Hammering echoed down the cobbled streets as reward posters were nailed to every post and chapel door: Eternal Salvation for the return of Saint Theobold’s remains, and one thousand dreins for the culprits. Greed fueled suspicion, and rampant accusations filled the city.
Patrols doubled that night, especially near churches and government offices. Spies infiltrated the nighttime markets trying to uncover any mention of the stolen artifact.
Near midnight, Ahren and Volker left the security of the inn and headed into the city. Ahren’s hand kept finding its way to the heavy bag hung over his shoulder. Every glance from other nighttime travelers felt like an accusation. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the relic.
Volker leisurely led them down common streets, strolling the city as if nothing troubled him. Finally, they entered the harbor district, passing long piers heavy with moored ships. Gulls squawked and circled overhead, their white bodies cast red under the Old Kaisers’ torches. The steady breeze off the sea carried low murmurs of dice games and fights. Tired whores, their tight bodices laced over crumpled dresses, stood prattling in a pack; one occasionally sauntering into an unlit alley with a customer.
The two men passed rows of blocky warehouses, each painted differently to signify its owner. Soldiers and private mercenaries patrolled the cluster of buildings like packs of stray cats in the shadows hunting for food.
A pair of burnt out warehouses sat in the back away from the rest. Fire had all but consumed one, leaving but a skeleton of charred timbers, while its blackened neighbor still held its shape. They slipped between a stack of empty crates, and watched the buildings. Whazzik had told them the Gravins’ lair was there. Hopefully, the drake egg was inside, and still intact.
Volker tapped Ahren’s hand and motioned to a lanky figure hovering near the rear wall. The man’s gray and brown striped cloak blended well with his surroundings. The Gravin guard circled the abandoned warehouse once, before taking a seat on an overturned barrel.
Volker picked up a pair of rusty nails lying beside the boxes, then pointed to a pile of rubble between the ruined buildings, gesturing Ahren to go. Keeping low, Ahren followed the line of crates past the sentry’s line of sight, and then darted across toward the heap of charred debris. Broken bottles and loose stones encircled the buildings, forcing him to move carefully to avoid making any noise. He reached the spot and crouched behind the mound of blackened brick and timber.
A sharp thud echoed in the silence followed by the cling of metal skittering off cobblestones. Ahren held his breath, listening for the man’s footsteps. Another thwack sounded against the warehouse wall and the metallic ring of Volker’s second nail.
Ahren waited.
Soft footsteps came close. Ahren slid his dagger from its leather sheath. A shadow passed over him as the oblivious guard circled past, investigating the sounds of Volker’s nails. Once the man’s back was to him, Ahren sprang from his position, clapped his hand over the sentry’s mouth and brought the dagger pommel down hard against his head. The body fell limp to the ground. He untied the man’s tattered cloak, revealing a short, thick-bladed sword at his waist, then winced, hearing Volker’s heavy boot steps racing toward him. “You’re still too loud,” he hissed as the man crouched beside him.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” Volker asked.
“I have an idea.” Ahren pulled off his own cloak and hat and put the man’s striped cloak on. It stank of smoke and fish.
“Ah.” The brute nodded. “Good idea. Take his sword, too.”
“It’ll get in the way when I’m climbing.”
“Manage,” Volker growled. “First, it helps the disguise. Second, you might need it.”
Grumbling, Ahren untied the leather cords securing the blade to the man’s leg and slid the sheath off his belt. The unconscious brigand stirred. Volker whipped out his own knife from his boot and sliced the man’s throat. Blood, black under the faint light, gurgled from the wound and pooled beneath the guard, running down through a grid of slender valleys between cobblestones. Ahren glanced away. Death wasn’t uncommon among his profession, but he preferred not to be a witness.
After hiding the body behind the debris pile, the two men circled to the main warehouse entrance. The heavy door was barred. Ahren squinted through a knot-hole in one of the planks, but a heavy cloth had been hung on the inside, covering the hole. A dim light flickered through the coarse fabric. He put his ear to the hole and held his breath. Vague murmurs came from within.
