He lit the lantern using a burning twig from the kitchen stove and crept down the cellar stairs. A smile split his face as he looked upon the success of his traps and snares. Snares made of fine wire used to tie bags shut strangled the creatures when their heads passed through the loop. Drop traps crushed rats beneath a heavy object that fell when the rat pulled on a piece of bait tied to a lever holding a weighted object up directly above it. Simple box traps captured rats beneath them, triggered in the same manner as the drop traps.
Azerick had almost half the number of rats he had yesterday before he even started work. By noon, he figured that the cellar was nearly clear with only a few left in hiding. He set up several traps before leaving the cellar and dumped his haul outside under the watchful eye of the cook who kept careful count, certain that the rat boy would cheat him if given the chance.
After a simple lunch, the cook showed Azerick to a ceiling hatch that would give him access to the crawlspace above. It was dusty and only afforded about two feet of space for him to crawl through. Since swinging the stick in these confines would be nearly impossible, Azerick constructed a small, trident-like pronged gig using a large fork attached to the end of his whacking stick.
The young exterminator found that, unlike the wealthier manors in the city, this one’s walls and ceiling were made of wooden slats, plastered over and sometimes covered in a thin veneer of marble or granite to imitate the higher-class mansions. They were cheaper to build and held the heat better in the winter but the hollow walls and ceilings provided excellent homes for rats and other vermin if not kept in check.
It was difficult to chase the rats down in an area that was far better suited to their size than Azerick’s. He was going to have to set several traps up here tonight to have even the slightest hope of clearing the creatures out. At least it was not cold like the cellars had been. Heat from the rooms below penetrated the slat and plaster ceiling, trapping it in the crawlspace.
Azerick knew the cheap construction would provide little protection from the summer heat like the solid stone homes did and would soon turn the crawlspace into an oven. The mild spring weather was already trapping enough heat to make it uncomfortable.
Azerick began setting numerous noose traps along the most likely trails that the rats marked with their scent and baited drop traps made of heavy flat stones he hauled up. It was getting late and he could hear the master of the house entertaining dinner guests just below in the dining hall. As he lay on his back running a cord over a beam for one of the noose traps, an ominous cracking of wood sounded directly beneath him.
Azerick immediately went perfectly still and held his breath. He let out sharp bark of surprise as the beams below him suddenly gave way, sending him plummeting in a shower of rotted timbers, chunks of white plaster, and dust. He struck the top of the long dining table with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs but was otherwise uninjured in the fifteen-foot fall.
“I’m ok,” Azerick wheezed to the wealthy guests all staring in disbelief at the sudden intrusion of the filthy boy. “I think the roast goose broke my fall.”
The fat cook ran into the dining room as the master roared, “What is the meaning of this?”
Azerick sat up, looking from the large hole in the ceiling, to the crushed duck, to the master of the house. “Sir, I would recommend leaving the rats alone in hopes that they eat the termites that have invaded and seriously undermined the integrity of your home.”
The lean, well-dressed master with his quill-thin moustache quivering in livid anger shouted at the red-faced cook, “Get this creature out of my home and have him whipped!”
Azerick tried to roll off the table and flee, but his battered, bruised body protested and resisted his sudden movements. Moreover, the cook was rather swift despite his great bulk. Azerick felt the cook’s vice-like grip encircle his upper arm and was dragged off the table and out through the kitchen. He was frog marched to the stables where a slovenly, gap-toothed man in filthy leathers was pulling a bale of hay from the loft with a long gaff to feed the horses.
“Baldric, the master demands this boy be whipped. See to it,” the cook commanded. “I would take the pleasure myself but am far too busy at the moment.”
The stableman grinned with cruel delight at the cook’s order and grabbed a set of leather reins from a peg in one hand and Azerick’s arm in the other. To ensure that the groom properly carried out his order, the cook lingered despite his assertion that he was busy. Azerick tried to pull away and cursed both men with every foul expletive in his considerable vocabulary, but the groom’s grip was every bit as strong and unbreakable as the cook’s had been.
The thick length of leather whistled as it cut an arc through the air and cracked like a bolt of lightning when it struck Azerick’s back, buttocks, and legs. Fire erupted in thin lines across Azerick’s body as the groom gleefully lashed him repeatedly. Azerick changed tactics when he realized that he was not going to be able to pull away. Instead, he lunged towards the leather cord wielding man.
The sudden move took the sadistic stableman by surprise. Before he could counter the sudden change in resistance, Azerick lashed out with a hard kick to the man’s groin, sending him to his knees, the leather lash dropping uselessly to his side as he clutched his abused privates with both hands and vomited from the intense pain.
The cook reached for the rat boy, but Azerick dove forward out of his reach and scooped up the long leather set of reigns in one hand before spinning about and lashing the cook across his enraged face with them. The cook cried out in pain as the leather raised a bright red welt across one corpulent cheek. Azerick darted past the cook and raced across the courtyard towards the gate.
He could hear the cook shouting to the lone guard that watched the gate, ordering the man to stop the fleeing urchin. The guard drew a shortsword from the sheath at his hip and stood before the gate, feet spread in readiness to arrest the boy’s flight.
