Once Called Thief

by Lexel J Green

  “The door,” shouted Hannar-Ghan. “Open the door!”

  Lokke looked at his hands. Balled his fists. Stomped towards the end of the walkway and punched the door off its hinges, letting daylight flood in. Roon-Kotke pushed Lor-Qui through and out onto the roof.

  “Now what?” Lokke said, although it came out as a rasping growl.

  “Jump!” shouted Hannar-Ghan, pointing at the rail.

  Lokke looked at the rail. Took in the drop down to the cells below.

  “Jump!” the big caster yelled again, dropping the tube, grabbing Lokke’s inert body by the shoulders.

  “You’d better bloody save me,” Lokke mumbled and duly jumped.

  ***

  Junn-Kri kept running. While the Yafai stood and fought the invading gromes, the young caster sprinted down stone corridors, avoiding confrontations, taking stairs two at a time, doubling back whenever a huge beast blocked his way. He found himself heading down into the bowels of the fortress, following passageways with no thought to where they might lead or what he might find at the end of them.

  ***

  When Lokke snapped back into his own body, it felt smaller, weaker, almost cramped. He struggled to breathe. Felt dizzy. Legs too light. Light too bright. Where was he? Who was pulling him?

  “What about the door?” Roon-Kotke said, somewhere behind him.

  “Give me my lance.” Hannar-Ghan’s voice.

  “Lokke?”

  Then a rush of air, the familiar whump of a Fura firing. The sound of shearing, twisting metal. The smell of oconic fire and smoke.

  “You blew up the walkway!”

  “Now we don’t need a door,” the big caster said. “Problem solved.”

  “We also can’t get back!”

  “Lokke? Are you alright?”

  Lokke’s vision wobbled into focus as he listened to the squad bicker. Despite a mission gone horribly wrong, a traitorous Sergeant (twice over), a missing Junn-Kri (probably dead), squads of heavily-armed Yafai terrorists and ancient monsters of frightening strength, some things didn’t change.

  But it felt good to be outside again. They’d emerged onto a flat roof, perhaps twenty paces across, the doorway to the cells at his back, a crenellated battlement running along the other three sides. He almost didn’t see the four-barrel oconic cannon behind him, mounted on a smaller flat roof above the punched-out door. A metal ladder accessed it. If the Yafai had left any cartridges inside the weapon, it might come in useful.

  Lor-Qui stood at the battlement directly ahead and Lokke stumbled over to stand beside him, his balance still a little off. He was greeted by a magnificent view — the sun slipping towards the horizon, painting the sky with a smear of orange; the raised roadway they’d travelled down; the raised drawbridge; the almost endless expanse of trees. Lokke looked over the edge. Far below, he saw several masted carts in the courtyard, parked in a neat row, their sails furled, bookended by a hay waggon and a scatter of crates. No Yafai guarding the carts as far as he could see. He suspected they had bigger, furrier things to worry about.

  “Those carts,” said Hannar-Ghan, joining them. “They’re our way out.”

  “All very well,” said Lokke. “But how do we get down to them? We've got no rope. Not got much of anything seeing as the Yafai took our gear. I don’t fancy our chances climbing down without one. The stone looks too smooth. We’d never make it.”

  Oconic blasts sounded below them and, as Lokke looked down over the battlement, a Yafai caster flew through a window below, shattering the glass. The man screamed, waving his arms as if he might defy gravity and fly, before falling to the courtyard, landing with a wet slap.

  Yes. Climbing was most definitely out.

  “Maybe we could jump into that hay waggon?” Lor suggested, looking down to the courtyard.

  “I ain't falling into that,” said Hannar-Ghan. “Not from here. Not from half this height. Can't be done.”

  “I heard an assassin did it in the Briar once.”

  “Bollocks. Nobody could make such a leap. You’d break your legs.”

  “What about that wall-walk over there?” said Roon-Kotke.

  The rooftop formed the top edge a long central keep, the courtyard below protected by an inner wall crowned with another serrated parapet. If they could make it to the stone platform that ran along it, they would have an easy route down to the carts waiting below.

  If they could reach it.

  For it was about twenty paces distant.

  Thirty or forty paces below.

