Chapter 19: The Chase

“We’re going down!” I commanded with urgency as soon as I understood what was going on, leaping forward, shoulder first, to force my way through the window frame. I took it with me, of course, and fell loudly three storeys into tall grass and shrubberies below. In spite of the pain from both the distance and the roughness of the many twigs I’d shattered, I forced myself to roll to the left off of the greenery and onto a gravel road where I leaned up, brushed myself off, and took in my new surroundings, noting that Vidal was close behind in midair with Noam just starting out the window.

By the time I was standing the troop had led the Lord and his guest out of the gate and into the streets, and some men remained behind to seal the portcullis. It was closing, but slowly, turned manually by less men than was optimal. I seized the moment to sprint at the gate, aiming to clear it before it closed and we were cut off and forced to scale the wall. All the while, men ran along the walls, pouring in from surrounding posts, to load and discharge shots at us.

“With me!” I called behind, only after two or three seconds of a full run, remembering that my compatriots, still recovering, were very much off my tail.

“Just go!” I heard in return, Noam’s voice, and glanced back to see he had Vidal with his arm around his shoulder and jogging at a reasonable pace. They’d probably beat the gate too, but they’d be more than in my dust and chased by archers. So be it, in any event, Noam was withholding power enough to sunder the souls of every breathing foe in that forsaken castle.

I passed under the gate before it reached the halfway mark and bypassed passing remarks from the soldiers turning the gears. Whether they cursed me or commanded I hault didn’t matter. I caught a glimpse of the guard passing over the horizon of a road that rose in grade and so propelled myself after them readily.

With the roads still dark and most of the city asleep, I was able to tread the cobblestone without interruption. The vagrants and buffoons I passed kept to their shadows and alleys, or saw only a moving gust and heard the sound of a woosh as I went by. To catch up in due course, I began pumping energy into my legs, bringing them to smash down with such force as to kick up dust and launch me ever forward with every stride.

With luck and intention, I put myself within reach and clear sight within two minutes of departing the grounds of the Lord’s compound. They, of course, heard my rapid approach and sent the rear three protectors to ready themselves for my arrival. They turned on the queue and command of the Lord’s guest, who spoke a guttural tongue I hadn’t heard before, some “Knash.” or “Knashe.”, and lowered in my direction spears butted up against circular shields.

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, and with the skill of a practised warrior, the soldiers backpedalled as they stabbed at me, forcing me to zig-zag and dance around their spearheads. It was a time consuming waltz that resulted quickly in me losing ground on the rest of their party, hoping and eager to find an opening to break the moving and piercing wall.

My chance came when the leftmost of my attackers tripped up on his backstep and nearly collided with the middle man. The disruption was sufficient for me to get my hands on his spear, yank, and turn it around in my favour. With the line in disarray and the dishevelled one disarmed, I leaped into the air and jammed his own spear down into his eye, piercing his skull, and sending him to the ground.

Then came his allies who, in their confusion at the turning tides, were unable to react quickly enough to dodge my strikes. One in the shoulder and another in the chest, followed by the neck, which felled one, and a single strike through the heart, which felled the other. Stepping over them, I left the stolen and bloodied spear behind and resumed sprinting.

To my relative annoyance, catching back up with the remnants of the pack proved more difficult than expected. To try and shake me, they’d turned up a central avenue leading towards the square from the heart of Lucho and María’s territory. As I ran, I spied in my periphery and felt innately that I was being both watched and followed. From the rooftops, and along balconies, allies cloaked in black pursued me.

The avenue itself was rife with unfinished business. Ill-parked carts, sleeping horses, boxes, satchels, bags, and barrels stacked carelessly, and the occasional drunk either stumbling or sleeping in an inconvenient and disruptive position. Moving around them was easy, but avoiding knocking them over or aside was a chore, and I took care to do so lest some semi-conscious and justice-minded chattel go crying to his local boss. I doubt my friends would appreciate the bothersome news.

By the time the square and that great sequoia came into view in the distance, the troop and flying duo had been stopped by a makeshift roadblock. A cart, broken and overturned, blockaded the middle of the road whilst a mish-mash of raw materials, building supplies, and other nonsense covered each end. Two men were prone in front of the cart, and a group of five had approached to aid them.

The Lord was screaming and demanding they move, but the group ignored him and the Lord’s men, what few soldiers remained, moved to help get the cart out of the way. Even from some distance, however, I could tell the impediment was a ruse. The helpers and the grounded men were too similarly dressed and too cloaked in tight and dark colours to be locals.

In the passing moments between the clarity of my seeing that my allies had gotten ahead of me, and coming to a stop within throwing distance of the affair, the Lord’s guest came into the picture squarely. He stood at what had to be six foot six, with wide shoulders and a full chest. The definition of his musculature and overall frame was accentuated by the athletic cut of his medium grey flannel suit, which clung to him dashingly.

I was almost surprised by the imposing nature of the way he was dressed, especially by nearby comparison to everyone around him, who wore either dirtied fatigues, armour, or ill-fitting robes–myself included. This feeling was furthered by the fact we’d been running for nearly ten minutes now, across a city, in a rush and a panic.

What a waste of influence to cast as such to keep one looking prim and proper. It was as if he’d be the sort of person to wipe the blood off of their steel in the middle of a warzone. It was as if his priorities were mixed up, lest he was the sort of person to be of such power as to have the luxury of not being bothered about an unexpected thrusting sword or singing arrow.

Were that the case, however, he’d have incinerated me by now. Unless, of course, this chase was a game to him. Whatever the reason, my deliberation was better saved for a discussion later with Vidal and Noam, for the pressing matter of the Lord was at the forefront of the evening’s scene.

