, Stockholm thought as he scanned the Bounty Hunter. Spear on back, sword on hip, small caliber revolver on other side, two frag grenades under the table, and he’s keeping his posture relaxed. Oh, he’s good.

From the other side of the table, as Stockholm lifted his stein to take a drink and Lee Toren bolted from the tavern through the window behind him, similar thoughts ran through Portenda’s mind. Gods, he’s big. Axe on back, double edged, rapier on hip, though why he’d bother with a pig sticker I don’t think I understand. Red Tribe, so his claws probably reach a full eight inches when he extracts them fully, big teeth. His shoulders are slightly slumped, probably expects me to make the first move. Muscles are relaxed, so he’s gotta be pretty good at controlling himself. This may be fun after all.

Portenda prided himself on being ready for anything, anything at all, when it came to a combat situation. Most of his contracted targets didn’t guess at his purpose until he struck out at them, but Ignatious Stockholm surprised him after finishing his ale.

The werewolf set his stein down on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “You’re here for me, aren’t you?” He smiled wickedly.

Not only did the question take the Bounty Hunter off guard, but the half-mad smile at the potential confrontation to soon begin sent a chill up his spine. Why does this guy bother me so much, he wondered? He’s just another Werewolf. I’ve taken plenty of them down. Of course, they’re not all the same.

“And if I am?” Portenda finished the last of his own drink, easing the mug to the table. “What then?” The Simpa Bounty Hunter tensed his legs, ready to spring to either side should the Red Tribe Werewolf choose to launch the first assault.

Stockholm’s smile lessened a little, and his eyes closed slightly, taking away the sense of madness in his visage.

“Well, then we’ll have ourselves a little problem. You see, I believe violence has a time and a place, where it is appropriate. Perhaps even, essential.” Stockholm pushed himself slowly from his seat, taking his stein around the flip-top part of the bar counter, and pouring himself another drink.

He’s being awfully casual about this, Portenda thought.

When the Red Tribesman returned to the table, he took Portenda’s glass, and headed back, pouring him a drink from the same keg. He returned once more, set the glass down in front of Portenda, and started to take a drink from his own stein. “It’s honey ale. Try it. I think you’ll like it,” Stockholm said.

Ever suspicious, Portenda took a good hard whiff of his drink, and found that he could make out the underlying ingredients. Hops, barley, honey, a little cane sugar, and several other standard ingredients. The Werewolf hadn’t tried any dirty shit with his drink, which spoke rather loud volumes to Portenda about the depth of his opponent’s character. He might be a criminal, a leader in the thieves’ guild, but an honorable man sat across from him, a member of one of the longest-living tribes of Werewolves in Tamalaria. Red Tribesmen were said to be capable of wielding great magic, but none of the people Portenda had interviewed on his way to Desanadron, or within the city itself, thought they’d ever seen this particular werewolf use a spell of any kind.

What a few folks had told him mostly pertained to Ignatious Stockholm’s viciousness. Brutal, competent, and efficient, much like himself. A few Monks had even informed Portenda that Stockholm routinely attended large-scale martial arts tournaments. Whenever he entered, he took home the gold. This factor alone kept Portenda from leaving his weapons behind for this challenge; he was a solid unarmed fighter, but he couldn’t imagine standing toe-to-toe with the big crimson warrior for long that way.

Portenda tipped his glass back and drank off a healthy portion of his ale. As he brought his head and the glass back down, he paused, genuinely perplexed by the Red Tribesman’s activity.

Stockholm held a peppershaker in his left hand, and was shaking the black stuff onto his palm, then dispersing it slowly into his own stein.

Stockholm smiled at the Simpa Bounty Hunter, and returned to his task. “Gives it an extra little kick, I find. Would you like to try?”

This, Stockholm thought as he poured some of the pepper into his hand, is probably not very fair, but who said a fight had to be fair?

Portenda pushed his glass forward a little. When he did, his upper body shifted just a few inches toward the werewolf.

Stockholm drew his hand toward the glass, and just before he opened his hand, stuck his snout close to his hand, blowing hard on the pile of pepper in his paw.

The powder flew into Portenda’s eyes, and the Bounty Hunter howled with sudden pain and surprise at this underhanded but effective tactic.

Stockholm upended the table, knocking it clear to the other side of the tavern with a crash.

Portenda’s vision had blurred into a watery nonsense the moment the first particles of pepper struck his eyes. Dirty bastard, he thought, mentally smiling as he howled in rage and shock. Oh, he’s good! He’s very good! Before he could fully clear his vision, he felt the table pull away from his thrashing legs and heard it crash far away on the other side of the tavern.

Stockholm reached down and plucked Portenda up off of the floor with one huge, thickly muscled arm, his thin red fur barely concealing the size of his flexing joints and musculature. His hand on the Simpa’s throat, he thrust his hips into Portenda’s and hurled him aside, sending the Bounty Hunter crashing through the glass window that Lee Toren had used for escape a few minutes before.

Portenda felt the raw physical power in the Werewolf’s body when Stockholm grabbed his throat. By then his vision had improved by a couple of degrees, but he was still essentially blind.

