Situated on the edge of the Sea of Fate it served as the main port used by the Merchant Guild on this side of the continent, allowing them to ship their wares throughout the realms with minimum scrutiny.
A bustling hub of activity, its docks and nearby streets were full of vendors, traders and merchants, all buying and selling goods, trying to get them shipped throughout the kingdoms for the best possible price. Its inns and taverns were overflowing with rowdy seamen, drunk on ale and swapping tall tales of life on the high seas.
The sun was beginning to set when the dark-haired figure emerged from the dusty track and walked down the hill towards the port. Street-lamps were being lit and the streets were filling with the denizens of the night, sailors, whores, pickpockets and ne’er do wells. As Santhom walked through the cobblestone passageways and alleys before reaching the piers, she noted how the townspeople looked crude and unkempt.
‘You’re new round here, aren’t you?’ an unshaven sailor asked. ‘How much do you go for?’
‘Go where for?’
The sailor laughed and approached her, whispering in her ear the explanation of his proposal.
Santhom slapped him as hard as she could across the face before storming off down the docks to the nearest pier. Upon reaching her destination, she stood and looked in amazement at the ships: clippers, schooners, galleons. The vessels she had only ever read about.
She marvelled at their sails and rigging and wondered how such complex creations could ever have been built.
‘Well, hello there,’ a voice said.
Santhom spun round and got ready to face any would-be assailant.
The man backed off, putting his hands up. He was dressed in sailing attire and a peaked cap, which he took off, sweeping it before him.
‘Captain Ansil Claith at your service.’
He picked up Santhom’s hand and kissed it.
Santhom pulled her hand away and took a step back.
‘Who are you; what do you want?’ she demanded, looking around to see if anyone was wearing a light-blue cloak.
‘I told you, I’m a captain of a ship,’ he said, smiling.
‘What ship?’
He pointed towards a medium-sized cargo vessel.
‘The Dream Catcher is a one-hundred-foot-long brig with two square-rigged masts, sailing wings on each side and a fore-and-aft sail on the mainmast for extra manoeuvrability; do you know what all that means, little lady?’ the captain asked, grinning and tilting his head.
‘Do I look like a commercial shipping expert?’ Santhom snapped, not looking at the ship. ‘I need to go north: can you take me there? Yes or no?’
The captain leaned against the wooden pole that acted as the first foundation for the pier’s boardwalk.
‘Well, let’s see, it would appear that I’ve no cargo to take north so I’m afraid it’ll have to be a no.’
Santhom rolled her eyes.
‘How long will it take you to get enough cargo to make the trip worthwhile?’
‘Hard to say, sweetie, don’t really take off until I’ve got a full shipping manifest. Could take a few days, could take a week. Of course, if you want to pay me and my crew handsomely then we could set sail with an empty cargo hold.’
‘I do not have any money,’ Santhom stated.
The captain leaned back further and looked her up and down.
‘Maybe we could arrange a different sort of payment.’
Santhom recognised the look he had on his face. It was the same look the men in Yavalon had as they approached the prostitutes in the rundown parts of the city. Raising one of her eyebrows she fired him a look of contempt.
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Then it looks like neither of us are going anywhere, sweet cheeks,’ the captain said.
‘Which of these ships are heading north?’ Santhom looked around the dock.
‘Those three,’ the captain replied, pointing to ships further up the boardwalk from his own.
‘Get your ship ready to set sail,’ Santhom instructed, as she began marching along the pier.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get you your cargo.’
The docks rang with the noise from a large team of raucous carpenters with lanterns returning from their supper to continue the refit of one of the larger merchant ships. Horses pulled wagons full of crates along the piers and cranes hoisted cargo nets laden with sacks of grain onto the assorted trading vessels.
In the organised confusion of merchants haggling over prices with captains and dock-hands loading and offloading goods and merchandise from the ships, no one paid much attention to the tall, dark-haired woman who walked silently down the wharf, calmly picking up a wooden brace-drill from a carpenter’s toolbox, before proceeding to step off the end of the pier into the cold, black water below.
‘Look, you know I can’t do it for five silver pieces a crate, my crew has to eat,’ the captain of the Silver Kestrel protested.
‘If you don’t ship these iron ingots to Port Huptren for five a crate, I’ll make sure the Merchant’s Guild never use that pile of shit you call a boat ever again; am I making myself clear?’ The burly merchant wagged his finger in the ship captain’s face.
‘Captain! Captain!’
The screaming came from below the deck of the Silver Kestrel. The captain and merchant stopped arguing and turned to see one of the ship’s sailors running up the steps to the upper deck and over to the gangplank.
‘Captain,’ shouted the sailor, almost out of breath. ‘The cargo hold’s flooding. There are leaks everywhere below the waterline.’
The captain rushed on to his ship and disappeared below deck.
Flustered and losing patience, the merchant moved to the next ship and was about to board it when he heard the ship’s crew shouting from below deck.
