Tan Skulks (A Wielders Novel Book 1)

by Max Anthony

  Tan Skulks

  A Wielders Novel 1

  Max Anthony

  Copyright

  © 2016 Max Anthony

  All rights reserved

  The right of Max Anthony to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

  Cover art by Yuriko Matsuoka

  Typography by Shayne Rutherford

  http://www.wickedgoodbookcovers.com/

  Contents

  Hardened

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tan Skulks (A Wielders Novel Book 1)

  Tan Skulks is a man on a mission. Except he’s not really a man and now he’s not sure what his mission is any more. Summoned to the ancient city of Hardened to investigate a series of murders, Ko-Chak’s premier thief finds that the unsolved and grisly deaths are just the tip of an iceberg so large that you certainly wouldn't want to drop it on your foot. While a vicious beast stalks the streets, a newly-emboldened Rat God is trying to subvert the city. Demons, assassins and treacherous wizards lurk around every corner, just waiting for an unsuspecting thief to wander by.

  Equipped with his dagger-swords and steel toe-caps, the indomitable Skulks must follow a series of leads to find out who or what is behind this catalogue of mischief. As a Wielder, he is never far from trouble—much of it of his own making. With his powers of stealth and a not-quite-human ability to drink, steal, cheat and fleece his way through a city full of cynical citizens, Skulks must race against time to solve the mystery before someone gets lucky and kills him. Can he do it and escape with his thieving, grasping mitts intact?

  And what exactly is that thing on his upper lip?

  Hardened

  Old Jon Klibe was tired. He was tired of Hardened, with its never-ending bustle of the well-to-do, going about their business as if it were the most important thing in the world. Tired of his sister, always nagging at him to get a job, tidy himself up, make something of himself. Tired of never getting what he wanted. But most of all, he was tired of jam sandwiches. He was looking at one in his hand right now and he imagined it staring insolently back at him, daring him to eat it. Failing its challenge, he threw it backwards over his shoulder, where it squelched happily onto the pavement and would later provide sustenance for a passing seagull.

  Old Jon Klibe was also drunk, a familiar state of affairs for him as he was born with a healthy appetite for inebriation. At least that’s what he told himself. He’d been born unlucky. If something went wrong, it was because he was unlucky, or because of circumstances beyond his control. He was partly correct - while much of his situation was due to his own laziness, tonight was going to be a particularly unlucky one for him. For tonight, out of a million people, he was the only one who was going to be horribly murdered.

  Weaving down one of Hardened’s many back alleys, he decided it was time to head home. It was very early in the morning and many of the city’s more hard-working denizens were already rolling out of their beds, scratching themselves vigorously in preparation for a day of baking, working the forge or dyeing cloth. As yet, the streets were almost deserted. The route along which Old Jon Klibe stumbled was almost devoid of human life and shortly to become entirely devoid.

  Old Jon Klibe wasn’t really that old, only thirty-seven at last count, but with a face like a prune dipped in lemon juice. As such, people had started to preface his name with ‘Old’ more than ten years ago. He didn’t mind. People tended to buy poor Old Jon Klibe a drink. If he’d been known as Virile Jon Klibe or Strutting Jon Klibe, he’d probably be reaching into his own pocket a bit more often.

  Hardened was a safe city in general. Even a stranger could pick a direction at random and head off along a street, comfortable in the knowledge that the worst crime they’d likely suffer was a picked pocket. In a tavern, they might be wary against being served a short measure of ale in an undersized mug. A street vendor might sell them a sausage sandwich with greater than the permitted quantity of offal. All-in-all there were worse things that could befall one in a city so large, as Old Jon Klibe was about to discover, though he’d be dead by the time he discovered it.

  Within shouting distance of his long-suffering sister’s home, Klibe took his favourite shortcut past the back of the local baker. He couldn’t afford the bread, but they couldn’t charge him for having a sniff. Two rats scuttled away to hide behind an upturned box. They also knew what was made in Jinky’s Lucky Loaves and were constantly on the lookout for Jinky to lower his guard and leave the back door open for even a few seconds, at which point his local food hygiene rating would take a pummelling from the droppings they’d leave behind.

  Otherwise it was unusually quiet. Klibe slowed his gait as he ambled past the baker’s shop, ready to sniff in as much of the free bread aroma as he could manage. Unfortunately for him, the shop was yet closed, for Jinky was still at home eating his breakfast slice of yesterday’s bread. Cursing his luck and swearing never to shop at Jinky’s again, Klibe headed home.

  There was no unexpected rustling noise to presage his death. No sound of a footstep behind him, causing him to turn in alarm just in time to see a dagger fall into his chest. Instead, something large and heavy dropped from above into the alleyway behind him. It padded along for a few paces, head slightly to one side as if it were making a decision. Then, with a speed most terrifying, it accelerated in utter silence, swiping at Klibe with one of its six limbs, wickedly long and sharp claws taking his head clean off his shoulders. The head popped into the air, spun around once with a slightly puzzled expression, before landing at Jinky’s back door, waiting to greet him when he put his bin bags out later in the morning.

