48AN: and here's the next one. Told you i'd be faster with updating this time. Heh. Thankyou to the three awesome peeps who reviewed me and still have faith in me. Tis much appreciated. I wouldn't still be writing if it weren't for you guys.
Rainstainstarte: thankyou for the awesome review, mah lovely. First review i had. Heh. I was almost about to give up hope 'cause i figured that everyone had abandoned me –makes sad face- but then you rode in like my knight in shining armour. Hehe. Anyhowww. And nodnod. All three of the Thieves are important in some way, but the book is split up into three parts, and the first part is focused more specifically on Eclipse. & aww thankyou. I'm like that with description. Like, i can't read massive chunks of description 'cause my mind just goes zap. The only time i can read it is when it has a feel/sounds to it, then i kind of feel it as well as just reading it, if that makes any sense at all. And then i don't get bored.
AsianGal16: Thankyou for the review. It makes me feel all happy to know that i've intrigued someone. Hehe. Hope this chapter wasn't too late in the coming.
Wildcrazychild: we shall find out who they are soon enough, no problems there. Hope you enjoy the chapter and thankyou tons for the review!
.thieves of samurett
4
It was as if a hand ripped at the pit of her stomach, wrenched it down, and shrieks were drowned by wind that whooshed through her head and throat. There was no balance, only a rapid tumult of air and something flickered in the corners. A rasp of light, a roar, and an arm caught her in mid air, lurched her upwards and they half rammed into stonework. One hand clasped a bunch of vines, teetered, and they swung like jagged pendulums, thudded against the sides of that simple clock face. Polly saw the shaking hands of the morning. Midday. One. Two.
Her head arched back, a sudden searing pain, and again they swung. She clambered, arms clasped around the darkness of his shirt, his neck. She looked up where moonlight caught the faint glimmer of his mask. His hat shadowed it. Saber looked up, tried to swing his legs, one arm holding her securely.
"Don't look down," he hissed.
She closed her eyes.
"Pray they don't see us."
She could still hear the screaming, the jagged, heartfelt pleas, the banging hoof beats, clashing metal. Never again would she hear anything else.
"They're dying," she whispered.
"We won't."
Again, he swung his legs and there was no balance. She felt their bodies lurch back and her grip tightened. There was a tearing sound, and beneath her his chest heaved.
"Are your eyes closed?"
She nodded against his chest.
"Whatever you do, don't let go, okay?"
Polly let out a sound. Another lurch and something shifted. The screeches below were a requiem. She felt the heat coursing through the sky, mounting smoke that served as a reminder of yesterday. A third lurch. His grip around her tightened.
"Ready?"
She nodded, then he let go. They went hurtling into the darkness. Howling wind raced across her legs and her dress was a pool of cerulean that fell to the ground like broken wings and snipped feathers torn straight off the back of Icarus. He held her tightly and there was a swinging in the air, a loss of balance, and then with a thud they rammed straight into the ground. His hat went flying into the air and she opened her mouth to scream for she felt that the body beneath her was broken. A hand shot out, pressed against her mouth, and she stumbled back, straight onto stone pavement. Around her, smoke coursed through the air. It had started to rain, ever so faintly, and fire caught its jagged highlights.
The screaming had stopped. There was only silence.
He picked up his hat, pushed it over his hair before she caught a proper glimpse, and then he stood, brushed himself off. A gloved hand was held out and she watched it, the pasty white fingers. Skeletal. Polly felt her fingers scratch stonework and rain nipped her skin, barely stung. She looked into his face, the perfect mask, the wide rimmed black hat, and she let out an intake of breath.
"Why are we still alive?" her voice was barely a whisper.
"If you don't get up, we won't be," he answered. "Not for long. They're coming and the others have already left." She closed her eyes, willing it to all be a dream. Willing for none of it to be real. "We're on our own."
Inhale. Icy rain dug nails into her arms. It scraped. When she opened them, she'd see lilies. Blue flowers, crystal water and little white feet dipped into a trickling stream. There would be fruit, her mother's soft, yet demure, laughter. She wasn't here. Her feet were pushing against the crystal.
"Open your eyes."
Exhale. It shattered at her feet. Her hands held it still. There was light, beating across the horizon, streams of gold and blue and an auburn drink. Silver chalice. Timothy held the tray, soft smirk, a secret…
"Open your eyes!"
