Rogue Legacy: The Secret History of Issalia

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  The man’s bushy brows rose in surprise. “Hmm. Raw gold. A good-sized chunk, too.”

  He reached for it, and Lyra yanked her hand away.

  “Not until we have a deal.”

  Darvin nodded. “Fine. Food and a room for a week.”

  “That’s it?” Lyra held the gold chunk up, rolling it in her palm as she examined it. “This is worth far more than that. In addition to food and a room, I need a bath…and food for the road when I leave as well.”

  “Deal.” He held out his hand, appearing eager. Lyra set the gold into it as greed reflected in his beady eyes.

  Her stomach growled. “I’ll take dinner now, please. Then you can show me to my room and the baths.”

  Lyra stepped outside, completely rejuvenated. Dinner, a bath, and sleep, followed by a hearty breakfast, and she was ready for a new day. Before entering the city, she worried that her leather Tantarri garb might make her stick out, but she now realized that the city hosted such a variety of styles, hers was not outside the norm. There was no norm.

  Not having any particular agenda, she strolled down the street, toward the harbor. A man with a cart of produce called out to her, but she ignored him. Another man, this one in a wide-brimmed black hat and a white tunic grinned at her, the gaps in his smile spoiling his otherwise handsome appearance. She passed an alley and heard a groan. A glance in that direction revealed a man passed out across two crates. An empty bottle lay in the alley, below his dangling arm. Lyra shook her head and moved on.

  A woman in a faded blue dress emerged from a shop, directly into Lyra’s path as she swept dirt out the door.

  “Oh. Sorry Miss,” the woman said as she stepped aside. “Do your boots be needin’ any repairs by chance?”

  Lyra shook her head as she walked past. “Not today.”

  “All shoes wear out. When they need some fixin’, be sure to come back. My husband is the best cobbler in Wayport.”

  With a wave to the woman, Lyra emerged from the shadowed street into a large square. A dark stone keep bordered the east end of the square, otherwise surrounded by streets spreading outward, like the spokes of a wagon wheel.

  She crossed the square, empty other than the waist-high platform at the center, large enough to fit twenty people. Lyra’s brow furrowed as she passed the platform, curious as to its purpose. Rather than linger, she continued toward the waterfront, seeking cooler air. Despite the early hour, the heat from the sun was intense, made worse by the humidity of mid-summer in a port city.

  Beyond the square, Lyra entered another street, covered in shadows cast by a row of two-story buildings blocking the rising sun. A cluster of men walked down the street in front of her, quiet and subdued as they headed toward the harbor. She slowed to match their pace, trailing the men as they headed toward the docks. Stopping when she reached the end of the street, Lyra surveyed the view.

  A long dirt incline ran down to a wooden boardwalk that encircled the bay, connecting docks to waterfront warehouses where goods were stored for transit. Beyond the docks, bright blue water shimmered in the morning sun, becoming a darker shade near the breaker line further out in the bay. Ships of varying sizes and types lined the docks, while others sailed out toward open waters. Some of the sails were a bright white, gleaming in the sunlight, while others were darker shades, many worn and tattered.

  A slap to Lyra’s backside made her jump. She turned to find a tall man passing by, gaps noticeable amidst the toothy grin stretching across his face.

  “A good mornin’ to ya, lassie!”

  Lyra stared at the man with a sense of vague recollection. She watched the man walk down the boardwalk, heading toward a ship tied to a slip along the center dock. The image of his shaved head and goatee suddenly clicked with a memory.

  “Sully?” she frowned as she recognized the man.

  Still unsure of what she needed to do in Wayport, she recalled her last meeting with the sailor and how she had taken his gold in a game of knucklebones. Could Sully be the reason I’m here? Elden told her that she would find herself compelled by her own nature to do it, whatever it was. She certainly felt no compulsion to help Sully or even speak with the man.

  With a sigh, Lyra broke her gaze from the sailor and headed toward the boardwalk, enjoying the breeze coming off the water as it eased the intensity of the suppressing heat.

