10 #3
He should leave me and run. It would be the smart thing to do.
I’m dead weight. I’ll slow him down and get him killed.
If I could speak, I would scream at him not to be stupid, to just go.
But I can’t, so of course, he behaves like an absolute moron and tries to pick me up.
The alley is too narrow, and he can’t manage it.
He has to drag me over the dead assassin’s body and pull me along the alley until he gets to the open street.
Once there, he adds my satchel to the burden he’s carrying.
“I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the alley, while I stare blankly up at the midnight sky and scream inwardly for him to hurry.
A purple-clad figure with a crystal-encrusted helmet leans over me, and my blood runs cold. But then I spot the straps of our satchels and the carpet case across the figure’s chest.
“Easy.” Vawn’s voice is muffled through the helmet. “This disguise won’t fool anyone for long. I couldn’t take the pants, because the fucker already shit them when he died. Disgusting. I hope I die with empty bowels and a dry bladder. Nice and clean.”
He scoops me up in his arms, takes a few steps to the right, then changes his mind and heads to the left.
“I don’t know which way the gondolas are,” he whispers. “I’ve never been good with directions. We’ll hope for the best.”
This is marvelous. Perfect. He’s going to get lost while toting me around like a sack of potatoes through a mountain city.
His breath is already labored under the combined weight of my body, the empty carpet case, and both our satchels.
Thankfully the satchels only have clothing in them—if we’d already loaded up on food for our journey through the mountains, they’d be even heavier.
The cobbled streets of Zeletas never see anything larger than hand-wagons and pedaled carts, so they’re narrower and more convoluted than those of other cities.
Vawn climbs one of the hills, cruelly steep with dangerously uneven cobblestones, and he pauses at the top to catch his breath.
I stare up at the night sky, mottled with clouds and patches of starry black.
A dark rectangle with glowing green and blue threads passes overhead.
That’s not our carpet. This one is flying steadily, staying low enough to the rooftops to avoid the violent, unpredictable wind currents in the upper layers of the air.
Every bit of me wants to scream and warn Vawn, but he spots the carpet as well and withdraws into the shadow of a shop’s awning.
“I think I’m going the wrong way,” he pants through the helmet.
Yes, you are. I wish I could tell you where to go. But I can’t move my lips or make more than a low moan in my throat.
At the sound, his arms curl more securely around me. “I’ve got you.”
Boots scrape on stone, and his helmeted head turns in that direction.
“You there, soldier. Who is that?” says an unfamiliar voice.
I slant my eyes as far over as they will roll, catching a glimpse of two egg-shaped helmets.
“I found one of the fugitives,” Vawn says. “I paralyzed her, and I’m taking her to headquarters.”
“You’re heading the wrong way,” replies the soldier.
“I’m afraid I got turned around. If you could point me in the right direction, I’ll get this criminal to our leaders right away.”
“Orders were to kill her and keep the prince alive,” puts in the second soldier.
“Those weren’t the instructions I received.” Vawn’s response is swift and smooth, but I can feel his fingers moving against my thigh, shifting one of my knives out of the sheath. “Who gave you your orders? Holgrave?”
“Holgrave?” The first soldier’s voice sharpens with suspicion. “We don’t use names. We use call signs.”
“Well, fuck it,” Vawn sighs. “Here. Catch.”
He tosses me at the soldiers. Caught off guard, they both reach for me reflexively, but one of them receives the full brunt of my weight, and the impact makes him stumble on the uneven ground, falling backwards with me on top of him.
The other soldier didn’t fall, but he’s distracted. Vawn darts behind him, wraps one arm around the man’s helmet, and jerks his head back. The prince’s hand moves, a vicious whip of my knife across the exposed throat. Blood spurts from severed vessels, fountaining over me and the first soldier.
The soldier throws me off him and I land face down, my cheek pressed to cold, gritty stone.
I can’t see what’s happening. Bodies collide, boots scuff and thump, and the two men grunt under the strain of their conflict. Vawn lets out a cry of pain that shears straight through my soul, but then he voices a growl of vengeful determination. He’s alive, and strong enough to keep fighting back.
There’s a scrape of metal on a rough surface—one of the helmets, maybe? Then repeated thick impacts, like punches against a body. A final solid blow, and then everything goes still.
Someone is panting heavily, and the sound clarifies as they remove their helmet. I shut my eyes briefly, dreading the outcome of the fight. Within the next few seconds, I will either be killed where I lie, or I’ll be gathered into the prince’s arms again.