by James Hunter
Cutter snorted and nodded, glancing around at all the potential choke points and death traps awaiting unwary invaders. “There’s a reason the Empire hasn’t managed to capture it—and it’s not for lack of desire.”
“Are all their cities like this, the Accipiter’s I mean?” Abby asked.
“Naw,” Cutter replied as we shuffled our way through, pausing as another set of guards waved us through into the heart of the city itself. “Most of their cities are shite-hole dust-farms like that dump back on the other side of the lake. Ankara’s a special place. One of a kind. Home to Ibrahim the Merchant King of the Sands. Never met the guy myself”—he paused, eyes darting left and right—“word is, he’s a bit mad. Not playing with a full deck if you take my meaning. But don’t speak it out loud. You can talk politics if you want, but don’t mention the king or his family. Never. But enough of that,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go find us a bunch of cultists, eh?”
We made our way deeper into the heart of the city.
Ankara was a clean and orderly place, brimming with life and carefree energy. The streets, paved with smooth blocks of sandstone, were laid out in a neat grid, crisscrossing each other at regular intervals, though wooden stalls, covered with cloth tarps in a riot of hues, still lined the way. It seemed like everywhere we went, there were vendors and hawkers looking to sell this or that, all eager to make a buck from wide-eyed tourists.
And we looked like tourists.
Unlike Rowanheath, which boasted a healthy level of diversity—burly Wodes, lots of Imperials, Murk Elves, Dawn Elves, and even a spattering of Dwarves—Ankara was almost entirely full of Accipiter. Everyone had skin in varying shades of brown or bronze; some looked Middle Eastern, while others looked vaguely Mediterranean. Most wore white robes or light brown armor. No heavy plate mail anywhere. Everyone, men and women both, wore ample amounts of golden jewelry and colorful scarves or sashes. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but they seemed to indicate some sort of rank or maybe guild affiliation.
All of the warriors we ran across carried short swords, small bucklers, an assortment of throwing knives secured in leather bandoliers, or short, recurved bows. A few bore short spears. But, there were no maces or warhammers. No axes or heavy, two-handed weapons, either. Everything about these Accipiter—their weapons, armor, clothing—appeared custom-built for speed, agility, and mobility. For lightning-fast attacks, probably delivered at range. Doubtlessly, these bird-winged players were terrors in the wide-open spaces so plentiful in the Barren Sands.
I could just envision them circling high overhead, firing a barrage of arrows down on helpless enemies or prowling desert predators.
Cutter led us along street after street.
First, we moved through the nicer districts of the city, the buildings made from blocks of gleaming white sandstone with heavy wooden doors and roofs covered with red ceramic tile. And those were the low-end homes and shops—the nicer ones appeared sculpted from cloudy quartz crystal, which gleamed and glinted in the light. Beautiful. We passed jewelers and goldsmiths selling intricately worked jewelry studded with colorful gems, and top-end seamstresses peddling outfits—dresses, cloaks, trousers, robes—slashed with wide swaths of colorful ribbon.
Next, we headed into a section of the city that looked more market than residential area. Persian-style rugs were unfurled everywhere, covered in wares of every sort and variety. We entered some kind of food market shortly after. Vegetables, eggs, fruits, and meats were all meticulously laid out on rough wooden tables. The stink was almost overpowering: a thousand different scents fighting for my attention, some good—like the sickly sweet smell of strawberries—some awful, like the pungent odor of fish too long in the sun. Flies, big black things that bit at my eyes and nose, were thick in the air, circling the food and the passersby with equal curiosity.
Still, Cutter insisted we stop at a little stand with great hunks of meat slowly rotating on spits above a low fire. Kabis, Cutter called it. The merchant, a stocky woman with graying hair and equally graying wings, cut off paper-thin slices with a boxy cleaver, piling the meat on thick tortillas that reminded me of pita bread. Some lettuce and a smattering of tomatoes went on next, followed by a spurt of secret sauce.
Sure, the market was gross. And yes, the stand looked borderline unsanitary. But I was starving and the Kabis smelled like heaven.
Cutter handed over a few coins and everyone got a flatbread burrito in return.
