Thief

By Neal McClinton

It's not easy being a hero.  Soladir Pynne is a thief, ranger, fighter, friend, father, husband, drunk, addict…but is he a hero?  Follow Soladir from his turbulent childhood through a lifetime of exciting and dangerous adventures in a world filled with fantastical creatures and intriguing characters. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neal McClinton
• Release date: Jan 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393922971

Neal McClinton

I love stories. Back before TV on demand I'd read during ad-breaks and anytime I went anywhere, I travelled with a stack of books. I read and write across a range of genres and formats. My portfolio includes a fantasy novel, film and TV scripts and plenty of short stories. Being able to write for a living would be a dream come true, so I'll keep banging my head against the proverbial brick wall...!

Book preview

1. Inception.

Soladir Pynne found he had to push with all the strength in his thin arms to get the poorly made kitchen knife to penetrate the thick folds of his father’s flesh. 

The boy expected to be punished viciously but he had to stop him.  He’d acted when his mother stopped screaming, even as his father continued to pummel her face with his meaty hands.

Instead of turning to strike him, the boy’s father fell to his knees and toppled forward onto his wife.

Soladir tried to pry him off his mother but couldn’t shift the weight.  The boy retrieved a greasy coil of rope, tied a loop around his father’s neck and tossed the remainder over a sagging roof beam. 

Even with the added leverage, it took everything he had to haul him up a few inches and tie the rope off. 

He tried not to notice the ominous sound of the beam creaking as he scurried over next to his mother.  Her face was a map of bruises and Soladir began to cry when he realised her chest wasn’t moving.  The boy wrapped his arms around his knees and spilled tears onto his mother’s cold face.

It was dawn when he finally stirred.  He shook himself and stood.  Soladir shivered as he quickly went about gathering the few things he wanted to take with him. 

Now that his mother was gone, there was only one thing in the house that really mattered to him.  The boy reached under his parents’ bed and pulled out some faded blankets.  He unwound the bundle and a small, leather-bound book tumbled out.

Soladir ran his finger across the title on the cover; Heroic Tales, the life and times of Chase Harbinger.  His mother had taught him to read using this book, it had been their secret.  He loved the stories, how they let him escape from his life.  He secreted the treasure inside his shirt. 

Soladir took a burning stave from the dying fire and used it to set his parents' small bed alight.  He tossed the torch onto his pallet.  The boy watched the blaze for a few moments to make sure it took hold and then he turned and walked away from his childhood.

2. Education.

Soladir’s head snapped back.  He straightened himself and spat blood.  He was no stranger to a beating.

Say it again, boy, the man looming over Soladir urged, his hand still raised.

You’re Jon North, you run the gambling, whores and thieves in The Middens, my name is Sol and I need work, he repeated in a rush of breath.

The hand reared back and Soladir braced himself.  North’s long face creased suddenly as a smile appeared on his thin lips.

Aye, your right; Lord Dunraven might rule Silverton but down here in The Middens, it’s my word that counts.  See my man over there, he might have something for you, he nodded towards a thickset fellow sitting at a table near the door.

Soladir inclined his head as a gesture of respect and clutched his hands at his back to stop them trembling.  It had almost unnerved him to walk into The Long Hall, the tavern that served as headquarters for North and ask for work.

What did he say? North’s second in command, Hurl Frahling, asked.

He said you might have some work for me.

Right, we need to test your mettle then, Frahling responded ominously.

Soladir sensed movement behind him but he turned too late and a sack was pulled over his head before he could resist.  The rough cloth held the odour of oats and it made the boy think of the porridge his mother used to make for him.

He was bundled into a cart and bounced around for so long that he began to feel sick in the stomach.  Eventually the journey ended and Soladir was hauled down.  He was dragged along until he managed to get his feet under him.

He nearly fell when they began to descend a twisting staircase but somebody caught him by the collar.  Soladir heard a heavy door open, he was pushed forward and an order was barked at him to sit.

The door made a grinding noise as it shut.  Soladir knew he was not alone; he could hear others breathing and one person was shifting about.  It took him a little time but he eventually worked up the nerve to raise the sack from his head.

Six people surrounded him in a loose circle.  Frahling stood on the outside watching.

This is going to hurt, he warned. 

Soladir started to ask what he meant but before he could utter a word a fist clipped his chin and sent him sprawling.  He bit his cheek as he fell and his hip struck the hard floor with enough force to make his bones ache. 

