Corsana: The Phalanx Syndicate: Corsana, #1

By Charles Wellington II

CK―Christopher Knight―has a secret, he’s a psionic; a human with the ability to will things to happen with the power of his mind. And while he has kept to the shadows, Christopher has always dreamt about being a hero. But hanging from the ceiling of a cave being tortured, and getting his face pummeled by an orc, wasn’t part of the dream. 

When merchant ships start capsizing off the coast of Corsana, the port city mayor of Asic is forced to put out the call for adventurers to investigate. Seeing his chance at hand, CK leaps into the fire. Thrust into a hodge-podge group of unknown, untested, mercenaries―each with their own agendas for being there―CK must train, trust, and risk everything to become the hero he wants to be. 

Before him lies an unknown destiny, but as that destiny begins to reveal itself, and a villain to focus on emerges, the eyes of a powerful presence―far greater than any he could have imagined―will be drawn to him; that is, if he can survive. And in a world teeming with goblins, orcs, giants, and dragons, and danger lurking around every corner, all odds are against him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press/Indigo
• Release date: Feb 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386824640

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Corsana: The Phalanx syndicate

Copyright © 2015, 2017 Charles Wellington II

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Indigo

an imprint of BHC Press

Second edition: October 2017

Library of Congress Control Number:

2016962378

Print edition ISBN:

978-1-947727-08-3

Visit the publisher at:

www.bhcpress.com

Also available in ebook

Developmental Editing by: Pypeline Editing

Original cover illustration by: Paul Davies

Map Art by: Monika Andruszkiewicz

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my family;

Staci Carter, Draven Carter, Christian Werner,

and Charles Wellington Sr.

Thank you for your love, support, and tremendous patience.

Without you, this would have never been possible.

my friend and mentor;

Charlie Hail.

It is because of you that I have an excellent

foundation for worldbuilding. Thank you.

And last, but certainly not least;

To my friends and supporters:

Thank you for all your time, effort, and patience.

(Alphabetically) Andrea Rose, Brandy Bisson, Chris Lee,

Christian Franklin, Cory Bisson, Cory Hauser,

David Jones, Geoff Kettling, Janet Wellington,

John Ross, Kris Bright,

Malachi Balleweg, Matthew Cobb, Misty Ross,

Nicole Franklin, Robi McMordie, Shaun Smith,

Thomas Buster, and William Taylor.

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Welcome.

You are about to take a glimpse into the world of Corsana, a world very different than the one you currently reside in now. Here, there’s no technology; at least, not technology like you know it. But that’s not for lack of trying.

Corsana is not a medieval world full of illiterate people. And it’s not to be looked at as a world that is behind yours—as belonging somewhere in the past—or beyond yours—existing somewhere in the future after some cataclysmic event.

Corsana exists right now, in this very room.

If you were to wave your hand in the air, it might just be moving through a dragon.

You see, Corsana exists in a parallel dimension to ours. But on their Earth, the continents adjusted differently, and more importantly, the Earth itself evolved in ways radically dissimilar to ours.

For example, their world is constantly emitting an electromagnetic pulse. It’s why technology doesn’t work there. And, while people there have tried at times to bring the world into an age of industrialization, it always seems as if the world itself has spewed forth creatures to prevent this leap forward from happening.

It’s as if the world itself was working against them; keeping people from going down that path.

And, it is because of this that their world skewed off down a different course, and in ways that have led them towards the mystical and alchemical arts you are about to experience.

It is because of all these mysterious anomalies, and because the line between our worlds, our realities, is so thin at times, that things such as words, phrases, and ideas, seem to float between one another; that you might feel like you could walk through a doorway and appear in a new land, a new world, a new universe.

To that extent: Welcome to the world of Corsana.

Read. Listen. Remember. And Learn.

For the next time you walk through a doorway, you might just find yourself in a world of swords, shields, and magic.

