Walled City (The Elabi Chronicles Book 1)

by Maressa Mortimer

  Maressa Mortimer

  Walled City

  book 1 in the Elabi Chronicles

  First published by Good Hope Publishing 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Maressa Mortimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  I have used the KJV Version of the Bible, but have paraphrased where I preferred.

  First edition

  ISBN: 9781838313401

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  “And the Spirit and the bride say, Come.

  And let him that heareth say, Come.

  And let him that is athirst come.

  And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.”

  Revelation 22:17

  Chapter 1

  The rasping sound of his large hunter’s knife is still audible through the gurgling waves. The knife moves up and down slowly, deliberately devouring the coracle. The round coracle is hidden in the shadows, narrowly missed by the intermittent beam of the lighthouse on a lonely stretch of coast.

  The night air is perfectly silent. Only the waves can be heard, splattering on the rocks and chattering with the pebbles on the way out.

  Gax is exhausted. Paddling the small coracle upstream was harder than he had anticipated. A few times he had been tempted to pull over into a little cove and walk from there, but as a Special Operator he knew the plan was based on good intelligence so he had battled on.

  It had worried him as time was of the essence, but finally he had rounded a bend and spotted the bright glaring beams from the lighthouse.

  Gax pulls a face. He hates destroying what he made. It had taken him long hours to build the coracle, which had served him well on his journey. Soon there would be nothing left. His hand burns and he knows there will be at least one large blister on his thumb. The boat is made of willow and hazel and the wood is tough. The tiny coracle, that hardly allowed him and his bag in, now seems never ending. The last few pieces are finally small enough to be unrecognisable. Gax carefully slips the knife in its sheath, then struggles to stand, flexing his legs, rolling his shoulders and neck, all the while looking into the darkness beyond the lighthouse beams.

  In the bright beam he can see soft, undulating hills stretching in the distance, black and dull. The surging waves behind seem to mock him, telling him that he might have overcome them, but his mission hasn’t even started. With stiff, uncooperative arms, Gax flings pieces of his coracle in the water. Some pieces he jams between rocks or in the sand. At the back of the little cove he finds a hollow, large enough to take two larger pieces.

  Gax groans. This is all taking too long, and the sky in the east is turning lighter. His movements become more rushed and a few times he half trips over his own feet, dashing around the little cove, hiding the remains of the coracle.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” a tiny voice grumbles in his mind as Gax forces himself to keep moving. For a few seconds Gax is tempted to agree with the grumbling voice, then he pulls his shoulders back and head up. “Of course I did,” he argues back, then jumps at the sound of his own voice. He holds his breath, suddenly feeling very cold. Gax stands perfectly still, holding his breath and searches the dark shadows around him. He can feel fear right at the fringe, edging closer and closer. Gax remembers in time to take some calm, deep breaths and reminds himself that it isn’t fear he’s feeling, it’s excitement. He rubs the back of his neck, massaging the sore muscles.

  That’s right, excitement and gratitude. Excitement over his new adventure and the days and weeks ahead; gratitude that he was honoured with this calling, prepared and sent. Gratitude also that he is so close. He’s past the border, past the first obstacle, he has landed at the agreed spot, his boat is destroyed and he is busy getting rid of the evidence. That’s a lot of his list ticked off already. With renewed energy Gax does his best to get rid of the last few pieces of light wood. The coracle won’t be recognised, obviously, but neither will the type of wood he used for his coracle, so it’s important to hide it all.

  When he is certain the task is done, he tugs at his large green Bergen rucksack, struggles into it and clips it firmly in place. The Bergen has all the earthly goods he could bring. He might be here for weeks, even months, although Gax thinks he will be home before the autumn. He is only sent to one city after all. He clambers up the steep, rocky sides of the cove, carefully feeling for footholds in the dark. If he slips and loses his footing, the crash will be disastrous, especially with his heavy Bergen. His arms are shaking with exhaustion by the time Gax gets to the top of the cliff. Even his training and preparation hadn’t been enough. “I wonder where else your training will let you down?” The unpleasant voices taunt him in the silence. Gax clenches his fists. He himself had the same thought, but no, he must trust the training, the preparation, and his calling. He is here for a reason, he has a mission to fulfil, and he will do so. After all, he did make it to the top.

  Then Gax turns his face towards the north and his heart skips a beat when he spots the faint outline of the hill and on top of the hill the city. He straightens up and sets off, feeling exhilarated, renewed. Gax makes good progress, unaware of the quiet figure at the lighthouse window.

  Chapter 2

  Gax forces his legs to keep moving, tabbing through the dark countryside, his Bergen heavier with each step. The well-made comfortable rucksack soon feels like a trap, squeezing the oxygen out of his lungs. He pushes through the discomfort, covering the distance as fast as he can. He doesn’t dare glance to the east, for the slowly lightening horizon makes his breath come in panicky gasps. He has to stay focussed, cover the distance, just jog on, mile after mile. During the planning stage they estimated the distance, and reckoned that by tabbing at a reasonable speed he should be able to get to his destination within two or three hours. Paddling the coracle upstream had been harder than expected as it was such a windy day. Standing with his teammates at the narrow start point the water was much calmer. But even there, little thirsty waves had been licking at the bank. Gax had shrugged it off, joked with his best friend that he’d even impress his trainer for a change. The preparation demanded it was done today, so he had to just roll with it, wind or no wind. It has made him late though, late and tired, so his tabbing speed slows until Gax feels that a fast walk is the best he can do.

