Aketa's Djinn (The Caine Mercer Series Book 1)

by Cale Madison

  Strangely, as I swam through the lower depths, I ceased to feel the urge to return to the surface. The feeling was if I had an unlimited supply of oxygen filling my lungs, preventing the need to ascend to danger above. Arrows passed gracefully through the water ahead and behind me, barely grazing my skin; above, they must have assumed I either drowned or suffered at the hands of the unrelenting current. In my heightened sense of perturbation on the surface, I had not realized which direction we were headed. Immensely unaware and considerably lost, I planned to swim until I found something. The deeper I delved into the water, the more inviting the silence became.

  After what felt like hours of propelling my body through inexhaustible miles of infinite darkness, my hands finally clutched at something grainy in front of me. I broke the surface and laid my eyes upon a beautiful, welcoming sight: the golden beach. Tears fell from my eyes and my heart appreciated everything in that blessed moment after being so close to death’s grasp. The sand between my fingers felt as soft as feathers, embracing my weakened body after such a tiresome venture.

  I touched my throat, searching for the gaping wounds of magic the Djinn placed upon it, but I felt nothing. It must have subsided as he foretold. Behind me, I searched for signs of Landstrom but only spotted his corpse floating through the water with arrows protruding from his back. My heart was heavy with his death but a sudden memory of Aketa reminded me of the greater task at hand. I thought about our walks to the beach neighboring our cabin on the hillside and how much I would appreciate them when I return.

  After straining to rise to my feet, I summoned the strength to enter the dense forest that met the beach. The guards at the prison believed me to be dead and I intended to keep that notion alive. I sprinted through the woods, focusing on each step to push myself farther than the last, keeping my eyes trained on the rising hills to the west. Even in utter silence, I continued to feel the notion of being hunted. The sun rested at high noon in the skies above, glaring down on me as if directing Ramses’ guards to my location. Merely four days left to complete the next two tasks. For the next several miles I barely rested, stopping only momentarily to catch my breath, until I heard faint whistling in the further sections of the forest.

  A traveling merchant on horseback was pulling a wagon full of various vials, herbs and pelts as he rode across my path. I lept ahead, standing between him and the road. The merchant gazed down at me through thick-rimmed spectacles, shaking his head in disagreement, saying, “No, no. Not today, my friend.”

  “I need safe passage. Please let me aboard.” I begged him.

  “I am on a very, very tight schedule, sir. I must be in Rotera by sundown tomorrow on an errand delivery so I must make haste. You’ve already cost me minutes from my travels so if you’d please, step aside or I will run you over.” he replied.

  “Rotera...that’s north of us, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind some company for the remainder of today?”

  The mustached merchant rolled his eyes and sighed, asking, “Coming from and headed where?”

  “Rather not say the first but I’m headed for Ataman’s Mountain.”

  “Then I’d rather not let you aboard.” the merchant huffed, pulling the reigns and preparing to continue north. I knew that I had to tell him the truth if I wanted a ride.

  “The prison. I’ve come from the prison.” I admitted. The merchant’s eyes lit up in admiration after hearing this news, as if I had just sparked some life into his heart. His tone shifted drastically.

  “Nobody escapes Ramses’ prison. How’d you manage!?” he asked, excitedly.

  “Had some help.”

  “What of the guards and the rocks?” he continued asking.

  “Not a challenge at all.”

  “My, oh, my. See, my friend, I make some deal of coin by writing poems and I would love to hear your story. To publish this would be one for the ages,” he said, dropping the reins and grinning ear-to-ear, “please, by all means!”

  I climbed onto the wagon, shuffling my feet around the marketable goods and breathed a sigh of relief as we rode off. He revealed his name to be Petri and that he lived as a trading merchant, avid herbalist and fur peddler. He grew the encased herbs and caught the animals himself but preferred the solitude behind soulful words written in ink to the bustling of city life. Petri lived modestly, journeying across provinces, experiencing abundances of societies then moving along within the week. Truly, a remarkable life.

  “The people of Ataman are scared,” Petri told me, “nearly pissing their pants in fear of Era’Kal or Zuma knocking at their doors. Ramses talks a big talk but their numbers are shite compared.”

  “Don’t they have an alliance with the elves?” I asked.

  “Nay,” he replied, “relationships with nonhuman folk are troubled to say the least. I see at least four elves a day hiding in dark alleys, ears all bloodied. Wanna know why, Caine?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Bigots of Ataman have started snipping their pointed ears with shears - the kind you shave a sheep with! A sign of detestation among the black hearts. Sad story, really.” he answered.

  “Any more stories of foreign land? Something that might interest someone who’s never stepped foot outside of his small fishing village.” I asked him.

  “Hmm, yes I might have one,” Petri said as he prepared a tale, “I joined a campaign traveling across Tuskan. We were to deliver barrels of elven wine to the docks of Ama’Ru the following afternoon but we thought staying punctual would increase our pay. The next morning we-”

  “Why were you in this band in the first place? Their campaign desperately needed a poet and a merchant?” I interrupted.

