Free preview of chapter one

                   Chapter One
             That Damned Sword

Pantania Pommel had a headache. The pain had been more and more frequent, lately. If it weren’t for that damned voice in her head, she may be able to think straight, make a coherent decision, but, alas, the voice was ever present, whispering ideas in her head. Ideas of murder-of hate. Things had been fine until she found that Gods cursed sword.  At first, it all seemed to be the blurry fragments of a horrible dream.  Now, it was constant voices and headaches. Oh how she hated that sword.

The sword was so smug. It thought it was better than anything. It forced its will upon her. The sword thought it was so perfect with its dragon claw hilt and unmarred silver blade, but it could do nothing without a hand to wield it. She smiled, grimly, at the thought.

“And I am that hand.” She realized. “I am a slave to the will of Bloodletter.” She had tried to get rid of the weapon, but it had persuaded her to keep it. She sat on the stone rim of the fountain in the marketplace of Fialscathac at her usual spot near Emric the Fishmonger.  It was here she observed the daily business of her guild members as they discreetly carried out guild business and brought her intelligence from her rival guild, the Skrapestones in Talantas. That damned Bwbach, Skrubb, and his two whelps thought their guild was much more important, just because they were stationed a two days journey northeast in the “big city.” She spat upon the ground at the thought.

“Kill them,” the sword whispered in her head. “And the whole of Anglea can be yours.” She rubbed her temples trying to ease the pain that threatened to split her skull.

“Shut the fuck up,” she growled.  She took an apple from her satchel and took a loud bite, letting the juice run down her chin. She didn’t bother wiping it. She had let her appearance go in the months since she had found the sword. Her banded mail was filthy. Her red hair was unkempt and stood in spikes that went in no particular direction. Pantania wiped her palms on the leathers she wore and gripped the hilt of the sword.

“There had better be good news today,” she hissed. She placed her head in her hands again and waited for word from one of her runners, men she hired to bring her news of daily profits or any signs of trouble from the gentry or unaffiliated freelance thieves. Obsessed as she was with what the Skrapestones were doing, she was awaiting word from her best assassin, a cruel, ugly man known as Neftet Grimm. She had sent him to bring her the head of any high ranking member of the opposing guild. It was meant to be a warning as well as a strike against her rivals. Getting to Skrubb, the guild master was next to impossible even for a master assassin. His twin children, Skallion and Shallot, a brother and sister, protected him well. So, her strikes must be directed at less important, less guarded targets.

The targets in question were lieutenants and master thieves working for the opposing guild.  The sheer size of the guild was astounding as was fitting for a metropolis like Talantas. It was the capital, the seat of power, the place where the High King resided; the place where decisions for the empire were made.  Pantania herself had once infiltrated the Án Corran-the Crescent. They were the officials who helped the king with political decisions. Disguised as a serving wench, none were the wiser. Thoughts of blood entered her head and she rubbed her temples to clear it.

“Not now,” She snarled. “I have more important things afoot.” Overthrowing a kingdom would have to wait. First, she knew, she would have to gain control of Prionsia’s thieves guilds, one city at a time.

She wasn’t sure where her hatred for the bwbach began. Nor did she know why she hated him so much. All she did know was that thoughts of Skrubb Skrapestone made her red with bloodlust and a need to destroy him. Unfortunately, the task had confounded her to this point. The Bwbach had the luck of Gad himself.  Every carefully laid plan, every plot had been uncovered and stopped before it could come to fruition.  She had to admit, his spies were as good as her own.  Her one advantage was the sword she wore at her side. She could feel its power, knew it was no ordinary blade.  Pantania had seen it slice through Abhacan steel as if through grass and watched it cut through a body even easier. Bloodletter was an apt name for the blade and it relished in its moniker.

A town’s guardsman turned the corner and she instinctively ducked her head as if she could hide in plain sight. The man didn’t even give her a glance as he continued his march along the Street of Vendors. With a wary gaze, she watched him enter The Coin’s Edge Tavern. She chuckled to herself. The man was off to spend his money on drink, games, or women; maybe all three.

 “The frailty of humankind,” she mused, “and I get to take full advantage.”

The owner of the Coin’s Edge was a former thief; an elf named Gru. He once held a high position in the town’s previous guild: the one that Pantania had destroyed months ago. She knew that he was a formidable opponent, however so she left him alone, for now. As long as he paid her his monthly dues, he would be safe. No matter that the damned sword insisted she kill him. Knowing he had powerful allies from his previous life as an adventurer also stayed her hand.

Sudden movement brought Pantania from her reverie. A large figure was approaching. Covered head to toe in a black cloak and leather garments, the man walked with a slow conviction. A large sword peeked out from his left shoulder and in his hands he held a sack. His face was covered, but she recognized her hired killer.

“My Lady.” Neftet greeted her formally without slowing. He came straight toward her and tossed the sack on the ground at her feet.

“The mission was successful, I assume,” she said

Neftet nodded slightly. “To a point,” he said “although I was not able to take the one I wanted.“

She glared at him and through the shadows of his cowl she could see the glint of his small eyes. Untrustworthy eyes, she always thought when she saw him. They were the eyes of a killer ,but she realized, that’s exactly what he was.

