The Halo Of Vakh (BOOK 1)

THE KING'S HUNT

Lysander stood staring at the men around him in disdain. There were nine of them, all unknown to him. Donovan had sent Thomas off with another group, the one that was supposed to take down the guards as they headed to The Vault during the shift change while Andrew had been sent off with a third group to the Exchange. Donovan hadn't disclosed the intent of that party and Lysander had no time to catch up with his youngest friend to inquire the specifics. He just hoped Andrew would get out unscathed.

His companions moved around each other, tiptoeing in the shadows, not caring to keep their voices down. Lysander itched to clamp their mouths shut with Draedech. He pushed down the urge.

"Saw the caravan he took," Goven said, leaning back into the post of a torch. The firelight highlighted the hollow of his cheeks. The man was taller than Lysander and much thinner than him. Lysander thought he resembled a pipe. "Glinted with agate. Would've slipped in if they'd stopped."

A hoot went around the group and Lysander repressed the urge to punch them. Did they even know the meaning of discrete?

"Should've slipped in," Arnie said, picking at something between his teeth. He was short, about five feet tall, with a round face lined with wrinkles. Half of his head was shaved and he spoke in a way that made half his words jumble up into each other making up a cocktail that sounded like nonsense and took quite a few minutes to understand. "You wouldn't be here, mate. Been better off in Sataria. They've got good value for their nitpickers."

Lysander just stood off to the side silently during the conversation, listening as his fingers curled and uncurled around the hilt of his scimitar, one hand in a pocket of his vest, wrapped around a pistol he had managed to buy. Here he was, trying to do something so he could have the pleasure of seeing Harfen off the throne while these men talked of merely getting a position of power from their stolen vendibles.

Even when he had worked with the smugglers in High Thorn, he had worked to get the repressed families out of Staria and Falrgimea to Nirrin without detection and trying to take away rations to build up a small state strong enough to face Harfen. All his companions there fought for the same cause; to end an age of tyranny. They had made a small group of rebels by themselves. This entire network of rebels were anarchists, nothing but thieves and assassins fighting only to get a share in the victories of war.

"Guvnor wants the Rithimor," said a third man Lysander hadn't bothered to remember the name of. "Heard there's the second fiddle in there as well." Lysander stiffened at the words. "Get our hands on that. Worth a fortune, that. Guvnor won't know. What he don't know won't hurt him, ey?"

"You've been quiet, lad," Jingfar, the leader of their ring, spoke, poking Lysander in the shoulder. Lysander recoiled at the touch and glared at him. He hated being touched by anyone other than Thomas and Andrew; it brought back memories from The Mead, glacial and erratic. "Ah! Peace, lad. No harm meant."

"You touch me one more time and I'll rip out your arm," Lysander growled.

"Fiery one, you," Jingfar grinned. "I like that. Tell us, then. What'd you been up to till now?"

Lysander folded his arms over his chest and with a stoic face said, "Smuggling."

The men looked over his figure. He hadn't bothered to change his physique and despite the weight he had gained in the past few weeks, he remained lean. He scowled at the group. They looked away.

The bell tolled. The men moved in pairs. Jingfar trotted along with Lysander as they rushed towards the rungs of a ladder, pushing them upwards like squirrels. Despite his size, Jingfar was light and loose with his footsteps. They slunk onto the roof and across the buildings before sliding off and landing on a ledge as they looked down at the street below. They waited. A minute passed before two guards came down the street, and one lifted two fingers to the tip of his helmet and tapped twice.