Valan woke in the pitch-black. There was deathly silence. He fumbled for the tallow lamp and lit it. Sitting against the cold wooden headboard at the top of his mattress, he gazed at his dwellings. Valan had never been in a jail cell, had never even seen one, but he knew plenty of people who had, and he imagined it would look and feel just like his home.
Dragging himself from his bed he did some stretches and loosened up. He was preparing to do what he had done so many times before, yet he always got butterflies before he set out.
Lighting a candle he placed it on the ground and got dressed in dark, tight clothing before putting on lightweight, rigid upper-body armour.
Valan’s ability to become invisible depended on speed; if he could not move fast enough then he could not disappear, so any armour that weighed him down or constricted his movements was more of a hindrance than a help. His survival also relied on being able to sprint without making a sound.
Buckling his scabbard tightly, Valan put on his gauntlets and tested the wrist blades; unhappy with their deployment, he tightened the springs and retested them until they were perfect. Having pulled on his mask, he knelt in front of the candle and whispered: ‘I am the bringer of death, the instrument of destruction, whom all enemies fear. I am the invisible blade that strikes unseen in the darkness. I am the shadowless damned.’
He put his palm over the candle, extinguishing it.
Valan walked outside and placed a coin between the front door and the frame, four fingers’ width from the edge, and closed it tight; if anyone broke in while he was away, or was lying in wait for him returning, then at least he would know.
It was a cold winter’s night and the wind howled across the top of the Drops, blowing sand and dust down upon everyone below. Bracing himself against the chill Valan moved through the street and around the edge of the level, until he got to the steps that led to the city.
Coal fire braziers and beacons were spaced intermittently along the upper layers by the lookouts of different gangs and Valan had three stretches of enemy territory to traverse before he reached the surface. Standing in an alleyway beside the steps he began to breathe deeply and swing his arms quickly to and fro, getting the blood pumping before breaking into a sprint.
Covering the ground rapidly, he angled the corner then bounded up the stone steps. Halfway up his body started to shimmer and flicker, until finally he vanished.
The gang members sitting around the campfires heard faint, muffled footsteps followed by a swooshing as Valan sprinted past them. Moving through enemy territory he darted in between the shacks and huts that were built around the rim, rushing around the edge of the shanty towns and run-down neighbourhoods that made up the top three levels of the Drops until he came to the main stairwell that led to the city of Tarantum.
Rising from the Drops onto the surface, Valan looked around at the buildings and homes of the city; while not as grand or elaborate as those in Stormhaven, they were still better than the slums he grew up in: even the air was fresh.
In the distance the high-banked sides of the crater’s edge, in which Tarantum was set, stood up against the night’s sky like a titanic fortification, impeding the sands from the deserts of Pholôs from swallowing the city.
Tarantum was a hive of activity, even though it was two hours after midnight, with people carting goods through the streets, inns heaving with patrons, and prostitutes on every corner.
Valan ran through the back streets and alleyways, picking up the pace if he felt himself becoming visible again. It was not long before he arrived in the area where the more fortunate members of society dwelt. Being the affluent part of the city, its residents felt safe behind their high walls and regular guard patrols: Valan was about to put that safety to the test.
Running at the wall as fast as possible, he launched himself upwards at the last minute and jumped from one piece of jutting-out stone to another. The momentum carried him up as he sprang further into the air and gripped the top of the twenty-five-foot-high wall with his fingertips.
He pulled himself to his feet and, ducking slightly and with his arms out for balance, carried on moving along the wall. Such was his speed that at no stage did he become visible.
Dashing along the wall Valan glanced down on the houses below; he knew the area well and so found the location of his target within seconds. Jumping off the wall he hit the ground with a thump, landing in a crouching position. He waited, his body starting to become opaque again, slowly at first and then quickly resolving, before standing up and looking around to see if he had attracted any unwanted attention. No one came running; no alarm sounded.
He moved to the back of the house and checked the door. Finding it locked, he went to the window and activated his wrist blade, working its thin point under the frame. Slowly and carefully he unhooked the catch and slid the window up.
Crawling inside, he looked around a kitchen; it was spacious and well stocked. About to move into the next room, he heard footsteps coming down what had to be a flight of stairs. Valan stood behind an open door and waited. As the footsteps got louder he saw light reflecting off the walls in the hallway as a thin, hunched man emerged from the darkness with a lantern before turning and walking down a further set of stairs.
Valan followed him down a flight of stone steps; as the man reached the bottom he put his hand into his pocket for a key before unlocking an iron door.
Opportunities like this were few and far between. As the man turned the key, the pins and tumbler mechanism creaked and strained. When the door swung open Valan pounced; leaping from the final few steps he landed on his target, knocking him to the ground and driving a blade deep into his back.
Retracting his blade Valan watched as his target coughed and spluttered, clearly still in shock from the attack. Valan pulled back the man’s head and thrust his wrist blade into his throat, slicing him from ear to ear, showering the floor with blood.
