Mountain of Daggers (5 page)

“‘I can save you, my son. I can cure the wound slowly killing you. I can show you the darkness as no mortal has ever seen it. But for a price…’”

The men hung on the speaker’s every word. Ahren pulled his attention away from the hypnotic sermon and scanned the rest of the room. Several boxes and bolts of fabric stood along one wall. Nine moldy cots clustered in the far corner near an unsanded table. Crumbs and cards littered the tabletop amidst globs of melted wax. He peered through the slats to find a crude altar directly beneath him. Gold jewelry glinted from the ebony velvet that covered the wide pedestal. A pitted, oblong rock lay in the middle of the altar before a mirror of polished obsidian. The drake egg! Ahren’s eyes widened. The ugly stone was no larger than a child’s head, yet in another year it would be the size of a man’s and then the creature inside would break free, fully grown.

“So I pledged myself to the darkness and took it into me,” the leader hailed. “And my wounds healed and my eyes could clearly see everything in the darkness around me. In that moment, it told me its secret. A secret I can spend a lifetime sharing with you.” He held out his hand and black flame erupted in his palm. The rayless fire danced in his grasp, consuming more of the room’s already faint light. Inky drops ran between his curled fingers and fell sizzling to the floor.

Ahren stared at the accursed flame, then scooted back over the cluttered shelf and moved to an unlit corner away from the cult. The narrow ladder-like steps that had once led up from the floor had long since collapsed, but a thick wooden pillar supported the loft and the ceiling above. He wrapped his arms around the sooty column, and slid silently down to the floor.

“But the darkness demands sacrifice.”

A sense of foreboding surrounded the squat altar. Ahren knelt before it, and opened his satchel. Careful to not make any noise, he removed the golden placard and slipped it beneath the shimmering velvet blanketing the shrine where he hoped no one would find it by accident.

Volker had told him that in the early years of the Tyenee, when they first infiltrated the great Rhomanic city of Porvov, a powerful gang already ruled the streets. The Tyenee, aware they couldn’t beat them in an all-out war, staged a heist, broke into the royal palace, and stole the Czar’s coronation scepter. The search to reclaim it had been fierce and dozens of men suspected of the crime died upon the rack. Finally, an anonymous note found its way into the czar’s hand, revealing that the scepter was stolen by the other gang, and told where to find it in their hideout. After the execution of every member of their rival, the Tyenee rose and took hold of the city’s underworld.

“Who among you is ready to make the eternal pledge?” Dolch asked.

“I,” the men intoned in unison.

Ahren caught his reflection in the black mirror as he reached for the egg. The sinister image stared back at him with a knowing look—and smiled. Terrified, Ahren snatched the heavy stone egg from the table and crawled quickly away; his fiendish doppelganger watching with amused glee from inside the obsidian mirror.

“Who among you would die for it?” Dolch’s voice filled the room.

“I,” the thieves replied.

The egg was too wide for his satchel, forcing Ahren to hold it tightly under one arm as he shimmied back up the support pillar. Sweat ran down his face, and coated his palms. His slick hand slipped on the soot-coated beam, but he squeezed tighter with his knees in order not to fall. The sword handle at his waist dug painfully into his thigh, and his heart labored with fear and exertion. He struggled over the loft’s edge and crawled up onto it.

Dolch’s sermon grew to a crescendo. “Then I ask you, my children—”

A weak board cracked under Ahren’s knee. Its loud pop silenced the room.

Dolch’s eyes narrowed. “Intruder,” he screamed, hurling the ebony fire in Ahren’s direction.

Ahren ducked. The fire struck the roof behind him. Penetrating cold erupted around him, engulfing the area in shadow. He fled toward the exit in the roof, frost coating his clothes and the creaking floor.

“Stop him,” Dolch shrieked.

His fingers numb, Ahren reached the hole and jumped through it as another explosion of stygian fire narrowly missed him. The light from the Old Kaisers had never felt so inviting. He scrambled up onto the roof, the egg still tucked under his arm, and rushed to the nearest edge. His foot plunged through the weak roof and he fell, face first. The egg flew from his arms, bounced off the shingles, and vanished over the edge. He ripped his foot free and jumped to his feet as Dolch leapt from the large hole.

Dolch gave him a wicked smile. The inky flames ignited in his hand again.

