Rise of the Falsemarked (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 2)

by Samuel Gately

  “You are built for this modern world. You can thrive in it. But the world doesn’t seem to know it. Exiled from your own country. Ill-treated by your friends and family. You make your own way. You swam the Bay, conquer dragons. Break the noses of government stooges.” Bray laughed.

  “You only need do two things for me. You can do both right now. By the time the sun comes up, you could be flying south atop a dragon army. Or passing your time in my harem. Enjoying the finest plunder this world has to offer.

  “Swear your allegiance to me. Take a knee before me and tell me you will take no action against me and will obey. And after you’ve done that, tell me how to break the Deathbowl.”

  With that request, Cal saw Bray’s plans clearly. This wasn’t just the ramblings of a megalomaniac. Aaron was right. Bray was headed east and was laying the groundwork to do it. He wanted to take over the world. He would push into Tannes, drive the SDC back to New Wyelin. Then, with no one to compete with for the skies, he’d make the world his. Then he would reach out and crush the Corvale, the last potential force of resistance and rebellion. But to do so he’d need to take the Deathbowl.

  Bray continued. “Do you know the cost of information on the Deathbowl? I have bought what could be bought. It is more valuable than twenty dragons. Yet nothing I have learned shows how it can be broken. We are all still children when it comes to the art of warfare on dragons. I have no advisors who know more than me.”

  Cal nodded absently, thinking about his own mistakes. He’d been thrown from dragons three times before he’d realized they were never meant to be ridden into battle. He’d fought the instincts of the dragons, far sharper than his, and sent them into losing efforts. The dragons fought smart. The men who rode them had much to learn. Children, as Bray had said.

  The Deathbowl was one of Lorne’s better ideas. By taking advantage of the open space he’d made New Wyelin impenetrable. Even an army like Bray’s would struggle to break it. They needed to come through the Tear, or else it was guerrilla warfare getting over the mountain ridges which protected New Wyelin. Once through the Tear the SDC would hold the Deathbowl, dragons perched on every resting place. Whoever held it first would hold it last. But Cal had seen weaknesses in it. He had ideas how a dragon army could take it. It sounded like he’d have lots of time to think on them while Bray tortured him.

  The sun had finally set, a last riot of fiery orange on the western horizon. Its last rays hit the Shields, tossing bronze patterns across the floor, up onto the walls, even back onto the other sheets of glass. It was beautiful.

  Cal looked at Bray and slowly shook his head.

  Bray shrugged. “I only asked you tonight to introduce the idea. I realize it will take some time to get used to. Think on it. There’s one other question I must ask you tonight, then I’ll leave you to your rest. This one you lose nothing by answering, so I encourage you to answer honestly.

  “If you refuse to accept my offer, I will eventually have to drop you. I give many of my enemies the offer to choose where. I would honor your request, within reason. I owe you that much for the story. So tell me, Cal Mast, assuming we can’t reach an agreement, where would you like to die? What will be the last thing Cal Mast sees?”

  Cal watched the dying orange light, trying to remember when he’d last stopped to watch the sun set. “End it where it all started. There’s a small cove just southeast of the Breach Estates off the Bay of Castalan. A long sandy beachfront. Drop me there.”

  Bray nodded and stood, raised a hand. “I hope I don’t have to honor that request, but if it comes to it, I will.” Hearing footsteps behind him, Cal turned in his chair. Several falsemarked appeared behind him as if out of thin air.

  Bray looked over the scene, Cal’s broken sword shattered on the ground, the bounty hunter’s face down in a pool of blood. He turned to the falsemarked and pointed at Cal. “Take him to the cells. Search him for any sword shards before you leave him. Tonight he spends the night in his own cell. Tomorrow night, he shares a cell with the others. They will not be gentle with the man who destroyed the smuggling trade in Castalan. The night after that, Mr. Mast, I start persuading you myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another meeting.”

  Bray walked off under the fading light, a set of bloody footprints trailing him.

