The wall was thirty feet. At least. It towered over him with its height.
“I'm sorry, Brutus,” Secrat said, his back to him. “I'll do everything in my power to find you. The Flux will not forsake you. Don't fight, they won't kill you unless you make them.”
“Fuck the Flux,” Brutus yelled.
Secrat did not respond. He ran. Ran forward. Ran fast. Toward the wall. The Green was after him. The Guards would also reach him in due time. Brutus would be their distraction.
He ran.
A string of arrows landed in-front of him. Some of them aflame. He didn't care. Finding worse things than death. Death was a sweet release. At last, he made it to the wall. The wall, trepidatious in his heart, apprehension arising higher and higher, even higher than the wall could stand. But it was not for the fear of heights. The granite walls had ridges, some here and some there. Not a lot of consistencies with them though. Copé landed his foot on one small ledge and began his ascension.
In a different time, perhaps, it'd have been more trivial. But not this time, his hands nimbly made their progression. It was a slow climb, but he was far too afraid to look and see if the guards neared, far too afraid of the arraying aura. The green layer.
The adrenaline alleviated his wounds, smashed and broken, seemed a distant memory that pulsated numbness.
"ATTENTION!" a voice called out. It sounded squeaky and high-pitch, monotone and dead inside, like a voice with no life in it. "Your arrest has been called upon, with just cause, for the murder of two currently unidentified men, the attempted murder of woman, Alisa Muriel, and stolen items that have since been confiscated. Such as, a statue, from named woman, various items of nondescript monetary value, a small fortune of coin, and a large, decorative case. As criminals, under Italina Law, the items' possession has been evoked from you, stolen or not." It took no breaths in-between words, and showed no flub or discrepancy in its voice.
It was not human.
It surrounded all the sides, coming from below, in the sky, from one side and the other. It was everywhere. Like King Harris had summoned God himself to handle Secrat.
In his ascension, Secrat felt his foot miss one of the ridges only a few feet short of the top. A fall from the height would kill him.
He dangled off by one-hand. He felt the sweat pour off of him, he only helped his moistened hand wouldn't lose its grip. His hand, not the broken one, felt ache. The ache of tire and exhaust, the ache that said it'd be a matter of time before he could go on no more. His eyes stuck back to the greenness, as he looked, it engulfed the city's view to such immaculate levels, like the whole of Italina had been scorched in it.
But, something else, the way it looked, like the buildings were curved and angling down, the tops of them like bending trees. Like they were alive. Like the aura itself was alive. Pulling them at its whim.
Secrat regained stability for himself, his eyes back in the blackness of the night. But, the stains of color began bleeding through, he could see green on his hands and on the ridges of the wall. His hand frolicked aimless at first, but with the aura, he was able to find the next ridge jutting out. As he found it, he fought his way up more, until finally, finding himself able to pull his body over the wall.
The platform atop was narrow, unlike the front-entrance which allotted the knights to stand in post. Throwing himself over, on the other-side, he found himself. The outside sanctity of the Unprotected Wilderness was ahead. The sickly grass and dead trees never seeming more inviting to him. The decaying nature never so filled with life.
But, then, the sound of screeching in an unrelenting tone, like a final bird's dying cry lasting forever. His eyes took a final look at the Italina he left behind, his curiosity had turned into obsession at the anomaly bestowed upon them.
Brutus laid, in fear, his body, like everything else, distinguishable as a darker shade. A shade like the buildings.
Brutus crawled away backward, like The Woman did from him earlier. Poetic justice, to some. Secrat felt a small inkling of guilt that evaporated like water beneath the sun. Guilt would inevitably die by the hands of fear.
Copé looked down. Down below him. Off the wall. The large carriage stayed, stopped in-front of the wall with bowman perched and shooting. Though, their arrows were never high enough. And when they did, Copé found himself easily able to evade their slow attempts.
Secrat stared deeply into the blank space forward. Where it all started, it'd seem, the brightest flare. The spark.
Until, at last, he saw the depiction of a dark figure.
