16 - The Dogs

Pox awoke from a fitful sleep. He was curled up on the ground between the stalls at the closed bazaar in Endstown. He searched around their area to find Syatt still gone. Sweating and uncomfortable, Pox went to relieve his bladder on the stone wall of the cliff face that gave the district its moniker to relieve his bladder, then walked back to the stalls of the market and stood by the table and log stools where they’d played cards to pass the time. The air of late night, early morning was still humid. It had cooled down some, though. He judged the time to be somewhere around four o' clock in the morning. Maybe later. The sun would still not be up for what seemed to him to be a very long time.

He groaned and laced his hands behind his head, stared up at the stars and thought that the night would never end. At least the mosquitos gave up. He scratched at the swollen spots they’d left on his forearm. He walked a sluggish lap around the stalls as he tried to whistle the tune to "In the Arms of the River,” the melody stuck in his head since he and Syatt had sung it earlier that afternoon.

It had been eerily quiet ever since his friend had gone off on another walk, and Pox wondered what could be keeping him. He hoped that it wasn’t trouble, but his overactive imagination had already gone to work with dour possibilities, and he had to stop himself. Pox thought it likely that he was just accustomed to the west side, and that things only seemed sinister and ominous east of the Slybos because it was unfamiliar to him. In the western districts, there always seemed to be someone up, no matter the hour, no matter where. It was crowded, but it was hard to get in serious trouble with that many eyes around. The eastern half of Yartha was something else, and you could walk blocks in some districts without seeing another soul. “That’s why it’s dangerous,” Pox told himself. “That’s why you’ve got a creeping feeling about this.”

The distant barking of dogs had been the only living thing he'd heard besides the crickets since Syatt had left, but now he heard something else- a murmur of low voices, steady conversation and numerous speakers coming from down the street or possibly around a corner. He didn't know precisely where it came from. He’d come to find that sound was tricky in Endstown. "Where in the hell are you, Sy?" Pox muttered. He heard male voices, some gruff, some youthful, growing closer. The crickets ended their call.

He saw the gaggle of men as they rounded the corner and began to head in his direction. A young man or boy walked ahead of them holding a torch aloft. Pox couldn’t find any unifying articles of clothing, but they walked with the confidence of a gang. There were at least a dozen of them.

Instinctually, Pox slid behind one of the stalls, but as they walked up the aisles of the closed display cases and tarped counters as if browsing invisible wares, he decided to make his presence known in what he hoped to be a non-threatening manner. He peeked out from the corner of the stall. He could read their faces, and knew that they were sizing up the place. Silently he cursed Syatt for not being there with him. He stood up and walked slowly down the aisle, but not too slow as to seem as if he were sneaking.

Still, they didn’t see him as he came closer. He saw that they were not all full grown men, but some were only slightly older or even younger than himself. Most were shirtless. None were old enough to have much chest or facial hair yet. He saw they wore weapons, some makeshift, but too random an assortment of tools to be of any other purpose; shovels, picks, axes, and pitchforks for many of them. He saw the cloth sacks they dragged, bulging with what he assumed to be stolen goods. "Damn you, Sy. How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?" he muttered, then said out loud to the shadowed forms occupied, “Hello?"

The boy who held the torch turned and saw him first. The group was hushed, and then a short, grizzled and long-haired man stepped to the forefront of them. He wore a leather breastplate over his otherwise bare torso and held a gnarled wooden club. Pox made mental preparation to pivot and run if he needed to and cursed his unfamiliar surroundings. The disheveled man smiled, though, friendly enough to Pox. "How's your night going, partner?" he asked him.

"It's going alright," Pox answered, only a bit shaky, and possibly only to his ears. "How about you fellows?"

"You a squealer, kid?" the man said, straight to the point. "That’s all right if you are, but if you swear to keep quiet-"

Another stepped forward, short and built. “You ain’t no more if you are,” he said. He had thinning hair and a round face dark with stubble, large dark eyes, some gold teeth. A bandage on his shoulder seeped with blood. “City’s gone batshit,” he said, a hand pressing a cloth to the wound. “Yarthanguard are on the march. They're going to declare martial law any minute now.”

The first man spoke, and Pox’s eyes wandered from the short man’s bleeding wound and to his face. “That means that the Yarthanguard won’t have to follow any laws,” he said, “as if they do in the first place, but the courts can’t judge them for anything they do once they’ve sounded the cannons, which could be any moment.”

“They’ve already closed the gates,” the short man said. “Something strange is happening in the park, too,” he said. “Could be related, but we’re likely at war right now, so if you’re a squealer…” He made a throat-cutting gesture.

“What?” Pox yelped as he processed the wealth of information.

“Don’t listen to him," said the grizzled man with the club. “He's got a strange sense of humor.” He gave the short man a bemused look. “We aren’t going to hurt you. What we’re saying about martial law is true, though. I’d go home if I were you.” He went to one of the cloth sacks and returned with a loaf of bread and offered it to him.

“I don’t understand,” Pox said, his eyes moving back and forth between the two men.

The short one answered. “He’s getting you in on this so you don’t squeal. Just take it. You got a knife? Anything to protect yourself?”

“No,” he answered, a bit reluctantly.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Here,” the man said. He reached into a pocket of his vest and produced a short, simple blade wrapped in a cloth, and handed it to Pox.

Pox took it by its handle, uncovered it and looked down at the gleaming blade, then wrapped it back up. “Thanks,” he said, and sighed. “Well… shit. Okay. Look, I don’t know what’s under these tarps, but I doubt that it’s worth the trouble, really.”

“What’s your bandana?” the short one asked.

Pox just stared at him for a moment, then realized and grabbed at his kerchief. “Oh. Tabby Rat Bastards. We ain’t shit. I’m from across the river. Tabby Square.”