  Chapter 22. Another Pair of Eyes

  Four falsemarked marched Cal down into the bowels of the Shields. The curving porcelain halls of the upper Shields quickly gave way to dirty wooden staircases lining tunnels which ran deep into the bluffs. Cal had heard that an old jade mine crisscrossed the bluffs and that NEST had taken it over. If there was ever beauty in the stones, in the walls, it had long been stripped. The underbelly of the Shields was ugly, dirty, and dark. The walls were coated in dirt, the floors in dust. Wooden beams were splintered. Torches were unevenly spaced, jammed into corners, throwing out a sickly and inconsistent light after the brightness above.

  Cal’s escort seemed interested in sport, grinning amongst themselves. They would occasionally give Cal an extra shove as he plodded down the endless unfamiliar stairs. Aside from a couple veiled threats, however, there was little conversation. Cal was lost in thought, no interest in engaging his captors. When he’d gotten carried away with his story of the Bay and the Avlors, he’d worried he was giving away too much. He’d worried he was giving Hideon Bray too clear of a view inside Cal Mast. Aaron would have done it differently, would have played his cards closer to the vest. Cal had less of an instinct to reach for caution and secrecy first. Cal preferred to agitate, instigate.

  But Bray had repaid Cal’s openness with a priceless piece of information. Was Bray really not the Prisoner? Or, rather, was their understanding of what the Prisoner was, had been, flawed? Two different people. One who rose to the top of the Vylass in a bloody coup, nearly enslaving the Corvale in the process. And a different one who was handed to the Chalk to pay the price for it. Had the rumors of escape emerged because Bray was at large? Was the other one dead? He pretty much had to be. No one survived the Chalk.

  In his head, Cal sorted the names into two piles, alive and dead. Alive he had Bray, Clay Duren, and the beggar with the broken teeth to deal with, along with all the falsemarked. An army of dragons. He pictured his enemies standing in a large group in the Shields, looking east and south, towards his and Aaron’s homelands. Cal pictured a pile of the dead in the same room, far too high with dark bodies. The trail of dead men left behind on the caravan trail to Ellis. The men rumored to be in the mass graves to the west. Sitting atop the pile was Elena, staring at him with unblinking eyes.

  Hideon’s gift, the assassin sent by the Avlors, was also dead. Of course, Cal had only Bray’s word that it was an assassin not just some poor bit player recruit. Clay Duren was still standing at Bray’s side. Cal still hadn’t met a single ally since arriving in Ellis. They were here but had yet to lend a hand. He’d burned two warehouses, survived an attack, stolen a note pointing towards a traitor planted in Aaron’s midst, flown west to treat with Barbayir, survived a beating at the hands of the falsemarked, and received what amounted to a job offer from Hideon Bray. He could use the time in the cell to think, just to get everything straight in his mind.

  At the bottom of a long, dark staircase, the lead falsemarked unlocked and opened a door to a wide chamber. The smell of prisoners in tight quarters with no effort towards sanitation entered the stairwell. Cal was shoved through the door. Torches lit the room, arranged to leave no corner in shadow. There were six large cells with floor to ceiling bars, three to each side of a wide, well-worn path for the jailers. The three cells on Cal’s right were empty. On the left, the cell closest to the door held a single man wrapped in a dirty cloak, head between his knees. The universal posture of the truly defeated, withdrawn to pass the hours until death finally brought freedom. The middle cell was empty. The last one had at least twelve pairs of eyes staring at Cal curiously. A ragged crew, all hard looks and gaunt faces. They made no noise and showed no sig
ns of disrespect for the guards. They had fallen into line.

  Cal looked from face to face. There was no one he knew. Definitely no one he could count as a friend, given the dark expressions. Cal was still shirtless which meant if any of these were from Castalan or could read marks at all they would know who he was. If they were from the broken smuggling rings as Bray had hinted, they’d torture and kill him. They might even find time for a brutal rape or two.

  Cal was studying the men intently, preparing himself to be dropped into their ranks. He looked for the weak links to attack first, the strong to avoid. But the guards surprised him by opening the empty middle cell door. He stepped into the cell alone, heard the harsh clink of the door locking behind him. The falsemarked looked at him a moment, as if they wanted to say something, then just turned and left.

