The Blood Within the Stone

Chapter 1

1

The boy crouched beside the flames, his face cast in shadow, waiting for the hammer to fall.

Heavy wooden beams ran along the ceiling of the blacksmith’s hut—long fingers hanging above his head, waiting to snatch him into their fist. He watched the burly blacksmith at work, the man’s massive back sweating in the heat of the forge, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and twisting with each powerful swing.

Clang!

The noise was startling. The whooshing, crackling flames, the clatter of metal as the blacksmith held the part-forged sword up to his eyes for study, the hiss of steam as he doused the glowing red blade in the water. Wilt could have shouted and still not have been heard. Despite this, he stepped carefully around the wall of the hut, every sense strained.

It was his first real job, his first real test. Lodan, first lieutenant of the Fingers, the thieves’ guild who ruled the streets of Greystone, had passed it on to him personally. Wilt still held the note in his jerkin, though he knew he should have disposed of it immediately. It was brief and to the point. The blacksmith’s forge. The back room. The third drawer on the right of the desk. The blue blade. The well behind the market. Before midnight. Wilt was expected to look after the details himself.

He slipped into another thick shadow and paused as he spied the door to the back room. It was directly behind the forge, completely exposed in the light of the flames. The blacksmith was working not three feet from it. Any movement he made would be noticed instantly.

Wilt studied the blacksmith and waited. There had to be a way.

Clang!

The job is a test. They don’t give jobs like this as tests unless there is a way to complete it. Try to read him. Know what he will do before he does it.

Wilt settled back onto his haunches and focused on a point just beyond the blacksmith’s back. He slowed his breathing and tried to clear his mind of everything but the sound of the hammer, the strain of muscle, the cut of air as it swung down toward its target.

The hammer struck, and the world disappeared.

The blade would be ready by morning, in time for the duke’s party. Just a few more passes and the steel would be strong, the edge sharp. Little use it would be in the duke’s hands, but one must always take pride in the work itself, not worry about the use to which it will be put. Father had taught that above all else. He would be proud of this blade. Clear the mind and focus on the work. Let the work guide your hands. There. Now back into the water for a final douse.

Wilt was back in the world and moving before the cloud of steam shot up into the blacksmith’s face, momentarily blinding him. Springing forward, he pulled open the door to the back room and slipped inside, all in the time it took for the steam to clear. He stopped at the doorway, the door closed at his back now, and listened. The sounds behind him didn’t change. After a few moments more he finally allowed himself to breathe again.

Wilt studied the room in front of him. It was empty apart from a desk and chairs, a few scrolls and half-forged blades scattered across the desk’s surface. His fingers itched as he scanned the room. So many opportunities for easy profit.

Remember why you’re here. Remember the test.

He took a deep breath and stepped over to examine the third drawer on the desk. It was locked.

It looked a simple tumble lock, nothing that should hold him for more than a few seconds. He pulled out his pick and leaned forward to begin his work, then stopped. No. That is not the way. You are after a prize. This drawer holds that prize. There is something other than this obvious lock protecting what is in this drawer.

Wilt raised his eyes and examined the other drawers in the desk. All had locks. All looked pickable.

He flinched as another clang rang out from the next room.

There was limited time, but he trusted his instincts. His hands moved up to the lock on the second drawer and inserted his pick. Wilt let his fingers move without thought, and in five seconds heard a satisfying click as the lock snapped open. He pulled the drawer out slowly, watching for any further traps, but found none. The drawer held more papers and a small purse, the sight of which gave him pause. There had to be enough in that purse to feed himself and Higgs for weeks.

Wilt pushed the thought from his mind almost as quickly as it appeared. The blacksmith was not his enemy. He would not rob him of anything but the prize he was sent here for.

He pulled the drawer all the way out and looked into the third drawer below it. Sure enough, the lock on that drawer had wires attached, and the timber at the back of the drawer looked thicker than it should be. It was set to do something nasty to whoever opened it.

Inside the drawer was a bundle of oiled rags. Wilt reached in and pulled them out, then unwrapped the blade to be sure of his prize.

There it was. He traced his fingers down the intricately carved blade, and his grey eyes shone blue as the blade lit up, bathing his face in an unearthly glow. Wilt only allowed himself a moment to drink in the sight before quickly re-wrapping it in its coverings. He couldn’t risk the blacksmith noticing any strange lights coming from under the door.

