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

by Samuel Gately

  Aaron leaned forward, eyes locked with Carr. “I learned to pay attention to what is around me. I can’t play only defense. I have to understand where the next attack is coming from. I learned that what separates the victors from the victims is the ability to see through another’s eyes. I’ve seen the world through your eyes. It’s a dark, lonely place. But that was the only way to learn what you wanted, why you are here.”

  The locust sound came from Aaron’s pocket once again. He leaned back and relaxed in his chair again, not taking his eyes off Carr. “And I’ve managed to learn plenty about you. And the most interesting thing I figured out is not just why you’re here, but why you’re here now, today, not next week and not the week before.”

  Carr tilted his head. “I tire of the long speech, Mr. Lorne. Soon my army will have cleared your obstruction and I will need to go to the surface, leaving your bodies behind. Please get to the point. Why am I here now?”

  “Because your army is scared of water. Or rather, your army is scared of getting rained on, being washed clean of some of that chalk that holds them together. For a while I was fixated on the Festival of Clouds. I thought you were aiming for it to get a larger kill count. But after Cal killed Zarus Coff, he washed the chalk off his dragons. They went berserk. If that’s the effect of scrubbing off a few months of chalk, I wonder what will happen to your soldiers. It might have no effect. Their whole life they’ve spent covered in that vile shit. It is a part of them. I don’t know if it will come off or if it’s too much a part of them. But something tells me they won’t be in any shape to carry on a fight for Delhonne.

  “You aimed to arrive around the Festival of Clouds because it is the height of the dry season, and you didn’t want the same thing to happen to your army when they left the Ashlands.” Aaron grinned. “But I’ve got some bad news for you. Before I came down here I made arrangements for some rain.”

  Carr’s face had darkened at the mention of water. Now he rose from his desk. “And what’s to stop me from just killing you right now before I move the army out of the path of whatever trap you have planned?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re already too late.”

  …

  In a moment’s respite from the fierce battle for the street between the fringe of the Lower Sweeps and Grace’s mansion, Sleepy Jon leaned against a wall to catch his breath. He removed his purple tricorn hat to wipe his brow. He had twelve men ranged around the front of the large structure they had built. They had just finished mopping up the latest wave of Chalk, but the mansion was visible just down the dark street. He could see the Chalk clustered there, preparing to dispatch another round of attackers. The flow of Chalk had slowed since Cal capped the tunnel entry, but there were still maybe as many as fifty milling around the mansion. They were poorly organized, reacting slowly to the unexpected barrier that had been dropped into their midst. They had thus far been unable to move the portcullis. But more Chalk were making their way out of the tunnel through the small gaps at the edges of the portcullis and Jon had heard the frustrated roar of at least one dragon from below.

  Jon and his men were exhausted. For the last thirty minutes, since they had come within view of the mansion, Jon had kept his men divided into two groups of twelve. While one group defended the front of the structure, the others ran back and brought more wooden beams forward. With three men to a beam and two beams stacked on either side of the massive channel they were building, they advanced about sixteen feet with every exchange. Jon estimated they still needed maybe seven more sections if he were aiming for a precise delivery, but the men were tiring rapidly. Of course, the whole idea of precision had to be thrown out when he was asked to build a half-mile long structure in eighteen hours, part of it in the middle of a battle zone.

  Jon turned his hat around in his hands. The inspiration for the channel they were building had come from Aaron’s observation of Jon’s hat. The tricorn hat was designed for the Castalan navy men, who dealt with all kinds of weather on sea and land. It collected falling rain and channeled it along the hat’s folds until water poured out at small openings on the sides and back, away from the face of the wearer.

  Aaron told Jon he had a feeling the Chalk hated water a lot more than was widely known. He thought the entire timing of the invasion may have been to travel outside the arid climate of the Ashlands during the dry season, avoiding rainfall. He set Sleepy Jon to build a channel to funnel water into the midst of the Chalk army, conveniently trapped in a small, subterranean space. Like the hat, Jon simply used gravity and a little guidance to direct the flow of the water to a chosen exit. All they needed to make it work was a massive source of water, a downward path from that source towards the Lower Sweeps, and just enough nudging to keep the water headed in the right direction.

