Overlord: Bound By Gold

Part 2

Venturing out into the city wasn't always a taxing task, but today was an especially vexing journey. A large, interconnected hive with wide and spacious walkways to any part of the city in a mere hour and yet the traffic down one of the main roads stood absolutely still, a crowd of village idiots stretching on for many meters down the street. Each individual buffoon yelled down the crowd, craning their heads, standing on their toes and pushing others to the side in an attempt to find out what exactly was going on.
It was mid morning by the time Marc had set off from the Castle, taking the fastest route to his meet point but for almost an hour now he had been at a standstill, waiting for the crowd to budge. But it didn't, and the blockage of traffic only stretched on further down the street, where it had grown to reach the nearest crossroads. A collection of spears swung above the heads of peasants as a group of guards sought to traverse the crowd and continue the flow of traffic.
But Marc was caught right in the center of the rowdy crowd, careless men and women throwing him side to side as they pushed past him, scuffing his brown padded Brigandine coat and fluted half-armour. Each and every single one of them yelled down the inert flow of traffic, making mention of important business and little time to waste. Right, as if they have an official job from the Princess, he thought to himself.
He felt a body bump into him, knocking him forward, followed by a fist stroking the front of his leg. He turned to see who collided with him him, finding a small, dirty and skinny figure squashed up against his back. A set of large brown eyes looked up at him, a mischievous but innocent grin crossing the child's features. She held a hand out in front of her, the other hidden behind her back. She took a step back, halting when Marc put a hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry sir, but I tripped on someone's foot, I didn't mean to bump into you," she said hastily, looking slightly worried with that hand on her shoulder, "I-I'll be going now, okay?"
Marc gripped her shoulder tighter, pressing his thumb into a pressure point that made the girl complain about his grasp. He looked at her through the slits in his peaked Tournament helm, drawing his head closer as mist blew out of the grills.
"Before you do leave, would you mind showing me what's in that hand of yours," he said softly, a harsh hiss present under his tone.
The girl stepped back, almost forgetting Marc's hand was holding her back before saying, "I... Cut my hand and it's bleeding really bad, so I don't think you'd want to look. Besides, my parents will be wondering where I am an- Agh!"
Releasing the girl's shoulder, Marc threw his hand behind her back and twisted her arm back out into the open. Her fingers were closed tight around her palm, a solid object glinting inside the digits.
Peeling back her fingers, Marc snatched the item from her hand, keeping the girl in place by retaining his grip on her wrist.
"Well, well, well, look what have we here," Marc said, staring at the deep blue liquid held within the glass cylinder, "unless you bleed blue, I'd think you were actually lying about that whole thing."
If circumstances were different, these potions wouldn't be out on display, treats for the average pickpocket to steal, much like the rag ridden girl before him now. But he needed to be prepared for any situation, so a quick draw solution was necessary.
He slipped the potion back into the loop from which it was stolen from, the girl reaching for it and begging he return it. She made some half-arsed argument of a sickly relative that he ignored as she still tried to grab it.
"Listen, shut up and stay still," he said sternly, the girl stumbling as Marc pulled on her arm, "if you don't want to get beaten, do as I say. Okay?"
The girl fell silent, her struggling ceasing as Marc loosened his grip on her wrist. He would deal with her when he had the time, but right now he needed to get through this crowd. Standing on his toes, Marc pushed his head above the crowd, spotting a clearing with movement a few meters ahead of him. The clashing of swords could just be heard over the clamouring crowd, so that should be whatever is holding up the traffic.
He turned to the young pickpocket who was now facing the ground, hanging her head in defeat. Her hand hung limply in Marc's grip as her wrist was held above her head. The amount of dirt and grime present just on her hand showed what kind of a lifestyle this girl had been living, the rags that comprised her dress appearing almost shredded. Marc looked at her with disdain, a resentment for her practices and state of being, but a feeling of familiarity ebbed it's way to the front of his mind. He forced the thought from his mind, focusing on the matter at hand and pushing his way through the mass of bodies, pulling the girl with him.
"Excuse me, Servant of the King coming through," he called out, just barely rising above the commotion as he used his buckler shield to encourage people to move, "I'm on official business, so get out of the way."
The sea of multicoloured linen and cloth slowly parted before him, allowing an easy passage right up to the clearing. As it drew nearer, the attitude of the crowd began to change, from fussy frustration to excited cheering, numerous individuals shouting and throwing their fists in the air as swords clashed with each other. Marc pushed his way through the last few obstacles, pulling himself and the girl into the clearing with him. His brow furrowed at what he found.
Two men were engaged in combat with each other, circling around each other with their weapons poised ready to strike. One wore light armour, gambeson padding weaved into his middle class clothing that puffed up his frame as he sprang about lightly, a single hand brandishing an elegantly crafted rapier held before him as he tapped the blade of the enemy, provoking him to leap forward into his striking range. His opponent on the other hand, was dressed appropriately for the occasion, as stainless steel scale armour shined under his brown cloak, a red leather bandoleer of supplies sitting atop his chest. His entire outfit shined, from his impeccably kept boots to his nick-less longsword, nearly every article had a glint to it.
But both of them were breathing heavily, limping and adopting more reserved stances in their respective martial arts, both men resorting to just watching and waiting for the next move to strike. Black eyes, cut lips and swollen cheeks showed they'd been fighting for a while, probably for at least the same hour Marc had been stuck in the queue. With the guards unable to stop it thanks to these idiots, it would go on until one of the duelists collapsed from exhaustion or was defeated outright, the latter of which was something that drew ever closer.
