Fold Thunder
Book One of The Rim and the Shore
Gregory Ashe
Published by Gregory Ashe
Copyright 2011 Gregory Ashe
Acknowledgments
Every writing, no matter how private, is always interpersonal, and so my thanks go out to the people who have supported me in writing this book (and its predecessors who have not, and will never, see the light of day). To those people, and you know who you are, thank you.
An additional thank you goes to Vinh-Khoi Le, who generously provided the beautiful new cover art.
The sun beats lightning on the waves,
The waves fold thunder on the sand;
—Hart Crane, “Voyages” I.7-8
Prologue
Boots squished through the rotting garbage of the alley. Pontus motioned for Chec and Felle to draw back into the recessed doorway of the tenement. They ducked out of sight, swinging the thick canvas sack, along with its struggling occupant. Pontus drew his short sword and his dagger and pressed himself down against a splintered barrel. Over his rapid heartbeat, Pontus listened for movement. Another footstep came, a few moments later, and another. Through the broken staves, Pontus saw a boot. Finely stitched leather, with the edge of silver embroidery showing under the owner’s trouser cuff, the boot was decidedly out of place for the Gut, Asian’s dirtiest—and most dangerous—district. Fresh stains from the alley stood out on the otherwise clean wool of the trousers.
More footsteps came down the alley, opposite the narrow side-street where Pontus was crouched. He opened and tightened sweaty hands around the blades. One of them, maybe . . . but two? The brick of the tenement was cool against his back, but uncomfortable, and Pontus resisted the urge to shift positions. The shadows of early evening weren’t deep enough to hide his movement.
“Any sign of them?” one of the men asked. Them? Pontus thought. Us?
“I lost them in the market,” the other replied. “For a moment, at least. I thought I saw them come down here.”
“Bel shred their souls,” the other swore. “That’s all it takes. I’ll head down here. You go back to the market, keep looking.”
The boot-and-trouser turned and disappeared, and a moment later the other man stepped into view. He wore a studded leather jerkin and had a sword in one hand, a buckler strapped to his other arm. As he came around the corner, his eyes fell right on Pontus, and he let out a shout. “Maf,” he said, “I got one!”
He didn’t have time for more. Pontus surged forward. He caught the man’s sword with his dagger and thrust with his own sword. The other man turned the blade aside with his buckler and smashed the small shield into Pontus’s face, then twisted his sword free. Pontus’s dagger flew from his hand, clattering to the stone.
Blood filled Pontus’s mouth, and he staggered back a step. He spat blood and shouted, “Chec, get him out of here!” Chec and Felle emerged from the doorway and, without a second glance, sprinted down the narrow street, the canvas sack bouncing with every step.
The squelch of garbage saved Pontus’s life. He turned and the second man’s blade slid along his ribs instead of into his back. Pontus stumbled back again, trying to get the two men in front of him, his sword low and steady. He pressed one hand against the wound, but didn’t look. Looking always made him sick, made him worry. Better not to think about it, at least for the time being.
“Looks like you were right, Maf,” the man said.
Maf didn’t respond. The narrow street kept the two men from circling around him, but Pontus knew he only had a few moments before they rushed him. He bent, drew a thin throwing knife from his boot, and threw it underhanded as he stood. The knife caught Maf in the shoulder, spinning him around. Pontus shifted his stance and then sprinted forward, sword held low. He knocked aside the other man’s sword, sweeping his blade so close to Maf’s face on the carry-through that the second man slipped. Pontus crashed into the other man, slamming into the alley wall and then into the rotting garbage of the street. The man lay still beneath him, his eyes unfocused.
Pontus rolled onto his back as fast as he could, expecting to see Maf’s sword coming down on him. The other man was nowhere to be seen though. Without waiting to press his luck, Pontus picked himself up, took one last look at the man he had knocked down, and sprinted down the alley.
As he ran, his mind raced as well. Both men had worn plain gray doublets over white shirts, brown trousers, and good boots. Pontus knew that type of man; they were either some nobleman’s guards, in disguise, or guildsmen, or maybe a merchant’s guards. He hadn’t crossed any of the guilds or merchants, at least not lately. Considering his recent acquisition, Pontus thought it likely that these men belonged to a lord. But why the disguise? he wondered. Why not just march down here with a full troop? More importantly, if they are Luca Reaze’s men, why are they in disguise? And if they aren’t, whose are they?
Pushing aside questions for which he had no answers, Pontus pressed his hand, already sticky with blood, back over the wound. He needed a surgeon. As he left the alley, someone started out at him, and Pontus brought his sword up, heart pounding.
“Felle,” he said, recognizing the slender man. Felle had the canvas sack draped over one shoulder, and he hunched under the weight. The sack was suspiciously still. Pontus lowered the sword. “Where’s Chec?”
“Went back for you,” the man said, rubbing his raw nose.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” Pontus asked, eyeing the sack.
“Don’t know,” Felle said. “Could be. Chec rapped him once on the head.”
“Bloody Bel take me,” Pontus said, “if I just got skewered for kidnapping a dead man. And I lost a good knife on top of it all.” He let out a sigh. “I’m not carrying him when I’ve just been carved like a ham, so you’re going to have to make do.”
Felle just rubbed his nose and nodded back down the alley. Chec was walking towards them, wiping a narrow throwing knife clean on a scrap of gray cloth. “You left me to clean up after you,” the big man complained, rolling his massive shoulders. “The one you knocked down was still awake; it just took him a little to get moving again.”
“Bloody Bel,” Pontus swore again. “Well, I owe you one. I wondered where that second one had gone. But if you killed him,” he nodded to the sack, “I may not be so grateful.”
Chec shrugged, grabbed one end of the sack, and started down the street. Felle stumbled after, trying to get a hold on the sack and keep up at the same time. Pontus turned and headed the other way, cursing the blood that was still running down his side. He wouldn’t trust a surgeon in the Gut with a shaving-cut, let alone a wound like this. And that meant more walking.
Part I—Currents