No one could ever escape the red and golden lances and live to tell against their wielder's choice. After his conversation with Ilianus and the clash of their ideals, Diarmuid found himself running after the murderous thug on pure instinct, as if his principals and dreams had suddenly reawakened inside his withering heart, like a flower opening again after a harsh drought, blooming more vibrantly and radiantly than before. He felt that the appearance of that gang was a sign beckoning him to remember who he was, and what vows he had taken on himself. At that moment, letting murderers who kidnap and torture their victims was out of the question. Even if he was not personally involved, even if the terrorized people were not his own, he wanted to believe, no he believed that his vows of honor and helping the weak extended beyond the borders of any terrain, these vows were synonyms with his heartbeats, vibrating to its thuds and flooding down his veins.
Diarmuid was racing after the two men, them jumping off the buildings roofs and him on the ground yet equaling them with the same fastness granted to Hermes by Zeus. The masked man looked down at his pursuer closing the gap between them and ticked his tongue in irritation. Finding himself injured and hindered further by his friend's serious situation, the man was easily tracked. Realizing he could no longer support his weight and the extra one of his companion, the man had one choice that he did not hesitate to take.
The lancer was jumping off the ground, eyes fixed on the target almost floating in the air when he was forced into a sudden halt as a black – draped heap obstructed his way, almost crushing him. He did not need to check it to know what it was, but he still stopped shocked by the cold – blooded selfish act of cowardice that his enemy would certainly call an efficient necessary measure. Incensed by that action, the lancer looked at the dead body, his skull crushed against the paved street, then jumped over it in order not to tread on the discarded corpse. In contempt, Diarmuid followed the man who easily abandoned his friend to save his skin. Freed of his extra burden, the man was harder to run after but still not invulnerable to catch.
"Lancer!"
Diarmuid turned at the Greek's call accompanied by the neighing of horses. The giant on one, he delivered the second to the knight on foot.
"I borrowed these from Sextus's stable."
Ilianus explained briefly and Diarmuid jumped on the horseback, more determined to capture that man who upon realizing the gravity of the peril the night had turned into, doubled his speed in a desperate attempt to reach a certain spot in the city. Even the golden lance missing him by an inch couldn't stop him from keeping running until he landed in an alley, cleaving the night silence with a whistle.
"I don't like this sound."
Ilianus remarked, surveying the area with caution, not that he could see much in the dark. Diarmuid, arriving slightly later as he retrieved his spear, waded into the street carefully. That loud whistle faded again into silence, and nothing more could be heard or seen, not the sounds of the night birds or the figure they were pursuing.
"Where are we now, anyway? Were we not here yesterday?"
"Their hiding place must be near here then!"
Diarmuid answered, realizing they were near Sabina's house. No, mere inches from it. Probably that man had escaped into the same alley where he first encountered him but which direction was it, the Celtic lancer couldn't tell surely, his sight hindered by the darkness that was so unusual as if summoned to protect the hooded men.
"Dia?"
Just as in the previous morning, the delightful echo of Oscar's childish voice eased the tension rising in the two men's chest.
"Oscar? Go back inside quickly! It is dangerous!"
"What's going on?"
Oscar asked surprised by the lancer's worried reprimand but when he saw him again in the company of the other giant gladiator, both riding on horses and waving their weapons he realized they were up to something serious. The Greek explained in few words.
"We were chasing after one of those hooded gang member, but he disappeared around here..."
"This is perfect! I know these streets well, I can lead the way and together we can get these insane kidnappers! Unless… you have substituted my help, Diarmuid…"
The excitement that overwhelmed Oscar's speech in the beginning, shyly and shamefully faded as he finished his proposal, afraid to hear a degrading answer to his quest to join his mentor and aid him.
"What are you standing there for, Oscar? You plan on leading us on foot?"