“Are they in there?” Volker whispered.
Ahren nodded. “I can’t make out what they’re saying or how many there are.”
“Let’s assume it’s all of them, and be careful.”
They hurried around to the rear of the building where the guard had sat, and there they found a smaller door. A pair of rough-cut boards straddled the entrance, discouraging beggars or vagrants from entering. Ahren studied the timbers, finding that they were only nailed to the frame. The door itself could still be opened. Footprints in the ashen dust outside the entrance verified its frequent use. He scanned the eaves above him. The flat roof angled slightly down the building from front to back and he couldn’t see how much of it was still intact.
“Give me a boost,” he whispered, motioning to the roof. “I’ll try to get inside and get the egg.”
Volker dropped to one knee and laced his fingers together. Ahren put his foot in the big man’s hands and Volker hoisted him up with a grunt. Ahren grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself forward, cursing the uncomfortable position of the sword that restricted his leg’s mobility.
The dreary roof sagged under its own weight. Faint light glimmered up from an ominous fissure on the opposite side. Twin valleys of drooping shingles showed a support beam running between them all the way to the dark hole. Hopefully the timber could hold his weight.
“What do you see?” Volker hissed.
“There’s an opening. I can probably get inside there and get the egg,” Ahren replied softly. “Stay out here just in case.” To his relief, the bald man nodded and took position behind one of the broken barrels beside the door. The roof wouldn’t hold Volker’s clumsy weight, and besides, Ahren preferred the thought of stealth. He crouched to his hands and knees to spread his weight and followed the straight beam to the fissure. The spongy wood creaked and bowed slightly under him. He crawled faster before it had time to give way. Stopping where the roof curled down along the edge of the opening, he leaned his head inside. A low voice crept up to meet him.
“‘Are you afraid, Dolch?’ it asked me.”
A charred narrow loft littered with debris and fallen timbers lay only a few feet below him. Ahren slithered down through the opening and dropped gently onto it. The sword brushed a loose shingle, sending it clattering down onto the ledge. He froze. Sweat beaded his brow during the heavy silence.
“But I was too afraid to answer,” the voice continued. “The little light from the basement window behind me had been eaten up by the surrounding darkness. I heard its voice again from all sides. ‘Are you frightened because you cannot see, my child?’”
Ahren wormed his way over burnt boxes, careful not to touch any loose floorboards, until he came to the loft’s edge. Several milky tallow candles and smoking oil lamps flickered near the back of the warehouse. Half a dozen men sat on slapdash benches of boards and chipped bricks. A man in a black hooded cloak stood before them. The yellow candle light seemed to dim around him.
“‘I can save you, my son. I can cure the wound slowly killing you. I can show you the darkness as no mortal has ever seen it. But for a price…’”
The men hung on the speaker’s every word. Ahren pulled his attention away from the hypnotic sermon and scanned the rest of the room. Several boxes and bolts of fabric stood along one wall. Nine moldy cots clustered in the far corner near an unsanded table. Crumbs and cards littered the tabletop amidst globs of melted wax. He peered through the slats to find a crude altar directly beneath him. Gold
jewelry glinted from the ebony velvet that covered the wide pedestal. A pitted, oblong rock lay in the middle of the altar before a mirror of polished obsidian. The drake egg! Ahren’s eyes widened. The ugly stone was no larger than a child’s head, yet in another year it would be the size of a man’s and then the creature inside would break free, fully grown.
“So I pledged myself to the darkness and took it into me,” the leader hailed. “And my wounds healed and my eyes could clearly see everything in the darkness around me. In that moment, it told me its secret. A secret I can spend a lifetime sharing with you.” He held out his hand and black flame erupted in his palm. The rayless fire danced in his grasp, consuming more of the room’s already faint light. Inky drops ran between his curled fingers and fell sizzling to the floor.