  …

  Back at the Palace, the water resting deep in the moat was about to take a journey. The moat had endured a long dry season and its levels were nowhere near what they were at the height of rainy season. Yet it fully encircled the enormous Palace, filling deeply cut, watertight ditches. If the long circular structure was compressed to a single area, it would make a moderately sized lake. That long lake had been the grave of King Jacob’s daughter. Since then it had been neglected. Its smell of death and stagnation filled the Palace.

  The stillness of the water was disrupted as four dragons ripped apart the last wall of stones to the southeast. Earlier in the day, a team of dragons under Cal’s direction had dug deep into the side of the moat. They had prepared a short ditch which ran through the dirt and stone to send the water out to meet the first part of Sleepy Jon’s wooden channel. The channel was really little more than stacked beams secured to each other with rope lashings. It did the minimum needed to keep the water running the way they needed it to. Gravity would take care of the rest.

  The dragons stumbled wetly out of their excavation just as the bulk of the water began pouring out of the moat. The entire scene was monitored by a tired-looking Cal. He was bleeding from several cuts on his face and head, cradling an injured shoulder. As the water flowed by, he removed the locust carving from his pocket and slapped it against the ground.

  The water flowed down the channel, slowly picking up speed. Some water escaped, slopping over the sides and through the cracks of the hastily built structure. Yet the sheer mass of the water stayed on course and charged downward from the elevated Palace, growing in speed until it raged like a river through Delhonne.

  The river reached the edge of the Palace district, sloshed its way around a small bend in the channel, then headed straight as an arrow down Market Street along the aptly named Market Slope. Onlookers who had been curious about the wooden structure now gaped to see it suddenly surging with dirty water. They watched the river roar past them, wondering what purpose the racing waters could serve, what destination lay ahead of them.

  Into the Lower Sweeps the river poured, still gaining speed. One final curve, which tested the strength of the channel as the water fought to continue forward, and the river was pointed to its target.

  The water surged forward, nearly upon the end of the channel. Men with swords fought Chalk on either side of the impromptu river. The body of a man fell into the water and was swept away. Moments later the body of a Chalk likewise was dumped into the channel. The water momentarily clouded at its first encounter with the ashy powder that covered the Chalk.

  The water had a moment’s freedom as it crashed down at the end of the channel, no more stacked wooden beams to order it which way to go. It poured out over the street, broadening its horizons, opening its arms and stretching its legs after far too long confined in a tired basin of death. The freedom was short lived.

  The water’s direction was predetermined by momentum, which drove it forward into the wrecked façade of an aged mansion, through piles of rubble, and directly into a large hole, where the water sluiced through a grating of steel.

  The water poured into the Chalk prison. It had a brutal effect on the w
hite creatures as it washed over their faces, hands, and bodies with the speed and strength of a waterfall. Where it did not simply part them from their grips on the netting and tunnel walls to plummet to their deaths, the water ripped away at their deep, hardened coating of white powder. It exposed rough patches of pale skin that had been hidden from the elements for decades. The chalk that had covered the creatures since birth had oppressed their ambition, desire, emotion, individuality, turning them into the mindless foot soldiers of the Awakened. Its loss brought a lifetime of emotional energy bubbling through the minds of the Chalk. Complete insanity followed.

