This story is one I wrote about a year and a half ago for one of my modules at University. It was meant to grow into one part of a larger set of short stories focussing on the central character, but I've never gotten round to actually writing any more. Technically this short isn't even finished, as the rather abrupt ending will attest to. I'll talk more about my thoughts on the story and why I haven't written any more of it in another post soon to follow, but for now I implore you to click on the jump and read on. I hope you enjoy what I've chosen to tentatively title "Embris".
This was how I arrived in Embris:
Skin sun-scorched and peeling, my
last remaining set of clothes soaked in sweat and sea spray, with an
unfashionable growth of unshaved stubble itching my neck and face. The length
of passably sharp, rust bitten steel thrust through the knotted rope I wore in
place of a belt was unfit to bear the name of ‘sword’. I had a motley
assortment of petty coins weighting my pocket that might just have totalled
seven silver solahns at a stretch; less if I counted the exorbitant fee the local
moneychangers would undoubtedly extort from me.
The Starling’s captain stepped onto the dock beside me and clapped a
companionable hand across my sun burned shoulders. I winced and shot him a dark
glare which he didn’t seem to notice.
“Ah, you smell that?” he said,
completing the cliché with an almost theatrical intake of breath. “Embris,
grandest city in all the world.”
The only stench filling my nostrils
was salt and seaweed and rotting fish, with perhaps a slight aroma of gull
droppings and sewage. Whatever the captain found so appealing was lost on me.
Or maybe he smelled the same things as I; he’d certainly given me enough reason
throughout that torturous voyage to think him addled.
Perhaps he at last noticed my
displeasure, for his expression became sheepish and he said, “Once again, my
heartfelt apologies about your trunks. The lads and I are still scratching our
heads how they wound up going overboard.” Then he grinned and added, “But we
replaced what we could and got you here in one piece. What more can an honest
man want for, hey?”
For a brief moment I carefully
weighed the pros and cons of punching the incompetent twit across the jaw, and
came to the conclusion that I could no longer afford the trouble that would
bring. I settled for favouring him with a forced smile, a muttered “Quite”, and
clenching my fist around the coins in my pocket until my knuckles cracked.
Apparently, for who knows what godforsaken reason, one of the coins had a
sharpened edge, as it bit into my palm and drew blood.
My jaws clamped down on a sudden
torrent of screaming expletives that threatened to boil up over my tongue,
unleashed by this latest small indignity in the procession of humiliations I
had suffered since departing the mainland. All that escaped my lips was a
quiet, quavering whine, not unlike the whistle of a miniscule kettle. I felt my
eye twitch.
The captain gave me an odd sideways
look, eyebrows arching. Then he shrugged and slapped me on the back once more,
turned, and strode back up the gangplank onto the Starling, leaving me standing alone, silently fuming, on the dock
of an unfamiliar city. I allowed myself a drawn out sight before rummaging
about my person until I found a folded scrap of paper. I drew it from the shirt
pocket in which it was stowed and began very carefully unfolding it.
It was, or had been, a map of the city,
but somewhere along the voyage it had become rather thoroughly stained, to the
point that reading the blasted thing required an uncomfortable degree of
guesswork and faith. Entire sections of the map were illegibly smudged, but
there seemed to be enough left to navigate by. At least I hoped. Fighting down
a surge of worry and nausea, I set off into the city.
Clouds of gulls and other sea birds
wheeled through the sky over the dockside, diving down to feast on anything they
deemed potentially edible. That mostly meant the masses of poorly attended fish
brought in by the boat-full, their carcasses reeking on pallets under the
scorching sun as they awaited transport to the cities markets and fishmongers. The
swirling flocks produced an enormous racket, thousands of feathered throats
singing in a cawing chorus, adding their shrill tones to the tremendous
cacophony of clashing sound filling the air. The timbers of dozens of docked
vessels creaked and groaned, sea surf slapped and crashed against stone and
wood, but drowning out nearly all of these were the voices and hubbub of
hundreds, likely thousands, of people.
The dock was packed with them,
crowds of folk of every race and creed imaginable, from the ebony skinned
Summerlanders all the way through to milky complexions that signified the
descendants of outcasts from the nomadic clans of the far north. By far the
most common were the reddish browns of the Spine Islanders, the natives of this
region. Most of the people on the dockside were, unsurprisingly, sailors,
rushing about on errands, unloading their ships, or otherwise walking amongst
the crowds with the swagger of men freshly paid their wage and let loose on
shore leave to terrorise the local taverns and brothels. The cities merchants
were out in force, looking over imported wares, bartering with captains and others
like themselves, or watching nervously as sailors, dockhands and hired
labourers manhandled their newly purchased goods onto horse drawn carts. Occasionally
I caught sight of small groups of young women, lurking at the edges of
alleyways. They wore brief dresses, not
much more than gaudily dyed shifts really, that displayed a scandalous amount
of bare flesh. Whores, I realised, looking to draw the attention of eager
sailors too lazy, busy or cheap to seek out a cathouse.
