Day 1

Bed & Breakfast

Adrin opened her eyes; not in a still-drunken haze from the night before, but sharply;

focussing into the harsh dawn-light that filtered through the mould-frosted glass of the second floor

bedroom at The Hitching Post Tavern. Something had awoken her; her eyes drifted around the

room, seeing nothing, and hearing no sound out of the ordinary; nothing at all. She reached out to

the bedside table, pale skin rising with goosebumps as she shivered in the crisp and yeast-scented

air of Everwhere's early spring morning. Outside, the dawn chorus: people, birds and bustle had

gotten under way, and the sounds of the market district drifted up to her window as a gentle

underscore; a comforting layer of white noise. Adrin turned her attention back to the cabinet,

pawing with her slender fingers at the surface of the time-scarred beechwood.

Her pocket watch was gone; her purse too. She cursed inwardly; raising her head from the

pillow and looked behind her, looking to the empty space in the bed.

Bastard.

Siptah was gone, and with him went her money and her boat trip out of the city. Worse still,

the thieving jester had taken everything that was hers; everything of value. Honour among thieves.

She slid her hand across, keeping it beneath the sheets and bringing it to rest upon the

depression where Siptah had been lain, still warm; he can't have left more than a few moments ago

and the scent of pipe-weed hung where his head had lain the night before.

“I am a lesser man, at the mercy of a greater city; for she is the reason my eyes do not grow weary and my back does not break. Everwhere, the shining light of the western kingdoms

and envy of the five thrones; seat of Torin, the one-eyed god. It is over my cold carcass that the barbarian picts, the northerners and the eastern cities and the wizards of

Blackreach will take Everwhere from me; for she is mine, and I am hers.”

-Steward Rene Falkath, moments before his assassination

The room shook.

Adrin startled, steadying herself with a tighter grip on the bed frame and sitting upright, alert

and searching for danger. She saw nothing. Now the gentle thrum of the city in sway had risen to a

clamour in the streets outside; louder than the morning mumbles of Everwhere's bustle, louder than

the crowds at The Festival of The Hunt over in Greystone, the township she had set off from two

weeks previous, but the sound of uproarious crowds still rang in her ears.

She dressed, padding across the floor to retrieve a stray boot that'd found itself under a chair

at the far corner. Her doublet hung across the back of it. Slipping it over her head; she let the loose-

fitting linen settle across her shoulders and come to rest around her body as she moved over to the

window, hoping to catch sight of the commotion as she pulled on her leathers.

It didn't take much to startle the simple folk of Everwhere, mind. For every adventurer or

yarn-spinner willing to tell tall tales to tavern crowds, there were several hundred, if not more life-

stricken peasants willing to listen.

Maybe a thief had been caught; it would explain the shouting, but not the tremors; or maybe

the neonates from The Arcane Academy, throwing their newly learned magics around the University

grounds; though they would know better than to throw unrefined magic within the confines of the

city, and where carelessness sparked, there would be a High Lecturer there, ready to dispense a cold

bucket of water and cleaning punishments. Either way, whatever it was; it had nothing to do with

her, and as quickly as curiosity had risen, she put the stray thoughts out of her mind, as quickly as

she would turn a street corner and cast absence to the thoughts of the beggars that muttered pleas to

her coin purse.

She made haste; considering the possibility that Siptah, her oh-so-eager-to-be-former partner

in crime had gotten himself caught by the militia; either from his deeds last night, his crimes past, or

something petty, like stealing from a street vendor. He wasn't the type to be caught though, not by

any street militia or bounty hunter. In the short time she'd known the man, she was certain he was

unmatchable and unaccountable in all things.

Their chance meeting had set them on an anarchic course across the countryside for the last

three weeks; robbing, burglary and the fruits of crime; drinking, partying and fine foods. In all of

that time she hadn't seen him as a backstabber; not to her at least.

And THAT, is why he's gone with the only wealth you have left.

She fastened her belt, tugging at the cracked leather and slipping it through the heavy-weight

brass of the tarnished buckle; giving her body some semblance of figure through the oversized shirt.

She tied on her extras; braces, buckles, purses and satchels; concealed shanks she kept hidden just

beneath the hem of the shirt; and the ornate belt, decorated in floral bossing that sat loosely around

her hips and bore a short blade on the outer of both thighs. It was a practised routine; rushed but

practised.

Many mornings she had awoken; dressed herself in haste and slipped out of the tavern's

window to make her precarious escapes across the rain-slick rooftops of cities the world over.

Tearmair, Khent, Lust, Falklaw and Greystone; wanted in all of the major provinces, and leaving no

more than an unpaid bill in her wake.

Lastly, she tied her hair back, frost-white and decorated with beads, twine and peppered with

dreadlocks; all falling neatly to shoulder-length. Her hair had a silvery sheen; iron filings and ash

from where Siptah's adventure had taken them last night:

The Great Foundry; a place where the men of Everwhere sought to gather all knowledge

bestowed upon them, or left in the wake of the last great iron age of the Dwarf. It was a reliquary

more than a foundry; for the men in possession of the necessary skill were long dead; and those who

skirted around their footprints found only disappointment in the brittle blades and the seized engines

of steam they had created. The two thieves had taken something from the archives there, along with

something else, but Siptah had been keen for her to remain by the main courtyard doors and to deal

with any patrols. So the purpose of the job was to relieve the good custodians of their spoils, but

what those spoils actually were, she had no idea.

He owes you money for that, too.

He hadn't given her the share of the profits either. After meeting with a contact in the down

town area, Siptah had been paid in full, and promised that, with a sober head, they would divide the

shares into equal profit in the morning.

The tremors came again; this time longer, drawn-out; maybe a whole second in duration.

With it, the sounds of chaos rose from the streets, rising from a nervous murmur of bustling urchins,

merchants and labourers into a panic; a clattering hysteria. Adrin watched from the window as men,

women and animals fled; heading left, heading west towards the docks district, west. Women threw

aside their wash baskets and bundles as they took flight in fear; and men, burly and hardened by

rural winters took bounding steps in terror, knocking one another aside and trampling their brothers

into the filth-sullen streets and avenues.

She hoped it was another gang uprising; maybe The Carrion or The Wayward. A lot of things

got damaged, a lot of people got hurt, but an uprising was a clean-slate for anyone like herself;

anyone who was a thief and lived on the peripheral vision of the City Watch. Records were burned

and prisons filled as military and militia alike forgot the smaller fish and charged out into the streets

to crush some rebellious skulls. But an uprising by armed thugs did not grant men this kind of haste

upon which to flee. Something else was happening.

“The room's in your name, pal. You can't leave it for the woman to pay.”

Adrin heard the voice from outside; in the hallway.

