Going Feet First Ch. 06

"Before we get into some pleasantries, though, I gotta handle an unwelcome someone who'd climbed onto my undercarriage on the way here," the Private warned, standing up and shuffling to the edge of the wagon.

He sucked in a breath, letting out it slowly as he closed his eyes and firmed his grip on his weapon. Gritting his teeth he leapt, landing on his feet and rolling forward with his rifle tucked close. Steel clattered against stone as he reached the end of his roll, and just as he spun to face his wagon, the stowaway was upon him in a fury of fur and claws.

Going on instinct, Galen struck out with the end of his rifle, the butt plate slamming into a forehead as claws raked both his cheeks. The Neko collapsed onto Galen's legs in a daze as the Private himself cursed and scrambled away. When he was out from under the armored feline, he pulled his left hand away from his rifle and touched his cheek to check for blood.

"What is that creature?" Jrastra questioned from the wagon, Galen's ears tuning into the frustration in her tone.

"Goltrai vorkrim col," grumbled the Neko, its voice drawing the Private's attention back to him.

A bloodied face glared at him with bright orange eyes glowing from the light of the street lamps, and in and instant Galen brought his rifle to the ready with his finger closing in around the trigger ready to fire. Those bright orange eyes blinked. The Private did the same as both parties paused as they recognized one another. Wary of the end of the weapon sitting a few hand-widths from his face, the Neko slowly raised his hands and pulled his hood back, revealing his golden hair and matching fur.

"You," Galen muttered, holding his aim on one of the first faces to greet him to this world back in Atzla. "You're that Ra'zorlich... that officer from my first day in Atzla. What were you doing on my cart? Your people don't leave your lands!"

"The last encounter we had, Galen," Farok started while cautiously pushing himself off the ground and slowly standing, "I was still a Hunt-Commander, both my Shadow Stalkers were alive in the barracks, and your friend was still bleeding out from a wound in his leg."

A killing glare creased the Private's face and his finger tensed on the trigger. "How do you know my name?"

The Neko touched a hand to his forehead and growled as he found a crimson coating on his palm. "Because that friend of yours told me back in the Willher village."

"Michael?" Galen questioned, his shoulders dropping and his back stiffening. "Why would he...? You better not have touched him, or Mila!"

"Calm, Galen. I have not harmed any of your friends. Michael, in fact, had given me a message for you when I found you. That he was... Ten four, and into a fold."

The Private blinked, taking a step back and lowering his weapon. "Ten-four, huh? Alright... Alright, I'll buy that. That's actually pretty good to hear. But why did you come here? Why were you looking for me?

"Because you have something dear to me. Or rather, someone," the Neko stated, fighting off his own urge to growl.

Captain Devon and knight Aius were both dismounted and positioning themselves behind Farok with swords drawn. Two pairs of red eyes were also watching from the slot window at the back of the prison wagon. A sudden wave of crippling energy pulsed, nearly causing the three humans present to blackout. Farok wavered in his stance, but quickly recovered and planted a hand on his sword.

What the Private thought to be a fatal trick of empathy was blown off by the Neko.

"Stop that," the former Ra'zorlich growled, one eye twitching as he glared at the wagon behind him.

Galen glanced in the direction of Jrastra's scowling eyes, and when he felt her gaze shift to him, he gave a subtle shake of his head. The Commandant's influence withdrew moments later though it did not cease. Sensing this Farok brought his attention back to the soldier before him, who in turn lowered his thunderstick.

"We can talk on the way," Galen said, moving toward the cart. "But we gotta be quick, as we ain't got much time. I want to know why would Michael trust you in the first place, and why were you on my cart?"

Farok frowned, "To your first question, I provided aid to Michael and his new clan when my tribe attacked. Answering your second question, I needed into the city. The day was too risky and that your cart was the one I managed to board this night was either luck or fate."

"Why did you need in the city?" Galen asked.

"To find you," was the Neko's immediate reply. "More specifically, my assassin that you took into your service. Petra. What have you made of her?"

"Made of her?" Galen retorted. "A... friend I guess... she's here in the city, to find a slaver that kidnapped someone else that was with us."

