The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection

by Harrison Davies

  ‘Where do you suppose everyone is?’ Marrok asked.

  Jericho looked about him and shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s not much work and they’ve moved on.’

  ‘I don’t think so, there’s something not quite right about this city. Can’t you feel it? There’s an air of fear about this place, I think.’

  ‘I agree there is some mystery here, but we do not have time to debate this. Come on, let’s not hang about.’

  The pair opened a rusting iron gate, and it squealed in protest on its rusted hinges. A spring forced it closed again the moment they had entered the small courtyard at the front of the house.

  At the top of a flight of steps leading up to the front of the house, a guard stood to attention, complete with tin helmet and striking red overcoat, with yellow piping on the seams. A cruel looking pike held fast in his right hand. He faced the newcomers and brandished his weapon in their direction. ‘Halt, in the name of the king. What business have you with Lord Warital?’

  ‘We seek an audience with his Majesty, the King, and wish to speak with the lord on this matter,’ Jericho called up the steps.

  ‘The lord isn’t here, now bugger off before I call the city watch and have you removed,’ the guard spat.

  ‘Do you happen to know where the lord is right now? It is urgent that we speak with him,’ Jericho asked, knowing full well he was pushing his luck.

  The guard growled. ‘He’ll be at the fish quay collecting his taxes, most likely. Now, leave. This is your last warning.’

  Jericho nodded and he, with Marrok, bid a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the street.

  ‘It’s just our luck that he’s not at home. Where do you reckon this place is that the guard spoke of?’ Marrok looked left and right as if the answer would magically appear out of thin air. ‘I’m not entirely sure what a fish quay is.’

  ‘Well, that, my boy, is an easy thing to work out. Find the edge of the lake and walk around it till we find a bustle of fisherman trying to sell fish.’ Jericho smiled and proceeded to walk towards the lake at the end of the street.

  ‘So it’s a fish stall we’re looking for?’

  ‘Not quite. A quay is a port for several or more fishing vessels. There are usually buildings nearby for storage or to barter.’

  Marrok was impressed that such a thing existed. Obviously, this was a large city and rightfully needed to provide for its citizens on a much larger scale. He thought back to Arrom Village with its one small jetty and tiny fish stall, and felt a warmth at the memory, despite the cold breeze wending its way up the street towards them.

  Their footsteps echoed loudly as they passed empty house after empty house. The place felt oppressive, and Marrok longed for the valleys of Arromithia, its warmth, luscious green hills, trees and lakes. He visualised spending his twilight years in a quaint cottage, with a wife. A handful of children and grandchildren living in the valley, so close in fact that he could wave to them across a bubbling stream. This was Marrok’s own slice of perfection, and he longed for nothing more.

  ‘A quart for them.’ Jericho nudged his younger companion.

  Marrok left his daydream and looked confused.

  ‘For your thoughts. A quart for them.’

  Marrok smiled, although there was sadness to the expression. ‘I was thinking of home and how I miss it.’

  ‘Ah, home. Nothing finer, unless you count the love of a good woman.’

  Marrok saw Jericho’s expression darken for a moment and sympathised with him. The death of a loved one was a hard thing to bear, and for Jericho, the murder of his wife hadn’t been too long ago. ‘A real ale never goes amiss, mind you.’

  Jericho brightened. ‘That’s my favourite word. Ale. When this is all over we’re going to celebrate, the like of which hasn’t been witnessed before.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ Marrok said.

  They had reached the street’s end and now pondered whether to turn left or right. Since the streets in this area were empty, there was no one to ask. But then Marrok saw a wooden signpost a good way to the right. He and Jericho set off at a jog to warm their numb bodies to the cold morning. Steamy breath streamed behind and reminded them that winter was not too far away.

  ‘I hope we are home by the time winter arrives here,’ Jericho puffed. ‘It’s not my favourite season.’

  ‘After spending time in the frozen north, I have to agree,’ Marrok replied, and stopped short of the signpost.

