DARTS (The Paladin's Thief Book 1)

by Benjamin K Hewett

  Lucinda drops me. My feet don’t stumble, but the ground salutes them.

  “Let’s get out of here, Magnus. Why don’t you come back to my place? I’ll get you something for that headache and then you can sleep it off.” She’s unraveling, empathizing too much with a mark.

  “That’s very nice of you Lucinda, but I don’t . . . Owwww.” Magnus puts a hand to his head. “Owwwww!” He breathes silently for a minute.

  “I’ve got a dart game to finish. And I’m sure the beds here are just fine.” He’s nervous now, blinking back tears, obviously unsure of both the proposition and the direction of the propositioner.

  “Nonsense. You’re in no position to be throwing pointy objects. Let’s go.”

  She tries to lift him too, but he’s much too big for her. It looks as if her hands get stuck to him. Magnus stands—probably to disentangle—but somehow his brush-off turns into a nervous pat on the shoulder. “Honestly, Lucinda, I would love to see your place but . . .” Magnus starts rambling nonsense about pushing the limits of temptation.

  He’s distracting her with pretty words, but the spell breaks early. Eyes closed, he’s stopped talking, sniffing the air like a bloodhound and loosening the fastenings of his sword with a practiced hand. “Tee, can you see anything? Anyone dark and menacing?”

  I feel it too. Menace fills the air like static charge. My entire head prickles. “No. I can’t see anything, but . . .”

  Lucinda blows her cork. “You can see just fine, you bastard,” she yells, making a grab for me.

  I haven’t survived this long by being slow. Her fist closes on air, and I’m up the tavern’s center pillar in a flash. Barkus comes running from the kitchen, but it’s too late. When Lucinda’s storm breaks, there’s no holding her back. She’s threatening to rob me and every black-hearted con within fifty miles, which includes about, oh, most of tonight’s patrons. The room’s temperature rises several degrees with that comment. It’s true, but nobody likes hearing it out loud, especially not from a pickpocket barmaid.

  And then some gap-toothed idiot villager really puts his foot in it.“You can rob me anytime, lady!”

  “Don’t touch Lshinda,” Markel shouts, protectively. “She’s going to shelibate with me!” His full mug, the one Lucinda gave him to shut him up, takes the man in the shoulder. Beer fountains across three tables, and more people aren’t happy.

  The villager takes a swing at Markel but plants his fist in Gerard’s nose, which breaks. And Lucinda slips in the beer, overturning a table.

  Presto! The monthly tavern brawl . . .

  From my vantage point, it’s fairly easy to dodge the occasional mug that Lucinda throws my way. She has a good arm, but I’m a long way up, and she has to fight for every inch while keeping a sharp eye out for flying body parts. I just have to watch that arm and keep from banging my head on the spare well crank we keep up here.

  The only one unaffected is Magnus. He’s standing in the middle of it all, unscathed, turning, turning, turning, looking for something—blind, suffering, and apparently scared.

  Amid the crashing furniture, the front door clatters open, and night flows in like darkness falling from the deepwinter sky, seven Nightshades in flowing cloaks.

  It’s clear that they’ve travelled far. The variation across the cut and cloth of their cloaks goes beyond what you’d find even in upper-Ector. Strange boots and pants are caked in road mud, and they all reek of the saddle, and the doorway is packed thicker with their traveling party than the entry to a traveling circus.

  I’ve never seen a brawl end so quickly. We’re a rough crowd, but no match for Nightshades.

  It’s not too late to warn the city guard, I think, but there are black cloaks behind the flapping kitchen doors, and shadows outside the windows. All my usual exits are blocked.

  Only Pale Tom stands his ground. “What’s the meaning of this?” His voice thunders, amplified. I’ve never heard him talk like this before, furious and powerful, so different from his usual raspy speech. The crowd parts as he advances on the leader of the Nightshades, a hooded man gesturing to his fellows with small, white hands.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he thunders again. “I was to be left alone in my retirement, Archus. I was to choose my successor in peace! You were witness.” Tom’s voice is the embodiment of menace. Even Griphurk cringes at it.

  The man Archus removes his hood. He’s just as deathly pale as Tom, but he looks surprised, and that lends him a shred of humanity.

