by James Hunter
Fruit sellers and seamstresses, jewelers, goldsmiths, and apothecaries. Men and women, all bronze-skinned and winged, hawked their wares at the trickle of foot traffic winding through the streets.
Far to the east, a jagged mountain range tore across the horizon, jutting up like a set of shark teeth biting into the sky. White dunes stretched across the land like turbulent waves for as far as I could see. More dunes lay to the south and west, just an endless stretch of shifting sand and swirling dust devils whipped up by an unrelenting wind. The landscape looked bleak, desolate, and inhospitable—apparently, this section of Eldgard was called the Barren Sands for a good reason.
Directly to the north, though, nestled in a craterous valley, was a verdant oasis with a broad lake surrounded by lush wild grasses, thickets of swaying palms, and broad-leafed trees loaded down with a hundred different types of fruit, some natural, most not. More impressive than the oasis, though, was the city. Not some dirt-speck village or Podunk town. No, a sprawling metropolis with high sandstone walls, situated on an island in the heart of the lake.
Ankara, the capital city of the Barren Sands, and home to the bird-winged Accipiter.
Abby was staring wide-eyed at the city like some country kid, come to San Diego for the first time. In her defense, I stared, too. It was impossible not to, and I was from San Diego. Behind the domineering wall, a forest of elegant crystal spires jabbed up at the sky, glittering in the sun like diamonds partially buried in the ground. Intermixed among the glass towers were white sandstone buildings with fluted columns, delicate golden minarets, and graceful bridges arcing from everywhere to everywhere else. A swarm of birds, little bigger than sparrows from where we stood, swooped and darted over the city.
After staring for a few seconds, I realized those weren’t birds, but the Accipiter who called this place home.
“Holy crapballs,” Forge said, stumbling from the portal, blinking against the flood of light. He staggered for a moment and held one hand up against his forehead, shielding his eyes. “It’s drier than a popcorn fart, and hot too. Them Storme Marshes are hot, but not like this. This is Death Valley in July hot …” His words fell short as he finally caught sight of the crystal city marring the skyline like a beautiful, shimmering dream. He whistled softly, one hand going to his hip, while the other propped his battle-axe up against the meat of his shoulder—he’d come ready for a fight. “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.”
Cutter and Vlad came next, staggering through almost side by side, followed shortly by Amara. Cutter reeled for a moment, hands outheld to steady himself, while Amara seemed completely unfazed. Vlad, on the other hand, immediately dropped to his ass, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms tight around them as he bowed forward, looking mighty green around the gills. “That is the worst,” he muttered. “I have port skipped several times, yet that is the worst. This? This is a thing I do not understand. Why, sometimes good, other times bad? It makes no sense.”
“There’s a bunch of factors that go into it,” Abby replied absently, still gazing at the city. “Distance plays a big role, and Ankara is far—twice the distance as Yunnam to Rowanheath. Plus, the level of the caster factors in too. More experienced Porters create more stable rifts, which makes the trip a lot easier. That girl”—she hooked a thumb toward the portal, which snapped shut a second later—“is a new hire. Cindy, I think. She just made apprentice.”
“Next project,” Vlad said more to himself than anyone else, “create more efficient, less nausea inducing transport.”
“Hey cheer up, friend,” Cutter said in an almost uncharacteristically good mood. “Set your eyes on the prize”—he swept a hand toward the city—“and you’ll perk right up.”
Vlad reluctantly looked up; his eyes bulged a bit. “Yobaniy nasos,” he muttered softly under his breath.
“You have been here before?” Amara asked, giving Cutter a sidelong glance. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, clearly trying not to look impressed with Ankara and failing. It was in the way she stood, the cast of her mouth, the way her eyes kept darting to the twisting glass spires.
“Phft. Naturally,” Cutter replied with an eyeroll. “Unlike the rest of you, I’m quite well traveled. A man of the world, one might say. Hells, I’ve pulled jobs in just about every major city in Eldgard, barring those mud pits you’ve got down in the Marshes and Glome Corrie—bloody Risi are too serious and don’t have anything worth stealing, anyway. But Ankara? One of my favorite places. The Jewel of the West, the Accipiter call it.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, genuinely stumped. “You seem to hate any place that isn’t Rowanheath—so what’s so great about Ankara? The only time I think I’ve ever seen you this happy is when we stumbled upon a giant pile of easy loot.”
