Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  Contents

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  Dedication

  Title

  1. A Few Large Spiders

  2. Hard As Stone

  3. Give The Sentry A Wave

  4. The Cold Black River

  5. The Weapon We Seek

  6. Two-Four-Three

  7. The Traitor De Calvas

  8. Painted Like A Skull

  9. An Inky Darkness

  10. You Can't Save Me

  11. A Little Sightseeing

  12. I Want Him Alive

  13. A Rising Panic

  14. My Loyalty Isn't For Sale

  15. Then There Was Plan B

  16. Stop The Bloody Cart

  17. Maybe We Can Cut A Deal?

  18. Howling Monsters

  19. An Explosion

  20. A Pile Of Hot Rubble

  21. How Big Could They Be?

  22. Scarlet Lancers

  23. Nature Gone Wild

  24. A Hard Decision

  25. A Place Of Torture

  26. Can't Change The Past

  27. A Crazy Idea

  28. Just Doing My Duty

  29. I've Changed My Mind

  30. Clan Of Shadows

  31. Back To The Mud

  32. Surrounded By Liars

  33. You Clever, Clever Boy

  34. Ten Lousy Crowns

  35. No Truce To Be Had

  36. Another Penniless Sod

  37. At Least He'd Got to Fly

  38. Of Some Considerable Means

  39. The Bloody Tenth

  40. The List

  41. Good To Have A Weapon

  42. Han Would Have Loved This

  43. Our Fight Begins

  44. The Rightful Watcher

  The story continues

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  About Lexel J. Green

  Copyright

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  The Oconic Prison is a page-turning fantasy thriller about a thief who’s not busting out of a prison, he’s breaking into one. Part Ripper Street, part Stargate, with a touch of The Italian Job, you can get this spin-off novella for FREE at lexeljgreen.com.

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  For Olivia and Jacob, the two brightest lights in my life.

  ONCE CALLED THIEF

  by Lexel J. Green (v4)

  1. A FEW LARGE SPIDERS

  THE MONSTROUS HORDE SWARMED out of the darkness. Eight-legged nightmares broad as waggon wheels, eye clusters shiny and black.

  Caster-Corporal Roon-Kotke Khundhan faced them. He stood alone as the creatures scuttled down the ancient tunnel towards him, an oily black tide that seemed to ripple as hundreds of spindly limbs rose and fell. Closer they skittered, too many to count, hairy legs tapping, pincers snapping. Perhaps twenty paces distant. Then ten. Flooding the floor, climbing the walls. Hanging effortlessly from the arched brick ceiling as if gravity was a force that didn’t apply.

  Five paces from him now. Terrifyingly quick.

  Too many to fight.

  Three paces. Roon-Kotke tensed. Gritted his teeth.

  One pace.

  Then barely a hand-span of stale air between them.

  Cold, ever-so-slightly blue air.

  Hard air. Like tinted glass.

  He flinched as the first of the creatures leapt against the Wall binding he’d conjured to block the passageway. The abomination clung to the magical barrier in front of him, its abdomen pulsing, finger-long fangs leaking yolk-coloured venom as it probed the oconic weave, searching for a weakness.

  It wouldn’t find one. Roon-Kotke trusted in the binding. He trusted in the oca that powered it and in the incantation that gave it form. He trusted in the blackiron cartridge that contained it, no doubt fresh out of the sprawling manufactories in Mulai. He carried an oconic lance stacked full with such cartridges, fizzing with bindings that could congeal the air, spit fire and shine light. Oca had made wizards and sorcerers of every man, woman and child across the Empire; given the clans power beyond imagining.

  Yet Roon-Kotke still turned tail and ran.

  The integrity of the Wall binding didn’t worry him. Once cast, the barrier stood strong as stone and just as sturdy. Protection guaranteed or your money back.

  What worried him was its permanence. That was a question of power. The more oca the binding could draw upon, the longer it would last. Size mattered. A keg-sized oconic canister might keep a Wall standing for a day. (Gods, how he wished he had one of those.) What he did have was a cartridge the size of a salt shaker, portable and pocketable, designed for a lance. It contained just enough oconic energy to fuel the Wall for a slow count to three hundred. When the cartridge exhausted its meagre charge, the binding would unravel, its strength fading, solidity melting like a chunk of ice left out under a hot summer sun.

