by A. J. Ponder
Arrant’s finger hovered over Emz’rial’s Ultimate Power Spell. Everything—from the moment he’d sneaked aboard the stolen wagon and recruited the wizard, Dothie (for his magic), and the Thurgle, Fergus (for his prodigious size and strength)—had been leading to this point:
They’d been a winning team until King Phetero had lost his nerve in the face of Torri’s rock-slinging machines…
Arrant couldn’t believe it—one minute, King Phetero and the wizard Dothie were in the middle of the pitched battle for Scotch Mist, against the invading Avondale scum—the next, they were wheeling their horses away from the fight.
They were going to let Sylvalla take Scotch Mist!
Worse, they were taking his Thurgle, and personal bodyguard, Fergus, with them!
In a moment of clarity, Arrant knew he had to obtain every book and item of power that Dothie and Phetero had left behind. First, he ransacked Dothie’s shelves, but there was nothing, just an old tome with Biology on the cover. He threw it in a bag of holding, and noticed a polished stone on the shelf. It looked like one of Dothie’s explosive stones. Pocketing it, he scurried through the dusty secret corridors to Phetero’s bedroom and burst inside.
Two men stood in the shadows, swords and knives drawn. Both were carrying a king’s ransom in Phetero’s gold and jewels.
“Hello,” Arrant said, smiling. Fortunately, he was a much more well-rounded person than the skinny stray who’d hitched a lift on Dothie’s stolen carriage—so he didn’t look like a push-over, especially not with the expensive sword he was carrying. Unfortunately, the weapon he could use, the ensorcelled stone in his pocket, could only kill one of them—and that was only if it worked in the first place.
Arrant sized up his two opponents. One was a crow-like figure that Arrant recognised as Villyus, Sylvalla’s ex-Grand Vizier. The other was far more dangerous. His smashed nose and the prominent scar on his unnaturally pale face marked him as Phetero’s torturer, Zed. He held a silver knife in one hand and a fine leather case decorated with silver butterfly clasps in the other. And those butterflies were famous, spoken of in hushed tones and terrified voices, and not just because they were associated with Zed—butterflies were also powerful components of Chaos Magic. At least, that’s what the soothsayers and Dothie’s old books said.
“I hope you both have a plan to escape the castle,” Arrant said, trying to break the tension. If he offered to help them escape, maybe he could bluff his way out of here.
Zed threw a knife at Arrant’s heart.
Arrant dodged, grinning as the blade thudded into the wall. “I wouldn’t try my patience, if I were you,” he said, pulling the knife and casually walking up and stabbing it into Zed’s leather case.
“That’s expensive human skin!” Zed stepped back, yanking the knife free.
Villyus stepped back too, his beady eyes searching for a weakness.
Arrant added a swagger modelled off Dothie—and every bully ever. “Think I care?” He curled his lip in Dothie’s trademark sneer. “How about you two strip this room of gold and jewels while I pick up a few books?”
“Books?” Villyus sneered back.
“Yes,” Arrant said, palming the explosive stone in his pocket, and reminding himself to stay calm. “Books are how I know how to kill you a thousand different ways without breaking a sweat.”
Zed the torturer smiled. “We should stick together.”
Villyus tilted his head. “Stick together? Yes, maybe we should.” Sylvalla’s exiled advisor might give every impression of a crow, but he spoke like an oil slick.
The rattle of armour and the stomp of footsteps in the corridor had Arrant and Villyus racing to a secret door. Zed stayed back a moment, arranging Phetero’s more garish and less expensive trinkets to take up more room before hurrying to join them. “Hurry,” he ordered as Villyus fumbled to light the torches.
Arrant quietly closed the door. With a wary eye on his companions, he padded down the secret corridor, the torch flames flickering over cobweb-encrusted stone.
“This is it.” With a flourish, Arrant pulled on the sconce that opened Phetero’s safe room. It seemed much bigger without Dothie and Phetero crammed into it, conspiring.
