BlackThorn

by DeWayne Kunkel

  “Does your nephew live within the walls?” Casius asked eager to see what lay behind the protective stone edifice.

  Carl grinned and shook his head, “No, he is not so wealthy a man. He does have aspirations of being so one day though. He lives in a modest area away from the waterfront.”

  Casius nodded, “Still I would like to see what lays beyond those walls.”

  “It’s not likely you ever will,” Carl said. “You need an invite to get through the gate. You and I are not the kind of people who are willingly allowed entry. Besides the Senatum guards those gates and we do not want to come under their scrutiny.”

  Casius agreed with Carl, he had had enough dealings with thugs and did not wish to tempt fate.

  The road improved as they came within the walls shadow. It was no longer a simple dirt track; the way ahead was paved with smooth stones tightly fitted together. Carl guided the horse around the edges of the crowd before the gate. He followed the road, riding along side the wall.

  The wall curved in a broad arc until they rode southward. The land ahead sloped downward towards the river. Buildings of all sizes crowded the banks. Narrow streets formed a veritable maze up the slope. The buildings ended a few hundred feet from the wall. The land between was barren, devoid of both grass and trees.

  “They hold tournaments there during the spring,” Carl said answering his unspoken question.

  The small cart entered the narrow streets, winding about the buildings. Carl took turn after turn until Casius became lost. There was no plan to the city’s streets. It was a maze of alleyways and cobbled lanes. People by the hundreds moved along them. The cries of merchants hawking their wares competed with the boisterous music coming from the many tavern windows.

  The din of noise and the powerful aromas of the city threatened to overwhelm his senses. Casius quickly learned not to breath deeply through his nose. The smell of human wastes and rotted food permeated everything, a noxious undertone to the boisterous excitement of the city.

  Through this chaos Carl expertly guided the wagon. Weaving around carts and pedestrians alike he often grumbled to himself displeased by the slow progress they were making.

  Casius hardly noticed the delay, never before had he believed there could be so many people in one place. Unlike the small houses he was used to many of these buildings rose three stories above the crowded streets.

  He saw people on the balconies, hanging the wash out to dry. On one balcony near the waterfront he saw three scantily dressed women. They smiled and waved to him as he passed.

  “Stay clear of them and their ilk,” Carl laughed. “Nothing but trouble for an honest man.”

  Casius blushed and looked away, the whole scene reminded him of the grand parades he had read about. He could imagine himself at the head of some victorious army marching through the streets. The cheers of the populace blending into one joyous roar that shattered the autumn air.

  The rancid odors of civilization thickened as they neared the water. Casius placed his hand over his face in a futile attempt to lesson his exposure.

  If Carl noticed the offending smells he gave no sign. He took a turn and the cart slowly wound up a broad thoroughfare that led uphill away from the water.

  The buildings improved, becoming well kept with stained glass windows. The smells lessoned considerably remaining only the faintest shadow of what they were near the River. The alleys here were few; those that did exist were clean. The people who lived here refused to allow the rubbish to accumulate.

  Both sides of the street held multi-storied homes, their lower floors given over to various storefronts. Carl turned into an alley between two modest buildings of whitewashed wood. Behind the homes lay a small yard with a sturdy barn.

  Carl stopped the wagon and stretched. “Here we are,” He said wincing as his neck popped. He climbed down and unhitched the horse leading it into the barn. He returned after a few minutes, retrieving a small bundle from the cart he walked down the alley and up onto the porch. With a reassuring nod to Casius he opened the door and stepped into the shop.

  A small bell rang as Casius closed the door behind him. He looked about the shop in amazement. Books by the hundreds lined the walls. They filled the shelves to capacity, overflowing into neat stacks on the wooden floor. Casius had never imagined such a sight, until now he had only seen perhaps a dozen books in his life.

  The musty smell of old leather and parchment hung in the air. Casius found it to his liking, he ran his hand along the spines yearning to pull one down and leaf through its pages. What secrets must lay hidden here, stories by the thousands waiting to be discovered.

