Sons of Plague

by Kade Derricks

  So much for that hot meal.

  Walking on, she passed row after row of silent houses. Wooden slats, long-faded, had been nailed over their windows and doors. The flowerpots out front held nothing but lifeless vines and sad gray stalks. Paint curled up on the house’s exteriors like thin slices of peeling bark, red or blue or white or green.

  She saw movement inside a few of the houses—a curtain held aside, half a face looking out at her with frightened eyes—but the streets were completely deserted. Looking down a dark alleyway, she saw a man wearing rags digging through a scattered pile of garbage. He gave her a fearful glance, and he clutched a small bag tight to his chest. Olinia passed by without slowing.

  A half-mile from the gate she found her first merchant, a copper-skinned man in a conical cap standing in his stall. With eyes narrowed to thin slits, he watched her approach. Except for a small red-and-white striped blanket covering a wooden box near the man, the stall’s shelves were bare. Olinia wondered what was beneath the blanket.

  The man licked his lips as she walked closer. He leaned forward a bit, and she saw a spark of hope in his face.

  “You have food?” she asked without preamble. She motioned to her mouth while making a chewing motion.

  The merchant nodded twice. “You can pay?” His accent was thick and choppy, but she made out the words.

  “Trade. I have skins.” She pointed to the bundles on her horse.

  “Hmm, not much need for them,” the man said. Olinia noticed the way he studied the bundles, though. She could see him weighing and measuring their worth.

  “Let’s see what you have,” she said.

  He drew back the blanket slowly. Olinia tried to keep her expression neutral. The box held six small apples, browned and withered, a tiny, shriveled pear, a half-full bag labeled wheat, three fist-sized potatoes, and a red onion.

  “How much for the potatoes?” They looked the freshest of the lot. The man eyed the potatoes, pursing his lips.

  “You have wolf?” the merchant asked.

  “I may,” Olinia said, raising an eyebrow. “There are a few fox skins in there.”

  “One wolf for three potatoes?”

  She shook her head. “I want the onion, as well.”

  “No. One wolf for the three, and a fox for the onion.”

  They haggled back and forth until Olinia gave him one of her wolf skins, a fox, and a beaver pelt for the potatoes, the onion, and one of the withered apples.

  She stowed the food away in her pack.

  “Is there a place to stay?”

  “There is a park up ahead, but beware the marauders. They roam the city in packs at night. They will rob anyone they stumble across.”

  “No inns?”

  “A few across the park,” he said. The shadows were growing longer now. Hurrying, the merchant threw the skins atop the crate with the little blanket and the remaining food. Crate in hand, he shuffled in through the door of the house behind him and slammed it tight. Olinia heard the snick-snick of several locks clicking shut.

  Not the most trusting soul.

  She picked up her pace toward the park. She had little fear of common criminals. There were two daggers around her waist, a sword carefully hidden in her bundles, and, of course, the bow. Even if she couldn’t string it quickly, the wood was thick and long enough to use as an improvised staff.

  The park was large but overgrown with weeds. Many of the bigger trees were dead and skeletal, their bark and branches stripped bare. Probably used for firewood, Olinia thought, or eaten. There were fountains scattered around, white marble carvings of birds or fish, but the water was stagnant and in shades of brown, green, and black. They stank of rotted filth; she could see tiny shapes writhing beneath the surface and kept her distance.

  By full dark she’d crossed the overgrown park. There was a row of quiet houses and shops on the other side. All were empty and boarded up. She looked down a wide avenue and saw no one. Other than the guard, the merchant, and a few residents who quickly retreated behind their windows, she hadn’t seen anyone since entering the city. She thought about the small box of withered food and what it meant.

  Cagle is right. The city is starving, just like Crow’s Bay. There won’t be anything here worth trading for or taking. Still, they couldn’t afford to let Washougle continue to raid Crow’s Bay. The city would have to be conquered. But where are the soldiers?

  In many ways, this quest was a trap for her brother. Once he saw the city’s needs he would feel responsible for the fate of its people. It was his nature. He had always heaped responsibility and duty upon himself. His decision to reclaim the area around Crow’s Bay, to guard its farms and defeat its rival— that was Cagle to the letter. Duty, honor, responsibility, these were her brother’s deepest motivations. He did so little of what he wanted and too much of what he felt he should do.

  Not that he even knows what he wants. Short of Nuren, he’d never seemed excited about much beyond serving the lowlands in whatever capacity he could.

  Olinia considered herself more...fluid. Her goals aligned with his, of course. They’d been sent here to find food for their people, and they would do so. Then they would return home to father. That was their true duty, their only duty. She would have to remind her brother of that. If Cagle decided to play savior to all of Iridia, they would never go back home.

  Still, this country was interesting. There were new people to study, new customs to learn, new dialects to master. So much to see and do. She was intrigued by it all.

  Maybe I’ll return here after we save Kartha.

  “Where you going, Missy?” a rough voice called from behind her.

