~ Chapter 12: Annihilation ~

Miverwak flinched as the report was slapped into his paw, licking his lips, nerves electrified at the prospect of undertaking his first true task. No more scrubbing latrines for ungrateful soldiers, no more oiling blades for condescending Clerics, no more prepping prayer pyres for those who were devout only under observation. He was better than that, his grandfather said a man needed only one chance, and now Miverwak had his. He would not die as a latrine boy, damn it, he would die on his feet, as his forefathers had. He would die a hero.

The sergeant, oblivious to Miverwak's fantasy, barked in his face, spittle spraying out with each word. “Boy, you get this to the command tent, you put it in Captain Langrier's paw y'self, y'hear!? We need support or we'll be sitting dry come the hour!" And Miverwak felt a stern slap on his back, and before he knew it he was running.

His boots slipped and skidded on the mud as he went, rain stinging as it hit his eyes. Sometimes Miverwak thought armies were really just mobile factories, good only for taking perfectly green ground and grinding it up underfoot into this sucking muck and mire he was now trying to slog through. All around him were the sounds of Nurjan's army, vim and vigour hot in the air, screams and cries of patriotic fury accompanying the first wave of the assault. Soldiers bellowed orders, winches whined as they were cranked, and the heavy ropes of siege engines snapped taught as they hurled flaming ball after flaming ball at the westerner's ill-prepared city.

“Gah!" Miverwak cried, skidding in the muck as he tried to avoid colliding with a furious Corporal, who was currently occupied with screaming near-incoherent orders at his artillery unit and pointing in random directions.

“Get them up, up I say men!" He bellowed, gesturing at his feet. “No don't look at me damn fool, go, Clerics damn you, we've got to move, mobilise, hurry along! Get it all tied down! Hurry now!"

The husky let his attention drift for only a moment, but then he was spinning, lurching, one leg stopped dead as his booted foot snagged on an exposed root, sending him tumbling head over tail through the dirt, struggling to get to his paws and knees, wiping the filth from his face before he'd even managed to stop. He had to prove himself to Captain Langrier, to his sergeant, to everyone; prove that he could be useful, prove that he deserved a hero's place in the Unshakeable Emperor's glorious new regiment. He wanted respect, he wanted mirth and honour, and to be remembered as a warrior that rivalled any stinking fox!

And mostly, he didn't want to clean other wolves shit anymore.

“Move, aside, aside!" Miverwak cried, getting back to his feet and rudely shoving soldiers aside as he went, making towards the front of the army. He ran a few more steps before it occurred to him, that he didn't actually know where the command tent, and by extension Captain Langrier, was. The husky slid to a sudden stop, wobbling in place and trying to orientate himself, the bustling army swarming around him like an agitated beehive, tents flapping, fire sizzling, swords ringing.

Breathe in. He thought, chest aching as his heart bashed itself against his ribcage. Breathe out. His grandfather had always claimed Miverwak was much too nervous to make a half-decent soldier.

The sky above the city of Niverron was falling, flaming balls leaving long trails of smoke and ash behind them as they soared, looking almost lazy from this far a distance. Huge clouds of dust and acrid black soot billowed up from the Niverron streets, and Miverwak briefly imagined he could hear the screams, because there must be screams. He wondered, just for a moment, what the people there were like, what their day-to-day world was. He knew ultimately Astmoor was saving them, bringing them the law of the Emperor and a more just way of life; rescuing them from their own petty worship of a false Triumvirate, ending the hundred. It was mercy, cruelty motivated by kindness, and yet...

But this doesn't look like we're saving people. He thought, biting his lip as a tower deep inside the city collapsed on itself.

“Move aside, boy!" A gruff voice shouted, and Miverwak felt himself batted aside like a ragdoll. He again slipped in the muck (stupid western weather), sprawling paws-forward in the dirt with a thick squelch, the watery mud of the path's shoulder swallowing him up to his wrists.