  “Just listen. Sun is setting and we’re crossing a steep mountain ridge when suddenly, we come across a wagon covered in dried blood. I suggested we continue but one of our partners recognized a dead man inside. A large beast had destroyed the cart, decapitated the two stallions and they still wanted to investigate further.”

  “What kind of beast?” I asked.

  “Keep listening, damnit! You’re going to ruin the flow of the story! We set out

  into the mountain pass to search for any signs of blood or life but found nothing. It wasn’t until we discovered a large nest resting on the Tuskan foothills that we realized what we were dealing with: a territorial Anka.”

  “An Anka?”

  “It translates into ‘thirty birds’ in its native land. Folk say that its wingspan can completely blot out the sun when stretched. The giant bird eventually found us huddled around its nest and decided to pick us off one by one. It was terrifying, Caine. One moment, silence, then my partners started dropping off one by one. Each becoming plucked into the grey skies, their blood raining down on us.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Did what any poet would do. I ran as fast as I could, mounted my horse and luckily, escaped with my life. I didn’t owe those men a damned thing but respectful recognition in their poem I wrote a week later. Would you like to hear it?”

  I nodded and watched as he quickly retrieved a psaltery from a dusty bag sitting in the cart, as if he were always prepared to break into song. He tuned the instrument swiftly and began to softly sing:

  “Feathers as golden as kissed from the sun

  This angel, she flies with the wind, then she’s gone

  Feathers as golden as kissed from the sun

  This angel, she greets them, still they would run

  Death awaits all in the still of the night

  This angel, she rises, brings back daylight

  Last you will see in this world from above

  Her feathers, golden as kissed from the sun”

  “Seems you were too busy marvelling at her beauty to notice your partners being killed around you. I didn’t hear them mentioned either?” I critiqued.

  “That’s because you lack the true heart of a poet, my friend. Bards will sing my odes for centu
ries to come, mark my words. I shall call yours: Caine Mercer and the Djinn. Come to think about it...I’ve never seen one, myself.”

  “Pray you never do.”

  Before I could finish telling my story, he interrupted after hearing of my intentions behind seeking the summit of North Mountain. He turned to me with a bewildered expression upon his face, as if I had said something quite asinine.

  “Hold on, Caine, you mean to tell me your plan is to just climb this mountain and bring back a rose? A living rose? You do realize that nothing grows upon that rock? Nothing has in centuries. It’s barren. And the mountain’s curse keeps the snow throughout the seasons.” he informed me.

  “There has to be a way? The task is not entirely impossible.”

  “Only for the fool-hearted,” said Petri, returning his attention to the road, “I’ve stayed in a few brothels around Ataman and their women say a creature lives up there. An evil creature.”

  “I’ve heard the same stories.” I replied.

  “Then you’d be a fool to tempt such a fate. Yet, I understand, given your wife’s current gamble with the devil. There’s a vial back there. Yellow labeling with a striped black cover. Find it.”

  I dug through packages and wrapped baggage, retrieving the glass vial.

  “Got it.” I said, looking it over.

  “That is a special type of extract,” Petri explained, “if you happen to run across this creature, from what I understand, that could save your life.”

  “How so?”

  “Just trust me. You wouldn’t understand its contents or its origin. Herbalists in Mercia are ignorant in the remedies of nature. Simply put: break the glass and it will help.” Petri stated, shaking his head and laughing. I was unsure if I should be offended or thankful.

  “Let’s hope I don’t have to use it.” I said.

  “Can’t ever be too careful.”

  As the sun began to dawn, we reached the summit. Petri was a wonderful companion for this trip, writing down my perils and trials spanning the past few days. He was a pleasant, honest man in a world inhabited by charlatans and shady characters. His presence would definitely be missed. Before I dismounted his wagon, he demanded I give him the postage address in Mercia so that he could write me.

  “Here you are, my friend. Certain death.” he jested, remaining mounted upon his horse while I unloaded from the wagon. I tied the mysterious extract to my waist and walked to his side.

  “Promise you will use that if the time comes.”

  “I will. Thank you, Petri, you’re a good man for this.” I told him. He laughed in disagreement, replying, “I just do what’s right. My advice: take some time off. You deserve a decent break.”

  “Duly noted, maybe next week.” I joked in return, shaking his hand as we parted ways.

  Ataman Mountain stood in magnificence, towering above me and the woods behind. One trail broke off from the forest, leading me to the snowy base of this captivating marvel rising from the earth. A wooden sign, nailed to an oak tree before the edge of the forest, read:

  All who enter, beware of the man in grey.

  I passed the peculiar sign, reading it carefully in case I had missed some minor details. For a moment, I noticed how suddenly the lush grass transitioned into crystallized, white snow; this must have been the curse that Captain Ottoman spoke of. The road split off into a trail that led up into the first icy chasms, leading me to a smaller peak that overlooked the forest below. From this height, I could only just distinguish the stone towers of Ramses’ prison in the far distance; nothing more. Night was dawning upon the cursed mountain, giving me less than an hour to seek shelter upon this desolate rock. A building sat alone ahead, billowing smoke from a chimney into the darkening sky with a hanging sign that read two eerily scratched words: Wolves’ Den.

  Petri appeared suddenly, moving past me with a swift pace.

