The Spheres of Caddock -Chapter One

              With his back pressed firmly against the cell wall, Bulder cowered in the corner, hiding his face from the meek light of the room, his figure shadowed in the debris of straw. Sweat trickled down his face and back. Chills shook his body; unconsciously he rocked himself back and forth.

              Ignoring the smell of the wet musty straw and urine coated stone he only listened. An abnormal silence pulsed through the room. A chain rattled from far away, with a piercing scream penetrating into his raw nerves. Wincing at the sound, he drummed his head with his hands, deafening himself to everything around him.

              When an eventual silence came, Bulder raised his head. Time had passed since they had thrown him in to the unfamiliar cell. His eyes darted from corner to corner, nothing gave any indication of how long he had been locked away. The window in the cell door persisted in its constant stream of dimness. Opening his mouth he tried licking his lips. What little moisture was quickly absorbed into his dry skin. Painfully, he tried to swallow. In the continuous silence, Bulder lifted an ear to the door, and after several seconds he stretched his arms and legs momentarily.

              For weeks, they had been harassing him; chasing him down and beating him, stealing his meagre possessions, forcing him to eat indescribable things. At first he was able to hide, but soon they found his hiding places, where they eventually watched and waited; places he had once felt safe until recently.

              The nightmares had started again. Ones that hadn’t occurred since he was at the age of ten and had just come to Cailidora. Less nightmares than snippets of memory lodged in his subconscious that he had mostly forgotten, to be remembered when asleep; The fire setting ablaze house and trees. Smoke; a blackness deeper than the eternal night forsaken of stars. The girls screaming, huddling, shrinking in the corner. The charging enemy mowing over anything living. The girls screaming. A wave that was unbroken. The elves.

              Bulder swung back, a large cracking sound discharged in the room. His head smashed into the wall, briefly raining blackness over his vision. He blinked it away, finding that his vision allowed for an open cell door.

              Hanging, for what seemed an eternity of suspension, open by only inches. Bulder pulled himself closer to the cold wall. He waited, watching the wooden door, watched it flood the room with light, watched it for several moments before it finally opened with streams of light flooding into the room. He closed his eyes.

              Footsteps thudded painfully, reverberating around the room until they slowed at the centre. Silence cloaked the cell.

              In the corner, Bulder began to shiver. White flares of light shot across his clenched eyes, orbs flew across his vision, pummelling into his head. He wrapped himself into a tighter ball, trying desperately to merge with the brick walls.

              A gentle voice caused Bulder to jump.

              “Be calm,”

              Bulder held his gaze to the floor. The voice pierced deep inside him, breaking what comfort remained. His heart began to race. He groaned quietly; unintentionally as he pushed himself further into the wall and floor.

              After several moments the figure in the centre of the room suddenly moved towards the cowering man. Bulder flinched, raising his head he watched as the elf walked towards him while removing a silver flask from inside his robe. The elf stopped as he reached the edge of the straw bed.

              Bulder raised his eyes to the elf’s who quickly locked them into a burrowing stare. The ice and malice tore through the last of Bulder’s defences. He could only watch as the elf uncorked the flask. It popped, echoing faintly before it began to bubble with a violent chaos. Reaching into his robe, the elf pulled out what looked to be a wooden writing implement.

                As he shoved the wooden tip into the bottle, it began to froth violently. Hissing, it sent plumes of smoke towards the cell roof. The elf set the flask on the ground, keeping the implement in the tips of his fingers. Before Bulder could react, the elf bent to his knees, latching onto one of Bulder’s arms. He pulled Bulder closer, while pulling his arm clear of the ragged sleeve.

                Bulder muffled a shout as tears streamed down his face. He already wanted it to be over. His whole body shook with fright. He could only try to pull away from the stronger man.

                The elf’s grasp was tight and wouldn’t relent to Bulder’s struggles. With a wide grin he forced Bulder close enough to smell his rancid breath. He let the smell flow up his nose.

                Then with a word Bulder couldn’t pronounce, he pressed the wooden stick against Bulder’s upper arm.

                It seared and burned. Bulder pulled back, crying aloud but the elf wouldn’t let his arm move. The smell of burning flesh quickly filled the cell as smoke drifted to the roof. The elf slowly started to move the stick, forcing the wooden implement deep into Bulder’s flesh. It rubbed against bone, wiggling a fixed pattern.

                Bulder whimpered, the pain was worse than anything he had ever known, anything he could imagine. It felt like coals, flames licking his arm, biting, gnawing for the marrow of his bones. When Bulder felt like striking at the elf, it was over.

