Cloak and Spider

Stealing Spoons

Thren Felhorn watched the merchant’s stall, his stomach rumbling as he imagined the food he might eat if the score went off as intended. His friend Grayson was already there, asking question after question of the merchant busy trying to sell his wares to a wealthy couple dressed in red silks and fox fur. At best Grayson earned himself a swat at his head, but Thren’s dark-skinned friend always ducked aside just before it connected. After one aggravated swipe, and a yell to get lost, Grayson turned toward him and winked before sidling back up to the stall.

That was the signal. Thren kept his head down, his hands in his pockets. Most importantly, he kept his eyes to the ground. Without eye contact, he would be invisible to the populace of the grand city of Mordeina, just one of a hundred orphan boys forced to beg, borrow, and steal for their daily bread. But today Thren planned on eating far better than stale, cracked bread that had gone unsold the day before.

“…the finest silver,” he heard the merchant say to the couple as he made exaggerated gestures as if to express his amazement at the quality of his own wares. Thren slid closer, using the couple as a screen for his movements. Head down, eyes low, using just the corners of his vision to guide his movements. When he was almost there, the merchant let out a cry, turning toward where Grayson had tried, and failed, to snag a knife from on display. The merchant, a bearded man with a large belly, let out a roar and swung a meaty fist. This time Grayson did not dodge in time, the fist connecting squarely with his face. Blood splattered down his chest, and he let out a cry as he stumbled to the ground.

“I didn’t do nothing!” Grayson cried.

With all eyes on Grayson for that split second, Thren brushed against the lady of the couple, his movements pulling out her dress the tiniest bit, giving him the screen he needed. Arms crossed over his chest, he walked on, not once looking at the merchant busy yelling for a guard. Slid into the folds of his ratty shirt, the metal cool on his skin, were a pair of silver spoons. It took all his control to continue normally, to not smile or show the slightest sign of life. Orphans weren’t supposed to know happiness. Happiness was suspicious.

When he reached one of the many exits of the long market street winding through the western half of the city, he dared let out a laugh. He’d made it. Grayson would easily elude whatever guards might come running, and then…

A hand latched on to his shoulder, spinning him about. Thren let out a cry, and he lashed out with his right hand, still holding the spoons. He expected a fat merchant, maybe a guard, but instead a blackened hand caught his own. The skin looked as if it’d been charred in a fire, and the many glittering rings on its fingers made it seem all the more ugly. Thren felt his heart freeze in his chest, felt his breath catch in his throat. The man’s hair was a dark umber, his long coat wrapping about his slender frame. After his hand, it was his ears that were most telling, the long ears of an elf with the tops brutally scarred to remove the slender upturned points. Held still by a grip impossibly strong, Thren stared up into the icy blue eyes of a man he knew only by legend.

“It’s dangerous to take what isn’t yours,” Muzien the Darkhand said, “especially when you take from one of my merchants.”

The grip on Thren’s hand tightened, and he released the spoons. The polished silver clattered on the ground, but Muzien did not look at them, nor move to pick them up. Instead he continued to stare, his hand brushing aside a few strands of umber hair that had fallen across his face. Thren kept his mouth shut, knowing nothing he could say would help him now. He was at the man’s mercy. Thren gambled that strength was what he needed to show now, not cowardice. Even with that strength, he struggled to meet Muzien’s gaze.

“You had help,” Muzien said. “Who was it? Tell me his name.”

Thren swallowed. Turning on Grayson would gain him nothing, he knew that from the coldness in Muzien’s eyes. So he lifted his head, clenched his jaw, and waited.

The reaction came more swiftly than he’d anticipated. Muzien flung him against one of the city’s winding walls, the uneven red brick stabbing into his back. Despite his attempt to brace himself, Thren let out a cry. Muzien towered above him, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a sword strapped to his side.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Nine,” Thren said, remaining on his rear.

“Good, so you can tell the truth if necessary. So let me try this one more time.” He slid his sword out of its sheath, just enough to let it catch the light from the midday sun. “Who helped you in your attempt?”

“I was alone,” Thren said, figuring that if he was to die he’d at least try to spare his friend. “Did it all on my own.”

Muzien stared at him, a long hard gaze that made Thren feel as if he were being dissected.

“Only nine,” he said, shaking his head. “And to think I had thought myself beyond surprises. Alric! Bring him over.”

From around the corner came another man with a similar coat to Muzien’s, only he was more heavyset, the muscularity of his frame more obvious. In his arms he lugged Grayson, who was still trying to squirm away.

“Cut it out already,” Alric said, dumping Grayson beside Thren. A quick glance showed Grayson’s nose was still bleeding a bit, but that was the only real injury he’d suffered from the merchant’s hit.

“They were waiting for us, I swear it,” Grayson said, springing to his feet. Thren rose as well. He wouldn’t die sitting down. Muzien let go of his blade and crossed his arms.

“I have need of servants,” he said. “Are you both orphans without family?”

The two glanced at each other.

“We are,” Thren said, purposefully leaving out any mention of Grayson’s sister. The last thing he wanted to do was drag her into their mess.

