Dragontiarna: Thieves

by Moeller, Jonathan

  Nevertheless, he tried to console himself with the fact that he had been bored, hot, and annoyed plenty of times on his uncle’s farm on Ebor, but here in Cintarra, he wasn’t plowing the fields, harvesting the crops, or attempting to coax a recalcitrant cow into the barn.

  But he had to admit that he liked those cows better than most of the nobles he saw filling the great hall of Cintarra.

  Lord Ridmark had brought two of his men-at-arms to act as Prince Accolon’s bodyguards. He had selected Vegetius, and then the decurion had then chosen Niall, who had at first thought it a great honor. Later, he realized that Vegetius had wanted to spare some of his veteran men a tedious duty and that as the newcomer to Lord Ridmark’s service, Niall was going to get some of the unpleasant jobs for a while. He didn’t mind. Lord Ridmark and Decurion Vegetius had both told him that soldiering tended to be a day of tedium for every hour of terror, and after the fighting at Castarium, Niall figured he was due for some tedium.

  But he wished he didn’t have to spend that tedium watching the nobles of Cintarra gorge themselves.

  Niall stood at the foot of the dais next to Vegetius and tried to imitate the older man’s blank expression. It wasn’t easy. Throughout the hall, nobles and merchants ate and drank. Niall thought of all the people he had seen choking the alleys and streets of Cintarra, ragged commoners and freeholders enclosed off their lands. He remembered the day when the farmlands of Ebor had been enclosed for sheep, when the villagers had decided they had no choice but to go east and seek new lands in the Northerland or Owyllain.

  And to look at the men and women who had profited from all that misery, watching them eat and drink, some of them stuffing their faces…

  “Steady, lad,” murmured Vegetius. “We’ll go out and have a few drinks after this, give you a chance to work off some anger.”

  Niall sighed. “It’s not right, sir.”

  “Not fair, you mean?” said Vegetius. The older man grunted. “This is the wrong life for fair. But Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande will set some things right. Prince Accolon, too, unless I miss my guess. I think what happened in Castarium shook him up.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Niall remembered Caldorman gloating over the prone Accolon. The Crown Prince had come away from the battle of Castarium a harder, more driven man. At least that was what Rhiain had said, and Niall’s aunt was usually right about such things.

  “Ah,” said Vegetius. “Watch this.”

  Niall glanced over his shoulder. A pair of cooks in rough aprons pushed a cart, grunting with the effort. Atop the cart rested an enormous platter topped by a hemispherical silver cover. Niall watched as the cooks pushed the heavy cart to the foot of the dais.

  “See,” murmured Vegetius, “they’re going to serve the lords the choice meats. Probably roast boar, by my guess. But when they’ve had their fill, they’ll wheel it back to the kitchens to make tomorrow’s stew. We can help ourselves as they go past.”

  “Isn’t that stealing?” said Niall.

  Vegetius grinned. “Not if it’s traditional.”

  Niall wasn’t sure how to answer that, and he didn’t get the chance. A hush fell over the great hall, and the two cooks bowed to the dais.

  “Lord Prince!” called Master Cyprian. Niall didn’t like him. With his lean build and fine clothes, the Master of the Scepter Bank looked like the sort of miser who squeezed blood from the poor to build his fortune. “Fresh from the forests beyond the Western City, Prince Tywall’s household is pleased to present you with this wild boar. Alas, Prince Tywall was unable to attend this evening because of his health, but he hopes you enjoy this meal.”

  “Please thank the Prince for me,” said Accolon, his voice smooth and his smile cold. “When you see him next, of course. I hope to speak with him in person soon.”

  “As do we all,” said Cyprian. He stood and made a flourishing gesture. “Men?”

  The cooks bowed again and lifted the lid from the enormous serving platter.

  Then absolute shock went over their faces, followed by a stunned gasp from everyone else in the hall.

  A boar didn’t occupy the platter.

  Instead, a naked fat man lay upon his belly, his pale skin glistening with sweat. His wrists and ankles had been tied together behind his back with rough cords, and Niall saw the man’s arms and legs twitching as he tried to get free. The man’s face was turned towards Niall and sweat beaded in his red hair and beard. Niall wondered why he did not cry out for help, and then he saw the apple that had been stuffed into the bound man’s jaws. His face was red from shouting, but the apple muffled the sound.

