“He saved me in the city,” Felka shouted. Tears traced down her pale cheeks.
“No, child.” Achim drew another blade. “A hunter will spare a wolf if he thinks it will lead him to the pack.”
“Enough!” Fegmil yelled. “Achim, finish that one off. He bores me. It’s time for Ahren to pay for his crime.”
The knife thrower hurled his dagger into Karrem’s throat. Blood burst from around the blade as the wounded man struggled against his bonds. Bjornrek yanked open the tiger cage door, grabbed Ahren’s ankle, and dragged him out.
Ahren drew his legs tight, then kicked the strongman hard in the chest. Bjornrek’s grip loosened and Ahren twisted from his grasp.
“Get him!” Fegmil screamed.
His hands still bound, Ahren rolled from the lunging Northman and scrambled to his feet. Achim readied his dagger. As Ahren passed one of the thick trapeze poles, he feigned a stumble, lifting his chin and exposing his throat. The sharp blade flew through the air and Ahren ducked just in time for it to hit the wood behind him. Dodging another of Bjornrek’s swings, Ahren reached behind him, grabbed the dagger and cut his bonds.
An iron-like fist smashed into his jaw, sending him to the ground. Still holding the blade in one hand, he scooped up a fistful of dirt and lurched away before the Northman could grab hold. Leaping up, Ahren whirled around and threw the gritty dirt into Bjornrek’s eyes. Ahren ducked to the side and hurled his blade into Achim’s shoulder as the knife thrower prepared for another attack.
Furious cries filled the arena as the circus thieves charged. Shoving Kerlen aside, Ahren dove and tackled Fegmil to the ground. The heavy sack fell from the quellen’s grasp, spilling treasure across the trampled, straw-strewn track. A gem-encrusted gold eagle bounced out beside the Vuschkul’s Heart. Ahren scrambled for the massive emerald when he heard a terrible growl behind him. He spun around to see Gerta rip away her robe as she fell to her knees. Tiny pimples spread across her body, sprouting orange and black hairs. Frozen in horror, Ahren watched the woman’s mouth split open, and her teeth elongate into dagger-like fangs. Behind her, her son Liebren roared as he finished the same transformation.
Fegmil rolled to his feet and drew a short knife from his belt. “Kill him,” he ordered, kicking the gem from Ahren’s reach.
Ahren sprang to his feet and ran as the half-formed tigress lunged. He punched Drenryck in the gut as he raced past and seized the knotted rope hanging from the acrobat platform above. Clambering up the line, Ahren drew up his legs just as one of the tiger’s paws swiped past. Sweat beaded his brow and trickled into his eyes. The rope trembled and Ahren looked down to see Kerlen and one of the other acrobats climbing after him. Ahren reached the top and ripped the flat dagger from his boot. Fervently, he sawed the thick rope until it snapped under the two men’s weight, sending them sprawling to the ground below.
Ahern spied the green gem lying before one of the vodka wagons forming the ring. Grabbing a trapeze bar beside him, he leaped to the other side. The rope pulled taut, nearly jerking from Ahren’s sweating grasp. He swung wide out to the side and circled around, flying over the enraged mob, let go, and somersaulted through the air. Wood groaned and popped under his sudden weight as Ahren landed atop the wagon and rolled to his feet, almost sliding off the edge. The tigers charged toward him. Roaring and snapping, they clawed the wagon roof eaves. Bottles shattered inside as their heavy bodies knocked against the side, nearly tipping it over. Quickly, Ahren unhooked one of the lanterns hanging at his feet, barely avoiding one of the tigers blurring swipes. He hurled it down at the animals below him. Glass shattered and flaming oil exploded across the wagon, splattering into the beasts’ fur. The howling tigers sprang away and rolled, igniting the dry, straw-laden ground.
Ahren jumped off the burning wagon and snatched the emerald before the spreading flames could reach it. He dropped to his knees as a wooden bench sailed past. It smashed into a cargo wagon, knocking its hanging lantern to the ground. Bjornrek grabbed another empty bench and charged, holding it like a ram. Springing to the side, Ahren rolled away as the screaming Northman plowed past. Bjornrek swung the bench like a great club. It whooshed inches from Ahren’s head, fanning his hair. He dove forward, shouldering the strongman as Bjornrek awkwardly tried to correct the wild swing. Dropping the heavy bench, Bjornrek crashed backward into the burning oil-soaked hay.
