Post by Mizagium on Nov 23, 2011 2:41:46 GMT -5
i gave up, but before that, here's what i managed to puke out
~~~~
Prologue: Scars
He was not an old man by any standards, though his face was weathered from years of hardship, his hair grayed from the stress of becoming a man when he was still a boy, and his eyes dull and haunted by phantoms he could not name. But as he sat there in the dim candle light, drunk, hunched over, breathing heavily, knife poised to strike, he might have passed for a frail ninety year-old.
Every breath sent the candle flame dancing, which threw shadows across the table. The hand holding the knife trembled as he lowered the point to the underside of his arm. Right now, his arm was the world, his head the moon, the table the planets around the sun, the dark room the empty universe beyond – and the knife was an asteroid, headed directly for the world.
Sober, he might have reconsidered, but there was a reason he was a drunk as he was. He brought the knife down, digging deep into his flesh, like he was trying to remove the pit from a peach. After several minutes of searching, the crystal was pried from his arm and clattered to the floor, sticky with blood and muscle. The pain was a dull throb even as more of his blood was pumped out of the open wound with each beat of his heart. A deep breath and he set at it again, this time higher up. He repeated the process thrice more before trading the knife to his torn and bloody arm – at which point he performed the entire procedure again on his right arm.
After nearly three quarters of an hour, he let the knife fall from his ruined arms where it joined eleven bloody crystals on the floor. He allowed himself a single horrified glance at his arms. Six gaping wounds adorned each; he had miscounted and had to dig into his left arm again for fifteen minutes for a crystal that didn’t exist. His lifeblood oozed from the gaping wounds and pooled on the table until it ran off the edge.
Weakened, he let his head fall to the table. Funny, he thought: all that’s missing is the oath and he could be done with everything forever. A simple phrase, a promise that could not be broken – a fair trade considering the peace he would receive in return. And he seriously considered it, the words dancing across his tongue –
“So it’s come to this,” observed a voice somewhere around him. The candle light flickered and he suddenly found himself face to face with the visage of a gray fox. He did not flinch or jump or act surprised. All he was meekly turn his head to avoid the piercing eyes of the fox.
“Go on,” urged the fox. “Do it. Make the oath. End him, end you – end everything forever. If you cannot bear your burden, then appeal to Sram’sera; I’m sure he would be most glad to see more blood spilt in his name.” Distain coated her words. Had she lips, she would have spit on him.
Unbidden, tears flowed from his eyes like the blood from his arms. “I cannot,” he managed. “Not him. I cannot. You know I cannot; I am a coward.”
The fox’s eyes twinkled. “Though my vision is narrow, I see many things that escape mortal eyes, and in you I see loyalty – a loyalty so great that it supersedes the sins he has committed against you. It is an admirable quality. Never would I call you coward. You know who I am and what I represent; such praises I do not hand out lightly.”
He made no response, choosing to let his flowing blood and tears answer for him.
“Do you wish to be forgiven of your sins?” the fox asked gently.
The man shook his head, smearing the blood with his hair. “No. No one can forgive me for what I’ve done – it is something that I must come arrive at alone, in my own time.”
The fox had anticipated such an answer. Even so, she did not like the implications. Men such as he never were able to forgive themselves. It was a tragic sight that she had witnessed many times over the ages, and every time, the sadness in her heart was just as consuming. And yet…
“This is true. I may not be able to forgive you, but I can point you on the right path to redemption.” Curious, he raised his head, and the fox was delighted to see that he was no longer weeping. “Will you accept my charge?”
For a moment, he wavered in his choice, but determination filled his eyes, shining through his drunkenness and sorrow. “Yes. I will accept whatever task you give to me. You need only command.”
Heartened, the fox stepped forward and gently touched her nose to his. Instantly, he felt his drunkenness clear like a fog being lifted. The sorrow faded away and though it was beyond his sight, the wounds closed up, leaving six deep scars on the undersides of both of his arms; even the fox could not undo the damage he had done to himself. Sleep overtook him and he laid his head back down.
“Rest now, my child,” the fox soothed. “My task will come to you in your dreams. At dawn you will set out for the city. Perhaps you can undo sins older than the ages.”
