"I have a plan," Salvador said as he burst into Gerard's room. The man was just about to take off his pants.

Gerard shouted "By the Angel King!" in utter surprise. "Knock much?"

Salvador shrugged.

"The door was locked!"

"I picked it."

Gerard stared at him and then threw his hands in defeat. "Whatever. What is it, Salvador?"

"I have a plan to get the Barbarudi to support us."

"Well, what is it?"

Salvador falters. His plan is not one that he believes Gerard will enjoy, however, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Gerard raised an eyebrow. "Is it stupid?"

Salvador licked his lips which he found were surprisingly dry. "Maybe. And not honorable. Not at all."

Somehow, Gerard seemed to understand. "Do you need my help?"

"No. . . not really."

The Freelancer Knight nodded. "Don't tell me. Do it, whatever your plan is. If you believe it will convince the Barbarudi, then carry out your plan. We are out of options here, Salvador. We need success."

Salvador nods firmly. "I won't fail."

Gerard gives a wan smile. "I know you won't."

Salvador left the room and navigated his way around the castle until he made his way down to the dungeons. The dungeon guards crossed their spears, blocking Salvador's way. Of course, Salvador still has Gerard's Aes Sídhe longsword and his hand itches to draw the blade. However, he remains steady and looks the guard dead in the eye. "I wish to see the Réaltimarine spy."

"On whose authority?" one of the guards bark.

"The duke said I could. Please, let me see this man. I have seen death and suffering to a degree that you cannot encompass nor imagine. I have seen his kind slaughter women and children without a blink. The blood that lined the stones of Grenaserrat City was not that of soldiers and highborns, but of the commoners and middlemen like you and me. Please, let me see this man. . . let me give him retribution."

The guards seemed to waver. Their resolve slowly began to crumble. Salvador stepped towards the one that had spoken and said, "Do you know what it's like? To have this anger eat you up from the inside out? If I don't let it out somehow, it will corrupt me. But here, I have someone I can take it out on: the Réaltimarine. But nonetheless, the duke himself gave me permission!"

Salvador thought he did well. But then the guards' faces seemed to harden. He had made a mistake.

"I'm afraid we are not allowed to permit strangers without a seal or a trusted Barbarudi person into the dungeons."

Blast it!

"What is all the fuss?" came a frail voice down the hall. It belonged to an old man perhaps in his sixties who dressed in a black robe and held the dungeon keys at his side. The Dungeon Keeper.

The guards quickly saluted. "This young man wishes to enter the dungeons, Master."

"Is that so? On whose permission do you have to enter the dungeon?"

"He claims the duke himself has given him permission."

"Oh? Why, let's call him down here then."

Salvador kept a calm demeanor, but on the inside, his heart was racing. Oh come on.

The Dungeon Keeper grabbed a passing servant and sent him to deliver the message. And so they waited, and waited, and waited. The guards stared at Salvador suspiciously while the Dungeon Keeper had a smirk on his wrinkled face.

After some time, he could hear the footsteps of the duke echoing down the hall. Along with his blatant cursing of the Dungeon Keeper. "What in the Angel King's name is it now, Simeone?" the duke asked furiously. He faltered when he saw Salvador. "Oh, is it not the squire of the Freelancer Knight."

I'm going to hurt someone if I get called a squire again.

"Yes." he replied calmly.

"This young rascal claims to have your permission to enter the dungeons, Your Grace. He wishes to see the Réaltimarine spy," The Dungeon Keeper said.

Salvador stared at the duke. "Indeed I said that―" He let a fanatic gleam enter his eye. "―for I have to see this spy. He has to. . . pay for what happened in Grenaserrat City." He took a step closer to the duke. "And you said I could."

The duke was silent. The pause stretched out and only served to heighten the tension. And then, the Duke of Benevo and the Lord of Bethebleu said, "Indeed I gave him permission."

The jaw of the Dungeon Keeper dropped in surprise. "W-what. . ."

"Silence, Simeone," the duke said. "I shall not repeat myself. Guards, permit him."