Ahren stared at the accursed flame, then scooted back over the cluttered shelf and moved to an unlit corner away from the cult. The narrow ladder-like steps that had once led up from the floor had long since collapsed, but a thick wooden pillar supported the loft and the ceiling above. He wrapped his arms around the sooty column, and slid silently down to the floor.
“But the darkness demands sacrifice.”
A sense of foreboding surrounded the squat altar. Ahren knelt before it, and opened his satchel. Careful to not make any noise, he removed the golden placard and slipped it beneath the shimmering velvet blanketing the shrine where he hoped no one would find it by accident.
Volker had told him that in the early years of the Tyenee, when they first infiltrated the great Rhomanic city of Porvov, a powerful gang already ruled the streets. The Tyenee, aware they couldn’t beat them in an all-out war, staged a heist, broke into the royal palace, and stole the Czar’s coronation scepter. The search to reclaim it had been fierce and dozens of men suspected of the crime died upon the rack. Finally, an anonymous note found its way into the czar’s hand, revealing that the scepter was stolen by the other gang, and told where to find it in their hideout. After the execution of every member of their rival, the Tyenee rose and took hold of the city’s underworld.
“Who among you is ready to make the eternal pledge?” Dolch asked.
“I,” the men intoned in unison.
Ahren caught his reflection in the black mirror as he reached for the egg. The sinister image stared back at him with a knowing look—and smiled. Terrified, Ahren snatched the heavy stone egg from the table and crawled quickly away; his fiendish doppelganger watching with amused glee from inside the obsidian mirror.
“Who among you would die for it?” Dolch’s voice filled the room.
“I,” the thieves replied.
The egg was too wide for his satchel, forcing Ahren to hold it tightly under one arm as he shimmied back up the support pillar. Sweat ran down his face, and coated his palms. His slick hand slipped on the soot-coated beam, but he squeezed tighter with his knees in order not to fall. The sword handle at his waist dug painfully into his thigh, and his heart labored with fear and exertion. He struggled over the loft’s edge and crawled up onto it.
Dolch’s sermon grew to a crescendo. “Then I ask you, my children—”
A weak board cracked under Ahren’s knee. Its loud pop silenced the room.
Dolch’s eyes narrowed. “Intruder,” he screamed, hurling the ebony fire in Ahren’s direction.
Ahren ducked. The fire struck the roof behind him. Penetrating cold erupted around him, engulfing the area in shadow. He fled toward the exit in the roof, frost coating his clothes and the creaking floor.
“Stop him,” Dolch shrieked.
His fingers numb, Ahren reached the hole and jumped through it as another explosion of stygian fire narrowly missed him. The light from the Old Kaisers had never felt so inviting. He scrambled up onto the roof, the egg still tucked under his arm, and rushed to the nearest edge. His foot plunged through the weak roof and he fell, face first. The egg flew from his arms, bounced off the shingles, and vanished over the edge. He ripped his foot free and jumped to his feet as Dolch leapt from the large hole.
Dolch gave him a wicked smile. The inky flames ignited in his hand again.
Ahren jerked a dagger from its sheath and hurled it. Dolch tossed the ball of black fire. The spell collided with Ahren’s blade in the air between the men and exploded in an icy blast that hurled Ahren from the rooftop. He fell to the street and hit the hard cobbles with a thud. Groaning, he looked up as Dolch leapt off the roof with a tiger’s grace. The demon-man laughed, and lifted another handful of his cursed fire. A blurred figure rose up behind him, knocking him to the ground. Volker, clutching the drake egg, kicked the fallen gang leader, and drew his knife. Dolch swept Volker’s legs, sending the brute to the ground and the knife skittering away. He flew up to his feet like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings and jet flames erupted from his fist as he turned to face Volker.
Forcing himself to his feet, Ahren pulled the small sword from his hip, and lunged with a scream of rage.
Dolch turned in surprise as the thick blade lashed down. The iron tip sliced through his face, ripping one of his eyes and sending a fan of blood across the alley. He staggered back, clutching his bleeding face.
