The Thieves’ Guild

by Jeff Crook

  Knowing full well these legends, Alynthia was astonished by Oros’s comparison. “Cael Ironstaff, the equal of them?” she asked incredulously. “I admit he is capable, but really!”

  Oros shrugged, offering no further comment, and turned his attention to the magical bowl. Alynthia knew her lover well enough to realize that Oros spoke with sincerity, and she had learned to trust his judgment, even when it went against her wishes or desires. It had saved both their lives more than once, saved her from a disastrous and foolish marriage with a Knight of Takhisis three years earlier.

  “You’re planning to use him,” she said with sudden realization.

  Oros started, as though he’d just heard his innermost thoughts echoed aloud. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You are planning to use him. You haven’t indoctrinated him into the Guild, not in the ordinary way. You even ordered me to not waste too much time showing him our standard methods or teaching him our usual passwords. There can be only one reason for that,” she surmised.

  “And that is?” Oros asked. His momentary loss of composure had returned. He flashed an appreciative smile at the keenness of his companion’s deductions.

  “So that when he is captured or betrayed, he will not be able to reveal anything about us. What is it you are really going to send him to steal?” she probed. “It isn’t the Potion of Shonlay, is it?”

  “That is but a test,” Oros admitted. “If this rehearsal succeeds, I will take him into my personal circle for in-depth training. If the mission fails but he survives, I will do the same, saying that he needs my special tutelage to acclimate him to the ways of the Guild. Either way, I shall have him as my student. At first, he will hate me, and then he will slowly grow to admire me. Finally, he will love me as his shalifi. When he is properly prepared, I shall plant the seed of something.”

  “You’re planning to send him out alone,” Alynthia guessed with undisguised awe. “If he succeeds, he brings the prize back to you. If he fails, he cannot harm the Guild because he knows nothing of its true nature.”

  Oros nodded appreciatively.

  “What is it you covet?” the dark-eyed captain of thieves asked, her voice low.

  “The Founderstone itself,” Oros whispered.

  The sorcerer ceased his arcane mutterings with a gasp. His eyes rolled forward to stare in wonder at the two Guild captains. Realizing that his spell had been broken, he hurriedly resumed his incantation.

  It was too late. The darkness had begun to fade from the water in the bowl. Even as it faded, a line of torches hove into view. The image wavered. Oros leaned forward and pointed. “What is that?” he asked anxiously.

  “Torches. Knights of Neraka!” Alynthia shouted. She turned on the sorcerer, shaking a fist at his nose. “Get it back. Get the image hack!”

  “I’m trying!” the poor mage squeaked.

  “What are Knights of Neraka doing in the test area?” Oros asked. “Is this part of your design?”

  “No, I swear it!” she answered. She stood up resolutely. “I’m going down there!” The image faded completely from the bowl. The sorcerer toppled, exhausted, from his stool.

  With an exclamation of disgust, Alynthia bolted from the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Watch your step,” Cael whispered, pointing to a broken step. His gesture was useless, as the darkness of the sewers was complete. However, his elven sight allowed him to see the warm outlines of his companions’ bodies, as well as the contours of the sewer tunnel they traversed. The water flowing below them was like a black river, so dark and cool that not even he could penetrate it. Still, something occasionally passed through this river of darkness, something warm and faintly outlined beneath the surface of the water, something large as a submerged canoe, with a serpentine tail that powered it through the water with silent ease. It followed them sometimes, other times swimming alongside them easily, only to vanish into the depths.

  At first, Cael had pointed out their watery shadow, but as the darkness prevented his companions from seeing anything, his warnings were useless. Hoag had instructed him (as if he actually needed instruction!) to let them know if the thing loomed a threat, but otherwise to ignore it. How he was supposed to judge the level of danger was never adequately explained.

