“Wake the hell up, both of you!”

The lieutenant shook the two guards from their slumber. Short groans left their lips, but both men stiffened at the sight of their superior and rose to their feet. The coat of snow upon the cobblestone arch bridge clung to their red garbs with the wetness of the late winter drift. The iron bars of their helms guarded their eyes, and they clenched the throwing spears in their hands. The sabers at their sides were without sheath, and as they stood, the edge of one came close to the lieutenant’s leg, eliciting a second call of reprimand. The lieutenant rapped the back of their helmets as he scolded them.

“Watch the sword! On Valor’s spear, if I catch you two sleeping on watch again, I’ll have you hung from the neck till dead. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, my lord.” “Yes, my lord.”

“Do you boys see that flag over there, the black one?” The lieutenant aimed a finger toward the black waters of the harbor. Anchored in the deep of the port was a brig, with three looming masts and a hull of black paint lined with pitch and steel and strung with barnacles. It was grander than any merchant galley and longship docked at the harbor. A long flag hung from the main mast, dark and hard to see through the shadows of night, and inscribed with three circling crows.

“Them’s the Midnight Crows. From the Long Isle west of Haffensberg, and they’re paying us five silver a piece for good security, and a blind eye. Five silver. That’s more than you fools make in a week, and twice as much as you show to your families, and if they catch us with our pants down at our post, they’ll throw us in chains and use us as oarsmen. Does that sound like a good time to you?”

“No, my lord.” “No, my lord.”

“Oh, I am sure it does not! I could scarcely bear the thought of the night ladies losing such loyal customers. Now stand straight, or you will have no legs to stand on, nor a torso, nor a neck! Bloody fools…”

As the luitenant marched off, the two guards let go of their baited breaths. The small waves of the harbor water clashed against the cobble

“Midnight Crows,” spoke one guard, his voice low with contempt. His right arm was adorned with the patch of the city guard of Vimbaultir. A wolf of red and white on a grey field of three spears, under which his name was spelled, ‘Cane’. His partner wore a matching patch with the name ‘Marren’ inscribed there.

“Fancy name for a pack of pirates.”

“You’d make a poor oarsman,” Cane pulled a cantine off his hip and drank through the guard of his visor. The winter air had chilled the mead, but it still warmed him. He passed the bladder off to Marren.

“Good. I don’t plan to be one.”

“You make a lousy guard just the same.”

“Be quiet,” Marren shoved his friend. Loose snow continued to fall from their garbs, a memory of their rest upon the cold ground. This winter had been rather tame compared to the hell of years prior. The Upper Brux had not iced over once, and the merchants had started their retreat up north before winter had even waned. “You fell asleep first.”

“I did not,” Cane replied.

“Sure you did. A woman walked by and you fainted on the spot.”

“Oh sod-off you dam-”

“Lera.” “Lera.”

The guardsmen went limp at the cast. They fell backward against the two cloaked magii, who lowered them down below the wall of the harbor bridge. The command to slumber had knocked the pair out, and soon enough the two guardsmen were dragged through the wet snow to be stashed beneath a rack of boards. The magii, dressed in black pelts and black veils, with gloves of black and black shoes to boot, nodded at one another as one retrieved a whistle from their sash. A silent call was levied, and from the shadows at their side, two more thieves arrived. They had a rowboat levied over their shoulders, and in the light of the full moon, the squad began their descent to the waterside. They never once spoke, but when the chilled water graced their leather boots, one figure turned around and whispered an order.

“Soul, Blade - Once Slash and I take off, you two ought to regroup with the others. Have the horses ready, and keep everything quiet. Understood?”

Bella and Leon exchanged nods with Sylas as Ander stepped forward into the water. While the bay was deep, their step only went down half a foot. When his two brothers placed the rowboat in the water, Ander held it still as Sylas stepped in. The cold water splashed against his form, but he did not shudder. From the corner of his vision, he saw Bella and Leon slip out of sight, off to rejoin Thaddeus, Damien, and Nallia with their steeds.

