Young Writers Society

Blue Crystal

Chapter One: Vastii in Black (part ii)

Rated PG-13 for violence

(Or go to Chapter One (part i) to read from the beginning)

The caves curved and turned, slopped up and down, and sometimes side to side. They commonly weaved into and over each other, went from open ledges to tight, winding tunnels. Rylan didn't use his lantern now-- the quality of the workmanship was too good, and he didn't want to stand out. In the common caverns below the bottom of the Pit there were two large fires burning trash and refuse. The commoners weren't allowed the oil and wood that the nearby vine farms provided, though many of them worked there. They cheated instead, taking the smaller sticks they were allowed and soaking them in the oil when their supervisors weren't looking until the wood was saturated and left dripping. As Rylan continued onward his path became only the faintest suggestion of walls, ceiling, and floor, and he walked on his path half-blind and debated with himself. What should he do now?

The safest option would be to simply return empty handed. That didn't sit well with Rylan. He didn't like to fail.

He stopped briefly at the start of a familiar tunnel, waited for the nearest person shuffling by to pass, and lit his lantern again. Rylan knew a middleman who lived off of this passage, and he set out to find his dwelling. He watched and counted the coverings as he went along, but Emyl's doorway was larger than most and had a pair of crossing lines carved above the entrance. Rylan announced himself by kicking the iron plating with his metal-tipped boot. It sounded a short, but distinct metallic thud.

Iron scraped on stone as the portal cover cracked open. The blade of a knife poked out of the gap, and one brown eye peered out. "I know you, boy?" he asked in a gruff, rumbling voice.

"I'm Rye. We've met," Rylan answered.

"Prove it."

Rylan pulled down his muffler briefly showing his face. His eyes were hazel-brown, his beard was as orange as his hair, trimmed carefully at the edges. It made him stand out from the rest of the inhabitants here-- men of the Pit did not shave, and while his coloring was not unique, it was unusual.

"Oh. You're that servant..." Emyl slid out the entrance hole to let Rylan through. Rylan was polite; he settled the plate back over the entrance and did not correct his host. Emyl found a seat by the wall, near the stove. His place was a little richer than the last cave: woven reed mats were spread on the floor, two pots hung beside the stove by iron hooks driven into the rock. The cubby holes were full of knickknacks, random items useful to have, but not crucial for survival. Right now he had a covered pot boiling away over an open cast-iron stove, the illegal oil-soaked logs and sticks tucked neatly aside. "What do you want now?"

"I need another supplier," Rylan blew out his lamp. "For the publication...?"

"I got you a supplier. What's wrong with the one you've got?" A spark from the stove fell onto the mat. Emyl swept it aside with his foot.

"He's dead."

"Hmm." He wasn't pleased to hear it, but he didn't seem surprised either. "So you want another one. And what if the next one dies too, eh? You think of that? I suppose you want me to just say 'poof' and make another idiot appear? Poof!"

"I need the new publication now. A new vendor can be arranged in time."

"And I suppose I do my conjuration tricks for free now, do I?" Emyl crossed his arms stubbornly. "You paid me to set you up with a supplier. So I set you up with a supplier. I never promised he'd be immortal. So if you want more, you'd better be ready to..." His voice slowed as Rylan drew a jar from his fur coat. "... pay. ... Let me see that."

The jar was closed tightly and full to the brim of golden liquid. Emily took it in his hands and held it up to the light of the open stove. The liquid showed through clearly and glowed amber. Pure, refined oil, far stronger than anything the common humans were likely to get their hands on, and it was worth more than what Rylan was asking for. "It's the real thing," Rylan told him, a little unnecessarily.

Emyl seemed to remember that Rylan was present suddenly, and he took a step back, clutching the oil like a precious treasure. He went straight to his own cubby-holes and after some picking through the contents he pulled out a small, neat stack of bound paper: larger than a reader, thinner than a published book, and the leather on the cover bore no title. He handed it to Rylan, who placed it in his coat's left sleeve. "We have a deal?"

