He slammed into something hard. Water rushed around him, pinning him to a set of iron bars stretched across the canal. Chunks of wood, torn cloth and other refuse clung to the rusted bars. Grabbing hold of the sharp, slimy metal he pulled himself to the surface. Coughing and sputtering, Ahren found the walkway embankment and crawled onto the filthy stone. His stomach heaved and he vomited putrid water.
Still panting, Ahren rolled onto his back. His fingers felt along his stomach, finding the plamya bag still tucked beneath his drenched tabard. He had light, but his sword lay somewhere at the bottom of the canal. Removing one of the glowing gems would help him see, but leave him exposed. If Dolch or any of the soldiers scouring the labyrinth found him, it was over.
Taking a deep breath, Ahren rose to his feet. His hand moved along the smooth stone wall beside him as he blindly followed the passage. The roar of rushing water filled the darkness, but Ahren focused his ears, listening for the faintest sounds buried beneath.
Lightning flickered through the street grates above, momentarily illuminating the tunnel ahead. The arched passage appeared empty save a pair of black rats fleeing the rising water. He continued onward.
The passage sloped slightly upward as it turned. Torchlight flickered ahead and Ahren crouched in the corner. A pair of armed soldiers marched toward him. Ahren’s disguise had worked before, but he knew not to risk it. He inched back, ready to retreat, but they turned into a side passage instead. Ahren waited for their light to move away before hurrying past and continuing on.
Lightning pulsed above, briefly showing the tunnel split just ahead of him. Sticking to the left side, he made his way carefully toward the divide when another flash lit the tunnels. Dolch moved from a nook in the shadows.
Fear lurched inside Ahren’s gut. He dropped lower, readying for an unseen attack. Another flickering pulse flashed from above, lighting the tunnel long enough for him to see the demon-man heading toward the right passage.
Ahren waited several long breaths before moving from his place. Carefully, he followed the walkway toward the left tunnel. Again the passage veered to the side, and he spied a colorful glow through a low passage ahead.
Water overflowed from the canal, and now splashed under his feet as he hurried toward the plamya stone’s glow. Dropping to his knees, he crawled quickly through a cramped tunnel, before emerging in the passage.
The soldier’s body still lay face down on the stone, his extended hand inches from his fallen sword. Rainbow hues shone from the glowing gem resting only a few feet away. Its narrow prismatic beams danced off the encroaching water and reflected across the chamber walls.
Ahren scanned the rest of the passage to be certain he was alone, and then hurried from the low tunnel to the man’s sword. He leaned to pick it and the glowing stone up, but stopped.
He rolled the body over. The man’s pitted and broken face was beyond recognition. Ahren pulled the now corroded helmet from the dead man’s head. Bits of blond hair and scalp peeled off with it. He scraped them away and put the helmet on. Checking the body for anything else, he removed a copper medallion of rank and put it around his neck. The corpse watched him with ruptured and dimpled white eyes. Teeth grinned up from his lipless mouth. Ahren rolled the body into the surging current beside him. Its chain shirt dragged it instantly to the bottom. Ahren looked around one last time, then lay face down on the ground with his outstretched fingers brushing the fallen sword.
A thin film of water ran past his face along the stone, slowly covering the walkway. Ahren remained still. Sneaking up on the demon-man was hopeless, as would be a straight-out fight. Dolch expected him to be irrational. He was counting on Ahren’s emotions to weaken him. Ahren had spent much of his life around killers, and the true ones all told him the same thing: emotions got you killed. He had to bury his. Forget the darkness. Forget Katze. Only when it was done could he mourn her.
The water crept higher, past the helmet’s nose guard, and flowed against his face. Dancing light across the chamber walls waned as the rising water threatened to consume the half-submerged plamya stone. He’d need to move soon.
He remained still. The rising water touched his lips. Soft tingles moved across Ahren’s back and neck. Through the corner of his eye, he spied shadowy tendrils snake across the walls. A faint splash came from behind him and ripples moved past.
