by L. L. McNeil
‘Yes.’
Moroda dropped the keys on the floor and ran back to the gate.
‘There’s a Varkain in there? Why did you release him? We should be locking the gate, not letting him out!’ Eryn cried, incredulous.
By the time Moroda had turned around to check, Sapora had unlocked himself and was on his feet, racing through the door faster than she could blink.
‘Thanks very much,’ Sapora said, grinning. Both rows of dagger-like teeth flashed white as ivory from his dull, grey skin. He was thin, shorter than a full grown man, but lean and supple. Dried blood covered his clawed hands and the clothes he wore were faded black. A mop of dark, greenish hair matched his eyes, and he watched the two girls with vertical-slit pupils widely dilated in the dim light of the dungeon.
Before either sister could respond to their first sight of a Varkain, he, too, raced off without another word.
‘Ugh, those creatures are vile,’ Eryn shivered. ‘Come on, before that guard realises what’s happened!’ She grabbed Moroda’s arm and led the pair out the dungeon and into the lower halls of the castle. ‘There’s a servant’s entrance just along here, by the back of the kitchens. If we hurry, they won’t know you’re gone for hours!’
Moroda’s heart soared as they ran through empty halls; she could practically smell the sunlight bursting through the windows as they raced along. The nightmare was going to be over! She wasn’t going to die! Thank the dragons above for family and the resourcefulness of her sister!
As they ran, Moroda smelled bread baking. ‘The kitchens are on the other side of this wall,’ Eryn panted. ‘The door’s…just at the end…of the corridor!’
Moroda readied herself for a final sprint, when a door burst open to their right and Morgen hurtled through it, tackling her to the ground. ‘Not so fast!’ he yelled, grabbing at her legs as she wriggled out of his hold.
‘Get off her!’ Eryn screamed, circling back to kick at his hands.
Between the two of them thrashing around, Morgen’s hold loosened, and Moroda managed to get back on her feet. Without pausing for breath, the two sprinted to the end of the corridor and straight out into the bustling street. The afternoon sunlight was dazzling after so long in the darkness, and Moroda took in a deep breath.
‘Stop right there!’ Morgen shouted, only a few paces behind, but the escaped prisoners raced into the crowded market streets.
Chapter Two
‘Stop where you are!’ Morgen yelled, shoving past the crowds mingling on the cobblestones of Niversai’s market streets, which were filled with buskers, artists and actors vying for attention. Laughter and shouting filled the air, a cacophony of noise, colour, and light. Noblemen and women—Goldstones and Silverstones from throughout Corhaven and beyond—spilled over the grounds of Rosecastle into the bustling market square. Vendors bartered across one another from their stalls, or pushed carts overflowing with food and silks, sacks of spices and materials, through the city. Courtesans cloaked in red and yellow silk lingered near the edges of the market, looking for the attention of any Goldstone who glanced their way, while people of high standing wandered through the crowds, one of the few times of the year they enjoyed Niversai’s festivities alongside the common folk.
The low wall that surrounded Rosecastle was unmanned, and Morgen cursed as he raced through the open gate and into the street. The Imperial Guards stationed at Rosecastle were short due to two main reasons; the annual airship races currently underway, and Aciel, the foreign visitor, whose sudden, unplanned arrival had thrown the entire castle into disarray. Aciel and his small retinue had, in the space of a few hours, somehow agreed with the king to take on two hundred Imperial soldiers, and had left the capital that
morning, following an address to the citizens. It left the remaining officers stretched so thin they could work every hour of the day and night and still not patrol the entire city. What remaining guards could be spared were posted at the city gates to try and balance the flow of Linarians coming to visit and stay in Niversai for the races. It meant Morgen alone was in charge of prisoners, and the only one in pursuit of Moroda, Eryn, and the other two escapees.
