Darkness Beneath the Dying Light (The City of Shadow & Dust Book 2)

by R. T. Donlon

  “There is no hurry from here,” Jennison spoke. “We are out of the mountains and on the outskirts of the city. We will meet the King in the morning. For now, we need our rest.”

  Relu, being as tired as he could ever remember, agreed.

  “No predators here. I’ll build a fire,” said Relu as he fell to the ground in a meaty thud.

  The height of the surrounding grass stalks provided a bit of cover, so Relu cleared a section of them and flattened an upturn of soil to encapsulate a place for fire. In a matter of minutes, the orange-yellow glow of flame warmed them against the gentle, picked-up breeze. From where they reclined, the Light City flickered brilliantly not-so-far ahead, from the glow of tens of thousands of lamps and candles flickering in buildings and homes. For a man so separated from the rest of his world, Relu briefly felt a strange connection with this place he had never previously seen.

  “I never had a chance to thank you,” Jennison spoke, breaking the silence.

  Relu lifted his eyes, listening.

  “You took a chance on a foreigner—one you did not have to. You allowed me to speak to your Chieftain. For that, I am in your debt.”

  Relu picked a blade of grass from the ground from underneath him and began to chew it. Its stalk dangled limply from his mouth.

  “I will be honest,” said Relu. “I considered killing you…several times. The way of the dagger is sometimes easier than the way of words.”

  “Yet I am alive,” Jennison continued, “and here you are, traveling to my city! I will introduce you to my King with utmost respect. I feel you have earned that more than any other.”

  Surprisingly, there was a comfort in the diplomat’s words, but the warmth of the moment quickly dissipated at the sound of an aggressive hiss approaching from the south. The travelers quieted, listening.

  Jennison’s blood froze. His heart thumped hard against his chest while his eyes followed the sound into the surrounding darkness.

  Relu, sitting across from the diplomat, sat calm with his palms flat against his lap.

  “I thought you said we were safe,” Jennison whispered through gritted teeth.

  Relu did not respond.

  Another hiss broke into a deep growl, which exposed the six-foot creature slinking against the flickering light of the fire. The jungle cat crouched low, flexing its full-grown female legs. It flashed bright slits of gold eyes, shifting rapidly between the travelers. Claws ripped into the hardened flatland dirt, tilling it into something softer. Muscles flexed across its frame, ready to pounce, but Relu knew it would not. These were creatures of method, of perfection. It would not attack until it knew the extent of the travelers’ risk.

  Another angry growl broke from the cat’s snarled snout.

  Intimidation, Relu thought.

  Jennison straightened against the sound, noticeably fearful.

  The cat’s sharp teeth glistened against the fire’s glow. Plaque and bits of meat protruded from the crevices between points, yellowing and graying neat rows from jaw to jowl. The fire illuminated a massive scar that stretched from its eye to a recently opened slash in its jowl. Its nostrils flared quietly as it searched for human scent.

  This was no ordinary jungle cat. This creature was a hunter, a finder of food, a queen of survival.

  “Do not be scared,” Relu spoke. Each word was clear and calm, so much so that Jennison thought the Warrior had been speaking to him. Relu had turned toward the animal, his back to Jennison, crouching awkwardly to close the gap between creature and keeper. “We can share what food I have left.”

  Relu reached into the almost-empty pack at his hip and revealed a chunk of dried meat the width of three fingers. The Warrior held it outward, offering it to the cat. There was a gentleness in the Warrior’s gift, yet a firm dealing that resembled something more like unbroken strength than weakness.

  “Take it,” he said. “It’s yours.”

  The predator hesitated, letting go of its angry snarl to inch forward. Relu slowly stretched his arm outward, welcoming the creature closer. It sniffed cautiously, still shifting its eyes from one traveler to the other, until it crept close enough to quickly turn its jaw and take the meat with a silent snap of its teeth. It lapped at the food with a strong tongue, then swallowed it nearly whole. For several tense moments, Jennison held his breath tightly in his chest, keeping dangerously still in the firelight. He watched as the creature ran its ribbon of a tongue across its scar-ridden jowls for salt or scraps.

