Fire on the Mountain

by MongolianFoodHoarder

Chapter 7

It was silent in the bedroom, the crackling fire fading as the night continued. The clock over the mirror ticked on, alongside the cadence of Tor’s snoring. But it broke abruptly as his ears began to flick. He groaned groggily as he rose in the bed. His sheets spread neatly around him, opposed to his disheveled composition. His skin crawled like an old gryph, shivering at a rolling breeze through an open window. He could hear the pattering of rain lightly slapping the cobblestone path that rounded the estate. A gentle rumble of thunder echoed through the room.

It’s growing colder these days, he admitted. He considered, briefly, to surrender to the night and cover up with his bedspread — but he knew himself, and he knew the weather. Though autumn was around the corner, now was not the time to invite it inside! With a grumble, he threw off the covers and scooted himself onto the floor.

It was hardly a strenuous journey, but his venture to the window was slowed by his insistence on avoiding the tile and stepping on the rugs that dotted the room.

Who was the idiot who insisted tile was in vogue last century? All he knew was that tile made a cold floor, and his rugs were perfect insulation.

He reached the window in due time. However, pulling it back, he realized he didn’t open it before he went to sleep. He was still a little groggy, trying to ascertain why in the world he would do it in the first place. The reflection of the dying fireplace glowed on the window, only to be subtly obscured by —

A talon wrapped itself around his throat. As swiftly as it came, Tor wrapped his left talon around the arm, and with instinct, threw up his right, stopping the talon wielding glistening dagger aimed to his chest. Before there was another reaction, he quickly bent his knees and pulled his opponent down with him, delivering an elbow to the gut as he reached the floor.

A guttural grunt choked out, causing his opponent to recoil and bounce off of Tor’s bed. Before she could recover, Tor cried out for his guards. It was enough time for the assassin to retaliate, swiping the dagger across the barrel of his chest.

He caught the shimmering of his blood in the moonlight as she crossed the weapon across her chest. With a painful roar, Tor pushed himself into the attacker, trapping his body against hers. He pinned her arm against her chest with his talon, digging into it with his nails. The assassin shouted in response, and dug her left talon into Tor’s back.

Before he would allow her any more damage, he threw the assassin across the room. She was able to administer one last wound as her talon dragged itself across his back, trying to dig into him before being tossed into the mirror. With a frightful smash, a thousand shards spread along the floor.

Powering through the excruciating pain, Tor quickly rushed to his wall of weapons and pulled down his old backsword. He unsheathed it and chucked the scabbard at the assassin. It struck her head with a solid thock, eliciting from her a line of blasphemies. It was a brief enough of a distraction for Tor to squeeze open the gas pipes next to his bed, allowing a golden glow to illuminate the bedroom.

His enemy was dressed in tight-fitting clothing, deep black to hide her in shadow, hiding her all her features except sapphire eyes peeking from behind a hood. Her body was adorned in trinkets of thievery: gas bombs, lockpicks and the like, alongside a now empty scabbard, and — with surprise from Tor — the unmistakable handle of a pistol.

She’s a formidable fighter, Tor thought, evaluating her abilities. She isn’t formally trained, not with the moves she’s pulling. It makes her even more dangerous.

Her dagger was cast away across the room. The assassin’s right talon was instead armed with a sizable shard of the mirror, gleaming terror from the gaslight. She rushed to Tor with a savage yell and swiped. Tor pulled back just in time, not before the shard clipped a few of his headfeathers.

The assassin’s stance demonstrated poor defense, overextending herself. Tor swiped down between her arms, intercepting the talon holding the shard. It seized while she cried in agony. The backsword slid through her bone, half severing the talon. As soon as he struck, the mirror clattered to the floor and broke with a solid snap. She shrieked briefly, and Tor socked the assassin square in the jaw with his free fist. She stumbled, trying to steady herself by grabbing at Tor’s nightgown, tearing through and getting tangled in the cotton.

With no way to counter, they both slammed onto the tile. On impact, Tor lost grip of his sword, and it skipped across the mirror pieces. Before Tor could even physically respond, the assassin plowed her left fist into his face, stunning him. The assassin rolled Tor onto his back and straddled his midsection. Without hesitation, she began to land more blows, the wetness of each strike growing more noticeable as his face began to swell. On every hit, the assassin’s face contorted in pain. Blood flowed steadily from her right arm, its bone and muscle exposed.