The book he wanted was there, spattered with foul-smelling tallow of various colours. The other—the one written by Xem’rial—was gone. Phetero must have taken it with him. Arrant shoved the silver candlestick into his magical bag of holding—technically it had been Dothie’s bag of holding, but it didn’t carry as much as the one the wizard had favoured, so Dothie had allowed Arrant to use it.
No more glorified pack horse, Arrant thought. I’m the magician now. He barged back into the secret corridor past Zed and Villyus. “Let’s go,” he said.
“What’s the plan?” Villyus asked.
Zed narrowed his eyes. “Yes, where are we going?”
“This way.” Arrant headed back toward the front gates of the castle itself. He was feeling braver than ever, even though he had no idea about how they were going to sneak all their spoils out of the castle—not without Dothie or Fergus to back him up.
Zed, the torturer, was following closely, knife in hand. Did he suspect something?
“What are our plans when we get out of here?” Arrant asked.
“We can’t escape the city,” Villyus said, unnecessarily—given the city was under seige.
“There are always places to hide,” Zed said knowledgeably. “I used to be a thief. I reckon the best place would be to hide out in the thieves’ headquarters. There’s just one little problem.”
“What’s that?”
Zed shrugged. “Their boss threatened to kill me on sight.”
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Arrant asked.
“Of course he is,” Villyus said. “It’s a good plan. We take over the thieves’ guild and live like kings.”
“Live like kings? You mean, everyone will want to kill us,” Arrant muttered under his breath. But in truth, he was as happy as a piglet in spring. He wouldn’t have to create a power base—he could usurp the existing one. And with a little more magical knowledge, that shouldn’t be too hard.
“Quiet now,” Arrant warned, pointing up to the murder holes. Then, expecting archers to be above, he signalled to them. A signal that was usually challenged…
Nothing. No warnings to stop, not even any complaints about all the baggage they were carrying. No sound at all.
“Looks like we’re out free,” Arrant said as the smell of the city got stronger and the passageway ended in a stone wall. He pulled the sconce and they walked right out of the castle wall into an alley. “So what’s the next step?”
“Wizard, can you disguise me?” Zed said. “That way, I’ll be able to get nice and close to the thieves’ guild boss and give him a second smile.”
“I have a better idea,” Arrant said, not willing to admit he couldn’t throw a simple illusion. “You point the boss out to me, and I’ll kill him.”
“If you want.” Zed led them down the street to a brownstone building fronted with a bright-red wedge-shaped sign with a yellow key in the centre. “We’re almost there. The Keystone Pub.”
Villyus raised an eyebrow. “That’s not very clandestine.”
“Perfect, isn’t it?” Zed said. “You first.”
Arrant walked in. Villyus followed, a cautious step behind. Inside, the brawny tavern keeper was wiping down tables, while a dozen men, who’d somehow managed not to get conscripted, were hunched over their drinks. There was something about this place that made Arrant feel strong. Something about the stone bar—it glowed brighter than a magic book.
Zed strode in and all the men all bolted upright, any appearance of sleepiness or drunkenness gone.
“Lookee here,” the barman said. “The traitor Zed has graced us with his presence. Traitor, what do you think you’re doing here? Don’t say you’ve come for my job!” He laughed heartily. “Those fops you’re with might carry swords, but they don’t kn
ow how to hold them.”
Steel rang, a dozen men drawing their swords. Eager to attack, the thugs closest sent their table flying and ran toward Arrant.
Arrant dodged past them easily, and glanced back.
Zed had pulled two of his longer butterfly knives, eyes wide enough to take in the whole room. Villyus was grinning and lounging on the doorframe as if three fighters weren’t worth his time.
Good. Arrant would have been disappointed to have lost the pair after all the work he’d put into rescuing them.
The apparent owner of the bar, and maybe even the crime boss himself, threw several knives at Arrant.
Arrant barely had to swerve. He strode closer.
The barkeep stepped in and placed a knife near Arrant’s kidneys.
“That’s quite unpleasant,” Arrant said.
