Turning onto the Blood Road, Stone watched a pair of Ocosconan casters walk past. Legionnaires of the Fuerzi-Mar, clad in blue tunics with white waist belts, matching shoulder straps and ammo pouches. The sight of them sparked a pang of sadness in him. Leaving Ocos would mean giving up his hopes of becoming a caster. He'd dreamt of wearing the blues for as long as he could remember. He knew the nine trials he’d face at the Testing (even practised some of them, like the log walk) and had already picked out the legion he’d join (the Ocosconan Fifth). But first, things first. He had to deliver Mila’s message. He didn't have the money yet. His mother wasn't free yet. His future, whatever it was, would have to wait.
He headed northwest, towards the spires that marked the Temple of the Ocamor, where the faithful worshipped the old gods of light and magic. He nodded at a shrine to Nemet as he passed and ducked into Ioga Avenue opposite. The street was like many of the thoroughfares in this part of town — tall townhouses, three and four storeys high, squeezed together, their wooden beams bowed, plastered walls painted in shades of green, orange and blue. The sidewalks were clean, no beggars curled up in the doorways, no scraps clogging the gutters. The people he passed looked down their privileged noses at him, like he was a dirty rag (or worse) to be swept away out of sight, lest he spoil their pretty view.
He pulled up the collars of his coat, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked on, keen to leave. He felt as if everybody was watching him; as if everybody knew he was running a message for a thief.
Mila was trouble.
Stone just wasn’t sure how much.
At the end of Ioga Avenue, he switched left into South Hill. It was an old street, unpaved for the most part, dark puddles in the rutted dirt. No houses here, only warehouses and stores. The small and narrow buildings were home to wholesalers, merchants, traders and packing companies, their locked wooden gates and barred windows hiding a small fortune in cotton, furniture and Sauzzan spice.
Stone knew South Hill better than he’d like to. For at the end stood the former Xim-Su Carriage Works, an impressive building characterised by five yawning arches on the ground floor, with ten smaller arches above on the second and third storeys. Above them, huge green-painted letters spelt out: ‘Crick’.
The Crick Cooperative was one of the Mulai trading companies that had set up in Ocos after the Annexation. The same Crick that had invented the oconic horse — the magical Ocara-4. This was the conjuring that had ultimately put his father and his stables out of business. The Crick had bought out the owners of their building and jacked up their rent, undercutting their prices with cheaper oconics. Soon all the waggons, carts and cabs were being pulled by Ocara, while his father was stuck with eleven horses nobody wanted to use. And real horses, they needed looking after, they cost coin to keep fit and healthy. The family debts had spiralled ever higher. When the debt collectors had first come calling, his father had chosen to run rather than face them.
“Do something for you boy?”
Stone realised he was standing in the middle of the street, just staring. He hadn’t noticed a Crick waggon approach, cotton-white Ocara trotting in front of it.
“Uh, no,” he said, shaking his head.
“Then get out of my bleedin’ way!” bellowed the driver.
Stone stepped aside as the driver mumbled a command phrase. The waggon wheels creaked as the conjuring pulled it forward again.
“Dumb guttersnipe,” grumbled the driver.
“Sorry,” Stone muttered, taking one last look at the carriage works, before continuing on his way.
At the end of South Hill, he found the turn into Old Lanridge Street, a narrow and grubby place, terraced houses, their brown brick walls blackened with soot from pre-oconic braziers that used to burn there in years gone by. Nobody had bothered to clean it up since. Why would they? This obviously wasn't somewhere you passed through. Not well-to-do. But not quite down-and-out either.
He followed the street as it narrowed and curved, ducking underneath washing lines strung like bunting between the buildings, stepping over rats that picked at piles of gutter peelings. He spotted numbers on the wall in faded white paint. Three. Then Five. The house Mila wanted him to visit should be just up ahead. “Knock three times,” she’d said to him. “Quick, like a rat-tat-tat. Then wait. When someone answers, tell them you’re Mila’s boy. Show them the hat. Tell them I’m hurt and need their help.”
