Knight Among Jackals

Dates within the Sentinel Corps were a tricky business. Relationships within the same unit were severely frowned upon, especially between an officer and enlisted. It was normal practice for enlisted to receive transfers when they became romantically involved with their commanding officer. Since taking command of the unit, Sentinel Lieutenant Walter Otarion could count the number of times he’d been on a date on one hand. There was little opportunity to meet girls outside of work, until now.

“It’s not hard,” Disla said. “Just go up to her and strike up a conversation.”

“That’s hard.”

“Okay, it’s hard, but you just have to buck up and do it. Who knows how long we’ll be stationed here. You don’t have time to waste.”

He and Corporal Scout Disla had agreed to go on a hike after work, but the torrential summer rain stuck them in a café near Abbott Naval Base. This wasn’t the first time Otarion had seen the pretty waitress, Yulia. This was a popular place for off-duty Sentinels to visit. He'd talked to the girl three times before now, and she greeted him by name when they walked in.

Yulia finished with the table next to theirs and made her way toward them. Disla kicked him under the table and muttered, “Now or never, sir!”

Yulia smiled at him as she collected their empty plates. “I thought you might’ve been a Sentinel. Last time you weren’t in uniform. How’s everything tasting?”

“It’s great,” Otarion said, switching to Runic. “Hey, uh, what’s there to do for fun around here? We’re new to Drakestone.”

“Not a whole lot. Hiking, mostly, boating and surfing if you’re into that sort of thing. There are a few places with dancing and games, but this city is pretty boring. Most Sentinels just hang around the base.”

Otarion perked up. He was a good dancer; it was something they did frequently on the plantation during celebrations and festivals and something he later practiced with school sweethearts. “You dance?”

“I try, but I’m not very good at it. You?”

“Actually—,” his communicator vibrated. Otarion pulled it out to check the screen. It was Major Regis. “Uh… hold that thought.”

He hurried outside, The rain was only just beginning to taper off, so he kept beneath the eve of the café. “Yes, sir?”

“I have good news. An Archmage has been assigned to our unit, he’ll be here within the hour. Where are you?”

Otarion’s brows shot up in surprise. When Regis said he would secure the unit an Archmage, he would’ve bet good money the effort was doomed to fail. It at least should’ve taken a few weeks, or months, not eight days. “At a café just outside of base.”

“How soon can you meet me at the platform?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Good. I’ll see you there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Otarion pocketed his communicator and went back inside. Disla and Yulia were laughing about something, and he felt a surge of annoyance. Disla was toeing the line a little further than was appreciated. “We have to head out. Sorry about that. Can we get the check?”

“Sure!”

Disla’s smile vanished the moment she turned her back. “What’s wrong?” he asked in their language.

“We’re getting an Archmage. I’m supposed to meet the major at the platform.”

Disla’s jaw dropped. Otarion pulled a few bills from his wallet. “Yeah, that was my reaction. Want to come meet him?”

“Oh, I have to see this before I believe it.”

Yulia returned with their check. Otarion handed her the cash, told her to keep the change, and slipped on his helmet. “Take care, Yulia.”

“Be safe out there.”

He smiled to himself as they left the café. There was genuine concern in her voice. He would definitely ask her out to dance the first chance he got.

The rain was cold, and they went as quickly as they could through the streets of the port city. The downtown square was relatively quiet. Some pedestrians were out and about, but most were sequestered inside the emporiums. Tall pines and spruce trees surrounded the platform and offered shelter to the handful of waiting travelers. No portals were open presently, and the schedule board above the ticket booth showed no new civilian portals for another forty-five minutes.

Two Archmages were standing on the platform beneath the shelter of the raised dome. Talking with them were Major Regis and Sergeant Ironsi. Otarion slipped past the iron gate protecting the platform and joined them.

“Reporting as ordered, sir. Scout Disla asked to be part of the welcoming committee if that’s alright.”

Major Regis nodded. “Of course, it is.”

“Sir, a question?”

“Yes?”

“How in the high heavens did you secure us an Archmage?”

“Let’s just say,” Regis said, and Otarion could’ve sworn he was smiling beneath his helmet, “I have good clout with the high command and the Court of Aeronis.”