The spotless warrior shouldered his weapon in preparation to strike, rotating his entire upper body back to prepare for the strike. The fencer brought his weapon to bear, ready to parry or evade the strike but judging from his limp hopping away may be out of the question. The blade began to swing, only travelling less than a foot before it was caught by a black gloved hand. The warrior looked back, confused as he found a hand brandishing a buckler shield gripping his sword tightly. It was wrenched from his grasp with impunity, pulling the man with it a few inches as he sought to retain it.
"What do you think you're doing, I need that," squealed the man, as he turned to face Marc directly, "I'm not done with this idiot yet, so give it back."
"Listen, some of us have places to be and business to do, which you two are preventing us from doing," Marc retorted, standing over the warrior by an inch, "it's bad enough that these idiots just stand to watch, without doing a bloody thing about it."
The bystanders closest to him began booing him, yelling and throwing insults as they redirected their attention to him instead of the fight. He paid them no heed, waiting for them to disperse as a group of guards gradually made their through the throng of spectators. Curious as to the man's identity, Marc lifted back the cloak hanging around his neck with the tip of his sword, a golden yellow plate glinting as it was exposed to the pathetic daylight. He looked at Adventurer with a smirk beneath his helmet, pushing the weapon roughly into his chest.
"I should've known it would be one of your kind picking a fight out in the middle of the street like this," he said, sneering as the Adventurer looked at him with seething eyes, "do me a favor and make sure I never see you again."
He turned his back to the Adventurer, pulling the girl with him as he made his way over to the other duelist, who was sheathing his rapier back in it's scabbard. He extended a hand out to Marc, a face full of gratitude as the Mercenary approached.
"Thanks for stepping in when you did, I was sure he was going to finish me off without a second thought," he said, catching his breath from the long fight, any kind of Adventurer rank absent from his person, "I didn't expect it to go on for as long as it did, so he managed to nick me a few on the leg. That bastard."
"Don't worry about it," Marc replied, taking the extended hand with his shield arm and awkwardly shaking it, "just try to avoid doing something like this again, or else it won't be just the Adventurer that'll end up with his tail between his legs next time."
"True, but I would have avoided it if he didn't act like he owned the entire street, that's for damn sure," said the duelist, putting most his body's weight on a single leg, "but I'll keep it in mind for the future, since I'm probably well overdue now."
Marc cocked his head to the side, intrigued. "Where are you going," he asked politely.
"I'm heading off for a meeting at one of the Mercenary establishments here in town, one called Raseele Compagnie. I joined a few moths ago and they're thinking of promoting a promising few up to officer rank, including me," explained the Duelist, reaching down to prod a cut on his leg before wincing in pain, "you know them, right? Surely you've heard of the second best Mercs in the Kingdom, yeah?"
"Yeah, I know about Raseele all too well, actually," Marc said, looking round to see if the girl was still behind him, finding her head still hanging in silence.
"So you've ran into them before," asked the Duelist.
"No, not like that" chuckled Marc, "I used to work for the Compagnie."
"You did, did you," continued the Duelist, stroking his well groomed goatee, "what's your name then?"
Marc rolled his eyes in his sockets, thinking on the question for a moment before answering plainly with, "Marc. My name is Marc Antony."
The Duelist stopped stroking his beard, staring at Marc through the thin slits in his helmet, his eyes slowly widening as he processed Marc's reply. The Mercenary just shot him a confused look from beneath his helmet, wondering why someone would be so awe stricken in his presence. He was about to ask what was the matter before he was cut off.
"Did you just say Marc Antony? As in the Lizard slayer, Marc Antony," asked the Duelist, his eyes threatening to pop out of his sockets if they opened any further.
Lizard slayer? Now Marc really was confused, because he sure as hell had no one refer to him as that before. Not to mention back in the Compagnie he was hardly known for anything except for constantly sparring with other mercenaries.
"Yes, that's my name," he drawled, uncertain of what else to say, "but I'm unfamiliar with this 'Lizard Slayer' title. What does it mean?"
"My friend, if you really are 'that' Marc Antony, then surely you will know why much of the veterans talk so much about you," said the Duelist, grinning widely now, "it's like you're all they ever talk about, telling stories of how you saved Captain Adam during the Lizard Man campaign and saved your entire Battalion from certain doom. Don't tell me you don't remember."
Now those were details he hadn't heard about in years. Half forgotten memories of the vile scent of a swampy marsh came to mind, a clouded, barely functioning mind returning to him along with the strong, heavy scent of copper filling the air. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, returning back to the present and the Duelist at hand, who was looking at him with expectant eyes.
"Sorry, but I think you've got the wrong guy," he said quietly, the crowd around them beginning to continue the flow of traffic, "I don't remember anything like that."
"Well, that's a shame," said the Duelist, starting off down the street as he spoke over his shoulder, "I was hoping I'd met a hero today. Still, thanks for the save~."
Marc watched the man fade into the crowd, disappearing from sight as a group of women carrying thatch baskets got in his way. A thought crossed his mind, suggesting to visit the Compagnie headquarters someday, but it was shot down by the rational part of his brain that declared work was paramount. Something would come up to stop him from going anyway, so there was little point in returning.
He turned back to his accompanying pickpocket, who was looking at him with curious eyes before throwing her head back down towards the ground, pretending she wasn't listening in on the conversation. But she flicked an eye back up to his plaque belt, eyeing it with the same hungry eyes a wolf would to it's prey, still plotting how she would nick that off him. Her determination to steal was impressive, but it wouldn't do if she kept it up with what Marc intended to do with her.
He set off down the opposite path, the girl following him this time instead of just being pulled along by the wrist, matching Marc's pace as they walked. Several meters down the road, something was tugging on his elbow, directing him to look down at the girl who was looking at him timidly.
"Um, where are you taking me," she asked quietly, just loud enough for anyone to hear.
"Somewhere safe. That's all you need to know," Marc replied, before falling silent for the rest of the journey.