Thief of Destiny: The Collected Saga of the Panther Page 7

  “This isn’t a game,” Folami retorted. “This is sick.”

  “You give them one chance and all they do is whine about that chance. Youths,” Cleon grumbled to Manwe.

  The final doors shut in the dark.

  “You first,” Cleon told Folami, freeing her from the crook of his arm. “Go on. Go on, little bird. I’ll catch up.”

  Folami backed away, her eyes on the sorcerer. After a few steps, she turned and ran into the halls.

  “Your turn,” he whispered to Manwe. “Don’t be long.”

  Manwe ran, not looking back. His bare feet padded the wooden floor as he sank into shadows, darting to the left wing of the upper level. He made a full circuit of the floor, passing Cleon once, who gave a friendly wave at him as he went by. He ignored him as he counted the doors. There were six—two in the left and right wings of floor, one in the hall at the back, and a single door that led to a chamber situated in the center.

  He ignored that single door to the center, thinking on the fact that Nelo had spent the entire night at her debauchery, and at some point all bodies weakened under such strain. His thought was confirmed when he heard groans from behind the portal, too fresh and too enthused. That left him the door in the rear hallway and the four in the wings.

  At some point he knew full well no amount of calculation could exceed his luck in this case. Stopping in the left wing of the upper floor, he picked the second door on the right. He grabbed the handle and pushed, diving for a roll into the bedroom. Carpet prickled his back, and when he landed on his feet, he froze.

  Lying on the gigantic bed in the center of the room was Nelo.

  The wife of the Senate Consul of Tolivius rested upon her plush cotton mattress, smiling dreamily as calm rays of moonlight entered through the balcony outside. Her eyes shut, she moaned as she turned over, her sensuous body twisting luridly in silk.

  Manwe almost grinned at his own dumb luck until a secret door opened and in stepped a man. Drunk and blinking, he looked at Nelo on her bed, taking a few furtive steps in her direction.

  “Nelo,” this stranger whispered. “Is that you?”

  Manwe dropped, belly down.

  Nelo stirred. “Taeus? Is that you finally?”

  “It’s I, my love. Where is your husband?”

  “In the basement with some ten year-olds,” she answered. “The pig almost dared to think he would touch me tonight.”

  “Ugh,” said Taeus. The lord climbed onto the bed. “I lost my shrew somewhere on the lawn. She’s such a sanctimonious little bitch. She doesn’t understand anything like you do.”

  “We are animals, you and I,” Nelo replied. Lips met, wet and smacking. Nelo murmured something and groaned. “...we are chosen by the true gods.”

  The couple rolled and thrashed on the bed for a moment, gasping and calling each other’s names, and then silence.

  They started to snore.

  Manwe rose, incredulous. Taeus and Nelo had sprawled in two different areas of the bed, far from each other’s reach. Taeus drooled on the cotton, his hand still reaching for Nelo’s leg.

  It only took a blink of an eye for Manwe to walk around the bed and remove her necklace. A quick pull of the silk in the back freed it from her body, and he waited for Nelo to turn over in her sleep, leaving behind the treasure.

  With the diamond beads hidden with the rest of his loot in the front of his loin cloth, Manwe went to the balcony in search of an easy escape. Out on the suspended platform of wood and stone, he looked out, seeing the roof of the manor’s first level only a few feet below him. He hopped the thigh-high fencing and ran for the next edge. He leapt to a bare patch of grass on an empty piece of lawn, clearing a row of bushes as he landed hard on his knees.

  Looking up and wincing, he tilted his head in surprise when he saw a figure run across the grass.

  Folami sprinted as two men in yellow robes chased after her. To Manwe’s surprise, they were exact matches of Cleon.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Manwe rolled to his back to find the sorcerer standing over him. “Impossible.”

  “Is it?” Cleon asked. “Well, go on, Panther. Run.”

  “Don’t you want to know whether or not I have The Savannah’s Tears?” he asked.

  “I really don’t care.”

  “Then why chase her?”

  The sorcerer shrugged his shoulders. “Fun.”

