Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations, #1-2)

by Michael J. Sullivan

“We should have left the road, but honestly—I mean, we are in the middle of nowhere. What were the odds?” “Judging from the fact that we’re being robbed—pretty good, I think.”

Will nodded toward Hadrian. “Look at the swords he’s carrying. A man wearing one—maybe he knows how to use it, maybe not. A man carries two—he probably don’t know nothing about swords, but he wants you to think he does. But a man carrying three swords—that’s a lot of weight. No one’s gonna haul that much steel around unless he makes a living using them.”

“Shall we get on with this? I believe you were about to rob us.” The thieves shot uncertain glances to each other.

“You know, you’re doing this all wrong,” Royce told them. The thieves stopped and looked up, concerned. Royce shook his head. “Not clearing the brush—the robbery. You picked a nice spot. I’ll give you that. But you should have come at us from both sides.” “And, William—it is William, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked. The man winced and nodded. “Yeah, William, most people are right-handed, so those coming in close should approach from the left. That would’ve put us at a disadvantage, having to swing across our bodies at you. Those with bows should be on our right.” “And why just one bow?” Royce asked. “She could have only hit one of us.”

Royce nodded. “Invest in crossbows. Next time stay hidden and just put a couple bolts into each of your targets’ chests. All this talking is just stupid.” “Royce!” Hadrian admonished. “What? You’re always saying I should be nicer to people. I’m trying to be helpful.” “Don’t listen to him. If you do want some advice, try building a better barricade.”

“Didn’t need to. The Hand requires all guild members to get that stupid tattoo on their necks.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “It’s supposed to make them look tough, but all it really does is make it easy to identify them as thieves for the rest of their lives. Painting a red hand on everyone is pretty stupid when you think about it.” “That tattoo is supposed to be a hand?” Hadrian asked. “I thought it was a little red chicken. But now that you mention it, a hand does make more sense.” Royce looked back at Will and tilted his head to one side. “Does kinda look like a chicken.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I hid all the truly incriminating plans for world domination prior to your visit. Please, do sit down.”

“Making friends again, Royce?” Hadrian asked as he led two horses from the stable. “You’ll have to forgive my friend. He was raised by wolves.” “Those are my father’s horses!” Hadrian nodded. “We left the carriage behind a bramble patch by the river bridge. By the way, I think I might have stretched out one of your father’s doublets. I put it and the rest of his things back in the carriage.” “You were wearing my father’s clothes?” “I told you,” Royce repeated, “it was close, very close.”

Just another game he played in a world where heroes were legends and honor was a myth.

“And one more thing, you must kidnap my brother.” There was a pause as they both stared at her. “Wait, wait, hold on. You want us to kidnap the Prince of Melengar?”

“So,” Royce said, “you want us to escape from this prison, kidnap the king, cross the countryside with him in tow while dodging soldiers who I assume might not accept our side of the story, and go to another secret prison so that he can visit an inmate?” Arista did not appear amused. “Either that, or you can be tortured to death in four hours.” “Sounds like a really good plan to me,” Hadrian declared. “Royce?” “I like any plan where I don’t die a horrible death.”

“This is likely a really stupid question for me to ask,” Royce said, “but what makes you think we won’t just kill your brother, leave his body in the sewer to rot, and then just disappear?” “Nothing,” she replied. “Like you, I simply don’t have a choice.”

“You think he’s still alive?” Royce asked, nodding his head toward Alric. “Sure,” Hadrian replied without bothering to look. “He’s probably sleeping. Why do you ask?” “I was just pondering something. Do you think a person could smother in a wet potato bag?” Hadrian lifted his head and looked over at the motionless prince. “I really hadn’t thought about it until now.” He got up and shook Alric, but the prince did not stir. “Why didn’t you mention something earlier!”

Noble or commoner, people all lie, cheat, and pay me to do their dirty work. Regardless of who rules, the sun still shines, the seasons still change, and people still conspire.

