Laguna Hallik
Adept
In the midnight rain, the ceramic tiles of Brittingcrest’s buildings smelled like wet dog. They were also too slippery to run on. The young thief, dressed all in black as is usually expected of his kind, held onto the edge of the roof with all of his fading strength.
The thiefcatchers were already two roofs away, it wouldn’t take them long to catch up, even in this rain. The young thief pulled himself up, but couldn’t get his leg over the edge. The crossbow bolt sticking through his calf kept snagging on the bottom most shingle. His blood was too hot with the thrill of the chase to feel the pain at the moment, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before his muscles tightened and he wouldn’t be able to run. His grip was slipping and he knew he couldn’t go up, so he decided on the opposite.
He went down.
He let go on the ledge and dropped onto an iron-wrought balcony ten feet below. He landed in a heap, knocking potted plants in every direction. He finally started feeling that pain now. He pulled himself up onto the railing and aimed his next drop for the wooden crates on the street. He took a deep breath and hurled himself over the railing.
He landed back first onto the top pine crate. It collapsed on itself and sent thief sprawling onto the street. He laid there for a moment, dazed. The cold rain and the searing pain demanded that he rest there. His fading mind agreed. All it needed was five minutes.
He heard boots hit the iron terrace above. Instinct threw him back onto his feet and he took off down the main, cobbled way of Brittingcrest. Each step of his left foot brought tear-inducing pain, but he barreled on.
Shopkeepers and drunks left in the streets afterhours watched as the youth ran headlong into parked carts and lantern poles. None intervened. The serious visages of the man and girl that pursued him kept them about their business.
The thief stopped in the town circle and leaned against the massive lantern pole there. He just couldn’t run anymore. Blood was filling his left boot and his left leg was going numb. He drew his sword. He didn’t know if he could win this one, but he would damn sure find out.
The two pursuers slowed and walked into the circle.
“Nevin Kendrick, you may return what you have taken and you will find leniency at court,” said the man.
The young thief shook his head, “Not a chance, Sinclair. It goes to its rightful owner.”
The hooded girl drew her blade. The man looked down at her and sighed. He nodded in the thief’s direction.
The thief swatted aside her brash charge and stumbled away from the pole. Her next cut was low, so he blocked low. Then high, he blocked high. She pressed the assault and he gave ground like it was for charity. Their blades locked.
She punched him in the face.
He staggered and fell into the water-logged street. He tried to get up, but every muscle screamed in protest. He couldn’t shake the lights out of his eyes. The girl placed the tip of her blade at his throat.
“Thou shalt battle evil without cessation, Nevin.”
Sir Bryce Sinclair placed a hand on her shoulder, “We’re done here, Rose. Drag him back to the wagon. He can stew in there until morning, and then we’ll take him to his uncle, but first…”
Sir Sinclair opened the pouch on the thief’s belt and removed a long, white belt.
“The Duke is going to want this back.”
The thiefcatchers were already two roofs away, it wouldn’t take them long to catch up, even in this rain. The young thief pulled himself up, but couldn’t get his leg over the edge. The crossbow bolt sticking through his calf kept snagging on the bottom most shingle. His blood was too hot with the thrill of the chase to feel the pain at the moment, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before his muscles tightened and he wouldn’t be able to run. His grip was slipping and he knew he couldn’t go up, so he decided on the opposite.
He went down.
He let go on the ledge and dropped onto an iron-wrought balcony ten feet below. He landed in a heap, knocking potted plants in every direction. He finally started feeling that pain now. He pulled himself up onto the railing and aimed his next drop for the wooden crates on the street. He took a deep breath and hurled himself over the railing.
He landed back first onto the top pine crate. It collapsed on itself and sent thief sprawling onto the street. He laid there for a moment, dazed. The cold rain and the searing pain demanded that he rest there. His fading mind agreed. All it needed was five minutes.
He heard boots hit the iron terrace above. Instinct threw him back onto his feet and he took off down the main, cobbled way of Brittingcrest. Each step of his left foot brought tear-inducing pain, but he barreled on.
Shopkeepers and drunks left in the streets afterhours watched as the youth ran headlong into parked carts and lantern poles. None intervened. The serious visages of the man and girl that pursued him kept them about their business.
The thief stopped in the town circle and leaned against the massive lantern pole there. He just couldn’t run anymore. Blood was filling his left boot and his left leg was going numb. He drew his sword. He didn’t know if he could win this one, but he would damn sure find out.
The two pursuers slowed and walked into the circle.
“Nevin Kendrick, you may return what you have taken and you will find leniency at court,” said the man.
The young thief shook his head, “Not a chance, Sinclair. It goes to its rightful owner.”
The hooded girl drew her blade. The man looked down at her and sighed. He nodded in the thief’s direction.
The thief swatted aside her brash charge and stumbled away from the pole. Her next cut was low, so he blocked low. Then high, he blocked high. She pressed the assault and he gave ground like it was for charity. Their blades locked.
She punched him in the face.
He staggered and fell into the water-logged street. He tried to get up, but every muscle screamed in protest. He couldn’t shake the lights out of his eyes. The girl placed the tip of her blade at his throat.
“Thou shalt battle evil without cessation, Nevin.”
Sir Bryce Sinclair placed a hand on her shoulder, “We’re done here, Rose. Drag him back to the wagon. He can stew in there until morning, and then we’ll take him to his uncle, but first…”
Sir Sinclair opened the pouch on the thief’s belt and removed a long, white belt.
“The Duke is going to want this back.”