Holding his breath, Ahren watched black soft leather boots creep past, only inches from his face. Fear and anger welled inside him, but Ahren suppressed them.
He waited until Dolch had moved past, and then slowly lifted his head. The demon-man’s back was to him. Wrapping his fingers around the wooden sword handle, Ahren lifted the blade. Water poured off him as he rose.
Dolch stopped and turned. His one eye widened is surprise, a blade of darkness springing to solidity in his hand.
Clenching his eyes, Ahren raised the soldier’s sword and swung, bringing it down hard on the glowing gem lying in the water between them.
A deafening boom erupted, trembling the walls and vibrating the bones in Ahren chest. Hot water splashed across his face as he held tight to keep the sword from flying from his hand. Redness filled his vision behind his tightly closed eyes as the magical gem exploded.
He opened his eyes to see trailing sparks, like miniature comets, shooting across the room, ricocheting off the water and bouncing off the grimy walls. Some sputtered and glowed as they flew burning beneath the muddy waves. A semicircle of hot steel glowed in Ahren’s blade where it had struck the gem.
Holding his eye, Dolch staggered back. He screamed in fury and black flames erupted in his open fist.
Ahren surged to his feet and lunged. Blindly, the demon-man threw his cursed fire. Ducking to the side, Ahren swatted it away with his sword. The hot blade steamed and shattered a foot from the hilt.
The bounding sparks began to fade and darkness encroached. Ahren sprang forward. He side-stepped a wild swing of Dolch’s black sword and drove the broken blade deep into the man's gut. Blood oozed over the handle and across his fingers. Orange lights grew around them as Ahren stared deep into Dolch’s one blue eye and shoved the blade deeper, twisting it upward.
The demon-man’s mouth hung open in a shocked stare. The black blade in his grasp wavered then dissipated. He staggered back, the broken sword jutting from his body, and fell into the raging current.
A hand grabbed Ahren’s shoulder and he spun around. Three soldiers with torches stood behind him. The leader said something, but Ahren couldn’t hear above the ringing in his ears. He shook his head.
“I said, good work,” the soldier yelled. “You killed the Black Raven.”
Ahren could only stare at him in shock.
“We heard an explosion and got here just in time. Are you okay, sir?”
“I…I killed him,” Ahren said, regaining his composure.
The soldier slapped him on the back. “That you did. Come. Let’s get out of here before the damned place floods.”
Ahren’s body ached as the adrenaline wore away. He followed the soldiers down a long passage before coming to a ladder to the surface.
“Good thing we found you,” the sergeant said. “What squad are you with, sir?”
“Merchant District,” Ahren lied. He pulled himself up the ladder to the raining street above. “Sergeant, how many more men are down there?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe a dozen.”
“Give me a few minutes to collect myself,” Ahren said. “You and your men do a quick sweep. Get our boys out of there before it fills up.”
The soldier nodded, and led his men back down into the tunnel. Ahren waited a few moments, enjoying the rain washing away the grime coating his body, then hurried several blocks back toward the Royal Warehouses.
He slowed in an alleyway looking out across the street to the building on which Katze had died. A lone soldier sat on the bench of a horse cart, staring down a narrow passage. A soaked dun tarp lay rolled around a dead body in the b
ack.
Ahren threw his shoulders back and marched toward the cart. “You, what are you doing?”
“Waiting for them to bring the bodies out,” the bearded soldier replied.
Ahren jabbed his finger toward the rolled tarp in the back. “Who’s that?”
“A girl, sir. The Black Raven murdered her before running into the sewers. He killed a soldier there too.”
“Why don’t you go help them carry our fallen brother instead of sitting here. Men are dying!”
“B…but…the cart, sir,” he stammered.
“I’ll watch the cart. You go.”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir.” He scrambled from the bench and hurried down the alley.
Ahren watched him leave, then crawled up onto the bench and drove the cart and Katze’s body away.
