Excerpt: Shattered Amulet

Logan Shadowhand skittered across the rooftop, his footing on the wood shingles bolstered by needle-thin spikes strapped to the soles of his boots. Only a sliver of a moon sat in the sky, but it lit the brisk autumn night enough that Logan paused in the shadow of a chimney stack to check for any indication someone had spotted him.

Footsteps echoed up from the street below. Logan crept to the edge of the roof and peered down. A lone figure strolled toward a nearby lamppost. The sword on his hip, the crossbow on his back and the helm on his head marked him as one of Jordia’s Watchguard. The man stopped at the lamppost, swung open a glass pane and replaced the wax nub inside with a fresh candle.

When the street was clear, Logan returned to the chimney. He counted to three then broke into a sprint and leaped from the roof’s edge, vaulting the gap between buildings. The wind slipped under his hood to whistle in his ears and flick his dark bangs. His heart slammed against his chest, quickening time with each beat until he landed in a crouch on the other side.

After a few steadying breaths, Logan took his bearings. To his right, the towers of the Academy rose above the skyline. An image of magi performing dark rituals in underground sanctums bloomed in his head, but he shook it loose. Magi were scholars and collectors. Practicing dragon magic was forbidden by the Chronicles, and Lord Doryn was Jord’s champion. The ruler of Jordia would disband the Academy and throw all its members in the dungeon if he even thought they were attempting sorceries.

Such logic rarely won over religious zealotry, though, and Logan had been raised by grandparents firmly grounded in the latter. He’d struck out on his own as soon as he could, but night after night of hearing scriptures read at the dinner table that warned against the dragon arts and listening to bedtime stories of evil men who pursued unholy power only to forfeit their souls impressed themselves firmly upon young minds. Experiencing how the world really worked helped to loosen the grip of those impressions, but some held tighter than others.

Logan’s eyes lifted to the plateau where the keep of the city’s ruler sat, just visible above the Academy. He contemplated the stone walls that surrounded the fortress for a moment before sweeping his gaze over the rest of the city. Somewhere off to his left, the market square lay dark and silent, if only for a few more hours. Merchants would return to open storefronts at first light, the cries of vendors hawking their wares greeting the sun like a crowing rooster. He’d left the murmur of the sluggish Dragonbreath River behind him several blocks ago, and the west wall of the city was a gray curtain the hung from the night a few hundred yards in front of him.

Reubin’s place was only a couple rooftops away.

The thought stirred Logan back into motion. He crossed the distance with sure strides, crawled to the roof’s lip and surveyed his objective. The two-story, brick façade spoke of the wealth of its inhabitant. A light flickered through a window on the first floor, but the glass doors on the balcony below him were dark. Logan checked the street for any Watchguard patrols then swung himself over the edge. He dangled for a few seconds, his feet hovering well above the balcony’s railing. There was a time when Logan cursed his durkar heritage, for more reasons than just his smaller stature. He’d discovered enough professional benefits to being a head or two shorter than the average aylar that he no longer counted size as one of those reasons, however. Logan swung his legs forward, let go of the roof, and landed on the balls of his feet just inside the railing.

Logan took a moment to examine the glass doors while he removed his boot spikes. A simple latch secured the doors, which he dispatched using a thin metal probe pulled from a collection of similar tools stored in one of his belt pouches. He opened the door on his right, slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

Heavy breathing alerted Logan to another presence in the room. Shapes formed in the darkness as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the drapes. A mound on the bed to Logan’s left stirred, the rhythmic breathing interrupted by the rustle of sheets. Logan pressed himself against the wall and waited. He reviewed from memory the floor plan Pawan had shown him earlier that evening. Logan figured there were only two likely places Ruebin was keeping Dwarvul’s Chalice: in his personal study across the hall, where he could admire the fine durkar craftsmanship at his leisure; or on a pedestal in the gallery downstairs, the priceless gems embedded in the sculpted gold drawing the eye—and the envy—of every visitor.

Logan moved toward the room’s interior door once the sounds of deep slumber returned. He cracked it open and listened. Silence greeted him from the hallway. Logan widened the crack and squeezed through, drawing the door shut once he was clear. He padded across the carpeted hall to the study and put his ear to the door. Unable to detect any noise from within, Logan turned the handle. It responded with a soft click. Logan entered.

No Chalice. A large portrait dominated one wall, depicting a man Logan assumed to be Ruebin. The painting might fetch a decent price if the artist was reputable, but it was too dark for Logan to make out the trademark from where he stood. He briefly considered the other trinkets scattered about the room, but dismissed them. The real prize was downstairs.

A single staircase led from the second floor to the first. Logan descended at a cautious pace, his back to the wall while his eyes and ears searched for signs of movement. Ruebin did not keep a large house staff, according to Logan’s inquiries. The chambermaid came once a week to clean and a bodyguard was hired for specific engagements. Only the manservant was in residence, but Logan felt confident both he and his master were fast asleep at this late hour. The lack of any burning candles in the wall sconces served further proof as Logan left the stairs and stalked through the shadows of the gallery.

The room where Ruebin displayed his collection connected to every other room on the first floor. Any guest entering the house would be forced to walk through the circular gallery before reaching the dining room or the large parlor Logan guessed was used for entertaining, giving them an opportunity to admire the framed paintings on the walls, or the sculptures that rested on pedestals arranged about the sunken floor. Logan passed a bust of dark stone whose horned head and toothy grin made him question Ruebin’s taste, even considering the large rubies set as its eyes.

Dwarvul’s Chalice stood on a pedestal along the route to the dining room. Logan approached the wooden column for a cursory inspection. Rigging a trap or alarm into the pedestal was not uncommon for a collector like Ruebin. Some poisons were still lethal in doses small enough to coat the tip of a tiny dart. Logan preferred discovering and disabling such devices over hoping he’d have enough time to uncork a vial of antitoxin and pour it down his throat.

The creak of sudden weight on wood planks interrupted him.

Logan looked over his shoulder and spotted the soft glow of candlelight approaching. He ducked down the hall toward the dining room, melting into the darkness.

“Is someone there?”

A man in a stocking cap and striped nightshirt edged into view, a candlestick clasped in front of him like a ward against evil spirits. “Hmm. I suppose it was nothing.” The man glanced about then retreated. Logan counted to four after the light faded before moving along the wall and peeking around the corner. He was alone again.

It took a few more minutes to satisfy Logan that the pedestal posed no threat. He lifted the Chalice off the display and held it out before him, appreciating its weight. He wondered what Pawan’s buyer had offered for the item. More than Pawan was paying him, that was for sure. Not that Logan was complaining. He’d be living comfortably for the next couple months off his fee. A grin spread across Logan’s face at the thought and he tucked the Chalice into a velvet bag he unfolded from one of his belt pouches. He cinched the bag closed and tied its strings around his belt.

Logan walked to the front door, looked out the window for wandering Watchguard patrols, and when he was certain the street was clear, strolled out into the night.