Where Virtue Triumphs

By Mark Campbell

Can one man make a difference?

An age-old struggle is finally at an end. After countless years of conflict, two nations lay down their swords, intent on forging a lasting peace. But not everyone is so eager for war to end. Pirates, slavers, and others who have grown wealthy during the time of strife, now see their fortunes threatened. Among whispers and shadows a plot is set in motion...

Awaking on a strange ship, a man finds his memory gone and only vague dreams as clues to his identity. Worse yet, he is set to be sold as a slave, held at the mercies of a sadistic master. But as memories begin to stir, it appears his freedom is not the only thing at stake. Can he reassemble the fragmented pieces of his memories in time?

For within his clouded mind lies a devastating secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: UnLeashed Arts
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310458590

Mark Campbell

MARK CAMPBELL has written for various publications, including Midweek, Girl About Town, The Bookseller, The Independent, The Dark Side and Infinity; he was one of the main contributors to the exhaustive two-volume encyclopaedia British Crime Writing in 2009. He has written Pocket Essentials about Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie and Carry On Films. He was theatre critic for The Kentish Times for eight years. He lives near the river in Crayford, Kent and still hasn’t got around to watching all those box sets.

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Where Virtue Triumphs

Mark Campbell

Copyright © 2014 Mark Campbell

All rights reserved.

Cover Image by Portokalis/Canstockphoto.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Grandma; for loving, supporting, and shaping me.

Ne Obliviscaris.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Interlude

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine

From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine!

Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,

And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!

Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;

The only pleasures we can call our own.

Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die,

If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;

If but a beam of sober Reason play,

Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!

But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power

Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?

These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,

Pour round her path a stream of living light;

And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest,

Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest!

—Samuel Rogers, The Pleasures of Memory

The hooded man stared up at the night sky, his long cloak fluttering about him, stirred by the constant breeze of the lofty vantage point. Clouds hung low, stretching out like a gossamer curtain, but he could still make out the position of the moon as it crept toward the horizon. An impatient scowl formed within the deep shadows of his hood; his operative was late and he was not the sort of man who enjoyed being kept waiting. Plans were already in motion; it would be intolerable to have them undone by incompetence now. With an irritated shake of his head, the hooded figure shifted his gaze downward, a silent silhouette against the heavens, looking out over the city-state of Zaraden.

Nestled within the towering embrace of snow-capped mountains, the city-state was a collection of magnificent white stone buildings, spread out around what had once been a complex estuary that flowed from the center of the small island down to the cove. The natural channels of the waterways had long ago been replaced by stonework, preventing erosion and creating a web-like pattern of canals. Bridges—some small, some grand, but all artistic marvels of architecture—spanned the countless canals, linking the city together. The Soaring Dragon Bridge, upon which the hooded man stood, was the tallest and most venerated in the city; the height offering a breathtaking, if somewhat dizzying view of the sprawling city. Directly south of the bridge was the White City Bazaar, a vast marketplace that during the day would be packed with tables, carts, tents, and countless people buying and selling merchandise from all over the known world. To the north was the High Plaza, an expansive area where decorative lampposts formed an immobile honor guard around a succession of oval fountains. Beyond was the Zaraden Palace, an enormous domed building that had been the residence for the city’s rulers in days gone by. The Palace was geographically the highest point of the city, as the rest sloped gradually downward toward the sea.

Even in his irritation, the hooded man could not help but be impressed by the vista. Though the hour was late, lights still shone like twinkling stars among buildings fashioned from pearly-white stone of unknown origin, the pale beauty of the material evident even at night. Architects and craftsmen from every kingdom came to marvel at the delicate-looking structures, many spiraling impossibly high into the air. Along with the stonework of the canals and marvelous bridges, the city was a wonder unique in the known world: an intact city that had been built by the Ancients.

