The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books)

by Matthew Sprange

  Picking a knife off the single table in the small, dank room, Elaine crossed back over to Jewel and held the blade in front of the woman’s face.

  “It will do no good to work on her face,” Elaine said, trying to goad her. “You already worked her over well, Lucius. She might have been pretty once, but now she looks like a freak. Like one of those creatures we slaughtered. Remember those? The ones we threw back into the sea.”

  Silently, Lucius shook his head. He had a fair idea that Jewel had never concerned herself with looking good and that, if anything, those scars aided her line of work. For her part, Jewel just held Elaine’s gaze, her face completely neutral and without emotion, except her eyes, which spoke of nothing but promised agony.

  “No, we must do something more... permanent, I think,” Elaine declared. “Perhaps a few tendons cut, or the loss of a few fingers. That would bother you, wouldn’t it, bitch? Not being able to kill any more. Life wouldn’t be worth living.”

  Jewel muttered something then, but it was lost in Wendric’s caustic comment: “I think she could learn to kill if you removed all her limbs. And maybe her head too.”

  Lucius held up a hand to silence him, and leaned over Jewel. Though she was tightly bound to the chair they had placed her in, he still did not get too close. He did not expect her to spit acid or poison into his face, but it would not surprise him if she did.

  “What was that? What did you say, Jewel?”

  With utter contempt, she stared back up at him and, for a moment, he thought she was going to fall silent again.

  “I said, you are all dead and you don’t even know it.”

  “We were the ones that won the war, Jewel,” said Elaine. “You might have trouble recognising defeat, I realise, but what you are feeling right now, that is it. Wendric, give her another dose.”

  “I told you, she is already dangerously high.”

  “Apparently not,” said Lucius. “Go on. Risk it. She’s no good to us silent.”

  Grabbing a small opaque vial from the table, Wendric stood over Jewel, and regarded her as he held the vial aloft.

  “We’ve done this before. You can have it easy, or have it hard.” As he reached down, she twisted as far as her straps would allow.

  “Hard then,” Wendric said, grabbing Jewel’s nose and wrenching her head back. For a minute he held her like that, waiting for her to draw breath through her mouth, but she remained resolutely still. Losing his patience, Wendric punched her hard in the stomach and, when this elicited the required response, drove the vial between her teeth, emptying its contents before slamming her mouth shut.

  Still Jewel held out, twisting to break his grasp as a trickle of the potion ran from the corner of her mouth. She was finally defeated by the basic need for air, and Wendric finally released her when they heard her swallow.

  For a moment, she gasped for breath, then spat at their feet. For a few seconds, her eyes lost focus and her head began to sway.

  “It’s beginning to work,” Lucius said, taking a step forward. Then, as if a torch had been snuffed out, the dullness disappeared from her eyes and she snapped back in her restraints, staring past them as if watching something a great distance away. Both Lucius and Elaine looked at Wendric, but he just shrugged.

  Lucius crouched until he was at her eye level, but she just seemed to stare right through him.

  “Jewel, how did you contact those creatures?”

  “They contacted us.”

  “What did you offer to get them working for the Guild?”

  “Idiot.”

  Behind Lucius, Wendric smirked. “If the truth drugs are working, I would say that gives you little credit.”

  Ignoring him, Lucius pressed on. “Jewel, what are they.”

  “The power of the ancients, the rulers of the past,” she said, then added an afterthought. “And the future.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jewel sighed then, long and exaggerated, as if failing to get through to an ignorant child. He decided to try a different tack.

  “What do they want?”

  “Everything.”

  “What do you mean, everything? All the gold in the city? The city itself? The Empire?”

  “Everything.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Jewel,” he said, wishing the others would join in. “Why would they fight alongside you? What could you offer?”

  “Revenge. A tip in the balance.”

  He stopped, thinking that one through. Turning, he faced Wendric. “Does she have to be this literal?”

