Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  eventhorizonpg.com

  Chapter One

  At least I found something, Morticai thought as he tucked the papers into his pack and took one last glance around the moonlit study. Traditionalist paintings adorned the richly paneled walls. Books and maps lay in a haphazard clutter across the expensive furniture. A hawking hood, leash, and jesses lay scattered across the desk. He took one last look around to be certain he’d left everything where it had been before he’d entered—everything, except the incriminating papers he’d stolen.

  He moved to the narrow window where, as always, the night view of Watchaven gave him pause. He allowed himself a moment to savor it before he glanced down to the ground, twenty-five feet below him. Deep shadows from the interplay of the two moons cloaked the still courtyard.

  He could hear the muffled sounds from the servants’ party coming from the manor house, but they had changed from bawdy tavern songs to quiet murmurings. It was a good sign that the servants had discovered their drinking limits.

  “Ah, Lord Aldwin,” he whispered, “if only you knew how your faithful servants celebrate your absence.”

  Lowering his rope, Morticai began his descent. .Within a moment, he lightly touched down into the courtyard shadows.

  “Hey!” The shout erupted from the dark recesses of the coach house.

  Morticai spun around, his right arm still entwined in the ropes, and brought up a throwing knife in his left hand. He saw the blow coming, too late—it landed solidly on his right shoulder as he let go of the rope—but his knife flew sure, making certain that his opponent would strike no more. He drew his fighting dagger and held it ready in his left hand.

  Shrieks ripped the night air. Morticai ignored the nearly naked women who fled from the coach house, clutching their maid’s uniforms in front of them. The well-muscled human who held his attention crouched low, ignoring his friend, who had fallen with Morticai’s dagger lodged in his throat. Morticai remembered having seen the man’s huge arms and bulging muscles before—he was Aldwin’s blacksmith, a giant of a man who was as well known for his brutal temper as he was for his strength.

  The two couldn’t have been more mismatched. Although Morticai’s slight build, upswept ears, and boyish face marked him undeniably as a full corryn, he was short for his race, standing only as tall as the average human. The blacksmith easily outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

  Just bloody wonderful, Morticai thought. Of anyone who I could end up crossing, it has to be him.

  The blacksmith held a dagger in his right hand. Grinning wickedly, he beckoned to Morticai with his left, inviting him to come attack. Remaining on guard, Morticai gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and smiled back just as wickedly.

  The man’s grin faded. He charged, lunging with his blade aimed toward Morticai’s midsection. Morticai jumped to the left, grabbed the man’s knife arm, and pulled him head first into the wall. It was a solid hit. Morticai used the momentum to spin away, and leaped toward the courtyard wall.

  His timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Someone hit him at full speed, and the tackle drove him back and down. His head and upper back slamming against the tower’s wall.

  “No!” Morticai’s senses reeled as he fought to remain conscious. The dagger slipped from his fingers, clinked on stone, and land silently among the crushed flowers. He could smell the wine that lay heavy on his new assailant’s breath.

  He pushed back against the buzzing ache in his abused head. The latest human to enter the fight was drunker than the others had been—he wasn’t punching Morticai, wasn’t attempting to throttle him. The drunk seemed content to hold him, pinned under his crushing weight. Perhaps he wanted him alive …

  The fear of capture filled Morticai’s mind. He had grown up a corryn orphan in the streets of this human city, so his survival instinct, the urge to run, was strong. Driven by his terror of entrapment, he wrenched his pain-addled senses back into clarity. He snapped his knee up, hard, into his opponent’s groin. The human howled in agony and rolled away.

  Morticai abandoned his rope and daggers and dashed for the gate. As he swung up and over, he lost his balance and fell to the cobbled street. His low-slung pack took most of the impact, but waves of dizziness washed over him. Again, he fought back against unconsciousness as more of Aldwin’s people stumbled into the courtyard. Their cries of alarm spurred him on.

  Morticai gained his feet and ran as he hadn’t run in years—as though the Watch were after him, or the slavers, or worse yet, the Droken. He didn’t stop until he was far from Aldwin’s tower, deep within the tangle of narrow alleys that lay behind the aboveground entrance to the Bazaar. He looked behind him, but, for the moment, he could see no sign of pursuit. Walking carefully, he tried—not very successfully—to slow his racing heart. He had to rest. Panting and shaky, he leaned against a wall.

  A ragged peddler slunk across the alley and passed him with a cautious glance. A little farther up in the shadows, a drunk moaned in his sleep. Rats, hunting for their evening meal, skittered between the drunk’s feet. Nauseated and dizzy, Morticai put his back against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. He wasn’t certain how badly he was hurt, but he knew it was worse than he’d first thought.

  Gods, you’ve done it now, he thought. Perhaps if he closed his eyes for a moment, just until his head stopped spinning …

  * * *

  He awoke with a start, his left hand flying to the medallion of Glawres that hung around his neck. The alley was deserted, and the twin-moon shadows indicated to him that much of the night had passed. His head pounded and his shoulder throbbed, but it wasn’t his physical condition, or even the earlier events of the night, which set him to shaking.

