Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  No more coins to distract the crowd.

  Another hand on his arm, pulling and hurting.

  No strength to fight back. No space to run.

  A hand on his leg. He kicked out, hearing a grunt of pain.

  A sea of angry faces. Hands reaching. Pinching. Grabbing. Holding. Gripping. Squeezing. Not letting go. He screamed then, a gurgling, desperate yell, until someone punched him in the face, the pain and shock of it rocking him back. “No,” he managed to moan, blood in his mouth, still struggling to escape, calling on every last ounce of strength he possessed.

  But for twenty crowns, the citizens of Ocos held him fast.

  35. NO TRUCE TO BE HAD

  THEY WERE FREE. But Lokke felt little joy in it. For as the heavy cell door swung open, it occurred to him that maybe they'd all be much safer staying put, with the door closed, locked and barricaded. After all, they had no weapons. There were Yafai who’d burn them on sight and gromes on the loose. The prospect of a fiery or grisly death now lurked around every ancient corner.

  “I should kill you!” Roon-Kotke raged, as Hannar-Ghan stepped aside to allow them out of the cell.

  Lokke peered out into the corridor, hoping there was nothing more dangerous there than the traitorous Sergeant. “Now’s not the time,” he whispered, satisfied the immediate vicinity was clear. “Han? How do we get out of this place?”

  Hannar-Ghan kept his eyes on Roon-Kotke, wary, doubtless expecting the Corporal to make good on his threat. “The main gates on the lower level are the only way in or out,” he said. “We might find a cart there to take us back to the gate, although they might already be gone.”

  “What about the way we came in?” asked Lor-Qui, nervously looking along the passageway.

  “If you want to take your chances in the forest,” muttered Hannar-Ghan, “be my guest.”

  Roon-Kotke scowled. “We’ll need our weapons.”

  “I have the Colonel’s sword.” Hannar-Ghan tossed Lokke the old cavalry sabre. “Mila gave it to me. I’ve no need for it.”

  Lokke caught the blade by the handle, twirled it around, considered ramming it through the Sergeant’s thick, double-crossing neck, before sliding it back into the scabbard on his hip. “Many thanks, turncoat.”

  Hannar-Ghan huffed. “You’re welcome, liar.”

  “That old relic of yours won’t be much good against a grome though will it?” Roon-Kotke shook his head. “Where are our lances?”

  “Down here. I think. Come on.” Hannar-Ghan led them down a narrow stone corridor, high ceilinged, built for taller men than they. Ancient men. Although, as Lokke had seen when they’d ventured through gate nineteen into the underwater lab, the Kajjon weren't men at all. They were grey-skinned giants, a good two feet taller than he was, gaunt like a beggar, eyes black, nose dagger-pointed, lips shrivelled as if the life had been sucked out of them.

  “I trusted you,” said Roon-Kotke, jogging behind the big caster.

  “I know. I’m—”

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t take your lance and burn you right here, right now...”

  Hannar-Ghan stopped and tossed his weapon to Roon-Kotke. The Corporal caught it in one hand, almost dropping it.

  “Do it then.” The big caster held his arms out wide. “But I just saved your life. All your lives. Mila was set on killing you. And believe me, she doesn’t mess around. At the very least, you owe me a blood debt.”

  Roon-Kotke slid open a chamber and lowered the lance, pointing it at Hannar-Ghan’s chest. Lokke heard the oca fizz. “Aye,” said the Corporal, through gritted teeth. “But nobody would ever know if I simply ignored it.”

  “You’d know.” Han took a step forward, his gruff bravado gone. “You’re a man of honour. Have been long as I’ve known you.”

  Roon-Kotke pushed the lance against the Sergeant’s chest. “And look what good it’s done me! I—”

  Hannar-Ghan held up his hand, then put his finger to his lips.

  “What is it?” said Lokke, checking the passageway. He couldn’t see or hear anything.

  Hannar-Ghan snatched back his lance and started to back up the way they’d just come.

  Lokke drew his sword, gripping the hilt tightly.

  “Hey, why have we…?” Lor-Qui started to ask, before he stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes widening in what Lokke imagined was arse-clenching fear. Because Lokke heard it too.

  Footsteps.

