Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  He staggered to his feet and peered down at the destruction below. An enormous water elemental rampaged through the warehouse swatting at the snarling fire like a crazed person chasing after an angry bee. Disorientated by rage and surrounded by flames, the elemental whirlpooled across the floor, haphazardly crashing into one support beam after another. The catwalk swayed dangerously.

  He was out of time!

  Fire blocked the stairs. With only half a charred cloak remaining to shield himself with, he’d be burned alive if he went back that way. He checked the other direction. A vertical ladder hung precariously from the ceiling and led to the roof deck. It was his last hope for escape.

  Ian raced toward it. A few yards shy of the ladder, the catwalk shuddered and began to sag. He flung himself forward as the floor dropped out from beneath his feet. For a long moment, he was flying, falling. His outstretched fingers slapped against the bottom rung of the ladder. The muscles in his arms and stomach snapped taut as he fought to hang on. His body dangled in space. Not far beneath his swaying boots the water elemental raged against the fire. Sweat poured down his brow and dripped into his eyes. He struggled to pull himself up. Inch by inch he rose but the next rung seemed so far away. If he could just reach it, he might be able to hook his elbow and drag himself higher.

  With a grunt, Ian thrust himself up, and grabbed wildly for the next rung. Slivers jabbed into his palm as he wrapped his fingers around it. He didn’t care. He swung up again and grabbed the next rung while hooking his boot heel on the lowest one.

  He let out a sigh of relief.

  The building shuddered. The ladder shifted and nearly pitched Ian off his slender perch. He hung on. The ladder jerked again. And again. The rusty nails connecting the ladder to the ceiling were not going to hold his weight for long. He climbed up to the roof’s hatch and pushed against the narrow door.

  Locked!

  Ian put a shoulder to the trapdoor and pushed. It gave a little. So did the rung beneath his feet. Further down, the bottom of the ladder had caught fire.

  “Come on!” Ian grunted. The fire crept up the ladder. He lowered his head, arched his shoulders and pushed again. Either the door was going to open, or he was going to break the ladder and plummet to his death.

  He strained. The ladder creaked. The rung beneath his boots sagged. Something cracked. Blood rushed to his face. His boots grew hotter. Flames licked at his soles. The familiar burning pain washed over his calves. He slammed his shoulder against the trapdoor again and again. The ladder jerked, started to slowly twist. The rusty nails whined. Another crack. He cried out in agony. Every muscle screamed.

  The lock broke. The trap door flung open. A limb of fire shot past him greedily seeking fresh air. Ian scrambled out and immediately dropped onto the hot roof and began rolling back and forth putting out the flames that had latched onto the back of his clothing.

  “Thank you . . .” he muttered to the One above. He was still alive.

  Ian sat up and assessed his situation. He was out of the warehouse, but far from safe. Flames had already eaten through the eastern section of the roof and were moving steadily toward him. He ran to the building’s western edge. The alley below was empty. He wasn’t surprised. With the fire’s outbreak, anything worth saving would have been removed, but he had hoped for an abandoned cart or carriage or something on which he could have dropped down on. No such luck. Behind him the fire raged closer. He was down to one option.

  He’d have to jump across the alley to the building on the other side.

  Ian eyed the distance between the two critically. His warehouse was a few feet taller, but it was still a good distance to jump.

  At least twelve, maybe fifteen feet.

  In his youth, he would have leapt the distance without giving it a second thought, but during the past decade and a half while living in Belyne as the Gyunwarian Ambassador, he had enjoyed a rather luxurious life-good foods, excellent wines-and naturally tailors capable of letting out his trousers a little when they became a bit too tight. Now, he gave the jump a second and third thought and he didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him.

  The roof softened. The heat rose beneath his boots. The fire was working its way up and would soon consume the entire building. Ian backed up to gain a running start, hoping he hadn’t lost too much of his athletic prowess and-

  And he felt the odd sensation of moisture leeching from his body!

