Chapter 1 – This Little Thief Went to Market
The shadows engulfed her, their chill touch making her skin crawl. Ignoring the eerie sensation as best she could, Daelynn focused her darkvision. Her opponent was somewhere in these shadows. A white, man-like shape loomed before her. She leapt forward and struck quickly at the head and throat, easily blocking her foe's counterstrikes. A fierce sidekick sent the figure stumbling backward. Their master's concentration now broken, the shadows flowed away from the combatants and back to the corners of the room, from where they had been summoned.
Now she saw her opponent clearly. He wore a quilted jacket, heavy leggings and a padded leather helmet. She started to move forward to press her attack, but had already taken too long. She should never have waited for the loathed shadows to clear! The man had pulled out something from his belt. Straightening, he threw his right arm back, then quickly brought it forward. The lash cracked and cut Daelynn's left hand, laying open the flesh and creating an agony unlike any she had felt in her last fifty years of life. She cried out, tears filling her eyes, and stumbled. Using her good right hand, she drew and quickly hurled three shuriken. The intense pain made aiming impossible; throwing was purely an instinct. The first two stars were deflected by the whip-wielding figure but the third flew straight and true into the man's left leg, just above his knee.
He staggered and the elf was upon him. Using her pain as a goad, she struck with elbows and knees - blows and kicks delivered fast and hard, without mercy. The armored figure slumped to the floor and shouted his surrender. Delivering on final blow to the man's head, Daelynn stalked off to a table on the far side of the training room, cradling her left hand which was bleeding freely from the whip's deep cut. She could hardly breathe through the pain. Plunging her hand into a bucket of ice water, she gasped as more red-hot agony shot through her. The room spun. Steadying herself against the table, she focused her breathing. After a moment, she pulled her damaged hand out, and using her good hand, applied a greasy white ointment from a small open blue jar that sat next to the bucket. Almost immediately the bleeding stopped and pain eased. Slightly. She took a few deep, slow breaths, bringing her attention back to the moment, and turned to glare at her sparring partner.
The man was still on the floor but had rolled over and was now sitting up. He had removed his helmet and the lined, shining, sweating face of her mentor looked at her with something akin to approbation.
"Damn fine, girl. Damn fine indeed!" said Sir Roland.
"Fine? Fine!" the elf yelled back. Daelynn was livid. "This is going to scar! Just another mark to explain to friends. I sport new bruises, cuts and scrapes each week. Sarise thinks I have a boyfriend who is beating me. Thurk thinks I am into some crazy, self-flagellating cult. You wear armour and pads, while I fight in street clothes."
Having vented her anger, the girl turned back to tend her newest wound. Her mentor nodded his head and sighed. He grimaced as he pulled the throwing star from his leg, climbed slowly to his feet, and limped over to the table to stand beside the elf, ignoting the trickle of blood from his own wound.
"'Tis an odder case of me being "unfair?" he said in his lilting speech. "I thought we had done with thet. I've hurt ya w'rse than this over the last months."
The elf shook her head emphatically. "No! You have not. A whip?"
Daelynn sagged against the table, her bright violet eyes softening a few shades. "I am tired. Tired of your tricks, tired of your damned shadows, tired of pain, tired of training and doing nothing more than training, and training, ever training! It has been months…" Daelynn's voice had started to rise so she cut herself short, not willing to start a tirade.
The elder thief nodded his agreement. "And I, lass, am tired of getting' my arse kicked each and ev'ry day. When was the last time I won a round? Oh sure, ye take most the punishment, but I put thet down to ma meanness an' experience, an' yer kindly nature."
Roland paused.
"I'm runnin' out of tricks ta pull. Without the use of ma shadow magics and odd elixir, well I could na stand against ye. An' yer still young by elven stand'rds. Less than a hundred. Goddess help me when yer grown."
The man ran a hand through his thick white hair, pausing before continuing his assessment of his student. "Yer still waitin' too long to see what yer opponent is going ta do. Too much thinkin'. Too Elven. Don't hesitate girl. It could cost ye more than a cut hand. That was taday's lesson."
The man reached under the table and pulled out a small crate. Opening the lid, he pulled back a cloth and took out three small, glass bottles, each with a red wax stopper. He handed the vials to the elf.
"Drink one o' these now, an' anodder bef're ye go ta sleep t'night. The third one is for the mornin'. Be c'reful an' don't break any. It's demmed expensive stuff. Yer cuts and such will be healed complete an' more than a few old scars will ha' disapp'red by next week."