With a good grip on the wooden craft, the blonde thief pushed off the step and found his spot in the front of the rowboat. The boat afforded them little room, barely enough for two passengers, and a small stash for cargo. Both men were about equal in size, so there was little worry about balance. From the low of the boat, they sourced paddles to begin down the harbor’s length. Their strokes were slow, and silent in the night as their eyes watched out for the sight of other city guard watches. Their objective: the brig of the Midnight Crows.

“Take me round the stern. That’s where the captain’s quarters are,” Ander leaned back to whisper. “I can crack open the windows for us to climb through without much trouble. It would be an easy entrance.”

“I agree,” replied his elder. “We’ll keep to the sides of the harbor and then to the breakwaters. It’s dark, but not as dark as I would like it to be. Keep your strokes low and your head lower.”

“Aye-aye.”

Their craft crept forward through the waves, leaning left and right with every swell. The stern of the brig was facing the Brux, sealed away from the sight of the guards. The two passed the harbor deck and began their stretch down the stunted breakwaters. The Brux was a strong river, but it flowed calmly and stretched near a half-mile wide. Upon the stern of the black craft, a large coil of rope sunk into the inky black of the water, clinging to the riverbed via a heavy anchor of iron. The boat was a good four, maybe five stories grand, and it stretched the length of two of their strongholds. Limp hooks and ropes hung from the decks where rowboats were once mounted. The sailormen were off on shore, enjoying winter wine and comforting women.

“The life of a raider,” Sylas said beneath the gentle crash of waves against wood. “Pillaging, plunder, and endless ocean.”

“And gold,” Ander added.

“Hah, yes. Gold for certain.”

“Here we are.”

Sylas stowed his oar beneath his board seat at the rear of the rowboat. He sourced a thin line of rope and a small spike of iron that pierced the tether to make a tail hook. The axman plunged the spike into the thick wood of the brig’s stern, connecting the two ships to forbid the rowboat from floating away. Sylas then looked across at Ander, who was busy mapping out the rear of the ship. Two stories above them were a pair of large pane windows, belonging to the captain’s quarters. With the flick of Ander’s wrist, a small ‘ching’ sounded as the latch to the window came open. Their entrance was prepared.

“Ready for the climb?” Sylas passed Ander a pair of climbing spikes. The mount would be easy compared to Ander’s climb at The Summer Trance.

“I was born for it.”

Their feet left the floor of the dingy, and beneath the pale moonlight, the two thieves began scaling the stern of the grand ship. It took only a moment for their hands to find the stool of the windows, and Ander rose to peer into the chambers. He fell back to whisper to Sylas.

“The captain’s still on the ship.”

“Blasted,” Sylas cursed the mariner. “What’s he doing?”

“Plotting a course from the looks of it.” With another glance, Ander saw the ink compass in the old man’s hand crawling over several sprawled-out maps, some in greyscale, and some with vibrant color.

“I have an idea.”

With silence, Ander mounted the sill of the window to climb into the captain’s quarters. Sylas had levied a hand to stop him, but his grip was too late. The axman put on a cringe, but when Ander’s feet graced the floorboards of the brig, there came no reaction from the captain. The man, easily past fifty years in age - if not sixty - was too busy looking down his maps to notice the thief enter his chambers.

Ander crept across the floor, past hung bottles of run and summer wines, silver lantern hooks and weapons of plundering, and all else that scum of the Long Isle covet. The chilled air of the bay was soon to creep into the room, and just as the old pirate was beginning to feel the turn in temperature, Ander reached out to rap the back of the man’s greying head.

“Lera.”

The pirate’s head fell against his round wooden table with a muted *thunk*, numbed with sleep put upon him by the magii thief. The compass he held in his hand fell off the table and his bottle of ink dared to spill, but Ander was swift in keeping it steady. The room was lively for only a moment, but then the moment passed, and the boy signaled for his comrade to climb inside.

“That’s one useful spell, ain’t it?”

“A cast,” Ander corrected him. “Spells are used by blood reapers and wizards. I am a magii, I forge casts, not spells.”

