“No hesitation,” Thren whispered as they neared a corner, around which he expected to find the treasury.
No stealth this time; instead they ran about with weapons drawn…only to find two soldiers laying facedown before an open door, twin pools of blood spreading beneath their necks. Stepping inside, Thren glanced around, and wasn’t surprised by what he saw.
“Well shit,” Grayson said, and Thren couldn’t help but laugh given how their night had gone.
“There’s a reason he’s called the Swift,” Thren said.
The crown was gone, and despite the many bars of gold around him, Thren was sure a few of those were gone as well. Jorry had beaten them there.
“What do we do now?” Grayson asked. “A few bars of gold will help ease the pain, at least make it worthwhile to suffer through that damn shithole again.”
Thren turned, put a dirty hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“I knew he’d beat us,” he said. “I had to see for certain, just in case. But it looks like it’ll be the hard path after all.”
“The hard path?” asked Grayson.
At that, Thren only smiled.
* * *
After cleaning up, Thren and Grayson returned to the guildhouse, which was in the middle of a celebration even more raucous than the night before. In the center of them all stood Jorry, accepting their adulation with a grin on his face that spread from ear to ear. Atop his head was King Gregor’s crown, the inset gems glittering in the candlelight.
“So you return, and just in time!” Jorry cried upon their arrival.
Thren stepped closer to his guildmaster as Grayson remained by the door, a large sack slung over his shoulder.
“I see you have a crown,” Thren said, keeping his face passive.
“Not just a crown,” said Jorry. “The crown. I am the Swift, Thren, the unstoppable Spider.”
The man continued, his speech clearly for the audience and not for Thren.
“I slipped past every soldier on patrol, some mere feet away when I sneaked behind their backs. In the halls of the castle I kept to every shadow. A servant was more likely to hear a cockroach’s fart than to hear my passing. The treasury was locked and barred, with several guards on watch. Subduing the guards was child’s play, a diversion here, a sound there, all to get near enough for my dagger to do its work. Even the lock, perhaps the finest-built in the entire nation, was but a plaything to me. And with the crown in hand, and a coiled rope on my back, I climbed one of the nearby towers. From its window I scaled down, all before a single alarm could be sounded.”
Jorry lifted the crown from his head, held it before him, and then set it down on a table to his left. The whole while Thren had stood with his arms crossed, merely waiting for the spiel to end.
“So,” said Jorry, finally bringing his attention back to Thren. “It’ll be such a shame that a pretty lass like Marion’ll have to leave us, but perhaps she’ll be smart enough to stay here instead of leaving with an arrogant prick like you. By the Abyss, even your son’s welcome to remain behind. I could always use a new servant, maybe teach him how to be an excellent thief, unlike his father.”
Jorry sneered, then gestured to Grayson.
“Well, let’s make this official. What did you get from your little jaunt into the castle? Did you take a few of the candleholders and silverware I left behind?”
Thren looked back to Grayson, nodded.
“Not quite,” he said.
The giant man tossed the bag toward Jorry. It hit the ground with a plop, and the loosely tied string along the top twisted open. Out from the bag rolled two heads, one male, one female. The room turned deathly quiet as all there recognized them for who they were.
The king and queen.
Thren walked over to the king’s head and picked it up by the hair. The sound of him drawing his blade was deafening in the silence. Slowly he cut across the king’s scalp, slicing until the head fell back to the ground. That done, Thren sheathed his sword, then walked over to the table on which Jorry had placed his own trophy.
“The king’s crown,” Thren said, dropping the piece of hair and flesh next to it. Slowly he turned, addressing all there.
“A crown of gold, or a crown of flesh. Which will you all choose? Do you want petty baubles, or do you want to make kingdoms tremble?”
His rotation complete, he fixed his gaze on Jorry, who looked ready to explode with rage.
“You are an excellent thief,” Thren told him. “But I am the true master here. Step down and serve me. There is much good you can still do for the Spider Guild.”
Jorry shook his head.
“You’re a liar and a cheat,” he said.
Thren smiled.
“Who better to rule a guild of thieves?”
In a single smooth motion he stepped forward, drew out his sword, and plunged it into Jorry’s belly. As the man doubled over, Thren yanked free his blade, twirled, and then decapitated his former guildmaster. The body collapsed amid a cacophony of shouts, accusations, and questions. Putting his back to a wall, Thren stared at them, he on one side of the building, Grayson blocking the door on the other.
“The Spider Guild is mine,” Thren said to them. “You may leave, or you may stay. For those of you who are loyal, to every one of you, I promise a golden crown.”
To each one he looked, unflinching, letting them see the coldness in his eyes.
“And if you would challenge me, if you would deny my rule, then step forward now. Speak your name, show your face.”
He gestured to the bloody mass on the table.
“To you,” he said, “I also promise a crown.”
And then he sheathed his sword, crossed his arms, and waited. The men looked to one another, and then a man grabbed the nearest drink, despite its not being his, and lifted it into the air.
“To our new guildmaster!” he cried, just the first of many. “Slayer of kings, and master of Spiders!”
