Mountain of Daggers

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Crime always rose when a circus descended on a city. Some by the workers themselves, most by the local thieves lured by the herds of easy targets with hefty purses. The Darclyian Circus however, brought more than just petty thefts.

  “Hey!” Otto yelled, sticking his bald head out between the canvas flaps. “Hurry up.”

  Squeezing the rings, Ahren jogged to where the stage master waited and slipped inside.

  “Stack those by the blue curtain,” Otto barked. “Then we need to get the beasts inside.”

  Together with several of the other workers, Ahren wheeled the tiger pen behind the curtains and walked the Tzalkian elephants over from their corral. He lingered in the back as the show began, running props and keeping an eye out for anyone trying to sneak inside without paying. Felka, the blonde rider he had seen before, performed knife throwing with her father. The audience cheered as gypsy acrobats rode around the ring, doing incredible tricks atop their racing horses. Roaring tigers leaped through flaming hoops, and Drugho and his partner Jan amazed the crowd with aerial flips and balancing acts high above the ground. All the while, Fegmil worked the audience and orchestrated the show.

  The Darclyian Circus held the reputation of being the greatest of its kind. Yet the masters of the Tyenee had discovered a pattern of elaborate heists wherever the performers played. Four weeks prior in the city of Stromfurt, the Vuschkuls Heart, a massive emerald, vanished during the circus’s visit. Baron Czychlret awaited the gem in Frobinsky, and Ahren’s orders were to intercept the stone before the thieves could deliver it. Finding it, however, would be the real feat. Until then, he had no choice but to play his part.

  #

  Two days later, the performers packed their tents into their brightly painted wagons and left the city behind. The caravan crawled along the muddy highway, stopping at the occasional village to give small shows and trading for fresh supplies. Most nights were spent on the road, circled in a ring where they rehearsed their acts, while trading stories and gossip.

  Ahren plunged himself into their fold, helping fix wagon wheels, tending the horses, and practicing with anyone who would teach him. Some of the performers, like Drenryck, the tiger master, did little to welcome him. He spent most of his time with his wife Gerta and their son, who rarely left their wagon. However, many of the other workers welcomed Ahren’s enthusiasm and encouraged his acceptance.

  Slipping deeper into their circle of trust, he found himself invited into different wagons to enjoy games and gossip over drinks. They told him of dimwitted patrons buying counterfeit goods thought to be from distant lands, and laughed at the exploits of their pickpockets while their victims watched the shows. Yet none of the intoxicated workers ever alluded to the grander thefts Darclyian Circus was suspected of. Ahren simply laughed along with the tales, occasionally sharing stories of his own minor thefts and burglaries.

  #

  “You’re doing much better,” Drugho said patting Ahren on the back.

  Ahren looked back at the taut ten-foot line he’d just walked stretched between the tree stumps. “Thanks.”

  “Once you can get that five times without falling, we’ll put you up on the long one. Until then, keep practicing.” The gypsy hopped off the stump and headed to the main fire ring, joining the group circled around the cooking supper while working on their costumes and goods to be sold in the fair.

  Ahren started down the stretched rope once again when Felka strolled past. She stopped to watch. He smiled to her, but a faint breeze rushed past, causing the rope to wobble beneath him. Keeping his breathing steady, Ahren maintained his balance until it stilled, then continued to the other side.

  Felka clapped her hands. “Magnificent.”

  Ahren leaped, somersaulting off the three-foot stump and landing with a dramatic bow. “I was about to say the same to you,” he said, plucking a purple flower and holding it out.

  “Now that is a performance,” said Fegmil’s voice behind him. Ahren turned to see the tiny circus master saunter over from beside his wagon. A ribbon of gray smoke trailed from his wooden pipe. “The dismount is essential. Just because your trick is done is never an excuse to stop entertaining.” He drew a long pull from his pipe. “The flower is a nice touch. Danger and romance always draws a crowd.”

  Felka’s pale cheeks reddened. She accepted the flower from Ahren’s hand, nodded tersely, and hurried off.

  The quellen sighed. “Love, my friend, like anything in a circus, is not without its own risks.”