  Also never explained was how other circles of thieves made their way through the sewers to the test area without the benefit of someone with night vision to lead them. His Circle followed Cael blindly, in every sense of the word. Each thief depended on him to point out the slightest danger on their most dangerous road. A misstep anywhere along the way meant a dunk in the cold, fetid water. The least deviation from their path might mean an accidental trip, a fatal stumble.

  Even with his elven sight, Cael could no more read their map in the dark than the others. Instead, they relied upon Mancred’s memory to direct them to the correct turnings and passages. As they made their slow, careful way through the sewers, Mancred had Cael count out the number of left- or right-hand tunnels they passed. So, it was by the count of passages and turnings that they made progress—slow, torturous progress.

  “Why do we travel without light?” the elf whispered to Mancred as he helped the old thief over the broken step.

  “Light shining up through the sewer grates would be noticed and investigated. We only use light where it cannot be seen from the streets,” he answered.

  “Who is that?” Cael asked. A distant turning of the sewer was now visible to them because of a flickering yellow light that had appeared ahead, illuminating the far wall. Human shadows danced along the walls ahead of the light, evidencing that several people bearing torches were headed toward the thieves.

  In a hoarse whisper Hoag called for a halt, even though everyone was already crouched against the wall.

  “Who are they?” Varia asked. “They’re not thieves.”

  “Maybe they are. Maybe this is part of the test,” Pitch said.

  “We’re not at the vaults yet,” Rull protested. Even in a whisper, his deep voice seemed to boom against the walls of the sewer. The thieves winced at the noise. Rull shrugged in silent apology.

  A jangle of armor, followed by a splash and a muttered curse, echoed through the sewer.

  “They’re Knights of Takhisis,” Mancred said.

  “Neraka,” Hoag amended.

  “Whatever.”

  The thieves sat tensely for a few moments, each with the same thought. Was this part of the test, or were these real Knights of Takhisis? Either way, they dared not attack. If they were thieves in disguise, playing a part in the test, okay. If these were real Knights, they would have to be bypassed. The thieves didn’t dare match swords, daggers, and staffs against a band of well-armed, Well-armored, well-trained Knights. Whatever they decided to do, they had better do it soon. The Knights were growing closer, the sounds of their awkward attempts at stealth growing louder with each passing heartbeat.

  “I say we stay here,” Cael said, the first to break the silence. “There are three side passages between us and them. They might turn aside at any one of them. They’ll not see us here. Their torches blind them to anything outside their own light.” “Not anymore!” Mancred hissed. “Look!”

  The Knights’ approaching torches brightly illuminated the distant turning. From around the bend came a nightmare, bending so low that its reptilian snout almost touched the ground.

  “Draconian!” Mancred affirmed, though each thief knew the creature by reputation, if not by sight. Created many years ago, before the War of the Lance, by black-robed mages and clerics of Takhisis from the eggs of the Good dragons, the draconians were the epitome of evil. They were smaller than dragons, and most were no taller than a human man. They walked upright on two legs, though there the resemblance to humans ended. They had reptilian faces and long claws for hands and feet. A pair of batlike wings sprouted from the backs of all draconians except for the kind known as auraks. They also had long, snaking, spine-crested tails.

 
The draconian now advancing down the sewer was of the breed known as kapaks. These draconians had long served the armies of Takhisis as assassins and spies. This one must be a scout for the party of Knights. It was slinking some thirty yards ahead of the group, far enough ahead to not be affected by their torches, far enough to espy the thieves huddled against the sewer wall if ever it bothered to lift its head and look. Instead the creature seemed intent upon some scent trail that it was following, though how it smelled anything other than garbage in this place was beyond anyone’s guess.

  “Back up,” Hoag signaled, using the language of hand gestures known by every thief of the Guild. Cael had learned a few of the signals, not enough to follow the sometimes-remarkable silent conversations that could take place between veterans of the hand language. This signal was a simple one, though, easily deciphered.

