Unpleasant Visitors
Liz hadn't been happy when she woke up. Lamb had expected she'd be grateful to him for saving her life, but oh, no- she just couldn't keep her mouth shut about how he'd hit a girl, or how irresponsible he'd been to endanger himself. She didn't seem to understand that she'd be dead if he hadn't stepped in, or if she did she didn't care, and was even stupider than he'd realised.
Putting aside her impossible character and sluggish mind, Lamb had found that she wasn't a bad person to have around. She complained far too much, and she was a bit of a simpleton, but once you got over those points she could have been a lot worse. A lot softer than she acted, and in the quieter moments it shone through.
In the week since he'd taken her in, her wounds had faded to faint scars, her skin had turned a much healthier colour, and she'd gained a comfortable amount of flesh on her bones. He'd wondered at first whether to question her abnormal recovery, but had decided it would be hypocritical coming from someone with his abilities. She hadn't really told him much of her story, but he was fine with that. She'd probably elaborate on it when she felt comfortable.
She'd been imprisoned by the Wardens, who had decided her 'powers' (which, in the same way as his own, even she didn't understand) made her a threat to the human world. The lacerations were apparently their attempts to extract the ability, although they looked more like sadistic entertainment to Lamb; who, in a rare fit of thoughtfulness, decided not to mention his observations.
Since she'd been imprisoned at the command of the Lord Warden himself, the vast majority of them simply accepted the ruling, but as time went on and her treatment became more and more brutal, a few began to question it. One Warden in particular had stood out against her torture, eventually turning against his superiors and breaking her out. She'd stolen a suit of armour to blend in and escape, then run to the nearest city in the hopes she could hide until they grew tired of looking- an expectation Lamb found laughable, considering the Wardens' reputation for flogging dead horses.
She had no idea what had happened to her rescuer, but didn't hold much hope. He'd stayed behind to hold off her pursuers- the order he'd sworn allegiance to- in the middle of their stronghold. If he was lucky, he'd died quickly. If he was unlucky...
Despite everything, Lamb found to his surprise that he was enjoying her company. Not only because she was the prettiest face he'd ever seen, or because she was humorously thick at times, but because he genuinely liked being around her. In her weak moments, he wanted to comfort her. When she snapped at him, he found her simply adorable. When she did something clumsy, or stupid, or naive, she was superb to laugh at.
It helped that her circumstances echoed his own in many ways: host to a great power, clueless as to why it existed or how to use it, but unable to quite fit in with society because of it. He'd always been quietly confused by himself, burying it behind his job and his smart mouth, but now he had someone to share his confusion with. It was like he had finally found somewhere he belonged.
Having closed the tavern for the first two days, he'd been forced to reopen it in order to avoid suspicion. He couldn't have cared less what the patrons thought of him, but the situation in the city had only gotten worse. Patrols of guards policed the streets. Government spies were working amongst the populace. It was even rumoured that Wardens had been spotted in some districts, and that the city might be looking at martial law.
Nobody put a foot out of line anymore, for fear they might have it removed. The Boar's Head was no longer a place to relax, grab a drink, compare stories and catch up on news. It had turned into a twisted establishment where the patrons spent their time drowning their sorrows, cursing the government, and wishing they lived somewhere else. A few had even voiced thoughts of rising against their oppressors, but they were quickly silenced by their friends. A drunkard was a coward, and none of them would ever put deeds to their brave words, but that wouldn't stop their throat being slit on the way home. Treason was treason, no matter the situation.
As the hysteria spread, even Lamb began to worry. He didn't feel particularly endangered, considering no city guard could even scratch him, and the Wardens had yet to turn up anywhere nearby, but now he had more to care about than just his life. If they found he was harbouring a fugitive he'd have to make a run for it, or face imprisonment or execution. And while he might not be particularly pleased with his job, it still beat sleeping out under the stars in gods knew what conditions.
