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

by Samuel Gately

  Jacob stood and allowed Conners to throw the robe over his shoulders.

  Four more Chalk entered the room. Conners studied them, hoping they had not ventured as far as the servants’ quarters, but noted with dismay that their knives were bloodied. The return of the Chalk seemed to galvanize the room. They were preparing to move. Two Chalk came to stand behind the King.

  Conners tied the robe at its front. “We must go, Your Majesty. I’m afraid the journey won’t be an easy one.”

  “You will come with me?” the King asked. “Surely, you would rather not.”

  “I will come with you, Your Majesty.” Conners looked up to the nearest Chalk, who blankly returned his gaze. But as Conners moved towards the door with the King, he was not stopped.

  They walked down the hall, through the great room, and eventually out into the courtyard. The Chalk led them to the small side gate which was open and guarded by another pair of the creatures. They continued out onto the street, another strange parade for the people of Delhonne, though few were awake to see it.

  …

  The runner who had been in Conners’ room folded himself back into the shrubs lining the moat, watching them go. He had snuck his way into the kitchen, hoping to see one of the kitchen maids but settling for pocketing a small loaf of bread. He remained in the shadows, taking another careful bite, quietly chewing his dinner.

  He had been to Miriam’s apartment just three nights before. Then he bore the message that Aaron Lorne had returned with a host of dragons. Now he would head to her place again, this time to tell her that Conners and King Jacob had been taken by the Chalk.

  Chapter 34. A New Location

  Aaron sat at a table in the group’s new base of operations, the top floor of a four-story apartment building in the Ranges. It was across the street from the gangster Ty Cullmore’s own penthouse. Sleepy Jon was over there right now, negotiating their payment for use of the place and Cullmore’s temporary protection. They had seen no sign of other residents, despite the size of the building, which could easily house a hundred. The halls and stairwells were deserted.

  They had coaxed the dragons to the roof. The injured one flew well, seemingly mostly healed. Cal was off scouting the Chalk army, having ridden off with three of the dragons a few hours ago. He headed southeast to get eyes on the Chalk army, get an idea of when they would arrive in Delhonne. It was a risk. The army was likely accompanied by its own dragons, not to mention the ones Aaron had previously encountered patrolling Delhonne’s outskirts. But Aaron and Cal needed the intelligence. Right now they were only going by the word of their enemy. Cal aimed to return well before dawn’s light exposed him. The Dura Mati sat on the roof with the remaining dragons.

  Miriam had just stormed off down the stairs. The conversation with her had not gone well. She brought them the news that Conners and King Jacob had been taken by the Chalk, no doubt to be delivered to Gelden Carr. Aaron accepted some of the blame. He should have moved more quickly to protect targets outside of the stables. But Miriam seemed to heap a disproportionate amount of blame on Aaron for the kidnapping. When he grew defensive, she got angry. She was upset and worried about Conners, not at all pleased when she realized Aaron was not going to immediately attempt to free him. Aaron explained the tunnel and Carr and why he didn’t think a rescue would work, at least not right away. She wanted action, and appeared ready to pursue it herself. She left, promising to check out the mansion in the Lower Sweeps. Part of Aaron wanted to go with her, or not let her go, but he knew he was on thin ice with her. She needed to see the situation for herself.

  It was frustrating. As Miriam grew angry, red spots bloomed on her cheeks. She flung her hair emphatically with each argument. Aaron was realizing, at a dangerous time, how much he liked this girl. She was tough, fearless. She was like him in her dedication to the Corvale and to her friends. Yet she seemed so perfectly undamaged by the things that haunted him, kept him bitter and hungry. Aaron longed to hold her again, but since that night after the meeting at the Corvale House, they had slipped into something more like professional courtesy. Still, thoughts of her were looming in his mind while he should be concentrating on settling a score with an old enemy and saving the city. Miriam’s connection with Conners ran deep. If Aaron allowed Conners to die, he lost more than a major piece of his plans for the future, for the Corvale. He would lose Miriam. He was surprised to realize how much he didn’t want that to happen.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs faded, leaving Aaron to his thoughts. He was taken back to the image of descending down the tunnel, blue light illuminating the white ropes lining the stone walls, the rasping sound of his breath echoing back to him. He rubbed at the pixie eye on his cheek.

