The Fly Guild

by Todd Shryock

  The man started walking along the side of the building, staring down at the street below, unaware he was being stalked. As he turned to patrol the backside of the building, Quinton, who had closed the gap to ten paces, attacked. The boy broke into a full sprint, his eyes burning into his target. The man heard a noise when Quinton drew near and turned, but it was too late. The boy leapt, feet first and chest high, straight at him. His feet hit the man square in the chest, knocking him off the building to the street below. He landed with a sickening thud and lay unmoving in the street below. Quinton peered over the building. No one was in the back alley to see the sprawled and broken form of the man below.

  Now for the others. Quinton backtracked about halfway down the street, climbed down, then ascended the building on the other side. He carefully made his way across the rooftop until he spotted the man in the same position near the corner he was in before. If he attacked this one the same way, he would fall on top of the guards and alert everyone. He needed a better plan.

  Quinton tensed as the man suddenly moved. He watched as the guard bent over, picked up what must have been a small rock and tossed it onto the rooftop across the street. The man stared intently for a moment, then picked up another one and repeated the motion. After throwing the second one, the man was almost hanging over the edge of the roof as he craned to see into the darkness across the street.

  “It’s a signal,” Quinton said to himself. He fumbled around the wall he was behind until he found a small piece of loose stone. He arced it high into the air so it would land behind the man but not be obvious which direction it had come from. The rock hit with an audible noise and the man turned to look. The guard snorted and felt around for the rock, then threw it hard across the street. Bored, the guard was trying to hit the other with a rock.

  Quinton had an idea. He gathered up another stone, crept dangerously close to the man, then tossed the rock almost straight up into the air so it would land between him and the man. As the stone flew, he drew the knife he had taken from the man at the butcher shop and felt the reassuring hilt in his hand. The stone hit and rolled back toward Quinton. The guard laughed to himself briefly, then turned, his eyes scanning the dark roof for the stone. He spotted the stone, a lighter shape on the wooden beams.

  As he reached down for it, he noticed he wasn’t alone. But it was too late. Quinton’s knife flashed upward in a vicious arc, severing the man’s vocal cords and his major artery as well. The guard grasped his throat in a fruitless attempt to contain the lifeblood now spurting out of him, gurgled twice, then fell over dead. Quinton wiped the knife on the man’s sleeve and moved to the front of the building.

  Below, the two soldiers still stood vigil, unaware of the violence above them. Their round helmets reflected the orange fire from the torches. Quinton mustered up his deepest voice and called out to them.

  “You two,” he gave them a second to peer up in the darkness above, “there’s movement down the street. Go check it out.”

  The two soldiers looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

  “We’ll watch the building,” Quinton reassured them. The two guards still didn’t move. “Shall I call for my master?” he threatened them.

  They frowned and started off down the street at a trot, spears across their chest. Quinton hoped that some of the guild members were down there. Having a couple soldiers walk into their plan would really make for an interesting evening for them.

  Quinton didn’t waste any time. If there were other guards, he had no more time for them. He swung over the roof edge and found a very precarious footing on the rough plaster. It took him some time to find the next one, and he still had one hand on the roof. If he took too long to get in, the guards were likely to come back, and his dark form on the white plaster would easily be seen in the firelight below. At last he found a small broken area of plaster where he could get a grip on the stones underneath and let go of the roof. Beyond that, there was another foothold where the plaster was overapplied and gave him a toehold next to the window ledge. As he stepped on to the ledge, the plaster piece broke off and fell to the street below. He would not be able to climb back up. His only escape would be down.

  The window ledge was wide and easily navigated. There were two large stained-glass windows. Quinton stood to one side and used his knife to flip up the flimsy latch on the inside. He swung open the window just enough to squeeze through, then silently dropped on to the floor inside and looked around.

  The room had a soft glow that had no visible source that Quinton could see. It cast a warm orange color onto everything. There was a large four-poster bed in the middle of the far wall, and he could see someone was lying in it. There was a door to the left of the bed, and Quinton could see lights underneath it that were occasionally interrupted by shadows -- probably additional guards in the room beyond. He gave the floor a quick scan, looking for any sort of trap or alarm setup, such as a string attached to bells, but seeing none, he silently padded across the thick rug to the door. With a quick flip of his wrist, he carefully dropped the small metal bar that served as a lock so that he wouldn’t be disturbed. On the other side of the room was a large dresser and next to it were several pegs where bits of clothing had been hung over a pair of boots.

  Quinton crept up to the bed and listened to the slow and steady breathing; whoever it was was asleep, or at least pretending to be. He could barely make out the features of the elf. His face was more angular than most humans and his eyes were partially open, revealing only the white area, giving him a creepy dead look. His hair was dark, fine and scattered about his head on a thick pillow. The bed looked so comfortable, Quinton was half tempted to climb in to it with him, but he passed on by to look at the dresser.

