“I have never seen it’s like. The workmanship is exquisite.” He whispered. “May I examine it further?”
“I am walking away so you don’t have to.” Scrave warned. “Good day to you, dear sir. Let us hope for your sake that our paths never cross again.”
The Elf stepped from the small shop and swiftly mingled with the crowd, immersing himself in the ambience of the bazaar that Al Mashmaah was famous for. The market place was simply staggering in size and spectacle, consisting of an ancient paved square surrounded on all sides by a thirty-foot wall, that ran nearly half a mile on each side. The sights and sounds washed over him, assaulting his senses, everything from traders haggling and yelling, to the rich scents of herbs and spices infused upon the air.
Scrave currently stood by the south wall, having just exited the jeweller’s shop, which was one of the more permanent fixtures of the market, having been constructed within the second wall of the city. He allowed his gaze to take in the rows of visiting stalls stretching out before him, the sky above them shaded by massive sails of dyed silk that stretched out from the walls to huge poles set about the square. The sails flapped and snapped as the breeze passed through them, a rainbow of hues, protecting the shopping public from the rays of the sun and spaced so that the majestic palm trees set about wells throughout the area were able to show their glossy green leaves through and bask in the hot morning air, adding additional shade to the delight of many shoppers.
The Elf set off at random, strolling up one aisle, taking in the sights, content that his dagger would warn him of any danger and deter the most tenacious pickpockets with its terminal kiss. Slave traders displayed their wares, from heavy labourers, to exotic serving girls, pleasure slaves and even gladiators stood on open display, muscles oiled to show off their attributes to the passing buyer. Freak shows offered tantalising glimpses of multi-limbed mutations, whilst other more heavily curtained areas catered for the more exotic and erotic needs of clientele.
Vivid fruits, enormous vegetables, sacks of brightly coloured and fragrant spices, weapon smiths, blacksmiths, basket weavers, potters, bakers and butchers all within yards of each other, selling their wares and shouting to attract customers. Auctioneers sold curios, vendors sold food, Ironmongers banged pots and pans. Potions for hair loss, lotions for supple skin, tonics for strength, colonics for… well it just went on and on. Scrave found it all rather overwhelming following the length of time spent on his own, struggling to survive just a few months prior.
The Elf moved to walk past a stall selling terracotta pots, serving dishes and other household goods and suddenly found his legs were not responding as they should. There seemed to be a resistance in the air, slowing his walk to a crawl and then to a complete stop. Instead of walking past as he intended, he found he was being drawn to the stall, despite having no interest in the wares on sale at all.
Scrave passed under the awning and found himself wearing a stupefied expression that made one or two shoppers view him with some suspicion. He went to shrug and found his arms refused to obey him. What was going on? This behaviour made absolutely no sense. He needed to get control of himself and walk away, he had to…
The pain that lanced through his head dropped him to his knees, like a spear stabbing through his brain. He gasped in shock, only realising he had regained the use of his hands when he felt them holding the sides of his head as he rocked to try and stop the agony he had to endure.
“Are you okay?” A woman asked cautiously, gathering her items and slowly edging away without waiting for a response. Scrave gasped aloud, moving his hand to his eye and feeling something squirming and burrowing in his socket. He let out a low moan as the pain slowly began to ease.
“Do I look alright to you?” he snapped, staggering back to his feet and reaching out for the stall, nearly knocking several urns onto the floor. His head spun for several seconds more, leaving him only vaguely aware that the woman had now hurriedly taken her leave and that the purveyor of the stall now had a giant bald man standing alongside him, holding a very large cudgel in one hand, his face a mass of fading bruises. As Scrave focused on the particulars of the hulking figure, he noticed with some interest, that the man appeared to be missing one of his fingers.
“Can we help you?” The stall holder enquired, clearly not intending to sell anything to this strange one-eyed man who was either clearly insane or intoxicated. Scrave tried to focus, struggled to concentrate on the stall and let his eyes roam over the ironmongery before him. He had no need for pots and pans. What could he possibly find of interest on this stall?
“As I said before...” the shorter stall owner stood up and leaned over his goods to emphasis his statement, now confident that his backup was near. “Can I help you? Or should I ask my brother to help you instead?”
Scrave found himself suddenly leaning forwards and sniffing the man. Sniffing! His mind was horrified at the repugnant actions of his body! A similar expression of disgust was being displayed by the shop keeper, who moved to pull back, only for Scrave’s hand to shoot out and grab him around the throat, putting him off balance and leaning forwards.
The Elf’s other hand moved in fast, reaching for something at the purveyor’s neck. He pulled hard and found himself drawing a pendant out of the trader’s robes. A shout of alarm rose from the man’s mouth and his muscle-bound brother moved to rush around the stall. Scrave noticed he was now holding a small pendant in his hand, with a glowing emerald at the centre.
Before he could apologise for his uncontrollable actions the insult was further compounded by the Elf licking the jewellery. He simply could not believe what he was doing! A pleading thought in his mind hoped that this was all some sort of hallucination, it had to be a mistake!
“Where is Kerian Denaris?” he asked in a gravelly voice nothing like his own.
