The City of Thieves

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Ahead, Ryland drew nearer to the wood’s entrance.

  “We’re losing him.” Berengar ground his teeth together. “We can’t let him slip away.”

  “Leave it to me.” Morwen made a clicking noise with her tongue, and her horse picked up speed. The mare galloped past Faolán and quickly closed the distance with Ryland. “Give us the stone! You don’t know how dangerous it is.”

  When Ryland ignored her request, Morwen pulled alongside him and leaned sideways in the saddle, grasping for the pouch containing the thunder rune. Ryland jerked the reins to the right, and Morwen came up empty. She caught up to him again, said something to her horse Berengar couldn’t hear, and let go of the reins.

  Berengar frowned. What’s she doing?

  Before he could stop her, Morwen jumped from the saddle and landed on the back of Ryland’s horse. Ryland produced a hidden blade and stabbed at Morwen, who deftly avoided the knife while the thief’s horse followed the road into the Wrenwood. Berengar spurred his horse forward, but he was too far behind to be of help. Before Ryland could thrust the knife at her again, Morwen reached over and touched the horse’s coat with the flat of her palm. The stallion reared up, throwing Ryland onto the earth, though Morwen maintained her hold. He scrambled forward in the mud only to find himself face-to-face with Faolán. He looked to his fallen knife, which lay just out of his reach, and the wolfhound bared her fangs.

  Morwen dismounted and stood victoriously over the thief. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She turned her gaze to Berengar. “Took you long enough.”

  Berengar suppressed a smile. “Show-off.” He snapped his fingers, and Faolán backed away from Ryland. “Unless you want to be my hound’s next meal, I’d suggest you start giving me some answers.”

  Ryland stared back at him with open defiance. “I’d sooner lose my tongue than reveal the details of a contract.”

  Berengar growled impatiently, kicked Ryland onto the flat of his back, and planted his boot on the man’s chest. “That can be arranged. The last time I came across a Brotherhood member who wouldn’t talk, I took his hand.”

  Ryland’s eyes flickered over to Morwen, who simply nodded.

  “It’s true. I was there. Calum, I think, was his name. Perhaps he was a friend of yours?”

  At the mention of Calum, all the color drained from Ryland’s face.

  Berengar reached for his axe. “Let’s see how well you thieve without fingers.”

  “He means it,” Morwen said. “This one isn’t a man you want to cross.”

  “Wait!” Ryland held up his hands in a show of surrender. “Take it!” He reached for the pouch containing the thunder rune and tossed it to Morwen.

  She stiffened suddenly, and her eyes widened with dread. Berengar knew that look. She sensed danger.

  “We’re not alone.”

  Berengar searched the swaying trees for the source of Morwen’s discomfort. Suddenly, an arrow streaked by and missed him by inches. A second arrow struck Ryland’s horse, killing it almost instantly. Black arrows. “Goblins!”

  Faolán barked loudly, and Berengar, Morwen, and Ryland took cover under a fallen tree.

  “They must’ve followed us from the tavern.” Morwen trained her attention on Ryland. “I’m guessing whoever hired you doesn’t like loose ends. What’ll it be, Berengar? We’ve got the rune. Maybe we should leave him to the goblins.”

  Three goblins approached on foot while others scurried through the trees above. Goblins came in a variety of shapes and sizes, but the three moving toward them were all slender and just shorter than the average human man. Their skin had a dark green hue, and their ears were sharply pointed.

  “Have mercy.” Ryland clutched at Morwen’s cloak. “Get me away from those monsters and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Remember that. Morwen, meet me back at the crossroads. You know what to do.” Berengar stepped out to meet the goblins with his axe in hand. The goblins continued, undeterred by the sight of him. Although many goblins were capable of conversing in the human tongue—their native language was full of harsh, discordant sounds—the goblins did not extend the courtesy of surrender, and neither did he.