  Ahren chuckled. “I mean no harm by it.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. Just remember, she can cut that flower's stem with a knife at fifteen paces. Her father, Achim, can do the same while riding horseback.” He puffed and blew a cloud of smoke into the breeze. “You should know; I’ve seen you practicing with them.”

  Ahren nodded.

  “But I’m not here to father you. In fact, I wanted to say you’re one of the fastest learners I’ve seen in years. So good, that I think you’re ready to start.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fegmil smiled. “We’ll reach Kiedow in a week’s time. Some of our riders will go on ahead tomorrow to choose a site and hang posters. This’ll be a real show. Not one of these little village acts we’ve been doing. So you better be ready.”

  “I will be,” Ahren said. “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

  #

  The Gremiskian Mountains loomed closer as the caravan continued south down the narrow highway. Small villages grew more frequent, and at each one, a group of performers would break off for a few hours to dazzle the peasants and spread word of the upcoming show.

  The evening sun lay low, casting long shadows across the rocky peaks when they finally reached the city built up along a mountain’s side. They turned off the road and stopped in a wide pasture just outside the main gates. Fegmil and Otto hopped from their wagons, immediately issuing orders. Ahren hurried through the shifting maze-work of carts and tents, carrying poles and equipment. Lanterns and torches bathed the scene in golden light as the sun set behind the city. Songs and laughter echoed through the chaotic grounds amongst shouts and pounding of mallets. Ahren stretched colorful canvas between the wagons surrounding the miniature city. His stomach growled at the growing sweet aromas of food wafting between the lanes. Benches were set, banners raised, and corrals lashed. As dawn broke over the mountains, the Darclyian Circus was ready to begin.

  #

  Ahren spent the next several days working a mixture of various tasks. He cleaned all the animal pens save the tiger’s cage, which Drenryck insisted on doing alone. Whenever his tigers were not on display, the tiger master lowered the wooden awning over the wheeled cage, preventing anyone from seeing inside.

  While running errands or selling trinkets in the small booths took a large portion of Ahren’s days, he spent just as much time performing. He worked the crowds with balancing acts throughout the day, and at night, in the large arena, he swung from the trapeze above the audience, warming them up before Drugho and Jan’s spectacular act.

  After the show, many of the performers ventured into the city at night. Ahren accompanied some of them the first two nights, but then elected to stay at camp. Once most of the workers had left or gone to their beds, he snuck from his tent and broke into the empty wagons. He searched Fegmil’s first. The fastidious quellen kept detailed books and records amongst an impressive collection of trinkets and oddities from across the world. Ahren checked for hollow books, and secret compartments. A hidden cache built in the rear wall yielded several bags of silver, yet the emerald wasn’t there. Cracking open the door, he confirmed no one was outside, then hurried from the wagon.

  Otto’s cramped wagon reeked of onions and mildew. Ahren quickly dug through the stage master’s belongings but found nothing. Outside a group of drummers gathered around a campfire and began to play. Carefully, Ahren slipped out the back and crept away as others wandered to join in the revelry.

  He meandered away from t
he commotion and snuck into one of the storage wagons forming the large performance ring. Its lack of windows left the interior dark, forcing him to slow his search. He’d just about finished when a muffled whimper came from outside.

  “Where’s Fegmil?” someone hissed.

  “He’s coming.” Ahren recognized Otto’s distinct graveled voice. “What happened?”

  “Jan and Drugho had made it inside when I heard shouting,” Bjornrek answered, his Larstlandic accent heightened with the excitement in his voice.

  “Pl…please get it out,” a man mumbled painfully.

  “Don’t touch it!” Otto snapped. “Someone get Yemda. She can help him. Tell me what happened.”

  “Saint Vishtin, he’s bleeding all over the place!”

  “I hurried back around,” Bjornrek continued, “and saw a man running from the house screaming for guards. He had a bow in his hand.”

  “Bastard was in the house,” Drugho growled. “We didn’t even see him.”

  Torchlight moved outside and Ahren sank further back into the shadows inside the wagon.

  “What happened?” Fegmil demanded.

  “Jan was shot!” the gypsy answered.

