Toric's Dagger: Book One of The Weapon Takers Saga

by Jamie Edmundson

  They had made it into the house.

  The door was shut closed and locked behind them; Belwynn just managed to catch a glimpse of the guards still standing outside, looking rather sorry for themselves.

  They found themselves inside a porch area, all stone-built, where one guard was stationed on door duty. It seemed to Belwynn like a nicer job than being outside; he even had his own chair tucked away in the corner. Ahead, she could hear the noise of what sounded like a busy hall.

  ‘I will take you to meet Vincente,’ said Loris, leading them on through the porch door. They entered a passageway with four doors leading off it, two on each side, and a spiral stone staircase at the end which led upstairs. Belwynn tried to get her bearings. She could smell the kitchens from behind the first door on the left. Loris took them in the opposite direction; through the first door on the right, into the main hall.

  It was busy, with more people inside than the inn where they had dined. A large fire burned in the centre of the room. Around it, in a rough square shape, were tables and benches, which may have been organised more neatly before the dinner but were now arranged in a disorderly fashion all over the place. Dinner was over, but drinking wasn’t, and the room smelt strongly of alcohol. Some guests were holding mugs of ale; others were drinking wine, with barrels liberally spread among the tables. There must have been at least fifty people in the room, a number of whom were armed men, but women and children were also present, as well as a few busy-looking servants. It was noisy, too, with men shouting at each other across the table or over to someone on the other end of the hall. If this was an ordinary night at Vincente’s house, thought Belwynn, he must be a wealthy man, ranking alongside the most powerful barons back in Magnia.

  Once a few people had noticed their arrival, the hall quietened somewhat. Vincente’s guests studied Belwynn and the others.

  ‘Is that your new wife, Loris?’ a woman shouted out from one of the tables, to much amusement. Belwynn got a brief glimpse of her: jet black hair with leather clothing and a short sword attached to her belt. Belwynn gave a little smile at the joke, while taking a look at her potential audience. The faces were more interested than anything else, and certainly not hostile.

  Loris scowled at the perpetrator, but carried on with his route, around the tables towards the dais at the far end of the hall. He held out a hand for them to wait and approached the dais alone.

  There was only a very small table on the dais, where seven men had been quietly talking. Loris was talking to the one in the middle, presumably Vincente. He stood out in purple hose and a long purple jacket. He had grey hair, but a youthful face, and he was tall and lithe-looking.

  His henchmen came in all shapes and sizes. At one end of the table was an absolute giant of a man, bigger even than Clarin, with oversized everything: head, hands, feet. At the other was a Krykker, the mountain race who had toughened, armour-like skin on their torsos. They rarely visited human lands, and Belwynn was surprised to see one in this place. The only Krykker she knew, back home in Magnia, was Rabigar the bladesmith. She knew him to be an exile, and wondered whether the same was true of this man. On Vincente’s right was an older man with wrinkled, yellow skin, smoking a pipe, while between him and the giant was a small, wiry young man with a thin wispy moustache who looked to Belwynn like he was not yet out of his teens.

  What an odd bunch, she commented to Soren.

  Maybe Vincente promotes on merit, rather than looks, he observed.

  Vincente looked over to Belwynn and beckoned her over with a slight hand gesture. She approached the dais. Some of the men grinned at her, perhaps hoping that she would find the situation intimidating; but she wasn’t some country bumpkin to be impressed by a short dais with a merchant sitting on it, however wealthy he was.

  ‘I am told you are on your way to the court of my dear friend, Glanna,’ Vincente began, as if he were on first-name terms with the king of Cordence. Maybe he was. His voice was controlled and precise, but bore an unmistakeable Cordentine accent, stressing each and every vowel.

  ‘I am due there tomorrow, Lord Vincente,’ lied Belwynn easily. ‘I was advised that this was the most important stop on the way. Your house is beautiful,’ she added.

  So easy, thought Belwynn, as Vincente visibly puffed up with self-importance, a smile playing on his face. He was no lord, but merchants are the same the world over, she thought: aspiring to be accepted into the ruling class. The idea that a royal guest should visit him first was enough to win him over and remove any doubts or uncomfortable questions from his mind; even if some of his colleagues, like the young man with the moustache, still looked suspicious.

  ‘Well, we would be delighted if you would sing for us, Lady...?’

  ‘Melyta.’

  ‘Of course. Such a beautiful name.’

  The Krykker smirked at that comment behind Vincente’s back.

  ‘You would want to sing up here, as your stage?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then we will finish our business here and leave it for you. Loris will ensure you have anything else you need. And I insist that you stay the night here at my house, not at the inn. The accommodation there is reasonable, but isn’t to a high enough standard. Loris, you will make the arrangements?’

  The Krykker’s smirk got even bigger. Meanwhile, Loris was nodding in agreement at his instructions.

  Belwynn turned to the reeve. ‘Well, I would like a drink for my throat,’ she said demurely, coughing a little as the smoke from the pipe-smoker blew in her direction.

  ‘Antonio, you oaf!’ Vincente scolded the old man, slapping him on the arm several times. ‘You have no manners!’