— C. Wellington II

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Blood poured from the dangling, swollen lips of Christopher’s mouth. He had no idea how long he’d been there. Time had lost all meaning in the dim light of his prison cell. Pain, his only light in the darkness, reminding him that he was still alive. Hanging from chains mounted to the ceiling, he was shackled by his wrists and ankles. His body contorted; forced to arc in a way that kept his hips and stomach pointed to the ground. The yellow toenails of the orc standing in front of him made fists with his toes in the dirt as he rubbed the back of his hand; caressing the thought that he would soon strike him again.

Christopher, like most humans, couldn’t stand orcs. They were a nasty, humanoid species, who infected the world like a cancer. Though this was the first time he had ever been up-close with one, he had heard the tales of their savagery. When not raping, killing, and pillaging each other, they were doing so to other creatures and communities. Like locusts, they spread across the globe, consuming and destroying everything in their path.

Every orc, even the females, were big, thick, and muscular, as if they bred themselves from the strongest and toughest of their kind. That would make a lot of sense. From the tales he had heard, orcs—who lived in tribes—were a barbaric race. Everything from sun-up to sundown was focused on aggression, intimidation, and training for war. A culture, where the higher you were ranked, the more tattoos you had, and scars were marks of beauty to be sought after. They were a bastardized race.

On top of having olive green skin, they had massive skulls, covered in thick, black, greasy hair, with foreheads that slanted back like a gorilla’s. Their noses were shaped like a pig’s snout, and their ears were pointy like an elf’s. And though he would never bring it up in the presence of an elf, lest he meant to absolutely insult them, Christopher had heard tales that alluded to elves being bred with orcs, so that orcs could gain the benefit of their dexterous nature.

Once again, scum. Where are your friends? the orc growled—his tone laced with hatred and contempt. Christopher laughed again, as he had many times before. The laughing caused his stomach muscles to cramp, sending pain throughout his entire body, making it hard to breathe. This, in turn, caused him to laugh even more.

I already told you. They’re with your sister, Christopher mumbled through swollen lips. And she’s lovin’—

The orc’s fist pounded into Christopher’s face. The crunching sound of his cheekbone breaking echoed in the room. Barely able to see through his swollen eyes, Christopher surveyed his surroundings. The room—if you could call it that—was a hole, carved into the side of a cave. The walls had been left unworked, and the hacking marks from shovels and pickaxes were still fresh, along with the smell of dirt. Light trickled in from a torch that sat in its wall mount on the other side of the hall, just outside the door.

Christopher could feel his bottom lip hanging open. Unable to close his mouth, the blood and drool began to pool on the ground. Christopher braced himself as the orc raised his fist again, only for nothing to happen. He looked at the orc, whose attention had shifted down, focusing on a sharp pointed blade sticking out of the breast of his chest. The orc had a look of shock, as he fell face first onto the ground, barely missing Christopher.

CK! CK! We’re here! A face came close enough to Christopher for him to make out the details through his blurred vision. Drendel, his three-foot-tall halfling teammate—who was the best in his group for any stealthy deed—stood there, with his straight, long, razor-cut hair, forest green eyes, and a debonair smile. Don’t worry, pal. We’ll have you down in a jiffy.

The clink of his shackles opening gave him only a second of joy, as his friends had to lift him by his arms, causing his sockets to flair in pain as the room went black.

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CHRISTOPHER FELT HIS HEAD being raised, and was very relieved to feel the cold of a glass vial being put to his lips. As he drank the strawberry tasting liquid, he knew it was a healing potion, as the warmth enveloped his body from within and his aches began to subside. As the puffy sensation around his eyes began to recede, he could make out Chloe, their group’s cleric.

She had taken off her helmet, which allowed her long, dark, chocolate brown hair to hang gently down her round face. As she knelt beside him, she delivered the potion. The ends of her hair tickled his nose. As his eyes adjusted, and she came into focus, he saw her prominent round eyes close briefly, as she breathed a sigh of relief.

The rest of the team gathered in a semi-circle: Rannstein, their dwarven fighter; Rory, their elven wizard; and of course, Drendel, their halfling striker.

