Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  “Stop . . .” he muttered.

  Lord Ragget’s brow wrinkled. He reclined in his throne and cocked his head slightly to one side. A blond comma of hair slipped down and fell across his face.

  “You studied at the Belyne Military Academy for Boys.”

  It was a statement of fact rather than a question, and it caught Garett off guard. He nodded without thinking.

  Set me free, Delila’s breathy voice chanted in his mind. Set me free. Set me free.

  “You were expelled after ten years,” Lord Ragget continued, staring up at him from beneath his thick blond eyebrows, “for burning down one of the wings and killing twelve boys.”

  Garett swallowed. He didn’t know how Lord Ragget had learned all this. “Delila got a bit out of control,” he sputtered. His mouth was suddenly parched, and he found it hard to hold the lord’s stern gaze. Sweat soaked through his shirt and trickled down his back dampening the rear of his trousers as well.

  “I thought you were the one in control.”

  “I am!” Garett said with some difficulty.

  Set me free. Set me free. Let me feed on him. I will stop his questions! I’ll burn his tongue out . . .

  “Are you sure?” A faint smile creased the corners of Lord Ragget’s mouth. “You don’t look well.”

  Garett mopped at his sweaty brow. “Enough questions!” He thrust his hand out and Delila’s form began to swell. “Pay me my wage now. No, double it, yes double it or I will release her upon you and your estate,” he laughed jubilantly. “No, triple. Pay me triple. Triple for all your stupid questions!” The fiery rage touched his eyes and altered his vision. The room, Lord Ragget, the desk, all of it was suddenly surrounded by an orange hew, a ring of fire encircling each image. “Or all of this will burn!” He waved his free hand in the air to encompass the entire estate.

  Lord Ragget picked up the crossbow. “Do you know what this bolt will do to your heart at this range?” He leveled the weapon at Garett’s chest. “My sweet, raspberry-scented maid will have a time cleaning what remains of it off the wall behind you.”

  Garett snorted. “Delila will protect me!”

  Lord Ragget shrugged and pulled the trigger.

  The deadly bolt leapt through the air. Garett had no chance to move or breathe. At the last possible instant, Delila shot out of his hand and intercepted the bolt. A moment too late, Garett noticed the bolt’s unusual tip.

  Delila, no!

  But even his thoughts were too slow.

  The bolt slammed into the fire elemental’s chest and the wood immediately turned to ash. Let me feed on him now . . .

  The tip of the bolt, buried deep inside her now, melted and released the water elemental trapped within it. Her scream ended just as quickly as it began. Nothing remained of Delila except a puff of white steam which dissipated into the air with a hiss. The two opposing elemental creatures had destroyed each other instantly.

  “Delila!” Garett shrieked.

  A cold breeze whipped through the window and something sharp and tiny struck his neck. Turning toward the pain, he spied a nebulous figure stepping out from behind the billowing drapes. Garett hadn’t noticed anyone there earlier. He turned back to Ragget and saw the lord rising above him. Or was he falling? Garett reached out to steady himself against the desk, but his hand slapped against the polished edge and the world turned sideways as he hit the floor. The black furry rug brushed against his face. The shadowy figure by the window stepped closer and muttered something foul and archaic. Garett didn’t understand the words, but he knew it was foreign magic.

  He tried to move. His arms and legs were no longer obeying him. Beneath him, the rug shifted. His mind screamed for him to act. Get up! Move! Get up now!

  The edges of the rug curled over him. Darkness enveloped him. Garett opened his mouth to scream and gagged on fur.

  Chapter 27

  Lord Ragget watched as the carpet constricted around the young fire mage. After a moment, he glanced over at the other man. “Is it done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he contained? He cannot somehow burn his way out?”

  The other man seemed to move from one shadow to the next, or perhaps he created a shadow around himself, either way, Lord Ragget could not make out his face or features, simply a rough outline. He glanced at the lamps in the room. They were all still glowing brightly.

