The streets of Carrowhelm became quiet as twilight fell. The streetlamps flickered like dying coals, while shadows stretched across the cobblestone streets. Inside a repurposed storehouse—Alfrenzo's current place of business—he and Hunter waited by the large wooden table, with maps, charcoal notes, and empty wine glasses atop the table.
The door creaked open with a wheeze, and in waddled the new king "loyal dog" of Alfrenzo—the old fat recluse and leader of the Fangbangs. At least this time his pants were intact; they had enough sweat rolling down his neck to fill a bucket.
"Boss Alfrenzo!" the man wheezed in glee. "Didn't know I would get meet the great one himself. I just met your...other self."
Alfrenzo, seated with his legs crossed and face obscured under the low lantern light, casually waved his hand towards where a chair was placed across from him. "Names?"
"Eh?"
"The local gangs. Their names and where they sleep."
The man moved quickly to his packet and handed Alfrenzo a crude list of names inked in horrible handwriting. Alfrenzo's keen eyes scanned the names, and he caught:
The Low Fangs - Alley Southbend
Cracktooth Syndicate - Near Old Coin Square
The Dockhands - Abandoned shipyard
Iron Rats - Derelict Foundry Lane
Rykers - Westhold barracks, back of the Nobles Quarter
He tapped the last name, raising an eyebrow. "The Rykers? Best?"
The Fangbang leader, whom Luenor mentally named Fat Gurt, nodded quickly. "Almost equal to us, milord. Only advantage they got is connection to the marquess' knights. Otherwise we'd'a destroyed them months ago!"
Alfrenzo leaned back. "Good. Tonight we go for the Iron Rats. Leave Rykers last."
Fat Gurt blinked. "Tonight?"
Alfrenzo lowered his volume to a near whisper, "Have your best men, uninjured, assembled in one hour."
Hunter continued to share his unwavering stare with Gurt, who promptly bowed low and then hurried off, making his footsteps audible in the hallway.
Hunter turned back to Alfrenzo, "And the mercs?"
"They'll have their uses," Alfrenzo said. "You're going to follow Dastel. See what he does with the load. Leave some signs of confused mixing of loads—subtle enough to annoy him, loud enough to provoke him."
Hunter nodded. "He'll attack?"
"Oh, he will, and when he does so, the mercs defend me. Witnesses, right? That'll make the knights trust me. Then … we misdirect. Let the gangs do the work, confuse the hell out of everyone about the capital's rat Linlin told us about. City guards will contact the forge knights for assistance. Our job is to get inside ... not war time, information time. Routes, schedules, smith processes."
Hunter grunted, "And if we botch it?"
"We're going to need an army. That's why Dion's gone. If our street strategy burns down, then we take the forge by force."
Hunter narrowed his eyes. "You still don't trust Mellon?"
Alfrenzo made a sardonic smile. "Three years ago, Mellon was House Sureva. But three years is enough time to make a man change—especially a man with a title, land, and a city full of spies."
They were silent for some time, the only sound now the tick of a clock on the wall.
"How's Arwin?"
Hunter's face formed into a frown. "Stable, barely. The Healer says he'll wake in a day or two. Month before he can walk properly."
Alfrenzo hissed through clenched teeth. "Fucking Linlin. I swear I will—"
"You'll use her," Hunter coolly interrupted. "Just like you always do."
Alfrenzo let out a low chuckle. "True enough."
Almost an hour passed before a loud shuffle and a bunch of chatter announced the arrival of Fangbang's rabble outside the warehouse doors, and Alfrenzo and Hunter stepped outside.
Fat Gurt stood out front, smiling like a pig in muck. "Got forty-five men, boss. The rest are licking wounds but these lot?
He pounded his chest. "Ready to paint the town red."
Hunter looked at the crew--a bunch of leather-clad punk thugs, crudely outfitted with weapons and far too many smiles; almost dangerously over-numbered. They were undisciplined. But brutes could make decent hammers, lifted pointedly toward glass windows.
A lot of the thugs, kept whispering to each other, some whispering to Hunter, but most whispering about Alfrenzo, with an air of reverence or disbelief. They had heard rumors--a masked warlord who had put their leaders in the ground; a ghost who walked through black markets untouched.
"First target?" Hunter asked, pulling on his gauntlets.
Alfrenzo handed him the maps and pointed.
"Foundry Lane. Iron Rats. Burn them out. No killing unless they draw first blood. We want the people with us. Not afraid of us."
Hunter nodded, leading the men into the shadows, his silhouette swallowed up in the darkness.
Alfrenzo turned his face back toward the warehouse with his cloak fluttering behind him, just a little through the wind.
Smoke poured upwards into the sky as the flames roared behind him, but Alfrenzo didn't look back. He walked through the panicked throng, his hood drawn low as muffled shrieks and confused cries surrounded him, but he didn't pay attention. The tavern was gone, as were the buildings that had once sheltered a man's whispers, betrayals, and the early days of the surveillance network that led Linlin's people to Arwin. Ashes now.
Some onlookers, who had caught sight of Alfrenzo gathering mana, were too terrified or too dumbfounded to say anything. Those who were ready to approach were pulled back a few steps due to the pure pressure of Alfrenzo's aura as he walked past. His eyes were cold. He was sending a message. Not just to Linlin. To everyone. This city, much like Alfrenzo himself, was no longer under the shadow of a single man.
And back at the southern end of Carrowhelm, Hunter stood beside Gurt, the stocky three-star knight who led the mercenaries.