One Against Many - XII

I meet them midway. With an in-step, I launch a kick to one man’s thigh, putting him to a single knee. As that happens, another comes forth. His dagger comes down, reflecting light off a nearby lantern.

I grab that one’s dagger-hand, and sweep his right leg with my left, causing him to fall to his back. Grabbing his ankles, I begin to spin around, carving a circle around me, and using the man as a makeshift club.

It hits six front and back.

The rest start to step away, cautious of the circle. The moment they do, I let go of the man’s ankles. He flies through the air. He hits those in the back. A few fall, then a few more as the others fall onto them, then several more.

Twelve down. Thirteen more to go.

For now, that leaves me with those in front.

Nine, I count.

They’re steady now. Circling me with a slow and secure pace. It’s difficult to coordinate an attack with this many fighters. Let alone with long, and sharp weapons. Just as my goal is to avoid fighting them all at once, theirs is to avoid coming in single file.

A pair steps forward. They act as one unit. Slashing at me from two different directions with short, serrated swords. I block my left and right with both arms. Their blades cut past my skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

They’re unrelenting. Fast, and technical. I step to the right, catching her sword-hand. She immediately draws a blade with the other, trying to stab my armpit. I grab that hand too, and slam my forehead into her torso before throwing her at the one to my left.

Unfortunately, that leaves me open.

I feel a pull on my cloak. Its effect is instant. I’m thrown to the ground. Back flat against it.

Five—no four—no six, take advantage of me, swinging their swords down. I raise each of my four limbs, moving them towards their blades. Their weapons bite into my skin, cutting with force enough to draw blood.

It’s painful. Sharp, instant pain, rippling across each cut and abrasion. Being on the ground means my options are limited. And limiting your options is never a good thing in a fight.

A dagger goes straight for my eye. I shift my head away. Then, placing a palm to the ground, leverage my newfound balance. I sweep my foot in an arc. Instantly toppling four, and standing in the same instant.

The fatigue hits me. It runs to the bone. Threading a line between, blood, and muscle.

All the while blood drips down my fur. Sounding with small drops, and forming a puddle on the floor. The thugs take in that fact. It's like they can't believe I'm still standing. That I'm still able to take all that and more.

Good.

Fear is my ally. A calm mind, my one strength. When you refuse to succumb, the hands of those opposing you often stiffen. As they do now, with their rigid grips and brittle bodies.

“Well?” I ready into a stance. “I haven't got all day.”

They look me in the eyes. A short silence passes, with mutual stares. They even stare at each other, appraising one another's wounds. Some of them even come to a slow realisation, a fact I see in small smiles and smaller twitches of their body.

I don’t like that. I don’t like that realisation one bit.

A woman drops low, picking one of her wounded allies up. Then, with a draw of her knife, presses it to her victim's throat.

My heart seizes. Everything stops. I think I know why—but my mind refuses to accept it.

“What's the matter, Gamoun, gonna piss your wee britches?”

“Oi!” one of the others calls. Looking at the knife-holding woman. “What do you think you're doing?”

“Don't you see? It's just like Okuri said! The man doesn't kill! None of us are dead. Check ‘em! He's been pullin’ his punches this whole while!”

“So?”

“So he's a pacifist! And that means he's a coward, scared of blood on his hands!”

The meaning is conveyed instantly. Several others pick up the unconscious bodies and press knives to their throats.

It’s a cruel, efficient tactic. A demonstration of the raw malice people are capable of.

It frustrates me to my very core.

“What’ll it be Gamoun?” she says, with a smile of pure evil. “Gonna fall to your knees, and let us stick you through? Or shall we start by killing them one by one?”

“You wouldn't–”

Before I can even finish my sentence, one of them slides his knife across a man's throat. The poor thug falls instantly. Gurgling air, and dying in a matter of seconds.

It's an act of pure evil. Pure and true. Done for nothing less than greed. Of pure desire for money, and compensation from a man crooked.

The realization is enough to drive me into a fury. Into a contempt for those who see nothing of life.

Even into contempt for myself. For falling for that door-sprung trap, and putting lives at risk.

“These are men and women, with lives, and families of their own! Would you take that away, just for money? Just for what Okuri is willing to pay?”

