by Todd Shryock
“Give me that weapon,” he demanded. His eyes narrowed as he put his other hand out.
“I claim this sword and these boots under the guild’s seventh law,” Quinton said, his voice firm and his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword.
Red eye pursed his lips and half raised his hand as if to strike him. “Who are you to lecture me on the laws of this guild, you worthless maggot?” His voice was almost a scream. “Who do you think you are?”
Quinton felt no fear of the man anymore. He was confident and saw Red eye for what he was: a coward. “I am Quinton. I have accomplished my task and have claimed these items as prescribed by guild law.”
“How dare you use your name,” he said, his voice falling to a whisper. “How dare you, you worthless maggot. He started to raise his hand again, but stopped when he saw Quinton’s hand move from the pommel of the sword to the grip. He stared at the boy for a few seconds before speaking again. “The room next to Fist’s office. Go there and wait.” He didn’t even wait for Quinton to comply but left the room and disappeared back into the main part of the guild.
***
Quinton waited in the small room that held only a small table with three good legs, the fourth being a small stack of flat stones halfway down, along with a few mismatched chairs that were in poor shape. He had been in the room for the better part of an hour, his mind clear of any troubles or thoughts, when he heard loud voices coming from the direction of Fist’s offices. Men were yelling, and one booming voice stood out above the others.
The door swung open, drawing Quinton’s attention from the small black beetle that was making its way up the table leg. “Fist will see you now,” said Red eye, who avoided eye contact with him. He led Quinton to the door, opened it, showed him in, then closed it behind him as he left.
Fist was standing in front of his desk, his arms crossed and a deadly stare on his face. Beside him stood Sands, who looked concerned and also looked like he had been in a fight or two tonight.
“You turned the guards on us,” said Fist flatly.
“I completed my mission as instructed,” Quinton said, his voice devoid of any emotion. If Fist rushed him, he would draw his sword and fight the man as best he could.
Fist studied him for a minute, looking at the boots and the sword. “You will give me those items,” he said, pointing at the sword and boots.
“I claim them under the seventh law of the guild,” he said.
Fist sneered. “You would do well to do what I say.” Sands turned to look at Fist.
“The maggot is correct, my lord. He has claimed the items during a mission assigned to him by his seniors. He has the right to take them, as they were not part of his assignment.”
“Do not lecture me on my laws!” Fist boomed. His mind was torn as he greedily looked at the sword and boots but knew the repercussions of not following the laws would be precarious. If he broke the law, that would be the signal to all the guild members that the laws no longer applied and they could do whatever they wanted and his empire would quickly run dry of food and money. He required another tactic.
“You used your name to Master Red eye.” Fist was now calm. He was in charge again. “We took your name from you when you entered the guild. Only we can give you a name. Your punishment is death, unless you agree to hand over those items. If you do so, I will forgive your transgression and you may return to the maggot pit unharmed.”
Quinton looked at Sands, but his face offered no clues as to what to do. He looked back at Fist and knew that his life hung on every word.
“Master Fist, Master Sands,” he started. “I was assigned a mission that was extremely difficult. I completed the mission as asked and provided you with the information you sought. My life was in great risk throughout the mission.” He paused momentarily to let the two men know he was well aware of the setup that failed. “I achieved the mission and avoided capture. The reputation of this guild will grow tenfold because of what happened tonight. The Fly Guild walked into the walled city, entered one of its most secure spots and walked out with whatever it wanted. As a result of these actions, I request that I be promoted to master for my accomplishments.”
Fist started to speak, but Sands quickly cut him off. “As the apprentice’s master, I approve of his petition and fully endorse it. What he accomplished tonight is more than many of our existing members have achieved in an entire lifetime of service.”
Fist glared at Sands. Quinton figured that Sands had just taken advantage of a political situation, most likely the fact that only a master can petition for acceptance.
“You play with fire,” Fist muttered to Sands, his giant hands clenched together into giant clublike fists. “But you are also within the law to do so,” he added dejectedly.
Fist looked at the boy. “Very well, maggot.” He walked back behind his desk, sat down in his chair and leaned back, plopping his feet up onto it. “I accept Sands’ petition and make you a master. You may use the name you want: Quinton.”
Quinton nodded in response, unsure of what to say.
Fist looked at Sands. “Tell the maggot,” he paused and smiled sarcastically, “I mean Quinton here, what happened tonight and what’s going on.”
Sands nodded and started the tale. As he explained how they were going to set Quinton up and use him as a diversion for Sands to break in, Quinton was uncomfortable, because he talked like Quinton wasn’t even there. There was no remorse at all for potentially killing his own apprentice.
“When you didn’t walk down the street as planned, our entire operation fell apart. When you sent the guards from the front door down the street, they eventually blundered into most of our people, setting off alarms and calling for reinforcements. We were prepared to swoop in as soon as the guards were weakened after your capture and simply overpower everyone while I raided the room. But it didn’t quite work out that way.”
“Yes,” Fist interjected. “You outsmarted us.” Quinton didn’t like his carefree tone. If it was possible, Fist looked even more dangerous than before.
