Chapter 68: If You Want Blood

 

The world tilted sideways and spun. Quentin fought to keep himself upright as the people around him spoke over each other, all trying to tell him everything that happened. There was an attack. They overwhelmed Jonas and Demetrius and took Razia. Dimly, Quentin heard it all and registered it as they spoke to him, but his eyes unfocused and his brain was stuck on the idea that she was gone. He wasn’t there, they took her, and it was too late.

 

“After checking on me, Demetrius took off after them,” Jonas said. He was on the ground, having his arm treated by a physician brought in by the Watch. It was a nasty cut, nearly to the bone and moving that arm was nothing but agony. He was down for the night, and probably much longer.

 

“How long ago?” Quentin heard himself ask. She was gone, and it was his fault for not being there. The fear and pain was there on the edges, scratching and begging to be let in. He kept it out with that simple mantra. She was gone, and it was his fault. She was gone.

 

“Fifteen minutes, maybe,” Jonas said, wincing. “You gotta find Demetrius. He got stabbed. I don’t know how bad it was, but he ran out of here after them. He told me to stay here and watch the girls.” Groaning, he bit his lip as the physician disinfected the wound. “He made me promise to stay. If you go now, I’ll catch up as soon as I can. We have to stop them!”

 

Quentin nodded, oddly calm. Maybe it wasn’t too late. There were a handful of them, well armed, and they were dragging an unwilling captive across the town. They would be slower than he could move. He’d been tired, physically and mentally, when he got home. This was like being submerged in cold water. Quentin was wide awake, and he knew what he was going to do.

 

“Stay here, Jonas. I’ll take care of this.” He nodded to him and walked into the Garden. There was a dead body there where Demetrius had stabbed him early on. Quentin stepped over him and went through the garden. Some guards were standing outside and jumped upon seeing him. Quentin ignored them and opened the gate. He locked up behind him.

 

“What happened here, Quintius?” One of them asked.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Quentin, walking past them both. “I’ll handle it.”

 

He went into his house, and to the room next to his. Ever since the girls started coming around more often, he kept it locked. It seemed the reasonable thing to do to protect himself. Now, he needed what was inside. He unlocked it and stepped inside his trophy room. Banners from the Colosseum hung from the walls, some of them announcing the higher profile executions he’d done over the years. More importantly, this was where he kept his weapons and armor. The armors were old and some were battered, but they were displayed on wicker dummies proudly. 

 

He pulled a chitin breastplate off a dummy. It was from one of the smaller giant beetles, a charger instead of a behemoth. Their carapace was still tough but easier to work with. Quentin slipped it on, buckling it shut. It fit like a second skin, and he took a big breath to feel it expand properly. Satisfied, he turned around. Hanging on the opposite wall was his weapon collection. Swords, knives, axes, spears, the mace the Emperor had gifted to him, all hung from the wall. None of them except the mace were anything special, but they were his, gathered throughout years of service. He took a simple sword off the wall and slung it over his shoulder. Last but definitely not least, he strapped a small reinforced shield to his left arm.

 

In the past, he’d wandered the city with nothing but his knife on his belt. Defending himself was a matter of preventative menace and prudence in equal measure. Don’t look like a victim and you won’t be a victim. Look dangerous enough to be left alone and people would avoid you. This was the first time Quentin could remember leaving the house like he was looking for trouble, but he was. The Warlords had made a terrible mistake.

 

“Hey, where the fuck do you think you’re going?” One of the Watchmen said, trying to stop him.

 

“I’m going to find them and kill them and get my friend back,” he said, pushing past him. The Watchmen grabbed onto Quentin’s shield. Quentin whirled around at him and stared at him with a neutral expression. No anger, no hate, no fear. Just a pointed stare, silently asking the man if he wanted to do this.

 

The Watchmen let go. “Not alone, you’re not. If southside gangs have ventured north, this is our business. Civilians don’t get to kill who they please. Vincent, get over here!” he called. Another of the Watch tore themselves away from questioning a crying Samantha.

 

“Yeah Cab?” He stopped short, looking between Cab and Quentin.

 

“Get ready for some action. We’re going after them.” He nodded to Quentin, who nodded back. He didn’t need their permission, but he wouldn’t turn away their help.

 

The trail wasn’t hard to find. One just had to follow the path of shocked and shaken Orchrisans left behind in the gang’s wake. In this kind of neighborhood, these things simply didn’t happen. That made it easy to wind their way south and west, zigzagging between side streets until they reached the wide north to south thoroughfare that was First Avenue. They jogged along at a steady pace, faster than the two Watchmen would’ve liked, going by their breathing, but much slower than Quentin wanted.

