Do It on Your Feet
“On yer feet, lad.”
The voice echoed through his head. “Stand up, lad. Whatever ye want to do, be it run, fight or talk, ye have to do it on yer feet.”
“But-” his voice trembled, cracked with fear, as the man pushed his booted foot down on his neck.
“No buts, lad. Ye cannot do anything with a boot on yer neck.”
The boy struggled against the weight. His muscles burned from exertion, the skin on his neck rubbed raw from contact with the boot.
“On yer feet, boy!” The pressure of the boot increased, the boy’s breath came in wheezing gasps. “Where’s the steel in your spine? The fire in your eyes? Do you even want to be free?” The boy breathed in, as deep as he could.
“On…your…feet!” The voice became a roar that drowned out all sound and all thought.
His eyes snapped open. He couldn’t see anything. Where was he? Who was he? The answers to these questions didn’t present themselves immediately, even as his senses returned to him.
First there was the pain. Everything hurt. His ribs ached, the muscles in his legs burned, his head felt like a Giant had given him a smack. He was vaguely aware of the ground beneath him, the grimy uneven cobblestones digging into his back.
Steel in your spine…
His vision came next. The world around him swam into a focus. A figure stood over him, bracketed by tall red brick buildings to either side, outlined by the clear blue sky overhead. The figure’s mouth moved as if in slow motion, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.
He could make out what the figure was wearing. Reinforced leathers, a soldier’s leathers, clung to a tall lanky frame. A deep purple cloak was thrown back to reveal a blade on his hip, on which his hand currently rested.
…fire in your eyes…
A purple cloak. All of a sudden he could hear. He could hear merchants hawking their wares, shipmasters berating their crews, mothers herding their children. He could hear the thundering footsteps of his pursuers rapidly getting closer.
“-hardly seem worth the effort,” the man in the purple cloak finished with a predatory grin.
…do it on your feet.
Every part of him hurt. His legs were jelly. He had to get away from the purple cloak.
Steel in your spine…
The mentuin opened his mouth, no doubt to speak another incantation like the one that had put the boy on his back in the first place.
…fire in your eyes…
He focused everything on the purple cloak, felt the power surge within him, envisioned the man tearing apart at the seams, disintegrating into his component parts.
…do it on your feet.
The mentuin screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his calf, and then the boy was up and sprinting, running for his life towards the mouth of the alley. He kicked the man in the head on the way out, just for good measure, and then he was on the docks.
This was a crowded thoroughfare, lined on one side by inns and taverns and shops of all descriptions, their colorful storefronts and signs inviting unwary tourists and sailors with more coin than sense. On the other side sat the Farglen river, flowing lazily westwards, promising freedom, if he’d only been quicker to act. The docks extended as far as the eye could see, as numerous as spines on a hedgehog, every one taunting him with the safety of a ship.
Gil, for his name was Gil he remembered now, thought fleetingly about the possibility of hopping on a ship. It was a child’s fantasy. His pursuers were too close for it to be a viable option. Nor could he duck into a shop. Bringing a drake down on an innocent shopkeep wasn’t something he wanted on his conscience.
Flood take me, I’ve a drake and a mentuin after me.
There was nothing for it but to duck into the crowd and hope he could lose the hounds nipping at his heels. The mentuin had ruined everything, coming around the front like that. He’d been so close to getting away, so close to freedom. But now he could hear the Queen’s dogs pounding down the alleyway behind him.
Steel in your spine…
He forced his aching exhausted body to move, darting to the left. If he could make it to Dimple’s Simple Slurps, he could use that alley to move further down the main road, then maybe cross to the Coin District. A banker there owed him a favor, he should be able to hunker down until the heat died out a little. Then he’d find work on a ship and leave Spearhead, leave Darang, maybe even go all the way to Kalzhir.
With a plan in mind, he moved with renewed vigor, expertly navigating the crowd. He was a familiar sight on the docks, and people shied away from him as he slinked amongst them. Normally, he’d be sneakier, and normally, he’d be annoyed at them moving away. At the moment, he was glad of his reputation as a sneakthief.
“Gil’s in trouble with the guards again!” Someone shouted, inciting scattered laughter from those who recognized him. The laughter was cut short by a scream of fear.
Gil chanced a look behind him and almost froze with terror himself. The drake stood a head taller than even the tallest orc in the crowd. It had golden scales that glittered in the bright sunlight, and its yellow crocodile eyes glowed with malice. He thought it must come from orc stock, for its maw had a hint of an underbite, with two razorsharp enlarged canines jutting upwards. Its full-plate was adorned with golden filigree, and a dragon in flight, the symbol of the Queen, rested on its breast.
The locals shied away from Gil, but everyone got out of the way of the drake. Gil bolted. He had been hurrying before, but now he sprinted, his long legs barely touching the ground, the crowd hardly a problem now. He knew that was dangerous, he knew that meant the drake had a clear view of him, but he didn’t care. If he could just get back into the alleys, he would be home free. He knew this city like the back of his hand. The drake never left the mountains, couldn’t possibly pursue him on his home turf.
He was 50 yards away from Dimple’s shop. He could already taste the warm meal the banker owed him. A squad of ten guards, weapons drawn, rounded the corner of the alley that was his target.
…fire in your eyes…
Without a moment’s hesitation, he dodged left into a different alley, knowing what he would find but unwilling to give up. He was at the end of the alley in 10 seconds. A dead end. His eyes darted around the building to his right, already planning a route up to the roof. He hadn’t wanted to take the rooftops, he didn’t think his muscles could take much more strain, but he had no choice.
He had just grabbed his first handhold, a place where the mortar had cracked and came away as dust in his hand, when he heard the voice. It was raspy and reptilian, betraying no emotion. It chilled him to the bone.
“Do not think about it, boy.” At the end of the alleyway stood the drake, flanked by two Queen’s men with swords drawn. Behind it, he could see three bowmen. Every single one to a man wore a grim expression, signaling that there would not be quarter given if he disobeyed.
He did think about it. He could probably scale the building before the swordsmen got to him, but not before the archers loosed their arrows.
Whatever you do, boy; fight, run, talk…
He backed away from the wall.
…die…
He drew his dagger and lowered himself into a fighting stance.
Do it on your feet.