“What if they don’t believe me?”
Mila had frowned at that. “Tell them,” she said after a moment’s thought, “tell them the ‘Velta’ is coming.”
“The what?”
Velta. It sounded like an old Kajjon word.
“Just tell them,” Mila said, offering no explanation.
As Stone continued down Old Lanridge Street, seeking number twelve, it opened up into a small square edged with larger, three-storey houses with slatted sash windows, their wooden frames painted black. A crowd had gathered at the far end, watching smoke curl into a darkening sky. His stomach gurgled. Something felt wrong. Worryingly wrong.
Stone approached the back of the crowd and tugged at the sleeve of the nearest man. “What's going on?” he asked.
“Mulai raid,” the man said, straining to see over the head of a taller gent standing in front of him.
Stone’s unease deepened. “Do you know which number?”
Please don’t be twelve. Please don’t be…
“Eleven, I think.”
Stone breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nah, it’s twelve,” said the fella in front. “The Imps blew a bloody great hole right through it, front to back. Pity the poor sods who were living there.” The man looked down at him. “Nice hat,” he added.
“Thanks,” Stone said, pulling the cap down further onto his head. He stood on tip-toe, trying to see through the press of gawkers. “Can I see?”
“Be my guest,” said the man, stepping aside.
Stone wriggled through the gap between a plump woman in a bottle green dress and a lanky gent in a velvet coat, blue as a clear summer sky. Two Mulai soldiers in blood red uniforms held back the crowd, faces grim under metal helmets, their long lances primed. He frowned. What were the Mulai doing here? Why had they attacked the very house he was supposed to be visiting? And not just attacked it, burned it clean through. As he looked, number twelve Old Lanridge Street was now a pile of hot rubble, its front wall demolished, its roof half-collapsed, the timbers still smouldering, cobbles strewn with splintered slate.
Stone had seen enough. What was Mila caught up in?
He retreated, slipping back through the chattering crowd. Little point in hanging around. He couldn’t very well deliver the thief’s message with all these people milling about. Nor could he deliver it to a house without a front door. Or a front wall for that matter. He backed away, wondering if any of Mila’s friends had escaped the raid. No way of recognising them if they had. Although they—
One moment he was watching the crowd, the next he was down on his hands and knees, pushed over, hands ramming into his back.
“Hey!” he complained, twisting around to face his attacker.
“Hey yerself,” said Dak-Trur, kicking him swiftly in the stomach.
Stone slumped back onto the cobbles clutching his belly. The coins in his pocket clinked.
“Well, well,” said Dak, standing over him, fists balled. “It sounds like our little scrapper has some money on him. Empty your pockets!”
“No,” Stone said instinctively, quickly wishing he hadn’t. Dak kicked him hard in the ribs and pain exploded like a bursting Fura charge. He tried to wriggle away, but as he shuffled backwards, someone else kicked him from the other side, right below his shoulder. Stone stopped with a yelp. Dak hadn’t come alone.
“Hold him down,” Dak growled.
The bludger Stone knew as Mutter loomed over him. With a grin and wink, the sandy-haired boy gripped his arms tightly. Stone kicked out, but his struggles were brief. A big lad by the name o
f Mouth sat down heavily on his legs, pinning them to the cold cobbles. Dak knelt down next to him and reached into Stone’s pocket, yanking out the purse.
“Give that back!” Stone struggled against the boys holding him. But they were far bigger, heftier and stronger than he was. “That money is mine,” he wailed. “I earned it!”
Dak pulled open the purse and peered inside. He whistled. “There must be twenty crowns in here. Where does the Prince of the Shit get twenty crowns, eh?”
“They're mine!”
Dak kicked him again and laughed. “Well, they're mine now. Think of it as compensation. For making me look a fool in front of the Rook.”
Stone groaned. “You did that on your own.”
The bully kicked him again.
“I’ll tell the Rook,” Stone said. His lungs hurt with every breath.
