Mehta had described the expedition so far as “not too bad.”
It was only minutes after they had secured the hideout that Flora trekked through the outskirts of Grand Caverns to find her old tent. After the covert excursion through town she was surprised to find it was full of some other family’s belongings.
She made her way back to the hideout to regroup and discuss the matter. When she returned she noticed the burgeoning crop of flies and the putrid stench. It would be impossible to keep the room piled with Essentialist corpses hidden for long. Soon their hideaway would become untenably conspicuous. For now, they had no choice but to stay in the decaying Old World building.
Flora wanted to push on through town to find Talon, but Cecile and Mehta disagreed. It would require tracking down a string of people, and each one of those could reveal Flora. Also the town grew denser the farther north they ventured, with far more patrols.
They decided to wait for the fighting to commence, and only then would they make their way through town, taking advantage of the distraction. Her hope was that Talon wouldn’t be in the first wave. Perhaps as a Shinogi disciple under Nobura he would be held in special reserve to defend the caverns, or even Luna herself.
After a brief and fitful sleep, she awakened early the next morning to hear the first sounds of the battle. The gunshots were distant and sporadic, and she would’ve gone back to sleep but for Cecile urging her to rise.
Cecile maneuvered to the front of the group to look out a crack in the boarded-up window. “Lots of Essentialist militants running through the streets. Let’s wait until it slows down a bit. In the mean time, let’s get ready.”
Flora donned her frock, threw on her mini-pack and strapped on her weapons belts.
“What do you think, Flora?” Cecile asked when they were fully clothed and laden with gear.
Flora surveyed the lot of them. Their Essentialist disguises were far from perfect. Some of their frocks were perforated with bullet holes and blotted with blood, others looked to be from several years ago, from Curator Birchwood’s time. Their eye makeup looked like it was something her children had applied, smeared and amateurish.
Cecile had covered her blue streak by bunching her hair together, which worked well enough. Owen was probably the most out of place. He was clean-shaven, with short-cropped hair, a rarity among Essentialist militants. Mehta’s outfit would probably do. It was fairly Spartan—a leather jerkin fitting tightly over cloth shirtsleeves. She looked at her own frock, but hers was of course the most authentic of all of them.
There was a saying: “there’s no such thing as an Essentialist twin”. To some degree the saying applied to the Essentialist militia, as well, who were often a heterogeneous bunch of clansmen, Union militia, and Prefectorate Shinogi.
“We should be fine,” Flora answered.
“Okay, let’s go,” Cecile said.
They streamed out of the building and fell in line behind a couple of militants running north. These two looked back curiously but were too focused on getting to the front line to scrutinize the legitimacy of another band of militia.
After trailing these two down a few streets, their group fell back, spread out and generally tried to stay away from other runners. They had to dodge women and some children who were running in the other direction, away from the conflict.
“Turn right here,” Flora said.
They jogged down some of the lesser-used streets. There were fewer militants here. The ground was pocked with holes and slick with mud in places. The familiar smell of dung and rotting food met her nostrils. They had to navigate around a herd of loose pigs at one point, their shepherd nowhere to be seen.
Mud flew up from their shoes, spattering their clothes.
The gunshots were sounding closer, and more frequent. Flora heard a horn. She heard shouts. She heard distant screams.
One of Cecile’s men nearly ran into a woman who had darted across the street, carrying a screaming baby. Members of their party grabbed at their concealed pistols in surprise. The woman cried, “por favor, no se.”
“Lo siento, mama,” Flora said, trying to calm her.
The mother said nothing but gave her a snide look. Then she cupped the baby’s head with her hand protectively and moved away, continuing across the street in the direction she was heading.
The sight of the baby reminded Flora of Skye and Clover. She desperately wanted to find them, to make sure they were okay, but now wasn’t the time.
They turned left at the next intersection and crossed over the broad swath of Heron Avenue. The street was overcome with a river of men heading toward the bluffs below the Grand Caverns massif. Their party ran with the crowd briefly, and then cut up a narrow street on the other side. Flora turned back to see a green-eyed disciple cut onto the same street. “Down Heron Avenue!” he yelled up at them.
“Keep going,” Cecile said, “and pick up the pace.”
They turned to the right, onto another street, obscuring the line of sight with the disciple. It led to a winding road leading up the hill to another intersection.
“Which way?” Cecile asked.
“Left,” Flora said, “two more blocks maybe. Just remember, it could be occupied.”
They turned left and the road veered to the right up another incline. Here they slowed to a walk and panted while they leaned into their footsteps. They were all in good shape, but the slope was steep.
They crossed through another intersection and saw Bluelake Copperwood’s house on the left. He was a wealthy grain trader in town who owned one of the few tall buildings in the area, with a broad window visible on the second level. Flora could only hope he had already fled with his family.
The door was locked, so one of Cecile’s men quickly hacked at the doorknob with a rusted axe. When the handle was sufficiently disabled, Mehta easily kicked in the door the rest of the way.
“Company behind us,” Owen said.
The disciple had followed them up the hill.
“Wait until he’s closer,” Cecile whispered, “crossbows only.”
“You all! Get down to the rallying area,” the disciple yelled up at them. He was young, not much older than Talon. He didn’t look at all intimidated by the group of them.
Cecile knelt over, as if she was tired, or sick. One of her men put his hand on her back, pretending to dote on her.
“What’s wrong?” The disciple asked, still moving closer.
When he was within a few feet of them, in unison they drew their crossbows and fired. Some shots went wide, but one hit the disciple in the chest. He fell on his back, gasping for air. Mehta bounded over to him and slit his throat, preventing any opportunity for his vocal cords to be put to use.
“Get him inside. Vite, vite,” Cecile said.
They left the bloodied corpse just inside the door and Flora led the way up the stairs. There they fanned out and checked for any inhabitants. Flora paused on the second floor to look out the window. They were sufficiently high up on the massif to see the central part of town. From here they had a view of most of the rooftops, but some of the streets were obscured.
Cecile was standing behind her. “Let’s try the roof,” she said.
They found a hatch that led to a patio on the roof. They kept low and made their way to the front to look down.
Here the view was better. They could see most of the gathering Essentialist forces on the bluff ahead of the massif. Oak Boulevard, the main east-west artery of Grand Caverns, was also visible, already littered with bodies and debris. Farther away they could make out clusters of Spoke forces congregated on the eastern part of town, with a few positions that were more advanced in the streets and on top of buildings.