  “He is contained.” The man stooped to pick up the rolled-up rug. As he did, it shrank in size until it appeared to be nothing more than a dark, silk handkerchief.

  “Is there a limit to how much that rug of yours can hold?” Lord Ragget asked. He settled back in his throne.

  The shadowy man folded the handkerchief carefully and tucked it into his leather vest pocket. He acted like he didn’t hear the last question.

  “Gylfalen, is there a limit to-”

  “I heard you the first time,” the man said quietly. “You’re paying me to do a job, not answer unnecessary questions. If there is a limit, it’s none of your concern. You have advised me of my tasks and I have told you I am capable of performing them.”

  Lord Ragget’s full lips tightened into a thin line. He was not accustomed to such impertinence. For the sake of his plans, he decided not to reprimand the shadowy wind mage, but he would not forget the man’s words either. He pushed the fallen comma of hair back off his forehead. “Here,” he snatched the golden key off his desk and tossed it to the mage. Gylfalen caught it easily. “You will need this for the last one.”

  Gylfalen studied the key for a moment, running a lone finger up and down its length. Lord Ragget thought he glimpsed the man’s pointy teeth and a hint of a cruel smile.

  “Is there something funny about it?”

  Gylfalen shook his head.

  Faint lines creased Lord Ragget’s smooth brow. “Are we a key shy?” he leaned forward and rested his dimpled chin on his tented fingers. “That is the only one she gave me.”

  “This is the main key. There should have been another one, a ‘dark twin’, as I like to call it,” Gylfalen pocketed the key and chuckled. “Apparently, he did not give her the second one. Interesting . . .” He moved back to the open window. “But not a problem. When the time comes, I’ll manage.”

  “Make sure you do!” Lord Ragget called to his retreating back.

  The long ivory curtains billowed inward as the night wind gusted into the room. The lamps nearest the window went out. Shadows swelled, and within the span of an eye blink, Gylfalen was gone.

  Alone now, Lord Ragget reached under his shirt and removed a chain from around his neck. A small silver key dangled from one end. He unlocked his lowest desk drawer and pulled it open. Pushing aside a bone scroll case, he removed a thick stack of letters tied together with an emerald-colored ribbon. He held the letters to his aquiline nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. Her scent lingered still, very faint, and the memory of it carried him back to an earlier time when he could enjoy the fragrance of her perfume whenever he chose. He remembered the intoxicating aroma of his pillows and sheets after she had risen from their trysts. As he lay cocooned in her scent, she would glide naked from their loving bed out onto the marble balcony overlooking the city. Shamelessly, she would stand there, day or night, and entice him to come out and join her. He would reach for his robe, but she would laugh playfully and shake her head. Then with a flip of her hand, she’d toss her long, blonde hair back over her shoulder, turn and lean out over the railing, arms outstretched as if she were going to fly away. The first time she had done that, he had run to her, forgetting his nakedness, thinking she had lost her balance. His muscular arms wrapped around her, pulling her back to safety . . . he remembered the sensation of her naked backside pressed firmly against his naked groin. His cock had swelled immediately. She had reached between her legs and grasped him. Guided him back inside her. He gripped her hips as she arched her back. Each thrust drove him deeper inside. She glanced over her shoulder. Smiled. Always her blissful smile.

/>   His breath caught in his throat. He lowered the letters, reverently placed them on the desk and untied the emerald ribbon. Gingerly, and with the utmost care, he unfolded the first and began to read. Her graceful script, full of flowing curves and gentle loops, reminded him of her tender, lithe body and the way she moaned when he slid his fingers down her warm, supple skin.

  He read the first few lines, imagining her mellifluous voice reciting the words of love and dropped the letter, heartbroken. Soon he would hear her say those words again. Soon. He pushed himself back and away from the desk and moved to the open window. Far below stretched Belyne, his once beautiful city, the Jewel of the South. Street lamps twinkled to life as the night crew of lamp lighters scurried along the many boulevards, starting on the west side and slowly working their way down the hill east toward the docks. Amidst the shadows, the foul blight inflicting his city continued to grow. But he would restore Belyne to her former greatness. He would not allow the foul stain diminishing his city to spread any further. In that, he was resolute. Belyne would be beautiful again.

