David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

“Drop the dagger and I’ll make it quick,” he told her.

“You could just let me go,” she said.

“I could,” Crion said. “But I won’t. When I take over, you’ll only be a thorn in my side. Now drop it, or I’ll make sure your death lasts a very, very long time.”

After a moment of meeting Crion’s stare, she lifted her arm and let the dagger drop. Crion smiled.

“Good girl,” he said.

His sword lunged out, piercing the base of her throat, and then pulled back. She stood there, glaring even as she died, her legs giving out. Her forehead hit the table with a sickening crunch, leaving a splatter of reddish gore along its top edge.

Crion wiped his sword, sheathed it, and then turned to the rest, a giant grin on his face.

“We did it!” he said. “All of you will be well rewarded for years to come, I promise.”

Beside Thren, Grayson slumped against the wall.

“Crion won,” he said. “We need to either hide or run, because he’ll kill us next.”

“Not yet,” Thren whispered.

The eight other men didn’t seem to be sharing in Crion’s rejoicing. The smile on the middle-aged man’s face slowly faded away.

“Step out,” he said to them. “All of you. It’s over.”

“Who said it’s over?” one of them asked.

“I ain’t leaving,” said another.

Thren felt his heart begin to race as Crion slowly realized what was happening. The others backed away, none willing to attack him, but it was clear they were no longer on his side. With a sudden burst of movement, all nine made for the two remaining piles of food. Crion stabbed one of them through the back, yet when he managed to reach his table barely any food was left. He hovered over it, guarding it as three others split for various sections of wall. The same happened at the other table, men scooping up stale bread and browning fruit and seeking out a place of safety. Two more died in that skirmish, a small man with beady eyes and dark hair thrusting a dagger into the necks of the slowest two, a man and a woman who had scooped up more food than they should have, their full arms slowing their defense until it was too late.

“Six left,” Thren whispered when the chaos subsided. “It’s a whole new game.”

After so many leaving or dying that morning, it seemed the remaining six were content to stay in their respective sections of the room, each with a table or two to give protection. Thren and Grayson did their best to lie low, but with such smaller numbers, it was getting harder to go unnoticed.

“Hey,” said one of the men, the beady-eyed one named Nolan. He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, as if unafraid of the others. He looked tired, as did all the rest. Once the rush of the earlier conflict had faded, and the morning stretched into day, they’d all sagged in their seats or against the wall.

Thren looked away, pretended not to notice Nolan was talking to him.

“Hey, you two little shits,” Nolan called.

Thren elbowed Grayson in the side, waking him up. The two had slept in shifts, alternating each hour, at least their best estimates of an hour. Grayson woke, immediately noticed Nolan glaring at them. Neither gave the dark-haired man an answer.

“Those two are still here?” Crion asked from his corner. He laughed as if it were the funniest thing. “Got balls, I’ll give you that, but I think it’s time you two got out before something bad happens.”

Neither moved. Nolan muttered a curse, got to his feet. He brandished a long dirk in his small pale fingers.

“You know,” he said, “I could use a bit of fun.”

Despite how alert he seemed, Thren knew his friend was still waking up, and he needed the attention on him instead. Besides, he was smaller, and faster.

“Go ask Crion for some fun,” Thren said. “I heard he likes your type. Skinny and dumb.”

When Nolan rushed him, he dove to the side, rolling underneath the legs of a table and bolting toward the middle of the room. The man chased as the others laughed and watched. Thren weaved his way about, scampering along the floor when he needed to, running along the tops of tables if necessary to get away. It didn’t matter to him how pathetic he looked, he just had to survive.

“Can’t kill a little child?” Thren heard someone yell, and Thren purposefully veered along the wall in the yeller’s direction. He scooped up a piece of shit from a spot several had used to relieve themselves and then spun, flinging the brown sludge behind him. He hit Nolan square in the chest, earning himself a colorful tirade of curses.

“Just fucking…stand… still! ”

Nolan hurled his dirk. Thren dropped to his stomach, heard it thud into a table above him. Scrambling, leaving brown smeared handprints on the floor beneath him, he made his way back to Grayson, who had never moved from his spot. Nolan, as if realizing how vulnerable he was with his weapon thrown, quickly retrieved it, then made his way back toward his food. The eyes of the others were on him, and Thren knew how bad, how weak, it must have looked to fail to kill a nine-year-old boy.

Too bad , thought Thren.

“He almost got you twice,” Grayson said as Thren slumped against the wall beside him.

“Almost don’t count,” Thren said.

Grayson laughed, elbowed him in the side.

“Your turn. I got this.”

More than relieved, and with his head pounding from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion, Thren closed his eyes and did his best to sleep.

Except he couldn’t. He felt Grayson tense up beside him, and he reopened his eyes to see Crion was on the hunt. The man was calmly walking about the dining hall, judging everyone’s reactions. Several backed away, sliding in the opposite direction. Only Nolan remained where he was, twirling his dirk in his left hand.

“Don’t test me,” Nolan said to Crion. “I’m in a pissed-off mood as it is.”

“You could always leave,” Crion said, walking around him as if Nolan were a mad dog on a leash. “As our brilliant leader said, the door is always open.”

Crion veered to the side, purposefully putting his back to Nolan as if daring him to throw his dirk. For a moment Thren thought he would, but then Nolan backed down. Instead Crion approached another man, this one heavyset and bearded. Thren struggled to remember his name, but then Crion spoke it aloud.

“You’ve always been a good friend, Jarvis,” Crion said to the bearded man. “So why do you stay so far away from me?”

Jarvis scratched at his rust-colored beard. In his other hand he held up a thick short sword.

“Been a good friend to you because it paid to be your good friend,” Jarvis said, his voice carrying a thick Kerran accent. “But not now, not anymore. We all started out equal in here, and one of us is walking out a king. And you know what, Crion? I sure as shit don’t want to see it be you that comes out on top.”

“You won’t see it,” Crion told him. “Because you’ll be dead first.”

Jarvis had been ready for the attack, Thren had no doubt about that. But being ready for it and being able to survive it were two very different things, as Jarvis found out. Crion took a step closer, then jammed his arm forward as if to thrust. Jarvis flung his short sword around to parry, but Crion was too fast. He sidestepped, pulling his sword back and out of the way of the parry. Jarvis’s sword continued without any steel for it to hit, and as it smacked against the rough wood floor it let out a loud thunk, the sound broken only by the scream Jarvis made when Crion’s sword thrust deep into his chest.

Crion twisted once, pulled the blade free, then glanced to the others.

“Fucking cowards,” he said, seeing not a one had dared make a move on him. “It’s only a matter of time.”