The Harpy's Song (Ëlamár Series Book 1)

by Logan Joss

  ‘Where are your parents now?’ asked Trevor, despite himself. He could feel Mèlli’s eyes burning into him.

  ‘They…they’re dead.’

  Trevor's stomach lurched. At that moment, he understood.

  Outside, the wind howled and the rain lashed the small cottage. The embers of the fire popped and cracked, but that wasn’t why Trevor couldn’t sleep. He tried to put the events of the day into perspective, still unable to truly believe it was all real. Slowly his mind drifted, flicking from the thoughts of the day to how worried his mother would be, and finally, he allowed himself to be taken to the world of dreams.

  The cold night air. The screech of tires. The cries for help. Trevor tossed and turned, moaning and crying in his disturbed sleep, unaware that Mèlli was awake and watching him.

  4

  Sklõff

  THE SLEEK, BLACK hull appeared like a thundercloud against the pale horizon. Its three tall masts reached up into the bright morning sky and the red firesilk sails billowed with the soft breeze.

  This was a grand merchant ship. rus had not been used to such traders for some time now. People stopped in the streets below and stared, in awe of its magnificence. For it was indeed far grander than the last ship to arrive: a tatty old vessel, the same one that had, only yesterday, found a stowaway onboard and thrown him over the side before they reached the city.

  As she reached her berth, she hovered gracefully and began to descend. On the quayside a man waved a pair of brightly colored flags, guiding the new arrival into a large bay at the far end of the harbordrome. It was the largest berth rus had to offer and had been reserved the moment the harbordromemaster received word of her arrival.

  On smaller, third-class berths far below in the depths of the harbordrome, eight or nine other vessels hovered silently, including the one that arrived the day before. These were scrappy vessels with names to match, such as the Bloody Corpse, Death Cry and Banshees’ Scream and, at the very end, a smallish galleon that had recently been converted into a gunship called the Spilled Gut. She was very old and had had many different lives in many different guises, but now she belonged to a private army: mercenaries who worked for the highest bidder. Work was easy to find these days, what with war coming and all.

  The grand merchant vessel positioned herself skillfully, maneuvering in the air as the four men on the pontoon beneath made fast the ropes that had been thrown from the vessel’s deck. As she creaked to a halt under the strain of the ropes, a gangplank slid into position and the vessel’s handsome captain appeared at the top. He paused for a moment, his hands on his hips and his chest pushed out. He inhaled deeply through his nose, absorbing the gaze of the crowd on the quayside, before striding down to the pontoon below. He walked purposefully towards the steps that led to the harbordromemaster’s office and smiled at the plump little man who was cramming the remnants of lunch into his mouth as he scurried to meet his new arrival. The harbordromemaster asked for his credentials but the merchant just smiled and flipped a shiny gold coin at him.

  ‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you!’ the man groveled, as he wrote down the name that was painted in swirling, silver letters on the vessel’s black hull: Harpy’s Song.

  From the quayside and as far as the palace walls sprawled the bazaar. Its multi-colored yurts sold everything you dare to imagine, and many things you would dare not. Some stores were selling potions and spells, trinkets and charms and good luck talismans for the more superstitious traveler. Others sold tunics and dress-robes all edged with the very finest gold silk thread. They were elaborately decorated with buttons and beads whose shiny surfaces reflected the early morning sun, making them sparkle like stars.

  The irresistible smell of cooking food invaded the senses all at once. The merchant’s nostrils widened to enjoy the varying aromas as he weaved his way down the cobbled streets, through the stalls and bustling crowds of early morning bargain hunters, his mouth salivating. But these traders didn’t have what the merchant came to rus for; he was here for something a little more specialized.

  He danced skillfully through the ever-growing crowds, aware of the eyes that glanced at him from blushing faces and mouths that giggled girlishly as he strode past. The bazaar began to thin out towards the end of the long avenue, where a crowd had started to gather in a small public square to watch a street magician perform.