Tor tried to push her off but his efforts were in vain as he was thwarted by each punch. He brandished the nails on his talons and thrust into her gut, clenching on a rock-hard piece of muscle. With another cry of combined pain and anger, the assassin scrambled over him for the backsword. Her movements caused Tor to tear her garments, and blood flowed through the fabric and onto his talon.

She swung up to deal the final blow on Tor, but it was a move that opened her up for Tor’s own: Tor pulled the gun from her holster and with one move, he pulled the trigger.

It was if nitroglycerin unleashed its roar inside his brain, and echoed through his ears. Within that split-second flash, a terrible spray of gore erupted from her back, onto the ceiling and the rug around them. The scent of gore danced with the grimly pleasurable smell of sparkpowder, forcing Tor to suppress a gag.

The assassin dropped the backsword and slumped over him, her face in shock as she stared into Tor’s eyes. She looked deep into his, as if trying to ask for pity on a poor, young eagless. Blood poured onto Tor, drenching him in the stench of death. He was paralyzed, trying to move, but the shock of the detonation seized the whole world for what felt like ages.

Tor’s brow curled together as he pulled his talon from her gut, squelching from its disgusting suction. The sanguine covered his talon in thick globules, and ran from his digits steadily. His breathing accelerated as he slid her onto the closest rug, placing her down with a unceremonial squish.

The assassin sharply gasped and fought for air. Her eyes darted to and fro, looking for something unseen. She turned her head to Tor, who stared at her with bewilderment. Without a second thought, he placed a bloody talon on her neck while she began to whimper. He pressed the middle digits against her brain stem. By the old rites, it was said to be a place to help ease the pain.

She was cold and clammy. Tor remembered holding an old warrior in his arms in his youth. The bloodshed was not so violent, nor was it so quiet after. But it was lonely here. There were no friends to sing a dirge or to bring a towel to wash the wound. The most he could do was be here for her.

A warrior stays for a warrior.

The assassin cried out while he adjusted himself to cradle her. Her eyes glossed over as fear overcame her. Tears rolled down her bloodstained face, washing it ever so slightly.

“By the eyes of Anadolu, blessed be her gaze, I bear witness to your first steps unladen,” Tor gently chanted. He then made his voice stern, but barely above a whisper: "Who sent you?"

The assassin coughed blood, oozing from her mouth and her nostrils. Tor squinted as it splattered on his face.

“Some hoity-toity sorts,” she strenuously replied. “They told me ye broke the Veronian Code — Gave a good price, too. They promised me a Grover’s ransom. I could eat for a year!” Her gasps became more frequent, and she gripped hard onto a loose bit of Tor’s gown. Tor sighed, remorseful.

“Shite,” she cursed. “So, this is what it’s like t’ be hit by a locomotive.” Her breathing started to go erratic, and tears flowed stronger. Her whimpering deteriorated into a quiet, childish weeping.

He shushed her, reassuring her with a calm stroking of her head. “I am here for you.”

Tor, unable to do anything, could only hold her as she began to pass. Her swearing phased into incomprehensive muttering and whimpering. Tor began to hear a cadence after a short time — She was praying.

He was familiar with it, a dirge that the dying recite as request into Sarmma. The tune rose and fell, like the great cliffs that rose high into the Eternal Sky, beckoning its wayward souls back to bond with the Six. He closed his eyes and sang with her softly, giving her companionship as she left.

She grew colder. The room was occupied by nothing but her prayers and the fading crackling of his fireplace. She couldn’t finish her final lines. But as warriors do, they help one another — Tor took on the mantle of the request into Sarmma.

They exchanged one last glance at each other as he finished his tune. Tor’s golden eyes reflecting the dying hue of her blue. She gasped a final breath, and her grip around his shirt loosened, growing limp. Her eyes rolled away, and grew still.

Gone.

---

Tor took the sheets from his bed to wrap the corpse in a makeshift veil. The silence of his room consumed him as he prepared her like any other honorable warrior. His thoughts swirled with each fold and revolution of the cloth. His eyes wandered about to the remnants of the fight — The blood scattered across the furniture and the floor, the pools that lay static between the tile. This carnage, perhaps, could only be incurred by the explosive nature of Corus Ren’s firearm.