A figure ripped out from the aura, it's own full-color. Leaving the background just as. The figure's stature looked that of a strong warrior, that being from a time when warriors still existed. Not a Messenger Boy Knight or a One Who Pried on the Weak, but a Beast in silver armor. A muscular frame and a height more exaggerated than attainable. Even taller than The Giant from The Pub, and by more than a few feet.
His gauntlets and greaves, emerald, and his silver helm with a likewise comb. Those aspects blended with the scenery behind and around him. It seemed like he was a part of it, in someway. Somehow.
His eyes had a fiery orange like a roaring flame and his body seemed to visibly shake. Not himself, not the way Copé's hands shook, but as if he was an unsettled creature, uncontrolled and without abidance to what must be. A dizzy appearance that made it look like there was more than one of him. The Knight, or The Creature, whichever fit better, withdrew its blade from out of its scabbard. It too, looked to be on fire.
The Creature made its first step. And vanished.
But not vanished. It hadn't vanished.
Copé realized as his eyes adjusted. The atmosphere clogging his perception. The Creature simply moved THAT fast. It appeared and disappeared. Appeared and disappeared. Each time, moving closer and closer toward Brutus, who acted afraid. Not acted. WAS afraid. With reason to be, Brutus climbed to his feet, limping away weakly, but there would be no escape.
The Creature met him, its sword laid on his shoulder while he stood. A plaintive cry came next. The searing and blistering pain of the flaming blade. Brutus dropped back down again, slowly. Everything remained its elongated pace. Everything except The Creature. Its speed unhinged.
The Creature's helm pointed down at Brutus and Copé saw the Guards nearing to him. Brutus would offer no fight against them. And, in the next moment, Copé watched as The Creature's eyes jerked up, beaming at The Thief.
Frightened, but not petrified, Secrat tried his hand at descending down the outside wall. His vision obscured, with little flickers of color. It didn't ease The Thief, however. The Creature's residual afterimage etched into the inside of his eyelids.
He stopped for a moment, rubbing his eyes with one hand, but the burn was intensified. His exposure to it only worsened the agony. The burn became immense, and his eyes watered terribly, but as they leaked down his face, they bled a bright green.
His scared flinch cost him his balance, and he found himself descending helplessly down. The fall didn't scare him. His mind was elsewhere. Traumatized elsewhere. But he knew the landing would kill him.
His hand reached for a ledge, and found one. He felt the momentum spiral with his body, and while he no longer fell toward the ground, the momentum shifted and had him kneeing the wall.
At once, he lost his grip and slammed his back against the ground of the Unprotected Wilderness.
The fall down wasn't too far, but it all happened too fast to fully know how much pain he was in.
His mind bled the damned color. The Knight, or Creature with the flaming sword. That's where his mind belonged.
The Knight with the Flaming Sword.
Livius Reid.
An Aeonian.
Chapter Fourteen
Copé ran. The strength of the Aeonian diminished, but glimpses and flickers of "the color" didn't leave him. He ran. The blades of sickly grass beneath his feet even looked healthy with the lively hue. He felt an emptiness at the pit of his
stomach, a heaviness in his chest. Still, he ran.
The Italina Knights had their carriages and horses, and they surely would be after him.
But The Aeonian would not venture beyond the town's walls, not for an insignificant thief, nor one of the God-like, wunderkind variety such as Secrat.
Secrat ran without direction, only distance on his mind. This must have been how The Woman felt, running aimless from her perpetrators. Copé couldn't remember a time he had been more intimidated or scared than how he felt now.
Secrat ran. They wouldn't look all night, not outside the walls, not when the area was so populated. Too dangerous.
The wagon was gone, confiscated according to The Creature's words. It, or they, the Italina authorities must have been notified by The Woman. She must have ran to them and informed them of Brutus' attempted murder, of Secrat and Brutus' successful steal.
Copé felt something beneath his feet and tripped. This seemed as good to hide as any. He fell hard onto the ground, his own momentum sending him forward forward. The feeling of his knees drives against the dirt-floor was enough to make him yell out. The way he landed, he leaned against a large dead-tree.
