Chapter 54 Chapter 53: The Storm Inside
I did what Saul said. There was no time for debate, no room for hesitation. My body reacted before my mind could fully process the command. I turned on my heel kicked my shoes off and ran, my bare feet slapping against the hot stone of the plaza as I bolted back the way we had come. A detached part of my brain registered a crucial detail: the police and soldiers' lines were holding firm along the entire length of the plaza on both sides. The breach was localized, a single, precise rupture right at the Spire's base. A planned attack? The thought was an ice-cold spike of realization. This wasn't random mob violence; this was an assassination attempt, and we were the targets.
We can figure that out later, I screamed internally, the thought swallowed by the roar of blood in my ears. My legs pumped, fuelled by pure adrenaline, carrying me across the last few paces of open ground. I skidded around the slight corner into the relative cover of the garden's entrance, slowing to a jog to navigate the labyrinthine paths. It was only then, in the sudden, eerie quiet beneath the canopy, that I noticed the soft, rhythmic padding beside me.
Chup-chup. He was right there, his porcelain form keeping pace with effortless, unnerving silence. I had forgotten he was even there. A new, surreal question cut through my panic: How the hell could that little clam run as fast as me?
But before I could voice the thought, the garden's tranquillity shattered. Two more assailants, their faces masked by scarves, lunged from behind a thicket of blooming nightshade. Chup-chup didn't hesitate. He threw his entire body at them with a shocking, selfless ferocity. There was a sickening tangle of limbs, dark cloaks, and a spray of crimson that looked horrifically out of place against his white ceramic. A sharp, metallic cry of pain "Run!" ripped from him.
I am ashamed to say, that I did just that. Survival instinct overpowered loyalty. I fled, but my eyes were glued over my shoulder, watching the horrific ballet as Chup-chup, wounded, still rolled on the ground, desperately tangling with both men to give me a few more precious seconds.
I whipped my head back around, only to see my path blocked. Two more of them were running straight towards me, their intent clear. This section of the path was a trap, heavily walled by impenetrable, thorny bushes. My choices were binary and terrible: back towards Chup-chup's certain death, or forward into the blades of the oncoming killers.
I chose forward.
I picked up my speed, my dieball-honed legs finding a reserve of explosive power. As I passed one of the milky Moon Stones, my eyes gaped at the golden, egg-shaped dieball resting precariously on its peak. A wild, desperate hope flashed in my mind. Please let it give...
It did. With a grunt, I wrenched the heavy, priceless artifact from its setting.
Still in a full sprint, I didn't break stride. I cocked my arm and, with the practiced, powerful motion of a championship throw, launched the golden egg through the air. It spun, a blur of molten sunlight, and landed plumb into the face of the lead assailant with a wet, cracking thud. He went down without a sound, his body crumpling.
One down.
The second man was almost upon me. There was no time to stop. I planted my foot and launched myself feet-first at his chest, executing a classic, full-force dieball tackle. The air left his lungs in a pained whoosh as we collided. He went down hard, and I used the momentum, landing with my next step already carrying me past his sprawling form.
Still running.
My lungs burned, each breath a ragged sob. I couldn't run forever. This garden, for all its vastness, would have an end, or more of them would be waiting. I needed a refuge, a crack in the world to disappear into. I spotted three Pollis ahead, their grey robes a beacon of potential sanctuary. Hope flared, desperate and brief.
But as I neared them, they didn't look up. Instead, they threw themselves down, prostrating themselves before me, their foreheads pressing into the dirt in that same gesture of total submission I had seen before.
"No, please, get up!" I gasped, skidding to a halt. I pleaded with them in the Common tongue, my voice cracking with panic. "Help me! Please, hide me!" I wasn't yet willing to give up my secret knowledge of Sylvan, to reveal that card. But whether they were too terrified of the violence, didn't understand the word "help," or were simply conditioned to oblivion, I'll never know. Their faces remained glued to the earth, as immovable and silent as the statues dotting the garden. They were not sanctuary; they were part of the landscape.
Abandoned. The word echoed in the hollow of my chest. With no help and no sign of a place to duck into, I had only one asset left: my fleet legs. I turned and ran again, a mindless, terrified flight, just trying to put distance between me and the hunters, with no destination in mind.
I veered down a narrower side path, overhung with weeping willows, and saw a single figure in the distance, his back to me. A guard? An assailant? It didn't matter. He was an obstacle, a threat.
