Harbuckle

Harbuckle counted three.

Big, lumbering men, with iron shod boots and great long knives. They walked without caution, confident in their leather and mail to protect them. Tall, even for men; the low sewer tunnels forced them into the stoop natural for his kind. 

Were they in the tunnels Harbuckle’s tribe had dug themselves, of course, such invaders would have had to crawl, worming through in darkness, and it would have been slaughter. But that wasn’t the point; they had to be fought here and now. And that meant doing this out in the great wide open.

Relatively speaking.

Harbuckle drew his knife from a worn sheath. He had few belongings, but he maintained them with a care that bordered on compulsion. He could smell the reek of rust and dried blood on the men’s weapons; his own knife stank of clean metal and oil.

They were reaching the side passage now. He crouched even lower, and paused to imagine his quarry. The man would be turning at the side tunnel, but with no real caution, merely a cursory check for further victims. He would not be expecting a real threat.

He would not be expecting Harbuckle.

Closer now. The man held a torch; this would have to be done with eyes closed, to ensure a clean escape. For all the light he brought, the man would see little; a tight culvert, a flash of brown, perhaps a glint of metal. A leap, a twist, a slash across the neck; then a mad dash back into the dark. The men, throwing their comrade aside as he bled his life out to mix with the filth.

And so it was.

The Brookside Warren kept to themselves. It had kept them out of trouble with the city, kept them little more than a local legend. Travel to Lusterheim, they said, home of fine fabrics, pickled fish, rats big as men! Oh, you’ll never see them, but they’re there, the folk would say, tapping fingers to noses. Deeper than the sewers.

Still, it paid to keep an eye on things. Harbuckle had little interest in the affairs above, but Mother Lockley had an ear for gossip, and haggled like a fishwife for valuable intel. And it paid to listen to Mother Lockley.

The Warren knew Lusterheim would fall even before its commanders did; by the time the front gates burst open, they had enough supplies stockpiled to last a season. And if the invaders had any intent on rooting them out, they would face a nightmare of darkness and claustrophobia.

And teeth.

Now there were two. 

Their tread had slowed; the unseen killer had earned their respect. No longer did they come as conquerors, but as warriors; no longer in a slaughter, but a battle. They would be more dangerous now.

The culverts were no longer an option; they’d be watching any possible opening. They knew he could fit in small places, that he had little need of light. Harbuckle was a capable fighter, but he held no illusions as to his ability against two well armed and armored foes. If he was to have any chance of success, he would need to exploit every advantage he could. And anything they did not know about him was an advantage.

The men reached a wider point in the tunnel, where they could finally stand. The fetid water, once a trickle, then a river, was now a flood reaching up to their thighs. They pushed forward, taking care to hold their torches high, eyeing every grate and side passage with suspicion.

That, of course, took their eyes off the water. 

Lusterheim grew strong by its river trade, and the rats grew side by side. Not for nothing was it named the Brookside Warren. The townschildren would tell stories of the rats coming out at night to take to the river. There was more than a shred of truth to these tales.

Harbuckle adored the river. It was the only thing that could tempt him out to the surface. He had no patience for fishing, but swimming was his passion. Sewer water was a far cry from the river, of course, and he’d need hours of washing to feel clean again. But it would serve.

He’d prefer a strike at the inner thigh. A quick slash to the femoral artery, and the man would bleed out like the first. But their legs were covered in chain and thick leather; his blade might make it through, but it might not. Too risky. 

Their heads, however, were bare. A twitch of his tail brought him alongside the legs of the man in front. He tensed, coiling his limbs like a spring, and then…

An explosion; a blast out from the water that carried him in an arc over the man. He seized the man’s head with both hands, bringing it down with him to crack against the tunnel’s wall in one smooth motion. A kick with both feet to the stomach drove the air from the body, and then he was gone again, leaving the man to drown in filth while his companion slashed futilely at the water.

Any city had a population living underground. The homeless, the beggars, the ones with nowhere left to turn. There was a measure of security in the places no one else would go. And, to a degree, these communities looked after each other. 

In Lusterheim, though, there was a new dynamic. A legend had formed: come ye meek, ye persecuted, find sanctuary beneath the streets. A beaten wife, a runaway slave; all were welcomed and protected, in exchange for the precious information that kept Mother Lockley’s network running. The law were reluctant to pursue their quarry in the stink and the dark.

