The City of Thieves
Kyle Alexander Romines
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyright © 2019 by Kyle Alexander Romines
Cover by Jeff Brown
Illustration by Matt Forsyth
Copyedit by Katie King
Proofread by Margaret Dean
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Five Kingdoms.
Five Kings and Queens.
One High Queen Sits Above All.
Her Wardens Keep the Peace.
Ard Ruide
Connacht, in the west, is the kingdom of learning and the seat of the greatest and wisest druids and magicians; the men of Connacht are famed for their eloquence, their intellect, and their ability to pronounce true judgment.
Ulster, in the north, is the seat of battle valor, haughtiness, strife, and boasting; the men of Ulster are the fiercest warriors of all Fál, and the queens and goddesses of Ulster are associated with battle and death.
Leinster, the eastern kingdom, is the seat of prosperity, hospitality, and the importing of rich foreign wares like silk or wine; the men of Leinster are noble in speech and their women are exceptionally beautiful.
Munster, in the south, is the kingdom of music and the arts, skilled ficheall players, and horsemen; the fairs of Munster are the greatest in all Fál.
The last kingdom, Meath, is the kingdom of Kingship, stewardship, and bounty in government; in Meath lies the Hill of Tara, the traditional seat of the High King or Queen of Fál.
—Adapted from Old Translation, Author Unknown
Chapter One
“We’re lost.” A crease formed across Morwen’s brow as she pored over the map.
Berengar, sitting across from her at a table near the fire, said nothing. The pair had spent the last two days holed up at the Forgotten Stop, an out-of-the-way tavern deep in the heart of rural Leinster. Outside, the last vestiges of summer were fading, and soon the leaves would begin to turn.
Morwen held the map closer and studied it in the firelight, as if there was something she had missed. “I don’t understand. According to the map, we should have reached the Wrenwood by now.” She jabbed a speck on the map with her finger. “We passed The Mount of Guarding not three days ago and turned north at the River Nore, just like we were supposed to.”
Faolán, a wolfhound nearly Morwen’s size, nudged her head over the young woman’s shoulder and sniffed the weathered parchment. As a rule, Faolán disliked people almost as much as Berengar did, but in Morwen’s case, she had made an exception. For her part, Morwen had taken to spoiling Faolán whenever she thought Berengar wasn’t looking, and in her presence the fierce hound became as docile as a pup.
Exasperated, Morwen returned the map to the table and let out a protracted sigh. “Useless.” She cast a glance at a stack of books beside her. “If only there was some enchantment to…” She stopped suddenly and narrowed her gaze in Berengar’s direction. “You’re awfully quiet. Even for you.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted a life of adventure. You can’t adjust to a life on the road until you learn how to properly read a map.”
“I’m a magician, not a cartographer.” Morwen waved a hand in the air dismissively and patted Faolán’s head. “And don’t think I’m letting you off that easy—I can tell you’re hiding something.”
Berengar tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. Usually, she was the one to tease him. “Is that so?” He raised his tankard to his lips, gulped down a mouthful of ale, and wiped his unruly red beard with his forearm.
They drew a number of glances from the hall’s other occupants, and with good reason. Berengar and Morwen made for an unusual pair of traveling companions. Even seated, Berengar was easily recognizable as the tallest and largest man in the room. Unlike Morwen—who, at sixteen, was in the bloom of youth—he was well into his forties. Scars marred the right side of his face, and a patch covered his right eye. None would mistake him for anything other than a hardened warrior. In contrast, there was little to hint that Morwen—having discarded the blue robes she’d worn as Munster’s court magician in favor of mundane traveling clothes—was about as far from an ordinary girl as one could get and still remain human. Anyone taking a look at the potions and spellbooks inside her satchel would quickly realize there was much more to her under the surface.
Morwen ran a hand through bushy brown hair and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “You don’t fool me. I know that look. You’re waiting for something, aren’t you?” She glanced around the room. “And you’re not the only one. Everyone in here seems on edge.”
The barmaid approached to refill Berengar’s tankard. Preoccupied by the sight of his scars, she spilled a portion of ale, flushed a deep shade of red, and fled with a frightened yelp.
Berengar, who was accustomed to his appearance having such an effect, drank from the tankard without missing a beat. “I don’t know what you mean.” In truth, he had stayed at the Forgotten Stop some months back, and the proprietors were no less afraid of him now than they were then.
“In case you’ve forgotten, we’re supposed to be looking for the Oakseers’ Grotto so I can craft a new staff.” Her previous magician’s staff was destroyed weeks earlier in a fight against a dark sorceress and a winged serpent.
Berengar shrugged. “So we are. I knew this tavern was in the area and thought it would be a good place to rest while we searched for your grotto. I spent some time here before receiving King Mór’s summons.”
