Mountain of Daggers

by Seth Skorkowsky

  He expected Kirril to head back into the city, but the small skiff followed the shoreline instead. Struggling to keep up, Ahren paddled harder. The small craft glided past the sailing vessels berthed at the Western Docks and then deeper out into the harbor.

  A faint bell rang from a wide sailing barge floating ahead. Kirril’s boat steered toward the larger vessel and slowed.

  Ahren watched as a veiled sailor aboard the barge tied a rope around the skiff’s prow. Kirril and his two remaining henchmen climbed up onto the low ship, and were escorted into the stern-side cabin, leaving two men alone on deck.

  Glass lamps hung from the vessel’s masts, their flickering lights sparkling off the ship’s gilded woodwork and polished accents. As Ahren neared, he could make out the crewmen’s rich dress of green and gold. The signature colors only verified his suspicions as to who owned the luxurious vessel: the Rusukny Family.

  Not only did Baron Rusukny have the gold to buy the oar cap, his bounty on the Black Raven was well known throughout the city. Now, Kirril would be collecting them both.

  Injured, and outnumbered, surprise was Ahren’s greatest asset. His enemies thought he was dead and that they were alone. No matter what was going to happen, he swore Kirril would die before sunrise.

  Ahren slid off the driftwood pole and lowered himself behind it. Quietly, he paddled closer, trying not to disturb the water’s surface any more than he had to.

  One of the sailors on deck stood at the bow, staring out over the city, the other atop the rear cabin, holding the tiller. Neither seemed to notice as Ahren grabbed the lip of the low-lying hull.

  He pulled himself along the side of the barge to where Kirril’s tied skiff banged rhythmically with the waves. Muted voices came from inside the cabin. Reaching down to his belt, he slid the dagger from its swollen leather sheath.

  #

  A light breeze from the rear-facing window circled the room, and fluttered the lamplight. Outside the soft sound of water sloshed against the rocking ship. Kirril sat silently, watching the young noble across from him inspect the jeweled oar cap.

  “That’s a substantial price you’re asking,” Konstantin Rusukny said, setting it back onto the table between them. “How do I know you’re not trying to swindle my father?”

  Kirril grinned. “Only a fool would try to swindle Nadjancia’s greatest swordsman. I assure you, this is Vooshkae’s oar cap, and the price is very reasonable.”

  The young noble casually swished the clear vodka in the bottom of his glass. Javor, the bearded bodyguard beside him, sat with crossed arms, staring coldly at Kirril and his men. The ruffian of course was unnecessary. If there was any truth to the duelist’s near mythical reputation, Konstantin could kill all three of them before anyone could even draw.

  “Agreed,” Konstantin finally said. “The price you ask is acceptable.” He raised his bowl-shaped glass and knocked it back.

  Kirril’s heart pounded. Fifty thousand gold bishkas was more than he’d ever seen. That, and fifteen percent of whatever profits the Rusuknys made from the ferrymen, would make him one of the most powerful men in the city. Hiding his excitement, he downed his drink as well, sealing the deal.

  “Now.” Konstantin set the glass on the table and leaned forward. “Are you sure the Black Raven is dead?”

  “I shot him myself,” Kirril said, his lips tightening into a wide smile. “Right now, he’s feeding the crabs.”

  The duelist’s gray eyes narrowed. “How can I be sure he is dead?”

  Kirril displayed the bloody veil wrapped tightly around his right hand. “Because there is no way I could allow the man responsible for this to survive.”

  Konstantin refilled the glasses from a crystal decanter. “Then let us toast to the death of the Black Raven.”

  A hard thump trembled the ceiling. Kirril gave it a momentary glance before raising his glass. A sailor above the cabin must have slipped.

  “My father will of course wish to discuss the details of his death with you,” Konstantin said after the toast. “Once he is satisfied, the reward will be yours.”

  A crash sounded from outside on the deck. Turning around, Kirril gasped. Flickering orange light flooded the triangular window inset in the door.

  “Fire!” Javor yelled. Jumping from his chair, he crossed the cabin in two strides and wrenched the door open. Bright flames blanketed the raised fore-deck

  “Quick,” Konstantin shouted. “Put it out.”

