Mountain of Daggers

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Ahren slid his fingers along Drugho’s neck. “He’s alive. Someone get Yemda!”

  #

  “Saint Vishtin,” Fegmil muttered, stomping out of Drugho’s green and purple wagon. “A catastrophe.”

  “How is he?” Ahren asked.

  The small quellen looked up with a start to see Ahren sitting on a nearby barrel. “He’ll heal. But it’ll be months before he can perform.”

  Ahren sighed. “What do we do?”

  “You and Kerlen will have to step in for him. The show can never stop. Just check the rest of those ropes before you go.”

  “Kerlen and Vifel already did.”

  “Good.” Fegmil stood still, tugging his moustache. “You told me that you’d do anything I asked,” he said, apprehension accenting his voice.

  “Just tell me what you need done.”

  The circus master peered around them, then gestured Ahren to follow. They meandered through the narrow lanes and stopped between a pair of empty carts.

  “As you’ve seen, some of our income isn’t the honest type,” Fegmil said.

  “I’ve seen.” Ahren shrugged.

  Fegmil nodded. “A few cut purses help feed everyone, but that’s not enough to keep this show going. Sometimes we have to do something a little more daring.”

  Ahren leaned closer. A shiver slithered up his spine despite his ignorant façade. “How do you mean?”

  “By now you understand that we’re all a family… at least, I hope you do.”

  “I do,” Ahren assured.

  “Good. We have a lot of mouths to feed and a lot of expenses to keep everything together. There’s a good deal of talent in our family as well, talent that provides for everyone else.”

  “How?”

  Scratching his chin, Fegmil scanned around. “Burglary,” he whispered. “There’s but a few of us involved; the most trusted. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Drugho is part of it. But with his arm…”

  “What do you need me to do?” Ahren purred.

  Fegmil’s gray eyes twinkled. “After the show, we’ll give you the details. You’ve got four nights to get ready.” He patted Ahren on the leg. “Until then, get back to work.”

  #

  Felka blew a wisp of golden hair from her eyes and hurled her leaf-bladed dagger at the target board a dozen paces in front of her. It spun through the air and stuck into the pine planks with a hard thwack, severing the red string pulled tightly across it.

  “Wonderful,” Ahren said, clapping his hands. Approaching the board, he surveyed his own three blades jutting from the knife-chewed planks, the furthest no more than two finger-widths from his own intact string. Frustrated, he ripped the daggers free.

  “You’re getting better,” she said as Ahren handed her back her single blade. Hoots and cheers erupted outside the canvas-and-wagon wall circling the arena. Drenryck always drew applause from the mid-day crowd.

  “So are you,” he laughed. “Pretty soon, I’ll have to blindfold you if I’m to stand much chance of winning.”

  Felka’s sea blue eyes mischievously winked. “That could be interesting.”

  Ahren swigged water from his clay tankard on the bench beside them, then threw his first dagger. It thudded into the board, just a hair below the mocking red string.

  “Almost,” she said.

  Chewing his lip, Ahren readied his second dagger when Fegmil and Drugho strode through the flap into the ring.

  “Ahren,” the gypsy snapped. He carried his slung arm against his stomach like a tiresome burden. “Stop playing and get to your stretches. You have half an hour until your ale-stage performance.” His swollen purple eye had barely healed since his fall three days prior.

  “Right away,” Ahren said, still miming his throw.

  Fegmil gave a low cough as he sauntered over. “After the big show, change clothes and meet us in here. We’ll get a good look at where we’re going tomorrow night.”

  “Any hint as to what we’re doing?” Ahren asked.

  The little quellen shrugged. “Goldsmith.”

  Ahren hurled the dagger. The tip of the sharp blade buried into the plank and the cut string fluttered down. “I’ll be there.”

  #

  Weak applause celebrated Ahren’s success as he stepped off the tightrope and onto the twelve-foot tripod across the stage. “Thank you, thank you,” he said in Rhomanic. “If you enjoyed my act, the chink of coin is the best praise to hear. So enjoy the fair and the wonders from around the world, but don’t forget to catch the main show this evening in the arena.” A pair of young girls quickly circled around to the back of the crowd with open hats, begging for tips before the audience could easily escape.