  Roon-Kotke didn’t fancy being anywhere near the arachnid horde when that happened.

  Hence the running.

  He could already imagine the Captain shaking his head in disappointment. “Why didn’t you stay and fight? You are no better than your father… Your weapons should have been no match for a few large spiders…”

  True enough, the creatures were far from invulnerable. He and his squad had already burned through hundreds of them, lances spitting gobs of boiling light. But it wasn’t a question of tactics. Or oconics. They just couldn’t kill the spiders fast enough. The hairy bastards kept on coming. Mindlessly and relentlessly. Scorch one and three more took its place. Who knew how many more might be nesting in the old tunnels? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Ampa had proved ineffective and their fiery Fura reserves were almost exhausted. That Wall binding he’d cast across the tunnel had been his last one.

  The stark reality of the situation was that he and his casters didn’t have enough ammunition left to stay and fight.

  What else could he possibly do but retreat? Seven Hells, anybody else would have done the same had they been standing in his boots. There was no shame in it. At least that’s what his Sergeant had said and rarely was he wrong. After all, he had the lives of his men to consider. Good men. They’d already lost Yuanu-Zoza to a Varinock in gate fifteen. His death spurred Roon-Kotke on to see all of his casters safely home.

  Having made the decision, he’d ordered his combat technician, Lor-Qui, back to prep the oconic gateway — the portal was their only way home. Young Junn-Kri had followed him, carrying a bag of Witching Jars they’d found in the tunnels. It was a decent haul of old Kajjon magic, fat-bottomed blackiron canisters still tingling with compressed oca, a couple of Sanctuaries and a Fura among them. He hoped that the Captain back at Refu Ruka would be pleased with the haul. The Jars weren’t what he and his squad had travelled to find. But they were better than returning home empty-handed.

  Roon-Kotke gripped his lance tighter as he ran on. He splashed through a pool of muddy water, past ancient brickwork fuzzed white with mould, empty doorways and abandoned rooms. He slowed a little as the vaulted passage hooked left and stole a quick glance back over his shoulder. The tunnel behind him was dim and still, arched ceiling lost in inky shadows, rusted longlamps on the ancient walls emitting small puddles of pale oconic light.

  No spiders to be seen.

  The Wall still held.

  He might just make it, after all.

  Quickening his pace again, Roon-Kotke loped towards the next corner, holding out his palm against the crumbling brick to steady himself as the tunnel took a hard left. The paved stone floor beneath his boots faded to soft earth, then back to cracked stone slabs as he approached another kink in the passageway. A sharp right-hand turn. He could just make out the familiar bulk of Caster-Sergeant Hannar-Gha
n Hrardhan hiding behind it.

  Roon-Kotke rounded the corner and slowed to a stop, pressing his back to the tunnel wall. “They’re. Still. Coming,” he said, between ragged breaths. “We need... Gods! We need to slow them down somehow.” His heart raced. “If these things ever got out… If they ever got above ground… I don’t think we could stop them. We can’t let that happen. Do you have another Wall? I’m fresh out.”

  Hannar-Ghan shook his head. “The boy might.”

  Roon-Kotke straightened his helmet, swiping a rogue strand of ginger hair away from his eye. He took another deep breath, gulping musty air. “Where is Junn?”

  “Little ways ahead.” Hannar-Ghan peered around the corner again and readied his lance. “Basic Fura isn’t killing them fast enough, chief. Let me uncap a Three.”

  “I’ve already said no.”

  Hannnar-Ghan frowned. Dirt smeared his shaven head, from his forehead down to his cheek, obscuring the tail of the snake tattoo that curled around his right eye. Like Roon-Kotke, he wore the blue of the Fuerzi-Kri, the Ocosconan Eighth — a sky blue woollen tunic with grey woollen trousers, tucked into brown leather boots. Over the tunic, he wore shoulder-protecting pauldrons, a grey valise and a standard-issue Imperial breastplate. Hannar-Ghan had painted seven tally marks across its overlapping metal plates.

  “No?” The big caster leaned forward. “Then those abominations will catch us before we reach the gate.”

