Dark Horse

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>THUMP

>THUMP

>Lucy bounds atop a demolished automobile and leaps, stretching her lithe form

>The fox splays her four paws wide as she catches air, making the leap from trunk to hood with ease

>Against the moonlight, it’s as though she’s traced in silver flame

>THUMP

>Just seeing her is enough to make you scream in of relief

“LUCY! Thank GOD you found us! C’MERE GIRL!” you shout

>THUMP

>You wriggle in your bondage, as if it was about to come loose magically now that Lucy’s here

>THUMP

>But as Lucy draws closer…

>…as her features become more definite…

>Faint murmurs of doubt gather within you, like the first snowfalls of a wrathful winter

>That’s… still Lucy, right?

>It has to be; couldn’t be that there’s any other Foxers in the area

>Your fox doesn’t look triumphant to have found you at long-last

>Her ears sit pasted back against her skull

>She squeaks as well, little shrill yips of existential terror exploding out of her

>The last time Lucy sounded like that, you two had a harvester on your tail out near the High Line Canal

>Eight Zealots and one Foxer died

>THUMP

>You look past Lucy and focus your blurred vision as best you can

>THUMP

>Something else — something following your fox — rounds the corner of Wealthy and Fulton Street on two cloven hooves

>THUMP

>Ohhhh… fuck

>That might be exactly what you think it is

>THUMP

>A fucking…

>THUMP

>…Harvester

>Maybe twenty feet tall, from what you can tell, the harvester ambles down Wealthy Street, covering several yards in a single step

>Its broken antlers just barely scrape the tops of buildings

>THUMP

>The harvester is closer now, close enough that you can see its face — a peeling mask once belonging to a deer or an elk, now decayed into its skeletal form

>Tufts of fur still cling to rotten musculature across its lanky body

>THUMP

Its eyes, pale and glowing like starlight, are recessed in its skull, ringed by darkness

>With every one of its footfalls, the ground trembles, like the rippling surface of a lake broken by heavy stone

>THUMP

“Wellllllll fuck.”

>You sigh the sigh of a patient yet exhausted man

“So this was Lucy’s plan,” you mutter, watching the harvester gain on the gray fox

>THUMP

“Scare off the cross builders with a damned harvester?”

>THUMP

“God really does deliver,” you say, voice rattling with sarcasm

>With her untrimmed claws scratching off the concrete steps, Lucy the fox finally appears at your right

>Your eyes meet for a second, sharing a look of desperate hopefulness

“Lucy!” you shout, trying to draw her interests towards the rope around your wrists. “Lucy, bite the rope around my wrists, okay? Be quick!”

>The fox sucks down tiny swallows of air, a frantic rise in her little fuzzy chest

>Then…

>…she barks in your face, as if demanding you magically escape

“I can’t, girl! I can’t can’t!” you shout back in her face. “You have to bite the damn ropes!”

>It’d take a miracle to get you free at this rate

>And what your service fox doesn’t understand:

>She has to be that miracle

>THUMP

>You wriggle your wrists and watch Lucy’s brown eyes follow the motion in your arms up to your hands, a thought building steam in her mind

>Slowly, of course, like the gradual roll of a locomotive

>THUMP

>”Wrists, Lucy!” you snap. “Wrists! Bite the rope!”

>As if to show, you wriggle your arms with several violent motions, shuddering the timbers of the crucifix

>THUMP

>Fucking DAMNIT

>How can salvation be so close and yet so far away?

>The heretic to your left cuts a hoarse, throat-shredding wail

>Sounds a little like the birds you shot with grandpop when you were younger — when you tagged them in the leg or wing

>You’d stand over them, watching them die. Out came a terrible squawking and squealing noise as the birds bled out

>It never sat right with you, killing those birds

>THUMP

>In your periphery, you see the raven’s dark form struggling against the ropes

>He madly tries to free himself, the last of what he has poured into his desperate attempt

>But it’s no use for him either

>THUMP

>Maybe God really has forsaken you, just like that bird over there, you reason

>Maybe he’s written YOU out of His Promise

>THUMP

>So that begs the question, death fast approaching on two cloven hooves…

>…Why?

