Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  Far beneath Taziar, Ida scuffed her sandals on the packed dirt floor of the roadway. A dress designed for an adult hung in loose bulges, its hem frayed and filthy. She clutched a tattered cloak tightly over it to protect her from the cold. Her head hung low, and she flung her hand outward on occasion, as if carrying on a conversation with herself.

  Taziar examined the pathway; his aerial position accorded him a safe view over the rain barrels and garbage. Finding Ida alone, he descended the wall stones and slipped into the alley beside her. “Ida?”

  At the sound of Taziar’s voice, Ida jerked her head up. Her limbs went rigid. Tears traced meandering lines through dirt on her cheeks, and her eyes appeared swollen. A crimson bruise marred the soft arc of her jaw.

  “Ida?” Cut to the heart, Taziar reached out to comfort her. What kind of heartless madman would hit a little girl?

  Ida dodged Taziar’s embrace, back-stepping until her shoulder touched the wall. Her voice sounded as scratchy as an elderly man’s. “Harriman’s men trapped Rascal and the others in an old warehouse in Ottamant’s Alley.”

  Taziar cringed, his fear for the children intermingled with his memory of his own arrest in that same alley a few months earlier. “You escaped?”

  Ida shook her head, avoiding Taziar’s gaze. “They let me go. I’m supposed to tell you ...” Her breath came in sobs from crying. “... they’ll kill anyone caught talking to you.”

  Aware how difficult Ida found her words, Taziar shared her grief. Slowly, without threat, he reached for her again.

  Ida shrank away. She blurted, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” Finally, she met Taziar’s stare. “I don’t want you to get hurt either.”

  “Ida, please.” Taziar approached. “Rascal and the others ...”

  Ida shuffled backward for every step Taziar took toward her.

  Taziar stopped, and Ida stood in miserable, quaking silence. “I’ll get them free.” Lacking any other way to soothe, Taziar promised without any knowledge of what his vow might entail. “You’ll see. I’ll release them and get you all safely out of the city.”

  All color drained from Ida except the angry splotch of the contusion. “Taz. The warehouse ... Harriman ...” Sudden panic made her stiffen. Her eyes rolled, revealing the whites like a frightened cart horse. Abruptly, she whirled and ran, the slap of her sandals echoing between the buildings.

  For some time, Taziar stood in quiet uncertainty, senses dulled by a heavy barrage of emotion. Grief and guilt weighed heavily upon him, and he knew he had brought disaster to the only Cullinsbergens who dared to trust him. They’re only children. Taziar wrestled between decisions. Do I go after Rascal or try to comfort Ida? The girl’s sorrow and fear haunted him, and he made his choice quickly. The sound of her footsteps had already grown faint. Abandoning caution, he chased after her.

  Ida had run straight to the alley’s end, then turned into a zigzagging branchway. Taziar followed. Aware this lane had no outlet, he was not surprised when her footfalls fell silent. He jogged past rain barrels, skirted a shabby, abandoned cart, and dodged the bones and rotted fruit littering the ground. He saw where one of Ida’s footsteps had smashed an ancient apple to brown mush. Ducking around the final corner, Taziar found her slumped between a stack of crates and a pair of barrels. An overhanging ledge hid her in shadow, her form barely discernible in the gloom.

  “Ida?” Taziar freed his ankle from a discarded scrap of parchment, approaching slowly so as not to startle her. “Ida?” Concern made Taziar careless. As he moved closer, he noticed that her back was not heaving, though he would have expected to find her crying. She did not stir as he reached out and gently grasped her shoulder.

  Taziar’s touch dislodged Ida, and she fell limply into his arms. Warm liquid coursed through his fingers. He cried out in shock and alarm. Catching her chin between his hands, he met sightless, unblinking eyes; and his grip glazed blood across her cheek. Dead. How? Taziar wrapped his arms around Ida, cradling her to his chest. He explored her lower back with his fingers, found the sticky slit where the knife had penetrated her dress at the level of a kidney. His grip tightened protectively, and tears stung his eyes. Gods, no! She’s just a child. Silently, he rocked her like an infant in a crib.

  “Freeze, Medakan weasel!” The voice came from directly behind Taziar, accompanied by wild scramblings amidst the crates.