Oscar's eyes, lowered at first, now sparkled brighter than the lamp he held in his hands. Quickly getting a horse and a sword from Sabina's house, he returned in less than a minute and led the way. Ilianus stared for a moment at his companion but said nothing. Diarmuid understood the meaning of that stare but Oscar was no burden and if he needed any extra watch, Diarmuid was content to offer it, even at his own risk since Oscar thinking he could be replaced by any other being was out of question. Held this whole time in his heart, Diarmuid wasn't willing to abandon him to doubts and loneliness.
Besides, the determination Oscar showed and his willingness and desire to defeat the heretic gang concerted with forgotten echoes in Diarmuid's heart.
The blond boy led the way, riding beside his lancer master, and despite the danger of the situation and which he was well aware of, he still couldn't prevent himself from twitching on his saddle excitedly, and smiling warmly at the company of his old friend.
"These roads are all open streets, I don't imagine a member of the infamous gang would hide here."
Oscar commented while passing three alleys without entering them, until they arrived at a small slit leading to an even narrower and dirtier alley. The three riders went in and found themselves trudging through a deserted canal as the collapsing ceiling suggested the place to be, muddied water ushering their horses steps.
"How come that woman lives near such a lowly place?"
Diarmuid couldn't stop himself from taking any chance to attack that woman in any feasible mean, even words and questions, that woman who held Oscar's freedom and fate.
"I asked lady Sabina the same question when I first wandered here. She said these alleys weren't like this when her family obtained the house but then they were randomly inhabited later by the peppers who found no houses due to the governor's incompetence."
"The governor's cousin really hates him as the rumors say."
Ilianus said but Oscar didn't reply as if he was protecting his mistress's secrets. Diarmuid watched this, finding relief in the image Oscar was holding to, a knight who would not defile his lady's secrets. Nevertheless, the idea of that manipulative woman taking the role of the knight's lady was beyond repulsive. Oscar and Sabina's relation was not a lady – knight relationship, it was a mistress – slave relationship but the passion Oscar pronounced that woman's name with every time, insisting on using the term "Lady" left profound uneasiness in the lancer's heart. Oscar knew she was his owner, literally, but that did not imply his heart should be hers as well.
The three continued riding silently, realizing they had to sharpen all their senses in order to catch a glimpse of any movement or sound. The night's darkness deepening, Diarmuid took the lead when he asserted a movement similar to a stray cat's curvature, except it was not a feline's body.
"The rat had finally fallen."
"I wouldn't be sure, Ilianus."
The lancer replied at the giant's victorious proclaim. Behind the single black cape, twenty other capes fluttered weaving an extra layer to the darkness.
"Now we won't leave a single piece of flesh in your bodies!"
The pursued, now on the attack, stated triumphantly with a twisted smirk on his face. Hearing it from the man who abandoned his friend and seemed untroubled by the thought, the Celtic knight brawled with anger but knew he couldn't take any risks, outnumbered and half blinded by the bleakness of that night.
Though there were no clouds in the sky a minute before, the tarry firmament suddenly conjured lofty clouds that poured with rain. Grim As the darkness that mantled it, the drops were cladded in steel and coldness. Ambushed from all over the dark vault with hailing daggers, the three warriors had no choice but to abandon their horses which neighed in agonizing loudness, their blood seeping down along the mucky water as their riders rolled down the earth ungracefully waving their weapons randomly at the sound of steel cluttering through the dense air.
"Crawl there like the rats you're! This is a humiliation no different than the one you yield to under that man's wealth! You have only added to your own indignity by refusing to display the same bravery your fellow gladiators and slaves had shown by joining us… This is your rightful place!"
