Alisiyad Chapter 26 ~ The Ricallyn

Russ dreamed of food.  He stood on a beach by Lake Michigan, surrounded by seagulls.  People were tossing him bits of bread, and he tried to catch each bit as it floated toward him, or snatch it up from the pebbly sand, but the birds beat him away, cawing mercilessly.  One touch from their batting wings sent him to the ground.  He knew rather than felt that they were pecking his eyes out but he didn’t cover his face.  There didn’t seem to be a reason.  The screeches became louder and louder; they wouldn’t let him eat and they wouldn’t let him sleep . . . .

He came to slumped against a cold wall in the dark, and for a moment had no idea where he was.  He could still hear the gulls from his dream, screeching.  Wait.  He shifted, pain ripping through his arms and soreness assaulting the rest of him.  His head throbbed.  He remembered where he was.

The girls, the skinny little vicious girls from inside the ruined building, were screaming.  He hadn’t closed the door, but the sound would have reached him anyway.  They could scream really loud . . . .

He heard a thud and one of the voices yelped before falling silent.  The second voice, the smaller one, went on.  He heard deep voices, then.  Men.  They barked, as if giving orders.  He heard their footsteps thudding and crunching over broken glass, and he pushed himself up to his feet.  Run!

He didn’t run.  All he could do was freeze in the doorway.  If he galumphed down the steps, wouldn’t they hear him?  If he tried running down the stairs, wouldn’t he fall?  He heard a slap and sounds of struggle; the smaller girl’s birdlike voice crying out angrily, but afraid.  Then more gruff words from the men.  A sharp rap, and silence.

They’re dead, he thought, feeling sick.  He’d be dead too if he hung around.  Oh shit.  He turned, and leaning heavily against the wall, shuffled down the steps as quietly as he could.  He wanted to close the door, but feared it would make too much noise.  The back of his neck tingled, expecting some kind of thug to appear at the top of the stairs and see him at any moment.  But he fought the urge to careen down the steps.

Maybe they’re alive.  Maybe you should help them.  He shook his head.  If he couldn’t fight them, he couldn’t fend off their attackers.  But . . . .  But fuck, he silenced his conscience angrily.  You’re half dead.  Lotta good you can do yourself much less anybody else!

He reached the bottom and peered out into the alley.  It was empty, but to his horror he could hear noises out in the street.  He ducked back against the wall of the stairway, flattening himself into the shadows.  If only I could see that damn Gate . . . .

Russ listened to the street noises.  More voices, shouts, the clinking of . . . chains?  No.  It was just his feverish imagination, playing on fears.  Just that.

He peered up the stairs, then down at his arms.  The blood was drying on his clothes and his slashes had stopped oozing.  They were really only light wounds.  Really.  Wimp.

He heard voices from above him.  Snapping his head to the side, he saw a silhouetted figure obscuring the weak light at the top of the stairs.  For one moment he thought the shadows might hide him, but then the man said something loudly and started down the steps.

Russ propelled himself out into the alleyway, stumbling as he forgot the slight ledge between doorframe and side street.  He looked back and forth, holding his right arm.  There were people out in the street, but would they care to stop him?  He didn’t want to take the chance.  That left the other end of the alley, the one closed off by a tall weedgrown fence.  He’d just have to climb it.

Russ flung himself at the fence, grabbing vines and feeling fresh blood wet his right arm.  The fence was made of vertical metal bars; when he tried to gain a foothold his feet just shot through to the other side.  Leaves broke off in his hands as he slid from the vines, landing on the ground again.  He stumbled back, catching his balance, and tried it again, this time ripping at the vines, trying to fit between the bars.  He could slip his left arm and leg through, but the bars blocked his body.  He winced as the cut on his left arm rubbed between the vines, and he started to draw back.

He heard the man behind him and looked, still stuck in the fence.  The man advanced unhurriedly.  He had Russ cornered and he knew it.  He even smiled a little, mockingly, as he held up a long blade.  It looked like a giant kitchen knife, and he lifted it threateningly, motioning to Russ with his free hand and barking out orders.  Russ didn’t need to know Adayzjian to figure out the man wanted him to leave the fence and surrender.

