by Todd Shryock
The steps emerged into a small back room that appeared to be a storage area. Boxes and barrels were neatly stacked around the walls. A small lantern burned brightly and the door stood ajar. Quinton wasn’t sure if someone had just been in the room looking for something to add to breakfast, or if this was set up by Fist in advance, but either way, he made his way through the doorway and into the hall.
The large house reminded him of the place he stayed in years ago when he took care of the old woman until she died. There were thick carpets on the floors and decorative tapestries and paintings on the walls. The walls themselves were painted various colors, and there was plenty of furniture, with the tables all having candles in fancy holders. He found the main hall and the wide steps that led upstairs. He knew he would find the old woman’s room up there. He had seen no sign of either servants or the guard, but a large, fuzzy, white cat sat on the steps licking its right paw. When it saw him, it kept licking, but never took its bright blue eyes off of him. As he approached, the cat put its paw down and started flicking his tail.
“Shhh,” said Quinton. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
The cat tipped its head slightly to one side, then turned and bounded up the stairs to the first landing. Quinton followed. When he reached the landing, the cat bounded up the next flight and trotted down a hallway. Quinton followed it again. Neither he nor the cat made a sound as they went down the deep red carpet that ran the length of the hall. The cat stopped at a large white door with a rose carved on it. Quinton figured the room beyond would be the bedroom that fronted the house, the one with the balcony that he would toss the old lady off of.
He stepped up to the door and reached for the knob, but the door opened to reveal the old lady. She looked at him and smiled. “How nice, Snow, you brought me a visitor.” The old lady turned around and walked back into the room. She didn’t appear threatened by his intrusion. She also didn’t seem phased by his completely filthy appearance. “My son is in a parade today. I’m going to wave to him.”
A voice cried out from somewhere down the hall. “Are you okay, my lady?”
“I’m fine, Nanette, I’m just talking to Snow.”
There was no response. Apparently whoever Nanette was was happy with the response. Quinton figured the old lady talked to herself a lot, and probably talked to teapots and furniture, too. He pulled the door shut behind him and checked out the room. Like the rest of the mansion, there were thick carpets on the floor and paintings and tapestries on the walls. There was a bed that looked like it was big enough for six people, covered by a canopy with insect mesh around it. Gold candelabras were on the mantle and the tables. A small fortune in candles dotted the room, and large glass windows with diamond-shaped panes faced the street. In the middle of the room were two large doors that opened up to a balcony beyond.
The old woman hobbled over to the doors and undid the latch. The wind snapped the doors open, sending them slamming into the walls, where they continued to clatter back and forth. “Oh my,” she said absently. “I don’t think it’s a very nice day for a parade.” She walked out onto the balcony and her long silver hair began to blow all about her. Snow, the cat, looked at Quinton, trotted out behind the woman, then sat down and faced him, its eyes never leaving him.
“Maybe I’ll throw the cat off first,” he said quietly. The cat’s ears twitched. He moved out to the balcony and stood next to the woman. The wind was howling through the streets and the occasional gust almost knocked him down. This was one of the worst windstorms Quinton had ever seen. The sky was grey and ominous, the rain falling in fits and starts. It was almost as if the wind was simply blowing too hard for it to rain.
Below him, a storm of another type was brewing. Lord Wren sat upon his horse, his heavy plate armor glistening with rain. Behind him, a dozen foot soldiers with silver helms decorated with red feathers stood in two perfect rows. At first, Wren was casually looking down the street, waiting for his mother to appear. When he looked up, he saw not only his mother but also Quinton. He had the faceplate on his helmet up, and Quinton could see the man squinting as he tried to make out who he was. He probably assumed he was a servant of some type.
“Who is that with you, mother?” he called up.
“It’s Snow, my cat.”
Wren frowned. “Not the cat, the other one.” The woman smiled in response.
She looked at Quinton, beaming. “That’s my son, he’s very important.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Quinton, wondering what was going to happen next.
