Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella (5 page)

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I fear I erred in talking to Thren and put us all in danger. Please forgive me.”

When he said nothing she took a step forward and kissed his cheek.

“Very sorry,” she whispered.

Kyle cleared his throat, looked to his bodyguards.

“Thren’ll come back when it’s dark,” he said. “Either that, or try to strike now while there’s so many people milling about. We’ll hunker down here until morning, then find Bertram.”

“I could go now,” Green said. “Thren is but a young fool. We do not need two of us to protect you from him.”

“No,” Kyle said as Marion slipped from his arms and walked to the window. “No, I will not leave myself vulnerable for even a second.”

Marion undid the latch holding the windows shut and then pushed them open. A sudden gust of warm air blew against her, and she let out a sigh as it teased her hair.

“Much better,” she said.

She thought Kyle might protest, and she heard him turn at the sound of the opening window, but he was given no time. Her eyes drifted upward, and hanging from the roof not two rooms over, with a smile on his face, was Thren Felhorn.

“He’s here!” she screamed, suddenly flinging herself back from the window.

“Who? Where?” asked Kyle.

“On the roof!” Marion said, calming herself down so her next words came out only urgently instead of in an undignified screech.

“Then let us abandon hiding,” Brown said, drawing one of her daggers. “I’ll bring you his head, my master.”

“Wait!” Kyle cried, but she ignored him. The bodyguard put a foot on the windowsill, spun, and then leaped to the rooftop, grabbing hold and pulling herself beyond Marion’s line of sight. Now trembling, Marion clutched Kyle’s arm to her, pressing her body against his.

“He won’t kill us, will he?” she asked. “He just wants the Heart, he won’t kill us, he doesn’t need to kill us…”

At the door came a single solitary knock. The force of it made the hinges rattle.

“Lord Garland?” asked a deep voice. “That you in there, Kyle?”

Green put herself between the two of them and the door, and she drew her blades.

“Stay behind me,” she said. “I will keep you both safe.”

The door suddenly burst open, and Marion let out a soft gasp as she took a step backward. Standing there was an enormous man with dark skin and a shaved head. Several hoop earrings dangled from his ear. At his hips were buckled two swords.

“Stay…stay back,” Kyle said, trying not to sound terrified. “I’ll have no bloodshed here!”

The man tilted his head, and he smirked at the bodyguard, who remained crouched in a defensive stance, clearly expecting him to attack.

“Bloodshed?” asked the man. “Why, how rude. I’m not here for bloodshed.”

Kyle licked his lips.

“Then what are you here for?”

The man gestured past him, toward Marion.

“I just came here to say hello to my sister, that’s all.”

And then he was gone, as was Marion, already diving out the open window to the room, using the rope left for her by Thren to guide her to the ground. Once on her feet, she brushed off her dress, lifted the Heart of Ker up so Kyle could see it clearly, and then hid it in the ample cleavage her dress created. Smiling, she blew him a kiss.

Kyle started to curse, but he pulled back into the room with a cowardly yell as the body of Green fell mere inches from his head, crumpling dead at Marion’s feet.

Marion was gone long before the crowds could gather at the sight of the mangled corpse and wonder what was going on.

Thren sat in one of two wooden chairs in his meager apartment, legs crossed, the Heart of Ker raised high so the light from the window could set it to sparkling.

“Honestly thought it’d be tougher than that,” said Grayson, plopping into the chair opposite him. His friend grinned, and he reached out for the Heart. Thren tossed it over to him, let the dark-skinned man twirl the enormous ruby in his fingers.

“You underestimate our training,” Thren said, leaning his head on his fist.

“And my womanly persuasions,” said Marion, coming in from the other room. She’d washed her face clean of all the powders and pampering she’d received, and instead of a red dress she now wore a tightly fitted pair of pants and a cotton shirt.

“My dear,” Thren said, smiling at her, “I doubt I will ever underestimate
your
womanly persuasions.”

Marion kissed her brother on the cheek even as he delivered a subtle glare Thren’s way.

