The carriage carrying Charles finally arrived in Old Town, a district so starkly different from the rest of the city that it might as well have been another realm. Most of the dwellings there were rickety shacks or makeshift huts so dilapidated they threatened to collapse at any moment. Some had been ravaged by fire, leaving only charred remains. Others lay half-crumpled, their walls blackened with filth and grime that suggested no one had scrubbed them clean in ages.
The uneven streets were clogged with scraps of trash, standing pools of dark water, and assorted refuse. A rank stench clung to every corner, mingling with the sour tang of cheap liquor from the row of rundown taverns. Arguing voices and angry shouts cut through the air at intervals, echoing off battered walls.
The people here seemed as worn and battered as their surroundings—dressed in tattered, ragged clothes, their faces filthy and lined with the misery of hard living. Some bore expressions of delirium, as though tormented by madness, while others stumbled drunkenly, barely able to walk. Their eyes, whether sullen or aggressive, promised violence to any outsider who set foot in their domain without consent.
Charles steeled himself, taking a deep breath and lifting a scrap of cloth to mask the reek. Scanning the area, he decided to tell the driver to stop. Carefully, he climbed down from the carriage, his gaze darting around for signs of trouble.
"You gonna be long?" the coachman asked with a tremor in his voice, refusing to set a foot on the ground. He looked thoroughly spooked, as if someone might lunge from the shadows at any moment.
"I'll likely be here for hours," Charles murmured. He fished several coins out of his pouch—one crusédo plus an additional forty denarius—handing them to the driver. This sum was higher than usual, both to cover the risk of traveling to such a dangerous, remote quarter and as a tip for staying the course.
"There you go," Charles said quietly. "This is the fare, plus a little extra. Thanks for bringing me this far."
Clutching the money as though it were a lifeline, the coachman wasted no time in whipping the reins and fleeing without a backward glance. Charles was left alone in the grim, claustrophobic gloom of Old Town.
He sighed deeply, reminding himself that he was here to trace any lead about Michael Berg.
If I want to start digging up clues, where should I look first? he thought, casting an uneasy glance around at the grimy streets and alleyways.
He ventured deeper into a labyrinth of narrow lanes, eyes peeled for anything out of place. All the while, he remained anxious that someone might be tailing him. He knew he needed to verify that suspicion first, so he could focus on investigating the missing physician.
He then noticed a cramped, dark alley that seemed to end in a dead-end. He quickly turned down it, hoping to lure whoever might be trailing him into a trap, then slip away unnoticed through another passage.
After weaving through dingy backstreets for nearly half an hour, he located a spot perfectly suited for both observation and hiding. He settled behind a large mound of refuse, next to a rotting post and the crumbling wall of a rundown house. From this vantage point—well out of casual sight—he carefully examined the ground.
His cautious surveillance paid off. Soon he spotted a series of footprints in the filth. Three distinct sets, each spaced a little distance apart. One impression looked large and oddly deep, hinting at a heavy individual. Another was smaller, the crisp lines of well-crafted soles suggesting an expensive leather shoe—definitely not something a typical Old Town local would wear. The final set was strange, as though their owner had been staggering; the prints were uneven, scraping into the muck erratically.
He suspected at least two watchers—maybe three. He imagined one was a hulking brute, heavier than an average man, while another was better dressed, wearing shoes that might belong to someone of means or an agent of some unknown group. The odd, swaying footprints could belong to a drunk or a sick or elderly person, so Charles decided that pair was probably unrelated to the pursuit.
Now he was certain: someone was following him. Who sent them, and what did they want? Could it be linked to Michael Berg's disappearance?
Charles swallowed a weary sigh and steeled himself to remain extra vigilant. He still needed to find some local in Old Town—someone halfway trustworthy—who might have spotted Michael in recent days. But before he could slip out from behind the trash heap, he froze. Two men had just appeared at the mouth of the alleyway, scanning their surroundings as if searching for a hiding fugitive.
Charles felt his heart sink. They must be the ones tailing me. Their stern faces and roving eyes reminded him of hawks homing in on prey—prey that happened to be him.