The Ancients themselves were a mystery. No one knew for certain who they had been or what had become of them, but now only the ruined remains of their cities testified to their existence. Perhaps it was because this city sat isolated on the small island that it had been spared from the millennia of ravage and ruin that had befallen the rest of the once great civilization.

Like a raging river, time surged ever forward.

Spurred by that thought, the hooded man looked down to the water coursing swiftly far below. With the thaw of spring the waters of the canals intersecting the city had risen and increased their flow. The larger waterways, such as this one, churned dangerously with white tipped rapids. The city guard advised against traversing the taller bridges at night, especially at this time of year, when the undertows could easily drag down anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. Consequently, there were no lamps or torches upon the bridge, if someone wished to risk their life it was expected that they would bring their own light and on their own head be it.

Of course, that made it a perfect place for this rendezvous.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and he looked down to the street running along the swollen canal. A figure skulked toward the bridge, avoiding the patches of light from the street-lamps, their flames flickering wanly in the late hour. The figure reached the bridge and carefully started up. The hooded man watched as the other made his way up the expanse, the steep incline slowing his pace. By the time he had reached the top he was obviously winded, but made an adequate attempt to hide the fact.

Kreel, the hooded man said in quiet greeting.

My lord, the man wheezed, steadying himself on the waist-high railing. Quite a climb, he added with a rueful smile.

The hooded man inclined his head slightly. An excellent way to guarantee a private meeting, wouldn’t you say?

Aye, my lord, Kreel said, looking quickly from one end of the span to the other. Nothing stirred on either side. Despite the myriad twinkling lights, the majority of the city would be in bed at this hour, although off in the distance there was one building, more brightly lit than most, likely a late night party that had yet to run down. But the only sound was that of the surging water below. Their conversation would not be overheard.

It’s done then? the hooded man asked.

Kreel was shorter and had to raise his head to look up at the shadowed features. He put up more of a fight than expected.

Did you use the mind-dust I gave you? From within the hood, the man’s voice was cold and disapproving.

Kreel swallowed. Yes, my lord. Flung it in his face like you said, but then he…well, he just went mad. Never seen a man fight like that. Took out three men even half blind and I had to silence two more that he’d stuck good.

I told you to hire the best cutters you could find.

"Those were the best, the assassin said, running a hand over his face. I’m telling you it’s lucky any of us got out alive, even with the dust addling his mind."

The hooded man reached out and grabbed the smaller man’s leather jerkin. You let him escape? he hissed, the words filled with murderous rage.

Kreel threw his hands up, breaking the other man’s grip and took a step back, his hand reflexively falling to the short sword at his side. Of course not, he said quickly, I’m just saying it didn’t go as planned. He released his grip on his sword with some reluctance and hurriedly added, My lord.

The hooded man tilted his head in another slight nod. My apologies, he said, though his tone lacked any sincere regret. Do continue.

Kreel hesitated, uncertain, despite the vast amount he had already been paid and the promise of more to come. The cutters ganged up on him, but even muddleheaded he held them all off. I don’t think a single one landed anything more than a scratch on him, but I knew eventually the mind-dust would slow him down, so I waited.

He paused, not wanting to enrage his employer again. The hooded figure simply waved a gloved hand in a get-on-with-it gesture.

Well, apparently he figured that out too and tried to flee. Cut down another man as easy as breathing and made a break for it. Luckily I had my crossbow ready and shot him before he could get far.

A killing shot I hope, the other said, his words as cold as the coursing river far below.

You understand, he was on the run and it was dark, I was aiming for his heart, but I can’t be sure.

The hooded man took another step forward, but this time made no move to grab the smaller man. What do you mean, you can’t be sure?

Kreel felt himself grow rigid, more out of embarrassment than fear. He was a professional killer after all. He was too near the edge of the waterway; I’m not sure if it was the force of the bolt or if he jumped, but…

Though it was too dark to truly see the features inside the hood, Kreel could almost feel the other man’s burning glare. He fell in the water? the man asked quietly.