  “Hey,” I called out, “wait, I thought you left?”

  “Could use a drink or two and you could definitely use a guide!”

  The heavy, wooden door swung open and revealed to Petri and I a dozen or so rugged patrons drinking and conversing under hushed breath with one barkeep standing behind his bar. The second the door closed behind us, the men in the bar grew quiet as they looked us over: me with my tattered clothes from my adventures prior and Petri with his bifocals, sporting his bright, dandy outfit. We certainly did not belong in such a place. Each patron eyed us suspiciously as we cleared a path to a table in the back corner, distancing ourselves from their lines of vision so we could speak in private.

  “What you need now is someone who knows their way around the mountain,” Petri whispered to me, “someone with...a sword, at least.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Out of the folk in this bar, some may not care who you are or your intentions here and some might see it as competition,” he answered, “for what I mentioned to you earlier when we met.”

  “The wolf-man?”

  “Precisely. They come and go more frequently than not, each readying to collect the prized reward to bring him back alive.” Petri informed me. I had many questions.

  “Who set the notice? Ramses?”

  “Yes. He offers thousands of crowns if the wolf-man is brought to him, alive.”

  I nodded. Petri stroked his whiskers, raising his hand to the bartender to call him over. The barkeep noticed the gesture but remained motionless, as if waiting to be greeted instead.

  “Eh,” Petri sighed, “I guess compliance has flown out the door with manners in this side of town. What do you care to drink, Caine? Baeterrae? Maybe a glass of Rhaetic? Not sure how Mercians drink.”

  “Water and Baeterrae.”

  Given my order for drinks, Petri lept to the bar to speak with the bartender while I awkwardly avoided making eye contact with the other non-friendlies surrounding me. Some of them stunk to high heavens; as if they had not bathed in months. Some resembled hard-working lumberjacks and forest laborers with the chalky soot of burnt trees still lingering on their beards. I had not eaten nor slept since arriving on the harsh welcome-mat of Ataman a day before - it was starting to take a toll on me.

  “I don’t know you.” said a deep voice behind me. A heavy hand gripped my tired shoulder and a large, brutish man settled down in the chair beside me. Missing his right eye, the man wore no tunic, only leather pants and thick workman’s boots. Prison tattoos covered every inch of his scarred, muscular body. As I looked him over, I nearly forgot that it was my turn to speak in the one-sided conversation between us.

  “I don’t know you.” he repeated, as if waiting for me to deliver the other half of some riddle I was not aware of.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you either.”

  “That doesn’t sit with me,” the tattooed man said, “I only drink with men I trust and I only trust men I know so tell me: who the blimey hell are you to come in here with this pansy at the bar? Hmm?”

  “I’ve only come for a drink.”

  “We’ve all come for a drink or few,” he responded through drunken slurs, “me mates over there work in the fields, ploughing and hauling wheat all goddamned day. We come to this bar to sit and drink in peace with people we know. It seems that your presence here is, eh, disruptive to say the least.”

  “I haven’t disrupted anyone?”

  “You’ve bothered us. Now leave and take that purple tulip you came in here with before this path goes another, more painful route.” he argued. I could feel the mistrusting hostility in his voice and I knew how exhausted my body was from the past days.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Petri suddenly interrupted, handing me a silver pint, “let’s all remain calm. No need to cause a ruckus over identities. Here, drink with us.”

  He then offered the tattooed man a drink. Silence came between them before the agitated patron swiftly batted the mug from Petri’s hand and grabbed him by his finely-trimmed collar, whispering, “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Caine, I belie
ve we should show ourselves out.” my acquaintance said to me. I finished my drink quickly and began to follow him to the door before another man interrupted us. He ripped the cloth that barely covered my shoulder, revealing my prison brand.

  “Look what we’ve got here.” he said to the onlookers behind us. Murmurs began as the patrons rose from their chairs and approached us. They each eyed my newly acquired brand in shock and disbelief.

  “Mark of the condemned,” the tattooed man replied, “someone’s looking for this one! Pay top coin for him, I’m certain. Only one dagger through the wolf, see? He’s escaped.”

  I understood that the patrons aimed to return me to the prison and expected decent compensation for the endeavor but I had no intention of going back. Before a multitude of hands could bind me, I swung my fist as hard as I could at my captor. My knuckles collided with the bridge of his nose, cracking loudly before he released me out of sudden shock. The patrons lept on top of me to prevent me from injuring anyone else in my attempts to defend myself.

  “Somebody grab some rope!” the bartender shouted. Petri cried out as he became pinned against the wall beside me, his hands tightly bound behind his back. The tattooed man I had met only moments before now approached us with a nose caked in blood and a twisted expression on his face. He clenched his fist and buried it deep inside of my stomach, releasing a whirlwind of agony that shot throughout my body. The next blow crashed against my jaw, knocking me to the floor like a wet doll made of cloth. My blurred vision could barely focus on what was happening around me - shapes of onlooking patrons as they cheered and hollered, encircling us. A piercing, ringing noise drowned everything else out in the tavern; the next punch from the brute standing above me would definitely be the last one I’d feel tonight.