As the man’s body twitched, Valan cleaned his blade and walked to the door. Stopping himself in the process, he shut his eyes and turned away.
He paused.
What are you waiting for? he thought. You were sent here to kill a target, the target’s dead; now get out of here before someone raises the alarm.
Before Valan knew it, he was facing the door and looking down at the body of the man he had just murdered in cold blood.
What are you doing? Do you really want to know what’s in this room? he heard a voice inside his head asking.
Stepping over the body, he pushed open the door and looked into the basement. The underground room was well lit. It was full of medicinal equipment used to make compresses, balms and poultices. Glass bottles containing powders and lotions sat on racks on the walls. There were eight comfortable-looking beds, four on each side of the room, each containing a child who was either sleeping or unconscious. On close inspection Valan saw red blotches on their faces and bodies, which seemed to be seeping pus. The Pox.
Incurable, the Pox meant certain death for those who contracted it.
He backed off, not sure about the methods by which this disease was transmitted. Valan looked around the room at the children, three of which were boys, the rest girls. No more than five years old, each child had a white pillow with red silk of stars and crescent moons, embroidered onto them and several toy animals on their bedside lockers.
Sorrow and regret trickled through Valan’s mind at the sight of the unfortunate souls in front of him. His normally unyielding resolve began to waver a little and he bowed his head in remorse.
I’m sorry I couldn’t have got to you sooner, he thought.
As he was turning to walk out he spied a small mahogany box on a table next to the door. He opened it to find a smooth round stone within, dark grey in colour with light green veins of another mineral running through it. The green strands that worked their way through the stone seemed to pulse rhythmically
as soon as Valan picked it up, and for a few seconds he watched, transfixed. One of the children stirred, snapping Valan out of his daydream.
You can’t just leave them there, he thought, absentmindedly pocketing the stone. Then inspiration struck. He dragged the body of the man to the top of the stairs, opened the front door and waited for a guard patrol. A few minutes later a pair of guards strolled past the gates. Valan shouted for help as loudly as he could and when he saw them unlocking the gates he ran back into the house. From the basement, he heard the weak wail of a child crying.
Perfect, he thought, as he made his way into the kitchen and hid behind the door again.
The guards entered the house and found the body immediately. Valan heard them discussing how the man had died. After a moment there was the sound of footsteps going down to the basement, where the child was still crying.
Valan bolted out of the kitchen and ran out of the house. Upon reaching the street he turned invisible in a matter of seconds.
As he made his way home, Valan, as he often did, replayed the events of the night over in his head – he could not help but think that something was not quite right.
Lying in bed later, looking at the rough, rocky ceiling of his home, he thought about what he had seen and told himself, more than once, that if the mark was dead and he had come back home alive the night was a success.
At times, he believed it. Tonight, however, was not one of those times.
Valan woke in a cold sweat from dreams of children crying. It was early morning and the streets were starting to come to life. He yawned and went to turn over for another nap when he saw a small grey stone sitting innocuously in the corner of the room beside his mask.
He sat upright and stared at it.
Just then his window shutter rattled.
Shadow.
Valan let the cat in, fetched her some meat and then lay back down.
‘And where were you all night, girl?’
Shadow purred loudly, rubbing her head against Valan’s hand, every so often letting out a faint cry.
‘Really? Well aren’t you the social butterfly?’ he said. ‘Me? I killed a man who was experimenting…’
Valan’s words began to catch in his throat.
‘I killed a man who was experimenting on children. They were in some type of underground laboratory; lying in beds with embroidered pillows and little toy animals.’
Shadow lay down, putting her head on Valan’s arm.
Embroidered pillows and toy animals, he thought.
A sudden and overwhelming sense of dread descended on Valan.
Shadow took off in a panic as Valan jumped to his feet and got dressed as quickly as he could. Grabbing the stone he ran out of the door, without bothering to lock it, letting it swing open as he ran up the street. Valan bolted up the steps to the surface so fast that he warped in and out of view.
I need to find out exactly what this is. Something isn’t right, he thought.
The sun had just risen as Valan reached the merchant district. He sprinted invisible into an alleyway at one end and walked out visible at the other.
Making his way through the early morning rush of market traders setting up stalls, he came to a shop that sold antiquities and rapped on the door; a minute or so passed before the door opened and an elderly man stood in the doorway.
‘I need to talk to you. It’s important,’ Valan said.
The man looked at the scorpion tattoo on Valan’s arm and closed the door slightly, blocking Valan’s path and leaving him standing in the street.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m not here for trouble. I want you to tell me what this is,’ he said, as he took the stone from his pocket, trying to be discreet.
The merchant moved closer and looked at it from a few angles without touching it.
‘No idea, try down the street,’ he said, motioning with his head before slamming the door.