He sighed, and placed a somber talon on the wrapped figure. He had killed before — he can recall every life he had extinguished, which was luckily in the single digits.

But those deaths felt… different. Tor’s stomach tightened briefly as he mulled the idea over. There was something to it — It shouldn’t have been so quick. He caught himself and smirked. I can’t believe I’m complaining about surviving an assassination attempt.

Tor reached over the body, took the pistol and grasped it gingerly. It was sticky with blood, coating from the muzzle down to the receiver, shining in a miserable sheen, which he quickly cleaned with a free bedsheet. It was bottom heavy, unlike a sword. It felt easy to control but easy to make a mistake if it happened. The smell of sparkpowder still lingered on it like a cursed miasma. It was sleek and well fitting in his talon, glossy and barely used. Sliding a digit over the barrel, he could identify the mon of Ren’s manufactury.

This is so efficient, Tor realized. A pull of the trigger and the body crumples. It’s so simple, too — No finesse or long years of training. It was the first time he had really held one, refraining from trying it at Ren’s demonstration. He raised the weapon and brought its sights to eye level, aiming at the wall. His pointer finger laid on the the trigger, and he hesitated. He slowly pulled back on it, half expecting it to unleash fury again. His body relaxed after it didn't.

I destroyed a life so easily just with this motion — A line of gryphs could do more in a minute that a battalion of spears could do in an hour. The feathers on his neck rose erect as a shiver drifted down his spine. Six above! I see why Celestia’s fears were there… But this will change everything.

The jinn had escaped the lamp, he realized. A sharpened spear was nothing compared to the blunt barrel of a gun. He may have already seen it when it destroyed a minotaur’s cuirass, but to see it kill… Tor shook his head. Maia was right — The sword was about to be decommissioned.

Tor carefully put the gun down and moved on to clear his thoughts. He retrieved a large piece of the mirror to look over himself. The wound on his chest was significant but not deep. He felt a bruise on his neck where he was grabbed, and one sweltering on his right arm, where he stopped the blade. His face was worse for wear, and he was afraid his cheekbone was cracked.

The scratch on his back was just below his right wing, but from what he could tell, was deeper than the cut. He would have to wash up later. For now, he concluded, he would have to dress them. He had no medical application in the home, so he used what was best for now — linens. He took one of his bedsheets and wrapped his barrel, wincing and whining all the way.

After dressing himself proper, he discarded his sullied nightgown and opted for something more utilitary: A plain shirt and accompanying auburn waistcoat and breeches. His cravat was simple. He slipped on the holster after figuring how it hung from his body. He also recovered the wrapped paper cartridges and percussion caps from the assassin’s corpse. Nine loads. He then prepared a baldric to hold a sword, but which one? He’d decide soon.

With a heavy heart, he walked out into the foyer, pushing his thick door into its pocket. He was guilt-ridden to see the guards’ corpses. Shallow pools of crimson cradled their heads, the result of a slit neck on both of them. One was already primed for combat, his sword still in talon. It seems that his assailant was too quick on the draw for him.

The other guard didn’t stand a chance, taken by surprise. Her dying gesture was a futile attempt to contain the spillage, shown by the grip around her throat.

He gave a prayer of thanks to the Six for his fortunes, and safe passage of his entourage to the cliffs of Sarmma. He would do the same pleasantries as he did to his assassin’s body, but a sense of urgency struck him.

Tor knew someone was awaiting an answer on his death. The assassin’s lack of return would already be a cause for concern. But his life to continue? He was bound to have continued accostment from these “hoity-toity sorts,” of whom he assumed was the forum.

But with both parties lost, it might mean a success — and not having to pay the reward, naturally. Tor moved with haste back to his bedroom.

He took the assassin’s body and laid it on his bed, and pulled the blankets back over her. He then began to pack. Clothes, some pleasantries and toiletries, cold weather clothes. He fished around for the money he kept about to keep him financed for the next few weeks and returned to his sword situation.

