by Jean Rabe
Then he returned to the shelves and moved faster. Within moments rings and bracers found their way into one backpack, along with coin purses filled with steel pieces, daggers with ornate handles, and a variety of other small, valuable objects. He used the tabard for padding so the baubles wouldn't «chink» together. Coins and jewels were stuffed into the sack.
Dhamon ignored swords and axes labeled with patients' names. Too cumbersome, he decided, and many a man would let his coin purse disappear but would hunt forever for a favorite weapon. Ah, but not this sword. Dhamon decided he would not be leaving this behind. He paused for a moment in front of a broadsword sheathed in a scabbard covered with the fine-tooled images of flying hippogriffs and pegasi. He drew it, noting it was sturdy and elegant and well balanced, undoubtedly belonging to a Knight of some importance. The pommel was inlaid with brass and ivory and bore a hallmark.
"Now it belongs to me," he whispered, "until I gain something better." He strapped it around his waist and left his own sword hanging on a hook, the tag dangling from it reading "unknown human patient, Room Four." Then he made his way to other bins. There were more coins inside, a ruby brooch that he snatched up and thrust in a pocket, and a heavily jeweled Legion of Steel ring that he decided must belong to a commander laid up here- perhaps the same owner of the broadsword. Dhamon pushed the ring on his index finger and continued.
When he could fit no more in the leather bag and when the backpack was straining its seams, he filled his pockets with small pouches, tying a few to his sword belt. A final pouch, small, but made of expensive material, he clenched between his teeth.
Able to carry no more, he blew out the lantern, opened the door, and peeked into the hallway. Still empty. He wriggled into the heavy backpack and hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He stood like a statue for a few moments, listening intently, picking through the soft moans and snores for noises of alarm and getting used to the weight of his new possessions. Satisfied all were soundly asleep, he closed the door behind him, glided down the hallway, and reached the stairwell. His goal was to return to his room as quickly as possible, retrieve his boots, and slip out the window.
But the Legion of Steel sentries coming up the stairs altered his plans.
Dhamon's throat went dry. He couldn't have guessed wrong on timing the sentries. What had happened? Hugging the shadows, he skittered down the hall, sweaty feet softly squeaking against the tiles as he strained to hear the Knights' hushed conversation.
The body he spotted a few minutes ago! They were coming upstairs for their dead comrade. And eventually, their dead comrade's personal effects.
Dhamon scowled and slipped into the next doorway, one of the large wards filled with a dozen patients and the smells of balms, blood, and soiled sheets. He held his breath and headed toward the back of the room where the shadows were thickest, and where he knew a window would be-a stirring of air told him so.
Have to hurry, he urged himself. Come on!
"Who're you?" This from a patient only a few feet away. The Knight was propped up on several pillows.
Come on! Dhamon had the shutters open. Another moment and he was standing on a narrow stone ledge.
"Who?" the patient persisted. "What're you doing?"
It was hard to navigate the ledge with the bulging pack on his back. The fingers of one hand dug into the cracks between stones, the other hand gripped the heavy sack on his shoulder. Shuffling along on the balls of his feet as his heels hung over the edge, he worked to keep his balance. The ground was roughly ten feet below.
"A wild man," he heard a patient say, likely the Knight who spoke to him. "A wild mountain man with hair like a bear went out there… out the window."
Dhamon balanced the sack on his shoulder and reached for his knife. Not there. He had forgotten. Damn. Lucky for the man, Dhamon thought to himself, for his instinct was to climb back in to slit his throat.
Dhamon hoped the patient was talking to himself or to another bedridden fool, not one of the passing Knights or caregivers. Time was wasting. He scurried along the ledge toward a drainpipe. Testing the pipe with his weight, he slid down, his knees thunking and the small pouch falling from his teeth. "Damn!" he spat at the falling pouch and the noise he'd made.
Crouching behind a low, wide bush and releasing the large sack, his hands flew across the ground around him searching for the lost item, his fingers pushing aside twigs and rocks. "There!" he whispered to himself. The dirt stuck to his feet and fingers. Dhamon idly rubbed his hands on his trousers and caught his breath.
