Aidux peered out through the crate's hastily drilled air holes, waiting until the soldiers moved deep enough in the alley before he made his move. He had to get to Nevin. Vincht's voice was unmistakable, and now he had his friend on the run, maybe even trapped.
Unable to wait any longer, he bumped the crate lid with his noggin.
Thunk. “Ow.”
The cat blinked. He pressed the top of his furry head to the lid again and shoved.
It refused to budge, refused to give him even an inch of play.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he whispered, frantically craning his neck to peer out one of the air holes in search of the crate's latch, knowing full-well there was no possible way he could see it from his position in the sealed wooden box.
Panic set in. He'd seen him do it, seen Nevin reach out and slap the latch open before running off down the alley. He'd heard the thing click open. The troubled cat stretched his legs, grinding his head, his neck, his arched back against the lid and pushed with all his might.
“Come on...” he groaned, straining. The wooden crate groaned back, fighting to maintain its integrity as the lynx enlisted more and more muscle with each passing second of resistance.
The scream of tearing of metal echoed off the warehouse walls, and the sheer violence of the sound caused Aidux to flinch.
That extra bit of oomph snapped one of the crate's hinges loose.
Aidux dropped to his stomach, staring out through the air holes toward the source of the noise, but all he could see were soldiers and two-story buildings. He frowned. The noise wouldn't matter if he couldn't free himself from the crate. But this time, when he rose and pressed the full length of his frame against the lid, it gave.
Only an inch, but an inch was a start.
I'm coming, Nevin. The cat's muzzle peeled back in nightmarish grin. Just hold on.
************
Vincht cocked his head, gazing back down the alleyway and past the growing throng of spear-wielding soldiers guarding the sole entrance to the narrow corridor of stucco and stone. A wild grin split his mangled, scab-encrusted lips.
“You hear that, Nevin? That terrible ruckus?” He twirled his sword playfully and sauntered farther down the alley toward the t-intersection. “That, my scared little friend, is a Breather. An absolutely abominable creature, but effective none-the-less. I wanted one in the port district in case you happened to pass through with the sword. I thought maybe it would sniff out what I might have missed. Never thought it'd catch wind of a tried-and-true magic user, but sometimes Fate looks out for you in ways that preparation can't.
“The baron didn't like that part of my plan. He doesn't like the Breathers out walking around in broad daylight. He said it makes his citizens nervous to see such hideous creatures, especially considering they were once people.”
He crushed a morsel of stale bread beneath the heel of his boot, twisting his foot to grind it to dust. The volume of his speech rose until his words shook the dust from the cobbles. “I asked you if you were hearing me! They were people, Nevin! The baron figured out how to take a person and warp them into something unspeakable, breaking their minds as much as their bodies in a process that turns them from man into magic-hunting monster.
“But the most ironic part? It's not that the Breathers were once people...”
He rounded the corner, stopping to stand at the dead-center of the intersection, his ivory-handled short blade tap-tap-tapping away at the side of his leg. The boy called Nevin backed away until a pair of metal-reinforced doors stopped him from retreating further, a mixture of terror and frustration glistening in his wide, watchful eyes. He clutched an oddly-shaped metal object the color of storm-tossed waters with both hands, extending it protectively out before him.
And there it is. That's what I'm here for.
His feral grin widened further. “...but that the Breathers were once the very magic users they were created to hunt.”
A distant cry of guttural agony drew Vincht's attention from the boy for a moment, but when he turned back, the cornered youth had neither moved nor responded to his speech. Instead, Nevin's eyes appeared to flick back and forth between Vincht and something else, something Vincht couldn't see, something just as important and unnerving to the boy as himself.
Then again, in Vincht's fevered state, maybe he was just imagining things.
The black-haired mercenary scratched his face before waving his blood-soaked fingers at the young man impatiently. “You're not putting it together, Nevin. You're not...hearing...what I'm telling you. And I want you...I need you to hear me.
“A man only has two paths he can walk in life, two real choices in front of him as he grows into the person he'll one day become. It's not a choice of who he will become, but the choice of how he will become. You're not hearing...”
Stolen novel; please report.
Vincht paused, rubbing his aching temples. The world swam in his vision, the alley lilting first one way then the other. He gritted his teeth and squinted until reality stilled around him.
“You see, a man is either the 'maker', or he is the 'made'.” Vincht awkwardly punctuated each option with a stab of his sword. “One either takes responsibility for choosing who they become, bringing forth the full brunt of his considerable will to guide himself toward a manufactured vision of his future, or one submits himself to the greater will of another, and is forced into a unrecognizable future beyond the realm of his choosing.
“These Breathers? They're the 'made'. Users who weren't strong enough to withstand the will of the baron, who weren't strong enough to protect themselves from his twisted machinations. So these Breathers? They were 'made' into his monstrous tools. An ugly addition to an already ugly world, but sometimes you have to destroy in order to create, I suppose.”
“Stop it!” Nevin cried out, shaking the metal object at Vincht. “Why are you telling me these things? Why?”
“Because this moment is a focal point for you.” Vincht took a step forward, thumbing his chest as he continued. “I'm a 'maker', Nevin. I've spent my whole life shaping my skills, my body, my skills, my personality to fit the vision I held for my future. I will do whatever it takes to get what I need from life. No matter the price. No matter the pain. No matter who I have to crush beneath me to get there. No matter the price.
