Maytain - The Reordering, Chapter One

Chapter One
A Deeper Darkness

As the sun fell on the surface, the twilight caverns of the lower city plunged into an abyss of darkness. The only light came from the few remaining street lamps. The residents of the city bolted doors and shutters, trapping any light and warmth inside.
         Someone was out in the town after dark. Someone who should not have been there. The first of his kind to enter the twin cities, the high class city above, with its theatres and public parks, and in the great caverns below, the sprawling lower city, where the poor of this centre world collected. It was deep and dusky and there was the ever-present drip of water echoing off the walls. They were the capitals of this world. A tile fell, exploding into oblivion as it hit the cobbles. Only a few families in the lower city could afford to have tiled roofs, still it was unlikely that the owner would be impressed about having to pay for a new tile. Had anyone been in the street to stare up in wonder as to why the tile of such a rich house had fallen, they would have seen nothing but the profound darkness of the caverns’ domed ceiling. No one ventured out once darkness fell, and only the very brave, or perhaps very stupid, would voyage into the area of the lower city where moonlight streamed down from above into the caverns through though the magnificent skylights. They were huge holes in the rock that let in light and fresh air to the city below. It was the final resort - used only when in desperate need - to leave the safety of a home and wander the dark and dismal streets. Though not all citizens obeyed this unwritten rule. Public houses and brothels never closed, firelight glimmered enticingly from open door ways where the revelry of men stoked by the persistent fire of the strongest ale beneath the surface and a barmaid who poured generously served. Alleyways were the haunts of ladies… plastered thickly with make up like armour protecting them from the sinister atrocities the darkness hid. But not all of those who walked the night’s darkened streets did so in the sake of pleasure. Assassins and Thieves prowled the dank paths, stepping lightly over puddles of stagnant, foul water; good business was always to be found in one murky corner of the cities or another.
         A shadow flitted by, temporarily obscuring the pool of moonlight further along the narrow street, the shadow of a large winged being. A large creature with tattered wings, torn to shreds like the sails of a wrecked ship.
         With the last of the fire festivals completed for the year, the lower city had sunk into its normal corroded state. The bright streamers, which had hung between the houses, had been removed, and within days, dripping moss and slime-like mildew had replaced them.
         Mitarith landed on a decaying thatched roof across the city from his original landing point (tiles, he had discovered, where very difficult to stand on). He had entered the caverns through one of the many skylights. However, upon flying through the hole he had entered by, Mitarith found he could no longer glide as he had been doing and was forced to make an immediate landing. Once on the roof top Mitarith had been able to regard the lower city like a beautiful gargoyle. He was crouched on the apex of the roof, hair that looked black in the lack of light underground, in reality a deep red brown, was tied back off his face. Mitarith’s face was angular; his high cheekbones were softened in the shadow of the caverns. Mitarith was bare skinned from the waste up apart from a leather vest he had traded on his journey, being unaccustomed to the cooler temperatures. He had had to slit the back to allow for his wings, but Mitarith had found it very warm all the same. Still he would need to take off again soon in search of somewhere to rest. As well as being embraced by the overwhelming confusion, that being underground had caused him. Mitarith had discovered that his feathered wings were dragging him down. The streamlined feathers made them perfect for gliding along on thermal air currents, but underground, when he was already exhausted, they dragged him down like a stone through water and he could barely flap them to land safely. This second landing had almost proved disastrous. While the considerable tears in his wings relieved some of the weight, Mitarith knew he would not be able to continue to fly like this. Time to change. Deep furrows folded his brow as he began to concentrate. The black feathers shooting from his back began to fade, starting at his skin and progressing towards the tips, becoming an insubstantial shade of what they were, but at the same time, a darker stain slowly filled the air behind him. The darkness looked like oil spreading through water and was of the same iridescent colour. It started at his shoulder blades chasing the rapidly fading feathers. The shadow solidified, forming leathery wings, reptile like, but they were slashed, from tip to shoulder, and with gashes ripped through. It was these wings, without feathers, that revealed Mitarith as far more than a normal Angel. All Angels in the centre world were Pure, a proud race with full-feathered wings; they were the opposite of their Fallen cousins. Mitarith was the leader of the Fallen and was in the city to do business.
         There were many sinister night crawlers to be found in this nocturnal world. (This was one fact he knew was true.) The wanderers who found doors barred against them, both above and below ground, the Magicians, the Hybrids, the Shifters, other non-humans. And the Soul Traders. These spectres glided through the cities, preying on any they could find. They did not heed boundaries or class divides, race or sex. Family homes were said to be safe from their hunt. The powerful and ancient power of the Gods protected families. Each family would have a shrine of some sort for their own protection and good fortune. Whether the Gods did truly protect these families, or whether the Soul Traders did not like the challenge of facing a house full of people was unknown. However many victims were found, alone and cold. Most were dead, while the unluckiest lived on, soulless, mindless shells. Rumour told that they latched on to the throats of their targets and sucked out the soul, driving their quarry insane. A slow and painful death. Not even wished on an enemy just in case. Mitarith intended to stay as far away from these leaches as he could. He was aware of how precarious his situation was. The Fallen, Farren as they called themselves, were not entirely popular anyway where in the universe it seemed and he was (for the time being) alone in a strange world. Mitarith needed allies.
