by Ian Irvine
“I really hate people like you,” Hadrian said, shaking his head. “I just got here. I was at sea for a month—a month! That’s how long I’ve traveled to get away from this kind of thing.” He shook his head in disgust. “And here you are—you too.” Hadrian pointed at Pickles as they worked at tying the boy’s wrists behind his back. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for a guide, or a steward, or a houseboy. I was just fine on my own. But no, you had to take my bag and be so good-humored about everything. Worst of all, you didn’t run. Maybe you’re stupid—I don’t know. But I can’t help thinking you stuck around to help me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job.” Pickles looked up at him with sad eyes.
Hadrian sighed. “Damn it. There you go again.” He looked back at the clubmen, already knowing how it would turn out—how it always turned out—but he’d to try anyway. “Look, I’m not a knight. I’m not a squire either, but these swords are mine, and while Pickles thought he was bluffing, I—”
“Oh, just shut up.” The one with the torn sleeve took a step and thrust his club to shove Hadrian. On the slippery pier it was easy for Hadrian to put him off balance. He caught the man’s arm, twisted the wrist and elbow around, and snapped the bone. The crack sounded like a walnut opening. He gave the screaming clubman a shove, which was followed by a splash as he went into the harbor.
Hadrian could have drawn his swords then—almost did out of reflex—but he’d promised himself things would be different. Besides, he stole the man’s club before sending him over the side, a solid bit of hickory about an inch in diameter and a little longer than a foot. The grip had been polished smooth from years of use, the other end stained brown from blood that seeped into the wood grain.
The remaining men gave up trying to tie Pickles, but one continued to hold him in a headlock while the other two rushed Hadrian. He read their feet, noting their weight and momentum. Dodging his first attacker’s swing, Hadrian tripped the second and struck him in the back of the head as he went down. The sound of club on skull made a hollow thud like slapping a pumpkin, and when the guy hit the deck, he stayed there. The other swung at him again. Hadrian parried with the hickory stick, striking fingers. The man cried out and lost his grip, the club left dangling from the leather strap around his wrist. Hadrian grabbed the weapon, twisted it tight, bent the man’s arm back, and pulled hard. The bone didn’t break, but the shoulder popped. The man’s quivering legs signaled the fight had left him, and Hadrian sent him over the side to join his friend.
By the time Hadrian turned to face the last of the four, Pickles was standing alone and rubbing his neck. His would-be captor sprinted into the distance.
“Is he going to come back with friends, you think?” Hadrian asked.
Pickles didn’t say anything. He just stared at Hadrian, his mouth open.
“No sense lingering to find out, I suppose,” Hadrian answered himself. “So where’s this barge you were talking about?”
Away from the seaside pier, the city of Vernes was still choked and stifling. Narrow brick roads formed a maze overshadowed by balconies that nearly touched. Lanterns and moonlight were equally scarce, and down some lonely pathways there was no light at all. Hadrian was thankful to have Pickles. Recovered from his fright, the “alley rat” acted more like a hunting dog. He trotted through the city’s corridors, leaping puddles that stank of waste and ducking wash lines and scaffolding with practiced ease.
“That’s the living quarters for most of the shipwrights, and over there is the dormitory for the dockworkers.” Pickles pointed to a grim building near the wharf with three stories, one door, and few windows. “Most of the men around this ward live there or at the sister building on the south end. So much here is shipping. Now, up there, high on that hill—see it? That is the citadel.”
Hadrian lifted his head and made out the dark silhouette of a fortress illuminated by torches.
“Not really a castle, more like a counting house for traders and merchants. Walls have to be high and thick for all the gold it is they stuff up there. This is where all the money from the sea goes. Everything else runs downhill—but gold flows up.”
Pickles sidestepped a toppled bucket and spooked a pair of cat-sized rats that ran for deeper shadows. Halfway past a doorway Hadrian realized a pile of discarded rags was actually an ancient-looking man seated on a stoop. With a frazzled gray beard and a face thick with folds, he never moved, not even to blink. Hadrian only noticed him after his smoking pipe’s bowl glowed bright orange.
