The Maven Knight (The Maven Knight Trilogy Book 1)

by Matthew Romeo

A bowrifle primes for fire, and the guards aim directly at Devin as one growls, “House Nova’s words are: Reap what you mine. Liar.”

  Oh shit! I think as I try to scramble a plan together. The bowrifles begin to hum and I can see the faint tinge of red within their barrels. They’re set to kill.

  The old man steps forward however, and the guards pause in confusion. Their rifles are aimed at him, but he stops purposefully.

  “One hundred and one oreings pay,” Abrax says in a commanding voice. as he raises his right arm, showcasing his Maven gauntlet. A tangle of emerald fire sparks in his palm.

  I look at him in confusion for an instant, but my attention diverts when the guards immediately lower their weapons and bow slightly.

  “Apologies, Suzerain!” one of the guards says. He makes a fist with his right hand and presses it to his chest. “We were unaware of your presence here. I presume you’ve just arrived from the Himal temple?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m here on a mission with my se’bau and another… prospective student,” Abrax replies authoritatively. He glances at Devin with irritation. “This lad needs some serious conditioning to fix his petulant tongue. Trying to make a mockery of House Nova. All brawn and no brains.”

  Devin’s goatee-covered mouth hangs open in both shock and embarrassment. His eyes are full of shame, but I can see hints of a boiling rage that he’s struggling to keep in check.

  “What is your mission, Suzerain?” the same guard asks respectfully. I can tell he’s quick to try and not upset a Suzerain.

  “Classified,” Abrax replies sternly. Some of the other guards turn their heads to one another. Confusion emanates from under their helms. “By authority of Suzerain, I request to enter the capital so that I may accomplish my mission. I will personally check in with the higher members of the Order once I’m satisfied.”

  The guard bows. “Of course, Suzerain. I’ll alert Centum of your arrival…”

  “That will not be necessary.” Abrax commands, his voice reflecting hints of staged anger.

  “But—”

  “Must I repeat myself, soldier?” The old man’s voice practically carries through the streets, drawing the attention of others. I shrink beneath such authority. “I will alert Centum myself on my own time. Now, open the gate.”

  In a fluster, the guard bows yet again and yells, “Open the gate!”

  “Much obliged,” Abrax nods courteously. “As you were, gentlemen.”

  A long, strenuous creak emanates from the twin doors as they slowly start opening. The ore reflects the varying rays of sunlight like water. The doors open only slightly however, enough for the three of us to get in. Moving forward with Devin and Abrax, the guards begin to close ranks as we enter the small opening between the gates.

  My eyes open wide at the sight of the city.

  Pristinely forged ore metal has been fashioned into the towering structures that border the marketplace. Half a kilometer, the crescent shaped market holds hundreds upon its burnished cobblestones. Kiosks and shacks of a finer quality pepper the streets, sheets of vibrant violets and blues drape from their roofs. The smell of fresh fruits and roasting meats wafts through the air as the noisy bustle of a hundred voices echoes through the streets.

  Beyond the market, towering skyscrapers nearly twenty stories high overlook the districts. Dark ore is used in their framework, but varying colors of maroon and violet are used in the concrete and other materials. Cleaner holoprojections light up billboards near the roofs of the structures. Repulsor vehicles whine through the air above, sending currents from their engines.

  More to my astonishment, the city itself seems to be made of concentric rings of avenues such as the one we entered. In the distance, I can see a more elevated level of apartments and buildings of a grander nature. At the highest point of the city, punctuated at the center of the mountainside, is the royal cathedral. While nearly a kilometer away, I can see the austere and angular architecture—and the violet banners of House Z’hart.

  Magnificent, I think to myself as a small grin etched in the corners of my mouth. Never in my life did I think I’d see a sight like this.

  But even as I bask in awe of the city, I hear the gates close behind us. I notice the attention of some curious individuals are upon us. Our cloaks and Devin’s mercenary armor draws a bit of attention.

  “Come,” Abrax whispers to the both of us. He starts to gently push through the crowd.

  Devin and I follow Abrax for a few yards into the marketplace, avoiding curious bystanders and patrols as we move into the crowd. It’s a frustrating endeavor, but we quickly break free before veering off into an alleyway between the apartment skyscrapers. The alley is narrow and packed with piles of trash, spoiling food, and clumps of feces—the sweet smell of the market is drowned out by the stench.

  Out of public sight, Abrax sheds himself of his cloak. I do the same, even though I’m still a bit nervous about losing our cover. Devin suddenly whirls on Abrax, the look in his eye is almost feral. Like it was in the mines.

  “The fragging Hells was that?” he asks angrily, trying to keep his voice down. “All brawn and no brains? You can burn in the Hells, old man!”

  Abrax adopts a look of mild innocence. “How else would we have gotten past the gate guards, hot shot? They were about to shoot us thanks to your little slip up. I just saved us a substantial amount of time and energy at the small expense of your dignity.”

  “Frag off!” Devin looks at me for support. “C’mon, Tálir. You thought it was a good idea, right?”

