Rogue's Rules: A Certain Roguish Charm
Copyright© 2018 by FozzieBare
Chapter 7: Fast Horses and Bad Throws
In the end, the choice they gave me wasn’t a choice at all. I lived with my principles, such as they were. Guess it was time to die with them.
I muttered, “Screw you, Harian,” under my breath as I did a palm shift to bring the point of the razor-sharp dagger between my fingers and flung it at him.
In the sagas, it would have landed right between his porcine eyes, and everyone would have cheered. Pity this wasn’t a saga. The poor light and the adrenaline from my impending fade made it a poor throw. It scored deeply across his neck but avoided the jugular.
Everything stopped for a second and a half.
I waited for the first person to unfreeze and prove his loyalty to Harian. If I was lucky, I’d be stabbed to death instantly. If I was unlucky? I’d be the talking point of the party. A Kilean stuffed treat, with guts and blood instead of candy inside for everyone to take a turn on.
Harian’s hand went slowly to his neck. When he pulled it away, his fingers were dripping with dark, crimson blood. He stared at it, his eyes wide in absolute disbelief, before the shock gave way to an unholy, purple-faced rage.
“KILL HIM!” Harian shrieked, his voice cracking into an unsightly, high-pitched squeal. “FLAY HIM ALIVE!”
That broke the spell.
A hundred hardened criminals drew steel at once, the collective screech of metal echoing off the ancient stone vaults like a choir of angry banshees.
So much for a quick death.
The lights went out.
For a half beat, I thought the sudden darkness was the passing of my soul to whatever journey a Rogue would take to the River of the Dead.
Then I realized, due to the continuing pounding beat of my heart, that I was not dead. Yet. The blackness, however, did not lift.
It wasn’t so much someone had doused the torches, but someone had covered the whole area around me, the Inspector, and the crowd with a magical darkness.
Voices exploded in the absolute black.
“My eyes! The Gods have struck us blind!”
“Get a light! Someone light a torch!”
“Harian! Where’s Harian?!”
The mob instantly degenerated into a shrieking, tumbling mess. Iron clashed against iron as terrified thugs began swinging blindly at phantom threats, stabbing their own allies in the total absence of sight. The air grew stifling, heavy with the metallic smell of blood, spilled ale, and the sharp, ozone tang of raw magic.
I didn’t waste time asking questions about who cast it. In my line of work, when someone hands you a miracle, even a pitch-black, magically conjured one you don’t inspect the gift horse’s teeth. You run.
I dropped low, sweeping my hand along the cold flagstones until my fingers brushed against leather and wool. “Inspector,” I hissed in a low, sharp whisper, grabbing what felt like his collar. “Keep your mouth shut and don’t move.”
A terrified grunt came from the darkness beside me. “Wolf? I can’t see a damn thing!”
“Nobody can. It’s a gloom-spell,” I muttered back, reaching down to my calves to snap the peace-knots on my Tang’fa sticks. The hardwood batons slid into my palms with a reassuring weight. “Which means whoever cast it isn’t playing by Harian’s rules either. Hand.”
I shoved the end of one Tang’fa stick into his grip. “Hold onto this. If you lose contact, you’re on your own, and I guarantee you Taval won’t care who he’s stabbing in the dark.”
“I have a knife,” the Inspector panted, his breath ragged in the pitch-black air right next to my ear. “One of the guards dropped it when the light died. I was trying to cut my bonds in the dark.”
“Great. Don’t stab me with it.”
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