Not So Famous…

Robert Jordan (RJ) was the author of the Wheel of Time series of fantasy books. I say “was”, of course, because he passed away last year after a fight with amyloidosis, which was immensely sad.  It was sad both because it was the passing of a legend, and also because he passed before he could finish the final book (which has become three books in the successor’s hands) in his epic saga, the Wheel of Time.  But, as they say, the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.

Ultimately, however, the title of my post is meant to foreshadow its content.  Apart from that brief explanation of his death, I won’t mention it again.  I would like to mention that Robert Jordan was a true master of epic fantasy.

First off, in this post, I’m not meaning to slight Tolkien or his fans.  Tolkien certainly is a master of high fantasy, but it’s easy to see that Tolkien’s skills lay in perhaps a different direction than RJ’s.  Tolkient created languages first, and then told the stories to explain the languages. He created vast histories, which he detailed in his notes.  For all of that, however, his writing remained mostly dry-ish, reading in many places like a history book, which it almost is, considering all the work that went into his books in that regard.  And while Jordan’s world definitely has something on the order of 9,000+ years of history behind it, it is the organic creation of various people groups that really sets Jordan’s work apart in my mind.

In anticipation of the first of the final trilogy in the series coming out in a few days, I have begun re-reading the entire Wheel of Time (WoT) series, beginning with the prequel novel, A New Spring. In beginning this epic journey, I quickly remembered what held my attention with Jordan’s writing, and it wasn’t always thr story.

Jordan weaves mythology, history, and legend into his works to give them some of that epic scope that he succeeded in creating. Other authors have done this arguably more or less successfully than Jordan, but I don’t feel that this kind of storytelling is where he succeeds. The various characters have relationships with powerful mythological figures that tell us something of their purpose and goals in the series, but it’s not what kept me reading through 12 books.

Speaking of the characters, they’re certainly interesting, with flaws and strengths that are mostly believable.  However, while there is some character development throughout the series, there is also a great deal of repetition in terms of phrases and sayings they each (over)use.  I’m not saying there’s little character development…it’s just that there are other authors who have accomplished this more significantly in their works, and it is not what has captured my attention for so long.

The story itself is grand and compelling.  But any story can lose its luster when you’re talking a dozen books.  There were books where Jordan’s story seemed to lose its way.  It was as though it had gotten too big for its britches…too epic.  In order to continue the telling of a story that spanned the whole of his known world, he had to tell pieces of the story about characters who were not what most of us considered the “main characters”.  At the very least, in order to get some sense of the story moving along, he had to leave certain main characters for an entire book in one case.  When he had to start doing some of this, getting through his books became a little more tedious.  For me, a low point was the book or two after A Crown of Swords.  The increasingly longer wait between books certainly didn’t help. But while the story is compelling, and I want to know how it ends, I couldn’t class Jordan as the best storyteller of his age.  This is all opinion, of course, and I’m sure there are those who would disagree, but I would say that enjoying books is a very personal activity, and I do not compel anyone else to share my opinion in their heart of hearts.

So what, if not story, characters, or research, would cause me to list Jordan as a master?  His building of his world.  When I came back to this series, I was immediately struck with the fact that I could tell the ethnicity of most characters he was writing based on a simple description of how they spoke, how they were dressed, or how they were otherwise adorned.  Jordan did not have to say something as easy as “A man, obviously from Illian, approached me an began to speak.”  It’s simple enough to use phrases like that, of course.  But it seems that Jordan asked himself how he would recognize someone from a different culture, and developed cultures that were recognizable from speech or dress; and did a darn good job of it.  For example:

As I approached the dock, a large man with a beard that left his upper lip bare barred my way.

Now, anyone who has read enough of Jordan’s work would recognize that man as an Illianer from the beard.  (Also his proximity to ships, which Illianers seem more than fond of.  Had he spoken, he might have said something to the effect of, “Where do ye be going?”  That manner of speech smacks heavily of Illian.) See a man wearing a veil that doesn’t quite conceal thick bushy, mustaches?  You’re looking at a Taraboner.  A woman wearing a clinging silk dress that manages not to reveal anything while actually emphasizing everything underneath?  She’s from Arad Doman.  Topknots, bells in hair and on clothes, and braided cords looped over the head indicate men from the Borderlands, specifically Shienar, Arafel, and long-dead Malkier respectively. Dark skin with visible tattoos, and you are in the presence of one of the Atha’an Miere, or Sea Folk.  In addition to fads and dress, Jordan’s use of commonalities in language and prejudices will also reveal the ethnic origins of any character in his stories.

Now, why does this make him a master?  Well, in fantasy, fantastic races are the norm.  Elves, Orcs, Gnomes, Dwarves, and Trolls are common.  Emphasizing the differences in race is not even necessary.  If someone says “there’s an orc”, there’s no question as to what gave the speaker that impression.  The same holds true for any of the other races.  Jordan’s world, however, is a world almost entirely dominated by humans.  There are ogier (good guys), trollocs, and myrddraal (both bad), but none of them are exactly common.  Yet Jordan’s humans are from many nations, and distinguishing between them is a very important aspect of his storytelling, and helps keep the human dominated landscape from going stale. What’s more, power struggles of the nobility and various racial preferences and enmities are also important in certain story arcs.  Understanding that Tairen nobility are pretty dismissive of their commoners can become important to understanding Tairen character motivations and the like.

I feel Robert Jordan has created a political world with enough depth that I feel like I have spent some time there. While I may not be a native to Randland, as it is often called, I definitely understand its people in a way that I have never understood the people of any other world flowing from an author’s pen. I’m looking forward to the release of the next book, The Gathering Storm, and the eventual conclusion of this most epic story.

Dregon murmured the prayer that would infuse Geffry with the life of his gawd, but it wasn’t working!  He wrestled in prayer with his gawd, while all around him the battle raged. He didn’t see why the gawd chose now to demonstrate his displeasure with Geffry, but if his gawd withheld the healing only he could give, then Dregon didn’t know what he could do but continue asking.

