Chapter 4: Chapter 4

It’s moments like these that truly reveal how fleeting beauty can be. Or maybe it’s the fickle nature of the human heart – it’s too hot to decide. The one thing I now know – and what a joy it was to discover this morsel of nature’s wonder – is that that ‘pleasant summer sun’ apparently translates to sticky, humid hell-hole when the all-important ‘pleasant summer breeze’ stops at the tree line.

I’d long since shucked off my robes, leaving me trudging through the scrabbly forest in tunic and pants – black leather was a bad idea. Now, what was a surprisingly clean tunic – given what I had just put it through – is covered in tears, streaked in mud and splattered with no small number of insects. The insects are the worst thing really, buzzing around, occasionally biting – do they even have a purpose? Most of them just hover there, just existing until there’s someone nearby to annoy.

Muttered cursing and the sound of flailing arms follow a few steps back. There’s one positive to the mass of insects, Evelyn stopped buzzing with her inane questions twenty minutes ago. Not having the tactical benefit of long sleeves, she keeps her arms in constant motion to stop them from being chewed to the bone. There’d be more swearing, but we learnt pretty early on that it was best to keep our mouths (and nose, eyes, ears, etc.) closed. Even Emmet was swatting away, an irritated scowl on his face, though he hasn’t started swearing – or taken off his priest robes for that matter. There’s an act of self-flagellation that deserves at least a minor-to-intermediate miracle. I blink through a drop of sweat, why couldn’t I have been an ice mage? I wipe the sweat off my forehead, boiling alive – or maybe just stick with fire and finish the job.

A scream of frustration erupts from behind me and I spin around to see Evelyn with her arm covering her nose and mouth, the few red welts dotted along it probably being the final straw. She locks eyes and shouts, muffled though it is.

“Dammit Lucien, aren’t you a wizard?” Mage, actually. “Can’t you do something about this crap? Wave your magic wand or whatever”. Honestly where does she get these ideas from? Wands? Grandfather would think them old fashioned. Not wanting my sleeves to go anywhere near my mouth, I mime back – as sarcastically as possible – me shooting down individual bugs with fire. She rolls her eyes and kicks a tree root, muttering: “Useless bloody wizards.” Useless bloody girl, maybe I’ll leave you in the cave next time.

It’s not like she doesn’t know my repertoire, how can she expect a firebolt to help in this situation? It’s not like I know any other spells – Wait, I do. I quietly cast the air-freshener charm, and of course the bloody thing works perfectly. The disgusting bugs completely avoiding the small puff of citrusy-freshness, something basically antithetical to their existence. I blush furiously – luckily invisible on my already heat-flushed face. How could I have forgotten the cleanliness charm? I should have tried that at least half an hour ago. I glance back; luckily no-one had noticed, caught up as they are in their own personal suffering.

Alright, how do I sell this? It’s too visible to just use it covertly, they’d see and ask why I hadn’t done it earlier – she will at least. I continue to push through the brambles, swiping flies from my eyes and mouth every few seconds. For barely another minute. Screw it, I’ll just ignore them if they ask, I can take it.

I stick out an arm while walking, splay my hands and cast, pushing as much magic into it as possible – it can’t explode if it’s not a combat spell, probably. The cloud of insects dissipates as my conjured mist drifts around us, clinging to our skin and clothes, the fresh scent almost making it feel tolerably cool (almost). As if it were father’s necromancy, not just a conjuration cantrip, the other two seem to rise from the dead. Evelyn slowly lowering her arms, as if wary of a trap. Emmet seems to jerk out of the coma he was in, a smile half forming now he’s out of the torment. I peek back out the corner of my eye, my scalp burning from embarrassment this time, to see Evelyn open her mouth, probably to call me out. Emmet grabs her shoulder and sternly shakes his head. That’s almost worse. We push onwards in silence, re-casting the charm regularly. Gods I hope we’re going the right way.

 

Luckily, it doesn’t seem to matter, as we suddenly break through the undergrowth and onto a wide road, about an hour later. The sun is starting getting dangerously close to the business end of the afternoon. Weld being the sleepy back-water hovel it is, the gates probably close at like, ten – we’d better hurry it up. I stop casting the freshener spell and wait nervously as it dissipates, no bugs appear – we’re in the clear. Safe to do so, I open my mouth.