 

“Where to now?” Vincent asked as they slowed to a stop. As they ran there, sometimes people would point in the direction where trouble had been just a few minutes before. That had been an unexpected bonus of traveling with a couple of coppers. Now that they were in the wide square where streets converged, it was harder to tell.

 

Or it would be, if Quentin didn’t know where they were going. “They’re going further south, to the bridge,” he said, jerking his head in that direction. “If they cross that bridge, she’s lost.” He wouldn’t let that happen. Even if he had to carve his way into the South Side and die trying, Quentin wasn’t going to let them take her from him. He took off again, the other two running after him.

 

Faces and houses passed by in a blur. If people got out of his way normally, they very quickly made a path for him seeing him armed and armored. Before too long, they encountered another sign that they were on the right track: blood stained the sand, a few splashes here and there, but going further south. Quentin followed them there, coming to a stop when the trail did.

 

Demetrius was on the ground, breathing hard. He was on his side, struggling to get up. Quentin was at his side in an instant, falling to his knees. “Demetrius, are you okay?”

 

It was a stupid question. The man’s craggy face was pale and slicked with sweat. The sand around him was caked in a small but growing pool of his blood. Looking over he could see a gash nearly three inches long to the left of his spine. He didn’t know how deep it was, but it couldn’t have been too bad if Demetrius managed to get this far while wounded.

 

“Fuck, does it look like it?” Demetrius wheezed, laughing weakly. “I tried, Quintius. I tried to stop them, and I --”

 

“I know, brother,” Quentin said. “I know you never would’ve let anything happen to her.”

 

Demetrius pointed south. “They got her in a cart. I got close for a bit, close enough to see ‘em. They got her stashed, under some shit, I think. I tried to get closer, but…” he looked down.

 

“He’s not looking good,” Vince blurted out. 

 

Quentin turned to shoot him a venomous look. “Can you get him some help?”

 

The Watchman looked taken aback, but he nodded. “Yeah, you two go on and I’ll get some help for him.”

 

“We’ll be back,” said Quentin. “I promise.”

 

“I can see why you needed guards,” said Demetrius, laughing that wheezy, breathless laugh. “Go. Go!”

 

Quentin didn’t need to be told twice. He would worry about Demetrius later, when everyone was safe. He took off, running faster now until his lungs and heart protested. The street was long, but they were running out of city by the time they got to the bridge. He and the copper darted around a group of young men throwing dice in the middle of the street when Quentin saw the cart. He slowed down but didn’t stop, pointing forward.

 

“What…The hell…do you…” Cab struggled for breath. Quentin was right there with him, but they had a chance now to catch their breaths. “Plan?” He struggled to get out.

 

Everything in Quentin’s blood screamed at him to keep moving, to run up and cut them down where they stood and rescue Razia. It took all of his restraint to not do just that. They had a chance now. They weren’t at the bridge yet, and there was no use fighting them when the Warlords were likely rested and ready for action and they weren’t.

 

“We get in close,” Quentin said between pants of his own. “With any luck we can take a couple of them out before they know we’re there. I can take half of them if you can.”

 

Cab looked at him as if he grew a second head. “Are you insane? We’re not going to just run up and kill people.”

 

“Maybe you aren’t.”

 

The Watchman glared at him. “You can’t kill anyone. You understand me? We fight and drive them off and get the girl back, but we’re not looking for an open brawl. You go in there killing and I’ll --”

 

“You’ll what?” Quentin snapped. “Send me to the Colosseum? Please do. I’m going in. Help or get out of my way.”

 

Off in the distance, the bridge appeared in the evening darkness. Quentin couldn’t quite see it, but he could see the twin torches on either side of it, welcoming people across. The Warlords were little better than human sized blurs at this distance, but one of them clearly pointed and a cheer could be heard even back there. They moved faster now that their goal was close at hand.

 

“I’ve got a better plan,” Cab said. “Follow my lead, yeah?”

 

Ready or not, it was time. They moved closer, walking quickly. Quentin’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he left the Colosseum, but this was a different thumping. Regardless of what the Watchman’s plan was, there was going to be a fight, and Quentin wasn’t going to spare a single one of them if he could help it. They broke into his business, hurt his friends, took his…He swallowed and breathed out the anger through his nostrils. The time to be calm was over.

