by Wil Ogden
The Nightstone
Wil Ogden
Copyright © 1989, 2012 William Ogden
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B007VFDGD0
DEDICATION
Dedicated to all the struggling writers working on their first novel.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE: FRIENDSHIP IN TROUBLE
CHAPTER 1: JULIVEL
CHAPTER 2: CHARLES
CHAPTER 3: PANTROS
CHAPTER 4: DARIEN
CHAPTER 5: PANTROS
CHAPTER 6: CHARLES
CHAPTER 7: PANTROS
CHAPTER 8: PANTROS
CHAPTER 9: PANTROS
CHAPTER 10: PANTROS
CHAPTER 11: CHARLES
CHAPTER 12: TARA
CHAPTER 13: PANTROS
CHAPTER 14: LADY GLACIA
CHAPTER 15: PANTROS
CHAPTER 16: CHARLES
CHAPTER 17: PANTROS
CHAPTER 18: LADY GLACIA
CHAPTER 19: CHARLES
CHAPTER 20: PANTROS
CHAPTER 21: KEHET
CHAPTER 22: PANTROS
CHAPTER 23: LADY GLACIA
CHAPTER 24: PANTROS
CHAPTER 25: KEHET
CHAPTER 26: PANTROS
CHAPTER 27: DARIEN
CHAPTER 28: KEHET
CHAPTER 29: PANTROS
CHAPTER 30: SHEILLENE
CHAPTER 31: KEHET
CHAPTER 32: PANTROS
CHAPTER 33: KEHET
CHAPTER 34: LADY GLACIA
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all the people who make the assumption that I based one of the characters of this book on them. While there are certainly people and events of my life that provided inspiration for events and characters in this story, any actual similarities of characters in this book to real people is purely coincidence.
PROLOGUE: FRIENDSHIP IN TROUBLE
The young man’s gaze prowled across the rapidly filling taproom. Pantros habitually made note of the heavy purses on the crew of the Lady Marissa. In any other inn, he would wait an hour for their carousing to start taking its toll before lightening their belts. He didn't start trouble at the Inn of the Haughty Hedgehog, though. Despite having his best friend Bryan, an over-muscled brute a head and half taller than most men, sitting across the table; he knew that his sister, who owned the inn, would not appreciate the mess they would make in the rare event things went sour. He also knew the doormen, who he’d trained to look for thieves, would notice anything he did and they would toss him out as quickly as they would a stranger for stealing from the patrons.
The doorman on duty, a lame Matderi named James, hobbled over to the table, using a heavily nicked but polished battle hammer as a crutch. The Matderi knocked the edge of the table gently with the haft of his weapon. He said, coughing his words in the way his folk normally spoke, "You boys gonna git out of here before you start trouble?"
"James, you know I don't steal here," Pantros said with his best innocent smile.
"Yeah, I know you find your fun other places, now," James grunted, "But, your entertainment sometimes follows you back."
"When have we brought more trouble than we could handle?" Bryan asked in a deep baritone that rang evenly with a calm confidence. The large young man was always sure that nothing would go wrong. Things often did go wrong, however and Bryan’s size was often the deciding factor in keeping the trouble contained. Bryan shrugged and leaned back a little in his chair. “What could go wrong?”
"Don't you be trying those looks with me. We all know Commodore Mejal’s fleet just got back from a long run down the whole east coast of Teminev. There are over a thousand sailors running around town with overfilled purses. And you’re telling me you’re not interested in acquiring some of those coins? Nah, I wouldn’t buy it. You kids got the scent of trouble all over yourselves tonight," James said, pounding the handle of his hammer against the floor. "Git!" he spat. "Don't make me spank you with me hammer."
Bryan laughed, "With just the one good leg, you'd only get one swing before you toppled." It was a joke they shared nearly every night.
"I keep telling you: I only need one swing," the Matderi finished the joke. "Go find your trouble. The farther from here the better."
