Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther

by Jay Requard

  The man jolted. “Dead?”

  “The Gypians killed him for this.” He drew the Gem of Acitus from his loincloth. He dared not to look at it, for he knew if he had, he would have thrown the stone to the grasses. “He was to sell it to help support the cause. The man he made the deal with killed him.”

  “My brother.” Kosey dropped his spear and shield, hands over his mouth. Tears flowed, mingled in the thick beard on his narrow face. “All for a stone?”

  “A very powerful stone, something with too much history,” Manwe said. “Take it. I don’t have a fence anymore, but you must know someone who can get you the money for it.”

  “There are coins that I will never take, even for freedom.”

  “Then for Toba.”

  Kosey let his hands fall at his side, and after a deep breath, he took the gem from Manwe’s palm. “I will get rid of the damned thing as quickly as I can. But tell me, Panther, what of the people who did this? What of the man who took my brother?”

  “I took care of him.” Manwe walked into the grass, off in the direction of Tolivius. “Just as I will take care of them all.”

  THE END

  2

  A Light in the Dark

  The wick in the oil lamp sparked when Manwe touched the burning match to its end, the flame low and dull. The light pushed back at the shadows to reveal the long and narrow passage of the cave. He stooped in the darkness, the ceiling too low in places for even his inconsiderable height. Cool air stuck to his bare back, chilling the sweat from his midnight run.

  Farther in, an outline emerged, tall and powerful. The man who owned it turned toward Manwe, his handsome face cramped as he tried for a more comfortable position in the narrow space.

  “Greetings, Panther,” he said, his voice slow. “Were you followed?”

  Manwe lifted his hand off the knife stuck in the band of his loincloth. “Password first, Kosey.”

  “Right,” said the young warrior. “Hippo.”

  “You risked too much setting up this meeting. I saw your lamp a mile out on my approach.” Manwe held a hand over his own lamp, blinking a few times to regain his night-vision. “Your brother would have never made such a mistake.”

  Kosey stiffened, his scarred shoulders hunched. “I apologize. I only wished for you to see that I was here.”

  “We could have met at my tree. It is a safe place to do business.” Manwe checked over his shoulder, back to the entrance of the cave. The stars gleamed in the dark blue sky through the wide mouth, cold dots of radiance. “Thank the mother Gypians are too civilized to be up at these hours.”

  “I need your help, Panther,” Kosey said, hushed. “There is something that must be stolen. Something powerful.”

  “Then be quick. My eyes are already beginning to water from the smoke.”

  Kosey nodded and drew from the ground a piece of rolled parchment. “Can you read?”

  “Well enough.” Manwe took the offered scroll and opened it, peering hard as he held up his lamp to read the inky script. “What is this? A letter?”

  “It is a communication from the Senate Consul of Tolivius to the Lord Governor of Merchants Rows, I was told. There is an object of power being brought through the city on its way to the Glass Jungle. It will arrive tomorrow.”

  Manwe pressed the parchment against the cave wall, spreading his hand to keep the scroll open. “The Centaurian Torch? Some artifact, then?”

  “A great weapon, from what some of our spies in the Lord Governor’s house are guessing. It is supposedly an ancient thing from a time when centaurs lived as we did, before they were made wild and violent.”

  “Time and change are cruel, even to the noblest of beasts.” Manwe passed Kosey the parchment and blew out the wick in his lamp. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Manwe leaned back against one of the minarets, his gaze level to take in the city. Tolivius’ white walls stood stark in the late morning, freshly cleaned by the previous day’s storm. The smell of rain had left with the coming of the sun, replaced by the odor of humanity. Down below in the alley, a scullery maid dumped her master’s chamber pot, a puddle of brown liquid that spread through the cracks in the pave stones.

  He returned focus on his target, a lavish gate set in the northern wall known as the Gold Door. The full quarter of the city known as Merchant’s March stretched out before him, lane upon lane of manors and great homes for the wealthiest of the region. From his place on the high roof of the temple to the Gypians’ god Adias, Manwe could see almost every street and alley as the hill sloped upward to the far white wall.

