Thieves' Honor Read online

  Thieves’ Honor

  A novel by

  David Combs

  Copyright © 2018 David Combs

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1717288871

  ISBN-13: 978-1717288875

  DEDICATION

  To Sarah, Emma, and Libby

  CHAPTER ONE

  The young woman fell back towards the great picture window as blood gushed through her fingers from the tear in her throat. She slipped in the widening, crimson pool at her feet, and crashed to the floor. Her free hand trembled as she tried in vain to pull herself to her knees with the corner of the nearby ancient desk, but her legs buckled again. As her sight dimmed, she attempted to focus on something, anything, to keep herself conscious. Her failing vision fell upon the hellish red glow of the eyes that watched her from the far corner of the room.

  “Why,” she asked. Her voice was nothing more than a hoarse croak. She shivered uncontrollably and could see her shallow breaths in the chilled air as her attacker casually approached. “Why me?”

  Cold, hissing laughter floated out of the darkness. “Do not flatter yourself, my child. There is nothing at all special about you. You are simply one more piece, one more pawn in a far grander scheme. Soon, everyone in the great port city of Tarnath shall kneel, and call me master.”

  The girl felt the brush of an icy finger caress her cheek to wipe away her tears, although she saw nothing reach towards her. She recoiled from the touch just the same though and collapsed in the bright light of the pale moon that still hung low in the early evening sky. The shadowy figure drew closer, knelt beside her, and pulled her into his arms just as he had done earlier. He savored toying with her, relished the thrill of a predator stalking prey. She looked again into the gleaming red of his eyes, becoming lost in their swirling depths. As she spiraled into darkness, the pain of two tiny needles stabbed into the flesh of her neck. She scratched at her attacker, but she was far too weak, and he was far too strong.

  The shadowy form soon dropped her lifeless body to the floor. Standing to his full height he basked in the glow of the moon as the woman’s warm blood rushed through his veins. The moonlight stretched forth, like pale fingers caressing an unsuspecting victim, over the lavish furnishings he had brought with him. These personal belongings predated many of the mightiest cities in Belynna, and some were even older than the fallen Thelvenin Empire of the elves.

  He knew that the moonlight signaled the start of the real action in the city of Tarnath. Although empty to the naked eye, he saw the alleys full of common thieves, derelicts, and other lost souls of the night doing whatever they must in order to survive another day. The lords of the city called them a “blight on the face of a magnificent city.”

  He called them prey.

  He opened the heavy window with a casual push and leaned forward to smell the night air. The blood of potential victims teased his heightened senses. His eyes gleamed with their blood-red light. “Soon, I will have everything ready to set into motion. Then Tarnath will belong to me.” A chilling laugh like a hissing wind echoed into the dark alleys below.

  On the street below, a passerby pulled his cloak tight against himself as a sudden icy gust blew through the streets as if something had soared overhead at a terrific speed. Yet, all that he saw was an open empty window above him. He wondered for just a moment what a thief might find if he were to go inside that house, but a sudden shiver raced down his spine. He quickened his steps and dismissed the thought from his mind.

  The moonlight watched over the room, keeping a silent vigil over the corpse of the young girl. Her body was the only evidence of the danger that awaited the city.

  The hunt had begun.

  ***

  The grappling hook sailed through the night air and caught the balcony rail on the first throw. The darkness came alive as a cloaked figure raced up the rope with the skill of a spider on a silken thread. As his wiry, athletic frame landed without a whisper of sound on the ledge, Galen Thale pulled the hood away from his curly blond hair and produced a thin wire from the back of his glove. A sparkle filled his blue eyes as he examined the lock on the balcony door. In seconds, the lock was picked with a practiced ease that suggested that Galen was far older than his mere eighteen summers.