He pushed the second drawer into place and stood. There was something he was missing. It scratched at the back of his mind. Something missing.

The sound of the hammer had stopped.

Wilt acted without further thought, jumping up to grab the roof beam above, then pulling himself up onto it. Just as his feet cleared the air in front of the door, it swung open and the blacksmith stepped in, wiping his sweaty face with a rag. Wilt saw his chance and jumped over the open door to land silently behind the blacksmith, almost stumbling backward into the man as he landed. He caught himself and pushed forward, running for speed rather than stealth now, trusting the noise of the forge to cover him. He sprinted toward the open door of the hut, out into the safety of the darkness, and didn’t look back.

The streets of Greystone were empty and silent, but Wilt ran on, ducking down lanes and cutting up side streets until he was sure there was no one in pursuit. Finally he stopped in a dark alley and leaned against the cold stone to catch his breath. Silence enveloped him, broken only by snippets of late night music and curses from a distant tavern riding on the wind. Wilt looked at the bundle clasped in his hand and a surge of excitement ran through him. He had done it.

What’s more, he had read him. Read the blacksmith’s thoughts and acted on them. He was learning to control it.

The blade felt warm through the rags, and he was tempted to unwrap it to examine it more closely, but stopped himself. No. Finish the task and get home before Higgs wakes up. You can tell him all about it in the morning. Tell him about the reward coming to you, about the hot food they could share from now on. But finish the task first.

The well behind the market. Wilt knew the one the note referred to. It had fallen out of use years ago—something about the water being poisoned—and the town watch had boarded it over. The planks had rotted quickly, however, and the thin timber could easily be pushed aside by those wishing to gain entrance to the darkness below. Wilt had never dared himself, but he’d heard stories. Higgs in particular enjoyed whispering them to him at night. Dark shapes, ghosts perhaps, were rumoured to live down there.

Wilt knew better now. The note had told him to leave the prize there. That meant it must be one of the caches the Fingers used. No wonder they spread rumours to keep prying eyes away.

First you have to get there.

It was late, but not yet midnight. He had time to be cautious.

Wilt stood up straight and turned around to examine the wall he had been leaning against. The standard rough cut grey stones that gave the town its name also gave the agile and daring among its citizens easy access to the night highway above. The town watch patrolled the streets at night, but the Fingers owned the rooftops.

Wilt climbed the wall easily. He’d been scaling walls like these ever since he could remember. The dark streets held many dangers to lone young children, and those who wanted to survive learned quickly enough that safety lay above. Wilt had been one of the lucky ones, and had managed to scrounge a living long enough to reach his teenage years. By now, climbing up out of the darkness was second nature.

He reached the lip of the roof and pulled himself over, then rested on his heels to scan the area.

The well was directly to the east, along the outer edge of the great market square that dominated the centre of Greystone. Just the one break in the rooftops. Not too bad.

Wilt started to walk and let his mind drift. The citizens of the town knew better than to question any strange sounds they heard from the rooftops above. Such questions were discouraged. Even the guards knew not to raise their eyes too often once the sun had set. It was better for everyone if certain—not quite legal—trade was given safe passage in this town. Greystone needed all the business it could get. The Fingers helped ensure some coin still flowed through the town, and most residents were thankful for its existence. They even gave them an official sounding name—the Grey Guild.

The town had perched safely in the lee of the mountains for hundreds of years, growing slowly and steadily as more streets and homes were carved out of the rock. For years it had held its own as a trading post for those passing through the thick forest known as the Tangle. Now though, the highway that once linked the town had found an easier route to the east. Traders no longer felt the need to risk their lives and goods to stop at the Greystone markets.

Greystone was a town slowly dying, being eaten up by the Tangle, the great forest that surrounded it, its ages-old trees twisting and twining around each other to form a thick, impenetrable wall. Impenetrable to all but the bravest—or most foolhardy—of adventurers. Many men and women had disappeared in its shadows, never to be heard from again, and many stories were whispered over low burning fires of the strange creatures that haunted its depths.

