Wrath of the Fury Blade

by Geoff Habiger

  The three Sucra Inquisitors were dressed in black leather assault armor (padded at the elbows and shoulders for extra protection and expertly crafted to reduce noise), dark grey cloaks (Malvaceä wasn’t going to risk linking this mission directly to the Sucra), and face masks. The masks were hot and sweaty but they’d provide protection from the alchemical gas they would use. They also carried their swords and hand crossbows, but Malvaceä hoped they wouldn’t need them. Olsteinan carried a large executioner’s axe while Malvaceä carried the fake Fury Blade.

  “So that’s the place you wants me to roll?” asked the fourth member of the group. Malvaceä cringed inwardly. I hate running ops on the fly!

  “Yes,” Malvaceä said, his voice muffled by the face mask. The fourth elf was dressed in green and black leather armor with brown pants and black riding boots. His blond hair was hanging in a loose tangle, a green and black mask perched on the top of his head.

  “Who lives there?”

  “Does it matter? Our deal was that you get your freedom after you do this one job for me. Your freedom and the loot you can carry out of there.”

  The elf had been a prisoner in the Sucra’s dungeon just an hour before. It was the best Malvaceä could do on short notice. Hells, I only learned that the killer wore a mask an hour before that! Damn that bitch Lunaria for keeping that detail to herself for so long.

  “Nah,” said the ex-prisoner, his northern drawl grating on Malvaceä’s nerves. “As long as they upper branches, I’s don’t care.” He settled the mask onto his face.

  Malvaceä scrutinized the villa. He’d learned the layout of the building from one of Gania’s servants who’d been picked up by the Sucra around lunchtime. (She was sweating out her fate in another dungeon cell at this moment.) The details of the killer’s outfit had come from contacts within the Constabulary, as well as interviews conducted with the bystanders who’d witnessed the attack on the Seeker at the cacao house yesterday. That’s how he’d finally learned about the mask.

  That had been a lucky break as, without the killer’s mask, Lunaria would instantly know the lie. There were still too many things that could go wrong with this mission, he knew. The plan—actually, more of a rough sketch of a plan—involved incapacitating the LCI, using the axe to cut her in half, and killing the prisoner to make it seem like the killer had been stopped, but not before he’d claimed a final victim.

  Simple. And dragons fart fairy dust. Malvaceä knew better than to think this was going to be easy. He wished, not for the first time today, that Agera had given him more time.

  A light came on in the room the servant had said was the dining area. Time’s up.

  Malvaceä signaled the others and the four of them headed down the slope. They were all quiet as they moved through a copse of trees surrounding the villa, even the prisoner, who had been a fairly competent thief before he’d managed to get into the Sucra’s sights.

  At the edge of the tree line the four of them paused. The villa was T-shaped, with a long central building and two short wings at the front. It was constructed in an atrocious Zempamian style with thick, whitewashed stone walls and a red tile roof. The building clashed with everything else in the Grove. The four of them were at the bottom right corner of the “T” and a well-manicured lawn stretched about twenty paces between them and the villa. Flowerbeds were planted along the walls and a gravel path wound neatly around the perimeter of the building, continuing toward a large circular fountain located halfway between the villa and the trees. The fountain bubbled and splashed in the warm night air.

  The dining room was coursed with large arched windows spaced evenly along the walls. In the center of the back wall were two large doors open for the night air. Malvaceä saw a second set of doors—these were closed—on the right wall, and he knew an identical set of doors were on the left wall. To his disappointment he saw that most of the windows were open. The slight breeze would dissipate the gas faster, but it couldn’t be helped. The three flasks of gas they carried should be enough to fill the room, even with the evening breeze.

  The dining room was brightly lit and through the windows Malvaceä could make out their target sitting down to a late supper. A servant had just finished pouring her a drink and was walking to the front of the room.

  Malvaceä signaled and the four of them ran at a crouch across the lawn. Olsteinan veered toward the right wall, Aaron heading to the left. Malvaceä and the disguised thief headed to the doors at the back wall. At the gravel path Malvaceä leapt over the gravel, as did the thief, landing with a soft pad of feet in the flowerbed, their backs to the wall on either side of the doors.