How you feelin’? asked Rannstein. Though it was a question that should have been asked with true concern for a comrade, Rannstein’s tone was laced with disdain.

You know— Christopher began to say, sitting up. "The next time you have a great idea, such as allowing yourself to get captured to find the hidden base, you do it." All except Rannstein laughed at the verbal jab, as Christopher and Chloe stood up.

Christopher was in his late teens, and was already just a couple inches short of two yards. He had a chiseled, rectangular shape to his face. His thick brown hair was cut in a medium length layered style, a longer version of the classic tapered haircut; and his hazel eyes sparkled. To any normal person, he looked the part of the beginner; A rebellious adventurer. His chain shirt—a tunic of tiny linked steel rings, fashioned to fit the body, was worn over his explorer’s outfit, that consisted of sturdy boots, brown leather jeans, a belt, an off-white tunic, and a dark brown cloak. His Parma shield—a three-foot-wide concave steel shield—was latched to his left arm, and in his right hand, he presented his bastard sword—a straight double-edged blade, almost 5 feet long, ending at the cross guard. As he stood, he gave his sword a little confident flourish.

Rory nodded, Glad to have you back, she said.

Glad to be back. Christopher finished adjusting his gear. So… Where are we?

The mine of Morgh, Chloe said. Christopher shook his head, the name being unfamiliar.

About two days ride from Asic, Chloe said, pulling out a map and pointing to their rough location. After we followed you here, we alerted the city guards. They’ve taken a position at the bottom of the road leading up the hill to this mine’s entrance.

So then, how’d you guys get in?

Drendel was quick with the dramatics. With his thumb and forefinger ever so slightly apart, as if he was holding a tiny human around the waist, he began whistling a pitch from high to low, simulating a person falling from a great height, splashing into water, which he emphasized with gurgling sounds. As Chloe attempted to stifle a giggle, Rory’s head flicked towards Rannstein. We came in the back door.

And now that you’re caught up… Rannstein said, with irritation in his voice. He unsheathed his dwarven battleax, testing his grip on the haft with a few quick chops. It’s time to kill some orcs.

And save the damsel, Drendel pointed out.

Of course, Rannstein said with a slight nod and a loud sigh.

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THEY MADE THEIR WAY toward the entrance of the mine, occasionally stopping to check the map the miners had crudely drawn from memory. Drendel led the way through, being thorough to check for traps, or any signs of orc presence. Eventually, the roughly mined-out tunnels turned into worked stone. Besides making it easier to walk, and move silently, torches—lit and standing in wall mounts—alerted them to a presence.

I thought orcs could see in the dark? Chloe asked Rory.

They can, she replied in a whispered voice. Study has taught me that all creatures with the ability to see in total darkness—like dwarves—need to have their eyes exposed to some type of light every few days, or atrophy will begin to set in. Most of the time, this need is met through the use of fires used to cook food.

As she held her conversation with Chloe, Rory was busy pulling out her spellbook and thumbing through it. She wasn’t trying to be rude to Chloe, as if the conversation wasn’t important; that’s just who Rory was.

There was always something on her mind. This habit caused some to think her absentminded or naive, but it was funny to see her have a look of total concentration on her face, while she dove through her book, absorbing all the information, yet still being able to interject an intelligent comment while seemingly not paying attention.

Rory was almost a head shorter than Christopher and Chloe—who were the same height—with a head of full-bodied, blond hair, and big, blue, almond-shaped eyes. Currently she was keeping her hair up, held there by an intricate gold-layered bun-pick. The look accentuated her neck and oval-shaped face. Unlike most in her field of study, she didn’t wear the standard wizard attire, which was a body length wool robe, and a pointy, cone-shaped hat with a wide brim.

Though it seemed narcissistic, wizards usually chose their robe colors either based on what color looked best on them, or on the energy type they loved to channel. Wizards who used the fireball spell were very well known for wearing red robes.