“Oh, that’s the beauty, Jack. This place is all about loot.”
I arched a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Gambling, Jack. Gambling. I mean sure, every city has a few parlors of chance—the Rusty Spoon in Rowanheath, the Golden Pick in Harrowick, the Brass Ring over in Wyrdtide—but not like Ankara. Chance halls galore, and best of all? No. Bloody. Imperials. See, the Empire frowns on gambling, but they let it slide, assuming you’re willing to fork over forty percent of your earnings like a good little sucker fish. Taxes,” he growled, “I hate bloody taxes. But here?” He grinned. “Here you keep what you earn, and someone skilled at sleight of hand”—a playing card appeared in his hand, then disappeared without a trace just as quickly—“can make an absolute killing.”
“Impressive architecture,” Vlad said, climbing to his feet and brushing off the seat of his pants, kicking up a little cloud of yellow dirt. “Perhaps coming here will be worthwhile after all. This place has a thing or two to teach me, I think. Though the climate”—he paused, frowning, searching for the right word—“I hate it,” he finally finished. “Too dry. Maybe with a good mug of kvas, it would be manageable. For now, though, I feel like a mummy.”
Forge snorted, came over, and slapped Vlad on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it, partner. Now, let’s get moving.” He paused and glanced up at the sky. “We’re burning daylight and that city looks like a helluva walk.”
We stepped out, forming a rough column with Cutter and Amara leading the way, me and Abby in the middle, and Vlad and Forge bringing up the rear, chitchatting idly as we scanned the shops and stalls. It took us a solid hour to trek through Hoppa and make it to the graceful glass bridge arching up and over the lake, connecting to Ankara’s main gate. Before we even made it onto the bridge, though, a pair of winged guards, [Janissaries]—wearing light brown armor studded with gold rivets, and carrying bronzed short swords—stopped us for questioning.
Cutter—doing what he did best—ambled up and traded a few quick words, some shady smiles, and what was almost certainly a bribe, and before I knew it the guards were waving us through, eyes looking past us. Through us. Ignoring us as though we were shadows passing in the night.
We set off across the lake, crossing a delicate bridge of cloudy glass—a hundred yards long and looking impossibly fragile—which connected to the island proper. But even then, we weren’t into the city proper, not really. The bridge ended at a covered gatehouse with thick wooden doors at the front end, a retractable metal portcullis at the far end, and circular murder holes lining the ceiling. As far as I could tell, the bridge was the only way to access the city, at least by land, and boy did they have it locked up tighter than a bank vault.
“This, now, is a well-fortified city,” Vlad said, almost reading my mind, admiration in his voice. “Truly, the defenses are flawless. Flawless. Only the most powerful siege weapons would be capable of even reaching the walls from the shore. So, an assault by ship or air would be necessary, and that? That would be a formidable feat, indeed.”
Cutter snorted and nodded, glancing around at all the potential choke points and death traps awaiting unwary invaders. “There’s a reason the Empire hasn’t
managed to capture it—and it’s not for lack of desire.”
“Are all their cities like this, the Accipiter’s I mean?” Abby asked.
“Naw,” Cutter replied as we shuffled our way through, pausing as another set of guards waved us through into the heart of the city itself. “Most of their cities are shite-hole dust-farms like that dump back on the other side of the lake. Ankara’s a special place. One of a kind. Home to Ibrahim the Merchant King of the Sands. Never met the guy myself”—he paused, eyes darting left and right—“word is, he’s a bit mad. Not playing with a full deck if you take my meaning. But don’t speak it out loud. You can talk politics if you want, but don’t mention the king or his family. Never. But enough of that,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go find us a bunch of cultists, eh?”
We made our way deeper into the heart of the city.