  Aaron wasn’t alone right now. He only felt that way because the Corvale mark master, the tattoo artist working on Aaron’s right side, didn’t count. These artists were treated something like holy men among the Corvale. They never spoke of what was discussed in their presence. In fact, they would rarely be able to recount who else was in the room. They were entirely focused on the marking, their religion, the only thing they cared about. Their confidentiality was absolute.

  This artist had been with Derrick Issale at the stables, waiting to meet Aaron. It wasn’t everyday he had a chance to create a Ninth Class mark. The artist was older, with long, stringy grey hair and spectacles. He stooped as he walked, carrying a small satchel which contained black ink and pins. All Corvale mark masters worked exclusively in black. The Vylass tribe followed a similar custom but used a copper color. Both Aaron and Cal were marked in primarily black, but both had copper mixed in from their time spent with the Vylass.

  The Corvale mark master had not provided his name. He and Aaron had spoken only briefly as he asked Aaron what he needed. Aaron had directed him to get started with outlines for the Ninth Class mark then work his way back to Third Class. The others, several Chalk and men he’d killed in the past few weeks, would have to wait. Aaron told the artist he expected battle tomorrow, the signal for the man to get all the marks up even if the details would need revisiting, so if Aaron died his body would tell his full story.

  The soft tap of a stone on the ink-dipped needle as it drove lightly into Aaron’s flesh was oddly comforting. It almost seemed the black ink, as it entered his body, was flushing out the remnants of the chalk that Gelden Carr had put on him. Ink versus chalk. Marking out an identity versus washing one away. Black balancing white. These were thoughts Aaron didn’t have the luxury to explore with the sun rising soon and his plans still unformed.

  Without moving his right side, Aaron carefully poured himself a few fingers of the whiskey they’d found in the apartment. He took a long drink, then pulled out his Talent board with one hand and scattered the pieces. He studied them, not certain where to begin.

  Carr had made his plan clear, and Aaron suspected he was unlikely to change it. Why bother? It was too late for Aaron to simply try to collapse the tunnel mouth. It would be well defended this time. Any obstruction they were able to throw over the tunnel would be temporary unless the army could be stopped. If Aaron began telling everyone he knew about the tunnel, he was still unlikely to assemble enough of a force to stop an army at the mouth of the tunnel. He had to assume Carr had plans in place to counter any word that Aaron spread, or maybe that would be Grace’s territory. Aaron didn’t fear Grace for his competence, but given the short window of time, even a minor disruption could prevent Aaron from organizing any real defense. Anyone Aaron told would look to their own self-interest first. If he greeted the Chalk with his meager collection of men, they would simply be the first to die as wave after wave of Chalk surfaced.

  It was in the tunnel. That was where he wanted to meet the army. It brought back memories of teeth and eyes, the Jerr hound falling to a child. But how could he match them? The army could quickly overwhelm whatever he sent. And how would he get to Conners?

  He sighed. He was too distracted. He was worrying about Miriam, worrying a
bout Conners. He needed to focus on the bigger picture, make a plan. But what was the big picture? What was missing? Carr had told him much, but had held certain things back, a practice Aaron was well familiar with. What had he held back?

  With his free hand, Aaron absently placed pieces on the Talent board. He put himself in Carr’s position. An army approaching. Victory at his manicured fingertips, but Aaron Lorne loose to oppose him. A secret exposed.

  The lightning flashed in the distance, chased by thunder. A storm was visible on the western horizon. It would carry no rain at this time of the year, but the wind and lightning would make the farmers beyond the city walls restless.

  Something stirred in Aaron’s mind, an idea awakening, but he was again distracted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Too heavy for a returning Miriam. He hid a smile, recognizing the tired tread of Sleepy Jon, out of breath after climbing to Ty’s place then back to this one, up four flights each time.

  Jon lumbered in and flung himself down at the table. He took off his tricorn hat and mopped his sweaty brow.

