Chương 55: 3 No Shenanigans

I zipped through the air on a golden web. My boots slammed into the beam, and I wrenched the sickle from the wood. I grunted as I landed lightly on my feet. These days, I almost always landed on my feet. Brannik rushed around the corner, stopping short when he saw me. His eyes widened, sweat slicking the burn scars across the side of his face.

"Where are you going?" I asked, a second sickle winking into my other hand, replacing my cutlass.

"We didn't finish our chat." He turned and bolted. Grinning, I followed. The plank street of Raft Town thundered underfoot as I sprinted after the Exploit. Figures shifted towards us, perched in crooked towers and steep slanted roofs. Trolls. Panting, I caught the stench of rotted fish, tar, and fermentation that hung heavy in the air. The sweet aroma of Raft Town—the floating Troll settlement. We raced back around the front of the building, a mighty crash sounding from within.

I allowed for a glance over my shoulder just in time to see Coalvein sail through the door, slamming down on the planks. Shackles glinted on his wrists. My jaw clenched. Brannik reached back, blindly firing arcane bolts over his shoulder. I ducked and slipped, clear streaks of arcane force blasting pillars and shattering windows.

"Hey!" A Troll bellowed from his perch in a tower, a big guy with blue skin and red dreads.

"No shenanigans!" I hurled the sickle up at a vacant perch further down the road, using the trajectory path to inform my aim. Together, the greater magic sickles were called Hook and Line, but I'd taken to calling the right one Hook and the left one Line to keep them straight. I had looted them from the Raven Reaper's corpse over a month ago, and they'd been a game-changer for me. Steel glinted as the Hook whirled, then buried deep into the timber. My fist tightened.

The gold thread reappeared, connecting me to the anchor. The world blurred as I zipped up the line, shooting up and passing Brannik. I twisted as the world blurred, angling myself so I landed feet first. Arm shaking, I clung to the rotted wood perch. Brannik saw me, somehow above him, and he hooked right, taking a narrow junction. Down by the tavern, Morgan secured Coalvein's restraints to a post. Then his eyes locked onto me. I cursed, jerking my sickle free and launching myself into the air.

Before I could fall, my boot struck solid air. In two leaping bounds, I had crossed the street two-storied over nothing. I touched down on the roof opposite me and sprinted across, chest pounding, lungs pumping. Perspiration poured down my face as I rushed across the crooked, uneven roofscape. As far as city planning was concerned, Trolls were the worst. Raft Town was less a town and more a barge of lopsided structures haphazardly stitched together and perpetually growing outward.

I kicked off a chimney, scrambled up a sudden, steep roof, and landed on a long, wide bed of shingles. Brannik disappeared around another corner, and I slid down the roof toward a long balcony. A trajectory path lanced in front of me. I leaped. Shingles shattered as a javelin sank deep beneath my feet.

"No shenanigans!" The green-skinned Troll who'd thrown the spear snarled, half hanging off a balcony. I didn't have time for the rules of whatever gang boss ruled this district of Raft Town. I crossed the street on two Air Steps. Two steps—two mana points. My mana bar dipped below half. I couldn't keep this up forever. Wood shattered somewhere on the planks behind me, and Morgan sailed over the roof line, like a grasshopper leaping from tall grass. The trajectory beam of his carbine trained on me.

He grinned, long red mohawk flapping in the wind. I hurled a Hook, but the sickle skipped off a dormer window's shingles. Bullets snapped down at me. I kicked off the air, sending myself onto a balcony railing. My right hand flexed, and Hook's golden line flashed, reeling the crescent blade back in as I hurled Line with my left hand. The sickles glinted as they cycled past each other, one sinking deep into a planter box, the other one snapping into my palm as I pulled it back. Morgan landed on a crenelated tower.

He aligned his sights. My empty hand flexed, and I streaked towards Line, anchored in the planter box. A shaft of light from Morgan's rifle speared through the path before me. I did the math. That was a hit. Riding my golden line, I kicked off an invisible Air Step. I became a spiraling flurry of cloak and snapping wind. The bullet opened a line of pain on my shoulder rather than drilling through my chest. I lost control, spinning wildly as I sailed toward a treehouse. A window flew at me.

I gasped, and glass shattered. I slammed into a table, sending it crashing against the far wall. Trolls leaped away from me, snarling in outrage. These ones were little, mud-brown skin and hot blue hair. They shook mallet-like fists at me and barked insults in a language that carried no meaning to my ears.

