by Damien Lake
Climbing the tower to take a look-down seemed the best choice. He sheathed his sword at his back and gripped the rungs.
After the first three, Marik abandoned his magesight. The black iron bars against the blackness of the tower’s brick made them hard to see. He groped as a blind man for a door handle he knows is somewhere near. Under the regular starlight and the moon, the rungs were much more easily discernable.
The climb proved harder than he had considered. He disliked the way the narrowness of the bars provided purchase for only his foot’s center, making the yawning space below his toes and heels all the more apparent. His sword altered his center of balance so his weight always verged on tipping away from the tower. Halfway to the top he seriously reconsidered whether this had been a good idea. Marik’s dislike of heights had temporarily been overshadowed by his desire to catch the bastard who nearly killed his best friend.
Finally at the top, his breathing harsh from the knowledge of how much space stretched between him and the ground, he clambered over the edge. There were two square protrusions atop the tower. They looked like small sheds though they could not have held half his body, so they must have a different purpose. The square blocks rested five feet back to either side of the rungs.
Across the tower top, which Marik realized must be constructed in the nature of a massive chimney, wooden planks had been set to form a rough, circular roof. Marik stepped onto the planks to place distance between him and the edge. He withdrew his sword from habit. It comforted him to hold it in his hand.
He stepped toward the left box. It might serve as a seat while he drifted around the refinery searching for the last assassin. The crumbling, disintegrating feel of the wood beneath his boots dissuaded him. Whatever this tower might be used for, the owner had let the wooden planks rot. Apparently he only replaced the planks nearest the rungs or where his workers needed to step whilst up top. Marik turned to the other box to see if it had been kept in better repair.
The flashing steel in the moonlight startled him badly. He reared back a pace. Instead of ripping open his neck, the assassin’s blade struck Marik’s sword, which he had propped against his shoulder. It had tilted forward when he reared. With sickening slowness Marik felt the hilt rip from his fumbling grasp. His sword bounced against the wood before sliding over the tower’s side.
No time to think, only react. His constant, endless training took hold. The assassin, who must have crawled up the tower to hide bare seconds before Marik had emerged from the building, made another slash at his enemy. Marik ducked since only the void of a deathly plunge lay at his back. He heard the sword whistle over his head. Its audible swish parted the air and snatched at his hair before he leapt forward in a bulldog rush.
His left shoulder impacted the assassin’s stomach. It drove the air from the man’s lungs. Marik used his muscled frame to good advantage. He angled up with his shoulder while wrapping his other arm around his foe’s waist, intent on lifting the man into the air. The sword slapped down against Marik’s back as the man bent at the waist from the blunt force of the tackle.
Lift him from the wooden roof Marik did, bellowing an angry roar. The assassin’s weight toppled them forward. Marik fell with him, still running as they crashed hard against the tower top amidst a sudden cacophony of cracks, snaps and splintering wood.
They separated when they hit. The assassin rolled several feet closer to the far edge as Marik plowed full length onto his face. Both quickly rose to hands and knees, feeling the rotten wood beneath begin to fragment. Marik spun in an attempt to return to the relative solidity of the planks near the iron rungs when the floor caved in under his weight.
His feet penetrated the splintering boards, dangling into an unseen void that terrified Marik. They were quickly followed by his knees. When his stomach struck the next plank’s edge with the full weight of his body and mail, Marik felt it crumbling away as a man might slowly crumble sandstone in his fist. He grasped hard at the roof’s available surface. Fingertips dug into a crack between planks.
The full-scale destruction of the wood supporting him seemed to stop once his chest finished crushing its plank to fragments. Marik dangled above a dark plunge of unknown depth, arms at right angles to his torso, only his head showing above the gaping hole his body had furrowed. His chest was pressed against the next plank, his armpits were full of splinters, his fingers gripped wood that felt like soft loam.
He heard fragmenting crunches from the assassin’s direction, followed shortly by a crash that emanated from below. Must have fallen through. I need to get back on firm ground before I join him!