>You’ve been nothing but pious

>You pray, and you pray, and you pray, and you pray ad nauseam

>You serve as dutifully as you can

>God, how many heretics have you slain?

>How many dead in His name is enough to get you off this cross?

>Tears well up in your eyes

>A knot tightens in your throat

>Maybe… you really are alone now?

>Maybe… God really left you to perish alongside the heretic?

“God…” you croak, tears carving a jagged path down your pale face, “Please… forgive me for the things I’ve done-”

>THUMP

“The people I’ve hurt-”

>THUMP

“The innocents I’ve killed.”

>THUMP

>Your eyes slam shut, figuring it better to not see what’s about to happen to you

>Oh, but you will feel it — a gnashing of teeth, a ripping of skin, jaws that could shatter concrete nearly tearing you in two with one bite

>Nearly

>You pause mid-prayer

>Something is pulling on your bindings

>You crack one eye open

>Lucy is mangling the bindings on your right wrist, her gray body twisting and ripping the hemp rope in order to give you some play

“Good girl, good girl!” you shout, heart hammering in rib cage

>With a strand of rope between her teeth, Lucy rears back and pulls

>Suddenly, the pressure against your wrist is gone

>Your eyes split with surprise as you’re able to slip out of bondage

>Lucy goes for your legs next

>THUMP

>You reach down onto the shattered asphalt, hand searching blindly for something

>A dull knife

>The one the cross builder tried jamming you up with a little earlier

>Your fingers grace upon the knife’s ‘handle’, which is surprisingly sharper than the supposed ‘blade’ itself

>You bring the ‘knife’ high against the indomitable moonlight, like a magical sword ripped from a stone

>It’s a crude piece of mildly bent iron, with a blunt, almost rounded-off ‘blade’

>To anyone else, this is a shitty, shitty knife

>But to you?

>It’s salvation

>THUMP

>You flip the knife and grip it with its ‘blade’

>The sharper handle — more jagged and flinty than serrated — is your weapon

>You saw in earnest at the ropes still keeping your other wrist against the timbers

>THUMP

>That vile fucking cord at last snaps apart after what feels like hours of precious time lost

>You lift your blood-drained arm

>Lucy finishes undoing your legs

>…And for a second…

>…just a second…

>…you’re free to run…

>…right as the harvester’s gigantic shadow falls upon you, swallowing you in darkness that blots out the moon

>Your neck turns up, and you meet harvester’s eyes

>Cold and small, those hungry eyes stare back at you through a pinprick of flickering starlight

>Lucy yips and runs between the harvester’s legs in an attempt to draw him away

>She’d have better luck moving a mountain

>The harvester sees a much more substantial meal than some clever animal

>A Foxer and a bound raven — easy pickings

>So, now would be a good time to move, right?

>…Right?

>You can only watch as the harvester’s lumbering, lanky arm reaches out towards you

>You’ve seen many harvesters, but never one from this close…

>They look so…

>Decrepit

>Decayed

>Sad, even

>The ribs that suck in against flaking fur and mangy flesh

>The deer-face that’s more hollow skeletal mask than anything else

>The hunger gnawing at its sucked-in gut

>It’s close to having you in its mangy, clawed grasp

>And then you hear something that causes you to move

>”DEMON! FLEE!” the heretic screams in its broken English

>”Flee!” he struggles on the cross. “Vulcada, go!”

>In your periphery you see the raven watching you, sitting up as much as his ropes will allow him

>’Demon! Flee!’

>Right, you still have to save yourself

>Can’t expect the Lord to do it all tonight

>Without hesitating any longer, you do what you can to throw your tired, beaten body down, off the cross

>You crash — weakened and wounded — into the old nails

>The harvester’s swipe misses as it latches onto the crucifix that once held you

>A beastly grunt escapes the creature as it realizes it will have no easy meal out of you

>It hurls the crucifix over its head, down Wealthy Street

>”Vulcada, go!” the raven squawks again, a perfect echo of his own voice

>The scramble to right yourself is easier said than done

>You crawl like some kind of crippled beast, fevered with the desire to live, no longer God’s next promissory

>Concrete and ruined asphalt sting your palms as you make your way across the concrete platform, crawling underneath the crucifix

