Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella Page 2

  Crion’s chest rose and fell as he glanced over the growing fortification.

  “Come on,” he said, glaring, leading the rest of his own group to begin a similar barricade.

  Thren and Grayson whispered in the corner as outside the sun finished setting, leaving them with only the light of the candles, candles rapidly nearing the end of their life.

  “What now?” asked Grayson.

  “I’m not sure,” said Thren. “I was hoping all three would fight. Terk’s proving…formidable.”

  “Should we try to join one of the groups?”

  Thren shrugged. “Neither would have us.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  At that, Thren looked to his cracked bowl, then to the fortifications of tables. Behind them he could hear both sides preparing shifts for sleep.

  “We could always leave,” he said.

  Grayson looked to the open door, shook his head.

  “My gut says leaving’s a bad idea. Muzien wants us to stay, so we stay.”

  Thren tapped his bowl.

  “Well then,” he said, “let’s tip the scales.”

  * * *

  It was well past midnight when the last of the candles sputtered, flickered for a moment, and then died. The only light remaining came from the stained-glass windows, the moonlight weak and dark as it filtered through them. In the shadows Thren crawled, bowl in hand. Before him were three overturned tables, creating a haphazard wall. Only a single man stayed on watch, and what little Thren could see of his face showed him to be very nervous.

  Thren crawled along the wall opposite the windows, and as he pressed his body against one of the tables, he knew he would be all but invisible to the guard. Invisible would not be enough, though. Crawling over the overturned table and into their sleeping ground would risk too much movement, and worse, too much sound. The man standing before the middle overturned table had a dagger drawn, and he was turning from side to side, searching for the slightest sign of an attack from the opposing group.

  And that’s when Grayson kicked hard against a table on the far side of the room.

  “Shit,” Thren heard the guard mutter, spinning in that direction. Thren counted to two, then vaulted himself over the defense. Right on time, another loud wooden thud sounded as Grayson flung his weight against a table. Thren landed, and he froze when he did. He could barely see the faces of those sleeping along the ground, not enough to pick out their leader, but he didn’t need to. All he needed was the vague shapes, the outlines of where he could and could not step. Making sure his breaths were slow and even, he worked his way to the very center of the miniature fortification. The man on watch had his back to him, and in the ensuing silence kept his gaze outward, tense, waiting for just one more signal that the other group was advancing so he might wake his own.

  In the very center Thren found him, just as he’d thought he would. Slowly he took the bowl, careful to hold it by the proper end. One side was still smooth, but the other…

  The other he jammed upward into the soft flesh of Terk’s throat, the sharp broken ridges digging in deep. Blood poured into the bowl as Terk startled awake, his arms flailing, his legs kicking. Thren released the bowl and ran, nearly vaulting with each step. He didn’t care if he stepped on others this time, nor if they woke. All that mattered was keeping his movements long and fast so that no one might grab a hold of his leg or arm.

  He heard cries, warning, accusations of betrayal and ambush as he made his way to the corner farthest from the windows.

  “Did you get him?” Grayson asked, and his voice was like a ghost in the darkness.

  “I think he’ll die,” Thren answered. “We’ll know come morning…”

  * * *

  Thren didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, for Grayson was shaking him awake.

  “Get up,” he heard his friend saying. “It’ll start soon.”

  He did so with his heart racing, and he berated himself for being so stupid. At least it seemed Grayson had watched over him, ensuring no one sneaked up on them while he slept in the darkness. As he squinted he saw the sun had just begun to rise, casting light into the room so all might see. Crion was eating with the rest of his band, finishing off the bulk of their food. They seemed in a jovial mood.

  “Aren’t you going to have a bite, Terk?” Crion shouted out to the other group, which was huddled far closer together as it ate.

  “Fuck off,” Jezelle shouted back.

  This seemed to give Crion pause, and he put down the apple he held. His hand fell to his sword as he stepped through a small gap in their overturned table wall.