A voice called out from one of the doorways below them. “Are you here to see my whore?” asked the all too familiar voice of Fist. He stepped from the doorway out into the street. His armor was dull and made up of pieces of plate and chain mail, stolen no doubt from various wearers and then pieced together.
Wren scowled. “How dare you. You insult my mother, you break our treaty and you dirty up my home with your presence.” He drew his sword. “But now you have saved me the trouble of finding you and removing your head.”
Fist motioned for him to stop. “If you take one step toward me, my faithful servant up there will toss your mother to the ground.”
The men behind Wren had started to fan out and drew their own swords, all of them staring intently at Fist and his huge presence. From Quinton’s viewpoint, he could see movement in doorways and alleys as the guild members started creeping up behind the distracted soldiers. With the howling wind, it wasn’t hard to creep up on them.
Wren looked up at his mother, then back to Fist. “That’s why I never liked you, Fist. You have no honor.”
“Honor is something rich people hide behind when they do something bad.” Fist looked up at Quinton and gave him an exaggerated nod. It was time.
Wren looked up at his mother, his eyes wide. He understood what was about to happen. He grabbed something from around his neck and threw it to the ground. When it hit, there was a loud pop and a small puff of smoke.
The guild members attacked at the same moment. Some soldiers went down, others were protected by their armor and managed to spin around and start defending themselves against their more numerous, if less well-armed opponents. The street below turned into a series of metal clangs and screams of pain as men moved for the kill.
But Quinton had his own problems to worry about. As soon as whatever Wren threw hit the ground, Snow let out a horrible snarl. The cat expanded in size and form until it was six feet tall and shaped roughly like a man. It was covered in white fur, but its head was elongated and had no eyes. There was no room, because most of the head was taken up by a large mouth filled with teeth. A small, black nose was the only other feature. It growled and sniffed the air.
Quinton had the old lady between him and the cat, or whatever it was now. It launched itself onto the wall, grasping the stones with four limbs filled with long arcing claws. It perched there for a moment, sniffed again, then dove at Quinton. The boy was expecting the move and rolled to the other side of the old woman. The creature crashed into the railing, smashing through a big chunk of it, sending wood fragments and splinters flying. It slid over the edge, but caught itself with its front claws. It brought its rear claws up and began flailing away, leaving deep gouges in the wood as it tried to regain the balcony. Quinton drew his sword and took a step toward it to try to help it on its way, but it finally got enough of a hold and pulled itself back up.
The monster sniffed again. Somewhere in the distance, thunder boomed, echoing off the stone walls of the city. Quinton was now downwind of it. The creature moved right up to the old woman, who mindlessly watched the carnage below, oblivious to both Quinton and the beast. It sniffed her several times until it was satisfied that wasn’t him. It dropped down to all fours and stalked around the old woman, its nose constantly sniffing the air and then the ground. It drifted toward the wall of the mansion, so Quinton moved as close to the old woman as he could, pushing her back a bit so he could slip between her and the remaining balcony
. Snow moved on by until it was standing in his old spot. It seemed confused for a moment.
Quinton glanced down. Fist had killed Wren’s horse, which lay in the street. Most of the soldiers were dead, but those who survived the initial attack had taken a heavy toll on the guild members. Wren and Fist were sparring, Fist’s knuckle spikes knocking Wren’s sword jabs aside with ease. Neither man appeared to have any advantage.
The creature snarled, bringing Quinton’s attention back to his more pressing problem. He realized that when he switched sides, he was now upwind again. Snow could smell him, and it sensed he was close. Filled with the instinct to kill, the creature dropped into a crouch to launch itself for another attack. Quinton held his sword point up and braced for the attack. The beast sprang forward with lightning speed.
