Lamp Oil

Chapter 1

This world is fantasy based, though the original plan was to have it be based in India.  This is the first book that I intend to finish, so the writing and story is probably not the best, and grammar is probably nonexistent.  I do hope that the characters are relatable and the story is enjoyable, however, because that would be absolutely wonderful, considering that I have never done this before. Please vote if you like it!

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Nazar, year 1682

Moist air and hot showers of water whip past my face as I run through the slums, my wet hair swinging and sticking to my cheeks and neck and soaking deep into my sari. Bellows of rain hurtle down upon the dirty bricks that pave the sullen streets, drenching them, cleaning them and giving them a wet gleam that can barely be seen through the hammering sheets of water. Warm fog begins to rise from the colliding drops, snaking in between the disorganized array of makeshift homes littered across the streets. Colorful tents and baggage carts lump together in small blocks, creating a winding maze of sharp twists and turns. Leaping over cargo, and diving through gaps between people, I delve into every detour in sight.

Rain drips from the gaps in the tent tops and streams in waterfalls from their sides, falling into puddles and sinking into the earth, softening the dirt in the crevices between the bricks. My sore feet begin to slide on the loosening grime, mud squishing between my toes with every desperate bound. I dare not look back. I must not. Or else I will slow down.

The three men behind are swift runners. Without needing to stop they were able to pursue me as I leapt from baggage cart to baggage cart, as I ducked through holes in fences and tents, and as I continually created obstacles, all of which are nearly impossible to the average person to do simultaneously on such short notice. Once in a while they were stumped, forced to retrace their steps and scrounge the wet ground for my shallow trail; however, to make up for lost time, they would somehow be able to run faster and more efficiently. Like playing cat and mouse, they had attempted to drive me into a corner. It is time to step up the game a little.

I snap my fingers together and utter a single command: conceal. From behind me, my footprints begin to glow in the murky rain, flickering like violet flames, light dimming and shriveling from the water, and finally sizzling out, leaving the gouged out mud clean and smooth. The side of my mouth quirks up. It is a simple trick really, if you know how to use it.

It takes them a few minutes to regain their footing, as they probably waste their time by gawking at the missing trail, or arguing if there was even a trail in the first place, while I run ahead planning, listening when all is set, smirking when there is nothing to heard. Quick feet does not guarantee a quick mind.

They are intelligent enough to elude my trick, however, for their coarse voices tear through the thundering rain.

"Those prints. She's near!" My face grows hot, and I snap my fingers twice, with the last one for good measure: conceal! Purple flames swathe my feet, cool to the touch, and quickly creep up to my knees. My splashing feet become silent and I smile. Another voice calls out,

"I can hear the pitter patter of her little feet." I curse, clenching my teeth in an effort to move faster. I have never seen someone evade my magic before, but then again, most people do not have access to it. If they are from the same crowd that I inconvenienced, they may have a way to break through the illusions. Magic is for the resourceful, and talent is secondary as long as one can buy it, so even a pauper can learn magic if he suddenly comes up with the money.

But there is still something unusual about the men, something that I feel in my gut but cannot place to words. It is not just about how they are able to evade my magic, but more like how they are able to track me. In this day and age, it is hard to find a good youngster in my line of work, and I am proud to say that I am known as one of the best in the underground district. They should be long gone, yet they hulk behind, their large feet slapping against the ground like someone throwing wet clay on a moist surface, growing louder as they draw closer. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Each footstep beats faster and faster, pushing my limits to their breaking points, as I am reminded that this is not a game, but is in fact a bet, and the winning stake is my life.