Thanks to his father Soladir knew how what to do; he curled up as the men began to kick him.  The world shrank to pain and grunts of exertion from his attackers.  Blows fell all over him like rain during a sudden summer storm.

Finally, they stepped back and Soladir dared to raise his aching head.  Blood and spittle ran down his chin and stained his dirty clothes even further.  He blinked at his attackers through blurry hazel eyes.

On your feet! Frahling snapped.

Soladir hauled himself up on shaky legs.  Everything hurt.  Pain bit at him with every movement.  He had to use one arm to push himself erect.  Soladir spat out a tooth and smiled grimly.  His head was spinning and he felt sick in the stomach.

Good, Frahling said.  Help him.  One of the men stepped forward and caught Soladir just as he collapsed. 

*

During his convalescence, the boy came to realise that his mother had shielded him from his father and the cost had been her life.  He’d never had such violence inflicted upon him.

Soladir’s torso and face seemed to be one big patch of agony. His legs fared little better.  The hip he’d struck was black and he couldn’t lie on that side of his body.

They kept him in a room with a single square hole in the ceiling which let in light from an unknown source.  The people who tended to him changed almost daily.  The food was decent and his book, Heroic Tales, the life and times of Chase Harbinger, had been left next to his bed.

Each day he fared a little better but he only felt half-healed when they shoved him back out into the world.

* 

That, Frahling said, pointing towards a ceramic pitcher that held centre place in a shop window display, I want you to steal that without alerting the owner.  You have ‘till dusk.  The henchman walked away without further comment.  Soladir tried to follow Frahling but he had an enviable level of skill when it came to vanishing into a crowd and he quickly lost sight of the henchman.            *

March Ides pushed the broom across the floor even though he had already swept twice since he opened at first light.  Ides was terribly proud of his shop and he spent more time there than he did at home with his wife and three daughters.  Business had not been thriving lately though and he had been thinking that he might need to come up with some new ideas to reinvigorate the shop.  He’d even been forced to stall Jon North’s collector when he came for his last payment.  March had used the fact that his wife’s brother was a captain in the city watch as leverage; he didn’t imagine that would hold them off for long though. 

Lost in his musings, Ides failed to notice the urchin until it was too late.  The dirty little boy snatched a bowl from a shelf and was out the door before Ides started to give chase.  A moment later Soladir limped into the empty shop and helped himself to the pitcher.

When Frahling returned at dusk Soladir led him into an alley and proudly displayed his trophy, his face hurt when he smiled.

Good, did you take anything else? Frahling asked.

No, Soladir lied.

*

You need to get in there, find the library and bring me a couple of trophies from the desk, Frahling ordered as he pointed out a splendid manor house.  You have two days, not including today and you must not be detected. Frahling spun about and sauntered away. 

Soladir stepped off the main thoroughfare, conscious that his appearance would draw attention in The Heights.  He’d never ventured into the wealthy sector of Silverton and he was finding it difficult keeping his attention fixed on the task at hand.  He found a spot where he could watch the house and spent the remainder of the day pretending to beg in order to avoid being noticed.

He didn’t garner any clues about how to enter the house but he earned a few coins and bought himself a good meal that night.  The boy slept on the street and continued his vigil the next morning. 

When the sun reached midday a short, well-dressed man stepped out of the house.  A stocky woman with big hair and two chubby children accompanied him.  The group walked past Soladir and studiously avoided looking at him. 

The would-be thief waited until they were out of sight before he rose awkwardly.  His body was stiff and he paused until the discomfort cleared.  The boy made his way to the rear of the property.

* 

Sinclar Hobbs made a mental note to speak to the city watch and have the beggar boy removed from his street.  Such people ought to stay in The Middens; they simply didn’t belong in The Heights.  He deposited his wife and children at an emporium and strolled over to the apartment where he kept his mistress. 

He didn’t particularly care for his family.  Sinclar had courted and married his wife because her father was a well-to-do landlord and while his own family had a fine and noble heritage, they didn’t have two coins between them.  He now owned a raft of properties in the city and elsewhere and wealth flowed his way. 

He’d recently increased the rent he charged for his tenement properties in The Middens; his mistress was putting a serious strain on his coffers but she was worth the cost.  He ignored the protests and complaints he’d received but one warning had caused him some consternation.

