Brotherhood of Thieves 1

by Stuart Daly

  Caspan sprang from the bed and brandished his stiletto at the dark shape, just as the chamber door flung open, filling the room with light and startling the intruder. The two Crimson Blades who’d been standing guard outside charged into the room, their swords drawn. Lachlan scurried across the floor and grabbed one of the fallen guards’ swords, then joined the Crimson Blades and Caspan as they penned the assassin in a corner. Woken by the scuffle, Morgan climbed out of bed and moved groggily towards the group, arming himself with the closest thing he could find – a pillow.

  One of the bodyguards took a menacing step towards the assassin, who wore a black silk scarf that concealed the lower half of his face. The bodyguard pointed the tip of his sword at the dagger. ‘Drop the blade!’

  In the ghostly half-light, Caspan thought he saw the attacker’s eyes narrow. Then the assassin became a blur of movement, kicking aside the guard’s sword and flicking his right hand forward to throw his dagger at Morgan. The Master gave a startled cry and moved backwards, shielding himself with the pillow. The second Crimson Blade and Lachlan lashed out with their weapons, cutting the assassin down.

  ‘Is anybody hurt?’ Lachlan asked, looking back at Morgan.

  The Master glanced down at the pillow and drew a breath of relief when he saw the dagger embedded hilt-deep. He shifted his gaze to the intruder, then over to the two slain guards. ‘What’s happened now?’ Morgan sat down on the bed, cradling his forehead.

  Lachlan nudged the assassin with the toe of his boot to check he was dead. ‘It appears we had an unwanted guest.’

  Everybody in the room turned at the sound of footfalls as Dale and two more Crimson Blades raced into the chamber. The Prince was wearing a night robe and carried a lantern and sword. His eyes flashed in alarm when he saw his slain bodyguards. He knelt down to inspect them, then moved over to examine the intruder. He removed the mask and looked up at his guards, checking if they recognised the man. When they shook their heads, the Prince looked questioningly at the recruits and their Master.

  ‘Somebody wants you dead,’ he remarked. He clicked his fingers and pointed at the window, directing one of his Crimson Blades to ensure there were no more assassins hiding outside on the ledge.

  ‘What would anybody want with us?’ Morgan said, confused.

  Dale shrugged. ‘There’s never been an attempt on my life before.’ He rubbed his chin in contemplation. ‘Don’t you find it a little coincidental that the night you’re staying in my quarters, an assassin enters the room?’

  Lachlan stared at the intruder. ‘Is this the work of General Brett?’

  The Prince shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. As I said before, he wants you silenced, but I didn’t think he’d go to this length.’

  ‘Did he know we were up here?’ Lachlan pressed.

  ‘I never mentioned it, but it wouldn’t take him long to work it out. A few coins could have easily loosened the gaoler’s tongue.’ The Prince rose, pulled the assassin’s dagger from the pillow and inspected the handle. ‘The Hold is a spiderweb of political intrigue.’ He glanced at the members of the Brotherhood. ‘And it appears that you’re the fresh flies caught in its web.’

  Caspan gave an exasperated sigh. ‘But none of this makes any sense. We came to warn you of the Roon. Why would anybody want to kill us?’

  Finding nothing of interest in the dagger, Dale tossed it on the bed. ‘Perhaps you saw something that you weren’t meant to.’

  Caspan felt a cold tingle rush over his body when he remembered the cloaked man he’d seen aboard the Roon war galley. Had it been General Brett? It would certainly explain why he would want them eliminated. But what would the Andalonian General be doing aboard a Roon vessel? It made absolutely no sense at all. He voiced his concern to the others.

  Morgan gave him a suspicious look. ‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’

  Caspan shrugged apologetically. ‘I’d forgotten about it, so much has happened.’

  ‘Did the person see you?’ Dale asked.

  Caspan shivered as he recalled the mist-shrouded river and their discovery of the Roon galley. ‘I’m sure he did. We wouldn’t have been hard to miss, given that every Roon on the ship was throwing spears and axes at us.’ He paused, thinking back to when he had first met the General in the audience chamber. The hem of Brett’s cloak had been covered in dirt and he’d been sweating, as if he’d recently physically exerted himself, or had just returned from a long ride. ‘Where was the General yesterday?’

