Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella Page 5

  Down the road, out stepped Jorry, his body shrouded in a deep-gray cloak, his face hidden in the darkness of the starless night. Seeing him, Thren shook his head.

  “About bloody time.”

  He grabbed the rope and tossed it off the side of the wall. Looping it twice around his wrist, he leaped off, descending at a reckless speed. The wagon was beneath him, the rope hanging several feet above the driver’s head. Into the cart’s center Thren fell, his feet landing hard atop one of the crates. Before the driver could even let out a word, Thren was in the front seat, his short swords drawn, their tips pressed against the driver’s throat.

  “Now’s not a time to make noise,” Thren told him as Grayson dropped into the wagon with a thud. The lone donkey pulling the cart came to a stop as the driver pulled on the reins.

  “I got nothing you’d be interested in,” said the driver. He was a young man with hardly any meat hanging on his bones. “Just some flour that needs delivering before the ovens fire up in the morning.”

  “Flour, eh?” Grayson asked from behind him. “Care if I open up one of these to take a look?”

  The driver started to look back, then stopped at Thren’s glare.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “That flour ain’t worth my life.”

  As Grayson bent down, Thren dared a look up the alley. Jorry was nowhere to be found. It put a rock into Thren’s stomach, a certainty that things moved beyond his understanding, and he didn’t like it. Before Grayson could get one of the crates open, a call sounded from the direction in which the wagon had come. The driver tensed, and Thren spared another look.

  Running down the road, their armor rattling, were a half dozen armed mercenaries.

  The driver’s eyes were wide with terror when he saw Thren’s glare.

  “I didn’t—” he started to say, but Thren struck the side of the man’s head with the pommel of his sword, knocking him out. As the body collapsed, Thren shoved him out of the driver’s seat and reached for the reins.

  “No time,” Grayson said, hopping out of the wagon with his two short swords drawn. “Get your ass over here, Thren.”

  Thren swore, then drew his own two blades. As the six men came running, Thren spared a glance, only to confirm to himself that Jorry had left them to die.

  You idiot, thought Thren. You’re about to be sorely disappointed.

  With just two against six, the mercenaries clearly were not expecting a fight.

  “Stay where you are,” one of them commanded as the others drew their swords. Thren stood beside Grayson, each settling into a combat stance, letting their gray cloaks fall across their bodies to hide the positioning of their arms and legs.

  “This business does not concern you,” Thren said, taking a small step to his left to give Grayson more room to maneuver when the fight began. “Go on back to whoever pays for the privilege to hold your leash.”

  “By the authority of Lord Leon Connington, we demand you turn over that wagon for inspection,” said the mercenaries’ leader, seemingly unbothered by Thren’s comment.

  “Is that so?” asked Grayson. “And if we don’t?”

  The man opened his mouth, no doubt to issue a threat, but he had no chance to give it. Thren lunged, extending his arm to the fullest. The tip of his short sword slipped into the flesh of the man’s throat, not far, just enough to leave a slender gap when Thren pulled back. Just enough to leave him gagging on his own blood.

  Grayson exploded into motion so that when Thren fell back, the giant man was assaulting the right side of their group, his swords hammering against swords flung up in desperate defenses. Thren faked a run at the other three on the left, then dove right, stabbing in the back one soldier who’d turned to face Grayson. Together they finished off a third before the mercenaries could even gain their bearings. Now that it was just two on three, Thren grinned and beckoned the men closer.

  “I’m still waiting,” he told them. “What happens if we refuse?”

  The three rushed forward in a unified charge, trusting their sharpened blades and expensive armor to protect them. If not for his anger at Jorry, Thren would have laughed. Despite their cloaks, their lack of armor, he and Grayson were no normal thugs. They’d undergone training even the mercenaries would have been appalled to witness. Thren took the two on the left, let Grayson have the third on the right. The men struck simultaneously, high chops with their long blades. Thren sidestepped one, blocked the other with the sword in his left hand. His right he swung in a circle while taking another step left. The hit knocked the soldier’s blade far out of position, and Thren hopped forward, cutting the mercenary’s throat.