  I hold up my hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “It started out as a good idea,” I try to compromise. “But, I suppose that’s why we’re all here. To get each other’s backs even if we slip up.”

  Devin’s face takes on a bit of color as he spits, “Fragging teacher’s pet.”

  I chuckle lightly. Looking further down the alley, I see a maze of interconnected paths through the various buildings. They intersect and fork off based on the design of the buildings. More garbage, scrap piles, and scurrying rodents can be seen along the stained stone paths. Clouds start to gather over the sunlight, casting a dim grey light over the area. It feels like it’s going to rain.

  “So where do we go from here?” I ask Abrax as I lean against the side of the structure. “It looks like we’ll need to navigate the alleys to wherever this place is. Can’t risk being seen by other guards.”

  Abrax gives an uncanny grin as he strokes his beard. “You’re right, lad,” he says. “How do you two feel about dark, dank tunnels?”

  I frown. “I’m not exactly a fan.” I admit, glancing down at my breastplate with concern. “I’d like to keep this armor relatively clean.”

  “Likewise,” Devin concurs, placing a hand on his burnished chest piece. “I rather like the shine it’s attained.”

  “Stop being a bunch of pansies,” Abrax voices in a disgruntled tone, walking past Devin. “Consider this the first trial of our quest: we need to venture into the underground catacombs. From there, we should be able to find the entrance to wherever the Tome resides.”

  Devin and I glance at each other with mild trepidation. Not just concerning our armor, but because of how Abrax knows about this place. Perhaps I haven’t realized just how knowledgeable the old man is until now. And the thought is quite alarming. What else does he know about?

  “If you knew the Tome existed here, why didn’t you uncover its location on your first quest for Providence?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.

  Abrax brushes some dirt from his trench coat before saying, “What makes you think I didn’t?” he asks in kind. “I failed last time because I was young, stupid, and alone. That’s why I need your help. One cannot find the Tome alone.”

  I hesitate briefly. But I sigh with a reluctant acceptance before saying, “Where do we start?”

  “Fragging Hells,” Devin huffs as he looks at his shiny, violet armor.

  Chapter 22: Sarina

  The Merchant
and the Blacksmith

  THE STENCH OF SPOILING FOOD fills my nostrils, and the air seems hot and heavy as crowds snake by the markets. Mud cakes my boots and I roll up my sleeves to let my arms cool a bit. There are fewer of us, but it’s no less difficult trying to navigate the various shops and shacks for supplies.

  A patrol of new militia soldiers march through what passes as the street, their incomplete Imperial uniforms seem ridiculous. Bronze pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets are on their right arms while silver armor covers the rest. Remus said this lower class militia has been provided by Centum, but I’m at a loss as to why their suits are incomplete. One would think Centum is a person of perfection and strict adherence to whatever doctrine they have. Incomplete ceremonial armor of the Mavens should’ve seemed detrimental to Centum’s beliefs.

  But then again, Centum seems to be a person who sows the seeds of chaos before order. A person who wants to tear everything down before rebuilding it. Tear a girl down.

  It has been a few hours since Abrax, Tálir, and Vyck set about their mission to obtain the Tome. I grow faintly eager to start searching for answers now that Abrax is gone. He’s no longer watching over my shoulder, and I want to find out what happened. However, I remain with the others because they have no knowledge about the capital and outskirts. I cannot ditch them when they have no idea where to go.

  “I was told I’d get six thousand for one of these!” Vyck barks as he haggles with a merchant. “If you’re gonna haggle on price, you need to start near four thousand.”

  An antiques merchant of small stature, outlandish garb, and frizzy hair has accepted our bargain for the last polished kryo. We stand within the open threshold to his shop, which is a large metal shack full of items many would pay a great deal for. Intricate foreign rugs sweep across the dirt floor while marble statues flank us.

  Aida and Remus are next to me and placing several bags and cases of supplies into the cart behind me. Vivían is across the street from us, using some of our earnings to purchase more rations and clothes. If we spend our kryo earnings right, we’ll be able to purchase four repulsorbikes with the rest. My only hope is for Vyck to not scare away every merchant with his haggling.

  “Four thousand,” the light-skinned merchant says with a heavy northern accent. “You’ll find that these gems are not as valuable as they used to be. Over saturation, in a sense.”

  “Five thousand!” Vyck growls firmly. “Or at least four point five, with a store discount.”

  “Do I look that desperate to you?” the merchant hisses.

  “It’d be an improvement!”

  The haggling is getting us nowhere, and my impatience starts to rise. The faster we accomplish our tasks, the quicker it’ll be for us to begin uncovering the secrets of the riots.

  “Four— Two—” Remus butts in as much as he can. His condition prevents him from speaking properly yet again.

  “Four point two?” Vyck exclaims, aghast. “That’s not a trade, that’s boning theft.”

  “Information—” he says, ignoring Vyck. “Trade— Info—”

  The merchant’s bushy eyebrows rise into his matted hair, and his eyes reflect reluctant interest.