  As the first wave of water crashed into the bottom of the tunnel, it carried with it nearly every Chalk who had made it onto the netting. When it hit the bottom of the tunnel, the water backed up, pouring more slowly out into the smaller horizontal portion of the tunnel. In the chaotic, churning mess, a good third of the Chalk from the ropes drowned, pushed under water by the hundreds of bodies above them. Even as they drowned, they lashed out in fury at everything around them, drawing each other’s black blood. As the water rushed down the horizontal span, it swallowed more and more of the ranks of soldiers waiting to ascend. The holding areas, packed with Chalk, became death traps. Where the water didn’t go, the packed, panicked conditions took hold. The Chalk scrambled to get out, stabbing and scratching at anything that moved as they did so. Those few who escaped the water and its effect of madness found themselves fighting for their lives against their insane brethren, screaming as they leaked white powder off their faces and swung knives and fists wildly.

  The water continued long past the main body of the army, eventually slowing to a trickle. It stopped just outside the door to Carr’s office where the few remaining guards were waiting to take Carr up to his glory. The clash of arms could be heard from ahead as Carr’s army tore themselves to pieces. The Chalk guards looked numbly in its direction. The strange sounds from up the tunnel mixed with the increasingly loud voices from inside Carr’s office. They were too distracted to look towards the darkness at the other end of the tunnel, where their death approached on softly padded feet.

  Chapter 44. A Parting Gift

  In the office, Carr called for the guards outside the door but got no response. Aaron was tensed up, ready for action. Carr’s army was dying outside the door, tearing each other to shreds in madness. He’d led his army into a death trap, total defeat. It was a beautiful thing. And if the remaining pieces fell on the board the way Aaron had planned, Carr was about to die at the hands of the leader of the DelhonneCorvale.

  Carr called for the guards one last time, then picked up Aaron’s black sword from the desk in front of him. The Chalk in the room moved towards Aaron with no hesitation.

  Aaron punched one who jumped at him, then kicked out with his back foot, knocking King Jacob to the ground just as a knife struck the chair where his head had been. “Outside!” Aaron hissed at the King. King Jacob looked at him almost defiantly, as if he wished to fight, then headed for the door. Aaron shoved a Chalk who made to follow the King to the ground. Then Jacob was out. Aaron turned back to the room. Two Chalk were moving towards him. Another two seemed locked in a struggle with Conners. One was on the ground, getting back to his feet. Carr rounded the desk moving deliberately towards Aaron.

  Aaron picked up a chair and used it to hold off the two approaching Chalk, the whole time yelling at Carr, “I remembered the attack on Wyelin. I remember you coming out at the very end, after the Slaughter was over. I figured you’d keep enough guards here for that, to show off in front of. And I was hoping you’d do the same thing you did in Wyelin, just sending everyone into the attack at once. A big wave of destruction. Only this time, you didn’t make sure the path was clear.”

  Carr was past the desk now and marched towards Aaron. “You have long earned this death.”

  One of the Chalk Aaron fought grabbed at the chair he held. As he pushed back, Carr slid the black sword smoothly into the fray, nearly claiming Aaron’s right hand. Aaron jerked backwards, tangling briefly with the Chalk on the other side. As he pushed back, Carr’s second thrust came straight at his torso. Carr was proving to be a ruthlessly efficient fighter. Aaron was losing. He twisted to avoid the blade, but he had lost the chair and was seized by the Chalk on either side. They held him just long enough for Carr to slide into position. He held the black sword, ready to plunge it into Aaron’s heart. Aaron was exposed.

  The plan had required an incredible amount of faith in his allies. He had counted on Cal to hold the skies with inferior air power and to find a way to cap the tunnel. He had counted on Sleepy Jon to construct a mechanism to somehow direct tons of water halfway across the city with almost no time or ready materials. He had counted on the Dura Mati to remain faithful to the man who had stripped him of title and family and to fight his way across Carr’s rear guard, opening an exit for them. He still didn’t know if they’d escape alive. That depended on the movements of the Chalk army outside the walls and the bravery of Derrick Issale. But the unknown in the entire plan was always the only ally he shared the room with. The man he was prepared to call his leader, give his life over to.