  “Our apologies, Thomas; we mean no disrespect. Your city harbors a man wanted by the Brotherhood, one who has seen the inner sanctum and shared out our codes in letters to the four winds.”

  Tom laughs. “The inner sanctum?”

  “It isn’t funny.” Archus sounds angry, but respectful. He speaks softly at first, made unsure by Tom’s reception, but his voice grows in confidence as he looks around at his nodding henchmen. “We’ve come to assist you in his disposal.” His eyes flit to Magnus before returning to Tom. “There are few who match his courage, I am told.”

  “You think I need assistance? From common assassins?”

  “I am not common, dark brother, and they follow me.” His lips curl, pride thick on his pasty face.

  “Send them away, fledgling. I need no assistance in my home.” The word assistance flies like spit from Tom’s lips.

  Archus opens his mouth to speak again, but sees Pale Tom’s exposed hand. “Where is your ring?”

  Tom raises his arm so that the sleeve falls away even more, so that the lamps and candles show a single white band of unblemished flesh.

  “Where is your ring?” Archus repeats, his whisper carrying unnaturally to my ears by the burning ring in my pocket.

  “I have passed it to another.”

  I feel a tremor in my bones at this proclamation, and Archus’s shock is palpable. Hate flows from him to Tom. “Then you have no rank. Stand aside.”

  Tom matches the glare, claws spread outwards, limbs of a crooked tree defending its territory. “I cede nothing, worm!”

  Archus draws his dagger. It’s so fast that I feel it rather than see it, but as he strikes Tom clenches his fists and the ground shakes.

  Archus and his escorts stumble. Patrons steady themselves on each other or overturned chairs. I lose my balance and topple, but manage to catch the chandelier, crushing several of the candles and going up to my armpits in hot wax. My legs windmill uselessly and my ribs bruise, but this is better than falling unbridled to the planking. The chandelier swings and spins as I hang on for dear life.

  Below, there’s a sucking sound, as if Hell’s Gate has been thrown open wide open. Archus moves like a snake, thin rapier plunging towards Tom’s cowled hood. Darts fly through the air with deadly aim, some towards Tom and some towards Magnus.

  For a moment time slows for me. I can hear the breathing of every patron, can see the tiny barbs of the assassins’ darts as they fly through the air. I can smell the hickory and oak in the burning fire and taste the poison on the candle breeze. Nightshades float through the air on their way towards Tom and Magnus. The ring is a flame in my pocket, and suddenly I know why I’m seeing so clearly. I don’t want this, I scream in my head.

  “My home,” is all Tom says. His voice is a piercing whisper above the madness. The rapier blade shatters, Nightshades crash mid-jump to the floor, and only the darts aimed at Magnus find their mark.

  Suddenly Archus is clutching his throat. “Thomas. . . step . . . aside.”

  Tom’s voice is cold. His anger is gone, but his eyes never leave Archus. “I was to be left alone. My home was to be left alone.”

  Archus blinks, and seems to slump a little further. There’s the glint of a poison needle on his weakly flailing boot. Blue light flares around Archus. There’s a crackle of lightning in his palm, but it dies before he can release it. Then Archus slumps to the floor, clearly dead, blood trickling from his mouth and pooling on the boards.

  The other Nightshades
howl in pain and launch themselves at Tom anew, but they aren’t like Archus, haven’t taken the darkest oaths. He is a wall to them, his bony arms as hard as steel. He parries their swings with bare limbs, and claws out an assassin’s eye. His index finger pierces another through the heart. I look away, unable to watch. I hear the cracking of someone’s neck.

  Five more have been put to rest before Tom speaks again. Of the seven, only one remains—one with sandy hair and blood streaming down his face.

  For a moment, Archus’s body dances in flames, but Tom makes a shushing motion with his hand and the fire goes out.

  “Leave.”

  Silence.

  “Now.”

  There is a scraping sound from the kitchen, followed by the slamming of doors. Scuttling on the roof above me fades with a soft thump in the yard outside. Suspicious shadows around the hedgerow draw away. For a moment, the moon peeks through the rain clouds.

