Table of Contents
Prologue: The Flight of Windfellow
Chapter One: The Little Thief
Chapter Two: Cleverly Disguised
Chapter Three: The Sorcerer’s Scream
Chapter Four: The Incredible Flying Thief
Chapter Five: Pit Strider
Chapter Six: Destiny Approaching
Chapter Seven: Soldiers and Pickpockets
Chapter Nine: Unexpected Ventures
Chapter Ten: The Cleric of Ymeer
Chapter Twelve: Unexpected Allies
Chapter Seventeen: White Blade, Black Night
Epilogue: Wave Strider Imperiled
Brother Thief
The Song of the Aura
Book One
A Novel by Gregory J. Downs
Copyright 2011
This book is dedicated to my parents,
Who helped me persevere.
And to my “favorite cousin”…
Because she wanted it so badly.
Prologue: The Flight of Windfellow
It was night, deep and dark, over the desert land of Blast. The sky overhead was leaden and gray, obscuring the stars behind a thick roof of clouds. Sand stretched all around, still hot from the blazing sun that pelted it during the day. Pits pockmarked the hilly desert, ominous and gaping. No birds called; no wind blew. All was still.
A dust devil, sleepy and slow, whirled across the space between two dunes. Pound. Pound. Far off, a small sound could be heard. A tumbleweed rolled past, pushed on its way by the little dust devil. Pound. Pound.
Suddenly the dead quiet of the desert night was shattered. The pounding grew deafeningly loud, all at once. A lone horseman raced in and out of the sandy hills, a billowing gray cloak flapping out behind him, a small mewling bundle clutched to his chest. His long felt cap whipped left and right as he galloped on. In seconds he was gone, and the desert was quiet once more.
A minute passed. Then two.
A darkness, blacker than the night, seeped out from between the dunes. A shriek broke out over the silence, long and high and horrible. The chase was on. Far ahead, the mysterious horseman kept riding, even with the dark presence behind him. His destination was close, and if he could only reach it in time…
The shrieks behind him grew louder. His enemies were gaining on him.
“Ainur Aeso, Wendfilo!” the horseman hissed urgently to his steed. Faster than a falcon, Windfellow. The horse neighed, tossed its head, and pushed on faster than before. It was in tune with its master; it knew his urgency and it knew what was at stake.
The sand rushed by on either side. Tufts of grass whisked by or were trampled; wind whipped Windfellow’s mane and tail as he flew across the desert. Shrieks cut the air behind them again and again. The darkness behind them was approaching rapidly, and no matter how fast the horseman rode, the shadows still gained. The horseman clutched his precious bundle securely to his chest, and chanced a quick look behind. What he saw confirmed his worst fears.
The black shadow was so near now that it had begun to solidify. It was taking shape. As the mass of darkness drew nigh, it split into almost a dozen separate parts, each of which could soon be seen for what it was: a beast like a horse, black-skinned and leathery, with spikes of hard iron protruding from its head and mane. Each of the creatures was several feet higher than the horseman’s mount, and each boasted long, sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.
“So close…” the horseman gasped. The bundle in his arms began to cry. “Shhhh, child,” he whispered, still trying to gauge the distance between himself and his pursuers. Terrifying as the demon-horses were, he was not afraid of them. Their riders, however… Their riders were hunched, black-robed, and almost invisible against their monstrous mounts, but under tough, studded hoods their black, wrinkled faces leered at him with hollow, shadowy eyes. “Pit Striders,” the horseman spat, and turned forward again, urging Windfellow on to a breakneck speed that would have killed lesser horses.
Then, far ahead, a light gleamed. The keen eyes of the horseman could just barely make out the high slate walls and towering structures of a lonely desert city. It was close, so close… but not close enough. The horseman’s pursuers shrieked again, but this time it was not a shriek of anger… it was a universal shriek of triumph.
The horseman rode in among a field of sandy dunes, barely visible in the darkness of the night. Without warning, another shadow, another monster blasted out from its cover, directly behind him. The sulfurous breath of its mount heated the back of the horseman’s head, almost enough to set his cap aflame. Windfellow whinnied in absolute terror and pulled ahead. For a brief few seconds, there was a respite. The bundle in the horseman’s arms began to wail.
“Enough!” he snarled. Balancing his bundle in one arm, he reached down with his other and seized a gnarled walking stick from among his saddlebags. Raising it above his head, he called on the power that he had been given and the name he carried in his heart. He spoke words that were sacred, words that he would use only when no other words would suffice.
His staff glowed for two full seconds, an intense red light like a shining ember in the fire.
Windfellow whinnied again, in fear and in joy. And Windfellow grew wings; great gray wings, feathered and strong. They were so wide that for a second they clipped the dunes on either side of him, and then lifted him and his rider up over the sandy hills and into the night sky.
The moon came out from behind the dark clouds. The wailing from the horseman’s bundle abruptly stopped.
