The King's Thief

Where have I been?


Well, I find that during term time, it's tough to write. As the term or half term comes to an end, it seems to come back, the will to write. And the ideas. Strange. Kind of a self-imposed writer's block. I wrote a couple of writing prompts, nothing TKT related, and had some good ideas for other stories, which will eventually appear.


When I came back to it, it was over a large rum and diet coke, as usual; seems my best writing happens with alcohol. Perhaps that's just my opinion. I think that this represents the end of a 'part'; Perhaps Chapter 20 will start Part 3, as I think the 'travel' section represents Part 2, while the intro is Part 1.


Anyway, here is the next chapter of TKT. Enjoy :D



Chapter 19


Malketh turned suddenly; it was as if a voice had called him from far away. He sat for a minute, motionless, one hand holding a struggling mouse, the other a small bottle. The fire crackled merrily in its grate, heating his cluttered quarters. Above his desk, a delicate spherical weaving of translucent bars hung, rotating slightly, no more than a foot in diameter; already cracks were appearing at the joins.
There it came again; not a vocal cry, nothing so crude as words, but definitely a use of magic, and not too far away; enough to rise above the general background magic. The sun would be up soon, and generally speaking the most powerful among the magicians would be slumbering.

Suddenly his thoughts were shattered; the mouse had squirmed itself around in his slackened grasp and sunk its teeth into his finger. Yowling in sudden pain, he flung the mouse into the corner of the room and jammed his finger into his mouth. Sucking miserably on it, he watched as the intricate web in front of him cracked and shattered. Before the pieces reached the desk, they had already evaporated, leaving him with nothing to show for the night’s work.
The awareness of power came again to him, and he shoved himself back from the desk; perhaps he could still achieve something this night. Stopping only to grab a travelling cloak from behind the door, he strode from his chamber, ears and mind tuned to any disturbance.
The city was never truly quiet, although different businesses came to life in the evenings. Where traders and merchants may have plied their wares during the daylight hours, as the sun set the entertainment services took up the slack, offering ale, beer, wine and spirits to those who could afford them. As the night wore on the brothels would become centres of commerce, catering to those most basic needs. As Malketh strode through the streets, lost in thought, he was deaf to the catcalls of women leaning over balconies, or the alcohol-infused roars of innkeepers hoping for some late custom. He had heard the call again as he had left the Barracks, but almost immediately lost it; testing each possibility of the crossroads on King’s Street had lead him down Port Road, and from there through a series of side-alleys he had ended up at the river bank, about five minutes from the port itself. Crossing Rachel’s Bridge had taken him into the Merchant’s Round, mostly warehouses and those craft workshops that did not sit well with others; butchers, tanners and the like. Malketh bent his head to listen, his meandering route taking him often around in circles, but he found, much to his surprise, that he was starting to enjoy the challenge. 
Two hours passed in this way, the moon tracing its course and setting, and the sky beginning to lighten; finally, as the sun rose, Malketh stopped.
“Hmm,” he muttered, resting his forehead against a warehouse wall. A dilapidated wreck, it stood between the storehouse of a purveyor of rat poison, and another that claimed to be the winter storage for “Mercello’s Travelling Circus of Wonders”; the giant clown’s face on the sign seemed somehow sad, staring down into the otherwise empty street, its peeling paint rough over rotting wood.
The call was almost constant here, a strong signal that came in waves. Placing his hands flat on the door, Malketh gently sent his sense into the wood. There were wards here; to prevent entry, to dampen physical noise and to dampen magical noise. There was also a physical lock, a large keyhole spotted with rust. Whatever was inside must be giving out intense magical energy to leak through a ward designed for just that purpose.
The old magician investigated each ward in turn; the configuration was less about stopping people from getting in, but containing something. His mind conjured a shape for each ward, allowing him to mentally turn it and explore its workings; the ward to prevent entry seemed to him to be a purple hexagon, quite thick; it was disappointingly simple, though, and with a gesture he swept his hand down through it, allowing himself entrance. Strangely, it was one he himself had taught to classes of apprentice magicians.
Malketh was about to trip the lock using a picking spell when he suddenly froze; something else tickled his senses. Looking down at his hand, he saw a small red blob of magical energy, attached to his palm; it weighed nothing, but when the wily magician focussed his will on it, he met resistance; here, then, was the real trap. Cleverly hidden behind the first, designed to catch the unwary; dropping to one knee, he peered inside the keyhole. A grim chuckle escaped him as his suspicions were confirmed; inside lay the second half of a much more powerful and artful spell. Any mere weakling would have destroyed the first ward, as he did, and, flushed with success, gone on to handle the lock, inadvertently activating the second spell. Particularly nasty, it appeared; its true aim was hidden, but that didn’t matter. Malketh dusted his hands off theatrically, ridding himself of the promise of violence with a simple cantrip, before starting on the lock.


