Mountain of Daggers

by Seth Skorkowsky

  She was gone.

  Thieves Duel

  A warm salty breeze blew across the harbor, carrying the sounds of ship bells and squawking gulls. Thousands of seamen chatted and shouted curses along the dock in half a dozen languages. Docksmen hurried along the piers lugging barrels and crates to and from the ships and cargo wagons along the wharf.

  Adjusting the leather straps digging into his shoulders, Ahren sauntered down the pier. The fifteen silver the captain had paid him was more than they’d originally agreed. But the bribe to keep him aboard as a member of the crew wouldn’t work. He slipped the jingling cloth bag into his vest and away from the greedy hands of beggars and thieves. The heavy chest on his back rattled as he followed the boardwalk to the cobblestone streets. His eyes wary, Ahren made his way to the nearest harbor gate. He melded into the bottle-necked crowd and passed under the high stone archway and into the busy city.

  It had been a decade since Ahren had boarded his first vessel to escape Lichthafen. He’d sworn to never return. As Mordakland’s largest port, Lichthafen was difficult to avoid. But he had. Until now.

  Blue paint still flaked from the tailor’s shop. Plump gray pigeons lined the shoulders and outstretched arms of the green copper statue in the square. Ahren wondered if anyone ever knew the monument’s true identity. An ugly boot-shaped sign still hung above Kamler the Cobbler’s. Nothing had changed.

  Weaving through the winding, narrow streets, Ahren plunged deeper into the city. The tall buildings loomed high above, their peaked roofs leaning across toward one another. A pack of children played dice in the alley beside an unpainted tavern. An older boy with a filthy blue cap carved his name into the wall with a short knife, not ten inches from where Ahren had put his at that age. A small bell jingled as Ahren opened the tavern door and stepped inside.

  Fresh stew bubbled in a cauldron hanging inside the fireplace. A square-jawed man with gray temples peeled potatoes on the bar. Ahren crossed the narrow room and put his back to the counter. He lowered himself until the chest thunked onto the bar top and then he slipped off the shoulder straps.

  “What can I get for you, sailor?” the man asked while wiping his hands on a dingy apron.

  Ahren said nothing.

  The barkeep glanced to the hinged box on the counter. “Are you selling something? ‘Cause unless you got a pair of goats in there, I ain't interested.”

  Ahren grinned. “That’s a shame.”

  “That it is. So now that we’ve cleared up that I ain’t interested in what you’ve got, why don’t you tell me what you…” The man’s eyes widened. “Saint Vishtin,” he gasped. “Ahren?”

  “Hello Griggs.”

  “I can’t believe it!” He slipped around the counter and gave Ahren a strong hug. “How long’s it been?”

  Ahren smiled trying to hide his discomfort at speaking to the man he’d once considered a father. “Ten years.”

  “Katze,” Griggs shouted. “Come down. Ahren’s home!” He clapped Ahren on the shoulder. “This calls for a drink. I can’t believe you’re here.”

  A lean young woman with curly black hair glided down the barroom stairs. “What a surprise,” she said, her dark eyes narrowing. “Where have you been?”

  Ahren swallowed. He remembered Griggs’ daughter as a scrawny little girl with frazzled hair who had always tried to tag along. Her annoying fascination with Ahren had been a source of constant ridicule from his peers. His eyes traced along her hips and firm breasts rising from her leather bodice. Things had changed. “Hello, Katze. I’ve been seeing the world.”

  Smiling, Griggs set a stein on the bar. “So what brings you back, my boy?”

  Ahren knocked back a long swig and unlatched the box on the counter. “I brought these in for you.” He unwrapped a thick clay tankard and set it on the bar. “Picked them up in Frobinsky.”

  Chuckling, the barkeep wet his lips. “That’s very nice,” he said picking it up and examining the swirling pattern along the rim. “But I don’t really need them.”

  Ahren shrugged. “My mistake. Viston said you’d like them.”

  Griggs’ smile vanished. “Viston?”

  Ahren sipped his drink. “The diamonds are baked inside to pass them through customs.”