—–

Meanwhile, Sir Breck dealt out gleaming death to those around him, right and left.  His blade flashed alongside Skaarg’s while Feltar slung magic missiles into the fray. Sir Breck gave silent thanks to the gawd of Dregon for finding a mage with the magic-missile spell in his arsenal.  Quite often, young mages began with almost no useful offensive spells, and it had seemed like far more than luck when they came across Feltar sipping a glass of wine in the village of Sargen. Sir Breck was a little puzzled, however, that it seemed to be many lowly kobolds only who attacked the party.  He spun to lazily lop the head off the nearest kobold and shouted for Dregon.

“Father! Where is Geffry?  I need him behind this band of stinking kobolds!”

“Sir, the gawd denies his healing to Geffry!  I am beseeching him, but he does not answer!” Sir Breck nearly swore, but remembered himself almost too late. He had foresworn cursing in an effort to better serve Dregon’s gawd. Was that not worth something?

“If he dies, Father, I will need you to raise him!”

“Sir, I cannot! The gawd grants that power to clerics holier and more experienced than I.  One must serve the gawd for several years before being given that amazing blessing!” Drat, thought Sir Breck. More silver he did not have down the drain to get the thief raised; and a delay at that.

The knight quickly dodged a spear thrust from a kobold that he barely saw out of the corner of his eye.  He began to pray out loud in a shout while he protected the squishy mage, Feltar, who had run out of magic missiles, and was now thwacking the heads of kobolds.

“My lord gawd, I am your most unworthy servant, you well know! Nevertheless Good One, I AM your servant!  At this moment, I need Geffry alive.” The knight shouted as he carved yet another kobold from shoulder to hip. “I find myself in a battle against YOUR enemies, Great One, and I am unable to defend your name without the thief!  I know you frown upon his ways, but alive, we might yet convert him! Dead, however, he cannot even serve you unwillingly by preserving the lives of your servants in this group!” Sir Breck flinched as he felt a sword clattering against the back of his plate armor. He spun just in time to see Skaarg’s greatsword slice through a kobold arm and send both the arm and the sword spinning away. “If you see fit to spare the life of your most unworthy servant, Good One, please grant the gift of your healing to the thief!  May it be so!”

At that, Dregon shouted that it worked, and before too long, Sir Breck saw Geffry in the rear of his opponents, thrusting his short sword into their relatively unprotected backs.  As always, Sir Breck marveled at the small thief’s speed and agility in spinning, dodging, flipping, and rolling, all the while keeping out of sight of most of the enemies. It was how Geffry worked in a melee, and Sir Breck was thankful for it.  He had time only to breath a sigh of thanks to the gawd of Dregon before he had to concentrate fully on the battle at hand.

Within minutes, the kobold threat was put to rest when the last few monsters ran screaming into the forest bordering the clearing. Sir Breck cleaned his sword on his spare cloak, and sprang into the leader role without hesitation.

“Feltar, Skaarg, keep watch.  I do NOT want to be surprised again. Tend to one another’s wounds until I am finished with Dregon and Geffry. I’ll send Dregon to you as soon as I can spare him.” Feltar looked crestfallen as he had a wound above his right eye he wanted looked at before it began to fester. Skaarg only nodded and held his bloody sword at the ready, while scanning the edges of the forest.

“Geffry, come here and listen.  Father, tell him what happened.”

Geffry, wiping his short sword on his only cloak, wobbled on now-unsteady legs over to where Sir Breck and Dregon were huddled.

“Geff, when I saw you fall, I was on you that fast. But the gawd did not at first grant healing to you.  I have told you numerous times that the gawd does not approve of you stealing from the good, and…”

“…aye.  This, I’ve heard.  The good Sir did not tell you to preach at me, holy man.” Sir Breck quickly placed a hand on the thief’s forearm.

“No, Geffry. This is important.  The good Father Dregon did not say that the healing didn’t work, as though this were one of Feltar’s spell mishaps.  No, the gawd denied his healing to you.”  Geffry rolled his eyes and made as though he would complain until Dregon spoke again.

“Geffry, I have never withheld healing from a one. It is not mine to judge who the gawd helps.  I merely ask, and the gawd grants…until now.  I know what the Holy Writings say about thievery against the good, and I have told you these things.  The good Sir Breck had to intercede for you, and for whatever reason, the gawd heeded him.  You are healed because Sir Breck asked the gawd to help us.  Sir Breck, this is unheard of, and you may want to consider what it means. If the gawd is bestowing some manner of favor upon you, as his paladin, you may want to step up your giving, your preaching, and your defense of all that is good.  That means that you must stop the thief from taking from the good.  I…” Geffry sputtered.

“Wait a minute, holy man! This is my livelihood we’re talking about here.  Breck, you MUST…”

“SIR Breck, Geffry, and Father Dregon has a point. I cried out to the gawd in desperation, because you were fast dying. You are alive because he chose to grant my request.  This is something I will consider more fully as we journey through the mines.  However, you will cease your stealing from the good until we can figure out what all of this means.”  Geffry made as though he would protest this treatment, but Sir Breck interrupted him again. “No, Geffry, you listen to me now. You are alive because I vouched for you with the gawd.  I will not let you sully my word, and if it means I have to grant you extra shares in these mines, so be it.  You will not go hungry, but if you steal once more from the good, I will consider ending your life, myself.”

“Very wise, my lord,” began Dregon.

“No, Father.  I wanted to speak to you as well. The gawd may have granted his favor to us this afternoon, but I need you to make sure you’re on his good side, here.  The gawd has granted his healing to Geffry before. What has changed, and you cannot tell me it’s Geffry’s behavior.  He has always stolen against your protests, and always the gawd healed him. Perhaps you ought to look within your own heart to see what it is the gawd doubts in you.  I must have the gawd with us on this adventure.  He, himself, granted us the sign of his favor in Sargen, I need not remind you. He indicated he was with us, and now we have this near-devastating setback.  I need also not remind you that were something like this to happen inside the Mines of Chaos, we would be in dire straits.  We are going to spend the evening out here, and I suggest you and I spend that time in prayer.  Skaarg, Feltar, and Geffry will keep watch, but you and I will pray.  Yes?”