  The magician drenched himself in flames of green, red and blue fire. The crowd oohed and aahed. Then, with a circular wave of his arms, the fire vanished leaving the magician unscathed. A rapture of cheers and clapping filled the small cobbled square. Next, with an elaborate flourish of his cloak, the magician produced an ornate smoking pipe and took three hard draws at the mouthpiece, releasing a chain of emerald green smoke rings. The smoke lingered in the air, motionless for a moment, before spinning slowly and merging to become one large sphere. Pinching its sides, the magician drew apart his arms and the smoke morphed into the shape of a flying dragon. Then he threw his arms skywards and the dragon hurtled into the air above the mesmerized crowd, soaring upwards until it was almost out of sight. Suddenly, with a puff and a pop, it exploded. The green fireball that remained, hung in the air before bursting into a cloud of golden flakes that fell like confetti onto the heads of the crowd below.

  The merchant didn’t stop. Not just because he had seen it all before, but because he had more pressing things on his mind. He hurried around the fringe of the crowd and strode on through a maze of narrow alleyways until the commotion of the bazaar was far behind him. He emerged onto a granite quadrangle whose slabs had been worn by the feet of the many seafarers who frequented the surrounding taverns.

  People filled the mishmash of crude wooden tables and chairs that cluttered the outsides of the taverns: gruff, weathered men drinking mead. Those who had just returned from long voyages shared tales of the adventures they had had.

  ‘Yeah she nearly ‘ad me!’ said one battered old man. ‘There I was…death ‘anging from me ankles.’

  Some told of their triumphs: finding lost treasure and escaping from the dreadful creature that had guarded it. Others played games of chance with cards and dice.

  It was here that the crew of the Harpy’s Song would later blow off steam after their long voyage and the hard work of unloading the hull of its cargo: that which appeared in the manifest and that which did not. But there would be no tales of this voyage—the crew feared its captain too much.

  As the merchant continued across the stone courtyard, each footstep echoing through the still air, a man dressed in rags flew through the doors of a tavern, The Boiled Skull, and landed flat on his front. Two men, twice the size of this poor wretch, came hurtling out after him and set about his person with heavy, ringed hands and booted feet. He stood no chance as they punched and kicked. But no-one paid much attention: it was no-one they knew.

  Moments later, a fourth man appeared and pleaded with the two large men, but they only stopped the beating when he produced a small leather purse of silver coins. One of the men checked its contents and then, satisfied, the two returned to the tavern. The man pulled his friend to his feet, helped him to a chair and punched him in the face before handing him a rag to wipe away the blood.

  The merchant pushed open the bright red doors to a tavern opposite the wounded man. The sign above the door read: The Grind House. Inside, it was packed to the hilt with merchant types. The smell of stale mead and the lingering, bittersweet taste of pipe tobacco swept through the dark, dingy spaces that spread out from the doorway. The merchant made straight for the bar, where a portly little runian acknowledged him only with a flick of his beady eyes. His ruddy jowls juddered as he indicated with a backward nod to a door at the side of the bar. The merchant ignored the warning sign on it and kicked the door open with the toe of his shiny, black boot, its gold buckle glistening in the smoky light. The door swung back, hitting the wall behind it with a bang before rebounding shut after him.

  He walked down the cramped hallway towards th
e sound of voices coming from a dimly-lit room at the end. A man, who stood with his back to the ember-filled fireplace, was shocked to see the merchant standing, statue-like in the doorway. There had been nothing to warn of his presence. Ignoring the man, the merchant strode across the threadbare carpet to where another man, Hèvich, sat with his back to the door. His chair swung around and their gaze met, Hèvich’s small, bird-like eyes looking the newcomer up and down.

  ‘Sklõff,’ he announced. It was hard to tell whether he approved of his visitor. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ Hèvich shifted in his chair, waiting for Sklõff to speak, but he remained silent, his only movement a hard, sideways glare at the man by the fireplace.

  He knew this other man, Zolýrus: he too was a merchant. Not long ago he may have called him a rival, but Sklõff had done well for himself so he had no qualms about who was the better of the two men. Zolýrus had done some work for him, carrying a hold full of illegal cargo to Aÿena from Natorós but, on arrival, both he and his ship were a little scuffed-up. He claimed they had been set upon by pirates, who had taken the cargo and killed most of his men. Apparently, he narrowly escaped with his life, making repairs to the limping vessel along the way.

