It was so quiet in the city these days. Many things had changed in recent times, of course, but for some reason the change that most bothered Koba Davguritch at the moment was the simple absence of activity. He didn’t have a good view of Ortra street from his current vantage point – a barred and grimy cellar window – but it was good enough to see that the vast space was completely empty. The new, extremely strict curfew barred people from leaving their homes at all without a valid work permit twenty-one hours out of twenty-four. To see Ortra street, the largest and busiest concentration of shops and markets in Jurano, completely deserted at fifteen o’clock made Koba feel like a stranger in the city of his birth.
“Watch out, here they come,” announced Enriga, a wiry, magnificently bearded tobacconist three times Koba’s age, and the custodian of the dusty cellar in which the dozen-strong cadre of resistance fighters were huddled.Koba peered cautiously through the thick, dirty window glass, and he could just see a party of Triuvian soldiers coming around the distant bend in the street.
“Alright, time to draw,” Enriga declared, holding up a gnarled hand and a dozen matchsticks. There was a grave silence as the matches were collected – Koba could faintly hear the arrhythmic crunching of boots on the snow-dusted flagstones, getting nearer.
He drew his matchstick and held it up – it was only half a matchstick. Koba stared at it for a moment then, gathering his resolve, nodded slowly.
“Right then. No time to waste.”
Enriga grinned and slapped Koba on the back.
“That’s the spirit,” he said, taking a big, heavy revolver from a rickety corner table and pressing it into Koba’s hand which, he was proud to reflect, hardly trembled at all.
The sombre quietude of the matchstick ritual dissipated instantly. The cramped cellar erupted into activity; weapons were hefted, hats pulled low, scarves tightened, and a burly middle-aged bicycle mechanic whose name Koba couldn’t remember eased the cellar hatch open, taking care not to make a sound. With a silent, disciplined haste the party emerged into the cluttered alleyway behind Enriga’s tobacco shop and took up their positions. Koba turned the revolver over in his hands; it was a big black Kadram, practically an antique, and he wondered if he might have felt a little less apprehensive about what he was going to do if the gun actually had any bullets in it.
He had barely a second to think, however, before Enriga was nodding at him from his position behind a frozen water-butt. Well, this was it then. He hefted the oversized pistol in his hand and, taking a deep, chilly breath, strode down the alley and out into the barren expanse of Ortra street with as much brazen confidence as he could fake.
The Triuvian patrol was less than twenty metres up the street, but Koba was surprised to make four whole strides before he heard the first cry of
“Stop! Curfew breaker!”
Koba swung around to face the half-dozen soldiers, doing his best impression of a rash, incautious scofflaw betrayed by his overconfidence and caught unawares.
“He's armed!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. They began fumbling clumsily for their rifles, and Koba decided now was about the right moment to fling the empty revolver away and bolt back into the alley. With a clatter of boots and a chorus of incomprehensible Triuvian yells, the patrol chased after him. Koba made it thirty metres down the alley before grabbing a drainpipe and swinging himself into a deep doorway. He heard the patrol tumble boisterously into the alley in hot pursuit, and then he heard their tone change abruptly as a dozen men leapt out from behind the drifts of trash and urban detritus and began laying into them with improvised cudgels.
Koba seized the axe handle that had been deliberately stashed in the doorway and rushed to join the fray, but by the time he arrived the fierce melee was all but over. He saw the bicycle mechanic swing a table leg into the kneecap of the last soldier left upright, and Enriga cracked him hard over the head with a pry-bar as he went down. Everyone was breathing as heavily as if they’d just run a marathon, and a few of the resistance men were nursing injuries. Their six victims lay sprawled at their feet, and the group stared at them as though not quite believing what they had just done.
Enriga wasn’t the sort to waste time staring, though; he tossed his pry-bar aside and seized a soldier by the coat.
“Quick, get ‘em into the cellar, and get these uniforms off before they bleed all over them!” he ordered. “And Koba – go get my Kadram, will you? I’ll want that in a minute… good job as the bait, by the way; I reckon you’ve got talent.”