He shook his head in bafflement. Their major was an enigma. Command of a patrol unit was a severe downgrade for an officer as high ranking as a major. Everyone assumed that meant the high command had a particular bone to pick with Regis. Though the fact he secured them an in-unit Archmage meant at least someone in the high command liked him. That or his assignment to gain a foothold within the upper echelons of the Black Market was important and difficult enough to warrant special help. Otarion figured it was more likely the latter.

A portal snapped into existence as though out of thin air. The rippling blue-green surface shimmered like sunlight reflecting off water, and from the gateway appeared the Archmage. He wasn’t dressed in the ubiquitous white and indigo of most Archmages. He was in Sentinel black and white with the indigo patch on his shoulder the only indication of his dual status. That and the silver baton hooked on his belt. It was the weapon used by all magicians.

He saluted Major Regis. “Sentinel Archmage Portalier 1st class Eoin McCrain reporting for duty, sir.”

Regis returned the salute. “Welcome to Drakestone, Archmage McCrain. This is Lieutenant Walter Otarion, Sergeant Silas Ironsi, and one of our accomplished scouts, Corporal Cole Disla.”

Otarion nodded to the Archmage in greeting. He was tall and slender, and his dark hair and eyes were in sharp contrast to his pale skin. His age was hard to guess but somewhere in his late thirties to early forties.

“It’s an honor to join you. I was told our assignment was of top priority?”

“It is,” Regis said, and he gestured for him to follow. “I will explain on the way.”

Otarion walked slightly behind with Sergeant Ironsi as the major and the Archmage talked. McCrain spoke Eldrinian well, though there was a distinct Aeronies accent to his words. It was lilting, almost sing-song. McCrain was a Sentinel of a kind, but he was first and foremost an Archmage.

Of the Triumvirate Factions, Aeronis was special. The people of that world had the unique ability to tap into the arcane energies through the use of written runes, and with this skill, singlehandedly invented platforms and portals. They were the masters of the Nether Currents, and it was this trait that gave the Factions such overwhelming influence over the other powers of the World. It was also why getting an in-unit Archmage was so difficult. Other nations and powers needed magicians of their own for trade and control over their own platforms and portals, and the Black Market provided them. It was an all-too-common fate for an Archmage to be kidnapped. They were simply that valuable.

McCrain cracked his knuckles with a fierce grin at the conclusion of Regis’ tale. “If this Ron Santos is our ticket into the Auctioneer’s inner circle, then he’s as good as dead.”

“We need him alive, McCrain.”

“Oh, sure, but after he gives up his masters, he’s a dead man.”

Regis waved it aside. “I’ll leave that to the Azerie courts to decide.”

“Do you think they’ll give up isolationism if we bag one of the Auctioneer’s lieutenants?”

The major didn’t answer immediately. Otarion sympathized with McCrain’s eagerness. Every Sentinel under the sun longed for the Order’s return to active service.

“I think the chances are good,” Regis said, “but don’t quote me on that. For that matter, don’t even mention it to the unit. I don’t want anyone getting their hopes up. Clear?”

They all agreed.

The following morning brought more rain. Otarion stifled a yawn as he entered the base practice room. Several of the mats were occupied with sparring pairs, most saber against saber, but some hand-to-hand. He watched the Sentinels as they sparred. Even in practice with their comrades they fought hard. Against a real enemy, they were ruthless. The source of their martial prowess was no great mystery. When the Sentinel Corps first formed, it was the Night Azerie who trained them. Those teachings had been passed down over the years and perfected, with the result being the force they were today. It was a point of pride for every Sentinel to be in peak fighting form.

“Martial prowess a warrior does not make,” his instructor used to say.

Otarion chuckled to himself at the memory. They were all aware Black-Market brutes could give Sentinels a run for their money, but it was their discipline, loyalty, and deep desire to serve that separated them from others. Sometimes, it came down to who wanted to win more, and a Sentinel would win that contest every time. Guaranteed.

He took a practice saber from the rack on the wall. Archmage McCrain appeared at his side and took an identical one. “Morning, Lieutenant Otarion. Have a partner yet?”

“No.” He frowned at the saber. “You’re not using your baton?”

“It’s not a weapon to rely on. There are only so many spells on the scroll inside the handle, and I’d prefer not to waste them by accidentally killing you.”

The Archmage said it with complete, deadpan seriousness. Otarion flashed his teeth in a humorless smile. They took an empty mat in the center. Otarion slipped on his helmet and saluted McCrain with his saber. The Archmage did the same.

