The doors of the warehouse creaked open. The high priest entered, flanked by four Shadow Watchers.
The smile on the robed man’s face told her that he took great pleasure in his work.
‘Going somewhere?’ he asked as the Shadow Watchers spread out.
Willow stepped off the box. Mouth dry and heart pumping, she backed off until she was by the wall.
I need them to bunch up, she thought. I’ve got one shot at this.
The Shadow Watchers unsheathed their swords and moved closer, the high priest behind.
‘Come now, no need to resist,’ he sneered, through a mouthful of rotting teeth.
Willow waited for her foes to funnel in through the gap between the piled boxes. When they were close enough, she filled her lungs with air and let out a roar.
The sonic blast struck everything in its path. It hit the boxes, sending splinters flying through the air. She roared until her pursuers were all writhing on the ground, powerless against the wall of sound.
Willow slumped to her knees, struggling to remain conscious. Using her powers always weakened her, but roaring almost caused her to pass out. She panted for breath, head spinning and legs shaking. Dropping onto her side, she lay on the cold ground, listening to the groans of the men around her.
When she was able to look up, she saw that the warehouse was devastated. Its contents were broken and strewn about the floor; the doors had been blasted off their hinges, the panelling ripped from the stone walls.
Get up, she thought. Now.
Groggily, Willow dragged herself to her feet. There was a low ringing in her ears. She staggered past the five men on the ground, three of whom had stopped moving. The high priest was on his back making a low gurgling sound. His grey robes were stained red, covered in the blood that oozed from his ear and eye sockets.
Willow stumbled out into the night. Over her tinnitus, she heard faint laughter and cheers. Holding the wall, she made her way down the alleyway and out into the street.
Fireworks exploded in the distance as Willow paused to try and clear her head. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths to calm herself. When she opened them, she saw a group of revellers. Pulling up the hood of her cloak, she waited until they passed before continuing.
The ringing in Willow’s ears was beginning to subside as she walked through the streets, steady on her feet again. She had no idea where she was. In the chaos and confusion of trying to escape, she had deviated from all the roads and avenues that she was vaguely familiar with.
The area she was in was run-down. The streets smelled of sewers, and she saw a rat scurrying in front of her. It was not the type of place a lone female should linger, especially at night.
As she trudged through the dimly lit streets of Ogensdale, Willow heard cheering again. Groups of men on a street corner gawked and leered at her, whispering as she passed.
Just keep walking, she thought. Don’t stop. Don’t look anyone in the eye.
The noise was getting louder; the cheering sounded aggressive. She paused, thinking she must be getting close to the festival. At the end of the lane on which she stood, there were several wooden wagons and caravans parked nose-to-tail. They were unlike any that had been brought in for the festival. These were rusting, the paint on the sides faded and peeling so much that Willow had to squint to read the writing: ‘Haralan’s Carnival’.
What are you doing stopping here? she thought. Walk away, Willow.
She was turning away when she heard a noise from down the lane. To anyone else, it would barely have been discernible, but Willow’s affinity for sound allowed her to distinguish its different frequency and wavelength. It was a cry for help.
Don’t go down the lane, her reason argued. This has got nothing to do with you. She rubbed her temples, knowing that she would investigate. Someone or something was in trouble, and Willow Fairthrác was not the type to let an innocent creature get hurt.
Resigned to the fact that her conscience had got the better of her, Willow turned and walked in the direction of the noise. She passed the rickety wagons, inspecting each of them as she went. They and the caravans had been patched up using old boxes and panelling, some had different sized wheels fitted to them making them lurch to one side while others had had their roofs replaced by sheets of tarpaulin and ship-sails, all nailed in place.
The sound of approaching footsteps made Willow slide under the nearest caravan. She watched as a figure came towards it and opened the door. The caravan rocked and creaked as they stepped inside and Willow heard dogs barking an excited greeting.
‘Shut up, you mangy mutts,’ a gruff male voice commanded. The accent was not local.
Willow waited as the man left the caravan again, accompanied by his dogs. She peeked out from under the caravan and saw hounds straining at the leash, growling and snarling. Foam fell from their mouths and their handler struggled to control them as they disappeared from view. Willow then heard the cheering again, louder than before.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Not for the first time, something told her to walk away and, not for the first time, she ignored it.
Willow crawled out from under the caravan and dusted herself down. The door had been left ajar and she slipped inside. There were two cages, where the dogs had obviously been kept, and a table used to prepare their food. A hunting knife and the remains of several small mammals littered the table. She took the knife, hiding it in the jacket of her costume, jumped down from the caravan, and turned towards the commotion.
The cheering was getting louder. Bracing herself, she approached a corner when a caravan that was parked there caught her eye.
Painted yellow with faded blue writing, it looked more like a prison wagon than a home. For a start, it had bars across the windows. Looking through one of them, Willow could see manacles and chains strewn on the bare floor of the cramped space.
She tried to read the writing on the outside, only making out some of the faded lettering: ‘utan Ra Bay’. It meant nothing.