“Like a falcon,” the horseman muttered, pleased. The Children of the Pit were far behind him now, shrieking in helpless fury at having lost their prey. Quick as their vile steeds were, they were no match for a falconhorse like Windfellow. The horseman rode on through the heavy night air, and as the desert of Blast rushed by under him, he allowed himself to feel just a bit more at ease. His destination was drawing closer every second. In a few short minutes he would be at the city walls.
The moment did not last. A black something blocked out the moon and cast a shadow over the falconhorse and rider.
It was the Pit Strider who had surprised them in the dunes. His mount had also sprouted wings: the wings of a giant bat, leathery and spiked like the rest of the demon-horse's body. The pursuer himself was taller than any of his brethren. He held himself straighter, and his black robes were flecked with dark red. His hood was thrown back from his hideous face, pale and sallow, glinting gold in the moonlight. A stringy gray beard was all the hair on his head, and in his hand he held a knotted black staff almost identical to the horseman's.
“Give up the child!” he growled. His hairless face was contorted in rage at his elusive quarry. His bloodshot eyes glowed with an unholy light. His voice was like a corpse being ripped to pieces by carrion-birds; like ice sliding over hard stone. It was far worse than the shrieks his kind used as language.
The horseman ignored him. His mind was frozen with fear, but he ignored his enemy and steered Windfellow into a steep dive. His enemy roared- a man's roar, not a shriek- and plummeted after him.
This is no Pit Child, the horseman realized. This is one of the Legion!
“Ainur Aeso! Ainur Aeso!” he hissed. Windfellow flew as hard as he could, but the beast above him was too large and nimble to be shaken off. When the falconhorse pulled out of its dive, the monster was there, kicking violently at Windfellow's wings and head and the head of his rider. It was a matter of seconds before the horseman and his steed were bludgeoned out of the sky.
Raising his staff again, the horseman focused his power until it glowed red. The next time the monstrous beast flew at him from above,
he steered Windfellow sharply up, surprising his enemy and raking the top of his gnarled staff across the beast's belly. The thing kicked out, slamming its rear hooves into the horseman's back, and screamed as only a dying animal can.
“Down!” commanded the horseman, and Windfellow obeyed. Behind them the black demon-horse fell out of the sky, its red eyes dimmed from the bloody, flaming gash in its stomach. Ignoring the pain in his shoulders, the horseman smiled grimly. “We've done it, Windfe-”
His relief was cut short once again. From the falling wreckage behind them, the pale enemy flung his staff like a javelin. As it flew, the twisted wood grew hard and sharp, piercing Windfellow from behind, plunging into his haunch and up into his heart. The noble falconhorse whinnied at his master, and then he too fell out of the sky.
“Blast it!” cursed the horseman, and still holding the wailing bundle in his arms, he leaped off into the open air.
He never hit the ground. Small, enchanted wings unfolded from either side of his floppy, wool cap, and began to flap with a speed and power far too great for their size.
The horseman was carried forward through the air safely as his horse's body hit the sandy floor of the desert. The shrieks of the Pit Children had long since died away. The horseman had unhorsed their leader, and none of the others were close enough to continue the chase.
Minutes passed; a few more than if he had been riding Windfellow, but flying of any sort was still flying, and the refugee soon made it to his destination: the only city in all of Blast.
The mysterious traveler briefly alighted on the very top of the city's shale-stone walls, then kicked off and flew carefully down into the city beyond. When his feet touched the dusty ground, the wings on his cap folded inward and disappeared. He glanced around warily, making sure that none of the city's few wall-guards had seen him. They had not. The man slid into the shadows at the base of a little mud-daub house and was gone from sight.
As soon as he was sure that there was no chance of his being followed, the traveler halted, laid his staff up against the wall of a nearby house, and peeked inside his bundle. It had been some time since he had heard any sound from it. Inside was a baby boy, fair-cheeked, with just a bit of curling blond hair. He was cramped but alive, and sleeping soundly, as if he had forgotten all of the terrors of that night. At the feeling of cold air on his face, the baby woke and stared silently into the man's eyes.
“Hello, little child,” he whispered. “I've brought you to your new home. Welcome to the city of Ymeer.” The baby frowned, and such a serious look crossed its face that the man wondered if it understood him. He smiled and stroked the baby's face. “Sleep now, little one. Your life lies ahead of you.” At his words, the child fell instantly asleep.
The man smiled and continued on his journey through the city. In minutes he had found the house he was searching for. Checking once more to be sure he had not been followed, the man walked up to the door and carefully laid the bundled child on its step. He bent down, patted the baby on the cheek, then straightened his back, rapped sharply on the door with his wooden staff, and walked off into the night.
As he turned the corner and vanished from the street, he heard keenly the door open and a woman give a startled exclamation. He smiled, and hummed an old tune under his breath.
“When the king grows old and the world bleeds gold,
When all our hopes have come to grief,
Doubt not that we a savior need,
A brother and a thief...”
Anyone who could have heard him would have thought his song was nonsense. But it was much more than that.
