Wintermore (Aeon of Light Book 1)

by Sethlen, Aron

  The bar woman laughs behind her. “Hey, stud, you wanna go again?”

  “Huh?” Preta spins around to the bar; Yaz is on his knees under a flowing spigot of black stout. With intense focus and wide eyes, he gulps in vocalized undulations. She nudges him out from underneath the stream of liquid, and the stout flows onto the ground.

  The bar woman laughs and shuts the nozzle.

  Yaz, upset, wipes the stout off his face. “Come on now, I was good for at least another thirty seconds—at least.”

  The bar wench holds out her hand. “That’s a qid, sweetie.”

  “Fine.” Yaz tosses the woman two copper coins. “Give me a pint too.”

  “You said you would only have a few,” Preta says.

  “Technically, I’ve not even had one yet.” Yaz shoots his arms out and roars at the top of his lungs, and Preta flinches.

  “Here you go,” the wench says, extending a pint.

  “Ah, yes, thank you, this is exactly what I needed.” Yaz winks at the woman and lifts his pint. Foam bubbles over the glass lip, and Yaz sips the amber liquid. He lowers the glass and a smidgen of foam sticks to the tip of his nose.

  A young woman, lean and elegant, sharp eyes, long dark-brunette hair and wearing a worn dark-tan leather duster coat and charcoal wool trousers leans onto the bar and points at the wench. Her fine features give the air of high class, though fresh scratches on her supple face and a rough, energetic exterior masks such a notion as she viciously pounds her fist on the bar top and grunts like a savage. “I don’t have all day, ale, woman!”

  Yaz, with one hand on his hip and another on the bar, not so subtly scans the duster woman from head to toe. “Hey there, my name is Yaz.”

  The duster woman’s face goes stiff, and she turns toward Yaz. She places her hand on her hip and not-so-subtly scans him back. “Yass, is it?”

  Yaz leans in and straightens out his neck. “No, it’s Yaz.”

  The duster woman leans in and imitates Yaz. “That’s what I said, Yass.”

  Yaz shakes his head in confusion. “No, it’s Yaz, with a z, no ss.”

  The duster woman smiles, leans in closer, and blows him a kiss. “Very nice to meet you, Yass.” She sneers, clinches her pint and steps away.

  Preta giggles, and the duster woman winks at her.

  The duster woman leaves Yaz scratching his head lost in deep thought.

  Yaz scrunches his face and shrugs. The answer not coming to him, he raises his hand to the bar wench and clicks his fingers.

  The wench smacks her palm flat on the bar top. “Again!”

  Preta smiles, and then it fades. “Huh? Again?” She spins back to the bar, and Yaz is below the flowing spigot of stout. Preta’s body burns with fury realizing she can’t control her brother. She considers her options and thinks the only choice she’s got is to sit by the door and make sure he doesn’t leave.

  Yaz faces Preta and shoots his arms straight out. “Yeah-ha-ha-freakin-heck-yeah-whaaahoo—”

  Preta scowls at him, and is so upset, she can’t even form words.

  “Hey now, Sis,” Yaz says, “look, I need to blow off some steam and forget about this shit-filled sewer of a life it’s been for the last few days. Not to mention the fact we’re probably heading straight back into the sewer for more shit tomorrow. So just let me be, and I promise I won’t leave the pub without you.” Yaz smacks Preta hard on her butt, and she jumps. He smiles. “Relax, have a pint, and enjoy.” He hands Preta three coppers and throws back his head, draining his entire glass.

  “Fine.” Preta pouts and eyes an open table by the front door. She sits and watches Yaz work the room.

  He dances like a fool and kisses any girl who will have him.

  Not believing her eyes, Preta’s jaw drops. “Is this really my brother?”

  Across from her, a young man sits at Preta’s table and tilts his head to the side. “Who is your brother?”

  “Excuse me?” Preta says, staring at the man with a square jaw and deep eyes.

  “You said brother.”

  Preta checks out the good-looking dark-brown-haired man sitting in front of her. His face is covered in stubble, and he has a gleam in his green eyes.

  He pushes a pint in her direction. “You look thirsty.”

  Preta sits up straight. “Do I?”

