by Andrew Lynch
Only three days until work began again. The Company liked to leave its employees a month between missions. Very generously they handed out a small stipend to allow people to pursue their own businesses. Their definition of business was very loose, and so during this commerce break, like every other, Lucian had continued his training school “Battle Tactics, War Bows, and Technical Axes” just outside the city walls.
Lucian’s skill wasn’t with creative naming, and he’d never actually had a pupil, but it was a nice way to collect extra money for doing what he was going to do anyway. In his mind, if he could just study hard and focus, then he could do anything he wanted. He already had the connections, that’s why he worked for the Company. Just a few months ago he had even met the Company chief, Lord Orson. Having a personal connection with the big boss could help him realise his dream of being a Hero.
He’d started his training with books. A well read commander is, at the very least, a commander who knows where he went wrong and why he got everyone killed. Tactics and inspirational sayings from commanders throughout history, moving small wooden carvings around on a board, these were all valuable insights into the strategy of war. It didn’t help that some children had seen this and teased him about “wargames”, but he knew this was serious business, not “adult dolls” as they'd jeered!
In the second week his plan had been to take a small hatchet and chop down the biggest tree he could find - to build muscle conditioning, he’d reasoned.
After a lengthy trial ending in a cease-and-desist from the district magistrate for attacking an Ent, he was left with only a week before work began.
That was when he’d given himself a gentle reminder for a few days with the bow, almost leading to a murder charge with the aforementioned large man. Now he was left to rest and relax. Before the incident with his last group, he’d have passed his time in the local tavern, but now he was trying to steer clear of such establishments. Besides, he had Lily to occupy his thoughts now.
So he walked. Partly to get his endurance back for the coming assignment - they all involved extensive travel - partly because there was no better medicine than allowing the mind to wander. While admiring local architecture, and considering just how much it annoyed him when people stopped right in front of him as he was trying to have a leisurely walk, his back brain could figure things out.
His front brain would see talented artisans repairing a bridge and think how lovely it was that the Empire was keeping such an active apprentice program viable. Quite what his back brain was getting up to, Lucian had no idea. That was how it worked.
He watched the guild of engineers repair a bridge running on a small side street. It wasn’t an affluent area, and the bridge wasn’t going over water, but effluence. The sewer system outside of the city walls was touch and go at the best of times. As in, if you touched it, you would need to go far, far, away.
The master was arguing with his two apprentices. They all held a variety of tools that Lucian couldn’t even fathom the use of, and jerked them violently towards each other. He guessed at the cause. The Imperial war.
It was the labouring guilds that had suffered most in the fallout. The way everything was measured had changed, and rants from younger lads, grown up under Lord Metriousc’s system, against their master’s outdated school of thought, was common enough.
Lucian supposed he probably owed everyone a small token after setting off that trap, and started to look in the windows of shops as he passed, hoping to see appropriate gifts.
As he ambled on, his thoughts turned to the future, away from past mistakes. The upcoming Quest. Not that his group would be on the Quest themselves of course, but they would be following Moxar on his Quest, making sure everything went according to plan. He wondered how much longer he would have to do this before getting his own big break. Moxar wasn’t much older than him. Fitter, and more skilled, perhaps, but Lucian had...
He stopped, and reminded himself to take things day by day. Eventually, he would be the one on his very own Quest.
After the ordeal with his last group, he had been taken to meet the head of the Company, Lord Orson. It’s all about who you know, and now, he knew him, head of the largest heraldry Company in the Empire, Zenith Keep.
Lucian imagined that under Lord Orson’s strict guidance, the necromancer’s castle would have already started hosting tours. The purple flamed torches would be a great talking point, and also a warning that the piles of bone could reanimate at any time. ‘So stay close to the group!” he could practically hear the tour guides saying. Completely false of course, but the tourists would love the thrill.
Then the final scene would be revealed. The necromancer’s corpse would have been preserved by magic just as it was found, so that it could be viewed for years to come. The tale of Moxar being made old and crippled, yet not requiring physical strength to defeat evil. It would make for a great story. Then these die-hard tourists would go back to their friends and families and pass on the tale, and that’s when the big money would start rolling in.
Lucian found himself walking past a Moxar-branded smithy along Smith’s Road. He always enjoyed the complete lack of subtlety the road names showed in the capital. Yes, a small gift for everyone would be a good idea after he stepped on that trap - it had been a frosty few weeks travel back from the necromancer’s castle - but he wasn’t made of money. He decided to come back later to pick up a shield for Gar. He hadn’t brought his staff discount insignia.
This was for the best, as lugging a big shield around would slow him down, and he wouldn’t want to be late for his lunch with Lily. He’d felt bad enough the first time, so wouldn’t repeat his mistake. She’d become quite the companion since their chance meeting.
As he walked back to his home and classroom, outside the walls, he wondered what the rest of his team were up to...
Chapter 3
Garadan Thalkom Thalmek peered through the window, trying to listen intently, and looking at the tools arranged on the desks.
There were tools he hadn’t seen before!
He had heard rumours that a new technique had been perfected, and he was trying his best to find out what it was.
