The Thieves (short story)

The tavern was not as rowdy as one would have expected on a warm summer night. But it gave no bother to the two men seated at a table in the far corner, who took turns observing the revellers nearby and the papers laid out in front of them.

“Well Brann, your man certainly followed through with the information he promised,” said the younger of the two, absentmindedly swishing the ale in his mug. “You sure this is all trustworthy?”

“Men who want in on a job like this are never trustworthy, Garth,” the elder man replied. “No matter how reliable their information.” Garth nodded in acknowledgement and drained the ale in his mug before moving to leave the table.

“That’s enough for tonight,” said Brann, holding up a hand to stop him. “You might think you can handle it, but you need a clear head for this. No getting tipsy before a job. That’s how mistakes are made.” Again Garth nodded.

“When do we move?” he asked as he settled back into his seat.

“Soon. Lord Gwynevere should be off at that banquet by now.”

“But his guards remain at the manor. Some will be on high alert.”

“And some will take their master’s absence as an opportunity to relax. But you are right, that shouldn’t be counted on. Always assume the worst.”

“Speaking of which...” Garth trailed off as his gaze was pulled toward the tavern’s front door.

“Keep your head down,” said Brann in a low voice, noticing how quiet the place had suddenly become. Garth obliged. “What is it?”

“Two guards.” Brann began re-folding the papers and returning them to his satchel.

“Don’t look directly at them.” Though Garth obeyed those instructions, they had no effect, as the armed and armoured city watch approached their table.

“Can we help you, gentlemen?” asked Brann

“Oh, I’d bet you can,” said one of the guards. “Investigation is part of our job, and we hear all sorts of rumours floating about this part of town.”

“Surely you have better things to do than chase groundless rumours,” said Garth. Brann shot him a warning look.

“When enough folk are talkin’, there has to be something to it,” said the other guard. “For instance, this talk of the bravest thief in the city planning to rob the good Lord Gwynevere while he’s away at a banquet.”

“And what could that possibly have to do with us?” asked Brann.

“Everything. You match the descriptions we’ve gathered. Now we’ll ask you once to come with us peacefully-” But the guard was stopped short. Before he could lay a hand on his weapon, Brann and Garth simultaneously stood and threw their chairs at the guards, bolting for the front door. Several more guards waiting outside drew their weapons, but the thieves were much faster, dodging and sidestepping the soldiers before sprinting away down the street.

“After them!” yelled the guard captain. The armoured soldiers gave chase, but the unencumbered thieves were much faster.

“What now?” asked Garth as the two rounded a corner. “We can’t just give up on this job!”

“We have to!” said Brann as an arrow from above flew past his head. “That manor will be as heavily guarded as the count’s treasury!”

“Dammitall!”

“Always know when to quit!”

“Easy for you to-” Garth was cut off by a yell of pain as he fell forward with an arrow embedded in his back. Brann only made a few more steps before he stopped and turn to see his fallen comrade; as well as the guards who had maintained their pursuit. To his relief, Garth was still alive; but he could not move.

“Go, dammit!” the younger thief shouted as the guards closed in. Without hesitation, Brann took off again as another arrow flew forth and nicked the side of his vest. Two guards stayed behind to restrain Garth, while the others kept on pursuing Brann. The elder thief rounded several more tight corners before diving into an alleyway and crouching behind a refuse bin. From his satchel he withdrew a mirror and held it to the ground, intently watching the street behind him.

“Where the hell is he?!” a distant voice shouted.

“Split up!” called another. Moments later, three guards plodded down the street. The first two pressed on, while the other, torch in hand, stopped at the mouth of the alley. Brann froze, putting away his mirror as the torchlight drew closer.

“Where are you?” the guard muttered as each of his heavy footsteps made Brann’s heart beat ever faster. When the armoured boot at last appeared in the corner of his vision, he scraped up a handful of dirt, then stood and threw it in the guard’s face. His helmet protected his vulnerable eyes, but the distraction gave ample time for Brann to deliver a sweeping kick that took the guard off his feet, before the thief grabbed his torch and beat it against the ground to extinguish it. With feline agility, Brann then jumped upward, grabbing several handholds and pulling himself to the rooftops just in time to see the guard recover and yell for his comrades.

Brann took off at full speed, hopping from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit of a place to hide until dawn. If he could just reach the safe house...

His thoughts were cut short as arrows and bolts flew past. Most missed, but several nicked his leather padding, and moment later, a heavy bolt tore through his hood and threw him off-balance. He desperately tried to regain his lost footing, but he stumbled, tripped, and fell. His legs struck a balcony on the way down and his body tore through an awning, before his fall was finally broken by a ramshackle vendor stand.

Brann felt throbbing pain through all his limbs. He was dizzy, bruised and bloodied. Before he could move an aching muscle or even look over his wounds, several guards appeared, pikes drawn and pointed forward. The thief could not even lift his arms to surrender. He meant to curse as loudly as he could manage, for his pain and his failure; but he was stopped short by an authoritative voice nearby.

“Caught at last.”