On the southern tip of the western coast of the mainland of Ellimnell, there is the most peculiar formation of four mountains in a nearly perfect square. Nestled in the midst of those mountains is a grand city of Arameth, so called for some man who’d been remembered far longer than history should normally permit. And in the city of Arameth were numerous streets that housed all manner of people, from the wealthy in their mansions to the wretched masses in deep, dark alleys. And in those streets there ran a young man by the name of Dron Duskworker. And inside young Duskworker’s head was—

Well, never mind that now, for at the moment, the city watch was gaining on him. Apparently, they didn’t take too kindly to him stealing Brennan’s rolls. Or to tripping one of them as he slipped out of custody. Or mentioning all sorts of unmentionable facts about their ancestors.

Or that face he made at them as he’d skirted into the alley. He felt like he might have been hamming it up a bit too much at that point, but he simply couldn’t resist. It always felt a shame to pass up any chance to give someone The Face, especially when they deserved it.

And by Drav’s dragging knuckles, they deserved it.

“Here I am, just trying to survive, and then the Watch comes with all their rules and talk of keeping the peace,” he said to himself as he ran, the sack of rolls bouncing on his shoulder. His comment earned a “Hear hear!” from an old man sitting in throne of fruit peelings. Dron nodded and waved at him before glancing over his shoulder at his very un-peaceful pursuers.

The glint on their helmets and breastplates was drawing a bit close for comfort. It was time to get fancy.

Dron dashed down an alley to his left, nearly slipping on a rotten something on the cobblestones. His sense of balance kicked in, though, and he carried through without missing a step. His mother had always told him he was gifted because of his family line. Duskworkers were always agile.

The crash of metal and the string of curses behind him told him at least one of his pursuers wasn’t quite so gifted. He chanced another look back to find that he only had two men chasing him where once had been three. A smile broke his face as he neared the end of the alley.

It was a dead end.

Of course, he’d known that. He knew these streets better than anyone because he’d lived here longer than anyone—the last eight years of his life, in fact. Most others didn’t last that long in Arameth’s pitiless alleys, and the city guards only ever came down here to arrest people, scold people, or just make a mess of things before leaving as promptly as they’d arrived.

His feet pounded the stones, the wall ahead drawing nearer and nearer, the clattering of armor behind him growing louder and louder, until with a mighty leap he was off the ground. His fingers found the wall. They knew it well—the way each stone was laid, the gaps where the mortar hadn’t quite filled in, even the cracks where his toes could just barely find purchase, and with the same speed he’d come running, he went climbing.

“Daelnor’s burnished blade!” cursed one of the Watchmen.

“Shouldn’t swear, Burnhold,” Dron heard as he vanished over the lip of the wall. He was on Old Framington’s tenement, a windowless box of cob where those who couldn’t survive the streets went to live. Looking over his shoulder, he addressed his pursuers.

“Yeah, Burnhold, didn’t your mum ever teach you reverence for deity?” he scolded, grinning widely. It felt good to grin. He did so every chance he got.

“Didn’t your mum ever teach you respect for the law, you worthless piece of—” spluttered Burnhold, shaking his fist. Dron didn’t hear the rest of what he said because he was too busy laughing and running away across the flat roof.

At the end of the tenement, he leapt to the peaked tiles of some shady shop or other and scrambled to the top. There, he looked down on Smoker’s Lane, so called because of the shameless prevalence of pipeweed use here, not to mention the bathhouse that most noblemen were ashamed to admit they frequented. Its chimneys spewed smoke night and day, blotting out sun, moon, and stars alike with inky billows.

In its depths was Dron’s destination—the Lair of the Clan.

Sliding down the other side of the roof, Dron dropped into a three point landing his ancestors would have been proud of.

“Did you see that Karl?” he asked the shopkeeper behind him, the one sweeping his doorstep.

Karl didn’t even look up. “Yup, truly incredible, as always,” he croaked, his sooty face gaunt under his giant straw hat.

“You didn’t even look!” pretested Dron, rounding on him.

“Yes, I did, and it was truly extraordinary, I say,” replied Karl as he opened the door to his shop. “Best three-point landing I’ve ever seen. You’ve a gift with gravity, young man, a real gift, and we’re all proud to know you . . .” The shopkeeper’s voice faded as he entered the building.