“Aye.” a man replies. “I don't see the issue. And I reckon some of ‘em would do the same too. It's a hefty prize that awaits us.”

I try again. “No matter the money, once word gets out about thi–”

“Word? You mean, our word against yours?” He laughs. “What's more likely? That a wanted Prince-killer, who forced his way in, slit these poor bastard's throats, or that we did?”

His reasoning is clear, but deeply unpleasant. Without such a thing as morals, or accountability, there's nothing holding them in line.

Nothing at all.

But all the same, I can't surrender. I have to avenge Prince Jasi. I have to expose his killers and see this through.

Because life isn't fair.

And sometimes, other lives mean more to me than others.

“...What?” One of the hostages stumbles back into consciousness. A young man, seeing the knife at his throat. “What the hell are you doing?”

I see the anger in his captor’s eyes. “Shut your trap, and make this easier for the both of us.”

“Bu–”

“I said shut it lad! Keep still, and ya might just go back to your wife in one piece.”

As the man’s words wash over me, I start to realise what the boy stands to lose. A wife. Potentially children of his own. A life worth living, that could be snuffed out at any moment and any time.

At that moment, I come to my final decision.

Yes.

Not all lives are of equal value.

But even so, that doesn’t mean, I won’t try to save all the lives I can.

I inhale deeply. I attune myself to my body. To calm, to the twitch of every muscle fibre, membrane, and bone in my being. There’s thirteen of them left. Thirteen enemies I have to dispatch, and four of them with hostages.

I don’t want to resort to it. It’ll put my already weary body through another world of hurt. And with a long night ahead of me, that hardly seems ideal.

But if it must be done, then perhaps, I have to call upon that power, after all.

I look up. The image of a man at knife-point awakens something in me.

It’s at this moment that a memory returns. The encounter with that thug in the alley. A situation not unlike this.

Yes.

If I can do something just like then, then maybe I can save everyone here.

I angle low. My fist hits the ground, in a gesture of false-anger, causing pebbles to form, and break away. They’re of varying sizes. But each one, when launched with sufficient enough force, should be enough.

“Very well,” I finally say, grabbing pieces of the small, rounded stone. “Let my life be offered for another.”

They consider my words. Perhaps they don’t truly believe it. Not wholly. I can see some of them look at one another, at me, and at the weapons in their hands. Waiting for any confirmation to continue.

The moment one of the hostage-takers does. The moment his eyes flick to another, meeting them for an instant too long, I strike.

I throw the pebbles forward. They soar between the thugs’ heads. Hitting the hostage-takers on the bridge of their noses. Due to the veins' positioning, blood ejects upwards, spurting directly into their eyes.

The hostages break free at that moment. Using that precise instant to wrestle away. Some others even help these hostages, pushing away their would-be captors, and creating room for escape.

I charge head-on. All my techniques come out in full force. A knee to the solar plexus. A low-kick to the knee. A spin of my back heel, slamming my elbow into a woman’s stomach. I catch a dagger, twist the wrist holding it, and plunge it into a man’s thigh.

Nine remaining.

A pair of sturdy arms grip me from behind. I don’t let that stop me. I drop my weight, and slam an elbow into his ribs. Then leaping over him, grab his cloak, covering his head, and slamming him into three.

Five more.

A pair rushes forward. Holding a length of rusted chain between them. I rush to meet them. I spin upon my heel, letting the chain wrap around my forearm, before yanking it. The pair staggers forward, straight into a spinning back-kick which sends them flying over the railing.

Three left.

One of them steps forward. An older woman. Foreign. She has a metal circlet around her neck, leather armour decorated with silver, and a skull-shaped helmet atop her head.

A Learner.

The woman chants something under her breath. A tattoo on her neck glows green, alongside her eyes. In less than a second, something appears out of thin air. Glowing rods of light, shaped like an armoured insect.

Suddenly, it charges towards me. I don’t even move. I simply stand there waiting, as it charges on all fours, intent on ramming me through.

Then, I punch. Straight to its face. Denting its steel-strong armour, and causing it to topple eerily still. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

No one says anything more. No one even dares to approach. They simply regard me, either standing or lying, like a demon from the gates of hell.

“Now then,” I say seriously. “Where is Okuri?”