“Are they not the same thing?” Sylas joined his brother’s side. Ander deadpanned.

“No, not at all.”

“It’s none the matter,” Sylas raised a hand to stop the argument. “The brig should be empty save for him and a retainer crew on guard. We have Aldrr knows how long until some claw walks in here.”

“Then we best start looking for the key.”

Sylas nodded in agreement. According to the Corps gang, the Midnight Crow captain kept with him a chest full of gold. And true to the rumor, that very chest was planted in the corner of the room, beside the captain’s bed. All that was left to do was to find the key to its lock.

The black-haired man began his search through the various drawers of the cabin, while Ander padded down the captain’s person in search of the key. He found no such piece, but when the young man’s eyes graced the floor of the quarters, a thought crossed his mind. The floorboards were strewn with corks and bits of glass and brown and red stains, mostly beneath the large table. With his mind made up, he left the captain’s side and walked off to grab one. He drew his knife and he picked the cork out of the bottle with a *pop*.

Sylas looked up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“The Midnight Crows only operate at night. They’re nocturnal. If the captain finds himself passed out after waking up, he may be on edge. He will be looking for the reason why he blacked out. He would end up checking his chest and realizing that he was robbed. But if he wakes to a bottle of rum at his side-” Ander paused to stand beside the captain with the rum in his hand. He soaked the floor with the liquor, and then the pants and tunic of the sleeping captain “-He will assume it was the rum that put him to rest, not us. Look around, the man’s a drunkard. He may be a hundred leagues from Vimbualtir by the time he checks his chest and realizes he was robbed.”

Sylas stood, barren of emotion, as Ander made his reasons known. When the lad was finished, Ander saw the hints of a smirk in the man’s eyes.

“You picked up on that?”

“I was taught to pick up on that.”

Sylas shook his head, and sans another word, the thief returned to his search. Every nook of that chamber was searched, not once, or twice, but thrice in all. And yet, there was found not a key anywhere. Only a crude lockpick set, with two small metal prongs with worn ends, encased in an aged wooden box. It was Ander who found the set, but it was Sylas who put two and two together.

“In all my years of being a larcen, I have yet found a man so brazen as this pirate.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“How so?”

Sylas swiped the aged lockpick set and made for the chest beside the pirate’s cot. He kneeled at its side and motioned for Ander to do the same. He laid out the lockpick set as he spoke.

“What kind of lock is this, Ander?”

Ander eyed up what little of the lock was visible. Its mechanism was hidden behind a veil of wood, but he still knew what type of hatch it was.

“A break-lock,” the boy replied. “It’s why we looked for a key. If I were to pick it with the strings, it would trigger itself and shatter the components. Keeping it locked forever.”

“Precisely. That’s why this pirate is a damn madman,” said Sylas. He raised the two metal prongs and inserted them into the keyhole. The pins began to sound off as the thief applied torque, but not enough force to trigger the mechanism. Ander watched with bated breath, all the while Sylas spoke his mind.

“There is no key, that’s the trick. The fool uses this lockpick to open the chest. Look, you can see where the prongs have torn away a bit of the trim.”

“And you figured this all out without even taking a good lock at the chest?”

“I’ve been in this game far longer than you have, Ander.” Sylas squinted his eyes, and not a moment later the lock clicked, and the hatch was pushed ajar. With his two picks, the man turned to Ander, smugness shielded by his veil. “A few years of wisdom is all it takes to get a sixth sense for these things.”

“I may have doubts about this ‘sixth sense’,” Ander said as the two heaved open the box. The inside glowed with reflected light. “But I don’t doubt that.”

“Load up all you can. Three stone may be pushing it, just take what you can carry.”

“Already ahead of you.”

The two pulled from their hips matching leather bags, and bit by bit they took from the chest gleaming bits of gold and jewelry. There were coins of various mints, some human, some Alff, and some even from the Arkkon. There were necklaces and bracelets of gold and silver, jewels of pearl, waxed gemstones, and other precious metals. The box held enough to set a man well off for the whole of his life, but they weren’t ordinary men. The Corps gang levied heavy fees for loyalty and territory. Most of the gold would go to them.

