The Howling Delve - Jaleigh Johnson

With much to gain, thought Balram. Like Morel, he had used his years wisely. "The men I have trained, the men who, if this attempt succeeds, will be assets to your organization," he added pointedly, "have not been tested."

"Ah, unfortunate," Daen agreed. "Men loyal to Balram but not yet weaned from Morel's purse. You have no idea if they will actually be able to betray the man who feeds and shelters them. Which brings up a point close to my heart," he added, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, "and those of my colleagues. How will you be able to survive without Morel's considerable income, should you succeed? The gem road connects his doorstep to Keczulla, and his fortunes look only to increase with the growth of that city. Forgive me, but financially, the jewel-lord of Esmeltaran is a more favorable prospect for the Shadow Thieves than the mercenary, Balram Kortrun."

"I have served Morel a decade this winter. I am not without assets."

"Oh, splendid," Daen chortled. "You have been hoarding the pearls, so to speak. No doubt Morel was willing to pay his guard captain a satisfactory price to keep his family and fortune safe from assassins."

A larger price than Daen would ever conceive, Balram agreed silently. Twelve years of looking over his shoulder had wrought more taints in Dhairr than just paranoia, but that condition had helped Balram's cause the most. Morel had been more than willing to offer his captain the coin and latitude to do as he desired.

More than willing to open his home to a coinless mercenary and his starving son.

The trembling sensation returned to his hands. Balram fisted one on the naked blade of his sword until he felt flesh give. Like the severing of a wire, the tension inside him eased.

You have outgrown Lord Morel, he reminded himself. The Shadow Thieves could offer him more than a life of servitude. They would take him and Aazen into their protection, allowing Balram to expand on the foundation he'd built. In quieter days, he would allow himself to regret killing Morel and his son, even to grieve for them—but not now. Now, he could afford no feeling, no compassion, for the Shadow Thieves—despite Daen's jovial bluster—permitted neither.

If the plan failed . . . no, it would not, not as long as secrecy prevailed. He had warned Dhairr to avoid drawing suspicion, but even on his guard, Morel could not stand against so many. His men would use all caution.

From the window, he had a clear view of the west tower of the estate, its aviary alive with the cries of hawks and other raptors. A guard stepped into view at one of the arched openings. Balram raised a hand.

The guard caught the gesture and slipped into the shadows of the tower. A breath passed, and the bird cries intensified. When the guard re-emerged, his sword lay bare in his hand, and his face was covered by a dark hood that obscured all but his eyes. In his other hand, he held a flaming scrap of cloth stuffed into a green glass bottle.

Without hesitating, the guard threw the concoction of fire down into the central courtyard, where it smashed against a lattice of wood and climbing roses.

Shouts and smoke immediately filled the courtyard. Balram stepped away from the window. He slid his uninjured hand inside a carefully sewn pocket at the breast of his tunic. His fingers closed around a hard, circular object that seemed to pulse under leather and flesh.

All caution. He repeated the mantra. And if that wasn't enough, well, Daen wasn't the only one who possessed magic.

CHAPTER TWO

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

Kall couldn't think. He looked desperately to the shore, at Dencer nocking another arrow to his longbow. The other figures were on the move, covering their faces with some sort of hood, fading back into the trees in the direction of his father's estate. Kall could see the tips of its two domed towers in the distance.

Morel house was being attacked from within. His mind fumbled over the realization. Did his father know of the treachery? Was he still alive? The last thought sent a tremor through Kall's body. If Aazen hadn't been there to grab him, Kall would have lurched up onto the rock, running right into death to get back to the house.

"Kall," Aazen croaked, snapping the boy's attention back to the shore. Dencer stood, aiming, but something was wrong. He was taking too long, holding the shot. "W-what's he waiting for?"

Aazen's teeth chattered despite the warmth of the day. Kall held him up, treading water for both of them. "I don't know," he said.

Suddenly, the air whistled again. Kall braced, but the expected killing blow never came. Instead, Dencer fell to his knees, cradling his right hip.

A horse thundered up the strand of beach, kicking sand up against black flanks. Its rider tossed aside an empty crossbow and drew a short blade as he came.

Dencer had crawled to his feet by the time the rider reached him. Kall could finally make out the man's face. He was one of Kall's personal guardsmen, assigned by his father. "Haig!" he cried.

The rider ignored Kall's shout and swung down from the still-moving mount, sword leading. Dencer hastily blocked with his bow, the only weapon he could bring to hand in time. The sword bit deeply into the wood, cleaving it nearly in two.

Dencer pushed back and thrust the older man off. Haig's attack came in a bull rush, clumsy and imprecise, as if he hoped to finish his opponent off quickly and move on. Dencer dodged a second thrust, at the same time groping with the bolt that had penetrated his armor. His hand fell slack, and he swooned.

Haig pressed the advantage, driving in close for a quick kill, and played right into Dencer's feint. Dencer dropped heavily to the sand on his good side, swept one leg behind and in front of Haig's knees and twisted. The older man bent sideways and hit the ground. In the same breath Dencer sprang to his feet, running full out for the trees.