  Manwe turned to check on Folami. To his sincere happiness she had cleared the yard, scaling up one of the many trees before the manor wall. The two clones of Cleon had stopped at the base of one of the trunks, arguing with each other about who was to blame. “So what now?”

  Cleon offered his hand.

  Helped to his feet, Manwe stood before the cunning Gypian. Their eyes met, and he stared into Cleon’s luminous brown pools, transfixed by the life within them. They reminded him of Toba’s eyes—full of joy. “Why do you do this, Cleon? You’re supposed to hunt me, and I’m supposed to run.”

  “What can I say? I don’t like rules.”

  “You’re such a peculiar man.”

  “And you’re a riddle.”

  “How so?” asked Manwe.

  Cleon took a step toward him, close enough that only a few inches separated their faces. He hesitated, a breath held back, until he leaned forward. The warmth of their lips together almost made Manwe weak in his legs, if only for a second, before the sorcerer backed away.

  “You’re my riddle,” said Cleon. “What do I find so alluring about a rebel?”

  It was a question Manwe knew well, and one he couldn’t answer himself.

  Manwe leaned against the alley wall as he watched the sunrise, his body aching from the fretful night. He had left the manor after his kiss with Cleon and retreated to the Temple of Love and Peace, a holy building that doubled as one of Tolivius’ more upscale brothels. The morning brought the world warmth, pushing away the dreariness of the night. The sun settled on his wall, blasting him in its light.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  He looked to his right, into the alley’s shadows. There stood Folami, her hands behind her back as she leaned against the opposing wall. “Morning.”

  “How did you get away?” she asked. “I saw Cleon standing over you.”

  “He let me go.”

  They fell to silence, neither speaking nor making eye contact for long minutes. Dawn seeped into their narrow lane.

  “Did you get it?” Folami asked.

  Manwe reached into his loin cloth and pulled out the Savannah’s Tears, each diamond bead a spark of fire. “Oh, and I have these.” He bent down at his side and picked up two knotted pillow cases. Tossing them to her, they struck the cobblestones by her feet.

  “Now you’ll tell me you just walked back into the manor and recovered all of it,” Folami said, sarcastic.

  “If you must know...”

  “Save it.” She gathered what was accorded to her, a small sack she threw over his shoulder. “This day’s been long enough as it is.”

  “I heard you tonight. When you sang.” Manwe rolled the line of diamonds in his hands. “You know the cause is just.”

  “What if it is, Panther?” she replied, tired. “We’re thieves. Criminals. Justice doesn’t apply to us, nor do we wish it to.”

  “Just because we’re criminals doesn’t mean we deserve indignity. The Gypian occupation must end.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to end it.” She turned to slink deeper into the twisting paths of the city, but stopped at the blind corner of the next building. “Manwe?”

  “Yes, Folami?”

  She tossed back one of the loot bags. “I’ll put a good word in.”

  Left alone, Manwe returned his attention to the necklace in his possession. Pleased by the diamonds’ sparkle, he gathered the line into a ball and squeezed them in his hand, ready for what came next.

  THE END

  Part II

  Thief of Secrets

  4

  Whe
n Shadows Walked on Legends

  Kaarle ran until his knees burned. Mile after mile passed underfoot, until the skin on the bottom of his feet peeled and bled, each step a plea for him to stop, give up—anything to ease the agony shooting up his legs. Tears ran from his eyes, hot and salted.

  The darkness of the Glass Jungles, filled with their green-leafed shadows and silence, echoed his labored gasps as he came to the edge of the great forests, where the sunlit hills of the yellow savannah burned under the early autumn sun, a white wheel brighter than any jewel.

  At the edge of consciousness, Kaarle tripped on a small rock hidden in the hard soil. His big toe ripped open by its gray edge, he tumbled headfirst to the earth, rolling onto his neck and shoulder, the latter popping out of its joint with a sear of frozen fire that numbed his body. Flopping onto his naked back, he stared up into the bright blue vault of the sky, its cloudless expanse lifeless and parched.