“Then you shall live with me, and serve the Sun Guild directly. Is that understood?”

“What if we refuse?” Grayson asked.

Muzien knelt down so they might see eye to eye.

“What makes you think you may refuse?” he asked.

Thren had seen Grayson stand up to the toughest of bullies and the meanest of guards, yet still his friend shrunk beneath that gaze. Grayson lowered his head and nodded to show he understood.

“Good,” Muzien said, spinning on his heels. “Alric, take them in and get them cleaned up. The ceremony’s almost here, and we have no time to waste.”

* * *

Thren and Grayson had served under Muzien for three days when he led them into the grand dining hall of his Sun Guild’s vast headquarters. There were over forty people seated along three rows of tables, with a vast variety of foods atop silver platters before them. Twenty more of the long rectangular tables were empty. Most of the men and women held cups, and Thren saw an opened keg in one corner. Along one side of the room were five thick stained-glass windows, each pane depicting the sun as it marched from dawn to dusk.. Multiple chandeliers hung overhead, dozens of candles in them burning bright. The size of it all left Thren with an uneasy feeling, as if he were overexposed. The dining hall could easily hold two hundred people, if not three, yet right then it felt so empty.

“There,” Muzien said, pointing to an empty corner. “I do not need you now, so go wait there until I come for you.”

The two boys nodded, having quickly learned that speaking was necessary only if they might misunderstand the order given to them. Thren led the way, and at the corner he slumped down and tried to relax. Overall his time with the Sun Guild had been one of fine food and far nicer clothing, yet he still felt exhausted from the variety of chores, all menial and tedious, that Muzien subjected them to. They were yet to eat their midday meal, too, and seeing the vast banquet spread out before the others left Thren in a foul mood.

“I bet we’ll be the ones stuck cleaning all this up,” Grayson said, unafraid of being heard due to the great din of celebration from the forty in attendance.

“I bet you’re right,” Thren muttered back.

At Muzien’s entrance many had stood and raised glasses in salute to their guildmaster. Muzien smiled back, showing a kindness neither of the orphans had seen directed their way. The elf took an offered glass, then walked to the center of the table. He lifted his glass and slowly turned so he might look upon all forty.

“Today is the start of a grand beginning,” he said. “With your aid I have built a kingdom. Merchants tithe to us for safety. The underworld fears to cross us, for our wrath is as sure as the rising sun. The priests turn blind eyes to our deeds, the king pretends we are but stories told by foolish men. Nine decades I have ruled, and for decades more I plan to rule from the throne I have fashioned out of silver and gold. Yet the world is fickle, and the paths we walk ever dangerous. Every king, no matter how great his reign, must have an heir. For that I have summoned you, so think well on the privilege such an invitation demands. Think well on the seriousness of the position, the cost of such a gift.”

He turned to where Alric stood by the door, and Alric pulled it open with a creak.

“The door is open,” Muzien said, and he drank. “The door will always be open.”

And with that he set down his glass, bowed to them all, and walked out of the room.

Awkward silence followed as the forty men and women looked to one another, unsure of what to do and what was expected of them.

“Should we go?” Grayson whispered to Thren as the confused chatter grew louder.

“He said he’d summon us,” Thren said, as if it were obvious. “So until then, we stay.”

And so they stayed.

* * *

Three hours later the first of them left.

Thren had spent the time wandering among the tables. The people assumed he was there to serve them, and he did nothing to disabuse them of that assumption. He fetched drinks from the keg, mostly, shifted plates of food from one table to another if asked, and stole bites whenever no one was watching. All the while he listened to the men and women talk, attaching names to the various faces. He was filling yet another mug from the keg when he heard the squeal of a chair scraping across the wood floor, followed by a bit of good-natured ribbing.

“You all know I’d be shit for a leader,” said the man, an overweight fellow Thren hadn’t caught the name of. “You can all stick around, settle this among yourselves. As for me, I need to piss more than I ever have in my life.”

His words were spoken in jest, but as he exited the open door a pall came over those remaining. Thren felt it was as real as the cup in his hand. He brought it back to its owner, a pretty woman with dark hair and brown eyes by the name of Jezelle.

“Why didn’t you fill it?” she asked as he set it down before her.

“Can’t,” Thren said.

“Can’t?”

He shrugged. “The keg is empty.”

“You hear that?” said a man beside Jezelle. “The keg’s empty! What in the fiery Abyss are we to drink now?”

“Give me a few minutes,” another shouted back at him. “I’ll give you a cup of warm yellow ale you’ll love.”

Still more joking, but Thren heard the worry in their voices. There was nothing left to drink but what remained in the people’s cups, and nowhere to relieve oneself unless one left the room. The day dragged on into evening, and several more stood up.

“Fuck it,” said a man, Jared.

“I’m coming with you,” said a woman at his side.

The two strode for the door, and they were quickly joined by five others. Those who remained quickly checked the cups of those who had left, the first hint of the hoarding to come.

“We should do something,” Thren said as he took a seat by Grayson in the corner, watching as several more made their way to the door.

“Not yet,” Grayson said, his eyes on the tables. “For now we wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“The groups to form.”