“We will meet again, little one,” he whispered. “We will meet again, my little thief.”
The horseman had been called many names in his existence. The one he used now was Traveller. So be it... this would be the last of his travels, for a long time.
Chapter One: The Little Thief
The city of Ymeer was unbearably hot in the afternoons, but Gribly didn’t mind. He’d been living in the streets all his life, and though he never stopped feeling the heat, he had long since learned how to ignore it. In his sixteen years he had learned many things, and one fact was that the desert’s heat kept people inside… as well as guards. Therefore, the perfect time for a thief to move around the city was always during the haziest, hottest part of the day. Gribly was one such thief, and a reasonably good one. This afternoon, he was looking for something to steal… something specific.
Brushing sandy-golden hair out of his face, the youth loped down one of Ymeer’s shadowy back alleys, quietly alert for any sign of the city guard- or anyone, really. Gribly lived in the slums, near the city’s north wall, and at the moment he was sneaking near the houses of the rich; an action that could net him a day in the stocks, if he was caught.
As he neared the end of the alley, Gribly heard a startled exclamation from somewhere high above him. The houses where he lived were for the poor; small and sloppy. It was different here; the lords and ladies of Ymeer dwelt in high, square buildings insulated from the heat. Outside, the houses looked like enormous square sandcastles; inside they were pictures of luxurious comfort… comfort that the young thief intended to have a piece of before the day was out.
Looking up, he could clearly see who had cried out. The tall houses on either side of him were close enough to block out the sun’s brightest rays. A girl was leaning out of a window several stories up, mouth open, seemingly surprised that anyone so dirty as Gribly could possible exist in her world of sheltered perfection. Her face was painted pale and her lips were red… unnaturally red. Her hair was silky and curled, and her dress was puffy and ornate. Completely ugly, Gribly thought. He made a face at her and the girl squealed; disappearing into her house again all excited and terrified of him. Disgusting.
He heard her calling for someone- a maid, perhaps- but he wasn’t planning on finding out. With one last, contemptuous glance at the window, he slipped around the corner and away into another alley. It was unlucky to have been spotted so soon, but he doubted the girl would cause him any trouble. Just in case, he doubled back on himself two or three times before continuing on to where he wanted to go: the royal market. The heat stayed consistent, and he avoided the guards without much trouble until he got there.
Besides the fight pits or the dueling arena, the royal market was the only place in Ymeer or all of Blast worth visiting, in Gribly’s opinion. Most of the city’s poor had never seen it… but most of them were not thieves. Only once, Gribly had climbed those inner walls; he had sneaked in among the stalls and booths of a thousand exotic sellers and wares; he had seen the sights and smelled the smells of a hundred different lands he would never visit because of his low birth. It had been exciting all the same, and he had stolen several useful things, a magic oil candlelamp among them. Now that had been an interesting find.
In any case, he intended to peruse the royal market once more. He needed a healing balm for Old Murie back at home.
Ymeer was a bustling, dirty city by day, and a tomb-quiet, dirty city by night. Guards patrolled the streets at all hours, but that never prevented fights or drunkenness- it rather increased it. In such a place there was always the need for a healer and a sawbones, and no one sawed bones or patched cuts with more skill than Old Murie, the gypsy. She was an old woman; the oldest in Ymeer; and she was both greatly respected and greatly feared by the population at large. Children flocked to her: some to get help, but most to gape, and a few very stupid ones to hurl insults and mud.
Her appearance was strange enough. Greasy, stringy gray hair hung down in front of her face and in tangles at her back, covered in an elaborate shawl of her own stitching. Her clothes were too big, and though they had once been colorfully gaudy they were now so old that most of the color was leached from them. They hung from the old woman’s body like burial wraps, faded beyond recognition.
Old Murie walked with a limp and a hunch, an assortment of bags and bundles strapped to her ancient back, with nume
rous bits of odd, colorless jewelry swinging from her bent neck and arms. Her face reminded one of her clothes: not ugly, exactly, but worn beyond shape and usefulness. In days long gone Murie had been a pretty lady- now she was too old and tired to care about much more than her daily life of herbs, stitchery, droughts and medicines.
Gribly was her only exception. She had raised him ever since he had appeared on her doorstep as a babe, and he had repaid her by learning to steal the things she needed for her profession that were too expensive to buy. The healing balm he sought was one such thing, and though Old Murie was cautious about her adopted son’s sneaking, he knew that inside she was proud. Being a good thief was a respectable profession in the underbelly of Ymeer’s population.
And whatever else he might be, Gribly was an excellent thief.
Guards patrolled the tops of the inner walls that sealed in the royal market, but it had been so long since they’d had to deal with any real threat that they were usually asleep and always lazy. Nevertheless, before Gribly stepped out from his hiding place under the eaves of the tall houses, he scanned the battlements for any sign of movement. One could never be too careful…. As soon as he decided it was safe, the young thief looked both ways, then sped across the thin band of open street towards the inner walls. His mission was an easy success, so far.
Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) Page 1