Instead, she wore a red mandarin gown, with a formfitting black bodysuit underneath. The thigh-high slits up the side allowed for ease of movement. Rory felt that the standard style seemed to suit the older, more experienced wizards. She felt it was an antiquated look, that seemed to be adopted with age, and the assumption that you were so skilled with your abilities and spells, that it didn’t matter who knew your profession, or specialized focus, and what you were capable of.

So then why are all the halls lit? Chloe asked.

Rory looked up from her book, an inquisitive expression on her face, as she looked back down the hall. Good question. It was then that the sounds of laughing and cajoling permeated the air from a room down an adjacent hall to the right.

Yes! Rannstein said through gritted teeth. Sounds like some orcs, who’d like to meet my ax. Rannstein looked to the others, his face lit with excitement.

We should just pass unnoticed, Chloe said. The map shows we are close to the stairs that will lead to the main level.

Rannstein was immediately flustered, and visibly irked. Since when do you have a problem killing orcs?

Rannstein, who was all of four and a half feet of metal and dwarven muscle, looked up at Chloe—literally. He had a triangular face, mildly deep-set black eyes, and his thick, red, braided beard did nothing to hide his strong, prominent chin.

Chloe calmly met the dwarf’s irritation. Killing out of self-defense is one thing. Looking for a confrontation is just an excuse to murder. My goddess will not condone that, and neither will I.

The others waited for Rannstein to make a smart reply, but instead, he grunted and allowed the haft of his ax to slide through his hand until it was at the head of his weapon, apparently conceding the argument. Christopher thought he was smart to do so. He wasn’t sure yet what path Chloe would take; a healing cleric, or a battle cleric. But with a cleric’s ability to magically heal injuries, it was none too wise to get on the bad side of your healer.

Clerics were holy warriors, or crusaders, that had given their lives in devotion to their god or goddess. They spent their time spreading their doctrine, and showing people the path. While they were very preachy, most clerics believed that it was their job to show you the path, but it was your job to choose that path.

Almost all humans worshiped the pantheon of gods known as the Otivians. It was through worship, that the gods granted the clerics some of their divine energy to further their goals. As there were seventeen gods in all, this gave people many gods to worship, and many paths to follow.

Chloe was as tall as Christopher, with dark, stormy blue eyes, that contrasted elegantly with the tint of green in her skin, and eyebrows that slanted sharply downward from the inner half, always giving her look an air of mystery. Her dark hair was pulled up, and tucked in her helmet. Christopher asked once if it was uncomfortable, having all that hair bunched up in there, but the clerics had thought of everything. For their female members, they had created helmets with a space for their hair, so it would be out of the way, and provide comfort.

Unlike Rory, who had a very athletic, pear shaped body, Chloe had a top-heavy, hourglass body type, where her bust was larger than her hips, and her waist was very well defined. Her voluptuous physical attributes, along with her green colored skin, were a common trait among the women of the Entual race.

She wore chainmail armor, crafted in the shape of a tunic. It was a popular armor for clerics, as it formed a mesh that helped against slashing weapons, which were commonly used by all creatures. She carried a heater shield, that she kept polished to a mirror finish, and on the front of it was a bronzed symbol of her goddess.

For her, this item—this shield—was not just a shield; it was the holy symbol which she channeled her divine magic energy through. It was the physical representation of the connection to her goddess. Heater shields looked like an upside down acute triangle, but curved on the sides as it came down to the point at the bottom.

Lastly, she wielded a morningstar; the most common weapon for a cleric. It allowed the wielder to inflict damage with the spikes, and increase that damage with the force of the ball they stuck out from. Morningstars worked well against undead creatures, which clerics considered to be horrid abominations—second only to the evil cleric that raised it.

Just ahead, the hall forked. If the map was correct, to the left were supposed to be stairs leading up, and to the right were unexplored natural caverns, yet to be mined. As they neared the stairs, Drendel began to move a little faster; more assured that the orcs wouldn’t trap their own walkways.

We’re doing good, Drendel said.

Rory shook her head. What have I told you about saying stuff like that?