         The Magicians were a formidable shadow on the minds of those who lived in the lower city cavern and the more refined city above. An eight stride thick wall separated the residents of the lower city and the Magicians. Although the Magicians themselves built the barrier, there was much debate as to whether it kept them in, or others out. These magical beings would certainly be of great assistance to Mitarith’s people. As their leader, the Fallen’s fate rested in his hands. Therefore, the Farren leader required more allies, as a contingency.
         Human suspicion and racism created huge divides in the cities. Those beings who lived there and were not of human origin Shifters, Hybrids and Pure Angels mainly were persecuted due to human fear. This fear helped to form the stories told by parents to keep their children from mischief. Though, as with all races, there were exceptions, the odd murder or assault committed by a supernatural being, but such events were rare. It was however, the propaganda the humans forged against the other races that would draw them to Mitarith’s banner as it were. Well most of them, the Fallen thought to himself. Any self-respecting Pure would shred their wings before helping me. It was not fair. It was mainly the fault of the Pures that Mitarith had made the eight-week flight to the centre dimension, to find another week’s worth of flight ahead of him to reach the capital cities, and he was exhausted.
         Mitarith cocked his head. He could hear people near by, drunken singing, laughter and the sounds of physical pleasure. If he was lucky, the location of this sound was an inn. If not, then he had enough money perhaps to buy a bed in a brothel for a night, and then one of the poor girls working there would get a nights sleep too. He leapt from the roof, and glided down a near by alleyway, landing deep in shadow. Mitarith took a deep breath, then another and stepped out of the shadows. For a moment it seemed as though the darkness clung to him, like a desperate lover, then he was free, and wingless. After first arriving in this central world, Mitarith had discovered humans were not overly kind to strangers. Nor to non-humans, especially not ones they had never seen before. Through this Mitarith realised that hiding his wings would be safest around the humans here.
The Inn of the Grey Orchid was busy and full of people. It took Mitarith a moment to adjust to the noise inside. The inn was bright and seemingly welcoming, but the Fallen had learnt not to trust anywhere until they were sure it was as welcoming as it seemed.
         Mitarith approached the bar, a female human stood behind the bar, leaning one arm on the counter watching the common room, with a practised eye. Looking for trouble, Mitarith realised, and those two by the fire are definitely hired Shifters. He knew that in cities like this a species call Shifters often highbred themselves out as bodyguards, or even to the city watch. Shifters did not belong to any world in particular, and existed in the gaps between places. They were said to have no true form, hence their ability to be anyone. Mitarith was always wary of what everyone said or knew. After all, his own people were thought of a murderers and reavers. Known even to eat children. Mitarith had never eaten child in his life and did not intend to start anytime soon.
         The woman behind the bar transferred her gaze to the king of the Fallen and raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself. She was tall and thin. Not very pretty, but Mitarith was no judge of what made a human pretty, he liked his own people, and it was still very strange to walk somewhere were no one had wings, had never felt the power of flight. The barmaid smiled encouragingly and Mitarith searched for the words he had practiced over and over. The common language here was a far softer dialect than his own Farren, and the words were often longer, in a different order. He had learnt all he knew from and old Fallen, old and frail with an ancient knowledge of the tongue, Mitarith had been laughed at on his journey for the way he spoke. Like an old man, they had said, and Mitarith had laughed too, for the irony.
         “I am looking for somewhere to stay, am I in the right place?” He spoke slowly, clearly, trying not to slip, making sure the words were right. He realised that he took too much care, and it was obvious that he had little grasp of the language. His concern obviously showed because the woman laughed gently and smiled at him
         “Welcome to the lower city sir. D’you understand what it is I’m saying to you?” she was still smiling, and Mitarith realised that she was not mocking him.
         “I do. Do you have any rooms spare?” He knew that if he kept talking then he would pick up the language faster.
         “Aye that we do. What be your name then sir?” Mitarith did not like that question, his answer called for him to lie. But if it came to lying about his name, or waking up with the knives of the city watch pointed at his throat then Mitarith took lying.
         “Mit. Mit Ansye and may I ask yours?” At least I still have the charisma to make a girl blush, even if it takes me a hundred heartbeats to understand what it is she is saying. Mitarith thought, the innkeeper did blush, but it was not what Mitarith had said to her, but the intensity of his gaze. After closing up for the night, when she was sitting by the dieing fire with her sisters, she would tell them how it had been as though she was wearing nothing and he was just drinking her in. she shook her head to clear it, and turned to get the key to he last room. As she turned back, she was glad to see that Mitarith’s shockingly yellow eyes looked greener now, they were just the tired eyes of a regular man. A regular man who had entered the city after curfew. Though it was not unusual in its self, and she had learnt not to ask questions.
         “Room 16 and its Cata. My name is Cata. You can pay when you leave. Do you want anything before you retire Master Ansye?” He seemed nice enough, though the Master Ansye wasn’t really much of a talker; Cata expected it was to do with the fact that he did not speak the language well. He shook his head at her.
         “No. Thank you Cata. Good night, sleep well.” With that, he was gone, though Cata could have sworn she saw the shadow of broken wings behind her new resident as he climbed the stairs to his room.
         Cata’s sister, Mari sidled in behind the bar. “If my arse gets pinched one more time I swear I’ll knock em’ in their own ale. So who was that then?”
         Cata smiled at her sister, “I think we’ll have fun with this one. He certainly ain’t what he looks.” The two girls watched the stairs a moment longer, before busying back to work.