“Yes, my lord.  You are, of course, right.  I do not know why the gawd did not grant my request.” Sir Breck stood and gave the orders to have camp made up, and then knelt to pray with Dregon.

—–

Geffry, walked to gather wood with Feltar while Skaarg took first watch. He didn’t understand what the gawd wanted with him, but wasn’t entirely comfortable with Sir Breck potentially becoming a paladin. In Geffry’s experience, paladins were powerful, but far too…righteous for Geffry’s taste.  They also did not seem to care how a man ate, or indeed whether a man ate, so long as the divine rules were upheld. He would stay with Sir Breck for as long as it was profitable; while the promise of more shares in the take held. But as soon as it was more dangerous for Geffry to stay with this group than to leave, he planned to look out for number one…as he always did.

Geffry looked intently at the opening to what he presumed to be the Mines of Chaos.  It was where the map led their motley group, anyway, and if ever a doorway deserved the moniker “Chaos” in all of Tellene, it certainly was this one. The opening was cluttered with a tangle of vines, brambles, and spiderwebs. No doubt Feltar would be required to burn through it all. He chewed a pinch of leaf while he waited for the rest of the group to catch up.

Skaarg was the first of the group to show up.  Geffry nodded his greeting to Skaarg, who didn’t bother to notice him. He had never liked Geffry’s choice of occupation, and whenever they were together, Skaarg kept a close eye on his belongings; as though Geffry wanted a bunch of bladed weapons or the oils and cloths Skaarg used to maintain them. Skaarg seemed to waste all of his take maintaining his weapons and armor, and none of that remotely interested Geffry. The big warrior took up his place in front of the opening to the dungeon, his naked sword always at the ready, though the clearing looked rather, well, clear enough to Geffry, whose sharp eyes made him the natural scout.  He wondered if he ought to mention the fact that he’d have warned the group if there were enemies, but he doubted Skaarg would pay much attention to him.

The next to arrive was Sir Breck. The knight was insistent that everyone refer to him by SIR Breck, and never Breck, Hey, Meat Shield, or any of the other names often given to the leader of their ragtag group. Sir Breck was resplendent in his pristine armor. Geffry wondered if this, his first dungeon crawl, would put some dents in it, but as Sir Breck took such great pride in his appearance, he’d probably hammer them out at the first available opportunity, and buff out any scratches.  Geffry didn’t understand such slavish devotion to armor. He, himself, had never worn even leather, though he knew many thieves chose to do so. It made noise and hindered him from moving silently; something his profession often required. Sir Breck, however, would never stoop to “skulking”, as he called it, though Geffry often reminded him that his skulking had saved the life of Himself plenty of times. Sir Breck had simply apologized for his careless speaking, and he’d seemed so genuine, Geffry had felt sorry for hurting his noble pride and forgave him immediately. When Geffry thought about the situations the blonde knight had been able to talk his way out of, it fairly boggled the mind. That alone was worth naming him the leader of the group.

Last to show up, arguing between themselves as usual, was Feltar the Mage, and Dregon cleric of some gawd Geffry’d never learned the name of.  Whenever Dregon started preaching, Geffry’s eyes glazed over and started to drool. It was a most excellent tactic for getting the droning preacher to shut up.  Still, it appeared that Dregon was winning Sir Breck over to the gawd’s cause. Geffry wondered if it was because Dregon’s healing seemed to do so much better on people who served the gawd. Surely the gawd would notice such duplicity?  If he existed.

As was also usual, Dregon and Feltar were arguing about the origin of magic.

“Dregon, my misguided cleric, I serve no gawds.  We have been over this! If I serve no gawds, how then could my power come from gawds?”

“Feltar, you poor deluded soul, ALL things come from the gawds. Whether or not you recognize it makes no difference. Some gawd is using you to further its purposes, and I merely feel that your time might be well-served determining which gawd is doing so and determine whether it’s worth the cost?”

“But you pray to receive your, ahem, ’spells’, do you not?  Have you ever tried casting these things without first praying for them?”

“I would never do such a thing.  Why, the mere…” He was cut off by Sir Breck.

“Good finger-wigglers! Peace!  We are here, and while I’m sure your discussion was important, it must needs wait. I need you working together with the rest of the group. Feltar, a small spark would not go amiss to help clear away some of these tangles obscuring the opening.  Geffry, I need your keen eyes searching for traps. Dregon, stay near Geffry, but out of the line of fire from the door to these mines. Skaarg, please be ready to rush in with me and take out any nasties that have heard our arcane and divine pracitioners squabbling and think us an easy meal. Got it?”

Everyone nodded, and readied themselves. Geffry, was keenly looking at the construction of the opening that he could see for any strange fissures or seams indicating that the doorway was more than met the untrained eye.  He could see nothing as of yet.

Feltar moved to the brush, stretched out his hands, fingers spread and thumbs touching, to the tangled weave of overgrowth. He mumbled a few words and a fan of flame shot from his hands, engulfing and catching the vines. The unnatural fire quickly spread, and soon enough a door was clearly visible.  The door being metal, it didn’t catch with Feltar’s flame, and he stepped quickly back to let Geffry through. The thief felt the presence of the cleric behind him.  Despite their differences, Geffry was reassured. The cleric was a sturdy man who did not shrink from a fight, and would heal Geffry if he could.

Geffry stared at the door for a good five minutes before he began to see a pattern in the ornate doorhandle that led him to believe it was, in fact, trapped. It had not been cast, but rather put together from component parts.  While that could indicate nothing more than an elaborate locking mechanism, in Geffry’s experience it often meant some form of poison needle.  As Geffry began to examine the handle more closely, Skaarg noticed his change in demeanor.

