Broken Arrow
Written by Azaria M. J. Durant
Copyright © 2018 by Azaria M. J. Durant
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in Canada
First Printing, 2018
ISBN 978-1-7753311-0-0
Imperatrix Publishing
311 Ling Street
New Waterford, NS B1H-2W5
www.imperatrixpublishing.com
To all the bright and imaginative minds out there. Never change!
Part One
“The Slave”
Chapter One
D eep beneath the surface, beyond the winding staircase, and through to the end of the narrow passageway swathed in shadows, lay the meeting place. The figure descending the staircase knew its every turn and crevice. Its gaze swept unflinchingly over the grotesque, leering visages of stone ghouls that leapt from sudden curves and clefts in the walls— images rumoured to have been endowed with dark magic in ages past. Phantoms crafted to reflect the heart’s deepest fears rose from the statues and swirled around the figure as black shadows. The figure glided through them like a blade through mist and the shadows fled before it.
The hour was late. No doubt the meeting was already in progress. Though the Master was terrifying, the figure did not dread his wrath. A face of iron and a nerve of steel left no room for fear, even of their creator.
Two oaken doors barred the entrance to the inner room where the meeting was taking place. Though time had left its mark upon the splintering wood, the ancient inscriptions remained as legible as the day they were embossed. The figure did not pause to admire the unique craftsmanship as it once might have, but threw open the doors, its cloak billowing out behind it as it strode into the circular room.
The light of the torches guarding either side of the doorway was first to greet the figure. Flickering, the glow gathered in the dome of the ceiling, playing with the shadows nestled in the wall’s archaic mouldings. A stone pentagram was raised on the floor directly beneath the dome, an ancient monument that once served as an altar for rituals of the original council of Gaiztoak. Dark stains marred the cracked surface of the pentagram, remnants of even darker days.
Thankfully, the present purpose for it was much less brutal.
At each tip of the star sat a figure in a high-backed chair and draped in a heavy mantle. Every head was bowed, each face hidden in the folds of a large hood. Four of the five were mortals, useful pawns to the fifth figure, who presided over the meeting.
He was their Master, and they feared him.
“Bellator.” His voice was light, but the newcomer could sense the rage beneath his calm.
The figure fell to one knee. “Master.”
“You are late.”
“I apologize, Master. It won’t happen again.”
The Master did not acknowledge the apology, nor did he accept it. “Begin your patrol.”
Bellator rose and commenced pacing the perimeter of the room. The task was pointless. There had never been a whisper of trouble during any of these meetings, and Bellator doubted there would be any today. The fools around the altar wouldn’t dare raise a hand against the Master. Bellator was merely a tool he used to further intimidate his players.
“Continue, Avia,” the Master said.
Of course, this was not the man’s name. The Master addressed each mortal as the country they represented. Two rulers, an ambassador, and a governor were present this evening, each of which – however insignificant their rank – held major sway over assets the Master had use of.
The man called Avia cleared his throat as a guise for composing himself. “P-production from the mines has been c-cancelled, my lord— for the time being. It was the queen’s order. The holidays are upon us, c-celebrating the festival of Dragoi Magni, and—”
The Master raised a hand and Avia was silenced.
“See to it personally that the supply is tripled next month in recompense,” he ordered. “Valamette?”
Bellator frowned. It was unusual for the Master to pass over a chance to make an example of Avia for such a failure. Clearly, there was something else pressing on his mind.
“My Master, our holidays are not until wintertime,” Valamette boasted. “We’ll be certain to supply you with twice the gold and lumber that you require.”
Bellator’s fists clenched. Across the table, Avia’s shoulders sank, and to the Master’s right, Zandelba let out a low growl. Valamette’s smug attitude gained him nothing but disdain from his peers.
“Lavylli?” The Master’s voice was impatient.
The figure to his left, who had no doubt remained silent and attentive since the meeting began, spoke abruptly in a strong, plummy accent. “The tunnels are underway, my lord, but we are making swift progress. Regarding the payment of precious gems, it has been sent. You will have what you need to stamp out all resistance when the time arises.”
“That time is already upon us,” the Master stated, rising to his feet. “Many nights now, my gaze has been turned to the stars. The constellations Heroi and Retsu are aligning for the first time in two and a half millennia. Prophecies connote these coming years as the last of mankind. This is the opportunity I have been waiting for. I must not fail!”
His eyes glowed with the passion his words expressed, and murmurs of agreement echoed through the room.
“Our toils have been rewarding and our preparation has been long,” the Master went on. “Yet we must not deceive ourselves into thinking that our position is secure.”
The murmurs fell to silence. The Master had never spoken so freely of such things before. The most this council had ever discussed were the brief updates concerning the progress of each respective country and its assets. There was the occasional new order from The Master, but such a thing was rare, and was always followed by a long, tedious discussion concerning the politics of the task, and thus was never interesting.
“It has been predicted that there is one who has the potential to stand in my way; one who may have the power to end my supreme rule before it has begun.”