Part One: The Tournament
“These are dark and troubled times we live in, my friends,” the crier called to the crowd assembled around him. He wore only a simple robe with a rope belt around his waist. Apparently the cold rain did not affect him, as he made no attempt to shield himself.
“Nearly fifteen years have passed since the devastation of the Royal Succession Crisis and the Swords’ War, and still we are living with the aftereffects. Without the mercenary guilds, the G’neschi have advanced nearly to our doorstep; they wait, encamped along the River Steit, like caged animals, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness. Even knowing this, the River Lords still plot rebellion! It seems another civil war is upon us!
“Not to mention the Atazi corsairs that harry our coastline, slowing trade to the Haezian Empire to the north, and the Southern Kingdoms. Rylia, our longtime ally, has closed itself off to us, leaving us caught between the G’neschi tribes and the rebellious River Lords and the perilous Sea of Storms with its corsairs. Truly, we are alone in this, stranded in a sea of strife, abandoned by the world to sink or swim in an ocean full of bloodthirsty sharks.”
He paused to build dramatic tension, which was ridiculous because not a single individual in the crowd seemed captivated in any fashion by his words. In fact, a number of them had left that the crowd was quickly dispersing to carry on individual business in the marketplace. The crier carried on in spite of the disinterested crowd.
“But despair not, my friends, for there is hope in the bleakness of the present! His Royal Highness, the king, Kariya Ereskal the Sixth has issued a call to the populace: in two days time, on the anniversary of the conclusion of the Swords’ War, a tournament will be held. Not just any tournament, but the ancient Tournament of Champions! That’s right, the winner of this tournament will be named the Champion of the Land and be presented with an artifact right out of the legends: Shadowclaw, a legendary sword blessed by Ascaettr, Master of Shadows, Lord of the Night, God of Darkness. Surely a man or woman in possession of such a blade would find no trouble from the River Lords, the G’neschi, or the corsairs!”
The crowd had dwindled to all but the most curious of listeners by now. Still, this did not the dissuade the energetic crier – he seemed oblivious to his threadbare audience and continued on with his animated performance.
“Who of you will answer your king’s call? Is there none among you who has the will to become a champion? This is no time to stand idle while time passes us by, my friends: this is a time for action, a time for faith. It is a time for heroes!”
Two among the meager crowd were a pair of young crawlers: Nathaniel, sixteen, Verestian, and plain of face; and Arrick, seventeen, Ehk, and easy on the eyes. Together they stood and listened to the herald’s entire speech without heckling the man. Even as the crowd finally melted away and the herald moved on to his next location to spread the news of the Tournament of Champions, they remained.
Arrick gently punched Nathaniel in the arm. “I think you should go for it.”
Nathaniel gave him a look like he had just sprouted wings and a beak and tried to lay a clutch of eggs. “What? Me? Have you taken leave of your senses? Look at me: a skinny little Verest boy against a bunch of experienced soldiers and sellswords? I’ll get murdered.”
“Technically, it would not be murder if it was in a tournament; just an unfortunate accident. Actually, since this is a royally sanctioned tournament, you might actually get a hero’s funeral. You know, dying for the crown and all that nonsense.”
Nathaniel gave his friend a good, hard look. “That helped absolutely zero, Arrick. Now I definitely refuse to be a part of this. I would rather keep my life, pitiful existence that it is.”
“But that’s why you would be perfect for this!” Arrick stopped him from trying to walk away from the city. “Think about it: all of those hardened warriors and mercenaries and pirates won’t give a runt like you more than a passing glance. It would be very easy for you to slip under their guard” he mimed driving a knife into an assailant’s throat “and bring him down.”
“Then why don’t you do it, then?” The Verestian boy challenged. “Since you seem to have all the answers, then. You do it.”
“No, no, no.” Arrick threw him arm around his friend and explained: “You see, I’m only the brains of the Thousand Knives, the idea guy, the planner. You, my mud-headed companion, are the muscle, the one who actually carries out the plans.”
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Thousand Knives?”
“Our guild.”
“We have a guild?”
“A thieves guild.”
“Since when?”
