1

Two dark figures burst through the clouds— one small and sleek, the other larger and heavily-built. Cold wind slid over their stone bodies. Stander glanced over his shoulder at the huge gargoyle snarling and beating his wings furiously in pursuit. Rajovon was from a rival cathedral his clan had warred with for many years. They were mortal enemies battling endlessly. Stander avoided engaging him in the past due to their size difference, but Rajovon targeted him that night, thinking he’d be easy to take out.

He couldn’t attack the bigger gargoyle directly, so he’d led him on a chase through the city, zooming through narrow corridors, trying to maneuver Rajovon into smashing himself against a wall. He was heftier and stronger than Stander but also slower and less maneuverable than his smaller, streamlined frame that kept him just out of reach of the dim-witted brute. As they sailed over the city gates, the landscape changed from scattered settlements to dense forests. After several hours, they were out over the wide-open countryside— his careful maneuvering leading his rival into a trap. Stander banked right towards a large lake, the surface shimmering in the glowing moonlight.

Folding in his wings, he rolled left, going into a steep dive towards the water. He liked to think he was as fast as the falcons nesting high on the cathedral's ledges. Rajovon growled behind him. Faster and faster, they sped toward the surface. Stander fought the urge to pull up, needing to wait until just the right time.

He snapped open his stone wings, pulling out of the dive at the very last moment, tail smacking the water as he glided low over the surface. A huge splash sounded behind him. Stander circled back, wingtip skimming along the waves. Beneath the water Rajovon’s mouth was open in a silent howl— paw reaching out as he sank to the bottom of the lake, disappearing into its inky depths. He was too heavy to push himself back to the surface.

Here is where he would lay for all eternity once the sun rose and locked him in place, never to move again. The lightly glowing horizon to the east drew Stander’s attention; dawn was about to break. He needed to be on consecrated ground before the sun fully rose, or he too would be permanently locked by the sun's deadly rays, never to wake again under Luna's light.

He spied an old abbey along the lakeshore and banked towards it. Light slid over the water, racing after his speeding form. Stander beat his wings faster towards the ancient stone building, desperate to get to the safety of its hallowed grounds. Diving under the eaves of the abbey's roof, he folded his wings around himself as the morning light engulfed the land. His vision blacked out, and he froze as the sunlight slid over his granite body. He would not wake till nightfall. Under the cover of darkness, he’d make his way back to the Lumen Gloriae Cathedral in the city.

* * * * * *

Water trickled over Stander’s rough skin. His eyes opened, and he shook out his wings, sending droplets spraying everywhere. He gazed at Mother Luna's hazy face glowing through the misty rainfall. Hissing behind him drew his attention. Another gargoyle with broad pointy ears clung to the side of a brick wall, snarling menacingly at him. A stone angel to his left regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

"Please forgive my trespass. I would’ve asked your permission for sanctuary, but the sun caught me too quickly," said Stander, bowing his head.

"Who are you? Where are you from?" demanded the other gargoyle as he climbed to the top of the wall.

"I am Stander from the Lumen."

"You are far from home. I am Izrail, and my companion is Nuvott," said the angel.

Water beaded over her marble surface, gleaming in the moonlight. She knelt on a large stone block, holding a broad basket in her lap.

"Yes. I got carried away in my chase with Rajovon. It was such a lovely night for a flight. I was away from the city and over the countryside before I knew it."

"Where is this Rajovon?" said Nuvott, scanning the sky.

"At the bottom of the lake," said Stander.

The gargoyle hissed at the thought of being sun locked for eternity. "You would leave him to Sol’s wrath like that?"

Stander shrugged. "We are at war with the gargoyles of St. Cassius Cathedral."

"Why are your clans in conflict?" said Izrail.

"They stole our females and our beloved child. Her sister still weeps for her, and will not wake to Luna's call. Why do you not carry a sword, Izrail?" said Stander. The angels at his cathedral fought alongside the gargoyles in their battles.

"I am a guardian, not an archangel. Only they are blessed to carry the flaming swords of The Risen."

Nuvott’s broad ear rotated toward a sound. He peered over his shoulder and held his fist above his head, indicating the All Still signal. A human was approaching. They took their statue positions as a young woman wearing a thick, grey woolen cloak to protect against the rain entered the archway into their small garden.

Standing before Izrail, the woman prayed silently before a tiny bundle emerged from her cloak. Small cries filled the air as she laid the precious babe inside the basket. Her hand reached out to pull a rope, ringing a tarnished brass bell, before she hurried off into the night. Its lonely toll sang out in the darkness. Izrail reached down to lovingly stroke the baby's cheek, moving her wings forward to protect the child from the rain. She quietly hummed to settle his crying.

As the abbey’s heavy wooden door creaked open, Izrail returned to her statue position. A Sister rushed forward to scoop the baby from the basket, holding him close to her chest before disappearing back inside.

"What was that?" said Stander.

"The Abbey's Sacred Sisters run an orphanage. The young woman was most likely a prostitute who wanted a better life for her child than to grow up in a brothel. The girls in the orphanage are raised into the Sisterhood; the boys conscripted to the priesthood," said Izrail.

"The hour is late. You should be getting back to your cathedral," said Nuvott.

