Secrets of Arkana Fortress (2 page)

‘Forget it,’ he said as he placed the delicate necklace back on the stall.

The reptilian let out a low, guttural sound of disapproval and cursed him in his own language.

‘And the same to you,’ Mikos replied with a slight snarl as he walked away. He wasn’t about to be ripped off for gold plated goods – he wanted pure gold as he always did.

The next few stands were of the same variety.

The market area was divided into different sections called wards, with each one housing certain types of goods for sale. He had had his fill of the jewellery and trinkets ward for now. His purchases were not exactly numerous – a platinum ring with emerald studs; a gold and bronze brooch; a small silver toe ring; and a bracelet that was made from interlacing wood, stone, and metal. This was his most interesting purchase – the craftsmanship that had gone into making it was undoubtedly magical, and at the same time awe-inspiring.

The heavy smell of metalwork greeted his senses with wild appeal. The armour and weapons ward was just a few metres away from the jewellery stalls, and was set out in a more logical way – a large courtyard enclosure with smiths and traders lining the walls. The more well known makers were set up in an oval shape in the middle so that they would be the centre of attention. While the number of famous smiths was small, they nonetheless attracted a greater horde of eager buyers.

There were very few human smiths, many of them actually being Bullwarks – a race of tall, tough-skinned creatures with brown body hair that were naturally half-breed by appearance; looking like a cross between a human and some sort of orc-like bull, with a pair of flat-tipped horns on their foreheads. Mikos, like many other people, respected their upper body strength; their naturally rounded muscles were advantageous when it came to forging and fighting. However, the Bullwarks tended to keep to themselves; rarely engaging in any battles or combat situations.

As Mikos meandered his way under a pristine-looking granite archway and into the dusty courtyard, he was greeted by a heat that was not from the smithing forges. An outraged reptilian, who was wearing a set of shabby leather armour and a rusty broadsword on his back, was announcing his distaste with one of the Bullwark workers to everybody nearby… not that anyone was taking much notice. The vile insults shot around the courtyard with an angered resonance, and it wasn’t long before two men intervened wearing the standard dark red tunic and grey chainmail of Donnol officers. The hissing lizard was hoisted away amidst a very defiant protest.

After a few moments of death-like silence the bustle started up once again as if nothing had happened – this was the way of it. The Bullwark smith, however, hadn’t resumed his toils and instead stood next to his equipment rack with his head held low. It was unusual to see a creature of this race to appear downtrodden so easily.

‘Don’t let that bakka get you down,’ Mikos said supportively to the smith after approaching his small forge-and-stand stall.

The rough haired figure looked up, a fatigued look in his black, deep-set eyes. His elongated mouth parted making the long brown whiskers on his chin rustle when he spoke. ‘If these market laws weren’t so extensive then I would’ve been able to make him a happy customer,’ he stated in his low, gravelly voice.

Mikos picked up one of the swords from the stall and held it upright, allowing the glow of the embers to reflect off it.

‘A fine blade,’ he said without exaggeration. He was a sucker for a well made sword, but it had to be an exceptional piece, and he had sincerely found one. ‘I’ll take it.’

If there was one thing he hated above all it was the snobby put-downs that many wealthy people threw at the unknown, small-time market sellers. Mikos was much keener to deal with them rather than the pricier con-merchants that plagued the markets across Salarias. Being a trader himself he prided on delivering good quality to boost his reputation; piling money into things alone was a recipe for disaster in his opinion. In recent years something had been lost in the business – merchants had gone mad with the sense of power that came from having lots of money; the sight of precious metals and gems was sometimes deemed more brain twisting than Psyloss.

The Psyloss plague, a malignant disease that had spread across Salarias out of nowhere and without warning, was ravaging the land like an errant beast lusting for food. Magical and medical experts alike had spent many sleepless nights researching every aspect of it that they could, some of them even succumbing to it themselves. Psyloss affected the weak minded; causing them to dive into realms of despair, madness, depression, and many other forms of mental illnesses. It had delivered devastating damage in a short space of time. Many people did not dare to venture outside, and the ones that did were obviously either fearless, stupid, or sailing into the early stages of Psyloss themselves. Mikos was always aware of the signs, as were a lot of people, and his lack of aversion to the smallest hint of psychosis was obvious – his background knowledge of the plague gave him the comforting knowledge that his mind was immune to its degrading nature… so far.

He had neglected to bring his own sword with him to the market; leaving it back in his cosy little room at the Wattle & Wood Inn – a popular bed and breakfast pub used all year round by sailors, mercenaries, traders, locals and the like. It had a sterling reputation in the Donnol area, so it was no surprise it was almost full throughout the year.

After he had handed over the payment to the smith, his tentative hands slid the well crafted sword onto his back in between a couple of the buckled straps wrapped around his torso, resting nicely behind his hessian rucksack. Then, kicking up the dust under his heels, he bid a friendly farewell to the Bullwark and continued on his way.

***

Fine silks, glistening gold and silver jewellery; fragrant herbs and spices; and intricately carved wooden crafts were just some of the investments he had dealt out many rubos coins for in the past couple of hours. Mikos always ventured out to large cities with a mind to barter, buy for less, and sell for more – it was business.

              He adjusted his back slightly. The various bulges protruding from the inside of his rucksack were pressing into him, torturing his already strained muscles. The voyage over from Hocklino had been rough and battering, and he felt like a piece of freshly tenderised meat, much like the ones he was currently looking at in the market.

They were laid out in an attractive way to accentuate their qualities – juicy, thick, tender, tantalisingly pink… and way overpriced. The consumables ward was the most popular one by far; people had to eat and this was the place to come to for the selective high quality foods as well as the necessary basics.