I've not been discovered, he told himself. Maybe I can sneak back to my window, get my boots… then be on my way.
He could still hear music drifting faintly from the tavern. It sounded better this time, with no one singing along. He peered out from behind the bush. There were three dwarves on the street, just wandering into his line of sight beyond the hospital's brittle lawn. Two of them were supporting the third. Leaving his plunder hidden behind the bush, Dhamon crept like a crab along the wall, back to the center of the hospital where he judged his room to be. He paused beneath the window for only a moment-but it was long enough. Dhamon heard voices inside-two dwarves talking worriedly about a missing, delirious patient who'd unbandaged himself. A search was to be immediately mounted with the aid of the Legion of Steel Knights.
"Splendid," he hissed. He would miss those boots. Whirling, he hurried back to the bush and snatched up the sack and backpack, holding the small pouch in his free hand. The dwarves were still on the street. One of them was sitting stiffly, the other two were trying to tug their woozy friend to his feet.
Certain they were too full of spirits to notice him, Dhamon strolled nonchalantly toward the trio, the dry grass softly crackling beneath his feet. A moment later, he was beyond them, heading for the far end of town where he knew the stables sprawled. Walk normally, he told himself. Be calm. Arouse no suspicion.
He had nearly reached Ironspike's main thoroughfare when he heard a loud, shrill whistle from behind him. It was followed by the pounding of several pairs of feet.
CHAPTER TWO
A Change In The Scenery
"Hmm?"
"Rig, I think I heard something."
"Just got to sleep," he protested. "Didn't hear anything. I… wait…" The. mariner stifled a yawn, reluctantly slipped away from Fiona, and shook off a wonderful dream. He'd been captaining an impressive galley on the Blood Sea, and all his old friends were in the crew- Palin and his son Ulin, Groller and Jasper. Two women were draped on his arms-Shaon, an ebony-skinned beauty who dressed in tight, colorful garb, the other a fair-complected, red-haired Solamnic Knight in gleaming plate mail.
He stretched his legs and wrapped a long red curl around his thumb, inhaled its flowery scent and released it, then climbed out of the cramped bed.
There was a whistle, soft at first, repeating a pattern. It grew shriller and came from somewhere outside. Footsteps-someone running. Rig groggily gathered the sheet about his waist and shuffled to the window, brushing aside the canvas curtain and looking down onto the street below. The collection of century-old wood and stone buildings that stretched away beneath him was illuminated by the full, bright summer moon. Only a few lanterns burned outside a handful of taverns.
He worked a kink out of his neck and yawned wide as the whistle blew again. "Couple'a dwarves," he observed. "They're running down a side street. One of them's blowing a whistle. Nothing to… wait a minute. One of them's putting on a jacket. I think it's a town guard. And I see two more following them. Ah! There's a Legion of Steel Knight. And another one!"
Behind him, Fiona started to don her armor.
* * * * * * *
Dhamon was running now, ignoring the gravel that bit into the bottoms of his bare feet. A slight, gray-cloaked figure cut toward him from an alley, a large satchel slung over its shoulder.
"Pigs," came a breathy curse, as the figure closed the distance between them. A gust of warm summer wind caught the hood and threw
it back, and a mass of long, curly white hair spilled out, sparkling like spun silver in the moonlight. "Pigs!" she repeated. "Damn you, Dhamon Grimwulf, for your clumsiness. Yours was supposed to be a quiet job, though the riskiest. Slip into the hospital as a patient. Then slip out with…"
Dhamon thrust the small pouch at her, freeing his hand so he could draw his new sword. "How many are following?"
"Five. Three dwarves. Two Knights. Knights! Truly wonderful, Dhamon," she said as she shook the pouch at him and continued to run at his side. "I visited the silversmith all nice and quiet." She jiggled the satchel over her shoulder so he could hear metal clinking inside. "I should've handled the hospital instead. I could've done it nice and quiet. I should've been the one to…"
"Rikali, you couldn't have carried all of this," came the reply.
I could've, she mouthed, as they ran. "But I wouldn't've liked the stink," she added aloud.
