Bladeborn

by Clayton Schonberger

  Weeks later, Bladeborn was using an air passage to escape down a ladder with a stolen jar of Liquid Sweet, the very expensive edible jelly. He could hear the Shaft Police coming down from a level above him. He thought he would never escape the well-trained group of soldiers and the Wizard who was their commander. But without stopping or losing his stolen Liquid Sweet, he sped down the treacherous ladder, one-handing the ladder’s finger-grips, his feet flopping rather than stepping on each rung. Risky, because falling from the ladder was a death as certain as getting captured.

  He leapt from the ladder at level minus ten, deeper than he had ever traveled. In the dim light of the airshaft, he could see his pursuers descending only seconds behind.

  Although concerned about what might be dwelling this deep in the City, he was more afraid of getting caught. On the ledge near the ladder he saw a large door, which he pushed on. Forcing it open a crack and slipping through, he shoved the door shut, hoping he would lose them.

  It was pitch-dark in the room and the still air had a foul stench. He immediately remembered all he had heard about legendary monsters of the undercity. The stories Angres had told him long before made an impression, even if he wasn’t sure he believed them. He cautiously moved forward into the room, measuring every step.

  He heard his pursuers on the landing outside. He wished desperately that he had a glow-globe to cut the darkness, but he hadn’t thought to bring one.

  One of the Shaft Police said, “That is ‘Jerzee’s’ place—I’m not going in there!”

  Another said, “He is as good as dead in there. Let’s lock him in.” They fumbled with a set of keys. Moments later Bladeborn heard a lock turning.

  Bladeborn waited and listened. He heard some voices outside, then nothing. From his pocket, he withdrew a lock pick that he had carefully fashioned. Trying it in the door, his precious jar of Liquid Sweet under his arm, he hoped it would work.

  Then he heard a scraping sound. It was followed by cracking and snapping, the sound of something heavy stepping down onto what he found out was a desiccated ribcage. The ribcage snapped apart, sounding to Bladeborn as if it might have been made of dried wormfish. He glanced over his shoulder. Big glowing green eyes! Set wide! And whatever this giant creature was, it was lumbering toward him! He hurried with the lock.

  The massive creature spoke to him, in a deep, booming voice, “It locks from the OUTSIDE fool!”

  Bladeborn thought fast and opened the jar of Liquid Sweet. He held it out toward the thing in the dark, saying, “Have you ever had Liquid Sweet? It is very delicious...”

  “You think Jerzee is stupid? Jerzee gonna eat YOU, then yer Liquid Sweet.”

  “Yes, but then Jerzee will never taste Liquid Sweet AGAIN!” Bladeborn waved the jar back and forth.

  The creature seemed to be thinking about it. “It smells good…Let me taste it.” Bladeborn felt Jerzee’s giant, club-like hand grab the jar. The creature sucked the jelly out.

  Bladeborn stood there. He could sense the creature was so big that there was no way to get around it. He doubted he could get the door open in the dark, or easily find a way out. Behind his back, Bladeborn fingered his ceramic shiv, but even a jab to the thing’s eye seemed likely only to wound it.

  Bladeborn waited. The creature called Jerzee seemed to be in the throes of ecstasy.

  Finally, Jerzee said, “Ohhhh... That GOOOD!”

  Bladeborn said, “I occasionally need to escape the Shaft Police. Can you show me around down here if I bring you more of this delicious prize called Liquid Sweet?”

  “If you bring more, yes, yes! I also tell you how to get rid of trailer ghosts that make your skin burn and sore.”

  Bladeborn had guessed he had been cursed, and apparently, this creature saw what was making him sore. Bladeborn thought, “Trailer ghosts, that’s what makes my skin blister?”

  “Mmmm, so good!” Jerzee declared, as he licked out the last in the jar. He said, “Oh yes, you got ghosts. They make you sick. You have dark Wizard enemies. Nasty little ghosts, yep I had ‘em, but >ERRRPPP< I got rid of them.”

  A deal was struck in the dark. After Jerzee showed him a way out, Bladeborn returned with more Liquid Sweet the following day. Then Jerzee led Bladeborn to a place on floor minus twelve. “A wizard lives in here, named ‘Thustral the Damned.’ He can help you with the trailer ghosts that make you sick. He can make them go away.”

