Mountain of Daggers (10 page)

Click. Click. Click.

Torchlight grew in the stairwell as the men drew closer. Backing away from the statue, Ahren removed the jeweled cap from his satchel.

“There you are!” Kirril barked and he came up the steps. Blood dripped from the brown veil wound tightly around his hand.

Ahren just smiled.

A towering brute in a dark blue veil followed Kirril into the room. A sword-like knife gleamed from his clubbish hand. Two more henchmen, each armed with crossbows followed him up.

“Give me the cap.” Kirril growled, squeezing his rapier handle with his good hand. He circled around the room on Ahern’s right. The hulking thug moved to the left, blocking Ahren behind the sarcophagus. One of the crossbowmen stood in the doorway, aiming his weapon at Ahren’s chest.

“Right here.” Ahren held up the silver and jeweled cap.

The men moved closer.

They were almost on him when Ahren flicked the oar cap across the room. Its red gemstones sparkled as it flew in a high arc, end over end toward the doorway.

“Get it,” Kirril shouted, lunging his blade at Ahren.

The crossbowman in the doorway dropped his aim to catch the treasure flying toward him.

In one motion, Ahren brought up his foot, kicked the pearl-studded coffin lid and leapt over it. Screeching, the ferryman statue spun around. Its bronze oar whipped through the air. Ahren curled his legs, allowing the oar to fly beneath him and strike the massive brute in the mouth. With a hard crack, blood and broken teeth exploded from under his veil as the whirling oar knocked him back across the room.

With a shriek of grinding iron, the portcullis dropped from the ceiling, smashing into the crossbowman in the door, impaling him on its spikes. The oar cap hit the tiles with a
ting
and skittered down the stairs beyond

Tumbling to the ground, Ahren slid across the floor and under the falling portcullis briefly suspended by the henchman’s crumpling body. The gate slammed shut behind him with a meaty squish.

The other crossbowman stood dumfounded in the stairwell. Leaping to his feet, Ahren tackled the man against the wall. He smashed the man’s face with his elbow and knocked him to the floor.

Kirril screamed in fury.

Ahren snagged the oar cap off the floor and raced down the stairs. He flew blindly through the dark stairwell, leaping steps two to three at a time. After passing the other two floors, the stairwell opened up onto the ground floor.

A wedge of pale moonlight shined through the open copper door. Clutching the silver oar cap tighter, Ahren ran into the cemetery.

Cool air hit his face as he burst outside. For a short moment, Ahren felt the exhilarating rush of victory, moments before a blur flew out from the shadows.

Something hard slammed into Ahren’s stomach, knocking away his breath. He doubled over in pain as his attacker stepped into the alcove wielding a scarred and scratched belaying pin. Rearing it back, the man swung it like a club. Ahren tried dodging, but the cudgel cracked against his head and spots swam before his eyes. The silver cap fell from his grasp as he staggered back. His vision cleared long enough to see the club smash into his cheek.

Blood’s tang filled his mouth.

The man swung again, but Ahren ducked. The club smacked against the tower’s marble carvings, chipping off a siren’s nose. Ahren ripped the jeweled rapier from its sheath and brought it up just in time to block another swing. The cudgel’s blow knocked the poorly-weighted sword from Ahren’s grasp.

Jumping back to avoid another attack, Ahren tripped over an uneven flagstone. Ahren kicked his attacker in the knee and scrambled to get away.

“Get him, Yurlik,” Kirril shouted from a window above. “Kill him!”

Ahren stumbled to his feet, his vision still lurching in and out of focus. Yurlik charged again, raising the short club high. Ahren side-stepped the attack and punched him in the kidneys.

The man’s body went rigid and then he fell to his knees. Ahren raised his fist to finish him off when the crossbowman from within the tower burst through the door.

Ahren leapt to the side behind a tomb before the crossbowman could take aim. His weapon tucked into his shoulder, the man hurried to his fallen companion and helped him to his feet.

Kirril pointed out from the tower window. “He’s over there!”

Keeping low, Ahren hurried away. The two henchmen followed him through the narrow labyrinth of tombs and monuments. Ahren slipped into a dark niche behind a statue and hid.