SHE OPENED THE DOOR, wincing as it creaked on rusty hinges. Siptah was there, talking

to the heavy-set man she recalled as the landlord; he was still holding a broom; what must've been a

good six hours after they'd met him. Siptah was putting the moves on. It was apparent from the way

he stood, to the way he moved his hands in a theatrical beat; flattering his target with merciless

efficiency. He'd tried the same on her when they'd first met. Pulled in at first, she caught his hand

aimlessly making its way to her purse and outed him as a cheat and a fraud to all who gathered at

the tavern. He respected that about her, it seemed.

“She's good for it; I gave her my coin purse!” Siptah was slippery, thick with a Zatahaan

accent and shone like a grass snake in his once expensive, but now soiled silks from far east.

“Not the issue, mate. You signed; you pay before you go.” The landlord thrust a chubby

finger toward Siptah.

He huffed, “oh very well!” waving his arms in theatrical defeat. “I will have to settle this

with a barter though.”

“A barter?”

“Aye, friend.” Siptah's face lit up, grinning pearly whites and gold.

“Try me.”

Siptah opened his tunic, dipping a hand into one of the inner pouches and tugging at a chain,

finally revealing an antique pocket watch. He held it for a moment; keeping it at eye level and

watching as his target's gaze narrowed.

“A watch?” the landlord finally said with bewildered disappointment.

“Not just any, my good man. An astute eye will notice the engraving.”

The landlord leaned in, squinting and raising a pair of laughably small reading glasses that

had been hanging, draped around his neck, to his eyes.

“J.d.N?” he muttered, glancing up for confirmation.

“J.d.M,” Siptah nodded. “de Morangias; the Bloody Family, The Cannibal Coterie

themselves. This pocket watch was fashioned by their matriarch in lands far away.” Siptah added

intrigue to the story, wiggling his fingers; drawing the landlord in with his hushed tones and scarce

glances across his shoulder, as if sharing information too sensitive to be overheard.

“She carried with her this pocket watch at all times; the slaying of Nemros The Weavemaster

and subsequent shaming of The Church of Torin; the freeing of Rasma The Stupid and The Burning

of The Great Library of Astor.”

The landlord's lip hung limp as he fell under the eastern storyteller's incantations.

“Why are you willing to part with it?” clunked the landlord; as the rational part of his brain

turned another gear.

Siptah broke his guise, having to think for a moment. “Because I am unworthy of such a

trinket; and who better than a man such as yourself; one whom will share his stories with the day to

day adventurers, to take it from me and pass on the happiness it has brought to me?”

Adrin pulled open the door and stepped out into the hallway.

“He's willing to part with it, because it's mine.”

Her voice was soft, but traced with anger; betraying her Gaelic accent and her Hilltic

upbringing. Like the rest of her kin, those who had ventured so far south into the tepid climates of

The South Downs and Everweald, the accent had become tainted, faded; picking up intonations and

colloquialisms of cultures she'd encountered and dialects she'd absorbed. But the lyrical charm of

the northern villages still gave bounce to her words, and all men knew to steer clear of wronging a

woman that bore such an accent. All men but Siptah, it would seem.

Siptah froze. “Ah--,” glancing between the two of them, Adrin and the landlord.

She watched him, watching how even when caught off guard he was ready to spring; ready

to bolt for the stairs and out into the street.

Last night, she had feared herself left behind as Siptah had gone on ahead, taking flight

across Everwhere's night, dusted with frost but of no hindrance to the man from The City of Streets.

He was faster than she; skirting gutters, sliding softly across slate tiles and teetering window boxes

as the city slept around him. He was Zatahaan after all, and a thief heralding from Kitai, an entire

city contained within a single structure; built from adjoining shops, houses, taverns and markets,

connected, stacked and merged; a city so densely packed that daylight did not reach most, if not all

of the ground level. Siptah made his home there; traversing the city with ease.

At one point he dove from the top of Gambel's Colliery into The River Ever; she thought he

was gone for good until he pulled himself onto the bank and waited for her to climb down. Were he

to run now she would likely never catch him, or see him again. Everwhere was a maze of back-

streets and alleyways; and if he moved to the rooftops, she stood no chance. Her watch, her

jewellery and her cut of the profits; gone.

The building jolted, and from somewhere downstairs she could hear beer-steins falling and

wine bottles breaking.

“Why'd you stick around last night?” She steadied herself, raising her arms to keep balance.

“Gamila, please,” he grinned. “Not all plunder is of gold and silver.” Siptah offered a wink;

seeing her anger building as his words chuckled out.

“You stayed so you could share my bed?”

“It is a tale worth telling; Gamila, and besides,” holding up the pocket watch “I have proof.”

THE BUILDING HOWLED as a tremor ripped into the woodwork; ornaments, furniture and

wall-hangings flew to the right in a single violent motion. The landlord staggered and toppled over

the balcony rail and down into the tavern below, crashing through bottles and pottery; coming to a

stop as his back broke over the dark-wood bar and his body flopped to the floorboards.

Siptah steadied himself, never taking his gaze off of Adrin. She was to her feet, shaking the

dizziness. The two waited; both spared only moments to consider what had happened before placing

sole focus on one another. In his eyes, she could see he was amused; laughing, be it nervously,

behind a half smile as his eyes began to dart, looking for the closest escape route.

Then another tremor came.

This one was different. It wasn't the soil, the ground or the foundations that moved, it was

the building itself. As Adrin opened her mouth to beg the question of what was happening, the

floorboards split; coughing splinters and nails into the air.

THE FIRST FLOOR BALCONY shuddered and dropped at one end; the supporting beams

pierced the wooden slats and tore through the rugs as the building began to collapse.

The ground fell at Siptah's end of the hall. He lost his footing, his whole world moving from

horizontal to vertical; and with his sudden shift in orientation, soon followed Adrin's.

They were sliding downward along the boards, pulled by gravity across splinters, nails and

broken oil lanterns; debris churned up in the chaos of the implosion. Siptah dug his heels in,

grinding himself to a stop, mere moments before he would have plunged down to the ground floor.

Adrin; right behind him raised her legs, using the momentum to collide with him; kicking out and

feeling the tendons in her knees lock as her boots bit into her former partner's spine.

Together they fell, crashing through broken glass and puddles of wine, coming to a bounce-

less stop behind the bar. Siptah was the first to move; snarling with the pain as he unlimbered one of

Adrin's legs that had become ensnared around his neck.

“Get-- off!” he spat.

Adrin came to, gathering her wits, and seeing he was on the move and eyeing for the nearest

exit. She clawed at his shirt, tugging him down; throwing him into a backward roll across the shards

of glass and wood. He came to rest against a glass-fronted wine cabinet; a wet crack as the back of

his skull sent spider-webs across the front of the display

She spat “give me my watch back!”

Siptah startled, moving to stand again; his knees and palms bleeding and shredded.