“We spent the rest of the night on the run, and it wasn’t until we returned home that we were informed that you had successfully completed the mission and stolen the scrolls,” Sands finished.
“And let’s not forget you also relieved the elven viceroy of his sword and pretty boots,” Fist added. “He’s going to want those back, you know. And there’s bound to be a big reward.” Fist looked up to stare at him as he emphasized the last word.
Sands shifted uncomfortably and then continued. “The scrolls, some of which are inventories and payrolls lists and the like, proved very useful. One of the tubes contained what we were looking for, as it yielded answers to many riddles.”
Fist dropped his feet back down to the floor with a heavy thud. “It seems as though all the disappearances are the doings of the elf, at least indirectly. He’s paying for each human male child. Wren is just taking advantage of the situation. He wants us cleaned off the streets, so he’s sapping our strength one maggot at a time. He figures as the maggots dwindle, we’ll have less and less food and money and will be forced to spend more time in the open, where he can stomp on us with his soldiers. Then he would be rid of us once and for all.”
“What are the elves doing with human children?” Quinton asked.
“Turning them into soldiers,” said Sands. “Elves live long lives and don’t like to be bothered with silly things like dying or killing Orcs. So they recruit humans to man their armies and do the fighting for them. The elven viceroy was paying Wren for his services. Both men profited from the venture.”
“Yes, and there’s more trouble for us. We have learned that Wren has also allied himself with the remnants of the other gangs in the city,” Fist added. “We are facing Wren’s soldiers, gang members, the elf’s men and all the old-money families from beyond the wall. I’m afraid your stint as a master may be short lived.”
“Is there nothing we can do?” Quinton asked.
“We will fight,” said Sands.
“And we will die,” added Fist. “Now that Wren knows his plans are discovered, there is no reason for him to hold back any longer. I expect that he is already marshaling his forces inside the wall to strike at us with all his might. When he comes, the streets will run red with blood.”
Chapter 8
It didn’t take long for Wren to take action. Before the sun was completely up, columns of armed and armored men were marching out of the main gate and filing off to prearranged locations throughout Star Gleam City. Ahead of them were various thugs and criminals, most of whom had a bone to pick with either Fist or the Fly Guild. It was payback time.
Quinton watched from his rooftop vantage point as one of the groups entered the sector he was assigned to. He looked down the street, caught the eye of his relay man, who was all of eight years old, and held up five fingers four times. The boy nodded and darted off. Twenty men were coming down bakery row and he had a good idea of where they were headed: The Sour Bread House. Sour Bread and its main proprietor, a man who went by the name of Slink, had been under the protection of the guild forever and held a near monopoly on the baking business. But that was about to end.
Four of the guards peeled off at the doorway and set up a defensive perimeter, their eyes scanning for trouble. The rest stomped through the door, and chaos ensued. First there was yelling from a man, but it was short lived as his body was dragged out into the street, his torso still impaled by the spear. Citizens who had gathered nearby to see what was going on began to scream and run in all directions. From inside the bakery came more sounds, breaking crockery, breaking glass and breaking bones. More men were chased from the building, their arms hanging limp at their sides and blood running down their faces. One of them got too close to one of the four men outside as he tried to stumble away. The guard lowered his spear and sent him sprawling to the ground, where he finished him off with a quick jab to the heart. Bread and other baked goods were being thrown out the door into the street to lie in the dirt and soak up the blood that was quickly gathering in pools as more workers were hustled out.
A woman inside began to scream continuously until it was muffled a short time later. One of the soldiers called out to those outside, and two more men entered the building to be replaced by two others who came out. The dark orange cloth with a black wren on it that covered most of their chainmail was splattered with blood. The woman started screaming again, and the men outside smiled.
Quinton had seen enough and retreated across the rooftops to the far end of the street to his next assigned position and waited. It wasn’t long until the same twenty men had reformed and started heading his way. This time, though, they had picked up a couple of particularly rough-looking thugs who marched confidently thirty paces in front of the troops. Quinton looked across the street again and found his relay. He patted his head and held up two fingers, then flashed all five fingers four times over his head again. The boy nodded and disappeared inside the doorway where he had been hiding. Two toughs with a twenty-man soldier escort.
As the men approached his position, a huddled figure in a robe and leaning on a cane waddled ever so slowly out of the building where the boy had disappeared. The figure turned away from the men and attempted to escape, but the old man was too slow. The first tough raised a fist to strike, and the old man lifted his arm to protect his face. But the blow never fell. As the old man lifted his arm, he swung his cane around and up into the crotch of the man, who doubled over in pain. The other tough came running to his aid, but the old man suddenly did a cartwheel past him, with something flashing silver as he went by. The second tough fell to the street, his throat cut. The old man, who wasn’t old at all, just one of the guild's thieves in disguise, walked over and stabbed the other tough through the heart and withdrew his knife in one smooth motion.
Meanwhile, the soldiers had formed a line of ten men two ranks deep and were rapidly approaching the thief, who stood defiantly in the street. The first row of men lowered their spears and began to hesitate as they approached the lone man who stood before them. They sensed something wasn’t right, and they were proven correct.