Pantros got up from his chair, tossing a copper coin to the woman behind the bar, his sister, Tara. She caught it, glaring slightly at him. Though he didn’t have to pay for his food and drink, it irked Tara when he didn’t clean his own table. Tipping his sister to do it didn’t always end in a humorous situation. As long as the taproom wasn’t crowded he could get away with it.
"If trouble means money,” Bryan said as they headed to the door. “We could use some.”
“Always work to do,” Pantros said. “So many purses and so few drinking hours to make the job easier.” Plucking coins from the purses of sailors was scarcely harder than picking stones off the ground. Sailors spent so much time in cramped quarters bumping into people, they didn’t pay heed to a passerby brushing too close. Add a little rum, and it wasn’t even slightly challenging.
§
As usual for the late summer, the evening had brought a gentle mist with it. The glow of the constantly active volcano to the east refracted through the droplets of water and spread its light to every corner of the street. The open areas had an almost festive red ambiance while the shadows flowed like blood.
“What kind of trouble do we want to get into tonight?” Bryan asked Pantros as they walked north, deeper into the city, away from the docks. “Wine, women or follow Mejal’s men around and catch whatever spills from their purses?”
“I’ve still no interest in wine,” Pantros said with a shrug. “It seems like I remind you every night that alcohol dulls my reflexes and dims my senses. Maybe it’s your predilection for it that makes me keep having to remind you. Picking locks and quick reactions are most of what makes me a great burglar.”
Down the street, Pantros could already see a group of Mejal’s crew staggering along the street. He could take a handful of silver from each of them and they’d just assume they’d spent it on drink, if they noticed the missing coin at all. He would never take more than half the coin in a marks purse. Less money would just leave them confused as to how they’d spent more than they thought. A suddenly empty purse would alert the victim that something was wrong and they’d start looking for a thief.
Silver wasn’t worth Pantros’s efforts or the risk, other than to create a situation for Bryan to have fun fighting his way out of. The following night would be ideal for a late night visit to Commodore Mejal’s home. Then the take would be in gold coins. Bryan didn’t like that kind of work because it left him standing outside watching for trouble but mostly being bored.
Bryan sighed. It sounded almost like a groan. “I guess drinking ourselves silly isn’t really doing anything worth bragging about.”
“Not like that box of pearls we took from the first mate of The Bleak Honor,” Pantros said. “Not that I hope you told the city we did that job.”
“That bunch of pirates deserved it,” Bryan said. “If my father were sober…”
“He’d be proud.” Pantros finished for him. “Wouldn’t seeing your father wallowing from his bed to his bottle make you not want to drink?”
“It makes me not want to drink two bottles of whiskey a day.”
It was Pantros’ turn to groan.
“Women?” Bryan asked. “Where do we find them, tonight? I hear Therl’s is having a belly dancing show.”
“If we went to Therl’s; we’d be two of two hundred men watching three or four girls,” Pantros explained, not seeing the point of just watching them dance. “No
t to mention that we have yet to spend five minutes at Therl’s without you breaking something: usually someone else’s nose.”
“But you make good money lightening the spectator’s pockets,” Bryan commented, nudging Pantros. A less agile person would have been thrown across the street by the giant’s mass; Pantros had a way of rolling with anything. That skill helped keep him at his friend’s side.
Pantros shook his head, saying “Last time, I got forty copper pennies, mostly already broken into bits; not even a single silver in the crowd.”
“Oh,” Bryan said. After a breath, he blurted, “Maybe this town is too small for us.”
“What?” Pantros asked, surprised by the change of direction in the conversation.
“I’ve been thinking…”
“Bryan, you know that never goes well for us,” Pantros interjected. “Thinking is my job.”
“Seriously, Pan,” Bryan said. “I just think there might be something bigger out there than robbing a bunch of drunk sailors.
“We don’t just steal from sailors,” Pantros objected. “We steal from anyone with extra coins lying about, unused.” He picked his marks carefully, trying not to risk getting caught and hung over pennies. Not that he ever got caught. If trouble did start it was usually Bryan starting it.