#
The next night, Ahren and her father brought Katze outside the city and buried her on a hilltop overlooking the bay. Dressed in a gown of white they laid her in her grave with one of the glowing plamya stones upon her chest. The buyer would have to settle for three of the magical gems instead of five. This one was hers, so the darkness would never touch her again.
Darclyian Circus
“You have blood on these hands,” the old woman muttered. Her dry wrinkled fingers worked their way firmly across Ahren’s palms. “Cleaning them is useless. There is more to come.”
Wondering if the white-haired crone could hear his thoughts, Ahren’s eyes scanned the packed wagon interior around him, trying to think about something other than why he was really there. If she caught so much as a hint about the emerald or the Tyenee, he’d be dead. Unusual baubles lined the narrow shelves beside a white skull above the fold-down bed. Webs of colored glass, bone, and wooden beads draped from the cloth-covered ceiling. Feathers and brass keys hung in a strange pattern above them, giving a vague air of mystery the old witch deliberately sought. Fegmil the circus master stood quietly behind him, and Ahren couldn’t help feeling a little discomfort under his unseen gaze.
“What is it you do?” She drew her nail in a pattern through the lines in his palm. “Why are you here?”
“I was a sailor,” he answered. “I’ve traveled the world, but just the coasts. I want to see the land.”
Her thin lips seemed to frown at his answer. “Do you speak any tongues other than Mordakish?”
Ahren nodded. “Rhomanic, Mercińan, and a few words of Galestian.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed, as if looking though his hands and onto the table beneath. “Mercińan won’t really help you since we never leave the mainland.”
“That’s agreeable with me.”
“You fear very little.” Yemda tapped below his thumb. “You show loyalty and a need for perfection.” She curled Ahren’s hands into fists then unfolded them. “You are strong, yet limber. There is grace in you. Tell me Ahren,” she said, running her fingers down his, “many people join us because they are running from something. They try to escape, but oft times can bring unwanted danger into our fold. What are you running from?”
Katze's dead face flashed in his mind. “Nothing.”
The crone pinched the top digit of his small finger, hard. She gazed up at Fegmil and nodded.
The circus master squeezed Ahren’s shoulder. “Welcome to the Darclyian Circus, my boy.”
Ahren turned to face the quellen behind him. Small round mirrors dotted his brightly colored vest and flat-topped cap. “Thank you, Master Fegmil.”
The quellen lightly slapped Ahren’s arm. “No more of that. Just call me Fegmil.” He tugged at the gold hoop dangling from one of his huge, hand-sized ears. “Come, let’s introduce you to everyone and find you some work.” Pushing through the bead curtain, he opened the wagon door behind him and stepped outside.
“Be careful,” Yemda mumbled, “the blood on your hands may soon be your own.”
“Thank you.” He smiled to the old witch, then set his wide-brimmed hat back on his head and followed the gray-haired quellen outside. A ring of brightly painted tents and wagons lay before him. Striped canvas walls stretched between them to keep unpaid visitors from seeing inside. Rows of carts and wagons surrounded the outside and lined the circus entrance. The gray, dingy walls of Lichthafen rose behind them, a stark backdrop to the faire’s bright colors.
“No! No! No!” Fegmil yelled to a pair of men hammering tent stakes beside a lashed pig yard. “Put it further down. No one wants to eat beside swine filth.” He motioned Ahren to follow and plodded down the muddy lane. “The local idiots are always the same. They travel to be here, arrive two days before we pack up, pay their vending fee, but put absolutely no thought into where they set-up.”
Ahren hurried to keep up with the quellen’s short legs. They passed vendors selling food and exotic wares from around the world, as well as local farmers and artisans hoping to sell their own goods from small booths.
“Everyone here does their part,” Fegmil said. “It’s not just the performances, but setting up, maintaining the wagons, feeding and cleaning after the animals.” He jabbed a thumb to a group of children pointing at a pair of marsh tigers pacing the bars of their wheeled cage. Bright green Mercińan parrots squawked and hopped around inside the barred wagon beside it. “We also look out for one another. We’re a family here.”