  “It works differently for everyone,” Wendric shrugged. “Some appear drunk, others desperate to please. I always thought it was a reflection of the personality, though I am not sure what that says about her.”

  Scratching his head, Lucius confronted Jewel again. “You said they wanted to tip the balance. You weren’t paying them in gold or goods, were you?”

  “Of course not.” Again, that exasperated tone.

  A thought struck him as he saw her head begin to sag. “Jewel, listen to me. They weren’t working for you, right? You were doing their bidding.”

  “We served them.”

  “But why?”

  “Idiot.”

  “She presumes the answer is obvious,” said Wendric.

  “Yes, thank you Wendric, I am beginning to get that,” Lucius replied testily. “They served something more powerful than them because they would be rewarded. I withdraw the question – happy?”

  In response Wendric shrugged as Elaine pushed past him. As Jewel’s eyes began to close, she slapped the woman hard across the face. The sharp sting of pain seemed to revive Jewel and, for a moment, she seemed lucid.

  “What are they, Jewel?” Elaine asked. “What do we have to fear from them?”

  “They have been here forever,” Jewel said slowly. “They commanded us and we obeyed, for that is the only way to survive the war.”

  “The war is over, Jewel,” Lucius said. “You lost.”

  “No, the war has gone on for centuries, and will continue until every man and woman is dead or lies enslaved at their feet.”

  Wendric cleared his throat. “I recall hearing stories of the Old Races, those that came before man, and the great empires they built. Is that what you mean?”

  “Idiot,” Jewel spat. “They were ancient when elf and dwarf walked this world. They fought them too, and won. Now it is our turn.”

  “But why?” Elaine asked.

  “Because they understand hatred. Because they know it is not enough to simply exist.”

  “What do you mean?” Elaine pressed, but Jewel’s head was beginning to hang to one side, as if it were too heavy for her neck. When Elaine shook her, they all saw a slither of froth between her lips.

  “She’s going,” Wendric said. “I warned you.”

  “Stay with us, Jewel!” Elaine demanded, shaking her harder. “What do you mean by that, why is it not enough for them to just exist?”

  Jewel coughed, flecks of bloodied spittle flying across Elaine’s face. Her words were barely more than a whisper, forced from her throat by the power of the drugs alone.

  “Our presence is an affront to them. War has come, but now they can join the old power with the new. Now, they are unstoppable.”

  “I don’t understand,” Elaine said. “What do they want? What are they, Jewel?”

  She slapped the woman again to bring her back to consciousness, then shook her when she failed to respond, until Lucius laid a hand on her arm. Jewel had stopped breathing.

  “It’s too late, Elaine.”

  “Damn her!” Elaine spat, as she pushed away from Jewel’s body and stalked across the room in frustration. “She told us nothing!”

  “She told us little,” Lucius corrected her, but Elaine was in no mood to be placated.

  “Riddles and fairy tales! And you, Wendric,” she said, turning on her new lieutenant. “You should know better than to spout myths about goblins and elves!”


  He seemed ready to respond, but wisely kept silent. Lucius was lost in his own thoughts as he tried to piece together what Jewel had told them. Could her words be trusted? If she had the power to resist the truth drugs, did she also have the power to defy them outright? Still, he had witnessed the power the creatures from the sea wielded and that scared him more than he cared to admit to either of his fellow thieves.

  Either way, he had just got this guild back onto its feet, and he was not about to let anything tear it back down. Even if the threat lay at the bottom of the ocean.

  THE END

  Original cover art by Greg Staples

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE CROSSBOW HAD been specially modified for the purpose, and Grayling could easily appreciate its craftsmanship as she watched Ambrose hefting it into a firing position.

  The brass plates along its length strengthened the weapon against the massive pull of its string. Along the top surface, a long tube of variable lenses ensured the weapon would strike whatever it was aimed at. It was these that Ambrose adjusted now, carefully making allowances for range, elevation, even the slight breeze that rolled in from the sea, nearly two miles to the west.