  “What will he want in return?” Bladeborn asked tentatively.

  “Jerzee doesn’t know THAT!” the big, green-eyed lummox yelled. “You go in there and ask!”

  Bladeborn walked down a series of corridors to a candlelit operating room. On the walls were indecipherable magic charts and diagrams. The tables in the place were covered with candlewax and hundreds of small objects of a kind Bladeborn had never laid eyes on before.

  In the next room, a tall man wearing long-sleeved robes with a large hat stood at a table, his back to Bladeborn, busying himself with a test tube.

  Without turning around, the robed man said, “I don’t care who you are! You’ll have to wait!”

  Bladeborn assumed the man, who looked to be of middle-age, was Thustral. He stood waiting the better part of an hour watching as the Wizard mixed fine powers into small amounts of an elixir. The Wizard finally put down his experiment and turned to face Bladeborn

  “I am Thustral, whom they call ‘the Damned,’” the Wizard said. Bladeborn saw a man maybe twenty years older than he, with age-lines just beginning to show on his face. Yet Thustral had an undeniable look of health about him—the Wizard had a close-cropped red beard and, in the candlelight, his insightful eyes scanned Bladeborn as though he were an easy-to-read text.

  “I know why you’re here. You seek the curses that plague you removed. Well, there is a cost!”

  “I will pay what you ask,” Bladeborn claimed.

  “How is your memory, then?” Thustral demanded. Rapid-fire he said to Bladeborn, “Bring to me one-hundred sheets of paper, two ink-cakes, a large lump of charcoal, a stack of blessed candles, and not less than two gallons of water from the fountain in the undercity market dedicated to the Nameless Hero.”

  “Most of that is easy,” Bladeborn stated. “But carrying that much water down the ladder to level minus 12 will be—”

  “Off with you, now,” Thustral said, making a shooing motion. “I don’t have the time for complaints. Leave the items on my doorstep. I don’t wish to see you again until the task is complete.”

  Bladeborn did as Thustral had instructed, though he had some difficulty procuring the stuff. Two days later, after he had gotten it all together, he went past the operating tables into Thustral’s study once more.

  Thustral sat at his desk with his back to the study’s entrance, drawing a diagram on vellum with a quill pen.

  Bladeborn waited expectantly to be recognized by the fallen Wizard, eventually interrupting, “Well?”

  “Well what,” Thustral the Damned said to Bladeborn, sitting back momentarily from his work.

  “Can you remove my trailer ghosts and lift the curses I am under?” Bladeborn asked.

  “I have already done so... I know you are honorable.” Thustral laughed a bit, leaving Bladeborn feeling uncomfortable. “That is why I worked for you without hesitation. You will be healed in a few days. Perhaps…we can do business again....”

  Bladeborn searched the lower levels and in the near-darkness and squalor of floor minus ten, and soon enough, he picked out an abandoned room, unoccupied for years. He would have to keep bringing Jerzee gifts at regular intervals to keep the place, which for now was good enough. Bladeborn fashioned a better key to the room, judging that his paths to that place were difficult to access and possibly unknown to the Shaft Police.

  An entire year passed with many narrow escapes from both the gangs and the City Guards. Bladeborn steered clear of Thustral… He wanted as little contact with “the Damned” as possible. But he met a wide assortment of unusual beasts and beings in the de
pths of Fortress City. Like Jerzee, the creatures could often be bargained with, and Bladeborn was not afraid or judgmental of them. His reputation among the cast-off half breeds and malformed mutants slowly improved, until some began to seek him out for favors, rapping on the locked door to the room on level minus ten where Bladeborn slept.

  Some of the creatures would come to him with antiques, or items made of precious material, without knowing their actual value or having a way to fence them. Looking at one glow-globe lantern set with gold, Bladeborn bargained with a mutant who had come to him for a deal.

  “Do you realize what this is worth,” Bladeborn asked the beast, a creature with such tragic malformation that no other human would allow nearby.

  Drooling from its misshapen mouth the thing said to Bladeborn, “Jerzee said you would give me good price for it…I want Liquid Sweet!”

  “I’ll get your Liquid Sweet… And more. This object is highly prized by traders who live above… I will meet you here tomorrow at first light to bring you what it is worth, after my cut. Deal?”