  Ahren slid down a rope onto the stage and ripped off his hat with a flourish. He managed to coax a few copper from straggling patrons before enthusiastic, bell-ringing hawkers and the aroma of roasting lamb seduced them away.

  “Very impressive,” said a slender man, dropping a silver into Ahren’s hat. A purple scar running from the corner of his lip was all that marred his unassuming demeanor.

  “Thank you. I’m happy to have entertained you,” Ahren said with a smile.

  The gentleman scanned out over the fairgrounds. “Tell me. Would you mind showing me where to find the exotic birds? There’s one specimen I very much wish to see.”

  “Of course.” Ahren scooped the coins from his hat and pulled it back over his head. “Which one?”

  “The Black Raven.”

  Ahren chuckled, hiding the sudden tightening in his chest. “But all ravens are black.”

  A half-smile drew across the man’s thin lips as he pulled a bronze pendant partially out from under his open doublet. The Tyenee stamp marked the medallion’s face. “Not all of them.”

  “Ah,” he whispered, tension melting. “Let me take you there.”

  They slipped through the crowd beside one of the wheeled bird coops, halting where no one was. A group of young men stood cavorting at the neighboring tiger cage fifteen feet away.

  “My name is Karrem,” the man said, watching an icy blue parrot chew seeds from a clay bowl. “I came to find out how everything was faring. I assume by your little show that you haven’t found it yet.”

  “Not yet. But I’m close. I’ve infiltrated the thieves.”

  “Close isn’t what we need.” Karrem reached though the wire bars and stroked one of the bird’s long tail feathers. The irritated parrot waddled away down its perch. “You’ll be in Frobinsky in a just a few weeks. By then it’ll be too late.”

  The boisterous boys wandered over to where Ahren and Karrem stood. The two men casually strolled over to the tiger cage. The two massive cats lay inside, silently watching the newcomers.

  “We’re breaking into a goldsmith’s tonight,” Ahren muttered.

  “Luvrncheck’s?” Karrem asked, amused.

  He nodded. One of the tigers rolled to its feet and began pacing along the bars of its tiny cell.

  “How?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Ahren glanced back over his shoulder for anyone nearby. “Once we get the goods, I’ll see where they hide them. Then the Vuschkul’s Heart is ours.”

  “You have until tomorrow night,” Karrem growled. He cracked his knuckles slowly as a man and woman strolled past. “If you can’t get it before the circus leaves, the Tyenee have other methods of getting it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Highwaymen. It’s messy, but effective in emergencies.”

  Ahren swallowed at the thought of everyone being butchered over a single emerald. The green-eyed tiger stopped and stared at him, as if somehow understanding the possibility. “That won’t be necessary,” Ahren managed.

  “I hope not. I have a cooper shop by the Narenset Oratory within the city. Come there if you have any problems or once you have the stone.” Without another word, Karrem turned and walked away.

  #

  Shadows flickered across the nighttime arena, cas
t red under the light of lamps hanging along the inner walls. An orange half-moon peeked over the horizon. Tingles of excitement and anticipation ran across Ahren’s skin as he stepped through the flap. Fegmil stood beside one of the rough-hewn benches speaking to Achim and Bjornrek, while Kerlen, Otto, and Drenryck quietly listened.

  The circus master clapped his hands and smiled as he spied Ahren approaching. “There he is. Ready, my boy?”

  “I am,” Ahren said with a nod.

  “Perfect. There’s been a slight change.”

  Ahren’s brow creased. “What?”

  “Nothing important,” the quellen said with a dismissive wave. “Achim will accompany Drenryck on another errand, so Felka will be joining you as lookout. She’s readying the cart outside.”

  “I see.”

  “Good.” Fegmil tugged his graying moustache as he looked everyone over. “Make it fast. Good luck.”

  “We’ll be back in two hours,” Bjornrek said, rising to his feet. The massive Larstlander snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

  Ahren and Kerlen hurried after the hulking strongman out the back to where Felka waited beside the horse corral with a wooden cart filled with straw. She smiled as Ahren approached, then took the handles and followed them toward the city.