McCrain was fast. He lunged for Otarion’s chest. Otarion batted the saber aside and jumped forward with his own lunge. At first, he stuck strictly to fencing maneuvers. He wanted to get a feel for McCrain’s technical skill, and he wasn’t disappointed. The Archmage easily kept up with any complex combination or remise and never left himself open on accident. Otarion scored the first touch, a hit on the man’s shoulder. McCrain exploded forward with a series, and Otarion was forced off the mat. The Archmage backed off.

“You are as good as the colonel said. Color me impressed, Lieutenant Otarion.”

Otarion adjusted his gloves. “You mean Colonel Stackhouse? He talked to you?”

“Yes, he was the one who informed me of my new assignment. He said the unit was a batch of high performers and one of the best teams in the field. I suppose the Anaconda incident made an impression.”

“We try.”

They took their positions. This time, Otarion didn’t rely solely on fencing techniques. There were few rules on the mats, and a swift punch to the side or a kick to the knee were often just as effective as a saber strike. McCrain took it in stride. Two minutes into the bout and he sidestepped Otarion’s lunge, snatching his hand and wrenching it up with surprising force. Otarion flung himself backward and used the momentum to kick McCrain off the mat. The Archmage rolled and righted himself in the same motion.

“How long have you been out of the academy?”

“Three years.”

“And you’ve commanded this unit for two?”

“Yes, well, a little less than two. Regis took over in late May.”

They retook their positions. Twice more Otarion knocked McCrain off the mat, and the Archmage answered with harsh blows and aggressive tactics of his own. By the end of the session, Otarion’s body was peppered with bruises and covered in sweat. McCrain was not much better with a slight limp in his right foot.

“You’re a good fighter,” the Archmage said, “but you take a lot of risks that leave you exposed. Against one target, it’s not so bad, but against many and you’ll have a knife in your side.”

Otarion replaced his practice saber. “I don’t have much criticism to dole out. You’re an excellent swordsman. The only thing I can say is don’t hesitate to use the rest of your body. Your hands and feet are also weapons.”

McCrain chuckled behind his helmet. “You aren’t the first person to tell me that. It’s a habit from university. Archmages aren’t taught to fight like Sentinels. The instructors saw it as unrefined.”

“In a fight to the death, unrefined doesn’t matter.”

“Agreed.” McCrain removed his helmet and combed back his damp hair. “We’re an old aristocracy, though, and form and style still have weight in Aeronis.”

Otarion removed his helmet. “McCrain, what all did the colonel say to you about us and the major?”

The Archmage eyed him with a sly smile. “He said you would ask if I brought it up, and he told me to tell you not to be greedy. Classified is classified.”

Otarion rolled his eyes. “They love making us wonder, don’t they?”

“Special Forces like to feel special. I will say I can see why they chose your unit for this assignment. In the single day I’ve been here, not one of your Sentinels failed to impress me. Sergeant Ironsi was running drills on the parade ground at the crack of dawn with half the unit. Senior Scout Velds snuck up on me on my run and interrogated me like I was some Black-Market informant, quite well too. Then there’s you; smart, good in a fight, and I’ve heard nothing but praise from your Sentinels about you. That means something.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, I think we’ll get along very well.”

Otarion offered his hand. “I think so too, McCrain.”

The Archmage shook with a bright smile, and Otarion couldn’t help but smile in return.

**********************************************************************

It was a solid week before Otarion saw Yulia again. Most of the time was spent doing light paperwork, training, and twiddling their thumbs while they waited for word from the high command. When he asked Regis what the holdup was, the major simply shrugged and said, “Santos hasn’t reappeared yet. Patience, Otarion. The long game is always won with patience.”

So, they waited.

Otarion finished his work early that same afternoon and hurried to the café. It was Friday night, and there would be dancing downtown. He was going to ask Yulia to come with him and hoped to high heaven she wouldn’t laugh in his face at an honest invitation. His skin crawled at the prospect. Otarion sat at the café bar and removed his helmet.

Yulia poked her head out from the back. “Lieutenant Otarion! Chocolate scone and coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She brought them forthwith. The café was busy, and every table was occupied. Otarion took Regis’ advice to heart and opted for patience. He would let it quiet down a bit so Yulia wouldn’t be distracted when he asked. He hesitated. Maybe he wanted her distracted, she would have less time to think about saying no. He scowled at his scone and sense of indecision.