The Italina walls were still very visible to him. He realized he might very well have been at the exact opposite standpoint of where Taison and the wagon were. Or once were.
His body ached everywhere. His back was sore, his knees more bruised than a prostitute's from the Hallow, and to top it off, his hand was throbbing again.
The chilly air made his body shiver. Not accustom to such temperature. His clothing being drenched with sweat offered little assist.
Unless Taison was able to outrun the Knights, he would've been captured. In other-words, he was captured.
Marc Sero, Lukas Lewis, and Samuel Syi's whereabouts was up in the air as well. Of course, Brutus was taken for certain. And if, empty-handed without Brutus would have upset Toucan, then coming back alone would surely spell out The Thief's death. A small moment, a trickling of thought, found itself roaming, the thought of screaming "Fuck It!" to the heavens and leaving The Flux occurred to Secrat. Alas, he knew it wasn't an option for him. The Whispy Deserts were hot, and living arrangements around all Maharris were never favorable. Besides, he was well accustomed to being a member of the troupe.
Secrat felt down at his leggings and found himself some tobacco, dampened and moist by his sweat. He lit it up with an abrasive scroll and a pine-stick. The flame had a haphazard hue until Copé's eyes settled. He had seen nothing but what the stars allotted him for so long that the Aeonian still messed with his vision. He assumed it'd frequent his psyche for a times and while it made figures easier for him to distinguish in the blackness, he wanted nothing more than to have it vacate him.
He brought one end of the cigarette up to his lips, welcoming the smoke into his lungs. He watched the small flame shake and realized he, himself, was the cause. The fear yet to bid its farewell.
It was either come back with the rest of The Red Flux or don't come back at all.
He took a puff of the cigarette. God, I hate these, Secrat found himself thinking. He had hoped they'd calm his nerves but as the emerald smoke escaped his lips, he felt on the brink of a panic attack.
All the items taken. Even the Statue that got them in this predicament. The whole of the Aer Festival heist was a failure.
They took EVERYTHING. But Secrat knew he'd have to return. He'd have to penetrate the Italina Prisons and rescue his brethren.
He knew not how to do that, however. Not the faintest of assumption nor idea. Had it been like a fable or storybook, the good-guy would find the answer to his or her dilemma in an unrealistic location. But Secrat wasn't the good guy. Secrat was a thief meaning to rob innocent common folk of Italina and a reoccurring murderer of those innocent common folk.
However, as he flicked his cigarette out from between his fingers over to the ground in-front of him, he saw that fate didn't concern itself with such technicalities. He saw what he'd tripped over and saw that the Italina Knights had, in-fact, not taken everything. A coincidence, like in the storybooks, made all the difference. A coincidence that operated as special happenstance to let him carry on in his misadventure. One that would let him, The Hero, carry fourth and save The Red Flux brethren.
An outline of green around it, Secrat saw the Italinian Knights armor stolen by Marc Sero, buried partly in the dirt.
2
The silver was a difficult fit around Secrat. Heavier than anticipated, the suit, not Secrat, he knew he'd be unable to ascend the castle walls with it. Not that he could do it again other-wise.
His body was beaten and battered, and without the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the injuries and hardships had caught up with him.
He limped his way to the other side of Italina, trying to find a stance resembling how the Knight's carried themselves. They walked, more or less, like a normal person trying to walk with pride, always looking force and tense.
Not like Livius Reid, who was the real deal, or would it have been Livius Reid's ghost? The fables and myths assigned certain credentials, but Copé had no true idea of what an Aeonian actually was.
Getting through the gates led to no confrontation. New guards in the rotation. Had it been a different day, a composite sketch would have spelled Secrat's capture and demise, but the Aer Festival cluttered everything to his favor.
An array of thieves would lurk inside the town for the night. Secrat assumed the only reason Livius was summoned is because a knight was murdered. But, then again, he knew not how it all worked.