  The strange orange light illuminated several scroll tubes on top of the dresser. He took all of them and put them in one of the many inside pockets he had inside his old shirt. After a quick scan of the drawers, which were mostly empty or had a few random items of clothing, he turned his attention to the pegs, but not before taking another long look at the elf and listening to his breathing. He remembered what Sands had told him about people detecting you by hearing your thoughts, so he kept thinking about being a rug whenever possible. Nobody here but us rugs, he said to himself.

  On the first peg was slung a scabbard and a short sword that was covered in elven letters. He knew enough of their language that they appeared to just be decorative, like a man’s initials interwoven into a pleasing pattern. He was going to leave it, then remembered the laws Sands taught him. He was on a mission for the scrolls. That mission was complete. He could take anything else he wanted for himself. There were no instructions otherwise, and a sword would really come in handy in the swamp. He plucked it off the peg and strapped it on. The belt was an exact fit.

  The second peg had a nice cloak on it, but it was far too new and clean, and it would only draw attention to him, so he left it. Likewise, the third peg had a rather girly looking hat with some sort of feather in it, so he left that as well, though he considered taking it back to Fist as a gift. But he would have never have lived long enough to laugh at him. Then he looked down at the boots.

  Oh, the boots. His shoes were mostly rags tied around his feet. But these boots looked like they were soft leather, with intricate patterns on them, but the patterns were only noticeable when you looked very closely. He had never had a pair of boots before. He pulled them away from the wall, quickly undid the rags around his right foot and slipped on the boot. It was tight going down, but once his foot was in, it was like they were made for him. He ditched the rags on the other foot and pulled on the other boot. Who’s the elf prince now? he thought to himself.

  The elf’s breathing changed and he rolled over to one side, thankfully the side facing the door and not the dresser. Quinton scolded himself for not thinking like a rug and started gathering his thoughts about his escape. He would have to go down the wall into the street, because going back up the smooth plaster was not an op
tion. Then he noticed the bedpan under the bed and got an idea.

  He slowly moved across the room and eased the mostly full crock out from under the bed, noting that elf piss smelled just as bad as human piss. He moved back toward the window, gently pushed open the sash and looked out on the street. The two guards had not yet returned, and the two torches still burned brightly on either side of the door. He leaned over the ledge and took careful aim, then poured part of the contents out in a slow stream, moving it around until it was over the first torch. The flames hissed and smoked, then went out. The other torch was too far away for him to guide it, and he was low on piss. He was only going to get one shot.

  He took measure of the distance, then flung the contents of the crock forward. Elf piss rained down in the area of the torch and a few drops hit it. It flickered, but didn’t go out. Quinton sighed. One torch was better than none.

  That’s when he heard lots of noise moving down the street. From the heavy clanking and banging, they were soldiers and they were in a hurry. First they appeared as a large, dark mass, then they came into view of the firelight below. There were probably a dozen of them, all armed with spears and swords, their metal helmets and chainmail glinting in the night. The leader, a shorter burly man, pounded on the door, which made an ungodly amount of noise. Quinton glanced back at the elf, who stirred again, flipping back over to face the dresser.

  “Men are about,” he told some unseen person behind the door. “Wake the viceroy and take him to the lower level until we determine it’s safe.”

  Quinton wondered if the men he was referring to were the other guild members, the ones who were supposed to be doing this job. He could already hear men stirring on the floors below him and a voice called up to the guards outside his door. He looked outside again. Some of the men had gone inside, but there was a guard of four men posted at the door, all of whom were alert and looking down both ends of the street for trouble. His only choice would be to try to get back up on the roof again.

  “Boy, what are you doing here?” came a voice from the bed. Quinton tensed up, but thinking fast had saved him before.

  “Forgive me, master, I did not mean to wake you. I was sent to empty your bed pan.” The elf was still lying in bed and had just raised his head up off his pillow.

  “You didn’t wake me; all that infernal racket downstairs woke me. What’s going on?”

  Quinton was trying to keep the shape of the sword hidden along his leg so the elf wouldn’t see it. “I’m not sure, but some soldiers just arrived.”

  The elf gave a deep sigh and dropped his head back on the pillow. “Why is everything always so complicated?”

  Someone started pounding on the door. Quinton had to move now.

  “It’s open, you idiots. You told me not to lock it so you could come in if you needed to.” Someone tried to open the door, but the metal lock bar kept it from opening. Various men started yelling for the viceroy in excited voices.

  “Boy, why did you lock the door?” he asked as he got up from the bed. He looked to the window, but there was no one there. The elf instinctively dropped and rolled toward the door, popping up while knocking open the lock. There was no one in the room. And then he noticed his sword was gone from the wall. He moved to get his boots, then stopped when he realized they were gone, too. “Damn!”

  Men spilled in behind him. Some were security men and some were soldiers. All had weapons out and were ready to fight, but there was no enemy to be found.

  The elf sat back down on the bed as the men continued to look for the unseen enemy. “A human boy, about 12 or so. He has my boots and my sword and went out the window. A huge reward is offered to the man who brings me my belongings back.” The men knew the elf was rich beyond their wildest dreams. Half ran to the window and the other half headed back down stairs, yelling about the reward to everyone.

