Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 33

The Fourth Bell was due to toll any moment now.

The Marheim Gate was settling down. The Night Market was finally past its prime, with half the vendors closing down their stalls, ready to be gone before dawn could break. Traffic along the avenues had disappeared, with only the occasional cart making its way on some lonely errand across the cobblestones.

Harald crouched at the roof’s edge behind the target warehouse, the body of the sentry cooling behind him.

It’d been the same setup. Either the Red Fists were simply unimaginative, or they had established protocols on how to guard a property like this one.

Harald inhaled deeply. The smell of the district was a medley of smoke, offal, and the mineral wetness of the earlier rain. Nessa and her team should be moving, executing the guards, preparing.

He had to hurry.

With Veil of Shadows engaged, Harald slid over the edge of the roof, lowered himself until he hung down the length of the wall, then dropped into a crouch.

This warehouse was smaller, shabbier than the old Sonora one. More of a rambling affair, as if several buildings had been merged into a single, chaotic whole. The kind of building you’d walk right by without glancing at, no sign out front, no distinguishing features. A perpetual backdrop to whatever else was happening in the street.

But surprisingly large once you encircled it. And with Red Fist mercenaries guarding the premises.

Harald donned a hood, picked his route up the wall, and with Dark Vigor and the Goldchops giving him a boost, he leaped, hauled, scaled and in a few moments was on the pitched roof. Old slate shingles were treacherous underfoot, but Harald’s Abilities and near peak human stats allowed him to follow the heavy gutter along the roof’s edge toward the front.

Flutic slept restlessly, the occasional shout or peal of laughter rising up from the streets around them. But here, now, Harald moved as if through a dream.

The second sentry was smoking a rolled up cheroot in the shadowed lee of the roof, its tip glowing like a crimson rose.

Not wanting to court complications, Harald willed the Goldchops to do the dirty work. They dipped over the crest of the roof, out of sight, then swung back into view just above the sentry to drop on them with vicious power.

Harald burst forward the moment they did, racing along the last stretch of the rooftop to catch the toppling figure, its head mangled by the hatchets, a mess of ruined hood, shattered bone, and blood and brain-soaked hair.

He lowered the body carefully to the shingles, propping it up parallel to the gutter and made sure it was steady before letting go.

No time for melancholic thoughts or regrets. It was simply a dead mercenary who’d chosen the wrong outfit to work for.

Mission accomplished, he worked his way back to the rear, listening intently in case someone within had heard something, and dropped back down to the alley.

Silence.

But he couldn’t count on a pair of the mercs within to be distracted by each other like last time. He couldn’t grow overconfident.

A dolorous bell ran out across the quarter, immediately echoed and overlapped by a second, then a third, and suddenly the whole city was awash with the clamor of Fourth Bell.

Harald used the cacophony to unlock the back door with a sentry’s key, and slid into the darkness and stepped aside so that the wall was at his back.

If Nessa and the others were on track, they’d be setting their warehouse alight now. Harald grimaced. He’d misjudged the hour.

No matter.

He only needed a few moments more.

This interior wasn’t the same as the first. It was a maze of large rooms filled to bursting with wooden crates, the doors removed so that one could prowl from chamber to chamber through archways.

Veil of Shadows cloaked his footsteps and the pure, deep darkness energized him. Dawnblade in his fist, Harald moved forward, summoning Shadowpaw even as the Goldchops floated after him.

The huge mastiff immediately sensed the danger of the situation and sniffed at the air.

No need for instructions. It intuited what needed to be done.

The pair of them left the first broad chamber, listening at each corner, peering around the columns and piles of crates. A second smaller room filled with correspondingly smaller boxes, and then light at last, the warm amber glow of lantern light.

Nervous voices.

Harald crept closer, paused so he could listen in.

“… just saying that I thought I heard something. We’re guards, right? It makes logical damned sense that we should go investigate.”

“And I’m telling you that you’re welcome to do so. But I didn’t hear a thing.”

A third voice, as wary as the first, said, “C’mon, Melko. Let’s all go together. It’s stupidity to split our numbers.”

Melko, decidedly unimpressed, replied, “We’ve already checked in with Bortinga and Plebas twice tonight. But fine! Fine. If you really want to stretch your legs, let’s do another patrol.”

“You make it sound like you’re doing us a favor,” said the first sullenly. A younger man, voice reedy. “Just because we’re new recruits doesn’t mean we lack common sense.”

“When you get to my ripe old age, and have all my vast experience, lad -” this was Melko again, “you’ll realize that you don’t volunteer for anything, and you sure as hell don’t go running around in circles for no good reason. But yes, yes, let’s go. I’m sure Bortinga will be amused to hear from us again.”