“Are we ready to set off?” Sylas stood up, followed by Ander. Their bags were heavy with worth, and the ship was as still as ever. No guards had made the mistake of entering the captain’s chambers. The old pirate was till as sound asleep as ever, and the room had gone quite cold. They exchanged a nod before making off toward the window to begin their descent down the stern.

While he felt comfortable in his capacity to climb, Ander always found the egress harder than the initial scale. Reaching and pulling was easy, but descent required precision and durable muscles to weather the lengthier journey. And with the added weight of their loot strung to their hips, by the time they landed on the floor of their rowboat, both men were heaving hurried breaths with beads of sweat forming behind their masks. But now was not the time to recuperate, they were in the thick of danger and had to depart the port at once.

The rest of the clan, and their steeds, were held up half a mile downstream. When in the tide of the Brux, such a short journey would be easy to weather. But they weren’t in the tide, the harbor walls kept the port water still and lethargic to churn through. The brig was in the deep of the port, but there was a solid hundred yards left of rowing before they were in the clear. At once they began untying their boat from the brig, and with the push of his oar, Sylas set them off on their escape.

“How in hearts of hell did you end up under there!”

“Wake up, I said wake up, damn you!”

Commands bellowed from the stone walks of the port as the sound of a familiar lieutenant rang out. Groans followed the shouts, and soon enough, the realization was upon the fleeing thieves. Before either could speak, there sounded greater cries.

“Thieves! We have thieves amongst us!”

“Thieves, you say?”

“Fires, light the fires!”

“The fires!”

“Find the thieves, you fools! Find them!”

The dark was burned away from the harbor as great fires were set aflame. They rose in massive grate mantles planted on the cobblestone jetties, and the waters were swiftly drained of their blackness. Not all of the mantles were alight, but soon enough, they would be, and the two thieves would be caught with a hundred guardsmen to fall upon them. Seconds seperated them from capture.

“Damn it all!” Sylas sneered, digging deep into the water to thrust the boat faster. Ander did the same, but after a moment, he stopped. He caught the glimpse of the mantle closest to them - the one that would shine light on their position. Three men manned it, and in the distance, a torchbearer was running close, with a lit wooden log wrapped in oiled rags.

“Row, boy!”

“No, no, no. Get down,” Ander’s eyes ran around the harbor. “Get down and make sure we don’t tip.”

“Tip, why would it tip? We need to ro-”

“Get down, now!”

Ander shut his eyes as his hands began to burn with blue light. The waters became alive. Wakes formed to crash against the hull of the rowboat and the walls of the stone harbor. Winds whipped with frozen fangs, and small chunks of ice spun about whirlpools in the water. The night began to shake, and the light of Ander’s hand began to bleed into the water.

Ander peeled his eyes open to stare down at Sylas. He was on his feet now, and in an instant, the black-haired thief dropped to the floor. The man knew what was to follow. When the light was burning brightest, Ander clasped his hands together and fell to press them into the water. He called in a hushed voice-

“Naros!”

Beneath their boat, there formed a great swell, reaching up yards in height to crash hard against the nearby stone dock. The mantle, its three guards, and the torchbearer were all doused in frigid water as the wave collapsed on the cobblestones. There sounded cries of freight, and promptly after, groans of cold and weary men. The lieutenant called again.

“What in the great gods was that!”

“A wave, lord lieutenant!”

“Well, light the fires! Now!”

“We can’t, my lord. The mantle’s soaked!”

“Ander?”

Sylas stared up at the teetering thief before him. Ander’s legs were buckled, but before the boy could fall, Sylas bolted up to catch him. He wasn’t all limp, but fatigue had set on him as his cast was set against the shore. As Sylas listened to the calls of the harbor, he heard not a sound about the thieves. They had managed to go undetected, and the mantle had failed to light.

