by Ian Whates
M'gruth whipped the sling round and around, only a couple of times, before letting fly. Perhaps the nick heard the sling slicing through the air as it spun or even the missile hurtling towards him, certainly he looked around just in time to meet the stone head-on. Two down.
The third, closer than the second and doubtless alerted by the collapse of his mate, raised his head and stared at M'gruth, who smiled and lifted his arm, hand still clutching the sling.
"Are you mad? See these?" and he rotated the arm, displaying the continuous pattern of ochre tattoos that ran up the limb before disappearing beneath his shirt to re-emerge at his neck and run on to adorn the bald pate of his head. "I'm a Tattooed Man for Thaiss's sake! Did you really think the three of you could take me?"
"S-sorry." The nick was backing away, fear obvious in every contour of his body.
"I don't have time to deal with you properly now, so breck off!" This last the Tattooed Man yelled.
The boy needed no further encouragement, but immediately turned and ran, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape. M'gruth smiled. The irony of being attacked here of all places hadn't escaped him. He'd enjoyed this little diversion, for all that it had caused him a momentary delay. The thought brought his focus firmly back to the mission, and he hurried on.
If he were ever asked to name one place in the world he would least like to return to, this would be it; but needs must. He was now in the very shadow of that detested theatre of blood known as the Pits.
A moment later and he was passing under the arena's walls, something he had vowed never to do again.
He heard them before he saw them. Sounds that came rolling down the tunnel like echoes from a past he had tried so hard to forget. Sounds that sent cold shivers tingling down his spine, causing him to falter, to stumble to a halt for a second with his eyes closed. For a moment he was back there, sword clasped tightly in his hand, guts screwed up in a knot of terror and heart pumping with both fear and anticipation, as he wondered whether this was to be the day he died. It was the sound of combat that had halted him; the harsh clash of steel meeting steel, the gritty shuffle of feet manoeuvring for better balance, the grunt of expelled air from extreme exertion as muscles powered an attack or strained to repulse one. M'gruth gathered himself and ran on, reassured that he was not yet too late and afraid that if he delayed any longer he might be.
He burst from the tunnel into a large amphitheatre, flanked by curving banks of seats to all sides – crude wooden benches, many of which were now broken or absent entirely, presumably scavenged for material and fuel like the buildings outside since it wasn't that long ago the place had closed down. Other than that, everything was much as he remembered it. The Pits, where people paid to see men die, and where friend was forced to slaughter friend simply to survive. M'gruth had always imagined that, if viewed from above, the arena and its seating would resemble some wide-opened mouth screaming obscenities to the heavens, those on the floor of the Pit a snack about to be swallowed by that unholy maw.
On this occasion the snack in question consisted of two women, girls really, though it was often hard to remember the fact, especially when you saw them like this, with knives drawn and battle joined. Both were dressed in black, even down to the leather boots, belts and accoutrements. Occasional flashes of silver studwork the only relief. The two girls wove an intricate dance of flowing limbs and flashing steel in the centre of the arena, strikes and counter strikes that challenged the eye to keep pace. M'gruth was a Tattooed Man – the fiercest warriors in the City Below, yet even he was dazzled by the speed of attack and riposte before him.
One of the girls was marginally larger than the other and perhaps a few years older, though the difference was slight and seemed to have had little impact on the fight as yet. Both were covered in a sheen of sweat and had suffered minor cuts, where blades had kissed against flesh and drawn blood, though presumably without causing any real damage, since neither seemed in any way hampered. Another thing that was impossible to ignore was how alike the pair looked.
M'gruth knew them both, respected and even perhaps feared them both, and at one time or other he had called each his friend.
The task that had been entrusted to him was a thankless one, though not impossible, or so he hoped. His job was to stop these two lethal girls from killing each other in a senseless fight. Each thought they couldn't carry on living while the other did; neither had yet stopped to consider how difficult it might be to live without their counterpart. Sisters. He was just glad he'd never had one.
"Stop it, both of you!" His call sounded small and impotent even to his own ears, a mere whimper which was instantly swallowed by the vastness of this place, so he tried again, louder this time. "I said stop it!"
"Breck off!" Kat, the slighter of the two snarled without sparing him a glance, too intent upon her opponent.
"What are you doing here, M'gruth?" the other asked, without pausing in the fight.
"For Thaiss's sake, listen to me will you? She's back. The Soul Thief is back."
The two girls froze. For long seconds neither moved, though their gazes remained unflinchingly fastened on each other.
"You sure about this?" the older, larger girl said at length.
"Positive. Now will you both stop this madness?"
Slowly, ever so slowly, weapons were lowered, though neither girl stood straight, neither gave ground, and their eyes never wavered.
The older girl, Chavver, was the first to stand up, gradually abandoning her fighter's crouch. As her sister warily followed suit, Chavver looked at the Tattooed Man for the first time, if a glare infused with such fury could ever be considered a mere look, and said, "If this is some sort of trick to stop us from killing each other, M'gruth, you're a dead man."
