Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Callum

I 'm roused from my sleep by a gentle hand shaking me.

I blink my eyes open to find my father leaning over me. It is the middle of the night and the room is dark save for the moonlight spilling through the window.

My father is fully dressed.

I frown and rise slowly to a sitting position, my heart thudding as I realize what this is about.

My father is a blacksmith, but he's also known as a sympathizer to those involved with the rebellion against the orcs. Bleakness lives under a cloud. There have been many occasions when my father left our home in the night. My ma would stay with me when I was younger, and I never knew what was happening. It was only after she passed, and I'd be taken to stay with a neighbor on those nights, that understanding came, and I would wait, terrified, until he returned home.

Sometimes there'd be bruises. One time, he came back with a broken arm. His hammer was always bloody, and I'd know that he'd done violence in the name of the cause.

I swallow thickly. "I'm coming with you."

He shakes his head.

"I'm a man now. I've been for a while. Let me come with you, whatever it is."

I see the softening in his face before he nods once. "Dress quickly, lad. And bring your hammer."

My blood pounds fast and heavy through my veins. I shake as I shove my feet into my pants, rip my nightshirt off over my head, and quickly don my shirt and a heavy leather jacket. I thrust my feet into boots and rake my hand through my hair.

Fuck. This is happening. I am really going to get involved. I want to. I burn with anger at the injustice that shrouds this city. For the most part, the orcs leave us alone. Yet we are all aware of a dark underworld that is part of Bleakness. My father has helped with many tasks, from smuggling people out of the city to passing information on, and even freeing slaves from the markets.

I fetch my hammer from the workshop. It's sturdy and heavy. I had a smaller one when I was a lad. As my skill grew, the hammers I used got heavier. Working at a forge all day apprenticed to a blacksmith builds muscle and strength. This is a full-size hammer now and I wield it every day.

But I've never wielded it in violence—I've never needed to. Sometimes, though, when I go to bed of a night, I've imagined myself at my father's side, helping him to right the many wrongs this city is renowned for.

Now, I will finally play a part.

"Come with me," he says. We head out the back of the house and into the cobbled alleyway. He's quiet, and I follow his lead. What I don't expect is to slip into the back courtyard of the tavern that is no more than a dozen doors down and into the stables. Tim, the proprietor of The Green Man, is waiting for us. He is a human-orc hybrid who looks human save for he has pink, pointed ears, is seven feet tall and is as broad as a barn.

There is another man with him. This one wears leather armor with a sword at his waist and a thick cloak over his shoulders. He is young: perhaps a similar age to me.

"Heath, thank you for coming. And you bought your lad," Tim says, nodding at me.

"Aye," my father says. "Callum is ready."

"I appreciate the help," Tim says. "This is Jacob. A former slave and now a warrior to the fairy caste who live beyond the portal. He has done this before."

"When I heard that Betsy had been taken," Jacob says, his voice low and steeped with fury, "there was no fucking way I was sitting this out."

The blood drains from my face. "Betsy?"

Tim nods, his face grave. "Aye. They snatched her while she was out at the market."

"Bastard would be stupid to snatch your daughter," Jacob growls. "We'll get her back, Tim, I promise you. We'll get her back."

My hands tremble, and I clench them lest I betray myself.

"I've got men waiting," Jacob says. "We'll meet them on the way. We need to move fast. A ship came in today with more poor bastards for their markets. We'll free as many as possible while we get Betsy out. They'll be running the market in two days. We can't afford to wait in case they move her on."

"Agreed," Tim says.

Jacob gives me an up and down look. We are on par, height-wise, although he has muscle over me and carries himself as a warrior. He is also an alpha, while I'm a beta, and the sense of my inadequacy is sharp and sudden. Yet they have taken Betsy. I have known the lass all my life. Her mother and mine used to be friends before they both passed, and I'm shocked that she was taken.

I can only imagine the terror Betsy must be experiencing as a prisoner of the Blighten.

"You look like you know how to use that hammer at your hip," Jacob says to me.

I nod. Not only the hammer, for I train every evening after work with my father at the bag that swings from a sturdy beam in our barn, and have done so since I was a whelp. It is with no false pride that I consider my boxing skills sharp. I have even fought in underground competitions—enough to test me but not to knock the sense out of me, as my father says.

I can handle myself.

Yet, I am not a warrior. I have heard tales of the fairy kingdoms, their rigorous training, and their combat skills. Further, as Tim just pointed out, Jacob has freed slaves before and has experience in such matters.

"Don't be a hero," he cautions coldly. "Follow our instructions." He points at my hammer. "And when the fighting begins, plow that into any bastard's head as gets in your way."

I nod again, my throat dry and tight. This is not the same as a fight in the ring with my pa sitting on the side ready to call it if he has concerns. This is a real life situation with danger and further consequences for Betsy if I fuck up.

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. "The lad will do his bit. Callum has a good head on his shoulders… and is as strong as a fucking ox."

"Appreciate you both here," Tim says, his broad face lined with worry. "If anything happens to her?—"

"It won't," Jacob promises. "We shall make sure of it… and make sure those who snatched her live long enough only to experience regret."

We slip outside, using the darkened alleys rather than the main streets until we enter an old, abandoned warehouse where five soldiers stand, weapons ready.

My heart is pounding. I don't want to fuck up—I want to help and do my part, yet I understand the danger and risks. Lest I jeopardize the mission, I listen to the instructions carefully as Jacob goes over the plan.