 

They closed the distance between them and the cart, pushing past a group of people. One of them really didn’t like that. “Watch where you’re…oh shit!” he saw, seeing Quentin was armed and stalking forward. That got the attention of everyone around them, including the Warlords. The one at the back looked behind and froze.

 

“Aw, shit,” Cab groaned. He ran forward and called out, “Watch here, arrest these men!” A second later Quentin saw the two coppers standing near the torches on the bridge. That would make it four on six, a much more appealing option than trying to take them all on at the same time. Unfortunately for Quentin, the Warlords reacted faster.

 

The moment Cab called out, their leader signaled and two at the front rushed the Watchmen, drawing their swords and plunging steel into soft tissue before they had a chance to react. They stabbed viciously, making sure the men were dead as two others grabbed the front of the cart and ran ahead. “Fuck me,” Cab whispered.

 

“Great plan.” Quentin drew his sword. He drew a deep breath and bellowed out at the top of his lungs, “RAZIA! I’M HERE!” He yelled loud enough to make his throat raw. To Cab he said, “I’m going in.”

 

The Warlords converged on their leader, standing behind him with their swords drawn. He wore a cocky smirk and spread his hands apologetically. “Sorry, you just missed her. Don’t worry, Christophe’s going to give her a warm welcome when she arrives. Why don’t you just head home and forget about her?”

 

This would’ve been the perfect time for Quentin to snap back with something witty or intimidating, but heat flooded his chest, spreading out in every direction. It wasn’t time for talking, it was time to fight. Time to kill. His eyes darted between the men. In the back of his head he noted everything he could about them, the way they held their blades, which legs they may have favored based on the way they were standing. Just like Demetrius taught him, identify the weak link and take them out first. He advanced with his shield raised.

 

Their leader shook his head and sighed. “You’re all really making me work tonight. And for what? Some whore? Kill him.” The other Warlords pushed past him, the three of them fanning out and approaching Quentin with their swords raised. Quentin stopped, and so did they. Nobody was willing to crack, to be the first one to move and set them all into motion. Not until Quentin jerked sharply, startling the one on the left into charging.

 

Quentin met his downward strike with his shield, slapping the attack out of the way. The others weren’t far behind and before Quentin could retaliate he had to pivot out of the way of a stab. The second man’s sword grazed his armor as he overextended and Quentin sprang with the motion, elbowing him in the back of his head as he passed. He continued the movement, bending his back to narrowly avoid the third man’s swipe at his neck.

 

Momentum was important. Quentin let it carry him sideways, stepping away from the next attack before he even knew it was coming. He crouched into a ready position, his body behind his shield, sword raised and ready to strike. He circled and the others followed his motion while their leader stood back and watched. The next strike came from his right, a thrust straight down at his unprotected legs. Quentin twisted and stepped back and the next came immediately. 

 

The man on his left chopped downwards, blade sinking into the wood of Quentin’s shield. His friend switched it up, sword rising up from its previous failed strike. With a flick of the wrist Quentin slashed his arm open. He let out a yelp and dropped his sword. Quentin had no time to celebrate. The man in the middle seized the opening and brought his blade down right where Quentin’s armor ended and his shoulder began.

 

Quentin didn’t scream so much as suck in a breath as pain exploded when the sword bit into flesh and bone. It nearly dropped him but his body moved on its own, twisting and tearing the fresh wound wider as Quentin thrust his blade through the man’s gut. The man on the left pulled on his sword, still stuck in Quentin’s shield. Together Quentin and the man he stabbed dropped. Forced to his knees, Quentin looked up in alarm as the Warlord he slashed had regained his weapon and was going in for the kill.

 

Cab came in at last, intercepting the attack with a clash and following through. The man screamed as the blade bit in and intersected with his first cut, making a grotesque X of open flesh. Once more the sword clattered to the ground. He had time to look up as Cab stabbed him in the shoulder and forced him to the ground. The copper met Quentin’s gaze and gave him an apologetic nod.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sakes!” The leader growled as he surged forward to join his remaining men. Quentin forced himself to his feet, pulling his sword out of the dying man. Pain howled at him and any movement of his left arm was agony. He didn’t know if he’d be able to move it much at all, but he was going to have to and fast. The leader ignored Cab and went right for Quentin, striking down hard and fast.

 

He raised his shield and dropped his body, not entirely of his own volition. The impacts of each strike were flashes of fire, immolating his shoulder again and again. Quentin let himself be pushed back, doing everything he could to just not drop. The bastard grinned down at him, seeing weakness. There was a predatory look in his eyes Quentin recognized. One way or another, this was over. Once more he raised his sword up with both hands.

