Chapter - 4 Jareth the taker

Marek wasn't without a plan. In fact, he had been sitting on information for a while, patiently waiting for the right time to act. He had already heard whispers, rumors that stirred like dust in the streets, of one of the mysterious figures connected to Orin's shadowy group. A name had surfaced, and it was one that made the local folk tremble—a name that echoed in hushed conversations at the town's markets.

"Jareth," Marek had said, leaning in close to Dorian, his voice low. "Jareth the Taker."

The name meant little to most of the people in the town. No one remembered it beyond the local gossip—a greedy merchant who profited from the desperation of the poor. He was the kind of man who had no qualms about exploiting those too weak or too foolish to protect themselves, making his fortune off the backs of those who had nothing. But there was more to Jareth than met the eye.

The people only knew him as Jareth. The rest of his name—the Taker—was reserved for those few who had the misfortune of crossing his path and surviving to speak of it. It was a name that struck fear in the hearts of those who had fallen victim to his schemes, but to everyone else, he was just another businessman, another face in the crowd of merchants.

But Marek knew better. Jareth the Taker wasn't just some lowly merchant. He was tied to the enigmatic group that Orin the Seeker belonged to. They were dangerous, ruthless, and Jareth's actions proved he was no exception.

There was an old story about Jareth the Taker, whispered among those who knew of his true nature. It was said that, years ago, he had fallen into a raging river, dragged under by the current as onlookers rushed to help. "Give me your hand!" they had cried, reaching for him, but Jareth did nothing—he let the water pull him deeper, his face vanishing beneath the waves. Only when one clever soul changed their words and called out, "Take my hand!" did Jareth finally reach out and grasp it, pulling himself to safety. It was a small moment, easily dismissed by those who didn't understand him, but to those who did, it spoke volumes. Jareth was not a man who gave—he only took. Even in the face of death, his nature remained the same.

Marek had learned through his own sources that Jareth was staying in a house not far from the outskirts of town, just beyond the central market square. It wasn't far from where the poorer folk lived, and the merchant's influence spread like a stain on the people's lives. His reputation was both feared and resented—his wealth built on the suffering of others. Marek had heard enough to know that Jareth was a part of something bigger, something that went beyond mere greed.

Dorian was skeptical at first. He had heard the whispers, but he wasn't sure how much weight to give them. But Marek's tone had been steady, sure. He had that look in his eyes—the same one Dorian had learned to trust after years of fighting beside men who didn't speak unless they knew something true.

So, they'd agreed on a plan.

But first, they needed to prepare.

*****

After parting ways to prepare for the evening, Dorian made his way to the blacksmith's shop. The clink of hammer on metal greeted him as he entered.

The forge crackled in the corner, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil echoed through the room. Dorian hadn't planned on coming here today, but with the urgency of the task ahead and the condition of his old gear, he knew he had no choice.

The blacksmith looked up from his work, a burly man with a thick beard, his arms covered in the evidence of years of labor. "What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice deep and steady.

"I need new gear," Dorian replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the situation. "A longsword and leather armor."

The blacksmith nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "I've got a good longsword, well-balanced, sharp enough to get through any defense. And leather armor that'll keep you light on your feet, perfect for moving quietly."

Dorian looked over the swords hanging on the wall, their blades glinting in the firelight. He picked one up, testing its weight in his hand. Satisfied, he turned to the blacksmith. "How much?"

"The sword's 35 silver," the blacksmith said, pointing to the blade Dorian had picked. "And the leather armor is 65 silver. Together, that'll be 100 silver."

Despite knowing it was expensive, Dorian nodded, reaching for his coin pouch. He pulled out one gold coin, setting it on the counter. The blacksmith took the coin in his hand, then nodded in approval.

"Good choice," the blacksmith said, handing over the sword and a set of leather armor, well-crafted and soft to the touch. "You'll find it'll serve you well."