  “Yeah, you do,” and he gives Preta a sly smile. “And lonely too.”

  Preta chuckles under her breath. “Do I look lonely?”

  “Sure you do, and I thought what a waste, such a beautiful girl, both lonely and thirsty, I can solve both of your needs at once.”

  Preta eyes the pint then the handsome man sitting across from her.

  He brushes his hair behind his ears. “So you’re not thirsty or lonely?”

  Preta tilts her head and looks away. “Maybe just thirsty.”

  The man laughs sending the smell of ale toward her.

  Preta chuckles and waves her hand in front of her nose. “Smells like you drank enough for all the thirsty girls in the pub.” She sips from the glass.

  “That a girl,” he says. “I knew you were thirsty.” He suddenly squints in confusion. “Umm—you are a girl, right?”

  Preta chokes on her ale. “What? Do you ask all the girls you sit with if they’re a girl or not?”

  “So you are a girl, see, I knew it.” He grins, satisfied with himself and then looks to the side while nodding. He turns back to Preta. “Well, only the pretty ones,” and he reaches across the table and grazes Preta’s hand with his fingertips.

  Preta shivers from his touch, not expecting any contact. Uncomfortable, she slides her hand away. “Wait, you are a man, right?”

  The man leans back and puffs out his chest in cocky bravado. “Most definitely a man. I can even show you if you’d like. And by the way, I am, the man. Maybe even the—what the—”

  “You piece of—” Yaz jumps on the stubble man’s back, pulling him to the ground, and he swings his fist, connecting with the man’s jaw. “You touch my sister, you drunken dead man, I’ll kill you.”

  Chairs tumble over and crash and slide on the floor.

  They both scramble to their feet, and Yaz lunges at him again.

  “Yaz,” Preta says, “stop it! I was handling it just fine.”

  Yaz pays no attention to her. “You lousy piece of crap.”

  The stubble man parries Yaz’s advances. “Piece of crap, is it?” The stubble man extends his leg, tripping Yaz to the ground.

  Yaz catches the stubble man’s arm while falling forward and drags him to the ground with him.

  In a tight embrace, they snarl and spit and roll on the ale-and-wine stained, sticky floor.

  A human circle many rows deep forms around the stubble man and Yaz rolling on the ground.

  Cheering ensues, and coins change hands.

  The dark-haired woman wearing the tan leather duster, whom Yaz hit on earlier, collects silver and coppers with business-like focus. She eyes Preta and shrugs.

  Preta scowls and jumps into the human pit, pulling Yaz off the stubble man.

  Yaz struggles backward, and Preta tugs him harder.

  The stubble man regains his balance and swings at Yaz.

  The cheering intensifies and more coins change hands.

  Yaz ducks, and the stubble man’s blow strikes Preta in the jaw, knocking her to the ground.

  “Oh—ah—” the crowd says.

  Yaz sees her hit the floor. With fire in his eyes, he crouches into a fighting stance. He spits and screams in unknown tongues.

  The duster woman steps into the ring. “That’s enough, Tages.”

  Tages pushes her back. “He wants more, Mara. He wants more crap.”

  Preta stands up woozy, shaking her head and rubbing her jaw. She turns back toward the ring.

  Yaz lunges forward, faking to the left, and Tages swings. Yaz ducks, avoiding Tages’s blow, and he drops to a knee and punches him in the groin.

  Tages hunches over and groans.


  Yaz pops up with an uppercut, knocking Tages back.

  Tages stumbles. Aware and sober, he glares up at Yaz. He stands straight, wipes a streak of blood off his bottom lip, then opens his arms, prodding Yaz to attack.

  Yaz lunges at him again.

  Tages gracefully steps back with his right foot and strikes the back of Yaz’s shoulder as he passes by.

  Yaz bounces to the left unbalanced, and Tages grabs the back of Yaz’s head and knees him in the rib cage.

  Yaz lets out a groan.

  Mara steps in and grabs Tages from behind. “I said enough!”

  Preta grips a pint glass and slams it into the back of Tages’s head.

  The glass shatters, and Tages sways and drops to his knees.

  “Oh—ah—” the crowd says.

