Night of the Chalk (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 1)

by Samuel Gately

  Aaron started talking faster. “And I think, maybe they’ll leave and I won’t have to move, I can just stay still and not die, and I think like a child that maybe they’ll leave and everyone will somehow be okay. But then they start moving again and they start stabbing all the bodies again and looking under all the tents. The Jerr hounds are sniffing out survivors and howling until the Chalk swarm and kill them. And as I’m lying there, just waiting to be discovered and killed…it was only then that I remembered the tunnels.

  “I know I have to move so I get up and run as fast as I can towards the entrance of the tunnels. It’s in the direction of the big group and the clean Chalk. I was terrified out of my mind, probably screaming, and they came running towards me, and I see the clean Chalk look at me with his twisted angry face. Before they can reach me, I get to the tunnel and I dive in headfirst to the one we never made it to the end of, the one that seems to go on forever. And I crawl and crawl and crawl and after hours I come out nowhere near the camp. I ran as far as I could. The next day I woke up in a forest and after wandering for two days I found a group of men on a hunting trip. I told them all about the Slaughter and I cried and they were nice and sympathetic and gave me food. Then on the second night I talked about it again and they told me to stop. On the third night they told me if I cried anymore they would leave me behind. So I stopped.”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the soft sounds of weeping. Aaron, uncertain what to do, awkwardly turned to rejoin the ranks of the Third Class candidates, who had remained at the front during the story.

  After what he gauged to be an appropriate measure of silence, Derrick said, “All candidates are now promoted to Third Class.”

  Chapter 14. On the Trail

  The city street was a rough blend of order and chaos. Flourishing businesses abutted burned out buildings. Abject poverty on one side of the street. Prosperous gold vendors on the other. The Ranges was a neighborhood tightly in the grip of organized crime. Those who paid protection thrived. Those who could no longer afford it learned to sleep with one eye open, ready for fire and steel to come up the stairs while their families lay in their beds.

  Sleepy Jon walked down the center of the street. Even in this rough neighborhood, in the middle of the night, he was comfortable walking alone. The combination of his size and sword kept the lower elements of the criminal class at bay. His reputation as a dangerous businessman and a fixer kept those higher on the chain respectful, if not deferential. He’d need that reputation tonight. He was headed to the top of the chain.

  A four-story building loomed before Jon. It was nondescript, matching its neighbors on either side. Yet Jon knew this was the building he was looking for. As Jon approached the door, two tough-looking men materialized.

  “Help you, boss?” one asked with a cocked head.

  “Here to see Mr. Cullmore. You can tell him it’s Jon Harpish.”

  The second man headed up the stairs.

  “He’ll just be a minute,” the first man said, openly studying Jon. Jon waited.

  After leaving The Old Bellows early this morning, Jon had gathered with his men at the kennel, his office. He had sent his best three operatives to Emmitt Thorpe’s neighborhood to see who had been by to visit him between Aaron’s crash landing and The Old Bellows. He also sent a few men to patrol the outside of the Rosetta Stables, some openly, others with instructions to look to join anyone hiring mercenaries for an attack on the Stables. Jon had doubted any of the efforts would create a lead, but several hours later, Kent had returned to inform him that one of Ty Cullmore’s men had been to see Thorpe less than an hour before Thorpe turned up in the tavern.

  Ty Cullmore was a gangster who ran a fair portion of Delhonne’s criminal underworld. He certainly had no qualms about murder for hire, but Sleepy Jon sensed something amiss in Cullmore sending Thorpe. The job had been botched. Thorpe was barely a professional and too well recognized for a public job. Even in a hurried situation, Jon would have expected Cullmore to handle things more smoothly. He didn’t get to one of the top perches in Delhonne’s criminal underbelly by being slow. So Jon went to see him.

  Cullmore’s man finally returned down the stairs. “Head on up, fourth floor.”

  Jon trekked up the wooden stairs. His bulk made them creek alarmingly. Winded as he reached the top, Jon wondered if four flights of stairs was the most he’d ever done in his life. Buildings higher than two or three stories were rare outside of the mansions and palaces of the upper class. He reached a nondescript wooden door and knocked twice.

  “Come on in!” came a loud voice from inside.

