>>6077806Breathe, nose in, mouth out, breathe.
Linne'rach kept his back to the cottage wall, creeping. Nothing. Nothing. So far.
They've been quiet before. Gaffy Oiler died that way.
He unlatches the solid bolt, eases his door a little, peeking out at waistheight, crouched, the Convincer extended behind him, ready for an overhead swing. It's practiced, this swing; useful when he had to open doors scavenging. The swing would smack anything waiting to lurch in, and if not brain it outright at least buy him time to kick and roll away from the door. They have less to grab if you're half crouched.
Maggy's in his right, solid comfort. A sock and a chop stop damn near anybody.
>'LivvyNothing he could see, in this dark. Still no stink. He relaxes a little.
<span class="mu-i">Doesn't mean anything,</span> he tells himself, to stern up. When trouble starts people you've known for years can turn on you. Even if you've got nothing, same as them. Even less hands means you all die. People go crazy and need someone to take it out on, to feel like they're doing <span class="mu-i">something.</span> Not to spit on the departed, but people that stupid have no business surviving.
>Bemmley. The Mayor's Recorder.Theyre not many enough to start robbing, since they're skulking. He had a chance against one or two thieves, no matter if they're out-towners.
The moon's up, and they've cleared off all the trees in the area; nothing out that he could see. Still no stink. No sound but empty wind.
Horrid. Told you nothing.
He does the corners to the Henier cottage the same way he does doors: the Convincer extended back, left handed, Maggy cocked in his right.
Nothing. Immediately he does a counter-wise halfway around the back, in case.
>Pashavad. Filthy Daaserai heathen. Good bastard.Nothing.
"HENIER."
Nothing.
Door still bolted.
Window open; no movement. Nothing in the corners.
"Henier. Speak out."
Nothing.
He makes into the window with a squeeze. Heads for the large double bed he helped the randy old leatherhead make. No one's in it. Empty.
No pillows or blankets or bedspreads. Just straw.
He squats, peers under the bed;clear.
Is some of the straw...dark? He ruffles it with the Convincer; not shadows, dark. He takes the Convincer back, smells the new wet on it. Hastily wipes it off against a dry spot on the blankets.
Blood.
He's darting out of the cottage.
"ALARUM! UP! UP! ALARUM!"
No answer.
He goes into the next cottage along; Snail Birnell's. A log cabin, built by a drunk lumberman.
Door's ajar. Ho.
He hooks Maggy's beard in the edge of the door, peels it back.
<span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-g">scuttlescuttlescuttlescuttlescuttle</span></span>
He swings on reflex, overextending.
The Convincer <span class="mu-s">Thack</span>s Maggy into the wood of the door. He jerks his hand to get Maggy back, a second's delay, and something stabs into his thigh.
>I'm dead.But he's fighting, all he's got. Even one less of <span class="mu-i">them</span> is good. It [ii]counts[/ii].
