Red Shadows (Book Two of The Legend of Fenn Aquila)

By Zackery Arbela

Fenn Aquila embarks on his next adventure!

A hidden menace stalks the streets of Galadorn, striking in the night and leaving the bodies of their foes cold and hellbound. They are the Red Shadows...to their enemies a mortal threat, to the oppressed a cause for hope. But for Fenn they are an opportunity...or certain death.

What should have been a routine caper involving counterfeit coins turns into something far more complex, as Fenn finds himself the guardian of a lost girl, smuggled into the city for dark purposes. Now he finds himself hunted the vilest gang in the city, pressured by the spymaster of the Prince of the city, and drawn into shadowy intrigues that stretch from the gutters of Galadorn to the highest levels of power.

To protect the girl – and save his own skin – Fenn will do battle in the back alleys and across the rooftops. He joins forces with the Red Shadows, whose enigmatic leader has his own agenda and cares not for the cost.

And in a final bloody moment, Fenn Aquila will face a decision from which there is no going back...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zackery Arbela
• Release date: Apr 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310437052

Zackery Arbela

The physical body of Zackery Arbela lives somewhere in the wilds of Florida. The mind of Zackery Arbela can be found wandering the various planes and adornments of the temporal spheres, from whence he sometimes returns with new and fantasickal tales to tell.

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The Infinity Key

Book Four of the Tale of Azaran

By Zackery Arbela

Copyright ©2016 Zackery Arbela

Visit me at Zackerium.com

© 2014 Zackery Arbela

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Discover other titles by Zackery Arbela

THE NINE SUNS

Gaebrel's Gamble

Storm Over Olysi

THE LEGEND OF FENN AQUILA

The Thief Of Galadorn

Red Shadows

THE TALE OF AZARAN

Warrior on the Edge of Memory

Shadow of the Ghost Bear

Fires of Mastery

The Infinity Key

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Prologue

It's raining again.

Raff heard the heavy drops pattering in the street outside. He rubbed the back of his neck fingers sliding over a thin layer of sweat. Damn it all. He won't like the rain.

Hmm.Ulmer grunted from his corner. A meaty hand carefully peeled a apple.

I mean, I was sunny earlier. Plenty of shine in the sky. All nice and bright and what not. Then it gets dark, quick as you blink. I turn my back for five minutes and down it comes. Bloody flood, like something out of scripture.

Uh huh.

I mean, why can't it be a nice night? Be nice to see some stars in the sky afterward, you know what I mean? Might help with the bad dreams. I always get bad dreams.

I know.Ulmer rolled his eyes.

Never had a night good nights sleep in the last year...

If you want to sleep like a child, you should have chosen a different kind of work.

Right.Raff returned to his pacing. The air was thick, stuffy, humid from the head. The windows were closed against the weather, though at least it was cool down here in the cellar. They were below a chandlers shop, on a narrow side street in Galadorn that few people visited. If it had a name, it wasn't one many people bothered to learn. Good place to stay out of sight, good for those conducting business on the shady.

Raff, being a nervous man by nature, strained to hear anything over the sound of the sudden summer rain. He's late.

No, he ain't.Ulmer looked up for a moment. He's got another ten minutes. And his sort ain't very on time. Goes against their rules.

Right...right.Raff continued to pace.

You'll wear a trench in the floor. Relax, he paid good money for his pleasure. He won't stay back from it.Ulmer cut away a s lice of apple and raised it to his mouth. Then he heard it. Wheels, hooves clattering on cobbles, accompanied by a crack of a whip and shouts from a driver.

He's here! About time!Raff bounded down the hall and up a narrow set of stairs. Ulmer continued to eat, listening as Raff greeted someone with thick obsequiousness, receiving a few curt responses for his troubles. He came back down, saying, Right this way, my lord! We have a fine one for you, fresh in from the countryside, ready to be plucked.

Raff reappeared. Behind him was a short, banding man with a red face and thick lips. His clothes were fine and in the latest fashion, made by a tailor who did his best to hide the growing pot belly jiggling above a finely tooled leather belt. A narrow sword hanging off his left hip slapped against the walls as he turned, looking around the dank sellar with obvious distaste. Is this a joke?he growled, eyes glowering at Raff.

My lord!Raff seemed to shrivel under his gaze. Ulmer silently laughed at that - when it came to groveling, Raff had no equal. As you know this...business is not, er, looked upon with favor by the law. And certain recent incidents have forced us to take certain extra precautions...

