It all happened in a hazy blur. It was more dream than reality. Between the drugs that coursed through his veins, the loud chaos of the crowd that made his ears ring, and the curtain of smoke, it was difficult to differentiate the wisest method of action.
He decided to do what he was good at. He swung his heavy broadsword and delighted in whatever it smacked into.
The kiss still tingled against his lips. He traced his tongue along the outline of his mouth. He still tasted Anryn Stormcrow. Inwardly, he smiled. But there was no time to dwell on it. They needed to escape, fast.
He gripped the leather hilt tightly in both hands. He kept his stance low, the broadsword between his legs. He waited for droves of attackers to come advancing towards him. He chuckled dry and low and lifted the weapon in a high arc, rending bodies in two as if they were made of paper. The bones crunched, the organs split, and blood carpeted the stage.
He continued to hack and slash his way down, forming a small path. Attackers began to back away, forming a wide berth for the man with the deadly swing and thirst for bloodshed. Red splashed across his front and dotted his teeth. He wore a small smile as he cleaved a man with armor in two. There was a crunch and a grunt as he shattered onto the floor.
Anryn was behind him, he believed. Part of his biggest problem with fighting in crowds wasn't that he was big enough or strong enough, he was. But he was best when it was just a one-on-one fight. He was a wrecking ball of destruction. He could not see very well. With only very poor sight in one eye, he had a massive blind spot that put him at a disadvantage. He could take out a lot of the attackers, but certainly not all. He needed to drop his sword and vanish as quickly as he could. Not yet, though. He didn't see a clearing.
It was because of this that he didn't see the girl with the poisoned knife. She was a tiny human in all black, red lines painted across her face.
Kia paused to catch his breath. His broad chest rose and fell, panting. He wasn't a swordsman. He used his broadsword as if it were a weighted club without any real practice or skill. He motioned for more. Come at me. He was surrounded by meat, organs, and carnage. Perhaps he was home free. No one dared challenge him. Except one.
"You owe me one!"
Kia turned to look over his shoulder. He squinted. Anryn dove between him and a flying throwing knife that sliced through the air.
"Anryn!" he shouted. He ran towards her, dragging his sword behind him. The tip of the blade left behind a trail of red across the dust.
The dagger pinned Anryn in her abdomen. He saw her pull it out and throw it back in a twirling arc. Then she wobbled and collapsed. He called her name again. "Anryn!"
Anryn nicked the girl with the throwing knife.
"No!" the human cried, seeing the slashing cut on her thigh. "You've killed me!"
Anryn's attacker stumbled back. No, Kia thought. I have killed you. He lifted his sword above his head with both hands. His grip was tight and his swing was sure. He crashed it through her skull as if he were splitting wood. He saw the surprised, wide look on her face before he ended it with a thunk. Her head split in two. He released the hilt of his weapon, not even bothering to try to untangle the mess of bone, blood, and steel.
He had more important matters to attend to.
The battle was bloody and quick. The majority of people were either dead or scattered. Fires still smoldered and colored, sick, poisonous smoke still fogged the atmosphere. But he knew the peace would not reign for long. Now was the window of opportunity to escape. More soldiers would come, and Unquenched would be drawn by the sound of chaos and smell of blood. Like carrion birds, they would see this as a feast.
He lifted Anryn into his arms, cradling her to his chest. She was losing blood, but not so quickly that he thought that was the main concern. It was the strange blue pallor of her skin and the swollen tongue. He lifted her blouse enough to see the problem. Black skin, creeping from the wound like a shattering star.
He had seen this before; it was a deadly poison the humans used. It was collapsing her veins and infecting her blood. They needed to escape, but that was useless if she was just going to wilt and die in his arms within the next few minutes.
Swiftly, he scanned the stalls that still stood. Like a bee, he went from counter to counter, glancing at the labels and markings. He searched for anything that said "antidote," "anti-venom" or "cure" and stuffed it into his pockets. He supported her with one arm as he broke and scattered vials and potions in his mad haste. He was running out of time. His mind was spinning in a flurry of stress and adrenaline.
He knew that if he was going to be of any help to Anryn he needed to stop, slow down, and think.
Gently, he set her small body down on a wooden, market-stall countertop that once held trinkets, jewelry, and baubles. He tugged her blouse open to examine her wound. It was a human poison, he knew. Fast acting. He had seen it before. It was cheap, common, but effective. It came from a plant. He scanned all the vials he had collected, dropping the ones he knew were useless.
He found a common antidote, used for poisons such as this. He tugged the cork off with a pop and dribbled some on the wound. The rest he tipped into her mouth.
He was no medical doctor, no healer, and certainly not an expert on poisons. He knew the very basics from when he observed one of his men poisoned with a very similar wound. The West Lion was once attacked by human pirates, and they used the same tactic. The man lived, but Kia was not the one who administered the antidote. He was busy battling and barking out orders to save his ship.
