Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  “We’re not here to pillage,” Straegar growled at the foul man.

  Lipscombe seemed not to hear him as he began filling the sack with anything that might fetch a coin at the markets.

  Straegar glanced down at the remains of what he assumed, by the clothing, was the family maid. In life she might have been attractive. “Collect this body and take it back to the warehouse.”

  “There are more bodies up here, Captain,” one of the Loyalist called down from the second floor.

  “Any we can use?”

  “The two women, for sure. The sailor, no, and Pervis, well . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “His head is more bolts than brains. Someone took a tremendous dislike to him.”

  Straegar’s jaw clenched. “Where is the other sailor? And Joseph Hewes?”

  “Found them, Captain!” another Loyalist called out. “Downstairs. Hewes took a quarrel in the chest.”

  Straegar glanced over at Lipscombe. “I thought you said Pervis was an accomplished assassin-mage.”

  Lipscombe didn’t look up from his ransacking. “He was. He must’a got sloppy.”

  “Is that what you want me to tell Lord Ragget?!” Straegar roared. “We lost our magical communications because your man got sloppy?!”

  “I don’ care wha’ ye tell him. He should’a let me kill tha’ bitch when I had th’ chance las’ night. Wha’ do I care if some Gyun Lordy thinks he done raped her or no?”

  “Watch your tongue, Lipscombe. Lord Ragget doesn’t tolerate-”

  “I don’ care wha’ he will or won’ tolerate either. I sail his ships. I only did this extra job so as t’ rape tha’ bitch. She was a ripe one, let me tell ye. Bled too.”

  Straegar turned away. There was no point in talking with Lipscombe and until Lord Ragget gave the command, the bastard would remain alive. He smiled inwardly. Would Joseph Hewes’s death be enough to convince Lord Ragget of Lipscombe’s incompetence?

  His fingers strayed to his sword hilt. Lipscombe noticed the gesture and an eerie half-smile creased the right side of his face.

  “I know wha’ yer thinkin’,” Lipscombe said. “Better men than ye have thought th’ same, ‘nd I’m still here.” He puffed out his chest. “I’m still here.” With a laugh, he resumed his pilfering of the keep.

  Straegar’s face burned red and it took every bit of willpower he had not to draw his sword and strike the foul man down where he stood. Soon, he consoled himself, soon.

  “Captain,” one of the Loyalist called out, “we’ve searched the entire keep, including the roof. Josephine Hewes is gone.”

  Straegar sniffed the air and stroked his thin mustache thoughtfully. “Gather the bodies we can use and leave the rest behind.”

  “What about the missing girl, Captain?”

  “We’ll assemble a group of hunters and search the city. We’ll start here in Little Ryerton and spread out to the dock district and the Necropolis next,” Straegar replied. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

  “I’m gonna look for her too,” Lipscombe announced. “‘nd when I find her, I’m gonna make tha’ bitch suffer.”

  “You will bring her to the warehouse unharmed,” Straegar said. “She must have been the one who killed Hewes. I want to know what he told her before he died.”

  “Probably somethin’ like, ‘Don’ shoot me, ye ungrateful bitch,” Lipscombe’s cackling laugh grated on Straegar’s nerves. The hairs on his neck bristled. This crude man did not deserve to be aligned with Lord Ragget.

  The front door blasted open and a gust of wind spiraled through the keep. Straegar struggled toward the door to close it but stopped as a series of hastily spoken words carried aloft in the wind flowed around him. Wind speech passed along by Gylfalen’s magic.

  ‘Lord Ian Weatherall is en route to Lord Ragget’s estate.’

  Straegar held still, straining to hear if there was more to the message, but the magical wind died, and the carried words expired with a low hiss.

  Ian was going to Lord Ragget’s estate?!

  The message was sent by the three wardens he’d assigned to follow Ian, but with the time delay for the wind’s travel . . .

  “Ian is with Lord Ragget now,” Straegar muttered aloud.

  Lipscombe glanced up from the chest he was emptying on the other side of the hall and a wicked gleam filled his right eye. “With any luck, Ragget’ll jus’ kill’em ‘nd be done wit’ it.”