Adrin was on him, leaping onto his back and pinning him down.

“Ah-- stop!” Siptah raised his arms, covering the back of his head.

She stopped; but not at his request; something else was wrong. The ground was unsteady.

The boards beneath them gave way.

They fell.

Adrin landed on something unforgiving; a beer keg or the top of a shelf. She rolled over,

cradling her knee, only to realise she wasn't at ground level, and fell again, landing on straw and

hard dirt. This had to be the basement or wine cellar; it was dark, save for the lights coming through

the hole from the tavern above.

What the hell is going on?

It didn't make any sense for the building to have just collapsed on them. She recognised it as

a regency era building; she had even remarked upon it last night in drunken lethargy to a less than

interested Siptah, of the quality of building they were staying in. Regency Architecture was wood

and stonework. Generally most if not all of the buildings built in that time had been standing for

two hundred years, if not more. It had to be a gang uprising; and somehow they'd got a hold of

artillery or siege equipment. But why go after a tavern? Why not a military target?

Light shot into the room.

Adrin shielded her eyes as Siptah threw his back against the hatch that lead out into the alley

behind the tavern. He was hurt, clutching at his chest.

She crawled into a sitting position. Every part of her body hurt, her head pounded; vision

blurring with every heartbeat. Gotta move. Siptah was hurting too, but it wouldn't take him long to

get in with the crowds and vanish out of sight forever, even in his weakened state. She was up,

using a bracket or wall-shelf to support her weight; it ran to the end of the cellar. Kicking aside stray

bottles, discarded animal bones and clutter, she reached the light of the street access.

OUTSIDE THE SOUNDS OF CHAOS AND RIOT rose to new levels of deafening. Adrin

could hear people screaming, could hear a dense wall of noise that throbbed, droning like sustained

thunder. She turned to her left; which lead into a network of back-alleys and loading areas for shops

and taverns. Beyond that, the grey walls of the city and the Arcane Academy's tower and--

Gods above--...

Adrin stumbled backwards at the sight.

THE ARCANE TOWER crumbled as she watched, grey stone bricks buckling halfway up

the spire, spitting and disintegrating into a mist of raining masonry and dust. Something had hit it,

taking a great chunk of the spire's support away. The grand building swayed once more and then

gave way, plummeting in one unbroken chunk as it smashed into the Academic District, billowing

into squalls of grey mist and submersing the horror and carnage of the impact. From the still-

standing lower section of the tower she could see bodies falling from the building's gaping wounds.

Shelves, cauldrons, bunk beds; all fell to the dust plumes below. The smouldering stump of the

tower remained; still standing but awash with black smoke as fires rose within the libraries and

bedrooms. What's happening?

It was more than an uprising; the tower's east-facing side had given way, something had hit it

from outside of the city walls; the city's under siege. It had to be, no other explanation would

suffice. Who was firing artillery into the city? Despite their differences, she knew of no great

turmoil that would drive the western kingdoms to fight one another.

Siptah stumbled, toppling empty beer kegs that hadn't managed to support his weight, and

fell into the animal droppings and slurry that filled the alley-wide gutter of the back passage area.

Adrin glanced back to the ruins of the tower; then back to Siptah. He was surely wounded,

weakened. She could still get her watch back, get her stolen goods from last night. She could make

it to the western docks and find herself a place on any boats they were still there. She could be out

of here and in Port Golsch by nightfall, sharing stories and catching gossip from the privateers that

prowled the waters from here to the East Balai Seas.

Easy.

She hopped into a light canter. The strain in her knee would need a healer but it wasn't

enough to hinder her, not now. Siptah spared a glance over his shoulder, renewed in his haste and

shambling toward the cobble street at the mouth of the passage. Up ahead, Adrin could see that

people were flocking right to left, east to west; toward the dock.

He made it into the street, dazed by the rush of people.

--something hit him.

A frightened bull that'd broken loose of its stable and now ran wild among the people.

Siptah's body jerked out of sight; twisting at inhuman angles from the impact. Adrin cried out in

shock, but took a breath and picked up the pace, forgetting the pain in her leg and heading for the

street.

THE STREET WAS IN FULL FLOW, as people, livestock and militia surged in every

direction. Mothers carried their children, buffeted and knocked aside, some trampled by soldiers

and mercenaries running the opposite way, heading toward the spire. Shop-owners fled, holding

bundles and wheel barrows of stock and wealth.

Down the cobbled street; Hannover Row, Adrin could see shops ablaze and roofs caved in;

plumes of smoke billowing into the sky as the distant sounds of combat became less abstract, and

much closer.

She turned, looking to where the majority of peasants were fleeing; the way Siptah had been

shoved. He wasn't on the ground. He wasn't anywhere.

There he is!

Sure enough, Siptah was still going. She knew he was no stranger to a good kicking, a good

fight or being beaten utterly senseless for his debts back home. This was a man that could break all

four of his limbs and still reach out to pick the pocket of the priest who aided him. She was even

less surprised to see him climb a carriage, hop onto its roof and reach for the windowsill of a law

firm's second floor window.

Siptah was getting away.

Adrin waited for a break in the flow of people and ducked into the crowd; moving with their

direction but cutting across, moving to the opposite side of the street. She watched as Siptah,

cautious and cat-like prepared to jump to the next building. Escaping the crowd she cut into the

alley between Walter Green's Tailors and The Print-Works.

To her left, she set her foot against the rim of a packing crate, startling the rats that made

their homes behind it. With a surprised whimper of pain she pushed; lifting her bodyweight,

extending her leg and elevating herself high enough to reach the stooping framework of the oil

lantern that hung overhead. Then she pulled with her arms, leaving her legs free, but only for a beat

before she split them, wedging her boots between the brickwork of the old-town buildings. Taking a

hold of the supporting brace on the tailor's shop, she pulling again; ever moving herself upward.

Finally, her fingers felt the cool lead and slate of the roof tiles and their guttering. Adrin had reached

the top.

Siptah was there; but he had not seen her. He was engrossed, clutching at his bruised ribs and

watching the city around him descending into madness. Adrin hopped onto the tiles in a silent

crouch, watching and waiting. He turned, half-smiling at his victory as he tentatively moved across

the dew-slick roof.

Adrin was on him, swinging her fist into his face and smashing his smile (and two of his

teeth) into the streets below. But she didn't stop; the tiles were hazardous and the momentum

carried. Both thieves lost their footing and slid along the slanted roof, dropping them onto a one-

storey building below.

She was up; but so was Siptah, two steps ahead of her. He'd landed on his feet and vaulted

for the next rooftop, footing failing him between each step as he slipped on the frost. Yet he made it;

clearing the slate tiles and landing on a flat building. Adrin followed; clumsily and as awkwardly as

he had bumbled before her, but picking up speed and keeping herself from falling.