  “Information.” he repeats, stroking the tangled hair on his chin. “I’m not the informative type, unless you know the proper payment.”

  Remus snorts in wry amusement. “Twenty— Four— Oreings— Spent—” he says quietly, but a grin forms on his mouth.

  What does that mean? Twenty-four oreings spent. Then it clicks in my head. It’s a code.

  Aida, in turn, presses her left index finger to her forehead in a show of some secret gesture. The merchant’s face remains neutral, but he nods with approval. He then shows them a tattoo on his left wrist: two black swords crossed in front of a red triangle. I grow wary after realizing what’s taking place. The merchant, Remus, and Aida are Insurgents.

  The underworld band of liberators has been working to prevent the capital’s ruling class from hoarding food and wealth. Noble bandits, as the common folk call them. Insurgents are still invisible to the ruling systems, but seen by those who know how to look. I know from experience that most merchants in Z’hart City’s outskirts would be sympathetic to Insurgents. Although I don’t dismiss their cause for equality and distribution of wealth, I don’t agree with their means.

  Riots, bombings, and clandestine works in the underworld have a certain negative connotation. While I still hold Remus and Aida as friends, I instantly grow suspicious of their goals. Are they liberators? Or are they just terrorists?

  “I only have so much, frítolö,” the merchant says as he puts his index finger on his forehead in a sign of solidarity. “What would you like to know?”

  “Embassy— Riots—” Remus says simply, gesturing for Vyck to give the man the gem.

  “How did Centum get influence in this city,” Aida asks in kind. “They had to know someone high up to pull off that little stunt.”

  I stand rooted in place. If the Insurgents have qualms with Centum, then perhaps our interests align. The merchant hands over three bags of oreings to Vyck who begrudgingly accepts them. Taking the payment as his sign to duck out for a moment, he heads towards one of the bike garages.

  “Only whispers are circulating,” the merchant says quietly, placing the gem into a small box. “Something about rooting out the leader of the Insurgents. Evidently invitations were sent to potential suspects in order to narrow down a selection.”

  “Did they find him?” Aida asks with apprehension.

  The merchant shakes his head. “No, we all received his encrypted messages yesterday regarding our new orders. But it’s not who was invited that has gotten our attention. It’s who sent the invitations.”

  “Who?” Remus manages to grunt. He glances back at me and he knows my interest is snared.

  “From what I’ve heard,” the merchant looks around surreptitiously, “someone within the Citadel of Z’hart City made that order.”

  Someone within? I ask myself. That means Centum might have the ear of a noble, or even the Council itself.

  “That’s all I know,” the merchant says with unease. “Daniul the blacksmith might know more, frítolös.”

  Walking us out of his shop, he follows us out into the street as commoners pass by. He gestures further down the avenue towards one of the light columns of smoke.

  Remus gives him a slight bow. “My— Thanks—”

  “Frítolö,” Aida finishes as we all turn away and head to our next target. The Insurgents might be my key to figuring out what exactly Centum is up to.

  ◆◆◆

  Vivían chooses to go with us as she concludes her business in the shops. Placing the new supplies and four new bowpistols in the repulsorcart, we navigate through the crowds of commoners. It takes only a few minutes, but we soon reach the low-roofed shack that houses a massive furnace and anvil. Heat radiates from within along with the smell of smoke and coal. The pinging of metal and the hissing of steaming water reverberates inside. A metal table laden with a display of crafted items for purchase blocks the entrance to the shop

  Behind the table is a broad man in a tattered, soot smeared apron. His tangled grey beard has bits of ember and charcoal stuck within, and his arms are nearly stained black. In his gloved hands, he polishes a thin dagger that looks esoteric by design.

  “Daniul?” Aida asks as we stop in front of the kiosk.

  His beady eyes glance at us for a moment before snapping back to focus on his craft. Blacksmiths are usually the quiet type, since most of their attention focuses on their abilities. The blade in his hands glimmers like molten silver.

  “There’s a three-day wait,” he grunts, his thick accented voice sounding hoarse. “I’ve got eight bloody orders left before I can do anything for yeh. Unless yeh want something in stock.”

  “Not— Buying—” Remus says, drawing a bitter look from Daniul. His round face seems offended by my answer. He doesn’t seem to be desperate for work.
<
br />   “What’s wrong with yeh?” the blacksmith mutters. “Speech impediment?”

  “Trauma—” he replies simply. Remus ruffles up his dark hair in a nervous habit.

  “Right,” Daniul snorts, placing the blade on the wooden table. “Well if yer not here to buy anything, what in all the bloody Hells do yeh want?”

  Remus tilts his head slightly before repeating the same coded phrase used by members of the Insurgents. Daniul nods his balding head in reverence. However, he seems unnerved by Vivían and me.

  “You can trust them,” Aida says in response to his skepticism. “Frítolö.”

  Finger to forehead, she proves her loyalty and seemingly vouches for Vivían and me. Daniul is nonetheless incredulous about this, but I see his shoulders relax somewhat.