Wychling

Chapter 13

He hauled himself up and squeezed himself into the tight window. His head and one shoulder went through, and he sought for some purchase to aid his entry. It was dark outside but inside there was no light at all, not even the moonlight helping, as he blocked it with his body. Muscles screaming, he surged into the tight gap, terrified of the unknown; his body unrelenting, despite his deepest gut instinct screaming of danger.

-When does it stop?- a terrifying and constant thought since he began his sprint from the rooftop.

He could run longer then he had ever been able to in his life thanks to months of hard living, but his body just wasn't meant to sustain the frantic sprint he had been forced into. His lungs burned, and he couldn't even use his arms to wipe sweat from his eyes of his own volition. It was like being stuck in somebody else's body.

He had no control of this, no choice at all, even his eyes refused to do anything but flit around in every direction, looking for threats, for quicker access, his legs never slowing a beat. Every part of his willpower strained but his body pushed on, uncaring, not even a twitch or hesitation to show for his efforts. His muscles had started cramping as he reached the tower that he knew was his destination, but even that just made him stumble; nothing made him stop. He supposed he was lucky he hadn't broken a leg.

Now different muscles were burning. He strained trying to force his broad chest through the narrow window, grasping the metal of his grapnel directly. His cloak button snagged, checking his progress at the exact moment a much smaller hand grabbed his. He pulled it into his body fiercely in his surprise. Not the wisest move given his current position, but it was the first voluntary movement he had made since locking eyes with that damned creature.

His movement checked there though, as he didn't have any idea of what to do next. Some warrior. His Father would have given him a lesson he would remember in his bones for not thinking ahead like that. Just because his body wasn't under control, didn't mean he had an excuse for not planning.

"Fine! Help your sodding self through then!" An indignant voice piped, as the small hand used a wristlock to leverage him effortlessly through the window and dump him onto the floor, shoulder first.

He rolled and stood quickly ready for a threat from any direction, but not expecting those familiar blue eyes immediately in front of him. Those same eyes that started this horrible, gut-busting, lung-searing flight. So close he could feel the Night Stalker's breath on his face, feel his whole body vibrate with the threatening rumble that it gave.

He didn't know if it was cowardice or the Compulsion that held him in place, perfectly still. In truth he didn't want to know. All that mattered was that he couldn't move a muscle. Rest at long last.

"Wild Man indeed. Bloody rude savage." The same high-pitched voice shot from behind him, circling to his right.

The creature shifted, transferring its gaze to the one who had unceremoniously assisted him through the window. He could finally look away from the bespelling eyes.

To his left was the window, the low levels of moonlight blinding him to the darkness that was the Night Stalker in front of him; who seemed to pull shadows to him like they were physical things. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he slowly made out more detail, then quickly shifted back as he smelled blood and realised just how big the Night Stalker was.

It was one thing to watch from across the rooftops, ostensibly safe. Now he could see what those bastard fanatics had, the last thing they had ever seen. When it registered that the beast hadn't already attacked, old instincts kicked in and he scanned the rest of the room.

Stood to his right; looking like he...no she, was about to throw a serious tantrum, was quite the dirtiest child he had ever seen. She was a stick thin, short haired, scrappy-looking thing that reminded him of his youngest. Always tormented by his older brothers till he launched himself at them. He never won those play fights, but he never, ever backed down either. Ulrich was waiting, with no little amusement, for the day he grew to the same size as the others.

This one had the same fierce expression reserved for those who punched below the belt on otherwise friendly fights. The kind of body language he imagined the Night Stalker would adopt if he started cooing at it. The simple cut of the trousers, shirt and cloak she wore lent her a certain anonymity on these streets. Half-wild in a town full of stray kids.

It was so odd he very nearly forgot his rage in a moment of utter bemusement. Then it all came crashing back, in a burning breath and aching limbs, the outrage of being a prisoner in his own body. His Brother, the Fat Monk, those electric blue eyes, his arrow sailing perfectly for his Brother's lung before a minor trick of fate threw him forward, and finally, running...running...like a coward. Losing the best chance he had had in six long months.

"Why am I here?" he whispered.

You would think that a shout would be the most visceral noise a person could make, but the venomed whisper that he forced past his teeth held all the violent promise of the first gentle breath of a hurricane.

"Suma says that you weren't safe...If the Watch hadn't caught you, you might have caught the Monk...and that would have been worse." The girl piped up, pausing as if listening in between the small snippets of explanation.

He glanced at the girl, then the creature. Then decided to shout at both of them.

"It's none of his damned business! Six months I've been searching! The first sight I get of them and he ruins my chance! Oh, and in case I forget, he takes all the laws of magic and shoves them..."

He stopped himself short, realising that he was shouting at a child. A child that looked very much like she had no idea what was going on. A child that might very well be a victim of that same magic. He turned on the Night Stalker snarling.

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself...Suma? And what in all the heavens and Mother Earth is your business bringing a child into this? Do you have no morals at all? Callous beast!" he raged.

Suma was baring an impressive set of fangs in his face before he even finished the sentence.

"Perhaps..." the child said, stepping between the furious pair and facing the Wild Man, in such a casual manner that it irritated both him, and the Night Stalker enough, to redirect their attention from the confrontation.

"...We should trade names before stories. It seems like you tangled yourself in our business as much as we did yours, stranger. My name is Talia, Tal for short...and you've met Suma. Now I believe it's only polite for you to offer a name as well..."

He paused but couldn't think of a reason not to. He wasn't exactly famous, or infamous, and only children and superstitious fools believed that names have power.

"Ulrich, Ulrich Longarm" he grudgingly offered.

"Well Ulrich Longarm, I need a needle and thread and some alcohol if you have it, so I can clean his wounds. In exchange for that I can tell you how I met Suma." Tal said with all the authority of your average hanging court Judge.

He gave his best stern look as he thought about her bargain. She simply stared back unimpressed. Furious as he was and outlandish as this child seemed, he needed information, and the Night Stalker might well have it.

That being the case he needed to keep within the child's good graces, as she seemed the only way to talk with the beast without suffering another invasion of his mind. He shuddered at the thought, still breathing like, well like he'd sprinted through the dark against all wishes of his mind, jumping across terrifying heights as if he had planned to. He shuddered.

-Anything but that-

He had no new leads on the Fat Monk and if the bastard had any sense, which he definitely did, he was lying low somewhere. Much as Ulrich was, albeit not of his own volition. Staying clear of the Watchmen was in both their best interest for the immediate future. Foreigners were apt to be blamed for trivial crimes like multiple murder. Especially when the arrow used to kill at least one of the victims matched the other twenty or so in his hip quiver.

He fancied his chances out there about as much as he did...well, as much as he did pouring the moonshine in his pack, onto an injured, two-ton Night Stalker in a confined space.

"Does this tower have any larger spaces? We may need some room." He finally offered.