  Straegar sighed. Of course, the intricacies of Lord Ragget’s plan would be lost upon the uneducated sailor. To Lipscombe, death was the final punishment, the ultimate defeat.

  But there were far worse things in life than death and that was something Ian would learn soon enough.

  Chapter 51

  Ian followed the giant down a damp flight of stairs and through a series of dark and winding corridors until he finally lost all sense of direction. Was Ragget creeping around in his own dungeon, or was this just another way for the Yordician Lord to intimidate him? Was Ragget hoping he’d lose his nerve and demand to be taken back to the front door? Ian decided it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to give Ragget the satisfaction of seeing him flee. He’d come this far, he would not turn back now.

  “What are you called?” Ian said to the giant’s back.

  “Amarias.”

  Water dripped from the stone ceiling overhead. How deep did these tunnels go? Ian could almost feel the weight of the stones above him, pressing down on him, closing in on him. How long had they been underground?

  “I had no idea there were these many tunnels under Lord Ragget’s estate.”

  Amarias was silent.

  “I think we’ve walked halfway to Gyunwar . . .”

  Still nothing.

  “You’re not much for talking, are you?”

  Nothing.

  Ian shrugged.

  They turned a corner and the dank tunnel began to warm, the cold wet air became moist and foul-smelling like the sewers running beneath the cemetery. Ian held a hand to his nose and gasped for air. Amarias continued seemingly unaffected by the stench.

  A narrow stairwell disappeared into a black void off to their right and Ian realized whatever was down there was the source of the pungent stench. It was a foul combination of smoke and sweat and excrement and . . .

  Death.

  A pitiful scream echoed up from the depths below, a long, agonizing, pain-soaked screech which abruptly changed into a low mournful wail.

  “Is someone torturing prisoners?” Ian demanded. “Does the king know about this?”

  Amarias continued without stopping or answering.

  “I’m sure Lord Ragget is aware all privately captured criminals are supposed to be turned over to the Royal Dungeon unharmed.”

  Amarias stopped abruptly and Ian almost walked into him. He took a step back. The giant turned and stared down at him. His eyes were hidden beneath the shadows of his heavy brow, but Ian could still feel his penetrating gaze nonetheless.

  “You go first.” He waved his hand toward the wall.

  Ian wasn’t sure what the giant wanted him to do.

  Amarias pointed to the wall again. Ian walked past him and found a cleverly disguised ladder built into the side of the tunnel.

  “Where are we going now?”

  Amarias crossed his arms over his extremely wide chest. “Up.”

  Ian shrugged and began to climb. The walls pressed in close around him. Twice he paused to look down, unsure how the giant could follow, but somehow the brute managed.

  “Keep going.” Amarias’s rumbling voice echoed against the damp walls. The air was growing warmer and Ian paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and face. The giant shoved at the bottom of his feet. “Keep going!”

  “I’m going . . .” Ian grumbled. “I’m going . . .” His arms and legs didn’t want to take him any further, but then he assumed this was yet another of Ragget’s tests and he knuckled down, clenched his teeth and kept climbing until he bumped his head aga
inst a metal trapdoor.

  “Push up and exit.”

  Easier said than done. With a grunt, Ian forced the metal trapdoor open. Bright sunlight poured into the narrow shaft. Ian winced and raised a hand to shield his eyes.

  “Push up AND exit.”

  “I think I liked you better silent,” Ian muttered as he climbed out of the tunnel. Sweat dripped off his face and dampened the back of his silk shirt. Once his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he found they had emerged into a shallow valley filled with flowers. Hundreds of tulips in various shades of red, yellow, pink and deep purple dotted the grassy slopes. Were they still on Ragget’s property or had they traveled so far west they’d exited the city entirely? He spun around and found Ragget’s massive central tower standing tall behind them.

