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 and the first half of Chapter 2 went up on the 30^th December and 6^th January. Here is the last part of Chapter 2:)

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 Two

More than an hour had passed, and they still had at least half an hour to go before they reached the Cavern. Assanni. Cedrin shivered. There was no defence against poison — and the blowpipe was the assanni weapon of choice. No skill with a blade could help you then. You would die helpless, drooling like an old derelict, shaking with pain. . . As young boy on the streets he had watched a man die of poison. A big sailor, stabbed with a poisoned blade in a brawl. All arrogance, every ounce of dignity had gone by the end. He died, mewling like a baby, clawing at his own skin while the crowd watched. When the time comes, give me a clean death.

As they continued on through the dark, every pool of shadow transformed into the hiding place of a waiting assassin, blowpipe raised. . . Angrily, Cedrin forced the dark thoughts away. Mat needed them, otherwise why go to all this trouble?

‘Come on, we have to move faster,’ said Cedrin. They broke into a run, covering the last treacherous tunnels at breakneck speed, Cedrin relying on his knowledge of the pitted and worn path to keep from tripping in the dim light.

Finally, they neared one of the entrances to the Cavern. At a signal from Cedrin they slowed to a walk and recovered their breath.

Cedrin looked across to his friend. His eyes were still dilated. He shook his head. It was too late. They had to go on.

The Cavern was a natural amphitheatre where the Brotherhood met and where the Circle of Blades was formed at times of challenge.

The entrance was blocked by more than a dozen calvanni, led by Vano, a fourth-degree from Smuggling that Cedrin trusted. He could see new arrivals being questioned by him and his men. Some were turned away while others were let through.

‘Hey, Vano. What’s going on?’ asked Cedrin.

Vano would not meet his eyes.

‘Let them through,’ commanded Vano.

The ranks parted, and they were quickly ushered through the defensive ring.

‘Vano! Talk to me!’ said Cedrin as he was pushed forward into the Cavern. ‘What’s happening?’

Vano looked back, his eyes haunted. Cedrin saw the same look in all of them. Fear.

Cedrin had known this chamber all his life, and yet now it seemed like foreign territory. Hundreds were gathered, some of them calvanni Cedrin recognised from the Brotherhood, others strangers. All the exits were heavily guarded.

He walked through the crowd, greeting other calvanni as he passed through. He and Banis, who he nodded to across the room, were the only fifth-degrees.

The calvanni pressed in. Before long a crowd of around twelve surrounded him, all besieging him with questions.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ asked a second-degree from Smuggling who Cedrin had inducted into the Brotherhood himself.

Before he could reply, another first-degree cut in. ‘What’s going on, Cedrin?’

‘What’s being planned?’ asked another first-degree with him.

Cedrin held up his hands. ‘I know as much as you do,’ he said looking around at the small crowd. ‘Now. One at a time.’

He spoke first to the second-degree, then to each of the others. Their story was all the same. Threatened with dire consequences, they were told to report for a big job in utmost secrecy.

More calvanni were still arriving, and Mat and his henchmen were nowhere to be seen. So his threats were bluster after all, thought Cedrin.

‘Where are the Mouthpieces?’ asked Cedrin.

‘Over near the harbour entrance,’ said the second-degree.

Flanked by Marken and an entourage of experienced calvanni, Cedrin pushed through the knot of excited Brotherhood men and circled the Cavern.

The Brotherhood worked in secret. The need to move quietly, unobtrusively through the tightly controlled society of Athria gave them all an instinctive caution. In prior gatherings here the conversations had been in low tones, words carefully chosen. You didn’t make a move unless you were fully committed — because moves could be deadly. Yet now the Cavern was abuzz with talk, high-pitched, panicked voices. Men on the edge, hands hovering near their weapons.

He heard voices raised in argument and turned to see three men trying to force their way back out of the room and being turned back.

That’s when he saw them.

Assanni.

Dressed in plain grey trousers and open shirts, the mark of the teremb like a dark bruise on their chests. They were standing silently at every entrance. Watching. Waiting. Cedrin’s eyes swept over them. He could see no sign of a weapon, but that meant nothing. They were experts in concealment. The four assanni standing closest to the three shouting men had their hands inside their open shirts, looking across the Cavern, clearly waiting for a signal.

