Warhaven

By D C Bridges

Life on the streets can be trying at the best of times. Five friends end up on the wrong side of the law, and it would appear the law has been waiting impatiently for this opportunity for quite some time. Mystery, betrayal, genocide; what could go wrong in four days?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D C Bridges
• Release date: Sep 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995325807

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Warhaven

Warhaven

Copyright

Copyright © 2016 by D C Bridges

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner what-so-ever by any means already known, or yet to be invented, without written permission with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of both fantasy and fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogues, and scenarios are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real or defamatory. Any resemblance to persons, places, or actual events, past, present, living or dead, is entirely co-incidental.

TRIGGER WARNING: This book contains strong language, violence, and adult situations.

First Edition

Bridges, D C

Warhaven

Summary: Life on the streets can be trying at the best of times. Five friends end up on the wrong side of the law, and it would appear the law has been waiting impatiently for this opportunity for quite some time. Mystery, betrayal, genocide; what could go wrong in four days?

Cover Art: Jason Lamplough

ISBN 978-0-9953258-0-7

Chapter One

Hey, Nual, say 'house'

The morning came to pass, wet and stormy. Now, as the sun reached its zenith and the warmth of the day became agitated by the storms humidity, children were running shoe-less about the crisp warm cobblestones.

The street was alive and crowded, as people of all ages and mostly human in race, hurried or tarried as they felt needed. A scattered handful of Kougras and even a few Elves passed among the crowds, receiving glances of unfamiliarity from the Humans who lived there. If there were Treckers in the crowd, no one would have noticed. They were commonly mistaken for Humans and rarely seen as a threat.

A woman walked along the street, eyeing the sky nervously. She hoped to forewarn herself if another shower were to start, saving her the inconvenience of ruining the dress she wore. The selection in the shops about the city was piteous. She would hate to leave herself understaffed if she needed to send a servant or two out of the city for a replacement garment.

The city of Warhaven was placed just beyond the wilderness, leaving tourism and trades a lacking commodity. First having been built as a militia stronghold soon after the end of the first age, the location had served much better as a home to the survivors.

There were few in the region that had come through with their homes, if nothing more, so the invitation of safety and a new beginning had attracted people to the area like moths to a candle. With double fortified walls and a solid set of mechanized doors, it served well to keep danger out. The entire stronghold had been reconstructed in less than a year, as the new population pitched in to do the work.

The training grounds became the most sought after land for building houses. This was done quickly and cheaply, as the families who had been robbed dry of all their resources accepted what little pay was offered for their labour. Supply cellars and weapons depots were now the city bakeries and shops. There had been no need to construct a blacksmith shop, or tinker’s warehouse, both already present from the war. The soldiers’ camp had been torn down and remodelled – streets placed where it was best suited – all leading to the infirmary, where prisoners had been deposited and disposed of, as was seen just. Now, it served as the centre of law enforcement. There, hidden behind its own twelve foot walls of four foot thick limestone, was the municipal court, civil officers' quarters, and dungeons.

The dungeons were the city’s largest resource. Other nearby towns and villages would pay to have their criminals taken off their hands, to save themselves the burden of deciding what to do with them; leaving it to someone else to stain their hands with blood. The prison officials were never at a loss for space. The dungeons had four levels, each stretching a storey below the city streets. Each level had fifty cells capable of sustaining ten people comfortably. They even had a citadel for the stranger and critically dangerous criminals that were best dealt with by being forgotten. Occupants of the citadel had two choices, starve, or leap from the top windows some two hundred feet above street level.

Towering above the rest of the city, it served as a dismal reminder of the city’s iron justice. There was no monarch present; no king or queen. Warhaven boasted just a dozen or so houses of nobles that claimed to have the cities best interest in mind, while the others were made to play serf.

Growing quickly, Warhaven developed until the day construction had to be halted or risk expanding the city beyond the boundary walls, which would have wasted coveted funds. Most of the buildings that had been constructed were now beginning to slowly deteriorate. Reduced income, due to the dwindling trade market, had caused the common people to save their funds and focus on family before appearance. Only the wealthy houses could maintain such glamour.

