The Withered Sky- Chapter 1

Message from the author-

(If you haven't read the prologue, it is highly recommended that you do before delving into this) 

Ok, so, I know that this chapter is terribly long. This is because the chapter was partially complete before I even heard of this website, so I wrote it without considering what people would be willing to read. I was going to separate the first chapter, but it simply wouldn't work as two different manuscripts. Future chapters will be released in more digestible pieces.

A bell tolled through the city.

Warren glanced up and a flock of birds –crows, perhaps- burst from a rooftop nearby, cawing madly.

The sight before him holstered the comfort of familiarity, layered with grim sadness that he considered this normal. The market, one of many in this part of the city, stretched before him, the sides of shabby, old buildings painted with colourful awnings. Beneath the awnings sat market stalls, filled with merchants shouting their wares and packed with trinkets, food and the rare weapon, although few gave weapons away easily nowadays.

Being a busy market in one of the poorer districts of the city, the market drew in, amongst other things, pick-pockets, scammers and every other petty criminal the city had to offer like moths to a flame.

Warren looked around, giving a young boy with sunken cheeks who was eyeing the pouch at his side greedily a sharp look. Warren pulled his hat low, surrounding himself with an air of intimidation that usually managed to keep the more daring urchins away. Warren sighed. As a child, there was a time when even this part of the city had been, if not prosperous, at least safe to trade in. Now… well it was much better than the slums at least.

Warren supressed a shudder at the prospect of going back into the slums later that day. Snapping out of deep thought, he looked around and realised that he had been standing still. The crowds flowed around him, like a river flowing around a boulder. He kept walking, towards the Gale-house.

The Gale-house was what remained of a large, stone building that might have once belonged to a wealthy merchant. It was the only building in the area with a tiled roof, although many of the tiles had long since fallen, and those that remained were smeared with dirt. Half of the roof was collapsed, and wooden beams could be seen curving out from the building like the ribcage of an enormous beast. One of the balconies remained intact, and a group of traders, civilians and workers could be seen loitering atop it, waving bottles of sloshing alcohol around and spitting over the edge. The windows of the house had become stalls, although only the luckiest or richest traders could get a spot there.

Warren climbed up the steps, stepping over a half unconscious man who was muttering something indecipherable, and slipping past two men who were haggling quietly, muttering angrily between quick glances for guards (although patrols rarely came to this area). As he stepped through the doors, he was greeted with a comforting scene.

The Gale-house, over the years, had been converted into a small market for some of the more “exclusive” goods and services that the city had to offer. Much like the market outside, the area was packed with stalls. Anything within the house had long since been destroyed, including floors and walls. All that remained was the outer shell of the building. Makeshift walkways and stairs had been set up around the rim of the building, under the shadow of the remaining half of the roof, creating a small second floor where yet more stalls were packed.

At the Gale-Houses centre stood a large wooden stage. Bustling crowds swarmed around the stage, shouting bids frantically. The scene was lit by lanterns hanging from wooden beams and walkways. A commotion sounded as an auction for one of the items- A flintlock pistol (which must have sold for the average city dwellers savings) - was sold, and the seller walked off stage, surrounded by five hired guards.

For a time, there was the post-bid conversation. Then, the noise lessened as a new seller walked onto the stage.

A man in a black waistcoat and a small hat walked onto the stage, with ten hired protectors, which caused a buzz of excitement from the crowd (as goods’ value was usually measured by its protection). The man stood stepped up, flourishing his cloak, holding a small wooden box and brandishing a large bottle filled with swirling dark liquid. Warren held in a sigh, although he couldn’t help but listen to the man as he began swaying the crowd.

“Ah, my friends, my good friends! Are we all not entitled to good health? Are we not entitled to be safe in knowing our families’ well-being is preserved? I ask you, my good friends, should we not have to fear the plague?”

Murmurs of agreement sounded from the crowd.

“Well, I, Arthur Menzin, master alchemist, with the help of my colleagues, bring you this!” He raised the bottle of dark liquid, grinning triumphantly. “Menzin’s elixir of Vigour! Cures every ailment you have faced, including The Onyx Plague!” Some of the crowd began shouting out bids, clamouring for the “Cure”. A glint appeared in the man’s eye that Warren recognised all too well. The man continued. “I am willing to part with this magnificent elixir…”

The crowd hushed, hanging onto his words.

“But I’m afraid, in this early stage, I have only ten bottles to spare.”

For an instant, silence.

Then an outcry came from the crowd. Masses rushed forward, desperately shouting, clamouring in chaos. Some climbed on the stage, rushing forward, only to be knocked back by one of the guard. The man leaned back, watching the planned chaos unfold. On the surface, his face read as an honest trader who sympathised with the crowd, a friend of the people.

Warren, as he so often did, saw behind the veil.