All manner of missiles began to rain down on them from the rooftops and windows. Large chunks of cobblestones, bottles, pieces of firewood; anything that could be thrown was launched at the invaders. The soldiers hesitated as debris began hitting them in the shoulder and glancing off of helmets. One man went down as a large rock hit him square in the head. The two on either side of him grabbed him under the arms and began to drag him back down the street. More people came out from around the corner hurling smaller stones and wielding sticks and stood behind the thief.
The soldiers were outnumbered and continued to take hits. A bloody nose and a smashed hand encouraged them to beat a hasty retreat back down the street, accompanied by the jeers of their attackers.
“The victory will be short lived,” said Sands, who had came up beside Quinton without him noticing. He hated when he did that. “They will come back with more men and some archers, and a few stones thrown by a mob won’t stop them this time. They’ll slaughter all who oppose them.”
“What will we do?” asked Quinton as he watched the crowd regather their precious missiles for the next attack.
Sands didn’t answer at first. “Each man has to do what he feels is right.” He turned and walked across the roof, then slung himself down the wall and out of sight.
“Master Quinton,” yelled a boy’s voice from below. His relay boy was calling him.
“What do you want, maggot?”
The boy cupped his hands around his mouth so he could be heard better from below. “Master Theo is requesting you join the group over by where the candlemakers meet and join up with Mistress Glitter and her group.”
Quinton nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m on my way.” Before he could turn to leave, the boy yelled out once more.
“What should I do, master?”
“Run away,” he said, then started for the edge of the building. If he jogged most of the way, he could be to Glitter in a quarter hour.
***
As Quinton made his way through the streets, they were a contrast in urban warfare. Some streets were filled with ransacked houses and the odd body lying motionless in the street. Broken glass and crockery were everywhere, and women and children sat huddled in small groups, crying. As Quinton made his way down one street, a woman walked by him, nude, her eyes unfocused, and the dirt on her face was smeared only by her tears.
On other streets, it was if nothing was going on. There were no bodies, no destruction. Some people went about their business and some took the opportunity to begin closing and locking their shutters and barricading their doors. “It won’t do you any good,” Quinton cried out to one wide-eyed man and his young daughter as they attempted to drag a large post into their house to block their door. “Hell is coming.”
As he headed for the final corner, he could hear shouts and the clash of weaponry. What he saw when he reached it stopped him in his tracks. The entire length of the street was chaos. There were overturned carts, one of which was on fire, and a couple of riderless draft horses stomped about in a panic, bowling over anyone unfortunate to get in their way. Men were fighting everywhere, but it was impossible to tell who was fighting whom. There were no uniforms and no soldiers. This was gangs versus guild members in a fight to the death on Tallow Street.
A woman ran toward him carrying a large rock and stopped ten paces short of him, her eyes wild with hate. She cocked and threw it at his head as hard as she could, missing him by about a foot, the stone glancing off the wall behind him. He drew his sword, but she disappeared back into the raging melee in front of him. Ahead, he could see two men with clubs circling a boy who had a broken spear. It was just long enough to keep them out of reach, but eventually they would overpower him. Figuring the boy for a maggot, he moved to the attack.
Before he could get there, a man ran from his left, howl
ing in rage, his front teeth missing and his chin covered in blood. The man swung a table leg at him. Quinton ducked and rolled, coming up slightly behind the man. A quick slash of the sword cut the man’s arm open from his wrist to his elbow. The man screamed and grabbed his arm with his good hand to try to stop the bleeding, but by pausing, two other men had come up behind him and pulled him down to the ground and began pummeling him. Quinton turned away and went back toward the boy.
In the interlude, the boy had wounded one man in the arm, but they had maneuvered him away from the wall, and one was circling behind him. Quinton increased his pace and ran the first man through from the back as he approached, surprising everyone.
“Quinton!” cried the boy. It was Teli.
The man ignored Quinton and moved in with a club with nails driven through the end to attack Teli.
“Look out,” cried Quinton. Teli wasn’t fast enough. The club hit him in the ribs with a sickening thud, like a rock being dropped in mud, knocking him to the ground. The man yanked the club back and turned to face Quinton but was too slow. Quinton had slipped in behind him and ran his elven blade under the man’s arm, dropping him with a cry of pain and a spray of blood.
A bottle landed near Quinton and smashed into a hundred pale green pieces, but he didn’t have time to identify the assailant. He ran to Teli, who was doubled over, his hands over where the club had struck him. His fingers were smeared with blood. He looked up at Quinton, tears in his eyes.
“It hurts so bad,” he said in a whisper.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“I just want this to end. I want things the way they used to be. I want my parents back.” The boy was sobbing and drool was running out of his mouth onto the cobblestones.
Quinton ignored him, sheathed his sword and put Teli’s arm around his shoulders. “Come on, you have to help me.”
“No, just leave me here so I can die,” he muttered as a tree branch that had been sharpened into a weapon went spinning wildly overhead.