  Among the thieves of Tarnath, Galen Thale was unanimously regarded as a reckless, daring, and unbelievably foolish rogue. He was an inspiration to the new recruits and an irritation to the guild masters. The fact that he had never once been caught, however, had earned him a certain measure of leniency. He had never been so much as suspected for some of the most lucrative heists of his thieving career. His purpose here tonight was more daring than any other caper he had ever pulled off and would earn him the undisputed reputation as the greatest thief in the entire city. Tonight, the prized and fabled jewel collection of Lord Adolphinus Merkalan, Finance Minister of the City Governance, would be his.

  It had taken Galen three weeks of eavesdropping, bribing, and casing the manor, but he had finally learned where in this magnificent estate the legendary jewels were kept. More importantly, he knew that the entire Merkalan household had left the city three days past for an extended tour of the Eastern Realms. Galen couldn’t understand any man’s desire to travel across the blasted wasteland of the Fire Plains, rather than sailing west across the Dharvastian Sea, but the nobleman’s travel arrangements held but one real significance to him. Lord Merkalan flaunted his fortune at every opportunity, so he had taken nearly all of his household guards, servants, and retainers with him. His glorious treasures were left safeguarded by only a few remaining guards who had not been included in the nobleman’s entourage.

  As Galen crept carefully along the hallway’s plush carpeting, he figured that his only real concern this night was running afoul of the “Dockside Slayer” who had terrorized the dock ward these past few weeks and had caused more of the “low life scum” to disappear without a trace. The city watch was completely baffled, without so much as a single clue about who might be behind these disappearances.

  Galen pushed such thoughts out of his head. He wasn’t afraid. The young thief was the self-proclaimed master of the shadows in Tarnath. If anyone invaded the dark places that he called home, then Galen was prepared to rudely throw the offender out.

  The young burglar padded softly down the hallway, ignoring the doorways that lined the long corridor. The gallery he sought was located all the way down at the far end of this hall. The rooms around him were merely bedrooms and private chambers for Merkalan and his family, all of which were now conveniently empty. Although they doubtlessly held stores of wealth in their own right, such baubles would pale in comparison to what he was here for.

  The thief paused at the top of a great marble staircase that split the hallway. He listened to the bored and sleepy voices of a few of the remaining guards that drifted up to him from below. The soldiers had no reason to suspect that an intruder was about and certainly expected no trouble tonight. With any luck, thought Galen, I’ll be long gone with the jewels before they even think to patrol this wing.

  He quickly crept past the stairs towards the entrance to the Grand Gallery but stopped about fifteen feet away from the archway. Galen studied the wall to wall rug that covered the wood floor before him. As he gingerly lifted the corner, his trained eyes caught the telltale outline of a pressure plate concealed in the planks. It was a good and effective trap, he mused, but one that was only likely to catch a novice. Galen pressed himself tightly against the wall edging his way past the device.

  A careful examination of the gem-studded arch yielded the next line of Merkalan’s defenses. A thin wire ran across the portal at ankle height. Galen followed the wire to a cleverly concealed trigger mechanism for three dart traps whose missil
es would fire out of hollow false gems on the archway’s side. The thief smiled as he cut the wire with a razor-sharp dagger. It was truly a wonder that the gems had remained in Merkalan’s possession this long, he thought.

  Galen sucked in his breath at the sight of the treasures before him as he entered the chamber. Sculptures from the renowned dwarven stoneworkers of the Southern Reach sat on pedestals of the finest marble. Gemstone eyes stared eternally from solidly fixed gold and platinum settings. Paintings in gilded frames by some of the greatest artists ever to hold a brush hung all over the walls. Masterful portraits appeared so lifelike that one would almost believe someone else stood in the room against the walls. Colorful landscapes were so vibrant that you could almost smell honeysuckle in bloom. Any one of these works could have made a thief wealthy beyond his imagination, and allow him to live out the rest of his days in comfort.

  Galen Thale wanted none of it.

  He moved quickly and quietly to the rear wall of the chamber. The young cutpurse had learned that the secret door to Merkalan’s vault was hidden here. The entire wall was one massive mural depicting the greatest battles in Belynna’s history. Armies marched around burning cities in the eastern lands. Another panel showed the siege of nearby Shorassos, where the surrounded city found victory after feigning surrender to the Warlords of Daltivar. Centuries of history fanned out before Galen, but his focus was elsewhere.