The man grinned and thrust. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. Not for Arrant—but the man’s look of shock as Arrant sidestepped was satisfying. Everyone in the room’s eyes were as wide as if he’d performed a magic trick, but Arrant had been successfully avoiding things since he was a kid. This was nothing new.
The large barkeep joined his thumb and little finger in the symbol for protection against evil, otherwise known as The Eye. That was pretty funny, too. Weren’t these guys supposed to be tough?
“Tell your boss,” Arrant said, “that we want to see him now.”
“I am the boss,” the barkeep growled.
“That true?” Arrant asked.
Zed nodded. “Yup.” He was wiping blood off his knife. Not a bad fighter, taking out a trio of thieves like that—and with little to no sound.
Now came the moment of truth. Arrant threw Dothie’s stone at the man’s chest, and ducked.
Rolling away from the flash of light, ears ringing from the explosion, Arrant deftly jumped back up to his feet and surveyed the lack of damage. The boss wasn’t dead, more was the pity, but he was writhing on the floor in agony. “It seems you’re not the boss anymore,” Arrant said with as much arrogance as he could muster. He needed these people to believe he had more.
Half a dozen thugs ran into the room—too late.
Seeing their boss on the floor and Zed twirling his knives so that the silver butterflies on them appeared to be flying, the thugs backed off.
“So good to see you after all this time,” Zed said.
Two of the thugs fled.
“Shut that door,” Zed yelled. He obviously had plans, too. “Does anyone dispute that we own this establishment?” he demanded.
Feet shuffled. If Arrant could read a room, Zed didn’t really have their full attention. Zed might be scary, but he wasn’t projecting the strength expected from a leader. Besides, they were all looking to him. He had the swagger and the sneer of power that he’d learned from his old boss, and even King Phetero himself. Arrant didn’t understand why, but people followed that bullshit.
“Now, let’s get this place running properly,” Arrant said. “Who wants to make some serious money?” Hopefully, these were the kind of idiots who thought money was everything.
Months passed, and Arrant’s power grew. With the fall of Scotch Mist, it was easy to find disaffected soldiers to increase the thieves’ guild’s influence outside and inside the city, the tricky bit was keeping them from direct confrontation with the crown.
With the early help of Grehaum, Sylvalla had implemented the sort of law and order that neither Avondale nor Scotch Mist had ever seen. They were always in court settling disputes, and trying to figure out who was in the wrong. They weren’t even taking bribes, like Phetero did to make sure the right people always won. Matters improved again when Grehaum went back to Avondale to institute changes there. Without his eagle-eyes, bribes were starting to find their way to the right places again.
It was frustrating when all he wanted to do was take the city for himself, but building power takes time, and it was starting to pay off. Villyus and Zed raided a small village in the mountains and created a profitable jewellery-making and smuggling sanctuary.
Arrant was sitting at the stone bar the Keystone Pub had been named after, considering his next money-making venture, when he opened Emz’rial’s book at the page with the butterflies on it. He admired the butterflies the designs showed, like he had so many times before, but this was the first time he considered having a jeweller make it.
A page fluttered open. A spell Arrant hadn’t seen before.
Emz’rial’s Ultimate Power Spell.
Arrant’s finger hovered over the words.
Mist coalesced around him. A voice echoed in his head. The world can be yours. Kings will kneel at your feet and obey your every whim. Just keep on reading. Hurry!
It was exactly what Arrant wanted. Eagerly, he continued the incantation[82].
A trio burst in. Villyus and one of Arrant’s best thugs were dragging in a tatty-looking soldier.
Arrant hesitated, the last word of the spell unsaid.
The keystone, behind him, split in two with a loud crack that reverberated around the room as the last of the mist coalesced around him.
Say the last word.
Arrant shook his head. It felt like someone was talking inside his skull.
“Ah,” Villyus said, taking a second to compose himself. “We have a problem.”
The thug pushed the soldier to his knees. “Some of the returning soldiers are starting to disturb our operations.”
“Didn’t I order you to pull in as many disaffected soldiers as possible?” Actually, it had been Villyus’ plan, but Arrant was proud of it nonetheless.