  “Are you ready for this?” she whispered over the squeaking wheels.

  Ahren nodded. “Have you done this before?”

  “Many times,” she chuckled.

  The city guards barely looked up from their posts as the four circus workers passed through the massive arched gates. Few travelers strolled the dark streets, gathering mostly at small pubs and taverns. The cartwheels bounced and shook down the winding, cobbled roads leading deeper into the city. A towering statue of a warrior, his sword raised to the heavens, stared silently down as the thieves passed through a square and followed a dark lane's gradual slope. Elaborate knockers of iron and bronze adorned the sturdy doors lining the streets. Birds erupted from a dark belfry as it chimed the hour. They swarmed around the onion-domed steeple until it fell silent, then returned to their roosts.

  The road leveled out and turned. After several more empty blocks the street split around an island of stone before coming back together. A square tower jutted up from the small slice of land. Granite posts connected by a thick twisted chain encircled the property, discouraging anyone from crossing the six-foot span between the street and the tower walls. Dark, narrow windows looked out from the second and third floors. Ironbound double-doors closed off the front of the fortress. Above them, a carved woman held a wooden sign by a golden chain.

  Luvrncheck’s held the reputation as the finest goldsmith in Kossintry if not all of Rhomanny. Its customers included nobles and kings, and it was said a wedding ring crafted by Luvrncheck’s smiths would ensure happy marriage and strong sons. As its renown grew, so did the threat of thieves. To protect themselves, the owners erected the imposing tower capable of staying off armed invaders, let alone courageous burglars. In its four century history, Luvrncheck’s had yet to be robbed.

  After checking that no one was on the streets, Felka stopped the cart along the curb beside the building. Stepping over the swinging chain, the three men hurried to the wall. Bjornrek dropped to his knees and Kerlen instantly mounted his shoulders. With a quick jump, Ahren hopped up onto the acrobat’s back and held his breath as the three of them all stood at once. The slit-like window above flew closer and Ahren grabbed onto the stone windowsill and clicked his tongue, signaling Kerlen to go. The slender man quickly scaled up Ahren’s body and slid through the narrow opening. His hand grabbed onto Ahren’s wrist and helped him inside.

  Blocky shapes loomed in the darkness. Allowing his eyes to adjust, Ahren slowly made out long tables strewn with braziers and unusual equipment mounted to the oaken planks. Rows of intricate tools lined the walls. He quietly wove his way through the workroom and listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he signaled Kerlen and the two men began rummaging through the workshop.

  Ahren ignored the gold chains laid out across the table beside him and moved to a massive iron-bound oak cabinet bolted against the far wall. Kerlen stuffed half-finished rings and other baubles into an empty sack as Ahren removed the picks from his pouch and began working on one of the three huge locks on the armoire doors.

  Kerlen had finished his looting and tossed the burlap sack out the narrow window by the time Ahren managed to pop open the difficult locks. The old hinges groaned as he pulled the heavy doors wide. Brass-handled drawers filled the interior. Ahren pulled one open and gasped to find it filled with small gold bars, not much larger than his thumb. Removing an empty bag from his belt, he scooped the heavy ingots and dropped them inside. He tied it shut and handed it to Kerlen before taking out the second empty sack. Ahren dumped the last of the gold bars into the bag and started on a drawer of silver ones as Kerlen barely glanced out the open window before dropping the treasure below.

  “You!” someone shouted outside. “What are you doing?”

  Ahren hurried to a narrow window to see a soldier racing to the cart where Felka and Bjornrek stood.

  The soldier jabbed a gloved finger at the bulging sack in Felka’s hands. “Thieves!”

  “You’re mistaken,” Bjornrek laughed, taking a step closer. The muscles beneath his dun shirt flexed, readying to strike.

  “Stop!” The soldier ripped his sword from its sheath. “Don’t move!”

  Biting her lip, Felka’s hands traced closer to a bulge at her waist. Her hesitation only affirmed Ahren’s suspicion she’d never used a blade for more than show. Ahren thought of the flat dagger hidden in his boot, but didn’t have time. Swinging the half-empty bag in his hand he hurled it down at the soldier still advancing toward the Northman.