Ahren jerked a dagger from its sheath and hurled it. Dolch tossed the ball of black fire. The spell collided with Ahren’s blade in the air between the men and exploded in an icy blast that hurled Ahren from the rooftop. He fell to the street and hit the hard cobbles with a thud. Groaning, he looked up as Dolch leapt off the roof with a tiger’s grace. The demon-man laughed, and lifted another handful of his cursed fire. A blurred figure rose up behind him, knocking him to the ground. Volker, clutching the drake egg, kicked the fallen gang leader, and drew his knife. Dolch swept Volker’s legs, sending the brute to the ground and the knife skittering away. He flew up to his feet like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings and jet flames erupted from his fist as he turned to face Volker.

Forcing himself to his feet, Ahren pulled the small sword from his hip, and lunged with a scream of rage.

Dolch turned in surprise as the thick blade lashed down. The iron tip sliced through his face, ripping one of his eyes and sending a fan of blood across the alley. He staggered back, clutching his bleeding face.

The cries of the thieves bursting from the warehouse warned Ahren he was out of time. He hurled the sword at his wounded enemy. The ill-weighted weapon missed the man’s chest, but skewered his arm and knocked him back to the ground. Ahren reached for Volker, grabbed his friend’s hand, and pulled him up. Volker, still clutching the egg, raced with him through the streets away from the gang’s howls and curses.

They hurried through a maze-work of cluttered alleyways until they reached a populated square, then slowed to a casual stroll, huffing and coated in sweat, past the scant crowd and wary guards. They meandered along a wide street to the other side of the market, then ducked into the alleys and doubled back toward the safety of The Mermaid’s Tail.

Later that night, a street urchin dropped a letter in the slot outside the palace gate. The ‘Rat Hole’, as it was called, allowed any and all citizens to report injustices, or denounce criminals without fear. Before sunrise, a unit of soldiers stormed a burnt-out warehouse in the Harbor District. The thumb of Saint Theobold, as well as other stolen goods, was recovered and six thieves were arrested. The body of a seventh brigand was found outside with a cut throat, but their leader was nowhere to be found. Rumors spread that an unholy altar had been discovered inside their den.

Before dying on the gallows, some days later, one of the thieves declared, “Dolch will have his revenge.” How the convict had been able to speak so clearly, without a tongue and while swinging from the noose, would be debated and argued in taverns and barracks for years.

Meanwhile, Ahren and Volker enjoyed lounging in the comforts of Fritz’s inn, and the frequent comments that Ahren needed to prove himself became nothing more than a memory. He continued his tutelage, receiving less supervision from his seniors and assuming more responsibilities, yet every night he kept a burning lamp beside his bed to chase away the darkness.

The Reluctant Assassin

A loud
thunk
startled Ahren from his sleep. The walls hummed with echoes of shouts and laughter from the three-story bar room below. Even up in his fourth floor refuge, they invaded his domicile with the incessant sounds of drunken shouts and music. He had grown accustomed to noise, almost never noticing it, but the sound that woke him came from inside his room.

Drawing a short dagger hidden between his bed and the wall, he scanned the room for an intruder, but found no one. The lamp on the bedside table filled the humble flat with dim yellow light. Barefoot, he crossed the cold wood floor and pressed his ear to the door.

“Who’s there?” he asked loudly.

Nothing.

He unlocked the door, slid the bar from across it, opened it cautiously, and peered down the hall. It was empty, except for a man and one of the resident whores kissing and fondling each other in the far corner, oblivious to him. Ahren shrugged. He closed the door and slid the bar back in place.

Rubbing gritty sleep from his eyes, he turned to go back to bed, and stopped. A metal spike tip protruded from the shutter of his window. Sharp splinters of wood peeled back from the point that had struck it from the outside. The dark shutter slats were too tightly fitted to let him peek through. He blew out the lamp, immersing the room in darkness, and blindly unfastened the shutter latch.

With his back to the wall to prevent any more archers a clear shot, he pushed open the right shutter. The red glow cast from the burning basins atop the thirty-seven graven towers in and around the city of Lunnisburg spilled through the window, illuminating the room. Ahren waited several seconds, then quickly peered outside. The adjacent rooftops and streets below were empty. He braved sticking his head out to see a thick metal crossbow bolt jutting from the closed left shutter. Its steep angle indicated the shooter had been street-level, and a small cork capped the back end. Puzzled, Ahren wrestled the bolt free, removed the cork, and shook a tightly rolled parchment from the tube. It unfurled to become a small note.

Black Raven,

Ahren’s heart froze. Only a select few knew him by that name. His alias in the criminal world was his most guarded secret. He took a deep sigh to calm his trembling hands, then continued reading the letter.

Your reputation as a thief and an assassin are legendary. I have undertaken the difficulty to find you and have a job that requires your particular finesse and skill. In return you will be handsomely rewarded.

If you wish to accept, hang a red scarf outside your window tomorrow night. If not, hang a blue one, and I shall take my business elsewhere.