  His eyes itched. His throat constricted. His tongue slapped against the roof of his mouth like an old piece of leather. Ian cast around quickly, searching . . .

  The older of the two water wizards stood framed in the shattered opening of the second-floor window across the street. His arms were outstretched. His head was bowed.

  The damn mage was going to cast the dousing spell!

  The suddenly dry air immediately around Ian drew the flames up more quickly and as he raced toward the building’s edge, the roof slowly sagged beneath him. With each step, he feared he would fall through to his death. His legs churned. He was running through quicksand. He was almost there. The edge seemed to pull away. It rested now on the distant horizon. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Dancing fire matched him stride for stride. Then it came on faster. He was running through walls of flames. He screamed. The heated air warped the crisp line of the building’s edge. He screamed again. The roof groaned. One last dying gasp.

  Something cold brushed past Ian’s face. Then a downward gust of wind flattened the rising black smoke and hungry flames. The deluge was coming! He wasn’t going to make it. Something wet splashed against his face.

  Ian planted his foot on the roof’s crumbling edge and jumped into the air.

  Chapter 16

  Josephine regained consciousness and was surprised to find she was still alive. In pain, but still alive. She groaned at the familiar drumming in her head and rolled over onto her side. She was further surprised to discover she was lying on her dining room floor and her hands and feet were unbound. Why had she been struck if not to tie her up? She reached up and felt along the back of her head. Her fingers found a small lump beneath her hair.

  “Wantin’ t’ rescue yer daddy is an admir’ble trait.” Lipscombe’s voice sounded behind her. She rolled over onto her other side not quite ready to get up yet and found Lipscombe sitting at the head of the table in her father’s chair. With a sneer, he climbed to his feet. “But I piss on admir’ble traits.” He sauntered over to where she lay, undid his trousers, pulled out his crooked cock and began urinating on her. She started to protest but he only directed his foul stream toward her open mouth. She sputtered and coughed and squirmed away. He followed. “I have no use for admir’ble traits. So th’ next time ye think t’ disobey me ‘nd go searchin’ for yer daddy, I’m gonna hurt ye, no matter wha’ I was told, y’understand?”

  Josephine tried to rise, but he shoved her back with his boot and stood partially on top of her, poised like some perverse conquering hero with one foot on her chest and the other on the floor. The last of his urine dribbled down onto the front of her shirt. “I asked ye a question,” Lipscombe growled. He bent over and stared at her with his one good eye. “Y’understand?”

  Deciding her best course of action was to remain submissive, at least for now while her family was still in danger, she nodded.

  “I can’t hear ye.” He turned his head to one side and cupped a hand around his scarred ear.

  “Yes!” she gasped. She wanted to vomit, but she didn’t think he’d like that.

  “Good.” Lipscombe removed his foot from her chest, gave his cock a little shake and shoved it back inside his trousers. “Now, since I know ye want yer daddy back, am I right t’ assume ye’d do a little task for me?”

  “What is it?”

  Lipscombe’s face darkened into an angry scowl. “It don’t matter what it is, yer gonna do it or yer daddy’s gonna die.”

  “Yes! I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” Josephine glanced around the room, but she didn’t
see her mother or sister. “Just don’t hurt him or my family.”

  “Tha’ depends on ye. Go wash up ‘nd put on a fancy dress ‘nd I’ll tell ye th’ rest of th’ details in th’ carriage.”

  Josephine spied her crossbow lying on the floor near the table. It was only a few steps away. Lipscombe noticed the direction of her gaze and snickered. “Nah, I wouldn’t do tha’ if I were ye.” He pulled out a silver mirror. It was one of her father’s communication devices. “If I don’t speak t’ Pervis reg’larly, he might jus’ get it in his head t’ do somethin’ awful t’ yer family . . . startin’ wit’ yer daddy.” He pocketed the mirror and waved for her to go. “Don’t make me wait long, or I’ll come up ‘nd get ye.”

  Josephine dragged herself upright. The drumming started again.