  Without a word, Amarias closed the trapdoor and covered it again with a layer of white-tipped leafy green ivy. He then pointed to a brick path which led up to one of the hill’s crests. Ian was wheezing by the time he reached the top but the sight that greeted him was well worth the climb. Acres of manicured lawns and carefully trimmed bushes and intricately designed flower displays stretched off in every direction. The infamous waterfall which magically fell through the center of Ragget’s tower emptied into a nearby pond and fed the river which wound past them and disappeared somewhere along the western wall.

  “It’s beautiful . . .” Ian admitted.

  “Come,” Amarias said.

  They continued down the brick path, past more bright tulips and lingering daffodils. Reaching an intersecting path, the giant turned and headed toward a towering weeping willow near the very center of the courtyard. As they drew nearer the willow, Ian noticed the tulips gave way to an assortment of tall, fragrant hyacinths in shades of blue and white. Ragget’s family colors.

  Amarias suddenly stepped aside and Ian found himself on the edge of a circular stone patio partially shaded by the willow. A small table sat in the middle of the patio with a few chairs carefully placed around it, and while the river drifted quietly past the figure sitting comfortably in the shade captured Ian’s attention.

  Lord Devin Ragget.

  The Chief Inquisitor was dressed informally, simple blue trousers and a white silk shirt. An elegant blue-black cloak lay across the arm of the chair nearest him, but it was the gleaming sword dangling casually off his hip which Ian found most disconcerting.

  That and the penetrating stare of the Yordician’s violet eyes.

  “Amarias,” Ragget said, “when we are finished here, please have these dishes taken inside. Thank you.”

  Ian noticed the two place settings and quickly glanced around. Was someone else out here with them? With the stone patio at such a low elevation, and the rolling hills rising all around them, Ian realized he could not see much of the courtyard any more. A small army could slowly encircle them, and he would not know. He could still see the upper levels of the estate though, and the top of the far western wall and beyond that . . .

  His stomach lurched. Beyond that stood the ancient ruins, the site of tomorrow’s scheduled duel with Lord Orrington. The horizon behind the ruins had darkened and the black storm clouds had swollen greatly since he’d first noticed them out on the drive. Undulating like some python, the clouds swallowed the rest of the Uldran Mountains and stretched slowly eastward toward Belyne. Even the wheeling birds overhead seemed to flee from the oncoming storm, taking wing and heading north.

  Amarias pulled out a chair. Its metal legs keened loudly against the stone.

  “Sit.”

  Maintaining an air of nonchalance, Ian took his seat. The afternoon sun had not yet been overtaken by the advancing clouds and it shone directly into his eyes. He doubted if this was by accident.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Lord Ragget asked.

  Ian squinted and adjusted the angle of his chair. “I came to discuss the Scylthian outpost.” He tried to read Ragget’s face but the Yordician showed no signs of distress.

  “What about it?”

  Ian took a deep breath. “Captain Caleachey tells me you took my outpost by force.”

  “I can only imagine the wild stories that pirate might have told you,” Ragget said. “And you believe him, of course.”

  “I do.”

  “Seneicians have been known to switch loyalties,” Ragget said. He tented his fingers and placed them under his cleft chin. “Throughout history, they have allied themselves with the country with the most power. Currently, their city-state is part of Yordic not Gyunwar.”

  “I did not come for a history lesson,” Ian said. “I came for answers.”

  Ragget smiled, but the smile did not extend to the rest of his face. “Then perhaps you should ask your questions quickly instead of making accusatory statements.”

  Ian straightened. “Very well. Why did you take the outpost?”

  Ragget shook his head. “You’re going about this all wrong. You should ask yourself first, how?”

  Ian’s forehead wrinkled. “How?”

  “It’s well known Captain Caleachey is the only ship captain capable of sailing safely through the Northern Reef and reaching the Scylthian jungle.”

  “Are you saying he betrayed me?” Ian didn’t want to believe it, not of Kylpin, but Ragget was insinuating a valid point. How had Ragget’s ships made it through? “All I have to do is walk outside and ask him.”

  “And would you expect a traitor to tell you the truth, even when faced with overwhelming evidence?” Ragget shook his head. “Have you not learned anything in the courtroom? The guilty will always profess their innocence . . .”

