Aketa's Djinn (The Caine Mercer Series Book 1)

by Cale Madison

  I admired every detail of Mercia’s beauty: the sloping, green hills of the valley, the rich smell of wine from the many bountiful vineyards and farmlands and the eagles tirelessly circling the sky. Each farmhouse that I passed reminded me of a past, yet clear memory from childhood. We would challenge one another to joust or to knights’ combat in any vacant field and prank the local townhouse lords when bored. I could hear it from across several hills: Port Mercia, and all of its glory.

  The sounds of pelt-trading and merchandising in the town square, butchers dicing meat and tailors arguing over their fabric prices all combined to create this bustling society. Goats and cows were auctioned off at reasonable prices to the highest bidder. Trading ships dropped their anchors and docked in the harbor; their captains and crew would drink in the local inns before sobering up and setting off for another month’s voyage out to sea. The work was unforgiving but it paid nicely.

  Under the noises of a port teeming with life, I could hear the sounds of women and children spewing bile onto the muddy ground. Their atrocious vomiting made me cringe at the sight. I recognized their gaunt, ghostly faces and their glossy eyes, prompting me to cover my mouth and nose with my shirt’s fabric while they passed by. They were suffering from similar symptoms as Aketa in her early stages of sickness.

  Sitting on soap boxes and empty crates by the sea, fishermen waited patiently for trout or catfish to become snagged in their nets or the bait of their lines. I noticed a young girl’s sand palace become trampled by several boys; she then proceeded to chase them through the village, waving a stick in her hand. Various barrels, serving as buoys for crab cages, bobbed at the water’s surface while men dove under to inspect their potential catches.

  I dismounted Nadi, walking alongside her while holding her reins in one hand. The most well-behaved of mares, she was not easily spooked by crowds or animals. From where we were standing, I could clearly see the Quinn Estate on the mountain. This four-story castle, magnificent by architectural means and location, overlooked the village like a lord watching over his kingdom. Sundown approached rapidly.

  “Beautiful, ain’t she?” a random voice asked.

  Some passing man in tattered clothing and reeking of sewage stood beside me, looking up at the estate. I turned to him, replying, “Impressive home. Who lives there?” Well aware that the Quinn’s owned the home, I only needed to spark up a conversation to gain first-hand knowledge on Rubia’s whereabouts.

  “Mustn’t be from ‘round here, I’m sure. That there is Bartok von Quinn’s house.” replied the passing stranger.

  “Well, Mister Quinn must be a lord of some sort to afford such a home.”

  “Nay, rumors have it that he acquired his wealth through a family fortune. Not sure how, seeing that I’ve lived here my whole life and never heard of a Quinn before they built that damned castle,” said the man, “safe travels, sir.”

  I bid farewell to him, slightly disappointed that I could not inquire about Bartok’s wife; I reluctantly continued through the village in my search for a barkeep with the most patrons. Bartenders always had the best insider-knowledge on their local neighbors and dramatic instances. After leaving Nadi tied to a tree outside of the Red Dragon, a bar with multiple drunken patrons collapsed on the steps, I entered the establishment. Hopefully, I would find some more answers here.

  My first impression of this place was far from positive. It was almost nightfall so the patrons had already drank their fill of wine and were now either fighting or asleep, sprawled across tabletops. I reached the bar, finding the last chair already claimed by a man drunk off his ass, face-down unconscious on the bar top. Gracefully, I nudged him aside and he toppled to the floor. I claimed my well-earned seat.

  “What’ll it be, friend?” the bartender asked, polishing a glass and ignoring the drunken heap at my feet.

  “Your finest ale, please.”

  As he began pouring my mug, I thoroughly scanned the area for possible informants. Sometimes, the drunker they are, the more they reveal. In this case, my only options were either overly intoxicated and ready to brawl or blacked-out drunk. I found myself left with only one remaining: the mutton-chopped, hulking man preparing my alcohol at the bar.

