• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“You have some nerve!” Rytlock roared.

Logan grabbed the chains hanging from the post and hurled them at Rytlock’s face. The charr winced back, and Logan wormed from his grip. Dropping to the ground, Logan scuttled free and ran for the burning pillar where Sohothin was embedded.

Rytlock followed, roaring.

The gathered crowd roared, too, delighted to see the man and the charr battle in the burning theater. It truly was burning: walls of flame sent smoke and sparks high into the air.

Logan reached the pillar and started to shimmy up.

“No, you don’t,” Rytlock growled. His good hand pried Logan off the beam, hurled him into nearby seats, and reached up to snag the sword.

“No, you don’t,” said another voice—a deep voice accompanied by a cutlass grip ramming into Rytlock’s throat.

He looked to see his attacker—a norn with a tanned, dreadlocked, piratical face. “Who’re you?”

“Magnus, one of the Captains of the Ship’s Council of Lion’s Arch, head of the Lionguard,” the man said grandiloquently.

“That’s a lot to remember,” Rytlock replied.

“Then just remember my nickname—the Bloody Handed.” Magnus nodded at the brute squad around him. “You, my destructive friend, are under arrest.”

Rytlock’s shoulders tensed, bracing for another fight.

“You have no weapon,” Magnus pointed out with a steely voice, “your wrist looks broken, and you’re more than surrounded.”

Rytlock shot a look over his shoulder, where more of the brute squad were dragging Logan from the wreck of seats. Two other Lionguard flanked Caithe.

“It’s off to jail for the three of you.”

IN SEARCH OF WARRIORS

Eir stepped from the frigid solitude of Hoelbrak into the bustling heat of Lion’s Arch. At her heels, Garm trotted through the asura gate, and Snaff and Zojja brought up the rear. The four who had nearly destroyed the Dragonspawn now stood as strangers in a new city.

“Ah, Lion’s Arch,” Snaff said, clapping his hands together. He drew a deep draft of the salt-sea air and pounded his chest. “The Pirate Paradise. The Shore of the World. The Well of Races. The Freest City in Tyria—”

“The Place Where We Are,” Zojja said dispiritedly.

Snaff looked out at the folk that streamed down the avenue—every intelligent race in Kryta, all going peacefully about their business, coursing through a rankling maze of streets. Here sprawled a marketplace under blue canvas, there towered a keep fashioned of an upended ship. “Being in a city like this is like being alive.”

“You are alive,” Zojja pointed out.

“Then I feel doubly alive.”

A group of human warriors marched past, their eyes raking suspiciously across the dire wolf.

Eir set her hand on Garm’s muzzle and drew him to sit beside her. “Exhilarating, yes, but we have a mission. We’re here to find warriors. And I know where we can start: Captain Magnus the Bloody Handed.”

“Norn, I assume?” Snaff asked. “Can’t imagine an asura named Bloody Handed.”

“Unless he was bad with a hammer,” Zojja remarked.

“Norn, yes, and a sea captain. If anyone here could help us fight the Dragonspawn, it’d be Magnus. If he will fight.” Eir pointed to the harbor, where tall ships were moored. “Let’s get to the docks.”

Garm trotted down the lane toward the forest of masts, black against the flashing waves. Snaff and Zojja had to jog to keep pace.

“Tell us about this Magnus the Bloody Handed,” Snaff said.

Eir shrugged. “He is a norn who once adventured and gained great fame for himself. Now he is leader of the Lionguard, the peacekeepers of this city.”

“Impressive,” Snaff said.

“He’s also a privateer—”

“A pirate?”

Eir shot Snaff a dark look. “Forget that you know that word. A privateer is sanctioned by the state to attack enemy ships.”

“A legal pirate.”

“Magnus is called the Bloody Handed because of what he does to those who insult him,” Eir said significantly. “But most often, those he fights are those who fight Lion’s Arch. He’s ruthless, but not for himself. For this city.”

They strode out of a warren of maritime buildings