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A.R.Yngve

DARC AGES Book Three
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Chapter 25


Night fell, and most citizens of Damon City stayed inside. The city guard was out searching for vandals, and no one wanted to risk arrest: the punishment was a huge fine, or five years of prison labor. Almost no one...



Awonso sneaked out of the house through his father's trapdoor, carrying a bucket of paint under his hooded cloak. An early, dense snowfall suffused the night -- it was just the cover he needed to dare a second raid on the city wall. As he stalked the silent streets, he nearly stumbled into a patrol of guards -- their steps muffled by the fresh snow, like his own, he hadn't noticed their approach. He darted into an unlit alley, and stumbled onto something. The noise alerted the militia.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a guard shouted.

Awonso panicked, slipped on the snow, and ran into more debris. The urgent noise of soldier's boots approached the alley. The fleeing youngster saw no escape, when -- at his feet, something clicked open. Unseen hands snatched his feet and he slid down, tumbling along a smooth surface. He bumped into someone, who groaned at the impact -- there were shuffles in the dark, and a passage clicked shut. A candle was lit.

Awonso glimpsed three faces in the flickering light. They were in a windowless cellar; he had entered through a chute. Before Awonso could open his mouth, a man put his firm hand over his lips. Above their heads, they heard the muffled steps of the city guard, rummaging through the alley. A very long minute passed. The guards found no trapdoor; they walked away to continue the search elsewhere. The man let go of Awonso's jaw.

"Thank you, sir," he gasped. "Who are you?"

"It's unwise of you to ask too many questions, Awonso," the man replied.

He seemed to be a well-fed, bearded man of nondescript age. Under his rough coat, a fine silken collar was partly visible -- but the sparse lighting made it hard to distinguish much about Awonso's three saviors.

"You know me?" Awonso asked in a low voice.

The man grinned; the candlelight made his grin resemble a ghostly leer.

"A small world, this city, is it not? Everyone knows everyone. Let's just say you have friends who wish to remain anonymous for now."

Awonso calmed down, but not much.

"Are you with the Guild?" he asked suspiciously.

"Your father's guild? I cannot answer that."

"You're from the Merchants' Lodge, then. You talk the way they do -- like the saying goes. 'If you see two merchants standing together...'"

"'...they are plotting a cartel,'" the bearded man filled in. "You're bright, boy. And influential, too. Got a radio somewhere, they say. Received a blessing... the highest kind, they say... from Her Holiness herself."

The other two men smiled knowingly; Awonso felt himself blushing, though they could hardly see it.

The man continued in a business-minded tone: "You are destined to become a man to whom important doors get opened, know what I mean? Now, what are your plans for the future? Before we decide whether to back you or boot you, we'd like a statement of sorts... a defining of loyalties. Who are you with? The nobility, or the guilds?"

Awonso felt a reflex pulling at his brain -- the feudal impulse to obey, to surrender to raw power. Something else happened. Let's Rokenrol, he thought. He laughed at the conspirators, and they seemed taken by surprise.

"Ha ha... plans?" he laughed, raising his voice. "What plans? Who said I have a plan? My plan is... to live and learn. Yes, that's it -- live and learn. How's that for a statement -- you money-grubbing weasels?"

The man grabbed Awonso's collar and raised his fist, but his friends pulled him back. They retreated toward a door, glaring at Awonso where he stood trembling with fear, cold, and excitement.

"We'll get back to you, upstart," the man threatened. "And when we do, you had better made up your mind -- this city shall belong to us!"
They disappeared out through the door, and locked it. He was alone in the dark, and could hear the slow dripping of water nearby.

I am in the ancient catacombs, Awonso thought. We took shelter down here when the Paskos attacked. Now the Merchants' Lodge is using them for secret meetings and plots. They're scheming to seize power from the city lord. How long has this been going on? Maybe the man was right -- I ought to make up my mind soon.

He managed to pry open the trapdoor, climbed back up to the street, and found his way home to safety.



Tharlos's ally in Kibralta sent a laser-borne reply to his request for contact with the Awrican cities. The reply stated that communications with Awrica had mainly been shut off for the last two hundred years -- for reasons of feuds and mutual hostility, which no one bothered to rationalize. The city lord of Kibralta suggested, with a veiled threat, that his own city remained the safest takeoff-point for the planned attack; no alliances with Awricans were necessary.

Tharlos could not risk losing the beachhead in Kibralta; and so he buried all further attempts to contact the Awrican city lords. Kap Verita was to be attacked directly from the mainland of Espa, in one coordinated move across the sea. He had made yet another critical strategic mistake; it would not be his last.