He didn’t need his eyes working properly to hear the low rumble of the Werewolf’s growl as Stockholm hauled him into the air and hip-tossed him out of the building.

Glass exploded outward, thin shards of it getting through Portenda’s thick yellow vest and golden fur.

With his ears tuned up, the impact of his back on the glass rang in his head like a grenade at close range, but he kept enough equilibrium to land in a sliding three-point crouch outside in the street.

Dozens, perhaps scores of people scattered from the surrounding area, none of them wanting anything to do with whatever was going on here.

As Stockholm stepped outside of the tavern through the main door, he looked left and spotted the Simpa, fully stopped in a three-point crouch.

Can’t let these people get hurt over this nonsense, Stockholm thought. “Everybody clear out,” he shouted, sending a few of the stragglers into a frenzy of movement and confusion.

Portenda, not usually the sort to resort to dirty tricks himself, let the coldness of his professional persona wash over him. The Red Tribesman bellowed a warning for the few remaining people to get out of the way, and when he did, Portenda rose to full height and plucked an unfortunate young merchant off of the sidewalk. With a twist of the man’s arm he sent the merchant sprawling toward Stockholm, whose natural instinct was to crouch down and leap forward to catch the man.

As soon as he did, Stockholm pushed the man to his feet and sent him running along, just as Portenda leveled a tremendous punch into his lupine snout.

Blood sprayed and a few of his fangs flew out of his mouth, but Stockholm otherwise took the blow pretty well, only staggering back a few feet. Before he could completely clear his head, however, Portenda drew his .38 revolver, and took careful aim.

“Aw, shit,” Stockholm growled. He screamed as three bullets slammed into his left leg, his right forearm, and his stomach. This last impact sent him flying to his back, bleeding onto the dusty street.

Portenda watched each bullet fly its individual course, satisfied that he could now gain a little speed and initiative on the big man. He holstered the revolver, and sniffed deep, drinking in the metallic odor of Stockholm’s blood. So pure, he thought, tasting the odor a little bit on his tongue. And so, well, old.

He drew his spear from behind his back, and prepared to leap up and land with the point down through the Werewolf’s chest. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t kill him, but it certainly would put a quick end to the fight.

Before he could even crouch for the initial leap, however, Portenda felt the cruel, wooden crack of some piece of outdoor furniture breaking over the back of his legs.

The blunt force of the blow wasn’t much, but he now had a sliver under his skin, and the suddenness of the blow made him wonder if perhaps the Werewolf had some sort of telekinetic ability.

When the Simpa Bounty Hunter turned his head, however, he spied the merchant he’d tossed at Stockholm coming at him now with a second porch chair. This one broke over his face, because the man had already been in mid-swing when he looked into the enveloping, terrifying eyes of Portenda the Quiet.

BLAM-CRACK! The chair broke apart across his leonine face, breaking his nose and staggering him. The sound of pounding feet quickly approaching alerted him to Stockholm’s approach, but when he instinctively thrust the spear in that direction, it bit nothing but clean air.

Stockholm, watching the merchant attack with a second piece of outdoor furniture, took advantage of his opponent’s temporary confusion. He started running in Portenda’s direction, and just as the Simpa got his second hand on his spear again, he thrust himself up onto the outer wall of a nearby sundry goods store, running along the front of it like a spider. When the spear lanced out, Stockholm kicked off of the building with uncanny acrobatic grace, and whipped a roundhouse kick into the side of Portenda’s head that could kill smaller men.

The moment his spear bit clean air, Portenda saw the incoming blow out of the corner of his eye. By all the Gods this guy’s still too fast!

KER-runch! Portenda had shifted his weight a little, which helped…some.

Stockholm’s kick connected, sending Portenda flying down the road, a limp heap of weapons, light armor and experienced muscle and bones.

As he flew, suspended in the air by the force of his most recent blow, he had just enough time to wonder if, perhaps, he’d made a big mistake in coming here without more thorough information on his target. Stockholm defied gravity, he thought as he landed heavily several dozen yards away, sending shocked and fearful citizens in all directions. How the hell did he do that? And where’s my spear?

Stockholm took a moment to force his regenerative factor to push out the lead slugs that had buried themselves in his body. The came out one by one, painfully squeezing back past torn muscle and blood vessels. The one in his stomach made him howl like a dying animal as it popped back out of his stomach sack, spilling corrosive digestive fluids amid his other organs. He wiped the fur on his forehead back over his sloped, wolfish head, feeling it plaster itself down with slick, briny sweat.

Portenda, up on his dazed feet again, mentally kicked himself in the ass for coming into this whole fight so half-assed and unprepared. He had managed only one decent bit of damage, and that was by shooting the big red prick, but he only had three more bullets chambered, and he didn’t truly wish to risk innocent bystanders with a missed shot. “The sword it is, then,” he muttered to himself, drawing the big broadsword from his hip.

He stood at the ready as the Red Tribe Werewolf charged down the road at him.

Somewhere else in the city, a rather well-to-do fellow laughed as he watched the play-by-play on a Mage’s Eye orb.