  “’nd don’t try t’ go out th’ window either,” Lipscombe added. “Ye run, ‘nd yer daddy suffers, y’understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Josephine hurried out of the room. She was trapped and the men she was dealing with were not above killing to get what they wanted. Edgar was proof of that. Poor Edgar. Her thoughts drifted back to his room over the tailor shop. Had Owen found him yet? The brothers often spent their days together. Edgar’s death would be hard on him. She wished she could have stayed at Edgar’s, if only to be there for Owen. As it was, she would have to bide her time here with Lipscombe until she could find a way to escape. But only after her family was safe. She couldn’t let what happened to Edgar happen to them. She just couldn’t! Not if there was anything she could do to protect them. At least she’d learned one thing during their exchange, something she hadn’t known before.

  Lipscombe was taking orders from someone else.

  But who was in charge?

  It had to be someone with wealth and power; surely men like Lipscombe and Pervis were not cheaply bought or easily controlled. She considered Bolodenko and then dismissed the idea almost immediately. He had an army of stone-faced men to perform this kind of work for him. It had to be someone else. Perhaps someone her father knew.

  She put her thoughts aside as she slipped into her room and went to her armoire. She didn’t know exactly what Lipscombe meant by a ‘fancy’ dress, but her father had bought an elegant sapphire gown for her to wear to the spring joust. It would have to do. She removed her urine-soaked black clothes and noticed for the first time they were also stained with Edgar’s blood. A wave of guilt washed over her and for a moment, she feared she would cry. She took a deep breath and worked to calm herself. Edgar would not have wanted her tears.

  He would have wanted her, just as she was now, dressed in nothing more than her boots and undergarments. Even the stench of urine on her wouldn’t have deterred him. She almost smiled. The moment of levity was enough to bring her scattering emotions back into line. She and Owen would grieve for him over a pint later. For now, she needed to keep her wits about her.

  She went to her wash basin, splashed some water on her face and neck and did her best to clean herself before drying off with a rag. Then she pulled the sapphire dress down over her head and adjusted the neckline.

  “Get on down here.” Lipscombe called from the base of the stairs. “Now!”

  The muscles in her jaw tightened. She took another deep breath, stood tall, and strode out of her room. The sooner she performed Lipscombe’s task, the sooner this ordeal would be over, and the sooner she would be free.

  Free to learn the identity of Lipscombe’s boss and free to plan her retaliation.

  Chapter 17

  Behind Ian the fire spiraled upward, feasting upon the remains of the roof. It thrust hungry tongues of orange flames up toward the sky . . .

  . . . Where they met a crushing blow of water, like a great fist, punching down from the heavens . . .

  The mighty impact flattened the warehouse. The still standing support beams were driven deep into the ground. A concussive blast shook the surrounding buildings and shattered the nearby windows.

  Above the devastation, Ian soared over the alley, his arms and legs wind-milling. He landed on the edge of the adjacent rooftop and his momentum tossed him forward. He rolled awkwardly across his shoulders and landed on his back. For a moment, he lay still, staring up at nothing while he struggled to calm his racing heart and catch his lost breath.

  When he could stand again, Ian tottered back to the building’s edge and examined the devastation below. Water seethed. Steam sizzled. The stench of damp burnt wood lifted into the air and filled his nostrils. The great fire and the raging water elemental were gone.

  The magical deluge eventually formed into swirling, grimy rivers which surged out into the streets and flowed east, down the hill toward the docks and the sea beyond. Along the way, some of the water disappeared into the sewers and the catacombs located beneath the city. In either case, within minutes, the flood was gone.