“Is everything okay?”

He snapped his head up. Yulia was preparing a tea tray at the counter. “Uh, yeah, everything’s fine! It’s great.”

“Did you ever go on that hike?”

“No, the weather’s been too unpredictable, but uh, I was thinking of trying out the games and dancing you mentioned last time. You wouldn’t happen to know the best place to go, would you?”

“The square itself is pretty great. They have live music on Friday nights.”

Otarion held his coffee cup with both hands and cursed himself for shaking. “Uh, Yulia? You wouldn’t happen to want to come, would you? Kinda tough to dance alone.”

She blushed and hooked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “You mean like a date?”

“Uh, no… just dancing and hanging out. It’s tough as an officer to do stuff like this. It’s not something I can do with my enlisted.”

“Why not?”

Otarion looked down at his coffee. “I’m their officer, and if I asked one of the girls to come with me, it might get them transferred out. Besides, I can’t show favoritism. It’s bad for unit cohesion.”

“Then I’d be happy to go.”

He looked up in surprise. “Really?”

Yulia smiled. “Really. I think it would be fun. Since it’s not a date, can I bring a friend along?”

“Yeah, sure! When do you get off work?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll just hang out here until then.”

Yulia flashed him another smile and took her tea tray. Otarion sagged with relief. She’d said yes. It wasn’t a date, not since a friend was tagging along, but it was one step closer to a future date. The long game, he reminded himself. He just needed to be patient.

At seven, Yulia and a fellow co-worker, Tatiana, accompanied him downtown. The music was good, the dancing light-hearted and fun, and both girls were great company. For the first time in years, Otarion let himself forget he was a Sentinel. His uniform coat, helmet, and weapons were carefully stashed away at the café, and everyone they came into contact with treated him like a civilian. It had been so long, he almost forgot what it was like not being stared at or shied away from. Otarion grinned as he danced with Yulia. He loved being a Sentinel, but just maybe he might consider civilian life again.

It was late evening when they returned to the café. The owner, a big fellow with graying hair, was cleaning up when they arrived. “How was it?” he asked.

“It was great!” Tatiana said.

Yulia retrieved their things and handed Otarion his gear. “Walt’s a very good dancer, and the music was better than usual. They had a swing band!”

“Oh, yeah? Been a while since those guys played. Girls, your tips are in the back on the desk.”

Otarion watched them go as he pulled on his coat and buckled on his saber. The owner leaned on his broomstick and eyed him with a critical look. “Thanks for taking Tatiana too. She doesn’t get out very much. Would you do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“Both girls live on the southeast side of town, and it makes me nervous when they go home this late. It’s not a good neighborhood. Would you mind escorting them home? At least to their proper streets? Thugs would think twice before assaulting an armed Sentinel.”

“Sure, I would be happy to. And I don’t mean to do anything, just escort them,” he stressed. “I won’t even set foot on their doorsteps.”

The owner chuckled and continued his sweeping. “I know what kind of guy you are, that’s why I’m asking you. Take care.”

The girls returned from the back office and Otarion walked with them outside. When he explained the owner’s request, both looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry about this,” Yulia said. “He gets overprotective.”

“No, it’s not a problem. Come on, let’s get you home.”

They wove through the twilit streets of Abbott’s Landing. It was strange to still have the sun shining so late in the evening, but Drakestone was one of the northernmost worlds within Faction territory. It was a horrible ordeal on his sleep schedule, but it was kind of nice at the same time. As they went, Otarion began to recognize the area. He’d come across the rooftops last time, but it was the same slums the unfortunate poacher lived in. Yulia and Tatiana sped up and Otarion had to lengthen his stride to keep up with the two.

“Is something the matter?”

“What? Oh.” Yulia slowed a little. “It’s just, around here at this hour it’s not safe to be out on the streets any longer than you have to.”

“The local authorities don’t patrol this area?”

“Not often,” Tatiana said. “It can be dangerous for them.”

They turned down a wide avenue and walked past a few barred-up storefronts. From somewhere down the street, there was jovial piano music and Yulia and Tatiana moved to cross before they reached it. Otarion paused at the mouth of a narrow alley. The back door of a restaurant was slightly ajar. Standing outside the door were two figures, a man and a young woman. He couldn’t make out their faces in the gloom, but he could read their body language, and it told him enough. She didn’t want to be there.