The scrape of chairs, the sound of footsteps coming his way.

“If you’re so experienced, why you still just a private like the rest of us, hey, Melko?” asked the first kid, tone tense.

Melko’s tone remained casual. “Go fuck your mother, Rasso.”

“No,” said the other guard. “Seriously. You act like you’re a sergeant, like you’ve got Commander Firio’s ear, but as far as I can tell -”

Harald had faded back into the corner of the room, which swelled with light as the trio tromped in through the archway. They were nominally staring ahead, but in reality were focused on each other, tempers rising.

Harald sent a Goldchop into the face of the center man, a stolid, square-built older warrior with lambchop sideburns, and the second into the taller, gangly youth with vicious pimples who stood on his far side.

The one who’d been speaking, he took down with a Demonic Edge.

Two heartbeats and it was over. Melko, the center guard, didn’t even cry out as the hatchet took him in the back of the head. The gangly youth began to yell as his throat was crushed, his neck partially severed, and the third had half-drawn his blade before the Edge cut him neatly in two.

It was done.

The three bodies collapsed to the ground, the lantern’s panes shattering, though the scale light remained bright.

Shadowpaw looked to Harald in annoyance.

“Sorry,” said Harald. “Guess I underestimated my own power.”

Shadowpaw whuffed, clearly not mollified.

“Look, the Goldchops are Masterwork. And these guys…” Harald emerged from his corner to stand over the corpses. “These guys were clearly the bottom of the barrel.”

Blood was flowing out an in ever growing puddle from where they lay toppled over each other.

Even if he’d wanted to, there’d have been no cleaning up this mess.

“Hmm.” Harald rubbed at this chin, Dawnblade propped over his shoulder. No powerful lieutenant like the Bonemelter guy. Instead this older private, Melko, had nominally been calling the shots.

Perhaps the Red Fists were spread too thin to warrant placing a heavy hitter in this complex? That made sense. Not every single property and hidden corner would warrant a powerful raider.

The five novice Red Fist guards here would have been more than enough to deal with any regular band of thieves.

With the fighting done, Harald almost pulled off his hood, but checked the impulse at the last second. Instead, he retrieved his pack from the alleyway. Within were a dozen clay flasks filled with oil.

“All right.” Harald wandered through the complex. He had to hurry. The other warehouse was no doubt burning right this moment. “Starting a structure fire. Need the best tinder.”

He set to kicking in the sides of crates, tearing out straw, and checking the contents within. Most were laden with serviceable iron goods, cheaply made and imported in bulk. Bundles of nails, chisels, pots, griddles, trivets, chains, brackets for doors and chests, all manner of classic Marheim imports.

He’d half-hoped that this was the warehouse used to store imported oil, but no such luck.

Finally, impatient, he decided to simply douse all the crates in the largest, central room beneath huge old rafters with the oil, and this he set aflame with his tinderbox, first causing a small amount of kindling to catch, then blowing on the nascent tongues of fire until they licked up the side of the crate and caught on the oil.

From there the fire raced over the stacks of wood, consuming the oil with greedy speed, blazing blue until the wood itself caught.

Harald stepped back. It would have to do. The wood and straw would blaze up but good, and with a little luck it’d set the rafters aflame, which would bring down the roof.

“Time to go,” he told Shadowpaw. He shouldered his pack, and ran back out the rear door into the night.

They’d chosen for the third warehouse to be the one closest to the other two so that both parties would converge without having to travel too far. The Goldchops didn’t boost his Constitution, but Dark Vigor put him at 16, which was more than enough to sustain him at a sprint and cover the quarter-mile to the target.

Harald tore off the hood and grinned as he ran. Was that smoke he smelled on the air? The sky wasn’t lit up by some vast conflagration, but were those shouts of alarm he could hear in the distance?

Their target was the largest of the three buildings, and the one Anna surmised might contain the most valuable cargo, and therefore warrant the greatest protection. Harald slowed as he approached; obviously no smoke and flames here, hence Nessa’s attack was either underway or not yet begun.

“Harald.” A hiss from the shadows. Nessa emerged from the mouth of an alleyway so narrow it was more a knife wound between two buildings. “Good. All under control at your target?”

“I left it burning.” Harald watched as the rest of the Throne Hunters emerged. None of them were injured nor sported evidence of healed wounds. “You?”

Vic smiled. “Can’t you smell it? Red Fist barbeque.”

Sam’s expression curdled. “Vic!”

“What!” He raised both hands in self-defense. “What else do you call it when meat is roasted over the flame?”

“Focus,” said Nessa calmly. “One last target. We need to execute our mission quickly. The Watch will be flooding the streets soon.”