  “As will the innocent.”

  “Then we are at an impasse here.” Ragget reclined in his chair. “And I still control the outpost there.”

  “You admit to taking it,” Ian said. “Illegally.”

  “I will admit to no such thing.”

  Ian hesitated. Ragget was toying with him. He’d seen him do this in court many times before when facing an accused prisoner. Confusion, mixed with riddles, mixed with half-truths, the Chief Inquisitor was adept at making a person so befuddled they appeared unsure and to many in the courtroom, uncertainty equaled guilt.

  “Why do you feel justified in laying claim to my outpost?” Ian asked.

  Ragget calmly produced a small scroll and placed it on the table between them. “Read it.”

  Ian glanced at the scroll. The imprint on the broken wax seal was the king’s crown. The scroll was a royal decree.

  “What is it?” Ian asked without picking it up.

  “See for yourself.” Ragget gestured.

  Ian glanced at the scroll again. It could not contain good news, not with how Ragget was behaving. The Yordician reclined again, a picture of calm confidence, but it was just an act. Ian had seen all this before too. Ragget exuded nonchalance, but he was poised to strike.

  Exhaling sharply, Ian took the scroll and unrolled it. He recognized the king’s spidery handwriting immediately, but he had to read the message a second time before he could believe it.

  The king had ordered Ragget to seize control of the outpost.

  Ian glanced at the signature at the bottom. It was the king’s.

  The blood drained from his face.

  “I was only acting in accordance to the king’s command.” Ian heard the arrogance behind Ragget’s words now, the silky smoothness of his voice replaced with a harder, bitter edge. “If there is anyone you should be upset with, it is the king, not I.” Ragget leaned forward and placed his hands palm down on the table. “I was only doing as I was told and as a loyal subject, I obeyed.”

  Ian met Ragget’s piercing stare and shook his head. “This cannot be real.” He shoved the scroll away. “It must be a forgery. The king would not do this to me. Not without telling me first.”

  “I’m not sure which of your statements I should be more offended by,” Ragget said. “Your insinuation that I would be dealing with a forgery or that my king must answer to you, a foreig
ner. He is the king.”

  Ian shot out of his chair. Amarias immediately loomed behind him. “You are right. King Henrik does not answer to me, but I will still ask him about his decision when I meet with him tonight.”

  “Please give him my regards.”

  Ian turned to leave. Amarias stepped out of his way.

  “Oh,” Ragget called after him, “and do please give your wife my regards as well. Ever since she began . . . well, shall we say, confiding . . . in Lord Orrington, I have not had the opportunity to speak with her.”

  Ian chewed on the inside of his cheek. A curt reply sat on the tip of his tongue and badly wanted out of his mouth.

  “Or perhaps you haven’t seen her recently?” Ragget added. “Those two do seem inseparable at times.”

  “I will be sure to convey your message to her.” Ian tried to stop there, but the rest of the words spilled out too. “Though I do recall her saying how pleasant it was lately not having to feign interest while you droned on and on about some worthless cause.”

  He headed up the brick path toward the main estate.

  “Ian.” Ragget’s tone had moved past bitter and now dripped with venom. “The next time you come to my home and accuse me of a crime, I won’t be so polite.”

  Ian stopped. “The next time I come to your home and accuse you of a crime, I won’t come alone.”

  “Is that a threat, Ian? Because if it is, you really should work on your technique.”

  “You are not as innocent as you would have others believe,” Ian said. He turned and glared back at Ragget. “I heard the screams coming up from your dungeon. The king will not appreciate your practice of torturing prisoners.”

  Ragget calmly climbed out of his chair, drew his sword and closed the distance between them. Ian stood his ground. Ragget raised his weapon and placed the tip against Ian’s chest. Ian fought the urge to do anything but stand there and face the man trying to bully him. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, followed the line of his jaw to his chin and dangled there until it fell onto the steel blade. Ian wet his lips and swallowed. “You wouldn’t dare attack an unarmed man.”

  Ragget smirked. “Amarias, give him your sword.”