David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“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.