“Right under the nose of the Towers, huh? Brave.”

Another of them approached from the street, his eyebrows raised as he waved his hands. “Hey, Trystan. We got to go,” he said.

"Halt! In the name of the Towers!" came bellowing from down Drifter’s Way, and then the sound of charging feet. A familiar sensation of doom at the words fell over Pox.

“They come up through Ironworks,” the grizzled man said casually as he turned to run with the others. Pox stalled for only a second, turning to see two guardsmen appear at the other end of Drifter’s Way. The thieves bolted back the way they had come, cursing, off through the stalls on the other side of the aisle. Before Pox could fully understand that he was doing it he was running with them. Their group scattered in front him, most of them already disappearing into the shadows of alleys and alcoves. He saw more guards in his periphery.

As he trailed behind, he heard coming up behind him the fast and light gallop of padded paws, a rapid animal panting which accompanied it. Pox turned and put his hands up just in time for a leaping, wild-eyed and square-headed dog to barrel into his chest, its forepaws extended. It knocked him down to the street with a concussive thud. On the ground he tried feebly to fend off the ferocious beast.

Another dog came from out of nowhere and snatched his left calf firmly within its jaws. He screamed. It began to drag Pox in a semi-circle across the ground. “Fucker,” he grunted as he fumbled with the knife, and was silenced when the first dog lunged and bit into his face. Its teeth latched onto his bottom jaw and cheek, a merciless shake, and when the clamp finally released, when it came back down it would have been his neck had he not managed to get a hand in front of him. The snarling creature took that, instead. Oh gods is this happening? his only clear thought as his right arm was savaged by one of the beasts and the knife fell from his hand to the dirt, still wrapped in its cloth. On his side he saw the loaf of bread he’d dropped trampled on the street as another dog picked it up and it and trotted off. The other dogs abruptly stopped their attack. He fell backward, breathing hard, and heard men’s voices.

He lay bleeding in the dirt. He found the knife and held it, unwrapped it with shaking hands that he wasn’t even sure were completely whole. He thought the dogs had wandered off or become distracted. All around him he became aware of the sounds of fighting. When he made to stand, the dogs attacked him again and brought him back down. Their guttural growling was all he could hear. He screamed for anyone as a weak arm slashed blindly with the knife. One of them, or possibly the same one, latched onto his already wounded leg and began to pull him through the dirt a second time. He heard the other dog come at him and lifted the knife, and it retreated with a yelp. Someone cursed, and behind the growling he could hear strange sounds. Remotely, he realized that what he heard over the animal noises was the laughter of men. Someone yelled, "Down! Down!"

The first dog let go of his leg and he heard it retreat. "Down, damn you!" he heard again while the second dog growled then yelped. The laughter was reduced to chuckles, then silence, distant screams and cries

"Welp, we got one of them," someone said in the silence. "Head down Drift and see if you can't cut them off before they get up into them hills," the same voice said. “Take the dogs.”

Pox lay splayed in the dirt, whimpering. A flap of skin hung limply down across his jaw, and hot blood poured from the entire red mess that was the shreds of his nose and brow, his newly exposed lower teeth.

“She’s fine. He just poked her,” he heard the voice say. They spat.

Blood bubbled from Pox’s perforated cheek. He could hear rattling chains. Someone said to the dogs "Good job, girls.” He heard them panting, and it faded away along with the mens’ footsteps.

“Oh, you fuckers, Pox managed to croak, a marbled growl, "You lousy fuckers." His head dropped back to the street. He felt around his face with his uninjured left hand. His vision swam.

“Mouth on you, boy.”

"Look at that bandana," one of them said. over him, and the first one muttered something unheard.

“He’s in league with them. All the gangs got some pact tonight. Happening all over.”

Pox lifted his good hand coated in blood and stared at it. “I was guarding the stall.”

"Yeah. Keeping guard for the rest of 'em. We ain't stupid.”

He lay back and looked up at the stars. After a while he sensed someone kneeling next to him. As they placed a hand on his jaw, his limp head and ruined face lolled to one side. He felt the gash fall open, and another glut of blood splattered to the ground. A low whine came from his bright red mouth, eyelids fluttering.

"I think this kid is really hurt," a voice said.

"Fuck him. This is what happens when you think you own the city. He'll live. If he can't walk, well, that's what we brought the wheel-barrows for. They're gonna learn the hard way if they can't play by the rules. That's a damn fact. You ain’t old enough to remember, but this here’s war. I can feel it. The dungeons are going to be full tonight, by the gods.”

In the distance were three cannon blasts.

“There we go. Come on. Fuck him,” the man said. He was gone before Pox ever saw his face.

He was left alone with the guard who knelt at Pox’s side and leaned over. His face was young. He seemed concerned. “Can you talk to me, kid? Give me that knife. I’m gonna get you some help.”

Pox was able to sit up with his assistance, and once upright, he turned and sprayed the blood that had been collecting in his mouth directly into the guard’s unsuspecting face. He gasped and scrambled backward, cursing and spitting as Pox shakily brought himself to his feet and looked down at his glistening leg dripping with blood. He wobbled forward and clutched the knife with his unwounded hand. The pain was coming. He held the blade in front of him. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he said to the guard with some difficulty, one half of his mouth in tatters, and the red-faced Yarthanguard got to his feet and fled to join his brethren down the street.

Don’t sit back down. You’re losing blood by the buckets. If you can make it to Alma’s then you might be alright. Pass out and you’re a goner. What is it? Five blocks? Six at the most. He took off his bandana and held it to his face. It came away soaked a darker crimson than the faded red it had been, and he dropped it in the street and limped away unsteadily, his mind locked only on survival.