Wilt stopped and looked out over a gap in the rooftops to the land beyond the town walls, where the Tangle stood. In the distant past, the Tangle had been seen as something of a boon to Greystone, a natural barrier to raiders and outside threats. As time passed and such threats ceased to appear, and as the flow of trade through Greystone slowed to a trickle, the Tangle loomed as something more. Something to be feared, and cursed. Now it caused all who looked upon it to pause in their step as the slow sway of the trees beckoned to them.

Wilt shivered and turned his mind back to the present as he reached a gap in the rooftops and surveyed the area. It was a six-foot jump from one rooftop to the next, and the roof he was on was two or three feet higher than the one he had to reach. Easy. Wilt took a few steps back and braced to run.

Don’t think about the gap. Don’t think about the fall. Think about speed and flight.

He took a breath and began to sprint. Four steps to the lip. Three, two, one, go!

Wilt jumped from right on the lip and flew through the air, and would have made it, except that halfway across a stone flew out of the darkness and smacked hard into the side of his head.

The rock knocked Wilt out of his jump, and his hands and legs flailed helplessly in the air as he dropped short of the roof’s edge. His momentum was barely enough to carry him to it, and he slammed chest-first into the gutter, the air whooshing out of his lungs. He couldn’t think about trying to breathe yet, though, as he began to slide toward the alley below. His fingers clawed at the smooth slate roof as he slipped, unable to find any purchase to halt his fall. His legs kicked air as he struggled, and for a second he glimpsed the possibility that he wasn’t going to make it, that no matter how hard he tried to stop he was going to fall into darkness and death. Just as he reached the lip, however, a firm hand reached down out of the darkness and gripped his wrist.

‘Not quite as easy as you thought it was, huh, Meat?’

Wilt grasped the arm and felt air struggle back into his lungs as he was pulled up to the safety of the rooftop.

‘You should be more careful which roofs you wander across at night, Meat. Not everyone will be as forgiving.’

Wilt fell on to the roof and looked up at his saviour, still gasping for breath. Red Charley—one of the older thieves, an outcast, and not renowned for his kindness to the members of the Grey Guild. Just what he needed right now.

‘Boys. Let’s see what Meat here has to offer us as thanks for saving his life.’

Rough hands pulled Wilt to his feet and frisked his clothes. In moments the prize was pulled free.

‘Ah now, what do we have here?’

Wilt managed to suck enough air back to wheeze out the words. ‘My prize.’

Red Charley unwrapped the blade and held it up to the moonlight. The strange blue glow of the metal seemed dulled now, but the intricate carvings on the blade still marked it as something special.

‘It certainly is a prize. Yours though? I think not.’

‘No!’ Wilt lunged forward to grab the blade, but was pushed onto his back and given a strong kick to the guts to keep him there.

‘This will do, Meat. Consider it payment for the toll. I’ll make sure it gets to where it needs to go.’

Red Charley grinned then, the red hair that gave him his name glowing grey in the moonlight.

‘I own these rooftops, Meat. Not the Fingers. Me. Next time, consider your path more carefully. Boys.’

Three more kicks sunk into Wilt’s stomach, and he lay alone on the rooftop, gasping for air, long after the thieves had disappeared into the shadows.

‘Wilt? That you?’ the small voice whispered from a huddle of blankets and rags in the corner of the room.

‘Yes, Higgs. It’s me.’ Wilt walked slowly into the room, holding his stomach. His back and chest were aching from the kicks he’d received, but it was his stomach that called for the most attention.

‘You get it?’

‘Yeah. I got it all right.’

Something about the tone of his voice must have given it away, as Higgs threw the blankets back and sat up to watch him as he slowly crossed the room.

‘What happened?’

Wilt lowered himself gingerly to the floor next to Higgs and let out a long breath. ‘Red Charley happened.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘He did.’

‘But the task was given to—’

‘Higgs! That’s enough. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I just want to lie here quietly and suffer.’

Higgs was quiet for all of ten seconds before letting his voice squeak out again. ‘But before Red Charley … did you get it?’

Wilt lay still and stared at the ceiling, trying to relax his muscles, trying to will the pain away. A smile crept across his lips at the memory of his brief triumph. He had done it, managed to focus his strange talent, the one even Higgs didn’t know about. The splash of vision that had taken him at strange times ever since he could remember, dousing him in the thoughts of others. It had answered his call.

‘Yes, Higgs. I got it.’

‘I knew you’d do it.’

He heard Higgs slump back to the ground and let the sound of his breathing carry him into sleep.