Night of Wings and Smoke, page 13
“Wait,” you shout at him, as if he would listen. Hesh easily slips through, and once out, he stops once to look back at you. His eyes are wide with panic and red with tears.
“Please, don’t run,” you tell him as you approach. It is no surprise he does not listen. You killed someone close to him. His father? His uncle? A caretaker? You don’t know, and won’t know if he gets away. You’re almost tempted to let him. Is there really any good going to come of this? The man may die unknown, but he wouldn’t be the first life to pass nameless in the night. Anwyn would still take his soul come the reaping hour, and if not, well, there was a reason all graves are unmarked. No one should be judged for the Sisters delaying their ascension until the end of all things.
The boy runs. You chase. You’re not sure you even know why, but you do. You’d hoped to find keys within the house to unlock the front gates, but it seems you’ll need to make the climb after all.
The dead man did it, you tell yourself. So can you.
It’s not as comforting as you thought it’d be. Instead you leap, grab the bars, and sling your legs halfway up, where the gap between the fence and the wall is a bit larger. It’s a tight squeeze, and you halt momentarily with a painful hit to your chest, but in the end you make it through and collapse to the street on the other side. Hard stone is your welcome.
No time to deal with bruises. You push back to your feet, catch sight of Hesh hooking a right at the main road, and sprint after. Upon turning, you glance the other direction and shout at Ansell, patiently waiting at the front gate.
“With me!” you cry. He immediately sprints after, joining you in the chase.
Not two blocks down, you fear it won’t be much of a chase after all. The lanterns are lit, a privilege you suspect only wealthy places like Quiet District and Windswept District still afford, but the night is dark and the sky full of clouds to grant the fleeing boy a multitude of shadows to hide within. You pass empty or darkened homes, the fleeing boy a faint visage in the distance, and then, not there at all.
You slow your run. Never should have let him get outside the fence. His chance of fleeing was too great now. Any alley you pass might have him hiding at the far end, and you lack the manpower for a proper search.
You stop completely and gaze upon the midnight district road.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, knowing he will not hear but pretending he might. “I truly am.”
You turn back toward the home, and Ansell, still running to catch up. You make it only three steps before a bloodcurdling scream roots you in place. It’s behind you, and so close you feel the fear and intensity of the scream in your teeth. Instinct spins you around, and you’re sprinting again, straight into the next alley where the sound originated from.
The second you’re within, you skid to a halt. The sight breaks your mind.
Hesh’s body lays on the ground, and in two pieces. His chest is a mess of gore and broken bone. Innards splay out upon the stone, but not many. Not many, for they are within the black beak of an enormous white owl. The bird towers several feet over you, each glimmering yellow eye the size of your head. Its wings flutter as it gulps down its meal, rib bones and all.
“A small morsel,” the gigantic owl says. His voice rumbles, deep and aged. He takes a single step toward you, his body lowering and his wings fanning out. The feathers nearly touch side to side in the dark alley. “I seek bigger prey.”
You can’t imagine what good a lone shot from your pistol will do against a bird of such size, nor is it even loaded. You draw your sword and hold it before you.
“I am no mouse to hunt,” you say, wishing you sounded more threatening. You feel his eyes drawing you in. With each step, his claws scrape grooves into the cobblestone.
“Which is good,” the owl says. “I seek humans for my feast, not mice.”
How lucky for you, you think as the enormous bird flaps his wings once, the wind blasting over you. He rotates his lower body, rearing up, just to then lunge forward, his feet open and reaching. Time itself seems to slow as you see bits of gravel from the broken cobblestone falling from those enormous claws, each one the size of your forearm. You see the great display of his wings, white as snow and speckled with haphazard black spots. He keens, signaling the start of a new hunt, and the noise pierces your mind stronger than a blade. There is blood on his beak, and bones in his belly. Hesh. A child. Eaten.