Aye, my lord, Kreel said, quickly adding, He couldn’t have survived, the undertow would have drowned even an uninjured man.

The taller man turned away and stared down at the rushing water. After a brief silence he spoke without turning, And the rest?

The assassin stepped next to him and leaned on the curved railing, also gazing out over the water. I took care of the ones too injured to walk and then the rest of us returned to the warehouse. After that fight the men were more than grateful for the wine you provided. He smiled, the expression sardonic. Doubt they appreciated the poison that was in it, though.

All of them? the other man asked, turning to face him.

Kreel continued to stare out at the water. No loose ends, just like you said.

The hooded man abruptly grabbed Kreel’s shoulder and spun him around. Before he could even react Kreel felt the dagger slide into his chest. He tried to pull away, but the grip was like iron. He looked up as the hood of the cloak fell back, at last affording him a glimpse of the other man’s face.

You…? he started to say in dismay, but then blood began to froth up inside him and he choked.

The taller man stared down into his face. One last loose end, he mused.

Kreel thrashed, trying in vain to pull away, but then stilled as death overtook him. The taller man stared into the sightless eyes. That is how you know a target is eliminated, my dear Kreel. You watch as the life slips out of him. Too bad you will never benefit from this lesson.

With little effort he grabbed the dead assassin’s legs and tipped him over the edge of the flared railing. He watched as the form fell the distance to the churning water, crashed into the blackness, and was swept away.

For a long time the man stared down at the water, his thoughts fixed upon Kreel’s target. Surely no one could survive the frigid rapids, especially with a crossbow bolt in his chest and his mind full of the hallucinogenic drug. The body would most likely surface down by the docks in a few days, if it wasn’t simply swept out into the bay and the ocean beyond. Even if the man had somehow survived, how much did he really know? No, plans had been set into motion and they would continue.

After all, he was only one man.

With that cheerful thought, the figure pulled his hood back up, spun on his heel, and walked leisurely from the bridge.

I dreamt of a beautiful city, somehow foreign, yet inexplicably familiar. Buildings of majestic grandeur, that seemed not to have been built by human hands, but raised straight up from the ground, as white as the very bones of the earth. I dreamt of countless bridges spanning rivers and streams that snaked in and around the fantastic city. Some of these bridges were small and quaint, others were massive wonders that reached high into the sky, yet were as sure and as unyielding as the ground. I dreamt of people from different lands coming together in peace; politics and religion set aside in the shadow of this magnificent paradise.

And I dreamt of a woman, as beautiful and wonderful as the city itself, with mysterious dark eyes and lush black hair. She was important to me somehow, but I couldn’t recall why. I tried to hold on to her image, but it slipped away. I tried to call out to her, but couldn’t remember her name…

I awoke suddenly into total darkness. I tried to sit up, but when I did, my head spun painfully and I fell back down, nausea overwhelming me. I laid there for a while waiting for my head to settle. As the pain and disorientation subsided I began to focus on my surroundings.

By the sounds, I knew I was on board a boat: the creaking of wood and rope, the distant shouts of men working, and the rhythmic slap of water. Smells came to me as well, the salt from the sea, the pungent odor of fish, and the acrid sent of fresh tar from a recent patch job. I could also feel the sway of the ship as it bobbed up and down against the waves.

All of this came at me in an instant and although I couldn’t say why, I knew it to be correct. My instincts also supplied that I was probably in a storage hold; otherwise I would see some light.

Unless you’re blind.

I considered the thought. Somehow it didn’t ring true, though I had no idea where that certainty came from. I couldn’t even remember how I had gotten on this ship or for that matter where I had been before.

Or who I was…

I had no idea who I was!

It seemed like I should be panicking, after all I was alone in a (probably) dark room, on a strange ship, with no knowledge of who I was or how I had gotten there.