The dungeon guards nodded and lifted their spears, allowing Salvador to enter. The Dungeon Keeper began to follow, but before they went down the steps, Salvador glanced back at the duke. The man had an amused look on his face and gave Salvador a small smile.

The Dungeon Keeper leads Salvador to the cell of the Réaltimarine spy. The man has light brown hair and green eyes that are dull with pain and misery. He has a shaggy, overgrown beard and was in desperate need of a bath. Salvador leaned on the bars of the cell. He stayed silent for a long while, not sure what to say to the Réaltimarine. Finally, he decides to say nothing. Instead, his hand shoots out and grabs the Réaltimarine by the collar of his worn shirt. The Réaltimarine cries out in pain and surprise while the Dungeon Keeper lets out an exclamation of surprise. Salvador pulled the man to the edge of the cell and snarled in the spy's ear in the Merchant Tongue, "What do you know about the attack on Grenaserrat City?"

The spy responded in his harsh variant of the Merchant Tongue, "T-they already asked me this question! P-please, I don't know much. All I know is that the High King wishes to assault Barbaruda as soon as possible after the conquest of Grenaserrat."

The spy was fumbling with something in one of his pockets. It was subtle, but Salvador was alert and noticed the movement. Instead of asking, Salvador's other hand shot out grabbed an embroidered patch that seemed to bear an Evrúopean sigil. Salvador gave out a wan smile. Just what I needed.

He set down the spy and then punched him. Hard and in the jaw. Seeing the spy crumple gave Salvador a feeling of satisfaction. He turned to the Dungeon Keeper and said, "I'm done here."

***

Salvador attempted to leave the outer castle walls in worn travel clothes and rumpled up hair. He had a desperate look in his eyes, one that are common in those who drink to forget. He wore a backpack that contained a black robe, a handbow (a miniature version of a crossbow that could be held and fired with one hand, an Evrúopean invention) that he had found in Captain Tomas's possession which he may or may not have stolen, a quiver that carried the bolts, and a grappling hook. He also had a side-sword instead of Gerard's longsword. The guards at the gate saw him stumbling along and seemed annoyed at him.

"Where do you plan on going?" one of them asked.

Isn't my business my own? Instead, Salvador gave them what he hoped to be a drunken grin. "Just to find a few bottles and maybe. . . something more."

One of the guards grinned. "Ha! If you're going to the left bank of the mainland, the best place across that bridge is West Vya Mateas. They've got the best stuff in the city, if you know what I mean."

"Thaaaaaaank you," Salvador said, slurring his speech. Once he had crossed the long bridge over to the West Bank, he immediately found his way to West Vya Mateas. There were several taverns on the street, and so he picked the one with the most people in it. Just his luck that the tavern he entered had a group of castle guards drinking ale and beer.

Salvador made his way to the guards boldly and announced, "Everyone gets a drink on me boys!" Rightfully, the guards were a little bit stunned, but some of the more loose ones cheered and soon the entire group was onboard with the idea.

"What about for the ladies?" one of them asked. It was only then Salvador noticed two women dressed in castle guard uniform.

He shook it off with a laugh and said, "Them too!"

Everyone got their drinks and Salvador paid off the tab. Wow, it really hurts to give someone money, he thought as he handed over the mercantii necessary. Salvador found himself a seat at the table and waited nonchalantly as the guards continued to talk amongst themselves.

The time is passing. I have to hurry.

Once it seemed that most of the guards had gotten drunk enough, Salvador asked, "You guys are castle guards. Anything interesting happen this week?"

"Ho!" one of the guards boomed, a gruff middle-aged man who really liked his beer. "Lord Horado, Count of Seseblanc has taken up residence in the castle this week. Whenever the duke marches off to war, the count is always leading his armies. The best commander in all of Benevo. I don't know what the duke would do without him." The guards all laughed collectively at that.

"Where's this count staying? If you know."

"He's been given an honorary room on the duke's floor of the tower. Basically calling him family."