The whistle blew behind them again, and it was punctuated by shutters being flung open, questions flung into the darkness. The number of pounding feet grew, all the sounds eerily muted by the dwarven buildings.
Several blocks away, beyond Dhamon's vision, a small crowd was assembling on the street-a few members dressed in guard jackets and tabards. The majority of them were curious late-night revelers who'd come straggling out of the taverns to see what the to-do was about. These latter were marked by their staggering gaits and loud voices. "Did someone say Sanford's was robbed?" One of them hollered. "And the bakery?"
Among them were two distinct figures, strangers to Ironspike-one with a considerable collection of pouches and water skins hanging from his waist. He was dressed in deerhide breeches and a shirt, and he seemed overly large and imposing compared to the cloaked one at his side, who was barely taller than his knee.
"The bakery?" a few of the revelers repeated.
Meanwhile, Dhamon and Rikali raced along and turned onto the main street, outdistancing the dwarves and the armor-encumbered Knights chasing them.
"There they are-Mai and Fetch! I hope they did as well. Worthless, Fetch is," Rikali stated, spitting on the ground, her eyes on the small man. "Fetch is nothing but worthless."
"Maldred!" Dhamon shouted.
His back to Dhamon, the larger figure raised a hand, then reached behind him and pulled a two-handed sword from a latticed sheath that hung between his broad shoulders. He turned.
"Thief!" A cry cut through the air from behind Dhamon and Rikali. One of the Legion of Steel Knights had caught up and was rounding the corner. "They've robbed the hospital!"
"Pigs! They're comin' at us from both sides of town!" Rikali noticed the growing tavern crowd near Maldred and Fetch. "We should've ducked in an alley."
"Full moon," Dhamon shot back. "They'd have seen us."
"Should've been more careful." She sucked in a breath, increasing her pace.
"I really didn't think they'd discover my handiwork so soon," Dhamon offered.
"C'mon," Rikali urged him. "Move your big feet faster. We've got to get out of here before the whole stinkin' town wakes up." She closed on Maldred and Fetch, Dhamon following her with hobbled feet.
* * * * * * *
Rig was struggling into his pants and boots while gazing out the window. The mariner saw that other windows were opening, lanterns were being lit. Dwarves were sticking their heads out and trying, like himself, to figure out what was going on. Rig heard shouted questions and the faint cry of "Thieves!"
He hurriedly finished dressing as he glanced up and down the streets from his third-floor vantage point. There! His mouth dropped open. Rig spotted none other than Dhamon Grimwulf, running off to his right toward the main street. There were three others with him. "Dhamon! He's… he's out of the hospital!"
"You're sure it's him?" Fiona was strapping on her leg plates.
"Of course it's him! And it looks like he's being chased," the mariner said. He fumbled about behind him for his belt. "They're… no!"
Beneath his window a dwarf was readying a heavy crossbow, steadying it on a horsepost and aiming it in Dhamon's direction. Though it would be a long shot, Rig didn't want to take any chance that the dwarf might be successful. He muttered a string of curses, acting without thinking.
Rig dashed to the bed, reaching under it and grabbing the brass chamber pot. He slid to the window, quickly took aim, and hurled it down, soundly striking the dwarf and cracking the stock on the weapon. The mariner ducked his head back inside and reached for his sword. He glanced at his plethora of daggers all laid out neatly on his chair and bit his lip. He looked wishfully at his precious glaive propped up against the wall. "No time," he muttered, heading toward the door.
Fiona snatched her shield and was quick on his heels.
Four jacketed dwarves had reached the large man called Maldred. All three were brandishing short swords. The fourth was blowing away on a whistle, red cheeks puffing out almost farcically.
"Outofourway!" the lead one huffed so fast the words buzzed together like an angry hornet. "Movemovemove!"
"Move!" another shouted more distinctly, waving at Fetch. "Move! Damnable kender, move! What's all this about? Who sounded an alarm?"
"I ain't no kender," the small man spat.
"Movemovemove!"
