Waking Olympus (The Singers of the Dark Book 1) (5 page)

 
While Tomi and Aleis were counting he darted over the rocks, barefoot and agile, impervious to the jagged edges clothed in faded brown rough-knit. He hid in a crevice, covering himself in very smelly kelp. It was near a rock shaped like a pelican. The clue was 'big hard bird'. He was sure they'd get it quickly and wouldn't just look everywhere at random. He could hear them talking, working it out. He could also hear little crawlies scuttling in the dried kelp. He had to hold his nerve.

He heard lots of seagulls. He hoped they weren't going to give him away. He must have uncovered some morsels for them but the sounds weren't that close. Then he knew that it wasn't seagulls he could hear. They were screams. People screaming. He got scared and stayed still. The screams stopped. He still hid. But he had to know.

He came out of his little crevice, like a small crab. Then made his way over the rocks to the beach. His brother and sister weren't there. This beach was hidden from where his village was so he would have to round the small headland to see. He walked up, past the few rocks, the waves carelessly rushing around his legs, splashing up. He heard talking, strangers. There was the smell of smoke as he walked towards the village. As he got closer he saw that some of the huts weren't there anymore, just translucent columns of smoke. It was past midday, there should be so many people here. Who were these people he could hear?

As he approached the village he saw shapes on the beach sand. Dark shapes like mounds of kelp with red color running over them and off them in little rivulets into the receiving waves. There were two small piles of seaweed getting closer. Every step made them clearer, every step and he knew more clearly that it wasn't kelp. It was his brother and sister. He ran up to them, laying there dead like cold fish washed up by the waves, lifeless eyes staring out. There were more voices, clearer and closer. He couldn't breathe. There was a rising tide in him, a wave of feelings, that he had lost everything. He was near panic and knew it. There was movement just over a low dune, not far from him, then voices.

"You were supposed to get prisoners. Lots of prisoners. How are we supposed to make money out of this, sell shells in Bethor? I should feed you to the sharks. You've always been trouble."

"Ha, you? You're no match for me. What's the problem anyway? There's plenty more villages up the coast."

A scream. Then the first voice again.

"Thanks Dale. He ripped us all off. Hey, who's that? Looks like it isn't a complete loss."

He turned and ran but one of them cut him off before the headland, he only just glimpsed him coming from the right side; tall, black ragged armor, a frozen grim indistinct face in his mind.

He was rammed face first into the wet sand. A bag thrown over his head while someone tied his hands behind him. He remembered the fear, and the pounding of his heart, salt water around and in his mouth and nose mixed with sand, bright pinpoints of yellow light through the coarse weave of the bag, the stale smell of the bag mixing with the sharp tang of the sea. He didn't see any more of his village, he never knew if his parents or other kin escaped. There was a time huddled in the bottom of a rocking boat, too exhausted to fear anymore, too helpless to do anything but let fate take him.

Much later he would find himself in Bethor at the slave market. His hands tied and a rope around his neck, paraded on a small stage. They, those anonymous faces that he tried to purge from his mind, had given him some extra food so he wouldn't faint on stage. Masked the odd casual whip mark with a smudge of dirt. Bruises even easier. They had all gawked at him but one in particular. The others had merely grabbed his arms and legs roughly testing his strength, making sure he wouldn't die within a day of purchase. This one had come up to him, face covered in a cowl, as if he had come in from a rainstorm or he was a monk, he asked Mikel about the games he played, what interested him, how he had got caught. It was a moment of warmth, as if the stranger cared. There was a small flurry of bidding, he didn't hear what the final price was, a child didn't have a high value, they were often killed outright since they were more of a nuisance.
 

His new owner came to him, lifted his cowl, gazed at him with his clear brown eyes. He was in his late twenties, had not shaven for several days, black hair, pale skin. Not like anyone in his village. He stooped down to look at Mikel at eye level, put his soft hands on Mikel's shoulders. "Don't worry little one. You are going to be all right. What is your name?"