  Voices drifted out the door on the night air. “My thanks again, Lord Constable, for allowing me to impose upon you on such short notice.”

  Malvaceä stole a quick glance into the room. Damn! First Constable Betulla was sitting at the table along with Gania and her husband. Why the hells is she here?

  “But these new developments in Nul Pfeta are quite disturbing and I feel that some kind of action—a show of force—may be in order.” Betulla’s voice was light and airy.

  Malvaceä mentally shrugged and ignored the conversation. It couldn’t be helped now and he couldn’t pause to dwell on the new development. They were on a tight schedule and he couldn’t deviate from the plan. I really hate running ops on the fly.

  Malvaceä pulled a clay jar from a black leather pouch, turned, and knelt by the door. With a twist of his left hand, he broke the wax seal and pulled out the cork. Then he rolled the jar into the room and pulled the doors closed. He knew Olsteinan and Aaron were doing the same thing.

  † † †

  At the dining table Betulla lifted her glass of white wine as the Lord Constable made some reply to her comments. As if the vapid bitch had anything important to say.

  Betulla took a sip of the wine—a bland, dry vintage with no character, just like her hostess—to hide her anticipation. Grand Inquisitor Agera had paid her a visit earlier that day, where he’d strongly suggested that she arrange to have dinner with the Lord Constable that night. She’d been tempted to refuse at first; she had no time for any of Agera’s petty games. But when Agera had explained that he needed Betulla to be there to serve as a witness for something he was planning for the LCI, she’d agreed. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to watch Gania get her comeuppance.

  Gania was a conceited, self-centered bitch who employed cronyism more than reason and skill in making decisions and filling important appointments. How else to explain why Betulla had been made First Constable for the professional wasteland of Nul Pfeta rather than the more prestigious Acer Division?

  Agera had not told Betulla the specifics for his plan, only implying that she’d be rewarded for her service to him, if she played along. She’d planted her acorn with him a long time ago, doing his bidding for the cause, so she hoped it was about to sprout. Now she set the glass of wine down, listening as Gania spouted her appreciation for Betulla’s service and said that she was always welcome at her villa for dinner.

  The sound of a clay bottle rolling and clinking across the tile floor caught Betulla’s attention. She looked down just as the doors behind Gania were mysteriously pulled closed. The bottle, which had rolled up behind Betulla’s chair from the direction of the side door, began spewing forth a thick, blue-green smoke.

  “By Basvu’s hand!” Betulla exclaimed, fear gripping her chest. What is Agera playing at?

  At the same time, Elwynn, the Lord Constable’s husband, stood up and exclaimed, “What is going on here?” His chair fell over with a crash in his haste.

  Betulla turned and tried to kick the bottle away. It continued to spew forth a thick cloud of gas that rapidly filled the room. She whirled about, trying to move to the entrance, her eyes wide in panic. She caught sight of Gania, who had stood up calmly, a wet napkin held to her face and a dagger held in her right hand. Her eyes were
tearing from the acrid cloud, but she had a look of determination on her face.

  Betulla staggered, gripping the side of the table and pulling the tablecloth. Just then the doors burst open and masked elves entered the room. Before she could react, Betulla’s vision blurred and she collapsed to the floor.

  † † †

  Malvaceä burst through the doors, along with the thief, who quickly moved to the right. The gas was still thick and stung his eyes, but he’d anticipated that and his mask kept him from inhaling any of the poisonous fumes. He took a step forward, expecting to find LCI Gania slumped in her chair or sprawled on the floor. Instead, a flash of metal lashed out of the smoke, catching Malvaceä unaware. The blade sliced across his chest, digging into the armor. A stinging pain told him the cut had managed to get through the leather to draw blood.

  The gas swirled with the attack to reveal LCI Gania standing before him. She held a wet cloth to her face with her left hand, covering her nose and mouth. In her right hand, ready to deliver another strike, was a thin-bladed dagger.