  Olinia cursed. She’d been so distracted by her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the man following. A few days on her own in the wild and she’d grown careless, forgetting that the most dangerous places were always the streets.

  Some spy I am. I let some ill-bred jackal sneak up on me. What had she been thinking?

  “Looking for a nice inn,” she said after stopping.

  “The only nice places are on the other side of the Line where the rich folk live. Here, you’ll be better off staying with us. Safer. I’m sure we can think of a use for you,” the man said. He gave her a leering grin.

  “Us? I only see yourself,” Olinia said.

  “The Maulers. We own this part of town,” he said, licking his lips, “and everyone in it.” He whistled, and two more men moved out of the nearby shadows. All three had short wooden cudgels, and judging by the scars on both the wood and their heavy knuckles, they’d seen plenty of use.

  “Well, you must be a lord, then.” Olinia executed a half-curtsy. She wanted them at ease. Let them think they are in control here.

  “Hah! Lord,” one of the others guffawed. “Oh, Tad’s a lord, alright.”

  “You making fun of me, Missy?” the first man, Tad, said.

  “Of course not. One could hardly make fun of a lord,” Olinia said. “It isn’t wise.”

  The third man said nothing; his flat eyes regarding her. He would be the one to watch, the truly dangerous one. She gave him a sly wink.

  “Now see here, girl,” Tad said. “I’m no damned lord. I’ll teach you to make fun of the Maulers.” He stepped closer, into range. He’d made a fatal mistake.

  Olinia swung the bow up in a vicious arc, aiming it at his chin. The blow wasn’t solid—he jerked back at the last instant, but the bow’s end opened a cut across his cheek and nose. Olinia brought it all the way around with a spin, building power and speed and slamming it into the second man’s head with a thunk. He collapsed as if struck by lightning.

  Tad bent down over the street, clutching his face, cursing. Blood came in a steady stream from his broken nose.

  Olinia dropped the bow, and her daggers flashed fr
ee of their sheathes. She ran one into Tad’s side and shoved him forward. The last Mauler, the mute one with the feral face, approached her now. He brought his cudgel in high. She batted it aside with one blade and drove the second into his wiry forearm in one fluid movement.

  He screamed. So he’s not mute after all. His arm flew back, and Olinia wrenched her dagger. The blade cut up through the muscle to his wrist and then tore free with a sickening pop.

  The thug looked down at his ruined arm, holding it close. His other hand squeezed around the gushing wound. He never saw Olinia’s other dagger until she drove it into his heart.

  After taking care of the three Maulers, Olinia continued on. She’d searched their pockets and found little of use—a few scraps of moldy cheese, a rusty knife with a broken tip, a few copper coins, and a scrap of paper with the word Gaulen written on it. She wondered who or what Gaulen was.

  The head thug—she’d already forgotten his name—had said something about a Line, and that there were inns on the other side of it. Where the rich folk live, he’d said. She’d entered the city through its southern gate, and she reasoned that if this Line existed, then it would have to be off to the north. She would have preferred to move with the shadows, keeping out of sight, but her clopping horse prevented that.

  I could leave the beast; he’s only slowing me down, and half the city can hear every footfall. But I’ll need the skins for barter once I get across this Line, and I won’t make a very convincing trapper without them.

  She turned off the rocky streets into the dirt paths whenever possible. The horse’s steps faded in the soft earth. More alert now, she avoided two more groups of men. She detoured around a two-story house with a pair of thugs stationed outside. Probably the home of whoever leads the local gang. Maybe Gaulen.

  An hour later, she emerged into an open space between the buildings to find a barrier of broken rubble blocking her path. She retreated into a dark alleyway, tied her horse to a broken fencepost, and then studied the rubble.

  This has to be the Line.

  The Line was a berm of stony rubble piled up almost fifteen feet high through the center of a broad street. The berm snaked its way along, weaving between the buildings like an enormous chain. Sharpened wooden spikes lined the crest, making climbing impossible. Walking along the top were guards with torches spaced out at regular intervals. Each wore armor head-to-boot, and carried a long pike. Unlike the guard at the outer wall, these were alert. The berm disappeared around a slight bend toward the west, and on the east, it seemed to go on forever.

  Lights shone in several windows from the buildings on the other side, and she could hear voices.

  There were no gates she could see, no gaps she could sneak across. Olinia considered asking one of the guards but ultimately decided against it. They were clearly here to separate the gang-controlled part of the city from what she guessed was the nicer, safer part of town. They wouldn’t allow her to cross, even with the trade goods she carried. They might just kill her and take them. Unless the gangs got them and her first.

  She heard a loose pebble rattle nearby. One shadow, small and quick—black as midnight—broke away from the others. It moved closer, and Olinia retreated deeper into the dark.

  The small shadow paused. It took a low breath and then started forward again. Her horse raised and lowered its foot then, the shod hoof clanging against a stray stone like a hammer striking the anvil. The shadow paused for a moment. After a few tense moments it crouched down low and reached out for the horse’s long reins.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Olinia said.