>Your ribs feel busted up, like someone took a wrench — or a would-be knife — to them. Your Lungs scored from screaming so hard

>But you crawl, Goddamnit

>You crawl

>Then, you gain the strength to right yourself onto two feet, your soles bitten by shards of glass, metal, and concrete

>It doesn’t matter

>There is no pain you will not endure right now to escape

>No agony that can persuade you from fleeing

>You see your target: your bag, Foxer’s scarf, and your chemical rifle, resting against a flat slab of concrete near the entrance to an old hotel called The Brown Palace

>The building loomed over you during the torture like God, judging you for all of your mistakes and sins

>The cross builders left your things near their makeshift altar, probably where they sacrifice each other to whatever the fuck they believe in, delivering their brethren with concrete chunks the size of your head

>They have no use for firearms or alchemy

>Their simple minds think only of blunt instrumentation — slashing, stabbing, and smashing

>The plan is simple: grab your gear and run as fast as you can into The Brown Palace, where the harvester can’t reach you

>And Lucy will follow you; she’s a smart girl

>In fact, as you run, you see her bolt ahead of you like a gray bolt of lightning

>Looks like she figured out the plan before you even did

“Lucy, wait!” you call after her, still trying to reach a sprint

>After a rather pathetic effort, you end up huffing and puffing next to the wide-open double doors of the old hotel

>The darkness calls you inside, safety just a few feet away

>But not yet

>Your dirty grip lands on the barrel of your chemical rifle, your other hand easily lifting your bag and supplies

>You throw your Foxer’s scarf around your neck, shirtless

>What?

>It’s quick, and you like the look

>The heretic does not scream, but instead cuts loose with a series of terrified squawks and caws — animalistic sounds that wouldn’t be out of place in the wilds

>You look behind you and stifle a gasp, your instincts screaming at you to tear your eyes away and run inside

>The harvester has the raven off the cross

>The heretic thrashes in the harvester’s iron grip, black clouds of loosened feathers catching wind as he struggles

>And as those feathers drift into the breeze…

>…as you look on while the raven — your sworn enemy — fights against the maw of the harvester…

>you’re struck by a sharp, immediate memory

>By the grace of God, perhaps

>Actually

>More like a comet of sound, traveling through your skull, faster than particles of light

>’God will deliver us’

>Will God deliver the bird?

>The very people you are trying to wipe from His Purgatory?

>No

>No, he will not

>That raven up there rejects your God in favor of his ancestors

>You yank back on the bolt action of your chemical rifle

>The weapon’s one-round chamber holds the bullet you never fired

>It’s a crude brass cylinder, maybe the length of your index finger, with a glowing yellow tip

>You slide the bolt action forward

>Your decision goes against God

>So you pray

>For as you drop onto one knee…

>…you pray to stop shaking; terrified you’ll screw this up

>And as you steady your sights…

>…you promise to seek penance for your actions here

>And as your finger curves against the trigger…

>…as a storm of black feathers drifts into your iron sights, obscuring your target…

>…as you sight down the barrel…

>You pray for aim

>Because God will not deliver this heretic…

>…but you will

>Your fingers curl around the trigger and squeeze

>A ringlet of yellow light erupts from the barrel of your chemical rifle as the gun thumps into your shoulder

>The flare round explodes outward in a blitz of gold sparks, a spray of phosphorescent shards that cast golden light everywhere

>And the bullet travels so straight

>So true

>It’s almost like it has wings

>Your flare round strikes, exploding against the small, pale eyes of the harvester

>The beast cuts a skull-rattling howl of pain, as it drops the heretic unceremoniously onto Wealthy Street

>A hot flash fills your vision as the flare round’s secondary fuel kicks in

>A shower of gold sparks pours out of the harvester’s eye socket

>You don’t look away though

>You watch as the heretic tumbles from the harvester’s grasp, landing in a graceless heap

>A small, upward plume of loosened black feathers goes with him

>The harvester takes a mighty stumble backwards

>It digs its claws into its eye; a bid to remove the flare like pinching out a small, alchemical splinter from its eyeballs

>And in all this commotion…

>…the bird stirs…

>…plants one huge talon on the asphalt…

>…and pushes himself upwards…

>…where his yellow eyes meet yours — confused at first…

>…and then all at once grateful

>You wave the heretic over to you with a frantic arm

“Hurry!” you call, as loud as you can. “Over here!”

