There was a problem.

When Gray went back to get Killian, he was already surrounded by a group of very exhausted, very confused Silver Axes.

Five of them, Gray counted. All huge.

They were half way through the act of dragging Killian back through the non-descript door.

No Lunn.

Which was a miracle, truly, but it brought Gray up short, because honestly he would’ve preferred to keep Lunn in sight.

Because Lunn had to be there somewhere.

Lunn would be so angry.

The cloud of sleeping smoke, billowing out of the non-descript door, had thinned to the consistency of a mist.

Doing some wild thinking - that, honestly, might’ve been influenced by whatever potion Lunn had last given him, because Gray felt so damn strange - Gray stalked towards the group of Silver Axes.

‘Hey,’ said Gray.

As one, the men turned.

They were drooping at the shoulders. One was flat out leaning against the brick wall. They all wore pale, greying expressions of annoyed tiredness like toddlers woken too soon from their naps.

Gray stretched out his hand.

Moved his fingers in imitation of how Lunn had moved them. Up, down, in, out.

Did his best impression of his Othoan Wanted Poster illustration, lowering his eyebrows and lifting his upper lip in a snarl.

The men were still. Their mouths hung open.

Two turned and clumsily fled. Two backed up, through the doorway.

One strode forward and did a roundhouse kick.

And Gray stood there, his arm uselessly outstretched, and he knew that there was no damn way he was going to have the skill or strength to block that kick.

It was the best kick Gray had ever seen anyone do ever in his life.

Viciously fast.

Graceful.

The man's form was a thing of beauty.

If this was this man's kick while still suffering the influences of the sleeping smoke, Gray was glad to not have crossed paths with him while he was stone cold sober.

The man's foot hit Gray’s mouth with shuddering force and Gray flew through the air. He landed hard, skidding on the cobblestones on his side, his vision black, overwhelmed by the pain in his mouth and the tang of blood.

He must’ve slipped out of consciousness, just for a second, because the next thing he knew there was a rattle of silver chains and Gray blinked to clear his vision.

Killian stood over the prone body of the roundhouse-kick man.

Like a corpse come to life.

Like a nightmare.

Then he collapsed to his knees.

The man was moving, clutching his bleeding cheek. Killian hadn’t knocked him out properly.

Gray staggered up and grabbed Killian’s arm.

‘You have to help me,’ Gray said, his words slurred with urgency and fear and pain. He spat out a mouth full of blood. ‘I can’t carry you.’

Killian got his feet somewhat under him, and Gray heaved, and then they were stumbling down the street, because there was no way they could’ve made it up the hill.

Gray heard the man get to his feet behind them.

But, Gray didn’t dare glance back to see if he was following.

The streets were dark and quiet, and Gray and Killian were making way too much noise. Their breaths were ragged, they echoed against the sheer walls of the houses in these streets, they crunched clumsily over cobblestones and dirt and banners torn down from the Summer Festival.

How long had Gray and Killian been inside that basement?

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Time had lost all meaning while he was down there, with no light or clock to count the passing of the sun. It could’ve been days. Weeks.

Gray’s head thudded.

He was coated in sweat.

Killian would faint and then come back to consciousness, and every time he was a dead weight for a moment, and Gray would buckle.

Surely, The Silver Axes would follow.

Lunn would follow.

They’d be laughably easy to track.

Gray forced himself to go faster, prodding Killian to keep up.

He was taking every random twist and turn in these steep streets that he possibly could, staggering blindly through the streets. Gray had no idea where in Sirentown he was, or where he should go.

Killian fainted and he didn’t regain consciousness, and he fell to the ground as Gray crumpled with him.

‘Get up,’ said Gray, not caring that his voice was too loud. ‘Get up, I can’t carry you. You utter bastard, they’ll find you here.’

Perhaps, the trick to getting Killian to wake out of a faint was to call him bastard.

Because his dark eyes opened half a slit. He breathed in. And then heaved himself up with a pained sound.

They kept going.

-

Getting a room at the first inn Gray came across was a lot easier than he expected considering Gray was dressed as an Othoan, and he was propping up a bleeding, half-conscious man in the scrappy remains of a soldier’s uniform and with chains on his wrists.