Ahren followed Fegmil through a flap, and stepped into the inner ring. Rows of benches ran along one side before a straw-strewn track. A pretty blonde girl stood atop a galloping stallion circling the track. Two tall, thick poles rose from inside the ring like ships masts. A shirtless gypsy man and a skinny boy swung across the trapeze between them. A group of sweating workers sat and watched from beside one of the open-sided ale wagons forming the outer wall.
Fegmil marched toward the chattering audience. “I assume everything is ready for tonight?”
“Just about,” a greasy-haired man said between his missing front teeth.
The three-foot circus master stopped and flourished his arm up toward Ahren. “Everyone, I want you to meet Ahren. He’ll be joining us on the road.”
The group nodded in mumbled greetings.
“What do you do, Ahren?” asked a massive Larstlander, his huge muscled arms folded across his chest. Ahren recognized the hulking Northman as Bjornrek, the strongman from the posters outside.
“We’re about to find out,” Fegmil said. “Drugho!” he shouted up to the gypsy acrobat. “Come here.”
The lean gypsy flipped off the trapeze and landed on the taut net stretched between the poles. He grabbed the edge and swung himself down. “What is it?” he asked, tossing his black ponytail over his shoulder.
“This is Ahren. I want to see what you can do with him.”
Drugho’s brow rose as he inspected Ahren. “Without bending your knees, touch your toes.”
Ahren tossed his hat on one of the nearby benches, then bent over and pressed his fists firmly against the ground. Several chuckles came from the men watching.
“That’s good,” the gypsy said. “Now stand on one foot and hold it.”
Ahren did as he was told.
Drugho stood silently watching for over a minute before speaking. “Have you ever worked as an acrobat before?”
“No. But I’ve worked ship riggings since I was a boy.”
The acrobat ran his tongue behind his lower lip. He jabbed his finger at the platform set twenty feet up one of the poles. “Climb up.”
Setting his foot down, Ahren crossed the horse track and took hold of the knotted rope hanging from the platform above. He took a breath, then climbed the thick rope to the wooden ledge. As he stood, the pole teetered slightly under his weight. He looked out over the wall surrounding the arena to see the small market erected around the circus and the green countryside beyond. Passersby stopped, trying to glimpse him perform over the canvas wall. Below, the blonde rider stopped her horse and watched.
“Now,” Drugho called. “I want you to jump, grab the trapeze, and swing to the other side.�
��
The group of workers laughed, passing jokes and wagers between them. The lovely rider shot them a cold glare but said nothing. Ahren stared at the simple bar hanging ten feet ahead and slightly below him. He licked his lips, tensed his muscles into a small crouch, and leaped.
Stretching outward, he grabbed the bar. His fingers tightened under the sudden strain. He swung, nearly reaching the opposite platform before swinging back the other way. Ahren rocked his weight and pitched himself forward, bringing him closer. Throwing his legs back, he increased the back swing and then sped toward the wooden ledge. As he reached the end of the arc, he released and flew through the air. He cried out as his body hurled upward, missing the platform, then plummeted down into the net below to the cries and laughter of his onlookers.
“That’s good enough for me,” Fegmil said with a grin. “You’ll start training immediately until you’re ready to perform. Until then, find Otto; he’ll find work for you.”
#
Patrons trickled into the market grounds throughout the day, enjoying entertainment and food while perusing the many booths. As the sun began to wane, their numbers swelled to the hundreds. Music called from the multiple stages and vendor booths. By the light of colored lamps and bright explosions from the fire breathers’ performance, customers wandered through the rows of tents and wagons, mesmerized by the intoxicating scent of oils and spiced foods lingering in the air.
Ahren found himself running back and forth between the enclosed circus arena and the performers’ wagons with a seemingly endless list of tasks readying for the show. He hurried along the canvas outer wall, his arms loaded with colorful juggling rings, as hawkers and performers worked the mob. His gaze focused on a young girl deftly cutting the purse from a man enthralled in a harlequin’s act.
Mountain of Daggers Page 18
