Beyond the Spire of Navarene Read online

  Pietr chewed his pen, “I have a substantial amount of work to do. You’re well aware of the murderer on the loose.”

  “I have no doubt that we will have that bastard well in hand soon enough.” Cahan took a step down.

  Pietr nodded, hoping to close the door.

  “We expect you before nightfall,” the guardsman turned and Pietr smiled, continuing to nod and placed a hand on the door, inching it forward.

  “Oh,” Cahan stopped and Pietr froze. “Bring a girl for once. You must have your eye on one of these city girls that are always flittering around the square.”

  Pietr stopped nodding and stepped onto the porch, but continued to smile, “Aye, as you can see, I have ladies lined up to the door.” He gestured down the empty lane. Cahan wagged a finger as he laughed, then strolled toward the music of the funeral proceedings.

  Pietr watched his cousin disappear around a bend, “Must have drawn an exceedingly short straw.” Taking a deep pull of the afternoon air, he exhaled, “Poor sod wasn’t even assigned a horse.”

  The dull quiet that surrounded him was a pleasant change from the usual buzzing outside the shop and the wholesome aromas wafting from the nearby bakery urged him to stay out in the overcast afternoon for a few more moments. He began to salivate as he remembered that the evening would bring several helpings of expertly crafted food.

  “It’s a shame you had to go and get yourself killed,” he spoke towards the music. “Piss poor timing.”

  In defiance of duty, Pietr remained outside, ignoring the incessant nagging, contemplating the next course of action. Up until this point he was unsure whether he would go through the trouble of making a print of the murderer’s likeness or simply recopy each image by hand. The process of print fabrication was time consuming at first, but in the end, more than made up for the time lost in preparation. Another deterrent for this process was the exorbitant costs involved but he remembered the cut he would receive upon completion of the bounty and that amount would more than cover any losses suffered from material. He had put in place a deadline for himself that functioned on a sliding scale, but he ditched the scale as he now had a defined end point for the evening.

  He was calculating how many prints he could possibly produce, weighing both means before the sun set, “I should be able to fabricate the print and still have time to make,” he rolled his head, “roughly three or four complete posters before dusk. This, of course, does not take into account the time necessary for actually going out and hanging them.”

  A chilly breeze swirled down the lane, tossing his hair, disrupting his concentration. He pulled a few stray strands caught on his stubbly chin and decided to make his way back into the office to see if it would be possible to expedite the process without sacrificing quality. As he turned and faced the door to release the latch, a high shriek carried on the wind reached his ears, freezing the man. Pietr was caught off guard by the not so distant sound of a person in peril and his mind began to rationalize it away, attempting to convince him that it was a rabbit snatched unaware by a fox or he was misinterpreting a joyful squeal for a panicked cry.

  Ignore it and get back to work. His mind needled. He remained frozen in place, not hazarding a breath, waiting for another peal for help. His mind chided his instincts, urging him to release the latch and go back inside. After a few moments in silence, Pietr closed his eyes and released a breath, and upon squeezing the latch another scream burrowed itself up the lane, confirming his suspicions. This cry was cut short, the victim unable to complete it.

  Dispelling all racing thoughts, the artist focused his mind while making for the horn bow on the wall. He lifted it from its rest, then snatched five arrows from the quiver below before turning a heel, making for the exit. As he passed the desk he was reminded of the dirk kept in the upper right drawer which caused him to pause for a moment before continuing. Shaking his head at the moment of indecisiveness, the architect set his jaw and dashed out into the streets.

  Sprinting east with the bow in his left hand and the arrows in his right, not stopping for anything. Vaulting a fence, he knelt in the grass and passed the arrows back into his right hand, “Must be near.” He craned his ears. The city was remarkably quiet, just as it was at the shop. A harsh command cracked the silence from an alleyway ahead and Pietr narrowed his audible scope, tightening focus. Moving slowly now, temples pulsating as he crossed the lawn covered in a thick carpet of grass. The alley curved after about twenty paces or so, which hindered view and Pietr knew this. Back tracking around the houses in front of the alley entrance allowed him to approach at an angle that revealed the curvature.

