Chương 11

Everything is a weapon in the right hands. The first step was the easiest. The Illwrought turned its piggy eyes to him and was immediately beaned with a bag of nails. It gave a rattling squeal and its flesh rippled across its back.

"C'mon! Fresh meat, right here!" Harker's first assumption about the creature was immediately proven correct. Unlike the more wolf-like creatures in the woods, this Illwrought had only one tactic. It charged. Stupid beast.

"Hup!" Harker leapt to the side aisle, barely ahead of twisted tusks. The Illwrought wasn't so nimble. It careened wholesale through the front of the shop. Wood splintered and cut stone cracked. The beast bellowed in its flat, breathless voice and flailed its tusks through a shelf of fabric and coiled rope. Harker ran, a queasy laugh bubbling out of his chest. The Illwrought gave chase, slamming down the aisles and forcing the bolted wooden shelves to bend and groan.

Each crash loosened the bolted shelves, toppling barrels and crates atop the creature and tearing its stitched flesh apart. It wasn't enough to kill the thing, but it was an excellent distraction. Harker slashed as he ran, slicing through burlap sacks of sawdust and flour. They dumped their contents in his wake, coating the floor and the Illwrought alike with gritty particles that the beast's passage churned into powdered clouds. This thing doesn't tire!

Harker's legs were burning and his lungs felt clogged with an accumulation of flour. I'm not made for this! A tusk caught him, sweeping his right leg aside. He fell, rolling onto the ground—and threw his blade. He didn't look, but luck was on his side. The knife sunk into the thing's snout, lodging into an oozing nostril and forcing its head up. The Illwrought squealed, slamming its shoulder and jaw into where Harker had fallen. It missed, but only barely.

Harker stumbled to his feet, hands pawing at the ground for balance. The Illwrought lumbered to its chicken feet, tusks scoring stone and wood alike. It charged again, tearing down the straight aisle, scattering dust into a streaming fog. It was fast in a straight line, but Harker slipped to the side, forcing the beast to claw at the stone floor as it tried to follow—it floundered, slipping in sawdust, and crashed into the exterior wall. Directly into a rack of farming implements.

Ichor poured from its pierced hide, worsening as the thing fought to free itself from sickle, scythe, and heavy rakes. Harker backed away, coughing through his grin. He reached into his pack.

"Stay." The boar's red eyes flashed—its flesh twisted— and the entire pack was torn from his hands.

"What—how?!" Harker backed up as the thing yanked itself free of the wall. Ichor poured in dark rivulets down its flanks until the wounds were plugged up with large, bent tusks.

"That's not fair at all." Harker's skin tightened and he scrambled back as the beast's flesh twisted again. He leapt over the thick counter—and Garon's corpse—just as hurled tusks tore through wood and stone. He landed with a pained grunt, mere feet away from the sharpened tip of stained bone.

"It has a Talent?" Harker risked a look over the counter. It stood in the empty aisle, bent low as its spike-riddled sides heaved. The boar hacked and more dark fluid splashed from its maw… as did a welling light. Blue-green Water swirled behind its teeth, sloshing into an orb atop its dry tongue. His stomach dropped. Two Talents. My pack! It was just beyond the counter, through the gap studded by tusks. Harker threw himself forward, seizing it—and the firestarter within. A simple, wondrous device.

Useable by anyone. Just add Water. He hurled the firestarter into the Illwrought's open mouth, splashing through the blue-green orb of gathering Talent. Instantly, the device activated, the small spout on its side releasing a gout of yellow flame. Directly into the sawdust and flour in the air. It was more than enough. The world exploded. Harker had curled into a ball behind Garon's reinforced counter, but not even he expected the sheer cacophony that rattled his bones.

Pressure and heat slammed into him like a fallen tree even as what felt like claws tore at the walls. Fast as it had arrived, it vanished, leaving him in a daze dominated by a sharp ringing. It filled the space between his ears, eliminating thought until it too faded away. What remained was a queasy silence. He stood up, wobbling a bit, and couldn't believe his eyes. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The entire front of Garen's shop was gone.

The outermost wall was blown out, bricks and wooden paneling scattered across the street. The side walls were cracked but remained standing, though the same couldn't be said for the shelving. The timber racks and the goods on them were shattered and burning, chunks of debris that was all but unrecognizable. Even the foundations were scoured, with only the twisted remnants of metal brackets. In the center, a scorched smear of carbonized flesh. All that remained of the dire Illwrought.

Suspend enough dust in the air and a single spark would lead to ruin. His mother had drilled the warning into him after the Old Mill had exploded. Harker swallowed. It was one thing to know what happened to the Old Mill and the apprentices inside… it was quite another to experience it firsthand. He turned away from the collapsed shop and focused on his salvation. The counter he'd taken refuge behind had not only kept him alive, but the hulking construction had somehow protected the entire back wall.

Garon had always boasted about how safe his counter and storage room were.