  Berengar charged, his axe held high, and the goblins rushed to meet him. They pressed him on all sides, wielding clubs and rusted iron blades. They were fast and agile, but Berengar had been killing goblins for a long time, and he had become very good at it. He used his size to his advantage and overwhelmed them through sheer strength. A single swing of his axe cleaved through a goblin’s armor and opened the creature’s chest wall. Berengar wrenched the axe free and beheaded the next goblin in his path in one fell swoop. The third goblin hissed and launched himself at Berengar, who tossed the creature aside as if he were weightless and stomped on his head until the goblin stopped kicking.

  Another arrow sailed by his head. Faolán sprinted by him to the trees, and moments later the goblin archer shrieked and went silent. Berengar heard a whistle, and soon Morwen and Ryland were riding away on the back of Morwen’s horse. His distraction had worked.

  At the sight of Morwen escaping with their target, the remaining goblins ignored Berengar and went after her on horseback. Berengar called to Faolán and sprinted to his mount to give chase.

  Though Morwen was clearly the superior rider, the goblins outnumbered her, forcing her to go deeper into the Wrenwood rather than heading for the crossroads. She led her horse off the path and jumped over a fallen log to keep out of range of the archers’ arrows. Berengar followed behind, picking off goblins one by one.

  He looked up from raking his axe along a horse’s flank in time to witness an archer take aim at Morwen, who was too busy evading the others to notice. The goblin was beyond the reach of his axe, which left him with few options. Berengar swore and drove his mount directly at the other rider, resulting in a violent collision. The two horses crashed together, and Berengar was thrown from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, and the impact knocked the air out of his lungs.

  Berengar pushed himself up and crawled away from the thrashing horses.

  He looked around, searching for the archer. His axe lay just out of reach. The goblin was on him in an instant. The creature’s claws dug into his armor, and the goblin’s jagged teeth strained toward his face.

  As he pushed the goblin away, Berengar glimpsed another with its face hidden behind a helmet scurry up a tree ahead of Morwen. Before he could shout out a warning, the goblin tackled her off the horse, and Morwen, the creature, and Ryland were scattered across the dry leaves. Berengar heaved his attacker off him with an angry growl and bashed the creature’s face until he felt bones cracking under his bloodstained fists. He released his hold on the goblin’s mangled corpse, snatched his axe from the ground, and hurried toward Morwen and Ryland.

  Morwen’s characteristic confidence faded as the helmeted goblin bore down on her and clawed at the pouch bearing the thunder rune. Ryland attempted to flee only to find himself surrounded by three mounted goblins. Berengar looked from one to the other. There wasn’t time to save both.

  He lowered his shoulder and charged the goblin atop Morwen. The creature rolled away unharmed, holding the pouch.

  Berengar tightened his grip on the axe and stared down the goblin. “Let’s finish this, vermin.”

  A hiss sounded nearby, and the goblin leapt onto a companion’s horse. The remaining creatures followed suit, and soon the Wrenwood was quiet once more.

  Berengar’s gaze fell on Ryland, who lay in a pool of his own blood. Even as they hurried to the thief’s side, he could tell it was too late. Multiple stab wounds covered Ryland’s abdomen, and his face was white from blood loss.

  “The pain…” Ryland trembled. “It hurts.”

  “A name,” Berengar said. “Give me a name, and I’ll ease your passing.”

  Morwen glared at him, reached into her satchel, and retrieved a bottle containing a murky scarlet liquid. She pried off the lid and held the bottle to Ryland’s lip
s. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

  Ryland did as she said, and his trembling slowly subsided. “Thank you.” With that, he breathed his last and fell still.

  “Blast it.” Berengar kicked a goblin’s corpse to vent his anger. “They got away with the stone.”

  Morwen wore an impish grin. “No—they didn’t.” She opened her satchel to reveal the thunder rune gleaming inside. “Goblins are tricky, but so are magicians. I switched out the stone.”

  “Aye, but they don’t know that. If the goblins think they have the stone, we can track them to whoever they’re working for.” He frowned. “Of course, we wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t gotten Ryland killed, and yourself nearly with him. Magician or not, if you ride with me, you’ll need to learn how to defend yourself properly.”

  Morwen offered no retort, a sign she took his criticism to heart.

  Berengar started toward his horse, which seemed to have recovered enough for travel. “Can you track them with a spell?”