Snap. There was darkness, and she watched his lips contort in anger. Then she took his hand, fingers laced through the unfamiliar feel of cheap leather and the smell of approaching smoke that had become like the air she was damned to breathe. His feet pushed across stonework, the rain still only a faint tremor against her bare arms, his black satin, and the half white sheen of his mask.
They stood in the shade of light that wavered, faintly, on a skyline in the distance. The alleyway before them was shrouded, empty, and raindrops sent an echo more chilling than the screams earlier that night. He led her through – no running, just a soft, steady step. She didn't question, no longer felt the need or the energy or the inclination to question. It was a faded path and her feet pushed through like lead dropped in water: the slow, beating energy of a dream where time seemed a rushing flicker but stood still much like an immortal statue. The child with her purple lace. The painting with the wet grass and her puppy.
Could she hear her footsteps? She heard herself breathe, a steady, erratic breath next to his calm exhalations. The streets were clear, and moonlight shone off stone walls, drenched in the rain's bleeding sweat. It was growing steadily heavier, not heavy enough to bite. Not yet. She listened to its patter, a trickle across stone before it descended. Smash. Echo. If only he would speak, then silence would no longer seem so hollow in the midst of this stranger in a mask. But if he did speak, if she spoke, then would the silence forever shatter – and the sounds that followed, the needles that dropped from the sky and the bleeding fingers that broke trembling glass, would they slice through her mind and send her screaming in a cacophony with the night's now silent choir? No, silence was better. If they were not silent, then someone would come.
She could hear her footsteps.
He spoke, but it was barely a movement, something so hushed that she only caught its edges. "When we turn this corner –" Body straight, no change in posture, "–we enter the first house we find. They can see us here."
They.
His fingers tightened. They swerved round the corner. With a sudden lurch he shoved open the nearest door and she bolted inside, rammed it shut behind them. There was darkness and he backed up against it, breath which he'd before caught escaping in a rush of heaving pants. Polly watched him, the slight angle of his hat and the folded lips. Exhalation bled forward in white smoke that formed a fog in air. It fizzled, then vanished. Polly sat down, absentmindedly arranging her skirt around her legs.
"What now?"
"We wait."
She looked up at him.
"It's dangerous out there," he elaborated. "They were on the rooftops, tracking us. In being out in the open, we were like sitting targets. We'll have to wait until morning. They won't stay past daybreak."
"Where are the others?"
Saber scoffed. "Safe. We'd have been too if you hadn't have fallen. They took the quick route. It's safer in the sky. They'll be back by now."
"Back where?"
"I'm tired." He tipped his head back. "So can you quit with all the questions?"
Polly clasped her fingers at the edges of her dress. Soaking wet. Shifting water. Cerulean. She watched the waves. She was tired, too, but she couldn't sleep. Her body ached and she watched him drift off, waver on the edge of consciousness, then slip into the realm of light and gold and dreams. She wanted to follow him there, ever so badly, but the drilling darkness at the back of her mind sent her eyes shooting wide open. An incessant drumming and then blood and wine that tipped straight out the wooden casket of her mind. She pressed the flow, blinked, and the darkness around her flickered. She saw Saber, and vaguely wondered at the torches that lined the walls, the heavy stench that clogged the air – smoke? Rotting. Something was rotting.
Polly stood up in the silence. She picked one of the torches out its bracket, stared straight into the fire. She should have been afraid. Now, especially, as it was such an omen. A memory of so many things that shifted and boiled and dipped into the bleeding casket, but she felt aloof. Distant. Flippant. There was no brutality in the dancing flames, only a flickering life that gouged out the eyes in her portrait. She wanted to take it with her, but was vaguely aware, at the back of her mind, that there would be no where to put it if she no longer wanted to carry it. So she replaced the torch and followed the rotting stench down the twisting hallway. All the torches were lit, the flames fresh, and she wondered at the silence, the empty house, the empty streets.