The building he was peering into was large and ornate. He wasn’t an expert on Empire architecture, but even he could tell it predated the Imperial war. That one hadn’t left many buildings standing, and any that were would have been used as strongholds. He marvelled at the stupid things these Northern lands would go to war over. A measuring system, and not even the one from Karakgar. Pointless.
This building had history. The blood from past wars had been scrubbed clean or painted over.
But the blood shed outside was no match for the blood that flowed inside. This was the guild hall for the Guild of Surgeons. It always concerned him that the interrogators guild used the basement for their own operations. Not that he was allowed in to see anything for himself, hence the peering.
The Empire was a great place - if you were born there. Free health care, youth training, plenty of jobs, even the poorest were supported by the state.
A blind eye was turned to immigrants though. The Empire wasn’t against racial diversity, Garadan had decided, they were against people that weren’t born there. They were denied some of the most basic rights, effectively prisoners without the excellent free meals package. The idea of a man from Karakgar, or a half breed from the star-lit valley, being allowed inside the Guild of Surgeons was preposterous, but once again, his passion for healing was getting him into trouble.
These were all salient thoughts, as the trigger for them was a city guard shouting, ‘Oi! Burnt Ogre! Get over here!’
He was never too offended by the slur “burnt ogre”, as he was proud of his skin colour and his home Karakgar. And he knew he wasn’t really as tall as an ogre, not that he ever wanted to see one, so it was just a small insult from a small mind.
Garadan did however recognise it was a bad sign coming from the city guard.
He look
ed their way and saw two pale skinned city guards heading towards him. But then, he saw everyone in this city as pale skinned.
He could run, but he knew he was breaking the law just by being on the Guild grounds. He was in the wrong, so he’d own up and take the punishment. The fact the law was ridiculous didn’t matter to Garadan. Unfortunately the principles drilled into him in Karakgar did not serve him well in foreign lands. In Karakgar, loyalty was owed only to those who deserved it, not those who demanded it.
He raised his hands placatingly. He tried to say, ‘I’m sorry, fine gentleman, merely keeping up to date on the latest methods so I don’t kill too many people' but due to his mother tongue sharing very few similar sounds, a mangled version in a thick accent came out. ‘Sorry, guard. New met... new meth… new skill. Help me, help many.’
He was always frustrated by how stupid he seemed in this language. The persecution was frustrating too, but that wasn’t something he could help.
‘Bloody savage,’ one guard whispered to the other.
‘Yeah. No Rebel Alliance scum, though,’ the other replied.
‘Get over here!’ shouted the first.
Garadan kept his hands open, clearly not reaching for a weapon - not that he had one to reach for - and walked towards them as they jogged his way, steel batons drawn.
Like most people in this land, they were about two heads shorter than Garadan. As they reached him they grabbed his arms and began to march him off the property.
He thought they were trying to be rough with him, but was aware that when such tiny people tried to be rough, it was hard to tell. In his homeland, if someone were built like the average man here, they would be considered cripples and forced to do what, over here, they would call “women’s work”.
That was another thing he lamented. The women over here were like children compared to the women of Karakgar. Tall, strong, proud people. He missed his homeland, but there was no going back now.
The two guards were jabbering on about something, but Garadan was left feeling sullen after not finding out what the surgeons were discovering. He did tune in briefly, and heard something about not being bothered to go back to the tower, so Garadan thought at least he wouldn’t be wasting a night in the cells.
They left the old building behind and started down Guild Street. Like most of the capital it was cobbled and kept immaculately clean under the Empire’s “everyone gets a job” scheme.
The guards guided him round a turn he wasn’t expecting. A small alley that looked as though it should have connected Guild Road and Main Avenue, but had a wall bisecting it. A dead end.
The Empire did a great job of making its weak men and women live fulfilling lives, where everyone seemed to have a future, a way out of poverty, but Garadan always seemed to find the outcasts. Or they found him because of his skin colour. And massive height. And width. It wasn’t hard.
He knew what these guards were going to do. They couldn’t be bothered to take him back to the tower, so they'd leave him lying in an alley.
The Empire couldn’t remove all the bad people, hard as it might try.
Garadan’s wrists hurt from having to hit things so often. It wasn’t what he was born to do. He preferred to heal, not harm. Where was the skill in taking off an arm? Any beast could do that. Or any brute, as Jess liked to say.
But attaching an arm? Now that was his art. Harm paid his bills in the Empire, but healing cured his soul - it used to pay his bills in Karakgar. Not that he was against hurting people, but that usually ended up with him being hurt too.
As was the Karakgar way, he asked himself the question, ‘Am I ready to die today?’ It was the Imperial sentence he had practiced most and could say it almost without pause - only a very heavy accent.
The two guards looked at him. One said, ‘Shut it, burnt ogre,’ and shoved Garadan forwards.
Garadan took a step, not quite the stumble the guards had probably hoped for, and turned to face them. Steel batons weren’t swords, but he didn’t fancy being bludgeoned to death.
He had never been much of a fighter, despite his current occupation. He answered his own question, ‘Not today.’