"Move! Get away!" I barked as I peeled myself from the wall. My ribs flared as I stumbled. A loose golden thread still trailed from my left fist, one that led outside and up. I swallowed. If I were Morgan, I'd secure a steady firing position and wait for me to try to recover my gear. Hook and Line was a greater magic item, and not one I'd part with lightly. A meaty hand jerked at my cloak. I whirled on the Troll, snarling and shoving him away. Think.

I dismissed the other sickle into my inventory and swapped it for a health potion. Crouching, I tilted my head, staring out the window ringed in shards. I tried to take in every angle of the surrounding buildings without exposing myself to potential gunfire. A narrow shaft of trajectory light spotlighted the floorboards, and slowly, I followed it. There. Without a direct line, I never would have seen him. The bounty hunter had pulled a poncho from a laundry line and draped it over himself.

I couldn't even make out the barrel of his weapon, braced where chimney and roof met. My third empty vial dropped at my feet, and I gagged. Troll-make health potions, cheap, disgusting—barely any potency. How I missed the Paradise-made elixir, made special order for Cousins. Only I wasn't a Cousin. Not anymore. I conjured my dragon bolt Torchmaw pistol and reloaded. Every time I accessed my inventory, mana ticked away.

It was a risk, but I needed to be ready and able to move unencumbered by countless bags and belts. A young Troll loped to me on his fist like an ape, hissing something that was most definitely profane in his language. The trajectory shaft of Morgan's rifle shifted to the window on the side. Smart. He knew I wasn't dumb enough to take the obvious exit. But how to recover my missing sickle? A thread still trailed from my empty fist out the window, telegraphing far more to my enemy than I would have preferred.

I cursed inwardly. Every moment of delay widened the gap between Brannik and me. Crouching, I crossed over to a wooden countertop and braced myself behind it. Tuning out the Troll curses, I tensed. The gold thread snapped tight. I strained, knuckles white on the counter. Mountings in the wall groaned. I hissed through my teeth. Something gave, and my sickle detached from the planter box outside, hooking back into the room and snapping onto my palm. A laugh of crazed relief escaped me.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Morgan's trajectory shaft washed over each window like a spotlight from a prison tower, seeking escaped convicts.

"Sorry bout the window," I grunted as I snatched a chair. I hurled, and the seat smashed the side window outward. Morgan's attention snapped to the disturbance. The Troll snarled at me, waving another fist, but I stood twice as tall as these. He did the math. I plucked a clockwork charge from my belt, twisting the igniter. Clod had cooked this up. For a Kobold, he wasn't half bad as a tinkerer. He did suck at labeling his inventions properly. This was either a smoke bomb or a fragmentation device.

The fuse ignited, and it didn't become a bright sphere of potential momentum to my eyes. I nodded. That told me everything I needed to know. It clattered to my feet, and inky smoke filled the kitchen. The Trolls howled in rage. I didn't blame them. If a giant invaded our home in Paradise, my mother would have put a knife in his back long before this point. Smoke bellowed out the windows. Morgan would watch them like a hawk.

So I stole a wide hat from a dresser, dropped my cloak, and took the stairs to the back door. Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I walked away. I forced myself not to look up as Troll enforcers swung hand over hand above the road on fixed vertical cables. Bucks of water and bladders rode in leather harnesses strapped to their backs. They converged on the smoking building. In a floating town of wood, it didn't matter which boss ruled the district. Fire was the city's greatest threat.

My shoulders loosened, and I slowed my pace. The trajectory shaft of Morgan's rifle ignited the road before me, sweeping and vanishing from sight as it trained on me. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple. I felt it, drilling between my shoulder blades. I didn't tense. I didn't walk faster. Prey fidgeted. Prey moved with too much purpose. I allowed my steps to drag, slow and lethargic, the gait of a man with all the time in the world and not one being hunted.

I felt the shaft on my back, his eye, and I knew his mind. I fit the description, but with my hat, I'd changed up my silhouette. The question was, would he risk shooting a bystander because he might be his target? The shaft swept away, locking back onto the building. I refused to let myself loosen or show any sign of relief. Morgan would clock it. Rounding a corner, I doubled over, breath tearing from me, heart thundering in my chest. Close. Way too close. I'd done some pretty impressive things over the last month.

