Mountain of Daggers (17 page)

Ahren crept to the open window and peeked outside. The dark streets lay empty. He scanned the rooftops, hoping Katze might have come, but didn’t see her. Disappointed, he stuck his hand outside and fluttered his fingers. Marten slinked from the shadows and stopped just below the window.

Ahren heaved the first bag outside and lowered it as far as he could before letting it fall. The slender man caught it and set it on the ground beside him. Ahren dropped the other two sacks the same way before crawling out onto the sill and scaling the two floors to the street below.

Marten was already gone when he reached the bottom. Ahren quickly grabbed the remaining bag and hurried to the edge of the street where his partner was already loading their treasure into a barrel laying on a small cart.

“Everything go all right?” Marten glanced out over the streets behind them.

Ahren stooped to push his bag into the straw nest inside the barrel. “Flawless.” He set the lid over the top and began tying the barrel firmly down. “Let’s go.”

“There’s just one thing,” Marten said, stepping closer behind Ahren.

“What’s that?” Ahren asked, still cinching the knot.

A hard
thwack
came from behind him. He whirled around to find Marten standing just inches away, holding a long knife. Confusion glazed over the thief’s eyes.

“Marten, what are you doing?”

Another
thwack
sounded and the blade fell from the weaselish man’s hand and clattered on the cobblestones. He staggered and fell. Ahren caught him, then saw the two arrows jutting from Marten’s back.

Horrified, he looked up to see Katze crouched on a nearby rooftop, clutching her bow.
Why?
Marten’s knife lay at his feet.
They’d ordered my execution.

Ahren looked back up to Katze watching him from the rooftop. A soft wind pulled at her black curls and billowed her cloak. The relief on her face washed away to rage. She spun around and ran across the rooftops toward Griggs’ tavern.

He let Marten’s body fall, grabbed the wagon cart handles and ran. Her eyes said it all. She wanted blood. The rooftops didn’t lead straight there. He could beat her.

The wooden wheels squeaked and rumbled across the uneven stones as he raced through the empty back streets.
How could Skeroff do this? Did Griggs know? Could he have ordered it?
Anger welled, driving him faster. The cumbersome cart only slowed him. He left it in a narrow alley. He’d come for it later. If the Tyenee were truly after him, he’d need every bit of the money to keep Katze and him safe.

Sweat ran down his face as he reached the bar. Several young men stood by the door, enamored in their own drunken chatter. Ahren darted through the neighboring alley and headed to the rear entrance. Panting, he drew his dagger and clutched the leather grip as he threw open the door to Skeroff’s meeting room.

The young general sat slumped in his chair, his blonde locks spilled over his face. Crimson blood spread across his open doublet and silk shirt. A single arrow protruded from his heart.

“He ordered your death,” Katze said from beside the open doorway. “I heard him.” She turned to Ahren, tears creeping into her eyes. “He sent Marten to kill you.”

Ahren pulled her to his chest and held her tight. “You saved me.”

“I love you, Ahren,” she sobbed. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He hugged her and kissed her head. “Katze, did your father know about this?”

She didn’t answer.

“Katze, did Griggs know?”

The door to the barroom opened and Griggs walked in, holding a bottle and three tankards. “Saint Vishtin,” he breathed, staring at Skeroff’s body.

Ahren pulled Katze back, and squeezed the dagger still in his hand.

“Someone killed him?” Griggs said. “Thank Arieth you two are all right. Did you see who it was?”

“No,” Ahren cautiously replied.

Griggs sighed and set the cups down on the table. “It must have been Marten. I figured that bastard might try something after Clauser’s death. The Tyenee will expect vengeance, of course.”

Katze stepped around Ahren and closed the still open door. “Marten is dead, Father. I shot him as he tried to kill Ahren.”

“Oh my,” Griggs replied with mocking surprise. He uncorked the bottle and poured a heavy dose of Rhomanic vodka into the tankards. “Are you hurt, my boy?”

Ahren shook his head. “I’m fine.” He watched as Katze set her bow aside and took a cup from her father’s extended hand.

“It’s a pity.” Griggs plopped into one of the wooden chairs and eyed the corpse. “We got along so well. Skeroff’s final letter to Porvov was a request to give me my own city. Me, a general.” He raised his tankard in salute to the dead man slouched across from him. He took a long drink then stopped. “Ahren, did you get the money from Vizeil’s?”