The cries of the thieves bursting from the warehouse warned Ahren he was out of time. He hurled the sword at his wounded enemy. The ill-weighted weapon missed the man’s chest, but skewered his arm and knocked him back to the ground. Ahren reached for Volker, grabbed his friend’s hand, and pulled him up. Volker, still clutching the egg, raced with him through the streets away from the gang’s howls and curses.
They hurried through a maze-work of cluttered alleyways until they reached a populated square, then slowed to a casual stroll, huffing and coated in sweat, past the scant crowd and wary guards. They meandered along a wide street to the other side of the market, then ducked into the alleys and doubled back toward the safety of The Mermaid’s Tail.
Later that night, a street urchin dropped a letter in the slot outside the palace gate. The ‘Rat Hole’, as it was called, allowed any and all citizens to report injustices, or denounce criminals without fear. Before sunrise, a unit of soldiers stormed a burnt-out warehouse in the Harbor District. The thumb of Saint Theobold, as well as other stolen goods, was recovered and six thieves were arrested. The body of a seventh brigand was found outside with a cut throat, but their leader was nowhere to be found. Rumors spread that an unholy altar had been discovered inside their den.
Before dying on the gallows, some days later, one of the thieves declared, “Dolch will have his revenge.” How the convict had been able to speak so clearly, without a tongue and while swinging from the noose, would be debated and argued in taverns and barracks for years.
Meanwhile, Ahren and Volker enjoyed lounging in the comforts of Fritz’s inn, and the frequent comments that Ahren needed to prove himself became nothing more than a memory. He continued his tutelage, receiving less supervision from his seniors and assuming more responsibilities, yet every night he kept a burning lamp beside his bed to chase away the darkness.
The Reluctant Assassin
A loud thunk startled Ahren from his sleep. The walls hummed with echoes of shouts and laughter from the three-story bar room below. Even up in his fourth floor refuge, they invaded his domicile with the incessant sounds of drunken shouts and music. He had grown accustomed to noise, almost never noticing it, but the sound that woke him came from inside his room.
Drawing a short dagger hidden between his bed and the wall, he scanned the room for an intruder, but found no one. The lamp on the bedside table filled the humble flat with dim yellow light. Barefoot, he crossed the cold wood floor and pressed his ear to the door.
“Who’s there?” he asked loudly.
Nothing.
He unlocked the door, slid the bar from across it, opened it cautiously, and peered down the hall. It was empty, except for a man and one of the resident whores kissing and fondling each other in the far corner, oblivious to him. Ahren shrugged. He closed the door and slid the bar back in
place.
Rubbing gritty sleep from his eyes, he turned to go back to bed, and stopped. A metal spike tip protruded from the shutter of his window. Sharp splinters of wood peeled back from the point that had struck it from the outside. The dark shutter slats were too tightly fitted to let him peek through. He blew out the lamp, immersing the room in darkness, and blindly unfastened the shutter latch.
With his back to the wall to prevent any more archers a clear shot, he pushed open the right shutter. The red glow cast from the burning basins atop the thirty-seven graven towers in and around the city of Lunnisburg spilled through the window, illuminating the room. Ahren waited several seconds, then quickly peered outside. The adjacent rooftops and streets below were empty. He braved sticking his head out to see a thick metal crossbow bolt jutting from the closed left shutter. Its steep angle indicated the shooter had been street-level, and a small cork capped the back end. Puzzled, Ahren wrestled the bolt free, removed the cork, and shook a tightly rolled parchment from the tube. It unfurled to become a small note.
Black Raven,
Ahren’s heart froze. Only a select few knew him by that name. His alias in the criminal world was his most guarded secret. He took a deep sigh to calm his trembling hands, then continued reading the letter.
Your reputation as a thief and an assassin are legendary. I have undertaken the difficulty to find you and have a job that requires your particular finesse and skill. In return you will be handsomely rewarded.
If you wish to accept, hang a red scarf outside your window tomorrow night. If not, hang a blue one, and I shall take my business elsewhere.
Mountain of Daggers Page 4