* * * *

“My goodness, did you see that,” Vernon LeBlanc cried gleefully. His high, reedy voice echoed throughout his posh and lavish study, with its bearskin rug and highly oiled hardwood floor. Shelves of old and expensive books sat, dusty and unread, along the walls, hundreds of tomes of invaluable knowledge, wisdom and fiction. Every one of these books remained untouched.

The only other person in the room was a serious looking gentleman in a black suit with a white tie. Over his left eye was a monocle, and his pointy nose, needle-like in appearance, never seemed to point down from the ceiling. Such was the countenance of Reginald, Lord LeBlanc’s personal attendant. Reginald, like most other butlers of the Human variety, took his duties very seriously and with great pride in his service to the family. Reg’s father had served the LeBlancs, as had his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. He was the fourth generation of humble attendants, and sometimes, he wondered if perhaps he should be the last of that ‘noble’ line.

Vernon LeBlanc, Reginald had noticed as time passed by, was a completely selfish, crude, and egomaniacal little prick. Not that he’d ever say so out loud—heavens no, that wouldn’t be proper manners. Yet here his lordship sat, watching a Mage’s Eye that Reg had himself cast for his lordship, as two rather large fellows pummeled one another back and forth.

He worried that the current Lord LeBlanc had spent too much money on this entertainment.

* * * *

Stockholm usually kept a very short list of things to bear in mind when facing a man with a broadsword. The list went like this: First, check his stance. Second, check for signs that he’s fatigued. Third, use a projectile weapon if one is available. As Stockholm brought himself to a skidding halt ten yards from Portenda, he went through this list. The stance Portenda took up had first been used, Stockholm thought, in the Third Age, and was called the Samurai Boshen. His hands both gripped the hilt of the sword, and he stood leaned back with the blade up next to his head, edge upward, point toward his opponent, Stockholm.

Secondly, although Stockholm had landed a nice solid kick, and had started this all by blinding the Simpa and tossing him out of a glass window, Portenda showed little sign now of fatigue or injury. Lastly, as for projectile weaponry, well, he didn’t have any, and his opponent did. And as he’d already demonstrated, Portenda had one hell of a quick draw.

Well, this guy’s not such a pushover after all, he thought, drawing out his rapier with a practiced flair.

“Do you really think you’re going to hurt me with that little pig-sticker,” Portenda asked.

Stockholm gave him another of his mad grins, and took up a fencer’s stance.

Apparently, he does. Portenda dashed ahead, lunging with a stab to the chest that Stockholm nimbly sidestepped.

As the Werewolf jabbed with his rapier, Portenda dropped and rolled, bringing the broadsword across Stockholm’s unarmored lower legs in a shallow cut across both shins.

More of Stockholm’s blood spilled to the street, and the Red Tribe Werewolf decided that enough of his own blood had been spilled without payback in kind.

Portenda finished his roll, springing to his feet next to an office supplies store. He’d used the stab as a feint, only trying to score a good enough blow to slow the Werewolf down. As he gathered himself and started to retake his stance, flaring pain lanced through his right shoulder as Stockholm brought his left hand around in a hammer blow to the clavicle. With his right hand he stabbed his rapier through to the capped hilt in Portenda’s side, the narrow tip coming out the other side of the Simpa’s yellow vest. The two combatants were now literally touching foreheads, each growling with a measure of both pain and blind rage.

Portenda thrust his large, leonine forehead forward, mashing Stockholm’s lips back against his teeth, sending a fresh gout of blood from his mouth, and the Bounty Hunter took his sword and slashed upward, cutting a thick diagonal gash across the Red Tribesman’s chest.

Got to put some distance between us, Portenda thought. He took one full-legged leap away from Stockholm, landing some twenty-five yards away. In mid-flight, however, he managed to twist his body enough to toss a grenade down at Stockholm, who was focusing on regenerating the cut in his torso.

When Stockholm had the wound almost completely shut, he heard something small and metallic clatter to the street a few yards away from him. Groggy from the effort of healing himself, Stockholm opened his eyes slowly, trying to blink away the double vision affecting his view. He could smell his own blood on the road, could still feel the sting of the iron ripping through his abdominal muscles and pectorals. Before he could react, the frag grenade let out a concussion blast before the fiery explosion of the incendiary device scorched his side and tossed him through the air over Desanadron.

Stockholm crashed back down through the wooden roof of some poor man’s two-story cottage, his momentum carrying through the citizen’s closet floor and into his kitchen, where he stopped with a meaty thud.

The citizen in question, a Lizardman who had just purchased the cottage, remained in his chair as the dust settled around him, and his kitchen table creaked, finally giving beneath Stockholm’s weight. The man didn’t even flinch; he’d seen stranger stuff in his time living in Palen, the city of magic.

The reptilian fellow took a look down at the Red Tribe Werewolf as he bled all over the tiled floor, coffee cup still in hand, and he leaned down to get a closer look and speak to him. “Um, you still alive, mister? If so, you might want to get a few bandages.”

Stockholm vaguely heard the man, but he concentrated at the moment on the exquisite pain in his right ribs and leg. His ribs had been bruised by the concussion blast, two of them broken jaggedly, and his right leg bled profusely from shards of shrapnel and a wire hangar from the Lizardman’s closet. A blue, tropical-theme button shirt was still hung from the thin piece of metal. He congealed loudly, and started to move a little, reaching down to remove the pieces of metal from his leg.