"Your Elf," the ex-Huntmaster surmised.

Galen's brow rose over wide eyes, "How do you-"

"I learned of her when I was told what state you left with Petra. As I said, I helped fight off an attack my former tribe attempted on the Willhers, and both them and Michael were very forthcoming with information afterward. I harbor no ill-will toward you Galen, I wish only to seek out Petra, to know she is well."

"If Petra is one you to seek," Captain Devon interrupted, sheathing his sword, "I know exactly where she is."

.......

Nearly four stories separated the guard from the ground when he peered over the edge of the castle's outer wall. If he fell, there would only be the square slabs of the stone street to cushion his fall. And one sloppy mess to mop up. Breathing deeply he stepped back from the battlement to his post overlooking the gate. Gazing over the edge was only an invitation to fall.

Of course I get the Deadman shift, he thought, glancing toward the moonless sky before scowling at the dim lantern lights scattered about the city streets. Can't see shit out here.

Shifting his gaze he scanned over the rooftops of the city. In his periphery he could spot faint silhouettes of the nighttime archers at their posts, watching over the city for any suspicious activity. Just as they had for the past... ever since the war with the Drow was declared.

How the city had changed since those days before the fighting. The streets were always moving, then. Even at night. Guards were a shadow in the wall, silently watching rather than making their presence clear whenever they saw the opportunity. The streets also weren't so crowded then. The city hadn't been cut-off for weeks at a time without a single inbound trade caravan. Nobody had to rush to the market everyday just to try and get their hands on what goods did manage to make it in.

But thank the war for the choke up in trade. Thank the king for what the people of Redding received from the attempts to raid the underground. Hundreds of men gone in a single week. Paranoid rumors of spotting Drow moving at night within the walls. The endless presence of men like himself prowling the streets, watching for trouble or hints of sabotage. The crackdown on anyone who wasn't human. The "Knife-ear decree:" that single royal order to oust or slay all Elves in the city.

Shifting his feet the castle guard breathed out and rolled his shoulders to loosen up his back muscles. These dark days had to end sometime.

"Open that gate!"

What?

He hadn't taken two steps before the wall started rumbling below him. Mechanisms groaned, steel clanged and rattled, men heaved, and at the end of it all, the iron grate began to rise. Peering over the side of the wall the guard caught the sight of a metal prison wagon approaching the castle gate on the main street. From the street lights he could make out two men driving the wagon in, with two cavalrymen flanking them on either side. Just as a final clack sounded to signal the locking mechanism had engaged to hold the gate open, the double doors swung outward under the power of five men per door.

When the envoy was inside the walls, the door was shut again and the grate's lock released to slam the defense shut in two heartbeats. At once the guard moved to the other side of the battlement to see the wagon and its two escorts turn onto the ring road that encircled the brightly lit courtyard. At the castle's front door, five of the Orrorein, the King's personal guard, stepped forward. Blood red, plate armor gleamed on their bodies with a fearsome shine as the wagon stopped at the steps leading up to them.

The two horsemen dismounted, as did the wagon drivers. Even from a distance the man on the wall could identify the silver trim and purple kilt of Captain Devon as he went forth to speak with the men of the Orrorein. After only a short conversation, one man got sent back into the castle while the other four came to arms around the wagon under the Captain's direction. The driver went to the back of his cart with the guards at his back, pulling a blue light from his pocket while his partner opened the doors. A hooded figure stepped out, one shorter than any man there, followed by a second person of identical stature.

Devon stepped forward and pulled the hood down from one of the prisoners, revealing a long flow of distinctly white hair with a pair of long, pointed, black ears sticking out the side.

"Goddess be damned..." muttered the guard on the wall. "It's finally happening."

.........

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Every breath was calm as sunrise over the pond as they cycled through Petra's feline nose. Given his current state of awareness, Flak was almost jealous. With one eyebrow arching down over his right eye while the left kept fully open, he watched the Neko nap in her corner of the cell with an almost religious focus.

No coherent thoughts ran his mind, no philosophical chain of questions and answers, he simply watched his cellmate sleep more soundly than anyone he'd seen sleep in months. What rest he was able to get himself only ever came in three to four hours stints, and as Petra had told him: he whimpered and tossed about like a kitten under a show of lightning.