Their gazes flicked across the narrow alley and landed on Charles. A momentary shock crossed their faces, replaced almost instantly by a tense calm. They knew he was on to them.
Realizing his concealment was blown, Charles had no choice but to reveal himself. It was clear the watchers now understood he had tried to give them the slip. What's my next move?
Without waiting, the two men dashed forward, intent on grabbing him. Every step telegraphed their urgency. Charles refused to fight them head-on. Instead, he pivoted and ran, plunging deeper into Old Town's maze of alleys. The pounding of boots behind him intensified, raising his pulse and feeding his fear.
He raced through cramped walkways and twisting corridors, taking abrupt turns to confuse his pursuers. Yet they seemed well-acquainted with the local terrain, tailing him relentlessly. Their familiarity with these backstreets nullified his attempt to lose them.
Charles's heart hammered, sweat pouring down his spine. Every stride required full concentration on the uneven, debris-strewn ground, which stank of rotting garbage and filth. Shouts, curses, and brawling drifted over from other alleys, melding into an ongoing din. His breath came in ragged gasps, legs trembling in fatigue, but he dared not stop.
He pressed on until he reached another dead end, walled off by a tall barrier. Damn.
Breathing hard, he skidded to a halt and spun to face the entrance. His two pursuers thundered into view and came up short. They regarded him tensely, brimming with hostility.
"Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?" Charles demanded, glaring warily.
One of them—a burly man—spoke in a gravelly baritone. "We merely want to ask you some questions. No need to be alarmed."
"Questions about what?" Charles asked through clenched teeth.
"About your visit to Michael Berg's house," the other man replied flatly.
Charles inhaled slowly, seeking calm. "I'm only gathering information on his disappearance. I'll cooperate with your questions, if that's all it is."
"In that case, you shouldn't mind coming with us for a quick talk, should you?" the shorter man said, voice smooth but iron-hard. "We have a carriage nearby. Let's go somewhere we can speak properly."
Charles's gaze darted about. This alley was deserted; no chance an unwary passerby would intervene. The men's vague deflections suggested they might not be official enforcers at all.
Though he tried to reassure them of his innocence, their eyes brimmed with suspicion. They edged closer, presumably to grab him if he resisted.
"All right, let's not waste time," the burly man said. "You'll come with us. If you comply, nobody gets hurt."
Charles felt his shoulders tense. They're pushing me to go with them. If I refuse, I'll have to fight…
He inched back until his shoulders touched the wall, lifting his chin defiantly.
"Sorry, but I'm not going anywhere with you unless I know exactly who you are. If you want me to come along, show me your proper credentials."
That ended negotiations. With swift, violent precision, both men lunged at him. Charles dodged, using the training he had gleaned from Morgan's lessons. He hurled a solid punch that caught one man's face and forced him back.
"That bastard can fight!" cursed the burly one, face contorted. The other man darted in from the side.
Charles shifted to maintain his guard, parrying their blows as best he could. Though he countered with a few well-aimed strikes, they still held the advantage—two against one—while Charles was already fatigued from the chase. He soon found himself struggling to avoid their coordinated attacks.
Where's that third person from the footprints? he wondered fleetingly, anticipating an even grimmer turn if another assailant showed up.
The longer he held out, the greater the risk. Charles knew he needed to break away. Spotting a fleeting opening, he mustered a final burst of energy, lunging at the closer man and vaulting over him in a desperate move.
But just as he cleared his opponent, he heard the other man mutter a strange incantation: "Hréoda!" The man's hand lashed forward, and an unseen force whirled past Charles so fast it nearly bowled him over.
"What the—?!" Charles gasped, stunned. He had no idea what that was, but it felt raw and dangerous. He tried to brace, yet the incantation rang out again. This time, the unseen force collided with his body directly.
Pain slammed him, as though a solid wall had been hurled at him. His muscles screamed, his entire frame hammered by that invisible surge. Charles was flung to the ground, his vision blurring in the throes of agonizing shock.
Before passing out, he glimpsed the still-overcast sky as one of his pursuers moved in. They seemed agitated, eyes darting about before everything went black, swallowed by a suffocating darkness.