“Since…about three days ago. Remember those kids I was talking with? They are the newest recruits into the Thousand Knives. One day soon, we will be the scourge of the Crawl.”
“Is that really something to be proud of?” Nathaniel asked dubiously, shaking off Arrick’s arm. “Either way, I’m not getting killed in that tournament. And since when are you smarter than me?”
“I have more ideas than you,” Arrick defended.
“Only because you never stop to think before you start talking – like now, for instance. Have you actually, truly, thought about what it is you are suggesting?”
“I take offense to that. Did I not just explain to you why I think you would win? Remember the whole underestimating you thing?”
“Okay, yeah, sure, but still: why don’t you do it? After all, you are the one who taught us knife dancing. You are the master; you should do it.”
Arrick nodded, feigning contemplations, which made Nathaniel roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, I can see how you would think that. However, you are forgetting something very crucial: I don’t have a girl waiting for me to take her away from this cesspit of a city.”
Nathaniel was silent for a long while after that. Arrick did not press the issue and the pair walked in silence through the market district of Kr’addon. Even in the constant rain, the black city teemed with life, though it was a noticeable decline from just a few months ago. It was just as the herald has said: the invading G’neschi tribes, and increasingly frequent appearance of corsairs have slowed trade to a trickle. Ehk trader ships were avoiding Cerka in favor of Rylia and Haez. Although, being based out of the Southern Kingdoms, the Ehk were staying closer to home. In all, the loss of trade would be very bad for an already struggling city.
They didn’t speak even as they found the nearest stairwell tucked away in an alley. The entrance was narrow and hidden in shadows and so the city-folk had a habit of forgetting they even existed, which was their general attitude towards the Crawl and its inhabitants, as well. Down was the only direction the stairwell went, down to the Crawl, the undercity, the absolutely lowest part of the city, the home of the rats, urchins, and leeches of society, the Crawlers.
The Crawl was a massive labyrinth of catacombs underneath Kr’addon. It was excavated several hundred years ago during the most recent attempted restoration of the city, around the time the Erengaile was torn down and rebuilt. Underneath the old dais, where the throne sat, a hidden shaft was discovered that went deep underground, past the dungeons and castle sublevels. A team of excavators went down, expecting to find a large cavern, but were greeted by an entire system of tunnels.
It was determined that the caverns were built during the time of the Ginxae, when the land was in its infancy. At first, the spelunkers thought that the catacombs were excavated long after the city was establish, but then a new section of the complex was opened, previously hidden behind a large stone door, revealing a host of murals and statues that predated even that distant date. Since then, it has been commonly held that the catacombs dated back to the establishment of the Ginxae dominion over the land.
After three years mapping the underground labyrinth, the expedition was halted and the team pulled back to the surface, but not before a number of previously hidden entrances were discovered across the layout of the city. The maps they compiled in the three years determined that the catacombs covered the entire length and breadth of the city, as well as extending miles out into the surrounding countryside; at least one intact tunnel was confirmed to stretch all the way to the fortress city, Tessat.
While the kings had no official plans for the catacombs, they quickly became a haven for the homeless, criminals, thieves, and all other manner of people who dwelled on the bottom rungs of society. Ramshackle homes appeared practically overnight and within five years, it became a functioning part of the city as a whole. The name Crawl began as just another name for the labyrinth beneath the city, but eventually became a derogatory slang for the area directly under the city, the underbelly of Kr’addon, and its denizens became Crawlers.
What no one seemed to realize at the time, it seemed, was that that, while the Crawl was carved out of the natural rock, it was also below sea level. Leaks were rampant and everything was constantly a barely tolerable level of damp and slimy. Mold and fungus grew on every surface imaginable, particularly those that spewed dangerous spores into the air, creating a permanent plague of lung disease that permeated the entirety of the underground society. Two in three adults born and raised in the Crawl have contracted some form of lung disease, and most do not live past their late forties.
In addition, no natural light reached down into the expansive system of caverns. Whatever the extinct builders had used to carve through the earth – machine or magic – had left few, if any flaws. Only in a few places had erosion created natural skylights, but those did little to alleviate the all-encompassing darkness. Fortunately, the builders seemed to have thought of this and left behind a series of lampposts strewn about the catacombs, as well as wall-mounted versions to light the way. They operated without any manual input and were certainly magical in nature, dimming and brightening in response to the lighting on the surface. While the lampposts were used to dictate where the makeshift streets and blocks were built, the wall-mounted lights became coveted locations for constructing homes. The lights were not evenly spaced, so the homes were an eclectic assortment of shapes and sizes.