  “Well,” he started, “this place is certainly costing us.”

  “Costing me, you mean?”

  “Yes, costing you. In addition to one week’s rent of 10,000 gold, due tonight of course, Cullmore’s also asking that you settle all of Cal’s debts to him. It looks like Cal hasn’t done much over the past couple years except gamble with Cullmore’s crew. And lose. Badly.”

  Aaron gestured towards the chest parked in the corner of the room. “Take it from there. Just the 10,000 for now. And while you’re there, I trust it’s time we renegotiated our own contract.”

  Jon, who had started to rise, sat back in his chair.

  Aaron continued, “I’ll give you three month’s pay for the next twenty-four hours. Have you taken on Vander’s men?” When Jon nodded, Aaron said, “Two month’s pay for anyone else who stays on for tomorrow.”

  Jon replied, “Just tell me what I need to hear.”

  “The best chance for your family to survive is to stick with me, Jon. Trying to get them out of the city now would just put them in greater danger. There will be a flood of refugees whether we fail or succeed. Even with your manpower, there’s no guarantee you can keep them safe.”

  “There’s no guarantee you can stop Carr.”

  “True, but the closer you stick to us, the more you’ll know about the real threat. Then if you need to leave, you can do so with my blessing, and move your family in the right direction. And I’d never withhold a reference from you, but if we pull this off, I’ll make sure everyone knows Jon Harpish was by my side. You may never struggle for work again.”

  Jon nodded slowly, then made his way over to the chest and began drawing out stacks of gold. Aaron watched him and sipped at his drink. The room was again quiet aside from the tapping of the tattoo artist.

  Across from the table was a set of patio doors, open to a balcony. Both Jon and Aaron looked up sharply as a small coin fell onto the balcony. The guard on the roof had spotted dragons. After a tense few moments another coin fell. It was Cal returning.

  Jon continued counting out gold for Cullmore as they listened to the sounds of the dragons settling on the roof and Cal coming down the ladder from the rooftop.

  Cal entered and sat at the table, pouring himself a drink. “They’ll arrive just before sundown tomorrow. Several thousand Chalk. Maybe a handful of dragons. East southeast. Hard to tell much more without alerting them. They don’t carry many lights.”

  The three men remained in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. Jon stood to go back to Cullmore’s and finish the deal.

  “Are we good, Jon?” Aaron asked.

  “Yes, we’re good. But you better know what you’re doing.”

  “After you pay Cullmore, go home and spend a couple hours with your family. Be back here before sunrise. Tomorrow will be busy.”

  Jon headed down the stairs again, letting out a small groan on the first step. Cal turned back to Aaron. “Do you know what we’re doing?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Cal nodded and fell silent. He rolled a cigarette and, as he lit it, studied the work of the tattoo artist in progress.

  Aaron was free to think again. He tinkered with the Talent board, setting Carr’s strategy, then his own. In his mind the playing pieces became dragons, Chalk, mercenaries. He tried a scenario imagining Grace in charge but struggled to get into his mind. He returned to Carr. It was the timing that was throwing Aaron off. When Aaron discovered the tunnel, it should have forced Carr into action. He needed the army to arrive quickly. But Carr already had his schedule in place. It was sheer dumb luck that Aaron had not arrived earlier and discovered the tunnel. It had been in place for a long time judging by the emptying of the Lower Sweeps. If Aaron had arrived later none of it would matter. He would have found Delhonne razed and the east in chaos.

  So Carr had always planned on the invasion being tomorrow night, or somewhere close to that. But why? The city’s population swelled as people were arriving for the Festival of Clouds, to take place in a couple days. On the surface it might seem better to slaughter a more heavily populated city, but in reality it made no sense. The city had more defenders. Parts of the Tannes army was activated and on hand. Even if it was largely ceremonial, that spoke to some degree of readiness. Aaron assumed that for Carr, the real value of getting inside Delhonne was not the number of people that you could kill, it was that once the defenses were overcome you could burn it. That was where the lasting damage would be done. It would set the east back a century.