"Immune to catastrophe," he'd said.

"The whole block could burn down and it would still stand." You told the truth, old man. Harker didn't want to turn around to where the shopkeep's corpse once lay. Thanks. Now the number of people in Vale that could stand the sight of him numbered zero. Law 1B—Want Nothing. He breathed through his nose and regretted it. Smoke and burnt meat overwhelmed everything. Stay focused. Harker could see hammered thick poles of metal driven through the counter and some of the wall, likely the reason they'd held up so well.

The entire gambit had been reckless, but Harker hadn't been blessed with choices. He'd survived, but the explosion had been savage. It cracked through the walls, tearing wooden paneling off, and the doorframe leading to the storeroom had been sheared through. Thinking skinny thoughts, Harker slipped the broken pieces of the door, escaping the remnants of the fire and whatever attention the explosion might draw. There was an exit back there too, one that led through a small alley between houses.

Besides, he couldn't pass up this opportunity. The storeroom was where all the good stock was kept. Immediately within, the storeroom itself was in shambles. Rack upon rack of shelving reached far higher than in the front, at least twice the size and just as overflowing. Crates, barrels, and sacks were piled atop one another in some semblance of order, but it was only skin deep. He threaded the chaos, treading the narrow pathways through the horde. His first acquisition was a Talent lantern.

No bigger than two of his fists stacked together, it would offer up a great deal of light when he fueled it—not that he wanted to risk touching his Water. It had already replenished, he could tell, but being plunged into the Sea like that… Harker cleared his throat and tied the lantern to his belt. He'd use it later. Amid bolts of cloth he found a new sweater and trousers, both of them made of a very solid woolen knit that'd keep the cold at bay. He snagged a short coat and an oilcloak as well.

Slowly but surely he rebuilt what he'd lost in the Drop, but not everything. His herbals weren't so easy to come by, especially the Sea-touched ones. Possessed of just the right amount of Water that they'd function predictably, it took skill to harvest them properly. Such things weren't available in stores—not in the Vale, anyway. The armor! Harker grinned. A frission of joy surged through hsi heart, enough to chase away the foreboding that clung to him like a shadow.

With some Talent armor, I could take on an Illwrought. He set out, pushing deeper into the storeroom to find it, but it swiftly proved to be a mighty task. Garon was notoriously untidy, but this was so terrible, Harker almost preferred facing the Stitcher. That joy faded. Why was the Stitcher there? Stories called them monsters, but they were calculating according to his mother. Nothing quite so dangerous as a Stitcher with a plot, son.

Staying well away is your first move, always—if that isn't possible, watch for their tricks. They will have many. Stitchers stole Talents, that was common knowledge. It was in the name. How was far less so. His mother wouldn't go into the subject, save that Stitchers always had more than one Talent. But the Illwrought had that tusk thing and that Water Spout Talent. Beasts didn't manifest Talents in the same way humans did, and he'd seen a juggler use Water Spout when he was five.

It had gathered in the exact same way. So this Stitcher is putting beasts together… and giving them Talents? Harker shuddered at the thought of the Illwrought in his town. Not only ferocious beasts, but ones possessing unnatural power. The idea had him in its grips firm enough that he almost walked past the armor stand. It was unmistakable, shaped very roughly into the form of a man by Garon's own hands. Harker had seen it many times when the old shopkeep had set up in the market square on festival days.

Now, however, the armor stand was empty. Naked as the day it was assembled. The armor was gone. And close behind it, the back door fluttered. A cool breeze rolled through the storeroom. It had been broken open, its hinges sliced clean through. Thieves! Harker stared at the splintered doorway, unsure what to do with himself. How dare they steal it before he could? But who? A wolf howled and voices followed. Shouting and a distant clash of metal on stone.

"That's close." He pulled his pack onto both shoulders. Jaw clenched, he cast aside his desire for the armor. His time to shop was over. Harker slipped toward the open back door, but not before he snagged a small bag of long nails and a pair of tooled leather bracers. They would have to do for now. The howls were louder in the alley, the first voice joined by at least two others. Scraping sounds echoed down the alleyway. They were getting closer. From the north. Even the sky was still bloody from the fires.

South it is. The blocks passed quickly, and with his new clothes and cloak it was the warmest he'd felt since waking. The heat grew as he pressed himself, sweat beading on his forehead until smoke poured across the path. There were fires ahead too, and among them came the bright, silvery sound of crashing metal.

"Get them back, Jeren!"

"I'm trying, uncle! The creatures are hemming us in!"

"Go! We'll hold them off!" Jeren Kalson. Harker slowed. He had no interest in tangling with him, no matter the circumstances. He slipped aside, pulling himself into a doorway as the arrogant bastard hustled past. He was followed by a gaggle of children, some no older than four or five years.

"It'll be alright," Jeren said, soothing a boy he held in his arms.

"We're headed to Garon's. It'll be safe there." They sped off, back north. Toward the Illwrought.