  His eyes roamed from title to title, most of the books were written in the kings’ tongue, an ancient language that was rarely used. At one time it had been the unifying tongue of the world, used widely by the eastern kingdoms.

  A few of them were written in a flowery script that he could not recognize. The swirling letters held his eye and tickled his imagination.

  A boyish looking man in his mid thirties rushed out of the back room. He was heavy set and kept his hair cut short. It lay flat against his head; light brown in color with the barest touch of gray at his temples. A broad smile spread across his cherubic face when he recognized Carl.

  “Well I’ll be damned!” He exclaimed wiping his hands on his ink stained apron as he crossed the room. He grasped Carl’s hand in a firm grip, “Never thought you’d make the trip this late in the year.” He looked about the shop, “Where’s Winowa?” he asked with a touch of concern in his voice.

  “Back home and in good health,” Carl answered reassuringly. “There’s only room for two in my cart,” he placed his hand on Casius’s shoulder. “I want you to meet Casius,” he said introducing him. “Casius this is my nephew Gayn.”

  Gayn reached out and shook Casius’s hand; his fingers were dark stained with ink of various hues. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a polite smile.

  Carl cleared his throat, “Gayn could we go in the back, I need to speak with you in private.”

  Gayn nodded. “Of course,” he looked at his uncle with a slightly puzzled expression.

  “Stay put,” Carl told Casius. “We wont be long.” He led Gayn across the shop speaking softly as they went.

  Casius knew they were talking about him, ignoring the voices coming from the other room he browsed through the shop. He found one large tome, bound in dark leather with gilded letters along the spine. It was the early works of Lenar, bard of Ril’Gambor. Casius sat on the floor and carefully opened the book.

  He found it difficult to concentrate on the small handwritten letters. The muffled voices from the backroom had risen as if they were arguing. He could not make out the words they were saying. Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable, he did not wish to bring any trouble to Carl and his family.

  He stood looking to the door, Graystone was a big city perhaps he could make a life of his own here without imposing on others.

  “Do not force the bend,” His father had told him once while he watched him work a wooden plank into place on a boats hull. “Do it one step at a time, ease it into place lest the wood split and become useless. Life is handled in the same way, one step at a time. If you try and hurry it, all you will have to show is ruin.”

  Casius’s eyes misted over at the thought of his father. He wiped them dry with the back of his hand and took a step towards the door. As he took hold of the latch the door to the back room opened behind him.

  Gayn looked at the book he held and frowned, “Young man that book is worth more gold than you will see in a lifetime. Put it back carefully. It is one of the oldest works I own.”

  Casius carefully returned the book to the shelf. “I am sorry Gayn,” He said embarrassed at having taken liberties with someone else’s property. “I saw that it was written by Lenar and could not resist looking at it. My mother had taught me to read using one of his works. It was much smaller with fewer tales but I have read it a hundred times over.
”

  “Your mother was educated then?” Gayn asked somewhat surprised.

  “Very,” Casius answered. “I was reading and writing in kings tongue before my fourth birthday.”

  Carl smiled and slapped Gayn on the back.

  Gayn snatched a book from the shelf and tossed it to Casius. “Who wrote this?” he asked.

  The small book was worn its leather cover faded and scratched. Casius carefully opened it to the first page. The ink was faded and the vellum yellowed with age. It was an older form of Kings tongue and took a few moments to read some of the highly stylized letters. “The use of herbs in the care of livestock.” Casius read aloud, “ by Oref Moind.” He finished closing the book. “There is a date as well but the ink is too faded for me to make it out.”

  Gayn took the book and returned it to its place. “I’ll be honest with you Casius,” He said smiling. “I was more than a little angry with Carl for bringing you here. I thought you to be a liability, a homeless thief who had conned my Uncle for a meal and shelter.”

  Carl grunted but remained silent allowing Gayn to finish.

