Silas
Silas kicked his heels into the mare, urging her forward. She was well-trained, and she moved immediately at his request. To his left, the fire still burned fiercely, and he could hear the screaming of the rest of the horses as the flames began to overtake them.
"Damn that man," he cursed, thinking of Roque. He had sounded so apologetic, right before he had set fire to the stables. Never mind that he had just killed two people, and at least half a dozen steeds.
There was a large pen behind the stables, where the Old Oak and many of the other nearby taverns kept their livestock. Silas aimed the horse that way at a trot, trying to look inconspicuous to anyone who happened to wander outside.
"If anyone wanders outside at a time like this," he muttered. Nobody wanted to be witness to his soldiers collecting a Cursed.
It was a fact that cost him.
"He escaped," someone shouted from down the street. Silas turned his head, and saw a group of soldiers on horseback, coming his way.
"Too damn obvious out here," he said. He took the flat of his blade and smacked it against the mare's rear, causing it to launch into a gallop. He heard the soldiers gather momentum behind him. "I hope you're a good runner," he cried.
Hooves pounded the earth, and they headed straight for the livestock pen. "And a good jumper," he shouted as they reached the fence. The mare bunched itself up and sprang, clearing the gate with a few inches to spare. Silas smacked his tailbone as they landed, unused to the force.
Pigs, chickens, and lambs scattered in front of them, and Silas steered the horse hard, turning it left and right in as much of a zigzag as he could manage, sure that the soldiers behind him would be stringing their bows and preparing a volley of arrows.
Word would spread quickly of this man who had defied an army, and within minutes he would be boxed in. Within hours the entire contingent of his soldiers assigned to Root would be searching for him, and if he didn't do something fast, he would be captured by nightfall. He could only wish his death would be quick, but he had no doubt Penticott, or whoever replaced the man, would want revenge for his disobedience and lawlessness. There was no clean end there, only painful torture.
He reached the other side of the pen and the horse leaped again, once more clearing the barrier. Silas heard the arrows now, whistling towards him and thunking into the wooden fence. He knew it wasn't because the soldiers were poor shots, but because firing an arrow from a moving horse was hard, no matter how good you were.
He turned the horse to the right, heading it down Fillion Road. The dirt street had been named after Olik Fillion, a wealthy merchant who owned many of the storefronts along the road. There was only one way he might get out of this alive. He knew he needed to make it to the Wharf.
To do that, he had to get past the two soldiers who rode out in front of him, one hundred feet ahead, their bows coming level in a hurry.
Shooting arrows from moving horses was hard. Firing from stationary mounts was much easier. Silas ducked down low, trying to get as much of his body behind that of the horse as he could. There was nowhere to turn around, and no way to go anywhere but forward. He would either be shot dead right now, or he would smash his way through their barricade.
He was close enough to hear the twang of the bowstrings. A second later the horse let out a shrill cry, and he felt the front legs lock and then collapse. He picked himself up off the mare so he could see ahead. The soldiers were still twenty feet away, and they were preparing another round. His ride was about to fall face-first, two arrows fired perfectly into the heart of the animal.
Looking back, he didn't know how he had done it. If he would have told the tale that very night, he wouldn't be able to explain. In the moment, he didn't question. With smoothness and grace, he pulled his feet up and balanced on the back of the horse, shifting his weight and bringing the sword up ahead of him as it began tumbling to the ground. He allowed the momentum to pull him forward, throwing him forcefully towards the two soldiers, still in the middle of notching another arrow.
Then he was in the air, sword raised over his head, approaching the men fast. He could see their shocked expressions when he arrived, and his sword came down and around in a wide arc. He felt the blade biting into the flesh of their necks, first the one on the right, and then the one on the left, his arm getting yanked by the resistance of bone. He was forced to let the blade go in order to come down, tucking his front shoulder under and hitting the ground with more agility than befitted a man his age.
He rolled off the velocity and jumped to his feet, turning to check on the soldiers. They had both fallen from their horses. One still had the sword wedged in him.