Training, or perhaps instinct, carries you through the shock. Instead of slashing with your sword, you dive aside. Against that weight and momentum, you cannot hope to withstand. Wind blasts above you as the owl goes sailing past. One of the claws catches the loose, lower portion of your coat, and you feel it tug before ripping through the leather. You roll due to your own momentum and then bounce back up to your feet while, at the end of the alley, the owl skids to a halt. His head spins a full half-circle to stare at you as he awkwardly bobs his body to turn.
You assault him as fast as your legs can carry you, hoping to deny the owl any chance at recovering. You stab with your sword the moment you’re in range, your waist bending and your arms fully extending to maximize the lunge. The owl hops backwards, and it lifts one of its legs up in defense. The claws snap closed, and though they fail to grab your arm and shoulder, they do shift the aim of the sword so it only scrapes across the hard, almost scaley feet. If you draw blood, you cannot see it in the night.
The owl lands from its hop, fans its wings, and buffets wind toward you to halt your chase.
“I am Yont, champion of the Queen of the Winged,” he says, the force of the wind so strong you have to brace your legs to remain standing. Charging him is completely impossible. “You are but a meal to me, little Soulkeeper. Your sword is the biting fang of the serpents who break in half between my beak.”
“First I’m a mouse, now I’m a serpent,” you say, preparing your sword. “Care to make up your mind on which animal?”
His wings halt, and in the sudden pause, you stagger.
“You are and forever will be human,” says Yont. “That is your irrevocable sin.”
He charges you, this time with his head low and his beak open and leading. The long crook of it forces him to turn his head sideways, his beak far better for snatching prey from above than in such a charge. You hesitate a heart-beat of time, judging his speed, his angle, and then dash again to the side. Your sword swings, aided by your movements. The blade smacks across the beak and then slides along its side toward his eye. You hit the wall before you can see the results, and you roll along it twice due to your momentum.
Yont’s furious shriek confirms the injury before he even turns toward you. His left eye is squeezed shut, and a bit of blue blood trickles down to stain the white feathers surrounding his beak. You lift your sword as your pulse races. He’s trapped you against the wall, and he knows it. His wings spread wide, and his beak snaps with strength great enough to shatter steel.
“You will suffer, Soulkeeper,” he says. “The quick death, denied. I will feast, and while I feast, you will watch. You will witness your own innards pulled out of you, made food for your betters.”
He shrieks again, wordless, thunderous in volume and shockingly high pitched for how deep his voice normally is. As you wince against the volume, you notice Ansell at the entrance to the alley.
Standing there. Not moving. His head is tilted slightly to one side, so that he almost looks like a confused puppy. He’s readied his club but shows no intention of using it.
“Ansell!” you shout. Yont spins his head about, following your gaze.
“Is it a threat?” Ansell asks. “I was not taught owls are threats.”
Yont spins his head back around and then dives at you with his claws leading. You shift your weight at the last moment, narrowly dodging. The claws slam into the wall, crashing into the wood of the nearby home and easily piercing through. Pinned between his legs, you lift your sword as his beak comes snapping down, its edge diving straight for his throat. The owl practically swallows the blade, and you see another spray of blood as your sword slices across Yont’s tongue. The pain has him rear back his head, earning you another moment’s reprieve.
“Yes!” you scream at Ansell. “It is a fucking threat!”
Another snap of the beak, much too fast for how giant he is. You position your sword in the way a second time, and this time he purposefully bites at it. His beak closes about it like a steel trap, and with almost comical ease, he rips it from your grasp, twists his head, and flings it further into the alley. Panic pushes you to move while his head is turned. You can’t stay trapped here, waiting for him to rip you apart. You duck and roll between his legs. His tail feathers brush against you, and you hear the owl cry as he spins to chase.
The moment you come up to your feet, your mind scrambling for ideas, you see Ansell leap in from behind Yont. The owl turns, hearing his approach at the last second, and is rewarded with a direct smack into his wounded eye from Ansell’s club. Whatever damage you inflicted does not compare to the gross ‘pop’ you hear as blood showers across the owl’s face. Yont twists his head and slams the top of his beak into the Lawkeeper as he lands, sending him tumbling your way.