“Despite the terrible wounds inflicted on me, despite the horrific countenance your cat has cursed me with, I am still the maker of my future. Out of the two of us, my will shall overcome, because yours is too weak and unfocused and confused about what you want and what you will need to do if you want to survive. You're weak.”
“You don't have to do this, Vincht. You don't. You can stop. Just walk away and stop.” Tears glistened on the young man's quivering cheeks, but the black-haired warrior was completely without sympathy.
“I cannot. I will not. It's the path I've set myself on, a path that ends with the item I seek resting in the palms of my hands. And the only way you're going escape the path I've laid out for us, the path I've MADE, is if you step up and MAKE a new path for us both.”
Vincht pulled a simple chain necklace over his head. The chain looped through a number of jagged iron keys. He rattled them teasingly at the younger man. “The key to that lock behind you? It lies somewhere on this chain.”
Nevin stuttered his response. “W-w-what do you want from me?”
“Why...I want you to lift my curse, Nevin.”
A sad, knowing smile was all he could offer in response to the young man's confusion.
“I want you to kill me, if you possess the will.”
************
Aurnia dove out of the way, sending a small cushion of Vellis before her to soften the fall.
And not a moment too soon. Flailing its limbs with a hungry fervor, the Breather tore past her, scrabbling at the patchwork cobbles for purchase but finding none. Its momentum carried it into a stack of crates brimming with dried corn. Like beads from a broken bracelet, the shattering crates littered the open space with thousands upon thousands of the tiny, hardened kernels. The frenzied Breather slid down on its back and away from the woman in the yellow dress.
Captain Williams appeared atop the sterncastle of the Misanthrope, leaning out over the rudder to yell down at her. “Get moving, woman! The baron's ships will soon choke the lagoon. This won't end until Comelbough disappears behind us!”
Shooting the man an incredulous look, Aurnia struggled to her feet. “A little help, then?”
“Help?” The captain balked, gesturing to something back behind her. “Looks like you got all the help you need.”
With a frown of confusion, Aurnia quickly turned.
For the first time in a long time, a child-like grin spread out across her face.
All the help, indeed.
************
Theis’ scowl was as lethal as his sword. Too bad no one could see it through the mask.
With a quick slash of his sicklesque blade, another soldier yelped and collapsed. By his count, that made seventeen. Seventeen dead, and still they came. Their spears hadn’t so much as nicked the edge of his cloak, and still they pressed after him. They fought like they wanted death, rushing him like water before a cliff, and they fell much the same. But still they poured in, relentless and foolhardy and doomed.
He was a whirling cloud of death sent to pass judgment on those stupid enough to seek him out.
Two bronze-tipped spears reached for him at once. Theis rolled beneath their polished tips and severed the leading legs of the soldiers. They toppled over, erupting in a chorus of agony and clutching at their legs below the knee. Vaulting to his feet, his upward slice caught another man beneath the chin, and Theis finally made eye contact with the pompous old woman at the center of all this nonsense.
Bet you're happy I'm here now.
Their reunion was short-lived. The fumbling Breather finally found its feet among the slippery corn and hesitantly rose. It panted like a dog as it stretched for the sky, reaching up with a monstrous hand to grip itself by the forehead and yank its skull abruptly to the side. Theis could practically feel the resulting crack deep within his bones.
“Lovely,” he growled, wasting no more time among the dying. He leaned into a headlong dash, his curved sword dragging behind him like some sort of lethal tail. For the moment, the Breather's attention was on Aurnia, and that was all the opening he needed.
The man in black hit the spilled corn at full tilt. The Breather had his back to him, preparing to suck air and charge the woman in yellow, but Theis didn't give him the chance. He dropped onto his hip and slid between the monster's splayed legs. He twisted into the slide and lashed out twice with his blade. He cleared the Breather's legs, deftly rolled to his feet and continued toward Aurnia with no further consideration for the magic-seeking giant he'd left behind.
With a look of surprise, of utter confusion, the Breather collapsed to the stone. Its disembodied feet stayed right where it left them, having been severed in passing by the razor-sharp edge of the man in black's blade.
The woman gripped her wrists inside the sleeves of her yellow dress and straightened. “You're late.”
“Late?” Theis snorted. “You sent me away.”
She shrugged. “I didn't actually expect you to listen.”
Pompous, old... “Where’s the boy?” he demanded, changing the subject to something that actually mattered.
“Cornered.” She pointed across the plaza. “In that alley. I've been trying to clear a path, but between the soldiers and old wheezy over-”
Theis pushed her aside to confront a spearman brave enough to approach on his own. His spear immediately lost its tip, and the soldier lost a hand. As the man stumbled backwards, Aurnia instinctively lashed out over his shoulder with an open hand, but nothing happened. To Theis, everything was briefly awash in faint blue light.
“Damn it, Theis. I'm basically useless with you around.”
With an effortless flick of his sword, Theis finished what Aurnia failed, and another body dropped lifeless to the cobbles.
She put the Misanthrope to her back and planted her feet resolutely. “I'll keep the riff-raff away from the boat. Go and fetch the boy.”
“And him?” He nodded toward the mewling Breather, writhing in the corn not twenty feet away.
“I'm only concerned with the foot soldiers now. The threat of that one has passed.”
Theis shook his head and dashed through the heart of the plaza, toward the alley and the small contingent of men awaiting the pleasure of his company.
That woman has an awful sense of humor.