  “I see,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Very clever.” He reached into the box and removed two more tankards and a stack of thick plates. “So you work for Viston? I had thought someone else was bringing the shipment.”

  “The Black Raven?” Ahren asked.

  Griggs froze. “So you know him?”

  Ahren leaned across the bar and removed the copper pendant from under his shirt. “I always knew you were up to more than just organizing gangs of children. But I’d have never thought you were involved in anything like the Tyenee.”

  The man’s smile faltered as he stared at the Tyenee’s glyph stamped onto the medallion. He glanced at his daughter standing attentively beside him, and then back to Ahren. “You’re… him?”

  “I am.” Ahren slipped the pendant back beneath his shirt. “However, my reputation demands that you not openly refer to me by that name.”

  Griggs nodded. “I understand. Let me show you to your room.”

  #

  An eye-watering haze of candle and pipe smoke filled the tavern as patrons packed around the small tables, trading stories and playing games. Ahren sat in the back, watching from a small booth. He recognized only a handful of the men as boys he’d once ran with. Most of the others were now rotting in prisons or graves. He had chatted with Clauser, an old cohort he remembered as a wiry stutterer. A deep knife scar now marred his once boyish face. He worked for Griggs as a fence in the Market District. Marten worked as a hired thug, and Feschtek was a pimp. A new generation of Alley Cats now worked the streets, too young to remember their predecessors like he and Clauser. He wondered if Griggs even remembered all their names. Did he remember Tretan?

  “So Ahren,” Katze said as she slid into the seat beside him, “It seems you’ve done well for yourself. Father was right about you. You’d never leave the life.”

  “Seems so,” he replied.

  “Are they true?” she asked. “The stories we’ve heard?”

  “Thieves gossip like whores. You shouldn’t believe everything you’ve heard.”

  “I see.” She took a swig from Ahren’s tankard on the table. “So if you didn’t quit the life, why did it take you so long to return?”

  Ahren gnawed his lip. “I was busy.”

  “You were afraid.” She leaned closer. Her skin smelled of rose oil and smoke. “Afraid we’d know what you’d become.”

  He snorted.

  “I cried for a month after you’d left. We never heard anything. I never knew if you drowned at sea or got killed by pirates. First Tretan, and then you. That wasn’t fair.”

  “It wasn’t about you.”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. I was young and in love. Fortunately,” she purred, “there were many others to teach me about love.”

  Her words stabbed and gnawed his gut. “You seem to have done well, Katze.”

  “And you as well.” She ran her fingers along his shoulder. “A bounty hunter came by last month on a tip you’d be in the city. Father took care of him without even knowing who you were. It must be nice to live by a legend you did nothing to earn. Are any of the stories about you true?”

  “More than enough of them,” he said, pulling away.

  Katze smirked. “Are they? There’s probably a dozen thieves in Lichthafen more skilled than you, even me. That’s why you stayed away. You didn’t want anyone to outshine the Black Raven’s legend.”

  Ahren’s cheeks grew hot. “Not likely.”

  “That’s just what I wanted to hear,” she said with a triumphant smile. Katze slammed her fist into the table and leapt up onto her seat. “Attention!”

  The bar fell silent and all eyes turned to Katze.

  “Ahren, our wayward brother, has challenged me.” Low chuckles e
choed across the room. “As Master of Thieves, I am left with little choice but to accept.”

  Master of Thieves? Ahren groaned, realizing what had happened. The setup was obvious, and he’d fallen right into her hands.

  Griggs’ eyes narrowed from across the room at his flamboyant daughter. “Very well. If a challenge has been accepted then a Thieves Duel shall be set. Three nights from tonight. Wagers shall be settled here.”

  Commotion erupted through the tavern as jokes were passed and bets placed.

  Katze stepped down beside Ahren and grinned. “Now we’ll see how true the stories are.”

  “I didn’t challenge you,” he growled.

  “Yes, you did.” She leaned closer and whispered, “And if you try to back out, I’ll tell the world the Black Raven cowered from a duel.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You have three nights to re-learn the city. I suggest you get started.”

