Windwalker Read online

  Windwalker

  A Novel of Bedlam

  Sabrina Flynn

  WINDWALKER is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are chimerical delusions of a tired mind. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely due to the reader’s wild imagination (that’s you).

  Copyright © 2020 by Sabrina Flynn

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Published by Ink & Sea Publishing

  www.sabrinaflynn.com

  * * *

  ISBN 978-1-955207-16-4

  eBook ISBN 978-1-955207-17-1

  * * *

  Book 1 of Bedlam

  * * *

  Cover Art by MerryBookRound

  www.merrybookround.com

  to Vivien’s hair, Sherman

  Contents

  1. Death

  2. The Rat

  3. The Fall

  4. Lies

  5. Heist

  6. Fire

  7. Back Again

  8. Grave Style

  9. Ghouls

  10. The Challenge

  11. Apprenticeship

  12. Loot

  13. Frying Pan

  14. Loss

  15. Caught

  16. Payload

  17. The Catch

  18. Slippers

  19. Rumor

  20. Out For Blood

  21. The Librarian

  22. Tables Turned

  23. The Seven Devils

  24. Pirate Troubles

  25. Wiles

  26. Gathering

  27. Visitors

  28. Flight

  29. Hope

  30. Shroom Smuggling

  31. Local

  32. The Wait

  33. Step One

  34. Takeover

  35. The Crew

  36. Into the Belly

  37. The Ferryman

  38. Savior

  39. Mad, We were

  40. The Unknown

  41. The Worst Kind

  42. Flesh Eater

  43. Nightmare

  44. Breathe

  45. The Fifth

  46. Ghostmaker

  47. Up

  48. Showdown

  49. Last Resort

  50. A Beginning

  Connect with Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Sabrina Flynn

  About the Author

  1 Death

  Bad things happen all the time. For a rat like me, there’s a mucky rainbow of bad. There’s the foot stuck in the mud kind, the cold and hungry kind, and the shadows that roam the pea soup. Worse is the bad I don’t know about—the kind that gets stuck in your throat. This was one of those. It was the day I died.

  2 The Rat

  BEFORE

  The bad that day was a man: two legs, a large gut, and a face covered by a plague mask. He stank like me, of river muck.

  My respirator, little more than a tin can filled with moss, came undone. Foul air filled my lungs. I scrambled to retrieve it, even as I threw myself away from his grubby hands. His bulk came full out of the pea soup, and he loomed over me. A hand locked on my ankle. I kicked. But runt that I was, a child with no age, I only made him laugh.

  The man plucked me into the air, and that’s when I felt the eel clamp around my stick-like limb. Slurp. It was a faint sound, but to my ears it sounded as loud as the thunder overhead.

  “Got another!” The voice came grating from the mask, like scraping rocks.

  I fought, of course. Teeth, nails, a flurry of limbs. I was a two-headed cat with seven toes. It bothered the man enough that he pressed a hand to his belt. The eel delivered a shock. It jolted over my skin like the pricks of a thousand needles, leaving me convulsing in his hand.

  Mud swayed below me. I was a limp fish. I smelled piss—my own. It wasn’t flowing down my leg—that would be too civil, dignified even. Upside down as I was, it dripped in my face.

  “It’s a rat,” the catcher said. If I was a rat, he was a rock. A big, dumb one. He stomped through the river muck, squelching and sucking his way towards the embankment wall. And I had been so close to escaping.

  The Rock snapped my cobbled respirator back over my nose and mouth. I sucked in a breath. This far down the river Styx the fog was toxic. My lungs felt tight, but not from the fog—that poison had wormed its way into my blood the day I was birthed. This was the tightness that fear brought. I wanted to twist, turn, anything, but my muscles had a grudge against my body. There wasn’t much I could do but perfect my fish imitation.

  The man squelched up to a cart pulled by a hunched figure in a cloak. With a swing, I was tossed into the cart, which was full of other unfortunate rats. My kith were as wide-eyed as me, mirrors to my pounding heart. We were the fools who were snatched and never came back.

  I closed my eyes and imagined my legs, ankles, and toes.

  Move, I ordered.

  If the big toe, or even the little, ever obeyed, I’ll never know. A tarp was tossed over us, and the cart lurched forward. Bells jangled insanely, a warning crushed by fog and thrown out only in pieces to fellow travelers. I was done in. And I had no coin for the Ferryman.

  But enough maudlin talk. Back to my death.

  3 The Fall

  I heard it before I ever saw it, being under a tarp as I was. It sounded like a market, gathered at what was likely a crossroads. Hawkers were crying themselves hoarse, steam hissed from somewhere close, and there were all sorts of shouts—from grunts, and prigs, and growling mutts. All the denizens of the Below.

  The tarp was ripped away, and I blinked against sudden light. The fog was alive with lights. Leeries had lit up the crossroads till it glowed. I tried to twitch, but the eel had me tight.