“Wait,” he told the girls.

Yulia and Tatiana looked back, and their expressions fell with dread. “Walt, we should go,” Yulia said softly. “This isn’t safe.”

Otarion pursed his lips. He wasn’t technically on street duty, but he was in uniform, and he could at least give the woman the opportunity to extricate herself from the situation. He intervened. “Is there a problem here?” he asked as he approached.

The woman started. The man turned to face him and took in the uniform and helmet. “You’re a long way from base, my friend.”

“I asked if there was a problem here.”

“Only if you make it a problem.”

Otarion turned to the woman. Now that he was closer, he could see she was scantily clad and done up with exaggerated makeup. Prostitution was illegal, but it was a tough one to prove. “I won’t make it a problem,” he said icily, “if you keep your hands to yourself and go home. Ma’am, I suggest you leave.”

Neither moved.

The restaurant’s door opened, and the sound of music and laughter echoed through the alley. Otarion pivoted so his back was to the wall, and he could see both the errant couple and the newcomer. Two burly men stepped outside holding a very drunk man between them. They gently deposited him on the ground and turned to go back inside when they saw Otarion. His mouth went dry. He stumbled across a speakeasy and brothel, alone.

His hand dropped to the hilt of his saber. “You do not want to add assault of an officer to your records,” he warned.

It was the prostitute who struck first. She slammed him against the wall with surprising force. Otarion ducked away from the thugs and attempted to maneuver his way back to Yulia and Tatiana, then thought better of it. They lived here; they could not be seen with him.

“Run!” he shouted, and he drew his blade.

He lunged for the nearest thug who deflected the blow with a knife. The extra reach of his blade kept them at a distance and with the alley being so narrow, prevented either from flanking him. It was a good place to be, and Otarion felt a surge of confidence as he landed a solid hit on one of the thugs. The projectiles took away the advantage in a heartbeat. He gasped as the first rock struck his helmet and another on his shoulder. From behind the two thugs, the prostitute was grabbing rocks to hurl at him. The man, interestingly enough, stood back with his arms crossed and merely watched.

Before Otarion could decide what to do about it, a stone came perilously close to his face. He instinctively raised his saber to bat it aside and caught the projectile on his hand. He gasped in pain and dropped the weapon. The thugs tackled him to the ground. Otarion squirmed and writhed in their grip. One he kneed mercilessly in the groin. The thug swore and rolled away in agony. The other he maneuvered into a chokehold. Otarion counted the seconds until the thug would blackout only for the man to appear and level Otarion’s stolen saber at his neck.

“Let him go. I do know how to use this.”

He poked his chest to emphasize the point. Otarion hesitated as he considered his options only for the door of the restaurant to open again. Three more thugs appeared. He was outnumbered and disarmed. Cold dread settled in his stomach. He’d lost.

“Let him go,” the man insisted, poking him again, “or things will go much worse for you.”

Reluctantly, Otarion released his hold. The thug gasped in a breath and crawled away coughing. The other three searched him, then hauled him from the ground and held him in a rigid brace.

“Sir, should we kill him?” one asked.

“No, beat him, but don’t break him. I need him lucid.”

One removed a pair of brass knuckles from his coat, and the blood drained from Otarion’s face. He’d taken hits before, he’d recently done so against Archmage McCrain, but Sentinels also knew when to stop to avoid seriously hurting their comrades. That was not the case here. They were unforgiving. Otarion crumbled against the onslaught. When they finished, they threw him to the ground at the man’s feet.

He knelt and gently removed Otarion’s helmet. Otarion spat at him but didn’t have the strength to do more than that. “Are there any other Sentinels in the area?” he asked.

“You better… hope not.”

“Ah, and what were you doing on this side of town?”

“Not your business.”

“It will go a lot easier for you if you cooperate.” Otarion cursed him, and the man stood. “Strip him of the uniform coat. We don’t need to cause a panic by dragging a Sentinel across the main floor.”

They were ungentle in the act. Otarion struggled against their efforts and received a few kicks for his revolt. They bound his hands and legs with a thin rope that dug into his skin, then dragged him into the building and down a flight of stairs. Inside was loud and stiflingly hot. In the corner was a pianist ripping through jolly tunes as men and women danced in what room was available. Every table was filled with late-night patrons as they drank, ate, and gambled. A thick haze of cigar and cigarette smoke swelled over the crowd like a growing thunderstorm. Illegal consumption of alcohol, prostitution, gambling, weapons left and right, it was a true den of Black-Market jackals.