“My lord, who could possess the power to rival you?” Valamette asked, bewildered.
The Master lifted his gaze to glare at Valamette from beneath the shadow of his hood. “You of all people should know.”
Understanding dawned on Valamette. He nodded slowly. Bellator glimpsed the other figures, looking to find a shred of understanding among them. But they too turned to look at Valamette, hoping to glean what they could from his bearing.
“The boy, my lord?” he asked.
“Yes,” the Master replied. “The boy.”
Bellator was intrigued. When had a boy ever entered their conversation?
“But my lord, how could he be a problem? Didn’t we do away with him as an infant? How is it possible that he still draws breath?”
“Does it matter how?” the Master snapped. “What matters is that he lives and that he will pose a threat if we aren’t careful to hone his abilities to our favour.”
“I can do it.” Valamette took a breath. “I can kill him, if you wish it. I will not fail you.”
“No!” The Master’s fist slammed on the altar. “If I wanted him dead, I would have let him die! I wouldn’t have kept him safe all this time.”
Valamette recoiled. When he dared to speak again, his voice came as a whisper. “You kept him safe?”
The Master raised his chin. “I will have h
is allegiance.”
“Forgive me, Master,” Zandelba interjected eagerly, “but won’t you allow me to capture this boy? I’m the best man for such a task.”
“Fool,” Bellator scoffed so suddenly that all around the altar started. “If His Majesty refused Valamette, do you really think he would accept you?”
“I suppose you assume he’ll elect you for the task?” Zandelba retorted.
Bellator’s voice turned to steel. “Your head would be at the end of my sword if my master elected to give the order.”
The Master’s eyes blazed crimson from beneath his hood. “Be still, Bellator!”
“My lord,” Bellator said, stepping forward, “just give the word, and this boy will be at your feet by morning.”
“As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, your request is denied. This boy is unknowingly under the protection of the Council of Buentoak. Their skill in the art of magic is unparalleled by all present but myself.” The Master slowly lowered back into his chair. “No, I must be the one to retrieve him.”
Exclamations of alarm were stifled around the room, and Bellator stepped back, confused.
“You, my Master?”
“Yes, me.”
Zandelba cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Do you think it wise, my lord, to venture so far from your sanctuary? If you were to encounter any difficulties—”
“Ha!” the Master scoffed. “Do you think me so weak that I cannot hold my own in the world of mortals? Or perhaps you believe I have only survived this long because of your cautionary tales?”
“My only concern is for your well-being, my master,” Zandelba muttered, ducking his head.
Valamette fidgeted uncomfortably. “My lord, once you have the boy... what will be done to him?”
The Master considered the man before him. When he spoke, his voice was determinedly cold. “Whatever it takes to persuade him of where his loyalties should lie.”
“And if he isn’t persuaded?”
Bellator sensed the smile that almost imperceptibly altered the Master’s features. “One way or another, he will be.”
Chapter Two
L ong ago, I promised myself I would never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing they’ve hurt me. That’s why, when the hot iron is pressed to the back of my hand, I don’t make a sound. Teeth clenched, breath held, I gulp back bolts of pain that echo the beating of my heart. I can stand the pain. Just a few moments longer...
The poker is removed, leaving behind a sooty line of blisters. I clench my fist and lower it deliberately, my face a mask of indifference.
The master chef’s mouth is a line of cruel mockery. “Think on that, and mayhap your worthless mind’ll keep to the task at hand!”
“Yes, Master Lye,” I mumble, my ‘worthless mind’ suppressing a good number of things I’d like to say.
He tosses the poker into the bin beside the hearth. “The spices for the poultry, now! Dinner’s in an hour. We don’t got time for any more of your mishaps!”
I nod and obediently turn toward the spice counter, flexing my fist in and out to ease the throbbing of the burn. Afternoon is the most hellish time of day for the scullery, even without Lye in such a bad mood. The endless clattering of pans, the heat of the crackling fires, and the chatter of the maids as they exchange the daily gossip- it’s enough to make my head pound. Even so, it’s better than field work, where I’d be in the hot sun from morning to dusk tilling the land; or worse, cleaning and gutting fish at one of the foul-smelling fisheries by the docks.
The air is thick with steam from boiling vegetables. There is one thing I could never tire of, and that’s the tantalizing aromas that sing like music to my senses and cause my mouth to water in longing. Normally, I would weigh the dangers of swiping a roll or meat pastry from the counter before Lye makes his final count. Right now, however, I won’t dare risk it. I’m usually a little clumsy, but today is worse than ever. I keep getting dizzy with no warning. Most likely I’m coming down with something.
I reach the spice counter and begin to portion the correct ingredients into a wooden bowl, anger boiling in my chest.
Yes, I’m angry. Angry that I’ve been punished, true, but angrier still about what the punishment represents. I’ve never understood. They don’t have a problem with themselves, or with full under-dwelling Lavyllians, so why am I so abhorrent being half of both? I’m not that different from them. Am I?
“Half-breed!” Lye’s voice smashes through my thoughts as forcefully as when he swings a rolling pin at my head.