Constructed by Humans, the houses and businesses about the inner city were sturdy half stone, half wood structures with square windows, and triangular roofs of thatch or tile. Several families had splurged and purchased pigments to add to the walls when their homes had been built; very few had continued to do so after each winter, applying only the white wood preserving plaster they could readily and cheaply purchase.

The homes of the nobles, all stone and mortar, stood spaciously cluttered in the old battlements. Constantly kept and cleaned with their gardens tended, their homes dwarfed all but the Court; the area was often generously vandalized by resentful citizens. The lady had found such an act had been committed to her premises when she had departed to go to the market. Ruefully she had requested her man servant escort her from the property, for fear the vandal was still lurking nearby. No doubt, the perpetrator could be waiting to bombard her with the same scraps and rotten vegetables that had been splattered across her terraces and gardens.

Nearing a puddle, the lady cringed at the sight of it. The sun seemed to lose itself in its fetid depths. Looking to either side, she scouted for the clearest place to cross. She would have to take an ungainly step at any length, she wasn’t about to hop over it and suffer such indignity.

Can I render a service, Lady? a smooth voice asked from behind her.

With a start, the woman turned with a glare and a hand to her chest as proof of her displeasure at being taken so off guard. The figure behind her, with his deep brown eyes and well used blue jacket, was not who she had been expecting to see. The state of his clothing and the fact that his trousers were leather put him on a level of disgrace that abolished taste completely. He was also in need of a proper haircut.

At least he’s human, she thought to herself. Heavens forfend she be seen in the presence of an Elf or a Kougra. None-the-less, never would she let herself be seen associating with a derelict; even if his face had noble qualities.

Oh, filthy, she remarked at the sight of him, guessing him to be about his twenties. The rabble about the streets in the city had been given the nickname of ‘Alley Runners’ due to their habitual running of the streets to survive. They were a difficult breed to decipher, and though this one was particularly clean he was still not to be trusted in her books.

Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, the young man replied, undaunted.

Though I must say your manners are proper young man, I do not associate with your likes, she replied sharply, walking towards the narrower portion of the flooded gutter.

And what if I were a prince in disguise? he asked, following her with confident strides.

I think that would be very unlikely, she answered flatly, throwing her head back slightly. Good day!

But, Lady, I offer you my jacket as a means of saving your pride a desecrated hem and quite possibly a pair of finely crafted boots.

For what price? she asked, knowing there was always a catch with these Alley Runners.

I would like to say out of sheer kindness, but alas, I need to eat today you see, and...

Yes, I do see, she interjected, increasing her pace to a socially dangerous speed. When she came to the spot she had been striving for, she stepped over it quickly, looking back to see if he had done the same. Giving the young man a restricted nod, she hurried into the closest store.

Crotchety bitch... he muttered.

The young man sighed, turning to meet his friends as they left their hiding spots to join him.

No luck, eh, Kiem, the smallest of the four approaching commented, folding his hands underneath his arms despondently. This seemed to be the largest member of the group’s cue to rest his elbow on the head of his vertically challenged companion who had spoken; this received a scowl as the smaller man threw a glance upwards, before shaking the arm off.

He was a Trecker of small stature, even for his kind. Where most Treckers could reach five feet, he was lucky if he was five inches taller than four. He even appeared younger than most. Any other Trecker his age would look to be a short twenty years old; he looked as though he might be fifteen. There were no distinctions between himself and the average Human beyond his small stature.

Nual, the man who had placed his arm on the Trecker's head – and had done so easily – was the largest of the group, but not the tallest. He was second only to one of the women, who surpassed him by a simple inch. The only way Kiem saw it, that Nual and the Trecker got along so well, was a silent agreement he was sure even they didn’t know about. The Trecker was the main spoke of the five and Nual was what kept him there. The one may be small, but Nual certainly wasn’t. The brown sweater Nual constantly wore, no matter what the degree, only made him seem bulkier and more imposing.

I told him that gimmick wouldn’t work, the shorter of the two women present commented. They don’t like to think alley cats are nice people, Kiem, they expect you to rob em.

The smaller woman had hair much the same colour as Kiem’s, but she wouldn’t allow it to grow much longer than his either. The lesson had been heeded the last time the city guards had tried to catch her, and she discovered they understood how quick and effective a way of capture hair became. Standing only a foot above the Trecker, she enjoyed having at least one other party member that saved her from being labelled the ‘short’ one.