  Too far. Too low.

  With some rope, they could have swung the gap. With an air bridge, they could have simply walked across it. Without a crenellated battlement, they might have been able to take a running jump. But Kajjon architecture conspired against them. Unless… Lokke peered over the edge again. Looked down to the window that the poor Yafai had sailed through. Then he looked at the cannon.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said at last. “But you're definitely not going to like it.”

  “Try me. It’s not as if we’re blessed with options.”

  Lokke told him.

  “You’re right,” the Caster-Corporal said. “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s crazy,” added Hannar-Ghan. “You’ll kill us all!”

  “Or we get ripped to shreds by gromes or recaptured by the Yafai. Or we climb and fall. Jump and die. All bad options. If you have a better one, I'm open to suggestions.”

  Lokke turned and walked towards the cannon.

  “You’re sure about this?” Roon-Kotke said as Lokke climbed the rungs.

  “Not one bit,” Lokke admitted.

  The cannon was a black metal tube, thick as a dinner plate, two handles at the rounded back end, four barrels at the other, the whole contraption mounted on a metal base. Lokke gripped the handles and pointed the cannon at the rooftop. The rest of the squad retreated towards the punched-open doorway.

  “Hold onto something!” Roon-Kotke said, grabbing the ladder.

  “Three!” shouted Lokke.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea?” said Hannar-Ghan.

  “Two!”

  “Isn’t there another way?” Lor-Qui hollered.

  “One!”

  “Oh Hells!” shouted Roon-Kotke.

  “Going down!” yelled Lokke as he unleashed the cannon. Four beams of boiling light lanced out, obliterating the paved rooftop and the battlement surrounding it. The oconic blast gouged a deep crater in the age-old fortress, sending chunks of smoking stone spinning over the edge, crumbling and tumbling to the courtyard below. Slabs cracked and the floor gave way, collapsing in fog of choking dust.

  ***

  “Think of the keep as a block of cheese,” Lokke had told a skeptical Roon-Kotke. “The oconic cannon up there is our knife. What I propose is that we slice the corner off with it. Create a ramp that gets us closer to that wall-walk over there.”

  Lokke was as surprised as anyone that it had actually worked. Although the cannon was less a cheese knife, more a shovel.

  Quick as they could, he and the dust-covered squad traversed the rubble, scrambling and sliding down the newly-created incline, from half-blasted rooftop to the remains of the room below. After that, it was an easy jump to the inner wall and the wall-walk; a short run to the stone steps that zig-zagged down to the courtyard; a frantic sprint across the open space towards any cart that hadn’t been crushed by falling masonry.

  There were only two.

  They found Junn-Kri hiding beneath one of them.

  “Arano’s arse! You’re not dead.” Roon-Kotke helped the young caster to his feet, gave the boy a hug. “Were the gromes your doing?”

  Junn nodded, then scowled as he saw Hannar-Ghan.

  “Well done kid,” said Lokke, patting him hard on the back. “Good thinking.”

  Junn levelled his lance at the Sergeant, twisting open a chamber. “What’s he doing here? I saw him. Saw what he did to you...”

  “Easy now.” Lokke stood
between the two of them. “We’re not sure what side the Sarge is on. But he helped us escape. That’s good enough for now.”

  Roon-Kotke brushed himself down, straightened his tunic. “That’s right. We’ll deal with Han later. In the meantime, we need to get out of here before the Yafai turn up.”

  “Can you get one of these carts working, Lor?” said Lokke.

  The combat-tech climbed aboard the undamaged cart. “This thing is old,” he said as the wood creaked under his weight. “But the blower is a new addition. Probably stolen.” He inspected the side of the metal box and tapped it with his finger. “Yes. Definitely stolen. It has a Crick stamp on it.”

  “But will it work?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then make it ready,” said Lokke. He pointed towards the gates at the end of the courtyard. “Sergeant, make yourself useful. Open the gates.”

  “You're giving the orders now are you Mulai?”

  “Just do it,” hissed Roon-Kotke. “You gave up any right to question decisions when you turned us over to the Yafai. Consider yourself busted down to Caster.”

