David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“No,” Grayson whispered. “No, no, and above all, fuck no.”

The various sewer pipes in the castle all led to one large drainage exit, an open chute that ran from the castle to the wall. That chute dumped the piss and shit into a sharply slanted hole halfway up the wall, allowing it to slide out of the city.

“We’ve dealt with worse,” Thren whispered as he removed his shoes and stuffed them into a pocket of his shirt. “Now get your shoes off. We need them clean if we’re to sneak through the castle without leaving a trail for all the world to see.”

Again Grayson shook his head.

“You’re like my brother,” he said, “but I’m not crawling through that. I’d rather be banished to the farthest corner of the world.”

“If you say so.”

Taking a deep breath, Thren climbed his way up the wall, finding easy handholds in the worn stone. Upon reaching the chute, he grabbed the side. The metal was sharp, and he winced, glad that it only dug into his skin instead of cutting it. The wince was also for the sludge his fingers dug into, and he was beyond thankful that it was dark, and he would see very little of what he was about to crawl through. Hoisting himself up, he slid into the chute once another patrol had passed, and that done, he put down elbow after elbow as he made his way up the castle’s asshole.

Claustrophobia set in only once, after about five minutes of worming his way through. The chute was slick, which prevented him from getting stuck, but the smell was overwhelming, and worse was how he had to keep his head low to it due to the cramped space. Slowly he breathed in and out, pushing away the maddening certainty in his head that the walls were closing in on him. As he did, he heard motion behind him, followed by a gagged whisper.

“Move it, Thren, or I’m pushing my way past. Not staying in here a second longer than I have to.”

Thren smiled, and the last of his claustrophobia passed. Elbow after elbow, until he reached the initial opening of the sewage chute. No doubt the room was actually dark, with only a little light filtering in through the crack beneath its door, but to Thren it was a shining, glorious paradise. Putting his bare feet on the cold stone, he wiped them as best he could before putting on his shoes. After that he stripped to his bare chest, hurling the rest of his outfit back into the sewage hole. Grayson did the same.

“Ready?” Thren asked, checking the lone short sword tightly strapped to his thigh. Thankfully the scabbard had protected the blade from the filth.

“You owe me forever,” Grayson said, taking a moment to gather himself, breathing heavily with his back to their entrance. “And yes, ready.”

Thren had learned everything he could about the layout of the castle from the few members of the Spider Guild who had been inside. From what he knew, the crown would be kept in the royal treasury, which was on the lowest floor. They themselves were on the second floor, reserved mostly for the servants’ quarters and to house the castle guard. Not the best place to be, but the night was deep, and the soldiers who were awake were busy manning the walls or protecting the king and queen’s bedchambers, as well as their son, Edwin.

Exiting the room, they hurried down the hall after a brief moment to confirm their location. To their right was a long corridor with many doors, which Thren guessed to be bedrooms. The other way led to the stairs, and down these they went. At the very bottom waited two soldiers, their backs to them. Thren motioned to the left, and Grayson nodded. Not a noise made by their steps, the two attacked together, simultaneously cutting the soldiers’ throats before they could let out a single cry. That done, they sheathed their blades, hooked a right, and rushed as fast as they could down the quiet hall.

“No hesitation,” Thren whispered as they neared a corner, around which he expected to find the treasury.

No stealth this time; instead they ran about with weapons drawn…only to find two soldiers laying facedown before an open door, twin pools of blood spreading beneath their necks. Stepping inside, Thren glanced around, and wasn’t surprised by what he saw.

“Well shit,” Grayson said, and Thren couldn’t help but laugh given how their night had gone.

“There’s a reason he’s called the Swift,” Thren said.

The crown was gone, and despite the many bars of gold around him, Thren was sure a few of those were gone as well. Jorry had beaten them there.

“What do we do now?” Grayson asked. “A few bars of gold will help ease the pain, at least make it worthwhile to suffer through that damn shithole again.”

Thren turned, put a dirty hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I knew he’d beat us,” he said. “I had to see for certain, just in case. But it looks like it’ll be the hard path after all.”

“The hard path?” asked Grayson.

At that, Thren only smiled.

* * *

After cleaning up, Thren and Grayson returned to the guildhouse, which was in the middle of a celebration even more raucous than the night before. In the center of them all stood Jorry, accepting their adulation with a grin on his face that spread from ear to ear. Atop his head was King Gregor’s crown, the inset gems glittering in the candlelight.

“So you return, and just in time!” Jorry cried upon their arrival.

Thren stepped closer to his guildmaster as Grayson remained by the door, a large sack slung over his shoulder.

“I see you have a crown,” Thren said, keeping his face passive.

“Not just a crown,” said Jorry. “ The crown. I am the Swift, Thren, the unstoppable Spider.”

The man continued, his speech clearly for the audience and not for Thren.

“I slipped past every soldier on patrol, some mere feet away when I sneaked behind their backs. In the halls of the castle I kept to every shadow. A servant was more likely to hear a cockroach’s fart than to hear my passing. The treasury was locked and barred, with several guards on watch. Subduing the guards was child’s play, a diversion here, a sound there, all to get near enough for my dagger to do its work. Even the lock, perhaps the finest-built in the entire nation, was but a plaything to me. And with the crown in hand, and a coiled rope on my back, I climbed one of the nearby towers. From its window I scaled down, all before a single alarm could be sounded.”

Jorry lifted the crown from his head, held it before him, and then set it down on a table to his left. The whole while Thren had stood with his arms crossed, merely waiting for the spiel to end.

“So,” said Jorry, finally bringing his attention back to Thren. “It’ll be such a shame that a pretty lass like Marion’ll have to leave us, but perhaps she’ll be smart enough to stay here instead of leaving with an arrogant prick like you. By the Abyss, even your son’s welcome to remain behind. I could always use a new servant, maybe teach him how to be an excellent thief, unlike his father.”

Jorry sneered, then gestured to Grayson.

“Well, let’s make this official. What did you get from your little jaunt into the castle? Did you take a few of the candleholders and silverware I left behind?”

Thren looked back to Grayson, nodded.

“Not quite,” he said.

The giant man tossed the bag toward Jorry. It hit the ground with a plop, and the loosely tied string along the top twisted open. Out from the bag rolled two heads, one male, one female. The room turned deathly quiet as all there recognized them for who they were.

The king and queen.

Thren walked over to the king’s head and picked it up by the hair. The sound of him drawing his blade was deafening in the silence. Slowly he cut across the king’s scalp, slicing until the head fell back to the ground. That done, Thren sheathed his sword, then walked over to the table on which Jorry had placed his own trophy.