Often, with her mother, she had visited this district. It was where Marian lived and this corridor… it was familiar. She watched the torches. Memories flooded in. Master Carlton's house, with the fat wife who loved gold, cranberry juice and body lotion. As a child, she'd once snuck into her room, smelt her fruity lotion and rubbed it all over her arms, her legs, her face. Layers upon layers of lotion. It had made her feel shiny, alien, like something spectral when she twirled in the mirror and her body glistened dripping oil. Then she'd slipped the bottles into the little purse with her dress, to take home to Timothy so that he could feel spectral too. So that they could both be fairies or angels or dancing nymphs with their little white feet and glittering bodies. When she'd gone home, she'd dropped her purse and her father had stood, watched three little green bottles roll out. He'd wanted to spank her for stealing – for it was a sin, an immoral, unforgivable bad habit – but her mother stopped him. Shook her head, in that sweet way she did. For what punishment was a beating? It was momentary, taught no lesson save pain and instead she was sent to her room: no toys, no dresses, no treats, no Timothy. Five days. It was punishment enough. She'd never entered the Lady's room again.
Now, she stood outside it. It was the source of the smell. Polly hesitated, curious, unsure. There was something, niggling at the pit of her stomach, tugging it slightly and then pausing. She stepped forward. The room was taboo, the forbidden chamber, and years of childhood fear kept her glued to the spot. Unable to enter. A deep breath then, finally, tentatively, she pushed it open.
The smell slammed into her, full force, and she stumbled, suddenly, held the door handle for support. A white bed, king sized, covers dragging down the edges, raked straight through by nail marks, claws. Its hem was stained red. A body lay, sprawled across the floor, eyes wide open, dress gouged in three lines straight down the middle. White lace was dappled red. Polly slumped to the floor, and retched. Palms placed flat into purple carpet and blood stumbled through fibre. It stained Polly's fingertips, caked across the nails so that bone-white glittered a dark crimson.
Behind her, the door opened.
For a moment, she stopped breathing.
"Gwyntallia?"
The voice was familiar. She was frozen in place.
"Gwyntallia, thank goodness I've found you."
Two hands touched her shoulders, heaved her up on her shaking legs, and Polly turned to see a tall man, whiff of grey, balding hair, black suit, red shirt, white cravat. He let go and she maintained her balance.
She wanted to sob, to scream, to shout but nothing came out but jagged breaths wrapped round by stinging bile. Her throat was sore, tearing straight through, and she panted heavily.
"Master Carlton –"
"Your father is looking for you," he cut her off. "We must leave immediately. Come with me."
Polly paused. "But –"
"Come! There's no time." He rushed out and she followed him, afraid that he'd get away. Afraid that this moment of familiarity and comfort and home and the promise, the promise of her father, would rush away, flicker, die, and burn like the toppling banisters and crashing portraits.
Torch light lit their path and she had to hurry to keep in pace with him, the weakness in her stomach and her legs begging her to stop, to collapse, to sleep: or dream, dream maybe. But she knew that all she'd see were nightmares and screaming, flailing bodies, lotion, sprawled across the floor, dipped over a bloody portrait of spangled limbs and wide eyes. Lace dappled red. They reached the back of the house and were once again out into the open, biting air. Rain was still steady and every inch of her ached for it to grow harsher, louder, scream like her insides. Why was it all so calm?
He was walking down the stony streets now, along the sides as to not get spotted and she followed him. He was urgent, as was she. The streets before them snaked out in silence and she remembered Saber's words.
They're tracking us…
Who were 'They'?
Where were 'They'?
There was only a silence and splashing rain. Was there really anyone there, or were the streets just sleeping? Was everyone sleeping, and was it paranoia that made her feel that the houses were empty, sapped of life, and she was the only creature that still inhaled rasping air?
"Where are we going?" she whispered it, desperate to make no sound in the silence.
"To your father, and the rest of them. The other survivors. They're all at the edge of town, waiting for us. I came back to get my wife –" He wavered. "Now come, or else they'll find us. They're still lurking in the shadows."
Polly hesitated, hands tracing wet stone. She wanted to go back, if only for a moment, and thank Saber: or, at least, tell him where she was. It wouldn't take long, but then…what if she lost Master Carlton – and, with that, lost any chance of going back to the crystal stream, white flowers and her father? Most of all her father.
"Can I – please, Sir, can we go back? My friend, he's sleeping in your house and I haven't told him where I've gone. What if he comes looking for me and when he doesn't find me…I don't know, I don't feel that it's right."
Master Carlton stopped, suddenly, and looked back at her. He creased his forehead. "Saber?"
"He wears a mask, Sir. He saved me from the building, the –" She closed her eyes, exhaled, opened them again, and the screams threatened to break through the casket.