  It was Hadrian Vindon, the Comes of Greenbridge, and lord of the Regency Council.

  The shocked silence drew on and on.

  “Lord Hadrian!” thundered Cyprian. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Then the roaring torrent of laughter drowned out the banker’s words. Hadrian snarled into the apple as if enraged by the laughter. The entire scene was so surreal that Niall didn’t know what to do or how to react. He glanced at Vegetius and saw the decurion trying not to snicker. The lords of the Regency Council roared with laughter, but Cyprian looked furious. For that matter, Lord Ridmark and Lady Calliande did not laugh, and Mara, Jager, Selene, and Third seemed alarmed. In fact, Lady Calliande had an expression on her face like she was preparing to use magic.

  “Silence!”

  The voice boomed down like a thunderclap. It sounded metallic, inhuman. Niall looked around, and he saw the white-cloaked figure perched on the balcony overhead.

  He had never seen anyone quite like it before. The man wore a peculiar cuirass of armor that hung to his knees, armor made from overlapping hexagonal plates of a strange bronze-like metal. A masked helmet of the same metal concealed the man’s face. The armored man wore a ragged white cloak with the cowl pulled up.

  “The Wraith!” shouted someone.

  Was this the mysterious master thief who had so troubled the Regency Council?

  Suddenly Niall knew just how Lord Hadrian had gotten himself trussed up like a hog.

  “Regency Council!” thundered the Wraith in that metallic voice. “I accuse you of treason and apostasy! You have forsaken the church and the Dominus Christus to worship the lies of the Drakocenti! You have plotted to kill Prince Accolon, and you seek for dark power in the Shadow Ways beneath the city! Even now, you scheme to kill both the Crown Prince and the Prince of Cintarra! You…”

  “Kill him!” roared Cyprian, all trace of his calm manner gone. “A thousand golden coins to the man who brings me the Wraith’s head!”

  The Wraith whirled, and to Niall’s astonishment, he became a specter of gray mist and light, passing through the wall as if it was nothing.

  But there was a flash of blue light from the dais, and Lady Third vanished.

  ###

  Third of Nightmane Forest reached for the fiery power in her blood, the song of flame that filled her mind.

  Once a different song had filled her thoughts and heart. She had spent a millennium as an urdhracos, among the most powerful creatures of black sorcery created by the dark elves, a slave to her father. The mighty song of the Traveler, for her mind interpreted his aura as a beautiful, terrifying song, had filled her thoughts and dominated her will. But Mara had slain the Traveler in Khald Azalar, and his song had been broken. Driven mad by it, Third had returned to Nightmane Forest, intending to die in battle. Instead, Ridmark had defeated her and given her a chance…and she had accepted baptism and transformed, becoming something new.

  Her third life had begun, and ever since, she had followed Ridmark in battle.

  And when the Wraith became immaterial and flowed through the wall, Third knew what she must do.

  She cared nothing for the lords of the Regency Council. In truth, she thought Hadrian’s public humiliation both well-deserved and somewhat amusing. Third had visited Cintarra with Mara and Jager several times over the last year, and every time, the city’s condition worsened. The countryside
had once been filled with villages and farms, but it was dotted with abandoned, crumbling villages and wasted croplands grazed by sheep. The displaced villagers were streaming into Cintarra, and of late the city had reminded Third of a pot on the verge of boiling over.

  Selene had suggested, several times, that perhaps it might be time to arrange accidental deaths for the Regency Council. She had only been half-joking. Third had pointed out that they weren’t assassins of the Red Family and that killing the Regency Council would likely only trigger a revolt or a civil war. What was happening now, right now, was probably the best path. Accolon was grimmer than Third remembered, but his character hadn’t changed, and he would investigate the Council and roll back their abuses. And if the lords of the Council were part of the Drakocenti, Ridmark and Calliande would put an end to them.

  Which was why Third needed to capture the Wraith.

  It was clear the Wraith had engineered Lord Hadrian’s public humiliation, and the Wraith therefore knew a great deal about the Drakocenti. Which meant Ridmark and Calliande needed to talk to him. Unfortunately, Third doubted the Wraith would do so voluntarily. Which meant that Third had to capture to the thief and compel him to talk.

