The Crown of Treason

Chapter 4. Hide and Seek (part 2.)

Iwan's thoughts wandered back to the burning Court of Falclau.

Before he left his father named Valbert the new captain of the guard of Falclau. A commission he had paid for with his blood barely moments after they had left the court. A small band of sellswords had ambushed the old fool as he went to scout ahead, searching for an alley that would lead them past the Gate of Oxen. Iwan saw him struggle on the ground before two butchers for hire finished him off with their battleaxe. A small fist of Whitemill's warriors stood ready to intercept the next group of Clauwaerts. The group including his mother and brothers.

Behind his eyes, Iwan saw again how he grabbed his mother by the hand, her fingers biting in his cloak. She held on to him. She held on to her oldest son, as she was holding on Gawan, her youngest son on her chest. Where was Gawan? Dank dragged him along. Was he running with them?
Iwan didn't know. He ran. Friend or foe, he couldn't tel. He could see Clauwearts... Marcus, Dank, Oryn. He ran! The alleyway was eerie small, two men couldn't pass each other shoulder to shoulder. It turned and twisted like a rabbit's burrow, left, right, right, left again, an open square barely four shoulders wide, straight on again... A stoney bottleneck, it seemed, designed to turn him around until he had no idea where he was.

He rushed, pulling lady Ilene along. Marcus ran past him when the alley allowed it. Dank carried Arwan on his shoulder. They were all running. Gawan cried like there was no end to it. They ran. Arms clashed beyond his sight, noises subdued, bouncing off the walls, and echoing back from the other side. In front of him, behind him. Did someone try and strike at his back? A throwing knife grazed his shoulder, hit a stone wall behind him and fell towards the ground clattering.

'Run he!' he had cried. 'Keep on running!'

All he could do was follow the command he had given. The rest of the entourage had followed his voice. The alley let into the Street of Ships. The gods be praised, the street was empty.

The patrols of sellswords, whom he now knew were guarding the area, were nowhere to be seen. A miracle or providence from the gods?

Iwan shuddered at the thought of running into them.

On his scouting trip through the harbour, a few rotations after, he had seen how soldiers of the Southmark had closed off all of the entryways. The Street of Ships had a small curve in the middle, the alleyway had let them precisely into the middle of that curve. Out of sight, of out harm's way.

Boris was the last of the Clauwaerts to leave the alleyway by the skin of his teeth. He wrestled to clear a hireling trying to grab him, a notched mace slamming on his shield. He braced himself to block the exit.

An open bascinet stared him in the face, scarred cheeks without a noseguard... Rotting teeth flared at him in a broad grin. Al lashing arm hammered his guard.

Marcus turned around to help, piercing the face with his spear, a true strike, straight through the nose. The sellsword was dead before his head hit the streets.

Three men followed. Iwan shivered as he remembered. A shiver that grabbed him by the throat. Dank and Oryn rushed to help Boris. Their intervention was quick and clean. Two swords stabbed two throat apples. To men fell, a third fled.
Iwan had suppressed the fear that had come over him. It was the first time he had seen the brutal reality of battle up close. A deep breath brought him back to the times of now. The hayloft in the harbour. The lucky spot they had found shelter. The lucky spot where they could catch a breath.

He tried to recognise the survivors, or, at the very least, count their shadows. The darkness of hayloft made it impossible.

'How many were here before I left to scout the area?' Had there been more of us?