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

by Jamie Edmundson

  ‘I’ve passed through a few times.’

  Moneva laughed again. Gyrmund didn’t think he was being particularly funny and decided that Moneva must be genuinely happy to be here. ‘So, you’ve got fond memories? What did you do here?’

  ‘I worked for a merchant who was based here; in fact, he probably still is. He had interests all over the Empire and in Guivergne, so I travelled about a bit.’

  What did you do?’

  Moneva sighed. ‘Well, I spied on his rivals, I spied on his business partners. I sabotaged his rivals’ plans, I sabotaged his partners’ plans. It was good money, but in the end it got a bit boring. A bit too easy. I was charging so much for the tiniest little things that even he decided I was too expensive.’

  ‘So why did you take up this little assignment?’ asked Gyrmund.

  ‘Well, there’s the money, of course. But really, I thought it would be interesting. I suppose I can’t complain on that score.’

  ‘Good answer,’ said Gyrmund approvingly.

  Moneva raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  ‘So, how long have you known Herin?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Gyrmund shrugged. ‘Just asking.’

  ‘I met Herin and Clarin while I was working here, as a matter of fact. They were fighting as mercenaries for Emeric in his war with the Black Horse tribe. He already had a sizeable army back then and the merchant I was working for managed to squeeze a tidy profit out of the whole affair. Herin and I made sure we did alright as well; the army structure was totally disorganised, and so it was quite easy for him to get his hands on provisions, which I could sell on. Since then I’ve bumped into them a couple of times. Most recently when I was working in Cordence. For another greedy merchant, as it happens. I’m wondering now whether I wish I hadn’t bumped into them again.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I wasn’t quite expecting things to turn out as they have.’

  Gyrmund and Moneva fell silent. They rounded a corner and found themselves back at the Boot and Saddle.

  ‘Pretty quiet,’ commented Moneva as they walked in.

  Gyrmund looked around. There were no customers in the bar area and even the owner, Bernard Hat, was absent.

  ‘Well, I’m going to put this food away and see if Rabigar is about. I expect they’ve booked rooms upstairs.’

  Moneva nodded. ‘I hope so; a bit of rest would do me the world of good. Be careful, though. It’s eerily quiet around here.’

  Gyrmund made his way behind the bar and into the kitchen at the back. There was no sign of any staff here, either. What was more, the room had been left in a mess, pots unwashed and food lying about. He looked around for somewhere to store the provisions he had bought. He heard footsteps behind him and turned, half expecting that Moneva had come to look for herself.

  She hadn’t.

  Three soldiers had followed him around the bar and into the kitchen, weapons drawn. Gyrmund dropped his stuff and grabbed his sword. He made a move for the exit at the back of the kitchen. But as he approached the door, it burst open from outside, and three more soldiers entered the kitchen, trapping him.

  ‘Drop it!’ shouted one of them at Gyrmund, but he was not eager to part with his weapon so easily. He looked around the room: there was a window, but he had no chance of escaping through it in time. He was caught between the two groups of soldiers, and six blades were pointing towards him. They were all dressed in the uniform of Barissian soldiers.

  ‘You are under arrest by royal order,’ explained the man at the front of the first group. ‘If you do not drop your weapon we will take you by force. I advise you not to take that option.’

  The man spoke with confidence, and Gyrmund realised that he was in a no-win situation. It was better to submit to the soldiers than die pointlessly in the kitchen of this inn. If they wanted him dead, he would be. Gyrmund knew that Herin, Soren and the rest were now his best hope of staying alive. He dropped his sword and allowed the soldiers to take him.

  Once his sword clattered to the floor the soldiers pounced, beating him to the floor and pulling his hands behind his back so that they could tie them together with rope.

  ‘It would have been better for you if you’d died with some honour here,’ whispered one of his assailants in his ear, and Gyrmund felt a sick feeling in his stomach. He berated himself for walking into a trap, for entering this damned city in the first place.

  He thought of Moneva, which made him feel even worse. If it was better for Gyrmund to die now, then it was doubly true for her. He had no illusions about the standard treatment of female prisoners by soldiers in this part of the world.