  Blue fire swallowed the world, and Third reappeared on the balcony where the Wraith had vanished. Her power had let Third travel the distance in the blink of an eye. She ran to the wall and looked out the window, her eyes roving back and forth through the courtyard below. The sun had gone down, and only four of the thirteen moons were out, but she thought she could find the Wraith…

  There!

  A phantom made of mist and gray light hurtled through the courtyard, heading to the west.

  That confirmed Third’s suspicions. The tattered white cloak was a wraithcloak, an ancient elven artifact that granted its bearer the power to become immaterial. Sir Calem of Owyllain had such a cloak, and he had been wearing it when he had slain the High Warlock of Vhalorast and helped take Tusked Skull Citadel and Urd Maelwyn itself. Consequently, he had become known as Sir Calem Whitecloak to the men of Owyllain, and his wife Kalussa had even taken the name of Whitecloak after they had been married.

  Third wondered where the Wraith had found such a cloak.

  Well, she would find out soon enough.

  Again, Third drew on her power, and she traveled to the courtyard. The pale phantom headed towards the Palace’s curtain wall, and Third traveled again, placing herself between the Wraith and escape.

  She reached over her shoulders and drew her golden longswords.

  The swords had been a gift from King Kyralion after the siege of Cathair Caedyn, and the enspelled blades had been forged by the dwarven smith Irizidur. Irizidur had been a madman, insane and enslaved to his pride and obsessions, but the man had known how to make a powerful weapon. The longsword in Third’s right hand burned with elemental flame, while the sword in her left hand snarled and hissed with lightning.

  She hadn’t named the swords. They were not soulblades, after all. But Jager had insisted that she ought to name them, and he had dubbed one of the swords Inferno, and the other Storm. To Third’s mild exasperation, the names had stuck, and she had even begun thinking of the swords as Inferno and Storm.

  Third pointed Storm at the Wraith, lightning crackling up the blade. In immaterial form, weapons of steel and wood would not harm the Wraith, but elemental lightning would.

  “Surrender,” said Third.

  ###

  Moriah stared at Lady Third, her mind racing, heart thudding against her ribs.

  Had she just made a serious mistake? Perhaps it had been unwise to show herself at the banquet. Maybe it would have been better to simply slip away in the uproar over Hadrian’s public humiliation. But the more she damaged the credibility of the Regency Council, the more likely it was that Accolon Pendragon would have no choice but to move against them.

  Yet Moriah hadn’t anticipated that Third would pursue her so effectively.

  She shifted back into material form. Moriah had already used the cloak’s power a great deal today during her capture of Lord Hadrian. It only had ninety seconds of power left. That might not be enough to escape from someone of Third’s skill. Especially if the Keeper joined the pursuit. It was said that the Keeper had the power to see far-off events, and if Calliande Arban turned the strength of her magic to finding Moriah…

  An idea came to Moriah. Delay. She just needed to delay a few seconds.

  She drew her sword, the steel flashing in the pale blue moonlight, and took a long step to the side.

  “Then you are a servant of the Drakocenti?” said Moriah, taking another step to the side. The armored mask disguised her voice, making it into a deep, metallic rasp.

  Instead of coming closer or circling, Third took a long step back, keeping herself between Moriah and the curtain wall. “I am not. Though I wonder what you want.”

  Behind her, Moriah heard men pouring out of the great hall. If she didn’t move soon, she was going to be surrounded.

  She took another step to the left. “The defeat of the Drakocenti.”

  “As do I,” said Third. “Come with me and tell me what you know.”

  “And be hanged as a thief?” said Moriah. Just a few more steps…

  Third raised her eyebrows. “Are you not a thief?”

  “And Cyprian and Lord Hadrian and the others are greater thieves still,” said Moriah. “All their wealth and power are stolen from the commoners of Cintarra. I am merely reclaiming it.” One more step. Moriah reached for her connection to the wraithcloak. “If you truly wish to stop the Drakocenti, then find what they seek in the Shadow Ways. They are digging for something. Find what it is, stop them, and you will have the victory.”