A Friend

Ahren read the letter several times. The flattery left out one small detail. Aside from the mounting bounty he had earned in Lunnisburg, the Vischkol family in Rhomanny still offered one thousand gold pieces to avenge the murder of their daughter, even after it had been revealed that he had been framed and the real killer, her husband, was captured. Anyone who had gone through enough trouble to discover his name and track him down would also have learned of the bounty.

Until he learned his blackmailer’s identity, he had no choice but to play along.

#

A
hren’s filthy dun cloak stank of manure and the sour beer he had poured over himself. He huddled in an alleyway beside a chipped wooden bowl containing thee brass coins, dressed in dingy rags, and clutching a half empty bottle. A pair of men sneered at him as they sauntered past. Ahren gazed up with pleading eyes. “Spare a coin, brother?” he begged in a dry voice.

One of them cursed at him as they walked away.

Ahren watched their retreating backs for a second, then glanced up at the shuttered fourth story windows across the street. Even in the faint red light cast by the torches that the Old Kaisers held high above the city, he could clearly see the crimson sash dangling from his window, fluttering in the breeze.

Horse hooves clomped down the lane toward him. Moments later, a black carriage rolled into view. The driver pulled back on the reins, stopping a pair of brown horses just below the weathered sign of The Mermaid’s Tail.

Ahren tried to look disinterested as he studied the simple ebony coach accented with glinting silver. A
thunk
echoed from the shuttered window above, the driver popped the reins and the carriage hurried away. Ahren leapt to his feet, knocking the bowl and coins aside, and raced after it down the narrow street. He sprinted to keep up, but the horses were too fast. The coach turned onto an adjoining lane and vanished from sight. Gasping, Ahren reached the intersection and looked down the empty street, but the carriage was nowhere to be seen. “Damn it.”

#

The coins, as well as the bowl, were already gone by the time he returned. Frustrated, Ahren walked back inside the busy tavern, and ordered a drink before heading up to his room. As before, a sharp-pointed bolt jutted through the back of his shutter. He opened the window and ripped it free. Inside, he found another note.

There is a ship called
The Pelikan
docked in the harbor. The captain’s name is Odell Tabstein. He wears a gold ring set with an emerald. Kill him, and take the ring. In his cabin you will find a letter addressed to a Mister Gren Schmied in Lichthafen. Wrap the ring and the unopened letter in a yellow cloth and drop them in a white empty barrel in Saint Faiga’s Square at noon three days hence. Then leave.

You will be paid once I receive them. Don’t disappoint me.

#

A cool salt breeze glided over the docks, flapping Ahren’s muted gray cloak as he slipped in through the ship’s aft window from a narrow ledge outside. The ship creaked against the heavy pier ropes as if the vessel were trying to escape, desperate to return to sea.

The stout odor of mildew and dirty clothes dominated the small cabin. Rolls of parchment cluttered a pair of shelves above a narrow desk along the side wall. An open bottle rested on a small table in the middle of the room and beyond it, a dun-colored hammock hung above a brass-bound sea chest.

Leaving the curtains open for light, Ahren crossed the dim, red-lit cabin and searched the shelves among the worn maps and charts. Nothing. He picked the simple desk lock, and lifted the lid to discover a clutter of paper and poorly carved baubles. He sifted carefully between trinkets and empty inkwells until his fingers located a neatly folded square parchment. Holding it up to the light, he read Gren Schmied’s name in a smooth flowing script.

Hard boot steps approached from the deck outside. Quickly, Ahren closed the lid and crouched behind the door as it swung open.

A stocky man with thinning blond hair staggered inside, accompanied by a pungent waft of cheap wine. He paused to stare at the open window, shook his head, then peeled off his shirt and stumbled toward his hammock.

Wood grated as Ahren dropped the bar across the closed door.

“Who the—” The captain whirled around.

The rasp of Ahren’s drawn dagger cut him off. “My name is unimportant. But my business is.” He gestured to an empty stool. “Sit.”

The captain kept his eyes affixed on Ahren’s blade as he slid onto the hard wooden seat.

“Captain Odell Tabstein,” Ahren said, “someone has gone through a lot of effort to have you killed.”

“So you’re here to kill me?” the captain growled.

Ahren shook his head. “I’ve come for information.”

“About what?”

“Do you have any enemies, captain?”

Odell squinted at the blade in Ahren’s hand. “None that I know.”

Ahren held up the square of folded parchment. “Someone wants your ring and this letter. Who is Gren Schmied?”

“So that’s what this is about,” Odel bellowed, his lips curling in anger.

“Who is he?”