Siptah appeared; rearing from behind the lip of the balconied flat-roof. He threw a grain

sack, roaring as his muscles tensed, loosed and let go. The sack came flying, but Adrin dropped;

ducked and slid across the last few feet of the distance that separated them. He barked in surprise as

she buried her boot into his chest and knocked him to the floor.

The frost was thicker on this rooftop, sat in the looming shadow of the four-storey buildings

in the next street that backed directly onto this one. Adrin assured her footing, watching as Siptah

rasped and begged for air. Something had wounded him; more than mere bruising, he was bleeding

on the inside. He was dying.

But the Zatahaan thief stood proud, spinning and lashing out at Adrin as she approached. Her

eyes caught sight; a glint of steel as he drew his shank, slashed horizontally toward her; aiming for

her face and throat.

She was quick to recoil, leaning back in short dashes as he thrust the blade toward her,

grinning pearly white, tarnished gold and blood. His arm swung wide as he aimed for her neck;

pecking for the jugular. Adrin raised a forearm to block, giving herself enough room to get inside

his arc of attack and bury her elbow into his sternum. Siptah recoiled in agony as she reigned down

a backhand on his cowering form.

At any other time Siptah would have had the upper hand; he would have let her get close and

sliced the skin from her face before she'd even felt the edge of his knife. She knew this; and knew

he was still dangerous, even in his terminal state.

“Give me the watch!” she screamed, voice breaking as she pounded on his back.

Sudden strength surged through him. His shivering cries became vengeful roars as she

clasped arms around her legs, lifted her and lunged forward, driving her toward the buildings

behind them.

Adrin felt pain through her spine as Siptah planted her through the window of the warehouse

that shaded their battle. She slumped to the floor below; soft wood, but covered in broken glass and

machine-shop tools.

The Zatahaan followed after her, stepping over the bloodied shards of glass that jutted from

the window's frame and dropping into the hallway beside her. He fled again; seeing an opportunity

in the staircase at the end of the hall.

Adrin rolled to her side, hissing through her teeth as she felt chunks of glass slicing through

skin and muscle.

Siptah EXPLODED THROUGH THE DOOR at the top of the stairs, his lungs once again

filling with the crisp air of early spring as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. From here, he could see

all the way around and across the market district; and could even see as far as Castle Ever, presiding

over the city from the central plaza. He turned, recoiling as he took in the sight of the crippled and

burning arcane tower. Even he, a man who had seen all wonder of strange miracles and unfortunate

un-pleasantries in his homeland; took a breath and a bow in awe of the destruction that lay before

him. The tower had stood so large before; he and Adrin had been able to see it for days as they

travelled from Greystone to Everwhere. Now it stood at only half its height; impressive, but pruned.

His awe faltered as Adrin appeared in the doorway.

“Why don't you just call it a day, Gamila?” he was breathless, shaking his head and calling

for a well-deserved time-out.

She didn't reply. He knew what she wanted.

“Is it this?” He held up the watch, letting it dangle in plain view. “Come now, Gamila. I

know you are more than a material girl, ah? Is it me? Is it ol' Siptah, here? You don't want to see me

go?” He swaggered forward, half delirious from his pain and blood loss.

“How about we climb back into bed? I’ll get the wine and we can forget I ever tried to cross

you.”

Adrin lunged.

He was quick to flee, rolling over the waist-high wall that surrounded the roof they were on

and falling out of sight. Adrin reached the edge of the wall and vaulted it; not caring to check for

what might be beneath them. She took a short fall and landed, sliding down the length of the tiled

roof that lead down, a good one-hundred feet to street level.

It made sense now; they must have been in one of the smelting workshops in the market

district; oddly shaped buildings that reigned over everything around them, and blocked sunlight to

the nearby houses.

Ahead, Siptah was picking up speed, but he was kicking frantically in panic. Adrin looked to

where they were slipping. The River Ever.

SIPTAH FLEW, waving his arms as he clipped his tail bone on the guttering of the smelting

house roof. Moments passed but he didn't meet the refreshing chill of the river as expected, instead

he collided with the soft warmth of a fleeing trade ship's sails.

Taking a moment, he assessed his situation before erupting with howls of laughter. He was

leaving the city; by utter fortune he had landed on a ship, probably bound for warmer climates and

with a doctor on board. He was free, and when upon open water would cast his prayers to Torin, to

O'keer and to Urhad, and to whichever gods and lesser deities or demigods he could bring to mind.

Fortune and luck had saved his life, but he wasn't above a little extra sucking up.

Siptah's smile faltered as he saw one of the coiled ropes next to him unravel, clacking against

the rigging and going taught beside him. Silently, he rolled his eyes and cursed.

Adrin.

She was below him, but climbing the rigging and smearing the crisp-white sails with her

blood as she struggled upward.

“Ha--!” he howled, in awe of her strength. “Come Gamila! Come take your prize from me!”

Siptah cackled, moving up the mast and setting his sights upon the crow's nest. Adrin was close

behind.

Would it be such a bad thing to cut one's losses here and to ride it out with the boat and her

crew? She could give up, let go and fall into the comfort of the ragged billow of the sails around

her. She would wake up in the ship's infirmary with nothing more than six months at sea to look

forward to.

Bliss.

Until she saw Siptah was getting away.

Were she to give up, it would only be if he gave up with her.

The Zatahaan thief straddled the rim of the crow's nest; setting a leg firmly on either side

before shakily rising onto his feet and gauging his chances of success for his next trick. Up ahead,

and closing fast, the bridge that crossed The River Ever; a typical dolphin shape, bowed to the

centre. It connected The Market District to Chapeltown, which in itself was a collection of higher

rent markets, eateries and shops.

It was now or never. He could feel himself leaking like a bottle, broken glass and all. His

head was thick with sleep and stupor, and his legs felt heavy; everything felt heavy. But this was it,

his last chance to escape.

As any thief from The City of Streets would do; he would choose to die alone in a back alley,

surrounded by the rats, clutching his plunder so that some other poor little sod; some scrawny street

urchin would loot him and get a better start in life. But not just any child, no. They'd need that

sparkle in their eyes, the desire to take; the desire to survive that negated the fear of touching a

corpse. That scrubby little rat would be Siptah as he was twenty years ago. It was a cycle that went

on, and it went on because the only alternative was begging, and Siptah begged for nothing,

especially his own life.

He raised his arms as the bridge passed overhead, letting the rim of the ornate stonework

come to him; and he welcomed it, clenching his hands around it. The unsure footing beneath him

drifted away and he was weightless again. He climbed, hand over hand, setting his fingers into the

mouths, eyes and nostrils of the decorative creatures, gargoyles and faces that told of the Battle of

Everwhere some five centuries before. He threw his arm over the top of the bridge, raising his body

and watching as the crowds continued to surge past.

