Thursday, 23 June 2016

The Prince of Exiles, 23

The sounds of marine fauna raining from the sky subside; I can hear now over the trickle of rainwater, changed in note, the sound of a man crying, a panicked, hysterical voice, lost in terror.


Everything stinks. The whole city carries the miasma of death, of marine blood, the blood and slime splattered down one of my sleeves, down one of my trouser legs.

But the heartbeat continues.

"Hey. Hey." It's Svaathe, a hiss that grates across the skin.

She and Makara each hold a shield; both spattered with blood, scales and slime.

"What just happened?" I'm looking at the sky.

Svaathe shrugs. Makara's deep blue lips part; she takes a deep breath, says, "It's another sign." We're both staring at her now. "Doesn't matter what sort."

She's right. We head down the hill, following the city's heartbeat. "What are going to do when we get there?" I say.

"We're going to break some chains," Makara says. "And it's up to them to decide what to do with that." She shrugs. "Which I suppose is the point."


[Collected Writings Index]

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