Shard Knight (Echoes Across Time Book 1) (6 page)

His hand went to his breast pocket, and he felt for the key he’d placed there earlier. Could he still use Tyrell’s cellar escape?

Heavy fists pounded on the pantry door followed by waves of laughter. “Face this like a man. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Ronan yanked open the cellar door and leaped into the black emptiness.

Total darkness left the cellar’s contents hidden from view except for a dirt-caked shovel leaning against a nearby wooden crate.

As Ronan pulled the cellar door closed, the pantry door opened. He let the door drop the final few inches and grabbed for the shovel.

A second later the cellar door creaked open, and a bearded face appeared overhead. “Come up here you little bastard.”

Ronan swung the shovel at the guard’s face, but found empty air as the man moved his head away in time.

The door slammed shut leaving Ronan alone in a shroud of darkness.

He sagged against the cool dirt wall clutching the shovel in both hands and pulling in deep breaths of musty air.

Through the cellar door, murmured conversations mixed with the thuds of multiple footsteps.

Ronan had to find Tyrell’s door. He stood and groped along the cellar wall pulling loose dirt down on his head. He inched his way toward the cellar’s rear wall.

Behind Ronan, the cellar door squeaked open, and heavy boots appeared on the wooden ladder.

Cold fear rippled along Ronan’s spine as he spun and readied the shovel for attack. If he died tonight, he’d take a guard with him.

A city guard wearing heavy leather held out a blade as he lowered himself to the dirt floor. In his offhand he carried an oil lamp spilling light across the cellar. “We decided you’ve been enough trouble for one night. You can rot down here as far as we care.” The guard tossed the oil lamp into a pile of wooden crates stacked against the wall opposite Ronan. “I’ll even give you a little warmth to take away the night’s chill.”

The oil lamp shattered spraying hot oil over the brittle wooden crates. Three creates nearest Ronan burst into flame.

“Have a good night Your Highness.” The guard chuckled as he climbed the ladder. “Light it up.” His words echoed through the house.

The wooden ladder disappeared through the cellar door. The city guard slammed the door shut sealing Ronan in a fiery tomb.

The flames skittered across the splattered oil setting aflame a wooden box and piles of empty burlap bags.

Ronan breathed in the billowing smoke, and a wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. He stripped off his jacket and pushed it against his nose and mouth.

The flames leaped from box to box, and glimmers of fire flickered from cracks between kitchen floorboards overhead.

Thick smoke burned Ronan’s eyes, and his stomach lurched in protest as the jacket did little to ward off smoke inhalation. He’d die in this cellar unless he could find Tyrell’s door.

Within seconds, a wall of flames engulfed the far side of the cellar licking at kitchen floor overhead.

Ronan scoured the unburned part of the cellar, but found no door.

As the stacked wooden crates crumbled in the raging inferno, a heavy door fell forward having burned from its hinges.

The steel door groaned and crashed into the tangled burning crates. Sparks billowed across the cellar’s scorched air spraying Ronan with tiny red-hot embers.

Ronan beat his coat against the floor killing the fire before it could take hold.

Flames licked beneath the fallen door, but it provided safe harbor through the blazing inferno and offered cool comfort from a dark passageway beyond the flames.

With his pulse racing, Ronan found the key in his breast pocket and jammed it into his trousers. He wrapped the blue uniform jacket around his head and plunged into the flames finding his footing on the fallen door.

The fire’s intense heat overwhelmed Ronan, and his knees wobbled on the burning door. As he crossed through the flame, heavy smoke curled up beneath his feet and poured into his mouth and nose. His throat constricted, and his body shook with violent spasms as he gagged and choked under the assault.

The passageway’s welcoming darkness appeared at the end of the fiery gauntlet, and Ronan pitched forward tumbling into the tunnel’s cool damp earth.

Flames licked around his head as his jacket had caught fire. He tossed his destroyed coat into the blazing fire and dropped to his knees choking and gagging.

