Chasing

Kirsi was truly terrified. Even as her feet flew over the packed earth, around corners, under washing, the little part of her still left thinking was panicking. Her heart thumped not from the long chase, but from what was still to come – what she could see coming. He was crazy, she would have to get him back to himself, before he killed again, he had killed them all…

These were her streets; she knew every square, every fetid alley, every stinking sewer better than she knew her own name. She knew her way around the streets she’d grew up on – what she didn’t know was where she was going.

Glance behind (was that a flash of the feared orange robe?) and see the streets stretching behind her in a never ending maze, the houses stretching up to the sky; but too long a glance, she nearly tripped over her own feet. Keep your eyes ahead, jump the half-naked little kid, dodge the old woman – and catch your shoulder on the battle-mad Stian.

His pale face was red with the effort of his heart beating a thousand times faster than her own, strong against his pale blonde hair, thick with sweat. She hadn’t realised in her panic, but he was still screaming, he had been since the fight, how did he still have the strength?

God-around-us, he had killed them all (leap the barrels, watch the donkey wandering in the street), every last one, and she hadn’t had the chance to fight even one fairly, he cut them to pieces…

The butcher’s market; she had forgotten it was Thor’s day, the streets were running thick with blood from the stinking carcasses held high – he had killed them all – and her feet were splashing though it, leaving blood on her breeches. There was already blood on her breeches.

There was an empty storeroom across the market, she knew the owner, could she get there before the orange men found her, could they make it, could they make it? Stian was still screaming with battle rage. He was insane – never had she seen him this berserk before (watch the butchers’ children, remember we stole from that man, run around run around), could she get him back? The orange men were once Stian’s own, his brothers in arms, now the swords he had fought beside were chasing him, run run run…

Then – silence. The busy streets were behind them and the warehouse door was closed, and the adrenaline was fading away, but still Stian screamed (he had killed them all) and he was slashing wildly with his sword, no, wait, he dropped it.

The blood was high in his face, he was sweating, his lips were frothing as he screamed and Kirsi jumped on him. He stank of sweat from their frantic chase, but still she pushed him till he fell flat on the ground. She knelt on his upper arms (the arms that had killed them all) and missed, he swiped at her face, she felt blood, but she fought him hard… she had him pinned. He roared in her face, but she reached down with a strange sense of revulsion (they were all dead) and stroked his face the way that it always worked, hissing like a groom with a horse, and just like that, he calmed.

His breathing slowed and his face cooled slowly and he stopped screaming, just like that, and Kirsi rolled off him, her own face drenched with blood and sweat… silence. The two long-time companions fell asleep, side by side, safe in the storeroom, but before she could succumb, Kirsi looked at him through her matted, sweat-drenched, no-longer- red hair, and thought one last thought…

He had killed seven people today.

If you’d like to hear more of Kirsi and Stian, the misfit pair of ne’er-do-wells and sometime heroes who’ve hovered in my head for near three years, give me a shout and I’ll see what I can do! Just a taster into their lives for now.