"I will not forget your goodwill. Should you ever find yourself in Belris, I give you my guarantee of sanctuary at the cathedral."

He snorted. "Not likely, but I will remember your offer. Now go!" he said, waving Stander away.

2

Bairn crouched in the shadowy corner of a building, scanning the dimly lit street below. Candles flickered inside wrought-iron lamp posts lining the walkways. The dark overcoat he wore absorbed all light, making him nearly invisible in the night. His day was almost done, having just finished an essential heist for Nash Brenard, Master of the Thieves Guild.

He knew Dabora would be heading to work soon as a server at the Blue Bear Tavern. He’d been watching over her for several weeks, making sure she arrived at her job unmolested. Bairn’s crush on the golden-haired girl was intense. He was still working up the courage to enter her workplace and meet her face to face.

A flash of movement above drew his gaze skyward to see a large bat sailing overhead. He'd seen them flying in and out of the Lumen Gloriae Cathedral at dusk, where a colony must reside in the old steeples.

Bairn brought his attention back to the street. There was his golden-haired girl, wrapped in a wool shawl against the chill of the evening air. His heart raced as he followed her silently along the rooftops. He longed to call out to her and profess his undying devotion but didn’t want to scare her. She pushed open the tavern door— the sound of laughter and raucous chatter spilled out into the night before she closed it behind her. He was nearly heartbroken to see her go, but she’d made it safely to work. His self-proclaimed duty to watch over her now over.

Stripping off his thief's outer clothing, Bairn slid down a drainpipe to the street and made his way to the hidden Guildhall of Thieves. Dawn was breaking, and the city began to stir. People emerged from their homes and businesses to start their day.

Bairn slipped into a long alleyway, slinking through dark shadows. He reached out to twist the handle of a lantern. A hidden door slid open, revealing a long, winding stairway leading to the bowels of the city where the Dark Guildhalls resided. Torches and braziers lit the underground chamber.

Numerous grim faces watched as he passed by. There were thieves from the lowly pickpockets to the specialized burglars like himself procuring specific desired items, all the way up to the elite gold thieves stealing from the Imperial banks and the heavily guarded bullion shipment caravans. They all had one thing in common— a requirement to pay tithes to their Guild Master, who took his cut and passed it up the chain to the city’s high boss known only as The Unseen.

Bairn strode to the Guild Masters table, setting a black raw silk bag before him. He reached for it, pulling the drawstring open to verify the contents and nodding before stowing it in a lockbox behind him. He turned back, laying a small coin pouch, wood chit, and a diamond-tipped glass cutter on the table.

"I've got a big job coming up for you, so keep yourself available. Could be a few days from now, could be a few weeks," said the Guild Master.

Bairn gave him a curt nod. He could pull a few side jobs in the meantime. The Guild tended to look the other way if the amounts were small. He still had to eat, after all. He stuffed the items inside one of his hidden pockets. The coins were worth far less than the object he'd acquired, but everything of value ultimately landed in the hands of The Unseen— the typical cost of doing business for a lowly thief like him. He didn't even own his lockpick tools; they belonged to the Guild. The glass cutter would be returned once he’d completed the job.

Heading to the Markers room, Bairn handed a tattooed woman his chit. Her whole body, including her face, was covered in elaborate designs. She guided him to an empty workstation where he stripped off his tunic and sat, leaning forward on the specially padded chair.

A series of tally marks covered his shoulder blades, keeping track of all the jobs he completed for the Guild. Get enough marks, and your debt was considered paid. You'd be freed from their service. At least that’s the story he'd always been told. He hadn’t yet met anyone lucky enough to be released from their Guild duties. Too many people died in his line of work or rotted away constabulary prisons before acquiring all their marks.

"A Marker will be with you shortly," said the tattooed girl before leaving.

He leaned his head against the padding, fighting the urge to drift off to sleep. It’d been a long, hard night, and he was ready for a relaxing nap. A well-calloused hand slapped his shoulder, jerking his attention back to the here and now.

"Bairn, good to have you at my station again. You've been busy. Your right shoulder blade’s nearly as covered at your left."

"Yes, Tuman. The Guild's kept me busy lately."

"Well, let’s get to it then," he said, pulling the needle machine closer.

Tumon attached a bottle of red ochre ink to the tattoo stylus and pumped the foot pedal, making the hollow thorn needle pulsate rapidly. Placing the tip to Bairn's back, he drew a horizontal line across four hash marks to make a full five-point tally mark. Bairn gritted his teeth against the pain of the needle repeatedly slamming into his flesh. He’d acquired nearly two dozen complete tally marks on his back. One day he’d be completely covered in these tattoos. He hoped for it to be enough to release him from Guild servitude once the time came.

* * * * * *

Out in the bright sunlight of the now bustling city, Bairn found himself winding his way back to the Blue Bear Tavern. He stood there for several moments, gathering his courage as wagons and men with large sacks slung over their shoulders passed by. If he didn't go in now, he never would. Heart pounding, he twisted the tarnished brass door handle and slipped inside.

© Copyright 2021 L.A. Stinnett. All rights reserved.

Cover image © Copyright 2021 David Stinnett