Silas shook off the pain in his left arm and ran back to the men, reaching down and retrieving the blade, and then pulling himself onto the saddled warhorse.
"Thanks for the ride," he said to the corpses, whirling the steed about and heading away. He wished he was safe, but he still heard shouting; the soldiers at his rear catching up to their downed comrades.
He pounded through the town, leading the soldiers through Root, and taking a circular route to the Wharf. He needed to lose them before he dared enter the area.
Silas screamed and shouted as he crossed through Apple Square, a smaller outpost on the east bank where a small crowd of people were buying fresh produce brought in from the nearby farms. His new mount was a soldier's steed, and it charged towards and through the crowds without hesitation, forcing the people to jump out of its path before they were trampled. The soldiers chasing him were falling further and further behind, his lighter clothes proving to be very beneficial in the overall speed and stamina of the mount.
As he turned the corner out of Apple Square, a soldier jumped out in front of the horse, sword raised. Silas knew what he intended to do, so he pulled back hard on the reins and shouted at the horse, a command he didn't know he knew and couldn't recall after he had said it. The horse reared up and lashed out at the soldier, catching him in the face with a hoof and snapping his neck. Silas urged the beast forward once more, and rode for two more blocks, approaching the outer edge of the Wharf. Seeing a wagon of fruit up ahead, he slipped over so both his legs were on the right side of the saddle and held on, balancing awkwardly and waiting for just the right moment.
"Good luck, my friend," he said to the horse when they reached the wagon. He let go of the saddle and the reins, allowing himself to fall face-first into the assorted fruit. It squished below him, coating him with sticky juice and soaking through his clothes, but it also broke his fall. The owner, seeing Silas, started running over, until the older man held up his blade. Then Silas turned and ran down the alley he had aimed for, while the horse continued to run.
The Root Wharf was hardly a wharf at all. For one, it didn't actually rest on the shore of the Baden, but rather sat towards the east wall of Root, away from the river. For another, it wasn't a center of commerce, but instead the place where the most underhanded of dealings occurred in the town. It was the home of the underground market; the thieves, mercenaries, assassins, prostitutes, druggers and thugs. For travelers not looking for services there, it was merely the block of taverns, inns, and unmarked doors between Cistern and Essen streets. For everyone else, they knew to ask for the Wharf.
Silas knew about the Wharf. He had spent a few nights there, drinking himself to forgetfulness and waking up in a waste-filled gutter. The soldiers would look for him there too, of course, but if he had enough coin or trade, he would be able to find someone who would take him in and not rat him out. Reputation was surprisingly important to the underbelly of society.
So it was that he ran that way, three more blocks on foot, praying to Amman that he wouldn't cross the paths of any soldiers before he reached it.
Amman was with him, and he slowed to a walk as he reached the east side of Cistern, where pairs of large men stood on each corner, looking like they were just hanging around and talking, but really keeping an eye on everyone who went in and out of the Wharf. He nodded to them on the way past, and then hurried his walk until he reached a simple wood door, one of many attached to simple wood buildings. The door was painted red, and a bucket sat on the ground next to it, filled with water.
Silas knelt down and dipped his hands in the water, using it to wash the fruit juice and dirt away from his face. He took another handful and ran it through his hair, slicking the length of it back out of his eyes. Having made himself presentable, he turned the bucket over and knocked.
The door opened right away. He knew they had been watching him from the moment he approached it, though he wasn't sure where from. The inside was dark, and filled with smoke, making it difficult to see where he was going. He had no choice though. He stepped in.
The door closed behind him, and someone took up a position at his back. He was in a small shop, with wood planked floors that led to a basic counter, behind which sat a heavy man in a red tunic and trousers. A candle flickered next to him, allowing him to read.
"Silas, is that you?" he asked, without looking up. "You smell like a whore."