“You stay here, stay low,” Sylas lowered the boy to the floor. Ander bid him no response other than a groan. “I will finish this. Rest.”

“So what if the mantle’s wet? Use more oil!”

“My lord, the fire would be without control!”

“I’ll show you control, boy! I assure you! If I don’t see that fire lit in five seconds, I’ll hang you with your own entrails, damn it!”

“Hah, haha,” low laughs escaped Ander's slack jaw. As awareness returned to him, Sylas could hear the boy slur the words, “Scant uses, she says.”

As Sylas urged their boat ever forward, Ander laid still with his head against the wooden floor, staring into the night sky with a dazed look. Low breaths escaped his lips, and when their rowboat became caught in the stream of the river Brux, he stirred with enough strength to speak.

“Are we out of the harbor?”

“That we are,” Sylas replied. He used his oar to keep the rowboat close to the shore. By how swift the river ran, he knew the fire would be upon them in swift time. He kept his eyes focused as he repeated the words, “That we are.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Pardon?”

“Let me hear how foolish that was. Go ahead. I feel the scolding coming like a withered man can when rain is soon to fall. Let me hear it.”

Sylas did not speak, but rather he dug a hand into the fold of his sashe. He drew a bottle from the belt he wore there, and he held it out for Ander to grab. The younger man raised his weary arm to take the drink. When he uncorked it, the smell of wine was strong in his senses.

“Don't drink it all. You have to be aware enough to mount a horse, remember?”

“I trust Raynar to keep me on my saddle,” Ander scoffed. He began to down gulps of the red wine. The smell was strong, but he could tell it was not a hard vint.

“For a man burdened with such responsibilities, I wonder why you drink as much as you do?”

“You can only wonder because you bear no burdens,” Sylas spoke with clouds of frost forming in his breath through his veil. He removed his mask, and beneath it, his hair was wet with river water and sweat. Neither of the thieves felt any of the cold, their adrenaline continued to rush in their blood.

“If only I did not.”

“Why did you take up magic, Ander,” the black-haired thief dragged his oar through the river water. The moonlight did not crest the stone bed, which sank about two yards deep. The center of the river sank at least twenty yards. Deep enough for even the largest of longboats and brigs to sail through.

“Was our escape not enough of an example?”

“You would have me believe you learned magic so you could splash in the water? No, no I do not believe you, Ander.”

“If you are as calculated of a man as I think you are, then you know that scenes like that are exactly why I learned magic,” Ander lied through his teeth. But he could tell Sylas knew better. When he found the strength to sit up, he saw the man’s face narrowed with distrust.

The blonde thief remembered a word of wisdom given to him by the lord scholar some time ago. It was during his last visit with the elder Vaughstock. “The greatest lie is the truth itself.”

If he could not lie to Sylas, he would tell the truth. Plain, and twisted.

“My past life is gone, dead as the scars that graze my skin. I do not have the strength to right what is wrong, but I can grow stronger to fix our future. Bella told me that magic was not made for the blood of man. But I say otherwise. I say my will is strong enough to do what is not possible. I do not care if my blood was not made for strength. I say to hell with blood and mortal makes. I will do what I yearn to do, and magic will be my crutch, and my blade all the same.”

Sylas did not respond at first. Ander saw in the man’s gray eyes that he was uncertain if Ander had spoken true. It seemed the old lord's words were true. The truth was the greatest lie ever told.

“...If what you say is true. If you learned magic for our sake, then I have nothing but gratitude for you, Ander.”

Ander’s eyes saw a rare sight at that moment. Sylas’ lips were curled in a slight smile.

“It takes great strength to put the clan's sake beyond your own. It takes leadership to do that. Not many men carry that trait, Ander.”

“Hah,” Ander pushed himself up to sit on the plank seat at the front of the rowboat. In the distance, a fire was burning. “Sylas, we are not of the ‘many men’. We are beyond that. We are burdened by great responsibility.”

“Great responsibility?” Sylas's brow was raised in confusion. The man let out low laughs, “If that is what you are keen to call it.”