“Yeah, but think about it,” argued Bryan. “If we went to Fork then we could join the Thieves’ Guild there and we wouldn’t have to find our own marks. Everton’s a port city four times as large as Ignea and I’d bet Novarra is just waiting for a pair like us to rule the nights.”
“Ignea is my town,” Pantros sighed. “This is where I’ll live until I retire and build my castle in the mountains upwind of the volcano.”
“You and I could own the world,” Bryan contended. “We could steal it piece-by-piece. Well, you could steal it, and I’d have your back.”
“I’m sure that with your audacity and my skills we could,” Pantros agreed. “But, I still have family here. Tara spent the last ten years building The Hedgehog to her perfect vision of an inn. I can’t just abandon my sister the way my parents did.”
Bryan’s head nodded, bouncing slightly from side to side. Recognizing the signs that his friend contemplated something deeper than usual, Pantros cringed. The giant said, “I guess I can’t really see you and Tara separating. She raised you since you were what, seven?”
“About that, yeah,” Pantros said. In an effort to placate his friend’s wanderlust, he added, “Maybe someday I’ll want to see the world but, since my parents disappeared at sea, I just don’t have any desire to set foot on ship. C’mon let’s figure out something before it gets late.”
“We don’t expect our nightly dose of trouble to just bump into us,” Bryan said. “I was just hoping for a better class of trouble tonight. If all else fails we can crash The Mate’s Club. Those officers have more coin than the common sailor. We might even find a gold coin or ten.” Bryan stopped and looked down a side street. “Hey, we’re not far from The Clean Cut. I hear Curt got some new swords in. Wanna check ‘em out?”
“Okay,” Pantros agreed since he couldn’t think of anything better to do.
§
The sign over the door had a pair of cutlasses standing parallel, one upright, and the other inverted. There were no words, many sailors never bothered to learn how to read. The door stood open and a burly man in a chain hauberk guarded it. He had a heavily nicked sword leaning against his chest, the point dug casually into a block of wood which Pantros guessed the guard had placed just to give his point something softer than the stone of the street to rest on. Several circular ruts had been dug into the wood and the guard appeared to be absent mindedly working on another.
Inside, there were a couple dozen swords hanging on the wall behind a raised counter. Most customers would need to ask for Curt to hand them a weapon if they wanted a closer look. When the boys walked in, Curt stepped away from a polishing wheel, carefully hanging a brass hilted cutlass on the wall. Clearly in his late fifties if not older, Curt had been a sea mercenary in his younger years, working often with Bryan’s father. He now moved with care that betrayed the arthritic pain in his knees. His grey hair was cut short as if he had shaved his scalp a few weeks earlier and hadn’t gotten around to shaving it again. The beard on his face appeared to be on the same schedule. His eyes lost a little of their smile when he recognized the boys.
“Just looking again today, boys?” Curt asked.
“I’m still looking for the right sword,” Bryan replied. “When I find it, I’ll buy it.”
“If you could tell me what it was you wanted, I could request it of my supplier.” Curt offered, as he usually did.
“If I knew what the right sword would be, I would tell you. I just know I don’t want a cutlass.” Bryan sighed.
“Well, I got all of four swords in the shop that aren’t cutlasses,” Curt mentioned. “But two of them are the gladius and the Abvi small sword you already looked at last week.”
“So, what do you have that is new?” Bryan asked, looking at the large two handed sword hanging behind the proprietor.
“You see it already, do you?” Curt said. “It’s a nice weapon. It was made by the Abvi four hundred years ago for some human prince who has long since died and faded from history.”
“You get your swords from the winning captains of sea battles,” Pantros imposed into the conversation. “How do you know the weapon’s history?”
“Smart lad,” Curt said with a chuckle. “This one is inscribed. Here let me show you.” Curt slowly pulled the large blade from the wall and handed it to Bryan. “There along the blade.”
“It’s in one of the Abvi scripts,” Bryan said. “I can’t read that.”