  "Please, Anga," he whispered through dry, broken lips. "Please. Please save me."

  The Goddess of Life said nothing.

  The light of the sky shimmered at the edge of sight, and as he blinked, Kaarle knew he would soon see no more. The wind filled his ears as the light faded.

  For an eternity he mired in the dark, corporality a far-off thought among the starry drifts of an endless night. Somewhere between eternity and death, warmth found its way to him. A notion of sense returned—his face, at first, then the rest of his body, until one moment he woke from his slumber to a chilling voice he knew all too well.

  "Best to leave him out on the plains, where the gods will claim his flesh and free his soul," said Voduni Calla, his tone bleak.

  "The Panther would skin me alive for it," said another voice, this one firm and deep. "If he wakes, he wakes, and if he dies then we will pay him the greatest of respect. The boy has given much for his people. Just like his friends did."

  Voduni Calla hissed at the response. "One boy does not win a war."

  "But many brave ones do," said Kaarle, his throat sore as he finished the rest of the old Juutan saying. He opened his eyes, squinting against the small light of the oil lamp set beside his bed. The glimmer of the wick revealed the faint walls of a cavern, and as his eyes adjusted, he made out the forms of the two men at the foot of his pallet.

  He recognized Kosey first, elated when the rebel lord smiled upon him with his curve of silver moonlight. A strapping man who was younger than he looked, he sat sturdy on a tall wooden stool, his short spear resting across his lap and a cowhide shield by his feet. The scratches and dents in his iron breastplate gleamed like the honey rings of his eyes, the irises made bright by the contrast of the thick beard on his black face and his unkempt shock of woolen hair.

  "Ah, there he is," Kosey said, spreading his arms open in celebration.

  One of Kosey's ebon limbs almost touched Voduni Calla, who took a slight jerk away with a sneer. The skinny man’s umber arms and shoulders, exposed from the cut outs of his black robes, revealed flesh layered in thick lines left by a slave master's whip. Around the old man's neck hung a necklace made of small bones, bits of quail, and monkey toes, all of which hung taut by a single skull that served as a pendant—the bleached head of a vulture. His sneer transformed into a frown as he looked to Kaarle, his eyes two points of hatred.

  "Where am I?" Kaarle asked, looking around the cavern.

  "You're at the new camp," said Kosey. "You've been asleep for two days."

  "Two days?" Kaarle tried to sit up, but a sharp pain from his shoulder spread across his chest. His breath sucked from his body, he fell back onto the hay. Wheezing, he dipped his chin to look at the bandages binding his shoulder. "Where is he? Where's Manwe?"

  "There will be plenty of time for that later, Kaarle," said Kosey, unmoved by the young man's pain. Elbows rested on the shaft of his spear, his posture relaxed. "For now you need to tell me what happened."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Aemon's Fort, boy," cawed Voduni Calla. "You were sent there to help the thief free our captured lieutenants of the Glass Jungles campaign before they were executed. Word of the events are skewed."

  "I'm sorry, Voduni, but I don't know what you mean." Kaarle eyed the old witchdoctor with fear—it never paid to upset one of their like. "I remember the Glass Jungle. I remember..."

  Kosey rose from his stool and went over to a small bucket near a chest. Drawing a mouthful of water with a carved ladle, he brought it over to Kaarle and held it by his mouth. "Calm, little brother. Take a sip and tell us what you can."

  The cool water slaked the dryness in his throat, and swallowing for the first time without pain, Kaarle breathed. Through the cobwebs of the mind he saw the white walls of Tolivius. "As Voduni Calla said, we were to meet The Panther for a raid on the fort."

  Leading Nobou and Simo into the darkened alley between the Gypian temple of the Goddess of Love and a second dedicated to yet one more of the invaders’ deities, Kaarle looked wide-eyed into the passage, expecting their contact to already be there. His hand on the iron knife he held beneath his blue cloak, he stopped a few feet past the threshold, his eyes darting from the ground to the two roofs above him.

  "He's not here," said Simo, the youngest of the trio. "We should leave."

