Lesbians Fight the Demon Queen - Chapter 6

On nimble feet, Nina stole ahead, moving as quickly, quietly and inconspicuously as she could muster without one compromising the other. She was sharp, alert, keenly aware of her surroundings as, some ten feet back, Byron hobbled behind, using Kesh as a proper sturdy support while Zelle trailed behind. The group moved purposefully, but hardly at an impressive pace despite their hustle; Byron was dead weight, to be generous. While he would certainly live thanks to Zelle’s intervention, his leg would be no good to walk on without proper medical attention. Unfortunately for him, that apparently meant creeping across the whole damn city through the maze-like network of backstreets and winding alleyways. At least that gave him time to think, he’d hardly had a moment to himself since awakening, and as one could imagine, Byron had a lot to unpack. For example, who even was he? Did he have a life somewhere to get back to? Even if he did, could Byron rightly call that his own life with no memory of it? He wasn’t even certain he was doing the right thing, Nina and the others seemed like good enough people, but he’d hardly had the chance to really consider whether all this was right for him.

Byron was pulled from his thoughts by a gentle touch on his arm. He glanced to his side, Zelle was eyeing him, a concerned smile on their face. “You seem troubled,” they said.

“I have good reason to be,” Byron muttered, shaking his head.

They paused for a moment, chewing their lip, then nodded. “This must be confusing for you. I’m sure you have a lot on your mind.” The reply came slow, words chosen with a certain particularity.

“What’s bothering me more is what I don’t have on my mind.”

Again, Zelle stayed quiet as they considered Byron’s. Their gaze swept ahead to Nina, then to Kesh, then back to Byron. “You know, I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but I’ve been doing this for a long time. I wouldn’t have made it as long as I have without relying on people like Kesh and Nina. If you need someone to talk to, I’m around. I know you don’t really know any of us, but we look out for each other. And you’re one of us now.”

“Thanks. For now though, I just need to think.” Wordlessly, Zelle nodded and fell in line behind Byron and Kesh, and their trek through the city continued in relative silence. The pain, at least, kept Byron company, constantly reminding Byron of the cost of running off with his newfound companions; still, what choice did he have? Just as Byron grew accustomed to the rhythm of his hobbling gait, just as his stride fell into a relatively painless, if somewhat slow and deliberate pattern, Kesh decided to veer off course entirely and suddenly duck behind a wall, yanking Byron with him. With a stumble and a grunt of pain, Byron made acquaintances with an old, crumbling brick building. Staggering back into something resembling a standing position, he glared at Kesh.

“What the fuck was that about?” he hissed.

“Just be quiet for a moment and keep still. There’s a reason we’re creeping about in the backstreets.” On cue, the distant thundering of dozens upon dozens of boots thudding against the crunchy gravel backroad rolled from somewhere off in Nina’s direction. Seeming to read Byron’s bottled-up questions so eager to escape they may well have been bleeding out his ears, Kesh sighed, and glanced around the corner quickly, then leaned in to whisper in a hushed tone. “It’s a patrol; as long as we keep out of sight, we won’t get any trouble, but if they catch us out after dark we’re likely to be questioned. And, for obvious reasons, none of us want to draw the attention of local authorities, especially you. I’ve heard that those things can somehow see whether or not someone has been touched by demonic magics in the same way you have.” With that, Byron simply silently nodded his head, and ducked behind a crate, listening as the boots grew louder, crunching the loose stone beneath their feet in rhythmic fashion, constantly grinding.

When the sound drew impossibly near, Byron glimpsed the first row of soldiers; they stood three wide, each wearing an identical crimson cloak which covered the majority of their armor-clad torsos, arms and legs. Their faces were veiled by strips of black cloth, along with every other bit of flesh. They marched in uncannily perfect unison, each hardly so much as distinguishable from the last. There was something about their movements, so automatic, so expressionless, and efficient. Byron didn’t want to think about what might happen should he catch the ire of such brutal coordination. Despite the unnerving sight of it all, Byron managed to keep calm and out of sight. Things were going smoothly; it even seemed as though the troop column had nearly passed, when the second story window to an old rundown house flew open. Out of the window leaned a woman, dressed in an unremarkable smock and wielding a cast-iron frying pan. Shouting a string of unintelligible rage at the column, she hurled the pan with both hands and remarkable strength. Like a discus, it sailed through the air with impressive speed before striking a soldier full force in the head.

