“It’s taken me that long to get here I’m losing the light,” he called out to her. “Think I’ll open shop tomorrow instead!”
The female dwarf picked up her fabric and returned to the front of her stall without a reply.
Doran hopped off the cart and made his way to the back, where three uncomfortable people looked back at him. “Stay in ’ere for the moment,” he whispered. “I need to unload some o’ these boxes an’ make meself look legitimate.”
They kept their groans to themselves as Doran heaved the boxes out one by one. The dwarf constructed a wall out of the crates, lining them up beside the cart and curving them round. With an extra tarpaulin, previously used by the three as a third blanket, the wall was covered, providing shelter from any prying eyes.
Nathaniel climbed out and bowed his head to stop it from poking above the cover. “Couldn’t you have made it a little higher?”
Doran raised an eyebrow. “Why would a dwarf need it to be any higher?”
Nathaniel took a seat on one of the crates. “Fair point…” he conceded.
Petur hugged the wall of boxes and looked out through the cracks. “How fantastic!” he babbled in his mad way.
Doran frowned. “A minute ago ye were thinkin’ we were gonna’ die.”
“We’re actually here though!” the scholar proclaimed as quietly as he could. “The crowning jewel of Dhenaheim! They’re not going to believe this at The All-Tower.”
“It is impressive.” Reyna admired the magnificent city, crouching beside Petur. “I don’t suppose you happened to visit the archives when you were a child, did you?”
“I must ’ave missed that part o’ the tour,” Doran replied dryly, his words matching his sour mood. “Ye know, a couple o’ days ago, this seemed like the right thin’ to do, a good thin’ for the realm an’ all that. But now that we’re ’ere, standin’ in the shadow o’ the beast… I’m startin’ to wonder who’s more the fool, ye for suggestin’ it or me for followin’ ye?”
“Why can’t we all be fools?” Nathaniel asked, glancing at his wife with a cheeky grin.
Reyna turned to the group, her voice low. “If preventing a war between Dhenaheim and Illian requires a fool, then call me a fool. I have already lived through one war and it was more than enough for my immortal life.”
Petur’s lanky form was perched on the end of the cart. “You’re ambassadors, aren’t you? Can you not just present yourselves as such. Tell them you’re here for diplomatic reasons that could prevent a war…”
Doran added his own expression of ridicule to the Galfreys’. “No more suggestions from ye,” the dwarf said.
“Nothing is impenetrable,” Reyna said, her focus back on their infiltration. “Everything has a weakness.”
“Ye sound like Asher.” Doran chuckled. “If he was ’ere right now, he’d already be returnin’ with the key to the archives.”
Nathaniel offered the smile of a man who still held onto grief. “True enough,” he agreed. “Reyna isn’t wrong, though. Be it human, elf or dwarf, we’re not perfect. No one can make a flawless design.”
“O’ ye own kind I would agree,” Doran replied offhandedly. “But, Silvyr Hall was made by dwarven hands, lad. The best minds o’ me kin conceived o’ it! There’s no magic that can blast through its walls or open its doors. Hell, we don’ even ’ave a ladder tall enough to climb up.”
Reyna reached for her bow in the cart. “What about this?”
Doran sighed. “Aye, it might scratch the silvyr, maybe even dent it. But it won’ open a hole big enough to stuff a cat through. Then there’s the noise it would bloody make…”
“What about gaining access via the mines?” Nathaniel suggested. “A portion of the city resides inside, yes?”
“Technically, ye could get into Silvyr Hall from a variety o’ access ways an’ tunnels inside the mine, but that crater is the only place better guarded than Silvyr Hall itself!”
Reyna crossed her arms and cupped her chin in thought, refusing to give in. “So how do four people sneak into the most protected city in all of Dhenaheim?” she mused aloud.
Doran glanced at Petur and scoffed. “Ye mean three an’ a half!”