“Right there,” Kirril shouted.

A bolt whizzed through the air, shattering the statue’s hand beside Ahren’s head. Ahren scrambled away before the man had time to reload. He wove his way quickly through the narrow streets, trying to keep out of Kirril’s searching sight. His pursuers circled like sharks, herding him deeper into the city of tombs.

He came to a small garden and ducked beside a hedge. The henchmen’s shadows moved between the buildings as they drew closer. Ahren picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it far to the side. The stone clattered off roof tiles and the men hurried toward it.

As fast and quietly as he could, Ahren crept the other direction. Following a row of short, bushy trees, he came to the island’s vault-lined outer wall. He headed right, back toward the tower. He hadn’t seen the men pick up the oar cap after he dropped it. With luck, he could sneak in and steal it out from under Kirril’s nose.

The wall turned, and Ahren found himself boxed in a tight canyon of unmarked mausoleums. He doubled back but stopped. Yurlik turned down the narrow footpath coming toward him.

“Over here!” he shouted.

With nowhere to go, Ahren grabbed onto the vault doors beside him and clamored up the wall.

Yurlik charged, swinging his club, but Ahren climbed faster. “He’s getting away!”

Ahren pulled himself onto the top and ran down the wide wall. A crossbow twanged and a bolt flew past. Racing away, he left his pursuers in the necropolis maze, and followed the perimeter walls back to the unguarded tower.

He circled almost half the island before nearing the Ferrymaster’s tower. Ragged clouds swept across the sky, obscuring the moonlight. A soft breeze blew in from the sea, washing away the harbor’s stench. Ahren slowed to a jog, searching for a good place to drop off the wall.

The clouds opened up and pale moonlight bathed the cemetery grounds. Ahren froze.

Kirril stood in front of the tower door, aiming a crossbow. The iron trigger clicked and the bolt shot through the air.

Ahren sprung away but the bolt stabbed into his side. The sharp point bit into his hip, wheeling him around. He tumbled over the low parapet and fell. City lights and the crescent moon spun past in a blur before he slammed into the cold water and everything went black.

#

Ahren awoke with a gasp. Putrid water rushed over his head as his sudden movement shattered his body’s natural buoyancy. Stabbing pain shot through his body as Ahren kicked his legs. Reaching down, he felt the jagged tear the bolt had left in his side. The deep cut ran a fingers-width above the hip bone.

He pulled his way back to the surface and spat out the foul, salty water. Ahead, the yellow city lights shimmered off the calm harbor surface. He floated no more than fifteen feet from the wall he had fallen from. A dark shape bobbed aimlessly along the stone block walls. Squinting he could make out a piece of driftwood.

Clutching his hip with one hand, Ahren paddled over to the floating chunk of wood. A thin film of grime coated the stout timber. Barnacles encrusted one end. The faded paint spiraling up the broken pole indicated it had been a mooring post. Pulling it under his arms, the floating wood held his head above the water.

Ahren sighed, trying to plot his next move, when the echoing rattle of chains broke the silence. Rolling his head around, he saw the fore and aft lamps of Kirril’s boat as it glided out of the cemetery gate.

He was getting away.

Fury surged through Ahren’s veins, numbing the pain from his wounds. Kirril had betrayed him and left him for dead. He couldn’t let him escape.

Aiming himself and his broken post in the direction of Kirril’s boat, he kicked off the wall and began his pursuit.

He expected Kirril to head back into the city, but the small skiff followed the shoreline instead. Struggling to keep up, Ahren paddled harder. The small craft glided past the sailing vessels berthed at the Western Docks and then deeper out into the harbor.

A faint bell rang from a wide sailing barge floating ahead. Kirril’s boat steered toward the larger vessel and slowed.

Ahren watched as a veiled sailor aboard the barge tied a rope around the skiff’s prow. Kirril and his two remaining henchmen climbed up onto the low ship, and were escorted into the stern-side cabin, leaving two men alone on deck.

