The heavy iron cleaver descends through the damp night air, its notched, rust-spotted edge catching the pale glow of the moon as it whistles downward toward Aldo's face.
The weapon carries the full weight of a desperate man's hatred, slicing a cold arc through the hanging river fog.
Aldo does not freeze. His boots slide backward across the slick, glistening cobblestones, his torso tilting by a fraction of an inch as the heavy blade shears through the empty space where his nose had been a millisecond before.
The cold wind of the swing stirs his hair, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of oxidized iron and sweat.
Too close. The weight of their swing is changing; they are getting tired, or desperate.
To his left, the shadows ripple. The old stone walls of Carravin seem to sweat in the midnight humidity, the dark mortar crumbling under the strain of the city's slow collapse.
Two masked rebel pikemen lunging from the gloom drive their long, rusted iron points forward in a synchronized thrust, the tips tracking straight for Comtois's unprotected ribs.
Comtois has nothing. His heavy service gear is sitting two miles away in the iron racks of the barracks, useless and cold.
His eyes snap to an overturned cedar banquet table rotting in the lane, its fine linens now soaked in grey dishwater and grease, its contents spilled into the muck. He dives, his large hands frantically snatching two massive, solid-silver serving spoons from the mud.
The pikemen press the attack, their boots crunching on gravel and discarded poultry bones. Comtois brings his arms up, crossing the heavy silver utensils in front of his chest like a pair of dual parrying daggers.
The first iron spear point drives in with the force of a battering ram. With a harsh, scraping shriek of metal on silver, Comtois uses the deep, concave bowl of the left spoon to catch the point, forcing the weapon outward with a violent, muscle-straining twist of his wrist.
The second pike slips past his guard, the tip tearing the cloth of his tunic and grazing the hair on his chest.
Comtois steps inside the man's reach, his center of gravity shifting forward as he jams the thick, blunt handle of the right spoon straight into the narrow, dark eye-slit of the pikeman's iron visor.
There is a wet, splintering crunch that vibrates through the spoon's silver stem.
"You think a bit of rusted scrap-iron scares a hungry conscript?" Comtois barks. He spits a thick glob of dark blood onto the stone, his teeth bared in a snarl that is more animal than man.
The pikeman lets out a strangled yelp, his weapon dropping as he stumbles backward into the deep shadows of the alleyway, both hands clawing at his face, clutching his shattered nose beneath the stained red cloth wrap. The red fabric darkens rapidly as blood soaks through the weave.
A sharp, rhythmic clicking sound echoes from above, dry and persistent like the legs of a thousands-strong locust swarm. High on the residential roof eaves, clay tiles shatter and rain down into the street, the small fragments bursting like gravel against the stones.
An Outlandish creature drops from the dark roofline, its multi-jointed, segmented scorpion legs striking the iron balcony railing with a violent, metallic clang that sets the nearby windows vibrating.
The creature ignores the nearest red-masked rebel entirely. Its grey, faceless mass twists, its long limbs flexing as it lunges straight down at Hano.
The creature's vertical, four-part jaw splits open from the center of its skull, revealing rows of translucent, needle-sharp teeth dripping with a clear, viscous slime that hisses as it hits the damp ground.
Hano screams. The sound is high, piercing, and thin with pure terror—the sound of a boy realizing his mortality in a dark alley far from home.
His empty hands scramble through the domestic debris clogging the gutter, his fingers locking onto the rim of a heavy, grease-stained ceramic platter still loaded with a cold, half-eaten roast of meat from some abandoned feast. With a frantic, full-body heave, he hurls the massive dish directly into the creature's faceless maw.
The ceramic explodes against the monster's face in a shower of white shards and dark gravy. The blunt force of the impact shatters the dish, jerking the creature's head backward and distracting its primary senses for a brief, critical second.
Use the noise. Use the distraction. They aren't thinking; they're reacting to the impact.
Before the beast can recover, a second Outlandish skitters out from the dark space beneath a porch. It moves horizontally along the ground, its needle-tipped tail sweeping through the fog in a low, vicious arc.
The bone-white tip catches an advancing red-masked rebel across the shins, tripping him violently into the dirt.
The fallen rebel loses his grip on his weapon, his hands flying out to brace his fall against the slimy stones. He has no time to roll.
The monster's vertical mouth descends, tearing instantly through his thick leather collar and the soft flesh beneath. The man's final scream is cut short by a wet, choking sound, proving to everyone in the lane that the bio-weapons are completely out of control, no longer recognizing the hand that guides them.
The nearby ferns growing from the mortar gaps droop, coated in the heavy, black mist exhaled by the creature.
Aldo's eyes track the sudden, erratic movements of the grey beasts.
They aren't targeting our uniforms anymore. They're just hunting. They're attacking anything that breathes, regardless of faction. The world is turning to meat.