“Me either,” Curt admitted. “But I know someone who can and they told me it mentions a date, the name of Prince Desthayan of Relarch and offers best wishes.”
“It has a nice balance.” Bryan spoke with awe. “This is the kind of sword I want! Maybe a little longer. I think something closer to my size would be best.” Bryan held the sword in front of him with the point resting on the floor. The pommel didn’t even reach up to his collar. “I’m a head taller than this sword.”
“Maybe if you were a normal sized person, I’d have an easier time getting what you want. That’s the only greatsword I have had in my shop, ever,” Curt said. “I doubt I will see another. They don’t use these things at sea.”
“Good point, they’re too big for close quarters.” Bryan gave in. “How much for it?”
“Normally I would sell an Abvi made antique greatsword like that for twenty five gold,” Curt noted, but quickly amended, “but, for you, just fifteen.”
“Gold?” Bryan asked incredulously.
“We’ll take it for twelve and a half,” Pantros offered. “Just give us twenty minutes to fetch the coin.”
“Deal,” Curt smiled, his brown eyes glistened.
“Pan!” Bryan shouted, shaking the small store.
“What?” Pantros asked, only slightly intimidated.
“I don’t have that kind of gold,” Bryan whispered. “I don’t think all the gold you and I have gotten in the last three years would add up to that much.”
“What do you spend your split on?” Pantros asked. “My half has been twice that over the past year.”
“I guess I do throw a bunch of coin around on Jacobs street,” Bryan shrugged. “If I had realized how much, I would probably actually try to meet a girl rather than pay for three or four a night.”
“Sheesh!” Pantros shook his head, not believing anyone could spend so much money on nothing tangible. “I’ll cover the sword, but you are on half cuts of the loot for a season.”
“Let go get it,” Bryan said, setting the blade carefully on the counter. He gestured for Pantros to lead, then followed him out the door.
As they rounded the corner to head south back towards The Hedgehog, they bumped into two strangely dressed men. The fatter of the two almost managed to apo
logize when Bryan's elbow caught him in the chest. Pantros had slipped his foot behind the ankle of the man he had bumped into and shouldered the man's chest, knocking him to the ground. Had neither of the strangely dressed men reacted at that point, it would have ended there. Pantros and Bryan would have said, “Oops, reflexes, sorry mate!” and been on their way.
The obese stranger then made a critical mistake: He swung back at Bryan. Though he may have weighed the same as Bryan, the heavyset man was over a head shorter and he owed most of his weight to blubber. The punch never landed. Bryan edged it aside with his forearm as he stepped close to the man and grabbed his shoulders. With a grunt, Bryan slammed his forehead into the bridge of the fat stranger's nose. Bryan's opponent fell to the ground.
The smaller of the two strangers, the one Pantros had taken down, scurried over near the black stone wall of the nearest building. “Stay away from me!”
“Hey,” Bryan defended. “I didn't mean to hurt anyone. Your friend swung at me. That elbow thing was just a reflex from being surprised when you bumped into me.”
“Same with the trip,” Pantros told the thinner stranger. “Say, what's with the costumes?”
“So, you don't want my money?” The man asked glancing fervently at Bryan then back at his unconscious friend.
“I dunno. Do we want his money?” Bryan nudged Pantros.
“No,” Pantros smiled. “They can't even afford real clothes.” The two men dressed in a gaudy patchwork and had masks hanging around their necks.
“Me and Yarel are clowns,” The man said, suddenly. His voice trembled with anger or fear; Pantros couldn’t decide which. “We were on our way to a job. People pay us to act stupid and silly; dressing silly helps. I guess we won't be making that poor girl's birthday party tonight. I think you killed Yarel.” He reached towards his friend but seemed reluctant to actually touch him.
Yarel had a four-pointed hat with bells on each point. The bells were not jingling, though the fat clown was clearly breathing.
“Nah,” Bryan chuckled. “I didn't even break his nose. He will have a headache when he wakes up, but will be fine after a day or two.”