  A wicked looking double-hook protruded from the end of the bolt, carefully fashioned to fly through the air with the least disturbance or deviation.

  Just ahead of the firing lever, a metal eyepiece stood proud, and through this was threaded a silken rope, fixed to the trailing point of the bolt. The rest of the rope, thin and light but extremely strong, lay coiled at Ambrose’s feet as he balanced in the branches of the ash tree that overhung the walled garden. Its other end was tied to the trunk itself, in a slip knot that Grayling stood ready to adjust as soon as the bolt flew.

  Grayling glanced over Ambrose’s shoulder.

  “Guard turning around again, get ready.”

  “Say when,” Ambrose whispered.

  The guard strolled past the round pond at the garden’s centre, then disappeared into the small cherry orchard.

  “Now!” Grayling hissed.

  As soon as the bolt left the crossbow, Grayling saw it was flying true. The silk rope trailing behind it, the bolt sailed over the three storey mansion to arc over the roofline and out of sight.

  Immediately, Grayling pulled hard on the slip knot while the uncoiling rope hissed through the crossbow’s eyepiece. For a few seconds there was play in the rope, then it snapped taut. The hooked bolt had found purchase. Grayling placed a foot on the trunk of the ash tree and pulled, making sure the rope would bear weight. Satisfied, she twisted the knot until it bit deep and the rope thrummed slightly as she brushed her fingers against it.

  “Your turn,” said Ambrose, as he began to dismantle the crossbow, hiding components in pouches and belts.

  Grayling was wreathed in a black silken bodysuit. Hugging every contour of her body precisely, there was no play or loose folds in the material, allowing her to move in absolute silence. Instinctively checking the short sword sheathed between her shoulders, the silk rope coiled around her waist and the small bundle at the small of her back, Grayling wrapped her legs around the rope and began to pull herself along its length towards the mansion’s roof.

  She was suddenly grateful for the hours of training she had been forced to endure within the guildhouse. She remembered cursing Ambrose at the time, for he had merely been tinkering with his crossbow while she had been climbing up and down ropes for nearly a week in preparation for this job. Now, however, she sailed up the rope, hand-over-hand in easy, practised motions.

  Catching sight of movement from the corner of her eye, she stopped suddenly. Grayling was very conscious that she swung just a few yards above ground whose guardians would as soon kill her as catch her. A lone dog had appeared from around the far end of an outbuilding, and it sniffed the air tentatively. A lean creature, she could see it was powerfully built, no doubt bred to hunt and bring down thieves.

  As it loped across the lawn toward her, a suspicious growl building in its throat, Grayling reached behind her back and fumbled with her pack, drawing out a small pouch. With a single, swift motion, she flung it over the dog’s head, back toward the coach house. For a moment, the dog seemed confused, and it looked up at her quizzically. Then the scent of the pouch reached it and, with a hurried bark, it ran at full flight back to the coach house, head swinging from side to side as it searched for the pouch and its irresistible odours.

  The activity caused the guard to emerge from the orchard. He looked across the lawns, hands on his hips, as if trying to gauge whether any investigation into the dog’s activities was worth his time. Evidently, he was paid well enough, as he started to march towards the disturbance.

  As she continued her climb, Grayling smiled. The guard would likely find the pouch she had thrown, but he would then discover all dogs would take a special interest in him for the next few days, as the mixed oils and powders within the pouch transferred their scent to those that handled it very easily. It was an ingenious design, as it meant that only one dog had to make contact with the pouch for it to affect a whole pack, the scent rubbing off from one animal to another.