Now, I've seen the films. I've trained in many types of martial arts my whole life. On the dieball pitch, they called me a demon for my ruthless tackles. But could I consciously, deliberately, take another man's life? And as a Polli, in this skirt, with these expectations… was I even capable?
My coil snapped. There was no more thought, only a primal, survival-driven action. I found myself approaching his back, my footsteps silent on the soft earth. I went for a classic chokehold, one arm snaking around his throat to cut off his air, the other hand diving for the knife I saw at his belt.
But at the last moment, he sensed me. He twisted, my arm tangling around his neck but not locking cleanly. My other arm was trapped under his collapsing body as we fell together in a heap onto the dirt path. The world became a violent, intimate struggle. I felt the hard, jarring impacts of his fists punching into my ribs, each one a burst of white-hot pain. I tightened my arm around his neck with all my strength, squeezing, my biceps screaming with the effort. Muffled, gurgling cries escaped his mouth, and his punches grew slower, weaker, as the oxygen fled his brain.
My free hand, slick with sweat and dirt, finally curled around the cold, hard handle of his knife. I drew it in one swift motion. Then, without allowing myself to think, I began to stab him in the stomach. There was a sickening, wet resistance each time the blade went in. I could feel the hot, shocking gush of his blood pouring between us, soaking my shirt and blouse, slicking my skin. His body jerked, then went utterly, terrifyingly limp.
I shoved, rolling his dead weight off, of me. I looked at my handiwork. He was dead. There was no question. His vacant eyes stared at the canopy above, his mouth slack. We were both covered in his sticky, warm blood, the metallic smell filling my nostrils, making me gag. I grabbed desperately for air, my body trembling uncontrollably, trying to calm a storm that was now permanently inside me. I found my feet, swaying, and looked down at the blood-smeared blade still clutched in my hand. The reality of what I had done, the life I had taken, washed over me, cold and absolute.
Then, a loud, percussive BANG of a gunshot ripped through the garden's silence, shattering my stupor.
Run, fool, a voice, my own yet not my own, screamed in my head. And I ran. My mind was a map of pure instinct, every turn a gamble for survival. Taking another left, and left again, I tried to double back, to break my own trail, my movements as frantic as a cornered animal. The garden was no longer a place of beauty but a deadly maze. Someone, a Nate, a shadow, I’m not sure who, leapt from behind a flowering bush before me. There was no time for thought, only reaction. My arm, acting on a brutal muscle memory I didn't know I possessed, shot out. He received my blade in the gut with a soft, sickening crunch. I didn't even break stride, shouldering his collapsing form to the ground and keeping on running, the warm, slick essence of his life dripping from the knife still clenched in my fist.
Then I saw it, up ahead: a huge, weathered monument. Three giant-sized statues of Pollis from a bygone era, their stone faces worn but serene, their powerful arms straining to hold a massive, shallow dish aloft between them like an offering to the sky. A refuge. A safe place, high off the ground. Could I make it up there before another hunter saw me?
I wasn't willing to give up the knife, it was my only teeth in this nightmare, but I needed both hands to climb. With trembling fingers, I carefully slid the blood-slicked blade down the front of my bra, the cold metal a shock against my skin it was still sticky. I positioned it so only the tip pressed against my stomach, a constant, sharp reminder of its presence as I began to climb.
Using the intricate folds of the statues' stone robes as handholds, I stretched and pulled myself up, my muscles screaming in protest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I hauled my body over the lip of the great dish and fell onto my back inside it; the wind knocked out of me. I was lying in a stone bowl under a vast, sun-filled sky, the blue a cruel mockery of the violence below. I stared up, trying to piece together a plan, my mind racing. What was the best thing to do now? Hide? Wait for Saul? Keep running?
Still catching my breath, I pulled the knife from its hiding place. Holding the handle again was a grim comfort, a sliver of control in a world gone mad. Dare I roll over and crawl to the edge to look?
BANG…
The gunshot was a violent punctuation to my thought.
BANG, BANG, BANG.
More gunfire, this time the staccato rhythm of an automatic weapon. Closer. Much closer.
I lay completely still, frozen. My own breath sounded like a gale force wind in my ears. My heartbeat was a frantic, tribal drumbeat against the stone, so loud I was certain it was broadcasting my location to every enemy in the garden.
BANG. They were so close.
BANG, BANG, BANG. The shots were methodical, searching. They were sweeping the area, and my stone refuge felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb waiting to be sealed.