“I had to settle for a minor cutpurse.” the assassin sighed. ”There were too many soldiers about.”

Pantania grumbled. What sort of message would that send? Taking the weak members taught them nothing. The voice screamed in her head for revenge on the sleight to her power. She could probably kill the assassin with little effort. Bloodletter was very sharp and with him in hand she was viper quick and as supple as a whip. Surely, he was created for the purpose of slaying, but she knew that Neftet Grimm was way too valuable to be slain.

“One with a reputation such as yours,” she began, “should be able to bring me bigger fish than this guppy.”

Neftet bowed his head. “Aye, mistress,” he said. “However, I was hired to remove the enemies of your guild. Would you have me captured and tortured? Or followed by Skrubb and his-”

“Never speak the name of that grub,” she screamed at him, spittle spattering his face. Her fist clenched on the hilt of her blade.  “He is nothing. And his time is coming. Soon”

“Yes, mistress.” Neftet nodded. “It is as you say. I shall return later in the week with the head of a Skrapestone official.” He looked up and she could now see his dark face and the grin he possessed. His unshaven jaw clenched in anger.

“You can count on it.” he promised.

Pantania was unnerved by the man. Only the damned sword made her feel more uneasy. She steeled her nerves, however, and glared at the man.

“And you can count on consequences if I can not,” she said simply.

“Consider it done,” spoke the assassin. He bowed slightly and backed away. “Until later then. Lady.” The way he said the word left no doubt that he was agitated. He was however a very skilled killer. One who knew better than to let his emotions over take his thoughts. He also enjoyed living and knew that the lady before him, although slight of frame, was deadly indeed with her blade. He would obey her orders for the time being until the mission was complete. He had failed to report to the Fangs, the assassin network he was affiliated with and soon, they too would question his motives.

The assassin turned and walked away from his employer and she fumed. Then, realizing they were in public, she snatched up the sack quickly and strolled to Emric’s stall.

“You really should do something about that one’s insolence,” the voice said in her head.

Pantania shook her mane and pressed a palm to her temple. “Shut up, shut up. Shut the fuck up,” she snarled.

“It really is unbecoming to be shown up by ones subservient,” the sword whispered.

“If you don’t shut up I swear to Efnisien I will melt you down and make children’s toys out of you.” Pantania growled. “Let me concentrate.”

“As you wish, but I really do thirst.”

“Soon, you steel pain in my ass. Soon.”

Pantania could swear she heard the voice chuckle. Around her, people gave her a wide berth; a wild haired lady talking to herself and carrying a bloody sack; wiser it was to let her by.

She arrived at Emric’s in short order and tossed the sack to the startled merchant who caught it with a squelch. Immediately, he let it fall, his face going ashen. He stared at the crimson upon his hands and felt physically ill. He turned away and retched into the straw.

Pantania rolled her eyes and grabbed the man by his arm. She pulled him toward her and stared into his brown eyes. Her stare was as lifeless as two emeralds.

“If I didn’t need your services, you coward,” she said, “your head would join the one in the sack.” The man swallowed and nodded.

“Now dispose of it the usual way.” She growled. With a nod, Emric turned back toward the sack. Pantania wiped her bloodied hands on her dirty leathers and turned to leave. Her path was barred by two men. Both were well muscled and their bare chests were covered in tattoos. Both wore their dark hair tied in plaits upon the crown of their skulls. Similar in appearance, yet they held different weapons. One man held a great sword in two meaty fists, the other a large double bladed axe.  The axeman grinned.

“Had a feelin’ we’d find you ‘ere,” he said.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” the thief mistress said, calmly.” Get out of my way.” The man with the sword moved to block her from another side. Her hand instinctively went to her own sword’s hilt.

“Let them not live,” the voice whispered. “Bathe me in their blood.”

“Gladly,” she said. The two men looked at each other with quizzical glances.

“’Ew are ya’ talkin’ to?” the axeman asked. “Nev’mind. Jus’ come wi’ us and maybe we let ya’ live. Long enough to feel the pleasures of that soft flesh.”.” He smiled as if he told a joke, but Pantania wasn’t humored.

“You have one last warning,” she said. “Walk away now or I let Bloodletter drink.”

“‘Ew the fuck is Bloodlett‘r?” the swordsman queried.

“You will meet him…now.” with that Pantania drew and sliced her blade crosswise slicing the man with the axe across the bridge of the nose. What should have been a minor cut, exploded with gore, the man going down with a scream. Before his twin could react he looked down to find three feet of steel through his belly. He looked at her in disbelief, his mouth open, blood beginning to froth from his lips.

Slowly, the man’s soul was drained into the damned blade. He screamed in silence as he faced damnation.

            “You should have taken my offer,” Pantania said, matter- of -factly. Then she pulled the sword free and let the man join his dying brother in the dirt. Not a drop of blood stained the blade. It was if the sword absorbed the blood into itself.

“Ah.” The voice whispered. “I do love the feel of human blood. It is almost as good as Sirite.”