  Within minutes, Grayling had crossed the lip of the roof and, gently, she lowered herself down from the rope, feet first. Tightly bound canvas pads woven into the feet of her bodysuit permitted her to drop down silently, yet gave enough grip on the sloping tiles to stop her sliding. Quickly glancing around to ensure there were no guards stationed on the roof itself, and that no one in the gardens below had spotted her ingress, Grayling realised she was now virtually invisible against the dark tiles of the roof. She stepped lightly to the top of the roofline, and held up a hand. The signal told Ambrose he could now cross, and that the second team could also proceed in their part of this mission.

  Running a hand along the length of the rope as she walked back down the slope of the roof, she felt it twitch as Ambrose started his ascent. He lacked her agility but, at the same time, she was not entirely sure she could have made that shot with the crossbow – this was, after all, why they worked in teams.

  Looking out across the gardens, she waited until she saw Ambrose was halfway towards the mansion before looking down at the bay window on the floor directly below. She uncoiled the shorter rope wound about her waist, and knotted one end above her hips. As Ambrose, puffing slightly with the effort of pulling his body up to the roof, dropped down beside her, she handed him the other end of the rope.

  “Getting too old for jobs like this,” Ambrose muttered, as he sat down on the tiled roof and braced his legs against the guttering.

  “Just don’t let go.” Grayling winked back, and then turned to scrabble down from the roof, head first.

  Slowly lowered by Ambrose, she scaled the short distance without sound, inching towards the wide bay window. She looked into the dark interior, taking a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. As expected, the window looked into a wide corridor. She could see a portrait directly opposite her, looking down onto a wood panelled floor. At the foot of the bay itself, a wide upholstered chair was placed, perhaps to provide light to some rich noble looking to get away from the bustle of his household in the company of a good book.

  Satisfied that no one prowled the corridor, Grayling crawled down a few feet further so she hung in front of the window’s locking mechanism. A cautious probing told her the mechanism was engaged – as she had expected it to be. The owner of the mansion was arrogant, but he was not stupid enough to spend gold on hired mercenaries, then leave a window unlocked.

  Reaching for her pack again, she produced an instrument that looked like a small wooden cup, with a butterfly screw inserted into its base. Placing the open mouth of the cup firmly against the glass of the window, Grayling slowly twisted the screw. Inside the cup, gears engaged and diamond-edged blades ground against the glass, scoring a deeper cut with each rotation, the tiny scratching noise barely audible.

  After a minute of grinding, Grayling removed the cup and slid it back into her pack. Before h
er was a perfectly round score mark in the glass. She tapped the bottom of the circle once. The glass tilted free and she swept it clear before it could fall inside.

  Pleased with her work thus far, she reached into the hole and grasped the short lever built into the wooden frame. Testing it gently to begin with to ensure it would not grind or squeak, Grayling then pulled the lever to unlock the window.

  Lowering herself to the window’s level, Grayling spun on her rope so she was upright, then crept inside the mansion, stepping on the chair as she entered. Glancing down the corridor, she saw multiple doors on either side. There was no sign of life. With a confident smile, she untied the rope, then gave it a slight tug to let Ambrose know she was in. Taking an easy breath, Grayling stepped down onto the panelled floor.

  And immediately froze.

  SHIFTING HIS POSITION on the tiled roof of the old Brotherhood chapel, Lucius Kane moved closer to the chimney stack to avoid being silhouetted against the huge blue sphere of Kerberos. Though it was the dead of night, the gas giant cast an eerie grey light across the city, enough to give thieves cover in the shadows, but not so much that they could be careless.

  From his perch, Lucius could see the entire city laid before him like a mosaic of stone and lantern light. Behind him, Meridian Street ran down the hill from the fortified north gate through the heart of Turnitia. There, down the slope, the huge Vos Citadel stood, its five towers imposing themselves over the city, just as the Vos army had done some years before. Beyond, the docks were hidden from view below the cliffs that marked the western boundary of Turnitia. Lucius could hear the savage ocean, constantly pounding at the ancient monolithic defences that protected the harbour. It was a sound every citizen of Turnitia learned to tune out, though visitors often found themselves missing sleep for days on end before they adjusted.