  “Relu—” Jennison whispered.

  He was met with an upturned hand.

  “Keep still,” the Warrior spoke. “We are not meant to die here, not by the claws of her.”

  Jennison reached for a crook—only half an arm’s length away—that he had been using to stir the fire. There was a part of him that felt he could take matters into his own hands—be the hero—stab the animal to death before it realized what was happening.

  But there was another part of him that clung to the curiosity of Relu’s actions.

  He shows no fear, Jennison thought. None at all!

  The cat’s bright eyes shifted from the ground to Relu in a blindingly swift movement of its head. There was something different within the cat’s movements now, something that Jennison could not quite decipher.

  Gratefulness? Assurance? he asked himself. No. It’s loyalty…

  “Be still now,” Relu whispered. “I have given you what you need.”

  The cat approached Relu with broad, flexing shoulders. They swayed in synchronicity with its paws, circling Relu once, twice, until falling to its belly in front of the Warrior. It closed its eyes and slumbered.

  Jennison watched in compete awe.

  “Not everything that starts in violence wants to be violent,” continued Relu, stroking his new companion’s fur. “Give it what it needs and everything else falls into place.”

  The animal purred deeper into sleep.

  “If you understand what you have just seen, then you have found the key to unlocking the greatest of all things.”

  “The greatest of all things,” Jennison repeated.

  “Yes,” said Relu. “Hope. The greatest of all things is hope.”

  Relu slept soundly through the night while the jungle cat purred gently by his side. Jennison, on the other hand, kept his eyes open and his body still. When the last embers of the fire burned away into the cold, the plains fell into complete darkness. Even then, Jennison could not find it within himself to rest.

  Only the thinnest film of morning sunlight cresting the horizon stirred Relu quietly against the animal’s fur and, as it woke the beast, it scoffed, rolled across its back until it found a gentler place in the grass to stretch.

  “I think I will call him Jihrah,” Relu said.

  Jennison rubbed his weary eyes. He longed for sleep, but he had missed his chance. He would have to wait until Relu’s introduction to the Light King.

  “Jihrah?” Jennison asked wearily. “What does it mean?”

  “The closest translation is hope,” Relu continued. “It is only fitting.”

  Jennison nodded half-reluctantly, half-apathetically, then sighed against his insurmountable fatigue.

  “Did you sleep?” the warrior asked. The lines of fatigue wrapping the diplomat’s eyes sharply contrasted the morning’s glow.

  The diplomat was not one to face the lines of danger as Portizu warriors were.

  “Civilians of the Light are not accustomed to the danger of the Portizu, so no,” said Jennison. “I have not slept.”

  Relu, despite his best judgement, laughed at Jennison’s outlying fear. The frustration within Jennison grew to a bout of anger.

  “Animals like Jihrah are only savage because they need to be. When he realized we have nothing left to offer, he spares us. I have built this connection and he has slept comfortably around the warmth of a fire. I have given him food. Make no doubt—he will remember this for as long as he lives.”

  Almost as if on cue, Jihrah b
ounced to his legs and yawned. Relu stroked the point of its head just above the eyes, then began packing his things.

  “Off you go,” Relu spoke to the animal. “Go, Jihrah. Join your pack.”

  Jihrah scoffed one final time, turned his attention to Jennison with apathetic eyes, and swiveled back to the jungle.

  “We must hurry now,” Relu spoke, this time to Jennison. The cat’s black frame disappeared into the trees. “We must not keep your King waiting.”

  So they walked the dirt path for some time until they reached the Light City Gates. The walls stretched upward nearly fifty feet and, at nearly every pillar, a soldier clad with golden armor stood with bow in hand, arrow aimed at the incoming guests.

  “State your purpose in the Light City,” a soldier atop the wall barked.

  This one had no bow in hand. Instead, his hand rested tensely against the gate pulley.