A thunderous crack rang from Drenryck’s leather whip. His face contorted in rage, the tiger tamer lashed it out. Ahren threw up his arm to shield himself and searing pain exploded as the whip split it open. Drenryck brought the whip back for another strike, but Ahren hurled his flat dagger into the beast master’s gut.
Smoke flooded the arena as wind-fueled flames spread across the stretched canvas walls, igniting the other wagons. Shouts and cries came from both sides of the ring as circus workers struggled trying to contain the spreading blaze. Ahren’s watering eyes burned under the thickening smoke. Coughing, he grabbed hold of a nearby wagon and pulled himself to the top. Orange fire sheeted along the wagon’s outer side as the burning cloth-covered wall ignited the wooden eaves. Ahren jumped over the licking tongues of fire and rolled to his feet.
Horses whinnied inside their lashed corral as smoke and orange embers blew across the wide field. Ahren hopped the creaking fence and reached for one of the chestnut stallions when a voice screamed behind him.
“Son of a whore!” Otto marched toward him, clutching a rusty cleaver-like hatchet. He chopped the ropes binding the corral gate closed and threw it open. “I’ll kill you!”
Ahren stepped back, scanning the ground for something to defend himself with. The bald man charged, holding the hideous weapon high. He reared back to swing but suddenly staggered. The cleaver fell from his fingers and Otto eyes went empty. He fell to the ground, twitching, a dagger handle jutting from the back of his skull. Ahren looked up to see Felka standing, silhouetted in the fiery glow, an unsheathed dagger in her hand. Their eyes met and they stood silently locked in each other’s gaze as panicked screams for water echoed around them. She raised the dagger, ready to throw, but stopped.
Keeping his eyes on hers, Ahren grabbed the restless stallion and swung himself onto its back. She remained still. Glass shattered and flames plumed from one of the burning vodka wagons.
“Come with me,” he said, extending his hand.
The uncertainty in her eyes melted and she lowered her blade.
Ahren edged the impatient steed closer. “Let’s go.”
She took his arm and he pulled her behind him. She held tight to Ahren’s hips and he kicked his heels into the horse’s sides. Thick smoke blanketed across the grassy fields. They rode from the city, the galloping hooves drowning out the cries. Her arms circled snugly around him as they crested a low hill, leaving the burning ruin of the Darclyian Circus behind.
Born of Darkness
The soft strum of the minstrel’s dulcimer trickled through the dim tavern below the steady drone of voices and clinking tankards. Burning logs popped and crackled in the fireplace behind the bearded performer, casting long shadows across the room. Smoky tallow candles, mounted on unsanded columns flickered dimly. Dice clattered across a table, followed by hoots and laughter from the huddled audience.
Seated in a far corner, beneath the stairs to the second floor, Ahren sipped his lukewarm ale. Carelessly, he gazed over the decades of graffiti scratched across the weathered table. Shadows wormed across the booth’s wall. Ahren pretended not to see them. He sighed, then finished his clay tankard and slid it to the table edge. After weeks aboard ship, sailing to the city of Destri to deliver a strongbox for the Tyenee, a solitary ride across the country to Ralkosty was just what he needed.
A beer maid set a tankard brimming with stale swill on the table. Ahren handed her a pair of coppers and the weary-eyed wench winked, snatched his empty cup, and hurried away with a swish of her blue skirts. Her shadow from the candles behind her seemed to hesitate for a brief instant before fleeing under t
he direct light. Ahren shook his head and swigged the tankard, dismissing the animated shades as the products of ale and exhaustion.
It wasn’t the first time he had witnessed sentient shadows. He could still see Katze’s soft face, framed between black curls. No woman had ever haunted his memories as she did. And no woman ever would again.
“Pardon me, good sir,” said a boisterous voice.
Startled, Ahren turned to see a stout, square-bearded quellen standing beside the table. At almost four feet, he stood taller than most of his kind. Muscles bulged beneath the quellen’s tan shirt and his short arms appeared even thicker than Ahren’s.
“Yes?” Ahren said.
“My name is Wyrin.” The sour reek of wine wafted from his mouth. He removed a bulging leather satchel from his shoulder and set it on the table with a metallic chink. “I’m a blacksmith and wanted to show you some of my wares.”
