by Chris McMahon

Hi, everyone. I am on holidays at the moment, out of reach of the internet for the next three weeks.

In the mean time here is a sneak preview of The Calvanni. Chapter 1 went up last week. Here is the first half of Chapter 2. The last part of Chapter 2 will go up on the 13th January.

The Calvannni print version, and the second book in the series, Scytheman, are both coming soon in the new year!

Enjoy!

The Calvanni

Chapter 2: Part One

The room was warm and still.

Cedrin leant forward, his guarded grey-blue eyes scanning the karass board intently. He took a deep breath of the scented air, delighting in the smell of se-tobacco and sweet incense, which overpowered the acrid smoke from the oil lamps.

He looked up to his friend Marken, like him bare-chested apart from a well-used harness of dark leather crossing from shoulder to waist, fitted with a sheath for his razor sharp long-knife or calv. Both were calvanni – knife fighters.

That was where the resemblance ended. Marken was a head shorter, his carefully trimmed, long golden hair — unbraided in the current fashion — at odds with Cedrin’s close-cropped dark brown. Cedrin was a fifth degree, his distinctive tattoos marking him as a senior member of the Brotherhood of the Night, whereas Marken was new to the Brotherhood, the first degree of the calvanni — a stylised bat — tattooed on his lower abdomen.

And he was not concentrating on the game.

Cedrin followed Marken’s golden gaze across the room.

Two women, both courtesans skilled in the arts of song, dance and pleasure, lounged comfortably in the shadows. One of them was a skilful lute player and began a peaceful air. It was the custom for women and men to go bare-chested within the privacy of their own homes, and Marken’s eyes glistened with anticipation as he watched her play. She shook out her long brown hair, brought her lips together in a teasing pout and winked at him.

‘There are few better ways to pass the cold of Storm Season. Hey, ami?’ said Cedrin.

Marken looked back to Cedrin with a flashing grin of perfect, white teeth. His eyes were dilated, betraying the effect of the stimulant in the se-tobacco.

‘You finished day-dreaming?’ said Cedrin.

Marken shook his head and blinked.

‘Too much se,’ said Marken. ‘May Larus forgive me,’ he said, giving Cedrin a quick gesture of blessing with his right hand, then chuckling to himself. He sobered as he returned his attention to the game.

Cedrin had only known the merchant’s son for two years yet the depth of their friendship had grown rapidly. Both plied a dangerous trade as smugglers for the Brotherhood. Despite Marken’s inexperience, his instincts had proven invaluable, as had his ability to move in the higher circles of Athrian nobility.

Marken had shown him unstinting loyalty, saving him from death’s door when the rest of the Brotherhood would have left him to die.

As a young boy Cedrin had loved his younger step-brothers and step-sisters, being highly protective of them all. But nothing came close to bond he had developed with the gregarious, golden-skinned calvanni.

‘I don’t understand,’ muttered Marken, his brow creasing as he studied the board. ‘You. . .’

Marken was losing badly. Over the last hour Cedrin had forced him to withdraw most of his remaining pieces to the neutral blue hexagon in the middle of the board.

‘How about we raise the stakes?’ said Cedrin.

‘What did you have in mind,’ said Marken, swallowing.

‘If I win you have to answer one question about your life before the Brotherhood. I know you’re too pretty to be a trader’s son.’

Marken shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to be content with my coin.’

Marken’s hands shook with excitement and se. He looked across at Cedrin, searching for some signal. Cedrin forced himself to remain expressionless; forced his hand to stay away from the good-luck piece that hung around his neck, the ancient signet ring of his father, Belin Kaidell — a man he had never known. Touching the ring was an old habit, one that had recently cost him dearly in games with Marken. For almost a week, Marken had won every game, forewarned of his killing moves. Fortunately he had realised his error in time to win back most of the money, even using the signal to frustrate Marken’s strategy until his friend twigged.

Marken advanced his ruby for the kill.

‘Another opal! Ah come to me my love!’ Marken pocketed Cedrin’s coin with glee, the sea-serpent totem tattoo on his upper chest seeming to move over his golden skin as he leant across the board.

Cedrin launched into action, quickly taking the game.

‘I should have known better,’ said Marken as Cedrin slipped a ruby, an emerald and three of Marken’s opals into his pouch. Each of the karass pieces were valuable coins of cast ceramic, each named for the gemstone whose colour they resembled.

Marken relit the se pipe and inhaled deeply, his eyes on the vacant board.