Several minutes ticked by. It seemed like an eternity. He kept his guard heavy, his eyes upward and scanning the area for possible threats. He watched for movement. At any moment, a guard from above ground or below would appear. Or a hungry Unquenched. Anything. The Market was eerily silent and empty. Everyone had fled. He had never, ever seen it like this in his entire life. It was a graveyard, the aftermath of a great battlefield. Yet there was a thick sense of anticipation lingering in the air. Something was about to happen. He could feel it tingle in the pores of his skin and rattle deep in his bones. He was well aware that authorities would soon come to clean the mess and arrest anyone standing. He found a fallen saber on the ground and tucked it into his belt. For miles, all he could see was a haze of colored cloud, broken stalls, dead or injured men and women on the ground, and flickering fires.
The swelling was going down in her tongue. Anryn coughed and color was returning to her face. Her breathing seemed less labored, meaning her airways were no longer as restricted. She may live a little longer. But he absolutely needed someone to tend to her that knew what they were doing. Now that the poison was dealt with, he needed to slow the bleeding.
He tore down a colored, pattered scarf with beaded trim from the market stall. It was something a woman would have bought and used for a stylish shawl. He looped it around her waist in place of a linen bandage. Then he carefully picked her up again into his arms. He treated her as if she were made of delicate porcelain, yet she still groaned in pain.
He trudged through the scattered debris and dodged jagged edges of broken stalls. He avoided slick stains of blood and colored liquid. His boots crunched over broken glass and discarded food. Through a haze of sooty smoke, he could see one of the stone arched doorways that led back into the safety of the sewers.
As he carried her towards the exit, he saw someone coming. There was a pale face and a shifting in the darkness through a veil of putrid yellow fog. Kia halted his steps.
It was an Unquenched.
She was drawn to the surface by the noise and smell of carnage and blood.
Her eyes were bulging and pink. He could see that she had not been cared for, had not been fed. She was a mindless undead, a zombie. She was in her final stages of decay and rot. Her ribs were gray bars that protruded from her withered, dried stomach. She walked with a limp, as if her joints were detaching from her frame. Her jaw was dislocated and hanging loosely from her skull. Unlike Unquenched that ate flesh regularly and were able to fight the madness, she could not be reasoned with or spoken to. She was just a monster.
Her eyes burned as she saw fresh, living meat. She wanted to devour Kia and Anryn.
The Unquenched forgot the dead that were scattered in the Marketplace and instead began to slowly lumber towards him.
Kia ran with Anryn in his arms. He was not the fastest, but he still had a saber at his side if he needed to fight. What he did not know was that the Unquenched was only the first of many to come. Through the chaos, a dozen or so had been freed from the underworld of the sewers and were slowly snaking their way to the surface.
The archway doors to the marketplace were scalloped and wide. He avoided the door that the Unquenched was stumbling from and instead dashed through the black archway on the west end. It seemed quiet and still. He vanished into the darkness without looking back. He could hear the Unquenched's shuffling, broken feet against the stone as she tried to catch up to him. He continued to run until the silence began to rush through his ears.
He panted. Although the sewers were damp and cold, he was glazed in sweat. He stopped and looked at Anryn. Still breathing. She seemed stable. She was warm in his arms, probably feverish, he thought.
Why, why did this matter, he wondered? He had a lover, Arie. Anryn was just a lowlife pirate captain with a bad reputation whose partnership was forced upon him by Lillandyr. He could leave her to die, couldn't he? It didn't really matter, did it? All of this, he thought, for some stupid trinket idol that was still stashed safely in his pocket.
He ought to leave Anryn here. Save himself. He and Shadowglade would be even, and be done with it. He could collect the favor she owed him. Go home. Back to his world of drugs, gambling, and prostitution where he lived as a monarch in his filthy kingdom.
All of this, because what? One of his men was fucking Lillandyr's whores? It wasn't even Tyrin. Tyrin's only crime was sleeping with Arie. He was dead now as a result.
He found as he trudged through the sloppy sewer muck with Anryn dying in his arms that he didn't even care. He killed someone over something he didn't even give a shit about.
Maybe he could use the favor that Lillandyr owed him to save Anryn, he thought as he looked down to her pallid face and sprinkle of freckles. He brushed her hair aside with a sweep of his big, rough hand.
What else could he use it for?
Lots of things, he thought. Lillandyr was a powerful, influential woman.
And if he did leave Anryn in the sewers to die, who's to say that Lillandyr would retract her offer of a favor?
That was just a fucking excuse, he told himself. He sort of wanted to save her. He could feel her rattling, labored breathing in his arms in between the sucking sound of his boots sloshing through the sewers.
He stopped and looked around.
Where was he? Where was he even going? Every wall looked exactly the same and he hadn't been paying attention to the twists and turns. After he was done running from the Unquenched, he was lost in thought and it resulted in him being physically lost, too.
"Shit," he muttered quietly to himself. The word echoed and bounced down the empty corridors.
Anryn had saved his life. She kissed him and saved his life. He owed her a favor, too. He hoped it wouldn't be her last words. He could live with a lot of stains on his soul, but he couldn't imagine living with that one.