‘Settle down, settle down,’ a voice shouted. It sounded like someone of importance, possibly a master of ceremonies. ‘Here it is: the fight you’ve been waiting for. Our brave, noble hounds against the horror, the abomination, the detestation that is…the Mutant Rat Baby.’
The shouting and cheering gave way to booing and jeering. Willow gritted her teeth.
The right thing is to help whatever’s in trouble, she thought; the smart thing is to walk away.
‘All betting is done and we’re ready: release the hounds.’
There were snarling and snapping noises, followed by a distressed squealing.
Muttering a blessing, Willow trotted round the corner, following the sounds.
Two dozen men were standing around a pit, completely engrossed by whatever was happening in it. They were waving betting slips and shouting. She could hear the snarls and scuffling of fighting animals, and as she got closer, saw the two fighting-dogs attacking another creature that seemed no bigger than a ten-year old boy. It was covered in brown fur, now reddening with blood, and had a long pink tail and black claws. The rat-like creature howled in pain as one dog clamped its jaws around its arm and another bit its legs.
‘Kill that shadowless monstrosity,’ one of the men shouted.
Willow strained to get a better look, her curiosity rising. It was hard to tell in the dim light, and with the dogs surrounding it, but it did seem like the thing had no shadow. That was it; the creature was one of her own kind and so would have to be rescued. Willow took a few steps back from the pit. She was too weak to roar, but she could scream.
The noise cut through the night. The windows of the caravans and nearby houses shattered. The men fell to the ground in agony, clutching their ears and crying in pain.
Willow only stopped screaming when all the men were lying helpless on the ground.
The dogs, however, had only been momentarily stunned and immediately began attacking the creature again. Willow took out the hunting knife and dived into the pit, landing on the back of one of the dogs. She plunged the knife between the animal’s shoulders, killing it. Withdrawing her knife quickly she stabbed the other dog in the hindquarters.
The injured dog let go of the rat-creature’s arm and pounced on Willow. She drove the dagger into the animal’s chest as it landed on top of her, twisting the weapon until the life had drained from it.
Covered in the dog’s blood, Willow slid out from beneath the hound. The rat-creature was cowering in a corner of the pit. Blood was seeping from several different wounds and it was panting and making a low squealing sound.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Willow said as she slowly approached it. ‘We really need to get out of here, quickly.’
The creature stood shaking, looking at Willow with large green eyes. Through its short fur she could see its body was covered in scars.
‘I know you’re afraid and confused, but if we don’t get out of here now we’re going to be killed. Do you understand?’ Willow spoke slowly and loudly, using hand gestures.
Peering over the top of the pit, she saw a couple of the men trying to get to their feet. She reached out her hand for the creature. It sniffed the air and staring at its own paw, it slowly placed it in Willow’s. She smiled.
‘My name’s Willow. Do you have a name?’
The creature cocked its head to the side.
‘I guess Utan Ra Bay will do for now. Right, Utan, we really have to go.’
The pair climbed out of the pit as fast as they could. The creature hissed at the prostrated men as it passed them. Willow stumbled with the creature to the corner of the alleyway and then gave it her cloak.
‘I need you to put this on. Don’t take it off until we get out of the city. If anyone sees you then we’ll both be—’
The sudden pain in Willow’s leg was so sharp that she staggered to the ground. She felt around and found a crossbow bolt buried in the back of her thigh.
A heavily muscled bald man was bearing down on them. He carried a crossbow and was reloading it as he approached.
‘Run,’ Willow shouted. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
The creature looked around.
‘Get out of here,’ she shouted, as she saw some of the other men, now recovered, lumbering after the crossbow man.
The creature gave Willow a sorrowful look and scurried off, disappearing into the night.
Within seconds, Willow was surrounded. One of the men, with a waxed moustache and wearing a red coat, pushed his way through. It was the master of ceremonies.
‘What have we got here?’ He looked down on Willow. ‘That’s a pretty voice you have, sweetie,’ he smirked, before turning to his men and saying: ‘Knock her out before she pulls another stunt like that.’
Willow tried to scream, but the men had already set upon her. Their clubs rained down, and everything went black.
Willow opened her eyes but her vision was too blurred for her to see much. Her body ached and her lips were numb.
‘You’re sure she won’t be able to make that noise again?’ a voice asked.
‘No,’ another said.
The voices sounded grave and she could not place the accents.
Willow felt a sharp pain in her mouth and blood was oozing down her throat.
The blur began to clear. She was in a caravan. It was filthy and run-down, and there was a stain on the floor that looked very much like dried blood. Three men stood in front of her, the master of ceremonies, the man with the crossbow and another she did not recognise. Feeling groggy, Willow went to rub her aching head, but her hands were tied to the chair. So were her feet. Struggling, she found that she could not move.
The men approached her.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. I still feel weak but I have to try and roar.
Pushing herself back in the chair, she filled her lungs then opened her mouth and roared.
Nothing. She tried again: nothing.
The three men started laughing. The master of ceremonies reached for a leather bag, not much bigger than a money purse.