  “I freed you from the—”

  “Doesn't change what you did. Who you are. You certainly ain't forgiven. So open the gods-damned gates. Junn, give the turncoat a hand like the Colonel says. We're leaving.”

  “Colonel?” Junn looked confused. “Ember’s a Colonel? Since when?”

  “It’s a long story,” Roon-Kotke said. “Now move!”

  Junn ran to the gate. Hannar-Ghan shot Roon-Kotke a disappointed look before jogging over to join him.

  “The rest of you…” Lokke grabbed a hold of the cart by its side board. “Help me wheel this cart up towards the roadway. We need to line it up with the gates. These things aren’t built to turn, so we need a straight run.”

  With a clunk and a creak, Junn and Hannar-Ghan swung the gates slowly open. With a grunt and a groan, the others hefted the cart towards the opening. Ahead, Lokke saw the gatehouse and the raised drawbridge.

  “How do we lower the drawbridge?” Lokke asked Hannar-Ghan as he returned from the gates.

  “Don't know,” the big caster said with a shrug.

  “Is the mechanism here or at the gatehouse?”

  “Don't know.”

  “Remind me,” Lokke said with a disappointed shake of his head. “Why are we keeping you around again?”

  “Because,” Hannar-Ghan said, his anger rising. “Because I—”

  The drawbridge exploded.

  The raised crossing bloomed into an expanding knot of orange fire and black smoke, shattered planks spinning away, silhouetted against the flames, fragments of smoking wood raining down from the darkening sky like winter hail.

  “Where do you think you’re going, little Stone?” shouted a voice from behind them.

  Mila.

  Lokke turned to see the Yafai captain standing in the courtyard, lance in her hand, the end of it dripping with molten fire.

  “Get in the cart,” said Hannar-Ghan.

  “But the drawbridge…” said Junn.

  “Just get in the cart. All of you.”

  Lokke clambered into the cart as Mila loosed another Fura, the bolt scorching past him on the right-hand side, through the gateway and out along the road. A warning shot. The Yafai was toying with them. She’d destroyed the drawbridge to keep them from escaping. Could burn them any time she wanted. But she hadn’t. Lokke knew there was more skill in missing them from this distance than scoring a direct hit.

  “I don’t suppose anybody has a Wall left?” asked Roon-Kotke.

  Junn shook his head.

  “Fresh out,” growled the Sergeant.

  “Is this how you repay me?” Mila hollered. “After everything I’ve done for you?”

  “Charge the blower,” said Hannar-Ghan.

  Lor-Qui was taken aback. “But the bridge is out.”

  The big caster climbed up onto the cart. “We'll have to jump it.”

  “Stand down, pup.” Mila stood in the centre of the courtyard, lance still aimed straight at them. “Think about what you’re doing; where your loyalties lie. I won’t miss with my next shot.”

  “Jump it?” said Lor. “You’re not serious?”

  “Just charge the blower. Keep the brakes on for as long as you dare. We’ll need a fast start to make the jump.”

  Lokke checked the distance to the gatehouse and the smoking remains of the drawbridge. “We’ll never make it,” he said. “Your Yafai boss will blow us apart before we reach the gatehouse.”

  “No, she won’t.” The big caster stood up in the back of the cart. “Not if I’m aboard. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?” Roon-Kotke almost laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Stand down,” Mila yelled. “Or I’ll burn you!”

  “Then bloody do it!” Hannar-Ghan shouted back, tossing his lance down onto the stones where it landed with a clatter.

  Lokke could feel the oconic energy building inside the blower, heard the mast creaking, saw the sail swollen.

  Mila lowered her lance, teeth gritted. “I said the price might be too high. You made us a promise. Made me a promise… You must honour it.”

  “Honour is overrated. You told me that once.”

  “And you spoke of family. We are your family. I’ve looked after you. Cared for you. I taught you everything I know… I gave you a future. And now you turn traitor?”

  “I prefer freedom fighter…” Hannar-Ghan called out, before looking across to Lor-Qui. “Lor? Are we ready?”

  The combat-tech shook his head.

  “I can’t let you leave,” Mila shouted. “You know too much.”