They turned the corner to climb the stairs, and came face to face with a group of orcs. The second it took both groups to acknowledge the presence of an enemy seemed to span an eternity. And then all hell broke loose!

As Rannstein bellowed a war cry, and charged into battle—Chloe at his side—Drendel somersaulted back through his group. Metal rang as weapons clashed, or found armor and shield. Rannstein bashed an orc’s falchion away and cleaved into his skull.

Ha! he cheered, as blood splattered across the metal of his ax. Chloe ducked, an orc’s sword missing her head by inches. Bolts flew over their shoulders from Drendel, accompanied by Rory’s magic missiles, into the orcs. Dodging and weaving, Rannstein and Chloe created a flowing wall of armor and shields that the orcs could not pass.

Christopher was about to swap out a bow for a bastardsword when he heard it—the sound grew louder, like the roar of a wave. From around the corner of the adjacent hall they had passed, charged the group of orcs who’d once been laughing and cajoling.

Behind us! Christopher bellowed.

Christopher and Drendel engaged this new force of orcs in combat. They were now facing a battle on two fronts. Drendel bobbed and weaved, barely escaping slashes. Lucky for him, his rapier was quicker than his wit. Rays of fire flew left and right from Rory’s hands. As one orc would die, another would move in quickly to take his place.

And this is why you clear out everything as you go! Rannstein said, as he fell another foe. Chloe scowled at the comment, her sword chopping into an orc’s neck.

Drendel rotated, avoiding another hit as he put his rapier away. Drawing a couple of daggers, he stepped forward toward the orc who threatened his life. His hands moved deftly, as they swirled and twisted back and forth across his body. The light glistening off the blades, created a weaving infinity sign across his torso. For a moment the orc looked dumbfounded, until Drendel lost hold of his own dagger, and the blade went spinning through the air, nearly striking Rory.

Hey! she yelled.

Sorry, Drendel replied with a shrug.

It was then that Drendel was hit hard over the head. Christopher watched, as his helmet deflected the blow enough for him to avoid death, but he was clearly stunned from the impact. The orc reared back his arm, ready to plunge his sword through Drendel’s chest.

No! Christopher shouted, as he thrust out his arm, palm out to the enemy. The orcs in front were blasted back, cartwheeling over their allies, slammed by a force of telekinetic energy.

The moment’s reprieve from fighting was enough for Rannstein to kill the last orc on his side, and move to form a wall with Christopher. As the orcs charged in again, Chloe was able to summon a healing blast that pulsed through all of her allies, and into the front enemy orcs. Christopher felt one of his wounds heal, and as he did, he witnessed one of the orcs being healed by Chloe’s spell as well.

You just healed them! CK yelled back to Chloe.

Chloe grimaced. I forgot. Sorry!

The two forces slammed into each other with a thundering collision. Swords clashed, blood squirted, and the blades of Rannstein’s and Christopher’s weapons met in the middle of an orc’s head, sending another to the great beyond.

The orcs, whether braver than any ballad had ever stated, or mad as hatters, fought until their last breath. However, moments later, Drendel finished off the last orc with a bolt to the head.

The silence after a battle was always deafening.

We better be moving, Rory said. That group, motioning to the one that came from the adjacent hall, came from, what I would surmise is the mess hall. But the other is probably a patrol.

Christopher nodded. Meaning they will be expected back soon…

…or their replacements, Rory finished.

Then let’s get moving! Rannstein said, having enjoyed the battle. He was in his element when it came to killing orcs, and was eager to lead the way up the stairs.

Christopher laughed inwardly, thinking back to how this—adventuring, training, and working as an effective group, accepting dangerous missions—all started only a few months ago…

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THREE MONTHS EARLIER…

It is the year 12,013.

The earth has long since entered its quaternary period, and The Age of Venēficus—or magic. A topic which has often started many arguments, as the elves have always stated that magic was never conjured, but a part of the living core, and has always been.