  “Thanks,” I told the bartender as he slid me the drink, “some night.”

  He snickered and replied, “You’re tellin’ me. Always happens, every damn time. Passed out before the sun goes down. At this point, it’s just another night.”

  “Patrons always this rowdy?”

  The bartender grinned as he polished a glass, replying, “See that man over there in the corner? With the two women?”

  I turned, using my peripherals to scan the room before finding the man. He wore a black tunic with tattoos covering his arms and throat. The half-naked whores straddling him appeared to be listening intently to his every word.

  “He’s obviously paid them.” I noted.

  “Look a little closer.”

  I studied the details more closely. I noticed a crest on the man’s tunic fabric and a sword hilt jetting out from his belt.

  “He’s a knight?”

  “Not just a knight,” the bartender said, “he’s the Head Advisor to the Duchess of Arrigon. One of her most trusted soldiers and he sits by two table-dancers in a room full of drunken swine with naught but whiskey in his mug and a grin on his face. That man is my insurance, son.”

  I commended the esteemed knight from afar, remembering the stories I had heard in my youth of the north-eastern kingdom of Arrigon. The largest city capital in the northern lands, Fortaare, houses thousands of families on their coastline. The Black Mountains, renowned widely for their dragons and diamond-mines, separates the city from the harsh, icy regions beyond. Mercia was a smaller province governed by Arrigon.

  I nodded, deciding on a more direct approach, saying, “Just passing through town, couldn’t help but notice the manor up there on the mountain-side.”

  “Aye, what about it?” he asked.

  “Any idea who lives there? Must be a king or a steward.”

  “Hah,” he scoffed, “some king. Old man sits up there on his fortunes, shitting on his servants and blowing his, so-called inheritance on whiskey and strumpets.”

  “I’m sensing a quarrel between you two.” I replied.

  “Not too much to quarrel when someone builds a circus like THAT and never shows their face. Never lends a hand to us down here. All he does is watch us, poor souls down below.”

  I finished my drink and continued making conversation as he cleaned the bar, “He’s never come down?”

  “Nope, never.”

  “Strange. Is it a whole family or just him?” I continued questioning, attempting to remain inconspicuous, in case investigations lead characters to his doorstep.

  “Just him, the greedy old bastard.” replied the bartender.

  “What about his wife? The lady of the manor?”

  “Askin’ a lot of questions, aren’t you, friend?” he asked, laughing.

  “Curiosity will kill me someday. Must have a beautiful woman up there, keeping him from attending one of Mercia’s esteemed brothels.”

  “Aye. Lady Rubia, from what I’ve heard, is an angel fallen from heaven. Most fair treasure from here to the Isles. My wife’s cousins worked in their gardens for a few months before he shut his doors for good.” the bartender replied, spitting into a new glass to polish.

  “Rubia - a lovely name. Does she come down here often?”

  The man looked me in my eyes, stunned for a moment, before replying, “Well, quite hard to frolick in the town when you’re dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Presumed dead, at least. People say it’s why he locked his gates. Must be pissing in chamber pots and eating dead rats by now.”

  “Fuck the old prick.” a man said from beside me. He wore a brown, ragged tunic and leather boots with multiple gaping holes and ripped stitches. His white beard was scruffy and untamed from weeks of travel.

  �
��Must be a von Quinn-Fan Congregation I’ve stumbled upon,” I responded, “and what is your quarrel with the old man?”

  The bearded man finished his wine and looked at my hands, replying, “You’ve naught got a blimey callus on your pink mittens, son. How do you expect me to believe you relate to such cowardice as this? Have you ever tasted the soot of an honest day’s work in your life?”

  I did not reply, wanting to indulge in further conversation to learn anything I could. How these drunkards analyzed me, I cared little for. Plus, the stench of piss and old leather radiated from the old man quickly turned me away from further talking.