  Dale pursed his lips. ‘He’s been out for a few days and only returned yesterday, not long after you arrived. He claimed to have been out leading scouting patrols along the border of Caledon.’

  Morgan paced the room for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, rubbing his index finger against his thumb in thought. Caspan was relieved to see that alertness had returned to the Master’s face. The half-night’s rest and the physician’s treatment had obviously done wonders for his recuperation.

  ‘Let’s assume that it was General Brett,’ he mused. ‘It would explain why he wants us silenced.’

  The Prince nodded. ‘It would also explain why he has alleged that a Caledonish army is amassing in the borderlands. It’s a convenient diversion, getting us to send our army east to fight a non-existent enemy, leaving the northern legions unaided.’

  Morgan stopped in his tracks and stared at the Prince. ‘And leaving this city unguarded.’ He frowned. ‘But I don’t understand why the General would ally himself with the Roon. We are at war with them. What could he possibly hope to gain from this?’

  Dale shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s been promised riches beyond his wildest dreams.’

  Lachlan scoffed. ‘A fat lot of good that will be to him if the Roon conquer Andalon. All the riches in the world would mean nothing then.’

  ‘Maybe there’s a political motive,’ Morgan suggested.

  Lachlan looked at him quizzically. ‘Like what?’

  The Prince’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding. ‘Last year Brett was considered for the position of Commander-in-Chief of the King’s Armies. But in the end, he was overlooked for General Stene. My father played an important role in the final decision, writing to his brother to inform him that it was under his recommendation that Brett remain Commander of the Eighth Legion in Lochinbar. His experience in fighting the tribes of Caledon is invaluable to the defence of the duchy. Needless to say, Brett didn’t take the news very well. I heard him shouting in my father’s council chamber. He stormed off and wasn’t seen for several days. His relationship with my father has been strained at best since then.’

  Morgan cocked an eyebrow. ‘That sounds like enough motive to me. But how can we be so sure that the Roon army plans to head north? This city might be their intended target.’

  Caspan nodded slowly and glanced at Lachlan. ‘We’d never considered that.’

  ‘It would be a bold move on behalf of the Roon,’ Morgan said, ‘but perhaps their goal is to invade the southern half of Lochinbar. If successful, it would give them control of the duchy. They could then amass their forces for the push into the midlands.’

  Dale shook his head, unconvinced. ‘It would be too risky. The northern legions would rise up behind them.’

  Morgan raised a finger in conjecture. ‘The Roon might be confident that, cut off from supplies and reinforcements, they’d be able to mop them up at their own leisure.’

  ‘You may be right, but either way, my father needs to be informed of both the assassin and the man Caspan saw.’ Dale beckoned for everybody to follow him, but stopped at the sound of a horn being blown. It seemed to come from the battlements of The Hold.

  The Prince hurried to the window and stared. ‘There!’ He pointed to the far north of the city. ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘Where?’ Lachlan asked as he stood beside Dale and gazed into the darkness.

  Joining his friend by the window, Caspan peered out into the night and quickly spotted what had alerted the Prince. He swallowe
d and, grabbing Lachlan by the jaw, slowly turned his head to direct his vision.

  It was a full moon, and the fields surrounding the city were illuminated in a ghostly half-light. But there was a section to the north that resembled a dark void, like a large splotch of ink on a grey parchment. It was advancing slowly towards the city.

  Lachlan squinted as he focused on the darkness. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Roon,’ Morgan said grimly. ‘They’re marching on Darrowmere.’

  Caspan drew the folds of his cloak tightly around his neck, trying to bring some warmth against the chill night air, and glanced at Lachlan and Morgan.

