Naming Bullets Page 8
fresh wounds. He realized the pipe would not hold for long. He saw a window a few feet away, and pumped his legs like a child on a swing. The slippery pipe swung out even further from the roof, and he hung over a long drop for a moment. He heaved another kick and as the pipe swayed back toward the wall, released his grip and crashed through the window into a hallway lined with tapestries. Shards of glass dug into his vulnerable flesh, and only by the grace of God’s Blood did he avoid making himself a eunuch. He allowed himself a momentary smile of relief that he was still alive and whole.
Giele picked his cut and shivering body up from the glass-littered floor and tried to ignore the pain as more shards poked into the soles of his feet. He had never been in this part of the palace before and had no idea which way to go. The guards made the decision for him as a gaggle of them erupted into the hall from the stairwell at the end. He dashed in the other direction as they shouted orders to halt.
As he sprinted, cold and bleeding, through the labyrinthine palace, he cursed himself for his ultimate foolishness. His were not the actions of a twenty-year veteran, a Grove Colonel in the King’s Army. He’d be fortunate if the Guard didn’t do worse than kill him for his transgressions.
The Palace Guards were far more loath to shoot their pistols within the confines of the palace. The King wouldn’t appreciate damaged masonry, even in the pursuit of a criminal. They had no such fears about crossbows though, and bolts shattered against the walls or stuck in tapestries as Giele raced down the corridor. He rounded a corner and startled two maids pushing a laundry cart. They shrieked at his sudden appearance—wild-eyed, bloodied, and naked. He would have apologized had he any breath at all to spare. Instead, be overturned the cart in his wake in the hope of delaying the pursuers.
He found a familiar corridor as he rounded a corner. A quick left turn led to a staircase. He scurried down the stairs into the kitchens and shocked the early-morning cooks as they prepared the breakfast banquet for the King and his guests. The Palace Guards’ whistles and shouts continued to sound behind him, as well as the whistle of one saucy bakery maid who must have found his nude form pleasing enough.
A crossbow-wielding guardsman appeared in front of Giele. He grabbed a heavy iron pot from a counter top and hurled it at the guard. The pot struck the guard full in the face, and the sound of his nose crunching was louder than his harmless bolt cracking against the ceiling. It seemed Giele’s presence had alerted the entire Palace, but he was close to escape. He put his head down and rushed for the door where street vendors sold their produce and meats to the chef.
Palace Guards moved in to block that route, so Giele shoved a startled scullery boy out of the way and dove down the garbage chute.
He was not a large Elf; the hard life in the military had kept him trim and fit. Even so, he could have become wedged in that narrow stone pipe. Had he been wearing a single stitch of clothing, he would have died, stuck in that ludicrous, stinking tube. Instead, his blood and sweat provided sufficient lubrication, and he wriggled downward through slime and black rot to drop from the chute’s mouth into the icy river below.
The river Silver had been sculpted and diverted by dams over hundreds of years until it no longer lived up to its name. Instead, the sluggish muck flowed along a stinking culvert filled with Morningstar’s garbage and sewage. With the heavy rain, the Silver crested high along its banks as it often did in the Autumn. Giele hoped for some flooding in the low-lying areas to better aid his escape. He struggled to stay afloat in the frigid, reeking water, fearful of the diseases and poisons that might enter through his wounds, but he was determined to stay in the river until he reached the middle of town. A sodden rat perched on a floating piece of wood scrap hissed at him, and Giele recoiled, striking his head on one of the massive stone buttresses that supported the palace overhead and making himself see stars. Cold gray light diffused in from the outside to give the underside of the palace a surreal look. Slime mold and algae coated the stone walls and ceiling, stinking of sulfur and decay.
He saw the portcullis a bare moment before his body slammed into it. He clung to the rusted metal, dizzy from the impact and the knowledge that his plan to swim to safety had evaporated. The iron was pitted and slick with algae and age, but unlike the garbage chute, Giele couldn’t fit in between the bars. Diving down, he found the grate embedded deep into the river bottom. He would have to find his way off the Palace grounds on foot after all. He climbed from the filthy water and ran along the narrow ledge beside the river, feeling the entire Palace hulking over him like he was an insect and it was a foot ready to stomp. Somewhere ahead he would find a way to get back inside the building and, with luck, another way to escape. He was so cold, he struggled to draw each breath. Frigid water, blood loss, and exhaustion had all taken their toll, and he was running on his last reserves of strength.
Then a guard stepped out from behind a fortification tower and pummeled his mailed fist into Giele’s face. His consciousness fled with his hopes of survival. His last thought was of Terika, and why she had betrayed him.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ian Thomas Healy dabbles in many different genres. He’s a ten-time participant and winner of National Novel Writing Month and is also the creator of the Writing Better Action Through Cinematic Techniques workshop, which helps writers to improve their action scenes.
When not writing, which is rare, he enjoys watching hockey, reading comic books (and serious books, too), and living in the great state of Colorado, which he shares with his wife, children, house-pets, and approximately five million other people.
Ian is on Twitter as @ianthealy
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www.ianthealy.com