  Mara frowns as she watches Tages fall to the ground in slow motion.

  The crowd mumbles, and the human ring breaks, going back to its prior concerns.

  “Out of my way, out of my way,” a burley guard wearing a black uniform and a yellow armband says from the front door.

  Five more similarly dressed guards bully their way through the remnants of the human ring.

  A pudgy, unshaven officer wearing a red armband points his billy club at the patrons.

  They all glance and point to Yaz and Tages sitting on the floor.

  “Seize them,” the officer says in a deep voice and a flick of his head.

  Preta crawls to Yaz and hugs him tight.

  Mara attempts to slip away from Tages, and the guards grab them both.

  The guards lift Yaz and Preta to their feet.

  Yaz’s eyes dance, and his head spins toward the guard. He vomits, black liquid shoots into the man’s face.

  Yaz’s stout drips off the guard’s nose, and white chunks stick in the man’s beard.

  The guard strikes Yaz in his stomach with the butt of his club, folding him over. “Drunken filth. Dammit—that smells horrible.”

  Preta reaches out to her brother. “Please, please don’t hurt him.”

  “No need for the aggression,” Tages says to a guard. “We were just having a little fun, no big deal,”

  The guard yanks a wobbling Yaz to his feet, and he glowers at Tages. “Shut up, you, or you’re next.”

  The officer points at the front door. “Bring them.”

  The guards pull Preta and the others out of the pub and into the street.

  Preta searches for any hope, and she sees Deet standing across the street in an alley. He shields half his face with his hand.

  Deet’s eye meets hers, and the guard jerks Preta away.

  The guards drag them down the road for a few minutes.

  Preta peeks back to make sure Yaz is all right.

  Two guards carry him on either side, propping him up.

  Yaz is out cold, and his feet loudly scrape and catch on the grooves of the cobblestones.

  Preta snarls at Tages. “You! You did this, this is all your fault.”

  “Me? All I did was bring you a pint. How is this my fault?”

  Preta shakes her head in disdain at Mara. “And you, you collected money when they fought.”

  Mara chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Grow up.”

  Realizing their predicament, Preta’s heart races. They’re taking them to jail, and by morning their heads may be on spikes. A glimmer of hope creeps in. She mumbles, “Deet saw.”

  The guard yanks Preta forward through the dark. “Shut up,” and he faces a stone building on the corner of the main road leading to the docks, two lantern posts on either side of the stairs.

  The smell of the sea is strong, though with the right gust of wind, Preta catches a whiff of the guard’s rank body odor and garlic dinner.

  Preta gazes up, and four guards stand sentry by the jailhouse door. Shoot, we’re so screwed. She lowers her head and sighs. Her eyes open wide, and she raises her head as a familiar noise enters her consciousness. Her mind panics. Oh no. What was that? The hairs on the back of Preta’s neck bristle. She tilts her head to the side toward the tune of a faint whistle.

  PRETA PRETA PENTER

  The whistler approaches the well-lit street corner from a muted road along the docks. He waves at the officer. “Constable.”

  The man holding Preta stops and sneezes. He wipes his nose and sniffs.

  The whistler struts toward them through the dark with two of Lomasie’s black suit praetors by his side. Another one runs in the opposite direction down the road and disappears when he turns into an alley.

  “Excuse me,” the whistler says, raising his finger. “These four, why are they being detained?”

  The officer spits on the ground. “What’s it to you?”

  The whistler strokes his beard on his chin. “I’m asking you politely. Now would you care to make a deal or not?”

  Again, the officer spits a stream of liquid on the ground, this time closer to the whistler’s boots. “What kind of deal do you have in mind?”

  “The girl. How much for her?”

  The officer scans Mara and then nods to the man restraining her.

  Mara scowls at the whistler and she squirms in the guard’s arms.

  The guard pushes Mara forward.

  “How much do you have in mind for this one?” the officer says to the whistler.

  “Not that one,” and the whistler points at Preta. “That one.”

  Yaz regains consciousness and gazes up at the whistler. He thrashes his arms. “You! I’m gonna kill you, you’re a dead man, let me go!”