It was in one of these oddly shaped shacks, among the doom and gloom, that the pair of boys made their home, a two-storey, roughly rectangular structure with the longer side against the wall, claiming a wall-light with a lemon-green glow. Nailed the front of the shack, above the door, was a wooden board on which was painted a pair of crossed daggers – the emblem of the Thousand Knives thieves guild, Nathaniel supposed, having to smile. He had never known Arrick to possess any sort of artistic talent, but then the daggers were not drawn all that well.
“Am I going to find some young, smiling, grimy faces waiting for their glorious guild leader in side?” he joked with his partner.
“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Arrick responded. “I told them to disappear. If, in two days’ time, I have not spied their faces, nor heard a whisper of their voices, they will have earned entrance into the Thousand Knives – but only if they have acquired a suitable amount of gold in that time. It coincides with the day of the tournament quite nicely; as they will be able to witness Master Thief Nathaniel emerge victorious in round after round of single combat, proving that even a Crawler may rise to the position of Champion.”
Nathaniel ignored the speech about him becoming champion; he still had yet to reach a decision regarding the tournament. To the “Master Thief” title, he only shook his head. He could not remember the last time he had actually lifted a single coin from anyone, aside from maybe Warren. “How much coin do they have to, ahem, acquire before they become true…Thousand…Knives?”
“Just ‘Knives’,” Arrick supplied. “Members of our guild are called Knives. And as for the amount of coin…not sure. I never actually decided on an amount. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“So you just sent them out on their own for two days in the Crawl with only the directions stay out of sight and steal gold?”
“That just about sums it up.” Arrick held open the door for Nathaniel, giving a theatrical, mocking bow. “After you.”
“I take back what I said, Arrick. You are the brains of this guild.” He returned the light punch from earlier as he crossed the threshold.
“I do my very best.”
~~~~
Prologue: Scars
He was not an old man by any standards, though his face was weathered from years of hardship, his hair grayed from the stress of becoming a man when he was still a boy, and his eyes dull and haunted by phantoms he could not name. But as he sat there in the dim candle light, drunk, hunched over, breathing heavily, knife poised to strike, he might have passed for a frail ninety year-old.
Every breath sent the candle flame dancing, which threw shadows across the table. The hand holding the knife trembled as he lowered the point to the underside of his arm. Right now, his arm was the world, his head the moon, the table the planets around the sun, the dark room the empty universe beyond – and the knife was an asteroid, headed directly for the world.
Sober, he might have reconsidered, but there was a reason he was a drunk as he was. He brought the knife down, digging deep into his flesh, like he was trying to remove the pit from a peach. After several minutes of searching, the crystal was pried from his arm and clattered to the floor, sticky with blood and muscle. The pain was a dull throb even as more of his blood was pumped out of the open wound with each beat of his heart. A deep breath and he set at it again, this time higher up. He repeated the process thrice more before trading the knife to his torn and bloody arm – at which point he performed the entire procedure again on his right arm.
After nearly three quarters of an hour, he let the knife fall from his ruined arms where it joined eleven bloody crystals on the floor. He allowed himself a single horrified glance at his arms. Six gaping wounds adorned each; he had miscounted and had to dig into his left arm again for fifteen minutes for a crystal that didn’t exist. His lifeblood oozed from the gaping wounds and pooled on the table until it ran off the edge.
Weakened, he let his head fall to the table. Funny, he thought: all that’s missing is the oath and he could be done with everything forever. A simple phrase, a promise that could not be broken – a fair trade considering the peace he would receive in return. And he seriously considered it, the words dancing across his tongue –
“So it’s come to this,” observed a voice somewhere around him. The candle light flickered and he suddenly found himself face to face with the visage of a gray fox. He did not flinch or jump or act surprised. All he was meekly turn his head to avoid the piercing eyes of the fox.