With his eyes watering and stinging, Ronan crawled along the passage stopping to choke up strings of mucus and hot bile.

At the tunnel’s end, a wall of cool mud stopped any further progress forward.

Ronan leaned against the earthen wall pulling in shallow breaths of clean air. His lungs burned, but the air provided welcome relief.

Inside the burning cellar, the kitchen floor collapsed. Piles of molten ash and burning wood blocked entry to the cellar.

With no way out, he turned his gaze upward, and for the first time today a weak smile spread across his face.

Built into the muddy ceiling, a small door remained unscathed by smoke or flame.

Ronan pulled the key from his soot-stained trousers and unlocked the door. He pulled himself inside the cool darkness of the adjoining cellar, and relief washed over him. He rolled away from the trapdoor and breathed in damp smoke free air.

Dim light filtered through the dark cellar outlining a small trapdoor built into the ceiling.

Ronan stood, lumbered across the room, and pushed opened the cellar door. He climbed the ladder and paused inside the empty kitchen.

Bright flickers of flame danced from the adjoining room’s floorboards. Near the chairs, occupied only hours before, a circular patch of flame licked the floor engulfing a shattered oil lamp near the rusty iron stove.

Ronan spun searching for signs of fire, but the kitchen remained untouched.

Inside the little kitchen, the back door hung off its hinges, and fresh splinters jutted from a mangled door frame.

Ronan dashed through the rear door into the night air’s welcome relief.

A narrow alley led away in opposite directions. The guards had evacuated both houses leaving Ronan’s exit observed by the neighbor’s cat who sat perched on a nearby tree limb.

Tucked in a low crouch, Ronan dashed along the alley past several houses moving away from the fire. Hope blossomed in his mind. He’d earned anonymity from the fire.

A city block away, he stumbled onto the side street used by Master Wilburn a few hours earlier.

Ronan crept along the cobbled street remaining hidden by shadow. At the intersection he paused and gazed toward the burning townhouses he’d escaped.

A small crowd had gathered and formed a makeshift bucket brigade. A tall lanky man grabbed an overflowing bucket and tossed water against the fire-threatened townhouse.

Any sign the city guard had visited burned beneath the damp Meranthian night.

In the opposite direction, dawn’s purple haze gave early warning to the impending sunrise.

Ronan turned his back on the burning wreckage and loped toward Old Town’s entrance and a meeting with Patron Tyrell.

A New Friend

Stretched out in the damp dawn air, hung a line of laundry with no hope of fully drying. The clothing stood unattended as did the other streets and alleys inside the laborers district. Most people remained indoors during the early morning hours, but they’d come outside soon enough.

From his hiding place in the bushes, Ronan surveyed the small yard and dashed for the hanging laundry. He grabbed a pair of linen trousers and a blue cotton tunic. They looked big, but he’d make them work.

With his heart racing, he tore through a shrub line and disappeared. He’d change clothes with minutes to spare before meeting Master Tyrell.

He ran through the district traversing alleys and jumping fences. Five minutes later he slowed to a walk as he entered the alley that took him to the Old Town entrance.

At the alley’s mouth, a thick elderberry bush grew behind an overgrown backyard. Small unripened berries, hung in clumps on its branches.

Ronan’s stomach growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He tore free a few berries and popped them in his mouth. As he sank his teeth into them, a bitter acidic tang spread across his taste buds. He spit out the hard berries and kept spitting until the taste disappeared.

The elderberry bush provided more than unripened fruit. The branches covered a small hollowed out spot inside the bush.

With a quick peek toward the house, he slipped into the bush and peeled off his torn soot-stained clothing. His stomach twisted as he pulled the smoke-filled tunic over his head. Removing the clothing felt like saying good-bye to a part of his life he’d never get back.

Ronan touched the intricately carved gold ring that dangled from a silver chain around his neck. His mother gave him the ring on his eighth birthday. It had belonged in his family for centuries and remained his last treasure from happier times.