  Armor rattled as the corpse hit the ground. Thren’s final opponent tried to rush him, but he stumbled over the body, which stole power from his thrust. Thren smashed aside the attack, weaving his blades into a dizzying display he knew few could follow. The mercenary tried. The mercenary failed.

  “Gods damn it,” Thren said as he cleaned the blood off his blades. Grayson stood amid the bodies, neck craned as he scanned down the street.

  “Don’t see any more coming yet,” he said. “But it won’t take long before more do. We need to get out of here, now.”

  “Indeed,” Thren said.

  They climbed into the wagon, with Grayson taking the reins and driving it to their guildhouse. Two men stood outside it, and they tipped their heads at Thren and Grayson’s arrival.

  “What you got there?” asked one of them. “Something fancy for us to drink?”

  Thren hopped down, ignoring him. He meant to barge inside, to demand to speak with Jorry, but instead the door opened and out stepped the master of the Spider Guild. Jorry was a tall man, but his body was long and lanky, his hands in particular. With a face looking just as stretched, Jorry smiled at the two.

  “What took you so long to return?” he asked.

  “We had a few mercenaries to kill,” Thren said, struggling to contain his anger. “Mercenaries we could have used help in taking down.”

  “Leon’s mercenaries?” asked Jorry, making a grand show of his confusion. “I saw them coming, and it’s why I called off the hit. Why did you not run when they arrived?”

  “Running meant leaving the wagon behind,” said Grayson as more members of the Spider Guild filtered through the door, heading toward the wagon. “And unlike you, me and Thren aren’t scared of a little scruff when we make a hit.”

  Still Jorry was smiling. Thren didn’t like it one bit. Again he knew he was missing something, and when others of his guild pulled open the crates of the wagon, he realized what it was.

  “Flour?” asked one. “What the shit we going to do with this, bake ourselves a cake?”

  Thren felt his neck flush red as others began to laugh.

  “Get it into the guildhouse,” Jorry ordered. “We’ll find ourselves a use for Thren’s grand score tonight somehow.”

  Despite their having gathered in the middle of the street, leaving themselves open to ambush or spying, Thren’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. His blue eyes met Jorry’s brown, and within them he saw the dark amusement twinkling.

  “You gave us the signal,” Thren said quietly.

  “I stepped out to usher you home,” Jorry said. “Our informant was wrong. Ah well. Good thing you didn’t get hurt fighting those mercenaries.”

  The guildmaster turned and, laughing, strode back into the guildhouse.

  Grayson’s hand fell atop Thren’s shoulder, but Thren shook it off.

  “He got us,” Grayson said as the rest of the wagon was unloaded, leaving the two alone. “No shame in that. Jorry’s a clever one. That’s how he got where he is, after all.”

  “He wanted us dead,” Thren said.

  “And we want him dead. It’s only fair.”

  Thren shook his head.

  “In that, it is only politics and power. This was mockery. I won’t have it, not with our reputation yet to be established here in Veldaren. I won’t let us become known as the flour
thieves.”

  Grayson shrugged.

  “It’s got a unique ring to it.”

  His friend was just trying to maintain his humor, especially after such a mess-up, but Thren knew he couldn’t risk such a stain remaining on his reputation.

  “No, Grayson,” he said. “It’s time we took over the Spider Guild.”

  Grayson laughed.

  “And how will we do that?”

  In answer, Thren kicked open the door to the guildhouse and marched inside. Once beyond the guarded entryway he stepped into the building’s wide single floor lit by dozens of candles and filled with members of the Spider Guild, by far the most dangerous and prosperous of Veldaren’s many thief guilds. Its various members were busy drinking and chatting with the women who would be sharing their beds that night. In the far corner Thren spotted Jorry, a woman at either side of him and a drink in the hand not busy groping their thighs.

  “Thren!” shouted Jorry, seeing him enter. “Come to join me?”