  Mancred shook his head and signaled his disagreement with a short chopping gesture. He pointed to the draconian, then lifted his hand to his ear as though listening. Obviously, he believed that if they tried to move, the draconian would hear them. If they didn’t get out of sight, however, the creature would spot them in a few moments anyway.

  The old thief’s hands blurred as he signaled to his companions. Cael could not follow what he signed, but the others nodded in perfect understanding. Mancred then pointed with two fingers, first behind them, to a passage to their left, then ahead. Everyone nodded, except Cael, who stared from one to the other, trying to comprehend. He knew this much: Everybody was tense, ready for action, their faces set into grim lines as their hands moved to the weapons they bore.

  Varia suddenly stood. Cael reached out to stop her, but Mancred held his arm and placed a silencing finger to his lips. With a fluid motion, the beautiful thief unslung her short bow, drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to her thigh, fitted the arrow to the string, and readied the bow. The draconian lifted its head, but not before the arrow was already on its way. A meaty slap echoed along the passage as the draconian clutched at its throat and collapsed to the ground with a strangled cry, its wings flapping feebly.

  The Knights, hearing the monster’s death rattle, rushed ahead, crying out. Around the corner came at least a dozen of them, black armored, wielding gleaming swords and black maces. Their torches sent their shadows lurching ahead of them.

  Cael turned back to see Rull and Varia scurrying back the way they had come. Rull held in his fist a small iron lantern, which beamed a narrow light. Hoag and Ijus edged closer to Cael, while Pitch slipped up beside him and drew her sword.

  If they didn’t spot the movement, the Knights heard it and hurried their pace, shouting battle cries. Cael started to rise, but Mancred maintained his grip on the elf’s arm. “Wait,” the old thief whispered.

  The dying draconian still lay between them and the Knights. They were close enough now to see its body in the glare of their torches. The thing’s fluttering wings and thrashing tail filled the pathway. The Knights slowed their pace, with those in the lead seeming reluctant to approach any nearer.

  For good reason. The wings fluttered one last time, then lay still upon the dank wet stone. A moment later, they began to dissolve, as did the rest of the draconian’s body. A sickly yellow cloud rose, filling the air with a choking stench, while the dissolving fluid hissed on the stones. The Knights covered their mouths and noses and reeled away.

  Mancred had drawn a scroll from the sleeve of his robe. He unrolled it and in the faint light provided by the Knight’s torches began to read in a low voice. Slow and sonorously he read the language of magic, which crawled along the spine of those who heard it. He finished the spell with a snap of his fingers, and beyond the acid cloud of the dead draconian, the Knights’ torches suddenly winked out like candles in the wind.

  “Now!” Mancred shouted. Pitch grabbed the elf by the sleeve and, brandishing her long sword in the other, rushed straight at the reeking cloud and the darkness. Cael stumbled after her, trying to ready his weapon but knowing in his gut that these narrow, low passages were no place for staff work.

  He glanced back just in time to see Mancred, Hoag, and Ijus vanish into a side passage. Then, turning ahead, he found that Pitch had disappeared as well. The acid cloud was beginning to clear. He was alone. The Knights stumbled through the cloud, coughing and gagging. One of them had a lantern lit now. He swung its beam around until it fell upon the lone elf. One of the Knights roared, “By her Dark Majesty, it’s him!”

  Cael skidded to a stop, turned, and raced back the way he had come, cursing his fellow thieves for abandoning him this way. Before he had gone three steps, Pitch popped out from a small side passage and pulled the elf in behind her. Crossbow bolts smashed into the walls around them or skittered about their feet.

  “Where were you going?” Pitch hissed angrily.

  “Following you,” Cael answered.

  “Come on then. Lead the way.”

  In a running crouch, the two fled into the low darkened passage, while the Knights cursed and swore and sent a few more bolts ricocheting harmlessly after them.