  The signage was unreadable for the briefest of moments and then, as if by magic, the letters morphed and rearranged themselves. Thankfully, they were then able to discern the writing and even understand it. If they hadn’t, it would have been no trouble to find the quay since the outline of a fish, and an arrow, had been carved into the topmost section.

  They jogged right until they reached a bend in the road and followed a second signpost, which indicated their destination lay to the left. A coastal road wound its way out of sight behind a sandbank festooned with reeds.

  ‘Nearly there, do you think?’ Jericho wondered aloud.

  ‘It can’t be too much further; I see a handcart laden with goods coming our way.’

  Sure enough, a cart, pulled by an unyielding looking woman, creaked and squeaked its way along the coast road towards them.

  ‘Finally, some signs of life.’ Marrok grinned.

  ‘Maybe we’re wrong; maybe the people are out working early in the fields or on the lake.’

  ‘If that street is anything to go by, I highly doubt that. Something happened in that street, and maybe we’ll never know,’ Marrok replied, convinced of his observation.

  They greeted the muscular woman tugging her cart of goods, and it was then that they smelled it. A strong aroma of fish wafted its way towards them, and they found it to be quite pungent and almost overpowering.

  ‘If this is the smell coming from a solitary cart, what are we to expect at the fish quay?’

  Jericho shook his head and held up his hands in defeat. ‘If it’s any worse than that, then I dare say we’ll be leaving pretty quickly. That fish could in no way be fresh.’

  The duo carried along the sandy pathway, avoiding the deep ruts caused by cartwheel after cartwheel, anxious to reach their destination. What would they find? Would they immediately be identified as foreigners, or could they easily blend in?

  It wasn’t too long before the first building came into sight. It was a wooden structure, held aloft by pillars carved from tree trunks and driven deep into the shoreline. It had a pitched roof and a sliding door in the side, and attached to the building was a jetty and a cargo pulley. Fishing nets hung out to dry across lines suspended from structure to structure, and wooden crates were stacked so high, Marrok was sure that a gust of wind would topple them and cause structural damage, or at the very least a fatal accident.

  ‘Let’s steer clear of those crates. I’d hate to have to explain to Coinin that you died in a freak cargo related incident and not in some glorious battle.’ Jericho smiled.

  Marrok chuckled. ‘I was just thinking the same thing. I can just picture the look on his face.’ He pulled a series of gurns trying to find one to suit Coinin’s own features.

  Jericho burst into fits of laughter. ‘That’s the one, that’s it, you’ve got it.’

  Marrok clutched his side in mirth. ‘Don’t … don’t tell Coinin … he’ll not take it well.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise.’ Jericho slapped Marrok’s back playfully. ‘Right, let’s focus on the job at hand. To find this lord, we’ll need to ask someone.’

  ‘Do you think so? Judging by the dress of those fishermen over there, I’d say a lord would stick out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘Good point. If this lord is collecting taxes, he’ll most likely be dressed in all his finery of office.’

  They walked by the first of the buildings and into a semi-circle of wood framed structures, where a dozen or more fish stalls had been set up. Canvas roofs billowed in the slight breeze coming f
rom the lake, a mere stone’s throw away. Several jetties jutted out from a promenade to which a handful of fishing vessels were moored. Sailors busied themselves offloading the days catch and carting the stockpile to the stalls. It seemed to Marrok and Jericho that each stall was owned by the captain of a vessel and his catch was on display there.

  Thankfully, the smell was minimal. There were more people here than they had seen in the city and the noise was horrendous - shouts and cries of stock prices, and who had the best fish abound. Other hawkers plied their trade from wooden trays, held at the midriff by a leather strap around the neck. They sold everything from snuff to salt. One such gent fancied selling Marrok a handful of foul smelling candles, and in the meantime attempted to pickpocket his mark.

  Jericho reacted by giving the hawker a swift kick up the backside and a backhand across his face for good measure. ‘Try that again, and I’ll march you to the guards, you filthy beggar.’

  The surprised man raced off at top speed, dropping half of his wares as he did so.

  Marrok checked his money pouch. ‘Thank you, Jericho. I had no idea.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You have to wake up pretty early to get the better of me.’ Jericho winked and smiled, only to stop, and a look of recognition crossed his face.