“Then Arista has sent us to bring her brother to see a prisoner who is over a thousand years old. Does anyone else see a problem with that?” Hadrian asked.

“Because he’s a wizard.” “When you say he was a wizard,” Hadrian asked, “do you mean that he was a learned man of wisdom or that he could do card tricks and sleight of hand or maybe he was able to brew a potion to help you sleep? Royce and I know a man like that, and he is a bit of all three, but he can’t hold off death.”

“The difference is I liked this idea a lot better when you didn’t want to go,” Royce said. “I thought Esrahaddon was some old baron your father exiled who had put a contract out on you, or maybe the mother of an illegitimate half brother who was imprisoned to keep her quiet. But this? This is ridiculous!”

“Are we in the wrong place?” Hadrian asked. “It’s supposed to be a hidden prison,” Alric reminded them. “I just assumed,” Hadrian said, “being up here in the middle of nowhere was what was meant by hidden. I mean, if you didn’t know the prison was here, would you come to such a place?”

“You lack a crown, King.” Alric drew his sword. Despite its size, he handled it smoothly and extended the point at the sentry. “What I lack in a crown, I more than make up for in a sword.”

“And it still does. I saved you. I released you from that place.” Esrahaddon raised an eyebrow. “Didst thou help me escape as favor to me? I think not. Thou—you freed me to save yourself. I owe you nothing, and if I did, I repaid you when I brought you out.”

I am king now. To Alric, being king felt like a prison sentence. He would spend the rest of his life in service to his people, his nobles, and his family, just as his father had done. He wondered if Amrath had felt the same way when his own father had died.

“There,” Hadrian told Royce, “we’ve got Maribor on our side. Now you can relax.” “Actually,” Myron said sheepishly, “I was praying for the horses. But I will pray for you as well,” he added hastily.

lying was a betrayal to one’s self. It’s evidence of self-loathing. When you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie rather than accepting yourself for who you really are—or, in this case, pretend something happened when it didn’t. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you.

In the end, who is braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?”

The smallest of the children fascinated Myron, and he watched them in amazement. They were like short drunk people, loud and usually dirty, but all were surprisingly cute and looked at him in much the same way that he looked at them.

I am king now. He did not feel like a king. He felt like he had on the road near the Silver Pitcher when those men had held him facedown in the dirt. The tears were now streaming down his cheeks.

He had killed only two men but already Mason was slick with blood. His tunic felt heavy as it stuck to the skin of his chest and he could not tell if sweat or tears of blood dripped down his face. The grin he had shown to the sweeper remained glued to his lips by the thrill and elation. This is freedom! This is living!

“It’s so poetic of you to choose to die in the same room as the king,”

“He said the beast can’t be harmed by weapons made by man, but inside Avempartha there is a sword that can kill it.” “So, a man with no hands told you to find us in Colnora and hire us to get a sword for your father from a tower called Avempartha?” Royce asked. The girl nodded. Hadrian looked at his partner. “Don’t tell me… it’s a dwarven tower?” “No…” Royce replied, “it’s elvish.” He turned away with a thoughtful expression.

“Ridiculous!” Royce complained once the horse was under control. “A thousand-pound animal terrified by a five-pound cat; you’d think she was a mouse.” “Mouse! That’s perfect,” Thrace shouted, causing Millie’s ears to twist back. “I like it,” Hadrian agreed. “Oh, good lord,” Royce muttered, shaking his head as he trotted forward again.

“What kind of meal would you like?” “Something edible would be a pleasant surprise,” Royce said, adding more wood. Hadrian threw a stick at him. The thief caught it and placed it on the fire.

Your best ally in any discussion is silence. Learn to develop that skill. Learn to listen instead of speaking and you’ll weather many storms.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I can’t say I know her well enough to offer much of an opinion.” “Good god, man. I’m not asking you about her; I want more wine, you fool.”