It’s too hot for that, the Trecker commented, trying to push his damp hair from his face. Much like the rest of the group, he was in need of a haircut as well, which he was reminded of each time his blonde hair persisted in falling into his eyes and latching onto his skin.

Give them what they want, if it’s what they want. It was the second woman who spoke and not too kindly. Kind things rarely seemed to find their way to the surface with her. If a conflict couldn’t be found, she was sure to create one. She had long pale blonde hair, like all true-blooded elves, which she untied while she spoke. Replacing a few stray strands, she pulled the thin, well-tended tail over her shoulder. Me and Gen are tired of feeding you. Isn’t that right, sister?

She regarded Gen with the likeness of a lazy fox as she spoke, the acute angles of her elvin features creating the illusion. Being a true-blood meant high cheekbones, which trailed to a delicate yet well-defined jaw line with a strong slender nose. She was the envy of a large number of the other female runners, and the dream of most men who hardly ever looked beyond her powder blue eyes that could be mistaken for silver against the tan she had developed over the summer. Those were arrangements she hadn’t taken well to.

Gen pulled her brown cotton hat further over her ears when she was addressed suddenly. Even in this heat she couldn’t be persuaded to remove it. Agitated, she quickly tucked some hair back up into it when the other woman gave the neglected mess a sisterly tug from behind.

I don’t expect you and the elf bitch to feed me, Kiem told Gen, angered at his lack of success. I can provide for myself.

There’s no elf bitch, Kiem, the Trecker corrected him. There may however be a Jessorie bitch. We don’t gauge by race. It’s already fucked me over.

We’d never turn against ya, Forerim. Yer size don’t merit yer ‘eart. Nual reassured him, his blue eyes contrasted by the locks of black hair that nearly obstructed them. The locks, in fact, fell just short of his shoulders out of necessity, not preference. Shortly after Forerim had met him, they’d been forced to cut it when they failed to wash some mortar from his hair before it solidified. Needless to say, it was the first time Forerim had ever seen hair that curly, or Nual wear a hat.

Thanks, Nual, but my heart won’t feed us, Forerim replied, pushing his sleeves further up his arms and sticking his hands in his pockets, yet still growing warming. It had to be that sweater...

What about the Roaring Hearth? Jess inquired. Forerim was shaking his head before she even finished. She was speaking about the tavern their band of Runners usually frequently. The one Gen had managed to get them suspended from.

Somebody pissed Siggle off last time we went to buy food, Forerim informed them all, knowing that Gen had pleaded him not to, but they had to know now.

He’s got greasy hands! she shot in her defence. We can go back!

When winter comes, he reminded her.

Jess gave Gen the scolding look she had been wishing to avoid. She’d promised Jess that she would keep to her own, the heat still being on her. When she sighed and looked away remorsefully, Jess let her eyes scan the group and had to stop when she came to Nual.

Take that fucking sweater off, Nual, yer making me feel even more hot. That sweater... Take it off!

He shook his head with a quaint grin. If it bothered Jess that much, it was all the more reason to leave it on.

We could go to the South Side, Jess offered next, a flicker of annoyance still present in her voice. Everyone seemed to have a problem with the idea but her. Just a suggestion. A suggestion, she replied while raising her hands defensively, insulted by the snorts and chuckles that had been their replies.

The South Side Runners were the outcasts of the city. They lived at the southern edge of the western quarter, causing trouble and disharmony for all the people living near or around them. Once you were in, you were unlikely to ever get out. It seemed Jess had been the only exception. She might still have ties with that group of suicidal assassins, Kiem thought, but I don’t travel anywhere that only has one road going in and the same one going out.

I got it! Gen suddenly cried with excitement. Let’s go tear up the market square again. This time, we’ll just catch the food as they throw it at us and run our sad asses off until we can catch a Break.

By a ‘Break’ she meant an open door to the underground. There were three or four dozen such locations about the city. The Moles, or the people that chose to spend most of their lives in the underground, took turns guarding the unbarred entrances to the catacombs that had been dug underneath the city streets.

’n wait three days fer one a us t’ get outta prison fer insightin’ the riot, Nual added, remembering last week like it was yesterday. Maybe if they fed ya in there. But they don’t... I ain’t going down this again, they’ll ‘ang me one day.