But the swirling wind must have messed up its sense of smell. It partially hit the old woman in the shoulder, knocking her to the side and against one of the broken pieces of railing. She balanced precariously on the balcony, wearing the same stupid smile. The creature, knocked off its trajectory, hit the floor and rolled into the wall, stunned. Quinton rammed his sword into its exposed chest. Snow let out a horrible scream and began to thrash madly about. Quinton withdrew his sword and moved to the corner of the balcony, as far away from the monster as possible.
Its screams started to lessen and its movements calmed as more blood leaked out of the wound. But then it picked up its head and caught Quinton’s scent one last time. It tried to launch itself again, but its front legs failed. It slid across the deck, mouth open and knocked the old woman’s feet out from under her. Both the creature and the woman disappeared from view.
Quinton looked over the edge. Snow lay unmoving on the street. The woman was lying on her side, a pool of blood around her head, a lifeless smile on her face.
Wren screamed. He turned from Fist and ran to his mother. Fist tried to follow, but one of the soldiers stepped in to protect his lord’s back. Wren knelt over his mother, gently picking up her head. She was gone. He looked up at Quinton, then carefully set his mother’s head back on the cobblestones. Somewhere down the street, a horn sounded. Reinforcements were coming.
Wren stood up and flipped down the visor on his helmet. His faceplate was silver and was made to resemble a man’s face -- a man who was clearly insane.
Fist finished off the soldier between them by driving both spikes through the man’s chest, then throwing him to the ground. He motioned for Wren to come forward.
Wren let out a scream and held his sword up behind him as if to strike, but he was still twenty paces away. He swung the sword forward. As he did so, the blade lengthened as if the momentum of the swing itself forced it to elongate. The blade swung down, surprising Fist, who only had enough time to partially raise a spiked hand in defense of the magically extended sword. The blade glanced off the spike and bit deep into Fist’s shoulder. Fist winced in agony. As soon as the blade hit him, it quickly shrank back to its original length. The horn sounded again.
The remaining guild members were scattering to save their own skins. They disappeared into doorways and alleyways and started climbing the walls. A few were caught and cut down, most got away.
Quinton had his own problems once again. The door to the bedroom was kicked open behind him, and several armed men came storming through. There was no place to go but up. He lifted his legs high and stepped into the sky using his boots. The men rushed out behind him, swinging their swords, but he was too high. He continued to climb, but as soon as he cleared the buildings, the wind buffeted him quickly across several buildings. He was moving so fast, he was not in control. He quickly pointed his feet down and crash landed on a roof several blocks away.
The sky grew darker and the rain kicked up once more. He used rooftops to get close to the wall, then found a spot where the guard was not paying close attention, made a quick ascent up the stairs, then climbed down the outside of the wall. He had to get Kate and get them out of the city. There was no choice now.
As he made his way through the streets, there were more signs of chaos. Wren’s men had obviously started without him. Ordinary people, caught on their way to work or the market, had been cut down in the streets. Shutters that hadn’t been torn off of the lower levels of the buildings were flapping madly against the windows. Wren’s men were on a rampage, and it no longer mattered whose side you were on. There was only one side now, Wren’s.
Quinton was passing down a street when a blue cape caught his eye. He stopped and looked closer at the unmoving body that it was wrapped around. Her dark hair was matted to her face in a combination of rain and blood, and her eyes stared blankly ahead. A spear had been driven through her torso, and there were several cuts on her arms. There were several of her followers and a few soldiers around her in death’s embrace, so she had gone down fighting. Glitter’s revolution was over, which was probably for the best since it was abundantly clear who was going to win the war. Quinton gently closed her eyelids with the flat of his hand, touched her cold head to say goodbye, then ran on down the street.
By the time he made his way past the roving gangs of thugs and patrols of soldiers to the Pink Lady, the sky was starting to turn black. The wind was now gusting so hard at times, it made it difficult to walk, and the rain was blowing sideways, pelting him in the face. He went through the side door to look for Kate. The girls he passed quickly looked away.
“Where is she?” he called to one of them, worried that she had been hauled off by the gangs.