As soon as the apparent leader of the east side allies noticed me walking up, she signalled to her companions who turned and systematically stabbed, slit, and beat down the soldiers. They were taken entirely by surprise, caught in the midst of disassembling a well constructed diversion, which left the Lord alone with his guest.

Out of respect, I guessed, my allies encircled the pair and left space for me to take the lead. In wait, they stood with blades and cudgels in hand. When the two turned to face me, I saw, stricken across the Lord’s face, the look of death. He stared me down with wide and empty eyes that sat, as if upon a plateau beset from around by daemons, wanting for relief. He’d get it at the end of my fangs.

His companion was unlike him in all respects. His well-fitting regalia aside, he was without fear and carried a pale and corpse-like complexion unlike any living thing I’d ever seen. He looked worse, even, than Noam fresh out of the sarcophagus. Furthermore, his eyes were dead and empty pools of black, without clear definition between his sclera and his pupils.

“Take it easy and I will too.” I said, starting off with an understandingly commanding, but understated, tone of voice. “We’re only caught up in all this together because one of us…” I paused to point at the Lord who returned a dejected look. “…found himself a bad ally.

“But this doesn’t have to be it for either of us, your Lordship. If you give him up to us we will relieve you of his many stresses. You may fear that there will be retribution, but what return can hurt you when you are under the protection of a grander power?”

“Pha! Fuck you!” The Lord spat at the ground by my feet, which landed short due to the distance, and he subsequently tapped his imposing companion on the abdomen with the back of his hand. “I have all the protection I need from a sewer rat like you.”

His insults, however superficial, carried with them an irksome overconfidence that stood oddly beside the feeling of a chilly ending. This is to say, the Lord felt conflicted, internally and of himself physically, perhaps explained by the presence of whatever monster was set to protect him. In any event, a cursory glance around at my allies confirmed a collective acknowledgement: the walking-dead-man would have to go first.

Whether sensing our readiness or seeing no further need to attempt flight or conversation, the Lord’s bodyguard metamorphosed his four primary digits on each hand into elongated razors. The transformation was quick and just as quickly he set upon me.

I raised my hands to meet his wrists, and upon catching them threw him over me. He rolled midair and landed on his feet, spinning to swing and slash his natural weapons without a modicum of hesitation. “Sword, sword!” I called and was answered by a hastily thrown arming sword from the nearest gangster.

I managed to clip the pommel, causing the sword to spin in my direction enough for a follow-up grabbing of its handle, which I quickly adjusted and settled defensively so as to hold my ground. I proceeded then to intercept his swings, parring the razors with my own blade and finding, somewhat to my surprise, that whatever composed them was of superior quality and strength to this tool’s steel.

Fearing the right move could catch a weak section of the sword, causing the blade to snap, I altered my stance and seized the first opportunity to go on the offensive. I swung loose and widely at first, hoping to drive the dead-man back and give myself some room to dance. I found, however, that he was fearless before the arcs and only resolved himself to fillet me faster.

I took a second on a backswing to glance over my shoulder, finding that the Lord was managing to fend off a few of the bigger ones by backing himself into a tight spot between barrels and using the business end of a broken two-by-four. A couple others, however, aimed to assist me and came around each side with blunt weapons.

In the midst of combat against me, the dead-man failed to take note of them and was struck thrice and felled, whereupon I lunged forward and drove my sword into his chest, cutting up and out through his left shoulder. Again, baffled, his body proved to be more cadaver than man and my sword emerged clean of blood or gore.

What I saw within his open wound shocked the lot of us, a mere husk of white and grey without a bone, organ, or bit of muscle to be seen. Rather, what filled him was a gooey ectoplasm with an apparent consistency similar to honey. It was in that moment that, for the first time, I saw this creature smile, and as it smiled its body phased through rapid stages of decomposition until all that remained was a tall pool of its viscera.

“What in God’s name just happened to it?” One of my timely allies asked me, one of the masked ones whose eyes conveyed a breadth of concern.

“That was easier than it should’ve been, so I doubt he’s really gone. Perhaps it’s some sort of regenerative thing? In an event, your fear is warranted–hold on to it.” I answered.

As I turned to settle the matter of the Lord I saw in the distance two joggers, Vidal and Noam, coasting to catch up with me. Their lack of urgency was mildly unsettling, but I chalked it up to the distance we travelled, turns we’d taken, and Noam’s incredibly invasive ability to know what’s going on at any given time.

Thankfully, with his brute dispatched, the Lord had calmed and shirked his prior sense of hubris and aggression. He was now pinned against the wall, held back at his shoulders and chest, looking over at me with an empty and regretful gaze.

“So speak, your Lordship. Say what is lingering on the lethargic greys of your mind.” I said to him, stopping within arms-length with my own crossed loosely against my chest.

“His death has lifted my unease, brigand. I ask only that you make it quick and spare me new pain.” He spoke more slowly than he had previously and without a cocky flair. Rather, he had truly become downcast and seemed to long for death.

I reached forward and assumed a position between the allies who kept the Lord in place, and put a hand on his chin to force him to look up at me as I spoke. “He isn’t dead, only gone, and I figure it’s distance that’s sapped you of his influence. You should know, you were dead the moment we caught on to your game–intentional or not–so see this not as my rewarding you or giving you mercy, but merely as business. One step in a bid for control, your death is just a means to my end.”

Without allowing the Lord to respond, I moved away my hand and dove forth, sinking my teeth into the major artery of the left side of his neck to drink of his blood and absorb his vita. He struggled only briefly against me and the restraining persons, but was quickly quashed under the pain and loss of energy that followed my execution.