Sword of Destiny

Chapter 9: Squat

13 years ago

His bolt-hole was his sanctuary. It wasn't much, but it was his place. He was king here, for what that was worth. He shifted into a more comfortable position, moving his head onto the plumpest part of the old rag that served as a pillow. He pulled the tarp over himself and wrinkled his nose, hoping to hide the stench. But no, it didn't work. He squirmed against the smell and wriggled around until he was looking out of his slum-palace. There was the faintest blur of daylight in the sky.

Bugger it. It was time to get up.

He hauled himself onto his knees and discarded the near rigid tarp. He kneaded the sleep-ache from his shoulders and licked his lips, his stomach obediently rumbling. Then again, his stomach was usually rumbling. Such was the life of a street-rat. Fortunately, he'd had a windfall last night. He wouldn't go hungry today. That foolish baker should really look after his wares better.

He unpacked the invaluable loaf from its paper packaging and marvelled at it. It was an olive-mottled bread, with a salted crust and herbs baked in. He had mauled half of it last night, but it was singing to him now, luring him in. He would devour the rest this morning, and it would energise him for the rest of the day. Maybe longer.

He crawled out of his bolt-hole and stretched into the barely-light. Probably best to move now, while the town was still asleep. He could eat on the move. It wasn't like he had cutlery.

"There he is. Get him!"

He turned, his wild hair swinging and snapping with the action. There he was – the baker. Bloody Brother, but he was persistent.

He gave a shrug of the shoulders and smiled at the man. The baker looked bedraggled where he'd been searching all night, but the tradesman looked at the bread now in his hand, half eaten, and growled. This was unlikely to end well. There were few options, so he smiled again, turned on his heels, and ran. Ran like a bastard.

He had spent his years on the streets avoiding the Wings like the plague, and there was a very good reason for that. If he was part of the 'Lost' – the plague of the streets of Triosec – then the Wings were the antidote. And they were not a kind remedy. They punished disease with an iron fist.

The one advantage he had was that he was familiar with the darker parts of town where his pursuers were probably not. He could dart in and out of the small places, moving like a rat through the city, and that was exactly what he did. He shot down the road, his bare feet slapping the ground and echoing from the high walls of the buildings. He looked over his shoulder, at the baker, but that man was less keen on the chase. Instead, he was moving towards the bolt-hole. His slum-palace. Everything he owned was there. It was not a lot, but his meagre possessions were there, and they were now at the baker's mercy.

"Shit."

Three sharp turns later, expertly executed so that the pursuing Wings scampered wide of the mark, he was bearing down on his home once more. Home. This hole was his home. Then again, he supposed that it wasn't any longer. He'd have to find a new squat.

The baker's arse was the only thing he could see of the man. The bastard was digging in his bolt-hole, but nothing had been hauled out just yet. Ha! That was a result. Not being an idiot, he had hidden his meagre sack of ownership pretty damned well, and it appeared he had bested the baker. He sprinted harder and a plan flourished. Not such a terrible outcome after all.

The baker wiggled his arse, burrowing deeper into the hole. It was funny to watch and he happily honed in on it. Four conveniently placed crates offered the path, and he sprinted for them. There was a hollow sound when his feet impacted the crates, and the arse wriggled more urgently. But it was too late. With an expert series of steps, he landed succinctly onto that same posterior, and from that vantage, he swept his sack of worth from its hiding place, and then abandoned his home. A deft hop back to the muddy road and he sprinted down the street. His bare feet slapped against the cobbles and the baker finally stumbled out of his indignity. The man screamed, but it was too late. He was already gone. That tubby git would not pick up the chase.