He changed into the new clothes and transferred a small coin purse from his old trousers. He carried what most nobles considered a modest amount of coin. The people living inside the Laborer’s District would work a year to earn the equivalent. With his personal business settled, Ronan emerged from the elderberry bush and walked along the alley.

A hundred yards ahead, the alleyway met the street that connected Old Town to the Laborer’s District. That intersection provided the perfect vantage point to hide and wait for Tyrell’s arrival.

He increased his pace eager to meet Master Tyrell. A patrol of city guards would recognize Tyrell on sight, and Ronan didn’t want to put the man’s life in further jeopardy.

The back sides of several modest homes, trade shops, and businesses lined the alleyway. On the right, the Queen’s Heart, home to the finest ale in Freehold, gave way to Lady Holloway’s tailor shop. Near the alley’s exit, an old broken wagon sat behind Master Belmont’s blacksmith shop.

The alleyway itself had trash bins full of discarded boxes, old food, shredded newspaper, and bits of scrap metal.

Ronan ditched his old clothing in a large trash bin behind the Queen’s Heart. The trash wagon came through this district weekly and would remove the final traces of his former life with yesterday’s news.

A breeze stirred and delivered the promise of rain mixed with a healthy dose of rotting half-eaten inn food.

A wave of nausea rolled through Ronan’s stomach that helped curb his hunger pangs. He held his breath as he made his way past the Queen’s Heart.

The wind also brought the tense sound of angry voices.

Ronan’s ears perked up, and he paused. The voices sounded confrontational, and he couldn’t afford any delays.

The conversation originated a short distance ahead behind a large trash bin and the broken-down wagon.

Ronan skirted the trash bin and crouched behind the wagon.

A half-dozen rough looking teenage boys crowded around a younger boy near Ronan’s age. The younger boy had the light caramel complexion common among Ayralens. He wore a simple outfit, and a dark blue hat hid his face. The Ayralen boy stood half as tall as any of the six large teenage brutes towering over him. One boy, taller and fatter than his friends, stood in the middle directing his anger at the Ayralen.

“Go back to the forest and hug a tree,” the fat boy said as he jammed his index finger into the smaller boy’s chest.

The Ayralen took a half step backwards but held his ground.

Sir Alcott had taught Ronan the basics of Ayralen culture. Their country existed in a vast forest, and they didn’t worship Elan the way Meranthians did.

His grandfather, Torr Latimer, had done everything he could to keep Ayralens out of Meranthia. As did the Meranthian kings before him, Torr kept the border sealed and hung any Ayralens that snuck past.

Queen Arianne changed that ancient policy ten years ago. Ayralens could freely travel across Meranthian borders. Although few Meranthians ventured into the giant forest, the ones that did stayed. A handful of brave Ayralens had made homes in Meranthia bringing with them their customs, beliefs, and religion.

Fear of the Ayralen way of life had driven Pride to kill his mother, and these bullies pushing around this boy represented that dark underside of Meranthian society.

Some citizens viewed the Ayralen immigrants as little more than savages praising a false god. They wanted no contact with their children, their culture, or any of their strange customs. From what little Ronan had seen, these racist people represented Meranthia’s minority. Most welcomed the Ayralens and greeted them with warmth, curiosity, and genuine openness.

Ronan’s combined knowledge of Ayralen customs and culture could fit on a single slip of note paper. He took people as they came and formed his opinions based on a person’s actions not general stereotypes. In fact, he welcomed the diversity.

“You’re a rotten little thief is what you are,” the fat boy said.

The monstrous fat boy stood six-feet tall and almost as wide. His stomach strained against a tunic at least three sizes too small, and one button looked ready to pop. Streaks of dingy dirt soiled his white tunic, and large yellow stains appeared under his armpits. His light brown hair stood in odd clumps while portions appeared cemented to his skull.