  They had only just returned from the armoury. Lachlan had retrieved a bastard sword, which was slung across his back in the fashion favoured by soldiers in Lochinbar, allowing them to run more freely. The sword had an extended, downward-sloping cross-guard and a long handle that could comfortably accommodate two hands. Its ovoid pommel glistened like a ruby in the flickering glow of the braziers that lined the battlements. A dagger was tucked into Lachlan’s belt, and he wore a chain-mail shirt of blackened steel and a pair of leather gloves.

  Morgan wore a leather doublet and a conical helmet with a descending nasal guard. His longsword was sheathed by his left thigh and a dagger was secured in his belt. Despite the cold, his cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and he had rolled up his sleeves.

  Caspan had also chosen a longsword, but with a smaller blade and lighter pommel, allowing him to wield it more effectively. It hung by his side in a battle-scarred scabbard. Slung across his back was a quiver full of bodkin-headed arrows that could penetrate armour. He carried a longbow and wore a leather guard on the inside of his left forearm to protect it from the friction of the bowstring. He wore a vest made of boiled, hardened leather and reinforced with patches of scale mail. A black bandanna was tied around his head, and he had smeared charcoal under his eyes to reduce the glare from the braziers. He often did this when thieving back in Floran. He knew the bandanna would offer no protection against an enemy’s blade, but there was something comforting about it, like an old friend holding his hand.

  Soldiers hustled all about them, following their commanders’ orders as they positioned themselves along the first of the three concentric walls that surrounded ­Darrowmere. It was still several hours before dawn, and already the Roon had arrived outside the city.

  Lachlan took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. ‘At least we no longer have to wait for that raven.’

  Caspan nodded grimly and stared at the Roon army assembled before them. It had encircled the city, a wall darker than the night. Thieves sometimes used witchwood torches to conceal their movement in the shadows. The wood, growing only in the barren, frozen wastes north of The Scar, produced a black flame that cloaked its user in darkness, and was a rare commodity in Andalon. But never before had Caspan heard of an entire army camouflaging itself with witchwood torches. The Roon were acclimated to the night, as their lands to the far north were shrouded in darkness for six months of the year, enabling them to see through the pitch-black screen of the burning witchwood.

  The giants amassed just beyond the range of the city’s archers, from where they chanted bloodcurdling battle cries. Occasionally, one would step forward from within the Roon’s dark screen, beat his fists against his chest in a fuming rage and hurl challenges at the defenders atop the walls.

  Morgan took a swig from his water-skin and offered it to the boys. Caspan’s throat was parched, and he took a long draught before passing it to Lachlan, who waved it aside. ‘They’ll attack soon,’ Morgan said. ‘Stay by my side when the fighting starts. And no heroics. Our only hope lies in keeping the Roon off the walls.’

  Lachlan moved closer against the battlement wall to let a group of soldiers pass. ‘I’m glad we didn’t get dressed up for nothing then.’

  Caspan pointed the end of his bow at the map he had returned to the Master, which was tucked under Morgan’s belt. ‘So we don’t plan on leaving?’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘Not just yet. These walls will be in desperate need of every defending sword. Hopefully we’ll be able to hold out until reinforcements arrive.’

  Lachlan glanced back at the two other concentric walls, then up at the final fortress. ‘Surely these walls will keep them out?’

  The Master seemed doubtful. ‘Not an army that large. It will only be a matter of time before the city falls.’ He noticed the alarmed looks on the recruits’ faces and gave them a smile. ‘But we are not without hope. I overheard one of the commanders say that messenger ravens have been sent to the northern legions and Carling Tor, the next great city to the south, asking for reinforcements.’

  Caspan wiped his sleeve across his lips and handed the Master his water-skin. ‘But only the northern legions will be able to reach us in time. And they won’t be able to spare many men. They still need to hold the north against the main Roon army.’

  Morgan pursed his lips and nodded. ‘True, and that’s why we have no option but to stay and help these people. Should the Roon breach these walls, they’ll butcher every man, woman and child they find. We’ve got to do everything within our power to stop that from ­happening.’

  ‘Which is easier said than done when there are only three of us,’ Caspan mumbled, wondering how their swords could possibly change the outcome of the siege.