Oscar hastily threw his sword at the speaker who dodged it with great quickness and ease, as if his senses were tuned to the dark, an inborn of that domain. This action called to a second barrage of daggers but the three men whose position quickly turned from being the chaser to the chased sought protection behind a large column against which most of the daggers collided aimlessly. The three caught their breaths waiting for a direct ambush that never came. Now, their suspicions were confirmed; these criminals who formed a notorious gang that terrorized the people were only brave while lurking in the shadows where their kidnapping and assassinations took place. They were no fighters, the did not possess the strength for direct assaults. But even though, the three warriors who could easily take the opponents lives in a face to face combat were in an unfavorable situation, surrounded from every angle, literally stuck in the worst possible claustrophobic battlefield. Diarmuid gritted his teeth in annoyance, trying to put his mind into figuring a plan to tip the scale, while Ilianus's patience began to run with every passing second he could not attack and remained caged behind the huge column. He started fidgeting left and right in his tight place. The only thing they could do was wait for the morning light, then at least they will be able to discern the lurking attackers location and take lead of the battle but the dawn seemed faraway.
"Damn!"
The lancer hissed under his breath when Oscar's cold hand reached to his arm and pulled at it. Diarmuid raised his head, the sound of trotting hooves grating at his ears through the deadly silence. Then a burning light blazed the canal. It was not the hour of the dawn yet, but the place lit in a fiery light as many torches invaded the darkness.
"Who goes there?"
A commanding voice echoed against the stony walls. A man in a soldier's outfit accompanied by other ten or less flew across the mud and water. Their dusty uniforms suggested they were not a platoon from the city's garrison. Their commander did not take long time to assess the situation. It seemed he had already heard the tales about the infamous gang terrorizing this city as he ordered his soldiers to attack immediately and help the three fighting against them. No time for thanks or thinking, the two fighting groups were instantly engaged, an alliance between the three slaves and the soldiers formed without communication against the black – cladded men. The flying daggers still proved difficult to dodge but not impossible anymore. However, the battle outcome was quickly seized by the soldiers who did not fear a direct attack, and the gang appeared troubled by the unfavorable situation. Against the soldiers' swords, their numbers swiftly fell down, and those who remained of them had to face the Greek's bat and the two Celtics' blades. Diarmuid proudly watched his pupil who didn't fail to surprise him. Back to back, the two men of the same blood and kin fought like two dragons emerging out of one body, in a dance rhyming with the mountains stability and the rain's sharpness. However, as the heat of battle rose, the harmony of the two Celtics' soul melted beneath it. Suddenly, the pupil Diarmuid wished to protect revealed himself needless of this protection. Agile, accurate, yet still a little rash, Oscar proved to have become a formidable fighter. Amidst the clashing swords and cavorting spears, nothing of the scared boy seeking safety and warmth in his companion's lap unashamed of shedding tears at the separation from his home remained. Now, Oscar's movements reflected a mirror of the lancer's former self. He didn't know if he should be pleased or saddened by what he was seeing. The only feeling that resided in his heart undisputed, was a sorrow. For what exactly, he could not tell.
"My earlier words didn't include you Diarmuid, we are still waiting your magnificent lances to join our dignified cause!"
Distracted from his thoughts, Diarmuid finally had the chance to face that man for the third time now, on equal ground and a fair fighting stance.
"You dare speak of dignity, you lowly mutt? You easily abandoned your friend to save yourself, you are lower than a stray dog!"
The lancer replied letting his spears speak louder than his words, that man was on the defense, repelling the red blade with a saber. He did not seem to be insulted by the Celtic's response but he still talked back.
"A soldier's mission comes before all. Our goal was to assassinate that life – sucking fiend! Getting caught is not an option! Two men died, and the dead don't speak . Escaping while dragging my wounded fellow warrior was dangerous to our cause! It is because we're true fellow warriors and friends that he understood this, I needn't even explain it to him, for every fighter know this rule!"
"Am I supposed to applaud for your devotion? You're but a jester, a puppet obeying someone's orders! You cannot call yourself a soldier or even a warrior! If you were a little bit more competent, you could have saved your friends' lives, and not used these underhanded combat methods! What you call a sacrifice means nothing, it does not even save your honor, if you had any!"