Though not suited in full armour, his steel boots, greaves and gauntlets made him considerably heavier than the much more lightly dressed girls he was trying to chase down. When coupled with the busy streets, the young soldier had hardly any chance of keeping them in sight, much less apprehending them. He knew Amarah and Sapora would have also escaped from the cell, but if he could at least bring one prisoner back, it might start to make up for the mistake of allowing the escape in the first place. Of course, the other two were far more dangerous, but Morgen wasn’t about to try and hunt down a Varkain or a sky pirate by himself. He didn’t know if they had allies in the city, and wasn’t keen on finding out.
In truth, it hadn’t been his plan to put all the prisoners in one cell to begin with—he was only following his captain’s orders—but that had backfired, and he was sure his colleagues would somehow find a way to pin it on him, as they always did. He had actually been trying to seek out a medic for Amarah’s injury. So much for having some compassion.
Morgen came to a halt, doubled over and panting, trying to catch his breath and will away the stitch which had developed in his side. He shook his head, angry at himself. He was a young, fit man who could outrun his captains with ease—why was he having such a hard time trying to chase down two prisoners? Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, Morgen shook his head again before looking back in the direction they had raced off. Among the crowd of bartering townsfolk and market stall traders, he could not see them.
Setting off again, Morgen turned his attention to the traders, taking a sly glance into every tent and behind every stall he could, hoping to discover them by searching methodically.
*
Moroda and her sister sat at an empty table by the door of a small tavern near the back of the market they’d ducked into a couple of streets ahead. It gave them excellent views of Rosecastle and its grounds, and provided much needed sanctuary. Both had been born and raised in Niversai, and knew this part of the city like the back of their hands. At twenty-five, Moroda had frequented the tavern for several years, and had brought Eryn along with her when she developed the taste for hot wine.
‘He won’t even realise there’s a tavern here,’ Eryn said, once she had her breath back, resting her arms on the table, and putting her face into them. ‘It still looks like the old blacksmith’s.’
‘If it weren’t for you, I’d have died,’ Moroda replied, a little more sombre. ‘Even if you think the beheading sentence was just a threat, there were two…real criminals in there,’ she shook her head and thought back to her cell mates. ‘That Amarah is obviously a thief and a fighter, and has her own airship to boot…and the Varkain, Sapora…I don’t even want to think about him.’
Lifting her face from the table, Eryn shrugged, ‘but nothing happened, so don’t worry. We just need to lie low for a bit. I’ll get us something to eat.’ Ever positive, she got up and made her way past the other patrons to the bar.
Moroda decided to take better notice of her surroundings so as not to be caught unawares again. Perhaps she wouldn’t come upon another Varkain for years, but anyone could be dangerous if you got on the wrong side of them.
She took the time to observe the other patrons, trying to figure out who to potentially be wary of. She was impressed Amarah had spotted the Varkain after only a minute or two of being in the cell; Moroda did not aspire to be a thief, yet she had to admire Amarah’s observation—she even managed to find the florins she had hidden away!
Perhaps that was her next move? To try and find that sky pirate and demand her florins back. She had helped her with the injury, after all, and they had only escaped thanks to Eryn. Surely one good turn deserved another? What were three florins to a notorious pirate, anyway? Moroda supposed she had entire chests full of silver florins and gold crowns hidden away somewhere secret.
; As her mind wandered, Moroda’s gaze fell on a cloaked man sat at a tall table near the window at the front of the tavern. The thick glass windows were dirty, and let in only a little light which illuminated his face, showing scars criss-crossing his pale cheeks and lips. He was hunched over a steaming mug, and his heavy travel cloak fell to the floor, covering his limbs. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, brown like his cloak, which covered his dark blond hair and sagged with age.
Moroda tried to note more about the man, when he blinked and turned, his bright grey eyes meeting hers. Caught staring, Moroda hurriedly looked away, relieved when Eryn returned to the table a moment later with two mugs of tea and a bowl of cloudberries.
After waiting a few, long seconds, Moroda risked another glance at the man, who had thankfully returned his attention to the window.
‘What are you staring at?’ Eryn asked, looking over the other tables in the tavern and handing her sister one of the mugs.
Moroda took it, careful to take her time before glancing up again, ‘that man sat at the table by the window…No, no, don’t look now…He’s…a bit odd.’