The Guards did stop him, with cautious faces. "Officer," a Knight said in such a formal tone Secrat thought he might as well be talking to King Harries himself, "State your business."
Secrat smiled, he'd have laughed in the face of the knight had it been a different circumstance. "In pursuit of a thief that left with items outside town walls. He escaped," Copé said, his voice deepened as to create a false sense of professionalism and poise.
"The troupe!? You were in pursuit of the man by yourself?" The Knight's face seemed aghast.
Secrat fanned him off with his hand. "Nay, I lost track of the carriage, had to walk all the way back around on foot."
"What carriage? There'd been no carriage put in his pursuit."
"No, but, uh, there had been carriages of nobleman posted all about the outskirts of the Wilderness. Looks like Harries anticipated them." Copé felt his heart beating faster. Anyone of normal intelligence would be able to see through his lie. If it were a knight of any know-how or significance, his lie would fail.
"Odd, the other knights made it seem like he didn't want any men posted outside the walls. Like he thought it too risky because the savages that show up for the festival," the knight sounded befuddled. Not that he disagreed with Secrat, but that he was genuinely confused. The other two knights gave no input, they were young and inexperienced, as was the knight who spoke.
"Clearly, that's what the King wanted everyone to think." Copé said back, and for some reason he didn't understand himself, he pointed at the top of his head with a smile.
"Aha," The Knight said, nodding with a smile of his own. "Very smart of the King."
Secrat nodded back, and began to walk forward, saying nothing, his back to the knights.
"Then again, from what The Woman who was almost killed by the troupe said, the remaining thief was far from the most skillful in the operation."
Secrat bit his lip as the gate into Italina came open, waving goodbye to the fuck-faced knight.
3
Up the steps to the King's castle, Secrat realized he hadn't the faintest idea of where prisoners were kept. But somewhere about the castle was the safest assumption.
The Castle started at the complete other-side of Italina, the very end.
Copé was fortunate enough to find a coachman as escort by horse to the castle. It cost him almost all the coin he'd nicked from the Heavy Man at the Bell's Brothers Pub.
; The steps leading to the castle looked endless, and to the left and right of them were decorative props. A fountain made to look like some sort of flower, the water falling out and down the petals. It was the closest anyone in Italina had come to seeing an actual living plant. The other side had a large granite sign, one with the same stone used for the walls. Carved in elegant letters, the sign decreed all the various rules Italina citizens were expected to abide by. At the bottom, it was sign with Livius Reid's name.
Copé went up the steps and felt immediate fatigue. Useless messenger boys for King Harries or not, the Knights deserved credit for navigating the steps on a regular basis.
Once Copé looked up and did see more steps, he felt relief. With all the sweating he'd done, it was a wonder how his armor didn't look more bronze than silver. Along with relief, he also felt thankfulness for the emerald colors instilled in him by the Aeonian. They, at once terrified him, and still terrified him on some level, but they had proved their worth, allowing him to more clearly make out figures that other-wise would have been hidden in the night.
Lined with a porcelain flooring, Copé expecting nothing less from Italina's King. Similar to the streets, the floor's shined without blemish, unscathed by dirt or grime, but as Copé walked upon the snow-white porcelain, the footprints behind him were clearly visible. They cleaned it THAT often.
His face shined on the floor, and through the reflection, he saw the dried mud and blood, a gash on his cheek he hadn't even noticed, and how the bags under his eyes told the tale of sleep deprivation and exhaustion.
The castle's size was gargantuan, and consisted of far more than simply the King's Throne.
Acera's layout was far less complicated. Though, their castle did sit far off, floating in the Amisoic Sea.
The walls were painted glass, with hooded men, allegedly The Aeonians, and they were standing on a mountain. Presumably, the Mountain of Jalint. Knights and swordsman, and nobleman that Italina natives would surely recognize, but were lost on Secrat. It was all very immaculate but Copé did do his best not to be distracted by the scenery. He did notice though, of five hooded figures on the mountain, one of them had a painted emerald aura.
The Red Flux and the Wunderkind Thief Page 20