  Jon walked into a well-appointed apartment, blazing with light from oil lamps mounted on the walls. Expensive, ornate rugs covered the wooden floors. Tapestries hung from every wall. The old oak furniture was polished to a shine. Ty Cullmore was rising from a large cushioned chair across from a lavish couch. Cullmore was massive, much taller than Jon with a similar girth. His blond-grey hair was short, but carefully styled. He had ruddy cheeks, probably well into the liquor tonight and almost every night.

  He barked loudly at Jon’s entrance, “Well Sleepy Jon! I can’t believe it. In the flesh and so much of it. What a night! Come here you.”

  Cullmore pulled Jon into an embrace. Jon tried to be natural, though it was an unusual move. Cullmore was probably demonstrating that he called the shots here, that if Jon or anyone wanted to stick him with a blade in his place, well, they could just try.

  “How you doin’? Here, grab a seat here on this sofa. I just got it. You like it?”

  Jon sat, carefully noting the presence of two armed men just outside the room in what looked like a kitchen. Another strolled the balcony. “How are you, Mr. Cullmore?” he asked.

  “Mr. Cullmore? Sleep, you call me Ty! It’s been a while. How’s your friend Dom Beres? What brings you here, Sleep? No wait, first how are them kids of yours? Boys growing up big like their dad?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “So what brings you here, Sleepy?’

  “Emmitt Thorpe was hanging out where he shouldn’t last night. He got cut. You heard that?” Jon asked.

  “No, Jon. I didn’t hear that. Because I live in a cave,” Cullmore replied wearily. He glowered at Jon, putting away the friendly act for the moment.

  “Well, I heard one of your guys visited him before he found himself at The Old Bellows.”

  “Wow! You put that all together. Fuck me! Watch your valuables, guys, Sleep’s on the case!” Cullmore leaned forward in his seat, looking down at Jon. He always liked to use his size to intimidate where he could.

  “If you’ve got a problem with Aaron, we should talk about it,” Jon said, not rising to Cullmore’s bait.

  Cullmore looked like he was going to get to his feet, then changed his mind and leaned back. “Man, rush, rush, rush, all business from Sleepy. Slow down. Have a drink. What do you want? Whiskey? Boys, get him a drink.” Cullmore laced his enormous hands together, looked at them for a moment, then dropped them to the arms of the chair.

  “No, I ain’t got no problem with Aaron. What I got a problem with is little fish who think they know my world, think they got a place in my world, or worse yet, think they’re above my world. Someone comes to me some random night and says Aaron Lorne needs to see the man in the shadows I say how much money you got. Someone comes to me, says put Aaron Lorne in the ground the same night he crash-lands in Delhonne with some fucking dragons, and this person don’t really know me, think they wave some money around and I do a little dance, well then maybe I think good old Emmitt Thorpe is perfect for this little job.” Cullmore fell quiet for a moment and sipped his drink.

  “So you set it up to fail?” Jon asked.

  “I don’t recall saying that, Sleep, damn it!” Cullmore yelled. “If Thorpe can’t take care of business, how am I supposed to know that? I did my due diligence, maybe Aaron is just a tough target, maybe he’s got big, fat Sleepy Jon watching his back. Maybe he’s a magician!” Cullmore laugh
ed at his own joke. After a pause he continued, quieter, “Maybe, Ty Cullmore doesn’t feel like lending a hand to some shady guys, sitting on top of a river of money. The kind of guys who have no idea how to check if I done my job to the best of my ability or not. These guys don’t belong. I got no problem with Aaron. I got big problems with what’s happening in this city. Money’s flowing in all the wrong directions. Strange little fish are getting bigger. But nobody’s getting smaller. So where’s the balance from? I don’t like it. You spend any time in the Lower Sweeps, Jon?”

  Jon shook his head, surprised at the abrupt change in direction. The Lower Sweeps was a neighborhood to the east of the Palace. Some old money there, but it was mainly an unremarkable middle class neighborhood for clerks and merchants.