“I am.” Ander turned his back to Sylas to stare down the river. A bend in the river had revealed their kin's signal fire. He made out four standing figures, and a row of horses, all lying flat on the bank of the river. Sylas took up his oar once more to navigate closer to the shore. The depth of the riverbed crept up on them, and soon enough, the hull of their rowboat was biting into the gravel of the bank. They came to a full halt, and dismounted their ride.

With their gold and kit accounted for, Sylas kicked the rowboat free of the gravel's grip to restart its trip down the river. The Brux took hold of the boat, and in a minute’s time, it was a hundred yards downstream. The rest of the group approached them in the low water. It was as cold as ever.

“Where's Thaddeus?” Sylas turned to take attendance. His best friend was not among them. “Where is the fool?”

“He took up watch in the forest. He's still in earshot,” said Bella. The clan were all without their masks, but their garbs lent them enough warmth to stave off shivering. Save for Nallia, who often cursed the cold due to her Nyx blood.

“Good. Call him back, ready the horses,” Sylas listed his commands, but before the group peeled off, the black-haired thief approached Bella. He stood close to her only to levy a finger at Anded. Leon's face became twisted with concern as both Damien and Nallia looked on with interested gazes.

Sylas spoke. “Whatever you taught that boy… It saved our lives today. He did better than anyone else could have in his position. I may owe my life to him now.”

He looked between Bella and Leon. “You two should be proud. For all you have taught him, he used it tonight.”

“Sylas Lone, I have never once taken you as a flatterer,” Leon quipped. When Sylas drew his ax, the blonde swordsman was quick to quiet.

“Enough. Let's get a move on. If the Nyx is cold, Thaddeus will be a block of ice come the time we find him. Let's move, all of us!”

The fire was stomped out and the coals were raked against the white layer of the shore. The horses were urged to their feet, and Thaddeus returned from the wood with snow hung from his black garbs. Everyone was soon mounted on their horses, seven in total, with Sylas in the lead, and Ander meaning the rear. His strength had returned for the most part, and he had no trouble guiding Raynar. His mount was happy to see the blonde thief again. The two had grown quite close over the cold seasons.

“Are we good to ride?” Sylas called out. A choir of affirmation replied to him. The lead thief wiped the reins of his horse, and the lot was off into the boundless woods.

But Ander did not go.

The boy slipped off the round of his saddleback upon the white-covered stones of the shore. Raynar turned to face him, neigh in confusion as he nudged his master. Ander patted down his mane.

“Not yet, my friend.”

The horse was content with the order, shaking his pelt to get the last of the wet snow off his silver hair.

When Ander Idris approached the running waters of the Brux, he peeled off the whole of his mask to stuff it into his black sash. His hair had grown long over the past nineteen months. It had been nineteen months since the fall of Sylrel, and nineteen months since his last haircut. Locks of golden hair fell to his shoulders, a second mask for when his black veil was not worn. He ran a hand through it, and with the same hand, he drew his knife.

For the whole of a year, Ander had trained his body to become useful. It had only been by the word of the lord scholar had he learned his use. What he told Sylas was nothing but the truth. He could not bring back his family, but he would never let go of his goal to avenge them. And tonight was the final step in this long stretch of life. He had grown strong in the ways of the magii, and the path forward was clear as the stretch of river before him.

He gripped the whole of his hair to hold above his head. His eyes fell shut, and he cut.

*Shrppp*

His hair was cleaved in a clean swipe of his knife, and he tossed his handful of gold into the river. The hairs sunk beneath the black wake, fading away in the tide to join the brush of the riverbed. He ran his empty hand through his short hair. It was barely long enough to be seen in his vision now.

He was as ready as he would ever be. The next step was upon him, and soon enough his time in Vimbaultir would come to a close. Even Sylas saw his strength. Perhaps he was not on par with Aranos - the fallen lord of flames - but that would come in time.

With a voice full of resolution, Ander remounted Raynar, and spoke into the wind. His words were heard all across Sylvee.

“This is the way.”