Twisted Shadows (2)
Dawn mist hung heavily over the banks of the Barada River, smothering the landscape. On a normal day, the clear view would have stretched far into the distance, but the fog creeping along the ground up to their ankles, combined with the dim predawn light, sharply limited visibility. Cutting through the rippling haze along that path came Zaid's caravan—cargo wagons and procession creaking with the groan of wheels as they rolled down the road by the river.
By all rights, this convoy should have been under ironclad escort, labeled as supplies for the Malik. But today, the wagons were barely filled, crates crammed in just enough to make a show of it, and the guards were laughably lax. Even the drivers were nodding off, heads bobbing as they fought sleep. For the predators lurking silently in the darkness, it couldn't have been a more perfect invitation.
"Heh heh, here they come. Third wagon."
A low voice seeped out from between the reeds. The Long Claw Hyenas, a mercenary band bought off with a king's ransom by Elder Omar, gripped their blades tighter, breathing ragged and foul.
"You sure about this? That those fancy scales are stuffed in there? If we're chewing air, your heads roll first."
Captain Javbar flashed a predatory grin. His scar-riddled face looked savage even in the pitch black without a single lantern.
"Our planted spies reported it, so it's solid, sir."
Rubbing his hands and bowing low, the rookie's glib words drew a fiercer smirk from Javbar. He waited a beat longer, then bellowed as the third wagon rolled right up to him.
"Now!"
With Javbar's shout and hand signal, his men erupted in beastly roars that tore through the mist.
"Ambush! Ambush!"
The guards screamed like they'd been waiting for it, scattering in all directions. Not a single proper sword stroke—just a pathetic rout. True to their name, though, the hyena pack swarmed not the fleeing guards but the third wagon left abandoned in the middle.
No one batted an eye at the guards who fled without a fight; it proved their caliber and why they were in this band. Ambush, pillage the cargo—that was their peak performance. Not a single sharp mind among them; if there had been, they wouldn't have joined this crew in the first place. And that was exactly the gap Jamal had exploited before defecting.
Crack!
Ignoring the escorts hastily grabbing the rest of the cargo, they hammered the third wagon with clubs. The heavy padlock held, but the door splintered first. Javbar yanked back the canvas, revealing dozens of neatly stacked wooden crates. He pried one open, and in the faint moonlight of dawn, Sirion breastplates gleamed with jewel-like luster.
"Ooh..."
Awe burst from the mercenaries' mouths. Nothing like the crude hunks of metal they'd seen on battlefields their whole lives. Light as feathers, smooth as mirrors—steel perfected.
"This the dragon armor from the rumors? Heh, craftsmanship is insane."
"They say each one's worth its weight in gold...! Move it! Get 'em to the guild hideout before the Malik's patrols show!"
Greed-blind, the mercs spun the wagons around like madmen. Drunk on triumph as they watched the caravan vanish into the fog, they had no clue. What they'd stolen was Baraka's most exquisitely designed trash.
At the same hour, the guild elders' secret chamber rang with the laughter of old men high on victory. The table was littered with the freshly arrived Sirion breastplates and sample scales.
"See that? That arrogant outsider's junk is right in our palms now!"
Chairman Omar caressed the armor's surface with trembling, spasmodic hands. The impossibly smooth finish had the elders swallowing hard, babbling about rosy futures. Edessa's gates would open; Damascus's outdated forges could be forgotten. Optimism reigned.
"Take this to the knight, and Edessa's doors swing wide. Forget those stuffy Damascus smithies!"
But amid the mad revelry, Jamal watched them with icy chill. He'd confirmed the truth in his master's office last night.
These pitiful old fools. No idea the executioner's blade they're clutching will slit their own throats.
He remembered well: assuming these were the same scales Baraka had casually shattered, this was a colossal trap. Following his orders back to the guild, Jamal was no longer their comrade but a front-row spectator to their downfall.
While the elders were distracted, he feigned inspecting the armor with a magnifier and sidled up to Omar.