Yes yes, which is why I am paying double the usual rate! I would expect more for my money than this!

My lord! What does it matter if you are served a fine meal on a silver plate or a clay platter, so long as it stimulates and satisfies your appetites?

My appetites are in dire need of both, else I would be be in my bed.The nobleman turned towards a large door at the far end of the cellar. Is that it?

Right this way, my lord.

Raff pushed the door ope, stepped inside and swept his hand around. The air it here was considerably less fetid than the corridor, the ceiling twice as high. The stone walls were freshly scrubbed and a pair of tapestries hung on them. A table sat below with a pitcher of cold water, a carafe of chilled wine and two glasses. Set across from it was a wide bed, freshly made with fine linen sheets. Seated on it was the nights entertainment. She was clean, her long brown hair curling around her pale shoulders in ringlets. She wore a thin night gown that hung off a shoulder. Her cheeks were freshly rouged, her lips painted a luscious red.

The usual stock in trade for a pimp like Raff. Except this girl was only days past her tenth birthday.

The nobleman smiled at the sight, seemingly ready to spring like a cat with a cornered mouse. A feral look entered his eyes, someone subhuman, a hunger that demanded satiation.

She is fresh, you say?

Barely three days off a farm, my lord. Clean as a mountain stream.Raff couldn't meet his gaze. Do you, er, approve, my lord?

The nobleman started to unbutton his coat. Close the door behind you,he said huskily.

Raff backed away, closed this thick door with a heavy thud. No sound would escape through, not a peep, not a scream. He licked dry lips and turned away.

Ulmer remained in place, cutting away slices from his apple and each them slowly.

That was Lord Kaleban,Raff said, pacing back and forth.

Hmm.

He's the brother-in-law of Lord Therion of House Halmaker.

So?

He's important! He's connected by marriage or blood to half the noble house in Galadorn and quite a few beyond.

He's just another punter to me.Ulmer tossed aside the apple core, wiping the knife clean on his sleeve. This gonna take long?

As long as his lordship wants. He paid for the girl.Raff thought on it a moment. Still, I wouldn't give him more than a hour, unless he's really backed up.

Think we'll need to get lakeside after? In case she needs to be got rid of?

Maybe.It wasn't something Raff liked to think about. He was new to this part of the business. The girl looked like one of his nieces, who he saw not a week past at her mothers house. A clean nights sleep was not something he saw much of these days.

Time passed. Ulmer dozed against a wall. Raff sat in a chair and brooded. The rain stopped.

Been about an hour,Ulmer said.

How can you tell?

Ulmer shrugged. It's a gift.He pushed away from the wall. Think he's done? Been quiet for a while.

That door is five inches thick. You can't hear anything through it.

No man lasts that long in a good spiking. Best you check on it.

You want me to knock on a door and ask Lord Kaleban if he's spilled his cream?

You want to spend the rest of the night here?

Raff didn't. He wanted to find a bottle of strong drink and swig it down to the dregs. Fair enough.

He went to the door and knocked. No response. He knocked again, paused a moment, then pushed the door open.

The bed was empty. No one had touched the sheets by the looks of it, side from a few wrinkles where the girl was sitting. Of her there was no sign. My lord?Raff asked, looking about. Empty as a spent ale barrel. What in hellfire...

Something warm dripped on his cheek. Bloody rain,he muttered. Must be a leak, water getting down to the cellar. He looked up and gasped.

Before the cellar of this place became a den of depravity, it was used as curing room for dried meats. Haunches of ham packed in salt and wrapped in burlap would be hung from hooks in the ceiling for up to a year, drying out in the cool underground air. Those hooks remained embedded in thick wooden support beams. A rope was looked around one, and hanging from it by the beck was Lord Kaleban, his red face now dark purple, his swollen tongue protruding from think rubbery lips. His coat was still on his body, he'd barely gotten halfway through the buttons before this happened. Blood dripped from a boot, the source revealing itself as the body twisted slightly - a knife stabbed deep into his crotch. A knife with a red hilt.

Raff touched his cheek. His finger came away stained red. Oh pigshit,he gasped. Ulmer!

He ran out the room. Ulmer! They killed him. The Red...Ulmer?

UImed leaned against the wall, oddly hunched over, his back turned. Raff touched his shoulder, and he toppled over. Raff backed away, staring at the red gash in the headbreakers neck, cut from ear to ear.