  “What do they seek?” said Third, and Moriah sent a mental command to the wraithcloak.

  She became immaterial, and Third lunged at her with quicksilver speed, the lightning-wreathed sword stabbing. Had Moriah made a lunge for the wall, Third would have caught her. Instead, Moriah plunged downward, shooting into the rock of the earth, the seconds counting off in her head.

  A subterranean corridor opened around her, dimly lit by a lantern. This was part of the dungeons of the Prince’s Palace. Moriah’s guess had been correct. She hoped Third would be unable to follow her, but she dared not linger. Moriah sprinted forward and jumped, and she soared through a rock wall and plummeted downward.

  The jump carried her through an immense mass of rock. Then she hurtled through a brickwork wall and stumbled into an underground gallery, the walls lined with niches. Dusty skeletons lay in the niches, shrouded in crumbling rags. This was part of the Shadow Ways, the vast subterranean maze beneath Cintarra.

  The cloak had fifteen seconds of power left. Moriah released it and returned to material form, breathing hard, and looked around. There was no light down here, but the spells on her helmet let her see in the dark with perfect clarity. Moriah walked to the wall and put her back to it, sword held before her. She strongly suspected that Third could not transport herself straight down through a hundred yards of rock and soil.

  Moriah had just bet her life on that.

  She waited, heart racing, sweat tricking down her face and back beneath the armor.

  The catacomb gallery was utterly silent, and she saw no trace of the distinctive flare of blue fire that accompanied Third’s jumps.

  Moriah let out a deep breath and lowered her sword.

  Her gamble had paid off.

  Because if she had been wrong, she would have died. Moriah did not lack for confidence in her own abilities, but she knew her limits as well. There was absolutely no way she could have prevailed in a physical confrontation with Third of Nightmane Forest. At the very least, the lightning snarling along Third’s sword would have stunned her, and Moriah would have found herself taken captive and dragged before the Regency Council.

  That would have ended with her public execution.

  One more deep breath and she grinned behind her mask.

  Moria
h had gambled her life…but she had won.

  This time, at least.

  But she had damaged the standing and authority of the Regency Council. The lords of Cintarra were a proud and quarrelsome lot, and Hadrian’s public humiliation would be a subject of discussion for weeks. And if Ridmark Arban was as hard and merciless and Accolon as vengeful as Moriah suspected, the two men would turn their attention to Cyprian and the Scepter Bank and the Regency Council.

  And Moriah would be one step closer to the fall of the Regency Council and vengeance for Gunther and Delwen.

  Moriah sheathed her sword and jogged down the gallery, moving to the west. She was very familiar with the upper levels of the Shadow Ways, and she knew this gallery continued until it ended beneath the crypt of a church in the Western City. It intersected with some of the dwarven ruins along the way, which were dangerous partly because some of the dwarves’ ancient mechanical and magical defenses still functioned, and partly because creatures sometimes emerged from the ruins’ connections to the Deeps. This was the safest level of the Shadow Ways, but nowhere in the Shadow Ways was completely safe, so Moriah remained cautious.

  Which saved her life five minutes later.

  Noise echoed down the gallery, and Moriah saw the flare of torchlight.

  She ducked into the shadows behind an ancient marble urn holding the ashes of a long-dead noble. About fifty yards ahead, a breach in the wall opened into the dwarven ruins, and Moriah glimpsed about two dozen men holding torches. One of them had secured a rope ladder to descend into the dwarven galleries, and the men descended one by one. Most of them had the hard look of mercenaries and hired thugs, but two of them wore the red coats of bankers of the Scepter Bank.

  “Hurry along!” snapped one of the bankers. “Remember, a silver coin for every kobold you slay, along with all the loot you can carry. Hasten!”

  One of the men snarled something back. Moriah didn’t make it out, but there was a rumble of laughter. Despite that, the men kept moving, and soon all of them had descended. Moriah counted to a hundred, and then hurried forward in silence. She glanced through the breach in the wall as she passed it, and saw a corridor of the dwarven ruins, the walls and floor built of fine polished granite. The engineers of Cintarra were good, but the dwarves were better. Moriah saw the mercenaries and the bankers moving forward, swords in hand.