Jess strolled away, finding a wall to sit against as she looked to the sky for suggestions. Pulling her knees to her chest, she noticed one of her boot laces had worked itself out of the knot. Holding out her leg, she gave Forerim a thankful smile as he approached and bent down and retied it.

I’m going to teach you how to tie them today, he told her, giving the boot a smack of completion.

I don’t want to learn, she complained. Every time I try, my eyes go all funny and my head hurts...

You’re not a child, Jess. You should be able to tie your own boots.

Why? Why should I learn when I got you? she asked with false warmth. When she stood, she dwarfed Forerim by more than two feet.

Wait! she suddenly stated, a thought coming to the surface. It didn’t have anything to do with their problem, but it might motivate them towards a filching run and push the heat to the back of their minds. Isn’t it Pretty Boy's birthday today? I thought he said something like that yesterday, or something. She rubbed her heat balmy palms on the front of her leather trousers as she looked about the group.

Hey, Kiem, Forerim called to him. Is it your birthday today?

Why? was his immediate reply, with more than a little caution in his voice.

That sounds like a ‘yes’ to me, Jess grinned. She nodded towards Gen, who wrapped an uncharacteristically warm arm about Kiem’s shoulders, directing him down the street.

Kiem eyed the four of them fearfully. There were certain things he heard of Forerim doing to his ‘friends’ on their birthdays. One of the stories even included a brothel and an almost execution, of Forerim’s own. Nual had told him, being the birthday celebrant in question, and having been Forerim’s saviour. He didn’t like the way Forerim was regarding him. His contemplative observation of him had a slightly predatory edge to it that wasn’t settling his unease.

Go easy on him, Gen requested. It’s the first birthday he’s had with us. He has no idea what evil things you think up, she told Forerim.

I don’t think ‘e’s ready for a real birthday, Nual added, knowing Kiem would appreciate it if he could get him off the hook. We gotta get t’ know ‘im better before ya go riskin’ ‘is life. Don’t ya think? ‘e’d want us t’ be sad if ya got ‘im killed, he joked harmlessly.

Fine... Forerim replied with great disappointment. What do you want? he asked, bringing himself to walk backwards in front of the group as he addressed Kiem. For your birthday.

Nothing, Kiem replied almost before Forerim has finished the question.

Bullshit! Everybody wants something. Personally, I want to get laid, Forerim stated half-jokingly, receiving a slap on the chest by Gen that nearly caused him to trip over his heels.

I want something to eat.

You unimaginative bastard, Forerim insulted him. Think bigger. Think gold, or silver, clothes, money! You name it and the four of us will try and get it. By the looks of it, you could use a new pair of boots.

I really would like something to eat, he said again, food truly being the only thing he wanted. Glancing down at his boots to check the state of them, he knew Forerim was right.

Fine than, food it is, Gen confirmed, running down the street like a shot.

You know how it goes, Forerim repeated the drill. Everybody back here by sundown. If you’re not back, we’ll assume you’re in jail. Kiem, you can come with me.

No, thanks, Kiem replied briskly. I think I’d rather go with Nual.

Suit yourself, Forerim replied with a grin before following after Gen. Jessorie was quick after them, her long strides quickly overtaking Forerim’s. Pitching him to the ground with a slap to the back of the head, announcing her arrival, she picked him up immediately with a mocking apology before slowing to his still fleeting pace.

’ere, Kiem, Nual said, handing him something. It’s all I ‘ave right now. ‘appy birthday.

Nual, Kiem cautioned while regarding the fair sized silver coin he had been given. I can’t take this from you. You earn this money.

All the more reason fer me t’ give it t’ ya, he told him. I don’t really agree wit’ the others. Mean, I can see where they’re comin’ from. But I prefer t’ earn my livin’. I know ya do too.

Thanks, Brother, Kiem replied. This’ll be the best gift I get today. Also, I hate to say it, today is the richest I’ve ever been.

Where you been livin’? Nual scoffed. Though a statement more so than a question, Kiem seemed to take it as the latter.

On the coast, down south a ways. Never cared much for fishing, though there wasn’t much of that going on either. My father died, too tired, too young, and my mother died of heartbreak. I had a sister, but she was smart enough to leave long before that happened. I worked a lot, but the money went straight to my parents.