"Chairman, what a prize. Sir Justus will hand over sacks of gold on the spot."
"Hah, Jamal! Finally see the value? Send word to the delegation's quarters now!"
Suppressing dread, Jamal grinned slyly. Per his master's plan, the bomb was primed for delivery to the envoys.
That night, in the knight's private chamber away from the delegation quarters, Justus de Rethel of the County of Edessa eyed the samples from Omar and Jamal. A Western master smith he'd brought along scrutinized the armor through a glass.
"Well? Magic steel like the rumors?"
"Incredible, sir. Like art from a Venice glassworks. If they produce to these blueprints, Edessa's knights become an invincible legion."
A sneer curled Justus's lips.
"Damascus's Malik's been parading a pearl necklace on a pig. Finders keepers for unclaimed treasure."
He turned coldly to Omar.
"Good work. Old man, payment as promised. But next time, bring the blueprints and docs for mass-producing this. Or... you know."
"Wh-what do you mean? We risked our lives...!"
"Prove it with results. My patience is thin."
Justus shooed the elders out like underlings. Exiled outside, they glared at each other, cheeks quivering with greed. Justus had never seen them as equals—just disposable tools. Only their greed-blinded minds missed it. Once used up, they'd be junked.
Slipping from the delegation quarters, Jamal walked the night streets alone. His heart pounded like it would burst. Justus's glare confirmed it: the moment they had the full tech, loose-lipped traitors like the elders would kneel first before the executioner.
Reviling their disgustingly naive optimism, he felt relief deep down. His choice, dangerous as it was, was right. Even the Western smiths hadn't spotted the trap. He alone had tried to jump ship from that mess—how could he not feel vindicated? Betraying elders spouting groupthink drivel? No regrets; he cursed them. Their idiocy had dragged everyone down, forcing him into this risk. Leaders and followers alike were scum; he hated riding their coattails.
With those thoughts, Jamal turned toward the industrial district by the Barada River. Though he figured he was in the same boat now, lingering unease gnawed at him. Desperate to break the anxiety's chain—even if it meant playing lapdog like the rest—he ran.
Justus won't let us live. And I have to survive. Somehow.
His steps toward the district were heavy yet light.
The office door in the industrial district opened silently once more. Reviewing ledgers by lamplight, I looked up at Jamal's presence.
"Report, Industrial Lord. Justus took the bait hook, line, and sinker. Even mobilized smiths to inspect—no one caught on."
I set down my quill and nodded approvingly.
"Good work, Jamal. Justus strutting that shoddy junk before the Malik won't be long now."
I offered him the cooled qatarmizat. Last night, terror had made his hands shake too much to hold it; now, steadier, he took the cup.
"Steel is honest, but people aren't. Jamal, you remember what to do at the Malik's court tomorrow, right?"
"Yes, Industrial Lord. I'll prove to the Malik exactly what pipe dreams the guild elders are chasing."
I crossed my legs, eyeing him. Last night, he'd spilled plenty; I'd been mulling it over.
"Justus de Rethel—from the Rethel line? Surprising... or not? Explains the tight leash on his family."
"Of course, absolutely. Not a word to wife or kids! Why risk loose lips from some chatterbox wife?!"
Wise answer. Jamal was sharp. Planting a double agent like him made rigging the board a breeze. No plans to use and discard him, either. I wasn't some idiot guild hack—why toss verified talent?
But Jamal still looked uneasy, like a hound's lot hadn't changed.
"Relax. Remember what I told you yesterday?"
"Y-yes...! Act smart. No overreaching thoughts..."
Hesitant, glancing at me—I nodded.
"Right. Play it smart like this job. And if you test me again—which won't happen—it'll get ugly. You remember. So why so fidgety? Other ideas brewing?"
He flinched, straightened hastily, forced a casual smile. For his type, this mix of pressure and reward was prime control.
I rose, went to the window, gazed out. June was fading. The incoming July breeze, harbinger of early summer nights, brushed my bangs and cheeks pleasantly—like blessing our future.