>The bird lurches upwards and starts towards you with a noticeable limp in his step

>Oh God, he’s not gonna make it moving like that

“I have to do everything myself,” you mutter to yourself

>You make a snap decision

>THUMP

>THUMP

>THUMP

>The harvester lets out a horrible scream as the flare continues to sizzle in its eye socket

>You meet with the heretic about halfway between The Brown Palace and the harvester

>With surprising ease you slip under his shoulder and drape his body against yours

>The raven dwarfs you in sheer size, and unlike the crows, his bones are solid, so it feels like you’re dragging an extra two-hundred pounds

>Together you limp and lurch as fast as you can towards the entrance to The Brown Palace

>Lucy, like a gray-and-white omen, appears in the set of double doors leading inside the hotel

>The fox lets out a frantic yip as her tail fans like a motor

>Her panicked screeches are worse than being shot at sometimes

“C’mon, bird, just a bit further!” you say as you struggle to push through the pain and exhaustion

>THUMP

>THUMP

>The harvester starts to move in your direction, the flare still scorching its eye

>THUMP

>Without a glance behind you, you can tell its gains are impressive

>You learned a long time ago to judge a harvester’s approach by the way the ground shakes

>You’re so close to the entrance that you can see inside the hotel

>The bird stumbles a bit but is clearly trying not to drag you with him

>By God, you can see the front desk inside! You can’t die when you’re this close to salvation!

“See that? We’re-” you grunt as you have to drag the heretic the final few yards, “-nearly to safety…”

>You feel air moving behind you

>A gigantic claw at your necks materializes in your mind

>If you close your eyes, you’re already between the harvester’s teeth-

>That couldn’t be the wind

>Could it?

>The hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge

>Almost inside-

>OW

>The raven’s talon catches on a chunk of concrete, dislodged from what was once the smoothed over plaza at the front doors

>You — or rather, the heretic — pitch forward

>The world goes right-side up as the two-hundred plus pound bird takes you down with him

>You and the heretic crash through the front doors, end-over-end, onto the shattered marble floors of the Brown Palace

>THUMP

>THUMP

>The heretic quickly drags himself across the dirty floor, away from the entrance

>You do the same, knowing exactly why

>Chest heaving, you make it to the hotel’s front desk,

>You collapse with your back against the wood panels, ending up next to the heretic

“My God…” you mutter, head turning upwards to drink in more of the stagnant air

>Exhausted and nursing a headache that could split skulls, your eyes flutter shut

>You feel a gentle weight against your side

>A light squawk of pain slips from the raven as shifts against you, exhausted

>You and your sworn enemy rest together, rigid, upright, like two logs leaning on each other in last night’s camp fire

>You focus snaps towards the entrance

>A huge, dirty claw gropes the dark floor, searching

>THUMP

>The harvester’s claw grabs a destroyed chair, and in one swift motion crushes it like simple glass, sending wooden shards and shredded upholstery everywhere

>You nudge your elbow into the side of the raven, a futile effort to try to move your sworn enemy to safety

“Hey, I think we oughta leave. That harvester is only going to get closer to us if we linger”

>The raven stirs

>”Katha,” her wheezes in response. “Skaa katha.”

“No, no time for katha. We need to flee-” you start, only to have your sentence halted

>The raven lifts his brawny arm — the one covering his side

>Fresh blood seethes from a sizeable wound

>Oh

>THUMP

>You look towards the door — where the harvester is trying to find you two — and there’s a crimson trail of slick blood that ends beneath the heretic

>Your heart sinks in your chest, though you know it shouldn’t — this raven is the enemy, still

>The enemy of God!

>But for whatever reason, the sense of empathy within you is stronger than the desire to kill him… for right now, at least

>He drew Lucy in for you

>That ought to count for something, right? A life for a life?