“It’s time for you to leave,” Odel yanked a knife from his boot and stood. “Get out!” He squeezed the bone handle so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Whatever your business I don’t care, I just—”

Knocking the small table away, Odel lunged.

His blade sliced Ahren’s cloak as he sidestepped the attack. “Halt!”

The captain swiped the knife again, but Ahren ducked the swing and caught his arm. A huge fist smashed into Ahren’s face, knocking him back, and the combatants crashed to the floor. Wrestling over the captain’s blade, they rolled across the cabin, crashed into the wall, and Odel scrambled on top of Ahren. Odel lay across him and pushed his weight down onto the handle, inching it toward Ahren’s chest.

Ahren drove his knee hard into the man’s side. Odel gritted his teeth in pain but continued to press the blade closer. With another hard kick, Ahren knocked the captain off, sending him sprawling. Ahren got up and readied for another attack.

“Captain?” a voice shouted from outside.

“In here,” Odel called rolling to his feet. Clutching his knife, he rushed Ahren again.

Ahren grabbed the captain’s wrist and pushed the knife aside as their bodies collided, knocking them against the wall. A gasp squelched from the captain’s open mouth and he staggered back then stared down at Ahren’s dagger protruding from under his ribs.

Crimson blood burst from the wound and gushed down his body as he pulled the blade free.

With a crash, the door jolted against the locked bar.

“Captain!” someone shouted

The dagger fell from Odel’s limp fingers and he collapsed to the wooden floor, a trickle of blood dribbling from his lips.

“Idiot,” Ahren hissed, dropping to the man’s side.

Odel rolled his head and grinned as if seeing Ahren for the first time. Wood cracked as the door shook under its onslaught. Biting his lip in anger, Ahren pulled the golden ring from the captain’s bloody finger and crawled quickly out the open window. He grabbed the aft mooring line and pulled himself rapidly across the rope as the door inside burst open. Curses and furious echoed behind him as he reached the pier and fled.

#

Accordion and violin music filled Saint Faiga’s Square from a trio of street performers playing beside a stone well. Ahren studied the crowd hoping to see if anyone paid him any interest; maybe even his anonymous blackmailer. But he noticed nothing unusual. He wandered past a pack of urchins kicking a tired leather ball back and forth, and meandered through the square until he found a white barrel near the alley beside a butcher’s shop. He stopped at the barrel, gave a last furtive glance around, then dropped a yellow cloth inside as he bent over to adjust his boot.

The deed accomplished, Ahren straightened up and nonchalantly left the square. Killing Captain Tabstein had been an accident. But the man’s blood wasn’t on his hands; it was on the hands of whoever had sent him. The letter was sealed, and there was no way to open it without breaking the wax. Ahren had put it in the bundle with the ring, and a note telling his employer to keep his money and leave him alone.

Once he was no longer in sight of the barrel, Ahren circled back to an alley across the square, hid between a pair of crates, and watched.

One of the dirty boys left his game and ran over to the barrel. He leaned inside, pulled out the yellow bundle, then dashed off.

Leaping from the alley, Ahren raced across the square. The urchin darted down a side street. Squeezing past booths and carts Ahren hurried after him and turned onto a crowded street. Quickly, he scanned the area and spotted another young waif clutching the bundle running away. The boy turned down another street, and Ahren slipped through an alley to cut him off. He sprinted through the narrow passage, leaping over stacked baskets, and reached the street just ahead of the urchin.

The dirty child’s eyes widened as Ahren leapt in front of him. The waif stumbled back and hurled the yellow bundle into the street. An older boy ran out from the opposite side of the street, grabbed it, and dashed down the road. Ahren pushed his way through the crowd, trying to keep sight of the bright yellow. A lumbering wagon nearly ran Ahren down, momentarily blocking the lane, and forcing him to stop for it to pass. Once clear, he ran down the road to where he had last seen the boy. Cursing, he searched the streets. Nothing. The package was gone.

#

Two nights later, another hard
thunk
woke Ahren from an already restless sleep. An annoyingly familiar metal quarrel jutted through his shutter. He pulled it open just as the fading sound of horse hooves clomped away.

The bolt was heavier than the others. He opened it and poured five round sapphires into his hand. Shaking his head in frustration, he peered inside the tube, pulled out another bit of parchment, and unrolled it.

You have done well, Black Raven. There is another job I wish you to do for me. The
Goldener Aal
will make port in one week’s time. The captain carries a letter to a Miss Viveka Khamleir. Kill him, wrap the unopened letter in a yellow cloth as before, and put it in a white barrel beside the tower of Kaiser Imre III. Then leave.