Bloodmage

by Stephen Aryan

  “Then what did?”

  “The Queen. She failed us,” said Rodann, his voice getting louder and more passionate. He hated her and the more he spoke about the Queen the more Katja thought his grievance was personal. “In our darkest hour, when this city and the entire country was in danger from the Mad King, she abandoned us and abdicated. Every man, woman and child was put at risk because of her. And then the situation only became worse. We had gangs of armed zealots patrolling the streets, imprisoning people for no reason. It was the people of this city who rose up and saved it. We need to take back our city again from a Queen who doesn’t care about us. Someone worthy of governing us should be sitting on the throne.”

  So far Rodann had not mentioned Talandra, but Katja had the impression he wasn’t telling her everything, not just yet anyway. He wanted to see if she was interested and would commit, because once she was in there would not be any half-measures. Anyone who changed their mind or lost their nerve would be found floating face down in the river.

  “I can already see the scepticism on your face,” he said to Katja. “You think I’m mad.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Katja, playing along, although in truth she thought him very sane but extremely dangerous.

  “Such a big change sounds impossible, but it’s achievable. It will not be easy and it won’t happen overnight. But…” and here Rodann paused, holding up one finger, showing it to all in the room as if the answers were written on his fingertip. “A fire is lit with a single spark. We can be that single candle burning in the darkness. We can show the others. I don’t need you to believe. All I require is your commitment to the idea of change.”

  Pretty words from a bold man. While it sounded like a noble idea in principle they were still holding a clandestine meeting in an abandoned building.

  “That is all I have to say,” said Rodann, his voice settling as he calmed down. “You can take some time to think about it if you want.”

  “No. I’ve made my decision,” said Katja, carefully looking at each person in the room. Only the timid man wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I want to help you.”

  “Wonderful!” said Rodann, clapping his hands together. He made a strange gesture at Teigan, who briefly left the room and then returned dragging a blindfolded man behind her. She shoved the man down on his knees, where he stayed, sobbing around the gag in his mouth. His hands were tied behind his back and Katja could see blood on the front of his shirt.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Who he is doesn’t matter,” said Rodann. “All you need to know is that he is an obstacle that needs to be removed. I won’t lie to you. The way forward will not be easy and there will be bloodshed. We want to keep it to a minimum, but sometimes it’s the only way. This man could not be bought, blackmailed and he wouldn’t join us. He gave us no choice.”

  “Then kill him,” said Katja. “If that’s the only way.”

  “Ah,” said Rodann, holding up a finger again. She was tempted to cut it off, just to stop him doing it. Even before he said it she knew. Here it was. The wrinkle in the plan. “We need a sign of your commitment. We need you to do this.”

  “With a few exceptions, no one else in this room has killed before,” said Katja. Teigan had the look of a killer, and Rodann obviously had no compunctions about gutting those who opposed him. Katja’s instincts also told her the escort had killed before. Beneath the make-up, expensive clothing and jewellery lurked a vicious serpent, cold and cruel.

  “They have shown their commitment in other ways. This is your task. It will also show me that you can follow orders, even if you don’t understand them.”

  Katja mulled it over. “I could kill one of them, or you,” she said to Rodann, but he didn’t look worried and Teigan didn’t stir from her post by the door. The others were less comfortable. “It wouldn’t prove anything. This man has done nothing to me. I don’t know who he is or anything about his crimes.”

  Rodann gritted his teeth, finally starting to lose his patience. “Nevertheless, you must do this if you want to join us.”

  Katja noticed he no longer offered her the option to walk away if she said no. She sensed Teigan tensing by the door. She’d always known that becoming a spy would require her to kill, but this was something else.

  Katja stared at the man, carefully studying his face, his clothes, trying to pick out any clues that might give her an idea of who he was and why he might be dangerous. He didn’t look like any kind of a threat to anyone, bound and gagged, kneeling on the floor in front of her.