‘Good thing its only money,’ said Marken dryly.

He offered Cedrin the pipe. He lifted the narrow tube to his lips, drew on the tobacco and exhaled with a sigh of satisfaction.

Marken raised himself from the cushions, giving Cedrin a courtier’s bow.

‘To the victor the spoils! Sometimes I wonder why I bother playing you, Cedrin. I may as well just give you the money and have done with it.’

Cedrin laughed, nodding to Marken in thanks.

Cedrin raised himself to his feet, the well-honed muscles of his torso rippling like a flexing snake.

An urgent knock sounded at the door.

The congenial atmosphere vanished like smoke.

Across the room the courtesans gave startled gasps. The playing faltered and ceased. Long, razor-sharp calvs of cast lanedd milkglass appeared in their hands. Their eyes met as they moved toward the door, ready for anything.

Cedrin signalled for the women to cover themselves and move into the adjoining room.

He moved to the doorway, motioning Marken to take position behind the frame.

‘Who is it?’ demanded Cedrin.

‘Inyss!’

‘Damn it . . .’ muttered Cedrin as he reached for the bolt. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s the Mouthpiece. He’s on ‘is way.’

The Mouthpiece of Smuggling was Cedrin’s boss, a powerful and vicious thug by the name of Mat. For years he had been forced to stand by and watch his senseless killing, until finally he reached the fifth degree — and challenged Mat in the Circle of Blades. He would have died if the gem-ring had not fallen from its leather thong and thwarted Mat’s blade, halting the lanedd edge just below his heart. Mat had left him for dead, but Marken kept him alive long enough to make it to the Temple for healing.

Mat never trusted him again. Lucky for him, Mat needed their contacts. So far he had managed to outmanoeuvre him — so far he had managed to stay alive.

Cedrin opened the door slowly, always cautious of betrayal.

A dark-haired boy shot inside, his threadbare cloak billowing around his thin frame.

Marken came out of the shadows, visibly relaxing as he sheathed his weapon.

Cedrin slid his calv into his leather harness. He checked the landing and the wooden stairs that led to the narrow alleyway below. Both were empty. He carefully rebolted the door.

‘He’s got mainlanders with him. All calvanni,’ said the boy, his eyes swivelling toward the plates of food on the small table.

‘Here,’ said Cedrin. He drew the boy into the light, offering him honey-cakes and watered wine. He needed time to think. Time to still the sudden flood of anxious thoughts.

He waited as the young boy gorged himself. Storm Season was only two days away and street-kids like Inyss had nowhere to go, no one to provide for them, so he gave what he could to help them. Ten years ago it could have been him standing there in the threadbare cloak, driven and alone, living on the streets with other outcasts, the ancient ring and Raptor totem tattoo the only things he could call his own.

‘Slow down.’ He drew Inyss away from the plate and sat him at the karass board. ‘How many Calvanni does he have with him?’ he said, taking a seat beside him.

‘A lot.’

‘How many, Inyss?’ Cedrin tried to keep the sharp edge from his voice.

‘Mor’n five. Don’t know none of ‘em.’

Cedrin leant back on his chair, forcing his mind into clarity through the drug haze with practised ease. He knew from harsh experience a clear mind could mean the difference between life and death.

Marken paced back and forth across the bare boards, driven by the se.

‘What could he want this close to Storm Season?’ asked Marken. ‘He got his cut of the last job, we saw to that. It must be something different. Uros! Why now?’

Cedrin’s eyes narrowed. Marken was a brilliant calvanni, a natural with the blade both at close quarters and thrown, but he still retained the impetuousness of his wealthy upbringing. Many times he had taken them both into danger because of his arrogance and contempt for the lowborn. Now was a time for clear heads.

‘Marken, put away the se pipe.’

Marken extinguished the pipe and dropped it into a carved wooden box set with coloured glass. In the confusion Inyss tried to grab some of the coins beside the karass board. Cedrin’s hand whipped out, catching him by the wrist. He chose an opal, and led Inyss away from the board. He could not blame the boy. It was survival.

‘Here.’ He gave him the coin.

The boy snatched the opal and moved back to the platter of cakes as though nothing had happened.

‘Did you hear why he was coming, Inyss?’

‘No, but it’s big. Calvanni are ’ere from all over.’ The boy paused, his eyes opening wide as he glanced around at Marken.

‘It’s all right, Inyss, he’s a friend.’

The boy lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There’s assanni. Scores of ’em. All from ‘cross the Sea. Arrived with an army ‘o black demons, they did.’