Normally, a blunt object with as much weight as an iron pan hitting someone with that sort of velocity would at the very least cause said person to be knocked to the ground, accompanied by  cries of surprise and pain. It wouldn’t even be all that surprising to hear the crunching of bones. Instead, when the pan met its target, the guard’s helmet flew clean off, revealing an upright, completely headless body. With its helmet gone, the guard, or whatever it was, collapsed into a heap of equally empty armor, and its companions immediately sprung into action, some charging the house while others wordlessly moved to secure the perimeter. Before Byron really had time to fully process what had happened, what he had seen, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Kesh cursing under his breath and practically lifting Byron up by the shoulders. “Alright, then. We need to move, right now.” Dazed and bewildered, Byron staggered after him, hobbling quickly as he could and biting back a groan of pain as he threw himself into as much of a run as he could muster. In a word, it was unpleasant; in more, it was fucking excrutiating. But Byron didn’t need more reason than strange bodiless soldiers prowling the streets to prioritize survival over his own comfort and curiosity.

“What about Nina and Zelle?” Byron choked between gasping breaths.

“They’ll be fine, they know what their doing, my job is to look after you.” Kesh grunted.

Behind him, Byron heard a booming voice rise over the din of hammering boots: “Halt.” At that, Kesh only hurried his pace even further, practically half carrying Byron as they veered right down a side street, then left down another, and another and another, twisting and turning as the clattering steps only drew closer, before suddenly, a thundering crack burst over the endless cacophony of noise, followed by a deafening clatter of armor scattering and crashing together. Byron whirled his head around to glimpse the source of the sound. On a rooftop, he caught sight of Zelle, pouring a flask of a transparent blueish liquid into a glass capsule filled with yellow powder. Their eyes met Byron’s, and they flashed a grin, hefting the capsule in the air a few times, before winking and tossing the capsule into the mass of scattered cloaks, armor parts and clumsy automatons clambering over their fallen cohort. They had turned and disappeared from view before their creation had even struck its target, ducking just as a crossbow bolt whizzed inches above their head. The sound of glass shattering pierced the air, and a moment later, a swirling vortex of extreme cold and howling wind erupted in the center of the group. Fog billowed from the center of Zelle’s miniature blizzard, obscuring Kesh and Byron as they made their escape, all while their pursuers struggled through cold so extreme it froze the air around them.

As they ran, Byron heard the sound of Zelle whooping and cackling, accompanied by increasingly distant explosions. After more twists and turns than Byron could ever hope to remember, Kesh came to a halt in an old rundown alleyway, then leaned against the wall of what appeared to be a tavern of sorts, huffing clutching his side as he sank to the ground. “We should be safe now,” he panted. “Zelle has their attention. Nina is… somewhere, but she knows where we’re headed. We’ll just have to trust both of them to make it out.”

“Are you sure Zelle will be okay? They must have half the guards in the city on them by now.” As though to prove Byron’s point, the moment he finished speaking two dozen or so more automatons ran past their alleyway down an adjacent street. Byron sighed and, with a groan of pain, plopped down next to Kesh, wincing as he noticed his leg wound had re-opened, soaking through his loose trousers.

“Ah shit,” Kesh groaned. “Sorry about that. Here, let me help you out.” He pulled a strip of cloth, some cotton, and a bottle of liquor from his pack. Soaking the cotton in the liquor, Kesh rolled up Byron’s pant leg and pressed the cotton against his wound, then wrapped the cloth tightly around Byron’s thigh. It was hardly making the piercing agony radiating through his leg any better, but Byron was at least grateful for his companion’s preparedness. “As for your other question, Zelle will be fine. They might’ve seemed the more calm and collected one back at the safehouse, but they’re a powderkeg on the battlefield, all shock and awe, chaotic, disorienting, terrifying. Hit and run is their specialty. Geld is the biggest, most baffling maze of a city in all of Bhuriel, and they know the ins and outs of it better than anyone. They’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than Nina or I, as well, for that matter.” Between heavy breaths, Kesh took a long pull from his liquor bottle, then offered it to Byron. “Want some? Might take the edge off.” Wordlessly, Byron took the bottle and brought it to his lips, gulping a long, greedy swig. His throat burned as the alcohol passed through him, and Byron couldn’t keep himself from coughing bitterly as he winced.