“It’s a few blocks back. I left it…when I heard what happened.”

“Then bring it here. I’ll send part of it, along with Skeroff’s letter to Porvov on tomorrow’s ship. I suppose I’ll wait until the next one to tell them about his assassination. Might make the Lords of the Tyenee suspicious if they received such news on the same day.”

“What are you going to tell them?” Ahren asked.

“The truth of course.” Griggs chuckled. “The curse of Lichthafen has taken yet another general. Katze, my wonderful daughter, avenged Skeroff’s murder. What else is there?”

A cool smile crept along Ahren’s face. “Nothing. With luck, the Tyenee will assign you here. Since no one else seems to want the job.”

Griggs took another drink. “I’m counting on it.”

Shadows beneath the City

Ahren braced himself inside the coffin-like box.

“Saint Vishtin, this thing is heavy,” a guard grunted, carrying one end of the long, brass-bound crate.

“Put it over there,” his deep-voiced partner said.

The men carried it several feet before setting it down with a careless thud. Listening to the two men shuffle back and forth, Ahren remained still, suppressing his urge to peek outside. Katze never ceased to laugh that the Black Raven, the greatest thief in Delakurn, didn’t like the dark. He had told her the story of Dolch, the thief master with the powers of demonic darkness whom he had crossed years before, but Katze had waved it off as silly paranoia. Reluctantly Ahren succumbed to her pleas to extinguish the lamp he burned beside their bed at night.

Muted thunder echoed outside.

“Damn it,” one of the guards growled as they slid another crate on top of Ahren’s.

“Hurry up and get the rest before it starts raining.”

Ahren’s pulse quickened as the men worked. The hair on his legs tingled as if the blackness was slithering along him, smothering him. A thud came from outside as another crate was unloaded followed by several smaller boxes.

“That’s it. Let’s go.” The heavy warehouse door groaned shut and the men’s wagon squeaked away.

Ahren slid a latch beside his head and peered out a tiny hole. A wooden box rested inches beside his, preventing him from opening the side door to his crate. Turning over, he checked the peephole on the other side and found a support pillar standing beside him. There was no way he could open the door with enough room to escape. He rolled onto his sweating palms and peeked out the hole at his head to find it clear. Holding the leather strap so the door wouldn’t fall open, he unlatched the small door and lowered it quietly to the floor.

Lightning erupted outside through the narrow windows, filling the huge room with fleeting light. Shadows flickered along rows of crates and stacked barrels. A loud crash of thunder shook stone walls.

He peered around to ensure he was alone, and then slid from the confining box that had held him for six dreadful hours. Stretching his legs and back, Ahren surveyed the massive room. No thief in over two centuries had successfully entered the Royal Warehouses. Carved, emotionless faces stared down at him from the tops of the stone columns, cast orange from torches beside the main door. Wavy, leaded glass sealed the windows along the upper walls. Nobles and wealthy merchants paid too high a price for housing their goods only to have them spoiled by the elements.

Soft taps drummed the ceiling above as rain began to fall.

Squinting in the dim light, Ahren walked the aisles between stacks of crates, and bolts of fabric. He wished he could carry one of the burning torches, but the moving light in the windows could alert one of the guards along the palisade outside. Dark shadows seemed to move and flood around him as he searched. Another flash of lightning burst, sending the shadows scurrying away. Gold glinted on the second floor loft. Ahren made his way to a steep stairway and hurried to the top.

Dim light, cast through the narrow arched windows circling the second floor, made it much easier to see. Pulses flashed through the cloudy skies outside, illuminating the other warehouses crowded within the fortified walls.

A small gilded chest rested atop a stack of large polished trunks. Lifting the heavy box, Ahren set it on the floor and removed the tools from his pouch. He slipped the wire picks into the gold-trimmed lock and worked. The closing shadows crept nearer as if curious. The growing patter of rain on the roof nearly drowned out the click as the lock opened.

Carefully, Ahren opened both sides of the rounded lid. A black leather bag, stitched with gold thread rested inside. Its contents softly clacked as he lifted it out. Squeezing the soft calfskin, he felt six distinct round lumps like acorns. The buyer said there were to be five. Ahren untied the golden cord holding the bag shut and slowly pulled it open. A bright beam of light peeked out the tiny opening. Quickly, he drew it closed. The gems were definitely inside. But he couldn’t open the bag in view of the windows. With a smile, Ahren drew out a long raven’s quill from his pouch, dropped it into the empty chest, and relocked it before returning the box atop the trunks.