  The heavy sack sailed down, smashing into the side of the guard’s helmet, knocking it from his head. Gold and silver bars exploded out, glinting briefly in the air before scattering across the cobbles like tinkling hailstones. Dropping his sword, the stunned soldier staggered and fell.

  “Quick,” Ahren hissed, turning to Kerlen beside him. “Down!”

  The two thieves slipped through the window, grabbed the bottom ledge, and dropped to the ground below. A sharp yelp came from behind. Ahren spun to see Bjornrek skewer the guard with his own sword.

  “Let’s go!” Ahren snapped at Kerlen, reaching for the small ingots scattered across the ground. Shouts of alarm came from the darkened streets behind them as the four thieves escaped up the road, hurrying for the city gates.

  #

  “Idiot,” Bjornrek growled after passing through the gate. “You didn’t see him walking down the street?”

  Kerlen remained silent, his eyes downcast.

  “We had to leave over half the gold, and could have been caught!” The Northman’s hateful glare could have crushed stone.

  Ahren held his tongue as he pulled the squeaking cart behind them. Kerlen’s carelessness was inexcusable, but no more than murdering the guard. The penalty for being caught had raised tenfold with the soldier’s death.

  “I want to thank you,” Felka whispered, jolting Ahren from his thoughts.

  “For what?” he snorted. “Losing half the treasure?” They turned off the dirt road and into the empty fairgrounds. Fat pigs stirred in their filthy pen as the thieves passed.

  “But I know why you did it,” she said flatly. “And I’m grateful.”

  Ahren guiltily smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Felka licked her lips. “You need to leave.”

  “What?”

  Felka swallowed. Her lip trembled as if struggling to speak. “Something bad is going to happen. You need to go.”

  Ahren’s brow creased in confusion at the young woman’s terrified expression.

  “Here we are,” Bjornrek said, stopping at the tigers’ caged wagon. Heavy locks hung from the lowered wooden awning, preventing anyone from seeing inside.

  “What do you mean?” Ahren asked.

  The gr
inning Larstlander pulled a brass key from his purse. “This is where we keep the treasure.” Hinges screeched as he opened the rear door. “Nice and safe.”

  Ahren backed away, waiting for one of the beasts to lunge from the shadows.

  “It’s safe,” Bjornrek laughed. “See for yourself.”

  Cautiously, Ahren approached the open door and peeked into the dark wagon. Something moved in the back. Squinting, he made out the shape of a man lying inside on the straw-strewn floor. The figure rolled over, revealing Karrem’s bloodied face staring back at him. Ahren’s eyes widened in terror. Something hard smashed into the back of his head and everything went black.

  #

  A muted scream roused Ahren from unconsciousness. His skull throbbed in dull pulsing pain. He reached up to feel the swollen lump, but coarse rope bound his hands behind him. Filthy straw came into focus as he opened his eyes. A hard thud followed by another muffled cry came from behind him. Rolling over, he found himself locked in the tiger cage, now inside the performance arena.

  A small crowd had gathered behind Achim. Karrem stood tied and gagged against a target board twenty feet before him. A dozen daggers protruded from his body. The curly haired knife-thrower twirled a slender blade in his hand before hurling it. The dagger whipped through the air and imbedded into oaken planks. Karrem’s severed finger fell to the ground to the roar of cheers and laughter. Icy terror flooded Ahren’s veins. He twisted against his tight bonds, trying to loosen them enough to reach the dagger he still felt hidden in his boot.

  Gerta, the tiger tamer’s wife, glanced away from the macabre entertainment and smiled as her gaze fell on Ahren. “He’s awake!”

  “There you are, my boy,” Fegmil said. “Just in time to see your friend’s finale.”

  “What is this?” Ahren demanded, twisting against the course rope.

  “Don’t you know?” the quellen laughed. “This is the final performance of the Black Raven.” Fegmil lifted a bulging sack. “Isn’t this what you were looking for, Black Raven?” He removed a sparkling green emerald the size of his small fist. The massive stone glittered in the orange lamplight. “We took you in, and you betrayed us.”