Acclayne Book 1: The Game Begins

The winding lane was dark; too dark even for most people to be able to see. It was a clear night and the stars shone above, yet none of their twinkling light made its way into the nearly deserted lane below. The houses clustered together as if whispering gossip; their unevenly slanted rooftops almost touching in conspiracy, blocking any light that may have filtered through. The wind whistled through the gaps, bringing with it the sound of drunken laughter from a nearby Inn. One was never alone in the city; no matter how alone one felt.

The man below had been sleeping on the streets now for some time. It was not something that he had thought he would have to become accustomed to. He huddled in a corner between two houses, he could hear the families inside bustling about; getting the children ready for bed no doubt. He wasn’t familiar with the voices as he made sure to keep moving, but all the muffled voices he had heard had started to sound the same to him; the same worries, the same hopes, same fears and the same dreams. For the most part the people he heard were content with their lot. This both pleased and angered him, how could one be happy living in conditions such as these? It was if time had forgotten Corthus. Things had remained the same for as long as anyone could remember. Sure there were differences but ones so subtle that it was hard to believe that anything was really any different at all. The city had grown slowly over the years, houses on the outskirts seemed to form gradually upwards from the ground, twisted and misshapen as if grown organically; affected by the environment around them. There seemed no logic as to where they were built but they had multiplied to form clusters which then attached themselves to the city.

On his travels he had visited Cortharen quite frequently, the buildings there were cultivated; ordered in rows with beautiful gardens. Each was built with care and no two houses were quite the same; having been made with precision by the people who lived there. Time had definitely not left Cortharen behind. He found immense beauty in the order and graft displayed by the Cortharens, their drive and ambition was something he could relate to. Still, he kept returning to Corthus, the city that by its very nature rejected him. He shuffled uncomfortably, a stone from the building behind him jutting uncomfortably into his back. He had work to do.

Closing his eyes to focus his mind, he could hear a group of men a few streets away, the smell of beer floated in the air, signalling their impending arrival. In the opposite direction were smaller footsteps; a little girl walking all alone, meandering and aimless. He pulled his hat down, covering his face and began to hum to himself. The sound was low, throaty and monotonous. It carried on the wind…

Kaylaer fingered the rough stonework wall. Bored of the impromptu history lesson she had wandered off in search of her own excitement. She had never visited the city before yet she felt a strange affinity with it. It seemed to twist and turn in whichever direction it pleased and that suited her just fine. It was dark in the narrow lanes, aside from the odd splash of light from a house window here and there. There was no possible way of knowing where she was and yet she felt no fear. It was as if she was searching for something that she didn’t understand. Something reverberated within her, a low pulse which she let subconsciously guide her. It vibrated throughout her entire body, calling to her. She had felt this feeling only a few times; the last time it had prompted her to turn the boy who sat in front of her into a lemur. This had earned her a meeting with the Headmaster, which had, in turn, led her to become part of this expedition. She reasoned that there was method in the madness, and that it was probably best not to ask questions. Closing her eyes she took a deep breath. The air in the city was heavy, heady with the scent of crammed bodies, food and alcohol. It was stifling yet at the same time a comfort; it reminded her of wrapping herself up in a blanket right up to her nose; of chicken soup with stale bread; her father kissing her goodnight on the head, himself tired after working and drinking. It reminded her of home.

She let her long, lean legs carry her forward through the narrow streets. Briefly she wondered if she should turn back; her teacher was probably freaking out over her sudden disappearance. It was just a passing thought; however, and was easily drowned out by the reverberations in her mind. The further she walked the stronger this strange feeling seemed to become. What she had previously mistaken for a pulse was now a low, monotonous vibration. Her slight body felt almost as if it were trembling, she looked down at her small hands as if to confirm this yet they were completely steady. Instinctively she knew some sort of sorcery must be afoot, yet what it was she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember reading about this feeling in any textbook; not that she had ever paid much attention to those. She certainly hadn’t heard anything about it in any class; though she reasoned that it was probably because she hadn’t bothered to turn up that day; and if she had she had probably already been sent back out of the classroom.

