Chương 33: 32 Race Down Baker Avenue

The carriage trundled to a stop, and my head came up.

"You got this, kid?" Mordisco asked, sitting across from me. I glanced up with one eye, the other covered by the leather patch Naomi had insisted I wear. My hands flexed in their sword gloves. I didn't answer right away, but returned his gaze. The Hobgoblin rested muscled forearms on his knees. Wedge lay across his lap. His vest left his tan-yellow shoulder bare, knobs of striated muscle that rippled when he moved.

"Do you have this?" I returned, refusing to answer his question. He watched me for several moments, appraising, then nodded in approval. A boss didn't answer to his subordinates; that was for amateurs, and Mordisco hated amateurs.

"Uh, there are a lot of civs in the street," Drogo noted as he drew the drape in the window back. Taller than his companion, Drogo's heavy frame rounded his Hobgoblin features. He wore thick armored bracers, a top hat entirely too small, precariously balanced on his head, and tiny, round, tinted spectacles perched high on his nose.

"Then clear them," I said, my fingers twitching as I warmed them up.

"Give them a scare." A slew of curses rose from my side, and I shifted toward my final companion. Needles untangled a knot of fuzes, tiny goblin fingers working with proficiency as he threaded them into small dynamite charges.

"You're not going to blast our guts to the docks, are you?" I asked. Needles scowled at me, hands continuing their work without him looking at them.

"What? Think I don't know what I'm doing?" I raised a defensive hand.

"You're the pro."

"Tex straight. So let me do my thing." The smallest of my three Chain Tide Mercenaries, Needles, easily possessed the largest ego. Kerelev had recommended and paid for these three. They knew who I really was and were every bit as undercover as I was. That being said, they were still mercenaries. Professional, competent—volatile. Needles jerked a cord, then grunted with satisfaction. He lifted his project, a net of fuzes, tiny red sticks dangling from the junctions where the lines met.

I afforded my new companions a final glance. Mordisco the veteran. Drogo the support. Needles the powder keg. They understood the job, knew how to keep their mouths shut, and understood their roles. Their personal peculiarities, however—that was another matter. I lifted my pocket watch to check the time.

"Fifteen seconds," I said. Mordisco gripped the handle of his wedge, rolled his neck, then popped his jaw. Drogo pulled the sling on his shotgun tight, then adjusted his top hat. I watched the second hand tick. My pulse outran it. The lid snapped shut with a click.

"Mark," I said, and Needles flowed out the side door, holding his bombs close to his chest. I went next; the hobgoblins following. The coach was parked next to a wall with a dozen tiny holes pre-drilled into the stone. Usually, there'd be a guard stationed here. I glanced up at the watchtower that extended over the wall. Two riflemen watched me, bracing weapons on their elevated position. One of the guards waved, signaling that he was ready. They'd been briefed on this part of the mission.

They knew exactly what was coming. There'd be no way they'd simply watch us if they didn't understand I was a Cousin working undercover. Needles worked, stuffing charges into holes, his network of fuzes clinging to the wall like a spider web. The sapper flashed a thumbs-up, and a gnomish lighter appeared in his off-hand. I rapped the coach twice, and the rider flicked the reins with a cry, sending the carriage surging away, exposing us to the street.

Just four seedy-looking types standing on the outside wall of a high-security holding facility. A woman carried a basket of bread across the street, utterly oblivious to what was about to happen. A laugh came from an outdoor patio where a young man and woman sat holding hands over the table. A blacksmith struck sparks, hammer ringing on steel from under his pavilion in the street.

"Well, the situational awareness of this city leaves much to be desired," Needles snorted, probably calculating the potential collateral damage from the blast. I sighed and drew a pistol. Crack! I discharged a shot without a ball into the air. Then the screams followed. The young man grabbed his date, dragging her into the relative safety of the cafe. Dropping behind his anvil, the blacksmith scurried into his shop, slamming the door behind him.

The woman's bread basket dropped to the road, a shriek tearing from her lips as she hitched her skirts and ran. I raised a brow, unimpressed with her speed as heels clomped against stone. Needles moved his lighter toward the fuze.

"Hold on," I said, raising a hand. The fleeing woman disappeared around the corner.

"Okay, go." Fire touched the fuse, and the sputtering hiss began climbing the line. I drew my saber.