‘You’re probably wondering why your little party trick doesn’t work any more, sweetie,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to scream without one of these.’
With that, he threw the contents of the bag onto Willow’s lap. Looking down she saw a human tongue, pink and covered in blood. There were long strands of flesh still hanging from it.
Willow struggled in a fit of panic. She jerked from side to side, trying to break free from her restraints, or at least get the tongue off her. Again and again she tried to scream but the only sound that came out was a dull moaning sound that resonated in the back of her throat.
Willow’s heart was pounding and her lungs burning from trying to scream.
‘This is Symalter, our resident knife-thrower and “tongue remover”,’ the master of ceremonies said, patting one of the men on the back. The man stuck out his own tongue before producing a throwing knife and licking Willow’s blood from the blade.
Feelings of desperation welled up inside her as Willow stared at her tongue.
‘And this,’ he turned to the bald and heavyset man, ‘is Klakon, our strongman. He’s a good shot with a crossbow, as I’m sure you can vouch for.’
The master of ceremonies began signing with his fingers and hands. He moved his arms, touching different parts of them, and then rubbed his hands together. Klakon smiled and signed back in response.
That’s how he was unaffected by my scream, back in the alley, Willow realised. He’s deaf.
‘And my name is Haralan Rincubis,’ the master of ceremonies said as he walked behind the chair that Willow was tied to. ‘Now, this is what you’re going to do. As you killed our fighting dogs and freed our mutant rat, you’re going to take its place. You’ll perform for the paying customers, and then you’ll perform different tricks for the men who work in the carnival. Do I make myself clear, sweetie?’
He ran his fingers through Willow’s blonde hair as the other men laughed.
Willow yanked her head away.
The three men left the caravan, slamming the door then locking it behind them. After they left, Willow sat and cried. After a few minutes her head began spinning and she fell unconscious.
A week later, when the Festival of the Summer Moon was over, the carnival workers packed up their caravans and wagons and left town. The wagon Willow was in had large wooden panels on the side, with clowns and jugglers painted on them, disguising its true identity as a prison.
Inside, Willow sat on the bare floor, her limbs bound by restraints that were normally used for the animals. Her mouth still ached from having her wound cauterized by the fire-eater and only her godlike immune system stopped it or the crossbow-bolt-wound from becoming infected. She peered out through the cracks in the panelling, watching children with their parents waving goodbye to the carnival, unable to shout or ask for help.
The caravan lumbered down the road away from Ogensdale, lurching from one side to another, depending on the quality of the road, and every so often, shedding a wheel, causing the convoy to stop while it was repaired.
Making its way through the realm, from village to town and from town to city the carnival travelled, stopping and setting up wherever there were people gullible enough to fall for their deceptions. Having exhausted the realm of Ashensörth, they then moved on to Caulderon.
Willow was forced to wear a cloth mask and perform minor tricks, involving noise distortion and manipulation, while pickpockets worked their way through the audience, robbing them. It did not take long for Willow to realise that this was no ordinary carnival troupe. Made up of thieves and vagabonds, the magicians’ tricks, clown acts and trapeze artists were a fr
ont for the gambling scams, illegal pit-fights and a prostitution racket that earned them the real money. Haralan controlled it all.
When the carnival shut its gates for the night and particularly if her performance displeased her master, she would often be beaten and raped. Afterwards she would be carried back to her wagon, thrown inside and shackled. There she would lie, night after night, battered and bruised, sobbing in her lonely prison.
Haralan took great care never to let Willow be unchained except when ‘performing’ or have access to anything that could be used as a weapon. She was never transported anywhere by less than two armed people, and any food she had thrown to her had to be eaten by hand.
She longed for an end to it all.
‘Miners have struck gold near the town of Arroncöl in Mantaras,’ Symalter said, pouring another glass of wine for himself. ‘If this letter from my contact is correct’ – he waved a piece of paper in front of them – ‘there should be plenty of loose change that they need to be relieved of.’
Haralan signed to Klakon what had just been said. The large man looked at Symalter quizzically before signing back.
‘Klakon’s right, Arroncöl is a rat-infested shithole. We should go to Brangaêl, their winter festival will be setting up soon,’ Haralan pointed out, before downing the wine in his glass and holding it out for Symalter to refill it.
‘Brangaêl has always been slim pickings, the people there don’t have a pot to piss in, and besides, Arroncöl is on the way,’ Symalter stated. ‘Why don’t we go to Arroncöl, set up for a few nights, take as much money as possible then make for Brangaêl’s winter festival?’
Haralan signed to Klakon, who nodded.
‘We set up in Arroncöl for one night only. I’m not staying in that flea-ridden dump any longer,’ Haralan decreed.
For the rest of the night, the three men drank and discussed ways of getting as much money from the miners, and the people of Arroncöl, as possible. They argued about the hustles and cons they would use, and which would be the most effective in terms of risk versus reward. Eventually, the three men left Haralan’s caravan and staggered through the campsite, stopping at the wagon in which Willow was imprisoned.
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