1st Yearsend, 998 NE
The Western Wench was the perfect staging area for the strike. He’d had the owners lock the doors, spreading word that a fire had gutted the interior – and paid them a hefty sum out of his own pocket so that they didn’t kick up a fuss about their losses. The inkatra spent getting the illusory smoke right was another expense to add to the list. Still, it was a fraction of what it’d cost him to bribe the watchmen to steer clear, maybe have a sergeant brush a few reports under the carpet… Ridiculous. But he couldn’t afford for word to get out, not with his life on the line like this. Not with an archmage to trap.
The tavern wasn’t two minutes’ walk from the Gold Griffin, but it was still six or seven corners away, so they wouldn’t be seen coming until they were within spitting distance. He’d gathered almost twenty of the lads here, with another dozen protecting key locations – and they’d all been waiting in position for the last thirty-six hours. He didn’t give a damn about Yearsend, family, none of that drop – and the grumblers who couldn’t take the strain would be punished as he saw fit.
The Bertie Boys knew it. Those waiting with him in the tavern, at least. They didn’t grumble. They behaved as professionals, sharpening weapons, going over their plans, sleeping in shifts.
It was mid-morning when Jerle entered through the double doors, leading a ten- or eleven-year-old with a scarf around his neck.
Wyre felt the tingle up his spine once more, and straightened on his cushions, moving aside his ale tankard.
“Ticken, innit?”
The boy blinked, the motion barely visible through the mop of brown hair covering his eyes. His lips were parted in awe, but his tongue wasn’t waking up.
“Ticken Sawdan,” Jerle said when the boy didn’t respond.
“You look nice an’ impressed with me,” Wyre complimented the youngster. “But it’s time to open your trap, kid. Like you was told, your family’s gettin’ either a great big Yearsend pressie every year till me and mine are dust – or somethin’ else.”
He left the threat vague. A sprat like this one would probably pass out if he said what was actually on his mind.
“He’s g-gone,” Ticken managed to say. “Kas, I mean – he’s gone. The – his –“ The kid swallowed, closing his eyes, then forced the words out in an angry voice: “Jaroan. They’re outside, in the lane. The tw-twins.”
“We’ll never get an opportunity like this again, boss,” Lark commented from the bench opposite him.
“It’s do or die,” Wyre said in agreement, getting to his feet and putting his hands on his knife-hilts. He wore the weapons openly on his belt for the first time in years. “Gods, this feels good. Doessen it feel good?”
The Bertie Boys gathered around him and behind him as they made their way through the double-doors of the Western Wench, stepping out into the muck as a single big group – but none of them actually walked ahead of him, even on the flanks of the crowd. There were few wagons out on the roadways, what with this being the morning of gift-giving and all, but those rare individuals who appeared in the gang’s path made damn sure they were off the road when the Boys strode by.
When they reached the Gold Griffin, Wyre came to a halt, leaving a solid twenty feet of distance between him and the end of Mud Lane, putting the pub between him and his targets.
No one was speaking. They knew what they had to do. Nods of heads were all that was required. One by one, leaving a good twenty seconds gap between them, the Boys started going around the Griffin, heading down the lane. They would travel at a leisurely pace, start loitering – nothing overt.
The first one to get close would grab the kids. Both of them, preferably, but one would do. One would be enough to bring the ‘champion’ to heel.
After two minutes he couldn’t take it anymore, and with a quick gesture the next Bertie Boy stopped in his tracks, letting the boss go in his place.
Wyre followed the path that skirted the pub, turned and looked down the lane – and it had gone wrong.
The kids – nowhere to be seen. His Boys… disappearing into a stairwell that ran up the side of the apartment-block halfway down on the right.
“Boys, on me!” he roared, setting off down the incline.
He wouldn’t sprint – he would stroll. The last ten or so of his minions still lingering behind the Griffin now surged out of hiding, splashing through the drop to catch him up, then slowed once they reached him, keeping behind him again.
Like the rats they were, the denizens of the lane scurried indoors or at least moved out of sight as soon as they saw him coming, allowing their betters to pass without obstacle. By the time Wyre reached the stairs and climbed them to the third floor, a tide of fists and knives at his back, he realised from the commotion that a stalemate of some kind had been reached. It took him a moment to work out what had happened.
Six of the Boys were there. Garet had his back to the balcony, and he was pinning back the arms of a short, attractive woman. (She was just Wyre’s type, young, dark-skinned and shapely, with black, tangled hair – if only she was a bit taller…)
By the looks of how even muscle-bound Garet was struggling to restrain her, she was stronger than she seemed. She wasn’t screaming or yelling, but she was fighting.
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Then Wyre noticed Lark, sitting on the planks with bloody hands pressed across his clearly-broken nose, and his respect for the woman rose again.
Opposite Garet and his captive, an open apartment door loomed – and everyone’s words and attention seemed to be focussed on the occupants.
Why aren’t they going in? Wyre wondered; it was only as he reached the crowd and stepped in front of them that he felt the very magic they’d told him about, jarring his motion aside slightly: an invisible barrier, curving up and around slightly out of the door-frame. There wasn’t even a smudge on the air, but it was as solid as steel, textureless, like hard water.
Garet was holding the woman less than twelve inches from it, and Wyre was pretty certain the barrier would let her pass.
“Good job, Garet,” he said, putting all his approval into his voice, turning his head to peer through into the apartment. “What ‘ave we ‘ere then.”
The two kids were right in front of him. Straw-haired, skinny-looking runts. The boy had a fire in his eyes as he stared right back at Wyre and the others, but the girl was behind him with panic on her face, raising a chunk of crystal up in front of her face –
A glyphstone! his mind barked at him.