  Rock and his lackeys dragged us rats from the cart, and dropped us to land as we might. Plop. Muck cushioned my fall against stone. Cobblestones. This wasn’t just any crossroads market. This was the market.

  The Bazaar.

  But what other destination would there be for a cartload of rats? I didn’t really know. Being a rat, the realm of my knowledge was slim, but I had heard rumors, whispers in the dim, which made the likes of me keep clear of any road with stone underfoot.

  I would’ve spat in the name of Luck, but there was the matter of the eel. Right. I turned my eyes from the brightness, and concentrated inward, to that starving, empty pit I called a gut. A muscle twitched. I’d flexed my stomach! But before I could triumph overly much, a catcher grabbed my ankle and dragged me across the square.

  I was privy to a great deal of muck on that brief journey. And feet. Muck’s the only word for it. It’s a stew of swampy mud, rubbish, and shit simmering under a thousand feet. It clings to everything. The denizens of the Below are born from muck, and we go right back into it when we die. Our bones give it a grisly texture.

  The other rats and me were thrown into a cage. A rusty metal door clanged shut, and the eel released its paralyzing grip, but not its hold. I could move again.

  I grabbed a bar and hauled myself to my feet. My head hit the top of the cage, and I hunched down. The cage was half my height, which wasn’t very high at all.

  Muck-caked boots stomped by as I blinked against the light. Figures came out of the fog draped head to toe in various clothing: hooded cloaks, longcoats, mud slickers, even a few with armor that hissed and steamed with every step. And respirators. Not makeshift respirators like mine, but the real deal. The natty kind with designs, even a fe
w with gold inlays. And goggles that weren’t pieced together from broken bits. There was money here.

  If the buyers glanced our way, I didn’t know—I stared awestruck at a stone monolith. Limited life that I’d had, I’d heard they were called towers once upon a time. But I’d never seen one so big. It dominated the fogline. A maze of iron pipes twisted around its foundation before climbing upwards. Leeries had lit lamps all along its base, but even without those lights, the pipes were eerily visible. Sickly-green lichen glowed faintly on the iron, giving me the impression of a great stone body with its guts turned inside out.

  I pressed my cheek to the bars, and rolled my eye, trying to get a better view. As a rule, we rats stayed as far away from towers as we did from stone underfoot. Both were bad luck.

  A crier was hawking his wares from a nearby stage. “Good breeding stock! Clear eyes. Teeth intact! Scared witless!”

  “Ten coils!” a man’s voice answered.

  Chains rattled nearby. And food. Scents of curry and meat called to my stomach, which growled a hearty response.

  A fellow rat in the corner of our cage was crying. We were all caked with muck and wearing dumpy respirators; the only thing visible was our eyes. Red. That’s where we got our names. Rats, the four-legged kind, have red eyes and so did we. We were the lowest of the low in the Below. We weren’t even boys or girls, just rats—an ungendered mass of unwanted vermin.

  I was staring at my fellow rat, wondering where they got the energy to cry, when a hush fell over the area. A wake of silence heralded something more, as the air went cold.

  I pressed my face back to the bars.

  A figure strode out of the fog. It was covered head to toe in a red, tattered shroud, and it moved like a ghost through the fog. Round black eyes, no nose, no mouth, long curving fingers with tendrils of mist dripping from the tips. The wraith-like figure held a chain, and at the end of the chain was a thin man who was squirming and struggling against his restraints. The prisoner’s respirator had come loose, and he was gasping for air, unable to scream. His glowing eyes were puffy from abuse and I was sure there was blood mingling with the muck that smeared his face.

  We rats shrank back, and the others in the market gave the shrouded figure a wide berth, scrambling to get out of its way. Some even hid their faces from the thing. It was long minutes before anyone moved. But as soon as the air warmed and the ground thawed, the bazaar went back into high swing. I didn’t have time to wonder what that thin man had done, where he was headed, or what the shrouded thing was. My own situation was dire enough.

  “We be at the Bazaar,” a rat by my side whispered. Again, red eyes, muck-covered face, and matted hair. Nothing to distinguish one wretch from the next. I wagered I looked the same.

  “Am I looking dumb?” I asked.

  “Dumb as dumb. We’re all in for getting snatched.”

  I couldn’t argue. “How do we fly?” A small rat was gnawing at an iron bar with their teeth. That, I was sure, was not going to work. But I gave them Luck’s blessing for trying all the same.

  I turned to my eel. It was latched tight, but not secreting its shocking poison. I touched it. Cool and malleable. Dormant, for now.

  “Don’t,” my fellow rat said. This one had large red eyes, the pupils barely visible.

  “We dead if we don’t.” I got a fistful of muck from the ground and smeared it all over the eel. Then pushed, trying to slip it off my bony ankle. It buzzed. Then shocked. I landed on my back and stared at the fog tickling the giant monolith. A man laughed, then lifted his mask to spit down at me.

  And so I was.