He didn't doubt it for a minute.
Tom was more nervous than he could remember ever being before; certainly more than he was prepared to admit to the prime master. Not terrified, as he'd been when cornered by the demon hound, convinced he was about to die, and it was true he'd felt a little scared when first setting out to reach the Upper Heights – that distant Row at the very crown of the city – but that had been nothing compared to this. Somehow, the Heights hadn't seemed entirely real; a fable of a faraway place which had no relevance to him. His aborted attempt to go there had been part adventure and part impossible dream. Deep down he'd never expected to actually reach the roof of the world and had always known he'd be back in the under-City by morning.
This, however, was different in every way.
For long seconds he simply stood there, breathing in great lungfuls of sweet air, so cool and fresh, feeling the unfamiliar spring of grass beneath his booted feet and letting the wind stroke his face as he glanced up at the vast, distant sky. He was outside. That reality would take some getting used to, for all that the prime master had brought him out here a couple of times beforehand to acclimatise. Those earlier visits did help, a little, but they were just brief tasters, akin to quickly popping your head out the door before scurrying back inside. This was the real thing.
He turned and looked back. Seen from here, the city was a truly awe-inspiring sight. There were no balconies or terraces at these lower levels, the austerity of the faintly yellow stonework broken only by the occasional window. Yet the eye refused to dwell here but was rather compelled to look higher, drawn that way by the thrust of sheer stone walls erupting from the ground and reaching ever upward towards the heavens, as if the city somehow pulled at everything in the vicinity: the ground, the landscape, the very air surrounding it, even the attention of those insignificant people standing at its feet.
Seeing Thaiburley like this, Tom could well understand why this was considered to be the City of Dreams. Snatches of the levels verse, that childhood guide to the city's complexities learnt at his mother's knee, played through his mind, as they had during his ill-fated climb to the Heights.
From Residence Rows where Kite Guards patrol,
&nb
sp; And learned folk study the soul,
Arkademics and masters with wisdom to share,
The city's leaders, entrusted to care,
To the topmost Row, the Upper Heights,
Where stars and demons frequent the nights,
The end of this verse, fair Thaiburley's crown,
From which lofty peak you can only fall down!
He gave an involuntary shiver, as the verse brought back memories of his fleeting visit to the Residences and the first time he'd glanced over the city walls, the sudden disorientation and the sense of absolute dread that had engulfed him. Without the prime master's help he felt certain a similar horror would have overwhelmed him now in the face of all this open space. It still didn't feel natural, but at least he was managing to cope.
"Liberating out here, don't you think?" his mentor said from beside him.
"I suppose so," Tom replied. Liberating was not quite the word he would have used.
The prime master chuckled. "You'll soon get used to it."
The old man was probably right. What might take a little more getting used to was the nature of the companions chosen to accompany him.
He wished fervently that some of the old crew were going, the Blue Claw, even Barton with his boasting of improbable deeds and his cocky swagger. But the Claw were gone like so many of the traditional street-nick gangs, their members scattered or detained. Perhaps they would regroup in time and rebuild, but even if they did so it would be without him. Tom was coming to accept the bitter fact that he didn't have a place among the nicks anymore, that the streets were no longer his home.
Funny, being a street-nick was a grim and desperate existence at the best of times, yet here he was regretting the loss of that life. The thing he missed most was the companionship, that sense of being a part of something, of belonging. His time with the Blue Claw might have been hard, but they'd all suffered that hardship together and had been able to draw strength from one another. He'd forged true friendships with kids of around his own age, and that more than anything else was what his life had lacked in recent days – the comfort of such closeknit friendships. Since being taken under the prime master's wing he had seen so many wondrous things and learned so much, and he was certainly living far better than he'd ever expected in his wildest dreams.
Yet none of that stopped him from feeling lonely.
More even than the Claw, he missed Kat. He'd only known the renegade nick for a few days but they'd been through a lot together. With her flashy black clothes, sassy attitude, twin short swords and a wealth of experience far beyond her years, she was one of the proudest, fiercest and bravest people he'd ever known and he would willingly have trusted her with his life. If it had been just the two of them setting off on this journey he'd have felt a lot happier, but he hadn't seen her since she left him with the Blade and didn't even know whether she'd survived the final chaos of that fateful day. Instead of Kat, he'd been lumbered with a right pair of oddballs, neither of whom he knew.
That was the most unsettling aspect of this whole business. He was embarking on a venture that would take him far beyond the city, on a journey to places that lacked even the solidity of fables but were instead complete unknowns, a trip that seemed more likely to take months than days, and he was expected to do this in the company of two complete strangers.
The prime master had selected them personally, and he had learned to respect the elderly man and to trust him. But that venerable gentleman was not the one who was going to have to travel and live with this pair. Tom was.
