Ahren remained still.
“…came back…” came a voice from behind where Ahren hid.
“…bastard will show up,” another man said. Ahren recognized Othmar’s voice.
Leaves rustled as they drew nearer. Ahren tensed.
“He’s not here.” The slightly nasal voice was no further than twenty feet away.
“We’ll just check the west orchards before heading back,” Othmar replied.
Ahren waited until their footsteps had gone before letting out a sigh. He remained still until light had just about faded before dropping down. The sharp smell of smoke wormed through the trees. Careful to avoid the hidden steel traps, Ahren crept toward the viscount’s manor.
Orange firelight flickered between the trunks ahead, casting long shadows through the grove. Crouching low, Ahren made his way closer and peered from the tree line.
A crackling bonfire burned behind the house. Othmar stood before it, his thick arms crossed as he watched the flames. A bearded man prodded the fire with a long pole. The stink of burning meat tinged the oily smoke wafting from the blaze.
Minutes passed.
Ahren moved along the orchard edge for a better view just as the thick wine cellar door swung open. The viscount dumped a bundle of palm-like leaves into a wheelbarrow outside the door. He removed a key from around his neck and locked the door behind him before wheeling the enormous bundles to the fire.
Othmar said something as he heaved the leathery rolls into the flames, but Ahren couldn’t make it out. Fire quickly engulfed the bundles. Stepping back from the growing blaze, the three men stood silent as it crackled and popped. Once the flames had calmed, the viscount took the pole from his crony and prodded red coals, sending thousands of orange sparks into the air. With a satisfied nod, he tossed the black-tipped pole onto the fire, said something to his nephew, and the three men left.
Ahren waited patiently until the moon had fully risen. The house and grounds lay silent except for the bearded servant occasionally patrolling past. According to Graita, aside from the two nephews, the viscount had only three henchmen. One was injured from a dagger to the gut, another’s wrists were shattered, and Karl was dead. The remaining servants despised and feared their master.
Ahren stepped from the safety of the shadows, raised his bow, and felled the sentry just as he came around the corner of the house. Quietly, Ahren crossed the grounds to the courtyard.
Smoke wafted up from the dying fire. Crouching beside it, Ahren took an arrow and sifted through the ash and red embers. He spied something smooth beneath the chalky dust. Ahren hooked it with the arrow head and pulled half of a charred jawbone from the ashes. His suspicions confirmed, he discarded the now smoldering arrow into the fire.
Staying low, Ahren approached the cellar door. He removed the tools from his satchel and inspected the lock. The mechanism proved more difficult than he expected, requiring three different picks before clicking open. It swung inward. Stone stairs descended into darkness.
Returning the tools to his bag, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. After lighting a squat candle from the wall, he followed the steps down. Racks of casks and dusty bottles lined two walls of a narrow room. A door stood at the back.
Ahren checked it. Locked. He set the candle on the floor, removed his picks, and opened the now familiar lock.
A sickly sweet aroma greeted him as he stepped inside. Orange dust coated the floor, and a lumpy sheet spread over a nearby table. He pulled the cloth away to reveal a set of fine silk clothes neatly folded beside a pair of clean boots, a thick-bladed sword, and a black key etched with swirling vine-work. Ahren took the broadsword and then picked up the key. It appeared to fit the locks both from the room and the cellar. Why lock the key inside?
A large, twisted form dominated the back wall. Lifting his candle, Ahren’s eyes widened as the light fell across a thick vine growing out from a horse trough. It clung up the wall and hung back down from the ceiling rafters. Leathery, purple flowers dangled from its rope-like tendrils. One vine, as thick as a man’s arm, spilled out of the trough and onto the floor. It ended in a dark, leafy pod, as large as a barrel, and then a huge flower with violet petals and long, orange, pollen-coated stamen.
Ahren crouched beneath the hanging vines and touched the waxy pod. Its green veins pulsed beneath his fingertips. Squelching a mild revulsion, he removed his boot dagger and sliced lengthwise down one of the seams.
Burgundy fluid oozed from the slit like honey. Ahren cut along another of the pod’s seams, peeled the husk back, and recoiled in disgust.