“Emmet. How much longer do you reckon we have to go?” He did say he’s lived around here all his life.

He looks around, seeming to get his bearings somehow, there’s only dirt and trees in both directions. “Maybe four or five hours?” damn, that’s going to cut it close. “How are you feeling Evelyn?” he turns to the sweaty mess, sitting on the edge of the road. She just waves him off, ha, I’m not the worst off then – though my legs feel like limp noodles. How Emmet can keep standing in that outfit, I’ll never understand. Turning back, he looks down the road, “It’ll be a bit faster on the road, if we’re quick we can probably still get there by dinner time.” He looks at the two of us, more sweat stains than dry clothes at this point, “though perhaps we’ll get lucky and hitch a ride on a cart.”

I perk up at that. Dishevelled as we are, between the three of us we’ve not only got a priest but a woman too. Anyone passing us would be basically obligated to give us a ride. In a pinch I could pretend to be a cripple or something, though I’d have to wear the robes again – not very tempting. I do lurch to my feet though, no point relying on the kindness of strangers. I almost consider shooting a few firebolts into the sky as a rescue signal, but I think better of it. Anyone who purposefully chooses to follow a signal from a random mage, is probably not the type of outstanding individual that would offer us a ride – not ‘offer’ anyway.

Evelyn groans and reluctantly staggers to her feet. “You wouldn’t happen to have a convenient spell you haven’t mentioned yet?” she snarks – that bitch, I thought she’d forgotten! I resolutely ignore her and carry on in the direction Emmet had indicated, let’s get this over with.

As soon as the thought enters my head, the clacking of an approaching horse reaches us. Now, with us having narrowly escaped from a band of professional killers, we should probably have hidden in the trees until the intentions of the ones in the vehicle could be gauged, instead we just stare blankly down the road. From around the bend comes a horse-and-cart, complete with friendly looking old man at the helm and enough room for the three of us to ride with him. Evelyn, not taking her eyes off the beautiful image, waves her hand vaguely at me, “you don’t actually have a…”

“No – no I don’t”

“…well…” says Emmet, a little in awe, letting out a sigh of relief, summing up my feelings nicely.

Wasting no time, Evelyn runs up to the cart smiling brightly – the effect only slightly diminished by the filthy state we’re in. “Sir! Sir! Please wait a moment!” she calls in a tone seeping in faux innocence, so effectively I might add, that I was afraid she was about to frame Emmet and I as her pursuers in order to get a ride. But my fears are put to rest as the old man slows down, and Emmet and I approach without any problem. We reach them as Evelyn is wrapping up a wild and breathless recounting – he’s an old dude and we’ve got a priest, he doesn’t need to be buttered up any more, you know. “and we’ve only just managed to push through that horrid forest! I very nearly didn’t make it sir, but then I saw your cart. It was like a miracle I tell you.” She slows down and looks bashful, “I was wondering… if my friends and I could get a ride into town?”

The old man, heart doubtless filled to bursting point with youthful charm, passes right over Emmet’s holy robes in his rush to lend aid to the damsel in distress. “Of course, my dear. You and your friends are welcome to join me. But sorcerers you say? A nasty lot they are, I’m just glad that you managed to escape unhurt.” I’m suddenly glad I’d taken off my robes. Still basically ignoring Emmet and I, he continues, Evelyn’s hands clutched in his. “Come, sit beside me, we can be home in time for supper.”

He quickly hoists her up onto the cart, leaving just enough time for Emmet and I to clamber over the side, before he takes off. I look over at Emmet as we both squat amidst a pile of turnips, he looks back, our faces bearing an expression somewhere between incredulity and awe, perhaps with a touch of fear. And Evelyn calls what I do magic. I push aside some turnips, and lean back against a pile of cured leathers – it smells rank, but I don’t have the energy to care. As the driver talks animatedly about the various uses of manure in bricklaying and Evelyn maintains a paralytic strained smile, I drift off.

O – O – O – O – O

The snake pokes its head from out of its burrow. The air is still cool, the time is not right; the snake descends once more.