  “I said…” Roon-Kotke sighed. “Hells, Han. The Fura-3 is a blast charge. It’s meant for open ground. Who knows what’ll happen if you loose one in here. You could bring the roof down!”

  “Well, what we’re using ain’t working. You’ve seen it yourself. A Three is our only option now. As you said, those things are too fast. There’s too damned many of ‘em.”

  Roon-Kotke looked at the big caster and then down the tunnel behind them. It was still empty, quiet but for the drip-drip of water through cracked mortar. If they weren’t being chased down by a swarm of oconically-engineered horrors, he’d remind Hannar-Ghan who was in charge. Command decisions weren’t suggestions, they weren’t open to discussion.

  But they didn’t have the luxury of time.

  And besides, what if Han was right?

  “Fine,” Roon-Kotke said, hoping he didn’t sound like a sulky child. “Go ahead. Try it. But don’t wait around to—”

  “I won’t,” Hannar-Ghan interrupted, before adding: “Chief.” He slotted a cartridge into his lance with a clunk and slid the chamber closed. “Go,” he growled. “I’ll hold ‘em back. You can rely on me.”

  Roon-Kotke nodded. When he wasn’t charging from the front, Hannar-Ghan would volunteer to bring up the rear. Never satisfied with the middle where it was safest. The big Caster-Sergeant actively courted trouble, whereas Roon-Kotke did his utmost to avoid it. They balanced each other out. Had done since they were boys.

  He raised his oconic lance, gripping the metal staff tightly. It was shorter than a traditional Imperial weapon, eight-chambered instead of fourteen. Finely wrought too. In fact, finer than most, engraved with looping swirls that cut thin silvered trails into the dull blackiron. Roon-Kotke could feel the indentations beneath his sweaty palms as he smoothly rotated the sixth chamber to the firing position. It clicked softly into place. The Fura charge inside pulsed in readiness.

  “Go!” Hannar-Ghan repeated.

  Roon-Kotke took a deep breath and started running again, eyes focused on the next corner. He rounded it at speed, almost barrelling into Junn-Kri, slowly dragging the bag of salvaged Witching Jars behind him.

  “Junn! Pick up that bloody—”

  A muffled thump sounded behind them, followed by a rattle of echoing booms that shook the tunnel like an earthquake. The stone slabs around Roon-Kotke cracked. A section of the vaulted roof disintegrated, sending shattered bricks tumbling down in a fog of blood-red dust. An ominous rumble was followed by the hideous sound of screeching.

  Junn-Kri looked up at Roon-Kotke with scared eyes, still clutching the tattered end of the canvas bag.

  “Never mind!” Roon-Kotke grabbed the boy by the shoulder and dragged him forward. “Leave the Jars. There isn’t time!” Junn-Kri let go of the bag, dropping it to the stone floor with a clank. Roon-Kotke hated abandoning the old weapons — it was partly the reason they’d come to this underground labyrinth. But the skittering sound of the arachnid horde was noticeably louder now. Hannar-Ghan’s explosive plan hadn’t stopped the spiders either.

  “Run!” Roon-Kotke bellowed, waving the boy off down the tunnel towards the gate.

  Another dull thump sounded behind him. Hannar-Ghan firing again when he should have been running. Roon-Kotke felt relieved that the big caster was still alive, but made a mental note to talk to him about following orders when, or if they got back to the Refu Ruka Terminus.

  Roon-Kotke’s legs ached as he stumbled into a run. He didn’t remember the tunnel being this long. Or this dark. Ahead, he could just make out the skinny figure of Lor-Qui Kotkedhan, their combat-technician, his own lance aimed down the tunnel. “Open the gate!” Roon-Kotke yelled, as he caught up to Junn-Kri. “Open the gods-damned gate!”

  To his credit, Lor-Qui already had the barrel-sized oconic capacitor in place beside the black metal archway, copper pipes connecting them together. As Roon-Kotke and Junn-Kri neared the end of the tunnel, the gateway to the Terminus winked into existence. The combat-tech pulled a small hourglass out of his ammunition belt and flipped it upside down. Red sand began to slide from one glass bulb into the other. He placed it on top of the capacitor.

  “Sands are falling!” The combat tech announced. “Where’s the Sergeant?”