  But Sklõff had his own theory of how the events of that day had taken place. It was more likely that Zolýrus’ curiosity got the better of him and, when he discovered the nature of the cargo, he took it for himself. The pirate attack was most likely just a cover story he fed Sklõff on his return. No merchant ever told stories about being attacked by pirates, for one simple reason: when pirates attack, no-one survives to tell the tale to anyone but Pönicighth himself, as he carries you away to the dark sea to join with every other dead traveler. Pirates killed. They didn’t take slaves, they didn’t take hostages for ransom and most of all they didn’t let sniveling merchants live after stealing their cargo.

  Both men knew that merchants were little better than pirates themselves. But this was not merchant business, and Sklõff wasn’t willing to risk anything. He simply didn’t trust Zolýrus.

  ‘I would prefer to conduct our affairs in private,’ Sklõff said at last. He had turned to face Zolýrus, his stare piercing him like a white-hot needle.

  ‘You’re not concerned by Zolýrus are you?’ Hèvich asked. ‘There’s no need. He’s been working with me on this little project of yours. There’s nothing I could tell you that our friend here doesn’t already know.’

  Sklõff rolled his eyes and shook his head as he turned back to face the man in the chair.

  ‘He’s been most helpful,’ Hèvich added.

  ‘Hèvich, you old fool, when will you ever learn?’ spat Sklõff.

  Hèvich looked quizzical. He didn’t care for such posturing. To him, business was business, and that was all this was. ‘I’m sorry if you disapprove of my bringing Zolýrus in to help with this matter,’ he said. ‘But I was merely following your instructions: do what you have to do. And at the time I needed a vessel and I needed it quick. Zolýrus’ vessel was available. And as I said, he’s been most helpful.’

  Sklõff stood silently for a moment and then said, ‘So what I asked for is done?’

  ‘Located and on the way to me as we speak,’ Hèvich lied. ‘She suspects nothing. My man is Póntèkian.’ Hèvich raised his eyebrows expectantly before continuing. ‘Most vessels from the south have been sea-bound whilst they weathered out that ghastly storm…oh, you know all this…no point me dribbling on.’

  Sklõff grinned humorlessly, his eyes fixed on Hèvich. The room was silent for a moment. ‘So what does he know?’ Sklõff asked, breaking the deadening quiet.

  ‘Like I said he was most helpful with getting my man in place.’ A bead of sweat trickled down Hèvich’s forehead. ‘I told him what I felt I had to. No more, no less.’

  ‘So he knows I was looking for a girl? And that you were bringing her here?’ Sklõff’s tone was harsh. ‘And that she escaped?’

  Hèvich’s stomach lurched and the color drained from his face. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could find the words, Sklõff had in a single movement, grabbed the hilt of his sword and swept it towards Zolýrus, bringing the pummel up underneath the man’s chin with a sickening crunch. Then, skillfully flicking the sword around, he used both hands and brought the blade down on his neck, almost severing his head.

  Sklõff knelt beside the crumpled form and, with great care to remove all the blood, slowly wiped his sword on the dead man’s waistcoat. Eyeing the gleaming blade with satisfaction, he arose, his gaze now fixed on the trembling form of Hèvich.

  ‘Please…please allow me to explain,’ he stammered, cowering in his seat.

  ‘There’s no need to explain.’ Sklõff’s face was emotionless.

  ‘But she’s here. She’s in rus,’ Hèvich pleaded. ‘I have people everywhere looking for her. I’ll have her in my possession as planned. There’s no need to do anything rash.’

  ‘No,’ said Sklõff thoughtfully, as he slowly re-sheathed his sword. ‘Once you have located her, inform me at once. I will handle things now.’

  Hèvich slumped back in the chair and wiped his forehead on his handkerchief. Sklõff took a bottle and two glasses from the table, placed them on Hèvich’s desk and poured them each a drink. He slid one glass towards Hèvich and raised the other to his lips, but paused. ‘And Hèvich,’ he warned, ’don’t lose her again.’