  Gyrmund was led out into the rear courtyard of the inn, where he was surprised to see another two dozen soldiers waiting. It was obvious that these soldiers had been lying in wait for them to arrive. His captors shoved him in front of the man who must be their leader. He wore no distinctive clothing but he was sat astride a powerful looking warhorse, emanating a sense of authority over the proceedings. Gyrmund noticed a scar running down the left side of his face, from ear to chin.

  ‘Here’s the man, General Salvinus,’ said Gyrmund’s captor with pride.

  Salvinus? Gyrmund could hardly believe that the man they had been chasing was now sitting opposite him. His look of surprise was picked up by the rider, who smiled maliciously at him.

  ‘Go and help them get the woman, then,’ Salvinus shouted at his officer, and the men quickly hurried back to the inn. ‘And be quiet! More of them could be coming at any minute!’

  Salvinus turned his attention back to Gyrmund.

  ‘You recognise my name, then?’ he grinned.

  Before Gyrmund had time to reply Salvinus had kicked out at him, his boot smashing into Gyrmund’s chin and sending him crashing to the floor. Gyrmund landed badly on his back because of his tied hands, pain shooting up and down his spine. He turned back to his attacker, who was sliding off his horse to the cheers of his soldiers. He turned around at his men with a look of anger and put a gloved finger to his moustache, silencing the noise immediately.

  Salvinus moved over to Gyrmund and crouched down next to him, so that they could talk quietly.

  ‘So, you’re the one who managed to track me through the Wilderness, eh?’

  ‘Yes. You make it sound more difficult than it was, though.’

  Salvinus smiled and produced a knife, which he proceeded to push against Gyrmund’s throat, drawing blood.

  ‘Do you have the dagger?’

  Gyrmund looked up blankly, not comprehending the question. Surely Salvinus had the dagger—wasn’t that the whole point? The question reminded him, though, of the sorcerer Nexodore, who had demanded the dagger from them on the Great Road. Something wasn’t right, but he was at a loss to know what.

  Gyrmund could see Salvinus’s eyes studying his reaction, and he brought the knife away from Gyrmund with a look of half-hearted disappointment, as if he had been expecting Gyrmund would be unable to help.

  Salvinus was interrupted by the return of his soldiers. Gyrmund turned around to look for Moneva but she wasn’t with them. About a dozen soldiers were now reporting back to him, and he felt foolish for not noticing their presence in the inn. Hopefully Moneva had.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘She’s not there, general,’ Salvinus was informed.

  ‘What do you mean? I saw her go in with my own eyes, you idiot.’

  Salvinus turned back to Gyrmund and replaced the knife at his throat. ‘Where is she? I’ll slit you open if you don’t tell me. King Emeric wants you alive, but if you put up a struggle...what can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know where she went...we split up when we got inside.’ Gyrmund felt some shame for blurting it out, but the man already knew that Moneva had gone inside the inn.
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br />   Salvinus waited a moment and then withdrew the knife a second time. ‘I’m bored of talking to you,’ he told Gyrmund. ‘Curtis, search him, mount him up, and take him to the castle. We’ll teach these foreign bastards not to interfere with the Kingdom of Barissia.’

  Curtis stepped forwards and lifted Gyrmund onto a horse, shifting him around until he could sit upright. Salvinus, meanwhile, had returned his attention to the search for Moneva.

  ‘I’m going in there myself and you lot are coming with me. She went in, she hasn’t come out, so she’s still bloody in there!’ He turned around one last time to look at Gyrmund. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. Just to get you in the mood for your stay in the castle dungeons, you should take a look at the landlord of this inn. When I arrived he decided that he would rather take sides with you than help me carry out the king’s business. I loosened his tongue eventually, but I was still not satisfied with his loyalty.’

  Curtis grabbed Gyrmund’s reins and led him out of the yard entrance, escorted by three more soldiers.

  There the Barissians had erected a stake. On top of it was the decapitated head of Bernard Hat, still adorned with his green beret.