"The massacre," he finished off.
Numbly, she nodded.
"This Saber…" he was suddenly thoughtful, and then there was a pause, "are you sure he was there to help you?"
Polly waited, confused.
"Don't trust anyone you don't already know, Gwyntallia. He could have been one of 'Them', leading you into a trap. It's best we don't go back. If he's not a former acquaintance, then he could be anyone, pretending to try to help you. These creatures…" he looked around quickly, whispered frantically, "the first ones, the men in the helmets with the silver swords and pounding horses, they were just there for the kill. A quick, swift, slice of the head and that's it. But the ones that came with them, the creatures in the night… they've come to play games, wear masks and kill you slowly, ever so slowly, so that you only realise at the very last minute, and then…" he inhaled, "by then it's too late."
He was older, wiser, and he seemed so sure. She had to trust him. He was another rope, another thread that bound her to her mother's basket, slipped through the hole of a needle and she saw that pure white face, her mother's whispers: "Master Carlton, Gwyntallia, old enough to be your grandfather with his mop of grey hair and his long white fingers and that slight, ever so slight, bend in his back but don't mind that, my love: people get that in old age…"
They rounded another corner and there was more light here. Two torches flickered dimly, their edges battered by the soft onslaught of rain. Firelight dappled across the stony pavement in a splutter of gargling amber. She was feeling suddenly uneasy, thought of what her mother had said, and her eyes never left the rigid posture of his back. She stopped, as did he.
"Gwyntallia." He turned to face her. "What is it? Hurry, my child. It's not safe to stand in this much light."
Her whole body was trembling.
"Child, what's the matter?"
Exhale.
"Your cravat, Sir –" He waited. "It's red," she gasped out. "The same red as your shirt." She began to back away.
"Silly child." He shook his head. "Is this really the time to get worked up over the colour of a cravat? It's red, and it matches with my shirt. Now please, let's hurry. Your father is waiting."
"No." She shook her head. "It was white. When I first saw you," she was choking now, choking on air, "it was white. Why is it red now? Why are you bleeding?"
He looked at her for a moment where she wished that time would freeze all around her, just so that she could run. She wanted so badly to run but she was rooted to the spot, and there was still that faded hope. The explanation. The tangled thread that hung between them and her mother held out the basket. A hand was outstretched, long fingers, and he brought it to his throat, the cravat. He pressed, and then held it out under the light. Stained red.
"I am, aren't I?"
He was still looking at her.
Her insides were heaving. He approached her then, back to the alley before them. She backed away. One step. Two step. He followed. Any faster, and he'd go faster. If she turned, he'd run. If she stopped, he'd bolt. Slowly. One step. Two step.
"I told you that we like to play games." Irises tinged red, crimson, black. Hollow gashes. Empty sockets and then they poured with blood that dripped down his cheeks in lines of scarlet.
Polly screamed, a shard of shrieking ice that ripped through air and tore through paper-skin, clotted veins. It echoed against trembling stone and then he paused, considered, and grinned. He tilted back his head so that she saw the gouge, straight across his throat. Then he put a hand into his hair, wrenched it all back to reveal the hollow pit of his neck. She screamed again, legs trembling, body ready to retch out her insides, water, anything. Now there was laughter, cackling, chattering white teeth and he stepped forward, bony fingers outstretched. She couldn't move, couldn't stop screaming.
A flash of silver light. It shot past her ear, sliced air, then landed in his chest with a thud. There was a moment of stillness, then the blood round his eyes disappeared and the hollows turned white, green irises. A moment of hesitation, and he toppled to the floor. A cape snapped past her, reached the body, and wrenched out the bloodstained sword.
He was bent over it, breathing heavy, then he looked straight at her. He was angry.
"I told you to wait."
She held herself tight, tried to stop the heaving in her stomach.
"Why didn't you listen to me?"
Her stomach was roiling now, twisting and turning like knotted rope or worms that weaved through their bristling holes.
Saber raised his voice. "Do you realise what you've done? How much danger you've put us in? There's no way out now." He was in front of her, only inches away. "Are you listening to me?" He grabbed her shoulders. "They're coming. There's no way out!" He shook her then and she wanted to sob, sob so hard that it'd cut through air like the knives that snipped, snipped the threads. She watched the bleeding man, the wavering basket and heard the sound of pounding hoof beats that began to fill the air.