  ‘A thousand apologies, Vincente.’

  ‘Why are you apologising to me?’ he demanded, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my lady,’ said the old man, sounding quite contrite, his face drooping in apparent sorrow.

  Everything alright? asked Soren, from his place to the side of the dais.

  Yes. It’s going well, replied Belwynn.

  Soren had seen it before, of course; many times. But it still filled him with pride.

  When his sister sang, the world stood still.

  Standing on the dais, alone, she commanded the attention of everyone in the hall. Soren looked around at the transfixed faces which, moments ago, had been chatting and arguing, shouting and bragging; now they were deathly silent. Strong men, with their bulging muscles and weapons at their belts, now looked wide eyed and childlike. Their women had tears in their eyes. Their children, who had been driving them crazy moments ago with their constant foolery, sat cross-legged and angelic.

  The plan was working. Soren turned to Herin, who was standing next to him.

  ‘Time to go?’ he asked.

  Herin was pulled out of his own reverie and locked eyes with Soren.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Follow me.’

  Soren turned to go.

  ‘Wait,’ hissed Herin from the side of his mouth, looking at the stage again.

  ‘What is it?’ murmured Soren after a few nervous seconds.

  ‘Nothing. I thought I saw one of Vincente’s thugs...looking straight at us. But he’s watching Belwynn now. Come on.’

  They shuffled off, backing out to the door from which they had entered the hall earlier. The people around them barely noticed them passing as they focused on Belwynn’s performance. One or two moved out of the way for them, but didn’t divert their attention to notice who was leaving and where they were going.

  We’re going, he said to Belwynn, in case she hadn’t noticed.

  He gave her one last look, noting Clarin’s reassuring presence by the side of the dais, before exiting into the passageway.

  It was empty, but they were aware that there was a guard in
the porch area, and they moved quickly and quietly towards the spiral staircase at the other end of the passage. Soren followed Herin up the stairs to the top floor of Vincente’s house, where the treasure room was located.

  Herin paused at the top to look around before emerging onto an upstairs passage, which ran directly above the downstairs one. Soren had a quick look around for himself. The upper storey of the house was much smaller than the lower. There was nothing to his left, above the hall, except an exterior stone wall. There were three doors leading off to the right of the passage.

  ‘This way,’ whispered Herin, and they began creeping down the hall. ‘Vincente’s private quarters,’ he added, indicating the first door on the right.

  They moved on to the second door.

  ‘Let’s hope our friends have done their work,’ Herin said, before slowly turning the handle.

  Gingerly, Herin pulled the door open. It was dark inside, with no light source. But slowly Soren’s eyes adjusted, and he could make out a small antechamber.

  Inside, there was another door to the left. Placed at intervals along the outside wall were three chairs—each with a corpse sitting in it.

  ‘Come on,’ said Herin, ushering Soren into the room.

  Soren looked at the nearest body, that of a guard, slumped backwards in the chair. His throat had been cut, and black congealed blood had collected in a pool on the floor. He forced himself to look at the other two victims—two more guards, with similar injuries. It was a disturbing sight, made worse by the silence and darkness of the room.

  ‘Did they have to kill them?’

  Herin shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  Herin looked around the room and found an empty sconce on the wall.

  ‘Shit. No-one mentioned how dark it was in here. We’re not gonna be able to see anything.’

  Soren took a length of candle from his inside pocket and cupped both hands around it. He found that they were shaking. He concentrated, gained focus, calling on heat to materialise from his hands onto the wick of the candle. The wick caught flame, and he moved over to the sconce, placing the candle inside.

  The small light from the candle created eerie shadows on the walls. Soren had to force himself to ignore the three corpses who shared their confined space, illuminated by the flickering flame. He wasn’t a religious man, but it was hard not to imagine that the spirits of the murdered men were in there with them.

  He turned his attention to the door to the treasure room. As described, it had three separate locks on it, each with its own keyhole. He grabbed the handle and gave the door a yank, just in case. It was solidly locked in place.

  Kneeling down, Soren flattened his hands against the wood, concentrating, trying to search for the metal mechanism inside.

  ‘Well?’ said Herin. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll need a bit of time. Guard the door while I give it my attention.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Herin. He moved to draw his sword, and then, thinking better of it, pulled out a seax which had been strapped horizontally to his belt.

  ‘No room to swing a sword in here,’ he said by way of explanation, handling the weapon; in size, it was somewhere between a knife and a sword, with a wickedly sharp edge. Picking his spot, he went down on one knee facing the door. If anyone did bumble into the room, they were going to get a nasty surprise.

  Returning to his work, Soren located the highest lock and formed a connection between the metal mechanism and his hands, through the wood of the door. Wriggling his hands up and down, he was able to raise the internal pins while also pulling the bolt to the right. He opened the lock, resulting in a loud click. Herin looked over.

  ‘One down,’ said Soren.

  The next two worked along the same principles, and Soren was able to pull the bolt after a bit of trial and error. Standing up, he pushed open the door. Herin joined him with the candle he had retrieved from the sconce, and they peered in.