I even passed a pair of gharim unloading
crates from a merchant barque. The hulking creatures resembled crocodiles, but
stood on two legs like men. They were dressed lightly in what resembled outsized
and heavily patched sailors garb, the gaps in which revealed thick, dark green
scales which lightened to a yellowish white on their necks and bellies. Standing
roughly nine feet tall, they towered over the humans on the dock, most of which
chose to keep a wary distance from the gharim, despite the sturdy muzzles
fastened about their jaws and the blunted sheathes capping their talons. Even
robbed of their natural weaponry, the creatures were still formidable. Each of
them handled the crates – some of which were the size of carts – with an ease
and apparent lack of care that plainly demonstrated their prodigious strength.
As I watched them work, I spotted
out of the corner of my eye a burly sailor walking backwards, as he spoke and
guffawed with a friend following a few feet behind. The careless fool was
evidently unaware of the gharim, as he backed into one and rebounded as if he’d
walked into a brick wall.
“Oi mate, watch where you’re
bleedin’ goin’,” the sailor barked as he spun around, and abruptly found
himself level with the ghar’s chest. His expression performed a remarkably
rapid u-turn, switching from mounting fury to mortified horror in the space of
an eye blink.
The ghar turned slowly, shifting the
crate it carried until it rested on a shoulder, supported by one powerfully
muscled arm, leaving the other free. It lowered its gaze, locking it’s
yellow-green eyes with his, vertical pupils narrowing into razor thin slits, as
it moved to loom over the hapless sailor. A threatening hiss escaped its
muzzled jaws. The sailor in return made a strangled noise and scrambled rapidly
backwards out of the ghar’s reach. He turned tail, and along with his friend, scarpered
into the teeming crowds. The creature watched the retreating sailor for a few
moments, its tail twitching back and forth. Some of the sailors watching from
the deck of the barque suddenly burst into laughter at the scene, and the
ghar’s head swivelled round to regard them. It nodded to its crewmates and
began making an odd croaking sound, which I realised was an imitation of their
laughter. I repressed a shudder at the uncanny sound and moved on.
Moments before I entered the main
thoroughfare that, at least according to my ragged map, would lead me to the
city’s financial district, I passed a small, sleek corvette boasting a
compliment of Coalition marines in crisp bottle green uniforms posted at
regular intervals along her deck. I noted with some degree of concern that they
seemed oddly ill at ease for soldiers in what was supposed to be an allied
city. Certainly any marine on guard duty would do his best to present a
hard-bitten, don’t-mess-with-me image, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that
they seemed overly tense, as if they were expecting gunfire and drawn steel at
any moment. I caught one soldier, a dour looking grey-haired veteran, nervously
fingering the trigger guard of his musket. Perhaps I was just being paranoid,
but nevertheless I made a mental note to ask a few pointed questions later at the
Coalition’s headquarters in the city. Of course, that was assuming I would be
allowed within a hundred feet of the building. My current appearance was no
doubt little better than that of an armed vagrant or street thug. A bark of
bitter laughter passed my lips. That description perhaps wasn’t so far off the
mark. At any rate, looking as I did, and with my papers of commission having
joined the rest of my belongings as fish food, nothing short of a miracle would
get me inside. Another amused thought crossed my mind, and I paused a moment to
stare up into the sky. Perhaps a miracle wasn’t so unlikely, given the
location.
Towering over the city was a
mountain, a mountain so tall that its upper reaches were white with snow
despite the sweltering local climate, so tall that its pinnacle was lost in a
perpetual cloak of clouds.
God’s Peak, it was called. The
priests and other sundry holy men preached that the Almighty Himself held court
atop the colossal mountain, where He could view the entire world from its
dizzying heights. This was supposedly the original reason for Embris’s
existence, why the great city had first been built over a thousand years ago,
why it had been fought over time and time again in innumerable bloody sieges
and conflicts between dozens of vying nations and religious factions. Even
after being burned and razed to the ground twice, once by a sect of zealots
looking to deny the holy city from their rivals, and once by a horde of
seaborne raiders from beyond the Paling Sea, the city had only risen once more
from the ashes, grander and greater than before, a shining testament to
mankind’s devotion to their Heavenly Creator.
At least that’s what the priests
claimed. In this modern age, where the twin worlds of science and reason were
beginning to supplant superstition, other explanations had moved to the fore –
the cities location at the core of the Spine Islands archipelago made Embris a
natural trading hub, and a dominating defensive position and staging ground for
any naval fleet – and this was fine with me. Let’s be honest, if God had chosen
to make His home atop an enormous hunk of frigid rock, unreachable by even the
most determined of devotees, then that probably said something about His desire
to be close to His creations.