Ankara was a clean and orderly place, brimming with life and carefree energy. The streets, paved with smooth blocks of sandstone, were laid out in a neat grid, crisscrossing each other at regular intervals, though wooden stalls, covered with cloth tarps in a riot of hues, still lined the way. It seemed like everywhere we went, there were vendors and hawkers looking to sell this or that, all eager to make a buck from wide-eyed tourists.
And we looked like tourists.
Unlike Rowanheath, which boasted a healthy level of diversity—burly Wodes, lots of Imperials, Murk Elves, Dawn Elves, and even a spattering of Dwarves—Ankara was almost entirely full of Accipiter. Everyone had skin in varying shades of brown or bronze; some looked Middle Eastern, while others looked vaguely Mediterranean. Most wore white robes or light brown armor. No heavy plate mail anywhere. Everyone, men and women both, wore ample amounts of golden jewelry and colorful scarves or sashes. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but they seemed to indicate some sort of rank or maybe guild affiliation.
All of the warriors we ran across carried short swords, small bucklers, an assortment of throwing knives secured in leather bandoliers, or short, recurved bows. A few bore short spears. But, there were no maces or warhammers. No axes or heavy, two-handed weapons, either. Everything about these Accipiter—their weapons, armor, clothing—appeared custom-built for speed, agility, and mobility. For lightning-fast attacks, probably delivered at range. Doubtlessly, these bird-winged players were terrors in the wide-open spaces so plentiful in the Barren Sands.
I could just envision them circling high overhead, firing a barrage of arrows down on helpless enemies or prowling desert predators.
Cutter led us along street after street.
First, we moved through the nicer districts of the city, the buildings made from blocks of gleaming white sandstone with heavy wooden doors and roofs covered with red ceramic tile. And those were the low-end homes and shops—the nicer ones appeared sculpted from cloudy quartz crystal, which gleamed and glinted in the light. Beautiful. We passed jewelers and goldsmiths selling intricately worked jewelry studded with colorful gems, and top-end seamstresses peddling outfits—dresses, cloaks, trousers, robes—slashed with wide swaths of colorful ribbon.
Next, we headed into a section of the city that looked more market than residential area. Persian-style rugs were unfurled everywhere, covered in wares of every sort and variety. We entered some kind of food market shortly after. Vegetables, eggs, fruits, and meats were all meticulously laid out on rough wooden tables. The stink was almost overpowering: a thousand different scents fighting for my attention, some good—like the sickly sweet smell of strawberries—some awful, like the pungent odor of fish too long in the sun. Flies, big black things that bit at my eyes and nose, were thick in the air, circling the food and the passersby with equal curiosity.
Still, Cutter insisted we stop at a little stand with great hunks of meat slowly rotating on spits above a low fire. Kabis, Cutter called it. The merchant, a stocky woman with graying hair and equally graying wings, cut off paper-thin slices with a boxy cleaver, piling the meat on thick tortillas that reminded me of pita bread. Some lettuce and a smattering of tomatoes went on next, followed by a spurt of secret sauce.
Sure, the market was gross. And yes, the stand looked borderline unsanitary. But I was starving and the Kabis smelled like heaven.
Cutter handed over a few coins and everyone got a flatbread burrito in return.
We ate as we walked, no one making idle small talk, instead consumed by shoving food away. And understandably so: the Kabis tasted even better than they smelled. The meat—beef if I had to guess—was tender and juicy, the bread warm and fluffy, the lettuce crisp, the sauce strangely tangy with just a touch of spicy heat thrown in for good measure. Soft groans and moans of foodie pleasure drifted up from the group; even Amara, who fought to keep a perpetually unimpressed look glued on her face, forgot to be stuffy and judgmental. She just ate—a flicker of rapture flashing across her features with each bite—and enjoyed.
Eventually, we meandered into a new section of the city, far more rundown than anything we’d seen before. The streets were rough cobblestone, the buildings tall, but built with red-brown mud as often as sandstone. Garish signs—painted in colors so bright they almost hurt to look at—hung above each door, bearing names like the Rusty Locket, the Pack Mule, the Wandering Woman, or the Fox Den. Unlike the other establishments we’d seen, none of these places had windows. Despite that, I could hear the twang of music and the raucous clamor of laughter or hooting catcalls.