Valan snarled before hurrying in the direction the shopkeeper had indicated, weaving in and out of traders and buyers, until he came to the end of the street. There, set apart from the other buildings, and nestled in a crevice of the crater wall, stood an old run-down, single-storey shop with grimy, dirt-covered windows, overgrown with ivy and surrounded by weeds. As Valan walked towards it, the noise from the hustle and bustle of the market place faded into the background. He felt a sudden chill, and glanced down to see goose bumps on his arms. He looked up at the faded yellow-and-green sign that swung silently above the door.
‘Barantur’s Curiosity Shop?’ he muttered.
Valan was about to grab the handle of the door when it opened and a tall, broad knight dressed in half-plate armour, a tabard with the crest of the royal household of Mantaras emblazoned on it, and a green cloak, walked straight into him, sending Valan sprawling to the ground, the knight dropping the package he was carrying in the process.
The knight quickly stooped and picked up the parcel, which was wrapped in dark red velvet tied with stained white cord, and put it under his cloak before rising to his feet.
‘Watch it, scum,’ he warned as he pushed past Valan.
‘Who are you calling scum?’
Valan reached for his sword. It was missing. In the rush of leaving he had forgotten to put on his weapon belt.
‘You.’
The knight moved his cloak to the side and put his hand on the pommel of his sword.
Valan was deadly when his opponent was unaware of his presence: that was his specialism, but fighting heavily armoured knights in the street in broad daylight while unarmed, was not.
‘I’ll let you away with calling me names this time – be thankful I’m in a forgiving mood,’ he said, and quickly opened the door, which caused a small bell to ring, and stepped into the shop.
He stood still, in awe at how large the interior was; for a start it had an upper floor, which appeared to have corridors branching off it.
‘Didn’t this shop only have…?’ he murmured.
‘One floor?’ a voice said.
Valan spun round and was confronted by a four-foot-tall man. He had a pot-belly and wispy white hair. The little man smiled up at him.
‘How did you…?’ Valan began.
‘Oh, never mind that, come on over and show me what you have brought,’ the old man said as he closed the door.
Valan stared through the clean, polished windows of the shop, at the market place outside, as the man strolled behind the counter.
‘But weren’t they…?’ he muttered, pointing at the windows with a confused look on his face.
He gazed around the shop at the rare items and mysterious artefacts. Rings and wands, tomes and grimoires and sceptres and amulets sat stacked on shelves or lay in glass cases, all brimming with magic and all waiting for the right owner, at the right price.
‘Hello?’ the old man clicked his fingers in front of Valan’s face. ‘Are you in the room with me? You’re not fully here, are you?’
Perplexed, Valan looked down at the ground and then at the window before switching his attention to the stairs leading to an upper platform. He walked over to the counter, stunned by what he was witnessing.
‘It’s all right, you do not have to try and understand it, just accept it. There are things beyond your control, sonny,’ the old man said.
‘What did you just call me? You’re only the second person to ever call me that. Who are you?’ Valan asked, hearing his voice slur as his mind turned cloudy.
‘I am Barantur, and this is my shop,’ the shopkeeper said, looking around proudly.
‘I’m looking for something,’ Valan stated, trying to focus on the task in hand.
‘A shadow, by the looks of things. And I’m not talking about a stray cat.’
Valan took a step back and the two men stared at each other. He was a confident man
who was not easily unnerved, but after Barantur’s last comment he had a sudden urge to use the privy.
Finally, he broke the silence.
‘I need to know if you’ve seen anything like this before.’
Valan took the stone from his pocket.
Barantur placed it on the counter before reaching into a drawer for a pair of spectacles, which he perched on the end of his nose. They had several lenses of differing thicknesses and colours, which slotted into place via a network of mounted wire frames, giving the wearer the appearance of some strange mechanical insect.
‘Hmm, ahh, no… wait. Hmm. Maybe,’ he postulated, as he rotated the stone, switching lenses as he studied its pulsing, green veins.
‘What is it? What do you see?’
‘I think I know what it is – but is it? Surely it cannot be,’ Barantur argued with himself.
‘What is it? Just tell me.’
Barantur removed his spectacles and placed them on the counter.
‘I believe this is one of the stones of Versentí,’ he said. ‘It’s one of a set of stones that bestow powerful healing abilities on their user; providing he or she knows how to use them correctly, of course.’
‘Healing abilities?’ Valan repeated.
‘There were once several of these stones, the legends say, each one granting the ability to heal a specific ailment. The one with red lines heals cuts and opens wounds; the one with blue lines heals broken and shattered bones…’
Valan felt a knot in his stomach; he gulped and tried not to be sick.
‘And the green lines?’ He wiped away the sweat on his forehead, sure he knew the answer.
Barantur leaned across the counter and looked Valan in the eye.
‘The one with green lines has the ability to cure disease, particularly the Pox.’
Valan grabbed the stone and bolted out of the door.
There were gasps and cries of disbelief as Valan started to blink in and out of sight in full view of the market traders and the people of Tarantum. Bumping into livestock being herded to the markets and tripping over snake-charmers’ baskets, Valan’s visibility flashed and faded as he hurried through the crowded streets to the apothecary’s house.
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