  Gelden Carr raised the sword, then dropped it from nerveless fingers. Conners Toren, the butler, the man in the shadows, had buried a long, thin knife deep in Carr’s neck. Carr stumbled to his knees. The Chalk watching the scene froze.

  Conners did not. He slid from Chalk to Chalk, silent aside from the scrape of his shoes on the stone floor. His knife dipped in and out of them. In moments, all were dead. Their bodies all seemed to fall at the same time.

  Conners, stuck for a moment in a dramatic crouch, straightened. He dropped his bloody knife to the floor. It clattered in the sudden quiet. He folded his unbloodied hands in front of him, seeming to disappear once again into his butler’s uniform. “I believe I am finished with that,” he said.

  Aaron, slightly awed by the display, turned back to Carr, who had fallen back against the desk. The wound in his neck remained as a neat hole for a moment, then began pouring black blood out over his chest and shoulder. Carr gave a noise of distress, seemingly more upset at the mess than at his impending death. He was trying to talk as blood spread across his body and pooled on the floor.

  Aaron kneeled down close to him, his arms resting on his thighs. For a moment he just watched Carr. He raised his hand, holding it back out to Conners. Conners slowly took it. They took a moment to share the occasion, standing side-by-side, watching the architect of their people’s demise bleed out onto the floor. Black blood pooled beneath Carr as he shifted in agony. If they could get out of this tunnel alive, they would go north. Their people would be rebuilt. There was so much work ahead, so much uncertainty. But he would always have this room to share with Conners. Another person he could trust. An ally. One who could lead his people, be what Aaron was not, shore up his failures. Conners released his hand as Aaron rose.

  Aaron searched his feelings. He expected to find comfort, some catharsis, some reservoir of relief held back for years by the unresolved agony of his past scars. He was more tired than anything else. There had been so little sleep over the past few days. Carr had tried so hard to be great. He had changed himself, changed his people. Aaron didn’t want that ambition. He didn’t want anything that connected him to Carr. He wanted to put this behind him, get out of this dark tunnel and under the night sky. There was just one more thing to do.

  This creature dying in front of him. Carr again tried to speak, his hideous neck wound bubbling with the effort. Aaron gently shushed him as he knelt once more next to the pale Chalk. Carr looked at him, trying to get one last statement out, leave one last impression on this world. Aaron gently shook his head.

  “I can’t say I enjoyed our conversation. I was only here to make enough noise so you and your guards didn’t hear the Mati approaching. I hope you enjoyed the stories. I kept your name out of all of mine. I’ll make sure your name gets left out of this one too.” Aaron looked intently down at
Carr. “All that blood in your past, but you managed to go through life without a drop on you. We might have to change that.”

  He dipped his hand into the black blood pouring out of Gelden Carr’s neck, then wiped his hand across Carr’s face, smearing black over the clean surface. Carr flinched but was unable to move, shaking as his life’s blood left him. He made a noise of protest, of horror. His eyes darted around as if searching for the strength to wipe himself clean. His jaw moved for a moment, then fell still. His breathing slowed, then stopped entirely. Aaron remained inches from his face, staring, until he felt Conners’ hand on his shoulder.

  Aaron retrieved his sword, still loosely clutched in Carr’s dead hand, and stood, leaving Gelden Carr’s body behind him on the dirty floor. “Let’s get out of here. Derrick is holding the eastern end of the tunnel open for us.”

  Chapter 45. The Other End

  Aaron and Conners left the bloody office together. In the darker tunnel King Jacob stood by the Dura Mati, who faced the direction of the mansion. The Mati guarded the tunnel, bloody hammer held in both hands across his thick frame. There were Chalk bodies littered all around.

  A Chalk, screaming and trailing wet white streams off its pale body, ran out of the blackness. The Dura Mati brained it with the hammer. No more Chalk were approaching, apparently busy tearing each other to shreds. The Dura Mati had accumulated an impressive heap of bodies in front of him, but it appeared the chaos at the front of the tunnel was preventing the Chalk from retreating as a group.