  For hours, Lyra meandered about the docks, not willing to leave the ocean breeze by venturing further into the hot city. After a couple hours, she grew tired and opted to sit on a short wall to rest her feet, still sore from four days of travel.

  Now nearly mid-day, the harbor remained busy, with new ships arriving from other ports, filling the slips vacated by those that had set sail during the morning hours. Even near the water, soothed by the caress of a cool breeze, Lyra found herself sweating. It would be even worse in the city, but her stomach urged her to return to the inn for food. After all, she had paid for it.

  As she gathered the motivation needed to brave the heat, she felt a small tug on her belt. She glanced down and found a hand on her coin purse as a knife cut it loose. Lyra’s hand darted toward the retreating purse. The knife slashed out, and she yanked her hand back in pain, glancing at it to find a shallow cut on her palm, filling with blood.

  Lyra slid off the wall and faced the cutpurse, a boy of eight or nine summers. Dressed in rags topped by a mess of long hair and a freckled face smudged with dirt, the boy appeared to be among the dregs of the rough city.

  “Give me that, you little runt.”

  Without a word, the boy darted off. Lyra leapt over the wall and made chase down the narrow street, toward the heart of the city. He reached a crowd at the end of the street and wiggled through. She slowed as she approached the crowd. Standing on her toes, she tried to peer around the people for the thief, but she couldn’t see him.

  Seeking a better viewpoint, Lyra turned and found a drainpipe secured to the corner building’s wall. She gripped the pipe and pulled herself up, finding a foothold on the sill of a nearby window. When she had risen high enough, she stretched, gripped the rail of the second-story balcony, and pulled herself onto it. The square below was crowded with hundreds, perhaps a thousand people. A man paced the platform at the center, shouting to the crowd. With a head of long, dark curls and a mustache with waxed tips, curled at the ends, the man had the look of a Kalimarian aristocrat. His red jacket, with tails at the back, along with his puffy white tunic, only added to the image. Two guards, big and burly, stood behind him. The guards held a man between them – his hands shackled behind his back and a sack over his head.

  Lyra listened absently as she searched for the boy, somewhere amidst the mass of people.

  “…as I, Joven Harrington, have promised on numerous occasions, as Governor of Wayport, to remain vigilant in protecting our city and its lovely citizens.”

  The crowd cheered, and the man waved his arms to quiet them.

  “When I discovered that vile witchcraft was being conducted inside the very walls of Wayport, I immediately ordered the city watch to capture the offender. Worse yet, this man had been hiding his use of witchcraft behind a church, one that sought to convert innocent Wayport citizens to his twisted beliefs through the subversion of black magic.

  “Last night, my men located the man and sought to arrest him. Unfortunately, he killed four guards and wounded a dozen others before he could be subdued.”

  Harrington appeared upset, shaking his head. “Good men, lost to black magic. They will be missed.

  “This offender now stands before you. Within my court, this man has been tried and has been found guilty. What kind of man would conspire with demons, you ask? Behold!”

  In dramatic fashion, the governor placed his hand on top of the man’s head, gripped the sack, and pulled it away. The crowd gasped. Lyra gasped.

  “Cal?”

  Cal’s face was bruised and scraped. His brown hair was damp with sweat, pasted to his forehead.

  Harrington cont
inued, waving the sack around as he spoke. “Per the laws of our free city, this criminal will be publicly executed for his vile deeds. Let this be a warning to others who seek to corrupt Wayport with black magic. Any person who wishes to view the end of witchcraft in our city, come to the square at dawn.”

  The crowd cheered again, far louder than before.

  Expelling shallow, panting breaths, Lyra watched the guards drag Cal down the stairs, through the crowd, and toward the stone building that bordered it to the east.

  With the cutpurse completely forgotten, she now knew why she was in Wayport. Lyra steeled herself to her task. She would free Cal, or she would die trying.

  41

  The streets below were quiet and had been for hours. Lyra stared across the square, toward the torchlit keep entrance, watching for movement.

  Where is he?

  A dog barked a few streets over, followed by a woman’s voice.