“I have a weapon,” the farmer growled, and resumed sharpening his blade. The sound was cold and grating. “This?” Thrace asked. “Your grass cutter? The margrave had a sword, a shield, and armor and he—” “Not this, I have another weapon, much bigger, much sharper.”

“Were all wizards as irritating as you are?” “Much worse, I’m afraid. I was one of the youngest and nicest.”

“Something you need to understand, my boy, is that wizards are not fonts of information. You should at least know this much—the farmer Theron and his daughter would be dead today if I hadn’t arrived and sent her to fetch you.”

“Because not just anyone will do. You are the only one I know who can open Avempartha.” “Are you saying I am the only thief you know?”

“Magic is a little like playing the fiddle. It’s damn hard to do without hands.”

How must that feel? Hadrian thought while watching them. What is it like to have held so much power and now be unable to even hold a spoon?

The roofing poles listed to one side; the framing was splintered; the thatch was scattered. This is what shattered dreams look like. The farm seemed cursed, haunted by ghosts, only one of the ghosts was not at home.

You don’t win battles with hate. Anger and hate can make you brave, make you strong, but they also make you stupid. You end up tripping over your own two feet.”

“What did you think? They were coming to lynch you?” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a glass-half-empty kinda guy.” “Half empty?” Hadrian chuckled. “Was there ever any drink in that glass?”

“You get on the horse. Get out of here and leave me alone!” Theron yelled at them as he struggled to catch his breath, standing bent over, hands resting on his knees. “Maybe you can help me this time?” Hadrian said to Royce. Royce rolled his eyes and dismounted. “I didn’t expect you’d have so much trouble.” “It’s not easy to subdue a person bigger than you and not hurt him in the process.” “Well, I think I found your problem, then. Why don’t we try hurting him?”

Practice will allow you to react without thought to events, and even to anticipate those events. It becomes a form of foresight, the ability to look into the future and know exactly what your opponent will do even before he does. Without practice, you’ll need to think too much. When fighting a more skilled opponent, even a split second of hesitation can get you killed.”

The real struggle is in your own mind. You must know you are going to win before you start the fight. You have to see it, smell it, and believe it utterly. It is a form of confidence, but you must guard against overconfidence. You have to be flexible—able to adapt in an instant and never allow yourself to give up. Without this, nothing else is possible. Unless you believe you’ll win, fear and hesitation will hold you down while your opponent kills you.

“I’ll never understand what it is about religion that causes otherwise sensible people to believe in fairy tales.

can’t?” “I already told you, it is magic to stop enemies from entering. As it happens, I was invited into this tower nine hundred years ago. It was abandoned immediately after my visit, so I am guessing there was no one to revoke that permission.” He looked back at what Hadrian still saw as solid stone. “I don’t think I could have opened it, though, even if I had hands. That’s why I needed you.”

“Oh please. This little… dwarf… tried to kill me and damn near succeeded, and you want me to let him go because I said I would? Hey, he lived a whole day longer for helping us. That’s plenty reward.” “Royce!” “What?” The thief rolled his eyes. “You aren’t serious? He killed Amrath.” “It was a job, and you aren’t a member of the royal guard. He upheld his end just as agreed. And there’s no benefit to killing him.” “Enjoyment,” Royce said. “Enjoyment and satisfaction are benefits.” Hadrian continued to glare. Royce shook his head and sighed. “All right, okay, he can live. It’s stupid, but he can live. Happy?”

“You realize how stupid this is, right? That thing decimated this whole village and the castle last night, and you are going to take it on with an old farmer, two women, and a broken sword?”

The beast looked at Arista. “Thou art regal.” “I am a princess.” “The best bait,” the Gilarabrywn said, but Arista was not sure she heard that right. It might also have said, “The greatest gift.” The phrase was difficult to translate. She asked, “Wilt thou honor thy trade or kill us?” “The bait stays alive until I catch the thief.” “Thief?”