Cedrin followed their gaze.

At first hidden by the uneven walls, the Mouthpieces – holders of the sixth degree and leaders of the Brotherhood — stood together at the mouth of the sea-caves. He recognised Mat immediately, standing with Dresil, the Mouthpiece of Piracy. He also knew Kayleez, the Mouthpiece of Courtesans, his silk shirt straining against his bulging stomach, gimlet eyes concealed in his pudgy face. Tice, the whip-thin Mouthpiece of Theft, was also a familiar figure. There was another with them Cedrin did not know. A tall man with close-cropped blonde hair and dead eyes. He bore the mark of the teremb. Cedrin drew in a sharp breath. This must be Stone, the Mouthpiece of Assassination. His attention was focussed on the altercation at the Cavern entrance. Stone shook his head slightly, and the four assanni withdrew their hands and stood back. The three men were roughly pushed back into the cavern and moved away by the other guards.

Standing with the group of Mouthpieces was a group of Cioan mercenaries dressed in black leather armour inlaid with studs of mought, a tough, almost unbreakable ceramic. They had greatscythes slung across their back in the old military style of the Bulvuran Empire.

Here was Inyss’ army of black demons.

The hairs rose on the back of his neck.

The warriors stood out among the blonde and brown haired Mouthpieces, their hair mainly gold to golden-red, their builds similar to Marken, of medium height yet compact and powerful. One scarred warrior towered like a golden giant over the whole room.

Cedrin’s eyes immediately fixed on one man: a Suul warrior with long gold-streaked silver hair and pale skin. He was Cioan albino. Unlike the albino’s of other races his skin was pale silver, not white. He stood as though he owned the Cavern, and Mat and all the other Brotherhood Mouthpieces played court to him, their heads slightly bowed. Why?

The silver-skinned warrior met Cedrin’s gaze.

Cedrin’s hand twitched toward his calv. This was his home ground. The Cavern had been a haven for him since his earliest days with the Brotherhood. He gritted his teeth. The Brotherhood’s strength was in how carefully it guarded its secrets, yet the Mouthpieces had brought strangers to its heart. If he had defeated Mat in the Circle of Blades, it would be him standing there as Mouthpiece of Smuggling — and he would not be playing court to anyone.

Cedrin held the warrior’s gaze until he turned back to the Mouthpieces.

‘Northmen,’ said Marken. ‘What are they doing in Athria? No Cioan has ventured from the Sardom of Armon in decades. Do you think they were washed down the Yasser?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Cedrin.

He watched the silver-skinned warrior across the room as he dominated the group, the Suul mark a startling brand on his forehead.

Banis and his fourth-degree partner Cephor, both from Theft, joined their group, quickly falling into conversation with another two calvanni from Smuggling.

‘Hey, Cedrin!’ called a familiar voice.

They turned to see Skye and his partner Jaso striding across the room.

Skye had once been Cedrin’s partner. Two years ago he had taken a profitable offer to work with Kayleez. He and Skye, who had been inseparable since their first degree, were to move together until he discovered the Courtesan’s Mouthpiece did not want ‘mainlander scum’ working for him, claiming it was bad for business.

The group around Cedrin parted to admit the newcomers.

Skye wore trousers of the finest leather and a beautifully woven silk shirt, open to reveal his third-degree. His harness was immaculately worked with coloured mought. They greeted each other with a firm shoulder grip, Cedrin a full head taller than his friend yet no more powerful.

Jaso was a short Athrian, his slight frame possessing a wiry strength and endurance. His brown eyes were alert and amused, set in an angular face.

‘By Uros, it’s good to see a friendly face!’ said Cedrin.

‘You haven’t washed that gold off yet, Marken,’ said Jaso, his eyes flickering around the room in ceaseless movement.

It’s more of a tan than you’ll ever have, Jaso, hiding in shadows like a mouse!’

Skye indicated the assanni with a nod. ‘Watch them, Cedrin. I recognise a few and I’ve seen the tattoos on others. The mark of the teremb.’

‘Assassins. There must be more then twenty of them,’ said Cedrin.