Siptah set his feet upon the cobbled bridge; stumbling and steadying himself against the

guarding wall. He'd need to find himself an alleyway real quickly if his dreams of leaving a lasting

legacy were to come true. That assumed; of course that this city wasn't doomed to some as yet

unseen fate. Even Siptah, a man of little cares and care frees had to stop and wonder what was

going on from time to time. Would there be anyone to leave his wealth to? If so, would they be

deserving.

As the thoughts flowed over him he shook to his senses.

“Impossible,” he spat as Adrin climbed over the wall at the opposite side of the bridge. She

looked as worse for wear as he did, bedraggled, bloody and barely able to stand. But he knew that if

he ran, she would run, too. In better circumstances he'd have bested her, double backed around her

and taken her down in style; the only way a Zatahaan knew how to best a foe. But these weren't

better circumstances; these were perhaps the worst. His enemy closed in, a step behind him at every

effort he made' whilst around him the city crumbled and fell to gods knew what crushing attacker.

“End of the road, Siptah.” Adrin pushed through the remaining dregs of fleeing crowds; only

two or three people passing at a time.

“Do you know the old Zatahaan proverb, Gamila?” Siptah pushed away from the supporting

wall and moved over to Adrin. “The road never ends; it is merely covered with sand, and the foolish

are the ones to leave new footprints. Are we not foolish, Adrin?”

“Very nice.” She nodded, having heard a drunken rendition of the proverb in a port in Kemi

some years ago. Siptah told it better. He told everything better.

“What say we find ourselves a priest; we can be married under the same spire where our

wounds were healed and our hostilities abated, no?”

He presented his case well; sitting down and resting in the quiet calm of a convent was the

next illogical step for them both at the end of an illogical friendship. But it'd be just like him to

sneak out in the night, after stealing from the collection plate.

Siptah was a thief through and through. He could never change.

AN EXPLOSION CAME FROM THE SOUTH; somewhere behind the row of shops in

Chapeltown. Debris flew into the air with the sound of people screaming, caught in the blast; flesh

seared from skin, and bodies slammed through houses and markets. The attack was coming from

outside the city for certain.

Adrin couldn't be sure, but Noch's Gate stood where the plumes of smoke were now

billowing out from. Regardless of specifics, it had exploded along the city's outer wall. First the

market district; then Chapeltown. It made sense to take the city on both sides of the river. But why

enter the city at all? The militia and army would dig in deep and defend the walls and districts. It

was designed to be impenetrable, and any attacking army would surely weaken and falter before

fighting to the central plaza and the royal palace. Assuming they got that far. Reinforcements from

Greystone would come within twenty days. It made more sense to lay siege and to starve the city

into submission; but more sense still made very little.

Siptah turned to follow her gaze.

Adrin moved, swooping low and rising on approach; greeting his face with an uppercut,

glancing his chin as he turned in surprise.

He fell back, his head bobbling on the way down as his muscles went slack before he

clattered into the wall. It was painful; but he didn't feel it any more. He couldn't feel anything, just a

dull throbbing where a migraine and a hangover had once been. Everything else was numb and

limp.

Adrin moved in.

Wait.

She froze, fist raised, knuckles white; holding the near-dead man by his shirt.

A screaming crowd surged by, heading back into the market district and brushing past,

drawing no more attention from Adrin than a late-summer breeze or a passing flock of birds.

“You know, in Khemi there is a saying,” Siptah began as the last of the crowds fled. “A coin

in the hand of a dead man, is life in the eyes of a child.” He chuckled or choked; Adrin couldn't tell.

He was dying. He'd been dying ever since he took a bad fall in the tavern; but now he was

counting his breaths.

“I don’t--,” Adrin stammered.

“Here you go, Gamila-- Adrin,” he corrected himself. “Buy yourself something pretty.” In

his trembling hand he held the pocket watch, a little worse for wear after the journey it had taken,

but it'd be a journey worth telling; through streets, across rooftops and out of the hands of a dying

Zatahaan.

Siptah's eyes shifted; distant and still. For a moment he was gone. Then he spoke.

“Do you ever have one of those days, Adrin; when you should have just stayed in bed?”

She frowned; seeing the regret in his eyes. She didn't know whether he had realised his

mistake in honesty; or whether he had finally learned to value his life now that it was escaping him.

Either way, she had grown attached to him. He was scum, he was low and desperate; but so was

she. In the previous three weeks they had travelled the western continent and seen the inside of

manor estates and taverns alike; back alleys and stately inns, restaurants and flop-houses. They had

lived together. Truly lived.

A shadow fell across them both; huge and slow. Adrin took it for a storm cloud moving in

front of the sun.

And then Siptah raised his leg, thrusting it into her chest and kicking her back as something

heavy, massive and unstoppable flew overhead. Her pocket watch slipped from her grip, landing

somewhere mid-tumble.

Adrin rolled, going with the momentum and clumsily stopped to a crouch.

TOWERING, SEVEN FOOT IN HEIGHT, clad in black leathers and strapped with scrap

metal and broken planks of wood, was her attacker. He was still following through the motion of

attack with his hammer as she recovered from the roll. He-- it was slow to turn, looking both ways

to see where she had gone before turning and fixating on her.

Its face, eyes glaring out from behind a dinted and twisted helmet of black metal and

scratches of steel was bloated, pronounced and angular. Broken bones pierced flesh along its

jawline, but the skin had healed among the countless scars of battle the beast-man had seen. This is

what had given flight to the men of Everwhere; this was the creature that drove the peasants to

madness and panic. Adrin pictured him at the front of the charge, battering through defences and

shields and bludgeoning a blood swathe of new order as he drove his fist toward the central plaza

and toward Castle Ever.

He raised his hammer and swung horizontal. Adrin dropped under, feeling the whoosh of air

hit across her cheek as she glanced beneath the blow. She scrambled to her feet again, turning;

ready to face the behemoth as he slowly moved to pursue her.

The bridge shook beneath each mighty step as the armoured man-beast trampled, as if he a

were a small outhouse that had sprouted legs and become enraged. Adrin knew she would have to

make a retreat. Her chase across town and the fight with Siptah had left her legs shaking and her

fists numb and powerless when clenched. She couldn't muster up the adrenaline to break into a run,

let alone duck any more attacks, nor throw any punches; not that any punches she could throw

would be enough to make a dent in the creature's wrought-iron armour.

Siptah leapt upon the beast, roaring as he drew upon the dregs of his strength, clambering

onto the back of the monster, finding footholds and crooks in the igneous armour. The bipedal

fortress swung in great arcs as it thrashed in a bid to get the thief off of its back, dropping it's

hammer and pawing with great bracken-like hands at Siptah's flailing legs.