Beck sat, staring at the distorted image in the mirror. Detailed in flickering shadow and silver, the face of Kaliss looked down, out of the mirror, seeming to bore straight through him. A small part of him knew that the thief wasn’t looking at Beck; he was merely staring into the whore’s helmet. As Beck watched, rage burning in his veins, the image wavered, seeming to pull the thief’s face unnaturally to one side, then the other; finally it stretched to an infinitesimally thin line before disappearing entirely, leaving Beck staring at his own naked form.
He climbed stiffly to his feet, his legs screaming protest at being forced to move after so long idle. He shrugged off the discomfort, grabbing hold of a ragged cloak to cover his body, and strode over to the worktop. There was enough light cast by the risen sun through the badly-patched roof to see that his resources were growing limited; just two of his loyal soldiers remained.
Suddenly a small sound caught his ears; he spun round, a sudden sweat springing unbidden over his body. He could not risk being discovered.
The figure was clearly delineated in the light; his breath caught in his throat as he recognised Malketh, his superior in battle and theory. Wary now, he bowed, becoming suddenly aware of his nakedness under the cloak. Pulling it further around himself, he remained silent until the other spoke.
“What is going on here, Beck? You are on sick leave, are you not?”
“I have been engaged in dealing with a sickness, yes,” Beck mused. “A cancer, one could say, on this society.”
Malketh began stalking towards the worktable, his eye obviously drawn by the superior workmanship and clever use of magic, Beck reasoned. 
“These are your work?” the old man creaked out. His body was failing him, that much was clear.
“Yes,” said Beck proudly, “They are tuned for one purpose. There were four of them, you know.” He stood a little taller as he noticed the older man’s raised eyebrows.
“For what purpose, may I ask?”
“Ah, sir, you will approve! Indeed, they are to kill the thief. Kaliss.” His smile faltered slightly as Malketh’s brow furrowed. “He caused us so much trouble, then was rescued, broken out of prison… I have worked ceaselessly since then, great one, to destroy him.”
Malketh had grown more still with every passing word, until Beck wound down. Confused, the soldier stuttered into silence.
The moment seemed to stretch into infinity. Beck could feel the slight pull as Malketh seemed to gather energy from something. Radiating pure force, Malketh began to pace towards him. Only Beck’s military training and obedience to higher rank prevented him from likewise arming himself.
Stopping in front of Beck, Malketh stared into his eyes, then suddenly Beck felt a stinging pain on his cheek; faster than he deemed possible, Malketh had slapped him!
The magician was shouting now, apoplectic with rage. “You stupid little man! You fool! He is mine and will always be mine!” Spittle ran down Malketh’s chin and flecked onto Beck’s face. “You could have killed him!”
Still clutching his injured cheek, Beck’s expression was pure confusion. “I… I don’t understand! He escaped! I just wanted to make amends for… I didn’t know.”
“No,” the other replied, “You didn’t know. And that may just be your saving grace, Beck.” Turning away from him, Malketh strode back to the worktable.
“You control these… things? You can set them to a specific mission?”
Beck shook his head. “They only target Kaliss. He injured them; their hate drives them. I can watch and give limited instructions, but their instinct guides them better.”
“And what about you, Beck? Do you hate Kaliss?”
Standing to attention, the ragged cloth falling from him, Beck stared straight in to Malketh’s eyes. “With all my heart, sir.”
The magician nodded. “Good.” He turned back to the Banshees. “Have these brought to the castle. You are reassigned to work with them; finesse your control. Get me results; rest first, and we will discuss what we want from them.”
He turned to leave, the soldier still standing rigid. As Malketh reached the door, he paused, a hand on the threshold. Glancing back, he said “And for the Gods’ own sake, Beck, put some clothes on.”