Dron scowled a moment, then shrugged, hoisting the sack of rolls onto his shoulder as he made his way toward the bathhouse. He passed colors of red, green, and weathered yellow, all of which were tarred with smoke from countless pipes that sent up their delirious prayers to the hazy skies above. It was second nature by now to hold his breath—breathe too deeply, and you were liable to die of coughing where you stood. It was a lesson no one had to learn more than once and to which he was well accustomed by now.

A cloaked man surrounded by several more cloaked men passed by him, clattering slightly as they walked. None showed their faces, which meant they were undoubtedly the entourage of some noble or other coming from the bathhouse. Dron slipped one of their purses into his pocket, smiling to himself. No one left this place without leaving something of theirs behind. At least, no one who didn’t belong here.

He waved to one of the other shopkeepers, Old Grambit, who sat on his porch smoking a massive pipe with his two sons. They waved back, tar-stained teeth showing out from unruly beards. Not the most effective advertising, Dron thought, but that didn’t seem to have any ill effect on their pipeweed business.

The bathhouse was now just ahead of him, a sign reading Dremoldina’s in smoke-blackened letters looming above. The doors, replete with latches, peepholes, and peeling green paint, opened to disgorge another entourage onto the street. This one, however, wasn’t huddled beneath cloaks save one figure in the middle. For whatever reason, noblemen thought it was shameful to let the masses know about their favorite pastimes. It wasn’t like either party actually cared about the other.

Dron recognized the guards—Wendelsson’s men. He ran a bit of a “safe passage” enterprise through Smoker’s Lane for noblemen who didn’t want to be pickpocketed. Each of his men were keen-eyed and well aware of the antics perpetrated in Arameth’s back alleys, which was unsurprising considering they’d perpetrated many of those antics themselves before joining. It was a brilliant enterprise, Dron had to admit, even if it did involve shepherding rich folk. There were always a few members of the Clan who aspired to join their ranks.

“Duskworker,” nodded the guard at the head, who was clad in a thick padded jack and helmet. The helm was painted blue with a white four-pointed star over the left brow—Wendelsson’s mark.

“Sirrick,” nodded Dron in return, passing by into Dremoldina’s. He’d been a friend a few years back before enlisting with Wendelsson. Now he was just sort of there sometimes.

Muffled voices, oppressive heat, and far too much steam welcomed him into the bathhouse. Maravine, a kindly old woman who acted as the bath keeper, waved from her front desk as she finished counting out silver drechs paid by their last customer. Dron waved back and hurried on. Maravine was one of those strange sorts who enjoyed pinching cheeks, and Dron therefore tried to spend as little time in her presence as possible.

To the right and down the clay stairs he went, down to the boiler rooms. Along the left side of the hallway were the Arches, beyond which burned the Fires of Kings. To the right would be an alcove, called the Lordship’s Entry, and in that alcove was the Lair of the Clan.

Duskworker’s home. Sort of. He had a hard time using that term with a place called “The Lair,” but the Clan insisted on having fancy names for everything, so he figured it was easier just to run with it.

The light from the Fires cast deep shadows into the Lordship’s Entry. He knocked on the clay brick wall three times.

No response.

He knocked twice more.

Still nothing.

He knocked a scattered beat that seemed to have no cadence nor sense whatsoever.

A muffled voice came from behind the wall. A young girl’s voice, complete with a forced self-important tone. “Who calls upon the Clan of Kings?”

“A friend and ally, one allied with the Kings and one friend with the Clan, who seeks sojourn in the Lair,” recited Dron, rolling his eyes and punctuating the passphrase with an exasperated sigh.

A pause. Then, “Oh come on, say it like you mean it,” said the girl.

“No,” replied Dron, hefting the sack of rolls on his shoulder.

“Please?” The girl’s self-important tone was long gone by now.

“Alise, you know it’s me, so just let me in already,” replied Dron.

“Ah, but what if you’re an imposter?” The self-important tone was back.

“What if you’re an imposter?” retorted Dron.

“I can’t be an imposter!” Alise spluttered.

“How should I know?” He couldn’t help but grin.

“Because . . . because . . . um . . . .” The door went silent again.

Dron stifling a laugh. “What’s the counter -passphrase?”

“The counter-passphrase?”

“The counter-passphrase.”

“The passphrase has a counter?”