Portenda, meantime, looked down at his hip, and realized to his satisfaction that he’d grabbed the Number Four grenade to hurl at Stockholm. Thankfully, no other innocents had been in the area, already evacuated from the streets near their confrontation. Portenda wondered if the police would be showing up to try and minimize the risk to civilians not engaged in this honorable combat. If the two combatants are kept to each other, and the battle is honorable, the police usually wouldn’t get involved. However, he had just used an incendiary device, and the deafening blast might attract attention.

The Simpa Bounty Hunter breathed in deeply, and followed the scent of booze toward a tavern on the next street over. Passing through the alley, he took a moment to wonder if the fight was over. When he reached the end of the alley and took a heavy double-punch to the face and stomach, he knew it was not.

* * * *

Stockholm yanked all of the metal out, and hauled himself to his wobbly feet. The Red Tribe Werewolf focused all of his energy on regeneration, and healed himself completely in only a few minutes’ time. When he completed this, he thanked the Lizardman for removing the hangar (“Not a problem, it is my shirt after all”) and headed outside.

He spotted the Simpa slowly sauntering into an alley far down the road, totally unaware of him. Stockholm sprinted as fast as he could down another alley, onto Shield Street, and headed to the end of the alley that Portenda would be exiting. He listened closely to the approach of the Bounty Hunter, and when he judged the time right, he came around the mouth of the alley and blasted Portenda with a double-punch.

Portenda’s nose and part of his faceplate cracked under the Werewolf’s fist, and his stomach muscles bunched painfully from the lower blow.

“This could go on for days, you know,” Portenda mused as he scrambled back on all fours, trying to get to his feet in a hurry. He wanted his sword in his hand again, and finally realized that Stockholm’s rapier was still all the way through his body from left to right. He got to his feet and pulled the rapier out, hurling it like a throwing knife at Stockholm, who twitched his head aside and caught the handle of the rapier. Here in the alley, Portenda knew he couldn’t use his broadsword or his spear (which he’d retrieved) effectively. He could, however, stave the Werewolf off with lunges of the spear if he was smart about it. Or the gun, he thought, drawing the revolver and squeezing the trigger quickly.

As his hand dipped for the mecha weapon, Stockholm rolled forward, avoiding the first bullet. As he came out of the tuck roll, he extracted his claws and slashed upward, sinking them deep into Portenda’s stomach and tearing through muscles and organs as he ripped upward.

Blood splashed and sprayed them both, covering their muzzles and clothes, muddling their sight and nostrils.

Portenda delivered a crushing uppercut to the Werewolf’s lower jaw, breaking the bones and staggering him back down toward Shield Street.

Before the brawl could spill out onto a main street again, Stockholm let Portenda come at him with another punch, the revolver holstered for the time being. The Red Tribesman brought his hands up in an outward block, whipping his hands across Portenda’s face, punching his wounded stomach and using his free hand to block any incoming blows. He then finished the technique by hammer-fisting Portenda’s shoulder for the second time during their melee.

Portenda screamed as he dropped to his knees, bringing Stockholm’s dropped rapier up and stabbing it into his thigh. “You should’ve sheathed it when you caught it, big guy,” Portenda chided in a level tone of voice as he was grabbed by the back of the head and kneed with crushing force in the face. He lost consciousness for a minute, and when he awoke again, Stockholm was sitting down in the alley next to him, sheathing his rapier.

Stockholm surprised the Bounty Hunter once again by handing a flask over to him without turning his head.

“I thought we could both use an intermission,” Stockholm said bluntly.

Portenda took the flask and drained a good half of the harsh, biting whiskey within. He made a face and handed it back, feeling the right side of his jaw for the break he was sure would be there. Happily, it wasn’t. “We’re being watched, you know.”

“I am aware,” Portenda replied curtly. “The person watching us paid me quite handsomely to stage this fight.”

“I hope he’s getting some good chuckles out of it,” Stockholm grumbled after taking down the rest of his whiskey. “And it really is a good thing you got your money in advance. We’ve done an awful lot of property damage, and someone’s going to have to pay for it all.”

Portenda sat up and thought that over for a minute.

“By the way, that really small grenade on your belt, what’s it do?”

“You know about grenades, do you,” Portenda asked, facing Stockholm with an upraised eyebrow.

“Oh yes, most certainly,” Stockholm replied. “I may not look it, but I’ve been around a while, my fine golden friend. Since the Age of Mecha, in fact.”

Portenda wondered if the man lied to him, but he recalled then just how old the blood in the streets had smelled when he shot the Werewolf. If Stockholm claimed to be over a thousand years old, he supposed it was possible. “So, what’s it do?”

“It’s a Number Three.” Portenda unclipped it, and held the tiny grenade in the palm of his hand. “It’s a freezing grenade. Small blast radius. No blast radius, actually.”

Portenda looked at the aged piece of technology. “It hits its target, I use a separate remote to detonate it, and instant frozen target. Here, where’s that,” he started, and realized that Stockholm had moved about twelve feet down the alley. “Oh, shit.”