  Kirril’s men rushed outside after the bodyguard. Konstantin stepped out onto the deck behind them, shouting orders. A crossbow twanged from atop the stern cabin. The green globe lantern suspended above the three men exploded, showering them in oil. An orange ball of fire erupted as the oil touched the blaze, engulfing the men in flame. Screaming, the burning men staggered back and tumbled off the deck into the water.

  Shielding his face from the smoke and heat, Kirril turned away. His eyes widened in horror as a man swung down and through the rear cabin window. Blood stained his wet, grimy clothes. His fierce eyes stared out from behind tangles of dripping hair. A slender dagger gleamed in one hand as he snatched the oar cap off the table with the other.

  “Help,” he screamed. “The Black Raven is here.”

  #

  Over Kirril's shoulder, Ahren saw Konstantin Rusukny wheel around, his gold-hilted rapier in his grasp. Ahren flipped over the oak table, knocking half-full glasses across the room. With a hard kick, he drove the table into the door, slamming it shut.

  “This is between us,” he growled, tightening his grip on the horn-handled dagger.

  Kirril clumsily drew his rapier with his wrapped, injured hand and thrust at Ahren’s chest. Ahren side-stepped the blade and slashed upward. With a wild swing, Kirril dodged it. His sword nicked the small candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Shadows danced and spun along the walls as the fixture swung back and forth.

  Ahren feinted to the right, then circled the blade around, slicing Kirril across the wrist. Crimson blood burst from the gash and poured down the man’s arm.

  The door shuddered violently as it was struck again and again. The table shifted, allowing the opening gap to grow with each blow.

  Kirril swung his sword, slinging blood across the room. Ahren ducked and stabbed at his enemy’s open belly. Kirril jumped back, but not before the dagger tip nicked his stomach.

  Kirril’s face contorted with fury. Screaming, he brandished his sword high and charged.

  Stepping into the attack, Ahren caught Kirril’s sword arm. He thrust his dagger, but Kirril managed to grab his wrist. Their arms locked. Straining, they wrestled over the sharp blade between them.

  Kirril hissed through gritted teeth as he drove his weight through his arm, pressing the dagger tip against Ahren’s breast. Ahren’s tense muscles burned as he struggled to move the blade away. His wounded hip spasmed in pain, threatening to buckle under him. His slashed flesh tore wider and fresh blood spread across his already stained clothes.

  With a crash of battered wood, the door flew open. Konstantin stood panting in the doorway, silhouetted against the raging fire engulfing the fore deck behind him. The shimmering light gleamed off the gold rapier in his hand.

  Wrenching his body around, Ahren knocked Kirril off and kicked him hard in the stomach. Kirril flew back and screamed. A slender blade erupted from his chest as his body slammed into Konstantin, knocking him down and driving the duelist’s sword though his body.

  Jerking his blade from the dead man’s corpse, Konstantin staggered to his feet. With nowhere else to go, Ahren sprung out the cabin window and grabbed the upper deck. Climbing to the top, he pulled his legs up just as the duelist’s blade swept past.

  Quickly, he shoved the silver oar cap into his soaking satchel. He was about to jump the flaming barge when one of the yardarm ropes gave way. With a crash, the heavy pole slammed against the deck, knocking the ship askew.

  Falling against the deck, Ahren slid along the smooth wood and into a post.
The oar cap tumbled from his bag and skittered toward the edge. Lunging after it, Ahren managed to grab the treasure before it could fall into the black water.

  A voice sneered from behind him. “There you are.”

  Ahren rolled to the side to see Konstantin maneuver up the slanting steps to the upper deck. He held his rapier in front; its needle-like point transfixed Ahren.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, Black Raven.” He advanced down the sloping deck toward where Ahren lay. “I was disappointed when Kirril said he had killed you.”

  “It is not as easy as it appears,” Ahren said, inching his fingers toward the dagger tucked into his belt.

  “I doubt that. You seem to bleed like any other man.” The young man stepped past the dead helmsman’s body sliding toward the edge. The hull creaked and the ship leaned further to the side. Water crept up onto the lower deck, extinguishing flames with hissing plumes of steam.