Disgusted, Warren walked through the throng as the disorder faded into the returning buzz of the crowds “I doubt that elixir cures a cold, never-mind the Onyx Plague”. But it was times like these that the most cunning could make use of fear. And there was fear. The bodies piled on wagons came more often with each day, the sunken, blank eyes of corpses staring into nothing. The plague was spreading like wildfire through the slums. With this district on the brink of the slums, fear was rampant.

Warren walked on, scanning the crowd for what he sought.

There, leaning against some crates in the corner.

The kids name was Aristos, barely fifteen by how he looked. Generally not the type to be dealing with Warren.

“Still, we’re meeting for a reason”.

He was clad in baggy brown trousers, and a simple jacket that went down to his knees. The jacket

opened to reveal a heavily stained shirt with a scabbard hung across his chest. He was wearing the standard boots for a civilian in the city, leather and sturdy, with much wear. Warren could see a bulge in the jacket that indicated a long dagger or a short-sword. A long scar striped his face, cutting just short of his eye. His hair was a light ginger, and fell down on his face in long sweeps, not quite long enough to cover his eyes, which were electric blue, shining in an almost disconcerting way, as if they were reading his thoughts. His face was set with what seemed constant apprehension, and seemed to carry more years than he had lived.

“He looks as if he’s regretting coming here”. Warren noted. “I don’t blame him, I suppose”. Still, there was something else there, a stubborn determination. Beyond that, his face was stolid, and Warren could read no more.

Aristos looked up, and met Warren’s eyes. Aristos gave a small nod, then walked through a back door into one of the alleys beyond the Gale-house.

Warren allowed himself a small smile now that Aristos’ back was turned. The boy was already as cautious as someone in their profession should be. He had learnt that lesson quickly, although Warren felt that it may have been from experience rather than through his own teachings. The kid’s past was unknown to him, and he clearly didn’t want to share it.

Giving the crowd a final glance, which yielded nothing overly suspicious, he turned and followed Aristos into the alley. He entered the narrow passage just in time to see the boy turn heel down around the corner. Warren followed quickly.

The walls of the buildings loomed on either side and the remaining plaster could be seen peeling off in small ribbons. A dog yelped in the distance, and the sound of quick footsteps came from every direction. Warren ignored the sound, although he noted that they seemed louder than usual today. Perhaps there were more people scurrying around this afternoon for whatever reason. Finally, he reached the spot he and Aristos had agreed reconvene at in their last meeting. They had decided to meet first at the Gale-house, as the alleys here were notorious for their danger.

He went through the door, which was missing one hinge, and gave a shrill wail as he opened it. The room was fairly large, and the five benches occupying it had been pushed to the side. Two small oil lamps were set into the wall, which Aristos was already in the process of lighting.

He turned to him, and Warren could tell he had something on his mind.

“Did anyone follow you?” he asked, attempting to sound as if he was simply curious.

“No.”

“Alright, then”. He stepped out into the cleared floor of the room. “Shall we warm up?”

Warren smirked. He couldn’t tell if the boy was truly enthusiastic or just averting attention from his odd inquiry about whether someone was following him. He definitely had something weighing down on his mind, however.

“Sure.” Warren stood facing him, then bowed, mimicked by Aristos. “Attack me.”

The long dagger Warren had noticed earlier had appeared in the boy’s hand. He watched Warren with deadly focus, shifting his feet, and moving to the right very slowly.

Suddenly, he lunged.

Steel flashed.

Warren caught his arm and drew his own knife with his spare hand, slashing towards the boys arm to finish the fight. He would go for a shallow cut, nothing to-

Aristos twisted, lurching to the side to avoid the hit, his arm still locked by Warren. It was a pointless motion. I expected better than-

Suddenly, a second blade came speeding from Aristos’ pocket, driven by his spare hand.

He deftly made a small cut in Warren’s ribs before he could react.

Warren let out a grunt and released the boy. The boy stood back, stowing his blades away with a flourish. Warren smirked. He had been going easy, but still, that was impressive.

“Nicely done. I hope you weren’t practicing on urchins”.

Aristos gave a small grin, happy with himself. It was about as much emotion as he ever gave to Warren, besides the occasional jest. Still, he had been Warren’s apprentice only a month or two. He’d warm up eventually, maybe even begin to trust him.

“Don’t get your hopes up”. A small voice in his head chimed.

Even though Warren rarely expressed it, as he prided himself on concealing his thoughts, he had grown quite fond of his apprentice over the months. The boy clearly had a lot of sense, and by all accounts he seemed clever, resourceful and adept with those knives of his. Far more skilled than Warren had been, at his age.

And, though Warren required a fair effort to admit it, the boy would easily surpass him in the next, perhaps, five years.

Warren sat down on one of the benches that lined the side of the room, and pulled out the small pack he’d been carrying on his back.

“Here, kid”.

Aristos gave a small scowl at the title, which Warren used partly out of habit, and partly for amusement.

They had made a habit of talking in short, brisk sentences with no context. It was an unfortunate one, but it did help them train efficiently, Warren admitted. They had rarely had any real conversation that didn’t involve teachings or where they would meet next.

