Sergeant Girard was watching the back inn roof, while leaning against the opposite wall. By long habit he was playing with the ends of his well waxed mustache. 

Young Sebastien was filling the air with excited speculation on whether the others had chased down the cleric yet, whether there were more secret clerics to be found, whether they’d get any more action before going home, whether they'd get to use the teleportation circle again.... 

Keen that boy. But solid enough head on his shoulders, as long as you kept him pointed the right direction. 

Girard shushed him when the noise came from inside, and turned towards the door.  

Orgull staggered to a stop in the doorway. 

Four soldiers approaching from outside. Including the boy, with a stupid surprised expression at seeing his own face.

Too close to get by them.

No escape backwards, the big man had nearly caught up.

Channel.

They’d drilled combat channeling at seminary, but they were told that normally you'd catch too many of your own side to be worth it. Unless you had been stupid enough to let yourself be surrounded by enemies on all sides. 

Mostly he’d used it for clearing out lice and other vermin from his cell. 

There was a brief moment of feeling hollow, like he was a conduit for something burning and freezing him from the inside as the energy rushed out through him.

Young Sebastien and one of the others fell forward. There were screams indoors from behind where the cleric stood in the doorway.

Sergeant Girard winced in pain, but kept going.

He dearly wanted to check if the boy was okay, but there was no damned time. He needed to stop the Asmodean before he hurt anyone else.  

He’d cleared a gap in the advancing Galtans. Just enough to dodge through.

A quick jump over a sprawled body and he had a clear alley ahead. Freedom.  

Orgull ran away from the inn, down the alley parallel to the main street.

He could probably keep ahead of the pursuing soldiers, at least for the short term. His injured leg was still mostly holding his weight, he wasn’t wearing armor, and he had a head start.

But the Galtans weren’t individuals, they were the fingers of some great beast clawing at him. If he didn’t lose them he’d just run into more coming from the other direction.

Or perhaps I’m the beast and they’re the hunters.

He’d once watched a massive horned creature with thick leathery skin in the Ostenso arena. It could have trampled any of the gladiators without taking a scratch, but it let itself be baited and herded between them, running from one group of spears to another, tiring out and taking a multitude of cuts, until it collapsed. Not the best show he’d ever seen, but one which had stuck with him.

But I am not a dumb beast. I am Chosen of the greatest and craftiest of Gods.

He ran through a tight alley between two tenements, it was twisty but he knew it would take him to the main street, where the hawkers would be just setting out their stalls for crowds of bleary eyed sailors and dockworkers. Hopefully the Galtans wouldn’t know the streets that well yet.

It was barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through, for once Orgull’s early hungry years might be an advantage. Should slow them down, and force them into a line. 

He shot out onto the street.

The startled people nearby looked at him with confusion and fear. 

Did they realize? No. Of course, he still looked like a Galtan soldier.  

“Clear the way you damned infidel!” he shouted in his best scary Galtan voice. 

Those nearest him cringed back. He ran through them to the denser crowds ahead.

He made it to the end of the street, where it met the docks.

He pushed past a woman setting out a stall, shoved aside a boy hawking meat pies, then dodged between men carrying crates of fish.

He could hear the Galtans shouting behind him.

Would the crowd grab him if ordered? Most hadn’t realized what was happening yet. But fear of being tortured as collaborators, or petty greed for Galtan gold would lead them to turn on him. The truly loyal would have died in the battle, or be in hiding. Not acting like everything was normal.

He’d need to time this right.

He slowed down when he reached the densest part of the crowd.

The disguise would be a liability now. He dismissed it.

His perspective dropped a foot, tall heavyset dockworkers obscuring his view, and hopefully that of the pursuing soldiers.

The unstained bright blue of the uniform replaced by the mess of dirt and blood that was his real clothes.

The Galtans might know his face, but it’d be easier to hide in the crowd like this. 

He took a breath, heart seeming to shake in his chest, and…

Channel

That burning freezing feeling again. He felt like he needed to empty his stomach, or claw off his skin. His body struggling to contain the awesome power of Asmodeus's wrath.

