The
Savage Nobles
(Part One)
Stolen Dagger
SHAWN WICKERSHEIM
Copyright © 2018 Shawn Wickersheim
Digital Edition, License Notes
Published by Shawn Wickersheim
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Art Design: J. Caleb Clark
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
For my family,
but especially for my wife,
Tracy
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the many writer-friends who have provided their guidance, encouragement, critiques and the occasional caffeinated beverage during the creation of this novel, specifically Lorijo Metz, Hal Shepherd, and Tina P. Schwartz. Thank you all so very much for everything you’ve done.
Also, because of the strange order of events in which I’ve written these novels, I’d like to thank my two children, Alex and Anna, first for being wonderfully behaved babies so I had the opportunity to write the first couple of drafts of The Rush of Betrayal (the original title) while they napped and now for being wonderfully behaved kids who allow me the time to write every day after we’ve gone for a bike ride or played a game or two or simply just hung out. Thank you both for being great kids!
Thanks also to my mom and dad and my immediate family for their love and support and for listening to me talk about this strange fantasy world I’ve created.
Many thanks to author Dyrk Ashton for providing me with an awesome book blurb and to the talented J Caleb Clark for the incredible design work on the new book covers.
I’d also like to say thank you to all my wonderful fans for your kind reviews and for helping to spread the word about me and my books on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads and on your personal blogs and websites. I am so happy you’ve enjoyed my books and I will do my best to continue to entertain you and to publish quality work. That is my promise to you.
And last, but not least, a very special thank you to my wife, Tracy, for her unconditional love and for her continued support of my writing dream. I would not be the man I am today without her, and not the writer I am without her firm but gentle prodding from time to time to ‘just get the book done already’. I love her beyond words. Thank you, Tracy, for your love, your patience, your kindness and for always being there for me. I will be eternally grateful for having you in my life.
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Chapter 1
A haunting human cry pierced the hooded man’s thoughts and sent uncontrollable tremors throughout his body. He cocked his head to one side and held his breath as the tormented wail rose in pitch and tone until his own lungs screamed for air. And then the tortured cry cut short. Thundering silence filled the night so quickly he gasped. Tears welled, and he blinked them away.
What a superb talent to create such raw and painful emotions in another!
Tentacles of jealousy threatened to latch onto him, but the hooded man brushed them aside. He had no time for this kind of indulgence. Still, he found himself hoping to hear more. Disappointment found him instead. Sighing through his teeth, he leaned against the whitewashed wall of the three-story warehouse behind him and glanced up at the distant stars. Lost in his dark reverie, he hadn’t noticed how far the constellations had traveled across the heavens. His gloved hands tightened into fists. The man he was meeting was late.
A stiff wind whipped across the crescent-shaped bay and drove toward Belyne’s shore, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea. It caught the trailing edge of his cloak, tugged at it mischievously and then let it drop as it moved further inland up the hill and among the city proper. The hooded man shivered against the growing cold and considered finding a more sheltered location but the clatter of approaching footsteps echoing down the deserted cobblestone road kept him rooted in place. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself and faded into the shadows.
The plodding footsteps drew nearer until finally a large man appeared out of the darkness. He was heavy in the middle, with a waddling, bowlegged gait, and every couple of steps he’d kick a rock loose and send it skipping down the street.
“You’re late,” the hooded man said with just a bit of edge to it.
“Oh!” The fat man clutched at his chest. “I’ve asked you not to do that!’
The hooded man didn’t say anything.
“I . . .” The fat man’s head jerked left, right, searching the darkness. “I couldn’t get away sooner.”
“You should have tried harder.”
The fat man spun around, still searching. “Where are you, Lord-?”
“I’ve told you before, no names!” He emerged wraith-like from the shadows. “Names tend to carry on the wind.”
“Oh. Yes.” The fat man’s nose wrinkled. “Speaking of the wind, must we meet down here? The dockside air is so foul.”
“Have you brought the documents I require?” He cared not for the other’s discomfort.
The fat man swallowed hard and fumbled for something inside his cloak. Beneath his own, the hooded man’s gloved fingers tightened comfortably around the hilt of his sword. If he were being double-crossed, he’d kill the other man in an instant, regardless of his station. The fat man withdrew a bone scroll case. Its white surface shimmered in the faint moonlight.
“I told you not to use bone.” The hooded man put a little more edge to his words.
The fat man shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling casually beneath his cloak. “What does it matter?”
The hooded man launched himself across the narrow road. One hand wrapped around the case, the other closed around the fat man’s fleshy neck.
“From now on, you will do as I say, precisely as I say, or you will find yourself impaled on my sword.” He slammed the fat man against the opposite building hard. “Do you understand?”
Eyes bulging, the man struggled to nod.
The hooded man stepped back. The pungent stench of the fat man’s fear filled the air between them.