‘Yes. And I’ve heard it whispered the albino is the Traitor of Armon himself.’

‘Raziin?’

‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ said Skye.

Cedrin touched the signet ring, his finger playing over the cool emerald and the notch where it had stopped Mat’s blade. He looked at the mercenaries and the man who led them with new interest.

Raziin was powerfully muscled, his face strong, cheekbones high like most of his race. His long hair was tied tightly in three braids, falling down his back in neat lengths. He gave off a sense of power, like barely suppressed rage. He would be dangerous, easy to provoke. Surrounded by his men he would be all but invulnerable.

Llors take them all!

Raziin Cinnor killed his own father, Sarlord Leith Cinnor, in a failed attempt to seize the throne of Armon. He was later exiled by his older brother Ralin, along with the leaders of the rebellion. He and his men had forged a reputation as some of the most fearsome mercenaries in Kelas. Tales abounded in the taverns of Athria of slaughtered prisoners, strange blood rites and worse — Sorcery.

Finally, Dresil, the Pirate’s Mouthpiece, led the Brotherhood leaders and mercenaries into the centre of the Cavern. Dresil controlled shipping and was one of the most powerful members of the Brotherhood beneath the enigmatic and secretive Masks — the holders of the seventh degree. He stood like one of the ancient statues the Cioans had raised along the course of the Yasser as he surveyed the crowd — stern, implacable.

Marken looked at Dresil, puzzled. ‘Who’s he?’

‘The Pirate’s Mouthpiece,’ replied Cedrin.

Marken’s jaw grew slack, undisguised hatred suddenly glowing like magma in the depths of his golden eyes.

‘Seal the room!’ commanded Dresil with a booming voice practised at fighting the howling gales of the Sea of Mists.

The calvanni guarding the entrances formed an impassable barrier. Stone raised his arm. The assanni fanned out along the rough-cut walls. They swiftly drew out hidden blowpipes and raised them to their lips. Even though Cedrin was expecting it, his heart leapt. He looked around wildly, his mind spinning.

The buzz of conversation was replaced instantly by tense silence.

Cedrin’s fists clenched. The Cavern was where arguments were settled, but everyone always had their say. Assanni? Blowpipes? At a signal from Dresil, any one of them would be dead.

Skye’s face was set like stone. Marken glared at Dresil with murderous intensity. This was out of character for his friend, but Marken turned away before Cedrin could question him.

The Mouthpiece waited, his small, cruel eyes watching the crowd with satisfaction. As the silence became uncomfortable, he began to speak.

‘Each of you has been carefully selected for an important job. The profit will be more than you could ever imagine, for all of you.’

Dresil indicated the silver-haired Northman. ‘This is Raziin Cinnor.’

A startled burst of conversation rippled through the crowd.

‘Suul Raziin will be leading the attack,’ said Dresil, cutting through the talk.

Cedrin’s mind raced. Raziin’s men were mercenaries, trained for open combat. Attack? Attack on what? Have the Brotherhood leaders gone mad! Their strength was in stealth.

The silver-haired warrior stepped forward.

‘You all know of me,’ said Raziin, his voice edged with menace as he searched the crowd. ‘When I lead, I demand total obedience.’

Raziin let the silence stretch.

No one would be inclined to test him. A calv was no match for a greatscythe.

Raziin’s lips curled into a savage leer. ‘Together we are going to raid Regent’s Hill.’

Regent’s Hill!

Cedrin’s eyes swept toward the room exits. The calvanni guarding them drew their calvs. The assannis’ merciless eyes watched the crowd, blowpipes at the ready. No wonder the Mouthpieces’ took such a precaution, without them they would have had a riot!

‘You can’t mean to raid during the Storm Season!’ yelled Cephor.

Suppressed tensions flooded through the room in an explosion of voices.

Cephor raised his fist in defiance and two of the assanni swivelled their pipes toward him.

Cedrin and Banis saw the danger and grabbed hold of Cephor to stop him from lunging toward Dresil. Like Cedrin, Banis and Cephor had often been vocal critics of Brotherhood decisions, but this was not the time.

‘Shut your cursed hole and stand firm!’ Dresil waved toward the assanni. ‘Or you’ll find yourself face-down in the harbour.’