Chuckling good naturedly, Kesh lightly clapped him on the back. “Not much of a drinker?” he asked.

Byron paused, then shook his head, shrugging between coughs. “Well, that’s the thing.” He choked. “I don’t really know. I don’t know anything about this person I’m supposed to be or this body that’s supposed to be mine. I’m kind of just figuring it out as I go.”

Frowning, Kesh scratched his chin. “You really don’t remember anything, huh?”

“Yeah.”

A long pause followed, punctuated only by the occasional sounds of the night. “Listen, kid, are you sure you want to be helping us at all then? I mean, I know I was kind of resistant to taking you along in the first place, but are you sure you want this? You look… young-ish? You could just go somewhere and live a relatively normal life.”

“That would be pretty hard considering how this country sees people like me.” Nevertheless, Byron had to admit he wasn’t entirely certain this was something he really wanted. He still barely had the slightest idea of who he was or what kind of person he wanted to be; he might as well have been born only hours ago and really hadn’t had the time to actually consider what it was he wanted, considering everything he’d been through.

“I know. But just… consider whether this is something you want, okay? We know people who can get you out of the city and someplace safe. And then, once the revolution’s over, you can come back. Maybe buy us a few rounds as thanks.” He winked, and stood, creeping to the end of the alleyway and peeking into the street beyond, then returning and crouching before Byron. “We should get going.” Kesh offered Byron his hand, which he took, and Kesh hauled him up onto his feet.

“I’ll consider it, Kesh, thanks.”

The remainder of their trek through the winding forest of Geld’s streets passed uneventfully, and Byron sank into the companionship of Kesh, the gentle buzz of alcohol, and the continuous dull throb of his leg. “By the way, Kesh, what were those things? The guards, I mean.”

“Ah. Well you see, since most of Bhuriel’s military proper is concerned over securing the eastern border with the demon lands so as to maintain the stalemate, the cities are fairly undermanned when it comes to keeping order. So the solution was magical constructs. They’re not particularly bright, or great fighters, but that hardly matters given their numbers and our complete lack of reliable equipment to launch a proper full-scale battle to take over the city.”

“Do you really think you can win if your comrades do get some proper equipment?”

“Well that’s the thing, we’re not just talking swords and spears; we don’t know for sure, but our informants think the reason they don’t bring the automatons to the front line is because the demon mages could deactivate or even take them over. If we can learn how to do that, the actual living guards left in Geld will be overwhelmed. Once Geld falls, the rest of the country will follow suit.”

“Hmm, here’s hoping I guess.”

“Indeed.” Kesh led Byron around one last corner, then came to a stop before a modest but well maintained wooden house. “We’re here.” Reaching forward, Kesh gave three sharp knocks. The sound of footsteps echoed from within the house, drawing closer, before the door swung open. In the doorway stood a tall man dressed in a black button up cloak that hung just below his knees, meeting a pair of sturdy, polished, black leather boots. His face was partially obscured by a dark, wide brimmed hat. His eyes met Kesh’s, and the orc grinned. “Hullo, Thread, going somewhere?”

“No, not exactly.” There was a certain deliberateness to his words, as though each were carefully selected. “But you know the sort who seek me out. They expect a certain… mystique, exoticness. Plus, it does not hurt to answer the door with one’s face at least partly hidden these days.” His eyes flicked to Byron, then back to Kesh. “Who is your friend?”

“His name is Byron, got into a bit of trouble helping Nina out of a scrap this morning, but his leg didn’t fare so well. Zelle patched him up, but we could use a proper healer.” Kesh gestured to the darkening makeshift bandage, and Thread nodded, standing aside for the two to enter. From the looks of his front room, Thread struck Byron as either a minimalist, or someone with something to hide. His walls were bare, the room lit by nondescript lanterns and candles. A completely mundane rug was placed in the hallway, leading to a desk decorated only with a pen and open journal. Next to the desk chair was a brown leather doctor’s bag and an unused coat rack.

