Mountain of Daggers
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Authors: Seth Skorkowsky
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Anthologies, #Epic, #Anthologies & Short Stories
Mountain of Daggers
Tales of the Black Raven 1
Seth Skorkowsky
© 2015
Cover Artwork by Alex Raspad
Cover Design by Shawn T. King
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Worldwide Rights
Created in the United States of America
Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com
Editor-In-Chief: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin
In memory of Austin Schaefers.
Nobles and merchants laughed and talked amongst the chorus of clinking glasses and music echoing from the ballroom below. Ahren kept his eyes to the marble floor or on the bright tapestries to avoid attention. Adjusting his doublet, he wove his way up the crowded staircase. The coarse cloth of the server’s uniform itched terribly. He wondered how anyone could ever get used to it. When the day came that he could have servants of his own, their uniforms would be more comfortable.
Earlier in the evening, he had thought the ruse over when an older gentleman had tried to speak with him. Presuming the man was ordering a drink or maybe food, Ahren had only nodded as a servant should, and melted into the crowd. It would only be a few minutes longer before he could spend the rest of the night in hiding; tomorrow he would be a rich man and on his way home, or at least to a coastal city where he spoke the language.
Leaving the party behind, he followed a long hallway. Stopping at the fourth door on the right, he looked around. No one was watching. Quickly, he opened it and stepped inside.
“Did you get it, thief?” the baron asked in Mordakish.
“Yeah. I got it.” Ahren strained to see in the darkened room. He could barely make out a hint of light from between the window shutters.
“Where is it?” He heard the baron step closer.
“Right here.” Ahren pulled the heavy brooch from under his doublet. He ran his thumb across the encrusted gold and the giant sapphire at its center.
“Give it here. Let me see it.”
Ahren’s eyes had adjusted enough to see the nobleman’s extended palm. He handed it over.
Baron Krevnyet peered closely at the prize. “Magnificent, don’t you think?”
“It is.” Ahren nervously fingered the medallion underneath his shirt as he looked around the room. He could make out silhouettes of chairs and a large bed.
A dagger rasped from its sheath.
Seeing the baron pry the gem with the blade, he sighed. The man chuckled to himself as he pulled the inch-wide sapphire free from the prongs.
“Your pay,” the baron said, handing back the brooch.
Even without the gem, the gold and diamonds were worth a small fortune. More than enough to pay for passage back to Mordakland. But why waste it? He could work a vessel, and when he made it home he could set himself up in style.
“Open the window a little,” the baron said, still examining the stone. “I want to see it in the light.”
Ahren cracked open the shutters slightly to avoid being noticed by any of the partygoers in the courtyard below. He turned to see the spacious bedroom. Several busts stared at him from atop short pedestals. A painting of the baron hung above the mantle beside a blue-canopied bed. Ahren’s eyes stopped in the corner of the room.
The body of a woman lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
His mouth opened in horror. Then he saw the baron charging, the dagger clutched in his hand.
Ahren jumped back. The swinging blade still caught him. He felt the sting as the dagger sliced through his doublet and across his stomach. The baron pressed forward in another attack. Ahren back-stepped and fell, crashing through the open shutters and out the window with a cry of surprise. Crying out, he landed in a hedge, his foot twisted beneath him. The golden brooch dropped from his hand and bounced at the feet of the surprised party guests.
The baron burst through the window above. “Ubiytsa! Ubiytsa!”
Ahren didn’t understand the words, but he understood the onlookers’ gasps and horror-struck faces. He rolled to the ground as a man reached for him. Ahren shoved a screaming woman out of the way and snatched up the fallen brooch.
Men yelled and drew their swords as he sprinted across the courtyard. Stabbing pain shot through his ankle. The tight, fancy shoes bit into his feet. He pushed the hurt from his mind as he crashed through tables and leapt over rosebushes.
The gate guard unsheathed his rapier and charged. Ahren grabbed a plate and hurled it at the man. The flying porcelain exploded against his forehead. The guard fell to the ground holding his face, blood pouring between his gloved hands. Leaping over him, Ahren raced into the city street. A cacophony of screams and cries followed him into the night.