“He sees something.”

“Aye, I see something. Just here,” Geffry indicated the underside of the oblong handle. “Where your fingers were to be if you were picking this lock or opening this door is a small hole.  I believe there is a needle trap here.”  Geffry whipped out his tools, and began working the lock, carefully avoiding the needle hole. “If I flip this lever here….and push that tumbler to the side.  Holding the little doohickey here, and…” The sharp click of the lock giving way under the skillful ministrations of the thief was followed by a more concerning sight and sound. The sound of gas escaping confinement, and the sight of Geffry’s hair blowing back.  Geffry detected an unpleasant odor.  He turned to warn his group.

“Back! There’s a…” and he knew no more.

Before Geffry hit the ground, he heard a shout and knew that Skaarg and Sir Breck were now defending against some menace none of them had foreseen. While the group had been focused on the door, some baddie or another had slipped around behind them undetected.  When the trap sprung, and the thief was caught in it, the baddies had decided it was time to attack.

While his heartbeat slowed, Geffry wondered if Dregon was preoccupied. Time was short, and Geffry had wanted to complete this crawl, or as Geffry had begun to refer to it in his mind…the big crawl.

Jesse walked up the street exuding a purpose he did not feel.  The questions of “Who?”, “Why?”, and “How?” all faded into insignificance when compared with the question of when they would try again. Jesse knew that those thugs who tried to assassinate him were working for someone. That someone would have to assume that his hired guns had failed, and quite spectacularly. Ergo, this nameless employer would try again.  Jesse had to out-think them and finish the job.

THE JOB!

Jesse’s instructions had included a time limit.  He checked his watch and breathed a little easier, as he realized he still had plenty of time.  He mentally ran through an inventory of what ammunition and arms he had available to him. 4 rounds expended on the bus stop attackers meant 5 rounds still in his G27 subcompact. He had a spare magazine in his back pocket, but had hoped to use minimal ammunition on this job, especially in the Glock. His grenade was gone, but he’d never really expected to use that on the job proper. He still had the black Ruger Mark III Hunter, with two full magazines, which would be more than enough to do the job he had to do.  And of course, he had his knives. He thought back to this morning, when he received the offer for his latest job.

==========

Jesse turned on his computer and connected to the web server on which he received his job e-mails. He expected his inbox would be empty, as usual.  It hadn’t been all that long since his last job, and while he’d performed admirably, he figured his financier had more than one assassin.  He checked his mail every day upon waking, however.  It was habits like that which showed professionalism and dedication. When he ran his custom e-mail application, he was surprised to hear the telltale “bling” of an incoming message.  He brought it up.

To: Deadly Shadows
From: Deep Pockets
Subject: Job 013-23-101 Available
Body:
Mr. Shadow, I have recently been handed a job that fits your skill set perfectly.  Your services will be required this Wednesday, January 5th at 3pm at the restaurant on the corner of Harrison and The Embarcadero.  You will watch for a black stretched limousine. Attached, you will find a picture of the mark as well as pictures of his wife, and many of his bodyguards.  You will eliminate him, and whatever bodyguards you deem necessary to complete the assignment.  I do not specify the method of the kill, though you must NOT kill the man’s wife. Consider the job incomplete and void if the man’s wife is killed.

This mark travels “light”, with minimal security.  It is my opinion that he considers an assassination attempt rather unlikely. He has never been seen traveling with more than 2 bodyguards, and said bodyguards have never been seen with anything other than semi-automatic handguns or revolvers. Risk is considered minimal.

Your payment will be USD $1,000,000 for services rendered, to be paid upon verification of the kill by yours truly.

Please accept or deny the job through the customary channels by the end of day today. Non-response will be construed as denial.

-D

Jesse read and re-read the message from his nameless financier. One million dollars, while not worth as much since the dollar collapsed, was still a great deal of money to someone who as recently as 7 months ago was struggling financially. There was no doubt that he would take the job. It sounded as though there would be no more heat on this job as on any of his previous jobs, though he knew it didn’t really matter how much opposition he’d faced. Danger and the thrill of a firefight was why he’d taken this job in the first place, wasn’t it?

Jesse walked calmly to the front of his apartment and adjusted his blinds. His financier had told him, “right side of the blinds slightly up for ‘yes’, and left side slightly up for ‘no’. Put your blinds entirely up if you’ve been compromised and suspect you are being monitored, and if your blinds are down, I’ll assume you’ve been eliminated. I will not contact you further if your blinds have been unchanged for 3 days.” Those were his financier’s terms, and like everything arranged by him, bore the marks of sheer professionalism.

The life of the assassin had been taught to Jesse by the media. Everything from television shows, to movies, to comic books had taught him enough to get him interested in the world of the professional assassin. However, he’d had no idea of the massive amount of details that went into making someone a contract killer. He’d read everything he could get his hands on, or anything he could find on the Internet. It all fascinated him, but until Deep Pockets had contacted him, he didn’t have the first clue how it all worked. Deep Pockets had set it all up for him. All he had to do was train with his weapons, complete the jobs, and his new “boss” took care of the rest.

Jesse quickly saw to his weapons, getting them ready for his job Wednesday. Each weapon represented a facet of his work as an assassin:

The Glock Model 27 subcompact .40 caliber handgun represented the assassin’s need for around-the-clock security. Whether Jesse was on a bus, or walking down the street, he needed to be able to defend himself, though the fact that he carried a firearm could not be immediately obvious to others. He chose the Glock 27 for a couple of different reasons. First, the Glock had always been a favorite of Jesse. His exposure to the Austrian firearm through movies, music, and television was vast, and when it came to selecting a concealable defense handgun, the Glock was a natural choice. It was easy to disassemble and clean, small, and black. Jesse liked his firearms to be black for additional concealability. Stainless finishes were pretty, but you never knew when the glint of light off stainless would give away your position. He chose the Model 27 specifically for the .40 caliber’s stopping power. He loaded hollow point rounds in the G27 so that the bullets would fragment on impact and had less of a chance of going through walls and bodies to hit additional bystanders, and a greater chance of taking down an assailant with one noisy shot.