The kiss, he reflected. It was sweet and quick. She grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward expectantly. He didn't even get to bask in it until it was gone. It was wanting. It was warm, scorching, summer sunshine. He could have drowned in it forever. If they hadn't been fighting for their lives, he would have embraced her and shoved her down to the ground in a flurry of touches and tongue. He wouldn't have even cared where they were. They could be in a private bedroom or on the dirty floor of the public Underground Market. In his mind, it was just him and her, kissing and groping and holding one another. His heart thundered in the drums of war and passion. The kiss was all he ever wanted; he just wasn't aware of it at the time. It came too suddenly and was over too quickly.
But it was cold and stale in his memory. She was growing weaker and her skin looked ashen and gray. Her breath was steady but shallow. He may never taste her mouth again, he realized. And it was his fault; she took the poisoned dagger to save his miserable, worthless life.
He wasn't worth dying for. He was an old man, nearing his hundred and twentieth year, and a drug lord. He never did anything good in his entire life. He never fathered any children that he was aware of.
He didn't give to charity nor perform any worthwhile public service.
He could redeem himself with this one thing. He could try to save her, try to help her. Even if she wasn't worth dying for either – she performed an act of mercy to keep him alive. He needed to return the favor.
He prayed to his patron goddesses, the only divine deities he paid any mind to. Eryss, the goddess of the arts, and Ysimul, the goddess of fortune and luck. He beseeched them. Ysimul, he hoped, would hear his prayer and grant him... something. Anything. More time. A way out. Mercy, maybe. Not for himself, but for Anryn.
Blindly, he wandered the sewers. Nothing looked familiar. The graffiti tags and symbols painted on the walls that were meant to help travelers navigate the underground labyrinth instead only confused him and ran him in circles.
Everything began to look the same. He swore he passed the same torch sconce three times. He cursed and swore at the graffiti tags. Why did they need to be painted in alien pictographs? Strange, indecipherable markings and whimsical words, phrases and pictures were not helping. He needed a clear message. An arrow. A shaft of light. He needed some indicator that this was the way out. This was the way towards help and salvation. A leering, pink, three-legged animal with a menacing grimace did not tell him if he was heading north or south, or if he needed to turn left or right.
It was frustrating. He used to be able to read these. Why only now, while he was in a panic, did he seem to forget the Underground code?
He could give up. They could both die here in Seralah's sewer maze. He found a dry ledge and leaned against the curve of the damp, cold wall. He slid his back down until he sank to his knees. Carefully, he held Anryn's limp body to his chest and squeezed. He felt her skinny cheek press against his forehead. Despair wrapped her hooks around his throat and gripped firmly.
"I'm sorry, Stormcrow. ... Anryn," he whispered. "Gods help me, I don't know what to do."
He held her for what seemed like ages. His arms became stiff. Her breathing was ragged, labored, wet, but consistent. The water of the sewers gargled and strangled through the filthy muck. He heard rats scurry and distant voices echo. The conversations could have been miles away, carrying through the rounded walls of the drainpipes.
He wanted to die. He could die with her. Their bodies could be washed away and never found until they caught in some storm drain outside the city. It happened all the time. Undead and vermin could feast on their bodies as their final resting place. All because he was a failure and went on some useless journey for a trinket he was meant to give to the Marquis of the Flesh Quarter. He wanted to dig into his pocket and throw the stupid thing into the river. But he didn't have a free hand to do it with. It was all pointless, anyway.
It didn't seem fair. But then again, there were lots of things that weren't fair. He had made a lot of bad choices. A lot of stupid choices. If he had only told Lillandyr to go fuck herself he could be home in a soft feather bed, beside Arie. Or he could be perched on the leather throne of his barge, holding a cigar in one hand and playing cards in the other. Gambling, laughing, and drinking with his captains, his friends, and a throng of beautiful women.
Instead, he was lost in a sewer pipe. Surrounded by death, rodents, and feces.
It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours that ticked by. He looked up...
He had never noticed it before. He swore he had circled the area at least a dozen times. There was a large opening, a turn he missed. A doorway. It was right there in front of him, across the river. It had been staring at him the entire time he was sitting there.
It was a dry path. A small shaft of cold, blue light fell from a drain high above, illuminating the tunnel. It was not the blaring beam of lights and angel-blasting trumpets he had hoped for, but it was the next best thing. It was a walkway he had not been down before, he was sure of that. The stream of light allowed him to briefly glimpse the sky. It was nighttime, past midnight, at his best estimate. He slowly stood – arms and legs aching and creaking as he rose from his crouched position – and stepped across the sewer river into the new tunnel he discovered.
It was oddly quiet. Peaceful, serene. The blast of chilly night air made it smell fresher, less stagnant. He felt a flicker of hope. Wherever this tunnel would lead, it would lead him towards help. This was the way he was meant to go. Down the winding path and dryer land, he felt compelled to walk, knowing it would save their lives.
He closed his eyes briefly as he walked. He knew that this was luck. This was fortuitous. This was the answer from the goddess. Sometimes the gods do not speak loudly, but in whispers, secrets, and winks. It shimmered in his mind like a flipped, golden coin that landed heads up.
And he held his head high.