Suddenly all the pieces fit. Assanni. An attack on Regent’s Hill. The Sarlord was assassinated by the Brotherhood!

Fools!

Cedrin’s grip weakened at the shock of his realisation. Suddenly Cephor lunged forward, pulling out of their grasp.

‘You stinking harbour trash!’ screamed Cephor, sweeping out his calv and pointing it at Dresil. ‘How dare you bring these Eathal-fuckers into the Cavern! I’ll have no part of this. And neither should anyone else with any sense! The . . .’

A poison dart appeared in his shoulder.

Cephor’s eyes widened and he collapsed without making another sound. He twitched for a few heartbeats, then lay still.

White with rage, Banis watched his friend die. To move to his side was to invite a similar death.

Silence.

Raziin stepped forward to stand beside Dresil. His eyes were shining with excitement. The bastard is enjoying this!

‘Yes. We are going to attack in the middle of Storm Season. But it will be to our advantage, not theirs. We have a tunnel under the Wall of Sorrows, and the element of surprise. Together with the crews from Dresil’s ships we have over five hundred men.

‘By the end of Storm Season, Athria will be ours and you will be rich beyond your wildest dream — if you obey without question.’

Raziin swept his gaze across the room, then stepped back to talk with his own men, satisfied.

Mat stepped forward.

‘You will leave directly from here to Pirate’s Cove. Each of you will be issued with a heavy robe and supplies. We will be marching up the coast.’ Mat paused, watching the shocked men. ‘I do not need to tell you the penalty for disobedience. . .’

The Mouthpieces withdrew.

Gradually the Brotherhood calvanni relaxed, the buzz of conversation rising to fill the Cavern. The assanni remained in place around the walls, and only the exit to the tidal caves was opened. Carts were brought forward laden with supplies, and Dresil’s men walked through the crowd handing out heavy woollen robes and rugged oilskin sacks filled with dried sea provisions. Cedrin took a set for himself and Marken.

‘Here, Marken,’ said Cedrin, offering him the robe and sack.

Marken’s eyes were distant, his fists clenched at his side.

‘Marken, what is it?’ asked Cedrin.

He did not respond, his eyes turning instead to fall on Dresil, then sweep across to the assanni lining the walls.

‘Gutter-scum, all of them,’ Marken growled through clenched teeth.

Cedrin reached out and put his hand on Marken’s shoulder.

‘There’s nothing to be done but follow their lead,’ said Cedrin.

Marken looked back at him, his eyes filled with a hunger Cedrin had never seen before. Then his face became guarded.

‘Are you ready, my friend?’ asked Cedrin.

‘Ha!’ said Marken, his voice thin. ‘To march up the coast in Storm Season! To take on Regent’s Hill with a dried biscuit! Of course I’m ready.’ Marken took the robe and sack.

Banis knelt by his friend’s body. Cephor’s face showed shocked surprise, his eyes as dull as slate. Banis had time only to close his friend’s eyes and retrieve his calv and pouch before Dresil’s henchmen dragged away the body.

Banis’ face was twisted with rage and pain. He silently disappeared into crowd.

‘This is bad,’ said Cedrin. ‘Very bad.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Marken. ‘I bless the day I heard of the Brotherhood.’

Cedrin looked at Marken sharply, but the golden-haired calvanni just looked away. His face was expressionless but Cedrin could sense the strain beneath the surface. At least the effects of the se had finally worn off.

They were ushered quickly through a series of wide tunnels. As they drew near to the sea, the smell of salt and mud and the rotten stink of the harbour grew stronger. The air freshened as they reached a huge tidal cave. Scores of longboats were drawn up on the dark shingle. Far in the distance, dim moonlight betrayed the exit to the harbour.

Cedrin, Marken, Skye and Jaso stayed close together, forming a tight group. The shoreline was silent as the tense calvanni awaited their call.

‘You! You’re next. Be quick about it.’

Together they shoved off into the dark waters then leapt the gunnel, taking to the oars as the old seamen at the helm expertly guided their longboat toward the rock cleft guarding the entrance.