Cedrin smiled, dismissing the boy’s exaggeration. The demons of Kallor, the Lord of Death, were said to rise from his realm of Llors during Storm Season, and were often uppermost in people’s minds as the time of cold drew near. Now, with Storm Season only two days away, it would be easy for the imagination of a boy like Inyss to get a bit carried away. Assanni? Possibly. Demons? Cedrin shook his head, amused.

‘Assanni!’ said Marken explosively. ‘One day Mat will go too far.’

‘Disappear, Inyss,’ said Cedrin, waving the boy toward the door.

They unbolted the door for Inyss, who bowed, pausing only to grab a handful of honey-cakes before he vanished into the night.

Marken shut the door behind him.

Cedrin tapped the heel of his drawn calv on the low wooden table, trying to tease out Mat’s possible motives as Marken went back to pacing, no doubt trying to do the same.

A heavy knock shook the door.

They took up positions.

‘Who is it?’

‘Mat! Open the door you blood-soaked mainlander,’ he growled.

Cedrin cracked it open. The doorstep was crowded with darkened shapes.

Cedrin was the bastard son of a Bulvuran noble, the Anacian stock that had ruled the Empire for an age. He towered over the smaller, light skinned Athrians and had run from his share of racist mobs intent on punishing another mainlander. His Brotherhood calvanni tattoos had put a stop to that, but not the continual provocation from harenas like Mat. The comparison with a harena, the tusked, bad-tempered omnivore of Kelas with its disgusting habits was an apt one. And yet, a harena tasted good to eat and produced useful leather — and there was nothing good about Mat.

Cedrin opened the door, his eyes sweeping across the seven calvanni with Mat, all strangers. Second and third-degrees, experienced and potentially deadly. None of them seemed the least bit intimidated by him, or the lacework of fine scars on his arms and chest.

Everything about this set Cedrin on edge. Why bring so many strange calvanni here in the middle of the night? Was Mat expecting trouble?

As he motioned them into the room, Cedrin could not help measuring the odds. In the close confines of the room he was confident he could hold them off long enough to escape, but Marken would not be a match for any one of them. He would not leave his friend, or the women, at their mercy.

Cedrin turned toward Marken and shook his head slightly.

Reluctantly, Marken sheathed his calv. Shaking lose his long golden hair he stepped forward into the light with the confident swagger of a courtier; arrogant, even contemptuous. Inwardly Cedrin cursed. The last thing needed now was to antagonise Mat.

The Mouthpiece turned to Marken, his small black eyes glowing in the light of the room. ‘Ah, the piss-skinned merchant!’

Mat is in foul mood tonight.

Like Cedrin, Marken also stood out amongst the folk of Athria, his golden skin and hair marking him as a Cioan – the ancient race of Kelas.

Cedrin could see the anger rise in Marken, sped and amplified by the se. Marken bowed in mock respect, using the motion to put his body into attack stance. ‘Greetings, Oh Great One!’

Marken was a talented calvanni, but he had learnt his fighting skills in the Merchant’s Quarter where duels were honourable. He was no match for men like Mat, who had perfected a repertoire of gutter-tricks before their first tattoo. Cedrin knew Mat was close to the edge, and would not stand for Marken’s flippancy tonight.

‘Marken, get some Bakta for our guests,’ said Cedrin, breaking the impasse.

‘My pleasure, Lord Cedrin,’ said Marken.

Mat watched Marken disappear into the adjoining room, finally letting out a sigh as the tension left his stocky frame. Cedrin observed the vexation on Mat’s face with satisfaction. The brutal sixth-degree could not compete with Marken’s quick tongue.

One day Mat will push us too far. Then I will meet him once more in the Circle of Blades. This time Mat will lose. Cedrin resisted the urge to touch the savage scar that ran up the middle of his abdomen and stopped just below his heart.

‘So, Mat, what can we do for you?’ asked Cedrin, trying to appear relaxed.

‘You and that perfumed piss-skin are wanted in the tunnels. There is a big job and we need you. Pack lightly and for a lengthy duration.’

Cedrin’s fists clenched. ‘You’re mounting an operation in Storm Season? What sort of job? Where is it?’ asked Cedrin, struggling to keep his voice level.

‘You need to know nothing!’ said Mat, his face flushing red.

He walked up to Cedrin, his ravaged face twisted with hate, his breath as foul as the harbour breeze at low tide. ‘You will be at the Cavern within two bells or you’ll wake up dead before the first dawn lights the sky. Do you understand me?’

