Just then, "Slippery" Sam stood up. "I need to relieve myself. I'll be right back." He slipped out the side door, heading toward the rear of the courtyard.
Moments later, Brother Malachi returned. In his hands, he carried a thick, bundled stick of incense that was already smoldering, releasing a thick, sweet, incredibly pungent smoke into the room.
"It is midday," Malachi said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, chanting cadence. "Time for the midday blessing. May the smoke cleanse your weary souls."
"That is a very... potent scent, Brother," Julian noted, coughing slightly as the smoke quickly filled the enclosed room.
"It is an ancient recipe," Malachi smiled, his sharp eyes watching the men intently. "Made from rare mountain herbs. It brings peace and deep rest."
"It certainly smells..." Marcus began, but his voice suddenly trailed off. The massive fighter blinked hard, shaking his head. "Julian... my head feels light."
Julian tried to stand up, but his legs refused to obey. A wave of profound, suffocating dizziness crashed over him. The sweet smell of the incense was suddenly overpowering, clawing at his throat and dragging his consciousness down into the dark.
"It's a trap..." Julian gasped, his hand weakly reaching for his sword.
But it was too late. Marcus the Iron Fist collapsed forward, his heavy head slamming into the wooden table. Beside him, 'Falcon' Ray slumped sideways out of his chair. One by one, the legendary fighters of the underground men who had survived countless battles and ambushes succumbed to the treacherous, sweet smoke, falling unconscious to the floor.
Brother Malachi stood in the center of the room, the smoking incense stick in his hand. The friendly, welcoming smile melted away, replaced by a cruel, predatory sneer. He let out a harsh, barking laugh.
"Fools," Malachi spat, tossing the incense onto the floor. "You walk into the Viper's trap with your eyes wide open."
Malachi was not a monk. He was a notorious, highly sought-after assassin and thief known in the underground as "The River Viper." He worked closely with a treacherous alchemist who supplied him with a specialized, highly concentrated knockout gas disguised as incense. The gas was incredibly potent; it required a specific, secret antidote of cold water and rare herbs to wake the victims before a full twelve hours had passed.
Malachi had seen the heavily armed men, recognized they were likely carrying valuable weapons and silver, and decided they were easy prey. He stepped out of the reception room, walking toward his private quarters in the rear of the temple to retrieve his heavy executioner's broadsword. He intended to slit their throats while they slept and strip their corpses of everything valuable.
The rain had stopped, and the sun was breaking through the storm clouds as Malachi stepped back into the courtyard, his massive broadsword gleaming in his hands.
He walked toward the eastern reception room, anticipating an easy slaughter.
But as he reached for the door handle, a voice rang out from behind him.
"Drop the blade, you bald bastard, or I'll drop you."
Malachi spun around.
Standing in the center of the courtyard, his twin short swords drawn and gleaming, was "Slippery" Sam. Sam had returned from the rear of the complex just in time to see his brothers collapsed on the floor and the fake monk walking toward them with a sword.
Malachi sneered, raising his heavy broadsword. "One little rat slipped the trap. No matter. I'll carve you up first."
Malachi charged with terrifying speed, swinging the heavy blade in a brutal, sweeping arc designed to cut Sam in half.
But Sam was not called "Slippery" for nothing. He was incredibly fast and agile. He ducked under the massive blade, rolling across the wet cobblestones, and slashed upward with his short sword, drawing a thin line of blood across Malachi's thigh.
Malachi roared in pain and anger. He spun around, bringing his sword down in an overhead strike. Sam crossed his twin blades, catching the heavy broadsword. The impact drove Sam to his knees, his muscles screaming against the monk's superior strength.
"You're dead, little rat!" Malachi grunted, pressing down harder.
Sam knew he couldn't hold the block for long. He needed a miracle. His brothers were unconscious in the room behind him, and the fake monk was entirely too strong for a direct fight.
Suddenly, a dark shape dropped from the high red brick wall of the temple, landing silently on the cobblestones behind Malachi.
"You talk too much, monk."
Malachi didn't even have time to turn his head.
The stranger, a towering man dressed in dark leather armor, swung a massive, curved falchion with devastating precision. The blade sparked against Malachi's broadsword, forcing the monk to break his lock on Sam and stumble backward.
Sam scrambled to his feet, panting heavily, and looked at the newcomer.
The stranger possessed a dark, deeply scarred face, cold, merciless eyes, and the unmistakable aura of a man who killed for a living. He was one of the most feared and ruthless bounty hunters in the western badlands.
"Who are you?!" Malachi demanded, furious that his easy slaughter had been interrupted twice.
"I am the man who is going to take your head," the stranger said coldly, raising his falchion.
Sam realized with a sinking heart that he was no longer fighting one monster; he was caught between two. The stranger clearly had his own agenda, and Sam's unconscious brothers were entirely defenseless.
The courtyard was about to become a slaughterhouse.
(To be continued...)