Two hours later the number had stabilized at twenty-five. There were no jokes now beyond a few forced laughs. Thren saw Grayson had been right about the groups. There were three major ones, all fairly equally divided, and they positioned themselves into a loose triangle amid the huge dining hall tables. Thren stayed in the corner with Grayson, watching, going out only once to retrieve a beige bowl made of plaster. Slowly he tapped it on the ground, methodically weakening one side.

He was so busy chipping away, watching the cracks spread, he almost didn’t catch the fight.

“I think we’ve all had enough of this farce,” said Crion, a middle-aged man with a long sword strapped to his belt. He commanded the largest of the three groups, and he had a dozen gold earrings in his left ear, signifying kills he’d made in the name of the Sun Guild.

“You’re welcome to leave,” said Jezelle, who sat next to the obvious leader of the second group, a muscular man with a shaved head named Terk.

Crion grinned at Jezelle, revealing a mouth full of black teeth.

“I won’t be the one leaving. You all will. We know what’s going on. The cowards have left, which leaves just us, and if hunger and thirst don’t drive us out, then that means it’ll be a blade.”

“Muzien will come back for us before then,” said Ulgrad, an older man with gray hair and a row of daggers around his waist. Thren had found it difficult to identify the clear leader of the third group, but Grayson insisted Ulgrad was the one.

“Are you so certain?” Crion asked. “Tell me, which of the stories of the Darkhand you grew up listening to told of his mercy, or his compassion?

“Yet those who kill fellow members of the guild hang at dawn,” Ulgrad argued. “We’ll solve this somehow, but it won’t be through something as stupid and inelegant as a slaughter.”

“You’re just a damn bully,” Jezelle shouted. “You won’t scare us out.”

Crion turned his ugly grin toward Jezelle.

“Say that again when you’re not draped over the arm of your muscle-bound fuck toy, Jezelle. I beg of you.”

Terk rose to his feet, and he drew a long blade off his back and held it before him.

“Insult her again,” Terk said, his deep voice rumbling. “I beg of you.”

“Enough!” Ulgrad shouted. “Put the blades away. For all we know Muzien is watching us this very moment. Who here wants to confront the Darkhand later as the one who caused the deaths of fellow Sun guildmembers? Who here thinks they’ll walk away alive with that blood on their hands?”

The tension was tight, and all three groups readied their weapons. They needed a spark, just a spark. Thren felt his heart skip a beat as he stood, slowly getting closer to the three long rows of tables, and the groups seated therein. It was a gamble, and if it failed he’d look like a fool-or worse, earn their wrath. But if he was right…

“He’s got a bow!” he shouted, pointing at Ulgrad’s group. “He’s gonna shoot!”

And before they could think on it, before their conscious minds could take over, Grayson hurled a spoon from behind Ulgrad’s group. It sailed over their heads, and that sign of movement, that flash of something hurtling through the air, spurred them into action. Crion led the way, tearing into Ulgrad’s group with the wild fury of a barbarian.

Terk let out a cry, and at first Thren thought he’d go barging in as well, but it seemed the man had a mind to go along with his muscles. His sword swung out wide, holding back the rest of his group. Instead he issued orders, sending three of his men off running, then guided the rest to the far wall. Thren brought his attention back to the fight, watching as Crion’s sword cut and slashed with impressive skill. They might have been even in numbers, but Ulgrad had attracted those without a desire to fight, and against the brutal rush they crumbled and died. Two threw down their weapons, and only those two survived.

“Out the door,” Crion screamed at them, blood splashed across his shirt. “Out, now!”

The two hurried to leave.

“And take this with you!”

Crion hurled Ulgrad’s head after them. It rolled along the ground, coming to a stop underneath one of the tables. The two men glared at it but said nothing, only exited the room. Thren and Grayson huddled in the corner, counting. Seventeen left now, not counting themselves.

Jezelle kissed her protector’s face, then winked at Crion.

“Hope you didn’t wear yourself out,” she said. The two groups were on opposite sides of the dining hall now, and it looked as if neither was ready to cross just yet.

“Still plenty of time,” Crion said.

“Indeed,” Terk said, and he gestured to the table directly before him. “But I do not think time is on your side.”

During the battle the runners from his group had rushed out, grabbing food from the tables away from the fight. Their pile was thrice the size of Crion’s. When Crion realized this, Terk let out a grin.

“Just try,” he said as several of his men tipped over nearby tables, forming a barricade beside the wall. The tables were long and flat, and they fitted together nicely to form a waist-high wall. Others began rifling bodies, taking weapons.

Crion’s chest rose and fell as he glanced over the growing fortification.

“Come on,” he said, glaring, leading the rest of his own group to begin a similar barricade.

Thren and Grayson whispered in the corner as outside the sun finished setting, leaving them with only the light of the candles, candles rapidly nearing the end of their life.

“What now?” asked Grayson.

“I’m not sure,” said Thren. “I was hoping all three would fight. Terk’s proving…formidable.”

“Should we try to join one of the groups?”

Thren shrugged. “Neither would have us.”

“Then what do we do?”

At that, Thren looked to his cracked bowl, then to the fortifications of tables. Behind them he could hear both sides preparing shifts for sleep.

