The Rithmatist

He and Exton were in trouble. Serious trouble. He turned to Exton, who was wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
    “Draw another box around yourself,” Joel said.
    “What?”
    “Draw as many lines as you can,” Joel said. “Don’t let them touch each other except at corners. Wait here.” Joel turned toward the door. “I’m going for help.”
    “Joel, those things are out there.” Exton jumped as the window cracked. He glanced toward the glass, where a couple of chalklings were attacking, scraping at the glass with a terrible sound. It cracked further. “They’ll be in here soon!”
    Joel took a deep breath. “I’m not going to sit here like Herman and Charles did, waiting for my defenses to be breached. I can make it to the gates—it’s just a short distance.”
    “Joel, I—”
    “Draw the lines!” Joel yelled.
    Exton fumbled, then went down on his knees, boxing himself inside a set of Lines of Forbiddance. Joel turned the coin over in his palm.
    Then he picked up the bucket and splashed most of its contents beneath the door, washing away the Line of Forbiddance. The chalklings outside washed away like dirt sprayed off a white wall. Joel threw open the door and, without looking back, took off at a charge toward the gates to the academy.
    He knew he’d never be able to run with a bucket of liquid, so he tossed it behind him.
    He ran, holding the coin.
    What would happen to him if the gates weren’t guarded? What if the Scribbler had managed to kill the policemen or make a distraction?
    Joel would die. His skin ripped from his flesh, his eyes gouged out. Just like the people in Mary Rowlandson’s narrative.
    No, he thought with determination. She survived to write her story.
    I’ll survive to write mine!
    He yelled, pushing himself in a dash over the dark landscape. Ahead, he saw lights.
    People moved near them.
    “Halt!” one of the officers said.
    “Chalklings!” Joel screamed. “They’re following me!”
    The officers scattered at his call, grabbing buckets. Joel was thankful for Harding’s sense of preparation, as the men didn’t even stop to think or question. They formed a defensive bucket line as Joel charged between them and collapsed to his knees, puffing and exhausted, his heart racing.
    He twisted about, leaning one hand against the ground. There had been four chalklings following him—more than enough to kill him. They had stopped in the near darkness, barely visible from the gates.
    “By the Master,” one of the police officers whispered. “What are they waiting for?”
    “Steady,” said one of the others, holding his bucket.
    “Should we charge?” asked another.
    “ Steady, ” the first said.
    The chalklings scrambled away, disappearing into the night.
    Joel wheezed in exhaustion, falling backward to the ground and lying on his back. “Another man,” he said between breaths, “is trapped inside the office building. You’ve got to help him.”
    One of the policemen pointed, motioning for a squad of four to go that direction. He took his gun and fired it upward. It made a crack of sound as the springs released and the bullet ripped through the air.
    Joel lay, sweating, shaking. The officers held their buckets, nervous, until Harding raced into sight from the east, riding his springwork charger. He had his rifle out.
    “Chalklings, sir!” one of the officers yelled. “At the office building!”
    Harding cursed. “Send three men to alert the patrols around the Rithmatist barracks!” he yelled, turning his horse and galloping toward the office. He slung his rifle over his shoulder as he went, trading it for what looked to be a wineskin filled with acid.
    Joel simply lay, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.
    Someone tried to kill me.
    * * *
    Two hours later, Joel sat in Professor Fitch’s office, holding a cup of warmed cocoa, his mother in tears at his side. She alternated between hugging him and speaking sternly with Inspector Harding for not setting patrols to protect the non-Rithmatists.
    Professor Fitch sat bleary-eyed, looking stunned after hearing what had happened. Exton was, apparently, all right—though the police were speaking with him back at the office building.
    Harding stood with two policemen a short distance away. All of the people crowded the small, hallwaylike office.
    Joel couldn’t stop himself from shaking. It felt shameful. He’d almost died. Every time he considered that, he felt unsteady.
    “Joel,” Fitch said.