              The presence of slow-cooked pork, lamb, and beef whirled around the air as a magical concoction of mouth-watering aromas and tastes. Feline men and women could visibly be seen fighting back their feral urges, many of them licking the saliva-ridden fur around their mouths. Soothing sounds of sizzling and the stirring of dishes on open fires welcomed visitors with a homely ambiance that made them feel warm as well as unbearably hungry. Races from all over Salarias crowded around the outdoor kitchen stalls devouring many of the carefully prepared delicacies they desired.

              A couple of feline men were arguing over a piece of fried meat and who should finish it. Mikos could smell it from where he stood – it was heavenly, but not worth fighting over. The two males were wearing identical hunting gear – a mixture of lightweight leather and cloth armours in earth-brown tones and grass-green inlay; invaluable for quick, camouflaged movements out in the field.

Their once sleek outfits were now tainted with the presence of meat juices and highly seasoned sauces that had splattered over them amidst the heated exchange. The purred protests went on as the outraged furry hunters started getting more and more agitated with one another. As they tugged away at the food they failed to notice the towering guard commander that marched up to them with one hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

The debate subsided without a word from the commander, the smaller of the two feline hunters relinquishing the meat and scampering away hurriedly at the sight of the oversized lawman.

The commanders of the Donnol enforcement were both renowned and feared for their military abilities as well as their looks – fully outfitted in crimson plated armour, complete with a thick steel helm and a set of ivory horns mounted on the sides for added intimidation. Their reputation for a powerful fighting style preceded them; tales of successful combat tickling the lips of many a story teller.

Mikos carried on through the rest of the gut-rumbling fragrances, listening to the resonant calls and bellows from the sellers. He looked up at the grand superstructure that dominated the horizon – one of the towers belonging to the Academy of Praanoc. The majestic, multi-level complex was one of the many towers that had been erected across the land by the academy to train people born with magical potential.

The thick, grey stone cylinder stood high above Donnol’s skyline, many rumours saying that it touched the clouds and beyond. Each floor was said to house students of varying abilities and strengths – the better your progress the higher you climbed. Mikos only knew what he had read in the various texts he had bought, as well as whispered tales caught over the glow of a solitary candle flame. To talk openly about Praanoc’s ways was taboo; even a whispered exchange in the quietest corner of a local tavern was considered a risky venture by most. No one knew where the eyes and ears of the mages lay.

The academy had its rules. They encouraged the gifted to be brought to their attentions at the earliest age possible so that the training and guidance offered could be maximised to its fullest. On the other side of the coin was a way out – removal of the child’s magic at the request of the parents or guardian. It was only possible for the removal at a young age; anyone past the age of six or seven ran an almost certain risk of death.

Mikos took up a seat at one of the comely open kitchens and ordered a dish of mixed meat in a rare southern dressing – delicious! As he forked the succulent food into his mouth he kept gazing up at the Praanoc tower with reflective eyes, remembering an encounter with a magic wielder a few years before.

A storm had driven Mikos’s ship onto the long untouched golden sands of Arka Island – a place of the mysterious unknown and home to the mythical Arkana Fortress. The repairs to his hull took a few hours of hammering. However, he came across a real stumbling block when launching the ship back into the dark waters proved impossible – he had no way of moving the craft with his meagre strength.

He had prepared to settle down for an elongated night of continual freeze when the stranded vessel was suddenly lifted into the air. It hovered about like a lingering hawk ready to strike before it was forcefully catapulted back into the ocean waves. The brief, albeit turbulent flight tossed him around like a pebble in a raging river.

A hard blow to his head almost stopped him from making out a distant figure dressed in a light orange outfit, much like that of the religious Aadolk monks. Mikos remembered the prominent white-blue glow from the figure’s face as if the power of the gods was imbued within it. It had been magic, but not a common type. The use of telekinesis was fabled and had never been proved; the only records being those found in the tales that were told from one generation of magic bearers to the next.

Whoever this person had been, they had helped him continue on his journey through the turbulent tides of the northern currents. He remembered shouting his gratitude over the moistened gales only to be greeted by a silent darkness. The figure had gone.

Mikos scooped down the last hearty serving of mixed meat and went along his way through the markets. A question had been stuck in his head since that ill-fated night on Arka – had that figure helped him or did they merely want him out the way?

Chapter 2

‘You’re chattin’ shit, old man.’

              Kelken Lexos peered with dreary eyes at his table companion after the comment. The haze of cigar and pipe smoke in the tavern was filling his nostrils, giving him a rancid aftertaste in his throat. He laced his wrinkling fingers around the tankard of cheap Donnol beer and took a lasting swig before setting it down again. ‘I’m telling the truth, kid,’ he urged before coughing, the smoke filled air finally getting to him.

The tavern was dusky and smelled like it was rarely cleaned, which gave it that typical low-town ambience – a mixture of unwashed regulars and lingering, farm-like odours. Many of Donnol’s low-town dwellers crowded into this particular establishment due to it being the only one left in the western district thanks to the local gangs and their constant debt collecting, which had resulted in many places being shut down.

              A young man with short blonde hair rubbed his thin goatee as he assessed the old man sitting opposite him. ‘Sorry, but I don’t believe that you were once a commander in that old Traseken Knight Order thingy all them years ago.’ He smiled with sickening scepticism.

              Kelken scoffed and rotated a gold ring on his left forefinger, contemplating whether or not to get another drink. He had had one too many already and was feeling like he was going to fall over at any moment.

‘Is there
any
way I can prove it to you, son?’ he asked with a slight slur.