Jeff Crook: The Thieves’ Guild

Meanwhile, Avaril dragged the dwarf across the alley and flung him on a heap of wet sawdust. He then settled himself onto one of the crates and watched the carnage. For a while, the screams of the dying continued. Knights rushed in and out of the building, and the pile of loot in the alley grew taller. Already, scribes and clerks of the Knights of Takhisis had gathered and begun to sort, count, and record the take, referring occasionally to Avaril about some item before adding it to their tally sheets. Teams of bearers, each heavily guarded by still more Knights, carted away the spoils as soon as each item was cleared by the clerks. Above the city, the storm had not yet broken, but every moment it promised to unleash its full fury.

The dwarf opened his eyes, blinking through the blood that had streamed from his cracked skull down across his face and soaked his beard. Across the alley from where he lay, weary Knights, gore up to their elbows, staggered from the blazing building that had once belonged to the Thieves’ Guild of Palanthas. The upper floors were already consumed, but they had stamped out the fires on the lower floors in order to haul away the things stored there. Now, as the last two Knights exited the building, they paused at the doorway to fling their torches back into the room. Soon flames were licking around the door and windows. By the angry glow upon the clouds swirling overhead, it seemed that fires had sprung" up all over the city.

By this light, the dwarf watched a peculiar conference take place near the loot pile. The bearers had already carried away most of the night’s take, but a few choice selections had been left behind, carefully covered by a black tarp. Around this now lingered three men, their heads gathered close in whispered confidences.

The largest of the three was a good head taller than the smallest, but he wore a long, black cloak of the thickest wool, with a deep heavy cowl hiding his face. The next tallest of the three was a man easily recognized in any part of the city-a man with a face graven in stone, eyes like blue agates that shone even in the darkness of the alley. He was Sir Kinsaid, Knight of Takhisis and Lord Knight of the City of Palanthas. Though nominally a military advisor, he was the true ruler of the city. The third was a small man, dressed in wizard’s robes of somber gray. His face was sharp, with an inquisitive nose and small eyes like chips of coal pressed into dough-colored flesh.

For a few moments the three were left alone, without their guards and clerks. The large figure knelt beside the pile of loot and, casting a surreptitious glance around, drew back one of the black coverings. The other two huddled over what he revealed. From his vantage, the dwarf couldn’t see what so fascinated the three. Not that he much cared. He felt soft darkness closing in about him once again. He relaxed, and gazed at the sky above him.

The wall of the building beside him towered four stories into the Palanthian sky, and in its great age and dilapidation it seemed to lean perilously, as though about to fall. A few dark windows glowered over the alleyway, but most had long since been boarded up. However, from one of these empty windows the dwarf watched a coil of rope suddenly appear. Though dyed as black as sable, its silhouette stood out against the low, fire lit clouds. Silently, it unwound as it descended to the alley below, stretching to its full length a few inches from the dwarfs nose. He cursed in surprise, throwing up his arms to ward off the rope.

The three men spun round, startled from their gloating. A sword flashed in the mailed fist of Sir Kinsaid, while a cocked crossbow appeared in the hands of the gray-robed man. The third drew no weapon, but stared from beneath his hood.

“Who goes there?” Sir Kinsaid challenged.

The short man lowered his crossbow. “It is only the door- warden,” he laughed. “He is still alive. Dwarven skulls are notoriously thick.”

No one seemed to notice the black rope dangling just above the dwarfs head.

“I’ll soon mend that, Sir Arach,” the man in the black robes said to his small companion. “He can identify me.”

At these words, the dwarf came fully and starkly awake. He struggled to move, but found that his legs would not move. He clawed desperately at the sawdust, a strangled cry of rage choking him.

“You dog!” he wept impotently into his beard. “You betrayed us!” He crawled free of the sawdust mound and dragged his frail, broken frame over the slimy cobbles, unaware of the dark figure that had slid down the rope behind him. The three ignored his cries. “You betrayed us!” the dwarf screamed.

“Captain Avaril has betrayed many in his time,” snarled the figure behind him.

Again, Sir Kinsaid spun, his gleaming steel blade leaping in his hand. Sir Arach Jannon produced his crossbow. The black-robed Captain Avaril rose, his hands clenched into ham-sized fists.

A dark figure dropped from a window across the alley, a third appeared from behind a pile of empty crates, two others crawled from a sewer grate that appeared barely wide enough to admit a rat. More advanced from the shadows from either end of the alley. They wore uniforms of black cloth, loosely woven and stitched to allow full range of movement and maximum capacity for secreting tools and weapons. Their faces were hidden by swaths of a similar dark material, but above these masks dark eyes gleamed with hatred.

Soon, a black ring of death, a ring edged with gleaming steel, surrounded the three men. Like warriors long accustomed to battle, they placed themselves back to back, facing the opponents who edged closer every moment. The raging inferno behind them lit the scene in a lurid glare, which was augmented startlingly by frequent flashes of lightning. The dwarf lay within the closing circle of foes, confused, fainting with pain, burning with frustration.

“Daavyd Nelgard,” Sir Kinsaid growled. “Master of the Thieves’ Guild of Palanthas. Here is a prized fish your nets failed to catch, Sir Arach.”

“Nay, my lord. The net draws round them even as we speak. This was not unforeseen,” the gray-robed man said, a sly smile twisting his narrow face.

The dark figure that had dropped behind the dwarf stepped into the light of the fire. He jerked the mask from his face and the hood from his head, revealing an unruly mane of matted black hair surrounding a dark face made darker by his rage. “Aye,” he growled. “The net draws tight. You are caught in it” He flung back his short cloak and swept out a scimitar that caught the light of the inferno and sent it back in an arc of red fire.

“The Thieves’ Guild is at an end,” the Lord Knight said. “Surrender and we’ll give you an execution worthy of an enemy of the Knights of Takhisis. You and your followers shall not die like criminals.”

Grim laughter flowed around the circle of black-clad assassins.

“Shall we die like sheep, as did our companions whose burning flesh reeks in our nostrils even now?” the Guildmaster asked his fellows.

No one answered. They continued to close, silently, tightening the ring. They stepped over the dwarf, leaving him outside their circle.

“We may die this night, but first we shall see those who brought our Guild low ground into the dust,” the Guildmaster said as he leaped, his scimitar flashing out to decapitate Captain Avaril. Sir Kinsaid’s long sword met the Guildmaster’s curved blade in a flash of sparks.

With a roar, the others closed, blades darting, licking, probing. Sir Arach fired his crossbow, dropping the closest of the assassins, then tossed aside his weapon and lifted a hand, palm outward. A shimmering shield of force appeared before him, stopping the dagger winging toward his heart in mid flight. It fell with a clatter to the cobbles.