Stupid, stupid fucking dog, you're not really a wolf, not even really a soldier, just a fucking embarrassment to the Emperor, Nurjan, to your family. I bet they'll disown you, I bet-- his uniform was ruined and his cheeks were burning hot enough to cook eggs, but as the husky rolled onto his arse he saw a towering, armoured pillar of white step into his field of vision, and in an instant all the shame and misery melted away. The figure was a shadowed blot against the sky, and yet the light seemed to fold and bend around him, conforming to his shape. It was beautiful, and Miverwak felt a rush of strength and joy shoot through him.

“Captain!" The figure said in an arresting voice, turning his head back. Miverwak saw he was in fact a pitch-black wolf, with shoulders that seemed as broad as Miverwak's arms were wide. The white came from his half-plate armour, where intricate pieces of once-white and silver metals and fabric were worked together to cover his chest, paws, and legs, the edges of each piece embossed with strange runes and patterns. The giant wolf looked displeased, and he frowned back at his entourage. “Halt, halt you bastards, and Captain, make certain you apologise to our fallen comrade at once! I won't stand for this level of irreverence in my command team."

The captain in question's jaw fell, and he glanced around shamefully. “S-Sir, but, surely at a time like--"

“Now, Langrier, don't you test me, not today." The black wolf growled. Miverwak stared up with open eyes, realising that the one who had knocked him down, was in fact who he was searching for.

His eyes went wider still, as he realised the one demanding an apology was Nurjan himself. The youngest Cleric-General in the Empire's history, one of the greatest military minds alive. And he was scolding a Captain on Miverwak's behalf. The husky let himself grin a little.

Captain Langrier bowed slightly, first to the wolf, then to Miverwak, who was still on his arse in the mud. “I apologise soldier. Take mercy on my mistake."

“Take my paw, good man." Nurjan said, extending a gauntleted paw out to the soiled husky. The gauntlet had probably once been white, but time in the field had left it scarred and dirtied; this man didn't dress for effect, he was a real soldier, a true leader, charging from the front. Or at least, not from the back. Miverwak opened his mouth, said nothing, then accepted the open paw. He felt himself lifted to his feet with ease, still clutching the crumpled report in his other paw.

“Th-thank you, Cleric-General." He mumbled, averting his eyes. Was there a humbler word he could use? Sir? My Lord? Miverwak vaguely considered throwing himself to knees in submission, but then that may be taken as an offence, seeing as he'd just been helped out of the mud.

Nurjan patted him affectionately on the soldier. “Not to worry soldier, we don't win wars by knocking one another down."

Nurjan. The Shadow of War, the Saviour of Sorrow. In front of me? Miverwak was dumbfounded. Not knowing what else to do, he passed the report to the Cleric-General with a shaking paw.

“Here." He said, already regretting it. The leader of their whole damn army didn't need such a petty thing, it was meant for Langrier, though Miverwak shrunk away from the Captain's heavy glare.

Nurjan took the report regardless, reading over it intently. “I see." He spun to one of the other members of his ensemble. “General Valdric, Captain Langrier, please see the thirteenth station has support at once, they're down several men from plague, and desperately need supply."

General Valdric, a stalwart red wolf, snapped his heels together and gave a perfect salute. “At once sir!" And he was off, Langrier stalking off behind him.

Nurjan turned back to Miverwak, a curious look to his face. “Give me your name, young man." The young husky felt his stomach quiver, mouth drying in total awe of the wolf before him.

“Miverwak sir. Goodman Miverwak." He spluttered, so nervous he was trembling all over. Nurjan was famous, a hero, the one they all said would end the hundred. A monk turned general at the Emperor's behest, a master of strategy, of boldness and cunning. It made Miverwak feel small and stupid, his heroic ambitions tiny and insignificant, just to be near such a truly great man.

And he's so tall! Something within the husky's gut melted.

“I need a new runner-boy." Nurjan said curtly. “You want a new posting? It pays quadruple what you make now."

The husky blanched. “I... I... y-yes sir, thank you, sir-yes, uh, sir."

“Good, then you're with me." And with that the Cleric-General scrunched up the report, turning to face Niverron, the city burning in the distance. “Stick close Goodman Miverwak, and feel exalted by our progress today! We are here, and the world is being saved!"