The snake is underground. The soil is cool, colder than the air; the snake shouldn’t be underground. It tries to move, but it can’t. It remembers that one digs when underground, it tries that instead; it moves a little. The snake digs for some time, then it stops, snakes don’t dig – worms dig, which isn’t quite the same.

The snake is underground. Suddenly a centipede appears, it asks why the snake is underground – the snake doesn’t know. The centipede asks if it dug its way underground – the snake says no, snakes don’t dig. The centipede asks if the snake needs any help returning to the surface – the snake says yes. Then you’ll have to dig. But snakes don’t dig. Then you will have to become a snake that digs.

So, the snake learns to dig.

O – O – O – O – O

I jerk awake to find Emmet shaking my arm. The cart has stopped next to a cottage, the windows glowing cheerily now that the sun has set. Looks like we made it through the gates in time. I peel myself off of the cured leather and turn to Emmet.

I yawn, “Yeah? What?”

“He’s taking her into the house,” he whispers. I turn around and see the cart driver guiding a very tired looking Evelyn into the cottage. Her smile is barely holding together as the old man regales her with another story – no doubt inane. I lean over the rail and peer through the cottage window. There’s an old woman, presumably his wife, so I guess it’s not a weird set-up for a kidnapping – good enough for me.

“Oi Evelyn!” the hopeful look I get back is hilarious, “we’re going to The Goodberry! It’s an inn – on the hill, can’t miss it – drop by tomorrow or whatever!” her face, as I dash hopes of an exit, is even funnier. I hop out of the cart and begin walking into the town centre, “c’mon Emmet, I’m sure they’ll make some arrangements for a man of the cloth.” He follows reluctantly, looking vaguely worried about Evelyn – but he follows anyway – he’s probably spent the trip listening to the driver and doesn’t want to stick around any longer than necessary.

 

Like many charmingly quaint townships, Weld has a pleasant and relaxed feel to it – meaning it had barely enough traffic to justify an actual general store. That said, the two large taverns squatting on the main road, each across the road from each other, hadn’t seemed to notice. To be fair, they cater to two very different – and most importantly, mutually exclusive – clientele.

Goodberry, is a cheery place, decked out in polished dark-wood, chequered table cloths and clean linen – a friendly family affair. The Goblin Piss Inn, is as much the polar opposite as possible, offering a level of quality that the pun in its name suggests. The Goblin Piss Inn of course has a different charm, the chunky wooden tables scored with knife marks, grizzled bar tender and hard liquor attracts a hardier customer. The one thing going for the town, is in fact, that it acts as the last rest-stop before many adventurers mount an expedition into wilderness and scattered city states to the north. The Goblin Piss Inn caters to this demographic, focussing on a rough and boisterous aesthetic – obviously Emmet and I steer towards the Goodberry. Not quite in the spirit of the adventuring lifestyle, but at least Emmet looks relieved.

I trot up to the door, pushing it open and stepping into the glow. Immediately a wooden mug impacts the door frame next to my head, some ale sloshing down my shirt.

“Sepulchrum! I can smell you from here!” Bollocks, “Go right around the back and wash yourself off!” A short fat woman comes bustling towards us, brandishing a broom with more gravitas than most knights can manage with a claymore.

“Dammit Annie, I paid for the bloody bathtub upstairs didn’t I?” Cost as much as the room, it’s as if these people don’t bathe or something. None of this stops Annie though, intent as she is to protect the sanctity of her hard-wood floor.

“There’s no way the bath is enough for the state you’re in, if its anything like last time, you couldn’t pay me to clean the basin once you’re done. Steven! Man the bar while I’m out!” One of the waiters nods as the woman pushes me out the door and continues pushing me around the back of the building. Emmet following demurely behind us, shooting me a curious look at Annie’s words. I may have tried my necromancy out on dead chickens before venturing into the caves, trying to explain the mess that left me in had been an ordeal. Unfortunately, I managed to become a person of interest (irritation) to the owner.

