On one such mission, one so diabolical and yet profound, he'd found a reason to carry on dealing validity to the wicked. There he'd met his wife, Katrine Dalshavere, who, rather than balk from his violent lifestyle, had embraced it, joined him in his quest to bring down the evil of the world and - in view of the supernatural entity they'd faced together - the other worlds beyond.

He thought of Katrine now, her deep green eyes, her raven tresses, her sleek and dusky body, which conjured images of feline grace, and brought to mind the elite military group to which she belonged, The Black Panthers, and he wondered what had become of her. She hadn't reappeared since her balancing act on the rope outside and her subsequent message to attack. He couldn't avoid a pang of concern, for what man who loved his wife didn't worry for her?
Even though she was as skilled and capable of looking after herself as he?
And yet the pang of anxiety became an ally, a spur to finalise this portion of the mission. There were bigger fish to fry in this warehouse fortress; Garius Bronwathin, the sorcerer responsible for leasing the scourge of narcotics upon the people of the Kallovian Empire; Deliverer of Black Lightning, the poison making maniacs of those it touched, bringing agonising death to those it gripped.

Kendrick ducked a sword slicing at his neck, his own blade rising and slashing outward. The hired-muscle on the end of the hand screamed as his sword - and the hand holding it - spun ten feet away on a ribbon of blood. Kendrick halted his cries with a second slash at his throat.

One bald-headed thug, burnt almost black by southern suns and shrieking gales, whose clothes were soiled with tar and reeked of sea-salt, a veteran of many battles at sea, was equally canny a fighter on dry land. He'd wounded one Justice, severely maimed another, with the two cutlass-like swords he held. And, even now, he was engaging another and the swirling blades were engulfing the Justice.

Kendrick didn't pause to think, he stepped in with the reckless disregard of life that marked him a sword master. He swept between the twirling blades and slashed his sword in a two-handed grip directly down the man's centre-line. The man blinked in surprise as his arms drooped lifeless by his sides, his swords clattering to the floor. He tried to say something but words wouldn't come. Then his eyes rolled up, as though he was attempting to see the widening cleft in his cranium, and he crumpled first to his knees, then on his face at Kendrick's feet. It shouldn't have been funny, but Kendrick and the Justice the sailor had almost overwhelmed couldn't help grinning at each other as they shared a moment amid the carnage. Kendrick clapped the Justice’s shoulder and they both turned to the battle once more.

There was more gasping than yelling as the toll of fatigue began to seep into sword arms. Feet slapped the ground, scuffed over fallen comrades and antagonists alike, or slipped in puddles of gore. Of the Justices three were out of the fight, if not dead then surely teetering on the brink, but seven of the other group were down, and without exception they were dead. In terms of numbers they were about even, but the tide of favour was definitely turning the lawmen’s way. When compared to money, duty, obligation and fanatical pride were greater encouragement to a fighting man. Only moments ago a pitched battle wreaked havoc at the midst of the warehouse, but now the ruffians were beginning to break, seeking exits from this doomed battle. Some even dropped their weapons to beg mercy, but it was too late. Their actions had already sealed their fate; death would be their punishment.

The Justice was famed as a hunter of ne'er-do-wells, and each and every member of Kendrick's team lived up to the task as they chased and brought down the remaining felons. There was only token resistance now, and the lawmen found they could work in two's or three's to overwhelm the last remaining few. Some, determined not to be taken alive, were granted their last wish. A couple others were brought down with less lethal force, bound and gagged with the promise of the headsman's block whispered in their ears.

Kendrick was confident of the efficiency of his fellows, leaving them to the task of mopping up the stragglers as he walked over to the cart in the centre of the warehouse. He used the tip of his blade to slash open the tarpaulin covering a pile of crates and chests on the flatbed, then pulled one of the crates towards him and allowed it to crash to the floor.

Straw packaging spilled at his feet, along with a few score vials of black liquid. Kendrick scooped one of the vials up in his hand and studied it in the light of a lamp one of his Justice's brought forward. The liquid was the black of putrid blood and syrupy like decomposing flesh. He grimaced inwardly as he again looked at the cart. If each of these crates held as many vials, they had stemmed a major flow of the evil drug from making its way on to the streets of Kallovar, saved at least a thousand children from a life as orphans of the demon drug.

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