“We could always leave,” he said.

Grayson looked to the open door, shook his head.

“My gut says leaving’s a bad idea. Muzien wants us to stay, so we stay.”

Thren tapped his bowl.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s tip the scales.”

* * *

It was well past midnight when the last of the candles sputtered, flickered for a moment, and then died. The only light remaining came from the stained-glass windows, the moonlight weak and dark as it filtered through them. In the shadows Thren crawled, bowl in hand. Before him were three overturned tables, creating a haphazard wall. Only a single man stayed on watch, and what little Thren could see of his face showed him to be very nervous.

Thren crawled along the wall opposite the windows, and as he pressed his body against one of the tables, he knew he would be all but invisible to the guard. Invisible would not be enough, though. Crawling over the overturned table and into their sleeping ground would risk too much movement, and worse, too much sound. The man standing before the middle overturned table had a dagger drawn, and he was turning from side to side, searching for the slightest sign of an attack from the opposing group.

And that’s when Grayson kicked hard against a table on the far side of the room.

“Shit,” Thren heard the guard mutter, spinning in that direction. Thren counted to two, then vaulted himself over the defense. Right on time, another loud wooden thud sounded as Grayson flung his weight against a table. Thren landed, and he froze when he did. He could barely see the faces of those sleeping along the ground, not enough to pick out their leader, but he didn’t need to. All he needed was the vague shapes, the outlines of where he could and could not step. Making sure his breaths were slow and even, he worked his way to the very center of the miniature fortification. The man on watch had his back to him, and in the ensuing silence kept his gaze outward, tense, waiting for just one more signal that the other group was advancing so he might wake his own.

In the very center Thren found him, just as he’d thought he would. Slowly he took the bowl, careful to hold it by the proper end. One side was still smooth, but the other…

The other he jammed upward into the soft flesh of Terk’s throat, the sharp broken ridges digging in deep. Blood poured into the bowl as Terk startled awake, his arms flailing, his legs kicking. Thren released the bowl and ran, nearly vaulting with each step. He didn’t care if he stepped on others this time, nor if they woke. All that mattered was keeping his movements long and fast so that no one might grab a hold of his leg or arm.

He heard cries, warning, accusations of betrayal and ambush as he made his way to the corner farthest from the windows.

“Did you get him?” Grayson asked, and his voice was like a ghost in the darkness.

“I think he’ll die,” Thren answered. “We’ll know come morning…”

* * *

Thren didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, for Grayson was shaking him awake.

“Get up,” he heard his friend saying. “It’ll start soon.”

He did so with his heart racing, and he berated himself for being so stupid. At least it seemed Grayson had watched over him, ensuring no one sneaked up on them while he slept in the darkness. As he squinted he saw the sun had just begun to rise, casting light into the room so all might see. Crion was eating with the rest of his band, finishing off the bulk of their food. They seemed in a jovial mood.

“Aren’t you going to have a bite, Terk?” Crion shouted out to the other group, which was huddled far closer together as it ate.

“Fuck off,” Jezelle shouted back.

This seemed to give Crion pause, and he put down the apple he held. His hand fell to his sword as he stepped through a small gap in their overturned table wall.

“Terk?” he asked. “Where are you, Terk?”

When the other man did not answer, Crion looked back to his own band.

“Draw your weapons,” he told them, and they did. Jezelle saw this from the other side, swore, and drew her own.

“We can still hold you off,” she said as those with her prepared for combat. Yet it sounded as if even she did not believe it, and Crion certainly didn’t.

“No, you can’t,” he said. “So who of you killed him? Did you think to take him out now, before he ended up winning? I’d say you got ahead of yourselves.”

“I said get back!” Jezelle screamed.

“No!” Crion roared. “You’re beaten now, and you know it. Terk’s the only reason I wasn’t eating my breakfast out of your skulls as a bowl, and now the fucker’s dead.”

Thren and Grayson kept their backs to the wall, watching as Crion’s band slowly descended on Jezelle’s. They already a numbers advantage, and without Terk, it was obvious no one could stand against Crion in a fight.

“I’m not sure this will work,” Grayson said, anticipating another battle.

“Just wait,” Thren said, hoping he was right.

When Jezelle’s group was fully surrounded, Crion smiled and pointed to the door.

“I’ll let all of you walk out of here right now,” he told them. “Just throw down your weapons, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

They looked to one another, and it was obvious to Thren that they were going to accept.

“Not worth it,” said one, and he tossed a dagger beyond their wall. Several others immediately followed, and the sound of metal clanged throughout the dining hall.

“Not yet,” Crion said, stepping in the way of the first who tried to flee. “She stays. The others of you can go.”

Jezelle’s face paled, but the others with her had no argument. They left her standing alone behind the tables, still holding her dagger. Once the seven men exited the open doorway, Crion approached with his sword drawn.

“Drop the dagger and I’ll make it quick,” he told her.

“You could just let me go,” she said.

“I could,” Crion said. “But I won’t. When I take over, you’ll only be a thorn in my side. Now drop it, or I’ll make sure your death lasts a very, very long time.”