Slime poured out, revealing the white form of a man curled inside. Its smooth, pallid skin appeared more like a pickled egg’s than human. Nonetheless, the viscount’s broad features and graying hair were still recognizable. Squeezing the sword handle tight, Ahren hacked. The head split like a pear. He swung again and again, chopping the fetal creature to pieces and slinging the burgundy juice across the floor and wall.
Turning the weapon on the plant itself, he chopped through the hanging vines until coming to the thick, knotted trunk sprouting from the black soil. Sap sprinkled down from the severed tendrils, running down Ahren face and drenching his clothes in sticky wetness. He brought the blade down onto the trunk, back and forth until he’d chopped through it. Purple ooze belched from the stump. Ahren grabbed the edge of the trough and yanked, dumping it across the sap-slick floor.
A human skeleton spilled out. Hair-like roots wove through the filthy bones, holding them together. The severed vine trunk jutted up from the corpse’s chest. Inside its ribs, a huge, blue bulb pulsed like a gruesome heart. With a final blow, Ahren brought his sword down, cleaving through the ribs and splitting the heart in half.
Panting, he stood and watched the plant wither and shrivel before him. He wiped the flakes of drying sap from his forehead, turned, and left.
Cool air greeted him as he stepped outside. Ahren slid the sword beneath his belt and climbed up the scaffolding to the third floor. Muffled music of the viscount’s harpsichord came from ahead. Silently, he made his way into the mirrored hall. His reflection resembled a madman. Crusty and stained clothes. Wild hair, matted with resin. Flaking cracks of dried ooze covered his brow and cheeks. His blue eyes stared out with deadly calm.
A loud thud came from behind Othmar’s mirrored door. Ahren knelt and peered through the brass-rimmed keyhole. The noble’s nephew stomped past, his arms laden with clothes. Furiously, he shoved them into an open chest already loaded with wooden boxes and rolled parchments. Apparently, Viscount Prussek believed the safest place for his last surviving kin would be away.
Othmar ran his sausage-like fingers through his hair. He picked up an open bottle and gulped the wine without a goblet. His back faced the door.
Drawing his dagger, Ahren pushed the door open and silently closed the distance in two steps. He reached around, grabbed the man’s forehead, and thrust the thin blade into the base of his head and up into his skull. Othmar tightened then fell limp to the floor. Ahren wiped the bloody blade on the dead man’s doublet, sheathed it, and returned to the hallway.
A servant stepped out into the passage before him, carrying a crystal decanter. Her eyes widened. Ahren raised his finger to his lips. Nodding, she backed away slowly and closed the door behind her.
He continued toward the slow, mournful music.
Light peeked out from beneath the music hall’s dark double doors. Ahren peered between them to see the viscount engrossed in his song. His harpsichord had been turned to face the entrance.
Ahren threw it open.
The music stopped.
Viscount Prussek stared across the flat harpsichord lid, his shocked expression melted into rage. He stood. “Othmar!”
“He’s dead—as is your man outside.” Ahren drew his sword.
The nobleman’s eyes narrowed. “You bastard.”
A half grin stretched across Ahren’s flecked face. “Tonight, you die.”
�
��You stupid oaf,” he laughed, drawing a gold-hilted dagger from his belt. “You can’t kill me.”
Ahren stepped closer.
The viscount’s gaze moved to the cellar broadsword in Ahren’s hand. Flakes of dried sap crusted the blade. The smug confidence fell from his face. Fear welled in his green eyes. “You really are an idiot,” he spat. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”
Ahren moved around the harpsichord.
“Wait.” The stocky man held out his hands. “You don’t have to do this.” He backed away, knocking his stool over onto the sky-colored rug. “I can pay you. Far more than whoever hired you. Be reasonable!”
Ahren stepped over the fallen stool. The familiar smell of cut flowers emanated from the stout nobleman. He thought of Gratia then thrust his sword, driving the wide blade up into the nobleman’s gut. The viscount’s mouth hung open in an expression of pleading confusion. Twisting the blade, Ahren ripped the sword free. Blood gushed from the wound, and the nobleman fell back to the floor.