"Get to cover!" The thick fuze hit the junction where six thinner lines met, and it split, crawling toward half a dozen different charges. We strode to the corner of the prison recreational yard, ducking behind the stone wall.

"Nine, eight, seven…" Needles counted. My grip tightened on the hilt of my blade. Any moment now, prisoners would flood the street. I understood that cousins were supposed to take risks, but this would put innocent Peradisians directly in harm's path.

"Three, two—" Needles made a finger gun, lining the mimed shot with the six splintering pops that thundered across the street. I whirled back around, expecting to find that the blast had rained shrapnel across the street, shattering windows and pelting unsuspecting citizens with hot gravel. Instead, a neat section of wall had collapsed in on itself, dust rising in the open gap.

"Nice work!" I said, casting Needles an approving nod as I rushed for the breach. The goblin grinned, drawing the blades for which he'd named himself: twin slender daggers, long and tapering to wicked points. Mordisco and Drogo's footsteps pounded to either side of me. I leaped through the collapsed section of the wall, landing on the inside of a recreational yard. Benches bolted into the stone ringed the space. Thirty figures in muted grey jumpsuits watched me, eyes transfixed.

A few picked themselves up, slapping dust from their garments.

"Let's go, lads!" I bellowed.

"It's your lucky day!" A guard roared, charging me with a saber. I recognized Roland's bald dome, even if the marine wore a guard's uniform. I drew a second pistol and fired. Smoke bellowed from the barrel, but without a projectile. The marine played the part well, staggering before dropping to the stones. A Dwarf covered in tattoos darted forward, snatching the fallen blade. My gut lurched as I imagined him dealing Roland a final blow. I surged, catching the Dwarf's arm.

"Get them to the docks! We're taking a ship!" His wild eyes snapped to me, then he nodded once. Finally, the prisoners moved for the gap in the wall. Felipe, also in the fatigues of a prison guard, rushed Mordisco. The hobgoblin's boot caught him firmly in the chest, slamming him into the wall. Felipe collapsed unconscious. I didn't think he was faking. Elara bellowed, rushing me with dual steel truncheons. I deflected one, then another; the weight of her blows shocking my arms. Staggering back, my eyes widened.

It looked like no one was pulling punches today. Rifles cracked up in the towers, bullets biting stones around me. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. I parried another baton.

"Easy!" I hissed through clenched teeth.

"Why don't you try to stop me, scum!" she snarled, though a light danced in her eyes. She was having way too much fun. I struck, telegraphing a sharp-angled cut. She ducked under my blade, but I let my momentum carry me, dropping low and taking her legs out from under her with a sweep. I sprang up, scanning the yard.

"Drogo!" I called, pointing. A halfling with sun-darkened skin and a week's worth of scruff on his face ducked under a bench, not risking freedom. All the other prisoners were optional; this one was necessary—our contact, a middle manager within the Slavers' Guild. Drogo rushed forward, dragging the halfling from under the bench. Elara sprang back up, her fist catching my gut in an uppercut. Air blasted from my lungs, and I doubled over, wheezing.

She caught her remaining truncheon in a double-handed grip and swung it fast enough to trigger a trajectory cone. I dropped low, the baton whistling over my head. Then I sprang up, twisting and swinging a fist. Sorry Elara. My Aerial Combatant feat triggered, empowering my haymaker as it connected with her jaw. She spun a full three-sixty, eyes rolling back as she sank to the ground. Drogo huffed, halfling tossed over his shoulder like a sack.

"Get off me," the halfling slaver snarled.

"Jaser," I snapped, drawing the halfling's gaze.

"You're the one we were hired to get out, idiot." Clarity dawned, and he nodded.

"Put me down, I have feet!" Footsteps pounded as a score of guards poured into the yard, sabers and batons drawn. Not all of them would know about the mission; the more participants in the know, the greater the risk of a leak. If we stayed, this would become a real fight fast. I scanned the yard; of its thirty original occupants, only four stayed, cowering from the violence. I whirled and plunged back into the street.

Needles had herded most of the crowd to the left, down Baker Avenue—a few peeled right, scattering. That was bad; the more the criminals dispersed, the more danger we exposed to the general population. A hot orange light flashed in the street, and one of the prisoners flew back. He crashed into a wooden pillar supporting the canopy over the cafe. In a blink, a figure appeared in the street who hadn't been visible only moments before.