  Dull, unnervingly weighty footsteps, like chunky rump steaks slapping on the stone. Then a loud snort echoed down the passageway, followed by a long, rumbling growl.

  “Oh, sh—” mumbled Lor-Qui as a grome lumbered into view, so huge it blocked the passageway, shoulders hunched, head touching the stone ceiling. Blood streaked its grey fur.

  “Back,” Hannar-Ghan whispered as the beast turned towards them.

  Lokke thought it a fine new plan. No point in disagreeing. He stepped back as per the Sergeant’s suggestion, grabbing the motionless Lor-Qui by the shoulder, urging him to follow. The beast was intimidating enough before when they had all been carrying weapons. With only a sword and a lance between them, it was bloody petrifying.

  “Back!” the big caster snapped, his voice a little louder, a little more insistent. The grome responded, fixing them with a fierce, flame-eyed stare, mouth hanging open, teeth bared, slobber dripping onto the floor in oozing globs. It occurred to Lokke that, after years of experimentation by the Yafai, the gromes would have come to despise the short, hairless beings who caused them pain. Yafai. Ocoscona. Mulai. It wouldn’t matter. All men would look the same in the eyes of these monsters. There was no reasoning with them. No truce to be had.

  Lokke tightened his grip on his sword, only too aware that it wouldn’t do him the slightest bit of good to swing it. He tensed, expecting the creature to bound forward, savaging Hannar-Ghan first, before lashing out at Roon-Kotke who stood just behind him. He and Lor-Qui might just make it back to the cell if the grome stopped to dally with its kills. Or the beast might catch them before they could make it, raking huge claws down the combat-tech’s back, slamming Lokke into the wall, huge hands crushing him against the stone until his ribs cracked and his heart popped, squeezed to a pulp between the grome’s giant fingers.

  Yet, thankfully, none of that happened.

  Instead the beast looked the other way, distracted, snarling, before it was suddenly rocked by a volley of bright orange Fura blasts, thumping impacts, one, two, three that pushed it staggering back against the wall. It dropped to one huge, hairy knee, its head bowed. Then it raised its head and bellowed a defiant roar.

  “Why won’t these things die!” wailed Roon-Kotke.

  “Go!” shouted Hannar-Ghan, darting past the dazed and downed grome. Roon-Kotke was quick to follow his lead, Lor-Qui scampering (and whimpering) behind him. Lokke’s reaction wasn’t as speedy and he barely managed to make it past the injured creature, ducking, stumbling, narrowly avoiding his head getting ripped off as the beast swung a huge, furry arm.

  He didn’t look back, sprinting after the others as they barged past a pair of surprised Yafai casters and on down the ancient passageway. Lokke heard another round of Fura fire explode behind him as the Yafai fired again.

  “This way!” hollered the turncoat Sergeant and they veered left at a T-junction, only to stop dead in their tracks. Lokke saw a woman running towards them, pursued by another towering grome. She managed two more strides before the snarling beast yanked her off her feet, flinging her aside like she weighed nothing at all. Her scream lasted for as long as it took her skull to split open against the wall.

  With the grome filling the passageway, Hannah-Ghan reversed and led them back in the opposite direction, up a flight of stone stairs, the sounds of battle fading behind them. They paused at another junction. Breathless. Hannar-Ghan checked the way ahead was clear.

  “Why are you taking us up?” Lokke asked him. “You said we needed to go down. The main gate is down!”

  “You're welcome to t
ake your chances with the gromes or the Yafai.” The Sergeant looked even more grim-faced than usual. “Or we can run away from both. Up is safer.”

  Another roar sounded behind them. A man's scream, suddenly and gruesomely cut short.

  “Up it is,” said Roon-Kotke, pushing past them. “I’m in charge here and I go with ‘up’.”

  ***

  They ran up the stairs, through an arched doorway and out onto a metal walkway suspended by fat-linked chains high above another line of cells. There were six cells below arranged in two rows of three, all but two lay empty. A few gromes remained imprisoned, prowling their stone cages.

  “Gods,” muttered Roon-Kotke, peering over the rail that marked the walkway’s edge. “How many gromes did you have here?”

  Hannar-Ghan marched on, boots ringing on the metal footbridge. It swayed slightly as he crossed it, chains clinking.

