Blackness. The overpoweringly sweet stench of decomposition assaulted his nostrils like a whirlwind of tiny toxic knives coated in gritty sugar.
Bujilli shifted position. It was hard to move. Why was his left arm stiff? Ow! It was sore, too. He was bound, tied-down...no...wounded...bandaged. Everything shifted again. His heels were dragging through garbage and across cobblestones. Backwards.
He was being carried. Dragged. Really.
He tried to open his eyes. It didn't do any good. Darkness surrounded him. He could feel sorcery in the dark--this was a deliberate thing. Whomever was dragging him around was trying to obscure the trail, or at least get where they were going unobtrusively.
His lips were parched. Dry. Bujilli lay back on the make-shift travois and took stock of his personal situation. He did not remember getting wounded. the last thing he could recall was slumping down next to the big table in Unfred's kitchen and Leeja coming over to stand close to him. Too close. Then nothing.
His tulwar had been left hooked to his belt. The well-worn old handle felt comforting in his hand. What kind of a fool leaves a prisoner armed, even if they are bandaged and unconscious? Idiots.
Something struck the travois just above Bujilli's head.
They were being shot at by whomever was following them. either their attackers could see through the Darkness or they were firing blindly, hoping to hit something, anything that might prove vital or at least damaging. Sloppy. It was the kind of thing that people raised to fire-arms were wont to do. They grew lazy. It was almost as if they thought that the loud noise and smoke were all it took to kill things, not accuracy, not skill. True enough, even a peasant scared out of their wits could fire a gonne and have a chance to hit, kill or maim an opponent, no matter how little skill or what minimal training they might have had...but still...it bothered him. He had been raised to use a bow. To practice for hours every day until he could reliably put food on the table. Or defend himself. But that was an after-thought, a consequence that his uncle just ignored, like he tended to ignore a lot of other things.
Bujilli stirred himself into action. His muscles ached. He was still exhausted from his intense spell-working upon Sharisse. He wouldn't be able to make even a faint glimmer of a spark for a wile. His reserves were tapped. But he had his tulwar. He wished he had brought along his bow, but it was back in his rooms. He didn't think that he'd need his bow. Apparently he had been wrong.
He lay back down on the travois. Even if he had the bow, he wasn't strong enough to string it, let alone draw it back and hope to hit anything. His hands were shaky. He was still really, really tired.
He almost fell back to sleep.
The travois jostled, jumped, turned and lurched as whomever was dragging it along entered a narrow alley-way. Filthy water splashed. Small things scampered and scurried away from them, possibly rats, maybe mice, hopefully nothing worse. Somewhere overhead rough shutters slammed into place. If anything it got darker. Colder. They say that Winter tended to linger in the Low Streets.
They turned another corner. Again, only this time they nearly over-turned. Bujilli almost slid off the thing as the travois-puller over compensated.
Bujilli tumbled across reeking masses of unidentifiable garbage until a rough wall unkindly stopped him abruptly.
He forced himself to get to his feet. It was difficult. He had to use the wall and almost climbed up it in order to get vertical again. This was going to be a very short fight.
The wrecked travois clattered to the other side of the alley. It was still too close. Much too close. This was a tight spot.
"This way." Unfred grabbed Bujilli by the arm and fairly dragged him further down the alley...