>At least you won’t have to make that call later on

>It doesn’t seem like you two are escaping together

>”Skaa katha,” he says again, a broken wheeze leaving his chest

>The raven’s yellow eyes lock with yours, brimming with exhaustion

>But this time there’s regret

>There’s no pain

>A kind of bloodless peace swells within his eyes

>A resignation of something so deeply…

>…kin… to his own people…

>…to yours, even

>That, In that moment, you feel perfectly understood by this strange, anthropomorphic raven

>The heretic leans in close, his beak curling upward in something close to a broken smile, if birds could smile

>With a deep croak, the raven opens his beak

>”Child of my enemy,” he croaks, “you help Visha.”

>He reaches to his side — the side in which the cross builders did not pierce his tender skin — and plucks a single black feather

>”You take Visha…” he says, losing his race against blood loss and language

>Visha hands you a clean feather from his side, practically half the length of your arm

>”You take Visha… courage,” he says at last, words tumbling from his jaw

>He hands you the feather, his arms shaking

>You twist the feather in between your un-gloved fingers

>Courage

>Huh

>…

”Thank you, bird,” you say as you lean back against the polished wood paneling of the hotel’s front desk

>The harvester outside shifts to its other arm

>You’ll need a way out of here, probably the back entrance

>You look down at Visha, who’s eyes are half-shut, as if now already waiting for the harvester to gain enough purchase and snag him by the talons

>It’s wrong to see a heretic — a raven, no less — so accepting of his fate

>That was you, right when the harvester was upon you, and it was Visha who broke the spell of despair

>Without thinking too hard on your next move, you dig into what remains of your bag and withdraw your ‘bayonet’

>Your bayonet is nothing more than a combat knife — milled steel brought to a fine edge, nothing like what the cross builders used on you

>You’re supposed to fix it to the end of your chemical rifle so you can impale heretics

>Like… Visha…

>But now, you mostly use it to cut up sausage and vegetables for dinners

>You pass the knife to Visha as payment for his feather

“You take my courage, Visha,” you say. “That is a virgin knife, not a single kill on it. Nii katha.”

>THUMP

>The harvester rams its shoulder into the front entrance and gains a small bit of purchase

>The building shivers from the weighty blow, its foundations shifting hard

>Dust and rubble plummet down on top of you

>Visha looks down at the knife in his lap

>He grips it between his bloodstained talons, his dark skin underneath cracked and cut

>He turns his head up to you

>”Visha no scraa. Eset merkas,” he says, weary

>And then, as if remembering he’s speaking to a human, tries the sentence in halting English

>”Visha no strong. No help to Vulcada. I am called to sky,” he says, as he hands back the knife

“My instructors at Academy taught me that your people — especially you ravens — prefer to die fighting. To die like heroes. Is that not true?”

>Visha looks bewildered, his comprehension perhaps weaker than his grasp of speaking

“If you’ve a rendezvous with death, so be it,” you say. “Seldom does a man choose the manner of his death. You have a rare, rare opportunity here.”

“Opportunity?” Visha echoes back at you, not sure if he understands the meaning

>You bend one knee and face your dying enemy, the man who you tried to kill several hours ago

“Yes, my friend,” you say, gently returning the knife to the bird, “a chance to die a valiant death. One of honor. Senaw.”

>At that the utterance of that word, things seem to click for the blood-starved Vish, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place

>’Senaw’

>Corvidaen for ‘honor’

“Can you understand what I’m saying? What I want you to do?” you say to your foe

>The bird gives a quick nod

>”Katha ves senaw,” he replies, “Die with honor.”

>You smile

“Die fighting.”

>The ceiling shakes again — something above you gives way with a tremendous crash

>The harvester is not a clever beast; its destruction is entirely driven by hunger

>Collapsing ceilings, ripping floors, breaking into entrances — all part of the harvester’s eternal quest for food

>Not much time left, you suspect, until this hotel collapses

>You stand at full height, the empty chemical rifle strapped tight against your back

>You finish buttoning your Foxer’s uniform — now reduced to sewn rags and mismatched patches

>Lucy coils at around your dirty boots, ready to leave

>You pull your gloves on

>And with one last look shared between yourself and Visha

>One final, affirmative glance

>Where your eyes meet — his like golden coins, flush with vigor and life once more

>Yours, narrowed in cold approval

>You turn on your heels

>And head deeper, deeper into the hotel

>You scour for the fire exit

>And pray to God

>That you can find your horse still