  Then the creature was gone, red eyes glowing faintly as it powered up the alley wall. Two rats peeped out from behind their crate.

  “Squeak,” said one.

  Chapter One

  Passing under the great gate that led to Hardened’s main thoroughfare, the man paused, looking up as if in awe at the architecture surrounding him. The walls were thirty feet tall and nearly as deep; made of smooth grey stone, they displayed a workmanship that told of the monumental effort required to build these defences. The gate itself was a huge iron portcullis, rarely lowered nowadays, but in the past when it was dropped into place by a series of enormous chain-winches it had helped defy kings and would-be emperors.

  Constrain
ed by the walls and edicts from the Chamber Council, the denizens of Hardened had chosen to build upwards, rather than outwards. The result was a strange patchwork of newer atop older, often in a conflict of styles and building materials. The city’s law-judges were kept constantly busy, settling disputes between citizens whose new buildings intruded on, or simply stole a part of, the shops or dwellings of another. Hardened contained some of the tallest (and least stable) buildings across the whole of Ko-Chak, and scarcely-enforced building regulations ensured that the city was a diverse mish-mash of whatever human endeavour could throw together. Even the occasional fatal collapse was seen as a price worth paying for what most people felt was the jewel in the non-existent crown of Ko-Chak’s many city states.

  So it was unsurprising to see one of Hardened’s many visitors gawking upwards at the wonders surrounding him. This man was of indeterminate age, though one would have thought him slightly past the glow of youth. He was slim of build and of average height. His clothes hinted at neither wealth, nor poverty, dressed as he was in a dark tunic with a thick cloak made of wool, rather than fine furs. The dust on his boots and trousers suggested he had travelled some distance, yet he had no horse. His hair was dark and thick, nose pointed, eyes sharp and quick. He was handsome in his way, but not so much that he would draw eyes when in a crowd. Equally it was unsurprising when, with eyes distracted, this man’s poorly directed feet veered unerringly in the direction of a fresh turd, steaming from the warmth of the horse’s body which had recently expelled it. With a curse and a stumble, the man took last-moment evasive action, colliding with a merchant who was, in contrast, walking confidently around the recent soiling. With a smile and an apology to the angry trader, the man continued on his way, eyes now cast alertly ahead for more such obstacles.

  Once out of sight amongst the throng of Hardened’s morning bustle, Tan Skulks checked his pocket, practiced fingers feeling the weight of the purse he had just lifted from the now poorer merchant. He swore inwardly; only a couple of dozen Slivers. He’d been asked to Hardened by the ruling Chamber Council and they’d be less than pleased if they knew he was thieving from the citizens whose taxes were about to pay him a handsome wage. Thieving before he’d reached a scant dozen paces into the city, no less. Being a Wielder he always got paid well, but there was no harm in supplementing his pay with anything else that fell readily into his nimble hands.

  He pulled a couple of the Slivers out and squinted at them in the palm of his hand. He was sure they were smaller than the last time he was in Hardened. The official name of the currency was Solids, meant to underline the economy of the city, but in reality the metal was trimmed and cut so often that the coins become gradually smaller over time as the silver and gold content was taken by those less honest, and used to make new coins, or simply bartered for goods in the other city states, such as Corpus, Ironsburg or High Domes, which lay further inland on the Ten Dams River.

  Tan Skulks pondered whether he should find a drinking hole to spend a few of his Slivers. He’d been asked to travel with haste, but on the other hand his mouth was dry and he could probably do with a bath. A surreptitious sniff under one arm made up his mind.

  It was said in some of the less wealthy cities that one was never more than a dozen paces from a rat. In Hardened, one was never more than a dozen paces from a tavern, though in the less salubrious neighbourhoods, it might have been better to bed down with any number of rats, rather than risk a drink or a room in an establishment of ill-repute. At least you didn’t have to pay two Slivers to sleep with the rats. Skulks wasn’t fussy and pushed through the door of the first tavern he saw, which was The Chicken and Harpy.

  Being as it was on the thoroughfare not far from the main gate, the locals knew The Chicken and Harpy to be overpriced, to which crime was added the twin habits of serving short measures and diluted ale. At this early hour, the tavern was almost empty of customers. The bar keep looked up with a distinct lack of interest as Skulks approached, feet peculiarly silent across the hard wood floor.

  “Ale,” spoke Skulks, his brevity ruffling the feathers of the bar keep, who immediately determined to serve him the shortest, weakest measure of the day. He plonked down a wooden mug, more foam than liquid.

  “Four Slivers,” he demanded, brazenly overcharging on a one Sliver ale.

  Skulks looked at the bar keep. He had the surly appearance of someone who had found his natural level in life, but who was yet certain his talents should have positioned him at a much higher station. He was therefore angry at everyone he served, thinking himself better than they and determined to ensure they had a thoroughly unpleasant experience at The Chicken and Harpy.

