Brotherhood of Thieves 1

by Stuart Daly

  The sun was high in the sky when they crossed an area of undulating hills and woods. Morgan pointed down to the left, drawing the recruits’ attention to a fortified city. ‘Behold, Darrowmere.’

  Caspan was impressed by the city’s fortifications. Three rings of concentric battlements surrounded the city, which was set atop a hill that rose several hundred feet above a landscape of fields. On the hill’s rocky outcrop was a central fortress of white stone. Caspan had heard enough stories to know that this was The Hold, the fortress of Duke Bran MacDain, the King’s brother and High Lord of the North. He ruled this land, the Duchy of Lochinbar, with an iron fist, defending the northeast border of Andalon against Caledonish border rievers.

  Looking to the far east, Caspan saw the heather-flecked foothills and the distant snow-covered mountains of Caledon. He pictured in his mind’s eye groups of plaid-kilted clansmen roaming the highlands, the glens and lochs resonating with the doleful sounds of their bagpipes. They were always at war amongst themselves, torn apart by feuds that stretched back hundreds of years. It would prove disastrous for Lochinbar, however, should the clans unite. The Roon were proving difficult enough to deal with, let alone having to face a second invasion force. Thus, while the war in the north raged on, Bran MacDain remained in his white fortress, a bulwark of steel and grim, iron resolve safeguarding the eastern flank of the realm against invasion.

  About an hour later they arrived at their destination. Morgan signalled to Lachlan, and the recruits banked to the right and eased their mounts into a gradual descent. They followed the course of the river at a steady pace, cruising only a few yards above the water, until they entered a thick blanket of fog. With visibility reduced to only forty yards, they slowed down and maintained a close formation, drifting cautiously through the grey shroud, the mist swirling in their wake. With the exception of their creaking saddles and the Wardens’ flapping wings, the land was deathly silent.

  They continued travelling upstream for several minutes before it suddenly appeared.

  The head of a great beast on a long neck, rising out of the still waters!

  Lachlan gave a cry of alarm and pulled up sharply. Caspan and Roland did likewise, yanking back on their reins, forcing their Wardens into a steep climb. Staring down at the beast, Caspan realised that it was the carved figurehead of a dragon at the prow of a great war galley. Wide and shallow-hulled, it glided silently up the river. Battle-scarred wooden shields reinforced with iron rims and bosses lined its sides, and a sail was furled against its single mast, which shot up into the mist like a massive spear. But it was the figures aboard the vessel that truly caught Caspan’s attention.

  At the front of the galley was a Roon! Standing over eight feet tall, he struck a commanding pose: his right foot raised against the rear of the dragon head as he gripped the haft of a two-headed battleaxe, its edge notched and scarred, testament to the countless battles it had seen. In spite of the cold, the Roon was bare-chested, revealing a muscle-corded torso and skin the deathly pallor of a corpse. One side of his face was painted black, and his shoulders and chest were tattooed with black swirls. His silver-grey hair cascaded halfway down his broad back, and he scanned the blanket of mist with merciless eyes. Standing beside him was a man – a human, judging by his height – wrapped in the folds of a grey cloak, the cowl drawn low over his face.

  The other Roon aboard the vessel were manning the oars, dipping them expertly into the river without making so much as a splash or ripple. They moved with perfect stealth, their strokes synchronised. Like the first Roon, some were bare-chested, their pale skin covered in tattoos, while others wore wolf-skin cloaks, leather jerkins, chain mail hauberks, or chest-guards of boiled, hardened leather, reinforced with patches of scalemail and chain. The hazy light that filtered through the mist glimmered off their weapons: heavy-hafted battleaxes and broadswords of black steel.

  Morgan looked back at the group, his eyes wide, and raised a finger to his lips. He pointed upwards, signalling for the recruits to continue higher. Hopefully they might be able to escape back into the mist before they were spotted.

  But a hoarse cry of alarm sounded from below. Caspan peered down at the galley and spotted the warrior at the helm point his battleaxe at him and his companions. His blood turned to ice.

  ‘Climb!’ Morgan roared.