  Soon only the tall, sandy-haired man remains, watching sourly as the dead are dragged away by men from outside.

  He doesn’t look at Tom, when he speaks. “Some oaths cannot be broken.” And then he is gone, slipping out the front door without a sound.

  “Too well I know,” Tom replies. His hood has fallen back. There is blood on his pale cheek, though none have struck him there. “But home is sacred.”

  The words carry some odd truth home for Magnus. “At home in the evening, standing at the hockey,” Magnus intones, “the half-breed holds his court.” His blind hands find a dart and teases it free, expertly.

  Tom licks his white lips as the blood continues to drip from his cheek. “So Father Jeremiah did get my note.”

  Magnus slumps to one knee. He’s bleeding as well. There are still other darts buried in his tunic. “Yes.” Magnus breathes deeply. I watch his chest rise and fall. Another poisoned dart tumbles to the floor as Magnus talks. I feel less guilty about drugging him with an antidote. I just hope it’s the right one.

  Tom rubs his fingers together, staring at Magnus almost peacefully. “A bit slow, to respond,” he says, as if passing judgment.

  “Do you have any idea how many half-breeds there are in this world?” Magnus asks defensively, feeling for the last dart. “Any idea how many rounds of darts I’ve had to play to find you?”

  Tom chuckles. It’s the warmest sound I’ve ever heard him make, like frost on autumn leaves rather than ice on a midnight lake. “Quite a few, I should hope.”

  “You asked for redemption.”

  Tom shakes his head. Dark clouds gather around him just as the candles glow brighter around Magnus. “A fool’s errand, I’ve realized. You cannot free me from my oaths.” His voice hints at bitterness as he crouches. “I have delivered you from the wolves, but who will deliver you from me?” For a moment, his eyes flit towards my chandelier. And then he’s springing, his dark robes giving birth to twin short-swords.

  There is a white-hot blade in Magnus right hand now, a table in his left—Markel’s. He cues on Tom’s footfall. His sword dips forward as he hurls the table, left-handed and side-armed.

  It’s a surprise to everyone in the room that Magnus’s battle honor doesn’t preclude the use of furniture. Drinks splatter, and men curse and topple out of the way. Wood crunches, but Pale Tom is a wisp of shadow, floating over the table-in-transit, closing rapidly on Magnus’s exposed left flank.

  I do the only decent thing I can think of: I let go of the chandelier. It’s not flashy, but it is well timed. My feet and my knife find Pale Tom’s collarbone. For a moment I feel sorry for him. It’s a move to make a full-barred Nightshade jealous.

  But Tom has already proven himself a cut above that. He gasps once and then shrugs me off like a beer roach, muttering words I can’t understand and hope to never hear again. Unseen hands throw me back against my favorite wooden pillar.

  Something clatters to the floor next to me. The ring. Amidst the pinpricks and starbursts, I can feel Tom looking at me, not minding my knife sunk deep in his front. His eyes pool far more candlelight than strictly necessary.

  “Nice ring, isn’t it, Teacup?”

  I nod dumbly, but not for him. I’m just trying to fill my lungs with air. “Hhhnnnhgh. Hnngh.”

  Pale Tom drifts closer, low to the floor like a panther on the hunt in a forest of overturned tables and chairs. “Next time close the window,” he whispers. “You ruined my spellbooks.”

  “I thought they were tax summons!” I lie. I can’t say anything out loud, though. I haven’t yet taken my first breath.

  Tom’s face quirks slightly. I’m convinced he can hear my joke. He points to the black ring on the floor. “It suits you,” he says simply.

  Magnus crashes down on him from behind just as I remember how to breathe. I suck air in hard as I roll out of the way to keep from being crushed. The pillar balks as the two of them collide with it.

  The ring skitters up to the bar where Petri is cowering. I don’t go after it. I want nothing to do with it now that I know what it is, and that it was meant for me. Maybe that’s why Petri turned it down?

  I fill my lungs again and glance past the table I’m sheltering under. I stop worrying about Magnus. He’s giving Tom a beating, springing from table to table, fighting by feel, guessing, whirling. Some of Pale Tom’s glancing blows are landing home, but not enough to change the outcome. The old wraith is pinned down in the middle of the inn, growing more thin and feeble by the moment, while I feel stronger and stronger.