  “And could you fit me a large Cow’s Piss in the top of there?” asked Skulks, referring colloquially to the cheap local spirit which purportedly got its name from the taste. The citizens of Hardened were known to favour this spirit in their ale for reasons of economy and its ability to make the current day and several preceding days vanish as if plucked from memory by a benevolent hand.

  Pouring the yellow fluid miserly into the ale, the bar keep demanded a further four Slivers, to make it an eight Sliver affront to fairness and decency. Skulks reached into a pocket and counted out eight Slivers, which were duly deposited into the drawer of the till.

  “And I would also like your daily special,” he said, pointing to a chalk board, upon which the words ‘Hearty Beef Stew’ were scrawled. “But I don’t want any dog or rat in it. I want the good stuff. How much will that cost me?”

  The bar keep thought about protesting the lack of dog and rat in the stew, but decided against it. “Fifteen Slivers, up front,” he said. Skulks counted out more coins and retired to a table in the far corner as the bar keep shouted the order through to the kitchen.

  Sitting at his unwashed table, etched with initials and round stains from last night’s ale mugs, Skulks sipped at his drink. Even with the fortification it was insipid. On the other hand, it quenched his thirst and washed away the travel dust from his throat. The stew, when it arrived, was badly named, containing little beef and many root vegetables, swimming forlornly in a sea of weak gravy. The accompanying hunk of bread must have been two days old, so dry that it eagerly sucked up the pale brown juice.

  “Still,” thought Skulks. “I’ve had much worse than this before.”

  After four drinks and two hours of gossiping with the few patrons who drifted in, he left the tavern to look for a bath and a room. It was some time after his departure that the bar keep noticed that the till wasn’t balanced. In fact, it was so unbalanced that it held precisely zero Slivers, instead of the eighty-seven it should have contained. His boss would give him a beating when he found out.

  No one cheated Tan Skulks.

  Setting out to find himself a place to stay, Skulks took a street at random, hoping it would lead him to the underbelly of the city. He was familiar with the seedier side of life and to look at him one might correctly judge him to have grown up amongst thieves, cut-purses and ne’er-do-wells. By now, the light of the afternoon was filtering down through the streets as the sun drifted lazily overhead, warming the streets below. Come night time it would be much colder, but for now the temperature was pleasant indeed.

  Feeling at home already and with a slight weave to his stride, indicative of the strength of Cow’s Piss, it was not long before the buildings around him became both higher and more run-down, with the occasional stone block or plank of wood to show where the dwellings were starting to crumble around the edges. This is what tended to happen when a farm hand bought three thousand bricks and tried to erect himself a new house on the fifth storey of an establishment that was already leaning at fifteen degrees from the vertical. The people living in this part of town had perfected the art of managing to look up for falling masonry, straight ahead to avoid collision with their fellow citizens, and down for any detritus that might catch their feet. Unfortunately, it made them nod like imbeciles as they walked. Many tourist guides for the c
ity of Hardened were at pains to point out that a visitor to the city should not assume that people nodding to themselves were simpletons, in case offence was caused.

  Where Skulks was concerned he’d have needed to look in all of these directions as well as managing to rotate his head one-hundred-and-eighty degrees in order to spot the two men who were following him. Had the streets been deserted he would most certainly have heard them, but there was a good quantity of foot-borne traffic consisting of those about their work and those heading out to their favourite tavern, the wiser ones nodding happily to themselves.

  Skulks couldn’t quite remember how old he was. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit his thousandth yet, but he was certain that he was a few hundred years old at least. He didn’t go in for celebratory birthday cakes, but he’d definitely need a big one if anyone decided to surprise him. In his many hundreds of years, there was an equal number of people who had tried to sneak up on him, with varying degrees of success. One thing was certain, the best time to try it was when he had left a tavern. His soon-to-be antagonists were doubly fortunate when Skulks headed off along a much quieter alley, thinking it to make an excellent shortcut to wherever it was he didn’t know he was going.

  Hearing a loud clunk, Skulks turned, before realising that the noise had been made by a three-feet piece of wood striking him on the back of the skull, which he felt was a little bit unexpected and not a little bit unwarranted. Another stick came across and onto the back of his knees, toppling him forward. “The bounders!” he thought, cursing these unknown assailants in his head as two more blows landed upon him.

  With his reactions somewhat delayed by the presence of alcohol, Skulks pushed himself back to his feet, surprising his attackers, who had already considered him out for the count and were ready to start rifling his pockets. Ducking under two further swings, Skulks noticed that these underhand individuals were little more than common thieves, looking scrawny and malnourished. Taking pity upon them, he pulled his punch slightly as he delivered a wallop to the nose of the first one, bursting it across his face and sending the gentleman reeling backwards as he uttered references to Skulks’ parentage.