Never (Prequel to The Amber Isle)

by Ashley Capes

Never crouched in the depths of shadow on a rooftop, his breathing even as he listened. A wagon rattled on the street below, nearing the artisan’s gate. The gate’s carved panels showed men and women at work building Pacela’s Spire. Midnight cast a silvery-blue tint across the carvings and the square but it was the buildings opposite he studied.

  The attack would come from within. Five men, as Julesa claimed, would rush the wagon before the gate opened – which it wouldn’t, seeing as the guards had been paid to keep it closed.

  All this Never knew, but still he fought the rush of adrenaline.

  His own plan relied on some delicate timing of its own.

  He glanced beyond the gates. Hints of the palace itself, overlooking the city from its hill, were shadowy in the night. Its towers dominated the skyline even though few lights glowed from its rows of windows. The scale of it always offered a little thrill – so many rooms. No doubt it took an army of servants to run.

  The unpainted wagon finally rolled into the square. Two men only sat at the driver’s seat, a covered crate behind them. “Luck be with you, men,” Never whispered. He slipped along the roof and swiftly descended his rope, then ducked into the recess of a doorway. Movement across the square caught his eye. A glint of moonlight on steel.

  The driver leapt down with a grunt, sword swinging at his belt as he approached the heavy gate and rapped upon the door with the knocker. The sound echoed across the night but no-one answered. He knocked again.

  Feet thundered across the square as men charged from the shadows.

  Never swore – ten men, not five!

  Had he been betrayed?

  Not now.

  Odds had to be evened. And quickly. The curse... there was a chance he could manage it without calling his blood, wasn’t there? The wagon guards were already reacting, moving to protect the relics as two more men burst from cover in the back of the wagon, but even with the two men he’d hired, it still left five to take down ten.

  Never charged, knives in hand.

  Shouts rose over the clash of steel echoing in the square. Never ran to the first man that had engaged his hidden troops and slashed his knife across the thief’s back, spinning to dodge a blow from another of Julesa’s men.

  The man sneered as he swung again, and Never danced further back. He feinted and rolled into a crouch, slashing the man’s knee as he passed. The fellow collapsed with a shout. The coppery scent of blood filled the night. Never growled when his own blood stirred within his veins.

  No.

  On his feet again, he flung a blade at a man who’d raised an axe over his head. It pierced the thief’s side, just beneath the arm. Never didn’t see him fall – he was already running for another struggle, a new knife in hand.

  A loud snap rang out.

  Pain tore into his forearm. Blood sprayed as he stumbled several steps. He clamped a hand over the wound as he ducked into a crouch. Something whirred as it passed overhead.

  Julesa stood across the square, reloading her crossbow.

  Clever bitch.

  Never switched course, throwing a dagger as he did. Julesa deflected the blade with her crossbow. But he closed the space before she could reload. He knocked the weapon from her grip with his good hand. She went for her own knife but he backhanded her to the stones, chest heaving.

  Julesa’s eyes blazed and blood ran from her mouth.

  Fool!

  His own blood shot forward in a black stream. Attracted to the crimson, his curse surged, eager. It struck Julesa and drew forth her own lifeblood. She screamed, desperation clear in the wild note. Never jerked his arm back, breaking the stream, but it was too late.

  Her own blood continued to pour free as she struggled to stand, reaching her knees before collapsing. Blood pooled around her head as her scream became a cough, then a gurgling sound as she choked.

  Never’s stomach twisted as he slammed a hand over his arm.

  Too late, too late.

  She was dead – nothing could stop the blood. And worse, something of Julesa passed into his own, into him – as it often did with the curse. Her panic wracked his limbs, but more. Memories came unbidden. Julesa and a young man with a shock of blond hair. They laughed and spoke of running away together, of escaping her father and his oppression. An older man next, Marlosi nobility, and her hatred of him was clear – a marriage she did not want.

  And so she and her blond lover hatched a plan to steal her father’s artefacts. He knew someone in the city and she knew Firmita’s route –

  A cry of despair cut the connection.

  Steel clattered to the stones.

  Never spun.

  The blond-haired man from her memories collapsed beside her, cradling her head. Julesa was still now and her expression offered some hope of peace in death. Or so he wanted to believe. Never met the blond man’s eyes and there was only horror within – somehow worse than judgement.

  The sound of fighting had ceased.

  The young man choked out a sob and lifted her to walk from the square without a single faltering step.

  Death, that was all his curse was good for. How he loathed it! Why had the Gods punished him so? Why? An answer he would not learn, it seemed. Perhaps not ever. Never turned back to the wagon with a heavy tread. Bodies lay around the wagon – most of them appeared to be Julesa’s men. One of the wagon guards lay slumped against a wheel, groaning as he tied off a tourniquet above his thigh. Never tore a strip from his cloak and did the same, covering his wounded arm and pulling the strip tight with his teeth as best he could.

  The other driver, Diego, stood with the mercenaries Never had hired. That left six bodies on the stones, meaning at least one man had fled. Perhaps at the sight of Never’s curse. The three standing men approached Never.

  Diego spoke first. “I have to thank you, Never. Didn’t believe you about the attack at first, but I’m glad you found us in that bar; we’d be dead otherwise.”

  “Happy to see you alive.”

  One of the mercenaries grunted, the one with the heavy beard. “Look, that’s all well and good but we need to be paid. And as soon as possible – Imperial Guard will be here soon and I have no intention of sticking around.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nor staying near you, friend, if you understand.”

  “I do,” Never said. A common response from those who witnessed the curse in action – at least this man had the courage to follow up on his payment. The other mercenary still had wide eyes and looked away when Never glanced at him. “Let’s open the crates then.”