  An aggressive voice escalated in anger and Pietr surveyed the area for ample cover, knowing time was short. A dog-eared fence ran parallel with the alley on an upward slope, “Perfect,” he breathed. He darted across the cobblestone street and slid head first behind the fence with careful abandon. The angry voice continued its tirade without suspension as Pietr made the move. He placed the horn bow against the fence for stability, and slowly rose while positioning his eyes between the pickets. A chilly gust whistled in his ears and stung his face, blowing some locks of hair over his eyes. He cursed silently, wishing for a hair tie as he tossed his head to clear the view, “This is not good.”

  A thin teenage girl in a drab woolen cloak was struggling against two young men wearing scarves over their mouths. Judging by their builds, Pietr wagered they were probably fresh from completing their respective apprenticeships. Several feet from the confrontation a leather purse laid on the ground with its contents fanned out, soiled by the mud.

  The angry man wore an olive tunic over a pair of trousers and his partner wore a tunic in a darker shade of emerald. Flailing frantically as the emerald man forced her to sit against the brick wall, smashing her hip with his knee while gripping her arms over her head. She tilted her head back to scream but the olive man dropped to a knee and punched her soundly in the gut. Tears burst from her eyes upon impact, and an inaudible squeak passed from her lips. The brick snagged her tunic as she sunk to the ground.

  Pietr planted four arrows into the turf then notched the solitary remainder. The olive man was on both knees fumbling with the strings on his breeches while the girl kicked at him desperately with her slippered foot. After landing a blow on the man’s knuckle, nearly striking his crotch, he inched back awkwardly beyond toe reach. In response, the emerald man squeezed her wrists and tugged upward, slamming her tailbone sharply against the solid brick. Struggling for a few more moments, the olive man finally succeeded in releasing his trousers, dropping them to the dirt. Pietr willed himself not to look. The man was now slithering toward the girl, pinning her ankles at the approach, avoiding another blow. He leaned close, their eyes inches apart. Pietr was not happy with their distance, but his instincts stayed his hand.

  The scarf moved as the olive man spoke to the writhing girl, craning her neck, attempting to create a chasm between his nose and her cheek. The words falling upon her ears seemed to contain a freezing spell; the girl stopped and held the man’s gaze, her chin bobbed as she took a dry swallow.

  Pietr twitched to shift some loose strands of hair that danced in front of his eyes and focused on the girls’ hands as they clenched and unclenched. “There is no magic here,” he breathed. He rolled his jaw, popping his ears as he watched the olive man remove his left hand from the girl’s ankle. She did not kick but her face was twitching as the man traced a path from her knee - to her hip, then up to her eyebrows, grazing the surfaces with the tip of his nail while his scarf moved inaudibly.

  Recognizing the predatory patterns, Pietr felt his forehead growing warm as he anxiously waited for an opening. The olive man’s mouth continued to run as he pulled the scarf below his nose. That was all Pietr needed to see. He rose slightly, drawing the bow, its limbs tightening like a closing jaw as his back and shoulders pulled and released within the span of a breath. The nerves in his fingertips sizzled as he watched the p
ure-white fletching flash between the two faces; a gutted scream accompanied the sharp crack of the arrow terminating against the brick façade.

  Clutching his face, blood flowing between his fingers, the olive man reeled in horror as his companion jumped, releasing the girl’s wrists, then sprinted for the dark end of the alley. Pietr lined a second shot, cursing to himself as the emerald man somehow had the wherewithal to snatch the leather purse, his heels kicking up mud as he stumbled to renew his momentum.

  The girl scrambled toward the bloody man, and reached with both hands to clasp his ears, using the man’s head as leverage to stand. Tears intermixed with blood, running over his scarf, splashing in the mud as muffled howls escaped from behind his covered mouth. With both her hands firmly clasped, using every ounce of weight, the girl bashed her pointy knee into the man’s fresh pulp of a nose. Blood sprayed from between his fingers, in all directions, splashing onto her face and tunic. Pietr blinked as he watched her seize the man’s cap, clench the hair underneath with an enraged fist, then bring her face down to his level. “Never again!” She tugged violently, sending the man onto his side.