Due to the magical energy infused within every atom, technology is non-existent. The world has continued to move along in its current state. Scientists—or alchemists, as they are more commonly known in this world—have tried to expand their current way of life, attempting to bridge the gap between an age of ropes and pulleys; hoping to thrust them forward into a world of a steam-powered monstrosities; a new industrial state. But the earth itself has rebelled; enormous explosions, deaths and catastrophes surround any attempt, or experiment.

As such, the world had moved forward with new construction techniques, plumbing, and more, but with the power of a man’s hands, and the assistance of those with the will to channel the magical energies that flow through this existence. Progress has been slow, as the cost of using such energy has always been very physically taxing on the individual channeling that power. Not excluding the cost of gems—in time and energy to possess them—and worse yet, opposing dark forces who have sought to use the same tools for death and destruction.

And so, our story begins in the town of Asic. A good-sized town, whose size and demographics have placed it somewhere between a large town and a small city. Located on the east coast of the Corsana continent, the town quickly established itself as a thriving harbor, due largely to their geographic location in the center of the coastal trade route; thus making it the main port of call for ships bearing cargo from Constantine—the main seaport town on the west coast of Alteese, the continent across the sea.

Asic was the largest town on the east coast of Corsana, with over 1,500 buildings of varying types—from warehouses, to shops, and residential homes. When men first sailed across the ocean, looking to colonize land of their own, leaving the elven continent of Alteese behind, Asic was the first city settled; the mountains, forests, and plains, giving the settlers an abundance of resources.

Beyond the mountains and forests to the west, spanned miles of lush rolling hills. Eventually the human settlers of Asic, led by Adam Corsana, moved west, colonizing the continent. In doing so they also found themselves in the company of dwarves. But the dwarves didn’t care for the rolling hills, or the forests of the surface land, as their hearts lay within the earth. Peace allowed for a treaty between humans, elves and dwarves, giving everyone supervision to specific features. The dwarves ruled within the mountains and underground, the elves ruled the forests, and the humans ruled over the surface.

Human men and women of Asic were a diverse lot. Most men stood, on average, a couple inches short of two yards, though they varied in height from five feet, to six and a half feet tall. Their builds, hair, eyes, weight and body type fluctuated from man to man. And while these features differed greatly, the majority of the men were Caucasian. Women, just like men, were varied, but they stood, on average, a head shorter of the average male.

The city of Asic sits surrounded by a city wall almost as tall as a three-story house, in the form of a C, that goes from the ocean—which bordered the eastern side of the city—around the city, and back to the ocean again. Three gates, half as tall as the walls, allow traveler’s access to Asic, while city guards patrolled from atop the wall. A barracks building was just inside, and to the left of each city gate, allowing the guards a place to go when on break, and to eat, or sleep when they had split night-duty shifts. And just in case of attack, the city officials finally gave clearance for a distance equal to that of the twenty feet, between the wall and the city buildings, allowing for ease of guard movement.

Upon entering the southern gates, shops, small inns and horse boarding stables were instantly present. These two-story buildings were well kept, with gabled roofs, covered with wood shingles. Each house was privately owned, allowing for the residence to live behind, and above, their shops that occupied the bottom floors. Beyond the shops that lined the main throughway stood luxurious homes owned by wealthy merchants, lords, nobles and the heads of the city-state.

As the road curved and led towards the center of town, where the middle class lived, the style of homes began to visibly change. Each home was no longer guaranteed to be two stories. The height of homes varied from owner to owner. The consistent qualities, were that each house had a gable roof with wooden shingles. Some of the nicer homes had an extra attic room, with a dormer for light; this was a nice treat for the homes whose families were growing.

The quality of goods could be seen to diminish as well. Where, on the south end of town you could enjoy fine quality restaurants, and see the latest fashions from across the sea, in the middle of town, goods started being aimed at the middle class; goods such as clothes that might be considered last season, but that were still very stylish. A few south-end style homes could be seen to the east, nearer the wharf. These homes were used by the women of the red-light district.