  The guards at the gate, forty in total, worked together in a thin line to unbar the iron doors. In rolled a series of wagons. Manwe counted five before the gates shut again, five transports covered in canopies of green canvas. They slowly made their way down the hill and turned to the southeast, onto one of the many avenues. He counted for another forty seconds, expecting the wagons to reappear when they moved behind a particularly tall set of houses.

  They had stopped.

  “And there is the den,” he whispered to himself. Walking to the edge of the temple’s roof, he climbed down a tall ladder to the narrow alley below. A woman waited there for him, wrapped in a thick brown cloak.

  “Done for today, Panther?” She pulled back her hood, letting free her long blonde curls.

  “As always, Magera, you’re too kind.” He reached into his belted pouch and extracted a small bag. “Please accept my contribution to the Goddess of Love and Life.”

  The priestess and Madame of one of the city’s most luxurious brothels, she smiled as she peeked into the small sack. “These wouldn’t be the opals taken from Lady Ophelia’s home no more than two nights ago, would they?”

  Manwe shrugged on his way to the alley’s exit.

  He walked onto Monkey Tail Way an hour later, a wide street where the city’s few merchants who did not make all of their coin on the black markets resided, relying instead on their collections of contacts and semi-reputable dealings with the larger businesses of the western world. About half a mile down, he found the wagons parked near the low curb. Crews of men unloaded boxes while more guards stood at attention.

  Manwe made to go past them, focused on going farther down the street and away from them, when one of the workers caught his attention.

  A man clothed in a robe of bright yellow, his tall form leaned against one of the wagons. With his beard trimmed in a tight goatee and his brown hair a shaggy mop, the sun lighting his handsome face sparkled in a pair of bright brown eyes.

  Manwe exchanged glances as he passed, offering a smile. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” said the man in yellow. “Off somewhere?”

  “Perhaps,” said Manwe, slowing his gait. “I carry a message for one of the merchants on The Rows, but I’m a bit lost. Maybe you could help me?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” The man in yellow gave a sincere smile. “My fellows and I are delivering a few items to the merchants, but when it comes to ways and means of Tolivius, I know little.”

  “Is this your first time here?” Manwe asked. Something about this man intrigued him, something deeper than his handsomeness.

  “Aye, but I think I’ll be coming around more and more.” He straightened to his feet and offered a hand. “Cleon.”

  “Toba,” said Manwe, shaking it. He used the name of his dead lover, a reminder to focus. This man, this Cleon, was a Gypian and an enemy—no matter how handsome. “So what are you delivering? Cloth? Spice?”

  “More or less.” Cleon’s honest grin widened. “So what is there to do in this city? It is much smaller than the capital in Gypus.”

  “Oh, Tolivius is full of its own excitement,” Manwe replied. He stepped away. “Alas, I must go. My message to the masters of coin cannot wait. Farewell.”

  “Farewell yourself.” Cleon nodded. “Hopefully we’ll see each other soon.”

  The wind roared down the lane, setting the trees along the sidewalks in a nig
httime dance. Manwe shook out his bare arms as the breeze sneaked into the darkened alley where he crouched, his focus on the house across the street. No guards patrolled Monkey Tail Way that night, nor did any stand guard at the door of the many manors. Shadows cut from the moonlit tree spread over the pave stones, paths to where he needed to go.

  Patting his wrists to make sure he had bound them in linen correctly, Manwe checked for the lock picks tucked in the folds of cloth. He pawed his waist one last time as well, making sure his knife was secure in the twisted band of his loincloth. The moon’s full face sat high in the navy field as he slipped out into the street, so bright it blotted out the stars. He offered a silent prayer to the Goddess, and for a moment, wondered if Cleon was looking up as well.

  “Always Toba. Remember Toba,” he whispered to himself, angered at the distraction.

  The pads of his feet slapped the pavement as he charged between two of the wagons still parked outside the manor’s entrance. Slithering between them, he scampered up the stoop and to the manor’s door, kneeling before the lock. Manwe pressed an ear to the imported olive-wood door, searching for any sound of life within the home. He extracted a pair of picks and a long bronze file from his wrist wrappings.