Diarmuid exclaimed as the two men continued to exchange blows, the lancer gaining the upper hand though using one lance. He did not need to entertain his foe any longer since he only spouted nonsense, and thus with a flashy swing from his long blade, he disarmed his opponent and prepared to deliver the final strike. The man did not seem fazed by the loss of his weapon, as he contorted his body like a slithering leech, avoiding the lethal tip that shone brightly amidst the fire.
"You have the guts to speak to me thus while you have forgotten who you are and surrendered your past to the amusement of these vile people! You still believe you can call yourself a knight?"
Although none of the man's strikes reached the lancer, his words tore at him deeper and more painfully than any blade could, for they were true and the lancer knowing this too well, had no reasoning or justifications to defend his pride with, so he lashed at the man that kept dodging him in crazed rage, because sometimes anger is the only way to retaliate against cruel truths. Despite the furiosity the man was attacked with, he kept his feet steady in their run. Five steal tips glittered under his flowy sleeve as he jumped back leaving a considerable distance between his attacker and himself, a sly smile glinted on his face along the five daggers that flew by the lancer's head without hitting him, not because the man had missed his aim, but because the lancer was not the target. Smelling foul play evident by that smile of triumph, Diarmuid glanced behind him and his heart beat fast at the sight of Oscar outnumbered with his back recklessly open to the flying blades. Forgetting his rage and his opponent, he raced toward the boy reaching to his second spear, stabbing one of Oscar's foes with the long red blade while deflecting the dirty attack with the short golden one.
"Dia!"
Oscar exclaimed turning his head while defending himself against three gang members, his wide blue eyes shifting quickly between his panting mentor and his foe realizing what had happened or was about to happen.
"I will kill you for this!"
Oscar shouted, turning his back to his enemies and dashing toward the man in black.
"Will you kill me because I played dirty with your friend or because I knew that you were the most one in need of protection out of the three?"
The man taunted, tugging at the boy's weakness successfully as the later ran toward him with the intention to cut the taunting tongue with his sword but something strong tugged at his leg, and he found himself falling face down into the wet ground, seconds before the shine of three swords were about to take his head, coming from the men standing behind his opponent. Oscar shook his head spitting out the filthy water, he looked at the man laughing at his ungraceful luck then whipped his head back angrily to see Diarmuid, who was the one who had pulled him to save his neck. He was saved yet once again during a short time by the same man, all due to his recklessness and underestimation of the situation and he started muttering profanities that his mentor had never imagined hearing them out of the shy boy's mouth. He had turned into a man indeed, but with the same foolishness and thoughtlessness of his childish self.
Having Diarmuid taking care of his previous opponents, Oscar lunged forward to return the insult with death. The man kept the same technique he was using to avoid Diarmuid's lethal strikes, falling back and dodging while distracting his foe with daggers, which Oscar deflected effortlessly until he heard a curse and the sound of torn skin. He looked over his shoulder, his hands trembling when he realized some of the weapons he had blocked with his sword had curved toward his mentor, who was counting on him to have his back.
"Dia!"
Oscar gulped, cold sweat of shame running down his face. Diarmuid was still engaged with three men, but now his left arm was of little use to him, wounded and bleeding. He had to let go of one of the spears. In his pitiful state, Oscar lost himself and did not know what to do, attack forward or fall backward. Hesitant and afraid to make another mistake, a dagger swept through the air by his side, aimed at the lancer's back but another sword rose to the Celtic's help parrying the cowardly thrown weapon away. Both Celtics looked at that Roman commander who interrupted the scene, saving the lancer's life before he leapt off his horse and came to his aid taking care of two of his opponents. Holding solely to his arrows now that he had abandoned his sword.
Left of the twenty hooded assassins merely seven, including the sole survivor of Sextus' assassination attempt, the gang had no choice but to retreat but that option was reserved for only one of them. With the dawn approaching, the hooded men gathered in one black lump as someone threw something in the air. A heavy cloud of smoke surrounded the place, tearing the silence with the sound of an explosion. The created fog was brief and as it cleared the group of hooded men was spread in every angle, blocking the enemy, in a desperate attempt for one last stand up.