                The man got to his feet, permitting Bulder to look at his wound. It was a snake, or at least in the same design. It slithered up his arm and wound around his shoulder. There was no head or tail, only what looked like a large bowl near one of the ends. The engraving was known throughout the land, throughout the world; Omerean’s sign. His symbol of power, death and defeat; marking all his possessions.

         The elf grinned at his work, staring as Bulder blinked away the lingering tears. He let Bulder hold his arm for a few moments as he replaced the silver flask and then, gradually, pulled out another, bronze coloured.

         When Bulder saw the second flask he winced. He wouldn’t be able to do it again. The first time was excruciating, the second would kill him.

As the elf leaned down over him, this time on his feet, Bulder put his arms up in defence. The elf only thrust them away, pouring the open flask onto Bulder’s wound.

         A white powder fell to his arm; fell into the inch deep burn. Immediately, the pain on Bulder’s arm disappeared. He looked at the snake, watching the burn heal with impossible speed. When the elf finally withdrew his bronze flask, the burn on Bulder’s arm was transformed into a white scar, the pain a faint memory. It stood out like a beacon of warning, something resembling a birthmark.

Bulder pulled the sleeve of his shirt down already ashamed, hiding his scar.

         A few minutes passed with nothing but heavy breathing from Bulder and a smirk from the elf passing between them. It seemed a lifetime. The one person he despised the most in the entire Northern world stood before him, had marked him property of a god he did not worship.

Finally, the elf shifted his weight to one side and spoke.

“He speaks to me. Tells me what I must do.” A smile spread over his face as his eyes rose to the low ceiling. A calmness poured from the elf. He looked back down at Bulder and answered his question.

“Omerean.

“I have been chosen, you see. Chosen to rid this city, no, Hilroy, of those that he detests. Those that are weak, the ones that are small and unworthy of his kindness.” The elf began to pace, an excitement consuming him, allowing the words to pour quickly from his mouth.

“And the One from the Prophecy.” He turned his head to Bulder, made sure the man was watching him move freely across the room.

“Many have passed through that door,” his arm swung hastily at the entrance to the cell. “But none have been suffered to leave and I have yet to find the one my Master is sure that squanders here.

“Yes, there have been others. More than you’d think, more than you’d like to know. And until I find the One and let his blood upon the cold stone ground, there will be more.

“There is something about you.” The elf stopped his pacing. He leaned towards Bulder, scouring his dirty body, searching for something hidden beneath an undetectable casing. Bulder pulled back.

“You’re predictable.” The elf turned his head, glancing back at the cell door.

“Each week we watch you. The same routine every day, look for food. It’s boring, trailing you. We get bored very easily. You don’t surprise us. We can guess your every move. But I am confused by one thing. Your determination to live.”

Bulder breathed deeply as he watched the elf before him. At first he avoided the elf’s gaze, then unable to evade the lingering stare, he peered into the probing eyes.

“All the others succumbed quickly. They gave up within the first few weeks. But you, even though you know you’re going to die, you fight. Your wanting to survive should be seen by Omerean and outweigh the unholy existence in which you are living.

“But my Master wishes to clear his land and find the One for when his power returns. And you are in his way.”

Bulder tried to swallow. His throat burned as he forced his drying saliva down. The tears on his face were still wet. He clenched at his new scar. His pulse pounded in his temples. And then the elf moved forwards in a swift motion.

In only two strides he reached Bulder and produced a large knife from beneath his robe. A light glint was all Bulder could see before the elf’s body came down upon him.

He struggled as hard as he could. Instead of trying to protect his face and neck he struck out, trying desperately to knock the knife out of the elf’s hand. He kicked, he swung his arms out connecting with something, unable to see where the knife was. He spun, turned and kicked. And then it was over.



*****

Impatiently, a young man knocked on the door to a townhouse in the upscale parts of Cailidora. He thought he was late. He waited. No one came. He knocked again.

         His body began to show signs of nervousness. What if they had figured out who he was sent by? He knocked and with a little force kicked the bottom of the door. Five minutes passed and still no one answered.

He began to shake, his boss would not be happy. He had spent the money he was given. His plan was simple, to lavish himself with gifts and then win the amount he spent and a generous portion more back by using the method his employer, a notoriously known deicier, had shown him. No one would have known. Now, he was apt to lose a few fingers.

Suddenly, he felt like beating on the door with both fists, screaming, losing all control and just breaking down. He imagined doing this and them seeing and having pity on his contorted sobbing figure.

What was he to do? He couldn’t go back with less money than he had came with, it would be the end of his services. As tears came to his eyes, he began to bang on the door relentlessly with both fists.

