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Message: <blockquote data-quote="RangerWickett" data-source="post: 5098900" data-attributes="member: 63">Chapter Two     Rantle wished he was near a nice warm fire, instead of waiting for a chance to get himself killed. War was coming, Ragesia’s armies were marching for the western wall of Gate Pass, and the whole city might be in flames by morning – which at least would make things warmer – but Rantle wasn’t expecting to fall in some grand battle. More likely, his sister was going to be the death of him.     Huddled for warmth beneath his cloak, Rantle peeked out of the alley and down the darkened street to the Poison Apple Pub. Wintry wind cut its way down the street, fluttering banners hung from second- and third-story windows and stripping petals from the flower wreaths hung along the stone skybridges that led to and from nearly every building in the city, until finally it found Rantle’s hiding place and stung him for being foolish enough to come out at midnight.     There were dozens of other pubs within walking distance, places full of forced cheer where Gatekeepers tried to forget that their city was about to be crushed by the might of the most powerful nation of the world. Rantle could be there, pretending to be oblivious like the rest of them, but family came before, in Rantle’s mind, everything.     The Apple was where he and his younger sister Katrina had met for the past five new year’s eves. He never knew what she did the rest of her year anymore, ever since she had run off at seventeen. Every year she would return from wherever she had been, lie about her travels with a lifetime worth of practice, and be gone in just a few days.     This year, however, the Apple was closed.      All Rantle had heard was that the owner had been arrested for hostile collusion, which likely meant he had been helping mages flee the city before the inquisitors got here.      Rantle almost hoped Katrina wasn’t coming. She deserved better than to be betrayed by the city that had raised them. When they were kids, standing up to Ragesia would have made you a hero. Today, it seemed, people spent more energy wondering what sorts of costumes would be on display for the new year’s festival, and less working for their future.     Still, any hope that he might see his sister and find out she was alright was worth freezing a little, so he waited, keeping an eye on the entrance to the Apple in case she came by.     Rantle was starting to nod off when the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow caught his attention. He peeked out of the alley, hoping to see his sister, safe and sound. Instead a group of three people slinked down the street, hunched in winter coats and scarves. Two were clearly men – one likely a herethim by the slope of his brow, the other a young man – and the woman had too slight a build for Katrina, and black hair.     The group stopped outside the Poison Apple and looked around as if to make sure they were in the right place, muttering too softly for Rantle to hear from his hiding place one building down. Then the herethim knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened and someone leaned out. More words were exchanged, and before Rantle knew it they had gone inside and the pub door was closed again.     For a moment, Rantle indulged his own amusement, chuckling that he had not thought to even try the door. Apparently whatever ‘hostile collusion’ had gone on in the Apple hadn’t stopped with its owner’s arrest.      He was just about to follow the group in when he heard the horse approaching from the back end of the alley.     Rantle had plenty of experience in hiding at a moment’s notice, but he was distracted, and by the time he thought to move, the rider was already turning the corner toward him. Anyway, Rantle told himself, any danger tonight was on the other side of the city walls, probably resting in a nice warm tent. Just in case, though, he tucked his arms into his coat, which would look like he was keeping warm, but which put his hand near his knife.     Brown-haired and barely bundled against the chill, a strong horse walked into Rantle’s alley, coming in from the gutter alley that ran parallel to the main streets, between the lines of three-story houses and shops. Almost immediately Rantle wondered if running would have been a better idea, since the horse was armored, as was its rider.     “New year’s blessings,” Rantle said, putting on his best smile.     The dark-haired rider stopped short, clearly not expecting to run into anyone. The man looked to be in his twenties, about as old as Rantle, but he was built for swinging heavy objects at fleshy targets. Blue-eyed, his complexion was the color of dry soil, and his black hair was cut short. He wore only cavalry plate armor and no winter coat, which likely meant he either was crazy, or was the stubborn type who needed to display how tough he thought he was.     The horse’s saddle held enough weapons for a small military campaign, most prominent being a massive two-hander sheathed along the steed’s flank. Even with his greatsword useless in the tight quarters of the alley, the man had ways enough to make Rantle regret getting on his bad side.     “Get out of here,” the man said.     Rantle raised a hand calmingly, still keeping a smile on his face.     “Peace, friend, I’m going.” He took a step back. “But, before I go, do you mind if I ask what brings you out to this part of town? At midnight, on new year’s eve, when the nearest open pub is four streets that way? Are you lost?”     The man’s blue eyes narrowed in irritation, but he didn’t say anything.     “You look Ragesian,” Rantle continued. “You’re definitely not a Gatekeeper. I admit, I wasn’t burning to get into a fight tonight, but a good citizen would think it’s his duty to fight against some sharpened tilt from the Ragesian army who found a way inside our walls.”     “I’m not with the army.”     Rantle detected something like a sigh in his tone. It threw him off briefly.     “Good,” Rantle said eventually. “Because I’m not a good citizen. Honestly, I think the leadership of this city has gone downhill lately. Do you think they’re actually going to surrender to the rags?”     “No,” the cavalryman said. “Now get out of my way.”     Rantle hesitated. He could hear more snow crunching, this time overhead, crossing a skybridge over the alley. Perhaps this horseman, whoever he was, he had not come alone.     “Look,” Rantle said, “I sense you plan to kill someone tonight, so I’m going to be honest with you, stranger. I’m Rantle. You?”     After a pause, “Kathor.”     “Kathor,” Rantle said, “I’ve got a nice flask of alwyr red. It’s strong and sweet, not the sort of drink a poor soldier gets a chance to enjoy usually. Or a poor bounty hunter, if you grasp my meaning? I was looking to share it with my sister, who I haven’t seen for a year now. We were supposed to meet for drinks just down the way, and I’m worried that you’re here, with all your swords and knives, for her.     “Now if that’s true,” he continued, “then I’m probably going to get myself killed, because she’s my little sister, and she has this nasty habit of getting into trouble that only I can wind her out of. Which means I won’t get to enjoy this one last nice drink before your friends in that army out there come in and burn down my city. So I’m going to offer this: tell me that you’re not here for my sister, and the two of us can toast the end of one year and the start of another.”     A bell tolled mournfully in the distance, from the great Spire Clocktower in the central district of Gate Pass, three miles away. Rantle straightened slightly and waited as other bells joined it, proclaiming midnight and new year, slowly ringing up and down the length of the city – nine miles of mountain pass, snow, and frightened people.      Kathor had turned his attention away briefly. Though his eyes were skyward, the horseman’s question was aimed at Rantle.     “Is your sister a mage?”     Rantle grabbed the knife in his coat, waiting for an attack that didn’t come. A moment passed, and he thought he heard movement, but the bells made it hard to tell from where. He cleared his throat to gather his courage.     “New year,” Rantle observed. “We have a tradition here, that you should make a wish at the turn of the year, and if it’s what you really want, what you truly dream about, it will come to you in the coming year.”     Kathor turned his attention back to Rantle, and to Rantle’s relief it looked as if the man was actually listening to him. Rantle had just wanted to distract him in case he had to fight, but Kathor seemed genuinely interested. Rantle didn’t quite know what he was hoping to accomplish, but he bit his lip and decided it wouldn’t hurt to see where this went.     “Kathor,” he said, “do you really want to be doing this? You say you’re not a soldier, so if you’re hunting mages, that means you’re a bounty hunter. That means you’re probably trapped in this city just like everyone else, and I don’t think a few collared mages are going to earn you mercy.”     “I’m not stuck,” Kathor said. “And you’re just trying to avoid a fight.”     “Of course I am,” Rantle said. “And if you want to be spending your new year, when by rights we should all be drinking and celebrating, instead helping the god damned rags attack a city that never did you anything wrong, I don’t think I can stop you. But ask yourself, is that really what you wish for tonight?”     Kathor seemed to consider, mulling Rantle’s words.      The new year’s bells faltered, their tolling cutting out one by one. Rantle and Kathor both looked around nervously. Beneath the echoes of the bells, faint, deep thumps were audible, sounding like rotten fruit striking a roof.     Kathor gave a single bemused chuckle, straightened in his saddle, then shouted.     “Move! Everyone, move!”     Rantle heard people running in the street, and he saw dark shapes moving for the entrance to the Apple. Distracted, by the time he realized Kathor had drawn his sword and was intending to trample him, Rantle had lost his chance to strike first.     He scrambled backward for the street as Kathor rode toward him. Though the man’s sword was too huge to swing in the alley, it served fine as a makeshift lance, and it was all Rantle could do to dodge to the side at the alley’s mouth and avoid being skewered. Kathor’s horse stopped awkwardly in the icy street as Kathor tried to wheel to face him, and Rantle drew his dueling sword and knife. He stabbed out with the sword, hoping to catch the man when he was unbalanced, but Kathor knocked his bladed aside with his two-hander.     Rantle leapt back and held his sword and knife up defensively, but Kathor did not press the attack. The man’s eyes flicked in the direction of the Apple, and Rantle was faintly aware that Kathor’s allies ten yards down the street were hammering at the pub’s door with a small battering ram. The Spire bells now began to ring again wildly, sounding an alarm.     “I told you to leave,” Kathor shouted. “Your city’s under attack. Find someplace open, away from buildings. Or else go underground.”     Rantle cocked his head disdainfully. “You’re trying to get me to run when my sister might be in the building your thugs are atta-?”     A roar of sound and a slamming force the likes of which Rantle had never felt before struck him from behind, and when he came to his senses he was lying in the street next to Kathor’s horse, which was likewise knocked off its feet.      People were yelling, and there was fire – a great deal of fire.     Rantle cleared his head with a shake, then looked at the flames. A word he remembered from his sister’s early experiments with fire magic came to mind: explosion.     The building next to the Poison Apple had – it really was the only word that did justice – exploded, and now the street was littered with glass, burning wood, shattered stone, and cracked plaster. The second floor of the building was almost completely obliterated, and the ground floor was engulfed in flames. The Apple itself was covered with burning debris, and the men in the street with the battering ram had simply stopped to see what had happened.     Nearby Rantle heard a groan, and he remembered he had been fighting.     Retrieving his knife from the debris in the street – his sword was nowhere to be seen – Rantle staggered around the flailing warhorse to where Kathor lay, a leg pinned under his mount. Kathor saw him coming and reached for his two-hander, but Rantle put his boot on it and pulled it away, then bent down and picked it up for himself.     “You should leave,” Rantle smirked. “City’s under attack. Better get to safety. Maybe run back to whoever holds your leash.”     Rantle backed away in the direction of the pub, tucking his knife back into his coat and holding Kathor’s sword warily. Kathor crawled out from under his horse, his expression hard to read, but a moment later he had gotten his horse to its feet. He swung himself up into the saddle and turned to face Rantle.     Kathor looked him in the eyes and frowned.     “What?” Rantle demanded.     Without a word, Kathor glanced in the direction of the pub, then turned and rode off. People who had come out of their houses to see what was going on stepped out of way of his horse, and in a moment he had vanished beyond the edge of the firelight.</blockquote>

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