“It’s what you say when I give you the passphrase. That way you prove you’re you after I’ve proven I’m me. Counter-passphrase. Because you lot insist on that.”

“Oh, you mean, ‘The Lair of the Clan of Kings bids thee welcome, friend and ally!’ Is that it?”

“Then I am honored to enter,” said Dron, giving the counter-counter-passphrase.

A catch sounded, but then a “Hey, wait a minute!” sounded from behind the wall.

It was too late. Dron shoved on the door, revealing it to be wood covered with a false clay front. A young girl of about ten scampered back, scowling at him.

He tossed her a roll. Catching it deftly, she glared at him through her black locks. “You think food is going to save you?”

“Always has before,” he replied, stuffing another into his mouth and strolling deeper into the Lair, Alise’s eyes drilling holes in his back as she shut the door.

It was a small room, but with the bunks along the walls, there was room enough and even to spare. The Clan of Kings was used mainly as a place to sleep or lay low when needed, not really as living quarters. As such, it was sufficient for its purposes.

In the center of the floor sat Benjia, a man in his twenties with red hair and a scar around the back of his neck. He said it was from one of the king’s retainers, but Dron doubted it. No one in the Clan would ever have any business being near the palace or the king.

Dron tossed the sack to the Clan’s master, the King of Kings as he was called, and said, “Foay’s sake.”

“Wha?” replied Benjia.

Dron swallowed. “Sorry. Today’s take.”

“Ah,” he replied, opening the sack and taking a whiff. “Brenner’s bakery again. You really should stop harassing the poor fellow.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault is back is large enough for the whole Clan to hide behind,” replied Dron, walking over to one of the bunks and plopping himself down.

Benjia sighed, then held out an envelope. “Your payment.”

Dron started, nearly hitting his head on the upper bunk before his reflexes kicked in. “I get payment?”

“Don’t get used to it,” said Benjia. “This was slipped under the door. Looks like it’s for you.”

Dron padded over and took the envelope. On the front it read, “To Duskworker’s Descendant.” The back was sealed in violet colored wax bearing an image of twin blades crossed over a crescent moon.

“You really need to stop telling people your name,” said Benjia. “Can’t you pick a code name like the others?”

“No,” replied Dron in a tone that ended the discussion. He’d long since stopped arguing over these trivialities.

As Benjia sighed and popped a roll into his mouth, Dron broke the seal and examined the letter. It read:

To Duskworker’s Descendant:

This letter is for your eyes only, and any attempt to share its contents with others will be met with a swift end to you and yours. Discretion is paramount.

I know who you are, and who you are is of great interest to me. Meet my assistant upon the rooftop of Lord Sabustan’s manor under the black light of the next new moon. Follow her instructions exactly—any deviance will not be tolerated. 

Destroy this letter and never speak of it again. It must not be allowed to be seen by prying eyes.

Regards,
A Benefactor

A chill ran down Duskworker’s spine. He read it again, crumpled it, and left.

“Who’s it from?” asked Benjia after him.

“Who’s what from?” called back Dron over his shoulder. Passing Alise, who was sitting upon her stool at her post, he pulled the wooden door open and walked under the Arches to the boilers.

Searing flames cast their infernal heat at him, workers all around shoveling coal into the great furnaces. They paid him no mind. The Clan of Kings and their Lair was supposed to be secret, but everyone who worked at Dremoldina’s was at least vaguely aware of it, so his presence was no surprise to them.

Daring the heat of the flames, he threw the letter, envelope, wax, and all, into the burning depths. More fuel to comfort the pampered lordlings up above.

The letter made him feel as if someone was watching him, and worse, that someone was controlling him. His eyes mirrored the flames as they licked at the crumpled note, spreading it open before finally consuming it whole. Someone had his life in their hands, if the letter was to be believed—and there was too much risk in not believing it. After a life spent defying the grip of authority, someone had a hold on him, and he hated it.

He’d meet this “Benefactor.” He’d get to the bottom of this.

And when the time was right, he’d show them what a Duskworker could do.

This concludes Chapter 1 of the Epic Tale of Dron Duskworker. Be sure to follow The Astral Wanderer on Facebook and Twitter to receive updates on forthcoming chapters as well as other content. Also, please share this with your friends—all proceeds go toward feeding rolls (legitimately obtained, honest!) to happy-go-lucky street urchins. Really.