I'd snap someone's neck for a cigarette right now.

"Anyone come by?" a drowsy voice asked.

Flak blinked and lost his cockeyed stare for a more neutral expression as the Neko began to stir. "Nothing. Not even meals or to change my bandage. And if I don't get food soon, I'll chew out these bars and go hunting."

"Appetizing," Petra said, stretching her arms across the floor and raising her rear in the air to arch her back down. "How long do you figure we've been here?"

A narrowed gaze focused on the bipedal feline as she sat back on the pads of her feet, though after a shake of his head, the Staff Sergeant responded, "A day at least. You wrote off at least seven hours in your nap there."

"Hmmm, again with this 'hour,' your way of keeping time makes no sense," Petra mumbled as she pulled one arm across her chest to stretch out her shoulder.

"Deal with it," Flak stated. "I don't give a flying-"

He went silent before Petra had the chance to shush him. Steel was tromping down against stone at the rhythm of a walking pace. In an instant Flak was on his feet and cracking his knuckles in anticipation. He stepped close to the bars of the cell and just stood silent as Petra positioned herself behind him.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a low voice.

"Getting out of here. Coming?"

"What of Captain Devon?" her voice in a whisper as the footsteps drew closer.

"Fuck him," Flak whispered back.

The door to the room opened, a lone guard coming through with a tray of bread, meat, and two canteens. Flak snapped his hand out to grab him by the chainmail on his chest. There was a short yelp before he was slammed face first into the bars of the cell, once, twice, then three times. The tray fell, landing with a relatively quiet clatter as it came down on the bread while the canteens gave a solid thunk when they hit the stone.

Holding the unconscious troop upright, the Sergeant turned to Petra and said, "Pockets."

She nodded and instantly set to patting down the pouches hanging off the guard's belt. A knife hit the floor beside Flak's feet, then a pair of silver coins, bandages, then a pipe.

"Found his keys," Petra announced.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he said with relief.

"Sweet who?" the Neko wondered, tuning to find her human cellmate scooping the pipe off the floor and whiffing its contents. She raised an incredulous eyebrow as he jabbed a finger down into the packed tobacco then took a deep inhale of whatever scent came out. She took note of his puzzled look as he then started to examine the pipe itself.

Flak caught her glance and shrugged nonchalantly before refocussing on his treasure.

"Humans," she muttered as she went to get the lock on the door.

"Don't even start with me," he grumbled as the tumblers clanked and the door squealed open. He stormed past the feline and went right for the torch on the wall and held the pipe up to the flame just long enough for the contents to start burning. When he brought it to his mouth and sucked in, a sweet sigh of relief came out along with the lungful of smoke.

"That's good," he grinned before sucking in another breath and leaving the pipe in his mouth. "Now let's roll."

Ignoring Petra's puzzled look, he scooped a canteen off the floor with a piece of bread and stepped out into the hallway. Munching as he went, he took a quick look right, toward the stairwell past the ten other rooms housing more cells and possible prisoners. But after biting off another hunk from his snack, he turned left and started into a swift walk.

"Flak," Petra called out, trailing after him.

He swallowed what he had in his mouth then tossed the rest aside. After a quick swig from the canteen, he hooked it to his belt and burst into a full sprint toward a door at the end of the hall. Without slowing down he reared up and drove his boot into the door handle, smashing the door through its frame and around on its hinges to crash into the wall. Two men were inside the room, both of whom were scrambling to get themselves off the floor after they fell from their chairs.

In full charge Flak bolted to the first troop and came down with a heavy fist smashing across his jaw with enough force to slam his head into the floor. Petra leapt past them onto the second guard, slamming him into the ground and pressing her fingers onto the sides of his neck until his eyes fluttered shut. Both the men unconscious, the two stood and took in their surroundings.

The two unconscious bodies lay next to their upturned chairs, their playing cards still in their place on the table. Right next to two near-empty bottles of wine. Flak rolled his eyes and moved to inspect the footlockers lining the sides of the room. At the other end of the room Petra was inspecting a board that held a pair of iron-backed, double doors in place. Marks in the wood indicated its recent and frequent removal from its place as well as a sweaty stench drifting out from the seams of the portal.