  “Shut it, you stupid dog!”

  Lyra smiled, thinking that some things remained the same everywhere. Her smile faded when the guard appeared, strolling out the doorway a few strides. The man surveyed his surroundings, his gaze sweeping the empty square before he turned and walked back inside.

  The moment the man disappeared, Lyra slid off the edge of the roof until she hung by outstretched arms. She released her grip and dropped to the balcony, bending her legs to absorb the landing. Without pause, she climbed over the railing and lowered herself down again before dropping to the ground.

  Emerging from the dark street, Lyra strolled across the square with a nonchalant stride, acting as if it were as normal as breathing. She passed through the keep entrance and found herself in a bailey, quiet and empty save for a single torch, shedding light on the two benches straddling a closed door.

  She put her ear to the door. The dark wood felt cold and damp as she listened for movement inside. Hearing nothing, she bit her lip and turned the knob before easing the door open.

  A dark hallway stretched before her with the amber light of a torch flickering at the far end. She heard men’s voices, the mumbling sound unintelligible. After gently closing the door, she crept down the hallway. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, Lyra put her back against the wall and peeked around the corner, pulling her head back instantly and then closing her eyes to recall the image.

  It was a rectangular room, perhaps ten strides across and twice the length. Three closed doors lined the wall opposite from Lyra. Another torchlit room stood at one end, filled by men seated around a table beyond an open doorway. Two dark stairwells waited at the other end, one heading upward, the other down.

  Lyra thought about the citadel in Sol Limar, recalling that the jail cells were located in the basement. Expecting the same here, she picked her destination and took a deep breath, firming her resolve. Ignoring her racing pulse, she focused on her goal and slipped around the corner.

  With a furtive glance toward the room with the guards, she slid along the wall, toward the stairwell. Laughter from something said sounded from the room and one man patted another on the back. Lyra turned to find the stairs two strides away and quickly crept down them, fading into the darkness.

  At the landing, the stairwell turned to reveal another half-flight. Flickering light from an unseen torch illuminated the area just enough to guide her to the bottom.

  She turned the corner and stopped short when she faced a man’s chest. The eyes of the guard who had almost run into her grew wide, his mouth opening.

  Years of training with Elan sent Lyra into action. She lunged, throwing a hard jab into the man’s exposed throat. The guard staggered, his hand going to his neck as he choked, while his other hand latched onto Lyra’s shoulder. She kicked, slamming her knee into the man’s groin. He released her, and he doubled-over. Yanking her sword from its scabbard, she raised it high for an overhead strike and smashed the pommel against the back of his head. The guard collapsed to the dirt floor, twitching in jerks and fits.

  Lyra circled around the man and glanced back at him as she passed the torch mounted to the corridor wall. His body settled, no longer moving. Dead or unconscious, either suited Lyra.

  She came to another room, lit by a single torch. Three heavy doors lined the walls to each side of the narrow space, while the torch was mounted to the wall opposite from Lyra. Moving toward the nearest door, she whispered.

  “Cal? Are you in there?”

  A booming voice came from inside the room. “Let me out. I’ve done no wrong.”

  Lyra frowned. That wasn’t Cal’s voice.

  She moved on to the next door, “Cal? It’s Lyra. I’m here to help.”

  A moment of silence followed.

  “Lyra?”

  Lyra moved to the last door on that wall, the one from where she had heard the voice.

  “Cal. Is that you?”

  “Lyra? What are you doing here?”

  Replacing her sword in the scabbard, Lyra drew her dagger and the two bent needles she stored in the same sheath. She knelt before the lock, inserted one needle, and began to poke around for the trigger. The needle found resistance and she twisted it until she felt a click. The other needle followed, along with a similar process. It clicked, and she slid her dagger into the lock. When it didn’t turn, Lyra frowned. Her heart sank as she realized that there were three tumblers.

  Cal’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Are you going to let me out?”

  “I’m having trouble with the lock.”

  “Did you get the keys from the guard?”