  “Terk?” he asked. “Where are you, Terk?”

  When the other man did not answer, Crion looked back to his own band.

  “Draw your weapons,” he told them, and they did. Jezelle saw this from the other side, swore, and drew her own.

  “We can still hold you off,” she said as those with her prepared for combat. Yet it sounded as if even she did not believe it, and Crion certainly didn’t.

  “No, you can’t,” he said. “So who of you killed him? Did you think to take him out now, before he ended up winning? I’d say you got ahead of yourselves.”

  “I said get back!” Jezelle screamed.

  “No!” Crion roared. “You’re beaten now, and you know it. Terk’s the only reason I wasn’t eating my breakfast out of your skulls as a bowl, and now the fucker’s dead.”

  Thren and Grayson kept their backs to the wall, watching as Crion’s band slowly descended on Jezelle’s. They already a numbers advantage, and without Terk, it was obvious no one could stand against Crion in a fight.

  “I’m not sure this will work,” Grayson said, anticipating another battle.

  “Just wait,” Thren said, hoping he was right.

  When Jezelle’s group was fully surrounded, Crion smiled and pointed to the door.

  “I’ll let all of you walk out of here right now,” he told them. “Just throw down your weapons, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

  They looked to one another, and it was obvious to Thren that they were going to accept.

  “Not worth it,” said one, and he tossed a dagger beyond their wall. Several others immediately followed, and the sound of metal clanged throughout the dining hall.

  “Not yet,” Crion said, stepping in the way of the first who tried to flee. “She stays. The others of you can go.”

  Jezelle’s face paled, but the others with her had no argument. They left her standing alone behind the tables, still holding her dagger. Once the seven men exited the open doorway, Crion approached with his sword drawn.

  “Drop the dagger and I’ll make it quick,” he told her.

  “You could just let me go,” she said.

  “I could,” Crion said. “But I won’t. When I take over, you’ll only be a thorn in my side. Now drop it, or I’ll make sure your death lasts a very, very long time.”

  After a moment of meeting Crion’s stare, she lifted her arm and let the dagger drop. Crion smiled.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  His sword lunged out, piercing the base of her throat, and then pulled back. She stood there, glaring even as she died, her legs giving out. Her forehead hit the table with a sickening crunch, leaving a splatter of reddish gore along its top edge.

  Crion wiped his sword, sheathed it, and then turned to the rest, a giant grin on his face.

  “We did it!” he said. “All of you will be well rewarded for years to come, I promise.”

  Beside Thren, Grayson slumped against the wall.

  “Crion won,” he said. “We need to either hide or run, because he’ll kill us next.”

  “Not yet,” Thren whispered.

  The eight other men didn’t seem to be sharing in Crion’s rejoicing. The smile on the middle-aged man’s face slowly faded away.

  “Step out,” he said to them. “All of you. It’s over.”

  “Who said it’s over?” one of them asked.
>
  “I ain’t leaving,” said another.

  Thren felt his heart begin to race as Crion slowly realized what was happening. The others backed away, none willing to attack him, but it was clear they were no longer on his side. With a sudden burst of movement, all nine made for the two remaining piles of food. Crion stabbed one of them through the back, yet when he managed to reach his table barely any food was left. He hovered over it, guarding it as three others split for various sections of wall. The same happened at the other table, men scooping up stale bread and browning fruit and seeking out a place of safety. Two more died in that skirmish, a small man with beady eyes and dark hair thrusting a dagger into the necks of the slowest two, a man and a woman who had scooped up more food than they should have, their full arms slowing their defense until it was too late.

  “Six left,” Thren whispered when the chaos subsided. “It’s a whole new game.”

  After so many leaving or dying that morning, it seemed the remaining six were content to stay in their respective sections of the room, each with a table or two to give protection. Thren and Grayson did their best to lie low, but with such smaller numbers, it was getting harder to go unnoticed.

