The surroundings didn't offer up too much assistance. If ascending up the tree had been more of a possibility, he would have, then made way to one of its nearby brethren to hide until the man and his dogs left him. But that didn't seem like a viable option. The next tree-branch was a far distance. He'd have to leap a distance of at least four feet, not forgetting a vertical of about a yard. He dug his fingers into the wood of the tree.
This wasn't something he'd be able to climb his way out of. If he wouldn't have thrown his knives earlier, maybe it'd be a different story, however.
No clean-cut way of escape, no lingering detail he was forgetting, there really was no other options for him to work with. His eyes followed droplets of rain on its way down and saw the dogs. The wounded one no longer moving. Dead. But that still left the other dogs to contend with, and Secrat knew it would be a matter of minutes before the man joined them. There was only one option for him.
And that was that, beggars for survival couldn't be chosen for survival, that's how Copé saw it. No part of him at all wanted to die. He liked himself too much.
And so, the thief stood at the top of the branch, his legs shaking awkwardly for a times as he tried to discover stability. As he found his comfort, he looked out at the far away branch, and a feeling of apprehension filled him. Butterflies in his stomach, but those butterflies wouldn't help him fly, and neither would apprehension.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and leaped out off of the branch and toward the one much higher.
And he missed.
It didn't matter how much momentum or oomph he could have had, it wasn't in his abilities to make that jump.
The fall was fast. The impact happened before Secrat even had the opportunity to realize he was falling. The fall was only about ten feet and wasn't fatal, and not only that, but nothing seemed to be broken. A shrub broke his fall, and kept him from cracking any important bones.
Thorns plucked into his arms, however, and that was certainly from a pleasant feeling. Secrat didn't make any striking moves to free himself from the bush. The thorns drew blood on both of his arms, including the arm that had been splintered by a plank of wood not long ago, but he didn't move. He gritted through the pain, and listened.
No rustling through the grass or fast movement. The dogs didn't acknowledge his absence. They thought he was still up in the tree! Copé almost wanted to laugh, but didn't, knowing even the faintest sound would likely have them on his tail.
He rested his head against the leafy pillow the bush provided and felt the rain dampen him. Moistened face. Wet hair. His eyes went out and saw green leaves, beyond that, he saw how much the sky had darkened. The water droplets coming down on his face became more and more abundant, and soon, he wasn't able to keep his eyes opened. He brought his hand to his face and wiped the rain away.
The barking stopped. Copé's ears pricked as he listened. Beyond the rain and the brewing sound of thunder, he could hear the black man's deep voice calling them off. By the time the voice traveled out from earshot, Secrat couldn't help but feel some disappointment and sadness feel inside of him.
A disappointment in man's cruelty.
All he had wanted was shelter from the rain.
2
Copé had some trouble making it back to his feet. Concussions, having your arm ripped up, and falling out of a tree made it so. He waited until enough time went by before making an attempt. Didn't want to risk the chance of the dark-skinned fellow and his dogs coming after him. That didn't stop him from being leery though. While he walked through a series of bushes, plucking out the small thorns out from his arm, every small sound was enough to startle him. If by some chance it would have been the man, he would've died then and there, and that would've been it. That didn't happen though. And instead, Secret limped on and on.
Rivers and rivers of rain water, blemished and polluted by nature's dirt, the appearance looked as though the Amisoic Sea had overflowed. Almost everything damp and soggy, aside from small hills of high land the rain drooled down. Copé fell to his knees. Blood on his arms from the thorns, but that was about the least of his worries.
His clothing dripping, the clothes, no longer even looked worthy of being called that of a peasant. Groveling through the soaked nothingness that encumbered the Unprotected Wilderness. His knees sinking down into the mud.
The rain had died down, but it's aftermath would be felt for the day to come. If nothing else, it cleansed him of his blood. His hair went over his eyes, but his present shock and feeling of decay made him immune to such nuisance.
He'd have to find shelter. His survival dependent on the fact's solution.
The water droplets descending off leaves and the rusting trees above of animals seeking the same gave a sense of urgency. A light from between branches of two adjacent trees showed the worst had concluded. The clouds dispersing, and the storm dying down at last.
He ascended back to his feet, and stumbled back down, falling first face into the sludge. Spat the grime out his mouth, gagging some, he at last fought back to a standing position, slowly looking for stability.
Onward, he trudged, his body ached, lessened only by his mind's sense of swimming cessation, telling him he was about to lose consciousness. He forced himself to keep on, but stopped as he met a large creek.
The creek barred him, not overflowing, but a large-hollowed log had fallen over it, like a bridge. Unfortunately, Secrat felt himself wearing away, shriveling down, and knew he'd be unable to cross it.
A sound behind him. Copé turned at once, unsheathing the Sword of Tertius from his scabbard. He fully expected The Man and his Wolves to have found him. Instead, he saw a spotted hyena. Or, at least, he assumed it was spotted. It was completely soaked, looking small and harmless without its fur fluffing it out. Looked even uglier than usual though.
Secrat threatened the hyena with his sword, hoping it'd simply flee away from him. Instead, the bastard bared its teeth and snarled. Secrat held the sword, his own teeth grinding against themselves, far from in the mood to exert himself. He brought the sword back with vile intent.