Sinclar had been gambling at a reputable venue when he’d been approached by a representative of Jon North.  The fellow had whispered that it would be in his interests to reverse the rent hike.  Sinclar had dismissed the man.  He didn’t imagine that would be the end of it but he felt sure that so long as he stayed in The Heights, he would be safe.

*

Soladir released the river of rats into the house and listened as screams erupted.  As the sound of footsteps receded he let himself in via the servants’ door at the back.  He crept through the house and trotted up the stairs. 

He found the library and stopped in awe.  Soladir could read; his mother had taught him and it had always been one of their favourite things to do together.  They had one book which had belonged to his mother since she was a child.  This room, this library, contained dozens of books.

He walked along, trailing his fingers across the tomes.  Soladir almost selected a book but then he remembered why he was here.  He approached the vast desk in the centre of the room.  He pilfered a paperweight shaped like a fox, a silver letter opener and a pile of paperwork and ledgers.

The boy was almost at the door when he turned back to the books.  Soladir scanned the titles and found a smaller tome called The Ancient Kings of Astelar.  He added the book to his collection of stolen goods and fled.

When Sinclar Hobbs returned home that evening and found his house infested with rats and his desk ransacked his knees went suddenly weak and he all but fell into his chair.

*

Kill him, Frahling nodded towards a young man strutting along ahead of them.  Two foppish lackeys hung at his side.

Who is he? Soladir asked, struggling to keep his voice steady. 

Systian Monroe.  He’s nothing really; a time-wasting dandy but his father is ostensibly Lord Dunraven’s seneschal.  Master of whores and spies would be a more apt title.

Why does he have to die?

You don’t need to know my lad; anyhow Monroe has other children, Frahling said as he broke away from Soladir.  You have till the new moon, he called out as the crowd swallowed him.

Soladir followed Systian Monroe for days.  He devised and rejected a hundred methods to commit murder as the moon above waned further each night.  He knew he was stalling.  How could he kill a man?

*

The boy settled in to watch the house where Systian Monroe lived.  He glanced up at the dark sky yet again and knew he was running out of time.  A breeze played across his face and reminded him that autumn wasn’t far away. 

Soladir had been on the streets for just over a year now and he didn’t think he could survive another winter.  During his first he’d been lucky and managed to find a bolt-hole in the roof of a smithy but when repairs had been subsequently carried out in the summer it had blocked his access.

He was on a wealthy street lined with well-kept townhouses.  Light leaked from the spaces between window shutters and from behind glass in the more prosperous homes.  Soladir knew that inside people were living happy and secure lives.  That wasn’t for him though; If he didn’t kill Monroe he had nothing.  And it wasn’t like he hadn’t killed before; he’d murdered his own father.

The boy fell into a fitful sleep plagued by bad dreams.

*

I can’t imagine why she tolerates his attentions, he’s a bore and his lineage is terrible! Systian Monroe said loudly to one of the three men he was walking with.  The four lordlings, all outfitted in the current fashion of tight, colourful, trousers and dark shirts with wide cuffs and collars, were walking amongst the crowds at a market housed in a huge warehouse.

A group of urchins suddenly surrounded the men and began to beg for coins.  The men tried to shoo them away but they only pressed in closer.  Soladir, face smeared with dirt, slid close to Monroe, slipped a slender dagger free from his sleeve and pushed the blade into the side of the young man’s belly. 

Soladir heard the air rush out of the stricken young man as he slipped in between the urchins.  He didn’t look back as cries erupted behind him.

*

Frahling had his arm draped across Soladir’s shoulders as he guided him through a series of tunnels.  They halted before a pair of large brass doors.

Time for the real work to start lad, North likes his people well-trained. Frahling eased the door and Soladir was filled with an equal mixture of excitement and fear.

The room was vast, a huge hall that stretched away further than he could see.  Apprentice thieves were engaged in various training exercises, some terrifying, some enthralling.

He watched a group of children as they practised picking pockets.  A vast coat was stretched out across a wooden frame and the students were taking turns as they tried to filch items without making the material move.

In another area, half a dozen students were being instructed in some sort of fighting technique, it was quite foreign to Soladir.  He almost flinched when one of the children was struck by the teacher and sent skidding across the smooth stone floor.

Other children were being taught reading and writing by a young girl with a serious face and Soladir almost took a step towards them before he caught himself.