“Honestly, Harry-boy,” said Vic, “I was far more impressed with your first assassination strike until I saw the caliber of these Red Fist lads. Pathetic.”

“Mine were raw recruits as well,” said Harald. “Do you think it means something?”

“We can debate it later,” said Nessa. “Focus on our target. Harald, take out the rear sentry. Vic, the second he does, you’re to kill the second. Everyone else with me by the back door. Be prepared for stiffer resistance. Let’s go.”

They donned their hoods and jogged the last block, then ducked into an alley and approached the target from the rear. This building was taller and more in line with a true warehouse; double doors at the back and a loading yard testified to its specialized purpose.

Engaging Veil of Shadows, Harald broke away and ran silently along the edge of the loading yard to the back of the next building. If the Red Fist protocol held true, the first sentry would be up there watching the rear entrance.

Climbing was easy. Harald did so as silently as a shadow, then peered over the roof’s edge, cautious about being spotted.

He needn’t have worried. The sentry stood in plain view, having climbed to the peak of the roof, where they stood, staring in consternation at the distant fire.

Harald sent both Goldchops sailing through the air, and the body collapsed, the head severed before they could make a sound.

Too easy.

Harald couldn’t resist, however. He climbed all the way up, then moved to stand where the sentry had been, and peered out over the rooftops.

A blaze lit up the roofs and sky of the Marheim Gate a quarter-mile away. Shouts already filled the air.

Nessa’s target.

Turning, he peered across the endless humped rooftops back the way he’d come, and saw his own fire starting to light up, smoke dark and barely visible in the night.

Good.

Harald took the key from the sentry’s pouch, slid down the roof’s incline and moved to the edge just in time to see Vic slip over the top of the warehouse and disappear into the shadows.

Harald dropped down to the street, then jogged across the loading yard to where Nessa, Kársek, and Sam waited.

“Done,” was all he said.

Nessa nodded.

They stood in silence, backs to the warehouse wall and flanking the door in case someone emerged, but nobody did. Shadowpaw paced in the shadows, having trailed Harald through the city.

Vic dropped into view, hung for a moment from the eaves, then dropped and landed on the cobblestones.

“Ow!” he yelped, then straightened and rubbed at his knee. “Damn it.”

“The sentry?” demanded Nessa.

“Busy pushing all her blood out a new hole in her neck,” muttered Vic, and tried flexing his leg. “Damn it, I messed up my knee.”

“Absorb a scale and shut it,” said Nessa. “Count of three. I’ll take point, then Sam, Harald, Vic, then Kársek.”

Everyone lined up. Nessa held out her hand for the key, turned it in the door, took three breaths, then burst inside.

They flooded in like a wave of death. There was nobody in the warehouse. They slipped past the crates and barrels, splitting up into two teams, but as they neared the front they heard voices from outside the open front doors.

The Red Fists had emerged into the street and were talking earnestly with a messenger.

“Sam, drop your Starfire Bastion over them. I want Aching Depths and Aura of Cruelty to hit them at the same time, then Kársek, use your Rune. I’m going to get the fire started.”

“A bit much, don’t you think?” protested Sam.

“No. Sam, move up to the doorway and use your Bastion. Go.”

Sam did as ordered. There were four Red Fists outside in the midst of an argument. One was pointing off down the street. But Harald couldn’t quite make out the nature of their disagreement because even as he got close enough to hear, Sam dropped her burning dome of spiritual lethality.

A hemisphere encased them within the warehouse, the other half spreading out over the street.

Cries of panic burst from four throats.

Harald activated Aching Depths as Kársek stepped into the doorway, war hammer clasped in both fists. “Khazadrok.”

The cries were silenced.

Vic clapped Kársek on the shoulder and hurried back into the warehouse to help Nessa.

Kársek frowned down at his war hammer, shook his head, then turned away from the door.

Harald peeked outside. The four guards were gone. The far side of the street was drenched in blood, specks of flesh and bone and tatters of cloth. But the building across from them was untouched.

Kársek was learning to shape the cone of his detonation.

“Everyone back here,” called Nessa. “Grab anything flammable. Pile it up. Hurry.”

Everybody got busy.

Every second was precious now.

Shadowpaw followed Harald as he kicked open a side door, looking for paperwork, anything of value, or just more tinder.

A large office. A chest was set atop a heavy desk. All of it in darkness.

Harald strode up to the chest. Locked. He was about to order a Goldchop to burst it open when Shadowpaw stepped up to a portion of the wall and let loose a deep, warning bark.

Harald spun, but didn’t understand. The mastiff was growling at a blank expanse of wall.