As you neared the north of Asic, you began to enter the wrong side of town. Here, the poor found places of residence. The better of the poor lived in small, one-bedroom houses. The roofs, though gable style, were layered with planks instead of shingles. The poorest of the poor, the scrags, lived in one-room gables, or shed-style shacks, with thatched roofs. Here, homes were butted up next to each other due to the lack of space.

As the city was separated horizontally from north to south by wealth, so too was the city separated vertically from east to west by quality. To the east, near the wharf, were all of the warehouses. As you headed west, towards the middle of town, you arrived at the craftsman and merchant’s shops. The further west you went led you into residential areas.

Having lived here all his life, Christopher knew Asic very well. He wasn’t ashamed to say he came from the wrong side of town, or that he wasn’t one of the privileged. In fact, he was a bastard child; born to his mother, Belinda, who, for a short time, worked as a prostitute in Asic’s red-light district.

Belinda Corrigan was born into a noble family. When her father, Dominick Corrigan, received an inheritance from his father—a very well-known and successful merchant, instead of doing as his friends had done, and blow his inheritance on a week’s worth of fun, he quickly and quietly invested his money into a fleet of ships. Practically overnight, he surpassed his father in wealth and status. But in the years that followed, he lost everything.

A hurricane, the likes no one alive had ever witnessed, hit just off Asic’s shore. The storm destroyed his fleet of ships, and all the merchandise within, which he was held monetarily responsible for. This blow, combined with a vicious string of piracy after the storm, destroyed their family’s stability.

After a night of drowning his sorrows, Mr. Corrigan was found murdered in an alley only two blocks from his home. Belinda’s mother had to sell the house, and all their belongings, to pay off their debt. Shortly after, her mother died in her sleep from a broken heart.

Belinda had no money, no home, and her friends turned their backs on her—not even decent enough to spare her a passing glance. She was forced to get money any way she could, which led her to making a living as a working girl. It was during this momentary profession that she became pregnant with Christopher.

Normally a mother’s past is not something a child should know, but she had to explain this to him early on, as some of the other kids in town would bully and pick on him for her past. And while most of the privileged, who frequently watched Christopher running around the city, often said that he had no reason to dream big, that never stopped him.

His mother found a job at one of the best local taverns in the area; the Raging Centaur. Though it was in the north-end of town, it was probably one of the most frequented taverns in the entire city. When sailors came into port, and had some shore leave, you would most certainly find them there.

The Centaur was three stories tall, with a gabled roof and many windows on the second floor. The bottom floors’ windows had been boarded up, which was a common practice for taverns. The lack of sunlight made it really easy to lose track of time. This meant more drinks sold, which added up to much more profit. Unlike the surrounding buildings, Charlie Hail—the owner—had invested in wooden shingles, which, in this neighborhood, made The Centaur stand out.

The second and third floors were filled with single bedchambers for rent. Most of the third-floor rooms didn’t have windows, but a pair on each side sported dormers. A small two-story addition had been added as living quarters for Charlie onto the rear of the building, giving it a backwards L shape.

Just above and to the right of the entrance hung an encased oil lamp, with its light illuminating the signboard hanging above the entrance. The sign had an engraved head of a centaur, with smoke rising menacingly from his nostrils, his eyes painted red, and the words Raging Centaur in a rainbow arch over his head and between his horns. Other than the signboard, the place looked pleasant from the outside.

Upon entering, the main floor was occupied by the tavern. The bar, with stools in front of it for customers, ran along the opposite wall. To the right were half a dozen round tables, each with four chairs, and the tables spaced unevenly apart. On the wall, just to the left of the entrance, there was a big, long fireplace, which provided most of the light. Above hung three chandeliers made of deer antlers, with four small torch bowls on each, providing dim illumination, casting most of the place, and its customers, into shadows.

The entrance was the dividing line between the private round tables to the right, and the two communal dining tables on the left, with benches on either side for people to sit. Just beyond the tables, and raised about a foot off the floor, was a small stage—big enough for about four or five people to occupy, where a