  “Well, neither do any of the criminals in Delhonne, not anymore. Someone poured so much damn money into the Home Guard and the state guards to police that neighborhood, beat the hell out of anyone they caught. Even though every other building there is vacant now, you won’t see a single vagrant or bum setting up shop. No panhandlers, no pickpockets. Just the few people that live there, walking to and from work, and otherwise you can hear a pin drop. I used to have a brothel there. It was shut down overnight. I raise a stink and suddenly I’m paid so much money I can relocate to a better place. I talk with the guy owns a shop next to the brothel, used to sell lots of stuff to them girls. He’s leaving too, healthy buy-out. There’s no commercial left in the Lower Sweeps. But here’s the question. Why? Why am I shifting my operations around for no reason? Who cares about the Lower Sweeps? I tell you, a river of dirty money. And something tells me whoever is running things ain’t no friend of Delhonne. And so someone comes to me, says kill Aaron, I say sure, but I know they’re linked to this river, and what they want ain’t what I want.”

  As Cullmore paused his tirade, his man returned from the kitchen with a drink and approached Sleepy Jon.

  “No!” Cullmore said, leaning forward again. “He don’t need no drink. He’s gotta get going. I let him sit there any longer I’ll have permanent ass prints in that sofa.” Cullmore rose, prompting Jon to do so too. Cullmore walked to the door. “Good to see you, Sleep. You give my best to the wife and kids. And tell Aaron we’re good.”

  As Jon headed down the stairs, followed by one of Cullmore’s men, Cullmore called out, “And tell Mast we ain’t even close to square. Tell him the Weyler brothers have been added to his tab. Tell him, Aaron or no Aaron, those were the last of my men he kills.”

  As Jon reached the bottom of the stairs, the man behind him grabbed his arm and leaned in. “You’re looking for a guy named Pete Stephos. Lives above the Chester Lounge on King Street. He’s the one asked us to take out Lorne. When you find out who he works for, you report that back to us.” Jon nodded.

  It didn’t take Jon long to get to King Street and find the Chester Lounge. There was light in the window of the apartment above it. Jon watched and waited, thinking about how effortlessly Ty Cullmore had flipped the tables on the mystery financiers, turning the hunters into the hunted. Jon felt the wind in his face, but the currents he was most worried about were beneath his feet, this metaphorical river running under Delhonne. He thought about his wife and kids, the baby, either home alone or with only a guard or two and wished he was there.

  The light went out above Chester Lounge. Jon had positioned himself across from the stairwell Pete would have to exit by. Sure enough, a man emerged, looked carefully up and down the street, and started northwest. Jon trailed Pete Stephos down the dark street, carefully masking his footfalls with practiced ease.

  As he’d anticipated, Pete was headed straight for the Lower Sweeps. He wasn’t easy to track. Stephos moved like a rat, scurrying from alley to alley. He didn’t seem to have any concerns about being followed, but preferred the dark and narrow passages that split the seams of Delhonne’s neighborhoods. As a result, they saw almost no one despite traveling several miles in the biggest city in the east.

  Finally, Pete left the alleys for the streets, just as he crossed into what Jon would consider the edges of the Lower Sweeps. Pete’s stride altered. Jon had followed enough men to recognize the change. They were nearing his destination. Some men accelerated the last few blocks, others slowed, but nearly all abandoned the carefree gait of those who believe themselves unobserved. Pete had slowed slightly. Jon guessed he was not eager to reach his destination, maybe reporting to a superior, one he didn’t like or was scared of. Jon fell further back, nearly stopping completely. The last few blocks were always the most dangerous. The neighborhood was too quiet and dark for his tastes. He could settle for narrowing down the man’s destination if it meant keeping his presence a secret, or keeping himself out of an ambush.

  Jon stayed in the shadows and pulled his tricorn hat down lower over his eyes. Pete turned into an older mansion at the corner of Cross Street and Oak Street at the very end of the block. Jon carefully studied the structure. It was not out of place, a large family manor that had seen better days. Normally it would not be a problem finding out whose residence it was, Jon would just talk to neighbors or servants, but it may be harder than usual given the ghostlike quality to the Lower Sweeps neighborhood.

  He leaned forward to leave the shadows and get a closer look, then caught himself. There was the slightest hint of movement on one of the balconies of the mansion. A shape on one of the upper balconies had shifted, obscuring a corner of the light streaming from an upper window. Jon remained still and carefully studied the shape until he could make out the outline of a man. It appeared his head was fixated in Jon’s direction. It was impossible to tell much at this distance and in poor light, but the man was definitely focused on the street. A guard then, and probably not the only one. The head turned away and Jon used the opportunity to draw deeper into the shadows.