  Ian stared at the destruction and reflected upon the loss. Sir Nelson would be greatly missed. He’d been a gallant knight, a great friend and a faithful and honest member of his household for nearly fifteen years. His family had long served as protectors for the Weatheralls and his brother, Denton, still served as a member of his home guard. This grim news would not sit well with him. He’d want retribution for his brother’s alleged betrayal and while Ian was tempted to allow it, he would have to refuse. Mason and Zerick would have their day in court, like any other criminals, and Ian was certain they’d be found guilty of their crimes. Lord Nelson was beyond reproach. The same could not be said for his two guards. He eyed the surrounding streets looking for the pair, but they were gone. A frown settled across his soot-stained face. He would have the men found and interrogated. Too many questions remained: why had they done it? Was it a simple matter of thievery? If, as Nelson claimed, the cargo within the warehouse had not come from Kylpin’s ship, what had happened to it? The furrowed lines between Ian’s brows deepened as another question came to mind. What had happened to Hans Mesbone and his damn Bloody Fists?

  There were simply way too many questions and not enough answers for his liking.

  Realizing he wouldn’t find any of his answers up on the roof, Ian turned away from the edge to find a way down and out of the corner of his eye he spied a black-clad figure standing atop the building across the street. The man was staring at him. There was nothing particularly memorable about the man’s physique, but his eyes gleamed bright saffron-orange like two tiny suns.

  “Fire mage . . .” Ian gasped.

  Upon being noticed, the figure darted away, leaping from one building to the next, heading east, toward the sea. Toward the docks.

  Perhaps toward Kylpin’s ship?

  It was a crazy leap in logic but once the thought struck, Ian couldn’t dismiss it. He circled the roof until he found a rickety fire escape which looked on the verge of falling apart, but he scrambled down it without a second thought and dashed back toward the destroyed warehouse in search of Lumist and an empty carriage.

  “IAN!” The old Gyunwarian knight ran up and pulled him into a bear hug. “I thought you were dead! Thank the One above you are still alive!”

  Ian coughed. “Fire mage . . .” He pointed toward the roof of the adjacent building. “I saw him . . . watching . . .” He coughed again. The back of his throat felt raw. “Maybe his handiwork . . .”

  Lumist took a step back, his wrinkled forehead crinkling with distaste. “You think a fire mage started the blaze?”

  Ian’s bout of coughing continued. “I need . . . a carriage. Now!”

  “You need to see a healer. Look at you! Are those burns . . .?”

  “Later!” Ian cut him off. “The fire mage . . . is heading east!”

  A look of confusion spread across Lumist’s face. He wasn’t making the connection and Ian didn’t think he had time to explain it. Without another word, he sprinted east toward the docks. A knot formed in his stomach as he ran, and it quickly grew into a steady gnawing fear that forced him on even after his legs and lungs begged him to stop.


  Behind him, Lumist gasped a protest. Ian refused to slow. Thankfully, a city carriage came into view after a few blocks and he called for the driver to stop. “To the docks!” he shouted breathlessly as he climbed inside. “Pier forty-seven! And hurry!”

  Lumist grabbed the handle of the carriage door and pulled himself inside just as the driver cracked his whip over the horse’s back.

  “What . . .?” Lumist fell onto the bench beside Ian and struggled to catch his breath, “. . . was all that about?”

  “Before he died . . .” Ian struggled to speak. “Sir Nelson told me the cargo inside the warehouse was not from Kylpin’s ship.” He gasped for air. “He also said Zerick and Mason had locked him inside that upstairs room.”

  “Your own guards?”

  “They must have planned to steal the cargo and cover up the theft with the fire.”

  “This explains the fire mage,” Lumist said, “but not our ridiculous sprint . . .”

  “I . . .” Ian shrugged. “I had a bad feeling the fire mage was going to attack Kylpin’s ship next?”

  Lumist leaned back, considering. “What would he gain by doing that?”

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. Now that he was thinking about it, he realized just how crazy it sounded. He was also starting to feel some pain. “I . . . I just don’t want to take any chances.”

  The carriage careened down the cobblestone roads quickly carrying them away from the heart of the city and toward the lower end nearest the docks. Brick buildings gave way to stone, and stone to wood as they traveled east. Streets narrowed, and the stunted buildings huddled and leaned against each other for support. Many of the older structures had fallen to disrepair and though the city patrol discouraged squatters, Ian spied several dark-haired, dark-eyed vagrants peering out from behind broken windows and doors.