Alexa Drey- the Gates of Striker Bay

by Ember Lane

  His demands for anonymity had cast a heavy silence over the table. I sat, Melinka too, the growls of my belly competing with the crackle of the fire to break the room’s still.

  Melinka placed four gold on the table, sliding them in the direction of the cooker, one by one. “Four gold—three and one.”

  He nodded, stabbing his knife into the table. “I’ll get your ales.” As he said it, the gold vanished with a sweep of his hands.

  “You’re joining us?” Melinka asked Vassal as I spooned out the crab stew.

  “You not eating, Iceman?” I asked, unable to remove the humor from my tone.

  “Nope,” he replied, settling into his resting chair.

  Vassal cut the bread into three.

  “I’ll have some bread,” Iceman grunted.

  Vassal halved his bit, tossing it to the man, who inspected it like it was a poison toadstool. “That it?”

  “Already cut.” Vassal turned to Melinka. “You need me?”

  “Not really, but I’ve paid him now—what’s your price?”

  “Bit of your bread?”

  “Some over here too,” called Iceman.

  I tore mine in half, throwing it to him. “Do you know where they are?”

  Vassal shook his head. “Don’t even know if they’re here yet.”

  Melinka passed him some extra bread. “Paid.”

  “Oh, they’re here,” said Iceman, tearing off a lump with his teeth. “If I were to know anything, I’d know that. If you listen hard enough, and the wind blows in, you’ll probably hear the big man scream. If I’d heard anything, I’d have heard he was under the tuition of the clergyman. He’ll learn a lot from that old bastard.”

  “And the boy?” I asked, blowing on a spoonful of stew.

  Iceman grunted. “Seen him, the slippery little shit.”

  “Seen him?”

  “He lets them think they have him locked up, but he scurries around at night, trying to find his friend. Little shit.”

  “You know a lot for someone who knows nothing.”

  He grunted, scoffing down the last of his bread, bringing out a sparrow of a pipe and filling its tiny pot. “I’m the lord of the ice; many a room demand it, but no one sees who hands it over.” Smoking his pipe, a victorious grin spread on his face. Teeth too white for such a man glistened against his dirty skin.

  We finished up, spoons clanking down as one. Iceman got up, clearing away our plates, passing us each a bedroll. “This way,” he said, grabbing a lantern and lighting its wick, pulling open the front door, and striding over to the cairn opposite.

  He heaved open its door, taking its downward steps. We climbed lower and lower, the temperature plummeting like a stone. After a hundred, maybe more, we entered a long corridor, empty shelves on either side. My breath misted with the cold. Farther along, I saw blocks of straw, all stacked, the shelves now full of the stuff. Ice! I nearly slapped my head. He was Iceman, and this was his store.

  Shivering with cold, I followed, squeezing my blanket, fearing the frozen night ahead. Ice, stacks of it, tons of the stuff—all packed in straw, sandwiched between sawdust, its spill now frozen pools on the floor.

  “Don’t use so much of the stuff anymore. Them’s from Ruse don’t like it. They reckon they spend their life cold; why would they want it in summer, so more for us, but what peasant needs ice? Any meat’s gone before it can turn, anyhow.”

  After an age, the corridor ended. Iceman shifted a load of barrels, a shovel, and a few bales of frozen straw. He opened a door behind. “Steps lead to your room—not so cold in there. You’ll have a comfortable night. I’ll rouse you at dawn.”

  We stepped in, taking the lantern. The door slammed shut behind us with a finality that felt like doom. Vassal led the way, Melinka after. I waited until the scraping behind had quieted, now knowing what it was like to be buried alive.

  At the bottom of the winding steps, a small room, a burrow, reminded me of Cutter’s place. How I needed his surety now.

  Pog? Was Pog truly running riot in the castle? He was a prince among thieves.

  And Mezzerain—how long could he endure the ministrations of the clergyman?

  Star would know what to do, I thought, as I entered the little room. Melinka set the lantern down on a small table. There were six beds in all. I sat on the closest, lying down, drawing my bedroll over me.

  “I think we just met Joss the Nine,” Melinka whispered.