We ate as we walked, no one making idle small talk, instead consumed by shoving food away. And understandably so: the Kabis tasted even better than they smelled. The meat—beef if I had to guess—was tender and juicy, the bread warm and fluffy, the lettuce crisp, the sauce strangely tangy with just a touch of spicy heat thrown in for good measure. Soft groans and moans of foodie pleasure drifted up from the group; even Amara, who fought to keep a perpetually unimpressed look glued on her face, forgot to be stuffy and judgmental. She just ate—a flicker of rapture flashing across her features with each bite—and enjoyed.
Eventually, we meandered into a new section of the city, far more rundown than anything we’d seen before. The streets were rough cobblestone, the buildings tall, but built with red-brown mud as often as sandstone. Garish signs—painted in colors so bright they almost hurt to look at—hung above each door, bearing names like the Rusty Locket, the Pack Mule, the Wandering Woman, or the Fox Den. Unlike the other establishments we’d seen, none of these places had windows. Despite that, I could hear the twang of music and the raucous clamor of laughter or hooting catcalls.
“Welcome to the Lucky Rooster,” Cutter finally said, stopping in front of a nondescript building of sandstone and mud, wooden beams poking out from the upper decks, the roof flat like a patio. “If anyone’s gonna know where to find this cult of ours, it’ll be old Hakim. Ugly old goat runs this joint.” He paused, hand lingering on the door. “But, things might get a bit ugly. We’ve got a bit of unsettled history, me and Hakim. Whatever you do, though, don’t kill anyone. We need these people on our side.” With a devilish grin, he pushed open the door and strutted in like a peacock.
SEVENTEEN:
The Lucky Rooster
The inside of the Lucky Rooster was way nicer than the outside had led me to believe. Instead of the white sandstone so prevalent throughout the rest of Ankara, the walls were rough gray brick, accented by dark wood molding and wall-mounted sconces, each holding a glass orb filled with orange flame. Black and white tiles covered the floor in an intricate mosaic pattern of interlocking triangles and circles. A scantily clad bard, with flowing hair and brilliant blue eyes, belted out a lurid tune on a small stage to the left.
Not exactly tasteful, but certainly entertaining.
A mahogany bar, polished to a dull glow, ran along the right wall, manned by a winged bartender dispensing drinks and wisdom in equal measure. Chandeliers hung from exposed wood-beam rafters, casting flickering light over a host of circular felt-covered tables surrounded by men and women, mostly tourists, who were hollering, laughing, and drinking as they gambled. Cards and chips passed back and forth at some tables, while dice were thrown at others, often accompanied by shouts of joy or moans of disappointment.
“Well all-friggin’-right,” Forge said, clapping his hands together before giving a hoot and a fist pump. “Now this is a mission I can get behind. I wish all my quests ended in casinos. Might be I picked the wrong race—shoulda started as one of these bird fellas.”
Cutter chuckled, giving the Risi a lopsided grin and a quick wink in agreement.
I ignored them both, focusing instead on Abby, who jabbed me in the ribs with a stiff finger. “I don’t know about this, Jack,” she whispered in my ear. “This feels off. Bad. Like things are on the verge of imploding any second.”
“I agree,” Amara said from my other side. “Look, there”—she nodded toward a series of balconies lining the upper floors, riddled with doors, presumably leading to guest rooms. Those balconies also
served another function, though: they allowed pit bosses and heavily muscled guards to oversee the action below. Several hard-faced Accipiter goons—sporting dark leather armor and carrying curved machetes, called Kukri—stared daggers at us. Monitoring our movements. Well, more precisely, they were watching Cutter, their eyes squinted, silent snarls plastered in place.
A few quick words were swapped, and then one of them rushed off, disappearing through a door leading to the back.
Cutter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t much care. He and Forge trotted over to the nearest dice table, some variant of craps from the look of it, ready to drink and play and laugh like the rest of the patrons. A heartbeat later, however, a door at the far end of the gambling floor burst open with a bang and the squattest Accipiter I’d seen so far stormed out. The newcomer stood about four and a half feet tall and had a thickset build, loaded down with fat instead of muscle. He was balding—just a scruffy tuft of black hair ringing the sides of his head—and his baleful, basset hound face was scrunched up in hate as his eyes locked on our resident thief.
