“How long you think it'll be before Knights arrive at The Pub?” Secrat asked, looking at his hand, checking to see which fingers he could move and which ones he couldn't. He couldn't move most of them.
“If the civilians leaving The Pub made a complaint about fighting, they'd stop by eventually just to look at things. But, at the same time, you gotta think they get a lot of these sort of complaints. But, if anyone says anything about there being murders, anything at all, they'll put a hustle in it. Could be already there, in-fact.” Brutus said knowingly.
Brutus limped with every step he took, like a dying antelope waiting to be put out of its misery. But he wouldn't be put out. Copé couldn't do it. He needed Brutus alive, at least long enough to confirm to the others why he'd be dying. Brutus looked like hell. His eyes nearly forced all the way shut by the swelling on his face, his cheeks were various shades of purple and red.
“Well then, we best not roam about long. If Ezic and Ricar provide fallacy as description of us that could buy,” Secrat stopped, hearing the chuckles from Brutus.
“You don't think those lily-livered type gonna vouch for us or help us, Italinians don't give a horse's ass of gratitude.” Ess' voice was loud as usual, the alcohol still in his system.
“They said they were from Olzaric, a couple knights won't be enough to intimidate them.”
“A rustling leaf is enough to intimidate that Giant,” Brutus quipped.
Copé had no real defense for him.
Several feet later, and Secrat did begin to take sight of individuals in larger abundance. A lot of them, in-fact. But they were not up-and-about, but, rather, on the sidewalks were makeshift tents and pallets.
Men, women, and children finding refuge as they stared up at the skies. Secrat did the same. The stars brightly visible. For some, in Italina, it made for a romantic setting, and had Copé had more time, he might even had gawked at their simple extravagance.
“I just don't get what the fuck he was so damn sad about. Crying like he'd murdered a saint and not someone who was trying to whip his ass.” Brutus blurted out, not interesting in waiting to see if Copé would ever respond to his initial statement.
As said, the setting was romantic for some, but not for Brutus, who was beyond such romanticism.
So as not to disturb or have to deal with the ones sleeping off on the sidewalks, Copé ventured off from the marble sidewalk and down to the roads where they'd only bump into horses and wagons on occasion. It wasn't completely pitch-black outside. A full moon was in the sky and it shined a small light on their pathways.
“If you thought so low of them,” Secrat began. “I don't see why you bothered putting your nose in their affairs. All those bruises on your face could have been prevented!” Secrat threw his hands up and did all sorts of vaguely meaningful hand-gestures. He'd never been the best at verbal confrontation and knew not if Brutus could even see the expressions. “Would've saved us a lot of time and a lot of blood!”
“Yeah,” Brutus concurred. “But now I know where you stand.”
“Oh, and where's that?” The Thief wasn't really truly upset, or at least, the adrenaline and the alcohol helped numb him of that.
“Father Toucan Veras believed in you, still believes in you. Some think it favoritism. But you can't say it's all favoritism. Terrible thing you did, yes, yes, but you still escaped the wagon and killed Elson Man. And before that, what had you done? You killed a man who exceeded your size four times over. That's special, hell, makes you seem like a wunderkind thief.” Brutus smiled at his fancy verbiage, but then, his voice changed to add: “But then, you damn near got me killed.” He touched down at the wounds on his stomach.
“That was your own ignorance. If you would've died, it'd be your own hands with blood on them.” Copé tried his hand at sounding assertive and definite. It would not be to his benefit for Brutus coming back to the Flux making such malicious proclamations.
“Why?” Brutus said, making eye-contact with Secrat, a condescending half-smile, “Because Daddy dearest forbade you from taking a life?”
They continued on further into Italina and saw men mopping the marble floors. That's how they kept them clean. Secrat thought that rather eccentric. Copé stared back at Brutus, but said nothing. The confrontation would end as soon as they arrived back at the wagon with Taison. If Secrat replied, he'd only be pouring more alcohol on a roaring flame in a time when being inconspicuous was necessary.