Stockholm pressed the green button on the remote he’d lifted from the unconscious Simpa and watched as the tiny grenade exploded, coating Portenda in a thick block of ice from the neck down.

At the last moment, the Bounty Hunter had hugged it to his stomach to keep his head clear, so he wouldn’t potentially suffocate inside a block of his own weapon’s freezing chill. He turned his head what little he could, and cursed in his native tongue at Stockholm.

“The same to you, pal,” Stockholm replied, tossing the remote down by the Bounty Hunter’s encased feet.

* * * *

“Oh, I wish I could hear what they’re saying.” Vernon LeBlanc watched the shimmering square of light before him. Presently, an overhead-diagonal view of the Red Tribe Werewolf and the Simpa Bounty Hunter showed them sitting next to one another, panting and talking in an alley. While Portenda had been unconscious, LeBlanc watched the Red Tribesman pluck a tiny object from his back pocket as he lay sprawled on the alley floor. Now, as Stockholm inched away, he pulled that very same item out and pressed a button on it, encasing Portenda in a block of freezing ice.

Reginald, being the only servant present that Sunday afternoon, heard the doorbell ring downstairs and excused himself to see to whomever might be calling. He descended to the first floor, carrying himself with his usual measure of pride and pompousness, and when he opened the left door, he felt something short and sharp being pressed against his lower stomach.

He looked down, and found a Gnome in simple tan leathers standing there with a huge grin plastered to his face. The sharp object appeared to be a dagger, and as far as Reginald was concerned, it stood as the sharpest, most pointed dagger he’d ever seen. Of course, every other dagger he’d seen was a part of Lord LeBlanc’s personal collection of highly valued weapons, all kept under enchanted glass.

“May I help you, mister, ah...” Reginald offered.

“Toren.” The Gnome’s scraggly white beard bounced as he spoke. “Lee Toren, me foin butlah chum,” Lee had tracked down Portenda’s business associate as soon as he left the fight, and found the man bound to his own bed with thick white ropes. The contact informed Lee that Vernon LeBlanc, a wealthy estate owner in eastern Desanadron, had sent armed men to force him to contact Portenda, and arrange a fight with Ignatious Stockholm.

LeBlanc had apparently tried to gain influence with the Hoods, but Stockholm had refused the man’s money and request to be allowed to run a portion of the Guild for his own purposes.

Enraged, Lord LeBlanc had sought a means to take revenge on the Red Tribesman, but nothing lethal. “His goons told me he knew I had been in touch with the big guy,” the captive said as Lee undid his ropes. “Lord LeBlanc was certain that Portenda would be able to trounce the Werewolf. Any idea how that’s going?”

“Not a clue,” Lee had told the man, cutting him free at last. The contact thanked Lee for his kindness, and gave him directions to LeBlanc’s manor, telling Lee to be cautious.

“The current Lord LeBlanc is a little, well, out there,” the contact warned. “And I guess he’s got a lot of guards hanging around the estate. Just be careful, Lee.”

The Gnome Pickpocket had found few troubles sneaking around the estate, avoiding the few guards on foot patrol, and now he stood with a dagger against the butler’s stomach.

“Please, come in,” Reginald said. He was nobody’s fool, and though he was a relatively talented Q Mage, he wasn’t about to waste his energy by trying to stop the thief. “Take whatever you’d like,” Reginald said quietly as he backed into the main meeting chamber.

Lee cocked his head to one side, confused, and Reginald let out a weary sigh. "I tire of the lordship’s whims and fancies, Mr. Toren. I have no more desire to serve him as a personal attendant.”

“Are you serious,” Lee said, watching in dumb wonder as the butler opened a bureau drawer and drew out an expensive-looking cigar, popping it into his own mouth and striking it alight with his bare fingertip. “And you’re a magic user? Why don’t you just blast me from there?”

Reginald had swiftly removed himself from the tip of the dagger once inside.

The former butler shrugged his shoulders, and removed the accursed monocle from his left eye. For the first time in years, he could completely make out the room around him.

“Because, Mr. Toren, as I have made clear, I have no more desire to serve. I think I’m done with this particular vocation. Now,” Reginald said, rummaging around in a nearby closet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take a few things that rightfully belong to me. After all, I’ve cared more for some of the objects of art around here than Lord LeBlanc has bragged about owning them. Good day, sir.” Reginald pointed to a staircase before heading off in an opposite direction.

Lee started up the stairs, searching for this mister Vernon LeBlanc.

* * * *

Stockholm had only finished half of his purchased meal at The Golden Goose when his sensitive nostrils flared at the scent of Portenda the Quiet. He sighed heavily, and looked around at the diner.

Not many customers, but he was going to have to interrupt their meal. He stood, hopped up on the table, and put his hands around his snout to amplify his voice. “Everybody get out! This place is not safe.” He bellowed, growled and roared, snapping his teeth at a family of Elves in the far corner to get his point across.

As soon as he turned to look at the main doors on the lower level, he spotted Portenda. Rather, he spotted Portenda’s spear, and was thrown in a graceful arc as it ran him through and pinned itself and the Red Tribesman to the floor a few scant yards away from the panicked Elven customers.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself plain,” Stockholm said to them with a snarl twisting his lips.

