Hurricane (Street Rats of Aramoor: Book 2)

by Michael Wisehart

  On Fifthday, Mistress Orilla took us shopping for some new clothes. It was Reevie’s idea. He figured if he dressed me nicer than his too-small hand-me-downs, I would stand a better chance of being accepted by his tribe. I wasn’t sure how wearing a new set of clothes would persuade a gang of street kids to do anything more than try to take them from me. I hoped Reevie knew what he was doing.

  I used the gold piece the lady in the market had given me for saving her son. In truth, I was actually excited by the whole ordeal. It was the first time I’d ever owned clothing not made by my mother. We each got a new pair of trousers, a lightly colored linen tunic, a sleeveless leather jerkin, and a couple pair of woolen socks to go along with our new shoes. I was most thankful for the shoes. I didn’t know which was worse, walking around Aramoor with bare feet or trying to squish into an old pair of Reevie’s.

  Our new clothes were simple but well-made, which was perfect for a couple of street kids not wanting to stick out in a crowd. More importantly, they were clean, comfortable, and actually fit.

  I had a feeling Mistress Orilla supplemented the bill with her own coins. I couldn’t see how a single gold piece could have purchased everything we walked out of the shop with. Instead of making a fuss, I spent as much free time I as could helping them around the shop.

  The days passed quickly and my body continued its slow journey back to health. I felt well enough to begin the training regime I had grown up with. The exercises were rigorous, designed to break down and rebuild muscle, creating a honed Upakan warrior.

  I didn’t push hard at first. I knew my limitations, and the last thing that I wanted was to end up in bed again because of impatience. The sooner my body was back to acceptable fighting form, the safer I would feel outside our little corner of Aramoor.

  The granary was the perfect place to train. It had lots of wide open space, high ceilings with hefty rafters, perfect for climbing ropes. There were empty boxes and barrels and pallets to use as hurdles for a makeshift obstacle course. I even scrounged up an old pulley to use for weights.

  Above all its other worthy attributes, the granary was void of unwanted guests. We were an island to ourselves in a sea of stone and plaster. Living this close to the Warrens assured us a sense of freedom. We didn’t have to worry with constantly looking over our shoulders for patrollers, other tribes, or the occasional looter. Only the immensely brave or the immensely stupid chose to live this close to the old city.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Reevie practically fell out of the open hatch when he saw me hanging from the rafters by my legs. There was a panicked look on his face. “I didn’t spend the last few weeks putting you back together so you could kill yourself in front of me!”

  “Don’t worry. I do this all the time—or did, back home.” I waved it off. “It’s nothing. Just helps with blood flow.”

  “Tick fever it does! Now get down here before I feed your supper to the cats since you seem to be too stupid to eat it!”

  The threat of losing supper was all it took. “Alright, I’m coming down.” I repositioned my legs around the beam and began to rock myself back and forth. There was a rope in front of me, a good six feet away. I needed to get up enough momentum to swing myself over to it before I let go of the beam. It was a tricky maneuver, but I had done really well in my training today and I felt up to it.

  I slowed my breathing and concentrated.

  “You’re not about to . . .” Reevie didn’t finish. I figured he was too afraid he’d break my focus and cause me to fall. Knowing him, he was probably thinking up some really nasty diseases to swear at me as soon as I landed.

  I kept my eyes on the rope. My body was moving swiftly now, back and forth, back and forth, swinging me a little further out each time. I didn’t look down. All that existed was me, the rope, and the beam. Nothing else mattered. I pictured the rope in my hands and held on to the image as I counted down on the forward swings. Three . . . Two . . . One . . . Release!

  I let go of the beam and sailed forward. I was a leaf on the wind. My eyes never left the rope. I opened my hands as I closed the distance. Just as I had pictured, I grabbed hold of the rope and swung outward. It was a wonderful feeling. Freeing. I let the rope pull me along as we flew through the air. We hit the apex and it snapped.

  My heart leaped into my throat.

  I vaguely heard Reevie cry out as I continued forward, the frayed piece of rope still clutched in my hands. I dropped it and grabbed at anything within reach. My fingers wrapped around one of the other nearby ropes and I slid down, not caring a whit whether it burned my hands. I just wanted to get back on solid ground.

  Before my bare feet hit the floor, Reevie had his arms around me. I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes. He pulled away and punched me as hard as he could before limping back downstairs. No horrific diseases were cursed my way, no threats of a lost meal, only silence.

  I would have preferred the diseases.

  Reevie didn’t say anything about my training after that. I think he resigned himself to the fact that I was going to do what I was going to do, and if I ended up getting myself killed doing it, then he’d simply have to clean up the mess and look for another crazy roommate with which to share his meals.

  I found some newer, stronger rope and continued to train. With no one around to see, I’d usually strip down to nothing but my underpants in order to spare my new clothes the wear and tear of a hard workout. By the time I was through each day, I was thoroughly soaked, winded, and in need of a good bathing. And Reevie would let me know it.