Not that this stopped the zealots of
course. A year rarely passed without news of more misguided attempts by bands
of fools with more fervour than sense to reach the mountain’s pinnacle. Those embarking
on these expeditions rarely returned, which seemed only to fuel further efforts
in the belief that they must indeed have reached the Almighty’s court. A rather
more likely outcome, I thought, was that the morons died of exposure half way
up.
I shrugged and continued walking. If
there really was a deity somewhere up there, He was unlikely to make any effort
to aid a man such as I. On the contrary, should His gaze ever fall upon me I
would expect a cavalcade of crippling misfortune to befall me within the hour.
Not that I was particularly starved for misfortune of course, as my present
predicament amply demonstrated. At any rate, my first objective was to track
down a moneychanger to exchange the coins in my pocket from a half dozen
disparate currencies into something the local shopkeepers and merchants would
accept, preferably one who wouldn’t screw me over, if such existed. The few
solahns I was likely to receive wouldn’t stretch far, but with a smidge of luck
I would at least be able to afford to make myself reasonably presentable.
Perhaps then I’d be able to get close enough to the Coalition headquarters for some
officer to recognise me, or at least to hear me out.
As I moved further away from the
dockside, and thus further away from the unpleasant odour of the place and the
heaving crowds, I began to find my opinion of the city beginning to shift
towards the positive. Certainly the streets were still packed, but not to the
same swarming extent as the bustling port, and the rank stench of fish and
seaweed had faded to nothing more than the occasional lingering scent carried
along by the gentle breeze coming in from the sea. Even that disappeared after
another quarter mile. I began studying the cities architecture. The wooden
warehouses that had dominated the dockside gave way to whitewashed dwellings
which became larger and less squalid the deeper into the city I travelled. As
the level of affluence increased the architecture became grander. The
whitewashes all but disappeared, replaced by more vibrant paints, mostly
saffron and soft blues. Arches and terraces became common place, the streets
becoming paved with cut stone rather than bare earth, lined with palm trees and
verdant bushes that blossomed with vividly coloured flowers. When I finally arrived
at the financial district, the buildings reached a new level of splendour. They
rose up three, sometimes even four stories, often boasting wide balconies
supported by marble columns. I passed a handful of imposing u-shaped villas,
their inner courtyards ornamented with bubbling fountains and majestic statues
– rearing beasts, heroic figures and so on. These, no doubt, were the homes of
the cities well to do who desired to remain close to their prime business
interests whilst still flaunting their vast riches.
Eventually I found what I had been
seeking, a stately building bearing a large brass plaque above its open doors
which proclaimed it a branch of the prestigious Falkner and Bailock Banking
House. A squad of guards stood to rigid attention beside the doors, three of
them on either side. Though each bore a pistol alongside their straight-edged
swords, they were armoured in silvered steel cuirasses with matching masks; an
oddly antiquated defensive measure as any decent musket could punch straight
through all but the thickest metal armour. But I couldn’t deny that the guards
looked imposing enough, which I supposed was the point. Appearance and intimidation
could be of great use, as I had well learned long ago. Their eyes fell upon me
as I came towards the door, likely judging whether or not my own unsavoury
appearance suggested ill intentions, but they allowed me to pass without
comment.
I entered into a cavernous room lit
by high arched windows, the sunlight falling in bright beams upon a floor tiled
with a chequered pattern of black and white marble. A tall, gaunt valet in a
smart black suit approached me, moving with practiced poise, his arms folded
neatly behind his back.
“Sir,” he said, looking me up and
down with a disapprovingly arched eyebrow which suggested he used the honorific
with no small degree of irony. “Might I inquire as to your business here?”
“I require the services of a
moneychanger,” I replied using my best imitation of an upper class accent,
which if I’m honest was hardly convincing.
“Of course, sir,” the man said with
a sour curve to his lips. “Right this way.”
He led me to a side room containing
a bespectacled clerk hunched over a desk strewn with various parchments and
logbooks. He peered up at me expectantly and I fumbled the assorted coins onto
his desk. He opened a draw and extracted a small magnifying glass and a set of
scales. What proceeded was a half hour of the man um-ing and ah-ing as he
fussed over the coins, weighing and examining each one with painful precision
before placing them atop a growing pillar of petty currency. At least he put
aside the final coin and handed to me a small purse and a scribbled receipt.
“Three silver solahns,” he
announced, “and four bits, minus a fee of one solahn. Thank you for your
custom.”
A wave of weary disappointment
flooded over me. That was far less than my earlier estimate, but there was
little use in arguing. I nodded to the clerk and turned to leave.
“Oh, sir,” he said suddenly. I
looked back to see him holding out his hand. I reached over and he dropped
another coin into my palm. “I fear that I was unable to ascertain the
provenance of this particular coin and must therefore declare it of null
value.”