  While all this was going on, Quinton managed to get part way back to the roof by going along the other side of the window, but his progress was very slow. He heard the men break in, then heard nothing, but the next thing he knew, there were several angry and greedy faces poking out the window, looking for the boy and the reward.

  “Where’s the boy?” one of them yelled to the guards below. One of them looked up.

  “What?” Then he saw Quinton. He pointed excitedly. “There’s a man on the wall.”

  The man looking out the window looked to his left. His mouth fell open as he saw Quinton clinging to the wall. “Here comes my reward.” He tried to swing his sword, but it was too short to reach him. Quinton desperately began searching for the next handhold or foothold, but the building was very smooth.

  “Give me a spear!” the man yelled, but others were already trying to crowd past him so they could be the one to get the elf’s belongings back. It was a mass jumble at the window as heads banged into heads and weapon points got bumped into. Multiple cries of pain emitted from the room as the guards were accidentally cutting each other.

  One of the guards below moved away from the building and flipped the spear in his hand up over his shoulder, ready to throw. “I’ll get him,” he said calmly.

  Looking over his shoulder, Quinton saw that the man was taking aim at him. The man’s arm snapped forward and he saw the spear coming for him. It was a little off target but was headed for his left arm. He instinctively moved it, but by doing so, lost his precarious hold on the wall. The spear hit the plaster, its blade blunting on the hard surface, then dropped to the ground. Quinton tried to grab at something, but there just wasn’t anything there. Both feet slipped, and he braced to hit the street below.

  But nothing happened. He and all the guards, including the half-dozen heads leaning out the window, all looked on in disbelief, their eyes wide, as he just stood on the air, not holding anything. Quinton wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t falling, but just standing there wasn’t doing him much good. The other three guards below were already moving to throw their spears at him.

  He leaned forward, his hands searching for something. His lifted his left foot and felt along for a toehold. He found a very small ridge and attempted to pull himself up. His foot slipped off of it almost immediately, but his foot didn’t come down. It was almost as if he were standing on an invisible rung of a ladder. Using the same motion he would use to step up onto a low wall, Quinton moved up into the air a few feet. Two spears hit where he had just been and clattered to the ground below. He lifted his right knee as if to climb the next rung on the invisible ladder and moved up again. Then he did it in quick succession, gaining the edge of the roof. But when he went to step forward, he didn’t move anywhere and continued to float in the air. It was no different than if he had been on a ladder and was trying to walk off of it. His foot just pawed the air, with nothing to support him.

  By this time, the men below were shouting and Quinton could see more torches -- a lot of torches -- heading toward the building from both directions. Reinforcements were on the way, and there were sure to be some archers in the lot. He’d be brought down like a wounded goose. He couldn’t get onto the roof by moving forward, so he went the only direction he knew worked: up. Step after step he went, getting higher and higher until the building blended in to all the other buildings below and the individual men were no longer visible.

  He began to worry that whatever magic was in the boots or the sword would run out and he would plummet back to the ground. And even if it didn’t, he couldn’t live the rest of his life hovering several hundred feet above the city. It was much breezier up high than it was down on the street, but it felt good as the sweat evaporated from his forehead and his hands. He looked down and noticed that he had moved laterally in the wind. He could see the lights from the shoreline and a few small specks of torches in various parts of the city. Apparently the breeze was strong enough that it was actually pushing him a bit.

  Probably an hour had passed, and he was beginning to really worry. How did you get down? He tried doing a reverse ladder-climbing motion, but
that didn’t work at all. He couldn’t get his foot to go down beyond the invisible force. He was really getting tired of standing and his ankles were getting stiff. He started to roll his ankles around to stretch them out, then momentarily drifted down a few feet when he pointed his toes down.

  “Of course,” he said. He stretched his feet so the toes on both his feet were pointed down. He slowly began to descend through the darkness. Within a few moments, he drifted to a comfortable landing on top of a roof well away from the plaster building. Apparently he had drifted further in the wind than he realized, but he was glad to be back on the ground again. He carefully walked across the roof and found that the magic wasn’t impeding his regular progress anymore. He lifted his leg high, using the ladder motion again, and instantly went back up in the air one step. He pointed his boots down and drifted back down. He had it figured out. Just to be safe, he took off the sword and tried it again. It worked the same way, which told him the magic was in the boots and not the sword. He grabbed the sword, strapped it on and headed for the edge of the building. Compared to the plaster wall, the old stone was a breeze to descend. When he was within a few feet of the ground, he dropped down silently, kept to the shadows and made his way back to the guild.

  ***

  When Quinton entered the Guild, Red eye squinted as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “What are you doing here?” he stammered.

  Quinton had never seen him so discombobulated. His usual arrogance was missing. He reached in and pulled out the scroll tubes from his shirt. “Mission accomplished,” he said, shoving the tubes into Red eye’s chest.

  Red eye grabbed the items, then stared at them for a moment as if Quinton had placed a handful of snakes into his palm. He finally regained his composure, but his eyes widened when he saw the sword around his waist.