Dorian knew things were never the same at the western frontier town. So he didn't dwell on the price. He strapped on the armor and fastened the sword to his belt. The armor was light enough to move freely in but sturdy enough to offer protection. The sword, though simple in design, felt comfortable in his grip.

Once dressed and armed, Dorian gave the blacksmith a nod of gratitude before turning to leave. He still had to meet Marek later that evening, and with his new gear in hand, he was ready to face whatever came next.

*****

As night fell over the town, Dorian made his way through the narrow streets, his footsteps light against the cobbled ground. The leather armor clung to him like a second skin, allowing him to move with ease. The weight of his new sword at his hip was a reassuring presence.

He approached the meeting spot—a shadowed alley near the outskirts, not far from Jareth the Taker's residence. Marek was already there, leaning casually against a wall, arms crossed, his hood pulled low over his face. The rogue mage gave him a quick glance before nodding.

"Good," Marek murmured, barely above a whisper. "You look ready. Everything go smoothly at the blacksmith?"

Dorian adjusted his belt, testing the sword's position. "No trouble. Got what I needed."

Marek smirked. "Good. Because we're about to have some."

He gestured toward the house in the distance. It was a two-story building, larger than most in this part of town, but not extravagant. A small courtyard enclosed by a wooden fence surrounded the home, with only one visible entrance. A few lanterns flickered inside, casting dim light through the windows. There was movement inside—shadows passing behind the curtains.

"Jareth's inside," Marek continued. "Probably not alone. I did some asking around—he doesn't like to sleep unguarded. A few thugs work for him, hired muscle. We'll need to be careful."

Dorian narrowed his eyes. "You have a plan, or are we making it up as we go?"

Marek chuckled softly. "A little of both. There's a side entrance. Locked, but nothing I can't handle. We get in, see if we can get Jareth to talk. No killing unless we have to—we need information, not bodies."

Dorian exhaled, steadying himself. He had fought in battles, faced orc hordes, but this was different. Stealth, intimidation—these weren't his usual tactics. But he had made his choice.

"Let's move," he said.

Marek grinned and pulled a small, thin piece of metal from his belt—his lockpicking tool. The two of them slipped through the shadows, closing in on their target. The night was silent, the tension thick in the air.

This was just the beginning.

Marek moved with a practiced ease, his footsteps nearly silent as he approached the side entrance. Dorian followed, keeping close, his hand resting on the hilt of his new sword. The air was still, the distant sounds of the town fading as they stepped deeper into the shadows of Jareth's home.

The side door was sturdy but not reinforced—meant to keep out common thieves, not men like Marek. He crouched, pulling out his lockpicks, and got to work. Dorian kept watch, scanning the dimly lit street for any movement.

"Give me a moment," Marek whispered, his fingers working the lock with careful precision. A faint click sounded a few seconds later, and he cast Dorian a small grin. "We're in."

Dorian pushed the door open just enough for them to slip inside. The air inside the house was thick with the scent of burning oil and something stale, like old wine left too long in the cup. The hallway before them was narrow, leading deeper into the building. A single lantern flickered on a wooden table nearby, casting long shadows along the walls.

Marek motioned for Dorian to follow as they crept forward. The floorboards groaned softly beneath their steps, but no voices stirred in response. So far, so good.

They passed through a small sitting room, furnished with fine—but worn—decor. Jareth had money, but he spent little on luxury. Dorian's gaze swept over the room, noting a few empty bottles of wine scattered across a low table. The place had the feel of a man who lived alone, or at least one who didn't expect company often.

Ahead, a doorway led to a dimly lit corridor. Marek paused at the edge, listening. Dorian did the same, straining his ears. A muffled voice came from somewhere deeper inside, followed by the scrape of a chair against wood. Someone was awake.

Marek turned to Dorian and gestured toward a nearby staircase. "I'll check the lower rooms. You go up. If Jareth's not alone, we need to know how many we're dealing with before we make a move."

Dorian hesitated for only a second before nodding. Splitting up wasn't ideal, but he trusted Marek's instincts. As the rogue slipped into the shadows, Dorian took a deep breath and ascended the stairs.