  “You’ll regret attacking this house, thief,” she said from behind the cloth.

  Damn! Malvaceä swore to himself. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. He pulled his hand crossbow from its holster, pulling back the cord and deftly placing a dart with practiced speed and dexterity. He took aim and pulled the trigger, but Gania was quick and managed to dodge the dart, which sailed past her. She wasn’t able to dodge the second dart fired by Olsteinan from behind her.

  Gania’s eyes widened in shock and anger. She then fell like autumn leaves as the sleep poison did its job. She landed in a lump, toppling her chair. Malvaceä nodded his approval but kept his crossbow out and loaded a new dart, just in case there were any other surprises.

  The three bottles finished spewing their noxious gas and the breeze through the open windows quickly began to clear the room. Malvaceä and the others kept their masks on, however, to prevent any lingering effects of the gas, and to preserve their anonymity.

  Malvaceä nodded to Olsteinan, who moved around the table while pulling the executioner’s axe free. Aaron quickly moved to pick up the three clay bottles. There was no sign of the thief.

  Where has that damn thief gone?

  Two arched openings led from the dining room. Ailan knew the one on the left led to the kitchens. He took the one on the right and headed down the hall. The first room he came to was a small sitting room. There he found the greedy thief pulling a small golden statue off of a shelf from above the fireplace.

  “We must go now,” whispered Malvaceä.

  The thief turned, his eyes staring at the golden statue in his hands. “Come now,” he said. “Dis is but da first room. What other pretties might be here?”

  “There’s no time,” Malvaceä said, feigning urgency. “The Lord Constable’s bodyguards are coming.”

  The elf was still wearing the mask, but Malvaceä saw his olive-toned hands grow pale as they gripped the statue tighter. “Da…da…Lord Constable? Youse didn’t say dis was da Lord Constable’s home. Ye must be fuckin’ crazy ta pull a job here.”

  The thief moved quickly out of the room and past Malvaceä. They both returned to the dining room. As they entered the room a voice called from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Mother, I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner guest, but have you seen—”

  The voice stopped and Malvaceä caught sight of a young elf wearing a Betula Division uniform walk out of the kitchen. At that same moment there was a dull, meaty THUNK as Olsteinan brought down the axe onto the LCI’s body.

  Everybody seemed to freeze for a moment. To his credit, the young Constable recovered first and, pulling his sword from his scabbard, cried, “All of you freeze! You are all under arrest!”

  He began moving toward Malvaceä, sword raised. Malvaceä raised his crossbow and fired quickly, the bolt hitting the Constable’s unprotected thigh. He managed to take two more steps and even swung his sword at Malvaceä before the dart’s poison took effect and he fell to the ground.

  At the same time the thief said, “Bugger dis,” and took off for the closest door. Aaron placed himself in the thief’s path, his sword drawn and leveled to stop his escape.

  “Are ye fuckin’ crazy? We gotta gets outta here!”

  Malvaceä moved on instinct and reached down to pick up the Constable’s sword. He then strode across the room toward the thief.

  “Calm yourself, my friend. We are not inept fools who panic at the sight of a single Constable.”

  The thief turned to face Malvaceä, a comment forming on his lips, but the comment died unsaid, replaced by a gasp of pain and shock. Malvaceä saw the thief’s eyes widen in surprise as he shoved the Constable’s sword deeper into his chest. Blood trickled out from his mouth and around the edges of the mask. With a final push Malvaceä forced the blade out the back, blood oozing from the wound.

  Grasping the thief’s shoulder, Malvaceä managed to drag the body back to the Constable before pulling the sword out and letting the body fall. Satisfied, he placed the sword back in the Constable’s hand. Standing, he pulled the fake Fury Blade from its scabbard.

  Twenty-seven

  Reva and Ansee stood in the shadows of the alley, looking at the massive tree that was Pfeta fey Orung. It had taken them only ten minutes to get here from Ansee’s flat. Looking up, Ansee saw several lanterns and other lights in the upper stories of the tree.

