by D. M. Almond
CHAPTER 10
“Now then, let’s leave that to set for a bit before we finish the job,” Beauford said as he pulled the tiny precision torch away from Logan’s mechanical fingers, guiding his other hand to cover the spot with a dampened white cloth.
“Just keep pressure right there for a few, and I’ll go fix us some brew, eh?” Beauford slipped into the next room, out of sight.
Logan could hear him opening cupboards, followed by the clanking of pans clapping together. Logan had been looking around the room while his hand was being modified, trying to keep his mind occupied. This room, like the many shelves and tables in the main storefront, had the most peculiar items for sale. There were small tin cylinders, sealed over the top with funny painted pictures of dancing animals—Mr. Beauford called them “soda”—and glass picture frames with no pictures in them that he called the “telie.” One shelf had rows of glass bottles filled with various liquids of all different colors. When Logan asked what they were called, the little gnome gruffed and grumbled for a moment then said, “What do I look like, a flippin’ tour guide?” Logan realized he had been asking the gnome one question after the other at that point, but he could not help chuckling at the shopkeeper’s grumpy nature.
Clinking sounds interrupted his train of thought as someone triggered the little bell above the storefront entrance and quite hurriedly made their way toward the back room.
Mr. Beauford popped his head around the corner of the kitchen. “Eh? See who that is, lad,” he said, motioning to the doorway.
Logan was just about to get up when a teenage boy in a brown hooded tunic came huffing into the backroom. Looking surprised to see Logan sitting there, the kid stopped for a moment, then shrugged.
“Have a hand delivery for you, Master Beauford,” the boy called out, looking around the backroom for the gnome.
“Eh? No doubt ye do, lad,” Beauford said over the sounds of running water. “I’ll be right there in a jiffy, hang on to your whiskers already.”
The boy smiled and nodded, as if Mr. Beauford could see him through the wall, then looked around the room while awkwardly shuffling his feet. He caught a glimpse of Logan’s hand and perked up like a cat, leaning in toward him.
“You’re that fella who came to save the capitol, aren’t you?” he said, brimming with excitement.
Logan was confused by the delivery boy’s words. He had never been known for being much more than the village trickster back home, so the revelation that someone was actually looking to him in admiration made him squirm slightly in his seat.
“Aye, I guess that I am. The name’s Logan Walker. What’s yours?” he replied.
“Who, me? Aw, I ain’t nobody special, sir, just a simple mail porter. Name’s Henri, sir,” the boy said shyly, shifting from foot to foot under Logan’s stare.
“Seems like a good gig for a kid to have around the capitol,” Logan said.
“Oh, it is, sir, it is. Helps put food on the table for my family plus I get to meet all sorts of interesting folk.” Henri puffed his chest out, beaming with pride.
“You know Mr. Beauford pretty good then?” Logan asked.
The boy shrugged noncommittally.
“Where does he get all this crazy stuff from?” Logan asked, cocking his head toward the nearest shelf of shiny stones.
“Well...uh…,” Henri dropped his arms to his sides, nervously looking over Logan’s shoulder.
“From the surface,” the gnome said, making Logan hop straight up from his seat with fright. Beauford was standing right beside his chair. The damned little man had snuck up on him again, with nary a sound to announce his arrival.
The delivery boy took that as his cue to spring into action, quickly moving to help Mr. Beauford with the tray he was carrying. A ceramic teapot clanked as he pulled it out of the little man’s hands and set it on the nearby table.
“Oh, wipe the skepticism from your face, boy. Don’t tell me ye still be believin’ in those children’s tales,” Beauford said, waving away the notion as if it were the most ridiculous thing imaginable.
“I don’t follow what you’re trying to say, old timer,” Logan said, which stopped Mr. Beauford dead in his tracks. When his eyes landed on Logan, they were cold as ice.
“Whoa…okay, down boy,” Logan said with upraised hands. “No offense meant, it’s just an expression. But I still don’t follow; the surface of Acadia is a wasteland, scorched during the Jotnar Invasion. No one can travel up there and hope to survive. So where did you really get all this stuff?” he asked.
Beauford’s eyes were as round as saucers as he listened to Logan. He looked to Henri for confirmation that they just heard the same thing, then back at Logan and then back to Henri one last time. Both of them burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter, although Logan noticed Henri only started nervously chuckling after the shopkeeper began.