“I’ll snag us something to eat,” she said, heading to the door. “After such a score, I think all three of us deserve to celebrate.”

The door shut, and as it did, Grayson tossed back the ring.

“You know what happens next,” he said. “The Darkhand’s going to send us east. Our training’s over, and it’s time we prove our worth. I think he’s had his eye on Veldaren for a while now, truth be told.”

Thren held the ring up once more, then put it into his pocket.

“Honestly, it’s about time,” he said. “We’ll go to Veldaren, find ourselves a thief guild worthy of our talents. Won’t be too long before we make the city ours.”

Grayson laughed.

“Such confidence! Such gall! Is there ever a moment of doubt in your blond head?”

Thren looked to the door, thinking of Marion’s exit.

“Not often,” he said. “So, will your sister be coming with us to Veldaren?”

Grayson sensed his true line of thought, and he leaned forward in his chair.

“You’re my friend,” he said, “so I’ll give you this warning free. Marion’s off limits. If you take one more long look at my sister, touch her, kiss her, even get dirty ideas in your head just
thinking
about her, I will take my swords and shove them so far down your throat you’ll be shitting steel. Just so you know.”

Thren rose from his seat, and he lifted open palms to show his surrender.

“You’ve made your point,” he said as he headed to the door and opened it.

“Where are you going?” Grayson asked.

“None of your business,” Thren said, stepping out. Halfway through he paused, ducked his head back into the room. “Oh, and just so
you
know, I plan on marrying her one day.”

He shut the door behind him, breathed in the fresh morning air, and laughed as he ran down the street toward the market.

Thren Felhorn perched atop the stone gargoyle and waited for the signal from his guildmaster to start the killing. The night was dark, thick clouds spread across the sky blotting out the stars. Below him the street was quiet but for a lone wagon rattling toward them from afar, a few crates in the back covered with a dirty blanket. The driver looked tired, his shoulders slouched, but Thren knew it was an act. It was the man’s head that gave it away, the way he was always shifting his face from side to side in search of ambushers.

He wasn’t looking high enough.

“This is it,” Grayson muttered beside him, using the gargoyle’s spread wings to hide his large form. “Where’s the damn signal?”

“Jorry will want to know for certain before we act,” Thren said. “Now keep your voice down.”

Grayson grinned at him, all dark skin and white teeth.

“Why? Scared he’ll hear us? The moment he hears us is the moment he’s too close to get away.”

“Trust me, the Wolf Guild did not let them travel unguarded,” Thren said, watching the wagon’s approach. Despite his words, he saw no guards, no patrols from the rival guild. Something about it felt off. Their guildmaster, Jorry the Swift, had received word of the Wolf Guild’s attempting to smuggle across town a large supply of expensive wine it had previously stolen from Lord Leon Connington. Leon, gluttonous bastard that he was, had come down hard in search of his precious wine, and the Wolf Guild was reeling from the sudden assault of mercenaries.

“Where are the guards, then?” Grayson asked, mirroring Thren’s own worries. “Perhaps they can’t spare anyone to watch the wagon?”

“If they get that wine out of the city and shipped west, it’ll be worth a fortune in Mordan,” Thren whispered. “They can spare someone. The question is where? And why hasn’t Jorry sent us in to find out?”

Thren and Grayson perched on the rooftop of what had once been a temple to the priests of Karak, before they’d been chased out and the building set aflame. The stone walls remained strong and tall, a perfect vantage point for the long street below. Around the neck of the gargoyle was a rope, the length of it spooled beside Thren. Once Jorry confirmed the wagon was run by the Wolf Guild, they were to climb down and ambush it just as it passed beneath. Jorry and three others were to harass from the front, distracting the Wolves from their descent. Except the wagon was almost directly beneath them, and still Jorry had not stepped out from the side alley, signaling the start of the ambush.

“Jorry must think it’s a trap,” Thren said.

“As if it’d matter,” Grayson said, finally whispering given the wagon’s proximity. “He think we can’t handle a few Wolves?”

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.”