  Working the dagger out from under his belt, Ahren slid the handle up under his forearm and pinched the blade near the tip. “Then try it.”

  Grinning, Konstantin closed the distance between them. He reared his arm, readying for the fatal thrust.

  Ahren flung the dagger at the duelist’s face. It twirled toward its mark, but Konstantin deflected the blade with his sword. The dagger sailed out into the darkness and plunked into the harbor.

  Before the swordsman could recover, Ahren scrambled away. He jumped down onto the lower deck where Kirril’s body lay in the doorway, staring up at him with dead eyes. He still held his rapier in his bandaged hand.

  Running footsteps pounded from above as Konstantin charged. Ahren grabbed the sword from the dead man’s grasp and raised it, just in time to block the duelist’s blade. Metal rang and Konstantin attacked again with a series of quick blows, driving Ahren back.

  The slender blades whipped back and forth with blurring speed. Backing away, Ahren moved along the raised port side of the listing ship. Furniture and cargo crashed from inside the hull and cabins, unbalancing the barge even more. Water surged in through the open doors and the ship rolled further

  Parrying Konstantin’s sword, Ahren hopped over the deck rail and onto the ship’s side. As if immune to the rolling footing, the duelist stepped onto the narrow strip of hull still above water.

  “Give it up,” Konstantin shouted, driving Ahren back with quick thrust.

  Ahren swung his blade at his opponent’s open side, but the swordsman caught the blow with his rapier. He hooked one of his quillons though the open bars of Ahren’s hand guard and pulled. The sword flew from Ahren’s hand and into the water.

  Konstantin brought his sword tip to Ahren’s throat. “Goodbye, Black Raven.”

  Trying to back away from the sharp point, Ahren slipped and fell on the wet hull. The swordsman chuckled and moved in for the kill.

  Ahren shoved his hand into the satchel and pulled out the Ferrymaster’s jeweled oar cap. “Back,” he shouted, holding it out over the water.

  The young Rusukny relaxed the blade, but held his ground. “If you drop that—”

  “You’ll have nothing,” Ahren spat. “Now back away!”

  “You’re death will last six months if you drop it.” Konstantin reared the sword back for a thrust and extended his other hand. “Give it here, and you’ll die with honor.”

  Ahren met the swordsman’s cold stare. “You’ll never be the Canal King.” He opened his hand and with a plunk, the oar cap was gone. “I pay the master, but not you.”

  Konstantin’s eyes widened and his face twisted with rage. “You idiot,” he screamed.

  Smiling, Ahren braced himself for the strike.

  Konstantin’s muscles tensed. His eyes seethed with hatred. “Die!” He stepped into the lunge, but the ship jolted beneath his feet, knocking him off balance. The duelist staggered back but did not fall. He raised the sword again.

  A spongy green hand exploded from the water and grabbed Konstantin’s leather boot. He shrieked as a bloated head rose to the surface and stared up with bulging white eyes. Yanking his leg free, Konstantin stumbled away from his gruesome attacker.

  Water poured from its mouth and nose as the corpse pulled itself up onto the sinking barge. Dark sludge and slime coated its skin and patches of thin, tangled hair. Torn and filthy rags mixed with seaweed hung from its dripping body. The overpowering stench of rot filled the air.

  Another arm thrust up from the water, as another corpse crawled onto the ship behind him.

  Konstantin stabbed with his rapier. The blade passed through its soft body almost effortlessly. Dingy brown water poured from the open wound. Flesh fell in chunks from the creature’s boney fingers as it reached out.

  Screaming, the swordsman slashed with his rapier, splitting a wide gash across the creature’s belly. Water and worm-ridden intestines gushed out onto the wooden planks. The corpse continued forward, stepping on its own entrails. It seized Konstantin by the doublet.

  “Help,” the swordsman wailed, struggling to get away.

  The putrid corpse grappled around Konstantin’s torso as the other seized him by the hair.

  Terrified, Ahren scrambled away off the boat and into the water.

  Behind him, Konstantin’s scream echoed across the harbor, followed by a violent splash. Wood creaked and groaned and the remains of the barge fell below the waves.