  Belwynn had been enjoying her afternoon in Coldeberg. Clarin was easy company and she began to relax after the stresses and strains of recent days. As far as information gathering had gone, they had achieved little except to find that the name Gervase Salvinus was familiar to many in the city: he had been chosen by Emeric as the general of the army which was being raised in Barissia. While people in the city were overwhelmingly loyal to their new king, there did not seem to be much genuine enthusiasm for war. Like Belwynn herself, the citizens of Coldeberg did not seem to fully understand why Emeric had chosen to declare his duchy independent of the Empire.

  Having asked their questions of the tight-lipped citizens, Belwynn and Clarin decided to head back to the Boot and Saddle. She was still worried about Soren. He seemed to have recovered physically from his ordeal in the Wilderness, but he was not himself, and had been eager to leave the inn on his own. Belwynn wanted to communicate with him but sensed that he wanted time alone.

  She was slightly surprised, then, when he contacted her.

  Belwynn, where are you? The tone seemed urgent.

  We’re just on our way back now.

  Stop.

  Belwynn sensed fear in her brother’s thoughts and came to an abrupt halt. She grabbed Clarin’s arm to make him stop as well.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the big warrior.

  ‘It’s Soren. Something’s wrong.’

  Clarin looked around them and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but seemed content to let Belwynn continue her private conversation.

  Emeric’s troops are swarming all over the Boot and Saddle. It’s not safe there. I’m in an alleyway off Orchard Lane, two streets before the inn. Meet me there.

  The instruction was simple enough, and Belwynn relayed it to Clarin, who grimaced but nodded his consent. Orchard Lane happened to be the next street on their right, and they entered it warily, on the lookout for soldiers. Belwynn spied Soren signalling from his alleyway and they quickly met up with him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Belwynn and Clarin asked the wizard in unison.

  ‘I nearly walked straight in,’ began Soren. ‘I’ve been to the north-east of the city this afternoon, and I was returning to the inn via the back yard rather than the front.’ Soren’s face was grim, but Belwynn just wanted him to spit out the news. ‘The head of Bernard Hat has been placed on a stake there. I tried to get a glimpse of what was going on without being seen and saw a large group of soldiers in the yard. I skirted around the edge of the inn and I’m pretty sure that they’re inside as well. I think...I think they’re waiting there for us to return. We left Rabigar and Elana in there...some of the others might have returned already.’

  Belwynn swallowed hard. If Bernard Hat had been decapitated, what had been done to the others?

  ‘Why do you think that they’re after us, Soren?’

  ‘Emeric is obviously linked to the dagger—’

  ‘Yes, but how did they know where we were?’

  Belwynn was having trouble getting her head around this new turn of events. She looked at Clarin. Concern was plainly visible on his face, no doubt concern for Herin’s whereabouts, but he was saying nothing. The three of them were used to working together in these situations. Soren did the thinking; Clarin would agree with his course of action.

  ‘I think,’ began Soren, responding to his sister’s question, ‘we’ve been betrayed. Someone’s told Emeric of our whereabouts. Those soldiers seemed to know that if they waited in the inn we would be coming back.’

  ‘I’ve just seen Dirk walk past,’ interrupted Clarin, who had been keeping an eye on the top of the street.

  ‘Dirk?’ Soren sounded surprised. ‘Go and grab him, Clarin.’ The big warrior dutifully ran off back to the top of the street to stop Dirk from walking into the trap which had been set for them.

  Belwynn watched Clarin go and then turned back to her brother.

  ‘Betrayed? But who knew that we were all coming back now?’

  Soren shrugged. ‘No-one else did.’

  ‘You mean you think it was one of us?’

  ‘Most of us have had a chance to get in contact with Emeric’s forces this afternoon if we’d wanted to.’ Soren looked up at Clarin and Dirk who had turned into the street and were walking over. ‘And here comes my prime suspect.’

  It seemed to Belwynn that Clarin had taken Soren’s instructions to grab Dirk quite literally. He still had a hand on the priest’s shoulder, and the pair had the appearance of a wayward son and his father.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Dirk.