  The guards had given the other prisoners no indication of whether Cal was fair game or not. He turned to again look at the men in the cell next to him, keeping his expression neutral. Unintimidated, bordering on haughty. Humility wouldn’t play well. This wasn’t Cal’s first night behind bars. Pair by pair, the eyes slowly drifted away to different corners as the prisoners resumed their bored and indifferent postures. Cal carefully noted which held the promise of future violence in their eyes.

  Cal stepped back to the wall and slumped down into a position similar to the lone prisoner in the first cell. Putting his elbows on his knees, he allowed his head to slowly sink to his chest.

  “Castalanian,” came a soft voice. Cal looked to his left. The biggest, ugliest looking of the prisoners next door was standing at the bars separating him and Cal. He stood a good head taller than Cal, big, beefy arms crossed through the bars. He was nearly bald. Probably shaved his head on the outside but now had patchy hair growing in. He had the face of a fighter, a nose that had been pulled back and to the right. Deep bags under his eyes. Cal noted that all the man’s cellmates were giving him a wide berth. This one had earned some privilege and respect with those massive fists.

  Cal stared at him a moment. The man raised a small black package he held in his hand. With his arms crossed through the bars, it was hidden from the sight of the other prisoners. He gave it a little wave in the crook of his elbow. “Castalanian,” he said again, “you were expected.”

  Cal rose slowly and approached the bars. The man handed Cal the package. Cal cautiously accepted it. It was a piece of thick black fabric, tightly rolled and tied in the middle like a scroll. Using the large man as a shield, Cal unrolled it. It contained a roll with ten gold coins, a bundle of twenty cigarettes, and a book of matches. Cal stared at it, surprised, then looked back to the prisoner. His face was blank, no suggestion of friendliness but also none of hostility or jealousy.

  Cal took two of the coins out and handed them back to the prisoner. He took them without comment. Cal then lit two cigarettes and gave one back to the man. The large man took it and had a long drag. Cal pocketed the rest of the package’s contents. He stared at the man a moment.

  “Ash,” the man said. It took Cal a moment to realize he was being given the man’s name. Cal didn’t offer his in return. He couldn’t. Ash didn’t seem offended. He stood still for a moment, then said, “Tell Jardere I miss the sun.”

  Cal nodded, though he had no idea who that was, then watched as Ash walked away from their small private area and took a seat among the others in the crowded cell. Cal sank back to the floor to think.

  …

  It was maybe an hour before the guards returned. Time behind bars seemed to stretch and distort. There was no sun, no windows at all. There was nothing but the flickering torchlight and the occasional sound of prisoners pissing against the back wall. No one spoke. The man in the first cell hadn’t even shifted once.

  Cal was fighting the deep despair that always seemed to find him when he was locked up. His stomach, full of liquor but no food, had begun serious protests. He felt swollen in odd places from last night’s beating. His ears, his gums. The wound in his side no longer ached but felt cold. It seemed what little energy and warmth he had left was leaking out of him.

  At the sound of feet on the stairs, the prisoners roused themselves and watched the door. Cal did the same, hating that he’d become one with the other prisoners so quickly. Another pair of desperate, hungry eyes, helpless to do anything but hope that somehow the footsteps brought change.

  Four falsemarked walked in. Between them they half dragged, half pushed a battered woman with long, dark brown hair. At the sight of the woman, young and beautiful, a dangerous energy ran through the cells. These men had seen nothing worth desire for a long time. The eyes grew hungrier, sharper.

  Cal watched the falsemarked herd the woman past his cell. She kept her head down but Cal could make out a thin face, high cheekbones, and a button nose. His hopes they’d put her alone across the hall were dashed quickly. They unlocked the door to the crowded cell next to him. As they pushed her in, they ripped away her dark cloak. Underneath she wore tight fitting clothes, pants and a shirt.

  One of the falsemarked walked to Cal’s cell door. “Mr. Bray said to tell you that those men didn’t get in there for being saints. You get to see just how nice they treat their guests when we let them. That’s tonight. Tomorrow night, assuming you still haven’t agreed to Mr. Bray’s terms, you’re with them.” He turned to his companions. “Come on guys, let’s take a nice long break.” The words echoed through the chamber, their intent intensifying the energy that crackled in the air like a growing storm. The falsemarked left without looking back.

  Cal turned to look at the woman. She was staring at him. Her face was badly bruised across the left side. They’d been working her over upstairs. Apparently that wasn’t enough to get the message across, so they’d sent her down here. She had her panic nearly under control, but it flared in her dark eyes as she turned to face one of the prisoners who boldly approached her. “Ain’t you a pretty one?” he said.

  All the prisoners in the cell were on their feet now, slowly advancing. Cal’s teeth were gritted, fists clenched. He didn’t want to see this. Was there any way he could stop it? He looked around for anything to help him.

  Cal was surprised to see Ash wasn’t advancing. He stood back in the corner, a black expression on his face. One of thick disgust and disapproval. He looked even less happy about what was about to happen than Cal. Cal managed to catch his eye. They moved to their positions at the bars, meeting where they had earlier exchanged the package. The other prisoners took no note, making increasingly aggressive overtures to the trapped woman. She spat at one and slapped another. They laughed and pressed forward, roughly grabbing at her but still not committing to pulling her down.

  Cal studied Ash. The big man’s jaw was working furiously. “It’s not right,” he finally said. Cal had misjudged him. He had thought the big man might be at the front of the line given his size and rough appearance.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Cal asked.

  Ash looked back at the scene behind him. Finally he shrugged. “We can try. It will take all that coin and smokes. And will only buy her a couple hours. They might kill me for it later if they don’t get what they want. We sleep with our backs together tonight. If at all.”

  Cal locked eyes with him, then handed him the coins and cigarettes from his pockets. “Good luck.” Ash nodded and turned back to the group of prisoners encircling the woman.

  Ash walked confidently into the group’s midst, the smaller men parting as he pushed through. He walked right up to the woman, bent down slightly and craned his head to look at her closely. He whispered something Cal couldn’t hear, then turned back to the men. “She’s mine tonight.”

  There was an immediate sound of protest. A couple of the men laughed, thinking it was a joke. The laughter died quickly.

  “No, that ain’t right,” said the first man who had approached the woman. He had a ragged grey beard, wore a pale yellow shirt that was little more than tatters. He stared hard at Ash. “We can share. I don�
�t mind being second.”

  “No second,” Ash said. “I got coin.” He held the handful of coins up so all could see, then threw them into the corner. Then he held the cigarettes up, threw them in the same corner. “She’s mine tonight.”

  There was a deep silence, broken by the sound of one or two of the men scurrying towards the gold. “Wait!” said the grey beard. “Anyone picks up those coins before this is settled loses a finger. You might be big, but there are a lot of us. You seem to be the only selfish one here. Maybe we get the coins and the girl. What do you think about that?”

  Ash shrugged, then smoothly slid into a left-handed jab which landed on the chin of the grey beard. The man was rocked onto his heels, giving time for Ash to line up a proper right. The sound of a jaw breaking was audible as he drove his huge fist through greybeard’s face.

  Cal watched quietly, resisting the urge to cheer. Given the smoothness of the attack, the careful balance which led to a brutal force, Ash was a professional. Street fighter, boxer, it didn’t matter. He brought skill to back his size.

  Ash straightened out of his fighting crouch. He walked towards the unconscious form in front of him. He panned around the cell, making eye contact with each prisoner, then lifted his foot and began stomping on greybeard’s face. By the third stomp blood was smearing onto the dirty floor. Ash stopped, his heavy breathing the only sound in the cells for a moment.

  He pointed towards the coins in the corner. “Go get what’s yours. I’ve got what’s mine.” He grabbed the woman by the arm, gently pulling her towards the bars near Cal. “Unless someone else has something to say,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

  As the woman grew closer, she looked back and forth between Cal and Ash. In a low voice, she asked, “You know who I am?” She seemed confused when Ash shook his head, followed by Cal.

  “Ash,” Ash said. The woman gave a weary half nod of thanks but didn’t offer her own name. Cal didn’t want to throw his into the mix, so they stood awkwardly in silence for a moment, trying not to feel the eyes of all the other prisoners. Ash gently took the woman by the arm again and pulled her past him to the corner of the cell. He motioned for her to sit and she did, back against the wall. Cal sat next to her on the other side of the bars. Ash sat just in front of the woman, shielding her from the other men.