Jeff Crook - The Thieves’ Guild

Cael and Alynthia crept warily along the pier. The night seemed short. Though storm clouds now hid and further darkened the sky, both felt that morning was nigh. With it would come unwelcome activity and watchful eyes. They hurried while trying to appear leisurely. As they neared the ship, Alynthia could no longer contain herself. She rushed along the pier, leaped up, and caught the ship’s railing, timing her leap to meet the descent of a swell She pulled herself onto the deck, then peered over the rail at the elf.

“I can’t do that, Alynthia,” Cael said. “My shoulder.”

She nodded once, then stooped to look for something. A moment later, a rope ladder uncurled down the side of the hull. Cael caught it. After passing his staff up to Alynthia, he pulled himself by one arm up the heavily swaying side of the ship.

They picked their way across the heaving middeck as the first heavy drops of rain splattered around them. The ship was battened down against the storm, showing that the night watch was aboard somewhere. Alynthia led the way among coiled ropes and stowed rigging to the sterncastle, where a narrow ornate door signified the entrance to the captain’s cabin. She paused before it and drew her dagger. Cael looked around to make sure no one had spotted them. It seemed the watchman was safely below decks. Alynthia opened the door and slipped into the cabin. The small, orderly chamber was dark, lit in somber gold by lightning flashes through the horn-paned starboard windows. She quickly lit a whale oil lamp fastened to the wall above the bed. Cael stepped inside and closed the door as a storm wave lifted the ship, sending him staggering painfully into the wall.

On the floor beside the bed stood several large sea chests, one made of rich teak bound with silver and iron, the other two of thick leather with bronze fittings. Alynthia nodded at Cael. He looked at her wearily, then moved to the door to keep watch.

Alynthia knelt by the largest of the three chests and fingered its heavy lock, then took from a pouch at her belt a leather wallet of lockpicking tools. She unrolled it on the floor and chose a braided wire and an octagonal probe. While the deck lurched beneath her, she worked the tools into the lock, prying, probing, turning. Her lips compressed in concentration, all else fading from her notice. Not even the growing roar of the storm intruded upon her. She listened closely for the satisfying click that would announce success.

Her skill told at last, and the lock parted. She tore it free and cast it aside, and with a victorious glance at the elf, opened the chest’s hinged lid.

A cloud of hissing yellow gas boiled into her face. She coughed once and reeled away, toppling onto the floor.

Hearing the warning hiss, Cael had torn open the door before he even saw the danger. A violent wind swirled through the chamber, dashing out the lamp, as the sickly yellow gas rose up wraithlike and was dispersed by the wind. The elf lunged to Alynthia’s side and lifted her under one arm.

Cael dragged her onto the rain-lashed deck. He rolled her over, pressed two fingers to her neck. A weak pulse struggled there but one which grew stronger with each breath of clean sea air. A flash of lightning revealed her eyelids flickering as she fought to regain consciousness.

Probably only her natural quickness had saved her life, Cael guessed. Oros had set a deadly trap on that chest. Finally satisfied that she would recover, he returned to the door. By the storm’s glare, he saw that the chest was still open. He lurched into the room, reached a hand into the chest, and stumbled back to the deck clutching something metal and gleaming.

He collapsed beside Alynthia and examined the object. It was a dragon, not much larger than a cat, expertly wrought in gleaming silver. The figure reared on its hind legs, wings spread, head thrown back to scream at the sky. Tiny sapphire eyes burned beneath hooded lids, talons of carved yellow ivory clawed at the air. In the belly of the creature, he noticed, there was a latched and hinged door. Cael opened it gingerly.

A flash of lightning illuminated a grinning brown skull seated on black velvet in the hollow belly of the artifact. Beside the skull lay a Solamnic rose, red as the day it was cut.

“That’s it,” Alynthia lifted her head to say.

“What is it?” Cael asked, suppressing for the moment his delight at seeing her alive and alert.

“The Reliquary,” she said as she pawed weakly at the treasure.

“What is it? Why is this so special?” Cael asked.

“It is our greatest achievement, our greatest theft, said to be stolen from the gods themselves during the Age of Might.” She sighed, falling back weakly against the rain slick deck. “The bones are the bones of-”

“Alynthia!” a voice roared behind them.

Cael spun, clutching the Reliquary beneath his robe.

Oros uth Jakar stood before them, legs braced against the surging of the ship. The storm increased suddenly, sheets of rain pounding from prow to stern. Looming behind the Guild captain, the huge, monstrous form of the minotaur, Kolav Ru-Marn, leaned against the larboard rail. He shook his heavy horned head, water spraying from his ears and thick reddish-brown fur.

“Alynthia, what have you done?” Oros cried furiously.

“What have you done, my husband?” she gasped.

“Your treachery is revealed, Captain,” the elf snarled.

The color faded from the Guildmaster’s face. His eyes shifted from the elf to his wife. She glared at him, contempt burning in her dark eyes. The strength seemed to drain from his limbs, his head sank, and Oros turned away.

“Kill them,” he said heavily to the minotaur. “Kill them both.” He staggered to the rail and leaned against it.

“I’ve been longing for this day,” Kolav growled, as he drew his massive gleaming tulwar, the giant curved blade of the minotaur-wrought sword screaming from its sheath. Long used to battle at sea, Kolav moved with ease across the storm-tossed deck of the ship, his steps thundering louder than the storm itself.

The elf remained half in a crouch, for it was the only way he could be sure of his footing. He pulled his staff close against his body and, running his free left hand down its length, revealed his magic blade.

Kolav roared with laughter. “Magic blades will do you little good. I am the finest sword in all of Krynn.”

“I tell you again that, no, I am the finest,” Cael countered, but he knew his boast was hollow. The wound in his shoulder had stiffened his right arm to the point where he could barely move it. He could fight left-handed-he’d been trained thoroughly by his shalifi -but against the mighty minotaur he stood little chance in his present condition.

The beast shook his huge bull’s head, water spraying from his ears and fur and streaming from his gleaming black horns. Cael gripped the silver dragon closer against his body and rose onto one knee, his sword held on guard.

Alynthia cried out, “Oros, don’t do this.”

Oros uth Jakar merely shook his head, never even turning to glance at his doomed wife.

Kolav leaped at Cael, horns flashing. The elf managed to roll aside. Kolav lunged after him, stepping over the prone form of the female captain of thieves. With a cry, Alynthia rose up and sank her dagger into the monster’s thigh.

Kolav bellowed in pain and turned. Cael’s blade flashed before his black snout, then raked down, shearing though leather armor and reddish fur to shave the belly of the brute. Another inch and his bowels would have run across the deck. The elf swore and barely ducked the minotaur’s return swipe.

Now the minotaur roared in rage and came leaping after him. Cael parried with every ounce of strength, striking aside the minotaur’s heavy curved blade at the last instant, time and time again. Each movement weakened him, while the minotaur seemed to grow stronger, seeing his opponent stumble and stagger under the rain of blows.