  “My name is Jennison Fairtherre. I have traveled to the mountains on official business decreed by King Altruit himself. I have returned with a diplomat from these lands per the King’s request.”

  The soldier turned to another, whispered something quietly into his ear, then tripped the pulley. The Light City Gates swung open with several loud, methodical creaks.

  “Your people are suspicious,” spoke Relu. There was hidden uncertainty in his eyes, but not enough to address. “I assumed they would be curious about me, but this? They fear me. I can see it…even from here.”

  Jennison turned to Relu as they walked through the Gates and said something that Relu would never forget.

  “More than you know.”

  The diplomat bought two apples and a soft crust of bread from a vendor in Tambirr Square and the travelers parked for a few moments adjacent to a spraying fountain caked with a layer of moss. Overworked buildings towered into the sky, shading Tambirr with an aura like dusk—dimming but not gray. They ate quietly against the thickening stew of people—each with their own story, each with their own destination. Relu had never seen so many people cluttered into one place. The constant uproar of salesmen barking prices and cheap attention-getter phrases, the rags of the poor tattered to mere shreds of fabric outlining the ladder rungs of skeletal ribs attached to meek, starving torsos, the knives dropping from sheaths at the weight of wealthy hips, the sway of dancers seducing the eyes of wavering men of coin, even the way everyone ignored everyone intrigued Relu.

  “These people,” Relu spoke simply out of thought. “They are nothing I expected.”

  Jennison smiled. He could see the wonderment in Relu’s eyes—the eyes of a ferrila.

  “Our King will not expect much from you in terms of custom. You have never met him. You have never been here before, but he will be impressed if you bow to him as you enter the room. Can you do that?” Jennison asked.

  Relu nodded.

  “He will not receive the minjori bow, as I do not know what kind of man he is, but I will most certainly bow into marjhi. Will that satisfy him?”

  Confusion riddled the lines of Jennison’s expression. He had never spoken those Portizu words to a ferrila, but he could make an exception here. The diplomat had earned that much.

  “Minjori means utmost respect. It is reserved only for the best, most righteous of people—a select few. Marjhi is for acquaintances, colleagues, friends. Minjori is simply a deeper bow. It is slightly more uncomfortable. It is a strain on the hips—a remembrance of respect. Your King will not know the difference.”

  Jennison brushed away the blunt honesty.

  “Marjhi will do, but as you get to know our King, I am certain you will change your outlook. King Altruit will also ask that you surrender your weapons as you enter the Mountain. They will remain in a safe location until after our conference.”

  This comment stirred Relu a bit.

  “Why must I surrender my dagger? I plan no harm while I am here,” Relu questioned.

  “It is simply a rule we ask all guests of the King to follow. We have had trouble in the past with diplomatic relations, so the rules must adhere to all, not just some. You, of course, fall into that group.”

  Relu allowed his hand to reach for his, feeling its rough hilt against the pads of his fingers.

  “Listen,” Jennison continued. There seemed to be a bit of hesitation in Relu now, as if Jennison had unveiled a side of himself he hadn’t known before. “This is not about you. The King feels…safer…when he has control of something like this.”

  Relu swallowed hard, nodded.

  “Good,” spoke Jennison. “Time to meet the King.”

  “You must forgive me,” King Altruit said. He broke the plain between doorway and corridor. He was a man of hubris and fervor. “I was expecting the Mountain Warrior King.”

  The King wore a glittering gold tunic draped from shoulder to knee, shimmering valiantly as he walked through the sun-soaked corridor. Beams of sunlight wrapped across his chest, ribboning downward from the sideview windows to the King’s right. The contrasting golds of sunlight and tunic accentuated the pristine band of the whitest fabric hung cleverly in a braid across his chest. The tunic dangled against his shins, not too loose, but enough for comfort. Leather-thonged sandals strapped to his feet, but the material sank under his hulking frame—bulging calves underneath a blanket of blond hair, thighs roping upward into a torso built like brick, breaking into a set of broad shoulders swaying in stride. Even as the King approached, the man appeared larger than any man the Portizu could muster. Biologically, the Light King stood shoulders over Relu.