But, in moments, some between trees and some through bushes, three hyenas, then four hyenas, came into vision. Traveling together, all of them in search of refuge, but once they took sight of Secrat, their attentions were on him.
“Fucking, God, motherfuck,” Copé said, turning his back to them and running toward the log over the large creek.
He could feel himself fading, and, knowing he'd be unable to balance himself in the predicament, he opted against running atop the hollowed log. The Thief crawled within the log's hollowed inners and faced himself back to the hyenas. Seated, he held the Sword of Tertius at the hyenas, ready to jab them should one attempt to come after him.
One did, and Copé killed it with the sword, driving the blade through the bottom of its jaw. The death was quick, neither a cry nor whimper of reaction. The only sound The Thief did seem to hear was of the hollow log beginning to sink into the mud.
It started out minimal, like sinking in quick-sand, but in mere seconds, the log fell through and Copé could no longer see the pack of hyenas. The hyena he had killed, however, was broken in half by the log's descend.
As one end of the log fell into the creek and the stream started to sway it, Copé crawled up fast. He could see the other send begin to lose itself. Quickening his pace, he leaped out the other end of the log and was planted down into the mud.
He pushed himself up, his eyes lent to the other-side of the creek. The hyenas stared at him. And, in that moment, he hated the Unprotected Wilderness, The Whispey Deserts, and Maharris as a whole.
And thought how much easier it'd be to be back alongside his own pack of hyenas: The Red Flux.
The Thief needed to make right with them. It'd be the only chance at light beyond the branches. They wouldn't be far now.
Chapter Eight
"I care enough about you to never say I love you, I'd have to kill you if I loved you." That wa
s one of the earliest memories Secrat had for Veras. All of it was a lie though. An act. An act Toucan performed with a keenness few were able to see beyond. Copé was one of those few.
Veras wasn't cuddly and soft beneath his rough exterior, but there was a more compassionate side to him. He showed it on occasion, whether he meant to do it or not. The night he banished Secrat from The Red Flux, for example. Father Toucan Veras might have crushed all of Copé's fingers, but he did it with such love and affection.
Older and more experienced thieves were also allowed to see a different side to him, but it was never intentional. Father never meant to show that side to himself.
He wasn't a preacher, or anything like that, that's not why Secrat called him Father. Secrat called him it because he was the man who raised him at a very young age. Everyone else called him it because he was the leader of The Red Flux. There was no doubt that he was a man of God, however. In-fact, he practiced the stuff almost religiously, and took it on as one of his unhealthy obsessions. He parented over everybody, and it wasn't about being a leader, his eccentricities spread over that normality and everything had to be set in a certain path.
Toucan boldly stood against the Aeonians. Soldier's of Evil, to him. The chaos that happened all of those centuries ago was supposed to end, but not because of them.
Like a preacher, Father Toucan gave sermon-like speeches and dressed in decorative clothing. Nobody ever really said anything about it, and that's because he had the fear. Some often thought the reason for his hardened shell and behavior was because it's what was needed to be a strong leader. That it's what was necessary to keep something so broken in one piece, but Copé always assumed that Toucan simply liked the way it made him feel.
The Red Flux traveled often. It was with the territory of being thieves. They migrated about the Unprotected Wilderness and infiltrated major cities. They did this at night. That's when they did it mostly at least.
Some occasions called for their noctivigant rule to be broken, like if they were stealing from Hardan or in the deserts. The Flux wasn't run with an iron-fist, but Father Toucan Veras made certain to establish a couple of key principles about it.
About forty thieves, thirty-five male and five female, a few children roaming about, and some women to watch them. Aside from certain circumstances when the situation called for more or less, the usual heist called for about ten. They didn't all work together. They traveled together until making it to the selected city, and then, they split up into groups of two and made their heists.
The Flux members all made certain not to shit where they eat, and if they thought they were being followed, that only left a couple of options for them. They could either lose their tail or risk having The Red Flux's main-camp be discovered. If they did that, they were better off dead. This has only happened once in The Red Flux's brief history, and it was before Secrat was a member. Even to this day, he isn't aware of the complete story, but it was something along the lines of Toucan crushing a man's head in with a large stick. Whether or not there's any truth to it though is neither here nor there, and chances are it was a wise tale meant to induce fear.
After that, they relocated to an area between Acera and Italina, and in the times when travelers were passing through, they were certain to hide any connection to thievery. Everything ran smoothly, and they hadn't been completely wiped out yet, so it'd be fair to say they were successful.
Secrat carried his wearied bones and battered limbs forward, walking onto the muddied grass from yesterday's rain, since stopped. His clothes almost as black as charcoal. One of his arms bandaged heavily and both of his arms had dried blood and dirt on them. His hair had always been a dirtied blond, but even such a definition looked like an understatement at this state. Everything of his body ached, but there was no part of him that wanted to stop to rest once more, all of him wanted to end the heart-ache and shift his fate.