  The officer calmly points at Yaz. “Will you please control him.” And he waves for the men at the top of the stairs to come down to them.

  Tages tugs on his bindings. “This is such bullshit, you’ve got no right to hold us.”

  The guard punches Tages in the stomach, and he folds over. “Shut up.”

  The officer nods at the whistler. “What do you want with the young girl?”

  The whistler steps forward and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a thick coin pouch that jingles. “That’s none of your concern. So how much do you want?”

  “How much do you value your life, music man?” Mara says and then she snarls.

  The whistler chuckles. “Brave girl, Mara, brave, brave girl, isn’t it interesting how fate brings everything full circle?” The whistler nods at the officer. “On second thought, provisor, how much for both girls?”

  Pinching his chin, the provisor calculates Preta’s and Mara’s worth. “Mmm—these two definitely have value. How about a gold qid apiece?”

  “Done,” the whistler quickly says, and he tilts the pouch to dump the coins out.

  The provisor coughs. “Did I say a qid? I meant a half.”

  The whistler moves forward with three calculated steps. “And done. Though I expect you’ll remember no more.”

  “We have a deal,” and the provisor nods to the two men holding Preta and Mara.

  Yaz and Tages both jerk forward and reach their hands out at the same time. “No!”

  Mara scowls and peeks back at Tages. She calmly shakes her head no.

  “Take them,” the whistler says. “Pleasure doing business with you, provisor,” and he drops two gold halves into the man’s hand.

  “Slippery little one, you are,” the whistler says to Preta.

  Preta spits on his chest. “I hate you—you’re going to pay for this.”

  The provisor laughs as he ogles his gold coins. “Looks like you’ve got a real live one there, good luck breaking her in. You better keep it on a leash.”

  The whistler gives the officer a sinister grin. “I’ll get much pleasure in training her to obey.” He motions to his men. “Bag them.”

  Preta peeks back at Yaz, and a black bag is pulled over her head. Everything goes dark, and her breathing amplifies.

  Yaz head butts the guard and lunges forward. “Preta!”

  The officer strolls over to Yaz. “I said control him.” He crouches down and punches Yaz in the gut, droppin
g him to his knees.

  A skinny younger praetor yanks Preta forward, making her stumble off balance. The sound’s of the city, muffled from the cover over her head, the echo of her breathing intensifies. After a few minutes, the fountain in the massive city square makes its presence known as she passes it by.

  “Bring the seeros this way, along the wall and out of sight,” the whistler says. “Keep your eyes open, anyone can be it.”

  The praetor jerks Preta to the right, changing her direction. In the distance, she hears the town’s guard marching in formation through the square as every one of their steps hits the cobblestones in unison.

  “This way,” the whistler says.

  The praetor yanks Preta to the right again. They walk straight for a few minutes. Chickens cluck on Preta’s right, bells chime on her left, a dog barks, and a woman yells.

  After a couple more minutes, the praetor leads Preta to the left until her feet hit a stone step. He tugs her rope. “Step up, you filthy sitic. Lift your foot and move.”

  Preta doesn’t budge. “Why should I do anything you ask?”

  “I said, step up now!”

  “No,” Preta says, defiant, her feet locked to the ground.

  The whistler slides behind Preta and gently places his hand on her shoulder. “Preta Preta sweet Preta,” the whistler says, “we won’t kill you, though we also don’t have to deliver you in one piece as long as you are delivered. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”

  Preta stands motionless contemplating the threat. “I’m not going anywhere with you, whistler.”

  “Hmm—Preta, Preta, Preta, so young you are, so pretty, so stupid.” The whistler’s hand squeezes her left wrist.

  Preta tries to pull away, but her hands are bound behind her back.

  The whistler pries open her sweaty fingers and grips the left pinky, separating it from the rest.

  The skinny praetor laughs, and Preta shakes from his hip bouncing into her. “Stupid sitic, you should’ve listened the first time.”

  The whistler yanks Preta’s little finger to the side, breaking it with a crack.

  Preta’s eyes snap open in shock, and she inhales, sucking the bag into her mouth as the sharp pain shoots up her hand and into her arm. The scratchy wool cuts into her cheeks as she struggles to breathe.