  ‘Where’s the dagger, Dirk?’ asked Soren.

  Belwynn and Clarin shared confused glances but allowed Soren to continue without interruption.

  ‘What do you mean?’ began Dirk, but he looked into the wizard’s eyes, boring into his own, and seemed to think better of continuing.

  The priest put his hand inside his tunic, fumbled around a bit, and produced a knife. The pommel and the cross-guard were beautifully decorated. It had a plain, leather covered grip and a thin blade, ending in a sharp needlepoint.

  Toric’s Dagger.

  ‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’ said Soren.

  Gyrmund was taken directly to Coldeberg Castle. He was given no opportunity to escape, his attempts at conversation were met with a stony silence, and before he knew it he was being led through the keep into the main courtyard.

  The castle was heavily defended. Gyrmund was shocked at the number of soldiers moving around the structure. His hopes of getting out of his situation alive were diminishing by the second. At first he had castigated himself for allowing Salvinus to catch him so easily. But now that he had come to terms with the fact, his thoughts turned to escape. Gyrmund realised that his best hope lay with being rescued by the other Magnians. He just hoped that some of them had evaded Salvinus’s trap.

  Curtis shoved him off his horse. His hands still tied, Gyrmund fell badly off the beast. He twisted his body around to land as best he could, but his right shoulder took the impact and was snapped out of place. Gyrmund’s back was already damaged from the confrontation with Salvinus at the inn, and as he landed pain lanced up and down his spine. He cried out in agony, leading to much amusement from the soldiers watching in the yard. Curtis yanked him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder didn’t stop. He worried that it had been dislocated, but he refused to give the Barissians any more satisfaction by letting them know.

  Curtis prodded him over to a doorway in the corner of the yard, and Gyrmund entered the castle proper. Curtis led him along a stone corridor, decorated thickly with tapestries on both walls, while behind him three other soldiers
continued to guard his progress. He could not help but be impressed with the small part of the castle he was being shown. Both as a fortress and as a display of wealth and power, Coldeberg Castle came second to few. Certainly, thought Gyrmund, nothing in Magnia was a match.

  In the Brasingian Empire, though, things were different. Impressive as Emeric’s castle and army seemed to be, he was no match for Emperor Baldwin, and Gyrmund took some consolation from the joy he would feel when Baldwin burned the place to the ground. If he was still around when that happened.

  Gyrmund’s spirits dropped again, however, with the arrival of the moment he had been dreading. Turning the corner, Curtis took him past a couple of armed guards towards a stairwell. They were headed for the dungeons.

  As they descended deeper into the bowels of the castle the air became stale and his feeling of confinement began, long before he was placed in the irons that he knew would be waiting for him. The descent, down the twisting staircase, was even longer than Gyrmund had anticipated. The journey ended though, and Gyrmund alighted from the last step into a stinking smell of sewage. Torches adorned the walls, but they did little to break through the underground gloom. The grimy, squalid bits of the dungeon which Gyrmund could make out made him think that was probably a blessing.

  ‘Herman!’ shouted Curtis into the murk.

  The address was met with silence. Gyrmund looked at Curtis but he didn’t seem moved to try again, so they waited. His shoulder throbbed with pain. He worried that if he had to stand for much longer, he would faint.

  Eventually, Gyrmund could make out a shuffling sound, which was gradually getting closer. Gyrmund was now ready to meet with the deformed, brutish, stereotypical jailer he had been expecting. Such a figure duly emerged out of the darkness. Trailing a crippled leg behind him, the jailer gave Gyrmund a smile full of rotting teeth as he lumbered closer. He was a giant of a man with fists the size of a man’s head. Two-thirds of his own head was purple, the skin twisted and uneven, as if it had been held in a pan of boiling water for a very long time. One eye was useless, a milky white colour in the midst of angry purple. This, however, did not seem to be Herman. Next to him was a small, thin man with a sharp nose and a thin, black moustache over sneering lips. While his purple-headed colleague seemed positively pleased to see Gyrmund, this man gave him a once-over with hostile, beady eyes.