‘We’re taking in water…’
It was late the following morning when the Dream Catcher set sail, pulling out of Lanthorn with a full cargo hold. Captain Ansil Claith stood at its wheel grinning at the thought of a lucrative shipping manifest and a happy crew, to starboard the other three ships were still struggling to caulk up the holes in their hulls.
He never asked his mysterious passenger why or how the ships got damaged, but when the Merchant Guild asked him to name his price to transport iron ingots to Port Huptren, he was happy to oblige, even if it did cost him his cabin.
The captain’s quarters were plush and spacious, unlike the rest of the ship. Santhom looked out the glass window at the stern as the Port of Lanthorn receded into the distance. This was quite literally a voyage into the unknown for her, and as the land vanished over the horizon she wondered if she would ever see Mantaras again.
Chapter VI
The Final Assassination of Valan D’Arakis
Valan stood facing down the corridor of the mansion with his back to the sandstone wall. Lifting one foot behind him he placed his sole against the surface and braced himself. He took a deep breath and swayed back and forth while silently counting down from three to one.
On one, he pushed away, springing forward and breaking into a sprint.
He knew from the map he had been given that the corridor took a turn to the right. Gathering pace rapidly, he prepared to take a wide line to compensate for the sharp turn, without sacrificing speed. As he ran faster his body began to flicker, becoming more transparent the faster he moved. He rounded the corner.
By the time he reached the far end of the corridor, he had become invisible.
The two men guarding the doorway looked confused, seeing nothing yet hearing rustling, followed by the squeal of a sword being unsheathed.
His weapon drawn, Valan leapt at one of them. Slamming the guard against the wall he plunged his short sword deep into his target’s throat, just above his armour breastplate.
&
nbsp; The sword’s point slid easily through the guard’s flesh, rupturing arteries and serrating its way to the bone. Blood sprayed against Valan, clinging to him and partially revealing his outline. He let go of his sword, which instantly became visible, leaving the second guard reeling in shock and with a look of absolute terror on his face.
The guard reached for his own sword in a panic. Valan spun towards him. Triggering a spring-loaded wrist blade, he rammed it into the guard’s throat and twisted it. The guard’s neck opened and he slumped to the ground, blood pooling around him.
Valan’s body became opaque again, slowly at first and then quicker as the seconds passed.
Pulling his sword from the guard’s body, he listened for signs that the altercation might have been overheard.
The only sound was the loud snoring coming from behind the door.
Valan looked at the heavy wooden door in front of him and began moving his hands around the frame to check for traps. Feeling that it was safe to enter, he grasped the handle and leaned on it, only pushing it forward when the snib snapped free from the catch.
Opening the door only slightly, he put the point of his sword against the wood, pushing it slowly and waiting for a response. The door swung into the room, revealing a plush four-poster bed with two figures sleeping in it.
No creaking door? No lock? No trap? This seemed too easy.
Light from the moon spilled into the chamber and Valan could see that it was adorned with paintings and sculptures. A wine decanter and glass sat on each side of the bed.
Silently closing the door, Valan crept to the nearest side of the bed and saw a blonde-haired woman lying on her side. She had wrinkles and her cheeks were flushed. He noted how peaceful she looked and wondered if she was aware of the evil nature of the man whose bed she shared.
The man had his back to him and was snoring. Both appeared to be naked.
It was the man who was the target; the others, merely collateral damage. Valan knew the order of the murders was important. Experience had taught him that killing the woman first was a necessity. When the man died the woman always screamed; the man was less likely to yell if the woman was killed first, having more acceptance of his fate.
He stood above the woman and gripped his sword in both hands, raising it high above his head. Without hesitation he brought it down upon her neck, moving it in a slicing motion at the moment of impact. The sword cut into her neck, the blade burying itself deep in her flesh.
It was an action that awoke both sleepers.
The man looked up at Valan then at his wife. In a fit of confusion he tried to jump from the bed and fell onto the floor with his legs caught in the sheets.
Valan bounded onto the bed, over the body of the dying woman, before diving off the other side. He hit the man, who had been getting to his feet, sending him sprawling across the floor.
Hyperventilating, the man clambered to his feet again and began wrestling with the window latch at the moment Valan’s wrist-blade cut his throat.
The man’s blood looked black in the mid-winter’s moonlight and Valan watched as he slumped onto his side. Propping himself against the wall the man looked up at his killer.
‘Why?’ he asked, the word punctuated by a gurgling as blood flooded his larynx.
Valan squatted beside his victim. He felt that giving a dying man a straight answer was the least he could do.
‘You make money from the misery and the suffering of others. People are merely a commodity to you. I’ve been sent to kill you by Mother Jüko. Your slave-trading days are over.’
The man’s round cheeks were white, his lips turning purple. Blood was flowing freely from his throat onto the stone floor. Valan watched as the man ran his finger through the crimson liquid, writing something until he could write no longer.
Not a Sla
Valan frowned: was he trying to write ‘Not a Slave-trader’? His concentration was broken by a rasping from the other side of the room.
The woman was breathing.
He walked over and pulled his sword from the woman’s neck, then thrust it into her chest.
There was a sickening crunch and the breathing stopped.