After a moment of meeting Crion’s stare, she lifted her arm and let the dagger drop. Crion smiled.

“Good girl,” he said.

His sword lunged out, piercing the base of her throat, and then pulled back. She stood there, glaring even as she died, her legs giving out. Her forehead hit the table with a sickening crunch, leaving a splatter of reddish gore along its top edge.

Crion wiped his sword, sheathed it, and then turned to the rest, a giant grin on his face.

“We did it!” he said. “All of you will be well rewarded for years to come, I promise.”

Beside Thren, Grayson slumped against the wall.

“Crion won,” he said. “We need to either hide or run, because he’ll kill us next.”

“Not yet,” Thren whispered.

The eight other men didn’t seem to be sharing in Crion’s rejoicing. The smile on the middle-aged man’s face slowly faded away.

“Step out,” he said to them. “All of you. It’s over.”

“Who said it’s over?” one of them asked.

“I ain’t leaving,” said another.

Thren felt his heart begin to race as Crion slowly realized what was happening. The others backed away, none willing to attack him, but it was clear they were no longer on his side. With a sudden burst of movement, all nine made for the two remaining piles of food. Crion stabbed one of them through the back, yet when he managed to reach his table barely any food was left. He hovered over it, guarding it as three others split for various sections of wall. The same happened at the other table, men scooping up stale bread and browning fruit and seeking out a place of safety. Two more died in that skirmish, a small man with beady eyes and dark hair thrusting a dagger into the necks of the slowest two, a man and a woman who had scooped up more food than they should have, their full arms slowing their defense until it was too late.

“Six left,” Thren whispered when the chaos subsided. “It’s a whole new game.”

After so many leaving or dying that morning, it seemed the remaining six were content to stay in their respective sections of the room, each with a table or two to give protection. Thren and Grayson did their best to lie low, but with such smaller numbers, it was getting harder to go unnoticed.

“Hey,” said one of the men, the beady-eyed one named Nolan. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, as if unafraid of the others. He looked tired, as did all the rest. Once the rush of the earlier conflict had faded, and the morning stretched into day, they’d all sagged in their seats or against the wall.

Thren looked away, pretended not to notice Nolan was talking to him.

“Hey, you two little shits,” Nolan called.

Thren elbowed Grayson in the side, waking him up. The two had slept in shifts, alternating each hour, at least their best estimates of an hour. Grayson woke, immediately noticed Nolan glaring at them. Neither gave the dark-haired man an answer.

“Those two are still here?” Crion asked from his corner. He laughed as if it were the funniest thing. “Got balls, I’ll give you that, but I think it’s time you two got out before something bad happens.”

Neither moved. Nolan muttered a curse, got to his feet. He brandished a long dirk in his small pale fingers.

“You know,” he said, “I could use a bit of fun.”

Despite how alert he seemed, Thren knew his friend was still waking up, and he needed the attention on him instead. Besides, he was smaller, and faster.

“Go ask Crion for some fun,” Thren said. “I heard he likes your type. Skinny and dumb.”

When Nolan rushed him, he dove to the side, rolling underneath the legs of a table and bolting toward the middle of the room. The man chased as the others laughed and watched. Thren weaved his way about, scampering along the floor when he needed to, running along the tops of tables if necessary to get away. It didn’t matter to him how pathetic he looked, he just had to survive.

“Can’t kill a little child?” Thren heard someone yell, and Thren purposefully veered along the wall in the yeller’s direction. He scooped up a piece of shit from a spot several had used to relieve themselves and then spun, flinging the brown sludge behind him. He hit Nolan square in the chest, earning himself a colorful tirade of curses.

“Just fucking…stand…still!”

Nolan hurled his dirk. Thren dropped to his stomach, heard it thud into a table above him. Scrambling, leaving brown smeared handprints on the floor beneath him, he made his way back to Grayson, who had never moved from his spot. Nolan, as if realizing how vulnerable he was with his weapon thrown, quickly retrieved it, then made his way back toward his food. The eyes of the others were on him, and Thren knew how bad, how weak, it must have looked to fail to kill a nine-year-old boy.

Too bad, thought Thren.

“He almost got you twice,” Grayson said as Thren slumped against the wall beside him.

“Almost don’t count,” Thren said.

Grayson laughed, elbowed him in the side.

“Your turn. I got this.”

More than relieved, and with his head pounding from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, Thren closed his eyes and did his best to sleep.

Except he couldn’t. He felt Grayson tense up beside him, and he reopened his eyes to see Crion was on the hunt. The man was calmly walking about the dining hall, judging everyone’s reactions. Several backed away, sliding in the opposite direction. Only Nolan remained where he was, twirling his dirk in his left hand.

“Don’t test me,” Nolan said to Crion. “I’m in a pissed-off mood as it is.”

“You could always leave,” Crion said, walking around him as if Nolan were a mad dog on a leash. “As our brilliant leader said, the door is always open.”

Crion veered to the side, purposefully putting his back to Nolan as if daring him to throw his dirk. For a moment Thren thought he would, but then Nolan backed down. Instead Crion approached another man, this one heavyset and bearded. Thren struggled to remember his name, but then Crion spoke it aloud.