The inn was damp, took payment by the hour, and had a smashed window out the front.

And when Gray assured the receptionist behind the desk that Killian would settle the bill the next morning, the woman could not have given less of a shit if she tried.

‘Room 3H,’ she said, chewing on some kind of stalk, and not removing her gaze from her history novel.

She didn’t even ask for stat papers.

Guessing this was probably a giant red flag, that guess turned out to be right, as Gray walked down the hall towards the stairs.

Black mold coated patches of the peeling wallpaper, and a single lamp flickered on and off at the foot of the stairs.

Two men were in a screaming match some way down the hall. Below, through the rough floorboards, were the cries of a crowd watching a fight or game. And above, a different kind of screaming that was making him distinctly hot around the neck.

Probably, Gray thought, as he dragged Killian up the stairs, sweating more than he’d ever sweat in his life, his head pounding, and feeling like his back might not ever be the same, it was not the best idea to stay in the first inn he’d found.

The Silver Axes, Lunn, would be searching for them.

But, Killian was a dead weight, and Gray could not haul him any further.

The room - if possible - was worse than expected.

The room was warm in a damp kind of way, and smelt vaguely fishy. It had a single, narrow window which was stuck shut, and the grimy glass distorted the outside lamplight into a sickly yellowish hue.

‘Stand,’ muttered Gray.

Killian stood, swaying on the spot.

With some work, Gray managed to get his wrecked soldier shirt off him, wincing in sympathy as he had to pull it off over Killian’s scabbing skin.

The man was so messed up.

Gray poured Killian onto the sagging bed, yanking off the blasted remains of Killian’s boots and setting them by the door, right near a thick cobweb.

That’s when Gray’s gaze snagged on a rusted nail, sticking out of one of the worn floorboards.

With trembling fingers, Gray worked at the silver shackles on Killian’s wrists with the rusted nail. Those silver chains made way too much sound every time Killian moved and would be a sure giveaway if any Silver Axe walked through the inn’s halls.

Wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand, Gray glared down at Killian. Hurriedly filled up a chipped teacup with some water from the cracked basin by the door and set it on the bedside table. Considered leaving Killian his dagger, but honestly, Killian could have the rusted nail.

Gray leant against the far wall, holding his busted mouth in his hands.

He was beginning to form a plan.

He wasn't going to stick around in Sirentown and wait for The Silver Axes or Lunn or the authorities to find him. Nor was he going to wait around for Killian to regain his strength and drag Gray to the king.

He had to move.

Fudgie might still be at the Ravestead pub.

Maybe.

If Gray could get to Fudgie, then maybe he could have a shot at really disappearing. Staying on the move, one step ahead of anyone searching for him. The feeling of the jinx was gone from within Gray. He could no longer feel the beat of it. He had a lead, maybe, with the vampiric sorcerers, and he could continue to help Alistair if he stayed free.

This decided, Gray went to turn on his heel.

Paused.

Because Killian was concerningly still.

He was vulnerable to attack right now.

But, Killian wasn't Gray's responsibility. Killian was the reason they were in this filthy inn, and not safely away with Longwark ... though Gray did not know where Longwark had planned to take them.

Gray didn't know what Longwark had in mind at all.

Rubbing his forehead, Gray swore. He couldn't stay there, minding Killian.

Gray waited until he felt a puff of cool breath against his fingers before he left Killian and staggered out of the room.

Down the dank stairwell.

Gray crashed out into the alley outside. It was a steep and dirty street. The buildings were too tall for Gray to get a sense of his bearings.

The sensation from Lunn’s last potion was growing in strength.

It was fluttering in Gray’s mind.

Banging at his skin.

His legs were clumsy.

He squared his shoulders and strained to keep his face neutral. The bored woman from the reception desk was watching through the front smashed window of the inn. Two large men were approaching from the far end of the street.

Gray turned blindly down a side alley, grasping Killian’s dagger in his hand.

He just had to keep going.

Get to Fudgie.

Keep ...

Going ...