I'd leveled up three times, ambushing and outsmarting Bloodwake Users far more powerful than I. Of course I'd had close calls—but Morgan Tallyman? I swallowed. That was a fish far bigger than me. A little voice in my head reminded me that my end goal was many times a greater threat than the Orcish bounty hunter. Puppetmaster. I angled away from the building, ensuring I took streets that would keep me out of sight from Morgan's perch.

I passed a pair of Bridge Trolls, long-limbed, with green skin riddled with warts and growths. They sat on low stools, knobby knees rising nearly to their eye level as they played cards. They scowled at me as I passed. Well, so much for Brannik. No, this wasn't over. Hunting the past weeks, I'd learned the best thing you could do to predict your target's move was to get in their head. There were three kinds of targets. The first one was people like Coalvein—fighters. That had gotten him captured.

Next were the hiders. That might have been what Brannik was, but I'd studied that nervous tick long enough to suspect he might belong to the third group. The Runners. He'd smuggled himself here on a pirate corsair hunting near Floating Rock. After what happened, he'd be heading right back, looking for the first ship away. I angled toward the dock. As I moved, I studied the sky. A jagged crack stretched across the atmosphere, ever lengthening and trailing offshoot fissures.

Two holes scarred the atmosphere, allowing harsh red light to bleed through. My shame. My failure. As a Cousin, I'd been tasked with stopping Puppetmaster's secret project—a dig site unearthing a secret ancient weapon capable of punching holes through the world seal. I ended up dropping an ocean on the weapon, but not before he'd fired it off twice. I'd made a lot of mistakes that day. The scar on my forearm prickled, and my thumb went to the lump of pink tissue. Ghost memories flooded. Pain. My arm twisting.

The impact of my arm, as my father's puppet strings redirected my sword toward my childhood friend's side. My hand dropped from the scar. At first, those failures had practically crippled me. Now, they were my motivation. I hurried through the streets, ducking my head as I passed a pair of Ogres. Relatively new to the Troll town, I got lost once. After doubling back and hopping a high fence, I found the docking district. Nearly twenty ships spanned the mooring yard, masts stretching up like a thicket.

A lean, tall Troll with a pooch belly scratched his reedy hair as he watched the port. A pair of Orc pirates grunted under the weight of their load as they carried a barrel to a ship. A giant Troll fisher lumbered past, tall as two buildings. Three sword-nosed marlins dangled from a cord in his fist. There. My eyes locked on Brannik, exchanging urgent words with the Orc captain who had shipped him in. I lowered my head and weaved through mostly abandoned stalls.

Getting close, I stopped, plucking at a torn net hanging from a rack. The Orc captain shook his head, face tight with irritation.

"I'm telling you she's in no shape to sail. Blasted Kobold scavengers stripped the rudder right off. It'll take the better part of a day to get a new one on." I smirked. Dustnose had done his job well. I'd tasked him with disabling the ship, but left the details up to his young imagination. Two sailors passing by stopped as they overheard the conversation.

"Hey," one, a Hobgoblin with tiny round black spectacles, said.

"Looking for a ride? We're casting off within the hour." Brannik turned, forgetting the Orc in an instant.

"Yes! I'm ready now!" The Orc captain shrugged and left.

"Going to cost you," the second sailor said, a cobra-headed Naga-kin.

"Last-minute booking fees."

"That's not going to be a problem," he said as he shelled out a coin purse.

"You take talons?"

"Drakcrowns," the serpentine sailor said with a wicked grin. Brannik went stiff, lip twitching down as he glanced up at the Naga-kin.

"Robbery."

"Hardly," the sailor said with a cruel smile.

"Our ship's luxury." He motioned to a dilapidated single-masted shallop. Without even a cabin, it was little more than a longboat with a sail.

"That?" Brannik hissed.

"I could buy that thing for three Drakcrowns." The Hobgoblin shrugged, tugging his round glasses to the tip of his nose.

"Are you in a hurry or not?" Leering, Brannik slapped a pair of gold coins into the snake man's open palm.

"Pleasure doing business," the Naga-kin said. I slipped from my cover, stalking closer.

"Oh, Brannik!" My voice came out in a sing-song, cruel tone. The Bloodwake User flinched, drawing his pistol and leveling it at me. Runes pulsed to life along its barrel.

"Mongoose, stay back!" he hissed, veins on his temple bulging. I stopped, the trajectory path from the weapon highlighting my chest.