  Swimming as fast as he could, Ahren struggled to get away. His muscles burned with exhaustion and his wounded hip stung with almost paralyzing pain. Fighting to keep his head above water, he gulped air in desperate breaths.

  He felt himself sinking. His legs gave out and he slipped beneath the waves.

  Hands grabbed him by the waist. Ahren screamed, releasing an eruption of bubbles.

  More unseen hands seized his legs and shoulder. They lifted him to the surface. Disoriented and weak, Ahren gasped for air.

  The city rushed toward him as the hands dragged him with incredible speed. He pulled against their grip, but they held fast. More hands slid under him, almost cradling his body still below the water.

  They carried him to the stone edge of the city and released their grip. Ahren reached up for a mooring ring above his head, and he felt himself lifted up toward it. Grabbing the iron ring, he pulled himself out of the water and onto the land.

  Shuddering, he felt up and down his legs, making sure nothing was still holding him. He rolled onto his side and looked out over the harbor. In the moonlight, a single black ferry drifted past. The smooth craft glided across the water without disturbing the surface.

  A well-dressed ferryman in black and burgundy stood at the rear, his face hidden behind a long silken veil. With a sweep of his oar, the boat stopped. Glittering rubies sparkled off the silver knob capping his oar.

  Frozen in terror, Ahren stared back at the Ferrymaster for several long seconds. The ferryman held up a long raven’s feather, then let if fall into the water between them. The black quill floated toward him, as if carried by an unseen current.

  Ahren reached down and removed the feather from the water. He looked back up, but the Ferrymaster had vanished.

  Lover’s Quarrel

  A faint breeze swept across the nighttime road and out over the sea cliffs. Ribbons of moonlight shimmered off the black water, waves crashing into the rocks below with steady cadence. Ahead, a walled, fortress-like manor overlooked the bay and the adjoining port.

  Keeping to the shadows beneath the trees, Karolina followed the sinuous path toward the house. A sudden gust swept her blue cloak and pushed against the basket in her arms. She adjusted her grip until the wind subsided, all the while maintaining the appearance that the empty vessel was heavy.

  Her skin tingled with anticipation. She slowed her breath to prevent it from steaming in the chilly air. Excitement coursed through her body, spiking her senses. She heard the scuttle of mice in the leaves. The sweet taste of salty air danced across her lips, and she smelled the flowered vines creeping through branches abo
ve.

  Nearing the house, she turned and circled to a clump of large rocks bordering the property. She crouched behind them and watched. A pair of guards, armed with rapiers at their belts, stood at the wrought iron gate. Through the bars, she spied at least one more patrolling the grounds inside. Slivers of yellow light peeked through the manor’s shuttered windows. Two on the third, and highest, floor hung open. A dark figure walked between them, silhouetted by lamplight. Guard or a servant, Karolina couldn’t tell. Both would be plentiful within the house. Somewhere, hidden within the ivy-drenched walls, Mikhail Svelovich thought he was safe.

  Karolina untied the bothersome cloak and shoved it into the basket. There was no more need for disguises.

  Unclasping the slender leather box on her belt, she removed a round gem from its padded cradle. Even in the moonlight she could make out the wisps of inky smoke that swirled and danced within the inch-wide ruby.

  She slipped the stone into her mouth and shuddered, a sudden jolt shooting through her flesh. To the world she was invisible, but when she looked at her own hands and body, she saw black curls of fog confined to her form. Pressing her tongue against the gem so it wouldn’t roll back into her throat, she stood and walked across the clearing toward the manor. She moved softly to not make any noise or overly disturb the grass.

  The gossiping voices of the two gate guards became clearer as she neared the ten-foot wall.

  “I’m not lying, it’s the size of my head,” said one in a high pitched voice.

  “It can’t be,” the other replied.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go to town and I’ll show you.”

  Their voices faded as another gust of wind swept them away. Karolina followed the stone wall to a narrow patch devoid of vines. She grabbed hold of one of the worn rocks and quickly scaled to the top.

  Peering over the edge, she surveyed the property. A sentry stood alone at the front door, but the side servant’s entrance appeared unguarded. A lone patrolman circled the grounds; his blank expression said his mind wandered on other things. Patiently, she waited for him to pass out of earshot before dropping quietly to the ground.