“It is a filthy city,” Pickles called back to him. “I am pleased we are leaving. Too many foreigners here—too many easterners—many probably arrived with you. Strange folk, the Calians. Their women practice witchcraft and tell fortunes, but I say it is best not to know too much about one’s future. We will not have to worry about such things in the north. In Warric, they burn witches in the winter to keep warm. At least that is what I have heard.” Pickles stopped abruptly and spun. “What is your name?”
“Finally decided to ask, eh?” Hadrian chuckled.
“I will need to know if I am going to book you passage.”
“I can take care of that myself. Assuming, of course, you are actually taking me to a barge and not just to some dark corner where you’ll clunk me on the head and do a more thorough job of robbing me.”
Pickles looked hurt. “I would do no such thing. Do you think me such a fool? First, I have seen what you do to people who try to clunk you on the head. Second, we have already passed a dozen perfectly dark corners.” Pickles beamed his big smile, which Hadrian took to be one part mischief, one part pride, and two parts just-plain-happy-to-be-alive joy. He couldn’t argue with that. He also couldn’t remember the last time he felt the way Pickles looked.
The press-gang leader was right. Pickles could only be four or five years younger than Hadrian. Five, he thought. He’s five years younger than I am. He’s me before I left. Did I smile like that back then? He wondered how long Pickles had been on his own and if he’d still have that smile in five years.
“Hadrian, Hadrian Blackwater.” He extended his hand.
The boy nodded. “A good name. Very good. Better than Pickles—but then what is not?”
“Did your mother name you that?”
“Oh, most certainly. Rumor has it I was both conceived and born on the same crate of pickles. How can one deny such a legend? Even if it isn’t true, I think it should be.”
Crawling out of the labyrinth, they emerged onto a wider avenue. They had gained height, and Hadrian could see the pier and the masts of the ship he arrived on below. A good-sized crowd was still gathered—people looking for a place to stay or searching for belongings. Hadrian remembered the bag that had rolled into the harbor. How many others would find themselves stranded in a new city with little to nothing?
The bark of a dog caused Hadrian to turn. Looking down the narrow street, he thought he caught movement but couldn’t be sure. The twisted length of the alley had but one lantern. Moonlight illuminated the rest, casting patches of blue-gray. A square here, a rectangle there, not nearly enough to see by and barely enough to judge distance. Had it been another rat? Seemed bigger. He waited, staring. Nothing moved.
When he looked back, Pickles had crossed most of the plaza to the far side where, to Hadrian’s delight, there was another dock. This one sat on the mouth of the great Bernum River, which in the night appeared as a wide expanse of darkness. He cast one last look backward toward the narrow streets. Still nothing moved. Ghosts. That’s all—his past stalking him.
Hadrian reeked of death. It wasn’t the sort of stench others could smell or that water could wash, but it lingered on him like sweat-saturated pores after a long night of drinking. Only this odor didn’t come from alcohol; it came from blood. Not from drinking it—although Hadrian knew some who had. His stink came from wallowing in it. But all that was over now, or so he told himself with the certainty of the recently sober. That had been a differe
nt Hadrian, a younger version who he’d left on the other side of the world and who he was still running from.
Realizing Pickles still had his bag, Hadrian ran to close the distance. Before he caught up, Pickles was in trouble again.
“It is his!” Pickles cried, pointing at Hadrian. “I was helping him reach the barge before it left.”
The boy was surrounded by six soldiers. Most wore chain and held square shields. The one in the middle, with a fancy plume on his helmet, wore layered plate on his shoulders and chest as well as a studded leather skirt. He was the one Pickles was speaking to while two others restrained the boy. They all looked over as Hadrian approached.
“This your bag?” the officer asked.
“It is, and he’s telling the truth.” Hadrian pointed. “He is escorting me to that barge over there.”
“In a hurry to leave our fair city, are you?” The officer’s tone was suspicious, and his eyes scanned Hadrian as he talked.
“No offense to Vernes, but yes. I have business up north.”