Of course, there were always those who fled persecution of their own making. More than one murderer or rapist had sought the protection of the Warren. But a town has no secrets from its beggars; those found undeserving were turned away. Those who insisted, threatened violence, tended to disappear.

Some of their wards eventually returned to the surface, with the promise to share none of the Warren’s secrets. But some of them stayed.

And now there was one. 

He was erratic now, consumed with fear. Harbuckle could hear his ragged breathing, the way he whirled at every noise. No longer a warrior, but a trapped animal. Now, he was at his most dangerous.

Still, he had enough of his wits left about him to know that he wouldn’t be making it out of the dark; not by retreating, not with his enemy alive. And so he pressed on, in search of better footing to make his stand.

He found it, soon enough. Harbuckle had been hoping for a moment to strike before they reached the cistern, but it had been far too risky. Now, the man found himself in an open space, with a stone walkway above the water; solid footing, and room to maneuver. 

And then he found he was not alone.

They huddled together along the walls; ragged, wet, and stinking. Eyes bulging, twitching, terrified. The Warren had done its best to bring its wards into safety. Certainly there were those brave enough to crawl through pitch-black tunnels too tight even for hands and knees. Now they clustered in the heart of the nest, while the den mothers did their best to keep them from panicking. 

But there were plenty too frail of body or mind to take that path. The number only increased with the flood of refugees; as the city burned, they sought the refuge of half-remembered stories. And that was why tonight there were a dozen bloody battles taking place throughout the sewers, as the Brookside Warren fought for those who could not.

Now, the lost and the meek cowered at the man in armor stained with the blood of their neighbors and friends. Now, on comfortable ground, he found his courage returning, and he remembered why he and his comrades had first descended into the depths. There is nothing like wanton slaughter to restore the spirit.

Every instinct screamed at Harbuckle to pull back, to leave them to their fate. It was the worst possible place for a battle. The man held every card; there was no opportunity to press an advantage. He was bigger, stronger, with a longer weapon and better reach; room to strike and light to see. It was risky, far too risky.

But a decision had been made, the very first time a human had come to the Warren seeking sanctuary. From the moment they were given refuge until the moment they left, there would be no distinction between human or rat. They were part of the Warren. 

And the Warren looks after its own.

A quick leap brought him up to the walkway; his blade’s flat rapping against the stone drew the man’s focus. Harbuckle wondered how he must appear to the invader. Did he see a nightmarish creature, some savage monster of the dark? A fellow warrior, given a martial respect? Or did he only see what was there: a brown, furred figure; lean, half-crouched, with jet-black eyes and a long, naked tail twitching for a trace of extra balance?

The man tossed his torch to the ground, taking his weapon in both hands for a more powerful strike. Harbuckle kept his in one hand, leaving the other free. Both held a fighter’s stance; both raised their blades, taking the measure of each other. They paced in slow circles, their knives weaving. Every movement held the rapt attention of their audience, too frightened to even breathe. 

The man made the first move. Evidently his advantages were as apparent to him as they were to Harbuckle. He brought the blade up, bellowed a challenge in a foreign tongue, and charged. Harbuckle darted forward, meeting him halfway.

The man was powerful, but Harbuckle was fast. Each thundering swing met only air, while his own knife bit again and again through chainmail and boiled leather. Still, the armor did its job; though each blow drew blood, none struck deep enough for a serious wound. The man was hulking, but no mindless brute; it was only a matter of time before a strike connected. Harbuckle wore no armor; a single blow would take him out of the fight entire.

And so it was.

Harbuckle sprawled across the stone floor. His chest was on fire in a line from shoulder to hip. With an effort he rolled, grabbing at his matted fur to keep pressure on the wound. The man stood above him, his freshly bloodstained knife held in a thick fist. He raised it once more for the final blow. 

And staggered. He spun; behind him, the small woman stepped back, still clutching a chunk of masonry. The warrior roared and tried to raise his knife, before two ragged figures seized his arm. Four more, and the man was dragged to the ground.

His kind did not smile, but Harbuckle allowed himself some grim satisfaction as the sewer denizens closed in on the invader and began to tear him apart.

The Warren looks after its own.