  “Thought so,” he continued, “our world’s dying. Even in Mercia, the plague is knocking on our doors. The Gods, they’re angry at us - how we parade around mocking them, ignoring them. They sent monsters to keep us in line but we continue to revel in their deaths as spoils of war. The Blood Moon is rising. Not this year or the next, but believe that it’s coming, boy.”

  There was much to learn from this old man, I suppose. He continued to speak.

  “Your kind comes in and thinks you understand this world, but you don’t. All you see is what’s beyond your damn garden, never tasted true adventure. You and that blimey weasel, Bartok - your kind is all the same to me. Now, let me drink in peace.”

  “Pleasure.” I replied and turned away.

  Realizing the end of our discussion, I passed the bartender my empty glass and downed another before I left. He had given me enough valuable information to continue with; all I needed now was to find my way to the Quinn Estate. After I reunited with Nadi outside the bar, I led her to the edge of the village, where a separate trail led off into the hills, towards the manor.

  * * * * * *

  Night fell and the ominous trail from the village ended where the estate began. The view from the village did no justice to the beauty of this lavishly structured home. After traveling uphill for miles, reaching the outskirt borders of Mercia, I felt a wave a relief to catch the Quinn Manor in sight. Two guards brandishing swords stood at the large, iron gates, conversing with each other while peering into the darkness.

  “Both factions are at war, son.” an elderly guard said to the other.

  “Ramses plans to clean house. You’ve heard the rumors,” said the younger guard, “once Ataman is split, everything north of the sea becomes a battlefield.”

  “Aye, the rumors - zero credibility to back them up but indeed, I believe war is brewing behind their gates with lust for silver. Arrigon’s duchy moves west while they take the north. Tuskan’s game of ‘peaceful negotiations’ with Avenwood will end up killing them. It’ll be bloodshed for months.”

  “Think we’ll be out of a job should the war come to Mercia?”

  “Quite frankly, I believe the opposite. I think they’ll be practically begging for our employment should it come here, but there’s no resources here worth fighting over. Our small province is worth shite compared to what’s to the north - gold, jewels and silver in the hills. These city boys are gonna be itchin’ to learn from Mercian soldiers.”

  The younger guard heard my movement and quickly raised his blade, moving forward to call out, “Oi, eavesdropper, show yourself!”

  I appeared from the cover of trees to greet the guards, assuming they would find me eventually. All I needed, at this particular moment was a closer look at the gates and its signs of vulnerability. So far, I discovered nothing.

  “State your business.” the guard commanded.

  “Just a traveler. I must have taken my horse down the wrong path. I sincerely apologize,” I responded, half-heartedly, “I’ll go now.”

  I assume the guard picked up on the lie, replying, “Nobody gets lost around here. You took one trail from down below now, state your business.”

  “I told you. Wrong trail.”

  “No the fuck you didn’t take the wrong trail. Only one trail from the village aside from the docks leading past the shoreline - you meant to come this far, you did.”

  “On who’s authority do you stand guard?” I asked.

  “The man of the house, of course.” one of the men answered before the other slapped him across the helmet, cursing him for speaking.

  “Don’t tell the intruder ‘nothin.” the aggravated guard barked to the other.

  “Why the hell not?” the other asked.

  “It’s not his place to know,” the guard answered, “Quinn would skin us alive if he knew we were conversing with him.”

  “Maybe he did get lost?”

  “Nobody gets lost, I told you that. One road leads from the village. If I have to tell you one more time, I’ll-”

  Without warning, the elderly guard’s left arm suddenly withdrew into its socket. The man collapsed onto the ground, screaming in agony as his other arm followed suit to do the same. His head spun around, every bone cracking as they broke; soon after, his remaining limbs falling into a crumpled pile. The second guard flew through the air, impacting hard against the gate behind them. I watched in shock as their lifeless bodies sunk into the earth and disappeared. Startled, I stepped backwards, hearing faint clapping coming from the trees.