  The shadow gasped and darted back into a corner, trapping itself. The black was deeper there, but a trace of light shone around it in an arc, isolating the corner like an island in a vast, dark ocean.

  “Might as well come out. I’ve got all night,” Olinia whispered. “Though, our friends might not wait so long.”

  A group of thugs in cobbled armor were crossing the street behind them. Their eyes were on the Line and its guards, every ounce of their attention focused ahead, but that might not last. If the horse made a sound or if there were a scuffle, the thugs would surely look down the alleyway.

  “Get me out of here and across the Line, and I’ll give you some of my skins.” Olinia didn’t know her way around. She needed a guide or she could easily stumble into another group of troublemakers. There had to be a place to hide.

  “No one crosses the Line,” the shadow whispered. “Not without paying the toll.”

  “I have these skins. I’m crossing.”

  The thugs’ voices grew louder. They were cursing and laughing at the guards.

  “Follow me,” the shadow whispered. It started toward the left.

  “Wait,” Olinia answered.

  She hated to leave her horse behind; the thugs would almost surely find it. More than the horse, she hated to lose her hidden sword, but if she tried to retrieve it now there would surely be enough noise to draw the group’s attention. With her dagger, she sliced the bundle hiding her sword free and eased it over a nearby fence. The bundle landed with a low whoomph.

  While she hid her furs, the shadow waited in silence. Then, together, they left the horse and crept further up the alley and emerged onto a quiet street. Olinia caught glimpses of the shadow—a hand, a pale, skinny arm. She followed the boy—it was a boy, she thought—through a series of quick turns.

  They wove through Washougle’s darkened streets and alleyways, passing abandoned buildings and empty shops, avoiding several roving gangs.

  Finally, they came to an old, abandoned estate standing alone on a large corner lot. The house itself was a huge, sprawling affair, surrounded by wild, overgrown hedges and marble fountains. Creeping vines, brown and green, masked a set of statues scattered over the grounds. There was a sturdy fence of iron bars and stonework around the place, and Olinia’s guide circled around. At the back of the house, they paused. The shadow grabbed one of the black bars. Shuffling hand-over-hand, he slid the bar up out of place.

  “Go through,” the shadow said.

  Olinia stepped beneath without hesitating. It was tight; the gap between the remaining bars wasn’t wide. She turned to hold the bar up, but her guide slipped beneath without slowing. In the light, she saw his face-she’d been right. It was that of a young boy.

  Quietly, he lowered the bar back down. Then the boy started for the estate house.

  Olinia followed.

  They entered the house through an underground cellar. The boy closed the door gently behind them, dropping a thick peg in the latch. The cellar was lit with a faint orange glow. A pair of short candles burned on a little wooden table. Their long flames danced and sputtered, and the room smelled damp and earthy.

  Three other children huddled together around the candles. They wore only rags. The oldest, a girl of twelve or so, had her arms wrapped around the two smaller boys. All three were shivering. Their teeth chattered audibly, and they stared at Olinia with sad, dark eyes.

  The shadow boy removed his hood to reveal an angular face with long, almost-white whiskers and a mop of dirty blond hair hanging down to just above his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Like the other three, he watched her nervously, though he tried his best to hide it.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “My name is Olinia,” she replied. “I am a hunter from outside the city. Who are you?”

  “Melios.” The boy touched his chest. “This is Agare, and her brothers, Capo and Thevon.”

  No one spoke for a moment. The girl and her brothers continued to look at Olinia, and Melios scowled.

  “Are you one of the gang’s women?” Melios asked.

  “What? I belong to no one,” Olinia answered.

  “In the Grind, everyone belongs to someone. Especially the women. The gangs e
ach have their own. Who do you belong to?”

  “No one. I told you, I’m a hunter. I don’t live in the city.”

  Melios gave her a narrow-eyed look.

  He doesn’t believe it for a second. Likely thinks I’ve run away from one of the gangs and stolen their loot.

  “You ruined my score,” he said.

  “Your score?” Olinia replied. One of her eyebrows arched.

  “The horse. It would have fed us for weeks.” He took off his cloak and draped it over the freezing children. Agare nodded her thanks and pulled it tight over herself and the smaller boys. Melios’ clothes were little better than the other children’s, a patchwork of fabrics in blacks, grays, and browns.

  Olinia hadn’t eaten horse before. She knew that in many lands they did, but she considered the animals too noble for eating. They were expensive to buy and feed and keep.

  I wonder if father has considered eating the horses yet? He will if Cagle and I fail. The thought sobered her considerably.

  “I’ll go look for my horse tomorrow. There were still several bundles of furs on him. A few deerskins and even a bear. I’ll give each of you one if you help me collect him and then get across the Line.”

  “The Redbirds have him by now. They’ll eat well tonight,” Melios said. He shook his head in disgust.

  “Redbirds? I thought this was Mauler territory?”

  “Mauler territory ends at the park. North of it belongs to the Roadmen, but they don’t come above Old Mill Road. Near the line-those were Redbirds.”