But after the initial realization, I didn’t really feel panicked. Maybe it was whatever injury that was making my head throb, simultaneously causing my memory loss and somehow dulling my reaction. Nevertheless, though it seemed like a natural time to panic, I didn’t. Other than a slight annoyance at the pain in my body, all I felt was calm indifference and a detached scrutiny.

You’re probably in shock.

I was suddenly and unreasonably irritated at just how maddeningly rational my inner voice sounded. Well, at least I was feeling something.

A shuffling noise came from somewhere nearby and I froze. Actually, I hadn’t really been moving at all, but I knew it was the right thing to do: stay still and pretend I was still asleep. I closed my eyes to the barest slits and waited. There was a metallic jingle, the sound of a key twisting in a lock, and then the rusty squeak of a door opening. Flickering candlelight filled the room (hah, I knew I wasn’t blind) and a man entered the room, closing the door behind him.

From the light of the candle he carried I saw that I was indeed inside a small storage hold, crates and barrels stacked up all around. Satisfied of my immediate surroundings I made a furtive inspection of the man.

He was below average height, a bit thin, and had seen at least forty years. Although the stubble on his face was still mostly dark, his hair had gone entirely gray and was receding on top. The rest was unkempt, in desperate need of a trim, and stuck out wildly, as if he habitually ran his fingers through it. His clothes hung limply on him like a scarecrow’s: a dark vest over a white shirt and heavily patched trousers. They were old and worn, but clean and not ragged. A faded leather satchel hung at his side. As he approached he looked me up and down methodically, and even through my mostly closed eyes I could see a haunted look in his eyes, which did not diminish the genuine intelligence that was also there.

The man set the candle down on a small crate next to where I lay on the floor. He pressed a hand to my forehead, and then placed his fingers on my throat. Apparently satisfied with what he found, he pulled back the threadbare blanket that had been more or less covering me and began examining my shoulder.

Still faking sleep, I watched and felt him unwrap a bandage from around my left shoulder and examine something there. That surprised me. Between the pain in my head and the general ache I now realized I felt all over, I hadn’t even registered the wound in my shoulder.

For some reason that fact really bothered me, as if some inner part of me was disappointed in my lack of awareness. I tried to make up for it by remembering how I had been wounded, but again there was nothing.

Your wound looks good, the man said, startling me from my thoughts. He looked from my shoulder to my face and chuckled slightly. I’ve been a healer long enough to know when a patient is faking sleep, though I must say, you do it with best.

Seeing that my ruse was serving no purpose I opened my eyes and stared at the healer.

That’s better, he said amicably.

I looked fully at my shoulder and that instinctual part of me told me that the wound indeed looked good; healing cleanly, with no sign of infection. It also told me that the wound was the wrong shape for a sword, but was probably from an arrow or crossbow bolt.

Think you can sit up and drink a bit? the healer asked.

I looked back to him and nodded carefully.

He reached into the satchel at his side, withdrew a small skin and a tin cup, and poured out some liquid. Gently he reached behind my head and lifted the cup, placing it to my mouth. This slower rise did not trigger the waves of nausea as before, but my head did still spin a bit. The cup, it turned out was filled with water, although my spontaneous senses noticed a bitterness that went beyond the metallic taste of the tin.

Willow bark? I asked after he had removed the cup, or at least tried to. Despite the water my throat still felt parched and my tongue swollen. That rational part of me noted that I must be dehydrated, as only a dull croak came out of me.

Easy now, he said. You’ve been unconscious for days and I haven’t been able to get much liquid into you. He lifted the cup to me again and I drank, this time deeper. There’s medicine in it, to help with the pain.

He lightly laid my head back down and refilled the cup. I slowly raised myself back up, propping my arms beneath me; gritting my teeth against the dizziness the effort cost.

Whoa, easy does it, the healer chided but didn’t try to push me back down. Instead he lifted the cup to my mouth and let me drink my fill again.