“You’ve always been a good friend, Jarvis,” Crion said to the bearded man. “So why do you stay so far away from me?”

Jarvis scratched at his rust-colored beard. In his other hand he held up a thick short sword.

“Been a good friend to you because it paid to be your good friend,” Jarvis said, his voice carrying a thick Kerran accent. “But not now, not anymore. We all started out equal in here, and one of us is walking out a king. And you know what, Crion? I sure as shit don’t want to see it be you that comes out on top.”

“You won’t see it,” Crion told him. “Because you’ll be dead first.”

Jarvis had been ready for the attack, Thren had no doubt about that. But being ready for it and being able to survive it were two very different things, as Jarvis found out. Crion took a step closer, then jammed his arm forward as if to thrust. Jarvis flung his short sword around to parry, but Crion was too fast. He sidestepped, pulling his sword back and out of the way of the parry. Jarvis’s sword continued without any steel for it to hit, and as it smacked against the rough wood floor it let out a loud thunk, the sound broken only by the scream Jarvis made when Crion’s sword thrust deep into his chest.

Crion twisted once, pulled the blade free, then glanced to the others.

“Fucking cowards,” he said, seeing not a one had dared make a move on him. “It’s only a matter of time.”

He sheathed his sword, stalked back toward his corner.

“Only five,” Thren whispered as he closed his eyes, leaning his weight against Grayson. “Now just five…”

When he woke an hour later to Grayson jabbing him in the side, he wished he could sleep longer. His stomach hurt, his head hurt worse, and he’d have begged on his hands and knees for a drink of water for his dry, sticky tongue. But he thought it best to put that aside when he heard his friend speak.

“Now four,” he said. “Nolan killed Uriah while he slept.”

“Why’d he sleep?” Thren asked, rubbing at his eyes.

“Don’t think he did all night,” Grayson said, shrugging. His brown eyes were locked on the far left wall, where Uriah’s body lay slumped, throat cut, blood lazily dripping down his neck and onto his pale-yellow shirt. The little food the man had stored up was now in Nolan’s pile, which was shrinking rapidly as he wolfed down what he had.

“Going to give yourself a stomachache,” said one of the remaining four, a thin man with a badly scarred face. Thren recognized him from before being recruited by Muzien: he was a soft-spoken man named Logan. Logan was one of a dozen fences throughout Mordeina, and whenever Thren stole something particularly expensive, and therefore hard to sell, it was to Logan he went. Didn’t matter if its previous owner’s blood was still wet upon the merchandise, Logan would buy it. He always seemed happy enough, but Thren had learned quickly from the other boys to stay away and reject any offers of a meal. Logan’s tastes ran young, and according to the whispers, it was rare for one of his boys to return to the streets afterward.

“Better from food than a sword in the gut,” Nolan said. “Isn’t that right, Uriah? Uriah! Oh, right, dead. I forgot.”

“Just shut up,” Crion said. “You aren’t as funny as you think.”

“And you’re not as good as you think,” Nolan said, lifting a cracked muffin into the air as a toast. “To your amazing skills, Crion, and to your soon ignoble death. May you as a corpse be more entertaining than you were in life.”

“You all laugh,” said the fourth man. He had long red hair, a scar that ran across the bridge of his nose, and hardly any teeth. His name was Phillip. “But you’ve missed the real joke. It ain’t us four that is going to win.”

“Then who will?” Crion asked, rubbing at his face, which had long dark circles beneath the eyes.

“Yes, please tell us,” Nolan said. “I hate not being in on a joke.”

In answer, Phillip pointed right at Thren and Grayson. Thren felt his insides tighten. The last thing he wanted was attention.

“Those two,” Phillip said. “They been hiding out the whole time, sleeping when we can’t, grabbing food we’ve left behind. They’ll outlast all of us, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Logan said. “Two kids outlast the four of us? The lack of drink is getting to you, my friend.”

Phillip laughed at the word friend.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But here we are, six of us if we include them, and how many before them are gone? Twenty? Thirty?”

All four were looking at the boys now. Thren slowly rose to his feet, feeling his throat constrict. Grayson stood likewise, and Thren could tell by the look on his face that his plan was simple: whichever way Thren fled, Grayson would flee the other.

“This is stupid,” Crion said, grabbing his sword and slipping around his wall of tables. “Nolan, they embarrassed you once, so do us both a favor and kill whoever slips around either side of me. It may sting going into the Abyss knowing one of you three will inherit the Sun Guild, but I sure as shit won’t let it be these two little snots.”

Thren took a breath, and he looked to either side. They were against the windows along the long wall, with Nolan directly across from them in the middle, and Logan to their right. Crion approached from their left, tapping his sword against his pant leg as he walked. The other two stepped closer, readying their own weapons. It seemed whatever good humor they’d just shown was gone, a tired resolve coming over them. Thren’s eyes kept bouncing among the three, trying to figure out whom he could slip by most easily.

“We’re only here because Muzien ordered us to stay,” Thren said, hoping maybe to stall them. “That’s all.”