“Go on,” urged the fox. “Do it. Make the oath. End him, end you – end everything forever. If you cannot bear your burden, then appeal to Sram’sera; I’m sure he would be most glad to see more blood spilt in his name.” Distain coated her words. Had she lips, she would have spit on him.
Unbidden, tears flowed from his eyes like the blood from his arms. “I cannot,” he managed. “Not him. I cannot. You know I cannot; I am a coward.”
The fox’s eyes twinkled. “Though my vision is narrow, I see many things that escape mortal eyes, and in you I see loyalty – a loyalty so great that it supersedes the sins he has committed against you. It is an admirable quality. Never would I call you coward. You know who I am and what I represent; such praises I do not hand out lightly.”
He made no response, choosing to let his flowing blood and tears answer for him.
“Do you wish to be forgiven of your sins?” the fox asked gently.
The man shook his head, smearing the blood with his hair. “No. No one can forgive me for what I’ve done – it is something that I must come arrive at alone, in my own time.”
The fox had anticipated such an answer. Even so, she did not like the implications. Men such as he never were able to forgive themselves. It was a tragic sight that she had witnessed many times over the ages, and every time, the sadness in her heart was just as consuming. And yet…
“This is true. I may not be able to forgive you, but I can point you on the right path to redemption.” Curious, he raised his head, and the fox was delighted to see that he was no longer weeping. “Will you accept my charge?”
For a moment, he wavered in his choice, but determination filled his eyes, shining through his drunkenness and sorrow. “Yes. I will accept whatever task you give to me. You need only command.”
Heartened, the fox stepped forward and gently touched her nose to his. Instantly, he felt his drunkenness clear like a fog being lifted. The sorrow faded away and though it was beyond his sight, the wounds closed up, leaving six deep scars on the undersides of both of his arms; even the fox could not undo the damage he had done to himself. Sleep overtook him and he laid his head back down.
“Rest now, my child,” the fox soothed. “My task will come to you in your dreams. At dawn you will set out for the city. Perhaps you can undo sins older than the ages.”
Part One: The Tournament
“These are dark and troubled times we live in, my friends,” the crier called to the crowd assembled around him. He wore only a simple robe with a rope belt around his waist. Apparently the cold rain did not affect him, as he made no attempt to shield himself.
“Nearly fifteen years have passed since the devastation of the Royal Succession Crisis and the Swords’ War, and still we are living with the aftereffects. Without the mercenary guilds, the G’neschi have advanced nearly to our doorstep; they wait, encamped along the River Steit, like caged animals, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness. Even knowing this, the River Lords still plot rebellion! It seems another civil war is upon us!
“Not to mention the Atazi corsairs that harry our coastline, slowing trade to the Haezian Empire to the north, and the Southern Kingdoms. Rylia, our longtime ally, has closed itself off to us, leaving us caught between the G’neschi tribes and the rebellious River Lords and the perilous Sea of Storms with its corsairs. Truly, we are alone in this, stranded in a sea of strife, abandoned by the world to sink or swim in an ocean full of bloodthirsty sharks.”
He paused to build dramatic tension, which was ridiculous because not a single individual in the crowd seemed captivated in any fashion by his words. In fact, a number of them had left that the crowd was quickly dispersing to carry on individual business in the marketplace. The crier carried on in spite of the disinterested crowd.
“But despair not, my friends, for there is hope in the bleakness of the present! His Royal Highness, the king, Kariya Ereskal the Sixth has issued a call to the populace: in two days time, on the anniversary of the conclusion of the Swords’ War, a tournament will be held. Not just any tournament, but the ancient Tournament of Champions! That’s right, the winner of this tournament will be named the Champion of the Land and be presented with an artifact right out of the legends: Shadowclaw, a legendary sword blessed by Ascaettr, Master of Shadows, Lord of the Night, God of Darkness. Surely a man or woman in possession of such a blade would find no trouble from the River Lords, the G’neschi, or the corsairs!”
The crowd had dwindled to all but the most curious of listeners by now. Still, this did not the dissuade the energetic crier – he seemed oblivious to his threadbare audience and continued on with his animated performance.