“Adrin! Go! I've got this one, ah?” Siptah cried as the beast jerked to the side. “Go! Get out

of here. I will see you in another life!”

She pleaded, “Siptah!” trying to get closer to help, but flinching backward with each

swooping motion the creature made as it frothed and gnashed its maw.

“Wait for me at the docks though, ah? I'll be along right after I fix this bastard!” He punched

the back of his assailant's head; dizzying it for a brief reprise before the thrashing continued.

“Let me go find a crossbow, or a soldier! Anything, just hold on!”

“Oh yes!” cried the thief, as the bucking beast veered dangerously close to the edge of the

bridge. “I intend to!”

ADRIN NODDED inwardly and turned toward where the beast had come from. Some of the

militia at least would have come to investigate the explosion. The thing attacking them had to be an

elite, or a mercenary, prized and hired for his size and his temperament, but a group of soldiers

would be able to take him down, so long as Siptah could keep up the distraction.

SHE STARTLED AND DROPPED TO THE GROUND as missiles, arrows, flew past her;

one grazing her shoulder, packing enough power to knock her onto her back.

Her ears whistled from the sudden onset of movement; then she shook the haze from her

head and sat up.

“Ah-.” she rasped, barely enough moisture in her throat to permit her to speak. The

mercenary, the man-beast, the monster; was not alone.

Out of the churning dust of the market district in lumbering stampede; the mercenary's

friends had arrived in greater numbers, two dozen, maybe three, and fast approaching the bridge.

Adrin scrambled backwards, slipping across the cobblestones as she moved blindly over unsure

ground, unable to take her eyes away from the black regiment. She'd forgotten about her former

comrade until her hand found upon the cottons of his billowed trousers.

“Siptah. Siptah we need to go back.”

She turned, expecting to see him offering her a hand with his unwavering smile, still half-

dead and ready to run for his life. But the thief of Zatahaan, the man from The City of Streets had

fallen. Siptah was dead.

The shower of arrows that had narrowly missed her had been meant for Siptah. His body lay

atop that of the mercenary, who had fallen just the same. His brothers in arms had spared no thought

for his life or well-being; they had seen one of their own, but like an infected finger had severed it

without thought of curing it. The two of them were pinned to one another.

“Siptah?” Adrin dragged herself to him, shoving his body with the hope of his stout heart

returning him to life. Behind her the steel boots of the black regiment clattered onto the bridge and

stopped. She bid them no thought, for she was alone again, alone without Siptah. The man who had

in the last moments had conned her and robbed her blind, and saved her life. It was sad to think

their final minutes, after becoming so close, were moments of violence and indecision. She would

miss him though; Siptah, the Zatahaan thief, the man from The City of Streets.

Goodbye Siptah.

ADRIN CHOKED AS A MIGHTY FORCE pounded against her back, and within a singular

sweeping motion lifted her from the ground and threw her skyward, flying weightless for a time

before slapping, skin and muscle, into the cobblestones. She could feel the glass burying deeper into

her skin, felt her leathers tearing and felt two dozen invading mercenaries breathing over her.

She opened her eyes, looking down the length of the bridge. Another of the mercenary

creatures stood where she had lain. He was assessing Siptah and his fallen brother. But this beast

was different to the other, and indeed, different to all of them. He was decked in thick animal hides,

steel plating upon his shoulders, taller and broader, and turning and looking.

Adrin forced blood into her arms, and then her legs, forcing her body to move. If she could

get to the edge of the bridge she could drop over the wall and into the water. The mercenary

stopped; turning his grimace and tusk-like teeth to the ground, taking interest in something. Like a

grand armature or siege machine he crouched down, muscles creaking beneath the tanned hides and

braced leather. He'd found the pocket watch.

It didn't matter now, she'd let it go, she'd let him have it. Here was a man who didn't need to

run, didn't need to escape her; were he even classed as a man. He would kill her if she so much as

looked at him, toss her aside like a rag doll.

He came closer, dangling the pocket watch in front of his face, looking at it. She could see

intelligence behind his beastly maw, he knew what it was, and new it was something to be prized.

He switched to her, refocussing. Adrin moved, rolling away and onto her back, using her legs to

feebly push herself into a dead end as she felt the black steel of the dark army touch her back.

She was trapped.

“You friend was brave, brave enough to face down an Og-ra warrior in his prime.” The man-

beast spoke, thick with an accent and losing a few of his words to his enlarged and sharpened teeth.

“Brave, yes. But stupid. What did he fight for?”

Adrin trembled, meeting the Og-ra commander's gaze evenly and fearing to look away.

“He fought for you, I fear.”

Again, Adrin found no reply.

The commander crouched down to her level, as low as he could get for a creature of his size,

and removed his dented, tarnished helmet, letting his braided hair fall loose. His face was craggy

and battle-worn, but also youthful and well defined. Unlike his dead comrade he had not seen so

many broken bones or boiling oil.

“Better for you to die by his side,” he nodded.

The Og-ra extended his giant hands toward her, locking around her neck in the space of a

breath. Adrin felt the blood rush, the electricity of the moment as the vertigo set in. The world

began to darken; the pain that racked her body dulled, in all places but one; her thigh.

Her thigh still crackled with the fires of fresh blood. Finding strength in her right arm she

reached down, letting her fingers find what was causing the pain.

Her eyes opened wide as she gripped the shard of broken glass and tore it from her flesh,

wielding it in her hand and drawing it back behind her head. She bit down, screaming through her

teeth as she drove the broken glass into the Og-ra Commander's eye; splitting flesh and grinding

into the bone of the socket.

He reared and howled, a brutal lion roar. Standing, drawing his sword, bringing it across his

body and up high, he was ready to cleave her in half.

Adrin rolled, feeding from the fear and narrowly ducking the two-handed cleaver.

The blow connected with two of the Og-ra who were behind her. She heard them scream as

their armour, flesh and bones were torn open by the mercenary commander. The surviving thief

moved to her feet and flung herself over the wall of the bridge, free falling into the water below.

“OPEN THE GATE!”

Borlo slung his weight into the double doors of the Royal Chamber. He was a heavy-set man,

clad in steel armour, brandishing a surcoat and cape in blues and whites; colours of Everwhere's

ruling monarchy. He was torn and stained with blood, his beard singed and his noble brow bruised

and smeared with soot from battle. He sheathed his sword, still thick the black tar that flowed from

the open wounds of the Og-ra.

“Your majesty,” he began, approaching the throne.

Princess Grainne rose from the throne, straightening her white floral dress and cupping a

hand to her heart with renewed hope, but fearful at seeing Borlo, her personal guard in such a state.

“What news do you bring from outside, Borlo?” Her voice was regal, but laced with

undertones of her father's Hilltic lineage.