  “This area is labelled with a ‘five’,” said Lor-Qui, pointing at a Kajjon symbol painted on the wall. “If we assume there are five of these cell clusters, and there could be more; six cells per cluster, let’s say five gromes per cell, that’s thirty animals per cluster and…” The combat-tech looked pale. “That’s a hundred and fifty. Certainly enough for that monstrous legion we saw earlier…”

  Below, a grome in one of the cells jumped up trying to reach them, too dumb to realise the walkway was beyond its angry reach. It seemed to twitch violently between every powerful but futile leap.

  “What's the matter with that one?” Roon-Kotke asked as they walked towards another iron door at the far end of the walkway.

  Hannar-Ghan encouraged them onwards. “Apparently, they don't all take to the machine. They can't all be controlled. Drives some of them mad.”

  “Controlled?” Lokke didn’t like the sound of that. “Who's controlling them?”

  “I don't know. Haven't been here for years. I didn’t think that controlling them was even possible.” The Sergeant looked nervous. “Come on. We must keep moving.”

  “Han,” Roon-Kotke pulled the Sergeant to a stop, hand gripping his shoulder. “What is this place for? We saw gromes in waggons. Scores of them.”

  “Project Axe. It's started. So we shouldn’t linger…”

  “What's Project Axe? Where were those gromes in the waggons bound?”

  “They — the Yafai, I mean — they can command the gromes, bind and direct them. It uses some old Kajjon oconics that overwrites thought.” Hannar-Ghan pointed along the walkway to a desk with what looked like a blackiron box set upon it. “There’s a machine up ahead of us. Works on baser creatures. Turns the gromes into warriors without a shred of fear. You’ve already seen what they can do. How resilient they are. The plan was to hide them in a city and let ‘em loose all at once. Suicide soldiers, killing until they were themselves killed.”

  “Fantastic,” mumbled Lor-Qui.

  Lokke suddenly felt ill at ease. Queasy. He feared he knew the answer to his question before he’d even asked it. “Which city, Sergeant? Where are they taking these monsters!?”

  “Mila mentioned Tydek Mordume. So I’d say the Briar.”

  The Briar.

  Home.

  Lokke imagined gromes running loose in the streets of the capital, rampaging down Broad Street and through Remembrance Square, smashing through Furta Hill and Gordi Woods. Maybe even into the Hourglass itself. The Justices and the legions would eventually take them down, but at what cost? Hundreds, maybe thousands dead. Innocent men, women and children. Not even the Mulai's Great Weapon would be able to combat an enemy within its walls. It was meant for battlefields and armies. Useless against an attack from within.

  “We need to warn the Mulai,” Lokke said, looking to the door at the end of the walkway. “Where does this go?”

  “To the roof,” Hannar-Ghan replied.

  “That’s the wrong way. We need to go back.”

  “But the gromes…” Roon-Kotke said, looking back towards the door.

  “Screw the gromes!” he roared back. “The Briar is in danger.”

  “No,” said Roon-Kotke again. He pointed behind them. “Those gromes!”

  The fire that burned inside Lokke died a little at the sight of them. There were two of the huge beasts, the first squeezing itself through the arched doorway, a colossal animal, grey fur streaked with white stripes, blood dripping from its mouth. The second close behind it, just as hefty, just as terrifying. Claw marks raked its face from forehead to chin, four deep gashes leaving dark and ragged scars.

  “Holy Hells,” said Lor-Qui, backing away. “Where are they all coming from?

  “There's a whole forest of ‘em,” Hannar-Ghan said flatly, raising his lance. Their only lance. “An almost endless supply.”

  “That's great,” complained Lokke. “Just bloody great.”

  He needed to get out of this place. Needed to make it all the way back along the roadway to the gate and then to Refu Ruka, where his challenge would be to convince the Captain to save the Mulai, a people he so evidently despised. Warning the Briar suddenly seemed an impossible task. But thousands might die if he didn’t.

  “Back away,” said Hannar-Ghan. “Just like last time. Slowly now. Easy. Don’t give them a reason to charge us.”

  The first grome wobbled on the walkway, putting a giant foot forward but not completing the step. Lokke thought it looked uncertain. Even a little bit scared as the metal footbridge tilted underneath it.

  “Why haven’t they come at us?” Lor-Qui asked, hanging onto the rail.