The streets of Ralkosty were mostly clear. Many of the shops and vendors had already closed for the evening. Ahren ducked into an alley just as a pair of riders raced past him in pursuit. Church bells rang an alarm, and it would only be a matter of time before the soldiers found him. He hurried to escape the noble district, keeping to the small avenues and alleyways.
Ahren slowed once he reached what appeared to be a merchant district. Peasants wandered the narrow streets, perusing the late night stands as they moved between bars and brothels. Holding his arm over his stomach, he covered the dagger cut across his doublet. The red cloth easily masked the blood from his wound. It no longer bled, but he had yet to see its severity.
A trio of whores called to him from an open window. He knew his disheveled appearance and the torn, fancy clothes made him stand out. He thought about taking a room in a nearby inn. There might even be an innkeeper that spoke Mordakish. But this far inland in Rhomanny it wasn’t likely. It didn’t matter anyway; his only money was still wrapped inside his clothes at the baron’s house.
An oncoming patrol of soldiers forced Ahren to hide in an alley. Holding his breath, he listened until their boot clomps faded away. He let out a sigh, then limped further into the alley. With a groan, he sat down on an empty barrel.
He pulled off the awkward shoes, and rubbed his swollen ankle. Now that the initial chase was over, its silent pain throbbed stronger. He’d be lucky if he was able to walk tomorrow. Not that it mattered. By now the entire city was looking for him. The city gates would already be closed and his hunters would be on the prowl. He had nowhere to go. The only man he knew had just thrown him out a window. He had no money, no way to speak to the locals, nothing but a stolen brooch with no fence to buy it.
Ahren hissed in pain as he shed the doublet and dropped it in a barrel beside him. It was a server’s uniform and would only mark him. He ripped open the bloody tear across his shirt and examined his wound. Thick clumps of blood coated the hand-length gash. It wasn’t deep, but with no barber to stitch it, it was only time before pus and fever set in.
He leaned back against the wall, remembering the fateful conversation that had led to this predicament.
“So where are you headed?” the baron had asked. He ran his hand along the twenty boxes freshly stacked in his warehouse. “Back to Frobinsky?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Ahren had said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “The
Seefalk
should be ready to sail by the time I return.”
The baron nodded. “Did you ever wonder why the captain sent you to guard the shipment? I’m sure many of the other crew speak Rhomanic.”
“I figured it was because he trusts me most.”
The baron dabbed a handkerchief across his face. “The answer is because I had sent for a thief. The best thief the captain could think of. So he sent me you.”
Ahren looked around. No one was in the warehouse with them. He studied the baron’s fine clothing and neatly trimmed moustache. He eyed the silver rapier hilt at the man’s waist.
“The Captain made a mistake,” Ahren said. “I am not a thief.”
The baron’s blue eyes sparkled. “Ah, I see. Then I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in a small proposition. Seems unfortunate. I liked doing business with your captain. But if he can’t tell a thief from an honest man, I have no use for him.”
Ahren sighed. He didn’t trust this baron. Something about him felt off. But Captain Hinstein had saved his life during a storm. He owed the man everything, and he couldn’t allow himself to lose one of the captain’s best clients.
“No one is
entirely
honest,” he said carefully.
The baron grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
The cold edge of a blade against his throat jolted Ahren to the present.
“Vashi den’gii ili vasha zhizn,” hissed a blonde man holding the knife. He gave a wicked smile of rotted teeth.
Ahren looked at him with a blank stare. He didn’t move. The words were lost on him, but the thief’s intent wasn’t. A second man with a scruffy black beard patted Ahren down. He easily found the bulge of the brooch hidden at Ahren’s waist.
The dark-haired thief's eyes lit up as he removed the treasure and showed it to his accomplice. He shoved it into a pouch and continued his search of Ahren’s body.
The blonde man chuckled, his breath reeking like rancid meat, and held the blade more firmly. Ahren pulled his head back harder against the wooden wall.