  Jon was lucky he hadn’t pursued more closely. Feeling he’d rolled the dice enough tonight, he turned to head back to the kennel. He kept away from the open streets until well beyond the Lower Sweeps and doubled back several times to make sure he wasn’t followed.

  Chapter 15. Hounds, Storms, and Witnesses

  Miriam studied the crowd as Conners called out, “Bring forward the candidates for Fourth Class!” The impact of Aaron’s story hung in the air. Many wiped tears from their eyes. The Slaughter was not often discussed so openly. The Delhonne Corvale had enough problems in the present, too many to spend time dwelling on the past. But no one had forgotten the great stain on their past. Their culture had been nearly erased in a single day. Only time would tell if it would survive. Aaron Lorne had always been a symbol of survival, the only known Corvale to emerge from Wyelin alive. He had just further cemented his potential as a champion of his desperate people.

  The seven children in the front left and were replaced with five older boys. Aaron remained where he was. The Fourth Class candidates needed to have demonstrated hunting skills. All had and one was asked to tell a brief story about a deer he had arrowed. It was delivered quickly and shyly. All were promoted.

  Conners asked for candidates for the Fifth Class. Only Aaron remained standing. The requirement for the Fifth Class was the killing of an enemy, which could be man, beast, or Chalk.

  “What was your first killing?” Derrick asked.

  “One of the Chalk’s Jerr hounds,” Aaron replied.

  “Tell us,” Conners said.

  “The tunnel I crawled through, to escape the Chalk at Wyelin, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. They sent a Jerr hound in after me.”

  Few at the meeting had ever seen a Jerr hound, though they were part of many stories. The animals were rarely seen except with their Chalk masters. They were a large breed of dog, or at least appeared to be, with a long snout, pointed ears, and black, wiry fur that stuck out in all directions. They had large teeth and were vicious and loud attackers. The Chalk had been seen using the Jerr hounds as trackers, as guards, as hunters.

  Miriam had once been chased by two Jerr hounds. She was
investigating an unusual caravan that had circled up outside the east gate. The Jerr hounds had rounded a corner and saw her inside a fenced off courtyard where the wagons had parked. She had barely made it back over the fence before they arrived, frothing and biting. The Jerr hounds had a terrifying singularity of purpose, speed. They kept attacking the fence though it was clear they couldn’t get at her. Finally, one turned and tore out the throat of the other, filled with bloodlust with nothing else to vent it on. During her report to Conners, she tried to express the feelings of sickness and shock that accompanied the brutal violence. When Conners and Miriam returned to investigate in greater numbers, the hounds were gone as was the caravan. It was an ugly sign of Chalk influence or presence in Delhonne, something she and Conners were always on the lookout for.

  Aaron drew her back to the story. “The tunnels all branched off of a sunken square pit, about six feet by six feet. The pit was only about three feet deep, with six tunnels headed off in all directions. It was lined in an old stone, like most of the other ruins but in a little better shape. The tunnel openings were small. They sloped down a little bit for the first few feet then leveled off, not too far below the ground. Like I said, we’d explored most of them and they didn’t go on for too far. I crawled into the one we had never gotten to the end of. The boy who tried it had finally gotten worried and crawled backwards a long ways to get out.

  “For a moment, I was crawling frantically, alone in the tunnel. Then the light streaming through the opening behind me dimmed and then was blocked entirely. I kept crawling as fast as I could through the darkness. The tunnel was just big enough for an eight-year old boy to fit in a crawl position. If I straightened my knees, my back would brush against the top. My shoulders occasionally rubbed the sides. Turning around would have been impossible. The tunnel was lined with stone, almost like a chimney on its side. The ceiling was cracked with dirt and weeds showing. Sometimes weeds came all the way down across the tunnel. There was no light. I crawled in the darkness for maybe five minutes before I came up against a blockage. The tunnel had partially collapsed and thick weeds blocked the small opening in the tunnel, half buried in dirt. I got stuck for a moment. When I’d stopped moving, in the silence, I heard the Jerr hound behind and knew I wasn’t alone.