“Who of you will answer your king’s call? Is there none among you who has the will to become a champion? This is no time to stand idle while time passes us by, my friends: this is a time for action, a time for faith. It is a time for heroes!”
Two among the meager crowd were a pair of young crawlers: Nathaniel, sixteen, Verestian, and plain of face; and Arrick, seventeen, Ehk, and easy on the eyes. Together they stood and listened to the herald’s entire speech without heckling the man. Even as the crowd finally melted away and the herald moved on to his next location to spread the news of the Tournament of Champions, they remained.
Arrick gently punched Nathaniel in the arm. “I think you should go for it.”
Nathaniel gave him a look like he had just sprouted wings and a beak and tried to lay a clutch of eggs. “What? Me? Have you taken leave of your senses? Look at me: a skinny little Verest boy against a bunch of experienced soldiers and sellswords? I’ll get murdered.”
“Technically, it would not be murder if it was in a tournament; just an unfortunate accident. Actually, since this is a royally sanctioned tournament, you might actually get a hero’s funeral. You know, dying for the crown and all that nonsense.”
Nathaniel gave his friend a good, hard look. “That helped absolutely zero, Arrick. Now I definitely refuse to be a part of this. I would rather keep my life, pitiful existence that it is.”
“But that’s why you would be perfect for this!” Arrick stopped him from trying to walk away from the city. “Think about it: all of those hardened warriors and mercenaries and pirates won’t give a runt like you more than a passing glance. It would be very easy for you to slip under their guard” he mimed driving a knife into an assailant’s throat “and bring him down.”
“Then why don’t you do it, then?” The Verestian boy challenged. “Since you seem to have all the answers, then. You do it.”
“No, no, no.” Arrick threw him arm around his friend and explained: “You see, I’m only the brains of the Thousand Knives, the idea guy, the planner. You, my mud-headed companion, are the muscle, the one who actually carries out the plans.”
Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. “Thousand Knives?”
“Our guild.”
“We have a guild?”
“A thieves guild.”
“Since when?”
“Since…about three days ago. Remember those kids I was talking with? They are the newest recruits into the Thousand Knives. One day soon, we will be the scourge of the Crawl.”
“Is that really something to be proud of?” Nathaniel asked dubiously, shaking off Arrick’s arm. “Either way, I’m not getting killed in that tournament. And since when are you smarter than me?”
“I have more ideas than you,” Arrick defended.
“Only because you never stop to think before you start talking – like now, for instance. Have you actually, truly, thought about what it is you are suggesting?”
“I take offense to that. Did I not just explain to you why I think you would win? Remember the whole underestimating you thing?”
“Okay, yeah, sure, but still: why don’t you do it? After all, you are the one who taught us knife dancing. You are the master; you should do it.”
Arrick nodded, feigning contemplations, which made Nathaniel roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, I can see how you would think that. However, you are forgetting something very crucial: I don’t have a girl waiting for me to take her away from this cesspit of a city.”
Nathaniel was silent for a long while after that. Arrick did not press the issue and the pair walked in silence through the market district of Kr’addon. Even in the constant rain, the black city teemed with life, though it was a noticeable decline from just a few months ago. It was just as the herald has said: the invading G’neschi tribes, and increasingly frequent appearance of corsairs have slowed trade to a trickle. Ehk trader ships were avoiding Cerka in favor of Rylia and Haez. Although, being based out of the Southern Kingdoms, the Ehk were staying closer to home. In all, the loss of trade would be very bad for an already struggling city.
They didn’t speak even as they found the nearest stairwell tucked away in an alley. The entrance was narrow and hidden in shadows and so the city-folk had a habit of forgetting they even existed, which was their general attitude towards the Crawl and its inhabitants, as well. Down was the only direction the stairwell went, down to the Crawl, the undercity, the absolutely lowest part of the city, the home of the rats, urchins, and leeches of society, the Crawlers.
The Crawl was a massive labyrinth of catacombs underneath Kr’addon. It was excavated several hundred years ago during the most recent attempted restoration of the city, around the time the Erengaile was torn down and rebuilt. Underneath the old dais, where the throne sat, a hidden shaft was discovered that went deep underground, past the dungeons and castle sublevels. A team of excavators went down, expecting to find a large cavern, but were greeted by an entire system of tunnels.