He slid the backsword to the scabbard and slung it on his baldric. He reached for his gold saber out of habit — and hesitated. This would be the moment for him to abandon his station. But this could help me if I needed something big. If I do this, it risks exposing me back into the fold, and this whole thing could start all over again.

He stood for a short while as his talon hovered over it. His arm began to ache. Yes, he finally said to himself, stuffing it into his bag. We’ll take it.

He sighed as he put it in. From all the plain clothes that sat within the bag, the hilt shone with a grand glittering. The azure scabbard had an ethereal glow about it, a testament to the craftsgryphs who made it over five centuries prior.

Like all weapons slung from the baldrics of the senate, it was a weapon also held by one of the original founders of the Confederacy. Ancient, but still wondrously beautiful. He wanted to cradle the precious thing and shelter it, but — It’s only a ceremonial weapon. Granted, he defied that reverence a little while ago.

“Okay,” Tor mumbled to himself. “Let’s keep moving.” He lit a candle and placed it on the mantle. It was normal for a candle to burn while observing the dead’s passing, but it also served another purpose. He then turned about to the switch of the gaslight and turned it off.

Like many gaslight systems, it held a pilot light burning at all times, not only for ease of ignition, but to keep the gases from seeping into the room, which is what he wanted. He climbed onto his bed to blow out the pilot. It took him a good while to even move up as his wounds began to ache with the strain of climbing.

He hesitated. If his plan were to happen, there’d be no going back. Risk my life, or work outside the bounds of my station? If I stay, I’ll be under attack again and again. Not to mention, my resistance could cost the life of another who has done the same crime I have! If I leave, my departure might satiate the bloody appetite of the forum, and we can come back to some stability.

Tor smirked. I suppose I could live away from the hustle and bustle. Life off my inheritance, if I can? Find a wife, live a quiet life. The proletariat dream, eh?

He blew out the pilot and cranked the dial of the gas all the way open, ready to face the music. Climbing off the bed, he walked over to his nightstand. He opened the drawer to recover Rovena’s letter, and promptly folded it, sliding it into the interior pocket of his waistcoat.

Though it would take a good while for the gas to fill the room sufficiently, Tor opted to not dawdle in the bomb that was swiftly becoming his home. He grabbed his hooded gum blanket and slipped it on. He stepped out into the foyer, and turned down a corridor towards the kitchen. His intent was to leave through the servant’s entrance, but could not resist a last raid of the pantry.

The pantry was immense, to say it lightly. It was a cacophony of smells, pleasurable to the senses — Cooking spices and the blending of savory and sweet smells bombarded him. He quickly pilfered a good handful of dried meats and cheeses, and snatched a bottle of bolah, a corn whiskey. Though a good age, it would not entirely be intended for his gut. His wounds needed to be dealt with.

Still, there’s nothing wrong with a satisfied pallet before you destroy your house, Tor reasoned. With good reason, too. It might be a while before he could enjoy such pleasantries again.

He was quick to leave after his final trip to the pantry. The strength of his hunger was powerful, but not too powerful as to trap him in the house. With swiftness, he made his way back, out the servant’s entrance. The rain had intensified, falling steadily and strong. The thunder was noticeably heavier, roaring soon after the lightning flashed above.

Were the patio not so miserable this night, it would be a comfortable little spot. Regina made for herself a small haven away from her labors, a bench sitting under a rose-covered trellis. Tor spied a potter near the bench, littered with little cigarette butts. He was sorry her spot would be destroyed in the blast, but considering the percentage of his fortune he'd leave for her in the event of an early death, it would build this patio many times over.

He could not stay too long, and he continued down the stone path leading to the back gate. Its padlock had been snapped open, which Tor first thought there was a key involved, but he looked closer to see tiny scratch marks which shone in the light of a nearby lamp. The assassin was also a lockpicker, it seemed.

Tor gently pushed the gate, minimizing the subtle squeak that registered when he pushed it. His whole body tensed as it jumped down the back alley, trying to wake up every neighbor. After a few heartbeats, he dashed.

Though the city seemed more alive at this time of night, he was alone. The slaps of his footpads on the carved stone lightly reverberated past the buildings he skirted past, splish-splashing through puddles and wet pavement. His mind was blank. He could only think about the escape. The further continued to race, the greater his wounds began to ache more. His chest tore lightning through him as his draw for breath grew strong.