The thought of a long fall through pitch blackness made perspiration slick his skin. His fingers threatened to slip from their fragile hold. Marik shifted to bring one of his dangling legs up and crook it over the side. As soon as he moved, the spongy wood disintegrated further.
His fingers had dug an inch into the plank. If this continued they would puncture all the way through. While that might make for a better grip, it would surely destroy what fragile structure kept it from collapsing altogether. Attempts to shift his other leg only resulted in the same degradation.
Teeth chattering, sweat running into his eyes, Marik held perfectly still for several seconds, his frantic mind gibbering as it strayed from rational thought. To his horror, he felt the plank pressing his chest slowly giving way to the pressure from his weight, his elbows digging grooves of their own when his arms tightened in fearful reaction.
I’m going to fall!
His control snapped. Abruptly unconcerned about his fingers, all he cared about was getting his legs up over the edge. He twisted, swung, pulled without regard to the rapid decomposition of the remaining wood. Only when he felt his body sinking through the plank did the reality hit him, nearly breaking what little sanity his mind retained.
A strong hand slapped against his wrist, a hand that could have belonged to a new legion of assassins for all Marik cared. Must be Kerwin, a small rational pocket within his mind whispered. He twisted his wrist to grasp back and released his tenebrous hold on the fracturing wood with the other. Clutching firmly, Kerwin pulled him back across the rotted planks. Marik kicked with his feet the moment his legs cleared the edge, breaking loose a fresh shower of old wood yet also propelling them firmly back onto the newer boards near the iron rungs.
Marik shuddered terribly. He swung his head to tell Kerwin he owed the man his life. For some reason Landon looked back at him, confusing the younger mercenary greatly. “You’re not Kerwin.”
Landon raised an eyebrow. “Not the last time I checked, no.”
Marik blinked rapidly. “What happened to him?”
“He is dealing with the night watchmen who showed up to see what all the commotion was about.”
“But he’s fighting the last thief.” Why was his mind so clouded?
“That one’s more a danger to himself than anyone else.”
“What about Dietrik? Who’s looking after him?”
“He can look after himself. The wound isn’t so bad as it first looks. Nowhere near as bad as the last one he took. He walked in to watch our prisoner while Kerwin talks with the guards.”
“Prisoner? We aren’t supposed to take prisoners.”
Landon shook his head. “You’re in shock, Marik. Sit with your head down between your knees for a few moments. You’re lucky I heard you bellowing.”
Marik’s whole body shivered. “No. Not up here. I need to get down off of this deathtrap.” The reason he had climbed the tower in the first place struck him hard. “And the last assassin! He fell down, but he might not be dead! We need to get inside this tower and look for him!”
The archer bowed his head in agreement and pulled Marik to a stand with his strong, archer’s arms. At the edge Marik nearly fell all over, his legs trembling badly. Landon helped him dangle over the edge until he secured a grip on the rungs. If he got down in one piece, he swore he would never climb the walls of Kingshome again. Never!
On the ground his legs shook no less for having descended safely. He collapsed into sitting position. Landon stepped down at the same moment two men came running at the pair. And now a fight! I can’t even stand! I’m going to die shaking like a coward!
Marik struggled to rise until the new men slowed to a stop several feet away. They both gripped the hilts of long swords firmly, though kept them sheathed. One barked a question in a harsh voice, full of belligerence, words Marik missed because he still fought his own legs. Landon answered, which made the new men relax.
“In there, eh?” one repeated, his voice still growling like an approaching storm. “And from up there, eh?”
“Yes,” Landon affirmed. “How do we get in? We need to make sure he has not escaped.”
“No way outta there,” the second watchman answered. “That’s as good as a prison cell, I warrant.” He addressed his partner. “Sure’n picked the right place to die though, didn’t he?”