A deafening boom of thunder rattled the window panes as Ahren slinked back down the stairs. Wind whistled outside as the rain grew harder. Clutching the leather bag, he crawled back into the crate and pulled the trapdoor shut. The unsettling darkness immediately closed in; Ahren opened the leather pouch.

Iridescent rays of light burst from the pouch, flooding the wooden box, scattering the shadows. Ahren reached inside the soft leather and drew out a faceted gemstone. Light, equivalent to a single candle, glowed within the crystal’s walls, bursting from each of its many faces like a prism in the sun. Squinting, he peered into the bag to see five more brilliant gems resting within the black velvet lining.

The extra plamya stone was an unexpected surprise. A burglar could find many uses for a light without flame. It would make a fine gift for Katze.

Ahren dropped the gem back into the bag and cinched it before opening the crate. He knelt beside one of the other boxes from the shipment he arrived in, and unlocked it. The gray uniform of a Lichthafen guard lay tightly folded inside. Bright bursts of lightning erupted outside as Ahren stripped off his clothes and dressed in the cold, heavy chain mail and hard boots. He cinched a sword belt around his waist, then stuffed his clothes into the box and locked it.

Pulling the heavy guard’s helmet over his head, he headed back upstairs.  The hard boots clonked across the wooden floor as he approached the back window. He peered through the streaked, wavy glass to see dark rooftops silhouetted behind the perimeter wall. A single guard stood huddled out of the rain, beneath one of the tower overhangs. The grounds below appeared empty of patrols. Ahren waited until the guard turned his attention out toward the city, then opened and closed the leather bag of plamya stones. Somewhere on the seemingly empty rooftops Katze would have seen his signal.

He slipped the bag beneath his dingy tabard and headed downstairs. One of the flickering torches waned, then burnt out, sending up wisps of gray smoke. Shadows encroached inward, patiently anticipating the other flame’s impending departure. The patter of rain on the roof came in waves with the wind.

Ahren waited.

Weak blue flames clung to the dying second torch as a bell outside tolled three times in the yard. Ahren extinguished the light, then cracked open the warehouse door. The grounds were mostly empty. A pair of drenched soldiers hurried past, toward the front gate for the shift change. Ahren took a breath, then slipped outside.

Cold rain pelted his face. A cascade of water fell beside him from the slated roof, splattering off the dark cobblestones. Stepping beneath the pouring water, Ahren drenched himself, giving the appearance that he too had been standing in the rain.

Casually, he strolled between the towering warehouses and silos, slowly making his way toward the front gate. He crossed the open courtyard past a stone well when he noticed a group of fresh soldiers standing beneath the covered awning before the gate. An officer in a trimmed and embroidered cloak nailed a poster to the wall.

“Keep your eye out,” he said. “He’s here somewhere.”

Squinting, Ahren could see his own face sketched on the tan parchment, ‘WANTED: The Black Raven’ boldly lettered above it. Lowering his face, Ahren feigned scratching his eyebrow as he turned and headed back.

The weight of paranoia settled in his chest.
Who had tipped the guards? How did they even know I was here?
Only the buyer, Katze, and Griggs, her father and Thief King, knew where he was. None of them would have betrayed him. He took a long breath to calm himself, then nonchalantly strolled toward the outer wall.

“Hey you,” a graying soldier said. “There’s a thief about. Keep on the lookout.”

Ahren nodded, and then hurried up the stone steps along the outer wall. The strong wind blew harder as he reached the top. Lightning cracked the sky, briefly illuminating the rooftops and stormy sea outside the city. Keeping his head low, as if to shield it from rain, he followed the narrow walkway around to the rear side.

The sentry standing below the tower overhang left his position as Ahren approached. “Have fun,” he chuckled, mistaking Ahren for his replacement.

Ahren smiled as he passed.

“Halt!” someone yelled from the courtyard.

Ahren pretended not to hear.

“I said, halt!”

Ahren stopped beside a spot where the roof of an outside building leaned out over the neighboring street, just a few feet from the wall. He turned to see the officer and a trio of soldiers standing in the courtyard glaring up at him. The freshly relieved sentry stood not fifteen feet away with a confused expression.

