David Dalglish - Cloak and Spider

Thren Felhorn watched the merchant’s stall, his stomach rumbling as he imagined the food he might eat if the score went off as intended. His friend Grayson was already there, asking question after question of the merchant busy trying to sell his wares to a wealthy couple dressed in red silks and fox fur. At best Grayson earned himself a swat at his head, but Thren’s dark-skinned friend always ducked aside just before it connected. After one aggravated swipe, and a yell to get lost, Grayson turned toward him and winked before sidling back up to the stall.

That was the signal. Thren kept his head down, his hands in his pockets. Most importantly, he kept his eyes to the ground. Without eye contact, he would be invisible to the populace of the grand city of Mordeina, just one of a hundred orphan boys forced to beg, borrow, and steal for their daily bread. But today Thren planned on eating far better than stale, cracked bread that had gone unsold the day before.

“…the finest silver,” he heard the merchant say to the couple as he made exaggerated gestures as if to express his amazement at the quality of his own wares. Thren slid closer, using the couple as a screen for his movements. Head down, eyes low, using just the corners of his vision to guide his movements. When he was almost there, the merchant let out a cry, turning toward where Grayson had tried, and failed, to snag a knife from on display. The merchant, a bearded man with a large belly, let out a roar and swung a meaty fist. This time Grayson did not dodge in time, the fist connecting squarely with his face. Blood splattered down his chest, and he let out a cry as he stumbled to the ground.

“I didn’t do nothing!” Grayson cried.

With all eyes on Grayson for that split second, Thren brushed against the lady of the couple, his movements pulling out her dress the tiniest bit, giving him the screen he needed. Arms crossed over his chest, he walked on, not once looking at the merchant busy yelling for a guard. Slid into the folds of his ratty shirt, the metal cool on his skin, were a pair of silver spoons. It took all his control to continue normally, to not smile or show the slightest sign of life. Orphans weren’t supposed to know happiness. Happiness was suspicious.

When he reached one of the many exits of the long market street winding through the western half of the city, he dared let out a laugh. He’d made it. Grayson would easily elude whatever guards might come running, and then…

A hand latched on to his shoulder, spinning him about. Thren let out a cry, and he lashed out with his right hand, still holding the spoons. He expected a fat merchant, maybe a guard, but instead a blackened hand caught his own. The skin looked as if it’d been charred in a fire, and the many glittering rings on its fingers made it seem all the more ugly. Thren felt his heart freeze in his chest, felt his breath catch in his throat. The man’s hair was a dark umber, his long coat wrapping about his slender frame. After his hand, it was his ears that were most telling, the long ears of an elf with the tops brutally scarred to remove the slender upturned points. Held still by a grip impossibly strong, Thren stared up into the icy blue eyes of a man he knew only by legend.

“It’s dangerous to take what isn’t yours,” Muzien the Darkhand said, “especially when you take from one of my merchants.”

The grip on Thren’s hand tightened, and he released the spoons. The polished silver clattered on the ground, but Muzien did not look at them, nor move to pick them up. Instead he continued to stare, his hand brushing aside a few strands of umber hair that had fallen across his face. Thren kept his mouth shut, knowing nothing he could say would help him now. He was at the man’s mercy. Thren gambled that strength was what he needed to show now, not cowardice. Even with that strength, he struggled to meet Muzien’s gaze.

“You had help,” Muzien said. “Who was it? Tell me his name.”

Thren swallowed. Turning on Grayson would gain him nothing, he knew that from the coldness in Muzien’s eyes. So he lifted his head, clenched his jaw, and waited.

The reaction came more swiftly than he’d anticipated. Muzien flung him against one of the city’s winding walls, the uneven red brick stabbing into his back. Despite his attempt to brace himself, Thren let out a cry. Muzien towered above him, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a sword strapped to his side.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Nine,” Thren said, remaining on his rear.

“Good, so you can tell the truth if necessary. So let me try this one more time.” He slid his sword out of its sheath, just enough to let it catch the light from the midday sun. “Who helped you in your attempt?”

“I was alone,” Thren said, figuring that if he was to die he’d at least try to spare his friend. “Did it all on my own.”

Muzien stared at him, a long hard gaze that made Thren feel as if he were being dissected.

“Only nine,” he said, shaking his head. “And to think I had thought myself beyond surprises. Alric! Bring him over.”

From around the corner came another man with a similar coat to Muzien’s, only he was more heavyset, the muscularity of his frame more obvious. In his arms he lugged Grayson, who was still trying to squirm away.

“Cut it out already,” Alric said, dumping Grayson beside Thren. A quick glance showed Grayson’s nose was still bleeding a bit, but that was the only real injury he’d suffered from the merchant’s hit.

“They were waiting for us, I swear it,” Grayson said, springing to his feet. Thren rose as well. He wouldn’t die sitting down. Muzien let go of his blade and crossed his arms.

“I have need of servants,” he said. “Are you both orphans without family?”

The two glanced at each other.

“We are,” Thren said, purposefully leaving out any mention of Grayson’s sister. The last thing he wanted to do was drag her into their mess.

“Then you shall live with me, and serve the Sun Guild directly. Is that understood?”

“What if we refuse?” Grayson asked.

Muzien knelt down so they might see eye to eye.

“What makes you think you may refuse?” he asked.

Thren had seen Grayson stand up to the toughest of bullies and the meanest of guards, yet still his friend shrunk beneath that gaze. Grayson lowered his head and nodded to show he understood.

“Good,” Muzien said, spinning on his heels. “Alric, take them in and get them cleaned up. The ceremony’s almost here, and we have no time to waste.”

* * *

Thren and Grayson had served under Muzien for three days when he led them into the grand dining hall of his Sun Guild’s vast headquarters. There were over forty people seated along three rows of tables, with a vast variety of foods atop silver platters before them. Twenty more of the long rectangular tables were empty. Most of the men and women held cups, and Thren saw an opened keg in one corner. Along one side of the room were five thick stained-glass windows, each pane depicting the sun as it marched from dawn to dusk.. Multiple chandeliers hung overhead, dozens of candles in them burning bright. The size of it all left Thren with an uneasy feeling, as if he were overexposed. The dining hall could easily hold two hundred people, if not three, yet right then it felt so empty.

“There,” Muzien said, pointing to an empty corner. “I do not need you now, so go wait there until I come for you.”

The two boys nodded, having quickly learned that speaking was necessary only if they might misunderstand the order given to them. Thren led the way, and at the corner he slumped down and tried to relax. Overall his time with the Sun Guild had been one of fine food and far nicer clothing, yet he still felt exhausted from the variety of chores, all menial and tedious, that Muzien subjected them to. They were yet to eat their midday meal, too, and seeing the vast banquet spread out before the others left Thren in a foul mood.