  Chapter Six

  The Clergyman

  A bark from above roused us. We rolled our bedrolls and picked up the lantern, climbing the steps, and emerging into the ice store. Iceman was there: gruff, curt, grabbing the blankets from us and casting them aside. He indicated three sack trucks.

  “Five blocks each—we need a hundred to fill the wagon, and fill it we must.”

  He grabbed his own barrow, walking to the entrance and stopping by the ice’s end. “Take it from the edge, don’t want to spoil any.” He loaded five then trundled off.

  Joss the Nine or not, Iceman was still the lord of the ice for now. I loaded five and followed him. My barrow had a squeaky wheel. Four of us, five blocks a time, five trips—it was the steps that killed. By the end, my calves were on fire.

  He packed the cart, both sides, leaving a narrow strip in the middle and a third of the ice blocks outside. We went into the main dwelling, the stove was burning hot again, more fresh bread, some pork, and morning ale.

  “Yous don’t want to be fighting on an empty stomach. Witches witch better with a full belly.”

  “You can hold your tongue,” Melinka snapped.

  Iceman held her ensuing stare. “Aye, I can if I choose.”

  We ate and swilled it down with the ale. Iceman swept the door open. “You’ve got time for one prayer now, or you can say it in the cart—your choice.”

  Levering up the cart’s floor, he revealed a narrow hidey-hole and bade us in. I looked at Melinka, at Vassal, who both shrugged, moving back slightly as if to say, “You first.”

  Lying in the small space, I rolled to one side, the top scraping my nose, my feet forced sideways. Vassal climbed in next, taking the other side, and then Melinka lay between us. Iceman slid the floor back into place and began stacking the remaining ice. Each thud was like a nail being driven into our coffin, and for the second time since arriving in Valkyrie, I felt like I was buried alive. Counting each thud, they stopped at thirty-something, and we waited.

  Soon enough, the grind of the cart’s metal-shod wheels turning against stone, the groan of the cart’s laden axles, and the clip of the horse’s hooves told us Iceman was on his way. A short while later the noise intensified as we joined the main route to Kyrie, nullifying any chance of talk, any chance to plan our next moves.

  We knew they were waiting for us, looking for us. The ice started dripping in my face. I tried reaching into myself, tried my meditations, but no joy. I guessed tranquility and being trapped in a wet box didn’t mix.

  After a while, the cart ground to a halt then edged slowly forward.

  “We’re here,” Vassal whispered. “They search most merchants.”

  My heart started thumping, the tension like heavy syrup as we waited for our turn—for the ice to be dumped out, the top levered open, or worse, a sword slid between the planks and our blood dripping onto the sea-washed cobbles.

  We creaked forward, a slow grind, muffled voices barking gruff orders.

  I held my breath, waiting, just waiting for the inevitable.

  The cart lurched forward, the grind of the wheels taking on a new quality, echoing, and I grinned, fear turning to thrill, anxiety now adrenaline. We were on the bridge, soon in the castle, and I’d yet to draw my sword.

  Stopping, starting, the cart circled, then voices sounded: grunts, straining, and quickly after, a scraping sound as the ice was unloaded. Then silence, and we dared not speak, dared not breath too heavily.

  We sat there for an age, just the occasional drip to indicate time—an ice-c
old drip.

  The lid scraped back. Melinka was pulled out, then Vassal and me. Iceman handed cloaks to us, pulling our hoods up the minute they were on and throwing us each a leather apron and a pair of matching gauntlets.

  “If anyone asks, you’re chandlers—they’re treated like icemen. They’re anonymous, but unlike icemen, they are needed everywhere.”

  “Makes sense,” Melinka said, and Vassal nodded too.

  “What’s a chandler?” That was my question.

  Melinka tusked. “Did Marista not teach you anything?”

  Even in that dire moment of peril, the name Marista Fenwalker sent shivers down my spine. “She’s going to be so pissed with me.”

  “Why, dear?”

  “I never told her I was coming here, and now I can’t reach any of them.”