  After a few moments of diligent work, the door creaked inward.

  Sneaking into the hallway, Manwe stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the next level. Boxes cluttered the halls and chambers instead of expensive furniture, and off in the darkness, the heads of spears on a rack gleamed in the scant light filtered through a nearby window. Glyphs painted the boxes designated oils, spices, iron, cloth of various types, but none stood out as the container for The Centaurian Torch. Truth be told, Manwe did not know what he sought—the artifact could be large or small, an actual torch or something entirely different, only named in a clever manner.

  On the second floor of the disguised warehouse, he found an odd room, emptied save for one crate. Darkness clung to the walls and corners around it, blacker and less permeable to the small bits of light encroaching from the outside world. Manwe paused in the threshold, his muscles tight in anticipation. He thumbed the handle of his knife and slowly strode into the room. No trap or surprise sprang to intercept him.

  He stuck his blade into the gap of the lid and pried the crate open. Inside he found a glass tube packed in straw. He extracted the object, and inside of the cylinder was a folded slip of paper. Sticking two fingers into one end, he pulled it free and opened it.

  A pair of words marked the parchment.

  Got you.

  The shadows seeped away in a breath, and from the illuminated walls sprang men armed with swords and torches. They descended upon Manwe, knocking him to the ground. Knees pressed on his back and neck as he thrashed to get free. He ceased when the edge of a knife rasped his throat, the edge pressed on an artery.

  Someone spoke when the outburst ended. “Get him up.”

  Dragged to his feet, Manwe stood perfectly still, glaring at the man holding the knife to his throat. The Gypian guardsman grinned like a triumphant bastard, one of his canines missing from the gum.

  Manwe’s attention was drawn away from his captor when another figure moved into sight. Cleon stepped before him, his hand sparking with power. The last of the shadows wormed their way into his small mouth. He drew close, enough that the smell of sweat and incense found its way into Manwe’s nostrils.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. He palmed Manwe’s face, almost lovingly, and grabbed hold of his jaw. “You must be The Panther.”

  The wagons wheels clattered on the road, jolting the wagon up and down in a quick motion. Manwe woke from his daze and pulled hard to bring his hands to his waist, instinctively going for his knife. Rope bound both wrists, and he tilted onto the wagon bench with a thud.

  “Looking for this?” Cleon sat on the bench across from Manwe’s, holding the iron blade up like a prize.

  Manwe slowly righted himself. “Where am I?”

  “Does it matter?” Cleon reclined on his side of the compartment, un-fazed by the divots in the highway. “You’re quite different from what I was expecting, Panther. I thought catching you would require more cunning.”

  Manwe glanced to the flap of the wagon’s canvas canopy. Outside the cover, a road faded into the hills of the savannah, the mounds yellow and dusty. Copses of umber trees, their arms wide and wiry, dotted both sides of the road. Given the shade and the way the sun filtered through the roof, he failed to discern the direction they traveled.

  “You’re a great topic of conversation in Gypus, you know,” Cleon went on, leaning his head against one of the canopy’s ribs. “Did you really kill Leomachus in his bed with his son’s wife beside him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. I never liked the man, given the few times he and I met. Too ambitious. That must have been his undoing.”

  Manwe stared hard at the sorcerer. Cleon’s ease, his tone—the man had a way that reminded him of Toba, never at once serious about the situation at hand, nor dishonest about it, as if things came together simply because they were supposed to.

  “You don’t have to answer,” Cleon said. “I already know what happened. Your fence, that hole out in the savannah, the lord slain for his part. Everything.”

  They said nothing after that, lost to the silence and the wagon’s clatter. The sunlight had dimmed a bit by the time they stopped, and the outline of a figure formed at the back of the wagon, its shape growing as its owner neared the curtain. A tanned hand, roughed from work and dust, parted the flaps to reveal a man decked in a shining cuirass of dark iron. The yellow crest of his war-helm waved in the wind, and from beneath the shallow visor glared a pair of dull eyes.