His searcher pulled the bronze medallion out from under Ahren’s shirt. With a hard jerk he broke the leather cord. Ahren braced himself. He had no more valuables. The two thieves would likely kill him now. The knife edge pressed against his throat, lightly breaking the skin. He felt the quiver in the blade as the man's arm tensed, readying to make the kill.
The bearded man slapped his companion in the shoulder and showed him the medallion. Relaxing the blade, the blonde man took the bauble. His eyes widened as he flipped it over and examined it. They conversed back and forth in Rhomanic, seeming to question the trinket.
The blonde thief returned the blade to Ahren’s neck. “Otkuda vy eto vzyali?”
Ahren shook his head.
“Otkuda vy eto vzyali?” came again in the vulgar tongue.
“I…I don’t speak Rhomanic,” Ahren stammered, hoping the cutthroats understood him.
The toothless brigand nodded. He chuckled something to his companion who also nodded in agreement. They exchanged a few words, determining Ahren’s fate.
Finally the knife withdrew from Ahren's neck, and he gave soft sigh of relief. The blonde man pulled Ahren to his feet and motioned to the shoes lying on the ground.
Ahren bent over and pulled the tight shoes onto his feet. He groaned in pain when he tried to pull one over his swollen ankle. It had almost doubled in size within the past few minutes.
“Sleduyte za name,” the man with the dagger said, motioning down the alley. Ahren nodded and hobbled in the direction he was pointed.
The two thieves led him through the dark back streets of the city, completely unsympathetic of Ahren’s painful limp. Normally he would have looked for an opening, a moment he could escape. Now his mind focused solely on the pain of each step. He gritted his teeth and held his sliced stomach, fresh blood oozing between his fingers.
They led him to the back of a two story building. The knife tip pressed firm into Ahren's back as the bearded man knocked on the door.
“Da?” came a voice from within.
The bearded man said something. The voice from inside replied.
The door opened and they led him into a small room. Dozens of shoes in every variety and state of wear lined shelves along the walls. An older man sat at a scarred table at the back of the room. He pushed aside a boot he appeared to have been sewing. His dress was simple, yet fancy enough to show he was not poor.
He spoke with the two men, his fatherly tone tinged with a sharp edge of impatience. The bearded man handed him the brooch and the medallion. Ignoring the gold, the old man grabbed the medallion. His eyes sparkled as he held it, and then returned to their previous composure. He gestured to the wooden chair across from him and the two brutes pushed Ahren into the hard seat.
The man ran his hand across his slender beard as he looked coldly at Ahren. “Ivan says you speak Mordakish.”
Ahren nodded. “Yes.”
He pursed his thin lips. “What is your name?”
“Ahren.”
“What brings you so far from home? Ralkosty is far from Mordakland.”
Ahren twisted in his seat. “I’m a sailor. My ship landed in Frobinsky three weeks ago. The captain sent me inland with the cargo to deliver it to the owner.”
“You’re a thief,” the old man said idly. “And a murderer.”
Ahren heart pounded. “No, I am a sailor. I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me,” the old man spat. “Word has already spread through the streets. A thief slipped into the house of Baron Krevnyet during a party, dressed as a servant, and stole a sapphire brooch from Countess Nyschev. The baron’s young bride, Aglaya, found the thief hiding in a bedroom and he killed her. The baron caught the killer in the act, and tried to thwart him. In the scuffle, the rogue fell from a window, and fled into the night.”
Ahren found it hard to breathe as he heard the story.
“The killer spoke to the baron in Mordakish. You look to have been in a scuffle, and even injured as the story describes. And you wear the poorly made shoes of a house servant at a formal affair.” The old man leaned across the worktable. “There is a reward of a thousand gold bishkas for the killer; dead or alive. For such a fortune, any man would bring you in.”
Ahren didn’t speak. He knew his face showed his admission to guilt. There was no use lying. “I didn’t kill her,” he muttered finally.
The old man’s brow rose, but he said nothing.
“The baron paid me to steal the brooch. He gave me one of the servants’ uniforms and told me to meet him in an empty room once I had gotten it. He would keep the gem and the rest was mine. But when I showed up, she was already dead. He took the gem and tried to kill me. I barely survived, I swear it.”