The Knife (2/3)

Part II

*

He was a tall, broad-shouldered boy of fourteen when he found himself stumbling from the small, thatch roofed cottage onto the muddy streets of Chende. Blood dripped from the antler-hilted knife in his hand. Tears dripped from his dark eyes. Behind him his mother screamed in horror. He couldn’t stay, but he had done what he needed. He ended the bastard’s reign of brutality.

The boy looked toward the center of the city, where the muddy paths gradually made their way to cobbled streets. Toward the keep of Lord Malrek. He’d work his way into the upper city, he’d work hard, he’d save money. He’d see to it his family was provided for.

He went off as dusk drew near. Still holding tight his father’s knife. He had no skills but had muscle. Would grunt labor pay well enough? He looked to the knife in his still bloody hand.

 

*

 

Tarel Ydani awoke with a start. He rummaged through his pack and withdrew the carcass of a rabbit, roasted the previous morning. He grabbed his father’s knife and began cutting strips from it. The meat prepared, he gathered some small, dry sticks he had brought with him and threw them atop the coals before taking a deep breath and blowing on them. The coals blossomed back to life, flames licking the kindling. He blew again. Slowly, he brought the fire back.

After his breakfast he scattered the fire, stomping out flames. He began back through the tunneling hallways, heading, to the best of his knowledge, southward. He hadn’t had these ruins memorized. He knew easily enough how to find them and how to gain entry. However, once inside, it was a maze, he relied solely on instinct and common sense. Finding one’s way back above ground was simple enough, following a particular path was another story.

As he journeyed down the winding pathways his mind wandered as it was wont to do. The memories of his decline haunting him still in his waking moments as they did in his slumber. After he killed his father, he never saw the rest of his family again. Chende was a cruel place, a sprawling city of mud nestled within the massive rainforest of northern Azal. The city functioned within its own set of laws, largely unhindered by the Emrosian Empire. He never did find honest work and had to survive by that damned knife. Thieving for small gangs, lucky to never be caught, never to lose a finger, or more.

Life as a mere thief provided little. What he stole was given mostly to those in charge of the gangs, often leaving Tarel with little more than a small allotment of food. Such a life was not for him, his aims were set higher.

At last, he emerged onto the vast eastern plains of the Ruins once more, in the far west he could see the peaks of the Seaguard Mountains. He smiled weakly and continued southward. He looked forward to returning to Rot’s End. The small town wasn’t much, but he had always felt welcomed there, something he could not say of many places. Upon his arrival, he’d go directly to Madam Delena’s Wayhouse, relax, and drink some ale.

Relax. That wasn’t a thought that crossed his mind often.

 

*

 

The young thief slipped beneath a merchant cart, sliding through rain and mud. He sprung back to his feet, turning down an alley. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a coin pouch. People were shouting behind him. Boots clomped and sloshed down the muddy street. Garbage was heaped up at the far end of the alley. He rushed for the pile, diving in and burrowing down.

He slowed his breath wrinkling his nose at the pungent stench of rot and filth. The sounds of the Low Market were muffled inside his cave of rubbish. Drops of rain pattered overhead. His heart was racing. He heard no movement. How long must he wait? He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, to silence his breathing and in desperate attempt to filter the eye-watering odor.

Calm began to settle in. He had to have lost them, or they would have nabbed him by now. He began to ease his way from beneath the pile, moving slowly, quietly. He created an opening to peer through.

A hand gripped his cloak and yanked him from the filth.

The man was dressed in fine silk robes, the hem spattered with mud from the unpaved streets of the Low Market. His brow was furrowed as he looked into Tarel’s eyes. In the distance, a large figure observed, wrapped up in a dark cloak, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood.

Tarel knew the merchant would have him brought to the Blades of Honor, the guards of Chende, the crooked Lord Malrek’s goons. He knew he’d lose his first finger. He knew he’d not eat for several days without the purse he’d stolen. Unacceptable.

His right hand struck out. His father’s knife plunged into the merchant’s throat. The merchant’s eyes flashed wide before he dropped to the ground, releasing his grip on Tarel. Warm blood flowed over his hand. Images. Memories of his father flashed before his eyes.

“Well done, lad.” A hollow voice came from the cloaked figure. “Stealing isn’t your trade. Come, there’s another path for you.”