  “Is this him?” the soldier asked Cleon, his gaze fixed on Manwe.

  “In the flesh.” Cleon rose from his bench and exited the wagon, landing lightly on both feet. “General Talamus, I present the infamous Panther.” Cleon flashed Manwe one last smile before he started off. “Careful with him. He has a bite matching the name.”

  Talamus signaled to someone out of sight, and two more men appeared in the same armor, though their breastplates were less decorated. The pair manhandled Manwe out of the wagon, dumping him onto the dirt. They dragged him to his feet and shoved onward. Stumbling, he slowly turned in a great wheel, acting as if his balance remained unsteady. A quick look at his surroundings confirmed that he was far to the east of Tolivius, more than two days ride on horseback and six on foot. The savannah ended at the edge of the great Glass Jungle, a dark green wall of trees, bushes, and shadows. Green leaves of bright emerald swayed in the steady breath of the wind, enlivened to a slow dance.

  “Go on. Get!” said one of the Gypians, shoving him in the side. Manwe moved at their order, set straight for the tree line.

  He entered the shade of the massive forest, a place his people believed homed things both natural and supernatural, where beasts lived alongside nightmarish demons of legend. The soft dirt, black and damp, turned to harder rock and pebble. Soon they arrived to a cave in the woods, a tall mound outlined in moss and deep red flowers.

  “Where are we?” Manwe asked Cleon, who stood at the edge of the opening.

  From the folds of his robe, Cleon extracted a thin rod of copper. “This is just some cave, lost to time and history, a hole in the earth...”

  “But?”

  “Well, a door is a door, after all.”

  The two Gypians pushed Manwe after the five entered the gloomy hole. He stopped when he heard Cleon whispering, and a moment later a great light flared, blinding him in a red haze. A point of illumination had blossomed on the end of sorcerer’s wand, which he held up to light the passage.

  “Come along, children,” he said, proud of his working.

  Farther and farther on, the path into the bowels of the earth smoothed from a rocky decline into a polished road, wide enough that they could travel clustered instead of single file. The ceiling, once rough cut and stained
in streaks of ore, faded to a pale limestone etched in ancient script.

  The road ended at a great cavern, a huge vault that went so far back the light of Cleon’s wand failed to reach the end. A building cleaved itself from the shadows, its face a series of columns supporting a pyramid roof. On its forward-facing side reared the molded relief of a great centaur, spear in one hand and a torch in the other.

  “Let me guess,” said Manwe. “A Centaurian Temple.”

  Cleon nodded with satisfaction. “This is indeed a temple, long ago abandoned in the Golden Age of Juut, when kingdoms of the natural world bowed at the feet of men. If legends are true, this particular site is the home of the Centaurian Torch, a weapon of such great power that the lords of old banded together to wrest it from their former allies, and sometimes protectors, the centaurs.”

  “Those horse-bred savages made this?” Talamus hooked both thumbs in his sword-belt. The light of Cleon’s wand shined on the clean lines of his helm. “It is very...competent.”

  “Absolutely so, General,” replied Cleon. “The centaurs still speak of the old times, when their kingdoms loomed on the world much as man’s did. They were masons, artists, warriors... and engineers. Engineers of the age, in fact! This ruin is but a pale ghost of their glory, but one abounding with treasures.”

  “You never had the torch, did you?” Manwe stared at the temple, his worry beyond its entrance, beyond the cavern, beyond the jungle. He wondered—if Kosey and the rebels could be duped so easily, how did he know that the Gypians did not know everything? To be tricked with such ease carried more than the cost of his hubris.

  “Just the idea of it.” Cleon brought the tip of his wand to his lips and blew. The illumination flew off the point, down the path to the old steps of the temple. “Unbind him,” he instructed Talamus. “The thief and I will go on from here.”

  The rope around his wrists severed, Manwe rubbed the chaffed skin as he and Cleon continued ahead. When they were out of earshot, the sorcerer cleared his throat.