by Ashley Capes
Inside the stairwell Never half-ran, half-stumbled down. One hand trailed the wall as a guide. At the bottom waited a storeroom, door open and lamplight glowing. Never leapt inside and a robed man jumped, his eyes wide as he looked up from a ledger.
“Who are you?” he stammered as he fell against a crate.
“You must flee,” Never said. “Quickly, is there any way from this room?”
The man dropped his quill. “What is this about?”
Never caught the fellow by the shoulders. “Listen to me now. If you want to live to write another number, tell me. Can we leave this room – not the stairs.”
The man trembled. “Well, yes. I mean, there’s an old access to the aqueducts in with the cold goods but no-one –”
“Show me.”
The man tripped over his own feet as he turned to lead Never into the next room but Never caught him. “Quickly, there are men chasing me.”
The stock-keeper ran for a door and led Never through row after row of fruit crates packed between barrels of water. Near to the rear of the room there rested an iron handle on a hefty-looking hatch in the floor. Never pointed. “That?”
The man edged away. “Yes. It leads into the aqueducts. For cleaning.”
“And it travels beyond the city?”
“Yes.”
Never bent and took a firm grip on the handle. “Don’t be rusted shut,” he told it before heaving. Nothing. He pulled until his arms shook and it started to grind open. He kept the pressure on, using his legs, his whole body to lift, letting it clang open against the stone. Then he stood back and caught his breath, wincing at the way his wounds throbbed – only to be interrupted by the slapping of feet on stone. “No, not that way,” Never cried after the scribe.
The man hollered something.
Never took a few steps after. The fool had already reached the stairs. He started up then screamed... only to come tumbling back down. The cracking of bone echoed in the room and Never flinched.
Harstas followed, flanked by two men. The commander had lost his helm and his pale skin and blond hair were tinted yellow by the lamp. With little more than a sigh of annoyance, Harstas ran the scribe through and wiped his blade on the man’s robe before rising, meeting Never’s gaze.
Never unlocked his clenched jaw. One of his knives was already in hand – he charged and threw, piercing the visor of one Steelhawk. Low on knives, he ripped a small box from a stack and hurled it at the other Steelhawk.
It exploded, spraying peaches everywhere but the man faltered only.
Harstas waved his subordinate forward with a sneer.
Never gave ground to the longer reach, deflecting blows with his remaining knife. He was in trouble. With little room to move, he had to do something. Beyond the soldier before him, Harstas was lifting a bow from his fallen comrade, fitting an arrow to the string.
“You’re finished,” the Steelhawk said.
“Good to know,” Never replied, leaping back. He took advantage of the extra space to whip a cut across the back of his hand. Then he bounced on the balls of his feet, letting the Steelhawk approach.
Before the man could get within range, Never dove forward, sliding between the fellow’s legs. He slapped the stone to halt himself, slashing at the point where his enemy’s greaves were buckled.
Leather snapped and blood flowed – this time Never let it spray forth.
Yet the man still twisted to swing a downward blow. Never rolled. The point of the sword caught his shoulder – and more blood shot forth. The Steelhawk fell back with a gasp of horror. He crashed into the crates, slumping to the floor, blood gushing from his wound and fell still. No memories, no impressions flew between this time, as if the man had died too quickly.
Never found his knees, flicking his wrist to break the flow.
Harstas stood, face drained of colour, bow faltering. His nostrils flared as he trembled. Never pointed a bloody hand at him. “Stay back and I will let you live.”
The Vadiya commander’s jaw worked.
Never backed toward the aqueduct’s entry. Harstas took a single step forward and Never let his blood surge a little; it strained for the still-pumping blood from the Steelhawk but Harstas didn’t know that. The commander flinched.
At the hatch, Never stepped down to the first rung of a ladder.
“Do not follow me.”
He took another step down, the image of Harstas glaring after him the last thing he saw before darkness cloaked him.
