Chương 13

One must stir the waters to catch sharks. Harker hurled his knife and ran, taking off toward the south with every ounce of speed he could muster. He knew he shouldn't, but curiosity was baked into his bones—as he jumped over the crest of the roof, Harker's gaze slid backward. The Stitcher stood tall, unmoved from where he'd been moments ago, and held Harker's knife carelessly etween his long fingers. Those owl eyes watched him from above a feral grin. Run faster.

Harker pushed himself, heading south across the rooftops. He leapt dead gardens and weathervanes, putting every bit of his energy into forward movement. If he could create some distance from the Stitcher, then maybe he could come up with a plan. What plan? Fight? A grim smile tugged at his cheeks. I'd die… or worse. Who knew what a Stitcher would do with him? This is the sort of thing my Laws are meant to avoid!

While the butcher might not have given chase, the scrabble of claws against tile announced new companions on the roof. Loping shadows crawled up, creatures that resembled nothing so much as wolves and birds bound in unnatural union. First one paced behind him, but it was soon joined by two more, each rooftop bringing Harker another friend.

"Oh joy," he muttered, heading eastward. The Illwrought followed, eyes flashing crimson.

"You cannot escape, boy." The Stitcher's voice rattled through the open maw of the nearest wolf, like an echo down a long hallway.

"Muir can see you." Then watch this. Harker pivoted sideways, forcing the closest beast to skid to an ungainly stop on the slick roof tiles. It followed, but not before its rear end smashed into a brick chimney. Stone cracked and monster yelped. Ha! Harker dodged ahead, keeping his path serpentine. The creatures were fast and their massive strides were more than enough to overtake him, but like the boar that was dependent entirely on terrain. These things aren't good at sudden changes in direction. They're too big.

It was something. He slid down roofs, hopped gaps, and slipped through tall, iron-spiked fences that the Illwrought were forced to leap. The rusted tips cut into the beasts, slashing at bellies and chests enough to draw whines from them—but never enough to stop their chase completely. No matter what he did, the Illwrought were never more than a few paces away.

"Boy!" The Stitcher's voice was still raspy, but it had gained an edge. Irritation.

"The Vestige wasn't meant for you. It'll wear you like a fur coat, a rag doll with the stuffin' torn out, until you're gone!" He laughed.

"You don't have the power to withstand what's coming." Vestige? Harker had never heard of such a thing.

"Not even the Spires would save you, and they could," a bird-headed creature spat. It moved in undulating waves, its body more serpent than wolf.

"But Muir knows those magisters. They'd rather peel it from your soul themselves." The Stitcher was out of breath, as if he were running too.

"Don't let those starmad bastards win. Let Muir kill you instead." Harker slid down a roof, evading a lazy slash of the claws and hopped over the gap between buildings. The shadows followed, their heavy bodies crashing through clay tiles and sending a rain of shards down below.

"Run all you wish! You cannot hide. Your stink fills every corner of this patch of nothing!" They're playing with me. He jumped, snagging a clothesline that snapped under his weight and crashed into a vine lattice. It was empty, waiting for Spring to arrive. He clambered down. The Illwrought didn't follow. Why? The Stitcher had mentioned it twice. Was that the golden treasure from the cave? Harker had never heard of a Vestige, and he considered himself well-read compared to most in the Vale.

If that's what he wants, I just have to get rid of it. But how? The street stretched quietly around him, and even the rooftops had gone silent. Had he lost them? Harker doubted it, but something had forced the Stitcher to change his approach. Harker couldn't immediately figure it out, and it didn't matter: he couldn't stop running. The south gate was coming up swiftly, no more than two blocks away. An eternity with the creatures chasing him, and worse if the creatures followed him out of Vale.

Beyond the walls, in the open fields before the forest, Harker would be more vulnerable than ever. Without even a specter of cover, he'd be chased down and devoured. He needed a plan. Law 4B—Seize The Field. Harker took stock as he ran. His satchel was empty of anything immediately useful, but seizing the field was about using the terrain to his advantage. What did he have? Ribboned banners from Threllsknacht and the Chartermark celebrations littered the ground.

Small fires dotted the streets, pieces of timber that had caught in the rain of embers. Abandoned vendor carts selling wooden baubles, Ancestor candles, and simple oil ampules to light them. Rainwater pouring down the gutters heading downhill toward the gate, and far too many corpses. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Wait, is that—? The hunters were down the hill, less than a block ahead.

There were at least ten of them, and they moved with a cold efficiency, dispatching a pair of Illwrought that had wandered too close. Their pale cloaks gleamed in the dim torchlight of the south gate, where they seemed to be standing guard. They could keep me safe from the beasts. Of course, that would mean submitting himself to them. He couldn't forget that they were after him as much as the Stitcher, and likely for the same reason.

Harker didn't believe them for a second that they were there to hunt the bloodbreaker or his monsters. Muir had come to Vale looking for this Vestige—what's to say the hunters didn't come with the same goal? That meant they were blocking his way out of town.

