As the Platoon Commander leaned away from Deacon's ear and continued to glower at him, Deacon's heart turned into a jackhammer, pounding against his ribs so hard and loud he swore that his heart was going to burst.
What gave me away? His mind raced – was it the cadence of my speech, the way I carried myself in the conversation, or something subtler, like the commander's holy mana gnawing at my skin when he grabbed onto my shoulder for the first time?
The commander's grip on Deacon's shoulder tightened, holy mana flooding into him until the muscles from his neck to his chest spasmed in violent protest –then, just as suddenly, the hand on his shoulder and the writhing path beneath his shoulder released their hold on him.
Staring at Deacon disdainfully once more, the commander swiftly straightened his back and, squaring his shoulders before lifting his gaze to the silent crowd that had been listening in on Deacon's cleverly crafted lie – of which they believed him to be true, and pitied him.
This would not do – he needed to address this before things could escalate.
Acting swiftly to prevent further outbursts, the Deacon might try and speak out on his bellow tore through the tense hush that had settled over the plaza after Deacon's lie.
"What are you all staring at?" the commander snapped, his words cracked through the air like a whip. "Get back to your posts! Now! If I so much as catch one of you worthless shits gawking for another second, I'll transfer your ass to the Outer Wall myself and drag you there by your ear!"
The effect of his threat was immediate; the hushed chatter that emerged after Deacon's spiel died and flared into sudden movement – boots scuffing stone, spears clattering, curses muttered under breath as soldiers and cadets alike scrambled away. Even the pair playing a game of backgammon scrambled to abandon their game, stuffing the pieces into a pouch with trembling hands and collapsing the board and holding it beneath their armpits before darting back to their posts – cadets included, albeit begrudgingly.
Deacon remained rooted to the cobble while his fingers clenched the shaft of his spear, itching to lash out and strike down the platoon commander in front of him and sleep free. His kettle helmet tipped forward, shadowing his face, but beneath it, his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth throbbed as he tried searching for any way out that wouldn't jeopardize the plan.
His eyes darted towards the alleys and found them just as crowded as the streets, meaning that he couldn't escape without finding resistance and having the entire kingdom on his ass, and preventing him from finishing Phase Two of the original play and actively hindering him from finishing what he started with Plan Three.
Fucking shit, fuck!
This wasn't the outcome he'd expected; being pressed under the gaze of a commander whose eyes cut through him like glass, being trapped like this in the middle of the Upper Bailey.
With no choice but to obey, Deacon headed down the alley the commander had pointed out –the only one not flooded with people rushing through it. That didn't mean it was empty, though. From what he could see, three figures were waiting for him.
Two of the three leaned on opposite sides of the alley walls with their kettle helms tipped low so their faces vanished in the dark, while the third figure stood in the middle of the alley, staring directly at him with their arms folded across their chest and a sword proudly displayed on their hip.
Huh? Is it just the four of them? Deacon asked himself as he stumbled forward from a harsh push from the commander.
…No, there could be more hidden, Deacon dismissed. Just like how I couldn't detect the commander when he was behind him, his soldiers might be able to do something similar, or be under some invisibility spell.
Step by step, boots clicking softly against the stone, he began walking toward the alley.
He could run, bolt now, and take his chances weaving through the maze of streets –but that would fuck up the plan entirely. If he did that, the commander could have every guard, every priest, every white and gold-robed holy fanatic in Dawn's Breath combing the wells within the hour. And if they started cleansing the water supply, everything he, Bonehead, Jass, Sam – hell, the entire operation – would unravel.
Do I have to chop the plan apart just to keep breathing? Deacon thought bitterly, feet moving without his consent, carrying him into the jaws of whatever trap the commander had set.
As his left leg lifted to step forward, his palm brushed his thigh in the same motion, then swung back like nothing. Neither the commander behind him nor the three soldiers ahead noticed when his hand slipped to the pouch at his hip. With a practiced flick, he palmed the slim blade and slid it under his bracer, the edge resting against his palm.
Alright. He should be, at most, either at my level or below it, Deacon thought, glancing at the commander out of the corner of his vision. But regardless, I should have higher physical stats than him due to me being a Jötunn, which means I should be able to easily overpower him. And while dealing with the other three while attacking the commander would be an issue, it's manageable.
By the time the thought passed through his head, he'd stepped fully into the alley's shadow. The commander's boots echoed behind him, steady, unhurried.
"Walk to them while keeping your back to me," the commander ordered.
Deacon didn't move; instead, he let his eyes roam the walls of the alley, scouring for any signs of movement, breathing, anything else that could be with the five of them within the alley.
Ignoring the commander's shouted orders, Deacon kept his focus on the mana that was flaring behind the commander and seeping into the cobblestone at his feet.
Deacon sensed the mana entering the ground was earth mana, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the cobbles heaving up and scraping against each other until a wall emerged across the mouth of the alley.
And just as the wall at the mouth of the tunnel was built, a second tremor ran across the ground, and as his eyes flashed forward, he saw a second wall shot up behind the farthest soldier, slamming into place and encaging the five of them inside.
As the walls settled with a final, grinding groan, every ounce of wariness Deacon carried drained away as he realized that there was no army of soldiers that were in the alley with them – even when glancing up, he saw no archers on the roofs of the buildings.