She leads me over to the stream running behind the inn, mostly by swatting me with the broom. I pause at the bank of the creek, about to ask if she was serious. With barely a second glance she pre-empts it by kicking me in. Gods that’s cold. I flounder in the shallow water, throwing obscene words and gestures back up to the mad old lady – to no avail, she just motions for me to strip. In sullen silence I do so, until I’m knee-deep in water, shivering and wearing only my underclothes. I throw my things up – she’ll probably burn them or something, the cow – and begin washing the muck off, in the meantime, Emmet approaches cautiously.

“Um, Ma’am?” Emmet leads with a deference – a wise move.

Annie – as if only just noticing him – turns around scowling. “Oh, my dear, what have you done to yourself?” and immediately changes tune.

“Oh, Lucien helped me out of a spot of bother,” and this is the thanks I get, “but I’m afraid I’m in a similar state.”

Annie’s expression fills with motherly warmth as she immediately helps Emmet to a trough of water – for fuck’s sake, she hasn’t even noticed the priest’s robes yet; where can I learn that kind of magic? I keep scrubbing the muck off, grumbling to myself while Emmet gets pampered by the fat shrew. I finish up and climb back up the bank, my clothes having vanished somewhere, except the boots – they’re probably unsalvageable. Emmet returns with Annie – his robes not nearly as saturated with filth as mine – and we head back inside, ignoring the drunken cat-calling from the Goblin Piss Inn across the road.

“Now dearies, isn’t that better,” I hurriedly wide the mud off of my feet before she says anything. “Run upstairs, there’s two basins of hot water to warm up with in Sepulchrum’s room.”

“Thank you, Ma’am!” Emmet says as he heads towards the stairs. She smiles warmly again.

I follow him, “thanks Annie,” I reply grudgingly as I lead Emmet towards my room. She nods and pats me away with the broom, hopefully it’s more in jest than a warning.

“Be back down when you’re done boys, I’ll have some stew ready.” She calls up and I duck my head in acknowledgement, Emmet smiling in thanks.

“What a nice lady,” Emmet proclaims deludedly as I push open the door, two basins steaming on the floor, side by side.

“If you say so”, I reply, climbing into the bath.

“You have such a nice relationship with her, very caring,” he offers, I just tune him out as I relax into the warm water. I close my eyes and try to ignore the awkwardness of having Emmet bathing besides me. He chatters on, apparently unaffected – must be those communal bloody monasteries. All too quickly, the water starts cooling down and I’m forced to get out – one day I’ll learn a water heating spell, firebolts won’t cut it. I walk over to my trunk and fish out a change of clothes, Emmet standing right behind me in the buff –as unaffected by it as in the bath. I throw him a tunic and pants while I put on an identical set as before – the most important part of being a dark mage is a recognisable image after all. I wait until Emmet is dressed (just wool, none of my good leather) and we head downstairs – mostly empty of patrons even this early in the night.

“At least you haven’t forced your terrible taste in clothing on the poor lad,” comes Annie’s caring commentary.

“Yeah, yeah,” I’d heard it before – not like the old coot would know an iconic look if it hit her in the face. Why is everyone so down on leather pants?

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She places three bowls of beef stew and bread down on the table, and joins us to eat. “Thanks Annie” I reply almost automatically, a habit well learnt after a week, Emmet joins in, only with more enthusiasm. Annie nods and we all start eating.

It really is a good stew, a decent amount of meat along with a large helping of vegetables – even some leftover wine perhaps? – means it’s a solid meal even before the warm bread. Shouts float over from across the street, rising in volume, though not uncommon. I dip a bit of the bread into the soup, an excellent consistency, must be fortified with a bit of flour or something, maybe barley? A window shatters and the shouting spills out onto the street – again, not uncommon. I guess that’s one good thing about the cow, she doesn’t skimp on the food – good to have standards – not like the water-thin murky slop they serve over at Goblin Piss; not the kind of thing you want served at a place with a name like that. There’s a crash and the windows fill with a flickering light.

Annie gets up without a word and peeks outside, she turns to us, “you boys might want to head back upstairs.” I look out the window to see the façade of the Goblin Piss Inn quickly going up in flames, armed men outside milling around, too regimented for your average drunken mob of adventurers – crap, Caithurt. I jump to my feet and bolt upstairs, bugger, bugger, bugger. I grab a satchel from my trunk – prepared weeks ago in case I needed a quick exit – and rush back out, nearly bowling Emmet and Annie over.

