A hand reaches out from a dark kitchen doorway directly beside the barrel.
Aldo's fingers wrap firmly around the thick leather straps of Comtois's tactical vest, and with a sudden, straining heave, he drags the massive veteran inside the dark house, while Hano and Onaga quickly clear the threshold behind them, slamming the wooden door shut to cut off the sound of the pursuit.
Aldo forces Comtois down onto a low wooden stool near the center of the dark room. He doesn't light a candle; the risk of the red-masks spotting the glow through the cracks is too high. His fingers move with clinical precision.
Without breaking rhythm, Aldo pulls a hard bar of scented white lye soap from his standard-issue inner tunic pocket.
He dips the soap into a bucket of clean well-water standing by the hearth and begins vigorously scrubbing the dried blood and black street grime around the raw laceration, clearing the entry path before the arrowheads can be extracted.
Comtois gasps, his eyes watering from the sharp sting of the soap. "Are you... are you seriously washing me with soap right now?" he wheezes, his breath coming in short, uneven jerks that shake his chest.
"Infection kills faster than a rebel's blade," Aldo replies flatly.
He does not look up, his fingers working quickly as he snaps the feathered fletching off the back of the shaft with one clean motion, the wood splintering under his palm.
Then, gripping the broken wood, he pushes it forward, pulling the bloody iron tip straight through the front of Comtois's shoulder plate.
Comtois bites his own lower lip so hard the skin splits, a thin line of red running down his chin to mix with the sweat on his jaw.
His large fists clench, his fingernails digging into the thick oak of the kitchen table until the wood groans, but he doesn't cry out again.
He's tough, but the blood loss is starting to show. His skin is turning grey under the grime.
Aldo uses his teeth to pull the cork out of a small, rare vial of high-grade healing potion he pulled from the apothecary.
He doesn't waste a drop, pouring the glowing blue liquid directly into the freshly cleaned, open, steaming wound. The flesh hisses slightly as the magic takes hold, the torn muscle fibers knitting together under a layer of pale light.
Aldo rips a linen sheet from a nearby drying rack and begins bandaging the wound in tight, overlapping layers that bind the shoulder tight.
Comtois lets out a ragged breath, trying to laugh despite the agony radiating through his chest. "You're just... you're just a pretty boy who can't stand a bloody stain on his uniform, Captain."
"How many did you count before you ran?" Aldo asks, brushing the joke off completely as he pulls the final knot tight against Comtois's chest.
Comtois tests his left arm, his jaw clenching as the muscles pull against the fresh stitches.
"At least a hundred red-masks in the lower tier," he grunts, his voice low and serious now. "And a few dozen of those faceless grey bastards running loose in the squares. They're dropping from the walls like flies."
Aldo straightens, adjusting his sword belt and checking the oil levels on his remaining gear.
"Four against a mobilized hundred is a statistical death sentence. We abandon the district now. There is no victory to be had in these alleys."
Onaga steps toward the front window, his wide eyes full of anxiety as he looks out at the dark, silent windows of the surrounding tenements. The ivy clinging to the glass seems to shiver in the cold wind.
"What about the citizens living in these buildings? We just leave them to the meat-grinder?"
Hano steps up behind him, his fingers tightening on the strap of his defense musket as he pulls Onaga away from the glass pane with a rough yank.
"Don't you see the empty streets? Look around, man!"
Hano's voice trembles slightly, but his words are sharp, stripped of his usual youthful hesitation.
"The Duke's heralds evacuated this entire sector three hours ago before the first wall fell. The families are gone. We are the only idiots left behind in the dark."
Aldo runs to the small window, his eyes tracking the movement through the fog.
Down at the end of the long avenue, a massive group of red-masked rebels is moving in a tight, organized column toward the low riverbank, their torches throwing flickering yellow patterns against the damp stone walls.
"The wharf," Aldo says, his voice hardening as the plan forms in his mind.
He spins on his heel and sprints out the back door of the kitchen, leading the squad down a direct, narrow path through the shadows toward the military wharf. The weeds along the path catch at their boots, wet with the dew of a dying night.
They reach the edge of the water within minutes. The river is a black, rushing expanse of cold water, swarming with chunks of mountain ice from the upper reaches.