  “How?”

  “There was an apprentice or someone inside. He shot him and fled, but Bjornrek got him as he ran for help.”

  “I don’t…want to die,” Jan sobbed. “Get it out of me.”

  “Don’t worry. Help is coming.”

  “Did you get the eagle?” Fegmil asked.

  “Yeah,” Achim answered. “Then we broke off the arrow. Bjornrek put his cloak over him and carried him out the gates.”

  Jan’s sobs grew more struggled. “Please. Please.”

  “Hold on, my boy,” Fegmil soothed. “We’ll fix you. Did anyone else see you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bjornrek said.

  “Get something to stop the bleeding!” Drugho snapped.

  Ahren’s heart raced as footsteps hurried toward the wagon. He dove behind a long box and pulled a folded tarp halfway over him. Orange light flickered off the walls as someone stepped inside. A box of iron stakes crashed to the floor as they dug through one of the shelves and hurried out.

  “Jan? Jan!” Drugho yelled.

  “He’s dead.”

  Ahren crouched lower during the long silence and pulled the rest of the heavy tarp over himself.

  “Otto,” Fegmil said. “You and Bjornrek bury him. Somewhere no one will find him until after we’re gone. I’ll hide the eagle before anyone comes looking for it.”

  “What about Kossintry?” Achim asked.

  Drugho snorted. “What about it?”

  “The tower. Who’s going to replace Jan?”

  “He’s right,” Fegmil mumbled. “Who else can do it?”

  “Kerlen can.”

  “Are you sure?” the quellen asked. “What about Ahren?”

  “Ahren’s too new. Kerlen has proven himself.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow we’ll say Jan got killed in a tavern brawl. Meanwhile, we’ll tell Kerlen the plan. You’ve got six weeks to get him ready.” He sighed. “Now go.”

  Ahren remained still while the men dispersed. He’d found the inner circle, but still didn’t know where they hid their stolen treasure. Earning their trust would be a harder task. A plan began to form in his mind. Once everyone had left the performance ring outside, Ahren crept from the wagon and hurried back to his bed.

  #

  “Good” Drugho said, sitting on Kerlen’s shoulders as the younger acrobat rose to his feet while standing on Bjornrek’s. The gypsy stood and reached for the platform above him when Kerlen buckled, sending the tower of bodies to the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Kerlen said leaping to his feet to help Drugho up.

  “It’s all right,” Drugho replied, through a forced smile. “It’s a difficult move. Are you all right Bjornrek?”

  The muscled man brushed the blonde hair from his eyes and staggered to his feet. “Fine.” He returned to where he had been standing and lowered to his knees.

  “Can I try that?” Ahren asked, walking from the wagon which he’d been leaning against.

  Drugho shook his head. “Maybe next time. This is something I want Kerlen to learn.”

  Ahren shrugged. “Then let me take your place. You can instruct us from the ground. Maybe get a different perspective on what we’re doing wrong.”

  The gypsy stood silent for a moment, then gave an amused smirk and a sweeping gesture. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks.” Ahren waited while Kerlen crawled up onto the Larstlander’s shoulders and then climbed up onto his. He swayed, trying to keep his balance

  Kerlen slapped his leg twice, “Up.” Bjornrek slowly rose to his feet.

  Ahren’s muscles tensed as he tried to keep from falling off the acrobat’s shoulders. Once the Northman reached his full height and planted his feet securely down, Ahren braced himself as Kerlen slowly moved his feet up onto Bjornrek’s shoulders and stood. Their bodies trembled, struggling to keep balance.

  “Keep your knees stiff,” Drugho ordered. “Rise in one motion.”

  Once they had reached a precarious equilibrium, Ahren held his breath, and carefully rose. Kerlen held Ahren’s feet firmly against his shoulders as Ahren reached out and took a firm grip on the rough-hewn platform above him.

  “Perfect.” Drugho hollered. “Now hold tight. Kerlen, climb up.”

  Ahren felt the man beneath him shift and grab hold of his hip and slide out from under Ahren’s feet. A sudden jolt of weight hit as the young acrobat pulled himself up. Ahren’s fingers dug into the planks. Kerlen’s legs wrapped around Ahren’s dangling feet as he adjusted his hold, then climbed up over Ahren’s back and onto the platform, nearly kicking him in the face.