Azerick skidded to a stop a few feet from the guard and whipped the stout length of leather toward at one of the man’s legs. The reins wrapped around the guard’s ankle like a bullwhip. Azerick yanked on his end of the cord with all his might, dumping the surprised guard hard onto his rump. Before he could recover, Azerick sprinted past, threw the catch on the iron gates, and disappeared into the streets.
Once Azerick felt certain he was beyond any pursuit, he slowed to a walk and fumed in anger at the abuse he had suffered through no fault of his own. Now that his mind had relaxed, his aches throbbed even more, which only added to the boy’s fury.
Whip me will you? I will make you pay for this, all of you!
Azerick swore as he returned home empty handed.
The realization that the cook had cheated him out of a full day’s pay made Azerick even more determined to enact his own justice against those that had wronged him. Jon’s words regarding the price of revenge rang hollowly in his young, stubborn head.
CHAPTER 7
Azerick returned to the abandoned building his adoptive family was currently calling home. It was after dark and he was the last one to arrive. Patrick was just outside the door, standing watch as Azerick stomped towards him.
“Hey,
Az
, working late again, eh,” Patrick called out as his friend approached.
“Yeah,” Azerick’s short reply came.
Azerick entered the large room where everyone sat eating a bowl of stew with a piece of bread. They each glanced up from their bowls as he entered and greeted him warmly.
“Out late again, lad?” Jon said. “Did ya bring us a good bit of coin again then?”
Azerick sat cross-legged on the floor and scooped a bowl of stew up for himself and replied, “not exactly.” He felt guilty for not being able to contribute despite knowing it was not his fault.
Jon and the others sensed the aggravation in his voice. “What happened, lad?”
Jon asked.
“I did not get paid.”
The others looked at the boy with sympathy. It was not the first time one of them had been cheated out of their earnings. Unscrupulous men knew there was little recourse a vagrant could take against them and so was not an unheard of event. Ryan, a young man in his early twenties, and a couple others muttered curses under their breath.
“It happens, lad, don’t let it get you in a twist. We’ll be fine,” Jon assured him.
Azerick did not tell the others what happened. He was angry and embarrassed by the beating he had received and did not want to talk about it. He especially did not want any of the others to try to avenge the wrong and get themselves into trouble. Azerick would take care of it himself in due time.
Azerick fell into a fitful sleep that night, waking up every time he rolled onto his back and aggravated the welts crisscrossing his back and legs. Again, that mysteriously seductive voice called to him, further interrupting his slumber.
Azerick, you must not let them get away with this. How many times will you allow others to hurt you, punish you, before you strike back?
Azerick bolted upright and hissed into the darkness of his small room. “Who are you, what do you want from me?”
You know who I am and I want what you want—blood. Blood for blood—that is our way. Blood owed your father, blood owed your mother, blood owed to you.
“What am I supposed to do, how?”
Kill them, kill them all!
The voice demanded and faded from his mind with a gleeful laugh.
Azerick was shaking. He was far too lucid to be dreaming. Was the voice really Sharrellan? Why would the goddess of death and vengeance be speaking to him, a street rat? Sleep did not easily return and when it finally did, it was not particularly restive.
It was several weeks later, as Azerick was out late one night, when he rounded the corner of one of the abandoned buildings to find Jon arguing with another man he had never seen before. The man was lean but obviously not weak. He carried himself with an ease that marked him as a very dangerous man. Azerick stayed hidden around the side of the building and listened to the two men’s heated discussion in the darkness across the street.
“I’ve been working these streets for years now and I haven’t had any run-ins or conflicts with the guild in all that time. I’ve avoided the guild and your kind this entire time and with good reason,” Jon said in a tone that clearly showed he did not like this man or what he had to say.
“Look, Locke, it’s simple, if you’re not part of the guild then you’re going to pay a tax for the privilege of working in guild territory. It’s not a request, Locke, and be glad Daedric has even given you this chance to get in line,” the wiry, hard looking man said with a threatening undertone.
“I barely make out with enough to feed my family and keep them through the winter as it is. How am I supposed to do that and still pay your guild boss his extortion money?”
The other man was obviously unconcerned with Jon’s tale of hardship. “That’s not my problem, Locke. You don’t want to make it my problem either, trust me. You better figure it out and damn quick, or else.” With that final threat, the dangerous-looking man glided off into the night and quickly disappeared into the shadows.
Once Azerick was sure the man had gone and was not coming back, he crossed the street and hailed his unofficial leader.
“What was that about, Jon?”
“It’s complicated, son, let’s go inside. I’ll have to talk to the whole group about this.”
Azerick followed Jon into the building they were currently occupying. The structure had once been a large industrial smithy that used to turn out worked iron for fences, gates, and other large items. Azerick once again found a small room toward the very back of the building, this time constructed of thick stone with a heavy ironbound door.
He was mystified as to what the room had held that was valuable enough to warrant such strong walls and door. He liked his new family greatly but still preferred to sleep alone, and sometimes just find solitude within his own room to read and study his books.