Tradesmen moving from table to table in a tavern were hardly uncommon. Most peddled only small crafts or hocked their personal belongings trying to settle a gambling debt. A few attempted fencing stolen merchandise. But not once had a blacksmith ever approached him in an inn. Ahren gestured to the seat opposite him. “What do you have?”
The quellen hopped up into the seat and shifted nervously before untying the sturdy bag. “Something for everyone,” he said, spilling the contents partially across the table. “Spring traps, buckles, ax heads, anything you want.”
Ahren picked up a polished ring set in a crude wooden case. He ran his finger along the twisted woven design etched around the sides and the wide top. Ahren pressed a tiny nub on the side and a small hooked blade, no larger than a fingernail, sprung open.
“Ah, that.” Wyrin chuckled, dabbing the beads of sweat from his face. “Not overly useful, but effective if needed.”
“How much?” Ahren pushed the blade closed until the release button popped back into place.
“Two bishkas.”
Ahren’s brow rose. Any reasonable smith would demand at least twice that had they crafted it themselves. But the ring’s true origin didn’t concern him. He removed a pair of gold coins from his purse and handed them to the fidgety quellen.
Wyrin’s gaze darted to the bar room and then back to Ahren. “If you liked that ring, you might find this interesting.” He handed over a simple dagger sheathed in a dun leather scabbard.
Drawing the blade, Ahren rolled the checker-carved grip down his palm and held it tight. “Very nice.” He slid his finger down the deep groove running along the blade. “Good balance.”
“Not as flashy as some like, but that’s the idea. Twist the pommel.”
Ahren turned the mushroom-shaped knob capping the back end and one half of the dagger’s wooden handle opened, revealing a hollow cavity nestled inside. His eyes widened in impressed surprise. He felt along the inside of the smooth niche set through the tang and along the inside of the wood grip on the other side. Carefully, he closed the hinged door and twisted the pommel back into the original position, leaving no sign of the hidden compartment.
Wyrin held out his hand and accepted the dagger back. “I’ll wager a man such as yourself might find use for something like that. You’ll never find another like it.”
“What do you want for it?”
Sucking his lip, the fidgety quellen opened and shut the handle several times before answering. “Eight bishkas.”
Ahren set the coins on the table without a moment’s hesitation.
Wryin snatched the gold up and handed Ahren the blade. “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure doing business. If you are interested in any more of my goods, you should come to my shop.” He quickly swept the other merchandise back into his satchel and hurried off. The shadows inside the booth seemed to slink away as the quellen left.
The shadowy image of a woman’s soft face seemed to appear then vanish in the corner of Ahren’s eye. He blinked and stared at the spot the apparition had been, but saw nothing. Grabbing his tankard, he gulped it empty, trying to wash away the already ale-fueled paranoia and bitter memories. Years before, when he had been an initiate into the Tyenee, he’d thwarted Dolch, a ruthless thief lord with the demon-possessed powers of darkness. Only a few months back they’d met again, the moving shadows returning after Dolch had tracked him to Lichthafen, killing his beloved Katze on a savage quest for vengeance.
Forcing his attention elsewhere, he picked up his newest purchase. The fine dagger itself would have fetched six bishkas in any city. The well hidden compartment would double that. Ahren twirled it between his fingers, enjoying its exquisite balance. He twisted the pommel, opening the hidden compartment, and a folded scrap of parchment fell onto the table. Puzzled, he picked it up and read the two words written inside.
Help me.
#
A cool wind blew down the dirt road, fluttering Ahren’s hair and rustling the leaves above, as he followed the lane to the blacksmith’s shop. The shop itself appeared normal in the moonlight. Yet the round, two-story house against it stood so low that Ahren could touch the eaves with little effort. His fingers slid closer to the dagger at his belt as he stooped and knocked on the sturdy door. A small inset window squeaked open, spilling light across Ahren’s face.
Wryin’s gray eyes peered through the small portal. “Ah, you came!” A bolt clicked on the other side and the small door swung open. “Please, please. Come inside.”
“I came to see your other wares,” Ahren said as he ducked though the low doorway into a room a few inches lower than himself. The heavy smell of smoke filled the humble house, fed by the dozens of candles and oil lamps burning from every shelf and tabletop. Polished beaten plates rested beneath many of the burning tapers, collecting spilt wax and reflecting their light in every direction.
