Seven by M.S. Hund

Author:M.S. Hund [Hund, M.S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jebesyl Press

They follow the Hound out of the Rotside Bazaar some time after midnight, crossing the muddy moat that marks its border, and find the road north, luminous in the Hiveglow.

Lescale’s boots are sodden and caked with mud as they step onto its broken surface. He crouches, intending to clean the muck from his boots, but notices that his companions have not paused. With a sigh, he stands and hurries after them, boots squelching.

The Hound had taken most of the day to discover Seven’s trail, masked by rain and the Bazaar’s own peculiar blend of odors. The creature’s progress had been in seemingly random directions until finally it had stopped, hands and nose to the muddy ground. Lescale shudders as he remembers the image, the dark figure crouched in an alley, lifting its head and pointing with one waxy yellow finger to the north.

It moves quickly now ahead of him, head lowered to the shattered pavement. Lescale almost has to jog to catch up. His hands are hidden in his pockets, one clutching Dana’s cross, the other the blood-spattered rag that he habitually lifts to his lips though the coughing has yet to return.

Ahead, Tatterdan turns and waits for him, hopping from foot to foot, drawing from whatever endless source of energy his Quinboy booster-drugs and more recent madness have lent him. There is no chance now of recognizing whatever former parishioner lurked behind the bright clothing and tattoos. The beast of Lowbridge had ruined Tatterdan’s face, splitting the cheeks on both sides of his face so that the Quinboy now has an permanent, scab-encrusted leer stretched beneath the diamond marks that mask his eyes.

Something had broken inside the boy as well. Where before he had often slipped in and out of the florid, singsong poetry of Quinboy speech, now he only sings and giggles incessantly, both sounds rendered unlovely by the ruined state of his mouth. The mad light that dances in his eyes is mirrored in his constant need to be moving, to prance and cavort. Drool drips from his chin.

“Run, Seven,” Lescale whispers. “Run far. Run fast.”

He gasps at the sudden pressure in his head, the sensation of burning lines slashing across his back.

The witch, he thinks, and closes his eyes, hoping he might trip on the broken pavement and smash his head against the ground. As quickly as the thought occurs, it vanishes, and his eyes snap open, focusing on the giggling Quinboy and the shadowy movement of the Hound ahead of him. He cannot fall. He cannot. Who would protect Seven then? Who would keep these demons from harming her?

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