He heard movement on the other side.

         It opened to a sight that was not expected.

         “Ha, Kiril! he cries.” Here was his informant, Dunn, the one who also invited him, standing in the doorway. Not a maidservant or parlour boy as he had expected. The two men stared at each other. Dunn towered over the other by almost three feet.

         “Come in you poor sap.” With a large grin, Dunn stepped to the side, allowing the young man to enter.

         The man that was crying smiled, stepped over the threshold and into the manor.



         Three forms wandered drunkenly in and out of the wet streets, chattering without thought to who might hear. They staggered with each step. The beer they had consumed had already taken some effect on the two friends who always seemed inseparable. The third figure walked with little difficulty; having passed up on most of the offered drinks. A good idea, he thought; his mind would be clear and free to swindle at his heart’s content or his bosses biddings. It was a short walk before the three reached their destination.

         The door that stood before them was just taller than Dunn who quickly knocked in a unique pattern. One of the three watched with intenseness. His eyes sparked with joy. He needed to gain his own access without the tall man. Tonight would be beginners luck, a few nights of the same good fortune would be suspicious around him.

         A small access set in the entrance door opened, a silhouette appeared. “Password?”

         “Password! You don’t recognize me?”

         “Dunn, my good fellow! And Kiril too! Ah, but when has one come and not the other? Oh, and you have brought fresh meat, one with a purse as large as a house I hope. What’s your name my good man?”

         “Let us in. His name doesn’t matter right now, it’s freezing out here. It only matters what he wins if he’ll be asked to come again. Let us in,”

         “With the way you speak you could have the father of a virgin give you the keys to her chastity belt for safe keeping.” The doorman laughed at his own reply.

         “Yes? I’ll think about that, now open the door.” Dunn ignored the man.

         The large wooden door swung open on creaking hinges, revealing a well-lit room full of various dressed people. Many were in states of despair or ecstasy, their dress matching their state, cheering, yelling or crying. Everyone gathered into one group or another; many set throughout the room. Dunn and Kiril stepped inside to shake the doorman’s hand, leaving their new friend behind with an excitement spreading over his body.

          He couldn’t believe that all his efforts were finally being rewarded for months of work. He had actually found someone, a member of the Dunn family to be exact, to pass an invitation to him to enter into the most sought after gambling ring in Cailidora. He just hoped he wouldn’t be caught.

         He stepped through the doorway and grabbed the doorman’s hand, “Name’s Verril.”

         More than ten tables were spread throughout the room, each holding a different game of dice. Patrons swarmed around each table joining in on the excitement of a win or loss by the hosted players.

Verril followed his two companions, interweaving between the solitary drunks and animated tables. The dense smoke combined from pipe and cigar burned into his nose giving him a slight queasy feeling. A loudness from the drunken players, victorious and defeated; with the ones that had yet to determine their standings for the night and a faint but audible sound of music, helped with the smoke to create a small ache inside his head. But he revelled it. It gave him the sensation that nothing could go wrong.

         They stopped at a table that had fewer people than the rest.

         “I’d like to introduce you all to Verril. It’s his first time tonight, and like any virgin, you have to be gentle,” The table erupted with laughter. “Since most of you here at this table are new, I thought you would be able to sit him and show him some easy ways to lose what little money he has. He’s told me that he has never touched a pair of dice and has never gambled a day in his life. He’s down on his luck and sees this as his only way to make amends what he has done.

         “Now, with your knowledge of what he knows and what he does not I leave him to you. A virgin! Remember, be easy.” Verril watched as Dunn lifted a mug he held and toasted the table. He wondered when Dunn happened on the mug and noticed Kiril, too, had one.

         “ Verril if you need us,” he could smell the alcohol on Dunn’s breath and noticed a slight slur in his speech that was already formed as he leaned down to him, “we will be up top, where the pleasures await us.”

“May the weight of the dice be with you” Kiril slurred as he followed Dunn without a backwards glance. Verril winced. Did they know? He took a large breath. Good.



         “Dunn, you lunk of a man, Dunn! Where are you at?”

         “What do you want?” Dunn sat up, pushing a groggy whore off the side of his bed by accident.

         “Your man, the one you have brought,” he was looking for recognition on Dunn’s drunken face. “He’s had the most extraordinary luck. He’s winning, taking all the stakes he’s come across. And it’s a lot of money. I thought you should know.”

         “How much has he won?”

         “Remember your night at last year’s carnival? Yes, well he’s more than doubled that already.”