“W . . . what now?”
In one fluid motion, the hooded man pulled a dagger from his belt and pressed the tip against the fat man’s double chin. “Upon my order, you will ram this into your father’s chest all the way up to the hilt.”
“Th . . . that isn’t what we planned.”
“Plans change.”
“I never agreed to-”
The tip of the dagger twitched. The fat man stiffened. His nostrils flared. A drop of blood eased down the weapon’s sharp edge.
“Upon my order,” the hooded man repeated, “you will ram this into your father’s chest, all the way up to the hilt.” He spun the dagger around in his hand and held it out in front of the other man’s face. “And you will leave it there for everyone to see.”
He studied the fat man’s eyes. Recognition of the dagger’s unique ornamental design dawned slowly within their frightened, pale green depths.
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“How did you get that?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pushed the dagger into the fat man’s hands. “Just do as you’re told.”
“But . . . why frame Lord Ian Weatherall for murder? Why not just kill him and move on?”
“Because . . .” The hooded man fell silent. He had asked himself those very same questions countless times before and the answers were always the same. Death would be too kind and too quick for the bastard responsible for ruining his life! No, he would crush him instead, strip him of his pride, destroy everything he held dear, frame him for murder, and then use his coerced confession to achieve a goal far greater than anyone could possibly imagine. But he didn’t want just anyone knowing his complex plans.
“Because,” he began again, deriving a bit of pleasure from the irony of his words, “I’ve always found the act of killing to be a simple one, performed by simple-minded men, haven’t you?”
And before the fat man recognized the insult, the hooded man slipped into the shadows and faded from sight.
Chapter 2
“Listen to me, gods-dammit!” Hans Mesbone called out, once again trying to gain the attention of the unruly crowd milling about inside his warehouse. “I know you all haven’t been happy lately, but this here job-”
“I didn’t join th’ Bloody Fists t’ work guard duty!” one man shouted. “If I’d wanted t’ do tha’ I would’ve stayed with th’ city patrol.”
Similar protests sounded from all corners of the warehouse. Mesbone patted the air to shut them up but failed. The rotten bastards just wouldn’t listen. He shook his head and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. Maybe he had grown soft over the years. In his younger days, he would’ve slit the throats of anyone who mouthed off and moved on, but truth be told, he was just plain tired of the endless dock wars and gang skirmishes, being hired one month to raid a warehouse, only to be contracted the next to steal the same stuff back again. All the lifting and moving, the aches and pains, it just wasn’t worth the aggravation anymore. There was still profit to be made, sure, but the thrill of the mercenary life was long gone and the void it left made him feel old and tired.
“This Lord is paying double,” Mesbone shouted, hoping to appeal to their greed.
Lord Ian Weatherall was actually paying triple for the job, but Mesbone was gonna take the extra share all for himself. He was gonna make a clean break, get the hell out of the city and head somewhere warm. He liked the idea of living out the rest of his days basking in the sun. Perhaps he’d head north to Seneice, or better yet, cross the ocean and seek out Bel’yowlye. Like most people, he’d heard stories of the great paradise city perched on the edge of the sea. Thinking about it now nearly brought a smile to his worn-out face.
“Lipscombe promised us better pay if we join him,” a voice called out from the back.
Crap and damnation! The dream of retiring flew right out of his head. Ever since that gods-damned sailor had wormed his way into the Bloody Fists he’d caused nothing but trouble, and now with the bastard slave-trading on the side, things had only gone from shitty to whatever was worse than shitty. There was gold to be made in that kind of work, but Mesbone hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. Despite all the despicable things he’d done over the years, there were still a few lines he refused to cross.
Lines meant nothing to Lipscombe.
The only good that came from his slave-trading was the bastard was often gone from Belyne. His recent return from yet another raid on the islands had already caused a fair bit of trouble though. Just this morning, one of Mesbone’s oldest friends had come at him with a knife when he’d refused to let him join Lipscombe’s crew. Gods-dammit all, he hadn’t wanted to put his friend in the ground, but it wasn’t like he’d been given much of a choice. He couldn’t let that kind of betrayal stand. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he swept the room with his hard gaze. He couldn’t let this kind of disloyalty stand either. Not anymore. It was time to put things straight. Either these rotten bastards were going to listen, or he would start cutting throats again.
“I am Hans Mesbone, leader of the Bloody Fists!” he roared.
Faces turned. The room quieted. Hans Mesbone stood tall, head held high. He was a lone wolf surrounded by a pack of hungry dogs and if he faltered now, he was done for. He knew it. They knew it. Gods-dammit all! It was time he showed them this wolf still had teeth.