The quellen smiled nervously as if trying to play down the excessive décor. “Can I get you something to drink?” He picked up a pewter mug and filled it from an open clay bottle from his small dinner table.
Ahren held up the tiny folded note. “What is this about?”
Wryin’s hand trembled as he set the bottle back down with a thud. “I’m damned. Cursed.”
Ahren’s brow rose. “Cursed?”
“Yes.” He handed the drink to Ahren and sat in one of the simple chairs beside the table. “Citavnah, the witch, she’s cursed me. Damned me to torment.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and gulped two mouthfuls down.
Eager to leave the frustratingly small room, Ahren glanced at the door. Listening to the insane ramblings of a drunken quellen was not how he wished to spend his evening.
“Don’t think me mad." Wryin leaned closer and whispered, "The shadows are watching me."
Ahren froze. His notion to leave now washed away in tingling fear. “The shadows?”
The blacksmith nodded. “They follow me. I see them creeping beneath trees, and in windows. They lurk everywhere, surrounding me, waiting for darkness to fall so they can swarm. Don’t tell me you can’t see them!”
Ahren lowered himself onto a small stool. “How did it happen?”
Wryin swigged the bottle again. “Taddia, my wife, she’d grown gravely ill. Priests, healers, no one could help her. She was dying. I couldn’t just stand by, so I went to Citavnah. The villagers would ridicule me for it, but they didn’t have to watch her suffer. If you love someone, truly love them, you’d do anything for them, wouldn’t you?”
Ahren nodded. He lifted the tankard and sipped the bitter vodka.
“Citavnah said she’d help me. She said I’d never lose my Taddia if I followed her instructions. The witch gave me a black gem and told me to fashion it in a curved knife. I could only work on it at night and had to burn the bones of a dead man in my forge, then mix Taddia’s blood in the water. So I did it.” He ran his hand across his mouth. “I made her the best blade I’d ever forged and when I returned to the witch’s house she told me to hurry home and my wife would be with me always.”
“What happened?”
“She w
as dead in our bed when I returned. Gone.” He drew a long breath as tears welled in his eyes. “That night, the shadows in our house began to move. Not much at first. I thought it was the ale, but then they became more. I saw Taddia’s face in them, watching me from the ceiling beams and under the table. I can hear her voice at night calling for me. Cursing me. I’ve damned her,” he sobbed.
“Have you told anyone about this?
“That I made a deal with a witch?” he laughed. “No. ‘Wryin got what he deserved,’ they’d say, right before they burned me. It’s been three weeks. I can’t work in my forge, there’s shadows everywhere. So I decided to find someone from outside. Someone who won’t think me mad. Someone who can kill that evil witch for what she’s done.”
“But why me?” Ahren leaned closer. “There were others in the bar. Three men traveling to Ralkosty; surely they could help you.”
“I thought about it,” Wryin said, tears running down his leathery cheeks. “But then I saw the shadows. The shadows that follow you.”
Ahren swallowed, icy fear creeping up his spine.
“No one sees the shadows following me. No one. But I know you did, and I can see yours. You’re damned like me.”
A dark tendril wove across the far wall as one of the sputtering candles dimmed. Tingles slithered along the nape of Ahren’s neck, urging him to look behind him. Turning his head, he spied a flicker of movement in his own shadow cast from the lamp beside him. He jumped to his feet, nearly cracking his head against the low ceiling. Light spilled across the floorboards, sending the shades fleeing back to the corners and beneath the furniture.
Panting, Ahren gulped down the rest of the tankard. “Tell me where to find this Citavnah. I’ll leave in the morning.”
#
Small crimson birds chirped and fluttered in the treetops as Ahren rode down the narrow road the blacksmith had told him to follow. Beams of early sunlight shone through the branches, casting long shadows across the hard-packed trail. The peaceful morning did little to quell Ahren’s foreboding dread. Whatever this witch was, Ahren couldn’t help but doubt the mere circumstance of meeting Wryin in the tavern. Where does chance and manipulation meet? Was it fate which gave me the desire to ride across the countryside instead of sailing around? Was the decision to stop in this particular village truly my own?
Mountain of Daggers Page 21