“I’m stuck.”  He tried to sound calm.  He’d wedged his shoulder in as far as he could push it, and now it wasn’t going either way.

The man laughed shortly and placed the blade against Russ’s neck and right shoulder, reaching over to pull on his arm.  The metal was cold and the edge pricked against his skin.  Russ didn’t dare move.  The man yanked his shoulder free of the fence, ripping his sleeve, then took the blade away and shoved his face up against the bars.

He heard the sound of the blade being resheathed, and thought about trying to struggle.  But the man moved quickly, pushing him into the fence with a hand between his shoulders as he rattled something off his belt.  He grabbed Russ’s right arm and pulled it around, clamping metal around his wrist.  Russ jerked, grabbing a bar with his left hand and biting back a yelp as his right arm screamed in pain.  The man twisted, shoving his shoulder into Russ’s back and yanking hard on the chain clamped to his wrist.  The wound tore open and Russ felt dizzy again.  His knees buckled and he knew the only thing holding him up was the fence and attacker.  The man grabbed hold of his left arm and brought it around to clamp into the restraint, then he yanked him away from the fence.

He barked out orders, but backed them up with pushing and pulling Russ around to face the street.  He held Russ’s wounded arm with one hand and slid his sword out with the other.  He smacked Russ on the back with the flat of the blade, and shoved him down the alley toward the street.

“I’m going,” Russ muttered with his teeth clenched against the pain spreading through his arm and shoulder.  If he ignored it, maybe it’d just start to feel numb . . . .

Out in the street Russ saw a crowd of people handcuffed like him.  There were men, women, and children; all looked as skinny and tattered as the young girls.  Russ stared around at everyone.  Some sat up against the buildings and others stood in rows on the street, shackled with chains connecting them to each other.  Men like the one who had captured him stood guarding the pathetic looking group.

The man steered him to the right, over in front of the building he’d been inside earlier.  Russ saw the two girls out front, sitting on the ground.  A man waved something in front of their faces that made them grimace and jerk their heads away.  He seemed satisfied, drawing back and moving toward other lethargic looking prisoners.

Russ was presented to another man.  He and Russ’s captor talked to each other for a moment, giving Russ appraising looks.  Then the second man addressed Russ, asking him something.  All Russ could say was, “I can’t understand you.”

He thought it would upset the man, but he just waved them aside.  Russ’s captor took him over and pushed him down on the stone sidewalk in front of the building, next to the girls.  They glanced at him only briefly.  He saw contempt in both sets of eyes before they turned away and stared at the crowd in the street.

Another armed man came over to him.  Or maybe it was one of the same . . . he couldn’t tell.  They all looked identical to him; tall, lean, dark haired and dressed in practical black uniforms.  When they spoke they barked out their words, and they didn’t hesitate to shove their captives to get them to move where they wanted.  They were all the same.

He looked up at the one bending over him, and saw that he had a white cloth, and he began to wrap it around Russ’s arm.  He spoke to him, not barking so much as speaking in clipped tones, but Russ just shook his head.  “I don’t know your language,” he said, leaning his head against the wall.  He didn’t like the hurried treatment of his arm; the man wound the bandage around too tightly.  He closed his eyes and held his breath, wishing he could suck up the pain and not be such a pathetic wimp.

Suddenly a bitter odor filled his head; he opened his eyes, jerking to the side and coughing.  The man nodded in satisfaction, drew away the stinking bottle he’d held under Russ’s nose, and left him.  Russ looked down at his arm and was glad that at least he wasn’t oozing all over anymore.  The older girl still looked out at the street, her chin in the air, but the younger one stared at him from owl-like eyes.  When he caught her gaze she turned away again, mirroring her sister’s pose.  Even if he could speak their language, he doubted that asking them what was going on would do much good.

You should try to get away.  You have to get away.  He shook his head.  There were too many swordsmen in the street keeping an eye on him.  And even if he could slip away, he could only go back to the dead-end alley with the Gate that wasn’t there.  And then what?  Get run down and caught again?  There wasn’t anywhere to go.  He wished he knew their plans for him.  And why they were rounding up all these people; where they were going to take them.  He wished he’d paid more attention to the stuff he’d heard about Adayzjia.