“You want to live, you go run out that door,” Crion said, still advancing. “Otherwise stand still and die like a man. It’ll hurt less that way.”

“Run past him at the same time,” Grayson whispered. “He can’t get us both.”

It was the only plan Thren could think of with his exhausted mind. Convinced he was about to die, he sucked in a breath, watching for the moment when Crion moved to strike so he could dive out of the way and then flee.

He never had the chance. Nolan let out a gasp, jerked forward.

“Ah fuck,” he said as blood ran down his chest, a point of steel poking out between his ribs. He collapsed, revealing Phillip standing behind him with the bloodied blade. He stared at Crion, his face an emotionless mask. Crion froze at the display, then took a step back as both Logan and Phillip approached.

“I’m not one to share power,” Phillip said. “But for Logan, I think I’d be willing to try. A fortune split in half is still a fortune. Three ways, though?”

“Three ways is no good,” Logan said, holding high his own dirk. Thren watched them pass by before him, forgotten once more. He and Grayson had merely been a distraction to use against Crion and Nolan, he knew, and he was too tired to decide if he was flattered or annoyed that they’d ever been considered a threat, however momentarily.

Crion continued backing up, stopping only after he’d slipped through the gap between two of the tables of his meager fortification. Phillip and Logan stood side by side as they neared, weapons at the ready. Thren looked over, caught Grayson staring, and knew they had to act fast.

“Come on,” he said, elbowing his friend and pointing. “We don’t have much time!”

As Thren moved, he kept the three in the corner of his eye, cheering on Crion. If he could at least kill one of the other two, then there might still be a chance…

The fight began without a word spoken among them. Phillip took a step forward, putting him just within arm’s reach, and stabbed. He did it without breaking stride, with Logan still at his side. As Crion brought his sword up to block, Logan leaped over the table, attempting to clear its top. He misjudged the height, banging his shins on the side. As he toppled forward Crion hit once, twice against Phillip’s blade, forcing an opening, and then dove to the ground. He landed with his elbow slamming against Logan’s throat, all his weight driving down on it. After that he rolled, avoiding a desperate lunge by Phillip over the wall.

And then he was back on his feet, a wolfish grin on his dirty face. There was victory in his eyes, and no doubt Phillip saw it. The table still between them, they engaged once more, swords flashing, but Crion was the better. When his sword pierced Phillip’s throat, and the blade fell from the dying man’s hand, it sounded as if he almost tried to sigh.

After that, Crion walked back over to where Logan lay, still futilely gasping for air, and drove his sword into his side.

“About fucking time,” Crion said.

When he turned their way, Thren and Grayson had armed themselves from Nolan’s now abandoned stash. They held their slender knives before them, up and ready for the attack. Crion saw them and laughed.

“You two?” he asked, gesturing around the dining hall. There were bodies everywhere, the smell of them rank and coupled with the smell of piss and shit from so many forced to make do without anywhere to defecate. Tables were overturned, food lay smashed into the hard floor, and seeming to cover everything was the blood of the dead. The only clean place was before the exit to the room, and its open door. “Do you really think I’m scared of you two, after all this?”

“We’re not scared of you,” Grayson said. Thren’s heart pounded, but for the first time since everything had started, he felt in control of matters.

“And you don’t have to be afraid of us,” Thren said. “You just need to die.”

Crion approached them, weaving his way around the tables. Grayson and Thren shared a look, then stepped apart. When Crion closed in on Thren, Grayson drifted around to the side, putting himself behind the older man and out of his line of sight. Crion sensed the tactic, and he looked none too pleased.

“Think you’re going to surround me?” he asked. “I’ve killed dozens of men far faster and better than you.”

Thren didn’t waste his breath arguing. When Crion moved to attack him, instead of attempting to fight him, he only turned and fled as fast as his legs could carry him. He dove into a roll, kicking out of it to curl around one of the tables, and then ran to the far side of the room. Crion tried to chase, but he was bigger, older, and the obstacles were far more of an annoyance to him. Thren put his back to the wall, sweat running down his neck and his stomach sick, but he’d gained space on his attacker.

“Slippery devils, aren’t you?” Crion asked. He turned, saw Grayson shadowing him. “But you can’t run away from me forever.”

We’ll see about that, thought Thren.

This time Crion went after Grayson, whirling on his feet in an attempt to surprise him. But Grayson had spent the past few years surviving based on his ability to flee from angry merchants, and he knew how to move, how to roll underneath a bench, how to keep his head low and his feet moving regardless of how slick the ground was from spilled blood and food. Crion lost him, and he stood alone in the center of the dining hall, with Thren and Grayson each on the far side.

“Muzien!” Crion shouted, spinning in place. “I know you can see us! End this madness already! You know who your winner is.”

No answer.

Swearing, Crion turned back to Thren, paused. A grin spread across his face, revealing his ugly black teeth, and he went to one of the many weapon caches scattered about the room and picked up several knives.

“Come on then,” he said, readying one. “You might run fast, but how well can you dodge?”