Instinctively, I duck, and the sack of ground peppercorn falls into the bowl, mixing with the thyme and sage already measured out. I sweep up the bag with an inward groan. If he sees what I’ve done, it’ll be the whip.
Again.
Fortune favours me for the first time in a good while. His back is to me as he hangs his apron on a peg by the door. “Stop dawdling and get to the fire with the seasoning! That bird will be cooked by the time I get back.”
“Yes, Master Lye.”
He leaves the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.
I breathe a sigh of relief and quickly scoop the excess peppercorn back into the bag. An added fistful of salt, and I’m done. I make my way back toward the fireplace, where a large pheasant is skewered over a simmering fire.
A frazzled, pasty-faced maid spins in front of me, a steaming pan in one hand and a spoon in the other. I try to dodge out of the way, but she charges forward, slamming into me. The bowl flies from my hands and clatters to the floor, the fine powder scattering in all directions. The maid jumps back, her lip curled in disgust.
“Watch where you’re going!” she cries shrilly, cuffing me upside the head.
Mumbling a quick apology, I drop to my knees to salvage the seasoning from the wooden floorboards. The scullery is small as it is, but it seems to shrink to half its size. My hand gets trodden on twice. The bowl is kicked halfway across the room. A maid with carrot orange hair drops a ladle on my head, and when I get it for her, she snatches it from me as if I’d stolen it. I even get a frustrated kick in the side when I find myself in the path of the young assistant cook. All the while, they’re chattering on and on about the master of the house’s son, who’s apparently something to look at.
When most of the spices are retrieved, I give up the rest as lost. Sheltering the bowl in my arms to keep it from spilling again, I cover the distance to the fireplace and crouch down before it.
Finding a jug of oil on the hearth, I drench the golden skin of the roasting pheasant, and then sprinkle the spices over it. The warm firelight licks my face, but serves only to increase the burning of my hand.
Regardless, I determine to stay focused. The punishment for burning the borscht was bad enough. Of course, it wasn’t my fault. I was too busy to check on it, what with Lye shouting at me to stoke the fires, carry water, scrub the floors, and tidy every little mess made during that time.
It’s my lot in life, it seems, to take the fall for everyone else’s mistakes. If only—
A log in the fire coughs, sending sparks into my eyes and I blink. When I blink, the world changes suddenly before my eyes.
I no longer see the sizzling skin of the pheasant and the blackened stones of the oven behind it. Instead, I stand between the brick walls of a narrow, dead-end alley. The ground beneath my bare feet is dirt instead of rough wood and putrid city air replaces the savoury smells of the scullery. A cool, midsummer breeze finds its way to me over the high walls around the alley, caressing my clammy skin, bringing with it the buzz of late afternoon hustle and bustle on the street outside. Yet somehow, I can still feel the heat of the fire on my skin and hear the familiar sounds of the scullery behind me.
My attention is quickly drawn to movement at the dead-end of the alley as a beggar emerges from the shadows. He has the looks of a man in his thirties, yet his dirty face is cut with more scars than a warrior twice his age could’ve acquired. A tattered cloak is wrapped aroun
d his shoulders, mostly concealing his ratty green tunic and patchwork trousers. An eye-patch covers his right eye. He steps softly, his shoes simple cloth bound around his feet, and surveys the walls cautiously with his good eye. His gaze passes through me as though I wasn’t there.
Knotted, dirty-blond hair whips his face as he jerks his head to look up the alley and his lip curls in a fierce snarl.
I recognize the beggar at once. Though I haven’t met him in person, I’ve seen him often enough to imagine him a figment of my own imagination. In every city, in every town I’ve ever worked, the beggar has always been there – lurking behind corners, in dark alleyways, in every crowd – and always, always watching me. But he’s never there long enough for me to see him on second glance.
This is a dream. It has to be. I survey my surroundings once more and the cool breeze greets me once again. A very vivid dream. Maybe I’ve fainted.
Whatever is happening, I seem to have little control, so I decide there isn’t much else to do but accept it.
I begin to start forward, my goal to get directly in the beggar’s way, but something binds me in place.
A rough, throaty voice rings out from the mouth of the alley, and a shiver shoots down my spine.
“Banner!”
The beggar whips aside his cloak, putting a hand to the spiked club attached to his belt.
An old man limps into view, leaning on a stout, gnarled walking stick. He picks his way along the downward slope, lifting the hem of his drab grey robes clear of his feet. A pointed beard and sleek white hair peek out from the baggy hood draped over his head. His face sags with deeply set wrinkles, and his eyes are narrow, squinty, but there is an authority gathered in the indent of his brow. A beaded braid of leather is tied around his forehead, the tails of which dangle down the side of his face, and I contemplate how annoying that could get over time. There’s nothing threatening about his appearance at all, and I wonder why I shivered at his voice.
A sudden chill, obviously. He’s just a friendly old man. Not everyone is out to get me.
Broken Arrow (Darkened Destiny Saga Book 1) Page 1