“Sepulchrum, are those soldiers?” I’m a little put out, she seems legitimately a little scared – I remember that they probably don’t have any water mages to put the fires out. This could get out of hand. I motion for Emmet to get his stuff, but Annie grips my arm, “Sepulchrum!” I reluctantly turn to face her. Her face turns serious, a knowing look in her eyes, “are they after you?”

The simple question, asked so calmly throws me for a bit, I face her straight on, “ah, yes, probably – Emmet and I… and a girl,” I decide to add.

“Did you do anything wrong?” Another simple question. It’s deliberately not: ‘did you break the law’, she knows the answer to that one hardly matters to the Empire soldiers. I glance at Emmet, he seems a little conflicted maybe, but shakes his head.

“No-,” she cuts me off before I continue and bustles us up another flight of stairs.

“Alright, you two go up into the attic. You can get onto the roof and find somewhere to get down to street level. Do what you need, then get out of town.” She begins walking back to the main room, soldiers having begun knocking on the inn’s door.

I look at her, “If they do bother to ask, tell them we went north.” She waves me off as she begins walking downstairs. I pause again, chewing it over, “and thanks again Annie.”

She snorts, “You paid two weeks in advance, you’ll be doing me a favour by leaving.” She disappears down the stairs, but not before looking us both in the eyes. “Look after each other though, you’re in a lot of trouble boys.” With that she hurries back down stairs, the pounding at the door growing more incessant.

 

Emmet and I reach the attic and climb up onto the roof, feeling a touch of relief that the footing is so reasonably steady. Luckily the Goodberry has paid attention to proper maintenance. Trying this on Goblin Piss would have been disastrous – ignoring the issue of it being on fire. We keep low as we pass over the roof, the building being only two stories high and bathed in the light from Goblin Piss’s fire, we’re pretty visible to the soldiers on the ground. We reach the edge of the roof and look down, two-and-a-bit stories to the ground, a wide gap separating the next building. If only this was any other town – Weld might have that pleasant country vibe, but the sparsely populated main boulevard has precious few tall buildings. Even fewer that are built in easy jumping distance.

I sling my satchel over my back and look to Emmet, who nods nervously – I guess he’s going first. Emmet breaks from his crouch and takes off, reaching the edge of the roof and leaping. He hangs in the air as gravity fumbles with its grip. A torch passes below us, illuminating him for a split second, leaving him dangerously in full view of those below. A split second later, he lands, stumbling on the uneven tiles of the next building. Righting himself, he motions for me to follow then waits at the edge, offering his hand.

I almost want to tell him to back off and give me space. The short gap between us seems to creep wider every time I take my eyes off it. We’re not even that high off the ground, but the ground still manages to disappear in the gloom.

It can’t be too bad, Emmet made it fine didn’t he? I can at least do as much as him. Conscious of our limited time, as the soldiers get restless from waiting, I make a break. I run full pelt over the roof, satchel bumping against my spine. At the edge, I jump, following Emmet’s path as I hang in the air, the terrible drop yawning below me. Maybe it’s the extra weight from the satchel, maybe my footing, or that Emmet is a scant bit taller, but my foot slips on the landing, leaving me falling short by a hair’s breath. The earth opens wide beneath me.

An arm grips my grasping hands just in time. I gasp for breath and scrabble against the weathered brick wall. Emmet’s clammy hands grip mine firmly, helping me get some purchase with my feet. With his help, I claw myself up, and over onto the roof – knees shaking, I almost sit, before remembering the soldiers, just a house away.

Emmet places a worried hand on my back, shakily comforting. I glance at him, “thanks Emmet,” I manage simply. Not knowing what else to say.

He gives a shaky grin, “no worries Lucien – pretty close call?”

“Heh, yeah,” is all I can say.

