Chapter 7 Othic
OTHIC
There is no time for stealth. There is only momentum.
I burst from the narrow gap between the shacks, dragging Aurora with me.
Her hand is lost in mine, small and fragile.
The main slum street is a river of bodies, a churning mass of pale zagfer elves, desperate humans, and off-duty Minotaur mercenaries.
The stench hits me again—rotting fish, canal sludge, and the sharp, gamey smell of a rodan butcher stall nearby.
They see me. The whole street sees me. "The Tusk."
The crowd doesn't just part; it scatters.
A zagfer screams and drops his basket of eels.
A human woman yanks her child into a doorway, her face a twisted mask of pure terror.
They see the monster of Eelry, covered in fresh blood, axe in hand, dragging a screaming girl who looks like she belongs on Noble Hill.
Good. Fear is a weapon. Fear clears a path.
"He's here! The Tusk!" a voice shrieks.
I ignore it. I roar, a sound of primal warning, and charge, pulling her in my wake. I am a gray-green mountain of rage, and I am carving a path through their filth.
We slam into the "Bottleneck," a crowded, narrow market street that leads to the North Gate. Stalls are crammed in, awnings so low I have to duck my head. It’s chaos.
Merchants scream, pottery smashes, and the air is rich with the smell of exotic, rotting spices and the fresh blood from a taura butcher stall.
Krell is smart. The thought is a cold spike in my gut. He's not just chasing. He's herding.
He knows these streets. He knows I have to take the widest path because of my size. He's pushing us toward the North Gate, pushing us into a kill-zone.
A whistle, sharp and clear, echoes from a rooftop behind us. They're closing the net.
I don't slow. I see a stall of skinned rodan carcasses hanging on hooks, blocking the path.
I don't go around. I go through. I smash into it with my full weight, sending the heavy wooden structure crashing down, spraying rotten meat and splintered wood across the street, blocking the path for anyone following.
Aurora cries out, but I keep her hand locked in mine, pulling her through the wreckage.
"Halt!"
A "hero" steps out from an alley. A zagfer city guard, his face pale but determined, his cheap steel spear leveled at my chest. He thinks he can enforce Privis's law down here. He thinks his little metal-tipped stick will stop me.
"In the name of Lord Privis, stand down, Tusk!" he shouts, his voice shaking.
Worm.
I don't even break stride. I don't waste my axe on him. As he lunges, I meet his charge with my wounded left shoulder. The impact is a thud of bone on muscle, and his spear-tip scrapes uselessly against my leather armor. I roar in his face, a blast of hot, furious air, and shove.
He flies backward like a rag doll, smashing into the brick wall of a tenement. I hear a wet crack as his head hits the stone. He slides down into the mud, unmoving.
Not even worth my time.
Aurora gasps, her eyes wide with shock, but she doesn't pull away. She's learning. This is what survival looks like.
A sharp hiss cuts the air, inches from my ear.
I yank Aurora back, hard, pulling her against my chest as a black-fletched crossbow bolt thunks into the wooden post where my head was a second ago.
My blood runs cold. I look up.
On the rooftops above us, silhouetted against the murky sky, are three figures. Mercenaries.
"Tusk! Traitor!" Krell's voice. He's on the roof across the street, reloading his heavy crossbow. He's fast. He's cut us off.
"He's mine, lads! Pin him!"
Another bolt flies, and another, smashing into the cobblestones at my feet, forcing me to backpedal. He's herding me again, trying to push me back into the maze where his men are waiting.
The wound in my shoulder is a dull, hot throb. The elven poison is spreading, a sluggish cold in my veins, but the rage is hotter. I will not be penned.
"Stay behind me!" I roar at Aurora. I duck under a low-hanging awning, pulling her with me. Arrows smash into the wood where we just stood.
"They're reloading!" I growl. "Now!"
I burst from the cover of the awning, charging into the last, open space: the muddy courtyard before the North Gate. It's a hundred yards of open, killing ground. The gate is visible, a black arch of iron, swarming with Privis's city guards.
It's a trap. The gate is a bottleneck. But it's the only way out.
A thud lands behind me. Krell's men are leaping down from the roofs, landing in the mud, their swords drawn. They're fast. They're closing.
I don't have time for this. I don't have time for pain.
I fill my lungs and I roar. It’s a sound of pure, defiant rage, a challenge to Krell, to Privis, to all the gods who left me on this cursed continent. I charge, pulling Aurora with me, a massive, bleeding, impossible target, running straight for the spear-wall of city guards at the North Gate.
"Stay with me!" I bellow.
Arrows fly. Men shout. The chase is on.