Secrets of Arkana Fortress (8 page)

              ‘Oh the morons who work for me don’t even know what time o’ day it is.’ He grabbed the bottle from the small bedside table and poured another glass for himself. ‘Want one?’

              Orlanna rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘You know I hate the stuff.’

              ‘Oh well,’ he smirked. ‘More for me.’ This time he took a large gulp. The sudden sensation of 80-proof liquor made his face shiver, and he coughed heavily.

              ‘You should pack that in, you know.’ Orlanna moved over to him and laid a dainty hand on his – a sheer contrast in comparison. ‘You know what they said about overconsumption.’

              ‘Oh please,’ he remarked. ‘Doctors don’t know shit in this city. Pull the other one, would ya?’

              The conversation died and Orlanna huffed profusely at Dedrick’s constant dismissal at what many medical professionals had said to him –
‘continue drinking and even magic won’t be able to save you’
. At 56 he was too much of a crusty old warhorse to take heed at what the doctors had told him.

              For a brief moment he reflected on some of the times Evie had scolded him at his dismissal at the warning. The last time she had done this was only the other day – she had become so het up after finding him sloshed on an entire bottle of vodka that she had repeatedly slapped him around the face until he was forced to restrain her, much to his reluctance. His niece was the most precious thing he had in his life, and he would die to save her, it was as simple as that. He was like a father to her, and she a daughter to him.

Her mother, Dedrick’s sister, had disappeared some years ago when she had opted to travel to the southern city of Yokitos; aptly named the
‘Secret City’
because of the lack of knowledge about it or its inhabitants. People knew it was there though as there had been stories in ancient lore about the fearsome efficiency of Yokitos warriors in battles stemming back to points in history where cities like Donnol, Hocknis, and Traseken hadn’t even been thought of.

              Evie’s father had been killed in a street brawl along with her brother, leaving the then teenage girl in the care of her uncle Dedrick. He had taught her many things; including how to fight, survive in rough environments, and how to tackle the dangerous intricacies of Donnol society. He had taken her under his wing not just out of a sense of duty, but out of love for his family – she was his daughter now.

              He rubbed his forehead methodically, a headache now looming over his already run-down state.

              ‘Get some sleep,’ ordered Orlanna, her hands placed firmly on her curvy hips.

              ‘That means getting up and going back to my room,’ Dedrick moaned as if he was a little child.

              ‘Just kip on my bed then, you moaning old sod.’

              He eased himself up and looked at Orlanna longingly. ‘What would I do without you to tell me what to do, eh?’ He stepped toward her and placed his arm around her waist.

              ‘Don’t you dare kiss me with that sour mash mouth of yours,’ she remarked as she recoiled from his hold. ‘Get to bed and have some shut eye.’

              A moan and a groan later, he was lying on the bed with one arm over his face. ‘Yeah… I’ll let that trader sweat for a few hours before I go back to him…’

              Orlanna stretched herself out and then rubbed her face. ‘Let’s hope he makes the wise decision then,’ she mused, but Dedrick was already snoring.

Chapter 6

Kelken had seen many a thing throughout his life, but it never filled him with confidence when someone was mugged by a group of thugs; especially when it was him.

              He and Breena had grabbed a room at short notice, paying a few extra rubos for the landlord not to kick up a fuss over Kelken’s battered and bloodied state. They just needed a place for the night to recuperate.

              Breena dabbed her father’s face with a clean rag soaked in strong alcohol – a waste by Kelken’s terms. A few cuts here and there were nothing considering their past contracts; many of them much more severe than taking out a simple dealer.

              The stories he had told Morjat had not been far from the truth – he had indeed once been a knight in the Traseken Order; and highly regarded at that. Traseken was once a thriving military presence in Salarias, reigning with inspirational might for centuries. With towering spires of white, silver and gold it was like a scene from a fairytale or someone’s heavenly imagination while on a drug-induced high. The gleam of its majestic brilliance in the sunlight was nothing short of a person’s idea of the perfect sight. An anthill of commercial and political activity, Traseken was Salarias’s hive for all things business – supplies, money, weapons and armour; manpower, upmarket goods. People swarmed to it like bees to pollinating flowers – there had been an inexplicable undying need to go there; it was something that nobody could explain, let alone understand.

As for their military prowess, it was insurmountable by anyone’s standards. As well as the potently proficient army, with its skilful management of warfare and tactics; there were the Traseken elite – The Knights of the Order of Traseken. Mighty warriors garbed in a type of secret metal; a metal that had been magically crafted with the utmost care and precision by experts who had been renowned for their powers. To the people who went up against the knights, all they saw was the induced magical illusion of gigantic figures dressed in divine white plate mail from neck to foot that was impossible to get dirtied or scuffed. Like the icing on a cake, an antlered helm topped it all off for the added effect of intimidating the enemy. Of course, to the enemy they looked like the messengers of the gods’ wrath. Traseken was deemed unstoppable, and people had once feared that they would soon control the entire land of Salarias with a firm hand.