  ‘What is it?’ Marrok asked, looking around.

  Jericho nodded his head forward. ‘I think I’ve spotted our lord, right over there.’

  Sure enough, when Marrok looked, there was a tall, thin man flanked by two guards patrolling the outskirts of the market. His hands were firmly clasped behind his back and he strolled proudly with a look of superiority about him. His finery was indeed a cut above. A gold and silver brocade of richly decorated fabric made up his waistcoat, which contrasted with a dark purple, high-collared velvet cloak that brushed the floor. He wore a simple white shirt, tied at the neck with a red and gold badge of office. Black breeches, over which high riding boots finished the ensemble.

  He appeared to be nearing sixty years old with a head of white hair, shoulder length and well maintained. He stopped beside a drinking establishment, where a serving hatch had been cut into the side of the wooden wall. He banged on the counter, and a moment later a wiry haired woman stepped from the gloom and nodded profusely while the lord instructed the guard to his left to tick off some item or other in a black, leather-bound volume he carried. Several seconds later, a cloth bag was deposited into the lord’s waiting hands. He gave the bag to his other guard, who secured it away inside a wooden trunk that he carried. The lord seemed to grow angry and wagged his finger at the business woman. She nodded again and bowed her head until the lord had passed.

  ‘Well, that was easier than I thought,’ Jericho said. ‘You certainly can’t mistake a tax collector.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Marrok asked, concerned that they may not get the best reception interrupting a man about his business. What if they were suspected of being thieves? They weren’t, after all, dressed as Brotherhood soldiers, recognised the world over.

  Jericho looked about him. ‘I would assume that the building to our left would be his last call. If we wait until his transaction is complete, I will approach softly and request an audience with him.’

  ‘If he refuses?’

  ‘Then we shall follow at a discreet distance and try again when he has secured his takings.’

  Marrok nodded and walked to a bench not far away and sat. Jericho did likewise, after waving away a second hawker.

  Time passed slowly though, thankfully, there was so much to see. A brawl broke out at one point between two captains and several of their crew. The lord took only a moment’s interest and moved on. City guard seemed to appear out of thin air and clubbed everyone in sight into submission, and the fighting ceased. As the time passed they grew used to the smell of fish, and instead a new smell permeated the air, which made Marrok hungry. Freshly boiled cabbage and roast pork wafted from a building nearby. He was about to venture that way and partake of a shank of pork leg when Jericho tapped his shoulder.

  ‘Now is our time, brother.’

  Marrok groaned in frustration and hunger but stood by patiently while Jericho made his way towards the lord. A cart being wheeled by a doddering old man momentarily barred his way, which meant he had to quicken his pace to catch up with the retreating lord.

  Without warning, three armed men, wearing face coverings and plain dark clothing, accosted Lord Warital and his men. The guard carrying the box dropped it and withdrew his sword, but it was too late for him. He was beaten so hard across the head with a wooden bat that he fell, quite dead. The second guard whipped out a device similar to that which Jericho had seen in the hands of Captain Maurice Blackthorn. He called it a pea shooter, if he wasn’t mistaken. A puff of black smoke and a loud crack saw one of the attackers collapse in agonising pain as lead shot ruptured his insides. Sadly, the guard with the single shot weapon stood no chance against the two remaining assailants. They rounded on him menacingly, and that’s when Jericho decided to intervene. He withdrew his own sword and charged into the melee.

  Marrok, who had witnessed all that had taken place, immediately followed suit and raced after Jericho.

  The second guard was down, and now the men advanced on the lord. Jericho had almost reached the trio when the lord turned to flee and was run through, not by his attackers but by Jericho’s sword. The lord, in his panic, had not seen Jericho approaching and had unwittingly sprinted into the general’s weapon.

  Lord Warital slowly dropped to the ground, held in Jericho’s arms.

  ‘Why?’ he pleaded, his life ebbing away.

  ‘I came to rescue you. You ran into my sword,’ Jericho replied. But it was too late. Lord Warital had taken his last breath. Blood stained his pristine shirt and began to pool around his body.

