A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (thriller books to read TXT) 📗

the corner of a bar two blocks from the Knife.  One of the figures raised a hand, made a gesture, and then pointed south.  A sharp whistle from that direction told me the quarry was sighted.

We were close, additional whistles coming rapidly.  For an extraordinarily smart specimen, this woldling was in the absolute worse part of the city for it to survive.  My Shadows were out in pairs, armed with heavy spears, alert and communicating with each other.  If I knew Hemppe, then most of the pairs were battle-hardened vets, experienced woldling killers.  Snipers should be on the rooftops, also in pairs, one with a war crossbow, the other providing security, likely armed with a spear.

More Shadows appeared, focused on the streets ahead, and whistles sang through the cold December air.  A trio of familiar figures just ahead caused me to slow Tipton’s pace.  Hemppe, armed with one of the inn’s crossbows, was standing with Cort, who held a spear.  The third individual was huge, heavily bearded, and carrying the giant axe that was his trademark weapon. Urso, the giant, was a retired RRS sergeant whose woldling killing prowess was legendary.  I pulled Tipton to a halt and swung down.

“You stay on this horse, Welton,” I ordered the boy, handing him the reins as he scooted forward.  “Give him his head if this thing gets close.”  Tipton hated woldlings and had killed two himself with his hooves during his lifetime.  In fact, his ears were turned forward and he was breathing great plumes of steam into the freezing air.  “But don’t let him follow me,” I added, pulling the two axes that are always part of my saddle gear.  I tapped the hilt of the sheathed short sword also attached to the tack, drawing Welton’s attention to it should he need it.

“Where?”  I asked.

“It’s just ahead, deep in that alley off Broderick Street,” Hemppe said.  “Odd; it keeps running from us but it keeps circling back to this neighborhood.”

“My aunt’s house is over there!” Welton said suddenly, fear in his voice.

“Yeah, and your Aunt Sissa is safe. Bolted in her house with Jella up on her roof with her bow,” Cort said.

“Damned thing is weird as hell,” Urso said, spitting a gob of tobacco juice onto the street.

“Jella’s been tracking it, and it behaves like no other woldling we’ve ever seen,” I said.  “Did any of you see it?”

“I did,” Urso said.  “Big one, but all fucked up.  Twisted.”

Long ago, the first Paul’s earliest woldling creations were malformed monsters with uneven limbs, misshapen jaws, lumpy skulls, and misgrown teeth and claws. But over the years, his priests had improved their skills, resulting in the current generation of symmetrical, almost sleek, predatory shock troops.  We knew it had something to do with using very young children as the base stock.  A mucked-up specimen was exceedingly rare and likely the result of using too old of a child.  We hadn’t seen one like that in years and years.

“Why haven’t you killed it?” the lord marshal suddenly demanded from atop his mount.

All four of us turned to him, Urso spitting another gob of brown juice on the ground just in front of him. Almost as one, my three people turned away from Kiven and refocused on their watch.

“A single woldling, more cunning than any we’ve seen,” I said. “Stalked the city for days, entered almost undetected, and now hanging around the one part of the city guaranteed to have lots of armed and hardened woldling killers lurking about.  That doesn’t make you even a little bit curious?”

“My responsibility is to the safety of this city.  And why aren’t any of my constables here?”

“Your stick men don’t patrol here,” Cort said, using soldier’s slang for peace officers who were usually armed with wooded batons.  “Haven’t seen hardly a one since the captain here left service.”

Kiven glared at him, but it was like water beading up on duck’s back for all the impact it had on Cort.  Then with a snarl, Kiven turned his horse and galloped back up the icy road, his voice rising as he called for the night watch.

“What’s the deal?” I asked as the lord marshal clattered away.

“Jella said to corral it but leave it till you got here,” Hemppe reported.  “She’s a might curious.”

“Alright, let’s move up. I want to see this beast,” I said.

We walked forward, armed and alert, Welton following five or six spans behind on Tipton.

The street had a bit of an arc to it, rounding to the right, and as we proceeded, more houses came into view.

The neighborhood around the Knife and Needle is heavily populated by my people, although there are plenty of regular merchants, tradesfolk, laborers, and their families living in it too.  Despite the lack of regular constabulary patrol, there is almost no crime in my area.  We don’t allow it.

On the far side of the arc was a single building that had three shops in it, one selling clothes, both new and old, a spice trader, and a bootmaker’s place.  Next to that was a multifamily dwelling and then another just like it, the space in between forming the gloomy alley that Hemppe had mentioned.  Across the street, on the inside arc, were four small cottages, all in a neat row.  The third cottage from where we were was the Newberry cottage.  Lapped plank siding, a real slate roof as opposed to cedar shingles or thatching, and window boxes that Ash had built himself. The windows had heavy oak shutters that were currently closed up tight, as was the reinforced oak door.  A slim shadow crouched on the roof near the chimney, short bow in hand, watching the dark alley.

“Wait here in case it comes this way,” I directed, moving forward on my own.  I stopped in front of Ash’s house, facing the alley.  “What’s up with this thing?” I asked, never taking my eyes off the shadows.  Before Jella could answer, a deep growl rumbled in the dark.  She was forced