"A new supplier?"

Rylan considered. His mistress might have other ideas, and he wasn't sure what she would say in response. "No. Not yet. Wait, and we'll let you know what we decide."

"What your master decides, you mean. Right, servant?"

"... Right," Rylan answered him. He wasn't sure why Emyl was so certain of his status. There were fine craftsman in Vastii that were human, rich men who would have had means. And it didn't occur to the middleman that he might be a slave, though this was probably for the better. He shook the thought away, and his business completed he used Emyl's fire to re-light his lamp and left with only a polite farewell.

Rylan didn’t delay any further. His stride grew longer as soon as he’d gotten free of the entrance hole and he replaced the book more securely in the folds of his coat. He began going faster, progressing to an ungainly trot.

The change in status that correlated with the change in elevation was subtle at first. Instead of just the round little portholes into the respective dwellings, the entranceways became slightly larger. Several had systems to make sliding away the 'doors' easier, rails and knobs and framing. Some caves had had the exteriors smoothed. One had the shape of the high-class pillars carved on the outside of his dwelling. Others had marks of their trades. Craftsmen were highly prized in Vastii, and masterful craftsman were worth any number of unskilled laborers, or so the Mordache had thought before Vastii had been struck by a terrible plague not long ago in the lowest levels of the city.

It was in these transitioning tunnels and passages that Rylan heard footsteps behind him. At first he dismissed them as common traffic and moved to take another route: he knew of an inside stairway, then an internal passage less traveled that would lead him up and forward, near the city arena. But the footsteps (two pairs of feet, he was sure by now) continued after he had changed direction. A quick glance behind him showed that who ever was following him, they didn’t have lights of their own. They were following his lantern.

Rylan's initial paranoia—the thought that the secret police might have been watching him—returned as strong as he had left it. Once again, the thought that he should blow out his light, flee into the darkness and lose himself in the labyrinth seemed very appealing. He put his free hand on his sword instead and continued on, determined not to run, determined to keep a steady, confident pace. The two behind him matched his steps. Rylan found the intended staircase going up, and he lost sight of them briefly. If there was a time to lose them, it would be now. The rhythmic thudding of boots on the staircase confirmed that they were coming.

Rylan settled the lantern down gingerly, then with equal deliberation he crossed his arms in front of him and drew out his two identical short swords from their leather scabbards. He twirled them around in his hands, and the polished steel gleamed suddenly in the light of his lantern. The footsteps continued up the stairway, then paused briefly when the neared the top. Rylan waited in silence. The steam of his breath though the muffler clouded the air in front of him as he focused. He settled into a guard position, his left hand near his face, the other in front of him. He settled most of his weight onto his back leg in a wide stance.

For a moment all was still. He felt an odd calm, the peace that came before something climatic.

Leather scraped on stone. The men following Rylan leaped forward, charged the steps to take him down. They came out of the stairway, showing heads and shoulders first in the lamp light. Rylan caught a glimpse of a knife's silhouette in the darkness, and didn't wait to see the material. He met them and shoved his first sword at the leader. The second man lunged past him and swung something, and Rylan caught the club with the edge of his sword. The momentum of the swing forced Rylan to step backward, and he let go of his right sword's hilt to hold up the flat of his second blade, fighting against the pressure on the blade. He was two paces away from the stairway now, forced to one knee and holding his remaining sword hilt in his off left hand. The man he had stabbed at first was shouting now, cursing and whining loudly. His voice echoed in the black caves around them.

The assailant with the club kicked at him. Rylan dodged away, scrambling backward and jumping back onto his feet. He switched the sword to his right hand, just as another swing was aimed at his ribs. Rylan deflected it easily and advanced, swung the sword around back toward him, ham-stringing the man with the ease of someone used to melee combat. He readied himself for another blow, but it didn't come. The man dropped his club, backed away, then fled out of the lamplight, leaving his friend behind him.

