The City Under the Mountain

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Can’t you just grab him out of the water?” Allen said.

  “Leave me to work, dammit!”

  “There’s too many of them!” Bethany said. “He’s not going to make it!”

  “Stop yelling in my—”

  Bethany could feel the strain in D’Jenn’s power as he tried to weave it. It warbled with a fatigued melody like a bard too drunk to play an instrument. Bethany’s heart pounded in her ears as the Garthorin leapt into the water. Dormael was further downstream than the Garthorin, where the current was stronger, and Bethany could tell the Garthorin would catch him.

  Sometimes, something has to be done—Dormael had told her that. Bethany dropped from her saddle and stepped to where she could see the river. No one noticed her dismount.

  I can help! I know it!

  Bethany delved into her Kai, deeper than she’d ever reached. She felt her power burning like a star trapped in the bottom of a pool. She took a deep breath—just like Dormael had shown her—and filled herself with magic as she filled her chest with air. Her blood sang with power, and for a moment Bethany felt like she would float from the ground.

  “Bethany!” D’Jenn’s voice came to her ears but Bethany ignored him.

  Her eyes shot to the only thing she could think to grasp—the river. She reached out with her magic and gripped the water itself, unleashing her fear with a scream that echoed in her Kai. Pebbles floated from the ground around her, spinning in midair. The rocky footing shivered as if an earthquake were happening at Bethany’s feet. The air grew hot, and the water in her clothing baked into clouds of steam.

  The river leapt from its banks and slammed into the horde of Garthorin, washing them into the forest with a roar of rushing water. The river bent the trees as it flowed into the woods, taking the horde of Garthorin with it. The noise was like nothing Bethany had ever heard.

  Bethany glanced to Dormael, who had fallen with the violent motion of the water. He pushed himself to his feet, slipping as he tried to rise. He was alive, though—that’s what mattered.

  The air around Bethany grew cloying until it was hard to breathe. Bethany tried to push the hot air away with magic, but she was still struggling with the force and unexpected weight of the river. Her magic flowed out of her, ripping through the ether with a noise like a thousand screams. Her legs wobbled and gave out, sending her to her knees.

  Bethany’s stomach heaved. Her balance wavered as her ears closed against the growing pressure in her skull. Sweat poured down her face. Pain blossomed somewhere in her chest. Bethany screamed as her head filled with blinding pain.

  Bethany’s magic rebounded like her Kai had been stabbed with an icicle.

  She gasped as her power burst apart, leaving both her arms burning with numbness. Her magic, unraveling, washed out and hit the trees around her, which shivered as if they’d been smacked with a giant hand. Bethany tried to collect herself and found D’Jenn standing nearby, a fist extended in her direction.

  He Splintered me!

  “Dormael!” Shawna’s scream was full of terror.

  Bethany tried to clear the haze from her mind. Dormael was slipping on the soggy river bottom, making his way toward the bank. Bethany smiled despite the sick feeling in her guts.

  He’s going to be so proud of me for saving him.

  A rumbling noise came from upstream. Bethany blinked through the tears in her eyes and tried to climb to her feet, but her legs wobbled and her stomach lurched. She fell back to her knees as the roar came closer.

  What is that noise?

  Water rushed down the riverbed, bringing the noise with it. Bethany’s eyes went to Dormael, who still struggled to get across. She made to scream a warning, but everything happened too fast.

  No!

  The water slammed into the rocks, and Dormael was gone.

  The Judgment of a Child

  Maarkov scowled across the table at Irhan-il-Farhad.

  “You people know nothing of honor,” the Rashardian said. Maarkov wanted to lunge across the distance separating them and fill his eye socket with a foot of cold steel. He knew, though, that his brother would be angry for it. Irhan’s voice grated on Maarkov’s nerves, and the slaves in the room made his skin crawl.

  If I kill the master, will the slaves flee his compound or wail at his death?

  “There are people in this city dying in the streets,” Irhan went on, oblivious to Maarkov’s murderous fantasies. “They sicken and expire beneath the eyes of the rich, more of them every day.”

  “And your slaves?” Maarkov scowled at Irhan. “Owning slaves is honorable?”

  Irhan gave a bemused laugh. “Would it not be better to be cared for, to be given purpose, than to die in those warrens on the southern side of Shundov?”

  “Cared for.” Maarkov popped another olive in his mouth and spit the pit into a bowl. “Caged, you mean.”

  Irhan offered Maarkov a cold smile. “Being owned is not so bad. It has been the way of things since the beginning of time.”

  “True. Doesn’t mean it’s better than having the choice. I’d take the streets any day.”

  Irhan narrowed his eyes. He shifted in his circular chair and gestured to a boy in the corner of the room. Maarkov watched the slave-boy come near, feeling a mix of disgust and pity. The boy was just aging to adolescence but carried himself with a formal air. He wore nothing but a tunic of white silk, which ended just above his knees, and a golden ring through the center of his nose.

  “Boy,” Irhan said, “tell me—would you rather be put on the streets to die than be a member of my household?”

  The slave kept his eyes on the floor. “No, dakim.”

  “Are you well cared for here?”

  “Yes, dakim.”

  “Where are your parents?” Maarkov said. He ignored Irhan’s angry glare at the interruption. The boy went rigid, eyes wide, and looked to Irhan for instruction. After a moment, the spice merchant shot the boy an angry gesture.

  “Answer him, boy. This man is a guest in my home.”

  “A thousand sorries, dakim.” The boy bowed to Irhan and turned to face Maarkov, though his eyes stayed plastered to the floor. “I never knew my parents, makuma. I do not know where they are.”

  “And so he cannot miss them.” Irhan smiled at Maarkov. “Correct, boy?”

  “Yes, dakim.”

  “What will Irhan do if you defy him?” Maarkov kept his eyes on the spice merchant. “What did he do to the ones he suspected of leaking information? There was a purge here, wasn’t there, boy?”

  The slave quailed.

  “Go on,” Irhan said in a calm voice. “Answer the man.”

  The young slave’s throat worked as he gulped. “If I am disobedient, dakim teaches me.”

  “And the others?” Maarkov regarded the boy with narrowed eyes. “What was done to them?”

  The boy glanced at Irhan, who dismissed him with a wave. The slave retreated to the edge of the room with a grateful look on his face. Maarkov turned a scowl to Irhan.

  “That is not your concern,” Irhan said. “We will speak of other things.”

  Maarkov sighed and leaned back on the circular cushion. He didn’t like Irhan-il-Farrhad, but he had to admit Rashardians had good taste in furniture. The seats arranged around the table in Irhan’s sun-room were made of rounded wicker frames fitted with soft cushions of silk. Maarkov allowed himself to relax, though he kept an eye on the guards posted along the walls.

  Eight. Maarkov smiled. Twice as many as last time. Does he fear I’ll make good on my threat to carve them to pieces? One of the slave-soldiers noticed Maarkov’s scrutiny and returned his gaze with a flat expression.

  “We could get to business if you’d forgo this ridiculous custom.” Maarkov gestured at the olives and wine on the table between them. “I didn’t come here for dinner and wine.”

  Irhan laughed. “See? Barbarians, all of you. You think this is a meal? This is merely a courtesy. I show you every ounce of respect, and still you c
omplain.”

  “I’m a busy man.”

  “Oh? You are rarely seen outside the castle. I wonder what it is that keeps you so occupied?”

  “Nothing you want to know.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Nothing I’m going to tell you, then.”

  Irhan regarded him for a long moment, a vein in the side of his head twitching with anger. The man was poised, polished, and full of courtesy. Maarkov had seen his type before, though, and the cultured manner was a ruse.

  Irhan was a killer. It was clear from the look in his eyes and the anger pulsing through the veins in his skull. He might be educated, erudite, and dressed in fine silk, but Irhan-il-Farrhad was a savage, deep down. Maarkov imagined him standing over a boy much like the one in the room, shaking his head at the discourtesy of the slave bleeding more than was proper.

  I show you every courtesy, and you have the gall to bleed on my floor.

  “Where’s the Shendi?” Maarkov shifted in his seat. “I’ve eaten my fill, and your wine is bitter.”

  “He comes.” Irhan shrugged. “I would not make it an issue with him, were I you.”

  “You’re not me.”

  Irhan smiled again. “Call him down for tardiness, then. I will have fun watching you die.”

  Maarkov made to say something else, but just as he was about to utter the words, the door to the sun-room swung open. A man stepped inside, turning to close the door behind him. He was a tall fellow, but not massive. He wore nondescript clothing in the Shundovian style—baggy tunic and pants—with a cloak hanging from his shoulders. The garments hid his musculature, and if the man had any weapons, Maarkov couldn’t see them.

  The unremarkable man walked to the third circular chair—the one set aside for the Shendi—and sat. He regarded Maarkov with flat, disinterested eyes. His skin was lightly tanned and his hair was auburn, much to Maarkov’s surprise. He could pass as any northern Alderakan, or even a Sevenlander, without raising eyebrows.

  The newcomer turned his eyes to Irhan and scowled.

  “Who is this?”

  “Your client.” Irhan offered the man an empty smile.

  The man turned to look at Maarkov once more, his eyes flashing from Maarkov’s clothing to the bag at his feet and finally to the sword propped against his chair. The Shendi’s fingers tightened on his knees, where he’d laid his palms after sitting down. After his brief inspection, the man turned a scowl on Irhan.

  “No.” The shendi rose and walked toward the door.

  “I have paid five times the necessary tribute,” Irhan called, declining to turn in the direction of the departing Shendi. “The Ancient One assures me this is sufficient. I have his mark.”

  The Shendi paused with his hand on the door. His head tilted, and he turned his ear toward the table where Irhan sat with Maarkov. A moment passed in silence. Maarkov could feel the tension in the room like a horde of swarming bees.

  “We do not work for outsiders.”

  “You do now,” Irhan said, turning to look at him. Something passed between them, but Maarkov couldn’t make sense of it. “Come. Sit down—or should I contact the Ancient One?”

  “Show me.” The Shendi didn’t move.

  Maarkov raised an eyebrow at Irhan, whose face could have been carved from granite. The Rashardian’s gray eyes were alight with anger as he reached into his robe. He produced a small parchment rolled around a wooden cylinder. Irhan snapped his fingers and the slave-boy rushed over to take the note from his hands. Maarkov kept his eyes on the Shendi, who still hadn’t turned to face the room.

  Definitely hiding a weapon. Probably more than one.

  The boy shuffled to the assassin and bowed, the note outstretched in his hands. The Shendi took the message and examined it with his back turned. The Shendi’s back straightened at the parchment’s contents. After a moment, the Shendi handed the note back to the boy and turned around. His face was once again a mask of disinterest as he walked back to the chair and sat down. Irhan waited for the slave to return the rolled parchment before he opened his mouth.

  “Now,” Irhan said. “Let us discuss business.”

  The Shendi made no move for the food, nor did he reach for the wine on the table in front of him.

  “Who is the target?” the Shendi said.

  “A girl.” Maarkov tried to match the assassin’s disinterested expression. “A girl traveling with some dangerous people.”

  “A girl?” The assassin’s face gave the barest hint of confusion. “A girl of how many years?”

  “Eleven, twelve, maybe.” Maarkov shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”

  The Shendi scowled at him, then turned a disgusted look on Irhan. “We do not kill children. You know this. That, I will not do, and I do not care how much gold you paid to the Ancient One.”

  “You’re not being hired to kill her,” Maarkov said. “Only subdue her and bring her here.”

  The Shendi looked at him. “Subdue her? There are any number of people one could hire for such a thing. It is beneath the Shenda’ari. We are dealers of death. We do not kidnap children.”

  “She’s not some noble brat,” Maarkov said. “The girl is a sorceress—a powerful one.”

  “A child, still.” The assassin’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want with this child sorceress?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  The Shendi went quiet for a moment. He looked back to Irhan, who met his gaze with an unflappable expression. The assassin leaned back in his chair and relaxed his posture. He turned a considering look on Maarkov.

  “Where is this girl now?”

  “Farra-Jerra, in the Sevenlands,” Maarkov said. “She was last seen heading north.”

  “Into the Gathan Mountains? Absurd.”

  Maarkov shrugged. “The information is reliable.” Maaz had pulled it from the mouth of a body on the cusp of death. Maarkov had seen Maaz do it on more than one occasion, and it was always effective. The method was gruesome, but the words spoken by the dying were always true.

  “I still say you can hire another to do this.” The Shendi sat as still as a winter pond. “Why insist upon the Shenda’ari?”

  “You kill sorcerers.” Maarkov took a sip from his wine. “That’s the whole reason we’re in this bloody room together.”

  The light-colored man somehow managed to make his bland expression more intense.

  “To kill a mystic is not so difficult,” he said. “One can die slipping down a flight of stairs, or be killed with strong poison. A knife across the throat drains anyone of life, regardless of their sorcery. To subdue one, though—that is another thing. You wish me to drag this child across the breadth of the world? It would be impossible.”

  “Why impossible?” Maaz had prepared for this contingency, but Maarkov wanted to hear the assassin’s reasons. “Couldn’t you drug her? Keep her compliant?”

  The Shendi shook his head. “A sorcerer builds resistance to poisons faster than a normal person. I could subdue the girl with poison but could not keep her that way long enough to make the journey. Besides—the drugs would make her groggy, sick, and turn her guts to water. I am not a midwife and have no wish to deal with such a thing.”

  Maarkov offered the assassin a cold smile and reached for the bag at his feet. He showed it to the Shendi before opening the drawstring. Giving Irhan a flat stare, Maarkov upended the bag atop the plate of piled olives.

  Something black, twisted, and serpentine thumped onto the plate, scattering the olives over the table. Irhan leaned back from the table, but the assassin only watched with cold, calculating eyes. The device resembled a snake tangled in a knot. It was opaque, almost like onyx, with tiny thorns growing from its surface.

  Irhan leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming the disgust on his face. He peered at the thing, tilting his head as if he was trying to follow its twisting pattern with his eyes. The device was no larger than a small bundle of twine and curved in such a way that made it impossible to d
iscern its secrets.

  The device quivered with sudden movement, undulating like a pair of fighting snakes. Irhan flinched back again—to Maarkov’s amusement—and cursed under his breath when the device went still once more. Maarkov glanced at the assassin. One of his hands was near his sleeve.

  So that’s what it takes to make you reach for a blade. Maarkov smiled at the assassin when his scrutiny was noticed. The only reaction he got was a tightening around the Shendi’s eyes.

  “This will bind the girl’s magic,” Maarkov said. “Just lay it somewhere on her skin, and it will do the rest.”

  The Shendi regarded the thing with the slightest expression of disgust. “What else will it do to her?”

  “Ask the gods.” Maarkov shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not the one who made it.”

  The assassin shot him another glance before leaning forward to examine the sinuous device. He didn’t flinch when it moved again, twisting upon itself like a worm. His eyes narrowed as they regarded the thorns.

  The Shendi looked back to Maarkov. “What would happen if someone else was to touch it?”

  Maarkov shrugged. “It wasn’t explained, and I wasn’t concerned.”

  Irhan snapped his fingers at the wall. “Boy!”

  The young slave-boy hurried to the table from the side of the room. His manner was respectful, but his eyes kept shooting to the thing on the olive plate. Maarkov could almost smell the child’s fear.

  The Shendi stiffened. “What are you doing?”

  “You wish to know what would happen, yes? Boy, pick up this…” Irhan’s mouth twisted with disgust, “…thing.”

  “There is no need for this.” The Shendi’s eyes hardened.

  Irhan ignored him. The boy hesitated, eyes darting between his master and the twisted contraption on the plate. Irhan narrowed his eyes at the boy and leaned forward.

  “I will take your hand, boy. Do not doubt my resolve.”

  Anger blossomed in Maarkov’s chest, and he entertained another vision of his steel sliding between Irhan’s ribs. The boy turned to the magical device. His hand twitched in the device’s direction, and he turned his face away as he reached for it. Maarkov made to sit up, but the Shendi was faster.