  “I still say I can try to gate us into the archives,” Ansee said.

  Reva shook her head, though it was almost too dark now for the movement to be seen. “No. I don’t want a magical footprint of our being here. Plus, it’s possible that the area is warded to prevent magic.”

  “I was able to gate you out this morning.”

  “From upstairs, not from the archives.”

  Ansee sighed, dropping the argument.

  Reva watched the building for a few minutes until she was satisfied that nobody was coming out of the back door. There had been a large group of people entering by the main entrance when they’d arrived, and she had worried that somebody might check on the back door. Now, she moved across the alley in a crouched gait, sliding up to the door with her back to the wall. Ansee followed, though not as stealthily.

  Reva reached down and tried the door. Locked.

  “Now what?” whispered Ansee. “I have a spell I can cast—”

  “No magic.” Reva turned and knelt before the door, examining the handle. “Was there a bolt?”

  Ansee thought back to the morning. He’d briefly examined the door to determine if it had been forced open as part of the murder after sending Reva away. “No. It had a lock, but there was no bolt or anything.”

  There was no keyhole on this side of the door. A sensible precaution. The handle was an iron lever, neatly worked to resemble a branch with leaves. The lock plate was solid iron. She tried the handle again and it didn’t move. That suggested that the lock was only to keep the handle from turning, rather than an actual bolt to secure the door. That was dumb, but it worked to her advantage.

  Standing up, she stretched out the muscles in her right leg.

  “So how are we going to get in?” Ansee asked, watching Reva stretch a few more times. “We’re not going to climb, are we? I really don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m sure we can find another way.”

  Turning in a full circle, Reva jumped high, kicking out with her right leg. She brought the heel of her boot down hard on the handle, which gave with a loud crack of snapping metal.

  “That’s how,” she said. Stepping up, she grabbed the handle, which bent down at her motion. The door opened on silent, well-oiled hinges.

  “Color me impressed,” said Ansee. “Remind me to call on you if I’m ever locked out of my flat.”

  “Sure, if you want me to break your lock.”

  Entering th
e hallway, Reva closed the door behind them. It latched, but it wouldn’t lock anymore until a locksmith replaced the internal mechanism. The hallway was dimly lit from light coming from the rotunda.

  Reva and Ansee crept to the end of the hall. A babble of voices rose as they got closer to the rotunda and, peeking around the corner, Reva saw dozens of elves milling about in the large room.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  Most of the elves were holding goblets of wine and small plates of food. She’d seen a table laid out with a buffet near one of the alcoves. The room had been cleaned of all signs of Aucarii’s murder.

  She pulled back into the shadows. “Where are the stairs to the archives?”

  Pulling out a small mirror, Ansee held it up to survey the room. “There,” he pointed to the mirror. “In the opening under the balcony across from the main entrance. Is that FC Aescel?”

  Reva squinted at the mirror and then risked poking her head around. It was Aescel. Looking closer, she now spotted other elves that she recognized, including Roya Locera. Good. He won’t be in his office or in the archives.

  A slender, tall elf with braided amber-brown hair and wearing the gold chain of a Guild Luminary cleared her throat and stood facing the gathered elves. The murmur of conversation died and the rotunda grew quiet.

  “My fellow Oak Knights, we meet tonight to honor the passing of our good friend and leader, Olea Aucarii. His tragic death at the hands of the killer stalking our city widens the gap in our humble community, which is already in mourning for the deaths of Lavalé and Tala. Let us retire to the Aspen Room, where Roya has prepared a fitting memorial to our fallen brethren.”

  Conversation again picked up and, using the mirror, Reva and Ansee watched the gathering move through a pair of ornate doors. In a minute, they had all entered and the doors were closed. The rotunda was quiet again.

  Handing the mirror back to Ansee, Reva slipped out of the hall, heading for the opening under the balcony. She heard Ansee following but his footsteps veered away from her. Turning, she saw him heading for the buffet.