Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Wren asked.

“Dunno,” Swoop said. “But I wouldn’t trust anyone just sittin’ around out here.” Swoop blinked a few times and squinted, like he was trying to clear spots out of his eyes. “What’s on his face?”

Wren looked as carefully as he could. It was tough to make out from this distance.

Painter answered, “I th-think it’s a… a… blindfold.”

Runners were a rare breed. Even under the best conditions, with a well-known route cleared ahead of time, it took a certain kind of person to risk all the dangers the open offered at that pace. A bad step, a rolled ankle or a twisted knee, and runners could find themselves a dozen or more miles from their destination when night came. And that didn’t take into account the number of traps that evil or wretched people sometimes laid for the unwary. A shortcut through the wrong alley, or even the right one taken too fast, could lead straight to the grave.

Some called runners bold. Others, reckless. Cass had a new term for them.

Desperate.

She’d managed to keep her pace steady — despite the snow, which had made the terrain even more treacherous. Her lungs ached from the chill air, and her legs were increasingly leaden, but still she pushed herself. The wound on her thigh had seeped through her pant leg. About the only positive to the situation was that the route itself hadn’t been a difficult one to follow.

Cass got the impression that the remains of the city around her had grown more broken and jagged. The snow now enshrouding it covered but did not hide what lay beneath, a white sheet draped over a corpse. Surely this was a deadly place. But she refused the warning thoughts that tried to pry into her mind and force her to slow.

She wasn’t far from the Windspan now, and she felt confident that she could overtake Wren and the others there. If she could reach it. If they had reached it. Cass hadn’t really considered what she’d do if she’d overshot them, if she reached Morningside before they arrived. Wren was masking his location again, and there was no way she’d be able to track him if he didn’t want her to.

A fork led her to a narrow street and as she saw the scene that lay ahead, fear pierced her heart. She slowed and slid to a stop. There was a man lying face down, frosted with a thin layer of white, surrounded by a sludgy pool of deep maroon. Part of her wanted to rush to him, while the other told her to stay away. Cass lingered, panting, afraid of how she might react if she discovered the body was Swoop’s. She glanced around for any signs of combat, but saw none.

After a moment she crept towards the body, keeping her eyes up and watching in case it was some kind of trap. About eight feet away she stopped, and saw enough to know it wasn’t Swoop. The relief was tempered with the anxiety of not knowing what had happened. There was a good chance that Wren had passed this way, but no way to know whether they had encountered the dead man. She considered checking the corpse to see if she could determine how the man had died. It didn’t seem to matter though. He didn’t look like he’d been shot, at least not by Swoop’s weapon. Maybe the poor man had fallen victim to some unseen device.

Cass didn’t like the implications of that thought — that she might be running through a minefield, literally or figuratively. She set off again, doing her best to ignore the anxiety that tried to beset her mind and the fatigue that dragged at her body.

Swoop led the way to the bridge, and Wren could tell from his stride that something was definitely wrong. Usually his stride was aggressive and direct, but now, every so often, his feet seemed to splay to the side.

“Swoop, are you OK?” Wren asked.

“Fine, Governor,” he said.

They were coming up on the bridge now, and the man ahead was still just sitting there. Or maybe he was on his knees. Wren had assumed it was a man, though he supposed it could be a woman. It was hard to know for sure. The person’s hair was long and grey and swirled about his face. If it was a he, his eyes were definitely covered by a blindfold.

Swoop stopped, and Painter and Wren came up next to him.

“When we get close, you boys stay behind me,” Swoop said. “Ten feet or so. Until we know what he’s up to.”

“Can we just guh, go around him?” Painter asked.

Swoop shook his head. “I don’t want him behind us. Not until I’m sure. Maybe even after I’m sure.”

“OK,” Wren said. “Be careful, Swoop.”

“Yep.”

They closed the final distance to the man on the bridge, and Swoop motioned with his hand for the boys to stop while he continued on. Wren and Painter held their place. Swoop advanced towards the man, but stopped about fifteen feet back from him. The man’s head was bowed, and he did not stir as they approached.

“Sir,” Swoop said. “Everything OK here?”

The man didn’t move.

“Sir?” Swoop said again, and then a little smile appeared on the man’s lips.

“All is well,” he said. “Forgive me, it has been long since anyone has called me ‘sir’.”

Swoop swayed on his feet, and Wren saw him widen his stance. Something definitely wasn’t right.

“Tough neighborhood,” Swoop said. “Plannin’ on stayin’ long?”

“Not long.”

For an old man sitting alone in the snow in the middle of dangerous ground, he seemed completely at peace. It frightened Wren terribly.

“You headed across the bridge, or did you come from that way?”

“I had planned to cross. Now, I wait.”

“Waitin’ for…?”

The old man raised his head then, as if he was looking at Swoop. “You.”

Swoop’s head lowered a little, and his shoulders came up, like he was getting ready for something to happen.

“Well,” Swoop said. “Here we are.”

“There are stories in the west,” the old man said. “Stories of a king in a great eastern city, who raises the dead.”

Painter looked at Wren.

“Raises, and enslaves,” the old man continued. “You know this city.”

“I know a city,” Swoop said. “Don’t know any king like you say.”

“Yet you travel with him.”

The old man’s words filled Wren with dread, but there was something curious to them, something in the way he spoke, the way he formed the words, that pricked at Wren’s mind.

“Look, fella, I don’t know where you get your news, but I can tell you it’s bad. And if you’re thinkin’ about makin’ trouble, I got nothin’ for you but worse.”

“The king should be expecting me.”

“Morningside has no king,” Wren called as he came forward. He walked closer, but stopped a couple of steps behind Swoop. “But I am its governor. Or was. But I’ve never made a slave of anyone, and I don’t think I was expecting you.”

“You should be.”

It was a mild correction, the old man reemphasizing what he had already said, as if he had been misunderstood. His face was still turned towards Swoop.

“Could you tell me your name, sir?” Wren asked.

“Today,” the old man answered, “I am Justice.”

It happened so fast, Wren couldn’t really tell who moved first. Swoop knocked Wren backwards and brought his weapon up in a flash, but the old man was a blur. Wren fell. There was a clash of metal, and Swoop was thrown violently backwards. He crashed into the snow and skidded backwards on his back.

Somehow the old man was standing where Swoop had been moments before, as if he’d teleported. He stood sideways with his left shoulder towards Swoop, front leg bent and the other locked straight behind. A sword had materialized in his hands, though Wren had not seen him draw it. This he held vertically, close to his body.