  “I run a profitable business here and have been in need of help for some time now. Forget the carpentry Casius, work here with me. I have a spare room that you can use for as long as you like.”

  Casius was pleased with the offer, “I don’t know what I can do to help you?”

  “You can read and write,” Gayn answered. “That’s a good start I’ll teach you the rest.” He turned to Carl, “With that settled will you be staying with us for a bit Uncle?”

  Carl shook his head, “I wish that I could but I best be on my way come morning. I hate leaving Winowa alone for long, she might get it in her head to throw out my pipes.”

  Gayn laughed, “She just might, you know she hates that habit of yours. At least you’ll have supper with us, Elain will be happy to see you.”

  “Speaking of Elain, Where is your wife now?” Carl asked toying with the pipe in his pocket.

  “At the market,” Gayn answered.

  Carl opened the door to shop, “Come on Gayn close for the day. I don’t get to the city often and I want to have a look around.”

  Casius stopped Gayn as they left, “I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

  “This isn’t charity Casius, you’ll earn your keep and a modest wage as well.” Gayn ushered them out onto the porch and locked the door with a large bronze key. “Let’s have a walk then,” He smiled tossing his ink-stained apron over the railing.

  Casius followed him down the stairs eager to explore the city.

  “The words of a traitor cut deeper than any blade forged by the hand of man.”

  Lenar, Bard of Ril’Gambor

  Chapter Six

  The sun was setting when G’relg spotted the Isle of Cythera low on the horizon. The sky had become a roaring fire of red and orange. The brilliant colors gleaming on the snow-clad peaks of the Lycian mountains that lay within the islands heart.

  The knot of fear that was slowly growing within him quickly overshadowed his relief at finally seeing the Isle. His ship was in shambles and would likely never sail the open sea again. The storm had nearly sent them down into the abyss.

  It was only by good luck that they had survived. For three weeks they had worked the oars, with little food or water. Half his crew was dead, either lost over the side during the tempest or dead from exposure. Of the captives from Kale only a pitiful few remained and most of them would not survive long within the slave pits.

  He idly fingered the small sack of coins on his hip, it was a paltry sum and would not pay a tenth of what this proud vessel would cost to replace.

  The storm was beyond his control and he had done his best given the circumstances. How would Bjorn handle the loss of so many men and the crippling of his ship? G’relg wondered if he would survive to see the morning. Bjorn’s since of justice was brutal at best. After all the man had become the leader of the Raiders by killing any who had dared oppose him.

  He ran his tongue over the aching stumps of his front teeth. The damned boy had ruined his mouth, and broken his nose in his escape. The sea had him now, there was no way he could have survived long in that tumultuous water.

  He could feel Dulrich’s eyes upon his back. Turning his head he locked eyes with the grinning man. He stared in challenge but both men were too weak to do anything about it. In a few days time he knew he would have to kill him.

  He turned away, “Gloat now,” He mumbled. “Soon you will be dead.” G’relg promised toying with the hilt of his dagger.

  It was one hour after midnight when the stricken vessel reached the harbors mouth. The moon was a thin sliver of argent hanging low in a sky ablaze with stars. The soft light outlined the tall cliffs of the shoreline, the sea at their feet was alive with glimmers of reflected light dancing on the rolling waves.

  A narrow channel lay between two outward jutting cliffs. The towers of Torinth guarded the opening, each tower rising on either side of the channels mouth. The massive square constructs were illuminated by the glow of hundreds of torches. Men moved along the battlements keeping a watchful eye turned towards the sea, Bjorn had made many enemies and the raiders were a wary lot.

  The channel between the towers was scarcely wider than sixty feet, the waves rumbled as they raced through the narrows. A bridge of stone spanned the gap connecting the two Tower’s at their mid point, fifty feet above the waves. Merlons crowned the span, ample cover for defenders attacking any ship that sought to pass through the channel.

