Still unable to use his sword arm for much, Renado armed up with a crossbow. He still wore his blade—and his trusty boot knife, of course—but the trigger-fired weapon was much easier to use. He hooked it to his belt and threw on a loose black cloak. The hood covered his publicly-known features and the returning whiskers on this chin. Prepared for anything, he strode out of the seedy room, down the stench-filled hallway, to the inn’s common room where Asar and Omma waited in similar disguises.
Kalikus and the seven sailors that had not volunteered this evening were waiting at a rendezvous—a slightly classier inn on the east side of town. Regardless of what happened tonight, they were going to need to leave Saanazar immediately.
The site of their ambush—or one of the three ambushes, depending on the machinations of the priesthood—was near an alehouse on a shop-filled street. The establishment was still busy hours after the sun had set, and provided ample cover for the mix of mercenaries that Sarim had brought. While his men milled about with the drinking hole’s patrons, Sarim and one of his lieutenants waited with Ren and his men at the mouth of a nearby alley.
Sarim’s scouts returned about an hour later to confirm that a single convoy had departed from the secret prison near the Temple and was taking the west-most route toward the gallows. Sarim glanced at Ren.
“Lead the way,” Ren told the smuggler.
Sarim glanced at his lieutenant. “Get the men from the east ambush!” he barked, as he waved one hand in the air and strode across the street.
Sarim’s mercenaries led the way through the alleys toward the next main road. There wasn’t a pre-existing crowd to mingle with here, so each alley and nook became a hiding spot for the criminals. It took only half-an-hour for the prison wagon to come into sight, escorted by at least twenty grey-robed guards. Sarim, standing on the other side of the alley’s mouth, quietly slid his sword free. Ren drew out his crossbow and fit his boot through the loop at the bottom. He glanced at the approaching wagon once more, then bent down to pull the string back. The arms groaned as he fit a bolt into place. Ira’s right there, he thought. He stood back up and followed Sarim out into the street. Asar and Omma brandished swords on either side of him.
The wagon was between the spreading talons of the mercenary force now, but the robed guards kept their positions. Ren felt the battle coming—like seeing the wall of rain approach before a typhoon.
But his senses betrayed him. Sarim turned around, separating Ren’s subordinates as he levelled his sword right at Ren’s chest. Everyone froze. Ren glared down the length of the blade at the smuggler.
“I’m sorry, Ren, but they offered more,” Sarim muttered.
Ren glanced at the wagon one last time. Ira and Woodro weren’t there. It was all a set-up. He couldn’t even be certain those guards were Grey Brethren, and not just another group of Sarim’s smugglers and mercenaries. “For my family, you bastard,” Ren growled and pulled the trigger of the crossbow. The bolt embedded in Sarim’s eye and he fell backward.
“Run!” Ren bellowed, and body checked the nearest mercenary out of the way. Asar, Omma, and one of Ren’s sailors tore back through the alleyway from whence they had just emerged. Their boots echoed like distant thunder, while arrows cracked off the bricks around them like lightning. One grazed Ren’s shoulder; another fell one of the mercenaries that was closest them: just collateral damage.
They careened out of the maze of backstreets and into the next main avenue, right near that alehouse. Another group of Sarim’s men were there, though they were distracted by an apparent brawl that had broken out inside. Ren led the way, dashing right through the group—Omma knocked over two, and Ren, himself, shoved a third aside. They plunged back into the next alley as a dozen more furious warriors joined the chase.
“Gods!” screeched one of the sailors as he stumbled. They were just approaching a narrow stream that ran between the buildings, no foot bridge in sight. The stumble turned into a trip as the sailor splashed through the water.
There was no turning back—not this time. Sarim’s betrayal might yet be the last Ren had to suffer. Blinding rage fueled Ren’s dash away from that brook, across the next road, and into another alley.
This time, the crevice between buildings narrowed to painful limits. Ren pressed through first, amazed that Omma was keeping up behind him. There was enough space—it was just difficult to move quickly through the thin passage. As they neared a corner, the clinking of armour and the echoing of pursuant footsteps grew closer. Ren twisted around the bend, followed by Omma and another of the crewmen. Asar, coming in the rear, slammed against the corner, shoved forward into the intersecting passage, and then found himself grabbed by mercenary gloves.
“Keep going!” Asar roared. Ren glanced back to watch him kick off one wall and slam the man who had grabbed him against another. The next mercenary to round the corner met Asar’s fist, then stumbled over his comrade. Two more pinned Asar against the wall as he kicked at a fifth.
Omma tried dragging Ren with him as he passed, but Ren hung back, staring at his long-time friend’s capture.
Asar met his eyes. “Go!” he roared, and slammed his head against one of those holding him. The mercenaries had so thoroughly blocked the alley now that none could give further chase.
“Thank you,” Ren mouthed, blood pounding and tears ringing his eyes. He stumbled after Omma and didn’t look back.
Outside the alley—afforded ample time by Asar’s sacrifice—Ren and his two compatriots chose their next route strategically. They moved quietly after that, weaving a chaotic route across Saanazar. They avoided districts they knew would be saturated by Grey Brethren guards and those slums where Sarim’s contacts might lie in wait.
By the time they reached the rendezvous point with Kalikus and the others, Ren had grown darkly bitter. He knew what tonight’s betrayal meant. Ira and Woodro would hang on the morrow, and Ren would not be there to watch.
He slumped at the bar after punching it hard enough to break one of his knuckles. “Your hardest liquor,” he ordered from a surprised barkeeper. Gods, his recovering shoulder ached. He would lose a friend and a lover then, and he had lost another friend this evening. He slammed back the first drink he was presented and Omma kept them coming.
If he was sober enough to walk, he would leave Saanazar when the sun rose. If he was still plastered—as he planned to be—they could carry him. He caught Kal watching in pity as Ren chugged his fifth drink, coughing and wiping snot from his nose. Ren only sneered at the new leader of Urro’s old crew. He had been right, but Ren would never come to terms with it.
“Another,” he implored the barkeeper, and put his head in his hands.