  There were demons, called jevano, which preyed on people in the darkness. It was whispered that they’d been made by the Droken to prey upon the enemies of their evil god, Droka. Jevano could take corryn or human form, male or female, in order to blend in with their prey. They sapped the very life out of anyone upon whom they fed, eventually claiming the victim’s soul when he died. It was said that the jevano could steal not only the forms but the memories of their victims.

  As a child, Morticai had sat frozen in fear as the older children told such tales. Later, he chided himself for allowing them to frighten him with legends. Then had come the night when he’d huddled in a barrel, listening to the cries of a friend who had been sleeping in a doorway only a few feet away. Morticai had peeked over the edge of the barrel, had seen his first jevano, and had witnessed the death of his friend. The jevano had never even known he was there … or, perhaps, it had simply been sated.

  Whether or not a jevano had passed him on this night Morticai, didn’t know, but he thanked his patron, Glawres, the Levani god of the sea, that the medallion had fallen outside his shirt. Perhaps it had protected him.

  Inhaling sharply, he forced himself to start moving. He knew there would be trouble when he reached the Northgate barracks. Already, Morticai suspected that he’d be unable to make his patrol. He gained his feet and leaned heavily against the alley’s wall, waiting for his head to stop spinning.

  With one hand trailing along the wall to steady himself, he started for the hiding spot, a couple of miles away, where he’d stashed his good clothes and his uniform insignia.

  The barracks lay a long, long mile beyond that.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Aldwin drew his cloak in tighter as the light mist threatened to turn to drizzle. The human nobleman glanced at the overcast night sky, scowled, and muttered to himself. “This cursed weather has followed me all the way from Watchaven.”

  His corryn guide sto
pped before a wooden door.

  “Here we are,” the guide whispered. He glanced up and down the short alley before unlocking the door. “We control every property attached to this one. This gives us a level of safety we’ve never had in Dynolva before.”

  Aldwin checked his natural instinct to squint into the blackness beyond the doorway. His guide took a step inside, returned with a lantern, and then struggled to light it.

  Lord Aldwin grimaced. “Hurry,” he said. “I shall be soaked before we continue!”

  Once lit, the lantern revealed a long hallway, barely wide enough to accommodate them one at a time. As they walked along, Aldwin’s guide babbled on annoyingly, as though he were taking the nobleman on a tour and bragging about Dynolva’s most recently constructed monument.

  “Now,” he said, “the walls of this hallway are actually the walls of the two properties which adjoin this one. The property records filed with the city’s leasehold department do not show this hall at all. Instead, the plans show the door I just opened for you as nothing more than a second door into the servants’ quarters of the building on the right.”

  Aldwin’s interest increased. “They do not perform property inspections?”

  “Not in this portion of the city,” his guide replied. “Too much money and influence here.” He laughed. “We corryn do not take lightly to having our dinner parties interrupted for such frivolous activities as having our bedrooms counted.”

  They entered a small, open courtyard. Aldwin scowled at the guide’s inference that humans were weak for allowing such inspections, but he wisely kept to himself any comment he might have made. Although the courtyard was deserted, Aldwin knew that the odds were high that they were being spied upon.

  His guide stopped before a second door that, once unlocked, led into a small room that contained a number of curtained booths. Nodding silently, the guide held back a curtain for Aldwin. The nod signaled the end of the idle chatter—they were on hallowed ground.

  Aldwin removed his cloak and withdrew his Droken robe from the hidden pouch sewn into its back inside panel. He pulled the silk robe over his clothes and adjusted the masked hood. His guide was waiting for him when he reentered the small room.

  “Shall we?” the now robed and masked guide whispered.

  Aldwin nodded. The guide led him through another door and into the temple. It was smaller than the temple in Watchaven, but Aldwin had heard that the Droken in Dynolva had been repeatedly forced to move. He’d also observed that security for this temple was appallingly lax.

  It was apparent from the austerity of the temple that the local Droken had lost much in the recent raids. The room was laid out in the traditional octagonal design, but the stone walls were completely bare, the candelabrums were of iron, and the altar that stood on the dais in the middle of the room was a hideous, wooden affair. Aldwin smiled smugly behind his silk mask. Although the commoners in Watchaven were required to allow their bedrooms to be counted by bureaucrats, the Watchaven Droken had, at least, been able to maintain a decent temple.

  The temple was already half-filled. The varying heights of the congregation told Aldwin that about one fourth of the attendees were children. They were as silent as their parents, but that came as no surprise. Droken children were always perfectly behaved.

  A door on the opposite side of the temple opened, and the red-robed high priest led in the procession. The soft drumbeat and the scent of incense stirred deep memories in Aldwin. He’d been a child when the Watchaven temple had ceased using drums in favor of a chant during the service.

  The procession arrayed itself around the dais, and as the high priest stepped up to the altar, the drumbeat abruptly stopped. The priest began to speak. “Tonight we come into the presence of our most hallowed Master, Droka,” he said.

  Aldwin sighed. He should have known that here, in the corryn City of Dynolva, the service would be conducted in the corryn language.