  “Hey,” said one of the men, the beady-eyed one named Nolan. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, as if unafraid of the others. He looked tired, as did all the rest. Once the rush of the earlier conflict had faded, and the morning stretched into day, they’d all sagged in their seats or against the wall.

  Thren looked away, pretended not to notice Nolan was talking to him.

  “Hey, you two little shits,” Nolan called.

  Thren elbowed Grayson in the side, waking him up. The two had slept in shifts, alternating each hour, at least their best estimates of an hour. Grayson woke, immediately noticed Nolan glaring at them. Neither gave the dark-haired man an answer.

  “Those two are still here?” Crion asked from his corner. He laughed as if it were the funniest thing. “Got balls, I’ll give you that, but I think it’s time you two got out before something bad happens.”

  Neither moved. Nolan muttered a curse, got to his feet. He brandished a long dirk in his small pale fingers.

  “You know,” he said, “I could use a bit of fun.”

  Despite how alert he seemed, Thren knew his friend was still waking up, and he needed the attention on him instead. Besides, he was smaller, and faster.

  “Go ask Crion for some fun,” Thren said. “I heard he likes your type. Skinny and dumb.”

  When Nolan rushed him, he dove to the side, rolling underneath the legs of a table and bolting toward the middle of the room. The man chased as the others laughed and watched. Thren weaved his way about, scampering along the floor when he needed to, running along the tops of tables if necessary to get away. It didn’t matter to him how pathetic he looked, he just had to survive.

  “Can’t kill a little child?” Thren heard someone yell, and Thren purposefully veered along the wall in the yeller’s direction. He scooped up a piece of shit from a spot several had used to relieve themselves and then spun, flinging the brown sludge behind him. He hit Nolan square in the chest, earning himself a colorful tirade of curses.

  “Just fucking…stand…still!”

  Nolan hurled his dirk. Thren dropped to his stomach, heard it thud into a table above him. Scrambling, leaving brown smeared handprints on the floor beneath him, he made his way back to Grayson, who had never moved from his spot. Nolan, as if realizing how vulnerable he was with his weapon thrown, quickly retrieved it, then made his way back toward his food. The eyes of the others were on him, and Thren knew how bad, how weak, it must have looked to fail to kill a nine-year-old boy.

  Too bad, thought Thren.

  “He almost got you twice,” Grayson said as Thren slumped against the wall beside him.

  “Almost don’t count,” Thren said.

  Grayson laughed, elbowed him in the side.

  “Your turn. I got this.”

  More than relieved, and with his head pounding from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, Thren closed his eyes and did his best to sleep.

  Except he couldn’t. He felt Grayson tense up beside him, and he reopened his eyes to see Crion was on the hunt. The man was calmly walking about the dining hall, judging everyone’s reactions. Several backed away, sliding in the opposite direction. Only Nolan remained where he was, twirling his dirk in his left hand.

  “Don’t test me,” Nolan said to Crion. “I’m in a pissed-off mood as it is.”

  “You could always leave,” Crion said, walking around him as if Nolan were a mad dog on a leash. “As our brilliant leader said, the door is always open.”

  Crion veered to the side, purposefully putting his back to Nolan as if daring him to throw his dirk. For a moment Thren thought he would, but then Nolan backed down. Instead Crion approached another man, this one heavyset and bearded. Thren struggled to remember his name, but then Crion spoke it aloud.

  “You’ve always been a good friend, Jarvis,” Crion said to the bearded man. “So why do you stay so far away from me?”

  Jarvis scratched at his rust-colored beard. In his other hand he held up a thick short sword.

  “Been a good friend to you because it paid to be your good friend,” Jarvis said, his voice carrying a thick Kerran accent. “But not now, not anymore. We all started out equal in here, and one of us is walking out a king. And you know what, Crion? I sure as shit don’t want to see it be you that comes out on top.”

  “You won’t see it,” Crion told him. “Because you’ll be dead first.”