  Iceman coughed, walking away. “Candlemaker,” he hissed. We walked a wide corridor, sodden stone walls and a puddle-pocked floor. “Make candles—everyone loves a candle—not all want ice.” He turned, walking backward. “Candlemakers get everywhere. Even the cell walkways need candles—the torture rooms too.”

  He spun around, walking off. Vassal pulled his hood low, tucked his hands into his apron and strolled after Iceman. Melinka checked her step, leaning in to me. “The tab’s grayed out because Lincoln has a spy in his guild.” She tapped her nose knowingly. “Wards of the Old Ways found him in an instant.”

  “Him?”

  “Yes, him. Seems there was a murder in Starellion, the business of shade. Spies, Alexa—the lowest of the low.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she strode after Vassal.

  We walked the corridor, heads down, giving way to all the other trades, to the burly smith, the wiry cobbler, even a jester in passing. Iceman ducked through a doorway, a burst of conversation coming from it, light spilling too. We followed into some kind of feasting hall—at least a poor man’s one.

  He slid onto a bench seat, grabbing a bowl as he did. We all followed suit, our bowls soon filled with gruel by the gruel boy.

  I leaned in. “Have we got a plan?”

  Iceman nodded, dipping a chunk of bread into his meal. “A fluid one.”

  “How fluid?”

  He grinned, the type of grin a psycho gives you just before he plunges a blade into your guts. “So fluid, you won’t even know it's there.”

  We had no plan.

  I had my weapons: a hooked knife, though nearly as blunt as a scraper, a small bucket, a snuffer, a strike, and a large box of candles. Apparently, you didn’t just hand them out.

  Melinka was to take the outside perimeter, lighting the beacons that steered the ships away from Kyrie’s bluff. While doing that, she was tasked with hunting out Pog’s cell. By all accounts, the cells lined the foundations of the castle, chiseled into the rock, and each had a grate to let light in. A path ran around the castle, the grates evenly spread. If you were truly unfortunate, your grate would be right under a window, and sluice would rain down.

  My task and Vassal’s was to find Mezzerain. He was a guest of the combinium, though not in one of their lofty rooms. He was hidden away in the bowels of the castle, by all accounts, somewhere under the courtyard.

  Whatever happened, we were to find them and then meet back up in the candle room to plot their escape.

  We had a plan—a skinny one, but a plan nonetheless.

  I pulled my hood over, sinking deep within its shade. Following Iceman’s direction, I soon found myself at the head of some steps. It didn’t take me long to find out exactly how anonymous a peasant was. Apart from being shoved out of the way a few times, no one stopped me; no one even noticed me.

  The steps led down, the smell of the burning tallow barely masking the stench of sweat and effluent, of rotting straw. Another set took me deeper underground. At their base, two guards sat by a barred door. One snored, his head bobbing. The other looked me up and down as if he couldn’t quite decide what I was.

  “Candles,” I said, unsure of the protocol.

  “Candles?” he questioned but simply shoved the door open. “Simple? Ya think I’m simple?” I ducked my head farther, hurrying past, but his hand shot out. “I said, you think I’m simple?”

  “No, sir.”

  He threw his head back, laughing coarsely then switching to sinister in an instant. Pushing my hood back, he leered at me. “Aren’t you the pretty one? Answer!” I glared up at him then lowered my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  He spat on the floor right by my feet. I wanted to burn a hole in his.

  “Leave her be.” The other guard woke. Don’t wanna get noticed by the clergyman, do you, Skanks?”

  I backed through the doorway, easing it shut with my boot, resting back against it and taking a breath.

  A choice of three corridors presented themselves. I listened, waiting to hear Mezzerain’s screams. The air was thick with religion—its oppression—thoughts of the clergyman. Doorways creaked, inquiring eyes peering through gaps, inspecting me, dismissing me in the blink of an eye.

  I edged down the first one, attending its sole candle. I scraped its gutter, dropping the leftover tallow in my bucket, snuffing the candle out with my snuffer, dumping that in the bucket too. I placed the new candle in its holder, lighting it, and moving on.

  At the corridor’s end, I summoned my courage. Knocking and opening the first door, I shouted, “Candle,” as I walked in. Empty. I moved on to the next, then another.