Any moment, now, he thought. He looked back. Nothing yet. He halted his run to gaze back a little longer. He stood for a small while, the rain beginning to fall heavier down his gum blanket. From his angle, the brown tile looked serene in the gaslights glowing in the higher tiers. Did I do everything right?

He was about to walk back to check on the estate, but a terrible roar soon struck the night. A hot wave blew past him, causing him to stumble. Behind the hedges of the estates around him, he heard the abrupt crash of windows exploding in their panes. An incredible fireball accompanied the explosion, illuminating the world around him in deep, harsh reds. The roof of his stately home flew above the earth like a way Tor had never seen before, the tile blasting across the skyline, smoke trailing behind each piece. Tor was awestruck, but couldn’t help but be unnerved.

No turning back now.

---

It wasn’t unusual to see the constabulary airfleet to be at active at night. In fact, it was normal to see a clipper loom above, scanning the darkness. But tonight, it was different. Their spotlights were ablaze, and unnatural, white arclights blasted artificial moonlight across every building imaginable. The whistle calls and choral yells echoed past every wall from the city gates to the top of the Spire.

This awoke a very groggy Rovena, who, just minutes prior, finally drifted off to sleep after a long trek down from the Mask. She knew she couldn’t sleep when this ruckus went on, not when the constables found their next victim. Though, she was sure it was related that that rough rumble that shook her little home just moments before she found peace in her pillow.

Now she sat on her modest loveseat, cradling a cooled cup of camomile, trying desperately to get back to sleep. A hard night always kept her awake, what with the grabbing, the fondling, the unsavory comments. Oh, it happens every night or so, but it’s especially worse when a rowdy group of officers stroll through during the season’s army post transfers. Even worse when it’s stormy out, she lamented. All they want to do is stay inside.

She shivered as she recalled that one officer, calling for That Stone girl. Heavy-set, reeked of sirralah, thought he was the ladies tiercel of his little entourage — She knew the type. He made the mistake of wearing his gorget around to show off the shiny copper aiguillettes strung through it — She smirked, guessing he just made lieutenant — But it was too obvious the lad hadn’t touched an eagless since he left his mother’s womb.

He was nothing like that Tor, though. She grinned. Aye, I want more like him. A little warmth tickled her kindly as her grin grew to a smile.

She thanked the Six the night was over, but cursed whomever it was who made this racket happen. Her mind rolled through a list of possible suspects — The Metal Shapers Union, the Union of Independent Crafters, or the Interdependent Workers of the West, maybe?

Rovena’s ears perked at the sound of clambering outside her door, louder than the rainstorm that battled the constables outside. Her tail wrapped tight around her leg, hoping to restrict her movement. But the noise grew louder, causing her curiosity to bubble. She put down her tea, blew out the oil lamp on the end table, then tiptoed to the door. She carefully navigated the maze of buckets that caught the leaks from the ceiling.

As she cracked the door open, a mixed group of gryphs and zebs trotted down the cracked concrete road. Their numbers were high, maybe fifty in total. Rain splattered around, pouring like waterfalls down from the gutters. Though the sky was full of lightning, it seemed to have channeled through the group, and the electricity was hot on their tongues.

“Was it us?” A passerby asked, his zebra face scrunched together in concern.

The gryph he spoke to shook her head and replied, “No way. No one woulda been that crazy. The other unions would’ve given us a heads up, don’t ye think?”

Different flavors of this question bounced from person to person, all asking about who did it. Rovena didn’t know what group this was, or what they were doing, but it seemed like something big. Before she could even think about it, the telltale, shrill cry of a pea whistle rang, and bounced in her head. As it reverberated through the street, the group yelled in response, and a stampede shook the world around them.

Rovena, in a frightened response, shut her door and bolted it, sliding down the three locks one by one. As quickly as they fled, the platoon of constables followed. She could feel the power of their shouts through the door, and the bloodthirsty barks of their mastiffs caused her blood to run cold. Her talons shook as she slid the last lock into place, praying to the Six almighty they didn’t come to her door.

