He’d had a good laugh at that one, even if the others had made his blood run cold—if his blood could have run at all.
The harbor had emptied of everything but local vessels and a few high-decked warships flying Imperial colors. Maarkov had asked around the harbor for the Imperial crewmen, but none of the local sailors had seen them in some time. The Imperial Registrar’s Office was closed, as was the Magistrate. Signs nailed to the doors of both establishments directed all inquiries to Shundov Castle.
Who’s doing Maaz’s dirty work? The strega weren’t capable of staging such killings on their own. Maaz would need to be present to control them, which was one of the reasons he always sent Maarkov to take care of those things. Inera was with the Emperor in Moravia, which meant either his brother had a new apprentice, or he was doing the work himself.
What about that corpse who summoned you to the castle the night of the attack?
That thing had made Maarkov’s skin crawl. In all the long years in Maaz’s service, Maarkov had never seen its like. Between the giant creature he’d ridden through the darkness, the fighting strega, and this new prime-corpse, the spring had brought an entirely new cast of horrors.
“Oi! Dead-legs!”
Maarkov froze. His eyes flashed to the end of the dark, dripping corridor he’d been walking. A distant figure stood in the path ahead. Maarkov couldn’t make out details, but he recognized the frame of the waif. Maarkov made to speak, but the lad took off down a side corridor before Maarkov could say a word.
Muttering a curse to the gods, Maarkov dashed in pursuit.
The urchin was just as quick as the last time Maarkov had chased him. The boy led him through twists and turns, keeping just at the edge of sight. Maarkov would see the tail of his cloak turning the corner just in time to follow, or hear his splashing footsteps echoing from the stone. He had learned his lesson about using his body’s strength in this slippery environment. Maarkov kept his bursts of speed to straight alleys and avoided springing from any slime-covered walls.
The lad stayed well ahead of him. Maarkov cursed as the chase dragged on. He called out to the boy more than once, but the lad ignored him.
They ran up a flight of rickety stairs that shuddered under the weight of Maarkov’s boots. The boy slipped past like a shadow, the stairs barely registering his passage. Maarkov slowed as much as he dared, frightened the stairs would fall apart if he put too much weight on them.
The stairs led around a large, square foundation caked with moss and corrosion. Maarkov chased the waif onto a narrow landing. The boy fled, running down a wooden pathway sandwiched between shadowed columns. Maarkov smiled, pleased with the footing, and sprinted after the boy. He summoned the cold strength of his legs and gained speed, wind rushing in his ears.
The boy made a great leap, which made Maarkov slow down. He hadn’t seen the wide gap in the wooden floor, but the crude wall on the other side was easy enough to pick out. The boy flew over the gap, catching hold of wooden boards nailed across the columns on the other side of the gap. He climbed to the level above and disappeared over the edge, silent as a shadow.
Not this time, you slippery little shit!
Maarkov leapt, caught hold of the boards. He started to climb, but the wood moved beneath his feet. Maarkov had just enough time to curse the gods before the boards tore free from the columns. He tried to scramble upward, grasping blindly for a handhold, but there was only empty air within his reach.
Maarkov shouted another curse as he fell.
He hit something that shattered on the way down, but the impact at the bottom was more painful. Maarkov’s legs cracked as he met something jagged and hard. There was a sharp piece of metal pierced through his thigh, and something else was jammed into the small of his back. It took a moment for the entirety of the pain to hit him.
When Maarkov realized he couldn’t move his legs, panic gripped his sluggish heart.
Before he could cry out, a face appeared over the ledge above. Maarkov was going to yell, but more faces appeared. Silhouettes materialized from the shadows, standing around the edge of the pit to gawk at what lay below.
“You got him, Tam! Just like you said!”
“Did you see his face when he fell?”
“Gods, he’s fast! I never seen a man run like that.”
“Got the spirits in him. That’s what my da would’ve said.”
“Your da’s dead, Jory.”
“So is yours! You shut your mouth!”
“All of you shut your mouths!” snapped the boy in the cloak. “Get the stuff! Go!”
Maarkov coughed, which made a few of the little forms jump.
“Kids,” Maarkov said. “You’re a bunch of damned kids.” His brother would kill them all for this. “Get me out of this—” He winced with pain as the effort of speaking became too much. “Get me out of here and disappear. Get out of the city and never stop running.”
“Sounds like a threat, dead-legs. You’re lying at the bottom of a pit right now, all busted and broken. I don’t think I’ll listen to anything you say.”
“Kid—”
“Shut it, pale-face. Jory!”
A scratching noise sounded from above, coupled with flashes of light. After a moment, an orange glow filtered down into the hole and illuminated those standing above. They were a motley group of kids, all of them different ages. The one with the lamp—Jory, unless Maarkov missed his guess—was almost as tall as a man and as big around as three of the other kids put together. A skinny, tow-haired child stared over the edge in wonder, as did a girl with the same color of hair. More silhouettes moved in the darkness above, but Maarkov couldn’t see them.
The boy with the cloak stepped forward, pushing the hood back from his head. He was a freckled youth with short, curly hair the color of copper. He had suspicious eyes that regarded Maarkov with all manner of hatred. Maarkov wondered what he had done to earn the kid’s displeasure.