  Taziar’s heart missed a beat. Ida’s corpse slipped from his grip, smearing blood the length of his sleeves. He berated himself with every profanity he could muster. I walked into their trap like an ignorant barbarian who never set foot in a city before and paid with Ida’s life and probably my own. It occurred to Taziar he might deserve whatever cruelties these men inflicted on him. But his survival instinct remained strong, fueled by the fact that he alone knew about the capture of Rascal’s gang. Driven by the need to help them, he glanced up to meet the three men who threatened him with swords.

  “I’m unarmed,” Taziar said, the disclosure intended to make Harriman’s men overconfident rather than as a plea for mercy. He rose, holding scarlet-slicked hands away from his empty sword sheath. He backed toward the wall, and the men closed into a semicircle around him. They all looked vaguely familiar to Taziar, strongarm men and cutthroats from the fringes of the underground.

  The one directly before Taziar spoke again. “I said ‘freeze,’ Taziar. You forget the language?”

  Taziar stole a glance at the stonework behind him, not bothering to reply.

  The man continued. “Don’t move, and you won’t get hurt.”

  Keep them talking, Taziar reminded himself, aware he had to distract them before he could make a move, “That’s not reassuring coming from someone who just knifed a twelve-year-old girl.” The words emerged not at all as Taziar had planned. He winced. That’s right, Taz, you idiot. Antagonize the brute with his sword at your chest.

  “We didn’t kill her.” The man to the right spoke, revealing teeth darkly-stained and rotting. “You did. Murderer!” He spat. “Child killer.”

  Guilt stabbed through Taziar, sharper than the hovering swords. He back-stepped, feeling cold granite against his spine.

  The center man gestured to the companion to his left who turned and started rooting through the crate wood. “Taziar Medakan, you’re under arrest.”

  “Under arrest?” Taziar glanced between the swords, seeking an opening. But the central man took a side step, neatly closing the gap created by his companion’s absence. “You can’t arrest me. You’re criminals, too.”

  The third ruffian returned. He had sheathed his sword and was clutching a sturdy board of the same length. “Then we’ll beat you senseless, drag you to the baron’s keep, and leave you on his doorstep as a present.” He brandished the plank. “You’ll wake up in the dungeon.”

  I’ve escaped before. And there might be some advantage to helping my friends from the inside. Taziar banished the thought immediately. A lot of luck and an inhumanly strong barbarian aided that breakout. If I try something that crazy, I’ll need at least Astryd’s aid. And thanks to my impulsiveness, my friends have no idea where I am. He studied the group before him, realizing from their sneers they had no real intention of surrendering him to the baron. They’re lying. Playing me. Probably preparing to take me back to Harriman for another pounding by his berserks. “What’s happened to the underground? We used to take care of each other. We settled differences among ourselves. We never hurt one another, never harmed the children.”

  The center man snorted. “So the traitor wants to give lectures on loyalty.” He inclined his head toward his board-wielding companion. “Take him.”

  The instant the leader’s attention turned, Taziar twisted, leaping for the wall stones. His fingers settled naturally into irregularities, and he scrambled upward. He had nearly reached the level of the ruffians’ heads when his blood-wet fingers slipped. He tottered, catching his balance with effort. A hand skimmed the fabric of his pants leg, and he knew the men had him. If t
hat grip closed, they would rip him from the wall and probably beat him in anger and frustration.

  Desperate, Taziar sprang backward. Momentum knocked the fingers aside. He sailed over the men’s heads, landed awkwardly on a mangled cartwheel, and rolled. He gained his feet as the men whirled toward him. “Get him!” the leader screamed.

  Taziar ran. He swerved through the jagged alleyway, the pounding of his pursuers too loud and close for him to pause long enough to get a grip and climb. He charged back into the lane where he had met Ida, sprinted its length, and dodged into a branchway. Uncertain which way to go, he hoped to lose the ruffians in the crowded market streets. He had no goal. He only knew places where he did not dare lead Harriman’s lackeys: the inn room that lodged his friends and the warehouse in Ottamant’s Alley. And the back roads are ruled by the underground.

  Taziar careened through the threadlike network of lanes, turned a corner, and slid into the bustling main street. Behind him, the leader’s voice rose above the clamor. “Catch him! Murderer! That man killed my daughter!”