Warren opened the bag, and after a moment of fishing for what he sought blindly, pulled out a small trinket and passed it to Aristos.

“Careful, don’t drop it, it’s pretty old”.

Aristos examined it object. It was a small pocket watch with light bronze gilding that had seen better days. Miraculously, the glass face was intact, and after a small amount of tinkering, Warren had been able to set it to the right time, or as close as he could tell.

Warren watched Aristos’ face carefully. This was all a part of earning the kids trust. He needed that much to get to the next step of his training. He half expected the boy to slip it into his pocket with just a small nod in his direction, with how Aristos usually acted, professional and reserved.

Aristos stared at it for a moment, then threw it back.

“I can’t accept this. That’s Mylodian Clockwork. The thing is worth at least a few gold.”

Warren raised his eyebrow and threw it right back, a tad annoyed and slightly impressed that he’d recognised the maker.

“My teacher gave it to me when I was an apprentice. It’s served me well, and I can always buy another, the things are cheap these days.” That was a lie. Anything mechanical was extremely expensive nowadays. “I want you to take it, so you can accept it or leave it to rust here.”

Aristos hesitated, conflicted, than slipped it into his pocket.

“Thanks”.

Warren could clearly see his face was painted with the doubt that any good person had when receiving a gift and had nothing to give in return, especially from a stranger. He also saw puzzlement and, to his dismay, a touch of suspicion. He held in a sigh. Perhaps it would take more than that really earn the boys trust. He didn’t blame him. At his age, he would have been just as doubtful when dealing with someone with his… particular background. Still, he suspected he’d be retiring soon, attempt to get away from the city while his name had faded away and the enemies he’d built up over the years had no target to aim at. He had a small fortune built up. He was determined to choose exactly when and where he died, and with luck, that would be in many years.

“Alright, enough of that, attack me again, this time watch your stance an-“

A gentle knock came from the door.

Aristos’ head snapped like a spooked dear, and he cursed.

“So, Warren thought, this is who’s been following him.”

Warren drew his sword, giving Aristos a meaningful glance.

He pulled the door open quickly and leaped back, blade raised.

A young girl stood in the doorway.

Warren lowered his sword.

“Who are you-“

“Where is Aristos” The girl asked politely through gritted teeth as though coming here was an ordeal and the last thing she wanted to do.

Warren stuttered, utterly taking a-back.

“He’s…” Warren glanced back to see the room was most definitely empty of Aristos. So he doesn’t want to speak to her? “…gone” Warren finished.

As an afterthought, he tried again to ask who she was.

“So who are you-“

“One moment.” She said, ducking under his arm and striding into the room, in an unbearably entitled manner. She looked around at the room with a look of interest mingled with annoyance. Warren followed sheepishly, utterly confused.

“Aristos, you can come out now,” she called.

Silence answered.

The girl tapped her foot impatiently, then picked up Aristos’ gear, which the boy had forgotten to hide in his haste.

This time, she shouted.

“Aristos, if you don’t come out, you mud-head, I’ll throw this sword that’s so dear to you in the Gali River!”

Aristos came out of the side room, defeated.

Warren closed the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

“Who are you?” He demanded, cutting across her, maintaining his usual stolid mask by a finger.

The girl looked at Warren, as if for the first time, despite the last minute.

“I’m this Mud-head’s sister”

* * *

The three men sprinted tirelessly through the massive chamber, panting heavily between quick glances into the labyrinth of pipes behind them. A shroud of steam closed in on them from a bust pipe, mingled with sparks from a nearby forge. They ran on through the veil, ducking under pipes glinting bronze.

They stopped, shaking, glancing around frightfully.

“Is he...?”

Suddenly, a black figure emerged amidst the steam.

“run, run!-“

The man’s shout was cut off as the scythe sunk into his ribs, bones snapping, as the blade tore through his flesh, its evil blade glistening, poking out of the other side.

The black cloaked figure turned to the other two, who were on the ground now, begging, praying, faces shining with tears.

The cloaked figure moved, with inhuman speed, impossible speed, scythe sweeping towards its mark, bearing down on its victim. His eyes glowed with malice from beneath his hood, shining in a way no human eyes could match, like two roaring flames. The scythe met flesh a second time.

The cloaked figure turned to the third man, who was bowing, weeping, begging in a quiet, indecipherable manner between sobs, slipping in the two growing pools of crimson blood that flowed from his friends.

“Pl…please… please don’t.”

The cloaked man drew back his hood, letting a sheet of snow white hair fall over his pale face, with sunken eyes and cheeks, the demonic glimmer in his eyes fading away.

He smiled, like a cat who had cornered a mouse.

For a moment, he stood, twirling the scythe between his fingers slowly.

“Aristos, huh?”

And the scythe came down.

Author's notes-

A villain is revealed!  For those of you who are confused, no, he didn't kill Aristos, none of those three men were Aristos. It'll be explained soon. Anyway, leave your reviews, and show no mercy!