He felt adrift for a moment. Then heard the shouts and screams from around him, as if from very far away. 

Most of the people he could see collapsed immediately. They were close enough together they didn't all hit the ground, but flopped and scrabbled on those around them. Fortunately that, and those who remained standing, would keep him hidden. 

Panic spread from the edge of his radius into the rest of the crowd.

Shouts of confusion turned to fear and people began to flee in all directions, stampeding their fellows as they went. 

He kept to a half crouch, and joined the crowd fleeing east along the docks. 

Through the crying and screaming he heard a Galtan shouting

“We need clerical support here! Healers! Now!” 

He must have hit some of the soldiers as well. Excellent.

He had thought of shouting something like “The Galtans are attacking!” but people seemed to have arrived at that conclusion without his help. Panic spread along the docks as he ran with the mob.

The soldiers chasing him would be pushing against the tide, and the others in the area would be too busy to pay him any attention. 

He kept running along the docks until the crowd with him had slowed and dispersed.

Then he ran some more, now alone, deep into the slums. 

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he finally stopped running. The sun had fully risen, and the nagging voice in his mind telling him to pray had gone quiet.

He’d gone a circuitous route through the slums. Half lost at times. Running from every sight of people and movement. He had eventually broken through the back door of a building, and collapsed inside.

It looked like it had been abandoned, at least since the war. Windows boarded. The inside stripped of anything valuable. Staircase half collapsed.

He curled up on the ground and shook silently for some time.

Being a Channel for Asmodeus’s power could be draining, they said, and the running would have taken a lot out of him. 

Sometime during the run his wounded right leg had stopped hurting. Replaced by an unpleasant numbness. Like hands in the winter cold. Which, he reflected, was probably worse.

The rags around his feet, what was left of them, were black with some combination of dirt and blood. The rest of the trouserleg not much better. These were his new clothes as well. 

He started to giggle hysterically as he shook on the floor. 

His new clothes. 
The ones he'd been all excited about.
The ones he'd bought all sneaky like, very clever.
The ones he bought using the money Bernat gave him for mending. 
The money from his good friend old reliable Bernat with the terrible jokes.
Those clothes.  

Had that money come from the Galtans as well? Was he wearing a gift from His Amazingness, His Citizenship, the Grand Imperial Imperiatricator Cyprian? The Great and Wise and Generous Cyprian, Slayer of Dragons, Glorious Conqueror of River Kingdom shitholes, Liberator of Cheliax, Provider of Reasonably-Priced Clothing options befitting a Young Man About Town. 

Had Bernat been on their side the whole time? Had he been unknowingly repairing Galtan cookpots? Giving aid to the enemy via clean bath water?

Bernat. Treacherous bastard. Was he in the kitchen when Orgull had channeled? He was a soldier before, he’d be tough. He would probably have survived.

Was the other figure he’d passed the cook? She was old, spent her whole life in kitchens. She’d be… with Asmodeus now. Probably.

Hopefully she hadn’t been in on the plot with Bernat. Then she’d rot in the Abyss with all the other oathbreakers and traitors. That would be, that would be a shame. Hell needed all types of talent. Obviously. Did Devils eat? He wasn't actually sure. There were passages about them devouring the bones of angels but those might be allegorical. Allegorical. Aaaaaah-leh-gor-eee-cahhllll.... he'd messed up pronouncing it the first time he'd said it, only read it in a book, everyone laughed. How were you meant to know anyway. Devils probably could eat, but didn't need to, just did it for fun. Maybe they had feasts to celebrate their successes? That sounded right. Lightly fried angels wings, maybe with some onions..... 

His mind wandered for some time after a while he must have dozed because he woke again with a start, the sun higher in the sky. His leg now a constant dull throb of pain.

His clothes. Right. He’d replaced his old clothes, the ones the soldier had given him, which he’d carefully sewn the gold and gemstones into the seams of. He’d left that, along with the gold from his healing excursion, and a couple of unidentified potions from their office supply, under the floorboard. For safekeeping. Fuck.

Now he had just the bloodstained clothes he was wearing and the enchanted dagger, which he’d somehow managed to cling on to through everything.