by Rory Mackay
ARTAN’S NIGHT
A short story by
Rory B Mackay
Prelude to the novel “Eladria”
Copyright 2012 Rory B Mackay
Cover artwork and design by Rory B Mackay
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CONTENTS
1. "Artan's Night"
2. Afterword
3. Excerpt from Eladria
4. About the author
ARTAN'S NIGHT
1
There was no immediate sign of pursuit, but Artan knew that he wasn't in the clear yet.
Glancing around nervously, he exited the casino and made his way down the cobbled street. The darkened sky was thick with cloud, the only source of light being the pale blue glow of the street-lamps dotted along the sidewalk. The air was cold against his skin, with a dampness suggesting imminent rain.
Even at this late hour, the town center was far from deserted. He would have to make his way past drunks, drug dealers and military patrols, as well as being careful to avoid entanglement with the street gangs. Walking down the plaza, avoiding eye contact with anyone he encountered along the way, he kept his hand in his left trouser pocket, as if fearful the tightly wrapped wad of currency would vanish if he took his attention off it for even a second.
Artan could normally sense when he was being followed. But in spite of that, and his cautiousness as he’d left the casino, he was unprepared for the attack that ensued.
The first thing he felt was a blow to the back of the head, powerful enough to knock him to the ground. Without having to think, his immediate instinct was to get back up. But as he tried to clamber to his feet, one of the attackers punched him in the stomach, forcibly expelling the air from his lungs and knocking him back to the ground, where he lay dazed and breathless.
As a wave of pain shot through his body, Artan looked up at his assailants in bewilderment. There were three of them: burly, middle-aged men with coarse faces, immaculately groomed and dressed in expensive grey suits. He immediately recognized them from the casino: they were the bodyguards of the businessman he’d just beaten at red-double. He’d been aware of them glowering at him the entire night as he beat their employer at game after game.
“What do you want?” Artan asked, still lying upon the cobbles.
“That man you just beat at five games of red-double,” one of the men began. “You have any idea who he is?”
Artan shook his head.
“His name is Hakan Alaar. Most powerful businessman in this whole region and renowned roulette and bajaka champion.”
One of the other men stepped forward. Unlike the first, who was thin with greying hair and pointed features, this man was slightly overweight, with a rounded, shaved head and a serpentine tattoo winding down his thick neck. He spoke in a gruff tone as he glared down at the boy. “Few have the nerve to challenge him in public as you did. But he was amused at your nerve. An arrogant boy wanting to take on one of the most respected players in the neutral territories! He was planning on teaching you a lesson you wouldn’t soon forget.”
“Mister Alaar didn’t expect you’d last a single round,” the first man added. “Yet you beat him at five successive games.”
“He's not sure how," the bald man continued. "But he knows you were cheating somehow.”
“I wasn’t," Artan exclaimed. "I observed all the rules. You were watching—you’d have seen if I’d made an illegal move.”
The casinos of Kaesibar were tightly regulated and when it came to the game of red-double roulette, the rulebook totaled no less than three volumes. Artan had observed every single one of these rules and yet, although he wasn't about to admit it, he'd cheated in the most audacious manner. There were no rules to cover what he’d done. It wasn’t, after all, widely recognized that players might have the ability to read their opponent’s minds.
“How old are you?” the bald man demanded.
“Twenty...”
“So how does a twenty year-old win five games of red-double against a champion who’s been playing it for decades?”
“I...I’m just good at it,” Artan stammered. “My father taught me before he died. We used to play it all the time. He said I had a talent for it.”
“Maybe,” nodded the third man; olive-skinned with a broad face, sunken dark eyes and closely cropped black hair. “But you made a fool of Mister Alaar.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Artan said. He forced himself up from the ground and took a step back.
The bald man reached out and grabbed hold of him, his oversized hands clamping down on the boy’s arms. Artan struggled, but was unable to break free of the vice-like grip. “He wants his money back,” the man growled.
The stone-faced goons closed in on Artan and as the bald man kept hold of him, they brusquely searched him, finding the money stashed in his left trouser pocket. The thin man flicked through the bundle of notes and nodded with a grunt, satisfied that it was the full amount.
“I need that money,” Artan exclaimed. "It’s rightfully mine. I won it in an honest game.”
The bald man yanked Artan forward, pulling him so close that their faces were almost touching. “I don’t know how you did it and I don’t care,” he mumbled, his breath smelling of stale cigar smoke. “But if you ever show your face in that casino again, you won’t live to regret it. Be grateful this money is all that we’re taking. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
Before Artan could respond, the man let go of him and struck out, punching him in the face, causing him to stagger backward. He then launched another offensive, planting a fist in his chest with such force that Artan fell to the ground. One of the others stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs. Artan let out a cry of pain as he doubled up. He lay upon the ground, the dazzling blue-white streetlight above obscuring his vision. He was braced for another round of attack, but instead the three men turned and departed, marching back in the direction of the casino.
Artan struggled up from the ground. His stomach and ribs pulsed in waves of pain and he could feel a trickle of blood dripping down from his nose, seeping into his mouth. He straightened up and steadied himself on the lamppost. With a wince, he pressed a hand to his ribcage, hoping the pain would soon subside.
He knew he had to get out of here. If one of the street gangs caught sight of him in this state they’d probably take it upon themselves to finish the job.
Making a valiant attempt to focus his thoughts, he glanced around and quickly regained his bearings. He began limping in the direction of home, often having to reach out and steady himself along the way. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain as he forced one foot in front of the other, frequently wiping the blood away from his face. With the usual impeccable timing, the heavens erupted in a downpour that soon drenched the boy, leaving his clothes heavy and waterlogged, soaking his hair and skin as it ran down his face.
He must have looked a terrible state, but it wasn’t the beating that upset him the most. He'd known the risk the moment he'd laid eyes on Alaar’s bodyguards and had taken the chance regardless. What distressed him most was the fact he was going home empty-handed.
He hobbled down the industrial estate, once or twice stopping to hide behind outbuildings in order to avoid passing gangs or aggressive-l
ooking drunks. All the while, the rain continued lashing down, rattling off the rooftops, collecting in rivulets that ran across the ground and emptied into the gutters. Artan’s boots were old and in clear need of repair, for the water got into them, making his feet squelch with each step.
He noticed there were more military personnel patrolling the streets than usual tonight. They had a sense of urgency about them, as if they were tense and on edge. As two soldiers walked past, eyeing him suspiciously, Artan slowed down and mentally reached out to them. He tried to tune into their minds, opening himself to sense their thoughts. Alas, he needed to be in closer proximity in order to pick up their thoughts, but he did get the sense that something was going on. They were expecting trouble. Was it possible they were anticipating another attack on the town?
Surely not. Not tonight, of all nights...
Artan tried to dismiss the notion and carried on his way.
He eventually reached the cluster of dwellings nestled behind the chastan oil refinery. Situated in one of the poorer regions of Kaesibar, these towering three-story tenements were shabby and falling apart at the seams. Nevertheless, it had always been home to Artan, for he had lived here his entire life.
He was grateful when he finally arrived at his building. Holding onto his ribs with one hand and reaching into his tunic pocket with the other, he pulled out his key and unlocked the main door. It took some exertion to climb the stairs, but he made it to the door of his apartment and, with a sigh of relief, turned the key and stepped inside.