Of course every civilisation has its eventual downfall, and Traseken’s came quicker than people expected.

Its creeping fingers of influence and control soon retracted when funds became strained – the city had spread itself too thin, and the inevitable downfall had begun. Traseken officials panicked like voles spotting an owl on the approach, selling off the lands they had conquered and bought, bringing in minimal funds. Soldiers were let go, and emergency taxes came into effect. City maintenance was non-existent. Wages were cut. The magic armourers left. Everything went into disarray. All that was left were the knights who felt that their duty to the city outweighed their need for money. The elite warriors numbered 250, but it was thought that only a handful had remained behind to fulfil their oaths.

Kelken had been one of those knights. But when his wife, a human-reptilian half-breed, had disappeared into the southern lands, he laid down his duty and left in search for her. He found only the echoes left behind in her wake; nothing but rumours and cold trails. For many nights he had cried silently while nursing a bottle of some spirit or another. Three years he had spent away from his daughter after he left her behind in Traseken in the care of one of his dearest friends. She was reaching four years of age and it was finally time to return to her and be the father he should have been.

In the short space of three years the city had decayed as fast as a rotting corpse in a heat wave. Until young Breena reached a suitable age to travel, Kelken would stay in Traseken to work with the knights while raising his little girl.

The years were hard.

Traseken being a hub for upcoming criminal bases and activities, the knights and what law enforcers were left had one uphill battle to wage against. Breena saw the tragedies; saw the horrific truth that had become Traseken. It was not a sight children had to witness – corruption in high places, murders, robberies, drug trafficking, assassinations, starvation… and death. It hardened her heart, toughened her in a way that could not be taught.

Kelken guarded her, fought for her, loved her, and sometimes killed to protect her. Nothing got to his baby girl without feeling the steely blade against its flesh – Kelken took them all on.

Now the age of 22 she was the depiction of beauty for any half-breed. Sure her human side was more prominent because of her father, but she never forgot the reptilian side of herself – she took pride in it. The skills she had with a bow were reliably adept, having been taught by the old archery master back in the city. She loved archery, and had taken it up as a hobby on her tenth birthday. Whether it was her reptilian senses or her childish keenness, she was a natural at it. She was also skilled at patching up her father’s increasing number of careless wounds.

‘You know all these cuts and bruises could have been readily avoided,’ she remarked as she held the stinging rag to his face again.

‘Oh yeah? How exactly?’ Kelken asked, still a bit woozy from the medicinal drink he had had earlier.

She stopped and looked him in the eye. ‘By sticking to the plan and not leaving me out in the cold for hours on end – that’s how.’

If there was one thing that could instil dread and fear into Kelken, it was his daughter’s rage and how she made it come across so casually blank each and every time. ‘I said I was sorry, Breena.’

She applied more liquid to his cuts, this time on his neck. ‘It’s
‘sorry’
every single time it happens… and it happens way too often. You’ve got to stop fucking around, you stupid old sod. We’ll both end up biting the dust if you’re not more careful.’

His face winced as more alcohol was applied to a large sore on his throat. ‘We get the jobs done,’ he stated in an effort to positively charge the conversation. ‘What’s a few cuts and scrapes to us, eh?’

‘A few cuts and scrapes?’ Breena exclaimed with unmitigated shock in her voice. ‘A few cu…’ Her throat cleared. ‘Remember that time you had your arm snapped more or less in two? And what about the incident with the feline outlaws down south?’

Kelken laughed deeply. ‘I killed them didn’t I?’

‘Erm yeah… that was at the expense of one of your kidneys. Blade straight through you, or have you neglected to recall that one?’ She made a rasping sound as she re-enacted the sword thrust on her own torso.

‘Oh come on,’ he pleaded, his arms wide apart as if he was begging. ‘That was easily replaced.’ His eyebrows furrowed a little as Breena’s steely gaze insisted on punching a hole through him.

She sighed as she corked the bottle of alcohol and placed it on the bedside table next to her. ‘I don’t see why I keep getting into these pissy little rows with you; nothing ever goes into your thick skull does it, dad?’ Her tongue poked out slightly as she finished her sentence. Although it was forked at the end, it was mostly human in appearance, but it kept the air tasting demeanour of all reptilian tongues. She lifted herself up from the chair and tapped Kelken on the head lightly. ‘I’m going to the bar for a pint.’ She left it at that and exited the rustic room to go downstairs without so much as a glance towards her dejected father.