Jesse had used the Glock to assassinate his first mark when his original plan went awry. He had picked the lock to the bedroom of the banking mogul, and had planned to snap his neck. His plan did not address the fact that the banker was a light sleeper and woke up with the sound of the lock-picking. Jesse was ashamed to remember that he had emptied an entire magazine into the mark when he finally got the door open and was attacked, alerting the entire household security detail. Getting out of that situation had been…messy. Since that unfortunate incident, Jesse had trained with a new weapon more suited to subtle assassinations.

The Ruger Mark III Hunter is a .22 caliber pistol, which Jesse had custom-blacked and threaded to accept a specially-designed suppressor. Using subsonic ammunition, the most noise the suppressed Hunter makes when firing is the sound of the trigger being pulled and cycling of the action. Jesse was even considering having his gunsmith fabricate a slide locking mechanism, which would prevent the action from moving when fired.  Not only would it help to silence an already quiet firearm, it would prevent the ejection of spent brass, which Jesse currently had to spend valuable moments finding after firing the Hunter. Finally, the use of subsonic ammunition had caused Jesse some problems in the past due to the lower recoil of such ammunition. The slide lock would require the firearm to be manually racked for each firing, eliminating the misfeeds, but substantively reducing his effective rate of fire. He’d definitely have to consider it carefully. He made a mental note to speak to Trigger about it at their next meeting. If anyone could fabricate such a mechanism, Trigger could.

In his last job, Jesse had used the suppressed Hunter to assassinate an African Diplomat. The firearm worked so well, he’d purchased a backup in the unlikely event he needed to drop his primary Hunter on the job. That job had also required him to quietly eliminate three bodyguards. He wanted to have plenty of ammunition available for the diplomat, so he’d used his final standard weapon to take out the bodyguards: The Fairbairn-Sykes Combat Knife.

The Fairbairn-Sykes knife had been introduced to Jesse in the James Bond novels he used to read. When he was adding the Mark III Hunter to his loadout, he decided he need an additional method for killing silently in the event of firearm or ammunition failure, and the Fairbairn-Sykes knives were a no-brainer for him. He kept them razor sharp, and secreted three of them around his body when he was on a job.

When he’d asked Trigger for the knives, he trained with all three patterns of knife produced for the British military. The pattern 1 and 2 knives appealed to Jesse, and he settled on the pattern 2, primarily because it was often produced with a blacked finish, his color choice for stealth. Jesse did not like the pattern 3 Fairbairn-Sykes, as he felt the ring grip to be too flashy, and felt it threw off the balance of the knife. Still any of the Fairbairn-Sykes Combat Knives were quite superior to most of what was out there, and he trained almost daily in their use.

Having seen to his weapons, Jesse got ready to go scout the Embarcadero, where the job was to take place a few short days from now. He wasn’t sure how this would go, but he knew he wanted to be as ready as he could be, and he had the rest of today and tomorrow to ensure that he was. He strapped on his G27 and knives, and headed out to prepare.

==========

Jesse shook his head clear of the memories as he continued walking down Harrison Street. He didn’t think that his recent assailants were sent to prevent him from accomplishing the job at hand, but if they were successful in their attempts, they most definitely would. But if they weren’t sent to stop him hitting the man in the limousine, then why were they sent? A past job? A double-cross on the part of Deep Pockets?

Jesse didn’t think that was likely, given the amount of work Deep Pockets had done to make Jesse into the assassin he now was. In addition, Deep Pockets had to know that Jesse had absolutely no information regarding his identity, the source of his funds, or how he came by these jobs. But blowback from a past job was definitely possible, even likely. He ran a hand through his short, dark brown hair, and quickened his pace slightly.  The cold wind off the bay cut through his jacket, and he remembered fondly the strong coffee he’d had this morning when cleaning his weapons for the final time before the job. He never wondered whether or not he’d survive a job. Such thoughts were distractions, and he knew he could scarce afford such. However, in light of recent events he now wondered if he’d even make it to the job, as he walked down the semi-steep hill leading down to the Embarcadero.

Just as he crossed over Beale Street walking down the left side of Harrison Street, he saw a man begging for some change. Jesse had closely followed the rapid collapse of the entire economy, and saw every sector being hit hard. As a result, he had some compassion for those unfortunate souls who lost everything in their retirement accounts along with their jobs. He, himself had been downsized from Oracle just seven months ago. He hadn’t lost everything, but had come close, and always tried to spare some money for those who didn’t have a job.  He began digging in his pocket for a couple bills to toss to the poor man when he passed him.  If it hadn’t been for his preoccupation, he might have stepped over the chunk of broken sidewalk rather than catching his toe on it and stumbling. Of course, if he hadn’t tripped, he’d now be dead.

As he stumbled, the shot rang out, the sound magnified by the tall buildings surrounding him. He continued his forward momentum, and tucked his shoulder into his body to perform a roll toward a stone planter.  He quickly scanned the buildings around him and came to the sickening realization that he had no idea of where the shot could have come from, and no way of finding out that vital piece of information.  However, as he flashed back to the many nights he spent playing games like Call of Duty, Medal of Honor, and Team Fortress on his personal computer, he knew if he stayed here, the sniper would quickly get the best of him.  He didn’t know from where the sniper was shooting, and as a result, couldn’t determine what would provide adequate cover.  He sprinted out from behind the planter, headed for the nearest building, which looked to be an apartment complex. He dodged between the now-running and screaming people that filled the street, and was narrowly missed by another shot. This one was close enough that he could actually hear the air being displaced by the speeding bullet.  A man screamed as the bullet went wide of Jesse, and instead hit him. He made it to cover inside the glass doors of an apartment building, and quickly thought about what had happened, now that he had the advantage of cover.

