Never (Prequel to The Amber Isle)

by Ashley Capes

  *

  The sun beat upon his face when he woke, throat dry and sweat already forming.

  He stood with a grunt, shaking out his cloak, sending grass seeds flying across the plain. Before him, the golden crops of Marlosa’s central lands spread in a shimmering haze, Folhan Mountains a dark shadow looming beyond. At its feet, hidden yet, lay Isacina – the white city and the seat of Empress Crisina’s power.

  Isacina, where all manner of folk from the Empire and lands beyond brought their wares or sought their fortunes... or, sought other people’s fortunes. Despite the diligence of the Imperial Guard, there was a sophisticated criminal world within the city. A world Never had brushed up against enough times to wonder whether Julesa had help from the Brotherhood.

  A wagon crunched along the road, dust clinging to its sides. A farmer taking his wares to the city? Never jogged after. If the Brotherhood was involved, he’d keep them out of the way somehow. Right now, a ride would be welcome.

  And water.

  “Greetings!” Never called, waving to the driver.

  The farmer lifted his straw hat and raised an eyebrow but didn’t slow his old grey. “Morning.”

  Never kept pace. “Are you heading to the city by chance?”

  “Near enough. Collecting another load of pears from the Walija farm.”

  “Wonderful – would you be willing to take me so far?”

  “Might do.” He wiped his brow. “So long as you don’t mind keeping quiet – I’m not much one for talk.”

  “Understood.” Never climbed up beside the man and leant back against the wooden seat. The crops rolled by with only the wagon’s wheels crunching on the road and the occasional snort from the horse.

  Eventually, the farmer took a drink from a flask. He offered it to Never, who drank. Sweet, still-cool water. “Thank you.”

  Around noon, a trio of crows burst from the fields when a horse galloped down an intersecting road, this curving around toward the imperial city. When they reached the crossroads, the farmer pulled his horse to a halt. “Here’s your stop.”

  Never hopped down. “Thanks again.”

  The wagon drove on and Never turned after the horse. The walls of the city were within sight now; pale monsters looming above. More horses and caravans passed him, dust covering their hems or wheels and many of the people with songs on their lips – mostly those young ones in small groups, dressed in their best clothes as they trekked to see the capital and its wonders. Caravan guards with their mismatched armour and unshaven faces did not smile as much, but there was always another job.

  At a crest, Never paused, leaving the road to remove his cloak and stow it in his pack. It didn’t make a huge difference, but it was enough to ease sweat as the sun grew more oppressive. The flow of people, their voices filling the blue sky, passed on, sliding down toward the huge stone gates that had been flung open to welcome all visitors.

  Those that first built the city – three brothers, hired by an old king if he remembered correctly – knew how it would dominate the view from the crest, as it likely did from the other roads flowing into Isacina.

  White and grey stone set in layers, climbed to the sky. First the forty-foot wall, and then beyond it, the circular towers of the palace and the great winged spire of Pacela’s temple, taller even than the palace and its glittering domes. Glass flashed in the tiny windows that climbed the spire and dotted the white wings. A beautiful view, if one was lucky enough to climb it.

  Finally, the ancient Twin Oaks of Ashina – the green tips of their leaves standing like spears over the walls just beyond the gate. Planted by the Goddess of Spring herself, or so the legend claimed. Maybe it was true; he hadn’t seen oaks of such majesty anywhere else.

  Never re-joined the flow of traffic, passing a pair of young men discussing the wonders of the Pink Rose. They obviously had no idea what the girls of the Rose were willing to do, but the staff would soon set them straight if the lads even worked up the nerve to approach the gilded gate.

  A merchant in a fine coat lectured an apprentice or son on the value of grain and its role in Marlosa’s economy, and the thunder of hooves announced a squad of Imperial Guard, their breastplates bright in the sun. The riders’ white cloaks snapped as they passed, the emblazoned red stallions appearing to rear up. The crowd parted for them as they returned to the city. Some folk knelt in deference and others grumbled as they were forced to tread through the ditches.

  Progress slowed. Ahead, the crowd squeezed through the gates and Never frowned as he waited. Nearby, a bald man shook his head. “Can’t they build a second entry already?”

  Never offered no response. A shout of frustration – a young voice – rose from before the walls. Laughter swelled in the crowd. The cry of annoyance changed to a yelp of pain. Never frowned as he skirted the edge of the crowd.

  Two boys – not quite men – were shoving at a shorter lad dressed in a motley of yellow, red and green, with tassels on his sleeves and huge ivory buttons on his coat. His eyes blazed with fury and a raised red mark already marred his cheek. He was reaching for a rag doll held by one of the older boys, raised high, out of reach.

  Whenever the younger neared, one bully would toss the doll to the other then cuff the short lad across the head when he turned to follow the doll.

  The crowd still laughed and jeered, but a few muttered darkly to themselves.

  The lad was beginning to grow desperate, fists shaking.

  Never strode forward and kicked one of the young thugs to the dirt. “Greetings,” Never said.

  The bully shot to his knees, his expression one of outrage. He spat dirt as he lifted a quivering finger, his narrow features twisted. “What do you think you’re doing, old man?”

  The motley boy and the one holding the doll had frozen, mouths agape.

  Never grinned. “I’m not that old, son. Now, how about you give up your game and go get drunk until you vomit a river in a nice, cool alley somewhere? Or would you rather I gave you a real thrashing – that includes your bovine-faced friend, too.”

  The lad pushed from knees to feet. “What did you call him?”

  “It’s a peculiar word, isn’t it? It means he looks like a cow, which I think is better than you; cows are placid and I have to admit, you look a little like a rat to me.” Never kept his voice pleasant.

  “You’re going to regret saying that.” Rat charged, Cow a moment behind.

  Never leapt to meet them.

  The move caught both off guard. Never ducked under a wild swing from Rat and drove his fist into the lad’s ribs. The young man collapsed with a whoosh of air as Never then twisted away from Cow’s knife thrust.

  Never snapped his hand over Cow’s wrist and spun the boy around, jerking his arm up behind his back until it popped from its socket. Cow screamed. Never dumped him to the dirt, kicking the knife away. Rat was still groaning.

  Never glanced to those nearest in the crowd, who had fallen largely silent, many with faces turned away. Perhaps for the best, and he was lucky. If blood had been shed and his curse broken loose, he didn’t fancy being chased down to the chanting of the words ‘freak’ or ‘monster’.

  “Obviously I won’t be able to do this sort of thing for everyone,” Never said. “So please, don’t get any ideas now.” He turned to the boy in the strange clothing, who was retrieving his doll. “Are you well?”

  A nod.

  Shouts for order broke through the crowd and half a dozen Imperial Guard shouldered their way from the gates. Swiftly, they encircled Never and the young men, spears and swords in hand. The leader, a captain by the sharp, hooved insignia on his cloak, folded his arms.

  “Surrender your weapons at once – you are each to be imprisoned for brawling.”

  Never sighed.

  The price of helping others.

  Chapter 3.