Pantania’s mind was elsewhere. Who were these men making demands of her? Who sent them and why? She would not stand for this insolence and disrespect. She was the guild mistress of Fialscathac and, if she had her way, all of Prionsia. There would be an investigation. Oh yes. Her spies would be dispatched to find all the answers. And then they would pay with blood. Bloodletter would drink again.

Emric, meanwhile was even whiter than before. He now had two bodies and a head to dispose of. How he cursed himself for ever getting involved with the thief bitch. He used to be a respectable businessman until she came along. Now he did all sorts of unspeakable things just to appease the woman’s wrath. After all, he had to think of the welfare of his family. He wouldn’t let Pantania harm any of them. He couldn’t, by Eochaid.

Hurriedly, the fish merchant dragged the bodies behind his cart and into a pile of rubbish where he could hide them. Later he would filet them and take them to old Donall the butcher. The heads he would bury. The weapons would soon grace the walls of the guild house armory. He quickly covered the bloodstains with sand, scrubbing his hands with the grit as well to get the filth off of him. His work had become even more gruesome than ever.  He thought again of his family as he finished his clean up task.

Pantania was already walking away, back to her usual perch by the fountain. This had been a day of unfortunate news and someone would have to pay. Who would she punish today, she wondered? Amalar? Too important. Beneth? No. A good fence was hard to find. Some lesser thief would have to suffice. Her anger was boiling and the sword was still thirsty. The guild mistress decided she’d had enough and made to return to the guild.

Only the thieves knew where the secret entrance to the guild was. It was a secret guarded by their very lives, for the life was forfeit of any who told as well as the lives of their family and anyone who was given the information.  The door was plain enough, a simple entrance to what appeared to be a gem merchant. The owner was no merchant at all but Pantania’s second in command, a brute of a man with wisps of hair and not a little ogre blood named, Garmas. Hidden well behind his false fireplace, an expensively well maintained illusion, was the steel door of which only Pantania carried the key. Everyone else had to use a special password which changed weekly and was passed down to all members by sign language or the special code of the thieves.  Behind the door sat the doorman, Evonn, a lanky elf with tattooed skull and gleaming emerald eyes. At his side he held a loaded crossbow, a scimitar of Glacian steel, and a wine jug, half full of Siritic ale. He barely afforded Pantania a glance as she passed, then took his place, jug in hand to pass the rest of the day in silence.

Just past the guard was a set of stairs that led down into an underground tunnel complex. Many were the traps that lie in wait for the unwary. Pantania, however, knew where each one was and with her wand could bypass them, easily. Most thieves of the guild knew to search the tunnels or succumb to them; a fate that Pantania thought of as “weeding out the unfit.”

A few sharp turns led her into a grand hall where dozens of dark clad figures sat around on divans, drinking, dicing, and engaging in more intimate acts. The mistress ignored them all and headed toward a door on the far end; her office. It was here she ran the important day to day guild business, such as who owed her how much and who was to die. She slumped down in her soft chair and started rubbing her temples again. Again, with the headaches.

“You aren’t turning soft are you?” the sibilant voice muttered.  “Still nobody goes punished for the day’s events.”

“There will be punishment when I see fit,” she replied. “Not when some fucking dagger tells me to.” She felt the sword bristle at the insult and smiled. A sudden piercing pain shot through her head and she fell to the floor clutching at her temples and whimpering.

“Do not think that you are in charge, Pantania Pommel.” the sword began. “I allow your presence because you give me a chance to succeed in a plot that I have carefully planned, that I have brought to fruition.”  It forced another wave of pain across her skull and she cried out.

“I tolerate you because you are a means to an end for me: a hand to wield my power, to bring down kingdoms.” The sword was almost gloating.  “But outlive your usefulness and you too will find yourself in the realm of Marbhan very quickly. And we will eat your soul.”

 Pantania writhed on the floor, blood beginning to trickle from her ears and nose. The pain slowly subsided, leaving her a quivering mess.

“Do we understand each other?” The sword asked, plainly.

Pantania nodded and coughed up blood. “Yes, Bloodletter. I am sorry. Someone will pay.”

“It pleases me to hear that,” the voice cooed.  “I do thirst so for someone to pay.”

“It will be done.” she moaned as she rose, shakily to her feet. Who would she call upon to be her sacrifice? What petty thief would be the unlucky soul to feel her wrath?  What unfortunate recruit would Bloodletter feed upon today? Decisions had to be made in the name of posterity. She opened her ledger and picked a name at random.

“Kaine,” she hissed, “It is your lucky day- or unlucky as the case may be.” She chuckled and called for her bodyguard, Amir. The duty fell on him to advise Kaine, a minor cutpurse in the guild, that he was needed in Pantania’s chambers. She didn’t envy him, but she didn’t need to. That was the beauty of being in power. You could always get lessers to do your dirty work.

“Just like that damned sword.” she whispered.

Later that night the screams could be heard all across the streets of Fialscathac as Kaine met a grisly end. Bloodletter was sated, but tomorrow brought another day.