  "Our orders were clear," Kaarle replied, standing still on the paved stones. He spied a set of stairs at the end of the alley, a decline leading down to an olive door of the Goddess of Love's temple. "Are we in the wrong alley?"

  "It doesn't matter if this is the right one or the wrong one," Simo argued. "Voduni Calla said we can't trust a murderer of shamans and lords."

  "And yet Voduni Calla is quick to send boys to their deaths," called a strong voice behind them.

  Turning in an instant, Kaarle reached forward and stopped Simo before he charged, recognizing immediately the figure in the alley's mouth.

  His face shadowed by the sun's angle, the man's short stature was made up for by a set of powerful shoulders and the flair of his defined hips. His upper body was draped in a dusty red cloak. A curved iron dagger hung in the band of his loincloth. Dressed only in this simple garb, it was his eyes that drew Kaarle's attention. Within those black eyes gleamed the cold light of a killer, though the gleam held no great or natural malice. A rough beard covered a pointed chin, and the hair on his head grew out in a large, woolen mass.

  Manwe the Panther stared at the three rebels. "Password."

  Kaarle broke ahead of Simo and placed his hand on Nobou's forearm, forcing his weapon down. "The cranes fly at dusk."

  "For the panther hunts where shadows walk," said Manwe, completing the phrase. He studied the three of them. "Are you all Kosey sent?"

  "We are more than enough, thief," said Simo, his eyes narrowed with insult. He held his knife down, keeping it at the ready.

  Manwe shifted toward the boy, his posture slouched. "Are you enough to spot the soldiers marching behind you?"

  Once again the three turned on their heels. Out in the daylight of Tolivius’ corrupt metropolis marched an endless column three men wide. Even Simo hid his knife as the three retreated deeper into the building’s shade. The four watched in dread quiet as the center of the line passed by. Riding in a gilded chariot driven by a slender man in a fine tunic cut from cloth of gold, the rider standing behind him that chilled Kaarle's blood.

  Upright and lean, the tallest Gypian he had ever seen surveyed the street before him with a dispassionate gaze. Too far to see the finer features of his face, what became clear to Kaarle was that this man, this mountain of bronze muscle and honey-brown hair, was far more than any soldier or lord the western invaders often sent to rape his people's land. This one was like a god, and if the people of Juut's conquered savannah knew anything, the gods of the Gypians were the heralds of ruin.

  "Who is he?" asked Nobou, sounding more like a boy than ever.

  "Someone to be considered." Manwe headed for the steps leading down to the Goddess of Love's temple, every movement smooth and assured. "Come
along."

  Seeing his fellows glance at him for direction, Kaarle nodded for them to follow the thief down the short flight of stairs. Manwe knocked three times on the door and waited until the viewing slot slid open. A pair of bright blue eyes looked out from the space.

  "What is the goddess' secret?" a woman's voice asked.

  "The goddess has no secrets," the thief replied. "I'm bringing three in with me, Magera."

  Her eyes slid to Kaarle and his two friends. "Are they armed?" she asked, not unbarring the door.

  "I have it on good authority that they will behave themselves." He raised the hem of his cloak, revealing the iron knife tucked in his band. "I'll make sure of it."

  A bar slid free, and the door opened to reveal a beguiling woman. Blonde hair framed a tanned face, tresses that fell down her sleek shoulders to frame a pair of firm breasts covered in translucent blue silk. The same material girded her loins, held up by a band of polished bronze rings that pressed into the flesh of her hips. A few bronze keys dangled from a hook forged into one of these rings.

  Barefoot, she stepped to the side, allowing them space to enter.

  Simo protested as Manwe broke forward. "I'm not going into a Gypian whorehouse, Kaarle," he said, his voice pitched high. "She is the enemy!"

  "Whether you enter or not, this door will always be open to those seeking solace," Magera replied, offering a wounded smile. "But if you do not wish to enter then you do not have to."

  "Pardon me a moment," said Manwe, raising his hand to stop her. "Would you kindly close the door?"