He sat and waited.  Maybe somewhere down the road a better opportunity to escape would come up.  Maybe there was somewhere he could hide long enough to regain strength for the Gate.  Right now . . . he’d just have to wait.

He watched as more swordsmen emerged from the buildings up and down the street.  They came leading ragged looking people or carrying their inert forms.  They then revived them enough to sit upright and wait like Russ.  The people in the road stood listlessly, many with their heads bowed.  It was like the whole population of the ghost city was being rounded up by the swordsmen.  It didn’t look so good, but at least no one was getting killed.  Yet.

He looked around at the city.  All the buildings were in ruin, stone faces crumbling and lying in the street, windows empty of glass or looking like mouths with crooked teeth.  He saw no life except for the guards and prisoners.

After a little while, the swordsmen pulled the people up from the ground.  Russ was hauled up by his shoulders, his feet shackled.  Then the man pulled the girls up and shackled them.  Russ felt a chain being attached to the manacles on his wrist, and looked back.  The man moved down the line, and Russ was left looking into the eyes of the older bird-girl.  She glared back at him and he turned to face ahead again.  Once the new prisoners were chained together they were led out into the street and added to the crowd.  The long chain that linked to the shorter one between his ankles was drawn up and attached to the cuffs of the person in front of him, an old man with shoulder blades that pointed out the back of his shirt.

At several barks from the swordsmen, the lines began to move.  Russ hobbled with them, cursing himself for being caught and allowing himself to be led away from the Gate.  Alisiya had been right.

They walked on past ruined buildings for what seemed like forever.  Occasionally they stopped and some of the men went into buildings, dragging out new prisoners to add to their collection.  But eventually they left the ruins behind, and Russ caught sight of life ahead.  Apparently not all of Azmanval was crumbling.

He ducked his head as they were paraded down busy streets.  People stopped to watch, or peered from windows, but Russ would rather look at the chains on his feet than meet the eyes of the onlookers.  He didn’t care, at that point, to look around at the city or the people.  There was obviously no place to run or hide, with so many people around.  That was, even if he hadn’t been chained.

They came to a massive building sitting at the end of one street.  He looked up when they stopped.  The building stood higher than any near it, raised up on a hill of stone with steps leading down the slopes.  The roof spiked out to loom over the front doorway like a flat needle pointing down toward where they had come from.  The swordsmen separated their captives up into two groups, marching each away to two buildings at the base of the steps.

Two men took Russ aside and held onto each arm.  They stood waiting, watching with him as the others were taken away.  Russ tried to calm his breathing and not shake, telling himself that maybe it was a good thing.  He tried to think what could be good about being singled out, and failed.  Don’t panic.  You can still get away.  Sure you can, idiot, you can just fly out of the chains and disappear like that.  Fuck it, you wasted your only chance!

Once everyone else was gone, one man who had seemed to be giving orders to the others walked up to Russ.  He wondered if it was the same one he’d been presented to earlier.  Instead of saying anything to him, the man just motioned to the other two men to bring Russ along as he started up the stairs.  They climbed toward the imposing building, and Russ swallowed drily.  He wished he could guess what this place was.

Once past the stairs they walked over a large courtyard to get to the doors.  There was one giant pattern in the stones of the courtyard, a quarter moon of white centered in a black circle.  Russ wished he knew what it meant, then wondered if knowing what was going on mattered at this point.  He would still be in chains, because he’d let himself be caught.

Guards at the front door let them pass without question, giving brief, respectful bows to the man in front as he approached.  Inside, the front hall was dark and Russ couldn’t see much of anything.  But they didn’t stay there long; they took Russ down several flights of stairs, further down than street level, he was sure.  There wasn’t much to see, besides stone walls on either side.  The narrow stairs were lighted, though not by torches.  Two lines of light ran down on either side, flush with the wall, but as he stared he couldn’t really see what it was made of.  It didn’t seem electric . . . he wondered why for a moment before realizing that there wasn’t the slight buzz you could hear or sense when near fluorescent or halogen lights.  It was the only thing to look at, though, and so he studied it as they went, trying not to panic about where they were taking him.