“The Market District is lost; my men and those of Count Kolchev have fallen back to the

temple quarter. Our walls hold them back for now.”

“And you?” Grainne offered him a smile, searching to meet his gaze.

He avoided her, “I am well,” he replied.

Her Elventine features relaxed in offer of a smile.

She looked nothing like her father, carrying instead her mother delicate and pale features.

Grainne had her father's mane though. Cormac Ulfada had been known for his flame-licked hair,

hair that grew straight and strong and blazed in the light of the fires of battle. Grainne's hair flowed

with the same embers, but was kept in check each morning by the women of the Convent that

served in the palace.

“Their engines of war are relocating along the northern walls, but my men are holding them

at bay with fire and stone.”

“Can they be stopped?”

“Not without leaving the safety of the walls and riding out to meet them in battle; a tactic

that is surely futile.”

“And what of their infantry?” Grainne set a gentle hand upon Borlo's arm and guided him

toward the throne, stopping before the half-dozen steps that lead up to it and gesturing for him to

drink from the holy water basin to the side of it.

“Thank you,” Borlo gasped as he pawed water into his mouth.

Arellus, the church's voice to the throne cast an unpleasant sneer at the sight, but returned to

his stoic observations.

“The Og-ra have occupied the market district, fires rise from where they have broken the

walls. But they have yet to stop and sack the shops and houses.”

“Is that unusual?”

“My Lady, the Og-ra are little more than dogs of war. They pillage, burn and rape as they

move. They are not ones for organised tactics.” Borlo straightened himself, standing to attention as

best he could in spite of the dented armour pressing into his chest, and the deep bruising it

concealed.

Arellus approached, breaking from his statuesque vigil.

“I am sure that you and Count Kolchev will be able to dispatch them, Borlo.” His voice was

cold, cutting and calculated. With reservation he spoke, but breathed the same venom as he did in

the pulpit. “What would you ask of The Church of Torin?”

“I would ask nothing from men of the cloth, father,” he spoke softly, lowering his head.

“Men of the cloth, men of the steel and men of The Ever, Borlo. Do not presume that all men

who would fall to their knees before God, or indeed a rightful heir to the Throne of Ever, would fall

so easily to their knees in the face of death, or the Og-ra.” Arellus cast a spiteful eye to the princess,

but nodded with a rehearsed smile.

Grainne had noticed, but chose to return to the immediate situation at hand. It was

commonplace for the older men of the older orders to question her seating and her lineage. For

although she was proud, she was absent of any royal blood. Her father, Cormac was a usurper and a

stealer of thrones, and her mother, Shian was half Fairfolk, and a palace scullery maid in life. Her

younger brother, Cuinn was the product of one of Cormac's later conquests, the Lady Florent;

daughter of Count Lee and an indirect heir to the throne in her own right. It was the long-held

opinion by men like Arellus, men of the church and The Five Counts that she should stand aside to

permit her brother to take leadership.

“The assistance of your clergy may be needed, Arellus,” Grainne smiled. “I thank you.”

“No, Milady. It is the ever watchful eye and the stern hand of God that I would have you

give thanks.”

THE STAINED WINDOWS OF THE PALACE HALL EXPLODED; showering glass

across the servants and assembled dignitaries who chattered nervously. Panic rose as dark bodies,

sailing from ropes descended into the chamber.

Assassins.

Borlo's reaction was instant, a flash of blue steel as he swung his massive form between the

attackers and the princess. They were clad in black, nimble and weapons drawn. Through the

openings in the wrapped bindings that masked their faces, he could see they were easterners, men of

Zatahaan or places father flung.

The first of them rushed in, side stepping Borlo and directing his short-blade to Grainne.

Her knight grabbed the man by his shawl, huge grip nearly closing around the assassin's

entire neck, dragging him back and slamming him into the chequered tiles at the base of the throne.

The man's skull split open on impact, sending him into fits of spasms and violent death.

The other three moved in, circling the princess's mighty defender, signalling to each other as

they ducked and weaved, looking for a way to get close enough to pierce his armour; looking for

that one weak spot to take down Everwhere's armoured lion.

Then came an attack from behind. Not from the assassin's, but from the Church of Torin.

Arellus struck the invader nearest him, swinging the mighty mace of his faith and near-decapitating

his target with divine accuracy.

Borlo followed-up in the distraction, plunging his blade into the chest of the Zatahaan

murderer of his left. It was void of grace, as the assassin dropped to his knees in screams of death as

Borlo set a boot to his shoulder and thrust him back.

“Stop him!” Arellus cried.

The forth assassin moved away, great leaping bounds as he hurled himself upward to the

drapes hanging from the broken windows and began to climb. Servants and nobles screamed,

fleeing to the opposite end of the room as the assassin scaled to the window ledge and dropped out

of sight.

Borlo switched his attentions back to the princess, as quickly as he had dispatched the

intruders.

“Grainne, are you hurt?”

In a state of shock, the princess flitted her eyes to the corners of the room, searching for any

further dangers.

“By Torin, they will suffer for this.” Arellus swung his mace in fury up to the empty window.

“Where is Prince Cuinn? Where is the prince?!”

THE DOORS AT THE REAR OF THE HALL OPENED and the diminutive figure of Prince

Cuinn, the ten year-old heir-to-be appeared, backed by four men in the red and gold colours of

Count Kolchev's guard.

“Has the castle been breached?” Cuinn was calm, but staying close to his escort. He paled at

the sight of the bodies, raising his hands to his chest and clutching at the lapels of his satin doublet.

He, like his sister had not inherited the strong features of his father. He had taken the shorter, wider

hipped-shape of his noble mother. His eyes narrowed by default, in constant suspicion and his nose

upturned ever so slightly.

“No, my lord,” Borlo said, eyeing over the young prince's escort. “Assassins. But we

have-...”

“Cowards, more like,” Arellus waded in, mace still in hand and eyes centred on the broken

windows. The ageing priest had pulled some surprises in his time as head of The Church of Torin,

but his deftness in combat was old news to Borlo, who, when fighting in the militia had seen

Arellus take the front lines and lead the charge against the creatures conjured by The Black

Wizards. A decade or two on, prayer and rich foods had softened the old cleric's thirst for war, but

his tongue and faith were sharper than any man to hold the position before him.

“Who leads this charge against my city?” The prince folded his arms, looking between Borlo

and Arellus.

“The Og-ra,” spat the priest.

“Not just Og-ra, but men of the east. This is a mercenary force. I would expect to see Picts

and The Red Flag Company before the day is out,” Borlo nodded.

“Has anyone thought to reason with them?” Cuinn sighed, disinterested and unafraid.

Borlo frowned. The prince's attitude was one of royalty, for certain. While Cormac, his

father, had been a hulking combatant and a master strategist, his son was on a par with the other wet

fish of the nobility. Borlo straightened to attention again, inwardly correcting himself for thinking

such thoughts about his prince.