Then the mastiff reared back to swipe at the wooden paneling with a huge forepaw. He smashed the boards inward, revealing a cavity even as a hoarse scream of panic sounded from within.

“Shadowpaw!” Harald rushed forward, but he was too late. The mastiff thrust his huge head into the hole. The screaming rose in pitch then went quiet as the mastiff crunched something.

Harald tore broken boards aside, revealing a hidden compartment large enough to house a man.

A now dead man.

Harald pulled the Red Fist merc out of the hole and let him fall bonelessly to the ground. Shadowpaw had lunged up and shattered his neck and shoulder with one brutal crunch of his jaws.

“What is it?” Nessa appeared in the doorway.

Harald simply pointed.

“Fire’s going up but good. We don’t have time. Grab whatever you need. We have to go.”

Harald scowled at the corpse, then knelt and patted it down. Long dagger at the hip, Red Fist colors, leather armor. But nothing else.

Damn it.

He turned to the chest. To his surprise it was unlocked. He threw it open and saw a dozen Golden Dawns within.

That was it?

No matter. He snatched them up, yanked open some drawers, but they were all empty.

Turning, he saw some folders resting on a shelf. He grabbed these, determined to not leave empty-handed, and with Shadowpaw at his heels, fled the chamber.

The central pile of barrels was roaring with flames. Everyone else was already at the back door. Harald darted between the detritus and cargo, and followed them out into the backyard.

“You all know what to do. See you back at the rendezvous point in a few bells.”

Everyone nodded, removed their hoods, and the group broke up.

Sam and Harald took off toward the west, moving into an alleyway even as they switched their cloaks for those they’d stored in their packs. They dismissed their Artifacts, and fetched the stashed basket of Night Market goods they’d placed there bells ago.

When they emerged into the street, they gaped like everyone else at the flames rising high into the night, and stepped back as the entire neighborhood began to fall into line to help with the bucket brigade that was coming together.

Arm in arm, they edged away, moving along the streets until the ruckus was left behind, then turned to stride more purposefully toward the Shambles.

People were emerging from their doorways, leaning out their windows, calling out to each other, demanding to know what was going on. Bells had begun to ring in warning, and patrols of the Watch were converging on the Marheim Gate.

In the darkness and confusion, it was easy to slip away unnoticed.

They took a circuitous route, doubling back several times, and stopping occasionally to watch from a hidden nook the street they’d just traversed.

But never did they see sign of pursuit.

Harald at last sent Shadowpaw to ensure nobody was following them, and led Sam deeper into the Shambles.

Even here the talk of fire had turned people out into the streets. Those up on the rooftops were calling down reports to those below, and costermongers were plying their trade, taking advantage of the unexpected crowds to sell refreshments and snacks.

Only when Harald saw Shadowpaw in an alleyway, his tongue lolling out happily, did he completely relax.

They reached the rented apartment just as Sixth Bell was ringing. The exterior staircase leading up to their second floor was silent and still. Harald sent Shadowpaw out to reconnoiter the immediate area. When the mastiff returned, demeanor complacent, he and Sam ascended to the back door and let themselves in.

The place was dark. They checked all the rooms and closets, then Harald moved to sit at the small table set under the narrow kitchen window.

Sam dumped her basket by the wall and filled a basin from the water pitcher and washed her face. She toweled off with a kitchen rag, then turned to stare at him in the gloom. “What happened back there? I heard a scream after everyone was supposed to be dead.”

“There was Red Fist hiding in the main office. A hidden compartment. I’d not have noticed if not for Shadowpaw.”

“Hiding. You think he saw us coming and panicked?”

“Maybe. He only had a knife.” Harald tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “But something about all this feels off. The guards were too easily dispatched.”

“You mean murdered.”

“All right, easy.”

“But I know what you mean. No Artifacts. No real resistance. You think Gorkin knew we were coming?”

“I don’t see how, unless someone in our group or Anna’s household tipped him off.”

“If he was tipped off he’d have set up an ambush.”

“True. Maybe… maybe it really was just a panicked accountant. He heard us coming through the main rooms and jumped into his hidey-hole.”

“Maybe,” said Sam, but she didn’t seem convinced.

Harald continued tapping the table. Everything had gone according to plan. They’d brought overwhelming force to bear, struck out of the blue and with professional tactics. Was it so strange that it had gone smoothly? Wasn’t it possible that the Red Fist was just stretched too thin, and these warehouses weren’t considered sufficiently important to warrant better guards?

“I don’t like it,” said Sam at last.

“No,” agreed Harald. “I don’t either. But what can we do now?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. She bit her lower lip, considering, then sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. What’s done is done. We’re just going to have to live with the consequences.”