  Maybe Carr was after a large trophy kill. To inflict a massive number of casualties might give him some status among the Chalk, just as Aaron’s tattoos gave him status among the Corvale. But then why not attack during the actual Festival of Clouds? People would be distracted and confused. It would ruin one of the most important holidays in Tannes forever. It made for a better story. Why attack the night before?

  Aaron touched the thick knot of scar flesh below his right eye. His fingers touched smooth flesh, then the ridged, bumpy scar tissue, then back to smooth. He lifted his hand and repeated. Smooth, rough, smooth. The dark pixie that had nearly taken his eye had aimed low. Aaron caressed the scar. Cal was not paying attention. If the tattoo artist noticed while tapping away on Aaron’s arm with needles, he gave no sign. Smooth, rough, smooth.

  Aaron had gotten the scar a few years after Wyelin. He was working for traveling hunting parties, barely scraping by. Still a kid, mourning his parents, not growing into a man. He had learned not to talk about their death. He had not learned how to deal with it.

  The party he was working for heard about a group of dark pixies. They were painting the false eyes on their cheeks. As a kind of joke, one of the men came over and painted them on Aaron. They all thought it was funny. It amused them to think of their young guide as a proper member of their trophy hunt. Aaron didn’t care. But the next day the pixies attacked in far greater numbers than expected.

  Aaron found himself fighting for his life in the middle of a vicious battle. Half the party died before the pixies were driven off. During the battle, Aaron stood face to face with one of the dark pixies. It ripped his cheek wide open, aiming for that false eye and tearing off Aaron’s flesh to the bone. He froze in shock, like someone had thrown cold water over him. One of the hunters killed the pixie before it could end Aaron. But that moment of shock stayed with him. He was awake in a way he hadn’t been since the death of his people. At that moment he realized how close he had been to death. No one was going to wait for him. No one cared about his loss, his pain. No one would give him the time to find himself, to learn what he needed to do to thrive. If he waited on others to give him a chance, he would stumble off this life without making his mark, getting his revenge, truly living. He needed to wake up. The only thing that saved his life was a small deception, the painted eyes, the false target.

  The pixie eye served as a reminder to Aaron. It was too ea
sy to lose focus in this dangerous game of life. Whenever, wherever you could, you needed to pull the enemy low, high, off target. You paint a different target. Usually impossible to make them swing at the wrong person or at the wrong time, but if you can pull them low, they’ll miss the vital organs, the killing blow. Make an allowance for escape, retribution.

  One way Aaron embraced this strategy was by holding back, as best he could. Where he could, Aaron tried to push the stories he told a little off. He planted small seeds of doubt, of misdirection. He often tried to diminish his achievements, hold something back. A little here, a little there. Never enough to be exposed, just enough to maybe, with a cumulative effect, pull his enemy’s strike just a little low.

  He’d left out the girl he carried from the S’Rghat Prison story that he told the Corvale. A minor omission. In his story of the Slaughter of Wyelin, he’d left out that he had spoken with Carr. Carr had stopped him, told him his old name, before Aaron reached the tunnels and escaped. Aaron had told the Corvale that he killed a single Jerr hound in the tunnel as his first kill. There was more to it than that. He hadn’t killed just one. He killed seven. He did it by just slaying the first one, and letting his corpse trap the rest in the tunnel. The rest tore each other to pieces once they realized they were trapped in a tunnel with no escape. That memory was one of the things which had held Aaron back from immediately collapsing the tunnel under Delhonne when he saw it. Carr was going to lead an army into it. Just as the Jerr hound had shuffled forward, no room to retreat or turn, the Chalk army would shove themselves into the tunnel. The army was likely too strong to defeat before it reached the tunnel, protected from above by dragons. After it emerged from the tunnel the fight would already be in Delhonne’s streets and thousands would die. But while it was in the tunnel, packed shoulder to shoulder, the army was vulnerable. Maybe, while it was in there he could find a way to kill it. Or even better, find a way for it to kill itself, tear itself apart like the trapped Jerr hounds had. It was the perfect opportunity to turn the tunnel into a tomb.