  Drugho clapped his hands once. “Ahren, swing up.”

  Taking a quick breath, Ahren pulled himself up and threw his legs over the lip of the creaking ledge. He looked back with an accomplished smile to see the dark-skinned gypsy man pursing his lips.

  “Clumsy, but you did it. You must make it effortless; fluid.” He snapped his fingers five times in rhythmic succession. “It should take that long to begin and end the trick. Now climb down and start again.”

  #

  Weeks passed as the caravan continued south, leaving Mordakland and passing into Rhomanny. Ahren’s skills grew in great strides, then slowly honed as he religiously practiced with acrobats, trick riders, and knife throwers. By the time the circus reached Kossintry, his determination and persistence had earned him their respect and trust.

  As usual, they made camp outside the city walls, allowing enough room for the fair-goers to gather. Ahren worked tirelessly, setting up everything he could outside the wood and canvas-walled performance ring. Otto tried to get him to help with the trapeze lines, but Ahren was busy with Felka, erecting smaller stages for the other acts.

  The white moon glowed high in the night sky by the time the grounds were finished. Exhausted, the workers retired to their tents and wagons as soon as their chores were complete. Ahren lingered in the camp, finding menial tasks to do while everyone else went to bed. Once they were asleep, he circled around behind the performance ring and squeezed under one of the tight cloth panels.

  Crickets sounded inside the circular arena, lit by only the frosty moonlight. He wove between wooden benches, past the horse track, and up to one of the massive poles standing at its heart. Grabbing hold of the thick knotted rope, he quickly scaled up to the platform above. He looked out across the grounds visible over the arena wall, checking for anyone still lingering about, then climbed to the top platform.

  The poles swayed gently under his weight, a sensation he barely noticed anymore. Ahren grabbed one of the thick taut lines suspended between the mast-like posts, swung his legs up, and crawled upside down over the empty arena. Weaving past the hanging ropes connected to hoops and trapezes, he stopped at a dark rope securely knotted to the support line. The loose rope ended at a pair of swir
l-painted bars hanging on a hook above the highest acrobat platform. Drugho used them for his grand trick that only he could do. Ahren locked his legs tight around the taut rope and let go. With his hands free, he hung upside down and worked the tight knot holding the trapeze. The gypsy acrobat always inspected the lines when setting up, but now that it was finished, no one would see the slipknot Ahren tied in its place. He cinched the knot tight; making sure it could support some weight, then crawled back to the creaking poles and climbed back down.

  If blame for the knot’s failure would be cast, it would fall only on those who setup the lines, leaving Ahren a solid alibi. With a smile, he hurried out of the arena and back to his bed.

  #

  Farmers and merchants poured in the next morning, erecting tents and pens. Ahren and the other acrobats watched from atop their platforms as the faire spread out around the multi-colored ring. The smells of cooked meats wafted through the air, making his stomach rumble as they neared the end of their pre-show practice.

  Once his portion was complete, Ahren twirled from the trapeze and onto the net below. He took his time, helping set up the seats and moving props as Drugho began his crowning stunt. The gypsy leapt off the highest platform in a spinning flip and caught Kerlen’s hands as he swung upside down off a trapeze. The two men sailed back and forth with increasing speed before Drugho flipped away, catching and spinning off the hanging bars. Ahren held his breath as the gypsy flew upward, catching the lowest bar on his personal trapeze. The knot held as Drugho swung out over where the crowd would sit, then back around. The dark-skinned acrobat flipped upside down as he flew past again. His legs opened, readying for the final trick when the rope popped free, sending Drugho hurling out into the air. His arms flailed, trying to correct his fall as he crashed into the hard wooden benches.

  “Drugho!” Ahren yelled, racing to where his master had fallen. Blood ran down the gypsy’s face as he lay across one of the tipped benches, an arm bent sharply just above the elbow. No telling how many other bones were broken.

  “Is he all right?” Otto shouted as he and the other workers swarmed around them.