  On my fourth, I found my first.

  He was mere skin and bones, and the skin was barely holding the bones in. Hanging by his wrists, his head sagged down, long hair covering his face.

  “A candle, that would be delightful,” the husk of a man said, his voice, like Iceman’s, educated. “And if you could pop back and get me a side of rump, then I would forever be in your debt.”

  I glanced back out into the corridor and then slid into the room, drawing the door shut with a soft thump. Setting to work on the candle, I asked him if he knew where Mezzerain was being held.

  “Mezzerain,” the man scoffed. “Why is it everyone wants to rescue him? I have coin! Well, I had coin.”

  “Do you know?”

  “I don’t know his screams, but there are two others attending the clergyman's church at the minute. One is a big man. His cries rumble through the stone. The other is smaller; his are shrill, bursting under the door, through the bars.” He laughed. “What does it matter?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What does it matter?”

  He sagged then as if he’d spent his energy with those few words. I lit the candle and left. Three corridors, three prisoners—a scream rang out.

  Scurrying back down, I waited. A door creaked, so I quickly turned away, ministering to another candle that guttered high on a wall.

  “We need to break him, Snipper. Akkadian’s patience will not last forever. You there!”

  The hairs on my neck bristled.

  “I said, ‘You there.’ Are you deaf?”

  I placed the candle. “No, sir. Sorry, sir. Not deaf.”

  “Well, get in here. Fresh light—I have a busy night ahead of me. Get to it!”

  Striking its flame, I backed away, head down, and moved toward them.

  “Hold there,” said the one called Snipper. He pressed a gory hand against my breast. “You new?”

  “To this part of the castle.”

  He grabbed my chin, squeezing my cheeks as he brought my head up. “Mind your eyes don’t rove too far. No talking to our guests. Two rules, understand?” He shoved me back, his black eyes glaring at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I muttered, straining to contain my anger then ducking by him into the room, stopping, muffling my gasp, and attending the first candle.

  This guest was no more than living dead. Black holes where his eyes should have been, a finger in a tray, his groin a mess of bloody welts and pus-filled scabs, and as if that wasn’t enough, ropes stretched taut f
rom his hands and legs, attached to great wheels, brakes, and cogs.

  I made to cast a heal, out of instinct, out of pity, and suddenly realized that those spells had been lost with the rest of my shamanic lore. Lighting the first candle, I moved on to the next, making exaggerated noises, banging my bucket hard. Snipper’s voice rang out.

  “Akkadian’s patience should mean little to us, sir. We all know who leads.”

  “Nevertheless, Akkadian wants her, and if Akkadian wants her, that means the Cers want her, and we all know what that means. I mean to stay on the correct side of these doors, Snipper.”

  “Then we shall break him now. We all know what breaks even the most resilient beast.”

  “We do, Snipper. You there!”

  I froze again. “Sir,” I said, without turning.

  “Finish up there, and then follow us.”

  I set about the next candle, my hands shaking slightly, knowing in all likelihood I’d encounter Mezzerain next—dreading what I might see.

  “Kill me.” The voice drifted to me, a desperate plea. “You’re no chandler—even I feel your power. Kill me.”

  I edged over to him, bending. “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter—just kill me. Let me fulfill my destiny.”

  “Your destiny?”

  “Kill me, and take my ring.”

  I stifled a gasp—a ring as black as night sat proudly on his finger. “Is that?”

  “I’m dead already; do me the favor of ending me.”

  “Name?”

  “Fasten. You need—” A shiver of pain coursed through him. He drew in his breath, hardly a tooth to be seen. “You need all six. Then you’ll defeat him.”

  I tried to dredge the compassion I needed to put him out of his misery, tried to rouse my magic to make it swift.

  “No magic,” he said. “They’ll feel it. Please…let me tread the silver streams of Talayeh.”

  Grabbing his scrawny throat, I squeezed hard, shutting my eyes as a smile crawled onto his lips as his head soon turned blue, and his mouth sagged open. He offered little resistance to his fate and died, strung up, stretched, and known to me only as Fasten. I slipped his black ring off, knowing full well its origin.