  “You’ve found the Quinn Manor! I’m impressed. Those guards would have killed you, though. We both know that.” said the Djinn, who appeared comfortably lounging atop a tree limb.

  “I told them I was lost! They planned to let me go!”

  “In an ideal world, possibly,” he said, “or maybe they were fiercely trained by their benefactor to prevent anyone from merely laying eyes on his manor.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because the old man living here, Bartok, is a paranoid shut-in who fears his eventual fate at my hands. You can’t ask for everything, then give nothing in return. That only makes for bad business.”

  “Thought you weren’t allowed here?”

  The Djinn dropped from his perch and elegantly hovered to the grass below. He always moved with such confidence, as if he knew at all times that he was in complete control of the situation.

  “No, I said I wasn’t allowed in his home. His property-line begins past the gates, you see. I can help you to this point.” he responded, waving his hand toward the massive gates. The doors creaked and swung open.

  “Rubia von Quinn’s dead. Is this true?” I asked.

  “Far from it, my lad. She’s up there, locked away. Just because you can’t see something, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I’m sending you to release her of that wretched tomb and the whoreson responsible. Find Bartok and convince him to allow my presence into his home again.”

  I believed every word of it but he knew more than he let on.

  “Before you cross the von Quinn threshold, Caine, I must clarify something of grave importance,” he warned, “Bartok is a vile, despicable waste of a soul. He will lie and cheat to gain your trust but you mustn’t stray from the current path.”

  “Don’t trust him. Duly noted.” I replied, turning to the gates.

  “I wish you the best of luck, Caine. Give him my regards.”

  With that final wish, the Djinn disappeared into the shadows. I held my composure and continued through the uninviting gates into the estate after leaving Nadi roped to a sturdy willow. I crossed the courtyard and then hid among the shrubbery and small trees. Several guards stood watch outside of the main doors to the manor, allowing only a second’s leap to sprint across a small section of their blind-spot. After a moment’s hesitation, I sprinted past their view and lept onto the manor’s balcony. I found an open window and crawled inside.

  This manor resembled a mausoleum; furniture, old artifacts and paintings on the wall were covered in tarp, hidden away from the naked eye. I moved stealthily through the empty hallways. There were no signs of life in this house, at least none that I could find. Candles on the walls were sheltering cobwebs, dark rooms appeared to have been vacant for centuries, and dust fluttered through the air as if no-one ever bothered to maintain the place.

 
Empty and grotesque as it was, this manor was beautiful. I could tell from the designs of the home, it was fashioned out of love; perhaps it was built as a gift to his wife. This, I did not know for certain. I ascended a spiral staircase, curling like a helix into the floors above.

  The third floor was just as barren as below. Each painting hanging on the walls were either blotted out by ink or hidden by a tattered shawl laced with cobwebs. The moonlight shone in through the window at the end of a long, narrow hallway. One door by the window appeared wide open with a faint, flickering light and soft whimpers emanating from within.

  I drew my blade as I approached the door, preparing myself to discover a tortured Rubia, bound in irons, kept as a prisoner by her greedy husband; I could hear sobbing coming from inside. I rounded the corner and peered my head into the room and what I discovered was startling to say the least.

  A man was on his knees, staring at the wooden floor, weeping quietly to himself with a shrine lain before him. Candles encircling a painting of the Quinn Manor hung against the wall in front of him; the man scratched the back of his neck, revealing multiple scars across his scalp and a burn-mark on his hand. I stepped through the door, alerting the man who ceased his tears before calmly turning his head in my direction. This had to be none other than the infamous Bartok von Quinn.

  “Why have you come into my home?” he asked.

  “Rubia - where is she?!”

  Bartok chuckled to himself before rising from his knees.

  “We both desire the same prize, my friend. My darling Rubia can never return to our world and if there was any possible way, I would have done it myself.” he said, walking over to a table against the wall. He lifted a picture of him and his wife and examined it closely.