Daelynn had been placing the vials into a small leather bag as Sir Roland spoke. Upon hearing his last sentence, she stopped and inadvertently ran her fingers along the raised and jagged edges of the old, long scar that ran down the inside of her left forearm. Roland noticed the gesture.
"Na. Na thet one." He said. "'Tis too old. It'd take more pow'rful magics than I can p'rchase to heal that scar." Or the mark it has left on your soul, he thought to himself.
Daelynn looked at the old thief. He had never asked her about the scar, even though he had seen it a dozen times. Once, a month ago, she had almost told him how she had got it, but could not quite bring herself to tell the story. And today was not that time either.
"Thank you," was all she said, flipping a loose strand of raven hair off her face.
Roland pulled another vial from the crate, opened it, took a sip, leaned his back against the table, and regarded the room, ignoring his own wound. Daelynn pulled one of the vials from her bag and mimicked her teacher's actions.
The training room was many yards wide and ran the entire length of Sir Roland's large house. The stone floor was covered by woven mats. Tables held a variety of gear, including tools, lock sets, coils of rope and pieces of armor. The walls, broken by tall, narrow windows, were covered with racks that held the widest assortment of weapons Daelynn had ever seen; most of them having been wielded against her in this very room over the past several months. The late afternoon autumn sun illuminated most of the room. The north and south recesses were dim and shadow-filled.
She slowly sipped the sweet tasting elixir. Nothing seemed to be happening.
"Defeatin' locks – na bad. But thet's only human-made locks. Dwarven is anodder matter. Climbin' an' a stealthy walk – v'ry good. Weapon use – fair ta good, especially yer defense," Sir Roland paused in his evaluation of her training in the nightly arts. "Yer forgeries need lots o' work, but thet takes years to mast'r. Likewise disguise. So fer t'day, I think some pickin' o' pockets an' then we're done. How do ye feel about a trip ta the m'rket?"
Daelynn shook her head. "I enjoy the jobs we have done for your employer Sir Roland. While they have involved theft, your prey always appears to be rich and powerful, or thieves themselves. What was taken can hardly affect their lives much. But stealing from common folk? It is not honorable."
"Ha! You draw a line between hon'r an' dishon'r at a strange place Lady C'orillae! I'm na suggesting ye rob widows an' orphans. Although, I've done both, and with good reason. 'Spose a message need be carried, in secret, 'cross the city. Who bett'r than an old woman or sewer brat? Commonplace, na noticed by anyone - a p'rfect courier. Do ye threaten them in daylight ta get it? Bash their head in a dark alley? Or simply, quietly, relieve them o' their purse an' the secrets carried inside?"
Daelynn had learned months ago that her mentor had little patience for discussing "right" or "wrong" during training sessions, being always focused on the lesson at hand. Afterward, he sometimes entertained her arguments, systematically and logically destroying most of them. She acquiesced by reluctantly nodding her head and grabbing some random clothing from a nearby table.
"Skirt, big blouse, ragged shawl. I will try for a slatternly look."
"Good. An' keep thet damn tattoo cov'rd. Too recognizable."
He referred to the beautiful, intricate fish tattoo on her right shoulder that peeked out from under her short-sleeved top. Outlined in black, it featured delicate scales that shone gold, red or green depending on the light. It was unlike any tattoo Roland had seen.
"Ya say it were a gift?" he asked, nodding his head at the symbol.
Daelynn glanced at the tattoo and smiled. "Aye, from an aunt. When I was a child I nearly drowned in a raging river close to her home. I had been warned to stay off the riverbanks, but did not listen. She barely reached me in time. She spent that summer teaching me to swim in a quiet pool. When she felt I was ready, she threw me into the river telling me to reach the far bank or not return. I reached it, half-drowned with barely strength enough to crawl out of the cold waters. That winter she gave me this tattoo to serve me as a reminder of that lesson."
"I like her teachin' methods. An' her artistry. Beautiful, but too recognizable," he repeated. "And rememb'r to change yer walk, and slouch more. You've still too much an elvish air about ye when ye move."
"Well, in my defense sir, I am an elf."
"Try na ta be so much", was Roland's retort. "How's the hand?"
Daelynn flexed her injured hand. Surprised that there was no pain, she wiped the thick ointment off. Her hand was unmarked. She saw only smooth ice-blue skin. No wound. No scar. The small cut on her thumb from an exercise with knives earned last week was also gone.
"It is… fine", she said looking at the old thief with wide eyes. "It is healed!"
Roland lifted the vial he still held, as if offering a toast. "So's ma leg, mostly. Change an' meet me at the coach. We've a few hours b'fore dark. We start at the north end of the Old City Market!"