The rifle the sniper was using was obviously not of the semi-automatic variety, since the second shot was some time in coming. With a semi-automatic rifle, the shooter needed only to reacquire his target, and not work the bolt to chamber another round. The time between shots had been about three or four seconds, telling Jesse that this sniper was perhaps not as experienced as some.  He tried to search his memory for clues as to where the shots hit, but had been caught entirely off-guard and hadn’t paid close enough attention to angles.  He hadn’t even seen which way the bystander near him had been spun when the stray bullet caught him. He cursed at himself under his breath even as he drew his Glock, knowing it would be ineffective at taking out a sniper at range, even if Jesse had known his position.

He needed to figure out the general position of the sniper, if he was going to get out of this alive. If the shooter had been in a building on Jesse’s side of the street, he’d have had to lean out too far to get a good shot. At the very least, it would have made the shot more difficult. They couldn’t have been banking on Jesse walking down the wrong side of the street.  Even if they’d been watching him casing the area, he’d walked down both sides of Harrison Street, to judge which was the better approach. Just as he realized the likelihood of a second sniper team in place on his side of the street, Jesse heard a crash behind the door marked “Stairs” to his right. He stepped back, and when the door burst open, he fired a single shot into center mass of his assailant before realizing that the tactical gear the man was wearing included a ballistic vest.

Quickly, he moved to the door and kicked it shut, before additional combatants could enter the fray.  He heard the satisfying crack of door against an arm, as well as a gunshot fired by reflex. He heard what sounded like a single man hitting the floor, so he checked the man he’d already shot. He was just starting to stir, while clutching his chest, so Jesse let the door he’d kicked swing back open. He stepped into the stairwell, closing on the man who’d dropped his gun, kicked the gun away and axe-kicked the attacker in the center of his chest.  He left the man gasping for air as he turned to question the man he’d shot.

His shift in attention was just in time to see the first assailant groping for his gun.  Jesse kicked the gun away and knelt next to him, the Glock pressed to the man’s temple.

“Who do you work for?” Jesse needed an answer to this vital question, if he got nothing else out of this guy. The man replied in a pained, British accent.

“Piss off.” Jesse calmly set down his Glock, and drew the Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife he kept in the sheath secured to his right calf, under his jeans. He pressed the knife to the man’s cheek, enough to draw a bead of blood.

“Dude, I need answers, but you don’t need your fingers to give them to me. Get it?  Who do you work for?” The man’s eyes widened noticeably, but he remained silent.  Jesse swore, as he knew he couldn’t bring himself to cut off the man’s fingers to extract the information he wanted. Killing this man was also not part of the contract, and Jesse didn’t want the extra heat. He switched the Fairbairn-Sykes knife to his left hand, picked up his Glock, stood up, and kicked the man squarely in the ribs.  He had a job to do, and didn’t have time to question this Limey properly. In addition, if there were a second sniper team, they could very well be converging on this building.

Jesse turned and narrowly avoided being kicked in the face by the man he’d left in the stairwell by blocking with his right forearm. The force of the kick caused him to lose his grip on the small, sweaty grip of the Glock, and it skittered toward the front door of the building. He stepped back and forced his body to relax as he looked into the eyes of the man he faced. Jesse lifted his right hand, and watched, as the man focused his attention on it.  He didn’t see the knife. As he reached slowly outward, as though performing some sort of martial arts move, Jesse kept his left hand obscured by his body, while he observed his attacker.

In Jesse’s limited experience, there was a look to someone who intended to survive an encounter versus someone who was well-trained in some fighting art. As his enemy moved into a stance Jesse associated with one of the kicking arts, perhaps Taekwondo, he decided that this guy normally trained to score sparring points. Jesse, however, was not interesting in fighting this man but rather, surviving and finishing his job. The man telegraphed a tremendous kick with his entire body with his left leg, and Jesse quickly moved inward with the hand holding the knife and scored two quick, telling blows with the knife, severing the man’s brachial and carotid artery. The man dropped quickly, as Jesse turned and ran toward the front door and his Glock.

(To be continued…)

Author’s Note: Thank you to the helpful folks at Calguns.net for the information they provided that helped me settle on the Ruger Mark III for Jesse’s suppressed firearm.  (And no thanks to the unhelpful people who insisted that I was asking questions in order to procure a suppressor for myself, and refused to help out an amateur writer.)

A big thank you to the people who have provided feedback about this particular story:  Gabe, Daniel, Shawn and Cliff. Your responses, even when relayed through a 3rd party, helped me want to continue the story past a single installment.  This second part was slower paced, I know, but I felt I needed to provide a little bit of backstory.  I’ve written a great deal more information in terms of backstory than I’ve included here, though, so stay tuned, as things are heating up for Jesse, obviously.  I’ve been researching knife fighting theories, so I’m hoping I can do justice to those who have used the awesome Fairbairn-Sykes Combat Knife in real wartime combat situations. I’d like to thank No Nonsense Self Defense for the very interesting articles he’s written.

Finally, a large thank you to http://www.gotavapen.se. The information there regarding the Fairbairn-Sykes knives and the various patterns that were used was of great assistance.

Thank you again.

Jesse grabbed his jacket off the peg next to the scarred door, threw it on, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Nothing showed, which was good. His eyes were alight with the eagerness which only came with a job. Life otherwise was infinitely dull. He bounced on the balls of his feet three times and stepped out of his apartment into the frigid December air, closing the locked door behind him.  Putting his hands quickly into his pocket, he began walking briskly to the bus stop on the main road.  He pondered his current job while he walked, his eyes darting to and fro; first to the darkness behind a shrub, wondering what the moonlight might not be revealing, now to a bum who appeared to be more engrossed in the burning barrel in front of him than the man walking quickly by. Anyone could be a threat.