  If there was one good thing about the arrival of the Roon, it was that it had proven that the recruits and Morgan were not spies. Prince Dale had removed his guards from them, giving the trio freedom to go wherever they wanted around Darrowmere. Morgan had decided that they should join their swords to the frontline of defence.

  As it happened, the Prince had also taken post at the front wall. He strode along the battlements, inspecting the defences and offering words of encouragement, accompanied by four of his Crimson Blades and a small retinue of military officers.

  He paused before the recruits and their Master, and clasped their hands. ‘Well, men. I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere but here, but I’m glad to have you with us.’

  ‘We’ll help in any way we can, your highness,’ Morgan replied.

  Caspan peered along the parapet before addressing the Prince. ‘I haven’t seen General Brett. I would have thought he’d be organising the city’s defences.’

  Dale’s expression was sour. ‘After yesterday’s meeting, and until we learn the identity of the man you saw aboard the Roon vessel, my father confined Brett to the city. I only discovered an hour ago that he rode out before midnight, taking the Border Watch with him. It’s alleged that he’s travelling to the borderlands to stall the ­Caledonish army.’ He sneered at the Roon horde. ‘He’s more than likely there right now, watching us from behind the cover of the witchwood torches.’

  ‘How many men did he take with him?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Over a hundred cavalry skirmishers.’ Dale placed a hand on a battlement merlon and sighed. ‘Leaving us with only a thousand soldiers to defend the walls.’

  Lachlan straightened his shoulders. ‘One thousand and three, your highness.’

  The Prince smiled. ‘Yes, of course. Commanders are also recruiting townsfolk for militia parties. Hopefully we’ll be able to equip enough people to more than double our strength.’

  A band of soldiers rushed by, distributing quivers and bows amongst the defenders. One of the men stopped to report to the Prince, alerting him to an argument that had broken out between two captains at the city gate, concerning accommodation for people who had fled from nearby farms.

  ‘As if we don’t have enough to worry about,’ Dale muttered before bidding the friends best of luck and moving off.

  Morgan accepted a bow and quiver from one of the soldiers. He slung them over his shoulder and stared thoughtfully at the Roon army. ‘Even with two thousand men, these walls will be thinly defended. I wonder if there’s a way to reduce the Roon before they get anywhere near the walls.’

  Caspan raised his bow. ‘With these.�
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  Morgan shook his head. ‘They’ll just stall them. The giants will erect shield-walls, like they did at Saint Justyn’s, then move slowly towards the city.’ He looked around the battlement and noticed pails of oil being dispersed along the wall. These would be poured down upon the Roon when they attempted to scale Darrowmere’s defences, then lit with torches, setting the giants on fire. He turned to the recruits, his eyes flashing ­determinedly. ‘How do you feel about a midnight flight?’

  ‘Good flying,’ Morgan commended Lachlan, patting him on the shoulder. ‘We should be high enough now. Let’s hover here.’ He studied the Roon army directly beneath them and gave a grim, satisfied nod. ‘Prepared to even the odds?’ he said to Caspan, who was sitting at Talon’s rear.

  Making sure that his legs were securely wrapped with the ropes strapped around the griffin’s waist to prevent him from slipping off, Caspan reached into one of the four large wicker baskets fastened to Talon’s sides. He pulled out two oil-filled pig-bladder satchels and handed one to the Master. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Hold her steady,’ Morgan instructed Lachlan. The Master rested the bladder satchel on his lap and struck a tinder and flint against the vinegar-soaked linen strip around its stopper. He surveyed the Roon horde, which, thankfully, had not yet detected them. Holding the bladder out to the side and carefully avoiding Talon’s beating wings, Morgan calculated the best spot to drop it. ‘Ready?’ he said.

  Caspan nodded, then, in unison with the Master, released the bladder he had lit. He quickly lost sight of the satchel and its flickering wick as it dropped to the ground. Following Morgan’s lead, he grabbed a second bladder and lit it. By the time he held it out for release, two small fiery explosions erupted below. These quickly spread outwards, forming two blazing circles that warded back the Roon’s sea of black.