“I know of no Kerian Denaris,” the shopkeeper gasped, even though Scrave was half strangling him.
“If you do not know Kerian Denaris, why are you wearing his pendant?” The gravelly voice continued. Scrave swallowed, his mind rushing in panic. Why had his voice changed? What was…
His hand dropped to his side, the pendant slipping inside his pocket and the serpent dagger slipping eagerly around his wrist.
“The pendant came from Wellruff market.” The seller choked.
Scrave felt himself moving again, his body not his own. He dragged the man physically over the stall, sending pots and pans crashing to the floor and dropping him bodily to the ground, just as his brother charged in, his arms extended, hands outstretched eager to grab the drunkard who dared to place a hand on his brother.
The dagger shot out, once, twice, hissing in delight as the blade struck with unerring accuracy, taking an ear with the first lunge and slicing deeply across the man’s bicep with the second. Blood oozed from the wounds, as the ear flopped wetly down onto the pavement. The fight instantly disappeared from the huge man; he sank to the floor, screaming in horror, trying to grab his ear before any passers-by trod on it.
Scrave moved to apologise, still mortified at what was going on and found himself reaching down to grab the original stall owner and hoist him to his feet.
“Are you sure you do not know where Kerian Denarissss is?” The man shook his head in terror. Similar thoughts raced through Scrave’s mind. Dear lord was he hissing now?
“No I swear that I have no idea.”
Scrave watched in disbelief as his hands smashed the seller about the face, breaking his nose and causing blood to jet across Scrave’s tunic. Then as suddenly as it started, he found he was himself again. He almost overbalanced as his motor senses returned and the trader dropped to the ground. The background noises from the bazaar had dropped to a murmur. Scrave spun, the serpent dagger writhing on his arm. Every eye on every stall seemed to be staring at him.
“I’m sorry.” Scrave confessed to anyone bothering to listen, despite the carnage at his back. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“No that’s not true.” Scrave stammered, even as his mind shouted to him. Run you fool. No one will believe you. You need to run now! His feet seemed attached to legs made of jelly but he somehow managed to place one foot in front of the other, running for the closest aisle desperate to put some distance between himself and whatever had just happened behind him.
* * * * * *
“There appears to have been a slight disturbance in the bazaar.” Kaplain reported. “I believe your Elf is responsible and he is trying to escape as we speak.”
Justina looked up from the ledger Kaplain had recorded about his observations in the city and pushed it to one side.
“Right now?” she asked.
“My sources tell me he has stabbed two stall holders and fought with several guards. Stalls are overturned and it is by all accounts a chaotic but also extremely fluid situation.”
“How sure are you of this information?” Justina asked, checking her wand and pulling her cloak about her. She remembered when she had seen Scrave in action back in the library. Chaos seemed to be a staple partner to the cocky character.
“Well he may not have stabbed as many people as said. This is hearsay after all but I think we can be confident that whatever is going on it is happening now.”
“Then let us go and help stop this menace to trade.” She smiled. “You never know, maybe if we do a good job, we will gain a few more followers to our church.”
* * * * * *
Thomas stared at the toy car in his hand, his world upside down and now paused as if a movie on his DVD player. Where was the El Defensor? Why was he in this room when he knew this tragic scenario had played out long, long ago. He knew they would leave the house. Knew they would get a report of a child’s body found tomorrow, buried in a shallow grave with his head staved in.
He could not stop this from happening. It was history. In the past. Thomas Adams had no DeLorean time machine fitted with a flux capacitor, that he could jump into, drive at 88 miles an hour and go back in time to prevent this tragedy from occurring. At the moment as far as he knew he was at a banquet with a load of bovine characters and was the captain of a Spanish Galleon that could sail to different worlds.
Now he thought about it, both scenarios were equally ridiculous, yet he knew in his heart the ship was real. He had a beautiful woman there and was going to ask her to marry him. Once he got his head straight and his crew safe that was…
“What’s up Thomas. Jerry hit your head too hard.” Eede enquired. “Put the toy down and let’s get out of here.”
“Last one back to the station buys the doughnuts.” MacMichael grinned, always ready to see the light in any dark situation with typical practicality. Thomas placed the car onto the windowsill and moved to leave the room, turning around and taking in the scene for one final time. Everything was how he remembered it. The books on the locker, the milk and half eaten cookie on the saucer and the toy police cruiser sitting on the windowsill.
He followed the two detectives down the stairs, tracing his finger down the bannister and feeling the pile of the carpet crushing under his feet. This felt so real. The only thing he didn’t recognise from the situation was the heat. He touched the door and pulled his hand away from the handle. It was as if a fire were burning outside.
“Allow me.” Eede laughed, opening the door and offering a theatrical bow. “Don’t ever let it be said chivalry is dead.” He laughed. “We have all just been taking a well-earned rest. After you my dear.” he gestured. Thomas stepped out into the night and looked across at the frail woman whose world had already ended, knowing that tomorrow she would spiral into screaming chaos.
Then it hit him. The toy car was still on the windowsill. Yet he knew in his future he had the car. It had been given to him by Malum Okubi, who in turn had gained it from Thomas when he had been washed into the graveyard. So where did Thomas get the car from? He wracked his brains, his mind not focusing on the car he was heading to.