When Portenda broke free of the quickly melting ice block, his rage had blown through the barrier of professional calm. His senses tingled, and as he got back to the mouth of the alley that had been his prison for the last hour, he could hear the heartbeat of every civilian walking up and down the street, smell the sweet, briny odor of different tinted sweats, and could see every action taken around him. He watched an Illeck woman discreetly tear part of a shirt hanging from a street vendor’s hangars, then immediately ask if she could get a discount on the damaged clothing. The vendor, perplexed at the damage, shrugged his shoulders and agreed to take half the price off for the shirt.

Two and a half miles away, up the road and over a hill, his nasal passages could just faintly make out the target, surrounded by mouth-watering aromas.

“Diner.” Portenda said nothing more as he prepared his spear. He took it in his right hand and dropped his rucksack to the street, pulling out a length of rope. He tied the rope to a loop on the end of the spear, and fixed the other end to his left hand. The Bounty Hunter hitched his pack up onto his back again, and headed down to face his foe.

His highly tuned ears heard Stockholm warning the customers, and as the first few flowed out of the diner past Portenda, he took quick aim and launched the spear at Stockholm, who foolishly stood atop his table on the upper level. Portenda barked a harsh laugh of satisfaction as the weapon impaled and tossed the Red Tribesman back. Portenda faintly made out some smartass remark from the Red Tribe, and he started to haul on the rope tied to his left hand.

Stockholm mentally gauged the damage done to him by the spear, and thanked the Gods and Goddesses that he hadn’t been gravely injured.

As he sat up, though, the spear came back and pierced him once again with the two back-facing points, sinking in around his spine and jerking him.

Stockholm looked down and saw that a rope was tied to the end of the weapon. “This is going to suck,” he managed before being hauled crashing through the wooden banister of the second dining level.

Screaming, he flew through the air, and crumpled to the floor as Portenda leveled a solid punch to the right side of his face.

Twisting on the floor, Stockholm used his claws to cut the rope free, and landed with a splintering crash through another dining table when Portenda side-kicked him.

Portenda wasted no time, taking full advantage of his enemy’s wounded state to pounce on top of him, pressing the air out of Stockholm as he landed heavily on his torso.

Stockholm had only just managed to remove the spear and toss it aside, and blood sprayed from his open wound when the Simpa landed on him, sitting on his barrel-like chest. The Bounty Hunter pummeled him twice in the face and jumped off to the side, searching for his spear.

Crawling toward the Bounty Hunter, who had taken home this second round of combat in a hurry, Stockholm spotted the spear, just tucked under a table that had been knocked over. It was too far away to reach, but the Simpa’s ankles weren’t. Rather foolishly, Portenda had written Stockholm off for the time being. When he looked down at Stockholm, he lifted his right foot to stomp down on the Werewolf’s back. As he thrust his foot down, Stockholm rolled to the side, and used his extracted claws to hack apart the tendons in the back of his attacker’s ankle.

Portenda screamed in pain, and lost his footing quickly, tipping over onto his side and rolling away from Stockholm.

Just when I thought I finally had him good, the Bounty Hunter thought. I took it to him for a minute there, but he keeps finding openings in my defenses! How? I’ve never been taken down so many times in one fight, so handily! There’s got to be an advantage I can press. Something must be available to me other than the gun.

With any other target, Portenda would have used the revolver without prejudice. With this foe, however, he knew it wouldn’t do much, and could be construed as slightly dishonorable. He’d already made one dirty move with the merchant in the street, and he’d paid for that in spades. The distraction hadn’t hurt, but the roundhouse kick to the head certainly had.

Stockholm, still dazed from the shock of the attack, continued to crawl toward the diner’s exit. He looked over his shoulder, and saw that Portenda was giving chase, hopping along on his good left leg.

The Simpa reached into a pouch and pulled on a leather glove, snapping it in place. From another pouch, he took out a silver coin, and he leaped with his left leg on top of Stockholm, blowing the air out of his lungs yet again.

Portenda kept the silver coins around for a reason, and here his opportunity to use one faced him. He landed heavily on Stockholm, and pressed the coin into the top of the werewolf’s skull. Stockholm’s flesh smoldered and smoked, and crimson fur disintegrated at the touch of silver, but much slower than Portenda assumed it would.

Stockholm moved beneath him, but it wasn’t painful thrashing, as the Bounty Hunter had hoped for. Stockholm rolled fully beneath him, and smiled as he grabbed Portenda’s wrist and snapped it, bringing his elbow across and pulling against the blow.

“Silver doesn’t work so well on me, friend.” Stockholm grabbed the coin as it dropped toward his chest. He tossed it out to the street, and brought his hips up and toward his head.

The Red Tribe Werewolf wrapped his feet around Portenda’s head, and hauled off, tossing him several dozen yards to the back of the first level dining area.

Portenda landed hard against the wall next to the swinging door that led back to the kitchen, the entire building shaking as he struck. A Jaft cook with a paper hat came out next to him, a big, heavy cleaver in his left hand, and looked down at Portenda.

“What the hell’s going on out here?”

Portenda said nothing. Using his unbroken left hand to snatch the cleaver, he hurled it unerringly at Stockholm’s chest.