Beauford was slapping his stubby thigh, laughing so hard tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. “Oh boy…oh, you do know how to make this old timer smile,” he said, forcing himself to gather his composure. He straightened his bushy white moustache with one hand and mussed the hair back into place around his earlobes with the other. “Ain’t no such thing as no scorchin’, lad,” he said, motioning for Henri.
The delivery boy handed him a small brown parcel while placing a small pencil in his waiting hand and moving a tiny clipboard up for the signature of receipt.
“Are you trying to tell me that you travel to the surface world?” Logan scoffed in disbelief at the incredulous thought. No one had traveled to the surface in centuries, not since the Jotnar Invasion had made life up top impossible.
“Well, hell no, lad. I ain’t no old timer, but still, that trip’s too long for these bones to take…these days, anyhow.”
Henri waved to Logan as he zipped back out of the store, no doubt on to his next delivery.
“No…I have friends what get me these things,” Beauford said, sipping his tea and motioning for Logan to do the same.
“Friends, huh. Friends just go up to the surface, risking their lives to get you this stuff? Must be nice to be that popular. Wish I had friends like that.”
The gnome fell silent, reaching down to remove the cloth covering Logan’s hand and get back to work adding the illegal enhancements. “Don’t expect you actually would want friends like that, way you treat others. Look, boy, I’m only telling you this because I know people. You think I don’t get all sorts of ‘em in here? Be gettin’ ‘em all, don’t ye be doubtin’ it. C’mon now, kid, ye got to be too smart to still be believin’ in those old wives’ tales about the surface.” Though Beauford spoke boldly, he also spoke lowly, jabbing tools into the gears, then sealing his work with the tiny jewelry torch.
“Most folk come in here just to get some o’ my nice victuals, or maybe even a book lost to the ages to read. Helps ‘em forget for a while, ye know? Helps ‘em stick their heads in the sand a bit longer.”
Logan wondered what sand was, but he went with it, nodding so the gnome would continue.
“I see you understand what I’m sayin’ here. You can make all the empty jests in the world, but I can see the truth in your eyes, boy. You can just feel something is off ‘round here, can’t ye?” He closed one eye, pointing at Logan with the tip of his tiny mallet, waiting for a response.
“Absolutely,” Logan lied, although he was not sure if it was to himself or the gnome. “But that still doesn’t answer how you got all this merchandise.”
“Well, boy, that’s my business, now ain’t it? I do have my ways. Not too easy being tucked away in the back corner of the city, but my friends sure do provide. In fact, as you can see, my little network extends deep and far,” Beauford bragged. “And why shouldn’t it? Even outcasts need to eat, am I right?”
“Don’t seem to be much of an outcast to me. Looks more like you have it all figured out pretty good, actually,” Logan said sincerely. Though he doubted the gnome’s claims, he had to admit the shopk
eeper had a decent little setup going here.
The gnome paused for a moment and smiled up at him. “Right you be, boy. I do mighty fine for me self. However, the outcasts I refer to are the exiles of New Fal, those that been kicked over the wall. Someone’s got to keep some provisions going to the poor wretches after they get booted out to the wildlands, after all.”
He made the claim as if it was the most sensible thing to assume. For Logan, it was anything but.
“Except nothing in this world or the next is free, eh?” Beauford said.
Logan caught on to his reasoning now. It was rooted in whispered campfire tales: if you broke the laws of New Fal, the Council of Twelve would sentence you to banishment. Exile over the wall, into the wildlands, was akin to a death sentence. As a kid he never took the warnings seriously, chalking it up to more ghost stories told to frighten children into behaving. As Beauford fleshed out the details of his import-export business, Logan could almost hear Elder Morgana’s words echoing in his ears. Be good or the Elders will grab you and send you into the deep dark.
As Logan grew older, he still heard the stories, but with a different twist—only the vilest of criminals would be punished in such a way. One would really have to be a depraved cretin to earn exile from the kingdom. It was a rare sentencing reserved for murderers, rapists, and the like.
However, this gnome in his tiny shop tucked away in the corner of the capitol, was actually claiming he exchanged supplies with outcasts from the wildlands in return for them bringing him relics from the surface world? The whole thing seemed far-fetched to Logan, yet looking around the room at the strange items, he could just hear the ring of truth somewhere, lost in the madness of it.
“Hmmm...survival for scavenging, huh?” Logan thought aloud. “Interesting stuff old time—err...Mr. Beauford.”