  His throat hurts from gasping breaths and he tries to breath in through his nose, out through his mouth to recover. Then he chokes and coughs, losing speed and struggling for oxygen more than ever. Each footlength feels longer than the previous one. “Maybe I should think in hand, rather than foot,” he groans, feeling an edge of desperation creeping in. Gax keeps his burning eyes fixed on the step in front of him, moving his feet mechanically, knowing that the slightest obstacle will probably trip him up. All he can hear is a whooshing sound in his ears and his rattling breath. “Keep your eyes fixed on the prize,” he mutters to himself, trying to somehow find that spark of excitement, that sense of destiny and fulfilment. Of course, those feelings were in full force when he clambered into the rocking coracle, grinning goodbye to the two fellow operators who had accompanied him
to the start point and watched him set off.

  He’d still felt it when he hit the main water with the choppy waves. In a way, it made his mission feel more real, full of danger, risk and sacrifice. Now it’s just hard work; he is sweaty, tired and his eyes are stinging. “Who says the mission will even be successful?” the grating voice in his head continues and Gax blinks against the sweat in his eyes. The reason that his legs slow down is only that he is too exhausted to move any faster. It has nothing to do with feeling discouraged, or worried. He will not be discouraged, for he knows his calling. He is a man on a mission and he is well trained and prepared. Like the team leader says, “It’s not about success, it’s about following orders. Success will come of its own accord.”

  Gax looks up, feeling safe to do so now that he’s just marching very fast, rather than tabbing. To his surprise he can actually see the city walls looming up in the dark over to his right! They are still far enough to stop him from being detected, but the fact that he can see his ultimate mission destination makes him pick up speed again. He holds on to the right a little, his eyes now straining ahead, checking where he is going. He has to slow down, as one of his reference points is the old Amphitheatre. It’s a monumental structure, set on a hill lower than the city hill. Soon his itchy eyes can see the dark shape of the hill. Gax veers off to the left, as he needs to avoid roads. The amphitheatre ahead feels eerie, the dark mass with gaping windows resemble staring eyes, observing his every move.

  Gax starts to turn his head to the right, but actually stops himself. “Don’t. Just don’t, a plan is a plan, stick to it,” he mutters, his words sounding hollow. Can he really not go straight to the place? Does he really have to straggle on in the dark, especially as the plan was delayed? How risky can it be? He hesitates, his legs feeling more tired than ever, his throat feeling someone is sanding it down to a different shape, and if he just turns a sharp right all will be well within a very short time. There will be a bed, water… He groans, fighting himself, his training. “But we didn’t know I was going to be delayed by the wind when we were planning it all,” he thinks, finding a way to justify altering the orders. Surely, if they had known they would have advised the shorter route. He knows it’s important to approach from the east, just in case he is spotted. On the other hand, who is around to spot him? The growing pink line along the horizon is a much larger threat than people strolling about in the dark.

  He feels torn, decisions warring in his head and his heart, too. His team was dedicated, the team leader experienced. Surely they would have calculated in any possible obstacles? His feet keep moving in the right direction and suddenly Gax takes a deep breath, and hisses to himself, “Trust and obey, mate, trust and obey, for there’s no other way to be happy.” He picks up speed straightaway, feeling energised, revived by his decision, knowing that it was best, the only one he could have made.

  Before he realises it he has gone past the amphitheatre and is on the home stretch. He follows the contour of the hill, feeling respect for athletes having to perform there. It’s a big place. After the amphitheatre comes the hardest part, going uphill. Gax stares at the black lump towering above him. From the preparations he knows the hill isn’t actually that high. Unless the maps were wrong, because from where he is standing, this is a good sized hill. The slope is steep and barren, no path, no footholds that are of any help. Near the top Gax is literally on all fours, gasping for any amount of oxygen, regretting his earlier decision to “just trust and obey”. Then suddenly, the summit! Gax flops down on his belly, utterly spent. His breath is shuddering, reminding him of his earlier training sessions where his personal trainer would push him until Gax was sick or crying. All for a good cause. He remembers his personal trainer’s hand shake after each session though, the clap on his soaked shoulder, and his encouraging words. It were these words that inspired Gax and motivated him each day to trudge back to the gym. The memories make him drag himself into a sitting position, then slowly Gax stands up, but drops down immediately, his knees shaking.

  He doesn’t know why, but he feels uneasy, unsafe. The sky is definitely getting lighter behind him, and the idea of poking out from the landscape suddenly feels like a mistake. For a few seconds Gax looks round, even though the darkness down below him is as dense as ever, with only the tiny glitter of the lighthouse in the far distance. Something feels off. Is there somebody awake, watching him? After a minute of staring into the quiet darkness, Gax carefully slithers down the other side and, keeping low, descends the Amphitheatre hill. He is glad to hit the road at the bottom, finally able to stand upright again. His sense of being watched is still there, but Gax decides that it’s probably exhaustion making him feel spooked.

