England, London
West End, Soho
October 03, 1899, 07:04 a.m.

A gloomy sky with dense, dark clouds blended into the grey cityscape of autumnal London. Smoke rose from the numerous chimneys, and alternating with the increasingly frequent rain showers, the capital was shrouded in a curtain of rain and smog. It was a dreary, bleak-looking picture that every good Londoner was more than familiar with.

A cold wind blew in his face, causing strands of his black hair to fall repeatedly into the field of vision of his blue eyes. The gusts stung his sweat-soaked skin like fine pinpricks and made his lungs burn with exertion.

But Kyle Crowford kept sprinting with all the strength he could muster in his weakened condition.

The shrill whistle of a police whistle echoed over the dilapidated roofs and brick buildings of Soho. It boomed through the winding alleys of London's West End, interrupting conversations and causing passers-by to pause.

The rundown houses, shops, and small traders' stalls of the immigrant neighbourhood passed Kyle by, fading into blurred silhouettes at the edge of his vision. The smooth cobblestones of the street made the drumming of his footsteps echo against the house walls. Not ten feet ahead of him, the man he was pursuing pushed two birdcages into Kyle's path. The passers-by cried in shock as they dodged the pursuing men and the startled poultry.

An elderly lady was pushed roughly aside by the fugitive, lost her balance and landed in the display of a fishmonger. Crates slipped, and fish and ice spread over the street. Kyle dodged a young woman with a laundry basket at the last moment, staggered around her and caught just enough air for a breathless "Excuse me!"

In his haste, however, he had failed to avoid a large pothole where rainwater and rubbish had collected, so he stepped straight into the thick mud with his right foot. There was a squelching sound, and mud splattered over his tailored frock coat with Indian silk lining. Kyle tried not to think about the fact that the damn dirt had just ruined his fine shoes and trousers from Henry Poole & Co.

Instead, he stared, panting, at the shabby coat of the delinquent fleeing in front of him, which fluttered back and forth like a flag behind the lanky man's figure. The delinquent had now gained quite a bit of ground, and several yards were between them. The fugitive quickly turned around a corner, and Kyle almost slid into a greengrocer's stand. Flailing his arms, the young magus barely managed to turn the corner and slowly catch up with the lanky man. But his breathing was now rapid and laboured. He wouldn't last much longer.

Where the hell was Archer again?

Benjamin Archer, a military doctor and Kyle's companion, had turned into one of the side streets to cut off the fugitive's path. But instead, the bastard kept gaining more and more ground on him!

"Out of my way, you staring idiot!" he roared, knocking over the next passerby with his shoulder and sending him tumbling.

Kyle wanted to curse, but he didn't have the breath. If only he could use his wand...! But with so many witnesses present, using magic was not an option.

For a second, the magician hoped it would put the fleeing bastard on his dirty mouth. But the mangy dog only staggered, then found his balance again and stormed through a fork in the road to the right between some houses. The alleys narrowed, baskets and old junk flanked the unpaved road.

"Stop!" Kyle shouted at the top of his voice but immediately regretted it. Dizziness overcame him, clearly clouding his senses. His chest tightened, and he couldn't breathe, so black spots briefly danced before his eyes.

Then the man before him stormed past a pile of broken junk – and Kyle saw his chance. Without thinking about the consequences, he reached into the pile of garbage and hurled the first piece he could get his hands on in the direction of the fleeing crook.

A broken tin bucket hit the man's back with a metallic clang, causing him to glance over his shoulder instinctively. For a second, Kyle saw a hateful, nasty grin full of yellow teeth on the dirty face.

Kyle could already feel burning frustration rising inside him. Then, because of his mocking inattention, the fleeing man ran full force into a barrel.

The momentum and force of the impact threw him to the ground, and Kyle heard the bastard groan in pain. His escape was over, and Kyle slowed his pace as well. He greedily sucked the air as deeply as possible into his lungs.