It whooshed through the air, end over end, and Stockholm slid to the side, dodging the weapon and grabbing it out of the air as he had his rapier. He spun in a circle, keeping the motion and kinetic force going, releasing it back at the Bounty Hunter, who managed to slide all the way to the floor just before the cleaver could take the top of his head off.

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” the Jaft cook said, running back into the kitchen and out a back door to safety.

The Red Tribe Werewolf and the Simpa Bounty Hunter both took a moment to regenerate their wounds, Stockholm recovering almost completely, Portenda only managing to heal his ankle and his wrist to a degree that would leave it functional. They panted in the darkened diner, staring across the distance at one another, both of them on wobbly legs. “You can’t keep this up,” Stockholm said, his breathing leveling out much quicker than Portenda’s. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know no such thing.” Portenda kept his stance neutral and passive. “I was foolish enough to land my attacks and stay close. That’s all.” Portenda heaved in air in huge gulps.

“True enough,” Stockholm conceded. “From a distance, you’re quite the foe. But you can’t beat me in close, Portenda. And you can’t stay at range forever. You’re too aggressive for that, too used to having your way with your opponents.” Stockholm stood up straight and pulling something from a back pouch.

Portenda readied himself for an attack, but watched silently as Stockholm placed a cigarette in his mashed and bloody snout, lighting it with a discarded lighter on a nearby table. Though he often chided Flint for the habit, the werewolf did occasionally indulge himself. He chuffed out a cloud of sky blue smoke, and then sent a ring through the cloud, smiling slightly. “You’re good, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Good enough to take you down, Mr. Stockholm,” Portenda said, thinking through what the Red Tribesman had said. What, does he think he’s some kind of teacher? I’ve taken out things twice his size, and with ease. But he’s not some monster, his more reasonable, rational mind spoke to him. He’s many, many times older than you for starters. Secondly, he’s stronger in a physical sense. And he takes everything you do to him and uses it to his own gain. He said as much that you are good at range. Use that to your advantage, find a way to keep him at range.

“A few times, yes.” Stockholm tapped ash into an empty tray on the diner’s bar counter. “And in case you’re wondering, yes, I’m stalling,” Stockholm said, grinning that mad grin again.

“What? Why?” Portenda eased himself over to a stool at the bar counter. Stockholm hopped over the bar, and grabbed a mug, pouring Portenda an ale from a bottle. He slid it down the bar counter to Portenda, who caught it with ease. “These little intermissions are nice, by the way.”

“Yes, I think so too. Gives us both some time to heal, and gives me a chance to try and figure out how much we’ll owe the city by the time we’re done.” The huge Red Tribesman slowly approached the Bounty Hunter from the other side of the counter. He brought the ashtray with him, and tapped again into it.

“What are we up to now?”

“Oh, I’d put it around two thousand gold pieces.” Stockholm leaned over the counter with his arms next to Portenda’s.

If one were to walk into the front doors of the diner, they would assume that perhaps there’d been a brawl, but few would suspect it had been between these two warriors. They looked like bosom buddies next to one another this way. “As for why I’m stalling, I believe you may have been deceived about your contract.”

“What makes you say that?” Portenda took a slow sip of his ale, feeling its alcoholic warmth wash into his stomach. Stockholm finished his smoke, and stamped it out in the ashtray.

“Think about it. Have you ever been offered a contract to just pick a fight? A non-lethal one? And don’t try to bullshit me about this being a fight to the death, because if it were, you’d have taken the opportunity to come after me when that grenade blasted me into some poor slob’s cottage.”

“Or you would have torn me apart on several occasions,” Portenda countered. He was tired, and his regenerating process was slowing. Stockholm spoke the truth—he couldn’t keep this up. He had taken a severe beating today, and unlike the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people and creatures he’d fought in his comparatively short life, Ignatious Stockholm could take him down at any time he chose. It had taken all of this recent pain over the course of perhaps the last two or three hours to appreciate the fact that he was not, in fact, the top authority on combat in the land.

“If this had been a hunt and capture mission, I would have disabled you with stealth. If it had been a state-sponsored hit, and you were deserving of death by my standards, I would have brought my sniper rifle.”

“I knew a pretty good sniper once upon a time,” Stockholm said, smiling as he lit another smoke and poured himself a brandy.

“Oh yeah,” Portenda asked, easing back on his stool. “Who was he?”

“A Cuyotai, a fellow police officer in a city that no longer stands,” Stockholm said quietly, his smile fading a little. Uh-oh, I may have opened a wound, Portenda thought, looking into the big man’s hazy, misty eyes. Stockholm wiped his eyes clean, and continued. “It was in the time before the Fall of Mecha. He and I worked together a lot on street patrol, mostly dealing with gangs and whatnot. He and I were close. Very close.”

“Friends can be like family I suppose,” Portenda said, thinking briefly of Jonah Staples and his parents.

“Oh, we weren’t family. He was my boyfriend,” Stockholm said bluntly.

Portenda lost his focus and calm, and sprayed ale out of his mouth in sheer surprise.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Portenda. It’s not exactly a big deal,” Stockholm growled, grabbing the brandy bottle from under the counter and pouring himself a fresh shot.