Uncle Bruk Titangavel grinned at the prisoners with a smile that would probably give me nightmares later. He swung Justice, his hammer. Crack! An Orc in a grey jumpsuit screamed as he slammed against the prison yard's exterior wall.

"It's an Uncle!" I bellowed. If any of my convicts were lagging, that got them going. I turned and sprinted ahead. I'd spent too long in the yard; I'd let the herd get ahead of me, and I needed to be at the head, steering them.

"Docks," I barked at a group of them, a Naga-kin's python head snapping toward me.

"We're taking a ship. Spread the word!" The Naga-kin nodded in acknowledgment. A pair of prisoners peeled off, taking a side alley. My jaw clenched. Every convict we lost in the streets was a point of the mission that had gone astray. Two thunderous roars ripped through the streets, and the two convicts who had diverted staggered back bleeding. A figure materialized from the shadows, a long thunder pistol clutched in each hand.

"Kerelev!" A Minotaur, the largest convict by far, bellowed. Wisely, he redirected around Baker Avenue's sharp switchback curve. I smirked. At least I had two Uncles running overwatch. Two convicts dropped to their faces, hands on their heads. Maybe Kerelev's presence was working a little too well.

"Mordisco, lead the rear!" I barked.

"Drogo, get Jaser to the ship! Needles. Poke any stragglers." Needles cackled, striking his daggers together.

"What are you doing?" Mordisco demanded. Kerelev grabbed one of the shot prisoners, hurling him against a wall as I passed.

"Got to—get—ahead of the herd!" I managed between ragged gasps. I took a sharp turn heading toward a small house. I angled toward its side, slamming into a gate that burst inward. Suddenly, I was in a terraced garden. A family of Feykins shrieked as I pounded past—the smell of roasting vegetables suffused from a smouldering grill on the patio. I leaped onto the retaining wall. Twenty feet below, Baker Avenue hooked back around. The fastest of my convicts ran past below. Twenty feet.

Before, the distance would have frozen me in my tracks. I'd have had to be careful, lowering myself with my arms before dropping the rest of the way, and even that would have been risky. With my Aerial Combatant feat, and a tickle in my gut, I leaped into the open space with a grin. My trajectory cone shot down below me, and I hit the ground—still a lot harder than I expected. Pain lanced through my knee, and I stumbled. I came up in third, chasing two prisoners who had gotten ahead.

Pushing past the pain in my knee, I sprinted, catching up to an Orc and a Naga-kin with a hooded cobra head.

"I have a ship we're going to grab!" I called at the Orc.

"Provisioned and ready." His eyes snapped to me.

"Tex, you!" Not the cooperative type, huh? Not exactly what I needed on my ship, or in my streets. I lunged, sailing over the road's steep incline. Aerial Combatant activated, and I slammed my elbow into his ear. He crashed into the retaining wall, legs spilling under him. I landed lightly, leaving his crumpled form for the Uncles or the city guard to deal with. Twisting as I ran, I glanced at the Naga-kin.

"As I was saying," I shouted, breath ragged and lungs burning.

"I'm going to take a ship." A grin spread over his serpentine lips.

"Which one, boss?"

"Scorched Rock vessel," I hollered back.

"Sirocco-class brig! It's provisioned and ready to sail." Sweat poured down my face.

"Crew's in briefings all morning. Perfect time to snag it!"

"Understood," the Naga-kin called.

"Hang back and spread the word," I called.

"I'll lead." The cobra-headed Naga-kin's pace slowed, and he drifted back, passing my message on to the next runner. I ran, scrambling to clear the street. A man flinched before my sudden stampede. I shoved him hard. He stumbled, crashing into a potted plant. I hadn't signed up for this to hurt my own people, but keeping them out of the road was my best way to keep them from greater harm.

"Move!" I bellowed, waving my arms.

"Make way!" A pair of halberdiers saw me and rushed to bar my way. My knee throbbed, but I buried it under mission necessity. I could hurt after we were safely on our way. Two barbed halberds leveled at me; at my current momentum, I'd throw myself on the blades with enough force to skewer myself all the way through. A cry escaped me as I slapped one of the blades aside, but the other one shifted, snagging my shoulder. Heat spiked in my arm, sticky warmth soaking my sleeve. I didn't feel the pain. Not yet.