  In answer, Thren took out his sword and smashed it onto the center of a round table before him. The two men drinking at it looked up at him in shock, then quickly backed away. The brown drink from their spilled glasses dripped down to the floor.

  “You’ve insulted me,” Thren said in the suddenly still room. “I don’t forgive insults, not lightly.”

  Jorry leaned forward, and he sipped from his glass before setting it aside.

  “What is it you want, Thren?” he asked. “It’s my position, isn’t it? You’ve been in my guild less than a year, yet you still eye my power. I’d call you arrogant, but it doesn’t come near far enough. I know you’re skilled with a sword, but that just makes you a killer. Last I remember, we’re a thieves guild, not sellswords.”

  “And I am the better thief,” Thren said.

  “A bold claim,” Jorry said. “But you’re talking to Jorry the Swift. How do you think I obtained such a title?”

  “I always assumed it was from your time with the ladies,” Grayson said, striding in from the street and coming to Thren’s side. He crossed his arms, putting his fingers within easy reach of the hilts of his swords.

  “So funny, so clever,” Jorry said, slowly rising to his feet. All around him Thren saw members of the Spider Guild reaching for their daggers and swords. There were over fifty crammed into that room, not counting the whores. Even if he could kill Jorry, there would be no guild for him to rule. They’d string him up and then bleed him out in the most creative ways they could imagine. But Thren wasn’t interested in killing Jorry. Well, not yet, anyway.

  “I’m done with you,” said Jorry. “Your ego, your stubbornness. Whatever usefulness you’ve known has long passed.”

  “You want me gone?” Thren asked. “A challenge, then. A chance for you to prove your superiority.”

  Jorry tilted his head, his expression carefully guarded.

  “Is that so? And why should I accept?”

  “You’re the better thief,” said Thren. “Or will you cower before your own guild?”

  Jorry chuckled, and he reached for his drink.

  “So be it,” he said. “What is your challenge?”

  Thren knew it had to be worthy, something the entire guild would remember should either he or Jorry be successful. Something the guildmaster’s pride would never let him turn down.

  “A simple theft,” he said. “The first to retrieve the king’s crown wins.”

  The silence around them quickly turned to a roar. Jorry laughed, as if taken aback by Thren’s audacity.

  “The king’s crown it is!” he cried. “And what do I get if I win?”

  “If you win, Grayson and I will toss aside our cloaks, and my family and I will never step foot in Veldaren again.”

  “Be still my heart,” said Jorry. “And if you win?”

  Thren shrugged.

  “You step down as guildmaster, and acknowledge me the better thief. Let us swear it now, with our entire guild as witness.”

  Their gazes met again, and Thren knew he had him. The risk was great, but Jorry knew that if it came to a clash of swords, there would be no victory for him. But in nighttime acquisitions? There were very few better than Jorry, and honestly, Thren did not consider himself one of them. But in this he’d have to be.

  “I accept,” Jorry said, lifting his glass in a toast. “Let the contest begin!”

  * * *

  The following night Thren and Grayson leaned against the front of a closed shop and stared up the road leading to King Gregor Vaelor’s castle.

  “I’m not sure why I have to come with you,” Grayson said.

  “Because you’re banished along with me if I fail.”

  “That is sort of my point.”

  Thren grinned at his friend.

  “You know you’d come with me on this even if I tried to stop you, so stop complaining. Besides, we have a castle to break into.”

  “Speaking of,” said Grayson, gesturing to the distant edifice. “How exactly will we be going about doing just that?”

  “Castles are made to hold off armies,” Thren said. “Against two men…well, that’s a different matter. Follow me, and I’ll show you a door no one ever remembers.”

  Thren ran toward the eastern side of the castle, barely able to hear Grayson’s muttered complaint.

  “Cocky bastard…”

  There were no walls to protect the castle and its adjoining prison; for the longest time the wall surrounding the city of Veldaren had been enough. Instead the castle relied upon its thick doors and constant patrols, and neither felt insurmountable to Thren. Keeping just beyond sight of the patrols, Thren led Grayson to the far side, where the castle jutted up against the great wall. More soldiers walked along the top, well armed and carrying torches. In the shadow of that wall they approached the castle.