Since the collapse of the economic system of the US, with California leading the way, danger on the streets had increased exponentially. Jesse didn’t have to worry about money. His occupation provided him with plenty of disposable income, though he tried not to be too flashy. An empty belly could provide more sinister motivation than fear, Jesse knew, and there was no sense in appearing to be as lucrative a mark as he, in reality, was.

Jesse arrived at the bus stop and looked each sullen and depressed human in the eyes before turning to look up the street for the bus. “An acknowledged thief is a discouraged thief”, came the words of his father, still surging to the forefront of his mind after all these years. He stood, waiting, and shrugged his shoulder to twist an errant strap. He still hadn’t gotten used to the feeling of wearing it.

As the bus materialized out of the thick fog, Jesse took another look around, feeling inexplicably that something was out of place. In the few months since he began accepting these jobs, he had learned to trust his gut, and right now, his gut was telling him that he was preparing to step into a box of danger.  He stepped out of line, and watched the nearly deserted street for telltale signs of a switch to “Plan B”. As a large woman shoved him out of the way to get onto the warm bus, he locked eyes with the driver of a van idling across the street. Had that van been there for long? Was it there when he arrived at the bus station? These questions quickly became moot as the driver opened the door, lept out of the van, and brought a small automatic rifle to bear on Jesse.

Jesse quickly stepped into the cover provided by the bus and drew one of his most valued possessions from the holster he wore under his bulky jacket, knowing full well that if he didn’t end this situation quickly, it would be ended for him, and not in a manner conducive to his health. The rapid staccato of automatic gunfire and answering call of metal and plastic being struck was the ticking of his own personal death clock, and Jesse wanted no part of the alarm that would ring when his time was up.

The bus began to move, and Jesse swore. The bus driver wanted to get his own rather large posterior out of harm’s way, and wasn’t about to stop to let Jesse get on.  The sound of large vehicle doors sliding open only heightened Jesse’s urgency, and he turned toward the vacant storefront that was his only safe mode of egress from this situation.  Multiple voices shouting orders chased him as he ran to the flimsy door and kicked it in, glancing sideways to see that his mobile cover was now far enough up the street so as to offer his four assailants full view of his retreating form.  He entered the building, and the gunfire stopped.  Jesse’s breath misted in front of his face, lit up by light from the ruined doorway, and he looked frantically for a way out.

His palms sweated, and he nearly dropped the subcompact Glock he held in his right hand. The room in which he stood was covered with debris, and there appeared to be no escape. After a quick prayer spoken quietly to a deity he was sure wasn’t listening, Jesse groped in his jacket pocket for his other equalizer, and held it up to the light.  The hand grenade seemed to draw all light from the room as he realized the magnitude of what he was about to do.  His enterprise was named Deadly Shadows.  His motto was, “A shadow makes no sound.” He was about to act in a very un-shadow-like manner, but felt he had no other option.

With the hand that held his pistol, he tugged on the pin, hard, until it came out. He held the spring down in the “death grip” with his thumb, and waited with his back to the sturdy doorframe until he heard voices.

In a matter of seconds that felt like years, he heard whispers coming from the newly dismantled doorway. He leaned out and chucked the grenade so it rolled just outside the doorway, and quickly leaned back to the safety of his cover. The silence was deafening.

When the 2 second fuse elapsed, the explosion shook the walls, and Jesse made his move.  Rolling out of cover and bursting through the doorway, he saw the mutilated bodies of two of his attackers lying on their faces. The other two on either side of the door were just getting up, and in a quick, 3-second maneuver, Jesse hit the assailant to his right with a controlled pair at center mass and spun to perform the same combination to the assailant on his left. After a quick look up and down the street to make sure there were no more, he holstered his weapon, adjusted his jacket, and strode purposefully up the street, away from his apartment, knowing that frantic running would only draw more attention. The underfunded, understaffed and fearful police would be a long time in coming, anyway.

“Minimal risk my ass”, said Jesse bitterly. This would cost his employers, to be sure.

Maddox grunted as the padded sword collided with his ribcage.  He slid to his knees, sweat pouring off his face. His opponent spoke with scorn.

“You fight like a fool in motley, Maddox.  Did Captain Jael take your manhood as well as your sword hand?”  Maddox mumbled as he pushed himself up from the ground.

“Daggar…the Awesome.  He’s gonna pay if it’s the….”

“Quit your mumbling, you fool.  Daggar did not take your hand.  Daggar did not unman you! The Ravagers strike like the wind.  They take what they need, and they’re gone before anyone notices they’ve been plundered! You were caught gloating over your success in that Inn.  It is a mistake for a new recruit…not a proven man of The Ravagers!”

“But I…” Maddox’s opponent drew his dagger and flipped it up, catching Maddox under the chin and cutting him before he could even think to move his clumsy, new sword arm up to block the swipe.

“…You make excuses for yourself, fool. Were you caught?  Yes.  Should you have been?  No.  You’ll think twice next time.  Were you unaware that the Whistling Pig was mere feet from the garrison? Then it’s your fault for being unaware of your surroundings! Did you not know how much time had elapsed from the time the tavern cleared out?  Then it’s your fault for being ignorant of the passage of time! Take your revenge on Daggar, if you like.  Revenge is the bread and butter of The Ravagers, fool! But if I hear you blame Daggar one more time for the loss of your sword hand, I’ll take the other bloody one! Now lift your sword and prepare to defend yourself!”

“Yes Dondarron!”  Maddox threw himself into his re-training with his entire being. It truly was an honor to be re-trained by Dondarron Ravager, himself. Dondarron was but a teen when he founded The Ravagers in Arz and began to strike fear into the hearts of the people of the Eder Soult. He was still in his prime these days, and took it upon himself to train new recruits to the evil organization. However, there were always more recruits than Dondarron could handle. Thus, training with Dondarron Ravager was something akin to officer training; a fast track to promotion in The Ravagers. However, Maddox had come to expect such treatment from Dondarron.