We carry on, bent double to avoid being seen. The next house is closer, a bit of a drop, but an easier jump to make. With silent agreement, Emmet volunteers to jump first – just in case. He lands and reaches a hand out again, but I don’t end up needing it, as I land – shakily – on the shorter building. Giving a moments rest, we drop down onto someone’s outhouse – which thankfully has a sturdy enough roof – and from there, onto the ground. The soldiers still milling outside of the Goodberry. I breath out slowly, trying to steady my heart and turn to Emmet.

“Right, we’ve got to head south, which road is that?”

He points down the road, off the main boulevard, “Why south? Isn’t that further into Caithurt?”

I nod, “it is, but with any luck the old bag will convince them we’re heading north,” he looks confused. “I told her that we’d be heading in that direction – that’s where everyone goes when they’re fleeing the empire, anyway. I’m pretty sure that’s how the northern city states started. Hopefully they’ll take the bait.” Emmet nods along, “So let’s make a break for it while we still can.”

“What about Evelyn?” wha- crap.

“Dammit,” I look down the road, “which way was she?”

Emmet motions me to follow, “This way. We can follow the stream.”

The stream runs behind the row of buildings on the boulevard, convenient for washing clothes and for hiding from roaming soldiers. As we set off, the pack out the front of Goodberry disperses, soldiers splitting up, presumably to search for us. Really, they could be looking for anyone, miscellaneous ne’er-do-wells who would be likely to stop at an adventurer’s tavern. Though having just assisted in foiling what could have been an assassination attempt, we’d best steer clear of Her Majesty’s finest.

We walk pressed to the sloped bank, getting the most cover possible from the street. Emmet leads us carefully across rocks and muddy grass, careful not to make any splashing noises that could alert our pursuers. I follow with a touch of difficulty, the sun having totally disappeared and the moon affording little light. We freeze a few times, pressing close to the grassy banks whenever a soldier strays too close – the light of torches sweeping scant inches from our heads. After what feels like forever, gingerly stepping through a shallow creek, Emmet directs us to the old man’s house. I can see the cart from here – hopefully Evelyn is still there. We shimmy up the bank and slowly round the house, moving to get a view through the windows. As we do, we hear a crash from inside and the type of profanity only one person we know can produce. Together, we leap up and dash towards the cottage door.

O – O – O – O – O

“And you can’t trust any of them vendors out on the main strip, I tell you”, the old man continues in a progressively more rural inflection. “The turnips you buy from someone like Edwards just don’t hold up for a gal like you looking for high quality produce.” He makes a wild gesture at me, luckily – this time anyway – no food is flicked onto my new, clean clothes. His wife nods demurely, placing another serving of turnips onto both of our plates. The old coot has been yammering on about fucking turnips for almost an hour now, and shows no sign of slowing down. The manure talk was bad enough, but if I have to deal with another second of Edward, and his unsatisfactory root vegetables, I might literally die.

His wife keeps spooning more boiled turnip onto my plate. I glance at her, she seems to have a weird vacant stare, is there something wrong with her? Or is she just used to drowning him out?

“That’s nice dear,” she suddenly replies in a monotone, sensing that the average volume of the room having dropped slightly – yeah, she’s definitely checked out.

The old guy – Francis, apparently – scoops up an extra-large spoonful of turnip, giving momentary respite from any further meditations – on turnips – Christ. His wife – Mildred – takes the chance and smoothly exits the conversation, collecting plates and heading to the kitchen to clean up. Sensing a lifeline, I leap out of my seat and seize it with all that I am.

“Sorry Mr. Francis for disrupting you,” I begin, drawing on the tattered remains of my girl-in-need routine. “I just can’t let Mildred do all the work on her own.” He seems disappointed but nods – hah, medieval gender stereotypes working for me this time around – and I disappear into the kitchen. As I slide in, Mildred pushes a dirty plate into my hands – really feeling that sisterly bond here. Now usually, I would make any excuse to get out of dishes duty, one shift at a McDonalds taught me to avoid it like the plague. But as a break from Frank’s dumb-ass babble, I’ll take it.

We spend some time in silence, scrubbing ceramic plates with what passes for soap around here. I briefly wonder about mage-boy and Emmet, I can’t decide if I got shafted in this situation. Sure, I’ve got a bed, a change of clothes and dinner, but they probably don’t have to deal with these boorish old people, and they probably had something to eat other than bloody freaking turnips.