Let’s try this. Setting the cup down, he reached around me gently and hauled me slowly backward with more strength than I would have given him credit for. When he released me my back was pressed up against a crate. I was sitting up and could rest my head, which seemed to help the strain I was feeling. I sat for a few seconds with my eyes closed and the spinning in my head began to subside. I opened my eyes to see the healer squatting before me, staring at me.

I must admit, he said with a smile, I didn’t know if you were going to wake at all. He took up the cup again and this time I reached to take it for myself. He shook his head, still smiling and let me have it. Stubborn, huh?

I shrugged, the gesture causing my left shoulder to twinge uncomfortably. I guess so, I said and this time the words came out, if somewhat gravely. Willow bark? I asked again, lifting the cup in emphasis.

Quinine, he replied, it’s a drug from the south, a lot like willow bark, but stronger.

From the Quina tree, I said reflexively.

That’s right. He reached over and pulled a small barrel over to him and sat upon it. I’m Myles. What’s your name?

My instincts told me to lie, but I couldn’t think of a good one. Besides, if he really was a healer, maybe he could help.

I don’t know, I said cautiously.

You don’t know?

I shook my head hesitantly. I can’t seem to remember.

He looked thoughtfully at me and then with a slight frown nodded his head. I’ve seen it before, usually with head injuries, but sometimes a traumatic shock can cause memory loss. He folded his arms across his chest. I didn’t notice any head wound when I was examining you, but from what I understand you saw your share of trauma.

My heart quickened. You know what happened to me? I asked.

Not everything, he said, just that Craw’s boys fished you out of the Zaraden docks. You had a crossbow bolt in your shoulder and were thrashing like a mad man. A sudden look of shame flashed on his face and he looked away. It was my job to patch you back up, can’t have the merchandise half-dead.

What do you mean? I asked. "And who’s Craw?

Myles looked back at me, the shame deepening. Craw is your new master.

My hand went reflexively to my throat, or more importantly, the circle of supple leather that was there: a slave’s collar! How had I not felt that? I cursed the aches of my body that were dulling my senses, at the same time wondering how it was I knew that my senses were not what they should be.

So I’m a slave? Somehow that just didn’t seem right, but I didn’t even know my own name, so who was I to know really.

You weren’t before, if that’s what you’re asking.

Okay, I guess part of me did know.

How do you know? I asked him.

You had no collar, and no calluses where one would have been. He looked at me with a small grin. Also, you’re a bit too well built for a common slave and far too clean to be a heavy laborer. He pointed at me. "Although you have enough scars, you could have been a gladiator."

I looked down at myself. I hadn’t really noted how fit I really was, not being something you typically notice of yourself. But now that I did I realized that I was certainly more robust than an average person, the muscles of my arms, legs, stomach, and chest all toned and well-defined. I also noticed that both my arms and torso had a respectable amount of small scars, although none looked too horrible, except for one wide scar that ran a hands length down my right side.

If I was to guess, Myles said through my self-examination, I would say you’re either a sword for hire or some other type of thug. I looked up at him and he put his hands up defensively. "I’m not saying you’re definitely a criminal, but you don’t look like a guardsman and you were dressed all in black."

He sighed as if resigned to a distasteful task. Also, your symptoms match the use of mind-dust.

A popular, but expensive drug, that when inhaled in small doses causes a feeling of euphoria and in large doses causes hallucinations and even madness. I said it automatically, as if I was reciting a line from memory.

Aye, Myles said, shaking of his head, extremely addictive and eventually fatal. He smiled ruefully. Not that I’m one to judge.

But aren’t most dustheads emaciated wretches? I gestured to my own trim physique.

Myles cocked his head inquisitively. You don’t know your name, but you remember that?

I don’t know how, I shook my head in frustration, it’s like some things I simply know, just not anything of importance.

He was quiet for a bit. At last he said, Back when I was an army healer there was a farrier who was horse-kicked. When he woke up he didn't remember his name, where he was, or even his own wife and kids. But, I’ll be damned if he couldn’t still shoe a horse faster than you could spit. He chuckled, presumably