Chapter 013

One must stir the waters to catch sharks.

Harker hurled his knife and ran, taking off toward the south with every ounce of speed he could muster.

He knew he shouldn’t, but curiosity was baked into his bones—as he jumped over the crest of the roof, Harker’s gaze slid backward. The Stitcher stood tall, unmoved from where he’d been moments ago, and held Harker’s knife carelessly etween his long fingers.

Those owl eyes watched him from above a feral grin.

Run faster.

Harker pushed himself, heading south across the rooftops.

He leapt dead gardens and weathervanes, putting every bit of his energy into forward movement. If he could create some distance from the Stitcher, then maybe he could come up with a plan.

What plan? Fight? A grim smile tugged at his cheeks. I’d die…or worse. Who knew what a Stitcher would do with him? This is the sort of thing my Laws are meant to avoid!

While the butcher might not have given chase, the scrabble of claws against tile announced new companions on the roof. Loping shadows crawled up, creatures that resembled nothing so much as wolves and birds bound in unnatural union. First one paced behind him, but it was soon joined by two more, each rooftop bringing Harker another friend.

“Oh joy,” he muttered, heading eastward. The Illwrought followed, eyes flashing crimson.

“You cannot escape, boy.” The Stitcher’s voice rattled through the open maw of the nearest wolf, like an echo down a long hallway. “Muir can see you.”

Then watch this. Harker pivoted sideways, forcing the closest beast to skid to an ungainly stop on the slick roof tiles. It followed, but not before its rear end smashed into a brick chimney. Stone cracked and monster yelped. Ha!

Harker dodged ahead, keeping his path serpentine. The creatures were fast and their massive strides were more than enough to overtake him, but like the boar that was dependent entirely on terrain. These things aren’t good at sudden changes in direction. They’re too big.

It was something. He slid down roofs, hopped gaps, and slipped through tall, iron-spiked fences that the Illwrought were forced to leap. The rusted tips cut into the beasts, slashing at bellies and chests enough to draw whines from them—but never enough to stop their chase completely. No matter what he did, the Illwrought were never more than a few paces away.

“Boy!” The Stitcher’s voice was still raspy, but it had gained an edge. Irritation. “The Vestige wasn’t meant for you. It’ll wear you like a fur coat, a rag doll with the stuffin’ torn out, until you’re gone!”

He laughed. “You don’t have the power to withstand what’s coming.”

Vestige? Harker had never heard of such a thing.

“Not even the Spires would save you, and they could,” a bird-headed creature spat. It moved in undulating waves, its body more serpent than wolf. “But Muir knows those magisters. They’d rather peel it from your soul themselves.” The Stitcher was out of breath, as if he were running too. “Don’t let those starmad bastards win. Let Muir kill you instead.”

Harker slid down a roof, evading a lazy slash of the claws and hopped over the gap between buildings. The shadows followed, their heavy bodies crashing through clay tiles and sending a rain of shards down below.

“Run all you wish! You cannot hide. Your stink fills every corner of this patch of nothing!”

They’re playing with me. He jumped, snagging a clothesline that snapped under his weight and crashed into a vine lattice. It was empty, waiting for Spring to arrive. He clambered down. The Illwrought didn’t follow.

Why? The Stitcher had mentioned it twice. Was that the golden treasure from the cave? Harker had never heard of a Vestige, and he considered himself well-read compared to most in the Vale. If that’s what he wants, I just have to get rid of it. But how?

The street stretched quietly around him, and even the rooftops had gone silent. Had he lost them? Harker doubted it, but something had forced the Stitcher to change his approach. Harker couldn’t immediately figure it out, and it didn’t matter: he couldn’t stop running.

The south gate was coming up swiftly, no more than two blocks away. An eternity with the creatures chasing him, and worse if the creatures followed him out of Vale. Beyond the walls, in the open fields before the forest, Harker would be more vulnerable than ever. Without even a specter of cover, he’d be chased down and devoured.

He needed a plan.

Law 4B—Seize The Field.

Harker took stock as he ran. His satchel was empty of anything immediately useful, but seizing the field was about using the terrain to his advantage. What did he have? Ribboned banners from Threllsknacht and the Chartermark celebrations littered the ground. Small fires dotted the streets, pieces of timber that had caught in the rain of embers. Abandoned vendor carts selling wooden baubles, Ancestor candles, and simple oil ampules to light them. Rainwater pouring down the gutters heading downhill toward the gate, and far too many corpses.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it’s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Wait, is that—?

The hunters were down the hill, less than a block ahead. There were at least ten of them, and they moved with a cold efficiency, dispatching a pair of Illwrought that had wandered too close. Their pale cloaks gleamed in the dim torchlight of the south gate, where they seemed to be standing guard.

They could keep me safe from the beasts. Of course, that would mean submitting himself to them. He couldn’t forget that they were after him as much as the Stitcher, and likely for the same reason. Harker didn’t believe them for a second that they were there to hunt the bloodbreaker or his monsters. Muir had come to Vale looking for this Vestige—what’s to say the hunters didn’t come with the same goal?

That meant they were blocking his way out of town.

“Grim Company, on me!”

The captain he’d seen facing down Adhira was there, pale cloak thrown over his shoulder, exposing a dull breastplate over a coat of chain mail. A tabard had once covered that as well, but it was now ripped and blood-stained, but not so bad that Harker couldn’t still pick out the embroidered emblem of a serpent wrapped around a wolf.

The man started talking, but the words fuzzed in Harker’s ears. His guts churned, and he slowed his steps. It wasn’t nerves, but an upwelling of Water that he could feel at the back of his teeth.