The Mask of Storms (Blood and Honor Book 1)

by William Stacey

  Men died inside the tavern, but no one in the Narrows came to help. Nor did anyone even raise an alarm. According to Dar, the Red Guard wouldn't have come if they did. Bors remained hiding behind the boxes in the alley, watching. He needed Long Tam, needed that mask, but knew he couldn't just run out and join the fight … although he briefly considered exactly that. Bors had always been a simple man and preferred simple solutions. A friend had once called him a "hammer," a clumsy tool for quick, unimaginative solutions. In truth, he was probably the least suited man in the city to steal from the Shadow Guild.

  A figure burst from the tavern entrance, pursued by three others—it was Long Tam, with scimitar in hand.

  She leapt down the stairs, landing softly on the street. But when she tried to run, two men Bors hadn't seen earlier moved out of the shadows, blocking her. The other three men spread out in a circle around her. Five to one, Bors noted sourly, impossible odds.

  The men moved together, as Bors knew they would. Steel rang on steel, and a man screamed in pain, but a moment later, Long Tam was down, her sword lying on the street. "Take her into the alley," a man hissed.

  Two of them picked her up, and they all hurried across the street to the very alley in which Bors hid. He slid his fingers down the haft of the fighting axe. Long Tam moaned, her arms still held by two men. "Shut it, bitch," the same man who had spoken earlier snarled.

  From where he hid, Bors could see all of them, not three paces away: two men held the struggling woman, another stood guard, watching the alley entrance, while a fourth man clutched his bleeding hip. The fifth man, the one giving the orders, stood before Long Tam, blood dripping down his cheek.

  Long Tam glared at the man. "Don’t do this, Fast Bran. The guild won't stand for it, not this."

  Bors admired her bravery. In her place, he doubted his voice would be as steady.

  "After tonight, there won't be a guild. At least, not as it is now," the man, Fast Bran, answered. "Hurry, search her."

  The man with the wound on his hip searched the struggling woman. She tried to kick him, but he punched her savagely in the stomach, and she gasped for air, the fight gone. Moments later, he ripped a pouch loose from Long Tam's belt and handed it to Fast Bran. The man opened it, removing a cloth-bound item the size of a dinner plate. "All this excitement over such a small thing," he said.

  The mask?

  "Take … Take it and go," Long Tam gasped. "No more blood need be spilled this night."

  Through the still-open door to the tavern, they heard a woman's long, drawn-out scream of agony. Fast Bran snorted. "That would be Fat Alicia. I’m afraid there does need to be more blood spilled this night."

  "Don’t do this," she pleaded.

  Fast Bran laughed as he drew out a set of jagged black-iron pincers, connected at the base to form a four-tipped claw that opened and closed depending on how it was held. "You recognize this, witch?"

  "Please … Please don’t." Now, her voice broke in terror.

  "That's right, an Iron Spider, just for you. You're going to die this night, but before you do, you're going to have to beg me to kill you—and you will."

  "Please. I’ll leave the city. You’ll never see me again."

  "Nobody is ever going to see you again." Fast Bran hooked the tip of one of the claws into her collar and ripped her shirt open, exposing her breasts. Long Tam shrieked and struggled, but the men held her in place as Fast Bran caressed her flesh with the claw, positioning it over the tender flesh of one of her breasts.

  Bors’s friend had been right all those years ago. He was a hammer, but sometimes a hammer was exactly the right tool.

  He gave no warning, merely slipped forward, swinging the axe at the neck of the closest man holding Long Tam. The axe blade cut through muscle, tendon, and bone, giving the man a lethal blow before he even realized he was in a fight. Bors pivoted, striking out with a side kick that snapped another man's knee sideways, sending him crashing into Fast Bran. Long Tam—reacting far faster than Bors would have thought—rammed her palm into the nose of the other man holding her. He fell back, grasping at his face. One of them came at Bors with a knife thrust, but Bors caught the blade on his axe head and then rammed its pointed horn into the man's face, feeling the impact jar in his shoulder.