Salvador smiled to himself. Just what he needed. He already knew the floor where the duke stayed.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers shouted an expletive. Everyone in the tavern turned and stared at them. It was one of the ladies, who was now blushing a deep red. "Sorry," she apologized, "but I just remembered that the count was coming to the barrack's to inspect on us."

The rest of the guards subsequently shouted expletives.

They quickly thanked Salvador and rushed off. Salvador waited a bit before he began to shadow them. The guards rushed back to the bridge which Salvador had crossed to get here, but instead of going back to the Tower of Sirens, they took a right. After some more running, they reached a small fortress-like building which Salvador guessed to be the barracks. It was surrounded by a wooden rampart with soldiers patrolling on top.

Salvador jumped into an alley not far from the barracks and analyzed the walls and noted all the guards. There were not very many of them. Most of the guards would be defending the armoury instead of the ramparts. The guards traveled in pairs, which would prove troublesome as if he shot one of them, the other would sound the alarm. He needed a diversion to avert the guards' attention long enough so he could scale the wall. He took note of his surroundings but only saw a few people strolling down the street. At this time of day, the only people on the streets were thugs, drunkards, and bastards.

Salvador knew what he had to do. He felt sick but. . . if all went well, he would save so many lives. He took out his handbow from his backpack and quickly dressed in a black cloak. Strapping the quiver over his back, he grabbed a bolt and fitted it into the handbow. He took aim at a group of five really bad-looking fellows. A gang, no doubt, patrolling their territory. Grimacing he pulled the trigger.

The bolt struck one of the gang members in the leg, he cried in pain. The other members followed where the shot came from and charged, hoisting their clubs, daggers, and makeshift spears. Salvador put away his handbow and drew his side-sword.

The first member to reach him tried to bring down his club on Salvador. Deftly, Salvador grabbed his arm, stopping the blow, and punched the man in his balls. The gangster doubled over and Salvador followed up with a knock to the face, sending the gangster flying and unconscious. Salvador's sword whirled as the next one reached him. He ducked under the stab of a dagger and cut the gangster's legs. Nothing that wouldn't heal but effectively put the gangster out of action. The gangster with a spear gave a nervous stab at Salvador before hastily backing away. Salvador ignored him for the time being and spun around a charging gangster, a younger one too, and knocked him in the back of the head with his pommel. He spun again and grabbed the spear of the last gangster, twisting it out of his hands, and promptly knocked him upside the head.

The diversion worked.

The soldiers on the wall all turned their attention to the alley where the brief fight had taken place. They bickered amongst themselves before seemingly reaching an agreement. A few of the soldiers left their partners to investigate the situation.

Salvador dashed behind the buildings, out of the sight of the troops on the walls. Finally, he reaches a point on the wall with no soldiers besides one about twelve feet away. Thankfully, the rampart was not so tall so it only took Salvador a couple of seconds to scale it. With his handbow in hand, he crept forward and shot the guard twelve feet away in the throat. Before the guard hit the rampart, he caught him and laid him down gently. Putting away the handbow, he drew his throwing knives and got down from the ramparts by way of a set of stairs.

Salvador crept his way to the doors of the main building by dashing behind crates and buildings whenever soldiers got close. Just as he was about to fling his knives at the soldiers at the door, the sounds of fighting drew his attention. Deciding to check it out, he made his way around to what seemed to be a training ring. Soldiers were sparring in the ring and were being watched by an audience. In the audience, Salvador spotted from behind a barrack a man in a fine military uniform with stripes, badges, and medals decorating his uniform; along with that, he had a sigil that Salvador identified as the coat of arms of the County of Seseblanc.

There he is.

Salvador loaded his handbow and drew his side-sword. Breathing calmly, he took aim. . .

And fired.

The bolt took the Count of Seseblanc in the heart. He went down, dead before he even hit the ground.

Salvador revealed himself from behind the barrack, dropping the handbow and drawing a throwing knife. He threw the knife at the first soldier to reach him and deftly grabbed another.

And so began the slaughter.