You’re weaponless, and Ansell’s club, still so meager against the furious owl.
Well. Not completely weaponless.
“How dare you?” Yont screams as he turns your way, one eye weeping blue blood, the other wide as the moon and shining yellow. It is at that eye you aim your pistol upon drawing it from your hip holster.
“You’ve lost one eye, Yont,” you say. “And if you don’t leave now, I’m putting a lead shot straight through the other.”
Except you haven’t loaded it with lead shot. You pray the owl is unaware of that fact. He stares at you, the sight of such hatred shocking on an animal of nature, but then he spreads his wings.
“We are not done, Soulkeeper,” he says. “My Queen is but the first to come to your wretched city. Others will follow. The centuries did not absolve you of the crimes you committed against us.”
“So I hear,” you say, keeping your aim perfectly centered on Yont’s good eye. “Now get fucking lost.”
Yont takes to the sky, lifting higher and higher until he is but a large black shadow spread across the midnight field. Moments later he is gone, soaring north, and hopefully out from Londheim altogether. Ansell watches the owl depart, then turns to you.
“You were incorrect,” he suddenly says.
You spin to face him, rage and laughter mixing together in your tired mind.
“I’m what?” you ask.
“Incorrect,” the soulless Lawkeeper says, as if you failed to hear him the first time. “You said I should not watch out for owls.”
The last of your rage bleeds out into exhaustion. You retrieve your sword, sheathe it, and then holster your pistol.
“Lesson learned,” you say. “I suppose we resume our patrols, and yes, Ansell, this time keep your eye on the goddess-damned sky.”
20
“Is something wrong?” you ask Vikar Forrest as you step into his office.
“Wrong?” he asks as he leans back in his chair. “I could spend all day answering that question with things that are wrong. But safe to say, you mean why I summoned you?” He lifts a letter off his desk with two fingers, waves it at you, and then plops it back down. “I’ve a job for you, and it means leaving Londheim.”
“Leave?” you ask. Memories of your trek to the city flash through your mind, and a tightness bands about your chest. “Why would I leave? I’m needed here. The city isn’t safe.”
“No shit, it isn’t safe,” Forrest says. “I’m half-tempted to drag my own ax out for nightly patrols. But you’re one of the few Soulkeepers under my care who has no family, so if I have to pick someone to leave for a bit, well, that’s why I’m picking you.”
You bristle but do not argue. It’s true you have no family here. You were orphaned as a child, and brought into the Cathedral of the Sacred Mother to serve as a novice. Over time, your hard work was rewarded with a choice of which sacred division to enter: Mind, Faith, or Soul. A life preaching to the masses as a Faithkeeper did not appeal to you, nor did spending hours each day writing sermons or studying scripture as a Mindkeeper. You chose the life of adventure, or at least, as it was told to you as a child, and entered the Soulkeeper Sanctuary.
“If you decide I’m the best choice, then I’ll accept,” you tell Forrest. “Even if I think my talents would be better served here. The night is dangerous. It has been since the owls arrived.”
“Owls,” says your Vikar. “Crawling mountains, void take me, I’ve even been hearing rumors of gargoyles and murderous foxes. But we Soulkeepers serve all of West Orismund, not just Londheim. I’ve sent Devin to Oakenwall to investigate disappearances there, and Moore down south to see if the black water reached the Triona River. You’re not getting singled out, all right? We’re stretched thin, but we have to keep our priorities.”
He stands and crosses his arm over his barrel chest. He might be twenty years your senior, but you’re not certain you could take him in a fight. Perhaps it would be best if he did carry through with his rant and take that ax out on patrol.
“A shipment of flamestone from Roros never arrived,” he finally explains. “And given the sudden threats we face, our need of flamestone has grown immensely. This was a task requested by Royal Overseer Downing himself, but one I agreed with in taking. We need to make sure Roros is safe. The flow of Flamestone cannot be stopped.”