The damned heat was making it difficult to think. The toy police car had been evidence in the case when they had tried to discover the serial killer. It was suggested that whoever had killed the boy had also been collecting trophies of his victims and then the toy had been discovered in Thomas’s locker at the precinct placing him as the number one suspect. He knew this as fact, a nightmare made real, yet he had just seen that he had left the car in the boy’s bedroom. How did it end up in his locker? He had not put it there. So who had?
This made no sense! He reached down for the car door handle and noted with surprise that the wheels of the car had melted like toffee and that the wing mirror was dripping like candle wax. Now he knew that had not happened before! He turned to ask his fellow detectives if they were having any vehicle malfunctions only to find that the road was bubbling and dripping into a crevasse that had apparently opened up as he had walked over. The crime scene was on fire, the ambulance emergency light popping with the heat. This had to be a dream… It just had to be!
He started to turn one way and then the other, his mind a whirl, not knowing what was real or make believe. He found himself moaning, his throat suddenly parched and sore. This whole situation was prompting more questions than answers. He needed to lie down. Needed to sleep.
* * * * * *
The cell door slammed shut with a depressing clang. Ashe noted the key turning in the lock and with a resigned shrug, moved to sit on the bunk, only to find it was somewhat higher than ones he had seen in your normal everyday jail.
“Oh that’s just great!” he exclaimed, taking in the Minotaur scaled furniture towering above him. “I’m not that tall, I’m sure there is a discrimination law being broken here somewhere.” He jumped up, grabbing the edge with both hands before struggling to pull his little legs up over the edge. Breathless, he rolled onto the hard surface and took in his temporary lodgings.
A bunk and a bucket. Damp walls and resident rodents. He shrugged again and grabbed the thread bare blanket he found there, wrinkling his nose at the unmistakable smell of damp Minotaur.
He had really messed up this time. Thomas was going to kill him. Well how was he to know that throwing away good money was allowed but then collecting it for yourself was not, even if the first person clearly did not want it anymore? The laws in this place were crazy!
Ashe looked at the wall where the only source of light entered the cell. The bars were a long way above his head. He did not think it worth the effort to see if the cell had a good view. He was not planning on staying here. This was a miscarriage of justice!
The Halfling slid off the edge of the bunk and ran back over to the door, staring up at the keyhole about two foot above his head. He put his hands on his hips, tilting his head one way and then the other, before he reached up to his hat and pulled out a slender lock pick. This scenario was what Ashe lived for. He would have the door open in a jiffy!
He turned back into the room and looked for a chair. It didn’t take long to realise there wasn’t one available. He ran over to the bucket, tipped it out in the far corner whilst trying not to gag at the appalling smell, before upending it and clambering on top. The door lock teased him from a foot beyond his reach, even with his arm fully outstretched and standing on tiptoes. The bucket suddenly cracked, dropping Ashe to the floor. He looked at the ruined pail despairingly. Trust him to be given a cell with a normal sized bucket! His little feet pattered about the cell, checking for something he could use to get up to the door lock. It did not take very long to give the damp cell a thorough search.
Ashe climbed back onto the bunk, struggling to swing his legs up again, before he finally lay there staring at the sunlight creeping slowly across the stone wall. There was no way he was going to get out through the door unless he suddenly grew sharply over night. The window was far above his head, further than the door lock. He was cold, tired and sudden
ly very lonely.
Thomas would have to come and get him. He was sure the captain would get this all sorted out. He would put things right. He was a sheriff where he came from. He had told Ashe this several times in the past. Thomas would…
Thomas was ill. Thomas was going to do nothing! The implications of this hit Ashe with the force of a sledgehammer, smashing his hopes into tiny fragments. The Halfling prided himself with never swearing, his mother having told him that only crass unintelligent men resorted to base profanity. Several colourful nut adjectives ran through his mind but this was a more serious situation than normal and no one was within earshot.
“Oh bugger!”
* * * * * *
“Get more water and towels.” Violetta yelled. “He’s burning up again.” Colette and Rowan looked on powerless as Thomas thrashed about the bed, wrestling with his delirium, the poison tracks across his skin darker than ever.
“What can we do? What do you need?” Rowan asked, holding Thomas’s hand so tight her fingers were going white. Violetta turned towards her, her own face dripping with perspiration, her eyes sunken and haggard from using the saint in her hand.
“This illness that has him is so strong. Violetta confirmed. “I am barely keeping him from slipping away. Every time I try to heal him, his illness attacks him from somewhere else. It is like a snake with many heads. I never know where the next threat is coming from.”
“Is there any way we can find out how our shipmates are doing in the jungle?” Rowan turned to Colette.
“I simply don’t know what we can do.” Colette confessed shaking her head slowly, “but maybe there is something in my master’s spell books that could help.”
“Anything!” Rowan pleaded. “…Anything!”
Colette ran for the door, fighting back her own tears, determined to stay strong and resisting the urge to scream her frustrations at the world, unaware that deep within the jungles of Taurean her friends were screaming too!
The Labyris Knight Page 46