  “They’re not good with heights,” said Hannar-Ghan.

  Join the club, thought Lokke, clutching the rail tighter.

  “But they adapt quickly.”

  The grome with the white-striped fur watched them, looked at the rail, then reached out with a huge hand to grasp it. Lokke watched the beast test its footing again. Saw how it did so with more confidence. With purpose. Albeit one as yet unclear. The grome shifted its considerable weight and the walkway tilted again, rocking like a boat fighting a storm-churned sea. The creature smiled. Or grimaced. Difficult to tell with all those teeth. Lokke hung on as the walkway lurched, realising a heartbeat too late what the grome had planned.

  Down stamped the grome’s other foot and the walkway see-sawed back the other way. Lokke held onto the rail with his one free hand. Ahead of him, Lor-Qui stumbled, losing his grip and flailing towards the edge of the walkway. Had Hannar-Ghan not grabbed him by the arm, the combat-tech would have plummeted to the cells below. Lor-Qui yelped as his arm popped out of its socket.

  “Hold on!” yelled Roon-Kotke, as the walkway bucked and shook.

  The striped grome snarled, waiting for the violent swing of the walkway to ease before advancing slowly and cautiously along it.

  “Move!” shouted Hannar-Ghan, but none of the casters needed telling. Hands on the rails, they edged along the walkway, towards the mysterious blackiron box and the door to the roof, their only way out, the sound of grome footsteps like drums on the metal plates behind them.

  Lokke was last to reach the door, last to hear it was locked and last to hear that nobody had a Snap Can with which to pick it.

  “Can we use a Fura?” Lor-Qui suggested.

  The usually gung-ho Hannar-Ghan shook his head. “Can’t risk it. No way to control the blast. Get it wrong and we might take the bridge out from under us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We can use this.” Hannar-Ghan unclipped a tube from the blackiron box. He turned to Lokke. “Put your hands on those handles. Keep hold of them. No matter what happens.”

  “They’re almost upon us!” said Lor.

  “Why?” Lokke gripped the handles of the blackiron box. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Just keep hold. This might feel a little strange…”

  Lokke heard a click and a fizz, a binding unleashed. One moment he was staring at the blackiron box, hands gripping the two handles; the next he was staring back along the walkway through orange-tinte
d eyes. He saw himself up ahead. Standing stock still. Hands outstretched. Hannar-Ghan pointing the tube at him. Lor and Roon-Kotke watching on.

  He wasn’t himself. He could feel the grome. He was the grome. A huge heart beating. No, two hearts, th-thumping in a cavernous chest. He could feel the air rushing in and out of enormous lungs, felt the press of fangs over unfamiliar lips. He tried to speak, but it came out as a rasping snarl. Tried to move huge and muscled legs, not his, but responding to his thoughts. He felt the press of another beast behind him. It couldn’t get past, the walkway only wide enough for one.

  He knew what he had to do, whirling on the grome standing behind him, swinging a huge hairy arm as easily as if it were his own. He felt the jolting impact when it struck the beast, knocking it sideways. Unprepared for an attack, the scarred grome staggered and fell backwards, narrowly avoiding tumbling over the edge. The creature roared and bounded towards him on all fours. All he could do was hold the snarling animal back, huge teeth a hands-span from his face, breath hot and stale. He felt claws digging into his flesh. Felt the grome’s pain as his own.

  This one was strong. He wasn’t sure if he could hold him. Claws dug into his side and he yelled in pain, the noise emerging from his borrowed maw as an anguished, high-pitched howl. He let his opponent push him back, just for a moment, before gathering his strength and countering, breaking the hold between them. As the two of them separated, a Fura charge flashed past his head, bursting across the chest of the scar-faced grome. The creature staggered and Lokke saw his chance. He ran at the beast, leading with his shoulder, head down, knocking it off its feet, up and over the edge of the rail. He watched it tumble from the walkway, down to the cells below.

  Lokke didn’t hear the scar-faced grome land, didn’t know if the fall had killed it. Didn’t much care. His head hurt, a sharp and thumping pain, as if someone was hammering on the back of his skull with a chisel, chipping away at his sanity. He stumbled back towards the others, saw Roon-Kotke and Lor-Qui back away in fear, saw himself, still standing in a trance, hands on the blackiron box.