  I crawl around my table for a better view.

  Tom slashes high through the air and Magnus hurls himself forward, dropping his head at the last second, avoiding decapitation. Pale Tom over-rotates and Magnus barrels past, stabbing wildly in the wrong direction.

  “To your left!” I yell.

  The fire sword becomes a whirlwind of directed chaos, pummeling Tom’s black swords. It’s hard to tell if Magnus is taking aim or just milling about wildly, but whatever it is, it’s working. The old villain’s blades are glowing red around damaged edges and throwing off hot metal shards.

  Suddenly, Tom drops his swords and rolls away. Jumping backwards through the hole in the lathe and plaster made by Markel’s table, he raises his arms in the tell-tale form of an ultimate curse. We all know the shape. What kids haven’t played knights and wizards in the town square? His hands are awash in flames and his lips move silently. A low hum emanates from the unnatural blaze.

  For a moment Magnus spins in surprise, sword at the ready, like a compass seeking true north. Then his arm thunders through the air, his shoulder follows through, and his body curves as abdominal muscles add force to the throw. The white-fire blade whips end over end, hurtling through the wall opening.

  It buries itself in the dark wizard’s chest, lifting him up off the ground. Tom’s silhouette explodes in fire and light. Flame splatters backwards onto the building next door and takes to the plaster uncannily, sending trails of smoke up the side of the shop.

  The only thing left of Pale Tom is a thick cloud of smoke and one black leather boot sinking in the mud.

  Barkus’s inn is quiet, except for a few heavy breathers and the sounds of fire and rain outside. Everyone turns to look at Magnus, who has procured another table.

  I limp-scamper over and grab his arm. “Whoa, Magnus. Let’s leave some furniture inside the inn.”

  “I must free that man’s soul.”

  I glance upward for a moment at the table towering over me, trying to ignore the damage it would do to me if he dropped it. “It’s all right, Magnus. If your sword didn’t do the trick, I doubt this table will help.”

  “But . . .”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.” There is genuine sorrow in Magnus’s face. “It had to be done. I was merciful.” He sounds like he’s about to cry, justifying himself.

  The table above his head wobbles slightly. It’s bigger than the last one.

  “I know. I know. But you don’t need to drop that table on me,” I squeak. “I’m right
here.” I tug his tunic to let him know where I am.

  Magnus’s control is perfect. He puts it down slowly enough that I can hobble my aching ribs out of the way.

  “My sword?”

  “Dunno. I’ll check.” I seriously doubt anything but a whiff of smoke has survived that encounter.

  Slam.

  Everybody jumps, including Magnus.

  “Pan’s lousy beard!” Barkus swears. “What now?”

  The inn’s front door is falling off the hinges from tonight’s abuse.

  Red, shoulder-length curls are a ball of rage in the doorway. “You light my shop on fire and don’t even have the courtesy to put it out?!”

  She notices me and her expression softens a little, but not much.

  “Hi Tee.”

  “Hi Carmen.”

  Carmen turns her glare back on the rest of the room and seems surprised that everyone is still sitting. “What is wrong with you people? Fire!”

  The room moves slowly, reawakening to the certainties of normal life. In a poor town like Lower Ector, fire means death for some and disaster for all.

  I tear my eyes away from Carmen’s curls and look out the hole in the wall. Sure enough, the fire has eaten its way through a dry patch of lathe and plaster. Fire’s not supposed to do that. And it’s not supposed to burn thatch that’s been rain-soaked for two days running. But there it is, burning.

  The whole inn erupts in motion. Chairs scrape and topple as people sprint for whatever buckets they can find.

  “The buckets! Get the buckets!” Barkus screams.

  “Where are they?” Magnus yells frantically, bumping into the table he’s just set down.

  I scramble forward to help, catching him before he falls again. My ribs still hurt, but I can manage, thanks to a hefty shot of excitement. “Easy does it. You’ve done enough. All that throwing and fighting?” I struggle for words.

  “The people of Ector shouldn’t have to pay for this!” He gestures to the decimated bar room and, I assume, the fire, though his aim is off. “My quarrel. My pride. My blindness.”