At the age of fourteen Kaylaer was tall, slender and angular. When she looked at herself in the mirror she felt that she had been stretched and that there wasn’t quite enough of her to comfortably fit her frame, and with her porcelain colouring even she would concede that she looked sort of delicate. Even thinking it repulsed her. It was with this in mind that she deliberately acted out; cultivated her hard reputation. Delicate she may be but she would certainly not allow herself to be breakable. She allowed her mind to wander like this as she felt the effects of the vibration lead her on; eyes closed once more. It wasn’t until she heard someone stumble a little way ahead of her that she opened her eyes. She stood still. The vibration stopped.

Argyle had been having some problems at home, or rather he had been having some problems with the wife. He was never home and apparently that was a problem. She didn’t want him there anyway, she told him so on a daily basis. No that was unfair, she had never said it in as many words; rather he was a waste of space, a bore, a mess and to top it off; he smelled. As inconspicuously as he could while so inebriated he raised his arm and sniffed at his armpit. She was right on one count at least. Not that he would admit that to her and give her the satisfaction. Not a chance.

“’ere,” he turned to his companion, “do y’think I shmell?”

“Do I thunk youwha?”

“Sssshmell?”

“Nah mate, s’jus’ th’booze.” Argyle nodded slowly; his head light from his last drink, or possibly the one before it. Lowden was his best mate and suddenly he had the overwhelming urge to tell him so;

“Lowden.”

“yer?”

“Yer ma bess’…” he paused to burp, “mate.” he stood still for a moment, swayed, and patted Lowden firmly on the back. He stumbled forward a little at the impact. “an’ yer drunk.” He laughed. Lowden frowned.

“Noralf as drunk as you.” He smiled then, and they both smiled drunkenly at each other, bonded together through drink and life’s disappointments. Neither man was where he expected he’d be at this age but at that moment neither cared because they had each other and they were pleasantly drunk and surely that was all you could ask for.

“Not as drunk as when I gor with ma wife’o aye?” Argyle let out a booming laugh, pleased with his own joke.

“Whatchit. Tha’s ma sssshister.” And the moment was gone.

Something had gone wrong. From where he sat in the shadows he could sense the movement of the strangers around him. The young girl had stopped moving. She was approximately three corners away. So close. Caught up in his own concentration he had neglected to keep track of the two drunkards that had stumbled right on by him, now they had come between him and his prey; breaking the spell that had held her. He focused on her now; she was scared, body pressed tightly against the wall of a house. The scuffling drunks were edging nearer to her, soon she would be seen. He had hoped to be more subtle about this; to slip by unseen. It was not going to happen. He stood swiftly and crept between the shadows.

“’Ere, you can’t go sayin’ stuff like tha’ bout ma own ssshister.” The taller of the two men pushed the other into the wall of the house opposite. The two of them were illuminated by the pale light that filtered through the window. Kaylaer had tucked herself into a corner and was, for the most part, hidden in the shadows. Drunken arguments weren’t new to her and she knew from experience to steer well clear of them. She struggled to keep her breathing low; panic was rising in her chest despite her best attempts to push it down. She knew her limits and these men were both at least twice her size; and drunk. Drunk men were unpredictable. She also knew this from experience.

“Ah’ll say wor I wan’ bout ma wife.” Slurred the shorter man as he pushed his companion back. The taller man stumbled and fell backwards onto the floor just in front of Kaylaer, who despite her best efforts let out a small whimper. A fact that she would neglect to mention when recounting the story to her peers.

“An’ wor is this?” Kaylaer forced herself to look down. The man on the floor was looking up at her.

“Wors wor? You flamin’ Idio- well now ain’t you a pretty lickle thing.” The other man had spotted her now too. Kaylaer forced herself against the wall as far as she could, willing herself to somehow morph into the very stonework that she was pushing against. Head down she allowed her long, blonde hair to fall down into her face; obstructing her vision of the scene in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself away.

“’Ere, Argyle I reckon she’s scared.” Lowden mumbled from the ground. Argyle continued to stare at the girl in front of him. He was transfixed by her; her pale hair shone white in the dim light and her skin had an almost luminous quality about it. Though if asked to articulate what he had thought he would merely be able to say that she looked like some sort of angel; pretty and sort of glowy.

From his position on the floor Lowden could not make out Argyle’s face but he could see the girl physically squirm at the proximity of his drunken friend. His drunken mind put her somewhere in her late teens but she was slight, so slight… perhaps not?

“She’s not scared. Are ya? Precious?” Argyle stepped closer. His breath blew against her hair and she instinctively recoiled.