Slayer of kings, thought Thren, and seeing Grayson laughing by the door, he smiled. The guild was his now, to shape and mold into something far greater than it already was. Muzien had sent them east to form a reputation, to prove all their training and education had been worthwhile.
Slayer of kings.
It was a good start.
Stealing Life
For once Thren wished he’d left the wealthy Maynard Gemcroft alone instead of ambushing the man’s latest shipment of minted coins from his mines in Tyneham. Thren’s task that night would have been far easier, and its reward was worth far more than any fortune.
“Coming with?” Thren asked Grayson as he strapped his swords to his side.
“I can’t leave,” Grayson said. “You know that. I have to be here, just in case.”
Thren nodded.
“I understand.”
With that he crept open the door to the meager home they hid within, ensured no soldiers lurked nearby, and then dashed out. As fast as his legs could carry him, Thren ran down the road, his gray cloak billowing behind him. He thought to take it off, decided against it. If he was without the cloak, members of other guilds might think him a potential target. With it, though…with it he was leader of the Spider Guild, and only a fool would dare draw a blade against him.
Maynard’s mercenaries, on the other hand, were quite foolish.
“Down here!” cried a small squad, rounding the corner behind him before Thren realized they were there. “On Cale, running on Cale!”
Shit, thought Thren as he dove to the side, avoiding a hastily shot arrow. Getting off Cale Road was first priority, second being to escape the enclosing net of armored men that was converging on him. Never before had any member of the wealthy Trifect mustered so many mercenaries to hunt for him. His score must have bothered Maynard more than Thren had expected. Shallow compensation.
He hooked a right at the first alley he found, but instead of running toward its end he jumped left, grabbed a windowsill on the second floor, and used it to haul hims
elf up to the roof. There he rolled onto his back, catching his breath as the soldiers ran on without realizing where he’d gone. Sharp pieces of rock bit into the back of his head and neck, and he brushed the gravel from beneath him.
No time, thought Thren. No time for any of this, gods damn it!
Back on his feet—despite hearing soldiers nearby calling out to the other patrols—legs pumping, heart pounding in his chest. He leaped from building to building, hardly pausing to see if any below would notice. Taking as straight a line as he could, he made his way toward his destination: the temple to Ashhur. He could see it in the distance, a white marble structure lit with thick torches along the front. There was a wide expanse before the stairs, which worried Thren immensely.
That worry was confirmed when he stopped at the edge of a roof, crouching down to peer in each direction. The mercenaries, at least a hundred now by his count, were systematically spreading out in hopes of spotting him again. Along the road between him and the temple walked one group, moving far too slowly for Thren’s taste. The temple was right there, taunting him, but to cross meant being spotted.
So be it. He hung down from the rooftop, then released. When he hit the ground he rolled to absorb the blow, then came up with his weapons drawn. He’d not wait for them to pass, not given what was at stake, so instead he rushed the three head on, with but the rustle of his cloak to give them warning. They carried torches, and the light blinded them to the darkness beyond, and it was from that darkness he rushed.
One short sword took out the closest man, piercing through the gap between his helmet and shoulder pauldron. His second struck the torch out of the frontmost mercenary’s hand. The sudden shift in light was all the advantage he needed, coupled with the surprise. With unmatched ferocity he lunged at the remaining two, stabbing another through the stomach. The man started to let out a scream, but Thren sliced out his throat before he could. The third did yell for aid, but couldn’t get his voice to carry, for he was too busy falling back, flailing to put his sword among Thren’s constant barrage of thrusts.
Three times Thren swung both his blades simultaneously, smashing them into the mercenary’s defense. The fourth time he feinted, pulling his foe’s weapon out of position. Stepping closer, he kicked the man’s knee, dropping him. In went his short swords, thrusting through his neck as the mercenary let out a gargled death cry. In a crumple of armor the man fell, the sound horribly loud to Thren’s ears. He glanced up and down the street, but he saw no one, and could only hope that he might be in and out of the temple before anyone stumbled upon the bodies.
Thren knew he shouldn’t be surprised the temple door was unlocked, but he was anyway. Not because the priests who professed mercy and forgiveness were actually so trusting. More because the way his night was going, he felt as if a thousand pounds of iron chains should have prevented his entrance. Perhaps, just perhaps, things might still turn out well.
Immediately upon entrance he stepped into a long carpeted hallway leading into a room of worship. It was filled with rows of pews, hard wood with little padding. There were doors on both the left and the right of the far side, and as he ran across the carpet he wondered which way might lead to where the priests slept. Guessing left, he went to the door, checked it. Unlocked as well, and through it he went.
Beyond was a hallway lit with long candles. Unsure of what to do, he picked a door at random and checked it. Like the others, it was unlocked. Carefully he turned the knob, pushed it open, and then stepped through. Inside was a small room with a small desk and a small cot. Upon that cot slept a middle-aged man. Thren drew a sword, then knelt down and put a hand across the man’s mouth. Immediately the man’s eyes opened. To Thren’s surprise, he showed no sign of panic despite his predicament.
“Not a sound,” Thren whispered. “When I remove my hand, you will tell me your name.”
“Calan,” was his response when his mouth was uncovered.
“Are you a priest?” Thren asked.