Moored against the heavy wooden pier is a massive, iron-reinforced state barge used for transporting heavy ordnance. Aldo leaps onto the wooden deck, his boots making a loud thud against the timber.
He doesn't hesitate; he kicks open the main storage hatch in the center of the deck, revealing the deep hold filled with reserve blasting powder kegs, their iron hoops rusted but intact.
His hands work fast in the dark, driven by the cold logic of a cornered beast.
He loops a long, thick hemp rope through the ignition triggers of four large powder kegs, binding them together into a single, massive charge.
He pulls a chemical match from his pouch, strikes it against the deck, and sets the slow-burning chemical flame to the base of the rope, calculating a precise three-minute delay before the fire hits the grain.
Aldo steps quickly to the high bow of the barge, his silhouette clear against the moonlit water.
He takes a deep breath and shouts a high-vanguard military challenge into the night air, his voice ringing across the empty plaza like a bell.
The loud shout works instantly. From the edges of the wharf, the shadows break. The challenge attracts the immediate attention of three dozen red-masked rebels and five nearby Outlandish monsters stalking the docks.
The massive horde turns as one, their collective gaze freezes on the lone figure on the ship.
They charge down the long wooden pier, their iron-shod boots thundering like a heavy drumbeat against the thick planks, the wood groaning under the sudden weight.
The lead rebels leap onto the deck of the state barge, their shortswords raised high to cut Aldo down where he stands.
Aldo waits until the first blade is three feet from his chest, tracking the reflection of the torchlight in the rebel's eyes. Then, he dives backward off the opposite rail of the barge, plunging straight into the icy, fast-moving currents of the river below.
The cold water hits him like a physical blow, swallowing him whole and driving the breath from his lungs.
He fights the current, his heavy boots dragging him down into the black depths until his hands find the muddy rocks of the opposite bank fifty yards downstream. Three pairs of hands reach into the water, gripping his collar and pulling him dripping onto the shore.
Behind them, the slow-burning match hits the primary blasting powder inside the barge's hold. The night turns white, the illumination so bright it leaves a red stain on the back of their eyelids.
A massive, blinding white explosion rips the state barge apart with a roar that shakes the riverbed and shatters every window within a mile.
The sheer force of the detonation turns the heavy iron-reinforced hull into thousands of burning pieces of shrapnel that hiss as they hit the water like falling stars.
The blast wave vaporizes the entire vanguard of rebels and the Outlandish monsters standing on the deck in a single fraction of a second, leaving nothing but a smoking crater of water and charred timber where the pier had been.
The remaining Outlandish creatures scattered across the main plaza freeze, their limbs locking as the shockwave washes over them.
The massive blast from the riverbank ripples through the air, and the grey monsters completely lose their hive-mind synchronization as the control frequencies shatter into static. Their heads twist violently from side to side, their mouths snapping at the empty air.
Without the guiding signal, the grey beasts turn instantly on their own creators, their internal programming corrupted by the noise.
They lunge forward, their long, jointed legs tearing through the red-masked rebel lines with mechanical cruelty. The surviving rebel leader tries to swing his blade, but an Outlandish vertical mouth closes over his head, crushing his iron helmet like a dry nut.
Realizing they have lost total control of their bio-weapons, the remaining twenty rebels completely break formation.
They scatter into the dark side alleys, throwing their weapons into the dirt as they retreat in absolute panic, their flags trampled in the mud.
Aldo stands on the muddy bank, wringing the icy river water out of his heavy vanguard cloak, his teeth chattering from the deep cold of the current.
His eyes fix on the seven rogue Outlandish still stalking the perimeter of the smoking courtyard, their shapes silhouetted against the burning remnants of the barge.
"They're completely wild now," Aldo notes, his fingers wrapping around the cold hilt of his shortsword as he draws the blade with a slow, deliberate scrape. "Establish a defensive perimeter around the choke points. Don't let them fan out into the civilian sectors."
The four conscripts move in unison, their boots quiet as they slide into a tight, professional tactical ambush formation inside a narrow stone archway leading out of the plaza. The ancient granite of the arch is covered in thick, dark moss that smells of earth and old rain.
The first Outlandish senses the movement, its head rising as it catches the scent of blood.
It charges the archway, its grey hide glistening with river mist, its needle-spines flexing along its back as it prepares for a proximity burst that would shred the small squad.