“I’m sorry,” the Bounty Hunter said, barely holding in a gut laugh. “It’s just that, well, nobody told me that you were, well, you know,” he said, clearing his throat as politely as he could. “Not that it has any bearing on this business.”

“Exactly,” Stockholm said, downing his fresh shot. “Now, back to the matter at hand. Your contact wouldn’t hire you to just beat on someone, right?”

“Right,” Portenda said, bringing his focus back to business. “It does seem a bit odd.”

“But the money was up front, delivered, so you didn’t ask any questions,” Stockholm said with a slightly scolding tone.

“I made sure you were a criminal. Other than that, right again, Ignatious.” Portenda sighed heavily, and accepted another mug of ale. “So, what’s your point?”

“My point is, I have a few enemies around here, Portenda.” Stockholm stubbed out his second cigarette. “But much like these cigarettes, they don’t bother me often. So, whoever hired you to hurt me is someone of influence and deep pockets, and only a few people in this city can afford ten thousand gold pieces on having me attacked.”

“Stockholm?”

“Yeah?”

“That Mage’s Eye is sort of twitching above us right now,” Portenda said, not actually being foolish enough to point up. “We have to keep going until it fades out or is dispelled. Otherwise, I assume there’s going to be trouble.”

Stockholm smiled broadly, and flipped the Mage’s Eye the bird.

“Then let there be trouble. I’m done beating the shit out of you.” The Red Tribesman laughed garishly as the Mage’s Eye twitched. “I suppose we could give it one final show.”

“I agree.” Portenda took the brandy bottle and smashed it against the side of Stockholm’s head.

Bloodied and soaked with shards of glass and brandy, Stockholm continued to laugh as the Mage’s Eye blinked, and disappeared.

* * * *

“How dare he,” Vernon LeBlanc fumed as the Red Tribesman who denied him his share of the Hoods flipped off the Mage’s Eye. “Reginald, get in here and recast this spell,” he shouted, eyes still locked on the fading vision.

He heard his butler’s approaching footfalls and gasped as a dagger pressed against his cheek.

LeBlanc only turned his eyes, and he saw a Gnome gentleman he knew very well from the town crier and other publications, as well as from descriptions of the fellow. “Lee Toren,” he breathed.

“In the flesh, me bucko.” Lee tossed a pair of handcuffs onto Vernon’s lap. “Do yeself a favor an’ put those on. We’re goin’ fer a walk, you an’ me.”

* * * *

The Mage’s Eye vanished, and still blood poured out of the side of Stockholm’s face as he laughed. “Ah, the element of surprise. And to think, I was going to wait until you went to take a drink and smash your mug into your face!”

“Sorry about that,” Portenda said with a chuckle. “I just decided to take the initiative, that’s all. How’s your face?”

Stockholm stood, pulling pieces of glass from his snout and his ear.

“Pretty good,” Stockholm said. “How’s yours?”

“What?” Portenda lost his vision for a moment as the Red Tribe Werewolf hit him in the face with a wicked backhand blow.

Portenda fell off of his stool to the floor, and wondered if perhaps the fight was going to pick up again despite the lack of need or inspiration.

As he shook his head, Stockholm launched himself over the counter and landed on his feet, his body loose and relaxed.

Portenda scooted away a few feet and stood up, blocking effectively when Stockholm came at him with a pair of hook kicks. He counterattacked after the second block, bringing his right elbow up toward Stockholm’s face.

The Werewolf ducked the elbow and jabbed Portenda several times under the arm, striking the nerves and control points much as Portenda liked to do to his opponents. Ninjitsu finger strikes dotted his right side as Stockholm lashed out, and the Werewolf stiff-palmed Portenda in the center of his chest, knocking him flat to the floor.

Portenda put up his left hand to stop him, his right arm limp from a nerve strike. “Okay, okay, I concede! I concede.” He rolled back and drew his revolver, firing once into Stockholm’s chest, just above the previous bullet wound.

Stockholm twitched back, and Portenda would have fired again, but there was a silhouetted figure in the doorway behind Stockholm. A pair of figures.

Stockholm laughed, pried the bullet out with his claws, and turned around as Portenda holstered his revolver and approached. Standing side by side, the huge bruisers found themselves looking down at Lee Toren, and a man that Stockholm recognized from recent dealings.

“Vernon LeBlanc,” the Red Tribesman growled as he gave the Human a bloody smile. “Lee Toren. Thanks for the delivery, Lee.”

Portenda smiled up at his new friend, and cracked his knuckles. He turned back to LeBlanc, who remained cuffed as Lee Toren took his leave to stand watch outside.

The Gnome Pickpocket struck up a cigarette, and smiled hugely as he heard two rather intimidating voices speak in unison from behind him. “We have to have a little chat,” the voices said.

When the constabulary found Vernon LeBlanc, he had been covered in cooking grease, had feathers stuck to his otherwise naked flesh, and had been hanged from a grammar school flagpole by his underpants. Hands cuffed behind his back, a leather coin pouch had been shoved in his mouth as a gag. Inside of the pouch was a single silver coin.

LeBlanc moved out of Desanadron the following afternoon.