He looked on as another thief taught his charges how to fight with knives.  The instructor battered his apprentices, he knocked their defences aside and hit them again and again with his dulled blade. 

As he turned to watch another display, he felt thick fingers close around the back of his neck and he was shoved forward into the room.

The brass doors were slammed shut before he had a chance to protest.

3.  Education II.

Her thin, delicate fingers slipped through Soladir’s hand. 

The boy watched with horror as the girl fell, her arms wheeling around.  She smashed through a roof and vanished from sight. 

The would-be thief vomited until his stomach burned.  Below him pedestrians gazed upwards and pointed towards the broken roof.  Soladir slunk back out of sight.  He clutched his knees to his chest and began to tremble. 

He was still locked in the same position when the watchman found him.  The husky fellow hauled Soladir up with one hand.

I got one! he called out to his comrades who were scouring the rooftops.  Soladir was dragged towards an open skylight.  The watchman leaned over the opening and called out.

Coming down, he informed whoever was waiting below.  Soladir kicked his captor in the back of the knee and the big man crashed through the opening, cracking his skull on the frame as he fell.  The noise alerted the others and they began to converge on the young boy.  Soladir looked through the opening but more members of the watch were milling around their stricken companion. 

The boy began to run across the rooftop, tiles cracking underfoot.  A thin man with long arms blocked his path and Soladir tried to roll past him.  His shoulder caught on something and he smashed into the man’s legs.  The fellow collapsed over him. 

Soladir scrambled up, his shoulder torn and bloody.  He dashed towards the spot where he and Wyn had climbed up the building.  Their rope was still there but spectators were gathered on the street below.

The boy spun around to find another pair of men bearing down on him.  Soladir cut to one side and the watchmen crashed into one another as they tried to adjust their course.  Soladir ran heedlessly across the roof. 

He found a water spout and began to clamber down.  The metal groaned as it took his weight.  The fastenings ripped free of the brickwork and the pipe peeled away.  He managed to hold on as it crashed into the opposite house.  Metal screeched against mortar and the whole thing came to a grinding halt. 

Soladir started to shimmy down the mangled drainpipe.  His hand slid across a tear in the metal and a cut blossomed across the length of his palm.  Blood welled around his fingers and he slipped. 

Death smelled rotten, Soladir thought as he opened his eyes.  He looked to either side and found himself lying in a pile of garbage.  He managed to get to his feet and take a couple of shaky steps before he sunk into the steaming rubbish up to his knees.  Soladir crawled forward and tumbled down to the bottom of the mound.

Cries from above roused him.  Something moved around him as he scrambled up.  Soladir found a puppy sniffing at his boots.  The dog shook itself vigorously and looked up at him.  The animal’s feet and ears were far too big for its skinny frame.  It barked at him and the would-be thief scooped up the puppy and cradled it under his arm. 

Soladir was able to get onto a busy street before the watchmen descended to ground-level.  He deftly disappeared into the crowd.  When he found a quiet place, he sat with the puppy huddled against his chest and wept for Wyn.  They had been paired all through their training as thieves and he’d come to love her like a sister.  He cursed himself for a weak fool; he knew love only led to pain.  He eventually wiped the salt and snot from his face and resolved to become harder.

It was growing dark by the time Soladir reached the garret he shared with Wyn.  He spotted the watcher as he turned onto Weavers Way. 

Without pausing Soladir put the puppy down and kept walking.  He whistled and called for the dog and it capered around his legs.  Soladir skipped along, intent on maintaining his charade of a boy walking his dog.  When he passed the watcher, all but hidden in the shadows of a doorway, Soladir forced himself not to look.  His chest was tight and he kept expecting somebody to jump out and grab him.

Breath rushed out of his lungs as he rounded the corner.  It had to be one of Jon North’s people watching his house.  He was not surprised that news of his failed mission had reached North, he controlled the streets.

He and Wyn had been tasked with burgling the home of Castor Reach.  They had been told to take anything of value but more importantly to find anything incriminating that could be used to pressure Reach into working for North. 

Castor Reach was a financial advisor and an intimate of the current Lord Dunraven, Yorke Shibden.  His lordship and North had been fighting a cold war for control of Silverton, the capital of Argus Shire, for years. 

Could North be looking to ensure his silence?  Might he be worried that if Soladir fell into the hands of the city watch, they would force him to talk, make him reveal all he knew of North. 

Wrapped in nothing other than a heavy blanket of