Movement behind him. Raff turned about, heart all but thumping its way out his chest. The man who stood there seemingly appeared like a ghost, conjured from the air like a demon from some damned fairy story. He was dressed in dark clothes and on his face was a plain red mask.

Wait,Raff said, raising his hands. The man moved. Steel flashed in the dim light. Raff screamed, but no sound came out. He touched his throat, felt his blood gushing out, tried to speak and only gurgled. He fell to the floor, dead before he landed.

The man in the red mask kicked Raff's body twice, just to make sure. He wiped the blade clean on the body and went up the stairs.

Dawn. The garrison at the Gallangate opened the ancient bronze doors to the city. A long line of wagons, pedestrians and travelers waited outside, impatient to enter the city, just as an equally long line of people waiting within, trying to get out. Among the latter was a small, somewhat rickety wagon drawn by a single horse plodding amiably along. The man driving it looked to be a farmer, beside him was a rawboned woman who would declare herself his wife should anyone ask. Sitting in the back was a young girl of ten years, curled up and sleeping. Just a country family, going home after a night in the city. The gate guards never gave them a look.

The wagon continued onward for an hour. Golden fields spread out to the south of the city, the countryside rolling like the waves of the sea, narrow roads lined with tall poplars. Small forests clung to the slopes of hills in the distance. Farm houses with white walls and thatched roofs clustered here and there, many surrounded by stone walls whose whitewashed sides shone brilliantly in the light.

Many a poet had praised the beauty of the Tuscelar countryside, its rolling fields, its blue skies and bright sunshine. The wordsmiths of Galadorn were no exception, many contrasting the earthy homespun virtues of the hardworking peasants with the indolent decadence of the city (something the peasants, many of them tenants of one great landowner or another, breaking their backs to make their rent would have found risible.)

The girl woke up. She looked over the side of the wagon, watching the countryside pass by without a word. The city receded into the distance, becoming just a dark smudge to the north.

The wagon turned off the main road and went down a narrow path, winding between a pair of high hedges then coming to a halt before an old farm house. A man came out the door as they pulled out, waving his hand. The woman waved back. When the wagon stopped she jumped down, then helped the girl off.

One of the men from the farmhouse came over. Only one?he asked.

The others were gone,the woman replied. We were too late.

Bastards. The Godhead rot their souls.He knelt down before the girl. And what is your name, young miss?

The girl said nothing, staring back with eyes blank of any emotion.

What did they do to her?

Do you really want to know?

The man pondered this. I do not.He stood back up, glancing a moment at the wagon driver, who thus far had said nothing.

The woman pulled a cloth purse from her pocked and gave it to the man. Take two aurins for the trip,she said. The rest is for the girl. You'll leave in an hour. Do you know Faarentel?

Aye. It's fishing village west of the city.

A boat is due to arrive in two days. The captain is expecting you. He'll take you across Balendaas to Mirondaal. A family is waiting there for her. She'll be safe with them.The woman turned to the girl. Go with this man. Do as he says. You are safe now. Understand?

The girl hesitated, then nodded slightly.

The man patted her on the back. Come along, little one, we've a trip ahead! You know, I knew a little girl like you who didn't like to talk. But she did like to sing...

They went into the farm house. The woman turned away, shaking her head slightly. We almost lost her,she said. They're getting cautious.

They should be,said the wagon driver. He adjusted the straw hat on his head. Beneath it was a broad fleshly face and eyes that had seen far too much over the years.

You didn't have to kill him,said.

Who? Raff?

Lord Kaleban. He's connected. There will be a stink. The wrong people will be paying attention.

Since when did you get squeamish, Alyana? Especially with those who fully deserve the killing?

It wasn't necessary. Not this time.

No. But it was right.A grim smile curved his lips. And there's more coming. Best steel yourself to it, Alyana, bodies will be dropping. One way or another, the Thorny Guard is going down!

Chapter One

High summer in Galadorn and the days were hot and the nights humid. Sunlight dappled the waters of Balendaas, reflected off the ancient stone walls, turning the cannons mounted on the top into impromptu stoves that might burn a man's hand should he hold against the metal too long. As the heat rose, so did tempers in back alleys and taverns, even as clothing became lighter, often just inches from the crossing the line to scandalous. Hot enough to burn bare feet on the cobble stones...while the nights hid secrets of a different kind; music wafting through narrow side streets, tavern doors open and terraces packed to near collapse, summer flowers spilling down in vines, filling the darkness with their perfume.