It was a tiny misshapen disc of
grubby metal that had been so heavily shaved by unscrupulous hands that it had
acquired a sharp edge. It was, I realised, the one I had cut myself on earlier.
I felt an alarming stab of irrational fury, and stormed from the room without
pausing to thank the clerk. I swept by the valet, who had returned to his post
at the doors, who shot a smug sounding “Good day, sir,” at my back.
Outside in the sunlight, rage
filling my gut, the full realisation of my predicament struck me like a fist.
Alone, no possessions, scarcely enough money to feed myself for a week. I
looked about at the splendid structures of the district, and my opinion of the
city sunk back to my earlier impression.
All of this grandeur was no more
than a facade of course. Like herbs and spices disguising spoiled meat,
perfumes to hide a foul odour, colourful cloth to bandage a festering wound,
termite infested mulch beneath a surface of varnished oak.
All cities were the same beneath the
surface. Every warren where mankind gathers and breeds plays host to the same
plague of vices, crimes and abuses that seem to cling to the very nature of
man, like some determined breed of parasite feasting upon the hide of a
diseased beast. Children orphaned or abandoned to a life in the streets and
filthy gutters. Women, like those I’d seen on the dockside, forced to
prostitute themselves or let their children starve. Men working themselves down
to the bone only to fritter away their earnings on booze and other less savoury
substances. Theft, some justified by the necessity of survival, most committed
out of rank greed. Murder and rape in night-shadowed alleyways. The wholesale
exploitation of the poor, the weak, the vulnerable by those with the gall to
name themselves their betters; from brutish street thugs to the noble classes
whose genuine superiority so rarely passed beyond the elegance of their dress
and speech.
It was the same everywhere, from dingy,
lawless backwaters to the shining beacons of so called civilisation, like
Embris. Peel back the skin and I’ve no doubt you’ll find the same blackened
heart pulsing at the core of them all.
So absorbed was I with my furious
navel gazing that it took me several moments to realise that someone was
calling my name.
“Danick?” called a voice from
somewhere behind me; a shockingly familiar, unexpected voice that sent my
stomach abruptly lurching in a clumsy somersault, robbing my anger of its
ardent heat in an instant. I turned around.
A young woman was standing there,
maybe a half dozen steps from the door to the Banking House. She wore an
elegant dress modelled after the high fashions of the mainland, though adjusted
for the local climate, her dark hair styled in curling ringlets. Her name was
Mirelle. She must have seen me leaving
the bank. As she saw my face – which I realised had taken on an expression of
slack jawed surprise – her own lit up with a bright smile, her green eyes
glittering with unmistakeably genuine delight.
“Danick, it is you!” she said, and
stepped quickly towards me.
My mouth went through a handful of
silent motions before my brain caught up.
“Lady Mirelle,” I all but stammered.
“What an unanticipated surprise.”
“But not an unpleasant one, I hope?”
she said. “And please call me Mirelle. I believe saving a lady from a den of
vile kidnappers entitles one to that much.”
I was about to make what would
undoubtedly have been a charming and witty reply, when a handsome featured man
in a sharp cavalry officer’s uniform appeared at Mirelle’s side.
“So this is the vaunted Danick you’ve told me
so much about?” the man drawled, giving me an appraising glance that bore an
uncanny resemblance to the one the bank’s valet had used. “He’s not what I was
led to expect.”
“Danick, may I introduce you to
Major Steffa,” Mirelle said with an almost undetectable note of irritation.
“The good Major has been keeping an eye on me at Father’s behest.”
“Major,” I said, offering him my
hand.
“Mercenary,” Steffa replied, giving
my hand a perfunctory shake after a moment’s apprehensive hesitation.
Mirelle looked me over and let out a
startled gasp, as if she’d only just noted my scruffy appearance.
“Great Heavens, Danick. You look
dreadful!” She blushed suddenly. “That is to say, you appear to have fallen on
hard times since our last meeting.”
“Somewhat, my lady,” I said, before
quickly correcting myself. “Mirelle, I mean.”
“Well this simply will not do,” she
muttered thoughtfully. “Steffa?”
“Yes, my lady?” the Major said.
“Be a dear and return to the villa.
Tell my Father that I shall be returning late today.” Major Steffa grimaced and
opened his mouth to speak but Mirelle cut him off. “Major, if whoever was
behind my abduction intended to make another move they would have done so long
before now. I assure you I will be quite safe in Danick’s company. And I’m sure
that Father can spare a few solahns to aid his daughter’s liberator.”
“Very well,” he said, though he
didn’t sound pleased. He bowed politely, gave me a dark glance and then strode
away.
“What exactly is going on?” I asked.
She smiled, almost mischievously,
and took my arm in hers. “I, sir sellsword, am going to make you ship shape.
Come, walk with me”
No comments:
Post a Comment