  Pietr lowered his bow, resisting the urge to end the man’s suffering. “Pathetic,” Pietr clicked his tongue as he watched the buffoon stumble away while attempting to pull his trousers up with one hand.

  Removing himself from cover and approaching, Pietr scraped a step on the cobbles to alert the girl to his presence. Bloody freckles covered her face and she shook when he moved closer. Her demeanor softened when she noticed the bow in his hand.

  He produced a bundle of cloth, “May I offer a scarf?”

  The girl, Margot, accepted the offering with gratitude in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Present

  Propping her dirty sandaled feet up on the banister, Margot slouched comfortably in the wooden chair, gazing from the porch onto the recently planted crop of silver shadesgill.

  Before sunrise she had carefully transported the remainder of the hibernating flowers from the cellars. When the spring afternoon rays cascaded from above, she could hardly resist the urge to take a break from the endless toil that seemed to occupy her entire existence. A single harvest was a monumental task for any competent farmer, but she decided to test fate and attempt a double yield this year. She was set and determined to make this happen, and when the only other laborer on the farm, Uncle Brett, questioned her sanity, she ignored him and spoke to her dog, “If dear Uncle Brett decides to get it in his head that he will gamble one solitary coin from this harvest,” she ruffled the fur behind Elmer’s ears. “Then I will burn him alive.”

  The winter months were stifling and oppressive, nearly transforming Margot into a mole. The shoots from the previous harvest were stored in the cellars below the farm, and they required constant attention. She prepared a makeshift bedroom down in the depths with minimal furnishings for comfort, the rest of the expanse was allocated for the care of the fragile, needy plants. When her uncle ventured down to see how she was faring, he would find her covered in soil, plucking and snipping amongst the shoots and stems.

  Elmer, who would whine and glance longingly at the staircase, pleaded for a visit to civilization, encouraging brief reprieves. She would comply at times, welcoming a break from the doldrums. Uncle Brett would comment on how gaunt and thin she looked and she would reply by asking Elmer where he kept the tinder box and fuel.

  Now that winter’s grasp was loosened, peeled back by the approaching spring, Margot tested and found the soil was warm enough for planting. Unlike most crops, silver shadesgill’s growing cycle could be manipulated. The tolerances, however, were tight and most farmers would not dare the attempt unless they were prepared to sustain great losses. Margot had made calculations based on the previous cycle and this double crop would only require a week to develop. After watching the little plants mature in the dank underground environment, tirelessly coaxing them from shoot to glory.

  Margot released a sigh, drooping her arm from the armrest to give Elmer a good scratch over his rib cage. The dog lounged on the floor and stretched his limbs with a squeaky yawn.

  Last summer while she was wandering about the property line near the forest edge, an adorable pup had trundled from the thicket and was drawn to her side like a magnet. Recently weaned and more than likely abandoned by his mother, the fuzzy creature had pawed her ankles until she reached down and scooped him up. Young Elmer’s flat tail had pounded her hip when she cuddled him. His pointy ears were growing faster than the rest of him, folding and flopping over as she raised him up to inspect the furry body.

  The canine experts in the city would not recognize this mutt, with the tail of an aquatic dog and the ears of a herder. He looked as though one of the neighboring farms’ handsome shepherd dogs wandered into the forest and hit it off with a gorgeous swamp dog, creating this adorable outcast. But Margot couldn’t muster any concerns over breed specific rules and the dog snobs inside the gates could get bent, she was in love. Ever since that day, the two had been inseparable.

  The crop bobbed and danced as a spring breeze tangled itself between the blossoms, politely kissing the fragile plants as it meandered through. Gilded rays poured through the loaves of graying clouds, like seeds sprinkled from a closed fist. Where direct illumination struck, a shimmering aura activated flecks of silver suspended over the new petals hinting at the magical properties of the plant, highly valued by tradesmen and mages alike.