Nobody yet knew of Liz's existence- she didn't leave his room during opening hours- but the story of the injured Warden had spread like wildfire. Even with many more pressing issues to worry about, it was too spectacular a story for people to forget in a hurry, and it was only a matter of time until it made its way to the wrong ears. He'd intended to pack his bags and take the initiative, but soon found he was too lazy to bother. He knew he probably didn't have much time, but the longer he could keep a roof over his head, the better.
By the time the dogs finally came calling, nine days after Liz had arrived, he figured he'd had far longer that he had any right to expect.
A quiet day. Not a pleasant, comfortable quiet, but a brooding and resentful one. Only a handful of customers had turned up, and they weren't regulars. None of them wanted anything to eat. Some didn't even want anything to drink, but in light of everything going on Lamb couldn't bring himself to kick them out. He'd tried making a few jokes, but they'd fallen on deaf ears- normally he could at least have expected groans and complaints, but these people barely even registered his existence. It was like he was just another piece of the scenery.
So it was that, on that day, he found himself occupied standing in a corner at the back of the room, leaning against a wall and twiddling his thumbs. Lost in thought as always, because of which he never realised there was anything wrong until the Devil himself was sitting on his doorstep.
There was a noise like the discharge of a cannon, and a splintering of wood. He glanced up, head snapping stunned towards the noise emanating from the entrance, to find that the front wall had been completely destroyed. Splinters of wood littered the room, a few having struck some of the less fortunate patrons, and broken planks were scattered outwards from the void. In the street behind the hole, hidden behind a shifting mist of dust and debris, sat the silhouette of a mounted figure.
Caught somewhere between detached regret at the end of his life at the Boar's Head, gratitude at the dreary waiting period drawing to a close, and pure shock at the level of destruction, he made his way to the centre of the room. A clipping of hooves and the mounted figure advanced through the broken wall, stooping slightly to avoid scraping his head.
From that instant, Lamb knew that for the umpteenth time he'd made a mistake. A six foot man, sitting astride a midnight black charger of the finest pedigree. Both he and his horse were dressed in fiery red plate, an inch thick in places, which seemed to writhe and ripple with a mind of its own. He had an impressive pot belly, which might have been funny in other circumstances, and a greatsword slung over his back. The centre of the breastplate held an empty alcove, the same size and position as that which had held the ruby on Liz's stolen set.
He'd been an idiot- Liz would love that, if they made it out of this- to think that they'd send a bunch of underpaid men-at-arms to deal with a situation like this. Of course the Wardens would have come in person- they needed to keep the matter under control to prevent anybody from seeing through their lie.
The rider approached, moving slowly through the debris-littered tavern and pulling up a short distance away. He said nothing, only sat there looking down on him, emitting an aura of utter contempt. Lamb wanted to cry, or fall to his knees, or simply throw his head back and scream at his naiveté. Under other circumstances he might well have done so; but now he had Liz to look after. And besides, none of the fear or anger was anywhere near enough to override years and years of wishful daydreaming. When the Warden had, in his sheer arrogance, brought his horse into the tavern, he'd unwittingly fulfilled the scenario the boy had spent so much of his life fantasizing about.
Lamb raised his head, looking through the visor into the man's shrouded eyes, and the ghost of a smile played at the corner of his lips. "Why the long face?"
Another cannon shot and he was struck in the chest, blown off his feet and sent flying across the room. He dropped to his hands and knees beside an overturned table, coughing and clutching his chest. Even for him that had hurt like hell. For a normal person it might have been fatal- the Warden clearly wasn't messing around.
The armoured figure slipped off his horse, folding his arms across his chest, and his voice grated when he spoke like a rasping file. "I had heard you were strong. It would seem the stories were true."
Lamb lifted himself to his feet, body already aching. "Damn right I-"
Again came the crash of thunder and he was struck once more, flying through and shattering the wooden bar, bouncing off the wall behind with enough force to snap the timbers. Stunned by the force of the blow, he fell forwards, landing on his front against the debris-strewn floorboards. This was insane- not only did the Warden have the strength to actually hurt him, but the attack had been too fast for him to even see.
A moment's silence. Lamb was vaguely aware of the patrons fleeing for their lives. Then the man's voice wormed in through his ringing ears. "Did I give you permission to speak?"