  Morwen shrugged apologetically. “Without my staff…”

  Berengar sighed. “Alright. We’ll stop by the Oakseers’ Grotto before resuming the goblins’ trail. Where I grew up, the country was filled with goblins. I don’t need magic to track them, as long as the trail’s still warm.”

  Morwen brightened immediately. “It won’t take long to gather the wood. I can do most of the enchanting on the road.” She led her horse by the reins and accompanied him along the trail with a renewed spring in her step. “The Oakseers’ Grotto shouldn’t be far.”

  Wind rustled through the trees, scattering multicolored leaves. “So, what can you do without your staff?”

  The question was innocent, born out of ignorance and curiosity, but Morwen seemed to take it as an insult. “Plenty! I can still sense magic and human emotions. For example, right now you’re feeling angry and hungry.”

  Berengar snorted. “I’m always angry. And hungry.”

  Morwen quickened her pace, and her annoyance with him seemed to fade, replaced by a palpable wave of excitement. “We’re close. There is old magic in this place.” She came to an abrupt halt, and her brow furrowed. “It can’t be.”

  The Oakseers’ Grotto was a ruin. The trees had been cleared away.

  Chapter Two

  “I heard stories about this place as a girl.” Morwen wandered the area with Faolán while Berengar looked on. “The Oakseers’ Grotto was one of the most sacred sites in all Leinster. It was said the trees were alive with magic. Magicians, mages, and witches would come from far away to submit themselves to the trees’ judgment, sometimes undergoing great quests to be deemed worthy to fashion wands or staffs from the trees’ branches.”

  Faolán whined, as if she too sensed a great loss. Not a single tree remained where the grove once stood. Only their stumps lingered, a final insult.

  Morwen approached the grotto itself, where a statue with three faces hung above the entrance to a shallow cave. “Brigit—goddess of life and nature.” Each face reflected one of the goddess’ aspects. Scorch marks marred the faces on either side, leaving only the face of the mother. Brigit’s shrine had been destroyed, and stones filled in a pool of water. Morwen turned back to look at him, her usual cheerfulness overcome by sorrow. “How could this have happened?”

  Excluding the trees in the Wrenwood, Berengar doubted there was enough wood left in the whole area to serve as kindling, much less a new staff for Morwen. Even the portion of the Wrenwood surrounding the grotto had been cleared away, beyond which empty fields went on for miles.

  He noticed smoke rising over a distant hill. “I’d wager there’s a settlement there. The settlers probably cleared the grove and neighboring trees to build their homes.”

  Morwen looked horrified at the idea. “This forest is under the druids’ protection.”

  “The druids are gone. Most died out during the purges.” There was a time when few would have dared risk the druids’ ire. In centuries past, druids served as a bridge between humanity and the elder gods. They were priests, soothsayers, healers, and conjurers. Their political power declined with the arrival of Padraig and the worship of the Lord of Hosts in Fál.

  Morwen stared at him in disbelief. “I heard stories, but I never imagined…”

  “Those were dark days. The High Queen’s reign was still young, and riots and purges broke out across the five kingdoms.” Attitudes toward magic changed greatly in the aftermath of the Shadow Wars, when the dark sorcerer Azeroth had attempted to conquer Fál with an army of monsters. “The riots in Dún Aulin were the worst. I was there. Queen Nora sent me to quell the violence. Blood flowed in the streets. An alchemist was crucified outside the city gates.”

  “But alchemists can’t even use magic—”

  “Do you think that mattered to the mob? Fear makes people capable of terrible things. They can’t be reasoned with. Violence is the only language they understand.”

  “What did you do?”

  Berengar looked away. “What I had to.” He left it at that. There was more to the story, but it wasn’t something he felt like sharing. “There’s a reason we need to keep a low profile while in Leinster. It’s not safe for you here.”

  Morwen folded her arms across her chest. “The people of Munster weren’t exactly fond of magic either.”

  “You don’t understand. Magic is hated here more than in any other kingdom. The people here are pious, and the church teaches that sorcery is of the devil. Fairies were few in number even in the time of Áed, and monster hunters have driven them to extinction. It won’t be long before goblins follow. As long as we’re here, you need to be careful about who you use magic around. Got it?”