  Soon his tired feet stumble onto the smooth road. The road surface is well kept, the grass along the edges neatly trimmed. Gax hadn’t really expected that, so he feels pleasantly surprised. “Hopefully the city is well kept too,” he says, crossing the road swiftly. Off he goes again through the tough grass, past bushes with cobwebs reaching out to him. The ground slopes gently down, making the tabbing come easier. Foot after foot is covered, another little road crossed, its surface just as high quality as the larger road. Gax starts to feel like a horse smelling the stable, his spent legs somehow picking up speed. He forces himself to slow down. After all, he is now nearer houses, taverns, people. Soon his eyes pick out the next road. Then he realises it’s not a road, but a large driveway leading up to a huge house.

  Gax’s heart beats faster than ever, not only from exertion this time, but excitement. He’s almost there. This is the large house overlooking the one he is heading for. Gax slowly follows the driveway down towards the main road, keeping low, looking for bushes. The idea that there are definitely people close by, even though they’re likely fast asleep, makes him apprehensive. The sky is getting lighter, making the bushes seem larger, more menacing, making it harder to control his legs and prevent them from moving carelessly. The main road appears, large, smooth and silent. He slides behind a bush and quickly inspects the road both ways. After all, most incidents happen close to home, when you relax and forget to watch your back.

  When Gax is sure that everything is as it should be, apart from the decidedly pink sky in the east, he crosses the road. He doesn’t rush. Anyone spotting him needs to get the impression that he is a man arriving; who knows where he is going. A man who feels at home. Gax walks up the little neat path to what will be his home. When he gets to the dark wooden door his first impulse is to drop the knocker down on the wood politely, but his head works just about fast enough to remind him in time where he is.

  The key from his special trouser pocket is large and rusty. For a minute Gax wonders how on earth his grandparents managed to keep hold of this key. His hands shake, everything aches, and he just wants to be inside. The key won’t turn. Gax’s heart stops, then races off. He takes a deep breath in, in, in through his nose, out, out, out through his mouth. Then tries the key again. And again. Gax gently rattles and manipulates the key, feeling himself get hotter and sweatier. In the distance Gax hears a sound and he blindly grabs the key in both hands wildly shaking it, pushing it and twisting it any way it will move. Suddenly the door is open. Gax barges in, half tripping over the doorstep, and shuts the door behind him. He leans against the door, feeling suddenly too weak and exhausted to stand up any longer.

  In the dark the only thing heard is his wild gasping breaths. Then they slow down and Gax becomes more aware of his surroundings. The first thing he notices is the smell. A funny, musty smell, the smell of a deserted place left to tiny creatures and the elements. Somewhere in the house a tap drips slowly, making an odd plinking sound. Gax pushes away from the door, then decides to feel about for a light switch. Will there be one? Will it still work, or do they disconnect power from deserted houses? His hand feels around the door frame, finally touching what feels like a light switch. He pushes the button and the room is transformed by just one hanging light, leaving creepy shadows around the e
dges. He slides the rucksack down onto the floor, with a quiet thud and just stands there, looking round the room. A large wooden staircase goes up to a dark gaping mouth in the ceiling.

  Gax hesitates, then bends over his Bergen, digs his metal torch out and switches the light off. He carefully makes his way to the old brown sofa in the middle of the room and painfully undoes the laces of his boots. He quickly flicks the torch over the sofa, hoping he isn’t sharing it with any other living creatures. Nothing seems to move in the light of his torch, so Gax swings his legs onto the sofa with effort, lies down, closes his eyes and he’s off.

  In the lighthouse the dark figure puts down some very powerful binoculars with a tired but satisfied sigh, then turns to leave the room with the huge windows.

  Chapter 3

  Bright sunlight streaming through a tiny window wakes him up. Gax groans. Everything aches. He rubs the back of his neck, feels his hair, still getting used to the short crew cut, missing the feel of his fringe. He has a headache as well. Maybe he got dehydrated last night. He had been sweating so much and as usual avoided drinking as he hates having to find a tree. His trainer had told him off for it numerous times, but Gax hated working out with a sloshing stomach. He finally sits up, rubbing his sore legs. His calves feel as hard as rock, but Gax struggles to rub them as his shoulders ache from the heavy Bergen. Gax groans again, rolls his shoulders, making agonising noises. Then he pulls a face, for his female co-trainee would have stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised, using her most sarcastic teacher’s voice “Manflu come early this week?” It makes Gax smile, briefly, until he remembers how alone he is. His entire team is the other side of the border, a long way down the water.

  Gax gets up and staggers to the small sunlit window. Downstairs the large room only has one tiny window, making it cool, but dark. The blinding sunlight outside becomes soft and comforting on the yellow walls. He peeks out, past the pillar supporting the little roof over the door. He can just see the road and by leaning into the glass he can see the large gate stones across the road. He swallows. To see the opposite house’s gateway so close makes him very aware of his mission. The sun is hot and soon Gax steps back, blinking into the room, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.