Glass lamps hung from the vessel’s masts, their flickering lights sparkling off the ship’s gilded woodwork and polished accents. As Ahren neared, he could make out the crewmen’s rich dress of green and gold. The signature colors only verified his suspicions as to who owned the luxurious vessel: the Rusukny Family.

Not only did Baron Rusukny have the gold to buy the oar cap, his bounty on the Black Raven was well known throughout the city. Now, Kirril would be collecting them both.

Injured, and outnumbered, surprise was Ahren’s greatest asset. His enemies thought he was dead and that they were alone. No matter what was going to happen, he swore Kirril would die before sunrise.

Ahren slid off the driftwood pole and lowered himself behind it. Quietly, he paddled closer, trying not to disturb the water’s surface any more than he had to.

One of the sailors on deck stood at the bow, staring out over the city, the other atop the rear cabin, holding the tiller. Neither seemed to notice as Ahren grabbed the lip of the low-lying hull.

He pulled himself along the side of the barge to where Kirril’s tied skiff banged rhythmically with the waves. Muted voices came from inside the cabin. Reaching down to his belt, he slid the dagger from its swollen leather sheath.

#

A light breeze from the rear-facing window circled the room, and fluttered the lamplight. Outside the soft sound of water sloshed against the rocking ship. Kirril sat silently, watching the young noble across from him inspect the jeweled oar cap.

“That’s a substantial price you’re asking,” Konstantin Rusukny said, setting it back onto the table between them. “How do I know you’re not trying to swindle my father?”

Kirril grinned. “Only a fool would try to swindle Nadjancia’s greatest swordsman. I assure you, this is Vooshkae’s oar cap, and the price is very reasonable.”

The young noble casually swished the clear vodka in the bottom of his glass. Javor, the bearded bodyguard beside him, sat with crossed arms, staring coldly at Kirril and his men. The ruffian of course was unnecessary. If there was any truth to the duelist’s near mythical reputation, Konstantin could kill all three of them before anyone could even draw. 

“Agreed,” Konstantin finally said. “The price you ask is acceptable.” He raised his bowl-shaped glass and knocked it back.

Kirril’s heart pounded. Fifty thousand gold bishkas was more than he’d ever seen. That, and fifteen percent of whatever profits the Rusuknys made from the ferrymen, would make him one of the most powerful men in the city. Hiding his excitement, he downed his drink as well, sealing the deal.

“Now.” Konstantin set the glass on the table and leaned forward. “Are you sure the Black Raven is dead?”

“I shot him myself,” Kirril said, his lips tightening into a wide smile. “Right now, he’s feeding the crabs.”

The duelist’s gray eyes narrowed. “How can I be sure he is dead?”

Kirril displayed the bloody veil wrapped tightly around his right hand. “Because there is no way I could allow the man responsible for this to survive.”

Konstantin refilled the glasses from a crystal decanter. “Then let us toast to the death of the Black Raven.”

A hard thump trembled the ceiling. Kirril gave it a momentary glance before raising his glass. A sailor above the cabin must have slipped.

“My father will of course wish to discuss the details of his death with you,” Konstantin said after the toast. “Once he is satisfied, the reward will be yours.”

A crash sounded from outside on the deck. Turning around, Kirril gasped. Flickering orange light flooded the triangular window inset in the door.

“Fire!” Javor yelled. Jumping from his chair, he crossed the cabin in two strides and wrenched the door open. Bright flames blanketed the raised fore-deck

“Quick,” Konstantin shouted. “Put it out.”

Kirril’s men rushed outside after the bodyguard. Konstantin stepped out onto the deck behind them, shouting orders. A crossbow twanged from atop the stern cabin. The green globe lantern suspended above the three men exploded, showering them in oil. An orange ball of fire erupted as the oil touched the blaze, engulfing the men in flame. Screaming, the burning men staggered back and tumbled off the deck into the water.

Shielding his face from the smoke and heat, Kirril turned away. His eyes widened in horror as a man swung down and through the rear cabin window. Blood stained his wet, grimy clothes. His fierce eyes stared out from behind tangles of dripping hair. A slender dagger gleamed in one hand as he snatched the oar cap off the table with the other.