Once the life had faded from the viscount’s eyes, Ahren removed a black raven’s feather from his satchel and placed it on the harpsichord’s polished keys. The contract was complete. It was finally time he went home.
The Second Gift
SMOKY TORCHES FLICKERED FROM the stone walls, casting orange light across the tapestries. Empty suits of blackened armor stood along the hall’s left side in silent vigil, Lord Hunver’s white and blue crest adorning their silver-trimmed tabards. A cool, evening breeze wafted through the passage from the narrow windows. Outside, a bell signaled the midnight hour.
Ahren crept down the hallway, his glove-leather shoes mute on the hard floor. Keeping to the shadows, he peered down a side passage. A scraggly-haired servant sauntered up the hall, carrying a loaded basket. Ahren ducked in an alcove behind a gray statue and waited. The servant’s footsteps grew closer.
Four months prior, Sorcerer Kerstoft, the most powerful human wizard in three centuries, had died. Shortly before his death, couriers had carried a locked, silver chest to each of the three Mordakish nobles whom Kerstoft had most favored. At the moment of his passing, all three chests popped open, each with a wondrous item inside. Margrave Leofret received an opal earring that made the wearer impervious to lies and treachery. It had taken Ahren six weeks to steal it. No one knew the magic properties of Lord Hunver’s golden wristband, but the masters of the Tyenee, a powerful criminal syndicate whose influence knew no borders, demanded that Ahren fetch it for them.
Iron hinges squeaked, and a door banged shut, leaving the halls in silence.
Ahren checked the passage, hurried down the hall to the tower staircase, climbed it silently to the third floor, and made his way down a wide corridor. A stoic, graven face peered down from the top of an arched doorway. Removing the picks from his pouch, Ahren knelt before the bronze keyhole.
“Intruder!” someone screamed on the other side of the door. “Guards! Guards!”
Ahren spun around. More shouts echoed through the small castle, followed by ringing bells from the courtyard outside. Had they spotted Sigurd? He thought briefly about his accomplice readying their escape on the outer wall.
Doors burst open down the hallway behind him, and clomping boot steps raced in his direction. Ahren dashed to a large, oaken wardrobe against the wall and squeezed inside. He clenched the handle of the dagger sheathed in his belt and peered through the lattice cutout window set in the cabinet doors. A pair of guards hurried into view, clutching their thin-bladed swords. Ahren pulled back into the shadows as the two men passed.
The arched door crashed open. Ahren braved a peek to see the guards step back, holding their swords ready.
“Halt, thief!” one shouted.
Ahren leaned closer, trying to see who the man had addressed.
“Drop your weapon.” The commanding guard stepped forward. His partner moved to his side, blocking escape.
A faint chuff sounded from the hallway, and blood exploded from the two soldiers’ throats. Their swords clanged to the floor. As they grasped at the wide wounds stretched across their necks, a flood of crimson poured between their fingers, cascading down their dingy tabards. Gurgling, they collapsed to the floor and fell still.
Wide-eyed, Ahren stared through the lattice for several heartbeats before cracking the cabinet door open.
The hall was empty except for the two bodies on the floor.
The dark, arched door stood open; another guard’s corpse lay in a pool of blood in the room beyond. Ahren stepped inside. Gold and sparkling jewelry rested on elaborate displays along the walls. An intricate, silver chest sat open atop a marble pedestal. He could still see the print in the emerald velvet where the bracelet had rested. Gone.
Rushing boots clomped toward him.
Ahren raced back down the hall to the stairs.
Bells clanged outside, and sleeping knights and soldiers burst from their rooms.
Ahren hurried down to the second floor and sprinted toward the window through which he’d entered.
Lights moved up a side passage ahead, and a guard stepped into the hallway, holding a flaming torch. “Halt!”
Sliding to a stop, Ahren scrambled backwards as the soldier charged. He ducked a swiping sword blade and leapt back against the wall. The man thrust his sword, and Ahren sidestepped, grabbed one of the suits of armor, and shoved. Metal clanged as the heavy suit toppled, forcing the soldier back. Ahren sprang past and raced down the passage.