“Welcome to the Lucky Rooster,” Cutter finally said, stopping in front of a nondescript building of sandstone and mud, wooden beams poking out from the upper decks, the roof flat like a patio. “If anyone’s gonna know where to find this cult of ours, it’ll be old Hakim. Ugly old goat runs this joint.” He paused, hand lingering on the door. “But, things might get a bit ugly. We’ve got a bit of unsettled history, me and Hakim. Whatever you do, though, don’t kill anyone. We need these people on our side.” With a devilish grin, he pushed open the door and strutted in like a peacock.
SEVENTEEN: The Lucky Rooster
The inside of the Lucky Rooster was way nicer than the outside had led me to believe. Instead of the white sandstone so prevalent throughout the rest of Ankara, the walls were rough gray brick, accented by dark wood molding and wall-mounted sconces, each holding a glass orb filled with orange flame. Black and white tiles covered the floor in an intricate mosaic pattern of interlocking triangles and circles. A scantily clad bard, with flowing hair and brilliant blue eyes, belted out a lurid tune on a small stage to the left.
Not exactly tasteful, but certainly entertaining.
A mahogany bar, polished to a dull glow, ran along the right wall, manned by a winged bartender dispensing drinks and wisdom in equal measure. Chandeliers hung from exposed wood-beam rafters, casting flickering light over a host of circular felt-covered tables surrounded by men and women, mostly tourists, who were hollering, laughing, and drinking as they gambled. Cards and chips passed back and forth at some tables, while dice were thrown at others, often accompanied by shouts of joy or moans of disappointment.
“Well all-friggin’-right,” Forge said, clapping his hands together before giving a hoot and a fist pump. “Now this is a mission I can get behind. I wish all my quests ended in casinos. Might be I picked the wrong race—shoulda started as one of these bird fellas.”
Cutter chuckled, giving the Risi a lopsided grin and a quick wink in agreement.
I ignored them both, focusing instead on Abby, who jabbed me in the ribs with a stiff finger. “I don’t know about this, Jack,” she whispered in my ear. “This feels off. Bad. Like things are on the verge of imploding any second.”
“I agree,” Amara said from my other side. “Look, there”—she nodded toward a series of balconies lining the upper floors, riddled with doors, presumably leading to guest rooms. Those balconies also served another function, though: they allowed pit bosses and heavily muscled guards to oversee the action below. Several hard-faced Accipiter goons—sporting dark leather armor and carrying curved m
achetes, called Kukri—stared daggers at us. Monitoring our movements. Well, more precisely, they were watching Cutter, their eyes squinted, silent snarls plastered in place.
A few quick words were swapped, and then one of them rushed off, disappearing through a door leading to the back.
Cutter didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t much care. He and Forge trotted over to the nearest dice table, some variant of craps from the look of it, ready to drink and play and laugh like the rest of the patrons. A heartbeat later, however, a door at the far end of the gambling floor burst open with a bang and the squattest Accipiter I’d seen so far stormed out. The newcomer stood about four and a half feet tall and had a thickset build, loaded down with fat instead of muscle. He was balding—just a scruffy tuft of black hair ringing the sides of his head—and his baleful, basset hound face was scrunched up in hate as his eyes locked on our resident thief.
I couldn’t be sure, but I was guessing he was Hakim.
“Cutter, you bir esek oglu!” the doughball of an Accipiter hollered, his face turning an unnatural shade of red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “I told you never to show your face here again. Never!” He waggled a finger in the air to emphasize his point. “Get this thieving, double-crossing son of a goat and all of his companions. Bring them to the back.”
The room broke out in a flurry of motion as guards leaped over the railings—their wings stretching out, curved machetes flashing—while a handful of other thugs rushed out from behind the tables. Forge responded with a roar, lurching forward and lashing out with a gauntleted fist. He popped the nearest guard across the face, sending him to the floor with a thoroughly broken nose spurting blood down the front of his tunic. Another guard tackled Forge, driving a shoulder into his gut and taking him to the ground.