  Caspan kicked his heels hard into Frostbite’s flanks, and the drake surged ahead with a speed that almost dislodged him and Kilt. Clinging tightly to their saddle horns, they shot after their companions. Through the gradually thickening veil of mist below, Caspan saw Roon warriors abandon their oars and grip their weapons.

  A spear soared past Frostbite. His heart racing, Caspan pulled harder to the right, hoping to steer his drake further away from the vessel, which was now nothing more than a blur, almost completely enveloped by the grey haze. Only a few seconds more and they would be safe.

  The rhythmic whistle of a hurled axe sounded from below, ending in a dull thud. Frostbite contorted in a spasm of pain and gave a horrific squeal. His back arched. Then he fell.

  Caspan fought to control Frostbite, but the drake would not respond to his commands. Downward they plummeted, Kilt screaming in his ears as they hurtled closer and closer towards the war galley. Below, the Roon equipped their shields in preparation for close-quarters combat. Not that Caspan believed that he, Kilt and his injured Warden would offer them much opposition. Against so many, it would be a massacre.

  Yanking fiercely to the right, Caspan managed to steer Frostbite away from the vessel, out into the middle of the river. The drake came close to plunging into the water, but he gave a laboured beat of his wings, saving all but his feet from splashing into the river. Up they climbed again, in spasmodic lurches. Caspan searched desperately for his friends, but they were nowhere to be found. All he could see were the spears sailing through the mist, narrowly missing Frostbite. Hunkering down in his saddle, he urged his drake onwards, until they finally flew out of sight of the galley, to safety.

  Caspan sat up straight and wiped a trembling hand across his brow. They flew for several hundred more yards, distancing themselves from the Roon, until they entered a section of the river where the mist thinned into a translucent haze. It was like looking through the misty pane of a dream. Caspan peered down, searching for the riverbank, where he could land his injured Warden.

  His heart froze.

  Kilt grabbed him tightly around the waist.

  The river was full of Roon galleys.

  Rather than stumble across a lone scout vessel, they had discovered an invasion force.

  The decks of the galleys came alive with activity as war horns blasted and Roon warriors dropped their oars, aimed their weapons and stared up at the drake. It wasn’t long before the mist was full of hissing arrows and hurled axes and spears. Somehow, miraculously, Frostbite navigated his way through the lethal storm to fly clear of the river and crash in a meadow. Thrown off by the impact, Caspan and Kilt rolled across the earth and clambered to their feet.

  Caspan spat dirt and staggered to Kilt’s side. ‘Are you okay?’

  She was shaking with fright, staring back to where they had seen the Roon. Both recruits could hear the giants’ war horns and the splashing of their oars. This was followed by the sound of wood grinding into dirt, as the keels of the ships stopped by the banks of the river. Then there was the thudding of feet as the giants leapt from their boats, and the clanking and rustling of mail armour and weapons.

  The Roon were coming after them.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ Kilt whispered fearfully.

  Caspan knew she was right, but he was not leaving Frostbite. He raced over to his Warden, only now realising that the axe had been ripped free from the drake’s chest during the crash-landing. The great beast was trying to rub his wound against the earth and grass, growling in a mixture of pain and fury.

  ‘Caspan, we’ve got to go!’ Kilt called after him. ‘When we were coming down, I saw the monaste
ry up ahead through a break in the mist. It’s only a few hundred yards away. But we have to leave now!’

  Caspan knelt beside Frostbite and stroked a comforting hand along the bridge of his snout. Normally the drake would close his eyes and nuzzle his cheek affectionately against him in return, but Frostbite was in immense pain, fighting back convulsive shudders that wracked his entire form. Having endured one particularly painful spasm, he stared deep into Caspan’s eyes, as if pleading him to leave.

  Tears welled up in Caspan’s eyes, and he hugged Frostbite around the neck, wishing he could ease his Warden’s suffering. ‘I’m not leaving you,’ he whispered, then glanced back at Kilt. ‘Go on ahead without us. We’ll catch up later.’

  Kilt shook her head, unconvinced. ‘We both know how that will end.’ She raced over to Caspan, grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him after her. He resisted, and she looked beseechingly into his eyes. ‘I don’t care much for you, but I refuse to leave you behind. Besides, you can’t help Frostbite. Remember what Master Scott told us? The best way for our Wardens to heal is to send them back to the astral plane.’