His grip on her shoulders tightened, then he turned her around, pulled her to him.
"Watch."
She closed her eyes.
"Open your eyes and watch what you've done!"
Beneath her, the earth was shaking. Her eyes shot open and in the distance was a swarm of light, pulsing fire. Horses approached them and riders were tall. On their heads were silver helmets that sliced the air. Like a band of locusts they broke through the sifting rain and, in moments, they were both surrounded. Horses neighed, thumped the ground. One horse stepped forward, tossed its mane, and the rider looked down at them from behind the empty helmet. Two slits cut through metal, hollow eyes. Again, the air was still, only the soft, soft rain. She felt it on her bare arms. Saber pulled her closer then, suddenly, and held out the sword before them.
The rider watched him, cocked his head to the side.
"Why are you interfering, Hybrid?" The voice was low, scratching, yet barely audible – a snake's whisper and the heavy clash of a hollow drum.
Behind her, Saber stiffened. "I'm under an oath."
"As are we."
He held her with one arm. The other was angled, sword out, ready. "We are sworn to protect her."
"And we are sworn to kill them all."
"Then get ready to fight, Rider."
The Rider started laughing, heavy, raucous laughter. "You think we fight one on one, Hybrid of Samurett? You think we see you as what you once were rather than what you are? No, thief, she no longer protects you. You are at our mercy and we'll rip you and your Lady apart, piece by piece, pretty little lock by lock."
His arm around her tightened. The Rider held out his sword and it trembled in the air. Firelight glinted across sharpened edges and in her mind she watched the dripping red, savage grey, felt the stab, straight through her heart and, this time, time didn't stop. There was only fire.
Suddenly, something roared. It was guttural, broke across the beating hoof beats and the sword stopped mid air. It came from above and they looked up, abruptly, a jerk of the head and a shot of white came swirling down, landed straight in the midst of the Riders. There was a moment of hesitation, then swinging swords, a ripping, tearing sound and a second roar. Saber suddenly pulled her to him so that her head went straight into his cape, eyes obscured. Around her she could hear feral roars, shrieking riders and tearing, clattering swords.
Eventually, his grip loosened. Saber was smirking. On either side of them was a wolf, one white, the other grey. Their teeth were bared, eyes bloody red, claws grasping stone and waiting, poised, ready to pounce. Another roar escaped them, like snapping thunder.
"You think your Hybrids can defeat us, thief?"
"They can't," Saber retorted, then let out with ease, "but the pack can. These guys are only here as a warning."
From behind her, there was no answer, then thumping hoof beats.
The Rider hesitated for a few moments, seemed to waver. Finally, he spoke, "You can keep her. For today. We will be back, though. We Riders do not break our oaths."
Again, the ground shook. The faded rain had stopped now, and hoof beats retreated. Drummed. Drummed. Drummed. Then a silence. All she saw was the blackness of Saber's cape, then there was a sudden ear splitting roar, a hissing, and he suddenly let her go, pushed her away. Polly stood, alone, trembling. Her knees gave way then and she fell to the floor, body shaking uncontrollably. A little while away were two Riders, mangled corpses, and she looked away. Nearby was Master Carlton's now rotting body.
Eclipse sat on Saber's right, legs stretched out before him, hands childishly tugging the bandana. Brine was standing, waiting. Eclipse looked to her, cocked his head slightly, and stood up. He made his way toward her, hesitated, and bent down so that they were level. He took her hands.
"You're safe now," he whispered. "Promise."
"Through no fault of her own," hissed Saber from behind. "She's such anidiot. She could have gotten us all killed."
Something hit the back of Eclipse's head, slid to the ground, and he picked it up. A cape.
"Her arms are freezing," Saber added. "Put it on her. I'm leaving."
Eclipse slid it round her shoulders and her whole body heaved with the cold. The casket spilled, bled open, and her whole body was racked with sobs. Eclipse pulled her to him, rubbing her back. "You're safe now," he whispered into her ear. "I mean it. Shhh." She closed her eyes, nodding into shoulder, her body weak, drained, trembling. "Just go to sleep…" He carried on rubbing her back, softly, ever so softly, and she felt the insides of her mind swirl, teeter, then slip. "Just sleep."
There was a single moment of thought, blurred lines, a snapping thread, and then she drifted into unconsciousness.