  A sharp wind whipped down from the Uldran Mountains and blew past him. He turned and watched in horror as the stack of letters fluttered into the air. Struggling free of the billowy curtains, he slammed the window shut. The letters, no longer carried aloft by the breeze, fell, drifting down like so many giant snowflakes. He rushed to gather them up, inhaling each as he pulled them out of the sky or collected them from the floor.

  A cry of relief escaped his throat; her scent remained.

  Chapter 28

  “I am relieved to see you alive, M’lord,” Wynston said, opening the carriage door. He tossed the driver a few coins. “We all heard the news about the fires.”

  “How is Denton?” Ian asked. He emerged from the carriage and climbed the granite steps up to his estate.

  “Furious, confused, distraught . . . but he has not left his post,” Wynston moved ahead to open the front door. “And the young water mage is in the infirmary. It is believed he will eventually recover though he will likely dine on broth soups for the rest of his life.”

  “He survived?”

  Wynston nodded.

  “Good.” Ian combed his hair back with his hands. “I want you to make some inquiries.” He lowered his voice as he stepped into the rotunda. “Find Zerick and Mason, quickly, quietly, and have them brought to me here alive. Use whomever you deem appropriate, but I want them found.”

  “Yes, M’lord.”

  “And I want a list of all the fire mages registered in the city. The mage guildmaster will probably refuse but remind him it was I who helped negotiate the deal which allowed him and his kind back into Belyne and I will not tolerate a rogue fire mage running around loose.” He removed his singed cloak and handed it and his sword belt over. “Also, I will be drafting a letter to be sent to the king requesting an audience. Please see it is delivered first thing tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Anything else, M’lord?”

  “Yes.” Ian spun on his heel and headed into the sitting room. “I saw Lord Orrington’s coach leaving as I was arriving. What was he doing here?”

  “He claimed Lady Cecily was expecting him.”

  “Was she?” He crossed the room to the bar.

  “I don’t know. I showed him in here and then summoned her.”

  “Did they go upstairs to her private rooms?”

  “No. They stayed here the entire time. I had the doors watched.”

  “What did they discuss?” Ian poured himself a glass of wine.

  Wynston cleared his throat. “I do not make it a practice of eavesdropping.”

  “Of course not. But voices carry, sometimes beyond the confines of these walls, and if you HAD heard anything . . .”

  “I would tell you.” Wynston cleared his throat again. “They spoke in low tones. I don’t know the topic of their discussion, but it did become heated at one point. He calmed her down, and then he left. Lady Cecily retired to her chambers after his departure.”

  “And Tyran? Where was he during this visit?”

  “Asleep. He retired much earlier than normal. Right after dinner.” Wynston gestured toward the dining hall. “Come, I convinced Gertrude to save a few plates of food for you. It wasn’t easy, mind you.” He eyed Ian meaningfully and then pulled a chord hanging by the fireplace. “I’ll have it brought up for you right away.”

  “Thank you, Wynston.” Ian sipped his wine. “Was Tyran ill?”

  “No, M’lord. I’m afraid Lady Cecily sent him up into the tower earlier and had him running up and down the stairs-”

  “What?!” Ian pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. A headache was forming behind his eyes. “She knows he’s afraid of heights.” The room began to spin, and Ian dropped onto one of the emerald settees.

  “M’lord?” Wynston put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll be fine once I’ve had something to eat.” He waited for the room to settle before he stood again and headed toward the dining hall. “It’s just been a rather long day and I’m famished.”

  After eating, Ian was glad to find he’d been correct, the lightheadedness had passed. He left the dining hall and climbed the stairs off the rotunda wondering what to do next. He entertained the idea of confronting Cecily. This time she could not deny Lord Orrington’s visit, but he knew exactly how the conversation would play out. When it came to Orrington, their arguments were always the same. He would make accusations. She would deflect or deny them. Ian sighed. He almost wished she would admit the affair. At least then the lies could end. But then telling him the truth would be a sign of respect, and obviously, she didn’t respect him any longer. At all? Had she ever?