  Diego took an iron bar and popped the lid of the nearest crate open. He unpacked the first piece; a Marlosi carving from ancient tombs at a guess, and then another, handing it to the bearded mercenary with both hands.

  “This is a hunk of stone,” the bearded man said, voice flat.

  “No, it’s a rare and valuable headpiece from the tombs in the Didecolla Mountains,” Never replied. “Imperial property, technically. Worth twice its weight in gold. There are at least five people here in Isacina alone who’d take that off your hands, no questions asked. My only advice is that you and Diego sell to different people – you know who to try first,” he told Diego, who nodded.

  The other mercenary stepped closer. “Let me see.” He held it up to the moonlight. “It looks real to me, Guena.”

  Guena grunted. “And you’d know?”

  “My pa used to take me to the museum when I was young. I recognise the old runes.” The second mercenary handed it back to his leader. “We can confirm it later. I don’t want to hang around.”

  Gunea pointed at Never. “This better be real, else I’m coming to find you, blood or no.”

  “It’s real.”

  The mercenaries strode off into the darkened streets, weighed down by their earnings.

  Never moved to the second crate while Diego divided up the remaining pieces between himself and the other driver, Juqe. Never took a deep breath. Within could rest another clue, more answers, hope. Please. He set the cold bar
against the lid and wedged it in. Nails squeaked on wood as he pried the top free.

  He set the bar down and lifted out the first piece.

  Another Marlosi relic, a statue of Pacela when she was still believed to possess two faces. The next two pieces were minor religious deities; he placed them with Pacela. “Quickly,” he told himself.

  Finally, closer to the bottom, a steel case – was it the piece he was looking for? It had been protected well enough, slid between other pieces and shielded by a wooden frame. Never smashed the lock with the butt of a knife and opened the lid. Carved into a shard of stone, an old map of Quisoa – pre-empire.

  Here he would find the true location of the sunken city, and within, knowledge of his ancestors, surely? No links to his Marlosi heritage had borne fruit but Mother had been Quisaon; there had to be something there to explain his curse.

  Surely in the sunken city of Quisoa, if no-where else?

  Never tilted the stone to the moonlight.

  And everything was the same, the same as any other map of the southern empire.

  The sunken city did not exist.

  It likely existed only in the wild, empty rumours of folklore. Another dead-end. Another trail of clues gone to dust, scattered now. Never gripped the stone until his fingers ached.

  Just a shred of hope, by Gods, please.

  His shoulders shook but he did not hurl it to the flagstones. Instead, he replaced it and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

  Somehow, he had to find the strength to start again. Which meant finding another legend and following it as far as he could... like the dozens of times before. And yet, this time, hadn’t defeat left at least a little opportunity in its wake? He spun in the wagon, waving to Diego.

  “I need your help.”

  The man exchanged a glance with his fellow. “Look, we owe you but like the mercenary said – we aren’t sticking around.”

  “I only want you to seal me in this crate then explain to the Imperial Guard what happened – you shouldn’t have much trouble selling your story – just make sure they get this wagon inside. Then you can disappear, like you have to rush back to report this to Firmita.”

  “What?” Juqe frowned. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “So I can sneak into the palace.”

  “You don’t want your share of the relics?” Diego asked.

  “Take mine, just get me inside,” Never said.

  “Consider it done,” Diego grinned. “Help me hide this stuff first.”

  Never carried some of the pieces into the shadows and once finished, climbed into the near-empty crate. Diego replaced the lid, thumping the corners into place. “Won’t be long – I hear a few sets of boots.”

  “Good.” Never adjusted his limbs as best he could and waited in the pine-scented darkness.

  When the troop of guard paused in the square – spreading out and demanding answers, Never tensed. Would they really buy Diego’s story? It wasn’t a difficult tale to spin...

  “You two put down this many alone?” a guardsman asked.

  “We already sent two others off to get a healer,” Diego said. “Look, we just want to get back to Firmita and tell him what happened. Maybe it was personal, maybe not. Can you guarantee my Lord’s wares from here?”

  “Could be Brotherhood, Captain,” a guardsman called from across the square.

  The captain grunted. “Fine. On your way, we’ll get the wagon inside.”

  “Maybe I should stay and be sure,” Diego said, his voice affecting concern and just enough distrust to make him sound angry and petty. Never had to give him credit.

  “We can manage,” the captain said.

  Shouts rose for the gate to open, followed by thumping. Then swearing, until the captain sent a runner. Never shifted, awfully slowly, while he waited. The plan had worked – but it was taking them entirely too long.

  Footsteps rushed closer. “Captain Remaso, something’s happening – I can smell smoke.”

  A new voice. “There. It’s coming from the eastern wing, it’s a bloody fire!”

  The captain swore. “We have to get this inside now. Bande, go wake the city watch and clear the wells.”

  More crashing on the gate, as if someone had taken up a piece of stone.

  Finally it screeched open and a voice shouted. “By the Burning Graves Below, what is going on?”

  “Where have you been?” a voice snapped back.

  “Taking my watch, friend. I only heard your hollering by accident, so clam it up, will you?”

  “Where’s the gate guards?”

  “A fine question.”

  Captain Remaso intervened. “Figure it out later – there’s a fire. I want this wagon within, it’s a shipment from Lord Firmita. Everyone is to deal with that fire, understood?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the voices chimed.

  The horse snorted and finally the wagon rolled forward.

  Never flexed his hands – some luck at last, yet he still had to get into the library and find the map to the Amber Isle somehow. Before the thieves from the Water Petal, and before the threat of fire, too.

  Although, the chaos would provide good cover – it always did.

  Chapter 6.