Morwen was, in fact, Mór’s illegitimate daughter—the product of a union between the king and a particularly nasty witch—though Berengar felt no need to call attention to that fact with prying ears about. When Mór was murdered, Berengar and Morwen had worked together to identify the king’s killer—Morwen’s half-sister, the princess Ravenna. Berengar, who owed Mór a debt, agreed afterward to allow Morwen to accompany him on his travels.
Intrigued, Morwen leaned closer. “The affair with the ogre?”
“Aye. I had some unfinished business when I left.”
“I knew it.” She flashed a triumphant grin. “I thought we agreed to stay out of trouble until I replaced my staff.”
Berengar kicked his feet up on the table and gave a grunt. “Don’t forget who’s in charge. You may be clever, but you still have a lot to learn.” He gestured to her stack of books. “Those aren’t going to be much use to you in a fight.”
Morwen folded her arms across her chest. “I might no longer have access to my library at Cashel, but I still need to learn and practice my arts—which would be a great deal easier if I had my staff.” Their ages and appearances weren’t the only things that set them apart. An avowed pacifist, Morwen had mostly resisted his efforts to train her in the ways of combat. “And I don’t recall you complaining about my fighting abilities when we took on that coatl.”
Before Berengar could form
a response, the door to the tavern opened, and a gentle wind brushed fallen leaves inside. A nondescript man in simple clothes entered and made his way to a lonely table. A hood concealed most of his face. The hall’s other occupants paid the newcomer little heed, but Berengar watched him closely.
Finally. Morwen’s suspicions were well-founded, as he had indeed chosen the tavern for a very specific reason. “Don’t stare.”
Morwen lowered her voice to a whisper. “Who is he?”
Berengar remained perfectly still, doing nothing to attract the stranger’s attention. “A member of the Brotherhood of Thieves, I’d wager.”
“The Brotherhood of Thieves?” Her astonishment soon faded, and she chuckled softly. “And here I thought we were trying to keep out of trouble. What’s a member of the Brotherhood doing in a place like this?”
“Before I rode south to Munster to answer King Mór’s summons, I spent the better part of spring hunting a group of mercenaries called the Black Hand. Someone had hired them to retrieve a thunder rune.”
Morwen’s eyes widened with alarm. As a magician—and someone who carried a variety of runes herself—she knew well the danger such a relic posed.
“I dealt with the Black Hand and recovered the rune, but it was stolen from me by hobgoblins before I could store it someplace safe. When I found them, the hobgoblins were starving and hunted to the point of extinction. The money the rune would fetch would allow them to start a new life somewhere else. I chose to let them keep it.” He hesitated, and there was a hard edge to the words that followed. “I came across their corpses on the road to Munster, just north of the border. They’d been slaughtered, and the rune was gone.”
“I see. It seems likely whoever was after the rune hasn’t given up on acquiring it.”
Berengar gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I asked around. The Brotherhood uses this tavern to conduct business in the region at the end of each month. They trade in black market goods and dangerous wares. Whoever took the rune from the hobgoblins will come looking for a payoff, and when they do, I’ll be ready.”
Almost as if on cue, the tavern door opened again, and four men entered together. The companions were dressed in padded armor, and they wore bright red cloaks and swords sheathed at their sides.
Berengar recognized the sigil on their cloaks. “Lady Imogen’s soldiers.”
The soldiers laughed at some private joke and made a beeline for the bar. They were a long way from Castle Blackthorn, though not so far as to raise suspicion. Their presence in the tavern was far from unusual, especially if they were out on patrol.
Morwen shuddered, and her back straightened immediately. “They carry the rune. I can feel its power calling to me.” Outside the tavern’s walls, faint thunder murmured in agreement.
Armed with tankards and flagons brimming with ale and wine, the soldiers settled at the stranger’s table. Berengar watched and listened.
“We’ve been waiting for you to show your face in here,” the soldiers’ leader said. “You Brotherhood lot are a secretive bunch, I’ll give you that.” He stared at the thief with a measure of suspicion. “You had better have our gold, Ryland.”
Ryland laughed under his breath. “That depends on whether or not you really brought what you say you have.”
The soldier’s ruddy face broke out into a cruel grin. “Of course we did. Keenan, show Ryland what he came here to see.” He nodded to one of his companions, who produced a closed pouch.
Ryland took a peek at what was inside. “My client will be pleased. Let’s talk about your fee.”
The ruddy-faced soldier raised his cup, and his companions clanked their tankards and cheered. “To new business ventures!” He slapped his thigh. “It was a stroke of luckfinding the thing. The lads and I stopped for a bit of fun with some hobgoblins near the border, and we found it among their things—not that we wouldn’t have killed the little monsters just for the sport of it.”
At the mention of the hobgoblins, Berengar’s hands balled into fists. He pushed away from the table, and Faolán sprang to attention beside him.