~ X ~

The world was ending. That's what it felt like to Breeze as he ran through the crowded Niverron streets, waving his sword and shouting for others to clear a path. All around he heard the grinding of stone falling on stone, of fire, of rain, all of it mixed and swirling with the screams and cries of dying people. His free paw had hold of Erasmus's wrist, and he pulled the stumbling otter along with him as they ran, making for the north side of the city, eyes peeled for an exit. They ducked through crumbling walls, sidled along alleys, and circumvented the most frenzied of crowds as best they could, but all the while, Breeze's fear only grew; the fear they were stuck, trapped, like rats in a cage.

Be better. Felt like a piss-poor joke now, for all Breeze cared about was getting out alive. Fuck being better, be alive. He thought, smashing his sword pommel into a slow fox's head, knocking them down.

Fenton and Madame Richeleau trailed behind them, the vixen holding her tattered dress up to her knees, easily out-cursing even Fenton as they ran. The rain was getting heavier now, and it only added to the motley of chaos. Breeze flinched as a ball of fire hit a building only a few blocks away, the ground beneath his feet shaking from the impact.

How is that possible? Are they covered in oil? Some sort of magic?

“Breeze." Erasmus huffed, looking around. “I've never, been in something like--" His words were drowned out by another building falling in on itself, the blaze swelling like a grand piece of music, embers fluttering to the air, a few pieces of red mincemeat forced between large pieces of rubble. The otter was distraught, panicked, a look of shock glued to his face that Breeze had seen too many times before. He was losing it.

“Hold it together!" He screamed into the soother's ear. “We just have to get free! We'll be okay!" He wished he could believe his own words.

“We'll never get back out through the canals!" Fenton cried, stepping up to their huddle. Breeze dragged the four of them off the main road, pushing the group into a sturdy-looking alcove. The Doberman was still topless and barefoot, his liberated bow held flush against him, blood spattered across his chest. “It's broad daylight, and the wolves'll be at their sharpest! We've gotta wait it out!"

“If we wait this out, we'll get skewered on Astmoor spikes!" Richeleau snapped back. Breeze frowned, but there wasn't time to determine who was in their club and who was not. “You've never seen the Emperor's wrath like I have! I grew up in Istren, dog! Anyone who looks half like a soldier will be slaughtered! Examples will be made, half the fucking city razed, just so they can build it back up in Kinborough's triumvirate-forsaken image! You'd be lucky to get killed before they mount you! They're wolves, practically feral!"

Breeze nodded, not caring about the insult. He knew this was only a first strike, meant to soften the city up, to put the fear of Astmoor into them. Nurjan probably wouldn't try sending men over the walls just yet, he'd let the city stew, or at least that's what Slaugh would have done. But then again, Breeze hadn't expected them to start slinging missiles this early in the game either. He glanced out from the rain-soaked alcove, and saw in the street an aging goat knocked to his belly, trampled by a panicked throng of rushing citizens. Where they running to they probably had no idea, base instincts taking over as they simply followed the man in front of them.

“I can't think! I can't!" Erasmus hissed, grinding his palms against his eyes. He shook his head violently. “There's too much, too much, much too much!"

Fenton touched his arm. “Hey kid you gotta stay--" His words were cut off as Erasmus exploded, throwing himself into the Doberman and slamming him up against the wall.

“Don't you tell me what to feel!" He snarled, spit spraying into the shocked dog's face. In the sling on Erasmus's back, Abigail began to cry.

“Off." Breeze huffed, prying the boy off Fenton with one paw. “Give her, now." Erasmus was shaking, but he nodded, slinging his harness free and passing Abigail to Breeze. The wolf cradled her in one arm, his other still wielding his bloodied sword. “Focus on me, got it Ras? Focus on me and Abigail, these other people, they don't matter, they're nothing."

“Don't matter? Fuck yourself too Breeze! Mad fuckin' soothers!" Fenton hissed, pointing at Erasmus. Breeze gave him a sharp look, and the Doberman snapped his hanging jaw shut, teeth clicking.

“So that's how it is." Richeleau muttered. Breeze glanced at her.