“Who are you?” the officer asked.

“Fritz,” Ahren replied.

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Stay right there.” His hand moved to his sword as he marched toward the wall’s steps. Two other soldiers hurried to the stairs on the wall behind him. The guard on the wall reached for his sword.

Ahren raised his hand high above his head in a tight fist.

The sentry stepped closer. “I don’t know you.”

Ahren opened and closed his fist three times.

An arrow flew from the darkened rooftops and pierced the guard's arm. The sword fell from his hand as he dropped to the stones with a cry.

“Archer!” someone shouted.

Wheeling around, Ahren ran and leaped across the chasm to the nearby rooftop. The heavy mail shirt pulled him down, but he managed to catch the edge and roll onto the wet shingles. Guards screamed in alarm as he scrambled to his feet and ran. Arrows whistled past, covering Ahren’s retreat.

Thunder boomed as Ahren jumped to a neighboring rooftop. His hard boots slid on the slick incline, sending him over the edge. He grabbed hold of the wooden eaves and caught himself before he fell to the cobblestones three stories below.

“There he is!” a guard cried.

Ahren pulled himself up and swung his leg onto the roof. He turned to see several soldiers leap from the wall onto the building behind him.
Why did Katze stop shooting?

Rolling to his feet, Ahren ran as the soldiers gave chase. He raced past chimneys and scrambled up onto a higher building, desperate to reach her. The warehouse alarm bells had alerted the city guards, who scurried through the streets below trying to find him. Ahren jumped to a flat rooftop and froze.

Katze stood on the opposite end, her eyes wide in terror. Her bow lay at her feet. Black strands of wet hair clung to her face. A shadow moved behind her and a wavy dark blade formed at Katze’s neck.

A pale man with jet hair emerged from the darkness. A long scar ran down his face across a milky eyeball; the remnants from the last time they had met. “Good to see you again, Black Raven,” Dolch sneered.

“Ah…Ahren,” Katze whimpered.

“Let her go,” Ahren growled.

An amused smile curled across Dolch’s lips. He jerked the blade and blood burst from Katze’s throat.

Screaming, Ahren ripped his sword from its sheath and charged as Katze’s body fell. Black flames erupted in Dolch’s hand. He hurled the fiery ball across the rooftop.

Ahren sprang to the side. The demonic flames hit a chimney behind him and crackling ice spread over the wet bricks. He jumped and rolled back just as another ball of black fire hit where he had been. Squeezing the sword handle, Ahren lunged.

An echoey laugh escaped the demon-man’s lips. He leaped back onto the low wall surrounding the roof, and then jumped over the side.

Ahren dropped to his knee and lifted Katze’s crumpled body. Her dark eyes stared dreamily up at him, and then faded. Running his fingers across her soft face, he brushed back her black hair and closed her eyes. She lay still, as though calmly sleeping in his arms. Pink smears stained the colorless skin around the deep wound. Streams of diluted blood coursed along the wet rooftop and funneled out the drain to the streets below. “Katze,” he wept, pulling her close. Tears ran down his rain-spattered face. He squeezed her tight. “I’m sorry.”

“There he is!” someone shouted.

Glancing up, Ahren spied a pair of soldiers racing from the neighboring rooftop. Sadness melted into rage. Heat poured though his veins. He laid her body at his feet and stood.

“He’s killed someone,” one of them cried.

“Halt!”

Ignoring his pursuers, Ahren peered over the wall which Dolch had jumped. Lightning erupted above. Four stories below, the demon-man stood in a narrow alleyway looking up at him.

“Here I am, Black Raven,” he laughed. “Come on.”

Ahren jumped to the neighboring building and slid down the steep rooftop.

“He’s getting away,” the soldier shouted. “He’s going down to the street!”

Ahren dropped onto a small balcony and swung over the side to the railing of the floor below. Clutching the edge, he dropped to the filthy alley floor. He charged along the passage back to where he’d last seen his foe standing.

Turning a corner, he ducked as another ball of cursed fire flew past him. Black flames licked up the wall of a wooden shop, chewing into the wet timbers coating them in crackling ice. Undaunted, Ahren clutched his sword and moved into the alley. With an evil smile, Dolch reached down and tore a square iron sewer grate from the ground.