“Remember that boy, the boy earlier on the real big wagon? The boy who said things about a group who slaughtered children and experimented on folk?” Brutus stopped only long enough for Secrat to nod. “Who does that sound like to you? The Carvers? No, that's not their forte, not where they shine. What then? The Carvers scalped heads, cut eye-balls out, sodomized with spears, did all that shit. But specific things, large tents and mad doctors, that's different. They don't do that!” Brutus sounded mirthless and empty.
The same strange look he gave in intense moments. A look that gave Secrat a fairly good idea why Toucan demoted him and gave Samuel position as his right-hand man. Secrat let out a sigh, they couldn't arrive to the gates fast enough. Unfortunately, they still remained a ways away.
“Not The Carvers, another group on the outskirts of Hardan. I believe it. Do you believe it? Because I believe it.
All of Italina probably believes it. But were his words heard? Deliberately ignored, most likely. They feel protected. A barrier keeps the ugly outside world from them, and that disassociates them from the monsters. But they deliberately ignore, which makes them become the monsters.” Brutus stopped speaking for a moment, his facial expressions made his bruises ache.
“They stick their heads in the ground, not realizing their Kings, their Knights, they aspire to commit atrocity beyond the gates.”
Secrat couldn't disagree, looking at the marvelous city in the moonlight. Outside was a broken wasteland.
“But they're better than us!” Brutus exclaimed with a drunken hiccup. “Even The Carvers are better than us!”
“No, they are not,” Secrat replied fast, feeling defensive.
“The Carvers leave a legacy of pain and heart-ache wherever they go. The Italina People do nothing but obliviously coast. And we, The Red Flux, seek repentance to the God's through excuses, lies, and technicalities,” Brutus said dryly.
“The Red Flux is contrived of good men. Could you imagine Lukas Lewis bleeding out a child and stamping his head onto a pike!?”
“No,” Brutus admitted. “Though, I could see you doing it.”
“Alright,” Secrat said, he felt the red hotness of his temper poking through the inner confines of his mind, but stuffed it back down. He could not hide his irritation physically, however.
“Barbarism is the way of life in Maharris. Always has been. Always will be. Flourish or perish, kill or be killed, and you understand that. These walls around Italina, they only contain it to the wilderness. You understand that. Toucan doesn't, but he does understand one thing ...”
Secrat hushed Brutus Ess with his hand, but it was in vein. A small army of men, a small army of knights, at least ten of them, all of them in one large carriage pulled by several horses. Lanterns hung from the sides of the carriage. “What!?” Brutus hollered out, and it was needless to speculate whether or not their presence was noticed or not.
“You two, come with us,” one
of the Italinian Knights demanded, yelling loudly and with a forceful voice.
Brutus silenced himself, realizing, at last, his misconduct. “They found us fast,” Ess said. “So much for giving 'em dummy descriptions of us.”
“This is your fault.” The Thief felt his snarl form, his teeth grinding. Having to escape from all of this would be tough enough already, but having to account for the beaten and maniacal Brutus would stack the odds out of his favor.
Secrat and Brutus both scrambled the opposite direction of the carriage. Brutus walked achingly, and soon, Copé led him off into a narrow alleyway
between adjacent buildings. The Knights pursuit of them would have to be on foot. Ess did his best to keep up, Copé would only slowdown so much for his sake. Ess' limp lagged him some, but there was at least a feel of pep and effort in his step.
They heard the Knights leap out of the carriage, at least some of them, not all of them. The sound of their sabaton's slapping down against the marble. Their footsteps were large and seemed synchronized.
Brutus and Secrat bled deeper into the alleyway as it approached its end. The hyperventilating happened early on from Brutus Ess as he followed not too far behind, Secrat, on the other-hand, roamed his eyes about the darkness, the moonlight supplied so little, and did not supply a definitive game-plan or answer to their survival.
Breaking into a home and hiding out until it settled down could work, but they'd never able to kick in a door discreetly. And it was hardly like Secrat's nervous shock would calm long enough to pick a lock.
Civilians could help. Disappearing in the crowd, that is. It worked in the Whispy Deserts. But there were more in search of them. And the crowds became scarcer as the night time raged on.