“I am your master, not Lipscombe,” he said. The hairs on his neck rose. Was the old thrill coming back? “You will damn well do as I damn well say! That’s a lesson Lipscombe will learn once he-”
A sharp pain erupted in the center of Mesbone’s back as a blade of cold metal bore through him and exploded out the center of his chest.
“Yer wrong ‘bout me learnin’ tha’ lesson, Hansy.” Lipscombe’s hot, sour breath brushed against his left ear. “Dead wrong.”
The blade twisted violently and jerked back out. Mesbone teetered forward on wobbly legs. No one moved to help him. The fucking rotten bastards just stood there and watched.
“Gods-damn you all to hell,” he slurred, blood dribbling from his lips. His knees buckled, and he fell sideways. His face slapped against the ground. Funny, he’d always figured the stone floor would have been colder . . . and dryer.
Chapter 3
“I told you, I’m not going!” Lady Cecily Weatherall said. She was seated in front of her vanity and brushing her long blonde hair. “And that’s final.”
Lord Ian Weatherall stood behind her, hands clasped behind his back as he studied her reflection in the mirror. Instead of being dressed for Lord Pilarro’s spring gala, she was wearing a sheer robe over a silk nightgown. Both were the same emerald shade of green as her unaffectionate eyes. Had they always been this cold? His thoughts skipped back through the years. When exactly had he recognized her first look of disdain? Perhaps if he could remember the time he could . . . he could . . . what? What could he do about it now?
She avoided his gaze as the silence between them stretched until the air itself grew taut. Was she aware of it? She seemed so intent on brushing her hair. One hundred strokes. Two hundred. How long could she ignore him? Once upon a time, a long time ago, he’d enjoyed watching her comb her hair. He would buy her the most expensive brushes, though he never recalled her ever using them. She only ever used the brush she was using now, the one with the tarnished silver handle and the chipped red rose painted on the back. Now, he almost wished she were bald.
“We are expected,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even and calm. He ran a hand through his fine black hair and adjusted his bothersome cravat. “After the fiasco at the spring joust, I think . . .” Her brushing stopped. He had her attention now, though this was not the best approach to take to change her mind. Why did his tongue always betray him this way? “. . . I think it best if we make an appearance and show everyone-”
“Must you bring that up again?” Cecily snapped. The already hard angles of her face somehow sharpened further. “Nothing happened.”
“I know what I saw,” Ian pressed. He wanted to sew his lips together but once he’d begun the familiar argument he found it impossible to stop. “You and Lord Orrington were not exactly discreet!”
“Nothing! Happened!” She shouted, exaggerating the enunciation of each syllable. “It’s all just your twisted imagination!”
“You were in his arms!” Shut up, his brain was screaming at him, just shut up! He ought to cut his useless tongue out and offer it to her in trade for her appearance at the gala tonight.
Cecily spun around in her chair. Her eyes found his for the first time since he’d entered her room and the look she gave him caused him to take a step back. “Even IF it were true, why do you care?”
“I . . . I’m only thinking about how this will affect Tyran and . . .”
“Of course, you are.”
“And . . . you’re still my wife,” he finished awkwardly. He tugged at his cravat. The damn thing was choking him again.
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“In name only, wouldn’t you say?” She stood and brushed past him on her way to the door. “I’d like you to leave now.”
“What about the gala?” Perhaps he should let his cravat strangle him.
Cecily’s ruby lips flattened into an annoyed line. “For the last time, I’m. Not. Going!” She flung the door open, and stood aside, one hand planted on her shapely hip.
Ian stared at her for a long moment. He knew by the defiant expression on her face she would not change her mind. It was an expression that after nearly fifteen years of marriage, he’d grown to know and despise. He knew it and yet he knew he wasn’t going to let the matter drop. Not yet.
“Lady Pilarro will be devastated if you do not come.” Perhaps an appeal to her sense of compassion might work.
“I don’t care.”
“Then come for the king.” Perhaps she would be swayed by her sense of duty. “He would be pleased to see you again.”
A dark shadow passed over Cecily’s face, and Ian immediately realized his grave mistake. “I think I’ve done enough to please my grandfather, don’t you?” She meant of course their arranged marriage. He should have known better than to bring up the king. He had no rebuttal ready, no way to deflect her question. Dammit. Why did his words always spill out at the wrong time when they talked and fail him completely when they were most needed? When they talked? No, that wasn’t right. When they argued, he amended. Talked would have been an improvement. Cecily gestured sharply at the open door. “You need to leave, now!”
Ian recognized his absolute defeat. It was as familiar to him as was his own face and he didn’t need a mirror to see it. He buttoned up his mouth and stalked out of her room. The door slammed shut behind him. His chin dropped. He walked across the hall and pressed his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes and just stood there until he realized he couldn’t breathe. He straightened, grabbed his cravat and yanked it free. At least he wouldn’t have to wear this damn annoying necktie all night long!
Stolen Dagger Page 1