  Jarvis had been ready for the attack, Thren had no doubt about that. But being ready for it and being able to survive it were two very different things, as Jarvis found out. Crion took a step closer, then jammed his arm forward as if to thrust. Jarvis flung his short sword around to parry, but Crion was too fast. He sidestepped, pulling his sword back and out of the way of the parry. Jarvis’s sword continued without any steel for it to hit, and as it smacked against the rough wood floor it let out a loud thunk, the sound broken only by the scream Jarvis made when Crion’s sword thrust deep into his chest.

  Crion twisted once, pulled the blade free, then glanced to the others.

  “Fucking cowards,” he said, seeing not a one had dared make a move on him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  He sheathed his sword, stalked back toward his corner.

  “Only five,” Thren whispered as he closed his eyes, leaning his weight against Grayson. “Now just five…”

  When he woke an hour later to Grayson jabbing him in the side, he wished he could sleep longer. His stomach hurt, his head hurt worse, and he’d have begged on his hands and knees for a drink of water for his dry, sticky tongue. But he thought it best to put that aside when he heard his friend speak.

  “Now four,” he said. “Nolan killed Uriah while he slept.”

  “Why’d he sleep?” Thren asked, rubbing at his eyes.

  “Don’t think he did all night,” Grayson said, shrugging. His brown eyes were locked on the far left wall, where Uriah’s body lay slumped, throat cut, blood lazily dripping down his neck and onto his pale-yellow shirt. The little food the man had stored up was now in Nolan’s pile, which was shrinking rapidly as he wolfed down what he had.

  “Going to give yourself a stomachache,” said one of the remaining four, a thin man with a badly scarred face. Thren recognized him from before being recruited by Muzien: he was a soft-spoken man named Logan. Logan was one of a dozen fences throughout Mordeina, and whenever Thren stole something particularly expensive, and therefore hard to sell, it was to Logan he went. Didn’t matter if its previous owner’s blood was still wet upon the merchandise, Logan would buy it. He always seemed happy enough, but Thren had learned quickly from the other boys to stay away and reject any offers of a meal. Logan’s tastes ran young, and according to the whispers, it was rare for one of his boys to return to the streets afterward.

  “Better from food than a sword in th
e gut,” Nolan said. “Isn’t that right, Uriah? Uriah! Oh, right, dead. I forgot.”

  “Just shut up,” Crion said. “You aren’t as funny as you think.”

  “And you’re not as good as you think,” Nolan said, lifting a cracked muffin into the air as a toast. “To your amazing skills, Crion, and to your soon ignoble death. May you as a corpse be more entertaining than you were in life.”

  “You all laugh,” said the fourth man. He had long red hair, a scar that ran across the bridge of his nose, and hardly any teeth. His name was Phillip. “But you’ve missed the real joke. It ain’t us four that is going to win.”

  “Then who will?” Crion asked, rubbing at his face, which had long dark circles beneath the eyes.

  “Yes, please tell us,” Nolan said. “I hate not being in on a joke.”

  In answer, Phillip pointed right at Thren and Grayson. Thren felt his insides tighten. The last thing he wanted was attention.

  “Those two,” Phillip said. “They been hiding out the whole time, sleeping when we can’t, grabbing food we’ve left behind. They’ll outlast all of us, I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Logan said. “Two kids outlast the four of us? The lack of drink is getting to you, my friend.”

  Phillip laughed at the word friend.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But here we are, six of us if we include them, and how many before them are gone? Twenty? Thirty?”

  All four were looking at the boys now. Thren slowly rose to his feet, feeling his throat constrict. Grayson stood likewise, and Thren could tell by the look on his face that his plan was simple: whichever way Thren fled, Grayson would flee the other.

  “This is stupid,” Crion said, grabbing his sword and slipping around his wall of tables. “Nolan, they embarrassed you once, so do us both a favor and kill whoever slips around either side of me. It may sting going into the Abyss knowing one of you three will inherit the Sun Guild, but I sure as shit won’t let it be these two little snots.”