Suddenly there’s a thumping on the door and a shout rings out.

“In the name of Her Majesty, the Empress Caithurt, open this door!” Empress? Didn’t Emmet say something about her? Frank opens the door and three soldiers push inside as I peek from around the corner.

The one with the shiniest armour tells the others, “Top to bottom, find the girl,” and the other two start to push past old Frank. Crap, must be with that Reynard guy. Frank, obviously more on the ball than I thought, begins to argue with one of them; stupid fucking old man, keep quiet. Why doesn’t he just zip it?

I look to Mildred, silently asking if there’s another way out. She looks back, frightened, gives a small shake of her head – dammit. Frank’s still arguing, the soldier, apparently sick of it, shoves Frank back. Being an old dude, this sends Frank falling to the ground – God damn it. Another one throws a chair against the wall, breaking it and scattering food all over the floor – God Fucking Damn it.

They’re going to destroy the whole house, Frank’s just a turnip farmer dammit. The leader rips away the curtain separating the kitchen and the bedroom. Don’t they know how much competition there is in the market? The third shatters a pot of wine, as if I could be motherfucking hiding behind it or something. Mildred’s almost proud expression as she set it down – fuck. The leader approaches Frank again, a sneer on his face. He bends down, reaching to grab Frank’s shirt and I bury my foot between his legs.

The leader collapses, a gasp of air silently rushing out his mouth as he falls, unmoving. Some muted instinct suddenly screams out and I duck, almost cringing away from it – as a gauntleted fist sails through the space my head had been. My elbow shoots out, impacting something hard covering the soldier’s stomach; jars my arm but I hear him gasp as the air leaves his lungs. He stumbles past me, the momentum pushing him forward. He trips over Frank and the leader, falling against the wall. I’m already standing over him – a curb stomp to the gut again gets through the padding and puts him out of action. I turn around as the third walks back into the dining room, from the door to the bedroom. He stares at me and the pleasant hum I’d been hearing disappears, we stand there, our eyes locked.

I distantly notice the aching in my elbow and foot. He slowly starts circling the dining table between us – I follow, wobbling around the opposite way, awkwardly stepping over the trampled turnip and smashed plates. My mind blanks as he slowly draws a sword; sharp and metal, almost unreal. He looks ridiculous, it isn’t a gun, it’s not a knife, and it doesn’t even have the humble threat of a shovel. A sword is such a ridiculous relic, so removed from the visceral threat it’s meant to convey – it’s a prop in a stage play – that it doesn’t even register properly. Do you bite your thumb at me sir? A whispered memory from a classroom – I almost start giggling – holy shit, I think I’m losing it.

He stops circling, his dumb sword pointing forward from his waist – I pause, one foot in the air, and sway back, missing a step in our weird dance-off. I almost ask him why he’s stopped – as stupid as that would be. He just stares at me, as if waiting for my next move. What? Why? I slowly look side to side and see, out of the corner of my eye, Mildred frozen like a deer in headlights, as she watches the armed and violent soldier standing over her equally frozen husband – oh yeah, shit. Probably seeing my reaction, the soldier slowly – deliberately– turn the sword around in his hands, and point the tip at Frank’s back.

Et tu Brutus? Shut up Evelyn.

I just stand there behind the table – Christ, I got two of them, isn’t that enough? – just blankly watching this stupid dramatic production play out before my eyes. I don’t know what to do.

Suddenly the door bursts open, and for the second time today, an albino dude charges in, smashing the heavy oak door into the back of the soldier’s head – dropping him. Lucien: enter stage left. The sword clangs theatrically against the floor. The door’s weight pushes itself back to click satisfyingly into place.

Lucien looks at the three downed bodies, the piss-shit commander still moaning, and the other two out cold. “Holy shit.” Probably forgot his lines.

“Shit,” I agree and pushing him back out the door and kicking the sword away. I don’t look back at the shaking Mildred and I don’t check on the still prone Frank. I don’t look back as we step onto the road. I don’t look back as the roof disappears behind us.

I just follow Emmet and ignore the feeling of the heavy metal still ringing against my foot.

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