Another soldier stepped out at the end of the hall and started toward him.
Ahren dodged and leapt out an open window. Wind whipped past as he sailed through the air. With a clatter of wooden shingles, he landed on the stable roof and rolled to his feet.
“He’s getting away!” someone screamed.
Sigurd tossed a rope down from the outer wall beside the stable. “Black Raven, come on!”
Ahren jumped, grabbed the line, and clambered up to the top. “Hurry.”
Sigurd looped a rope around a small stone figure atop one of the battlements and jerked the knot tight then dropped the rest over the side to the street below. “Go!”
A crossbow bolt whistled past, narrowly missing Ahren’s head. He grabbed the coarse line and climbed down the sheer wall with Sigurd right behind him. When they reached the last ten feet, they dropped to the hard cobblestones and raced across the empty street to a narrow alley.
As Ahren reached the alley, a hard thwack and cry came from behind. He looked back to see Sigurd’s crumpled body a few feet away, the end of a crossbow quarrel protruding from his back. Silhouetted guards stood atop Lord Hunver’s castle, reloading their weapons. Ahren slid over to his friend and dragged him back to the passage. A bolt sparked off the stones beside him.
“Go on.” Sigurd coughed. The bolt’s iron tip jutted from his chest.He'd be dead in seconds.
“I'm sorry.” Quickly, Ahren reached inside Sigurd’s shirt and ripped off a copper pendant from its thin chain. Clutching it, he fled down the alley.
#
Damtol flipped over the copper medallion in his small hand. “It’s a shame about Sigurd.” He ran his thumb across the Tyenee glyph stamped into the face and then set the pendant onto the polished table. He scratched one of the huge ears that nearly covered the side of his head. An opal earring hung from the quellen’s wide lobe. “Explain how it happened.”
Ahren gulped down his wine and drew a long sigh. Aside from being a renowned sorcerer, Damtol held the title of being one of the most successful generals in the Tyenee. Many claimed the three-foot wizard was recruited by his twin sister, or dolquel as quellens called them, Mragva. Until her death two years before, she had been the Tyenee’s foremost assassin. Ahren however, suspected it was Damtol who had corrupted her. “I was just outside the treasury when the guards were alerted, so I hid. I heard two guards confront the thief, but then their throats split open. The wristband was already gone. They shot Sigurd as we escaped.”
Damtol sipped his d
rink. “Did you see the thief?”
Ahren shook his head.
“When the guards’ throats opened up, what did you hear?”
“There was a short sound of rushing air. Just a whiff.”
The quellen nodded. “While you were taking your leisure acquiring the Margrave’s earring, Treolen went rogue. He left Kiedow two months ago, and no one has seen him since. He knew about Sorcerer Kerstoft’s gifts, and I suspect it’s he who beat you to the bracelet.”
“Treolen? I worked with him about a year ago. He seemed loyal.” Ahren refilled his cup from the near-empty wine bottle.
Damtol shrugged. “He left a dagger in Adolph’s eye with his medallion wrapped around the handle. Now, with Kerstoft’s bracelet, he’s an even bigger threat.”
“What does it do?”
“I speculated it was a Zeitfessel. Your story confirms it.”
Ahren’s brow creased.
The wizard chuckled. “A Zeitfessel, or Time Shackle, allows the wearer to move within a single moment of time, to freeze the world and do whatever or go wherever he wishes. You were lucky he didn’t see you; otherwise, you’d be dead as well. The sound you heard was the air filling back in the path he had taken.”
“Stop time? He’d be invincible.”
“Not completely. However, a Time Shackle’s allure has driven many men mad with delusions of ultimate power. Sorcerer Kerstoft likely gave it to Lord Hunver knowing he was too wise to abuse it.” Damtol sipped his wine again. “The trick is getting it from Treolen without giving him the chance to activate it.”
“That can be done,” Ahren said. “The hard part will be finding him. He could be anywhere.”
“He could, but I’d bet he’s headed for Priskal to collect Count Blekstein’s gift. Rumor says it is the silver cap that Kerstoft used to see the future. You’ll have to leave in the morning if you hope to catch him before he gets it.”
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 17