“You knew Gorm, he must've had contingencies, plans, ways to get out of the city if he pissed off the wrong people?" Behind them, and Breeze couldn't tell if it was closer or further away than before, another catapult load hit the city, the sound of twisting stone and burning wood echoing along with it. “We have to get out of this city! Now!"

Richeleau nodded. “There's an old thieves' passage, on the northern side. It's a fair way from here though, and I don't know how many others know about it. Gorm'd use it to--"

“Perfect." Breeze snapped, repositioning Abigail in his arms and looking to Fenton. “You. She's gonna lead, I'll be behind with Ras, you follow up. If anyone starts comin', stick 'em." And he jutted his chin at Fenton's bow. The dog looked unhappy, but he knew there weren't many better options, and nodded.

“Got it chief."

Chief. Breeze swallowed, suddenly somewhere else. Chief whaddya mean step aside? That's Paling Smith, greatest bloody swordsman in the northwest. We can take 'im together, you've got my steel, you don't have'ta fight alone! Breeze had snarled something back, not even making words, so frenzied by the thought that there was someone better than him. Get back. They had to all get back, he punched one of his own men in the face, broke three teeth. The duel was a red blur, shields, sword, blood, all of it drowning everything out. Then Paling Smith was down, on his knees, scored with cuts and broken bones, weapon thrown to the mud and the battle conceded - he lost. Show 'em mercy Witchborn, I need a new sword! That's what Slaugh said. Slaugh, Slaugh, fucking Slaugh fucking Morningbreaker. Breeze had laughed, 'course he laughed. Mercy it is, chief! And he took Paling Smith's scruff in one hand, sword in the other, and pushed straight between his teeth, deep into his maw and spiking out the other side. The Witchborn could not die, and he didn't know what mercy meant. No regrets, move only forward. Spit on your mercy!

Long time since anyone had called Breeze chief and been happy about it. Long time since he'd wanted them to.

“Breeze!" Richeleau cried, her slender paw digging into his shoulder. The wolf nodded, suddenly back in Niverron, noise and chaos all around. He blinked, licking his teeth, tasted blood. “What are you doing?!" They were all staring at him. He could smell smoke, and death, and fear – the smell of the Empire's wrath, of Nurjan's attack. He righted himself, shaking his head, the stench of Paling Smith still stuck in his snout.

“N-now." He said, shoving past, pushing the memory further down. “Let's go."

The four made it out of the alleyway warrens, pressing into the centre of town and crossing the square, the ground cracked and blackened beneath their feet. All around them fire raged, the rain bursting in large clouds of steam as it landed. People tried to claw at the foursome for help, wailing for someone to do anything, but Breeze herded them back with a flourish of his blade. Union foxes went this way and that, scattered in every direction, scrambling like ants from an upturned nest. Plenty more got trampled, and many simply tripped over and stove their heads in on bricks.

He scaled a picket fence, sticking close to Richeleau as they waded through the sloppy remains of one of the city's ridiculous inner farms. The crops and farmhouses, comically out of place in the centre of a Union fortress, were all smouldering. The ground had turned to less than mud, and become more of a giant thick puddle intermittent with roots and stone.

Pissing south. Breeze thought, gritting his teeth. Maybe it is they deserve to be conquered.

They were all coughing now, the northern side of the city quickly becoming a glorified barbecue. Smoke pumped through Breeze's lungs, burning his throat and watering his eyes. His nostrils stung, dripping snot, and he had to squint as he went in some places. He tried to shield Abigail's face as best he could, but the pup quickly turned sour, sobbing loudly as they ran through the decimated streets.

“I know, I know, nearly there." He grunted, though there was no way the pup would hear.

Breeze was almost impressed at how thorough this Nurjan was in his wanton destruction.

A ruthless and vicious general, as good as they say.

Breeze's heart sunk as Richeleau lead them around a corner, turning on the wall that contained the 'secret' thief's passage out of the city. The wall was a few hundred metres beyond them, looking pathetically ineffectual against the sky-born annihilation raining down upon it. The parapets were crumbling, the rock flaking off, huge black marks stained against the withered limestone. To the left, Breeze saw a spot where one of the artillery shots must have hit, knocking the path on top clean out.