I slammed a fist into the first guard's face, dropping him. The second leaped back, trying to get his weapon between us. I followed, grabbing the haft in both hands. My right fingers didn't close as tightly as they should. Blood on the shoulder soaked my shirt. I jerked the haft up, clipping the guard in the chin and staggering him. Ripping the polearm free, I hooked the shaft behind his neck and bellowed as I tossed him over my hip, landing him in a crumpled heap on the road.

Two convicts passed me, heading to the lower city. I had to hit hard enough that these guys wouldn't get up. If one of the real bad guys beat me to it, the guards might never rise again. A shadow darted overhead, too large to be a bird. I glanced up to spot Kerelev sailing from the higher rooftops, legs tucked. His thunder pistols barked, tearing up stone from the road around me. One bullet skimmed my side, sending a hot flash through my ribs. He dropped to a lower tier, vanishing from view. My eyes went wide.

He'd actually grazed me. It was a show to sell our story, nothing more—right? Still—crimson spotted the tear in my shirt—I was beginning to understand just how terrifying our Aunts and Uncles would be to our enemies. A flash of orange light cracked with thunder, and Bruk appeared as a tiny speck at the top of the hill. My convicts became world-class athletes at the sight of the Tyrant Paladin. My Hobgoblin mercenaries took up the rear, screaming at the stragglers to hurry.

Two more criminals passed me, and I picked up my pace. My knee grew stiff, my speed lagging. Ahead, a prisoner shoved an elderly man, sending him staggering. An involuntary snarl escaped me, lost in the chaos. These people I was rescuing, they weren't my friends, not allies, but tools. Still, I had a part to play.

"To the docks," I bellowed! My strength ebbed, and my leg cramped. Just a little further; if we made it to the Ash Zephyr, it'd be open waters from there. Just me, isolated on a vessel with dozens of criminals. What was I doing? I forced thoughts away—time to act. Think later. The jarring impact of running downhill shocked my left knee with every step. We took one switchback, then another. Escapees plowed through people who were too slow to evade the stampede.

One prisoner took his chances, splitting from the group, and suddenly Kerelev was there, like a hawk, ripping the screaming feykin into the shadows. Given the choice of facing dragons or Uncles, I might just choose the drakes. Another turn, another junction. My breath sounded loud in my ears, blood pumping. My shoulder stung, slick and hot with blood. I pulled a lesser healing potion from my belt, jerked the cap free, and dumped it on the wound.

Half of the elixir dumped onto the road as I tried to apply it in motion. The musk of metallic blood and ectoplasm mixed in the air. Then the ground leveled out, the docks stretching before us. My herd had stretched long. Those who were more authentic pulled far ahead of the back of the line. Three convicts rushed toward a sloop moored on the pier.

"Not that one!" I barked, and they hesitated, glancing my way.

"The armored brig!" I called, waving further down. The Ash Zephyr stood out among the other ships, black-plated armor speaking to Scorched Fleet construction. My lead trio redirected, heading for the right ship. Sailors shifted toward us as we charged across the pier. One fool tried to intervene, but a half-Orc met him, slugging him in the jaw before dumping him off the side of the dock. Ingred plucked at a rope that secured the Zephyr, inspecting it until our footfalls drew her attention. Her eyes went wide.

She wore a sailor's jacket and cap, her arcane rings absent from her fingers.

"There, secure the ship!" I barked, pointing up the gangplank. She fell back a step, hands going up. That shadow appeared again, and Kerelev slammed down on the planks, blocking our path. The half-Orc shrieked, falling back.

"Now—" Uncle Kerelev said, voice flat and dry as he stepped forward. Six hardened convicts threw themselves away from his shadow, as if even touching it might cost them their souls.

"Just where do you think you're going?" I snatched Ingred's wrist, pulling her tight to me and thrusting a pistol to the back of her head. I didn't do it like an idiot, half hanging out in the open, barrel to temple. Instead, I shrank behind her body, barely a corner of my eye peeking past her neck. No target, no opportunity. Kerelev froze. Seeing the power of the hostage, the Naga-kin seized a woman who was cowering behind a clam stand by the hair, jerking her up.

His mouth opened wide, elongated fangs folded down. He placed the ivory needles lightly on her neck, and she whimpered as clear venom dripped down her skin. A man with a thick grey braid snatched a cabin boy who'd been trying to hide behind a bollard. A makeshift blade appeared in his hand, and he held it to the lad's throat. Something more slipped into Kerelev's posture. Ingred and I—we were theatrics. The woman and the boy? They were real bystanders, and I wasn't the one with my finger on the trigger.

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