Just because Silas wasn't interested in joining the underworld didn't mean he had no knowledge of it. He had met Rappett before, when he had sold him a pair of boots he had lifted from a nearby tavern. The man couldn't have needed them anyway, to have left them sitting below his table, instead of keeping them on his feet.
"I had a run in with a fruit wagon," Silas said, coming closer. Rappett looked up at him now, his small eyes taking him in.
"I see that. You're covered in seeds." He raised a pointed nose in the air and took a couple of breaths. "What I don't smell is ale. Oh, and you've shaved!"
"I've been dry for five days," Silas said. Or was it six? "I was locked up at the Constable's Office."
Rappett laughed. "What for?" he asked.
Silas sighed. "It's a long story. The short one is that I need somewhere to stay hidden, and I need safe passage out of Root."
"You also need some new clothes," Rappett said. "What do you have to offer?"
Silas stepped forward, raised the sword, and placed in down on the table. "This belonged to one of his soldiers. You know you won't find better quality."
Rappett looked down at it, then pulled the book out from under it. It clunked to the countertop. He lifted the book up and slapped it closed, bending down and putting it under the counter. Only then did he pick up the sword, sticking it into the candle light and looking it up and down. He put his thumb along the edge, and smiled when it drew blood with hardly an effort.
"You aren't lying," he said. "I can get good coin from the resistance for a blade like this. Tell me you killed the soldier to get it, and I'll even get you a nice warm bath and a woman for the night."
Murderer, the voice in his head whispered.
"I killed the soldier," he said, remorseful. He didn't want to have to kill, only protect the ones he knew were innocent. He'd had enough of death. He wondered if that was what he had tried so hard to forget.
"I'll take your protection, passage from Root, a warm bath, a change of clothes, and a sword. It doesn't have to be a good sword, just something that will hurt someone if I hit them with it."
Rappett laughed and shook his head. "This whole time I thought you were just some crazy old drunk. Now it turns out some of those stories you told me about being able to fight were actually true?"
Silas didn't remember telling him stories, but should that come as a surprise? He knew he could fight. He knew he had been one of his soldiers once, and somehow he had gotten out. Penticott said they served for life. How had he managed to escape? Or was there more to it than that? His hand absently drifted to his chest, where the long scar angled across his body.
"I'm almost as surprised as you are," he replied. Rappett laughed even harder at that, though Silas hadn't intended it to be funny.
"Follow me, Silas," Rappet said, pushing his bulk up off the stool he was sitting on. "Trevon, take the sword over to Elia's. Make sure you fetch me top coin."
Rappett led him through the back and into a storage room, filled with boxes of supplies like ropes and candle wax. He pushed a few of the boxes out of the way, revealing a hidden door, which he opened for Silas.
"After you," he said.
Silas climbed down at least thirty feet. When he came out, he was in a well-lit corridor, part of the network of tunnels that connected every building in the Wharf to every other building.
Rappett followed behind him, huffing and puffing when he reached the bottom. "Amazing, isn't it?" he asked. "Even more amazing is if the soldiers find any one of the trap doors, we can cause a collapse of that part of the tunnel before they can get anywhere else. Of course, the soldiers who know about the doors are paid well to keep their trap doors shut." He laughed at that, and took the lead.
They had gone what Silas guessed was two or three streets when they climbed another ladder. It opened up into a small room filled with wine barrels and kept behind an orange door.
Rappett knocked on it, three quick taps followed by three slow ones. The door opened, and a barely dressed woman appeared, her nearly see-through fabric made all the more diaphanous by the light of the candles behind her.
"I said no women," Silas barked. His mind cast back to the memory of the ship, sailing off over the great sea.
"Don't be stupid," Rappett said. "This is the best place to keep you safe. Soldiers tend to get... distracted when they come to visit Madam Toll's."
The woman reached out and grabbed Silas' arm, pulling him in through the door.
"He's paying for safe-keeping, a change of clothes, and a warm bath," Rappett told the woman. "You'll get all of that in there, Silas, and not a single thing more."