Each step was a careful one, his weight evenly distributed to avoid creaks. The second floor was dark, save for a sliver of candlelight spilling from a half-open door at the end of the hall. He moved closer, his heart steady but his mind alert.

Peering through the gap, he caught sight of a figure sitting at a desk, hunched over a ledger. Jareth.

The man was older than Dorian expected, his dark hair streaked with gray. He wore simple but well-tailored clothing, the kind of attire that blended into crowds. His fingers tapped idly against the table as he read, unaware of Dorian's presence.

Dorian took a slow breath. This was their chance. Now, he just had to wait for Marek.

Or so he thought.

A floorboard creaked behind him.

The moment the pressure of the knife registered against his side, Dorian reacted. His senses, honed from years of battle, flared with warning. He twisted sharply, shifting his weight just enough to throw the attacker's aim off. The blade scraped against his leather armor, but it didn't pierce.

With a quick, forceful elbow to the man's ribs, Dorian freed himself, spinning around to face his attacker. The guard—a broad-shouldered thug with a rough, scarred face—stumbled back but recovered fast, raising his knife again.

Dorian didn't wait. He stepped in, grabbing the man's wrist before he could strike. With a swift, practiced movement, he wrenched the knife away and drove his knee into the guard's stomach. The thug let out a pained grunt, doubling over just long enough for Dorian to slam him against the wall.

The struggle had been quick and mostly quiet, but it was enough to break the silence of the house. A chair scraped against the floor in the room ahead.

Dorian cursed under his breath. Jareth had heard.

The merchant's voice rang out. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Dorian didn't hesitate. He had lost the advantage of surprise, but he wasn't leaving empty-handed. He kicked the downed guard aside and strode into the room, sword in hand.

Jareth was already pushing back from his desk, eyes widening as he spotted the armed intruder. He wasn't a fighter—Dorian could tell that immediately—but his hand darted toward something on the desk. A weapon? A bell to sound an alarm?

Dorian moved fast, slamming his sword down onto the desk—hard enough to make Jareth freeze.

"Don't," Dorian said, his voice low and dangerous.

Jareth slowly raised his hands, his breath coming fast. His eyes flickered toward the hallway, probably hoping for more guards to appear.

"They're not coming," Dorian said, tightening his grip on the hilt. "Sit down. We need to talk."

Jareth hesitated, but the edge in Dorian's voice left little room for argument. With a slow exhale, he sank back into his chair.

Downstairs, a faint creak of a door signaled Marek's return. It was time to get some answers.

Marek entered the room like a shadow slipping through a crack, his presence eerily quiet despite the tension thick in the air. His hood was still drawn low, but as he stepped forward, he raised a hand. Dorian barely had time to react before the rogue murmured something under his breath.

The air shimmered. A strange stillness settled over the room. The flickering candlelight dimmed slightly, yet the flames didn't waver as if the world outside had simply stopped noticing them.

Dorian stiffened. This wasn't some trick of stealth—this was magic. The realization crawled up his spine, sending a slow pulse of unease through him. Marek had never mentioned being a mage. He had never given any sign. And yet, here he was, using a spell that felt all too familiar.

The same kind Orin had used.

Jareth pressed himself further into the chair, his fingers gripping the arms as though trying to anchor himself in the moment. The fear was there, but it wasn't of Marek or Dorian—not directly. It was something deeper, something he couldn't shake.

"You—" Jareth swallowed again, struggling to regain some measure of composure. "Where did you learn that?" His voice was laced with a mix of panic and defiance, eyes flicking between Marek and Dorian. There was no denying the spell Marek had cast—he had seen it before. But Jareth knew better than to show weakness.

Marek smiled thinly, his eyes unblinking. "That's not what we're here to talk about, Jareth. Where is Orin? Or anything about his little group?"

Jareth's face twisted as if he could taste something sour. He was trapped, but not by Marek or Dorian. He was caught in the grip of something far worse—his own fear of the unpredictable, dangerous group he was a part of.