  The man screamed, grasping at his punctured face. Another man hesitated, his eyes darting from Bors to the man he had just disfigured. Before Bors could act, Long Tam slipped behind him and slashed his throat open with a knife she must have had hidden on her. Bors saw a flash of movement from his side and spun, catching Fast Bran's scimitar with the head of his axe. He hooked it around the man's blade, yanking him forward and punching him in the face, feeling immense satisfaction as his front teeth broke free. Fast Bran fell back, stumbling out of the alley as he screamed for help, his words garbled and wet. Bors turned to find the point of Fast Bran's scimitar in his face and Long Tam at the other end of it, holding it in a duelist's stance.

  "Who are you?" she demanded, her breasts still exposed.

  "Not your enemy," he said, his eyes darting toward her cleavage.

  She glared at him, pulling her shirt closed with her other hand.

  He shrugged, tossing his head.

  At the sound of running footsteps behind them, Bors turned and saw at least six more men were pouring out of the tavern, Fast Bran urging them on. He heard rustling from the roof above, no doubt the men with crossbows looking for a firing angle into the alley. "We need to go," he said as he pushed the point of her scimitar aside with his axe head and grabbed her arm, trying to drag her with him down the alley.

  She ripped her arm free. "Follow me," she snapped, breaking into a sprint.

  He chased after her, and she soon led him through a series of alleys, taking turns seemingly at random but somehow avoiding all the dead ends. In minutes, they had drawn ahead of their pursuers. Bors, more out of shape than he'd like to admit, was soon breathing heavily and straining to keep up. Long Tam pulled ahead. Soon, she disappeared from sight entirely, leaving Bors alone.

  "Balls," he wheezed, bent over and gasping for air. He heard the yells of the men searching for them and knew they'd find him soon. After all, the Narrows was their home, not his. He set his shoulders. He'd make them bleed for his life.

  "Hurry," Long Tam hissed from farther up the alley, where she waited for him with a look of complete exasperation. "Do you want your balls lopped off?"

  He sighed and hurried after her.

  9

  Bors followed Long Tam out of the Narrows to a small stone house in the Market District, an unremarkable residence no different from the many others crammed together, housing merchants and their families. Several times on the way here, they had hidden from small groups of armed men clearly searching for them. Out of the Narrows, though, the pursuit had vanished.

  She waited before unlocking the door, listening to the silent dark city around them. Bors saw no one, heard nothing. What time was it? Past midnight, he guessed. "Will they just … give up, now that we're no longer in the Narrows?"

  She shook her head. "No, they can't give up now, not after what they've already done this night. But out of the Narrows, they'll need to 'ware the Red Guard."

  She pushed the door open and motioned Bors inside then softly closed and bolted the door behind them. The home was dark, and he heard her rustling about for several moments before a candle suddenly flared into life. He watched her, feeling uneasy. How did she light a candle without first striking spark to tinderbox? Once more, he felt out of his element here.

  She cupped the flame, which burned with a clean fire—beeswax, he realized, more expensive than candles made from animal fat but less stink. Glancing about, he saw they stood in the foyer of a small but well-furnished home, the walls painted in bright, happy blue, with painted murals of desert flowers—a fine home for a small family. He lowered his voice. "Is there anyone—"

  "The house is empty," she softly replied. "One of several I keep. I haven't been her
e in months and doubt Sly Tor knows of it."

  "Who?"

  Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. "The man who sent those killers."

  She led him into a comfortable sitting room with plush couches and chairs. She placed the candle on a small table, standing behind it and watching him. She dressed like a man, in loose cotton pants and short boots. She held her shirt closed with one hand, but the other hand was out of sight beneath a short dark cloak she wore. Bors had no doubt she held a weapon in that hidden hand. Tall and clearly athletic, she was strikingly beautiful, with pale skin, dark eyes, and long raven-black hair. She carried herself with the arrogance of a jungle cat: beautiful, strong, and very dangerous. Had she been a soldier, she would have been an officer.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked.

  "Why did you help me? Who are you?"

