Graduation Day

Chapter 2 – Hurt Thief, Dead Thief.

The hallway floorboards creaked. They were there - just beyond the door! The elf held her breath, watching the crude latch as it waggled. Roland was slumped against the far wall, unconscious again - or possibly dead - it was difficult to tell. Her cloak over the window made the room just dim enough for her darkvision to be of use. She had a slight advantage over the men who hunted them.

Daelynn relaxed her hold on the shortsword. Too tight a grip reduced wrist flexibility and slowed one's parry; too loose a grip and you could be disarmed. She exhaled slowly, controlling her breathing and focusing on the opening door. 'Tymora,' she prayed. 'Grant me luck!'

The door was half open when a dark shape slipped silently through the opening and into the room. The elf attacked.

As she cleaned off her sword, she surveyed the destruction she had wrought. Two more deaths. Two young men who followed a dark goddess, now lay dead by her hands. Her shortsword, driven by all her strength and fear, had pushed past the first man's guard, through the light leather armor he wore, and slid between ribs to still his heart. Daelynn had thrown him aside, leaving her sword stuck in his chest, and leapt upon the second man before he could react. Grabbing the front of his jerkin, she placed a foot on his hip, fell back and pulled him on top of her. Using momentum, surprise and strong legs, she threw him over her. He landed hard on his back, winded. Twisting, she jumped to her feet and grabbed him, wrapping long arms tightly around his neck. With clasped wrists she heaved upwards then brought all her weight down. There was a snapping sound. The second man lay still.

Why did she mourn those who tried to kill her?

Pushing a lock of dark hair back in to place, she sheathed her blade, stepped to the window and recovered her cloak. She saw movement down the street. Time to go. She bent over Roland and examined his wound. The bleeding had stopped. The elder thief's eyes fluttered open. He surveyed the room.

"Ah, sorry I missed thet. Must've fall'n asleep."

"You passed out."

"Thet's unkind." With Daelynn's assistance he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Best ye leave ma here. You'd make bett'r time without ma."

"We had that conversation an hour ago," Daelynn replied. "We stay together."

"Rooftops… 'tis too…"

"Too bright with the moon out. I know. We stick to laneways and alleys." The elf placed Roland's right arm around her shoulder and neck and started to drag-carry him to the doorway. She knew her mentor could not negotiate a roof edge in his present condition.

"Did I mention the Black Fingers?"

"Aye. You did."

"Hmm. Must be del'rious… the poison."

"Could be age."

"Don't be rude."

The streets got busier as they approached the market. Although late, some shops and most taverns were open. A staggering couple wandering through the backways of Old Town was nothing out of the ordinary. They melded easily with revelers, merchants, and ordinary folk out enjoying the clear, cool, autumn night.

But this was Black Scar domain. The alliance that the Beshaban cleric Braxes had with his old gang meant that every street tough, pickpocket, or fence affiliated with the Scars would be on the lookout for two, wounded, furtive, cloaked figures. And as the hours grew later, fewer people would be about to offer cover or distraction. The pair stopped in the shadow of a farrier's shed, the scent of horses strong in the air. Roland's breathing was labored and he was sweating despite the cool night air.

"We could lie low until daylight," opined the elf.

"Doubt I'll make it 'til then, but we could try. Trouble is lass, movin' is the only thin' that disturbs Braxes' location spell. If we stop too long, he finds us. An' daylight means more City Guard patrols. Bound ta be snitches in thet lot."

"Would Sard help us… help you," asked the elf?

"Thieves Guild? Ha, not likely. They try ta stay neutral in churchly matters. More o' the boyos follow Tymora or Mask then the likes o' Beshaba. But the Bad Sister has her adh'rents in the Guild."

"But Sard himself?"

Roland pursed his lips and took a few deep breaths that caused him to cough. Clearing his throat, he answered Daelynn. "Not sure. 'Though it were years ago, we parted on bad terms. I'd rathe'r not invovev 'im. B'sides, no way to get a message to 'im. Not from Scar territ'ry. We'd have ta track 'im down ourselves."

"Your Shadows?" She asked, looking at the black metal ring on his left hand.

"I've na the strength left to control 'em. Best na to try thet. Trust me."

A shrill whistle from behind them caused Daelynn to turn and look back. Several figures were making their way from side streets, moving through the late night crowd in their direction. Time to move, again. Around the farrier's shed, through a barn, and across a courtyard belonging to a mostly reputable inn. Past the jakes and along another alleyway. Their path zig-zagged across Old Town, always toward the market and the gate to the Temple Quarter. Which would be guarded. This chase was only delaying the inevitable. Daelynn was unaware that she had been speaking aloud until Roland answered her.

"True," replied Roland. "But 'Chase yer own goals, and the Lady aids yer chase'. Or so says some Tymoran maxim."

"Aye. I've heard that one. I prefer 'Fortune favours the bold; to be bold is to live'".

A coughing fit stopped Roland's retort. The elf helped steady him until the paroxysm passed. They had stopped in a narrow, dark alley just off the market square. Roland had stopped sweating. Daelynn removed a glove and touched his face. It was hot. She looked around. A shuttered window caught her eye. It took only the space of a few quick breaths for her to pry the shutter's latch open. She helped Roland inside and lowered him onto sacks filled with flour and grains. They were in the back room of a modest sized store house, which opened onto the marketplace. She peered through the covered front of the building into the market square. Still busy, even at this late hour. Nearly half the stalls were open for business. A mere fifty yards away was the small guardhouse that marked the entrance to the Temple Quarter. She hurried back to her companion.

"Sir Roland," she whispered fiercely. "We are almost at the gateway!"

Her mentor smiled weakly at her and nodded. Roland's eyes then closed and a long, slow breath escaped his lips. He lay serene and unmoving. Holding her friend's hands, Daelynn let her tears flow. She recited a prayer to Tymora, kissed the old man's forehead and removed the bag which held the other half of the relic from his still form. Standing, she wiped her eyes and checked her weapons. It was time to finish her master's quest.