David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“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.”