Calan nodded. He seemed a harmless man, with a round nose and face, his ears big and his eyes green.
“What is it you need, son?” Calan asked, and Thren was happy the man had the intelligence to whisper his question.
“What I need,” said Thren, grabbing him by the arm, “is for you to come with me.”
* * *
He’d hoped making his way back would be easier, but the mercenaries were showing no sign of letting up. They’d spread farther out since failing to locate him earlier, but that just meant every direction he faced led him toward some patrol or other. At least the priest made no overt attempts to escape, instead following along like a properly trained dog. Street by street Thren worked his way toward the safe house, the whole while wishing they could take to the rooftops instead.
“Hurry,” he said, catching sight of torches coming just around the bend. As they cut into an alley, he swore, seeing torchlight up ahead as well. Spinning about, he realized he was caught between two groups.
“Damn it, Maynard, this isn’t funny,” he said, trying to decide what to do.
“Friend,” said Calan as light from the torches shone their way, and they heard cries demanding they halt. “The reason you take me, is it to help someone, or hurt them?”
Thren swallowed down a heavy lump in his throat.
“Help,” he said.
“Then remove your cloak, and follow.”
Calan approached the mercenaries, walking with his hands out at his sides. After a moment’s hesitation Thren smoothly removed the clasp about his neck and let his cloak fall to the dirt of the alley.
“Identify yourselves,” said one of the men in the small squad of four. He held his torch closer, and his eyes widened as the light reflected off Thren’s swords.
“My name is Calan, priest of Ashhur,” said Calan. “With me is a friend who has come to me in this dark hour with great need.”
The torch moved closer to Thren, until he felt the heat of it on his face.
“What’s your name?” the man asked Thren.
“His name is none of your concern,” Calan said before Thren could lie. “As is his business. Matters of faith and healing are matters no sellsword should interfere with. Now put down your swords, let us pass, and spend the rest of this night in peace.”
Thren thought there wasn’t a chance the four would do as asked, but there was a strange forcefulness to the priest’s voice, a sudden firmness that seemed to contradict the smooth, harmless look of the man. And then the torch pulled away, and the squad saluted.
“Not safe out tonight,” one told them as they marched away. “I’d suggest going home.”
“I am,” Thren said, and he looked to Calan. The priest gestured farther down the alley, to where it joined with another road.
“Lead on,” he said. “I am no fool, and can sense your despair. Someone is in danger, now lead, and do not bother with hiding the way. No one will bother us further.”
Thren opened his mouth, closed it, and then ran along.
They reached the safe house not long after. Thren opened the door and gestured for Calan to enter. Looking around one last time to ensure no one spotted them, Thren stepped in.
Immediately he heard the screaming, and it was a knife to his heart. Calan heard it as well, and without waiting for orders he hurried through the meagerly furnished room and through the door into the bedroom, where Marion lay.
“How long has she been like this?” Calan asked as Thren followed. Grayson stood at Marion’s side, holding her hand as she cried. Marion lay on the bed, the sheets cast off to the side. At her feet was an elderly midwife, her wrinkled skin looking pale. Thren noticed she purposefully did not meet his eye when she stepped aside to make way for Calan.
“Marion’s been laboring for seven hours,” said the midwife. “But the bleeding, perhaps an hour. I can help the baby along, but I cannot stop the bleeding. Miracles are not my domain, priest.”
“Nor are they mine,” said Calan. “Only Ashhur�
��s.”
Thren went to Marion’s side opposite Grayson, and he kissed his wife’s cheek as she sucked in air, her screams momentarily passing as her contractions subsided.
“You’ll be fine,” he told her. “You’re strong, stronger than anyone I know.”
“Wh—” She stopped, clenched her jaw and arched her neck for a brief moment, then relaxed again. “Where’s Randith?”
“Senke’s watching over him,” he said, stroking her face. Her hair was slick with sweat, and if he’d thought the midwife was pale, Marion seemed a ghost.
“I want to see him,” she said, closing her eyes and rolling her head back. “I want to see him, please, I want to see him before…before…”
“Stop it,” Thren said, refusing to let her finish. “You will see your son again, now you keep breathing, keep fighting, you hear me?”
Thren looked up, saw Grayson looking at him. Tears were in his friend’s eyes.
“I’ll get him,” Grayson said. “If you want me to.”
Thren felt something twist in his throat, and he found talking suddenly much more difficult.
“No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”
Calan had exchanged words with the midwife, then shifted so she might once more have access to the baby. When Thren had left, the baby’s progress had completely stopped prior to crowning, and despite his wife’s constant labor, it refused to move farther down. Despite his time away, the baby had remained, and he could only imagine Marion’s agony.
No, he didn’t have to imagine it. He just had to look at the fiery woman he loved more than the world itself. Had to see the way her neck was flushed red, the way blood had spilled into her eyes from vessels bursting, feel the frantic grip with which she clutched his hand.
“Childbirth is something of which I know very little,” Calan said, shifting his attention between Thren and Grayson. “But bleeding and injury, that is something else, something I’m more familiar with. Paula here will force the baby through, and then I will do what I can to keep Marion alive.”
Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella Page 6