Groaning to himself, Lamb stumbled back onto his feet. "D'I say you could trash-?"
This time he was struck from behind, blown back into the centre of the tavern by the explosion. His face ground into and through the floorboards, scoring a trench across the room. Shaken and reeling, he lifted his head to find himself staring at a pair of crimson boots. He spat out dirt and splinters of wood as his sat up, only to notice something peculiar. He stared at the ground in incomprehension for a moment, and then wiped the back of his hand across his lip. There was a sticky red substance smeared across it. Was that his... blood?
His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. He spat again, this time in defiance. "That's how you wanna play it? Fine. I'll-"
The Warden wrapped a gauntleted fist around his neck, choking off the rest of his speech and lifting him into the air. Then he slammed him down into the ground, ribs snapping under the impact, inhuman strength shaking the building to its foundations and cratering the earth beneath. "This futile resistance grows increasingly tiresome. You will tell me what I want to know."
Lying on his back, Lamb coughed up a fine mist of blood, which fell back in an undignified manner to settle across his face. "Least let me finish my-"
The tread of a boot ground into his stomach, the Warden stomping him further into the dirt, and the world began to swim before his eyes. Against his fading will he found himself shrieking in agony, as his organs began to flatten under the pressure. The voice didn't sound like his own; it was like he was listening to someone else.
Then the pressure faded and he found himself bleeding slowly back into awareness. The knight looked down on him scornfully, appearing a giant to his shattered senses, an insurmountable mountain of bloody metal.
He crouched beside him. "I take it you are done?" Lamb said nothing, more because of the effort it would take than anything else. "Excellent. It's been reported that a Warden has been spotted in this area. I know a vagrant like you must spend much of your time in idle chatter, and I know that you can answer my question. Where are they?"
Lamb's lips moved softly. The Warden punched him in the face with a cross like a charging bull. "Let me explain your options to you. You can tell me what I want to know; or you can die here like the mangy dog you are. Choose."
Lamb closed his eyes for a few seconds, muscles relaxing as he fought off the urge to sleep then, resigned, opened them again. "Fine. I've got an idea."
"Yes?" The Warden leaned inwards eagerly.
Then a smile clawed its way across his beaten face, and he nodded at the man's protruding stomach. "Check under your armour? It'd fit half an army."
Nothing happened. Time appeared to slow to a standstill. Then, with an air of finality, the Warden rose to his feet. "Very well. Fallen Sun," A ball of fire welled up in his hand, spherical and head-sized, blazing blue, yellow, white, the colours fighting and lashing out at each other for control, "Hellcannon." He clenched his fist and the ball shrank, condensing into a miniature white sun, unbearably hot.
The knight raised his hand above his head, to bring it crashing down upon him, and Lamb smiled again, bittersweet. "Do it, freak. I ain't afraid to die. I'll wait for you in the next life, an' drag you through every fire in the darkest pits of hell. You'll be crying like a baby 'til the end of time."
Then the man's hand fell, and suddenly Lamb was the one screaming.
Black and white, consciousness and unconsciousness blurring into one, time itself dilating under the heat. His bones were aflame, his mind was ash, his flesh was an inferno. He couldn't tell where he was. He couldn't remember what he was doing. He couldn't remember his name. Disjointed sensations flashed before his scorched-dry eyes; the comfort of his life at the Boar's Head, the feel of cold stone under his feet, the taste of blood on his tongue, the smell of death in his nostrils.
Then the images faded, replaced by one of the girl. Elizabeth; that was her name. Liz. She rose up above him like the angel of god, head thrown back, snapshotted within the fabric of eternity. Anger, defiance, remorse, love, compassion. Everything he himself had loved her for.
The pain faded away into a pleasant numbness. Liz. It hadn't lasted long, but it had been nice while it lasted. And she was safe now. The Wardens wouldn't find her now. At least he'd gotten something right in the end.
He fixed her frozen for in his thoughts one last time, strangely satisfied with the turn of events.
Then he embraced the darkness, falling into its grasp like a child into a mother's arms.