“We have, but some of them are restless. They’ve gone on unsanctioned raids. What are we going to do with them?”
“Close the tavern,” Arrant said, “and get my torturer.”
“I don’t need no torturing,” the soldier whined. “My men and I were hungry.” He struggled under the thug’s vice-like grip.
“I literally don’t care,” Arrant said. Frustrated, he searched the book for the spell, but it was gone. The page was there, but the parchment was blank. It was odd, Arrant was usually slow to anger, but the idea that his chance for power had been stripped away from him made him incandescent with rage.
Zed had hardly started pulling out his knives when the voice in Arrant’s head spoke again. I have a plan that will help you.
“Emz’rial?” Arrant whispered. “Are you Emz’rial? Having a wizard in my head was hardly the ultimate power I was looking for.”
Oh, but it is. Together, we’re going to destroy Sylvalla and take the Seven Kingdoms for ourselves. All we have to do is create a little chaos. You’ve seen my beautiful butterflies, haven’t you? Surely, you understand their worth.
Let’s take your little jewellery smuggling operation and your under-employed soldiers, and use them to encourage the other kingdoms to fall into my little trap. Once we have absolute control, it’ll be easy to bring Sylvalla to her knees.
Raiders
“Nice weather for tracking raiders,” Dirk said, surveying the snow-clad peaks.
“Could have fooled me,” Sylvalla said, rubbing her frozen hands together. “But we’re not here for comfort, are we?” Sylvalla forced a grin.
Torri buried her hands in her new riding cloak. “The cold’s not so bad. I just wish…” She frowned. “I don’t understand it. Dirk and I should be able to track ’em, easy. But they seem to be going in three different directions.”
Sylvalla glanced back; the robust Captain Grimmo and his soldiers were tramping along stolidly behind. Sylvalla had been impressed with the large soldier—not so much with his muscles, although they were impressive, but at the way he never let his clear-headed pessimism get in the way of his good humour.
“We’ll have to hope you’re following the right ones. If the rumours are true, then the new head of the thieves’ guild is stirring up trouble both inside and outside Scotch Mist. We don’t have time to waste.”
“You know it’s Arrant,” Dirk said.
Sylvalla shrugged. “I don’t care who it is, so long as we catch them.”
They crested a grassed hill and Dirk put a finger to his lips, pointing down a rough track leading to a farmstead.
Even with the little tracking knowledge Sylvalla had, it was clear many boots had been along it recently.
They crept along the ridgeline toward a sturdy two-storied wooden building with brightly-painted wooden shutters. Its two visible balconies had a guard at each corner. The farmstead wouldn’t be so easy to take. If it had been made of stone, Sylvalla would have described it as a fortress.
Could this be the thieves’ hideaway?
Dead goats were scattered over the craggy foothills. Grimmo nearly tripped over a dead shepherd, a teenager. Not so far away, kid goats bleated over their dead mothers.
This isn’t right.
Lower down the hill lay another shepherd, dead in the middle of the field, and surrounded by dead sheep.
“Ah,” Grimmo said. “I don’t think this is Arrant’s stronghold, I think it’s a farm that’s been attacked. We need to find out if the people inside are friend or foe.”
“Can’t we just attack them, anyway?” Dirk said.
“No.” Sylvalla headed down into plain view, so that everyone else would have to scramble to catch up.
The archers on the closest balcony were waving frantically.
“Wait!” Dirk shouted.
Before Sylvalla could reach the farmstead, raiders jumped up from behind a shallow crag. They let loose a barrage of arrows that whistled past Sylvalla.
Dirk yelled in pain, an arrow in his leg. He wasn’t the only injured person—another soldier was on the ground, an arrow piercing his chest. Swordsmen had appeared from the long grass on either side of the wagon trail, their clothing a mix of Scotch Mist uniform and out-of-luck farmhand.
It’s lucky we didn’t go that way, Sylvalla thought. We’d have been properly caught in the ambush.
“Take them!” Grimmo shouted. “For Avondale! Um, Scotch Mist!”