‘Odd?’ Eryn questioned, popping a cloudberry in her mouth and chewing, trying to look over her shoulder inconspicuously. It didn’t take her long to pick him out, and she whipped back round to her sister. ‘I bet he’s an Ittallan,’ Eryn said, her eyebrows raised. ‘The airship races bring all sorts. He’s not a trader or a pilot, he can’t be, otherwise he’d be out there with the others. Maybe he’s here supporting someone? I wouldn’t worry. Eat!’ Her haughty tone belied her concern for her sister. Eryn shoved the bowl of food towards Moroda. ‘Just think how close we are to the castle! We’re hiding right under their noses and they’ll never realise!’
Moroda smiled at her sister’s words, and drank deeply from her cup of honeyed tea before saying slowly, ‘I can’t help but worry. Not about that guard Morgen, but about my arrest this morning… Some stranger from a foreign land who can take hundreds of our soldiers, treat the townsfolk as though they were all beneath him…I had to say something. If he’s going from city to city doing this…soon, all of Corhaven, all of Linaria, might be following him! I really don’t like it.’
‘With everything else going on, Ro, I think you need to stop worrying about Linaria’s politics. You go and get yourself arrested the moment my back is turned! Like some common criminal! I’m sure I should have been the older sister!’
Moroda remained quiet as the two resumed their meagre meal, a far cry from the fine meats and wine they had grown accustomed to, while they observed the comings and goings of the tavern.
‘I also lost the coin I had,’ Moroda added in a small voice, once they had finished eating.
‘What?’
‘In the cell…I tried to hide the florins under a loose slab, but that woman, the other prisoner, Amarah…she found them,’ Moroda sighed, leaning forward and pressing her face into her folded arms on the table. ‘Today has been so awful, and I worry if this is what happens the first time Aciel shows up, what’s going to become of me?’
‘Ro, stop it,’ Eryn said sharply. ‘It’s nothing to do with that man. Just your bad luck, that’s all. We’ll get through this! I still have a crown saved and a few half florins, too. With all the trade going on right now, I’m sure we’ll be fine. No more worrying about Aciel or politics, agreed? It’s nothing to do with us, and he’s already left the city, so stop thinking about him.’
‘No worrying about Aciel or politics,’ Moroda echoed. ‘I honestly don’t know where I’d be without you, Eryn.’
‘Back in that dank cell with a dirty snake, I expect!’
The man by the window pushed his chair back as he stood up, and the scrape of wood on wood caught the girl’s attention.
Moroda watched him walk towards the door from the corner of her eye, noting a slight limp in his stride.
The man took his final swig from his mug, emptying the contents completely, before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and placing the empty container on the sisters’ table. ‘Aciel should be the least of your concerns. You wanna worry about something? You ought to worry about the dragons,’ he said, watching them closely.
‘What about the dragons?’ Moroda asked, half getting out of her seat to address the man, emboldened.
‘Speaking as a dragon hunter, you see. You ought to take shelter if you know what’s good for you, and soon.’ He lightly tapped the edge of his hat to them and headed out into the late afternoon sun.
*
The market stalls were less than appealing to Amarah as she navigated the busy streets. Shouts of fresh fruit and vegetables, expensive jewellery, bags of coffee beans, sacks of potatoes, strips of cloth and jewels of every colour were directed her way, but she disregarded them all. It was a shame—she had come to Niversai this time of year specifically to take her pick from the traders and finance her way through winter, but her arrest and the seizure of her weapons and airship had put her plans out of order for the moment.
Ever resilient, Amarah knew her next step was to re-arm herself before stealing Khanna back. She never felt more vulnerable than when she was without her weapon, and it was without question the first thing she had to do. The airship races would be on for another few days, yet—she might still have time to win some coin from arrogant pilots as the excitement dwindled.
As she left the busier inner market and started to peruse the smaller stalls offering steadily more exotic goods and spices, she finally came upon something worth looking at: a weapons trader.
‘Finest weapons in all Linaria,’ the trader called, noting her interest had been caught. ‘None better.’