“Damn it all!" Richeleau cried as they got closer. The small stables that hid the passage was overrun, a crowd of mad thieves and killers all struggling to get out, none of them making it, the foolish lot trapped in place by the crush. Richeleau stopped in place, running a paw over her wet head. “I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do! Selfish pricks!"

“That's a'way out then?" Fenton asked, panting.

“Obviously." Richeleau hissed. Erasmus was just groaning, biting his lip and clutching his stomach. Breeze worried for the boy, but he'd have to hold on, there wasn't much he could do.

“This is bad; this is so bad." The otter mumbled, over and over.

“Would y'quit the whining, you mad bastard!" Fenton snarled. Breeze showed him his teeth, shutting him up yet again.

“These are crazy times." Breeze said. “We have to go through them."

“Through?!" Richeleau exclaimed. “Now I think you're the one who's going insane, that's not a drunken rabble northman, it's a rabid pack of the city's most successful thieves, and they're desperate and cold-hearted at the best of times!"

“They're moving so fast." Breeze mumbled, eyes sliding up to the top of the wall, to the ill-prepared Ferrin soldiers doing their best against Nurjan's men, which had apparently managed to scale it already. “This isn't how sieges are supposed to go." He winced as two men went plummeting down, their bodies snapping on impact, red spraying out in every direction. “They're taking the walls already. If they keep this up, this city is doomed, they won't hold out the week."

“Nurjan don't screw about none." Fenton growled, pointing at each of them. “This's why I got outta this hellhole in the first bloody place, but you and your shitting coin brought me back! If I die here, it's all your fucking fault Breeze!"

“If you die it's no one's responsibility but your own." The wolf said, simply by rote. Though he admitted he hadn't given the Doberman much choice in the matter. He still felt half in the north, and only half present. It was an odd feeling.

Breeze's thoughts were interrupted by a new kind of impact running through his feet, a deep and muffled shaking, as if it came from below the ground. Everything seemed to freeze a moment, and then Breeze was pulling Erasmus to the side as the windows to the thieves' stable blew out. Thick plumes of rushing smoke poured from the shattered panes, the criminals who had previously been fighting for their place in the passage now turning tail and fleeing. Half of them were missing paws or tails or ears, limping out as a small company of Astmoor soldiers flowed from the building like blood from a severed vein, running the scum through the back as they went.

The second wave, already? Nurjan is either insane, or he's a genius. Sieges were meant to have a rhythm, all the ones Breeze had been in had a push and pull, a steady tempo, something Slaugh had called 'the heartbeat of war'. Nurjan's assault had none of that, it was just unabated anarchy, a close melee mixed with the consistent missile volley. Does he care he'll be firing on his own men?

“Down!" Breeze growled, relief flooding his chest as the Astmoor soldiers went left, moving away from the group's hiding place. A roar went up as they clashed with Union soldiers, swords and spears glinting and clanging, shields buckling as men were ran through.

Sieges make ferals of the best men. Slaugh said that once, it seemed obvious. Breeze shook his head, struggling to get out of his memories.

“Erasmus, are you there?" He asked the otter, who nodded meekly. “Can you take Abigail?" The soother nodded once more, following Breeze's eyes. A small group of soldiers had been left to guard the pass, each man intently watching the compressed battle just a few blocks down, knowing they'd be next if their brothers-in-arms lost the skirmish. Breeze handed the pup back, standing and bracing himself.

“Breeze." Richeleau said, taking his arm. “Those are seven well-trained career soldiers, and more shall be on the way. Don't be stupid, if you die you're dragging me with you, and I am not dying here, not today."

The wolf growled a reply, but she did have a point. But then again, he'd lost men and been forced into worse odds before. He'd gotten the name Witchborn by surviving fights like that.

Usually at the cost of every ally around.

“You've a better idea?" Fenton asked, shoving forward, proffering his bow.

“Easy for you to say, shooting from a distance. Have you ever seen how Astmoor trains a soldier?" Richeleau asked. “It's brutal. Their army is their religion; they'll give anything to be a part of it. You westerners are soft."