“I can see it in ye, lad, might as well be wearin’ it on your sleeve. Got a taste for the adventure, eh? Maybe you’re thinking of doing a run to Malbec?” Beauford said, hitting on Logan’s intentions about leaving Fal to travel to their neighboring kingdom.
Malbec was a place renowned as a breeding ground for treasure hunters. It was the very reason Logan wanted to get the upgrades Beauford was installing, so that he could go find adventure.
“And why would I be interested in going to Malbec?” he said with as much innocence as he could muster.
“You know why,” Beauford wheezed and chuckled knowingly to himself. “Anyhow, I got a job for ye right here to get ye started. You take care of it and then we can see about havin’ you make some real coin to get you on your way.” Beauford polished off the last spot on Logan’s hand as the metal cooled down.
“Wait, do you think I’m going to smuggle for you?” Logan asked.
The little man looked disappointed at the remark, waving off the notion. “We ain’t talkin ‘bout no smugglin’. This here is just a simple delivery I need made,” Beauford explained, washing the oil off his hands and neatly storing his equipment.
“A delivery? You just had the damned service here a second ago. Why didn’t you give it to that Henri kid?” Logan asked.
“This one needs a bit of…discretion.”
Logan straightened himself out, stretching his fingers to admire the gnome’s handiwork. It was flawless in design. There was not even a scratch on the mechanical hand, no indication whatsoever of the modifications he had just paid generously for.
The gnome walked over, pressing a small coin purse with a tiny scroll tied to it into Logan’s palm.
“What is it?” Logan inquired warily.
“Drop this off at the House of Alderman, and be sure to deliver it to Lady Cassandra personally. After you do so, come back and see me, and I’ll have some real work for ye.”
Logan could see that was all the answer he was likely to receive. “What makes you think I’m going to do this for you? I don’t even know where to find this Cassandra woman,” he said, even though he was already putting the coin purse inside the folds of his jacket.
“You’re a resourceful lad. Something tells me you’ll figure it out.” Beauford winked, flipping a gold coin to Logan. “In the meantime, here’s a little something for your troubles.”
Logan eagerly caught the money. The eccentric old bastard was right; he was definitely up for a little taste of back alley dealings. “How do you know I won’t just run off with this?” he teased.
“Well, first in, I know people, which I already explained to ye. Second in, if you cross me I’ll just have some of my lads go down to Riverbell and pay a visit to your brother, Corbin, and his nice lass there, just for a bit of fun,” Mr. Beauford said, wearing a sinister grin that sent a shiver up Logan’s spine.
“Wait…how do you know?”
“But that ain’t gonna be our relationship, right, boy? I like a nice capable lad like yourself lookin’ all eager and whatnot and am more than happy to employ you into my services and grow your career. Now how about instead of silly what-ifs, you just go on and get that letter in the Lady’s hand for me, eh? I know you gonna be just fine,” he added, pouring honey over the warning to help Logan see it with clarity. The gnome was not threatening him as much as revealing the extent of his knowledge and making it clear that double-crossing would not be in the cards.
Logan’s head was still spinning over the conversation as he headed toward the exit, but then a thought occurred to him.
“Wait…one other question. If the surface is not really scorched, why don’t you just go back up there?” he asked.
The gnome turned to him wearing a grave expression, which was flat and unwavering. “Might be the scorching tale has holes, but sure enough the Jotnar be waiting and watching, boy. Waiting and watching.”
Mr. Beauford closed the door to his shop behind his visitor, watching through a soot-covered window as the lad made his way up the alley. He wondered at life for a moment; its vast mystery never ceased to amaze him. After all these years of waiting, finally the lad was here in Fal, and at the most unexpected of times. The balance of power was shifting in the kingdom of New Fal for the first time since its founding, and he needed that parcel delivered to warn Lady Cassandra from turning her back on the enemies surrounding her.
However, that was the least of the plans he had for young Logan Walker. He had waited decades to meet the Walker boy and had plenty of time to devise the proper chain of events that would need to occur next. It was a simple ploy to have Todrick plant the seed in Logan’s head, though Beauford did not like parting with such a sum of money, no matter how temporary. He smiled at the pouch of coins he had retrieved.
No, the boy would have a greater part to play in the coming of the Fourth Age before everything was over and done. Yes…a much larger part to play indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Logan stepped out into the cool evening air, still trying to figure out how the little black-market dealer knew so many personal details about his life. He supposed it was the nature of such a business to be informed.