  “He’ll be here. Fall back,” Roon-Kotke snapped, turning to face back down the tunnel and dropping to one knee, primed lance at the ready. “This gate isn’t going to stay up all day. You too, Junn.”

  Lor-Qui backed through the gateway without complaint.

  Junn-Kri hesitated. “What about...?”

  “Just do as I tell you, boy. Tell the technicians to make ready the seal.” Roon-Kotke glanced at the small hourglass. “There’s not much time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Junn-Kri said, turning away and stepping through the gate.

  Roon-Kotke kept his eyes focused down the tunnel. He could hear activity behind him — raised voices, the familiar clank and scrape of the heavy metal seal being shifted. The warning bell inside the Terminus began to ring.

  “Come on, Han,” he whispered to himself. “Where are you?”

  Then he heard it. A dull roar, like a distant waterfall, slowly building to a thunderous rumble, echo upon echo in the darkness. Roon-Kotke levelled his lance and aimed it down the tunnel, ready to shoot.

  The sand in the hourglass continued to fall.

  Hannar-Ghan rounded the last corner at a sprint, boots slapping on stone. Black shapes sloshed up the brickwork like a wave behind him.

  Roon-Kotke watched the big man alter his direction so that he ran along the left-hand wall, his armour plated shoulder almost scraping along the brick. He realised that Hannar-Ghan was giving him room to fire. The Caster-Corporal clicked open his lance and loosed a searing blast down the tunnel. The flaming Fura binding illuminated the old walls with a halo of oconic death-light. The black shapes hissed as they burned.

  But they kept coming.

  Roon-Kotke fired again as Hannar-Ghan swept past him through the oconic Gate, flashing a toothy grin. Glancing at the small hourglass timer, the Corporal saw the upper bulb was almost empty. He backed quickly through the portal, stepping from darkness to light, feeling the familiar chill of transition between places. In the Terminus, technicians fussed as they hefted the seal into place in front of the Gate. It swung closed with a satisfying clang, six latches clunking into place as the trio of combination locks engaged.

  Hannar-Ghan whooped.

  Roon-Kotke lowered his lance. He heard Lor-Qui breathe a heavy sigh.

  “That was...”

  A serie
s of bangs sounded, like hail bombarding a tin roof. Lor-Qui jumped back. Roon-Kotke heard the sound of furious scratching before the gate finally popped, shrinking back to its invisible, dormant state as the oconic charge inside the capacitor was exhausted. The noise stopped. Everybody stared at the sealed gateway.

  “Close,” Hannar-Ghan added, lowering his lance.

  “Too close.” Roon-Kotke tried not to let his frustration show. They were alive. But they’d left the Witching Jars behind. Nothing to show for a whole day’s work and all of the oconic ammunition they’d expended. Worse still, it was doubtful they’d get a chance to go back through the gate to try again. The tunnels were now infested with... Whatever those things were. Even now, one of the technicians approached carrying a bucket of red paint. As Roon-Kotke watched, the man daubed a big cross on the seal.

  The Captain wasn’t going to be pleased.

  “Come on.” Roon-Kotke started to walk along the line of gates that made up the Terminus beneath the old fortress of Refu Ruka. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d like to see some daylight again, breathe some fresh air...”

  Hannar-Ghan fell into step beside him. “You got us all out alive, chief.”

  “Nothing to show for it though,” Roon-Kotke said sullenly.

  “Wasn’t your fault. We couldn’t have beaten those things. Too damned many of ‘em.”

  “The Captain won’t see it that way. What if the weapon we’re looking for was hidden down there? What if I've messed this gate up and we can't go back?”

  “I didn't see anything. Those creatures were weapon enough.”

  “How do we know?” Roon-Kotke shook his head. “We don't even know what this Great Weapon looks like.”

  “What’s done is done. We were only four casters. Shouldn’t have been sent out. Maybe we could have given a better account of ourselves if we were up to full strength. When does Yuanu-Zoza’s replacement arrive?”

  “Not bloody soon enough,” Roon-Kotke said. “Anyone want to make a bet with me on who they send us?”

  “Two crowns say it’s some wet-behind-the-ears caster right out of Testing,” Hannar-Ghan mimicked rocking a baby with his arms. “Like Junn.”