Ya never told us that befer, Nual commented with interest.

Never asked, he replied with a shrug.

Than I’m glad I gave it ya.

What say you on finding a place to sit for a while before the others get back here?

My feet wouldn’t object t’ that, Nual consented. ’ow old is ya anyway? he inquired, making conversation.

Nineteen maybe twenty years?

Ya got off lucky with Forerim than, he laughed. If ‘e’ad known that all our lives would be in danger. That’s about ‘ow old I was when ‘e’set me up. But ‘e likes me ya know. Gen calls me ‘is little brother.

Little? How old is he anyway?

bout my age. Maybe off by a few years. I think ‘e’s older.

And the others?

Gen’s eighteen, I've bin told, 'n Jess is somewhere in ‘er fifties I think they said.

Her fifties!?

She’s true blooded from what all we can tell, Kiem. She’ll live t’ be ‘undreds old.

That long lived? he questioned, starkly shocked, taking a seat as soon as they came to a lengthy purchase of yard. He hadn't known any elves, growing up.

So Gen’s the baby of the group, Kiem said aloud.

Don’t be sayin’ that, Nual cautioned. She says everyone ‘olds it against ‘er. She becomes the other worldly demon bitch when she thinks she ain’t bein’ treated as an equal.

I’ll bare that in mind while trying to stay off her bad side. She still hasn’t forgiven me from the first time we met.

You botched ‘er job, Nual reminded him.

She was the one that knocked me down, Kiem countered.

Cuz you stepped between ‘er ‘n’er target! Don’t worry, we all said some nasty things ‘bout the girls at one time, Nual replied. They ain’t ladies; they just walk like ‘em.

Ya, I know what you mean... but, I happen to think Gen’s alright.

Ya mean ya like ‘er, Nual corrected him.

Sure I like her, I like you’s all.

Not that type o’ like, Kiem, he pressed him.

No, he confessed. And don’t you go telling anyone any better, he threatened with a brotherly air. I don’t want to live it down.

Then live it up, Nual joked.

I think Forerim does enough of that for all of us.

You’ve only skimmed the top o’ the barrel. ‘e’s a lot smarter than ‘e is strange.

From experience?

Lots a it. ‘e’ll up ‘n surprise ya. Gen’s that way too. She’s a might mean in a pinch.

What do you mean by that? His curiosity was definitely peaked.

I’ve seen ‘er kill lots a folk befer. That’s why there’s been bounties on ‘er. Fer killin’ the wrong guys, but she was right in doin’ it, though you’ll never see me settin’ ‘er off.

How many people... is lots of people?

I don’t know! Shit! Most normal people can’t count, me included. Ask Forerim, ‘e could tell ya, though ‘e’ll say it’s none a ya business.

Never mind... I don’t want to know, Kiem mumbled, nodding to a young girl as she strolled by with some friends. She returned the nod courteously, but her two friends jeered at himself and Nual with loathing.

Keep that look on your faces too long ladies and I’m afraid your faces will soon sag. Not that it wouldn’t be somewhat of an improvement, Kiem added confidently.

Both girls came to a horrendous halt and the ones jaw dropped nearly two inches. When they stood there shocked for such a length of time, Kiem grew uncomfortable and said the first thing that came to mind as he stared at the one girl’s still slack jaw.

If you’re partial to insects that’s a great way to catch then, he pointed out. I suggest getting low to the ground, it’s the only way a grasshopper can reach your mouth. You are after grasshoppers right? They have to be the tastiest things with wings. No, you can’t get much better, he continued on purposefully, causing the girls to back away in disgust. The first girl who had passed of the three, had gotten ahead of the others, not having heard a word of the exchange, while the younger of the two girls wretched from the images he was creating in her head. He continued his impromptu lecture as long as he could be heard.

Let’s go underground ‘til the others come back, Nual suggested, when the girls they had been tormenting were out of ear shot.

Too many sour faces for my liking, Kiem agreed, suggestively pointing at the closest entrance to the catacombs.