"There will be guards at the entrance," Jacob says. "Ed and I will take those out quick and quiet. There will be two more at the foot of the stairs. Inside and to the left is the door to the barracks where the rest of the guards are sleeping. We need to block that door promptly lest they lend support. A dozen more guards typically walk the passages where the prisoners are kept. We will dispense with them in any way we can… The barrack door is key to this. We're fucked if we can't get that shut. The men they employ are thugs, and fight dirty knowing it is their necks on the line if they fuck this up. Don't hesitate at the risk of your life and this mission." He pins me with a look. "If any come at you, put them down."

No more words are spoken. We understand what is at stake. It is time to act.

Jacob and a guard move forward alone toward the back entrance of the slave markets. We wait at the corner. As they reach the guards, I see a sudden flurry of movement. A faint grunt and audible crack follow before the two guards slump to the floor and are dragged inside.

Hearing a low whistle, we hurry to join them, slipping inside the door.

A cry goes up, and we pound down the stairs. On the left, the door to the sleeping quarters is open, and two of Jacob's soldiers battle to shut it. More guards come at us from the right, turning the bottom of the narrow stairs into one big melee.

"Get that fucking door closed," Jacob roars, slamming into a guard on the right.

My hammer is in my hand. I don't realize my intentions until it smashes into the face of the man blocking the barrack door. He crumples backward, and we slam the door shut. One of Jacob's men has a bar in his hand and slips it into a slot, barring the door from opening again.

Fists pound on the other side of the door.

"Good work, lad," the soldier says.

Tim, my father, and Jacob have pushed the guards back to the right.

A soldier crouches over a fallen guard. "Check that one," he calls to me. "See if you can find the keys."

Before I can move to check the body, the cell on my left swings open, and a man rushes out.

I don't have time to wonder how the door opened from within for his short, sturdy club swings for my head. As I duck under the whistling club, I notice his pants are unbuckled.

Bastard.

I swing my hammer straight into his belly. He doubles over with a grunt, but I am already swinging it up, and his jaw breaks with a satisfying crack.

His blood splatters as he is sent crashing into the wall. Rage fills me when I consider what he was up to in that room, and as he crumples to the floor, I bring my hammer down again over his skull.

He is dead.

Somebody tugs on my shoulder. "Get the prisoners out." A soldier presses the keyring into my palm. Another soldier surges past to liberate the slave from the cell from where the thug just emerged.

I snatch the keys up and press on to the next cell, opening the door. Wary faces greet me, and my heart breaks with pity. "We've come to get you out. Move quickly." I keep going, cell after cell, praying with each one that I might find Betsy.

Yet more fighting continues ahead of me as the soldiers deal with the remaining guards. The prisoners form a line, shaken and scared, their eyes wide with worry and hope.

As I push open the next door, I see Betsy and another lass clinging to each other in the corner.

"Betsy! It's Callum, lass. Your pa is here to get you."

Jacob surges past me, his expression one of relief. He is followed closely by Tim, who takes Betsy in his arms, inspecting her for injury.

"We need to leave," Jacob says. "We have cleared out this level, but reinforcements are coming."

"Please help Ada," Betsy cries.

"I've got her," I say, coaxing the tiny, trembling lass to her feet. She is nothing but skin and bones, with straight dark hair and haunting hazel eyes. I don't hesitate to swing her into my arms. "We'll get you out, Ada."

My gut clenches with fury as I notice the bodice of her dress has been torn.

"Here," my father says. He shucks off his cloak and drops it over her, offering her warmth and modesty.

A shout alerts us to the arrival of more guards. We hasten to leave, the ragtag group of former prisoners now with soldiers front and back. There is more fighting as we take the stairs. Reinforcements may have arrived, but Jacob and his soldiers are fast and efficient and leave only bloodied bodies on the ground. Finally, we emerge into the cold streets, using the narrow back alleys to take us from the slave markets until Jacob calls a stop.

"We'll separate here," Jacob says. "We have a safe house for those we've rescued. They will be well cared for."

"Ada must come with us," Betsy says. "Please, Pa. Bring her with us."

"Fine, lass," Tim says.

"I'll carry her," I say. The lass is still trembling in my arms. A surge of protectiveness fills me with the need to personally see her to a place of safety.

The other former prisoners go one way with Jacob and his men. My father, Tim, Betsy, and I, with Ada, go another, taking a long and convoluted route through the city. By the time we arrive at The Green Man, the sky has begun to lighten with the onset of dawn. As we enter the tavern, the workers are aflutter, for they have been waiting in anticipation of Tim's return.

It is only now, as two of the women who work in the tavern bustle around to help me with the poor lass in my arms, that the enormity of what I've just done hits me.

"Here, let me get the young miss cleaned up," Tim's resident cook says. She is a matronly woman with steel gray hair and a kindly smile.

I find it hard to relinquish my hold, though, and I'm shaking as I lower Ada's feet to the ground.

"Thank you," Ada says, surprising me when she throws her arms around my neck. "Thank you, Callum."

The emotions that stir within me are strong and multifaceted. Tears sting the back of my eyes as the cook and a kitchen helper urge her away and fuss over her. My legs cut out from under me, and I slump onto the nearest stool.

My father comes to join me, his hand squeezing over my shoulder. "You did good, lad. I'm proud of you. We got Betsy back, and we freed many others."

"It's not over," Tim says, his voice rough. "I've yet to pay a visit to those as dared to snatch my daughter. You can bet I'll deal with them, too."

"Good," my father says. "Before the Goddess, it is their due."