  Lyra turned and looked toward the corridor, wishing she had thought of that. She sheathed the dagger and needles, retracing her steps to find the guard still lying facedown. Kneeling beside him, she used her dagger to cut the ring of keys from his belt. The man stirred, groaning. Lyra held the dagger ready if needed, but the man didn’t move again.

  She stood and ran back to Cal’s jail cell, trying two keys before she found one that opened the lock. As the door swung open, the torch light ate away at the darkness within. Cal emerged into the light and Lyra’s heart soared. She darted forward and hugged him tightly.

  “Oof.” He choked. “I’m thrilled to see you, too. Would you mind freeing my hands before someone comes and locks us both up?”

  Lyra released her embrace and noticed his arms shackled behind his back.

  “Sorry.”

  She examined the keyring and found a set of smaller keys, the second of which unlocked the shackles clamped around Cal’s wrists. With them removed, Cal stretched, working his arms and rubbing his wrists.

  “If I ever have to wear those things again, it will be too soon.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “Really? You don’t care for the accommodations?”

  Cal grinned. “The room is fine. It’s the service that is lacking.”

  Lyra chuckled. “If that’s the case, I agree. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Just a moment. I don’t have anything to write with, so I need to borrow your dagger.”

  She handed him the knife. Cal pulled his sleeve up and began tracing a rune on his arm, gritting his teeth as the shallow cuts drew blood here and there. When he was finished, he handed the dagger back to Lyra and closed his eyes.

  Anxious moments passed as Lyra stared toward the corridor, expecting to see guards appear at any moment. She looked back at Cal as his eyes opened, crackling with red sparks of energy. The symbol on his arm began to glow brightly, pulsing before fading. Cal staggered, and Lyra leapt forward to grab him, holding him upright. After a moment, he nodded.

  “I’m good now. Thanks.”

  He turned toward the nearest cell door and grabbed the handle, pulling the door off the wall, sending splinters flying from where the lock and hinges were torn from the thick wood. The man inside cowered, blinking at the light. He was a small man, old and thin.

  “You are free, Jessep,” Cal said as he helped the man from the cell
.

  “Free?” The old man appeared dazed, confused.

  “Did you forget that I have the keys?” Lyra asked.

  “Oh. Good idea. Would you please unlock the other doors?”

  As Lyra approached the third cell on that side of the room, Cal broke the shackles from the old man’s wrists. She opened the cell door and found a big man inside, with thick shoulders and a shaggy brown beard, streaked with splotches of blonde. The man squinted at the torchlight and gave her a grin.

  “Thank you, lassie.”

  Cal slid beside Lyra. “Don’t get any ideas, Hagget. She’s with me.”

  “Why? Are you going to perform your witchcraft on me?”

  “Do you want to escape or not?”

  The big man stepped out from the cell, ducking to get through the door. “Oh, I want out of here, and I plan to take a guard or two down on my way out.”

  Cal nudged the man’s shoulder, and he spun around so violently that he fell into the wall. With ease, Cal gripped one of the man’s shackles and broke it in two. A moment later, both shackles fell to the floor, and the man turned toward Cal with a strange look in his eyes.

  “That’s some interesting magic you’ve got there.”

  Cal smiled. “It comes in handy from time to time.” He turned to Lyra. “Open the other doors. I believe they are empty, but I want to be sure.”

  As requested, Lyra opened the other three cell doors and found them empty. Cal nodded to Lyra before turning toward Jessep and Hagget.

  “We’re getting out of this place. Stick together until we’re clear of the keep. After that, we split up and it’s each man for himself.”

  Hagget nodded toward Lyra. “What about the girl?”

  “I’m with Cal.” Cal turned toward her, and she gave him a smile. “You won’t get away so easy this time.”

  He smiled in return. “You seem to have your mind set.”

  “Yes. Now, let’s go.”

  With Hagget in the lead, they walked into the corridor and headed toward the stairwell. The big man gave the prone guard a kick in the ribs before pulling the man’s cudgel from his belt loop. The guard groaned as Cal and Lyra stepped over him.