"Mikel." He had not spoken his own name since he was taken. They had taken away his identity. With a simple question his world changed.

"Well, Mikel. How would you like to be a Wizard?"

He nodded to the man, who smiled, took him by his hand and led him out of the building and down to the sun-drenched docks.

But, that was not right. He remembered the first day he set foot in Lind, the day his new life started, he was at least a year older than when he was captured. It surprised him that even now when he thought he was being most honest with himself there was still something hidden. What was it?

So long ago. Around his neck still hung a tiny leather pouch. In it was a fragment of the clothes he had worn and a stray piece of kelp from his hiding place that he always kept even though he banished the memories they represented. The only physical remnants he had left from the time before his other life ended.

He bowed his head, trying to breathe deeply and soothe those old unfinished aches.

"Son. Are you all right? You don't look so well?" The speaker was a middle aged Bethorese gentleman, well dressed, out to 'take the air' it seemed. Lower Upper Class he would guess. Speaking in a refined accent.

"I will be fine. In just a moment. Thank you." He spoke naturally.

"Oh. You're from Lind." The voice suddenly hard. "You better be off before the police come by, they don't take kindly to your type. Best to be away from Bethor if you get my meaning."

It was a remarkable transformation. The man looked at him in a stiff, rigid stance as if possessed. He knew that demon, he had seen it in the slave market. It was still alive, and now stronger.

He made his way back to his room. Noticing everything: the uniforms, the slogans, an unnatural orderliness in manner in a haphazard town. This place was dangerous, the less time he spent here the better. He had to find out about the trade routes and get out of the city, return home.

Next morning he ate breakfast in the tavern quickly and proceeded east towards the Caravanserai: a combination of market, exchange, social gathering and festival. He crossed the bridge from the eastern end of the Island to the southern side of the river. The Caravanserai was a large flat area, a riot of color, sound, music, smells of food, and animals. It was like a huge fair except it was far more serious. Here was a rich selection of things for sale, barter, deals to be done, people to meet. That was his aim, he was looking for a Trader to question about trade routes. Simple, then he could go home. He had been given a name of someone who was knowledgeable and trustworthy. He had to get to the Exchange.

The Exchange turned out to be a curious 'U' shaped stadium like structure. The central stage area was for food, drink and other amenities, the ‘audience’ was the true highlight. As he looked up from the stage area near the entrance he saw tiers of small tables and stalls and people talking and doing business. The higher the position the more respected. Areas of the stands had a colored flag here and there. He was looking for a yellow flag with a blue wheel symbol on it: the mark of one particular family of Traders. The Trader section, marked by square flags rather than pennants, was in fact very large, taking up most of the space; soon he saw his target, high up.

Walking up the stairway near the yellow section of the crowd he saw hard inscrutable faces looking him up and down. He had read about arenas and amphitheaters but this was nothing like that; these people were not passive observers. He was the observed. They were evaluating him, catching the slightest clues as to who he was, how wealthy and vulnerable he supposed. He looked up to see where he was going and was confronted by a wall of leather. He was about to collide with a young Trader standing on a higher step. He noticed that the chest had two interesting bumps at eye level. He looked up embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he started to step around her.

“Mikel Peres, of the Center?” she said with an odd accent. She spoke almost in the manner of Lind and she knew who he was. The questions were rhetorical. Everyone seemed to know his name and he knew nothing about them. He was way out of his depth.

Her name was Tei. A young Trader of about 20, though she came highly recommended. She had shoulder length auburn hair tied behind. Startling blue eyes and slightly dark skin though it was hard to tell if it was just the typical deep suntan of the Traders or if she was naturally a bit brown. When she walked down onto the same step as Mikel he saw that she stood a few centimeters shorter than him, dressed in well fitted leather armor with straps and a loose white cloak. She looked dangerous even before he noticed the sword on her left hip and a remarkably small crossbow hanging from her other hip. The wind was picking up, every now and then blowing her cloak back revealing the weapons and armor like the warning display of a wild animal. Her forearms were bare showing her wiry muscles rippling a few tattoos. She looked tough, formidable.