Haig cursed loudly but did not follow. He sheathed his sword and ran for the water, picking a path across the rocks.

"Haig," Kall cried again when he reached them. "Morel—the house is—"

"Besieged, aye," the man said curtly, hoisting Aazen up in his arms. "Stay behind me." His eyes were on the tree line as they picked their way back to the shore.

"Where is Father?" His heart pounding, Kall knelt on Aazen's other side as Haig laid him out on the beach. "Does he live?"

"He did, when I left him to come for you." Haig caught Kall by the arm and guided him to the arrow still planted in Aazen's shoulder. The man's hands were square and brown. Traces of gray beard lined his cheeks and chin, yet for his age he was easily twice the width of Kall, with muscle as firm as the gauntlets encasing his wrists. He shrugged off a sand-stained cloak and spread it over Aazen.

"Remove the fletchings," he instructed Kall. "Be quick, but do not aggravate the wound."

Kall did as he was told, snapping the feathery ends off an arrow he might well have helped build. The thought jarred him, and his hands trembled.

Aazen was white to the lips. He hadn't spoken. He would be thinking of his own father, Kall realized. An attack on the house would put Balram in the heart of the battle. "What of Captain Kortrun?" he asked. "Does he—"

"Mind your work!" Haig snapped.

Kall flinched and fell silent. He threw aside the fletchings and waited while Haig helped Aazen to a half-sitting position.

Haig looked the boy in the eyes. "This will hurt."

Aazen nodded, his expression resigned. "Take it—"

Before he'd finished speaking, Haig drove his arm forward. From Kall's angle, it looked as if he were trying to wrench Aazen's arm out of its socket, but the sound was nothing like that.

Cold sweat broke out on Kall's arms. He felt like retching. Aazen's body convulsed, but he stayed eerily silent as Haig tossed the bloody arrow aside, unstoppered a vial of milky liquid, and poured it down the boy's throat. His head lolling, Aazen slid into unconsciousness. A trickle of white slid down his chin.

"He'll live," Haig said grimly, putting the empty vial back in his pouch. "He's endured worse."

"What did you give him?" Kall wanted to know, but Haig had already pulled Kall to his feet, and was dragging him to the black horse.

"A healing potion." He mounted and reached down a hand for Kall.

"We can't leave him!"

Haig made an impatient sound in his throat. He hooked a hand under Kall's armpit and hauled him bodily onto the back of the horse.

"Young Kortrun will be safer than either of us," he said. "Now, if you would care to aid your father and fight for what remains of your house, we will ride swiftly and with no talk at all. If you fall off, I will not stop for you." He looked back at Kall. "Do you understand?"

Wordlessly, Kall nodded. Haig had never reproached him like this before. He'd never spoken to him at this length in all of Kall's life, though the old man had been a permanent fixture in Kall's memories since he could walk. The common jest, whispered among the guards, was that Haig preferred the company of his horse to that of people and needed no woman to warm his bed. But the subdued old man who'd shadowed his steps on the streets of Esmeltaran was not the same person who sat before him now. Where had the strength and the steel in his eyes come from?

Those eyes raked him from head to foot, noting, Kall thought, his lack of armor. He'd left the pads on the rocks of Lake Esmel with Aazen's violin. Haig reached down and freed a curved shield from where he'd hooked it to the saddle horn.

"Here," he said, thrusting the shield at Kall. "Protect yourself when we get close to the grounds." He shook his head as he gazed at Kall. "Tymora's miracle Dencer was confused. In your smallclothes, with your hair wetted down, you both look just alike."

Kall would have asked what he meant, but Haig dug his heels into horseflesh, and they were away.

CHAPTER THREE

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

The grounds were deserted. Haig's boots crunched gravel as the big man dismounted in the outer yard. He pushed Kall between himself and the horse. They moved in a line right up to the entry hall. The doors were wide open, and Kall could hear fighting within. Morel's servants—guards who had not turned traitor, even members of the household staff—fought with men in hoods. Kall had counted five such on the beach, including Dencer, and there were more inside without sand on their boots.

"Whatever happens, stay at my shoulder where I can see you." Haig spoke rapidly, reaching for the short sword affixed to his saddle. "I don't know how skilled you are with a blade, but if you get the chance to stick this in something, don't hesitate, do you hear?" When Kall nodded, he went on, "We're badly outnumbered, so remember, this house is no longer your home. It's their ground until we drive them out. Anything is a weapon to that end." He handed Kall the short sword and took a second, broader blade from a sheath. Large emeralds adorned the hilts, marks given to all the blades of Morel, from the lowliest rusted dirk to Balram's elegant long sword—a mark of Morel's success in gems and fine ornaments.

Kall's father scoffed at Amnians who draped their wealth over themselves with no context. Dhairr's gesture to even his lowest-ranking servants had clear meaning: Morel had the means to protect his own.

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