"They're not your friends," Jareth finally said, his voice tight, looking away, running a hand through his hair nervously, unable to meet their eyes. "You think you can just walk in here and ask about Orin like it's some game?" he spat, but there was no conviction in his voice, only a desperate edge that made it clear he was walking a fine line. "We don't have the answers. We only do what we have to survive, and we don't ask too many questions. If you want Orin, you're better off leaving town and never looking back. He'll come to you when he's ready. If he wants you at all."

The words were chilling, not just in their meaning but in the way Jareth said them.

Marek leaned in, the weight of his presence amplified by the spell that still cloaked them. "But you're part of it. You know something. There are ways to make you talk, Jareth. You won't like them though."

Jareth's voice softened, a reluctant admission slipping from his lips. "The truth is, there's no leader. There never was. We don't follow anyone. We act as we need to, when we need to. There's no hierarchy, no one telling us what to do. We're a collection of individuals who came together because it suited us. Orin? He doesn't lead us. He never did."

Marek's eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued. "Then how does the group function? How do members join? How did this all come together?"

Jareth leaned back, his nervousness momentarily replaced by a grim expression. "Every year, on a set day, we all meet at the same location. All of us—those who are still alive, those who haven't turned on one another. The meeting isn't about making plans. It's about seeing who's still worth keeping around. New recruits are introduced, and we judge them. All of us. If someone is worthy, they join. If not... well, they don't get to leave. It's that simple. Even the members are judged."

Dorian processed the words, his mind racing. What a weird group. What is the point of joining if there is no goal, nothing? Are they just lunatics and psychopaths?

"How did it start?" Dorian asked quietly, the weight of the revelation settling in.

Jareth's eyes flicked to the door, his discomfort growing. "I wasn't there when it began. But from what I've heard, it started with a few outcasts. People with nothing to lose. They found each other, and from there it just... grew. One recruit at a time. And now... now it's something bigger than any of us." He hesitated before adding, "But that doesn't matter now. What matters is the ritual about forsaken—"

Before Jareth could finish, a loud explosive noise interrupted them—distant, but growing closer. A loud crash followed by shouts echoed from the direction of the town gate, violent enough to even interfere with the concealing magic. Marek's eyes shot to the door, and Dorian's instincts kicked in. The city was about to turn into chaos.

"Orcs," Marek muttered under his breath, stepping toward the window. "And they're bringing siege engines... and staffs."

The realization hit Dorian like a blow to the chest. The orcs weren't just attacking—they were here to lay siege to the town as before.

Jareth's face went pale, and he cursed under his breath, his usual bravado evaporating in an instant. Without another word, he shot up from his seat, moving toward the door. But Marek's eyes locked onto him, his voice cold.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Jareth paused at the door, his back to them. "Out of here. I'm not dying for a town that isn't mine. You've gotten your answers. Now, I'm leaving before this all turns into a bloodbath."

But Marek didn't move. "You won't get far," he said simply.

Jareth's hand hovered over the doorframe, but he didn't respond. Instead, he turned to face the two men. His eyes were filled with the cold truth of survival.

"Look," Jareth said, his voice a harsh whisper. "You think you can walk out there and face them? You have no idea what's coming. You're just as trapped as everyone else. The orcs won't care about your little plans or your magic." His gaze flickered to Marek, then to Dorian. "But if you're not going to run like me, then go to the gate and pray you don't get caught in the middle of this."

Dorian didn't move, his mind racing. He had no intention of letting Jareth walk away, but this wasn't the time to chase him. The orcs were coming. The town was under siege.

But Jareth's sudden retreat made it clear: when things got too dangerous, survival came first—even for the likes of him.

Marek stepped away from the door and faced Dorian. "There's no time. Come."

Dorian nodded, gripping his sword. The air was thick with the impending chaos, and the town's fate now hung in the balance.

The orcs were coming.

The war was coming.