Secrat and Brutus found themselves back on the roads, leaving the alleyway. The high exhaust, Secrat felt his feet move slower. He fought the fatigue. It'd give him no assist.
Copé turned and looked back and saw a single knight on their tail. And, without thinking, spiraled his body and threw a knife in his direction.
It'd do nothing and only offer distraction. The Thief knew it on some level before throwing it. He raced toward the Knight, running at him with a second wind. Soon after, the knife struck the silver armor of the knight, who instinctively tried to block it. Secrat drove a boot to the Knight's chest and unsheathed the Knight's sword. Bringing it out, Copé slashed at him with the sword. The Knight went down at once, without an audible sound of dismay. Could have been simply playing dead. It didn't matter.
As The Knight was falling, Copé saw something out the corner of his eyes, and without stopping to think, on impulse again, brought the sword in-front of his face on the defensive. As he did, a sword came down fast on him, blocked by this own. It was fast, however, and it caught him off-guard.
Copé fell. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that at least ten knights were running his way. He made certain to dodge the preemptive strike of the Knight, causing him to dig down into the dirt-ground. Secrat crawled away before scrambling back up to his feet, racing off and ahead of Ess.
He'd risk losing Brutus and being kicked out of The Red Flux again over his own death.
His escape had to be imminent or not at all. Sooner or later, the numbers would outmatch him, and his fatigue would halt him. However, as his eyes poked and prodded, looking for something to come loose. Nothing did, no hiding spots, and sure enough, The Guards would have his head soon.
He ran down the road. This time running in-front of a chariot. His heart racing. Secrat made eye-contact with the man at the reins. Then looked at The Guards running in their pursuit of him.
His mind, unable to decide what would work and what would slow him down. He had not the time to make the decision, however, and watched as Brutus yanked the man out of the chariot. It was an older gentleman and he fell feebly at Ess' whim, offering no defense or means to fight back. The old man only let out a cry for mercy. Brutus held a knife in his hands.
Secrat rested a sword over Ess' shoulder, touching the brim of his neck. Brutus turned around and looked at him, that prick-smile, “Ain't that the son of Toucan, always kind and merciful,” Brutus said before a quick pause, “Except most the time, when he's not.”
“We don't have fucking time for this,” Copé said, his face cold and serious.
Brutus smiled bigger and looked like he was about to say something. But the sound of the old man fleeing caught him fire. And, with a frown, Brutus took a look at the hurrying guards and accepted his loss, climbing quick into the chariot.
Secrat did as well, with Ess at the reins, Copé swung the sword toward nearby Knights, keeping them from engulfing the chariot's mobility. A chariot for two with one horse, fate controlled whether the Knights would realize all they needed to do was behead the horse.
Fate and Copé swinging at anyone who came near it.
The Knights gathering, slashing swords against the chariot, breaking off pieces of the wood with ease. The doors were the first to be pried off. Copé swung his sword at the neck of one of the Knights and felt it slice between his helm and the top of his armor. It'd kill him, but the sword became stuck to the man's neck.
Secrat tugged, trying to free it, but with the men swinging their blades in his direction and the chariot beginning to move, he lost clutches of it in a fumbling, but did manage to seize grasp of the man's helm, prying it off his lifeless head.
The item was useless, however, and as the horse whinnied and began creating distance between them and The Knights, Secrat tossed the helmet out at one of the Knights, taking him off from his feet.
Maybe it wasn't so useless after all, thought Secrat.
The Knight's ran after them, but slowed their chase in time, weighted down by their heavy armor. The distance only became greater and more robust in progressing seconds. The Thief felt the air dissipate out from his lungs, how long had he held it in there? His breathing regulated in time. Brutus' lungs took some time.
Copé took a look behind them. The Knights were all gone, most likely to the alleyway from which they came. Secrat felt the closest thing to relief that he'd had in what felt like an eternity. “We'll have to get some distance and scrap the carriage.” He stopped again, his shaky hands took his mind off the pain they usually felt. “We'll stick out. Have to break in somewhere. Hide. Think about the rest with level heads.”