Kelken looked back as she evacuated the room. He arced forward and raised his body up straight from his bed before motoring into action to follow her. As he moved, he muttered under his breath remorsefully. ‘It’s not as if it was one of your kidneys. I took that blade for you, girl…’

***

Smoke billowed from tables as sailors, soldiers, and mercenaries alike took stock of their day’s activities. They enjoyed reciting their tales to whoever wanted to hear, many of them tavern girls who took delight in talking, flirting, kissing, and even going that little bit further with the battle-beaten customers for the right price.

              Ale was passed around and consumed at a cheetah’s pace; men and women of all races staggering around with jolly temperaments and swaggering stories. The bustling voices of exotic travellers hollered over the din of local accents creating a layer cake atmosphere that seemed almost tangible. Reptilian skins shimmered in the dim candlelight of the tavern’s lounge, and feline eyes glinted knowingly. This place was a hive for people from all walks of society – thieves, traders, warriors, the military, mercenaries, travellers. It was not somewhere you went without at least a couple of trusted companions, however. Although not in the low-town areas, the tavern had its reputation as a no-nonsense kind of establishment.

              Breena leaned against the bar, her elbow narrowly missing a pool of stale beer as she awaited service. She adjusted her footing as a burly little man charged his way around her from behind, a couple of pint jugs in his grubby little hands. It was a good thing she had foregone her battle skirt or casual dress, and stuck with the baggy leather trousers she had bought the day before. They hid her figure well as she hated too much attention to her physique from drooling morons who had more hormones than brain cells.

              ‘Pint of ruby ale, please,’ she called as the scraggly owner looked over at her expectantly.

              She was handed the beverage within 10 seconds, the froth on the top dissipating a bit too quickly for her liking – what could she expect for only a few coins for the night?

              A leeringly sick murmur came from behind her as she sipped the cheap ale. ‘Well ‘ello there. You’re a pretty thing ain’t you?’

              Breena sighed and continued her drink, her eyes concentrating on an untouched pile of dust in the corner of the drinks cabinet behind the bar.

              The man chuckled softly. ‘Silent type, eh? I bet you’re a screamer really. I’d love to find out.’

              It was then that the man crossed the line she always drew things at – physical contact. He laid one hand on her ass and gave a perverted cackle. She set her pint jug down with forceful annoyance, her other hand tensing up into a ball.

The man’s hand withdrew.

             
‘Good, he’s gotten the hint,’
she thought.

              A pained yelp touched her ears, and she could hear the faint unsheathing of a blade. Was he going to hurt her? She turned, ready for a confrontation, but saw something that relieved her anxiety somewhat.

              The man who had dared to touch her was now on one knee with his guilty hand being crushed in Kelken’s unyielding grip. He held a small knife against his throat; his face was the picture of fatherly rage. Nobody touched his daughter in that manner and ever got away with it with their bodies unscathed.

              Kelken’s face wrinkled, his voice growling unnaturally against the din of the tavern. People had turned to watch the commotion with grateful amusement – whenever there was a confrontation there was entertainment. ‘One warning, and one only – touch her like that again, and it will be the last thing that hand of yours does… got it?.’ His face radiated with the sincere determination of a stone wall blocking someone’s path.

              The pained expression on the man’s face was all too clear for everyone to see. Some laughed at the sight of an old guy in his fifties rendering a stocky man in his thirties useless, and sending him into a whimpering panic like an injured puppy. ‘OK OK!’ he squealed. ‘I’m sorry; mate… please just let me go.’

              After a few grumbles and mutters the crowds returned their attentions back to their drinking partners and stories. The man slinked away licking his wounded pride, and clutching his injured hand with his good one.

              ‘I hate it when guys treat you like an object.’ Kelken looked at his daughter meekly, not knowing how she would be towards him, his stomach twisting slightly.

              Breena picked up her ale and leaned her back against the bar, her gaze assessing her father. ‘Did you enjoy that then?’ she asked in a subtly snide tone of voice. She knew that her father’s love to teach someone a lesson could take precedence over the important things that he should be feeling… like his sense of guilt for one thing.

              ‘I enjoy looking after you.’

              ‘I’m a big girl these days… I can look after myself.’

              Kelken raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you have handled that bag of shit?’

              She shrugged one shoulder lazily. ‘I won’t know now, will I? You stuck your oar in and did it yourself. I probably would’ve smacked him hard enough to make him bleed.’

              He sheathed his knife into his belt before leaning forward to get face-to-face with Breena, one hand propping him up on the bar next to her. ‘We are still in Donnol for a reason,’ he whispered into her delicate ear. ‘The last thing we need is a falling out, especially now.’