"Show me that I can still call you a knight! I will be waiting for you, dual – wielder!"
Everyone followed the sound, and the addressed man was the first to find the masked man, standing atop of a column, the early morning rays radiating off his black cape as if repelled by it. After finishing his speech, the man turned his back and Ilianus urged the lancer:
"Now Diarmuid! Nail that bastard with your lances!"
It was a perfect chance though lasting for few seconds. Had he wanted to, the lancer could have easily impaled the man to the top of the column he was standing at. But the two lances did not move to grace the air. The masked man smiled victoriously, falling back and vanishing into the morn sky.
This last foolish act was a diversion, the remaining thugs were ready to sacrifice themselves for the sake of that one man, who was perhaps their leader. As he vanished, the Roman commander ordered his soldiers to seize them, putting an end to the massacre and spoiling their sacrifice.
Was this a noble act? Was it a heroic sacrifice? The lancer knew the men believed so, and were they a group of mere revolutionaries, he would have applauded the act and wielded his blades to defend them but these were murderers in the name of some twisted justice they envisioned.
"This group of thugs is even more dangerous than what I have heard."
The leader of the small Roman battalion stated while he sheathed his retrieved sword. Upset by the wasted chance, Ilianus inquired why the Celtic did not seize the opportunity. To everyone's surprise, it was the soldiers' commander who justified the lancer's decision.
"The man gave his back willingly to these magnificent blades, betting on the worth of their wielder. Besides, though it may sound stupid to the majority of people, but he indeed was ready to sacrifice his life to fulfill his duty, serve his cause, and not fail his leader."
The commander explained with a friendly smile at the Celtic lancer that wasn't returned.
"Why?"
Diarmuid asked coldly.
"You, without hesitation nor thinking, left your back open to a perfidious enemy in order to save your friend. Only a truthful honorable warrior would do this. I have been on countless battlefields yet seen nothing similar. I admire it."
Seeking no praise or complement, the lancer kept his razing stare along his silence and the soldier was not offended. Despite longing to hear these words and proving them right with his last action, Diarmuid could not feel the joy they were supposed to bring or the warmth they were meant to ignite in his troubled heart. Commendation was something he was used to be showered with from both enemies and allies, and hearing it from an enemy added much more to its worth. Yet that night, he could not tell if he should consider that Roman soldier a friend or a foe. His praise was truthful, his admiration was not deceitful. He seemed a good honorable man himself but the lancer still did not wish to assign any adjective to that soldier who understood him more than his two companions through his actions during a single fight. The governor had called him by what he was once, bequeathing him his old past once again, and now that noble soldier's eyes could easily discern the worth of his blades and the vows made upon them. However, he still could not accept the truth despite its continuous trials to re - emerge and establish itself once again. Having to struggle to resurface, did that merit the worth that the governor and this solider had asserted him with as something admirable or real? The image of the changed Oscar was real, his fury at the comparison was evident. What if he had changed as well without noticing?
Deciding to drop the matter, the giant Greek poked another stick, more seriously though hiding it under a merry tone, as he addressed the younger Celtic.
"Hey Oscar, which of the two reasons the man gave you was true?"
Ilianus asked referring to the incident where Diarmuid had to rush to his help, when he left himself open and vulnerable. Oscar looked at the giant briefly before answering.
"I do not remember what you are talking about."
The boy answered then turned at his mentor to inspect his wounds. Diarmuid looked deeply at his friend's eyes but they revealed nothing, unlike their usual purity through which all emotions flowed unrestrained, his blue orbs reflected nothing this time, dim as the night they were fighting in. Ilianus and the commander looked at the pair curiously. There was no way Oscar had forgotten, his rage and frustration at that accident made it difficult to believe he did not remember. Diarmuid knew this as well but did not have the heart to question his younger friend's real reasons.