Thren tensed as the gray-haired man took careful steps closer, one hand holding his sword, the other readying a knife to throw. Thren watched, watched, and then dove to his knees one way, only to immediately roll the other. The knife thudded against the wall beside him, the wooden handle cracking and breaking. Then he was running, and he heard Crion’s footsteps behind him, heard his heavy breathing. Relying on his instincts, he dove to the side at the first table, rolling underneath as yet another knife clacked against the ground.

To Grayson he ran, nearly throwing himself against the wall beside his friend. Spinning around, he dared let out a laugh.

“This isn’t a game!” Crion screamed, grabbing one of the knives.

“If it is,” Thren said, struggling to catch his breath, “I think we’re winning.”

Crion hurled the dagger at Grayson, who dodged left into Thren’s side. Luck was with him, for the throw had anticipated his movement, except to the right. Both sprinted away, Thren trailing behind Grayson. Crion swung his sword, missed, and Thren saw his opening. Instead of fleeing he dove straight at Crion, jamming upward with his slender dagger. The tip cut into Crion’s side, tearing flesh. Thren released the weapon so he could run, ducking underneath a frantic blow.

A smile on his face, Thren reached the other side of the dining hall. Grayson saw the smile, knew what it meant.

“You got him?” he asked.

Thren turned, nodded.

“I did,” he said.

Crion held his side, trying to stem the blood. The cut wasn’t too deep, but Thren knew there’d be no way for the man to bandage it. They wouldn’t give him the time. Crion released his hand, held it up bloody before them, and let out a primal cry. He charged them, but this time there were no games, no letting him get close so they might look for an opening. They stayed on the opposite side no matter where he went. Crion stumbled, he bumped into tables, he slipped once on a pool of spilled wine left by some nameless member of the Sun Guild. All the while his weakened body lost blood.

Thren felt ready to pass out himself, but he carried on. Just a little while longer, he told himself. Just a tiny bit more.

At last Crion slumped to the ground in the middle of the dining hall, sword limp in his right hand. Thren and Grayson stalked over to him, as if they were lions and he a wounded animal. Crion saw them coming, and he chuckled.

“Fuck you, Phillip,” he breathed.

When the boys were close he flung his sword at Grayson, but the throw was errant, the weapon not designed for such use. It clattered along the ground, leaving him helpless.

Thren leaped at him first, then pulled away when Crion tried to punch him in the face. Grayson jumped him from behind then, stabbing the man’s back repeatedly. As he screamed and tried to reach around to grab Grayson, Thren took the opening and dove in, stabbing the man’s throat as Crion screamed his denial. When he pulled the dagger free, blood poured across his hands from the gaping wound. Grayson jumped away, and together, each soaked in blood, they watched the man die.

“Last one,” Grayson said, and he looked ready to vomit.

“Not quite,” Thren said, and he met his friend’s eye. They each held a weapon, both stained with another man’s blood. Thren opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t know what to say. Grayson, however, was the better of them.

“No,” he said. “It is.”

He dropped his dagger.

Thren took a step closer, grip tightening on his own dagger. This was his chance, a way to ensure that Muzien would not be disappointed in him. But after all they’d done, all they had endured in both the streets of Mordeina and the dining hall of the Sun Guild…

Thren dropped his dagger.

“Enough!”

Together they turned around and fell to their knees as Muzien the Darkhand stepped into the room. His face was a calm mask, but his eyes seemed to shine.

“You were but a gamble and a dream,” he said as he approached. “Never did I believe you would succeed. But you did, you two did. The Sun Guild’s future has never been brighter than at this very moment.”

Thren felt something burning in his chest, and he wondered what it was. Pain? Hunger?

It felt good, though. It felt like worth. It felt like pride. It felt as if a legend had just given him meaning and purpose. When he glanced at Grayson, he saw that same understanding revealing itself as a giant grin on his dark-skinned friend’s face.

“Follow me,” Muzien said, taking them toward the exit. There seemed to be a bounce to his step, and an excitement to his voice. “You both will need to recover, and I’ll ensure you have food and drink ready for you in your rooms.”

They stepped out the door, and as they did Thren let out a gasp.

All around the door lay the bodies of dozens of men and women, all those who had left earlier. They had died the exact same way, their throats slit, no doubt denying them their dying screams. Thren looked to Muzien, and he felt growing in his addled brain an understanding of just what type of man their lives were now sworn to, of what kind of kingdom he was expected to build.

“Why?” he dared ask.

Muzien frowned at the bodies, as if he hadn’t noticed their presence until Thren asked about them.

“The door was a gift for the weak, nothing more. A man or woman unwilling to risk everything is someone I do not want in the ranks of my guild.”

He turned, knelt before the two so they might see eye to eye. His presence held Thren captive, the strength of his will a frightening portent of all to come.

“In the coming days, you will discover whatever limits your body had were merely lies,” he said. “In the coming months, I will subject you to what other men might call torture. In the coming years, you will learn to how to bring death to the invincible, how to wield a blade with the skill of a god. Every king must have his heirs, and I will have heirs worthy of my legend. You will know pain, you will know fear, and at times you will cry out for death to spare you.”

Muzien stood, beckoned them with his blackened hand.

“Never forget,” he told them, “that the door is always open. Never forget, my children, that in your time of suffering, you chose not to step through it.”