Another face appeared at the edge of the hole—a young Rashardian boy with a ring through the middle of his nose. The ring glimmered in the orange light as the boy turned to look at the leader. The Rashardian boy bowed, an instinctual cower in his shoulders, and nodded to the copper-haired waif.
“That’s him, dakim.” The Rashardian boy looked away when the waif met his eyes. “I remember him from the meeting in…in Master Irrhan’s house.”
The waif scowled. “I’m not your fucking dakim, Renni—remember that.”
“Yes, da—I mean, Tam.”
“What is this?” Maarkov tried to glare at the waif, but his body was wracked with pain. “You don’t know what you’ve—what you’ve done.”
“Jory?” The leader to the bigger youth.
The fat boy began moving things around. Some of the other kids rushed to help, and a storm of activity ensued. Something large scraped across the wood and a barrel appeared at the edge of the pit.
“Maybe this will show you what’s what, dead-legs,” said the waif. “Go ahead, Jory.”
“You sure, Tam?”
“Do it.”
The larger boy moved behind the barrel. He counted to three and lashed out with a kick. The barrel tipped, emptying something onto Maarkov that felt oily and smelled acrid. Maarkov coughed and sputtered. He wiped his eyes to clear his face of the substance and got a good sniff as he rubbed it between his fingers.
Pitch! Where does a gang of street thieves get a barrel of pitch?
“Judging from the look on your face, you’re starting to understand the situation.”
Maarkov turned a scowl on the copper-headed boy. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
There was a pause as other children gathered around the edge of the hole. Maarkov counted twelve of them, including Jory, Renni, and the boy whom the others called Tam. They peered down at him, eyes gleaming with a wild, morbid fascination.
Tam moved to the edge of the hole and held the lamp high. “I’m going to ask you questions. You give the answers. If you pl
ay us fair, we’ll toss you a rope. If not—”
“The lamp,” Maarkov finished. “What’s going to keep me from strangling the lot of you once I get up there?”
Laughter rose from the gathered kids.
“You’ll have to catch us first, dead-legs,” Tam said. “How’s that worked out for you so far?”
“I’ll get my hands on you eventually.”
More laughter bubbled from the little troop.
“We’ve been watching you for a long time, pale-face,” Tam said.
“We saw you with the spice merchant,” said one of the children.
“Near the alehouse, too—the Wayward Mule down in the Dithers,” said another.
“And the castle!”
“We saw you in the harbor!”
“We’ve seen you walking the Gutters every night, dead-legs.” Tam smiled and gave Maarkov a wink. “But we’ve known who you are for a long time. We’ve been looking for you.”
Maarkov stared at them. “Why?”
Tam scowled. “You took something from us.”
“Yeah!” a voice said from the darkness.
“Yeah!”
“Tell him, Tam!”
“Set him on fire, I want to see what happens!”
Tam gestured at the other children and they settled down.
“I didn’t take anything from you,” Maarkov said. “I don’t know who you are.”
“But we know who you are. Now—first question, dead-legs.” Tam wiggled the lamp over the hole. “Don’t stutter. I’ve got slippery fingers.”
Maarkov tried to shift his weight but the pain defeated the effort. “Fine! Ask!”
“We want to know what you did with our sister!” shouted one of the girls. Voices from the other children spoke up in agreement. Maarkov turned a confused look on the boy named Tam.
“Your sister? I don’t know a damned thing about anyone’s sister!”
Tam sat on the edge of the pit and dangled the lamp in a single, crooked finger.
“You might remember her,” he said. “Her name is Bethany.”
THE END
Of
BOOK FOUR
Of
The Seven Signs
A Note From the Author
Thanks for coming all this way with me. Your company on this journey has been humbling, believe me. I know people say that sort of thing all the time—oh, I’m so humble for all the attention you’ve been giving me, I’m so thankful, blah, blah, blah—but it’s true. You all have been incredibly patient with me. For that, you have my eternal gratitude.
This book was a tough one to write, to be honest. It’s the great big middle of the series, the hump over which we have to get before the downhill slide of dominoes dropping toward the final battle. The Big Bad Confrontation. I hope my efforts have proved well-spent and the book doesn’t feel like the middle. I said in the last book that we were a third of the way through the plot, and that wasn’t strictly true. There are only two more books left in this series, with a possible seventh if it just spills over like a boiling kettle, so it will soon come to a close.
Our heroes will get what’s coming to them, whatever that may be.
Muahahahahahahahahahaaaaa….haha…ha…*cough
Thanks so much for picking up an odd little story and spending your time with me.
If you’d like to help the book reach more people, please consider leaving it an honest review. The words of readers like you push an author to keep writing and convince other readers that a story is worth their time. If you love the series, love the characters, or just love the insults Allen and Bethany devise, let someone know.
CLICK HERE to leave an honest review.
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Thanks again. I hope to see you in the next book.
About the Author
D.W. Hawkins lives in southern Arizona.
You can find out more about him here: www.dwhawkins.com
You can also look him up on Facebook and follow him on Twitter @authordwhawkins
He hopes you enjoy reading his work as much as he does writing it.
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The City Under the Mountain (The Seven Signs Book 4) Page 46