* * *


Kaliss had been sat with the severed head of Lydia for over half an hour. The crotch of his tough leather trousers was soaked with her blood, or at least he assumed it was Lydia’s; they had no way to separate the wearer from the helmet other than destroying the head. In his heart, though, he was certain.
Ryn had been pacing restlessly around him, eyes and ears alert, but without otherwise intruding on his thoughts, for which he was grateful; such a confusing, painful whirling of emotion and memory did not make for clear thinking.
Finally, he rose. He placed the head carefully in the correct place, at the top of the crumpled corpse. Taking a step back, he heaved a rattling sigh. She was not a pretty sight, even before whatever had befallen her. The ugly scar, seared shut, across her stomach was an additional ugliness, but numerous other scars pockmarked her skin, most noticeably around her womanhood. Scraggly black hair was matted, both at groin and under the helmet, the latter stretching down in random strands to cover undersized breasts that now sagged unpleasantly.
The image seared permanently into his mind, Kaliss turned away. He felt tears come unbidden to his eyes and, with an angry motion, he dashed them away.
He felt Ryn’s hand on his shoulder. Turning, trying not to look at the crumpled puppet on the floor, he met the Sylva’s eyes. There was only compassion there, and without words, he accepted Ryn’s embrace. A sob escaped him, choked off as he tried to fight rising guilt, sickness and despair.
Suddenly, cold steel intruded, at Kaliss’ neck; he lurched backwards, away from the sword that had appeared between them, but it followed him. Faergaldan, holding his weapon firmly at the thief’s neck, smiled grimly.
“You live, then.”
Kaliss could only nod, overcome as he was. The adrenaline of the fight had long ago drained away, leaving him tired and wrung out.
“You are the source of the attacks. They are aimed at you. My squad,” the Sylvan leader bit out, “are dead. Because of you. More human killing.”
Kaliss struggled out words beyond the lump in his throat. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, for Rectand, for Waverly, for… for all of them. I’m sorry.”
“You are sorry.” There was no forgiveness in the Kinroc’s voice. “Don’t be sorry, thief. Be glad. My orders are to protect you, else you’d already be joining her.” He stabbed a finger at the pile of human remains.
Sheathing his sword, he continued with a small smile. “Luckily for you, I’ve worked out a way to get rid of you and my mission all at once.”
Suddenly apprehensive, Kaliss began to circle around, keeping the Sylva in front of him. “Like what?”
“Are you afraid, little human?” chuckled Faergaldan. “Don’t be. Your enemy has done you a service,” and with that he strode out of the clearing, back the way they had come. Kaliss met Ryn’s eyes, which were as confused as he felt; casting one final look at what had once been Lydia, Kaliss began to follow Faergaldan.


* * *


“You’re sure this will work?” asked Kaliss for perhaps the hundredth time.
“No. Now shut up,” commented Faergaldan. Winraer looked on, worry clear in her face. Strapped flat to the brass flying device worn by their attacked, Ryn and Kaliss were unable to move much, beyond throwing their weight one way or the other. The difficult part had been snaring the object, as it had hung in the air above the meadow. Whatever powered it continued to provide lift, and once they had it, Faergaldan had explained his plan.
Stepping back, the Kinroc dusted his hands off. “That should hold you. Now, you’re clear on what we’re doing?”
Ryn, looking a little pale, twisted his head round to look at his leader. “I’m to accompany Kaliss to Sylvanasher on this… on this. Once there, we will report to the Council of Thirteen.”
“Simple,” muttered the thief. “And which bit of your plan deals with us blowing up, or crashing, or…”
Putting a finger to Kaliss’ lips, as if quieting a child, Faergaldan smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “You will deal with it, little human, no doubt. I, for my part, am glad to be rid of you.”
He removed his finger and stepped back. “Winraer, a little height, if you please.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated. Almost immediately, a thin, bendy sapling sprang up under the flying machine. It caught the underside of it, lifting it gently. As they rose, Kaliss lost sight of first Winraer, then Faergaldan. The Sylvan leader’s face was positively demonic as they ascended.
Ryn, with the control mechanism close at hand, thumbed a small button; suddenly Kaliss was treated to a feeling as if his stomach had been removed, left behind in the air; buffeted by sudden wind, he felt his face distending at the extreme acceleration. The ground beneath them whipped past in a green blur, the air so much colder for the speed at which they were moving. Tears swam in his eyes and his breath was snatched from his mouth, rendering speech impossible. Resigned to his fate, the thief withdrew into himself and endured.