David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“Out the door,” Crion screamed at them, blood splashed across his shirt. “Out, now!”

The two hurried to leave.

“And take this with you!”

Crion hurled Ulgrad’s head after them. It rolled along the ground, coming to a stop underneath one of the tables. The two men glared at it but said nothing, only exited the room. Thren and Grayson huddled in the corner, counting. Seventeen left now, not counting themselves.

Jezelle kissed her protector’s face, then winked at Crion.

“Hope you didn’t wear yourself out,” she said. The two groups were on opposite sides of the dining hall now, and it looked as if neither was ready to cross just yet.

“Still plenty of time,” Crion said.

“Indeed,” Terk said, and he gestured to the table directly before him. “But I do not think time is on your side.”

During the battle the runners from his group had rushed out, grabbing food from the tables away from the fight. Their pile was thrice the size of Crion’s. When Crion realized this, Terk let out a grin.

“Just try,” he said as several of his men tipped over nearby tables, forming a barricade beside the wall. The tables were long and flat, and they fitted together nicely to form a waist-high wall. Others began rifling bodies, taking weapons.

Crion’s chest rose and fell as he glanced over the growing fortification.

“Come on,” he said, glaring, leading the rest of his own group to begin a similar barricade.

Thren and Grayson whispered in the corner as outside the sun finished setting, leaving them with only the light of the candles, candles rapidly nearing the end of their life.

“What now?” asked Grayson.

“I’m not sure,” said Thren. “I was hoping all three would fight. Terk’s proving…formidable.”

“Should we try to join one of the groups?”

Thren shrugged. “Neither would have us.”

“Then what do we do?”

At that, Thren looked to his cracked bowl, then to the fortifications of tables. Behind them he could hear both sides preparing shifts for sleep.

“We could always leave,” he said.

Grayson looked to the open door, shook his head.

“My gut says leaving’s a bad idea. Muzien wants us to stay, so we stay.”

Thren tapped his bowl.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s tip the scales.”

* * *

It was well past midnight when the last of the candles sputtered, flickered for a moment, and then died. The only light remaining came from the stained-glass windows, the moonlight weak and dark as it filtered through them. In the shadows Thren crawled, bowl in hand. Before him were three overturned tables, creating a haphazard wall. Only a single man stayed on watch, and what little Thren could see of his face showed him to be very nervous.

Thren crawled along the wall opposite the windows, and as he pressed his body against one of the tables, he knew he would be all but invisible to the guard. Invisible would not be enough, though. Crawling over the overturned table and into their sleeping ground would risk too much movement, and worse, too much sound. The man standing before the middle overturned table had a dagger drawn, and he was turning from side to side, searching for the slightest sign of an attack from the opposing group.

And that’s when Grayson kicked hard against a table on the far side of the room.

“Shit,” Thren heard the guard mutter, spinning in that direction. Thren counted to two, then vaulted himself over the defense. Right on time, another loud wooden thud sounded as Grayson flung his weight against a table. Thren landed, and he froze when he did. He could barely see the faces of those sleeping along the ground, not enough to pick out their leader, but he didn’t need to. All he needed was the vague shapes, the outlines of where he could and could not step. Making sure his breaths were slow and even, he worked his way to the very center of the miniature fortification. The man on watch had his back to him, and in the ensuing silence kept his gaze outward, tense, waiting for just one more signal that the other group was advancing so he might wake his own.

In the very center Thren found him, just as he’d thought he would. Slowly he took the bowl, careful to hold it by the proper end. One side was still smooth, but the other…

The other he jammed upward into the soft flesh of Terk’s throat, the sharp broken ridges digging in deep. Blood poured into the bowl as Terk startled awake, his arms flailing, his legs kicking. Thren released the bowl and ran, nearly vaulting with each step. He didn’t care if he stepped on others this time, nor if they woke. All that mattered was keeping his movements long and fast so that no one might grab a hold of his leg or arm.

He heard cries, warning, accusations of betrayal and ambush as he made his way to the corner farthest from the windows.

“Did you get him?” Grayson asked, and his voice was like a ghost in the darkness.

“I think he’ll die,” Thren answered. “We’ll know come morning…”

* * *

Thren didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, for Grayson was shaking him awake.

“Get up,” he heard his friend saying. “It’ll start soon.”

He did so with his heart racing, and he berated himself for being so stupid. At least it seemed Grayson had watched over him, ensuring no one sneaked up on them while he slept in the darkness. As he squinted he saw the sun had just begun to rise, casting light into the room so all might see. Crion was eating with the rest of his band, finishing off the bulk of their food. They seemed in a jovial mood.

“Aren’t you going to have a bite, Terk?” Crion shouted out to the other group, which was huddled far closer together as it ate.

“Fuck off,” Jezelle shouted back.

This seemed to give Crion pause, and he put down the apple he held. His hand fell to his sword as he stepped through a small gap in their overturned table wall.

“Terk?” he asked. “Where are you, Terk?”

When the other man did not answer, Crion looked back to his own band.

“Draw your weapons,” he told them, and they did. Jezelle saw this from the other side, swore, and drew her own.

“We can still hold you off,” she said as those with her prepared for combat. Yet it sounded as if even she did not believe it, and Crion certainly didn’t.

“No, you can’t,” he said. “So who of you killed him? Did you think to take him out now, before he ended up winning? I’d say you got ahead of yourselves.”

“I said get back!” Jezelle screamed.

“No!” Crion roared. “You’re beaten now, and you know it. Terk’s the only reason I wasn’t eating my breakfast out of your skulls as a bowl, and now the fucker’s dead.”

Thren and Grayson kept their backs to the wall, watching as Crion’s band slowly descended on Jezelle’s. They already a numbers advantage, and without Terk, it was obvious no one could stand against Crion in a fight.

“I’m not sure this will work,” Grayson said, anticipating another battle.

“Just wait,” Thren said, hoping he was right.

When Jezelle’s group was fully surrounded, Crion smiled and pointed to the door.

“I’ll let all of you walk out of here right now,” he told them. “Just throw down your weapons, and there’ll be no hard feelings.”

They looked to one another, and it was obvious to Thren that they were going to accept.

“Not worth it,” said one, and he tossed a dagger beyond their wall. Several others immediately followed, and the sound of metal clanged throughout the dining hall.

“Not yet,” Crion said, stepping in the way of the first who tried to flee. “She stays. The others of you can go.”

Jezelle’s face paled, but the others with her had no argument. They left her standing alone behind the tables, still holding her dagger. Once the seven men exited the open doorway, Crion approached with his sword drawn.