“Show you who's--"

“Just try to kill at least three. If I die, take Erasmus and the pup to safety." Breeze said, pushing past and hefting his sword, letting it slap against his leg as he approached.

Be better? What good was it being a better man, if you ended up dead? This world is a terrible place, filled with terrible people. Breeze remembered Lady Niven's words as if she were there that instant. And that's what you have to be, if you want to survive. A terrible man.

“Master Breeze!" Erasmus cried, but the otter's words fell on deaf ears. “Stop!" Breeze ignored him, stalking forward. There was no time for that, no time to think about what he was doing, or why, or for who. So far his fights in the south had been quick and outmatched. He'd danced and played without much threat to himself, without danger. Hando and his goons had been a joke, the drunk soldiers kicking Fenton not much more. The Artificers were the hardest, but he took them eventually, and unarmed too. He allowed the old memories the siege was stirring up take him back with welcome arms, let his mind bathe and indulge in those old ways – let himself sink back into the Witchborn.

Still life and cold blooded. Arrogant and unkillable. Blank faced, body loose, nothing on the outside, nothing on the inside. That's what they said about him, he'd heard the songs.

The soldiers had noticed him now, and were shouting something in their strange harsh language, raising their weapons and pointing them straight at him. Breeze licked his lips. They thought they were so good? Thought they were unstoppable?

He counted. Seven men, three with spears, two with sword and shield, one with a flatbow, one with a mace. They weren't people, just weapons attached to bodies, and they were in his way.

“A terrible place, filled with terrible men." He whispered, as one of Fenton's arrows flew past, punching through the flatbow's leg.

The soldiers came in.

Two of the spears came at once, armoured shoulder pressed to armoured shoulder. They jabbed together predictably, and Breeze jack-knifed at the hips, knocking one shaft aside and sliding closer. A third got between them and Breeze ducked, weaved - thrust. His sword went through the left spear's leg, and a second later Fenton's arrow caught the soldier in the chest. Breeze put his foot to the man's crotch and yanked his sword free, slashing for the right spearman. He chased him down, the panicked soldier desperately trying to put some distance between them. A spear is a great weapon, for a man with many friends. Breeze saw red, grinning as he relished the melee. He grabbed one of the shafts, bringing his sword down and hacking it off near the grip. The broken spear fell and the soldier wielding it went over backwards, yelping.

The others are coming, more, always more, never enough. He ducked a sword, beating the soldier away and warding him back, Breeze standing as an impassable wall. Don't forget the last spear. Back, back, back – now. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, lunging forward with a leaping thrust. His blade hit the soldier in the gut and slid right through to the hilt. Breeze got a paw on the soldier's shoulder padding, and jerked the blade upwards, back and forth, sawing it through the spearman's gut. Behind you. He ripped it free through the man's side and whirled, two-paw grip blocking one of the swords. Where's the other, the other, he's – Breeze pushed the block aside and ducked a swipe, the second swordman's slash passing overhead and biting into his friend's neck. The first swordsman clutched at his throat and tumbled back on his arse in shock, blood haemorrhaging between his fingers.

Flatbow had his weapon raised now, aiming straight for Breeze. Shit. Breeze put a paw up in surprise as the flatbow twanged, the bolt shooting forward and slamming through his left palm. More, always more.

“More!" He roared, the pain in his arm little more than a blip on his radar. He was unkillable, unstoppable, born under the witch's sign. He made it three steps toward the flatbow before a mace-head caught him in the gut, doubling him over, bile swimming up his throat and splashing between his teeth.

Breeze retched, stomach turning over, paw cramping. Watch it, don't die you fucking idiot, not here, not now. Overhead slash, he's strong but he's slow, get back, dance back and – Breeze yelped as a shield rammed against his back, shoving him forward and right back into the mace-head. It bashed against his breast and he felt something give (broken ribs). He stabbed his sword down without looking, the tip piercing the soldier's ankle and plunging into the ground.