  He reached the corridor leading off to her wing and hesitated. Though his anger and frustration raged strongly inside him, he really wasn’t in the mood to exchange words with her. Not tonight. Better to wait until tomorrow when his mind would be fresher. Besides, her lies never expired.

  With a shake of his head, Ian continued up the stairs to his private study. His sanctuary was lined with books, ledgers and various journals written by famous explorers, including one authored by his grandfather, Alan Weatherall. For years, Ian had carried his grandfather’s leather-bound book around with him everywhere until the dog-eared pages began to fall out. With great reluctance, he had retired the journal and now read it only within his study or in Tyran’s room.

  He crossed the study, pausing to admire another of his grandfather’s former possessions, a double-bladed Scylthian sword. It hung on the wall, nestled between two stuffed bookshelves. His grandfather had claimed it was given to him as a gift from one of the jungle chieftains, but years later, Ian had found the entire story written in the journal. Alan had not only befriended the chieftain but had also saved the man’s life from some strange creature. Thereafter, Alan was named Silvarun Tut’ris, Protector of the Jungle. Ian ran a finger over the sword’s leather-like grip and could almost feel his grandfather’s presence in the room beside him.

  “What would you do about all this, grandfather?” he muttered.

  He studied the sword for another long moment before turning away. Maps of the known world and charts of the ocean and the North Seas covered most of the tables and chairs. Some spilled onto the carpeted floor. Only his desk remained neat and clear of clutter. Wynston had already lit the fire and the reading lamps and Ian found himself drawn to the hearth. Within the fire, he saw the image of his burning warehouse again, the orange flames leaping high into the afternoon sky and . . . and Sir Nelson, just out of reach, falling to his death amidst the destruction.

  Ian leaned against the mantle and bowed his head. He would offer Nelson’s family a handsome sum of gold for their loss. It was the least he could do for them. He banged his fists against the stone. He hated the thought of another man dying on his account.

  A gentle knock sounded at the door.

  Ian straightened and moved behind his desk. “Enter.”

  Wynston sw
ept into the room and placed a small wrapped box on his desktop. “I found this in your cloak while cleaning it, M’lord.”

  “You sure?”

  “Quite sure. I was brushing the soot and debris off when I felt it in the pocket.”

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “There is a note. Shall I read it for you?”

  “No. Thank you, Wynston. That will be all.”

  Wynston bowed and left. Ian glanced at the sealed note attached to the top of the box and his brow bunched. Opening his top desk drawer, he reached for his dagger, but it wasn’t there. His frown deepened. Where had he left it? He pushed the package aside and pulled the drawer all the way out. Still no sign of the blade. Ian glanced under his desk wondering if it had somehow fallen out without him noticing.

  Nothing.

  He sat down irritated and ripped the wax seal open with his finger instead. A strong feminine perfume wafted up and tickled his nose.

  “My dearest Ian,” the letter began. “During the past few months, our love has grown beyond my wildest dreams. You are everything I have ever wanted or needed in a man. I can’t imagine my life without you. I believe you when you say you love me and would leave your old world behind just for me. I understand now that is why you have done what you have done and will now do what you have told me you must to insure we can be together forever. Please forgive me for ever doubting your love. I see now you did all those things for me, for us. Until we can be together again, I give you this as a sweet reminder of the love we have shared and will continue to share forever. Please, my love, hurry back to my arms.” Ian’s eyes dropped to the signature. “With all my love and affection, now and always, J.”

  “J?” Ian turned the letter over but found nothing but his name on the other side. “What’s the meaning of this?” He read the letter once more, searching for a clue. Any clue. He was certain Cecily had not written it, but who was this mysterious ‘J’? He glanced at the small wrapped box. What was inside?