During the evenings, the Great Crystal would dim to a dull indigo, casting a hazy glow over the land. Logan’s father used to tell him stories about the nights on the surface of Acadia, saying that the sky was so bright in the daytime that people had to wear blacked out glasses just to see, and at night when Themis dipped below the horizon, all the stars of the universe could be seen in the heavens above. Nights topside were supposedly far darker than the lands they now lived in. He’d even heard that people had to light candles in the evening to keep the demons away and protect their loved ones.
Somehow, that had always stuck with him. Perhaps it was how frightened he was as a child of the idea of not being able to see in that ancient dark land. Not knowing what might be waiting for him with grasping hands in the shadows. Logan felt his throat tighten up at the memory of his father.
Wow, where did that come from? he wondered, shaking his head and letting the memories fall away. Gazing up at the Great Cry
stal, miles away in the distance, he had to smile, knowing the nights here would always be lit.
The sounds of the brothel faded in the distance as he retraced his steps back to the marketplace. Back home, everyone would already be settling in and calling it a night by this time. Mainly due to the fog that would roll in off the riverbanks, making it difficult to see outside. But even more so, it had to do with all the farmers who woke in the early hours, toiling in the fields to grow their crops.
Here in the capitol it could not be more different, with no fog rolling through the streets, just cool, crisp evening air. Yet people were still hustling and bustling whether he turned down an alley or cut across one of the main roads. He admired his new hand and slipped a glove over it as he walked along, lost in a daydream, happy about the modifications he just had installed and eager to complete the job Mr. Beauford had tasked him with.
Lost in his reverie, Logan almost walked into one of the peddlers. He recognized the man as the one who had given him the belt earlier in the day. The merchant’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, lost in his own thoughts. It was almost as if the peddler had no expression whatsoever as he just ambled past Logan.
That’s strange. It’s almost like he’s sleepwalking, Logan thought as he looked away from the man. He immediately noticed several others wearing similar expressions the farther he went down the alley. Two older women in cowls quickly skittered out of his path, their gazes firmly stuck on the ground.
Just as Logan thought things were starting to get strange, the source of everyone’s behavior presented itself. His heart froze, growing cold in his chest as a lump welled up in his throat. Somewhere distant, he could hear himself thinking how odd it was that his feet were locked in position. As much as he willed them to move forward, they did not seem to care.
About thirty feet up the alley, he could see the young peddler boy he had aided earlier. Even though he was too far away to tell for sure and desperately wished it was not true, something in the air electrified around him. It was palpable, telling him this was real. The boy’s earlier joyful reaction to his aid flashed across his mind.
The lump of bloody, beaten flesh lying in the dirt under tattered clothes was unmistakably the same peddler boy.
Somehow Logan’s feet finally moved, but it was as if someone else were controlling him. He was numb from the outside, only dimly aware that he was holding the boy’s ragged form while screaming into the night for help. Of course, he knew somewhere deep inside that no measure of help could change the fact that the child was dead. But he screamed on nonetheless.
The boy’s face was crusted with so much blood from a gaping wound where someone had caved in his skull that Logan could scarcely believe it all came from his tiny frail form.
He frantically looked back and forth at the people walking by, none of whom acted as if he existed. Logan called to one of the older men who only a few hours ago cheered him on for protecting this kid. He pleaded for the peddlers to go get help, only to receive a frown while the merchant stared down at the ground, unable to meet his gaze.
Finally two of the city watchmen came running down the alley, but they were fuzzy and unfocused. Crying was such a foreign concept to Logan. He almost thought something was wrong with his vision, realizing at the last moment that there were tears streaming down his face. He quickly wiped them away as the men slowed to a walk.
“Help me,” Logan said. “This boy has been attacked, and he needs medical attention!” He lifted the child’s limp body from the ground, expecting one of the watchmen to aid him.
“Aw, c’mon, mate…is this what you were making all that ruckus about?” the taller lawman said. Logan recognized him from the brothel next to the Grey Crow; he was the one who had buried his face in the woman’s breasts.
“I need your help to move him,” Logan said, thinking these men clearly did not know what to do in an emergency. He struggled to keep the boy upright; the limp body flopping like jelly.