“She’s a kid Argyle,” mumbled the man on the floor. Argyle, she’d remember that name, “’snot right.” He began to heave himself up off of the floor; or so Kaylaer imagined in her minds eye as her real eyes were firmly shut. She could feel his breath on her face now, the familiar smell of drink penetrated her nose and twisted images and memories flooded her mind.

She felt; rather than saw, him lift his arm to brush her hair from her face. But before he could make contact the feeling was gone.

From a safe distance away he had been watching the situation ahead of him unfold. The larger of the two men was now on his feet and stood a little behind his companion. He could see the left side of the smaller man’s face; a smirk was beginning to form as his left arm came up towards the girl. This was not meant to have happened at all.

All of a sudden Argyle was aware of the ground coming up very quickly to meet with the right side of his face. He lay on the floor; his left arm out ahead of him, as he felt pain blossom on the left side of his face. He could taste blood.

“Bloody ‘ell!” He wasn’t sure but he thought he heard Lowden stumble away.

“Lowden…”

“I am afraid your friend seems to have left.” The deep voice came from somewhere high above him, “Pity.” now it came from beside his ear. He heard the deep crunch of his nose breaking before he felt it. As his drunken mind slowly processed the pain from his newly broken nose he felt a sharp kick to his right knee. He heard himself yowl in pain. It went on like this for what felt like an age until finally; his eyes tightly shut, he was unprepared for the well aimed kick that hit him directly between the legs. His last thought before passing out was that that’d be one more thing for the wife to complain about.

He had not intended for that to happen either. He looked down at the mess of a man before him. He reasoned that it was no more than he had deserved. The girl was slumped over on the floor where she had been standing. He was not sure how much she had actually witnessed but he was willing to bet that her eyes had been shut for the most part. Probably for the best. She was not supposed to have seen him at all.

“Are you okay?” His deep voice cut through the silence. The girl whimpered in response. Slowly; tentatively, he walked over to her. She had stopped shaking now; less afraid than she had been. He wondered to himself if that was a wise decision on her part. He crouched down in front of her. “It is okay now. He will not be awake for some time.” She stifled a quiet sob; her face now buried in her hands. His words were not doing much to comfort her. Gently he reached out and held her wrist; it was tiny in his hand. She was delicate; he observed, like a sparrow. “It really is okay now. I promise.” As he spoke this time he felt her relax; she was under his influence now. Her breathing slowed and became deeper as she entered what he referred to as a wakeful sleep. In his right hand he felt the cool, smooth stone given to him by his father and as swiftly and as gently as he could he dropped it into the girl’s pocket. Briefly a huge sense of loss threatened to overwhelm him, but he had prepared himself for it. He had read that he would instinctively want to snatch it back; to keep it save in his own pocket which held the stone left to him by his now late mother. He fought the urge, the stone must stay where it was needed. For now. He snapped back into focus just as the girl in front of him woke herself from “sleep”. Maybe he had chosen wrongly.

“Who…Why did you-?” The man crouched in front of her was not Argyle. Nor was he drunk. Kaylaer took a moment to absorb this fact. His hand was; however, wrapped around her wrist. “Get the hell off of me!” she tried to snatch her wrist back but underestimated his grip. His head was tilted down and away from her. He was listening for something. She balled her fist; agitated now, all sense of fear had subsided. She wasn’t sure what had happened but she was desperate to get the hell out of there. Right. Now. She balled her fist, “GerrOFFofme!” His head snapped up and he stared directly at her. Kaylaer felt herself instantly transfixed. Whether it was the dim light or not she could not tell but he had the deepest, darkest, brown eyes she had ever seen. She felt as though she was being drawn into them. He was close now and she could just about see the dark wavy tendrils of hair that framed his face; a face that was too strong and angular to be called beautiful, but that was the only word her teenage mind could think of to describe him. Beautiful.

She felt her fist go limp as he stared back at her. Warmth seemed to radiate from him and gradually she let her body succumb to it. She could hear voices in the distance, they were calling. Were they calling for her? She could not tell. In a soft voice the man in front of her whispered;

“Kaylaer, So that is who you are.” and before she could react the warmth was suddenly ripped away from her, and so was her saviour. She was alone and still sat on the floor when Malcolm found her minutes later. The heat of his hand still lingered on her wrist.