The Thieves’ Guild

Chapter Twenty-Five

The door cracked against hewn stone old as the city itself. Cael staggered through, letting the door shudder closed behind him. He reeled down the stairs into the noisy, close familiarity of The Dwarven Spring. Kharzog Hammerfell stepped from behind the bar and greeted him harshly at the foot of the stairs.

“Where in blue blazes have you been? It’s been weeks!” the old dwarf scolded.

“I’m in trouble,” Cael hurriedly gasped to his old friend.

“What kind of trouble?” the dwarf asked under his breath. The bar, he indicated with a nod, was lined with drunken, off-duty Knights of Neraka.

“That kind,” Cael said in a low voice.

“Reorx’s beard!” the dwarf swore. At the foot of the stairs stood an old wooden hat stand and coatrack. From this, the dwarf snatched a green cloak and swung it over the shoulders of his friend. Cael pulled the hood over his head to hide his features from prying eyes.

“What have you done now?” Kharzog growled in a low voice, then louder said so that any listeners might hear, “Welcome, friend. May I show you to a table?”

He pulled Cael through the crowd to a table near the fire. A band of minstrels strummed a lively air from a corner, bowing to the two companions as they passed.

When Cael was seated at a table in another far corner of the inn and his friend had pulled up a chair near him, the elf whispered from deep inside his hood, “A little matter of burglary.”

“Who?”

“Mistress Jenna.”

The dwarf slapped his forehead with open palm, reeling back in his chair. “Good heavens! Why not just pick the pocket of the Lord Knight himself! Or try steal the Founderstone?”

“It wasn’t my choice!” Cael replied.

“Whose, then? Gods! Who could be so ignorant?”

“ ’Twas the Guild’s decision.”

“I might have known. They were using you, I’ll warrant.”

“I am a member now.”

The dwarf tugged at his snowy beard and stared into the fire. Finally, he said, “So you probably need a way out of the city-and fast.”

“No, I need to get over to the Dark Horizon,” the elf answered.

“Oros uth Jakar’s ship?”

“Aye.”

“Why not leave for a time?”

“There are others to think of,” Cael said.

“I smell a woman.”

“Actually… two.”

“Wonders never cease… Reorx’s black boots, not Oros’s wife!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Put her out of your mind, son! Who is the other one?”

“A girl.”

“A girl?”

“Just a friend. She helped us. She helped me.” Cael’s head sank to the table.

“You are exhausted,” the dwarf said, his voice softening. “Hungry, too, I’ll warrant. Stay here. Keep your head down. Pretend you are drunk. That shouldn’t be hard-you’ve had some experience. I’ll bring you something from the kitchen.”

Kharzog hurried away, pushing a hasty path through the crowd and vanishing through the kitchen door.

Cael pulled the hood closer around his face. The warmth from the fire felt good, while its dancing red light cast soothing shadows against the green cloth of his hood. The minstrels finished a spring ring to a scattering of applause. Most put away their instruments and wandered off into the crowd for a break and a nip of food or drink. However, the harpist remained in her chair and began a soft, soothing melody, a trifle melancholy, like the winter songs of the elves. Cael felt the knots of tension in his back and shoulders loosen with the unwinding of her song. He clutched his staff to his breast, comforted by its hard, cool strength. A hearty aroma wafted from the direction of the kitchen, inciting a noisy grumble from his belly. He gaped and yawned.

He started, realizing he had fallen asleep. For how long he didn’t know.

Carefully he lifted the edge of his hood and peered out at the room. A contingent of hard-eyed Knights crowded the stairs, glaring around at the crowd, which had grown quiet, if not quite silent The harpist ended her tune in mid-strum. A minor chord hung in the air like the alarm call of some rare woodland bird.

At the head of the entranceway stood Sir Arach Jannon, his high narrow brow bearing a grisly cut from which still flowed a trickle of blood. As if he felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, Sir Arach wiped the blood away with his bandaged hand.

“We are looking for an elf. Some of you know him, I am sure. He claims to be the son of Tanis Half-Elven and goes by the name of Cael Ironstaff,” the Thorn Knight said loudly. Most of the tavern’s customers shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, while the drunken Knights at the bar stared about in bleary-eyed confusion.

The kitchen door burst open and Kharzog strode out. He approached the visitors and planted himself, with iron boots set side wide apart, before them.

“What do you intend here, good sirs, ruining my custom?” he growled.

“Step aside, Master Hammerfell,” Arach Jannon said. “This is a matter of law.”

Cael rose from his chair and dashed toward the back door. Kharzog spun, bellowing unaccustomedly. For the drawing of one breath, Cael wondered at the dwarf’s reaction. Then he discovered why.

He bowled into the waiting arms of a Knight of the Skull, the priestly order of the Knights of Neraka, who was guarding the back door. She was almost as surprised as he was and only managed to grasp the edges of his cloak before he spun free. His coppery hair flashed behind him, signaling his identity.