  A heavy chain blocked the entry; it was visible in the troughs between waves. It was lowered into the depths by winches in both towers when a ship was granted passage.

  G’relg blew four sharp notes on a silver whistle he wore about his neck. An answering call rang out from the battlement. In the gloom he could here the rattling of the chain as the winches were turned within the towers.

  Men lined the span as they passed into the darkness of the channel. Hard faced men who held their weapons ready, always eager for combat.

  G’relg stood on at the prow defiantly meeting the gaze of the men above. He was one of Bjorn’s captains and would not be cowed by anyone. Strength earned a man respect on Cythera, by his sword was his fortune made.

  Beyond the Towers the channel emptied into a shallow bay. Stone quays lined the western shore. The shadows of a thousand masts darkened the sky. The town beyond was dark with only a few oil lamps burning along the waterfront.

  Further inland the palace of Bjorn stood above all, built on the edge of a cliff it commanded a breathtaking view of the harbor. Lamps flickered along its many balconies, reflecting brightly from the polished marble of its walls.

  As they neared the docks a deep voiced man shouted from the darkness. “Who goes there?” He asked holding a weakly burning lantern high.

  “G’relg Halmfist and what remains of crew and ship.”

  The harbormaster squinted in the darkness, trying to force his weak eyes to focus. “So it is,” He said recognizing them. “Tie her up here,” He motioned to the quay upon which he stood with a wave of his lantern. “Thought the storm had taken you lads.”

  “It damn near did,” G’relg replied tossing the man a line.

  The old sailor looked the vessel over with an experienced eye as he tied the mooring line in place. The he shook his head in amazement. “A wonder you made it at all.”

  G’relg stepped up onto the pier as a crowd was forming. It was not often that a boat dared the narrows in the dark. A ship that was presumed lost was sure to draw the curious.

  The harbormaster hobbled over and held his lantern high to light G’relg’s face. “Glad to see you back, now that damned warlock will stop coming around every night.”

  G’relg’s heart lurched, “Vool has been waiting for us?”

  “Like a vulture,” the man replied. “Always lurking in the shadows looking like death herself.”

  The harbormaster’s rheumy eyes
opened wide in surprise. “I have…” He stammered. “Other pressing needs.” He scuttled away as fast as his crooked legs could carry him.

  G’relg need not turn around to know that Vool was behind him. He could feel the aura of fear that surrounded the enchanter clutching at his heart. The hair on his neck rose as he turned to face the black robed figure.

  G’relg’s heart skipped a beat when he turned and looked into the malevolent stare of Vool. Twin coals of emerald light burned sickly within the inky blackness of the enchanter’s hood. Tongues of green flame flowed up out of the sockets casting no light on their surroundings. He swallowed back his fear and inclined his head in respect.

  “Is it done?” Vool’s menacing voice whispered, he had spoken softly but his words traveled far in the night air.

  G’relg nodded, “New Hope is no more, save those few we have taken captive.”

  Vool’s gaze drifted over the few women who survived the trip. The brightness of his gaze dimmed. “All female?” He asked turning to face G’relg once more.

  “All of the men were slain as you instructed Lord Vool.”

  “Perhaps not all, Lord Vool,” a voice said from behind G’relg.

  G’relg spun on his heel and faced Dulrich’s smiling face. “Be silent!” He snapped at the man drawing his dagger. He was fully intent on killing the man here and now.

  A wave of dread slammed into his back forcing him to stagger forward. Dulrich felt the blow as well; both men stumbled and nearly fell.

  “Sheath your blade and hold your tongue!” Vool’s voice commanded with a serpent like hiss. Stepping forward Vool brushed G’relg aside with a glance. He ignored the raider as he was thrown to the hard stone of the quay.

  Dulrich was having second thoughts about the wisdom of trying to use Vool to rid him of G’relg. The enchanter stood glaring down at him, those burning eyes threatening to sear his soul.

  “Speak,” Vool hissed threateningly, the awful glow within his hood flared anew.