Lost souls

3 ☾ No heroes here

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Raor

───͙⊱••✩••̩̩͙⊰•───

The intentions of the townsfolk are uncertain, but from their swaying and menacing walks, it's hard to predict anything good.

I need to think quickly and come up with an idea suitable for our situation.

My fingers brush the hilt of Asmeidur on my back, touching it without pain thanks to the gloves I'm now wearing.

The temptation to sever the arms of anyone attempting to knock us off the horse is interrupted by the newcomers.

My tattooed eyes open vigilantly. Zandeimath's Demons land on the roofs. Their bizarre quadrupedal positions are reminiscent of monkeys, and it's not just the posture that's grotesque.

Their bodies are marred by pustules and swellings, their small skulls a clear sign of low intelligence, while their wings show they can fly.

Their elongated muzzles also have a simian quality, with two prominent nostrils and blonde fuzz on their grayish skin.

They are direct descendants of the Gargoyles, Lesser Demons extinct after the End of the Times, and they use their long tongues in various ways.

Their small eyes, lacking in insight but not in malice, glare at us from above.

"There's nothing more to do for these people; they've lost their minds. Make the horse run, Gazazhel!"

"And where do you want to go? We're surrounded!"

"To the castle. I have to reach the prince and at least protect him."

Gazazhel evidently decides not to argue. The steed rears up on its hind legs, neighs, and proceeds at full speed, carving a path through the crowd.

Not all the townsfolk move aside, many are devoid of intellect and clarity, thus horrendously trampled.

I feel like I'm on a ship in the midst of a storm; I stagger dangerously and use Gazazhel's shoulders as an anchor. At any moment, the trampled people could make me roll to the ground.

The hooves are smeared with blood, and I hear the muffled screams of those who have lost their tongues.

We're traveling down the main road of the capital, literally passing over corpses... and what if one of them is Daven?

What if the horse tramples him like all the others, if he emerges from an alley holding his mouth? If I realize there's no hope for him...

The apprehension distracts me from our escape; I risk falling off but am held by Gazazhel's grip.

"Hold on to me!" He maintains a straight and composed posture, even while personally steering the steed. Compliments for the steel nerves.

Daven is safe, Raor. The Sect has a base protected by magic... when this is over, I'll write him a letter.

Finally, the number of townsfolk dwindles, the castle approaches, and many show enough common sense to avoid getting involved, dispersing into the alleys.

"Faster, handsome!" urges Gazazhel. "Faster!"

"Watch out!" I shout.

The Lesser Demons dive from the roofs and, after landing, block the path. The horse neighs and abruptly stops. The great ride we've had was fruitful: we're close to the drawbridge.