“That’s him! Grab him!” Sir Arach shouted from the bar. His Knights gripped their clubs and rushed the elf, knocking over tables and chairs, sending the tavern’s patrons sprawling and diving for cover. More Knights, many of them half drunk, poured from the curtained booths and alcoves, eager for a little fun. Cael leaped for the back door, grabbed the handle, jerked it open, and confronted an alley full of Knights. At the sight of him, they surged toward the door. He slammed it shut and turned.

A force like a wave struck him from behind, tossing him against the door, crushing the air from his lungs. He gasped in pain. Iron hands wrenched his aims behind his back, ripped the staff from his hands, then lifted his feet free from the ground. He struggled violently, kicking blindly. Harsh laughter answered his cries as they wrenched his arms in their sockets. Muscles tore, tendons creaked. He screamed in agony and ceased his resistance, knowing they would tear his arms from his body if he continued to struggle. He collapsed. Someone struck him with a mailed fist, and he tasted blood in his mouth even as his mind fought to remain conscious. The room swam.

Someone grabbed his chin and shook his head until he was awake. His eyes blinked open, and he stared about him. Sir Arach stood before him, while several other Knights crowded near. A pair held Kharzog Hammerfell by his beard and wrists, although he put up a decent struggle. Cael shook his head to clear his wits, but that only brought fresh pain, like steel rods being driven through his twisted neck.

A high-ranking Knight of the Skull stood near the Thorn Knight, a look of bafflement on his wine-red face. Sir Arach Jannon held Cael’s staff reverently, lust flaring like a green light in his eyes.

“I still don’t understand, m’lord,” the Skull Knight said as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I know of this fellow. He’s only an elf, and crippled at that. He looks harmless enough. And he carries a staff, which is ludicrous in this day and age.”

“This harmless elf, Sir Knight, slew five of our brother Knights of Neraka in single combat,” Sir Arach barked.

“With what? That staff?” the Skull Knight asked incredulously. “Against trained Knights. Respectfully, sir-”

“Not with a staff, you imbecile,” the Thorn Knight barked. “With this!” And so saying, he grabbed the staff by the thickest end, gripped the middle under the arm, and tried to pull the blade from its ironwood sheath. His face turned red with exertion. The sword refused to materialize The staff remained a staff.

Muffled laughter pattered across the room like morning rain. The Thorn Knight glared around, and the room grew silent again. He approached Cael and grabbed the elf by the throat.

“Tell me how it works,” he growled.

Cael spat blood in the Thorn Knight’s face.

Arach released his hold, then struck Cael with a clenched fist across the nose. Blood poured from the elf’s nostrils.

“Never again will you make me look like a fool!” the Thorn Knight hissed.

A dull thud just behind the right ear, a moment of blinding agony, and darkness closed over Cael’s eyes.

“Damn you all to black hell,” Kharzog roared, seeing his friend fall under the blows of the Knights. “Leave him be!” He thrashed his arms, trying to break the grip of the two Knights holding him. Sir Arach turned and eyed the dwarf with amusement.

“The dwarf is an accomplice. Arrest him,” he ordered.

“Arrest me?” Kharzog shrieked. “This is your justice? This is the justice of the Knights of Neraka?” Setting his teeth into a fierce grin, the dwarf planted his iron-shod boots wide apart and clutched the arms of those holding him. Slowly the two Knights’ feet left the floor. Growling like a bear, the dwarf turned and flung one into a nearby table. The other followed, crashing into his companion, and bringing howls of outrage from the patrons whose drinks were swept to the floor. Fighting erupted around the room, as years of pent-up frustration at the rulership of the Dark Knights were released. Contraband weapons appeared from nowhere, while those who had no weapons used chairs, bottles, crockery mugs, and other improvised weapons to fend off the swords and maces of the Knights, to strike blows many felt to be long overdue.

Kharzog sent a drunken Knight sprawling across the floor with one blow of his hammerlike fist. He ducked the clumsy swing of another, then stooped beside the first and dragged a hand axe from the Knight’s belt. He then looked around and spotted Sir Arach, who was carrying Cael out the back of the tavern. With a roar, he waded through the melee, bellowing the Thorn Knight’s name.

Sir Arach spun, his good hand outstretched with fingertips aglow. The old dwarf felt something strike him, an unseen force that slowed his steps. His arms felt as though they were weighted down with anchor chains. He could barely lift them to wield his axe. Sir Arach strode closer, knelt, and lifted a short sword from the grasp of a fallen patron.

Battling the spell that paralyzed him with all his dwarven spirit, tears streaming into his beard, Kharzog lifted his axe and aimed a clumsy blow at the Knight’s knee. Sir Arach easily parried the stroke, then sent the axe spinning from the dwarfs grasp. Kharzog’s jaws cracked as he ground his teeth in rage.

“Amazing,” the Thorn Knight shouted over the din of battle. His eyes showed genuine admiration of the dwarf’s courageous effort. “Given time, I think you might actually break free of my spell.”

“Of course, I cannot allow that to happen,” Sir Arach said with a grim smile as he slid the blade of his short sword between the dwarf’s ribs.