Tei Lin Valis had been a Trader for as long as she could remember. Her father taking her on the safer routes when she was a small child, learning to hunt and survive, negotiate or fight, and how to read people and places. She would return to Tanten showing off her new prizes to the rest of the family, or bringing news and letters from extended family in remote encampments and towns. When she was thirteen she was taken on a special journey, as is the custom, and saw the Eternal Citadel. Seeing that changed her life, as it does to every Trader who has the chance to witness it. Once a Trader sees that, then the world of men and the attraction of cities fades away like the chill of the desert night. She was twenty Neti years old now, the same in standard years. Her father had always referred to her as his 'golden princess'; referring to her auburn hair. Nowadays she pulled the shoulder length hair back severely trying to get rid of the curls and waves in her hair. She wanted men and women to remember her for her leadership not for her looks, but deep down she still longed to be the 'golden princess' saving the world. Her travels had tanned her skin, more easily than expected, somewhere in the past she had a relative who gave her some welcome resistance to the sun. Now her skin and her hair were golden, but reality never matches the dream.

Her discipline could never waver, she still had to earn respect but she had a slight build; a caravan leader must be able to lead her people into battle if needed. She had the courage, she trained daily to get the strength, yet at times it seemed like a hopeless quest and she wondered how her team regarded her.

She wore typical Trader garb. Well-used leather armor though not so much as to slow her down in a fight. A sheathed curved sword at her left side, made from many-folded steel, the sheath beautifully crafted in red leather and some silver. A small pale yellow crossbow and quiver at her side. There were light clothes under the armor and a flowing white cloak on her back. The cloak was a desert thing, not usually used here but it protected from the wind and dust.

She was in front of a very strange creature who seemed the antithesis of her aspirations. He was perhaps two years younger than her. But he was as helpless as a child. He couldn’t track or fight she suspected, yet the word was that he was special. The Traders and the Wizards had an unspoken alliance. They both had deep secrets and wished to keep them, and each wanted to know the secrets of the other but they also shared a common hope for the future. In the midst of these subtle interplays this lad obviously had no idea what was really going on, which made his reputation even more of a mystery. Perhaps something else was intended. She might as well play the tough guy and see if she could shake something out of him.

She casually evaluated the boy. Not strong and wiry as a Trader should be. No poise that spoke of horse riding. His leather armor, what there was of it, was new. New? What was he thinking being out here? A lamb to the slaughter. Yet there was something in his gaze.

“Well, are you Mikel Peres?” She said, climbing a step and using the added height from the stairs to project an aura of haughtiness. She was curious to see how he reacted. If he didn’t react her suspicions would be increased.

“Yes, my name is Mikel, from the Center in Lind.” There was no reaction from the woman so he decided to just continue and hoped things improved.

“I was looking for a Trader by the name of Tei Valis. Is — is that you?”

Duty called, she was just getting started and now she couldn’t play with him any longer. She had a job to do.
 

She visually softened, stood more at ease.
 

“Yes. I am Tei Lin Valis, Trader of the Plains. Left Hand of the Mark of Valis of Tanten.”

Mikel translated from what he had learned about the Traders. Tanten was their major city or town, details on it were scarce and contradictory. The Mark was a clan head. To be the “Left Hand” meant that she was a talented and stealthy troubleshooter for the Mark, whereas “Right Hand” would mean she was more of a soldier. She was an agent of some kind. She must be fearsome to have earned such a title at her age.

“I am …” He stupidly started to repeat himself.

“Yes, I know who you are Mikel.”

“Oh. Yes, what now?” He was becoming aware that the easterly wind was drying out his lips and face making it that much harder to talk to this amazon. She looked like she had lived in the desert, as if she regarded this as a gentle breeze.

“Mikel. We can talk in my tent. It isn’t far from here, just beyond the stadium. I know you islanders have delicate skin.”