The first watchman reserved any reply. He instead approached the tower. Landon and a shaky, barely mobile Marik walked with him around the base. On the far side they came to a small doorway shut with a deadbolt. After throwing it back the watchman opened the small door, ducked his head and entered.
He lifted a glass-enclosed lamp from a narrow shelf beside the entrance and lit it near the open door. “Got to be careful with fire in this place,” he told them. “We only got minutes before we come back out. I’m not risking the glass getting too hot.”
Though he did not understand specifically why fire might be a risk in this chimney-like tower, Marik had enough experience with black powder to accept the warning as serious. A ceiling cramped the space only a foot above their heads. The gruff watchman led them up a ladder thorough a trap door.
There existed a narrow space hardly a few feet tall before the ladder continued through a second trap. Marik briefly saw from the watchman’s lamp that the ceiling of the narrow space had been drilled with thousands of tiny holes.
What they found in the next level nearly put him in shock again. In the tower’s remaining forty-foot space rested a monumental pile of bones. A space along the ladder had been kept clear of the white debris. For nearly twenty feet upward stretched the fragmented mountain. Every bone appeared polished to a finish. Not one displayed a trace of flesh. None looked human.
The watchman continued up the ladder until they drew level with the pile’s top. Holding out the lamp, he said, “Ai-yup. Guess that’s him.”
Marik nodded. The assassin had fallen into the bone pile. His pain-filled, dead gaze stared back. Sharp fragments of cattle ribs impaled his body in a dozen places.
“What are all these bones for?” Landon asked the question from below while Marik stared at the man who had meant to kill him; who had died the death he’d barely avoided.
“This is the phosphorus tower,” the watchman answered. “You get phosphorus by leeching it outta bones like this, if the conditions are right.”
“Phosphorus, huh?” Marik whispered. The sound carried within this enclosed tomb. “Your friend was right. He certainly picked the right place to die.”
“Let’s get back,” Landon said. “We need to check on Dietrik and Kerwin, then I expect we’ll spend the rest of the night talking to the cityguard.”
“Too right you will,” the watchman growled.
“At least we have a sacrificial lamb we can hand over to them,” Landon added while he descended. “I’m sure he will be full of tales to tell that will corroborate our stories.”
Outside, as Landon and the two watchmen returned to the room where Kerwin kept guard over their prisoner, Marik paused to look back at the tower. “Betrayed by phosphorus,” he muttered. “And done in by phosphorus. Funny how life works out.”
Wondering at life, he shuffled inside to see how Dietrik was faring.
* * * * *
They collected Hilliard when dawn broke, rousing him out of the stall Paddy had converted into a temporary room complete with wash basin, portable cot and enough blankets to supply a new campaign against the Noliers. The stable hands, fervent supporters of Hilliard as a contender after his archery practice sessions in their yard, had crowded the stables to hear his first-hand tales as well as surround him with a protective host.
Every handler swarmed to bid the young noble a heartfelt farewell when he departed under a brightening sky. Halfway back to the inn it was decided to split their forces. The mercenaries were exhausted after an entire evening of relentless questioning by the cityguard, an experience that depleted their strength worse than the fighting had. With Dietrik’s right arm in a new sling, Landon and Kerwin would return to the Swan’s Down with him to sleep the remaining morning candlemarks.
Marik, equally as exhausted, had Colbey’s stamina technique to fall back on, making him the best qualified to act as Hilliard’s bodyguard. It hardly refreshed him the way a sound sleep would, yet he felt his weariness fade when his aura redirected his excess energy back into his body.
He and his charge arrived early at Broughton’s Matching Hall in the Inner Circle. Few other contenders had arrived which left most of the hall’s interior free for their use. Broughton personally greeted them, a sweaty glow gleaming on his bare skin.
Hilliard returned the greeting with enthusiasm. Broughton was an easy man to like, his good nature hindered by neither his two-hundred pound mass of heavy muscle or his blunt countenance, altered by the years spent fighting in his hall.