  The thief soon found the nearly invisible crease of the door, concealed within a scene of an elven knight bearing a glowing sword driving back some shadowy horror into the depths of a cave. Galen suddenly shivered and glanced just for a moment at the image. He thought for one moment that he could actually feel the hatred that burned from within the evil creature’s glowing red eyes.

  He smiled in spite of himself. Still young enough to enjoy children’s bedtime tales of heroes and monsters, yet skilled enough to break into the home of one of Tarnath’s leading citizens. Galen’s smile widened as he located the pressure stone for the door. One more quick survey of the panel assured him that there were no traps on the door, so he stepped lightly on the trigger. Soundlessly, the door to the jewel vault of the Merkalan’s opened for him.

  If the treasures of the gallery had impressed Galen, he was even more so by the appearance of the vault. The jewels rested on fine satin pillows inside a case of clear crystal. The rogue stared in awe of rubies the size of apples, diamonds the size of goose eggs, and emeralds easily as large as his fist. Taking a deep breath, he whispered a prayer to the patron god of cutpurses then pulled a glasscutter from one of his many pouches. He set the blade against the case and ran it over the crystal with a faint squeak.

  The surface didn’t even show a scratch.

  Galen tried again, believing that perhaps he hadn’t applied enough pressure to the instrument. The squeal was louder than Galen would have liked, and he spared a glance over his shoulder to make certain that he was still alone. As he examined the case his jaw dropped open when he saw that, as before, no mark had been made.

  Galen ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Guess we’ll just have to do this the hard way,” he muttered. He drew his sword, closed his eyes, and then slammed the hilt of his weapon down on the case as hard as he could. A spider web of cracks shot across the crystal, but still, the case held. He heard distant shouts of alarm from somewhere downstairs and knew that his time was running short.

  Galen was sweating now. Once again, he slammed his sword onto the case. This time the heavy crystal seemed to shimmer for a moment and quivered from the blow. Purely on instinct, Galen ducked. He rolled away just as the jewel case exploded, sending knife-like shards out in every direction.

  Galen quickly dusted himself off, wincing at the few minor cuts he had suffered. Long slivers of crystal stood out from the walls where they had embedded themselves like a volley of arrows. With a sigh, the thief realized how fortunate he was that he hadn’t been slashed to ribbons. Time was precious now, and he knew that he had only moments before the house soldiers arrived. With caution abandoned, Galen grabbed a monstrous diamond from the pillow and stuffed it into a sack. He barely noticed the faint puff of yellow dust and the faint smell of rotten eggs that rose up from the disturbed pillow. Instantly, Galen realized his new danger, for sulfur was always a prime ingredient in fire magic. He turned to run, praying that he could escape before the protective magic was released.

  Galen’s world exploded in a blast of heat and flame, which hurled him across the main gallery, and slammed him against the far wall. The very air scorched his lungs as the inferno raged around him. He tried to stand as he gasped for air, but he hurt too badly to pull himself up. The ringing in his ears, however, did not muffle the stamping sound of booted feet closing in around him.

  As Galen finally pushed himself to his hands and knees, a steel-tipped boot caught him solidly in the ribs, rolling the thief against a hard marble pedestal. The sculpture upon it crashed to the ground and shattered. When he looked up, Galen Thale saw a guard with the arms of the Merkalan family proudly emblazoned on his breast pointing a loaded crossbow at his face.

  ***

  Lightning flashed from the young wizard’s fingertips as the electric bolt tore through the ranks of the giant, brutish, yellow-skinned humanoids. Those beasts that survived scampered for the cover of the forest intent on seeking out less dangerous prey for their supper. The smoke on the battlefield shimmered, and the forest glade returned once again to the dining hall of Lord Tantros Kandlemeer. Servants ran to fill wine glasses and empty plates while the dinner guests’ eyes were riveted on the robed man who stood at the end of the long table.