              Her eyes flickered with an awkward glance to the side. ‘I know that.’ She paused. ‘OK fine, I’ll give you a beating after this next job is over and done with.’ She drank her ale longingly – it may have tasted like shit, but it was alcohol she suddenly had need for. ‘So when are we meeting him?’

              The mechanical wall clock showed it was nearing midnight. Kelken hummed and tapped his chin with an idle finger. ‘Should be at dawn around about six.’

              ‘Where?’

              ‘By the docks. The client has a ship that’s afloat there for a few days.’

              ‘Do you know what the job is?’ Breena finished off her drink and grimaced at the bitter dregs that battered her tongue.

              ‘Not a clue – this one has been played close to the chest. As long as we get our money then that’s all I’m bothered about.’

              Breena tittered as she wiped her mouth free of the flattened ale froth. ‘The joys of being a mercenary, eh dad?’

***

The salty sea air blew gently in the early dawn of the new day.

It was at this time that Donnol was at its least active; the only people around being the homeless, the drunks from the night before, the night guards, and the odd early morning dock worker reluctantly starting another shift at an ungodly hour for a pittance.

A hooded figure swept its way between two large crates placed by one of the docked vessels. A crooked nose protruded slightly from within the shadowed depths of the hood as the calm, but heavy breath misted in front of the figure’s face – it was a cold morning.

Paper crinkled in a bony hand as the stranger stepped from side to side to keep warm. The secretive nature reflected that of the entire city. Donnol had a renowned secret side to it, especially of a night time – shady goings-on were commonplace, and the less you asked about things the better.

A pair of grey eyes amidst a pale complexion darted around warily. Always on guard, a free hand caressed the hilt of a sword hidden underneath the shaded dark blue robe. Another chilling breeze glided through the dockside with a death-like aura. The sooner this business was done with the sooner the essence of a warm fire could be felt.

‘Hey, stop looking so conspicuous.’

The figure, without hesitation, whipped around and revealed the sword, placing a hand on its hilt in readiness for a swift strike.

‘Relax, mate, I’m here for that piece of paper in your hand.’ Kelken shifted his shoulders in an attempt to remain domineering yet approachable to the messenger.

The figure calmed down before holding out the paper scroll. ‘Here it is. Now I must depart,’ a whispered voice said. The hooded character swooped behind a crate and vanished like an apparition into the veil.

‘Was that a man or a woman? I never can tell when they’re dressed like that,’ said Breena with a stutter. She bounced from foot to foot.

‘I’ve not got a bloody clue. I don’t think it was either to be honest.’ Kelken laughed before opening the crumpled note.

Breena moved her flame red hair out of her face and peered over her father’s shoulder like a nosy neighbour. ‘Well? What’s the job then?’

Kelken glanced over the near illegible script in front of him. He hummed. ‘From what I can make out…’ He paused.

‘Any time today, dad,’ said Breena impatiently. Her favourite part of the job was getting the contract. She assumed it was the anticipation that got her excited.

‘Looks like a rescue mission… something different I suppose.’ Kelken rolled up the message and pocketed it.

‘Who’s the client?’

‘A bloke called Dedrick Ranliss.’

Chapter 7

Drip. Drip. Drip. Scuttle. Patter. Splash. Squeak. Drip. Drip. Drip.

              The constant rhythm in the confines of the jail cell was maddening, but so was being walled up at the order of a bunch of mad men.

              Evie choked on the dust-filmed water she had been handed by the guard. With a hateful glance she took it, along with a plate of some meat that looked as if it had been taken from the gutter; it probably had been.

              ‘Eat up, bitch,’ grunted the guard as he tossed the plate at her, narrowly missing her head.

              She swore back at him with a fearless tongue, hurling the meat at the back of his head and spitting on the floor. ‘Fuck you, you shit bag,’ she screamed.

              A fist crunched against her cheek, and she fell sideways onto the mouldy cobbles of the cell. ‘Don’t fuck with me – you’ve already caused us enough grief.’ He exited, closing the cell door behind him forcefully. She was left to weep silently on the floor.

              This was unbelievable. Out of all the times she had escaped the guards’ patrols without so much as a sweat; she had been scuppered by a civilian of all people. ‘Just wait till I get out… just wait,’ she seethed underneath her shallow breath.

              A guard rattled on the bars. ‘Keep quiet, bitch.’

              Evie wrapped her shivering arms around herself to keep warm. The last thing she wanted was to eat some rancid meat that the guard had probably pissed on for a laugh. Her eyes had grown cloudy; a reflection of her diminishing hopes. It would only be a few days before she was trialled, which seemed stupid as they were going to kill her anyway. Why bother with all of this red tape when they could just gut her here and now?