  If she didn’t do this they would kill her. There was a slim possibility she might escape, but then what? This group was involved in a conspiracy against Queen Morganse and was her best chance to find out more about the attack on Queen Talandra.

  No matter how she tried to justify it in her mind, killing this man was a coward’s act. It was murder, plain and simple. Katja knew that by doing it she would be damning herself.

  The room fell silent. She couldn’t hear the fire or the others breathing, just the weeping man, praying around the gag in his mouth. The rasp of metal as she drew the dagger from her belt made him flinch but he didn’t stop praying. She moved to stand behind him, then knelt down and whispered a prayer in his ear as a small act of mercy. When she’d finished speaking he let out one long, final shuddering breath.

  Wrapping her arms around him from behind as if embracing a lover, she rammed the dagger home into his heart. The wound was small and bled little, but her aim true. He wheezed a few times and then stopped breathing. She pulled out and let him fall forward onto his face.

  The air of tension eased and Katja saw some of the others staring at her with a mix of emotions–fear, respect, awe even–but only Rodann dared smile.

  “Welcome, sister,” he said, moving to embrace her but then changed his mind when he noticed the bloody dagger still clutched in her hand. “Together, we’re going to change the world.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Centuries ago when people had first settled in Perizzi, they’d built huts along the banks of the River Kalmei. Over time they’d spread further inland and those first wooden huts were replaced with stone. But even then, when people had very little, greed thrived in the hearts of men. Which meant there was crime and a need for law and order. So in some ways, the Watch and the Guardians had always existed.

  This was the story Choss had been told by a member of the Watch as a boy when he’d been caught stealing. All these years later he still remembered the man’s red beard and the weight of his meaty hand as it had clipped him around the back of the head. After that, Choss changed his ways. He ran faster and for longer before stopping with his pilfered goods.

  Down here by the river, away from the port and its bustle, the buildings had seen many owners. Ten years ago there had been a fashion for riverside bars, but that had eventually passed, giving way to an army of scribes and merchants renting offices because the rent was cheap.

  Choss made his way to one of the older buildings on the waterfront. Its grey and yellow stone façade was black in places from an old fire and the name above the door had been removed long ago, but one or two battered letters remained.

  He rapped on the old iron door and waited, scanning the street out of habit, but there wasn’t anything to see out of the ordinary. Just a few scribes going about their business, satchels bulging with papers and merchants sat drinking at a tea shop. The atmosphere was relaxed but Choss felt tense, the muscles in his shoulders pulled tight.

  The door opened to reveal a tall Morrin, his horns polished until they gleamed, much like the short blade in his right hand. Scars covered the Morrin’s face and arms, one of his ears was missing and he held himself ready for a fight. His amber eyes regarded Choss carefully before flicking around the street.

  “Come,” he said, stepping back into the hallway, keeping himself out of sight from people passing by. Choss closed the door and followed him down a long stone corridor with bare walls and a rough wooden floor. Th
e rooms on either side were bare of any furniture and were mostly being used for storage. Crates and boxes were stacked to the ceiling. Goods obtained by the Jarrow Family or one of its associates.

  The Morrin led him down an old set of wooden stairs to the basement and from there through a trapdoor into the tombs. Just as the old Watchman had said, back when the city was first being built, people still needed to be punished. Their techniques had been a lot more inventive, or barbaric, depending on which side of the bars you stood.

  Choss had to slouch to avoid scraping his head on the low stone ceiling that had been carved into the bedrock. The walls were a dull grey with veins of black, and set in the walls at regular intervals were black iron frames. Torches chased away the gloom, but not the stench of filth or decay that came from unwashed bodies and rotting corpses. Voices murmured and whimpered in the dark cells and Choss felt grateful that he couldn’t see the prisoners inside.

  Don Jarrow had inherited the tombs with the building and only his most hated enemies or the worst offenders were sent here to die. They were tortured first of course, and no one who went in ever came out alive. What made it even more interesting for prisoners was that at high tide the cells would flood with sea water.