  Morwen nodded.

  “Good.”

  While by no means helpless, Morwen was vulnerable without her staff, which meant he’d have to keep a closer eye on her for the near future. Berengar, who largely avoided the company of others when he could help it, was unaccustomed to looking out for anyone but himself. Unlike most of the High Queen’s wardens, he had always walked alone until Morwen came into his life. Although they had journeyed together for some time, it was still a strange feeling having someone at his side. At times it was a bother—he might have saved Ryland had he not been forced to come to Morwen’s defense—but it was useful having a magician around. To his surprise, he had grown to enjoy her company, when she wasn’t busy teasing or pestering him with questions.

  Morwen let out a disappointed sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to look elsewhere for materials to craft a new staff. There are other places I know of, but most are far from here.”

  “That will have to wait until we’ve dealt with the goblins.” With the matter settled, Berengar started toward his horse. “We should get back to the trail.”

  Morwen noticed an acorn lying on the ground, picked it up, and added it to her satchel before mounting her horse. Berengar whistled to Faolán, who began following the goblins’ scent.

  A cool breeze greeted their return to the road. After a particularly hot summer spent in Munster, Berengar welcomed the change in seasons. He came of age in the kingdom of Ulster, Fál’s northernmost realm, and preferred cooler climates. Dark clouds on the horizon hinted at the potential for rain, which came as no great surprise. The last time Berengar was in Leinster, it had stormed almost the entire time.

  Aside from his axe, Berengar carried a short sword sheathed at his side and a silver dagger hidden in his boot. He kept a quiver full of arrows and a bow packed in his saddlebags in case the need arose, and although he had only one good eye, he was a very good shot. He wore a bearskin cloak, which, coupled with his facial scars—the product of his fight with the bear whose skin he now wore—gave him a very distinct appearance. His hair and beard, both the color of an open fire, had grown long and unruly. He usually shaved whenever he returned to the Wardens’ Keep, but between hunting down the Black Hand and avenging King Mór’s murder, over half a year had passed since he last laid eyes on Tara.

&nb
sp; They passed a settlement in short order, and it was clear the settlers had put the trees from the Wrenwood to use in the construction of their huts. The world was changing. The peace and prosperity ushered in by the High Queen’s reign allowed trade and commerce to flourish across the five kingdoms. New towns and villages popped up at an ever-increasing pace, and the wilds continued to shrink, leaving many nonhuman creatures without homes.

  “How do you think the Brotherhood of Thieves is wrapped up in this?” Morwen asked.

  “Most likely they’re just intermediaries—like Calum.” The incident in the tavern wasn’t the first time they had crossed paths with the Brotherhood of Thieves, Leinster’s thieves’ guild. In Munster, Berengar and Morwen had prevented the sale of a coatl egg orchestrated by the Brotherhood. “I doubt they’d have any real interest in the stone other than its worth. Whoever wants it is risking a lot if they were willing to double-cross the Brotherhood.”

  “Maybe we should start there. We might be better off questioning the Brotherhood directly.”

  “Out of the question.” Although Morwen understood magic and monsters far better than he could ever hope to, she had spent much of her life sheltered in her father’s castle at Cashel. Berengar knew how the world worked outside of books, and a life of adventure was a great deal more dangerous than stories made it out to be. “The Brotherhood is one of the most dangerous organizations in Fál. Its reach extends into all five kingdoms, but Dún Aulin is the seat of its power. We should do our best to stay out of their affairs.”

  “What about the goblins? I can’t think of many people who would employ goblin mercenaries to do their dirty work—not when there are plenty of disreputable humans willing to do the job. It suggests whoever hired them is eager to cover their tracks, or perhaps isn’t entirely human themselves. I’d be willing to bet they want the rune in order to use it, and that makes them very dangerous indeed.”

  Berengar nodded grimly. “Then it’s a good thing we have it.” The purges that followed Azeroth’s defeat had drastically reduced Fál’s population of magic-capable humans. In times past, it was magicians or sorcerers who dealt with magical threats. Now, the duty usually fell to monster hunters or the High Queen’s wardens. He caught Morwen glaring at him. “What?”