Aldo raises his newly acquired heavy crossbow, his shoulder bracing against the wood. His finger squeezes the iron trigger.
The heavy iron bolt flashes through the gap, striking the creature with a dull thunk, pinning its jointed shoulder firmly to the old wooden doorframe behind it.
Comtois steps forward into the open space of the archway, his freshly bandaged shoulder straining against the linen wraps as he swings a salvaged rebel spear with both hands.
The iron head of the spear cleaves downward, severing the beast's thrashing needle-tail at the base with a clean, wet crunch.
The dying monster twists in its tracks, its muscles contracting as it fires a single rogue spine sideways through the air.
The black shard flashes past Aldo's ear, slicing a deep, clean track across Comtois's left cheek. Blood wells instantly from the scratch, dripping down his jaw to stain his collar, but the big veteran doesn't blink, his grip on the spear remaining solid.
From a low residential window sill directly above the lane, where the dead ivy hangs like old ropes, a second Outlandish leaps down without a sound, landing squarely on Onaga's shoulders.
Onaga hits the stone on one knee, the impact sending a sharp crack through the alley. The newly acquired heavy crossbow flies from his hands, shattering against the cobblestones.
But he doesn't drop his remaining defense line. Desperate, he grabs the thick, steel barrel of his short-barreled defense musket horizontally, using the iron tube to block the creature's descending vertical jaw.
The razor-sharp needle teeth scrape loudly against the steel barrel, throwing small sparks into the dark space between them.
"Hold it! Don't let it turn!" Hano screams.
He drops his own unprimed crossbow into the dirt, his face twisted in determination as he draws a scavenged short blade from his belt.
He lunges from the shadow of the pillar, driving his blade straight upward with both hands into the creature's unprotected, soft grey underbelly.
The blade sinks home to the hilt, buried in the soft, rubbery flesh. A thick, toxic spray of black blood erupts outward from the wound like oil from a broken pipe.
The acidic fluid splashes across Hano's left hand, instantly burning through his light skin, leaving a blistering, red chemical scar that bubbles under the moonlight. Hano bites his lip until it bleeds, refusing to drop the sword despite the agony.
Aldo slips between them like a shadow, his movements silent and empty of hesitation.
His shortsword performs three rapid, calculated thrusts into the creature's central mass, his blade finding the precise location of the final core stones through the thick hide. The red crystals shatter inside the flesh with a sound like breaking ice.
The last remaining Outlandish creature collapses onto the blood-slicked cobblestones of the lane with a heavy, wet thud, its grey limbs twitching once before rolling still into the gutter where the dirty water runs.
Aldo stands over the corpse, his right hand holding his sword loosely as his chest heaves in ragged, wheezing gasps that burn his throat.
He pulls a discarded piece of rebel cloth from the muck and slowly cleans the dark, oily fluid from his blade before sheathing it, his movements mechanical and slow.
The rhythmic scratching sounds that had filled the alleys for hours finally fade away, disappearing into the corners of the city, replaced by an absolute, suffocating silence that settles over the entire district like a heavy blanket. The wind dies down, leaving the air still and cold.
Comtois lets out a long, glass-brittle breath. His hands slip from his bloody, blistered weapons, the iron spear clattering onto the stone with a dull ring.
His legs give out beneath him, and he slides down the front of a shattered apothecary storefront, his back resting against the broken wood as his eyes close, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow beats.
Hano sits flat on the cold stone, his defense musket resting across his lap like a dead weight.
He clutches his burned left hand tightly against his chest, his breath shallow as his eyes stare blankly up at the vast, empty sky above the high roofs, his face empty of all expression.
A faint, icy-grey morning light begins to bleed over the eastern horizon, cutting through the heavy river fog and illuminating the high, white marble architecture of Carravin.
The rising sun reveals the total, unvarnished devastation of the tenement district—ruined walls, shattered glass, and the cold remnants of the midnight battle scattered across the stones like refuse.
Without a single word spoken between them, all four conscripts lean back against the ruined masonry of the lane, their bodies casting long, faint shadows in the new light.
Their heads drop back against the stone, their eyes closing instantly as they fall into a deep, death-like sleep born of pure, unadulterated exhaustion, the morning mist rising from their wet clothes as the city sleeps around them, indifferent to their survival.