As if on cue, the first of these two companions wandered over to join Tom and the prime master, or rather to tower over them. Kohn was a veritable giant, standing roughly twice as high as a full-grown man – taller even than one of the Blade. Tom still remembered the first time he'd met him, just a few days previously. "This is Kohn," the prime master had said almost casually, as if trying to convince Tom that here was someone he just knew was destined to become a firm friend. All Tom could do was gape. His surprise didn't end with Kohn's size, because this was not just any giant, but rather a bald one-eyed giant, whose Cyclopean eye was rheumy and opaque. The huge figure was clearly blind.
"Kohn is one of the Kayjele, a long-lived race who make their home in the northern mountains," the prime master went on to explain as the giant came to stand before them, almost as if at attention.
"I know you," Tom had murmured.
His mind instantly raced back to the walls, where he had been fleeing a murder scene, stumbling along a kinked corridor to emerge into a large chamber where a vast, heart-like contraption beat and pulsed. The daunting contrivance, which he had since learned to be one of many pumps used to circulate water around the city, had been tended by this same creature or its twin. On that occasion the baleful gaze of that great, milky eye had sent the young street-nick scuttling away in terror.
When seen in the full light of day with the whole world open before him, the giant seemed much less intimidating, though he was still far from Tom's ideal choice of travelling companion.
The former street-nick now knew that Kohn had just finished a term of indentured service to the city and was about to embark on a journey back to his homeland. Since this meant he would be travelling a course that paralleled Tom's own for much of the way, the prime master thought it only sensible that they should travel together.
Sensible, perhaps; but definitely not good for his nerves, for all that the old man assured him Kohn was reliable. Tom also wondered how the giant was going to manage the journey when he couldn't see. When he'd asked the prime master this, he was told: "Kohn is able to see, Tom, though I daresay the world appears very differently to him than to you or I. He sees with his mind. All his people are capable of this, but in his case the ability is far more acute, no doubt developing that way to compensate for his lack of normal vision. Don't worry, Kohn won't slow you down in the least. In fact, quite the contrary. His unusual perspective may even prove to be of benefit."
Tom would never admit to doubting the prime master, yet he felt far from convinced, notwithstanding cryptic references to "unusual perspectives". He was beginning to regret agreeing to this expedition in the first place; or rather he regretted allowing himself to be talked into it; he wasn't sure he had ever actually agreed as such.
The giant now stood with them outside the city walls, silent and unmoving, his face looking directly at Tom, presumably 'seeing' him despite the opaqueness of that single central eye. For his part, Tom went to speak, then hesitated, remembering that, in addition to being blind, the giant couldn't reply. "Kohn is mute, so won't necessarily be the liveliest of company," the prime master had explained. "But he can hear and understand you perfectly well and will make his meaning clear with gestures when necessary."
His other companion didn't promise to be much of an improvement on the giant either.
As if on cue, Dewar, the man in question, was coming towards them at that moment, walking up from the banks of the Thair. The great river flowed in majestic splendour a short distance downslope from them, vanishing into the brief canyon which developed into a broad cavern mouth: the entrance to the City Below.
Dewar was among the least remarkable people Tom had ever met. A little more meat on his bones than the average inhabitant of the City Below, so presumably he came from up-City somewhere, one of the more comfortable Rows, but otherwise he could have blended in just about anywhere. On the younger side of middle age, a tad on the shorter side of medium height with slightly receding brown hair, he had a rounded, homely face and a very ordinary physique. Yet the prime master had assured Tom that this man was more than capable of looking after himself. If so, his outward appearance certainly offered no clue. As far as Tom could see, the only features which seemed even remotely noteworthy were the man's eyes. Living on the streets, as Tom had for most of his life, you learned to judge people quickly and the eyes were often the most important indicator. Dewar's were intelligent; more than that, there was a coldn
ess in their depths and an intensity in their stare which caused Tom to give an involuntary shiver and led him to reconsider his assessment. Perhaps after all there was a little more to this man than immediately seemed apparent.
As he watched Dewar approach, he couldn't help but wish that the prime master had thought to send at least one familiar face along on this venture. A selfish thought and one which probably showed his age, but he didn't care.
"The barge has arrived," Dewar said to the prime master with a typical lack of deference that irritated Tom.
If Tom could find one redeeming aspect to the whole venture, this was surely it – he was finally getting a chance to go on a boat. Tom had often watched the great barges unloading at the docks or riding the deep centre of the Thair as they came and went along the river, sitting low in the water due to their loads and then riding high once relieved of them. The young Tom had dreamed of some day going on one of those boats, and here was his chance. Their ill-assorted group were to travel the first part of the journey aboard one of the huge vessels, which was making an unscheduled stop at the little-used dock outside the city walls in order to pick them up. A measure arranged by the prime master to avoid attention, which suggested to Tom that all was not yet as secure in the City Below as some would like to claim.