  He slid his axe into his belt, dragged a stool over with his boot, and plopped himself down upon it, taking turns stretching his arms across his chest, loosening his tight shoulders. It had been some time since last he had fought. "I don’t like seeing women tortured."

  She shook her head. "Try harder." Slipping backward, keeping a wary eye on him, she pulled herself up atop a couch, sitting on its back, one booted foot dangling, the other pulled up against her chest, her fingers resting upon the knee as she stared at him, waiting.

  He met her gaze and sighed. "There was no way I was going to let them do … that."

  Her intense violet eyes remained fixed on him. "Other men would have."

  "I'm not other men."

  "So it seems. But you're also not Hishtari. Your accent is odd, and you have a foreign look to you. Lyr?"

  He inclined his head.

  "So why did you help me?"

  "Saved you. Helping's a much different horse."

  For the first time, a trace of a smile appeared on her lips, gone again in a moment. "Why did you save me? Are you a hero from a song? Because you have the look of a killer, not a hero."

  "I'm Bors."

  She snorted. "What kind of a silly name is Bors?"

  "Says the woman called Long Tam."

  The scorn vanished from her features, and she diverted her gaze in embarrassment, but only for a moment. "Apologies. That was rude. Thank you for what you did. That was as bad a hole as any I've ever found myself in. I never suspected Sly Tor would start a war."

  "I don't care about a war, but I need the mask, the Illthori artifact."

  "Ah," she said, nodding. "I see. My hero wants the Mask of Storms."

  "Is that what it's called?"

  She smiled, her teeth flashing white. "You don’t know its name, Bors of Lyr? What else don't you know, I wonder?"

  "Sadly, I suspect much. But I do know if I don't get that mask, a man named Dar will see me dead."

  "Tuluth Dar, the Night Commander of the Red Guard?"

  "The same."

  "This is not a man to trust, Bors. You'd do well to leave this business be, make your way from the city while you still can. The men Dar makes use of tend to die—often badly."

  He shook his head. "The gates are closed to me."

  "There are ... other ways out of the city, secret ways."

  He considered her, measuring her words. If there were secret ways from the city, the Shadow Guild would know of them. "You offer to help?"

  "Perhaps we can help one another."

  "You want me to help you get back the mask?"

  "The mask? Yes, of course. But mostly I want you to help me kill a man."

  "Who?"

  "No one of any great importance, Bors of Lyr, just the First Master of the Shadow Guild of Port Talos."

  He stared at her. "You want me to kill the—"

  "No. I want you to help me kill Sly Tor."

  "I'm just a dockworker."

  "I very much doubt that, Bors of Lyr. But I have to kill Sly Tor. He's declared war on me."

  "Wait him out."

  She shook her head, moistening her lips with her tongue. "I can't. He wouldn’t have risked moving against me without also planning to kill the other masters. By sunrise, they'll be dead, and those few of my supporters who still live will be in hiding."

  "Then run."

  "You don't understand, Bors. He's killing my friends. Besides, even if I wanted to, I can't run. Sly Tor will have eyes on all the gates and the secret paths out of the city. The only chance I have is to move against him this night—right now while his men are out hunting me. He'll be vulnerable."

  "How vulnerable?" What she proposed made a foolish kind of sense. Sometimes, the best course of action was to be bold.

  "It won't be without risk. Sly Tor will be on his guard. But he needs to succeed this night, before anyone realizes what he's doing. I know how to find Sly Tor. I know more of his secrets than he realizes."

  "You didn't know he was going to try to kill you."

  "No, I didn't know that, but he missed, and I still live. Such mistakes demand payment in kind."

  "Okay," Bors said, his mind racing. "But I keep this … Mask of Storms—just in case you can't get me out of the city. You can always steal it back from Dar."

  She flashed him another dazzling smile. "A hard-struck bargain, Bors of Lyr." She jumped from her perch, extending her hand to his. He took it. Her grip was strong and sure. "Now, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes," she said, "I need to find another shirt and some tools. We have a task to do before the sun rises."