Cedrin was conscious of the distance between them. He knew he could bury his calv into Mat’s ribs faster than the ugly thug could move, but he could not match seven experienced calvanni.     ‘We’ll be there, Mouthpiece. We’re loyal Brothers,’ he said levelly, silently vowing that when he gained the sixth degree he would force Mat from the Brotherhood. Then he would lead the smuggling operations. His way.

The Mouthpiece grunted, arrogantly turning his back to Cedrin as he walked to the door.

Mat turned on the step. His eyes glittered in the lamplight like beads of dark glass.

‘This is a big job. Say nothing to anyone.’

He held Cedrin’s gaze for a long moment, then smiled. There was something in his eyes that left Cedrin cold. A promise . . . a deadly promise. What was it Inyss had said? An army of black demons had come to Athria.

Cedrin held his stare, looming over the smaller man.

Mat turned and walked down the stairs to the alley below, his men trailing behind.

Cedrin closed the door, slamming the bolt home.

Marken stepped from the shadows, a throwing knife held lightly in his fingertips. ‘Mat came close to wearing this tonight,’ he said. ‘His colour, don’t you think?’

‘Something’s not right about this,’ said Cedrin. ‘Something tells me we should take the last boat out of Athria and never look back.’

Marken sighed, replacing the knife in its hidden boot sheath. ‘What choice do we have?’

‘None,’ said Cedrin.

 

*

 

Cedrin could feel the edge of coolness in the night. The latent Heat within his body stirred, waiting to awaken, but he resisted it. Again he cursed Mat.

He and Marken made their way covertly along the Way of the Worm, the twisting alley that ran across the sprawling mass of Lookout Hill, ending in the harbour like a frozen stream. Tonight they would leave it long before it met the sea.

They moved cautiously, slipping between shadows, pausing to listen for pursuit. There were seven ways to enter the caverns beneath the city. The six main entrances were all carefully guarded, the seventh hidden within a small Temple and known only to a few. Initiates were taken blindfolded until they obtained the first degree. The Brotherhood guarded its secrets carefully, dispensing swift and final justice to those who betrayed it.

They reached the Kali, an old square shaded from view by massive trees whose roots had cracked the cistern. The vast underground chamber was now empty of water. In the distance they heard the sound of the Nightguard and hurried toward the dry well, carefully lowering themselves into the opening.

Clenching their calvs between their teeth they followed the ancient masonry to the silent cavern of the cistern below. As the trapdoor sprang open, a beam of ruddy yellow light cut into the dark, illuminating the cracked, graffiti-covered mortar behind them.

‘Hold!’

Two calvanni blocked their path, calvs drawn. A second-degree Cedrin recognised from Theft and another first-degree Cedrin did not know.

‘Relax, boys. It’s Cedrin and Marken.’

‘Oh, sorry boss,’ said the second-degree.

Cedrin let out a long, silent breath. Something had these men on edge.

All these new faces were starting to bother Cedrin. In the Brotherhood your power was measured in the number of blades you could command, and he had yet to see any of his own.

They lit a torch and hurried on.

Now they began a different kind of game.

To an outsider the caverns would be a maze. The tunnels, some man-made, others natural, wound without pattern deep into the island’s bedrock. They passed though empty galleries and deep pools of darkness filled with the sound of bats sheltering from the coming cold. Stands of lungii flourished amid the droppings, their fronds and flowers faintly luminous in the darkness.

‘What could they possibly be planning during Storm Season?’ asked Marken.

‘I don’t know, but if Inyss is right about the assanni we will have to move very, very carefully.’

He gripped Marken’s shoulder, turning him into the torchlight. Marken’s eyes were still dilated from the se. He was high on the drug. . . unpredictable. A wave of anxiety shot through Cedrin. His stomach clenched. Damn! It was the last thing they needed now.

‘We will need clear heads for what comes ahead, my friend. No matter what happens, do not act. Do not answer back or question.’

Marken took a deep breath. ‘I shall bide my tongue, Oh Lord of the Caverns!’

‘This is serious!’ snapped Cedrin. He was trying to save them and Marken was making jokes! He forced himself to remain calm. ‘Promise me you will follow my lead.’

Marken nodded, his golden eyes searching Cedrin’s. ‘I will, my friend.’

‘Good,’ said Cedrin. ‘Lord of the Caverns. Ha! We will be lucky to get out of this one alive.’