Rylan pursued for a moment, then stopped and listened to the receding footsteps as carefully as he could over the sound of the wounded, swearing man by the stairs. When he felt certain that there was no trick he bent down and picked up the club. The weapon was just a wooden root, speared through with large metal nails of varying sizes. He probably had pulled them out of existing structures to make his weapon, which was a common practice, even in the city of Renideo where Rylan had lived before this.

No member of the secret police would have run from a mark, and they would never have such sub-standard weapons when the highest quality was available freely to them. If they were sure enough of his guilt to attack him directly, they would have done something else altogether, he was almost sure of it.

"Common thugs," Rylan breathed, mostly to himself. He dropped the club and turned to reclaim his lamp and his second blade from across the room. He hadn’t remembered moving so much in that short fight.

The remaining thug had struggled up the steps, and was on his hands and knees next to the lantern, his head down and the edge of Rylan’s blade poking out of his back.

He blew out the light.

Rylan heard him get to his feet.

How ironic it would be if he were to die here. Rylan took a quiet step to the side, forcing his labored breathing to still. There was a scrape, a shuffle to the side. His opponent was trying to be clever.

Rylan guessed as to where his opponent was, lunged forward and stabbed.

Hands closed around his extended arm and threw Rylan over his own body. Rylan twisted and landed the blow on his side with his free arm outstretched, his head tucked by his shoulder. The thug kept his hand on Rylan's wrist that still clutched at his weapon’s hilt and pinned him down. His attacker was grunting in pain as he did so. Rylan felt something hard jab into his own ribs.

He raised up his left arm to protect his face just as the man's weight shifted for a down swing. Something clanged against Rylan’s forearm, tearing the fabric and catching on a metallic surface under Rylan’s fur. The shakiness of the weapon made Rylan almost certain that it was a knife held against him now. The thug didn’t seem to realize that his weapon hadn’t met flesh and pressed the blade against Rylan's arm, panting and pushing against him. "Die, damn you!" the man breathed, frustrated, confused.

Rylan’s outstretched arm began shaking slightly, pushing against the weapon. The blade slipped, sliding down his arm toward his hand. Rylan angled the arm sharply to encourage the blade to go in the other direction. The coat tore further.

Still something jabbed against Rylan's side, he twisted to get away from it, possibly to slip out and away from this stalemate. As he moved the larger man gasped in pain. Rylan drove his knee into his side, sensing weakness, and at the thug’s recoil he was able to throw him aside. As he got to his feet he realized that the metal that he'd felt was the hilt of his second sword protruding from the man's body. Rylan swung his blade down and across, then again, cutting and chopping in the dark without any visual clues or concern for his own well-being, his former panic venting itself in the form of a reckless temper.

He stopped only when he was completely sure that his opponent had died. Rylan took several deep breaths and told himself that there was no one to fight here any more, that he had won, even if it hadn't been his most graceful victory. He stumbled around on his hands and knees, searching for his lantern. He almost fell in the open stairway before he found it, and it took so long to light that he was swearing quietly to himself by the time he saw the glow of fire. The cave didn't look as large now. He checked the book that he had worked so hard to find. The leather cover remained intact.

The body was a butchered, bloodied mess, more brutally torn apart than Rylan remembered doing.

Blood had frozen on his first blade, and he put it away without cleaning it. He'd get to it later. He put his hand on the second bloodstone hilt still sheathed inside the dead man, and stopped suddenly. The sword angled straight through the man's heart, or it looked that way. Though he wasn't a doctor yet, he had memorized basic anatomy long ago. The thug should have died at once, from the first blow he had received on the stairs.

Rylan took his blade back. The body was already getting very cold, and Rylan’s (admittedly) superstitious mind was busy inventing supernatural things that could go wrong, that the man might pull himself back together and attack him again. No such thing occurred. Rylan still did not want to tempt the issue, however, and he left walking backwards, keeping an eye on the body until he lost sight of it along the natural curve of the tunnel. From there he went back into a run.

To Chapter One, part iii -->