Morwen winked at him with evident amusement. “Try not to dismember anyone. Those are Lady Imogen’s soldiers, after all.”
“I know.” There was a reason he preferred to keep his head down while in Leinster. He wasn’t exactly welcome within its borders. Besides, he needed the men alive to tell him who wanted the runestone so badly.
Patrons cleared out of his path on his way across the room. The tavern went quiet as Berengar approached the table where the soldiers gathered, and onlookers exchanged worried glances.
“What the devil do you want?” the soldiers’ leader demanded with the characteristic arrogance of authority. “Can’t you see we’re busy, you ugly brute?” The others at the table laughed—all except Ryland, who studied Berengar’s cloak and weapons with growing recognition. “Now clear out of here, or we’ll teach you not to intrude on matters that don’t concern you.”
Berengar hit him in the face, and the soldier’s teeth broke against his knuckles. He grabbed the man’s head and slammed it hard against the table, and the soldier fell from his chair to the floor. The man’s companions were out of their seats in the next instant.
“I don’t know who you are, stranger, but you’ll regret that.”
Berengar didn’t flinch. “I want the stone—and the name of the person who paid you for it.”
His knowledge of their affairs seemed to take them aback, if only for a moment. Berengar turned their surprise to his advantage. He snatched a tankard from the table and bashed it against the closest man’s skull. When another went for his sword, Berengar seized his arm in a viselike grip. Before the third soldier could intervene, Faolán pounced on him and pinned him underneath, her jaws inches from his throat.
Berengar and his foe struggled over possession of the weapon until he slammed the man against the bar and forced his arm behind his back. “Now talk. Who are you working for?”
“Go to hell,” the soldier shot back.
With a twist, Berengar snapped the man’s arm out of its socket, prompting a scream. “Try again.”
The soldiers’ leader rushed forward with an angry shout, wielding a dagger. Berengar took a step back and avoided the first jab. His leather armor bore the brunt of the next strike. Berengar grabbed the soldier’s wrist, drove his forehead into the man’s skull, and wrested away control of the dagger. With one thrust of the blade he anchored the man’s wrist to the bar.
Faolán barked to warn him of danger, and Berengar caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye as a final assailant raised a sword behind him. Before Berengar could react, the sword toppled from the man’s hand, and he slumped to the floor.
Morwen stood behind the fallen soldier, a wry smile on her face. In her hands was her satchel, stuffed to the brim with spellbooks. “I told you they’d be useful.” She turned her attention to the soldiers, who were either unconscious or in considerable pain. “You left them all in one piece this time—more or less. Good work.”
Berengar’s gaze moved again to the table where the thief sat moments ago. “Blast it. He’s gone.”
“He must have taken the stone with him.” Morwen was already sprinting toward the door. “He can’t have gone far. Come on!”
To the visible relief of the others within the tavern, Berengar followed her outside into the crisp fall air. Faolán sniffed out a set of fresh tracks left behind in the mud and bounded down the trail.
Morwen put two fingers into her mouth and whistled to Nessa, her horse. The mare came charging toward her, and in one fluid motion, Morwen swung herself onto the saddle and took hold of the reins. She glanced at Berengar over her shoulder and aimed a wink at him. “Do try and keep up.” With that, she took off in pursuit of Ryland.
Berengar scowled and hurried to his horse. Despite her youth, Morwen was easily the better rider. Although the kingdom of Munster was most famous for its great wealth and vibrant culture, its people w
ere also great horse masters. Morwen, whose father had spared no expense on all aspects of her education, was no exception. If anything, her sensitivity to magic gave her a greater connection to her mount.
Morwen had already disappeared down the path by the time Berengar put his foot in the stirrup. He kicked his horse in the sides and hurried after her.
“There you are,” she called after him. “I thought I lost you. Come on, old man—he’s getting away.”
Berengar spurred his horse forward, but Morwen easily outpaced him. Faolán led them along a winding dirt road that ran northeast from the tavern, far removed from any vestiges of civilization. Trees sprouted up on either side of the road, and the brush, weeds, and thorns intruding on the path were overgrown from the frequent rainfall commonplace throughout Leinster. A signpost at a crossroads was the sole sign of human presence in the area.
Morwen veered right at the crossroads and galloped after Faolán across a shallow brook, leaving Berengar to do his best to keep up with both. The path straightened, and in the distance the thief appeared, headed for a wooded area farther down the road.
“There it is,” Morwen said. “The Wrenwood.”
“I told you we were in the area.”
According to Morwen, the Wrenwood was home to the Oakseers’ Grotto, a grove sacred to druids for centuries. The trees there possessed strong magical properties that made them ideal for fashioning a new staff. Berengar had strong misgivings about venturing anywhere touched by magic—and even more reasons to avoid druids—but Morwen assured him the area was safe.
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