He roared a terrifying warcry, the like of which an Empire man’s throat couldn’t imitate.
The guards flinched involuntarily. Then he turned and ran away from them.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t easily dispatch two armed and trained guards, he told himself, not at all, but why take the risk?
He heard the guards scramble to catch up with him. If he could scale the wall, he was sure that they wouldn’t follow.
They were yelling variations on ‘Stop!’ but they must have known as well as he did how pointless that was. It was just their ingrained training taking over - just as a body will keep spasming after the head is cut off, they kept shouting orders knowing he wouldn’t obey.
Garadan approached the wall. It was at least double his height, but that meant that with his run-up he’d be able to get over it quickly. He suspected the guards would have little chance with their armour weighing them down.
Just as he had changed his stride for the jump up the wall, something smacked into the back of his head. A guard’s steel baton, if he had to guess.
He lost his footing and stumbled. He would have gone head first at a full run into the wall, but twisted at the last second and was left with a badly grazed shoulder. The impact shook him, and he felt dazed. Better than breaking your neck being thrown into a wall, he decided.
When his eyes focused, the two guards were almost on top of him. He rushed to stand up, but the first greeted him with a flying boot aimed at his face.
He jumped to the side. It may have looked more as though he flopped to the side, but he was confident it was a jump.
The second guard tried to stamp on his head, but Garadan twisted away allowing him to plant his gigantic feet into the guard’s stomach, stopping the man in his tracks and leaving him gasping for breath on the floor.
The first guard had decided to find his baton after throwing it, so Garadan jumped to his feet. But he realised he couldn’t get over the wall without a run-up. He searched from side to side but there were no handy stepping stones to boost him over.
The guard had found his baton now, and swivelled round to face off with Garadan. Parallel to the wall, one guard in front of him, one staggering back to his feet behind, Garadan was struck by a thought.
He didn’t have to climb the wall.
He dashed back the way they had come, the not-winded guard following him.
He didn’t know how long they would give chase when citizens could see, but he knew this area well, and was confident they wouldn’t want to follow into the Monarch district.
He burst out from the alley on to the busy street. Weaving in and out of the crowd wasn’t really an option as his height and skin were impossible to miss, he’d just be wasting energy. The crowd parted for him as he ran.
The guard gave chase, but was losing ground. Also, it was one on one now.
Garadan stopped and turned, deciding that his knees would hurt too much in the morning if he kept running like this. The guard stopped a few metres away, baton in hand, sneer on face.
‘Given up? Good boy, come with us,’ the guard shouted over the bustle of the crowd, who were ignoring the commotion as good citizens were taught to do.
‘Us?’ Garadan said as he began to step forwards, hands raised ready for a fight.
The guard looked around him, and without the adrenaline of a chase pumping through him, realised that rather than attacking someone who was significantly taller, wider, and stronger than him, he might want to vacate the area.
‘Uhhh...’ the guard said, showing the level of intellect Garadan expected. ‘On your way, citizen.’
Garadan watched the guard walk away. Once he was sure it wasn’t a trick, he turned and continued home, to his small shack in the Monarch district, his ambition of furthering his medical knowledge thwarted.
* * * *<
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Khleb watched the Orc turn a corner, too far away to catch up with.
‘Would have been a waste of breath, anyway. Bloody Orcs.’
‘Bloody Orcs,’ the three men behind him echoed.
‘You never said there’d be running,’ Scraggy said.
‘And did we run?’ Khleb asked, turning to face the group.
‘Yeah,’ Fibrosis Fred agreed. ‘You know how I am with running.’
‘We didn’t run!’ Khleb shouted. ‘He ran! Away from us!’
‘All right, all right. So what now?’ Scraggy asked.
Khleb leaned against the wall of the alley, ignoring the question. He wouldn’t have said he liked the Monarch district, but it was home. A trickle of sludge ran past his boots. He’d learned long ago not to question what that could be.
‘We wait for the next customer,’ Khleb finally answered.
‘By customer, do you mean—’
‘Yes, Scraggy, I mean victim.’
It was a warm day and Khleb was starting to heat up in his cloak. It had secret pockets stitched into the lining where he could stash all sorts of illegal items. But simply selling drugs to addicts didn’t make much money. So he had a plan. He knew there were as many addicts among the rich merchants as the poor, so he’d just—
‘Where’s Softie Steve?’ Scraggy asked.
‘Damn it, Scraggy! Don’t interrupt my train of thought.’
—just wait for one of the rich addicts to buy from him, and kidnap them. Not just any rich person though - he had a specific one in mind. A habitual user of darrow flint. Harmless enough substance, just gave a light buzz. Very popular among those who had to sit through a lot of meetings. When he turned up for his usual fix, Khleb and his friends would grab him. This is where it got clever, because ransom money was a fool’s game. You had to arrange meetings, and invariably the guard would get involved. No, no, they’d be using him to break into his own premises, and take all of his money.
Efraz Mulhom. A wealthy merchant from the western city of Saphor. That was the target. Khleb wasn’t sure how the guy made his money, but what did it matter? Cloth? Food? It was all just money in the pocket.