  Jericho vaguely heard someone shouting his name. The world vanished into a dazed fog. He had never taken an innocent life, and he was mortified. He was trying to think, but that incessant noise behind him kept interrupting him. What was it? He didn’t have time for noise; he was in shock.

  He felt a dazzling pain to his left cheek and his eyes refocused on Marrok as he stood over him. He looked very concerned.

  ‘General, we have to go. Guards are coming,’ Marrok yelled.

  ‘What?’ Jericho frowned and replied almost drunkenly.

  Marrok shook his head and clenched his jaw. ‘We have to go!’ He wrenched Jericho up from his knees and pulled at his arm to make him move.

  It took a few moments of staggering and looking back at the dead man before Jericho snapped out his daze. He, like Marrok, saw several armour-clad guards bearing down on them.

  ‘Stop, murderer! Stop in the name of the king, I say!’ yelled one.

  Marrok tugged again at Jericho’s arm.

  The general ripped his arm away in annoyance. ‘Yes, I can see we are in trouble. Run!’

  Both men moved quickly, away from a shocked crowd and the advancing guard. A bell rang somewhere, and that was not a good sound, they knew. The guards screamed at them to stop, likely because running in armour was not a pleasant thing to do, and that bothered them more than the apparent crime.

  ‘What happened?’ Marrok puffed as they ran up a slight incline along the sandy pathway.

  ‘The stupid man turned and ran into my sword. I had no time to react. I’ve just killed an innocent.’ Jericho breathed hard.

  ‘He ran into you, that was his mistake, not yours.’

  ‘You do not understand, Marrok. We are forbidden to kill the innocent.’

  ‘Regardless, you were not to blame. Rindor knows this, I know this to be true. The man fell upon your sword while you were rushing to his aid. That shows the man you are. You are not some common murderer.’

  ‘Gah! Laliala must hear about this. I will be questioned and brought before the mage council and be asked to answer for my crime,’ Jericho snapped, more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘There was no crime. Can you not
see this?’ Marrok asked, puzzled.

  Jericho checked behind him. ‘We will discuss it later. We must move. They have discarded their armour and may catch us.’

  At the top of the lane, Jericho and Marrok turned left and hurried along a familiar stretch of street. Looking back, the guards were almost upon them.

  Marrok heard a familiar noise as he looked for a way to escape and saw it clear as day. ‘Jericho, quickly, cross the street.’

  They ran full tilt across the cobblestones and on the other side of the street, Marrok stopped.

  ‘What are you stopping for?’ Jericho asked, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

  Marrok bounced on his heels. ‘Just wait, you’ll see.’

  The guards were nearly opposite them now and, right on cue, the horseless transport trundled down the street, belching steam.

  The two passenger-laden carriages drew opposite the guards, blocking their view of Marrok and Jericho, and a few moments later had passed without stopping.

  The lieutenant of the guard cursed and threw his hands in the air. ‘They were just here, where did they go? Fan out. Find them, or it’ll be your heads,’ he thundered.

  Marrok looked up, a grin on his face. Above him, a grille hid an iron ladder that led down into a sewer pipe. He had spotted it and knew if the timing was right, both he and Jericho could hide there until the guards gave up their search.

  Now, all they needed to do was wait and pray that the guards did not have the foresight to check below ground anytime soon. Keeping to the shadows, they waited, ankle deep in foul detritus and bodily waste.

  A LITTLE CONSPIRACY

  Coinin and Aniol stood in silence. The amputation had been performed, with much pain experienced by Dorn. He had thankfully passed out after several moments and Aniol, assisted by Coinin, was able to remove the infected limb. She had taken considerably more than the foot, and now all that remained was a small fleshy stump at the top of his leg. Better that than the infection spreading to his whole body, she reasoned.

  They had cleaned the wound and dressed it. Now, all they could do was wait for Dorn to recover consciousness and hope that the surgery had gone well. Thankfully, the cook was an expert in separating bone and had given instruction on the best method, which had limited Dorn’s blood loss significantly.