         “By the Gods” Dunn grabbed for his pants and shirt as he staggered out the door while following the doorman. The prize from last year kept him well away from his fathers money for more than two months. He swayed down the steps dressing himself. The nights drinking finally catching up to him. He would get some of the money from Verril. It was only fair; after all, he had invited the man.

         The table Verril occupied had most of the patrons of the gambling house surrounding it now; a large group of drunks and men in wonderment.

Although he had no need of pushing his way to the front, he could perfectly see over everyone’s heads, Dunn did any ways, right up beside Verril.

         “I hear you’re having luck?” His speech was slurred.

         “Dunn. Oh, yes, I am.” His eyes gleamed with Dunn’s at the amount of coins set before him. He rattled the dice in his hands, spreading the smile further across his face. He let them loose on the table.

         “Double sixes, again. Verril: ninety-six.” the puff adder yelled with a sound of annoyance in his voice. Hastily leaning over the table, Verril grabbed his dice and brought them up to his chest, holding them clenched in his fist. The turns of the other players went with their scores trailing far. Verril’s turn came up again.

         The dice hit the table, not far from the thrower. Again, they rolled double sixes. He snatched them up.

         “Winner: Verril. Another round?”

         “Umm… No, I shall think I have won enough for tonight. My purse is full and I bet my luck will soon run dry. Better now, before I start to lose, eh?” The restless crowd moaned and went silent.

         Dunn did not like his response. His drunken eyes had seen the mounds of coins his new friend had won. He wanted at least a small share, but if Verril went home, his amount would lessen. The cost of his drinks would be covered for the night and a few more.

His greedy voice broke the silence.

         “Come on, keep playing.”

         “No, I am afraid I am finished for the night. I shall come again another, if you shall have me return?” The table erupted with drunken approval.

         “Keep playing.” The large man’s eyes widened as his voice ground with his teeth. He took half a step towards Verril. The crowd gasped.

         “Not tonight. I’ll come again another time,” Verril’s voice began to stammer. He reached out a hand to gather his coins but Dunn caught it by the wrist.

         “Play!”

         “No… no-another time,”

         Dunn grabbed Verril’s other hand and reached for the dice. He threw them on the table and pulled his attention back to the man he held. Before Dunn could force him to play, the crowd gasped. Shock etched everyone’s face, except Verril, who cowered, still in Dunn’s established grasp. Dunn twisted his head to read the dice that were on the table: double-sixes.

         Dunn held Verril’s arms, a man at least three feet taller than him, and his former players surrounded him, breast to breast. Verril trembled in Dunn’s grasp. Fear surged over his body. He was caught. He pulled lightly at Dunn’s grip; it was resolute. Tears instantly stung his eyes as he cowered to the floor.

Every so often, he had changed his dice for real ones between the ones his master had created for him; to try and quell the suspicions that would come. In the end, it did nothing to help him. He was dead either by the mob of gamblers, or by his boss for blowing their cover.

         A chorus of “Cheater!” sprang from around the table. Angry shouts and empty mugs blasted themselves at Verril. Dunn stood dumbfounded, drunken in a stupor, holding Verril. Before much damage could be done, the shouting and angry curses were interrupted by two figures that pushed themselves through the crowd. The crowd quieted.

         “What is this nonsense you speak of?” A man dressed even more lavishly than Dunn who had some of his best clothes on, forced his way into the group.

         The crowd erupted into the chorus of “Cheater,” once again.

         “Who? Who is the cheater?” Fingers pointed to the man that Dunn now held unconsciously close.

         “Take him out back.”

         Verril tried to dodge the doorman’s reach, but Dunn still held him in place. He slouched to the floor as he exchanged hands, struggling as much as he could against his fate. His sobs came choking out of him as he tried to breath and plead. He struggled limply as he was drug away, violently shaking. Verril and the doorman disappeared into the crowd.

         The other man dressed in splendour made his way to Dunn’s side.

         “Was it you that caught this thief?”          

         Dunn thought for a moment, then a drunken smile spread over his face, “Yes,” He swayed with the agreement of the crowd that surrounded him.

         “Very good my man.

         “Gentlemen. There was a cheater among us tonight,” angry booing would have cut him short but the man had expected it. “But our good friend Dunn here, caught him. He is being taken care of as we speak. Don’t any of you worry though. There will be no cheaters found again tonight. Let your minds get back to the joys of the night with a free round of drinks on the house.” Cheers welled up throughout the building.

         With the swell of the crowd, the man that spoke approached the bar and leaned towards the barman. He smiled and whispered so only the barman could hear, “Place it all on Dunn’s tab, he’s too drunk to remember.”