I couldn’t be sure, but I was guessing he was Hakim.
“Cutter, you bir esek oglu!” the doughball of an Accipiter hollered, his face turning an unnatural shade of red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “I told you never to show your face here again. Never!” He waggled a finger in the air to emphasize his point. “Get this thieving, double-crossing son of a goat and all of his companions. Bring them to the back.”
The room broke out in a flurry of motion as guards leaped over the railings—their wings stretching out, curved machetes flashing—while a handful of other thugs rushed out from behind the tables. Forge responded with a roar, lurching forward and lashing out with a gauntleted fist. He popped the nearest guard across the face, sending him to the floor with a thoroughly broken nose spurting blood down the front of his tunic. Another guard tackled Forge, driving a shoulder into his gut and taking him to the ground.
I didn’t have time to watch since I had my own share of Accipiter bruisers to deal with.
A leather-clad thug with a spiked Mohawk charged me from the right, his machete glinting in the firelight as it sailed toward my head. I sidestepped the blow, slipped inside his guard, and threw an elbow into his sternum, triggering Black Caress. He doubled over with a grunt, gasping for air as he clutched at his chest. Instead of letting up, I pressed my attack, smashing his exposed wrist with a crack—his weapon clattered to the floor—then hooked my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him down as I slammed a knee into his mouth.
Blood splattered as he went down, limp as a rag doll—alive, but without an ounce of fight left in him.
I wheeled around, stealing a quick glance at the gambling hall:
Forge was buried beneath a pile of guards, cursing up a storm as he swung and kicked wildly, putting up one helluva fight despite the odds against him. Vlad and Cutter weren’t doing any better. One beefy Accipiter had the Russian pinned to the floor, furiously raining down blows, which Vlad weakly fended off with his forearms. And another guard—built like a black bear with a face not even a mother could love—had Cutter locked up in a bear hug while another goon worked him over, delivering brutal gut shots with a feral grin stretched across his face.
Other than me, only Amara and Abby seemed to be holding their own. The ladies stood back-to-back near one of the card tables, moving in a slow circle as they fought. Abby twirled a sleek dark wood staff, carved with ember-red script, dealing out painful, but non-lethal burns with every strike. And Amara … Well, she hooked, jabbed, and kicked like an MMA pro, busting noses, jaws, and kneecaps with equal ease, leaving a trail of wrecked bodies in her wake.
Even with that one, glimmering light of hope, I just couldn’t see how this would end well for us. In a straight-up fight—weapons and magic flying—our team could win, no doubt, but in an unarmed brawl against so many enemies?
No, we didn’t have a chance. What we needed was to stop this fight cold …
I triggered Shadow Stride—the world around me lurched to a halt, invaded by an explosion of blacks, whites, grays, and swirling purples—and waded through the crowd of frozen bodies caught mid-battle:
A fist hung frozen in flight. A spurt of blood lingered unnaturally in the air like a fine mist. Abby’s staff was only inches away from cracking some poor schlub’s head. I left them all behind, maneuvering around tables, shocked patrons—their eyes wide, their mouths hanging open in awe or fear—and the dog pile of bodies accumulating on top of Forge. All the way to the far side of the room, where the balding Accipiter, Hakim, stood with his arms crossed and brow furrowed.
He didn’t look like much of a fighter. He was too old, too flabby. No, he looked like a shot caller. A man who paid others to do his brawling for him. In my experience, people like that were far more comfortable commanding violence than receiving it in any form.
At least, I hoped that was the case.
I slipped behind him, pulled my warhammer from my belt, and dropped into a crouch—necessary due to our significant size differences. Then I steeled myself, saying a silent prayer as I stepped back into the material realm. Time sprinted back to life in an instant: the punch landed with a wet thwack. The blood, suspended in the air a moment before, splattered across the mosaic floor. Abby’s staff landed with bone-breaking force and the poor guard staggered away, clutching his head as a streak of red gushed down his forehead.