It was determined that the caverns were built during the time of the Ginxae, when the land was in its infancy. At first, the spelunkers thought that the catacombs were excavated long after the city was establish, but then a new section of the complex was opened, previously hidden behind a large stone door, revealing a host of murals and statues that predated even that distant date. Since then, it has been commonly held that the catacombs dated back to the establishment of the Ginxae dominion over the land.
After three years mapping the underground labyrinth, the expedition was halted and the team pulled back to the surface, but not before a number of previously hidden entrances were discovered across the layout of the city. The maps they compiled in the three years determined that the catacombs covered the entire length and breadth of the city, as well as extending miles out into the surrounding countryside; at least one intact tunnel was confirmed to stretch all the way to the fortress city, Tessat.
While the kings had no official plans for the catacombs, they quickly became a haven for the homeless, criminals, thieves, and all other manner of people who dwelled on the bottom rungs of society. Ramshackle homes appeared practically overnight and within five years, it became a functioning part of the city as a whole. The name Crawl began as just another name for the labyrinth beneath the city, but eventually became a derogatory slang for the area directly under the city, the underbelly of Kr’addon, and its denizens became Crawlers.
What no one seemed to realize at the time, it seemed, was that that, while the Crawl was carved out of the natural rock, it was also below sea level. Leaks were rampant and everything was constantly a barely tolerable level of damp and slimy. Mold and fungus grew on every surface imaginable, particularly those that spewed dangerous spores into the air, creating a permanent plague of lung disease that permeated the entirety of the underground society. Two in three adults born and raised in the Crawl have contracted some form of lung disease, and most do not live past their late forties.
In addition, no natural light reached down into the expansive system of caverns. Whatever the extinct builders had used to carve through the earth – machine or magic – had left few, if any flaws. Only in a few places had erosion created natural skylights, but those did little to alleviate the all-encompassing darkness. Fortunately, the builders seemed to have thought of this and left behind a series of lampposts strewn about the catacombs, as well as wall-mounted versions to light the way. They operated without any manual input and were certainly magical in nature, dimming and brightening in response to the lighting on the surface. While the lampposts were used to dictate where the makeshift streets and blocks were built, the wall-mounted lights became coveted locations for constructing homes. The lights were not evenly spaced, so the homes were an eclectic assortment of shapes and sizes.
It was in one of these oddly shaped shacks, among the doom and gloom, that the pair of boys made their home, a two-storey, roughly rectangular structure with the longer side against the wall, claiming a wall-light with a lemon-green glow. Nailed the front of the shack, above the door, was a wooden board on which was painted a pair of crossed daggers – the emblem of the Thousand Knives thieves guild, Nathaniel supposed, having to smile. He had never known Arrick to possess any sort of artistic talent, but then the daggers were not drawn all that well.
“Am I going to find some young, smiling, grimy faces waiting for their glorious guild leader in side?” he joked with his partner.
“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Arrick responded. “I told them to disappear. If, in two days’ time, I have not spied their faces, nor heard a whisper of their voices, they will have earned entrance into the Thousand Knives – but only if they have acquired a suitable amount of gold in that time. It coincides with the day of the tournament quite nicely; as they will be able to witness Master Thief Nathaniel emerge victorious in round after round of single combat, proving that even a Crawler may rise to the position of Champion.”
Nathaniel ignored the speech about him becoming champion; he still had yet to reach a decision regarding the tournament. To the “Master Thief” title, he only shook his head. He could not remember the last time he had actually lifted a single coin from anyone, aside from maybe Warren. “How much coin do they have to, ahem, acquire before they become true…Thousand…Knives?”
“Just ‘Knives’,” Arrick supplied. “Members of our guild are called Knives. And as for the amount of coin…not sure. I never actually decided on an amount. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“So you just sent them out on their own for two days in the Crawl with only the directions stay out of sight and steal gold?”
“That just about sums it up.” Arrick held open the door for Nathaniel, giving a theatrical, mocking bow. “After you.”
“I take back what I said, Arrick. You are the brains of this guild.” He returned the light punch from earlier as he crossed the threshold.
“I do my very best.”