  In all the confusion and chaos, Caspan had forgotten this. ‘You’re right,’ he said with sudden hope, snatching the soul key from around his neck and raising it to his lips. Frostbite growled angrily, evidently not wanting to be dismissed; wanting to guard his master to the death. Straining against the pain in his chest, the Warden pushed himself up onto his rear feet, spread his wings and raised his head high in a bold demonstration to show he was strong enough to fight. But Caspan wasn’t going to allow that to happen. There was still a chance that he and Kilt would be able to make it to the monastery in time. There would be no need for Frostbite to stay behind to protect their rear.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ Caspan said, before whispering the drake’s secret name. Frostbite roared defiantly and thrashed his tail about, then vanished in a puff of blue smoke.

  Just as five Roon warriors emerged through the mist.

  Caspan spotted the axe that had injured Frostbite, snatched it up and brandished it at the giants. The weapon was incredibly heavy, with a wide haft that he could barely wrap his fingers around. He doubted he’d be able to wield it for long. Kilt drew alongside him, armed with a stout branch in her trembling hands. Staring up at the advancing giants, Caspan knew that both he and Kilt wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Their only hope was to run for their lives.

  A blur of movement in the corner of his eye caught Caspan’s attention. A large, white shape tore through the mist, hitting the leftmost Roon in the side, smashing him to the ground. The shape then carried on to the next giant, weaving past the Roon’s wild, instinctive swipe of his blade, to slam into his chest. As the giant doubled over, gasping for air, the white blur launched itself at another Roon, leaping at his neck with its bared fangs and claws. Dropping his sword, the giant staggered back and tried to fend off its attacker, but the shape bore the warrior to the ground. There was a gargled cry, then the Roon went limp.

  Caspan gawked in awe at Whisper as she rose from the fallen giant and padded over to stand guard beside Kilt. His fellow recruit must have summoned her Warden just after they crashed. The panther had been hiding in the mist, waiting in ambush for the Roon.

  The great panther crouched low, her inch-long incisors bared in a savage snarl. The muscles in Whisper’s rear legs were bunched as she prepared to launch herself at the remaining Roon.

  But the giants weren’t afraid. Perhaps spurred by their belief that only warriors who died a heroic death in battle would be allowed to enter the Hall of the Gods, they came tearing at the recruits and their guardian panther. Whisper gave a deep, vicious growl and pounced forward to intercept them.

  Seizing the opportunity, Caspan and Kilt sprinted in the opposite direction. Caspan tossed the heavy axe aside, not wanting to be slowed down, convinced that their only chance of survival lay in reaching the monastery. Having seen how easily Whisper had dispatched one of the giants, he was confident that the panther would be able to defeat the remaining Roon warriors, but it would only be a matter of seconds before more arrived. He could tell as much by the rapidly approaching sounds of rustling mail and heavy footfalls. If he and Kilt had not made their escape before then, they would be as good as dead. Whisper was a skilled fighter, but he doubted the Warden would be able to protect them and fight the Roon at the same time.

  Caspan and Kilt had run quite a distance, and Caspan was beginning to fear that they had lost their way in the grey mist until the walls of the monastery rose before them. Standing at the front gate were his friends, accompanied by twenty or so robed monks. Bandit and Talon were perched atop the tall perimeter wall, guarding the iron-ribbed doorway below.

  Sara hurried over to greet Caspan and Kilt with hugs. When she drew back from Caspan, he noticed her eyes were wet with tears. She punched him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you ever do that again! You had us worried to death. We saw Frostbite get hit, then we lost sight of you.’ She looked past him, her eyes filled with concern, then shifted her gaze back to Caspan. ‘Is Frostbite …?’

  Caspan raised a reassuring hand. ‘He’s okay. I dismissed him so that he can heal.’ Sara sighed in relief, and Caspan scanned the faces in the group. It was now his turn to be worried.

  ‘Where’s Morgan?’

  ‘Out looking for you,’ Lachlan remarked as he and Roland joined them. ‘He told us to wait here with the monks, then headed back out. I thought he’d found you and sent you here.’