Brutus said nothing. Secrat took that as them in agreement. The horse turned left at Ess' command. Off a few hundred feet, Secrat took vision of one side of the walls surrounding Italina. They'd make one more turn and ditch the carriage.
However, seconds into their movements, the large carriage holding all the Knights reeled in-front of them. Startled, Ess yanked at the reins, swaying the horse to the right in a different path. He yanked more and more at the reins, harder and harder as his worry grew.
Secrat stood on the chair of the chariot and took out one of his knives. He knew not exactly what his intentions were, but something had to be done.
However, as he heard a loud gasp from Brutus, followed by the words, “What the FUCK!?”
His attention went back to what was in-front of him. What was in-front of him? “What the FUCK!?” Secrat found himself mimicking.
A bright green aura reached out from the blackness with a mesmeric tint that neither seemed inviting nor friendly, but beautiful regardless.
The world slowed down. Not figuratively and not a trick of the mind. The world slowed down.
The greenness ever-so intoxicating, starting to pour forward like a wave chasing toward them. With its glowing green. Its power. The road's became stained with emerald, the skies, soon after. Everything. Belonged to it. Everything. It owned. They could hear nothing.
As Copé's mouth tried to open, the force it took was immense. It was slowed. Not that he couldn't. He didn't want to. To take his eyes off from the aura.
An arrow landed in-front of Brutus and Secrat. It missed. They both could watch the arrow before it hit its mark. Meant for them.
Secrat turned his head. The noises went from silent to loud again. The hollering, the galloping of horses, the loudness, footsteps, all of it, and fast, an arrow flew over his head. He turned his head back to the Emerald World, and watched an arrow landed in-front of him and Brutus. Slowed again. Back on the Green.
The arrow went through the head of their horse. Their horse's head ruptured. Exploded might have even been a better word. The horse's head exploded, slowly, and Secrat saw all of it. The blood spurting out. He saw it mid-flight. The pieces of it. The brain. All turned to mush.
Copé's eyes went up and he lost himself
in the deepest tint of the color. His lids heavier and heavier, he wanted to close his eyes, it was almost a bother to keep them open. He yearned to drift, and drift, and ...
His arm was tugged by Brutus, who dragged him off from the carriage and to the dirt-ground. Secrat found himself back to normal in that instant. The dirt looked like dirt and nothing else. But when he closed his eyes, all he saw was the green. The remorselessness and never-ending green. His eyes burned like wax beneath a flaming candle. The image carved into his psyche. Scarred into his brain. The Green.
He opened his eyes and saw Brutus running off from him. The carriage of Knights a ways off. Copé ran as hell. His eyes burned every time he blinked with that god forsaken color.
Each footstep, his eyes burned, with no signs of decaying or wearing off.
The exposure to it.
He went ahead of Ess, who rubbed at his eyes with the same struggles. Which meant Copé hadn't simply imagined the array.
Ess and him ran with no particular destination. They ran for their lives and in-front of them was only the walls of Italina. Such a damper. Beyond them was freedom.
The sound of an arrow being shot off again. Copé heard it from a distance. The swishing and swashing sound of it soaring through the air. And before that, the bowstring released as the arrow shot out from between his fingers.
But Secrat didn't contort himself to look or pivot his body in attempt to dodge it. Too afraid for that, he simply continued running, more terrified of the green than he was death.
A low, short guttural sound rang the inners of his ear-drum. Brutus had been hit. On reflex, The Thief looked back, seeing The Green again. Ess fell slow. His grumbles now a jumbled jargon, the agony in his eyes delayed to show itself.
Once it did, the blood fell out next, out the newly made wound in his thigh. Brutus fell down on the dirt-ground. The Green Dirt Ground.
He laid, his eyes to Copé with worrisome suffering. Worrisome GREEN.
Secrat could feel his hands shaking, they rattled slowly, with the fear more distinguishable and savored. The Thief turned away, his head away from Brutus, looking back at the wall and in a return to normality. Normal time. Normally colored.
The Red Flux and the Wunderkind Thief Page 19