They got lucky the first time. The sentry leaned half asleep across the door, which looked like nothing more than a crack in the wall too small for even a cat. Each of the entrances was different. They ranged from holes in the walls, to the gutters that carried refuge out of the city. There had been a raid once when Nual had lived below, but those entrances had long been barred off and the tunnels collapsed.

Nual approached the boy and woke him, prodding him with the toe of his boot. With a start, the boy leapt to his feet and looked about to scream a warning to the below, but Kiem placed his hand over the boy’s mouth while calming him down.

o’r ya? the boy asked officially, once Kiem allowed him the luxury of speech.

’onest 'n Manners, Nual replied from over Kiem’s shoulder, Kiem himself unsure of what the boy was saying through his slurred, wildly inflective and rapid accent.

o’r ya wit? he asked next, peering behind Kiem to get a proper look at the one who had spoken. The sun freckled face of the child sentry looked less brutal than the kid thought it did. Kiem was glad someone between them understood the boy.

Wanderer, Legs, and ‘unter, Nual answered, his own accent becoming more obvious to Kiem’s ears now that he had another to compare it to.

The young boy crouched on his knees and conferred with the darkness a moment. After some time he nodded, laughed, and stood to address them.

’ad t’ ask, Brothers. I ain’t seen da likes o’ ya befer. I’m new t'duty. Nice t’ meet ya. Critter says yer all in da goods. I’m Pup. Go on in. Banging a foot against the crack, the bottom portion of the wall slowly fell back to allow the men entrance. Once inside, Critter replaced the slab with the help of two others, and a torch was then lit for the new arrivals to carry until they reached the edges of the catacombs.

Nice t’ see ya ‘gain, Critter, Nual acknowledged the middle-aged man. He had known the man for years, but never well enough to have passed names.

I see ya brought yer Manners with ya, Critter replied with a grin. Nice to see ya ‘gain boy.

Same here, Critter, Kiem replied, accepting his banter along with the torch.

Any weapons t’ declare?

We come down ‘ere too of’en t’ carry ‘em, ya know that, Nual reminded Critter, before departing down the tunnel.

They made their way quickly into the depth of the catacombs; there was an incline sharper than most before they actually broke into the heart of the underground community. Kiem took his time, making sure Nual was well in the light. When they came to the place where they required a torch no longer, Kiem extinguished the flame in the dirt of the floor, discarding the log on the pile by the wall. When the sentries were brought their supper, the majority of torches would be brought to them as well, leaving a few for the people who wished to depart.

I’ll never get used to this place, Kiem confided to Nual. It’s too dark. I’m used to the sun and the fresh air, he continued, noting the musty, slightly tainted odour that continued to be the catacombs trademark.

I couldn’t feel more at ‘ome, Nual returned, smiling at the familiarity of the place. Born and raised ‘ere, I was. Still ‘ave some family ‘bout on The Spire.

The Spire was the very heart of the catacombs. It was the Moles' communal housing area. Seventy percent of all the residents of the catacombs made their homes in The Spire. It stretched over six-hundred feet deep and two-hundred feet wide at the core. The population there was well over several thousand. The central means of heating for the catacombs, The Spire ran the circumference a molten fire pit that continued to burn year round, pulling its fuel from the earth’s own natural gases. As the hot air rose, the upper levels of the zone would be heated.

There was a large vent at the top that drew all the smoke, fumes, and residual heat into it. The heated air and vapours continued along pipes that transferred the heat to the various back reaches for the more solitary Moles. The tunnels that reached from the surface to the catacombs heart were the Moles source of fresh air, so the size some of them were constructed at was gargantuan. To move along the different levels of The Spire, the Moles had constructed a spiralling walkway with guard walls, that cork-screwed from one end to the other.

Let’s find the Springs, I’m thirsty, Kiem suggested.

We’ll ‘ead there an’ go straight back up. I’ve started losin’ track a time when I’m down ‘ere, Nual confessed as they rounded a bend that brought them into earshot of the Springs.

A few people busied by the pair as they approached. Those who had made their homes below and hadn’t left since, passed without acknowledgements. They kept the distance between themselves and the Alley Runners steadfast in case of invasion. They were looked down upon as the catacombs largest liability by many, but the kinship through hardships was the deciding factor concerning the debate over the sun lovers.

The Moles would never turn a needful soul away. Perseverance required the below grounders