The girl didn’t answer, she just looked at the floor.
Enraged, Quinton drew his sword and marched toward her with the blade pointed at her throat. “I’m already responsible for one death today, so I’m not really concerned about one more,” he hissed to her.
“She left,” the girl stammered, eyeing the tip of the blade that was touching her throat. “She had food and said she was leaving for good.”
“When?”
“Maybe a half hour ago. She said she was meeting someone by some market where there was a break in the wall.”
Half an hour? She had a headstart, but at least she was probably safe. Quinton sheathed his sword, took a quick look out the doorway then headed out at a trot. He got to the middle of the street and stopped cold. “How did she know about the break in the wall?” he said to himself. He had never told her about it. Had someone else told her? How would she know where to go to meet him? He shook off the questions for now. There would be time for answers later. If he was going to catch her, he had to run now.
***
The streets and buildings blurred by. The break was on the other side of the city from where he was. Street by street he moved, and the scene was the same, dead bodies, broken lives, looted homes, stunned people. On occasion, he had to move to the rooftops to bypass soldiers, but the storm had slowed the pace of destruction.
Then a strange thing happened. The wind dropped off considerably and the rain slackened. The storm had finally blown itself out. Quinton doubled his efforts. His legs ached and his heart pounded, but he willed his body to press on.
He finally reached the Lombard Fish Market and its massive walls. The door was half open, so he raced through. The inside was abandoned, and other than some overturned empty crates, it showed little sign of being disturbed. He started to relax. Even if Kate had made it over the wall, he would catch up to her on the other side. He spotted the small door that would lead him to the large open area that was across from the crumbled wall. Before opening it, he took a moment to catch his breath. Sprinting across the city had sapped the last of his energy. It was all he could do to pull the door open.
He gasped at what he saw on the other side. There were bodies everywhere. Broken weapons, arrows and spears dotted the ground. Streams of blood mixed in with the pooling rainwater. Apparently a lot of people knew about the breach and had headed here, only to be caught by soldiers. Some almost made it; their bodies were three-fourths of the way up the pile of stones. A few o
f the people in the courtyard were still alive, their moans rising above the wind. The refugees had tried to take what few belongings they had with them. Mixed in with the battle debris were bags of dried meats, cheeses and bread. A few geese clucked in their wooden cages and a large rug with decorative ropes tied on to each corner was draped over the rocks, its owner lying nearby with his head smashed in.
Then he saw her. Making her way up the side of the pile near the top, she was there. She was alive. But she wasn’t alone. The figure looked familiar. He recognized the clothes and the way he moved, even though he was soaked. It was Huck. He took a step toward them and called out. “Hey!” It would be easier to get through the swamp with three, anyway.
Kate kept moving up the final steps of the pile and started to disappear down the other side. Quinton called out again. Huck stopped at the very top and looked back at Quinton. He gave him a mock salute, then unfastened a small leather pouch from his belt. He reached back and threw the bag to the base of the stones, where it landed with the clinking of coins.
Quinton took one step toward the rocks to follow them. There was a quick hissing sound, then he dropped to one knee as his right calf gave out in a sharp pain. His leg burned and he felt an odd sensation. When he looked at his leg, there was an arrow through his calf. The bloody tip was sticking out one side, the feathered end sticking out the other. He looked up to the top of the rock pile, but Huck was gone. He tried to stand, but his leg gave out. The pain was intense, and the shaft of the arrow was preventing his leg from working right.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He had forgotten about the archer. He reached for his sword, but a voice called out a warning.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Quinton knew the voice. It was familiar, but who? He looked up and saw the older boy, the one who had been a hunter, the one Huck called Big Shot, standing next to the bag Huck had thrown down. He had another arrow nocked and held the bow with his left hand and picked up the bag with his right. The bag disappeared into his shirt and he moved his hand back to the bowstring and cautiously approached Quinton.
