“Sir?”
Victor slowed, and he glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.
“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they…they…please help. They’re in my home…”
Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.
“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”
“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”
“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”
“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”
Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.
“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger.
Stupid, thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.
He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to whom she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first, or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.
“I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”
A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.
The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn.
“I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”
Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling.
“No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”
The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only hear the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leapt to the ground, just a wiry thing that barely filled out his coat. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none hit flesh.
Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?
It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.
Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, wanting no part of the chaos. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.
As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that, the alley filled with fire. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.
Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.
The Eschaton had arrived.
Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew, and they bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amidst it all, Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.
The battle split, traveling both deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive, and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting, and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.
When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.
“Can you not move?” she asked.
He looked left to right with his eyes as a way of answer.
“I will see what I can do.”
She reached down and pulled free the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded, he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With it all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.
A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.
“Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”
“I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.
“Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”
“Are you sure?”
The priestess nodded.
“I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”
“City…guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.
“You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around him. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”
A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.
“Where…are we going?” Victor said, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.
“To be honest,” said the Watcher. “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”
Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment, he shook his head, then pulled them back around.
“Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”
The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding in, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so they might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off of him like a physical presence.