  The tragic beast seemed to understand, nodding its head and turning to go, leaving Bladeborn with the prize.

  “An item worth eighty gold for a simple jar of Liquid Sweet.” Bladeborn thought. In such cases, Bladeborn simply tried to make his partners happy in the short run.

  Because of his success as a trader, Bladeborn’s stash became so large that he felt he was much better off than those around him. He occasionally would give things to the needy on the higher levels of the city as well as below, which unintentionally paid off for him in many ways. He had surplus coin, precious things, and food so he befriended those whom he thought he could help out.

  All the creatures beneath the City seemed possessed by their own fears. Once, Bladeborn asked a lizard-like mutant if it could get another jade sculpture like the previous two it had brought him.

  “N-no! SSS!” the lizard-thing said in terror. “The Master, Lord of Nightmares, now dwells in that area of the tombs! SSS! There is NO going Back”

  “I have heard others refer to this Master,” Bladeborn said. “Who is this ‘Master?’”

  “N-NOOO!” the lizard-thing said, snake’s eyes narrowing in fear. “I…Must…GO!”

  * * *

  The creatures of the lower levels often had little resemblance to the humans living in Fortress City. People in normal society would never have accepted them. There were also many lower City beggars and needy, helpless for less obvious reasons. Doing what he could, Bladeborn gave to families that had fallen on hard times and some of the beggars who had better eyes and were more aware than most people. Some of them treated Bladeborn like a friend, even though he tried to warn them that he didn’t want to get too close to any person or group. He was concerned that it could end badly.

  Occasionally, with his features hidden under a large cloak, Bladeborn would visit the city temple of Saint Morth, and say a prayer as Onar had taught him. Even Angres was known to be religious to a certain degree, claiming “…it can’t hurt to remember the high one…”

  While inside the temple of Morth, Bladeborn wandered among the niches and naves. Reading sooty texts emblazoned over forgotten shrines within the temple, he discovered several areas devoted to Avatars of lesser gods, what Onar had called Demi-gods. One was “Saldac of the Brine.” He put a valuable gem on the miniature altar there. A few days later, when he returned, the shrine had been cleaned and restored to its former glory. He did this charitable act at many other shrines in the smoky, dark cathedral.

  Another forgotten god with a large shrine was Scarecrow. He left a gem there, and it, too was cleaned the next time he came by.

  In his extensive explorations of forgotten places within Fortress City, Bladeborn found a long-disused shrine marked as “The Front Gate.” Onar had told him such a passageway existed, but until Bladeborn climbed the nearby mound of trash that day it looked as though none had seen or been near it for decades.

  At the shrine of the door, Bladeborn lit a candle and said a prayer in hopes that one day it would lead him to freedom from his oppressive birthplace. He would return to the shrine several more times, but that hope came to naught.

  * * *

  Bladeborn knew that the Fire Tongues, the Hazords, and the gang called the Deathwhispers were in a three-way war. Every day one of them would turn up dead. These major gangs had all been targeted by Bladeborn in one way or another—unwary gang members had been robbed by him on several occasions in the past. Leftee, Fire Tongue, and Boneface, the leader of the Deathwhispers, were outraged by Bladeborn’s actions, yet they had not been able to stop him. Bladeborn moved though each of their territories with great caution, sometimes unseen, other times spotted by them. Gang members would often chase him, but Bladeborn was very good at disappearing into areas most people were not familiar with.

  However, on one occasion, he heard that a gang enforcer planned to hunt him down. “The Brickman,” one of the Hazords’ chief muscle men, had been the scourge of Mushroom Row for years. He Normally travelled with a group of Hazords thugs, and several murders were attributed to them. Sometime earlier, Bladeborn had heard it was The Brickman who had killed the curiosity shopkeeper on level twelve. Years earlier, the same shopkeeper had patched Bladeborn up after his fight with Roccar. Only Bladeborn knew of this coincidence, but it mattered to him deeply.

  Deciding to seek out The Brickman and catch him alone, Bladeborn tracked the dangerous Hazords killer to a back alley where were alone.

  Stepping out of the shadows in front of the Brickman, Bladeborn said to the much larger man, “You are a murderer, Brickman! Your days of violence end here!”