The man followed them down the steps and gestured to a vacant corner. “Put him over there for now.”

The thugs dropped him in the corner and lashed his wrists to the heating pipe running the length of the room. He slouched against the wall in pain. It felt as though a herd of horses trod over his stomach and ribs for all the dozens of bruises they delivered. As he sat there, he watched the pub. Drinks were plentiful and weapons were abundant. Many engaged in debauchery so unseemly he blushed and resorted to staring at the ground. These people were crude, cruel, and definitely criminals.

It was a long while before two thugs emerged from the crowd and untied him from the pipe. The bigger one hooked his arm through Otarion’s bound hands and dragged him through the tables to a back room. The large, private parlor was warmed by a fireplace on the far wall. Over a dozen men and women lounged at tables and couches and all snickered at his arrival, all except the owner. He was seated by the fire sipping a glass of bourbon. He’d removed his blazer and was lounged in the highbacked chair as though it were a throne. The thug deposited Otarion in a wooden chair positioned just a little too close to the fire for comfort. His ropes were firmly secured to the chair, leaving his head and shoulders the only moveable part of his body.

The man set the empty bourbon glass aside. “Now, lieutenant, what is a lone Sentinel doing in the red quarter of our town?”

He didn’t say. The tension in the room was palpable, and though they acted relaxed and triumphant, there was a distinct sense of unease from the onlookers. The fact a Sentinel was in their presence was bad enough, the fact more might be on the way set them on edge. In all his time in the corps, Otarion never felt so close to death. He could already see his parents receiving an MIA letter.

“You don’t want a dead Sentinel on your records,” he said.

“I’m not going to kill you, just interrogate you. There’s a rule in the Black Market about Sentinels.”

“A Black-Market criminal following rules? What an oxymoron,” he snapped.

The man’s mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “You’d be deferential to the Auctioneer’s wishes if you’d met him too. You should be grateful. He’s the reason you’re still breathing.”

Otarion paused. “You’ve met him?”

“Did I say that?” A young woman in the red dress of a prostitute brought him another glass of bourbon. He raised it in a toast to Otarion, then took a drink. He regarded the drink thoughtfully and said, “Sentinels abstain, yes?”

“Alcohol is illegal, so yes,” Otarion said dryly.

“It’s a very useful lubricant and a quick way to identify Faction officials. Your agents learn to drink before going into the field. It lets them blend in. Hypocritical of them, but then it is an archaic law. Jenny, would you bring some whiskey for our guest?”

She returned with a decanter and shot glass. Otarion eyed the liquor with apprehension. He’d never tasted alcohol before, but he’d seen one too many violently sick drunks to know he never wanted to by choice. That didn’t look like an option here. The man poured a generous amount into the shot glass. Someone from behind held Otarion against the chair and wrenched his jaw open. One of the guards poured the whiskey down his throat. Otarion choked. It was like rancid soda mixed with acid. He coughed and gagged and tried to wriggle out of their grip, but the guards forced down another shot before letting him go. Otarion sagged forward coughing. He was lightheaded, dazed, almost as though he’d just come off a thrilling roller-coaster. The sensation was dampened by the intense pain in his chest worsened by the wracking coughs.

“You’re all complicit,” he gasped. “You’ll see the inside of Drake’s Prison for this!”

“Or the gallows?”

“Yes!”

“I’m a logistics manager, boy. A market lead. Is that worth the gallows?”

Otarion glowered at the man in indignation, trying hard to ignore the growing nausea in his stomach. “You collude with the Auctioneer and his lieutenants. That’s what’s worth the gallows!”

“If that’s your logic then you’re responsible for the crimes of your high command. Do you think their hands are clean? This is a cruel world. Each man must find a way to survive. You and I simply found different methods and different masters, that’s all. Now, you said something about your commanding officer?”

“I…,” Otarion shut his eyes through the haze. Did he mention Regis? “What are you talking about?”

He nodded to the guards and another shot of whiskey was forced down his throat. “You were saying something about your assignment here?”