The shorter, pudgy lawman finally moved in to take the kid’s weight off Logan. Except instead of helping to carry the child, he carelessly dropped the boy back to the ground with a loud crack of bone meeting stone that stung Logan’s ears.
“Effin’ country bumpkins. I ain’t getting myself all bloody for some street rat.” He nudged his partner, having a laugh at Logan. The taller watchman did not join in but proceeded to scold Logan, clearly annoyed at being disturbed from his festivities.
“Get him to the medical center...and how would he have paid for that then, eh? The kid’s already gone anyhow.”
Logan knew the man was trying to calm him down in his own way, but their complete indifference to the murder of a child made his blood boil, snapping something inside the core of his reasoning.
“He would still be alive if you two sorry sacks were out here doing your job instead of loafing about with whores!” Logan blurted.
The pudgy guard flinched as if he had been struck then snarled, “And who the bloody Hel cares? Look around you, idjit. No one’s upset here but you.” He leaned down nose to nose with Logan, raising his voice with every word. “All I see is one less rat on the streets to feed. Who are you to come down here to my district acting all high and mighty, anyhow?” His words were flecked with spittle and the vein in his forehead throbbed.
“Look, you better clear off before things get ugly here,” the taller man warned, circling around to Logan’s side with his nightstick drawn.
“Nah, screw that, Tommy. This country bumpkin’s got big words to be saying.” The short guard spat to his side. “This little prick wants to question our dealings, and in our neighborhood?”
Logan had clearly upset the man beyond reason. This was turning south quickly, moving so rapidly that he did not understand how it went from him calling for help to being cornered by armed city watchmen.
“You want to come down here, preaching to me about what I should be doing?” the angry guard spat again, waving his own nightstick around in the air as he spoke.
Logan noticed the taller man, Tommy, seemed to be feeding off his partner, a hungry look growing in his eyes. “The way it looks to me and Ralph here is you killed this lad to steal the earnings off his corpse. Lucky we arrived on the scene just in time to stop you from making off without paying your city taxes, eh?”
With no further warning, he swung his weapon hard across the nape of Logan’s neck. The force of the blow sent him tumbling to the ground. The short guard squealed his delight like the pig he was as he moved in to slam his own nightstick across Logan’s thigh. Stars shot across Logan’s vision from the pain, while both men towered over him, laughing like crows.
Logan lashed out blindly, his metal fist cracking right through Ralph’s shin, splintering the bone like a dried twig. The sound of it was so loud, everyone in the area stopped to see what had happened, like soulless zombies woken from a dream.
Before Tommy could react to his partner’s injury, Logan kicked his legs out from under him. Back on his feet, Logan noticed the pudgy guard pulling out a pistol. He stomped hard on Ralph’s arm, sending the gun skittering across the alley, and gave him two quick raps on the side of the head with his natural fist. The second one knocked him out cold.
Aware that Tommy had gotten back up behind him, Logan tried to block the man’s attempt to lock him in a chokehold. He struggled to break free when the watchman clamped an arm around his neck. Vendors nearby ran away, screaming in fear, obviously not wanting to be blamed for any of what was happening. Logan threw his weight backward, taking Tommy down with him. He landed on the man hard enough to loosen his grip.
Logan took the advantage to slip free and wrestle his position around so that he faced his attacker, only to receive another sharp blow to the jaw from the man’s nightstick. Logan saw stars again but managed to stay in control, knocking the weapon out of reach.
Grabbing the man’s side, he dug metal fingers in between his ribs and yanked down hard, breaking the bones. It
was more than he meant to do, only wanting to twist the man’s pressure point, but hearing the sound gave him a sick joy.
The corrupt guard let out a blood-curdling scream and frantically tried to shimmy away from him.
“Aw c’mon, where you going, Constable?” Logan said. “You can’t leave before I pay you my taxes, remember?” He slammed his forehead into the watchman’s nose. Blood gushed out of the unconscious man’s nose as Logan pulled himself up to his knees.
He reached down and flipped the guard onto his side so he would not choke on his own blood, wiping the smear of it off his own forehead. As the adrenaline began to fade from his body, he grimly took in the two men lying on the ground beside him, bleeding.
Serves them right for attacking me, he thought.
Logan realized someone had come up behind him a moment too late. He was unable to react before another loud thwack resounded in the alleyway and a blinding flash of pain cracked across the back of his neck.
This time the stars flashed bright and the ground came up to meet him while the world faded to black.