  “Kill me then! I’m unarmed. But you couldn’t before. I don’t believe you can do it now…”

  The oconic blower rattled, pulling at the bolts that fixed it to the cart.

  “You’re right.” Mila lowered her lance. “You know me too well. I can’t do it.” A roar sounded behind her and a grome stamped through the doorway, huge and grey-furred, a giant axe in its hand. It stood at the Yafai’s side, snarling. Obedient. Another followed it. Then another. “But they can.”

  “Lor?” There was a note of panic now in Hannar-Ghan’s voice.

  “I think we’re ready!” said the combat-tech.

  “You think?” said Lokke.

  The gromes charged

  Hannar-Ghan pushed down the brake lever and the cart jerked forward. “Hang on everyone!”

  36. ANOTHER PENNILESS SOD

  TRAPPED. BEATEN. CAUGHT.

  Stripped of his dirty clothes, they washed Stone against an old brick wall. Three buckets of water thrown at him by one turnkey, the dirt scraped off with an old stiff-bristled broom wielded by another. He didn’t feel the cold. Didn’t notice the pain. He was already numb. Already hurting.

  His mother was gone. His liberty along with her. The money he'd saved entombed beneath the old stables, where he couldn't reach it. Not that it mattered. The battered tin didn't hold enough to buy his freedom. His mother's debt had now passed onto him, swelled by the twenty crowns the bailiffs had paid out for his capture and the cost of the windows he’d shattered in the Warden’s office during his escape. There were prison fees too. Water, a penny a bucket. His new prison clothes, five pennies more. A half crown payable for ‘settling in’. A smack and a half crown more for protesting the levy.

  He got the message, just as he knew his mother had. Keep his mouth shut. Do as he was told. He could see why the other Ash House inmates had no fight left in them. There seemed no prospect of escape. The windows were barred, the doors between the different rooms were locked and bolted. Many, as Stone now did, wore leg irons that restricted their movement, rubbing their skin raw.

  On his first day at Ash House, Stone retained some small hope that he might bust out. As he explored his new surroundings, he marked the routes the turnkeys took, eyed the height of the walls (although he’d need a rope to climb them…), tested the padlock on the sewer grating
(disappointingly secure) and looked for boy-sized gaps between the roof timbers that might lead outside (sadly none presented themselves). The former barracks might be old, but it was sturdily built.

  At night, he was crammed into a small room with eight other debtors, curled up on the damp floor, regulation grey smock providing little warmth. He didn’t get a wink of sleep.

  The second day his hope faded a little. The half-penny portion of bread he was given to eat was hard, the water decidedly murky. Worse, he was put to work by a turnkey named Wod-Khun Ghandhan, a vicious fella with a bent nose who delighted in the lordly power his uniform gave him. While his mother had toiled in the laundry to cover some of her expenses, Stone found himself assigned to the wheel — a prisoner-powered treadmill that ground cheap flour for local bakeries. Even if there was a way out of Ash House, after a day on the wheel he didn’t have the energy to look for one.

  On the third day, he could barely walk.

  By the end of the first week, Stone’s hope had all but gone. He had become like everyone else around him. Beaten and broken, queueing for a glimpse of the city outside. Just another penniless sod that nobody noticed or cared about, watching the world pass him by.

  On the eighth day, the warden called him to his office. Stone trudged behind Wod-Ghan the bent-nosed warder, tired and cold, legs shackled, chain rattling, stomach rumbling. He wasn’t eager for the meeting. He fully expected to be shackled to the thick metal ring set into the floor in front of Fowley’s desk, then told he’d incurred some stupid extra fee or fine. Perhaps he’d looked at the Warden the wrong way — a crown for disrespecting authority. Or he hadn’t delivered the necessary number of revolutions on the treadmill — his wages withheld, due to a lack of effort. What did the Mulai expect! He was only nine. Even grown men struggled on it.

  Shuffling down the short corridor, Wod-Ghan opened the door to the Warden’s office and dragged him inside. The room was dim, its broken windows boarded up, two longlamps shining a pale light. The odious Fowley was already sat behind his desk, counting a stack of coins. Flaunting his wealth. Stone wanted to reach over and choke the life out of him, even though he wasn't anywhere near big enough or strong enough to hurt the man.