The Matching Hall might have boasted competitions from fencing to wrestling for the capitol’s wealthy to enjoy, but Broughton’s love centered on boxing. Over ten years he had competed in Thoenar’s matches. He’d finally earned enough coin to buy and renovate this hall within the Inner Circle. That the upper classes in the city had welcomed this common citizen testified either to how popular his fighting career had grown among them, or to how much they enjoyed betting on his fights.
All the normally scheduled fights had been suspended for the summer while Broughton threw his arms wide to welcome the contenders for the Arm into his sanctorum. With the tournament’s boxing match two days away, Hilliard wanted to practice nonstop if he could manage it.
Broughton whistled for his two right-hand men, both of whom broke off from their exercises to jog over. Figg and Cribb, also longtime fighters, seemed happy to lead Hilliard to the far corner across the open hall. Every piece of boxing equipment Broughton’s Hall owned had been brought out from their storage rooms for use by the contenders who wished to train.
Marik sank into a chair against one wall under the broad ‘Rules of Broughton’s Hall’ signboard while Hilliard began receiving pointers from the two old hands. Cribb held a padded cushion strapped to his palms that Hilliard jabbed a multitude of times, pausing while Figg critiqued his fighting style. Marik dozed off at one point under the soothing sounds of men training.
Hilliard shook his shoulder later that afternoon. Marik jerked upright. “I think I should it call it enough for today.”
Marik glanced at the windows set high on the hall’s walls. “It can’t be past mid-afternoon. Had enough already?”
The young noble smiled. “So many other contenders have arrived to practice that the hall has filled. The equipment is all in use, with a line of men waiting for them to become free. I should not monopolize them solely for my own use.”
Standing, Marik added with a closer study of his charge, “Not to mention you look ready to fall over.”
Hilliard replied with an abashed smile. “It…does take quite a toll on you, training all the morning.”
“That’s life around Kingshome during the winter. For some of us anyway. Let’s head back then.”
He glanced around on the way out, wondering if he would see Balfourth. Apparently the future baron Dornory had other pursuits to occupy his time. Figg and Cribb were busy with other young contenders, while Broughton fought an exhibition bout against none other than Keegan Gardinnier. Marik searched the throng swell
ing the hall, seeing many other faces he knew from the remaining contestants, yet no others from the one-eighty block. Too bad Ferdinand was elsewhere. Watching him face off against Keegan would be interesting.
But then he would see that match anyway in two days.
The others met them when they returned to the Swan’s Down. Walsh’s regulars forgot their lunches and instantly stood to demand the latest news from Hilliard. Kerwin and Landon kept them from mobbing the youth.
Dietrik moved aside along the booth’s bench to allow Marik room enough to sit. “We just finished up, mate, but Walsh will bring you out a platter of his finest if we but snap our fingers.” He snapped to illustrate his point, then winced when the movement pained his wounded arm.
“You all right?”
“I will be. It is nowhere near as bad as the other arm, though it’s hardly a picnic outing.”
“Well, I think you’ll have plenty of time to heal before you need its full use. I don’t expect our contract will be overly difficult any longer.”
“This is a city,” Dietrik reminded him, awkwardly lifting a mug to his lips with his left hand. “And not any city, either. This is the city of our fair kingdom. There remain hazards aplenty for us to guide our charge safely through.”
“We’ve managed so far. I think we can relax.” Marik stood. “Speaking of which, I think I’ll pass on lunch. I’m exhausted, so I’ll tender Hilliard to you three until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What about tonight?”
“Tonight I have a promise to keep.” He smiled privately at the thought.
* * * * *
“And the night watchmen let you walk around as you pleased after all that?”
“They stuck to us like mud on a wagon wheel,” Marik replied, and leaned back. He sat on the edge of Ilona’s oversized bed. “But we sounded like we had justice on our side and we made it out that we followed the criminals to a secret meeting after dark. Once the cityguard arrests the refinery owner and the watchmen are out of work, they might come to regret it.”