Graduation Day
Stealing the artifact was easy. Getting away was not. Wounded, friendless, hunted by the enraged minions of a fanatical Cleric, two thieves seek sanctuary. Night has fallen. No help is coming. Time is running out. (This story takes place one week after the story 'Training Day'. Not Beta-read. Hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism is welcome.)
Prologue: Legend & Myth
Myth says that in ages past Tyche, Goddess of Luck, was split in twain. The halves transformed into Tymora, Goddess of Good Luck, and Beshaba, The Maid of Misfortune. From the day of their creation, the sisters clashed. They battle still, to this day each attempting to influence the fate of mortals, for better or worse.
At the very moment the goddess was slain and reformed a holy relic special to Tyche was broken in two, or so legend says. The pieces of this artifact, the Trysech, are sought by followers of both the Tymoran and Beshaban churches. It is believed that whomever controls both pieces can permanently alter luck in their favour.
Chapter 1 – One Thief, Two Thief.
The rats stopped their never-ending quest for food. Alert to sounds coming from the hall, they skittered away into darker corners as the room's sagging wooden door flew open. Dust motes, illuminated by faint moon beams that slid through the cracked window slats, danced around the room. Other than a few rats braver than their brothers, rags and a broken chair were all the room contained. An empty room, in a weather-beaten building, on a deserted street in one of the more disreputable parts of Old Town.
Not as deserted as she would have liked, supposed Daelynn. They will be here soon.
The elf half dragged, half carried her companion to the far side of the room and lay him on the floor beneath the window. He groaned. Still alive, thank Tymora! Their luck was holding. An odd prayer to offer, all things considered, the elf thought.
Leaving her wounded friend for a moment, Daelynn stepped back to the hallway, eyes and ears alert to any sign that their presence was known to others. The elf moved down the hall pausing at the door to the staircase they had just climbed. Pulling a few small, barbed metal wedges from her bag, she fastened the door to its frame. Neither the door nor its frame was stout - anyone could force it open. But now they would make noise doing that. A simple alarm.
Returning to the musty room where Sir Roland lay, she closed the door and looked to her friend's injuries. Needing more light, she removed her cloak, hung it over the window, and pulled out a small glowing coin from Roland's belt. By its light she examined her master's wounds. Ignoring the numerous small cuts, nicks and several bruises, she focussed her attention on a deep and still bleeding gash in his left side. She replaced a bandage that she had hastily applied less than an hour ago. Pulling a vial from her belt she uncorked it and slowly poured the contents into the man's mouth. He swallowed, coughed, and struggled to sit up. She firmly held him down.
"Do not move, old fool. I am trying to stop the bleeding."
"Ye're na succeedin," was Roland's raspy response.
'No. That was the second healing brew. I do not understand. You should be better."
"Hmph. I'd wager the blade thet made this hole in ma side was poison'd. Any elix'r will restore ma health, only to have it drained away as the poison slowly kills ma."
"You think their blades were poisoned?"
"Aye. Bin poisoned a few times - feels the same. Na healin' potion can fix thet. Needs an alch'mist, herb'list or a good cleric."
"We are in Old Town and it is near the middle of the night. We are unlikely to find any one of those. Healing can be found in the Temple Quarter. And it is there where you must deliver that."
With a nod of her head she indicated a modest sized satchel that lay beside Roland.
"Figur'd that out, did ya?"
"Aye. We have worked closely together for over a year Sir Roland. Your curses and prayers are mostly for Tymora, Goddess of Good Luck. We steal sacred relics associated with The Smiling Lady, or the Bad Sister. Since meeting your friend, Mistress Alline, I have now twice been tricked or tasked with breaking into and desecrating Beshaban shrines. I would wager Mistress Alline herself is your employer? So, even a Church has need of thieves?"
"Not so much a thief, lass, as ... an agent of ... divine will? The Preceptr'ss can explain it ta ya."
"Hmm. Still, you need to get that relic out of Beshaban hands. And as only a powerful cleric will be able to heal you, we go to the Temple Quarter."
"Thet could be diff'cult."
"Why? Because dozens of Black Scar gang members hunt us through the streets? Or because the cleric of an insane bitch-goddess is using divine magicks to stalk us?"
"Thems the reasons I were thinkin'. And o' course there's the Black Fingers."
"You mentioned them just after we escaped the shrine with the other half of the Trysech." She briefly glanced at the closed bag again. "Who, or what, are they?"
"Assassins devoted to Beshaba. They range far an' wide carryin' out killin's and terrorizin' people. They may've been in Capitol ta take possession o' this part o' the Trysech. But now, Braxes'll use 'em ta kill us."
"They were the two we fought in the reliquary", she asked? "They were good. Very fast."
"Aye, they be thet. Ye may not have notic'd in the excitement of fightin' and runnin' for our lives, but their index finger is stained black. 'Tis their mark o' distinction. They usually trav'l in twos. As Braxes' goddess has favoured 'im with a c'rtain spell, he's able to locate the Trysech and set the pair o' them aft'r us. They'll use the gang memb'rs to draw us out. The assassins'll finish us off."
"Then we have only one Black Finger to worry about," the elf replied.
The elder thief looked quizzically at his apprentice. "Oh? Did ye wound the odder one then? Braxes'll heal 'im, ye can be sure."
Daelynn offered a sardonic smile. "Is Braxes so powerful a cleric that he can raise the dead? No? Then we have only the one Black Finger with which to contend."
Roland regarded the young elf. She was staring at the glowing coin, not meeting his eyes. The fight had been short, fast and furious. He'd had no time to watch over her. After receiving the poisoned knife to his side he'd barely been able to knock his foe down, grab the relic and run. He certainly had not killed the man. He'd noticed Daelynn's foe lying prone on the stone floor but assumed she'd incapacitated him as she had all her foes, using the monkish fighting skills taught to her by her father.
"Ah. Yer first kill. I'm sorry girl."
The elf nodded. When she spoke, her voice was tight. "I knew this day would come. But it happened so quickly. His speed and skill… were astounding. I have never fought so hard, Roland. I never knew I could move that fast! I dodged each strike, but the next was closer, and the next one even closer. I had no choice."
Tears welled up in her eyes. She shook her head, took a deep calming breath, and looked at her mentor. "He will not be the last one I kill this night, will he? If we are to live…"
"'Tis them or ye. And I see nothin' wrong with it bein' ye who goes home t'night. Think on all this later. Right now, I fear we have company comin'," he responded as the sound of someone pushing against a door, followed by a soft curse, came from the hallway.