The officer moved a step closer. “What’s your name?”
“Hadrian Blackwater.”
“Where you from?”
“Hintindar originally.”
“Originally?” The skepticism in his voice rose along with his eyebrows.
Hadrian nodded. “I’ve been in Calis for several years. Just returned from Dagastan on that ship down there.”
The officer glanced at the dock, then at Hadrian’s knee-length thawb, loose cotton pants, and keffiyeh headdress. He leaned in, sniffed, and grimaced. “You’ve definitely been on a ship, and that outfit is certainly Calian.” He sighed, then turned to Pickles. “But this one hasn’t been on any ship. He says he’s going with you. Is that right?”
Hadrian glanced at Pickles and saw the hope in the boy’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve hired him to be my… ah… my… servant.”
“Whose idea was that? His or yours?”
“His, but he’s been very helpful. I wouldn’t have found this barge without him.”
“You just got off one ship,” the officer said. “Seems odd you’re so eager to get on another.”
“Well, actually I’m not, but Pickles says the barge is about to leave and there won’t be another for days. Is that true?”
“Yes,” the officer said, “and awfully convenient too.”
“Can I ask what the problem is? Is there a law against hiring a guide and paying for him to travel with you?”
“No, but we’ve had some nasty business here in town—real nasty business. So naturally we’re interested in anyone eager to leave, at least anyone who’s been around during the last few days.” He looked squarely at Pickles.
“I haven’t done anything,” Pickles said.
“So you say, but even if you haven’t, maybe you know something about it. Either way you might feel the need to disappear, and latching on to someone above suspicion would be a good way to get clear of trouble, wouldn’t it?”
“But I don’t know anything about the killings.”
The officer turned to Hadrian. “You’re free to go your way, and you’d best be quick. They’ve already called for boarders.”
“What about Pickles?”
He shook his head. “I can’t let him go with you. Unlikely he’s guilty of murder, but he might know who is. Street orphans see a lot that they don’t like to talk about if they think they can avoid it.”
“But I’m telling you, I don’t know anything. I haven’t even been on the hill.”
“Then you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“But—” Pickles looked as if he might cry. “He was going to take me out of here. We were going to go north. We were going to go to a university.”
“Hoy! Hoy! Last call for passengers! Barge to Colnora! Last call!” a voice bellowed.
“Listen”—Hadrian opened his purse—“you did me a service, and that’s worth payment. Now, after you finish with their questions, if you still want to work for me, you can use this money to meet me in Sheridan. Catch the next barge or buckboard north, whatever. I’ll be there for a month maybe, a couple of weeks at least.” Hadrian pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. “If you come, ask for Professor Arcadius. He’s the one I’m meeting with, and he should be able to tell you how to find me. Okay?”
Pickles nodded and looked a bit better. Glancing down at the coin, his eyes widened, and the old giant smile of his returned. “Yes, sir! I will be there straightaway. You can most certainly count on me. Now you must run before the barge leaves.”
Hadrian gave him a nod, picked up his bag, and jogged to the dock where a man waited at the gangway of a long flat boat.
introducing
If you enjoyed
JUSTICE,
look out for
MALICE
The Faithful and the Fallen: Book 1
by John Gwynne
The world is broken…
Corban wants nothing more than to be a warrior under King Brenin’s rule—to protect and serve. But that day will come all too soon. And the price he pays will be in blood.
Evnis has sacrificed—too much it seems. But what he wants—the power to rule—will soon be in his grasp. And nothing will stop him once he has started on his path.
Veradis is the newest member of the warband for the High Prince, Nathair. He is one of the most skilled swordsmen to come out of his homeland, yet he is always under the shadow of his older brother.
Nathair has ideas—and a lot of plans. Many of them don’t involve his father, the High King Aquilus. Nor does he agree with his father’s idea to summon his fellow kings to council.
The Banished Lands has a violent past where armies of men and giants clashed in battle, but now giants stir anew, stones weep blood and there are sightings of giant wyrms. Those who can still read the signs see a threat far greater than the ancient wars. For if the Black Sun gains ascendancy, mankind’s hopes and dreams will fall to dust…
… and it can never be made whole again.