I ignored all those things as I slipped one arm around Hakim’s neck, holding him tight, then placed the razor-sharp spike on the top of my warhammer firmly into his neck. Tucking it up under his chin just hard enough to draw a thin trickle of blood. Just hard enough to let him know I could kill him if I wanted to. His body stiffened, his neck tensed from the pressure of the spike, and suddenly he went stock-still, afraid to so much as breathe. “Call them off,” I whispered into his ear, not bothering to hide the threat in my voice. “We’re not here to fight, but if you push it, you’ll be the first one to hit the floor.”
There was a tense pause as he considered my words, my threat. Could he get away, perhaps? What was the chance I’d be able to kill him before his guards could respond? Was I bluffing?
His body wilted a second later, deflating in defeat. “Enough! Enough!” he cried out, his gruff voice echoing off the walls. The winged guards froze, eyes wide and confused, before falling away like faithful dogs called to heel. Every eye turned toward us, expectant.
“Good.” I slowly backed away, pulling my hostage toward the back room he’d emerged from moments before. “Abby, Cutter, Vlad,” I said, my voice surprisingly calm and level considering the circumstances, “come with me. Forge, Amara, I want the two of you to stand guard outside the door while we have a word with the boss, here. Now”—I swept my gaze around the room, staring at each guard for a heartbeat—“if any of you tries anything heroic, your boss dies. End of story, end of the game. Everyone understand?”
I was bluffing through my teeth, appropriate since we were in a gambling den, and I fervently hoped no one would call me on it.
For a second, which dragged on and on, the room teetered on the brink of more chaos and violence. Then, Hakim finally yelled, ending the tense stalemate. “You do nothing!” he screamed, quivering in panic. “Make no move. None. But if something happens to me, I want them all dead. Every last one of them, anlamak?”
His thugs nodded as we backed into the connecting room. I kicked the door shut once Abby, Vlad, and Cutter were through, leaving Forge and Amara stranded by themselves on the other side. They’d be okay, though. They had to be. I wheeled around and shoved Hakim into a plush office outfitted with the same mosaic floors, gray brick walls, and wall-mounted sconces. Colorful rugs and low couches, covered in pillows, littered the space, along with a boxy table surrounded by backless stools. Dark wood cabinets ran along the left wall, loaded down with books, ledgers, and folders of various shapes and sizes.
Not so much a library as the sprawli
ng filing cabinet of a bookie.
Most intriguing, though, was the enormous door inset into the back of the wall. It was a massive circular thing that reminded me of a bank vault, though fashioned from crystal instead of steel. “Everyone, sit,” I said, nodding toward the stools surrounding the table. Slowly, carefully, I maneuvered Hakim into a chair, forcing him down, before finally releasing my choke hold around his throat and backing up a step. He turned his stocky body, glowering at me over one shoulder as he retrieved a cloth from his pocket and dabbed at the blood decorating his throat.
He grunted, sniffed, then turned, staring coolly at Cutter.
“You miserable soysuz prick,” he said to the thief. “You’ve got real stones coming back after what you did to me. A thousand gold marks, you cost me, not to mention dragging my good and reputable name through a pile of boktan.” He tilted his head and jabbed a finger at Cutter like it was a knife. “What did I tell you would happen if you ever came back?”
“That whole period’s a bit fuzzy,” Cutter replied from across the table, canting his head to one side, “but I vaguely recall something about dismemberment and sand tigers.”
Hakim squinted. “I told you I would have you drawn and quartered, then fed to the Kan-Kaplan in the fighting pits. It is a hard thing to forget, I think.”
“Well, none of that matters,” I said, skittering around the table and taking a seat next to Abby. “I don’t know what your problem is with Cutter, but you’re not dealing with him anymore, you’re dealing with us.” I jerked a head toward Abby.
“And who are you two, huh?” Hakim asked with a scowl, turning his disgruntled gaze firmly on me.
“We’re the leaders of the Crimson Alliance,” Abby replied evenly. “We’re the face of the Eldgard Rebellion, and rulers over both Yunnam and Rowanheath.”