15
The Hole in the Wall
Vighon Draqaro retraced the alleyways of his past life, taking the back route through Namdhor’s gothic structures. Since the arrival of refugees from three other kingdoms, the icy passages between buildings had become packed with huddling strays. It reminded the northman of his own homeless period, wandering the streets of Skystead.
Upon sighting a mother with her small son, the pair wrapped in ragged blankets, Vighon couldn’t help but stop and offer aid. Crouching in front of them, he could see they were from Grey Stone, their resolve in the ice and snow rivalling the natives of the north.
“Here, take this.” He held out his hand, showing the mother a few coins. “It’s all I have, but it will get you both a hot meal and better blankets.”
The mother’s eyes twitched nervously from the coins in his hand to the scars that ran over his forehead and across the corner of his right eye. Along with his sword and padded gambeson, he realised he must appear quite the formidable sight to the protective mother.
“It’s alright,” he coaxed, flattening his hand. “Take it and get him something to eat.”
The mother’s dirty hand tentatively reached out from within the blankets. Then, she quickly snatched the coins and recoiled back into the warmth of their huddle.
Vighon stood back and watched them leave the alleyway, making certain no one tried to rob them. His charity, however, had caught the attention of others in need. The northman held up his hands in apology and backed out of the alley. There was only so much he could do.
At the bottom of Namdhor’s towering slope, before the lower town could dominate the flat ground, Vighon came across the old house he had been looking for.
Clearly abandoned, the house was a shell of its former self, though the northman had never seen its original splendour. He approached from the side alley and walked around the back of the house, where the hole in the wall was exposed to the elements and The King’s Lake.
Just as there had always been, a small group of men stood impatiently in the freezing cold, waiting their turn to enter. The one preventing them from stepping inside was a typical thug The Ironsworn liked to employ. With his thick arms crossed over his chest and an entire face of tattoos, the doorman was the perfect deterrent to any and all who weren’t welcome.
The important thing was; Vighon didn’t recognise the man. He hoped the thug was new and therefore wouldn’t know of him either.
“I’ve been waiting since the Second Age!” one of the men argued. “I’ve got the coin, when can I go in?”
The thug snorted and kept his eyes on the lake. “Told you; it’s too full.”
“This is outrageous!” another replied, his attire betraying his superior wealth.
The Ironsworn didn’t budge. “The only way you’re getting inside is if I let you or I throw you in the circle.”
That silenced their impatient protests and Vighon couldn’t blame their sudden change in attitude. If there was one place you didn’t want to be in Namdhor, it was inside the circle.
Vighon took a breath and strode towards them with the same confidence he used to have in this city. The thug clocked him immediately and unfolded his arms. The northman didn’t miss the large dagger on the doorman’s belt, where his hand now hovered.
“There’s a wait,” he declared.
Vighon lifted his left arm and pulled some of his sleeve out of his vambrace. The thug inspected The Ironsworn tattoo criss-crossing down the underside of his arm.
“I don’t know you,” the thug said, his suspicions raised.
“I’ve just arrived from Dunwich,” Vighon lied. “There’s a few of us,” he added, gesturing over his shoulder to the empty alleyway.
“What you doing here, then?” the thug enquired bluntly.
The thug still wasn’t budging. “The boss?” he asked, his hand now fully resting on the hilt of his dagger.
Vighon thumbed up the slope. “Arlon, of course.” As soon as the name left his lips, the northman regretted his response. It was a stupid mistake since he had already assumed that Godrick Cross had taken over The Ironsworn’s day to day activities.
“No one says that name,” the thug said ominously.
“Well, shit…”
Vighon shot out his right hand and caught the thug in his throat, taking his breath away. His left hand dropped onto the man’s hand, keeping the dagger firmly inside its sheath. A swift kick to the leg dropped the bigger man to his knee, allowing Vighon to get all of his weight behind a violent shove. The thug’s head bounced off the broken stone and he fell back into the decrepit house.