  Caspan shook his head. ‘No. We’re just lucky that Kilt spotted the monastery before we crashed.’ He stared back into the mist. ‘I hope he’s going to be all right.’

  ‘I don’t think we have too much to worry about.’ Roland gestured with a flash of his eyes to the Wardens standing guard at the doorway, then at the monks. Caspan hadn’t paid them much attention up until now, and his eyes were drawn to the mail hauberks above the low collars of their black robes. The monks also carried broadswords, their edges scarred and notched.

  ‘Morgan forgot to tell us that this monastery belongs to the Knights of the Order of Saint Justyn,’ Roland said.

  Under other circumstances, Caspan would have been reassured by this information. The Knights of Saint Justyn were an order of warrior-monks, dedicated just as much to combat as to prayer. If any place would offer a haven against an enemy, it would be here. But a Roon army wasn’t just any enemy.

  He gave Roland a grave look. ‘Not even they’ll be enough to stop the Roon.’ He noticed his companions’ worried expressions, and elucidated, ‘Kilt and I saw hundreds of ships in the river, full of thousands of Roon warriors.’

  ‘What?’ Sara gasped.

  Caspan’s heart raced at the memory of the Roon army. He took a steadying breath and hid his hands inside the folds of his cloak, conscious that he couldn’t stop them from trembling. ‘We’ve stumbled across an invasion force.’ He glanced at each of his friends in turn, bracing them for his news. ‘And we’re slap-bang in the middle of it.’

  ‘You’re certain of what you saw?’ one of the monks asked. He had a commanding voice and a strong jawline. He wasn’t very tall but was broad-shouldered and appeared as sturdy as an ox. A small white cross embroidered on the left breast of his robe distinguished him from the rest of his order. ‘You weren’t deceived by the mist?’

  Caspan and Kilt shook their heads, and the monk’s eyes flashed determinedly. He looked back at his brethren and beckoned one of them to come forward. ‘Hansen, I need you to ride north. Find the northern legions and warn them that the Roon have sent an army south to cut them off. If they don’t withdraw, they’ll find themselves surrounded and facing two armies. Take Antony with you, and two spare mounts.’ He placed a gloved hand on the monk’s shoulder and stared at him fixedly. ‘Ride hard and make sure the message gets through.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Brok.’ Hansen saluted, then hurried off.

  Lord Brok clicked his fingers at another monk, who straightened his
shoulders dutifully. ‘Daniel, take these members of the Brotherhood to the library. Show them what we discovered.’ The monk bowed, and the lord turned to address the recruits. ‘For over two hundred years these walls have kept us safe, but they won’t keep at bay a Roon army. You’ll want to be far away from here when the fighting starts.’

  Daniel motioned for the recruits to follow him, but they exchanged a knowing glance before turning their backs on him. Daniel cleared his throat awkwardly and shrugged apologetically at Lord Brok.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Lord Brok asked.

  Lachlan nodded. ‘Our Master’s still out there. We’re not leaving without him.’

  Caspan thought that the lord would have objected, but the faint outline of a smile crossed his stern features, and he nodded. ‘We’ll all wait for him.’ He raised a finger in warning. ‘But at the first sign of the Roon, we’re heading inside. You’ll be escorted to the library, with or without your Master.’

  Kilt drew breath to protest, perhaps, Caspan thought, to inform the lord that she wouldn’t be going anywhere until her panther returned, when, as one, everybody fell silent and stared into the mist.

  Someone – or something – was rapidly approaching.

  Whisper appeared first, a blur of white racing through the grey gloom, followed by Master Morgan, who was slapping Fang’s flank with the flat of his sword and steering the wolf with the pressure of his knees. Then came the Roon – dozens of them – chasing after their fleeing quarry with lumbering strides.

  The monks armed with bows provided covering fire, forcing the giants to band together and join their shields to form a protective wall, from behind which they hurled their axes and spears. Feeling helplessly exposed, Caspan and his friends followed several monks in hurrying back towards the monastery. Some of the archers covered their retreat, then fell back with them, taking position inside the gateway. More archers appeared atop the wall, and together they maintained a steady storm of arrows at the giants, two of whom fell, clutching feathered shafts.