The Familiars
Authors: Adam Jay Epstein
The Familiars
Adam Jay Epstein
Andrew Jacobson
Art by Peter Chan & Kei Acedera
For Jane, my wife, who supports and encourages every dream, no matter how fantastic.
For Penny, my daughter, this story is for you.
—A.J.E.
For Ashley and my familiar, Elvis.
—A. J.
Contents
Catch of the Day
Unfamiliar Surroundings
Stone Runlet
Storm Berries and Bookworms
Walkabout
Midnight Visitors
Into the Unknown
Agdaleen and the Octopot
The Tree Frogs of Daku
Vastia’s Most Wanted
The Bridge of Betrayal
A Secret History
The Mountain Alchemist
An Unwelcome Return
Torentia Falls
The Sunken Palace
The Hydra of Mukrete
Paksahara
The Prophesized Three
CATCH OF THE DAY
I
t all started with Aldwyn’s whiskers beginning to tingle—the way they always did when he got hungry. Food had been getting tougher to come by these last few months. The back alleys weren’t littered with their usual fish guts or chicken gizzards, and a stray cat had to fight a little harder to get even one full meal a day.
The whisker tingling began early one morning, when Aldwyn sat perched atop a shingled roof, casually taking in the scenery. His mangy coat of
black-and-white fur looked as if it had never been washed—which was more or less true. A chunk of his left ear was missing, a bite-size reminder of a skirmish with an angry pit bull from when he was a kitten.
Looking out, Aldwyn could see all of Bridgetower. There were rows upon rows of two-story stone buildings lining the narrow cobblestoned streets. Robed city custodians were hurrying to finish their predawn chores: one used a bell-shaped snuffer to extinguish the candles in the waist-high lampposts lining the city’s darker alleyways; another laid down straw on the main artery to quiet the click-clacking of the wagon wheels and mule hooves that would soon be rattling across the roadways. Aldwyn’s eyes were drawn to the spired watchtower of polished white marble that stood taller than the rest of the skyline. Its guard post had been empty for more than half a century, ever since the brave and noble wizard Queen Loranella helped fight back the Dead Army Uprising. A flag billowed at the very top of the watchtower, bearing the Bridgetower coat of arms: a double-headed eagle, holding a bow
and arrow in one talon and a wand in the other.
Aldwyn could see beyond the white walls that encircled the city as well: just to the west, hugging the outer wall, the Ebs River; to the east, the Aridifian Plains and forests of the queendom. But he had never set foot outside Bridgetower, and he never intended to, comfortable on the city streets he knew so well.
With dawn’s first ray of light, a morning bell chimed brightly, waking Aldwyn from his daydream. He turned his attention to the back door of the local fish and fowl shop, waiting patiently for the fishmonger to appear with the catch of the day. Stealing was one of Aldwyn’s favorite schemes to fill his belly, but he used many. Just last night, he found himself acting—cooing like a pigeon to get bits of cheese from a blind lady feeding birds in the park.
Sure enough, right on schedule, there was the fishmonger, carrying a heavy, dripping burlap bag toward his store. And even though Aldwyn couldn’t see what was inside the bag, he could smell it: river flounder! As the old man closed the door to his shop behind him, Aldwyn started
counting the toes on his paw.
One…two…three…four.
Like every morning at this precise time, the fishmonger opened the window, airing out the kitchen as he dumped the fish into a bucket beside him. Now Aldwyn could begin his descent from the rooftop. He scaled down the wall, his claws leaving scratch marks on the wood siding. He crossed the alley, darting around puddles from last night’s rain. A short-eared raccoon limped out from behind the corner, trying to keep his weight off an injured hind leg.
“Morning, Aldwyn,” said the raccoon. “Heard the milk wagon is taking a detour tomorrow to avoid the Shield Festival. It’s going to be heading through Hangman’s Square instead.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Aldwyn called back. “I’ll try to push a jug off the back of the cart when it rounds the Glyphstone. Make sure you’re there for lick up.”
Aldwyn had made a habit of thinking three meals ahead. He relied on everything from careful observation to back alley alliances. Finding food was a full-time job, and an exhausting one at
that. A freak hailstorm had struck in the middle of the summer, wiping out most of Bridgetower’s typically plentiful fall harvest. Hungry townsfolk now ate the tripe and organ meats they once threw away.
The raccoon gave an appreciative nod, and Aldwyn quickly returned to the task at hand. After jumping onto the crates stacked up outside the fishmonger’s window, he waited, watching the old man clean and gut the flounder. Aldwyn was nothing if not patient; he knew from experience that there would be a moment when the fishmonger got distracted. An early customer knocking at the front door, a trip to the outhouse, or a dull blade in need of sharpening would give Aldwyn the opportunity he needed to strike.
“Get up here, there’s a spider on the bed!” hollered a shrill voice from the top of the stairs.
So today it was his wife. The fishmonger set down his knife and hurried from the kitchen.
“I’m coming,” he called.
Aldwyn didn’t hesitate. As soon as the old man was out of view, Aldwyn leaped to the window-sill and slipped through. Once inside the kitchen,
he quickly took in the mess of wooden chopping blocks, knives in need of a cleaning, and pewter scales stained with dried fish guts on the work surface. Then he pounced to the wooden floor below. The overpowering stench of brined eel, which was permanently soaked into the pine floorboards, invaded Aldwyn’s nostrils, making his stomach growl with delight. The fishmonger’s apron, smeared with dirty handprints, hung on the door handle of the salting closet. It was long overdue for a scrub in the river. The fancier shops on the main square might keep their counters cleaner, but so what? The flounder here tasted just as good.
Aldwyn moved stealthily to the bucket, grabbing a large flat fish in his mouth. Soon, he’d be feasting in the privacy of the city’s chimney tops, enjoying a nice—
Thwack!
A cat trap snared his tail, missing his neck by a matter of inches. Aldwyn spun around to see a metal coil twist around his fur. He fought the urge to let out an earsplitting cry, instead burying his whiskers in the back of his right front paw
and emitting a muffled whimper. After the initial shock had passed, there was just one question left on his mind:
Since when did the old fishmonger set traps?
Then things went from bad to worse, because out from behind the salting closet door emerged the dark, foreboding figure of a man cloaked in black, his face scarred with claw marks. He wore black leather boots with bronze spikes protruding from the toes and carried a crossbow slung over his shoulder. His eyes lit up with cruel delight.
“Gotcha,” said the mysterious figure.
Aldwyn desperately tried to free himself from the rusty metal vise, using his hind legs to push at it.
“Teach you to steal from me, cat,” snarled the fishmonger, popping his head around the corner, a satisfied glint in his eyes.
Aldwyn couldn’t believe that he had walked right into an elaborate trap! He, the most clever alley cat in all of Bridgetower, had let himself be outsmarted! That was only supposed to happen to mice and cockroaches. Not him.
The man in black took a step forward, pulling
out a long wooden pole with a circle of rope at the end. At the sight of the dreaded noose stick, Aldwyn’s survival instinct kicked in. He leaped for the window. Aldwyn’s torso twisted through the open crack, but the metal trap dangling from his tail was too big for the narrow slit. Stuck between inside and outside, Aldwyn glanced back to see the cloaked figure fast approaching. His paws pushed at the bottom of the window pane, trying to lift it enough to set himself free. The figure reached out to snatch him, but then, at the last second, the window budged up another few inches, allowing Aldwyn to pull the trap through. He tumbled backward into the alley, away from the man’s grasp.