  #

  Ahren’s gray cloak fluttered in the nighttime breeze as he crossed Dishik Plaza past a stone statue to where two figures stood patiently at the mouth of an empty alley. Dark clouds sailed across the heavens partially blocking the half-moon above. He ran a final mental inventory of his gear: picks, two daggers, two shoulder satchels, one vial of lopiune, ten gold coins tightly packed to not jingle, dark green cloak packed into a satchel, raven feathers, and a short knife hidden in his boot. All more cumbersome than he would normally carry. But the night’s surprises might warrant each of them.

  “Good evening,” Griggs said as Ahren approached.

  He nodded to Griggs and Katze beside him. A tight braid of black hair looped out from her burgundy cloak.

  Griggs held up two folded and sealed parchment squares. “The rules are simple. You will both be given identical lists of items around the city. Each are worth points based off how difficult they are. Whoever returns to the bar before dawn with the most point’s worth of items is the winner. Understand?”

  Katze and Ahren both nodded.

  “The only other rule is that neither of you can kill the other player.” He shot a cold glare at his daughter. “Anything else goes. In the event of a tie, the first one back wins. Got it?”

  “Understood,” Ahren said. His skin began to tingle as he readied himself

  “I’ll see you both by morning.” Griggs handed them each their list.

  As Ahren took the letter, Katze’s boot smashed into his groin. Doubling over in pain, he fell to his knees.

  “Good luck,” she said, and raced away.

  Tears welled in Ahren’s eyes as he tried to shake the stabbing pang shooting through his body.

  “I’ll second that,” Griggs said unsympathetically. “You’re going to need it.”

  Leaning against a brick wall, Ahren pulled himself up and opened the list. His eyes scanned it over several times before locating his first mark. Catching his breath, he slipped the paper into his pouch and hobbled quickly from the plaza.

  Nighttime dealers and merchants called out, hawking their goods as he passed their booths and carts. Whores and hustlers prowled the dark streets among the near endless supply of easy targets. Turning down a narrow lane, Ahren surveyed a wide indigo tavern dominating the corner intersection. Purple grapes spilled from an overflowing gold chalice on the hanging wooden sign. A burly man with a thick moustache stood at the door watching the passersby with contemptuous eyes.

  He stepped before the doors as Ahren approached. “Where are you headed?"

  “Inside."

  Chuckling, the broad man shook his head. “The Golden Goblet is for gentlemen, not peasants.”

  Ahren threw his shoulders back and curled his lip. “I have spent the past three weeks aboard a ship with ale-swooning scum. Before I can bathe and dress in something more human, I wish to wash the taste from my mouth.” He drew four gold dreins from his pouch and held them up. “A peasant wouldn’t carry my purse and unless you want your master to horse-whip you for rejecting my patronage, I suggest you let me pass.”

  The man’s eyes widened as he stared at the coins in Ahren’s palm. “I…I…” he stammered.

  Dropping the coins back in his purse, Ahren pushed the doorman aside and marched through the door without a word. Music from a minstrel trio filled the smoky air. Men in silk shirts and brocade doublets laughed and drank while richly-dressed courtesans in gold and perfume doted over them. Ahren strode to one of the blue-vested employees standing beside a massive wine rack along the sidewall behind a marble-topped counter. A black bottle rested on a wooden stand beside him.

  “How may I help you, sir?” the waiter asked.

  Keeping his pretentious manner, Ahren cleared his throat. “Your doorman’s incompetence is inexcusable.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “Are you the owner?”

  The young waiter shook his head. “No, he is upstairs.”

  “Then it is his apology I want.” Ahren glanced at the bottle displayed on the edge of the counter. The Golden Goblet’s crest stamped the purple wax seal atop the cork. Many of the other bottles on the rack bore the same insignia. “It has been a long while since I tasted Falkeblut.”

  “We are the only hall that serves it, fine sir. May I pour you a glass?”

  Ahren looked back at the open door behind him, and set a pair of gold dreins on the counter. “I would like a bottle,” he said, holding the coins under his finger. “I would also enjoy words with your owner. Fetch him for me.”