His left hand drops to his tactical belt, his fingers wrapping around the cool, smooth glass of a small vial filled with alchemical fire-oil. He pulls it free, the fluid inside sloshing with an unnatural, thick rhythm.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Aldo smashes the vial against the damp cobblestones directly at his feet.
A thick, roaring wall of brilliant orange flame erupts instantly from the stones. The heat flashes across Aldo's face, singeing the edges of his collar as the volatile oil consumes the air.
A massive, billowing cloud of dense, black chemical smoke rolls outward from the fire, filling the narrow street from wall to wall.
The blinding, sulfurous fog immediately disorients the advancing red-masked swordsmen, who begin coughing and swinging blindly into the dark.
The blind Outlandish creatures hiss, their grey heads twisting erratically as the thick smoke disrupts their ability to track kinetic movements and vibrations through the air.
Aldo blinks through the stinging haze, his eyes watering as the chemical smoke burns his nostrils.
Across the narrow lane, the pale moonlight cuts through the smoke for a brief second, illuminating the faint reflection of a tall, glass display window belonging to an upscale apothecary shop.
He drops his hand to the rubble, gripping a heavy granite brick dislodged from a ruined wall. He straightens and hurls the brick through the glass pane.
The glass shatters with a loud, ringing, high-pitched crash that echoes down the entire length of the street, a sharp silver sound that cuts through the dull roar of the chemical fire.
The sharp sound acts like a beacon. The auditory focus of four nearby Outlandish creatures snaps toward the noise instantly. Their segmented legs clatter against the stone as they pivot in unison, ignoring everything else.
Aldo doesn't wait. He sprints directly toward the broken storefront, his boots pounding against the cobblestones, purposely drawing the attention of the grey horde away from his weaponless, bleeding squadmates.
Behind his heels, three of the Outlandish beasts lunge blindly through the smoke, their long limbs chewing up the ground as they chase the sound of his boots straight into the dark apothecary shop.
Aldo vaults over the heavy mahogany counter inside the dark apothecary shop, his leather boots crunching loudly as he lands amidst thousands of glittering glass shards.
The air inside smells of dried lavender, mint, and volatile chemicals—a strange, sweet sanctuary that is about to become a slaughterhouse.
The shop is pitch black, save for the silver beams of moonlight cutting through the shattered front window, painting long, pale stripes across the dust.
His hands scramble across the nearby shelves, his fingers knocking over small tincture bottles until they wrap around the cold, heavy bodies of three volatile jars.
He pulls them down—compressed sulfur-powder, charcoal compound, and volatile heating salts.
The floorboards near the entrance groan and splinter under immense weight.
The first Outlandish bursts through the inner doorway of the showroom, its heavy, segmented limbs tearing up the polished cedar planks as its head tilts from side to side, tracking the ragged sound of Aldo's breath in the enclosed space.
Don't breathe. If it hears the lungs expand, it knows exactly where the center of mass is.
Aldo does not strike. He reaches out with his right boot and kicks a secondary glass display case near the back wall. The case shatters, showering the floor with silver vials.
The sudden noise causes the remaining monsters outside to squeeze through the broken storefront, drawing them deeper into the tight, dangerous confines of the shop's interior.
They crowd each other, their grey hides rubbing against the doorframe with a dry, scraping sound like canvas on wood.
Aldo dives backward through a heavy oak door leading to the rear storage room of the apothecary. He hits the floor rolling, scrambles to his feet, and slams the iron-reinforced door shut against the frame.
His hand finds the heavy iron locking bolt, sliding it into the slot with a loud, final click that feels entirely too small for the threat outside.
Outside the door, the wood begins to splinter as the creature's limbs hammer against it, the tips of their hooks punching small, neat holes through the oak panels.
Aldo's hands are steady despite the sweat dripping into his eyes. He gathers the three chemical jars into a tight bundle on the floor against the base of the door, his fingers finding the short piece of friction-fuse attached to the heating salts.
He strikes the coarse flint edge against his shortsword's guard. The fuse sparks, a bright red eye eating down the cord.
Aldo throws his body behind a heavy iron-bound storage crate at the back of the room, tucking his head into his chest and wrapping his arms over his neck.
The makeshift alchemical bomb detonates with a deafening, localized roar.
The pressure wave hits first, a solid wall of hot air that shakes the entire foundation of the stone building, blowing the dust from the ceiling rafters in a sudden snowstorm.
The violent shockwave shatters the heavy oak door instantly, blowing the thick wood panels inward in a million jagged splinters.
The force of the blast throws Aldo backward against the rear masonry wall of the storeroom. His back hits the stone with a dull thud, and a piece of flying wooden shrapnel flashes through the smoke, cutting a deep, three-inch gash across his left forearm.