"What's Puppetmaster doing at Fel Rock?" His lip curled, and he fired. I jerked to the side. The motion knocked my hat free. The arcane strike blasted the wooden stall, and smoking splinters showered me.

"We leave now!" Brannik shrieked.

"Cast off!" I righted from behind my cover and sighed.

"Drogo, do something about him, will you?" A hollow thunk sounded, then a body collapsed onto the deck. I smirked, rising. The two sailors towered over the unconscious User, a cudgel tight in Drogo's grip. I crossed over, then flicked the pistol away from his hand with my toe.

"Good work, boys," I said, looking up. Drogo and Othess grinned back at me.

"He paid for passage?" Othess tossed up two gold coins—Bloodwake dragon's gold.

"Aye, captain, Passage bought and paid for. Should we load him on?"

"Yup," I said.

"Let's have this conversation away from—" Crack! I didn't register the gunshot that tore through my shoulder until I was already staggering forward. Hand pressed to wound, I spun. Morgan walked towards me, levering a fresh round into the chamber. I cursed.

"Take Brannik! Run!" Drogo drew his Hobgoblin wedge and chopped down. His flick knife spun free, blurring at the bounty hunter. Morgan rolled his bracer, and the blade deflected off an arcane force shield. A trajectory path painted Drogo's chest. I kicked him in the side. He fell as the bullet snapped past.

"Oh, Mongoose!" Morgan taunted, twirling shackles in his off-hand.

"Put on your bracelets, please." Wet warmth soaked both the front and back of my shoulder—a clean shot.

"Don't engage, fall back!" I barked. Stooping, I exhaled sharply as I hauled Brannik onto my shoulders with one hand. He wasn't large, but I just about passed out from the effort. Or maybe it was the bleeding. The Bloodwake agent began murmuring and twitching as he regained consciousness.

"You already have a dance partner," Morgan growled, and he sent the next round into Brannik's chest. My quarry went limp on my shoulders, and his inventory erupted around me, dumping four backpacks of gear, three belts, and a cast-iron pot on me. I lunged, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I dropped behind a stall. Crouching behind cover, Othess thumbed the hammers on two pistols, his hood flaring.

"No!" I barked, dumping the body and dropping to a crouch.

"Fall back!" The Serpent winced, grey eyes latching onto me. A ticking sphere sailed over the stalls, landing between us. We glanced up, then threw ourselves in different directions. The decking heaved, water spraying from below.

"Go!" I barked, spinning—Morgan was already there. His rapier point licked my throat.

"Bracelets," he said simply, extending cuffs with his off-hand. I swallowed, the bob of my Adam's apple brushing the needle point.

"Wonder who'll pay more for you? The Dragon, or Daddy?" Trajectory paths lit up his side. I smirked. A dagger slammed into his side, knocking him off me. He snarled, whirling. Then he went still.

"You?"

"Step away," a familiar feminine voice ordered just out of sight. A chill clung to my gut. Morgan scoffed.

"This isn't Paradise territory. You have no jurisdiction in Raft Town," he said, thumbing fresh cartridges into his carbine. He completely ignored the knife buried in his side to the hilt. Slowly, I picked myself up. Two women faced him, both wearing pinstriped vests over fitted suits—the uniform of the Paradise High Family.

"Step aside, bounty hunter, or it's problems with Paradise," the woman on the left said. A Shad-feykin with grey skin and white hair. Morgan scoffed, a smirk twitching his lips.

"I don't mind throwing hands with Cousins."

"You misunderstand," the human woman on the right said, eyes amber and bright.

"We're not going to fight you. We'll have you blacklisted. Paradise will stop honoring your contracts." He flinched—that struck home. He considered them for a long moment, then glanced at me. Behind him, Diago and Othess slowly rose from cover, casting me inquiring glances.

"It's your lucky day, boy." Morgan knocked ash from his eyelashes.

"You just became more trouble than you're worth." He shifted to the women and jerked the knife from his ribs. The blade came out clean, and a flame flickered from the wound.

"Yours," he said, inclining his head, and he gingerly placed the blade on a stall.

"Cousins." He turned and walked away. Trembling, my face clouded.

"What are you doing here, Naomi? Bianca?" Naomi, my old team leader, sobered.

"Tony, we need to talk." <<Time to Seal Collapse: 02: 01: 02: 10: 38: 27>>