  “Who in the Hells are you?” the Brickman responded.

  “Bladeborn,” he said boldly. “I will kill you for justice!”

  “Ahh jus the man I was lookin for!” the Brickman took his large club from beneath his cloak and swung it around. It had a sizable brick tied to the end. “I hear you don’t like killing! One lucky day in the arena, and then you run from every fight!” The Brickman shouted back down the alleyway, “Hey Boys, guess who I got down here! It’s BLADEBORN!”

  “Shout all you want, Brickman, but the Tavern they are in is too noisy for them to hear you,” Bladeborn stated.

  “Then I’ll kill you myself!” The Brickman shouted, swinging in a wide arc at Bladeborn’s head.

  Though Bladeborn was younger and quicker, he knew the Brickman was stronger. However, the Brickman’s weapon connected with nothing but air on two passes near Bladeborn’s head.

  “Stand still!” the Brickman shouted. Bladeborn faked to the left and the Brickman dodged right. It was just as Bladeborn had foreseen.

  Switching his attack angle, Bladeborn stuck his pottery shiv in the Brickman’s left ear, right through to his brain. It was a quick death, and Bladeborn felt only a little of the remorse he had for Hercun the Howler. The Brickman had created much pain and trouble during his life. After saying a brief prayer to Saint Morth for both himself and the man he had killed, Bladeborn got out of the alleyway unseen.

  One of Bladeborn’s beggar friends told him, “…I heard that the Brickman met an untimely death Behind the tavern on Mushroom Row—an assassin got him, but the other gangs aren’t taking credit. Takes a real professional to kill someone like the Brickman. What a shock it was to the Hazords! Their chief muscle-man slain…no witnesses. The Hazords’ leader wants the Brickman’s killer tortured—or hired.”

  Bladeborn thanked the beggar, gave him five coins, and then went on his way.

  * * *

  Once, Bladeborn snatched a bag of coins from six members of the Deathwhispers’ Gang.

  “It’s Bladeborn!” one of them said. “Oh, he’s gonna die now!”

  “Run him down, men!” another one of the Deathwhispers called out.

  The Deathwhispers pursued Bladeborn through markets, in and out of temples, and through people's dwellings. They had Bladeborn outnumbered, yet his speed and knowledge of t
he territory kept him safe. He ran like a swift wind, twice turning to smash his cudgel on the skulls of his foes. Some of them thought they had seen him in the Great Central Market.

  “Where did he go?” the Deathwhispers lead muscle-man gasped. “We’re all gonna get beaten raw by Boneface for losing our protection money to him—again!”

  Bladeborn was wrapped in the awning of a mushroom seller’s stand, right above the group of them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” another one of the Deathwhispers said.

  After they left, Bladeborn dropped down the back of the awning and took the stolen protection money to his stash on level minus ten. On the way Bladeborn was especially careful to dodge the Constables and City Watch. Several times, the Constables had tried to run him down, but Bladeborn was too quick. Chief Constable Bluelock had pushed the reward for Bladeborn’s capture to six-hundred fifty coin.

  When Bladeborn was about twenty-three, he had a falling out with Jerzee.

  Bladeborn closed the door to floor minus ten that day, entering as he usually did, and Jerzee yelled, “Get out, Bladeborn! Get out and come here no more! You enter and leave all the time and those men above us will soon kill everyone down here. Get out or I will smash you and eat your pulpy remains.”

  Bladeborn was surprised, and said, “What? Jerzee we are friends!”

  “No one down here has friends,” Jerzee claimed.

  Jerzee’s response was followed by a low, guttural growling from the darkness. Bladeborn was not afraid, but he was disappointed. Now, because there was no trusting the monster, he could see that he would be unable to retrieve his cache of treasures.

  Bladeborn’s use of that key section of Old City as a means of escape, as well as his place to sleep, was no longer available. He had to come up with something new. But out of necessity, his powers of perception had increased. He had started to recognize signs of hidden doorways within the City, and he discovered ways to open several ancient tunnels through the walls. There were networks of passageways that had gone unused for centuries, leading to secure places where he could hide and live. He discovered that some were marked with diamond shaped signets; while others were marked more cryptically.