The large man smiled wide and brushed a lock of short ginger hair out of his eyes. "Public street," he said, as he maneuvered himself in front of them just as they tried to cut around toward Dhamon and Rikali. Dhamon was back to back with Maldred in a fighting stance. Dhamon eased the sack of purloined treasure off his shoulder, setting it on the ground and taking a practice swing with his stolen blade. Satisfied, he readied himself for the men approaching from the other end of the street.
Fetch made a growling noise and took a few steps away from Maldred, grasping a hoopak, an odd-looking oak weapon of kender design that consisted of a staff with a «V» at one end, to which a red leather sling was attached.
"Mai, we don't have time to play games with dwarves," Rikali warned. "Just kill ‘em quick."
The lead dwarf heard that and cursed. He spun to the big man's right, but Maldred was faster, cutting him off. He brought his leg up, striking the dwarf in the chest and punching the wind from his lungs. As the dwarf gasped, Maldred kicked him in the chest a second time, stunning him. A second dwarf paused, which was his undoing. Maldred tripped him, stepping on his sword as it struck the ground and snapping the blade. The third opponent pivoted to the big man's left and found himself face to face with Fetch.
Fetch sneered, stopping the dwarf in his tracks.
"Th-th-that ain't no kender. It's a weird little monster," the dwarf stammered.
"How rude," the small man returned, snarling and kicking out ferociously. Fetch missed, however, and landed on his rump, his hoopak tangled in his cloak.
At the same time, the fourth dwarf took a few steps back, continued to blow on his whistle, and frantically pumped his arms up and down at the crowd down the street, as if he were some kind of bird trying to take flight.
"Mai…" Rikali said again.
"Put your blade away," Maldred advised the dwarf who was still standing in front of Fetch. He leveled his great sword, facing the dwarf. "Take a deep breath, go back to bed, and live to see tomorrow."
"Mai, we don't have time…"
"Thieves!" hollered a Legion of Steel Knight, the lead of the growing pack approaching from Dhamon's direction.
"We're gonna get trapped in the middle!" Rikali spat.
"Your sword…" Maldred warned the dwarf again.
"Put your own sword away," the guard retorted. "Thieves!" The dwarf feinted to his left, but Fetch was quicker, jumping to block the guard's path. The small man twirled the hoopak ahead of him to keep the dwarf at bay.
"I'd prefer not to kill any of you," Maldred said ominously. His voice was deep, rich, melodic, almost hypnotic. "Your deaths would not profit me." He lashed out with his foot, tripping one of the dwarves who was trying to get up.
The
approaching crowd was only a few hundred feet away now.
"Pffah!" taunted the guard in front of Fetch. He thrust the sword at the small man and grumbled when it was parried with the hoopak. "Maybe I'd prefer not to kill you-or your tiny monster!" He spun to his right, avoiding a jab from Fetch and ending up in front of Maldred.
"I'm warning you," Maldred cautioned.
The dwarf ducked beneath Maldred's sword and made another attempt to get around the big man.
"Mai!" Rikali was bouncing back and forth nervously on the balls of her feet, looking up and down the street and appraising the charging mobs.
"I'm sorry," Maldred said to the dwarf, a tinge of regret in his sonorous voice. "Truly." He drove the pommel of the sword down hard on top of the guard's head. There was a disturbing crack, and the dwarf fell and lay still. Maldred turned his attention to the other weaponless guard who had finally struggled to his feet. The big man intended to repeat his peaceful offer, but Rikali darted in front of him and thrust out with her knife. The guard sidestepped her, though the blade cut through his jacket and fear made the color drain from his ruddy face.
Maldred nodded significantly to the one who continued to blow the whistle. Stop that ruckus, he mouthed. At the same time, he kept an eye on the crowd that would be upon them in a moment. "I said I'd prefer not to kill you."
"Thieves!" A Legion of Steel Knight was shouting orders. "Catch them!"
The dwarf facing Maldred growled. He spit out the whistle and risked a glance at his dead companions- Rikali had just finished off the unarmed one. He fumbled for the sword at his waist, tugged it free and drew back. "There's too many of us. We'll stop you!" Then he ducked beneath the swing of the big man's blade. Too late, the dwarf realized his opponent was a master. Maldred's sword swept wide and down in the opposite direction, and the guard's head fell with a dull thud.