"This is where you fuckers stashed it."

The Neko turned to see Flak pulling items from an open footlocker, namely a hand-boom weapon like to one Galen carried along with a pair of knives and other things. Leaving him to collect his equipment, she looked to the sign over the door before her and frowned as she made out what it said.

The Hole.

Now curious, she lifted the board out of its place and threw it aside. Following the deep breath she took to ready her nose, she pushed the barricaded door open and let an overwhelming male musk flood out.

"Oh, Christ," Flak cursed, tossing his pipe aside and using his sleeve to cover his nose. "Did you just crack open a stash of rotted gym socks?"

Gagging, Petra covered her face with one hand and grabbed a torch off the wall beside the door. This new, dark room was only five paces deep, three wide. Its only furnishing being a wooden cross with a body lashed to it in a spread-eagle position.

Flak stood up with a deep frown arching his brow. He walked up behind his feline partner and gently nudged her aside so he could inspect this new-found prisoner.

Her skin was like tar with both its natural color and how tacky it had become with her sweat. Scabbed wounds over her nude body spoke to the Sergeant of abuse, with the dried fluids on her thighs screaming of something worse. He brushed her matted, snow-white hair aside and leaned in to hear weak breaths struggling to pass over cracked, dry lips.

"Petra, blanket," he ordered. "Something to cover her with. I'll cut her down."

The Assassin was gone in a second as the Marine pulled his knife off his hip to slice the binds holding the prisoner's hands above her head. For a moment her eyes opened to watch as he brought his blade up to her wrists. A relieved look came to her as she struggled to find her strength for words.

"Finally... killing... me?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Flak looked to her with questioning look before cutting the rope binding her right hand to the cross. Her whole right side slumped right over into the Sergeant's arms as though there were not a muscle on her bones. When he had a firm grip on her torso, he cut the rope holding her left side up and lifted her smoothly over his shoulder. Considering she was two heads shorter than him, Flak wasn't surprised how weightless she felt. Then again, he could also feel the definition of her ribs.

Sheathing his knife, he carried the alien woman out of her dark room and into the lit one he came from. As gently as he could, he slid her off his shoulder and laid her on the floor. In the torch light he could start to see purple discolorations in her ashen skin; the raw, purple-grey flesh around her wrists where the ropes had been rubbing for some time.

Frowning, but genuinely curious, he brushed her greasy, shoulder-length hair aside and observed her elongated ears sticking out off the sides of her head. Then she opened light, maroon-colored eyes, her brow furrowing in the torch light.

"Never see... a Drow before... surface crawler?"

Flak shook his head a negative then turned his attention to her injuries. "Nope, never... I'm not seeing any serious injuries aside from your wrists, how long have you been stung up in there?"

The Drow frowned as the human stood and went to one of the bodies that she realized to be a dead, if not dying, prison guard. "I don't know... the moon was only a dying sliver when I saw it last..."

A fearsome scowl was planted on her rescuer's face as his gaze turned from her wrists to her face. His teeth ground in his mouth as he then stood and stepped away from the "Drow." Using what strength she could muster, she turned her head to see him tear a sleeve off one of the unconscious men on the floor and snatch up one of the wine bottles off the table. Dousing the cloth in wine he returned to her side and ripped the already-torn sleeve right up the middle.

"Mo-ther-fuck-ers," he growled under his breath as he wound the cloth around her wrists.

"I'm back," Petra declared as she entered the room, carrying the cloak that had been worn by the guard who had come to feed them. "We have to hurry. One of them already came to check on his friend. I put him out before he could yell, but more are bound to come soon."

Flak nodded and took the canteen off his hip to offer it to the Drow as he helped her sit her up. "Get some water into you. Can you walk?"

With shaky hands she took the container and struggled to life it to her mouth. After a good, long drink she nearly spilled the rest on her lap trying to set it down gently. Frowning at her weakened state, the Drow shook her head. "I haven't stood on my own for days and everything hurts... I need time."