New to the story? Read chapter 1 here.
Content Warning: This chapter contains violence and death.
Chapter 4
It jumps away as the Dirarch of House Talique chokes. Dozens of holes open in his flesh, spurting dark red. The Dirarch rolls to his side, spits out enough blood to gasp in air, and cries, “Help!”
It leaps over the desk and runs. At the stairs it sees four men, swords out, running up toward it. It jumps, plants a foot on the stone bannister, and launches itself across the stairs. Momentum gives it five running steps along the wall, past the startled guards, before gravity claims it. A second jump takes it to the second-floor landing. It hits rolling, comes up between two men stationed there, and sprints away. They chase it, but not fast enough. Through the salon it goes, and out the balcony door. The narrow bridge shakes under its feet. As soon as it reaches the treehouse it plants a foot on the balcony rail and pushes up to grab the roof. It hauls itself up and slips into the branches.
A halberd rips through the leaves, startling it. The weapon misses—a spear-point-tipped axe on an eight-foot staff does not make for good throwing—but it loses precious seconds catching its balance. It jumps from the branch and over the wall, knowing it will not reach the building across the street. Instead, it falls, knees bent and loose, arms out and leaning forward. The force of its fall transfers into momentum as it rolls across the ground. It’s on its feet a moment later, running into the night as its mind races.
Something killed Talint and the Dirarch of House Talique.
When it was young, the Master of Death of House Kilcharni taught it about diseases, poisons, and trauma. He showed it how long it takes a person to bleed out or choke or drown, and the fastest way to kill with blade, stick, or hand.
It knows death, but it hasn’t seen a death like this.
House Glarin is closest. It keeps its pace, sticking to dark side streets and alleys until it reaches the gate through the fourth wall. Two guards stand watch. Fortunately, the hour is late enough that the guards are exhausted instead of than observant. It slips behind one yawning guard and walks past the other, asleep at his post. Then it runs again, heading for the House Garin’s trade square.
Beyond the fourth wall the streets are cobblestone, rather than limestone. The buildings are constructed of rough stone and wood. House Glarin does not have Talique’s wealth, but it stands tall and proud: a three-storey stone manor surrounded by smooth fifteen-foot walls.
The House owns every building in the square. They make most of their money from their trading house and warehouses. The rest comes from their tavern and inn, the exorbitant rents they charge on the other buildings. Itinerant workers sleep on the hard cobbles by warehouse, hoping for jobs in the morning.
It is still planning how to get int when the servant door in House Glarin’s wall flies open. A messenger sprints away, leaving the door wide behind them. It wonders why as it walks around the square, staying in the shadows. As it gets close, it hears men yelling, children crying and other voices raised in wails of despair. Inside the servants’ door, it sees a guard standing inside, watching the house with confusion in his expression.
Its stomach sinks, as it guesses what has happened. With no reason for stealth, it knocks hard on the door. The guard spins, his sword half-drawn from his sheath. His eyes land on it, and he snarls, “Fuck off.”
“I need to speak to—”
“FUCK OFF!” the man yells.
Faster than the guard can react, it grasps his sword hilt to stop him from drawing it. The guard stands too tall for it to whisper into his ear, so it goes body to body, and pushes its dagger tip against his throat. With a sibilant hiss says, “I am the Death of House Kilcharni, and I will speak to Master Galitro.”
It releases him and waits. The guard goes red with anger, but his fear wins out and he says, “Wait here.”
It leans against the wall, watching as the panic in the House settles to disbelief and grief. Messengers run past, and soldiers that dashed into the house resume their posts, their faces grim. The guard returns, repeats, “Wait,” and takes up his post. Half an hour later, Galitro, Master of Death for House Glarin, steps out into the yard. Irritation and exhaustion fill her voice when she asks, “What do you want?”
“Did your House killed Talint?”
“Why would we bother?”
“Your Dirarch is dead?”
Her eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”
“Because the Dirarch of House Talique died tonight, bleeding from his mouth, nose, and eyes, and from holes that erupted over his body. Talint died the same way earlier today.”
The woman’s expression goes blank. “And you went to House Talique because . . .”
“Because Talique, Glarin, and Paskoni Cleansed our House. One of you murdered Talint.”
“We gelded him and left him alive as an example to others. Why waste the effort?” Her head tilts. “For that matter, why are you here? House Kilcharni is gone. Leave.”
I wish I could. It bows and heads for the gate, the brand its chest growing warmer.
The walk to House Paskoni takes it back to the river. It keeps in the shadows and watches for pursuit, but sees no one. A line of dark blue widens in the eastern sky, signalling the coming morning. Exhaustion, which has been creeping up on it like a stalking cat, pounces and makes it yawn. It dips into its pouch and comes up with a pellet of clohalc. Unlike Talint, it has no passions to ignite, but the drug will wake it up and give it strength enough to get through the night. It bites on the pellet, wincing at the bitter taste. Smoking tastes better, but chewing makes clohalc work faster. False energy fills it, and it surges into a run.
House Paskoni made their wealth shipping goods up the river and along the coast. They were known as vicious fighters and equally vicious negotiating tactics. Instead of a manor, they built a keep, complete with battlements and narrow slits for archers. It comes closer and hears wails from within. Guards stand watch outside the wall, wearing the grim expressions it saw at House Glarin. It knows without going in that the Mirarch—the woman running House Paskoni—is dead.
“Where do you think you are going, little Death?” says a deep voice. It turns to face Dwingtal, Master of Death for House Talique. The man is tall and wide, and his dark brown robe and hood cover him head to foot.
“We have no business tonight,” it says, trying to sound calm. “Your House is innocent in Talint’s death.”
“You murdered Dirarch Matont,” Dwingtal says as four Deaths step out of the shadows. “You will face our House.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“You were there,” says Dwingtal, as his Deaths spread out.
“I came to avange Talint, but whatever killed Talint attacked your Dirarch.”
“Unlikely.”
“It killed the Dirarch of House Glarin, too,” it says, backing away. “Probably the Mirarch of House Paskoni, too.”
“Two other House you visited tonight,” Dringtal says. “Do not resist.”
It takes a deep breath, as if to protest, and runs.
Thank you for reading!
Please leave a comment to let me know what you think of the story so far.
If you are enjoying this story and would like to support the author, there are four ways you can show your appreciation:
1. Buy me a coffee!
Whether a monthly membership or a single donation, your support will help me write longer, faster and better. Also, monthly supporters get discounts, free books and more. Buy me a coffee today!
2. Buy my books!
I have two great series, The Thomas Flarety Stories and The Stalker Chronicles. Pop over to my books page to check them out.
3. Join my mailing list!
Subscribers get first access to new chapters, as well as a free copy of The Trials of Abyowith, first book in The Stalker Chronicles. They are also the first to hear about new books and events, and have a chance to get free books. Click here to join.
4. Tell your friends!
Share on the social media of your choice or email the link to this page to your friends. The more people who read, the better!