  The waiter licked his lips nervously.

  “Now,” Ahren growled.

  With a nod, the waiter hurried from behind the counter to a doorway. The instant he vanished from sight, Ahren scooped the coins back into his purse and quickly removed the unopened bottle from its display. Holding it under his cloak, he dropped one of the raven’s quills onto the bar and then strode across the tavern and out through the door. He felt the doorman’s eyes on his back as he followed the road away until turning down a side street.

  Opening his satchel, he nestled the bottle inside. Falkeblut was only three points, but it was a start. He unfolded the list and found the next closest target: Vathristern Cathedral.

  Several blocks later, the streets opened up and the imposing walls of the great cathedral rose before him. White-cloaked church knights in polished breastplates stood watch beside the entrance. Slowing his jog to a casual walk, Ahren crossed the square, passed the grand pouring fountain, and ascended the steps to Vathristern’s great bronze doors.

  A waft of incense smoke greeted him as he entered. Men and women knelt along the mostly empty pews, their muted whispered prayers softly echoing through the great chamber. Marble statues stared down from the walls above with pupiless eyes. Keeping his head low, Ahren entered a deep alcove to the right. Short, fat candles of every color flickered along a high tiered stand coated in hardened wax, forming an almost wall of flame. Across from them, a gold and jeweled urn rested inside a wrought iron cage between a pair of golden candlesticks.

  Ahren knelt before the stand and lowered his eyes. A pair of young women prayed beside him, asking for their brother’s health to return. Ahren remained silent until they finally left. He glanced around making sure he was alone, then rose and faced the great urn behind him. Still feigning contemplation, he brought a hand to his lips while his other removed a black quill. He checked one more time to be certain no one was watching, then licked his fingertips and snuffed out the slender taper burning beside the metal cage. Pulling the candle free, he tucked the heavy gold candlestick under his cloak and dropped the raven feather in its place.

  He turned and slowly walked from the alcove as a hooded figure stepped inside. As he neared the arched front doors, a woman’s voice pierced the cathedral’s silence.

  “Thief!”

  Ahren looked back to see Katze standing before the golden urn, her finger pointed at him. Both candlesticks were missing.

  “Thief,” she shrieked. “I saw him.”

  Two dozen eyes turned to
Ahren still standing twenty feet from the door. A bearded priest nodded to one of the soldiers.

  Whirling back around, Ahren bolted toward the door. A church knight’s gloved hand reached for him, but he ducked, and plowed straight into his hard breastplate. Screaming, the soldier fell back and tumbled down the wide steps to the street.

  “Stop him!” someone shouted.

  Hurtling down the steps, Ahren ran back across the square and down into a narrow alley. Shouts and bells sounded behind him. Unclasping his billowing gray cloak, he let it fall as he turned into another lane. He followed the tight alleyway to an intersection. Pulling the thin green cloak from his satchel, he threw it over his shoulders then casually stepped into the street.

  The candlestick was five points, but if Katze had one as well, they were in vain. He sighed deeply, trying to quell his hot anger. Mutilation was the price for stealing from the Church. The golden sticks would have cost him his eyes; maybe his hands. She would have been happy to let them do it. This was more than a simple challenge now. It was personal.

  Sticking to the narrow valleys of lanes, he briskly entered the Merchant District. Pale light spilled from only a handful of stores. Closed wooden shutters sealed off most of the shops’ windows. His eyes studied the painted signs, dimly lit by street lamps. As the street slightly curved, he spied a hanging sign cut into the shape of a key: Hetstier’s Locksmith. A large silver inlaid padlock dangled from the painted door.

  Stopping before it, Ahren looked around. A group of teenage boys lounged on the steps two shops away. Beyond them, several pedestrians roamed the streets and a clump of people gathered at a still open boutique.

  “Nice night,” Ahren said approaching the young men. “Any of you interested in making some easy coin?”

  A pimple-faced boy with a faint moustache nodded. “Wherever we can.” The others chuckled in agreement.