Underground Uprising

Chapter One

“Niellan bastard!”

There was murder in the burly man’s glassy eyes. He spat the words venomously, lying sprawled on the cobblestones with a bruise blooming on his cheek. Bowie massaged his inflamed knuckles, appraising the drunken would-be thief he’d floored with a single punch.

Pathetic. This was the type of man people told horror stories of encountering alone in the alleys of Dunwald’s slums. Violent. Desperate. Twice Bowie’s size. Not that size was an advantage when you were a fucking idiot. This man couldn’t pick a target to rob if his life depended on it. Fortunately for him, tonight it didn’t.

“I’ll kick your ass!” the man slurred. “You hear me? I’ll kill you!”

Sighing, Bowie rummaged in his jacket pocket and flipped a handful of gold coins onto the man’s prone body. With a trembling hand, the drunkard scooped up his newfound riches as Bowie turned and stepped over the faint, chipped line of blue paint drawn across the stones. His knuckles hurt. Everyone would’ve avoided some pain if that man had simply asked for help.

He scoffed into the darkness at his own hypocrisy. He was an expert on pain; asking for help, not so much –

Dangerous tendrils of memory snaked out of the vault in his mind. The constant, discordant whispers that echoed inside him rose to screams —

Stop that. He wrenched his thoughts away and quickened his pace.

His eyes swept the darkness for threats as he walked, an old habit. Even in the poor light, the poster pasted to the alley wall was familiar — a sketch of King Bryn’s severed head, eyes blacked out. The words “Murderer! The Treaty is treason!” were scrawled beneath.

Faint alarm rang through his body. 

It’s a coincidence. They don’t know.

Bowie tore the parchment down, balled it up and tossed it in the gutter before heading towards the faint light ahead.

The Devil’s Tongue was quieter than it had been when Bowie had visited as a boy. He’d spent countless nights in this tavern, on jobs for Splinter. He’d met Bryn for the first time in one of the narrow, piss-drenched alleys outside. This place used to be the beating heart of the country’s criminal underbelly.

Hard to believe these days; anarchists were a rare breed in Dunwald now. 

Still, the establishment turned a tidy profit. The lawless class had to drink somewhere when they visited Dunwyn’s capital from Anarchist Underground. Bowie was glad some part of the city still existed in shadow; he’d be fucked if it didn’t.

He rapped on the counter and the weathered barman looked up through yellowed-brown eyes. The lines on Jon’s time-ravaged face creased when he smiled at Bowie.

“Hey there, pretty boy.”

Bowie flipped his middle finger at the old man by way of a greeting. Jon’s widening grin revealed jagged stumps of broken teeth. He was fortunate to have survived his grey dream habit. Or perhaps more accurately, he was fortunate a thirteen-year-old Bowie had happened upon him during one of his covert trips out of the castle. The cure for grey dream addiction was more accessible now than ever, but if you were alone in the world and too far gone to haul yourself off the street and into a crown-sponsored apothecary, there weren’t a lot of options.

“Am I getting paid tonight?” The old man eyed him eagerly.

Bowie produced a handful of coins, overpaying as usual, but he didn’t spend money on much else.

“You’re my favourite customer.” Groaning, Jon bent into a laboured crouch, reaching under the counter.

Hauling himself up, he placed a palm-sized pouch wrapped in black fabric and brown string in front of Bowie, who shoved it into his pocket. Tension uncoiled from his chest, though he maintained his bored expression. He tapped his fingertips on the counter, waiting.

“You’ve got two tonight. Birdy and Rob are out back.” Jon jerked his head towards a doorway covered by a curtain. “They look like shit, but you’ll sort ‘em out.”

They always looked like shit.

Bowie swung himself over the counter and headed for the back room. It doubled as Jon’s accommodation, a cramped, grubby space crowded with towering crates of liquor probably not purchased under any legal trade agreement. Best not to ask.

Jon’s bed was a thin layer of straw set atop more crates. There was a blonde woman in it, probably about thirty, although it was hard to tell. Her long, tattered shift hung off her emaciated body and her bloodshot eyes rolled back under slitted, fluttering eyelids. A gaunt blond man slumped motionless on the floor, his long unwashed hair thinning and his flaking scalp raw. His chest heaved with laboured breaths.

Bowie pulled two glass vials from his pocket. The physician’s cabinet in the castle was always well-stocked with the grey dream cure, and the lock was ridiculously easy to pick. At least his talents were useful to someone. And Bowie knew the life-altering wonder of having a stranger offer you a hand when you were alone.

He swept his tangled black curls behind his shoulders and knelt beside Rob.

“Sit up,” Bowie ordered.

The cords in Rob’s neck strained, using the last of his strength to obey. He was powerless to do anything else. Even after all these years, Bowie felt sick witnessing grey dream’s compulsive powers at work.

Cradling Rob’s greasy hair, he poured the contents of the vial into the addict’s mouth. Rob gagged, his skeletal body shuddering.

“I know,” Bowie murmured. “It tastes like a demon’s cum rag. Better than dying, though.”

He administered the contents of the second vial to Birdy. They both began to murmur and stir lethargically by the time he returned to the tavern floor. Jon lazily wiped down his ale taps with a rag so grimy it was likely doing more harm than good. Bowie hoisted himself back over the counter.

“You’re going away tomorrow, ain’t you?” Jon asked. “If you can –”

Bowie set a dozen more vials onto the rough wooden surface.

“You read my mind,” Jon told him with another toothless grin. “Have fun on your travels.”

Fun. Right.

In his lavish castle rooms, Bowie hastily unwrapped the packet from Jon, smoothing it out atop his dresser. In the mirror, the dark smudges beneath his eyes emphasised their deep ocean blue colour. A foreigner’s eyes, odd even by Niellan and Borderlander standards. Bowie had never seen anyone with eyes the same shade of blue as his own.

The laceroot’s earthy scent filled him with preemptive calm. With the texture of tea leaves and the appearance of ash, the drug was easy to sprinkle into the bowl of his small pipe. After a few drags, he kicked off his boots and set the smoking pipe carelessly upon his bedside table, not bothering to change his clothes. The fine fabric was already creased, fraying at the cuffs.

His eyes fluttered closed, the stillness of the high washing over him, a gentle lapping wave in a glassy ocean. Finally, his whispered memories dissipated like the curling smoke rising from the pipe.

Sometimes, Bowie wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep without laceroot. But that didn’t matter now.

For now, his mind was quiet.