  They had done it. Three large chests sat along the opposite wall, and various artefacts made of gold, silver, crystal and the like lay scattered on the floor. It was a very rich man’s treasure hoard.

  Herin and Soren looked at each other, smiling in jubilation at their success.

  Herin rushed in and lifted up the lid of the nearest chest, and Soren peered over his shoulder. It was full, mainly with coins: Cordentine florins, the distinctive wide, thin discs of gold; but also plenty of Imperial thalers, silver Persaleian denarii, and lots more, from all over Dalriya.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Herin, dipping a hand into the coins. ‘I knew we could do it. This is a massive haul.’

  ‘I know,’ said Soren, ‘but we’re not done yet. We need to move.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Herin, ‘we prioritise. First, we get this chest into Vincente’s room. Then the next two. Anything else really valuable, but otherwise we leave it.’

  Herin and Soren grabbed one end of the chest each and carried it out of the treasure room and back into the adjoining chamber, where its three corpse guards still sat in silence. It weighed a tonne, and Soren was glad when Herin signalled to put it down.

  Herin peered round the door into the passageway.

  ‘Clear.’

  Hefting it up again, they manhandled it out of the room into the passageway, Herin walking backwards towards the stairs, Soren facing forwards.

  There were footsteps on the stairs. Quick footsteps.

  Before he could react, Soren saw a face come into view. It was a young man’s face, thin, with a wispy moustache, making his features rat like. Soren recognised him as one of the henchmen who had been sitting on the dais when Belwynn was introduced to Vincente. They were in trouble.

  Unless—

  ‘Herin,’ he murmured, dropping his end of the chest and nodding towards the stairs.

  The man had stopped.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in a loud voice.

  Herin turned around. Lightning quick, he pulled the seax from his belt and threw it at the target. But the man was too quick, diving back down the stairs as the weapon clattered harmlessly against the stonework.

  ‘Shit,’ said Herin.

  Soren could hear the man shouting as he descended back down the stairs.

  Belwynn, he spoke to his sister, sending his thoughts down to the hall where she was still performing. Belwynn, get out of there! Now!

  II

  The Smell of Failure

  Belwynn, get out of there! Now!

  Belwynn stopped singing immediately. She took a few steps backwards on the dais. She gestured to Clarin for help.

  Her audience in the hall murmured, as if slowly awakening from a dream. She could hear shouting outside the hall. Things had stopped going well.

  Belwynn looked around, desperately trying to work out where to go. She had no idea. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Clarin was heading towards her, but he was being so slow!

  Behind him, a woman marched onto the dais, dressed all in black with black hair pulled back from her face. She walked directly towards Belwynn, who recognised her as the woman who had shouted out when they had entered the hall.

  ‘I think we need to get out of here,’ said the woman urgently.

  The door of the hall crashed open, and one of Vincente’s followers, the teenager with the moustache, tumbled in.

  ‘They’re stealing the treasure!’ he shouted.

  A few moments ago, one could have heard a pin drop. Now, the hall erupted in noise. Men shouted orders at each other. Some rushed out of the hall towards the stairs. Others turned to the dais, pointing fingers at Belwynn and Clarin.

  ‘Yes, Moneva! Get us out of here,’ said Clarin quickly, speaking to the woman.

  Moneva ran past Belwynn towards the back of the dais, where a small set of stairs took her upwards
. Clarin gave Belwynn a gentle push to follow on. She must be one of the sellswords Herin had said was working with them, Belwynn surmised. She hadn’t been expecting a woman.

  Looking behind her, Belwynn gasped as a group of men approached the dais. Clarin drew his sword, causing them to pause, before he again pushed her towards the back of the dais.

  Moneva’s escape route took them up the stairs into a large, dimly-lit, and musty smelling room. It was a storeroom, with a stack of timber in one corner, a harness for a cart and horse lying in another. Big fabric sacks were lined up against all the walls.

  An exit way to the room lay ahead and to the right, which was where the little light in the room was coming from. As Belwynn looked in that direction an armed man emerged, perhaps a guard to an alternative exit to the house.

  ‘What’s going on, Moneva?’ he asked, walking towards them.

  ‘Someone’s tried to break into the treasure room.’

  The guard’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked, indicating Clarin and Belwynn.

  With no warning, Moneva launched a kick in between the man’s legs. It connected home with a crunch and the guard doubled over in agony. Clarin was quickly on to him, bringing his knee up and smashing it under the man’s chin. Belwynn heard an unpleasant crack from the man’s jawbone. Clarin loomed over him, fist raised.

  ‘Clarin, enough!’ demanded Belwynn.

  Clarin looked up and headed towards the exit to the room, but Moneva reached out and grabbed him.

  ‘No, we’ll get trapped that way. Follow me.’

  Moneva drew them instead in the opposite direction, deeper into the storeroom. Taking a right, she took them into a smaller chamber.

  The latrines. A bad smell. And a dead end.

  ‘What—’ began Belwynn.

  ‘Hush,’ said Moneva.

  Voices. Unsurprisingly, a group of men had now followed them up the steps from the dais and into the storeroom. They must have found the injured guard on the floor.