She crouched against the flimsy wood and her tail gripped her leg again. Her lovely, snowy wings slowly creeped around her, hoping to shield her from whatever terror had begun to wash past. Her heart tried to leap out of her chest as the terrifying sounds of combat began. The unholy fury of the mortal being summoned itself upon the innocent homes of the downtrodden. Metal clashed against metal, stone and glass, and the furious shouts of the working class came upon one another wave after wave. The dogs barked and squealed, and so did their victims — The combat ended as quickly as it started, ending with whatever party retreating further into the quarter. A few whimpers remained, slowly falling silent as their arrests were made.

Many minutes passed as grunting voices moved past her door again, cursing at their victims. Rovena could tell they belonged to the constables, as the dogs always snuffled at doors after a raid.

“C’mon, ye spekkin’ sod, move yer arse!” A voice said. A muffled “Oof” followed — Blackjacks tended to knock the breath out of their victims.

Another voice: “Comrade, ye don’t under —” She was cut short by wet thwack and a painful shout.

“Don’t comrade me, ye bloody little unionite!” Rovena couldn’t hear what the constable was saying after that, as she covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear that again.

Whatever opinion she had of the unions — of which she had several — now wasn’t the time to think about it. All she had to do was wait for the shouts to end. Wait for the dogs to leave. Wait for everyone to go home to bed. Wait…

Wait…

Wait…

She slowly peeled her talons from her ears. She squeezed so hard that they suctioned when she pulled them away. Though they shook, she noticed that they were slowly losing its severity.

She halted everything for an agonizing few seconds, her ears sensitive to every little sound around her. No more constables. All that was left was the pattering rain and the gentle thunder.

Rovena didn’t realize she was holding her breath, and her chest heaved under her chemise. She placed a light talon to it, feeling her heart slowly calm itself. She focused on the steady dripping of the water into her buckets, the only peaceful cadence following her into the night.

She exhaled again, this time with a relieved chuckle. Thank the Six, she said to herself. Thank you so much. She pushed herself back up from the wood floor, and gave her wings a quick stretch. They always liked to cramp when strained so hard like that, which, she’d think would at least be more resilient after doing it so much. But, she tried to forget it, like she always did, and was determined to fall back asleep. There was always something wanting to come to her door, be it the landlord, the union spokesperson, or some young lad asking for a —

Tap tap tap.

Rovena stopped midstep. Surely it was just a phantom she heard. Nothing real. Nothing was at her door.

Tap tap tap. Then the thunder rumbled again.

She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath, regretting her prayers. The constables never liked being ignored. They hate having to wait, and they especially hate having to deal with a good-for-nothing like a blazed.

“Just a moment,” she shakily called out. Her whole body quivered as she reached over to the coat rack, pulling down a woolen shawl. She fumbled with it, it continuing to be stuck on a peg. She cursed again, terrified of what a constable's rage might be after a total brawl outside of her door. The possibilities rushed through her head — She squeezed her eyes together briefly, hoping to the Six that the worst would never happen. She was lucky thus far.

She finally was able to get the cloth around her, finding some comfort in its scratchy fibers. She tried to keep herself as steady as she could, taking a deep breath. Then, she went down her deadbolts one by one, each unlocking with a heavy thunk. As she undid the last one, she was afraid the door would be pushed in, but to her surprise, there wasn’t a forced entry. She sighed again, relieved.

He's feeling generous tonight, she concluded.

Though as she opened the door, her eyes widened at the hooded figure who stood before her.

“Rovena,” he simply said. It was that same, tall tiercel with the golden irises. His handsome face was now terribly besmirched and bedraggled, and his eyes were as wide as hers, frantic and afraid. Their breathing was both erratic, but she doubted it was for the same reasons.

“Lord Razorwing,” she muttered, suddenly losing the ability to find any other words. Her focus on him dulled the sounds of the rain around her, hyper focusing on him alone.

“I’m sorry to come upon you like this,” he continued. He pulled his hood down, revealing more of the damage to his face. “But I was hoping I could ask for refuge.”

Comments

[Cofido]

And so the plot thickens.

[paul]

Wow, that's quite a turn!
Thank you for the update !
Looking forward to the next chapter.

[MongolianFoodHoarder]

9162866
Extra T H I C C

[MongolianFoodHoarder]

9172251
Thanks for reading it, pal! I hope I don't disappoint, haha.