  We found an old washbasin in one of the abandoned buildings nearby. With some brilliant ingenuity on Reevie’s part, we managed to move it into one of the smaller rooms at the back of the granary. There were times during my training that I’d catch Reevie watching me as I moved through my combat routines: punching, kicking, spinning, rolling. My body’s natural responses were coming back. I was barely getting winded now. The burning ache after a grueling session of drills felt wonderful. It told me I was making progress.

  I was even able to talk Reevie into joining me during some of my simpler exercises. There was only so much he could do with his bad leg, but I was able to devise some helpful exercises that allowed him to build his endurance and strengthen his upper body.

  “No, move your foot here,” I said, pointing at a spot on the floor with my bare toes. Reevie slid his foot forward to the place I indicated. “See? That will give you more balance.” I placed my hands on his shoulders and rocked him slightly. “When your feet are spread further apart it makes you less likely to fall.”

  I wanted to give him some amount of ability to stand up for himself since he couldn’t exactly run from a fight, so I taught him some of the basics. In truth, it was all I really knew to offer. “Good. Now block with this arm, and punch with that fist. Like this.” I demonstrated and Reevie copied. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  The more we practiced the more proficient Reevie became. At the very least, it gave him some much needed self-confidence, which was very important for someone in his shoes. The way things were shaping up for me here in Aramoor, I had a feeling we were going to need all the help we could get.

  Red and her gang were still out there.

  “Are you ready?” Reevie shifted his feet with eager anticipation as he waited for me to step out the front door of the granary and into the grey-fingered light of an early dawn. The ship bells rang in the change of watch. Their tones echoed through the empty streets, letting us know our time had finally arrived.

  The fresh, salty tang to the air outside our warehouse was invigorating. I slid my fingers down the edge of my leather jerkin. The still-new smell of my clothing gave me a slight boost of confidence. Maybe today—unlike every other time I’d set foot on the streets of Aramoor—wouldn’t go horribly wrong.

  It had been at least three weeks since I’d last left our cozy hideout on the south side of town, three weeks since I had visited Master Fentin’s shop or eaten one o
f Mistress Orilla’s mystery meat sandwiches. I felt guilty from my lack of attention, but I had spent every free moment working to get my body back into shape so I’d be ready for today.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled with determination. “Yes.”

  Reevie looked skeptical as he studied my face, but he finally nodded and shut the granary door.

  “Where is your tribe located?”

  “At the heart of the Maze.”

  “Maze?”

  “Another name for Cheapside.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’ll see.” He handed me his sack of herbs and we started up the street. “Now remember, don’t speak unless spoken to.” He glanced in my direction. “Better yet . . . don’t speak at all.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I’m just looking out for you. You’ve only got one shot at this. Don’t waste it with an ill-timed comment. You might be some super-deadly assassin-warrior, but in my world, a pair of fast hands and swift feet is no match for a cool head and a cunning mouth.”

  I almost laughed. That sounded like something my instructors would have said. Well, maybe not the bit about a ‘cunning mouth,’ but definitely the need for a cool head. We were taught to clear ourselves of emotions before a fight. “One who is swift to emotion is swift to defeat,” my father would say.

  Reevie even reminded me of my father sometimes: same inflections in his voice, same serious tone; same scrutinizing glare. It left me with a good feeling, for the same reason it did when my father used to scold me, because I knew he cared. Reevie might act tough and claim he only saved me for selfish reasons, but I knew better. He was the first real friend I’d ever had.

  “Alright,” Reevie said as we started into the Maze. “There are some things you need to know. First of all, the head of our tribe is Spats. And before you go asking, I’ve got no idea why he’s called Spats.

  “Hurricane isn’t the largest tribe in Aramoor, but they aren’t the smallest either. They are one of the poorest.”

  “So why did you choose to join them?”

  Reevie thought for a moment as he limped along. “Necessity, mostly. They were the first tribe to contact me, and because of my small skill as a healer, they were happy to let me join.”

  Reevie didn’t seem all that proud of his association with Hurricane. It seemed more of a relationship of convenience. This was foreign to me. Upakans were proud of their families. Winning was a way to earn better standing for your house, something my family had depended on me to do. Unfortunately, my tendency to attract trouble usually had the opposite effect.

  “Hurricane has been around for nearly two decades,” Reevie said, “which is quite the accomplishment, considering the conflict between tribes, especially over picking grounds.”

  “Picking grounds?”

  Reevie passed me a sheepish look. “A picking ground is a . . . a . . . Blisters! It’s not really important what a picking ground is. We need to focus on getting you on Spats’s good side and keeping you there.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “For starters, by not asking so many questions.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How am I supposed to learn anything if I can’t ask any questions?”

  “By keeping your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open.”

  I grumbled but didn’t argue.

  “Spats surrounds himself with bootlickers. Being willing to do anything he says gets you attention—and a promotion more often than not. He likes winners, as long as they acknowledge their success results from his exceptional leadership. So keep your mouth shut and your head down. With your skills, you don’t want to be seen as a threat. Exceptional people tend to catch fatal diseases, like acute metal poisoning in the back.”

  I grimaced. The more Reevie talked about this Spats, the less I liked him. I wanted to ask him again why he was a part of this group, but I didn’t push. I got the sense that he wasn’t thrilled that his survival depended on his standing with a rough group of kids. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of teaming up with them myself, but apparently, I wouldn’t last long in Aramoor if I didn’t.