"I said..." he coughed briefly, '...stop!' He was well aware that he lacked the kind of authoritative position, rank or equivalent that would have lent his demand the necessary gravitas. 'Stop, police!' would have been much more convincing. But he wasn't a sergeant – and his real profession wouldn't have meant anything to the fugitive, let alone had the effect of an executive.

"Or what?" barked O'Brien, the man lying in the mud at Kyle's feet but had now picked himself up again and seemed unimpressed by the dictating tone.

Kyle opened his mouth to say something when the guy suddenly jumped on him. Kyle hadn't expected such an attack or resistance after such a sprint. Calloused fingers grabbed his fine cloak and tugged roughly. The mage's eyes widened, and his pulse quickened as a knife blade flashed in the dull sunlight.

Instinctively, he tried to evade the attack – but O'Brien held him fast. With mounting panic, Kyle's fingers clenched the man's wrist, trying to divert the knife from its murderous target. But he was inferior to O'Brien in strength, and his reflexes were slower. And, by God, was Kyle exhausted!

The sharp blade sliced through the fabric, plunging deep into its target, and Kyle screamed. Blood seeped into the fabric of the cloak, darkening it instantly. A searing pain throbbed at his waist, and a sickening, all-too-familiar damp warmth spread through him, a drawing burn at the site.

"Argh, let go!" Kyle hissed.

"Gabh go hilfreann, English pig!"¹, O'Brien barked back.

Kyle tugged at the man's sleeve and arm. Fabric tore, then he kicked with his knee. Whatever Kyle kicked struck home, sending O'Brien tumbling.

Unfortunately, the bastard clung to him so tightly that he pulled the young mage down with him. Hard, damp ground received both as they fell, robbing Kyle of air again. The men rolled around in a tangled tangle and rolled over each other more than once. Kyle's arms groped for his pockets, trying to get to his wand, when suddenly a fist hit him square in the face.

Black and white spots exploded before his eyes like fireworks. It took only the blink of an eye before the greasy scoundrel pushed his slimmer pursuer to the ground and swung the knife again.

'That's it!'

That was all Kyle could think of at that moment. With wide-open eyes, he stared into the ugly face of the criminal Irishman. The flashing blade raced towards him, and his otherwise clear mind was suddenly swept clean.

Then, a shadow suddenly fell over them both, and an even larger figure pulled O'Brien off him.

Kyle saw Dr. Archer's fist swing and then crash into the crook's surprised face. The first blow was so fierce and full of rage that it knocked O'Brien right off his feet. But Dr Archer didn't let up: he grabbed the Irishman by the collar, pulled him halfway to his feet, and struck him twice more.

Finally, with a gasp, he remained lying on the ground, and the doctor stepped on his outstretched arm. "Let go!" the soldier snarled grimly. The Irishman's bruised fingers let go of the blade, and Dr Archer kicked it out of reach before hastily turning to Kyle.

"Damn it... where the hell were you?" Kyle moaned as he rose awkwardly and hissed in pain. Despite the considerable pain he was suffering from, he managed to give his partner a reproachful look. Archer easily towered more than a head and a half taller than Kyle, standing almost six feet. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrower; his stature resembled less that of a doctor or a lord but rather that of a wrestler or boxer.

"Did he hurt you?" the doctor blurted out without addressing the reproach. He hardly seemed out of breath. He hadn't even sweated. What a braggart! Strong hands grasped Kyle's arms and pulled his haggard figure back into a more or less vertical position.

A painful groan rose in Kyle's throat before he could suppress it. Even though he immediately pressed his lips together, his fingers instinctively shot to the fresh stab wound.

Dr. Archer was faster, though. He grabbed Kyle's hand, pushed it aside and reached for the wound himself. He pushed aside the heavy coat, enlarged the tear in the brocaded waistcoat above the puncture wound and with the practised eye of a physician, his eyes glided over the wound. "Nothing life-threatening."