  Plenty of rats had gotten snatched in my short life. It was a daily grind. I never thought I’d be one of them, though. Quick and smart, I’d always managed to slip through the Catchers’ fingers. But this was not my day. Luck had run clean out. I’d been distracted, watching the fog swirl of all things. It was hypnotic-like, and the sight had awakened a small flutter of beauty in my wretched heart.

  Stunned as I was again, I lay for a time watching the fog swirl just as it had done earlier. What moved it, I wondered? Where was the fog going? Was it alive? Did it breathe?

  The eel went dormant. My fingers twitched and I stirred, but didn’t get far. I was busy being entranced. I reached out, touching the space between bars, as if I could grasp the fog in my hand and hold it tight.

  A leerie towering over us on stilts walked to our cage, his fire sputtering in its globe. He lifted his soot-covered goggles and squinted down at us. The fellow had beautiful blue eyes. It was more color than I had ever seen in my muck-filled life.

  “Not a clear-eyed one in the bunch,” he said with a cluck of his tongue. “You won’t get a coil for this lot.”

  “They’re rats,” Rock grated. “Bound for the Sweepers. I’ll give you one for a jot.”

  “They’re not even worth a half snip.” Blue Eyes snapped down his goggles and moved on.

  Sweepers. My heart wanted to burst from its cage. The other rats started clawing at the muck, trying to burrow under the bars, but there was metal underneath too. A Sweeper. No, no, no, my mind screamed.

  Sweepers were every rat’s worst nightmare, and let me tell you, we had some colorful ones. We didn’t know what they did to rats. But we’d heard of the horrors they inflicted on our kind.

  Rock attached a thick hook to our cage. The hook was attached to a chain that disappeared in the fogline. Rock slammed his billy club against the chain, and the cage jerked. With a sucking ‘pop’ it broke free from the muck, leaving us clinging to the bars. As the ground fell away, the cage swung with the panic of rats moving from one side to the other. I stayed where I was. No use wasting energy.

  “Get off!” I hollered at a rat, shoving them away. “No use is this.” But they had lost their wits long before they had been trapped in this cage.

  People below laughed and pointed, as the swinging cage was brought closer to the tower. Leeries on stilts raised their fire globes on long poles, illuminating slick pipes and stone. Other leeries waited far above, perched on the guts of the tower, their lights bobbing in the gray.

  I looked up at the chain attached to our cage, wondering what was holding us above ground. As we rose into the air, the fog thinned and I spotted more leerie lights bobbing above. The chain was attached to a metal skeleton that resembled an upraised arm—a crane used for lifting heavy loads.

  Rock touched his belt, and my eel started humming. I braced for another shock, but none came. Instead it lit up bright, a glowing blue band of light around my ankle. The other rats fell still, and their eyes grew wide, as they whispered of the mark of death. Not a one of us knew what a mark of death looked like, but this was as good as any other in our pathetic lives.

  “Now they be dropping us lot,” a rat whispered in terror.

  “No use catching us. What for we be dying in this cage?” I asked boldly.

  “Sweepers be eating us,” the rat argued.

  I swatted their head. “What meat we got, muck-brain?”

  To my surprise, my logic held. My kith calmed enough to still the cage from swinging back and forth.

  Little did I know that Sweepers didn’t have use for logic.

  The crane turned to the right and our cage swung with it, then it was dropped. We all screamed as the chain rattled. But the gory end I imagined didn’t come. The cage jerked to a stop just above the ground. I peered down through the cage bars. We were centered over a circle of pitch black ichor, and the air had turned acrid and bitter.

  “What the muck?” I muttered. We were destined to find out. A leerie stepped forward and touched his fire stick to the circle below us. Flames roiled across the pool of pitch. Cheering and wagering applauded our terror as heat licked our bare feet.

  A ring of figures watched us through the flames. Sweepers with tall hats and fine coats—rough men who made their fortune off rats and strays.

  “If you lot want to live,” Rock shouted. “Climb!”

  Instinctively,
I tightened my hold on the bars. One side of the cage swung open. My side. I tumbled out, and a wide-eyed rat fell right after me. I reached out to them. For a moment their hand found mine, but then another rat fell on top of us, breaking our precarious bond. I was nearly ripped away, but I had a death grip on the cage with two of my fingers.

  I watched in horror as the wide-eyed rat fell into the flames. The child’s screams spurred the onlookers on. The other rats weren’t as foolish as my heroic self. They saved themselves, flooding out of the cage and climbing onto its top. One by one they started clawing their way up the chain towards the crane. The flames climbed too.

  My respirator came loose and fell into the fire below. Acrid smoke clogged my throat and burned my eyes; I was choking on poisonous air. I held what breath I had left, and flung my other hand towards the cage door.

  The cage lurched this way and that, until it was swinging over the circle of fire. Muck this, I thought, watching my kith clawing at each other’s heels. The cage had momentum now, swinging like a great bell, back and forth over the tar pit as I climbed.