  As rare as it was elegant, the silver shadesgill was a fickle beast, very particular as to where it took up residence. Many aspiring farmers shared tales of failure, waking to find a field of newly planted seeds sitting atop the soil after being planted the previous day.

  When she was a child, Margot had attempted to replant one of the full-grown flowers after carefully digging it up from the soil. As she brought the stubborn thing toward a fresh hole, the roots had repelled upward, as if controlled by a puppeteer. To satisfy her childish amusement, she would hold the plant over her head with both hands, then thrust it down so that the spidery roots would tickle her wrist as they shot toward the sky.

  Margot smiled at the memory, admiring the fruits of her hard labor, as she wiped her brow with a dirt encrusted wrist, replacing the sweat with grit. She kicked herself for not pouring a cup of water before getting comfortable, summoning the strength to stand proved difficult, but the overwhelming thirst somehow managed to remove her feet from their rest. Sitting up, she prepared her tired muscles for an inconvenience, when the front door swung open.

  “At your service, ma’am,” a much younger voice than Uncle Brett said. Elmer cocked his head at the awkward greeting.

  “You read my mind,” she said thankfully, accepting the cup from the outstretched hand of her brother, Galahalt, grateful to remain sitting. The young knight smiled and bowed as he brought the cup to his lips. A few stray droplets landed on his church issued training gambeson, its laces hanging loose. While Margot toiled in the fields all morning, he beat on a wooden sparring pell behind the stables, both devoted to their trade.

  Having received knighthood four years past, the young man scarcely found time to himself; each week brought a new journey filled with errands. Some of his journeys lasted more than a week, keeping him occupied to near exhaustion. His employer, the church, provided the supplies necessary for the journeys; arrows, grinding stones, tack, armour repairs, etc., but concerning monetary compensation, virtue was mostly its own reward. A knight’s wages starting out covered living expenses, but he was rarely home, so there was that. And the job consumed his life, so he did not have time to spend frivolously.

  “I did not hear you arrive last night, did you make it back late?” Margot asked as she set the cup down, then brought her feet up against the banister.

  “Arrived early this morning,” he replied. The stool bounced along the floorboards as he dragged it closer. “Rode all through the night and couldn’t sleep, so I hit the pell.” Galahalt lean
ed back with his hair bunched up as he rested his neck and shoulders against the wall. This position proved uncomfortable, so he pulled the seat closer to the wall. He frowned and continued, “Lots of unrest in the city. That law has torn quite a rift between the cloth and the people.”

  “What did they expect?” Margot collected her loose hair and bundled it into a ponytail. “When you tell people they can’t have kids without permission – may make people pretty mad.” Galahalt leaned down and gave Elmer a solid pat on his shoulder then scratched his belly while the dog kicked happily.

  “I have not seen Stutters today, where are you boarding her now?” she asked, looking around.

  “Sold her.” He continued to scratch Elmer’s belly.

  “When?” she demanded.

  “Last night.”

  Elmer picked up on Margot’s agitation and rolled away from the pleasing scrapes, uttering a low growl.

  “Whatever for?” Margot palmed her face.

  “For money.”

  She coughed, “Oh there has to be more to this.” Leaning down, she snatched her cup in a blur. “That horse was a prize war horse of insanely good breeding. We sacrificed so much to get her and she cost nearly a third of a harvest…“ she tossed her head back and took an angry swig. Elmer’s hackles began to rise.

  Galahalt’s eyes darted from dog to sister, and he raised his hands, sensing the walls tightening, “Whoa, whoa,” he said as his sister’s eyes widened behind the cup. “Was being the operative word here. That old mare is…well, old. I don’t know how else to phrase it for you. And, you see, the church has been continually sending me on assignments to the southern regions, extending over harsh terrains for many miles sometimes. Stutters was born and bred for combat, and is excellent at those things, I am sure. But she makes a lousy pack mule. The tourney grounds or a battlefield is where her she would best be suited.”