  He stood with his hands raised into the air. Motes of light twinkled like tiny stars around his gloved fingertips. Aside from the effects of age, he was identical to the wizard in the illusion. The thick, brown hair now showed the slightest hint of gray at the temples. The smooth face bore a few more creases. He regarded his audience with his glittering eyes, one green and the other brown, that showed more wisdom than had those of the illusory mage. His build was unusual for a student of magic, as his well-defined frame pressed against the fabric of his sky blue robe.

  The mage lowered his consciousness from the first level of magical power, returning to the “real” world. The lure of higher levels and increasingly greater power always sang to him when he worked his castings, but he knew too well the dangers that could lie within. Finally, after a dramatic pause, he spoke with a strong and captivating voice that drew in everyone in the large banquet chamber.

  “In desperation, I showered the bloodthirsty kargs with bolts of lightning. The farmers were spared from future attacks, and prosper in that valley to this day.” The wizard bowed deeply to the sudden burst of applause the audience gave him. He then looked to the far end of the table where, in a massive chair, sat the even more massive nobleman, Tantros Kandlemeer. The fat man pulled himself from his seat and regarded the wizard silently. Then, he let out a great, booming laugh, and clapped the fellow seated beside him on the back with enough force to cause his guest’s beard to flop into his soup.

  “Did ye see the way the beasties ran?” Kandlemeer clapped his meaty hands together. “Tyrell Amalcheal,” he said as he addressed the wizard, “as always, you have proven yourself to be as great a showman as you are a sorcerer. Sit down, my friend, and let us continue the feast, yes?” The man snapped his fingers at the musicians who struck up a merry dancing tune.

  Tyrell smiled graciously, although he knew he was in no way ‘friend’ to Kandlemeer. He was nothing more than another servant. Rather than toting trays of meat or flagons of ale though, he was the pet wizard hired only to amuse the haughty aristocracy at gatherings such as this. He sighed. At least he was paid well enough for his efforts.

  The mage moved gracefully to his seat between two gentlemen of Tarnath. Pompous, self-serving fools would be more accurate, he thought to himself. He forced a smile to the man on his left. The silly little fop had been so deep in hi
s cups all night that a ladder couldn’t rescue him. The young dandy, some petty duke or another, had pestered him all evening long with tiresome question after question regarding magic, adventures, the general state of the city, and who among the serving maids was the most attractive. Tyrell had actually complimented himself on his remarkable sense of self-control. He had so far restrained himself from tugging the fool’s ridiculous cap down over his head and tying it closed with a piece of the man’s own silken cape. I swear, Tyrell mused as he sipped his wine, if he tugs at my sleeve once more I am going to recommend to his lordship that he venture to the docks, and take a lengthy stroll off of one of the shorter piers.

  Tyrell felt a sharp tug at his sleeve.

  He turned slowly with his teeth clenched in what he hoped resembled a smile and faced the young lord. The man nearly tottered off of his chair as he struggled to focus on the wizard with his glassy eyes.

  “Nice show,” he said. It came out more like ‘Nisshhh shhow’. “Do you really expect anybody to believe it? I mean, if yer such a great magishun, why are you workin’ a dinner party. You could just magic up all the money you want.” The young duke belched loudly in Tyrell’s face, and the stench of potent spirits caused the wizard’s mismatched eyes to water.

  The mage grimaced at the blunt question. The truth was that Tyrell was a far better storyteller than sorcerer. He looked down at the leather gloves he always wore and thought about the one and only time that he had opened himself to the level of magic required to throw bolts of lightning from his fingers. All too clearly, the memories of the flames, exploding chemicals, the smell of burning flesh, and the screams of the dying filled Tyrell’s mind. He clenched his fists unconsciously, envisioning in his mind’s eye the network of crisscrossed burn scars that covered his hands. Since that horrible day, Tyrell had contented himself only with lesser magic and illusions rather than risk drawing on a power that he couldn’t control.