"Grim Company, on me!" The captain he'd seen facing down Adhira was there, pale cloak thrown over his shoulder, exposing a dull breastplate over a coat of chain mail. A tabard had once covered that as well, but it was now ripped and blood-stained, but not so bad that Harker couldn't still pick out the embroidered emblem of a serpent wrapped around a wolf. The man started talking, but the words fuzzed in Harker's ears. His guts churned, and he slowed his steps.

It wasn't nerves, but an upwelling of Water that he could feel at the back of his teeth. Not again… Harker seized the nearest thing and heaved his entire body. Everything clenched all at once and the Sea rushed out of him. It poured through every orifice soaking his clothes, the vendor cart at his side, and cobbles at his feet.

"Sorry," he muttered to the broken corpse by the cart's wheels. They faintly glowed for a few moments before the Water evaporated. Worse, the baubles and ampules were gleaming now, awash with a piece of the Sea's power. Dangerous. He took an unsteady step away. Soak something in too much Water and a great deal of unknowns could occur, most of which were hazardous to one's health.

"Illwought are headed this way," the captain said further down the hill. He brandished his sword, and it trailed a faint, icy fog.

"So is our target." Great. They knew he was coming, which meant his element of surprise was gone. Harker looked at the vendor cart, to the corpse and the last lingering effects of his expelled Water. Law 4A—Seize Their Minds.

"Fine. If they want me, then they can fight for me." Captain Harlan Vell adjusted his grip on his sword as he eyed the night. The bells had long since silenced. Whether that was because people had gotten smart or because they were dead. He wasn't sure and didn't much care. A great deal of the town was not going to survive the night, and it was entirely because they didn't listen to reason.

His men had told them all to fortify themselves in their homes, but family after Sea-mad family had scuttled out with half rusted weapons and Surface Talents. Harlan understood, truly—protecting hearth and home was as natural as breathing—but these northern yokels were used to an occasional rogue beast. They didn't know how to handle an Illwrought. A swarm had descended on the Vale, and had done their foul work all too well. What few townsfolk survived were lashed with so many wounds that they bled out in minutes.

Even worse were the glancing blows. Harlan called them the walking dead, because they were rotting from the inside out, and there was nothing a captain of a mercenary company could do to stop it. Harlan spat. He'd been face to face with death hundreds of times in his life. This was just another night. Don't get lost in it. All he could do was finish his mission, and if that meant killing a few more monsters, he was fine with that.

"Something's approaching!" His second, Khai, adjusted his stance, holding his spear low. A rattling noise echoed down the street ahead, rolling its way through the predawn shadows. It bounced, an object Harlan soon identified as a wheeled cart that clattered at breakneck speed down the hill. Ona pointed.

"There's someone on top!" True enough, a figure clung atop the small roof, head down and cloak flapping in the wind of its passage like a damn lunatic.

"Halt!" Khai commanded, but of course the man didn't stop. Harlan wasn't sure he could.

"It's our man! The boy!" Maddock shouted, rushing ahead with his shield. Was it? Harland couldn't make him out, but scouts had said he was headed in their direction. Chased by Illwrought. Where are they? Before Maddock could reach it, the cart crashed into his men, and despite many being in their First Depth, they floundered against its sides. The wheeled menace bashed through their grip, too much for any of them, and his less refined men dove out of the way. The rest chased after it.

Harlan, however, kept his eyes fixed on the street. In the shadows beyond the cart he spotted the telltale glimmers of red rushing toward them.

"Illwrought incoming!" Six malformed beasts rushed the square in a tight V formation, aimed directly at the cart. The Grim Company, however, knew its way around monsters.

"First Depth—Spiked Rampart!" Maddock slammed his tower shield as Water rolled across its length, unfurling into muddy spikes that hardened in an instant. The big man bashed into the nearest beast, tearing through its leading shoulder and hurling it to the earth. Whips cracked, Water turned dark as shadow roiled along their lengths. Those tangled two other Illwrought, clinging to them like tar and slowing them just long enough for Khai to move.

"Second Depth—Trail The Sun!" His second's hurled spear ignited in a spark of Water and skewered through two Illwrought at once. Their bodies burst aflame, wet fur and dessiccated flesh consumed in equal measure as the Illwrought screamed in pain. The Illwrought dropped back, their focus taken entirely by his soldiers. The cart careened toward the gatehouse.

"Stop that cart," Harlan ordered.

"Get him down from there. I have questions for—" The cart smashed into the wall and the roar of surf hit him like a wall. Flame followed, swelling up around the cart before it skittered sideways, bursting into sprays of serpentine light. Faint, cerulean tendrils coiled out, crashing through the guardhouse and tearing up the cobbles in a sudden, inexplicable eruption. Harlan stepped away from the lashing light. It looked like something was crawling free.

"Wretched waking, what is this? A Horizon Break?"

"Just Seaspray, captain!" Ona said, her hand up against the unnatural blaze.

"Far too much Water in one place somehow!" As soon as the words left her lips, the serpentine tendrils scattered. Blue-green radiance dropped into a heavy fog that rolled out against the cobbles, rushing past Harlan's feet and into the defender's line…just as the Illwrought broke through.

"Captain—!" Khai fell with a cry, his spear snapped and his shoulder bleeding. Harlan snarled, sword already encrusted with ice as two Illwrought surged toward the cart's remnants. Toward him.

"Second Depth—Rime Rend."