It was an exhausting ordeal. After the first three shots, the man went on long, circuitous tangents Otarion could barely follow. His captor would slip in benign questions, such as where he was from and how long he’d been a Sentinel. If Otarion didn’t answer, the guards would hit him, and the added pain didn’t help. So, he answered the questions. Yet the more he talked, the harder the questions became, and the less benign. Two more shots of whiskey were forced down his throat, and after an hour of their game, Otarion’s head lulled to the side in misery and intoxication.

The man called it quits. He convened with the others in the room out of Otarion’s hearing. Through the mental fog, he spotted a silver gavel pin on his belt. It was the Auctioneer’s symbol. At his word, the group dispersed, leaving only his captor.

The man pulled a small glass vial from his coat and liberally soaked a white handkerchief with the chemical. “This is going to knock you out for a while. When you return to the corps, there is a message I want you to give to Sentinel Major Joshua Regis. He’s currently stationed at your base.”

Otarion forced himself to straighten. His words were slurred, but understandable. “I’m not… a messenger.”

“You are today. Tell him we know what he’s up to, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave the Auctioneer alone.”

“You can tell… him yourself… across an interrogation table.”

The man offered a tight smile. “Rest easy, my friend.”

He pressed the cloth against Otarion’s nose and mouth. The vague scent of cinnamon and rancid oranges were the hallmarks of Sarrenies Poppy oil. Try as he might to not breathe in the toxin, it was a losing battle. Otarion’s mind drifted further and further until oblivion took him completely.

When he came to, he found he wasn’t tied to the chair, though his wrists throbbed from being recently bound. He was stretched out on the couch close to the fireplace with his head propped up on a pillow. He attempted to sit up and fell back down in anguish. His head ached, it hurt to breathe, and his body felt as though he’d run a double triathlon.

“Take it easy, Otarion.”

He blinked through the haze and found Major Regis sitting in a chair beside him. “Sir?”

“You’re safe. The authorities received a call a Sentinel was abducted at this address. They sent the news along to base, and when I couldn’t get ahold of you, I gathered the unit and came to investigate.” Regis lifted a glass of water to his lips and Otarion drank gratefully. “Was it Sarrenies Poppy oil?”

Otarion took a moment to drink his fill, then replied. “Yes. Did you catch them?”

“No. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Otarion told him everything. It was a muddled account as his mind struggled to throw off the lasting effects of the drug and alcohol, but it was sufficient. Regis sat hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes downcast as he internalized the news. “So, one of the Auctioneer’s market leads was here. They’re a small group, very secretive and influential among the markets. He might’ve been in a dozen places this evening. Your extraordinarily lucky, or unlucky, to have encountered one.”

“Were any clues left behind?”

“Some, but not enough to identify him or where he’d gone. On a better note, Colonel Stackhouse’s agents have found Santos. He’s retreated outside of Faction territory. He’ll want things to cool down before returning to his work, but when he returns, we will make the arrest.”

“In the meantime?”

Regis stood. “We are going home to the Dark Harbor. The unit needs time to recuperate, you especially, and there are other vectors we can follow to penetrate the Auctioneer’s inner circle.”

With the major’s help, Otarion got to his feet. He attempted to walk on his own, and the floor rushed to meet him. Regis caught him and threw his arm over his shoulder. The main room of the speakeasy was abandoned but for the Sentinels scouring every nook and cranny for evidence. At the sight of their battered lieutenant, their aggressive pace doubled.

Otarion reached into his pocket for his communicator and was disappointed to find it was taken. In its place was a scrap of paper with his captor’s message scrawled on the front.

“Sir, they wanted me to give you a message.” He handed him the note. “They know what you’re up to, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave the Auctioneer alone. That was the message.”

Regis’ laugh sent a chill down Otarion’s spine. It was laced with bitter humor and harsh contempt, neither of which he’d ever heard from him before. “If the Auctioneer knows what’s good for him, then he’ll leave my Sentinels alone. He does not want me for an enemy.” Disla appeared from the mayhem and relieved the major of Otarion’s weight. “Take him back to the base and tell the physician I want him fit for travel ASAP. We’re going home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Otarion looked back as the major issued commands to the Sentinels on the scene. He stood tall in righteous fury as he surveyed what remained of the Black-Market den. Had it been possible, the entire premise would've been razed to the ground for its egregious offense. His junior officer was beaten and humiliated, and someone would pay for it.