Continuation of Part 3
The men were forming up again with an air that spoke of a state of shock so deep that you simply went numb. They gazed ahead fixedly, clearly avoiding the bloody mess that was their late comrades; one could not easily discern where one man ended and another began. It was a tangle of blood-soaked limbs, some of them still twitching feebly.
Ryne felt the gorge rise in the back of his throat, but he forced his gaze steady; he had to stay strong for his little brother. He snuck a glance back at Damion, who had his back to him. Damion's dark hair sagged to his shoulders and the tip of his nose could just be seen through the strands of hair, his profile otherwise hidden. Worry touched the eyes of Ryne, but he had promised to give Damion his privacy, and he would honor it.
Ryne looked back as he heard the synchronized beat of heels on the hardened path. Lucky for him and Damion, the massacre had concealed the fact that two of their rank was missing, as it was now impossible to figure out how many lay dead in the heap of corpses. Speaking of corpses, the stinging scent of blood rode the warm currents of air and had just now reached Ryne's nostrils, causing him to mutter a quick curse and cover his mouth and nose with a hand.
He heard a cough behind him and a series of wretching noises, but did not turn around. The splatter of a heavy liquid hitting the ground made Ryne grimace. He cautiously peered down both ends of the path before slowly crawling forward on his belly. A disgustingly warm stink raced him down, causing him to gag reflexively; he closed his mouth forcefully, biting his tongue in the process. Blood trickled into his mouth from the wound, the iron taint spreading around to his tastebuds.
”Holy fucking shit, what the hell has he been eating?” Ryne muttered bitterly in between gags.
Forcing himself forward, Ryne held back his own stomache with nothing but an extreme effort of will; the steadily approaching stench of soiled breeches and split guts wasn't helping. He altered his course a little to the right, so as to skirt past the miserable heap.
Ryne came to a halt in the shelter of a patch of tulips, the leaves stained with a copper tinge on closer inspection. The crunching of boots on gravel could be faintly heard to the left, and Ryne could see a shifting mass of shadow perhaps three-hundred feet away and furthering rapidly.
Ryne and Damion could try their luck wading through the Garden and attempting to scale the twenty-foot wall surrounding it, or they could try to slip past the numerous guards by the gates (assuming that they could get the gates open in the first place).
Impossible. No, not impossible, just difficult as fuck, Ryne corrected himself in his head.
He looked to his right; the fortifications of the Duke's estate towered over the hanging garden, positioned to bring dusk early to this cursed place.
”I'm starting to see just why this place is named as it is.”
Ryne startled out of his reverie, cursing himself for his lack of vigilance. Damion stood next to him, pale faced and ashen, but holding his head high. His gaze had followed Ryne's and was now locked onto the estate.
It was an old manor, perhaps a hundred years old, beautifully crafted from ash-wood and black marble; veins of yellow criss-crossed through the dark stone, highlighting the sharp edges. It was old as hell, as Ryne knew from documents he had stolen from here, close to crumbling down really, but the Duke wouldn't even hear of renovating it. He thought it had sentimental value as it was. The thirty-foot thick wall surrounding the whole area was practically impentrable; the fortifications were manned around the clock, soldiers patrolling the skies, 20 feet of hardened granite high.
Now this is impossible, no doubts there. Only a gods-damned lunatic would even thi-
”We're going through there.” Damion pointed.
For the love of Kasandra, please don't be pointing at the...
”...Duke's estate.” Ryne finished aloud flatly. He turned to Damion, a vein pulsing on his forehead. ”Are you out of your fucking mind? Don't give me a damn show of being depressed and then tell me to storm the fucking Duke's bloody estate from which we just bloody well made our escape from. Don't you dare go suicidal on me. Moan all you want, but I won't die just because you have a deathwish!”
Damion watched his brother with a calm expression, arms folded on his chest, waiting for him to finish his rant. Ryne's voice had risen to a shout; he was now standing but an inch away from Damion's face, fists clenched and fuming.
”You're my fucking brother. I'm not going to let you kill yourself just because you feel like shit. Man the fuck up and take what life gives you, even if it may be horse shit stuck in a bottle. We'll bloody well be going through the gates and that's final.”
Damion took a step back, gaining some breathing space. He looked his brother square in the eyes and said, ”I haven't the slightest intention of dying in there. What I do intend to pull off is an elaborate escape through the fifth story; the actual details I'll make up as I go. No dying before, in the process, or afterwards. Guaranteed. You coming or not?”
Ryne forced himself to calm down with visible exertion; he took several deep breaths and closed his eyes for a moment. He slowly unclenched his hands and when he opened his eyes, they were twinkling with excitement.
”Gods, I thought I had lost you to the Garden.” Ryne scratched the stubble on his chin, pondering. ”It could work, but the fifth story is heavily guarded, for obvious reasons, and it'll be a bitch to get even that far. How do you intend to get through to there?”
A grin played on Damion's face. ”As I said: I haven't the faintest clue.”
Ryne sighed dramatically and feigned a look of hopelessness. ”Oh well. I do believe it will involve a lot of running around and a long trail of corpses. I'd love to say that it would include cunning and caution as well, but that's not really the Kale style, now is it? We aren't content with a mere escape like anyone with brains would be; no, we have to jump out of a burning tower with trumpets blaring and wanted posters stuck up our asses. After all, the filthy beggars need their entertainment,” he said with a wink.
This brought a laugh from Damion. ”Spot on, my dear malformed friend, spot on.”
”Who the hell are you calling ugly? I'm the one who doesn't possess skin the texture of a turkey's balls.”
The brothers of Kale retreated back into the brush in the direction of the estate, shoving each other and calling each other names that should never have been invented, giving no heed to stealth; they knew there was no need for it in the long run. Their grim laughs echoed through the leaves rustling in the wind, and into the ears of the Dreghs marching towards the gates. They quickened their pace without noticing, the demons of their imagination lashing them on.
A/N: To anyone interested, this continues in the "Novels" section, as the story line grew in my head to novel-measure.
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I would go insane... er.