"Now," the commander said, his voice low as holy mana began to bleed off his frame in waves, cladding him in a faint golden shimmer that crawled over his pauldrons and down the edge of the longsword he unsheathed. Step by step, he advanced. "You're going to tell me how you got into my kingdom… and how many more of your kind are slithering through my streets."
Boots scraped stone behind him as the two soldiers peeled off from their lazy posts against the wall, along with the sword-wielding soldier who stood stalwartly at the tail of their formation and began advancing towards him.
Deacon's shoulders loosened, and a smirk crept across his face before he could stop it.
"The hell are you smirking at, you undead fuck?" one of the soldiers barked, her spear leveled at his sternum. Her eyes narrowed beneath her tipped helm, unaware of the fine, crimson line that had appeared on her lower lip, nor the rising heat that began to fill the alley.
"What gave it away?" Deacon asked, voice quiet, not even bothering to look at the commander. His eyes stayed on the three soldiers fanning out before him, cataloguing them one by one. "I thought my bluff was pretty good, no?"
"You think I'm an idiot?" the commander sneered. His boots rang harder against the stone as he closed the distance, holy light spilling off his shoulders like smoke. "You don't get to ask me questions. You answer mine. Or I carve the truth out of you, you snake."
He jerked his chin toward the three under his command.
The left soldier adjusted his grip on the spear – too tightly, Deacon noted to himself, just as the right soldier began to mirror the left one, though her stance is a bit wider, which is making her a bit more balanced. The one in the middle… he kept his sword sheathed, palm resting light on the hilt, body angled to explode into a draw-cut at the first signs of movement from Deacon.
Two spearos. One quick-draw boy. Deacon filed it away, the smirk still cutting across his face.
"Just three?" he said, loud enough for all of them to hear. "What happened to the rest of your people, Commander? Couldn't spare the extras?"
The soldiers' grips tightened, knuckles blanching white against their weapons. Jaws locked hard beneath their helms, the insult landing even if not a word left their mouths.
The commander, though, his face didn't so much as twitch. His glare held steady, cold and unbroken.
"They did their duty," he said coldly, each word honed sharp. "They bled for Azul. For humankind. You wouldn't understand, traitorous filth."
His gaze slid from Deacon's back to the soldier on the left and gave her a nod to apprehend Deacon.
The three soldiers lunged as one, holy mana flaring off their armor in jagged streaks of gold and white that lit the alley like a forge.
The soldiers wielding spears came in from both sides, with the blades of their spears darting for his ribs, angled to meet in the center of his chest, and between them was the third soldier. The steel of the third soldier rasped free from its sheath, and his sword came screaming up in a brutal underhand arc meant to cut Deacon clean in two.
Huh, Deacon thought, smirk not leaving his face even as the two spears and sword blurred toward him. Wonder what I said to piss him off.
Deacon's boots kicked into the stone as he shifted his weight back and slightly left, letting the spear on his left streak past his chest with inches to spare. In the same breath, his right hand whipped the haft of his spear crosswise, jamming it under the climbing sword and locking its path with a jarring clang.
Sparks scattered between the two weapons, but Deacon didn't linger as his wrists snapped into motion, twisting the haft, sliding the block into a pivot that knocked the right-side spearman's thrust away at the same time.
In that instant, his left hand blurred. Faster than their eyes could track, his gauntlet closed around the throat of the swordsman in the center. The man's armor flared gold as the defensive properties of his armor kicked in automatically.
"Ignis," Deacon intoned at point-blank. Ignis, empowered by his Innate Skill, Undying Flame, twisted the spell into a white-hot detonation that scorched the air black – not even letting the soldier utter a shout as his gorget turned to slag against his skin, and Deacon's fingers crushed through windpipe and spine alike, snapping bone like kindling.
Huh, so their armor was pretty shit too, Deacon mused to himself before berating himself once again. Man… I keep on overthinking and worrying about this shit every time… I really gotta fix that.
As the soldier collapsed limp in Deacon's grip, Deacon didn't waste a second – twisting his right wrist, Deacon wrenched the spear haft free from the locked weapons and used the momentum to fling the burning corpse of the swordsman straight at the platoon commander surging toward him.
The commander's eyes narrowed, his body never faltering. He sidestepped cleanly, letting the corpse of his subordinate crash into the wall with a crunchy smack. His blade carved a golden arc, holy mana screaming off the steel as he lunged straight for Deacon's chest.
But as he slipped around the corpse, Deacon was no longer holding just the spears that every foot soldier owned.
In Deacon's left hand was the sword of the dead subordinate he'd just side-stepped, but instead of its brilliant golden hue, it burned crimson-orange.
The commander's eyes went wide as he came to the realization that Deacon was not some undead thief that had snuck in with a team like he assumed, he was a frontal combatant. And given what he spoke of in the plaza, he was probably near General Kaius and Obi.
However, this realization came too late.
For a heartbeat, the commander's head stayed where it was, jaw snapping open in fury – then his neck gave way. Blood gouted in a hot arc, hissing as the flames kissed it to steam, and his body crumpled before it even realized it was dead.
From above, in those seconds before darkness took him, he saw the spray of blood painting the alley, the larger scything wave of fire that followed. He saw Deacon, rising like a phantom through the chaos, twisting midair, his right spear thrusting straight through the neck of the long-haired spearman who'd lunged desperately at his exposed side. The soldier's own thrust skimmed the skin of Deacon's neck, missing by less than a breath.
And then the commander's world went dark.