The northman adjusted his fur cloak and turned to the small crowd of men. “It looks like there’s room after all.” He held his arm out to the narrow passage inside the house. “It’ll still cost you,” he added quickly, happy to relieve them of their coin.
Leaving the doorman to sleep off his injuries, Vighon followed the small crowd into the house and down into the basement. More Ironsworn hovered just beyond the entrance and stood to block the new arrivals. Using the confusion, Vighon slipped to the side and passed through the edge of the mob, fading into the cheering audience.
The basement was vast, the hollow dug well into Namdhor’s slope. The Ironsworn had cleared out the rubble years ago and replaced the storage with rows of benches that almost touched the high ceiling. In the centre of the baying audience was a simple white circle painted over the damp stone.
When Vighon had first been initiated into the gang, Arlon had forced him to work every job in every establishment.
“You can’t just run things,” his father had said, “you have to know how they’re run…”
It had been Vighon’s job, once upon a time, to paint that circle regularly, lest it be concealed under blood. Looking between the crowded heads, between the stands, he could see a young boy crouched on the other side of the circle, a bucket of white paint in one hand and a brush in the other.
The boy was gone in a flash of fists when the two combatants came between them. The men were hulking mountains of muscle, their heads shaved and arms layered in tattoos. The closer had the mark of The Ironsworn tattooed down his spine.
Vighon was early, he realised. This was the first fight of the evening, a show fight more than anything to get the crowds in the mood for blood. When their frenzy hit its crescendo, they would make terrible bets and gamble away their coin, filling The Ironsworn’s coffers.
Sweat and blood sprayed across the audience and they cheered all the more. A loud slap preceded the fall of a combatant, his jaw misshapen and his teeth scattered around the floor.
Vighon leaned against the stands and tried to blend in, afraid that the jostling crowd would force him to the very edge of the circle.
Then he saw him…
Godrick Cross stepped into view from outside the circle and held up the hand of the winner. The crowd went mad and stamped their feet as Cross paraded the fighter. No one took any notice of the loser, who was dragged away by his wrists. Vighon knew he would be well compensated for his part in the fight, if he ever woke up.
“Do you want more?” Cross bellowed, always happiest when he was in his element.
Vighon had watched the older man fight inside the circle many times and had never seen him be dragged away. It was clear to see, even dressed, that he hadn’t allowed time to get in the way of maintaining a muscled physique.
Responding to his question, the surrounding crowds cheered for more bloodshed, waving their small bags of coins in the air.
“That’s good to hear!” Cross shouted back, grinning from ear to ear. “We’ve got quite the night ahead of us, gentlemen! Besides our fellow Namdhorians, we have a few fighters from the south joining us today!” Cross pointed his finger at the shirtless man just outside the circle, a native of The Arid Lands by the colour of his skin. “The question is,” Cross continued, “can the viper of the sands stand up to the giants of The Ice Vales?” Another fighter stepped forward, a much bigger man by comparison. “Tonight, Grey Stone goes up against Tregaran! Whoever wins will face Rek!” he added, holding up The Ironsworn’s hand again.
Vighon thrust his hand into the air and cheered with the crowd. Inside, he felt like burning the whole place to the ground. The fighters wouldn’t be going up against one another, as Cross had said. The truth was; only one would walk out of the circle. The rules were simple; kill your opponent or cripple them beyond any ability to fight. The latter was often a death sentence in itself.
The northman could still see the faces of every man he had faced inside the circle…
With the crowd suitably riled up, Godrick Cross left Rek by the edge of the circle and disappeared between the stands on the other side. Just out of sight, Vighon knew there to be a collection of small rooms where Ironsworn could do business.
There was no way Vighon would be able to make it through the crowds and around the circle with so many jostling shoulder to shoulder. Hoping to avoid the gang members who made their way through the crowds, collecting bets, the northman turned around in the hope of sneaking through the back of the tiered stands.