  In the last cell at the end of the corridor a man stuck his hands out between the bars, desperately grabbing at Choss’s clothes.

  “Help me! I’ll make you rich! Anything, whatever you want. Just help me!”

  With a snarl the Morrin lashed out with a boot, snapping one of the man’s arms against the bars. He squealed in pain and fell back, weeping and making wordless pleading sounds.

  Beyond the cells was a large open area where several more armed jailors sat playing dice around a table. The room reeked of the sea and the bottom half of the walls were smooth from high tide.

  The jailors were a mix of locals, Morrin and a couple of Seves, but all were battered and scarred from years of fighting on the streets. They wore their brutality proudly, like a badge of honour, and here it could be unleashed without fear of reprisal. Choss didn’t care. He just wanted to find Gorrax and get out.

  “Where’s the Vorga?” he asked. The Morrin smiled and pointed at a set of iron grates set in the floor on the far side of the room. Choss crossed the room and peered down into the black. The smell of the sea was even stronger here and he could hear faint sloshing as if someone was treading water. The grates led to the river and were always at least half full of sea water, even at low tide.

  “Why did you put him in there?” asked Choss.

  The Morrin shrugged. “The boss told me to make him suffer, yes? So we beat him and dumped him in there. No one ever leaves this place, so what’s it matter?”

  He seemed baffled by Choss’s concern for the Vorga. Choss took a deep steadying breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The Morrin hadn’t noticed but the others were alert, their game forgotten as they stared at Choss, suddenly aware of his size.

  “Get him out. Now!” snapped Choss.

  “You do it,” said the Morrin, turning towards the table. Choss grabbed him by the back of his neck and ran him across the room before smashing his face into the wall. He slammed the Morrin’s head against the stone six times before letting him fall. It would have pulped a normal man’s skull, but it merely left the Morrin bruised and unconscious. Choss followed up with a sharp kick to the Morrin’s lower back. The jailor began to thrash and twitch on the floor, blood running from his nose and mouth.

  Choss pointed at the next man. “You get him out.”

  He jumped up from the table, quickly unlocked the largest grate and then stepped back. Choss glared at the other men, expecting trouble, but none of them made a move for their weapons. Keeping one eye on them Choss knelt down by the grate.

  “Gorrax, it’s Choss. Can you climb out?”

  He heard more sloshing of water and then Gorrax’s face appeared at the bottom of the narrow stone shaft. Gorrax showed his teeth, something approximating a smile, and then braced his long arms against the walls on either side. He spider-climbed his way up the stone chute until Choss was close enough to grab one hand and haul him out, heaving with his arms and legs. The Vorga weighed at least as much as him and by the time Choss pulled Gorrax out of the hole he was red faced and short of breath.

  The jailors had all drawn their weapons and were watching Gorrax closely in case he sought revenge for the beatings. Gorrax wore only a kilt and white vest and his bare green skin was mottled with white lines and pale blue patches which Choss knew were fading bruises. He started to stand up but Choss stepped in front of the Vorga, obscuring his view of the room.

  “Lean on me,” said Choss, throwing one of Gorrax’s arms over his shoulder.

  “But, friend Choss, I’m—” he started to say, before Choss cut him off.

  “It’s all right. Let me help you.”

  Gorrax stared at him for a moment and then over Choss’s shoulder at the nervous men, carefully keeping their distance.

  “Yes, I need your help,” he said finally, letting Choss carry some of his weight. They shuffled past the jailors then down the corridor, which had now fallen silent. The prisoners watched in shock as one of their condemned brethren left with a pulse.

  Choss kept his mouth shut and Gorrax did the same until they were a few streets away. Only then, when he was sure no one would see them, did Choss let go of Gorrax, who stood up under his own power. Choss started to laugh and Gorrax made strange clicking and hooting sounds which indicated his own mirth.

