The King with Six Friends

Part 2: Ingrid

Ingrid winced and grasped the stump of her right hand. It had been severed clean from the index finger to the wrist by her would-be victim. Milky-white bones protruded within the flesh. A blood stain was creeping up the sleeve of her shirt. She only had the last three fingers of her right hand left.

The alleyway she crouched behind stunk from the barrel of garbage rotting down the way. Lantern light shone through the musty windows of the tavern. She could hear music from happy hour.

She couldn't fly anymore, that was certain. No fingers meant a useless wing. She was only able to clear a single street before crashing into the roof of the tavern, behind which she was now hiding. She knew she had missed his heart with the knife, but at least she had wounded him.

She retrieved a small ointment vial from her coat and dribbled drops onto her hand. It stung the inside of her wound, but at least it wouldn't get infected. She felt it go numb.

She pulled off her mask and wrapped it around the open flesh. She then unbuckled her belt and fastened it around her elbow, cinching it tight until her forearm paled.

The tavern's back door banged open, spilling light from the kitchen into the small alleyway. Ingrid tensed and hoped she wouldn't be spotted. A barwench tossed a sack of garbage into a nearby barrel. An alley cat leapt onto the pile and picked through the wasted food.

The bar wench noticed Ingrid out of the corner of her eye. She saw her strange, dark apparel. Her wide eyes followed down to her bandaged hand.

"What's wrong with your hand?" the barwench asked.

"A horse nipped it." Ingrid shakily rose to her feet. She was a little dizzy from the wound. She had to find some way to get out of the city before the palace guards were sent out.

"D'you want something inside?" the barwench warmly offered, "You look like you haven't eaten in a week."

"No." Ingrid peered around the corner of the alley. A pair of soldiers stood stationed at their posts, but they weren't on alert- yet.

Ingrid put her coat on inside-out and sped down the bustling cobblestone street. She tucked her good hand into an inner pocket, fiddling with a knife while she passed a group of nuns on their evening stroll. Her eyes darted left and right with paranoia as she saw more and more soldiers patrolling. She wouldn't make it past the gates with this many searching eyes.

Ingrid froze when a heavy gauntlet held her shoulder. "Miss, could we ask you some questions?" She flipped out the knife and slashed the hand. The soldier yelped and recoiled with pain while she bolted down the road. She ducked behind a brassware vendor's stand. Fear and adrenaline ran through her trembling limbs. She had to get away or she'd be killed.

The soldiers raced to where she had hidden with their swords drawn. When they reached the vendor they found only a few stray feathers. Ingrid, as a falcon, perched from the awning above their heads and watched them split up to search for her. Her right wing was clipped and weighted with dried blood. She couldn't fly, but she could hide.

Ingrid was someone in a very complicated situation. She was in enemy territory without any guarantee of aid from her employer. Normally, she could slip in and out of her target's home with ease, but her most recent venture had left her injured and treading dangerous waters.

Blood had been spilt, and the sharks were hungry.