  5

  Cloak And Dagger

  ALMOST TWO MOONS earlier, Hèvich had been sitting outside The Grind House enjoying a long pipe of amber leaf and a cool tankard of mead in the late afternoon sun, when an out-of-breath urchin child appeared at his side. Not able to speak, he pressed a square of parchment into Hèvich’s hand. Hèvich unfolded the small square, glanced at what was written on it and then burnt it with his pipe flint. The boy stood and waited as Hèvich drew a tatty leather purse from his waist belt. He took a small, dull, silver coin out and dropped it into the hand of the child, who examined it for a moment before producing a second square of parchment. Hèvich again read the message before setting light to it. This time he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a smart wallet. He shook out a bright gold coin and dropped it begrudgingly into the urchin’s sweaty palm, muttering something under his breath as he did so. Without a word, the boy turned and ran off across the quadrangle, disappearing down a narrow alleyway.

  Late that night when the streets were empty, Hèvich made his way across what had been, only hours before, a bustling marketplace, every footstep pinging through the empty space. The night was perfectly still. The smell of the warm day hung in the air and firestone lanterns dotted alleyways and cobbled streets with orbs of metallic light. Above, a starburst display of meteorites lit up the heavens like fireworks. Hèvich considered this a good omen, which in turn meant good profit.

  As the harbordrome came into view, he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his identity from prying eyes and kept to the long shadows cast by the turquoise light of Telerón. The instructions had said to meet at the statue of Pönicighth, benevolent Watcher of the skies and seas, overlooking the harbordrome opposite the Old Light Tower. Hèvich had no way of knowing who would be waiting there for him, but the note indicated that someone required his very specialized services. Most of his business was conducted in this way. As he skirted along the back alleys, Hèvich’s concern wasn’t with what the job would entail, or the dangers or laws that would be broken, but only with how much profit he would make.

  He arrived at the statue to find he was alone. Keeping to the shadows, he scanned his surroundings as he waited impatiently. At this moment it crossed his mind that he may have had a wasted journey. The sort of clientele that Hèvich dealt with did, on occasion, miss their appointments, but only for the grizzliest of reasons. Just as he was considering leaving, a voice came from behind. It was deep, with a dry rattle.

  ‘Hèvich I presume?’

  Hèvich studied the darkly-dressed figure before him. ‘And you are?’


  ‘I’m here on behalf of Sklõff.’

  Hèvich’s eyes glistened in the moonlight, his greedy smirk hidden behind the hood of his cloak. He had worked for Sklõff before, and could almost feel the gold between his fingers.

  ‘He needs something found,’ the figure continued.

  ‘I accept whatever terms Sklõff is offering,’ Hèvich agreed.

  ‘It’s a girl. Sklõff has made it very clear that it’s the things she carries, as well as the girl herself that he requires. He needs you to bring them to rus.’

  ‘Of course, that’s why Sklõff came to me. He knows I can deliver,’ Hèvich boasted. ‘One time I even— ’

  The shady figure, ignoring Hèvich’s words, thrust a rolled-up parchment into his hands. ‘This is all the information you’ll need,’ he said. He then produced a pale metal locket that dangled from a leather cord. ‘This is her.’ The figure turned to leave but then paused and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Do whatever is necessary,’ he said before disappearing into the shadows.

  In the corner of his room, upon a desk lit only by a single firestone lamp, Hèvich delicately placed the parchment and locket. With his gaze still focused on them, he turned towards a small drinks table, picked up a glass and a bottle containing a rich purple liquid and placed them on the desk before sitting. He pulled the cork stop from the bottle, poured some liquid into the glass and drank it quickly before pouring some more. Then he removed the glass and bottle to one side and pulled the parchment and locket closer to him. He adjusted their positions until he was happy, touched each item in turn and picked up the locket, opening it slowly. As it clicked into a fully open position, the image of a young girl’s head appeared, hovering above it. It was formed of silver light, with an iridescent rainbow of colors swirling beneath the surface: a familiar. The girl appeared to be in early adolescence and had a radiant face with a carefree smile and long, flowing locks. Joy-filled eyes gazed back at Hèvich as the image began to rotate. He closed the locket and the image vanished. He replaced it on the desk and pushed it to one side, but then changed his mind and flicked it open once more.