  “So what exactly are we looking for?” Grayson whispered into his ear as Thren paused for a moment to wait for another patrol to meander by.

  “I said a door,” Thren whispered back. “Have some faith.”

  A foul smell grew steadily worse the closer to the castle they came, until Thren could barely stand it, and Grayson was cursing him under his breath. They were just to where the castle joined with the wall, and in the crevice they formed the ground was soft and reeked of filth. No torches shone on them there, for which Thren was thankful. Remaining hidden would have been difficult given how distracted he was. With the best dramatic reveal he could pull off with one hand covering his nose, he gestured to his entrance.

  “No,” Grayson whispered. “No, no, and above all, fuck no.”

  The various sewer pipes in the castle all led to one large drainage exit, an open chute that ran from the castle to the wall. That chute dumped the piss and shit into a sharply slanted hole halfway up the wall, allowing it to slide out of the city.

  “We’ve dealt with worse,” Thren whispered as he removed his shoes and stuffed them into a pocket of his shirt. “Now get your shoes off. We need them clean if we’re to sneak through the castle without leaving a trail for all the world to see.”

  Again Grayson shook his head.

  “You’re like my brother,” he said, “but I’m not crawling through that. I’d rather be banished to the farthest corner of the world.”

  “If you say so.”

  Taking a deep breath, Thren climbed his way up the wall, finding easy handholds in the worn stone. Upon reaching the chute, he grabbed the side. The metal was sharp, and he winced, glad that it only dug into his skin instead of cutting it. The wince was also for the sludge his fingers dug into, and he was beyond thankful that it was dark, and he would see very little of what he was about to crawl through. Hoisting himself up, he slid into the chute once another patrol had passed, and that done, he put down elbow after elbow as he made his way up the castle’s asshole.

  Claustrophobia set in only once, after about five minutes of worming his way through. The chute was slick, which prevented him from getting stuck, but the smell w
as overwhelming, and worse was how he had to keep his head low to it due to the cramped space. Slowly he breathed in and out, pushing away the maddening certainty in his head that the walls were closing in on him. As he did, he heard motion behind him, followed by a gagged whisper.

  “Move it, Thren, or I’m pushing my way past. Not staying in here a second longer than I have to.”

  Thren smiled, and the last of his claustrophobia passed. Elbow after elbow, until he reached the initial opening of the sewage chute. No doubt the room was actually dark, with only a little light filtering in through the crack beneath its door, but to Thren it was a shining, glorious paradise. Putting his bare feet on the cold stone, he wiped them as best he could before putting on his shoes. After that he stripped to his bare chest, hurling the rest of his outfit back into the sewage hole. Grayson did the same.

  “Ready?” Thren asked, checking the lone short sword tightly strapped to his thigh. Thankfully the scabbard had protected the blade from the filth.

  “You owe me forever,” Grayson said, taking a moment to gather himself, breathing heavily with his back to their entrance. “And yes, ready.”

  Thren had learned everything he could about the layout of the castle from the few members of the Spider Guild who had been inside. From what he knew, the crown would be kept in the royal treasury, which was on the lowest floor. They themselves were on the second floor, reserved mostly for the servants’ quarters and to house the castle guard. Not the best place to be, but the night was deep, and the soldiers who were awake were busy manning the walls or protecting the king and queen’s bedchambers, as well as their son, Edwin.

  Exiting the room, they hurried down the hall after a brief moment to confirm their location. To their right was a long corridor with many doors, which Thren guessed to be bedrooms. The other way led to the stairs, and down these they went. At the very bottom waited two soldiers, their backs to them. Thren motioned to the left, and Grayson nodded. Not a noise made by their steps, the two attacked together, simultaneously cutting the soldiers’ throats before they could let out a single cry. That done, they sheathed their blades, hooked a right, and rushed as fast as they could down the quiet hall.