  She swept from the room, leaving Bors alone with his thoughts. He sighed, running a hand through his thick hair, wondering how this had happened. The Matron must be laughing at me. The Shadow Guild, Tuluth Dar—even a sorcerer—and now this strange woman.

  10

  Long Tam led Bors through the sleeping city. He saw no one this time, not even a Red Guard patrol, but for no discernible reason, sometimes Long Tam would just stop, dropping down and pulling Bors with her. They'd remain motionless for long silent moments before finally getting up and moving forward once more, Long Tam never explaining why she had stopped. That she had seen or heard something, he didn't doubt. She was a ghost, a silent shadow in the night. Next to Long Tam, he felt like a lumbering bear.

  It took longer than he would have thought, but they eventually found themselves in the Narrows once more, kneeling together behind a broken stone wall, spying upon a three-story warehouse nestled against the city's curtain wall. A red glow along the wall's ramparts presaged the coming dawn. They had an hour, maybe less, before the city began to wake. If they weren't successful by then, they wouldn’t be.

  "This … Sly Tor, he's within that warehouse?" Bors whispered into her ear.

  She nodded without taking her eyes from the building. "A charity kitchen, ostensibly run by the Moon Temple, but really Sly Tor's lair. Even if the Red Guard raided the Narrows, they'd never dare set foot inside."

  "How do you know it's not really a kitchen?"

  She looked down her nose at him, her gaze incredulous. "This is the Narrows. No one gives anything away. Those who wait in line for porridge and bread also bring stolen merchandise and information. They leave with Sly Tor's instructions. More stolen produce moves through that building than you could possibly imagine."

  "I see no sentries," he said.

  "They're there, watching the entrance. We can't get in from the street."

  "What then?"

  She reached out and squeezed his knee. "We go another way."

  A wooden tannery sat next to Sly Tor's warehouse, the stench enough to strip the hair from Bors's nostrils. Rats, some as large as cats, scurried about in the narrow gap between the buildings, seemingly unconcerned with the presence of Long Tam and Bors. She placed a hand atop his shoulder, stopping him, and pointed up the side of the tannery to its sloping roof. She met his eye and mouthed a single word: "Wait."

  She had to be kidding.

  She wasn't.

  Facing the tannery wall, she began to climb it, easily finding purchase and scaling it like a spider. In moments, she disappeared from
view onto the tannery’s sloping tiled roof. He waited, crouched in the alley, as time stretched on. In the east, the horizon was a haze of red.

  We're running out of time.

  Then he heard a soft rustle from above, and a knotted rope came slithering down the side of the building, its end dangling just beside his face. Where did she find a rope? Gripping it with both hands, he began to scale the side of the building. It took him longer than it had taken Long Tam, and despite his best efforts, he still made far too much noise, but soon he reached the top, and Long Tam pulled him up onto the foot-wide ledge that ran around the roof. He knelt there, leaning against the tiles, breathing heavily, his heart pounding.

  "Ancestors, you’re fat," she whispered.

  "It's muscle."

  She slipped away, stepping over a corpse lying on the ledge, half-dangling from it. Even in the poor light, he saw it had been a young man dressed in dark clothing—a sentry, obviously. A loaded crossbow sat beside the body, and Long Tam picked it up and checked its missile. "Another needless death?" he whispered.

  Long Tam glanced at the corpse and then shrugged.

  "How many nameless men died for this damned mask?"

  "His name was Tall Frog. And I think you no stranger to killing."

  "Tall Frog?"

  "Well ... that was what we called him, his guild name. I think his real name was Ganjy, something like that. We never use our birth names."

  "Another enemy of yours?"

  "Not at all. We used to run together when I first came to the city. I liked him, but he chose to throw his lot in with Sly Tor, and well … choices come with consequences."

  She turned and in a half crouch, balancing the crossbow on her hip, made her way along the ledge. Bors followed, stepping over the corpse of Tall Frog.

  She's not wrong about consequences, he mused.

  She stopped near a corner, staring across the gap to Sly Tor's warehouse, a distance of perhaps ten paces—too far to jump. "Why do you name it the Mask of Storms?" he asked.