Amarah glanced up at him, and a smile crept onto her face—he was an Ittallan trader, no doubt about that. The man was huge, bordering on seven feet tall, with broad shoulders, a bald head, a wide girth, and hands that looked like they could crush boulders. His eyes were a soft brownish-orange, gentle and smiling, matching the rich baritone of his voice and his deeply tanned skin.
‘The best in Linaria? That’s quite a claim,’ Amarah said, a hand on her hip as she played along.
‘Yes. But a true claim,’ he replied, selecting a dagger with an ornate handle. ‘You see the work here,’ he pointed with his little finger, ‘the detail in the hilt is by Anahrik,’ he gestured to another man with his top half in a barrel at the back of the stall.
‘Silver?’ Amarah tilted her head, taking the offered blade to examine it closely. It was not something she had seen on a real weapon before—usually they were made for display in the homes of Goldstones and royalty.
‘Yes, silver. For beauty and strength, and our trademark. No-one else does this for their weapons or armour.’
Amarah stepped to the side to better look at the rest of his options. ‘I don’t see my weapon here, though,’ she said, eyes narrowing.
‘What you want? We have blades of all shapes and lengths; we have axes, longbows, crossbows…’
‘None of those,’ she said, folding her arms and smiling. ‘But it is long range, if you use it well.’
‘Throwing stars?’ Anahrik piped in, having resurfaced from the barrel with arms full of arrow points. He, too, was an Ittallan; though younger than the other trader by several years, and not nearly as stocky, with bright blue eyes, pale blond hair, and an even paler complexion. He had mastered the common tongue and spoke clearly, with no trace of the accent from his homeland. He flashed a wide smile and walked around the stall to Amarah’s side.
Amarah laughed and shook her head, ‘no, not those. I use a scythe. Do you have any?’
‘Only the finest, we keep them off display as they’re so popular, only on request do we show these, they’re so beautiful…’ Anahrik began, but Amarah had lost interest in his sales tactics already, her attention on the older Ittallan.
The larger trader turned to a heavy wooden trunk sat behind the stall, lifted the thick metal lid, and reached within. He carefully brought out a lengthy package, well wrapped in soft, red
linen. ‘This is the weapon we have for you,’ he said, resting it on the counter of the stall. He unwrapped it slowly, showing off the dark ebony handle first, smoothed and carved to look like marble. The silver inlay wound around it like rope, and the blade at the head of the weapon was curved, serrated at the end, and glistened in the sun.
‘Three florins,’ Amarah said, after looking it over for a long moment.
‘Three florins? An insult,’ the trader spat. ‘It is worth two crowns at least, but I can sell it for one crown, no less.’
‘One crown would buy me all of your weapons,’ Amarah replied, shifting her weight to her other hip. ‘Three florins is my offer.’
‘Three florins wouldn’t cover the silver that went into that,’ Anahrik jumped in again, leaning forward and picking up the scythe nimbly. He caressed the handle and ran his finger along the length of the blade. ‘See the precision here, that’s from Ittallan forges, as someone who knows weapons would realise,’ he said, turning it over carefully, allowing the gleam of the low sun to run along the blade and catch the sparkle in the silver.
‘Silver makes it weaker. Yes it looks very pretty, but I am no Goldstone, dazzled by something shiny but worthless. Do you want to sell the weapon or not? The day is getting on and trading will finish soon,’ Amarah retaliated, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Scythes are not popular because they are uncommon. You could get rid of two dozen daggers as often as one scythe, and here I am, ready to take it off your hands.’
‘Palom,’ Anahrik growled, glancing at the larger trader.
‘Three florins is not enough,’ Palom retorted, shaking his head and folding his arms to mirror Amarah’s stance. Neither was willing to budge.
Amarah exhaled, annoyed. She needed a good weapon, and this was by far the best she was going to find in Niversai at such short notice. Perhaps she could try and release Khanna without weaponry, win enough in the races, and buy the scythe with the winnings. She did not wish to risk stealing from Ittallan weapon smiths.