“Perhaps, if I may, we should retreat to the lower chambers,” Grainne spoke over the raised

voices.

“Aye. This high chamber is not safe. Their assassins have failed, and so brute force will take

its turn.” Arellus had awoken, it seemed, after a decade of slumber, now he was alive and ready to

fight the fight, and smash the word of Torin into the faces of the city's attackers.

“No,” barked Cuinn. “We will wait here for the enemy's chief in commander to come

forward, and we will tell him that his actions are futile. Everwhere is not his for the taking.”

Borlo's eyebrow raised, then promptly lowered, not wanting to offend his Lordship.

“My lord, they seek to kill the royal family with blades in the dark, and brute force if need

be. And by the time they reach the palace steps, we will have no military left to discourage them or

to reinforce your assurances.”

Cuinn frowned, looking up at Borlo with a deep seeded displeasure. He didn't like being

called out, and certainly did not appreciate second guesses, especially in front of his older sister.

“Very well,” he said.

THEY LEFT ARELLUS IN THE THRONE ROOM. The old priest would tend to those

wounded by the fallen glass and then make his way to the Cathedral. From what Borlo could recall

the Temple District, Central Plaza and Commons were free of attackers as yet. The city's ancient

construction was segmented, much like a fortress. Reaching the palace with infantry would mean

passing through a total of three lots of city walls. By his planning, they would have several days at

most before the palace was breached. The outer walls could be broken by siege and artillery, but

with each successive breach, the advancing enemy would need to dismantle and reassemble their

engines inside of the successive locations. His men, along with the forces of the militia and Count

Kolchev would unleash hell from every vantage point, every palisade and every watchtower. The

taking of the city would be an eventuality, rather than a possibility, but Borlo had ensured other

measures be taken. Everwhere would not fall without the enemy being left in ruins.

The group, Borlo, Grainne, Cuinn and his four escorts descended the spiral staircases that

wove through the spine of the palace. The building itself was of a strange construction. Visible for

miles in most directions, the royal halls were based upon square foundations, but narrowed with

each level to the point of reaching a solitary tower that served as the royal sleeping chambers.

The secret tunnels were never patrolled, and were lit only by the torch that Borlo lead the

way with.

“Do you think another of the western kingdoms leads the attack, Borlo?” Grainne was at his

side, lifting her dress to keep stride with him.

“Why would you suggest that?”

“I have recently had fears that the instability of the throne would attract attention.”

Borlo stopped at an intersection before gesturing for them to follow left.

“I would not think so, for surely we would have heard of such things. Besides, our tentative

alliance with Greystone should deter such actions.”

“Greystone!” the princess echoed, covering her mouth upon hearing the cold walls bounce

the sound back to her. “Greystone. The beacons. We can light the beacons and call for aid.”

The group stopped. Borlo thought the process through.

“Have you taken leave of your senses, sister?” Cuinn pushed forward, standing alongside

Borlo. “The cut-throats of Greystone have long had their eye upon my city. If they are not the ones

attacking us, then lighting the beacons will do nothing but attract them to pick at the bones of

whatever else is left of both us and the Og-... the monsters.”

“But Regent Javier is a personal acquaintance,” pleaded Grainne.

“The princess is correct, My lord. Javier was most agreeable at last summer's festivities.”

Cuinn folded his arms once more, sulking.

Borlo nodded to them both.

“I will see to it personally that the beacons are lit, but please, we must reach the safety of the

safe room.”

Cuinn marched on ahead, unsure of where he was going, but his personal escorts were quick

to follow. Grainne exchanged a look with Borlo, offering him an uneasy smile.

“This way, your highness.”

IT WAS SUNSET, and Adrin washed up onto the lifeboat ramp at the edge of the market

district. The water receded little by little, dropping a hair's width with each sway of the tide that

managed a ripple up the length of the river. Floating debris bobbed as a dog moved toward her in

the low light and rich shadows of the day turning to evening.

The mongrel nuzzled her head, lolling it to one side before it began to lick her ear.

“Mphf,” she protested, weakly lifting a hand to shoo the animal away. The dog snorted and

lost interest, moving to investigate the debris and litter in search of food or rats. Adrin sat up, the

sudden movement startling a flock of seagulls that took flight and moved over the water to the other

side of the river. She wasn't sure where she was, she'd drifted west along the river, but where she'd

stopped she couldn't tell. Likely she was still in the market district, but with the city under siege

there was no way to tell which streets were safe and which weren't. There wasn't even a way of

telling which streets were still intact without stumbling upon a blocked route.

She stood and climbed the boat ramp, crouching and walking on all fours to balance herself

when needed. This part of the district was all wooden boat shacks and warehouses. She cut between

two buildings, a tight alleyway that had her scaling packing crates and ducking under tanning lines.

The air was still and calm, save for the far scents of burning and the distant clamour of battle. Adrin

concluded the immediate area was safe, and stepped out into the street.

The buildings were intact, as she'd hoped. But baskets, clothes, food and every day objects

littered the central thoroughfare and none had returned to loot or retrieve them. The Og-ra, or

whoever must have come through here, too slow to kill the fleeing peasantry, but terrifying them

enough to drive them into other patrols. Nothing had been raided. Doors were still shut and their

windows unbroken; whatever was pushing the Og-ra onward was not the need for wealth or

plunder; they were here to conquer.

Adrin steadied herself as she grew dizzy. Stepping onto the pavement, she leaned against the

abandoned stall of a shoemaker. She'd have to break into one of these houses to find somewhere to

rest, but once the Og-ra took the city, she'd no doubt their baser instincts would take over and the

districts would be pillaged one by one, it was a matter of time before she was found.

Someone emerged from one of the side streets. He was a nobleman, layered with fine silks

and cottons, purple and white, but dirtied from the streets and alleyways. He fixed on Adrin,

opening his mouth to speak from behind fearful eyes.

He fell, jerking into a limp emptiness as an arrow hit him in the head, packing enough force

to snap his neck on impact and dropping him like a discarded marionette.

Adrin took two steps backward and nearly lost her footing. The sound of rattling armours

rose up behind her with the drunken shouting of the Og-ra soldiers. She followed the street around,

keeping to the pavement and stepping down into alleyways when she had to, but she was too slow,

too tired to go on.

“Search'un 'ere! There's barnabee mooah,” one of them bellowed as he kicked the not-so-

noble carcass of the man he'd shot.

They were searching, they would find her, and they would kill her.

ADRIN'S VISION WENT DARK, strong arms grabbed her from behind, across her throat.

She struggled, choking for help. A blow collided with her head.

D S Walker

Everwhere - Kingmaker

© 2013, D S Walker

SoulTribe Works

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