A Betrayal of Storms by Ben Alderson

Chapter 1

I woke to the uncaring kiss of a dagger at my throat. My eyes did not need to open to confirm it, not when the familiar sting cut into my skin or the smell of a rusted blade teased my nose. It was strange, I would have never thought a dagger had a scent, yet I supposed that having one in such close proximity unveiled such secrets.

"You've got him?" A rough voice asked, but the question was not for me.

"Shut it, you idiot!" Another slightly deeper voice responded. "Let the bastard go and you'll be paying with your own blood."

I risked opening my eyes, the only movement that would not end with my blood spilled across my nightshirt and bedsheets. It was close to impossible to think straight, but I had to. There was no room for haste, not with my potential end a mere slice of a blade away.

It was still dark, and my room was without drapes so it must still be the dead of night, or at least the hours surrounding it. My room was washed in a blanket of shadow for the moon's glow hardly blessed it with any light, only enough to focus on the looming shapes above me as my sight struggled to focus on meaningful details.

It seemed, when in a life-threatening situation, one's mind calculated as many specifics as possible, and my head seemed to be whirling as I put together what was happening.

The first speaker was a male, his voice rough from years dragging from the pipe, and broad outline only confirmed his gender. If it was still night, it meant Father was hours into his night shift at the Kings Head tavern in town. He would not return until after dawn which could be a handful of hours away.

Which meant I was alone with the assailants.

Winston, our dog, had not barked at their arrival which meant one of two things. He was dead, or simply shit at his job, and I really hoped for the latter.

The second speaker was also male, although his voice was lighter, as though someone had kicked him hard in the balls and they had never returned to their normal seating. He was the one holding down my legs by my ankles as if I'd dare to kick out. I knew better than to act, now at least.

"I think he is looking at me," the first said again, a faint hint of panic in his voice. He put force behind the blade, and it bit harder into my skin. "I don't want him looking at me!"

The second's hands fumbled around my ankles before letting go, but the tightness of touch did not release. No. He had bound my legs. I watched him join his accomplice at my side, spying the rope he twisted in his hands.

"Then bag his head."

Another scent joined that of the rusted blade. A sharp tang that I was all too familiar with. It smelled of Father, at least it was what clung to his worn clothing when I found him sleeping across the armchair in the mornings after a long shift at the tavern. Lush spice and hot flames. The signature dwindling kiss of whiskey. But this scent did not cling to the assailants' clothes, but their breaths. I would have turned my head away from them just to stop inhaling the wretched scent, but I stayed still, cautious of the blade at my throat.

"Nah, doesn't matter if he sees. Let him. His memory of us is not going to help him where he is going to end up."

They both laughed at that. Deep, chortling cackles that could be likened to pigs.

"As long as I get the coin promised," the first said again, leaning down over me. I felt the tickle of a touch against my shoulder. Straining my eyes confirmed it was his bulging, ale swollen stomach. "Got anything to say for yourself... Robin Vale?"

It was then when I began to fish the face of the speaker from my rambling mind. His stout, broad form and husky, smoker-tickled tone invited the rosy cheeked face of James Campbell into mind. That and he knew my name, and I had not revealed it unless I had a habit of calling it out into the night whilst I slept.