Gesturing to the desk chair, Thread nodded to Byron. “Have a seat, let me take a look at that leg.” Byron did as he was told, hobbling over with Kesh’s help and sitting heavily. As he did so, his eyes couldn’t help but wander onto the journal. The page left open was filled with all manner of bizarre and rather impressively drawn symbols, what appeared to be a hand-drawn map, a diagram of some sort of passageway, and the blurry outline of a woman’s silhouette. In the middle of the page were two words, circled; they read “Trust Maya.” Then below that, an annotation: “Who is all this for?”

The sound of a floorboard squeaking drew Byron’s attention back to Thread. He gave a professional smile. “Never mind all that. I seem to have found myself caught up in someone else’s machinations. So unless any of that means anything to you, I would not worry about it.” He knelt before Byron, removing the bandage and inspecting the bleeding wound, then looked up to meet Byron’s gaze. “Ah, but where are my manners? I invite you into my home and do not even give you a proper introduction. My name, as I am sure you have surmised, is Thread. Expert on the spirit and the body, medical practitioner, and, when the mood strikes me, accomplished necromancer.” That last bit struck Byron as wrong, but before he had the chance to reply, three more sharp knocks came. Thread turned his head to follow the noise. “Kesh, would you see to that?”

The orc nodded, and returned to the door as Thread tended to Byron’s leg, fishing a series of vials from of his bag, as well as a mortar and pestle which he used to mix a paste from a series of powders, herbs, and an odd smelling ointment.  “Now I think I felt you tense up a bit when I said necromancer. Not to worry, I am not going to kill you and use you for parts or anything. I am much more interested in preserving life than taking it.” As though to drive the point home, in that moment Thread rubbed the paste onto Byron’s leg, then muttered a few words under his breath. Momentarily, Thread’s hands began to glow, and Byron’s wound began to seal itself before his very eyes, the skin mending, the pain vanishing. “There we are, leg is all better now.”

“Thanks,” Byron said, hardly believing his eyes.

“Not too familiar with magic?” he asked.

“Not too familiar with anything.” That seemed to spark a bit of curiosity in Thread’s eye.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I am not entirely certain I understand what you mean by that. But, it is a big world out there, and if you are running with that one, then you are caught up in something which might get rather nasty. Are you sure that is what you want?” Wasn’t that the great question haunting Byron’s mind?

As far as Byron could tell there was hardly any sort of lapse in his knowledge or command of language, but when faced with such a question, he what best represented his feelings was an apathetic shrug. “I’m not, but what choice do I have?”

“As many choices as you want. It is never too late to start anew, to choose something else. Even if you have the ability to fight, to help people like Kesh and his companions, that does not mean you need to. You have no obligation.” Thread spoke as though all this were simple, easy. But, perhaps that was the point. Oddly, going along with a group of revolutionaries on their mission to recruit help from a foreign monarch had somehow been Byron’s path of least resistance. And that was ridiculous. He’d been so caught up in the moment he hadn’t allowed himself other options. But what were those other options?

“I don’t know what I want. I haven’t even had the chance to think about what I want.”

Smiling, Thread began to pack his supplies back into his doctor’s bag. “Well then, perhaps you should spend time thinking about that before going off galavanting with a bunch of revolutionaries. I know Kesh, he would not want you to come with him simply because you felt you had to.”

“I… I need to think about it.” Byron slumped forward, sighing heavily. On the one hand he felt a sense of debt to those who had helped him, who had offered him shelter and medical care. On the other, Byron needed answers, he needed to know who he was. And, a part of him felt that the answer to that question would be shaped by what he chose. He was formless clay, and wherever he went, whatever his choices were, he would be shaped into someone new. Across the room, the sound of Kesh clearing his throat pulled Byron from his thoughts. Next to him stood Nina, panting, a grave look written on both their faces.

“Things with the city guard got out of hand. The entirety of Geld is under curfew,” Kesh murmured. Nina nodded.

“Well, all three of you are welcome in my home until morning.” Thread gestured toward the stairway, evidently indicating a place to sleep.

“That’s not the problem.” Upon closer inspection, Byron could see Kesh trembling. With rage? Maybe. It felt more like fear.

“They caught Zelle.”