He walked and walked until came to sight, a garden of tall grass, nay, not a garden, but a collection, harvested by nature, he shoved through them. Nearly stumbling over the roots of large trees and having to brush off the ticks that tried their way up the forest of his leg hairs, his leggings since ripped, exposed his knees. The very second the tall-grass came to end, he was allowed to flourish in his own arrival.
The Red Flux was exactly how he left it.
His eyes covered the land like the sun's rays, fluttering throughout the scenery. A dirt trail led up to the Flux's village, and at the center of it all was a flag hanging up from a large stick, carved smoothly. The flag wasn't anything, neither decorative nor telling of the people.
Secrat looked at his hand. His fingers remained stiff from Toucan's boot and still couldn't make a perfect fist, but at the palm of his hand was the most telling thing about him. The symbol of The Red Flux.
What looked like the letter 'C' with a stick puncturing it at the side was meant to be a crescent moon with a knife stabbed into it.
Whether anybody else could decipher the crude carvings made into each of their flesh was not very important. It wasn't for them. It was to let the members of the troupe know that there was somewhere they belonged. And that there was somewhere they could call home.
Home.
Surrounding the flag, a series of rocks, put around it for decoration. Over from that was an area of sticks. A burnt pile. For gatherings where Toucan often rallied his troops. Secrat started following down the path, eyeballing it all like he was seeing it for the first time. There were horses too, kept inside of a fence made from shoving sticks into the ground. About five foot high. Most wouldn't even know they were there at a glance. It was deliberate not to draw too much attention to them. After all, didn't want them stolen. That was one of the ideas instilled by Toucan. You can steal. That's what you're supposed to do. But you can never steal from family, and that's what you are when you're with the Red Flux, you're family.
Secrat's eyes went over to one of the dwellings. The Red Flux wasn't like a lot of others. They didn't have tents or tarps or anything else, they kept it simple.
They dug holes, as big as their hearts' desired.
They threw wood over the hole and slathered it with grass to shelter it from the rain. Some had flowers on theirs for decoration. None of them were the same, and all of them had specific traits about them. Little mementos and items that showed off their individualism
The Red Flux had a Trophy Room as well. It was about the only dwelling with any style and is where the Elite Thieves bunked.
The Thief among thieves, Secrat Copé, started his eyes for its location, but before he had a chance to look at it, he felt a spear pushed up against his stomach. Copé sighed. First a sword, now this. "Lukas," he said, ever-so warmly.
Lukas Lewis wasn't nearly as receptive, however, and his eyes showed both anguish and passion. It didn't look like hatred. That's what Copé had expected to see. Instead, it looked like fear and uncertainty, an uncertainty in ones' self or what should be felt. That's what Secrat got out of the look on his brow.
"What are you doing here, Copé?" The words sounded unlike Lewis. The words reminded Secrat of when he talked to the knight back in Acera. How the knight tried to come off fierce and respectable, and Lukas, like him, came off phony and fake. Lewis wasn't exactly respectable and most certainly wasn't fierce, but Secrat could tell he still felt emotional turmoil caused by their last meeting.
The two of them had once been friends, or at least, the closest thing Copé ever really had to friends. Casual acquaintances that tended to get along and meet for drinks. None of that seemed to add up to very much though. After Copé took the life of Elson Mans, all of that seemed completely forgotten.
Copé deemed this a proper moment for one of his smirks, realizing how often they benefited him in the past. Lukas Lewis brought his spear back and readied it, feigning a preemptive strike. "Uh-aha...," Copé said, backing away, his hands up in a pleading gesture. "I know I am likely not your favorite person, but if you could keep yourself from
whacking me, I promise I'll seldom ask you for anything else ever again, honest."
Secrat put his smirk away, realizing how little it had benefited him in the past
Lewis lowered the spear down. Holding it with one-hand at his side. Secrat looked down at the stick and noticed the sharp-rock on the end of it. At least Lewis only intended to bonk him with it and now tear into his flesh.
Lukas Lewis' expression didn't change.
"Thank you." Secrat said. "And, now, I must ask you for something else. Which I promise I will repay once I've had a couple nights' sleep." Secrat resisted the urge to smirk, realizing his smart alleck ways weren't helping him.
"I won't be seeing you after a couple nights. I'll ask again, why are you here?"
Secrat heard the sound of Lewis slapping the spear against his side. A nervous fellow, Lewis always had trouble keeping his emotions in-check. Similar to a fire always lit, nothing was hidden or obscured when it came to Lewis. "I need to speak to Father," Secrat said, his eyes neither pleading nor apologetic in their gaze.
Lukas Lewis' stare back said a lot more than his words ever could. The man still hadn't forgiven him!
"Toucan is away," Lewis replied back. His voice was unsteady, like a lit wick, it sounded like he could explode at any moment.
He was lying, however.
Secrat could easily see that much. Lewis had always been a terrible liar, a terrible liar and terrible at withholding his emotions when he was hurt or angry. Secrat smiled at him and offered his retort: "Where is he then?"
"He won't be back for a couple of days, I'm afraid," Lewis beckoned back. His composure regained itself some, no longer cracking or trembling.
Secrat's smile regained itself. Lewis' expression remained. "I don't believe you, Lukas."
The Red Flux and the Wunderkind Thief Page 10