“Scream, fool." Breeze growled. Mace opened his mouth to wail and Breeze socked him in the mouth, swallowing a mouthful of blood and puke, his anger hot and flowing through every inch, pushing to the tips of his fingers, souring his mouth. Everything was slippery in the rain, and as Breeze weaved – narrowly avoiding a bold sword thrust – his grip slipped right off his sword and he came up empty-pawed. The blade remained stuck up, stabbed through mace's foot and the ground, but Breeze kept going back anyway. Watch these two, they're next. There was nothing else, nothing but those four men he had to kill; swordsman, broken-spearman, flatbow, mace. Forget being better, who wanted that when he could have this? The spearman he'd disarmed had a big knife out now, and the remaining swordsman was quickly advancing. Flatbow was somewhere in his peripheral. Fenton, you useless dog, actually do something worthwhile and kill that fucker. As if on cue, an arrow punched through flatbow's skull, and the wolf fell limp.

Three left, not enough. He thought, roaring as he took hold of the bolt stuck through his paw. Through, pull it through, it's barbed like a cat's dick. He grunted wordlessly through gritted teeth, tugging the bolt out and hurling it to one side. The heat in his paw was replaced with a cold hissing sensation, but it was easily shoved aside. Fingers twitching, Breeze got low, paws draping across the warm ground.

Down, here somewhere, here- ah. He grinned as his paws closed over the top of the spear he'd cut in half earlier. Two steps in, they won't be ready, they're weak. One-two-throw! He hurled the broken shaft like a javelin, and it soared like one. It punched the knife-wielder in the gut, his old weapon betraying him as he twirled, stumbled, lost his balance. His paws flailed, and Breeze came in again. Grab it, get him, crush him. He took hold, tugged it free, and smashed it like a bat across the swordsman's muzzle. It splintered but the man went down, eyes rolling back as his body began to seize and convulse.

Weak, pathetic. Breeze thought, turning back to the mace. You're doing better. He thought, surprised as the big wolf tore Breeze's sword free and tossed it aside, blood bubbling out of his shredded boot.

Running out of steam. Tired, hurt, all over, don't get fucking sloppy. One thought in his head. At the same time, You're unkillable, unstoppable, fuck him, destroy him.

“Okay, okay." He muttered, as the mace stepped toward him. The adrenalin was fading now; limbs were getting heavy. Shit. He could feel his injured paw whining, his breath labouring, the pain in his chest a heavy weight on each movement. He felt more like Breeze and less like the Witchborn with every heartbeat, the thrill of battle fading quick. Not now, just a moment longer, I need it, I need you. His back was sore, and his neck and shoulders were covered in tiny scrapes from near-misses. “C'mon then, you big bastard." His paws were held before him, ready to grapple, empty and looking for any opening, any opportunity. Breeze braced, ready to leap forward, ready to—

Mace jerked suddenly, glanced back woozily, then fell to his knees, eyes rolling up as he flopped dead on his belly.

“Oh." Breeze said, nodding appreciatively to Madame Richeleau, who stood behind the fallen soldier, a long curved knife held in one delicate paw.

“It was taking too long." She said, sheathing the knife.

“Master Breeze." Erasmus said shakily, coming to his side and clutching at his arm. The otter seemed more clear-headed than earlier, but he was still dazed, mouth hanging open. “Are you okay? I saw--"

“Fine, Ras." Breeze grunted, feeling anything but.

“Y'welcome Breezy." Fenton said, strolling over, his black and brown fur was completely soaked, his shirtless torso shivering in the chill. The wolf looked around, eyes passing over the seven dead men.

Shame and fear began to creep through Breeze's chest, but he fought to keep it at bay. We're not dead, that's all that matters now. At least when he was with Slaugh, he knew who and what he was. Now he barely felt himself, like he was trapped in another's body, forced to sit, watching himself go through the motions.

“What now?" Erasmus asked, swallowing as he looked at the carnage. Breeze shook himself, trying to remain grounded in the present. His paws were trembling, gore and mud smeared up each side of him.

“Now?" Richeleau asked, pointing to the smouldering thieves passage, currently left empty. “Now my darling, we go through that tunnel, and put as much distance between us and this sinking ship of a city as possible."

The End of Part One