  The passage coursed straight for about two hundred yards, then began to gradually bend to their left. Every forty yards or so, smaller passages joined it from the right and left. The bend continued for another two hundred yards, then ended abruptly at a wall. Iron rings set into the stone provided a ladder that led up an access shaft. Far above them, a metal grate covered the top of the shaft. Moonlight shone through it, dimly bathing their faces as they looked up.

  “Now what?” Cael asked as he gripped one of the rusty iron rungs and tested its strength. “To the streets and home?”

  Pitch sheathed her sword. “We wait,” she said. She set her back against one of the walls and stared up into the moonlight.

  “Wait? For what? For the Knights to decide to come and get us?” the elf asked. They had not heard any pursuit, but Cael doubted the Dark Knights would give up so easily, especially since one seemed to recognize him. He wondered why the Knights of Neraka were searching the sewers of Palanthas for him three weeks after he had vanished into the Thieves’ Guild. What powerful enemy had he made? Certainly not Gaeord uth Wotan. Though spectacularly wealthy, not even he would dare to report the theft of an illegal substance. Cael had felt safe in that regard when he stole the dragonflower pollen.

  “Mancred said to wait here,” Pitch answered. She crossed her arms, as though there was nothing left to say.

  “Here? Why here? What could possibly be here?” Cael asked. “Unless… unless this is a doorway to the vaults!” he said excitedly. He began to search the walls for any kind of catch or lever. If designed by dwarves, the mechanism wouldn’t be obvious. It would more likely appear to be part of the stone itself.

  “You’re as bad as a kender,” Pitch said, eyeing him. “You’ll never find it. You have to have the key, and only Mancred…” Her words trailed off as a section of the wall slid grindingly back, revealing a gaping dark hole beyond.

  “You were saying?” Cael asked with a smirk.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A little higher,” Pitch ordered as she teetered atop the elf’s shoulders. Stretching out with her sword, she probed the high ceiling of the passage, trying to fit the tip of the blade into what appeared to be a niche where the mortar between the stones had fallen out.

  “What do you want me to do, fly?” the elf grunted. He gripped her ankles to steady her, but his own ankles felt as though they were about to give out. “Let me try again,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Almost got it,” she said, for perhaps the thirteenth time.

  “Gods! You’re as heavy as a bull!” Cael complained.

  “Can’t you boost me any higher?” Pitch asked, ignoring him. “Straighten up your back and legs. What are you, a man or a boy?”

  “I am an elf!” Cael groaned. With a heroic effort, born somewhat of anger at her unintended insult, he raised himself up onto his toes. He felt a jolt as Pitch’s sword encountered hard stone. An audible metallic cli
ck sounded through the passage, followed by a rumbling noise, as of weights and counterweights settling into new positions. The floor began to sink, and with it, Cael’s knees gave out beneath him. He collapsed, and Pitch tumbled down atop him, driving her knees-into his back to break her fall. His staff, which was propped against the wall, fell over and cracked her on her shaven head.

  Cael laughed at her, clutching his bruised ribs, as she rubbed her stubbly pate. “A staff is no weapon for a thief,” she repeated ruefully.

  “It saved both our lives at the pit trap,” Cael said, remembering with a shudder how, a few moments after entering the vaults from the sewer, the floor had dropped out from under them. Luckily, the pit had been narrow. Cael’s staff wedged itself against the walls, stopping his fall with joint-popping suddenness. Pitch had caught his legs as she tumbled past, else she’d have dropped to the spiked floor forty feet below. They had then climbed out, and after several minutes of tugging, managed to free his staff.

  The dark-eyed thief nodded grimly, but continued to look at him savagely as she rubbed her head.

  The floor ground to a halt, revealing a subterranean passage. Globes of magical light hung motionless in the air at regular intervals down the passage, which curved to the right. This place was different than the passages they had encountered thus far. It looked carved from solid stone, but by what tools neither of them could guess. The walls were polished as smooth as glass, the floor was like a mirror that reflected and multiplied the light of the magical globes.