Prologue
Evnis
The Year 1122 of the Age of Exiles, Wolf Moon
Forest litter crunched under Evnis’ feet, his breath misting as he whispered a curse. He swallowed, his mouth dry.
He was scared, he had to admit, but who would not be? What he was doing this night would make him traitor to his king. And worse.
He paused and looked back. Beyond the forest’s edge he could still see the stone circle, behind it the walls of Badun, his home, its outline silvered in the moonlight. It would be so easy to turn back, to go home and choose another path for his life. He felt a moment of vertigo, as if standing on the edge of a great chasm, and the world seemed to slow, waiting on the outcome of his decision. I have come this far, I will see it through. He looked up at the forest, a wall of impenetrable shadow; he pulled his cloak tighter and walked into the darkness.
He followed the giantsway for a while, the stone-flagged road that connected the kingdoms of Ardan and Narvon. It was long neglected, the giant clan that built it vanquished over a thousand years ago, great clumps of moss and mushroom growing between crumbling flagstone.
Even in the darkness he felt too vulnerable on this wide road, and soon slithered down its steep bank and slipped amongst the trees. Branches scratched overhead, wind hissing in the canopy above as he sweated his way up and down slope and dell. He knew where he was going, had walked the path many times before, though never at night. Nineteen summers old, yet he knew this part of the Darkwood as well as any woodsman twice his age.
Soon he saw a flicker amongst the trees: firelight. He crept closer, stopping before the light touched him, scared to leave the anonymity of the shadows. Turn around, go home, a voice whispered in his head. You are nothing, will never equal your brother. His mother’s words, cold and sharp as the day she had died. He ground his teeth and stepped into the firelight.
An iron cauldron hung on a spit over a fire, water bubbling. Beside it a figure, cloaked and hooded.
<
br /> “Greetings.” A female voice. She pushed the hood back, fire-light making the silver in her hair glow copper.
“My lady,” Evnis said to Rhin, Queen of Cambren. Her beauty made him catch his breath.
She smiled at him, wrinkles creasing around her eyes and held out her hand.
Evnis stepped forward hesitantly and kissed the ring on her finger, the stone cold on his lips. She smelled sweet, heady, like overripe fruit.
“It is not too late, you may still turn back,” she said, tilting his head with a finger under his chin. They stood so close he could feel her breath. Warm, laced with wine.
He sucked in a breath. “No. There is nothing for me if I turn back. This is my chance to…”
His brother’s face filled his mind, smiling, controlling, ruling him. Then his mother, her lips twisted, judging, discounting.
“… matter. Gethin has arranged a marriage for me, to the daughter of the poorest baron in Ardan, I think.”
“Is she pretty?” Rhin said, still smiling, but with an edge in her voice.
“I have only met her once. No, I cannot even remember what she looks like.” He looked at the cauldron on its spit. “I must do this. Please.”
“And in return, what would you give me?”
“The whole realm of Ardan. I shall govern it, and bow to you, my High Queen.”
She smiled, teeth glinting. “I like the sound of that. But there is more to this than Ardan. So much more. This is about the God-War. About Asroth made flesh.”
“I know,” he whispered, the fear of it almost a solid thing, dripping from his tongue, choking him. But exciting him, too.
“Are you scared?” Rhin said, her eyes holding him.
“Yes. But I will see it through. I have counted the cost.”
“Good. Come then.” She raised a hand and clicked her fingers.
A hulking shadow emerged from the trees and stepped into the firelight. A giant. He stood a man-and-a-half tall, his face pale, all sharp angles and ridged bone, small black eyes glittering under a thick-boned brow. A long black moustache hung to his chest, knotted with leather. Tattoos swirled up one arm, a creeping, thorn-thick vine disappearing under a chainmail sleeve, the rest of him wrapped in leather and fur. He carried a man in his arms, bound at wrist and ankle, as effortlessly as if it were a child.