Frowning, Kyle eyed the doctor. His chocolate-brown hair, cut a little shorter on the sides than the topknot, was completely dishevelled from the chase. The former military doctor's green eyes contained a strange mixture of concern and anger, and his lips, under the neatly trimmed three-day beard, curled disapprovingly.

Kyle could only guess at the source of the doctor's annoyance. It certainly had nothing to do with his own cause for outrage: physical wounds could heal eventually, especially with the doctor's help. But the imported Indian silk of his inner lining was utterly ruined! This was more than just annoying.

"We'll have to stitch that. I'll deal with it later," Dr Archer said, pointing out the stab wound and giving Kyle a brief squeeze on the shoulder.

At that moment, a pained groan was heard behind them. O'Brien turned to the side and seemed to be slowly coming to. The doctor turned on his heel and, a moment later, grabbed the still, slightly dazed rogue by the scruff of his neck.

"You're coming with us. And I'd advise against any more shenanigans," Archer growled warningly.

O'Brien looked pretty banged up. His lip was split, and his nose was crooked at an unhealthy angle. Blood smeared most of the ugly, rat-like face, and Kyle couldn't help but feel a slight sense of satisfaction.

While Archer held the man, the magician reached for the crook's shoulder bag. It had been through a lot during the chase. The leather was dirty and covered in brown mud stains.

"Hands off!" hissed O'Brien and began to beat around desperately. The doctor reacted quickly and twisted the man's arm behind his back with a rough grip. The Irishman grimaced in pain.

"You don't mind if we take this with us, do you?" Kyle said smugly, lifting the bag in front of O'Brien's face and earning a hateful look.

"That's theft!"

"Look at that; a comedian!" Kyle laughed half-heartedly and opened the bag's flap without paying further attention to the man. 'What an irony that a fence is telling us about theft.' With that, he shot O'Brien an icy look for a brief moment. Inside was a larger silver bowl decorated with various ornaments and signs. A chalice shimmered in a velvet cloth, and a parchment scroll contained a collection of ancient writings that reminded the young magus of runes or cuneiform writing.

"Where is the rest?" Kyle asked sternly, but O'Brien still bared his teeth in hostility instead of answering.

"I'm not telling you, pig cops, anything!" he barked instead, drawing his nose up noisily and spitting at Kyle's feet, right next to the fine leather shoes that were finally ruined thanks to the little chase. Kyle grimaced in utter disgust. However, he didn't bother clarifying the misunderstanding regarding their profession. They didn't have the time for such games now. In a moment, the place would be crawling with real officers.

"Archer?"

He didn't have to ask twice. Dr. Archer took a step back and then slammed his fist into O'Brien's stomach with all his might. The man doubled over, choking up bile and saliva, rolled his eyes and lost consciousness.

"Remind me never to piss you off, Archer," Kyle murmured to Ben, almost missing the slight smile that appeared at the doctor's mouth.

Kyle reached for the man's lapel and felt over the rough, worn fabric. His breathing was still heavy. Finally, he found the hidden inner pocket and what they had been looking for. Gray London daylight glistened on the surface of an uneven, plum-sized stone with a neat hole in the middle. Occult engravings adorned the artefact with ornate patterns.

"A Gloine nan Druidh," Kyle murmured, glancing at the unconscious Irishman. 'A Druid glass,' he translated for Dr Archer, who knew far less about such things. He opened O'Brien's coat further and pulled out an elongated oak staff engraved with Nordic runes. Then came a golden brooch, which the magician carefully placed in his pocket-handkerchief. The stolen goods in the shoulder bag were nothing but occult or esoteric junk, which the fence sold at inflated prices to ignorant fools. But these things here were something entirely different.

At that moment, the shrill sound of police whistles sounded again.

Kyle looked in the direction from which hurried footsteps were approaching.

"Well, we have what we came for. I think it's time to leave."

(1) Irish: Gabh go hilfreann - Go to hell