The pair were right there, six feet away, and a thousand miles. They were somewhere he couldn’t go.
“Throw a knife,” he growled.
“Tried it, boss,” one of the lads said sullenly.
“Bounced, like,” Jerle commented.
“Then we’ll go one better.” Wyre drew his own blade, his favourite, from his left hip into his right hand. He grabbed the hair of the woman in Garet’s arms, brought her face down savagely, settling the serrated teeth at the base of the dagger-blade against her windpipe.
“Oi kid! Jaid! Put that thing down or she bleeds out, ‘ere an’ now!”
To help deliver his point he dragged a few steel teeth across just the top few layers of her skin. Not enough to open her airway. Just enough to agonise her.
He’d lost none of his skill. The flesh parted like a flower blooming red.
She made sound, not a scream but a hissing whine – yet she held herself even more still, submitting to his grasp, his knife.
She might be useful, this one, he thought. She’s resilient.
There were any number of uses such a woman could be put. He favoured the games – female gladiators were a rarity, and once he removed their tongues they never found a way to seek help. His handlers shaved their heads, tattooed them, strapped them in armour and furs – no one ever recognised them at a distance from the stands. This one could be put to such a purpose – or others… Some people liked them with a bit of fight left in them.
He didn’t turn to look into the doorway. That would be weakness. It was up to these twins now – he just kept at his task, moving the knife a little lower and then dragging it through the skin again, and again –
Lark, cradling his face, muttered, “Sheeb’s stobbed, bosh.”
At the same time, two kiddie voices started wailing behind him, begging him to let her go.
He took a moment, making another deft slice, before halting his hand as if merely hesitating, swivelling his head to look around at them:
“Oh? Why stop? Are you comin’ out, or am I killin’ this one?”
He saw the glyphstone, lying dark at the girl’s feet. That meant nothing now, though. She could’ve got something through, even if she’d only had a few seconds, couldn’t she? He wasn’t sure – you couldn’t use glyphstones for anything illegal, not without risking being exposed to a magister at the network who was watching – but he suspected she’d done something with it.
“You could k-kill her anyway, if we come out,” the boy said, his voice shaking, but not as much as Wyre might’ve expected.
“True, Jaroan,” he replied, grinning. “But I can’t as throw her in, and trust you to your word, can I now, young man?”
“I’ll come. You return her.”
“No!” Jaid screamed, leaping forward and grabbing her brother’s arm –
At the same time the woman, whose hair he was still holding tightly, pulled back a little and started shouting at the twins:
“Don’t you dare move!”
Wyre sighed.
“One of you ain’t enough, kids,” he growled at them. “I want you both. Now.”
He placed the serrated teeth of the blade against her jugular, this time, and went a little deeper. He let a bit of his savageness out.
Now the woman shrieked, out of the shock, the suddenness of it –
A neighbour opened their door, their face contorted in outrage – an expression that swiftly melted to fright, the door slamming closed again immediately, when they saw just who it was on their porch.
“Okay!” Jaroan cried. “My sister first!”
The girl started blubbering.
“Your sister?” Hadin sneered. “You cowardly little git.”
“You reeking idiot,” the blond kid said, looking up disdainfully at the guy. Hadin wasn’t tall, but he was still head and shoulders above Jaroan – yet somehow that didn’t really seem to matter.
“Confident behind that… spell thing, aren’t you, little git.” Hadin spat the words. “Wait till you’re out –“
“Shut – your – face before I cut it off,” Wyre hissed at the fool, then turned back to the boy. “I get it. ‘E doessen, but I do. You send her cos I know you won’t let her go with me alone. I like it. You’re clever, lad. I won’t mistreat you.” He hardened his voice, lowered it: “Now throw her ‘ere before I change my mind.”
Lips firmly fixed in a line, the little kid wrestled his sister towards the edge of the barrier.
Hands grasped Jaid, and held her, and soon muffled her shrill yells. They didn’t cover her wild, roving eyes though.
“N-now her,” Jaroan murmured, suddenly looking sick.
Wyre smiled again, assessed the woman, and clocked her in the side of the chin with a solid left hook.
She sagged, but it took another punch before her eyes rolled back. Garet leaned forwards, lowering her into the barrier.
The wide-eyed boy caught her, dragged her away, and placed her head as gently as he could manage on the wooden floor…
Silence fell across the lot of them, and Jaroan looked back and forth across the faces surrounding him, all of their eyes glaring at him, even his sister’s –
“Lad…” Wyre said in a tone of warning.
No warning was really needed. He had the boy’s sister. Twin sister. There was no way he was going to do something stupid. Not like this.
Jaroan stepped forwards, eyes on his feet, biting his lip and blinking frantically in terror.
It was a sweet thing, to inflict such fear. Especially in the kin of an archmage who was waging a silent war on Wyre and his friends. This was a glorious day.
Wyre felt it as the smile on his face became a smirk, almost a grimace, nearly painful in its intensity.
He turned away, the Bertie Boys who’d been gathered behind him opening up their ranks to admit him, and he made his way back to the stairwell, descending to the street. They all fell into line in his wake, tramping down the steps.
When he reached the mud of Mud Lane he looked behind him, and saw that the girl was bucking and kicking, being carried – but the boy was walking with his head bowed, needing only a big, heavy hand on his shoulder to enforce his captivity.
It all went to plan, he thought in wonder. Or as close to plan as it could’ve.
Feychilde’s brother and sister under his power, Wyre led the Bertie Boys back to the base, and sat down in the midst of his minions, still smirking, preparing himself.
Waiting.
He was better at waiting these days.