Still twanging with tension from the adrenaline rush, Koba hurried back to retrieve Enriga’s pistol. Everything was going to plan so far; he just hoped their good luck would hold for the rest of the day…
“Watch out, here they come,” announced Enriga, a wiry, magnificently bearded tobacconist three times Koba’s age, and the custodian of the dusty cellar in which the dozen-strong cadre of resistance fighters were huddled.Koba peered cautiously through the thick, dirty window glass, and he could just see a party of Triuvian soldiers coming around the distant bend in the street.
“Alright, time to draw,” Enriga declared, holding up a gnarled hand and a dozen matchsticks. There was a grave silence as the matches were collected – Koba could faintly hear the arrhythmic crunching of boots on the snow-dusted flagstones, getting nearer.
He drew his matchstick and held it up – it was only half a matchstick. Koba stared at it for a moment then, gathering his resolve, nodded slowly.
“Right then. No time to waste.”
Enriga grinned and slapped Koba on the back.
“That’s the spirit,” he said, taking a big, heavy revolver from a rickety corner table and pressing it into Koba’s hand which, he was proud to reflect, hardly trembled at all.
The sombre quietude of the matchstick ritual dissipated instantly. The cramped cellar erupted into activity; weapons were hefted, hats pulled low, scarves tightened, and a burly middle-aged bicycle mechanic whose name Koba couldn’t remember eased the cellar hatch open, taking care not to make a sound. With a silent, disciplined haste the party emerged into the cluttered alleyway behind Enriga’s tobacco shop and took up their positions. Koba turned the revolver over in his hands; it was a big black Kadram, practically an antique, and he wondered if he might have felt a little less apprehensive about what he was going to do if the gun actually had any bullets in it.
He had barely a second to think, however, before Enriga was nodding at him from his position behind a frozen water-butt. Well, this was it then. He hefted the oversized pistol in his hand and, taking a deep, chilly breath, strode down the alley and out into the barren expanse of Ortra street with as much brazen confidence as he could fake.
The Triuvian patrol was less than twenty metres up the street, but Koba was surprised to make four whole strides before he heard the first cry of
“Stop! Curfew breaker!”
Koba swung around to face the half-dozen soldiers, doing his best impression of a rash, incautious scofflaw betrayed by his overconfidence and caught unawares.
“He's armed!” one of the soldiers exclaimed. They began fumbling clumsily for their rifles, and Koba decided now was about the right moment to fling the empty revolver away and bolt back into the alley. With a clatter of boots and a chorus of incomprehensible Triuvian yells, the patrol chased after him. Koba made it thirty metres down the alley before grabbing a drainpipe and swinging himself into a deep doorway. He heard the patrol tumble boisterously into the alley in hot pursuit, and then he heard their tone change abruptly as a dozen men leapt out from behind the drifts of trash and urban detritus and began laying into them with improvised cudgels.
Koba seized the axe handle that had been deliberately stashed in the doorway and rushed to join the fray, but by the time he arrived the fierce melee was all but over. He saw the bicycle mechanic swing a table leg into the kneecap of the last soldier left upright, and Enriga cracked him hard over the head with a pry-bar as he went down. Everyone was breathing as heavily as if they’d just run a marathon, and a few of the resistance men were nursing injuries. Their six victims lay sprawled at their feet, and the group stared at them as though not quite believing what they had just done.
Enriga wasn’t the sort to waste time staring, though; he tossed his pry-bar aside and seized a soldier by the coat.
“Quick, get ‘em into the cellar, and get these uniforms off before they bleed all over them!” he ordered. “And Koba – go get my Kadram, will you? I’ll want that in a minute… good job as the bait, by the way; I reckon you’ve got talent.”
Still twanging with tension from the adrenaline rush, Koba hurried back to retrieve Enriga’s pistol. Everything was going to plan so far; he just hoped their good luck would hold for the rest of the day…
Here's the first dispatch from Aezakmi; inspired by Wonderchicken I've put it in spoiler tags to keep the thread nice and neat. I think I'm diving right into the story a bit recklessly; I'll try and include a bit more background information in the next dispatch, but I wanted to bang this one out as quickly as possible just to get started. I'll work on some more dispatches from other regions, and I'd like to work out a way to tie it in to the main Cataclysm story somehow.