High Summer in Galadorn. There was nothing else like it and even when one discounted the excesses to which poets were prone, there was no denying the place held a special charm, a heightened sense of possibility. That around the corner anything might happen, a sudden tryst, a sudden fight, a rendezvous with inspiration, a final appointment with death.

Yet there was one day above all others in this warm season, when Galadorn in all splendor and squalor might be seen in one place. High and low, foul and fair, the scrupulously clean and the irredeemable unwashed. Three days after the solstice came the Feast of The Proclamations, a holy day for those who followed the Archaerim faith, a day off for those who did not, when the words of the Red Prophet spoken two thousand years before on a distant world circling a different sun were recited in temples of every sect and denomination. After which the taverns were filled to bursting as men and women both sought to balance ascetic holiness with the joy of strong drink...but not to much. For the day after came something many reckoned as the vulgar height of the season. The summer hanging day.

Even as the city resounded with revelry, a crew of workmen labored through the night to erect the scaffold, supervised by several savants up from the Spires. This year interest in the summer hangings were higher than ever; in his wisdom and beneficence, the Prince called upon the finest minds in Galadorn to devise a new, quicker and more humane method of execution. By long established law and custom, public executions were limited to twice a year, once in the summer and once in the winter. Galadorn was a city of laws, which her magistrates applied sternly and without favor to those with the bad luck to be caught without the connections to wiggle free. For minor infractions a malefactor might be let off with a fine (if he could pay) or a flogging (if he could not.) Petty theft earned a spell on the city labor gang. More severe offenses against the public weal could result in anything from a spell in the stocks, being 'sent to the water'(where the convicted was tied to a post in the harbor with his nostrils just barely clearing the surface...) or branding. Those who really got on the wrong side of the forces of law and order might be exiled for life, forfeiting all their property to the city, being whipped naked through the streets and hurled bodily through the gates, after which they had one day to get beyond the borders of the principality or else any citizen had the right to kill him on sight.

Only the most vile of offenses (murder, rape, theft of property worth more than one hundred gold aurins) merited a drop at the gallows, and it was a testament to the industriousness of Galadornian criminality that when the hanging days arrived there was a long line of men waiting to meet their maker. By ancient law and custom, executions could not begin before noon, and had to end when the sun dipped below the western horizon. The old way of dispatch (beheading, slow strangulation by hanging) meant that when the allotted time ended there were invariably men left behind, resulting in a six month wait at the very least before the next opportunity came for the city to dispose of the rubbish. A more efficient method was required, the Prince demanded it, especially this year, with the death cells packed like fish barrels, the result of a long-demanded crackdown on street crime in the poorer districts.

Enthusiasts arrived early, staking out prince viewing spots in the Campelor, the great square of the city. Others with money to spend hired others to do so in their place. A tall viewing stand stood off to one side for the highborns, the city elite with a desire to take in the sights, and though many publicly expressed their disdain at the amusements of the vulgar mob, they would not absent themselves from such a thing. To be a man of consequence in this city was to be a public man, for how else could he know himself worthy?

By noon the square was packed. Thousands stood shoulder to shoulder, fathers perching children on their shoulders. Vendors passed through the mob like fish through the sea, bellowing skewers of roasted meat, cups of ale and sour wine or vinegary rolls that had come up from the south and were increasingly hawked by food sellers. Fiddlers played, poets proclaimed. The sun came out, bright and warm. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and perfume, cooked food and fermented armpits. Of humanity.

All eyed were on the fruit of the savants labors. Officially it was called the Arm of Demaraatil, after the man responsible for the design, but the people had already given it a new name: the Rooster. A thick wooden base, from which two pillars rose up. Suspended between them on an axle was a third beam. One end had a large metal basket filled with stone weights and was raised high in the air, the other was locked down by an iron bar placed on the topside. One end was hinged on a mount to the left, the other end in some kind of locking mechanism, with a lever prominently rising from the side. Embedded in the front of the beam was a thick iron hook.~From a certain angle it did look like a male chicken bent down for a drink.

Temple bells across the city rang out the noon our. Trumpets sounded, a line of soldiers keeping a path through the crowd clear as the first wagons transporting the condemned rolled through the square, accompanied by a rising wave of cheers, insults and cat calls. Five wagons in all, hauling twenty-seven men in all, bound for the gallows and doing double service today in the cause of advancing human knowledge. All were from the lower classes - noble-born malefactors condemned