In the bay a fresh wind whipped at them with a promise of the cold to come. Cedrin inhaled deeply, the last tendrils of se vanishing from his mind. He would need all his wits to get them out of this one. He had no doubt it would spell disaster for the Brotherhood, whether they won or lost.

Athria’s harbour was magnificent, hosting almost a thousand ships. It was these ships and its position on the southern trading route that had made Athria rich, growing with the Empire from fishing village to a mighty city-state. Now, after the collapse of the Bulvuran Empire, it ruled in its own right.

‘A good night to sail, eh ami?’ said Cedrin.

Marken nodded. Above, the stars were outlined in brilliant clarity, the two moons hanging majestically amid the vault of heaven.

‘Aye. It’s a fine night,’ said Marken.

Ahead, the trader-pirate’s dark bulk loomed out of the night. The calls of sailors manning the rigging soon reached them in snatches on the strengthening wind. Once within hailing distance curt commands were given from above and the longboat drew alongside. They scrambled up the rope-ladder to the swaying main deck, then were quickly led below to the crowded hold. Many calvanni were already there, as were off-duty sailors who were drinking and gambling. The crewmen eyed the newcomers with suspicion. Cedrin and his friends sat with relief on a rough wooden bench and shared a flask of bakta.

‘Ah!’ Cedrin exclaimed, the rough spirit burning his throat. ‘Where did you get this harena-piss, Skye?’ looking at the clear spirit doubtfully through the glass.

Skye took a swig, smiling with satisfaction as he swallowed. ‘Ahhh. That warms you alright!’

He passed the flask to Marken.

‘How long till the Cove?’ asked Jaso as he watched Marken take a shot.

‘In this breeze we’ll be there by first light, day after tomorrow,’ replied a sailor who lounged against the ship’s hull, easily moving with the sway of the ship.

‘First day of Storm Season,’ said Skye.

The sailor looked at Marken, whose golden skin glowed faintly in the guttering oil lamps.

‘You a piss-skin, eh?’ the sailor asked, giving a toothless grin.

‘Yes,’ said Marken. He was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. ‘The gifted race with skin the colour of Larus.’

The sailor laughed and clapped him on the back. Marken’s expression darkened as the sailor walked away.

‘He’s just a sailor, ami,’ said Cedrin.

‘Is he?’ replied Marken. ‘Or is he a pirate?’

Cedrin tried to read Marken’s look, but it was impossible.

‘What is it, my friend? What’s on your mind?’ asked Cedrin in a low voice.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Marken. ‘Just wondering how many innocents have died screaming beneath his blade.’ He tried to make it sound flippant, but it came out harshly.

Skye and Jaso exchanged a questioning look.

Marken turned away toward the hull as though to rest, but Cedrin knew he would be wide awake. No one got to sleep after se. He stared at Marken’s back for long moments, wondering what he could say to tease out his inexplicable anger, but could come up with nothing. Marken was evasive at the best of times.

Cedrin thought back to the first time he met Marken. Skye and he had already parted ways, and Cedrin had been working alone for months. He was approached by Mat, who told him of a merchant’s son from the Quarter making noises in the Sea Serpent, the tavern stronghold of the Brotherhood on the docks.

Fearing a trap, Cedrin had reluctantly climbed through the tunnels that led to the Sea Serpent and met with Marken, a penniless and disinherited trader’s son who had wanted to work in partnership with the Brotherhood, providing contacts in return for a cut of the profits. In time, Marken got his partnership, but not exactly the way he wanted it. The Brotherhood held most of the cards and he knew this. He was inducted into the Brotherhood and he and Cedrin became a team.

Over the past years Cedrin had shown him a different side of life. A hidden one occurring under the noses of the aristocracy, and often, under their feet.

In return, Marken had shown him the carefree world of the upper classes as together they profited from the greed and wealth of the merchant class. They had drifted through the social life of some of the wealthiest and most influential traders on the island Sardom of Athria. They had been good years. But not good enough to break free of the Brotherhood’s grip.

Cedrin shrugged his shoulders and joined Skye and Jaso in a game of dice.

Voices were raised on the upper deck, followed by the sound of running feet. Soon the ship was tilting, cutting into the wind, racing toward the Sea of Mist and Pirate’s Cove.