Avium Citadel – Pursuit
Insurrectionist literature and instances of graffiti have seen a marked increase across Avium civilian areas over the last weeks. Be advised: tensions between general population and Unitary membership strained, exercise caution on outings from Keeptown and review of leave priority suggested.
-General Bulletin, Keeptown
Administration
The barrel crashed behind them before Pica had even finished issuing the order to investigate the screams issuing from the early-morning darkness, Rusa dropping it abruptly as the squad was suddenly sprinting down the dark alleyway toward that distant, wailing call. They muffled their armor and gear as they ran, wrapping loose items tightly in scarves and holding weapons still with firm hands until they were as phantoms in the tight backstreets.
Scribe, overtaking Pica easily with his long strides, took a hard left down a seemingly random offshoot alley, separating from his friends and fading instantly into the darkness that had now come to envelop them completely. They paid his departure no mind, knowing not to question the actions of the strange man in times such as these; he was always there when it mattered most and what he got up to in the meantime, it was generally accepted by all, was his prerogative and likely for the best of all involved.
What Pica did note was the direction that they were traveling relative to the ever-present roof of the Maesters’ Tower perched high above the raised roads of Keeptown and the clifftop estates to the north. They were headed toward the dockyards, hurtling westward and erupting from an alleyway onto the same large road they had patrolled before.
Fourth Squad came to a skidding, shoving stop as the space opened before them in an instant and their eyes were momentarily befuddled by the murky, grey light floating over the rooftops from where the sea’s whitecaps could now be clearly heard lapping the stone beach to the west. They listened, actively straining against every natural sound of the slumbering city in their search for the cry that had sprung their headlong dash into the night.
Nothing answered their efforts and soon Pica was shifting uncomfortably as he tried to remember what exactly he had heard. Sily glared at him.
‘Why did you bring us back hear,’ she hissed, ‘did you take us down a wrong alleyway?’ At Pica’s silence to her question, she breathed a frustrated sigh. ‘I knew we should have followed Scribe when he cut, this is the third time-’
‘There!’ Simen almost shouted, cutting her off with a rough hand across her mouth and a glare.
The wail was there; faint and wavering in strength, it threatened to prove Sily correct and floated down over the rooftops to their north and east. Her brothers glanced at her and turned back without a word or look at Pica, seeking to retrace their steps and find a way fast way back to the north. Simen stopped them with a low whistle.
‘The docks,’ he ignored their glares, ‘we need to head to the docks.’
They didn’t respond, but neither did they turn away.
‘The sound is reflecting off the buildings of Old Heartwood, just like in the mountains.’ He paused for a moment as they considered this and smiled when they nodded. ‘It’s at the old docks.’
‘But why are we even chasing what now sounds like an alleycat looking for a mate?’ Sily asked, beginning to regret leaving the warmth and company of the Quarter now the prospect of a quick fight faded into the shady night of the dockyard streets.
Simen and Pica exchanged frowns, knowing exactly what she would say next and beginning to walk toward the curve ahead that hid the waves from view.
‘Damned hero complex.’
The ships of the old dock rocked rhythmically against their piers, the thick breakwater wall between them and the hulking Guardians standing their companionable watch way out in the foam of the stagnating tide. Fourth Squad peered warily into the shadowed masts above their heads, judging every tension and twitch in the lines as if behemoth spiders lurked in the rigging of the swaying ships they passed.
‘What in the name of the Protector are we doing?’ Sily hissed across the slopping of sludgy water against the piers’ stone pilings. ‘There is nobody here at all.’
Pica had to admit she was right, there was nobody to be seen anywhere along the docks at all. He found this strange.
‘And why do you think that might be?’ The de facto leader of the outing was becoming agitated at her second guessing and spun around to face her, ‘somebody, anybody, should be here. Even at this time of night.’
Rusa nodded haltingly, clearly unwilling to give any ground if it may weaken the standing of his fiery sibling to his front.
‘He’s right, Silybum. We’ve walked this beat around this hour before, they were already preparing to set out for the best catches along the southern Grey coast.’
The tall woman stretched herself taller, meeting Pica’s eyes squarely before turning dismissively to look around them more closely. She mumbled something to herself before turning back to her counter-agitator.
‘Something has scared them.’
‘Warned them more like.’ Alces added experientially as he exchanged glances with his hard-eyed brother. ‘We need to get out of here, something is wrong and I don’t think we are supposed to be here.’
As if in answer, a rolling blast of noise erupted to their northeast, consuming them and attempting to blow them down from the wooden decking. The soldiers braced together, Simen pulling Sily and Pica close to his chest as the massive twins strode unflinchingly forward to cover all three. The defensive reaction would have made Sergeant Tacca proud had she been there to witness it in the radiant orange that illuminated them from high above as a fireball of unimaginable proportion rose from the heart of Old Heartwood.
The streets grew narrower, jumbled as they moved, once more in pursuit of the night’s promised actions. Alleyways, some blocked before the explosion and others now buried under the remains of collapsed balconies, slowed the squad’s pace substantially; they were steadily drawn down increasingly inaccessible side-routes, noticing fresh masonry filling up pathways, windows, and doorways alike as they moved ever deeper into the maze.
Soon they could smell smoke and hear the popping, cracking song of greedy flame on ancient wood. It drowned out the wailing sound, growing into a roar as it fed on the natural airways of the city roadway.
A wide street appeared before them, old and dilapidated, but traversable enough for two abreast and largely straight; a primary thoroughfare by the looks of it, now cracked from long disuse, but once a clearly important road in this ancient neighborhood. A red glare was just visible above rooftops ahead, a false sunrise that came both too early in the day and from the wrong direction entirely. Something immense was burning just around the corner, screams forced their way past the rumble of the inferno.
The men at the front, renewing their efforts, led their friends onward at breakneck speed onto and down the wide road. As one, they jumped agilely over potholes and sewage channels, ducking smoothly under low washing lines and the occasional collapsed storefront as the end of their pursuit approached. After a final pile of rubble, fresh and still settling as pale dust flitted about them to grab onto their clothes, skin, and hair, they saw the glow coming from a side alley ahead. It was a hellish, infernal red haze, seeming to flow forward and leap as they slowed in their approach at the sight. There is no cowardice in fearing the flames, too many a soldier they had seen die a savage heat death while trapped within platemail or whose leathers melted to them as they screeched and attempted to tear the second flesh from themselves.
Simen was sweating from more than the exertion of the evening, and the smell of liquor and sour beer was quickly adding to the scent of unwashed body, smoke, and terror. He eyed Pica, shrugged the terror from himself, and charged forward.
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