  Vorga were children of Nethun, creatures of the sea who longed for the ocean and the healing power of salt water. The strongest and biggest tribe of Vorga, like Gorrax, were green skinned who built their cities on the coast, as close to the sea as possible. They spent hours every day in the water, fishing, farming, and plumbing its murky depths for pearls and other riches they could trade with the land dwellers. Brown Vorga lived in the marshes and the smaller blue-skinned tribes lived in the hills. Gorrax had said they were the least favoured of Nethun, but others claimed them to be the most intelligent. It would explain why all Vorga merchants that visited the cities of the land dwellers to trade were blue skinned.

  Instead of punishing Gorrax, the jailors had done the exact opposite. He’d spent days in a regenerative bath and now most of his wounds had completely healed.

  “I am grateful, but why are you here?” asked Gorrax.

  Choss’s good humour drained away as he remembered what lay ahead for them. “I made a deal with Dońa Jarrow. In return for your freedom we need to do something for her. It’s going to be dangerous and we may die.”

  “This is a real fight? We can kill?” asked Gorrax.

  “Yes, if we have to.”

  Gorrax considered it for a moment. “Dying in that cell would have taken a long time and been very small,” he said, making a circling gesture with both hands. “I prefer to be here. I’m very happy to see you and to have this chance. I am yours.”

  The Vorga inclined his head and seemed to be waiting for something. His eyes stayed on the ground in a subservient manner that Choss had never seen before from him.

  “I can’t do this without you. I need you,” he said. Gorrax lifted his head and showed Choss all of his teeth, which he imitated in turn.

  “I’m ready. When do we begin?”

  Choss had given Gorrax very clear instructions. To take out the sentries without making a sound. The Vorga had looked at the building, stared at the open space between their position and the sentries, and declared it easy. All he needed was a slow count of two hundred.

  Choss had nearly reached the end of his count, with no sight of Gorrax, when he noticed the sentries outside Don Kal’s warehouse were missing. The men on the roof with crossbows were still patrolling, moving in a slow circuit.

  A shadow rose up against the front of the warehouse, to the left of the main door. Choss didn’t know how the Vorga had reached the warehouse without being seen as there was nowhere to hide. It felt a little pec
uliar to be wearing the mask and black clothes again, but he didn’t have Gorrax’s stealth and he needed every advantage. Strength, a constant companion for his entire life, would not be enough to see him through.

  Gorrax gave him a brief wave and Choss waved back, watching the sentries on the roof to time his approach. As they moved out of sight he sprinted across the open ground, doing his best to avoid tripping over rubble, broken bits of timber and loose cobbles. More than once he had to vault over something but managed to maintain his stride.

  Choss slammed into the warehouse wall and spent the next minute catching his breath. For the first time since he’d retired from the ring, he was glad that he’d maintained his fitness regime. There were mornings when he considered just sleeping in and forgoing exercise, but it had been such a big part of his life for so many years he couldn’t break the habit. He wouldn’t know who he was if he didn’t hold on to some part of his old life. In his mind he was still a fighter. Now that was about to be put to the test.

  He stood up, signalled to Gorrax he was ready and the Vorga gestured to follow him around the side of the building. Choss spotted three bodies piled on top of each other in the shadows, the sentries’ faces pointing in the wrong direction. Gorrax must have snapped their necks before they’d had a chance to scream.

  At the back of the building they found a tall ladder leaning against the wall. The bodies of the other three sentries stared at Choss with unblinking eyes. He stepped over them and started to climb the ladder, which creaked alarmingly at his weight. Gorrax remained on the ground, melting into the shadows and keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble.

  Peering over the edge of the roof Choss could see another sentry to his left, making a vague attempt at a patrol. He looked bored and distracted, while three others were playing cards, sat at a makeshift table made of an old crate. They each sat on an upturned box, their crossbows by their feet but still within arm’s reach. Their backs were towards Choss and the third man was partially hidden from view behind one of the chimneys. Six chimneys broke up a flat roof, providing some cover, otherwise this would have been impossible.