There was a commotion by the main door, giving Vighon cause to linger behind two of the patrons. They had discovered the doorman, it seemed. An Ironsworn whom Vighon recognised, but couldn’t name, issued a series of commands, sending a handful of thugs into the crowds.
Two of them were now walking towards him.
Vighon turned his back to them and made straight for the bar, built into the side of the basement. Keeping his head low, feigning interest in one of his newly acquired bags of coins, the northerner waited until the thugs had passed him by.
“What can I do you for?” the barman asked, bringing Vighon’s attention to the variety of alcoholic drinks on the adjacent wall.
Noting one of the thugs pause close by, Vighon looked away, down the bar, and pointed to a particular keg of ale. “I’ll take a pint of the Golden…”
With no more Ironsworn in sight, Vighon collected his tankard and headed towards the back of the stands. It took some doing to weave between the men and the bet collectors without spilling all of his drink.
Still, he made it to the back of the stands without fuss. Now all he had to do was find Cross and ask him a couple of questions. It sounded so simple in his head…
“Oi, you!” came a call from behind.
Vighon stopped but kept his back to the man. Behind the stalls, away from the circle, there was a degree of privacy. There wasn’t, however, much room to draw a blade.
“There’s no swords allowed down here!” the man barked at him. “How did you—”
Vighon turned on the man and spat a mouthful of Golden Ale in the thug’s face. The Ironsworn recoiled and attempted to wipe his eyes, but Vighon brought his tankard down on the man’s balding head, splitting the skin and knocking him down to his knees. Abandoning the tankard, the northman used both hands to slam the thug’s head into the wall.
As quickly as he could, Vighon rolled the unconscious body under the stands, hiding the man amongst the old boxes and litter. Hopefully, he thought, the shadows would conceal him long enough to reach Cross.
Finally on the side with the small rooms, Vighon ignored the ongoing fight and paused by a tired red door. There was no guard keeping watch, but why would there be? Who would ever be stupid enough to challenge Godrick Cross?
Cracking the door open an inch, Vighon waited to see if anyone approached from the other side. With the ruckus behind him, it was impossible to listen for any occupants.
After a quick scan of his surroundings, Vighon opened the door jus
t wide enough to slip himself through. The walls offered little in the way of a buffer to the cheering crowds outside. The northman made it no more than five steps before the door opened behind him and then another door on the other side of the room.
“Good evening, Vighon.” Godrick Cross flashed the cocky smile of a man surrounded by allies.
Vighon stepped to the side, searching for enough space to draw his sword. He pulled the steel an inch from its scabbard before Cross held up his hand and tutted.
“Let’s do a simple headcount before you go swinging that thing around, eh?” Cross glanced over his men. “You might have skill, boy, but you don’t have the numbers.”
Vighon already knew how he was going to kill the nearest two, but the remaining six, plus Cross, provided him with too many variables in such a cramped space. He didn’t let go of the hilt, but he allowed the blade to drop back into the scabbard.
“You always were a clever boy,” Cross continued, his smug grin returning. “Now, out of respect for your daddy, and old times sake, I’m not going to hurt your face.”
Vighon felt the breath flee his lungs when the closest thug hammered his gut with a solid fist. He choked and doubled over in pain, struggling to stay on his feet. Through the strands of his dark hair, he saw Godrick’s head snap to the thug who had punched him.
“What was that about?” he asked.
The thug appeared somewhat sheepish. “You said you weren’t going to hurt his face…”
Cross casually wandered over and stood in front of the much bigger thug. “I did say that, didn’t I? I said I wasn’t going to hurt his face. I didn’t say anything about you hitting him, did I?”
The big man stumbled over his words. “I just thought…”
Cross held up his hands. “The world is dangerous enough without you going around thinking all over the place. Just stand there and look like a mean bastard, alright?”
“Aye, boss,” the thug replied happily.
Cross’s face dropped. “On second thoughts, why don’t you lie down and look like a mean bastard.”
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