  Damn! Taziar plunged into the masses, elbowing through tiny gaps, smearing blood across the passersby. A woman screamed. The crowd parted before him, most too afraid to get involved. A hand seized Taziar’s cloak, jolting him backward. He slipped to one knee. Pulling his arms free, he let the fabric slide from his back. The resistance disappeared, and Taziar lunged forward. Women skittered, screeching, from his path.

  “Murderer! Murderer! He killed someone! He stabbed a little girl!” The cries emanating from the thugs were picked up and echoed by the crowd. Blows rained down on Taziar. He ducked his head, using his arms to shield his face. No longer certain how close his pursuers were, he dared not glance back. A foot snagged his ankle, sprawling him into a tight knot of citizens. They scattered. A boot thumped painfully against his back and another crashed into his scalp. Dizzy, he staggered to his feet. Catching a glimpse of the gray mouth of an alley, he ran for it, no longer concerned about street toughs and thieves.

  Most of the citizens feared the back streets, and the footfalls and shouts faded to those of half a dozen dogged pursuers. From the voices, Taziar recognized at least one of the ruffians among the group. The alley looked unfamiliar, which made Taziar uneasy. He knew the entire city to some extent, but this side of town least of all, and he harbored no wish to corner himself in some dead end. Have to think. Plan my course. Climb? Each breath came with a burning gasp. Cold, autumn air dried sweat from his limbs, and he felt simultaneously chilled and overheated. Can’t climb here. Enemies too close. Hands sticky. Buildings too far apart. They’ll surround me. He raked hair from his eyes, smearing blood across his brow. A ruse. Something to gain me time and space, a moment out of sight.

  Taziar came to a four-way intersection. Recalling a rear door viewed from one of the alleyways, he chose the left pathway, grimly knowing it would again lead him to the main streets. A dozen strides brought him into the market area, and he plunged into the masses from necessity. Behind him, the leader of the ruffians hollered again. ”Murderer! Catch him! He killed my daughter!“

  Taziar counted shops as he ran. He leaped over a foot intended to trip him and deflected a punch with his elbow. Suddenly, he swerved, swinging wildly. Startled citizens shied from his path, leaving him a lane to the jewelry store. Catching the knob, he sprinted through the doorway. The panel slammed against the wall and bounced closed. A wizened jeweler glanced up from a project. Before a counter covered with tiny gemstones, a patron screamed. Taziar vaulted to the countertop, knocking a colored wash of precious stones to the floor. They scattered, rattling across the granite. The jeweler cursed Taziar with steamy epithets as the Climber sprang to the ground. Unable to gather enough breath for an apology, he struck the back door with his shoulder and emerged into the alley.

  Aware his maneuver would only delay his pursuers, Taziar fled. He swung into the first byway, and there discovered a dark crack between buildings scarcely wide enough for the scraggly tomcats that prowled the streets. Skilled in squeezing into tight spaces, Taziar pressed his back to the opening and wriggled inside. Rats scratched and scuttled deeper in behind him. Stonework abraded skin from Taziar’s shoulders. He heard the slap of the jeweler’s back door followed by a gruff voice. “Which way?”

  “This way!” the ruffians’ leader called breathlessly. “The other way leads back to the street.”

  Footsteps pounded toward Taziar. He fought the urge to pant, holding his breath until he thought his lungs would burst. The noises passed, and he gasped gratefully for air. He grasped the edges of the fissure, dragging himself painfully toward the opening. For an instant, he writhed forward. Then he wedged tight, arms straining, the pressure aching through his shoulders. I’m stuck. A rat screeched, and Taziar’s mind turned the sound into an echoing cry of hunger. He forced down panic. By degrees, he shifted, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling fully before making another attempt at freedom. This time, he edged back into the alley.

  Aware his pursuers might return, Taziar took only enough time to wipe the drying blood from his fingers with his shirt. Then, catching handholds in a stone and mud wall, he clambered to the roof. He crept to the opposite side in time to watch the ruffians disappear around the corner of a parallel alleyway. Carefully, he braced his hands on the ledge of a neighboring roof and pulled himself across to it. He slithered down into the roadway they had abandoned and climbed another wall. In this manner, he gradually worked his way toward Cullinsberg’s east side and Ottamant’s Alley.