  “We come with hearts laden with sadness,” the priest continued, “for there is one here among us who has sought to abandon the love of our Master.”

  A soft gasp escaped the crowd of worshippers.

  “Yea, it is so,” continued the priest. “But there is gladness, as well, for this one comes now to us penitent—and therefore choosing life over death.”

  Two members escorted a robed Droken, his hands tied behind his back, up onto the dais.

  “This is the offender!” the priest said as he swept back the offender’s mask and hood to reveal his face.

  The murmuring among the congregation told Aldwin that few, if any, of the worshippers recognized the human. It was common to send such an offender to a sister congregation for sentencing or penance. It was the offender’s identity, however, which had brought Lord Aldwin to Dynolva.

  “This is Lord Quinson of Watchaven,” the high priest proclaimed.

  Aldwin noted that Quinson closed his eyes and visibly swallowed at the high priest’s utterance of his name.

  Fool, Aldwin thought. He should have known that this would happen. Once admitted, no one leaves the Gathering.

  The guards untied Quinson’s hands. After a moment’s pause, he knelt before the priest.

  “Lord Quinson, what is thy sin?”

  “I—I sought …” he gulped in a deep breath that was audible to the entire congregation. “I sought to forsake our Master,” he finished with a sob.

  Fool, Aldwin thought again.

  “And doth thee repent?” asked the high priest.

  “Y-yes,” Quinson replied.

  “And doth thee choose life?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are there any here among us,” the high priest continued, gesturing broadly to the congregation, “who can vouch for this proclamation of faithfulness?”

  “Yea, I shall,” Lord Aldwin replied, speaking in corryn, and raised his hand.

  “And art thee in a position to report to our loyal Gathering, should Lord Quinson again betray Droka?”

  Lord Quinson looked nervously at him, obviously wondering who it was behind the mask who could claim to report on him. Quinson also had to know now that at least one other member of Watchaven’s nobility was Droken, for only a nobleman could possibly vouch for his future actions.

  “Absolutely,” Aldwin replied calmly.

  Quinson averted his eyes and lowered his head in submission.

  The priest nodded and turned back to Lord Quinson. “And doth thee know the penance for thy sin?”

  Quinson’s head jerked up, and as he studied the high priest’s unyielding stance, his face filled with fear. Finally, Quinson broke down, and it took him several attempts before his proclaimed ‘Yes’ was understandable.

  Aldwin was glad his mask hid the sneer of disgust that twisted his lips. For Quinson to act in such a way, especially before the commoners in the Gathering, was demeaning to the nobility.

  The high priest gestured, and a human boy, about age ten, was brought to the dais. The boy was tied, blindfolded, and gagged. Aldwin had only met Quinson’s son once before. The child had grown much since then. It was a shame, in a way—but the price must be met.

  The guards placed the boy onto the altar. Quinson began to shake from head to toe—Aldwin wondered if he would begin convulsing. He had seen it happen before. That incident had resulted in both the child and the penitent being sacrificed.

  But the high priest began the first litany and, as the congregation joined in, Quinson’s shaking began to slow. The priest went straight from the first litany into the sacrificial chant, and although all the color had drained from Quinson’s face, he did not faint nor try to flee. At last, he began to sway ever so slightly in time with the chanting, and he even began to mumble the chant himself. That was the signal the high priest had been waiting for.

  An acolyte brought forward the sacrificial dagger. He placed it in Quinson’s
open hand, but Quinson did not close his fingers around it. Instead, he stared at it blankly.

  Father of Darkness! Aldwin thought. Has the man no pride in his station?

  The high priest physically closed Quinson’s hand around the dagger and turned him to face the altar. He said something to Quinson that Aldwin could not hear, though it was undoubtedly some word of … encouragement. The chant continued and, as the priest joined back in, he began to increase the pace. Finally, Quinson squeezed his eyes shut and, raising the dagger high, he let out a scream and plunged it downward. The muffled cry of the child was barely audible over the chanting of the worshippers.

  Now that the sacrifice had been made, all that remained to be done was the dissection of the child for the communion ceremony.

  * * *

  The northern gate to the City of Watchaven had been given to the Northmarch long ago. Over the years, the gate had been fortified and enlarged, and now the original gate was engulfed by the battlemented structure that had become Northgate, headquarters for the Northmarch in Watchaven. Morticai’s quarters lay at the top of the eastern side of the fortress, beyond the attic rooms filled with extra armor and weapons. A clutter of trunks, old furniture, and knife targets filled the bulk of the spacious room. Well-defined paths crisscrossed through the clutter, from doorway to window, and from fireplace to fireplace. Captain Coryden had always found it an easy room to pace in.

  Coryden’s very name meant “half-corryn,” and his features were as mixed as his heritage—his deep amber eyes, upswept ears and arched brows bespoke his corryn blood, while his height, honey-colored hair, and unusually muscular physique pointed to his human heritage. As a half-corryn, he was something of a freak of nature—it was extremely rare for a half-breed to survive longer than a few days past birth. Once every few generations one did survive, but they were always barren. Never had a child been born to any half-corryn.