“So I go north to make sure the black water didn’t reach that far?” you ask.
“Among other tasks,” he says. “You’re not going alone. Lyssa will be coming with you, so you can rely on her pistols keep you safe. Mayor Becher will also be sending a small escort. The flow of flamestone from Roros cannot be interrupted, not if we’re to defend ourselves fully. Should our walls be breached, we’ll need more than our swords.”
“Of course,” you say. You’re happy Lyssa will be coming with you, at least. Lyssa Amenson is, despite her fiery temperament (or perhaps because of it), one of the finest Soulkeepers you know. She’s also a far better shot with her two pistols than you are with one.
“Two Soulkeepers,” you say. You eye the letter on Forrest’s desk. “Are you certain we have heard no word from the town? All this caution is due to an absence of a single shipment?”
Forrest swallows as if his mouth were suddenly full of stones.
“I’ve told you all you need to know,” he says. “Prepare for travel. You have a duty to perform, Soulkeeper.”
You let the matter drop. If your Vikar does not wish to discuss it, nothing short of a miracle will pry his lips open.
“Very well,” you say. “When do we leave?”
Forrest crumples the letter between his enormous fists.
“Sorry, Robin,” he says. “I hope you can pack quickly, because you’re to be gone by the hour.”
*
You find everyone waiting for you at the west gate. It’s a small group, no horse, cart, or wagon among you. Just foot traffic, it seems. Of the group, Lyssa is the first to spot you.
“Hey there, Robin,” she says. A smile lights up her slender face. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a bun and then covered with a tricorn hat similar to yours, only with five raven feathers tucked into its band. A pair of short swords are sheathed at her hips, and beside them, a brace of pistols.
“I’m sorry you got roped into this,” you say, and then smile back. “But if someone has to come with me, I’m glad it’s you. I could have much worse for company.”
“Did you request Forrest for me specifically?” she asks, and then winks. “If you needed company, Robin, there’s far easier ways to get it.”
You wink back at her. Lyssa has always been shameless when it comes to her flirting. Shameless, and most definitely willing to share a bed with a fellow Soulkeeper. Given the loneliness of the road, and the difficulty of having any sort of family given the constant travel, such pairings were common, if still expected to be kept quiet and hidden from the public.
“Forrest picked, not me,” you say.
“Oh, Forrest, of course. Terrible matchmaker, him. I suppose I should lower my expectations.”
You laugh, and you purposefully brush her shoulder with your own as you walk past to investigate the rest of your group. There’s three others also waiting. One is a short man in a fine suit, his chin sporting a bushy red beard. You sense a politician of some sort, or perhaps a coin counter to look over Roros’s supplies. He is not properly dressed for travel. With him is a tall and clean-shaven manservant loaded with enough packs to care for three people. Beside him…
“No,” you say. “Someone tell me this is a prank.”
“Why do you wish someone to tell you that?” asks soulless guard Ansell.
“I see you’ve met already,” Lyssa says, joining you. She gestures to the shortest of the three. “Robin, this is our assigned auditor, William Breech.” William nods at you. Auditor. That fits your guess.
“And his manservant, Whistler.”
“Well met,” says the tall man. His voice is deep and confident. He may be a servant, but he is used to others obeying his commands. In charge of the manse, perhaps?
“And it seems you already know Ansell,” Lyssa finishes.
“We’ve met,” you say, and grin fiercely at the soulless man.
“Four times,” Ansell says.
“I’m glad you’ve been counting.” You shift your pack more comfortably onto your shoulders. “Shall we be off?”
“We would have left already if not for you,” William says. “So if you’re ready, then we all are.”
You shift your grin William’s way, all teeth.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” you say, already deciding if push comes to shove, it will be the auditor who first gets eaten by owls. “Onward to Roros, and may the Sisters watch over our travels.”