Aldo pushes himself up from the debris, coughing violently through the thick, choking white dust and black sulfur smoke. His left arm is slick with fresh, warm blood, but his bones are structurally intact.
He wipes his brow with his clean sleeve, his eyes narrowing as the smoke clears, revealing the destruction.
The explosion has done its work. The small, enclosed space of the front room amplified the blast; the limbs of two Outlandish have been completely blown off their torsos, leaving the grey masses writhing and screeching in high-pitched, silent frequencies on the shattered floorboards.
The floor is stained with a mixture of alchemical oils and grey ichor.
Suddenly, two red-masked rebels rush through the ruined front window into the smoke. They ignore Aldo, their attention fixed on the dying beasts.
They carry small, leaden flasks, desperately pouring a dark, pungent fluid directly onto the monsters' pulsing red cores in an attempt to stabilize the creatures and regain control before the magic dissipates entirely.
The side window of the storage room shatters with a sudden, sharp pop.
Hano bursts through the frame, his face pale with dust but his jaw set with a sudden, desperate bravery that wasn't there ten minutes ago. He doesn't have a sword, but he carries a heavy, broken oak table leg like a club.
He lunges through the debris, swinging the wood with both hands, driving the blunt end straight into the temple of the first rebel healer. The man drops without a sound, his lead flask clattering across the floor, its dark contents bubbling into the wood.
Onaga follows right behind Hano, slipping through the window with fluid grace. He doesn't hesitate.
He raises his heavy, iron-bound charcoal sketch-pad—the thick wooden back reinforced with metal corners—and smashes it horizontally into the second rebel's throat. The rebel gasps, his hands flying to his neck as he collapses into the rubble, his legs kicking weakly.
Onaga doesn't stop. He steps over the writhing body, lifts his heavy leather boot, and stomps down hard, putting his entire weight into the impact, directly on the exposed, pulsing red core of the wounded Outlandish.
The crystal stone shatters into grey sand beneath his heel, neutralizing the beast instantly as its body goes limp, the internal light dying like a blown-out candle.
Aldo stumbles out of the rear storeroom debris, his right hand gripping his bleeding left arm, his eyes wide as he looks at the two unarmed boys in absolute surprise.
They are moving like soldiers now. The fear hasn't left them, but the panic has.
"Move through the interior walls," Aldo whispers, his breath ragged and shallow as he sheathes his shortsword. "Find the guard lockers. We need ranged weapons. We can't fight them bone-to-bone anymore."
Onaga wipes a splash of grey fluid from his cheek, pointing his charcoal-stained finger toward a weakened timber and plaster wall at the side of the room where the old beams have rotted away. "There's a civil defense stash in the next shop. A watch station."
Aldo doesn't waste words. He steps back, shifts his weight, and drives his boot into the damaged plaster. The wood cracks with a dry snap.
He kicks again, breaking a large hole through the partition into a dusty, abandoned watch station.
Aldo reaches through the gap, his hands finding the iron racks on the wall. He grabs two heavy, iron-bound light crossbows and tosses them through the hole to the boys.
Hano catches his, his fingers instantly searching the lower shelves until he unhooks a leather pouch filled with black-powder paper cartridges and a short-barreled defense musket from the corner rack, finally giving their small squad real firepower.
Above them, the ceiling groans under a moving weight. A sharp, rhythmic scratching sound echoes through the floorboards directly above their heads, dust filtering down through the cracks like mist.
"The roof isn't safe, and Comtois is still separated from us, drawing their fire in the outer sectors," Aldo muttered, slinging a pouch of extra bolts over his shoulder. "We move through the parallel residential lanes and flank them. Keep your weapons primed and your eyes up."
Outside, the air grows colder as the river fog rolls into the tenements, coating the brickwork in a fine, greasy film.
Comtois sprints through a labyrinth of low, parallel residential lanes, his heavy boots splashing through grey puddles as he tries to lose his pursuers, driving himself hard toward the coordinates of the squad's fallback position.
His hands are still empty, save for the two silver serving spoons he grips like lifepieces, their surfaces now dull and scratched from the dirt.
High above him, on a narrow wooden balcony overlooking the lane, a rebel archer steps into the moonlight. The man draws a heavy yew bow, the string stretching back to his ear with a low, creaking groan. He releases.
The rusted broadhead arrow flashes through the gloom. It strikes Comtois from behind, biting deep into his left shoulder blade.
The sheer kinetic force of the hit spins his massive frame around completely, his boots skidding on the wet stones as if he were on ice.
Comtois lets out a loud, agonized scream that echoes off the stone walls, terrifying a stray cat that bolts into the darkness.
He stumbles heavily sideways, his hip crashing into a large wooden rain barrel, sending a wave of stale water splashing into the mud.