Rogue Legacy, Jeffrey L. Kohanek [best pdf reader for ebooks .txt] 📗
- Author: Jeffrey L. Kohanek
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“A good mornin’ to ya, lassie!”
Lyra stared at the man with a sense of vague recollection. She watched the man walk down the boardwalk, heading toward a ship tied to a slip along the center dock. The image of his shaved head and goatee suddenly clicked with a memory.
“Sully?” she frowned as she recognized the man.
Still unsure of what she needed to do in Wayport, she recalled her last meeting with the sailor and how she had taken his gold in a game of knucklebones. Could Sully be the reason I’m here? Elden told her that she would find herself compelled by her own nature to do it, whatever it was. She certainly felt no compulsion to help Sully or even speak with the man.
With a sigh, Lyra broke her gaze from the sailor and headed toward the boardwalk, enjoying the breeze coming off the water as it eased the intensity of the suppressing heat.
For hours, Lyra meandered about the docks, not willing to leave the ocean breeze by venturing further into the hot city. After a couple hours, she grew tired and opted to sit on a short wall to rest her feet, still sore from four days of travel.
Now nearly mid-day, the harbor remained busy, with new ships arriving from other ports, filling the slips vacated by those that had set sail during the morning hours. Even near the water, soothed by the caress of a cool breeze, Lyra found herself sweating. It would be even worse in the city, but her stomach urged her to return to the inn for food. After all, she had paid for it.
As she gathered the motivation needed to brave the heat, she felt a small tug on her belt. She glanced down and found a hand on her coin purse as a knife cut it loose. Lyra’s hand darted toward the retreating purse. The knife slashed out, and she yanked her hand back in pain, glancing at it to find a shallow cut on her palm, filling with blood.
Lyra slid off the wall and faced the cutpurse, a boy of eight or nine summers. Dressed in rags topped by a mess of long hair and a freckled face smudged with dirt, the boy appeared to be among the dregs of the rough city.
“Give me that, you little runt.”
Without a word, the boy darted off. Lyra leapt over the wall and made chase down the narrow street, toward the heart of the city. He reached a crowd at the end of the street and wiggled through. She slowed as she approached the crowd. Standing on her toes, she tried to peer around the people for the thief, but she couldn’t see him.
Seeking a better viewpoint, Lyra turned and found a drainpipe secured to the corner building’s wall. She gripped the pipe and pulled herself up, finding a foothold on the sill of a nearby window. When she had risen high enough, she stretched, gripped the rail of the second-story balcony, and pulled herself onto it. The square below was crowded with hundreds, perhaps a thousand people. A man paced the platform at the center, shouting to the crowd. With a head of long, dark curls and a mustache with waxed tips, curled at the ends, the man had the look of a Kalimarian aristocrat. His red jacket, with tails at the back, along with his puffy white tunic, only added to the image. Two guards, big and burly, stood behind him. The guards held a man between them – his hands shackled behind his back and a sack over his head.
Lyra listened absently as she searched for the boy, somewhere amidst the mass of people.
“…as I, Joven Harrington, have promised on numerous occasions, as Governor of Wayport, to remain vigilant in protecting our city and its lovely citizens.”
The crowd cheered, and the man waved his arms to quiet them.
“When I discovered that vile witchcraft was being conducted inside the very walls of Wayport, I immediately ordered the city watch to capture the offender. Worse yet, this man had been hiding his use of witchcraft behind a church, one that sought to convert innocent Wayport citizens to his twisted beliefs through the subversion of black magic.
“Last night, my men located the man and sought to arrest him. Unfortunately, he killed four guards and wounded a dozen others before he could be subdued.”
Harrington appeared upset, shaking his head. “Good men, lost to black magic. They will be missed.
“This offender now stands before you. Within my court, this man has been tried and has been found guilty. What kind of man would conspire with demons, you ask? Behold!”
In dramatic fashion, the governor placed his hand on top of the man’s head, gripped the sack, and pulled it away. The crowd gasped. Lyra gasped.
“Cal?”
Cal’s face was bruised and scraped. His brown hair was damp with sweat, pasted to his forehead.
Harrington continued, waving the sack around as he spoke. “Per the laws of our free city, this criminal will be publicly executed for his vile deeds. Let this be a warning to others who seek to corrupt Wayport with black magic. Any person who wishes to view the end of witchcraft in our city, come to the square at dawn.”
The crowd cheered again, far louder than before.
Expelling shallow, panting breaths, Lyra watched the guards drag Cal down the stairs, through the crowd, and toward the stone building that bordered it to the east.
With the cutpurse completely forgotten, she now knew why she was in Wayport. Lyra steeled herself to her task. She would free Cal, or she would die trying.
The streets below were quiet and had been for hours. Lyra stared across the square, toward the torchlit keep entrance, watching for movement.
Where is he?
A dog barked a few streets over, followed by a woman’s voice.
“Shut it, you stupid dog!”
Lyra smiled, thinking that some things remained the same everywhere. Her smile faded when the guard appeared, strolling out the doorway a few strides. The man surveyed his surroundings, his gaze sweeping the empty square before he turned and walked back inside.
The moment the man disappeared, Lyra slid off the edge of the roof until she hung by outstretched arms. She released her grip and dropped to the balcony, bending her legs to absorb the landing. Without pause, she climbed over the railing and lowered herself down again before dropping to the ground.
Emerging from the dark street, Lyra strolled across the square with a nonchalant stride, acting as if it were as normal as breathing. She passed through the keep entrance and found herself in a bailey, quiet and empty save for a single torch, shedding light on the two benches straddling a closed door.
She put her ear to the door. The dark wood felt cold and damp as she listened for movement inside. Hearing nothing, she bit her lip and turned the knob before easing the door open.
A dark hallway stretched before her with the amber light of a torch flickering at the far end. She heard men’s voices, the mumbling sound unintelligible. After gently closing the door, she crept down the hallway. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, Lyra put her back against the wall and peeked around the corner, pulling her head back instantly and then closing her eyes to recall the image.
It was a rectangular room, perhaps ten strides across and twice the length. Three closed doors lined the wall opposite from Lyra. Another torchlit room stood at one end, filled by men seated around a table beyond an open doorway. Two dark stairwells waited at the other end, one heading upward, the other down.
Lyra thought about the citadel in Sol Limar, recalling that the jail cells were located in the basement. Expecting the same here, she picked her destination and took a deep breath, firming her resolve. Ignoring her racing pulse, she focused on her goal and slipped around the corner.
With a furtive glance toward the room with the guards, she slid along the wall, toward the stairwell. Laughter from something said sounded from the room and one man patted another on the back. Lyra turned to find the stairs two strides away and quickly crept down them, fading into the darkness.
At the landing, the stairwell turned to reveal another half-flight. Flickering light from an unseen torch illuminated the area just enough to guide her to the bottom.
She turned the corner and stopped short when she faced a man’s chest. The eyes of the guard who had almost run into her grew wide, his mouth opening.
Years of training with Elan sent Lyra into action. She lunged, throwing a hard jab into the man’s exposed throat. The guard staggered, his hand going to his neck as he choked, while his other hand latched onto Lyra’s shoulder. She kicked, slamming her knee into the man’s groin. He released her, and he doubled-over. Yanking her sword from its scabbard, she raised it high for an overhead strike and smashed
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