 

Quentin dropped his shield and dove forward. He collided with the Warlord as his blow came down awkwardly against his armored back. He and Quentin were brought down to the ground together. Pain blinded Quentin as he let gravity do the work and landed on him sword-first. There was that sharp intake of breath, a soft, empty gasp as Quentin’s blade bit through leather and flesh and up into the man’s lung.

 

The last remaining warlord took a step back, sword dropping to the ground. Cab advanced, sword out. “I surrender,” he said. “Please don’t kill me, I didn’t even want to come here.”

 

Quentin pushed himself upright. His body screamed bloody agony, but he wasn’t done yet. Quentin pulled his sword out of his dead foe and lurched forward. Every step sent jolts up until the horrible cut on his shoulder. Quentin tried moving it and nearly collapsed again. This was a career ending wound, the type you never fully recovered from. The cart was partway down the bridge at this point, and there was no way he could run like this. Raw, desperate fear filled him for a second before he pushed it down.

 

All around them, the people who had ducked out of the way once the fighting began peeked their heads out. They began murmuring, but they were the least of his problems. Quentin would deal with a dozen eye witnesses who could honestly say they saw him kill a couple of men later. All that mattered was making sure Razia was safe.

 

Closing his eyes, he focused on the pain. He saw the wound in his mind’s eye and felt it burning and bleeding freely. If he could ever heal fast, now would be the time for it. His shoulder itched furiously. If he was supposed to be special or a gift from the gods, he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain if it was true. Gods, he wanted it to be true. Searing pain in his shoulder spread like a wildfire, pulsating hotter and hotter until Quentin wanted to scream. A new wave of dizziness brought him to his knees.

 

When he opened his eyes the pain was lessened. Without looking he rotated his left arm at the shoulder. It hurt. It hurt so bad it made his eyes water, but he could move it. He couldn’t see the wound very well, but the bleeding appeared to have stopped. That was good enough for him. He rose. “I’m going after her,” he said and took off onto the bridge.

 

Quentin gave it everything he had. He let the pain drive him forward, the momentum carrying him from the start of this shitty night all the way here from the Colosseum to the west bridge. The few other people on the bridge got out of his way. He saw the cart in the distance, getting clearer by the second. They were at about the halfway point of this bridge, the water’s lazy roar beneath their feet. He waited until he was close enough to spit on the cart before once more he bellowed out, “RAZIA!”

 

The two remaining Warlords nearly jumped out of their skins. They whirled around and looked at him wild eyed. “What the fuck,” one of them whispered.

 

“I killed the rest of them,” said Quentin panting heavily. Holding up his bloodied sword, he grinned at them, giving them his best crazy eyes. “Now I’m going to kill you too.”

 

They looked at each other. Coming to the same conclusion, they took off running down the bridge, as far away as they could get from Quentin. Relief flooded him. They would’ve kicked his ass. He put his sword back in its sheath, uncaring of how much cleaning it would need later. He let the shield drop to the ground as he came up to the back of the cart. He pulled the scratchy blanket off and onto the ground.

 

Razia stared up at him, hands and feet tied behind her back, with a gag in her mouth. Her eyes were filled with tears and Quentin felt a sympathetic sting of his own eyes. He’d never seen someone so happy to see him. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he pulled her to the edge of the cart. He scrabbled at her bonds until she was free. She scrambled to her feet and threw herself at him. Quentin caught her, welcoming the pain if it meant that she was okay.

 

“Oh gods Quentin…” she whispered after pulling the gag out. “Gods, this was so close, they almost…they did, and now you…”

 

Quentin pulled her close and stroked her head, smearing some blood there. He doubted she cared right then. “Never gonna let that happen,” he said, begging his heart to slow down. “Never.” She looked up at him, right into his eyes. There was none of her usual playfulness there, none of her boundless joy. Just relief and fear fighting in her, mirroring his own. He almost lost her. Something inside of him broke.

 

He pressed his lips against hers. Razia made a surprised sound, but then she kissed him back, throwing her arms around his neck and aggravating his healed wound. He didn’t care. She was sweet, soft, and warm, like the heart of summer. Why had he ever resisted? They stayed there like that, gently touching and testing each other, savoring the moment. Razia eventually broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his.

 

“Quentin,” she said, sighing against him. “What took you so long?”