“You’ll do no such thing…”
“You there!” A shout from across the square. Dak looked over Stone’s head and his expression darkened. “Halt!” hollered the voice. “Halt in the name of the Empire!”
Dak whistled. Mouth jumped up and scarpered. With a triumphant whoop, Mutter followed him.
“You tell anybody about this,” Dak snarled, backing away. “And I'll wring your bloody neck. Got it?”
Then the bully was gone. Stone heard the slap of boots on the cobbles. He stared up at the darkening sky, ribs aching, blood in his mouth.
21. HOW BIG COULD THEY BE?
THEY RAN, SPRINTING WITH the urgency of men who suspected there was something dangerous lurking in the forest and would rather not know what it was.
They ran, legging it along the foundations of the enormous road bridge, keeping a safe distance from the tree line and hidden from the Fura-firing attackers on the fortress above.
They ran, not looking back.
And in the wrong direction.
Or at least, not in the direction Ember had suggested.
Rather than head towards the fortress, towards safety, supplies and maybe some answers, Roon-Kotke led them away from it. Junn-Kri and Hannar-Ghan followed him, Lor-Qui (who feared being last after his brush with a watery death back in gate nineteen) scampering along next in line. Ember found himself bringing up the rear, annoyed that the Corporal had chosen to retreat. What happened to ‘I’m not coming back from another mission empty-handed’? Bloody Hannar-Ghan again, that’s what. He’d changed Roon-Kotke’s mind, sown the fear that breaking into the fortress would be worse than high-tailing it back to the gate.
Nothing to be done about it, of course. With the command decision made, Ember played the good caster, loping along after the others, valise bouncing on his back, boots kicking up dust from the dry earth. He scanned the ragged tree line for any signs of movement. There weren’t any. But the howling had started again. Loud, low and guttural. No doubt from something huge.
Ahead of him, the Corporal slowed to a stop and the squad bunched up. From what Ember could see, their advance was blocked by a section of forest that extended right up to the foot of the bridge. If they wanted to keep going, they had no other option but to venture into the trees, between trunks slim as Ocos street lamps and ‘neath thick foliage that blocked out the daylight. No telling what lay waiting for them in the shadows.
“Corporal?” Hannar-Ghan came to a halt next to Roon-Kotke, lance in his hand. He stole a glance back towards the fortress, hoping its defenders had given up on them. “We need to keep moving.”
“Quiet,” snapped the Corporal.
“Why have we stopped?” said Lor-Qui. The combat-tech stood with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily.
“I said, quiet!”
Ember couldn’t hear anything at first. His eyes flicked across the forest edge, peering into the gloom beyond the first row of trees. He reached for his bow, before remembering it wasn’t there, lost with the rest of their things when the cart had tipped over and their mission had gone sideways. That bow had saved their lives against the Kajjon’s water spouters. He felt vulnerable without it.
“There’s nothing…”
He heard it then. A rustling sound. The cracking of branches. Something lumbering between the tree trunks. Something large enough that it didn’t feel the need to be stealthy. Something that let out a bass, rumbling growl. He saw Roon-Kotke take a step back, slow and steady. Followed by another.
“Change of plan,” the Corporal whispered.
***
They ran, sprinting with the urgency of men who knew there was definitely something dangerous lurking in the forest and who wanted to get as far away from it as possible. Ember led them back along the foundations of the enormous road bridge towards the fortress, pleased that Roon-Kotke had seen sense.
The Corporal jogged alongside him. “You’d better be right about this.”
A snarl rumbled in the trees to their left.
“Beats heading into the forest,” Ember replied.
But did it? He had no idea what they’d find at the fortress. Maybe they’d find a way inside or a path back up onto the bridge. Maybe they wouldn’t. He was making this up as he went along. All he knew was that they needed weapons and supplies. They weren’t going to find either stumbling through the forest.
