David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“The king’s crown,” Thren said, dropping the piece of hair and flesh next to it. Slowly he turned, addressing all there.

“A crown of gold, or a crown of flesh. Which will you all choose? Do you want petty baubles, or do you want to make kingdoms tremble?”

His rotation complete, he fixed his gaze on Jorry, who looked ready to explode with rage.

“You are an excellent thief,” Thren told him. “But I am the true master here. Step down and serve me. There is much good you can still do for the Spider Guild.”

Jorry shook his head.

“You’re a liar and a cheat,” he said.

Thren smiled.

“Who better to rule a guild of thieves?”

In a single smooth motion he stepped forward, drew out his sword, and plunged it into Jorry’s belly. As the man doubled over, Thren yanked free his blade, twirled, and then decapitated his former guildmaster. The body collapsed amid a cacophony of shouts, accusations, and questions. Putting his back to a wall, Thren stared at them, he on one side of the building, Grayson blocking the door on the other.

“The Spider Guild is mine,” Thren said to them. “You may leave, or you may stay. For those of you who are loyal, to every one of you, I promise a golden crown.”

To each one he looked, unflinching, letting them see the coldness in his eyes.

“And if you would challenge me, if you would deny my rule, then step forward now. Speak your name, show your face.”

He gestured to the bloody mass on the table.

“To you,” he said, “I also promise a crown.”

And then he sheathed his sword, crossed his arms, and waited. The men looked to one another, and then a man grabbed the nearest drink, despite its not being his, and lifted it into the air.

“To our new guildmaster!” he cried, just the first of many. “Slayer of kings, and master of Spiders!”

Slayer of kings , thought Thren, and seeing Grayson laughing by the door, he smiled. The guild was his now, to shape and mold into something far greater than it already was. Muzien had sent them east to form a reputation, to prove all their training and education had been worthwhile.

Slayer of kings.

It was a good start.

For once Thren wished he’d left the wealthy Maynard Gemcroft alone instead of ambushing the man’s latest shipment of minted coins from his mines in Tyneham. Thren’s task that night would have been far easier, and its reward was worth far more than any fortune.

“Coming with?” Thren asked Grayson as he strapped his swords to his side.

“I can’t leave,” Grayson said. “You know that. I have to be here, just in case.”

Thren nodded.

“I understand.”

With that he crept open the door to the meager home they hid within, ensured no soldiers lurked nearby, and then dashed out. As fast as his legs could carry him, Thren ran down the road, his gray cloak billowing behind him. He thought to take it off, decided against it. If he was without the cloak, members of other guilds might think him a potential target. With it, though…with it he was leader of the Spider Guild, and only a fool would dare draw a blade against him.

Maynard’s mercenaries, on the other hand, were quite foolish.

“Down here!” cried a small squad, rounding the corner behind him before Thren realized they were there. “On Cale, running on Cale!”

Shit , thought Thren as he dove to the side, avoiding a hastily shot arrow. Getting off Cale Road was first priority, second being to escape the enclosing net of armored men that was converging on him. Never before had any member of the wealthy Trifect mustered so many mercenaries to hunt for him. His score must have bothered Maynard more than Thren had expected. Shallow compensation.

He hooked a right at the first alley he found, but instead of running toward its end he jumped left, grabbed a windowsill on the second floor, and used it to haul himself up to the roof. There he rolled onto his back, catching his breath as the soldiers ran on without realizing where he’d gone. Sharp pieces of rock bit into the back of his head and neck, and he brushed the gravel from beneath him.

No time , thought Thren. No time for any of this, gods damn it!

Back on his feet-despite hearing soldiers nearby calling out to the other patrols-legs pumping, heart pounding in his chest. He leaped from building to building, hardly pausing to see if any below would notice. Taking as straight a line as he could, he made his way toward his destination: the temple to Ashhur. He could see it in the distance, a white marble structure lit with thick torches along the front. There was a wide expanse before the stairs, which worried Thren immensely.

That worry was confirmed when he stopped at the edge of a roof, crouching down to peer in each direction. The mercenaries, at least a hundred now by his count, were systematically spreading out in hopes of spotting him again. Along the road between him and the temple walked one group, moving far too slowly for Thren’s taste. The temple was right there, taunting him, but to cross meant being spotted.

So be it. He hung down from the rooftop, then released. When he hit the ground he rolled to absorb the blow, then came up with his weapons drawn. He’d not wait for them to pass, not given what was at stake, so instead he rushed the three head on, with but the rustle of his cloak to give them warning. They carried torches, and the light blinded them to the darkness beyond, and it was from that darkness he rushed.

One short sword took out the closest man, piercing through the gap between his helmet and shoulder pauldron. His second struck the torch out of the frontmost mercenary’s hand. The sudden shift in light was all the advantage he needed, coupled with the surprise. With unmatched ferocity he lunged at the remaining two, stabbing another through the stomach. The man started to let out a scream, but Thren sliced out his throat before he could. The third did yell for aid, but couldn’t get his voice to carry, for he was too busy falling back, flailing to put his sword among Thren’s constant barrage of thrusts.

Three times Thren swung both his blades simultaneously, smashing them into the mercenary’s defense. The fourth time he feinted, pulling his foe’s weapon out of position. Stepping closer, he kicked the man’s knee, dropping him. In went his short swords, thrusting through his neck as the mercenary let out a gargled death cry. In a crumple of armor the man fell, the sound horribly loud to Thren’s ears. He glanced up and down the street, but he saw no one, and could only hope that he might be in and out of the temple before anyone stumbled upon the bodies.

Thren knew he shouldn’t be surprised the temple door was unlocked, but he was anyway. Not because the priests who professed mercy and forgiveness were actually so trusting. More because the way his night was going, he felt as if a thousand pounds of iron chains should have prevented his entrance. Perhaps, just perhaps, things might still turn out well.

Immediately upon entrance he stepped into a long carpeted hallway leading into a room of worship. It was filled with rows of pews, hard wood with little padding. There were doors on both the left and the right of the far side, and as he ran across the carpet he wondered which way might lead to where the priests slept. Guessing left, he went to the door, checked it. Unlocked as well, and through it he went.

Beyond was a hallway lit with long candles. Unsure of what to do, he picked a door at random and checked it. Like the others, it was unlocked. Carefully he turned the knob, pushed it open, and then stepped through. Inside was a small room with a small desk and a small cot. Upon that cot slept a middle-aged man. Thren drew a sword, then knelt down and put a hand across the man’s mouth. Immediately the man’s eyes opened. To Thren’s surprise, he showed no sign of panic despite his predicament.