Harvest Season

3. Cat Attack and Moustache Man

Blakely's heavy breaths formed white clouds in front of him, as he and Abis raced down Darby Avenue. They were a good distance from The Lilac Lotus, but they could still hear the angry shouts from the mob.

Indeed. They had a problem on their hands. A teensy weensy tiny one. It would help if we went back to the start.

When Blakely had returned to the inn Abis was so inebriated that the persuasion ward on the innkeeper had completely dispelled. In addition, he was so drunk that he refused to leave quietly from the building when the man tried to force him out. To boot, Abis had been so utterly plastered that he managed to trash the entire first floor of the inn. With magic. One should note that to typical residents of Wäu, magic didn't exist!

Coupled with Blakely's terrorist revelations minutes prior, you know, to nuke all the inhabitants of Dorchester with a Black Plague 2.0 a la rat fleas, the entire Alcove had them blacklisted and in a hot pursuit within minutes.

At present, mini-missiles of fire exploded by their feet, and Blakley's legs and arms were already too keen on dropping off. Beside him, Abis grinned maniacally as another ball of orange zoomed over his head, singing a few strands of his hair. Abis didn't seem to mind – he was fully intoxicated by now.

They were nearing a crossroads where it opened into 4 different directions. Without any hesitation, Blakely turned left, and Abis daftly turned left behind him. Blakely was just about ready to forgo this entire mission.

He screeched to a halt. "Are you–" he broke into some coughs to catch his breath, "–Are you a twat?!"

Abis couldn't figure out what for.

Blakely was panting as he pointed behind Abis in the other direction. Another fireball whizzed between them; their pursuers' aim was steadily improving. "Go, by the gods, just go right! We shall—we'll," he wheezed, "We'll re-group later."

Abis' confused expression slowly morphed into a grin. He nodded before speeding off in the other direction. Effortlessly. Of course he wouldn't have any problem escaping their pursuers. Mercuries were already useless as is, but a drunk one proved more painful than Blakely could have imagined. He would have to dig himself out of this hole alone —or perhaps a ravine was more accurate. Abis had a certain proficiency when it came to royally screwing things up, and digging, but those were two sides of the same coin.

Now, Blakely turned right and dashed down the muck-filled road. Despite the rain, the soles of his boots were scorching. Droplets still pelted the ground, but the fireballs had disappeared. He knew there was no way he would be able to outrun the mob of witches that were following them. A mob of witches that were no doubt Madam Maga's doing.

Behind him, he heard some dozen engines speeding down the street in the opposite direction. Abis would have to fend for himself too, but his self-sufficiency would extend itself enough to keep him alive – this Blakely was sure of. Partly.

Through the red-eyeglass of his mask, Blakely searched desperately for anything that could help him. He was already beginning to hear four—no—six footsteps nearing behind him.

He slowed to a jog and observed. The streets were scanty. The sky was still its dark, perpetual haze as cold drops of water sluiced down his coat. He felt the water dampen his black hair, the strands clinging closely to the nape of his neck.

The world was red – the light posts and kerosene lamps, the cobblestone road, the stout two-storey buildings on either side of him. They lined the street, stretching away—unbroken. Crimson chimneys coughed scarlet smoke and a bleeding clocktower struck the hour in the distance. That was when to his left, Blakely spotted it: an open green window 5 buildings away.