While Maddox appeared to agree with Dondarron Ravager for the moment, he knew it really was Daggar who had caused this all to happen to him. He hadn’t started the bar fight.  He had only defended himself. He just couldn’t understand why Kamaer Jael had sided with that fool, Daggar. There was a moment in that courtroom, while Daggar was speaking, where Maddox had actually been inclined to agree with him! There had to be some sort of magic at work. Daggar only confirmed this when, as he walked out of the courtroom with Maddox’s map, he dropped a wink.  It was as if he were saying that he, Daggar the Awesome,  orchestrated all of this to cause Maddox to lose his hand. Dondarron Ravager brought him back to the present by abruptly halting his attack.

“Maddox, my son, if you’re not going to pay attention to the training, I’m not going to waste my time.  I know you’re in pain.” Maddox moved to object, but Ravager forestalled him. “…Oh, I know.  It’s not physical pain. You’re well past that, my leeches tell me. And don’t think Jael won’t pay for denying you even a cleric of Benyar to clean your stump. No, lad, the pain you feel is the pain of a lost loved one. We rogues love our swords…we love our ability to take life.  Well, son, I’m here to give you that skill again. However, know this: I did not rescue you from that shopkeeper in Arz simply to have you unmanned when you suffer the fate so common to our brethren.” This man who had taken the place of Maddox’s father was a different person when he was not training his students, especially toward Maddox. This shift in demeanor and warmth was not uncommon.

“I have spoken with my contacts in the Arz Shadow Guild, and they have confirmed that a halfling thief matching the description of he who stole that map from you in Farzy showed up in Arz this week for training. They did a bit of searching and found Daggar at a nearby Kobar, studying to become a better fighter.  Now…” Maddox forgot himself in his rage.

“Sir!  You must instruct them to…” Dondarron Ravager was having none of Maddox’s insolence, however, and shoved him, causing him to try to catch himself with his stump and subsequently falling to his knees in pain. He put a hand on Maddox’s shoulder, and looked at him fiercely with his black eyes.

“Maddox, I ‘must’ do nothing of the sort.  My contacts in the Shadow Guild are of an informative sort.  I help support their guild, but they will take no actions on my behalf. What’s more, you are currently no match for even the mage that traveled with them at one time.  Now, it appears the cleric of Thor and the mage have parted company, but Daggar and the thief have been making noises that they are looking for buyers for magical items as well as hirelings: a map-monkey and a MICHARU. Wherever they’ve been, it looks like they’ll be going back.  You, however, will not leave this facility until you are ready, and I will be the judge of that.  So rest now, but be prepared to start your training in earnest again tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” Maddox was thought of as a son by Dondarron Ravager, but it was hard for him to see Ravager as anything other than a beloved commander. His own father had beat him both senseless and senselessly. Maddox refused to have a father. But he would continue his re-training on the morrow, and he would make fast progress…

…because he knew exactly where Daggar the Jackass, and the thief would be in a couple weeks, and he intended to meet them there.

William Harrison Bonney picked up his parcels from Old Man Hickart’s General Store, and took them outside to load them onto his wagon. His son, Billy, ran aimlessly around the wagon, oblivious to the danger that faced his young family. Katherine, William’s wife, had died the previous year of consumption, and William was of a mind to move out west. He had family in the Mormon nation of Deseret, and hoped they would take in young Billy, at least. The general store was his last stop on the outskirts of Batesburg before he made his long run into Deseret.

William had served in the National Army during the War of the Rebellion, and it seemed that he was doomed to run from the law from the day he got out. It didn’t help that he fought for a cause which he wasn’t entirely sure he really supported. Still, he was drafted from New York, and the State of New York was a Union State, sure enough. His discontent with the Blue Bellies and their aggression toward the Rebs was enough to cause William to consider other ways he might spend his time. Running guns seemed a good way to make a little cash, but it got him discharged from the army in short order. From then on, things just started getting worse.

He fell in with a railroading gang, responsible for the terrorizing of the Union Pacific railroad in the Nebraska Territory. The boys and he had knocked over many a train, and had secured them a virtual fortune. As soon as the gang had what they wanted, they set Bonney up in an ambush on a train job. It was then that William Bonney first came into contact with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

The Pinkertons had hounded his steps all the way to the Republic of Texas, where they joined forces with the Rangers. Bonney robbed a bank in Santa Fe for pocket change to feed his family, hastening his departure from Texas, and sending him toward Deseret. Rumor was that the Mormons weren’t allowing any lawmen from the United States of America, the Confederate States of America, or the Republic of Texas onto their lands. He didn’t much care for Mormonism by and large, but had family in their number, and he knew that the Mormons had a soft spot for family if they swore the oaths.

William lashed his goods into his wagon, and called for Billy to get in the wagon. Billy quickly obeyed. Suddenly, a voice rang out.

"William Harrison Bonney! You are hereby ordered to drop all weapons and surrender to Earl Jasper of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency immediately. I’ve got near 20 men here, and we’ve been deputized to bring you in, dead or alive. Don’t make this messy, Bonney. I know you’ve got your son with you!"

William looked around and saw that the posse hadn’t caught sight of him yet. He agonized for a split second that felt like an eternity, and made the most difficult decision of his life. He kicked the pin out of the harness holding the wagon, and vaulted onto his horse.

"Billy, you’ll be better off without my weight around your neck dragging you down." Just then, a shout let him know that the Pinkertons had caught sight of him. "Goodbye, Kid! HYAH!" He spurred his horse to a gallop and sped out of town, the Pinkertons hot on his trail.

The sun was high overhead, and William knew his chances were slim without water. His chances were slimmer being near the Pinkerton’s, however, so he spurred his horse toward Deseret. His thoughts, though, remained with a provision-filled wagon and a teary-eyed boy who would never see his father again. From that day forward, William "Billy" H. Bonney followed in his father’s footsteps, though he remained always…the Kid.