Spurred on by the howling coming from the trees, the five of them covered the ground towards the fortress at a sprint. Hannar-Ghan was the last to reach the stronghold’s angled base. Ember saw him staring at the wall above them as he ran the final few paces, no doubt marvelling at the building’s immense size. For while its huge stone blocks were blotched with mould and cracked in places, the fortress looked even more impressive when you were standing at the bottom of it, looking up. Ember could just make out small dark windows high above them, wooden beams jutting out, and what looked like a crenellated battlement.
“What now?” Roon-Kotke asked, as they stood at the corner of bridge and fortress, backs to the stone wall, weapons aimed at the forest edge.
“We look for a way in.” Ember looked up at the windows again. An obvious entry point. But too high up. As for the outer wall, it looked too smooth to climb. “We should scout ahead along the edge of the fortress.”
“I’ll go,” offered Junn. “I’m the quickest. Still got my lance too.”
“Thanks Junn,” said Roon-Kotke. “But I think that Han or Cobb should…”
“But Corporal,” interrupted Junn. “Begging your pardon, sir. I can do this. I know I’m not as experienced as the rest of you. I’ve still got much to learn. But I want to do my part. Let me do this.”
Roon-Kotke glanced at Hannar-Ghan, who shrugged his shoulders. Ember simply nodded when the Corporal looked his way. Junn-Kri had grown in confidence since he’d first met him. He was no longer a scared little boy trying to come to terms with his first posting. No point treating him like one. In some respects, the kid was already more battle-blooded that many of the casters who served in the Old Hundredth. How many of them would stand and fight if faced with a tentacled spouter or one of those venomous spiders from gate seventeen?
“Off you go then,” said the Corporal.
Junn-Kri grinned and jogged away, following the base of the fortress. Ember watched him until he reached the far corner of the huge building. The young Ocosconan stopped to peer around it. Then he gave them a wave and disappeared from view.
“What if he doesn’t find anything?” said Lor. “What then?”
“Then we go check out that tower over there.” Ember pointed to the top of a turret, just visible above the treetops.
“Uh, doesn’t that mean going into the forest?” the combat-tech pointed out.
“It does,” Ember replied.
“Where the howling is coming from?”
Ember shrugged. There was definitely something in the trees. Something big and dangerous enough that the Kajjon saw fit to build a raised road so that they could avoid it. He didn’t fancy going into the forest either. But as he said to Lor-Qui, “I don’t believe we have much of a choice.”
***
“I found a door,” said Junn-Kri on his return. A wave of relief washed over Ember at the news, an ‘I told you so’ surge, only to ebb quickly away when the kid added “but…”
Why was there always a ‘but’?
“But?” Lor-Qui frowned at Junn. “There’s a ‘but’? But what? Is the door locked?” The combat-tech shrugged off his valise and dropped it onto the ground. He started to rifle through the contents. “Because if it’s locked,” he continued, “we can probably pick it. I have a Snap Can in here somewhere.”
“Or we can just blow it off its hinges,” suggested Hannar-Ghan. “Fura-3. Boom. Job done.”
“I don’t know if it’s locked,” said Junn-Kri. “And shooting the door won’t help. Because it’s…” The boy sighed and set off along the fortress wall at a jog, waving the squad to follow him. “Come on,” he said. “Easier if I show you.”
They followed Junn along the base of the huge fortress, reaching the corner without incident. Nobody bombarded them with Fura from above. Nothing sprang from the depths of the forest to drag them screaming into the trees. With all of the Kajjon-engineered creatures Ember had seen (and those abominations Roon-Kotke had since spoken of), it was hardly a surprise that his mind had taken the howling they’d heard and birthed something nightmarish from it. Big, when it might be small. Carnivorous, when it might eat grass and leaves. Perhaps it was just a few wolves. Or some big cat. A danger to civilians, but not to a squad of heavily-armed casters.
“There’s the but,” said Junn, as they rounded the corner. He pointed upwards at the wall. “The only door seems to be up there.”
“Ah,” said Roon-Kotke.
“Rakou’s teeth,” grumbled Hannar-Ghan.
“Now that is interesting,” added Lor-Qui.
Once Called Thief Page 14