  The streets slowly filled the farther north we walked as the rest of the Maze began to wake. Men kissed their wives good-bye while mothers called their children in for breakfast. I found myself longing once more to hear my own mother telling me it was time to eat.

  The houses in Cheapside were crammed together like stacked shipping crates on a dock waiting to be loaded. There was hardly room enough to breathe. Families were stuffed into tiny, barely affordable spaces. Each tenement was three or four stories in height. Lines of clothing ran like spider webs between buildings. The air was rife with the stench of overpopulation. I tried holding my nose, but it didn’t help. How could anyone live here?

  Reevie noticed my expression. “You get used to it.”

  I found that hard to believe.

  We crossed out of a residential district and into a cluster of small shops. The buildings, though much nicer than the residential area we had just left, were in desperate need of repair.

  “This used to be the main shopping district for Aramoor centuries ago,” Reevie said as he stopped long enough for me to have a brief look around.

  Even though decayed with age, the buildings were ornate. Instead of flat stone, the walls had definable layers. Intricate trimming around the windows and doors added a unique flare. The builders had gone to a lot of work to chisel out each block, some with elegant designs.

  I could almost imagine what they must have originally looked like, but they had been left to rot as the city grew and the wealthy moved into the newer sections as they were built. Their beauty eroded with time. The decay had begun to chip away at the walls, leaving entire sections looking as though a good wind would bring them down.

  It was a depressing sight. I understood all too well the effects of time. The Lost City where I had grown up had at one time been the capital of all Keldor, but after the eruption of Ash Mount and the tremors that followed, the city was swallowed, burying its once regal beauty under a mountain of rock.

  “We need to prove to Spats that you’re valuable,” Reevie said, diverting my attention from the surrounding buildings. “We need to give him a reason to keep you around, something that doesn’t make you stick out.”

  “I’m sure I can think of something,” I said with a mischievous grin.

  “Yeah, that’s what worries me.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I hope so. ‘Cause . . . we’re here.”

  We rounded the corner of the last shop and followed a winding brick path that ended at a large ornate wall. It was at least twelve feet in height. It had strange looking creatures chiseled into the lower half of the stone and unfamiliar glyphs at the top.

  “Interesting place for a street tribe,” I said, gawking at the wall’s decorations. I had never seen, or heard, of any of those animals pictured before.

  “We call it the Temple.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Reevie scratched at his mop of light brown hair. “I guess because it used to be a temple.”

  “Temple to what?” Several heads peeked over the top of the wall as we neared the front gates.

  “To Egla.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Reevie looked at me funny. “She was one of the faerie overlords defeated during the Faerie Wars at the end of the First Age. Don’t you know anything about history?”

  “That was thousands of years ago. How am I supposed to know that?”

  Reevie shrugged. “Common knowledge around here. Anyway,” he continued. “I heard her subjects captured her with one of those durma collars and fed her to her own pets. Guess that’s what you get when you make yourself out to be like the Creator.”

  I glanced at the wall of strange creatures and shuddered.

  The faces of the lookouts began to take shape as we approached. “Who goes there?” a squeaky voice called out.

  “You
know who,” Reevie hollered back. “You’re looking right at me, Toots.”

  “You know I’ve got to ask, Healer.”

  Reevie sighed. “This is why I prefer to live on my own.” He looked back up at the top of the wall where three or four new heads had popped up to see what was going on.

  Give us the password,” one of the heads said.

  “Oh, for pity sake. This is embarrassing.” Reevie shook his head and recited.

  “There is no chief as brave as Spats.

  All others are as dumb as rats.

  If any wish to enter here,

  Stick out your tongue and then draw near.”

  “Bet you’ll never guess who wrote that little ditty,” Reevie muttered under his breath. “Just follow my lead.” He stuck out his tongue and then took two steps toward the iron gate. I grudgingly did the same. I couldn’t believe we were standing there with our tongues sticking out at a metal gate while kids above us snickered down their approval. I guess from their perspective we did look pretty ridiculous. I would have chuckled myself if my tongue hadn’t already been preoccupied.

  The metal gate creaked as the bar swung upward and released the lock. As soon as it opened, a number of boys and a couple of girls rushed out to get a look at me. I pulled my tongue back inside my mouth and straightened my back. I wanted to look as formidable as possible.

  “One more thing,” Reevie said under his breath as the gates ground to a stop. “Whatever you do . . . don’t embarrass me.”

  “Who’s this, Healer?” an older boy asked, looking me over. He was at least a foot taller than I and skinny as a broom handle. His arms and legs were thin, easy to break if the need arose. My training took over and I analyzed the kids around us, cataloging weak spots.

  “This is Ayrion,” Reevie said to the growing crowd. “He’s new to the city, and wants to petition a place in Hurricane.”

  “Not much to him,” one of the girls in front said as she stepped forward and stared at my colorless irises. “Those are some strange-looking eyes.” She took a step back. “I’m Sapphire.” It was easy to see where she got her name. She had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen.