by Rob May
* * *
The next morning, the nuns and monks who ran Arcus Hill Orphanage would wake to find that a package had been left on their doorstep. Opening the leather bag (that was stained with what looked like blood) they would find a sizable amount of money. The sisters would be delighted, and would immediately begin writing a list to take to the markets: the children would not go hungry for weeks now.
Twenty gold crowns was a generous donation indeed.
END OF PART ONE
PART TWO
THE QUEST
II.i
Prey
Deros tried to stand, but his muscles failed him. Kalina got to her feet to help him. Another arrow hissed by; she looked around desperately to try and see where the danger was coming from. A hundred yards away, across the meadow of wild grass, four figures had emerged from the trees. Her first thought was, Hunters?
Deros had seen them too. ‘Run, Kal,’ he said between gasping breaths.
Two of the figures were wearing helmets; one had a round shield also, and a sword. Soldiers?
With fading strength, Deros pushed Kalina away. ‘Run, Kal!’
Without him? ‘No,’ she said, and moved to help him up again. Then she saw what the newcomers really were: not hunters, not soldiers—not even people. They were about five feet tall, with long, barrel-shaped torsos and short legs. Their skulls were flat and elongated, and thick back hair sprouted from the gaps in their piecemeal armour.
Goblins!
Kalina took one last look at Deros; the light was leaving his eyes as he implored her to go. She turned tail and ran for her life, not looking back.
She crashed through the forest undergrowth, the soles of her bare feet tearing up on the carpet of thorns and brambles. There was only one way she could go, and that was down. The forest hugged the sides of a valley on the lower slopes of the Starfinger Mountains, and the paths and game trails were almost vertical in places. Kalina was aware of movement among the trees all around her; it seemed like there were more than four goblins in the vicinity—an entire raiding party must have crossed over the mountains.
Not only that, but she caught the harsh smell of smoke in the air. Something was burning.
Kalina knew the forest as well as any trapper or woodcutter; she had spent every one of her eighteen years within twenty miles of the village at the bottom of the valley. She charged down a trail that only last week she had quietly stalked along. That day, armed with sticks of charcoal and a roll of paper, she had spent hours trying to get close enough to sketch the red deer she loved so much.
Today she was the prey. Kalina took a shortcut through a dense hawthorn thicket, almost taking her eye out on some protruding branches. Every fibre of her body screamed at her to go back for Deros, but what could she possibly do? Even if he was still alive, she could hardly carry him: Kalina was five-foot-eight and slightly built; Deros was six-foot-two and weighed almost half as much again as she did. And it wasn’t as if she could beg for the goblins’ mercy either; they might walk on two legs and scavenge weapons and armour from men, but everyone knew that they were animals really—predators. They lived to kill.
And so she plunged on through the forest in a state of panic and distress. Eventually she came out of the trees and onto the edge of the ridge that overlooked the village …
… what was left of the village.
Every building was burning. The logging sheds were now enormous bonfires; the stables and fish stores pumped out thick black smoke that carried a sickly, deathly smell. The slate roof of the schoolhouse had fallen in, and living, dancing flames engulfed the rest of the timber and thatch homesteads. The Green Beck, the quick stream that cut through the valley, reflected the flames, putting Kalina in mind of molten iron running from the blacksmith’s furnace. Only the wheel of the sawmill, slick with water, still turned, as if oblivious to the fate of the rest of the village. The once-white shrine to Mena was now black.
Kalina dropped to her knees in horror, her thoughts turning to one thing only: where were the villagers? Where were her friends and neighbours? Had they already run? Were they already dead? There was no sign of life anywhere in the stricken village.
As the smoke billowed and drifted, she could make out one large, still black shape at the heart of the destruction. The more she stared, the more the shape appeared to suck the light and movement out of the chaos that surrounded it. Whatever it was, it was coiled around the spire of the shrine. Only when it finally moved did Kalina realise what she was looking at.
The creature extended two enormous bat-like wings and raised its sleek, scaly head. It cried out: a harsh, scraping kyyyrrrrk like a thousand crows all screaming in unison
Kalina almost fainted.
He had come!
II.ii
Breakfast
The horrible sensation of falling jerked Kal awake. She lay in bed thinking over her dream for a few minutes, then steeled herself to face the morning routine. After five more minutes of putting it off, she flung off her feather-filled blanket and jumped out of bed. Kal’s room was in the attic of a four-storey brick residential building on the corner of Satos Square, in one of the busiest quarters of the city. She went to the window bay, pulled open the drapes and stood there, naked, looking down at the activity below. The bustling market had taken over the square; the sound of voices haggling and the smell of spices and cooked meats filled the air. The clock tower in the centre of the square revealed that it was gone eleven o’clock. Kal smiled to herself; the market would soon be winding down.
Across the square, a guard patrolled the terrace atop the city watch headquarters. He raised his hand and waved at Kal when he spotted her. She replied in kind and stepped away from the window. She went and put a pot of water sweetened with sugar on the gridiron over the charcoal fire, and while that was heating up she set about her exercises.
Kal dropped to the wooden floorboards and performed twenty slow push-ups. When she could barely lift herself another inch off the ground she rolled over and started straight leg lifts instead. The pain in her stomach muscles was acute but strangely satisfying. Finally she got up off the floor and stood below the two butcher’s hooks that she had installed in the thick wooden beam that ran overhead. She jumped up and gripped the hooks—which were set two feet apart—and pulled her body up until her head almost touched the beam. Muscles screaming, she then lowered herself slowly down again. She managed to do this ten times before falling to the floor and collapsing, breathless.
Self-inflicted torture over, Kal went over to the copper basin in the corner and quickly washed herself down with plant soap and a sea sponge. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror that was propped against the wall; she wasn’t as thin these days as she used to be—good food and city-living had filled her out a bit, but exercise and muscle kept her figure lean. Kal wrapped herself up in a linen robe and moved on to her next task: breakfast.
She dipped into her store of roughly-ground roasted coffee beans and threw a handful into the pot on the fire. She left it brewing while she cracked three eggs into a deep iron skillet. And while they were cooking she cut two thick slices of rye bread and set them to toast. Kal hummed to herself tunelessly as she beat the eggs up; subconsciously timing it all so that the coffee frothed, the eggs scrambled and the bread started to char at almost the same moment. She raked over the hot coals of the oven and took her food to her small table to eat.
Kal’s table was littered with the fallout from last night’s adventures: two throwing knives, a pile of ivory gaming tokens from the Snake Pit (where she had stayed until almost dawn) and the book from Raelo’s study. Kal cleared a space for her food and sat down. She ate her toast and eggs with one hand, and used the other to flick through the pages of Calling the Dragon.
As she had suspected, every chapter of the lavishly inked and illustrated work was filled with rambling superstitious nonsense—the incomprehensible ravings of a madman. Not one of the hundreds of suggested methods of luri
ng a dragon, let alone the Dragon, matched up with any of Kal’s experiences. She wondered if the author had ever even seen a dragon, let alone bound one to his will.
Kal slammed the book shut. The Dragonites would be of little threat to the city if this was the kind of drivel they believed in.
The clock outside struck noon. Kal took one last gulp of her coffee; it was black, bitter and delicious. She had better get dressed; the man she liked to refer to as her patron would be up and about by now.
It was time for her to report in.
II.iii
Sir Rafe
Amaranthium: the largest city in the world. Over five million people found shelter within its sixty-foot-high walls; and two million more risked a life just outside the walls, working the ring of farmlands between the city and the Wild. Kal Moonheart was just one of those millions, and today no one paid her much attention as she fought her way through the midday crowds. The thoroughfares were packed with men and women from all walks of life: traders and actors, labourers and civil servants; priests, sailors, beggars and scholars. Travellers and refugees from all over the world had been stirring this dense melting pot for centuries.
Kal was dressed aggressively in black knee-high boots, black cotton trousers and a white open-necked silk shirt. Her only embellishment was a black leather choker around her neck. She walked with her head held high, her gaze focused on an indeterminate spot in the middle-distance. It was a ploy Kal often used; she was seemingly oblivious to anyone in her way, and people naturally stepped aside as she bore down on them. It didn’t always work, though: Kal shoulder-barged a man carrying a bundle of firewood and sent him sprawling to the pavement.
‘You need to watch where I’m going!’ she scolded him cheerfully, not stopping to help.
Visitors to the Basilica on top of Arcus Hill had to tackle first the forbidding zig-zag of the Godstair. This steep ascent had the effect of weeding out the serious from the merely curious, and Kal soon left the bustle of the city far below her. A thousands steps later, she stopped for a breather in the shadow of the Basilica’s cool limestone walls. It was a hot spring day; Kal had broken a sweat already. At least it would be nice and cool when she reached her eventual destination: the crypts.
She entered the Basilica. The public rotunda beneath the enormous dome was a vast open space, home to Amaranthium’s twenty-four gods. They stood on plinths in a circle, the symmetry of the Basilica offering prominence to none and equality to all. As always, Kal tried not to draw attention to herself by rushing straight down to the crypts, so she took the time to wander from god to god as if paying her respects. She knew all their names—everyone did. Here was Whalo, lifting his seashell aloft; Arcus with his spear; Mena and her cloven feet … Once they had all walked among men. Now, of course, they were all dead.
Kal was examining the statue of Banos when someone stepped up beside her. She didn't look around; the last thing she wanted was to get to know any of the other regular visitors. Nevertheless, the newcomer made a move: ‘Is my lady an admirer of brave Banos?’
Kal sighed and turned to see who had spoken. A stranger in polished plate armour stood beside her. He wore a deep blue surcoat embellished with a spiral of stars threaded in gold. He was handsome enough, with a broad friendly face and combed-back blond hair.
‘If I see your lady,’ Kal replied, ‘I’ll be sure to ask her.’
He gave her a genuine, unaffected smile. ‘My apologies! Perhaps you are a follower of Draxos instead?’
Kal had to laugh. Draxos! The black sheep in the pantheon: ugly and twisted and always up to no good. His only redeeming feature was that in the end, when the Dragon came for him, he died defending his brothers’ and sisters’ children. It was a bittersweet tale that Kal actually enjoyed.
‘Perhaps I am!’ she teased him, her eyes scanning the rotunda. A white-robed priest had entered and was making his way to the central rostrum; the hourly invocation was about to begin.
‘They say you should try to emulate the life of the god you most admire,’ Kal’s new friend reminded her. ‘Banos was a great knight as well as a god: the bravest warrior, undefeated in combat until … well, you know. My name’s Rafe, by the way.’
Kal accepted his gloved hand. ‘Sir Rafe?’ she asked him.
He shook his head. ‘No, sadly. Just Captain Rafe for now. Although, that is a shortcoming I hope to soon address. Did you know that Banos himself set down three heroic feats by which one could rise to knighthood? They are still enshrined in our law today.’
Kal was curious, despite herself. ‘Go on then. What are they?’
‘The first heroic feat is to wrestle a god to the ground.’
Kal smiled. ‘I think you’ve missed your chance there—by about a thousand years.’
Rafe was enjoying himself, making the most of his opportunity now that he had a girl’s attention. He counted the knightly feats off on his fingers: ‘The second is to reach to the peak of the Improbable Mountain.’
‘You don’t look the suicidal type to me.’
‘I actually suffer from a great fear of heights,’ he admitted with a straight face. ‘So then the only option left to me is the third feat. To join Banos in the ranks of knighthood, I must prove myself as both a warrior and a defender of the city; I must slay a dragon.’
Kal touched Rafe lightly on the arm. ‘Well good luck with that,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go. It was nice meeting you!’
Rafe looked disappointed. ‘You didn’t tell me your name!’ he called after her.
She left him standing there next to his idol. As the priest began to address the large crowd that had gathered, Kal slipped away and made for the stairs that led down to the crypts. The invocation was not something that she ever cared to stay and listen to. The people of Amaranthium did not pray; their dead gods could no longer hear them. Instead, they pleaded …
‘Winged Shadow,’ the priest intoned, ‘deliver us from your wrath and fire …’
II.iv
The Forgotten Tomb
The priest’s drone faded away as Kal moved through the crypts. Passing by the elaborate effigies and oversized sarcophagi of self-important senators and nobles, she entered the ossuary: a dark maze of corridors and chambers, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with the bones of the Basilica’s priesthood. There was no glory or even recognition in death here: a priest was granted just one hundred years of time to himself in his or her own wooden coffin, before being moved, bone-by-bone, to fill the gaps in the ossuary walls. Jawless skulls looked down on Kal as she passed by; pillars of tibia and fibula held up torches that lit her way.
Eventually, she arrived at an unlit part of the crypts, where Amaranthium’s forgotten line of kings and queens rested. Kal took a torch from a skeletal hand, and plunged into the darkness. She passed by the life-size effigy of King Aldenute, whose suicide five hundred years ago had precipitated the formation of the Republic. Kal counted off Aldenute’s ancestors as she went by (they all looked the same to her) until she eventually arrived at the king’s great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.
This particular old king stared ahead impassively as Kal stepped around him to get to the door of his tomb. She took a small key from the pouch at her belt and inserted it into what appeared to be a narrow crack in the stone door. The key turned smoothly; the lock was well-oiled. Kal pulled the door open and slipped inside the tomb. Someone had left a candle burning on the stone coffin within; it lit up what was essentially just a natural granite cave.
Kal pulled the door shut behind her and locked it. She shivered; whether from the chill damp or from the fact that she had just locked herself inside a tomb, she couldn't say. Still, she was almost there now. She extinguished her torch in a nearby pool of water and took up the candle. At the back of the cave was a narrow tunnel which twisted and turned deep into Arcus Hill until Kal had lost all sense of distance and direction. Finally, though, she emerged …
… into a much larger cave. Stala
gmites as tall as she was rose all around her, and the roof of the cave was lost in darkness. A ring of lanterns surrounded a long, low stone table in the centre of the cave. Rugs, furs and old leather-upholstered chairs were scattered inside the circle of light. And in one of the chairs, next to a warm brazier, sat Kal’s patron: Senator Benedict Godsword—the wealthiest man in Amaranthium; Commander of the Senate Guard; the King Without a Crown and Keeper of the Sword of Banos.
‘Hey, Mooney,’ he said as he saw Kal approach. ‘How did it go last night?’
Kal slumped down in one of the other chairs and put her boots up on the stone table. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘Raelo had a copy of Calling the Dragon. He was being groomed by the Dragonites. I took care of it, though; he’s not going to be a problem anymore.’
Benedict was an unkempt man in his late thirties. He wore a shabby blue fur-trimmed doublet and two days’ worth of stubble. He put down the wooden bowl of noodles that he was eating from. ‘Nice work, Kal … as always. Have you got the book with you?’
Kal shook her head. ‘I sold it in Fig’s Rare Books on the way over.’
‘Kal!’ Benedict sighed. ‘If it falls into the wrong hands …’
‘The last time I brought you a dangerous—but valuable—document, you threw it on the fire,’ Kal reminded him. ‘Besides, I read it. It was a load of old nonsense.’
Benedict shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ He tossed a leather pouch over to Kal, who caught it in one hand.