  Crushed, winded, and alone, Taziar knew he could never hope to save Rascal’s gang. But I have to assess the situation so Astryd, Silme, and Larson have a clear idea of where we’re going and what we’re against. He continued toward his goal, springing, climbing, and descending, concentrating on every back street, hidey-hole, and handhold to keep him from the pain of other contemplations. Ida’s death, his imprisoned friends, Allerum and Silme facing off with a corrupt baron, Astryd asleep and by herself, he pushed all these thoughts to the back of his mind, not yet able to deal with the grief. Just as after his father’s death, the excitement of evading enemies and performing a difficult task channeled aside what he could not face. He threw himself into his task with a fanatical thoroughness.

  As Taziar drew closer to Ottamant’s Alley, he grew even more absolute in his attention to details. Several blocks from the warehouse, he discovered lone men and women pacing around buildings with an idleness uncharacteristic of citizens or thieves. By establishing patterns and waiting for these guards to turn corners, he avoided them with ease. Closer to the warehouse, he noticed the singles had become groups, their patrols more erratic. With more difficulty, he dodged these, too.

  Still two blocks from his goal, Taziar ascended the five stories of the alehouse and studied the layout from above. His vantage allowed him to view three of the warehouse’s four sides. Windows were cut into the western and northern walls, with entryways to the north and south. Three men guarded each alleyway around the warehouse, their backs pressed to its walls. Another lay on the roof tiles, watching over the northern side, a crossbow and quiver of quarrels beside him. Acutely aware of the small number of people capable of climbing buildings, Taziar knew the crossbowman would prove quick and agile.

  Taziar considered returning to his friends, but he wanted to make certain the children were inside before risking any more lives. A plan took shape in his mind. In the same manner as before, he worked his way to the south side of the alehouse. Locating an alley currently vacant of its guard, he secured a long, narrow board. Pulling off his bloodstained shirt, he wrapped the wood to muffle sound. He hauled the board to the back side of the warehouse across from the one in Ottamant’s Alley and cautiously, grip by grip, dragged it to the roof.

  Taziar’s position gave him a perfect view of the bowman’s feet and the three guards in the throughway below. He freed his shirt and tied it to one end of the plank. Secure in the knowledge that people rarely think to look over their he
ads, Taziar inched the board across the space between his rooftop and the bowman’s. The cloth slid soundlessly across tile. He waited, heart pounding. But the man on the rooftop did not turn. Below, the thieves chatted, apparently oblivious to the events directly above their heads.

  Taziar continued, the familiar euphoria of fighting against steep odds tainted by the realization that success would require nearly as much luck as skill. Quick efficiency would decrease the chance of a random glance in his direction, so Taziar did not hesitate. He stepped onto the board, felt it sag beneath his weight, and was glad for the slight stature that had served as both blessing and curse in the past. He crossed silently and without incident. The midday sun struck Taziar’s shadow immediately beneath him, and he was careful not to let its edge fall near the bowman as he approached.

  Reaching the western edge of the warehouse, Taziar flattened to the roof tiles and examined the wall below. The guards pitched stones at pieces of rotting fruit, laughing as a direct hit sent feasting yellow jackets into flight. Halfway between Taziar and the guards, the window lay flat and featureless beneath him. Taking advantage of the thieves’ preoccupation, Taziar descended the wall above their heads, balancing speed against the risk of dislodging dirt and vines and thus revealing his location. The alley guards continued their sport as Taziar caught the window ledge and peered inside.

  Men filled the room, perched on crates or on the floor, most huddled near the doors. A brief examination of the storage area revealed no sign of the children, and Taziar realized he had been set up. No doubt, the urchins’ bodies lay, dismembered, in some back street, labeled with a warning of the consequences of helping Taziar Medakan. Few of the street people could read, but it would only take one man to interpret the writing and spread the news. Taziar froze, half-naked and shivering from cold that pierced deeper than the autumn weather. He watched in horror as a thief’s gaze found him. A finger stretched toward the window, accompanied by a shout that mobilized everyone. Taziar scurried up the granite, catching new handholds as fast as he could loose the ones below. An arrow sailed past his ear as he hurled himself over the ledge to the roof. His head slammed into the crossbowman’s face hard enough to set Taziar’s skull ringing. Impact knocked him to his side, and he caught a dizzy glimpse of criminals gathering far below him. He reacted instinctively, wrenching himself sideways to change the direction of his momentum. Catching his balance, he charged across the rooftop to the board, realizing as he did that the bowman lay, moaning on the tiles, holding his nose. Taziar raced across the plank, too pained by the children’s certain deaths to laugh.