Darkness Rising 1: Chained

by Ross Kitson

  ***

  At the central table sat five players, cards arranged before them. The closest to the bar was a young brown-haired Thetorian called Hunor. His glittering earrings matched the twinkle in his eyes. On his left was Alfra’Te, a rotund Mirioth merchant who was relishing in the sound of his own voice.

  To Hunor’s right was Jelbettio, a drunken Feldorian, all curls and tanned charm. The final pair of players were sullen Azaguntans—Olix and Malik—their auburn hair trimmed very short as was the current fashion amongst the criminal classes of the immoral isle.

  Alfra’Te was dealing whilst chattering in Imperial, the common language of traders.

  “There’s no doubt that the local market for quality carpets and cloth has dried up like an Azaguntan plague pit. I would say I’ll be heading to the Choosing when I’ve cleaned you losers out.”

  His podgy hands were laden with cheap jewelry as he flicked the first set of cards out to the other four players.

  “Which order is taking in this season?” Hunor asked.

  Alfra’Te paused and clicked his tongue. His gold teeth glittered in the subdued light. Out of the corner of his eye Hunor could see flickering of hands between the two Azaguntans.

  “It’s the Air-mages, young Hunor. Unfortunately Coonor is not the city to be visiting at the advent of winter. I swear I’ll be wearing my rugs as robes!”

  Hunor and Jelbettio laughed, the latter swigging his ale as he did so.

  “You could warm that fat back end of yours by enlisting to the Uristân legion, Alfra. I heard the lizards are chopping up your cousins for dinner again,” Jelbettio said, his voice slurred.

  Alfra’Te flushed and his attitude became serious. Hunor winced at the jibe.

  “Right… a fresh hand then, my kind sirs. The Porosti house is high, the Helgorki house is void. Threes reverse the run. Jelbettio, are you in?”

  Jelbettio squinted at his six cards then tossed two at Alfra. The merchant passed two back. Jelbettio pushed a pile of gold forward. His game had been going well.

  Malik, the smaller Azaguntan, smiled and asked for two also. As he moved to receive the cards Hunor transiently saw the edge of a card in his sleeve.

  “How are the tides for the trip, Alfra? I can never decipher all that nautical rubbish. It’s like Wild-magic to me,” Hunor asked, his eyes evaluating the two Azaguntans.

  Malik and Olix were clearly allies. Malik, the younger one was hard-featured with dark copper hair and a killer’s eye. Olix, the older and taller, was scarred from his mouth to his ear bestowing him a ghoulish leer. They were also both armed with swords and, Hunor suspected, concealed daggers.

  Alfra’Te, eager to forget Jelbettio’s joke, began jabbering once more.

  “I’m no expert m’self, young Hunor. Never sail without one of the Guild on the ship. Having said that, I’ve sailed the trade route betwixt Kâlastan and the Mist ports that often I could probably give them a run for their money. Now if you have the Eerian moon rising, the Pyrian moon falling and the other two absent then I reckon that makes for a strong east stream across the Northern Ocean. Olix, are you in?”

  Olix shrugged and scratched his scar. “With what little you’ve left me. Three cards.”

  Alfra’Te exchanged the cards and Olix pushed his remaining gold forwards. Hunor looked at the twisted face. Olix had the air of a professional criminal but he and his companion had been fleeced for most of the last hour. This stank of a scam. He should have listened to Jem.

  Alfra’Te turned to look at Hunor as he glanced at his cards. He had a good hand: two mages, one duke, all in strong houses. He lingered on the choice and sipped his ale. His gaze flickered across the inn behind Olix and Malik.

  The inn was deep, retreating from the wharf-side door back into the shadows. A dozen lanterns lit it, sputtering the fumes of whale oil into the air. The mariners in the far corner continued to bellow out songs, rather less than more in harmony with one another, while keeping time here and there with a playful slap on the thigh of one of their women. Three or four lone drinkers slumped at the bar by the side of the smartly dressed young Goldorian. Sat on the next table, four cloaked men spoke in whispers and shot occasional glances towards the game.

  “I’m in, my vocal friend. One card if you please,” Hunor said. “Did I regale you with the tale of time I fought the Mud Ogre of Southern Foom, a beast so vile its halitosis could cripple a horse?”

  Jelbettio roared with laughter and Alfra’Te looked bemused. Hunor pushed forth his gold and as he did so a large coin rolled from his pile and across the table. Jelbettio instinctively reached out for it and in his drunkenness knocked over his flagon. The cheap beer splashed over the table edge and onto Malik, who recoiled. Two cards fluttered down from the Azaguntan’s sleeve. Hunor smiled with satisfaction.

  The moment seemed to hang in time as all eyes settled on the cards as they came to rest on the wet table.

  Alfra’Te pushed his chair back as Olix and Malik rose, hands lunging to their swords. Jelbettio snarled and was on his feet drawing his rapier. Hunor twisted from his chair and spied the table of dark-garbed men rising and reaching for their blades.

  Jelbettio swished his thin blade in the air before him and lunged. Olix parried the misjudged attack and slashed with his broad sword. Jelbettio gasped as the edge drew a deep wound in his belly, a spatter of blood covering the gold on the table.

  Hunor swore as Jelbettio stiffened and dropped, foam bubbling from his mouth. Blade venom, that’s just my luck, thought Hunor. He reached behind his back and slid his sword from its sheath. Hunor then stood immobile, the glinting blade held just below waist height.

  Malik approached, his eyes glittering. About ten feet behind him the four dark cloaked men moved from the table. The inn was eerily silent.

  Hunor met Malik’s cold eyes with his own. Then he winked.

  At the bar the prim Goldorian tutted and placed his goblet down on the bar very precisely. He raised both hands, stepped forward and muttered arcane words.

  The air seemed to thicken around his arms then rippled forth, like a stone thrown in a pond. The four dark-attired men were lifted from their feet as if struck by a hurricane. They crashed through the table and into the chairs, their weapons clattering on the floorboards.

  Hunor made his move. Malik swung his sword and Hunor sidestepped, hooking his blade under the attack. The razor edged sword flashed in the amber torchlight.

  Once more Hunor was still. Malik crumpled to the ground. The edge had carved a furrow across his left arm and face. Bright blood spurted from the flapping artery in his arm and he dropped his sword to press on the wound. The long cut on his face served to blind him as gore trickled into his eyes.

  Olix looked at the devastation in horror. The four men were being held by a vice-like force. Two were wounded, with jagged pieces of wood impaled through their legs and were wailing. The other two lay under the remnants of the table.

  The assassin Olix’s blade still shone with the sticky poison as he advanced. Hunor could see that his atypical fighting style had disconcerted his foe. He suppressed his cockiness—one nick from that sword and it was all over.

  Hunor was like a statue as Olix closed the distance between them. Alfra’Te scuttled towards the door then paused to observe the finale of the battle.

  The combatants’ eyes met and then held.

  Olix pounced, whirling low as he attacked, his free hand pulling out a slim dagger. His envenomed sword darted at Hunor’s abdomen whilst his dagger stabbed in an arc to try and wound any parrying arm.

  Once more Hunor made a single slash. The keen blade had sliced into Olix’s neck before the attack had come close. The assassin flailed as blood spurted across the inn and sprawled over the table, his poisoned weapons falling uselessly to the floor.

  Hunor looked at the younger Azaguntan who was desperately trying to stem the bleeding from his arm. He wiped his sword with a black cloth and re-sheathed the weapon before scooping a handfu
l of blood-flecked gold into a small bag. Hunor strode past the bar and gestured to the neat Goldorian.

  “Come on, Jem! Time and tide and all that.”