  With one hand across the other, the King clutched at an array of gold rings—four on his left hand—symbols of prosperity and strength. If Relu had any doubts as to whom he would be speaking, those thoughts vanished quickly at the sight of such visible confidence.

  Jennison flinched at the King’s use of Mountain Warrior. He had made the same mistake the first time he had met Relu and had vowed to never allow it to happen again.

  “My King, with all due respect, their true name is Portizu,” Jennison corrected, “not Mountain Warriors.”

  The King mirrored the word with his own mouth, allowing the shape of his lips and teeth to savor each of its syllables. He did not do this in any sort of arrogant way, but King Altruit, being perceptive in his own right, noticed Relu’s dissent almost immediately.

  “You have my sincerest apologies,” uttered the King. “I do not mean offense in any way.”

  Relu forced an artificial smile through a veil of politeness.

  “I accept your apology. Our cultures are very different. It is easy to be misled.”

  Relu bowed into marjhi, keeping his eyes fixed to the King as he lowered at the hips. The King offered nothing in return.

  “Very well,” the King began. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am King Traysin Elgernon Merodius Altruit—the third of my family’s bloodline. I hope that we will have more time to speak and get to know each other. May I ask your name? Come, allow me to escort you—”

  The King stopped his impulsive walking and turned his immediate attention toward Relu. The Warrior stood nearly a half foot shorter than Altruit—not because Relu lacked height—but because the King possessed a surplus of it. He peered upward into the King’s softened eyes and allowed himself to speak. The King stood only inches from Relu—not out of intimidation—but more to show a friendly sort of intimacy, a sort of acquaintance.

  “Relu of the Highlands,” the Warrior said. “Your city is unlike anything my kind has ever seen.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Relu. I wish our meeting were under better circumstances, but we will manage, I presume.”

  The King pointed to a man at the far end of the corridor, who promptly rushed to Relu’s side, offering him a glass of ale—frothy and dark against its metallic-colored mug. Relu declined after several moments of staring at the contents.

  “I must admit,” the King continued, “it is comforting to meet someone without the itch for drink. The Range is filled with drunkards and fiend
s. Guard!”

  Another golden-armored guardsmen rushed to the King’s side. This time, he held a glass of water.

  “Will you take water? Surely you are thirsty.”

  This Relu accepted. The guard handed him the glass with a quickened outstretch of his arm, then rushed down the corridor without ever making eye contact.

  “Now,” the King continued, “as much as I enjoy the pleasantries of conversation, you are the last to arrive. We must sit with the others and discuss the pressing matters that, I am certain, my trusting diplomat has shared with you. I’m assuming your Chieftain has elected you as spokesperson of the Portizu Tribes?”

  Relu was never offered a chance to answer the King’s question. Instead, the giant man had already begun walking in the opposite direction, waving for Relu and Jennison to follow.

  A series of steel-infused wooden doors etched with foreign images and patterns appeared from the end of a second hallway. With a flick of the King’s wrist, the doors gave way to a room ten times as large as the Throne Room in the Highlands Palace. In the center of it, surrounded by painting of Kings and their families, a group of men sat patiently with their hands splayed in different directions across a rather large, but skinny table.

  “Relu,” the King began. “Please have a seat. Allow me to introduce you to the others.”

  Relu swiveled his head from one side of the room to the other. Every painting—closer or farther from where he sat—seemed to gaze at him, watching his every move.

  Perhaps he meant for it to be this way, Relu considered. Comfortably uncomfortable.

  “This is Elder Leridian from the Ix’a Compound. The Ix’a have traveled from the far west quadrant of our Great Range,” explained the King. “Beside him is his apprentice—Tauren Harmon. If you will excuse us, Jennison will escort Harmon from the room now. We are about to begin.” The King returned his conversation to Relu. “Both Leridian and his apprentice represent the Scouts that protect our cities. They pride themselves on global initiative—protecting the weak, so they say. They are like your Warriors in some ways, I presume, although a bit more…sociable.”