Staying at the scene any longer than was necessary risked detection so Valan left the mansion via the open window, climbing down the outer wall, with the help of the ivy, before disappearing, literally, into the night.
Valan stopped running upon entering an alleyway half a mile from the house. Here he became visible. He hid his weapons in the cellar of an abandoned building and stripped off his outer garments before pulling off his mask and ruffling his flattened-down short brown hair. Only when he was sure that there were no signs of his nefarius deeds did he emerge into the open.
Keeping to the shadows of the narrow lanes and backstreets Valan made his way through the city of Stormhaven, glaring at its marble townhouses and grand temples. With its clean promenades and perfectly manicured boulevards it could not have been more different from his home city of Tarantum.
Stormhaven and its sister-city Tarantum were separated by only five and a half miles, but poles apart in almost every other way. Both cities had been founded inside two-mile-wide impact craters from an object that had fallen from the heavens thousands of years ago, splitting into two at the last minute.
Legend had it that the object was made from both good and evil, explaining why the cities were so different in their characteristics; Stormhaven, the capital, was the epitome of a civilised metropolis with an established democracy, laws and judicial system while Tarantum was a corrupt den of thieves, a sanctuary for outcasts and a cesspit run by criminal gangs, the type of city where a man without a shadow could live without fear of being reported.
Each city’s people had strip-mined their home for the ore that lay beneath. They had dug tunnels with streets and pathways branching off from them and beneath these mined openings had created cities within cities. As was usually the case, it was the lower classes of society who had to live in the deeper levels of these subterranean cities, known as the Drops.
Travel between the cities involved going by road across the barren terrain of the Pholôs desert and then entering through the main city gates; or by the Rails: two tunnels that were dug between the cities eight hundred years ago to guard against either one being besieged.
Excavated into the bedrock at a five-degree angle from each city, the Rails were a feat of engineering renowned throughout the Northern Realms. Each Rail started at the highest level of its city of origin and then ran downwards, emerging at the lowest level of the neighbouring city.
Each tunnel was fitted with a set of rails along which pump carts were placed, allowing people to be propelled along the decline for the five-and-a-half mile journey. At the end of the line, the carts were raised from the lower platform to the higher one of the adjacent tunnel using counterweighted cranes, ready to be sent downhill again. Underground springs were used to provide water in which phosphorescent algae and bioluminescent moss were cultivated to produce light for the journey.
Valan climbed the steps to the wooden platform before joining the queue for the Rails. The carts departed every fifteen minutes and took half an hour to travel between cities, depending on the strength and stamina of those pumping them. A low whistle signalled that a cart had arrived and Valan saw one being loaded onto the counterweighted crane mechanism before beginning the long hoist up to the exit tunnel. The thick wooden beams creaked and whined under the strain of the cart as it was lifted into position, being turned and moved by the rail crews before being set down on the iron tracks.
The gates opened and the people in the queue began to shuffle forward. A man in a grey tunic with a yellow armband stood at the gates collecting a levy and directing people on to the carts, which sat eight and required two pumpers.
The pumpers were members of the public, almost always men, who were selecte
d by the rail officer and who then travelled for free.
Watching the first two men in the queue being directed into the pumping positions by the rail officer, Valan smiled; he was tired both physically and mentally and did not want to cause a scene by refusing to pump the cart while eight other people sat and watched him.
Paying his five bronze pieces he walked through the gate. There were no guards here in the exit tunnel, although the entrance tunnel had a twelve-strong unit with fighting dogs.
Typical, he thought. They don’t give a damn who leaves their precious city but make it as difficult as possible to get in.
He stepped onto the cart and went to sit at the back, ignoring the rail officer’s instructions to fill up the front of the cart first for weight purposes.
The rail officer stepped forward and put his hand on Valan’s shoulder.
‘I thought I told you…’
Valan grabbed the rail officer’s arm in a vice-like grip.
‘Take your hand off me before I break it,’ Valan said, quietly, not looking at the rail officer.
The rail officer let go and Valan relaxed his grip, continuing to the back.
The rail crews pushed the cart at the same time as the two pumpers got to work and they were off.
The tunnels held huge amounts of heat, even in winter and it was not long before the men were sweating profusely.
As the light from the city faded, the sound of dripping water filled the tunnel and the soft green and pink lights of flora cast their glow on the cart and the people in it. Time spent on the Rails was some of the most relaxing Valan had ever experienced and he smiled as he lay back looking up at the bright colours. Yellows and greens flashed past his eyes like shooting stars, giving way to pinks and turquoises. Half asleep, he watched the colours slowly fade as the algae became less frequent and the tunnel darkened, before the cart moved into the city of Tarantum. He was home.
Outside the Rails station, homeless people gathered around fires trying to stave off the bitter chill. In the distance he heard a woman screaming, and as he made his way past the fighting pits to the steps that were carved into the inside of the Drops, he saw rubbish and human waste piled up on the streets. Returning to his city always made Valan’s heart feel heavier. Tarantum and Stormhaven were different sides of the same coin: very different sides.
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